John Donne

“ But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
⁠With more, not only be no quintessence,
⁠But mix'd of all stuffs, vexing soul, or sense,
And of the sun his active vigour borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their Muse;
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do. ”

“ Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make it more. ”