Here take my Picture, though I bid farewell;
Thine, in my heart, where my ſoule dwels, ſhall dwell.
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more
When wee are ſhadowes both, then 'twas before.
When weather-beaten I come backe; my hand,
Perhaps with rude oares torne, or Sun beams tann'd,
My face and breſt of hairecloth, and my head
With cares raſh ſodaine ſtormes, being o'rſpread,
My body'a ſack of bones, broken within,
And powders blow ſtaines ſcatter'd on my skimme;
If rivall fooles taxe thee to'have lov'd a man,
So foule, and courſe, as, Oh, I may ſeeme than,
This ſhall ſay what I was: and thou ſhalt ſay,
Doe his hurts reach mee? doth my worth decay?
Or doe they reach his judging minde, that hee
Should now love leffe, what hee did love to ſee?
That which in him was faire and delicate,
Was but the milke, which in loves childiſh ſtate
Did nurſe it: who now is growne ſtrong enough
To feed on that, which to diſus'd tafts ſeemes tough.