O how I hate thee now 
And my selfe too, 
For loving such a false, false thing as thee! 
Who hourly canst depart 
From heart, to heart, 
To take new harbour as thou didst in me; 
But when the world shall spie, 
And know thy shifts as well as I, 
They'l shut their hearts and take thee in no more; 
He that can dwell with none, must out of door. 

Thy pride hath overgrown
All this great Town
Which stoops, and bowes, as low as I to you;
Thy falshood might support
All the new Court
Which shifts, and turne, almost as oft as thou.
But to expresse thee by,
Ther's not an object low, or high,
For 'twill be found, when ere the measures tride,
Nothing can read thy falshood, but thy pride.