But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend:
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
But what’s so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
In plain English
Go ahead and try to leave me—it won't matter. You're mine for as long as I live, and my life itself depends on your love. So I don't have to fear betrayal; the worst you could do would only kill me anyway.
I've actually found something better than ordinary happiness: I'm not at the mercy of your moods the way most lovers are. You can't hurt me with fickleness because my whole existence is tied to staying with you, whether you're faithful or not.
I'm blessed to have your love, blessed even to die for it. But then—what good thing doesn't have a flaw? You might be cheating on me right now, and I'd never know.
