SIR,

If this Letter finde you in a progresse, or at _Bath_, or at any place of

equall leasure to our _Spâ_, you will perchance descend to reade so low

meditations as these. Nothing in my L. of _Salisburies_ death exercised my

poor considerations so much, as the multitude of libells. It was easily

discerned, some years before his death, that he was at a defensive war,

both for his honour and health, and (as we then thought) for his estate:

and I thought, that had removed much of the envy. Besides, I have just

reasons to think, that in the chiefest businesses between the Nations, he

was a very good patriot. But I meant to speake of nothing but the libells,

of which, all which are brought into these parts, are so tastelesse and

flat, that I protest to you, I think they were made by his friends. It is

not the first time that our age hath seen that art practised, That when

there are witty and sharp libels made which not onely for the liberty of

speaking, but for the elegancie, and composition, would take deep root,

and make durable impressions in the memory, no other way hath been thought

so fit to suppresse them, as to divulge some course [coarse], and railing

one: for when the noise is risen, that libels are abroad, mens curiositie

must be served with something: and it is better for the honour of the

person traduced, that some blunt downright railings be vented, of which

everybody is soon weary, then other pieces, which entertain us long with a

delight, and love to the things themselves. I doubt not but he smoothered

some libels against him in his life time. But I would all these (or

better) had been made then, for they might have testified that the Authors

had meant to mend him, but now they can have no honest pretence. I dare

say to you, where I am not easily misinterpreted, that there may be cases,

where one may do his Countrey good service, by libelling against a live

man. For, where a man is either too great, or his Vices too generall, to

be brought under a judiciary accusation, there is no way, but this

extraordinary accusing, which we call Libelling. And I have heard that

nothing hath soupled and allayed the D. of _Lerma_ in his violent

greatnesse, so much as the often libels made upon him. But after death, it

is, in all cases, unexcusable. I know that _Lucifer_, and one or two more

of the Fathers who writ libellous books against the Emperours of their

times, are excused by our writers, because they writ not in the lives of

those Emperours. I am glad for them that they writ not in their lives, for

that must have occasioned tumult, and contempt, against so high and

Soveraign persons. But that doth not enough excuse them to me, for writing

so after their death; for that was ignoble, and uselesse, though they did

a little escape the nature of libels, by being subscribed and avowed:

which excuse would not have served in the Star-chamber, where sealed

Letters have been judged Libels; but these of which we speake at this

present, are capable of no excuse, no amolishment, and therefore I cry you

mercy, and my self too, for disliking them, with so much diligence, for

they deserve not that. But Sir, you see by this, and by my Letter of last

week, from hence the peremptory barrennesse of this place, from whence we

can write nothing into _England_, but of that which comes from thence.

Till the Lady _Worster_ came hither, I had never heard any thing to make

me imagine that Sir _Rob. Rich_ was in _England_; the first hour that I

had knowledge of it, I kisse his hands by this Letter. I make account to

be in _London_, transitorily, about the end of _August_. You shall do me

much favour, if I may finde a Letter from you (if you shall not then be

there) at the Lady _Bartlets_: I shall come home in much ignorance, nor

would I discern home by a better light, or any other then you. I can glory

of nothing in this voyage, but that I have afflicted my Lady _Bedford_

with few Letters. I protest earnestly to you, it troubles me much more to

dispatch a pacquet into _England_, without a Letter to her, then it would

to put in three. But I have been heretofore too immodest towards her, and

I suffer this Purgatory for it. We make accounts to leave this place

within 8 or 10 days, and hence to make our best haste to the Count

_Maurice_, where we think to finde again the young Palatine: all this I

tell you only because when you know, that we shall run too fast to write

any more Letters, you may easily pardon the importunities and

impertinencies of this, and cast into no lower place of your love

_Your very true friend and servant_

J. Donne.

Spâ, 26 July _here_

1612.

[xxxii.]

_To my Lord_ G. H.

_SIR_,

I am near the execution of that purpose for _France_; though I may have

other ends, yet if it do but keep me awake, it recompenses me well. I am

now in the afternoon of my life, and then it is unwholesome to sleep. It

is ill to look back, or give over in a course; but worse never to set out.

I speake to you at this time of departing, as I should do at my last upon

my death-bed; and I desire to deliver into your hands a heart and

affections, as innocent towards you, as I shall to deliver my soul into

Gods hands then. I say not this out of diffidence, as though you doubted

it, or that this should look like such an excuse, as implyed an

accusation; but because my fortune hath burdened you so, as I could not

rectifie it before my going, my conscience and interpretation (severer I

hope then yours towards my self) calls that a kinde of demerit, but God

who hath not only afforded us a way to be delivered from our great many

debts, contracted by our Executorship to _Adam_, but also another for our

particular debts after, hath not left poor men unprovided, for discharge

of morall and civill debts; in which, acknowledgement, and thankfulnesse

is the same, as repentance and contrition is in spiritual debts: and

though the value and dignity of all these be not perchance in the things,

but in the acceptation, yet I cannot doubt of it, either in God, or you.

But Sir, because there is some degree of thankfulnesse in asking more (for

that confesses all former obligations, and a desire to be still in the

same dependency) I must intreat you to continue that wherein you have most

expressed your love to me, which is, to maintain me in the same room in my

Lady _Bedfords_ opinion, in the which you placed me. I professe to you

that I am too much bound to her, for expressing every way her care of my

fortune, that I am weary before she is; and out of a loathnesse, that so

good works should be bestowed upon so ill stuffe, or that so much ill

fortune should be mingled with hers, as that she should misse any thing

that she desired, though it were but for me. I am willing to depart from

farther exercising her indevours in that kinde. I shall be bold to deliver

my poor Letters to her Ladiships hands, through yours, whilest I am abroad

though I shall ever account my self at home, whilest I am in your memory.

_Your affectionate servant and lover_

J. Donne.

[xxxiii.]

_To Sir_ H. G.

_SIR_,

Nature hath made all bodies alike, by mingling and kneading up the same

elements in every one. And amongst men, the other nature, Custome, hath

made every minde like some other; we are patterns, or copies, we informe,

or imitate. But as he hath not presently attained to write a good hand,

which hath equalled one excellent Master in his _A_, another in his _B_,

much lesse he which hath sought all the excellent Masters, and imployed

all his time to exceed on one Letter, because not so much an excellency of

any, nor every one, as an evennesse and proportion, and respect to one

another gives the perfection: so is no man vertuous by particular example.

Not he that doth all actions to the pattern of the most valiant, or

liberall, which Histories afford: nor he which chuses from every one their

best actions, and thereupon doth something like those. Perchance such may

be _in via perficiendorum_, which Divines allow to Monasticall life, but

not _perfectorum_, which by them is only due to Prelacy. For vertue is

even, and continuall, and the same, and can therefore break no where, nor

admit ends, nor beginnings: it is not only not broken, but not tyed

together. He is not vertuous, out of whose actions you can pick an

excellent one. Vice and her fruits may be seen, because they are thick

bodies, but not vertue, which is all light, and vices have swellings and

fits, and noise, because being extreams, they dwell far asunder, and they

maintain both a forein war against vertue, and a civill against one

another, and affect Soveraignty, as vertue doth society. The later

Physitians say, that when our naturall inborn preservative is corrupted

or wasted, and must be restored by a like extracted from other bodies; the

chief care is that the Mummy have in it no excelling quality, but an

equally digested temper: And such is true vertue. But men who have

preferred money before all, think they deal honourably with vertue, if

they compare her with money: And think that as money is not called base,

till the allay exceed the pure; so they are vertuous enough, if they have

enough to make their actions currant, which is, if either they get praise,

or (in a lower abasing) if they incurre not infamy or penalty. But you

know who said, _Angusta innocentia est ad legem bonum esse_: which rule

being given for positive Laws, severe mistakers apply even to Gods Law,

and (perchance against his Commandment) binde themselves to his Counsails,

beyond his Laws. But they are worse, that thinke that because some men

formerly wastfull, live better with half their rents then they did with

all, being now advantaged with discretion and experience, therefore our

times need lesse moral vertue then the first, because we have

Christianity, which is the use and application of all vertue: as though

our religion were but an art of thrift, to make a little vertue go far.

For as plentifull springs are fittest, and best become large Aqueducts, so

doth much vertue such a steward and officer as a Christian. But I must not

give you a Homily for a Letter. I said a great while since, that custome

made men like; we who have been accustomed to one another are like in

this, that we love not business: this therefore shall not be to you nor me

a busie Letter. I end with a probleme, whose errand is, to aske for his

fellowes. I pray before you ingulfe your self in the progresse, leave them

for me, and such other of my papers as you will lend me till you return.

And besides this Allegoricall lending, send me truely your counsails, and

love God and me, whilest I love him and you.

[xxxiv.]

_To my very true and very good friend Sir_ Henry Goodere.

_SIR_,

At some later reading, I was more affected with that part of your Letter,

which is of the book, and the namelesse Letters, then at first. I am not

sorry, for that affection were for a jealousie or suspicion of a

flexibility in you. But I am angry, that any should think, you had in your

Religion peccant humours, defective, or abundant, or that such a booke,

(if I mistake it not) should be able to work upon you; my comfort is, that

their judgment is too weak to endanger you, since by this it confesses,

that it mistakes you, in thinking you irresolved or various: yet let me be

bold to fear, that that sound true opinion, that in all Christian

professions there is way to salvation (which I think you think) may have

been so incommodiously or intempestively sometimes uttered by you; or else

your having friends equally near you of all the impressions of Religion,

may have testified such an indifferency, as hath occasioned some to

further such inclinations, as they have mistaken to be in you. This I have

feared, because hertofore the inobedient Puritans, and now the over

obedient Papists attempt you. It hath hurt very many, not in their

conscience, nor ends, but in their reputation, and ways, that others have

thought them fit to be wrought upon. As some bodies are as wholesomly

nourished as ours, with Akornes, and endure nakednesse, both which would

be dangerous to us, if we for them should leave our former habits, though

theirs were the Primitive diet and custome: so are many souls well fed

with such formes, and dressings of Religion, as would distemper and

misbecome us, and make us corrupt towards God, if any humane circumstance

moved it, and in the opinion of men, though none. You shall seldome see a

Coyne, upon which the stamp were removed, though to imprint it better, but

it looks awry and squint. And so, for the most part, do mindes which have

received divers impressions. I will not, nor need to you, compare the

Religious. The channels of Gods mercies run through both fields; and they

are sister teats of his graces, yet both diseased and infected, but not

both alike. And I think, that as _Copernicisme_ in the Mathematiques hath

carried earth farther up, from the stupid Center; and yet not honoured it,

nor advantaged it, because for the necessity of appearances, it hath

carried heaven so much higher from it: so the _Roman_ profession seems to

exhale, and refine our wills from earthly Drugs, and Lees, more then the

Reformed, and so seems to bring us nearer heaven; but then that carries

heaven farther from us, by making us pass so many Courts, and Offices of

Saints in this life, in all our petitions, and lying in a painfull prison

in the next, during the pleasure, not of him to whom we go, and who must

be our Judge, but of them from whom we come, who know not our case. Sir,

as I said last time, labour to keep your alacrity and dignity in an even

temper: for in a dark sadnesse, indifferent things seem abominable, or

necessary, being neither; as trees, and sheep to melancholique

night-walkers have unproper shapes. And when you descend to satisfie all

men in your own religion, or to excuse others to al[l], you prostitute

your self and your understanding, though not a prey, yet a mark, and a

hope, and a subject, for every sophister in Religion to work on. For the

other part of your Letter, spent in the praise of the Countesse, I am

always very apt to beleeve it of her, and can never beleeve it so well,

and so reasonably, as now, when it is averred by you; but for the

expressing it to her, in that sort as you seem to counsaile, I have these

two reasons to decline it. That that knowledge which she hath of me, was

in the beginning of a graver course, then of a Poet, into which (that I

may also keep my dignity) I would not seem to relapse. The Spanish

proverb informes me, that he is a fool which cannot make one Sonnet, and

he is mad which makes two. The other stronger reason, is my integrity to

the other Countesse, of whose worthinesse though I swallowed your opinion

at first upon your words, yet I have had since an explicit faith, and now

a knowledge: and for her delight (since she descends to them) I had

reserved not only all the verses, which I should make, but all the

thoughts of womens worthinesse. But because I hope she will not disdain,

that I should write well of her Picture, I have obeyed you thus far, as to

write: but intreat you by your freindship, that by this occasion of

versifying, I be not traduced, nor esteemed light in that Tribe, and that

house where I have lived. If those reasons which moved you to bid me write

be not constant in you still, or if you meant not that I should write

verses; or if these verses be too bad, or too good, over or under her

understanding, and not fit; I pray receive them, as a companion and

supplement of this Letter to you: and as such a token as I use to send,

which use, because I wish rather they should serve (except you wish

otherwise) I send no other; but after I have told you, that here at a

Christning at _Peckam_, you are remembered by divers of ours and I

commanded to tell you so, I kisse your hands, and so seal to you my pure

love, which I would not refuse to do by any labour or danger.

_Your very true friend and servant_

J. Donne.

[xxxv.]

_To S{r}_ G. M.

If you were here, you would not think me importune, if I bid you good

morrow every day; and such a patience will excuse my often Letters. No

other kinde of conveyance is better for knowledge, or love: What treasures

of Morall knowledge are in _Senecaes_ Letters to onely one _Lucilius_? and

what of Naturall in _Plinies_? how much of the storie of the time, is in

_Ciceroes_ Letters? And how all of these times, in the Jesuites Eastern

and Western Epistles? where can we finde so perfect a Character of

_Phalaris_, as in his own Letters, which are almost so many writs of

Execution? Or of _Brutus_, as in his privie seals for monie? The Evangiles

and Acts, teach us what to beleeve, but the Epistles of the Apostles what

to do. And those who have endevoured to dignifie _Seneca_ above his worth,

have no way fitter, then to imagine Letters between him and S. _Paul_. As

they think also that they have expressed an excellent person, in that

Letter which they obtrude, from our B[lessed] Saviour to King _Agabarus_.

The Italians, which are most discursive, and think the world owes them all

wisdome, abound so much in this kinde of expressing, that _Michel

Montaig[n]e_ saies, he hath seen, (as I remember) 400 volumes of

Italian Letters. But it is the other capacity which must make mine

acceptable, that they are also the best conveyers of love. But, though all

knowledge be in those Authors already, yet, as some poisons, and some

medicines, hurt not, nor profit, except the creature in which they reside,

contribute their lively activitie, and vigor; so much of the knowledge

buried in Books perisheth, and becomes ineffectuall, if it be not applied,

and refreshed by a companion, or friend. Much of their goodnesse, hath the

same period, which some Physicians of _Italy_ have observed to be in the

biting of their _Tarentola_, that it affects no longer, then the flie

lives. For with how much desire we read the papers of any living now,

(especially friends) which we would scarce allow a boxe in our cabinet, or

shelf in our Library, if they were dead? And we do justly in it, for the

writings and words of men present, we may examine, controll, and

expostulate, and receive satisfaction from the authors; but the other we

must beleeve, or discredit; they present no mean. Since then at this time,

I am upon the stage, you may be content to hear me. And now that perchance

I have brought you to it, (as _Thom. Badger_ did the King) now I have

nothing to say. And it is well, for the Letter is already long enough,

else let this probleme supply, which was occasioned by you, of women

wearing stones; which, it seems, you were afraid women should read,

because you avert them at the beginning, with a protestation of

cleanlinesse. _Martiall_ found no way fitter to draw the Romane Matrons to

read one of his Books, which he thinks most morall and cleanly, then to

counsell them by the first Epigram to skip the Book, because it was

obscene. But either you write not at all for women, or for those of

sincerer palates. Though their unworthinesse, and your own ease be

advocates for me with you, yet I must adde my entreaty, that you let goe

no copy of my Problems, till I review them. If it be too late, at least be

able to tell me who hath them.

_Yours_

J. Donne.

[xxxvi.]

_To S{r}_ H. G.

I send not my Letters as tribute, nor interest, not recompense, nor for

commerce, nor as testimonials of my love, nor provokers of yours, nor to

justifie my custome of writing, nor for a vent and utterance of my

meditations; for my Letters are either above or under all such offices;

yet I write very affectionately, and I chide and accuse my self of

diminishing that affection which sends them, when I ask my self why: onely

I am sure that I desire that you might have in your hands Letters of mine

of all kindes, as conveyances and deliverers of me to you, whether you

accept me as a friend, or as a patient, or as a penitent, or as a

beadsman, for I decline no jurisdiction, or refuse any tenure. I would not

open any doore upon you, but look in when you open it. Angels have not,

nor affect not other knowledge of one another, then they list to reveal

to one another. It is then in this onely, that friends are Angels, that

they are capable and fit for such revelations when they are offered. If at

any time I seem to studie you more inquisitively, it is for no other end

but to know how to present you to God in my prayers, and what to ask of

him for you; for even that holy exercise may not be done inopportunely, no

nor importunely. I finde little errour in that Grecians counsell, who

saies, If thou ask any thing of God, offer no sacrifice, nor ask

elegantly, nor vehemently, but remember that thou wouldest not give to

such an asker: Nor in his other Countriman, who affirms sacrifice of blood

to be so unproportionable to God, that perfumes, though much more

spirituall, are too grosse. Yea words which are our subtillest and

delicatest outward creatures, being composed of thoughts and breath, are

so muddie, so thick, that our thoughts themselves are so, because (except

at the first rising) they are ever leavened with passions and affections:

And that advantage of nearer familiarity with God, which the act of

incarnation gave us, is grounded upon Gods assuming us, not our going to

him. And, our accesses to his presence are but his descents into us; and

when we get any thing by prayer, he gave us before hand the thing and the

petition. For, I scarce think any ineffectuall prayer free from both sin,

and the punishment of sin: yet as God seposed a seventh of our time for

his exterior worship, and as his Christian Church early presented him a

type of the whole year in a Lent, and after imposed the obligation of

canonique hours, constituting thereby morall Sabbaths every day; I am

farre from dehorting those fixed devotions: But I had rather it were

bestowed upon thanksgiving then petition, upon praise then prayer; not

that God is indeared by that, or wearied by this; all is one in the

receiver, but not in the sender: and thanks doth both offices; for,

nothing doth so innocently provoke new graces, as gratitude. I would also

rather make short prayers then extend them, though God can neither be

surprised, nor besieged: for, long prayers have more of the man, as

ambition of eloquence, and a complacencie in the work, and more of the

Devil by often distractions: for, after in the beginning we have well

intreated God to hearken, we speak no more to him. Even this Letter is

some example of such infirmitie, which being intended for a Letter, is

extended and strayed into a Homilie. And whatsoever is not what it was

purposed, is worse; therefore it shall at last end like a Letter by

assuring you I am

[xxxvii.]

_To your selfe._