Ayres and Dialogues | ||
3
(3) The Tombe.
[I]
When, cruel Fair one, I am slain,By thy disdain;
And, as a Trophy of thy scorn,
To some old tombe am born;
Thy fetters must their power bequeath
To those of death;
Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
Like monumental fires within an urn;
Thus freed from thy proud Empire, I shall prove,
There is more liberty in Death then Love.
II
And when forsaken Lovers comeTo see my tombe,
Take heed thou mix not with the croud,
And (as a Victor) proud
To view the spoils thy beauty made
Press near my shade,
Lest thy too cruel breath or name
Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
And thou, devour'd by this revengeful fire,
His sacrifice, who dy'd as thine, expire.
III
But if cold Earth, or Marble mustConceal my dust,
Whilst hid in some dark ruines, I
Dumb and forgotten lie,
The pride of all thy victorie
Will sleep with me;
And they who should attest thy Glory,
Will, or forget, or not believe this story:
Then to encrease thy Triumph, let me rest,
Since by thine Eye slain, buried in thy Brest.
Ayres and Dialogues | ||