No More Learning

Es _sat_ a my l'honneur estre hic inteso; Car +I leave+
L'honra, de personne nestre creduto, _tibi_.

_Explicit Joannes Donne. _


[In eundem _&c. 1611, concluding the above_]

* * * * *


[Illustration: JOHN DONNE, 1613

_Viri seraphici Joannis Donne Qua-
dragenarij Effigies vera, Qui post
eam aetatem Sacris initiatus Ec-
clesiae S^{ti} Pauli Decanus obijt. _

_Ano { Do[~m] 1631?
{ AEtatis suae 59? _

("A true portrait of that seraphic man John Donne at the age of 40;
he was later ordained into holy orders and died Dean of St Paul's
in the year of our Lord 1631 at the age of 59")

From the engraving prefixed to his son's edition of the _Letters to
Several Persons of Honour_ 1651, 1654]

* * * * *




LETTERS

TO SEVERALL PERSONAGES.


THE STORME.

To Mr. _Christopher Brooke_.


Thou which art I, ('tis nothing to be soe)
Thou which art still thy selfe, by these shalt know
Part of our passage; And, a hand, or eye
By _Hilliard_ drawne, is worth an history,
By a worse painter made; and (without pride) 5
When by thy judgment they are dignifi'd,
My lines are such: 'Tis the preheminence
Of friendship onely to'impute excellence.
England to whom we'owe, what we be, and have,
Sad that her sonnes did seeke a forraine grave 10
(For, Fates, or Fortunes drifts none can soothsay,
Honour and misery have one face and way. )
From out her pregnant intrailes sigh'd a winde
Which at th'ayres middle marble roome did finde
Such strong resistance, that it selfe it threw 15
Downeward againe; and so when it did view
How in the port, our fleet deare time did leese,
Withering like prisoners, which lye but for fees,
Mildly it kist our sailes, and, fresh and sweet,
As to a stomack sterv'd, whose insides meete, 20
Meate comes, it came; and swole our sailes, when wee
So joyd, as _Sara_'her swelling joy'd to see.
But 'twas but so kinde, as our countrimen,
Which bring friends one dayes way, and leave them then.
Then like two mighty Kings, which dwelling farre 25
Asunder, meet against a third to warre,
The South and West winds joyn'd, and, as they blew,
Waves like a rowling trench before them threw.
Sooner then you read this line, did the gale,
Like shot, not fear'd till felt, our sailes assaile; 30
And what at first was call'd a gust, the same
Hath now a stormes, anon a tempests name.
_Ionas_, I pitty thee, and curse those men,
Who when the storm rag'd most, did wake thee then;
Sleepe is paines easiest salue, and doth fullfill 35
All offices of death, except to kill.
But when I wakt, I saw, that I saw not;
I, and the Sunne, which should teach mee'had forgot
East, West, Day, Night, and I could onely say,
If'the world had lasted, now it had beene day. 40
Thousands our noyses were, yet wee'mongst all
Could none by his right name, but thunder call:
Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd more
Then if the Sunne had drunke the sea before.
Some coffin'd in their cabbins lye,'equally 45
Griev'd that they are not dead, and yet must dye;
And as sin-burd'ned soules from graves will creepe,
At the last day, some forth their cabbins peepe:
And tremblingly'aske what newes, and doe heare so,
Like jealous husbands, what they would not know. 50
Some sitting on the hatches, would seeme there,
With hideous gazing to feare away feare.
Then note they the ships sicknesses, the Mast
Shak'd with this ague, and the Hold and Wast
With a salt dropsie clog'd, and all our tacklings 55
Snapping, like too-high-stretched treble strings.
And from our totterd sailes, ragges drop downe so,
As from one hang'd in chaines, a yeare agoe.
Even our Ordinance plac'd for our defence,
Strive to breake loose, and scape away from thence. 60
Pumping hath tir'd our men, and what's the gaine?
Seas into seas throwne, we suck in againe;
Hearing hath deaf'd our saylers; and if they
Knew how to heare, there's none knowes what to say.
Compar'd to these stormes, death is but a qualme, 65
Hell somewhat lightsome, and the'Bermuda calme.
Darknesse, lights elder brother, his birth-right
Claims o'r this world, and to heaven hath chas'd light.
All things are one, and that one none can be,
Since all formes, uniforme deformity 70
Doth cover, so that wee, except God say
Another _Fiat_, shall have no more day.
So violent, yet long these furies bee,
That though thine absence sterve me,'I wish not thee.


[The Storme.