Epitaph on Himself: To the Countess of Bedford

Madam, That I might make your cabinet my tomb, And for my fame, which I love next my soul, Next to my soul provide the happiest room, Admit to that place this last funeral scroll. Others by wills give legacies, but I Dying, of you do beg a legacy.

My fortune and my will this custom break, When we are senseless grown to make stones speak, Though no stone tell thee what I was, yet thou In my grave’s inside see what thou art now, Yet thou’rt not yet so good; till us death lay To ripe and mellow there, we’re stubborn clay. Parents make us earth, and souls dignify Us to be glass; here to grow gold we lie. Whilst in our souls sin bred and pamper’d is, Our souls become worm-eaten carcases.