No Lover saith, I love, nor any other 
   Can judge a perfect Lover; 
Hee thinkes that else none can or will agree, 
   That any loves but hee: 
I cannot say I lov'd, for who can say 
   Hee was kill'd yesterday. 
Love with excesse of heat, more yong then old, 
   Death kills with too much cold; 
Wee dye but once, and who lov'd last did die, 
   Hee that saith twice, doth lye: 
For though hee seeme to move, and stirre a while, 
   It doth the sense beguile. 
Such life is like the light which bideth yet 
   When the lifes light is set, 
Or like the heat, which, fire in solid matter 
   Leaves behinde, two houres after. 
Once I love and dyed; and am now become 
   Mine Epitaph and Tombe. 
Here dead men speake their last, and so do I; 
   Love-slaine, loe, here I dye.