John Donne

Obsequies to the Lord Harrington, brother to the Lady Lucy,Countesse of Bedford.

Faire soule, which wast, not onely, as all soules bee,Then when thou wast infused, harmony,But did'st continue so; and now dost beareA part in Gods great organ, this whole Spheare:If looking up to God; or downe to us,Thou finde that any way is pervious,Twixt heav'n and earth, and that mans actions doeCome to your knowledge, and affections too,See, and with joy, mee to that good degreeOf goodnesse growne, that I can studie thee,And, by these meditations refin'd,Can unapparell and enlarge my minde,And so can make by this soft extasie,This place a map of heav'n, my selfe of thee.Thou seest mee here at midnight, now all rest;Times dead-low water; when all mindes devestTo morrows businesse, when the labourers haveSuch rest in bed, that their last Church-yard grave,Subject to change, will scarce be'a type of this,Now when the clyent, whose last hearing isTo morrow, sleeps, when the condemned man,(Who when hee opes his eyes, must shut them thanAgaine by death,) although sad watch hee keepe,Doth practice dying by a little sleepe,Thou at this midnight seest mee, and as sooneAs that Sunne rises to mee, midnight's noone,All the world growes transparent, and I seeThrough all, both Church and State, in seeing thee;And I discerne by favour of this light,My selfe, the hardest object of the sight.God is the glasse; as thou when thou dost seeHim who sees all, seest all concerning thee,So, yet unglorified, I comprehendAll, in these mirrors of thy wayes, and end.Though God be our true glasse, through which we seeAll, since the beeing of all things is hee,Yet are the trunkes which doe to us deriveThings, in proportion fit, by perspective,Deeds of good men; for by their living here,Vertues, indeed remote, seeme to be neare.But where can I affirme, or where arrestMy thoughts on his deeds? which shall I call best?For fluid vertue cannot be look'd on,Nor can endure a contemplation.As bodies change, and as I do not weareThose Spirits, humors, blood I did last yeare,And, as if on a streame I fixe mine eye,That drop, which I looked on, is presentlyPusht with more waters from my sight, and gone,So in this sea of vertues, can no oneBee'insisted on; vertues, as rivers, passe,Yet still remaines that vertuous man there was.And as if man feed on mans flesh, and soPart of his body to another owe,Yet at the last two perfect bodies rise,Because God knowes where every Atome lyes;So, if one knowledge were made of all those,Who knew his minutes well, hee might disposeHis vertues into names, and ranks; but IShould injure Nature, Vertue, and Destinie,Should I divide and discontinue so,Vertue, which did in one intirenesse grow.For as, hee that would say, spirits are fram'dOf all the purest parts that can be nam'd,Honours not spirits halfe so much, as heeWhich sayes, they have no parts, but simple bee;So is't of vertue; for a point and oneAre much entirer then a million.And had Fate meant to have his vertues told,It would have let him live to have beene old;So, then that vertue in season, and then this,We might have seene, and said, that now he isWitty, now wise, now temperate, now just:In good short lives, vertues are faine to thrust,And to be sure betimes to get a place,When they would exercise, lacke time, and space.So was it in this person, forc'd to beeFor lack of time, his owne epitome:So to exhibit in few yeares as much,As all the long breath'd Chronicles can touch.As when an Angell down from heav'n doth flye,Our quick thought cannot keepe him company,Wee cannot thinke, now hee is at the Sunne,Now through the Moon, now he through th'aire doth run,Yet when he's come, we know he did repaireTo all twixt Heav'n and Earth, Sunne, Moon, and Aire;And as this Angell in an instant knowes,And yet wee know, this sodaine knowledge growesBy quick amassing severall formes of things,Which he successively to order brings;When they, whose slow-pac'd lame thoughts cannot goeSo fast as hee, thinke that he doth not so;Just as a perfect reader doth not dwell,On every syllable, nor stay to spell,Yet without doubt, hee doth distinctly seeAnd lay together every A, and B;So, in short liv'd good men, is'not understoodEach severall vertue, but the compound good;For, they all vertues paths in that pace tread,As Angells goe, and know, and as men read.O why should then these men, these lumps of BalmeSent hither, this worlds tempests to becalme,Before by deeds they are diffus'd and spred,And so make us alive, themselves be dead?O Soule, O circle, why so quickly beeThy ends, thy birth and death, clos'd up in thee?Since one foot of thy compasse still was plac'dIn heav'n, the other might securely'have pac'dIn the most large extent, through every path,Which the whole world, or man the abridgment hath.Thou knowst, that though the tropique circles have(Yea and those small ones which the Poles engrave,)All the same roundnesse, evennesse, and allThe endlesnesse of the equinoctiall;Yet, when we come to measure distances,How here, how there, the Sunne affected is,When he doth faintly worke, and when prevaile,Onely great circles, than can be our scale:So, though thy circle to thy selfe expresseAll, tending to thy endlesse happinesse,And wee, by our good use of it may trye,Both how to live well young, and how to die,Yet, since we must be old, and age enduresHis Torrid Zone at Court, and calenturesOf hot ambitions, irrelegions ice,Zeales agues, and hydroptique avarice,Infirmities which need the scale of truth,As well as lust, and ignorance of youth;Why did'st thou not for these give medicines too,And by thy doing tell us what to doe?Though as small pocket-clocks, whose every wheeleDoth each mismotion and distemper feele,Whose hand gets shaking palsies, and whose string(His sinewes) slackens, and whose Soule, the spring,Expires, or languishes, whose pulse, the flye,Either beates not, or beates unevenly,Whose voice, the Bell, doth rattle, or grow dumbe,Or idle,'as men, which to their last houres come,If these clockes be not wound, or be wound still,Or be not set, or set at every will;So, youth is easiest to destruction,If then wee follow all, or follow none.Yet, as in great clocks, which in steeples chime,Plac'd to informe whole towns, to'imploy their time,An error doth more harme, being generall,When, small clocks faults, only'on the wearer fall;So worke the faults of age, on which the eyeOf children, servants, or the State relie.Why wouldst not thou then, which hadst such a soule,A clock so true, as might the Sunne controule,And daily hadst from him, who gave it thee,Instructions, such as it could never beDisordered, stay here, as a generallAnd great Sun-dyall, to have set us All?O why wouldst thou be any instrumentTo this unnaturall course, or why consentTo this, not miracle, but Prodigie,That when the ebbs, longer then flowings be,Vertue, whose flood did with thy youth begin,Should so much faster ebb out, then flow in?Though her flood was blowne in, by thy first breath,All is at once sunke in the whirle-poole death.Which word I would not name, but that I seeDeath, else a desert, growne a Court by thee.Now I grow sure, that if a man would haveGood companie, his entry is a grave.Mee thinkes all Cities, now, but Anthills bee,Where, when the severall labourers I see,For children, house, Provision, taking paine,They'are all but Ants, carrying eggs, straw, and grain;And Church-yards are our cities, unto whichThe most repaire, that are in goodnesse rich.There is the best concourse, and confluence,There are the holy suburbs, and from thenceBegins Gods City, New Jerusalem,Which doth extend her utmost gates to them.At that gate then Triumphant soule, dost thouBegin thy Triumph; But since lawes allowThat at the Triumph day, the people may,All that they will, 'gainst the Triumpher say,Let me here use that freedome, and expresseMy griefe, though not to make thy Triumph lesse.By law, to Triumphs none admitted bee,Till they as Magistrates get victorie;Though then to thy force, all youthes foes did yield,Yet till fit time had brought thee to that field,To which thy ranke in this state destin'd thee,That there thy counsailes might get victorie,And so in that capacitie removeAll jealousies 'twixt Prince and subjects love,Thou could'st no title, to this triumph have,Thou didst intrude on death, usurp'dst a grave.Then (though victoriously) thou hadst fought as yetBut with thine owne affections, with the heateOf youths desires, and colds of ignorance,But till thou should'st successefully advanceThine armes 'gainst forraine enemies, which areBoth Envy, and acclamations popular,(For, both these engines equally defeate,Though by a divers Mine, those which are great,)Till then thy War was but a civill War,For which to Triumph, none admitted are.No more are they, who though with good successe,In a defensive war, their power expresse;Before men triumph, the dominionMust be enlarg'd and not preserv'd alone;Why should'st thou then, whose battailes were to winThy selfe, from those straits nature put thee in,And to deliver up to God that state,Of which he gave thee the vicariate,(Which is thy soule and body) as intireAs he, who takes endeavours, doth require,But didst not stay, t'enlarge his kingdome too,By making others, what thou didst, to doe;Why shouldst thou Triumph now, when Heav'n no moreHath got, by getting thee, then't had before?For, Heav'n and thou, even when thou livedst here,Of one another in possession were.But this from Triumph most disables thee,That, that place which is conquered, must beeLeft safe from present warre, and likely doubtOf imminent commotions to breake out:And hath he left us so? or can it beeHis territory was no more then Hee?No, we were all his charge, the DiocisOf ev'ry exemplar man, the whole world is,And he was joyned in commissionWith Tutelar Angels, sent to every one.But though this freedome to upbraid, and chideHim who Triumph'd, were lawfull, it was ty'dWith this, that it might never reference haveUnto the Senate, who this triumph gave;Men might at Pompey jeast, but they might notAt that authoritie, by which he gotLeave to Triumph, before, by age, he might;So, though, triumphant soule, I dare to write,Mov'd with a reverentiall anger, thus,That thou so earely wouldst abandon us;Yet I am farre from daring to disputeWith that great soveraigntie, whose absolutePrerogative hath thus dispens'd with thee,'Gainst natures lawes, which just impugners beeOf early triumphs; And I (though with paine)Lessen our losse, to magnifie thy gaineOf triumph, when I say, It was more fit,That all men should lacke thee, then thou lack it.Though then in our time, be not sufferedThat testimonie of love, unto the dead,To die with them, and in their graves be hid,As Saxon wives, and French soldurii did;And though in no degree I can expresseGriefe in great Alexanders great excesse,Who at his friends death, made whole townes devestTheir walls and bullwarks which became them best:Doe not, faire soule, this sacrifice refuse,That in thy grave I doe interre my Muse,Who, by my griefe, great as thy worth, being castBehind hand, yet hath spoke, and spoke her last.

to the Lord Harringtons brother. To the Countesse of Bedford.