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I will not looke upon the quickning Sunne, |
But straight her beauty to my sense shall runne; |
The ayre shall note her soft, the fire most pure; |
Waters suggest her cleare, and the earth sure; |
Time shall not lose our passages; The spring |
How fresh our love was in the beginning; |
The summer, how it ripened in the yeare; |
And Autumne, what our golden harvests were. |
The winter I'll not thinke on to spight thee, |
But count it a lost season, so shall shee. |
And this to th' comfort of my Deare I vow, |
My deeds shall still bee what my deeds are now; |
The Poles shall move to teach me, ere I start; |
And when I change my Love, I'll change my heart, |
Nay, if I waxe but cold in my desire, |
Thinke, heaven hath motion lost, and the world, fire;* |
Much more I could, but many words have made |
That, oft, suspected which men would perswade; |
Take therefore all in this: I love so true, |
As I will never looke for lesse in you. |
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[Transcriptions are not provided for noncanonical poems, elegies on Donne by other authors, or prose compositions.] |