CXLIX

    Canst thou, O cruel！ say I love thee not, When I against myself with thee partake？ Do I not think on thee, when I forgot Am of my self, all tyrant¹, for thy sake？ Who hateth thee that I do call my friend, On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn² upon, Nay³, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend Revenge upon myself with present moan？ What merit do I in my self respect, That is so proud thy service to despise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes？ But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind,； Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.