The Legacy

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 seemed, 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.