THE COMPUTATION
FOR the first twenty yeares, since yesterday, I scarce beleev'd, thou could'st be gone away, For forty more, I fed on favours past, And forty'on hopes, that thou would'st, they might last. Teares drown'd 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?