01.donne, Marvell, Shakespeare

JOHN DONNE (1572-1631)
1.
Death be not proud, though some have called
thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Paraphrasis:
Death, don't be proud - even though some people have said you are
Mighty and dreadful. You are not mighty and dreadful.
Those people you think that you do destroy
Don't die, and you can't really kill me either. Poor Death!
From rest and sleep, which are only a pale reflection of you,
We get much pleasure, so from you we should get much more.
And our best people go with you the soonest,
Finding rest to their bones and delivery for their souls.
You are a servant to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And your companions are poison, war, and sickness,
And, anyway, poppies or charms can make us sleep even
Better than you can. Why do you swell with pride, then?
After a short sleep, we will be awake forever,
And death will exist no longer. Death, it is you who will die.
1
2. A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
[Donne wrote this poem for his wife Anne in 1611-1612, before leaving on a trip to Continental
Europe. The poem is based on the contrast between the physical separation between the two
lovers, and the persisting union of their souls]
As virtuous men pass mildly away,

And whisper to their souls, to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
'The breath goes now,' and some say, 'No:'
So let us melt, and make no noise,

No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;

Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love

(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refin'd,

That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,

Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so

As stiff twin compasses are two;
2
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,

Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must

Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begun.
3. The Flea
[In this erotic metaphysical poem, the sexual union between the two lovers is compared to the
union of their blood in the body of a flea. If the latter is not a sin, why should the former be
considered as such? The lyrical I then moves on to compare the flea to a ‘marriage bed’, and
begs the loved one to spare the insect’s life.]
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou deniest me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, nay more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our mariage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that, self-murder added be,
3
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou
Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;
’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,
Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678)
To His Coy Mistress
[In this poem, the lyrical I invites his loved one to seize the day and make the most of their
limited time on Earth]
Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;
A hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
4
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
5
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (1564-1616)
Sonnet II: http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/sonnet.php?id=2
Sonnet CVIII: http://www.shakespeares-sonnets.com/sonnet.php?id=108

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JOHN DONNE (1572-1631)

As virtuous men pass mildly away,

So let us melt, and make no noise,

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;

Dull sublunary lovers' love

But we by a love so much refin'd,

Our two souls therefore, which are one,

If they be two, they are two so

And though it in the centre sit,

Such wilt thou be to me, who must

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678)

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough and time,

My vegetable love should grow

But at my back I always hear

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

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