John Donne(1572–1631) · Poems, by J. D. with Elegies on the Authors Death · Songs and Sonnets · 1633
Thou art not so black as my heart, Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art; What wouldst thou say? shall both our properties by thee be spoke, —Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke?
Marriage rings are not of this stuff; Oh, why should ought less precious, or less tough, Figure our loves? except in thy name thou have bid it say “—I’m cheap, and nought but fashion; fling me away.”
Yet stay with me since thou art come, Circle this finger’s top, which didst her thumb; Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me; She that, O! broke her faith, would soon break thee.