Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all, tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.
Oh, you cruel woman, can you say I don’t love you when I take sides with you against myself? Don’t I think about you even when I’ve forgotten about myself—and all for your sake, you tyrant? Who hates you that I would call my friend? Who do you frown at that I grovel on and flatter? No—if you scowl at me, don’t I immediately punish myself by moaning? Which quality do I see in myself that would make me too proud to be your servant? All of the best in me worships the worst in you, and you can command me with a glance. But, my love, go on hating me, because now I know your mind. You love people who can see, and I’m blind.