Tell me thou lov'st ese-where; but in my sight,
Deare heart forbeare to glance thine eye aside,
What needst thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my ore-prest defence can bide?
Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knowes,
Her prettie lookes have beene my enemies,
And therefore from my face she turnes my foes,
That they else-where might dart their injuries.
  Yet doe not so, but since I am neere slaine,
  Kill me out-right with lookes, and rid my paine.
Be wise as thou art cruell, doe not presse
My tongue-tide patience with too much disdaine:
Least sorrow lend me words and words expresse,
The manner of my pitty wanting paine.
If I might teach thee wit better it were,
Though not to love, yet love to tell me so,
As testie sick-men when their deaths be neere,
No newes but health from their Phisitions know.
For if I should dispaire I should grow madde,
And in my madnesse might speake ill of thee,
Now this ill wresting world is growne so bad,
Mad slanderers by madde eares beleeved be.
  That I may not be so, nor thou be-lide,
  Beare thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart goe wide.

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