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;
Loves 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.
DEAR love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream,
It was a theme
much too strong for fantasy.
Therefore thou wakedst me wisely; yet
My dream thou brokst not, but continuedst
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths and fables histories;
arms, for since thou thoughtst it best
Not to dream all my dream, lets act the rest.
As lightning, or a tapers light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me;
Yet I thought thee
lovst truthan angel, at first sight;
But when I saw thou sawst my heart,
And knewst my thoughts beyond
an angels art,
When thou knewst what I dreamt, when thou knewst when
Excess of joy would wake me,
and camst then,
I must confess it could not choose but be
Profane to think thee anything but thee.
Coming and staying showd thee thee,
But rising makes me doubt that now
Thou art not thou.
That Love is
weak where Fears as strong as he;
Tis not all spirit pure and brave
If mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou dealst with me.
camst to kindle, gost to come: then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.
WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair about mine
The mystery, the sign you must not touch,
For tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that which, unto heavn
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
Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better dot: expect
she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when theyre condemnd
Whateer she meant by t, bury it with me,
For since I am
Loves 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
since you would have none of me, I bury some of
DEATH, be not proud, though some have callàed thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:
whom thou thinkst 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!
Thourt 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 swellst thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!