John Donne

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like a usurped town to another due, Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov-ed fain, But am betrothed unto your enemy Divorce me, untie or break that knot again; Take me to you, imprison me, for I Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.