The Apparition

When by thy scorn, O murderess, I am dead

And that thou think'st thee free

From all solicitation from me

Then shall my ghost come to thy bed

And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see;

Then thy sick taper will begin to wink

And he, whose thou art then, being tir'd 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 wilt lie

A verier ghost than I.

What I will say, I will not tell thee now

Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent

I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent

Then by my threat'nings rest still innocent