The Funeral
Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
For ’tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that which, unto heaven being gone,
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
But if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part,
Can tie those parts and make me one of all;
The hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do’t; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners are manacled when they’re condemned to die.
Whate’er she meant by’t, bury it with me;
For since I am
Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry
If into others’ hands these relics came.
As ’twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
So ’twas some bravery
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.