Poems, &c. By James Shirley.

C••rse

WOman, I cannot call thee worse, For thy vow-break, take this curse, May that man whom thy embrace Shall make happy in my place, At a time when all thy blood Lust hath poyson'd, and no good Left in a thought, strike with that aire He breathes upon thee next, despair, Some death in his curld forehead fit, And every kisse more cold then it: Yet live, and my revenger be; For when thou dost this Gorgon see, Betwixt thy horror, and no doubt But that thou art a stone throughout; With some knife or poniard wound Thy heart, till falling to the ground, And pale, the world beleeve thee dead, But not one tear upon thee shed. No matter where thy spirit flies, Or whose pity close thine eyes.