The Paradox

No Lover saith, I love, nor any other Can judge a perfect Lover; Hee thinkes that else none can, nor will agree That any loves but hee; I cannot say I'lov'd. for who can say Hee was kill'd yesterday? Lover withh excesse of heat, more yong than old, Death kills with too much cold; Wee dye but once, and who lov'd last did die, Hee that saith twice, doth lye: For though hee seeme to move, and stirre a while, It doth the sense beguile. Such life is like the light which bideth yet When the lights life is set, Or like the heat, which fire in solid matter Leave behinde, two houres after. Once I lov's and dy'd; and am now become Mine Epitaph and Tombe. Here dead men speake their last, and so do I; Love-slaine, loe, here I lye.