Great Nature she doth clothe the soul within,
A fleshly garment which the Fates do spin.
And when these garments are grown old, and bare,
With sickness torn, Death takes them off with care.
And folds them up in peace, and quiet rest,
So lays them safe within an earthly chest.
Then scours them, and makes them sweet, and clean,
Fit for the soul to wear those clothes again.