If my complaints could passions move, Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong: My passions were enough to prove, That my despairs had govern'd me too long. O Love, I live and dye in thee, Thy griefe in my deep sighs still speakes: Thy wounds do freshly bleed in mee, My heart for thy unkindness breaks: Yet thou dost hope when I despaire, And when I hope, thou makst me hope in vaine. Thou saist thou canst my harms repaire, Yet for rendresse, thou letst me still complaine.
Can Love be rich, and yet I want? Is Love my judge, and yet I am condemn'd? Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant: Thou made a God, and yet thy power contemn'd. That I do live, it is thy power: That I desire it is thy worth: If Love doth make men's lives too soure, Let me not love, nor live henceforth. Die shall my hopes, but not my faith, That you that of my fall may hearers be, May here despair, which truly saith I was more true to Love than Love to me.