Poetry Archives

When I died last, and, Dear, I die
     As often as from thee I go,
     Though it be but an hour ago,
And Lovers’ hours be full eternity,
I can remember yet, that I
     Something did say, and something did bestow;
Though I be dead, which sent me, I should be
Mine own executor and legacy.

I heard me say, “Tell her anon,
     That myself, that is you, not I,
     Did kill me,” and when I felt me die,
I bid me send my heart, when I was gone,
But alas could there find none,
     When I had ripp’d me, and search’d where hearts should lie;
It kill’d me again, that I who still was true,
In life, in my last will should cozen you.

Yet I found something like a heart,
     But colors it, and corners had,
     It was not good, it was not bad,
It was intire to none, and few had part.
As good as could be made by art
     It seem’d, and therefore for our losses sad,
I meant to send this heart in stead of mine,
But oh, no man could hold it, for ’twas thine.