Poetry

Come leave the loathéd stage, And the more loathsome age, Where pride and impudence in faction knit Usurp the chair of wit, Indicting and arraigning, every day, Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vain Commission of the brain Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn: They were not made for thee, less thou for them. Say that thou pour'st 'em wheat, And they would acorns eat; 'Twere simple fury, still thyself to waste On such as have no taste; To offer them a surfeit of pure bread, Whose appetites are dead; No, give them grains their fill, Husks, draff to drink, and swill; If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, Envy them not, their palate's with the swine. No doubt a moldy tale, Like Pericles, and stale As the shrive's crusts, and nasty as his fish, Scraps out of every dish Thrown forth, and raked into the common tub, May keep up the Play Club. Broome's sweepings do as well There as his master's meal; For who the relish of these guests will fit Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit. And much good do't ye then, Brave plush and velvet men Can feed on orts, and safe in your scene clothes, Dare quit upon your oaths The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers) Of stuffing your large ears With rage of comic socks, Wrought upon twenty blocks; Which, if they're torn, and foul, and patched enough, The gamesters share your guilt, and you their stuff. Leave things so prostitute, And take th'Alcaic lute; Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre; Warm thee by Pindar's fire; And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold, Ere years have made thee old, Strike that disdainful heat Throughout, to their defeat; As curious fools, and envious of thy stain, May, blushing, swear no palsy's in thy brain. But when they hear thee sing The glories of thy King, His zeal to God, and his just awe of men, They may be blood-shaken, then Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers, That no tuned harp like ours, In sound of peace or wars, Shall truly hit the stars When they shall read the acts of Charles his reign, And see his chariot triumph 'bove his wain.

"Ode to Himself" Ben Jonson

Kind pity chokes my spleen; brave scorn forbids Those tears to issue which swell my eyelids; I must not laugh, nor weep sins and be wise; Can railing, then, cure these worn maladies? Is not our mistress, fair Religion, As worthy of all our souls' devotion As virtue was in the first blinded age? Are not heaven's joys as valiant to assuage Lusts, as earth's honour was to them? Alas, As we do them in means, shall they surpass Us in the end? and shall thy father's spirit Meet blind philosophers in heaven, whose merit Of strict life may be imputed faith, and hear Thee, whom he taught so easy ways and near To follow, damn'd? Oh, if thou dar'st, fear this; This fear great courage and high valour is. Dar'st thou aid mutinous Dutch, and dar'st thou lay Thee in ships' wooden sepulchres, a prey To leaders' rage, to storms, to shot, to dearth? Dar'st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth? Hast thou courageous fire to thaw the ice Of frozen North discoveries? and thrice Colder than salamanders, like divine Children in th' oven, fires of Spain and the Line, Whose countries limbecs to our bodies be, Canst thou for gain bear? and must every he Which cries not, "Goddess," to thy mistress, draw Or eat thy poisonous words? Courage of straw! O desperate coward, wilt thou seem bold, and To thy foes and his, who made thee to stand Sentinel in his world's garrison, thus yield, And for forbidden wars leave th' appointed field? Know thy foes: the foul devil, whom thou Strivest to please, for hate, not love, would allow Thee fain his whole realm to be quit; and as The world's all parts wither away and pass, So the world's self, thy other lov'd foe, is In her decrepit wane, and thou loving this, Dost love a wither'd and worn strumpet; last, Flesh (itself's death) and joys which flesh can taste, Thou lovest, and thy fair goodly soul, which doth Give this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loathe. Seek true religion. O where? Mirreus, Thinking her unhous'd here, and fled from us, Seeks her at Rome; there, because he doth know That she was there a thousand years ago, He loves her rags so, as we here obey The statecloth where the prince sate yesterday. Crantz to such brave loves will not be enthrall'd, But loves her only, who at Geneva is call'd Religion, plain, simple, sullen, young, Contemptuous, yet unhandsome; as among Lecherous humours, there is one that judges No wenches wholesome, but coarse country drudges. Graius stays still at home here, and because Some preachers, vile ambitious bawds, and laws, Still new like fashions, bid him think that she Which dwells with us is only perfect, he Embraceth her whom his godfathers will Tender to him, being tender, as wards still Take such wives as their guardians offer, or Pay values. Careless Phrygius doth abhor All, because all cannot be good, as one Knowing some women whores, dares marry none. Graccus loves all as one, and thinks that so As women do in divers countries go In divers habits, yet are still one kind, So doth, so is Religion; and this blind- ness too much light breeds; but unmoved, thou Of force must one, and forc'd, but one allow, And the right; ask thy father which is she, Let him ask his; though truth and falsehood be Near twins, yet truth a little elder is; Be busy to seek her; believe me this, He's not of none, nor worst, that seeks the best. To adore, or scorn an image, or protest, May all be bad; doubt wisely; in strange way To stand inquiring right, is not to stray; To sleep, or run wrong, is. On a huge hill, Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and he that will Reach her, about must and about must go, And what the hill's suddenness resists, win so. Yet strive so that before age, death's twilight, Thy soul rest, for none can work in that night. To will implies delay, therefore now do; Hard deeds, the body's pains; hard knowledge too The mind's endeavours reach, and mysteries Are like the sun, dazzling, yet plain to all eyes. Keep the truth which thou hast found; men do not stand In so ill case, that God hath with his hand Sign'd kings' blank charters to kill whom they hate; Nor are they vicars, but hangmen to fate. Fool and wretch, wilt thou let thy soul be tied To man's laws, by which she shall not be tried At the last day? Oh, will it then boot thee To say a Philip, or a Gregory, A Harry, or a Martin, taught thee this? Is not this excuse for mere contraries Equally strong? Cannot both sides say so? That thou mayest rightly obey power, her bounds know; Those past, her nature and name is chang'd; to be Then humble to her is idolatry. As streams are, power is; those blest flowers that dwell At the rough stream's calm head, thrive and do well, But having left their roots, and themselves given To the stream's tyrannous rage, alas, are driven Through mills, and rocks, and woods, and at last, almost Consum'd in going, in the sea are lost. So perish souls, which more choose men's unjust Power from God claim'd, than God himself to trust.

"Satire III" John Donne Satires Donne wrote a number of satires in his youth. This poem probably dates from around 1594-5, a period when Donne was trying to make a life-changing decision - whether to remain a Catholic, in accordance with his upbringing and family loyalties, or to move (as he eventually did) to become a member of the Church of England. He read widely as he sought to understand the passionately held but widely differing beliefs current at the time and tried to decide between them. Like elegies and epigrams, satires have their origin in classical literature. Literally, satires are poems which ridicule certain people or human attitudes, often trying to reform them at the same time. An age of religious controversy In this, the third satire, On Religion, Donne addresses the search for religious truth in an age of religious conflict. In Donne's day, people were frequently imprisoned and even killed for their religious beliefs. Donne's uncle and brother had suffered directly for their Catholic faith. Finding and holding to spiritual truth mattered desperately to Donne, and the intensity of his personal struggle and turmoil gives this poem an edge and force not often seen in his earlier work. The poem has a number of key themes: A warning to those who fail to see the importance of spiritual truth The challenge to 'seek true religion' The need to follow one's conscience at all costs or risk damnation A warning to those who fail to prioritise spiritual truth The poem begins with anguish and anger as Donne states the need to be devoted to 'faire religion'. He looks back to the pagan philosophers of the classical age (before the coming of Christianity) who greatly valued and pursued virtue. Donne states that human beings should fear to be judged by God for being worse than the pagan philosophers were, despite possessing spiritual knowledge which they lacked. Donne may be speaking of his own father, a Catholic who died when Donne was young. He is, perhaps, envisaging him, safe in heaven, hearing of his son's damnation even though he had passed on to him the 'easie' and familiar ways of his own religion. The fear of damnation (spiritual condemnation by God) is, says Donne, an appropriate response which needs true courage to face it. To avoid such a fate, men and women must know their spiritual foes: the world flesh and devil, which will destroy the soul. The challenge to 'seek true religion' The problem is where to look. Donne examines the options on offer under the guise of a series of names. Mirreus is a Roman Catholic; Crantz (a German-sounding name because the Reformation began in Germany) is a Calvinist or Presbyterian; Graius is Anglican; and Phrygius is a sceptic or agnostic. He satirises all these people and their reasons for belief. Donne therefore sets out the best way to search for truth, a task which will require both care and determination. The reader is urged to 'doubt wisely' and to consider carefully, yet to get on with the job: in strange way To stand inquiring right is not to stray; To sleepe, or runne wrong, is. Discernment and courage are needed. It won't be easy and the journey may be long and arduous. Donne uses an image that has often been quoted: On a huge hill, Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and hee that will Reach her, about must, and about must goe; And what the hills suddeness resists, winne so. By 'suddeness' he means steepness. For Donne it isn't 'travelling hopefully' that matters, it is essential to arrive. 'Therefore now doe' he says, while there is still light. The need to follow one's conscience at all costs or risk damnation Donne gives some further guidance: don't blindly follow the authority of human rulers and leaders; it is better to suffer persecution (as Donne's own family had done so harshly) than to risk losing one's eternal soul, by obeying human authorities rather than God. Donne's search for religious truth, therefore, demands an independence of mind and heart, and a refusal to give up.

When night's black mantle could most darkness prove, And sleep, death's image, did my senses hire From knowledge of myself, then thoughts did move Swifter than those most swiftness need require. In sleep, a chariot drawn by winged desire I saw, where sat bright Venus, Queen of Love, And at her feet, her son, still adding fire To burning hearts, which she did hold above. But one heart flaming more than the rest The goddess held, and put it to my breast. "Dear son, now shut," said she: "thus must we win." He her obeyed and martyred my poor heart. I, waking, hoped as dreams it would depart: Yet since, O me, a lover I have been. Am I thus conquer'd? have I lost the powers, That to withstand which joyes to ruine me? Must I bee still, while it my strength devoures, And captive leads me prisoner bound, unfree? Love first shall leane mens fant'sies to them free, Desire shall quench loves flames, Spring, hate sweet showers, Love shall loose all his Darts, have sight, and see His shame and wishings, hinder happy houres. Why should we not Loves purblinde charmes resist? Must we be servile, doing what he list? No, seeke some host to harbour thee: I flye Thy Babish tricks, and freedome doe professe; But O, my hurt makes my lost heart confesse: I love, and must; so farewell liberty. Like to the Indians, ſcorched wth the ſunne, the ſunn wch they doe as theyr God adore ſoe ame I vſ'd by loue, for euer more I worship him, leſs fauor haue I wunn, Better are they who thus to blacknes runn, and ſoe can only whitenes want deplore then I who pale, and white ame wt griefs store, nor can haue hope, butt to ſee hopes vndunn; Beeſids theyr ſacrifies receaud's in ſight of theyr choſe ſainte: Mine hid as worthles rite; grant mee to ſee wher I my offrings giue, Then lett mee weare the marke of Cupids might, in hart as they in skin doe Phœbus light Nott ceaſing offrings to loue while I Liue

Pamphilia to Amphilanthus, selections (Norton pp. 1566-1567) Mary Wroth Lady Mary Wroth was the most prolific female author of the Jacobean era, but more impressive than her body of work was the subversion contained within it. Wroth adopted the Petrarchan sonnet sequence—normally employed by male authors to speak of their passionate fantasies and disappointments—and gave the poems a female speaker. Rather than fixating on the love object, Mary Wroth's female speaker is yoked to love itself, as is the case in the first sonnet in the sequence "Pamphilia to Amphilanthus." Pamphilia means all-loving, and the unfaithful beloved she addresses, Amphilanthus, means lover of two. The sequence begins with the sonnet "When night's black mantle could most darkness prove" and tells the origin story of Pamphilia's love. Unlike the common Petrarchan trope of the speaker contracting love sickness through the eyes, Pamphilia is claimed in love-bondage during a dream. In sleep, she sees Cupid adding fire to hearts held by Venus. The Queen of Love herself picks out "one heart flaming more than the rest" and orders Cupid to lock it in Pamphilia's chest. The love triangle that opens the sequence is not a mortal one rife with jealousy and thwarted desire—it is a spiritual enslavement carried out by a mother and son. Rather than a blazon itemizing the features of the beloved, or pleading with a resistant love object, Wroth makes her first poem about the master and mistress of passion itself. Amphilanthus' later inconstancy is not the point—Pamphilia's constancy is. She never sought love; it was a commandment from the gods, and like all unwanted gifts, it is her joy and burden to bear. She is the heroine, the lover, the saint. Pamphilia is cursed with loving to the point of self-sacrifice, like many a martyr. Her poor heart transforms the sonnet sequence from lover's complaint into hagiography. Mary Wroth wrote masques and romances in addition to sonnets, and in all genres she subverted expectation by giving agency to women, describing their love entanglements both in and out of marriage. After her first husband's death, Wroth herself carried on an affair with her married first cousin William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, and had two children by him. I am fascinated by the devotion that Mary Wroth writes about—devotion as servitude, which asks for nothing in return. A devotion that may not even be a choice. Love, which should be what's best in us, comes to Pamphilia as damnation and savior, and I am terrified that it is true that love must always ruin us before it can redeem us. It is suggested that the line "Like to the Indians, scorched with the sun" recalls Wroth's role in Ben Jonson's Masque of Blackness (1605). This masque was designed by Inigo Jones and written for Queen Anne of Denmark.[16] Gary Waller, in his book The Sidney Family Romance, explains that this masque was controversial because Wroth and the other female actors appeared in blackface as the twelve daughters of Niger.[17] Anita Hagerman, in her article "'But Worth pretends': Discovering Jonsonian Masque in Lady Mary Wroth's Pamphilia to Amphilanthus", discusses Wroth's role in Jonson's The Masque of Blackness and the specific influence of the theme of darkness on Sonnet 25. She states that Wroth played a character named Baryte, an Ethiopian maiden. Hagerman suggests that Wroth created a courtly persona for herself in these masques and that the themes of this persona are themes in Pamphilia to Amphilanthus. One idea of Wroth's courtly persona was darkness, probably stemming from her reputation of seriousness. The theme of dark versus light is explored in Sonnet 25 and is representative of her uncertainty of whether she wants her desires for Amphilanthus to be fulfilled or not, because either way will prove "torturous".[18] The idea of theatricality influences the way this poem is interpreted. Because it is understood that Wroth is talking about her experience in a theatrical performance, the theme of the artificial aspect of the masque performance needs to be taken into account. To understand this sonnet, we must understand how Wroth felt about taking part in courtly masques. Hagerman says that in the way that Pamphilia is ambivalent about what to do with her love for Amphilanthus, Wroth herself is ambivalent about the life of courtly masques. The contradiction of allowing women to have "feminine expressive display" of feelings and then strictly "enforced silence" could have represented the good and the bad of courtly life for Wroth. In the masques, Wroth was given a voice, but after she was no longer affiliated with the court life, she recognized the artificiality of the voice she had because the courtly life and the masques require a level of falseness. Gary Waller states that Wroth's female characters describe the pressure they feel in terms of theater and display. For a female to take part in a masque, she is creating the illusion of power because she is entering the space of the court and commanding attention. However, it subjects her to the gaze of men and makes her feel powerless and victimized.[19]

THOU hast made me, and shall Thy work decay ? Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste ; I run to death, and Death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday. I dare not move my dim eyes any way ; Despair behind, and Death before doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh. Only Thou art above, and when towards Thee By Thy leave I can look, I rise again ; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one hour myself I can sustain. Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.

"Holy Sonnet 1" John Donne

I am a little world made cunningly Of elements and an angelic sprite, But black sin hath betray'd to endless night My world's both parts, and oh both parts must die. You which beyond that heaven which was most high Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write, Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drown my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it, if it must be drown'd no more. But oh it must be burnt; alas the fire Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler; let their flames retire, And burn me O Lord, with a fiery zeal Of thee and thy house, which doth in eating heal.

"Holy Sonnet 5" John Donne

Who says that fictions only and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? Is all good structure in a winding stair? May no lines pass, except they do their duty Not to a true, but painted chair? Is it no verse, except enchanted groves And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spun lines? Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves? Must all be veil'd, while he that reads, divines, Catching the sense at two removes? Shepherds are honest people; let them sing; Riddle who list, for me, and pull for prime; I envy no man's nightingale or spring; Nor let them punish me with loss of rhyme, Who plainly say, my God, my King.

"Jordan (1)" George Herbert Herbert's "Jordan (I)" is very difficult to understand because understanding the poem depends completely upon understanding the allusions that pepper the poem, the allusions that are scattered throughout. Remembering that Herbert was a devout Christian Anglican and minister, after resigning his parliamentary career, it is easier to understand the first and central allusion in the title: Jordan. There are two "Jordan" poems and both discuss writing poetry. "Jordan" is thought by most critics to allude to the Jordan River that is important to the people of Israel in the Old and New Testaments. In the Old, the people of Israel cross the Jordan to get to the "promised land," and, in the New, Jesus is baptized in the Jordan at the beginning of his ministry. The general opinion, then, is that Herbert is setting up a poem about the divinely inspired potential of poetry as being regenerative and as giving renewal, if, that is, poetry could stop being what he saw it as presently being, which was that poetry was false. Who says that fictions only and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? In the first stanza, Herbert contrasts the Jordan allusion--the potential for poetry to give spiritual renewal--to poetry that is fictitious, false and artificial. There is debate about some of his allusions in this stanza but he seems to be invoking images of sonnets to loved ones who have artificial beauty (false hair) and images of poems that praise this falseness; he seems to be lamenting this falseness in persons and in poetry: "Is there in truth no beauty?" He seems to criticize the structure of poetry, compare it to a winding, circular staircase and suggesting poetic structure is overly complicated. He seems to suggest that in poetry reality is embellished, that it can't be plain reality: "Not to a true, but painted chair?" It is clear now how allusion is present in every line and through the allusions in the second stanza, Herbert seems to be criticizing poetic conventions and cliches. Many critics take "enchanted groves" as an allusion to the convention of pastoral poetry that praises the rural lives of shepherds and shepherdesses. Herbert seems to see this as part of the falseness of poetic convention and cliched lines, like "purling streams refresh a lover's loves." Ironically, since Herbert is considered a metaphysical poet, the last two lines seem to criticize the conceits of metaphysical poems, which make unusual comparisons between two things to arrive at one truth. The third stanza alludes, again, to pastorals and to the second stanza itself. He is suggesting that while pastoral poems may go too far from reality, shepherds are themselves "honest people" who should sing as they like. Yet, he says that he rejects poems with riddles to solve and cliched phrases, like "nightingale or spring." The last two lines seem ambiguous to critics. Some say they allude to Herbert who wants to write plain, straightforward poetry. This explanation seems unlikely to other critics who suggest Herbert is further criticizing poets who drop rhyming and write in plain lines without rhyme: "Who plainly say, my God, my King." This latter opinion makes a good deal of sense as it accords with the syntax of the three lines: envy no man, let them, who. It also accords with what we know of Herbert's poems, which speak honest truth but surely do not do it in a plain and straightforward way.

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lack'd anything. "A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here"; Love said, "You shall be he." "I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear, I cannot look on thee." Love took my hand and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?" "Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve." "And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?" "My dear, then I will serve." "You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat." So I did sit and eat.

"Love (3)" George Herbert

When first my lines of heav'nly joyes made mention, Such was their lustre, they did so excell, That I sought out quaint words, and trim invention ; My thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell, Curling with metaphors a plain intention, Decking the sense, as if it were to sell. Thousands of notions in my brain did runne, Off'ring their service, if I were not sped : I often blotted what I had begunne ; This was not quick enough, and that was dead. Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the sunne, Much lesse those joyes which trample on his head. As flames do work and winde, when they ascend, So did I weave my self into the sense. But while I bustled, I might heare a friend Whisper, How wide is all this long pretence ! There is in love a sweetnesse readie penn'd : Copie out only that, and save expense.

"Jordan (2)" George Herbert In "Jordan (II)," Herbert explains the difficult task he faces in writing poetry that speaks to the profound significance of his religious devotion. As a poet, he is inclined to use dramatic, expressive, and flowery language. But his religious outlook implores modesty and therefore, rich, overzealous language is just not in that spirit of modesty and piety. In the first stanza, the speaker says he began writing lustrous lines but then trimmed them down to quaint terms. In the second stanza, he admits that he had thousands of ideas but blotted them out, concluding that "heav'nly joyes" were just too ineffable to capture in words: Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the sunne, Much lesse those joyes which trample on his head. In the third stanza, the speaker concludes the poem, as he determines that a friend might hear all of his pretense (all the flowery language and the wavering back and forth between trying to be modest and dramatic). He ends the poem with an appeal to a modest but powerful concept, that love itself is modest and profound: There is in love a sweetnesse readie penn'd: Copie out only that, and save expense. Herbert is therefore faced with an impossible task: to write a poem that encompasses the ineffable qualities of "heav'nly joyes" which is impossible in and of itself. But he also must dial down his flowery language because it would be too bold and audacious to suggest that he even could capture such joys in language. And, even if he were to attempt it, he also feels he must keep the language more plain because that would be in the spirit of modesty. This is a classic catch-22. It is a poem that he chooses to write but he knows, given the conflicting conditions of being modest and triumphant, it is a poem that can not be written. He ends with the idea that what he is trying to express is already ("readie") expressed in love itself.

Prayer the church's banquet, angel's age, God's breath in man returning to his birth, The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage, The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth Engine against th' Almighty, sinner's tow'r, Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear, The six-days world transposing in an hour, A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear; Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss, Exalted manna, gladness of the best, Heaven in ordinary, man well drest, The milky way, the bird of Paradise, Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood, The land of spices; something understood.

"Prayer (1)" George Herbert

Farewell (sweet Cooke-ham) where I first obtained Grace from that grace where perfect grace remained; And where the muses gave their full consent, I should have power the virtuous to content; Where princely palace willed me to indite, The sacred story of the soul's delight. Farewell (sweet place) where virtue then did rest, And all delights did harbor in her breast; Never shall my sad eyes again behold Those pleasures which my thoughts did then unfold. Yet you (great Lady) Mistress of that place, From whose desires did spring this work of grace; Vouchsafe to think upon those pleasures past, As fleeting worldly joys that could not last, Or, as dim shadows of celestial pleasures, Which are desired above all earthly treasures. Oh how (methought) against you thither came, Each part did seem some new delight to frame! The house received all ornaments to grace it, And would endure no foulness to deface it. And walks put on their summer liveries, And all things else did hold like similes. The trees with leaves, with fruits, with flowers clad, Embraced each other, seeming to be glad, Turning themselves to beauteous Canopies, To shade the bright sun from your brighter eyes; The crystal streams with silver spangles graced, While by the glorious sun they were embraced; The little birds in chirping notes did sing, To entertain both you and that sweet spring. And Philomela with her sundry lays, Both you and that delightful place did praise. Oh how me thought each plant, each flower, each tree Set forth their beauties then to welcome thee! The very hills right humbly did descend, When you to tread on them did intend. And as you set your feet, they still did rise, Glad that they could receive so rich a prize. The gentle winds did take delight to be Among those woods that were so graced by thee, And in sad murmur uttered pleasing sound, That pleasure in that place might more abound. The swelling banks delivered all their pride When such a Phoenix once they had espied. Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree, Thought themselves honored in supporting thee; The pretty birds would oft come to attend thee, Yet fly away for fear they should offend thee; The little creatures in the burrough by Would come abroad to sport them in your eye, Yet fearful of the bow in your fair hand. Would run away when you did make a stand. Now let me come unto that stately tree, Wherein such goodly prospects you did see; That oak that did in height his fellows pass, As much as lofty trees, low growing grass, Much like a comely cedar straight and tall, Whose beauteous stature far exceeded all. How often did you visit this fair tree, Which seeming joyful in receiving thee, Would like a palm tree spread his arms abroad, Desirous that you there should make abode; Whose fair green leaves much like a comely veil, Defended Phoebus when he would assail; Whose pleasing boughs did yield a cool fresh air, Joying his happiness when you were there. Where being seated, you might plainly see Hills, vales, and woods, as if on bended knee They had appeared, your honor to salute, Or to prefer some strange unlooked-for suit; All interlaced with brooks and crystal springs, A prospect fit to please the eyes of kings. And thirteen shires appeared all in your sight, Europe could not afford much more delight. What was there then but gave you all content, While you the time in meditation spent Of their Creator's power, which there you saw, In all his creatures held a perfect law; And in their beauties did you plain descry His beauty, wisdom, grace, love, majesty. In these sweet woods how often did you walk, With Christ and his Apostles there to talk; Placing his holy Writ in some fair tree To meditate what you therein did see. With Moses you did mount his holy hill To know his pleasure, and perform his will. With lowly David you did often sing His holy hymns to Heaven's eternal King. And in sweet music did your soul delight To sound his praises, morning, noon, and night. With blessed Joseph you did often feed Your pined brethren, when they stood in need. And that sweet Lady sprung from Clifford's race, Of noble Bedford's blood, fair stem of grace, To honorable Dorset now espoused, In whose fair breast true virtue then was housed, Oh what delight did my weak spirits find In those pure parts of her well framèd mind. And yet it grieves me that I cannot be Near unto her, whose virtues did agree With those fair ornaments of outward beauty, Which did enforce from all both love and duty. Unconstant Fortune, thou art most to blame, Who casts us down into so low a frame Where our great friends we cannot daily see, So great a difference is there in degree. Many are placed in those orbs of state, Partners in honor, so ordained by Fate, Nearer in show, yet farther off in love, In which, the lowest always are above. But whither am I carried in conceit, My wit too weak to conster of the great. Why not? although we are but born of earth, We may behold the heavens, despising death; And loving heaven that is so far above, May in the end vouchsafe us entire love. Therefore sweet memory do thou retain Those pleasures past, which will not turn again: Remember beauteous Dorset's former sports, So far from being touched by ill reports, Wherein myself did always bear a part, While reverend love presented my true heart. Those recreations let me bear in mind, Which her sweet youth and noble thoughts did find, Whereof deprived, I evermore must grieve, Hating blind Fortune, careless to relieve, And you sweet Cooke-ham, whom these ladies leave, I now must tell the grief you did conceive At their departure, when they went away, How everything retained a sad dismay. Nay long before, when once an inkling came, Methought each thing did unto sorrow frame: The trees that were so glorious in our view, Forsook both flowers and fruit, when once they knew Of your depart, their very leaves did wither, Changing their colors as they grew together. But when they saw this had no power to stay you, They often wept, though, speechless, could not pray you, Letting their tears in your fair bosoms fall, As if they said, Why will ye leave us all? This being vain, they cast their leaves away Hoping that pity would have made you stay: Their frozen tops, like age's hoary hairs, Shows their disasters, languishing in fears. A swarthy riveled rind all over spread, Their dying bodies half alive, half dead. But your occasions called you so away That nothing there had power to make you stay. Yet did I see a noble grateful mind Requiting each according to their kind, Forgetting not to turn and take your leave Of these sad creatures, powerless to receive Your favor, when with grief you did depart, Placing their former pleasures in your heart, Giving great charge to noble memory There to preserve their love continually. But specially the love of that fair tree, That first and last you did vouchsafe to see, In which it pleased you oft to take the air With noble Dorset, then a virgin fair, Where many a learned book was read and scanned, To this fair tree, taking me by the hand, You did repeat the pleasures which had passed, Seeming to grieve they could no longer last. And with a chaste, yet loving kiss took leave, Of which sweet kiss I did it soon bereave, Scorning a senseless creature should possess So rare a favor, so great happiness. No other kiss it could receive from me, For fear to give back what it took of thee, So I ungrateful creature did deceive it Of that which you in love vouchsafed to leave it. And though it oft had given me much content, Yet this great wrong I never could repent; But of the happiest made it most forlorn, To show that nothing's free from Fortune's scorne, While all the rest with this most beauteous tree Made their sad consort sorrow's harmony. The flowers that on the banks and walks did grow, Crept in the ground, the grass did weep for woe. The winds and waters seemed to chide together Because you went away they knew not whither; And those sweet brooks that ran so fair and clear, With grief and trouble wrinkled did appear. Those pretty birds that wonted were to sing, Now neither sing, nor chirp, nor use their wing, But with their tender feet on some bare spray, Warble forth sorrow, and their own dismay. Fair Philomela leaves her mournful ditty, Drowned in deep sleep, yet can procure no pity. Each arbor, bank, each seat, each stately tree Looks bare and desolate now for want of thee, Turning green tresses into frosty gray, While in cold grief they wither all away. The sun grew weak, his beams no comfort gave, While all green things did make the earth their grave. Each brier, each bramble, when you went away Caught fast your clothes, thinking to make you stay; Delightful Echo wonted to reply To our last words, did now for sorrow die; The house cast off each garment that might grace it, Putting on dust and cobwebs to deface it. All desolation then there did appear, When you were going whom they held so dear. This last farewell to Cooke-ham here I give, When I am dead thy name in this may live, Wherein I have performed her noble hest Whose virtues lodge in my unworthy breast, And ever shall, so long as life remains, Tying my life to her by those rich chains.

"The Description of Cookham" Aemilia Lanyer

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are 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 pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'art 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.

Holy Sonnet 10 ("Death, be not proud") John Donne No one's sure when John Donne's Holy Sonnets were written. Many people think that Donne composed them after the death of his wife in 1617, but that's just a guess. At any rate, they weren't published until 1633, two years after Donne's death. As the title suggests, they are about religion. But, not exclusively. Some of them are also about sex, violence, and, in this case, mortality. Donne was a preacher, and he wrote many electrifying sermons in his lifetime. However, he is best known for his poems, among which the Holy Sonnets stand out. They are deep, intense, personal, complicated, and playful. Donne is commonly grouped among the Metaphysical Poets, a loose collection of writers from the early 17th century. Along with Donne, the most famous Metaphysicals are Andrew Marvell and George Herbert. We wish we could say that they have a clubhouse and a secret password, but, sadly, no. They weren't a formal group at all, and the term didn't exist until the famous literary critic Samuel Johnson coined it in the 18th century. "Metaphysics" is the study of the ultimate reality beyond our everyday world, including questions about God, creation, and the afterlife. These poets are known for using symbols and images from the "physical" world to spin complicated arguments about such "metaphysical" concerns. They are known especially for the use of wit, which involves a lot of wordplay. When someone makes fun of you and you find the perfect comeback, that's wit. After you read this poem, you'll be convinced: if Donne was alive today, he'd be a master of the comeback.

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 sin 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 have spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore; And, having done that, thou hast done; I fear no more.

"A Hymn to God the Father" John Donne

Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this, The intelligence that moves, devotion is, And as the other Spheares, by being growne Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne, And being by others hurried every day, Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey: Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit For their first mover, and are whirld by it. Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East. There I should see a Sunne, by rising set, And by that setting endlesse day beget; But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall, Sinne had eternally benighted all. Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see That spectacle of too much weight for mee. Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye; What a death were it then to see God dye? It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke, It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke. Could I behold those hands which span the Poles, And tune all spheares at once peirc'd with those holes? Could I behold that endlesse height which is Zenith to us, and our Antipodes, Humbled below us? or that blood which is The seat of all our Soules, if not of his, Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne? If on these things I durst not looke, durst I Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye, Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us? Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye, They'are present yet unto my memory, For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee, O Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree; I turne my backe to thee, but to receive Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave. O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee, Burne off my rusts, and my deformity, Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace, That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face.

"Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward" John Donne nalysis John Donne wrote this poem during a westward ride from Warwickshire to Montgomery, Wales. It is a sincere meditation on one of the most important days in the Christian calendar, the day on which Christians commemorate the Crucifixion of Jesus. There appears to be no satire or sarcasm in this poem, and for Donne this poem is relatively restrained with regard to poetic conceits. The imagery tends to clarify rather than confuse the poet's points, and his prostration before Christ appears heartfelt and moving. The meter generally forms heroic couplets, rhymed in iambic pentameter, perhaps to evoke the majesty of the subject. There are 42 lines, perhaps making this poem a triple sonnet, although there are no stanza breaks and the rhyme scheme is entirely made up of couplets. Perhaps this structure of three sonnets in one poem evokes the Trinity. Another possible division is to split the poem in two equal halves, since the word "sphere" in the first line is parallel with "spheres" to start the second half of the poem. As for the couplets, in one case the last word "die" is repeated, and the last words in one quartet of lines oddly repeat "is," "antipodes," "is," "His" as the rhymes. Donne begins by likening souls to spheres, insisting that the most important aspect of a person's existence is the central spiritual sphere of a person's "intelligence." In contrast, the external world, with its own spheres of "pleasure or business," distracts a person from fulfilling his true identity ("Scarce in a year their natural form obey"). This contrast is made real to the poet, who is traveling west even while his soul "bends to the East," the site of the Crucifixion in the Holy Land (1-10). This contrast also sets up the paradox or tension in the poet's mind: he must look upon and commemorate the Crucifixion, but for various reasons it is very difficult for him to gaze on Jesus on the Cross, dying for the sins of the world and for the poet's sins. This difficulty is not only because the poet is traveling in the wrong direction and that tradition states that one cannot look upon God and live (see Exodus 33:20). More importantly, the poet feels emotionally and spiritually unworthy; the scene carries "too much weight for me." To resolve the difficulty, the poet must be purified of his sin. Stating "I turn my back to thee, but to receive/Corrections," (37-38) he is asking for penance. A common penance in Donne's time was flogging in which the person punished would have his back toward the flogger (with the added resonance of an allusion to the flogging that Christ received before his Crucifixion). Another common spiritual image is cleansing, such as by fire, and here the poet asks for God's attention to "punish me,/Burn off my rusts, and my deformity" (39-40). Through this purification, God will "restore" his own "image" in the poet (recalling the biblical principle that man is made in the image of God), so that the poet will finally be able to "turn my face" and be worthy to be recognized by God. In this way, the poet can reclaim his Christian life in but not of the world, since God's hands will "tune all spheres at once." This is a lyric poem, in that the poet is talking about himself and his particular situation (Gardner 132). Donne has begun this piece, like so many other of his poems, with a conceit. Comparing a person's soul to a sphere or the movement of a heavenly body (perhaps a wandering planet) seems to end about line 24 with the imagery of "zenith" and "antipodes." Although Gardner claims that Donne throws away this conceit halfway through the poem, Gardner appears to miss the idea that the poet's head is a sphere, too, and the seat of intelligence and the soul at that. Thus, in the final line, when the poet will "turn my face," he concludes the poems with a rotating sphere. He has come full circle, as it were.

At the round earth's imagined corners blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go ; All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dea[r]th, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ; For, if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace, When we are there. Here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent, for that's as good As if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon with Thy blood.

"Holy Sonnet 7" John Donne Lines 1-2 At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise The speaker orders the angels to blow their trumpets throughout all parts of the world. Obviously, this is a bold - some might say "arrogant" - move. You can't just go ordering angels around to do your bidding whenever you want. You'd better have a darned good reason. Our speaker must think he has some major clout in Heaven. The trumpets are supposed to wake up people - the speaker commands them to "arise, arise," but we don't know who these people are yet. The most curious phrase in this entire poem is in the first line: "the round earth's imagined corners." Let's unpack it. This isn't 1492, when Columbus sailed the ocean blue and some people still thought the earth was flat. We're in the early 17th century, and everybody knows the earth is round. So where would you "imagine" a flat earth? How about on a map? To say that the earth has "corners" suggests that a person could theoretically reach the outermost part of the earth. Donne wants those angels to be in the corners because, otherwise, how will everyone hear the trumpets. If you treat the earth as flat, then what's a poet going to do: put a trumpeter in Madagascar, one in Brazil, one in England, and so on? No, no, it's got to be a flat world, and the trumpeters have to go in the corners. We have even more evidence for our map theory: some English maps from the Renaissance had illustrations of angels blowing trumpets in the four directions: North, South, East, and West. In Biblical tradition, these angels even have names: Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, and Uriel (source). The poem seems to be alluding to two sections of the Biblical Book of Revelation. Here is the first sentence of Revelation 7: "After this I saw four angels standing at the four corners of the earth, holding back the four winds of the earth to prevent any wind from blowing on the land or on the sea or on any tree." And here is the second sentence of Revelation 8: "And I saw the seven angels who stand before God, and to them were given seven trumpets." Donne seems to be mixing these two passages together, and he gives the "four angels" the "trumpets of Doom" possessed by the "seven angels" (source). Lots of numbers, yes. In the Book of Revelation, when the angels blow those trumpets, lots of nasty stuff happens: trees burn up, the sea turns to blood, meteors fall to earth, etc. It's the end of the world. Lines 3-4 From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go, This poem is not a faithful description of the Biblical Last Judgment. Instead of having a bunch of terrible things happen when the angels blow their trumpets, the speaker takes it as a sign for all dead people to wake up and go find their bodies. In Donne's Christian theology, your soul and body are separated when you die, but you get reunited with your body on Judgment Day. Donne emphasizes that there are a lot of people who have died throughout history. So many, in fact, that he just lumps them all into some exaggerated, uncountable sum: "numberless infinities." To make things worse, all these souls have to travel to find their bodies where they died. The bodies are not all in one place - they are "scattered." Lines 5 All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, The infinite number of dead souls includes all the sinful people in the world, the ones who were destroyed by the Biblical flood that only Noah and his family survived, and the ones who will be consumed in the "fires" that end the world. The angels aren't just waking some of these bad people, they are waking "All." So, this line deals only with sinners. The word "o'erthrow" (overthrow) means to defeat or cause the downfall of someone or something. If you've read the Book of Genesis in the Bible, you'll remember the part about how God drowned the world after deciding that humanity had forgotten about Him and His laws. Well, not quite everyone. The virtuous Noah was given an advanced warning and allowed to save himself by building an arc. After the flood, God struck a deal with Noah: no more floods. But sinful people still have to deal with the "fire" after Judgment Day. Lines 6-7 All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain, [...] Here the speaker takes another approach to defining "All" souls. He broadens the category to include every kind of death - all the people who were "slain" or killed by various culprits. Let's bring out those usual suspects and take 'em one by one: "war" refers to people who died in battle; "dearth" indicates people who died from hunger; "age" makes references to those who died from natural causes; "agues" refers to people who died from sickness; "tyrannies" indicates people who died at the hands of oppressive rulers; "despair" refers to those who killed themselves; "law" means people who were put to death lawfully, and then there's "chance," people who died some accidental death. This group would seem to include both good and bad people. For example, good people die from sickness just like the bad. (We encourage you to tuck "ague" into your memory storage attic: it's a cool-sounding word for "sickness." Next time you go to the doctor with a cold, tell her you have an ague.) Lines 7-8 [...] and you whose eyes, Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. There's one last category of people that Donne covers: the people who are still alive but will not be consumed in those end-of-the-world fires. These are the good people who are still living when Judgment Day arrives. The speaker certainly hopes he will be in this last group. These lucky few will never have to experience mortality or "taste death's woe." Their "eyes" will look on God in Heaven, as will the good people who had died in the past but have been resurrected. Now the speaker really has named everyone. Things could have gotten ugly if he had decided to keep naming more groups: "And you whose lips never tasted the foulness of prune juice."

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on (else immortal) us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damn'd, alas ! why should I be ? Why should intent or reason, born in me, Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous ? And, mercy being easy, and glorious To God, in His stern wrath why threatens He ? But who am I, that dare dispute with Thee ? O God, O ! of Thine only worthy blood, And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood, And drown in it my sin's black memory. That Thou remember them, some claim as debt ; I think it mercy if Thou wilt forget.

"Holy Sonnet 9" John Donne The speaker of this poem seems to be a man that is very bitter or desperate for forgiveness from God and God's mercy. He claims that it is not fair that his sins are more evil just because he possesses reason or intent. He pleads that a merciful God could overlook him this time. He even refers to the river Lethe, a river in classical mythology that makes one forget everything when touched. 2. The speaker seems to be speaking to God, although it seems more like a one-way rant than a conversation. He seems to be vexing and taking out his thoughts and emotions to a God that doesn't seem to answer him. He keeps arguing and seeking forgiving, and often catches the fact that he is arguing against an almighty, merciful God. 3. John Donne lived in the era of the plague and a time when Protestants clashed with Catholics. Thus, he lived in a time of great suffering, death, and conflict. This might contribute to the fact that he says "If lecherous goats, if serpents envious cannot be damned, alas, why should I be?" An angry frustration of why the world goes unpunished when he in fact is marked a sinner. 4. The purpose of the poem seems to be a man's pleading for mercy towards God. He seems to beg for mercy on his case and that God just forget that he ever did anything wrong. 5. God, who allows much more evil in this world than my sins, please have mercy and forgive me this once. 6. He makes an allusion to the "tree whose fruit threw death on else immortal us..." probably referring to the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil in the Garden of Eden referred in Genesis. Also, "lecherous goats" probably refers to the biblical passage that goats and sheep will be separated. The "serpents envious" is probably an allusion to Satan, who takes the form of a serpent in Genesis. "Lethean flood" alludes to the river Lethe in classical mythology, a river that makes a person forget everything once touched. 7. The poem follows the classic Petrarchan Sonnet structure of ABBAABBA but ends with ABBACC. It also seems to be in iambic pentameter, having ten syllables in each line. 8. The iambic pentameter certainly does create a rhythm in the sonnet that makes it sound much more like a plea. The special ending of CC also delivers the ultimate message of the poem: have mercy. 9. The tone of the poem is rather dark, and also very personal. It almost feels like the speaker is a child arguing with his parent about stealing a cookie. He refers to God in a very personal way because he is almost demanding mercy from him. 10. "Lecherous" and "Envious" seem to be good words that highlight the evil of the goats and serpents. "Heinous" also seems like a good word choice as it makes the speaker's sin seem very evil. "Lethean flood" seems to be a very good choice of words because it certainly paints his picture well and was probably a familiar idea to people of his age. "Sin's black memory" also reveals the evil of sin. 11. There are certainly images that pop up occasionally in the poem. In my opinion the image of the Lethean flood seems most powerful, and the tree whose fruit threw death is a close second. 12. There are numerous metaphors, such as lecherous goats and serpents envious referring to sin and sinners in general. Lethean flood is a metaphor for complete forgetfulness. Sin is also personified as heinous and having the ability to create memory. 13. The statement that "fruit threw death" is a bit of an overstatement, since it did not literally bring death to Adam and Eve, but a death of the soul and the eventual death of the physical body. 14. Again, lecherous goats and serpents seem to be a symbol for evil, and Lethean flood for complete loss of memory. Although the overall poem does not seem allegorical, it certain does contain bits of allegory. 15. Several examples of alliteration such as "dare dispute" and "that thou". No specific significance noted. 16. The poem is very successful in highlighting the anger and frustration that many Christians feel towards God who claims to be merciful but chooses to punish their sins. It also highlights the Christians frustration at an evil world going unpunished while they are constantly driven by guilt of sin.

A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears, Made of a heart and cemented with tears; Whose parts are as thy hand did frame; No workman's tool hath touch'd the same. A HEART alone Is such a stone, As nothing but Thy pow'r doth cut. Wherefore each part Of my hard heart Meets in this frame To praise thy name. That if I chance to hold my peace, These stones to praise thee may not cease. Oh, let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine, And sanctify this ALTAR to be thine.

"The Altar" George Herbert "The Altar," by George Herbert (1593-1633), literally holds an important place in the poet's body of work. After Herbert's death, his surviving English poems were published in a collection called The Temple. The collection is divided into three parts: a long poem titled "The Church Porch"; a very lengthy middle section titled "The Church," which consists of shorter lyrics, including some of Herbert's most famous poems; and a final long poem titled "The Church Militant." "The Altar" is the first poem to appear in the "The Church." "The Altar" is often called a "hieroglyphic" poem because it is written in the shape of what it describes. ("Easter Wings" is another such work.) Herbert himself did not use the term, an invention of later critics. However, the term is helpful, since it implies that for Herbert everything—including the shapes of poems—can be imbued with religious meaning. Herbert is above all a Christian poet, and this poem reflects his intention to communicate Christian truths through his poetry. The poem is full of allusions to the Bible, as Helen Wilcox shows in her splendid annotated edition of Herbert's poetry. She notes: Two biblical passages lie behind [the opening two] lines (and the rest of the poem): Deuteronomy xxvii 2-6, where the Jews are instructed to "build an altar unto the Lord thy God, an altar of stones" on "the day when ye shall pass into Jordan," and Psalms li 17: "The sacrifice of God is a troubled spirit: a broken and contrite heart, O God, shalt thou not despise." These are just two of the many ways in which the poem echoes the Bible, as do almost all of Herbert's poems. Only someone who knows the Bible well will appreciate the full richness of meaning implied in his works. Nevertheless, the poem also can be read and appreciated even without extensive knowledge of scripture. Notice, for instance, that the speaker places the word "Lord" directly in the center of line 1, with the altar on one side of the word and the speaker ("thy servant") on the other. The altar is "broken," not only because God commanded that altars be pieced together from found stones, rather than carved from a solid block of stone or made from finished stones, but also because the altar, which is made by a human, is therefore necessarily imperfect. The altar is "broken," just as all sinful human beings are inevitably broken: The nature of the altar reflects the nature of the human who builds it. The "ALTAR" the poet constructs is not made of literal stones but of the human "heart": the poem...

Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know'st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our mariage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou Find'st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; 'Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me, Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

"The Flea" John Donne The speaker tells his beloved to look at the flea before them and to note "how little" is that thing that she denies him. For the flea, he says, has sucked first his blood, then her blood, so that now, inside the flea, they are mingled; and that mingling cannot be called "sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead." The flea has joined them together in a way that, "alas, is more than we would do." As his beloved moves to kill the flea, the speaker stays her hand, asking her to spare the three lives in the flea: his life, her life, and the flea's own life. In the flea, he says, where their blood is mingled, they are almost married—no, more than married—and the flea is their marriage bed and marriage temple mixed into one. Though their parents grudge their romance and though she will not make love to him, they are nevertheless united and cloistered in the living walls of the flea. She is apt to kill him, he says, but he asks that she not kill herself by killing the flea that contains her blood; he says that to kill the flea would be sacrilege, "three sins in killing three." "Cruel and sudden," the speaker calls his lover, who has now killed the flea, "purpling" her fingernail with the "blood of innocence." The speaker asks his lover what the flea's sin was, other than having sucked from each of them a drop of blood. He says that his lover replies that neither of them is less noble for having killed the flea. It is true, he says, and it is this very fact that proves that her fears are false: If she were to sleep with him ("yield to me"), she would lose no more honor than she lost when she killed the flea.

When my grave is broke up again Some second guest to entertain, (For graves have learn'd that woman head, To be to more than one a bed) And he that digs it, spies A bracelet of bright hair about the bone, Will he not let'us alone, And think that there a loving couple lies, Who thought that this device might be some way To make their souls, at the last busy day, Meet at this grave, and make a little stay? If this fall in a time, or land, Where mis-devotion doth command, Then he, that digs us up, will bring Us to the bishop, and the king, To make us relics; then Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I A something else thereby; All women shall adore us, and some men; And since at such time miracles are sought, I would have that age by this paper taught What miracles we harmless lovers wrought. First, we lov'd well and faithfully, Yet knew not what we lov'd, nor why; Difference of sex no more we knew Than our guardian angels do; Coming and going, we Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals; Our hands ne'er touch'd the seals Which nature, injur'd by late law, sets free; These miracles we did, but now alas, All measure, and all language, I should pass, Should I tell what a miracle she was.

"The Relic" John Donne

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold; Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told, Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air, Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport; Thy mount, to which the dryads do resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made, Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade; That taller tree, which of a nut was set At his great birth where all the Muses met. There in the writhèd bark are cut the names Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames; And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke The lighter fauns to reach thy Lady's Oak. Thy copse too, named of Gamage, thou hast there, That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land, that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed; The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies; and the tops, Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sidney's copse, To crown thy open table, doth provide The purpled pheasant with the speckled side; The painted partridge lies in every field, And for thy mess is willing to be killed. And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish, Fat aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As loath the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously at first themselves betray; Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land Before the fisher, or into his hand. Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry, with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come; The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses bring them, or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves in plum or pear. But what can this (more than express their love) Add to thy free provisions, far above The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow With all that hospitality doth know; Where comes no guest but is allowed to eat, Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat; Where the same beer and bread, and selfsame wine, This is his lordship's shall be also mine, And I not fain to sit (as some this day At great men's tables), and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, A waiter doth my gluttony envy, But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; He knows below he shall find plenty of meat. The tables hoard not up for the next day; Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livery; all is there, As if thou then wert mine, or I reigned here: There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. That found King James when, hunting late this way With his brave son, the prince, they saw thy fires Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame To entertain them; or the country came With all their zeal to warm their welcome here. What (great I will not say, but) sudden cheer Didst thou then make 'em! and what praise was heaped On thy good lady then, who therein reaped The just reward of her high housewifery; To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far; and not a room but dressed As if it had expected such a guest! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all. Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal. His children thy great lord may call his own, A fortune in this age but rarely known. They are, and have been, taught religion; thence Their gentler spirits have sucked innocence. Each morn and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Read in their virtuous parents' noble parts The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

"To Penshurst" Ben Jonson The themes of the poem are largely political. Jonson uses Penshurst as an epitome of proper social order, a social order that relies on harmony and love rather than competition or coercion. This harmony is found, tellingly, in a rural, not an urban, environment and is emphasized by the animals' willingness to be killed for the table and the fact that the pikes do not eat their own kind. The ruthlessness of court life has been left far behind. Jonson's diagram for an ideal community, and by extension commonwealth, requires a delicate balance of tradition and practicality. Human decency is essential to the social contract, and so it is significant that the walls of Penshurst were "reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan," and no one would see them pulled down. In return for the bounty provided the lord, the lord and his family provided an example to the community. One of the defining features of Penshurst that is of special interest to Jonson is its relation to the arts and culture. As the home of Sir Philip Sidney, Penshurst is historically aligned with the arts. The classical allusion that dominates the first lines of the poem implies that tradition and learning are an integral part of Penshurst. The form of the poem itself, with its use of Martial and Horace, suggests that Penshurst partakes of a tradition that extends back to antiquity. The juxtaposing of the poet's repast at Penshurst with the king's visit also suggests...

I struck the board, and cried, "No more; I will abroad! What? shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free, free as the road, Loose as the wind, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore What I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn Before my tears did drown it. Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays to crown it, No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted? All wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands, Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away! take heed; I will abroad. Call in thy death's-head there; tie up thy fears; He that forbears To suit and serve his need Deserves his load." But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling, Child! And I replied My Lord.

"The Collar" George Herbert The recurrent topic of Herbert's poems is not perfection but correction. Perfection is unreachable, but constant correction is one of the rules of religious life (and religious poetry) for Herbert. The speaker of "The Collar" is by no means wicked or reprehensible. He is, in fact, all too human, and his protest against the inevitable disappointments, restrictions, and pains of life is one with which most of the readers of this poem can sympathize and identify. Much to his credit, Herbert never denies the validity of the experiences described in "The Collar" or suggests that such feelings, however confused or disordered or angry, are unworthy of expression. Herbert knew that the Bible, especially the book of Psalms, one of his great spiritual and poetic models, dwells repeatedly on laments and complaints as radical as those in "The Collar." Alongside the Bible, perhaps there is also something of a different kind of social and religious ritualism here—the carnivalesque spirit. Carnival is a festival time of at least temporary release from the obligations and restraints of daily life, and one is not only freed but even encouraged to abuse, parody, or otherwise flout the figures of authority and "cold dispute[s]/ Of what is fit, and not" and grab for the physical pleasures at hand. Carnival functions not only as an individual and societal relief valve, letting off pressure that might otherwise build to intolerable levels, but also an...

Where, like a pillow on a bed A pregnant bank swell'd up to rest The violet's reclining head, Sat we two, one another's best. Our hands were firmly cemented With a fast balm, which thence did spring; Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes upon one double string; So to'intergraft 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. If any, so by love refin'd That he soul's language understood, And by good love were grown all mind, Within convenient distance stood, He (though he knew not which soul spake, Because both meant, both spake the same) Might thence a new concoction take And part far purer than he came. This ecstasy doth unperplex, We said, and tell us what we love; We see by this it was not sex, We see we saw not what did move; But as all several souls contain Mixture of things, they know not what, Love these mix'd souls doth mix again And makes both one, each this and that. A single violet transplant, The strength, the colour, and the size, (All which before was poor and scant) Redoubles still, and multiplies. When love with one another so Interinanimates two souls, That abler soul, which thence doth flow, Defects of loneliness controls. We then, who are this new soul, know Of what we are compos'd and made, For th' atomies of which we grow Are souls, whom no change can invade. But oh alas, so long, so far, Our bodies why do we forbear? They'are ours, though they'are not we; we are The intelligences, they the spheres. We owe them thanks, because they thus Did us, to us, at first convey, Yielded their senses' force to us, Nor are dross to us, but allay. On man heaven's influence works not so, But that it first imprints the air; So soul into the soul may flow, Though it to body first repair. As our blood labors to beget Spirits, as like souls as it can, Because such fingers need to knit That subtle knot which makes us man, So must pure lovers' souls descend T' affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great prince in prison lies. To'our bodies turn we then, that so Weak men on love reveal'd may look; Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book. And if some lover, such as we, Have heard this dialogue of one, Let him still mark us, he shall see Small change, when we'are to bodies gone.

"The Ecstasy" John Donne In the opening, Donne is describing the scenery of a river or lakeside bank. He describes himself and another as pillows on a bed as they lie there. The second stanza describes how their hands were held together and "cemented" with perspiration. He then describes beams coming out of their eyes and twisting like thread which holds their eyes together as with a single, double thread. The third stanza Donne states that the loversí hands were all they had to make themselves into one, further, he says that the reflections in their eyes were their only way to propagate. Stanza four uses a metaphor of armies to describe their souls. The two are equal armies, and Fate keeps victory uncertain, which is like the way the loversí souls are suspended. Furthering the army metaphor, stanza five has the souls negotiating as their bodies lie like memorial statues. They remained that way the whole day and said nothing to each other. The next stanza postulates whether any man can be so refined in love that he can understand the language of the soul, and furthermore, if that "good" love of the mind stood at a convenient distance. Stanza seven relates that the two souls now speak as one; they may take a concoction and leave that place better off than when they arrived. The eighth stanza states that their state of ecstasy "unperplexes" or simplifies things, and they can see that it was not sex that motivated them. The ninth stanza furthers the idea that two lovers are one soul which is mixedóeach a part of the other. The next uses a metaphor of a transplanted violet to show how two souls can be interanimated and how this "new" soul can repair the defects of each of the indivualsí souls. The eleventh stanza again furthers the idea of two souls as one. It says that the lovers know what they are made of, and that no change can invade them. The next stanza asks why the bodies are left out, and it says that although the soul is the intelligence, the bodies are the sphere which controls them, like the celestial spheres. Stanza thirteen thanks the bodies for their service of bringing the soul to be and for yielding their senses. The bodies are not impurities that weaken, but rather alloys that strengthen us. The next stanza relates the method of how the body and soul are related. Heavenís influence does not work on man like other things. It imprints the air so that peopleís souls may flow out from the body. Stanza fifteen tells how our blood works to make "Spirits" that can help the body and soul together make us man. Stanza sixteen postulates that loversí souls must give in to affections and wits that our bodies provide. If not, we are likened to a great prince in prison. The next stanza says that we turn to our bodies so that weak men may look at them, but that loveís true mysteries are grown in the soul. The body is just the soulís "book." The last stanza sums up the scene by speculating how they would be regarded by another lover in their "dialogue" of the combined souls. Donne says that this lover will see a small change when their bodies are gone. The images in The Ecstasy focus on the relationship of the soul to the body. Donne begins with visual images of water, hands, perspiration and things that are physical in nature. He proposes that two loversí souls are formed into one and uses metaphors of alloys, celestial spheres and even a violet to make his point. Furthermore, Donne describes the process at work in the body by relating the mechanisms of blood and air. All of the images between lines 13 and 75 relate to the union of two souls, which creates a third soul that transcends the sum of the two.

Twice or thrice had I lov'd thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame Angels affect us oft, and worshipp'd be; Still when, to where thou wert, I came, Some lovely glorious nothing I did see. But since my soul, whose child love is, Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do, More subtle than the parent is Love must not be, but take a body too; And therefore what thou wert, and who, I bid Love ask, and now That it assume thy body, I allow, And fix itself in thy lip, eye, and brow. Whilst thus to ballast love I thought, And so more steadily to have gone, With wares which would sink admiration, I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught; Ev'ry thy hair for love to work upon Is much too much, some fitter must be sought; For, nor in nothing, nor in things Extreme, and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere; Then, as an angel, face, and wings Of air, not pure as it, yet pure, doth wear, So thy love may be my love's sphere; Just such disparity As is 'twixt air and angels' purity, 'Twixt women's love, and men's, will ever be.

"Air and Angels" John Donne In a poem which has nothing to do with either air or angels, Donne configures the familiar trope of love in ways quite distinct from the prevailing conception. The whole paradox of Petrarchan love was in the idealization of the unattainable beloved figure. Her beauty and fleeting charms and virtues could never really be measured within the confines of the physical. Donne's "Air and Angels" resurrects the ashes of sensuous love, real love as experienced by flesh-and-bone mortals from the ruins of Plato's abstract and physically transcendent that was even espoused by the NeoPlatonists. Resorting to the metaphorical usage of air and angels, the poem furnishes a conceptualization of love cognizant of its empirical being, of the necessitude of shared mutuality between the man and the woman within its ambit. The soul, if extricated from the body, would be aloft the pleasure of corporeal love, which is very much rooted in desire, which has its own legitimacy, as it were. Markers of name and such become insignificant before the expression of love, which must manifest through the medium of the human body. The poet ponders redolently upon the past when he was engrossed with a woman, the effect of whose remembrance has the same delicate effect on him as does the emergence of angels from air. Unlike the angels who manifest themselves with the concomitance of voice or light, love, as idealistic an enterprise it is does not derive its origins from the spirit. The beloved's body provides a haven to the soul of love itself. The note of reverence detected in the initial four lines is unmistakably Petrarchan, but it is invoked only to be derided. Love cannot originate in an abstruse, inexplicable fashion, and its codification, as such is possible only because it is mired to the flesh. The angels, who were held as masculine figures in the contemporary times, could manifest only vis-à-vis the medium of air, which was also the purest of the four media of air, water, soil and fire. Without a physical incarnation of love in the woman's body, it is impossible for the narrator to stumble upon anything but a "lovely, glorious nothing". The male gaze presiding much of love poetry, and even here subjecting the female body to an objectification of silence, cannot think of love without being able to visualize it with such certainty. The image unfurling posits the soul as having parented the body, and the body, in resemblance to the soul, assume this incarnation, which also insinuates the possibility of the man's love for the woman as being definable in solely, or predominantly physical terms. Hence we find the abject categorization of various parts of her anatomy from the perspective of the male gaze. Once she is relegated to the stature of his beloved, and has to therefore be the externalized expression of his love, her "lip, eye and brow" all become symbolic (but, in continuity with much of Elizabethan love-poetry) objects of admiration for the desiring male gaze. It is much more sinister in implication than love affixing itself to her anatomical being. It is the limitations of the other sex's gaze, and that too, in very subjectivist and often unreciprocated nuances, which remain with her, and define her, only in absentia. Such an imposition of views becomes evident to the narrator only after a while of him indulging in his fancies. He finds it has capsized the pinnacle of the ship, which represents the beloved's body. Just as a ballast or a heavy load is required to stabilize the movement of a ship, so too the mere appreciation of the woman's physical charms, he realizes, will not suffice to stabilize love. The love which is moored onto her body must be made to adjust, so as the two fit. Love certainly does not exist in a vacuum, and is to be found neither from all things nor from that angelic and unqualified nothingness, but from somewhere-in-between. Only a substantial expression of love in the objective sense of the term can adduce to the engendering of the "steadied" love that seems to be at the core of the narrator's obsessive concern over adjudicating his love for his beloved. Physical union is what the narrator wants, which can give solidarity to their relationship. Signifying woman's love as air and man's love as angel (the obvious implication being that man is the pursuer, the more active agent in the game of love-making than the passive woman who is more of the receiver, the yielder) the narrator claims eventually that it is the harmonized synthesis of the two that will consummate their love. The air producing the angel is as impure as the latter. By analogy, the poet argues that the woman's love is also as pure, or as independent as that of the man's love, and it is rather a mutual transaction of the two that will diminish the space between man's passion and women's response, which had been an arduously contested debate in literary discourse. In the final evaluation, the realms of angels and men have a relative purity, wholly removed from the absolute purity shared by the "aerial" worlds known to womenfolk. However, The fact of "thy love" being but a reflection of his, another macrocosm with its own functionalities and machinations, abridges this disparity by shared mutuality, but not wholly, for the poem ends with the somber realization that the disjunction between man's fervors and woman's responses will never be eliminated altogether. The harmony that exists between the air and the angels is to be injected into the male-female dialectic too, but with what results we do not know. Moreover, the incommensurability of romantic relationships between the opposing genders brings to mind the championing of male-to-male relationships in ancient Greece, and of the legacy of pederasty that the poet was still contending with when he was writing this poem. Love is transmuted into many shapeless but physical forms throughout the poem, and the ambivalent critical interpretation of the last few lines is obviated after reading in between the words.

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy, Until I labour, I in labour lie. The foe oft-times having the foe in sight, Is tir'd with standing though he never fight. Off with that girdle, like heaven's Zone glistering, But a far fairer world encompassing. Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear, That th'eyes of busy fools may be stopped there. Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime, Tells me from you, that now it is bed time. Off with that happy busk, which I envy, That still can be, and still can stand so nigh. Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals, As when from flowery meads th'hill's shadow steals. Off with that wiry Coronet and shew The hairy Diadem which on you doth grow: Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed. In such white robes, heaven's Angels used to be Received by men; Thou Angel bringst with thee A heaven like Mahomet's Paradise; and though Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know, By this these Angels from an evil sprite, Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright. Licence my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below. O my America! my new-found-land, My kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann'd, My Mine of precious stones, My Empirie, How blest am I in this discovering thee! To enter in these bonds, is to be free; Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be. Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee, As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth'd must be, To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use Are like Atlanta's balls, cast in men's views, That when a fool's eye lighteth on a Gem, His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them. Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made For lay-men, are all women thus array'd; Themselves are mystic books, which only we (Whom their imputed grace will dignify) Must see reveal'd. Then since that I may know; As liberally, as to a Midwife, shew Thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence, There is no penance due to innocence. To teach thee, I am naked first; why then What needst thou have more covering than a man.

"To His Mistress Going to Bed" John Donne Donne's Elegy 19, "To His Mistress Going to Bed," was most likely written in the late-sixteenth century but, like most of his poetry, not published until after his death in 1631. It was considered indecent enough not to be included in the first published edition of his work in 1633. In the poem, Donne revels in the experience of undressing his mistress in stages, his excitement and desire for her increasing until he exclaims, in an ecstasy of admiration, "full nakedness!" He urges her on with a series of imperatives ("off with that happy busk"; "off with those shoes"), but by the final section, as she sits on the bed wrapped in only a sheet, he seeks to "teach" her what she must do: "bodies uncloth'd must be, / To taste whole joys." So far, the poem is very straightforward: it is about undressing, and it is undeniably suffused with desire. A closer reading, however, reveals tantalising complexities. Even in a state of heightened desire, Donne's speaker reveals his capacity for wit: he refers to his excited state using puns on "labour" and "standing." As he anticipates going to bed with his mistress, he is like a soldier waiting for battle: "standing" refers both to the soldier and to his own erection. Further complexities involve the mistress herself. We are given no sense of her character or inner life; she is the body from which a series of clothes are alluringly cast away. Yet her high social status is clear. Her clothes are rich ("spangled breast-plate," "coronet"), and Donne's mood, though taut with desire, is not merely lust-fuelled. With palpable wonder, he compares her "gown going off" with the beauty of "when from flow'ry meads th'hills shadow steals," and the girl herself to "heaven's Angels." The joy he experiences is in discovering her body, and Donne conveys this through a characteristically witty, and utterly contemporary, metaphor. Like sixteenth-century explorers, he finds her body to be "my America! my new-found-land," and in his discovery he establishes a "kingdom, safeliest when with one man mann'd." Donne was an ambitious man in the world's terms, and for him to see his lovemaking in terms of conquest is at once apt and ingenious.

WHAT if this present were the world's last night? Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell, The picture of Christ crucified, and tell Whether His countenance can thee affright. Tears in His eyes quench the amazing light; Blood fills his frowns, which from His pierced head fell; And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell, Which pray'd forgiveness for His foes' fierce spite? No, no; but as in my idolatry I said to all my profane mistresses, Beauty of pity, foulness only is A sign of rigour; so I say to thee, To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign'd; This beauteous form assumes a piteous mind.

Holy Sonnet 13 ("What if this present were the world's last night?") John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurp'd town to another due, Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end; Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Holy Sonnet 14 ("Batter my heart") John Donne The speaker begins by asking God (along with Jesus and the Holy Ghost; together, they are the Trinity that makes up the Christian "three-personed God") to attack his heart as if it were the gates of a fortress town. The speaker wants God to enter his heart aggressively and violently, instead of gently. Then, in line 5, the speaker explicitly likens himself to a captured town. He tries to let God enter, but has trouble because the speaker's rational side seems to be in control. At the "turn" of the poem (see the "Form and Meter" section for more on the importance of the sonnet form and, specifically, the "turn"), the speaker admits that he loves God, and wants to be loved, but is tied down to God's unspecified "enemy" instead, whom we can think of as Satan, or possibly "reason." The speaker asks God to break the speaker's ties with the enemy, and to bring the speaker to Him, not letting him go free. He then explains why he wants all of this, reasoning with double meanings: he can't really be free unless God enslaves and excites him, and he can't refrain from sex unless God carries him away and delights him.

Show me dear Christ, thy spouse so bright and clear. What! is it she which on the other shore Goes richly painted? or which, robb'd and tore, Laments and mourns in Germany and here? Sleeps she a thousand, then peeps up one year? Is she self-truth, and errs? now new, now outwore? Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore On one, on seven, or on no hill appear? Dwells she with us, or like adventuring knights First travel we to seek, and then make love? Betray, kind husband, thy spouse to our sights, And let mine amorous soul court thy mild Dove, Who is most true and pleasing to thee then When she'is embrac'd and open to most men.

Holy Sonnet 18 ("Show me, dear Christ, thy spouse") John Donne Donne's Holy Sonnets are well described as "a personal record of a brilliant mind struggling towards God" (Grandsen 132). Sonnet 18 reveals the speaker's anguish over the fragmentation of the Church visible and his perplexity over the identity of the true Church. Lines 7-8 ask, "Doth she, and did she, and shall she evermore / On one, on seven, or on no hill appear?" (Abrams 1117-18). At which place, the speaker inquires, dwells Christ's true "spouse"? The seven hills clearly allude to the Church of Rome, and "no hill" is generally understood as a reference to the Church of England with its see at Canterbury. Donne's mention of "one . . . hill," however, is problematic. Critics are divided over whether it alludes to Geneva, the center of Calvinism, with its old city positioned on a hill, or Mount Moriah, the traditional site of Solomon's Temple, in the Holy Land. Grandsen (137), Louthian (127), and Warnke (110), for example, all hold the former opinion, while Carey (254), Gardner (80), and Shawcross (350) contend the latter. The editors of The Norton Anthology of English Literature perhaps put the problem best: "It is a crux, not easy of solution" (1118 n3).(n1) The poem's final image of the Church as a promiscuous wife "embraced and open to most men" (14), as well as the puzzling mention of one hill, finds antecedents in Christ's conversation with the Samaritan woman in John's Gospel. Recognizing the intertextuality of this New Testament passage with the poem not only resolves the "crux" mentioned by the Norton editors, but unlocks a significant reading of the poem.

WHen first thou didst entice to thee my heart, I thought the service brave: So many joyes I writ down for my part, Besides what I might have Out of my stock of naturall delights, Augmented with thy gracious benefits. I looked on thy furniture so fine, And made it fine to me: Thy glorious houshold-stuffe did me entwine, And 'tice me unto thee. Such starres I counted mine: both heav'n and earth Payd me my wages in a world of mirth. What pleasures could I want, whose King I served, Where joyes my fellows were? Thus argu'd into hopes, my thoughts reserved No place for grief or fear. Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place, And made her youth and fiercenesse seek thy face. At first thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses; I had my wish and way: My dayes were straw'd with flow'rs and happinesse; There was no moneth but May. But with my yeares sorrow did twist and grow, And made a partie unawares of wo. My flesh began unto my soul in pain, Sicknesses cleave my bones; Consuming agues dwell in ev'ry vein, And tune my breath to grones. Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce beleeved, Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived. When I got health, thou took'st away my life, And more; for my friends die: My mirth and edge was lost; a blunted knife Was of more use then I. Thus thinne and lean without a fence or friend, I was blown through with ev'ry storm and winde. Whereas my birth and spirit rather took The way that takes the town; Thou didst betray me to a lingring book, And wrap me in a gown. I was entangled in the world of strife, Before I had the power to change my life. Yet, for I threatned oft the siege to raise, Not simpring all mine age, Thou often didst with Academick praise Melt and dissolve my rage. I took thy sweetned pill, till I came where I could not go away, nor persevere. Yet lest perchance I should too happie be In my unhappinesse, Turning my purge to food, thou throwest me Into more sicknesses. Thus doth my power crosse-bias me, not making Thine own gift good, yet me from my wayes taking. Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me None of my books will show: I reade, and sigh, and wish I were a tree; For sure then I should grow To fruit or shade: at least some bird would trust Her houshold to me, and I should be just. Yet, though thou troublest me, I must be meek; In weaknesse must be stout. Well, I will change the service, and go seek Some other master out. Ah my deare God! though I am clean forgot, Let me not love thee, if I love thee not.

"Affliction" George Herbert This is one of Herbert's most autobiographical poems, written presumably before he became a clergyman, but at a point in his life when he was not sure what he was going to do. The poem is actually an account of his spiritual life up to the present; what is sometimes known as a testimony or a confession. The poem is entitled 'Affliction' because, although his early experiences were joyful and believing in God came easily, his life has subsequently been overshadowed by suffering. To that extent, it could actually be called a complaint in which the poet sets out his troubles and tries to understand why God should have allowed these things to happen. In the final stanza it seems that Herbert is tempted to turn away but the last line offers the possibility of a different conclusion (The word 'let' could mean to 'prevent' someone from doing something).

Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I Do equally desire your company; Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast With those that come, whose grace may make that seem Something, which else could hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates. Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate, An olive, capers, or some better salad Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen, If we can get her, full of eggs, and then Lemons, and wine for sauce; to these a cony Is not to be despaired of, for our money; And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks, The sky not falling, think we may have larks. I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come: Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some May yet be there, and godwit, if we can; Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe'er, my man Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus, Livy, or of some better book to us, Of which we'll speak our minds, amidst our meat; And I'll profess no verses to repeat. To this, if ought appear which I not know of, That will the pastry, not my paper, show of. Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be; But that which most doth take my Muse and me, Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine, Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine; Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted, Their lives, as so their lines, till now had lasted. Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring, Are all but Luther's beer to this I sing. Of this we will sup free, but moderately, And we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by, Nor shall our cups make any guilty men; But, at our parting we will be as when We innocently met. No simple word That shall be uttered at our mirthful board, Shall make us sad next morning or affright The liberty that we'll enjoy tonight.

"Inviting a Friend to Supper" Ben Jonson The Epicureanism of this week's poem, Ben Jonson's Inviting a Friend to Supper, serves as a reassuring end-of-holiday reminder that it's not impossible "to eat, drink and be merry" and still get up for work the next day. Ben Jonson's poem, number 101 (CI) of his Epigrams balances the luxury and liberty of happy home-dining with the classical ideal of restraint. The whole collection is dedicated to the author's most steadfast patron, William Herbert, the Earl of Pembroke, and he is the guest to whom Jonson is making his graceful and witty invitation. Others will be present, but the guest who will bring grace to the otherwise worthless supper is William Herbert. Originally an inscription on a statue or monument, the epigram gained a little weight in becoming a favourite classical literary genre. Jonson enjoys those more discursive possibilities here. The meter itself, the heroic couplet, allows room for the leisurely syntax of courtesy - and description. In the opening lines Jonson lays out the request as if preparing an exquisite table-setting. The courtesy is exaggerated, but not to the extent of satirising his enterprise or his guest: "It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates/ The entertainment perfect, not the cates." After all, the poet proceeds to elaborate on the supposedly unimportant grub. You feel that the guest is also the guest of the poem's humour: he is invited to smile. After metaphorically setting the table, Jonson serves the feast. The menu is lavish, particularly regarding the varieties of game-bird, but there is a ready acknowledgment of possible restrictions. The delicacies must be seasonal and affordable. The speaker's means appear fairly modest: he has no cellar, because the supply of "rich Canary wine" will need to be bought from the Mermaid - the local tavern, I presume. Reading through the courses listed in this part of the poem is like watching a 17th-century version of the TV series, Come Dine with Me. But, if the printed poem represents the public face of the occasion, its argument makes very clear the high value on privacy. Pooley and Parrot (l. 36) were government informers: they may have been informers on Jonson himself. The shared meal is above all a setting in which friends can speak freely. Was Jonson's supper an actual occasion? Versified invitations were once common, and this one may well have served the purpose it declares. At the same time, like many of the Epigrams, the poem involves considerable imitation, with sources in three epigrams by Martial: 5.78, 19.48 and 11.52. In 11.52, for example, Martial tells Julius Cerialis, "I will deceive you to make you come," echoed by Jonson in l. 17. The promise not to read from his own work is also made by Martial's speaker. These borrowings don't mean that the poem is only a literary game. They inscribe the humanistic values shared by poet and patron. Jonson's concluding lines reject physical excess, including, perhaps, the drunken insult regretted the morning after. But the poem's deeper thrust is against political excess, and the acts of treachery which "affright/ The liberty that we'll enjoy tonight."

GO and catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me where all past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find What wind Serves to advance an honest mind. If thou be'st born to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair. If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet. Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet. Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.

"Song" John Donne This is a poem by John Donne in which he argues that it is impossible to find a woman who is both attractive and faithful to the one man. In the first stanza Donne states a number of impossible tasks. He compares finding an honest woman to these tasks. He cleverly states that to find a woman who is honest in love is as difficult as it is to catch 'a falling star'. The impossible tasks also include conceiving a child with a mandrake plant, gaining full knowledge of the past, solving the mystery of the Devil's cloven hoof and learning the knack of hearing mermaids singing. In a sarcastic comment Donne says that finding an honest woman is as difficult as living without the pain of envy. Envy is the greed and lust of other people who would secretly long for his woman. He adds sarcastically to the list of impossible tasks the task of finding the wind that brings prosperity to those who are of honest mind. He means that only dishonest people do well, that to have an honest mind is to fail. In the second stanza the subject matter is an imaginary journey of ten thousand days. Donne imagines a seeker spending a lifetime, until he has grey hairs, looking for an honest woman. Donne believes that despite all the strange sights the traveller will see, he won't come across an honest woman. In the third stanza the thought changes to the more positive idea of finding an honest woman. If the traveller finds one, he is to report her immediately. Donne says such a journey, 'pilgrimage', would be 'sweet'. But then Donne changes his mind and says he wouldn't travel next door to meet her as by the time he arrives even that far she will have slept with two or three other men. He says a woman would only remain honest at most for as long as it takes to write the letter saying you have found her.

JOy, I did lock thee up: but some bad man Hath let thee out again: And now, me thinks, I am where I began Sev'n yeares ago: one vogue1 and vein, One aire of thoughts usurps my brain I did towards Canaan draw; but now I am Brought back to the Red sea, the sea of shame. For as the Jews of old by Gods command Travell'd, and saw no town; So now each Christian hath his journeys spann'd: Their storie pennes and sets us down. A single deed is small renown. Gods works are wide, and let in future times; His ancient justice overflows our crimes. Then have we too our guardian fires and clouds; Our Scripture-dew drops fast: We have our sands and serpents, tents and shrowds; Alas! our murmurings come not last. But where's the cluster? where's the taste Of mine inheritance? Lord, if I must borrow, Let me as well take up their joy, as sorrow. But can he want the grape, who hath the wine? I have their fruit and more. Blessed be God, who prosper'd Noahs vine, And made it bring forth grapes good store. But much more him I must adore, Who of the Laws sowre juice sweet wine did make, Ev'n God himself being pressed for my sake.

"The Bunch of Grapes" George Herbert

The harbingers are come. See, see their mark: White is their color, and behold my head. But must they have my brain? Must they dispark Those sparkling notions, which therein were bred? Must dullness turn me to a clod? Yet have they left me, Thou art still my God. Good men ye be, to leave me my best room, Ev'n all my heart, and what is lodgèd there: I pass not, I, what of the rest become, So Thou art still my God be out of fear. He will be pleasèd with that ditty: And if I please him, I write fine and witty. Farewell sweet phrases, lovely metaphors. But will ye leave me thus? When ye before Of stews and brothels only knew the doors, Then did I wash you with my tears, and more, Brought you to church well dressed and clad: My God must have my best, ev'n all I had. Lovely enchanting language, sugar-cane, Honey of roses, wither wilt thou fly? Hath some fond lover 'ticed thee to thy bane? And wilt thou leave the church and love a sty? Fie, thou wilt soil thy broidered coat, And hurt thyself, and him that sings the note. Let foolish lovers, if they will love dung, With canvas, not with arras, clothe their shame: Let folly speak in her own native tongue. True beauty dwells on high: ours is a flame But borrowed thence to light us thither. Beauty and beauteous words should go together. Yet if you go, I pass not; take your way: For Thou art still my God is all that ye Perhaps with more embellishment can say. Go, birds of spring: let winter have his fee; Let a bleak paleness chalk the door, So all within be livelier than before.

"The Forerunners" George Herbert George Herbert (1593-1633), one of the metaphysical poets, wrote quiet and precise devotional verse. "The Forerunners" is no exception. In it the poet ruminates on the coming of old age (hence the title) - The harbingers are come. See, see their mark: White is their color, and behold my head. His reflections are shot through with ambivalence: He regrets that advancing age brings with it enfeeblement, the gradual loss of his ability to write poetry. Yet, at the same time, he expresses gratitude that his versifying faculty can still express the motto, "Thou art still my God". He summarizes this sentiment in the second stanza of the poem: Good men ye be, to leave me my best room, Ev'n all my heart, and what is lodgèd there: I pass not, I, what of the rest become, So Thou art still my God be out of fear. He will be pleasèd with that ditty: And if I please him, I write fine and witty. The concept is found elsewhere in Herbert's poetry: The poet's ability or 'wit' does not depend on technical skill but on a "heart" subservient to God. However, the third stanza reveals that the poet is not altogether sanguine about the departure of his poetic faculties: "Farewell sweet phrases, lovely metaphors". He laments that after having 'saved' for praise of God the "sweet phrases" and "lovely metaphors" they will, ungratefully, return to the service of secular poets. Clearly the poet still cares for beautiful and elaborate language, if only to acknowledge that "beauty and beauteous words should go together". Nevertheless, as his poetic ruminations come to an end, the poet again returns to his central theme: If anything is to be sacrificed to advaning age, let it be surface wit, not substance. George Herbert's "The Forerunners" perhaps like no other of his poems exemplifies his core belief about poetry: Brilliant poetic verse leads to sublime praise of God, but even if that brilliance is lacking, the heart of the believer can still speak eloquently.

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign, you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that, which then to heaven 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'it; except she meant that I By this should know my pain, As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die. Whate'er she meant by'it, bury it with me, For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry, If into other hands these relics came; As 'twas humility To 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.

"The Funeral" John Donne In John Donne's "The Funeral," the speaker is speaking to "Whoever comes to shroud [him] when he dies (1). He begs the undertaker to not touch the bracelet of hair (perhaps braided?) around his wrist. The speaker appears to believe that it will act as a tether that binds his body and soul to his lover and stop his body from disintegration. Moreover, he seems to want her to have complete control over his body, for "these hairs . . . from a better brain/ Can better do it" (12-14). Then, the poem shifts from devotion to a lover to idolatry to an indifferent woman. The speaker is not sure if she wanted to hurt him by giving him the hair, "As prisoners then are manacled" before they are executed (16). This gives the poem a darker atmosphere; it's possible the woman didn't want him and gave him the hair as if to say that is all he will get of her. They the speaker turns to the undertake again and explains that he should bury the hair with him because it is a "relic" that others might covet. The last line seems to be a stab at the lover; since she would have none of him, he will take a piece of her to the grave. The bracelet of hair, usually a token of love, is turned into a way for the speaker to exact revenge on his love who probably rejected him. The last stanza has an air of jealousy; the speaker does not want others to covet the hair in the same way he did. The line "'tis some bravery" sounds a bit sarcastic, as though the writer thinks its not brave at all for him to take her hair to the grave because she is not actually affected by it. The speaker might see this as a kind of revenge, of forcing her to be tied to him forever. However, it is unlikely that she would know this, so it's not revenge at all. In Christianity, it takes more to bind two souls together than a one-sided declaration of devotion (one that the other might not have even heard) of taking her hair to the grave. So, in a way, the speaker's revenge can never give him satisfaction. The last clause, "I bury some of you," is a bit of a joke (24). He can never bury her memory, his anger at her, even to his death - he cannot get over her. He might be burying her hair, but he will never bury his bitterness. He is the one to submit to feelings of being manacled, since he is willingly taking her to the grave. While this might be the definition of martyrdom, it seems to punish himself more than her. John Donne seems to have an exceedingly ironic attitude towards his speaker within this poem. His speaker makes note that the 'wreath of hair" will provide his mistress a connection to his "outward soul" (3-5). When looking at the word outward, it refers only to what can be seen on the outside of the body. So, does Donne feel that there is a lack of connection between the woman and the speaker's inner soul, i.e., lack of intimacy? He seems to be making a clear separation between what can be seen (outward soul) and what is on the inside (inner soul). He does indeed have an air of bitterness within the last stanza but he also uses language that can be read in a number of ways only confirming his aforementioned ironic attitude towards his speaker. He mentions that the crown of hair will "keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution," which is utterly impossible (8). One could argue that Donne makes this statement for the sake of metaphor but the word "dissolution" can mean decay, end , or the end of a marriage or agreement. So, it seems that Donne may be exacting his views of relationships onto his unsuspecting speaker and therefore creating doubt, which is evident in the last stanza, not only within the speaker but within the reader. Donne makes reference to "breed[ing] idolatry" and "relics" which carries very heavy Christian/Catholic connotations but in these references he is speaking of the human body and of human relationships and interaction. As "Love's martyr" Donne's speaker is dying from rejection and yet he is willing to take a braid of his mistress's hair with him to his grave.

Busy old fool, unruly sun, Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains call on us? Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school boys and sour prentices, Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride, Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. Thy beams, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long; If her eyes have not blinded thine, Look, and tomorrow late, tell me, Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay. She's all states, and all princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus. Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be To warm the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

"The Sun Rising" John Donne Dirty limericks have their place, but for our money, the aubade is the steamiest poem around. An aubade is a poem or song spoken to a lover just as dawn is breaking, presumably after a, shall we say, pleasant evening. John Donne's "The Sun Rising" proclaims to the sun and to the whole world that his love is the center of the universe. It wasn't the first or last time that Donne would make an outrageous claim. Donne was one of the metaphysical poets of the 17th century (that's the 1600's for all you math geniuses out there). The metaphysical poets were famous for making outlandish claims and metaphors that were intricate and difficult to follow. Many of their contemporary critics claimed that there was too much brainpower in their poems for any authentic emotion, but a closer look reveals that beneath all that cleverness beats the heart of a true romantic. In the poem, Donne is in bed with his lover just as morning dawns. It is likely that this lover is his teenage bride, Ann More, whom he had secretly married against her father's wishes. What starts as griping at the sun for intruding on their reverie quickly turns into a boast about the greatness of his love. Once you read this poem, all those swoony rom coms will start to pale in comparison to this guy's lines.