Page 2038 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

92 IT

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,

For term of life thou art assurèd mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear worst of wrongs,

When in the least of them my life hath end;
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,

Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie:
O, what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what’s so blessèd-fair that fears no blot?

Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.