Poem by John Donne

The Apparation

When by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead
And that thou think'st thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see;
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tir'd before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call'st for more,
And in false sleep will from thee shrink;
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent,
I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threat'nings rest still innocent. 

1. Holy Sonnet 13. What if this present were the world's last night?
2. Holy Sonnet 5. I am a little world made cunningly
3. Holy Sonnet 9. If poisonous minerals, and if that tree
4. Holy Sonnet 18. Show me, dear Christ, thy spouse so bright and clear
5. Holy Sonnet 8. If faithful souls be alike glorified

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