V

Ready to seek out death in my disgrace, My mistress 'gan to smooth her gathered brows, Whereby I am reprieved for a space. O hope and fear! who half your torments knows? It is some mercy in a black-mouthed judge To haste his prisoner's end, if he must die. Dear, if all other favour you shall grudge, Do speedy execution with your eye; With one sole look you leave in me no soul! Count it a loss to lose a faithful slave. Would God, that I might hear my last bell toll, So in your bosom I might dig a grave! Doubtful delay is worse than any fever, Or help me soon, or cast me off for ever!