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Satire IV

John Donne 1572 (London) – 1631 (London)

Well; I may now receive, and die. My sin
  Indeed is great, but yet I have been in
  A purgatory, such as fear'd hell is
  A recreation and scant map of this.
  My mind, neither with pride's itch, nor yet hath been
  Poison'd with love to see, or to be seen.
  I had no suit there, nor new suit to show,
  Yet went to court; but as Glaze which did go
  To'a mass in jest, catch'd, was fain to disburse
  The hundred marks, which is the statute's curse,
  Before he 'scap'd; so'it pleas'd my destiny
  (Guilty of my sin of going) to think me
  As prone to all ill, and of good as forget{-}
  Full, as proud, as lustful, and as much in debt,
  As vain, as witless, and as false as they
  Which dwell in court, for once going that way.
  Therefore I suffered this; towards me did run
  A thing more strange, than on Nile's slime the sun
  E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came;
  A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name;
  Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies,
  Than Afric's monsters, Guiana's rarities;
  Stranger than strangers; one, who for a Dane,
  In the Danes' massacre had sure been slain,
  If he had liv'd then; and without help dies,
  When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise;
  One, whom the watch, at noon, lets scarce go by;
  One, to whom the examining justice sure would cry,
  "Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are."
  His clothes were strange, though coarse; and black, though bare;
  Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
  Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen)
  Become tufftaffaty; and our children shall
  See it plain rash awhile, then nought at all.
  This thing hath travell'd, and, saith, speaks all tongues,
  And only knoweth what to all states belongs.
  Made of th' accents and best phrase of all these,
  He speaks one language. If strange meats displease,
  Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste,
  But pedants' motley tongue, soldiers' bombast,
  Mountebanks' drug-tongue, nor the terms of law
  Are strong enough preparatives, to draw
  Me to bear this; yet I must be content
  With his tongue, in his tongue, call'd compliment;
  In which he can win widows, and pay scores,
  Make men speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,
  Out-flatter favourites, or outlie either
  Jovius, or Surius, or both together.
  He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, "God!
  How have I sinn'd, that Thy wrath's furious rod,
  This fellow, chooseth me?" He saith, "Sir,
  I love your judgment; whom do you prefer,
  For the best linguist?" And I seelily
  Said, that I thought Calepine's dictionary.
  "Nay, but of men, most sweet Sir?" Beza then,
  Some Jesuits, and two reverend men
  Of our two Academies, I named. There
  He stopp'd me, and said; "Nay, your apostles were
  Good pretty linguists, and so Panurge was;
  Yet a poor gentleman all these may pass
  By travel." Then, as if he would have sold
  His tongue, he prais'd it, and such wonders told,
  That I was fain to say, "If you'had liv'd, sir,
  Time enough to have been interpreter
  To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tower had stood."
  He adds, "If of court life you knew the good,
  You would leave loneness." I said, "Not alone
  My loneness is; but Spartan's fashion,
  To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last
  Now; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste;
  No more can princes' courts, though there be few
  Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue."
  He, like to a high-stretch'd lute-string, squeak'd, "O sir,
  'Tis sweet to talk of kings." "At Westminster,"
  Said I, "the man that keeps the abbey tombs,
  And for his price doth with whoever comes
  Of all our Harrys and our Edwards talk,
  From king to king, and all their kin can walk.
  Your ears shall hear nought, but kings; your eyes meet
  Kings only; the way to it is King street."
  He smack'd and cried, "He's base, mechanic, coarse,
  So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.
  Are not your Frenchmen neat?" "Mine? As you see,
  I have but one Frenchman, look--he follows me."
  "Certes they are neatly cloth'd. I of this mind am,
  Your only wearing is your grogaram."
  "Not so, sir, I have more." Under this pitch
  He would not fly; I chaff'd him; but as itch
  Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron ground
  Into an edge, hurts worse; so I (fool) found
  Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness,
  He to another key his style doth dress,
  And asks, "Wh
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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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