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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419785" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To The Countess Of Bedford II</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">TO have written then, when you writ, seem'd to me <br>Worst of spiritual vices, simony ; <br>And not to have written then seems little less <br>Than worst of civil vices, thanklessness. <br>In this, my debt I seem'd loth to confess ; <br>In that, I seem'd to shun beholdingness. <br>But 'tis not so ; nothings, as I am, may <br>Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay. <br>Such borrow in their payments, and owe more <br>By having leave to write so, than before. <br>Yet, since rich mines in barren grounds are shown, <br>May not I yield (not gold but) coal or stone ? <br>Temples were not demolish'd, though profane ; <br>Here Peter Jove's ; there Paul hath Dian's fane. <br>So whether my hymns you admit or choose, <br>In me you've hallowed a pagan muse, <br>And denizen'd a stranger, who, mistaught <br>By blamers of the times they marr'd, hath sought <br>Virtues in corners, which now bravelv do <br>Shine in the world's best part, or all it—you. <br>I have been told, that virtue in courtiers' hearts <br>Suffers an ostracism, and departs. <br>Profit, ease, fitness, plenty, bid it go ; <br>But whither, only knowing you, I know. <br>Your, or you virtue, two vast uses serves ; <br>It ransoms one sex, and one court preserves. <br>There's nothing but your worth, which being true <br>Is known to any other, not to you. <br>And you can never know it ; to admit <br>No knowledge of your worth, is some of it. <br>But since to you your praises discords be, <br>Stoop others' ills to meditate with me. <br>O ! to confess we know not what we should, <br>Is half excuse, we know not what we would. <br>Lightness depresseth us, emptiness fills ; <br>We sweat and faint, yet still go down the hills. <br>As new philosophy arrests the sun, <br>And bids the passive earth about it run, <br>So we have dull'd our mind ; it hath no ends ; <br>Only the body's busy, and pretends. <br>As dead low earth eclipses and controls <br>The quick high moon, so doth the body souls. <br>In none but us are such mix'd engines found, <br>As hands of double office ; for the ground <br>We till with them, and them to heaven we raise. <br>Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays, <br>Doth but one half, that's none ; He which said, <br>“ Plough <br>And look not back,” to look up doth allow. <br>Good seed degenerates, and oft obeys <br>The soil's disease, and into cockle strays. <br>Let the mind's thoughts be but transplanted so <br>Into the body, and bastardly they grow. <br>What hate could hurt our bodies like our love ? <br>We, but no foreign tyrants, could remove <br>These not engraved, but inborn dignities, <br>Caskets of souls, temples and palaces ; <br>For bodies shall from death redeemed be, <br>Souls but preserved, born naturally free. <br>As men to our prisons now, souls to us are sent, <br>Which learn vice there, and come in innocent. <br>First seeds of every creature are in us ; <br>Whate'er the world hath bad, or precious, <br>Man's body can produce ; hence hath it been <br>That stones, worms, frogs, and snakes in man are seen. <br>But whoe'er saw, though nature can work so, <br>That pearl, or gold, or corn in man did grow ? <br>We've added to the world Virginia, and sent <br>Two new stars lately to the firmament. <br>Why grudge we us (not heaven) the dignity <br>To increase with ours those fair souls' company ? <br>But I must end this letter ; though it do <br>Stand on two truths, neither is true to you. <br>Virtue has some perverseness, for she will <br>Neither believe her good, nor others' ill. <br>Even in you, virtue's best paradise, <br>Virtue hath some, but wise degrees of vice. <br>Too many virtues, or too much of one, <br>Begets in you unjust suspicion ; <br>And ignorance of vice makes virtue less, <br>Quenching compassion of our wretchedness. <br>But these are riddles ; some aspersion <br>Of vice becomes well some complexion. <br>Statesmen purge vice with vice, and may corrode <br>The bad with bad, a spider with a toad. <br>For so, ill thralls not them, but they tame ill, <br>And make her do much good against her will. <br>But in your commonwealth or world in you, <br>Vice hath no office or good work to do. <br>Take then no vicious purge, but be content <br>With cordial virtue, your known nourishment.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Donne">John Donne</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419785" data-title="To The Countess Of Bedford II de John Donne" data-description="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 shu..."></div>
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