Madam,
I know your heart cannot so guilty be,
That you should wear those spots for vanity;
Or, as your beauty's trophies, put on one
For every murther which your eyes have done:
No, they're your mourning-weeds for hearts forlorn,5
Which, though you must not love, you could not scorn;
To whom since cruel honour doth deny
Those joys could only cure their misery,
Yet you this noble way to grace them found,
Whilst thus your grief their martyrdom hath crown'd,10
Of which take heed you prove not prodigal;
For, if to every common funeral
By your eyes martyr'd, such grace were allow'd,
Your face would wear not patches, but a cloud.