He is stark mad, who ever says, That he hath been in love an hour, Yet not that love so soon decays, But that it can ten in less space devour; Who will believe me, if I swear That I have had the plague a year? Who would not laugh at me, if I should say, I saw a flask of powder burn a day?
Ah, what a trifle is a heart, If once into love's hands it come! All other griefs allow a part To other griefs, and ask themselves but some; They come to us, but us Love draws, He swallows us, and never chaws: By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks to die, He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry. If 'twere not so, what did become Of my heart, when I first saw thee? I brought a heart into the room, But from the room, I carried none with me: If it had gone to thee, I know Mine would have taught thine heart to show More pity unto me: but Love, alas, At one first blow did shiver it as glass
Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite, Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite; And now as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore But after one such love, can love no more.