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CXXXIX.
O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy
unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with
thine eye but with thy tongue;
Use power with power
and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lovest
elsewhere, but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to
glance thine eye aside:
What need'st thou wound with
cunning when thy might
Is more than my o'er-press'd
defense can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love
well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That
they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
Yet do not
so; but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with
looks and rid my pain.
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