A JET RING SENT.
by John Donne
THOU art not so black as my heart,
Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art ;
What would'st thou say ? shall both our properties by thee be spoke,
—Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke?
rings are not of this stuff ;
Oh, why should ought less precious, or less
Figure our loves ? except in thy name thou have bid it say,
"—I'm cheap, and nought but fashion ; fling me
stay with me since thou art come,
Circle this finger's top, which didst her thumb
Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me ;
She that, O ! broke her faith, would soon break thee.
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 70.