By John Donne
Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares,
Hither I come to seek the spring,
And at mine eyes, and at mine ears,
Receive such blames, as else cure everything,
But O, selfe traytor, I do bring
The spider love, which transubstantiates all,
And can convert Manna to gall,
And that this place may thoroughly be thought
True Paradise, I have the serpent brought,
‘Twere wholsomer for mee, that winter did
Benight the glory of this place,
And that a grave frost did forbid
These trees to laugh, and mocke mee to my face;
But that I may not this disgrace
Indure, nor leave this garden, Love let mee
Some sensless peece of this place bee;
Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here,
Or a stone fountaine weeping out my yeare.
Hither with christall vyals, lovers come
And take my teares, which are loves wine,
And try your mistresse Teares at home,
For all are false, that tast not just like mine;
Alas, hearts do not in eyes shine,
Nor can you more judge womans thoughts by teares,
Than by her shadow, what she weares.
O perverse sexe, where none is true but shee,
Who’s therefore true, because her truth kills mee.
The Literary World 