Classic Poem

When I died last, and, dear, I die
As often as from thee I go,
Though it be 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 should be
Mine own executor and legacy.

I heard me say, ‘Tell her anon,
That my self’, 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 ripped me, and searched where hearts should lie;
It killed 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 losses sad,
I meant to send this heart instead of mine,
But oh, no man could hold it, for 'twas thine.