With Incense, Cassia, Spiknard, Myrrh, and Balm,
By break of Day shee builds (in narrow room)
Her Urn, her Nest, her Cradle, and her Toomb;
Where, while she sits all gladly-sad expecting
Some flame (against her fragrant heap reflecting)
To burn her sacred bones to seedfull cinders,
(Wherein, her age, but not her life, she renders.)
········
And Sol himself, glancing his goulden eyes
On th’ odoriferous Couch wherein she lies,