Beauty, retire; thou dost my pity move;
Believe my pity, and then trust my love.
At first I thought her by our prophet sent
As a reward for valour’s toils,
More worth 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 war, I break the hearts
Of half the world, and she breaks mine.