The Indifferent

…from the quills of the dead white poets

John Donne (1573 – 1631)

 I can love both fair and brown;

Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays;

Her whom country formed, and whom the town;

Her who believes, and her who tries;

Her who still weeps with spongy eyes,

And her who is dry cork and never cries.

I can love any, so she be not true.

Will no other vice content you?

Will it not serve your turn to do as did your mothers?

Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others?

Or doth a fear that men are true torment you?

O we are not, be not you so;

Let me – and do you – twenty know;

Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go.

Must I, who came to travel thorough you,

Grow your fixed subjects, because you are true?

Venus heard me sigh this song;

And by love’s sweetest part, variety, she swore,

She heard not this till now; it should be so no more.

She went, examined and returned ere long,

And said, ‘Alas! Some two or three

Poor heretics in love there be,

Which think to stablish dangerous constancy.

But I have told them, “Since you will be true,

You shall be true to them who’re false to you”.

About Avadoro Worden

Iconoclast
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