No, no, fair heretic, 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 hour,
More than I did the last,
’Twould then so fall
I might not love at all:
Love that can flow, and can admit increase,
Admits as well an ebb, and may grow less.
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 die
Held down or up too high:
Then think I love more than I can express,
And would love more, could I but love thee less.