OF that short roll of friends writ in my heart, <br />Which with thy name begins, since their depart, <br />Whether in th' English provinces they be, <br />Or drink of Po, Sequane, or Danuby, <br />There's none that sometime greets us not, and yet <br />Your Trent is Lethe ; that past, us you forget. <br />You do not duties of societies, <br />If from th' embrace of a loved wife you rise, <br />View your fat beasts, stretch'd barns, and labour'd fields, <br />Eat, play, ride, take all joys which all day yields, <br />And then again to your embracements go. <br />Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow <br />Upon your Muse, else both we shall repent ; <br />I that my love, she that her gifts on you are spent.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-mr-i-l/
