Thus long imposed to everlasting plaining, Divinely constant to the worthiest fair, And moved by eternally disdaining, Aye to persever in unkind despair: Because now silence wearily confined In tedious dying and a dumb restraint, Breaks forth in tears from mine unable mind To ease her passion by a poor complaint; O do not therefore to thyself suggest That I can grieve to have immured so long Upon the matter of mine own unrest; Such grief is not the tenour of my song, That 'bide so zealously so bad a wrong. My grief is this; unless I speak and plain me, Thou wilt persever ever to disdain me. VII Thou wilt persever ever to disdain me; And I shall then die, when thou will repent it. O do not therefore from complaint restrain me, And take my life from me, to me that lent it! For whilst these accents, weepingly exprest In humble lines of reverentest zeal, Have issue to complaint from mine unrest, They but thy beauty's wonder shall reveal; And though the grieved muse of some other lover, Whose less devotions knew but woes like mine, Would rather seek occasion to discover How little pitiful and how much unkind, They other not so worthy beauties find. O, I not so! but seek with humble prayer, Means how to move th' unmercifullest fair. VIII As draws the golden meteor of the day Exhaled matter from the ground to heaven, And by his secret nature, there to stay The thing fast held, and yet of hold bereaven; So by th' attractive excellence and might, Born to the power of thy transparent eyes, Drawn from myself, ravished with thy delight, Whose dumb conceits divinely sirenise, Lo, in suspense of fear and hope upholden, Diversely poised with passions that pain me, No resolution dares my thoughts embolden, Since 'tis not I, but thou that dost sustain me. O if there's none but thou can work my woe, Wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so? IX Wilt thou be still unkind and kill me so, Whose humbled vows with sorrowful appeal Do still persist, and did so long ago Intreat for pity with so pure a zeal? Suffice the world shall, for the world can say How much thy power hath power, and what it can; Never was victor-hand yet moved to slay The rendered captive, or the yielding man. Then, O, why should thy woman-thought impose Death and disdain on him that yields his breath, To free his soul from discontent and woes, And humble sacrifice to a certain death? O since the world knows what the power can do, What were't for thee to save and love me too? X