If my complaints could passions move, Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong: My passions were enough to prove, That my despairs had govern'd me too long. O Love, I live and die in thee, Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks: Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me, My heart for thy unkindness breaks: Yet thou dost hope when I despair, And when I hope, thou mak'st me hope in vain. Thou say'st thou canst my harms repair, Yet for redress, thou let'st me still complain. Can Love be rich, and yet I want? Is Love my judge, and yet I am condemn'd? Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant: Thou made a God, and yet thy power contemn'd. That I do live, it is thy power: That I desire it is thy worth: If Love doth make men's lives too sour, Let me not love, nor live henceforth.