Sunday, October 25, 2015

Sonnet CXL (140)


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. 

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