But neither sensual passion, nor gay and cynical wit, nor scorn and anger, is the dominant note in Donne's love-poetry. Of the last quality there is, despite the sardonic emphasis of some of the poems, less than in either Shakespeare or Catullus. There is nothing in his poetry which speaks so poignantly of an outraged heart, a love lavished upon one who was worthless, as some of Shakespeare's sonnets and of Catullus's poems. The finest note in Donne's love-poetry is the note of joy, the joy of mutual and contented passion. His heart might be subtle to plague itself; its capacity for joy is even more obvious. Other poets have done many things which Donne could not do. They have invested their feelings with a garb of richer and sweeter poetry. They have felt more deeply and finely the reverence which is in the heart of love. But it is only in the fragments of Sappho, the lyrics of Catullus, and the songs of Burns that one will find the sheer joy of loving and being loved expressed in the same direct and simple language as in some of Donne's songs, only in Browning that one will find the same simplicity of feeling combined with a like swift and subtle dialectic. I wonder by my troth what thou and I Did till we loved. For God's sake hold your tongue and let me love. If yet I have not all thy love, Deare, I shall never have it all. Lines like these have the same direct, passionate quality as [Greek: phainetai moi kênos isos theoisin emmen ônêr] or O my love's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June. The joy is as intense though it is of a more spiritual and intellectual quality. And in the other notes of this simple passionate love-poetry, sorrow which is the shadow of joy, and tenderness, Donne does not fall far short of Burns in intensity of feeling and directness of expression. These notes are not so often heard in Donne, but So, so break off this last lamenting kiss is of the same quality as Had we never lov'd sae kindly or Take, O take those lips away. And strangest of all perhaps is the tenderness which came into Donne's poetry when a sincere passion quickened in his heart, for tenderness, the note of O wert thou in the cauld blast, is the last quality one would look for in the poetry of a nature at once so intellectual and with such a capacity for caustic satire. But the beautiful if not flawless _Elegy XVI_, By our first strange and fatal interview, and the _Valedictions_ which he wrote on different occasions of parting from his wife, combine with the peculiar _élan_ of all Donne's passionate poetry and its intellectual content a tenderness as perfect as anything in Burns or in Browning: O more than Moone, Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare, Weepe me not dead in thine armes, but forbeare To teach the sea, what it may doe too soone.