Donne : Sapho to Philænis

Where is the holy fire, Verse is said
To have ? is that inchanting force decay'd ?
Verse that draws Natures work, from Natures law,
Thee, her best work, to her work cannot draw.
Have my tears quench'd my old Poetique fire,
Why quench'd they not as well, that of desire ?
Thoughts, my minds creature, often are with thee,
But I, their maker, want their liberty ;
Onely thine image, in my heart, doth sit,
But that is wax, and fires environ it.
My fires have driven, thine have drawn it hence ;
And I am rob'd of Picture, Heart, and Sense.
Dwells with me still, mine irksome Memory,
Which, both to keep, and lose grieves equally.
That tells me how fair thou art : Thou art so fair,
As gods, when gods to thee I do compare,
Are grac'd thereby ; And to make blinde men see
What things gods are, I say they are like to thee,
For, if we justly call each silly man
A little world, what shall we call thee than ?
Thou art not soft, and clear, and straight, and fair,
As, Downe, as Stars, Cedars, and Lilies are,
But thy right hand, and cheek, and eye onely,
Are like thy other hand, and cheek, and eye.
Such was my Phao a while, but shall be never,
As thou, wast, art, and, oh, maist thou be ever.
Here lovers swear in their Idolatry,
That I am such ; but Grief discolours me.
And yet I grieve the less, lest grieve remove
My beauty, and make me unworthy of thy love.
Playes some soft boy with thee, oh, there want yet
A mutual feeling which should sweeten it.
His chin, a thorny hairy unevenness
Doth threaten, and some daily change possess.
Thy body is a natural Paradise,
In whose self, unmanur'd, all pleasure lie,
Nor needs perfection ; why shouldst you than
Admit the tillage of a harsh rough man ?
Men leave behind them that which their sin shows,
And are, as theeves trac'd, which rob when it snows,
But of our dallyance no more signs there are,
Than, fishes leave in streams, or Birds in air.
And between us all sweetness may be had ;
All, all that Nature yeelds, or Art can adde.
My two lips, eyes, thighs, differ from thy two,
But so, as thine one from another do :
And, oh, no more ; the likeness being such,
Why should they not alike in all parts touch ?
Hand to strange hand, lip to lip none denies ;
Why should they breast to breast, or thighs to thighs ?
Likeness begets such strange self-flatterie,
That touching my self all seems dont to thee.
My self I embrace, and mine own hands I kiss,
And amorously thank my self for this.
Me, in my glass, I call thee ; But alas,
When I would kiss, dears dim mine eyes, and glass.
Oh cure this loving madness, and restore
Me to me ; thee, my half, my all, my more.
So may thy cheek red outwear scarlet die,
And their white, whiteness of the Galaxy,
So may thy mighty amazing beauty move
Envy in all women, and in all men love,
And so be change and sickness far from thee,
As thou by coming near, keep'st them away from me.

                                                                                      [Poems, 1669]