Ask Thames and Tiber why they ebb and flow:
Ask damask roses why in June they blow:
Ask ice and hail the reason why they’re cold:
Decaying beauties, why they will grow old:
They’ll tell thee, Fate, that everything doth move,
Inforces them to this, and me to love.
There is no reason for our love or hate,
’Tis irresistible as Death or Fate;
’Tis not his face; I’ve sense enough to see,
That is not good, though doated on by me: