A thundring Cannon may pronounce my death,
Or a small shot bereave me of my breath:
All which may throng together in full crowds,
To make m’a winding-sheet of tatter’d shrowds.
The winds shall sing my requiem, and my knell
Shall be a peal of Ordnance, they shall tell
My angry fates I’m dead, and the Sea must
Intomb without the form of dust to dust.
But I hope better things, and do believe,
My good events will make the furies grieve.