The Paradox.

No Lover saith, I love, nor any other

Can judge a perfect Lover;

Hee thinkes that else none can, nor 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 lights life is set,

Or like the heat, which fire in solid matter

Leaves behinde, two houres after.

Once I lov'd and dy'd; and am now become

Mine Epitaph and Tombe.

Here dead men speake their last, and so do I;

Love-slaine, loe, here I lye.