Your Soules rough Calmes, that neither hate, nor loue,
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!