Seventeen

Since she whom I lov’d hath payd her last debt
To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,
And her Scule early into heaven ravished,
Wholly on heavenly things my mind is sett.
Here the admyring her my mind did whett

To seeke thee God; so streames do shew their head;
But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,
A holy thirsty dropsy melts mee yet.
But why should I begg more Love, when as thou
Dost wooe my soule for hers; offring all thine:

And dost not only feare least I allow
My Love to Saints and Angels things divine,
But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt
Least in the World. Fleshe, yea Devill put thee out.

John Donne