He is starke mad, who ever sayes, 
   That he hath beene in love an houre, 
Yet not that love so soon decayes, 
   But that it can tenne in lesse space devour; 
Who will beleeve mee, if I sweare 
That I have had the plague a yeare? 
   Who would not laugh at mee, if I should say, 
   I saw a flaske of powder burne a day? 

Ah, what a trifle is a heart, 
   If once into loves hands it come? 
All other griefes allow a part 
   To other griefes, and aske themselves but some, 
They come to us, but us Love draws, 
Hee swallows us, and never chawes: 
   By him, as by chain'd shot, whole rankes doe dye, 
   He is the tyran Pike, our hearts the Frye. 

If 'twere not so, what did become 
   Of my heart, when I first saw thee? 
I brought a heart into the roome, 
   But from the roome, I carried none with mee; 
If it had gone to thee, I know 
Mine would have taught thine heart to show 
   More pitty unto mee: but Love, alas 
   At one first blow did shiver it as glasse. 

Yet nothing can to nothing fall, 
   Nor any place be empty quite, 
Therefore I thinke my breath hath all 
   Those peeces still, though they be not unite; 
And now as broken glasses show 
A hundred lesser faces, so 
   My ragges of heart can like, wish, and adore, 
   But after one such love, can love no more.