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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.