The Paradox
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o lover saith, I love, nor any otherCan 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 sayHe 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 yetWhen the life's light is set,Or like the heat which fire in solid matterLeaves behind, two hours after.Once I loved and died; and am now becomeMine epitaph and tomb;Here dead men speak their last, and so do I;Love-slain, lo! here I die.
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