POEM OF THE DAY

AFTER the uninhibited passion of John Donne (yesterday’s poem) here is a much more cynical, perhaps more realistic, view of love from Donne’s Scottish contemporary, Sir Robert Ayton (15701638).

FROM THE EXERCISE OF AFFECTION

There is no worldly pleasure here below Which by experience doth not folly prove, But among all the follies that I know, The sweetest folly in the world is love. But not that passion, which by fool’s consent, Above the reason bears imperious sway, Making their lifetime a perpetual Lent, As if a man were born to fast and pray. No! that is not the humour I approve, As either yielding pleasure or promotion; I like a mild and lukewarm zeal in love, Altho’ I do not like it in devotion. For it hath no coherence in my creed, To think that lovers die as they pretend: If all that say they die, had died indeed, Sure long ere now the world had had an end. Besides, we need not love but if we please, No destiny can force man’s disposition, And how can any die of that disease, Whereof himself may be his own physician? But some seem so distracted of their wits, That I would think it but a venial sin, To take some of these innocents that sit In Bedlam out, and put some lovers in. Methinks a wise man’s actions should be such As always yield to reason’s best advice, Now for to love too little, or too much, Are both extremes, and all extremes are vice. Yet have I been a lover by report, Yea, I have died for love as others do, But praised be God, it was in such a sort, That I revived within an hour or two.