The Self-Cruel

Cast off, for shame, ungentle Maid,
That misbecoming joy thou wear'st;
For in my death, though long delay'd,
Unwisely cruel thou appear'st.
Insult o'er captives with disdain,
Thou canst not triumph o'er the slain.

No, I am now no longer thine,
Nor canst thou take delight to see
Him whom thy love did once confine,
Set, though by Death, at liberty;
For if my fall a smile beget,
Thou gloriest in thy own defeat.

Behold how thy unthrifty pride
Hath murder'd him that did maintain it!
And wary souls, who never tried
Thy tyrant beauty, will disdain it:
But I am softer, and that me
Thou wouldst not pity, pity thee.