No, no, fair heretic, it needs must
But an ill love in me,
And worse for thee.
For were it in my
To love thee now this
More than I did the last,'Twould then so fallI might not love at all.
Love that can flow, and can admit increase,
Admits as well an ebb, and may grow less.
True love is still the same; the torrid
And those more frigid ones,
It must not know;
For love, grown cold or hot,
Is lust or friendship,
The thing we have;
For that's a flame would die,
Held down or up too high.
Then think I love more than I can express,
And would love more, could I but love thee less
