By
John Donne.
W.
If her
disdain least
change in you can move,
You do not
love,
For when that hope gives fuel to the fire,
You sell
desire.
Love is not love, but given free ;
And so is mine ; so
should yours be.
D.
Her heart, that
weeps to hear of others' moan,
To mine is stone.
Her eyes, that weep a
stranger's eyes to see,
Joy to
wound me.
Yet I so well affect each part,
As—caused by them—I love my
smart.
W.
Say her disdainings justly must be
graced
With name of
chaste ;
And that she frowns
lest longing should exceed,
And raging
breed ;
So her disdains can ne'er
offend,
Unless
self-love take
private end.
D.
'Tis love breeds love in me, and cold disdain
Kills that again,
As water causeth fire to fret and fume,
Till all
consume.
Who can of love more rich
gift make,
That to Love's self for love's own sake?
I'll never dig in
quarry of an
heart
To have no part,
Nor roast in
fiery eyes, which always are
Canicular.
Who this way would a
lover prove,
May show his
patience, not his love.
A frown may be
sometimes for physic good,
But not for food ;
And for that raging
humour there is sure
A gentler
cure.
Why bar you love of private end,
Which never should to
public tend?