Loves Extremes

In Cipres springes — wheras dame Venus dwelt —
A welle so hote, that who so tastes the same,
Were he of stone, as thawed yse shuld melt,
And kindled fynde his brest with secret flame;
Whose moist poison dissolved hath my hate.
This creping fier my cold lymmes so oprest
That, in the hart that harbred fredom late,
Endles dispaire long thraldom hath imprest.
One, eke so cold, in froson snow is found,
Whose chilling venume of repugnaunt kind
The fervent heat doth quenche of Cupides wound,
And with the spote of chaunge infectes the mynd;
Where of my deer hath tasted to my payne.
My service thus is growne into disdayne.