Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears; Men reckon what it did and meant; But trepidation of the spheres, Though greater far, is innocent. Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assurèd of the mind, Care less eyes, lips, hands to miss. Our two souls, therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansiòn, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show To move, but doth if the other do, And though it in the centre sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect as that comes home. Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun. SONG Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee, Then, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear, Nowhere Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet; Yet do not: I would not go, Though at next door we might meet; Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three. LOVE'S GROWTH I scarce believe my love to be so pure As I had thought it was, Because it doth endure Vicissitude and season as the grass; Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore My love was infinite, if spring make it more. But if this medicine love, which cures all sorrow With more, not only be no quintessence But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense, And of the sun his working vigor borrow, Love's not so pure and abstract as they use To say, which have no mistress but their muse, But as all else, being elemented too, Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.