University of Virginia Library

DR. DONNE'S FAREWELL TO Ye WORLD.

Farewell, you guilded follyes, pleasing troubles!
Farewell, you honnered rages, you cristall bubbles!
Fame's but a hollow eccho; gould pure clay;
Honour is but ye darling of one day;
Beauty, the 'eyes' idoll, but a damaske skinne;
State but a goulden prison to keep in
And torture freeborne mindes; embroiderèd traines
But goodly pajants, proudly-swelling veines;
Fame, riches, honour, state, traines, beautyes, birth,
Are but ye fading blessings of ye earth.
I would bee great, but see ye sunne doth still
Levill his beames against ye rising hill;
I would bee rich, but see men too unkind
Dippe in ye bowels of ye richest minds;
I would bee faire, but see ye champian proud
The world's faire eye off-setting in a cloud;
I would bee wise, but yt ye fox I see
Suspected guilty when ye asse is free;
I would bee poore, but see ye humble grasse
Is trampl'd on by each unworthy asse.
Rich hated, wise suspected, scorn'd if poore;
Great fear'd, faire tempted, & high envyed more:
Would ye world now adopt mee for his heire;
Would Beautye's Queene entitle mee ye faire;
Fame speake mee Honour's mineon; could I vey
The blisse of angells; wth a speaking eye
Command bare-heads, bow'd-knees, strike Justice domb
As well as blind & lame; & give a tongue
To stones by epitaphes; bee callèd Master
In ye loose lines of every Poetaster;
Could I bee more then any man yt lives
Rich, wise, great, faire, all in superlatives;
I count one minute of my holy leasure
Beyond to much of all this empty pleasure.
Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, yee carelesse groanes!
These are my guests, this is yt courtage tones:
Ye wingèd people of ye skeyes shall sing
Mine anthems; bee my sellar, gentle spring;
Here dwells noe hopelesse loves, noe palsy feares,
Noe short joyes purchas'd wth eternall teares;
Here will I sit, & sigh my hot youth's folly,
And learne to 'affect a holy malancholy;
And if contentment bee a stranger, then
Ile never looke for't but in Heaven againe;
And when I dye Ile turne my cave
Even from a chamber to a silent grave:
The falling spring upon the rocke shall weare
Mine epitaph, & cause a breine teare
From him who askes who in this tomb doth lye:
The dolefull Eccho answeres: It is I.