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XC.
Then
hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the
world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite
of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an
after-loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped
this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out
a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not
leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done
their spite
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
And other
strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with
loss of thee will not seem so.
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