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John Donne : A Feaver

Oh doe not die, for I shall hate
	All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
	When I remember, thou wast one.

But yet thou canst not die, I know;
	To leave this world behinde, is death,
But when thou from this world wilt goe,
	The whole world vapors with thy breath. 

Or if, when thou, the worlds soule, goest,
	It stay, tis but thy carkasse then,
The fairest woman, but thy ghost,
	But corrupt wormes, the worthyest men.

O wrangling schooles, that search what fire
	Shall burne this world, had none the wit
Unto this knowledge to aspire,
	That this her feaver might be it?

And yet she cannot wast by this,
	For long beare this torturing wrong,
For much corruption needfull is
	To fuell such a feaver long.

Those burning fits but meteors bee,
	Whose matter in thee is soone spent.
Thy beauty,’and all parts, which are thee,
	Are unchangeable firmament.

Yet t’was of my minde, seising thee,
	Though it in thee cannot persever.
For I had rather owner bee
	Of thee one houre, than all else ever. 

John Donne (1572-1631)	P. 1633


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