The Curse
by John Donne
Who ever guesses, thinks, or dreames he knowes
Who is my mistris, wither by this curse;
His only, and only his purse
May some dull heart to love dispose,
And shee yeeld then to all that are his foes;
May he be scorn'd by one, whom all else scorne,
Forsweare to others, what to her he hath sworne,
With feare of missing, shame of getting, torne:
Madnesse his sorrow, gout his cramp, may hee
Make, by but thinking, who hath made him such:
And may he feele no touch
Of conscience, but of fame, and bee
Anguish'd, not that 'twas sinne, but that 'twas shee:
In early and long scarcenesse may he rot,
For land which had been his, if he had not
Himselfe incestuously an heire begot:
May he dreame Treason, and beleeve, that hee
Meant to performe it, and confesse, and die,
And no record tell why:
His sonnes, which none of his may bee,
Inherite nothing but his infamie:
Or may he so long Parasites have fed,
That he would faine be theirs, whom he hath bred,
And at the last be circumcis'd for bread:
The venom of all stepdames, gamsters gall,
What Tyrans, and their subjects interwish,
What Plants, Mynes, Beasts, Foule, Fish,
Can contribute, all ill which all
Prophets, or Poets spake; And all which shall
Be annex'd in schedules unto this by mee,
Fall on that man; For if it be a shee
Nature before hand hath out-cursed mee.