John Donne - Delphi Poets Series

by John Donne

  Was’t not enough that thou didst dart thy fires

  Into our bloods, inflaming our desires,

  And madest us sigh, and blow, and pant, and burn,

  And then thyself into our flames didst turn?

  Was’t not enough that thou didst hazard us

  To paths in love so dark and dangerous,

  And those so ambush’d round with household spies,

  And over all thy husband’s towering eyes,

  Inflamed with th’ ugly sweat of jealousy;

  Yet went we not still on in constancy?

  Have we for this kept guards, like spy on spy?

  Had correspondence whilst the foe stood by?

  Stolen, more to sweeten them, our many blisses

  Of meetings, conference, embracements, kisses?

  Shadow’d with negligence our best respects?

  Varied our language through all dialects

  Of becks, winks, looks, and often under boards

  Spoke dialogues with our feet far from our words?

  Have we proved all the secrets of our art,

  Yea, thy pale inwards, and thy panting heart?

  And, after all this passed purgatory,

  Must sad divorce make us the vulgar story?

  First let our eyes be riveted quite through

  Our turning brain, and both our lips grow to;

  Let our arms clasp like ivy, and our fear

  Freeze us together, that we may stick here,

  Till Fortune, that would ruin us with the deed,

  Strain his eyes open, and yet make them bleed.

  For Love it cannot be, whom hitherto

  I have accused, should such a mischief do.

  O Fortune, thou’rt not worth my least exclaim,

  And plague enough thou hast in thy own name.

  Do thy great worst; my friend and I have charms,

  Though not against thy strokes, against thy harms.

  Rend us in sunder; thou canst not divide

  Our bodies so, but that our souls are tied,

  And we can love by letters still and gifts,

  And thoughts and dreams; love never wanteth shifts.

  I will not look upon the quickening sun,

  But straight her beauty to my sense shall run;

  The air shall note her soft, the fire, most pure;

  Waters suggest her clear, and the earth sure.

  Time shall not lose our passages; the spring,

  How fresh our love was in the beginning;

  The summer, how it ripen’d in the year;

  And autumn, what our golden harvests were;

  The winter I’ll not think on to spite thee,

  But count it a lost season; so shall she.

  And dearest friend, since we must part, drown night

  With hope of day — burdens well borne are light — ;

  The cold and darkness longer hang somewhere,

  Yet Phoebus equally lights all the sphere;

  And what we cannot in like portion pay

  The world enjoys in mass, and so we may.

  Be then ever yourself, and let no woe

  Win on your health, your youth, your beauty; so

  Declare yourself base Fortune’s enemy,

  No less be your contempt than her inconstancy;

  That I may grow enamour’d on your mind,

  When mine own thoughts I here neglected find.

  And this to the comfort of my dear I vow,

  My deeds shall still be what my deeds are now;

  The poles shall move to teach me ere I start;

  And when I change my love, I’ll change my heart.

  Nay, if I wax but cold in my desire,

  Think, heaven hath motion lost, and the world, fire.

  Much more I could, but many words have made

  That oft suspected which men most persuade.

  Take therefore all in this; I love so true,

  As I will never look for less in you.

  ELEGY XIV.

  JULIA.

  HARK, news, O envy; thou shalt hear descried

  My Julia; who as yet was ne’er envied.

  To vomit gall in slander, swell her veins

  With calumny, that hell itself disdains,

  Is her continual practice; does her best,

  To tear opinion e’en out of the breast

  Of dearest friends, and — which is worse than vile —

  Sticks jealousy in wedlock; her own child

  Scapes not the showers of envy. To repeat

  The monstrous fashions how, were alive to eat

  Deare reputation; would to God she were

  But half so loth to act vice, as to hear

  My mild reproof. Lived Mantuan now again

  That female Mastix to limn with his pen,

  This she Chimera that hath eyes of fire,

  Burning with anger — anger feeds desire —

  Tongued like the night crow, whose ill boding cries

  Give out for nothing but new injuries;

  Her breath like to the juice in Tænarus,

  That blasts the springs, though ne’er so prosperous;

  Her hands, I know not how, used more to spill

  The food of others than herself to fill;

  But O! her mind, that Orcus, which includes

  Legions of mischiefs, countless multitudes

  Of formless curses, projects unmade up,

  Abuses yet unfashion’d, thoughts corrupt,

  Misshapen cavils, palpable untroths,

  Inevitable errors, self-accusing loaths.

  These, like those atoms swarming in the sun,

  Throng in her bosom for creation.

  I blush to give her halfe her due; yet say,

  No poison’s half so bad as Julia.

  ELEGY XV.

  A TALE OF A CITIZEN AND HIS WIFE.

  I SING no harm, good sooth, to any wight,

  To lord or fool, cuckold, beggar, or knight,

  To peace-teaching lawyer, proctor, or brave

  Reformed or reducèd captain, knave,

  Officer, juggler, or justice of peace,

  Juror or judge; I touch no fat sow’s grease;

  I am no libeller, nor will be any,

  But — like a true man — say there are too many.

  I fear not ore tenus; for my tale

  Nor count nor counsellor will look red or pale.

  A citizen and his wife the other day

  Both riding on one horse, upon the way

  I overtook; the wench a pretty peat,

  And — by her eye — well fitting for the feat.

  I saw the lecherous citizen turn back

  His head, and on his wife’s lip steal a smack;

  Whence apprehending that the man was kind,

  Riding before to kiss his wife behind,

  To get acquaintance with him I began

  To sort discourse fit for so fine a man;

  I ask’d the number of the plaguing bill;

  Ask’d if the custom farmers held out still;

  Of the Virginian plot, and whether Ward

  The traffic of the island seas had marr’d;

  Whether the Britain Burse did fill apace,

  And likely were to give th’ Exchange disgrace.

  Of new-built Aldgate, and the Moor-field crosses,

  Of store of bankrupts, and poor merchants’ losses

  I urgèd him to speak; but he — as mute

  As an old courtier worn to his last suit —

  Replies with only yeas and nays; at last

  — To fit his element — my theme I cast

  On tradesmen’s gains; that set his tongue a-going.

  “ Alas! good sir,” quoth he, “ There is no doing

  In court or city now”; she smiled, and I,

  And, in my conscience, both gave him the lie

  In one met thought; but he went on apace,

  And at the present time with such a face

  He rail’d, as f
ray’d me; for he gave no praise

  To any but my Lord of Essex’ days;

  Call’d that the age of action — ” True! “ quoth I —

  “ There’s now as great an itch of bravery,

  And heat of taking up, but cold lay down,

  For, put to push of pay, away they run;

  Our only city trades of hope now are

  Bawd, tavern-keepers, whores, and scriveners.

  The much of privileged kinsmen and store

  Of fresh protections make the rest all poor.

  In the first state of their creation

  Though many stoutly stand, yet proves not one

  A righteous pay-master.” Thus ran he on

  In a continued rage; so void of reason

  Seem’d his harsh talk, I sweat for fear of treason.

  And — troth — how could I less? when in the prayer

  For the protection of the wise Lord Mayor,

  And his wise brethren’s worships, when one prayeth,

  He swore that none could say amen with faith.

  To get off him from what I glow’d to hear,

  In happy time an angel did appear,

  The bright sign of a loved and well-tried inn,

  Where many citizens with their wives had been

  Well used and often; here I pray’d him stay,

  To take some due refreshment by the way.

  Look, how he look’d that hid the gold, his hope,

  And at return found nothing but a rope,

  So he at me; refused and made away,

  Though willing she pleaded a weary stay.

  I found my miss, struck hands, and pray’d him tell —

  To hold acquaintance still — where he did dwell.

  He barely named the street, promised the wine,

  But his kind wife gave me the very sign.

  ELEGY XVI.

  THE EXPOSTULATION.

  TO make the doubt clear, that no woman’s true,

  Was it my fate to prove it strong in you?

  Thought I, but one had breathèd purest air;

  And must she needs be false, because she’s fair?

  Is it your beauty’s mark, or of your youth,

  Or your perfection, not to study truth?

  Or think you heaven is deaf, or hath no eyes?

  Or those it hath smile at your perjuries?

  Are vows so cheap with women, or the matter

  Whereof they’re made, that they are writ in water,

  And blown away with wind? Or doth their breath

  Both hot and cold, at once make life and death?

  Who could have thought so many accents sweet

  Form’d into words, so may sighs should meet

  As from our hearts, so many oaths, and tears

  Sprinkled among, all sweeten’d by our fears,

  And the divine impression of stolen kisses,

  That seal’d the rest, should now prove empty blisses?

  Did you draw bonds to forfeit? sign to break?

  Or must we read you quite from what you speak,

  And find the truth out the wrong way? or must

  He first desire you false, would wish you just?

  O! I profane! though most of women be

  This kind of beast, my thoughts shall except thee,

  My dearest love; though froward jealousy

  With circumstance might urge thy inconstancy,

  Sooner I’ll think the sun will cease to cheer

  The teeming earth, and that forget to bear;

  Sooner that rivers will run back, or Thames

  With ribs of ice in June will bind his streams;

  Or nature, by whose strength the world endures,

  Would change her course, before you alter yours.

  But O! that treacherous breast, to whom weak you

  Did drift our counsels, and we both may rue,

  Having his falsehood found too late; ‘twas he

  That made me cast you guilty, and you me;

  Whilst he, black wretch, betray’d each simple word

  We spake, unto the cunning of a third.

  Cursed may he be, that so our love hath slain,

  And wander on the earth, wretched as Cain,

  Wretched as he, and not deserve least pity.

  In plaguing him, let misery be witty;

  Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each eye,

  Till he be noisome as his infamy;

  May he without remorse deny God thrice,

  And not be trusted more on his soul’s price;

  And, after all self-torment, when he dies,

  May wolves tear out his heart, vultures his eyes,

  Swine eat his bowels, and his falser tongue

  That utter’d all, be to some raven flung;

  And let his carrion corse be a longer feast

  To the king’s dogs, than any other beast.

  Now have I cursed, let us our love revive;

  In me the flame was never more alive.

  I could begin again to court and praise,

  And in that pleasure lengthen the short days

  Of my life’s lease; like painters that do take

  Delight, not in made work, but whiles they make.

  I could renew those times, when first I saw

  Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law

  To like what you liked; and at masks and plays

  Commend the self-same actors, the same ways;

  Ask how you did, and often with intent

  Of being officious, be impertinent;

  All which were such soft pastimes, as in these

  Love was as subtly catch’d as a disease.

  But being got, it is a treasure sweet,

  Which to defend is harder than to get;

  And ought not be profaned, on either part,

  For though ‘tis got by chance, ‘tis kept by art.

  ELEGY XVII.

  ON HIS MISTRESS.

  By our first strange and fatal interview,

  By all desires which thereof did ensue,

  By our long starving hopes, by that remorse

  Which my words masculine persuasive force

  Begot in thee, and by the memory

  Of hurts, which spies and rivals threaten’d me,

  I calmly beg. But by thy father’s wrath,

  By all pains, which want and divorcement hath,

  I conjure thee, and all the oaths which I

  And thou have sworn to seal joint constancy,

  Here I unswear, and overswear them thus;

  Thou shalt not love by ways so dangerous.

  Temper, O fair love, love’s impetuous rage;

  Be my true mistress still, not my feign’d page.

  I’ll go, and, by thy kind leave, leave behind

  Thee, only worthy to nurse in my mind

  Thirst to come back; O! if thou die before,

  My soul from other lands to thee shall soar.

  Thy else almighty beauty cannot move

  Rage from the seas, nor thy love teach them love,

  Nor tame wild Boreas’ harshness; thou hast read

  How roughly he in pieces shivered

  Fair Orithea, whom he swore he loved.

  Fall ill or good, ‘tis madness to have proved

  Dangers unurged; feed on this flattery,

  That absent lovers one in th’ other be.

  Dissemble nothing, not a boy, nor change

  Thy body’s habit, nor mind; be not strange

  To thyself only. All will spy in thy face

  A blushing womanly discovering grace.

  Richly clothed apes are call’d apes, and as soon

  Eclipsed as bright, we call the moon the moon.

  Men of France, changeable chameleons,

  Spitals of diseases, shops of fashions,

  Love’s fuellers, and the rightest company

  Of players, which upon the world’s stage be,

  Will quickly know thee, and no less, alas!


  Th’ indifferent Italian, as we pass

  His warm land, well content to think thee page,

  Will hunt thee with such lust, and hideous rage,

  As Lot’s fair guests were vex’d. But none of these

  Nor spongy hydroptic Dutch shall thee displease,

  If thou stay here. O stay here, for for thee

  England is only a worthy gallery,

  To walk in expectation, till from thence

  Our greatest king call thee to his presence.

  When I am gone, dream me some happiness;

  Nor let thy looks our long-hid love confess;

  Nor praise, nor dispraise me, nor bless nor curse

  Openly love’s force, nor in bed fright thy nurse

  With midnight’s startings, crying out, O! O!

  Nurse, O! my love is slain; I saw him go

  O’er the white Alps alone; I saw him, I,

  Assail’d, fight, taken, stabb’d, bleed, fall, and die.

  Augur me better chance, except dread Jove

  Think it enough for me to have had thy love.

  ELEGY XVIII.

  VARIETY

  THE heavens rejoice in motion; why should I

  Abjure my so much loved variety,

  And not with many youth and love divide?

  Pleasure is none, if not diversified.

  The sun that, sitting in the chair of light,

  Sheds flame into what else so ever doth seem bright,

  Is not contented at one sign to inn,

  But ends his year, and with a new begin.

  All things do willingly in change delight,

  The fruitful mother of our appetite;

  Rivers the clearer and more pleasing are,

  Where their fair-spreading streams run wide and clear;

  And a dead lake, that no strange bark doth greet,

  Corrupts itself, and what doth live in it.

  Let no man tell me such a one is fair,

  And worthy all alone my love to share.

  Nature in her hath done the liberal part

  Of a kind mistress, and employed her art,

  To make her loveable, and I aver

  Him not humane, that would turn back from her.

  I love her well, and would, if need were, die,

  To do her service. But follows it that I

  Must serve her only, when I may have choice?

  The law is hard, and shall not have my voice.

  The last I saw in all extremes is fair,

  And holds me in the sunbeams of her hair;

  Her nymph-like features such agreements have,

  That I could venture with her to the grave.

  Another’s brown; I like her not the worse;

  Her tongue is soft and takes me with discourse.

  Others, for that they well descended were,

  Do in my love obtain as large a share;