donnedigitalthoughts

[donnedigitalthoughts]

Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness

Since I am coming to that holy room, 

  Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore, 

I shall be made thy music, as I come

I tune the instrument here at the door, 

And that I must do then, think now before. 

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown

  Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie

Flat on his bed, that by them may be shown

  That this is my southwest discovery, 

  Per fretum febris, by these traits to die, 

I joy, that in these straits, I see my West; 

  For, though their currents yield return to none, 

What shall my West hurt me? As West and East 

  In all flat maps (and I am one) are one, 

  So death doth touch the resurrection. 

Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are 

  The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem? 

Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar, 

  All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them, 

  Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem. 

We think that Paradise and Calvary, 

  Christ’s cross and Adam’s tree, stood in one place. 

Look, Lord, and find both Adams in me; 

  As the first Adam’s sweat surrounds my face, 

  May the last Adam’s blood my soul embrace. 

So in his purple wrapp’d, receive me, Lord. 

  By these his thorns give me his other crown; 

And as to other souls I preach’d thy word, 

  Be this my text, my sermon to mine own: 

  Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down.  

‘Donne, John. “Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 155-156. 

Observation: “Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness” is the speaker’s conversation to God while near their time of death. This poem grapples with the concept of death and how it fits into the narrative of life, thus proving Donne is a philosophical writer and religious thinker, in addition to a seductive love poet. In lines 6-10, Donne compares the speaker’s body to a map, which is being explored and composed by physicians seeking to treat the body’s sickness. Donne later writes, “As West and East/ In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,/ So death doth touch the resurrection” (13-15). In this metaphor, the map is life and death, and as both sides touch in a globe, life becomes one with death, or “death doth touch the resurrection.” This poem comes at the end of the collection as it deals with death and endings, but in a philosophical manner to show Donne’s capability and authority as a writer. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

The Cross

Since Christ embrac’d the cross itself, dare I

His image, th’image of his cross, deny? 

Would I have profit by the sacrifice, 

And dare the chosen altar to despise? 

It bore all other sins, but is it fit 

That it should bear the sin of scorning it?

Who from the picture would avert his eye, 

How would he fly his pains, who there did die? 

From me, no pulpit, nor misgrounded law, 

Nor scandal taken, shall this cross withdraw. 

It shall not, for it cannot; for the loss 

Of this cross were to me another cross. 

Better were worse, for no affliction, 

No cross is so extreme, as to have none. 

Who can blot out the cross, which th’instrument

Of God dew’d on me in the sacrament?

Who can deny me power, and liberty

To stretch mine arms, and mine own cross to be? 

Swim, and at every stroke thou art thy cross. 

The mast and yard make one, where seas do toss. 

Look down, thou spiest our crosses in small things;

Look up, thou seest birds rais’d on crossed wings;

All the globe’s frame, and spheres, is nothing else

But the meridians crossing parallels. 

Material crosses, then, good physic be, 

And yet spiritual have chief dignity. 

There for extracted chemic med’cine serve, 

And cure much better, and as well preserve. 

Then are you your own physic, or need none, 

When still’d or purg’d by tribulation; 

For when that cross ungrudg’d unto you sticks, 

Then are you to yourself crucifix. 

As perchance, carvers do not faces make, 

But that away, which hid them there, do take: 

Let crosses, so, take what hid Christ in thee, 

And be his image, or not his, but he. 

But as oft alchemists do coiners prove, 

So may a self-despising get self-love; 

And then, as worst surfeits of best meats be, 

So is pride, issu’d from humility, 

For ‘tis no child, but monster. Therefore cross

Your joy in crosses, else, ‘tis double loss. 

And cross thy senses, else, both they and thou

Must perish soon, and to destruction bow. 

For if th’eye seek good objects, and will take

No cross from bad, we cannot ‘scape a snake. 

So with harsh, hard, sour, stinking, cross the rest; 

Make them indifferent; call nothing best. 

But most the eye needs crossing, that can roam

And move: To th’others th’objects must come home. 

And cross thy heart: for that in man alone

Points downwards, and hath palpitation. 

Cross those dejections, when it downward tends, 

And when it to forbidden heights pretends. 

And as thy brain through bony walls doth vent

By sutures, which a cross’s form present, 

So when thy brain works, ere thou utter it, 

Cross and correct concupiscence of wit. 

Be covetous of crosses; let none fall. 

Cross no man else, but cross thyself in all. 

Then doth the cross of Christ work fruitfully 

Within our hearts, when we love harmlessly

That cross’s pictures much, and with more care

That cross’s children, which our crosses are. 

Donne, John. “The Cross.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 145-147. 

Observation: In “The Cross” Donne contemplates the crucifix’s status as a religious icon, stating, “dare I/ His image, th’image of his cross, deny?” (1-2). Donne later points out that images of the cross are all around, in the mast of ships, birds flying, and even one’s own body as the speaker claims the power to, “stretch mine arms, and mine own cross to be” (18). This poem adds to the image of Donne as a serious religious thinker as the content considers the concept of icons, which was a reason for the reformation (2). Therefore, this poem shows that later on, Donne’s writing changes and evolves from seductive poetry, to philosophical love poems, to deeply intellectual, respected religious verse. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

Holy Sonnet 10

Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you

  As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; 

  That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me; and bend

Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. 

I like an usurp’d town t’another due, 

  Labor t’admit you, but oh, to no end. 

  Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, 

But is captiv’d and proves weak or untrue. 

Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain: 

  But am betroth’d unto your enemy: 

Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, 

  Take me to you, imprison me, for I, 

Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, 

Not ever chaste except you ravish me. 

Donne, John. “10.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 140. 

Observation: “Holy Sonnet 10″ is about the speaker’s uncertainty in their faith. In the opening line, the speaker asks God to, “Batter my heart,” or to reach into his soul (1). The speaker claims God’s reason is a “viceroy in me, me should defend,/But is captiv’d and proves weak or untrue” (7-8). God’s reason occupies the speaker’s heart, but is of no use as the speaker is, “betroth’d unto your enemy (the Devil)” (10). This sonnet helps create a narrative of Donne’s religious writing, that begins with works about religious conversion and doubt, which could be common when one takes up a new religion, and later moves into more serious, confident verse. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

Satire 3

Kind pity chokes my spleen; brave scorn forbids 

Those tears to issue which swell my eyelids; 

I must not laugh, nor weep sins, and be wise; 

Can railing, then , cure these worn maladies? 

Is not our mistress fair Religion, 

As worthy of all our souls’ devotion

As virtue was in the first blinded age? 

Are not heaven’s joys as valiant to assauge 

Lusts, as earth’s honour was to them? Alas, 

As we do them in means, shall they surpass

Us in the end? and shall thy father’s spirit

Meet blind philosophers in heaven, whose merit

Of strict life may be imputed faith, and hear

Thee, whom he taught so easy ways and near

To follow damn’d? Oh, if thou dar’st, fear this: 

This fear great courage and high valor is. 

Dar’st thou aid mutinous Dutch, and dars’t thou lay

Thee in ships, wooden sepulchers, a prey

To leaders’ rage, to storms, to shot, to dearth?

Dar’st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth? 

Hast thou courageous fire to thaw the ice

Of frozen North discoveries, and thrice 

Colder than salamanders, like divine

Children in th’oven, fires of Spain, and the line, 

Whose countries limbecks to our bodies be, 

Canst thou for gain bear? and must every he

Which cries not, “Goddess,” to thy mistress, draw

Or eat thy poisonous words? Courage of straw!

O desperate coward, wilt thou seem bold, and 

To thy foes and his (who made thee to stand

Sentinel in his world’s garrison) thus yield, 

And for forbidden wars leave the appointed field? 

Know thy foe: the foul devil, whom thou

Strivest to please, for hate, not love, would allow

Thee fain, his whole realm to be quit; and as

The world’s all parts wither away and pass, 

So the world’s self, thy other lov’d foe, is

In her decrepit wane, and thou loving this,

Dost love a wither’d and worn strumpet; last, 

Flesh (itself’s death) and joys which flesh can tatse, 

Thou lovest, and thy fair goodly soul, which doth 

Give this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loathe, 

Seek true religion. O where? Mirreus, 

Thinking her unhous’d here, and fled from us, 

Seeks her at Rome; there, because he doth know

That she was there a thousand years ago, 

He loves the rags so, as we here obey

The statecloth where the prince sat yesterday. 

Crants to such brave loves will not be enthrall’d, 

But loves her only, who at Geneva is call’d

Religion, plain, simple, sullen, young, 

Contemptuous, yet unhandsome. As among

Lecherous humors, there is one that judges

No wenches wholesome, but coarse country drudges. 

Graius stays still at home here, and because 

Some preachers, vile ambitious bawds, and laws

Still new like fashions, bid him think that she 

Which dwelss with us, is only perfect, he

Embraceth her, whom his godfathers will 

Tender to him, being tender, as wards still

Take such wives as their guardians offer, or 

Pay values. Careless Phrygius doth abhor 

All, because all cannot be good, as one

Knowing some women whores, dares marry none. 

Graccus loves all as one, and thinks that so 

As women do in diverse countries go 

In diverse habits, yet are still one kind; 

So doth, so is Religion; and this blind- 

ness too much light breeds. But unmoved, thou

Of force must one, and forc’d, but one allow; 

And the right; ask thy father which is she, 

Let him ask his; though truth and falsehood be 

Near twins, yet truth a little elder is. 

Be busy to seek her; believe me this, 

He’s not of none, nor worst, that seeks the best. 

To adore, or scorn an image, or protest, 

May all be bad, doubt wisely, in strange way

To stand inquiring right, is not to stray; 

To sleep, or run wrong, is. On a huge hill

Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and he that will

Reach her, about must, and about go:

And what the hill’s suddenness resists, win so. 

Yet strive, so that before age, death’s twilight, 

Thy soul rest, for none can work in that night. 

To will implies delay, therefore now do. 

Hard deeds, the body’s pains; hard knowledge too

The mind’s endeavors reach; and mysteries 

Are like the sun, dazzling, yet plain to all eyes. 

Keep the truth which thou hast found. Men do not stand

In so ill case here that God hath with his hand

Sign’d kings blank charters, to kill whom they hate, 

Nor are they vicars, but hangmen to fate. 

Fool and wretch, wilt thou let thy soul be tied

To man’s laws, by which she shall not be tried

At the last day? Will it then boot thee

To say a Philip, or a Gregory, 

A Harry, or a Martin taught thee this? 

Is not this excuse for mere contraries 

Equally strong? Cannot both sides say so? 

That thou mayest rightly obey power, her bounds know; 

Those past, her nature, and name is chang’d; to be

Then humble to her is idolatry. 

As streams are, power is: Those blest flowers that dwell

At the rough stream’s calm head, thrive and do well, 

But having left their roots, and themselves given

To the stream’s tyrannous rage, alas, are driven

Through mills, and rocks, and woods, and at last, almost

Consum’d in going, in the sea are lost. 

So perish souls, which more choose men’s unjust

Power, from God claim’d, than God himself to trust. 

Donne, John. “Satire 3.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 9-12. 

Observation: “Satire 3″ is about the speaker’s internal debate about conversion and finding “true religion” (43). In the satire, Donne considers various Christian denominations. For example, Mirreus, who is Catholic, and “Seeks her (religion) at Rome” (45). But, “Graius stays still at home here” (55). Or, he stays in the Church of England, which Donne claims preachers promote the religion as the one true denomination, or the denomination that is “only perfect” (59). In this collection, the satire serves as a transitional piece between the different disciplines of Donne’s writing. While Donne did convert from Catholicism to the Anglican religion, this satire is a theoretical transition from Donne’s love poetry to his divine literature. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

A Valediction of Weeping

    Let me pour forth 

My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here, 

For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear, 

And by this mintage they are something worth, 

    For thus they be

    Pregnant of thee; 

Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more: 

When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore; 

So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore. 

    On a round ball 

A workman, that hath copies by, can lay

An Europe, Afric, and an Asia, 

And quickly make that, which was nothing, All. 

    So doth each tear, 

    Which thee doth wear, 

A globe, yea world, by that impression grow, 

Till thy tears mix’d with mine do overflow

This world, by waters sent from thee, my heavens dissolved so. 

    O more than moon, 

Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere; 

Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forebear 

To teach the sea, what it may do too soon; 

    Let not the wind

    Example find

To do me more harm than it purposeth: 

Since thou and I sigh one another’s breath, 

Whoe’er sighs most is cruellest and hastes the other’s death. 

Donne, John. “A Valediction of Weeping.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 96-97. 

Observation: “A Valediction of Weeping” portrays an intense, emotional love between the speaker and his beloved. The couple is about to part ways, as Donne states, “So thou and I are nothing then, when on diverse shores” (9). This separation is the cause of grief and weeping in the poem. However, Donne shows the couple’s emotional and spiritual connection despite physical distance claiming, “thou and I sigh one another’s breath” (26). This poem again lends to an image of Donne as a philosophical love poet, who repeatedly addresses soul and body in his writing, thus creating an intricate, intellectual volume of work. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

Air and Angels

Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee, 

Before I knew thy face or name; 

So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, 

Angels affect us oft, and worship’d be. 

  Still when to where thou wert I came, 

Some lovely glorious nothing I did see. 

  But since my soul, whose child love is, 

Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do, 

  More subtle than the parent is 

Love must not be, but take a body too. 

  And therefore what thou wert, and who, 

    I bid Love ask, and now

That it assume thy body, I allow, 

And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow. 

Whilst thus to ballast love, I thought, 

And so more steadily to have gone, 

With wares which would sink admiration, 

I saw I had love’s pinnance overfraught; 

  Ev’ry thy hair for love to work upon 

Is much too much; some fitter must be sought; 

  For, nor in nothing, nor in things

Extreme and scatt’ring bright, can love inhere; 

  Then as an angel, face and wings

Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear, 

  So thy love may be my love’s sphere. 

    Just such disparity

As is ‘twixt air and angels’ purity, 

‘Twixt women’s love, and men’s will ever be. 

Donne, John. “Air and Angels.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 83-84.

Observation: Like “The Good Morrow,” “Air and Angels” continues the deeper presentation of Donne’s love poetry that contemplates philosophical connections between body and soul. Donne explores the soul’s connection to love stating, “But since my soul, whose child love is,/ Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,/ More subtle than the parent is / Love must not be, but take a body too” (7-10). Love originates from the soul, but must also be delivered through physicality as it “takes limbs of flesh” and must “take a body too.” This poem contributes to the multifaceted nature of Donne’s love poetry, that goes far past  seduction poems, and combines exploration of the soul and the body in love through divine imagery. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

The Good Morrow

I wonder by my troth, what thou and I 

  Did, till we lov’d? Were we not wean’d till then?

But suck’d on country pleasures sillily?

  Or slumber’d we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?

      ‘Twas so; but this all pleasures fancies be;

       If ever any beauty I did see, 

Which I desired, and got, ‘twas but a dream of thee. 

And now good morrow to our waking souls, 

  Which watch not one another out of fear; 

For love all love of other sights controls, 

  And makes one little room an everywhere. 

      Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone; 

      Let maps to others, worlds on worlds have shown;

Let us posses our world: each hath one, and is one. 

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, 

  And true plain hearts do in the faces rest. 

Where can we find two better hemispheres

  Without sharp north, without declining west?

      Whatever dies, was not mix’d equally; 

      If our two loves be one, or thou and I

Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die. 

Donne, John. “The Good Morrow.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 72.

Observation: “The Good Morrow” by John Donne is a love poem that considers bodily love, as well as connection between souls. Donne addresses the physical side of love, claiming it, “makes one little room an everywhere” (11). The couple’s love is so strong it turns their bedroom into a world, that can be felt everywhere. However, this love goes further through the connection of souls. Donne writes, “And now, good morrow to our waking souls,/ Which watch not one another out of fear” (8-9). Good morrow is a greeting, which the speaker bids to one another’s souls, which are watching one another out of admiration. This poem is significant in a collection of Donne’s work because it shows Donne is not only a sensual poet, but also an author capable of writing about love in many ways, that explores deep possibilities of connection both physically and spiritually. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

The Bait

Come live with me, and be my love, 

And we will some new pleasures prove 

Of golden sands and crystal brooks, 

With silken lines and silver hooks. 

There will the river whisp’ring run, 

Warm’d by thy eyes, more than the sun; 

And there th’enamour’d fish will stay, 

Begging themselves they may betray. 

When thou wilt swim in that live bath, 

Each fish, which every channel hath, 

Will amorously to thee swim, 

Gladder to catch thee, than thou him. 

If thou, to be so seen, be’est loath, 

By sun, or moon, thou dark’nest both, 

And if myself hath leave to see, 

I need not their light, having thee. 

Let others freeze with angling reeds, 

And cut their legs with shells and weeds, 

Or treacherously poor fish beset

With strangling snare of windowy net. 

Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest 

The bedded fish in banks outwrest; 

Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies, 

Bewitch poor fishes’ wand’ring eyes. 

For thee, thou need’st no such deciet, 

For thou thyself art thine own bait:

That fish, that is not catch’d thereby, 

Alas, is wiser far than I. 

Donne, John. “The Bait.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 68.

Observation: “The Bait” by John Donne also serves as an example of Donne’s sensual, love poems, where Donne compares courtship to the experience of baiting and catching a fish. The poem begins with a command, where the speaker says, “Come live with me, and be my love” (1). However, this poem is significant for a modern edition of Donne as it highlights female agency in courtship. Donne writes, “Each fish, which every channel hath,/ Will amorously to thee swim,/ Gladder to catch thee, than thou him” (10-12). In this poem, the woman, or ‘the bait’, is a seductress that attracts men, and remains aloof to men’s frivolous advances. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

The Flea

Mark but this flea, and mark in this, 

How little that which thou deny’st me is;

It suck’d me first, and how sucks thee, 

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be. 

Thou know’st this cannot be said

A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead, 

          Yet this enjoys before it woo, 

          And pamper’d swells with one blood made of two; 

          And this, alas, is more than we would do. 

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, 

Where we almost, nay more than, married are. 

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed and marriage temple is. 

Though parents grudge, and you, we’re met, 

And cloister’d in these living walls of jet. 

          Though use make you apt to kill me. 

          Let not, to that, self-murder added be, 

          And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. 

Cruel and sudden, has thou since

Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? 

Wherein could this flea guilty be? 

Except in that drop which it suck’d from thee?

Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou 

Find’st not thyself nor me the weaker now. 

          ‘Tis true; then learn how false fears be:

          Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me, 

          Will waste, as this flea’s death took like form thee. 

Donne, John. “The Flea.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 98.

Observation: “The Flea” by John Donne helps create the image of Donne as a lover, as it is a long appeal for a woman to join the speaker in bed, using a flea as a metaphor. Throughout the poem, Donne continuously makes arguments in order to persuade a woman, claiming, “Thou know’st this cannot be said/ A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead” (5-6). In other words, the speaker claims it would not be wrong to give into his advances, and would not result in “shame” or “loss of maidenhead.” Later on, the flea becomes a representation of the subject’s relationship, where Donne claims, “This flea is you and I, and this/ Our marriage bed and marriage temple is” (12-13). This poem is significant in a collection of Donne’s work due to it’s use of metaphor, that allow Donne to make numerous sensual appeals to a woman, thus supporting portions of Donne’s writing as seductive poetry. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

Eelegy 9

Although thy hand an faith, and good works too

Have seal’s thy love which nothing should undo,

Yea though thou fall back, that apostasy

Confirm thy love; yet much, much I fear thee.

Women are like the arts, forc’d unto none,

Open to all searchers, unpriz’d, if unknown.

If I have caught a bird, and let him fly,

Another fowler using those means, as I,

May catch the same bird; and, as these things be,

Women are made for men, not him, nor me.

Foxes and goats, all beasts change when they please,

Shall women, more hot, wily, wild than these,

Be bound to one man, and did nature then

Idly make them apter to’endure than men?

They’are our clogs, and their own: if a man be

Chain’d to a gallery, yet the galley’is free.

Who hath a plowland, casts all his seed corn there,

And yet allows his ground more corn should bear;

Though Danuby into the sea must flow,

The sea receives the Rhine, Volga, and Po.

By nature, which gave it, this liberty

Thou lov’st, but Oh canst thou love it and me?

Likeness glues love: then if so thou do,

To make us like and love, must I change too?

More than thy hate, I hate’it: rather let me

Allow her change, than change as oft as she,

And so not teach, but force my’opinion,

To love not any one, nor every one.

To live in one land, is captivity,

To run all countries, a wild roguery.

Waters stink soon, if in one place they bide,

And in the vast sea are worse putrefi’d:

But when they kiss one bank, and leaving this

Never look back, but the next bank do kiss,

Then are they purest. Change’is the nursery

Of music, joy, life and eternity.

Donne, John. “Elegy 9.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 36-37.

Observation: “Elegy 9″ contributes to an image of Donne as a sensual poet, like the other elegies, but is significant due to the freedom it grants women. In “Elegy 9,” women are not bound to a man, but free to change and roam. Donne claims, “Women are like the arts, forc’d unto none,/ Open to all searchers, unpriz’d, if unknown” (5-6). Women are like art, not forced to be with anyone specifically, and free to love whom they desire. However, the second line includes a pun, claiming women are open to any lover and not as valued if inexperienced sexually. Donne later makes an appeal that changing relationships are natural by comparing the concept to imagery in nature. Donne writes, “Waters stink soon, if in one place they bide,/ And in the vast sea are worse putrefi’d” (30-31). If women stay in one relationship too long, it makes things “putrefi’d.” Although “Elegy 9″ is not as explicitly sensual as the other elegies in this collection, it is important to include in a modern edition of Donne’s writing as it illuminates a style of modern relationships not bound to traditional conventions. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

Elegy 8 - To His Mistress Going to Bed

Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy; 

Until I labor, I in labor lie. 

The foe oft times having the foe in sight, 

Is tir’d with standing though they never fight. 

Off with that girdle like heaven’s zones glistering, 

But a far fairer world encompassing. 

Unpin that spangled breastplate, which you wear

That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopp’d there. 

Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime

Tells me from you that now ‘tis your bed-time. 

Off with that happy busk, whom I envy, 

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh. 

Your gown’s going off, such beauteous state reveals, 

As when from flow’ry meads th’hill’s shadow steals. 

Off with your coronet and show

The hairy diadem which on you doth grow. 

Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread

In this love’s hallow’d temple, this soft bed. 

In such white robes, heaven’s angels us’d to be

Reciev’d by men: Thou, angel bring’st with thee 

A heaven like Mahomet’s paradise: and though 

Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know

By this these angels from an evil sprite: 

They set our hairs, but these the flesh upright. 

Licence my roving hands, and let them go

Behind, before, above, between, below. 

O my America, my new found land, 

My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann’d

My mine of precious stones, my empery;

How blest am I in this discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then where my hand is set, y seal shall be. 

Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee; 

As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be, 

To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use

Are as Atlanta’s balls cast in men’s views, 

That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a gem, 

His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them. 

Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings, made

For laymen, are all women thus array’d

Themselves are mystic books, which only we

(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)

Must see reveal’d. Then, since I may know, 

As liberally as to a midwife show

Thy self. Cast all, yea, this white linen hence, 

There is no penance, much less innocence. 

To teach thee I am naked first: why then, 

What need’st thou have more covering than a man? 

Donne, John. “Elegy 8.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 34-36.

Observation: “Elegy 8- To His Mistress Going to Bed,” is an example of dominant, commanding love. In the beginning of the elegy, Donne uses a series of commands, such as “Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime/ Tells me from you that now ‘tis your bed-time” (9-10). The undressing of the woman in the elegy creates a tone of sensuality, which is strengthened by Donne’s appeals to draw the woman into bed. One of the strongest appeals is, “Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee;/  As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth’d must be” (33-34). Donne argues that “nakedness” causes joy, and is a natural state where one’s soul is vulnerable and “unbodied.” “Elegy 8″ follows a relentless, persistent tone, but is important in a collection of Donne’s work as an example of his seductive love poems due to its numerous, strong seductive appeals. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

Elegy 7 - Love’s War

Till I have peace with thee, war other men; 

And when I have peace, can I leave thee then? 

All other wars are scrupulous; only thou 

Oh fair free city, may’st thyself allow 

To any one: In Flanders, who can tell

Whether the master press or men rebel? 

Only we know, that which all idiots say, 

They bear most blows which come to part the fray. 

France in her lunatic giddiness did hate 

Ever our men, yea and our God of late. 

Yet she relies upon our angels well 

Which ne’er return; no more than they which fell. 

Sick Ireland is with a strange war possess’d

Like to an’ague; now raging, now at rest; 

Which time will cure: yet it must do her good

If she were purg’d, and her head vein let blood. 

And Midas joys our Spanish journeys give, 

We touch all gold, but find no food to live. 

And I should be in that hot parching clime 

To dust and ashes turn’d before my time.

To mew me in a ship, is to enthrall 

Me in a prison, that were like to fall, 

Or in a cloister; save that there men dwell 

In a calm heaven, there in a swaggering hell. 

Long voyages are long consumptions, 

And ships are carts for executions. 

Yea they are deaths: Is’t not all one to fly

Into an other world, as ‘tis to die?

Here let me war; in these arms let me lie; 

Here let me parley, batter, bleed, and die. 

Thy arms imprison me, and mine arms thee, 

Thy heart thy ransom is, take mine for me, 

Other men war that they their rest may gain, 

But we will rest that we may fight again. 

Those wars th’ignorant, these th’experienc’d love; 

There we are always under, here above. 

There engines far off breed a just true fear, 

Ne’er thrusts, pikes, stabs, yea bullets hurt not here. 

There lies are wrongs; here safe uprightly lie; 

There men kill men, we’ll make one by and by. 

Thou nothing; I not half so much shall do 

In those wars, as they may which from us two

Shall spring. Thousands we see which travel not 

To wars; but stay swords, arms, and shot

To make at home: And shall not I do then 

More glorious service, staying to make men? 

Donne, John. “Elegy 7.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 33-34.

Observation: Elegy 7, “Love’s War”, works to portray the seductive side of Donne’s poetry. This elegy follows the form of a conceit, where love is compared to a war. From lines 9-18, Donne references various European wars. The conceit later shifts to the couple’s relationship, where Donne writes, “Here let me war; in these arms let me lie” (29). The love depicted in this elegy is mutual, as Donne states, “Thy arms imprison me, and mine arms thee,/ thy heart thy ransom is, take mine for me” (31-32).  Although this elegy contains a mutual, respecting love, it is not void of sensual appeals. The closing lines state, “And shall not I do then/ More glorious service, staying to make men?” (45-46). Donne claims there is no better duty than producing offspring as an appeal to attract a woman. Therefore, like many elegies, “Love’s War” is an example of Donne’s love poetry, and amongst the ones with sensual appeals and themes.  

[donnedigitalthoughts]

The Calm

Our storm is past, and that storm’s tyrannous rage, 

A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth ‘suage. 

The fable is inverted, and far more

A block afflicts, now, than a stork before. 

Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves, or us;

In calms, heaven laughs to see us languish thus. 

As steady’as I can wish my thoughts were, 

Smooth as thy mistress’ glass, or what shines there, 

The sea is now. And, as these Isles which we

Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be. 

As water did in storms, not pitch runs out

As lead, when a fir’d church becomes on spout. 

And all our beauty and our trim decays, 

Like courts removing, or like ended plays. 

The fighting place, now seamen’s rags supply; 

And all the tackling is a frippery. 

No use of lanthorns; and in one place lay

Feathers and dust, today and yesterday. 

Earth’s hollownesses, which the world’s lungs are, 

Have no more wind than th’upper vault of air. 

We can nor left friends nor sought foes recover, 

But meteor-like, save that we move not, hover. 

Only the calenture together draws

Dear friends, which meet dead in great fishes’ jaws; 

And on the hatches as on altars lies

Each one, his own priest, and own sacrifice. 

Who live, that miracle do multipy

Where walkers in hot ovens do die. 

If in despite of these we swim, that hath

No more refreshing than a brimstone bath;

But from the sea into the ship we turn, 

Like parboil’d wretches, on the coals to burn. 

Like Bajazet encag’d the shepherds’ s scoff, 

Or like slack sinew’d Samson, his hair off, 

Languish our ships. Now, as a myraid

Of ants durst th’emperor’s loved snake invade, 

The crawling galleys, sea-jails, funny chips, 

Might brave our pinnaces, not bed-rid ships. 

Whether a rotten state, and hope of gain, 

Or to disuse me from the queasy pain

Of being belov’d and loving, or the thirst

Of honor or fair death, out-push’d me first, 

I lose my end: for here, as well as I, 

A desperate may live, and a coward die. 

Stag, dog, and all which form, or towards flies, 

Is paid with life, or prey, or doing dies. 

Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly lay

A scourge, ‘gainst which we all forget to pray. 

He that at sea prays for more wind, as well

Under the poles may beg cold, heat in hell. 

What are we then? How little more, alas, 

Is man now, than before he was? He was

Nothing; for us, we are for nothing fit;

Chance, or ourselves still disproportion it. 

We have no power, no will, no sense. I lie, 

I should not then thus feel this misery. 

Donne, John. “The Calm.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 51-53. 

Observation: Following the previous letter “The Storm,” “The Calm” is it’s companion, telling what happened to Donne on his voyage after the storm broke. This writing also exemplifies the intimacy and rich description of Donne’s writing. Donne states, “But from the sea into the ship we turn,/ Like parboil’d wretches, on the coals to burn” (31-32). The occupants of the ship turned to go back into the boat, which was extremely hot. This letter lends to the argument all verse letters in the collection make about Donne as an author. The rich, intense description Donne uses in his writings shows his strong companionship to the readers of his poetry. To read the rest of the collection accurately, the intimacy of his writing must be kept in mind. The following organization of the collection is designed to gain a better understanding of how Donne evolved in his life, from a young lover to a Dean in the Church of England. To understand this portion of Donne’s identity is to gain a better understanding of him as an author, and therefore a closer, deeper reading of his work.  

[donnedigitalthoughts]

The Storm

To Mr. Christopher Brooke. 

Thou, which art I (’tis nothing to be so),

Thou which art still thyself, by these shalt know

Part of our passage; and a hand or eye

By Hilliard drawn, is worth an history, 

By a worse painter made; and (without pride)

When by thy judgement they are dignified, 

My lines are such. ‘Tis the pre-eminence 

Of friendship only to’impute excellence. 

England, to’whom we owe what we be, and have, 

Sad that her sons did seek a foreigh grave

(For fate’s, or fortune’s drifts, none can soothsay;

Honor and misery have one face and way)

From out her pregnant entrails sigh’d a wind

Which at th’air’s middle marble room did find

Such strong resistance, that itself it threw

Downward again; and so when it did view

How in the port our fleet dear time did leese, 

Withering like prisoners which lie but for fees, 

Mildly it kiss’s our sails, and fresh and sweet

As to a stomach starv’d, whose insides meet, 

Meat comes, it came; and swole our sails, when we 

So joy’d, as Sarah’her swelling joy’d to see. 

But ‘twas but so kind as our countrymen

Which bring friends one day’s way, and leave them then. 

Then, like two mighty kings, which dwelling far 

Asunder, meet against a third to war, 

The south and west winds join’d, and as they blew, 

Waves like a rolling trench before them threw. 

Sooner than you read this line, did the gale, 

Like shot, not fear’d till felt, our sails assail. 

And what at first was call’d a gust, the same

Hath now a storm’s, anon a tempest’s name. 

Jonas, I pity thee, and curse those men

Who when the storm rag’d most, did wake thee then. 

Sleep is pain’s easiest salve, and doth fulfil

All offices of death, except to kill. 

But when I waked, I saw that I saw not. 

I, and the sun, which should teach me, had forgot

East, west, day, night; and I could but say, 

If the’world had lasted, now it had been day. 

Thousands our noises were, yet we ‘mongst all

Could none by his right name, but thunder call. 

Lightning was all our light, and it rain’d more

Than if the sun had drunk the sea before. 

Some coffin’d in their cabins lie, equally

Griev’d that they are not dead, and yet must die. 

And as sin-burden’d souls from graves will creep

At the last day, some forth their cabins peep, 

And trembling ask, “What news?” and do hear so

Like jealous husbands, what they would not know. 

Some sitting on the hatches would seem there

With hideous gazing to fear away fear. 

There note they the ship’s sicknesses, the mast

Shak’d with an ague, and the hold and waist

With a salt dropsy clogg’d, and all our tacklings

Snapping, like too high-stretch’d treble strings. 

And from our tatter’d sails rags drop down so

As from one hang’d in chains a year ago. 

Even our ordnance placed for our defense, 

Strive to break loose, and ‘scape away from thence. 

Pumping hath tir’d our men, and what’s the gain?

Seas into seas thrown, we suck in again;

Hearing hath deaf’d our sailors, and if they

Knew how to hear, there’s none knows what to say.

Compar’d to these storms, death is but a qualm, 

Hell somewhat lightsome, and the Bermudas calm. 

Darkness, light’s elder brother, his birthright

Claims oe’r this world, and to heaven hath chas’d light. 

All things are one: and that one none can be, 

Since all forms uniform deformity

Doth cover; so that we, except God say

Another Fiat, shall have no more day. 

So violent, yet long these furies be, 

That though thine absence starve me, I wish not thee. 

Donne, John. “The Storm.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 49-51. 

Observation: “The Strom”, much like Donne’s letter “To Sir Henry Wotton” shows the intimacy of Donne’s writing. The opening line of “The Storm” states, “Thou, which art I (’tis nothing to be so)” (1). In other words, Donne and his friend Christopher Brooke are so close they are one. The relationship is unified to the point Donne claims Brooke already knows what he will say in the letter (3). It is important to understand Donne’s poetry according to these letters to grasp the intimacy of his poems. Donne’s poems were not originally published until after his death. Therefore, poems and personal correspondence  should be read intimately. 

[donnedigitalthoughts]

To Sir Henry Wotton

      “Sir, more thank kisses, letters mingle souls: 

For thus, friends absent speak. This ease controls

The tediousness of my life: But for these 

I could ideate nothing which could please, 

But I should wither in one day and pass 

To’a bottle of hay, that am a lock of grass. 

      Life is a voyage, and in our life’s ways 

Countries, courts, towns are rocks or remoras. 

They break of stop all ships, yet our state’s such, 

That though than pitch they stain worse, we must touch. 

If in the furnace of the even line, 

Or under th’adverse icy poles thou pine, 

Thou know’st two temperate regions girded in 

Dwell there: But, oh, what refuge canst thou win

Parch’d in the court, and in the country frozen? 

Shall cities built of both extremes be chosen? 

Can dung and garlic be’a perfume? Or can 

A scorpion and torpedo cure a man? 

Cities are worst of all three: Of all three 

(O knotty riddle) each is worst equally. 

Cities are sepulchers; they who dewll there 

Are carcases, as if no such there were. 

And courts are theaters, where some men play 

Princes; some slaves; all to’one end, and of one clay. 

The country is a desert, where no good 

Gain’d, as habits, not born, is understood. 

There men become beasts, and prone to more evils; 

In cities, blocks, and in a lewd court, devils. 

As in the first chaos, confusedly 

Each element’s qualities were in th’other three, 

So pride, lust, covetise, being several

To these three places, yet all are in all, 

And mingled thus, their issue incestuous. 

Falsehood is denizen’d; virtue is barbarous. 

Let no man say there, “Virtue’s flinty wall 

Shall lock vice in me. I’ll do none, but know all.”

Men are sponges, which, to pour out, receive; 

Who know false play, rather than lose, decieve. 

For in best understandings sin began, 

Angels sinn’d first, then devils, and then man. 

Only perchance beasts sin not; wretched we 

Are bests in all but white integrity. 

I think, if men, which in these places live, 

Durst look for themselves, and themselves retrieve, 

They would like strangers greet themselves, seeing then 

Utopian youth, grown old Italian. 

          Be then thine own home, and in thyself dwell; 

In anywhere; continuance maketh hell. 

And seeing the snail, which everywhere doth roam, 

Carrying his own house still, still is at home, 

Follow (for he is easy pac’d) this snail; 

Be thine own palace, or the world’s thy jail. 

And in the world’s sea, do not like cork sleep 

Upon the water’s face; nor in the deep 

Sink like a lead without a line; but as 

Fishes glide, leaving no print where they pass, 

Nor making sound, so closely thy course go, 

Let men dispute, whether thou breathe or no. 

Only in this one thing be no Galenist. To make 

Courts’ hot ambitions wholesome, do not take 

A dram of country’s dullness; do not add 

Correctives, but, as chemics, purge the bad. 

But, Sir, I advise not you; I rather do 

Say o’er those lessons, which I learn’d of you. 

Whom, free from Germany’s schisms, and lightness

Of France, and fair Italy’s faithlessness, 

Having from these suck’d all they had of worth. 

And brought home that faith which you carried forth, 

I throughly love. But if myself I’have won 

To know my rules, I have, and you have 

                                                               Donne.”

Donne, John. “To Sir Henry Wotton.” John Donne’s Poetry, edited by Donald R. Dickson, Norton and Company, 2007, 54-56. 

Observation: This letter prefaces the collection as it is representative of the intention behind Donne’s poetry, as a means of communication with close friends. Donne states, “Sir, more thank kisses, letters mingle souls:/ For thus, friends absent speak” (1-2). Writing is a way for Donne to communicate intimately with friends and loved ones. Beginning the collection with this piece creates a frame of reference for how to read and understand Donne as an unintentional author. Donne’s work should be considered intimate, and read as a letter to friends and followers. Instead of looking at Donne’s writing as meant for the masses (besides religious work that was produced for speeches and publication), it must be read with a closeness to the source. Therefore, this collection will work to understand Donne not only as a poet, but as a man, who was both a lover and a respected member of the Church of England.