Injuria Amicitiae.

LOvely Apostate! what was my offence?
Or am I punish'd for Obedience?
Must thy strange Rigour find as strange a time?
The Act and Season are an equal Crime.
Of what thy most ingenuous scorns could doe
Must I be Subject and Spectatour too?
Or were the Sufferings and Sins too few
To be sustain'd by me, perform'd by you?
Unless (with Nero) your uncurb'd desire
Be to survey the Rome you set on fire.
While wounded for and by your Power, I
At once your Martyr and your Prospect die.
This is my doom, and such a ridling Fate
As all impossibles doth complicate,
For Obligation here is Injury,
Constancy Crime, Friendship a Heresie.
And you appear so much on Ruine bent,
Your own destruction gives you now Content:
For our twinne-Spirits did so long agree,
You must undoe your self to ruine me.
And, like some Frantick Goddess, you'r inclin'd;
To raze the Temple where you are enshrin'd
And, what's the Miracle of Cruelty,
Kill that which gave you Immortality.
While glorious Friendship, whence your Honour springs,
Lies gasping in the Croud of common things;
And I'me so odious, that for being kind
Doubled and studied Murthers are design'd.
Thy sin's all Paradox, for should'st thou be
Thy self again, th' wouldst be severe to me.
For thy Repentance coming now so late,
Would only change, and not relieve thy Fate.
So dangerous is the consequence of ill,
Thy least of Crimes is to be cruel still.
For of thy Smiles I should yet more complain,
If I should live to be betray'd again.
Live then (fair Tyrant) in Security,
From both my Kindness and Revenge be free;
While I, who to the Swains had sung your Fame,
And taught each Echo to repeat your Name,
Will now my private Sorrow entertain,
To Rocks and Rivers, not to thee, complain.
And though before our Union cherish'd me,
'Tis now my pleasure that we disagree.
For from my Passion your last Rigour grew,
And you kill'd me 'cause that I worshipp'd you.
But my worst Vows shall be your Happiness,
And not to be disturb'd by my distress.
And though it would my sacred flames pollute,
To make my heart a scorned prostitute;
Yet I'le adore the Author of my Death,
And kiss your Hand that robs me of my breath.