The Funerall.

WHo ever comes to shroud me, do not harme
Nor question much
That subtile wreath of haire, which crowne, my arme;
The mystery, the signe you must not touch,
For'tis my outward Soule
Viceroy to that, which unto 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;
Those 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 condem'nd to die.

What ere shee meant by'it, bury it by 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.