He is stark mad, whoever 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 flash 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 do 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.