Hark, now everything is still, 
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, 
Call upon our dame aloud, 
And bid her quickly don her shroud! 
Much you had of land and rent; 
Your length in clay's now competent: 
A long war disturbed your mind; 
Here your perfect peace is signed. 
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? 
Sin their conception, their birth weeping, 
Their life a general mist of error, 
Their death a hideous storm of terror. 
Strew your hair with powders sweet, 
Don clean linen, bathe your feet, 
And (the foul fiend more to check) 
A crucifix let bless your neck: 
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day; 
End your groan, and come away.