John Donne - Delphi Poets Series (17 page)

SATYRE II

SIR; THOUGH (I THANKE GOD FOR IT) I DO HATE

Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this towne, yet there’s one state
In all ill things so excellently best,
That hate, towards them, breeds pitty towards the rest.
Though Poetry indeed be such a sinne
As I thinke that brings dearths, and Spaniards in,
Though like the Pestilence and old fashion’d love,
Ridlingly it catch men; and doth remove
Never, till it be sterv’d out; yet their state
Is poore, disarm’d, like Papists, not worth hate.
One,(like a wretch, which at Barre judg’d as dead,
Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot reade,
And saves his life)gives ideot actors meanes
(Starving himselfe)to live by’his labor’d sceanes;
As in some Organ, Puppits dance above
And bellows pant below, which them do move.
One would move Love by rimes; but witchcrafts charms
Bring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes:
Rammes, and slings now are seely battery,
Pistolets are the best Artillerie.
And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,
Are they not like singers at doores for meat?
And they who write, because all write, have still
That excuse for writing, and for writing ill.
But hee is worst, who (beggarly) doth chaw
Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw
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,
But 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,
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 venom’d Leachers doe 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 crown?’ 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 hast, then one
Who feares more actions, doth make 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 th’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?
No, no, Thou which since yesterday hast beene
Almost about the whole world, hast thou seene,
O Sunne, in all thy journey, Vanitie,
Such as swells the bladder of our court? I
Thinke he which made your waxen garden, and
Transported it from Italy to stand
With us, at London, flouts our Presence, for
Just such gay painted things, which no sappe, nor
Tast have in them, ours are; And naturall
Some of the stocks are, their fruits, bastard all.
‘Tis ten a clock and past; All whom the Mues,
Baloune, Tennis, Dyet, or the stewes,
Had all the morning held, now the second
Time made ready, that day, in flocks, are found
In the Presence, and I, (God pardon mee.)
As fresh, and sweet their Apparrells be, as bee
The fields they sold to buy them;’For a King
Those hose are,’cry the flatterers; And bring
Them next weeke to the Theatre to sell;
Wants reach all states; Me seemes they doe as well
At stage, as court; All are players; who e’r lookes
(For themselves dare not goe) o’r Cheapside books,
Shall finde their wardrops Inventory. Now,
The Ladies come; As Pirats, which doe know
That there came weak ships fraught with Cutchannel,
The men board them; and praise, as they thinke, well,
Their beauties; they the mens wits; Both are bought.
Why good wits ne’r weare scarlet gownes, I thought
This cause, These men, mens wits for speeches buy,
And women buy all reds which scarlets die.
He call’d her beauty limetwigs, her haire net;
She feares her drugs ill laid, her haire loose set.
Would not Heraclitus laugh to see Macrine,
From hat, to shooe, himselfe at doore refine,
As if the Presence were a Moschite,’and lift
His skirts and hose, and call his clothes to shrift,
Making them confesse not only mortall
Great staines and holes in them; but veniall
Feathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate;
And then by Durers rules survay the state
Of his each limbe, and with strings the odds tries
Of his neck to his legge, and wast to thighes.
So in immaculate clothes, and Symetrie
Perfect as circles, with such nicetie
As a young Preacher at his first time goes
To preach, he enters, and a Lady which owes
Him not so much as good will, he arrests,
And unto her protests protests protests
So much as at Rome would serve to have throwne
Ten Cardinalls into th’Inquisition;
And whisperd ‘by Jesu’,so’often,that A
Pursevant would have ravish’d him away
For saying of our Ladies psalter; But ‘tis fit
That they each other plague, they merit it.
But here comes Glorius that will plague them both,
Who, in the other extreme, only doth
Call a rough carelessnesse, good fashion;
Whose cloak his spurres teare; whom he spits on
He cares not; His ill words doe no harme
To him; he rusheth in, as if ‘Arme, arme,’
He meant to crie; And though his face be’as ill
As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, yet still
He strives to looke worse, he keepes all in awe;
Jeasts like a licenc’d foole, commands like law.
Tyr’d, now I leave this place, and but pleas’d so
As men which from gaoles to’execution goe,
Goe through the great chamber (why is it hung
With the seaven deadly sinnes?); Being among
Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing Crosse for a barre, men that doe know
No token of worth, but ‘Queenes man’, and fine
Living, barrells of beefe, flaggons of wine;
I shooke like a spyed Spie. Preachers which are
Seas of Wit and Arts, you can, then dare,
Drowne the sinnes of this place, for, for mee
Which am but a scarce brooke, it enough shall bee
To wash the staines away; Though I yet
With Macchabees modestie, the knowne merit
Of my worke lessen: yet some wise man shall,
I hope, esteeme my writs Canonicall.