O Sweet, if love obtained must slay desire,
And quench the light and heat of passion’s fire;
If you are weary of the ways of love,
And fain would end the many cares thereof,
I prithee tell me so that I may seek
Some place to die in ere I grow too weak
To look my last on your belovèd face.
Yea, tell me all! The gods may yet have grace
And pity enough to let me quickly die
Some brief while after we have said ‘Good-bye!’