Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 99

IF I dare call Loue Rogue, and Runnagate,
Its like I am resolu'd to loath his loue:
But, so I cal Him and the cause of Hate;
Which to my grief, in mine owne Soule I proue.
I hate as hel, His meer rememberance
Much more the Fauours he hath done to me:
And hold his loathsom loue the fowl'st mischance
That can befall Men that most haplesse be.
It is the Scurge of God to plague Mankind:
The Conflagration of a World of Lust:
The Match whereat Hel-fire it self doth tynd:
The Heate that soonest turnes our Bloud to dust:
And (so I might not seem of bloudy Mind)
Would's Braines were beaten out, as he is blind.