“The poem: I grieve and dare not show my discontent; I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate; I do, yet dare not say I ever meant; I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate. I am, and not; I freeze and yet am burned, Since from myself another self I turned. My care is like my shadow in the sun – Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it, Stands, and lies by me, doth what I have done; His too familiar care doth make me rue it. No means I find to rid him from my breast, Till by the end of things it be suppressed. Some gentler passion slide into my mind, For I am soft and made of melting snow; Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind. Let me or float or sink, be high or low; Or let me live with some more sweet content, Or die, and so forget what love e’er meant.”