Abraham Cowley

“ Since that loved hand this mortal wound does give,
So handsomely the thing contrive,
That she may guiltless of it live;
So perish, that her killing thee
May a chance-medley,and no murder, be.
'Tis nobler much for me, that I
By her beauty, not her anger, die:
This will look justly, and become
An execution; that, a martyrdom.
The censuring world will ne’er refrain
From judging men by thunder slain.
She must be angry, sure, if I should be
So bold to ask her to make me,
By being her's, happier than she!
I will not; ‘tis a milder fate
To fall by her not loving, than her hate. ”