BLASTED with sighs, and surrounded with tears, <br />Hither I come to seek the spring, <br />And at mine eyes, and at mine ears, <br />Receive such balms as else cure every thing. <br />But O ! self-traitor, I do bring <br />The spider Love, which transubstantiates all, <br />And can convert manna to gall ; <br />And that this place may thoroughly be thought <br />True paradise, I have the serpent brought. <br /> <br />'Twere wholesomer for me that winter did <br />Benight the glory of this place, <br />And that a grave frost did forbid <br />These trees to laugh and mock me to my face ; <br />But that I may not this disgrace <br />Endure, nor yet leave loving, Love, let me <br />Some senseless piece of this place be ; <br />Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here, <br />Or a stone fountain weeping out my year. <br /> <br />Hither with crystal phials, lovers, come, <br />And take my tears, which are love's wine, <br />And try your mistress' tears at home, <br />For all are false, that taste not just like mine. <br />Alas ! hearts do not in eyes shine, <br />Nor can you more judge women's thoughts by tears, <br />Than by her shadow what she wears. <br />O perverse sex, where none is true but she, <br />Who's therefore true, because her truth kills me.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/twickenham-garden/
