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When by thy
scorn, O murd'ress I am dead,
And that thou thinkst thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, fain'd vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tired before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call'st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink,
And then poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat will lie
A verier ghost than I;
What I will say I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserves thee; and since my love is spent,
I had rather though should'st painfully repent,
Than by my threat'nings rest till innocent.
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