John Donne Selected Poems-8

LOVES DIET.

TO what a cumbersome unwieldiness

And burdenous corpulence my love had grown,

But that I did, to make it less,

And keep it in proportion,

Give it a diet, made it feed upon

That which love worst endures, discretion

Above one sigh a day I allowd him not,

Of which my fortune, and my faults had part ;

And if sometimes by stealth he got

A she sigh from my mistress heart,

And thought to feast upon that, I let him see

Twas neither very sound, nor meant to me.

If he wrung from me a tear, I brined it so

With scorn and shame, that him it nourishd not ;

If he suckd hers, I let him know

Twas not a tear which he had got ;

His drink was counterfeit, as was his meat ;

For eyes, which roll towards all, weep not, but sweat.

Whatever he would dictate I writ that,

But burnt her letters when she writ to me ;

And if that favour made him fat,

I said, "If any title be

Conveyd by this, ah ! what doth it avail,

To be the fortieth name in an entail?"

Thus I reclaimd my buzzard love, to fly

At what, and when, and how, and where I choose.

Now negligent of sports I lie,

And now, as other falconers use,

I spring a mistress, swear, write, sigh, and weep ;

And the game killd, or lost, go talk or sleep.

THE WILL.

BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,

Great Love, some legacies ; I here bequeath

Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see ;

If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee ;

My tongue to Fame ; to ambassadors mine ears ;

To women, or the sea, my tears ;

Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore

By making me serve her who had twenty more,

That I should give to none, but such as had too much before.

My constancy I to the planets give ;

My truth to them who at the court do live ;

My ingenuity and openness,

To Jesuits ; to buffoons my pensiveness ;

My silence to any, who abroad hath been ;

My money to a Capuchin :

Thou, Love, taughtst me, by appointing me

To love there, where no love received can be,

Only to give to such as have an incapacity.

My faith I give to Roman Catholics ;

All my good works unto the Schismatics

Of Amsterdam ; my best civility

And courtship to an University ;

My modesty I give to soldiers bare ;

My patience let gamesters share :

Thou, Love, taughtst me, by making me

Love her that holds my love disparity,

Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those

Which were my friends ; mine industry to foes ;

To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness ;

My sickness to physicians, or excess ;

To nature all that I in rhyme have writ ;

And to my company my wit :

Thou, Love, by making me adore

Her, who begot this love in me before,

Taughtst me to make, as though I gave, when I do but restore.

To him for whom the passing-bell next tolls,

I give my physic books ; my written rolls

Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give ;

My brazen medals unto them which live

In want of bread ; to them which pass among

All foreigners, mine English tongue :

Though, Love, by making me love one

Who thinks her friendship a fit portion

For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore Ill give no more, but Ill undo

The world by dying, because love dies too.

Then all your beauties will be no more worth

Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth ;

And all your graces no more use shall have,

Than a sun-dial in a grave :

Thou, Love, taughtst me by making me

Love her who doth neglect both me and thee,

To invent, and practise this one way, to annihilate all three.

THE FUNERAL.

WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm,

Nor question much,

That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm ;

The mystery, the sign, you must not touch ;

For tis my outward soul,

Viceroy to that, which then to heaven 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 theyre condemnd to die.

Whateer she meant by it, bury it with me,

For since I am

Loves martyr, it might breed idolatry,

If into other hands these relics came.

As twas humility

To 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.

THE BLOSSOM.

LITTLE thinkst thou, poor flower,

Whom Ive watchd six or seven days,

And seen thy birth, and seen what every hour

Gave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,

And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,

Little thinkst thou,

That it will freeze anon, and that I shall

To-morrow find thee fallen, or not at all.

Little thinkst thou, poor heart,

That labourest yet to nestle thee,

And thinkst by hovering here to get a part

In a forbidden or forbidding tree,

And hopest her stiffness by long siege to bow,

Little thinkst thou

That thou to-morrow, ere the sun doth wake,

Must with the sun and me a journey take.

But thou, which lovest to be

Subtle to plague thyself, wilt say,

Alas ! if you must go, whats that to me?

Here lies my business, and here I will stay

You go to friends, whose love and means present

Various content

To your eyes, ears, and taste, and every part ;

If then your body go, what need your heart?

Well then, stay here ; but know,

When thou hast stayd and done thy most,

A naked thinking heart, that makes no show,

Is to a woman but a kind of ghost.

How shall she know my heart ; or having none,

Know thee for one?

Practice may make her know some other part ;

But take my word, she doth not know a heart.

Meet me in London, then,

Twenty days hence, and thou shalt see

Me fresher and more fat, by being with men,

Than if I had stayd still with her and thee.

For Gods sake, if you can, be you so too ;

I will give you

There to another friend, whom we shall find

As glad to have my body as my mind.

THE PRIMROSE, BEING AT MONTGOMERY CASTLE

UPON THE HILL, ON WHICH IT IS SITUATE.

UPON this Primrose hill,

Where, if heaven would distil

A shower of rain, each several drop might go

To his own primrose, and grow manna so ;

And where their form, and their infinity

Make a terrestrial galaxy,

As the small stars do in the sky ;

I walk to find a true love ; and I see

That tis not a mere woman, that is she,

But must or more or less than woman be.

Yet know I not, which flower

I wish ; a six, or four ;

For should my true-love less than woman be,

She were scarce anything ; and then, should she

Be more than woman, she would get above

All thought of sex, and think to move

My heart to study her, and not to love.

Both these were monsters ; since there must reside

Falsehood in woman, I could more abide,

She were by art, than nature falsified.

Live, primrose, then, and thrive

With thy true number five ;

And, woman, whom this flower doth represent,

With this mysterious number be content ;

Ten is the farthest number ; if half ten

Belongs to each woman, then

Each woman may take half us men ;

Or—if this will not serve their turn—since all

Numbers are odd, or even, and they fall

First into five, women may take us all.