Poem by
john Donne.
He that cannot choose but love,
And strives against it still
Never shall my fancy move
For he loves against his will
Nor he which is all his own
And cannot pleasure choose
When I am caught he can be gone
And when he list refuse
Nor he that loves none but fair
For such by all are sought
Nor he that can for foul ones care
For his judgement then is nought
Nor he that hath wit for he
Will make me his jest or slave
Nor a fool when others--
He can neither--
Nor he that still his mistress prays,
For she is thrall'd therefore;
Nor he that pays, not for he says
Within she's worth no more.
Is there then no kind of men
Whom I may freely prove?
I will vent that humour then
In mine own self-love.