You teach (though wee learne not) a thing unknowne
To our late times, the use of specular stone,

Through which all things within without were shown.

Of such were Temples; so and of such you are ;
Beeing and seeming is your equall care,
And vertues whole summe is but know and dare.

But as our Soules of growth and Soules of sense
Have birthright of our reasons Soule, yet hence
They fly not from that, nor seeke presidence:
Natures first lesson, so, discretion,

Must not grudge zeale a place, nor yet keepe none,
Not banish it selfe, nor religion.

Discretion is a wisemans Soule, and so
Religion is a Christians, and you know
How these are one; her yea, is not her no.

Nor may we hope to sodder still and knit
These two, and dare to breake them; nor must wit
Be colleague to religion, but be it.

In those poor types of God (round circles) so
Religions tipes the peeclesse centers flow,
And are in all the lines which all wayes goe.
If either ever wrought in you alone
Or principally, then religion

Wrought your ends, and your wayes discretion.

Goe thither stil, goe the same way you went,
Who so would change, do covet or repent;
Neither can reach you, great and innocent.

John Donne.

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<Valediction to Life.)

'Arewel ye guilded follies, pleasing troubles,

Farewel ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;

Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay,

Honour the darling but of one short day.

Beauty (th'eyes idol) but a damasked skin,
State but a golden prison, to keepe in

And torture free-born minds; imbroidered trains
Meerly but Pageants, proudly swelling vains,
And blood ally'd to greatness, is a loane
Inherited, not purchased, not our own.

Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood and birth,
Are but the fading blossomes of the earth.

I would be great, but that the Sun doth still
Level his rayes against the rising hill:
I would be high, but see the proudest Oak
Most subject to the rending Thunder-stroke ;
I would be rich, but see men too unkind
Dig in the bowels of the richest mine;
I would be wise, but that I often see
The Fox suspected whilst the Ass goes free;
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud;
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy Asse:
Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor;
Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; hight, stil envied more:
I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither,
Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair, poor I'l be rather.

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Would the world now adopt me for her heir,
Would beauties Queen entitle me the Fair,
Fame speak me fortune's Minion, could I vie
Angels with India, with a speaking eye

Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike Justice dumb
As wel as blind and lame, or give a tongue

To stones, by Epitaphs, be called great Master

In the loose rhimes of every Poetaster;
Could I be more then any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise all in Superlatives;
Yet I more freely would these gifts resign
Then ever fortune would have made them mine,
And hold one minute of this holy leasure,
Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

Welcom pure thoughts, welcom ye silent groves,

These guests, these Courts, my soul most dearly loves,
Now the wing'd people of the Skie shall sing
My cheerful Anthems to the gladsome Spring;
A Pray'r book now shall be my looking-glasse,
Wherein I will adore sweet vertues face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no Pallace cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears,
Then here I'l sit and sigh my hot loves folly,
And learn t'affect an holy melancholy.

And if contentment be a stranger, then

I'l nere look for it, but in heaven again.

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Ignoto.

An Elegie upon the death of the Deane of Pauls, Dr. Iohn Donne.

An we not force from widdowed Poetry,

To crowne thy Hearse? Why yet dare we not trust
Though with unkneaded dowe-bak't prose thy dust,
Such as the uncisor'd Churchman from the flower
Of fading Rhetorique, short liv'd as his houre,
Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay
Upon thy Ashes, on the funerall day?
Have we no voice, no tune? Did'st thou dispense
Through all our language, both the words and sense?
"Tis a sad truth; The Pulpit may her plaine,
And sober Christian precepts still retaine,
Doctrines it may, and wholesome Uses frame,
Grave Homilies, and Lectures, But the flame
Of thy brave Soule, that shot such heat and light,
As burnt our earth, and made our darknesse bright,
Committed holy Rapes upon our Will,

Did through the eye the melting heart distill;

And the deepe knowledge of darke truths so teach,
As sense might judge, what phansie could not reach;
Must be desir'd for ever. So the fire,

That fills with spirit and heat the Delphique quire,
Which kindled first by thy Promethean breath,
Glow'd here a while, lies quench't now in thy death;
The Muses garden with Pedantique weedes

O'rspred, was purg'd by thee; The lazie seeds

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Of servile imitation throwne away;

And fresh invention planted, Thou didst pay
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;
Licentious thefts, that make poëtique rage
A Mimique fury, when our soules must bee
Possest, or with Anacreons Extasie,

Or Pindars, not their owne; The subtle cheat
Of slie Exchanges, and the jugling feat
Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong

By ours was done the Greeke, or Latine tongue,
Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd Us a Mine
Of rich and pregnant phansie, drawne a line
Of masculine expression, which had good
Old Orpheus seene, Or all the ancient Brood
Our superstitious fooles admire, and hold

Their lead more precious, then thy burnish❜t Gold,
Thou hadst beene their Exchequer, and no more
They each in others dust had rak'd for Ore.

Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time,

And the blinde fate of language, whose tun'd chime More charmes the outward sense; Yet thou maist claime From so great disadvantage greater fame,

Since to the awe of thy imperious wit

Our stubborne language bends, made only fit
With her tough-thick-rib'd hoopes to gird about
Thy Giant phansie, which had prov'd too stout
For their soft melting Phrases. As in time
They had the start, so did they cull the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred yeare,
And left the rifled fields, besides the feare
To touch their Harvest, yet from those bare lands
Of what is purely thine, thy only hands

(And that thy smallest worke) have gleaned more

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