THE BROKEN HEARTBy John DonneHe is stark mad, whoever says,That he hath been in love an hour,Yet not that love so soon decays,But that it can ten in less space devour;Who will believe me, if I swearThat I have had the plague a year?

Who would not laugh at me, if I should sayI saw a flash of powder burn a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,If once into love’s hands it come!

All other griefs allow a partTo other griefs, and ask themselves but some;They come to us, but us love draws;He swallows us and never chaws;By him, as by chain’d shot, whole ranks do die;He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.

If ’twere not so, what did becomeOf my heart when I first saw thee?

I brought a heart into the room,But from the room I carried none with me.

If it had gone to thee, I knowMine would have taught thine heart to showMore pity unto me; but Love, alas!

At one first blow did shiver it as glass.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall,Nor any place be empty quite;Therefore I think my breast hath allThose pieces still, though they be not unite;And now, as broken glasses showA hundred lesser faces, soMy rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,But after one such love, can love no more.

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