Michael Drayton (1563–1631)

Why doe I speake of Ioy, or write of Loue,

When my Heart is the very Den of Horror,

And in my Soule the paines of Hell I proue,

With all his Torments and Infernall terror?

What should I say? what yet remaines to doe?

My Braine is drie with weeping all too long,

My Sighes be spent in vtt’ring of my Woe,

And I want words, wherewith to tell my Wrong:

But still distracted in Loues Lunacie,

And Bedlam-like, thus rauing in my Griefe,

Now raile vpon her Haire, then on her Eye;

Now call her Goddesse, then I call her Thiefe;

        Now I deny Her, then I doe confesse Her,

        Now doe I curse Her, then againe I blesse Her.