Why Do I Speak Of Joy Or Write Of Love, When My Heart Is The Very Den Of Horror, And In My Soul The Pains Of Hell I Prove, With All His Torments And Infernal Terror? What Should I Say? What Yet Remains To Do? My Brain Is Dry With Weeping All Too Long; My Sighs Be Spent In Utt'Ring Of My Woe, And I Want Words Wherewith To Tell My Wrong. But Still Distracted In Love'S Lunacy, And Bedlam-Like Thus Raving In My Grief, Now Rail Upon Her Hair, Then On Her Eye, Now Call Her Goddess, Then I Call Her Thief; Now I Deny Her, Then I Do Confess Her, Now Do I Curse Her, Then Again I Bless Her.