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　　For shame！ deny that thou bear'st love to any， Who for thy self art so unprovident. Grant， if thou wilt¹， thou art belov'd of many， But that thou none lov'st is most evident： For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate， That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire²， Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Which to repair should be thy chief desire. O！ change thy thought， that I may change my mind： Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love？ Be， as thy presence is， gracious and kind， Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove： Make thee another self for love of me， That beauty still may live in thine or thee.