O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue;
Use power with power, and flay me not by art.
Tell me thou lovest elsewhere; but in my fight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
What need'ft thou wound with cunning, when thy
might
Is more than my o'erpreff'd defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah, my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not fo; but fince I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.
Be wife as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Left forrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me fo;
As tefty fick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For, if I fhould defpair, I fhould grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wrefting world is grown fo bad,
Mad flanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor fmell, defire to be invited
any fenfual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Diffuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unfway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's flave and vaffal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me fin awards me pain.
Love is my fin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my fin, grounded on finful loving:
O, but with mine compare thou thine own ftate,
And thou fhalt find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And feal'd falfe bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou doft seek to have what thou doft hide,
By felf-example mayft thou be denied!
Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe, and makes all swift despatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent:
So runn'ft thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilft I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy Will,
If thou turn back and my loud crying still.
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