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?