I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be:
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee!
Ben Jonson.
A WOMAN'S CONSTANCY.
Now thou hast loved me one whole day,
To-morrow, when thou leav'st, what wilt thou say?
Wilt thou then ante-date some new-made vow?
Or say, that now
We are not just those persons which we were?
Or, that oaths made in reverential fear
Of Love and his wrath any may forswear?
Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,
So lovers' contracts, images of those,
Bind but till Sleep, Death's image, them unloose?
Or, your own end to justify
For having purposed change and falsehood, you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true?
Vain lunatic! Against these scapes I could
Dispute and conquer if I would;
Which I abstain to do;
For, by to-morrow, I may think so too.
Dr. John Donne.
SWEETEST LOVE.