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— William Blake

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?

Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:

Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?

Or Love in a golden bowl?

…

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noun

One who, or that which, accelerates.

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The Will

54 lines
John Donne·1572–1631
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EFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,Great Love, some legacies; I here bequeathMine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee;My tongue to Fame; to ambassadors mine ears;To women, or the sea, my tears;Thou, Love, hast taught me heretoforeBy making me serve her who had twenty more,That I should give to none, but such as had too much before. My constancy I to the planets give;My truth to them who at the court do live;My ingenuity and openness,To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness;My silence to any, who abroad hath been;My money to a Capuchin:Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing meTo love there, where no love received can be,Only to give to such as have an incapacity. My faith I give to Roman Catholics;All my good works unto the SchismaticsOf Amsterdam; my best civilityAnd courtship to an University;My modesty I give to soldiers bare;My patience let gamesters share:Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making meLove her that holds my love disparity,Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity. I give my reputation to thoseWhich were my friends; mine industry to foes;To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness;My sickness to physicians, or excess;To nature all that I in rhyme have writ;And to my company my wit:Thou, Love, by making me adoreHer, who begot this love in me before,Taught'st me to make, as though I gave, when I do but restore. To him for whom the passing-bell next tolls,I give my physic books; my written rollsOf moral counsels I to Bedlam give;My brazen medals unto them which liveIn want of bread; to them which pass amongAll foreigners, mine English tongue:Though, Love, by making me love oneWho thinks her friendship a fit portionFor younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion. Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undoThe world by dying, because love dies too.Then all your beauties will be no more worthThan gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth;And all your graces no more use shall have,Than a sun-dial in a grave:Thou, Love, taught'st me by making meLove her who doth neglect both me and thee,To invent, and practise this one way, to annihilate all three.
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