When by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead <br /> And that thou think'st thee free <br /> From all solicitation from me, <br /> Then shall my ghost come to thy bed, <br /> And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see; <br /> Then thy sick taper will begin to wink, <br /> And he, whose thou art then, being tir'd before, <br /> Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think <br /> Thou call'st for more, <br /> And in false sleep will from thee shrink; <br /> And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou <br /> Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie <br /> A verier ghost than I. <br /> What I will say, I will not tell thee now, <br /> Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent, <br /> I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent, <br /> Than by my threat'nings rest still innocent.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-apparation/
