sonnet
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not pressMy tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;Lest sorrow lend me words and words expressThe manner of my pity-wanting pain.If I might teach thee wit, better it were,Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,No news but health from their physicians know;For if I should despair, I should grow mad,And in my madness might speak ill of thee:Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,That I may not be so, nor thou belied,Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.
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