I.

In mine one monument I lye, 
And in my self am buried; 
Sure, the quick lightning of her eye 
Melted my soul ith' scabberd dead; 
And now like some pale ghost I walk, 
And with another's spirit talk.

II.

Nor can her beams a heat convey, 
That may my frozen bosome warm, 
Unless her smiles have pow'r, as they, 
That a cross charm can countercharm. 
But this is such a pleasing pain, 
I'm loth to be alive again.