To Heaven my soule, my heart King James,
My Corpes to lye in grave.
My staffe to Pilgrimes I,
And Pen to Poets send;
My haire-cloth roabe, and halfe-spent goods,
To wandring wights I lend.
Let them dispose as though
My treasure were of Gold,
Which values more in purest prise,
Then drosse ten thousand fold.