I am two fooles, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
   In whining Poëtry;
But where’s that wiseman, that would not be I,
   If she would not deny?
Then as th’earths inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea waters fretfull salt’away,
   I thought, if I could draw my paines,
Through Rimes vexation, I should them allay,
Griefe brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For, he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

   But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
   Doth Set and sing my paine,
And, by delighting many, frees againe
   Griefe, which verse did restraine.
To Love, and Griefe tribute of Verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when’tis read,
   Both are increased by such songs:
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fooles, do so grow three;
Who are a little wise, the best fooles bee.

from Songs and Sonets (1635)
The Complete English Poems (1991) p. 59
ed. C. A. Patrides

Send home my long strayd eyes to mee,
Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee;
Yet since there they have learn’d such ill,
    Such forc’d fashions,
    And false passions,
        That they be
        Made by thee
Fit for no good sight, keep them still.

Send home my harmlesse heart againe,
Which no unworthy thought could staine;
But if it be taught by thine
    To make jestings
    Of protestings,
        And crosse both
        Word and oath,
Keepe it, for then ’tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,
That I may know, and see thy lyes,
And may laugh and joy, when thou
    Art in anguish
    And dost languish
        For some one
        That will none,
Or prove as false as thou art now.

from Songs and Sonets (1635)
The Complete English Poems (1991) p. 89
ed. C. A. Patrides

He is starke mad, who ever sayes,
   That he hath been in love an houre,
Yet not that love so soone decayes,
   But that it can tenne in lesse space devour;
Who will beleeve mee, if I sweare
That I have had the plague a yeare?
   Who would not laugh at mee, if I should say,
I saw a flaske of powder burne a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
   If once into loves hands it come!
All other griefes allow a part
   To other griefes, and aske themselves but some;
They come to us, but us Love draws,
Hee swallows us, and never chawes:
   By him, as by chain’d shot, whole rankes doe dye,
He is the tyran Pike, our hearts the Frye.

If ’twere not so, what did become
   Of my heart, when I first saw thee?
I brought a heart into the roome,
   But from the roome, I carried none with mee:
If it had gone to thee, I know
Mine would have taught thine heart to show
   More pitty unto mee: but Love, alas
   At one first blow did shiver it as glasse.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
   Nor any place be empty quite,
Therefore I thinke my breast hath all
   Those peeces still, though they be not unite;
And now as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
   My ragges of heart can like, wish, and adore,
   But after one such love, can love no more.