Love's Lunacy

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 uttering my woe, 
And I want words wherewith to tell my wrong; 
But, still distracted in Love's lunacy, 
And, bedlam-like, thus raging 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.