John Donne

The Curse

Who ever guesses, thinks, or dreames, he knowes 
Who is my mistris, wither by this curse; 
            His only, and only his purse 
            May some dull heart to love dispose, 
And shee yeeld unto all that are his foes ; 
    May he be scorn'd by one, whom all else scorne, 
    Forsweare to others, what to her he’hath sworne, 
    With feare of missing, shame of getting, torne. 

Madnesse his sorrow, gout his cramp, may hee 
Make, by but thinking, who hath made him such: 
            And may he feele no touch 
            Of conscience, but of fame, and bee 
Anguish'd, not that'twas sinne, but that'twas shee: 
    In early and long scarcenesse may he rot,
    For land which has been his, if he had not 
    Himselfe incestuously an heire begot: 

May he dreame Treason, and beleeve, that hee
Meant to performe it, and confesse, and die, 
            And no record tell why: 
            His sonnes, which none of his may bee, 
Inherite nothing but his infamie:
    Or may he so long Parasites have fed, 
    That he would faine be theirs, whom he hath bred, 
    And at the last be circumcis’d for bread:

The venom of all stepdames, gamsters gall, 
What Tyrans and their subjects interwish, 
            What Plants, Myne, Beasts, Foule, Fish, 
            Can contribute, all ill which all 
Prophets, or Poets spake, And all which shall 
    Be annex'd in schedules unto this by mee, 
    Fall on that man; For if it be a shee 
    Nature beforehand hath out-cursèd mee.