The Curse. A Song

Go, perjured man; and if thou e'er returnTo see the small remainders in mine urn,When thou shalt laugh at my religious dust,And ask: where's now the colour, form and trustOf woman's beauty? and with hand more rudeRifle the flowers which the virgins strewed:Know I have prayed to Fury that some windMay blow my ashes up, and strike thee blind.