115 That never touch well welcome to thy hand,
That never meat sweet-savour’d in thy taste,
Unless I spake, [or look’d, or] touch’d, or carved [to thee].
How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,
That thou art [then] estranged from thyself?
120 Thyself I call it, being strange to me,
That, undividable, incorporate,
Am better than thy dear self’s better part.
Ah, do not tear away thyself from me!
For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall