![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() |
|
![]() | ![]() | ![]() Random Me Stuff
Donne Sonnets
| ![]() |
||
![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() |
||
![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() |
![]() |
|||||
![]() |
More Random Me Stuff
|
Those That Put Up With Me
|
Donne Sonnets
|
More Donne
|
Whence Done Snooping, Go Here...
|
Speak
|
The Satan Page
|
Dirty Limericks
|
Ded Bob Sing Along : )
| ![]() |
|||
![]() |
![]() |
||||||||||
![]() | ![]() | John Donne's Holy Sonnets | ![]() | ![]() |
||||||
![]() |
||||||||||
![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() | I. THOU hast made me, and shall Thy work decay ? Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste ; I run to death, and Death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday. I dare not move my dim eyes any way ; Despair behind, and Death before doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh. Only Thou art above, and when towards Thee By Thy leave I can look, I rise again ; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one hour myself I can sustain. Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart. II. AS due by many titles I resign Myself to thee, O God. First I was made By Thee ; and for Thee, and when I was decay'd Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine. I am Thy son, made with Thyself to shine, Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid, Thy sheep, Thine image, andtill I betray'd Myselfa temple of Thy Spirit divine. Why doth the devil then usurp on me ? Why doth he steal, nay ravish, that's Thy right ? Except Thou rise and for Thine own work fight, O ! I shall soon despair, when I shall see That Thou lovest mankind well, yet wilt not choose me, And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me. III. O ! might those sighs and tears return again Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent, That I might in this holy discontent Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourn'd in vain. In mine idolatry what showers of rain Mine eyes did waste ? what griefs my heart did rent ? That sufferance was my sin, I now repent ; 'Cause I did suffer, I must suffer pain. Th' hydroptic drunkard, and night-scouting thief, The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud Have the remembrance of past joys, for relief Of coming ills. To poor me is allow'd No ease ; for long, yet vehement grief hath been Th' effect and cause, the punishment and sin. IV. O, my black soul, now thou art summoned By sickness, Death's herald and champion ; Thou'rt like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turn to whence he's fled ; Or like a thief, which till death's doom be read, Wisheth himself deliver'd from prison, But damn'd and haled to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned. Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack ; But who shall give thee that grace to begin ? O, make thyself with holy mourning black, And red with blushing, as thou art with sin ; Or wash thee in Christ's blood, which hath this might, That being red, it dyes red souls to white. V. I am a little world made cunningly Of elements, and an angelic sprite ; But black sin hath betray'd to endless night My world's both parts, and, O, both parts must die. You which beyond that heaven which was most high Have found new spheres, and of new land can write, Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might Drown my world with my weeping earnestly, Or wash it if it must be drown'd no more. But O, it must be burnt ; alas ! the fire Of lust and envy burnt it heretofore, And made it fouler ; let their flames retire, And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal Of Thee and Thy house, which doth in eating heal. VI. This is my play's last scene ; here heavens appoint My pilgrimage's last mile ; and my race Idly, yet quickly run, hath this last pace ; My span's last inch, my minute's latest point ; And gluttonous Death will instantly unjoint My body and soul, and I shall sleep a space ; But my ever-waking part shall see that face, Whose fear already shakes my every joint. Then, as my soul to heaven her first seat takes flight, And earth-born body in the earth shall dwell, So fall my sins, that all may have their right, To where they're bred and would press me to hell. Impute me righteous, thus purged of evil, For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil. VII. At the round earth's imagined corners blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go ; All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, All whom war, dea[r]th, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ; For, if above all these my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace, When we are there. Here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent, for that's as good As if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon with Thy blood. VIII. If faithful souls be alike glorified As angels, then my father's soul doth see, And adds this even to full felicity, That valiantly I hell's wide mouth o'erstride. But if our minds to these souls be descried By circumstances, and by signs that be Apparent in us not immediately, How shall my mind's white truth by them be tried ? They see idolatrous lovers weep and mourn, And stile blasphemous conjurers to call On Jesu's name, and pharisaical Dissemblers feign devotion. Then turn, O pensive soul, to God, for He knows best Thy grief, for He put it into my breast. IX. If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, Whose fruit threw death on (else immortal) us, If lecherous goats, if serpents envious Cannot be damn'd, alas ! why should I be ? Why should intent or reason, born in me, Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous ? And, mercy being easy, and glorious To God, in His stern wrath why threatens He ? But who am I, that dare dispute with Thee ? O God, O ! of Thine only worthy blood, And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood, And drown in it my sin's black memory. That Thou remember them, some claim as debt ; I think it mercy if Thou wilt forget. X. Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die. | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | XI. | ![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() |
![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() |
![]() |
||||||||||
![]() | ![]() | ![]() | ![]() |
|||||||
![]() |
||||||||||
![]() |
||||||||||