Poems, by J.D. VVith elegies on the authors death

To S^r Henry Wotton.

SIr, more then kisses, letters mingle Soules; For, thus friends absent speake. This ease controules The tediousnesse of my life: But for these I could ideate nothing, which could please, But I should wither in one day, and passe To'a botle'of Hay, that am a locke of Grasse. Life is a voyage, and in our lifes wayes Countries, Courts, Towns are Rockes, or Remoraes; They breake or stop all ships, yet our state's such, That though then pitch they staine worse, wee must touch. If in the furnace of the raging line, Or under th'adverse icy pole thou pine, Thou know'st two temperate Regions girded in, Dwell there: But Oh, what refuge canst thou winne Parch'd in the Court, and in the country frozen? Shall cities built of both extremes be chosen? Can dung, and garlike be'a perfume? or can

A Scorpion, or Torpedo cure a man? Cities are worst of all three; of all three (O knottie riddle) each is worst equally. Cities are Sepulchers; they who dwell there Are carcases, as if no such they were. And Courts are Theaters, where some men play Princes, some slaves, all to one end, and of one clay▪ The Country is a desert, where no good, Gain'd, as habits, not borne, is understood. There men become beasts, and prone to more evils; In cities blockes, and in a lewd court, devills. As in the first Chaos confusedly Each elements qualities were in the'other three; So pride, lust, covetize, being severall To these three places, yet all are in all, And mingled thus, their issue incestuous. Falshood is denizon'd. Virtue is barbarous. Let no man say there, Virtues flintie wall Shall locke vice in mee, I'll do none, but know all. Men are spunges, which to poure out, receive, Who know false play, rather then lose, deceive. For in best understandings, sinne beganne, Angels sinn'd first, then Devills, and then man. Onely perchance beasts sinne not; wretched wee Are beasts in all, but white integritie. I thinke if men, which in these places live Durst looke in themselves, and themselves retrive, They would like strangers greet themselves, seeing then Utopian youth, growne old Italian. Be thou thine owne home, and in thy selfe dwell;

Inne any where, continuance maketh hell. And seeing the snaile, which every where doth rome, Carrying his owne house still, still is at home. Follow (for he is easie pac'd) this snaile, Bee thine owne Palace, or the world's thy goale; And in the worlds sea, do not like corke sleepe Upon the waters face; nor in the deepe Sinke like a lead without a line: but as Fishes glide, leaving no print where they passe, Nor making sound; so, closely thy course goe, Let men dispute, whether thou breath, or no: Onely'in this one thing, be no Galenist. To make Courts hot ambitions wholesome, do not take A dramme of Countries dulnesse; do not adde Correctives, but as chymiques, purge the bad. But, Sir, I advise not you, I rather doe Say o'er those lessons, which I learn'd of you. Whom, free from German schismes, and lightnesse Of France, and faire Italies faithlesnesse, Having from these suck'd all they had of worth, And brought home that faith, which you carried forth, I throughly love. But if my selfe, I'have wonne To know my rules, I have, and you have

DONNE: