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 does 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 murder, be. 'Tis nobler much for me, that I By her beauty, not her anger, die: This will look justly, and become An execution; that, a martyrdom. The censuring world will ne'er 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, happier than she! I will not; 't is a milder fate To fall by her not loving, than 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 ruin see, Some pity and some envy me; Then she herself, the mighty she, Shall grace my funerals with this truth; ' 'T was only Love destroy'd the gentle youth.'