IF, cruel, thou desirous art of blood;
Behold how I do bleed in streaming wise!
Glut then thyself therewith, if thou think good;
And do content, with blood, thy bloody eyes!
From breast it comes, where fainting heart doth lie;
And for a gift, I it present to thee!
Although I know, through this, I soon shall die;
And yet to die it little grieveth me:
Since 'tis my wish, my blood with soul as one
May rest; and that's with thee, or else with none.