The beautiful, sensual, clever and passionate poetry of John Donne

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I scarce believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make’ it more...

The beautiful, sensual, clever and passionate poetry of John Donne

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