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46 of surprise to know that he considered females in the light of creatures whom it had pleased Providence to make fools.

is his warning cry; at their best, a little sweetness and a little wit form all their earthly portion. Yet the note of true passion struck by Donne in those glowing addresses, those dejected farewells to his wife, echoes like a cry of rapture and of pain out of the stillness of the past. Her sorrow at the parting rends his heart; if she but sighs, she sighs his soul away.

Again, in that strange poem "A Valediction of Weeping," he finds her tears more than he can endure; and, with the fond exaggeration of a lover, he entreats forbearance in her grief:—

"O more than moon,

Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere;

Weep me not dead in thine arms, but forbear