A Fever
Автор книги John Donne
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Oh do not die, for I shall hate.
All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember, thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know;
To leave this world behind, is death,
But when thou from this world wilt go,
The whole world vapours with thy breath.
Or if, when thou, the world’s soul, go`st,
It stay, ’tis but thy carcase then,
The fairest woman, but thy ghost,
But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.
Oh wrangling schools, that search what fire.
Shall burn this world, had none the wit.
Unto this knowledge to aspire,
That this her fever might be it ?
And yet she cannot waste by this,
Nor long bear this torturing wrong,
For much corruption needful is.
To fuel such a fever long.
