Mecciano

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls, to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
The breath goes now, and some say, no:

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
\'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th\'earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant,
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers\' love
(Whole soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love, so much refined,
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but expansion,
Like gold to aery thinnest beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two,
Thy soul the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th\'other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and harkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th\'other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just
And makes me end, where I began,