CXLIX.

Canft thou, O cruel! fay I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy fake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour'ft on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,

That is so proud thy fervice to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.

CL.

O, from what power haft thou this powerful might With infufficiency my heart to fway?

To make me give the lie to my true sight,

And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence haft thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds

There is such strength and warrantise of skill,

That, in my mind, thy worst all beft exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and fee just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldft not abhor my
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

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