On a Ring sent by Queen Anne to the Author, with a Diamond in Form of a Heart

Thou sent to me a heart — 'twas crown'd ;
I thought it had been thine,
But when I saw it had a wound,
I knew the heart was mine.

A bounty of a strange conceit,
To give mine own to me,
And give it in a worse estate
Than it was giv'n to thee.

The heart I sent, it had no pain,
It was entire and sound,
But thou did'st render'd back again
Sick of a deadly wound.

O heav'ns, how would you use a heart
That should rebellious be,
When you undo it with a dart,
That yields itself to thee.

Yet wish I it had no more pain
Than from the wound proceeds ;
More from the sending back again,
Than for the wound, it bleeds.

I may well say some undesert
Hath caus'd thee turn 't away,
And either 'twas thy fault or art,
The blame on it will lay.

Yet thou dost know that no defect
In it thou could 'st reprove,
Thou only fear'd it should infect
Thy loveliest heart with love.

A crime which if it could commit
Would so infect to thee,
That thou would rather harbour it
Than send it back to me.

Yet keep it still, or if your heart
Hath been thine own too long,
Send me it back as free from smart
As it was free from wrong.