Song: 'Sweetest Love I Do Not Go' - by John Donne

Sweetest love, I do not go,

For weariness of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show

A fitter love for me ;

But since that I

At the last must part, 'tis best,

Thus to use myself in jest

By feigned deaths to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,

And yet is here to-day ;

He hath no desire nor sense,

Nor half so short a way ;

Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make

Speedier journeys, since I take

More wings and spurs than he.

O how feeble is man's power,

That if good fortune fall,

Cannot add another hour,

Nor a lost hour recall ;

But come bad chance,

And we join to it our strength,

And we teach it art and length,

Itself o'er us to advance.

When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,

But sigh'st my soul away ;

When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,

My life's blood doth decay.

It cannot be

That thou lovest me as thou say'st,

If in thine my life thou waste,

That art the best of me.

Let not thy divining heart

Forethink me any ill ;

Destiny may take thy part,

And may thy fears fulfil.

But think that we

Are but turn'd aside to sleep.

They who one another keep

Alive, ne'er parted be.

The Apparition - by John Donne

When by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead,

And that thou thinkst thee free

From all solicitation from me,

Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,

The Good-Morrow - by John Donne

I wonder by my troth, what thou and I

Did, till we loved ? were we not wean'd till then? 

But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly? 

Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?

Go and Catch a Falling Star - by John Donne

GO and catch a falling star,

Get with child a mandrake root,

Tell me where all past years are,

Or who cleft the devil's foot,

Teach me to hear mermaids singing,

Or to keep off envy's stinging,

And find

What wind

Serves to advance an honest mind. 

If thou be'st born to strange sights,

Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand days and nights,

Till age snow white hairs on thee,

Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,

All strange wonders that befell thee,

And swear,

No where

Lives a woman true and fair. 

Break of Day - by John Donne

‘Tis true, ‘tis day, what though it be?

O wilt thou therefore rise from me?

Why should we rise because ‘tis light?

Did we lie down because ‘twas night?

The Flea - by John Donne

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou deniest me is ;

It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee, 

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.