• bosomslang 5w


    I ask not that my bed of death
    From bands of greedy heirs be free;
    For these besiege the lawyers breath
    Of fortune’s favoured sons, not me.

    I ask not each kind soul to keep
    Tearless, when of my death he hears;
    Let those who will, if any, weep!
    There are worse plagues than tears.

    I ask but that my death may find
    The freedom to my life denied;
    Ask but the folly of mankind,
    Then, at last, to quit my side.

    Spare me the whispering, crowded room,
    The friends who come, and gape, and go;
    The ceremonious air of gloom—
    All which makes death a hideous show.