The lives of Dr. John Donne, Sir Henry Wotton, Mr. Richard Hooker, Mr. George Herbert written by Izaak Walton ; to which are added some letters written by Mr. George Herbert, at his being in Cambridge : with others to his mother, the Lady Magdalen Herbert ; written by John Donne, afterwards dean of St. Pauls.

THE LIFE OF D^r. JOHN DONNE, late Dean of S^t Paul's Church, LONDON.

The Introduction.

IF that great Master of Language and Art, Sir Henry Wotton, the late Provost of Eaton Colledge, had liv'd to see the Publi∣cation of these Sermons, he had presented the World with the Authors Life exactly written; And, 'twas pity he did not; for it was a work wor∣thy his undertaking, and he fit to undertake it: betwixt whom, and the Author, there was so mu∣tual a knowledge, and such a friendship contracted in their Youth, as nothing but death could force a separation. And though their bodies were di∣vided, their affections were not: for, that learned Knight's love followed his Friends fame beyond

death and the forgetful grave; which he testified by intreating me, whom he acquainted with his designe, to inquire of some particulars that con∣cern'd it; not doubting but my knowledge of the Author, and love to his memory, might make my diligence useful: I did most gladly undertake the employment, and continued it with great content 'till I had made my Collection ready to be aug∣mented and compleated by his curious Pen: but then, Death prevented his intentions.

When I heard that sad news, and heard also that these Sermons were to be printed, and want the Authors Life, which I thought to be very remarkable: Indignation or grief (indeed I know not which) transperted me so far, that I re∣viewed my forsaken Collections, and resolv'd the World should see the best plain Picture of the Authors Life that my artless Pensil, guided by the hand of truth, could present to it.

And, if I shall now be demanded as once Pompey's poor bondman was,

(The grateful wretch had been left alone on the Sea-shore, with the forsaken dead body of his once glorious lord and master: and, was then gathering the scatter'd pieces of an old broken boat to make a funeral pile to burn it (which was the custom of the Romans;)

who art thou that alone hast the honour to bury the body of Pompey the great? so, who I am that do thus officiously set the Authors memorie on fire? I hope the question will prove to have in it more of wonder then dis∣dain;

But wonder indeed the Reader may, that I who profess my self artless should presume with my faint light to shew forth his Life whose very name makes it illustrious! but be this to the dis∣advantage of the person represented: Certain I am, it is to the advantage of the beholder, who shall here see the Authors Picture in a natural dress, which ought to beget faith in what is spoken: for, he that wants skill to deceive may safely be trusted.

And if the Authors glorious spirit, which now is in Heaven, can have the leasure to look down and see me, the poorest, the meanest of all his friends, in the midst of this officious dutie, con∣fident I am that he will not disdain this well∣meant sacrifice to his memory: for, whilst his Conversation made me and many others happy below, I know his Humility and Gentleness was then eminent; and, I have heard Divines say, those Vertues that were but sparks upon Earth, become great and glorious flames in Heaven.

Before I proceed further, I am to in∣treat the Reader to take notice, that when Doctor Donn's Sermons were first printed, this was then my excuse for daring to write his life; and, I dare not now appear without it.

The Life.

MAster John Donne was born in London, of good and vertuous Parents: and, though his own Learning and other multiplyed me∣rits may justly appear suf∣ficient to dignifie both Himself and his Posteritie: yet, the Reader may be pleased to know, that his Father was masculinely and lineally descen∣ded from a very antient Family in Wales, where many of his name now live, that deserve and have great reputation in that Countrey.

By his Mother he was descended of the Fa∣mily of the famous and learned Sir Tho. Moor, sometime Lord Chancellour of England: as also, from that worthy and laborious Judge Rastall, who left Posterity the vast Statutes of the Law of this Nation most exactly abridged.

He had his first breeding in his Fathers house, where a private Tutor had the care of him, until the ninth year of his age; and, in his tenth year was sent to the University of Oxford, having at that time a good command both of the French and Latine Tongue. This and some other of his remarkable Abilities,

made one give this censure of him, That this age had brought forth another Picus Mirandula; of whom Story sayes, That he was rather born than made wise by study.

There he remained in Hart-Hall, having for the advancement of his studies Tutors of se∣veral Sciences to attend and instruct him, till time made him capable, and his learning ex∣pressed in publick exercises declared him wor∣thy to receive his first degree in the Schools, which he forbore by advice from his friends, who being for their Religion of the Romish perswasion, were conscionably averse to some parts of the Oath that is always tendered at those times; and, not to be refused by those that expect the titulary honour of their studies.

About the fourteenth year of his age he was transplanted from Oxford to Cambridge; where, that he might receive nourishment from both Soils, he staid till his seventeenth year; all which time he was a most laborious Student, often changing his studies, but endeavouring to take no degree, for the reasons formerly mentioned.

About the seventeenth year of his age, he was removed to London, and then admitted in∣to Lincolns-Inne, with an intent to study the Law; where he gave great testimonies of his Wit, his Learning, and of his Improvement in that profession: which never served him for

other use than an Ornament and Self-satis∣faction.

His Father died before his admission into this Society; and being a Merchant left him his portion in money (it was 3000 l.) His Mother and those to whose care he was com∣mitted, were watchful to improve his know∣ledge, and to that end appointed him Tutors in the Mathematicks, and all the Liberal Sciences, to attend him. But with these Arts they were advised to instil particular Principles of the Romish Church, of which those Tutors profest (though secretly) themselves to be members.

They had almost obliged him to their faith; having for their advantage (besides many op∣portunities) the example of his dear and pious Parents, which was a most powerful perswa∣sion, and did work much upon him, as he pro∣fesseth in his Preface to his Pseudo-Martyr; a Book of which the Reader shall have some ac∣count in what follows.

He was now entered into the eighteenth year of his age, and at that time had betrothed himself to no Religion that might give him any other denomination than a Christian. And Reason and Piety had both perswaded him that there could be no such sin as Schis me, if an adherence to some visible Church were not necessary.

He did therefore at his entrance into the nineteenth year of his age (though his youth

and strength then promised him a long life) yet being unresolved in his Religion, he thought it necessary to rectifie all scruples that con∣cerned that: and therefore waving the Law, and betrothing himself to no Art or Profession, that might justly denominate him; he begun to survey the Body of Divinity, as it was then controverted betwixt the Reformed and the Roman Church. And as Gods blessed Spirit did then awaken him to the search, and in that industry did never forsake him, (they be his own words* 1.1) so he calls the same holy Spirit to witness this Protestation•• that, in that disquisition and search, he proceeded with humility and diffidence in him∣self; and, by that which he took to be the safest way; namely, frequent Prayers, and an indiffe∣rent affection to both parties; and indeed truth had too much light about her to be hid from so sharp an Inquirer, and he had too much inge∣nuity not to acknowledge he had found her.

Being to undertake this search, he believed the Cardinal Bellarmine to be the best de∣fender of the Roman cause, and therefore be∣took himself to the examination of his Rea∣sons. The Cause was weighty, and wilful de∣lays had been inexcusable both towards God and his own Conscience; he therefore pro∣ceeded in this search with all moderate haste, and before the twentieth year of his age, did shew the then Dean of Gloucester (whose name

my memory hath now lost) all the Cardinals works marked with many weighty observa∣tions under his own hand; which works were bequeathed by him at his death as a Legacy to a most dear Friend.

The year following he resolved to travel; and the Earl of Essex going first the Cales, and after the Island voyages, he took the advantage of those opportunities, waited upon his Lord∣ship, and was an eye-witness of those happy and unhappy employments.

But he returned not back into England, till he had staid some years first in Italy, and then in Spain, where he made many useful observa∣tions of those Countreys, their Laws and man∣ner of Government, and returned perfect in their Languages.

The time that he spent in Spain was at his first going into Italy designed for travelling the Holy Land, and for viewing Jerusalem and the Sepulchre of our Saviour. But at his being in the furthest parts of Italy, the disappointment of Company, or of a safe Convoy, or the un∣certainty of returns for Money into those re∣mote parts, denied him that happiness which he did often occasionally mention with a de∣ploration.

Not long after his return into England, that exemplary Pattern of Gravity and Wisdom, the Lord Elsemore, then Keeper of the Great Seal, and Lord Chancellour of England, taking

notice of his Learning, Languages, and other Abilities, and much affecting his Person and Condition, took him to be his chief Secretary; supposing and intending it to be an Introducti∣on to some more weighty Employment in the State; for which, his Lordship did often protest, he thought him very fit.

Nor did his Lordship in this time of Master Donne's attendance upon him, account him to be so much his Servant, as to forget he was his friend; and to testifie it, did always use him with much courtesie, appointing him a place at his own Table, to which he esteemed his Company and Discourse a great Orna∣ment.

He continued that employment for the space of five years, being daily useful, and not mercenary to his Friends. During which time he (I dare not say unhappily) fell into such a liking, as (with her approbation) increased into a love with a young Gentlewoman that lived in that Family, who was Niece to the Lady Elsemore, and daughter to Sir George Moor, then Chancellor of the Garter and Lieu∣tenant of the Tower.

Sir George had some intimation of it, and knowing prevention to be a great part of wis∣dom, did therefore remove her with much haste from that to his own house at Lothesley, in the County of Surry; but too late, by rea∣son of some faithful promises which were so

interchangeably passed, as never to be violated by either party.

These promises were onely known to them∣seves, and the friends of both parties used much diligence, and many arguments to kill o•• cool their affections to each other: but in vain•• for, love is a flattering mischief, that hath de∣nyed aged and wise men a foresight of those evils that too often prove to be the children of that blind father; a passion that carries u•• to commit Errors with as much ease as whirl∣winds remove feathers, and begets in us a••••unwearied industry to the attainment of wha•• we desire. And such an Industry did, notwith∣standing much watchfulness against it, bring them secretly together (I forbear to tell how•• and to a marriage too without the allowanc•• of those friends, whose approbation alway•• was and ever will be necessary to make even•• vertuous love become lawful.

And that the knowledge of their marriag•• might not fall, like an unexpected tempest, o•• those that were unwilling to have it so; bu•• that preapprehensions might make it the les•• enormous, it was purposely whispered into th•• ears of many that it was so, yet by none tha•• could attest it. But to put a period to th•• jealousies of Sir George, (Doubt often beget∣ting more restless thoughts then the certain knowledge of what we fear) the news was i•• favour to Mr. Donne, and with his allowance,

made known to Sir George•• by his honorable friend and neighbour Henry Earl of Northum∣berland: but it was to Sir George so immeasu∣rably unwelcome, and so transported him, that as though his passion of anger and incon∣sideration might exceed theirs of love and er∣rour, he presently engaged his Sister the La∣dy Elsemore, to joyn with him to procure her Lord to discharge Mr. Donne of the place he held under his Lordship. This request was followed with violence; and though Sir George were remembred, that Errors might be overpunished, and desired therefore to forbear till second considerations might clear some scruples, yet he became restless until his suit was granted, and the punishment executed. And though the Lord Chancellor did not at Mr. Donnes dismission, give him such a Com∣mendation as the great Emperour Charles the fifth, did of his Secretary Eraso, when he pre∣sented him to his Son and Successor Philip the Second; saying, That in his Eraso, he gave to him a greater gift then all his Estate, and all the Kingdomes which he then resigned to him: yet he said, He parted with a Friend, and such a Secretary as was fitter to serve a King then a subject.

And yet this Physick of Mr. Donnes dismis∣sion was not strong enough to purge out all Sir George's choler, for he was not satisfied till Mr. Donne and his sometime Compupil

in Cambridge that married him, namely, Samu∣el Brook (who was after Doctor in Divinity, and Master of Trinity Colledge) and his bro∣ther Mr. Christopher Brook, sometime Mr. Donnes Chamber-fellow in Lincolns Inn, who gave Mr. Donne his Wife, and witnessed the marriage, were all committed, and to three several prisons.

Mr. Donne was first enlarged, who neither gave rest to his body or brain, nor to any friend in whom he might hope to have an interest, un∣till he had procured an enlargement for his two imprisoned friends.

He was now at liberty, but his dayes were still cloudy: and being past these troubles, others did still multiply upon him; for his wife was (to her extreme sorrow) detained from him; and though with Jacob he endured not an hard service for her, yet he lost a good one and was forced to make good his title to her, and to get possession of her by a long and rest∣less suit in Law; which proved troublesom and chargeable to him, whose youth, and travel, and needless bounty, had brought his estate in∣to a narrow compass.

It is observed, and most truly, that silence and submission are charming qualities, and work most upon passionate men; and it pro∣ved so with Sir George; for these and a general report of Mr. Donnes merits, together with his winning behaviour, (which when it would

intice, had a strange kind of elegant irresisti∣ble art) these and time had so dispassionated Sir George, that as the world had approved his Daughters choice, so he also could not but see a more then ordinary merit in his new son: and this at last melted him into so much remorse (for Love and Anger are so like A∣gues, as to have hot and cold fits; and love in Parents, though it may be quenched, yet is easily rekindled, and expires not, till death denies mankind a natural heat) that he labo∣red his Sons restauration to his place; using to that end both his own and his Sisters pow∣er to her Lord; but with no success; for his Answer was, That though he was unfeignedly sorry for what he had done, yet it was inconsi∣stent with his place and credit, to discharge and readmit servants at the request of passionate pe∣titioners.

Sir Georges endeavour for Mr. Donnes re∣admission, was by all means to be kept se∣cret (for men do more naturally reluct for er∣rours, then submit to put on those blemishes that attend their visible acknowledgment.) But however it was not long before Sir George appeared to be so far reconciled, as to wish their happiness, and not to deny them his pa∣ternal blessing, but yet refused to contribute any means that might conduce to their live∣lihood.

Mr Donnes estate was the greatest part spent

in many and chargeable Travels, Books and dear-bought Experience: he out of all em∣ployment that might yield a support for him∣self and wife, who had been curiously and plentifully educated; both their natures ge∣nerous, and accustomed to conferr, and not to receive Courtesies: These and other consi∣derations, but chiefly that his wife was to bear a part in his sufferings surrounded him with ma∣ny sad thoughts, and some apparent appre∣hensions of want.

But his sorrows were lessened and his wants prevented by the seasonable courtesie of their noble kinsman Sir Francis Wolly of Pirford in Surrie, who intreated them to a cohabitation with him; where they remained with much freedom to themselves, and equal content to him for many years; and, as their charge en∣creased (she had yearly a child) so did his love and bounty.

It hath been observed by wise and consi∣dering men, that Wealth hath seldom been the Portion, and never the Mark to discover good People; but, that Almighty God, who dis∣poseth all things wisely, hath of his abundant goodness denied it (he onely knows why) to many, whose minds he hath enriched with the greater Blessings of Knowledge and Vertue, as ••he fairer Testimonies of his love to Mankind; •••••• this was the present condition of this man •••••••••••• excellent Erudition and Endowments;

whose necessary and daily expences were hard∣ly reconcileable with his uncertain and narrow estate. Which I mention, for that at this time there was a most generous offer made him for the moderating of his worldly cares; the de∣claration of which shall be the next employ∣ment of my Pen.

God hath been so good to his Church, as to afford it in every age some such men to serve at his Altar as have been piously ambitious of doing good to mankind; a disposition that is so like to God himself, that it owes it self only to him who takes a pleasure to behold it in his Creatures. These times he did bless with many such; some of which still live to be Pat∣terns of Apostolical Charity, and of more than Humane Patience. I have said this, be∣cause I have occasion to mention one of them in my following discourse; namely, Dr. Mor∣ton, the most laborious and learned Bishop of Durham, one that God hath blessed with per∣fect intellectuals, and a cheerful heart at the age of 94 years (and is yet living:) one that in his days of plenty had so large a heart as to use his large Revenue to the encouragement of Learning and Vertue; and is now (be it spoken with sorrow) reduced to a narrow estate, which he embraces without repining; and still shews the beauty of his mind by so liberal a hand, as if this were an age in which to morrow were to care for it self. I have taken a pleasure in gi∣ving

the Reader a short, but true character of this good man, from whom I received this fol∣lowing relation. He sent to Mr. Donne, and intreated to borrow an hour of his time for a Conference the next day. After their meeting there was not many minutes passed before he spake to Mr. Donne to this purpose;

Mr. Donne, The occasion of sending for you is to propose to you what I have often revolv'd in my own thought since I last saw you: which, never∣theless, I will not do but upon this condition, that you shall not return me a present answer, but forbear three days, and bestow some part of that time in Fasting and Prayer; and after a serious consideration of what I shall pro∣pose, then return to me with your answer. Deny me not, Mr. Donne, for it is the effect of a true love, which I would gladly pay as a debt due for yours to me.

This request being granted, the Doctor exprest himself thus:

Mr. Donne, I know your Education and Abilities; I know your expectation of a State∣employment; and I know your fitness for it; and I know too the many delays and contin∣gencies that attend Court-promises; and let me tell you, my love begot by our long friend∣ship, our familiarity and your merits hath prompted me to such an inquisition of your

present temporal estate, as makes me no stranger to your necessities, which are such as your generous spirit could not bear, if it were not supported with a pious Patience: you know I have formerly perswaded you to wave your Court-hopes, and enter into holy Or∣ders; which I now again perswade you to embrace, with this reason added to my for∣mer request: The King hath yesterday made me Dean of Gloucester, and I am possessed of a Benefice, the profits of which are equal to those of my Deanry; I will think my Dean∣ry enough for my maintenance (who am and resolve to die a single man) and will quit my Benefice, and estate you in it, (which the Patron is willing I shall do) if God shall in∣cline your heart to embrace this motion. Remember, Mr. Donne, no mans Education or Parts make him too good for this employ∣ment, which is to be an Ambassadour for the God of glorie, who by a vile death opened the gates of life to mankind. Make me no present answer, but remember your promise, and re∣turn to me the third day with your Resolu∣tion.

At the hearing of this, Mr. Donne's faint breath and perplext countenance gave a visible testimony of an inward conflict; but he per∣formed his promise and departed without re∣turning an answer till the third day, and then it was to this effect;

My most worthy and most dear friend, since I saw you I have been faithful to my promise, and have also meditated much of your great kindness, which hath been such as would exceed even my gratitude; but that it cannot do; and more I cannot return you; and I do that with an heart full of Humility and Thanks, though I may not accept of your offer; but, Sir, my refusal is not for that I think my self too good for that calling, for which Kings, if they think so, are not good enough: nor for that my Education and Learning, though not eminent, may not, being assisted with God's Grace and Humili∣ty, ••ender me in some measure fit for it: but, I ••••e make so dear a friend as you are my C••••fessor; some irregularities of my life have been so visible to some men, that though I have, I thank God, made my peace with him by penitential resolutions against them, and by the assistance of his Grace ba∣nish'd them my affections; yet this, which God knows to be so, is not so visible to man, as to free me from their censures, and it may be that sacred calling from a dishonour. And besides, whereas it is determined by the best of Casuists, that God's Glory should be the first end, and a maintenance the second motive to embrace that calling; and though each man may propose to himself both together; yet the first may not be put last without a viola∣tion

of Conscience, which he that searches the heart will judge. And truly my present condition is such, that if I ask my own Con∣science, whether it be reconcileable to that rule, it is at this time so perplexed about it, that I can neither give my self nor you an an∣swer. You know, Sir, who sayes, Happy is that man whose Conscience doth not accuse him for that thing which he does. To these I might adde other reasons that disswade me; but I crave your favour that I may forbear to ex∣press them, and thankfully decline your offer.

This was his present resolution, but the heart of man is not in his own keeping; and he was destined to this sacred service by an higher hand; a hand so powerful, as at last forced him to a compliance: of which I shall give the Reader an account before I shall give a rest to my Pen.

Mr. Donnne and his wife continued with Sir Francis Wolly till his death: a little before which time, Sir Francis was so happy as to make a perfect reconciliation betwixt Sir George and his forsaken son and daughter; Sir George conditioning by bond, to pay to Mr. Donne 800 l. at a certain day, as a portion with his wife, or 20 l. quarterly for their maintenance: as the interest for it, till the said portion was paid.

Most of those years that he lived with Sir

Francis, he studied the Civil and Cannon Laws; in which he acquired such a perfection, as was judged to hold proportion with many who had made that study the employment of their whole life.

Sir Francis being dead, and that happy fa∣mily dissolved, Mr. Donne took for himself an house in Micham (near to Croydon in Surrey) a place noted for good air and choice company: there his wife and children remained: and for himself he took lodgings in London, near to White-Hall, whither his friends and occa∣sions drew him very often, and where he was as often visited by many of the Nobili∣ty and others of this Nation, who used him in their Counsels of greatest considera∣tion.

Nor did our own Nobility onely value and favour him, but his acquaintance and friendship was sought for by most Ambassadours of for∣raign Nations, and by many other strangers, whose learning or business occasioned their stay in this Nation.

He was much importuned by many friends to make his constant residence in London, but he still denyed it, having setled his dear wife and children at Micham, and near some friends that were bountiful to them and him: for they, God knows, needed it: and that you may the better now judge of the then present Condi∣tion of his minde and fortune, I shall present

you with an extract collected out of some few of his many Letters.

—And the reason why I did not send an answer to your last weeks letter, was, because it found me under too great a sadness; and at present 'tis thus with me: There is not one person, but my self, well of my family: I have already lost half a Child, and with that mischance of hers, my wife is fallen into such a discomposure, as would afflict her too extremely, but that the sick∣ness of all her children stupifies her: of one of which, in good faith, I have not much hope: and these meet with a fortune so ill provided for Physick, and such relief, that if God should ease us with burtals, I know not how to perfome even that: but I flatter my self with this hope, that I am dying too: for, I cannot waste faster then by such griefs. As for,—

Aug. 10. From my hospital at Micham,

JOHN DONNE.

Thus he did bemoan himself: And thus in other letters.

—For, we hardly discover a sin, when it is but an omission of some good, and no accusing act; with this or the former, I have often sus∣pected my self to be overtaken; which is, with an

over earnest desire of the next life: and though I know it is not mearly a weariness of this, because I had the same desire when I went with the tide, and injoyed fairer hopes then I now doe: yet I doubt worldly troubles have increased it: 'tis now Spring, and all the pleasures of it displease me; every other tree blossoms, and I wither: I grow older and not better; my strength demini∣sheth and my lode grows heavier; and yet, I would fain be or do something; but that I cannot tell what, is no wonder in this time of my sadness, for, to chuse is to do, but to be no part of my body, is as to be nothing, and so I am, and shall so judge my self, unless I could be so incorporated into a part of the world, as by business to contribute some sustentation to the whole. This I made ac∣count, I began early when I understood the study of our Laws: but was diverted by leaving that and imbracing the worst voluptuousness, an hy∣droptique immoderate desire of humane learn∣ing and languages: Beautiful ornaments indeed to men of great fortunes; but mine was grown so low as to need an occupation: which I thought I entered well into it, when I subjected my self to such a service as I thought might exercise my poor abilities: and there I stumbled, and fell too: and now I am become so little, or such a nothing, that I am not a subject good enough for one of my own letters,—I fear my present discontent does not proceed from a good root, that I am so well content to be nothing, that is, dead. But, Sir,

though my fortune hath made me such, as that I am rather a Sickness or a Disease of the world, than any part of it, and therefore neither love it nor life; yet I would gladly live to become some such thing as you should not repent loving me: Sir, your own Soul cannot be more zealous of your good then I am, and, God who loves that zeal in me, will not suffer you to doubt it: you would pity me now, if you saw me write, for my pain hath drawn my head so much awry, and holds it so, that my eye cannot follow my pen. I there∣fore receive you into my Prayers with mine own weary soul, and, Commend my self to yours. I doubt not but next week will bring you good news, for I have either mending or dying on my side: but, If I do continue longer thus, I shall have Comfort in this, That my blessed Saviour in ex∣ercising his Justice upon my two worldly parts, my Fortune and my Body, reserves all his Mercy for that which most needs it, my Soul? that is, I doubt, too like a Porter, which is very often near the gate, and yet goes not out. Sir, I profess to you truly, that my lothness to give over writing now, seems to my self a sign that I shall write no more—

Sept. 7.

Your poor friend, and Gods poor patient JOHN DONNE.

By this you have seen a part of the picture of his narrow fortune, and the perplexities of his generous minde, and thus it continued with him for about two years; all which time his family remained constantly at Micham, and to which place he often retir'd himself, and de∣stined some dayes to a constant study of some points of Controversy betwixt the English and Roman Church; and especially those of Suprema∣cy and Allegiance: and, to that place and such studies he could willingly have wedded himself during his life: but the earnest perswasion of friends became at last to be so powerful as to cause the removal of himself and family to Lon∣don, where Sir Robert Drewry, a Gentleman of very noble estate, and a more liberal mind, as∣signed him a very choice and useful house rent∣free, next to his own in Drewry-lane; and was also a cherisher of his studies, and such a friend as sympathized with him and his in all their joy and sorrows.

Many of the Nobility were watchful and solicitous to the King for some secular prefer∣ment for him: His Majesty had formerly both known and put a value upon his company, and had also given him some hopes of a State-em∣ployment, being alwayes much pleased when Mr. Donne attended him, especially at his meals, where there were usually many deep dis∣courses of general learning, and very often friendly debates or disputes of Religion be∣twixt

his Majesty and those Divines, whose places required their attendance on him at those times: particularly the Dean of the Chappel; who then was Bishop Montague) the publisher of the learned and eloquent Works of his Maje∣sty) and the most reverend Doctor Andrews, the late learned Bishop of Winchester, who then was the Kings Almoner.

About this time there grew many disputes that concerned the Oath of Supremacy and Al∣legiance, in which the King had appeared and engaged himself by his publick writings now extant: and his Majesty discoursing with Mr. Donne concerning many of the reasons which are usually urged against the taking of those Oaths, apprehended such a validity and clear∣ness in his stating the Questions, and his An∣swers to them, that his Majesty commanded him to bestow some time in drawing the Ar∣guments into a method, and then write his An∣swers to them: and having done that, not to send, but be his own messenger and bring them to him. To this he presently applyed himself, and within six weeks brought them to him under his own hand-writing, as they be now printed, the Book bearing the name of Pseu∣do-martyr.

When the King had read and considered that Book, he perswaded Mr. Donne to enter into the Ministry; to which at that time he was, and appeared very unwilling, apprehending

it (such was his mistaking modesty) to be too weighty for his Abilities; and though his Ma∣jesty had promised him a favour, and many per∣sons of worth mediated with his Majesty for some secular employment for him, to which his Education had apted him, and particularly the Earl of Somerset, when in his height of favour; who being then at Th••obalds with the King, where one of the Clerks of the Council died that night, and the Earl having sent for Mr. Donne to come to him immediately, said, Mr. Donne, To testifie the reality of my Affecti∣on, and my purpose to preferre you, Stay in this Garden till I go up to the King and bring you wor•• that you are Clark of the Council: doubt not my doing this, for I know the King loves you, and will not deny me. But the King gave a posi∣tive denyal to all requests; and having a dis∣cerning spirit, replyed, I know Mr. Donne is •• learned man, has the abilities of a learned Di∣vine; and will prove a powerful Preacher, and my desire is to prefer him that way. After that time, as he professeth,* 3.1 The King descended to a perswasion, almost to a solicitation of him to enter into sacred Orders: which though h•• then denyed not, yet he deferred it for almost three years. All which time he applyed him∣self to an incessant study of Textual Divinity, and to the attainment of a greater perfection in the learned Languages, Greek and Hebrew.

In the first and most blessed times of Chri∣stianity,

when the Clergy were look'd upon with reverence, and deserved it, when they overcame their opposers by high examples of Vertue, by a blessed Patience and long Suffe∣ring: those onely were then judged worthy the Ministry, whose quiet and meek spirits did make them look upon that sacred calling with an humble adoration and fear to undertake it; which indeed requires such great degrees of hu∣mility, and labour and care, that none but such were then thought worthy of that celestial dignity. And such onely were then sought out, and solicited to undertake it. This I have mentioned because forwardness and inconside∣ation, could not in Mr. Donne, as in many others, be an argument of insufficiency or un∣fitness for he had considered long, and had many strifes within himself concerning the strictness of life and competency of learning re∣quired in such as enter into sacred Orders; and doubtless, considering his own demerits, did humbly ask God with St. Paul, Lord, who is sufficient for these things? and, with meek Moses, Lord, who am I? And sure, if he had consulted with flesh and blood, he had not put his hand to that holy lough. But, God who is able to prevail, wrestled with him, as the An∣gel did with Jacob, and marked him; mark'd him for his own; mark'd him with a blessing; a blessing of obedience to the motions of his blessed Spirit. And then, as he had formerly

asked God with Moses, Who am I? So now being inspired with an apprehension of Gods particular mercy to him, in the Kings and o∣thers solicitations of him, he came to a•••••• King Davids thankful question, Lord who am I, tha•• thou art so mindful of me? So mindful o•• me as to lead me for more then forty years through this wilderness of the many temptations, and various turnings of a dangerous life: so merci∣ful to me, as to move the learned••st of Kings to descend to move me to serve at thy Alter so merciful to me, as at last, to move my l••••a to imbrace this holy motion: thy motions will and do imbrace: And, I now say with the blessed Virgin, Be it with thy servant as seem∣eth best in thy sight: and so, blessed Jesus, I •••• take the cup of Salvation, and will call upo•• thy Name, and will preach thy Gospel.

Such strifes as these St. Austine had, whe•• St. Ambrose indeavoured his conversion to Chri∣stianity, with which he confesseth, he acquai••••ted his friend Alipius. Our learned Author (a man sit to write after no mean Copy) d•• the like. And declaring his intentions to •••• dear friend Dr. King then Bishop of London, man famous in his generation, and no strangth to Mr. Donnes abilities. (For he had been Chaplain to the Lord Chancellor, at the ti•••• of Mr. Donnes being his Lordships Secretary•• That Reverend man did receive the news wi•••• much gladness; and, after some expressions ••••

joy, and a perswasion to be constant in his pi∣ous purpose, he proceeded with all conveni∣ent speed to ordain him both Deacon and Priest.

Now the English Church had gain'd a second St. Austine, for, I think, none was so like him before his Conversion: none so like St. Am∣brose after it: and if his youth had the infirmi∣ties of the one, his age had the excellencies of the other, the learning and holiness of both.

And now all his studies which had been oc∣casionally diffused, were all concentred in Di∣vinity. Now he had a new calling, new thoughts, and a new imployment for his wit and eloquence. Now all his earthly affections were changed into divine love; and all the fa∣culties of his own soul were ingaged in the Con∣version of others: In preaching the glad tidings of Remission to repenting Sinners; and peace to each troubled soul. To these he app'yed him∣self with all care and diligence; and now, such a change was wrought in him, that he could say with David, Oh how amiable are thy Taber∣nacles, O Lord God of Hosts! Now he decla∣red openly, that when he required a temporal, God gave him a spiritual blessing. And that, he was now gladder to be a door-keeper in the house of God, then he could be to injoy the noblest of all temporal imployments.

Presently after he entred into his holy pro∣fession, the King sent for him, and made

him his Chaplain in ordinary; and promi∣sed to take a particular care for his prefer∣ment.

And though his long familiarity with Scholars and persons of greatest quality, was such as might have given some men boldness enough to have preached to any eminent Auditory, yet his modesty in this imployment was such, that he could not be perswaded to it, but went usu∣ally accompanied with some one friend, to preach privately in some village, not far from London: his first Sermon being preached at Paddington. This he did, till His Majesty sent and appointed him a day to preach to him at White-hall, and, though much were expected from him, both by His Majesty and others yet he was so happy (which few are) as to sa∣tisfie and exceed their expectations: preaching the Word so, as shewed his own heart was po••s∣sest with those very thoughts, and joyes that h•• labored to distill into others: A Preacher •••• earnest weeping sometimes for his Auditory sometimes with them: alwayes preaching •••• himself, like an Angel from a cloud, but •••• none; carrying some, as St. Paul was, •••• Heaven in holy raptures, and inticing other•• by a sacred Art and Courtship to amen•• their lives; here picturing a vice so as to make it ugly to those that practised it; and a vertue so, as to make it be beloved even by tho•• that lov'd it not; and, all this with a most par∣ticular

grace and an unexpressible addition of comeliness.

There may be some that may incline to think (such indeed as have not heard him) that my affection to my Friend, hath transported me to an immoderate Commendation of his Preaching. If this meets with any such, Let me intreat, though I will omit many, yet that they will receive a double witness for what I say, it being attested by a Gentleman of worth, (Mr. Chidley, a frequent hearer of his Sermons) being part of a funeral Elogie writ by him on Doctor Donne, and a known truth, though it be in Verse.

—Each Altar had his fire— He kept his love, but not his object: wi••, He did not banish, but transplanted it; Taught it both time & place, and brought it home To Piety, which it doth best become. For say, had ever pleasure such a dress? Have you seen crimes so sh••p't, or loveliness Such as his lips did clothe Religion in? Had not reproof a beauty, passing sin? Corrupted nature sorrowed that she stood So neer the danger of becoming good. And, when he preach••t she wish't her ears exempt From Piety, that had such pow'r to tempt. How did his sacred flattery beguile Men to amend?—

More of this, and more witnesses might be brought, but I forbear and return.

That Summer, in the very same moneth in which he entred into sacred Orders, and was made the Kings Chaplain, His Majesty then go∣ing his Progress, was intreated to receive an entertainment in the University of Cambridge. And Mr. Donne attending his Majesty, at that time, his Majesty was pleased to recom∣mend him to the University, to be made Doctor in Divinity; Doctor Harsnet (after Archbishop of York) was then Vice-Chancellour, who know∣ing him to be the Author of that learned Book the Pseudo-Martyr, required no other proof of his Abilities, but proposed it to the University, who presently assented, and exprest a gladness, that they had such an occasion to intitle him to be theirs.

His Abilities and Industry in his Profession were so eminent, and he so known and so be∣loved by Persons of Quality, that within the first year of his entring into sacred Orders, he had fourteen Advowsons of several Benefices presented to him: But they were in the Coun∣trey, and he could not leave his beloved Lon∣don, to which place he had a natural inclina∣tion, having received both his Birth and Edu∣cation in it, and, there contracted a friendship with many, whose conversation multiplyed the joyes of his life: But, an imployment that might affixe him to that place would be welcome, for he needed it.

Immediately after his return from Cam∣bridge, his wife died, leaving him a man of an unsetled estate, and (having buried five) the careful father of seven children then living, to whom he gave a voluntary assurance never to bring them under the subjection of a step∣mother; which promise he kept most faith∣fully, burying with his tears all his earthly joyes in his most dear and deserving wives grave; be∣taking himself to a most retired and solitary life.

In this retiredness which was often from the sight of his dearest friends, he became crucifi∣ed to the world, and all those vanities, those imaginary pleasures that are dayly acted on that restless stage; and, they crucified to him. Nor is it hard to think (being passions may be both changed and heightned by accidents) but that that abundant affection which once was betwixt him and her, who had long been the delight of his eyes, the Companion of his youth; her, with whom he had divided so many pleasant sorrows and contented fears, as Common-people are not capable of; She, being now removed by death, a commeasura∣ble grief took as full a possession of him as joy had done; and so indeed it did: for, now his very soul was elemented of nothing but sad∣ness; now grief took so full a possession of his heart, as to leave no place for joy: If it did, It was a joy to be alone, where like a Pelican in

the wilderness, he might bemoan himself with∣out witness or restraint, and pour forth his pas∣sions like Job in the days of his affliction, Oh that I might have the desire of my heart! Oh that God would grant the thing that I long for! For then, as the grave is become her house, so I would hasten to make it mine also; that we two might there make our beds together in the dark. Thus as the Israelites sate mourning by the rivers of Babylon, when they remem••red Sion; so he gave some ease to his oppressed heart by thus venting his sorrows: Thus he began the day, and ended the night; ended the restless night and began the weary day in Lamentations. And, thus he continued till a consideration of his new ingagements to God, and St. Pauls W•• is me, if I preach not the Gospel: disper'st those sad clouds that had now benighted his hopes, and forc'd him to behold the light.

His first motion from his house was to preach, where his beloved wife lay buried (in St Clements Church, near Temple-Bar Lon∣don) and his Text was a part of the Prophet Jeremy's Lamentation: Lo, I am the man that have seen affliction.

And indeed, his very words and looks testifi∣ed him to be truly such a man; and they, with the addition of his sighs and tears, exprest in his Sermon, did so work upon the affections of his hearers, as melted and moulded them into a companionable sadness; and so they left the

Congregation; but then their houses presented them with objects of diversion, and his pre∣sented him with no diversions, but with fresh objects of sorrow, in beholding many helpless children, a narrow fortune, and, a considerati∣on of the many cares and casualties that attend their education.

In this time of sadness he was importuned by the grave Benchers of Lincolns Inne, once the friends of his youth, to accept of their Le∣cture, which by reason of Dr. Gatakers removal from thence was then void: of which he ac∣cepted; being most glad to renew his inter∣mitted friendship with those whom he so much loved, and where he had been a Saul, though not to persecute Christianity, or to deride it, yet in his irregular youth to neglect the visible practise of it: there to become a Paul, and preach salvation to his beloved brethren.

And now his life was as a Shining light a∣mong his old friends: now he gave an ocular testimony of the strictness and regularity of it; now he might say as St Paul adviseth his Co∣rinthians, Be ye followers of me, as I follow Christ, and walk as yee have me for an example; not the example of a busie-body; but, of a contempla∣tive, a harmless, an humble and an holy life and conversation.

The love of that noble society was expressed to him many wayes: for, besides fair lodgings that were set apart and newly furnished for him,

with all necessaries, other courteesies were daily added; indeed so many and so freely, as if they meant their gratitude should exceed his merits; and, in this love-strife of desert and li∣berality, they continued for the space of two years, he preaching ••uthfully and constantly to them, and•• they liberally requiting him. About which time the Emperour of Germany died, and the Palsgrave, who had lately married the Lady Elizabeth the Kings onely daugher, was elected and crowned King of Bohemia, the un∣happy beginning of many miseries in that Na∣tion.

King James, whose Motto (Beati pacifici) did truly speak the very thoughts of his heart, endeavoured first to prevent, and after to com∣pose the discords of that discomposed State; and amongst other his endeavours did then send the Lord Hay Earl of Doncaster his Ambassa∣dour to those unsetled Princes; and by a spe∣cial command from his Majesty Dr Donne was appointed to assist and attend that employment to the Princes of the Union: for which the Earl was most glad, who had alwayes put a great value on him, and taken a great pleasure in his conversation and discourse: and his friends of Lincolns Inne were as glad, for, they feared that his immoderate study and sadness for his wives death, would, as Jacob said, make his daies few, and respecting his bodily health, evil too: and of this there were some visible signs.

At his going he left his friends of Lincolns-Inne, and they him with many reluctations: for, though he could not say as S. Paul to his Ephesians, Behold you to whom I have preached the Kingdom of God, shall from henceforth see my face no more; yet, he believing himself to be in a Consumption, questioned, and they feared it: all concluding that his troubled mind, with the help of his unintermitted studies, hastened the decays of his weak body: And God turned it to the best; for this employment (to say nothing of the event of it) did not onely divert him from those too serious studies and sad thoughts, but seemed to give him a new life by a true occasion of joy, to be an eye-witness of the health of his most dear and most honou∣red Mistress the Qu. of Bohemia, in a forraign Nation; and, to be a witness of that gladness which she expressed to see him: Who, having formerly known him a Courtier, was much joyed to see him in a Canonical habit, and more glad to be an ear-witness of his excellent and powerful Preaching.

About fourteen moneths after his departure out of England, he returned to his friends of Lincolns-Inne with his sorrows moderated, and his health improved; and there betook him∣self to his constant course of Preaching.

About a year after his return out of Germany, Dr. Cary was made Bishop of Exeter, and by his removal the Deanry of St. Pauls being va∣cant,

the King sent to Dr. Donne, and appoint∣ed him to attend him at Dinner the next day. When his Majesty was sate down, before he had eat any meat, he said after his pleasant manner, Dr. Donne, I have invited you to Dinner; and, though you sit not down with me, yet I will carve to you of a dish that I know you love well; for knowing you love London, I do; therefore make you Dean of Pauls; and when I have dined, then do you take your beloved dish home to your study; say grace there to your self, and much good may it do you.

Immediately after he came to his Deanry, he employed work-men to repair and beautifie the Chappel; suffering, as holy David once vowed, his eyes and temples to take no rest, till he had first beautified the house of God.

The next quarter following, when his Father-in-law Sir George Moor, (whom Time had made a lover and admirer of him,) came to pay to him the conditioned summe of twenty pounds; he refused to receive it, and said (as good Jacob did, when he heard his beloved son Joseph was alive, It is enough,) You have been kind to me and mine: I know your present condition is such as not to abound: and I hope mine is or will be such as not to need it: I will therefore receive no more from you upon that contract; and in testimony of it freely gave him up his bond.

Immediately after his admission into his

Deanry, the Vicarage of St. Dunstan in the West, London, fell to him by the death of Dr. White, the Advowson of it having been given to him long before by his honourable friend, Richard Earl of Dorset, then the Pa∣tron, and confirmed by his brother the late de∣ceased Edward, both of them men of much honour.

By these and another Ecclesiastical endow∣ment which fell to him about the same time, given to him formerly by the Earl of Kent, he was enabled to become charitable to the poor, and kind to his friends, and to make such pro∣vision for his children, that they were not left scandalous, as relating to their or his Profession and Quality.

The next Parliament, which was within that present year, he was chosen Prolocutor to the Convocation; and about that time was appointed by his Majesty, his most gracious Master, to preach very many occasional Sermons, as at St. Paul's Cross, and other places. All which employments he performed to the admiration of the Representative Body of the whole Cler∣gy of this Nation.

He was once, and but once, clouded with the Kings displeasure; and, it was about this time; which was occasioned by some mali∣cious whisperer, who had told his Majesty that Dr. Donne had put on the general humour of the Pulpits, and was become busie in insinuating

a fear of the Kings inclining to Popery, and a dis∣like of his Government: and particularly, for his then turning the Evening Lectures into Ca∣techising, and expounding the Prayer of our Lord, and of the Belief, and Commandments. His Majesty was the more inclineable to be∣lieve this, for that a Person of Nobility and great note, betwixt whom and Dr. Donne, there had been a great friendship, was at this very time discarded the Court (I shall forbear his name, unless I had a fairer occasion) and justly committed to prison; which begot many ru∣mours in the common people, who in this Na∣tion think they are not wise, unless they be busie about what they understand not: and especi∣ally about Religion.

The King received this news with so much discontent and restlesness, that he would not suffer the Sun to set and leave him under this doubt; but sent for Dr. Donne, and required his answer to the Accusation; which was so clear and satisfactory, that the King said he was right glad he rested no longer under the suspicion. When the King had said this, Doctor Donne kneeled down and thanked his Majesty, and protested his answer was faithful and free from all collusion, and therefore desired that he might not rise, till, as in like cases he always had from God, so he might have from his Majesty, some as∣surance that he stood clear and fair in his opinion. Then the King raised him from his knees with

his own hands, and protested he believ'd him: and that he knew he was an honest man, and doubted not but that he loved him truly. And, having thus dismissed him, he called some Lords of his Council into his Chamber, and said with much earnestness, My Doctor is an honest man: and my Lords, I was never better satisfied with an answer then he hath now made me: and I always rejoyce when I think that by my means he became a Di∣vine.

He was made Dean the fiftieth year of his age; and in his fifty fourth year a dangerous sickness seized him, which inclined him to a Consumption. But God, as Job thankfu••ly acknowledged, preserved his spirit, and ke••t his intellectuals as clear and perfect, as when that sickness first seized his body: but it continued long and threatned him with death; which he dreaded not.

In this distemper of body, his dear friend Doctor Henry King (then chief Residenciary of that Church, and late Bishop of Chich••ster) a man generally known by the Clergy of this Nation, and as generally noted for his o••liging nature, visited him daily; and observing that his sickness rendred his recovery doubtful, he chose a seasonable time to speak to him, to this purpose.

Mr. Dean, I am by your favour no stranger to your temporal estate, and you are no stranger to the offer lately made us, for

the renewing a Lease of the best Prebends Corps belonging to our Church; and you know, 'twas denied, for that our Tenant be∣ing very rich, offered to fine at so low a rate as held not proportion with his advantages: but I will either raise him to an higher summe, or procure that the other Residenciaries shall joyn to accept of what was offered: one of these I can and will by your favour do without delay, and without any trouble either to your body or mind; I beseech you to accept of my offer, for I know it will be a considerable addi∣tion to your present estate, which I know needs it.

To this, after a short pause, and raising him∣self upon his bed, he made this reply.

My most dear friend, I most humbly thank you for your many favours, and this in particu∣lar: But, in my present condition, I shall not accept of your proposal; for doubtless there is such a Sin as Sacriledge; if there were not it could not have a name in Scripture: And the Primitive Clergy were watchful against all appearances of that evil; and indeed the•• all Christians lookt upon it with horrour and detestation: Judging it to be even an open de∣fiance of the Power and Providence of Almighty God, and a sad presage of a declining Religion. But in stead of such Christians, who had se∣lected times set apart to fast and pray to God, for a pious Clergy which they then did obey;

Our times abound with men that are busie and litigious about trifles and Church-Cere∣monies; and yet so far from scrupling Sacri∣ledge, that they make not so much as a quaere what it is: But, I thank God I have; and, dare not now upon my sick-bed, when Al∣mighty God hath made me useless to the ser∣vice of the Church, make any advantages out of it. But, if he shall again restore me to such a degree of health, as again to serve at his Altar, I shall then gladly take the reward which the bountiful Benefactours of this Church have designed me; for God knows my Children and Relations will need it. In which number my Mother (whose Credulity and Charity has contracted a very plentiful to a very narrow estate) must not be forgotten: But Doctor King, if I recover not, that little worldly estate that I shall leave behind me, (that very little, when divided into eight parts,) must, if you deny me not so Charitable a fa∣vour, fall into your hands as my most faith∣ful friend and Executor; of whose Care and Justice, I make no more doubt then of Gods blessing on that which I have conscientiously collected for them; but it shall not be aug∣mented on my sick-bed; and, this I declare to be my unalterable resolution.

The reply to this was only a promise to ob∣serve his request.

Within a few days his distempers abated;

and as his strength increased, so did his thank∣fulness to Almighty God, testified in his most excellent Book of Devotions, which he publi∣shed at his Recovery. In which the Reader may see, the most secret thoughts that then possest his Soul, Paraphrased and made pub∣lick: a book that may not unfitly be called a a Sacred picture of Spiritual Extasies, occasioned and applyable to the emergencies of that sick∣ness; which book being a composition of Me∣ditations, Disquisitions and Prayers, he writ on his sick-bed; herein imitating the Holy Patriarchs, who were wont to build their Altars in that place, where they had received their blessings.

This sickness brought him so near to the gates of death, and he saw the grave so ready to devour him, that he would often say his recovery was supernatural: But that God that then restored his health continued it to him, till the fifty-ninth year of his life. And then in August 1630. being with his eldest Daughter Mrs. Harvy at Abury hatch in Essex, he there fell into a fever, which with the help of his constant infirmity (vapors from the spleen) haste∣ned him into so visible a Consumption, that his beholders might say, as St Paul of himself, H••∣dies dayly; and he might say with Job, My welfare passeth away as a cloud, the dayes of my affliction have taken hold of me, and weary nights are appointed for me.

Reader, This sickness continued long, not onely weakning but wearying him so much, that my desire is, he may now take some rest: and that before I speak of his death, thou wilt not think it an impertinent digression to look back with me, upon some observations of his life, which, whilst a gentle slumber gives rest to his spirits, may, I hope, not unfitly exercise thy consideration.

His marriage was the remarkable errour of his life; an errour which though he had a wit able and very apt to maintain Paradoxes, yet, he was very far from, justifying it: and though his wives Competent years, and other reasons might be justly urged to moderate severe Cen∣sures; yet he would occasionally condemn him∣self for it: and doubtless it had been attended with an heavy Repentance, if God had not blest them with so mutual and cordial affections, as in the midst of their sufferings made their bread of sorrow taste more pleasantly then the ban∣quets of dull and low-spirited people.

The Recreations of his youth were Poetry, in which he was so happy, as if nature and all her varieties had been made onely to exercise his sharp wit, and high facy; and in those pieces which were facetiously Composed and carelesly scattered (most of them being written before the twentieth year of his age) it may appear by

his choice Metaphors, that both Nature and all the Arts joyned to assist him with their utmost skill.

It is a truth, that in his penitential years, viewing some of those pieces too loosely scattered in his youth, he wish't they had been abortive, or so short liv'd that his own eyes had witnessed their funerals: But, though he was no friend to them, he was not so fallen out with heavenly Poetry as to forsake that: no not in his declining age; witnessed then by many Divine Sonnets, and other high, holy, and harmonious Composures. Yea, even on his former sick-bed he wrote this heavenly Hymne, expressing the great joy that then pos∣sest his soul in the Assurance of Gods favour to him.

An Hymne to God the Father.

WIlt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still though still I do deplore? When thou hast done, thou hast not done? For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I have wonne Others to sin, and made my sin their door? Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallowed in a score?

When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore: But swear by thy self, that at my death thy Son Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore; And having done that thou hast done, I fear no more.

I have the rather mentioned this Hymne, for that he caus'd it to be set to a most grave and solemn Tune, and to be often sung to the Organ by the Choristers of St. Pauls Church, in his own hearing, especially at the Evening Ser∣vice; and at his return from his Customary De∣votions in that place, did occasionally say to a friend, The words of this Hymne have restored to me the same thoughts of joy that possest my Soul in my sickness when I composed it. And, O the power of Church-musick! that Harmony added to it has raised the Affections of my heart, and quic∣ned my graces of zeal and gratitude; and I ob∣serve, that I alwayes return from paying this publick duty of Prayer and Praise to God, with an unexpressible tranquillity of mind, and a wil∣lingness to leave the world.

After this manner did the Disciples of our Saviour, and the best of Christians in those A∣ges of the Church nearest to his time, offer their praises to Almighty God. And the reader

of St. Augustines life may there find, that to∣wards his dissolution he wept abundantly, that the enemies of Christianity had broke in upon them, and prophaned and ruin'd their Sanctua∣ries, and because their Publick Hymns and Lauds were lost out of their Churches. And after this manner have many devout Souls lifted up their hands and offered acceptable Sacrifices unto Almighty God where Dr. Donne offered his,

But now, oh Lord—1656.

Before I proceed further, I think fit to in∣form the reader, that not long before his death he caused to be drawn a figure of the Body of Christ extended upon an Anchor, like those which Painters draw when they would present us with the picture of Christ crucified on the Cross: his, varying no otherwise then to affix him to an Anchor (the Emblem of hope) this he caused to be drawn in little, and then many of those figures thus drawn to be ingraven very small in Helitropian Stones, and set in gold, and of these he sent to many of his dearest friends to be used as Seales, or Rings, and kept as memo∣rials of him, and of his affection to them.

His dear friends and benefactors, Sir Henry Goolier, and Sir Robert Dr••wry, could not be of that number; Nor could the Lady Magdalen Herbert, the mother of George Herbert, for they had put off mortality, and taken possession of

the grave before him: But Sir Henry Wootton, and Dr. Hall the then late deceased Bishop of Norwitch were; and, so were Dr. Duppa Bishop of Salisbury, and Dr. Henry King Bishop of Chiche∣ster, (lately deceased) men in whom there was such a Commixture of general Lear∣ning, of natural eloquence, and Christian humi∣lity, that they deserve a Commemoration by a pen equal to their own, which none hath ex∣ceeded.

And in this enumeration of his friends, though many must be omitted, yet that man of primitive piety Mr. George Herbert may not; I mean that George Herbert, who was the Au∣thor of the Temple or Sacred Poems and Ejacu∣lations. (A Book, in which by declaring his own spiritual Conflicts he hath Comforted and raised many a dejected and discomposed Soul, and charmed them into sweet and quiet thoughts: A Book, by the frequent reading whereof, and the assistance of that Spirit that seemed to inspire the Author, the Reader may attain habits of Peace and Piety, and all the gifts of the Holy Ghost and Heaven: and may by still reading, still keep those sacred fires burning upon the Altar of so pure an heart, as shall free it from the anxieties of this world, and keep it fixt upon things that are above;) betwixt him and Dr. Donne there was a long and dear friendship, made up by such a Sympa∣thy of inclinations, that they coveted and

joyed to be in each others Company; and this happy friendship was still maintained by many sacred indearments; of which, that which fol∣loweth may be some Testimony.

To Mr. George Herbert; sent him with one of my Seales of the Anchor and Christ. (A sheaf of Snakes used heretofore to be my Seal, which is the Crest of our poor Family.)

Qui prius assuetus serpeatum falce tabellas Signare, haec nostrae Symbola parva domus Adscitus domui domini.—

Adopted in Gods family, and so My old Coat lost into new Arms I go. The Cross my seal in Baptism, spread below, Does by that form into an Anchor grow. Crosses grow Anchors, bear as thou should'st do Thy Cross, and that Cross grows an Anchor too. But he that makes our Crosses Anchors thus Is Christ; who there is crucified for us. Yet with this I may my first Serpents hold: (God gives new blessings, & yet leaves the old) The Serpent may as wise my pattern be; My poyson, as he feeds on dust, that's me. And, as he rounds the earth to murder, sure He is my death; but on the Cross my cure: Crucisie nature then; and then implore All grace from him, crucify'd there before: When all is Cross, and that Cross Anchor grown, This seales a Catechism, not a seal alone.

Under that little seal great gifts I send, Both works & prayers, pawns & fruits of a friend, Oh may that Saint that rides on our great Seal, To you that bear his name large bounty deal.

J. Donne.

In Sacram Anchoram Piscatoris Geo. Herbert.

Quod Crux nequibat fixa clavique additi, Tenere Christum scilicet ne ascenderet Tuive Christum—

Although the Cross could not Christ here detain, When nail'd unto't, but he ascends again: Nor yet thy eloquence here keep him still, But only whilest thou speak'st; this Anchor will: Nor canst thou be content, unless thou to This certain Anchor add a seal, and so The water and the earth, both unto thee Do owe the Symbole of their certainty. Let the world reel, we and all ours stand sure, This Holy Cable's from all storms secure.

G. Herbert.

I return to tell the Reader, that besides these verses to his dear Mr. Herbert, and that Hymne that I mentioned to be sung in the Quire of St Pauls Church; he did also shorten

and beguile many sad hours by composing other sacred Di••ties; and he writ an Hymn on his death-bed, which bears this title.

An Hymn to God, my God, in my sickness, March 23. 1630.

Since I am coming to that holy room, Where, with thy quire of Saints for ever more I shall be made thy musique, as I come I tune my Instrument here at the dore, And, what I must do then, think here before.

Since my Physitians by their loves are grown Cosmographers! and I their map, who lye Flat on this bed— —

So, in his purple wrapt, receive me, Lord! By these, his thorns, give me his other Crown: And, as to other souls I preach'd thy Word, Be this my text: my Sermon to mine own. That, he may raise; therefore, the lord throws down.

If these fall under the censure of a soul, whose too much mixture with earth makes it unfit to judge of these high raptures and illumi∣nations;

let him know that many holy and de∣vout men have thought the Soul of Prudentius to be most refined, when not many dayes be∣fore his death he charged it to present his God each morning and evening with a new and spiritu∣al song; justified by the example of King Da∣vid and the good King Hezekias, who upon the renovation of his years paid his thankful vowes to Almighty God in a royal Hymn, which he concludes in these words, The Lord was rea∣dy to save, therefore I will sing my songs to the stringed instruments all the dayes of my life in the temple of my God.

The latter part of his life may be said to be a continued study; for as he usually preached once a week, if not oftner, so after his Sermon he never gave his eyes rest, till he had chosen out a new Text, and that night cast his Sermon into a form, and his Text into divisions; and the next day betook himself to consult the Fa∣thers, and so commit his meditations to his memory, which was excellent. But upon Satur∣day he usually gave himself and his mind a rest from the we••••y burthen of his weeks meditati∣ons, and usually spent that day in visitation of friends, or some other diversions of his thoughts; and would say, that he gave both his body and mind that refreshment, that he might be enabled to do the work of the day following, not faintly, but with courage and chearfulness.

Nor was his age onely so industrious, but in

the most unsetled dayes of his youth, his bed was not able to detain him beyond the hour of four in a morning: and it was no common bu∣siness that drew him out of his chamber till past ten. All which time was employed in study; though he took great liberty after it: and if this seem strange, it may gain a belief by the visible fruits of his labours: some of which remain as testimonies of what is here writen: for he left the resultance of 1400. Authors, most of them abridged and analysed with his own hand; he left also sixscore of his Sermons, all written with his own hand; also an exact and laborious Trea∣tise concerning Self-murther, called Biathana∣tos; wherein all the Laws violated by that Act are diligently surveyed and judiciously censured: a Treatise written in his younger dayes, which alone might declare him then not onely perfect in the Civil and Canon Law, but in many other such studies and arguments, as enter not into the consideration of many that labour to be thought great Clerks, and pretend to know all things.

Nor were these onely found in his study; but all businesses that past of any publick conse∣quence, either in this, or any of our neighbour nations, he abbreviated either in Latine, or in the Language of that Nation, and kept them by him for useful memorials. So he did the co∣pies of divers Letters and cases of Conscience that had concerned his friends, with his obser∣vations

and solutions of them; and, divers other businesses of importance; all particular∣ly and methodically digested by himself.

He did prepare to leave the world before life left him, making his will when no faculty of his soul was damp'd or made defective by pain or sickness, or he surprized by a sudden apprehen∣sion of death: but it was made with mature deliberation, expressing himself an impartial father by making his childrens portions equal; and a lover of his friends, whom he remembred with Legacies fitly and discreetly chosen and be∣queathed. I cannot forbear a nomination of some of them; for, methinks they be persons that seem to challenge a recordation in this place; as namely, to his Brother-in-law Sir Th. Grimes, he gave that striking Clock which he had long worn in his pocket—to his dear friend and Executor Dr. King (late Bishop of Chi∣cester) that model of gold of the Synod of Dcrt, with which the States presented him at his last being at the Hague—and the two Pi∣ctures of Padre Paulo and Fulgentio, men of his acquaintance when he travelled Italy, and of great note in that Nation for their remarkable learning.—To his ancient friend Dr. Brook, (that married him) Master of Trinity Colledge in Cambridge, he gave the Picture of the bles∣sed Virgin and Joseph.—To Dr. Winniff (who succeeded him in the Deanry) he gave a Pi∣cture called the Sceleton.—To the succeeding

Dean, who was not then known, he gave many necessaries of worth, and useful for his house; and also several Pictures and Ornaments for the Chappel, with a desire that they might be regi∣stred, and remain as a Legacy to his Successors. —To the Earls of Dorset and of Carlile, he gave several Pictures, and so he did to many other friends; Legacies, given rather to express his affection, than to make any addition to their Estates: but unto the Poor he was full of Cha∣rity, and unto many others, who by his constant and long continued bounty might intitle them∣selves to be his Alms-people; for all these he made provision, and so largely, as having then six children living, might to some appear more than proportionable to his Estate. I forbear to men∣tion any more, lest the Reader may think I tre∣spass upon his patience: but I will beg his fa∣vour to present him with the beginning and end of his Will.

In the Name of the blessed and glorious Tri∣nity, Amen. I John Donne, by the mercy of Christ Jesus, and by the calling of the Church of England Priest, being at this time in good health and perfect understanding (praised be God therefore) do hereby make my last Will and Testament in manner and form following:

First, I give my gracious God an intire sacri∣fice of body and soul, with my most humble thanks for that assurance which his blessed Spirit im∣prints

in me now of the salvation of the one, and the Resurrection of the other; and for that constant and chearful resolution which the same Spirit hath establisht in me to live and dye in the Religion now professed in the Church of England. In expectation of that Resurrection, I desire my body may be buried (in the most private manner that may be) in that place of St.Pauls Church London, that the now Residen∣tiaries have at my request designed for that pur∣pose, &c. And this my l••st Will and Testament, made in the fear of God (whose mercy I hum∣bly beg, and constantly relie upon in Jesus Christ) and in perfect love and charity with all the world (whose pardon I ask, from the lowest of my servants, to the highest of my Superiors) written all with my own hand, and my name sub∣scribed to every page, of which there are five in number.

Sealed Decem. 13. 1630.

Nor was this blessed sacrifice of Charity ex∣pressed onely at his death, but in his life also, by a cheerful and frequent visitation of any friend whose mind was dejected, or his fortune necessitous; he was inquisitive after the wants of Prisoners, and redeemed many from thence that lay for their Fees or small Debts; he was a continual Giver to poor Scholars, both of this and foreign Nations. Besides what he gave with his own hand, he usually sent a Servant, or

a discreet and trusty Friend, to distribute his Charity to all the Prisons in London at all the Festival times of the year, especially at the Birth and Resurrection of our Saviour. He gave an hundred pounds at one time to an old Friend, whom he had known live plentifully, and by a too liberal heart and carelesness became decay∣ed in his Estate: and, when the receiving of it was denied, by the Gentlemans saying, He wanted not; for as there be some spirits so ge∣nerous as to labour to conceal and endure a sad poverty, rather than those blushes that attend the confession of it; so there be others to whom Nature and Grace have afforded such sweet and compassionate souls, as to pity and prevent the Distresses of Mankind; which I have mentioned because of Dr. Donne's Re∣ply, whose Answer was, I know you want not what will sustain nature, for a little will do that; but my desire is, that you who in the dayes of your plenty have cheered and raised the hearts of so many of your dejected friends, would now re∣ceive this from me, and use it as a cordial for the cheering of your own: and so it was received. He was an happy reconciler of many differences in the Families of his Friends and Kindred, (which he never undertook faintly; for such undertakings have usually faint effects;) and they had such a faith in his judgement and im∣partiality, that he never advised them to any thing in vain. He was even to her death a

most dutiful Son to his Mother, careful to pro∣vide for her supportation, of which she had been destitute, but that God raised him up to prevent her necessities; who having sucked in the Religion of the Roman Church with her Mothers Milk, spent her Estate in foreign Countreys, to enjoy a liberty in it, and died in his house but three Moneths before him.

And to the end it may appear how just a Steward he was of his Lord and Masters Reve∣nue, I have thought fit to let the Reader know, that after his entrance into his Deane∣••y, as he numbred his years, he (at the foot of a private account (to which God and his Angels were only witnesses with him) compu∣ted first his Revenue, then what was given to the Poor, and other Pious Uses: and lastly, what rested for him and his; he then blest each years poor remainder with a thankful Prayer; which, for that they discover a more than com∣mon Devotion, the Reader shall partake some of them in his own words:

So all is that remains this year

Deo Opt. Max benigno Largitori, à me•• & ab iis Quibus haec à me reservantur, Gloria & gratia in aeternum.

Amen.

So, that this year, God hath blessed me and mine with

Multiplicatae a sunt super Nos misericordiae tuae Domine.—

Da Domine, ut quae ex immensâ Bonitate tu•• nobis elargiri Dignatus sis, in quorumcunque Manus devenerint, in tuam Semper cedant gloriam.

Amen.

In fine horum sex Annorum manet—

Quid habeo quod non accepi à Domino? Largitur etiam ut quae largitus est Sua iterum fiant, bono eorum usu; ut Quemadmodum nec officiis hujus mundi, Nec loci in quo me posuit; dignitati, nec Servis, nec egenis, in toto hujus anni Curriculo mihi conscius sum me defuisse; Ita & liberi, quibus quae supersunt, Supersunt, grato animo ea accipiant, Et beneficum authorem recognescant.

Amen.

But I return from my long Digression.

We left the Author sick in Essex, where he was forced to spend much of that Winter, by

reason of his disability to remove from that place: And having never for almost twenty years omitted his personal attendance on His Majesty in that month in which he was to at∣tend and preach to him; nor, having ever been left out of the Roll and number of Lent-Prea∣chers; and there being then (in January 1630.) a report brought to London, or raised there, that Dr. Donne was dead: That report, gave him occasion to write this following Letter to a dear friend.

Sir,

This advantage you and my other friends have by my frequent fevers, that I am so much the oftner at the gates of Heaven; and this advantage by the solitude and close imprison∣ment that they reduce me to after, that I am so much the oftner at my prayers, in which I shall never leave out your happiness; and I doubt not among his other blessings, God will add some one to you for my prayers. A man would almost be content to dye (if there were no other benefit in death) to hear of so much sorrow, and so much good testimony from good men as I (God be blessed for it) did upon the report of my death; yet I per∣ceive it went not through all, for one writ to me that some (and he said of my friends) conceived I was not so ill as I pretended, but withdrew my self to live at ease, discharged

of preaching. It is an unfriendly, and God knows an ill-grounded interpretation; for I have alwayes been sorrier when I could not preach, than any could be they could not hear me. It hath been my desire, and God may be pleased to grant it, that I might dye in the Pulpit; if not that, yet, that I might take my death in the Pulpit, that is, dye the soon∣er by occasion of those labours. Sir, I hope to see you presently after Candlemas, about which time will fall my Lent-Sermon at Court, except my Lord Chamberlain believe me to be dead, and so leave me out of the Roll; but as long as I live, and am not speechless, I would not willingly decline that service. I have bet∣ter leisure to write, than you to read; yet I would not willingly oppress you with too much Letter. God bless you and your Son as I wish,

Your poor friend and servant in Christ Jesus, J. Donne.

Before that month ended, he was appointed to preach upon his old constant day, the first Friday in Lent; he had notice of it, and had in his sickness so prepared for that imployment, that as he had long thirsted for it: so, he resol∣ved his weakness should not hinder his journey; he came therefore to London, some few dayes before his appointed day of preaching. At his

coming thither, many of his friends (who with sorrow saw his sickness had left him onely so much flesh as did onely cover his bones) doubted his strength to perform that task, and, did there∣fore disswade him from undertaking it, assuring him however, it was like to shorten his life; but, he passionately denied their requests; saying, he would not doubt that that God who in so many weaknesses had assisted him with an unexpected strength, would now withdraw it in his last employ∣ment; professing an holy ambition to perform that sacred work. And, when to the amazement of some beholders he appeared in the Pulpit, many of them thought he presented himself not to preach mortification by a living voice: but, mortality by a decayed body and dying face. And doubtless, many did secretly ask that que∣stion in Ezekiel;* 8.1 Do these bones live? or, can that soul organize that tongue, to speak so long time as the sand in that glass will move towards its centre, and measure out an hour of this dying mans un∣spent life? Doubtless it cannot; and yet, after some faint pauses in his zealous prayer, his strong desires enabled his weak body to discharge his memory of his preconceived meditations, which were of dying, the Text being, To God the Lord belong the issues from death. Many that then saw his tears, and heard his faint and hollow voice, professing they thought the Text prophetically chosen, and that Dr. Donne had preach't his own funeral Sermon.

Being full of joy that God had enabled him to perform this desired duty, he hastened to his house, out of which he never moved, till like St. Stephen, he was carried by devout men to his Grave.

The next day after his Sermon, his strength being much wasted, and his spirits so spent, as indisposed him to business, or to talk: A friend that had often been a witness of his free and facetious discourse, asked him, Why are you sad? To whom he replied with a countenance so full of cheerful gravity, as gave testimony of an inward tranquillity of mind, and of a soul wil∣ling to take a farewell of this world. And said,

I am not sad, but most of the night past I have entertained my self with many thoughts of several friends that have left me here, and are gone to that place from which they shall not return: And, that within a few dayes I also shall go hence, and be no more seen. And, my preparation for this change is become my nightly meditation upon my bed, which my infirmities have now made restless to me. But, at this present time I was in a serious contem∣plation of the providence and goodness of God to me, who am less than the least of his mercies; and looking back upon my life past, I now plainly see it was his hand that prevented me from all temporal employment; and, it was his Will that I should never settle nor

thrive till I entred into the Ministry; in which, I have now liv'd almost twenty years (I hope to his glory) and by which I most humbly thank him, I have been enabled to require most of those friends which shewed me kind∣ness when my fortune was very low, as God knows it was: and (as it hath occasioned the expression of my gratitude) I thank God most of them have stood in need of my requi∣tal. I have liv'd to be useful and comfortable to my good Father-in-law Sir George Moore, whose patience God hath been pleased to ex∣ercise with many temporal Crosses; I have maintained my own Mother, whom it hath pleased God after a plentiful fortune in her younger dayes, to bring to a great decay in her very old age. I have quieted the Conscien∣ces of many that have groaned under the bur∣then of a wounded spirit, whose prayers I hope are available for me. I cannot plead inno∣cency of life, especially of my youth: But, I am to be judged by a merciful God, who is not willing to see what I have done amiss. And, though of my self I have nothing to present to him but sins and misery; yet, I know he looks not upon me now as I am of my self, but as I am in my Saviour, and hath given me even at this time some testimonies by his Holy Spirit, that I am of the number of his Elect: I am therefore full of joy, and shall dye in peace.

I must here look so far back, as to tell the Reader, that at his first return out of Essex to preach his last Sermon, his old Friend and Phy∣sitian, Dr. Fox, a man of great worth, came to him to consult his health; and that after a sight of him, and some queries concerning his distem∣pers, he told him, That by Cordials, and drinking milk twenty dayes together, there was a probability of his restauration to health; but he passionately denied to drink it. Nevertheless, Dr. Fox, who loved him most intirely, wearied him with sol∣licitations, till he yielded to take it for ten dayes; at the end of which time, he told Dr. Fox, he had drunk it more to satisfie him, than to recover his health; and that he would not drink it ten dayes longer upon the best moral assurance of ha∣ving twenty years added to his life, for he loved it not; and that he was so far from fearing death, which is the King of terrors, that he longed for the day of his dissolution.

It is observed, that a desire of glory or com∣mendation is rooted in the very nature of man; and, that those of the severest and most morti∣fied lives, though they may become so humble as to banish self-flattery, and such weeds as na∣turally grow there; yet, they have not been able to kill this desire of glory, but that like our radical heat it will both live and dye with us; and, many think it should do so; and, we want not sacred examples to justifie the desire of ha∣ving our memory to out-live our lives: which I

mention, because Dr. Donne, by the persuasion of Dr. Fox, easily yielded at this very time to have a Monument made for him; but Dr. Fox undertook not to persuade how or what it should be; that was left to Dr. Donne him∣self.

This being resolved upon, Dr. Donne sent for a Carver to make for him in wood the figure of an Urn, giving him directions for the compass and height of it; and, to bring with it a board of the height of his body. These being got, then without delay a choice Painter was to be in a readiness to draw his picture, which was taken as followeth.—Several Charcole-fires being first made in his large Study, he brought with him into that place his winding-sheet in his hand; and, having put off all his cloaths, had this sheet put on him, and so tyed with knots at his head and feet, and his hands so placed, as dead bodies are usually fitted to be shrowded and put into the grave. Upon this Urn he thus stood with his eyes shut, and with so much of the sheet turned aside as might shew his lean, pale, and death-like face; which was purposely turn∣ed toward the East, from whence he expected the second coming of his and our Saviour. Thus he was drawn at his just hèight; and when the picture was fully finished, he caused it to be set by his bed-side, where it continued, and became his hourly object till his death: and, was then given to his dearest friend and Executor Dr.

King, who caused him to be thus carved in one entire piece of white Marble, as it now stands in the Cathedral Church of St. Pauls; and by Dr. Donne's own appointment, these words were to be affixed to it as his Epitaph:

JOHANNES DONNE Sac. Theol. Professor Post varia Studia quibus ab annis tenerrimis fi∣deliter, nec infeliciter incubuit; Instinctu & impulsu Sp. Sancti, Monitu & Hortatu REGIS JACOBI, Ordines Sacros amplexus Anno sui Jesu, 1614. & suae aetatis 42. Decanatu hujus Ecclesiae indutus 27. Novem∣bris 1621. Exutus morte ultimo Die Martii 1631. Hic licet in Occiduo Cinere Aspicit Eum Cujus nomen est Oriens.

Upon Monday following, he took his last leave of his beloved Study; and, being sensible of his hourly decay, retired himself to his bed∣chamber: and, that week sent at several times

for many of his most considerable friends, with whom he took a solemn and deliberate farewell; commending to their considerations some sen∣tences useful for the regulation of their lives, and then dismist them, as good Jacob did his sons, with a spiritual benediction. The Sunday following he appointed his servants, that if there were any business undone that concerned him or themselves, it should be prepared against Saturday next; for, after that day he would not mix his thoughts with any thing that concerned this world; nor ever did: But, as Job, so he waited for the appointed time of his dissolu∣tion.

And now he had nothing to do but to dye; to do which, he stood in need of no longer time, for he had studied long, and to so happy a per∣fection, that in a former sickness he called God to witness* 8.2 he was that minute ready to deliver his soul into his hands, if that minute God would determine his dissolution. In that sickness he beg'd of God the constancy to be preserved in that estate for ever; and his patient expectation to have his immortal soul disrob'd from her gar∣ment of mortality, makes me confident he now had a modest assurance that his Prayers were then heard, and his Petition granted. He lay fifteen dayes earnestly expecting his hourly change; and, in the last hour of his last day, as his body melted away and vapoured into spirit, his soul having, I verily believe, some Revelation

of the Beatifical Vision, he said, I were misera∣ble if I might not dye; and after those words closed many periods of his faint breath, by saying often, Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done. His speech, which had long been his rea∣dy and faithful servant, left him not till the last minute of his life, and then forsook him; not to serve another Master, but dyed before him; for that it was become useless to him that now conversed with God on earth, as Angels are said to do in heaven, onely by thoughts and looks. Be∣ing speechless, he did as St. Stephen, look stedfast∣ly towards heaven, till he saw the Son of God standing at the right hand of his Father: and being satisfied with this blessed sight, as his soul ascended, and his last breath departed from him, he closed his own eyes; and then, disposed his hands and body into such a posture as required not the least alteration by those that came to shroud him.

Thus variable, thus vertuous was the Life; thus excellent, thus exemplary was the Death of this memorable man.

He was buried in that place of St. Pauls Church which he had appointed for that use some years before his death; and, by which he passed daily to pay his publick devotions to Al∣mighty God (who was then served twice a day by a publick form of Prayer and Praises in that place) but, he was not buried privately though he desired it; for, beside an unnumbred num∣ber

of others, many persons of Nobility, and of eminency for Learning, who did love and ho∣nour him in his life, did shew it at his death, by a voluntary and sad attendance of his body to the grave, where nothing was so remarkable as a publick sorrow.

To which place of his Burial some mournful Friend repaired, and, as Alexander the Great did to the grave of the famous Achilles, so they strewed his with an abundance of curious and costly Flowers; which course they (who were never yet known) continued morning and eve∣ning for many dayes; not ceasing till the stones that were taken up in that Church to give his body admission into the cold earth (now his bed of rest) were again by the Masons art so levelled and firmed, as they had been formerly; and, his place of Burial undistinguishable to common view.

Nor was this all the Honour done to his re∣verend Ashes; for, as there be some persons that will not receive a reward for that for which God accounts himself a Debtor: persons, that dare trust God with their Charity, and without a witness; so there was by some grateful un∣known Friend, that thought Dr. Donnes me∣mory ought to be perpetuated, an hundred Marks sent to his two faithful Friends* 8.3 and Executors, towards the making of his Monu∣ment. It was not for many years known by whom; but, after the death of Dr. Fox, it was

known that it was he that sent it; and he lived to see as lively a representation of his dead Friend, as Marble can express; a Statue indeed so like Dr. Donne, that (as his Friend Sir Hen∣ry Wotton hath expressed himself)

it seems to breath faintly; and, Posterity shall look upon it as a kind of artificial Miracle.

He was of Stature moderately tall, of a strait and equally proportioned body, to which all his words and actions gave an unexpressible addition of Comeliness.

The melancholy and pleasant humor were in him so contempered, that each gave advantage to the other, and made his Company one of the delights of Mankind.

His fancy was unimitably high, equalled onely by his great wit, both being made useful by a com∣manding judgement.

His aspect was chearful, and such as gave a silent testimony of a clear knowing soul, and of a Conscience at peace with it self.

His melting eye shewed that he had a soft heart, full of noble compassion; of too brave a soul to of∣fer injuries, and too much a Christian not to pardon them in others.

He did much contemplate (especially after he entred into his Sacred Calling) the mercies of Almighty God, the immortality of the Soul, and the joyes of Heaven; and would often say, Bles∣sed be God that he is God divinely like himself.

He was by nature highly passionate, but more apt to reluct at the excesses of it. A great lover of the offices of humanity, and of so merciful a spirit, that he never beheld the miseries of Mankind with∣out pity and relief.

He was earnest and unwearied in the search of knowledge; with which his vigorous soul is now satisfied, and employed in a continual praise of that God that first breathed it into his active body; that body which once was a Temple of the Holy Ghost, and is now become a small quantity of Christian dust:

But I shall see it reanimated.

J. W.

An EPITAPH written by Dr. Corbet, late Bishop of Oxford, on his Friend Dr. Donne.

HE that wou'd write an Epitaph for thee, And write it well, must first begin to be Such as thou wert; for, none can truly know Thy life and worth•• but he that hath liv'd so. He must have wit to spare, and to hurle down, Enough to keep the Gallants of the Town. He must have learning plenty, both the Laws, Civil and Common, to judge any Cause. Divinity great store above the rest, No•• of the last Edition, but the best. He must have language, travel, all the Arts, Judgement to use, or else he wants thy parts. He must have friends the highest, able to do, Such as Mecoenas, and Augustus too. He must have such a sickness, such a death, Or else his vain descriptions come beneath. He that would write an Epitaph for thee, Should first be dead; let it alone for me.

To the Memory of my ever desired Dr. Donne. An Ele∣gy by H. King, late Bishop of Chicester.

TO have liv'd eminent in a degree Beyond our loftiest thoughts, that is like thee; Or t'have had too much merit, is not safe, For such excesses find no Epitaph.

At common graves we have poetick eyes, Can melt themselves in easie Elegies; Each quill can drop his tributary verse, And pin it like the hatchments to the herse: But at thine, Poem or Inscription (Rich soul of wit and language) we have none. Indeed a silence does that Tomb b••fit, Where is no Herauld left to blazon it. Widow'd invention justly doth forbear To come abroad, knowing thou art not there: Late her great Patron, whose prerogative Maintain'd and cloa••h'd her so, as none alive Must now presume to keep her at thy rate, Though he the Indies for her dower estate. Or else that awful fire which once did burn In thy clear brain, now fallen into thy Urn,

Lives there to fright rude Empericks from thence, Which might profane thee by their Ignorance. Whoever writes of thee, and in a stile Unworthy such a theme, does but revile Thy precious dust, and wakes a learned spirit, Which may revenge his rapes upon thy merit: For all a low-pitch't fancy can devise Will prove at best but hallowed injuries.

Thou like the dying Swan did'st lately sing Thy mournful dirge in audience of the King; When pale looks and faint accents of thy breath Presented so to life that piece of death, That it was fear'd and prophesi'd by all Thou thither cam'st to preach thy Funerall. Oh hadst thou in an Elegiack knell Rung out unto the World thine own farewell, And in thy high victorious numbers beat The solemn measures of thy griev'd retreat, Thou might'st the Poets service now have mist, As well as then thou didst prevent the Priest: And never to the World beholden be, So much as for an Epitaph for thee.

I do not like the office; nor is't fit Thou who didst lend our age such sums of wit, Should'st now re-borrow from her bankrupt mine That oare to bury thee which first was thine: Rather still leave us in thy debt, and know, Exalted Soul, more glory 'tis to owe Thy memory what we can never pay, Than with embased Coyn those Rites defray.

Commit we then thee to thy self, nor blame Our drooping loves that thus to thine own fame Leave thee Executor, since but thine own No pen could do thee Justice, nor bayes Crown Thy vast deserts; save that, we nothing can Depute to be thy ashes guardian: So, Jewellers no Art or Metal trust To form the Diamond, but the Diamonds dust.

H. K.

An ELEGY on Dr. DONNE.

OUr Donne is dead: and, we may sighing say, We had that man where language chose to stay And shew her utmost power. I wou'd not praise That, and his great Wit, which in our vain dayes Makes others proud; but, as these serv'd to unlock That Cabinet his mind, where such a stock Of knowledge was repos'd, that I lament Our just and general cause of discontent.

And, I rejoyce I am not so severe, But as I write a Line, to weep a tear For his decease: such sad Extremities Can make such men as I write Elegies.

And wonder not; for, when so great a loss Falls on a Nation, and they slight the Cross, God hath rais'd Prophets to awaken them From their dull Lethargy: witness my Pen, Not us'd to upbraid the World: though now it must Freely, and boldly, for, the Cause is just.

Dull age! oh, I wou'd spare thee, but thou'rt worse: Thou art not only dull, but, hast a Curse Of black Ingratitude: if not, Couldst thou Part with this matchless man, and make no vow For thee and thine successively to pay, Some sad remembrance to his dying day?

Did his Youth scatter Poetry, wherein Lay Loves Philosophy? Was every sin Pictur'd in his sharp Satyrs, made so foul That some have fear'd sins shapes, & kept their soul Safer by reading Verse? Did he give dayes, Past marble Monuments to those whose praise He wou'd perpetuate? Did he (I fear Envy will doubt) these at his twentieth year?

But more matur'd: did his rich soul conceive, And, in harmonious holy numbers weave A Crown of Sacred* 8.4 Sonnets, sit to adorn A dying Martyrs brow: or, to be worn On that blest head of Mary Magdalen, After she wip'd Christs feet; but not, till then. Did he (fit for such Penitents as she And he to use) leave us a Letanie,

Which all devout men love: and, doubtless shall As times grow better, grow more Classicall. Did he write Hymns, for Piety and Wit, Equal to those great grave Prudentius writ? Spake he all Languages? Knew he all Laws? The grounds and use of Physick: but, because 'Twas mercenary, wav'd it: went to see That happy place of Christs Nativity. Did he return and preach him? preach him so As since St. Paul none ever did! they know: Those happy souls that hear'd him know this truth. Did he confirm thy ag'd? convert thy youth? Did he these wonders! and, is his dear loss Mourn'd by so few? few for so great a Cross.

But sure, the silent are ambitious all To be close Mourners at his Funerall. If not, in common pity, they forbear By Repititions to renew our care: Or knowing grief conceiv'd, and bid, consumes Mans life insensibly, as poyson fumes Corrupt the brain, take silence for the way To'inlarge the soul from these walls, mud, and clay, Materials of this body: to remain With him in Heaven, where no promiscuous pain Lessens those joyes we have: for, with him all Are satisfied, with joyes essentiall.

Dwell on these joyes my thoughts: oh, do not call Grief back, by thinking on his Funerall:

Forget he lov'd me: waste not my swift years Which haste to Davids seventy, fill'd with fears And sorrows for his death. Forget his parts, They find a living grave in good mens hearts. And, for my first is daily paid for sin: Forget to pay my second sigh for him. Forget his powerful preaching: and, forget I am his Convert. Oh my frailty! let My flesh be no more heard: it will obtrude This Lethargy: so shou'd my gratitude, My vows of gratitude shou'd so be broke; Which, can no more be, than his vertues spoke By any but himself: for which cause, I Write no Incomiums, but this Elegy. Which, as a Free-will offering, I here give Fame and the World: and, parting with it, grieve, I want abilities, fit to set forth, A Monument, great, as Donne's matchless worth.

April 7. 1631.

Iz: Wa.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  In his Preface to Pseudo∣Martyr.
• * 3.1

  In his Book of Dev••ti∣ons.
• * 8.1

  Ezek. 37. 3.
• * 8.2

  In his Book of Devoti∣ons.
• * 8.3

  Dr. King and Dr. Monfort
• * 8.4

  La Co∣rona.