The Picture

How, Chloris, can I e'er believe
The Vows of Women kind,
Since yours I faithless find,
So faithless, that you can refuse
To him your shadow, that to chuse
You swore you could the substance give?

Is't not enough that I must go
Into another Clime,
Where Feather-footed Time
May turn my Hopes into Despair,
My youthful Dawn to bristled Hair,
But that you add this torment too?

Perchance you fear Idolatry
Would make the Image prove
A Woman fit for love;
Or give it such a soul as shone
Through fond Pigmalion's living stone,
That so I might abandon thee.

O no! 'twould fill my Genius room,
My honest one, that when
Frailty would love agen,
And, failing, with new objects burn,
Then, Sweetest, would thy Picture turn
My wandring eyes to thee at home.