WHEN My grave is broke up againe
            Some second ghest to entertainer
            (For graves have learn'd that woman-head
            To be to more than one a Bed)
                    And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright haire about the bone,
                    Will he not let'us alone,
And thinke that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their soules, at the last busie day,
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

            If this fall in a time, or land,
            Where mis-devotion doth command,
            Then, he that digges us up, will bring
            Us, to the Bishop, and the King,
                    To make us Reliques; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
                    A something else thereby;
All women shall adore us, and some men;
And since at such time, miracles are sought,
I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles wee harmlesse lovers wrought.

            First, we lov'd well and faithfully,
            Yet knew not what wee lov'd, nor why,
            Difference of sex no more wee knew,
            Than our Guardian Angelis doe;
                    Comming and going, wee
Perchance might kisse, but not between those meales;
                    Our hands ne'r toucht the seales,
Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free:
These miracles wee did; but now alas,
All measure, and all language, I should passe)
Should I tell 'what a miracle shee was.