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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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