My Love Is Past

Resolu'd to dust intomb'd heere lieth Loue,
Through faulte of her, who heere her selfe should lye;
He strooke her brest, but all in vaine did proue
To fire the yse: and doubting by and by
His brand had lost his force, he gan to trye
Vpon him selfe; which tryall made him dye.

In sooth no force; let those lament who lust,
Ile sing a carroll song for obsequy;
For, towardes me his dealings were vniust,
And cause of all my passed misery:
The Fates, I thinke, seeing what I had past,
In my behalfe wrought this reuenge at last.

But somewhat more to pacyfie my minde,
By killing him, through whome I liu'd a slaue,
Ile cast his ashes to the open winde,
Or write this Epitaph vppon his graue;
Here lyeth Loue, of Mars the bastard Sonne,
Whose foolish fault to death him selfe hath donne.