Go, Perjured Man; And If Thou E'Er Return To See The Small Remainders In Mine Urn, When Thou Shalt Laugh At My Religious Dust, And Ask: Where's Now The Colour, Form And Trust Of Woman'S Beauty? And With Hand More Rude Rifle The Flowers Which The Virgins Strewed: Know I Have Prayed To Fury That Some Wind May Blow My Ashes Up, And Strike Thee Blind.