Donne

by John Donne

  The quick high Moone: so doth the body, Soules.

  In none but us, are such mixt engines found,

  As hands of double office: For, the ground

  We till with them; and them to heav’n wee raise;

  Who prayer-lesse labours, or, without this, prayes,

  Doth but one halfe, that’s none; He which said, Plough

  And looke not back, to looke up doth allow.

  Good seed degenerates, and oft obeys

  The soyles disease, and into cockle strayes.

  Let the minds thoughts be but transplanted so,

  Into the body,’and bastardly they grow.

  What hate could hurt our bodies like our love?

  Wee but no forraine tyrans could remove,

  These not ingrav’d, but inborne dignities,

  Caskets of soules; Temples, and Palaces:

  For, bodies shall from death redeemed bee,

  Soules but preserv’d, not naturally free;

  As men to’our prisons, new soules to us are sent,

  Which learne vice there, and come in innocent.

  First seeds of every creature are in us,

  What ere the world hath bad, or pretious,

  Mans body can produce, hence hath it beene

  That stones, wormes, frogges, and snakes in man are seene.

  But who ere saw, though nature can worke soe,

  That pearle, or gold, or corne in man did grow?

  We’have added to the world Virginia,’and sent

  Two new starres lately to the firmament;

  Why grudge wee us (not heaven) the dignity

  T’increase with ours, those faire soules company.

  But I must end this letter, though it doe

  Stand on two truths, neither is true to you.

  Vertue hath some perversenesse; For she will

  Neither beleeve her good, nor others ill.

  Even in you, vertues best paradise,

  Vertue hath some, but wise degrees of vice.

  Too many vertues, or too much of one

  Begets in you unjust suspition.

  And ignorance of vice, makes vertue lesse,

  Quenching compassion of our wretchednesse.

  But these are riddles; Some aspersion

  Of vice becomes well some complexion.

  Statesmen purge vice with vice, and may corrode

  The bad with bad, a spider with a toad:

  For so, ill thralls not them, but they tame ill

  And make her do much good against her will,

  But in your Commonwealth or world in you

  Vice hath no office, or good worke to doe.

  Take then no vitious purge, but be content

  With cordiall vertue, your knowne nourishment.

  THIS TWILIGHT OF TWO YEARES

  To the Countesse of Bedford. On New-yeares day.

  This twilight of two yeares, not past nor next,

  Some embleme is of mee, or I of this,

  Who Meteor-like, of stuffe and forme perplext,

  Whose what, and where, in disputation is,

  If I should call mee any thing, should misse.

  I summe the yeares, and mee, and finde mee not

  Debtor to th’old, nor Creditor to th’new,

  That cannot say, My thankes I have forgot,

  Nor trust I this with hopes, and yet scarce true,

  This bravery is since these times shew’d mee you.

  In recompence I would show future times

  What you were, and teach them to’urge towards such.

  Verse embalmes vertue;’and Tombs, or Thrones of rimes,

  Preserve fraile transitory fame, as much

  As spice doth bodies from corrupt aires touch.

  Mine are short-liv’d; the tincture of your name

  Creates in them, but dissipates as fast,

  New spirits: for, strong agents with the same

  Force that doth warme and cherish, us doe wast;

  Kept hot with strong extracts, no bodies last:

  So, my verse built of your just praise, might want

  Reason and likelihood, the firmest Base,

  And made of miracle, now faith is scant,

  Will vanish soone, and so possesse no place,

  And you, and it, too much grace might disgrace.

  When all (as truth commands assent) confesse

  All truth of you, yet they will doubt how I

  One corne of one low anthills dust, and lesse,

  Should name, know, or expresse a thing so high,

  And not an inch, measure infinity.

  I cannot tell them, nor my selfe, nor you,

  But leave, lest truth b’endanger’d by my praise,

  And turne to God, who knowes I thinke this true,

  And useth oft, when such a heart mis-sayes,

  To make it good, for, such a praiser prayes.

  Hee will best teach you, how you should lay out

  His stock of beauty, learning, favour, blood;

  He will perplex security with doubt,

  And cleare those doubts; hide from you,’and shew you good,

  And so increase your appetite and food;

  Hee will teach you, that good and bad have not

  One latitude in cloysters, and in Court;

  Indifferent there the greatest space hath got;

  Some pitty’is not good there, some vaine disport,

  On this side, sinne with that place may comport.

  Yet he, as hee bounds seas, will fixe your houres,

  Which pleasure, and delight may not ingresse,

  And though what none else lost, be truliest yours,

  Hee will make you, what you did not, possesse,

  By using others, not vice, but weakenesse.

  He will make you speake truths, and credibly,

  And make you doubt, that others doe not so:

  Hee will provide you keyes, and locks, to spie,

  And scape spies, to good ends, and hee will show

  What you may not acknowledge, what not know.

  For your owne conscience, he gives innocence,

  But for your fame, a discreet warinesse,

  And though to scape, then to revenge offence

  Be better, he showes both, and to represse

  Joy, when your state swells, sadnesse when’tis lesse.

  From need of teares he will defend your soule,

  Or make a rebaptizing of one teare;

  Hee cannot, (that’s, he will not) dis-inroule

  Your name; and when with active joy we heare

  This private Ghospell, then’tis our New Yeare.

  HONOUR IS SO SUBLIME PERFECTION

  Honour is so sublime perfection,

  And so refinde; that when God was alone

  And creaturelesse at first, himselfe had none;

  But as of the elements, these which wee tread,

  Produce all things with which wee’are joy’d or fed,

  And, those are barren both above our head:

  So from low persons doth all honour flow;

  Kings, whom they would have honoured, to us show,

  And but direct our honour, not bestow.

  For when from herbs the pure part must be wonne

  From grosse, by Stilling, this is better done

  By despis’d dung, then by the fire or Sunne.

  Care not then, Madame,’how low your praysers lye;

  In labourers balads oft more piety

  God findes, then in Te Deums melodie.

  And, ordinance rais’d on Towers so many mile

  Send not their voice, nor last so long a while

  As fires from th’earths low vaults in Sicil Isle.

  Should I say I liv’d darker then were true,

  Your radiation can all clouds subdue,

  But one, ’tis best light to contemplate you.

  You, for whose body God made better clay,

  Or tooke Soules stuffe such as shall late decay,

  Or
such as needs small change at the last day.

  This, as an Amber drop enwraps a Bee,

  Covering discovers your quicke Soule; that we

  May in your through-shine front your hearts thoughts see.

  You teach (though wee learne not) a thing unknowne

  To our late times, the use of specular stone,

  Through which all things within without were shown.

  Of such were Temples; so and such you are;

  Beeing and seeming is your equall care,

  And vertues whole summe is but know and dare.

  But as our Soules of growth and Soules of sense

  Have birthright of our reasons Soule, yet hence

  They fly not from that, nor seeke presidence:

  Natures first lesson, so discretion,

  Must not grudge zeale a place, nor yet keepe none,

  Not banish it selfe, nor religion.

  Discretion is a wisemans Soule, and so

  Religion is a Christians, and you know

  How these are one, her yea, is not her no.

  Nor may we hope to sodder still and knit

  These two, and dare to breake them; nor must wit

  Be colleague to religion, but be it.

  In those poor types of God (round circles) so

  Religious tipes, the peecelesse centers flow,

  And are in all the lines which alwayes goe.

  If either ever wrought in you alone

  Or principally, then religion

  Wrought your ends, and your wayes discretion.

  Goe thither stil, goe the same way you went,

  Who so would change, do covet or repent;

  Neither can reach you, great and innocent.

  THOUGH I BE DEAD

  Though I be dead, and buried, yet I have

  (Living in you,) Court enough in my grave,

  As oft as there I thinke my selfe to bee,

  So many resurrections waken mee.

  That thankfullnesse your favours have begot

  In mee, embalmes mee, that I doe not rot;

  This season as ’tis Easter, as ’tis spring,

  Must both to growth and to confession bring

  My thoughts dispos’d unto your influence, so,

  These verses bud, so these confessions grow;

  First I confesse I have to others lent

  Your stock, and over prodigally spent

  Your treasure, for since I had never knowne

  Vertue or beautie, but as they are growne

  In you, I should not thinke or say they shine,

  (So as I have) in any other Mine;

  Next I confesse this my confession,

  For, ’tis some fault thus much to touch upon

  Your praise to you, where half rights seeme too much,

  And make your minds sincere complexion blush.

  Next I confesse my’impertinence, for I

  Can scarce repent my first fault, since thereby

  Remote low Spirits, which shall ne’r read you,

  May in lesse lessons finde enough to doe,

  By studying copies, not Originals,

  Desunt cætera.

  THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY

  AN ANATOMY OF THE WORLD

  When that rich soule which to her Heaven is gone,

  Whom all they celebrate, who know they have one,

  (For who is sure he hath a soule, unlesse

  It see, and Judge, and follow worthinesse,

  And by Deedes praise it? He who doth not this,

  May lodge an In-mate soule, but tis not his.)

  When that Queene ended here her progresse time,

  And, as t’her standing house, to heaven did clymbe,

  Where, loth to make the Saints attend her long,

  Shee’s now a part both of the Quire, and Song,

  This world, in that great earth-quake languished;

  For in a common Bath of teares it bled,

  Which drew the strongest vitall spirits out:

  But succour’d then with a perplexed doubt,

  Whether the world did loose or gaine in this,

  (Because since now no other way there is

  But goodnes, to see her, whom all would see,

  All must endeavour to be good as shee,)

  This great consumption to a fever turn’d,

  And so the world had fits; it joy’d, it mourn’d.

  And, as men thinke, that Agues physicke are,

  And th’Ague being spent, give over care,

  So thou, sicke world, mistak’st thy selfe to bee

  Well, when alas, thou’rt in a Letargee.

  Her death did wound, and tame thee than, and than

  Thou mightst have better spar’d the Sunne, or Man;

  That wound was deepe, but ’tis more misery,

  That thou hast lost thy sense and memory.

  T’was heavy then to heare thy voyce of mone,

  But this is worse, that thou are speechlesse growne.

  Thou hast forgot thy name, thou hadst; thou wast

  Nothing but she, and her thou hast o’rpast.

  For as a child kept from the Font, untill

  A Prince, expected long, come to fulfill

  The Ceremonies, thou unnam’d hadst laid,

  Had not her comming, thee her Palace made:

  Her name defin’d thee, gave thee forme and frame,

  And thou forgetst to celebrate thy name.

  Some moneths she hath beene dead (but being dead,

  Measures of times are all determined)

  But long shee’ath beene away, long, long, yet none

  Offers to tell us who it is that’s gone.

  But as in states doubtfull of future heyres,

  When sickenes without remedy, empayres

  The present Prince, they’re loth it should be said,

  The Prince doth languish, or the Prince is dead:

  So mankind feeling now a generall thaw,

  A strong example gone equall to law,

  The Cyment which did faithfully compact

  And glue all vertues, now resolv’d, and slack’d,

  Thought it some blasphemy To say sh’was dead;

  Or that our weakenes was discovered

  In that confession; therefore spoke no more

  Then tongues, the soule being gone, the losse deplore.

  But though it be too late to succour thee,

  Sicke world, yea dead, yea putrified, since shee

  Thy’ntrinsique Balme, and thy preservative,

  Can never be renew’d, thou never live,

  I (since no man can make thee live) will trie,

  What we may gaine by thy Anatomy.

  Her death hath taught us dearely, that thou art

  Corrupt and mortall in thy purest part.

  Let no man say, the world it selfe being dead,

  ’Tis labour lost to have discovered

  The worlds infirmities, since there is none

  Alive to study this dissectione;

  For there’s a kind of world remaining still,

  Though shee which did inanimate and fill

  The world, be gone, yet in this last long night,

  Her Ghost doth walke; that is, a glimmering light,

  A faint weake love of vertue and of good

  Reflects from her, on them which understood

  Her worth; And though she have shut in all day,

  The twi-light of her memory doth stay;

  Which, from the carcasse of the old world, free,

  Creates a new world; and new creatures be

  Produc’d: The matter and the stuffe of this,

  Her vertue, and the forme our practice is.

  And though to be thus Elemented, arme

  These Creatures, from hom-borne intrinsique harme,

  (For all assum’d unto this Dignitee,

  So many weedlesse Paradises bee,

  Which of themselves produce no venemous sinne,

  Except some forraine Serpent bring it in)


  Yet, because outward stormes the strongest breake,

  And strength it selfe by confidence growes weake,

  This new world may be safer, being told

  The dangers and diseases of the old:

  For with due temper men do then forgoe,

  Or covet things, when they their true worth know.

  There is no health; Physitians say that we

  At best, enjoy, but a neutralitee.

  And can there be worse sicknesse, then to know

  That we are never well, nor can be so?

  We are borne ruinous: poore mothers crie,

  That children come not right, nor orderly,

  Except they headlong come, and fall upon

  An ominous precipitation.

  How witty’s ruine? how importunate

  Upon mankinde? It labour’d to frustrate

  Even Gods purpose; and made woman, sent

  For mans reliefe, cause of his languishment.

  They were to good ends, and they are so still,

  But accessory, and principall in ill.

  For that first mariage was our funerall:

  One woman at one blow, then kill’d us all,

  And singly, one by one, they kill us now.

  We doe delightfully our selves allow

  To that consumption; and profusely blinde,

  We kill our selves, to propagate our kinde.

  And yet we doe not that; we are not men:

  There is not now that mankinde, which was then

  When as the Sunne, and man, did seeme to strive,

  (Joynt tenants of the world) who should survive.

  When Stag, and Raven, and the long-liv’d tree,

  Compar’d with man, dy’de in minoritee.

  When, if a slow-pac’d starre had stolne away

  From the observers marking, he might stay

  Two or three hundred yeares to see’t againe,

  And then make up his observation plaine;

  When, as the age was long, the sise was great:

  Mans growth confess’d, and recompenc’d the meat:

  So spacious and large, that every soule

  Did a faire Kingdome, and large Realme controule:

  And when the very stature thus erect,

  Did that soule a good way towards Heaven direct.

  Where is this mankind now? who lives to age,