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Poem by John Donne

Thou art not so black as my heart,
Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art;
What would'st thou say? shall both our properties by thee be spoke,
--Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke?

Marriage rings are not of this stuff;
Oh, why should ought less precious, or less tough
Figure our loves? Except in thy name thou have bid it say,
"--I'm cheap, and nought but fashion; fling me away"

Yet stay with me since thou art come,
circle this finger's top, which didst her thumb;
Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me;

She that, O! broke her faith, would soon break thee.

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