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CXL.
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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