O make the doubt clear, that no woman's true,
Was it my fate to prove it full in you?5
Thought I but one had breath'd the purer air,
And must she needs be false, because she's
fair?
Is it your beauty's mark, or of your youth,
Or your perfection, not to study truth?
Or think you heaven is deaf, or hath no eyes,
Or those it hath wink at your perjuries?
Are vows so cheap with women? or the matter
Whereof they are made, that they are writ in water,
5 To make the doubt clear, that no woman's true,
Was it my fate to prove it full in you?] There is a collection of Dr. Donne's poems in 8vo. 1669, amongst which is this elegy: how it came there I know not, for there is no doubt but it is Jonson's. WHAL.
Whalley appears not to have known that the elegy was printed in a 4to. edition of Donne's Poems, which came out in 1633. I have already observed that there was a mutual communication of MSS. between the two poets, and the verses before us might be found among the doctor's papers (for he was now dead), and published by his son, or by those who collected them, as his own.
The preceding poem, in which the poet so ingenuously confessed his fault, and so earnestly sued for pardon, appears to have had its effect, and reconciled the lovers. They were still, however, imprudent: the lady in her turn trusted a false friend, who abused her confidence, and traduced the parties to each other, till he had stirred up a mutual jealousy, and finally separated them. On the discovery of this treachery, Jonson writes the second elegy, which, like the first, led to a reconciliation.
I have no knowledge of the person to whom these Elegies were addressed. I once thought them to be scholastic exercises like the desperate love verses of Donne and Cowley; but they now strike me as too earnest for any thing but a real intrigue.
The text of the folio (the blunders of which I am weary of noticing) has been much improved by a collation with the copy in Donne's works.
And blown away with wind? or doth their breath,
Both hot and cold at once, threat life and death?
Who could have thought so many accents sweet
Tuned to our words, so many sighs should meet
Blown from our hearts, so many oaths and tears
Sprinkled among, all sweeter by our fears,
And the divine impression of stol'n kisses,
That seal'd the rest, could now prove empty blisses?
Did you draw bonds to forfeit ? sign to break?
Or must we read you quite from what you speak,
And find the truth out the wrong way? or must
He first desire you false, would wish you just?
O, I profane! though most of women be
The common monster, thought shall except thee,
My dearest love, though froward jealousy
With circumstance might urge the contrary.
Sooner I'll think the sun would cease to cheer
The teeming earth, and that forget to bear;
Sooner that rivers would run back, or Thames
With ribs of ice in June would bind his streams;
Or Nature, by whose strength the world endures,
Would change her course, before you alter yours.
But, O, that treacherous breast! to whom weak
you
Did trust our counsels, and we both may rue,
Having his falsehood found too late! 'twas he
That made me cast you guilty, and you me;
Whilst he, black wretch, betray'd each simple word
We spake, unto the cunning of a third!
Curst may he be, that so our love hath slain,
And wander wretched on the earth, as Cain;
Wretched as he, and not deserve least pity!
In plaguing him, let misery be witty.
Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each eye,
Till he be noisome as his infamy;
May he without remorse deny God thrice,
And not be trusted more on his soul's price;
And after all self-torment, when he dies,
May wolves tear out his heart, vultures his eyes,
Swine eat his bowels, and his falser tongue,
That utter'd all, be to some raven flung;
And let his carrion corse be a longer feast
To the king's dogs, than any other beast!
Now I have curst, let us our love revive;
In me the flame was never more alive.
I could begin again to court and praise,
And in that pleasure lengthen the short days
Of my life's lease; like painters that do take
Delight, not in made works, but whilst they make.
I could renew those times when first I saw
Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law
To like what you liked, and at masques or plays,
Commend the self-same actors the same ways;
Ask how you did, and often with intent
Of being officious, grow impertinent;
All which were such soft pastimes, as in these
Love was as subtly catch'd as a disease.
But, being got, it is a treasure sweet,
Which to defend, is harder than to get;
And ought not be profaned on either part,
For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art.
HAT love's a bitter sweet, I ne'er conceive, Till the sour minute comes of taking leave, And then I taste it: but as men drink up In haste the bottom of a med'cined cup, And take some sirup after; so do I, To put all relish from my memory Of parting, drown it, in the hope to meet Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
This makes me, mistress, that sometimes by stealth,
Under another name, I take your health,
And turn the ceremonies of those nights
I give, or owe my friends, unto your rites;
But ever without blazon, or least shade
Of vows so sacred, and in silence made :
For though love thrive, and may grow up with cheer,
And free society, he's born elsewhere,
And must be bred, so to conceal his birth,
As neither wine do rack it out, or mirth.
Yet should the lover still be airy' and light,
In all his actions, rarified to sprite :
Not like a Midas, shut up in himself,
And turning all he toucheth into pelf,
Keep in reserv'd in his dark-lantern face,
As if that excellent dulness were love's grace :
No, mistress, no, the open, merry, man
Moves like a sprightly river, and yet can
Keep secret in his channels what he breeds,
'Bove all your standing waters, choak'd with weeds.
They look at best like cream-bowls, and you soon
Shall find their depth; they are sounded with a
They may say grace, and for Love's chaplains pass,
But the grave lover ever was an ass;
Is fix'd upon one leg, and dares not come
Out with the other, for he's still at home:
Like the dull wearied crane, that, come on land,
Doth while he keeps his watch, betray his stand;
• Is fix'd upon one leg, &c.] Jonson, like Donne, seems fond of drawing illustrations from this familiar implement. In his verses to Selden, p. 352, he has done it very gracefully:
"You that have been
Ever at home, yet have all countries seen;
And, like a compass, keeping one foot still
Upon your center, do your circle fill
Of general knowledge."
Where he that knows will like a lapwing fly
Far from the nest, and so himself belie
To others, as he will deserve the trust
Due to that one that doth believe him just.
And such your servant is, who vows to keep
The jewel of your name, as close as sleep
Can lock the sense up, or the heart a thought,
And never be by time or folly brought,
Weakness of brain, or any charm of wine,
The sin of boast, or other countermine,
Made to blow up love's secrets, to discover
That article may not become your lover:
Which in assurance to your breast I tell,
If I had writ no word, but, Dear, farewell!
INCE you must go, and I must bid farewell, Hear, mistress, your departing servant tell What it is like: and do not think they can Be idle words, though of a parting man. It is as if a night should shade noon-day, Or that the sun was here, but forced away; And we were left under that hemisphere, Where we must feel it dark for half a year. What fate is this, to change men's days and hours, To shift their seasons, and destroy their powers!
Donne is yet more fanciful and ingenious. He says to a wife who remains at home while her husband is abroad:
"Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if th' other do :
And though it in the center sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect as that comes home."
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