And why this Vault and Tomb? alike we must
Put off distinctions, and put on our dust.
Nor can the statelyest Fabrique help to save
From the corruptions of a common Grave;
Nor for the resurrection more prepare
Then if the dust were scatter'd in the ayre
What then? th'ambition's Just, say some, that we
May thus perpetuate our memory.
Ah! false vaine task of art! ah! poore weak man,
Whose monument does more then's merit can:
Who's by his friends best care and love abus'd,
And in his very epitaph's accus'd!
For did they not suspect his name would fall,
There would not need an epitaph at all
But after death too, I would be alive,
And shall, if my Lucasia doe, survive
I quit this pomp of death, and am content,
Having her heart to be my monument:
Though ne're stone to me, 'twill stone for me prove,
By the peculiar miracle of Love.
There I'le inscription have, which no Tomb gives,
Not, here Orinda Lyes, but, here she lives.