 | Poems, By J. D. [i.e. John Donne] |  |
106
To M.M. H.
Mad paper stay, and grudge not here to burne
With all those sonnes whom my braine did create,
At lest lye hid with mee, till thou returne.
To rags againe, which is thy native state.
With all those sonnes whom my braine did create,
At lest lye hid with mee, till thou returne.
To rags againe, which is thy native state.
What though thou have enough unworthinesse
To come unto great place as others doe,
That's much, emboldens, pulls, thrusts I confesse,
But 'tis not all, thou should'st be wicked too.
To come unto great place as others doe,
That's much, emboldens, pulls, thrusts I confesse,
But 'tis not all, thou should'st be wicked too.
And, that thou canst not learne, or not of mee;
Yet thou wilt goe, Goe, since thou goest to her
Who lacks but faults to be a Prince, for shee,
Truth, whom they dare not pardon, dares preferre.
Yet thou wilt goe, Goe, since thou goest to her
Who lacks but faults to be a Prince, for shee,
Truth, whom they dare not pardon, dares preferre.
But when thou com'st to that perplexing eye
Which equally claimes love and reverence.
Thou wilt not long dispute it, thou wilt die;
And, having little now, have then no sense.
Which equally claimes love and reverence.
Thou wilt not long dispute it, thou wilt die;
And, having little now, have then no sense.
Yet when her warme redeeming hand, which is
A miracle; and made such to worke more,
Doth touch thee (saples leafe) thou grow'st by this
Her creature; glorify'd more then before.
A miracle; and made such to worke more,
Doth touch thee (saples leafe) thou grow'st by this
Her creature; glorify'd more then before.
107
Then as a mother which delights to heare
Her early child mispeake halfe uttered words,
Or, because majesty doth never feare
Ill or bold speech, she Audience affords.
Her early child mispeake halfe uttered words,
Or, because majesty doth never feare
Ill or bold speech, she Audience affords.
And then, cold speechlesse wretch, thou diest againe,
And wisely; what discourse is left for thee?
For, speech of ill, and her thou must abstaine,
And is there any good which is not shee?
And wisely; what discourse is left for thee?
For, speech of ill, and her thou must abstaine,
And is there any good which is not shee?
Yet maist thou praise her servants, though not her,
And wit, and vertue, 'and honour her attend,
And since they'are but her cloathes, thou shalt not erre
If thou her shape and beauty'and grace commend.
And wit, and vertue, 'and honour her attend,
And since they'are but her cloathes, thou shalt not erre
If thou her shape and beauty'and grace commend.
Who knowes thy destiny? when thou hast done,
Perchance her Cabinet may harbour thee,
Whither all noble ambitious wits doe runne,
A nest almost as full of Good as shee.
Perchance her Cabinet may harbour thee,
Whither all noble ambitious wits doe runne,
A nest almost as full of Good as shee.
When thou art there, if any, whom wee know,
Were sav'd before, and did that heaven partake,
When she revolves his papers, marke what show
Of favour, she alone, to them doth make.
Were sav'd before, and did that heaven partake,
When she revolves his papers, marke what show
Of favour, she alone, to them doth make.
Marke, if to get them, she o'r skip the rest,
Marke, if shee read them twice, or kisse the name;
Marke, if she doe the same that they protest,
Marke, if she marke whether her woman came.
Marke, if shee read them twice, or kisse the name;
Marke, if she doe the same that they protest,
Marke, if she marke whether her woman came.
108
Marke, if slight things be'objected, and o'r blowne,
Marke, if her oathes against him be not still
Reserv'd, and that shee grieves she's not her owne,
And chides the doctrine that denies Freewill.
Marke, if her oathes against him be not still
Reserv'd, and that shee grieves she's not her owne,
And chides the doctrine that denies Freewill.
I bid thee not doe this to be my spie;
Nor to make my selfe her familiar;
But so much I doe love her choyce, that I
Would faine love him that shall be lov'd of her.
Nor to make my selfe her familiar;
But so much I doe love her choyce, that I
Would faine love him that shall be lov'd of her.
| Poems, By J. D. [i.e. John Donne] | |