The poem
I hear some say, "This man is not in love." "What? Can he love? A likely thing," they say; "Read but his verse, and it will easily prove." O judge not rashly, gentle Sir, I pray. Because I trifle loosely in this sort, As one that fain his sorrows would beguile, You now suppose me all this time in sport, And please yourself with this conceit the while. Ye shallow censors, sometime see ye not In greatest perils some men pleasant be? Where fame by death is only to be got, They resolute? So stands the case with me. Where other men in depth of passion cry, I laugh at Fortune, as in jest to die.