Donne (8 page)

This twilight of two yeares, not past nor next,

    Some embleme is of mee, or I of this,

Who Meteor-like, of stuffe and forme perplext,

    Whose
what
, and
where
, in disputation is,

    If I should call mee
any thing
, should misse.

I summe the yeares, and mee, and finde mee not

    Debtor to th’old, nor Creditor to th’new,

That cannot say, My thankes I have forgot,

    Nor trust I this with hopes, and yet scarce true,

    This bravery is since these times shew’d mee you.

In recompence I would show future times

    What you were, and teach them to’urge towards such.

Verse embalmes vertue;’and Tombs, or Thrones of rimes,

    Preserve fraile transitory fame, as much

    As spice doth bodies from corrupt aires touch.

Mine are short-liv’d; the tincture of your name

    Creates in them, but dissipates as fast,

New spirits: for, strong agents with the same

    Force that doth warme and cherish, us doe wast;

    Kept hot with strong extracts, no bodies last:

So, my verse built of your just praise, might want

    Reason and likelihood, the firmest Base,

And made of miracle, now faith is scant,

    Will vanish soone, and so possesse no place,

    And you, and it, too much grace might disgrace.

When all (as truth commands assent) confesse

    All truth of you, yet they will doubt how I

One corne of one low anthills dust, and lesse,

    Should name, know, or expresse a thing so high,

    And not an inch, measure infinity.

I cannot tell them, nor my selfe, nor you,

    But leave, lest truth b’endanger’d by my praise,

And turne to God, who knowes I thinke this true,

    And useth oft, when such a heart mis-sayes,

    To make it good, for, such a praiser prayes.

Hee will best teach you, how you should lay out

    His stock of
beauty, learning, favour, blood
;

He will perplex security with doubt,

    And cleare those doubts; hide from you,’and shew you good,

    And so increase your appetite and food;

Hee will teach you, that good and bad have not

    One latitude in cloysters, and in Court;

Indifferent there the greatest space hath got;

    Some pitty’is not good there, some vaine disport,

    On this side, sinne with that place may comport.

Yet he, as hee bounds seas, will fixe your houres,

    Which pleasure, and delight may not ingresse,

And though what none else lost, be truliest yours,

    Hee will make you, what you did not, possesse,

    By using others, not vice, but weakenesse.

He will make you speake truths, and credibly,

    And make you doubt, that others doe not so:

Hee will provide you keyes, and locks, to spie,

    And scape spies, to good ends, and hee will show

    What you may not acknowledge, what not know.

For your owne conscience, he gives innocence,

    But for your fame, a discreet warinesse,

And though to scape, then to revenge offence

    Be better, he showes both, and to represse

    
Joy
, when your state swells,
sadnesse
when’tis lesse.

From need of teares he will defend your soule,

    Or make a rebaptizing of one teare;

Hee cannot, (that’s, he will not) dis-inroule

    Your name; and when with active joy we heare

    This private Ghospell, then’tis our New Yeare.

Honour is so sublime perfection,

And so refinde; that when God was alone

And creaturelesse at first, himselfe had none;

But as of the elements, these which wee tread,

Produce all things with which wee’are joy’d or fed,

And, those are barren both above our head:

So from low persons doth all honour flow;

Kings, whom they would have honoured, to us show,

And but
direct
our honour, not
bestow.

For when from herbs the pure part must be wonne

From grosse, by Stilling, this is better done

By despis’d dung, then by the fire or Sunne.

Care not then, Madame,’how low your praysers lye;

In labourers balads oft more piety

God findes, then in
Te Deums
melodie.

And, ordinance rais’d on Towers so many mile

Send not their voice, nor last so long a while

As fires from th’earths low vaults in
Sicil
Isle.

Should I say I liv’d darker then were true,

Your radiation can all clouds subdue,

But one, ’tis best light to contemplate you.

You, for whose body God made better clay,

Or tooke Soules stuffe such as shall late decay,

Or such as needs small change at the last day.

This, as an Amber drop enwraps a Bee,

Covering discovers your quicke Soule; that we

May in your through-shine front your hearts thoughts see.

You teach (though wee learne not) a thing unknowne

To our late times, the use of specular stone,

Through which all things within without were shown.

Of such were Temples; so and such you are;

Beeing
and
seeming
is your equall care,

And
vertues
whole
summe
is but
know
and
dare.

But as our Soules of growth and Soules of sense

Have birthright of our reasons Soule, yet hence

They fly not from that, nor seeke presidence:

Natures first lesson, so discretion,

Must not grudge zeale a place, nor yet keepe none,

Not banish it selfe, nor religion.

Discretion is a wisemans Soule, and so

Religion is a Christians, and you know

How these are one, her
yea
, is not her
no.

Nor may we hope to sodder still and knit

These two, and dare to breake them; nor must wit

Be colleague to religion, but be it.

In those poor types of God (round circles) so

Religious tipes, the peecelesse centers flow,

And are in all the lines which alwayes goe.

If either ever wrought in you alone

Or principally, then religion

Wrought your ends, and your wayes discretion.

Goe thither stil, goe the same way you went,

Who so would change, do covet or repent;

Neither can reach you, great and innocent.

Though I be
dead
, and buried, yet I have

    (Living in you,) Court enough in my grave,

As oft as there I thinke my selfe to bee,

    So many resurrections waken mee.

That thankfullnesse your favours have begot

    In mee, embalmes mee, that I doe not rot;

This season as ’tis Easter, as ’tis spring,

    Must both to growth and to confession bring

My thoughts dispos’d unto your influence, so,

    These verses bud, so these confessions grow;

First I confesse I have to others lent

    Your stock, and over prodigally spent

Your treasure, for since I had never knowne

    Vertue or beautie, but as they are growne

In you, I should not thinke or say they shine,

    (So as I have) in any other Mine;

Next I confesse this my confession,

    For, ’tis some fault thus much to touch upon

Your praise to you, where half rights seeme too much,

    And make your minds sincere complexion blush.

Next I confesse my’impertinence, for I

    Can scarce repent my first fault, since thereby

Remote low Spirits, which shall ne’r read you,

    May in lesse lessons finde enough to doe,

By studying copies, not Originals,

                         
Desunt cætera.

When that rich soule which to her Heaven is gone,

Whom all they celebrate, who know they have one,

(For who is sure he hath a soule, unlesse

It see, and Judge, and follow worthinesse,

And by Deedes praise it? He who doth not this,

May lodge an In-mate soule, but tis not his.)

When that Queene ended here her progresse time,

And, as t’her standing house, to heaven did clymbe,

Where, loth to make the Saints attend her long,

Shee’s now a part both of the Quire, and Song,

This world, in that great earth-quake languished;

For in a common Bath of teares it bled,

Which drew the strongest vitall spirits out:

But succour’d then with a perplexed doubt,

Whether the world did loose or gaine in this,

(Because since now no other way there is

But goodnes, to see her, whom all would see,

All must endeavour to be good as shee,)

This great consumption to a fever turn’d,

And so the world had fits; it joy’d, it mourn’d.

And, as men thinke, that Agues physicke are,

And th’Ague being spent, give over care,

So thou, sicke world, mistak’st thy selfe to bee

Well, when alas, thou’rt in a Letargee.

Her death did wound, and tame thee than, and than

Thou mightst have better spar’d the Sunne, or Man;

That wound was deepe, but ’tis more misery,

That thou hast lost thy sense and memory.

T’was heavy then to heare thy voyce of mone,

But this is worse, that thou are speechlesse growne.

Thou hast forgot thy name, thou hadst; thou wast

Nothing but she, and her thou hast o’rpast.

For as a child kept from the Font, untill

A Prince, expected long, come to fulfill

The Ceremonies, thou unnam’d hadst laid,

Had not her comming, thee her Palace made:

Her name defin’d thee, gave thee forme and frame,

And thou forgetst to celebrate thy name.

Some moneths she hath beene dead (but being dead,

Measures of times are all determined)

But long shee’ath beene away, long, long, yet none

Offers to tell us who it is that’s gone.

But as in states doubtfull of future heyres,

When sickenes without remedy, empayres

The present Prince, they’re loth it should be said,

The Prince doth languish, or the Prince is dead:

So mankind feeling now a generall thaw,

A strong example gone equall to law,

The Cyment which did faithfully compact

And glue all vertues, now resolv’d, and slack’d,

Thought it some blasphemy To say sh’was dead;

Or that our weakenes was discovered

In that confession; therefore spoke no more

Then tongues, the soule being gone, the losse deplore.

But though it be too late to succour thee,

Sicke world, yea dead, yea putrified, since shee

Thy’ntrinsique Balme, and thy preservative,

Can never be renew’d, thou never live,

I (since no man can make thee live) will trie,

What we may gaine by thy Anatomy.

Her death hath taught us dearely, that thou art

Corrupt and mortall in thy purest part.

Let no man say, the world it selfe being dead,

’Tis labour lost to have discovered

The worlds infirmities, since there is none

Alive to study this dissectione;

For there’s a kind of world remaining still,

Though shee which did inanimate and fill

The world, be gone, yet in this last long night,

Her Ghost doth walke; that is, a glimmering light,

A faint weake love of vertue and of good

Reflects from her, on them which understood

Her worth; And though she have shut in all day,

The twi-light of her memory doth stay;

Which, from the carcasse of the old world, free,

Creates a new world; and new creatures be

Produc’d: The matter and the stuffe of this,

Her vertue, and the forme our practice is.

And though to be thus Elemented, arme

These Creatures, from hom-borne intrinsique harme,

(For all assum’d unto this Dignitee,

So many weedlesse Paradises bee,

Which of themselves produce no venemous sinne,

Except some forraine Serpent bring it in)

Yet, because outward stormes the strongest breake,

And strength it selfe by confidence growes weake,

This new world may be safer, being told

The dangers and diseases of the old:

For with due temper men do then forgoe,

Or covet things, when they their true worth know.

There is no health; Physitians say that we

At best, enjoy, but a neutralitee.

And can there be worse sicknesse, then to know

That we are never well, nor can be so?

We are borne ruinous: poore mothers crie,

That children come not right, nor orderly,

Except they headlong come, and fall upon

An ominous precipitation.

How witty’s ruine? how importunate

Upon mankinde? It labour’d to frustrate

Even Gods purpose; and made woman, sent

For mans reliefe, cause of his languishment.

They were to good ends, and they are so still,

But accessory, and principall in ill.

For that first mariage was our funerall:

One woman at one blow, then kill’d us all,

And singly, one by one, they kill us now.

We doe delightfully our selves allow

To that consumption; and profusely blinde,

We kill our selves, to propagate our kinde.

And yet we doe not that; we are not men:

There is not now that mankinde, which was then

When as the Sunne, and man, did seeme to strive,

(Joynt tenants of the world) who should survive.

When Stag, and Raven, and the long-liv’d tree,

Compar’d with man, dy’de in minoritee.

When, if a slow-pac’d starre had stolne away

From the observers marking, he might stay

Two or three hundred yeares to see’t againe,

And then make up his observation plaine;

When, as the age was long, the sise was great:

Mans growth confess’d, and recompenc’d the meat:

So spacious and large, that every soule

Did a faire Kingdome, and large Realme controule:

And when the very stature thus erect,

Did that soule a good way towards Heaven direct.

Where is this mankind now? who lives to age,

Fit to be made
Methusalem
his page?

Alas, we scarse live long enough to trie

Whether a new made clocke runne right, or lie.

Old Grandsires talke of yesterday with sorrow,

And for our children we reserve to morrow.

So short is life, that every peasant strives,

In a torne house, or field, to have three lives.

And as in lasting, so in length is man

Contracted to an inch, who was a span.

For had a man at first, in Forrests stray’d,

Or shipwrack’d in the Sea, one would have laid

A wager that an Elephant or Whale

That met him, would not hastily assaile

A thing so equall to him: now alas,

The Fayries, and the Pigmies well may passe

As credible; mankind decayes so soone,

We’re scarse our Fathers shadowes cast at noone.

Onely death addes t’our length: nor are we growne

In stature to be men, till we are none.

But this were light, did our lesse volume hold

All the old Text; or had we chang’d to gold

Their silver; or dispos’d into lesse glas,

Spirits of vertue, which then scattred was.

But ’tis not so: w’are not retir’d, but dampt;

And as our bodies, so our mindes are cramp’t:

’Tis shrinking, not close-weaving, that hath thus,

In minde and body both bedwarfed us.

We seeme ambitious, Gods whole worke t’undoe;

Of nothing he made us, and we strive too,

To bring our selves to nothing backe; and we

Do what we can, to do’t so soone as hee.

With new diseases on our selves we warre,

And with new phisicke, a worse Engin farre.

Thus man, this worlds Vice-Emperor, in whom

All faculties, all graces are at home;

And if in other Creatures they appeare,

They’re but mans ministers, and Legats there,

To worke on their rebellions, and reduce

Them to Civility, and to mans use.

This man, whom God did wooe, and loth t’attend

Till man came up, did downe to man descend,

This man, so great, that all that is, is his,

Oh what a trifle, and poore thing he is!

If man were any thing, he’s nothing now:

Helpe, or at least some time to wast, allow

T’his other wants, yet when he did depart

With her, whom we lament, he lost his hart.

She, of whom th’Auncients seem’d to prophesie,

When they call’d vertues by the name of shee;

She in whom vertue was so much refin’d,

That for Allay unto so pure a minde

Shee tooke the weaker Sex, she that could drive

The poysonous tincture, and the stayne of
Eve
,

Out of her thoughts, and deeds; and purifie

All, by a true religious Alchimy;

Shee, shee is dead; shee’s dead: when thou knowest this,

Thou knowest how poore a trifling thing man is.

And learn’st thus much by our Anatomee,

The heart being perish’d, no part can be free.

And that except thou feed (not banquet) on

The supernaturall food, Religion,

Thy better Grouth growes withered, and scant;

Be more then man, or thou’rt lesse then an Ant.

Then, as mankinde, so is the worlds whole frame

Quite out of joynt, almost created lame:

For, before God had made up all the rest,

Corruption entred, and deprav’d the best:

It seis’d the Angels, and then first of all

The world did in her Cradle take a fall,

And turn’d her braines, and tooke a generall maime

Wronging each joynt of th’universall frame.

The noblest part, man, felt it first; and than

Both beasts and plants, curst in the curse of man.

So did the world from the first houre decay,

The evening was beginning of the day,

And now the Springs and Sommers which we see,

Like sonnes of women after fifty bee.

And new Philosophy cals all in doubt,

The Element of fire is quite put out;

The Sun is lost, and th’earth, and no mans wit

Can well direct him, where to looke for it.

And freely men confesse, that this world’s spent,

When in the Planets, and the Firmament

They seeke so many new; they see that this

Is crumbled out againe to his Atomis.

’Tis all in pieces, all cohærence gone;

All just supply, and all Relation:

Prince, Subject, Father, Sonne, are things forgot,

For every man alone thinkes he hath got

To be a Phœnix, and that there can bee

None of that kinde, of which he is, but hee.

This is the worlds condition now, and now

She that should all parts to reunion bow,

She that had all Magnetique force alone,

To draw, and fasten sundred parts in one;

She whom wise nature had invented then

When she observ’d that every sort of men

Did in their voyage in this worlds Sea stray,

And needed a new compasse for their way;

Shee that was best, and first originall

Of all faire copies; and the generall

Steward to Fate; shee whose rich eyes, and brest,

Guilt the West Indies, and perfum’d the East;

Whose having breath’d in this world, did bestow

Spice on those Isles, and bad them still smell so,

And that rich Indie which doth gold interre,

Is but as single money, coyn’d from her:

She to whom this world must it selfe refer,

As Suburbs, or the Microcosme of her,

Shee, shee is dead; shee’s dead: when thou knowst this,

Thou knowst how lame a cripple this world is.

And learnst thus much by our Anatomy,

That this worlds generall sickenesse doth not lie

In any humour, or one certaine part;

But, as thou sawest it rotten at the hart,

Thou seest a Hectique fever hath got hold

Of the whole substance, not to be contrould,

And that thou hast but one way, not t’admit

The worlds infection, to be none of it.

For the worlds subtilst immateriall parts

Feele this consuming wound, and ages darts.

For the worlds beauty is decayd, or gone,

Beauty, that’s colour, and proportion.

We thinke the heavens enjoy their Spherical

Their round proportion embracing all.

But yet their various and perplexed course,

Observ’d in divers ages doth enforce

Men to finde out so many Eccentrique parts,

Such divers downe-right lines, such overthwarts,

As disproportion that pure forme. It teares

The Firmament in eight and fortie sheeres,

And in those constellations there arise

New starres, and old do vanish from our eyes:

As though heav’n suffred earth-quakes, peace or war,

When new Townes rise, and olde demolish’d are.

They have empayld within a Zodiake

The free-borne Sunne, and keepe twelve signes awake

To watch his steps; the Goat and Crabbe controule,

And fright him backe, who els to eyther Pole,

(Did not these Tropiques fetter him) might runne:

For his course is not round; nor can the Sunne

Perfit a Circle, or maintaine his way

One inche direct; but where he rose to day

He comes no more, but with a cousening line,

Steales by that point, and so is Serpentine:

And seeming weary with his reeling thus,

He meanes to sleepe, being now falne nearer us.