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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 the 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 humor 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.
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(Continuing from Sonnet 91) But go ahead and leave me—do your best to hurt me. I’m sure to have you as long as I’m alive, because I will only be alive as long as you love me: My life depends on your love. Now I don’t have to worry about all the terrible things you might do to hurt me; as soon as you hurt me even a little, I’ll die. I realize now that I’m in a better position than I would be if I were dependent on your affections. You can’t worry me with the idea that you’re fickle, since my life would be over as soon as you changed your mind about me. Oh, what a happy position I’m in: I’m happy to have your love, but also happy to die! But what situation is so perfectly blessed that it breeds no worries? You might be unfaithful to me without my knowing it.
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