I grieve, yet dare not show my discontent;
I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate;
I dote, but dare not what I meant;
I seem stark mute, yet inwardly do prate.
I am, and am not, freeze, and yet I burn,
Since from myself my other self I turn,
My care is like my shadow in the sun,
follows me flying, flies when I persue it,
stands and lives by me, does what I have done.
Oh let me live with some more sweet content,
or die, and so forget what love e'er meant.

Elizabeth I