O thou which haste, made him that first made thee;
O neare of kinne to all the Trinetie;
O Pallace where the kinge of all, and more; 5
Went in, and out, yet never opened doore;
Whose flesh is purer, than an others sperrit
Reache him our Prayers, and reach us down his merrit;
O bread of lyfe which sweld'ste up without Leaven;
O bridge which joynst togeather earth and heaven; 10
Whose eyes see me through these walles, and
throughe
glasse,
And through this fleshe as thorowe Cipres passe.
John Donne
In Anchors calme face wee your smoothnes see, 25
Your mindes unmingled, and as cleare as shee
That keepes untoucht her first virginitie.
Did all St. Edith nunns descend againe
To honor Polesworth with their cloystred traine,
Compar'd with you each would confesse some stayne. 30
Or should wee more bleed out our thoughts in inke,
Noe paper (though it woulde be glad to drinke
Those drops) could comprehend what wee doe thinke.
For t'were in us ambition to write
Soe, that because wee two, you two unite, 35
Our letter should as you, bee infinite.
[Letter written _&c._ _A25_: _published by Chambers, who
completes the names_]
O Frutefull garden, and yet never tilde,
Box full of Treasure yet by noe man filde.
O thou which haste, made him that first made thee;
O neare of kinne to all the Trinetie;
O Pallace where the kinge of all, and more; 5
Went in, and out, yet never opened doore;
Whose flesh is purer, than an others sperrit
Reache him our Prayers, and reach us down his merrit;
O bread of lyfe which sweld'ste up without Leaven;
O bridge which joynst togeather earth and heaven; 10
Whose eyes see me through these walles, and
throughe
glasse,
And through this fleshe as thorowe Cipres passe.
Behould a little harte made greate by thee
Swellinge, yet shrinkinge at thy majestie.
O dwell in it, for where soe ere thou go'ste 15
There is the Temple of the Holy Ghoste.
[O Frutefull Garden. _A25_: [TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY.]
_Chambers_]
[6 out, _Ed_: out _A25_]
[8 merrit; _Ed_: merrit, _A25_]
[9 Leaven, _Ed_: Leaven _A25_]
_To my Lord of Pembroke._
Fye, Fye you sonnes of Pallas what madd rage
Makes you contend that Love's, or God, or page?
Hee that admires, his weaknes doth confess;
For as Love greater growes; soe hee growes less.
Hee that disdaines, what honor wynns thereby, 5
That he feeles not, or triumphes on a fly?
If love with queasie paine thy stomack move,
Soe will a slutt whome none dare touch; or love.
If it with sacred straines doe thee inspire
Of Poetrie; soe wee maye want admire. 10
If it thee valiant make, his ryvall hate
Can out doe that and make men desperate.
Yealdinge to us, all woemen conquer us,
By gentlenes we are betrayed thus.
We will not strive with Love that's a shee beaste; 15
But playinge wee are bounde, and yeald in Jest;
As in a Cobwebb toyle, a flye hath beene
Undone; so have I some fainte lover seene.
Love cannot take away our strength, but tame,
And wee less feele the thinge then feare the name; 20
Love is a temperate bath; hee that feeles more
Heate or could there, was hott, or could before.
But as Sun beames which would but norishe, burne,
Drawne into hollow Christall, soe we turne
To fire her bewties Lustre willingly, 25
By gatheringe it in our false treacherous eye.
