Free Donne by John Donne

hence
    They fly not from that, nor seeke presidence:
    Natures first lesson, so discretion,
    Must not grudge zeale a place, nor yet keepe none,
    Not banish it selfe, nor religion.
    Discretion is a wisemans Soule, and so
    Religion is a Christians, and you know
    How these are one, her
yea
, is not her
no.
    Nor may we hope to sodder still and knit
    These two, and dare to breake them; nor must wit
    Be colleague to religion, but be it.
    In those poor types of God (round circles) so
    Religious tipes, the peecelesse centers flow,
    And are in all the lines which alwayes goe.
    If either ever wrought in you alone
    Or principally, then religion
    Wrought your ends, and your wayes discretion.
    Goe thither stil, goe the same way you went,
    Who so would change, do covet or repent;
    Neither can reach you, great and innocent.
THOUGH I BE DEAD
    Though I be
dead
, and buried, yet I have
        (Living in you,) Court enough in my grave,
    As oft as there I thinke my selfe to bee,
        So many resurrections waken mee.
    That thankfullnesse your favours have begot
        In mee, embalmes mee, that I doe not rot;
    This season as ’tis Easter, as ’tis spring,
        Must both to growth and to confession bring
    My thoughts dispos’d unto your influence, so,
        These verses bud, so these confessions grow;
    First I confesse I have to others lent
        Your stock, and over prodigally spent
    Your treasure, for since I had never knowne
        Vertue or beautie, but as they are growne
    In you, I should not thinke or say they shine,
        (So as I have) in any other Mine;
    Next I confesse this my confession,
        For, ’tis some fault thus much to touch upon
    Your praise to you, where half rights seeme too much,
        And make your minds sincere complexion blush.
    Next I confesse my’impertinence, for I
        Can scarce repent my first fault, since thereby
    Remote low Spirits, which shall ne’r read you,
        May in lesse lessons finde enough to doe,
    By studying copies, not Originals,
                             
Desunt cætera.

THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY
AN ANATOMY OF THE WORLD
    When that rich soule which to her Heaven is gone,
    Whom all they celebrate, who know they have one,
    (For who is sure he hath a soule, unlesse
    It see, and Judge, and follow worthinesse,
    And by Deedes praise it? He who doth not this,
    May lodge an In-mate soule, but tis not his.)
    When that Queene ended here her progresse time,
    And, as t’her standing house, to heaven did clymbe,
    Where, loth to make the Saints attend her long,
    Shee’s now a part both of the Quire, and Song,
    This world, in that great earth-quake languished;
    For in a common Bath of teares it bled,
    Which drew the strongest vitall spirits out:
    But succour’d then with a perplexed doubt,
    Whether the world did loose or gaine in this,
    (Because since now no other way there is
    But goodnes, to see her, whom all would see,
    All must endeavour to be good as shee,)
    This great consumption to a fever turn’d,
    And so the world had fits; it joy’d, it mourn’d.
    And, as men thinke, that Agues physicke are,
    And th’Ague being spent, give over care,
    So thou, sicke world, mistak’st thy selfe to bee
    Well, when alas, thou’rt in a Letargee.
    Her death did wound, and tame thee than, and than
    Thou mightst have better spar’d the Sunne, or Man;
    That wound was deepe, but ’tis more misery,
    That thou hast lost thy sense and memory.
    T’was heavy then to heare thy voyce of mone,
    But this is worse, that thou are speechlesse growne.
    Thou hast forgot thy name, thou hadst; thou wast
    Nothing but she, and her thou hast o’rpast.
    For as a child kept from the Font, untill
    A Prince, expected long, come to fulfill
    The Ceremonies, thou unnam’d hadst laid,
    Had not her comming, thee her Palace made:
    Her name defin’d thee, gave thee forme and frame,
    And thou forgetst to celebrate thy name.
    Some moneths she hath beene dead (but being dead,
    Measures