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As due by many titles I resigne
My selfe to thee, O God, first I was made
By thee, and for thee, and when I was decay'd
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine;I am thy sonne, made with thy selfe to shine,Thy servant, whose paines thou hast still repaid,
Thy sheepe, thine Image, and, till I betray'd
My selfe, a temple of thy Spirit divine;Why doth the devill then usurpe on mee?
Why doth he steale, nay ravish that's thy right?Except thou rise and for thine own worke fight,Oh I shall soone despaire, when I doe seeThat thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt'not chuse me,And Satan hates mee, yet is loth to lose mee.
- John Donne II
- This poem is about how Donne laments how he was created to be with God and betrayed himself instead. He implores God to step in and save in because he can't do it alone. This poem is characterizing man's inability to have self-control.
Death be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,And better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
- Death Be Not Proud X
Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, youAs yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend,That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee, and bendYour force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.I, like an usurpt towne, to another due,Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,But is captiv'd , and proves weake or untrue.Yet dearely I love you, and would be loved faine,But am betroth'd unto your enemie:Divorce mee, untie, or breake that knot againe,Take mee to you, imprison mee, for IExcept you enthrall mee, never shall be free,Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.
- "Batter my heart"
A broken ALTAR, Lord thy servant rears,Made of a heart, and cemented with teares:Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;No workmans tool hath touch'd the same
A HEART aloneIs such a stone,As nothing butThy pow'r doth cut.Wherefore each partOf my hard heartMeets in this frame,To praise thy Name:
That if I chance to hold my peace,These stones to praise thee may not cease.O let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine,And sanctifie this ALTAR to be thine.
I Struck the board, and cry’d, No more.
I will abroad.
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the rode,
Loose as the winde, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me bloud, and not restore
What I have lost with cordiall fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
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,
Which pettie 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 deaths head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.
But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde
At every word,
Me thoughts I heard one calling, Childe:
And I reply’d, My Lord.
Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poore:
O let me rise,
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day Thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.
My tender age in sorrow did beginne;
And still with sicknesses and shame
Thou didst so punish sinne,
That I became
Let me combine,
And feel this day Thy victorie;
For, if I imp my wing on Thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
Having been tenant long to a rich lord,
Not thriving, I resolvèd to be bold,
And make a suit unto him, to afford
A new small-rented lease, and cancel th’ old.
In heaven at his manor I him sought;
They told me there that he was lately gone
About some land, which he had dearly bought
Long since on earth, to take possessiòn.
I straight returned, and knowing his great birth,
Sought him accordingly in great resorts;
In cities, theaters, gardens, parks, and courts;
At length I heard a ragged noise and mirth
Of thieves and murderers; there I him espied,
Who straight, Your suit is granted, said, and died.
PRAYER the Churches banquet, Angels age, Gods 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’ Almightie, sinner's towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six daies world-transposing in an houre,
A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear ;
Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,
Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best,
Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,
Church-bels beyond the stars heard, the souls bloud,
The land of spices, something understood.
When my devotions could not pierce
Thy silent ears,
Then was my heart broken, as was my verse;
My breast was full of fears
My bent thoughts, like a brittle bow,
Did fly asunder:
Each took his way; some would to pleasures go,
Some to the wars and thunder
“As good go anywhere,” they say,
“As to benumb
Both knees and heart, in crying night and day,
Come, come, my God, O come!
But no hearing.”
O that thou shouldst give dust a tongue
To cry to thee,
And then not hear it crying! All day long
My heart was in my knee,
But no hearing.
Therefore my soul lay out of sight,
My feeble spirit, unable to look right,
Like a nipped blossom, hung
O cheer and tune my heartless breast,
Defer no time;
That so thy favors granting my request,
They and my mind may chime,
And mend my rhyme.
What if this present were the worlds last night?Marke in my heart, O Soule, where thou dost dwell,The picture of Christ crucified, and tellWhether that countenance can thee affright,Teares in his eyes quench the amazing light,Blood fills his frownes, which from his pierc'd head fell.And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,Which pray'd forgiveness for his foes fierce spight?No, no; but as in my idolatrieI said to all my profane mistresses,Beauty, of pitty, foulnesse onely isA sign of rigour: so I say to thee,To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign'd,This beauteous forme assures a pitious minde.
If poysonous mineralls, and if that tree,Whose fruit threw death on else immortall us,If lecherous goats, if serpents enviousCannot be damn'd; Alas; why should I bee?Why should intent or reason, borne in mee,Make sinnes, else equall, in mee more heinous?And mercy being easie, and gloriousTo God; in his sterne wrath, why threatens hee?But who am I , that dare dispute with theeO God? Oh! of thine onely worthy blood,And my teares, make a heavenly Lethean flood,And drowne in it my sinnes black memorie;That thou remember them, some claime as debt,I thinke it mercy if thou wilt forget.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie:
The dew shall weep thy fall to night;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:
Thy root is ever in its grave
And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My musick shows ye have your closes,1
And all must die.
Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like season’d timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.