Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now 
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, 
Join with the spite of Fortune, make me bow, 
And do not drop in for an after-loss. 
Ah do not, when my heart has scaped this sorrow, [bad word] in the rearward of a conquered woe; 
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, 
To linger out a purposed overthrow. 
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, 
When other petty griefs have done their spite, 
But in the [bad word]  so shall I taste 
At first the very worst of Fortune's might; 
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, [bad word] with loss of thee, will not seem so.