For every hour that thou wilt spare me now <br />I will allow, <br />Usurious God of Love, twenty to thee, <br />When with my brown my gray hairs equal be; <br />Till then, Love, let my body reign, and let <br />Me travel, sojourn, snatch, plot, have, forget, <br />Resume my last year's relic: think that yet <br />We had never met. <br />Let me think any rival's letter mine, <br />And at next nine <br />Keep midnight's promise; mistake by the way <br />The maid, and tell the Lady of that delay; <br />Only let me love none, no, not the sport; <br />From country grass, to comfitures of Court, <br />Or cities quelque choses, let report <br />My mind transport. <br /> <br />This bargain's good; if when I'm old, I be <br />Inflamed by thee, <br />If thine own honour, or my shame, or pain, <br />Thou covet most, at that age thou shalt gain. <br />Do thy will then, then subject and degree, <br />And fruit of love, Love I submit to thee; <br />Spare me till then, I'll bear it, though she be <br />One that loves me.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-usury-2/
