All Poems
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To the Countess of Bedford [Madam, Reason is our soul's left hand, faith her right...]
© John Donne
Madam,Reason is our soul's left hand, faith her right, By these we reach divinity, that's you;Their loves, who have the blessing of your sight, Grew from their reason, mine from fair faith grew.
To Sir Henry Wotton [Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls...]
© John Donne
Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls;For thus, friends absent speak
To Sir Henry Wotton [Here's no more news, than virtue: I may as well...]
© John Donne
Here's no more news, than virtue: I may as wellTell you Calais, or Saint Michael's tales, as tellThat vice doth here habitually dwell.
To Mr. T. W. [Pregnant again with th'old twins, Hope and Fear...]
© John Donne
Pregnant again with th' old twins, Hope and Fear,Oft have I asked for thee, both how and whereThou wert, and what my hopes of letters were;
To Mr. S. B.
© John Donne
O thou which to search out the secret parts Of the India, or rather Paradise Of knowledge, hast with courage and adviceLately launch'd into the vast sea of arts,Disdain not in thy constant travelling To do as other voyagers, and make Some turns into less creeks, and wisely takeFresh water at the Heliconian spring;I sing not, siren-like, to tempt; for I Am harsh; nor as those schismatics with you, Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew;But seeing in you bright sparks of poetry, I, though I brought no fuel, had desire With these articulate blasts to blow the fire
Song ("Stay, O sweet, and do not rise")
© John Donne
Stay, O sweet, and do not rise,The light that shines comes from thine eyes;The day breaks not, it is my heart,Because that you and I must part
Sir John Wingefield
© John Donne
Beyond th'old pillers many have travailedTowards the suns cradle, and his throne, and bed
[Recusancy]
© John Donne
Oh, let me not serve so, as those men serve,Whom honour's smokes at once fatten and starve,Poorly enrich't with great men's words or looks ;Nor so write my name in thy loving booksAs those idolatrous flatterers, which stillTheir princes' style with many realms fulfill,Whence they no tribute have, and where no sway
The Perfume
© John Donne
Once, and but once found in thy company,All thy suppos'd escapes are laid on me;And as a thief at bar is question'd thereBy all the men that have been robb'd that year,So am I, (by this traitorous means surpriz'd)By thy hydroptic father catechiz'd
On His Mistress
© John Donne
By our first strange and fatal interview,By all desires which thereof did ensue,By our long starving hopes, by that remorseWhich my words masculine persuasive forceBegot in thee, and by the memoryOf hurts, which spies and rivals threaten'd me,I calmly beg
Manliness
© John Donne
Thou call'st me effeminate, for I love women's joys;I call not thee manly, though thou follow boys.
Love's Progress
© John Donne
Whoever loves, if he do not proposeThe right true end of love, he's one that goesTo sea for nothing but to make him sick
The Liar
© John Donne
Thou in the fields walkst out thy supping hoursAnd yet thou swear'st thou hast supp'd like a king;Like Nebuchadnezar perchance with grass and flowers,A sallet worse than Spanish dieting.
Jealousy
© John Donne
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,And yet complain'st of his great jealousy;If, swollen with poison, he lay in his last bed,His body with a sere bark covered,Drawing his breath as thick and short as canThe nimblest crocheting musician,Ready with loathsome vomiting to spewHis soul out of one hell into a new,Made deaf with his poor kindred's howling cries,Begging with few feign'd tears great legacies,Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly, and frolic be,As a slave, which to-morrow should be free
[Image and Dream]
© John Donne
Image of her whom I love, more than she, Whose fair impression in my faithful heart,Makes me her medal, and makes her love me, As kings do coins, to which their stamps impartThe value: go, and take my heart from hence, Which now is grown too great and good for me:Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see
A Hymne to Christ, at the Authors last going into Germany
© John Donne
In what torne ship soever I embarke,That ship shall be my embleme of thy Arke;What sea soever swallow mee, that floodShall be to mee an embleme of thy blood;Though thou with clouds of anger do disguiseThy face; yet through that maske I know those eyes, Which, though they turne away sometimes, They never will despise
His Picture
© John Donne
Here take my picture ; though I bid farewell,Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell
The Fever
© John Donne
Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone,That thee I shall not celebrate, When I remember thou was one.
The Comparison
© John Donne
As the sweet sweat of roses in a still,As that which from chaf'd musk cat's pores doth trill,As the almighty balm of th' early east,Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast;And on her neck her skin such lustre sets,They seem no sweat drops, but pearl carcanets
