Read Donne for Free Online Page A

loe
    I shut my chamber doore, and come, lets goe.
    But sooner may a cheape whore, who hath beene
    Worne by as many severall men in sinne,
    As are black feathers, or musk-colour hose,
    Name her childs right true father, ’mongst all those:
    Sooner may one guesse, who shall beare away
    The infant of London, Heire to an India,
    And sooner may a gulling weather-Spie
    By drawing forth heavens Scheme tell certainly
    What fashioned hats, or ruffes, or suits next yeare
    Our subtile-witted antique youths will weare;
    Then thou, when thou depart’st from mee, canst show
    Whither, why, when, or with whom thou wouldst go.
    But how shall I be pardon’d my offence
    That thus have sinn’d against my conscience?
    Now we are in the street; He first of all
    Improvidently proud, creepes to the wall,
    And so imprisoned, and hem’d in by mee
    Sells for a little state his libertie,
    Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greet
    Every fine silken painted foole we meet,
    He them to him with amorous smiles allures,
    And grins, smacks, shrugs, and such an itch endures,
    As prentises, or schoole-boyes which doe know
    Of some gay sport abroad, yet dare not goe.
    And as fidlers stop lowest, at highest sound,
    So to the most brave, stoops hee nigh’st the ground.
    But to a grave man, he doth move no more
    Then the wise politique horse would heretofore,
    Or thou O Elephant or Ape wilt doe,
    When any names the King of Spaine to you.
    Now leaps he upright, Joggs me, and cryes, Do you see
    Yonder well favoured youth? Which? Oh, ’tis hee
    That dances so divinely; Oh, said I,
    Stand still, must you dance here for company?
    Hee droopt, wee went, till one (which did excell
    Th’Indians, in drinking his Tobacco well)
    Met us; they talk’d; I whispered, let’us goe,
    ’T may be you smell him not, truely I doe;
    He heares not mee, but, on the other side
    A many-coloured Peacock having spide,
    Leaves him and mee; I for my lost sheep stay;
    He followes, overtakes, goes on the way,
    Saying, him whom I last left, all repute
    For his device, in hansoming a sute,
    To judge of lace, pinke, panes, print, cut, and plight,
    Of all the Court, to have the best conceit;
    Our dull Comedians want him, let him goe;
    But Oh, God strengthen thee, why stoop’st thou so?
    Why, he hath travayld. Long? No, but to me
    Which understand none, he doth seeme to be
    Perfect French, and Italian; I replyed,
    So is the Poxe; He answered not, but spy’d
    More men of sort, of parts, and qualities;
    At last his Love he in a windowe spies,
    And like light dew exhal’d, he flings from mee
    Violently ravish’d to his lechery.
    Many were there, he could command no more;
    Hee quarreird, fought, bled; and turn’d out of dore
        Directly came to mee hanging the head,
        And constantly a while must keepe his bed.
SATYRE II
    Sir; though (I thanke God for it) I do hate
    Perfectly all this towne, yet there’s one state
    In all ill things so excellently best,
    That hate, toward them, breeds pitty towards the rest.
    Though Poëtry indeed be such a sinne
    As I thinke that brings dearths, and Spaniards in,
    Though like the Pestilence and old fashion’d love,
    Ridlingly it catch men; and doth remove
    Never, till it be sterv’d out; yet their state
    Is poore, disarm’d, like Papists, not worth hate.
    One, (like a wretch, which at Barre judg’d as dead,
    Yet prompts him which stands next, and cannot reade,
    And saves his life) gives ideot actors meanes
    (Starving himselfe) to live by his labor’d sceanes;
    As in some Organ, Puppits dance above
    And bellows pant below, which them do move.
    One would move Love by rithmes; but witchcrafts charms
    Bring not now their old feares, nor their old harmes:
    Rammes, and slings now are seely battery,
    Pistolets are the best Artillerie.
    And they who write to Lords, rewards to get,
    Are they not like singers at doores for meat?
    And they who write, because all write, have still
    That excuse for writing, and for writing ill;
    But hee is worst, who