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To his Mistris.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


4

To his Mistris.

I would the God of Love would die,
And give his Bow and Shafts to me,
I ask no other Legacie:
This happy fate I then would prove,
That since thy heart I cannot move,
I'de cure, and kill my owne with Love.
Yet why should I so cruel be
To kill my self with loving thee,
And thou a Tyrant still to me?
Perhaps, couldst thou affection shew
To me, I should not love thee so,
And that would be my med'cine too.
Then choose to love me, or deny,
I will not be so fond to die
A Martyr to thy cruelty:
If thou bee'st weary of me, when
Thou art so wise to love agen,
Command, and I'le forsake thee then.