Now you've gone and Donne it

Whoever guesses, thinks, or dreams, he knows
Who is my mistress, wither by this curse ;
Him, only for his purse
May some dull whore to love dispose,
And then yield unto all that are his foes ;
May he be scorn'd by one, whom all else avoid,
Forswear all bitters spoken from his hyoid
With fear of missing, shame of getting, as I, paranoid.

With apologies to the master.