The Poems of John Donne, Volume 1 (of 2) / Edited from the Old Editions and Numerous Manuscripts

NATURES lay Ideot, I taught thee to love,

And in that sophistrie, Oh, thou dost prove

Too subtile: Foole, thou didst not understand

The mystique language of the eye nor hand:

  5Nor couldst thou judge the difference of the aire

Of sighes, and say, this lies, this sounds despaire:

Nor by the'eyes water call a maladie

Desperately hot, or changing feaverously.

I had not taught thee then, the Alphabet

10Of flowers, how they devisefully being set

And bound up, might with speechlesse secrecie

Deliver arrands mutely, and mutually.

Remember since all thy words us'd to bee

To every suitor; I, if my friends agree;

15Since, household charmes, thy husbands name to teach,

Were all the love trickes, that thy wit could reach;

And since, an houres discourse could scarce have made

One answer in thee, and that ill arraid

In broken proverbs, and torne sentences.

20Thou art not by so many duties his,

That from the worlds Common having sever'd thee,

Inlaid thee, neither to be seene, nor see,

As mine: who have with amorous delicacies

Refin'd thee'into a blis-full Paradise.

25Thy graces and good words my creatures bee;

I planted knowledge and lifes tree in thee,

Which Oh, shall strangers taste? Must I alas

Frame and enamell Plate, and drinke in Glasse?

Chafe waxe for others seales? breake a colts force

30And leave him then, beeing made a ready horse?

A S the sweet sweat of Roses in a Still,

 As that which from chaf'd muskats pores doth trill,

As the Almighty Balme of th'early East,

Such are the sweat drops of my Mistris breast,

  5And on her 〈brow〉 her skin such lustre sets,

They seeme no sweat drops, but pearle coronets.

Ranke sweaty froth thy Mistresse's brow defiles,

Like spermatique issue of ripe menstruous boiles,

Or like the skumme, which, by needs lawlesse law

10Enforc'd, Sanserra's starved men did draw

From parboild shooes, and bootes, and all the rest

Which were with any soveraigne fatnes blest,

And like vile lying stones in saffrond tinne,

Or warts, or wheales, they hang upon her skinne.

15Round as the world's her head, on every side,

Like to the fatall Ball which fell on Ide,

Or that whereof God had such jealousie,

As, for the ravishing thereof we die.

Thy head is like a rough-hewne statue of jeat,

20Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarce set;

Like the first Chaos, or flat seeming face

Of Cynthia, when th'earths shadowes her embrace.

Like Proserpines white beauty-keeping chest,

Or Joues best fortunes urne, is her faire brest.

25Thine's like worme eaten trunkes, cloth'd in seals skin,

Or grave, that's dust without, and stinke within.

And like that slender stalke, at whose end stands

The wood-bine quivering, are her armes and hands.

Like rough bark'd elmboughes, or the russet skin

30Of men late scurg'd for madnes, or for sinne,

Like Sun-parch'd quarters on the citie gate,

Such is thy tann'd skins lamentable state.

And like a bunch of ragged carrets stand

The short swolne fingers of thy gouty hand.

35Then like the Chymicks masculine equall fire,

Which in the Lymbecks warme wombe doth inspire

Into th'earths worthlesse durt a soule of gold,

Such cherishing heat her best lov'd part doth hold.

Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gunne,

40Or like hot liquid metalls newly runne

Into clay moulds, or like to that Ætna

Where round about the grasse is burnt away.

Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more,

As a worme sucking an invenom'd sore?

45Doth not thy fearefull hand in feeling quake,

As one which gath'ring flowers, still feares a snake?

Is not your last act harsh, and violent,

As when a Plough a stony ground doth rent?

So kisse good Turtles, so devoutly nice

50Are Priests in handling reverent sacrifice,

And such in searching wounds the Surgeon is

As wee, when wee embrace, or touch, or kisse.

Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus,

She, and comparisons are odious.

NO Spring, nor Summer Beauty hath such grace,

As I have seen in one Autumnall face.

Yong Beauties force our love, and that's a Rape,

This doth but counsaile, yet you cannot scape.

  5If t'were a shame to love, here t'were no shame,

Affection here takes Reverences name.

Were her first yeares the Golden Age; That's true,

But now shee's gold oft tried, and ever new.

That was her torrid and inflaming time,

10This is her tolerable Tropique clyme.

Faire eyes, who askes more heate then comes from hence,

He in a fever wishes pestilence.

Call not these wrinkles, graves; If graves they were,

They were Loves graves; for else he is no where.

15Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit

Vow'd to this trench, like an Anachorit.

And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,

He doth not digge a Grave, but build a Tombe.

Here dwells he, though he sojourne ev'ry where,

20In Progresse, yet his standing house is here.

Here, where still Evening is; not noone, nor night;

Where no voluptuousnesse, yet all delight.

In all her words, unto all hearers fit,

You may at Revels, you at Counsaile, sit.

25This is loves timber, youth his under-wood;

There he, as wine in Iune, enrages blood,

Which then comes seasonabliest, when our tast

And appetite to other things, is past.

Xerxes strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,

30Was lov'd for age, none being so large as shee,

Or else because, being yong, nature did blesse

Her youth with ages glory, Barrennesse.

If we love things long sought, Age is a thing

Which we are fifty yeares in compassing.

35If transitory things, which soone decay,

Age must be lovelyest at the latest day.

But name not Winter-faces, whose skin's slacke;

Lanke, as an unthrifts purse; but a soules sacke;

Whose Eyes seeke light within, for all here's shade;

40Whose mouthes are holes, rather worne out, then made;

Whose every tooth to a severall place is gone,

To vexe their soules at Resurrection;

Name not these living Deaths-heads unto mee,

For these, not Ancient, but Antique be.

45I hate extreames; yet I had rather stay

With Tombs, then Cradles, to weare out a day.

Since such loves naturall lation is, may still

My love descend, and journey downe the hill,

Not panting after growing beauties, so,

50I shall ebbe out with them, who home-ward goe.

IMAGE of her whom I love, more then she,

 Whose faire impression in my faithfull heart,

Makes mee her Medall, and makes her love mee,

As Kings do coynes, to which their stamps impart

  5The value: goe, and take my heart from hence,

Which now is growne too great and good for me:

Honours oppresse weake spirits, and our sense

Strong objects dull; the more, the lesse wee see.

When you are gone, and Reason gone with you,

10Then Fantasie is Queene and Soule, and all;

She can present joyes meaner then you do;

Convenient, and more proportionall.

So, if I dreame I have you, I have you,

For, all our joyes are but fantasticall.

15And so I scape the paine, for paine is true;

And sleepe which locks up sense, doth lock out all.

After a such fruition I shall wake,

And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;

And shall to love more thankfull Sonnets make,

20Then if more honour, teares, and paines were spent.

But dearest heart, and dearer image stay;

Alas, true joyes at best are dreame enough;

Though you stay here you passe too fast away:

For even at first lifes Taper is a snuffe.

25Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown

Mad with much heart, then ideott with none.

NOT that in colour it was like thy haire,

For Armelets of that thou maist let me weare:

Nor that thy hand it oft embrac'd and kist,

For so it had that good, which oft I mist:

  5Nor for that silly old moralitie,

That as these linkes were knit, our love should bee:

Mourne I that I thy seavenfold chaine have lost;

Nor for the luck sake; but the bitter cost.

O, shall twelve righteous Angels, which as yet

10No leaven of vile soder did admit;

Nor yet by any way have straid or gone

From the first state of their Creation;

Angels, which heaven commanded to provide

All things to me, and be my faithfull guide;

15To gaine new friends, t'appease great enemies;

To comfort my soule, when I lie or rise;

Shall these twelve innocents, by thy severe

Sentence (dread judge) my sins great burden beare?

Shall they be damn'd, and in the furnace throwne,

20And punisht for offences not their owne?

They save not me, they doe not ease my paines,

When in that hell they'are burnt and tyed in chains.

Were they but Crownes of France, I cared not,

For, most of these, their naturall Countreys rot

25I think possesseth, they come here to us,

So pale, so lame, so leane, so ruinous;

And howsoe'r French Kings most Christian be,

Their Crownes are circumcis'd most Iewishly.

Or were they Spanish Stamps, still travelling,

30That are become as Catholique as their King,

Those unlickt beare-whelps, unfil'd pistolets

That (more than Canon shot) availes or lets;

Which negligently left unrounded, looke

Like many angled figures, in the booke

35Of some great Conjurer that would enforce

Nature, as these doe justice, from her course;

Which, as the soule quickens head, feet and heart,

As streames, like veines, run through th'earth's every part,

Visit all Countries, and have slily made

40Gorgeous France, ruin'd, ragged and decay'd;

Scotland, which knew no State, proud in one day:

And mangled seventeen-headed Belgia.

Or were it such gold as that wherewithall

Almighty Chymiques from each minerall,

45Having by subtle fire a soule out-pull'd;

Are dirtely and desperately gull'd:

I would not spit to quench the fire they'are in,

For, they are guilty of much hainous Sin.

But, shall my harmlesse angels perish? Shall

50I lose my guard, my ease, my food, my all?

Much hope which they should nourish will be dead,

Much of my able youth, and lustyhead

Will vanish; if thou love let them alone,

For thou wilt love me lesse when they are gone;

55And be content that some lowd squeaking Cryer

Well-pleas'd with one leane thred-bare groat, for hire,

May like a devill roare through every street;

And gall the finders conscience, if they meet.

Or let mee creepe to some dread Conjurer,

60That with phantastique scheames fils full much paper;

Which hath divided heaven in tenements,

And with whores, theeves, and murderers stuft his rents,

So full, that though hee passe them all in sinne,

He leaves himselfe no roome to enter in.

65But if, when all his art and time is spent,

Hee say 'twill ne'r be found; yet be content;

Receive from him that doome ungrudgingly,

Because he is the mouth of destiny.

Thou say'st (alas) the gold doth still remaine,

70Though it be chang'd, and put into a chaine;

So in the first falne angels, resteth still

Wisdome and knowledge; but,'tis turn'd to ill:

As these should doe good works; and should provide

Necessities; but now must nurse thy pride.

75And they are still bad angels; Mine are none;

For, forme gives being, and their forme is gone:

Pitty these Angels; yet their dignities

Passe Vertues, Powers, and Principalities.

But, thou art resolute; Thy will be done!

80Yet with such anguish, as her onely sonne

The Mother in the hungry grave doth lay,

Vnto the fire these Martyrs I betray.

Good soules, (for you give life to every thing)

Good Angels, (for good messages you bring)

85Destin'd you might have beene to such an one,

As would have lov'd and worship'd you alone:

One that would suffer hunger, nakednesse,

Yea death, ere he would make your number lesse.

But, I am guilty of your sad decay;

90May your few fellowes longer with me stay.

But ô thou wretched finder whom I hate

So, that I almost pitty thy estate:

Gold being the heaviest metal amongst all,

May my most heavy curse upon thee fall:

95Here fetter'd, manacled, and hang'd in chains,

First mayst thou bee; then chaind to hellish paines;

Or be with forraine gold brib'd to betray

Thy Countrey, and faile both of that and thy pay.

May the next thing thou stoop'st to reach, containe

100Poyson, whose nimble fume rot thy moist braine;

Or libels, or some interdicted thing,

Which negligently kept, thy ruine bring.

Lust-bred diseases rot thee; and dwell with thee

Itching desire, and no abilitie.

105May all the evils that gold ever wrought;

All mischiefes that all devils ever thought;

Want after plenty; poore and gouty age;

The plagues of travellers; love; marriage

Afflict thee, and at thy lives last moment,

110May thy swolne sinnes themselves to thee present.

But, I forgive; repent thee honest man:

Gold is Restorative, restore it then:

But if from it thou beest loath to depart,

Because 'tis cordiall, would twere at thy heart.

SINCE she must go, and I must mourn, come Night,

Environ me with darkness, whilst I write:

Shadow that hell unto me, which alone

I am to suffer when my Love is gone.

  5Alas the darkest Magick cannot do it,

Thou and greate Hell to boot are shadows to it.

Should Cinthia quit thee, Venus, and each starre,

It would not forme one thought dark as mine are.

I could lend thee obscureness now, and say,

10Out of my self, There should be no more Day,

Such is already my felt want of sight,

Did not the fires within me force a light.

Oh Love, that fire and darkness should be mixt,

Or to thy Triumphs soe strange torments fixt?

15Is't because thou thy self art blind, that wee

Thy Martyrs must no more each other see?

Or tak'st thou pride to break us on the wheel,

And view old Chaos in the Pains we feel?

Or have we left undone some mutual Right,

20Through holy fear, that merits thy despight?

No, no. The falt was mine, impute it to me,

Or rather to conspiring destinie,

Which (since I lov'd for forme before) decreed,

That I should suffer when I lov'd indeed:

25And therefore now, sooner then I can say,

I saw the golden fruit, 'tis rapt away.

Or as I had watcht one drop in a vast stream,

And I left wealthy only in a dream.

Yet Love, thou'rt blinder then thy self in this,

30To vex my Dove-like friend for my amiss:

And, where my own sad truth may expiate

Thy wrath, to make her fortune run my fate:

So blinded Justice doth, when Favorites fall,

Strike them, their house, their friends, their followers all.

35Was't not enough that thou didst dart thy fires

Into our blouds, inflaming our desires,

And made'st us sigh and glow, and pant, and burn,

And then thy self into our flame did'st turn?

Was't not enough, that thou didst hazard us

40To paths in love so dark, so dangerous:

And those so ambush'd round with houshold spies,

And over all, thy husbands towring eyes

That flam'd with oylie sweat of jealousie:

Yet went we not still on with Constancie?

45Have we not kept our guards, like spie on spie?

Had correspondence whilst the foe stood by?

Stoln (more to sweeten them) our many blisses

Of meetings, conference, embracements, kisses?

Shadow'd with negligence our most respects?

50Varied our language through all dialects,

Of becks, winks, looks, and often under-boards

Spoak dialogues with our feet far from our words?

Have we prov'd all these secrets of our Art,

Yea, thy pale inwards, and thy panting heart?

55And, after all this passed Purgatory,

Must sad divorce make us the vulgar story?

First let our eyes be rivited quite through

Our turning brains, and both our lips grow to:

Let our armes clasp like Ivy, and our fear

60Freese us together, that we may stick here,

Till Fortune, that would rive us, with the deed

Strain her eyes open, and it make them bleed:

For Love it cannot be, whom hitherto

I have accus'd, should such a mischief doe.

65Oh Fortune, thou'rt not worth my least exclame,

And plague enough thou hast in thy own shame.

Do thy great worst, my friend and I have armes,

Though not against thy strokes, against thy harmes.

Rend us in sunder, thou canst not divide

70Our bodies so, but that our souls are ty'd,

And we can love by letters still and gifts,

And thoughts and dreams; Love never wanteth shifts.

I will not look upon the quickning Sun,

But straight her beauty to my sense shall run;

75The ayre shall note her soft, the fire most pure;

Water suggest her clear, and the earth sure.

Time shall not lose our passages; the Spring

How fresh our love was in the beginning;

The Summer how it ripened in the eare;

80And Autumn, what our golden harvests were.

The Winter I'll not think on to spite thee,

But count it a lost season, so shall shee.

And dearest Friend, since we must part, drown night

With hope of Day, burthens well born are light.

85Though cold and darkness longer hang somewhere,

Yet Phoebus equally lights all the Sphere.

And what he cannot in like Portions pay,

The world enjoyes in Mass, and so we may.

Be then ever your self, and let no woe

90Win on your health, your youth, your beauty: so

Declare your self base fortunes Enemy,

No less by your contempt then constancy:

That I may grow enamoured on your mind,

When my own thoughts I there reflected find.

95For this to th'comfort of my Dear I vow,

My Deeds shall still be what my words are now;

The Poles shall move to teach me ere I start;

And when I change my Love, I'll change my heart;

Nay, if I wax but cold in my desire,

100Think, heaven hath motion lost, and the world, fire:

Much more I could, but many words have made

That, oft, suspected which men would perswade;

Take therefore all in this: I love so true,

As I will never look for less in you.

HARKE newes, ô envy, thou shalt heare descry'd

  My Iulia; who as yet was ne'r envy'd.

To vomit gall in slander, swell her vaines

With calumny, that hell it selfe disdaines,

  5Is her continuall practice; does her best,

To teare opinion even out of the brest

Of dearest friends, and (which is worse than vilde)

Sticks jealousie in wedlock; her owne childe

Scapes not the showres of envie, To repeate

10The monstrous fashions, how, were, alive, to eate

Deare reputation. Would to God she were

But halfe so loath to act vice, as to heare

My milde reproofe. Liv'd Mantuan now againe,

That fœmall Mastix, to limme with his penne

15This she Chymera, that hath eyes of fire,

Burning with anger, anger feeds desire,

Tongued like the night-crow, whose ill boding cries

Give out for nothing but new injuries,

Her breath like to the juice in Tenarus

20That blasts the springs, though ne'r so prosperous,

Her hands, I know not how, us'd more to spill

The food of others, then her selfe to fill.

But oh her minde, that Orcus, which includes

Legions of mischiefs, countlesse multitudes

25Of formlesse curses, projects unmade up,

Abuses yet unfashion'd, thoughts corrupt,

Mishapen Cavils, palpable untroths,

Inevitable errours, self-accusing oaths:

These, like those Atoms swarming in the Sunne,

30Throng in her bosome for creation.

I blush to give her halfe her due; yet say,

No poyson's halfe so bad as Iulia.