John Donne (Джон Донн)

Love's Diet

TO what a cumbersome unwieldiness
And burdenous corpulence my love had grown,
But that I did, to make it less,
And keep it in proportion,
Give it a diet, made it feed upon
That which love worst endures, discretion

Above one sigh a day I allow'd him not,
Of which my fortune, and my faults had part;
And if sometimes by stealth he got
A she sigh from my mistress' heart,
And thought to feast upon that, I let him see
'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to me.

If he wrung from me a tear, I brined it so
With scorn and shame, that him it nourish'd not;
If he suck'd hers, I let him know
'Twas not a tear which he had got;
His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat;
For eyes, which roll towards all, weep not, but sweat.

Whatever he would dictate I writ that,
But burnt her letters when she writ to me;
And if that favour made him fat,
I said, "If any title be
Convey'd by this, ah! what doth it avail,
To be the fortieth name in an entail?"

Thus I reclaim'd my buzzard love, to fly
At what, and when, and how, and where I choose.
Now negligent of sports I lie,
And now, as other falconers use,
I spring a mistress, swear, write, sigh, and weep;
And the game kill'd, or lost, go talk or sleep.

1. Holy Sonnet 13. What if this present were the world's last night?
2. Holy Sonnet 8. If faithful souls be alike glorified
3. Holy Sonnet 15. Wilt thou love God as he thee? then digest
4. Holy Sonnet 6. This is my play's last scene; here heavens appoint
5. Holy Sonnet 11. Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my side

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1783

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