John Donne (1572–1631). The Poems of John Donne. 1896.
Letters to Several PersonagesTo Sir Henry Goodyere
W
Turns no new leaf, but still the same things reads;
Seen things he sees again, heard things doth hear,
And makes his life but like a pair of beads.
Leaves growing, and stands such, or else decays;
But he which dwells there is not so; for he
Strives to urge upward, and his fortune raise.
And shall not better; her next change is night;
But her fair, larger guest, to whom sun and moon
Are sparks, and short-lived, claims another right.
Her appetite and her digestion mend.
We must not starve, nor hope to pamper her
With women’s milk, and pap, unto the end.
All libraries, which are schools, camps, and courts;
But ask your garners if you have not been
In harvest too indulgent to your sports.
Awhile from hence. Perchance outlandish ground
Bears no more wit than ours; but yet more scant
Are those diversions there, which here abound.
We can beginnings, but not habits choke.
Go—whither? hence. You get, if you forget;
New faults, till they prescribe to us, are smoke.
Into this world, corruption’s sink, is sent;
Yet so much in her travel she doth gather,
That she returns home wiser than she went.
And make you ashamed to make your hawks’ praise yours,
Which when herself she lessens in the air,
You then first say, that high enough she towers.
Of God; love Him as now, but fear Him more;
And in your afternoons think what you told
And promised Him, at morning prayer before.
Else be not froward. But why do I touch
Things of which none is in your practice new?
And fables, or fruit-trenchers teach as much.
Riding I had you, though you still stay’d there;
And in these thoughts, although you never stir,
You came with me to Mitcham, and are here.