CXXXIX
O! call not me to justify1 the wrong That thy unkindness lays upon my heart; Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue: Use power with power, and slay2 me not by art, Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside: What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might Is more than my o'erpress'd defence can bide3? Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows Her pretty looks have been mine enemies; And therefore from my face she turns my foes4, That they elsewhere might dart5 their injuries: Yet do not so; but since I am near slain6, Kill me outright7 with looks, and rid my pain.