William Cartwright (1611–1643)

STILL do the stars impart their light

To those that travel in the night;

Still time runs on, nor doth the hand

Or shadow on the dial stand;

The streams still glide and constant are:

Only thy mind

Untrue I find,

Which carelessly

Neglects to be

Like stream or shadow, hand or star.

Fool that I am! I do recall

My words, and swear thou’rt like them all:

Thou seem’st like stars to nourish fire,

But O how cold is thy desire!

And like the hand upon the brass

Thou point’st at me

In mockery;

If I come nigh

Shade-like thou’lt fly,

And as the stream with murmur pass.