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 5 
Viceroy to that which unto heav'n being gone  
Will leave this to control 
And keep these limbs her provinces from dissolution.
 

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall 
Through every part 10 
Can tie those parts and make me one of all; 
Those 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 15 
As prisoners then are manacled when they're condemn'd 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 other hands these reliques came.
 20 
As 'twas humility 
T' afford to it all that a soul can do  
So 'tis some bravery 
That since you would have none of me I bury some of you.

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