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 hath ’scaped this sorrow,
Come 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 onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.
(Continuing from Sonnet 89) So hate me when you want to, but if you’re ever going to, do it now, now while the world is determined to frustrate everything I try to do. Add to my misfortune, make me collapse under it, don’t hit me with this later, after I’ve already endured so many other blows. Ah, do not let me think I’ve avoided the sorrow of losing you, then come and reject me—right after I’ve been defeated by another grief. Don’t turn my windy night into a rainy tomorrow, prolonging the defeat you intend to give me. If you’re going to leave me, don’t wait until the end, after other little sorrows have done their damage. Leave me at the beginning, so I experience the worst misfortune first. Then other hurtful things, which seem painful now, won’t seem so, compared with losing you.