To My Inconstant Mistress
WHEN thou, poor ExcommunicateFrom all the joys of Love, shalt seeThe full reward and glorious fateWhich my strong faith shall purchase me,Then curse thine own Inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cureThat heart which thy false oaths did wound;And to my soul a soul more pureThan thine shall by Love’s hand be bound,And both with equal glory crowned.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complainTo Love, as I did once to thee:When all thy tears shall be as vainAs mine were then: for thou shalt beDamned for thy false Apostacy.