faculties,
Which sense may reach and apprehend,
    Else a great Prince in prison lies.
To our bodies turn we then, that so
    Weak men on love revealed may look;
Love’s mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.
And if some lover, such as we,
Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still mark us, he shall see
Small change, when we are to bodies gone.

209   The Dream

DEAR love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream,
               It was a theme
For reason, much too strong for fantasy.
Therefore thou waked’st me wisely; yet
My dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths and fables histories;
Enter these arms, for since thou thought’st it best
Not to dream all my dream, let’s act the rest.

As lightning, or a taper’s light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me;
              Yet I thought thee—
For thou lov’st truth—an angel, at first sight;
But when I saw thou saw’st my heart,
And knew’st my thoughts beyond an angel’s art,
When thou knew’st what I dreamt, when thou knew’st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then,
I must confess it could not choose but be
Profane to think thee anything but thee.

Coming and staying show’d thee thee,
But rising makes me doubt that now
              Thou art not thou.
That Love is weak where Fear’s as strong as he;
’Tis not all spirit pure and brave
If mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have.
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal’st with me.
Thou cam’st to kindle, go’st to come: then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

210   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 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
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: expect she meant that I
              By this should know my pain,
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.
         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.

211   Death

DEATH, be not proud, though some have callàed thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go—
Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery!
Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?
    One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
    And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!