Content.

PEace, peace! I know 'twas brave,
But this corse fleece
I shelter in, is slave
To no such peece.
When I am gone,
I shall no ward-robes leave
To friend, or sonne
But what their own homes weave,

Such, though not proud, nor full,
May make them weep,
And mourn to see the wooll
Outlast the sheep;
Poore, Pious weare!
Hadst thou bin rich, or fine
Perhaps that teare
Had mourn'd thy losse, not mine.

Why then these curl'd, puff'd points,
Or a laced story?
Death sets all out of Joint
And scornes their glory;
Some Love a Rose
In hand, some in the skin;
But crosse to those,
I would have mine within.