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, Viceroy to that which, unto heaven being gone, Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

But if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part, Can tie those parts and make me one of all; The 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 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 ’twas some bravery That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

RICHARD BARNEFIELD 1574(?)–(?)