I fix mine eye of thine and there,
Pity my picture burning in thine eye;
My picture drowned in a transparent tear;
When I look lower, I espy…

Had'st thou the wicked skill
By pictures, made and marred, to kill,
How many ways might thou perform thy will?

But now I have drunk thy sweet salt tears,
And though thou pour more, I'll depart;
My picture vanished - vanish fears,
That I can be damaged by that Art.

When by thy scorn, O murderess, I am dead,
And thou think thyself free,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feigned vestal, in worse arms shall see.

Though thou retain of me
One picture more, yet that will be,
Being in thine own heart, from all malice free
From all solicitation from me.

What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee, and since my love is spent,
I had rather thou should'st painfully repent
Than by my threatenings rest, still innocent.

But now I have drunk thy sweet salt tears,
And though thou pour more, I'll depart;
My picture vanished - vanish fears,
That I can be damaged by that Art.

When by thy scorn, O murderess, I am dead,
And thou think thyself free,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feigned vestal, in worse arms shall see.