Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 45

Cannot that fire that burns me warm thy Hart?
Art thou turnd Salamander in desire
To liue in my Harts flames and feel no fire?
But rather takst thou pleasure in my smart?
My hart is little, and the flames are great:
Its lite made by thy great cruelty:
The Fuel spent (as now the same is ny)
The fier needs must lose both hold, and heat.
My Hart (the fuel) is not Adamant,
That can indure the fury of this flame:
But it is Flesh, and soon melts in the same,
Wherof I wot, thou art not ignorant:
Then if thy knowledge wil not help my Hart
I wil condemn thy Wil, and curse thyne Art.