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Shall I, Wasting In Despair? by George Wither

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May;
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be.

Shall my heart be grieved or pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposed nature,
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be.

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blessed
Which may merit name of Best;
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortunes seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think, what with them, they would do,
That, without them, dare to woo;
And, unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die, ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go:
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?