But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all! Thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the Poet's matter Nature be
His art doth give the fashion. And that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat
(Such as thine are), and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same

(And himself with it), that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn!

For a good Poet's made as well as born;

And such wert thou! Look how the father's face

Lives in his issue; even so, the race

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-turnèd and true-filèd lines;

In each of which he seems to shake a lance

As brandish'd at the eyes of Ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were

To see thee in our water yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza, and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanc'd, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage

Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage;
Which since thy flight from hence hath mourn'd like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.

164

JOHN DONNE
[1573-1631]

THE FUNERAL

WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm

Nor question much

That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm;
The mystery, the sign you must not touch,
For 'tis my outward soul,

Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone,

Will leave this to control

And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall

Through every part

Can tie those parts, and make me one of all;

Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,

Can better do 't: except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,

As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by't, bury it with me,
For since I am

Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry
If into other hands these reliques came.
As 'twas humility

T'afford to it all that a soul can do,

So 'tis some bravery

That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

165

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,

Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow'd in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done;
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun

My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore: And having done that, Thou hast done;

I fear no more.

166

VALEDICTION, FORBIDDING MOURNING

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go;

While some of their sad friends do say,
Now his breath goes, and some say, No;

So let us melt, and make no noise,

No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move; 'Twere profanation of our joys

To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidations of the spheres,
Though greater far, are innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love,

Whose soul is sense, cannot admit
Absence; for that it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we, by a love so far refined,

That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,

Careless, eyes, lips and hands to miss,

-Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet

A breach, but an expansion,

Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so

As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circles just,
And makes me end where I begun.

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go-
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!

Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

DEAR love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream;
It was a theme

For reason, much too strong for fantasy.

169

Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet

My dream thou brak'st not, but continued'st it:
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths and fables histories.
Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.

As lightning, or a taper's light,

Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me;
Yet I thought thee-

For thou lov'st truth-an angel at first sight;
But when I saw thou saw'st my heart,

And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art,

When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when

Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then,

I must confess it could not choose but be

Profane to think thee anything but thee.

Coming and staying show'd thee thee;
But rising makes me doubt that now
Thou art not thou.

That Love is weak where Fear's as strong as he;
'Tis not all spirit pure and brave,

If mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have.
Perchance, as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou dealst with me.
Thou cam'st to kindle, goest to come: then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.

SONG

Go and catch a falling star,

Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past hours are,
Or who cleft the Devil's foot;
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,