Elegy I: Jealousy
Fond woman, which would'ſt have thy huſband die,
And yet complain'ſt of his great jealouſie;
If ſwolne with poyſon, hee lay in his laſt bed,
His body with a ſere-barke covered,
Drawing his breath, as quick and ſhort, as can
The nimbleſt crocheting Muſitian,
Ready with loathſome vomiting to ſpue
His Soule out of one hell, into a new,
Made deafe with his poore kindreds howling cries,
Begging with few feign'd teares great legacies,
Thou would'ſt not weep, but jolly, 'and frolicke bee,
As a ſlave, which to morrow ſhould be free.
Yet weep'ſt thou, when thou ſeeſt him hungerly
Swallow his owne death, hearts-bane jealouſie?
O give him many thanks, he is courteous,
That in ſuſpecting kindly warneth us.
Wee muſt not, as we us'd, flout openly,
In ſcoffing ridles, his deformitie;
Nor at his boord together being fatt,
With words, nor touch, ſcarce lookes, adulterate.
Nor when he ſwolne, and pamper'd with great fare,
Sits downe and ſnorts, cag'd in his basket chaire,
Muſt wee uſurpe his owne bed any more,
Nor kiſſe and play in his houſe, as before.
Now I ſee many dangers; for it is
His realme, his caſtle, and his dioceſſe.
But if, as envious men, which would revile
Their Prince, or coyne his gold, themſelves exile
Into another countrie, 'and doe it there,
Wee play 'in another houſe, what ſhould we feare?
There we will scorn his houſhold policies,
His ſeely plots, and penſionary ſpies,
As the inhabitants of Thames right ſide
Do Londons Major, or Germans the Pope's pride.
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
On The Death Of Dr. Lancton President Of Maudlin College
When men for injuryes unsatisfy'd,
For hopes cutt off, for debts not fully payd,
For legacies in vain expected, mourne
Over theyr owne respects within the urne,
Races of tears all striveing first to fall
As frequent are as eye and funerall;
Then high swolne sighes drawne in and sent out strong
Seeme to call back the soule or goe along.
Goodness is seldome such a theam of woe
Unless to her owne tribe some one or two;
But here's a man, (alas a shell of man!)
Whose innocence, more white than silver swan,
Now finds a streame of teares; such perfect greif
That in the traine of mourners hee is cheife
Who lives the greatest gainer; and would faine
Bee now prefer'd unto his loss againe.
The webb of nerves with subtill branches spred
Over the little world, are in theyr head
Scarce so united as in him were knitt
All his dependants: Hee that strives to sitt
So lov'd of all must bee a man as square
As vertues selfe; which those that fly and feare
Can never hate. How seldome have we seene
Such store of flesh joyn'd with so little sin?
His body was not greater than his soule,
Whose limbs were vertues able to controule
All grudg of sloth: and as the body's weight
Hal'd to the centre; so the soule as light
Heav'd upward to her goale. This civill jarre
Could not hold out, but made them part as farre
As earth and heaven: from whence the one shall come
To make her mate more fresh, less cumbersome.
After so sound a sleepe, so sweet a rest,
And both shall then appeare so trimly drest
As freinds that goe to meet: the body shall
Then seeme a soule, the soule Angellicall:
A beautious smile shall passe from that to this,
The joyning soule shall then the body kisse
With its owne lipps: so great shall be the store
Of joy and love that now thei'l part no more;
Such hope hath dust! besides which happines
Death hath not made his earthly share the lesse,
Or quite bereft him of his honors here,
But added more; for liveing hee did steere
The fellowes only; but since hee is dead
Hee's made a president unto theyr head.
poem by William Strode
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O Lord My God! - -Carl Boberg
O Lord my God!
When I in awesome wonder
consider all the worlds
Thy hands have made
I see the stars,
I hear the rolling thunder,
The power throughout the universe displayed
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
When through the woods and forest glades I wander
And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees;
When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur
And hear the brook and feel the geltle breeze;
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
And when I think that God, His Son not sparing,
Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in; -
That on the cross my burden gladly bearing,
He bled to take away my sin; -
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
When Christ shall come with shout of acclamation
And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart!
Then I shall bow in humble adoration
And there proclaim, My God, How great Thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Elegy IV: The Perfume
Once, and but once found in thy company,
All thy ſuppos'd eſcapes are laid on mee;
And as a thiefe at barre, is queſtion'd there
By all the men, that have beene rob'd that yeare,
So am I, (by this traiterous meanes ſurpriz'd)
By thy Hydroptique father catechiz'd.
Though hee hath oft ſworne, that hee would remove
Thy beauties beautie, and food of our love,
Hope of his goods, if I wish thee were ſeene,
Yet cloſe and ſecret, as our ſoules, we'have beene.
Though thy immortall mother which doth lye,
Still buried in her bed, yet will not dye,
Takes this advantage to to ſleepe out day-light,
And watch thy entries, and returnes all night,
And, when ſhe takes thy hand, and would ſeeme kind,
Doth ſearch what rings, and armelets ſhe can finde,
And kiſſing notes the colour of thy face,
And fearing leaſt thou'art ſwolne, doth thee embrace;
To trie if thou long, doth name ſtrange meates.
And notes thy paleneſſe, bluſhing, ſighs, and ſweats;
And politiquely will to thee confeſſe
The ſinnes of her owne youths ranke luſtineſſe;
Yet love theſe Sorceries did remove, and move
Thee to gull thine owne mother for my love.
Thy little brethren, which like Faiery Sprights
Oft skipt into our chamber, thoſe ſweet nights,
And kiſt, and ingled on thy fathers knee,
Were brib'd next day, to tell what they did ſee.
The grim-eight-foot-high-iron-bound ſerving-man,
That oft names God in oathes, and onely than,
He that to barre the firſt gate, doth as wide
As the great Rhodian Clolſſos ſtride,
Which, if in hell no other paines there were,
Makes mee feare hell, becauſe he muſt be there:
Though by thy father he were hir'd to this,
Could never witneſſe any touch or kiſſe;
But Oh, too common ill, I brought with mee
That, which betray'd mee to my enemie:
A loud perfume, which at my entrance cryed
Even at thy fathers noſe, ſo were wee ſpied.
When, like a tryran King, that in his bed
Smelt gunpowder, the pale wretch ſhivered;
Had it beene ſome bad ſmell, he would have thought
That his owne feet, or breath, that ſmell had wrought.
But as wee in our Ile empriſoned,
Where cattell onely,'and diverſe dogs are bred,
The pretious-Vnicornes, ſtrange monſters, call,
So thought he good, ſtrange, that had none at all.
I taught my ſilkes, their whiſtling to forbeare,
Even my oppreſt ſhoes, dumbe and ſpeechleſſe were,
Onely, thou bitter ſweet, whom I had laid
Next mee, mee traiterouſly haft betraid,
And unſuſpected haft inviſibly
At once fled unto him, and ſtaid with mee.
Baſe excrement of earth, which doft confound
Senſe, from diſtinguiſhing the ſicke from found;
By thee the ſeely Amorous ſucks his death
By drawing in a leprous harlots breath,
By thee, the greateſt ſtaine to mans eſtate
Falls on us, to be call'd effeminate;
Though you be much lov'd in the Princes hall,
There, things that ſeeme, exceed ſubſtantiall.
Gods, when yee fum'd on altars, were pleas'd well,
Becauſe you'were burnt, not that they lik'd your ſmell,
You'are loathſome all, being taken ſimply alone,
Shall wee love ill things joyn'd, and hate each one?
If you were good, your good doth ſoone decay;
And you are rare, that takes the good away.
All my perfumes, I give moſt willingly
To'embalme thy fathers corſe; What? will hee die?
poem by John Donne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Grave. From The Anglo-Saxon
For thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born,
For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Nor its depth measured,
Nor is it seen
How long it shall be.
Now I bring thee
Where thou shalt be;
Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.
Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,
The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,
So thou shalt in mould
Dwell full cold,
Dimly and dark.
Doorless is that house,
And dark it is within;
There thou art fast detained
And Death hath the key.
Loathsome is that earth-house,
And grim within to dwell.
There thou shalt dwell,
And worms shall divide thee.
Thus thou art laid,
And leavest thy friends
Thou hast no friend,
Who will come to thee,
Who will ever see
How that house pleaseth thee;
Who will ever open
The door for thee,
And descend for thee;
For soon thou art loathsome
And hateful to see.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Death Be Not Proud
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
poem by John Donne
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How Great Thou Art
O Lord my God
When I in awesome wonder
Consider all the worlds
They hands have made
I see the stars
I hear the rollin' thunder
Thy power throughout
The universe displayed.
Then sings my soul
My Savior God, to Thee,
How great Thou art
How great Thou art
Then sings my soul
My Savior God, to Thee
How great Thou art
How great Thou art!
When Christ shall come
With shouts of acclamation
And take me home
What joy shall fill my heart
Then I shall bow
In humble adoration
And there proclaim,
''My God, how great Thou art!''
Then sings my soul
My Savior God, to Thee,
How great Thou art
How great Thou art
Then sings my soul
My Savior God, to Thee
How great Thou art
How great Thou art!
How great Thou art
How great Thou art!...
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ala-ijere
Ala- Ijere!
The great land of great warriors!
Ala-ijere!
Land of great colonists soldier ants!
Ala-ijere!
Indeed, thou art established to be great!
Amongst lands! thou art a lord!
Amongst peoples, thou art a prince!
Amongst kingdoms, thou art an overlord!
In wisdom, thou art wisest!
In knowledge, thou art knowledged!
And in understanding, thou art very compassionate!
Great Ndi-ijere!
Great Eze-ijere!
Igwe-bu-ike eji echemba n-ala-ijere
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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O, Son of God!
“Make not my Father’s house
An house of merchandise”…
John- 2: 16
O Son of God!
Ever since thou left us,
We have made this world,
Thy Father’s house,
A house of merchandise!
To appease our weapon interests
We created belligerence
Built distrust fought wars
Sold hatred in exchange
Of doves of peace
When dost thou come down?
Once again amongst us
To demolish this temple this body
Where greed presides,
Just as thou destroyed
Thy body on cross
Along with all our sins!
When dost thou come down?
To rebuild a house of no hate
Just as thou proved thy words that
Thou wilt raise it up in three days
And just as thou resurrected
As thou promised!
18th December 2009
poem by Kesav Venkat Easwaran
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Her Epitaph
Happy Grave, thou dost enshrine
That which makes thee a rich mine:
Remember yet, 'tis but a loane;
And wee must have it back, Her owne,
The very same; Marke mee, the same:
Thou canst not cheat us with a lame
Deformed Carcase; Shee was fayre,
Fresh as Morning, sweete as Ayre:
Purer than other flesh as farre
As other Soules than Bodies are:
And that thou mayst the better see
To finde her out: two stars there bee
Eclipsed now; uncloude but those
And they will poynt thee to the Rose
That dyde each cheeke, now pale and wan,
But will bee when shee wakes againe
Fresher than ever: And howere
Her long sleepe may alter Her
Her Soule will know her Body streight,
Twas made so fitt for't. Noe deceite
Can suite another to it: none
Cloath it so neatly as its owne.
poem by William Strode
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The Lady A. L. My Asylum In A Great Exteremity.
With that delight the Royal captiv's brought
Before the throne, to breath his farewell thought,
To tel his last tale, and so end with it,
Which gladly he esteemes a benefit;
When the brave victor, at his great soule dumbe,
Findes something there fate cannot overcome,
Cals the chain'd prince, and by his glory led,
First reaches him his crowne, and then his head;
Who ne're 'til now thinks himself slave and poor;
For though nought else, he had himselfe before.
He weepes at this faire chance, nor wil allow,
But that the diadem doth brand his brow,
And under-rates himselfe below mankinde,
Who first had lost his body, now his minde,
With such a joy came I to heare my dombe,
And haste the preparation of my tombe,
When, like good angels who have heav'nly charge
To steere and guide mans sudden giddy barge,
She snatcht me from the rock I was upon,
And landed me at life's pavillion:
Where I, thus wound out of th' immense abysse,
Was straight set on a pinacle of blisse.
Let me leape in againe! and by that fall
Bring me to my first woe, so cancel all:
Ah! 's this a quitting of the debt you owe,
To crush her and her goodnesse at one blowe?
Defend me from so foule impiety,
Would make friends grieve, and furies weep to see.
Now, ye sage spirits, which infuse in men
That are oblidg'd twice to oblige agen,
Informe my tongue in labour what to say,
And in what coyne or language to repay.
But you are silent as the ev'nings ayre,
When windes unto their hollow grots repaire.
Oh, then accept the all that left me is,
Devout oblations of a sacred wish!
When she walks forth, ye perfum'd wings oth' East,
Fan her, 'til with the Sun she hastes to th' West,
And when her heav'nly course calles up the day,
And breakes as bright, descend, some glistering ray,
To circle her, and her as glistering haire,
That all may say a living saint shines there.
Slow Time, with woollen feet make thy soft pace,
And leave no tracks ith' snow of her pure face;
But when this vertue must needs fall, to rise
The brightest constellation in the skies;
When we in characters of fire shall reade,
How cleere she was alive, how spotless, dead.
All you that are a kinne to piety:
For onely you can her close mourners be,
Draw neer, and make of hallowed teares a dearth:
Goodnes and justice both are fled the earth.
If this be to be thankful, I'v a heart
Broaken with vowes, eaten with grateful smart,
And beside this, the vild world nothing hath
Worth anything but her provoked wrath;
So then, who thinkes to satisfie in time,
Must give a satisfaction for that crime:
Since she alone knowes the gifts value, she
Can onely to her selfe requitall be,
And worthyly to th' life paynt her owne story
In its true colours and full native glory;
Which when perhaps she shal be heard to tell,
Buffoones and theeves, ceasing to do ill,
Shal blush into a virgin-innocence,
And then woo others from the same offence;
The robber and the murderer, in 'spite
Of his red spots, shal startle into white:
All good (rewards layd by) shal stil increase
For love of her, and villany decease;
Naught be ignote, not so much out of feare
Of being punisht, as offending her.
So that, when as my future daring bayes
Shall bow it selfe in lawrels to her praise,
To crown her conqu'ring goodnes, and proclaime
The due renowne and glories of her name:
My wit shal be so wretched and so poore
That, 'stead of praysing, I shal scandal her,
And leave, when with my purest art I'v done,
Scarce the designe of what she is begunne:
Yet men shal send me home, admir'd, exact;
Proud, that I could from her so wel detract.
Where, then, thou bold instinct, shal I begin
My endlesse taske? To thanke her were a sin
Great as not speake, and not to speake, a blame
Beyond what's worst, such as doth want a name;
So thou my all, poore gratitude, ev'n thou
In this wilt an unthankful office do:
Or wilt I fling all at her feet I have:
My life, my love, my very soule, a slave?
Tye my free spirit onely unto her,
And yeeld up my affection prisoner?
Fond thought, in this thou teachest me to give
What first was hers, since by her breath I live;
And hast but show'd me, how I may resigne
Possession of those thing are none of mine.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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How Great Thou Art
(words & music by stuart hine)
Oh lord my God when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the worlds thy hands have made
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder
Thy power throughout the universe displayed
When christ shall come
With shout of acclamation
To take me home
What joy shall fill my heart
Then I shall bow in humble adoration
And there proclaim my God how great thou art
Then sings my soul my savior God to thee
How great thou art
How great thou art
Then sings my soul my savior God to thee
How great thou art how great thou art
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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AN ELEGY Upon S. W. R.
I will not weep, for 'twere as great a sin
To shed a tear for thee, as to have bin
An Actor in thy death. Thy life and age
Was but a various Scene on fortunes Stage,
With whom thou tugg'st & strov'st ev'n out of breath
In thy long toil: nere master'd till thy death;
And then despight of trains and cruell wit,
Thou did'st at once subdue malice and it.
I dare not then so blast thy memory
As say I do lament or pity thee.
Were I to choose a subject to bestow
My pity on, he should be one as low
In spirit as desert. That durst not dy
But rather were content by slavery
To purchase life: or I would pity those
Thy most industrious and friendly foes:
Who when they thought to make thee scandals story
Lent thee a swifter flight to Heav'n and glory.
That thought by cutting off some wither'd dayes,
(Which thou could'st spare them) to eclipse thy praise;
Yet gave it brighter foil, made thy ag'd fame
Appear more white and fair, then foul their shame:
And did promote an Execution
Which (but for them) Nature and Age had done.
Such worthless things as these were onely born
To live on Pities almes (too mean for scorn.)
Thou dy'dst an envious wonder, whose high fate
The world must still admire, scarce imitate.
poem by Henry King
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Thy Better Self
I AM thy other self, what thou wilt be,
When thou art I, the one seest now;
In finding thy true self thou wilt find me,
The springing blade, where now thou dost but plough.
I am thy neighbor, a new house I've built,
Which thou as yet hast never entered in;
I come to call thee; come in when thou wilt,
The feast is always ready to begin.
Thou should'st love me, as thou dost love thyself,
For I am but another self beside;
To show thee him thou lov'st in better health,
What thou would'st be, when thou to him hast died;
Then visit me, I make thee many a call;
Nor live I near to thee alone, but all.
poem by Jones Very
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On A Gentlewoman's Watch That Wanted A Key
Thou pretty heav'n whose great and lesser spheares
With constant wheelings measure hours and yeares
Soe faithfully that thou couldst solve the doubt
Of erring Time if Nature should be out,
Where's thy intelligence? thy Soule? the Key
That gives thee Life and Motion? must thou stay
Thus cramp'd with rusty Sloth? and shall each wheele
Disorganis'd confess it is but steele?
Art's Living Creature, is thy thread all spent?
Thy Pulse quite dead? hath Time a period sent
To his owne Sister? slaine his Eeven Match?
That when we looke 'tis doomesday by the Watch.
Prithee sweete Watch be marri'd, joyne thy side
Unto an active key, and then abide
A frequent screwing, till successively
More and more Time beget Eternity.
Knowe as a Woman never lock'd and key'd
Once in twice twelve growes faint and is downe-weighed
From Nature's full intent, and cannot live
Beyond her natural span, unlesse Man give
His vanish'd bone a quick'ning, unless Man
Doe adde an Ell unto her now shrunk span,
Unless he lengthen out posteritie
Her secret orbes will faint and She all die;
Soe will thy wheeles decay, and finde their date
Unless a Key their houres doe propagate:
Then gett a key and live; my life Ile gage
Each minute then shall grow into an age;
Then lett thy Mistresse looking smile on Thee,
And say 'tis time my Watch and I agree.
poem by William Strode
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The Wandering Jew
When as in faire Jerusalem
Our Saviour Christ did live,
And for the sins of all the worlde
His own deare life did give,
The wicked Jewes with scoffes and scornes
Did dailye him molest,
That never till he left his life,
Our Saviour could not rest.
When they had crown'd his head with thornes,
And scourg'd him to disgrace,
In scornfull sort they led him forthe
Unto his dying place,
Where thousand thousands in the streete
Beheld him passe along,
Yet not one gentle heart was there,
That pityed this his wrong.
Both old and young reviled him,
As in the streete he wente,
And nought he found but churlish tauntes,
By every ones consente:
His owne deare cross he bore himselfe,
A burthen far too great,
Which made him in the streete to fainte,
With blood and water sweat.
Being weary thus, he sought for rest,
To ease his burdened soule,
Upon a stone; the which a wretch
Did churlishly controule;
And sayd, 'Awaye, thou King of Jewes,
Thou shalt not rest thee here;
Pass on; thy execution place
Thou seest nowe draweth neare.'
And thereupon he thrust him thence;
At which our Saviour sayd,
'I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke,
And have no journey stayed.'
With that this cursed shoemaker,
For offering Christ this wrong,
Left wife and children, house and all,
And went from thence along.
Where after he had seene the bloude
Of Jesus Christ thus shed,
And to the crosse his bodye nail'd,
Away with speed he fled,
Without returning backe againe
Unto his dwelling place,
And wandred up and downe the wordle,
A runnagate most base.
No resting could he fidne at all,
No ease, nor hearts content;
No house, nor home, nor biding place;
But wandring forth he went
From towne to towne in foreigne landes,
With grieved conscience still,
Repenting for the heinous guilt
Of his fore-passed ill.
Thus after some fewe ages past
In wandring up and downe,
He much again desired to see
Jerusalems renowne.
But finding it all quite destroyd,
He wandred thence with woe,
Our Saviours wordes, which he had spoke,
To verifie and showe.
'I'll rest,' sayd hee, 'but thou shalt walke;'
So doth this wandring Jew,
From place to place, but cannot rest
For seeing countries newe;
Declaring still the power of him,
Whereas he comes or goes;
And of all things done in the east,
Since Christ his death, he showes.
The world he hath still compast round
And seene those nations strange,
That hearing of the name of Christ,
Their idol gods doe change:
To whom he hath told wondrous thinges
Of time forepast and gone,
And to the princes of the worlde
Declares his cause of moane:
Desiring still to be dissolv'd,
And yield his mortal breath;
But, if the Lord hath thus decreed,
He shall not yet see death.
For neither lookes he old nor young,
But as he did those times
When Christ did suffer on the crosse
For mortall sinners crimes.
He hath past through many a foreigne place,
Arabia, Egypt, Africa,
Grecia, Syria, and great Thrace,
And throughout all Hungaria:
Where Paul and Peter preached Christ,
Those blest apostles deare,
There he hath told our Saviours wordes,
In countries far and neare.
And lately in Bohemia,
With many a German towne,
And now in Flanders, as tis thought,
He wandreth up and downe:
Where learned men with him conferre
Of those his lingering dayes,
And wonder much to heare him tell
His journeyes and his wayes.
If people give this Jew an almes,
The most that he will take
Is not above a groat a time:
Which he, for Jesus' sake,
Will kindlye give unto the poore,
And thereof make no spare,
Affirming still that Jesus Christ
Of him hath dailye care.
He ne'er was seene to laugh nor smile,
But weepe and make great moane;
Lamenting still his miseries,
And dayes forepast and gone.
If he heare any one blaspheme,
Or take God's name in vaine,
He tells them that they crucifie
Their Saviour Christe againe.
'If you had seene his death,' saith he,
'As these mine eyes have done,
Ten thousand thousand times would yee
His torments think upon,
And suffer for his sake all paine
Of torments, and all woes:'
These are his wordes, and eke his life,
Whereas he comes or goes.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Harbinger
to the Progresse.
TWo soules moue here, and mine (a third) must moue
Paces of admiration, and of loue;
Thy soule (Deare Virgin) whose this tribute is,
Mou'd from this mortall sphere to liuely blisse,
And yet moues still, and still aspires to see
The worlds last day, thy glories full degree:
Like as those starres which thou ore-lookest farre,
Are in their place, and yet still moued are
No soule (whiles with the luggage of this clay
It clogged is) can follow thee halfe way;
Or see thy flight; which doth our thoughts outgoe
So fast, that now the lightning moues but slow:
But now thou art as high in heauen flowne
As heau'ns from vs; what soule besides thine owne
Can tell thy ioyes, or say he can relate
Thy glorious Iornals in that blessed state?
I enuie thee (Rich soule) I enuy thee,
Although I cannot yet thy glory see:
And thou (Great spirit) which her's follow'd hast
So fast, as none can follow thine so fast;
So farre as none can follow thine so farre,
(And if this flesh did not the passage barre
Had'st caught her) let me wonder at thy flight
Which long agone had'st lost the vulgar sight
And now mak'st proud the better eyes, that they
Can see thee les'ned in thine aery way;
So while thou mak'st her soule by progresse knowne
Thou mak'st a noble progresse of thine owne.
From this worlds carcasse hauing mounted hie
To that pure life of Immortalitie;
Since thine aspiring thoughts themselues so raise
That more may not beseeme a creatures praise,
Yet still thou vow'st her more; and euery yeare
Mak'st a new Progresse, while thou wandrest here;
Still vpward mount; and let thy makers praise
Honor thy Laura, and adorne thy laies.
And since thy Mus[es] head in heauen shrouds
Oh let her neuer stoope below the clouds:
And if those glorious sainted soules may know
Or what we doe, or what we sing below,
Those acts, those songs shall still content them best
Which praise those awfull powers that make them blest.
poem by John Donne
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Elegy:The End of Funeral Elegies
MADAM—
That I might make your cabinet my tomb,
And for my fame, which I love next my soul,
Next to my soul provide the happiest room,
Admit to that place this last funeral scroll.
Others by wills give legacies, but I
Dying, of you do beg a legacy.
My fortune and my will this custom break,
When we are senseless grown to make stones speak,
Though no stone tell thee what I was, yet thou
In my grave's inside seest what thou art now,
Yet thou 'rt not yet so good ; till death us lay
To ripe and mellow there, we're stubborn clay.
Parents make us earth, and souls dignify
Us to be glass ; here to grow gold we lie.
Whilst in our souls sin bred and pamper'd is,
Our souls become worm-eaten carcases.
poem by John Donne
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The Faire Begger
I.
Comanding asker, if it be
Pity that you faine would have,
Then I turne begger unto thee,
And aske the thing that thou dost crave.
I will suffice thy hungry need,
So thou wilt but my fancy feed.
II.
In all ill yeares, was ever knowne
On so much beauty such a dearth?
Which, in that thrice-bequeathed gowne,
Lookes like the Sun eclipst with Earth,
Like gold in canvas, or with dirt
Unsoyled Ermins close begirt.
III.
Yet happy he, that can but tast
This whiter skin, who thirsty is!
Fooles dote on sattin motions lac'd:
The gods go naked in their blisse.
At th' barrell's head there shines the vine,
There only relishes the wine.
IV.
There quench my heat, and thou shalt sup
Worthy the lips that it must touch,
Nectar from out the starry cup:
I beg thy breath not halfe so much.
So both our wants supplied shall be,
You'l give for love, I, charity.
V.
Cheape then are pearle-imbroderies,
That not adorne, but cloud thy wast;
Thou shalt be cloath'd above all prise,
If thou wilt promise me imbrac't.
Wee'l ransack neither chest nor shelfe:
Ill cover thee with mine owne selfe.
VI.
But, cruel, if thou dost deny
This necessary almes to me,
What soft-soul'd man but with his eye
And hand will hence be shut to thee?
Since all must judge you more unkinde:
I starve your body, you, my minde.
poem by Richard Lovelace
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A Dialogue
I
DEATH, if thou wilt, fain would I plead with thee:
Canst thou not spare, of all our hopes have built,
One shelter where our spirits fain would be,
Death, if thou wit?
No dome with suns and dews impearled and gilt,
Imperial: but some roof of wildwood tree,
Too mean for sceptre's heft or swordblade's hilt.
Some low sweet roof where love might live, set free
From change and fear and dreams of grief or guilt;
Canst thou not leave life even thus much to see,
Death, if thou wilt?
II
Man, what art thou to speak and plead with me?
What knowest thou of my workings, where and how
What things I fashion? Nay, behold and see,
Man, what art thou?
Thy fruits of life, and blossoms of thy bough,
What are they but my seedlings? Earth and sea
Bear nought but when I breathe on it must bow.
Bow thou too down before me: though thou be
Great, all the pride shall fade from off thy brow,
When Time and strong Oblivion ask of thee,
Man, what art thou ?
III
Death, if thou be or be not, as was said,
Immortal; if thou make us nought, or we
Survive: thy power is made but of our dread,
Death, if thou be.
Thy might is made out of our fear of thee:
Who fears thee not, hath plucked from off thine head
The crown of cloud that darkens earth and sea.
Earth, sea, and sky, as rain or vapour shed,
Shall vanish; all the shows of them shall flee:
Then shall we know full surely, quick or dead,
Death, if thou be.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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To Prudence
HENCE, Prudence! bane of ev'ry virtuous deed,
Child of Cold Prejudice and selfish Fear,
Insensible to Sorrow's bitter tear,
Wrung from the heart thou bid'st unpitied bleed!
Oh, Innocence! compell'd to seek the shade,
And pine neglected in the cheerless wild,
Defam'd by Slander, Envy's fav'rite child,
Weep on, for Prudence shuns thee, wretched maid!
Poor Honesty! bend not thy steps this way,
Caution must scrutinize thy pale, wan face,
On every guileless feature stamp disgrace,
And shuddering at thy guilt turn quick away.
Oh, Want! thou breathing image of cold death!
By all forsaken, and by all forgot,
And in a loathsome jail condemn'd to rot;
Avaunt thee!--for contagion taints thy breath.
Oh! Industry! made misery to endure,
Steeping thy hard-earn'd crust in liquid woe;
Contempt and Scorn shall heavier give the blow,
Thou must be indolent--for thou art poor.
If sad Experience e'er should steel my breast,
Show me mankind, ungen'rous, cruel base,
Ingratitude, the vice of all the race;
Then, Prudence! then I'll hail thee for my guest!
poem by Charlotte Dacre
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