The Primrose, Montgomery Castle...

by John Donne

　　 UPON this Primrose hill,

　　 Where, if heaven would distil

　　A shower of rain, each several drop might go

　　To his own primrose, and grow manna so;

　　And where their form, and their infinity

　　 Make a terrestrial galaxy,

　　 As the small stars do in the sky;

　　I walk to find a true love; and I see

　　That 'tis not a mere woman, that is she,

　　But must or more or less than woman be.

　　 Yet know I not, which flower

　　 I wish; a six, or four;

　　For should my true-love less than woman be,

　　She were scarce anything; and then, should she

　　Be more than woman, she would get above

　　 All thought of sex, and think to move

　　 My heart to study her, and not to love.

　　Both these were monsters; since there must reside

　　Falsehood in woman, I could more abide,

　　She were by art, than nature falsified.

　　 Live, primrose, then, and thrive

　　 With thy true number five;

　　And, woman, whom this flower doth represent,

　　With this mysterious number be content;

　　Ten is the farthest number; if half ten

　　 Belongs to each woman, then

　　 Each woman may take half us men;

　　Or—if this will not serve their turn—since all

　　Numbers are odd, or even, and they fall

　　First into five, women may take us all.