by John Donne
I fix mine eye on thine, and there
Pity my picture burning in thine eye;
My picture drown'd in a transparent tear,
When I look lower I espy;
Hadst thou the wicked skill
By pictures made an marr'd, to kill,
How many ways mightst thou perform thy will?
But now I've drunk thy sweet salt tears,
And though thou pour more, I'll depart;
My picture vanished, canish all fears
That I can be endamaged by that art;
Though thou retain of me
One picture more, yet that will be,
Being in thine own heart, from all malice free.