John Donne - Delphi Poets Series (22 page)

For though to us it seem, and be light and thin,

Yet in those faithful scales, where God throws in

Men's works, vanity weighs as much as sin.

If our souls have stained their first white, yet we

May clothe them with faith, and dear honesty,

Which God imputes, as native purity.

There is no virtue, but religion:

Wise, valiant, sober, just, are names, which none

Want, which want not vice-covering discretion.

Seek we then ourselves in ourselves; for as

Men force the sun with much more force to pass,

By gathering his beams with a crystal glass;

So we, if we into ourselves will turn,

Blowing our sparks of virtue, may outburn

The straw, which doth about our hearts sojourn.

You know, physicians, when they would infuse

Into any oil, the soul of simples, use

Places, where they may lie still warm, to choose.

So works retiredness in us; to roam

Giddily, and be everywhere, but at home,

Such freedom doth a banishment become.

We are but farmers of our selves, yet may,

If we can stock our selves, and thrive, uplay

Much, much dear treasure for the great rent day.

Manure thy self then, to thy self be approved,

And with vain outward things be no more moved,

But to know, that I love thee and would be loved.

To Mr T. W.

All hail, sweet poet, more full of more strong fire,

Than hath or shall enkindle any spirit,

I loved what nature gave thee, but this merit

Of wit and art I love not but admire;

Who have before or shall write after thee,

Their works, though toughly laboured, will be

Like infancy or age to man's firm stay,

Or early and late twilights to midday.

Men say, and truly, that they better be

Which be envied than pitied: therefore I,

Because I wish thee best, do thee envy:

O wouldst thou, by like reason, pity me,

But care not for me, I, that ever was

In Nature's, and in Fortune's gifts, (alas,

Before thy grace got in the Muses' school)

A monster and a beggar, am now a fool.

Oh how I grieve, that late born modesty

Hath got such root in easy waxen hearts,

That men may not themselves, their own good parts

Extol, without suspect of surquedry,

For, but thyself, no subject can be found

Worthy thy quill, nor any quill resound

Thy worth but thine; how good it were to see

A poem in thy praise, and writ by thee.

Now if this song be too harsh for rhyme, yet, as

The painters' bad god made a good devil,

'Twill be good prose, although the verse be evil,

If thou forget the rhyme as thou dost pass.

Then write, that I may follow, and so be

Thy debtor, thy echo, thy foil, thy zany.

I shall be thought, if mine like thine I shape,

All the world's lion, though I be thy ape.

To Mr T. W.

At once, from hence, my lines and I depart,

I to my soft still walks, they to my heart;

I to the nurse, they to the child of art;

Yet as a firm house, though the carpenter

Perish, doth stand: as an ambassador

Lies safe, howe'er his king be in danger:

So, though I languish, pressed with melancholy,

My verse, the strict map of my misery,

Shall live to see that, for whose want I die.

Therefore I envy them, and do repent,

That from unhappy me, things happy are sent;

Yet as a picture, or bare sacrament,

Accept these lines, and if in them there be

Merit of love, bestow that love on me.

To Mr T. W.

Haste thee harsh verse as fast as thy lame measure

Will give thee leave, to him, my pain and pleasure.

I have given thee, and yet thou art too weak,

Feet, and a reasoning soul and tongue to speak.

Plead for me, and so by thine and my labour,

I am thy Creator, thou my Saviour.

Tell him, all questions, which men have defended

Both of the place and pains of hell, are ended;

And 'tis decreed our hell is but privation

Of him, at least in this earth's habitation:

And 'tis where I am, where in every street

Infections follow, overtake, and meet:

Live I or die, by you my love is sent,

And you'are my pawns, or else my testament.

To Mr T. W.

Pregnant again with th' old twins hope, and fear,

Oft have I asked for thee, both how and where

Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were;

As in the streets sly beggars narrowly

Watch motions of the giver's hand and eye,

And evermore conceive some hope thereby.

And now thy alms is given, thy letter is read,

The body risen again, the which was dead,

And thy poor starveling bountifully fed.

After this banquet my soul doth say grace,

And praise thee for it, and zealously embrace

Thy love, though I think thy love in this case

To be as gluttons, which say 'midst their meat,

They love that best of which they most do eat.

To Sir Henry Goodyer

Who makes the past, a pattern for next year,

Turns no new leaf, but still the same things reads,

Seen things, he sees again, heard things doth hear,

And makes his life but like a pair of beads.

A palace, when 'tis that, which it should be,

Leaves growing, and stands such, or else decays:

But he, which dwells there, is not so; for he

Strives to urge upward, and his fortune raise;

So had your body her morning, hath her noon,

And shall not better; her next change is night:

But her fair larger guest, to whom sun and moon

Are sparks, and short-lived, claims another right.

The noble soul by age grows lustier,

Her appetite and her digestion mend,

We must not starve, nor hope to pamper her

With women's milk, and pap unto the end.

Provide you manlier diet; you have seen

All libraries, which are schools, camps, and courts;

But ask your garners if you have not been

In harvests, too indulgent to your sports.

Would you redeem it? then yourself transplant

A while from hence. Perchance outlandish ground

Bears no more wit, than ours, but yet more scant

Are those diversions there, which here abound.

To be a stranger hath that benefit,

We can beginnings, but not habits choke.

Go; whither? Hence; you get, if you forget;

New faults, till they prescribe in us, are smoke.

Our soul, whose country's heaven, and God her father,

Into this world, corruption's sink, is sent,

Yet, so much in her travail she doth gather,

That she returns home, wiser than she went;

It pays you well, if it teach you to spare,

And make you ashamed, to make your hawk's praise yours,

Which when herself she lessens in the air,

You then first say, that high enough she towers.

However, keep the lively taste you hold

Of God, love him as now, but fear him more,

And in your afternoons think what you told

And promised him, at morning prayer before.

Let falsehood like a discord anger you,

Else be not froward. But why do I touch

Things, of which none is in your practice new,

And fables, or fruit-trenchers teach as much;

But thus I make you keep your promise Sir,

Riding I had you, though you still stayed there,

And in these thoughts, although you never stir,

You came with me to Mitcham, and are here.

A Letter Written by Sir H. G. and J. D. alternis vicibus

Since every tree begins to blossom now

Perfuming and enamelling each bough,

Hearts should as well as they, some fruits allow.

For since one old poor sun serves all the rest,

You several suns that warm, and light each breast

Do by that influence all your thoughts digest.

And that you two may so your virtues move,

On better matter than beams from above,

Thus our twin'd souls send forth these buds of love.

As in devotions men join both their hands,

We make ours do one act, to seal the bands,

By which we enthral ourselves to your commands.

And each for other's faith and zeal stand bound;

As safe as spirits are from any wound,

So free from impure thoughts they shall be found.

Admit our magic then by which we do

Make you appear to us, and us to you,

Supplying all the Muses in you two.

We do consider no flower that is sweet,

But we your breath in that exhaling meet,

And as true types of you, them humbly greet.

Here in our nightingales, we hear you sing,

Who so do make the whole year through a spring,

And save us from the fear of autumn's sting.

In Anker's calm face we your smoothness see,

Your minds unmingled, and as clear as she

That keeps untouched her first virginity.

Did all St Edith' Nuns descend again

To honour Polesworth with their cloistered train,

Compared with you each would confess some stain.

Or should we more bleed out our thoughts in ink,

No paper (though it would be glad to drink

Those drops) could comprehend what we do think.

For 'twere in us ambition to write

So, that because we two, you two unite,

Our letter should as you, be infinite.

To Sir Henry Wotton

Here's no more news, than virtue, I may as well

Tell you Cadiz' or Saint Michael's tale for news, as tell

That vice doth here habitually dwell.

Yet, as to get stomachs, we walk up and down,

And toil to sweeten rest, so, may God frown,

If, but to loathe both, I haunt Court, or Town.

For here no one is from th' extremity

Of vice, by any other reason free,

But that the next to him, still, is worse than he.

In this world's warfare, they whom rugged Fate,

(God's commissary,) doth so throughly hate,

As in the Court's squadron to marshal their state

If they stand armed with silly honesty,

With wishing prayers, and neat integrity,

Like Indian 'gainst Spanish hosts they be.

Suspicious boldness to this place belongs,

And to have as many ears as all have tongues;

Tender to know, tough to acknowledge wrongs.

Believe me Sir, in my youth's giddiest days,

When to be like the Court, was a play's praise,

Plays were not so like Courts, as Courts are like plays.

Then let us at these mimic antics jest,

Whose deepest projects, and egregious gests

Are but dull morals of a game at chests.

But now 'tis incongruity to smile,

Therefore I end; and bid farewell a while,

At Court,
though from Court, were the better style.

To Sir Henry Wotton

Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;

For, thus friends absent speak. This ease controls

The tediousness of my life: but for these

I could ideate nothing, which could please,

But I should wither in one day, and pass

To a bottle of hay, that am a lock of grass.

Life is a voyage, and in our life's ways

Countries, courts, towns are rocks, or remoras;

They break or stop all ships, yet our state's such,

That though than pitch they stain worse, we must touch.

If in the furnace of the even line,

Or under th' adverse icy poles thou pine,

Thou know'st two temperate regions girded in,

Dwell there: But Oh, what refuge canst thou win

Parched in the Court, and in the country frozen?

Shall cities, built of both extremes, be chosen?

Can dung and garlic be a perfume? or can

A scorpion and torpedo cure a man?

Cities are worst of all three; of all three

(O knotty riddle) each is worst equally.

Cities are sepulchres; they who dwell there

Are carcases, as if no such there were.

And Courts are theatres, where some men play

Princes, some slaves, all to one end, and of one clay.

The country is a desert, where no good,

Gained (as habits, not born,) is understood.

There men become beasts, and prone to more evils;

In cities blocks, and in a lewd Court, devils.

As in the first Chaos confusedly

Each element's qualities were in the other three;

So pride, lust, covetize, being several

To these three places, yet all are in all,

And mingled thus, their issue incestuous.

Falsehood is denizened. Virtue is barbarous.

Let no man say there, »Virtue's flinty wall

Shall lock vice in me, I'll do none, but know all.«

Men are sponges, which to pour out, receive,

Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive.

For in best understandings, sin began,

Angels sinned first, then devils, and then man.

Only perchance beasts sin not; wretched we

Are beasts in all, but white integrity.

I think if men, which in these places live

Durst look for themselves, and themselves retrieve,

They would like strangers greet themselves, seeing then

Utopian youth, grown old Italian.