I Loved You Once

I loved you once. I love you no more. Let it be your grief and also your blame. You are not now what used to be. For what reason should I remain the same? If he loves you while I have no desire for you, then he has more love than brains. God sends me love for my debts to pay while the fool waste their love away.
Nobody could have taken our love away if you had continued to be mine. Yes, if you had continued to be your own, I would probably still be yours. But you wanted your freedom to get thrills elsewhere. How can I not have disdain for you? Why should I remain a captive of the captive?

When new desires overcame you and you went for him, I couldn’t be firm, only lazy, in still loving you. It was a sin for you to go to prostitute yourself. Unlike other occasions, there are no prayers to say in this case.

Now you assume glory in your voice telling his good fortune to others. I will not grieve, nor rejoice to see what I lost, he gained. It will be the height of my disdain to laugh at him and to blush for you. To love you still? Get lost. I love you no more. It is like begging at a beggar’s door.


*****

Original

To an Inconstant One

I LOVED thee once; I'll love no more—
Thine be the grief as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same?
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain:
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away!

Nothing could have my love o'erthrown
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.
But thou thy freedom didst recall
That it thou might elsewhere enthral:
And then how could I but disdain
A captive's captive to remain?

When new desires had conquer'd thee
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still.
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so:
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice—
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice
To see him gain what I have lost:
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging at a beggar's door.

~Sir Robert Ayton ( 1570–1638)
Source: http://www.bartleby.com/101/183.html