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 bear,
As silent as they will be there;
Since that lov'd hand this mortal wound does give,
So handsomely the thing contrive
That she may guiltless of it live.
So perish by her killing thee
May a chance medley and no murder be.
'Tis nobler much for me that I
By her beauty not her angel die;
This will look justly and become
An execution, that a martyrdom.
The cens'ring world will ne'er 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 than she.
I will not, no, 'tis a milder fate,
To fall by her not loving, than her hate.
And yet this death of mine I fear
Will ominous to her appear,
When, sound in ev'ry other part,
Her sacrifice is found without a heart.
For the last tempest of my death,
Shall sigh out that too with my breath.
Then shall the world my noble ruin see,
Some pity, and some envy me.
Then she herself, the mighty she,
Shall grace my fun'rals with this truth:
'Twas only Love destroy'd the gentle youth.