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John Donne : A Valediction of Weeping

		Let me powre forth
My teares before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coines them, and thy stampe they beare,
And by this Mintage they are something worth,
		For thus they bee
		Pregnant of thee;
Fruits of much griefe they are, emblemes of more,
When a teare falls, that thou falst1 which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers2
					shore. 

		On a round ball
A workeman that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afrique, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, All,
		So doth each teare,
		Which thee doth weare,
A globe, yea world by that impression grow,
Till thy teares mixt with mine doe overflow
This world, by waters sent from thee, my heaven 
					dissolved so. 

		O more then Moone,
Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare,
Weepe me not dead, in thine armes, but forbeare
To teach the sea, what it may doe too soone;
		Let not the winde
		Example finde,
To doe me more harme, then it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one anothers breath,
Who e’er sighes most, is cruellest, and hasts the others
					death. 

John Donne (1572-1631)	P. 1633

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