Go, perjur'd man, and if thou e'er return
To see the small remainder of my urn,
When thou shalt laugh at my religious dust,
And ask, where's now the colour, form and trust
Of woman's beauty, and perhaps with rude hands
Rifle the flowers which the virgins strewed,
Know, I've prayed to Pity that the wind
May blow my ashes up and strike thee blind.