To the World: A Farewell for a Gentlewoman, Virtuous and Noble

  
IV.
 — TO THE WORLD.
                  
A Farewell for a Gentlewoman, virtuous and noble.

   My part is ended on thy stage.

 Do not once hope that thou canst tempt 
   A spirit so resolv'd to tread 
Upon thy throat, and live exempt 
   From all the nets that thou canst spread.

 I know thy forms are studied arts, 
   Thy subtle ways be narrow straits ;
 I know too, though thou strut and paint, 
   Yet art thou both shrunk up, and old, 
That only fools make thee a saint, 
   And all thy good is to be sold.

 I know thou whole are but a shop 
   Of toys and trifles, traps and snares, 
To take the weak, or make them stop : 
   Yet art thou falser than thy wares.
  And, knowing this, should I yet stay, 
   Like such as blow away their lives, 
And never will redeem a day, 
   Enamour'd of their golden gyves ?

 Or having 'scaped shall I return, 
   And thrust my neck into the noose, 
From whence so lately, I did burn, 
   With all my powers, myself to loose ?

 What bird, or beast is known so dull, 
   That fled his cage, or broke his chain,
 If these who have but sense, can shun 
   The engines, that have them annoy'd ; 
Little for me had reason done, 
   If I could not thy gins avoid.

 Yes, threaten, do.
   Alas, I fear  
   As little, as I hope from thee :  
I know thou canst nor shew, nor bear  
   More hatred, than thou hast to me.
   My tender, first, and simple years  
   Thou didst abuse, and then betray ;  
Since stirr'dst up jealousies and fears,  
   When all the causes were away.
 

 Then in a soil hast planted me,  
   Where breathe the basest of thy fools,  
Where envious arts professed be,  
   And pride and ignorance the schools :

 Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,  
   But as 'tis rumour'd, so believed ; 
 But what we're born for, we must bear : 
   Our frail condition it is such, 
That what to all may happen here,  
   If't chance to me, I must not grutch.
 

 Else I my state should much mistake, 
   To harbor a divided thought  
From all my kind ;  that for my sake, 
   There should a miracle be wrought.
  No, I do know that I was born  
   To age, misfortune, sickness, grief : 
But I will bear these with that scorn, 
   As shall not need thy false relief.
 

 Nor for my peace will I go far,  
   As wanderers do, that still do roam ; 
But make my strengths, such as they are,  
   Here in my bosom, and at home.



   That hour upon any morn of age, 
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,  
   My part is ended on thy stage.

 Do not once hope that thou canst tempt 
   A spirit so resolv'd to tread 
Upon thy throat, and live exempt 
   From all the nets that thou canst spread.

 I know thy forms are studied arts, 
   Thy subtle ways be narrow straits ;

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