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On The Progress Of The Soul...

Forget this rotten world, and unto thee
  Let thine own times as an old story be.
  Be not concern'd; study not why, nor when;
  Do not so much as not believe a man.
  For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth
  Is far more business than this world is worth.
  I'he world is but a carcass; thou art fed
  By it, but as a worm, that carcass bred;
  And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more,
  When this world will grow better than before,
  Than those thy fellow-worms do think upon
  That carcass's last resurrection?
  Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
  As of old clothes, cast off a year ago.
  To be thus stupid is alacrity;
  Men thus lethargic have best memory.
  Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state
  We now lament not, but congratulate.
  She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
  Where all sat heark'ning how her youthful age
  Should be employ'd, because in all she did
  Some figure of the golden times was hid.
  Who could not lack, what'er this world could give,
  Because she was the form, that made it live;
  Nor could complain that this world was unfit
  To be stay'd in, then when she was in it;
  She, that first tried indifferent desires
  By virtue, and virtue by religious fires;
  She, to whose person paradise adher'd,
  As courts to princes; she, whose eyes enspher'd
  Star-light enough t' have made the South control,
  (Had she been there) the star-full Northern Pole;
  She, she is gone; she is gone; when thou knowest this,
  What fragmentary rubbish this world is
  Thou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought;
  He honours it too much that thinks it nought.
  Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom,
  Which brings a taper to the outward room,
  Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light,
  And after brings it nearer to thy sight;
  For such approaches doth heaven make in death.
  Think thyself labouring now with broken breath,
  And think those broken and soft notes to be
  Division, and thy happiest harmony.
  Think thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slack,
  And think that but unbinding of a pack,
  To take one precious thing, thy soul, from thence.
  Think thyself parch'd with fever's violence;
  Anger thine ague more, by calling it
  Thy physic; chide the slackness of the fit.
  Think that thou hear'st thy knell, and think no more,
  But that, as bells call'd thee to church before,
  So this to the Triumphant Church calls thee.
  Think Satan's sergeants round about thee be,
  And think that but for legacies they thrust;
  Give one thy pride, to'another give thy lust;
  Give them those sins which they gave thee before,
  And trust th' immaculate blood to wash thy score.
  Think thy friends weeping round, and think that they
  Weep but because they go not yet thy way.
  Think that they close thine eyes, and think in this,
  That they confess much in the world amiss,
  Who dare not trust a dead man's eye with that
  Which they from God and angels cover not.
  Think that they shroud thee up, and think from thence
  They reinvest thee in white innocence.
  Think that thy body rots, and (if so low,
  Thy soul exalted so, thy thoughts can go)
  Think thee a prince, who of themselves create
  Worms, which insensibly devour their state.
  Think that they bury thee, and think that rite
  Lays thee to sleep but a Saint Lucy's night.
....

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

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John Donne

John Donne was an English poet, satirist, lawyer and a cleric in the Church of England. more…

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