Classic Poem

No lover saith, I love, nor any other
Can judge a perfect lover;
He thinks that else none can, nor will agree
That any loves but he:
I cannot say I loved, for who can say
He was killed 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 yet
When the light's life is set,
Or like the heat, which fire in solid matter
Leaves behind, two hours after.
Once I loved and died; and am now become
Mine epitaph and tomb.
Here dead men speak their last, and so do I;
Love-slain, lo, here I lie.