When, cruel fair one, I am slain
      By thy disdain,
And, as a trophy of thy scorn,
   To some old tomb am borne,
Thy fetters must their pow'r 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 than Love.

And when forsaken lovers come
      To see my tomb,
Take heed thou mix not with the crowd,
   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 died as thine expire.

Or should my dust thy pity move
      That could not, love, 
Thy sighs might wake me, and thy tours
   Renew my life and years; 
Or should thy proud insulting scorn
      Laugh at my urn, 
   Kindly deceiv’d by thy disdain, 
I might be smil’d into new life again. 
Then come not near: since both thy love and hate 
Have equal power to kill - or animate.

But if cold earth or marble must
      Conceal my dust,
Whilst hid in some dark ruins, I
   Dumb and forgotten lie,
The pride of all thy victory
      Will sleep with me;
   And they, who should attest thy glory,
Will, or forget, or not believe this story.
Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest,
Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast.