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