Classic Poem

I GOE , I goe, perfidious Mayd,
Obeying thee my froward Fate,
Whether forsaken; or betray'd
By scorne; or hate.

I goe th' exact'st professor of
Desire, in its diviner sence,
That ever in the Scoole of Love
Did yet commence.

Cruell, and false! could'st thou find none
Amongst those Fooles thy eys engrost,
Butt mee to practice falshood on
That lov'd thee most?

I lov'd thee 'bove the day's bright eye,
Above mine owne (who meltinge drop,
As oft as openinge they misse thee)
And 'bove my hope;

'Till (by thy promise growne secure)
That hope was to assurance brought,
My faith was such, so chastly pure,
I doubted not

Thee; or thy vows; nor should I yet
(Such, false one, is my loves extreame)
Should'st thou now sweare, the breaths so sweet
That utters them.

Ah Syren! why did'st mee entice
To that inconstant Sea thy love,
That ebbs, and flowes so in a trice?
Was it to prove

The pow'r of each attractive spell
Upon my fond enamour'd youth?
Noe, I must thincke of thee so well
Thou then spak'st truth.

Els, amongst over-weening boys,
Or dotards thou had'st chosen one,
Than mee (methincks) a fitter choise
To worke upon.

Mine was no wither'd old man's suit;
Nor like a boyes just come from Scoole:
Had'st thou beene ether deafe, or mute,
I'd beene noe Foole.

Faith, I was then, when I embrac't
A false beleefe thy vows were true;
Or, if they were, that they could last
A day or two;

Since I'd beene told, a woman's mind
Varies as oft, as Aprill's face:
But I suppos'd thine more refin'd,
And so it was;

Till (sway'd by thy unruly blood)
Thou changed'st thy uncertayne will,
And 'tis far worse to have byn good,
Than to bee ill.

Methincks thou'rt blemisht in each part,
And so, or worse than others are,
Those eys growne hollow, as thy heart
Which two Sunns were.

Thy cheeks are sunck, and thy smooth skin
Lookes like a Conquest now of Time;
Sure th' had'st an age to study in
For such a Crime.

Th' art so transform'd, that I in thee
(As 'tis a generall losse) more greive
Thy falling from thy selfe, than mee
Foole to beleive;

For I, by this, am taught to prize
The inward beauties of the brest
'Bove all the gayetyes of Eyes
Where treasons rest.

Whereas growne black with this abuse
Offer'd to Love's commanding Throne,
Thou mayst despaire of an excuse,
And wish 't undon.

Farewell thou pretty brittle peece
Of fine-cut Christall, which once was
Of all my fortune, and my blisse
The only glasse;

Now somthing els: But in its state
Of former luster, fresh, and greene,
My faith shall stand; to shew thee what
Thou should'st have beene.