By John Donne.

Thee, eye of heaven, this great soul envies not,
By thy make force, is all we have, begot.
In the first East, thou now beginst to shine,
Suck'st early balme, and Iland spices there,
And wilt anon in thy loose-rein'd careere
At Tagus, Po, Sene, Thames, and Danow dine,
And see at night thy Westerne land of Myne,
Yet hast thou not more nations seene than shee,
That before thee, one day beganne to bee,
And thy fraile light being quench'd, shall long, long out thee.


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