of surprise to know that he considered females in the light of creatures whom it had pleased Providence to make fools.
"Hope not for mind in women!"
is his warning cry; at their best, a little sweetness and a little wit form all their earthly portion. Yet the note of true passion struck by Donne in those glowing addresses, those dejected farewells to his wife, echoes like a cry of rapture and of pain out of the stillness of the past. Her sorrow at the parting rends his heart; if she but sighs, she sighs his soul away.
"When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
My life's blood doth decay.
It cannot be
That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste;
Thou art the life of me."
Again, in that strange poem "A Valediction of Weeping," he finds her tears more than he can endure; and, with the fond exaggeration of a lover, he entreats forbearance in her grief:—
"O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere;
