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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=419779" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>TO Mr.I.L.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=419779" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">OF that short roll of friends writ in my heart,<br>Which with thy name begins, since their depart,<br>Whether in th' English provinces they be,<br>Or drink of Po, Sequane, or Danuby,<br>There's none that sometime greets us not, and yet<br>Your Trent is Lethe ; that past, us you forget.<br>You do not duties of societies,<br>If from th' embrace of a loved wife you rise,<br>View your fat beasts, stretch'd barns, and labour'd fields,<br>Eat, play, ride, take all joys which all day yields,<br>And then again to your embracements go.<br>Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow<br>Upon your Muse, else both we shall repent ;<br>I that my love, she that her gifts on you are spent.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=John+Donne">John Donne</a></strong></div>

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