On Monsieur’s Departure

I grieve, and dare not show my Discontent;

I love, and yet am forc’d to seem to hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate:
            I am, and not; I freez, and yet am burn’d,
            Since from my Self another Self I turn’d.

My Care is like my Shadow in the Sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands, and lies by me, doth make me rue it.
His too familiar Care doth make me rue it.
            No means I find to ridd him from my Breast,
            Till by the End of things it be supprest.

Some gentler Passion slide into my Mind,
For I am soft, and made of melting Snow;
Or be more cruel love, and so be kind;
Let me or float or sink, be high or low;
            Or let me Live with some more sweet content,
            Or Die, and so forget what Love e’re meant.

By Queen Elizabeth I (1533 – 1603)