Poems (Donne)/Elegie I

Fond woman, which would'ſt have thy huſband die,

And yet complain'ſt of his great jealouſie;

If ſwolne with poyſon, hee lay in his laſt bed,

His body with a ſere-barke covered,

Drawing his breath, as quick and ſhort, as can

The nimbleſt crocheting Muſitian,

Ready with loathſome vomiting to ſpue

His Soule out of one hell, into a new,

Made deafe with his poore kindreds howling cries,

Begging with few feign'd teares great legacies,

Thou would'ſt not weep, but jolly, 'and frolicke bee,

As a ſlave, which to morrow ſhould be free.

Yet weep'ſt thou, when thou ſeeſt him hungerly

Swallow his owne death, hearts-bane jealouſie?

O give him many thanks, he is courteous,

That in ſuſpecting kindly warneth us.

Wee muſt not, as we us'd, flout openly,

In ſcoffing ridles, his deformitie;

Nor at his boord together being fatt,

With words, nor touch, ſcarce lookes, adulterate.

Nor when he ſwolne, and pamper'd with great fare,

Sits downe and ſnorts, cag'd in his basket chaire,

Muſt wee uſurpe his owne bed any more,

Nor kiſſe and play in his houſe, as before.

Now I ſee many dangers; for it is

His realme, his caſtle, and his dioceſſe.

But if, as envious men, which would revile

Their Prince, or coyne his gold, themſelves exile

Into another countrie, 'and doe it there,

Wee play 'in another houſe, what ſhould we feare?

There we will scorn his houſhold policies,

His ſeely plots, and penſionary ſpies,

As the inhabitants of Thames right ſide

Do Londons Major, or Germans the Pope's pride.