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Poem	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 5 Viceroy to that which unto heav'n 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 10 Can tie those parts and make me one of all; Those 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 15 As prisoners then are manacled when they're condemn'd 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 other hands these reliques came. 20 As 'twas humility T' afford to it all that a soul can do So 'tis some bravery That since you would have none of me I bury some of you.
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