Here take my Picture, though I bid farewell;
Thine, in my heart, where my ſoule dwels, ſhall dwell.
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more
When wee are ſhadowes both, then 'twas before.
When weather-beaten I come backe; my hand,
Perhaps with rude oares torne, or Sun beams tann'd,
My face and breſt of hairecloth, and my head
With cares raſh ſodaine ſtormes, being o'rſpread,
My body'a ſack of bones, broken within,
And powders blow ſtaines ſcatter'd on my skimme;
If rivall fooles taxe thee to'have lov'd a man,
So foule, and courſe, as, Oh, I may ſeeme than,
This ſhall ſay what I was: and thou ſhalt ſay,
Doe his hurts reach mee? doth my worth decay?
Or doe they reach his judging minde, that hee
Should now love leffe, what hee did love to ſee?
That which in him was faire and delicate,
Was but the milke, which in loves childiſh ſtate
Did nurſe it: who now is growne ſtrong enough
To feed on that, which to diſus'd tafts ſeemes tough.

Here take my picture; though I bid farewell,
Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more,
When we are shadows both, than 'twas before.
When weatherbeaten I come back; my hand
Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun-beams tann'd,
My face and breast of haircloth, and my head
With care's harsh sudden hoariness o'erspread,
My body a sack of bones, broken within,
And powder's blue stains scatter'd on my skin;
If rival fools tax thee to have loved a man,
So foul and coarse, as, O! I may seem then,
This shall say what I was; and thou shalt say,
"Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay?
Or do they reach his judging mind, that he
Should now love less, what he did love to see?
That which in him was fair and delicate,
Was but the milk, which in love's childish state
Did nurse it; who is now grown strong enough
To feed on that, which to weak tastes seems tough.