The poem
I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear, To chafe o'er-much the virgin's cheek or ear;-- Beg for my pardon, Julia! he doth win Grace with the gods who's sorry for his sin. That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come, And go with me to chuse my burial room: My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies, Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.