Then hate me thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent me deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after - loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath scaped this sorrow,
Came in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
Whan other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.
Shakespeare
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