That labour’st yet to nestle thee,
And think’st by hovering here to get a part
In a forbidden or forbidding tree,
And hop’st her stiffness by long siege to bow:)
Little think’st thou,
That thou to-morrow, ere the sun doth wake,
Must with this sun and me a journey take.’
This is but a lame and impotent conclusion from so delightful a beginning.—He thus notices the circumstance of his wearing his late wife’s hair about his arm, in a little poem which is called the Funeral:
‘Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much