Thomas Stanley (1625–1678)

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 power 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 tears

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!