Upon love

Love's a thing, as I do hear,

Ever full of pensive fear;

Rather than to which I'll fall,

Trust me, I'll not like at all.

If to love I should intend,

Let my hair then stand an end:

And that terror likewise prove,

Fatal to me in my love.

But if horror cannot slake

Flames which would an entrance make,

Then the next thing I desire

Is, to love and live i' th' fire.