The Fair Inconstant

DOST thou still hope thou shalt be fair,
When no more fair to me?
Or those that by thee taken were
Hold their captivity?
Is this thy confidence? No, no;
Trust it not; it can not be so.

But thou too late, too late shalt find
’Twas I that made thee fair;
Thy beauties never from thy mind
But from my loving were;
And those delights that did thee stole
Confessed the vicinage of my soul.

The rosy reflex of my heart
Did thy pale cheek attire;
And what I was, not what thou art,
Did gazers-on admire.
Go, and too late thou shalt confess
I looked thee into loveliness!