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| Loves growth. |
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| I scarce beleeve my love to be so pure |
| As I had thought it was, |
| Because it doth endure |
| Vicissitude, and season, as the grasse; |
| Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I swore, |
| My love was infinite, if spring make'it more. |
|
| But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow |
| With more, not onely bee no quintessence, |
| But mixt of all stuffes, paining soule, or sense, |
| And of the Sunne his working vigour borrow, |
| Love's not so pure, and abstract, as they use |
| To say, which have no Mistresse but their Muse, |
| But as all else, being elemented too, |
| Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do |
|
| And yet no greater, but more eminent, |
| Love by the spring is growne; |
| As, in the firmament, |
| Starres by the Sunne are not inlarg'd, but showne, |
| Gentle love deeds, as blossomes on a bough, |
| From loves awakened root do bud out now. |
| If, as in water stir'd more circles bee |
| Produc'd by one, love such additions take, |
| Those like so many spheares, but one heaven make, |
| For, they are all concentrique unto thee,
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[CW: And] |