To Perilla

Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to seeMe, day by day, to steal away from thee?Age calls me hence, and my grey hairs bid come,And haste away to mine eternal home;'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this,That I must give thee the supremest kiss.Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bringPart of the cream from that religious spring;With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;That done, then wind me in that very sheetWhich wrapt thy smooth limbs when thou didst imploreThe gods' protection but the night before.Follow me weeping to my turf, and thereLet fall a primrose, and with it a tear:Then, lastly, let some weekly-strewings beDevoted to the memory of me:Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keepStill in the cool and silent shades of sleep.