When last I died, 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 might 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 I alas! could there find none; When I had ripp'd, 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 colours it, and corners had; It was not good, it was not bad, It was entire to none, and few had part; As good as could be made by art It seem'd, and therefore for our loss be sad. I meant to send that heart instead of mine, But O! no man could hold it, for 'twas thine.