BE wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow 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 so, As testy sick-men when their deaths be near, No news but health from their Physicians know.
For if I should despair I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee, Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied, Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
