Go, perjured man

Go, perjured man! and if you e'er return

To view the small remainder in my urn,

When thou wilt laugh at my religious dust,

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

Of women's beauty, or perhaps with rude

Hands, scatter the flowers which the virgins strewed:

Know I have prayed to Pity that some wind

May blow my ashes up and strike thee blind!