Thou lov'st not, till from loving more thou free

My soul who ever gives, takes liberty:
Oh, if thou car'st not whom I love,
Alas! thou lov'st not me.

Seal then this bill of my divorce to all,
On whom those fainter beams of love did fall;
Marry those loves, which in youth scatter'd be
On face, wit, hopes (false mistresses) to thee.
Churches are best for prayer, that have least
light;

To see God only, I go out of sight:
And, to 'scape stormy days, I choose
An everlasting night.

John Donne.-About 1630.

230. THE WILL.

Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe
Great Love, some legacies: I here bequeath
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;
If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee;
My tongue to Fame; to ambassadors mino

ears;

To women, or the sea, my tears;
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore,
By making me serve her who had twenty more,
That I should give to none but such as had
too much before.

My constancy I to the planets give;
My truth to them who at the court do live;
Mine ingenuity and openness

To Jesuits; to Buffoons my pensiveness;
My silence to any who abroad have been;
My money to a Capuchin.

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me
To love there, where no love received can be,
Only to give to such as have no good capacity.

My faith I give to Roman Catholics; All my good works unto the schismatics Of Amsterdam; my best civility And courtship to an university; My modesty I give to soldiers bare; My patience let gamesters share; Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me Love her that holds my love disparity,

Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those

'Which wore my friends; mine industry to foes;

To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness;
My sickness to physicians, or excess;
To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ!
And to my company my wit:
Thou, Love, by making me adore
Her who begot this love in me before,
Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when
I do but restore.

To him for whom the passing bell next tolls
I give my physic books; my written rolls
Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give;
My brazen medals, unto them which live

In want of bread; to them which pass among
All foreigners, my English tongue :
Thou, Love, by making me love one
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion

For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo

The world by dying, because love dies too. Then all your beauties will be no more worth Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth,

And all your graces no more use shall have Than a sun-dial in a grave.

Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me Love her who doth neglect both me and thee, To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three.

John Donne.-About 1630.

231.-VALEDICTION.

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go;
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
The breath goes now-and some say, no;

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
"Twere profanation of our joys

To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull, sublunary lover's love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which alimented it.

But we're by love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is;
Inter-assured of the mind,

Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls, therefore (which are one)
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circles just,
And makes me end where I begun.

John Donne.-About 1630.

232.-S ON G.

Sweetest Love, I do not go

For weariness of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show

A fitter love for me.

But since that I

Must die at last, 'tis best

Thus to use myself in jest
By feigned death to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day;

He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way;
Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make

Hastier journeys, since I take More wings and spurs then he.

233.-THE BREAK OF DAY.

Stay, O Sweet! and do not rise:

The light that shines comes from thine eyes;
The day breaks not-it is my heart,
Because that you and I must part.
Stay, or else my joys will die,
And perish in their infancy.

'Tis true, it's day-what though it be?
O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because 'tis light?
Did we lie down because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us
hither,

Should, in despite of light, keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;

If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That, being well, I fain would stay,

And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from her that had them go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
Oh, that's the worst disease of love!
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busy man.

He which hath business and makes love, doth do

Such wrong as when a married man doth woo. John Donne.-About 1630.

234.-THE DREAM.

Image of her whom I love more than she Whose fair impression in my faithful heart Makes me her medal, and makes her love me As kings do coins, to which their stamps impart

The value-go, and take my heart from hence, Which now is grown too great and good for

me.

Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see.

When you are gone, and reason gone with you, Then phantasy is queen, and soul, and all; She can present joys meaner than you do, Convenient, and more proportional.

So if I dream I have you, I have you,

For all our joys are but fantastical,

And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true; And sleep, which locks up scnse, doth lock out all.

After such a fruition I shall wake,

And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;
And shall to love more thanl:ful sonnets make,
Than if more honour, tears, and pains, were
spent.

But, dearest heart, and dearer image, stay;
Alas! true joys at best are dreams enough.
Though you stay here you pass too fast away,
For oven at first life's taper is a snuff.
Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.
John Donne.-About 1630.

235. SONNETS.

II.

A due by many titles, I resign

Myself to thee, O God. First I was made
By thee and for thee; and, when I was decay'd,
Thy blood bought that, the which before was
thine;

I am thy son, made with thyself to shine,
Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still re-
pay'd,

Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betray'd
Myself, a temple of thy spirit divine.
Why doth the devil then usurp on me?

Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that's thy right?

Except thou rise, and for thine own work fight,

Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see That thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,

And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.

IV.

Oh! my black soul, now thou art summoned By sickness, Death's herald and champion; Thou'rt like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done

Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled;

Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read,

Wisheth himself delivered from prison;
But damn'd and hawl'd to execution,
Wisheth that still he might b'imprisoned:
Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack;
But who shall give thee that grace to begin?
Oh, make thyself with holy mourning black,
And red with blushing, as thou art with sin;
Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath
this might,

That, being red, it dies red souls to white.

X.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death; nor yet canst thou kill

me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow;

And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally; And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.

XI.

Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my side,

Buffet and scoff, scourge and crucify me:
For I have sinn'd, and sinn'd; and only he,
Who could do no iniquity, hath dy'd:
But by my death cannot be satisfi'd
My sins, which pass the Jews' impiety:
They kill'd once an inglorious man, but I
Crucify him daily, being now glorifi'd.
Oh, let me then his strange love still admire :
Kings pardon, but he bore our punishment;
And Jacob came, cloth'd in vile harsh attire,
But to supplant, and with gainful intent :
God cloth'd himself in vile man's flesh, that so
He might be weak enough to suffer woe.

XIV.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you

As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;

That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow m', and bend

Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make

me new.

I, like an usurp'd town to another due, Labour t' admit you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, we should defend,

But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue; Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,

But am betroth'd unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me; for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free;
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne.-About 1630.

236.-ODE.

Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till She there do sit,

We see her not, nor them. Thus blind, yet still We lead her way; and thus, whilst we do ill, We suffer it.

Unhappy he, whom youth makes not beware
Of doing ill:

Enough we labour under age and care;
In number th' errours of the last place are
The greatest still.

Yet we, that should the ill, we now begin,
As soon repent,

(Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen,

But past us; neither felt, but only in
The punishment.

But we know ourselves least; mere outward shows

Our minds so store,

That our souls, no more than our eyes, disclose

But form and colour. Only he, who knows Himself, knows more.

John Donne.-About 1630.

237.-TO THE HOLY TRINITY.

I.

O Holy, blessed, glorious Trinity
Of Persons, still one God in unity,
The faithful man's believéd mystery,
Help, help to lift
Myself up to thee, harrow'd, torn, and
bruised

By sin and Satan, and my flesh misused
As my heart lies in pieces, all confused,
O, take my gift.

II.

All-gracious God, the sinner's sacrifice,
A broken heart thou wert not wont despise ;
But, 'bove the fat of rams and bulls, to prize-
An offering meet
For thy acceptance. O, behold me right,
And take compassion on my grievous plight!
What odour can be than a heart contrite
To thee more sweet?
III.

Eternal Father, God, who didst create
This all of nothing, gav'st it form and fate,
And breath'st into it life and light, and state
To worship thee!

Eternal God, the Son, who not denied'st
To take our nature; becam'st man, and died'st
To pay our debts, upon thy cross, and cried'st-
"All's done in me!"

Beauties, have

ve you seen this toy,
Called love, a little boy
Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say;
He is Venus' runaway.

She that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How or where herself would wish;
But who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss, and another.

He hath marks about him plenty;
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire,
. That, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart but not the skin.

At his sight the sun hath turn'd,
Neptune in the waters burn'd;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat;
From the centre to the sky
Are his trophies rearéd high.

Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart,
But not stay in any part;
And if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself in kisses.

He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver hanging low,

Full of arrows, that outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

Still the fairest are his fuel.
When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers' hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood;
Nought but wounds his hand doth season,
And he hates none like to Reason.

Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;
Every gift it is a bait;

Not a kiss but poison bears;
And most treason in his tears.

Idle minutes are his reign;

Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys;
"Tis the ambition of the elf

To have all childish as himself.

If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.

Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him.
Since you hear his falser play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.

Ben Jonson.-About 1630.

239.-SONG OF HESPERUS.
Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess, excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever :
Thou that makest a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

Ben Jonson.-About 1650.

240.-ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire,
I thought to form unto my zealous Muse,
What kind of creature I could most desire,
To honour, serve, and love; as poets use

I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise, Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;

I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,
Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.
I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,
Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride;
I meant each softest virtue there should meet,
Fit in that softer bosom to reside.
Only a learned, and a manly soul

I purposed her; that should, with even powers,

The rock, the spindle, and the sheers control Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see, My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she! Ben Jonson.-About 1630.

241.-S ON G.

Follow a shadow, it still flies you;
Seem to fly it, it will pursue :
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
At morn and even shades are longest;
At noon they are or short, or none:
So men at weakest, they are strongest,

But grant us perfect, they're not known.
Say are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?

Ben Jonson.-About 1030.

242.-SONG TO CELIA.

Drink to me, only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,

As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither'd be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me:

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

Ben Jonson.-About 1630.

243.-A NYMPH'S PASSION.

I love, and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my swain, I fear they'd love him too; Yet if he be not known, The pleasure is as good as none, For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me;
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn:
And yet it cannot be forborn,
Unless my heart would, as my thought, bo
torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh and fragrant too,
As summer's sky, or purged air,
And looks as lilies do

That are this morning blown ;
Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,
And fear much more, that more of him bo
shown.

But he hath eyes so round, and bright,

As make away my doubt,

Where Love may all his torches light,
Though hate had put them out:
But then t' increase my fears,

What nymph soe'er his voice but hears, Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
And ho loves me; yet no

One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart, I know;

But so exempt from blamo,

As it would be to each a fame,

If love or fear would let me tell his name. Ben Jonson.-About 1630.