When by thy scorn, O murd'ress,
I am dead
And that thou think'st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse
arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then,
being tir'd before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him,
think thou call'st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink;
And then, poor aspen wretch,
neglected thou
Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat
wilt lie a verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since
my love is spent,
I'had rather thou shouldst
painfully repent,
Than by my threat'nings
rest still innocent.
JOHN DONNE