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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419776" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Mr. Rowland Woodward</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">LIKE one who in her third widowhood doth profess<br>Herself a nun, tied to retiredness,<br>So affects my Muse, now, a chaste fallowness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Since she to few, yet to too many hath shown,<br>How love-song weeds and satiric thorns are grown,<br>Where seeds of better arts were early sown ;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Though to use and love poetry, to me,<br>Betroth'd to no one art, be no adultery ;<br>Omissions of good, ill, as ill deeds be.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For though to us it seems but light and thin,<br>Yet in those faithful scales, where God throws in<br>Men's works, vanity weighs as much as sin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If our souls have stain'd their first white, yet we<br>May clothe them with faith, and dear honesty,<br>Which God imputes as native purity.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is no virtue but religion.<br>Wise, valiant, sober, just, are names which none<br>Want, which want not vice-covering discretion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Seek we then ourselves in ourselves ; for as<br>Men force the sun with much more force to pass,<br>By gathering his beams with a crystal glass,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So we—if we into ourselves will turn,<br>Blowing our spark of virtue—may out-burn<br>The straw which doth about our hearts sojourn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You know physicians, when they would infuse<br>Into any oil the souls of simples, use<br>Places, where they may lie still warm, to choose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So works retiredness in us. To roam<br>Giddily and be everywhere, but at home,<br>Such freedom doth a banishment become.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We are but farmers of ourselves, yet may,<br>If we can stock ourselves, and thrive, uplay<br>Much, much dear treasure for the great rent day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Manure thyself then, to thyself be improved ;<br>And with vain outward things be no more moved,<br>But to know that I love thee and would be loved.</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=419776" data-title="To Mr. Rowland Woodward de John Donne" data-description="LIKE one who in her third widowhood doth profess
Herself a nun, tied to retiredness,
So affects my Muse, now, a chaste fallowness.

Since she to few, yet to too many hath shown,
How love-song weeds and satiric thorns are grown,
Where seeds of bett..."></div>
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