Thou lov'st not, till from loving more thou free My soul who ever gives, takes liberty: Seal then this bill of my divorce to all, To see God only, I go out of sight: John Donne.-About 1630. 230. THE WILL. Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe ears; To women, or the sea, my tears; My constancy I to the planets give; To Jesuits; to Buffoons my pensiveness; Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me 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; To him for whom the passing bell next tolls In want of bread; to them which pass among 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, So let us melt, and make no noise, To tell the laity our love. Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears, Dull, sublunary lover's love But we're by love so much refined, Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls, therefore (which are one) If they be two, they are two so And though it in the centre sit, 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 Yesternight the sun went hence, He hath no desire nor sense, 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; 'Tis true, it's day-what though it be? Should, in despite of light, keep us together. Light hath no tongue, but is all eye; If it could speak as well as spy, And that I loved my heart and honour so, Must business thee from hence remove? 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; But, dearest heart, and dearer image, stay; 235. SONNETS. II. A due by many titles, I resign Myself to thee, O God. First I was made I am thy son, made with thyself to shine, Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betray'd 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; 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: 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: 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 Enough we labour under age and care; Yet we, that should the ill, we now begin, (Strange thing!) perceive not; our faults are not seen, But past us; neither felt, but only in 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 By sin and Satan, and my flesh misused II. All-gracious God, the sinner's sacrifice, Eternal Father, God, who didst create Eternal God, the Son, who not denied'st Beauties, have ve you seen this toy, She that will but now discover He hath marks about him plenty; And his breath a flame entire, At his sight the sun hath turn'd, Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He doth bear a golden bow, And a quiver hanging low, Full of arrows, that outbrave Still the fairest are his fuel. Trust him not; his words, though sweet, Not a kiss but poison bears; Idle minutes are his reign; Then the straggler makes his gain, To have all childish as himself. If by these ye please to know him, Though ye had a will to hide him, Ben Jonson.-About 1630. 239.-SONG OF HESPERUS. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever : Ben Jonson.-About 1650. 240.-ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 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, 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; But grant us perfect, they're not known. Ben Jonson.-About 1030. 242.-SONG TO CELIA. Drink to me, only with thine eyes, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, As giving it a hope, that there But thou thereon didst only breathe, Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 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, It were a plague 'bove scorn: He is, if they can find him, fair, That are this morning blown ; But he hath eyes so round, and bright, As make away my doubt, Where Love may all his torches light, 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, One unbecoming thought doth move 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. |