|
| Thou Love taughtst mee, by making mee |
| Love her, who doth neglect both mee and thee, |
| To'invent, and practise this one way, to'annihilate all three. |
|
| The Funerall. |
|
| Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harme |
| Nor question much |
| That subtile wreath of haire, which crowns* my arme; |
| The mystery, the signe you must not touch, |
| For'tis my outward Soule,* |
| Viceroy to that, which unto heaven being gone, |
| Will leave this to controule, |
| And keepe these limbes, her Provinces, from dissolution. |
|
| For if the sinewie thread my braine lets fall |
| Through every part, |
| Can tye those parts, and make mee one of all; |
| Those haires which upward grew, and strength and art |
| Have from a better braine, |
| Can better do'it; Except* she meant that I |
| By this should know my pain, |
| As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condem'nd to die. |
|
| What ere shee meant by'it, bury it by me, |
| For since I am |
| Loves martyr, it might breed idolatrie, |
| If into others hands these Reliques* came;
|
[CW: As] |