Sons, seek not me among these polished stones;
These only hide part of my flesh, and bones:
Which, did they ne'er so neat, or proudly dwell,
Will all turn dust, and may not make me swell.
Let such as justly have outlived all praise,
Trust in the tombs, their careful friends do raise;
I made my life my monument, and yours:
To which there's no material that endures;
Nor yet in description like it. Write but that;
And teach your nephews it to emulate:
It will be matter loud enough to tell
Not when I died, but how I lived. Farewell.