Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign you must not touch,
For'tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,
Will leave this to control,
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
For if the sinew thread my brain lets fall
Through every part,
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all;
These hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain
Can better do'it; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are comdemn'd to die.
Where ere she meant by'it, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love's martyr, it might mean idolatry,
If into other's hands these relics came;
As'was humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
So, tis some bravery,
That since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.
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