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