Sonnet 140

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain,

Lest sorrow lend me words and words express

The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so,

As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,

No news but health from their physicians know.

For if I should despair I should grow mad,

And in my madness might speak ill of thee.

Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,

Mad slanderers by mad ears believèd be.

That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

Go light on your disclosures. Be spare

In the cruelty of your cruelty.

Otherwise, I might despair

And start to speak of it openly.

If I could give you more wisdom

In exchange for your more appeal,

I’d have you tell me you love me more, some,

As doctors tell dying they’re well.

For if I grow sorrow, and sorrow grows mad,

And in desperation I say things I don’t mean,

This world’s grown so mean, its ears are so bad,

I think it might believe my spleen.

I would not want that—far from it.

For both our sakes, then, be discreet.