If what is heavie craves the Center base,
(The earth below) as nature willes the same,
Heavie the wofull griefes are in this case,
Which inward in my heart I do sustaine.
And if what's light, by kinde aloft doth mount,
Then light's my Love with thee, of light account.
So that in doubtfull dangerous extreame,
Wretch that I am, my selfe am sore afraide
And doubt of thee, so farre from golden meane,
Nor know I wel out of this depth to wade,
Lest that my life be shortned, or I die,
Whether it heavy, falles; or light, ascends on hie.