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?

            Marriage rings are not of this stuff ;
    Oh, why should ought less precious, or less tough
Figure our loves ? except in thy name thou have bid it say,
    "—I'm cheap, and nought but fashion ; fling me away."

            Yet 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.

to Works of John Donne

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