Peace my hearts blab, be ever dumb,
Sorrowes speak loud without a tongue:
And my perplexed thoughts forbear To breath your selves in any ear:
Tis scarce a true or manly grief Which gaddes abroad to find relief.
Was ever stomack that lackt meat Nourisht by what another eat?
Can I bestow it, or will woe Forsake me when I bid it goe?
Then Ile believe a wounded breast May heal by shrift, and purchase rest.
But if imparting it I do Not ease my self, but trouble two, 'Tis better I alone possess My treasure of unhappiness:
Engrossing that which is my own No longer then it is unknown.
If silence be a kind of death,
He kindles grief who gives it breath;
But let it rak't in embers lye,
On thine own hearth 'twill quickly dye;
And spight of fate, that very wombe Which carries it, shall prove its tombe.
