John Donne - Delphi Poets Series (18 page)

SATYRE V

THOU SHALT NOT LAUGH IN THIS LEAFE, MUSE, NOR THEY

Thou shalt not laugh in this leafe, Muse, nor they
Whom any pity warmes; He which did lay
Rules to make Courtiers, (hee being understood
May make good Courtiers, but who Courtiers good?)
Frees from the sting of jests all who’in extreme
Are wrech’d or wicked: of these two a theame
Charity and liberty give me. What is hee
Who Officers rage, and Suiters misery 
Can write, and jest? If all things be in all,
As I thinke, since all, which were, are, and shall
Bee, be made of the same elements:
Each thing, each thing implyes or represents.
Then man is a world; in which, Officers
Are the vast ravishing seas; and Suiters,
Springs; now full, now shallow, now drye; which, to
That which drownes them, run: These selfe reasons do
Prove the world a man, in which, officers
Are the devouring stomacke, and Suiters
Th’excrements, which they voyd. All men are dust;
How much worse are Suiters, who to mens lust
Are made preyes? O worse then dust, or wormes meat,
For they do’eate you now, whose selves wormes shall eate.
They are the mills which grinde you, yet you are
The winde which drives them; and a wastfull warre
Is fought against you, and you fight it; they
Adulterate lawe, and you prepare their way
Like wittals; th’issue your owne ruine is.
Greatest and fairest Empresse, know you this?
Alas, no more then Thames calme head doth know
Whose meades her armes drowne, or whose corne o’rflow:
You Sir, whose righteousnes she loves, whom I
By having leave to serve, am most richly
For service paid, authoriz’d, now beginne
To know and weed out this enormous sinne.
O Age of rusty iron! some better wit
Call it some worse name, if ought equall it;
Th’iron Age
that
was, when justice was sold; now
Injustice is sold dearer farre. Allow
All demands, fees, and duties; gamsters, anon
The mony which you sweat, and sweare for, is gon
Into’other hands: So controverted lands
Scape, like Angelica, the strivers hands.
If Law be in the Judges heart, and hee
Have no heart to resist letter, or fee,
Where wilt thou’appeale? Powre of the Courts below
Flow from the first maine head, and these can throw
Thee, if they sucke thee in, to misery,
To fetters, halters; But if th’injury
Steele thee to dare complaine, Alas, thou go’st
Against the stream, when upwards: when thou’art most 
Heavy’and most faint; and in these labours they,
‘Gainst whom thou should’st complaine, will in the way
Become great seas, o’r which, when thou shalt bee
Forc’d to make golden bridges, thou shalt see
That all thy gold was drown’d in them before;
All things follow their like, only who have may’have more.
Judges are Gods; he who made and said them so,
Meant not that men should be forc’d to them to goe,
By meanes of Angels; When supplications
We send to God, to Dominations,
Powers, Cherubins, and all heavens Courts, if wee
Should pay fees as here, daily bread would be
Scarce to Kings; so ‘tis. Would it not anger
A Stoicke, a coward, yea a Martyr,
To see a Pursivant come in, and call
All his cloathes, Copes; Bookes, Primers; and all
His Plate, Challices; and mistake them away,
And aske a fee for comming? Oh, ne’r may
Faire lawes white reverend name be strumpeted,
To warrant thefts: she is established
Recorder to Destiny, on earth, and shee
Speakes Fates words, and but tells us who must bee
Rich, who poore, who in chaires, who in jayles:
Shee is all faire, but yet hath foule long nailes,
With which she scracheth Suiters; In bodies
Of men, so’in law, nailes are th’extremities,
So Officers stretch to more then Law can doe,
As our nailes reach what no else part comes to.
Why bar’st thou to yon Officer? Foole, Hath hee
Got those goods, for which erst men bar’d to thee?
Foole, twice, thrice, thou’hast bought wrong,’and now hungerly
Beg’st right; But that dole comes not till these dye.
Thou’had’st much, and lawes Urim and Thummim trie
Thou wouldst for more; and for all hast paper
Enough to cloath all the great Carricks Pepper.
Sell that, and by that thou much more shalt leese,
Then Haman, when he sold his Antiquities.

SATIRE VI.

MEN WRITE THAT LOVE AND REASON DISAGREE

MEN write that love and reason disagree,
But I ne’er saw ‘t express’d as ‘tis in thee.
Well, I may lead thee, God must make thee see,
But, thine eyes blind too, there’s no hope for thee.
Thou say’st she’s wise and witty, fair and free; 
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All these are reasons why she should scorn thee.
Thou dost protest thy love, and wouldst it show
By matching her as she would match her foe;
And wouldst persuade her to a worse offence,
Than that whereof thou didst accuse her wench. 
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Reason there’s none for thee, but thou mayst vex
Her with example. Say, for fear her sex
Shun her, she needs must change; I do not see
How reason e’er can bring that ‘must’ to thee.
Thou art a match a justice to rejoice, 
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Fit to be his, and not his daughter’s choice.
Urged 1 with his threats she’d scarcely stay with thee,
And wouldst thou have this to choose thee, being free?
Go, then, and punish some soon-gotten stuff;
For her dead husband this hath mourn’d enough, 
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In hating thee. Thou mayst one like this meet;
For spite take her, prove kind, make thy breath sweet,
Let her see she hath cause, and, to bring to thee
Honest children, let her dishonest be.
If she be a widow I’ll warrant her 
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She’ll thee before her first husband prefer,
And will wish thou hadst had her maidenhead,
She’ll love thee so! for then thou hadst been dead.
But thou such strong love and weak reasons hast,
Thou must thrive there, or ever live disgraced. 
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Yet pause awhile; and thou mayst live to see
A time to come, wherein she may beg thee.
If thou’lt not pause nor change, she’ll beg thee now,
Do what she can, love for nothing she’ll allow.
Besides, here were too much gain and merchandise, 
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And when thou art rewarded, desert dies.
Now thou hast odds of him she loves; he may doubt
Her constancy, but none can put thee out.
Again, be thy love true, she’ll prove divine,
And in the end the good on’t will be thine. 
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For, though thou must ne’er think of other love,
And so wilt advance her as high above
Virtue, as cause above effect can be;
‘Tis virtue to be chaste, which she’ll make thee.
 

SATIRE VII.

TO SIR NICHOLAS SMYTH

SLEEP, next society and true friendship,
Man’s best contentment, doth securely slip
His passions, and the world’s troubles; rock me,
O sleep, wean’d from my 1 dear friend’s company,
In a cradle free from dreams or thoughts, there 
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Where poor men lie, for kings asleep do fear.
Here sleep’s house by famous Ariosto,
By silver-tongued Ovid, and many moe
 — Perhaps by golden-mouthed Spenser too, pardie —
Which builded was some dozen stories high, 
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I had repair’d, but that it was so rotten,
As sleep awaked by rats from thence was gotten;
And I will build no new, for by my will
Thy father’s house shall be the fairest still
In Exeter. Yet, methinks, for all their wit, 
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Those wits that say nothing, best describe it.
Without it there is no sense; only in this
Sleep is unlike a long parenthesis.
Not to save charges, but would I had slept
The time I spent in London, when I kept 
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Fighting and untruss’d gallants’ company,
In which Natta, the new knight, seized on me,
And offered me th’ experience he had bought
With great expense. I found him thoroughly taught
In curing burns. His thing had had more scars 
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Than T —  — himself; like Epps it often wars,
And still is hurt. For his body and state
The physic and counsel — which came too late
‘Gainst whores and dice — he now on me bestows;
Most superficially he speaks of those. 
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I found by him, least sound, him who most knows.
He swears well, speaks ill, but best of clothes,
What fits summer, what winter, what the spring.
He had living, but now these ways come in
His whole revenues. Where his whore now dwells, 
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And hath dwelt, since his father’s death, he tells.
Yea, he tells most cunningly each hid cause
Why whores forsake their bawds. To these, some laws
He knows of the duel, and touch his skill 2
The least jot in that or these, he quarrel will, 
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Though sober, but ne’er fought. I know
What made his valour undubb’d windmill go,
Within a pint at most; yet for all this
 — Which is most strange — Natta thinks no man is
More honest than himself. Thus men may want 
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Conscience, whilst being brought up ignorant,
They use themselves to vice. And besides those
Illiberal arts forenamed, no vicar knows
Nor other captain less than he; his schools
Are ordinaries, where civil men seem fools, 
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Or are for being there; his best books, plays,
Where, meeting godly scenes, perhaps he prays.
His first set prayer was for his father, ill 3
And sick — that he might die; that had, until
The lands were gone he troubled God no more, 
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And then ask’d him but his right — that the whore
Whom he had kept, might now keep him; she spent,
They left each other on even terms; she went
To Bridewell, he unto the wars, where want
Hath made him valiant, and a lieutenant 
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He is become; where, as they pass apace,
He steps aside, and for his captain’s place
He prays again — tells God he will confess
His sins; swear, drink, dice, and whore thenceforth less,
On this condition, that his captain die 
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And he succeed; but his prayer did not. They
Both cashier’d came home, and he is braver now
Than his captain; all men wonder, few know how;
Can he rob? ‘No.’ Cheat? ‘No.’ Or doth he spend
His own? ‘No; Fidus, he is thy dear friend; 
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That keeps him up.’ I would thou wert thine own,
Or hadst as good a friend as thou art one.
No present want, nor future hope made me
Desire, as once I did, thy friend to be;
But he had cruelly possess’d thee then, 
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And as our neighbours, the Low-Country men,
Being — whilst they were loyal, with tyranny
Oppress’d — broke loose, have since refused to be
Subject to good kings, I found even so,
Wert thou well rid of him, thou’dst have no moe. 
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Couldst thou but choose, as well as love, to none
Thou shouldst be second. Turtle and Damon
Should give thee place in songs, and lovers sick
Should make thee only love’s hieroglyphic.
Thy impress should be the loving elm and vine, 
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Where now an ancient oak with ivy twine.
Destroy’d thy symbol is! O dire mischance!
And O vile verse! And yet our Abraham Fraunce
Writes thus, and jests not. Good Fidus for this
Must pardon me; satires bite when they kiss. 
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But as for Natta, we have since fallen out;
Here on his knees he pray’d; else we had fought.
And because God would not he should be winner,
Nor yet would have the death of such a sinner,
At his seeking our quarrel is deferr’d. 
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I’ll leave him at his prayers, and, as I heard,
His last; and, Fidus, you and I do know
I was his friend, and durst have been his foe,
And would be either yet; but he dares be
Neither yet; sleep blots him out and takes in thee. 
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The mind, you know, is like a table-book;
The old unwiped, new writing never took.
Hear how the ushers’ checks, cupboard and fire,
I pass’d — by which degrees young men aspire
In court. And how that idle and she state 
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 — When as my judgment cleared — my soul did hate;
How I found there — if that my trifling pen
Durst take so hard a task — kings were but men,
And by their place more noted, if they err;
How they and their lords unworthy men prefer; 
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And, as unthrifts, had rather give away
Great sums to flatterers, than small debts pay.
So they their greatness hide, and greatness show,
By giving them that which to worth they owe.
What treason is, and what did Essex kill, 
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Not true treason, but treason handled ill;
And which of them stood for their country’s good,
Or what might be the cause of so much blood;
He said she stunk; and men might not have said
That she was old before that she was dead. 
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His case was hard to do or suffer; loth
To do, he made it harder, and did both.
Too much preparing lost them all their lives;
Like some in plagues kill with preservatives.
Friends, like land soldiers in a storm at sea, 
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Not knowing what to do, for him did pray.
They told it all the world, where was their wit?
Cuffe’s putting on a sword might have told it.
And princes must fear favourites more than foes,
For still beyond revenge ambition goes. 
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How since her death with sumpter-horse that Scot
Hath rid, who, at his coming up, had not
  A sumpter-dog. But till that I can write
  Things worth thy tenth reading (dear Nick), good-night.

UPON MR. THOMAS CORYATS CRUDITIES

OH, to what height will love of greatness drive
Thy learned spirit, sesqui-superlative?
Venice’ vast lake thou’st seen, and wouldst seek then
Some vaster thing, and found’st a courtesan.
That inland sea having discover’d well, 
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A cellar-gulf, where one might sail to hell
From Heidelberg, thou longed’st to see; and thou
This book, greater than all, producest now.
Infinite work! which doth so far extend,
That none can study it to any end. 
10
‘Tis no one thing; it is not fruit nor root,
Nor poorly limited with head or foot.
If man be therefore man, because he can
Reason and laugh, thy book doth half make man.
One-half being made, thy modesty was such, 
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That thou on th’ other half wouldst never touch.
When wilt thou be at full, great lunatic?
Not till thou exceed the world? canst thou be like
A prosperous nose-born wen, which sometimes grows
To be far greater than the mother-nose? 
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Go then, and as to thee, when thou didst go,
Münster did towns, and Gesner authors show,
Mount now to Gallo-Belgicus; appear
As deep a statesman, as a gazetteer. 1
Homely and familiarly, when thou comest back, 
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Talk of Will Conqueror, and Prester Jack.
Go, bashful man, lest here thou blush to look
Upon the progress of thy glorious book,
To which both Indies sacrifices send.
The West sent gold, which thou didst freely spend, 
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Meaning to see ‘t no more, upon the press.
The East sends hither her deliciousness,
And thy leaves must embrace what comes from thence, 2
The myrrh, the pepper, and the frankincense.
This magnifies thy leaves; but if they stoop 
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To neighbour wares, when merchants do unhoop
Voluminous barrels; if thy leaves do then
Convey these wares in parcels unto men;
If for vast tons 3 of currants and of figs,
Of medicinal and aromatic twigs, 
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Thy leaves a better method do provide,
Divide to pounds, and ounces subdivide;
If they stoop lower yet, and vent our wares,
Home-manufactures, to thick popular fairs;
If omni-pregnant there upon warm stalls 
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They hatch all wares for which the buyer calls;
Then thus thy leaves we justly may commend,
That they all kind of matter comprehend.
Thus thou, by means which th’ ancients never took,
A Pandect makest, and universal book. 
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The bravest heroës, for public good,
Scattered in divers lands their limbs and blood;
Worst malefactors, to whom men are prize,
Do public good, cut in anatomies;
So will thy book in pieces for a lord, 
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Which casts at Portescue’s, and all the board
Provide whole books; each leaf enough will be
For friends to pass time, and keep company.
Can all carouse up thee? no, thou must fit
Measures and fill out for the half-pint wit. 
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Some shall wrap pills, and save a friend’s life so;
Some shall stop muskets, and so kill a foe.
Thou shalt not ease the critics of next age
So much, as once their hunger to assuage;
Nor shall wit-pirates hope to find thee lie 
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All in one bottom, in one library.
Some leaves may paste strings there in other books,
And so one may, which on another looks,
Pilfer, alas, a little wit from you;
But hardly much; and yet I think this true; 
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As Sibyl’s was, your book is mystical,
For every piece is as much worth as all.
Therefore mine impotency I confess;
The healths, which my brain bears, must be far less;
Thy giant wit o’erthrows me; I am gone; 
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And rather than read all, I would read none.