ANNE BRADSTREET

This Book by Any yet unread, I leave for you when I am dead, That, being gone, here you may find What was your liveing mother’s mind. Make use of what I leave in Love And God shall blesse you from above.

Here sleeps the Queen; this is the royal bed, O’ th’ damask rose, sprung from the white and red, Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air, This Rose is wither’d, once so lovely fair; On neither tree did grow such rose before, The greater was our gain, our loss the more.