"My dearest dust"

I was lying awake the other night thinking of this poem. It's (part of) an epitaph on her husband, written in 1641, which is the only verse of hers which survives.

MY DEAREST DUST by Catherine Dyer

My dearest dust, could not thy hasty day
Afford thy drowsy patience leave to stay
One hour longer: so that we might either
Sat up, or gone to bed together?
But since thy finished labour hath possessed
Thy weary limbs with early rest,
Enjoy it sweetly: and thy widow bride
Shall soon repose her by thy slumb'ring side.
Whose business, now, is only to prepare
My nightly dress, and call to prayer:
Mine eyes wax heavy and the day grows old.
The dew falls thick, my blood grows cold;
Draw, draw the closed curtains: and make room:
My dear, my dearest dust; I come, I come.

You can see a photo of the original here.