The Funeral
WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harmNor question muchThat 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 controlAnd keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
But if the sinewy thread my brain lets fallThrough every part,Can tie those parts and make me one of all;The hairs, which upward grew, and strength and artHave from a better brain,Can better do’t; except she meant that IBy 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 amLove’s martyr, it might breed idolatryIf into others’ hands these relics came.As ’twas humilityTo afford to it all that a soul can do,So ’twas some braveryThat since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
RICHARD BARNEFIELD 1574(?)–(?)