John Donne (1572–1631). The Poems of John Donne. 1896.
Letters to Several PersonagesTo Sir Henry Wotton, at his going Ambassador to Venice
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Our good and great king’s loved hand and fear’d name;
By which to you he derives much of his,
And, how he may, makes you almost the same,
From his original, and a fair beam
Of the same warm and dazzling sun, though it
Must in another sphere his virtue stream;
Hath stored with notes of use and pleasures too,
From which rich treasury you may command
Fit matter whether you will write or do;
With glad grief to your sea-ward steps, farewell,
Which thicken on you now, as prayers ascend
To heaven in troops, at a good man’s passing-bell;
It such an audience as yourself would ask;
What you must say at Venice, this means now,
And hath for nature, what you have for task.
Honour, alone will to your fortune fit;
Nor shall I then honour your fortune, more
Than I have done your honour, wanting it.
To want, than govern greatness, for we are
In that, our own and only business,
In this, we must for others’ vices care.
In their last furnace, in activity;
Which fits them—schools and courts and wars o’erpast—
To touch and test in any best degree.
Fortune—if there be such a thing as she—
Spies that I bear so well her tyranny,
That she thinks nothing else so fit for me.
For your increase, God is as near me here;
And to send you what I shall beg, His stairs
In length and ease are alike everywhere.