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 then to 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;

These 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 condemn'd to die.

What ere shee meant by'it, bury it with me,

For since I am

Loves martyr, it might breed idolatrie,

If into others hands these Reliques came;　

As 'twas humility

To afford to it all that a Soule can doe,

So, 'tis some bravery,

That since you would have none of mee, I bury some of you.