By
John Donne.
Who ere thou beest that read'st this sullen Writ,
Which just so much courts thee, as thou dost it,
Let me arrest thy
thoughts; wonder with mee,
Why plowing, building, ruling and the rest,
Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blest,
By cursed
Cains race invented be,
And blest Seth vext us with
Astronomie.
Ther's nothing simply good, nor ill alone,
Of every
quality comparison,
The onely measure is, and judge, opinion.
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