I have never tired of love for you,
my Lady, nor will I while I live:
but hatred of my self has reached its end,
and I am weary of continual weeping:
and I’d rather have a plain stone sepulchre,
than your name be written as author of my hurt,
on some marble: where my body’s laid
without my spirit, that might still remain with you.
So, if a heart full of loving loyalty
can satisfy you, without causing harm,
favour me now by granting mercy.
If your disdain wanders some other way
seeking to be sated, and finds nothing worthy:
then Love and I will receive sufficient thanks.
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