The Computation
For the first twenty yeares, since yesterday,
I scarce beleevd, thou couldst be gone away,
For forty more, I fed on favours past,
And fortyon hopes, that thou wouldst, they might last.
Teares drownd one hundred, and sighes blew out two,
A thousand, I did neither thinke, nor doe,
Or not divide, all being one thought of you;
Or in a thousand more, forgot that too.
Yet call not this long life; But thinke that I
Am, by being dead, Immortall; Can ghosts die?
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