If she'll but love me, being dead.

[11]

TO HIS FRIEND BEING IN LOVE.

Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath

Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death;

Doating idolater! can silence bring

Thy saint propitious? or will Cupid fling

One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try

This silent courtship of a sickly eye.

Witty to tyranny, she too well knows

This but the incense of thy private vows,

That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray

The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;

Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move,

The language of thy tears may make her love.

Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall

On her breast's warmer snow, O may you all,

By some strange fate fix'd there, distinctly lie,

The much lov'd volume of my tragedy.

Where, if you win her not, may this be read,

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