Classic Poem

No, no, fair heretic, it needs must be
But an ill love in me,
And worse for thee.

For were it in my power
To love thee now this hour
More than I did the last,
'Twould then so fall
I might not love at all.
Love that can flow, and can admit increase,
Admits as well an ebb, and may grow less.

True love is still the same; the torrid zones
And those more frigid ones,
It must not know;
For love, grown cold or hot,
Is lust or frienship, not
The thing we have;
For that's a flame would die,
Held down or up too high.
Then think I love more than I can express,
And would love more, could I but love thee less.