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The Funerall |
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Who ever comes to shrowde mee, doe not harme [280] |
Nor question much |
That subtill wreath of hayre w.ch crownes mine Arme |
The Mistery the Signe you must not touch |
ffor tis my outward Soule |
Viceroy to that w.ch then to heauen beeing gon |
Will leaue this to controule |
And keepe these Limbes, her Prouinces, from disolution |
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ffor if the Sinnewy Thread my brayne lets fall |
Through every part |
Can tye those parts, and make mee one and all; |
Those Hayres w.ch vpward grewe, and strength and Art |
Haue from a better brayne |
Can better do it; except Shee ment that I |
By this should knowe my payne |
As prisoners then are manacled when th'are condemnd to dye. |
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What ere shee ment by it, bury it with mee |
ffor since I am |
Loues Martyr, it might breede Idolatry |
If into others hands these Reliques came. |
As t'was Humility |
To affoord to it all w.ch a soule can doe: |
So tis some Brauery |
That since you would haue none of mee I bury some of you
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[CW: When my___] |