When I with trembling aske if you love still,
My soule afflicted lest I give offence,
Though sensibly discerning my worst ill;
Yet rather then offend, with griefe dispence.

Faintly you say you must; poore recompence
When gratefull love is fore, I see the hill
Which marres my prospect love, and Oh from thence
I tast, and take of losse the poison'd pill.

While one coale lives, the rest dead all about
That still is fire: so your love now burnd out
Tells what you were, though to deceiving led.

The Sunne in Summer, and in Winter shewes
Like bright, but not like hot, faire false made blowes
You shine on me, but your loves heate is dead.