The poem
Here take my picture; though I bid farewell, Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell. 'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more When we are shadows both than 'twas before. When weather-beaten I come back, my hand Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sunbeams tanned, My face and breast of haircloth, and my head With cares rash sudden storms being o'erspread, My body a sack of bones, broken within, And powder's blue stains scattered on my skin; If rival fools tax thee t' have loved a man So foul and course as, Oh, I may seem then, This shall say what I was: and thou shalt say, Do his hurts reach me? doth my worth decay? Or do they reach his judging mind, that he Should now love less what he did love to see? That which in him was fair and delicate Was but the milk, which in love's childish state Did nurse it: who now is grown strong enough To feed on that, which to disused tastes seems tough.