Chapter VII: Complaint of misfortune in love only

Now, now I love indeed, and suffer more
In one day now then I did in a year;
Great flames they be which but small sparkles were,
And wounded now, I was but pricked before.
No marvel then, though more than heretofore
I weep and sigh; how can great wounds be there
Where moisture runs not out? and ever, where
The fire is great, of smoke there must be store.
My heart was hitherto but like green wood,
Which must be dried before it will burn bright;
My former love served but my heart to dry;
Now Cupid for his fire doth find it good:
For now it burneth clear, and shall give light
For all the world your beauty to espy.