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John Donne : Song(2)

Sweetest love, I do not goe,
	For wearinese of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
	A fitter Love for mee:
		But since that I
Must dye at last, ’tis best,
To use my selfe in jest
	Thus by fain’d deaths to dye;

Yesternight the Sunne went hence,
	And yet is here to day,
He hath no desire nor sense,
	Nor halfe so short a way:
		Then feare not mee,
But beleeve that I shall make
Speedier journeyes, since I take
	More wings and spurres then hee.

O how feeble is mans power,
	That if good fortune fall,
Cannot adde another houre,
	Nor a lost houre recall!
		But come bad chance,
And wee joyne to’it our strength,
And wee teach it art and length,
	It selfe o’r us to’advance. 

When thou sigh’st, thou sigh’st not winde,
	But sigh’st my soule away,
When thou weep’st, unkindly kinde,
	My lifes blood doth decay.
		It cannot bee
That thou lov’st mee, as thou say’st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
	Thou art the best of mee.

Let not thy divining1 heart
	Forethinke me any ill,
Destiny may take thy part,
	And may thy feares fulfill;
		But thinke that wee
Are but turn’d aside to sleepe;
They who one another keepe
	Alive, ne’r parted bee.

John Donne (1572-1631)	P. 1633

1 as in the sense of foreseeing

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