Jealousy by John Donne

Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die, / And yet complain'st of his great jealousy; / If, swollen with poison, he lay in his last bed, / His body with a sere bark covered, / Drawing his breath as thick and short as can / The nimblest crocheting musician, / Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew / His soul out of one hell into a new, / Made deaf with his poor kindred's howling cries, / Begging with few feign'd tears great legacies- / Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly, and frolic be, / As a slave, which tomorrow should be free. / Yet weep'st thou, when thou seest him hungerly / Swallow his own death, heart's-bane jealousy? / O give him many thanks, he's courteous, / That in suspecting kindly warneth us. / We must not, as we used, flout openly, / In scoffing riddles, his deformity; / Nor at his board together being sat, / With words, nor touch, scarce looks, adulterate. / Nor when he, swollen and pamper'd with great fare, / Sits down and snorts, caged in his basket chair, / Must we usurp his own bed any more, / Nor kiss and play in his house, as before. / Now I see many dangers; for it is / His realm, his castle, and his diocese. / But if-as envious men, which would revile / Their prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile / Into another country, and do it there- / We play in another house, what should we fear? / There we will scorn his household policies, / His silly plots, and pensionary spies, / As the inhabitants of Thames' right side / Do London's mayor, or Germans the Pope's pride.