Beautȳ*, reti͞re; thou dost my pitȳ mọve;
Believe my pitȳ, and then trust my love.
At first I thought her by our prophet sent
As a rewȧrd for valour’s toils,
More wȯrth than all my Father’s spoils;
But now she is become my punishment.
But Thou art just, O pow’r divine;
With new and painful arts
Of studied wȧr, I bre͞ak the hearts
Of half the wȯrld, and she bre͞aks mine.
* For an explanation of the marks added to the letters, see Linguistic notes: English.