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Ah, my
Perilla, dost thou grieve to see
Me 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 bring
Part of the cream from that
religious spring,
With which, Perilla, wash my hands
and feet.
That done, then wind me in that very sheet
Which wrapped thy smooth limbs when thou didst implore
The gods' protection but the night before.
Follow me
weeping to my turf, and there
Let fall a primrose,
and with it a tear;
Then, lastly, let some weekly-strewings
be
Devoted to the memory of me:
Then shall my
ghost not walk about, but keep
Still in the cool and
silent shades of sleep.
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