But I am proof against all art. No vows shall e'er persuade me Twice to present a wounded heart To her that hath betray'd me. Could I again be brought to love Thy form, though more divine, I might thy scorn as justly move, As now thou sufferest mine. 20 [_Song._] Pretty, and the double rhymes in stanzas 1 and 4 well brought off.] [Line: 7 _1656_ '_the_ shore'.] _The Loss._ Yet ere I go, Disdainful Beauty, thou shall be So wretched, as to know What joys thou fling'st away with me. A faith so bright, As Time or Fortune could not rust; So firm, that lovers might Have read thy story in my dust, And crown'd thy name With laurel verdant as thy youth, 10 Whilst the shrill voice of Fame Spread wide thy beauty and my truth. This thou hast lost; For all true lovers, when they find That my just aims were crost, Will speak thee lighter than the wind. And none will lay Any oblation on thy shrine, But such as would betray Thy faith, to faiths as false as thine. 20 Yet, if thou choose On such thy freedom to bestow, Affection may excuse, For love from sympathy doth flow. [_The Loss._] Still good. But I have once more to demur to Miss Guiney's opinion that 'Thy' in l. 20, though found in all texts, should 'almost certainly' be 'Their'. In the first place, conjectural emendations in the teeth of text-agreement are never to be made without absolute necessity. In the second, the hackneyed observation about the less obvious reading is never so true as of the Caroline poets. In the third, this particular correction, if obvious in one sense, is but specious in another, and '_Their_ faith' will be found on examination to make less, not more, sense than 'Thy'. The meaning is, 'Such faith as thou mightest repose in them after being false to me', i.e. 'They would leave thee for other light-o'-loves'.] _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; 10 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. [_The Self-Cruel._] Merely 'Song' in _1647_.