Explore "Love's Growth" by John Donne on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I scarce believe my love to be so pure / As I had thought it was, / Because it doth endure / Vicissitude, and season, as the grass; / Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore / My love was infinite, if spring make it more.
But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow / With more, not only be no quintessence, / But mix'd of all stuffs, vexing soul, or sense, / And of the sun his active vigour borrow, / Love's not so pure, and abstract as they use / To say, which have no mistress but their Muse; / But as all else, being elemented too, / Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.