To Sir Henry Wotton [Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls...]

Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;For thus, friends absent speak. This ease controlsThe tediousness of my life: but for theseI could ideate nothing which could please,But I should wither in one day, and passTo a bottle of hay, that am a lock of grass. Life is a voyage, and in our lives' waysCountries, courts, towns are rocks, or remoras;They break or stop all ships, yet our state's such,That though than pitch they stain worse, we must touch.If in the furnace of the raging line,Or under th' adverse icy pole thou pine,Thou know'st two temperate regions, girded in,Dwell there ; but O, what refuge canst thou winParch'd in the court, and in the country frozen?Shall cities built of both extremes be chosen?Can dung or garlic be perfume? Or canA scorpion or torpedo cure a man?Cities are worst of all three; of all three(O knotty riddle!) each is worst equally.Cities are sepulchres; they who dwell thereAre carcases, as if no such there were.And courts are theatres, where some men playPrinces, some slaves, all to one end, of one clay.The country is a desert, where the good,Gain'd, inhabits not, born, is not 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 severalTo these three places, yet all are in all,And mingled thus, their issue is incestuous.Falsehood is denizon'd. Virtue is barbarous.Let no man say there, ." Virtue's flinty wallShall 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, deceive.For in best understandings sin began,Angels sinn'd first, then devils, and then man.Only perchance beasts sin not; wretched weAre beasts in all but white integrity.I think if men, which in these place live,Durst look in themselves, and themselves retrieve,They would like strangers greet themselves, seeing thenUtopian youth grown old Italian. Be then thine own home, and in thyself dwell;Inn 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 paced) this snail,Be thine own palace, or the world's thy gaol.And in the world's sea do not like cork sleepUpon the water's face; nor in the deepSink like a lead without a line; but asFishes 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 makeCourts' hot ambitions wholesome, do not takeA dram of country's dullness; do not addCorrectives, but, as chemics, purge the bad. But, sir, I advise not you, I rather doSay o'er those lessons, which I learn'd of you:Whom, free from Germany's schisms, and lightnessOf 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 thoroughly love. But if myself I have wonTo know my rules, I have, and you have DONNE.