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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ON DR. JOHN DONNE, LATE DEANE OF S. PAULES, LONDON, by I. CHUDLEIGH First Line: Long since this taske of teares from you was due Last Line: Must weep here if he have ambition. Subject(s): Donne, John (1572-1631); Poetry & Poets | |||
Long since this taske of teares from you was due, Long since, o Poets, he did die to you, Or left you dead, when wit and he tooke flight On divine wings, and soard out of your sight. Preachers, 'tis you must weep; The wit he taught You doe enjoy; the Rebels which he brought From ancient discord, Giants faculties, And now no more religions enemies; Honest to knowing, unto vertuous sweet, Witty to good, and learned to discreet, He reconcil'd, and bid the Vsurper goe; Dulnesse to vice, religion ought to flow; He kept his loves, but not his objects; wit Hee did not banish, but transplanted it, Taught it his place and use, and brought it home To Pietie, which it doth best become; He shew'd us how for sinnes we ought to sigh, And how to sing Christs Epithalamy: The Altars had his fires, and there hee spoke Incense of loves, and fansies holy smoake: Religion thus enrich'd, the people train'd, And God from dull vice had the fashion gain'd. The first effects sprung in the giddy minde Of flashy youth, and thirst of woman-kinde, By colours lead, and drawne to a pursuit, Now once againe by beautie of the fruit, As if their longings too must set us free, And tempt us now to the commanded tree. Tell me, had ever pleasure such a dresse, Have you knowne crimes so shap'd? or lovelinesse Such as his lips did cloth religion in? Had not reproofe a beauty passing sinne? Corrupted nature sorrow'd when she stood So neare the danger of becomming good, And wish'd our so inconstant eares exempt From piety that had such power to tempt: Did not his sacred flattery beguile Man to amendment? The law, taught to smile, Pension'd our vanitie, and man grew well Through the same frailtie by which he fell. O the sick state of man, health does not please Our tasts, but in the shape of the disease. Thriftlesse is charitie, coward patience, Justice is cruell, mercy want of sense. What meanes our Nature to barre vertue place, If shee doe come in her owne cloathes and face? Is good a pill, we dare not chaw to know? Sense the soules servant, doth it keep us so As we might starve for good, unlesse it first Doe leave a pawne of relish in the gust? Or have we to salvation no tie At all, but that of our infirmitie? Who treats with us must our affections move To th' good we flie by those sweets which we love, Must seeke our palats, and with their delight To gaine our deeds, must bribe our appetite. These traines he knew, and laying nets to save, Temptingly sugred all the health hee gave. But, where is now that chime? that harmony Hath left the world, now the loud organ may Appeare, the better voyce is fled to have A thousand times the sweetnesse which it gave. I cannot say how many thousand spirits The single happinesse this soule inherits, Damnes in the other world, soules whom no crosse O'th sense afflicts, but onely of the losse, Whom ignorance would halfe save, all whose paine Is not in what they feele, but others gaine, Selfe executing wretched spirits, who Carrying their guilt, transport their envy too: But those high joyes which his wits youngest flame Would hurt to chuse, shall not we hurt to name? Verse statues are all robbers, all we make Of monument, thus doth not give but take As Sailes which Seamen to a forewinde fit, By a resistance, goe along with it, So pens grow while they lessen fame so left; A weake assistance is a kinde of theft. Who hath not love to ground his teares upon, Must weep here if he have ambition. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ENVY OF OTHER PEOPLE'S POEMS by ROBERT HASS THE NINETEENTH CENTURY AS A SONG by ROBERT HASS THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 192 by LYN HEJINIAN LET ME TELL YOU WHAT A POEM BRINGS by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA JUNE JOURNALS 6/25/88 by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA FOLLOW ROZEWICZ by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA HAVING INTENDED TO MERELY PICK ON AN OIL COMPANY, THE POEM GOES AWRY by HICOK. BOB SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 6 by CONRAD AIKEN |
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