Go, perjur'd man

Go, perjur'd man, and if thou e'er return

To see the small remainder of my urn,

When thou shalt laugh at my religious dust,

And ask, where's now the colour, form and trust

Of woman's beauty, and perhaps with rude hands

Rifle the flowers which the virgins strewed,

Know, I've prayed to Pity that the wind

May blow my ashes up and strike thee blind.