When by thy scorne, O murdresse, I am dead, 
And that thou thinkst thee free 
From all solicitation from mee, 
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed, 
And thee, fain'd vestall, in worse armes shall see; 
Then thy sicke taper will begin to winke, 
And he, whose thou art then, being tyr'd before, 
Will, if thou stirre, or pinch to wake him, think 
         Thou call'st for more, 
And in false sleepe will from thee shrinke, 
And then, poore Aspen wretch, neglected thou 
Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lye 
         A veryer 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, 
Than by my threatnings rest still innocent.