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Poem	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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