(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 come
To 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 must
Conceal 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.
