I may be raised by love, but not thrown down;
Though I can pity those sigh twice a day,
I hate that thing whispers itself away.
Yet since all love is fever, who to trees
Doth talk, doth yet in love’s cold ague freeze.
’Tis love, but with such fatal weakness made,
That it destroys itself with its own shade.”
(ll. 27–34.)
At first love was mere desire, ignorant of its object; but now love is a matter of the soul, and it is profane to call rages of passion love.
“As all things were one nothing, dull and weak,