Fold back our arms, take home our fruitless loves, That must new fortunes try, like turtle-doves 30 Dislodged from their haunts. We must in tears Unwind a love knit up in many years. In this last kiss I here surrender thee Back to thyself, so thou again art free. Thou in another, sad as that, resend The truest heart that lover ere did lend. Now turn from each. So fare our sever'd hearts, As the divorc'd soul from her body parts. [_The Surrender._] Title 'An Elegy' in Malone MS. 22.] [Line: 13 Yet] _MS._ 'But'.] [Line: 17 'acquite' may be for rhyme only; but if 'requite', why not?] [Line: 34 so] _MS._ 'lo'.] [This piece and the next must be interpreted as each reader chooses. They are not without touches of sincerity, but might as well be exercises in the school of King's great friend and master, Donne.] _The Legacy._ My dearest Love! when thou and I must part, And th' icy hand of death shall seize that heart Which is all thine; within some spacious will I'll leave no blanks for legacies to fill: 'Tis my ambition to die one of those, Who, but himself, hath nothing to dispose. And since that is already thine, what need I to re-give it by some newer deed? Yet take it once again. Free circumstance Does oft the value of mean things advance: 10 Who thus repeats what he bequeath'd before, Proclaims his bounty richer than his store. But let me not upon my love bestow What is not worth the giving. I do owe Somewhat to dust: my body's pamper'd care, Hungry corruption and the worm will share. That mould'ring relic which in earth must lie, Would prove a gift of horror to thine eye. With this cast rag of my mortality, Let all my faults and errors buried be. 20 And as my cere-cloth rots, so may kind fate Those worst acts of my life incinerate. He shall in story fill a glorious room, Whose ashes and whose sins sleep in one tomb. If now to my cold hearse thou deign to bring Some melting sighs as thy last offering, My peaceful exequies are crown'd. Nor shall I ask more honour at my funeral. Thou wilt more richly balm me with thy tears, Than all the nard fragrant Arabia bears. 30 And as the Paphian Queen by her grief's show'r Brought up her dead Love's spirit in a flow'r: So by those precious drops rain'd from thine eyes, Out of my dust, O may some virtue rise! And like thy better Genius thee attend, Till thou in my dark period shall end. Lastly, my constant truth let me commend To him thou choosest next to be thy friend. For (witness all things good) I would not have Thy youth and beauty married to my grave, 40 'T would show thou didst repent the style of wife, Shouldst thou relapse into a single life.