Fool that I was! to believe blood,
While swoll'n with greatness, then most good;
And the false thing, forgetful man,
To trust more than our true god, Pan.
Such swellings to a dropsy tend,
And meanest things such great ones bend.
Then live deceived! and, Fida, by
That life destroy fidelity.
For living wrongs will make some wise,
While Death chokes loudest injuries:
And screens the faulty, making blinds
To hide the most unworthy minds.
And yet do what thou can'st to hide,
A bad tree's fruit will be describ'd.
For that foul guilt which first took place
In his dark heart, now damns his face;
And makes those eyes, where life should dwell,
Look like the pits of Death and Hell.
Blood, whose rich purple shows and seals
Their faith in Moors, in him reveals
A blackness at the heart, and is
Turn'd ink to write his faithlessness.
Only his lips with blood look red,
As if asham'd of what they fed.
Then, since he wears in a dark skin
The shadows of his hell within,
Expose him no more to the light,
But thine own epitaph thus write
"Here burst, and dead and unregarded
Lies Fida's heart! O well rewarded!"