Donne (6 page)

Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hate

Perfectly all this towne, yet there’s one state

In all ill things so excellently best,

That hate, toward them, breeds pitty towards the rest.

Though Poëtry indeed be such a sinne

As I thinke that brings dearths, and Spaniards in,

Though like the Pestilence and old fashion’d love,

Ridlingly it catch men; and doth remove

Never, till it be sterv’d out; yet their state

Is poore, disarm’d, like Papists, not worth hate.

One, (like a wretch, which at Barre judg’d as dead,

Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot reade,

And saves his life) gives ideot actors meanes

(Starving himselfe) to live by his labor’d sceanes;

As in some Organ, Puppits dance above

And bellows pant below, which them do move.

One would move Love by rithmes; but witchcrafts charms

Bring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes:

Rammes, and slings now are seely battery,

Pistolets are the best Artillerie.

And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,

Are they not like singers at doores for meat?

And they who write, because all write, have still

That excuse for writing, and for writing ill;

But hee is worst, who (beggarly) doth chaw

Others wits fruits, and in his ravenous maw

Rankly digested, doth those things out-spue,

As his owne things; and they are his owne, ’tis true,

For if one eate my meate, though it be knowne

The meate was mine, th’excrement is his owne:

But these do mee no harme, nor they which use

To out-doe Dildoes, and out-usure Jewes;

To out-drinke the sea, to out-sweare the Letanie;

Who with sinnes all kindes as familiar bee

As Confessors; and for whose sinfull sake,

Schoolemen new tenements in hell must make:

Whose strange sinnes, Canonists could hardly tell

In which Commandements large receit they dwell.

But these punish themselves; the insolence

Of Coscus onely breeds my just offence,

Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches poxe,

And plodding on, must make a calfe an oxe)

Hath made a Lawyer, which was (alas) of late

But a scarce Poët; jollier of this state,

Then are new benefic’d ministers, he throwes

Like nets, or lime-twigs, wheresoever he goes,

His title of Barrister, on every wench,

And wooes in language of the Pleas, and Bench:

A motion, Lady; Speake Coscus; I have beene

In love, ever since
tricesimo
of the Queene,

Continuall claimes I have made, injunctions got

To stay my rivals suit, that hee should not

Proceed, spare mee; In Hillary terme I went,

You said, If I return’d next size in Lent,

I should be in remitter of your grace;

In th’interim my letters should take place

Of affidavits: words, words, which would teare

The tender labyrinth of a soft maids eare,

More, more, then ten Sclavonians scolding, more

Then when winds in our ruin’d Abbeyes rore;

Which sicke with Poëtrie, and possest with muse

Thou wast, and mad, I hop’d; but men which chuse

Law practise for meere gaine, bold soule, repute

Worse then imbrothel’d strumpets prostitute.

Now like an owlelike watchman, hee must walke

His hand still at a bill, now he must talke

Idly, like prisoners, which whole months will sweare

That onely suretiship hath brought them there,

And to every suitor lye in every thing,

Like a Kings favourite, yea like a King;

Like a wedge in a blocke, wring to the barre,

Bearing like Asses, and more shamelesse farre

Then carted whores, lye, to the grave Judge; for

Bastardy abounds not in Kings titles, nor

Symonie and Sodomy in Churchmens lives,

As these things do in him; by these he thrives.

Shortly (as the sea) hee will compasse all the land,

From Scots, to Wight; from Mount, to Dover strand.

And spying heires melting with luxurie,

Satan will not joy at their sinnes, as hee.

For as a thrifty wench scrapes kitching-stuffe,

And barrelling the droppings, and the snuffe,

Of wasting candles, which in thirty yeare

(Relique-like kept) perchance buyes wedding geare;

Peecemeale he gets lands, and spends as much time

Wringing each Acre, as men pulling prime.

In parchment then, large as his fields, hee drawes

Assurances, bigge, as gloss’d civill lawes,

So huge, that men (in our times forwardnesse)

Are Fathers of the Church for writing lesse.

These hee writes not; nor for these written payes,

Therefore spares no length; as in those first dayes

When Luther was profest, He did desire

Short
Pater nosters
, saying as a Fryer

Each day his beads, but having left those lawes,

Addes to Christs prayer, the Power and glory clause.

But when he sells or changes land, he’impaires

His writings, and (unwatch’d) leaves out,
ses heires
,

As slily as any Commentator goes by

Hard words, or sense; or in Divinity

As controverters, in vouch’d Texts, leave out

Shrewd words, which might against them cleare the doubt.

Where are those spred woods which cloth’d hertofore

Those bought lands? not built, nor burnt within dore.

Where’s th’old landlords troops, and almes? In great hals

Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bachanalls

Equally I hate; meanes blesse; in rich mens homes

I bid kill some beasts, but no Hecatombs,

None starve, none surfet so; But (Oh) we allow,

Good workes as good, but out of fashion now,

Like old rich wardrops; but my words none drawes

Within the vast reach of th’huge statute lawes.

Kinde pitty chokes my spleene; brave scorn forbids

Those teares to issue which swell my eye-lids;

I must not laugh, nor weepe sinnes, and be wise,

Can railing then cure these worne maladies?

Is not our Mistresse faire Religion,

As worthy of all our Soules devotion,

As vertue was to the first blinded age?

Are not heavens joyes as valiant to asswage

Lusts, as earths honour was to them? Alas,

As wee do them in meanes, shall they surpasse

Us in the end, and shall thy fathers spirit

Meete blinde Philosophers in heaven, whose merit

Of strict life may be imputed faith, and heare

Thee, whom hee taught so easie wayes and neare

To follow, damn’d? O if thou dar’st, feare this.

This feare great courage, and high valour is;

Dar’st thou ayd mutinous Dutch, and dar’st thou lay

Thee in ships woodden Sepulchers, a prey

To leaders rage, to stormes, to shot, to dearth?

Dar’st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth?

Hast thou couragious fire to thaw the ice

Of frozen North discoveries? and thrise

Colder then Salamanders, like divine

Children in th’oven, fires of Spaine, and the line,

Whose countries limbecks to our bodies bee,

Canst thou for gaine beare? and must every hee

Which cryes not, Goddesse, to thy Mistresse, draw,

Or eat thy poysonous words? courage of straw!

O desperate coward, wilt thou seeme bold, and

To thy foes and his (who made thee to stand

Sentinell in his worlds garrison) thus yeeld,

And for the forbidden warres, leave th’appointed field?

Know thy foe, the foule devill h’is, whom thou

Strivest to please: for hate, not love, would allow

Thee faine, his whole Realme to be quit; and as

The worlds all parts wither away and passe,

So the worlds selfe, thy other lov’d foe, is

In her decrepit wayne, and thou loving this,

Dost love a withered and worne strumpet; last,

Flesh (it selfes death) and joyes which flesh can taste,

Thou lovest; and thy faire goodly soule, which doth

Give this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loath;

Seeke true religion. O where? Mirreus

Thinking her unhous’d here, and fled from us,

Seekes her at Rome, there, because hee doth know

That shee was there a thousand yeares agoe,

He loves her ragges so, as wee here obey

The statecloth where the Prince sate yesterday,

Crants to such brave Loves will not be inthrall’d,

But loves her onely, who at Geneva is call’d

Religion, plaine, simple, sullen, yong,

Contemptuous, yet unhansome. As among

Lecherous humors, there is one that judges

No wenches wholsome, but course country drudges.

Graius stayes still at home here, and because

Some Preachers, vile ambitious bauds, and lawes

Still new like fashions, bid him thinke that shee

Which dwels with us, is onely perfect, hee

Imbraceth her, whom his Godfathers will

Tender to him, being tender, as Wards still

Take such wives as their Guardians offer, or

Pay valewes. Carelesse Phrygius doth abhorre

All, because all cannot be good, as one

Knowing some women whores, dares marry none.

Graccus loves all as one, and thinkes that so

As women do in divers countries goe

In divers habits, yet are still one kinde;

So doth, so is Religion; and this blind-

nesse too much light breeds; but unmoved thou

Of force must one, and forc’d but one allow;

And the right; aske thy father which is shee,

Let him aske his; though truth and falsehood bee

Neare twins, yet truth a little elder is;

Be busie to seeke her, beleeve mee this,

Hee’s not of none, nor worst, that seekes the best.

To adore, or scorne an image, or protest,

May all be bad; doubt wisely, in strange way

To stand inquiring right, is not to stray;

To sleepe, or runne wrong, is: on a huge hill,

Cragg’d, and steep, Truth stands, and hee that will

Reach her, about must, and about must goe;

And what the hills suddennes resists, winne so;

Yet strive so, that before age, deaths twilight,

Thy Soule rest, for none can worke in that night.

To will, implyes delay, therefore now doe.

Hard deeds, the bodies paines; hard knowledge too

The mindes indeavours reach, and mysteries

Are like the Sunne, dazzling, yet plaine to all eyes;

Keepe the truth which thou hast found; men do not stand

In so ill case here, that God hath with his hand

Sign’d Kings blanck-charters to kill whom they hate,

Nor are they Vicars, but hangmen to Fate.

Foole and wretch, wilt thou let thy Soule be tyed

To mans lawes, by which she shall not be tryed

At the last day? Will it then boot thee

To say a Philip, or a Gregory,

A Harry, or a Martin taught thee this?

Is not this excuse for mere contraries,

Equally strong? cannot both sides say so?

That thou mayest rightly obey power, her bounds know;

Those past, her nature, and name is chang’d; to be

Then humble to her is idolatrie;

As streames are, Power is; those blest flowers that dwell

At the rough streames calme head, thrive and do well,

But having left their roots, and themselves given

To the streames tyrannous rage, alas are driven

Through mills, and rockes, and woods, and at last, almost

Consum’d in going, in the sea are lost:

So perish Soules, which more chuse mens unjust

Power from God claym’d, then God himselfe to trust.

Well; I may now receive, and die; My sinne

Indeed is great, but I have beene in

A Purgatorie, such as fear’d hell is

A recreation, and scant map of this.

My minde, neither with prides itch, nor yet hath been

Poyson’d with love to see, or to bee seene,

I had no suit there, nor new suite to shew,

Yet went to Court; But as Glaze which did goe

To’a Masse in jest, catch’d, was faine to disburse

The hundred markes, which is the Statutes curse,

Before he scapt; So’it pleas’d my destinie

(Guilty of my sin of going), to thinke me

As prone to all ill, and of good as forget-

full, as proud, as lustfull, and as much in debt,

As vaine, as witlesse, and as false as they

Which dwell at Court, for once going that way.

Therefore I suffered this; Towards me did runne

A thing more strange, then on Niles slime, the Sunne

E’r bred, or all which into Noahs Arke came:

A thing, which would have pos’d Adam to name,

Stranger then seaven Antiquaries studies,

Then Africks Monsters, Guianaes rarities,

Stranger then strangers; One, who for a Dane,

In the Danes Massacre had sure beene slaine,

If he had liv’d then; And without helpe dies,

When next the Prentises ’gainst Strangers rise.

One, whom the watch at noone lets scarce goe by,

One, to whom, the examining Justice sure would cry,

Sir, by your priesthood tell me what you are.

His cloths were strange, though coarse; and black, though bare;

Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had beene

Velvet, but ’twas now (so much ground was seene)

Become Tufftaffatie; and our children shall

See it plaine Rashe awhile, then nought at all.

This thing hath travail’d, and saith, speakes all tongues

And only knoweth what to all States belongs.

Made of th’Accents, and best phrase of all these,

He speakes one language; If strange meats displease,

Art can deceive, or hunger force my tast,

But Pedants motley tongue, souldiers bumbast,

Mountebankes drugtongue, nor the termes of law

Are strong enough preparatives, to draw

Me to beare this, yet I must be content

With his tongue: in his tongue, call’d complement:

In which he can win widdowes, and pay scores,

Make men speake treason, cosen subtlest whores,

Out-flatter favorites, or outlie either

Jovius, or Surius, or both together.

He names mee, and comes to mee; I whisper, God!

How have I sinn’d, that thy wraths furious rod,

This fellow chuseth me? He saith, Sir,

I love your judgement; Whom doe you prefer,

For the best linguist? And I seelily

Said, that I thought Calepines Dictionarie;

Nay, but of men, most sweet Sir. Beza then,

Some Jesuites, and two reverend men

Of our two Academies, I named; There

He stopt mee, and said; Nay, your Apostles were

Good pretty linguists, and so Panurge was;

Yet a poore gentleman; all these may passe

By travaile. Then, as if he would have sold

His tongue, he praised it, and such wonders told

That I was faine to say, If you’had liv’d, Sir,

Time enough to have beene Interpreter

To Babells bricklayers, sure the Tower had stood.

He adds, If of court life you knew the good,

You would leave lonenesse; I said, not alone

My lonenesse is, but Spartanes fashion,

To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last

Now; Aretines pictures have made few chast;

No more can Princes courts, though there be few

Better pictures of vice, teach me vertue;

He, like to a high strecht lute string squeakt, O Sir,

’Tis sweet to talke of Kings. At Westminster,

Said I, The man that keepes the Abbey tombes,

And for his price doth with who ever comes,

Of all our Harries, and our Edwards talke,

From King to King and all their kin can walke:

Your eares shall heare nought, but Kings; your eyes meet

Kings only; The way to it, is Kingstreet.

He smack’d, and cry’d, He’s base, Mechanique, coarse,

So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.

Are not your Frenchmen neate? Mine? as you see,

I have but one Frenchman, looke, hee followes mee.

Certes they are neatly cloth’d. I, of this minde am,

Your only wearing is your Grogaram.

Not so Sir, I have more. Under this pitch

He would not flie; I chaff’d him; But as Itch

Scratch’d into smart, and as blunt iron ground

Into an edge, hurts worse: So, I (foole) found,

Crossing hurt mee; To fit my sullennesse,

He to another key, his stile doth addresse,

And askes, what newes? I tell him of new playes.

He takes my hand, and as a Still, which staies

A Sembriefe, ’twixt each drop, he nigardly,

As loth to enrich mee, so tells many a lie.

More then ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stowes,

Of triviall houshold trash he knowes; He knowes

When the Queene frown’d, or smil’d, and he knowes what

A subtle States-man may gather of that;

He knowes who loves; whom; and who by poyson

Hasts to an Offices reversion;

He knowes who’hath sold his land, and now doth beg

A licence, old iron, bootes, shooes, and egge-

shels to transport; Shortly boyes shall not play

At span-counter, or blow-point, but they pay

Toll to some Courtier; And wiser then all us,

He knowes what Ladie is not painted; Thus

He with home-meats tries me; I belch, spue, spit,

Looke pale, and sickly, like a Patient; Yet

He thrusts on more; And as if he’undertooke

To say Gallo-Belgicus without booke

Speakes of all States, and deeds, that have been since

The Spaniards came, to the losse of Amyens.

Like a bigge wife, at sight of loathed meat,

Readie to travaile: So I sigh, and sweat

To heare this Makeron talke in vaine: For yet,

Either my humour, or his owne to fit,

He like a priviledg’d spie, whom nothing can

Discredit, Libells now ’gainst each great man.

He names a price for every office paid;

He saith, our warres thrive ill, because delai’d;

That offices are entail’d, and that there are

Perpetuities of them, lasting as farre

As the last day; And that great officers,

Doe with the Pirates share, and Dunkirkers.

Who wasts in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes;

Who loves Whores, who boyes, and who goats.

I more amas’d then Circes prisoners, when

They felt themselves turne beasts, felt my selfe then

Becomming Traytor, and mee thought I saw

One of our Giant Statutes ope his jaw

To sucke me in; for hearing him, I found

That as burnt venome Leachers do grow sound

By giving others their soares, I might growe

Guilty, and he free: Therefore I did shew

All signes of loathing; But since I am in,

I must pay mine, and my forefathers sinne

To the last farthing; Therefore to my power

Toughly and stubbornly I beare this crosse;

    But the’houre

Of mercy now was come; He tries to bring

Me to pay a fine to scape his torturing,

And saies, Sir, can you spare me; I said, willingly;

Nay, Sir, can you spare me a crowne? Thankfully I

Gave it, as Ransome; But as fidlers, still,

Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will

Thrust one more jigge upon you: so did hee

With his long complementall thankes vexe me.

But he is gone, thankes to his needy want,

And the prerogative of my Crowne: Scant

His thankes were ended, when I, (which did see

All the court fill’d with more strange things then hee)

Ran from thence with such or more haste, then one

Who feares more actions, doth haste from prison;

At home in wholesome solitarinesse

My precious soule began, the wretchednesse

Of suiters at court to mourne, and a trance

Like his, who dreamt he saw hell, did advance

It selfe on mee, Such men as he saw there,

I saw at court, and worse, and more; Low feare

Becomes the guiltie, not the accuser; Then,

Shall I, nones slave, of high borne, or rais’d men

Feare frownes? And, my Mistresse Truth, betray thee

To th’huffing braggart, puft Nobility?

No, no, Thou which since yesterday hast beene

Almost about the whole world, hast thou seene,

O Sunne, in all thy journey, Vanitie,

Such as swells the bladder of our court? I

Thinke he which made your waxen garden, and

Transported it from Italy to stand

With us, at London, flouts our Presence, for

Just such gay painted things, which no sappe, nor

Tast have in them, ours are; And naturall

Some of the stocks are, their fruits, bastard all.

’Tis ten a clock and past; All whom the Mues,

Baloune, Tennis, Dyet, or the stewes,

Had all the morning held, now the second

Time made ready, that day, in flocks, are found

In the Presence, and I, (God pardon mee.)

As fresh, and sweet their Apparrells be, as bee

The fields they sold to buy them; For a King

Those hose are, cry the flatterers; And bring

Them next weeke to the Theatre to sell;

Wants reach all states; Me seemes they doe as well

At stage, as court; All are players, who e’r lookes

(For themselves dare not goe) o’r Cheapside books,

Shall finde their wardrops Inventory; Now,

The Ladies come; As Pirats, which doe know

That there came weak ships fraught with Cutchannel,

The men board them; and praise, as they thinke, well,

Their beauties; they the mens wits; Both are bought.

Why good wits ne’r weare scarlet gownes, I thought

This cause, These men, mens wits for speeches buy,

And women buy all reds which scarlets die.

He call’d her beauty limetwigs, her haire net.

She feares her drugs ill laid, her haire loose set;

Would not Heraclitus laugh to see Macrine,

From hat, to shooe, himselfe at doore refine,

As if the Presence were a Moschite, and lift

His skirts and hose, and call his clothes to shrift,

Making them confesse not only mortall

Great staines and holes in them; but veniall

Feathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate:

And then by
Durers
rules survay the state

Of his each limbe, and with strings the odds trye

Of his neck to his legge, and wast to thighes.

So in immaculate clothes, and Symetrie

Perfect as circles, with such nicetie

As a young Preacher at his first time goes

To preach, he enters, and a Lady which owes

Him not so much as good will, he arrests,

And unto her protests protests protests

So much as at Rome would serve to have throwne

Ten Cardinalls into the Inquisition;

And whispered by Jesu, so often, that A

Pursevant would have ravish’d him away

For saying of our Ladies psalter; But ’tis fit

That they each other plague, they merit it.

But here comes Glorius that will plague them both,

Who, in the other extreme, only doth

Call a rough carelessenesse, good fashion;

Whose cloak his spurres teare; whom he spits on

He cares not, His ill words doe no harme

To him; he rusheth in, as if arme, arme,

He meant to crie; And though his face be as ill

As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, still

He strives to looke worse, he keepes all in awe;

Jeasts like a licenc’d foole, commands like law.

Tyr’d, now I leave this place, and but pleas’d so

As men which from gaoles to’execution goe,

Goe through the great chamber (why is it hung

With the seaven deadly sinnes?) being among

Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw

Charing Crosse for a barre, men that doe know

No token of worth, but Queenes man, and fine

Living, barrells of beefe, flaggons of wine;

I shooke like a spyed Spie; Preachers which are

Seas of Wits and Arts, you can, then dare,

Drowne the sinnes of this place, for, for mee

Which am but a scarce brooke, it enough shall bee

To wash the staines away; though I yet

With
Macchabees
modestie, the knowne merit

Of my worke lessen: yet some wise man shall,

I hope, esteeme my writs Canonicall.