Shall words engrave upon my silver stone;
Beneath the title, birth and date I died?
For merely left from worms, is dusty bone
Not there in dust can love let love abide;
That's pure cannot be buried, eaten, cold.
Then false to scribe love's found if here erode
But note there diggers dead to those of old;
If they perturb my everlasting ode
Then they'd have drawn the soul wherein were bound
And curse upon them; out of love they'll be;
As whom these shameless raiders have just found,
Then know that state in which is this here me.

     'What lay beneath is far from
     better self
     Disturb me here then cursed from
     lovers' wealth'