THOU are not so black, as my heart,
    Nor halfe so brittle, as her heart, thou art;
What would'st thou say? shall both our properties by thee
                bee spoke?
    Nothing more endlesse, nothing sooner broke?
            Marriage rings are not of this stuffe;
    Oh, why should ought lesse precious, or lesse tough
Figure our loves? Except in thy name thou have bid it say,
    I'am cheap, and nought but fashion, fling me'away.

            Yet stay with mee since thou art come,
    Circle this fingers top, which did'st her thombe.
Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me,
She that, Oh, broke her faith, would soon breake thee.