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May the next thing thou stoop'st to reach, contain
Poyson, whose nimble fume rot thy moist brain:
Or libels, or some interdicted thing,
Which negligently kept, thy ruine bring.
Lust-bred diseases rot thee; and dwell with thee
Itching desire, and no abilitie.
May all the evills that gold ever wrought;
All mischief that all devils ever thought:
Want after plenty: poor and gouty age:
The plague of travailers: love and marriage
Afflict thee; and that thy lives last moment,
May thy swoln sins themselves to thee present.
But I forgive: repent thou honest man:
Gold is restorative, restore it than:
But if that from it thou beest loath to part,
Because 'tis cordial, would 'twere at thy heart.
[Transcriptions are not provided for noncanonical poems,
elegies on Donne by other authors, or prose compositions]