Classic Poem

T'is madnesse to give Physicke to the dead;
Then leave me friends: Yet haply you'd here read
A lecture; but I'le not dissected be,
T'instruct your Art by my anatomie.
But still you trust your sense, sweare you discry
No difference in me. All's deceit oth'eye,
Some spirit hath a body fram'd in th'ayre,
Like mine, which he doth to delude you weare:
Else heaven by miracle makes me survive
My selfe, to keepe in me poore Love alive.
But I am dead, yet let none question where
My best part rests, and with a sigh or teare,
Prophane the Pompe, when they my corps interre,
My soule imparadis'd, for 'tis with her.