The flea, though he kill none, he does all the harm he can

Who ever comes to shroud me, do not harm / Nor question much / That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm.

Since you would save none of me, I bury some of you.

When I died last, and, Dear, I die / As often as from thee I go, / Though it be but an hour ago, / And lovers' hours be full eternity.

But O alas, so long, so far / Our bodies why do we forbear? / They're ours, though they're not we, we are / The intelligences, they the sphere.

We don't kill them off, though. That's an important thing to realize.