All other things, to their destruction draw,

Only our love hath no decay.

JOHN DONNE, The Anniversary

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will some new pleasure prove

Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,

With silken lines, and silver hooks.

JOHN DONNE, The Bait

If I dream I have you, I have you,

For, all our joys are but fantastical.

I am a little world made cunningly

Of elements, and an angelic sprite.

No Spring, nor Summer beauty hath such grace,

As I have seen in one Autumnal face.

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,

Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains call us?

Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death.

Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Old grandsires talk of yesterday with sorrow,

And for our children we reserve tomorrow.

We can die by it, if not live by love,

And if unfit for tombs and hearse

Our legend be, it will be fit for verse.

O how feeble is man's power,

That if good fortune fall,

Cannot add another hour,

Nor a lost hour recall!

Love's mysteries in souls do grow,

But yet the body is his book.

Poor cozened cozener, that she, and that thou,

Which did begin to love, are neither now;

You are both fluid, changed since yesterday;

Next day repairs, (but ill) last day's decay.