Thomas Stanley (1625–1678)

I GO dear Saint, away,

Snatch’d from thy arms

By far less pleasing charms,

Than those I did obey;

But if hereafter thou shalt know

That grief hath killed 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.