John Donne - Delphi Poets Series

by John Donne

  She hath yielded to too long an ecstasy.

  He which, not knowing her sad history,

  Should come to read the book of destiny,

  How fair, and chaste, humble and high she’d been,

  Much promised, much perform’d, at not fifteen,

  And measuring future things by things before,

  Should turn the leaf to read, and read no more,

  Would think that either destiny mistook,

  Or that some leaves were torn out of the book. 90

  But ‘tis not so ; fate did but usher her

  To years of reason’s use, and then infer

  Her destiny to herself, which liberty

  She took, but for thus much, thus much to die.

  Her modesty not suffering her to be

  Fellow-commissioner with destiny,

  She did no more but die ; if after her

  Any shall live, which dare true good prefer,

  Every such person is her delegate,

  To accomplish that which should have been her fate. 100

  They shall make up that book, and shall have thanks

  Of fate, and her, for filling up their blanks ;

  For future virtuous deeds are legacies,

  Which from the gift of her example rise ;

  And ‘tis in heaven part of spiritual mirth,

  To see how well the good play her, on earth.

  THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY.

  A N

  A N A T O M I E

  of the World.

  Wherein,

  B Y O C C A S I O N O F

  the vntimely death of Mistris

  E L I Z A B E T H D R V R Y,

  the frailtie and the decay of

  this whole World is

  represented.

  L O N D O N,

  T O T H E P R A I S E

  of the Dead, and the

  A N A T O M Y.

  WELL dy’de the World, that we might liue to see

  This World of wit, in his Anatomee:

  No euill wants his good: so wilder heyres;

  Bedew their Fathers Toombs, with forced teares,

  Whose state requites their losse: whiles thus we gaine

  Well may we walke in blacke, but not complaine.

  Yet how can I consent the world is dead

  While this Muse liues? which in his spirits stead

  Seemes to informe a world: and bids it bee,

  In spight of losse, or fraile mortalitee?

  And thou the subiect of this wel-borne thought,

  Thrise noble Maid; couldst not haue found nor sought

  A fitter time to yeeld to thy sad Fate,

  Then whiles this spirit liues; that can relate

  Thy worth so well to our last Nephews Eyne,

  That they shall wonder both at his, and thine:

  Admired match! where striues in mutuall grace

  The cunning Pencill, and the comely face:

  A taske, which thy faire goodnesse made too much

  For the bold pride of vulgar pens to tuch;

  Enough is vs to praise them that praise thee,

  And say that but enough those prayses bee,

  Which had’st thou liu’d, had hid their fearefull head

  From th’angry checkings of thy modestred:

  Death bars reward & shame: when enuy’s gone,

  And gaine; ‘tis safe to giue the dead their owne.

  As then the wise Egyptians wont to lay

  More on their Tombes, then houses: these of clay,

  But those of brasse, or marbele were; so wee

  Giue more vnto thy Ghost, then vnto thee.

  Yet what wee giue to thee, thou gauest to vs,

  And maiest but thanke thy selfe, for being thus:

  Yet what thou gau’st, and wert, O happy maid,

  Thy grace profest all due, were ‘tis repayd.

  So these high songs that to thee suited bine,

  Serue but to sound thy makers praise, in thine,

  Which thy deare soule as sweetly sings to him

  Amid the Quire of Saints and Seraphim,

  As any Angels tongue can sing of thee;

  The subiects differ, then the skill agree:

  For as by infant-yeares men iudge of age,

  Thy early loue, thy vertues, did presage

  What hie part thou bear’st in those best songs

  Whereto no burden, nor no end belongs.

  Sing on thou Virgin soule, whose losseful gaine

  Thy loue-sicke Parents haue bewail’d in vaine;

  Neuer may thy Name be in our songs forgot.

  Till we shall sing thy ditty, and thy note.

  The First Anniversary.

  A N

  A N A T O M Y

  of the World.

  When that rich soule which to her heauen is gone,

  Whom all doe celebrate, who know they haue one

  (For who is sure he hath a soule, vnlesse

  It see, and Iudge, and follow worthinesse,

  And by Deedes praise it; Hee who doth not this,

  May lodge an Inmate soule, but tis not his.)

  When that Queene ended here her progresse time.

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

  Where loath to make the Saints attend her long,

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

  This, world, in that great earthquake 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 goodnesse, to see her, whom all would see,

  All must endeauour to bee good as shee.)

  This great consumption to a feuer turn’d,

  And so the world had fits; it ioy’d, it mournd,

  And, as men thinke, that Agues Physicke are,

  And the Ague being spent, giue ouer 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 might’st haue 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 heauy then to heare thy voice of mone,

  But this is worse, that thou art speechlesse growne.

  Thou hast forgot thy name, thou hadst; thou wast

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

  For as a child kept from the Fount, vntill

  A Prince, expected long, come to fulfill

  The Cermonies, thou vnnam’d hadst laid,

  Had not her comming, thee her Palace made:

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

  And thou forget’st to celebrate thy name.

  Some moneths shee hath bene dead (but being dead,

  Measures of times are all determined)

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

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

  But as in states doubtfull of future heyres,

  When sicknesse without remedy, empayres

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

  The Prince doth languish, or the Prince is dead:

  So mankinde feeling now a generall thaw,

  A strong example gone equall to law.

  The Cyment which did faithfully compact

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

  Thought it was some blasphemy to say sh’ was dead;

  Or that our weakness was discouered

  In that confession; therefore spoke no more

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

  But though it be too late to succour thee,

  Sicke world, yea dead, yea putrifi
ed, since shee

  Thy’ntrinsique Balme, and thy preseruatiue,

  Can neuer be renew’d, thou neuer liue,

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

  What we may gaine by thy Anatomy.

  Her death hath taught vs 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 haue discouered.

  The worlds infirmities, since there is none

  Aliue to study this dissection;

  What life the world hath stil.

  For there’s a kind of world remaining still,

  Though shee which did inanimate and fill

  The world, begone, yet in this last long night,

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

  A faint weake loue of vertue and of good

  Reflects from her, on them which vnderstood

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

  The twi-light of her memory doth stay;

  Which, from the carkasse of the old world, free

  Creates a new world; and new creatures bee

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

  Her vertue, and the forme our practise is.

  And thought to be thus Elemented, arme

  These creatures, from hom-borne intrinsique harme,

  (For all assumed vnto this Dignitee,

  So many weedlesse Paradises bee,

  Which of themselues 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 sickenesse of the world

  Impossibility of health.

  The dangers and diseases of the old:

  For with due temper men doe then forgoe,

  Or couet things, when they their true worth know.

  There is no health; Phisitians say that we

  At best, enioy, but a neutralitee.

  And can there be worse sicknes, then to know

  That we are neuer well, nor can be so?

  We are borne ruinous: poore mothers cry,

  That children come not right, nor orderly:

  Except they headlong come and fall vpon

  An ominous precipitation.

  How witty’s ruine? how impotunate

  Vpon mankinde? It labour’d to frustrate

  Euen 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 vs all,

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

  We doe delightfully our selues allow

  To that consumption; and profusely blinde,

  We kill ourselues, 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 Sun, and man, did seeme to striue,

  Shortnesse of life.

  (Ioynt tenants of the world) who should suruiue.

  When Stag, and Rauen, and the long liu’d tree,

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

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

  From the obseruers marking, he might stay

  Two or three hundred yeeres to see’t againe,

  And then make vp his obseruation plaine;

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

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

  So spacious and large, that euery soule

  Did a faire Kingdome, and large Realme controule:

  And when the very stature thus erect,

  Did that soule a good way towards Heauen direct.

  Where is this mankind now? who liues to age,

  Fit to be made Methusalem his page?

  Alas, we scarse liue long enough to trie;

  Whether a true made clocke run right, or lie.

  Old Grandsires talke of yesterday with sorrow,

  And for our children we reserue to morrow.

  So short is life, that euery peasant striues,

  In a torne house, or field, to haue three liues,

  And as in lasting, so in length is man.

  Smalenesse of stature.

  Contracted to an inch, who was a span,

  For had a man at first, in Forrests stray’d,

  Or shipwrack’d in the Sea, one would haue laid

  A wager that an Elephant, or Whale

  That met him, would not hastily assaile

  A thing so equall to him: now alasse.

  The Fayries, and the Pigmies well may passe

  As credible; mankind decayes so soone,

  We’re scarse our Fathers shadowes cast at noone.

  Onely death addes t’our length: nor are we growne

  In stature to be men, till we are none.

  But this were light, did our lesse volumes hold

  All the old Text; or had we chang’d to gold

  Their siluer or dispos’d into lesse glas,

  Spirits of vertue, which then scattred was.

  But ‘tis not so: w’are not retir’d, but dampt?

  And as our bodies, so our minds are crampt:

  Tis shrinking, not close weaning that hath thus,

  In minde and body both be-dwarfed vs.

  We seeme ambitious, Gods whole worke t’vndoe;

  Of nothing he made vs, and we striue too,

  To bring our selues to nothing backe; and we

  Doe what we can, to do’t so soone as he.

  With new diseases on our selues we warre,

  And with new Physicke, a worse Engin farre.

  Thus man, this worlds Vice-Emperor, in whom

  All faculties, all graces are at home;

  And if in other creatures they appeare,

  They’re but mans Ministers, and Legats there,

  To worke on their rebellions, and reduce

  Them to Ciuility, and to mans vse.

  This man, whom God did woo, and loth t’attend

  Till man came vp, did downe to man descend,

  This man so great, that all that is, is his,

  Oh what a trifle, and poore thing he is?

  If man were any thing; he’s nothing now:

  Helpe, or at least some time to wast, allow

  T’his other wants, yet when he did depart

  With her whom we lament, he lost his heart.

  She, of whom th’Ancients seem’d to prophesie,

  When they call’d vertues by the name of shee,

  She in whom vertue was so much refin’d,

  That for Allay vnto so pure a minde

  She tooke the weaker Sex, she that could driue

  The poysonous tincture, and the stayne of Eue,

  Out of her thought, and deedes, and purifie

  All, by a true religious Alchemy;

  See, shee is dead; shee’s dead: when thou knowest this,

  Thou knowest how poore a trifling thing man is.

  And learn’st thus much by our Anatomee,

  The heart being perish’d, no part can be free.

  And that except thou feed (not banquet) on

  The supernaturall food, Religion.

  Thy better growth growes whithered, and scant;

  Be more than man, or thou’rt lesse then an Ant.

  Then, as mankinde, so is the worlds whole frame

  Quite out of ioynt, almost created lame:

  For, before God had made vp all the rest,

  Corruption entred, and deprau’d the best:

  It seis’d the Angels, and then first of all

  The world did in her Cradle take a fall,

/>   And turn’d her brains, and tooke a generall maime

  Wronging each ioynt of th’vniuersall frame.

  Decay of Nature in other parts.

  The noblest part, man, felt it first; and than

  Both beasts and plants, curst in the curse of man.

  So did the world from the first houre decay,

  That euening was beginning of the day,

  And now the Springs and Sommers which we see,

  Like sonnes of women after fifty bee.

  And new Philosophy cals all in doubt,

  The Element of fire is quite put out;

  The Sunne is lost, and th’earth, and no mans wit

  Can well direct him where to looke for it.

  And freely men confesse that this world’s spent,

  When in the Planets, and the Firmament

  They seeke so many new; they see that this

  Is crumbled out againe to his Atomis.

  ‘Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone;

  All iust supply, and all Relation:

  Prince, Subiect, Father, Sonne, are things forgot,

  For euery man alone thinkes he hath got

  To be a Phoenix, and that then can be

  None of that kinde, of which he is, but he.

  This is the worlds condition now, and now

  She that should all parts to reunion bow,

  She that had all Magnetique force alone,

  To draw, and fasten sundred parts in one;

  She whom wise nature had inuented then

  When she obseru’d that euery sort of men

  Did in their voyage in this worlds Sea stray,

  And needed a new compasse for their way;

  Shee that was best, and first originall

  Of all faire copies and the generall

  Steward to Fate; shee whose rich eyes, and brest:

  Guilt the West-Indies, and perfum’d the East;

  Whose hauing breath’d in this world, did bestow

  Spice on those Isles, and bad them still smell so,

  And that rich Indie which doth gold interre,

  Is but as single money, coyn’d from her:

  She to whom this world must it selfe refer,

  As Suburbs, or the Microcosme of her,

  Shee, shee is dead; shee’s dead: when thou knowest this,

  Thou knowst how lame a cripple this world is.

  And learnst thus much by our Anatomy,

  That this worlds generall sicknesse doth not lie

  In any humour, or one certaine part;

  But as thou sawest it rotten at the heart,

  Thou seest a Hectique feuer hath got hold

  Of the whole substance, not to be contrould.

  And that thou hast but one way, not t’admit

  The worlds infection, to be none of it.

  For the worlds subtill immaterial parts

  Feele this consuming wound, and ages darts.