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Love's Alchemy 
John Donne 
Poems (1633, d2)

Some that have deeper digg'd love's Myne than I, 
Say, where his centrique happinesse doth lie; 
I have lov'd, and got, and told, 
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old, 
I should not find that hidden mysterie; 
Oh, 'tis imposture all: 
And as no chymique yet th'Elixar got, 
But glorifies his pregnant pot 
If by the way to him befall 
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinall, 
So, lovers dreame a rich and long delight, 
But get a winter-seeming summer's night. 

Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day, 
Shall we for this vaine Buble's shadow pay? 
Ends love in this, that my man 
Can be as happy'as I can; If he can 
Endure the short scorne of a Bridegroome's play? 
That loving wretch that sweares 
'Tis not the body’s mary, but the mindes, 
Which he in her Angelique finds, 
Would sweare as justly that he heares, 
In that daye's rude hoarse minstralsey, the spheares. 
Hope not for minde in women; at their best 
Sweetnesse and wit, they'are but Mummy, possest.