John Donne - Delphi Poets Series

by John Donne

  Rankly digested, doth those things out-spue,

  As his owne things; ‘and they are his owne, ‘tis true,

  For if one eate my meate, though it be knowne

  The meate was mine, th’excrement is his owne.

  But these do mee no harme, nor they which use

  To out-doe Dildoes, and out-usure Jewes;

  To’out-drinke the sea, to’out-sweare the Letanie;

  Who with sinnes all kindes as familiar bee

  As Confessors; and for whose sinfull sake

  Schoolemen new tenements in hell must make:

  Whose strange sinnes, Canonists could hardly tell

  In which Commandements large receit they dwell.

  But these punish themselves; the insolence

  Of Coscus onely breeds my just offence,

  Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches poxe,

  And plodding on, must make a calfe an oxe)

  Hath made a Lawyer, which was (alas) of late

  But a scarce Poet; jollier of this state,

  Then are new benefic’d ministers, he throwes

  Like nets, or lime-twigs, wheresoere he goes,

  His title’of Barrister, on every wench,

  And wooes in language of the Pleas, and Bench:

  ‘A motion, Lady.’ ‘Speake Coscus.’ ‘I’have beene

  In love, ever since tricesimo’ of the Queene,

  Continuall claimes I’have made, injunctions got

  To stay my rivals suit, that hee should not

  Proceed.’ ‘Spare mee.’ ‘In Hillary terme I went,

  You said, If I returne next size in Lent,

  I should be in remitter of your grace;

  In th’interim my letters should take place

  Of affidavits--’: words, words, which would teare

  The tender labyrinth of a soft maids eare,

  More, more, then ten Sclavonians scolding, more

  Then when winds in our ruin’d Abbeyes rore.

  When sicke with Poetrie,’and possest with muse

  Thou wast, and mad, I hop’d; but men which chuse

  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 favorite, yea like a King;

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

  Bearing like Asses, and more shameless 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 our 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 parchments 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 Commenter 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 heretofore

  Those bought lands? not built, not 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.

  SATIRE III

  KIND PITY CHOKES MY SPLEEN; BRAVE SCORN FORBIDS

  Kind pity chokes my spleen; brave scorn forbids

  Those tears to issue which swell my eyelids;

  I must not laugh, nor weep sins and be wise;

  Can railing, then, cure these worn maladies?

  Is not our mistress, fair Religion,

  As worthy of all our souls’ devotion

  As virtue was in the first blinded age?

  Are not heaven’s joys as valiant to assuage

  Lusts, as earth’s honour was to them? Alas,

  As we do them in means, shall they surpass

  Us in the end? and shall thy father’s spirit

  Meet blind philosophers in heaven, whose merit

  Of strict life may be imputed faith, and hear

  Thee, whom he taught so easy ways and near

  To follow, damn’d? Oh, if thou dar’st, fear this;

  This fear great courage and high valour is.

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

  Thee in ships’ wooden sepulchres, a prey

  To leaders’ rage, to storms, to shot, to dearth?

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

  Hast thou courageous fire to thaw the ice

  Of frozen North discoveries? and thrice

  Colder than salamanders, like divine

  Children in th’ oven, fires of Spain and the Line,

  Whose countries limbecs to our bodies be,

  Canst thou for gain bear? and must every he

  Which cries not, “Goddess,” to thy mistress, draw

  Or eat thy poisonous words? Courage of straw!

  O desperate coward, wilt thou seem bold, and

  To thy foes and his, who made thee to stand

  Sentinel in his world’s garrison, thus yield,

  And for forbidden wars leave th’ appointed field?

  Know thy foes: the foul devil, whom thou

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

  Thee fain his whole realm to be quit; and as

  The world’s all parts wither away and pass,

  So the world’s self, thy other lov’d foe, is

  In her decrepit wane, and thou loving this,

  Dost love a wither’d and worn strumpet; last,

  Flesh (itself’s death) and joys which flesh can taste,

  Thou lovest, and thy fair goodly soul, which doth

  Give this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loathe.

  Seek true religion. O where? Mirreus,

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

  Seeks her at Rome; there, because he doth know

  That she was there a thousand years ago,

  He loves her rags so, as we here obey

  The statecloth where the prince sate yesterday.

  Crantz to such brave loves will not be enthrall’d,

  B
ut loves her only, who at Geneva is call’d

  Religion, plain, simple, sullen, young,

  Contemptuous, yet unhandsome; as among

  Lecherous humours, there is one that judges

  No wenches wholesome, but coarse country drudges.

  Graius stays still at home here, and because

  Some preachers, vile ambitious bawds, and laws,

  Still new like fashions, bid him think that she

  Which dwells with us is only perfect, he

  Embraceth her whom his godfathers will

  Tender to him, being tender, as wards still

  Take such wives as their guardians offer, or

  Pay values. Careless Phrygius doth abhor

  All, because all cannot be good, as one

  Knowing some women whores, dares marry none.

  Graccus loves all as one, and thinks that so

  As women do in divers countries go

  In divers habits, yet are still one kind,

  So doth, so is Religion; and this blind-

  ness too much light breeds; but unmoved, thou

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

  And the right; ask thy father which is she,

  Let him ask his; though truth and falsehood be

  Near twins, yet truth a little elder is;

  Be busy to seek her; believe me this,

  He’s not of none, nor worst, that seeks the best.

  To adore, or scorn an image, or protest,

  May all be bad; doubt wisely; in strange way

  To stand inquiring right, is not to stray;

  To sleep, or run wrong, is. On a huge hill,

  Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and he that will

  Reach her, about must and about must go,

  And what the hill’s suddenness resists, win so.

  Yet strive so that before age, death’s twilight,

  Thy soul rest, for none can work in that night.

  To will implies delay, therefore now do;

  Hard deeds, the body’s pains; hard knowledge too

  The mind’s endeavours reach, and mysteries

  Are like the sun, dazzling, yet plain to all eyes.

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

  In so ill case, that God hath with his hand

  Sign’d kings’ blank charters to kill whom they hate;

  Nor are they vicars, but hangmen to fate.

  Fool and wretch, wilt thou let thy soul be tied

  To man’s laws, by which she shall not be tried

  At the last day? Oh, 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 idolatry.

  As streams are, power is; those blest flowers that dwell

  At the rough stream’s calm head, thrive and do well,

  But having left their roots, and themselves given

  To the stream’s tyrannous rage, alas, are driven

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

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

  So perish souls, which more choose men’s unjust

  Power from God claim’d, than God himself to trust.

  SATYRE IV

  WELL; I MAY NOW RECEIVE, AND DIE; MY SINN

  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 to,’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 suffer’d 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 th’examining Justice sure would cry,

  ‘Sir, by your priesthood tell me what you are.’

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

  Sleevelesse 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 know’th 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 nam’d; 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 prais’d 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 tast

  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 stretcht 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 me 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,