But pine you with my longings long displeas'd. Peace in my love, and yet my love oppress'd, Impatient, yet of perfect temp'rature. Come, and possess my tired thought-worn soul, That living dies, till thou on me be stole. And when I hope thou mak'st me hope in vain. If love doth make men's lives too sour, Let me not love, nor live henceforth.
Cold love is like to words written on sand, Or to bubbles which on the water swim.
If thou canst not o'ercome her will, Thy love will be thus fruitless ever. If she will yield to that which reason is, It is reason's will that love should be just. Dear, make me happy still by granting this, Or cut off delays if that die I must. Who for thy sake did die contented. If you seek to spill me, Come kiss me, sweet, and kill me.