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