John Fletcher (1579–1625)

GO, happy heart! for thou shalt lie

Intombed in her for whom I die,

Example of her cruelty.

Tell her, if she chance to chide

Me for slowness, in her pride,

That it was for her, I died.

If a tear escape her eye,

’Tis not for my memory,

But thy rites of obsequy.

The altar was my loving breast,

My heart the sacrificèd beast,

And I was, myself, the priest.

Your body was the sacred shrine,

Your cruel mind the power divine,

Pleased with hearts of men, not kine.