Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. II. The Seventeenth Century: Ben Jonson to Dryden

Thomas Stanley (1625–1678)

The Tomb

WHEN, cruel fair one, I am slain

By thy disdain,

And, as a trophy of thy scorn,

To some old tomb am borne,

Thy fetters must their power bequeath

To those of Death;

Nor can thy flame immortal burn,

Like monumental fires within an urn;

Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove

There is more liberty in Death than Love.

And when forsaken lovers come

To see my tomb,

Take heed thou mix not with the crowd

And, as a victor, proud

To view the spoils thy beauty made

Press near my shade,

Lest thy too cruel breath or name

Should fan my ashes back into a flame,

And thou, devoured by this revengeful fire,

His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire.

But if cold earth or marble must

Conceal my dust,

Whilst hid in some dark ruins, I

Dumb and forgotten lie,

The pride of all thy victory

Will sleep with me;

And they who should attest thy glory,

Will, or forget, or not believe this story.

Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest,

Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast.