IF what is heavy craves the Centre base;
The earth below, as Nature wills the same:
Heavy the woeful griefs are, in this case,
Which inward in my heart I do sustain.
And if what's light, by kind, aloft doth mount:
Then light's my love with thee, of light account.
So that in doubtful dangerous extreme,
Wretch that I am! myself am sore afraid:
And doubt of thee, so far from Golden Mean;
Nor know I well out of this depth to wade.
Lest that my life be shortened, or I die;
Whether it heavy, falls; or light, ascends on high.