The Concealment.

NO; to what purpose should I speak?
No, wretched Heart, swell till you break!
She cannot love me if she would;
And to say truth, 'twere pity that she should.
No, to the Grave thy sorrows bear,
As silent, as they will be there:
Since that lov'd hand this mortal wound do's give,
So handsomely the thing contrive,
That she may guiltless of it live.
So perish, that her killing Thee
May a Chance-Medley, and no Murther be.

'Tis nobler much for me, that I
By'her Beauty, not her Anger dy;
This will look justly, and become
An Execution; that, a Martyrdome.
The censuring world will ne'r refrain
From judging men by Thunder slain.
She must be angry sure, if I should be
So bold to ask her to make me
By being hers, happi'er then she.
I will not; 'tis a milder fate
To fall by her not Loving, then her Hate.

And yet this death of mine, I fear,
Will ominous to her appear:
When, sound in every other part,
Her Sacrifice is found without an Heart.
For the last Tempest of my death
Shall sigh out that too, with my breath.
Then shall the world my noble ruine see,
Some pity, and some envy Mee,
Then She herself, the mighty Shee,
Shall grace my fun'rals with this truth;
Twas onely Love destroy'd the gentle Youth.