Donne

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

This selection by Peter Washington first published in Everyman’s Library, 1995
Copyright © 1995 by Everyman’s Library

Seventh printing (US)

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York. Published in the United Kingdom by Everyman’s Library, Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT. Distributed by Random House (UK) Ltd.

US website: www.randomhouse.com/everymans

eBook ISBN: 978-0-375-71265-4
ISBN 978-0-679-44467-1 (US)
978-1-85713-722-2 (UK)

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Donne, John, 1572–1631.
[Poems.   Selections]
Poems / John Donne.
p.   cm.—(Everyman’s library pocket poets)
Includes index.
ISBN 978-0-679-44467-1
I. Title.    II. Series.
PR2246   1995                                        95-15330
821’.3—dc20                                                   CIP

v3.1

Song (Goe, and catche a falling starre)

Song (Sweetest love, I do not goe)

A nocturnall upon S. Lucies day

Witchcraft by a picture

The Baite

A Valediction forbidding mourning

A Valediction of weeping

The Extasie

The Will

The Apparition

A Lecture upon the Shadow

Elegie XVI On his Mistris

Elegie XIX To his Mistress Going to Bed

LETTERS TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD

Reason is our Soules left hand

You have refin’d me

T’have written then

This twilight of two yeares

Honour is so sublime perfection

Though I be dead

THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY

An Anatomy of the World

This is my playes last scene

At the round earths imagin’d corners

Why are wee by all creatures waited on?

What if this present were the worlds last night?

Batter my heart, three-person’d God

Since she whom I lov’d hath payd her last debt

Show me deare Christ

Death be not proud

DIVINE POEMS

Resurrection, imperfect

Goodfriday, 1613. Riding Westward

A Hymne to Christ, at the Authors last going into Germany

Hymne to God my God, in my sicknesse

A Hymne to God the Father

The Litanie (I–XIII)

From PARADOXES AND PROBLEMS

From IGNATIUS HIS CONCLAVE

From THE SERMONS, ESSAYS AND DEVOTIONS

Index of First Lines

SONGS AND SONNETS

THE GOOD-MORROW

I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I

Did, till we lov’d? were we not wean’d till then?

But suck’d on countrey pleasures, childishly?

Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den?

T’was so; But this, all pleasures fancies bee

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desir’d, and got, t’was but a dreame of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking soules,

Which watch not one another out of feare;

For love, all love of other sights controules,

And makes one little roome, an every where.

Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,

Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,

Let us possesse one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeares,

And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,

Where can we finde two better hemispheares

Without sharpe North, without declining West?

What ever dyes, was not mixt equally;

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I

Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.

SONG

Goe, and catche a falling starre,

Get with child a mandrake roote,

Tell me, where all past yeares are,

Or who cleft the Divels foot,

Teach me to heare Mermaides singing,

Or to keep off envies stinging,

And finde

What winde

Serves to advance an honest minde.

If thou beest borne to strange sights,

Things invisible to see,

Ride ten thousand daies and nights,

Till age snow white haires on thee,

Thou, when thou retorn’st, wilt tell mee

All strange wonders that befell thee,

And sweare

No where

Lives a woman true, and faire.

If thou findst one, let mee know,

Such a Pilgrimage were sweet,

Yet doe not, I would not goe,

Though at next doore wee might meet,

Though shee were true, when you met her,

And last, till you write your letter,

Yet shee

Will bee

False, ere I come, to two, or three.

THE SUNNE RISING

Busie old foole, unruly Sunne,

Why dost thou thus,

Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?

Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?

Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide

Late schoole boyes and sowre prentices,

Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride,

Call countrey ants to harvest offices;

Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,

Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time.

Thy beames, so reverend, and strong

Why shouldst thou thinke?

I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,

But that I would not lose her sight so long:

If her eyes have not blinded thine,

Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,

Whether both the’India’s of spice and Myne

Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.

Aske for those Kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,

And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.

She’is all States, and all Princes, I,

Nothing else is.

Princes doe but play us, compar’d to this,

All honor’s mimique; All wealth alchimie;

Thou sunne art halfe as happy’as wee,

In that the world’s contracted thus.

Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee

To warme the world, that’s done in warming us.

Shine here to us, and thou art every where;

This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.

THE FLEA

Marke but this flea, and marke in this,

How little that which thou deny’st me is;

It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea, our two bloods mingled bee;

Thou know’st that this cannot be said

A sinne, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,

Yet this enjoyes before it wooe,

And pamper’d swells with one blood made of two

And this, alas, is more then wee would doe.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where wee almost, yea more then maryed are.

This flea is you and I, and this

Our mariage bed, and mariage temple is;

Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met,

And cloystered in these living walls of Jet.

Though use make you apt to kill mee,

Let not to that, selfe murder added bee,

And sacrilege, three sinnes in killing three.

Cruell and sodaine, hast thou since

Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty bee,

Except in that drop which it suckt from thee?

Yet thou triumph’st, and saist that thou

Find’st not thy selfe, nor mee the weaker now;

’Tis true, then learne how false, feares bee;

Just so much honor, when thou yeeld’st to mee,

Will wast, as this flea’s death tooke life from thee.

THE CANONIZATION

For Godsake hold your tongue, and let me love,

Or chide my palsie, or my gout,

My five gray haires, or ruin’d fortune flout,

With wealth your state, your minde with Arts improve,

Take you a course, get you a place,

Observe his honour, or his grace,

Or the King’s reall, or his stamped face

Contemplate, what you will, approve,

So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who’s injur’d by my love?

What merchants ships have my sighs drown’d?

Who saies my teares have overflow’d his ground?

When did my colds a forward spring remove?

When did the heats which my veines fill

Adde one more to the plaguie Bill?

Soldiers finde warres, and Lawyers finde out still

Litigious men, which quarrels move,

Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, wee are made such by love;

Call her one, mee another flye,

We’are Tapers too, and at our owne cost die,

And wee in us finde the’Eagle and the dove,

The Phœnix ridle hath more wit

By us, we two being one, are it.

So, to one neutrall thing both sexes fit,

Wee dye and rise the same, and prove

Mysterious by this love.

Wee can dye by it, if not live by love,

And if unfit for tombes and hearse

Our legend bee, it will be fit for verse;

And if no peece of Chronicle wee prove,

We’ll build in sonnets pretty roomes;

As well a well wrought urne becomes

The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombes,

And by these hymnes, all shall approve

Us Canoniz’d for Love.

And thus invoke us; You whom reverend love

Made one anothers hermitage;

You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage,

Who did the whole worlds soule contract, and drove

Into the glasses of your eyes

So made such mirrors, and such spies,

That they did all to you epitomize,

Countries, Townes, Courts: Beg from above

A patterne of our love.

THE TRIPLE FOOLE

I am two fooles, I know,

For loving, and for saying so

In whining Poëtry;

But where’s that wiseman, that would not be I,

If she would not deny?

Then as th’earths inward narrow crooked lanes

Do purge sea waters fretfull salt away,

I thought, if I could draw my paines,

Through Rimes vexation, I should them allay,

Griefe brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,

For, he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,

Some man, his art and voice to show,

Doth Set and sing my paine,

And, by delighting many, frees againe

Griefe, which verse did restraine.

To Love, and Griefe tribute of Verse belongs,

But not of such as pleases when’tis read,

Both are increased by such songs:

For both their triumphs so are published,

And I, which was two fooles, do so grow three;

Who are a little wise, the best fooles bee.

WOMANS CONSTANCY

Now thou hast lov’d me one whole day,

To morrow when thou leav’st, what wilt thou say?

Wilt thou then Antedate some new made vow?

Or say that now

We are not just those persons, which we were?

Or, that oathes made in reverentiall feare

Of Love, and his wrath, any may forsweare?

Or, as true deaths, true maryages untie,

So lovers contracts, images of those,

Binde but till sleep, deaths image, them unloose?

Or, your owne end to Justifie,

For having purpos’d change, and falsehood; you

Can have no way but falsehood to be true?

Vaine lunatique, against these scapes I could

Dispute, and conquer, if I would,

Which I abstaine to doe,

For by to morrow, I may thinke so too.

SONG

Sweetest love, I do not goe,

For wearinesse of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show

A fitter Love for mee,

But since that I

Must dye at last, ’tis best,

To use my selfe in jest

Thus by fain’d deaths to dye;

Yesternight the Sunne went hence,

And yet is here to day,

He hath no desire nor sense,

Nor halfe so short a way:

Then feare not mee,

But beleeve that I shall make

Speedier journeyes, since I take

More wings and spurres than hee.

O how feeble is mans power,

That if good fortune fall,

Cannot adde another houre,

Nor a lost houre recall!

But come bad chance,

And wee joyne to’it our strength,

And wee teach it art and length,

It selfe o’r us to’advance.

When thou sigh’st, thou sigh’st not winde,

But sigh’st my soule away,

When thou weep’st, unkindly kinde,

My lifes blood doth decay.

It cannot bee

That thou lov’st mee, as thou say’st,

If in thine my life thou waste,

Thou art the best of mee.

Let not thy divining heart

Forethinke me any ill,

Destiny may take thy part,

And may thy feares fulfill,

But thinke that wee

Are but turn’d aside to sleepe;

They who one another keepe

Alive, ne’r parted bee.

AIRE AND ANGELS

Twice or thrice had I loved thee,

Before I knew thy face or name;

So in a voice, so in a shapelesse flame,

Angells affect us oft, and worship’d bee,

Still when, to where thou wert, I came

Some lovely glorious nothing I did see,

But since, my soule, whose child love is,

Takes limmes of flesh, and else could nothing doe,

More subtile than the parent is,

Love must not be, but take a body too,

And therefore what thou wert, and who

I did Love aske, and now

That it assume thy body, I allow,

And fixe it selfe in thy lip, eye, and brow.

Whilst thus to ballast love, I thought,

And so more steddily to have gone,

With wares which would sinke admiration,

I saw, I had loves pinnace overfraught,

Ev’ry thy haire for love to worke upon

Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;

For, nor in nothing, nor in things

Extreme, and scattring bright, can love inhere;

Then as an Angell, face, and wings

Of aire, not pure as it, yet pure doth weare,

So thy love may be my loves spheare;

Just such disparitie

As is twixt Aire and Angells puritie,

T’wixt womens love, and mens will ever bee.

THE ANNIVERSARIE

All Kings, and all their favorites,

All glory of honors, beauties, wits,

The Sun it selfe, which makes times, as they passe,

Is elder by a yeare, now, then it was

When thou and I first one another saw:

All other things, to their destruction draw,

Only our love hath no decay;

This, no to morrow hath, nor yesterday,

Running it never runs from us away,

But truly keepes his first, last, everlasting day.

Two graves must hide thine and my coarse,

If one might, death were no divorce,

Alas, as well as other Princes, wee,

(Who Prince enough in one another bee,)

Must leave at last in death, these eyes, and eares,

Oft fed with true oathes, and with sweet salt teares;

But soules where nothing dwells but love

(All other thoughts being inmates) then shall prove

This, or a love increased there above,

When bodies to their graves, soules from their graves remove.

And then wee shall be throughly blest,

But wee no more, then all the rest.

Here upon earth, we’are Kings, and none but wee

Can be such Kings, nor of such subjects bee;

Who is so safe as wee? where none can doe

Treason to us, except one of us two.

True and false feares let us refraine,

Let us love nobly, and live, and adde againe

Yeares and yeares unto yeares, till we attaine

To write threescore, this is the second of our raigne.

TWICKNAM GARDEN

Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares,

Hither I come to seeke the spring,

And at mine eyes, and at mine eares,

Receive such balmes, as else cure every thing,

But O, selfe traytor, I do bring

The spider love, which transubstantiates all,

And can convert Manna to gall,

And that this place may thoroughly be thought

True Paradise, I have the serpent brought.

’Twere wholsomer for mee, that winter did

Benight the glory of this place,

And that a grave frost did forbid

These trees to laugh and mocke mee to my face;

But that I may not this disgrace

Indure, nor yet leave loving, Love let mee

Some senslesse peece of this place bee;

Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here,

Or a stone fountaine weeping out my yeare.

Hither with christall vyals, lovers come,

And take my teares, which are loves wine,

And try your mistresse Teares at home,

For all are false, that tast not just like mine;

Alas, hearts do not in eyes shine,

Nor can you more judge womans thoughts by teares,

Then by her shadow, what she weares.

O perverse sexe, where none is true but shee,

Who’s therefore true, because her truth kills mee.

THE DREAME

Deare love, for nothing lesse then thee

Would I have broke this happy dreame,

It was a theame

For reason, much too strong for phantasie,

Therefore thou wakd’st me wisely; yet

My Dreame thou brok’st not, but continued’st it,

Thou art so truth, that thoughts of thee suffice,

To make dreames truths; and fables histories;

Enter these armes, for since thou thoughtst it best,

Not to dreame all my dreame, let’s act the rest.

As lightning, or a Tapers light,

Thine eyes, and not thy noise wak’d mee;

Yet I thought thee

(For thou lovest truth) an Angell, at first sight,

But when I saw thou sawest my heart,

And knew’st my thoughts, beyond an Angels art,

When thou knew’st what I dreamt, when thou knew’st when

Excess of joy would wake me, and cam’st then,

I must confesse, it could not chuse but bee

Prophane, to thinke thee any thing but thee.

Comming and staying show’d thee, thee,

But rising makes me doubt, that now,

Thou art not thou.

That love is weake, where feare’s as strong as hee;

’Tis not all spirit, pure, and brave,

If mixture it of Feare, Shame, Honor, have;

Perchance as torches which must ready bee,

Men light and put out, so thou deal’st with mee,

Thou cam’st to kindle, goest to come; Then I

Will dreame that hope againe, but else would die.

LOVES ALCHYMIE

Some that have deeper digg’d loves Myne then I,

Say, where his centrique happinesse doth lie:

I have lov’d, and got, and told,

But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,

I should not finde that hidden mysterie;

Oh, ’tis imposture all:

And as no chymique yet th’Elixar got,

But glorifies his pregnant pot,

If by the way to him befall

Some odoriferous thing, or medicinall,

So, lovers dreame a rich and long delight,

But get a winter-seeming summers night.

Our ease, our thrift, our honor, and our day,

Shall we, for this vaine Bubles shadow pay?

Ends love in this, that my man,

Can be as happy’as I can; If he can

Endure the short scorne of a Bridegroomes play?

That loving wretch that sweares,

’Tis not the bodies marry, but the mindes,

Which he in her Angelique findes,

Would sweare as justly, that he heares,

In that dayes rude hoarse minstralsey, the spheares.

Hope not for minde in women; at their best,

Sweetnesse, and wit they’are, but, Mummy, possest.

LOVES GROWTH

I scarce beleeve my love to be so pure

As I had thought it was,

Because it doth endure

Vicissitude, and season, as the grasse;

Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I swore,

My love was infinite, if spring make’it more.

But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow

With more, not onely bee no quintessence,

But mixt of all stuffes, paining soule, or sense,

And of the Sunne his working vigour borrow,

Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use

To say, which have no Mistresse but their Muse,

But as all else, being elemented too,

Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.

And yet no greater, but more eminent,

Love by the Spring is growne;

As, in the firmament,

Starres by the Sunne are not inlarg’d, but showne,

Gentle love deeds, as blossomes on a bough,

From loves awakened root do bud out now.

If, as in water stir’d more circles bee

Produc’d by one, love such additions take,

Those like so many spheares, but one heaven make,

For, they are all concentrique unto thee,

And though each spring doe adde to love new heate,

As princes doe in times of action get

New taxes, and remit them not in peace,

No winter shall abate the springs encrease.

THE INDIFFERENT

I can love both faire and browne,

Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betraies,

Her who loves lonenesse best, and her who maskes and plaies,

Her whom the country form’d, and whom the town,

Her who beleeves, and her who tries,

Her who still weepes with spungie eyes,

And her who is dry corke, and never cries;

I can love her, and her, and you and you,

I can love any, so she be not true.

Will no other vice content you?

Will it not serve your turn to do, as did your mothers?

Or have you all old vices spent, and now would finde out others?

Or doth a feare, that men are true, torment you?

Oh we are not, be not you so,

Let mee, and doe you, twenty know.

Rob mee, but binde me not, and let me goe.

Must I, who came to travaile thorow you,

Grow your fixt subject, because you are true?

Venus heard me sigh this song,

And by Loves sweetest Part, Variety, she swore,

She heard not this till now; and that it should be so no more.

She went, examin’d, and return’d ere long,

And said, alas, Some two or three

Poore Heretiques in love there bee,

Which thinke to stablish dangerous constancie.

But I have told them, since you will be true,

You shall be true to them, who’are false to you.

LOVES USURY

For every houre that thou wilt spare me now,

I will allow,

Usurious God of Love, twenty to thee,

When with my browne, my gray haires equall bee;

Till then, Love, let my body raigne, and let

Mee travell, sojourne, snatch, plot, have, forget,

Resume my last yeares relict: thinke that yet

We’had never met.

Let mee thinke any rivalls letter mine,

And at next nine

Keepe midnights promise; mistake by the way

The maid, and tell the Lady of that delay;

Onely let mee love none, no, not the sport

From country grasse, to comfitures of Court,

Or cities quelque choses, let report

My minde transport.

This bargaine’s good; if when I’am old, I bee

Inflam’d by thee,

If thine owne honour, or my shame, or paine,

Thou covet most, at that age thou shalt gaine.

Doe thy will then, then subject and degree,

And fruit of love, Love I submit to thee,

Spare mee till then, I’ll beare it, though she bee

One that loves mee.

LOVES DEITIE

I long to talke with some old lovers ghost,

Who dyed before the god of Love was borne:

I cannot thinke that hee, who then lov’d most,

Sunke so low, as to love one which did scorne.

But since this god produc’d a destinie,

And that vice-nature, custome, lets it be;

I must love her, that loves not mee.

Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much:

Nor he, in his young godhead practis’d it.

But when an even flame two hearts did touch,

His office was indulgently to fit

Actives to passives. Correspondencie

Only his subject was; It cannot bee

Love, till I love her, that loves mee.

But every moderne god will now extend

His vast prerogative, as far as Jove.

To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,

All is the purlewe of the God of Love.

Oh were wee wak’ned by this Tyrannie

To ungod this child againe, it could not bee

I should love her, who loves not mee.

Rebell and Atheist too, why murmure I,

As though I felt the worst that love could doe?

Love may make me leave loving, or might trie

A deeper plague, to make her love mee too,

Which since she loves before, I’am loth to see;

Falshood is worse than hate; and that must bee

If shee whom I love, should love mee.

THE MESSAGE

Send home my long strayd eyes to mee,

Which (Oh) too long have dwelt on thee,

Yet since there they have learn’d such ill,

Such forc’d fashions,

And false passions,

That they be

Made by thee

Fit for no good sight, keep them still.

Send home my harmlesse heart againe,

Which no unworthy thought could staine,

Which if it be taught by thine

To make jestings

Of protestings,

And breake both

Word and oath,

Keepe it, for then ’tis none of mine.

Yet send me back my heart and eyes,

That I may know, and see thy lyes,

And may laugh and joy, when thou

Art in anguish

And dost languish

For some one

That will none,

Or prove as false as thou art now.

A NOCTURNALL UPON S. LUCIES DAY, BEING THE SHORTEST DAY

Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,

Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes,

The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks

Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes;

The worlds whole sap is sunke:

The generall balme th’hydroptique earth hath drunk,

Whither, as to the beds-feet life is shrunke,

Dead and enterr’d, yet all these seeme to laugh,

Compar’d with mee, who am their Epitaph.

Study me then, you who shall lovers bee

At the next world, that is, at the next Spring:

For I am every dead thing,

In whom love wrought new Alchimie.

For his art did expresse

A quintessence even from nothingnesse,

From dull privations, and leane emptinesse

He ruin’d mee, and I am re-begot

Of absence, darknesse, death; things which are not.

All others, from all things, draw all that’s good,

Life, soule, forme, spirit, whence they beeing have,

I, by loves limbecke, am the grave

Of all, that’s nothing. Oft a flood

Have wee two wept, and so

Drownd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow

To be two Chaosses, when we did show

Care to ought else; and often absences

Withdrew our soules, and made us carcasses.

But I am by her death, (which word wrongs her)

Of the first nothing, the Elixer grown;

Were I a man, that I were one,

I needs must know, I should preferre,

If I were any beast,

Some ends, some means; Yea plants, yea stones detest,

And love, all, all some properties invest,

If I an ordinary nothing were,

As shadow, a light, and body must be here.

But I am None; nor will my Sunne renew.

You lovers, for whose sake, the lesser Sunne

At this time to the Goat is runne

To fetch new lust, and give it you,

Enjoy your summer all,

Since shee enjoyes her long nights festivall,

Let mee prepare towards her, and let mee call

This houre her Vigill, and her eve, since this

Both the yeares, and the dayes deep midnight is.

WITCHCRAFT BY A PICTURE

I fixe mine eye on thine, and there

Pitty my picture burning in thine eye,

My picture drown’d in a transparent teare,

When I looke lower I espie,

Hadst thou the wicked skill

By pictures made and mard, to kill,

How many wayes mightst thou performe thy will?

But now I have drunke thy sweet salt teares,

And though thou poure more I’ll depart;

My picture vanish’d, vanish feares,

That I can be endamag’d by that art;

Though thou retaine of mee

One picture more, yet that will bee,

Being in thine owne heart, from all malice free.

THE BAITE

Come live with mee, and bee my love,

And wee will some new pleasures prove

Of golden sands, and christall brookes:

With silken lines, and silver hookes.

There will the river whispering runne

Warm’d by thy eyes, more than the Sunne.

And there the’inamor’d fish will stay,

Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swimme in that live bath,

Each fish, which every channell hath,

Will amorously to thee swimme,

Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seene, beest loath,

By Sunne, or Moone, thou darknest both,

And if my selfe have leave to see,

I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,

And cut their legges, with shells and weeds,

Or treacherously poore fish beset,

With strangling snare, or windowie net:

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest

The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,

Or curious traitors, sleavesilke flies

Bewitch poore fishes wandring eyes.

For thee, thou needst no such deceit,

For thou thy selfe art thine owne bait,

That fish, that is not catch’d thereby,

Alas, is wiser farre than I.

A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING

As virtuous men passe mildly away,

And whisper to their soules, to goe,

Whilst some of their sad friends doe say,

The breath goes now, and some say, no.

So let us melt, and make no noise,

No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,

T’were prophanation of our joyes

To tell the layetie our love.

Moving of th’earth brings harmes and feares,

Men reckon what it did and meant,

But trepidation of the spheares,

Though greater farre, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers love

(Whose soule is sense) cannot admit

Absence, because it doth remove

Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love, so much refin’d,

That our selves know not what it is,

Inter-assured of the mind,

Care lesse, eyes, lips, hands to misse.

Our two soules therefore, which are one,

Though I must goe, endure not yet

A breach, but an expansion,

Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate.

If they be two, they are two so

As stiffe twin compasses are two,

Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show

To move, but doth, if the’other doe.

And though it in the center sit,

Yet when the other far doth rome,

It leanes, and hearkens after it,

And growes erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to mee, who must

Like th’other foot, obliquely runne.

Thy firmnes makes my circle just,

And makes me end, where I begunne.

A VALEDICTION OF WEEPING

Let me powre forth

My teares before thy face, whil’st I stay here,

For thy face coines them, and thy stampe they beare,

And by this Mintage they are something worth,

For thus they bee

Pregnant of thee,

Fruits of much griefe they are, emblemes of more,

When a teare falls, that thou falst which it bore,

So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers shore.

On a round ball

A workeman that hath copies by, can lay

An Europe, Afrique, and an Asia,

And quickly make that, which was nothing, All,

So doth each teare,

Which thee doth weare,

A globe, yea world by that impression grow,

Till thy teares mixt with mine doe overflow

This world, by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.

O more then Moone,

Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare,

Weepe me not dead, in thine armes, but forbeare

To teach the sea, what it may doe too soone,

Let not the winde

Example finde,

To doe me more harme, then it purposeth,

Since thou and I sigh one anothers breath,

Who e’r sighes most, is cruellest, and hastes the others death.

THE EXTASIE

Where, like a pillow on a bed,

A Pregnant banke swel’d up, to rest

The violets reclining head,

Sat we two, one anothers best;

Our hands were firmely cimented

With a fast balme, which thence did spring,

Our eye-beames twisted, and did thred

Our eyes, upon one double string,

So to’entergraft our hands, as yet

Was all the meanes to make us one,

And pictures in our eyes to get

Was all our propagation.

As ’twixt two equall Armies, Fate

Suspends uncertaine victorie,

Our soules, (which to advance their state,

Were gone out,) hung ’twixt her, and mee.

And whil’st our soules negotiate there,

Wee like sepulchrall statues lay,

All day, the same our postures were,

And wee said nothing, all the day.

If any, so by love refin’d,

That he soules language understood,

And by good love were growen all minde,

Within convenient distance stood,

He (though he knowes not which soul spake,

Because both meant, both spake the same)

Might thence a new concoction take,

And part farre purer then he came.

This Extasie doth unperplex

(We said) and tell us what we love,

Wee see by this, it was not sexe

Wee see, we saw not what did move:

But as all severall soules containe

Mixture of things, they know not what,

Love, these mixt soules, doth mixe againe,

And makes both one, each this and that.

A single violet transplant,

The strength, the colour, and the size,

(All which before was poore, and scant,)

Redoubles still, and multiplies.

When love, with one another so

Interinanimates two soules,

That abler soule, which thence doth flow,

Defects of loneliness controules.

Wee then, who are this new soule, know,

Of what we are compos’d, and made,

For, th’Atomies of which we grow,

Are soules, whom no change can invade.

But O alas, so long, so farre

Our bodies why doe wee forbeare?

They are ours, though not wee, Wee are

The intelligences, they the spheares.

We owe them thankes, because they thus,

Did us, to us, at first convay,

Yeelded their senses force to us,

Nor are drosse to us, but allay.

On man heavens influence workes not so,

But that it first imprints the ayre,

For soule into the soule may flow,

Though it to body first repaire.

As our blood labours to beget

Spirits, as like soules as it can,

Because such fingers need to knit

That subtile knot, which makes us man:

So must pure lovers soules descend

T’affections, and to faculties,

Which sense may reach and apprehend,

Else a great Prince in prison lies.

To’our bodies turne wee then, that so

Weake men on love reveal’d may looke;

Loves mysteries in soules doe grow,

But yet the body is his booke.

And if some lover, such as wee,

Have heard this dialogue of one,

Let him still marke us, he shall see

Small change, when we’are to bodies gone.

THE WILL

Before I sigh my last gaspe, let me breath,

Great love, some Legacies; Here I bequeath

Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see,

If they be blinde, then Love, I give them thee;

My tongue to Fame; to’Embassadours mine eares;

To women or the sea, my teares;

Thou, Love, hast taught mee heretofore

By making mee serve her who’had twenty more,

That I should give to none, but such, as had too much before.

My constancie I to the planets give,

My truth to them, who at the Court doe live;

Mine ingenuity and opennesse,

To Jesuites; to Buffones my pensivenesse;

My silence to’any, who abroad hath beene;

My mony to a Capuchin.

Thou Love taught’st me, by appointing mee

To love there, where no love receiv’d can be,

Onely to give to such as have an incapacitie.

My faith I give to Roman Catholiques;

All my goods works unto the Schismaticks

Of Amsterdam: my best civility

And Courtship, to an Universitie;

My modesty I give to souldiers bare;

My patience let gamesters share.

Thou Love taughtst mee, by making mee

Love her that holds my love disparity,

Onely to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those

Which were my friends; Mine industrie to foes;

To Schoolemen I bequeath my doubtfulnesse;

My sicknesse to Physitians, or excesse;

To Nature, all that I in Ryme have writ;

And to my company my wit;

Thou Love, by making mee adore

Her, who begot this love in mee before,

Taughtst me to make, as though I gave, when I did but restore.

To him for whom the passing bell next tolls,

I give my physick bookes; my writen rowles

Of Morall counsels, I to Bedlam give;

My brazen medals, unto them which live

In want of bread; To them which passe among

All forrainers, mine English tongue.

Thou, Love, by making mee love one

Who thinkes her friendship a fit portion

For yonger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore I’ll give no more; But I’ll undoe

The world by dying; because love dies too.

Then all your beauties will be no more worth

Then gold in Mines, where none doth draw it forth.

And all your graces no more use shall have

Then a Sun dyall in a grave,

Thou Love taughtst mee, by making mee

Love her, who doth neglect both mee and thee,

To’invent, and practise this one way, to’annihilate all three.

THE APPARITION

When by thy scorne, O murdresse, I am dead,

And that thou thinkst thee free

From all solicitation from mee,

Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,

And thee, fain’d vestall in worse armes shall see;

Then thy sicke taper will begin to winke,

And he, whose thou art then, being tyr’d before,

Will, if thou stirre, or pinch to wake him, thinke

Thou call’st for more,

And in false sleepe will from thee shrinke,

And then poore Aspen wretch, neglected thou

Bath’d in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lye

A veryer ghost than I,

What I will say, I will not tell thee now,

Lest that preserve thee’; and since my love is spent,

I’had rather thou shouldst painfully repent,

Then by my threatnings rest still innocent.

A LECTURE UPON THE SHADOW

Stand still, and I will read to thee

A Lecture, Love, in loves philosophy.

These three houres that we have spent,

Walking here, Two shadowes went

Along with us, which we our selves produc’d;

But, now the Sunne is just above our head,

We doe those shadowes tread;

And to brave clearnesse all things are reduc’d.

So whilst our infant loves did grow,

Disguises did, and shadowes, flow,

From us, and our cares; but, now ’tis not so.

That love hath not attain’d the high’st degree,

Which is still diligent lest others see.

Except our loves at this noone stay,

We shall new shadowes make the other way.

As the first were made to blinde

Others; these which come behinde

Will worke upon our selves, and blind our eyes.

If our loves faint, and westwardly decline;

To me thou, falsly, thine,

And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.

The morning shadowes weare away,

But these grow longer all the day,

But oh, loves day is short, if love decay.

Love is a growing, or full constant light;

And his first minute, after noone, is night.

THE RELIQUE

When my grave is broke up againe

Some second guest to entertaine,

(For graves have learn’d that woman-head

To be to more then one a Bed)

And he that digs it, spies

A bracelet of bright haire about the bone,

Will he not let’us alone,

And thinke that there a loving couple lies,

Who thought that this device might be some way

To make their soules, at the last busie day,

Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

If this fall in a time, or land,

Where mis-devotion doth command,

Then, he that digges us up, will bring

Us, to the Bishop, and the King,

To make us Reliques; then

Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I

A something else thereby;

All women shall adore us, and some men;

And since at such time, miracles are sought,

I would have that age by this paper taught

What miracles wee harmlesse lovers wrought.

First, we lov’d well and faithfully,

Yet knew not what wee lov’d, nor why,

Difference of sex no more wee knew,

Then our Guardian Angells doe,

Comming and going, wee,

Perchance might kisse, but not between those meales.

Our hands ne’r toucht the seales,

Which nature, injur’d by late law, sets free,

These miracles wee did; but now alas,

All measure, and all language, I should passe,

Should I tell what a miracle shee was.

THE LEGACIE

When I dyed last, and, Deare, I dye

As often as from thee I goe,

Though it be but an houre agoe,

And Lovers houres be full eternity,

I can remember yet, that I

Something did say, and something did bestow;

Though I be dead, which sent mee, I should be

Mine owne executor and Legacie.

I heard mee say, Tell her anon,

That my selfe, (that’s you, not I,)

Did kill me, and when I felt mee dye,

I bid mee send my heart, when I was gone,

But I alas could there finde none,

When I had ripp’d me, ’and search’d where hearts did lye,

It kill’d mee againe, that I who still was true,

In life, in my last Will should cozen you.

Yet I found something like a heart,

But colours it, and corners had,

It was not good, it was not bad,

It was intire to none, and few had part.

As good as could be made by art

It seem’d, and therefore for our losses sad,

I meant to send this heart in stead of mine,

But oh, no man could hold it, for twas thine.

THE DISSOLUTION

Shee’is dead; And all which die

To their first Elements resolve;

And wee were mutuall Elements to us,

And made of one another.

My body then doth hers involve,

And those things whereof I consist, hereby

In me abundant grow, and burdenous,

And nourish not, but smother.

My fire of Passion, sighes of ayre,

Water of teares, and earthly sad despaire,

Which my materialls bee,

But ne’r worne out by loves securitie,

Shee, to my losse, doth by her death repaire,

And I might live long wretched so

But that my fire doth with my fuell grow.

Now as those Active Kings

Whose foraine conquest treasure brings,

Receive more, and spend more, and soonest breaker

This (which I am amaz’d that I can speake)

This death, hath with my store

My use encreas’d.

And so my soule more earnestly releas’d,

Will outstrip hers; As bullets flowen before

A latter bullet may o’rtake, the pouder being more.

THE PARADOX

No Lover saith, I love, nor any other

Can judge a perfect Lover;

Hee thinkes that else none can or will agree,

That any loves but hee:

I cannot say I lov’d, for who can say

Hee was kill’d yesterday.

Love with excesse of heat, more yong then old,

Death kills with too much cold;

Wee dye but once, and who lov’d last did die,

Hee that saith twice, doth lye:

For though hee seeme to move, and stirre a while,

It doth the sense beguile.

Such life is like the light which bideth yet

When the lifes light is set,

Or like the heat, which fire in solid matter

Leaves behinde, two houres after.

Once I lov’d and dyed; and am now become

Mine Epitaph and Tombe.

Here dead men speake their last, and so do I;

Love-slaine, loe, here I dye.

THE EXPIRATION

So, so, breake off this last lamenting kisse,

Which sucks two soules, and vapors Both away,

Turne thou ghost that way, and let mee turne this,

And let our selves benight our happiest day,

We aske none leave to love; nor will we owe

Any, so cheape a death, as saying, Goe;

Goe; and if that word have not quite kil’d thee,

Ease mee with death, by bidding mee goe too.

Oh, if it have, let my word worke on mee,

And a just office on a murderer doe.

Except it be too late, to kill me so,

Being double dead, going, and bidding, goe.

ELEGIES

ELEGIE XVI
On his Mistris

By our first strange and fatall interview,

By all desires which thereof did ensue,

By our long starving hopes, by that remorse

Which my words masculine perswasive force

Begot in thee, and by the memory

Of hurts, which spies and rivals threatned me,

I calmly beg. But by thy fathers wrath,

By all paines, which want and divorcement hath,

I conjure thee, and all the oathes which I

And thou have sworne to seale joynt constancy,

Here I unsweare, and overswear them thus,

Thou shalt not love by wayes so dangerous.

Temper, ô faire Love, loves impetuous rage,

Be my true Mistris still, not my faign’d Page;

I’ll goe, and, by thy kinde leave, leave behinde

Thee, onely worthy to nurse in my minde,

Thirst to come backe; ô if thou die before,

My soule from other lands to thee shall soare.

Thy (else Almighty) beautie cannot move

Rage from the Seas, nor thy love teach them love,

Nor tame wilde Boreas harshnesse; Thou has reade

How roughly hee in peeces shivered

Faire Orithea, whom he swore he lov’d.

Fall ill or good, ’tis madnesse to have prov’d

Dangers unurg’d; Feed on this flattery,

That absent Lovers one in th’other be.

Dissemble nothing, not a boy, nor change

Thy bodies habite, nor mindes; bee not strange

To thy selfe onely. All will spie in thy face

A blushing womanly discovering grace;

Richly cloath’d Apes, are call’d Apes, and as soone

Ecclips’d as bright we call the Moone the Moone.

Men of France, changeable Camelions,

Spittles of diseases, shops of fashions,

Loves fuellers, and the rightest company

Of Players, which upon the worlds stage be,

Will quickly know thee, and no lesse, alas!

Th’indifferent Italian, as we passe

His warme land, well content to thinke thee Page,

Will hunt thee with such lust, and hideous rage,

As Lots faire guests were vext. But none of these

Nor spungy hydroptique Dutch shall thee displease,

If thou stay here. O stay here, for, for thee

England is onely a worthy Gallerie,

To walke in expectation, till from thence

Our greatest King call thee to his presence.

When I am gone, dreame me some happinesse,

Nor let thy lookes our long hid love confesse,

Nor praise, nor dispraise me, nor blesse nor curse

Openly loves force, nor in bed fright thy Nurse

With midnights startings, crying out, oh, oh

Nurse, ô my love is slaine, I saw him goe

Or the white Alpes alone; I saw him I,

Assail’d, fight, taken, stabb’d, bleed, fall, and die.

Augure me better chance, except dread Jove

Thinke it enough for me to’have had thy love.

ELEGIE XIX
To his Mistress Going to Bed

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defie,

Until I labour, I in labour lie.

The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,

Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.

Off with that girdle, like heavens Zone glittering,

But a far fairer world incompassing.

Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,

That th’eyes of busie fooles may be stopt there.

Unlace your self, for that harmonious chyme,

Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.

Off with that happy busk, which I envie,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown going off, such beautious state reveals,

As when from flowry meads th’hills shadowe steales.

Off with that wyerie Coronet and shew

The haiery Diademe which on you doth grow:

Now off with those shooes, and then softly tread

In this loves hallow’d temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes, heaven’s Angels us’d to be

Receavd by men: thou Angel bringst with thee

A heaven like Mahomets Paradice, and though

Ill spirits walk in white, we easly know,

By this these Angels from an evil sprite,

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

Licence my roaving hands, and let them go,

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O my America! my new-found-land,

My kingdome, safeliest when with one man man’d,

My Myne of precious stones: My Emperie,

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

Full nakedness! All joyes are due to thee,

As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be,

To taste whole joyes. Jems which you women use

Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in mens views,

That when a fools eye lighteth on a Jem,

His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them:

Like pictures, or like books gay coverings made

For lay-men, are all women thus array’d.

Themselves are mystick books, which only wee

(Whom their imputed grace will dignifie)

Must see reveal’d. Then since that I may know;

As liberally, as to a Midwife shew

Thy self: cast all, yea, this white lynnen hence,

There is no pennance, much less innocence:

To teach thee, I am naked first; why then

What needst thou have more covering then a man.

ELEGIE XVII

The heavens rejoyce in motion, why should I

Abjure my so much lov’d variety,

And not with many youth and love divide?

Pleasure is none, if not diversifi’d:

The sun that sitting in the chaire of light

Sheds flame into what else soever doth seem bright,

Is not contented at one Signe to Inne,

But ends his year and with a new beginnes.

All things doe willingly in change delight,

The fruitfull mother of our appetite:

Rivers the clearer and more pleasing are,

Where their fair spreading streames run wide and farr;

And a dead lake that no strange bark doth greet,

Corrupts it self and what doth live in it.

Let no man tell me such a one is faire,

And worthy all alone my love to share.

Nature in her hath done the liberall part

Of a kinde Mistresse, and imploy’d her art

To make her loveable, and I aver

Him not humane that would turn back from her:

I love her well, and would, if need were, dye

To doe her service. But followes it that I

Must serve her onely, when I may have choice?

The law is hard, and shall not have my voice.

The last I saw in all extreames is faire,

And holds me in the Sun-beames of her haire;

Her nymph-like features such agreements have

That I could venture with her to the grave:

Another’s brown, I like her not the worse,

Her tongue is soft and takes me with discourse:

Others, for that they well descended are,

Do in my love obtain as large a share;

And though they be not fair, ’tis much with mee

To win their love onely for their degree.

And though I faile of my required ends,

The attempt is glorious and it selfe commends.

How happy were our Syres in ancient times

Who held plurality of loves no crime!

With them it was accounted charity

To stirre up race of all indifferently;

Kindreds were not exempted from the bands:

Which with the Persian still in usage stands.

Women were then no sooner asked then won,

And what they did was honest and well done.

But since this title honour hath been us’d,

Our weake credulity hath been abus’d;

The golden laws of nature are repeald,

Which our first Fathers in such reverence held;

Our liberty revers’d and Charter’s gone,

And we made servants to opinion,

A monster in no certain shape attir’d,

And whose originall is much desir’d,

Formlesse at first, but growing on it fashions,

And doth prescribe manners and laws to nations.

Here love receiv’d immedicable harmes,

And was dispoiled of his daring armes.

A greater want then is his daring eyes,

He lost those awfull wings with which he flies;

His sinewy bow, and those immortall darts

Wherewith he’is wont to bruise resisting hearts;

Onely some few strong in themselves and free

Retain the seeds of antient liberty,

Following that part of love although deprest,

And make a throne for him within their brest,

In spight of modern censures him avowing

Their Soveraigne, all service him allowing.

Amongst which troop although I am the least,

Yet equall in perfection with the best,

I glory in subjection of his hand,

Nor ever did decline his least command:

For in whatever forme the message came

My heart did open and receive the same.

But time will in his course a point discry

When I this loved service must deny.

For our allegiance temporary is,

With firmer age returnes our liberties.

What time in years and judgement we repos’d,

Shall not so easily be to change dispos’d

Nor to the art of severall eyes obeying,

But beauty with true worth securely weighing,

Which being found assembled in some one

Wee’l leave her ever, and love her alone.

SATIRES

SATYRE I

Away thou fondling motley humorist,

Leave mee, and in this standing woodden chest,

Consorted with these few bookes, let me lye

In prison, and here be coffin’d, when I dye;

Here are Gods conduits, grave Divines; and here

Natures Secretary, the Philosopher;

And jolly Statesmen, which teach how to tie

The sinewes of a cities mistique bodie;

Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them stand

Giddie fantastique Poëts of each land.

Shall I leave all this constant company,

And follow headlong, wild uncertaine thee?

First sweare by thy best love in earnest

(If thou which lov’st all, canst love any best)

Thou wilt not leave mee in the middle street,

Though some more spruce companion thou dost meet

Not though a Captaine do come in thy way

Bright parcell gilt, with forty dead mens pay,

Not though a briske perfum’d piert Courtier

Deigne with a nod, thy courtesie to answer.

Nor come a velvet Justice with a long

Great traine of blew coats, twelve, or fourteen strong,

Wilt thou grin or fawne on him, or prepare

A speech to Court his beautious sonne and heire!

For better or worse take mee, or leave mee:

To take, and leave mee is adultery.

Oh monstrous, superstitious puritan,

Of refin’d manners, yet ceremoniall man,

That when thou meet’st one, with enquiring eyes

Dost search, and like a needy broker prize

The silke, and gold he weares, and to that rate

So high or low, dost raise thy formall hat:

That wilt consort none, untill thou have knowne

What lands hee hath in hope, or of his owne,

As though all thy companions should make thee

Jointures, and marry thy deare company.

Why should’st thou that dost not onely approve,

But in ranke itchie lust, desire, and love

The nakednesse and barenesse to enjoy,

Of thy plumpe muddy whore, or prostitute boy

Hate vertue, though shee be naked, and bare?

At birth, and death, our bodies naked are;

And till our Soules be unapparrelled

Of bodies, they from blisse are banished.

Mans first blest state was naked, when by sinne

Hee lost that, yet hee was cloath’d but in beasts skin,

And in this course attire, which I now weare,

With God, and with the Muses I conferre.

But since thou like a contrite penitent,

Charitably warn’d of thy sinnes, dost repent

These vanities, and giddinesse, loe

I shut my chamber doore, and come, lets goe.

But sooner may a cheape whore, who hath beene

Worne by as many severall men in sinne,

As are black feathers, or musk-colour hose,

Name her childs right true father, ’mongst all those:

Sooner may one guesse, who shall beare away

The infant of London, Heire to an India,

And sooner may a gulling weather-Spie

By drawing forth heavens Scheme tell certainly

What fashioned hats, or ruffes, or suits next yeare

Our subtile-witted antique youths will weare;

Then thou, when thou depart’st from mee, canst show

Whither, why, when, or with whom thou wouldst go.

But how shall I be pardon’d my offence

That thus have sinn’d against my conscience?

Now we are in the street; He first of all

Improvidently proud, creepes to the wall,

And so imprisoned, and hem’d in by mee

Sells for a little state his libertie,

Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greet

Every fine silken painted foole we meet,

He them to him with amorous smiles allures,

And grins, smacks, shrugs, and such an itch endures,

As prentises, or schoole-boyes which doe know

Of some gay sport abroad, yet dare not goe.

And as fidlers stop lowest, at highest sound,

So to the most brave, stoops hee nigh’st the ground.

But to a grave man, he doth move no more

Then the wise politique horse would heretofore,

Or thou O Elephant or Ape wilt doe,

When any names the King of Spaine to you.

Now leaps he upright, Joggs me, and cryes, Do you see

Yonder well favoured youth? Which? Oh, ’tis hee

That dances so divinely; Oh, said I,

Stand still, must you dance here for company?

Hee droopt, wee went, till one (which did excell

Th’Indians, in drinking his Tobacco well)

Met us; they talk’d; I whispered, let’us goe,

’T may be you smell him not, truely I doe;

He heares not mee, but, on the other side

A many-coloured Peacock having spide,

Leaves him and mee; I for my lost sheep stay;

He followes, overtakes, goes on the way,

Saying, him whom I last left, all repute

For his device, in hansoming a sute,

To judge of lace, pinke, panes, print, cut, and plight,

Of all the Court, to have the best conceit;

Our dull Comedians want him, let him goe;

But Oh, God strengthen thee, why stoop’st thou so?

Why, he hath travayld. Long? No, but to me

Which understand none, he doth seeme to be

Perfect French, and Italian; I replyed,

So is the Poxe; He answered not, but spy’d

More men of sort, of parts, and qualities;

At last his Love he in a windowe spies,

And like light dew exhal’d, he flings from mee

Violently ravish’d to his lechery.

Many were there, he could command no more;

Hee quarreird, fought, bled; and turn’d out of dore

Directly came to mee hanging the head,

And constantly a while must keepe his bed.

SATYRE II

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, toward them, breeds pitty towards the rest.

Though Poëtry 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 rithmes; 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 Poët; jollier of this state,

Then are new benefic’d ministers, he throwes

Like nets, or lime-twigs, wheresoever 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 return’d 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;

Which sicke with Poëtrie, 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 favourite, yea like a King;

Like a wedge in a blocke, wring to the barre,

Bearing like Asses, and more shamelesse 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 the 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 parchment 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 Commentator 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 hertofore

Those bought lands? not built, nor 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.

SATYRE III

Kinde pitty chokes my spleene; brave scorn forbids

Those teares to issue which swell my eye-lids;

I must not laugh, nor weepe sinnes, and be wise,

Can railing then cure these worne maladies?

Is not our Mistresse faire Religion,

As worthy of all our Soules devotion,

As vertue was to the first blinded age?

Are not heavens joyes as valiant to asswage

Lusts, as earths honour was to them? Alas,

As wee do them in meanes, shall they surpasse

Us in the end, and shall thy fathers spirit

Meete blinde Philosophers in heaven, whose merit

Of strict life may be imputed faith, and heare

Thee, whom hee taught so easie wayes and neare

To follow, damn’d? O if thou dar’st, feare this.

This feare great courage, and high valour is;

Dar’st thou ayd mutinous Dutch, and dar’st thou lay

Thee in ships woodden Sepulchers, a prey

To leaders rage, to stormes, to shot, to dearth?

Dar’st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth?

Hast thou couragious fire to thaw the ice

Of frozen North discoveries? and thrise

Colder then Salamanders, like divine

Children in th’oven, fires of Spaine, and the line,

Whose countries limbecks to our bodies bee,

Canst thou for gaine beare? and must every hee

Which cryes not, Goddesse, to thy Mistresse, draw,

Or eat thy poysonous words? courage of straw!

O desperate coward, wilt thou seeme bold, and

To thy foes and his (who made thee to stand

Sentinell in his worlds garrison) thus yeeld,

And for the forbidden warres, leave th’appointed field?

Know thy foe, the foule devill h’is, whom thou

Strivest to please: for hate, not love, would allow

Thee faine, his whole Realme to be quit; and as

The worlds all parts wither away and passe,

So the worlds selfe, thy other lov’d foe, is

In her decrepit wayne, and thou loving this,

Dost love a withered and worne strumpet; last,

Flesh (it selfes death) and joyes which flesh can taste,

Thou lovest; and thy faire goodly soule, which doth

Give this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loath;

Seeke true religion. O where? Mirreus

Thinking her unhous’d here, and fled from us,

Seekes her at Rome, there, because hee doth know

That shee was there a thousand yeares agoe,

He loves her ragges so, as wee here obey

The statecloth where the Prince sate yesterday,

Crants to such brave Loves will not be inthrall’d,

But loves her onely, who at Geneva is call’d

Religion, plaine, simple, sullen, yong,

Contemptuous, yet unhansome. As among

Lecherous humors, there is one that judges

No wenches wholsome, but course country drudges.

Graius stayes still at home here, and because

Some Preachers, vile ambitious bauds, and lawes

Still new like fashions, bid him thinke that shee

Which dwels with us, is onely perfect, hee

Imbraceth her, whom his Godfathers will

Tender to him, being tender, as Wards still

Take such wives as their Guardians offer, or

Pay valewes. Carelesse Phrygius doth abhorre

All, because all cannot be good, as one

Knowing some women whores, dares marry none.

Graccus loves all as one, and thinkes that so

As women do in divers countries goe

In divers habits, yet are still one kinde;

So doth, so is Religion; and this blind-

nesse too much light breeds; but unmoved thou

Of force must one, and forc’d but one allow;

And the right; aske thy father which is shee,

Let him aske his; though truth and falsehood bee

Neare twins, yet truth a little elder is;

Be busie to seeke her, beleeve mee this,

Hee’s not of none, nor worst, that seekes the best.

To adore, or scorne an image, or protest,

May all be bad; doubt wisely, in strange way

To stand inquiring right, is not to stray;

To sleepe, or runne wrong, is: on a huge hill,

Cragg’d, and steep, Truth stands, and hee that will

Reach her, about must, and about must goe;

And what the hills suddennes resists, winne so;

Yet strive so, that before age, deaths twilight,

Thy Soule rest, for none can worke in that night.

To will, implyes delay, therefore now doe.

Hard deeds, the bodies paines; hard knowledge too

The mindes indeavours reach, and mysteries

Are like the Sunne, dazzling, yet plaine to all eyes;

Keepe the truth which thou hast found; men do not stand

In so ill case here, that God hath with his hand

Sign’d Kings blanck-charters to kill whom they hate,

Nor are they Vicars, but hangmen to Fate.

Foole and wretch, wilt thou let thy Soule be tyed

To mans lawes, by which she shall not be tryed

At the last day? 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 idolatrie;

As streames are, Power is; those blest flowers that dwell

At the rough streames calme head, thrive and do well,

But having left their roots, and themselves given

To the streames tyrannous rage, alas are driven

Through mills, and rockes, and woods, and at last, almost

Consum’d in going, in the sea are lost:

So perish Soules, which more chuse mens unjust

Power from God claym’d, then God himselfe to trust.

SATYRE IV

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, 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 suffered 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, the examining Justice sure would cry,

Sir, by your priesthood tell me what you are.

His cloths were strange, though coarse; and black, though bare;

Sleeveless 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 knoweth 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 named; 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 praised 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 last

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 strecht 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 on 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 venome Leachers do 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 crowne? 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 haste, then one

Who feares more actions, doth haste 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 the 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 trye

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 the Inquisition;

And whispered 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 carelessenesse, 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, 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 Wits 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.

SATYRE V

Thou shalt not laugh in this leafe, Muse, nor they

Whom any pitty 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 wreched or wicked: of these two a theame

Charity and liberty give me.

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MY ACCOUNT

Poems and Prose Read Online

CONTENTS

SONGS AND SONNETS

THE GOOD-MORROW

SONG

THE SUNNE RISING

THE FLEA

THE CANONIZATION

THE TRIPLE FOOLE

WOMANS CONSTANCY

SONG

AIRE AND ANGELS

THE ANNIVERSARIE

TWICKNAM GARDEN

THE DREAME

LOVES ALCHYMIE

LOVES GROWTH

THE INDIFFERENT

LOVES USURY

LOVES DEITIE

THE MESSAGE

A NOCTURNALL UPON S. LUCIES DAY, BEING THE SHORTEST DAY

WITCHCRAFT BY A PICTURE

THE BAITE

A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING

A VALEDICTION OF WEEPING

THE EXTASIE

THE WILL

THE APPARITION

A LECTURE UPON THE SHADOW

THE RELIQUE

THE LEGACIE

THE DISSOLUTION

THE PARADOX

THE EXPIRATION

ELEGIES

ELEGIE XVIOn his Mistris

ELEGIE XIXTo his Mistress Going to Bed

ELEGIE XVII

SATIRES

SATYRE I

SATYRE II

SATYRE III

SATYRE IV

SATYRE V

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ELEGIE XVI
On his Mistris

ELEGIE XIX
To his Mistress Going to Bed