The Comparison by John Donne

As the sweet sweat of roses in a still, / As that which from chafed musk cat's pores doth trill, / As the almighty balm of th' early east, / Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast; / And on her neck her skin such lustre sets, / They seem no sweat drops, but pearl carcanets. / Rank sweaty froth thy mistress' brow defiles, / Like spermatic issue of ripe menstruous boils, / Or like the scum, which, by need's lawless raw / Enforced, Sanserra's starvèd men did draw / From parboil'd shoes and boots, and all the rest / Which were with any sovereign fatness blest; / And like vile lying stones in saffron'd tin, / Or warts, or wheals, it hangs upon her skin. / Round as the world's her head, on every side, / Like to the fatal ball which fell on Ide; / Or that whereof God had such jealousy, / As for the ravishing thereof we die. / Thy head is like a rough-hewn statue of jet, / Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarce set; / Like the first chaos, or flat seeming face / Of Cynthia, when th' earth's shadows her embrace. / Like Proserpine's white beauty-keeping chest, / Or Jove's best fortune's urn, is her fair breast. / Thine's like worm-eaten trunks, clothed in seal's skin, / Or grave, that's dust without, and stink within. / And like that slender stalk, at whose end stands / The woodbine quivering, are her arms and hands. / Like rough-bark'd elm-boughs, or the russet skin / Of men late scourged for madness, or for sin, / Like sun-parch'd quarters on the city gate, / Such is thy tann'd skin's lamentable state; / And like a bunch of ragged carrots stand / The short swollen fingers of thy gouty hand. / Then like the chemic's masculine equal fire, / Which in the limbec's warm womb doth inspire / Into th' earth's worthless dirt a soul of gold, / Such cherishing heat her best loved part doth hold. / Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gun, / Or like hot liquid metals newly run / Into clay moulds, or like to that Aetna, / Where round about the grass is burnt away. / Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more, / As a worm sucking an envenom'd sore? / Doth not thy fearful hand in feeling quake, / As one which gathering flowers still fears a snake? / Is not your last act harsh and violent, / As when a plough a stony ground doth rent? / So kiss good turtles, so devoutly nice / Are priests in handling reverent sacrifice, / And nice in searching wounds the surgeon is, / As we, when we embrace, or touch, or kiss. / Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus, / She and comparisons are odious.