The Sonnets

O! call not me to justify the wrong

That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;

Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:

Use power with power, and slay me not by art,

Tell me thou lovʼst elsewhere; but in my sight,

Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:

What needʼst thou wound with cunning, when thy might

Is more than my oʼerpressʼd defence can bide?

Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows

Her pretty looks have been mine enemies;

And therefore from my face she turns my foes,

That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:

Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,

Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.