A Jet Ring Sent

Thou art not so black as my heart,
  Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art;
What wouldst thou say? shall both our properties by thee be spoke,
—Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke?

    Marriage rings are not of this stuff;
  Oh, why should ought less precious, or less tough,
Figure our loves? except in thy name thou have bid it say
“—I’m cheap, and nought but fashion; fling me away.”

    Yet stay with me since thou art come,
  Circle this finger’s top, which didst her thumb;
Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me;
She that, O! broke her faith, would soon break thee.