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The Meſſenger of Death
with golden trump I ſee,
With many other angels more,
which ſound and call for me.
Inſtead of muſic ſweet,
go ring my paſſing bell,
And with ſweet flowers ſtraw my grave,
that in my chamber ſmell.
Strip off my bride’s array,
my cork ſhoes from my feet,
And gentle mother be ſo kind
as to bring my winding-ſheet.
My wedding-dinner dreſt,
beſtow upon the poor,
And to the hungry, blind and lame,
that craveth at the door.
Inſtead of Virgins young,
my bride's bed for to ſee,
Go cauſe ſome curions carpenter
to make a cheſt for me.
My broad laces of ſilk
below on maidens meet,
