SONNET.

Currants have check'd the current of my blood,

And berries brought me to be buried here;

Pears have pared off my body's hardihood,

And plums and plumbers spare not one so spare.

Fain would I feign my fall, so fair a fare

Lessens not hate, yet 'tis a lesson good:

Gilt will not long hide guilt; such thin wash'd ware

Wears quickly, and its rude touch soon is rued.

Grave on my grave some sentence grave and terse,

That lies not as it lies upon my clay,

But, in a gentle strain of unstrained verse,

Prays all to pity a poor patty's prey—

Rehearses I was fruitful to my hearse,

Tell that my days are told, and soon I'm toll'd away!