Poem by
John Donne
I am two fools, I know,
For Loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry;
But where's that wise man, that
would not be I,
If she would not deny?
Then th' earth's inward narrow
crooked lanes
Do purge the sea water's fretful salt away,
I thought If I could draw my pains
through rhymes vexation, I
should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be
so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.
But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain;
And, by delighting many frees again.
Grief which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
but not of such as pleases when 'tis read.
Both are increased by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published,
and I, which was two fools, do so
grow three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools
be.