Go, catch while it falls down a star,
   Get with child a man shaped root,
 Tell me where all past years are,
   Or who it was cleft Old Nick's foot,
 Teach me to hear the sea maids sing,
 Or to ward the green eye's sting,
                 And find
                 What wind
 Gives to one a true man's mind.

 If thou art born to strange sights,
   Things that men can't seem to see,
 Ride ten score years of days and nights
   Till age has snowed white hairs on thee,
 Thou, when thou came back, wouldst tell me
 Great tales of all that fell to thee
                 And swear
                 No where
 Lives a dame who's true, and fair.

 If thou findst one, let me know,
   For trips to such a shrine are sweet;
 Yet do not, I would not go,
   Though at next door we might meet,
 Though she were true, when you met her,
 And last till you had wrote of her,
                 Yet she
                 Shall be
 False, ere I come, to two, or three.

                                -- John Donne