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John Donne - On Himself
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My fortune and my choice this custom break, 
When we are speechless grown to make stones speak. 
Though no stone tell thee what I was, yet thou 
In my grave`s inside seest what thou art now, 
Yet thou `rt not yet so good ;  till death us lay 
To ripe and mellow here, we`re stubborn clay. 
Parents make us earth, and souls dignify 
Us to be glass ;  here to grow gold we lie. 
Whilst in our souls sin bred and pamper`d is, 
Our souls become worm-eaten carcases, 
So we ourselves miraculously destroy. 
Here bodies with less miracle enjoy 
Such privileges, enabled here to scale 
Heaven, when the trumpet`s air shall them exhale. 
Hear this, and mend thyself, and thou mend`st me, 
By making me, being dead, do good for thee ; 
    And think me well composed, that I could now 
    A last sick hour to syllables allow.
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