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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