Donne Read Free

to come; Then I
    Will dreame that hope againe, but else would die.
LOVES ALCHYMIE
    Some that have deeper digg’d loves Myne then I,
    Say, where his centrique happinesse doth lie:
                   I have lov’d, and got, and told,
    But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
    I should not finde that hidden mysterie;
                   Oh, ’tis imposture all:
    And as no chymique yet th’Elixar got,
                   But glorifies his pregnant pot,
                   If by the way to him befall
    Some odoriferous thing, or medicinall,
        So, lovers dreame a rich and long delight,
        But get a winter-seeming summers night.
    Our ease, our thrift, our honor, and our day,
    Shall we, for this vaine Bubles shadow pay?
                   Ends love in this, that my man,
    Can be as happy’as I can; If he can
    Endure the short scorne of a Bridegroomes play?
                   That loving wretch that sweares,
    ’Tis not the bodies marry, but the mindes,
                   Which he in her Angelique findes,
                   Would sweare as justly, that he heares,
    In that dayes rude hoarse minstralsey, the spheares.
        Hope not for minde in women; at their best,
        Sweetnesse, and wit they’are, but,
Mummy
, possest.
LOVES GROWTH
    I scarce beleeve my love to be so pure
        As I had thought it was,
        Because it doth endure
    Vicissitude, and season, as the grasse;
    Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I swore,
    My love was infinite, if spring make’it more.
    But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
    With more, not onely bee no quintessence,
    But mixt of all stuffes, paining soule, or sense,
    And of the Sunne his working vigour borrow,
    Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
    To say, which have no Mistresse but their Muse,
    But as all else, being elemented too,
    Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
    And yet no greater, but more eminent,
        Love by the Spring is growne;
        As, in the firmament,
    Starres by the Sunne are not inlarg’d, but showne,
    Gentle love deeds, as blossomes on a bough,
    From loves awakened root do bud out now.
    If, as in water stir’d more circles bee
    Produc’d by one, love such additions take,
    Those like so many spheares, but one heaven make,
    For, they are all concentrique unto thee,
    And though each spring doe adde to love new heate,
    As princes doe in times of action get
    New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
    No winter shall abate the springs encrease.
THE INDIFFERENT
    I can love both faire and browne,
    Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betraies,
    Her who loves lonenesse best, and her who maskes and plaies,
    Her whom the country form’d, and whom the town,
    Her who beleeves, and her who tries,
    Her who still weepes with spungie eyes,
    And her who is dry corke, and never cries;
    I can love her, and her, and you and you,
    I can love any, so she be not true.
    Will no other vice content you?
    Will it not serve your turn to do, as did your mothers?
    Or have you all old vices spent, and now would finde out others?
    Or doth a feare, that men are true, torment you?
    Oh we are not, be not you so,
    Let mee, and doe you, twenty know.
    Rob mee, but binde me not, and let me goe.
    Must I, who came to travaile thorow you,
    Grow your fixt subject, because you are true?
    Venus
heard me sigh this song,
    And by Loves sweetest Part, Variety, she swore,
    She heard not this till now; and that it should be so no more.
    She went, examin’d, and return’d ere long,
    And said, alas, Some two or three
    Poore Heretiques in love there bee,
    Which thinke to stablish dangerous constancie.
    But I have told them, since you will be true,
    You shall be true to them, who’are false to you.
LOVES USURY
    For every houre that thou wilt spare me now,
                   I will allow,
    Usurious God of Love, twenty to thee,
    When with my browne,