by
John Donne.
Away thou
fondling motley
humorist,
Leave mee, and in this standing
woodden chest,
Consorted with these few bookes, let me lye
In prison, and here be
coffin'd, when I dye;
Here are Gods conduits, grave Divines; and here
Natures
Secretary, the
Philosopher;
And jolly Statesmen, which teach how to tie
The sinewes of a cities mistique bodie;
Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them stand
Giddie fantastique
Poets of each land.
Shall I leave all this
constant company,
And follow
headlong, wild uncertaine thee?
First sweare by thy best love in earnest
(If thou which lov'st all, canst love any best)
Thou wilt not leave mee in the middle street
Though some more
spruce companion thou dost meet,
Not though a
Captaine do come in thy way
Bright parcell gilt, with forty dead mens pay,
Nor though a briske perfum'd piert
Courtier
Deigne with a nod, thy courtesie to answer,
Nor come a velvet
Justice with a long
Great traine of blew coats, twelve, or fourteen strong,
Wilt thou grin or
fawne on him, or prepare
A speech to court his beautious sonne and heire.
For better or worse take mee, or leave mee:
To take, and leave mee is
adultery.
Oh
monstrous,
superstitious puritan,
Of refin'd manners, yet
ceremoniall man,
That when thou meet'st one, with enquiring eyes
Dost search, and like a
needy broker prize
The silke, and
gold he weares, and to that rate
So high or low, dost raise thy formall hat:
That wilt
consort none, untill thou have knowne
What lands hee hath in
hope, or of his owne,
As though all thy
companions should make thee
Jointures, and marry thy deare company.
Why should'st thou (that dost not onely approve,
But in ranke
itchie
lust,
desire, and
love
The nakednesse and barenesse to enjoy,
Of thy plumpe muddy whore, or
prostitute boy)
Hate vertue, though shee be naked, and bare?
At
birth, and
death, our bodies naked are;
And till our Soules be unapparrelled
Of bodies, they from
blisse are
banished.
Mans first blest
state was
naked, when by sinne
Hee lost that, yet hee'was cloath'd but in
beasts
skin,
And in this course attire, which I now weare,
With
God, and with the
Muses I
conferre.
But since thou like a contrite
penitent,
Charitably warn'd of thy sinnes, dost repent
These vanities, and giddinesses, loe
I shut my chamber doore, and 'Come, lets goe.'
But sooner may a
cheape
whore, that hath beene
Worne by as many severall men in sinne,
As are
black feathers, or
musk-colour hose,
Name her childs right true
father, 'mongst all those:
Sooner may one guesse, who shall beare away
Th'Infant of
London, Heire to'an
India:
And sooner may a gulling weather-Spie
By drawing forth heavens Scheame tell certainnly
What fashion'd
hats, or
ruffles, or suits next yeare
Our subtile-witted
antique youths will weare;
Then thou, when thou
depart'st from mee, canst show
Whither, why, when, or with whom thou wouldst go.
But how shall I be pardon'd my offence
That thus have
sinn'd against my conscience?
Now we are in the street; He first of all
Improvidently proud,
creepes to the wall,
And so
imprison'd, and hem'd in by mee
Sells for a little
state his libertie;
Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greet
Every fine
silken painted foole we meet,
He them to him with amorous smiles
allures,
And
grins,
smacks,
shrugs, and such an itch endures,
As prentises, or
schoole-boyes which doe know
Of some gay sport abroad, yet dare not goe.
And as fidlers stop low'st, at highest sound,
So to the most
brave, stoops hee nigh'st the ground.
But to a grave man, he doth move no more
Then the wise politique
horse would heretofore,
Or thou O
Elephant or
Ape wilt doe,
When any names the King of
Spaine to you.
Now leaps he upright, joggs me,'and cryes, 'Do'you see
Yonder well favour'd
youth?' 'Which?' 'Oh, 'tis hee
That dances so
divinely.' 'Oh,' said I,
'Stand still, must you dance here for company?'
Hee droopt, wee went, till one (which did excell
Th'
Indians, in drinking his
Tobacco well)
Met us; they talk'd; I whisper'd, 'Let us goe,
'T may be you smell him not,
truely I doe.'
He heares not mee, but, on the other side
A many-colour'd
Peacock having spide,
Leaves him and mee; I for my lost
sheep stay;
He followes,
overtakes, goes on the way,
Saying, 'Him whom I last
left, all repute
For his
device, in hansoming a sute,
To judge of
lace, pinke, panes, [print[,
cut and plight,
Of all the Court, to have the best conceit.'
'Our dull
Comedians want him, let him goe;
But Oh, God
strengthen thee, why stoop'st thou so?'
'Why? he hath travail'd.' '
Long?' 'No, but to me'
(Which
understand none,) 'he doth seeme to be
Perfect
French, and
Italian.' I reply'd,
'So is the Poxe.' He answer'd not, but spy'd
More men of sort, of parts, and qualities;
At last his Love he in a
windowe spies,
And like light dew exhal'd, he flings from mee
Violently ravish'd to his
lechery.
Many were there, he could
command no more;
He quarrell'd, fought, bled; and turn'd out of dore
Directly came to mee hanging the head,
And constantly a while must keepe his
bed.