Donne (9 page)

So, of the stares which boast that they do runne

In Circle still, none ends where he begunne.

All their proportion’s lame, it sinks, it swels.

For of Meridians, and Parallels,

Man hath weav’d out a net, and this net throwne

Upon the Heavens, and now they are his owne.

Loth to goe up the hill, or labor thus

To goe to heaven, we make heaven come to us.

We spur, we raine the stars, and in their race

They’re diversly content t’obey our pace.

But keepes the earth her round proportion still?

Doth not a Tenarif, or higher Hill

Rise so high like a Rocke, that one might thinke

The floating Moone would shipwracke there, and sink?

Seas are so deepe, that Whales being strooke to day,

Perchance to morrow, scarse at middle way

Of their wish’d journeys end, the bottom, dye.

And men, to sound depths, so much line untie,

As one might justly thinke, that there would rise

At end thereof, one of th’Antipodies:

If under all, a Vault infernall be,

(Which sure is spacious, except that we

Invent another torment, that there must

Millions into a strait hote roome be thrust)

Then solidnes, and roundnes have no place.

Are these but warts, and pock-holes in the face

Of th’earth? Thinke so: But yet confesse, in this

The worlds proportion disfigured is,

That those two legges whereon it doth relie,

Reward and punishment are bent awrie.

And, Oh, it can no more be questioned,

That beauties best, proportion, is dead,

Since even griefe it selfe, which now alone

Is left us, is without proportion.

Shee by whose lines proportion should bee

Examin’d, measure of all Symmetree,

Whom had that Ancient seen, who thought soules made

Of Harmony, he would at next have said

That Harmony was shee, and thence infer,

That soules were but Resultances from her,

And did from her into our bodies go,

As to our eyes, the formes from objects flow:

Shee, who if those great Doctors truely said

That th’Arke to mans proportions was made,

Had beene a type for that, as that might be

A type of her in this, that contrary

Both Elements, and Passions liv’d at peace

In her, who caus’d all Civill warre to cease.

Shee, after whom, what forme soe’re we see,

Is discord, and rude incongruitee,

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

Thou knowst how ugly a monster this world is:

And learnst thus much by our Anatomee,

That here is nothing to enamor thee:

And that, not onely faults in inward parts,

Corruptions in our braines, or in our harts,

Poysoning the fountaines, whence our actions spring,

Endanger us: but that if every thing

Be not done fitly’and in proportion,

To satisfie wise, and good lookers on,

(Since most men be such as most thinke they bee)

They’re lothsome too, by this Deformitee.

For good, and well, must in our actions meete:

Wicked is not much worse then indiscreet.

But beauties other second Element,

Colour, and lustre now, is as neere spent.

And had the world his just proportion,

Were it a ring still, yet the stone is gone.

As a compassionate Turcoyse which doth tell

By looking pale, the wearer is not well,

As gold fals sicke being stung with Mercury,

All the worlds parts of such complexion bee.

When nature was most busie, the first weeke,

Swadling the new-borne earth, God seemd to like,

That she should sport herselfe sometimes, and play,

To mingle and vary colours every day.

And then, as though she could not make inow,

Himselfe his various Rainbow did allow.

Sight is the noblest sense of any one,

Yet sight hath onely color to feed on,

And color is decayd: summers robe growes

Duskie, and like an oft dyed garment showes.

Our blushing redde, which us’d in cheekes to spred,

Is inward sunke, and onely our soules are redde.

Perchance the world might have recovered,

If she whom we lament had not beene dead:

But shee, in whom all white, and redde, and blue

(Beauties ingredients) voluntary grew,

As in an unvext Paradise; from whom

Did all things verdure, and their lustre come,

Whose composition was miraculous,

Being all colour, all Diaphanous,

(For Ayre, and Fire but thicke grosse bodies were,

And liveliest stones but drowsie, and pale to her,)

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

Thou knowst how wan a Ghost this our world is:

And learnst thus much by our Anatomee,

That it should more affright, then pleasure thee.

And that, since all faire colour then did sinke,

Tis now but wicked vanity to thinke,

To color vitious deeds with good pretence,

Or with bought colors to illude mens sense.

Nor in ought more this worlds decay appeares,

Then that her influence the heav’n forbeares,

Or that the Elements doe not feele this,

The father, or the mother barren is.

The clouds conceive not raine, or doe not powre

In the due birth-time, downe the balmy showre.

Th’Ayre doth not motherly sit on the earth,

To hatch her seasons, and give all things birth.

Spring-times were common cradles, but are toombes;

And false-conceptions fill the general wombs.

Th’Ayre showes such Meteors, as none can see,

Not onely what they meane, but what they bee.

Earth such new wormes, as would have troubled much,

Th’Egyptian Mages to have made more such.

What Artist now dares boast that he can bring

Heaven hither, or constellate any thing,

So as the influence of those starres may bee

Imprisond in an Herbe, or Charme, or Tree,

And doe by touch, all which those starres could do?

The art is lost, and correspondence too.

For heaven gives little, and the earth takes lesse,

And man least knowes their trade, and purposes.

If this commerce twixt heaven and earth were not

Embarr’d, and all this trafique quite forgot,

Shee, for whose losse we have lamented thus,

Would worke more fully’and pow’rfully on us.

Since herbes, and roots, by dying, lose not all,

But they, yea Ashes too, are medicinall,

Death could not quench her vertue so, but that

It would be (if not follow’d) wondred at:

And all the world would be one dying Swan,

To sing her funerall prayse, and vanish than.

But as some Serpents poyson hurteth not,

Except it be from the live Serpent shot,

So doth her vertue need her here, to fit

That unto us; she working more then it.

But she, in whom, to such maturity,

Vertue was growne, past growth, that it must die,

She from whose influence all Impressions came,

But, by Receivers impotencies, lame,

Who, though she could not transubstantiate

All states to gold, yet guilded every state,

So that some Princes have some temperance;

Some Counsaylors some purpose to advance

The common profite; and some people have

Some stay, no more then Kings should give, to crave;

Some women have some taciturnity;

Some Nunneries, some graines of chastity.

She that did thus much, and much more could doe,

But that our age was Iron, and rusty too,

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

Thou knowst how drie a Cinder this world is.

And learnst thus much by our Anatomy,

That ’tis in vaine to dew, or mollifie

It with thy Teares, or Sweat, or Bloud: no thing

Is worth our travaile, griefe, or perishing,

But those rich joyes, which did possesse her hart,

Of which shee’s now partaker, and a part.

But as in cutting up a man that’s dead,

The body will not last out to have read

On every part, and therefore men direct

Their speech to parts, that are of most effect;

So the worlds carcasse would not last, if I

Were punctuall in this Anatomy.

Nor smels it well to hearers, if one tell

Them their disease, who faine would think they’re wel.

Here therefore be the end: And, blessed maid,

Of whom is meant what ever hath beene said,

Or shall be spoken well by any tongue,

Whose name refines course lines, and makes prose song,

Accept this tribute, and his first yeares rent,

Who till his darke short tapers end be spent,

As oft as thy feast sees this widow’d earth,

Will yearely celebrate thy second birth,

That is, thy death. For though the soule of man

Be got when man is made, ’tis borne but than

When man doth die. Our body’s as the wombe,

And as a mid-wife death directs it home.

And you her creatures, whom she workes upon

And have your last, and best concoction

From her example, and her vertue, if you

In reverence to her, doe thinke it due,

That no one should her prayses thus reherse,

As matter fit for Chronicle, not verse,

Vouchsafe to call to minde, that God did make

A last, and lasting peece, a song. He spake

To
Moses
to deliver unto all,

That song: because hee knew they would let fall

The Law, the Prophets, and the History,

But keepe the song still in their memory.

Such an opinion (in due measure) made

Me this great Office boldly to invade.

Nor could incomprehensiblenesse deterre

Me, from thus trying to emprison her.

Which when I saw that a strict grave could do,

I saw not why verse might not doe so too.

Verse hath a middle nature: heaven keepes soules,

The grave keeps bodies, verse the fame enroules.

Thou hast made me, And shall thy worke decay?

Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste,

I runne to death, and death meets me as fast,

And all my pleasures are like yesterday,

I dare not move my dimme eyes any way,

Despaire behind, and death before doth cast

Such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste

By sinne in it, which it t’wards hell doth weigh;

Onely thou art above, and when towards thee

By thy leave I can looke, I rise againe;

But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,

That not one houre my selfe I can sustaine,

Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art,

And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.

I am a little world made cunningly

Of Elements, and an Angelike spright,

But black sinne hath betraid to endless night

My worlds both parts, and (oh) both parts must die.

You which beyond that heaven which was most high

Have found new sphears, and of new lands can write,

Powre new seas in mine eyes, that so I might

Drowne my world with my weeping earnestly,

Or wash it if it must be drown’d no more:

But oh it must be burnt; alas the fire

Of lust and envie have burnt it heretofore,

And made it fouler; Let their flames retire,

And burne me ô Lord, with a fiery zeale

Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heale.

A
NNUNCIATION

Salvation to all that will is nigh
,

That All, which alwayes is All every where,

Which cannot sinne, and yet all sinnes must beare,

Which cannot die, yet cannot chuse but die,

Loe, faithfull Virgin, yeelds himselfe to lye

In prison, in thy wombe; and though he there

Can take no sinne, nor thou give, yet he’will weare

Taken from thence, flesh, which deaths force may trie.

Ere by the spheares time was created, thou

Wast in his minde, who is thy Sonne, and Brother,

Whom thou conceiv’st, conceiv’d; yea thou art now

Thy Makers maker, and thy Fathers mother,

Thou’hast light in darke; and shutst in little roome,

Immensity cloysterd in thy deare wombe.

N
ATIVITIE

Immensitie cloysterd in thy deare wombe
,

Now leaves his welbelov’d imprisonment,

There he hath made himselfe to his intent

Weake enough, now into our world to come;

But Oh, for thee, for him, hath th’Inne no roome?

Yet lay him in this stall, and from the Orient,

Starres, and wisemen will travell to prevent

Th’effect of
Herods
jealous generall doome;

Seest thou, my Soule, with thy faiths eyes, how he

Which fils all place, yet none holds him, doth lye?

Was not his pity towards thee wondrous high,

That would have need to be pittied by thee?

Kisse him, and with him into Egypt goe,

With his kinde mother, who partakes thy woe.

O might those sighes and teares returne againe

Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,

That I might in this holy discontent

Mourne with some fruit, as I have mourn’d in vaine;

In mine Idolatry what showres of raine

Mine eyes did waste? what griefs my heart did rent?

That sufferance was my sinne I now repent,

’Cause I did suffer I must suffer paine.

Th’hydroptique drunkard, and night-scouting thiefe,

The itchy Lecher, and selfe tickling proud

Have the remembrance of past joyes, for reliefe

Of comming ills. To (poore) me is allow’d

No ease; for, long, yet vehement griefe hath beene

Th’effect and cause, the punishment and sinne.