i grieve, yet dare not show my discontent
i love, yet am forced to seem to hate
i dote, yet dare not what i ever meant;
i seem stark mute, yet inwardly do prate;
i am and am not - freeze, and yet i burn.
since from myself, my other self i turn.

my care is like my shadow in the sun-
follows me flying, yet flies when i pursue it,
stands and lives by me, does what i have done.
this too familiar care doth makes me rue it.
no means i find to rig it from my breast,
till by the end of things it be supressed.

Some gentler passion steal into my mind,
(for i am soft and made of melting snow)
or be more cruel, Love, or be more kind,
or let me float or sink, be high or low,
or let me live with some more sweet content,
or die and forge wha love e'er meant.