Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm1
Nor question much2
That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm ;3
The mystery, the sign you must not touch.4
For ’tis my outward soul5
Viceroy to that which, then to heaven being gone,6
Will leave this to control7
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.8
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall9
Through every part,10
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all ;11
The hairs which upward grew, and strength and art12
Have from a better brain,13
Can better do’t: except she meant that I14
By this should know my pain,15
As prisoners then are manacled, when they’re condemned to die.16
Whate’er she meant by’t, bury it with me;17
For since I am18
Love’s martyr, it might breed idolatry19
If into other hands these relics came.20
As ’twas humility21
To afford to it all that a soul can do,22
So ’tis some bravery23
That since you would have rone of me, I bury some of you.24