Song.

NO, no, fair Heretick, it needs must be
But an ill love in me,
And worse for thee;
For were it in my power,
To love thee now this hower
More then I did the last;
I would then so fall
I might not love at all;
Love that can flow, and can admit increase,
Admits as well an ebbe, and may grow lesse.

True Love is still the same; the Torrid Zones,
And those more frigid ones
It must not know:
For love grown cold or hot,
Is lust, or friendship, not
The thing we have.
For that's a flame would dye
Held down, or up too high:
Then think I love more then I can expresse,
And would love more could I but love thee lesse.