No More Learning

When thou hast done, thou hast not done, 5
for I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sinn, by w^{ch} I'have wonne
Others to sinn, & made my sinn their dore?
Wilt thou forgive that sinn w^{ch} I did shunne
A yeare or twoe, but wallowed in a score? 10
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
for I have more.

I have a sinn of feare y^t when I have spunn
My last thred, I shall perish on the shore;
Sweare by thy self that at my Death, thy Sunn 15
Shall shine as it shines nowe, & heretofore;
And having done that, thou hast done,
I have noe more.


[Christ. _A18_, _N_, _TCC_, _TCD:_ Christo Salvatori. _O'F_,
_S96:_ _text from TCD_]

[1 begunn, _Ed:_ begunn _TCD_]

[2 were _A18_, _N_, _TC:_ was _O'F_, _S_ before? _Ed:_ before
_TCD_]

[4 them _A18_, _N_, _TC:_ runne _O'F_, _S96_]

[5 done, _Ed:_ done _TCD:_ _and so_ 11 _and_ 17]

[14 shore; _Ed:_ shore _TCD_]

[15 thy Sunne _O'F_, _S:_ this Sunn _A18_, _N_, _TC_]

[16 heretofore; _Ed:_ heretofore _TCD_]

* * * * *




ELEGIES UPON THE AUTHOR


TO THE MEMORIE OF MY EVER DESIRED FRIEND

D^r. DONNE.

To have liv'd eminent, in a degree
Beyond our lofty'st flights, that is, like Thee,
Or t'have had too much merit, is not safe;
For, such excesses finde no Epitaph.
At common graves we have Poetique eyes 5
Can melt themselves in easie Elegies,
Each quill can drop his tributary verse,
And pin it, like the Hatchments, to the Hearse:
But at Thine, Poeme, or Inscription
(Rich soule of wit, and language) we have none. 10
Indeed a silence does that tombe befit,
Where is no Herald left to blazon it.
Widow'd invention justly doth forbeare
To come abroad, knowing Thou art not here,
Late her great Patron; Whose Prerogative 15
Maintain'd, and cloth'd her so, as none alive
Must now presume, to keepe her at thy rate,
Though he the Indies for her dowre estate.
Or else that awfull fire, which once did burne
In thy cleare Braine, now falne into thy Urne 20
Lives there, to fright rude Empiricks from thence,
Which might prophane thee by their Ignorance.
Who ever writes of Thee, and in a stile
Unworthy such a Theme, does but revile
Thy precious Dust, and wake a learned Spirit 25
Which may revenge his Rapes upon thy Merit.
For, all a low pitch't phansie can devise,
Will prove, at best, but Hallow'd Injuries.
Thou, like the dying Swanne, didst lately sing
Thy Mournfull Dirge, in audience of the King; 30
When pale lookes, and faint accents of thy breath,
Presented so, to life, that peece of death,
That it was fear'd, and prophesi'd by all,
Thou thither cam'st to preach thy Funerall.
O! had'st Thou in an Elegiacke Knell 35
Rung out unto the world thine owne farewell,
And in thy High Victorious Numbers beate
The solemne measure of thy griev'd Retreat;
Thou might'st the Poets service now have mist
As well, as then thou did'st prevent the Priest; 40
And never to the world beholding bee
So much, as for an Epitaph for thee.
I doe not like the office. Nor is't fit
Thou, who did'st lend our Age such summes of wit,
Should'st now re-borrow from her bankrupt Mine, 45
That Ore to Bury Thee, which once was Thine,
Rather still leave us in thy debt; And know
(Exalted Soule) more glory 'tis to owe
Unto thy Hearse, what we can never pay,
Then, with embased Coine those Rites defray. 50
Commit we then Thee to Thy selfe: Nor blame
Our drooping loves, which thus to thy owne Fame
Leave Thee Executour. Since, but thine owne,
No pen could doe Thee Justice, nor Bayes Crowne
Thy vast desert; Save that, wee nothing can 55
Depute, to be thy Ashes Guardian.
So Jewellers no Art, or Metall trust
To forme the Diamond, but the Diamonds dust.

_H. K. _


[To the _&c. _ _Also in_ Deaths Duell. _1632_, _Walton's_ Lives
_1670_, _King's_ Poems. _1657_, _1664_, _1700_]

[14 here] there _1632_]

[31 faint] weak _1632_]

[57 or] nor _1632_]




To the deceased Author,

Upon the _Promiscuous_ printing of his Poems, the _Looser sort_, with
the _Religious_.