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 province
s they be,
Or drink of Po, Sequane, or Danuby,
There's none that sometime greet
s 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
View your fat breasts, stretch'd barn
s, and labour'd fields,
Eat, play, ride, take all joy
s 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.