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CXLIX.
Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I
against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on
thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy
sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On
whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou
lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself
with present moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my
best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion
of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy
mind;
Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.
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