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Silence.
No; to what purpose should I speak?
No, wretched Heart, swell till you break!
She cannot love me if she would;
And to say truth, 'twere pity that she should.
No, to the Grave thy sorrows beare,
As silent as they will be there:
Since that lov'd hand this mortall wound doth give,
So handsomely the thing contrive,
That she may guiltlesse of it live.
So perish, that her killing thee
May a chance Medley, and no murther be.
'Tis nobler much for me, that I
By 'her beauty, not her Anger dye;
This will look justly, and become
An Execution, that a Martyrdome.
The censuring world will ne're refrain
From judging men by thunder slain.
She must be angry sure, if I should be
So bold to ask her to make me
By being hers, happier then she;
I will not; 'tis a milder fate
To fall by her not loving, then her hate.
And yet this death of mine, I fear,
Will ominous to her appear▪