The Parting

I go, dear Saint, away,
Snatch'd from thy arms
By far less pleasing charms,
Than those I did obey;
But when hereafter thou shall know
That grief hath slain me, come,
And on my tomb
Drop, drop a tear or two;
Break with thy sighs the silence of my sleep,
And I shall smile in death to see thee weep.

Thy tears may have the power
To reinspire
My ashes with new fire,
Or change me to some flower,
Which, planted 'twixt thy breasts, shall grow:
Veil'd in this shape, I will
Dwell with thee still,
Court, kiss, enjoy thee too:
Securely we'll contemn all envious force,
And thus united be by death's divorce.