By
John Donne.
To have written then, when you writ, seem'd to me
Worst
of
spiritual vices,
simony ;
And not to have written then seems little less
Than worst of
civil vices,
thanklessness.
In this, my debt I seem'd loth
to confess ;
In that, I seem'd to shun
beholdingness.
But 'tis not so ;
nothings, as I am, may
Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay.
Such
borrow in their
payments, and owe more
By having leave to write so, than
before.
Yet, since
rich mines in barren grounds are shown,
May not I
yield (not
gold but)
coal or
stone ?
Temples were not demolish'd, though
profane ;
Here
Peter Jove's ; there
Paul hath Dian's fane.
So whether my
hymns you admit or choose,
In me you've
hallowed a
pagan muse,
And
denizen'd a
stranger, who, mistaught
By
blamers of the times they marr'd,
hath sought
Virtues in corners, which now bravelv do
Shine in the
world's best part, or all it—you.
I have been told, that virtue in
courtiers' hearts
Suffers an ostracism, and departs.
Profit,
ease,
fitness,
plenty, bid it go ;
But whither, only knowing you, I know.
Your, or you
virtue, two vast uses serves ;
It ransoms one
sex, and one
court
preserves.
There's
nothing but your worth, which being true
Is
known to any other, not to
you.
And you can never know it ; to admit
No
knowledge of your worth, is some of it.
But since to you your praises
discords be,
Stoop others' ills to meditate with me.
O ! to
confess we
know not what we should,
Is
half excuse, we know not what we would.
Lightness
depresseth us, emptiness fills ;
We sweat and faint, yet still
go down the hills.
As new
philosophy arrests the sun,
And bids the
passive earth about it
run,
So we have dull'd our mind ; it hath no ends ;
Only the body's busy, and
pretends.
As dead low earth eclipses and
controls
The quick
high moon, so doth the
body souls.
In none but us are
such mix'd engines found,
As hands of double office ; for the ground
We
till with them, and them to heaven we raise.
Who prayerless labours, or,
without this, prays,
Doth but one
half, that's none ; He which said,
“ Plough
And look not
back,” to look up doth allow.
Good seed
degenerates, and oft obeys
The
soil's disease, and into cockle strays.
Let the mind's thoughts be but
transplanted so
Into the
body, and
bastardly they grow.
What
hate could
hurt our bodies like our love ?
We,
but no foreign
tyrants, could remove
These not engraved, but inborn
dignities,
Caskets of souls,
temples and
palaces ;
For bodies shall from
death redeemed be,
Souls but
preserved, born naturally free.
As men to
our prisons now, souls to us are sent,
Which
learn vice there, and come in
innocent.
First seeds of every
creature are in us ;
Whate'er the
world
hath bad, or precious,
Man's body can produce ; hence hath it been
That
stones,
worms,
frogs, and
snakes in man are seen.
But whoe'er saw, though
nature can work so,
That
pearl, or
gold, or
corn in man did grow ?
We've
added to the world
Virginia, and sent
Two new stars lately to the
firmament.
Why grudge we us (not heaven) the
dignity To increase with ours those
fair souls'
company ?
But I must end this
letter ; though it do
Stand on
two truths, neither is true to you.
Virtue has some perverseness, for she
will
Neither believe her good, nor others' ill.
Even in you, virtue's
best paradise,
Virtue
hath some, but wise degrees of vice.
Too many
virtues, or too much of one,
Begets in you unjust suspicion ;
And
ignorance of vice makes virtue
less,
Quenching compassion of our
wretchedness.
But these are
riddles ; some aspersion
Of vice becomes
well some complexion.
Statesmen
purge vice with
vice, and may corrode
The bad with bad, a
spider with a
toad.
For so, ill thralls not them,
but they tame ill,
And make her do much good against her will.
But in
your
commonwealth or world in you,
Vice hath no
office or good work to do.
Take then no
vicious purge, but be content
With cordial virtue, your
known nourishment.