Goe, and catche a falling starre,
   Get with child a mandrake roote,
Tell me, where all past yeares are,
   Or who cleft the Divels foot,
Teach me to heare Mermaides singing,
Or to keep off envies stinging,
   And finde,
   What winde,
Serves to advance an honest minde.

If thou beest borne to strange sights,
   Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand daies and nights,
   Till age snow white haires on thee,
Thou, when thou retorn'st, wilt tell mee,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
   And sweare,
   No where,
Lives a woman true, and faire.

If thou findst one, let mee know,
   Such a Pilgrimage were sweet,
Yet doe not, I would not goe,
   Though at next doore wee might meet,
Though shee were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
   Yet shee,
   Will bee,
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

John Donne, c. 1593.