The Answer

I.
                    Againe,
Thou witty cruell wanton, now againe,
                    Through ev'ry veine,
Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry dart,
                    Againe,
Before I feele this pleasing, pleasing paine.
                    I have no heart,
Nor can I live but sweetly murder'd with
                    So deare, so deare a smart.

                    II.
                    Then flye,
And kindle all your torches at her eye,
                    To make me dye
Her martyr, and put on my roabe of flame:
                    So I,
Advanced on my blazing wings on high,
                    In death became
Inthroan'd a starre, and ornament unto
                    Her glorious, glorious name.