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John Donne - The Paradox
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NO lover saith, I love, nor any other 
Can judge a perfect lover ; 
He thinks that else none can or will agree,
That any loves but he ;
I cannot say I loved, for who can say 
He was kill`d yesterday.
Love with excess of heat, more young than old, 
Death kills with too much cold ;
We die but once, and who loved last did die, 
He that saith, twice, doth lie ;
For though he seem to move, and stir a while,
It doth the sense beguile. 
Such life is like the light which bideth yet
When the life`s light is set,
Or like the heat which fire in solid matter
Leaves behind, two hours after. 
Once I loved and died ; and am now become 
Mine epitaph and tomb ;
Here dead men speak their last, and so do I ;
Love-slain, lo ! here I die.
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