John Donne (1572–1631). The Poems of John Donne. 1896.
Appendix A. Doubtful PoemsThe Portrait
P
That her unkind regard hath dyed in grief,
Dip black thy pencil, and forget the white,
That thou bestow’st on looks that win belief;
And when thy work is done, then let her see
The humble image of her cruelty.
Exceeds the narrow limits of thine art,
Then blot thy table, and forget thy pain,
Till thou hast learned the colours of her heart;
And let her then no sight or other show
But that void place where thou hast painted woe.
Have kept at sea in wandering desperation
Sit down at length, and brag of miseries,
The highest measure of their ostentation.
So hath she lost me till my latest glory
Is her content, and my affliction’s story.
With flowing streams, to sink her in conceit,
Till at the length she pity or release
The gentle heart that on her eyes did wait,
Pure lights embracing in each other’s scope
The strength of faith and weaknesses of hope.
And play with rhymes, as if my thoughts were free,
Wherein if I had power but to express
Her name, the world would with my griefs agree.
But, idle vein! consume thyself in this.
That I have sworn to bury what she is.