Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 66

YOur Soules rough Calmes, that neither hate, nor oue,
Your Minde vnmou'd with praises, or reproofe,
The lesse they moued are, the more they moue
My froward loue, to stand the more aloofe.
Yet looks it back, when it is well-ny gone,
Supposing It should not so giue you or'e:
Then tries some other kinde Conclusion,
Which speeds no better then those tride before.
You hate me not; for, well you vse me still:
You loue me not; sith you feele not my paine:
This (like your mortall hate) offends my Will;
Yet, this is all the loue my Loue doth gaine:
What Mettell are you off? sure, fleshe, and Blood
Are not so staid, that nought can moue their moode!