The Expostulation by John Donne

To make the doubt clear, that no woman's true, / Was it my fate to prove it strong in you? / Thought I, but one had breathèd purest air; / And must she needs be false, because she's fair? / Is it your beauty's mark, or of your youth, / Or your perfection, not to study truth? / Or think you heaven is deaf, or hath no eyes, / Or those it hath smile at your perjuries? / Are vows so cheap with women, or the matter / Whereof they're made, that they are writ in water, / And blown away with wind? Or doth their breath, / Both hot and cold, at once make life and death? / Who could have thought so many accents sweet / Form'd into words, so many sighs should meet / As from our hearts, so many oaths, and tears / Sprinkled among, all sweeten'd by our fears, / And the divine impression of stolen kisses, / That seal'd the rest, should now prove empty blisses? / Did you draw bonds to forfeit? sign to break? / Or must we read you quite from what you speak, / And find the truth out the wrong way? or must / He first desire you false, would wish you just? / O! I profane! though most of women be / This kind of beast, my thoughts shall except thee, / My dearest love; though froward jealousy / With circumstance might urge thy inconstancy, / Sooner I'll think the sun will cease to cheer / The teeming earth, and that forget to bear; / Sooner that rivers will run back, or Thames / With ribs of ice in June will bind his streams; / Or nature, by whose strength the world endures, / Would change her course, before you alter yours. / But O! that treacherous breast, to whom weak you / Did drift our counsels, and we both may rue, / Having his falsehood found too late; 'twas he / That made me cast you guilty, and you me; / Whilst he, black wretch, betray'd each simple word / We spake, unto the cunning of a third. / Cursed may he be, that so our love hath slain, / And wander on the earth, wretched as Cain, / Wretched as he, and not deserve least pity. / In plaguing him, let misery be witty; / Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each eye, / Till he be noisome as his infamy; / May he without remorse deny God thrice, / And not be trusted more on his soul's price; / And, after all self-torment, when he dies, / May wolves tear out his heart, vultures his eyes, / Swine eat his bowels, and his falser tongue / That utter'd all, be to some raven flung; / And let his carrion corse be a longer feast / To the king's dogs, than any other beast. / Now have I cursed, let us our love revive; / In me the flame was never more alive. / I could begin again to court and praise, / And in that pleasure lengthen the short days / Of my life's lease; like painters that do take / Delight, not in made work, but whiles they make. / I could renew those times, when first I saw / Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law / To like what you liked; and at masks and plays / Commend the selfsame actors, the same ways; / Ask how you did, and often with intent / Of being officious, be impertinent; / All which were such soft pastimes, as in these / Love was as subtly catch'd as a disease. / But being got, it is a treasure sweet, / Which to defend is harder than to get; / And ought not be profaned, on either part, / For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art.