Poetry Archives

In mine one monument I lye,
  And in my self am buried;
Sure, the quick lightning of her eye
  Melted my soul ith’ scabberd dead;
And now like some pale ghost I walk,
And with another’s spirit talk.

Nor can her beams a heat convey,
  That may my frozen bosome warm,
Unless her smiles have pow’r, as they,
  That a cross charm can countercharm.
But this is such a pleasing pain,
I’m loth to be alive again.