The Funeral

• Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
• Nor question much
• That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm;
• The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
• For 'tis my outward Soul,
• Viceroy to that which then to heaven 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
• Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
• These 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,
• As prisoners then are manacled when they're condemned 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 others' hands these relics came;
• As 'twas humility
• To afford to it all that a Soul can do,
• So 'tis some bravery
• That since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.