I do confess thee sweet, but find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, That kisseth every thing it meets : The morning rose that untouched stands, Armed with her briers, doth sweetly smell, But plucked and strained through ruder hands Her sweets no longer with her dwell, Her scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her one by one. Such fate ere long will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhileLike sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I shall sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love to every one Hath caused thee to be loved by none. 3 John Donne. [BORN 1573. DIED 1631.] THE MESSAGE. END home my long-strayed eyes to me, Which, oh! too long have dwelt on thee, But if they there have learned such ill, Such forced fashions And false passions, That they be Made by thee Fit for no good sight, keep them still. Send home my harmless heart again, Which no unworthy thought could stain; But if it be taught by thine To make jestings Of protestings, And break both Word and oath, Keep it still, 'tis none of mine. Yet send me back heart and eyes, my That I may know and see thy lies, And may joy and laugh when thou And dost languish For some one That will none, Or prove false as thou dost now. THE PROHIBITION. AKE heed of loving me At least remember I forbade it thee; Not that I shall repair my unthrifty waste Of breath and blood upon thy sighs and tears, By being to thee then what to me thou wast; But so great joy our life at once outwears; Then, lest thy love by my death frustrate be, If thou love me, take heed of loving me. Take heed of hating me, Or too much triumph in the victory; And hate with hate again retaliate; But thou wilt lose the style of Conqueror, If I, thy conquest, perish by thy hate; Then, lest my being nothing lessen thee, If thou hate me, take heed of hating me. Yet love and hate me too, So these extremes shall ne'er their office do; Hate me, because thy love's too great for me Ben Jonson. [BORN 1574 DIED 1637.] "DRINK TO ME ONLY." RINK to me only with thine eyes, But might I of Jove's nectar sip, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, It would not withered be, And sent it back to me; Since then, it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. |