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Friday, January 16, 2004


HE is starke mad, who ever sayes,
That he hath been in love an houre,
Yet not that love so soone decayes,
But that it can tenne in lesse space devour;
Who will beleeve mee, if I sweare
That I have had the plague a yeare?
Who would not laugh at mee, if I should say,
I saw a flaske of powder burne a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
If once into loves hands it come!
All other griefes allow a part
To other griefes, and aske themselves but some;
They come to us, but us Love draws,
Hee swallows us, and never chawes:
By him, as by chain'd shot, whole rankes doe dye
He is the tyran Pike, our hearts the Frye.

If 'twere not so, what did become
Of my heart, when I first saw thee
I brought a heart into the roome,
But from the roome, I carried none with mee:
If it had gone to thee, I know
Mine would have taught thine heart to show
More pitty unto mee: but Love, alas,
At one,first blow did shiver it as glasse.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite,
Therefore I thinke my breast hath all
Those peeces still, though they be not unite;
And now as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
My ragges of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But after one such love, can love no more.

- John Donne

from here