|
| The Funerall. |
|
| Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harme |
| Nor question much |
| That subtle wreathe of hair, which crowns my arme; |
| The mysterie, 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 thred my braine lets fall |
| Through every part, |
| Can tye those parts, and make me one of all; |
| Those haires which upward grew, and strength & art |
| Have from a better braine, |
| Can better do't; except she meant that I |
| By this should know my pain, |
| As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die. |
|
| What ere she meant by 'it burie it with me, |
| For since I am |
| Loves martyr, it might breed idolatry, |
| If into others hands these Reliques came; |
| As 'twas humilitie |
| To afford to it all that a Soule can doe, |
| So, 'tis some bravery, |
| That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
|
[CW: The] |