He that cannot choose but love,
And strives against it still,
Never shall my fancy move,
For he loves ‘gainst his will;
Nor he which is all his own,
And can at pleasure choose,
When I am caught he can be gone,
And when he list refuse.
Nor he that loves none but fair,
For such by all are sought;
Nor he that can for foul ones care,
For his judgment then is naught;
Nor he that hath wit, for he
Will make me his jest or slave;
Nor a fool, for when others.
He can neither.
Nor he that still, his Mistress pays,
For she is thrilled, therefore;
Nor he that pays not, for he says
Within She’s worth no more.
Is there then no kind of men
Whom I may freely prove?
I will vent that humor then
In my own self-love.
― By John Donne
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