A Jet Ring Sent

THOU art not so black as my heart,

Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art;

What wouldst thou say? shall both our properties by thee be spoke,

—Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke?

Marriage rings are not of this stuff;

Oh, why should ought less precious, or less tough,

Figure our loves? except in thy name thou have bid it say

“—I’m cheap, and nought but fashion; fling me away.”

Yet stay with me since thou art come,

Circle this finger’s top, which didst her thumb;

Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me;

She that, O! broke her faith, would soon break thee.