Bulchevy's Book of English Verse - LightNovelsOnl.com
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So to engraft our hands, as yet Was all the means to make us one; And pictures in our eyes to get Was all our propagation.
As 'twixt two equal armies Fate Suspends uncertain victory, Our souls--which to advance their state Were gone out--hung 'twixt her and me.
And whilst our souls negotiate there, We like sepulchral statues lay; All day the same our postures were, And we said nothing, all the day.
John Donne. 1573-1631
199. The Dream
DEAR love, for nothing less than thee Would I have broke this happy dream; It was a theme For reason, much too strong for fantasy.
Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths and fables histories; Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best Not to dream all my dream, let 's act the rest.
As lightning, or a taper's light, Thine eyes, and not thy noise, waked me; Yet I thought thee-- For thou lov'st truth--an angel, at first sight; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart, And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art, When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then, I must confess it could not choose but be Profane to think thee anything but thee.
Coming and staying show'd thee thee, But rising makes me doubt that now Thou art not thou.
That Love is weak where Fear 's as strong as he; 'Tis not all spirit pure and brave If mixture it of Fear, Shame, Honour have.
Perchance as torches, which must ready be, Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me.
Thou cam'st to kindle, go'st to come: then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die.
John Donne. 1573-1631
200. The Funeral
WHOEVER comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair about mine arm; The mystery, the sign you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that which, unto heav'n being gone, Will leave this to control And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.
For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; Those hairs, which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do 't: except she meant that I By this should know my pain, As prisoners then are manacled, when they're condemn'd to die.
Whate'er she meant by 't, bury it with me, For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry If into other hands these reliques came.
As 'twas humility T' afford to it all that a soul can do, So 'tis some bravery That, since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.
John Donne. 1573-1631
201. A Hymn to G.o.d the Father
WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sins their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallow'd in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more.
I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the sh.o.r.e; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son Shall s.h.i.+ne as He s.h.i.+nes now and heretofore: And having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more.
John Donne. 1573-1631
202. Death
DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go-- Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!
Richard Barnefield. 1574-1627
203. Philomel
AS it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan Save the Nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry; Tereu, Tereu! by and by; That to hear her so complain Scarce I could from tears refrain; For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain: Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee: King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing Careless of thy sorrowing: Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me.
Thomas Dekker. 1575-1641
204. Sweet Content
ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplex'd?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vex'd To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny--hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O sweet content!
Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!
Then he that patiently want's burden bears, No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labour bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny--hey nonny nonny!
Thomas Heywood. 157?-1650
205. Matin Song
PACK, clouds, away! and welcome, day!
With night we banish sorrow.
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft To give my Love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow: Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, sing!
To give my Love good-morrow!
