A Good-Bye: of Tears

        Let me pour forth
Tears in front of thy face, while I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this, their mint, they are of some worth,
        For thus they be
        With child by thee;
Fruits of much grief they are, a badge of more,
When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore,
So thou and I are nought then, when both are on far off shores.

        On a round ball
A man, who hath some there at hand, can lay
Each land and sea of which our best maps say
And with swift hand make, what was nought, All,
        So doth each tear
        Which thee doth wear
A globe, yea world by that you're in it grow,
Till thy tears mixed with mine do lay low
This world, by flood that's sent from thee, my place of bliss melts so.

        O more than Moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere;
Weep me not dead in thine arms, and don't dare
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
        Let not the wind
        A good guide find
To do me more harm, than it now lief;
Since thou and I sigh each one's breath,
Who e'r sighs most, is most cruel, and hastes the matched one's death.

                                -- John Donne