Though stone I am, yet must I weep

And sweat forth Teares of woe;

That such a Treasure I should keep,

Beneath Mee buried soe.

But yet lett not the Reader weep,

Unlesse it be for Joy;

The Cabinet alone I keep,

Where in this Treasure Lay:

The Soule above with God on High,

Lives in Eternall Blisse;

Where crowned with the Company,

of glorious Saints she is.

T. T.

She is not Dead but sleepeth.