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: except 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. _201._ _A Hymn to God the Father_ Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more. Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sins their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallow’d in a score? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more. I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore: And having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more. _202._ _Death_ Death, be not proud, though some have callèd 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! RICHARD BARNEFIELD 1574-1627 _203._ _Philomel_