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But you, of learning and religion,
A mithridate, whose operation
Though the following lines of Donne, on the last night of the year, have something in them too scholastick, they are not inelegant:
This twilight of two years, not past nor next,
Some einblem is of nie, or I of this,
Whose what and where in disputation is,
If I thould call me any thing, Tould miss,
Debtor to th' old, nor creditor to th’new.
Yet more abstruse and profound is Donne's reflection upon Man as a Microcosm :
If men be worlds, there is in every one
OF thoughts so far-fatched, as to be not only unexpected, but unnatural, all their books are full.
To a Lady, who wrote poesies for rings.
'Tis thou must write the poesy there,
The difficulties which have been raised about identity in philosophy, are by Cowley with still more perplexity applied to Love :
Five years ago (says story) I lov'd you,
The love of different women is, in geographical poetry, compared to travels through different countries : Hast thou not found each woman's breast
(The land where thou hast travelled) Either by savages possest,
Or wild, and uninhabited ?
Luft, Lust, the scorching dog-star, here
Rages with immoderate heat ;
In others makes the cold too great.
A Lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to Egypt :
The fate of Egypt I fuftain,
And never feel the dew of rain
But all my too much moisture owe
The lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws of augury and rites of sacrifice :
And yet this death of mine, I fear,
When found in every other part,
For the last tempest of my death
That the chaos was harmonised, has been recited ofold; but whence the different sounds arose remained for a modern to discover :
Th’ungovern’d parts no correspondence knew ;
The tears of lovers are always of great poetical account; but Donne has extended them into worlds. If the lines are not easily understood, they may be read again.
On a round ball
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,
So doth each tear,
Which thee doth wear,
On reading the following lines, the reader may perhaps cry out-Confufion worfe confounded, Here lies a lhe sun, and a he moon here,
She gives the best light to his sphere,
'Who but Donne would have thought that a good man is a telescope ?
Though God be our true glass through which we see
Who would imagine it possible that in a very few lines so many remote ideas could be brought together! . Since 'tis my doom, Love's undershrieve,
Why this reprieve ?
By candles end,
Life's taper out?
OF enormous and disgusting hyperboles, these may be examples : By every wind that comes this way,
Send me at least a sigh or two,
In tears l'll waste these eyes,
By Love so vainly fed ; · So luft of old the Deluge punished.
All arm'd in brass, the richest dress of war,