Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be? Th’ observing neighbours no such mood can see. Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever; But that his Joan doth too. And Giles would never By his free will be in Joan’s company; No more would Joan he should. Giles riseth early, And having got him out of doors is glad; The like is Joan. But turning home is sad; And so is Joan. Oft-times when Giles doth find Harsh sights at home, Giles wisheth he were blind; All this doth Joan. Or that his long-yearn’d life Were quite outspun; the like wish hath his wife. * * * * * If now, with man and wife, to will and nill The self-same things, a note of concord be, I know no couple better can agree. John Donne, one of the greatest preachers of the English church, was also a noted wit, poet and courtier. Like his contemporaries his wit was satirical, but in more playful vein than most. _THE WILL_ Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, Great Love, some legacies: Here I bequeathe Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see; If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee; My tongue to fame; to embassadors mine ears; To women or the sea, my tears. Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore, By making me serve her who had twenty more, That I should give to none but such as had too much before. My constancy I to the planets give; My truth to them who at the court do live; My ingenuity and openness To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness; My silence to any who abroad have been; My money to a Capuchin. Thou, Love, taught’st me, by appointing me To love there where no love received can be, Only to give to such as have an incapacity. My faith I give to Roman Catholics; All my good works unto the schismatics Of Amsterdam; my best civility And courtship to a university; My modesty I give to soldiers bare; My patience let gamesters share. Thou, Love taught’st me, by making me Love her that holds my love disparity, Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity. I give my reputation to those Which were my friends; mine industry to foes; To schoolmen I bequeathe my doubtfulness; My sickness to physicians, or excess; To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ; And to my company my wit. Thou, Love, by making me adore Her who begot this love in me before, Taught’st me to make as though I gave, when I do but restore.