BE wise as thou art
cruel; do not press |
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My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain; |
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Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express |
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The manner of my pity-wanting pain. |
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If I might teach thee wit, better it were, |
5 |
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me
so; |
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As testy sick men, when their deaths be near, |
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No news but health from their physicians
know; |
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For, if I should despair, I should grow mad, |
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And in my madness might speak ill of thee: |
10 |
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, |
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Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. |
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That I may not be so, nor thou
belied, |
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Bear thine eyes straight, though
thy proud heart go wide. |
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