Donne (3 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.