He is stark mad, who ever 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 flask 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 to 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.