Poem by Elizabeth I of England

On Monsieur's Departure, 1582

I GRIEVE and dare not show my discontent;
I love, and yet am forced 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 freeze and yet am burned, 
    Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun—
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands, and lies by me, doth what I have done;
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
    No means I find to rid 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'er meant. 

1. The Doubt of Future Foes
2. Written with a Diamond on her Window at Woodstock
3. Written In Her French Psalter
4. In Defiance of Fortune
5. Importune Me No More

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