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Satire III

John Donne 1572 (London) – 1631 (London)

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 t
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

3:59 min read

John Donne

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

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    "Satire III" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 13 Jun 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/22572/satire-iii>.

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