A Jet Ring Sent

by John Donne
Thou art not so black as my heart,
        Nor half so brittle as her heart, thou art;
What would'st thou say? shall both our properties by thee be spoke,
        —Nothing more endless, nothing sooner broke?
                        Marriage rings are not of this stuff;
        Oh, why should ought less precious, or less tough
Figure our loves? except in thy name thou have bid it say,
        “—I'm cheap, and nought but fashion; fling me away.
                        Yet stay with me since thou art come,
        Circle this finger's top, which didst her thumb;
Be justly proud, and gladly safe, that thou dost dwell with me;
She that, O! broke her faith, would soon break thee.