Love's God

 I long to talk with some old dead beau's ghost
   Who died when th' god of love was not yet born.
 I can't think he, who then loved most,
   Sunk so low as to love one who did scorn.
 But since this god gave birth to what must be,
 And the World's aide, all Folks' Roles, lets it be,
     I must love her, that loves not me.

 Sure, they who made him god, meant not so much,
   Nor he in his young god's role asked for it.
 But when the same flame two hearts touched,
   His job was with a smile to fit
 What moves to what does not.  A like matched he
 To like -- this all his case -- and it can't be
     Love, till I love her, that loves me.

 But all the gods of our day now will raise
   His vast sole right as far as Jove.
 To rage, to lust, to write to, to give praise,
   All is in the realm of the god of love.
 O! did this harsh rule help us see
 To make this child no god -- it could not be
     I should love her, who loves not me.

 A punk and too for no god, why growl I,
   As though I felt the worst that love could do?
 Love might make me leave off love, or might try
   A still worse plague, to make her love me too;
 Which, since she has loved once, I'm loath to see.
 A lie is worse than hate; and that must be,
     If she whom I love, should love me.

                                -- John Donne