The Expostulation

To make the doubt cleare, that no woman's true,Was it my fate to prove it strong in you?Thought I, but one had breathed purest aire,And must she needs be false because she's faire?Is it your beauties marke, or of your youth,Or your perfection, not to study truth?Or thinke you heaven is deafe, or hath no eyes?Or those it hath, smile at your perjuries?Are vowes so cheape with women, or the matterWhereof they are made, that they are writ in water,And blowne away with winde? Or doth their breath(Both hot and cold at once) make life and death?Who could have thought so many accents sweetForm'd into words, so many sighs should meeteAs from our hearts, so many oathes, and tearesSprinkled among, (all sweeter by our fearesAnd the divine impression of stolne kisses,That seal'd the rest) should now prove empty blisses?Did you draw bonds to forfet? signe to breake?Or must we reade you quite from what you speake,And finde the truth out the wrong way? or mustHee first desire you false, would wish you just?O I prophane, though most of women beThis kinde of beast, my thought shall except thee;My dearest love, though froward jealousie,With circumstance might urge thy'inconstancie,Sooner I'll thinke the Sunne will cease to cheareThe teeming earth, and that forget to beare,Sooner that rivers will runne back, or ThamesWith ribs of Ice in June would bind his streames,Or Nature, by whose strength the world endures,Would change her course, before you alter yours.But O that treacherous breast to whom weake youDid trust our Counsells, and wee both may rue,Having his falshood found too late, 'twas heeThat made me cast you guilty, and you me,Whilst he, black wretch, betray'd each simple wordWee spake, unto the cunning of a third.Curst may hee be, that so our love hath slaine,And wander on the earth, wretched as Cain,Wretched as hee, and not deserve least pitty;In plaguing him, let misery be witty;Let all eyes shunne him, and hee shunne each eye,Till hee be noysome as his infamie;May he without remorse deny God thrice,And not be trusted more on his Soules price;And after all selfe torment, when hee dyes,May Wolves teare out his heart, Vultures his eyes,Swine eate his bowels, and his falser tongueThat utter'd all, be to some Raven flung,And let his carrion coarse be a longer feastTo the Kings dogges, then any other beast.Now have I curst, let us our love revive;In mee the flame was never more alive;I could beginne againe to court and praise,And in that pleasure lengthen the short dayesOf my lifes lease; like Painters that do takeDelight, not in made worke, but whiles they make;I could renew those times, when first I sawLove in your eyes, that gave my tongue the lawTo like what you lik'd; and at maskes and playesCommend the selfe same Actors, the same wayes;Aske how you did, and often with intentOf being officious, be impertinent;All which were such soft pastimes, as in theseLove was as subtilly catch'd, as a disease;But being got it is a treasure sweet,Which to defend is harder then to get:And ought not be prophan'd on either part,For though'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art.