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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419687" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy XVIII: Love's Progress</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who ever loves, if he do not propose<br>The right true end of love, he's one that goes<br>To sea for nothing but to make him sick.<br>Love is a bear-whelp born: if we o'erlick<br>Our love, and force it new strange shapes to take,<br>We err, and of a lump a monster make.<br>Were not a calf a monster that were grown<br>Faced like a man, though better than his own?<br>Perfection is in unity: prefer<br>One woman first, and then one thing in her.<br>I, when I value gold, may think upon<br>The ductileness, the application,<br>The wholsomeness, the ingenuity,<br>From rust, from soil, from fire ever free;<br>But if I love it, 'tis because 'tis made<br>By our new nature (Use) the soul of trade.<br>All these in women we might think upon<br>(If women had them) and yet love but one.<br>Can men more injure women than to say<br>They love them for that by which they're not they?<br>Makes virtue woman? Must I cool my blood<br>Till I both be, and find one, wise and good?<br>May barren angels love so! But if we<br>Make love to woman, virtue is not she,<br>As beauty's not, nor wealth. He that strays thus<br>From her to hers is more adulterous<br>Than if he took her maid. Search every sphere<br>And firmament, our Cupid is not there;<br>He's an infernal god, and under ground<br>With Pluto dwells, where gold and fire abound:<br>Men to such gods their sacrificing coals<br>Did not in altars lay, but pits and holes.<br>Although we see celestial bodies move<br>Above the earth, the earth we till and love:<br>So we her airs contemplate, words and heart<br>And virtues, but we love the centric part.<br>Nor is the soul more worthy, or more fit,<br>For love than this, as infinite is it.<br>But in attaining this desired place<br>How much they err that set out at the face.<br>The hair a forest is of ambushes,<br>Of springs, snares, fetters and manacles;<br>The brow becalms us when 'tis smooth and plain,<br>And when 'tis wrinkled shipwrecks us again&mdash; <br>Smooth, 'tis a paradise where we would have<br>Immortal stay, and wrinkled 'tis our grave.<br>The nose (like to the first meridian) runs<br>Not 'twixt an East and West, but 'twixt two suns;<br>It leaves a cheek, a rosy hemisphere,<br>On either side, and then directs us where<br>Upon the Islands Fortunate we fall,<br>(Not faint Canaries, but Ambrosial)<br>Her swelling lips; to which when we are come,<br>We anchor there, and think ourselves at home,<br>For they seem all: there Sirens' songs, and there<br>Wise Delphic oracles do fill the ear;<br>There in a creek where chosen pearls do swell,<br>The remora, her cleaving tongue doth dwell.<br>These, and the glorious promontory, her chin,<br>O'erpassed, and the straight Hellespont between<br>The Sestos and Abydos of her breasts,<br>(Not of two lovers, but two loves the nests)<br>Succeeds a boundless sea, but yet thine eye<br>Some island moles may scattered there descry;<br>And sailing towards her India, in that way<br>Shall at her fair Atlantic navel stay;<br>Though thence the current be thy pilot made,<br>Yet ere thou be where thou wouldst be embayed<br>Thou shalt upon another forest set,<br>Where many shipwreck and no further get.<br>When thou art there, consider what this chase<br>Misspent by thy beginning at the face.<br>Rather set out below; practise my art.<br>Some symetry the foot hath with that part<br>Which thou dost seek, and is thy map for that,<br>Lovely enough to stop, but not stay at;<br>Least subject to disguise and change it is&mdash; <br>Men say the devil never can change his.<br>It is the emblem that hath figured<br>Firmness; 'tis the first part that comes to bed.<br>Civility we see refined; the kiss<br>Which at the face began, transplanted is,<br>Since to the hand, since to the imperial knee,<br>Now at the papal foot delights to be:<br>If kings think that the nearer way, and do<br>Rise from the foot, lovers may do so too;<br>For as free spheres move faster far than can<br>Birds, whom the air resists, so may that man<br>Which goes this empty and ethereal way,<br>Than if at beauty's elements he stay.<br>Rich nature hath in women wisely made<br>Two purses, and their mouths aversely laid:<br>They then which to the lower tribute owe<br>That way which that exchequer looks must go:<br>He which doth not, his error is as great<br>As who by clyster gave the stomach meat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Donne">John Donne</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419687" data-title="Elegy XVIII: Love's Progress de John Donne" data-description="Who ever loves, if he do not propose
The right true end of love, he's one that goes
To sea for nothing but to make him sick.
Love is a bear-whelp born: if we o'erlick
Our love, and force it new strange shapes to take,
We err, and of a lump a monst..."></div>
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