Donne

by John Donne

  Law practise for meere gaine, bold soule, repute

  Worse then imbrothel’d strumpets prostitute.

  Now like an owlelike watchman, hee must walke

  His hand still at a bill, now he must talke

  Idly, like prisoners, which whole months will sweare

  That onely suretiship hath brought them there,

  And to every suitor lye in every thing,

  Like a Kings favourite, yea like a King;

  Like a wedge in a blocke, wring to the barre,

  Bearing like Asses, and more shamelesse farre

  Then carted whores, lye, to the grave Judge; for

  Bastardy abounds not in Kings titles, nor

  Symonie and Sodomy in Churchmens lives,

  As these things do in him; by these he thrives.

  Shortly (as the sea) hee will compasse all the land,

  From Scots, to Wight; from Mount, to Dover strand.

  And spying heires melting with luxurie,

  Satan will not joy at their sinnes, as hee.

  For as a thrifty wench scrapes kitching-stuffe,

  And barrelling the droppings, and the snuffe,

  Of wasting candles, which in thirty yeare

  (Relique-like kept) perchance buyes wedding geare;

  Peecemeale he gets lands, and spends as much time

  Wringing each Acre, as men pulling prime.

  In parchment then, large as his fields, hee drawes

  Assurances, bigge, as gloss’d civill lawes,

  So huge, that men (in our times forwardnesse)

  Are Fathers of the Church for writing lesse.

  These hee writes not; nor for these written payes,

  Therefore spares no length; as in those first dayes

  When Luther was profest, He did desire

  Short Pater nosters, saying as a Fryer

  Each day his beads, but having left those lawes,

  Addes to Christs prayer, the Power and glory clause.

  But when he sells or changes land, he’impaires

  His writings, and (unwatch’d) leaves out, ses heires,

  As slily as any Commentator goes by

  Hard words, or sense; or in Divinity

  As controverters, in vouch’d Texts, leave out

  Shrewd words, which might against them cleare the doubt.

  Where are those spred woods which cloth’d hertofore

  Those bought lands? not built, nor burnt within dore.

  Where’s th’old landlords troops, and almes? In great hals

  Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bachanalls

  Equally I hate; meanes blesse; in rich mens homes

  I bid kill some beasts, but no Hecatombs,

  None starve, none surfet so; But (Oh) we allow,

  Good workes as good, but out of fashion now,

  Like old rich wardrops; but my words none drawes

  Within the vast reach of th’huge statute lawes.

  SATYRE III

  Kinde pitty chokes my spleene; brave scorn forbids

  Those teares to issue which swell my eye-lids;

  I must not laugh, nor weepe sinnes, and be wise,

  Can railing then cure these worne maladies?

  Is not our Mistresse faire Religion,

  As worthy of all our Soules devotion,

  As vertue was to the first blinded age?

  Are not heavens joyes as valiant to asswage

  Lusts, as earths honour was to them? Alas,

  As wee do them in meanes, shall they surpasse

  Us in the end, and shall thy fathers spirit

  Meete blinde Philosophers in heaven, whose merit

  Of strict life may be imputed faith, and heare

  Thee, whom hee taught so easie wayes and neare

  To follow, damn’d? O if thou dar’st, feare this.

  This feare great courage, and high valour is;

  Dar’st thou ayd mutinous Dutch, and dar’st thou lay

  Thee in ships woodden Sepulchers, a prey

  To leaders rage, to stormes, to shot, to dearth?

  Dar’st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth?

  Hast thou couragious fire to thaw the ice

  Of frozen North discoveries? and thrise

  Colder then Salamanders, like divine

  Children in th’oven, fires of Spaine, and the line,

  Whose countries limbecks to our bodies bee,

  Canst thou for gaine beare? and must every hee

  Which cryes not, Goddesse, to thy Mistresse, draw,

  Or eat thy poysonous words? courage of straw!

  O desperate coward, wilt thou seeme bold, and

  To thy foes and his (who made thee to stand

  Sentinell in his worlds garrison) thus yeeld,

  And for the forbidden warres, leave th’appointed field?

  Know thy foe, the foule devill h’is, whom thou

  Strivest to please: for hate, not love, would allow

  Thee faine, his whole Realme to be quit; and as

  The worlds all parts wither away and passe,

  So the worlds selfe, thy other lov’d foe, is

  In her decrepit wayne, and thou loving this,

  Dost love a withered and worne strumpet; last,

  Flesh (it selfes death) and joyes which flesh can taste,

  Thou lovest; and thy faire goodly soule, which doth

  Give this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loath;

  Seeke true religion. O where? Mirreus

  Thinking her unhous’d here, and fled from us,

  Seekes her at Rome, there, because hee doth know

  That shee was there a thousand yeares agoe,

  He loves her ragges so, as wee here obey

  The statecloth where the Prince sate yesterday,

  Crants to such brave Loves will not be inthrall’d,

  But loves her onely, who at Geneva is call’d

  Religion, plaine, simple, sullen, yong,

  Contemptuous, yet unhansome. As among

  Lecherous humors, there is one that judges

  No wenches wholsome, but course country drudges.

  Graius stayes still at home here, and because

  Some Preachers, vile ambitious bauds, and lawes

  Still new like fashions, bid him thinke that shee

  Which dwels with us, is onely perfect, hee

  Imbraceth her, whom his Godfathers will

  Tender to him, being tender, as Wards still

  Take such wives as their Guardians offer, or

  Pay valewes. Carelesse Phrygius doth abhorre

  All, because all cannot be good, as one

  Knowing some women whores, dares marry none.

  Graccus loves all as one, and thinkes that so

  As women do in divers countries goe

  In divers habits, yet are still one kinde;

  So doth, so is Religion; and this blind-

  nesse too much light breeds; but unmoved thou

  Of force must one, and forc’d but one allow;

  And the right; aske thy father which is shee,

  Let him aske his; though truth and falsehood bee

  Neare twins, yet truth a little elder is;

  Be busie to seeke her, beleeve mee this,

  Hee’s not of none, nor worst, that seekes the best.

  To adore, or scorne an image, or protest,

  May all be bad; doubt wisely, in strange way

  To stand inquiring right, is not to stray;

  To sleepe, or runne wrong, is: on a huge hill,

  Cragg’d, and steep, Truth stands, and hee that will

  Reach her, about must, and about must goe;

  And what the hills suddennes resists, winne so;

  Yet strive so, that before age, deaths twilight,

  Thy Soule rest, for none can worke in that night.

  To will, implyes delay, therefore now doe.

  Hard deeds, the bodies paines; hard knowledge too

  The mindes indeavours reach, and mysteries
/>   Are like the Sunne, dazzling, yet plaine to all eyes;

  Keepe the truth which thou hast found; men do not stand

  In so ill case here, that God hath with his hand

  Sign’d Kings blanck-charters to kill whom they hate,

  Nor are they Vicars, but hangmen to Fate.

  Foole and wretch, wilt thou let thy Soule be tyed

  To mans lawes, by which she shall not be tryed

  At the last day? Will it then boot thee

  To say a Philip, or a Gregory,

  A Harry, or a Martin taught thee this?

  Is not this excuse for mere contraries,

  Equally strong? cannot both sides say so?

  That thou mayest rightly obey power, her bounds know;

  Those past, her nature, and name is chang’d; to be

  Then humble to her is idolatrie;

  As streames are, Power is; those blest flowers that dwell

  At the rough streames calme head, thrive and do well,

  But having left their roots, and themselves given

  To the streames tyrannous rage, alas are driven

  Through mills, and rockes, and woods, and at last, almost

  Consum’d in going, in the sea are lost:

  So perish Soules, which more chuse mens unjust

  Power from God claym’d, then God himselfe to trust.

  SATYRE IV

  Well; I may now receive, and die; My sinne

  Indeed is great, but I have beene in

  A Purgatorie, such as fear’d hell is

  A recreation, and scant map of this.

  My minde, neither with prides itch, nor yet hath been

  Poyson’d with love to see, or to bee seene,

  I had no suit there, nor new suite to shew,

  Yet went to Court; But as Glaze which did goe

  To’a Masse in jest, catch’d, was faine to disburse

  The hundred markes, which is the Statutes curse,

  Before he scapt; So’it pleas’d my destinie

  (Guilty of my sin of going), to thinke me

  As prone to all ill, and of good as forget-

  full, as proud, as lustfull, and as much in debt,

  As vaine, as witlesse, and as false as they

  Which dwell at Court, for once going that way.

  Therefore I suffered this; Towards me did runne

  A thing more strange, then on Niles slime, the Sunne

  E’r bred, or all which into Noahs Arke came:

  A thing, which would have pos’d Adam to name,

  Stranger then seaven Antiquaries studies,

  Then Africks Monsters, Guianaes rarities,

  Stranger then strangers; One, who for a Dane,

  In the Danes Massacre had sure beene slaine,

  If he had liv’d then; And without helpe dies,

  When next the Prentises ’gainst Strangers rise.

  One, whom the watch at noone lets scarce goe by,

  One, to whom, the examining Justice sure would cry,

  Sir, by your priesthood tell me what you are.

  His cloths were strange, though coarse; and black, though bare;

  Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had beene

  Velvet, but ’twas now (so much ground was seene)

  Become Tufftaffatie; and our children shall

  See it plaine Rashe awhile, then nought at all.

  This thing hath travail’d, and saith, speakes all tongues

  And only knoweth what to all States belongs.

  Made of th’Accents, and best phrase of all these,

  He speakes one language; If strange meats displease,

  Art can deceive, or hunger force my tast,

  But Pedants motley tongue, souldiers bumbast,

  Mountebankes drugtongue, nor the termes of law

  Are strong enough preparatives, to draw

  Me to beare this, yet I must be content

  With his tongue: in his tongue, call’d complement:

  In which he can win widdowes, and pay scores,

  Make men speake treason, cosen subtlest whores,

  Out-flatter favorites, or outlie either

  Jovius, or Surius, or both together.

  He names mee, and comes to mee; I whisper, God!

  How have I sinn’d, that thy wraths furious rod,

  This fellow chuseth me? He saith, Sir,

  I love your judgement; Whom doe you prefer,

  For the best linguist? And I seelily

  Said, that I thought Calepines Dictionarie;

  Nay, but of men, most sweet Sir. Beza then,

  Some Jesuites, and two reverend men

  Of our two Academies, I named; There

  He stopt mee, and said; Nay, your Apostles were

  Good pretty linguists, and so Panurge was;

  Yet a poore gentleman; all these may passe

  By travaile. Then, as if he would have sold

  His tongue, he praised it, and such wonders told

  That I was faine to say, If you’had liv’d, Sir,

  Time enough to have beene Interpreter

  To Babells bricklayers, sure the Tower had stood.

  He adds, If of court life you knew the good,

  You would leave lonenesse; I said, not alone

  My lonenesse is, but Spartanes fashion,

  To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last

  Now; Aretines pictures have made few chast;

  No more can Princes courts, though there be few

  Better pictures of vice, teach me vertue;

  He, like to a high strecht lute string squeakt, O Sir,

  ’Tis sweet to talke of Kings. At Westminster,

  Said I, The man that keepes the Abbey tombes,

  And for his price doth with who ever comes,

  Of all our Harries, and our Edwards talke,

  From King to King and all their kin can walke:

  Your eares shall heare nought, but Kings; your eyes meet

  Kings only; The way to it, is Kingstreet.

  He smack’d, and cry’d, He’s base, Mechanique, coarse,

  So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.

  Are not your Frenchmen neate? Mine? as you see,

  I have but one Frenchman, looke, hee followes mee.

  Certes they are neatly cloth’d. I, of this minde am,

  Your only wearing is your Grogaram.

  Not so Sir, I have more. Under this pitch

  He would not flie; I chaff’d him; But as Itch

  Scratch’d into smart, and as blunt iron ground

  Into an edge, hurts worse: So, I (foole) found,

  Crossing hurt mee; To fit my sullennesse,

  He to another key, his stile doth addresse,

  And askes, what newes? I tell him of new playes.

  He takes my hand, and as a Still, which staies

  A Sembriefe, ’twixt each drop, he nigardly,

  As loth to enrich mee, so tells many a lie.

  More then ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stowes,

  Of triviall houshold trash he knowes; He knowes

  When the Queene frown’d, or smil’d, and he knowes what

  A subtle States-man may gather of that;

  He knowes who loves; whom; and who by poyson

  Hasts to an Offices reversion;

  He knowes who’hath sold his land, and now doth beg

  A licence, old iron, bootes, shooes, and egge-

  shels to transport; Shortly boyes shall not play

  At span-counter, or blow-point, but they pay

  Toll to some Courtier; And wiser then all us,

  He knowes what Ladie is not painted; Thus

  He with home-meats tries me; I belch, spue, spit,

  Looke pale, and sickly, like a Patient; Yet

  He thrusts on more; And as if he’undertooke

  To say Gallo-Belgicus without booke

  Speakes of all States, and deeds, that have been since

  The Spaniards came, to the losse of Amyens.

 
; Like a bigge wife, at sight of loathed meat,

  Readie to travaile: So I sigh, and sweat

  To heare this Makeron talke in vaine: For yet,

  Either my humour, or his owne to fit,

  He like a priviledg’d spie, whom nothing can

  Discredit, Libells now ’gainst each great man.

  He names a price for every office paid;

  He saith, our warres thrive ill, because delai’d;

  That offices are entail’d, and that there are

  Perpetuities of them, lasting as farre

  As the last day; And that great officers,

  Doe with the Pirates share, and Dunkirkers.

  Who wasts in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes;

  Who loves Whores, who boyes, and who goats.

  I more amas’d then Circes prisoners, when

  They felt themselves turne beasts, felt my selfe then

  Becomming Traytor, and mee thought I saw

  One of our Giant Statutes ope his jaw

  To sucke me in; for hearing him, I found

  That as burnt venome Leachers do grow sound

  By giving others their soares, I might growe

  Guilty, and he free: Therefore I did shew

  All signes of loathing; But since I am in,

  I must pay mine, and my forefathers sinne

  To the last farthing; Therefore to my power

  Toughly and stubbornly I beare this crosse;

  But the’houre

  Of mercy now was come; He tries to bring

  Me to pay a fine to scape his torturing,

  And saies, Sir, can you spare me; I said, willingly;

  Nay, Sir, can you spare me a crowne? Thankfully I

  Gave it, as Ransome; But as fidlers, still,

  Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will

  Thrust one more jigge upon you: so did hee

  With his long complementall thankes vexe me.

  But he is gone, thankes to his needy want,

  And the prerogative of my Crowne: Scant

  His thankes were ended, when I, (which did see

  All the court fill’d with more strange things then hee)

  Ran from thence with such or more haste, then one

  Who feares more actions, doth haste from prison;

  At home in wholesome solitarinesse

  My precious soule began, the wretchednesse

  Of suiters at court to mourne, and a trance

  Like his, who dreamt he saw hell, did advance

  It selfe on mee, Such men as he saw there,

  I saw at court, and worse, and more; Low feare

  Becomes the guiltie, not the accuser; Then,

  Shall I, nones slave, of high borne, or rais’d men

  Feare frownes? And, my Mistresse Truth, betray thee

  To th’huffing braggart, puft Nobility?