I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, <br />Who died before the god of love was born. <br />I cannot think that he, who then lov'd most, <br />Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn. <br />But since this god produc'd a destiny, <br />And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be, <br />I must love her, that loves not me. <br /> <br />Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much, <br />Nor he in his young godhead practis'd it. <br />But when an even flame two hearts did touch, <br />His office was indulgently to fit <br />Actives to passives. Correspondency <br />Only his subject was; it cannot be <br />Love, till I love her, that loves me. <br /> <br />But every modern god will now extend <br />His vast prerogative as far as Jove. <br />To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, <br />All is the purlieu of the god of love. <br />O! were we waken'd by this tyranny <br />To ungod this child again, it could not be <br />I should love her, who loves not me. <br /> <br />Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I, <br />As though I felt the worst that love could do? <br />Love might make me leave loving, or might try <br />A deeper plague, to make her love me too; <br />Which, since she loves before, I'am loth to see. <br />Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be, <br />If she whom I love, should love me.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-deity-2/
