When thou, poore excommunicate <br />From all the joyes of love, shalt see <br />The full reward, and glorious fate, <br />Which my strong faith shall purchase me, <br />Then curse thine owne inconstancy. <br /> <br />A fayrer hand than thine, shall cure <br />That heart, which thy false oathes did wound; <br />And to my soul, a soul more pure <br />Than thine, shall by Loves hand be bound, <br />And both with equall glory crown'd. <br /> <br />Then shalt thou weepe, entreat, complain <br />To Love, as I did once to thee; <br />When all thy teares shall be as vain <br />As mine were then, for thou shalt bee <br />Damn'd for thy false Apostasie.<br /><br />Thomas Carew<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-my-inconstant-mistris/
