O my poor eyes, the sun whose shine
Late gave you light doth now decline,
And, set to you, to others riseth.
She who would sooner die than change,
Not fearing death delights to range,
A now, O now, O now my soul despiseth.

Yet, O my heart, thy state is blest
To find our rest in thy unrest,
Since thou her slave no more remainest.
For she that bound thee sets thee free
Then when she first forsaketh thee.
Such, O such, O such right by wrong thou gainest.

Eyes, gaze no more! heart learn to hate!
Experience tells you all too late
Fond woman's love with faith still warreth,
While true desert speaks, writes and gives,
Some groom the bargain nearer drives,
And he, O he, O he, the market marreth.