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Poems, By J. D. [i.e. John Donne]

With Elegies on the Authors Death
  

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To the Countesse of Bedford.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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To the Countesse of Bedford.

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.

109

Care not then, Madame, 'how low your prayses 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 our 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.

110

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 poore types of God (round circles) so
Religions tipes, the peeclesse 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.