English poem
To Mr. I. L.: Of That Short Roll of Friends Writ in My Heart
by John Donne
Of that short roll of friends writ in my heart, Which with thy name begins, since their depart, Whether in th’ English provinces they be, Or drink of Po, Sequane, or Danuby, There’s none that sometime greets us not, and yet Your Trent is Lethe; that past, us you forget. You do not duties of societies, If from th’ embrace of a loved wife you rise, View your fat beasts, stretch’d barns, and labour’d fields, Eat, play, ride, take all joys which all day yields, And then again to your embracements go. Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow Upon your Muse, else both we shall repent; I that my love, she that her gifts on you are spent.
More by John Donne
- To Mr. Basil Brooke
- To Mr. Christopher Brooke: Thy Friend, Whom Thy Deserts to Thee Enchain
- To Mr. Edward Guilpin
- To Mr. I. L.: Blest Are Your North Parts, for All This Long Time
- To Mr. Rowland Woodward: If, as Mine Is, Thy Life a Slumber Be
- To Mr. Rowland Woodward: Kindly I Envy Thy Song’s Perfection
- To Mr. Rowland Woodward: Like One Who in Her Third Widowhood Doth Profess
- To Mr. Rowland Woodward: Muse Not That by Thy Mind Thy Body Is Led