MY Fortune and my choice this custome break,
When we are speechlesse grown, to make stones speak,
Though no stone tell thee what I was, yet thou
In my graves inside seest what thou art now:
5Yet thou'art not yet so good, till death us lay
To ripe and mellow here, we are stubborne Clay.
Parents make us earth, and soules dignifie
Vs to be glasse; here to grow gold we lie.
Whilst in our soules sinne bred and pamper'd is,
10Our soules become wormeaten carkases;