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Elegy XX To His Mistress Going to Bed

Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy,

Until I labor,

I in labor lie.

The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,

Is tired with standing though he never fight.

Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering,

But a far fairer world encompassing.

Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,

That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.

Unlace yourself, for that harmonious

Tells me from you that now it is bed time.

Off with that happy busk, which I envy,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown, going off, such beauteous state reveals,

As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.

Off with that wiry coronet and

The hairy diadem which on you doth grow:

Now off with those shoes, and then safely

In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes, heaven's angels used to

Received by men; thou,

Angel, bring'st with theeA heaven like Mahomet's Paradise; and

Ill spirits walk in white, we easily

By this these angels from an evil sprite:

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

License my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdom, safest when with one man manned,

My mine of precious stones, my empery,

How blest am I in this discovering of thee!

To enter in these bonds is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

Full nakedness!

All joys are due to thee,

As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must

To taste whole joys.

Gems which you women

Are like Atlanta's balls, cast in men's views,

That when a fools' eye lighteth on a gem,

His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.

Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings

For lay-men, are all women thus arrayed;

Themselves are mystic books, which only we(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)Must see revealed.

Then, since that I may know,

As liberally as to a midwife,

Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,

There is no penance due to innocence.

To teach thee,

I am naked first; why than,

What needst thou have more covering than a man?

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John Donne

John Donne (22 January 1572[1] – 31 March 1631) was an English poet, scholar, soldier and secretary born into a Catholic family, a remnant of th…

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