“I know love is begun by time,And that I see, in passages of proof,Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.There lives within the very flame of loveA kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.And nothing is at a like goodness still.For goodness, growing to a pleurisy,Dies in his own too-much. That we would do,We should do when we would, for this “would” changesAnd hath abatements and delays as manyAs there are tongues, are hands, are accidents.And then this “should” is like a spendthrift sighThat hurts by easing.”