THE LIFE OF John DONNE, Dr. in DIVINTY, AND Late DEAN of Saint Paul's Church LONDON.  
The second impression corrected and enlarged.  
Ecclus. 48.14.  
He did wonders in his life, and at his death his works were marvelous.  
LONDON, Printed by I. G. for R. Marriot, and are to be sold at his shop under S. Dunstan's Church in Fleetstreet. 1658.   

TO MY Noble & honoured Friend Sir ROBET HOLT of Aston, in the County of Warwick, Baronet.  
SIR,  
WHen this relation of the life of Doctor Donne was first made public, it had besides the approbation of our late learned & eloquent King, a conjunction with the Authors most excellent Sermons to support it; and thus it lay some time fortified against prejudice; and those passions that are by busy and malicious men too freely vented against the dead.  
And yet, now, after almost twenty years, when though the memory of Dr. Donne himself, must not, cannot die, so long as men speak English; yet when I thought Time had made this relation of him so like myself, as to become useless to the world, and content to be forgotten; I find that a retreat into a desired privacy, will not be afforded; for the Printers will again expose it and me to public exceptions; and without those supports, which we first had and needed, and in an Age too, in which Truth & Innocence have not been able to defend themselves from worse than severe censures.  
This I foresaw, and Nature teaching me selfe-preservation, and my long experience of your abilities assuring me that in you it may be found: to you, Sir, do I make mine addresses for an umbrage and protection: and I make it with so much humble boldness, as to say 'twere degenerous in you not to afford it.  
For, Sir,  
Dr. Donne was so much a part of yourself, as to be incorporated into your Family, by so noble a friendship, that I may say there was a marriage of souls betwixt him and your 
* John King. B. of Lond.  reverend Grandfather, who in his life was an Angel of our once glorious Church, and now no common Star in heaven.  
And Dr. Donne's love died not with him, but was doubled upon his heir, your beloved Uncle the Bishop of 
* Hen: King now B.C.  Chichester, that lives in this froward generation, to be an ornament to his Calling. And this affection to him was by Dr. D. so testified in his life, that he then trusted him with the very secrets of his soul; & at his death, with what was dearest to him, even his fame, estate, & children.  
And you have yet a further title to what was Dr. Donne's, by that dear affection & friendship that was betwixt him and your parents, by which he entailed a love upon yourself, even in your infancy, which was increased by the early testimonies of your growing merits, and by them continued, till D. Donne put on immortality; and so this mortal was turned into a love that cannot die.  
And Sir, 'twas pity he was lost to you in your minority, before you had attained a judgement to put a true value upon the living beauties and elegancies of his conversation; and pity too, that so much of them as were capable of such an expression, were not drawn by the pencil of a Tytian or a Tentoret, by a pen equal and more lasting than their art; for his life ought to be the example of more than that age in which he died. And yet this copy, though very much, indeed too much short of the original, will present you with some features not unlike your dead friend, and with fewer blemishes and more ornaments than when 'twas first made public: which creates a contentment to myself, because it is the more worthy of him, and because I may with more civility entitle you to it.  
And in this design of doing so, I have not a thought of what is pretended in most Dedications, a Commutation for Courtesies: no indeed Sir, I put no such value upon this trifle; for your owning it will rather increase my Obligations. But my desire is, that into whose hands soever this shall fall, it may to them be a testimony of my gratitude to yourself and Family, who descended to such a degree of humility as to admit me into their friendship in the days of my youth; and notwithstanding, my many infirmities, have continued me in it till I am become gray-headed; and as Time has added to my years, have still increased and multiplied their favours.  
This, Sir, is the intent of this Dedication: and having made the declaration of it thus public, I shall conclude it with commending them and you to God's dear love.  
I remain, Sir, what your many merits have made me to be, The humblest of your Servants, Isaac Walton.   

TO THE READER.  
MY desire is to inform and assure you, that shall become my Reader, that in that part of this following discourse, which is only narration, I either speak my own knowledge, or from the testimony of such as dare do any thing, rather that speak an untruth. And for that part of it which is my own observation or opinion, if I had a power I would not use it to force any man's assent, but leave him a liberty to disbelieve what his own reason inclines him to.  
Next, I am to inform you, that whereas Dr. Donne's life was formerly printed with his Sermons, and then had the same Preface or Introduction to it; I have not omitted it now, because I have no such confidence in what I have done, as to appear without an apology for my undertaking it.  
I have said all when I have wished happiness to my Reader.  
I. W.   

THE Life of Dr. DONNE, Late DEANE of Saint Paul's Church, Lond.  
IF the late deceased Provost of Eton college, Sir Henry Wotton, that great Master of Language and Art, had lived to see the publication of these Sermons, he had presented the world with the author's life exactly written, which was a work worthy his undertaking, and he fit to undertake it. Betwixt whom and the Author there was such a friendship contracted in their youth, as nothing but death should force a separation. And though their bodies were divided yet their affections were not, for that Learned Knights love followed his friend's fame beyond death and the forgetful grave. And this he testified by entreating me, whom he acquainted with his intentions, to inquire of some particulars that concerned it, not doubting but my knowledge of the Author and love to his memory might make my diligence useful, I did prepare them in a readiness to be augmented and rectified by his powerful pen; but than death prevented his intentions.  
When I heard that sad news, & heard also that these Sermons were to be printed, & want the author's Life, which I thought worthy to be recorded, indignation or grief (truly I know not which) transported me so far, that I reviewed my forsaken collections, & resolved the world should see the best narration of it, that my artless pen guided by the hand of truth could present to it.  
I shall be demanded, as once Pompey's poor bondman was (he was then alone on the seashore gathering the scattered pieces of an old broken Boat to burn the neglected body of his dead Master) Who art thou that preparest the funerals of Pompey the Great? Who I am that so officiously set the author's Memory on fire? I hope the question will have in it more of wonder than disdain: wonder indeed the Reader may, that I who profess myself artless, should presume with my faint light, to show forth his Life, whose very Name maketh it illustrious. But be this to the disadvantage of the person represented, certain I am 'tis much to the advantage of the beholder, who shall here see the author's picture in a natural dress, which ought to beget faith in what is spoken; for he that wants skill to deceive may safely be trusted.  
And if the Authors glorious spirit which now is in heaven, can have the leisure to look down and see me the meanest of all his friends, in the midst of this officious duty, confident I am he will not disdain this well-meant sacrifice to his memory; for whilst his conversation made me & many others happy below, I know his humility and gentleness was eminent, and I have heard Divines say, That those virtues which were but sparks upon earth, become great and glorious stars in heaven.  
This being premised, I proceed to tell the Reader, the Author was born in London, of good and virtuous parents: and though his own learning and other multiplied merits may justly seem sufficient to dignify both himself and his posterity; yet the Reader may be pleased to know that his Father was masculinely and lineally descended from a very ancient Family in Wales, where many of his name now live, that deserve and have great reputation in that country.  
By his Mother he was descended of the Family of the famous and learned Sir Tho. Moor, sometime L. chancellor of Engl. as also from that worthy and laborious judge rastal, who left Posterity the vast Statutes of the Law of this Nation most exactly abridged.  
He had his first breeding in his father's house, where a private Tutor had the care of him, until the ninth year of his age, and in his tenth year was sent to the University of Oxford, having at that time a good command both of the French and Latin Tongue. This and some other of his remarkable abilities, made one give this censure of him, That this age had brought forth another Picus Mirandula; of whom Story says, That he was rather born than made wise by study.  
There he remained in Hart-Hall, having for the advancement of his studies Tutors of several Sciences to attend and instruct him, till time made him capable, and his learning expressed in public exercises declared him worthy to receive his first degree in the schools, which he forbore by advice from his friends, who being for their Religion of the Romish persuasion, were conscionably averse to some parts of the Oath that is always tendered at those times, and not to be refused by those that expect the titulary honour of their studies.  
About the fourteenth year of his age he was transplanted from Oxford to Cambridge, where that he might receive nourishment from both soils, he stayed till his seventeenth year; all which time he was a most laborious Student, often changing his studies, but endeavouring to take no degree, for the reasons formerly mentioned.  
About the seventeenth year of his age, he was removed to London, and then admitted into Lincoln's inn, with an intent to study the Law; where he gave great testimonies of his Wit, his Learning, and of his Improvement in that profession: which never served him for other use than an Ornament and Self-satisfaction.  
His Father died before his admission into this Society, and being a Merchant left him his portion in money (it was 3000 l.) His mother and those to whose care he was committed, were watchful to improve his knowledge, and to that end appointed him Tutors in the mathematics, and all the liberal Sciences, to attend him. But with these Arts they were advised to instill particular principles of the Romish Church, of which those Tutors professed (though secretly) themselves to be members.  
They had almost obliged him to their faith, having for their advantage (besides many opportunities) the example of his dear and pious Parents, which was a most powerful persuasion, and did work much upon him, as he professeth in his pseudomartyr; a book of which the Reader shall have some account in what follows.  
He was now entered into the eighteenth year of his age, and at that time had betrothed himself to no Religion that might give him any other denomination than a Christian. And Reason and Piety had both persuaded him that there could be no such sin as schism, if an adherence to some visible Church were not necessary.  
He did therefore at his entrance into the nineteenth year of his age (though his youth and strength than promised him a long life) yet being unresolved in his Religion, he thought it necessary to rectify all scruples that concerned that: and therefore waving the Law, and betrothing himself to no Art or Profession, that might justly denominate him; he begun to survey the Body of Divinity, as it is controverted betwixt the Reformed and the Roman Church. And as God's blessed Spirit did then awaken him to the search, and in that industry did never forsake him, (they be his own words 
* In his Preface to Pseudo-Mar. ) so he calls the same holy Spirit to witness this protestation, that in that disquisition and search, he proceeded with humility and diffidence in himself, and by that which he took to be the safest way, namely, his frequent prayers, and an indifferent affection to both parties.  
Being to undertake this search, he believed the Cardinal Bellarmine to be the best defender of the Roman cause, and therefore betook himself to the examination of his Reasons. The Cause was weighty, and wilful delays had been inexcusable both towards God and his own conscience; he therefore proceeded in this search with all moderate haste, and before the twentieth year of his age, did show the then Dean of Gloucester (whose name my memory hath now lost) all the Cardinals works marked with many weighty observations under his own hand; which works were bequeathed by him at his death as a Legacy to a most dear Friend.  
The year following he resolved to travel; and the Earl of Essex going first the Cales, and after the Island voyages, he took the advantage of these opportunities, waited upon his Lordship, and was an eyewitness of those happy and unhappy employments.  
But he returned not back into England, till he had stayed some years first in Italy, and then in Spain, where he made many useful observations of those countries, their Laws and manner of Government, and returned into England perfect in their Languages.  
The time that he spent in Spain was at his first going into Italy designed for travelling the Holy Land, and for viewing Jerusalem and the Sepulchre of our Saviour. But at his being in the furthest parts of Italy, the disappointment of company, or of a safe Convoy, or the uncertainty of returns for money into those remote parts, denied him that happiness which he did often occasionally mention with a deploration.  
Not long after his return into England, that exemplary pattern of gravity and wisdom, the Lord Elsemore, Keeper of the great Seal, and Lord cellour of England, taking notice of his Learning, Languages, and other abilities, and much affecting his person and condition, took him to be his chief Secretary, supposing and intending it to be an Introduction to some more weighty employment in the State, for which his Lordship did often protest he thought him very fit.  
Nor did his Lordship in this time of Mr. Donne's attendance upon him, account him to be so much his servant, as to forget he was his friend; and to testify it, did always use him with much courtesy, appointing him a place at his own table, to which he esteemed his company and discourse a great ornament.  
He continued that employment for the space of five years, being daily useful, and not mercenary to his friends. During which time he (I dare not say unhappily) fell into such a liking, as (with her approbation) increased into a love with a young Gentlewoman that lived in that Family, who was Niece to the Lady Elsemore, and Daughter to Sir George Moor, than chancellor of the Garter and Lieutenant of the Tower.  
Sir George had some intimation of it, and knowing prevention to be a great part of wisdom, did therefore remove her with much haste from that to his own house at Lothesley, but too late, by reason of some faithful promises which were so interchangeably passed as never to be violated.  
These promises were only known to themselves, and the friends of both parties used much diligence and many arguments to kill or cool their affections to each other: but in vain; for love is a flattering mischief, that hath denied aged and wise men a foresight of those evils that too often prove to be the children of that blind father; a passion that carries us to commit errors with as much ease as whirlwinds remove feathers, and beget in us an unwearied industry to the attainment of what we desire. And such an industry did, notwithstanding much watchfulness against it, bring them together (I forbear to tell how) and to a marriage too without the allowance of those friends, whose approbation always was & ever will be necessary to make even a virtuous love become lawful.  
And that the knowledge of their marriage might not fall, like an unexpected tempest, on those that were unwilling to have it so; but that preapprehensions might make it the less enormous, it was purposely whispered into the ears of many that it was so, yet by none that could attest it. But to put a period to the jealousies of Sir George, (Doubt often begetting more restless thoughts than the certain knowledge of what we fear) the news was in favour to Mr. Donne, and with his allowance, made known to Sir George by his honourable friend and neighbour Henry Earl of Northumberland: but it was to Sir George so immeasurably unwelcome, and so transported him, that as though his passion of anger and inconsideration might exceed theirs of love and error, he presently engaged his sister the Lady Elsemore to join with him to procure her Lord to discharge Mr. Donne of the place he held under his Lordship. This request was followed with violence; and though Sir George were remembered, that errors might be over-punished, and desired therefore to forbear till second considerations might clear some scruples, yet he became restless until his suit was granted, and the punishment executed. The Lord chancellor then at Mr. Donne's dismission, saying, he parted with a Friend; and protested he thought him a Secretary fitter for a King than a Subject.  
But this physic of M. Donne's dismission was not strong enough to purge out all Sir George his choler, who was not satisfied till Mr. Donne and his Compupill in Cambridge that married him, namely, Samuel Brook (who was after Doctor in Divinity, and Master of Trinity college) and his brother Mr. Christopher Brook, Mr. Donne's Chamber-fellow in Lincoln's inn, who gave Mr. Donne his Wife, and witnessed the marriage, were all committed, and to three several prisons.  
Mr. Donne was first enlarged, who neither gave rest to his body or brain, nor any friend in whom he might hope to have an interest, until he had procured an enlargement for his two imprisoned friends.  
He was now at Liberty, but his days were still cloudy; and being past these troubles, others did still multiply upon him; for his wife was (to her extreme sorrow) detained from him; and though with Jacob he endured not an hard service for her, yet he lost a good one, and was forced to make good his title to her, and to get possession of her by a long and a restless suit in Law, which proved troublesome and chargeable to him, whose youth, and travel, and bounty, had brought his estate into a narrow compass.  
It is observed, and most truly, that silence and submission are charming qualities, and work most upon passionate men; and it proved so with Sir George; for these and a general report of Mr. Donne's merits, together with his winning behaviour, (which when it would entice, had a strange kind of elegant irresistible art) these and time had so dispassionated Sir George, that as the world had approved his daughter's choice, so he also could not but see a more than ordinary merit in his new son; and this melted him into so much remorse (for Love and Anger are so like Agues, as to have hot and cold fits.) And love in parents, though it may be quenched, yet is easily rekindled, and expires not, till death denies mankind a natural heat) that he laboured his son's restoration to his place; using to that end both his own and his sister's power to her Lord, but with no success; for his answer was, That though he was unfeignedly sorry for what he had done, yet it was inconsistent with his place and credit, to discharge and readmit admit servants at the request of passionate petitioners.  
Sir George's endeavour for Mr. Donne's readmission, was by all means to be kept secret (for men do more naturally reluct for errors, than submit to put on those blemishes that attend their visible acknowledgement.) However it was not long before Sir George appeared to be so far reconciled, as to wish their happiness, and not to deny them his paternal blessing, but refused to contribute any means that might conduce to their livelihood.  
Mr. Donne's estate was the greatest part spent in many and chargeable Travels, Books, and dear-bought Experience; he out of all employment that might yield a support for himself and wife, who had been curiously and plentifully educated; both their natures generous, and accustomed to confer, but not to receive courtesies: These and other considerations, but chiefly that his wife was to bear a part in his sufferings, surrounded him with many sad thoughts, and some apparent apprehensions of want.  
But his sorrows were lessened and his wants prevented by the seasonable courtesy of their noble kinsman Sir Francis Wolly of Pirford, who entreated them to a cohabitution with him; where they remained with much freedom to themselves, and equal content to him for many years; and as their charge increased (she had yearly a child) so did his love and bounty.  
It hath been observed by wise and considering men, that wealth hath seldom been the portion, and never the mark to discover good people, but that Almighty God, who disposeth all things wisely, hath of his abundant goodness denied it (he only knows why) to many whose minds he hath enriched with the greater blessings of knowledge and virtue, as the fairer testimonies of his love to mankind; and this was the present condition of this man of so excellent erudition and endowments; whose necessary and daily expenses were hardly reconcilable with his uncertain and narrow estate. Which I mention, for that at this time there was a most generous offer made him for the moderating of his worldly cares; the declaration of which shall be the next employment of my pen.  
God hath been so good to his Church, as to afford it in every age some such men to serve at his Altar as have been piously ambitious of doing good to mankind; a disposition that is so like to God himself, that it owes itself only to him who takes a pleasure to behold it in his creatures. These times he did bless with many such; some of which still live to be patterns of apostolical Charity, and of more than human Patience. I have said this because I have occasion to mention one of them in my following discourse; namely, Dr. Morton, the most laborious and learned Bishop of Durham, one that God hath blessed with perfect intellectuals, and a cheerful heart at the age of 94 years (and is yet living) one that in his days of plenty used his large Revenue to the encouragement of Learning and virtue; and is now (be it spoken with sorrow) reduced to a narrow estate, which he embraces without repining; and still shows the beauty of his mind by so liberal a hand, as if this were an age in which to morrow were to care for itself. I have taken a pleasure in giving the reader a short, but true character of this good man, from whom I received this following relation. He sent to Mr. Donne, and entreated to borrow an hour of his time for a Conference the next day. After their meeting there was not many minutes passed before he spoke to Mr. Donne to this purpose; Mr. Donne, The occasion of sending for you is to propose to you what I have often revolved in my own thought since I last saw you: which, nevertheless, I will not do but upon this condition, that you shall not return me a present answer, but forbear three days, and bestow some part of that time in fasting and prayer; and after a serious consideration of what I shall propose, then return to me with your answer. Deny me not, Mr. Donne, for it is the effect of a true love, which I would gladly pay as a debt due for yours to me.  
This request being granted, the Doctor expressed himself thus: Mr. Donne, I know your Education and Abilities; I know your expectation of a State-employment; and I know your fitness for it; and I know too the many delays and contingencies that attend Court-promises; and let me tell you, my love begot by our long friendship and familiarity hath prompted me to such an inquisition of your present temporal estate, as makes me no stranger to your necessities, which are such as your generous spirit could not bear, if it were not supported with a pious patience: you know I have formerly persuaded you to wave your Court-hopes, and enter into holy Orders; which I now again persuade you to embrace, with this reason added to my former request: The King hath now made me Dean of Gloucester, and I am possessed of a Benefice, the profits of which are equal to those of my deanery, I will think my deanery enough for my maintenance (who am and resolve to die a single man) and will quit my Benefice and estate you in it (which the Patron is willing I shall do) if God shall incline your heart to embrace this motion. Remember, Mr. Donne, no man's education or parts make him too good for this employment, which is to be an ambassador for him who by a vile death opened the gates of life to mankind. Make me no present answer; but remember your promise, and return to me the third day with your resolution.  
At the hearing of this, Mr. Donne's faint breath and perplexed countenance gave a visible testimony of an inward conflict; but he departed without returning an answer till the third day, and then it was to this effect; My most worthy and most dear friend, since I saw you I have been faithful to my promise, and have also meditated much of your great kindness, which hath been such as would exceed even my gratitude; but that it cannot do, and more I cannot return you; and that I do with an heart full of humility and thanks, though I may not accept of your offer; but my refusal is not for that I think myself too good for that calling, for which Kings, if they think so, are not good enough: nor for that my education and learning, though not eminent, may not, being assisted with God's grace and humility, render me in some measure fit for it: but I dare make so dear a friend as you are my Confessor; some irregularities of my life, have been so visible to some men, that though I have, I thank God, made my peace with him by penitential resolutions against them, and by the assistance of his grace banished them my affections; yet this, which God knows to be so, is not so visible to man, as to free me from their censures, and it may be that sacred calling from a dishonour. And besides, whereas it is determined by the best of Casuists, that God's glory should be the first end, and a maintenance the second motive to embrace that calling; and though that each man may propose to himself both together; yet the first may not be put last without a violation of conscience, which he that searches the heart will judge. And truly my present condition is such, that if I ask my own conscience whether it be reconcilable to that rule, it is at this time so perplexed about it, that I can neither give myself nor you an answer. You know Sir, who says, Happy is that man whose conscience doth not accuse him for that thing which he does. To these I might add other reasons that dissuade me; but I crave your favour that I may forbear to express them.  
This was his present resolution, but the heart of man is not in his own keeping; and he was destined to this sacred service by an higher hand, a hand so powerful, as forced him to a compliance: of which I shall give the reader an account before I shall give a rest to my pen.  
Mr. Donne and his wife continued with Sir Francis Wolly till his death; a little before which time he was so happy as to make a perfect reconciliation betwixt Sir George and his forsaken son and daughter, Sir George conditioning by bond to pay to Mr. Donne 800 l. at a certain day, as a portion with his wife, or 20 l. quarterly for their maintenance, as the interest for it, till the said portion was paid.  
Most of those years that he lived with Sir Francis, he studied the Civil and Common laws; in which he acquired such a perfection, as was judged to hold proportion with many who had made that study the employment of their whole life.  
Sir Francis being dead, and that happy family dissolved, Mr. Donne took for himself an house in Micham (near to Croyden in Surrey) a place noted for good air and choice company: there his wife and children remained, & for himself he took lodgings in London near to White-Hall, whither his friends and occasions drew him very often, and where he was often visited by many of the Nobility and others of this Nation, who used him in their Counsels of greatest consideration.  
Nor did our own Nobility only value and favour him, but his acquaintance and friendship was sought for by most ambassadors of foreign Nations, and by many other strangers, whose learning or business occasioned their stay in this Nation.  
He was much importuned by many friends to make his residence in London, but he still denied it, having settled his dear wife and children at Micham, whither he often retired himself, and destined certain days to a constant study of some points of Controversies; but after some years, the persuasion of friends was so powerful, as to cause the removal of himself and family to London, where Sir Robert Drewry, a Gentleman of a very noble estate, and a more liberal mind, assigned him a very choice and useful house rent-free, next to his own in Drewry-lane; and was also a cherisher of his studies, and such a friend as sympathized with him and his in all their joy and sorrows.  
Many of the Nobility were watchful and solicitous to the King for some preferment for him; His Majesty had formerly both known and put a value upon his company, and had also given him some hopes of a State-employment, being the better pleased when Mr. Donne attended him, especially at his meals, where there were usually many deep discourses of general learning, and very often friendly debates or disputes of Religion betwixt his Majesty and those Divines, whose places required their attendance on him at those times: particularly, the Dean of the chapel, who then was Bishop Montague (the publisher of the learned and eloquent Works of his Majesty) and the most reverend Doctor Andrews, the late learned Bishop of Winchester, who then was the King's Almoner.  
About this time there grew many disputes that concerned the Oath of Supremacy and Allegiance, in which the King had appeared and engaged himself by his public writings now extant; and his Majesty discoursing with Mr. Donne concerning many of the reasons which are usually urged against the taking of those Oaths, apprehended such a validity and clearness in his stating the Questions, and his Answers to them, that his Majesty commanded him to bestow some time in drawing the Arguments into a method, and then write his Answers to them; and having done that, not to send but be his own messenger and bring them to him. To this he presently applied himself, and within six weeks brought them to him under his own hand-writing, as they be now printed, the Book bearing the name of pseudomartyr.  
When the King had read and considered that book, he persuaded Mr. Donne to enter into the Ministry; to which at that time he was and appeared very unwilling, apprehending it (such was his mistaking modesty) to be too weighty for his abilities; and though his Majesty had promised him a favour, and many persons of worth mediated with his Majesty for some secular employment for him, to which his education had apted him, and particulary the Earl of somersault, when in his height of favour, being then at Theobald's with the King, where one of the Clerks of the Council died that night, the Earl having sent immediately for Mr. Donne to come to him, said, Mr. Donne, To testify the reality of my affection, and my purpose to prefer you, stay in this garden till I go up to the King, and bring you word that you are Clerk of the Council. The King gave a positive denial to all requests; and having a discerning spirit, replied, I know Mr. Donne is a learned man, has the abilities of a learned Divine, and will prove a powerful Preacher, and my desire is to prefer him that way. After that, as he professeth, 
* In his book of Devotions.  the King descended almost to a solicitation of him to enter into sacred Orders: which, though he then denied not, yet he deferred it for three years. All which time he applied himself to an incessant study of textual Divinity, and to the attainment of a greater perfection in the learned Languages, Greek and Hebrew.  
In the first and most blessed times of Christianity, when the Clergy were looked upon with reverence, and deserved it, when they overcame their opposers by high examples of virtue, by a blessed Patience and long Suffering; those only were then judged worthy the Ministry, whose quiet and meek spirits did make them look upon that sacred calling with an humble adoration and fear to undertake it; which indeed requires such great degrees of humility, and labour, and care; that none but such were then thought worthy of that celestial dignity. And such only were then sought out, and solicited to undertake it. This I have mentioned because forwardness and inconsideration could not in Mr. Donne as in many others, be an argument of insufficiency or unfitness, for he had considered long, and had many strifes within himself concerning the strictness of life and competency of learning required in such as enter into sacred Orders; and doubtless, considering his own demerits, did humbly ask God with St. Paul, Lord who is sufficient for these things? and with meek Moses, Lord who am I? And sure if he had consulted with flesh and blood, he had not put his hand to that holy plough. But, God who is able to prevail, wrestled with him as the angel did with Jacob, and marked him; marked him for his own, marked him with a blessing, a blessing of obedience to the motions of his blessed Spirit. And then, as he had formerly asked God with Moses, Who am I? So now being inspired with an apprehension of God's particular mercy to him, he came to ask King David's thankful question, Lord who am I that thou art so mindful of me? So mindful of me as to lead me for more than forty years through this wilderness of the many temptations, and various turnings of a dangerous life; so merciful to me as to move the learnedest of Kings, to descend to move me to serve at thy Altar; so merciful to me as to move my heart to embrace this holy motion, thy motions I will embrace. And I now say with the blessed Virgin, Be it with thy servant as seemeth best in thy sight; and so I do take the cup of salvation, and will call upon thy Name and preach thy Gospel.  
Such strifes as these St. Austin had, when St. Ambrose endeavoured his conversion to Christianity, with which he confesseth, he acquainted his friend Alipius. Our learned Author (a man fit to write after no mean Copy) did the like. And declaring his intentions to his dear friend Dr. King than Bishop of London, a man famous in his generation, and no stranger to Mr. Donne's abilities. (For he had been Chaplain to the Lord chancellor, at the time of Mr. Donne's being his lordship's Secretary) That Reverend man did receive the news with much gladness, and after some expressions of joy, and a persuasion to be constant in his pious purpose, he proceeded with all convenient speed to ordain him both Deacon and Priest.  
Now the English Church had gained a second St. Austin, for I think none was so like him before his conversion; none so like St. Ambrose after it; and if his youth had the infirmities of the one, his age had the excellencies of the other, the learning and holiness of both.  
And now all his studies which had been occasionally diffused, were all concentred in Divinity. Now he had a new calling, new thoughts, and a new employment for his wit and eloquence. Now all his earthly affections were changed into divine love; and all the faculties of his own soul were engaged in the conversion of others. In preaching the glad tidings of remission to repenting sinners; and peace to each troubled soul. To these he applied himself with all care & diligence; and now, such a change was wrought in him, that he could say with David, Oh how amiable are thy Tabernacles, O Lord God of Hosts! Now he declared openly, that when he required a temporal, God gave him a spiritual-blessing: And that, he was now gladder to be a doorkeeper in the house of God, than he could to be enjoy the noblest of all temporal employments.  
Presently after he entered into his holy profession, the King sent for him, and made him his Chaplain in ordinary; and promised to take a particular care for his preferment.  
And though his long familiarity with Scholars, and persons of greatest quality, was such as might have given some men boldness enough to have preached to any eminent Auditory, yet his modesty in this employment was such, that he could not be persuaded to it, but went usually accompanied with some one friend, to preach privately in some villages not far from London. This he did till his Majesty sent and appointed him a day to preach to him; and though much were expected from him, both by his Majesty and others, yet he was so happy which few are, as to satisfy and exceed their expectations; preaching the Word so, as showed his own heart was possessed with those very thoughts, and joys that he laboured to distil into others. A Preacher in earnest, weeping sometimes for his Auditory, sometimes with them; always preaching to himself like an angel from a cloud, but in none; carrying some, as St. Paul was, to Heaven in holy raptures, and enticing others by a sacred art and Courtship to amend their lives; here picturing a vice so as to make it ugly to those that practised it; and a virtue so, as to make it be loved even by those that loved it not, and all this with a most particular grace and an unexpressable addition of comeliness.  
There may be some that may incline to think (such indeed as have not heard him) that my affection to my friend, hath transported me to an immoderate commendation of his preaching. If this meets with any such, Let me entreat, though I will omit many, yet that he will receive at least a double witness for what I say being attested by a Gentleman of worth, Mr. Chidley, and a frequent hearer of his Sermons. It is part of a funeral elegy writ on him, and a known truth though it be in verse.  
— Each Altar had his fire—  
He kept his love but not his object: wit,  
He did not banish, but transplanted it,  
Taught it both time & place, & brought it home  
To piety, which it doth best become.  
For say, had ever pleasure such a dress?  
Have you seen crimes so shap'r, or lovelyness  
Such as his lips did clothe Religion in?  
Had not reproof a beauty-passing sin?  
Corrupted nature sorrowed that she stood  
So near the danger of becoming good.  
And, when he preached she wished her ears exempt.  
From piety, that had such power to tempt.  
More of this, and more witnesses might be brought, but I forbear and return.  
That summer, in the very same month in which he entered into sacred Orders, and was made the King's Chaplain, His Majesty then going his progress, was entreated to receive an entertainment in the University of Cambridge: And Mr. Donne attending his Majesty at that time, his Majesty was pleased to recommend him to the University, to be made Doctor in Divinity, Doctor Harsnet (after Archbishop of York) was then vicechancellor, who knowing him to be the Author of the pseudomartyr, required no other proof of his abilities, but proposed it to the University, who presently assented and expressed a gladness, that they had such an occasion to entitle him to be theirs.  
His abilities and industry in his profession, were so eminent, and he so known and beloved by persons of quality, that within the first year of his entering into sacred Orders, he had fourteen Advowsons of several benefices presented to him: But they were in the Country, and he could not leave his beloved London, to which place he had a natural inclination, having received both his birth and education in it, and contracted a friendship there with many; whose conversation multiplied the joys of his life: But, an employment that might affix him to that place would be welcome, for he needed it.  
Immediately after his return from Cambridge, his wife died, leaving him a man of an unsettled estate, and (having buried five) the careful father of seven children then living, to whom he gave a voluntary assurance never to bring them under the subjection of a stepmother, which promise he kept most faithfully, burying with his tears all his earthly joys in his most dear and deserving wives grave; and betake himself to a most retired and solitary life.  
In this retiredness which was often from the sight of his dearest friends, he became crucified to the world, and all those vanities, those imaginary pleasures that are daily acted on that restless stage, and they crucified to him. Nor s it hard to think (being passions may be both changed and heightened by accidents) but that that abundant affection which once was betwixt him and her, who had long been the delight of his eyes, the Companion of his youth; her, with whom he had divided so many pleasant sorrows and contented fears as the Common-people are not capable of: She being now removed by death, a commeasurable grief took as full a possession of him as joy had done, and so indeed it did: for now his very soul was elemented of nothing but sadness, now grief took so full a possession of his heart, as to leave no place for joy. If it did? It was a joy to be alone, where like a Pelican in the wilderness, he might bemoan himself without witness or restraint, and pour forth his passions like Job in the days of his affliction, Oh that I might have the desire of my heart! Oh that God would grant the thing that I long for! For then as the Grave is become her house, so I would hasten to make it mine also; that we two might there make our beds together in the dark. Thus as the Israelites sat mourning by the rivers of Babylon, when they remembered Zion; so he gave some ease to his oppressed heart by thus venting his sorrows. Thus he began the day, and ended the night, ended the restless night and began the weary day in lamentations. And thus he continued till a consideration of his new engagements to God, and St. Paul's woe is me if I preach not the Gospel: dispersed those sad clouds that had now benighted his hopes, and forced him to behold the light.  
His first motion from his house was to preach, where his beloved wife lay buried (in St. Clement's Church near Temple-bar London,) and his text was a part of the Prophet Jeremy's Lamentations: Lo, I am the man that have seen affliction.  
And indeed his very words and looks testified him to be truly such a man; and they with the addition of his sighs and tears did so work upon the affections of his hearers, as melted and moulded them into a companionable sadness; and so they left the Congregation; but their houses presented them with objects of diversion, and his presented him with no diversions, but with fresh objects of sorrow, in beholding many helpless children, and a consideration of the many cares and casualties that attended their education.  
In this time of sadness he was importuned by the grave Benchers of Lincoln's inn, once the friends of his youth, to accept of their Lecture, which by reason of Dr. Gataker's removal from thence was then void; of which he accepted, being most glad to renew his intermitted friendship with those whom he so much loved, and where he had been a Saul, though not to persecute Christianity, yet in his irregular youth to neglect the visible practice of it, there to become a Paul, and preach salvation to his brethren.  
And now his life was as a Shining light amongst his old friends; now he gave an ocular testimony of the strictness and regularity of it; now he might say as S. Paul advised his Corinthians, Be ye followers of me, as I follow Christ, and walk as ye have me for an example; not the example of a busybody, but of a contemplative, an harmless, and an holy life and conversation.  
The love of that noble society was expressed to him many ways; for, besides fair lodgings that were set apart and newly furnished for him, with all necessaries, other courtesies were daily added; so many and so freely, as if they meant their gratitude should exceed his merits; and in this love-strife of desert and liberality, they continued for the space of three years, he preaching faithfully and constantly to them, and they liberally requiting him. About which time the Emperor of Germany died, and the Palsgrave, who had lately married the Lady Elizabeth the King's only daugther, was elected and crowned King of Bohemia, the unhappy beginning of many miseries in that Nation.  
King James, whose Motto (Beati Pacifici) did truly speak the very thoughts of his heart, endeavoured first to prevent, and after to compose the discords of that discomposed State: and amongst other his endeavours did then send the Lord Hay Earl of Doncaster his ambassador to those unsettled Princes; and by a special command from his Majesty Dr. Donne was appointed to assist and attend that employment to the Princes of the Union: for which the Earl was most glad, who had always put a great value on him, and taken a complacency in his conversation; and those of Lincoln's inn that were his most entire friends were glad also; for they feared that his immoderate study and sadness for his wife's death, would, as Jacob said, make his days few, and respecting his bodily health, evil too: and of this there were some visible signs. At his going he left his friends of Lincoln's inn, and they him with many reluctations: for though he could not say as S. Paul to his Ephesians, Behold you to whom I have peached the kingdom of God, shall from henceforth see my face no more; yet he believing himself to be in a Consumption, questioned, and they feared it: knowing that his troubled mind with the help of his unintermitted studies hastened the decays of his weak body. But God turned it to the best, for this employment (to say nothing of the event of it) did not only divert him from those serious studies and sad thoughts, but seemed to give him a new life by a true occasion of joy, to be an eyewitness of the health of his most dear and most honoured Mistress the Qu of Bohemia, in a foreign Nation, and to be a witness of that gladness which she expressed to see him: Who having formerly known him a Courtier, was much joyed to see him in a canonical habit, and more glad to be an earwitness of his excellent and powerful preaching.  
About fourteen months after his departure out of England, he returned to his friends of Lincolns-inn with his sorrows moderated, and his health improved, and there be took himself to his constant course of preaching.  
About a year after his return out of Germany, Dr. Cary was made Bishop of Exeter, and by his removal the deanery of St. Paul's being vacant, the King sent to Dr. Donne, and appointed him to attend him at dinner the next day. When his Majesty was sat down, before he had eat any meat, he said after his pleasant manner, Dr. Donne, I have invited you to dinner, and though you sit not down with me, yet I will carve to you of a dish that I know you love well; for I know you love London, and I do therefore make you Dean of Paul's; and when I have dined, then do you take your beloved dish home to your study; say grace there to yourself, and much good may it do you.  
Immediately after he came to his deanery, he employed workmen to repair and beautify the chapel, suffering, as holy David once vowed his eyes and temples to take no rest, till he had first beautified the house of God.  
The next quarter following, when his Father-in-law Sir Geo. Moor, whom Time had made a lover and admirer of him, came to pay to him the conditioned sum of twenty pounds; he refused to receive it, and said as good Jacob did, when he heard his beloved son Joseph was alive, It is enough, you have been kind to me and mine: I know your present condition, and I hope mine is or will be such as not to need it: I will therefore receive no more from you upon that contract; and in testimony of it freely gave him up his bond.  
Immediately after his admission into his deanery, the Vicarage of St. Dunston in the West, London, fell to him by the death of Dr. White, the Advewson of it having been formerly given to him by his honourable friend, Richard Earl of Dorset, than the Patron, and confirmed by his brother the late deceased Edward, both of them men of much honour.  
By these and other ecclesiastical endowments which fell to him about the same time, given to him formerly by the Earl of Kent, he was enabled to become charitable to the poor, and kind to his friends, and to make such provision for his children, that they were not left scandalous, as relating to their or his profession and quality.  
The next Parliament, which was within that present year, he was chosen Prolocutor to the Convocation; and about that time was appointed by his Majesty, his most gracious Master, to preach very many occasional Sermons. All which employments he performed, not only to the allowance but admiration of the Representative Body of the whole Clergy of this Nation.  
He was once, and but once, clouded with the King's displeasure, and it was about this time, which was occasioned by some malicious whisperer, who had told his Majesty that Dr. Donne had put on the general humour of the Pulpits, and was become busy in insinuating a fear of the Kings inclining to Popery, and a dislike of his Government: and particularly, for his turning the evening Lectures into Catechising, and expounding the Prayer of our Lord, and of the Belief, and commandments. His Majesty was more inclinable to believe this; for that a person of Nobility and great note, betwixt whom and Dr. Donne, there had been a great friendship, was about this time discarded the Court (I shall forbear his name, unless I had a fairer occasion) and justly committed to prison; which begot many rumours in the common people, who in this Nation think they are not wise, unless they be busy about what they understand not, and especially about Religion.  
The King received this news with so much discontent and restlessness, that he would not suffer the Sun to set and leave him under this doubt; but sent for Dr. Donne, and required his answer to the Accusation; which was so clear and satisfactory, that the King said he was right glad he rested no longer under the suspicion. When the King had said this, Doctor Donne kneeled down and thanked his Majesty, and protested his answer was faithful & free from all collusion, and therefore desired that he might not rise till as in like cases he always had from God, so he might have from his Majesty some assurance that he stood clear and fair in his opinion. Then the King raised him from his knees with his own hands, and protested that he knew he was an honest man, and doubted not but that he loved him truly. And having thus dismissed him, he called some Lords of his Council into his chamber, and said with much earnestness, My Doctor is an honest man: and my Lords, I was never better satisfied with an answer: and I always rejoice when I think that by my means he became a Divine.  
He was made Dean the fiftieth year of his age; and in his fifty fourth year a dangerous sickness seized him, which inclined him to a Consumption. But God, as Job thankfully acknowledged, preserved his spirit, and kept his intellectuals as clear and perfect, as when that sickness first seized his body.  
In this distemper of body his dear friend Dr. Henry King (chief Residenciary of that Church, and now Bishop of Chicester) a man then generally known by the Clergy of this Nation, and as generally noted for his obliging nature, visited him daily, and observing that his sickness rendered his recovery doubtful, he chose a seasonable time to speak to him, to this purpose.  
Mr. Dean, I am by your favour no stranger to your temporal estate, & you are no stranger to the Offer lately made us, for the renewing a Lease of the best Prebends corpse belonging to our Church; and you know, 'twas denied, for that our Tenant being very rich, offered to fine at so low a rate as held not proportion with his advantages: but I will raise him to an higher sum, or procure that the other Residenciaries shall join to accept of what was offered: one of those I can and will do without delay, and without any trouble either to your body or mind, I beseech you to accept of my offer, for I know it will be a considerable addition to your present estate.  
To this, after a short pause, and raising himself upon his bed, he made this reply.  
My most dear friend, I most humbly thank you for your many favours, and this in particular: But, in my present condition, I shall not accept of your proposal; for doubtless there is such a sin as sacrilege, if there were not, it could not have a name in Scripture. And the Primitive Clergy were watchful against all appearances of it; and indeed then all Christians looked upon it with horror and detestation: Judging it to be even an open defiance of the power and providence of Almighty God, and a sad presage of a declining Religion. But instead of such Christians, who had selected times set a part to fast and pray to God, for a pious Clergy which they did obey, Our times abound with men that are busy and litigious about trifles and Church-Ceremonies; and yet so far from scrupling sacrilege, that they make not so much as a quaere what it is: But, I thank God I have, and dare not now upon my sick bed, when Almighty God hath made me useless to the service of the Church, make any advantages out of it. But if he shall again restore me to such a degree of health, as again to serve at his Altar, I shall then gladly take the reward which the bountiful benefactors of this Church have designed me; for God knows my Children and relations will need it. In which number my mother (whose Credulity and Charity has contracted a very plentiful to a very narrow estate) must not be forgotten: But Dr. King, if I recover not, that little, that very little, when divided into eight parts, must, if you deny me not so Charitable a favour, fall into your hands as my mst faithful friend and Executor; of whose Care and Justice; I make no more doubt than of God's blessing on that which I have conscientiously collected for them, and this I declare as my unalterable resolution.  
The reply to this was only a promise to observe his request.  
Within a few days his distempers abated; and as his strength increased, so did his thankfulness to Almighty God, testified in his book of Devotions, which he published at his recovery. In which the reader may see, the most secret thoughts that then possessed his soul, Paraphrased and make public; a book that may not unfitly be called a Sacred picture of spiritual ecstasies, occasioned and appliable to the emergencies of that sickness, which being a composition of Meditations, disquisitions and prayers, he writ on his sickbed; herein imitating the holy Patriarchs, who were wont to build their Altars in that place, where they had received their blessings.  
This sickness brought him so near to the gates of death, and he saw the grave so ready to devour him, that he would often say his recovery was supernatural. But God that restored his health continued it to him, till the fifty-ninth year of his life. And then in August 1630. being with his eldest Daughter Mrs. Harvie at Abury hatch in Essex, he there fell into a fever, which with the help of his constant infirmity (Vapours from the spleen) hastened him into so visible a Consumption, that his beholders might say as St Paul of himself, He dies daily; and he might say with Job, my welfare passeth away as a cloud, the days of my affliction have taken hold of me, and weary nights are appointed for me.  
Reader, this sickness continued long, not only weakening but wearying him so much, that my desire is, he may now take some rest, and that before I speak of his death thou wilt not think it an impertinent digression to look back with me upon some observations of his life, which whilst a gentle slumber gives rest to his spirits, may, I hope, not unfitly exercise thy consideration.  
His marriage was the remarkable error of his life; an error which though he had a wit able, very apt to maintain Paradoxes, yet he was very far from justifying; & though his wives Competent years, and other reasons might be justly urged to moderate severe Censures; yet he would occasionally condemn himself for it: and doubtless it had been attended with an heavy Repentance, if God had not blessed them with so mutual and cordial affections, as in the midst of their sufferings made their bread of sorrow taste more pleasantly than the banquets of dull and low-spirited people.  
The recreations of his youth were Poetry, in which he was so happy, as if nature and all her varieties had been made only to exercise his sharp wit, and high fancy; and in those pieces which were facetiously Composed and carelessly scattered (most of them being written before the twentieth year of his age) it may appear by his choice Metaphors, that both Nature and all the Arts joined to assist him with their utmost skill.  
It is a truth, that in his penitential years, viewing some of those pieces loosely scattered in his youth, he wished they had been abortive, or so short lived, that his own eyes had witnessed their funerals. But though he was no friend to them, he was not so fallen out with heavenly Poetry as to forsake that, no not in that in his declining age; witnessed then by many Divine Sonnets, and other high, holy, and harmonious Composures. Yea even on his former sickbed he wrote this heavenly hymn, expressing the great joy that then possessed his soul in the Assurance of God's favour to him.  

An hymn to God the Father.  

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,  
Which was my sin though it were done before?  
Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run,  
And do run still though still I do deplore,  
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,  
For, I have more.   

Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I have won  
Others to sin, and made my sin their done?  
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun  
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?  
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,  
For I have more.   

I have a sin of fear, that when I've spun  
My last thread I shall perish on the shore:  
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son  
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;  
And having done that thou hast done,  
I fear no more.    
I have the rather mentioned this hymn, for that he caused it to be set to a most grave and solemn tune, and to be often sung to the Organ by the Choristers of that Church, in his own hearing, especially at the Evening Service; and at his return from his Customary Devotions in that place, did occasionally say to a friend, The words of this hymn have restored to me the same thoughts of joy that possessed my soul in my sickness when I composed it. And, Oh the power of church-music! that Harmony added to it has raised the affections of my heart, and quickened my graces of zeal and gratitude; and I observe, that I always return from paying this public duty of Prayer and Praise to God with an unexpressible tranquillity of mind, and a willingness to leave the world.  
After this manner did the Disciples of our Saviour, and the best of Christians in those Ages of the Church nearest to his time, offer their praises to Almighty God. And the reader of St. Augustine's life may there find, that towards his dissolution he wept abundantly, that the enemies of Christianity had broke in upon them, and profaned and ruined their Sanctuaries, and because their public Hymns and Laud's were lost out of their Churches. And after this manner have many devout souls lifted up their hands and offered acceptable Sacrifices unto Almighty God in that place where Dr. Donne offered his.  
But now oh Lord—  
Before I proceed further, I think fit to inform the reader, that not long before his death he caused to be drawn a figure of the body of Christ extended upon an Anchor, like those which painters draw when they would present us with the picture of Christ Crucified on the cross; his varying no otherwise then to affix him to an Anchor (the emblem of hope) this he caused to be drawn in little, and then many of these figures thus drawn to be engraven very small in H●litropian Stones, and set in gold, and of these he sent to many of his dearest friends to be used as seals, or Rings, and kept as memorials of him and his affection.  
His dear friends Sir Henry Goodier and Sir Robert Drewry, could not be of that number, for they had put off mortality, and taken possession of the grave before him. But Sir Henry Wootton, and Dr. Hall the late deceased Bishop of Norwich were, and so were Dr. Duppa Bishop of Salisbury, and Dr. Henry King Bishop of Chicester, (both now living-men) in whom there was and is such a Commixture of general Learning, natural eloquence, and Christian humility, that they deserve a Commemoration by a pen equal to their own, which none hath exceeded.  
And in this enumeration of his friends, though many must be ommitted, yet that man of primitive piety Mr. George Herbert may not, I mean that George Herbert, who was the Author of the Temple or Sacred Poems and Ejaculations. (A book, in which by declaring his own spiritual Conflicts he hath raised many a dejected and discomposed soul, and charmed them into sweet and quiet thoughts: A book, by the frequent reading whereof, and the assistance of that Spirit that seemed to inspire the Author, the Reader may attain habits of peace and piety, and all the gifts of the Holy Ghost and Heaven; and by still reading, still keep those sacred fires burning upon the Altar of so pure a heart, as shall be freed from the anxieties of this world, and fixed upon things that are above;) betwixt him and Dr. Donne there was a long and dear friendship, make up by such o' Sympathy of inclinations, that they coveted and joyed to be in each others Company; and this happy friendship was still maintained by many sacred endearments, of which that which followeth may be some Testimony.  
To Mr. George Herbert, with one of my seals of the Anchor and Crest. A sheaf of Snakes used heretofore to be my Seal, the Crest of our poor Family.  
Qui prius assuetus serpentum falce tabellas Signare, haec nostrae Symbola parva domus Adscitus domui domini.— 

Adopted in God's family, and so  
My old Coat lost into new Arms I go.  
The cross my seal in Baptism, spread below,  
Does by that form into an Anchor grow.  
Crosses grow Anchors, bear as thou shouldst do  
Thy cross, and that cross grows an Anchor too.  
But he that makes our Crosses Anchors thus  
Is Christ, who there is crucified for us.  
Yet with this I may my first Serpents hoed:  
God gives new blessings, and yet leaves the old.  
The Serpent may as wise my pattern be,  
My poison, as he feeds on dust, that's me.  
And as he rounds the earth to murder, sure  
He is my death, but on the Cross my cure.  
Crucify nature then, and then implore  
All grace from him, crucified there before.  
When all is cross, and that cross Anchor grown,  
This seals a catechism, not a seal alone.  
Under that little seal great gifts I send,  
Both works and prayers, pawns and fruits of a friend,  
Oh may that Saint that rides on our great Seal,  
To you that bear his names large bounty deal.  I: Donne.   

In Sacram Anchoram Piscatoris GEO. HERBERT.  

Quod Crux nequibat fixa Clavique additi,  
Tenere Christum scilicet ne ascenderet  
Tuive Christum—   

Although the Cross could not Christ here detain,  
When nailed unto't but he ascends again:  
Nor yet, thy eloquence here keep him still,  
But only whilst thou speak'st; this Anchor will.  
Nor canst thou be content, unless thou to  
This certain Anchor add a seal, and so  
The water and the earth, both unto thee  
Do owe the symbol of their certainty.  
Let the world reel, we & all ours stand sure,  
This Holy Cable's from all storms secure.  
Love near his death desired to end,  
With kind expressions to his friend;  
He writ when's hand could write no more,  
He gave his soul, and so gave o'er.  G. HERBERT.   
I return to tell the Reader, that besides these verses to his dear Mr. Herbert, and that hymn that I mentioned to be sung in the choir of S. Paul's Church; he did also shorten and beguile many sad hours by composing other sacred Ditties; and he writ an Hymn on his deathbed, which bears this title, An Hymn to God my God in my sicknsse, March 23. 1630.  
If these fall under the censure of a soul, whose too much mixture with earth makes it unfit to judge of these high illuminations; let him know that many holy & devout men have thought the soul of Prudentius to be most refined, when not many days before his death he charged it to present his God each morning and evening with a new and spiritual song; justified by the example of King David and the good King Hezek●as, who upon the renovation of his years paid his thankful vows to Almighty God in a royal Hymn, which he concludes in these words, The Lord was ready to save, therefore I will sing my songs to the stringed instruments all the days of my life in the temple of my God.  
The latter part of his life may be said to be a continued study; for as he usually preached once a week, if not oftener, so after his Sermon he never gave his eyes rest, till he had chosen out a new Text, and that night cast his Sermon into a form, and his Text into divisions, and next day betook himself to consult the Fathers, and so commit his meditations to his memory, which was excellent. But upon Saturday he usually gave himself and his mind a rest from the weary burden of his weeks' meditations, and spent that day in visitation of friends, and other diversions of his thoughts, and would say, that he gave both his body and mind that refreshment, that he might be enabled to do the work of the day following, not faintly, but with courage and cheerfulness.  
Nor was his age only so industrious, but in the most unsettled days of his youth, his bed was not able to detain him beyond the hour of four in a morning: and it was no common business that drew him out of his chamber till past ten. All which time was employed in study; and if it seem strange, it may gain a belief by the visible fruits of his labours; some of which remain as testimonies of what is here written: for he left the resultance of 1400. Authors, most of them abridged and analysed with his own hand; he left also sixscore of his Sermons all written with his own hand; also an exact and laborious Treatise concerning self-murder, called Biathanatos, wherein all the laws violated by that Act are diligently surveyed and judiciously censured: a Treatise written in his younger days, which alone might declare him then not only perfect in the Civil and Canon Law, but in many other such studies and arguments, as enter not into the consideration of many that labour to be thought great Clerks, and pretend to know all things.  
Nor were these only found in his study, but all businesses that passed of any public consequence, either in this or any of our neighbour-nations, he abbreviated either in Latin, or in the Language of that Nation, and kept them by him for a memorial. So he did the copies of divers Letters and cases of Conscience that had concerned his friends, with his observations and solutions of them, and divers other businesses of importance; all particularly and methodically digested by himself.  
He did prepare to leave the world before life left him, making his will when no faculty of his soul was damped or made defective by sickness, or he surprised by a sudden apprehension of death: but it was made with mature deliberation, expressing himself an impartial Father by making his children's portions equal; and a lover of his friends, whom he remembered with Legacies fitly and discreetly chosen and bequeathed. I cannot forbear a nomination of some of them; for methinks they be persons that seem to challenge a recordation in this place, as namely, to his brother-in-law Sir Th. Grimes, he gave that striking Clock which he had long worn in his pocket.— To his dear friend and executor Dr. King, now Bishop of Chichester, that model of Gold of the Synod of Dort, with which the States presented him at his last being at the Hague— and the two Pictures of Padrie Paulo and Fulgentio, men of his acquaintance when he traveled Italy, and of great note in that Nation for their remarkable learning.— To his ancient friend Dr. Brook, Master of Trinity college in Cambridge he gave the picture of the blessed Virgin and Joseph.— To Dr. Winniff (who succeeded him in the deanery) he gave a picture called the skeleton.— To the succeeding Dean, who was not then known, he gave many necessaries of worth, and useful for his house; and also several Pictures and Ornaments for the chapel, with a desire that they might be registered, and remain as a Legacy to his Successors. — To the Earls of Dorset and of Carlisle he gave several Pictures, and so he did to many other friends; Legacies given rather to express his affection, then to make any addition to their Estates: but unto the poor he was full of Charity, and unto many others, who by his constant and long continued bounty might entitle themselves to be his alms-people; for all these he made provision, and so largely, as having then six children living, might to some appear more than proportionable to his estate. I forbear to mention any more, lest the Reader may think I trespass upon his patience: but I will beg his favour to present him with the beginning and end of his Will.  
In the name of the blessed and glorious Trinity, Amen. I John Donne, by the mercy of Christ Jesus, and by the calling of the Church of England Priest, being at this time in good health and perfect understanding (praised be God therefore) do hereby make my last Will and Testament in manner and form following:  
First, I give my gracious God an entire sacrifice of body and soul, with my most humble thanks for that assurance which his blessed Spirit imprints in me now of the Salvation of the one, and the Resurrection of the other; and for that constant and cheerful resolution which the same Spirit hath established in me to live & die in the Religion now professed in the Church of England. In expectation of that Resurrection I desire my body may be buried (in the most private manner that may be) in that place of S. Paul's Church London, that the now Residentiaries have at my request designed for that purpose, &c.  
And this my last Will and Testament, made in the fear of God (whose mercy I humbly beg and constantly rely upon in Jesus Christ) and in perfect love and charity with all the world (whose pardon I ask from the lowest of my servants to the highest of my superiors) written all with my own hand, and my name subscribed to every page, of which there are five in number.  
Sealed Decem. 13. 1630.  
Nor was this blessed sacrifice of Charity expressed only at his death, but in his life also, by a cheerful & frequent visitation of any friend whose mind was dejected, or his fortune necessitous; he was inquisitive after the wants of Prisoners, and redeemed many from thence that lay for their fees, or for small debts; he was a continual giver to poor Scholars, both of this and foreign nations. Besides what he gave with his own hand, he usually sent a servant, or a discreet and trusty friend, to distribute his charity to all the Prisons in London at all the festival times of the year, especially at the Birth and Resurrection of our Saviour. He gave an hundred pounds at one time to an old friend, whom he had known live plentifully, & by a too liberal heart then decayed in his estate: and when the receiving of it was denied, by saying, he wanted not; for as there be some spirits so generous as to labour to conceal and endure a sad poverty, rather than those blushes that attend the confession of it; so there be others to whom Nature and Grace have afforded such sweet and compassionate souls, as to pity and prevent the distresses of mankind; which I have mentioned because of Dr. Donne's reply, whose answer was, I know you want not what will sustain nature, for a little will do that; but my desire is that you who in the days of your plenty have cheered the hearts of so many of your friends, would receive this from me, and use it as a cordial for the cheering of your own: and so it was received. He was an happy reconciler of many differences in the families of his friends and kindred, which he never undertook faintly; for such undertakings have usually faint effects; and they had such a faith in his judgement and impartiality, that he never advised them to any thing in vain. He was even to her death a most dutiful son to his Mother, careful to provide for her supportation; of which she had been destitute, but that God raised him up to prevent her necessities; who having sucked in the Religion of the Roman Church with her mother's milk, spent her estate in foreign countries to enjoy a liberty in it, and died in his house but three months before him.  
And to the end it may appear how just a steward he was of his Lord and Master's revenue, I have thought fit to let the Reader, know that after his entrance into his Deanery, as he numbered his years, and at the foot of a private account (to which God and his angels were only witnesses with him) computed first his revenue, than what was given to the poor, and other pious uses; and lastly, what rested for him and his; he blessed each years poor remainder with a thankful prayer; which for that they discover a more than common Devotion, the Reader shall partake some of them in his own words.  
So all is that remains of these two years. 
Deo Opt. Max. benigno  
Lirgitori, à me, & ab iis  
Quibus haec à me rese●vantur,  
Gloria & gratia in aeternum.  
Amen.  So that this year God hath blessed me land mine with.— 

Multiplicatae sunt super  
Nos misericordi ae tuae  
Domine.—   

Da Domine, ut quae eximmensû  
Bonitate tuâ nobis elargiri  
Dignatus sis, in quorumcunque  
Manus dovenerint, in tuam  
Semper cedant gloriam.  
Amen.   In sine horum sex Annorum manet— 
Quid habeo quid non accepi à Domino?  
Lirgiatur etiam ut quae largitus est;  
Sua iterum fiant, bono corum usu; ut  
Quemadmodum nec officiis hujus mundi,  
Nec loci in quo me posuit dignitati, nec  
Servis, nec egenis, in toto hujus anni  
Curriculo mihi conscius sum me defuissi;  
Ita & liberi, quibus quae supersunt,  
Supersunt, grato animo e● accipiant,  
Et beneficum authorem recognoscant.  
Amen.   
But I return from my long Digression.  
We left the Author sick in Essex, where he was forced to spend much of that winter, by reason of his disability to remove from thence: And having never for almost twenty years omitted his personal Attendance on his Majesty in that month in which he was to attend and preach to him; nor having ever been left out of the Roll and number of Lent-Preachers; and there being then (in January 1630.) a report brought to London, or raised there, that Dr. Donne was dead: That report gave him occasion to write this following letter to a friend.  
Sir,  
This advantage you and my other friends have by my frequent fevers, that I am so much the oftener at the Gates of Heaven, and this advantage by the solitude & close imprisonment that they reduce me to after; that I am so much the oftener at my prayers, in which I shall never leave out your happiness; and I doubt not but among his other blessings, God will add some one to you for my prayers. A man would almost be content to die (if there were no other benefit in death) to hear of so much sorrow, and so much good Testimony from good men as I (God be blessed for it) did upon the report of my death; yet I perceive it went not through all, for one writ to me that some (and he said of my friends) conceived I was not so ill as I pretended, but withdrew myself to live at ease, discharged of preaching. It is an unfriendly, and God knows an ill-grounded interpretation; for I have always been sorrier when I could not preach, than any could be they could not hear me. It hath been my desire, and God may be pleased to grant it, that I might die in the Pulpit; if not that, yet that I might take my death in the Pulpit, that is, die the sooner by occasion of those labours. Sir, I hope to see you presently after Candlemas, about which time will fall my Lent-Sermon at Court, except my Lord Chamberlain believe me to be dead, and so leave me out of the roll; but as long as I live and am not speechless, I would not willingly decline that service. I have better leisure to write than you to read; yet I would not willingly oppress you with too much Letter. God bless you and your Son as I wish  
Your poor friend and servant in Christ Jesus, J. Donne.  
Before that month ended, he was designed to preach upon his old constant day, the first Friday in Lent; he had notice of it, and had in his sickness so prepared for that employment, that as he had long thirsted for it, so he resolved his weakness should not hinder his journey; he came therefore to London, some few days before his day appointed. At his being there many of his friends (who with sorrow saw his sickness had left him only so much flesh as did cover his bones) doubted his strength to perform that task; and therefore dissuaded him from undertaking it, assuring him however, it was like to shorten his days; but he passionately denied their requests, saying, he would not doubt that God who in many weaknesses had assisted him with an unexpected strength, would not now withdraw it in his last employment; professing an holy ambition to perform that sacred work. And when to the amazement of some beholders he appeared in the Pulpit, many thought he presented himself not to preach mortification by a living voice, but mortality by a decayed body and dying face. And doubtless many did secretly ask that question in Ezekiel, Do these bones live? or can that soul Organize that tongue, 
Ezek. 37.3.  to speak so long time as the sand in that glass will move towards its Centre, and measure out an hour of this dying man's unspent life? Doubtless it cannot; yet after some faint pauses in his zealous prayer, his strong desires enabled his weak body to discharge his memory of his preconceived meditations; which were of dying, the Text being, To God the Lord belong the issues from Death. Many that then saw his tears, and heard his hollow voice, professing they thought the Text prophetically chosen, and that Dr. Donne had preached his own funeral Sermon.  
Being full of joy that God had enabled him to perform this desired duty, he hastened to his house, out of which he never moved, till like St. Stephen, he was carried by devout men to his Grave.  
The next day after his Sermon, his strength being much wasted, and his spirits so spent, as indisposed him to business, or to talk. A friend that had often been a witness of his free and facetious discourse, asked him, Why are you sad? To whom he replied with a countenance so full of cheerful gravity, as gave testimony of an inward tranquillity of mind, and of a soul willing to take a farewell of this world. And said, I am not sad, but most of the night passed I have entertained myself with many thoughts of several friends that have left me here, and are gone to that place from which they shall not return: And that within a few days I also shall go hence and be no more seen. And my preparation for this change is become my nightly meditation upon my bed, which my infirmities have now made restless to me. But at this present time I was in a serious Contemplation of the goodness of God to me, who am less than the least of his mercies; and looking back upon my life past, I now plainly see it was his hand that prevented me from all temporal employment, and it was his will that I should never settle nor thrive till I entered into the Ministry; in which I have now lived almost twenty years (I hope to his glory) and by which I most humbly thank him, I have been enabled to requite most of those friends which showed me kindness when my fortune was very low, and (as it hath occasioned the expression of my gratitude) I thank God most of them have stood in need of my requital. I have lived to be useful and comfortable to my good father in Law Sir George Moor, whose patience God hath been pleased to exercise with many temporal crosses; I have maintained my own mother, whom it hath pleased God after a plentiful fortune in her younger days, to bring to a great decay in her very old Age. I have quieted the Consciences of many that have groaned under the burden of a wounded Spirit, whose prayers I hope are available for me. I cannot plead innocency of life, especially of my youth: But I am to be judged by a merciful God, who is not willing to see what I have done amiss. And though of myself I have nothing to present to him but sins and misery; yet I know he looks not upon me now as I am of myself, but as I am in my Saviour, and hath given me even at this time some testimonies by his holy Spirit, that I am of the number of his Elect: I am full of joy, and shall die in peace.  
I must here look so far back, as to tell the Reader, that at his first return out of Essex, his old Friend and Physician, Dr. Fox, a man of great worth, came to him to consult his health, who after a sight of him, and some queries concerning his distempers, told him, That by Cordials and drinking milk twenty days together, there was a probability of his restauration to health; but he passionately denied to drink it. Nevertheless, Dr. Fox, who loved him most entirely, wearied him with solicitations, till he yielded to take it for ten days; at the end of which time he told Dr. Fox, he had drunk it more to satisfy him, than to recover his health; and that he would not drink it ten days longer upon the best moral assurance of having twenty years added to his life, for he loved it not; and he was so far from fearing death (which is the King of terrors) that he longed for the day of his dissolution.  
It is observed, that a desire of glory or commendation is rooted in the very nature of man, and that those of the severest and most mortified lives, though they may become so humble as to banish self-flattery, and such weeds as naturally grow there; yet they have not been able to kill this desire of glory, but that like our radical heat it will both live and die with us; and many think it should do so; and we want not sacred examples to justify the desire of having our memory to outlive our lives: which I mention, because Dr. Donne, by the persuasion of Dr. Fox, yielded at this very time to have a Monument made for him; but Dr. Fox undertook not to persuade how or what it should be; that was left to Dr. Donne himself.  
This being resolved upon, Dr. Donne sent for a Carver to make for him in wood the figure of an Urn, giving him directions for the compass and height of it, and to bring with it a board of the height of his body. These being got, and without delay a choice Painter was in a readiness to draw his picture, which was taken as followeth.— several Charcole-fires being first made in his large study, he brought with him into that place his winding-sheet in his hand, and having put off all his clothes, had his sheet put on him, and so tied with knots at his head and feet, and his hands so placed as dead bodies are usually fitted for the grave. Upon this Urn he thus stood with his eyes shut, and so much of the sheet turned aside as might show his lean, pale, and death-like face, which was purposely turned toward the East, from whence he expected the second coming of our Saviour. Thus he was drawn at his just height; and when the picture was fully finished, he caused it to be set by his bedside, where it continued, and became his hourly object till his death, and was then given to his dearest friend and Executor Dr. King, who caused him to be thus carved in one entire piece of white Marble, as it now stands in the cathedral Church of S. Paul's; and by Dr. Donn's own appointment these words were to be affixed to it as his Epitaph:  
JOHANNES DONNE Sac. Theol. Professor  
Post varia Studia quibus ab annis tenerrimis fideliter, nec infeliciter incubuit;  
Instinctu & impulsu Sp. Sancti, Monitu & Hortatu  
REGIS JACOBI, Ordines Sacros amplexus Anno sui Iesu, 1614 & suae aetatis 42.  
Decanatu hujus Ecclesiae indutus 27. Novembris 1621.  
Exutus morte ultimo Die Martii 1631.  
Hiclicet in Occiduo Cinere Aspicit Eum  
Cujus nomen est Oriens.  
Upon Monday following he took his last leave of his beloved Study, and being sensible of his hourly decay retired himself to his bedchamber, and that week sent at several times for many of his most considerable friends, with whom he took a solemn and deliberate farewell; commending to their considerations some sentences useful for the regulation of their lives, and dismissed them as good Jacob did his sons, with a spiritual Benediction. The Sunday following he appointed his servants, that if there were any business undone that concerned him or themselves, it should be prepared against Saturdy next; for after that day he would not mix his thoughts with any thing that concerned this world, nor ever did. But as Job, so he waited for the appointed time of his dissolution.  
And now he had nothing to do but die; to do which he stood in need of no longer time, for he had studied long, and to so happy a perfection, that in a former sickness he called God to witness 
* In his book of Devotions.  he was that minute ready to deliver his soul into his hands, if that minute God would determine his dissolution. In that sickness he begged of God the constancy to be preserved in that estate forever; and his patient expectation to have his immortal soul disrobed from her garment of mortality, makes me confident he now had a modest assurance that his Prayers were then heard, and his Petition granted. He lay fifteen days earnestly expecting his hourly change, and in the last hour of his last day, as his body melted away and vapoured into spirit, his soul having, I verily believe, some revelation of the beatifical Vision, he said, I were miserable if I might not die; and after those words closed many periods of his faint breath by saying often, Thy kingdom come, thy will be done. His speech, which had long been his ready and faithful servant, left him not till the last minute, and then forsook him, not to serve another Master, but died before him, for that it was become useless to him that now conversed with God on earth, as Angels are said to do in heaven, only by thoughts and looks. Being speechless, he did as S. Stephen, look steadfastly towards heaven, till he saw the Son of God standing at the right hand of his Father: and being satisfied with this blessed sight, as his soul ascended, and his last breath departed from him, he closed his own eyes, and then disposed his hands and body into such a posture as required no alteration by those that came to shroud him.  
Thus variable, thus virtuous was the Life, thus excellent, thus exemplary was the Death of this memorable man.  
He was buried in that place of S. Paul's Church which he had appointed for that use some years before his death, and by which he passed daily to pay his public Devotions to Almighty God (who was then served twice a day by a public form of Prayer and Praises in that place) but he was not buried privately, though he desired it; for beside an unnumbered number of others, many persons of Nobility and of eminency for Learning, who did love and honour him in his life, did show it at his death, by a voluntary and sad attendance of his body to the grave, where nothing was so remarkable as a public sorrow.  
To which place of his burial some mournful Friend repaired; and as Alexander the Great did to the grave of the famous Achilles, so they strewed his with an abundance of curious and costly Flowers; which course they (who were never yet known) continued morning and evening for many days; not ceasing till the stones that were taken up in that Church to give his body admission into the cold earth (now his bed of rest) were again by the Masons art leveled and firmed, as they had been formerly, and his place of burial undistinguishable to common view.  
Nor was this all the Honour done to his reverend Ashes; for as there be some persons that will not receive a reward for that for which God accounts himself a debtor; persons that dare trust God with their Charity, and without a witness; so there was by some grateful unknown friend, that thought Dr. Donne's memory ought to be perpetuated, an hundred Marks sent to his two faithful Friends 
* Dr. King and Dr. Monfort.  and Executors towards the making of his Monument. It was not for many years known by whom, but after the death of Dr. Fox it was known that he sent it; and he lived to see as lively a representation of his dead friend as Marble can express; a Statue indeed so like Dr. Donne, that (as his friend Sir Henry Wotton hath expressed himself) it seems to breathe faintly, and Posterity shall look upon it as a kind of artificial Miracle.  
He was of Stature moderately tall, of a straight and equally-proportioned body, to which all his words and actions gave an unexpressible addition of comeliness.  
The melancholy and pleasant humour were in him so contempered, that each gave advantage to the other, and made his Company one of the delights of mankind.  
His fancy was unimitably high, equalled only by his great wit, both being made useful by a commanding judgement.  
His aspect was cheerful, and such as gave a silent testimony of a clear knowing soul, and of a Conscience at peace with itself.  
His melting eye showed that he had a soft heart, full of noble compassion, of too brave a soul to offer injuries, and too much a Christian not to pardon them in others.  
He did much contemplate (especially after he entered into his Sacred Calling) the mercies of Almighty God, the immortality of the soul, and the joys of Heaven; and would often say, Blessed be God that he is God divinely like himself.  
He was by nature highly passionate, but more apt to reluct at the excesses of it. A great lover of the offices of humanity, and of so merciful a spirit, that he never beheld the miseries of mankind without pity and relief.  
He was earnest and unwearied in the search of knowledge; with which his vigorous soul is now satisfied, and employed in a continued praise of that God that first breathed it into his active body; which once was a Temple of the Holy Ghost, and is now become a small quantity of Christian dust.  
But I shall see it reinanimated.  J. W.  


To all my friends, Sir H. Goodere.  
SIR,  
I Am not weary of writing; it is the course, but durable garment of my love; but I am weary of wanting you. I have a mind like those bodies which have hot Livers and cold stomachs; or such a distemper as traveled me at Paris, a Fever, and dysentery: in which, that which is physic to one infirmity nourishes the other. So I abhor nothing more than sadness, except the ordinary remedy, change of company. I can allow myself to be Animal sociale, appliable to my company, but not gregale, to herd myself in every troup. It is not perfectly true which a very subtle, yet very deep wit, Averro, says, that all mankind hath but one soul, which informs and rules us all, as one Intelligence doth the firmament and all the Stars in it; as though a particular body were too little an organ for a soul to play upon. And it is as imperfect which is taught by that religion which is most accommodate to sense (I dare not say to reason (though it have appearance of that too) because none may doubt but that that religion is certainly best which is reasonablest) That all mankind hath one protecting Angel; all Christians one other, all English one other, all of one Corporation and every civil coagulation or society one other; and every man one other. Though both these opinions express a truth; which is, that mankind hath very strong bounds to cohabit and concur in other than mountains and hills during his life. First, common and mutual necessity of one another; and therefore naturally in our defence and subventions we first fly to ourselves; next, to that which is likest, other men. Then, natural and inborn charity, beginning at home, which persuades us to give, that we may receive: and legal charity, which makes us also forgive. Then an engraffing in one another, and growing together by a custom of society: and last of all, strict friendship, in which band men were so presumed to be coupled, that our Confessor King had a law, that if a man be killed, the murderer shall pay a sum felago suo, which the interpreters call, fide ligato, & comiti vitae. All these bands I willingly receive, for no man is less of himself than I; nor any man enough of himself: To be so, is all one with omnipotence. And it is well marked, that in the holy Book, wheresoever they have rendered Almighty, the word is Self-sufficient. I think sometimes that the having a family should remove me far from the curse of Vaesoli. But in so strict obligation of Parent, or Husband, or Master, (and perchance it is so in the last degree of friendship) where all are made one, I am not the less alone, for being in the midst of them. Therefore this oleum laetitiae, this balm of our lives, this alacrity which dignifies even our service to God, this gallant enemy of dejection and sadness, (for which and wickedness the Italian allows but one word, Triste: And in full condemnation whereof it was prophesied of our blessed Saviour, Non erit tristis, in his conversation) must be sought and preserved diligently. And since it grows without us, we must be sure to gather it from the right tree. They which place this alacrity only in a good conscience, deal somewhat too roundly with us, for when we ask the way, they show us the town afar off: Will a Physician consulted for health and strength, bid you have good sinews and equal temper? It is true, that this conscience is the resultance of all other particular actions; it is our triumph and banquet in the haven; but I would come towards that also, (as Mariners say) with a merry wind. Our nature is Meteorique, we respect (because we partake so) both earth and heaven; for as our bodies glorified shall be capable of spiritual joy, so our souls demerged into those bodies, are allowed to partake earthly pleasure. Our soul is not sent hither, only to go back again: we have some errand to do here: nor is it sent into prison, because it comes innocent; and he which sent it, is just. As we may not kill ourselves, so we may not bury ourselves: which is done or endangered in a dull monastic sadness, which is so much worse than jollity (for upon that word I durst— And certainly despair is infinitely worse than presumption: both because this is an excess of love, that of fear; and because this is up, that down the hill; easier, and more stumbling. Heaven is expressed by singing, hell by weeping. And though our blessed Saviour be never noted to have laughed, yet his countenance is said ever to be smiling And that even moderate mirth of heart, and face, and all I wish to myself, and persuade you to keep. This alacrity is not had by a general charity and equanimity to all mankind, for that is to seek fruit in a wilderness: nor from a singular friend, for that is to fetch it out of your own pocket: but the various and abundant grace of it, is good company; in which no rank, no number, no quality, but ill, and such a degree of that as may corrupt and poison the good, is exempt. For in nearer than them, your friend, and somewhat nearer than he, in yourself, you must allow some inordinateness of affections and passions: For it is not true that they are not natural, but storms and tempests of our blood and humours; for they are natural, but sickly. And as the Indian priests expressed an excellent charity, by building hospitals, and providing chirurgery for birds and beasts lamed by mischance, or age, or labour: so must we, not cut off, but cure these affections, which are the bestial part.   

To Sir H. Goodere.  
SIR,  
EVery Tuesday I make account that I turn a great hourglass, and consider that a weeks life is run out since I writ. But if I ask myself what I have done in the last watch, or would do in the next, I can say nothing; if I say that I have passed it without hurting any, so may the Spider in my window. The primitive monks were excusable in their retirings and enclosures of themselves: for even of them every one cultivated his own garden and orchard, that is, his soul and body, by meditation, and manufactures; and they ought the world no more, since they consumed none of her sweetness, nor begot others to burden her. But for me, if I were able to husband all my time so thriftily, as not only not to wound my soul in any minute by actual sin, but not to rob and cozen her by giving any part to pleasure or business, but bestow it all upon her in meditation, yet even in that I should wound her more, and contract another guiltiness: As the Eagle were very unnatural, if because she is able to do it, she should perch a whole day upon a tree, staring in contemplation of the majesty and glory of the Sun, and let her young eaglets starve in the nest. Two of the most precious things which God hath afforded us here, for the agony and exercise of our sense and spirit, which are a thirst and inhiation after the next life, and a frequency of prayer and meditation in this, are often envenomed, and putrefied, and stray into a corrupt disease: for as God doth thus occasion, and positively concur to evil, that when a man is purposed to do a great sin, God infuses some good thoughts which make him choose a less sin, or leave out some circumstance which aggravated that; so the devil doth not only suffer, but provoke us to some things naturally good, upon condition that we shall omit some other more necessary and more obligatory. And this is his greatest subtlety; because herein we have the deceitful comfort of having done well, and can very hardly spy our error, because it is but an insensible omission, and no accusing act. With the first of these I have often suspected myself to be overtaken; which is, with a desire of the next life: which though I know it is not merely out of a weariness of this, because I had the same desires when I went with the tide, and enjoyed fairer hopes than now: yet I doubt worldly encumbrances have increased it. I would not that death should take me asleep: I would not have him merely seize me, and only declare me to be dead, but win me, and overcome me. When I must shipwreck, I would do it in a Sea, where mine impotency might have some excuse; not in a sullen weedy lake, where I could not have so much as exercise for my swimming. Therefore I would fain do something; but that I cannot tell what, is no wonder. For to choose is to do; but to be no part of anybody, is to be nothing. At most, the greatest persons, are but greatwens and excrescences; men of wit and delighful conversation, but as moles for ornament, except they be so incorporated into the body of the world, that they contribute something to the sustentation of the whole. This I made account that I begun early, when I understood the study of our laws; but was diverted by the worst voluptuousness, which is an Hydroptique immoderate desire of human learning and languages, beautiful ornaments to great fortunes: but mine needed an occupation, and a course which I thought I entered well into, when I submitted myself into such a service, as I thought might employ those poor advantages which I had. And there I stumbled too, yet I would try again: for to this hour I am nothing, or so little, that I am scarce subject and argument good enough for one of mine own letters: yet I fear, that doth not ever proceed from a good root, that I am so well content to be less, that is, dead. You, Sir, are far enough from these descents, your virtue keeps you secure, and your natural disposition to mirth will preserve you; but lose none of these holds, a slip is often as dangerous as a bruise, and though you cannot fall to my lowness, yet in a much less distraction you may meet my sadness; for he is no safer which falls from an high Tower into the leads, than he which falls from thence to the ground: make therefore to yourself some mark, and go towards it alegrement. Though I be in such a planetary and erratic fortune, that I can do nothing constantly, yet you may find some constancy in my constant advising you to it.  
Your hearty true friend J. Donne.  
I came this evening from M. Jones his house in Essex, where M. Martin hath been, and left a relation of Captain Whitcocks' death, perchance it is no news to you, but it was to me; without doubt want broke him; for when M. Holland's Company by reason of the plague broke, the Captain sought to be at Mrs. Jones house, who in her husband's absence declining it, he went in the night, his boy carrying his cloak-bag, on foot to the Lord of Sussex, who going next day to hunt, the Captain not then sick, told him he would see him no more. A Chaplain came up to him, to whom he delivered an account of his understanding, and, I hope, of his belief, and soon after died; and my Lord hath buried him with his own Ancestors. Perchance his life needed a longer sickness; but a man may go faster and safer when he enjoys that daylight of a clear and sound understanding, than in the night or twilight of an Ague or other disease. And the grace of Almighty God doth every thing suddenly and hastily but depart from us, it enlightens us, warms us, heats us, ravishes us at once. Such a medicine, I fear, his inconsideration needed; and I hope as confidently that he had it. As our soul is infused when it is created, and created when it is infused, so at her going out, God's mercy is had by asking, and that is asked by having. Lest your Polesworth— &c.   

To Sir H. Goodere.  
SIR,  
THis letter hath more merit, than one of more diligence, for I wrote it in my bed, and with much pain. I have occasion to sit late some nights in my study, (which your books make a pretty library) and now I find that that room hath a wholesome emblematique use: for having under it a vault, I make that promise me, that I shall die reading, since my book and a grave are so near. But it hath another unwholesomeness, that by raw vapours rising from thence, (for I can impute it to nothing else) I have contracted a sickness which I cannot name nor describe. For it hath so much of a continual Cramp, that it wrists the sinews; so much of a Tetane, that it withdraws and pulls the mouth; and so much of the Gout, (which they whose counsel I use say it is) that it is not like to be cured, though I am too hasty in three days to pronounce it. If it be the Gout, I am miserable; for that affects dangerous parts, as my neck and breast, and (I think fearfully) my stomach, but it will not kill me yet. I shall be in this world like a porter in a great house, ever nearest the door, but seldomest abroad: I shall have many things to make me weary, and yet not get leave to be gone. If I go, I will provide by my best means that you suffer not for me in your bonds. The estate which I should leave behind me of any estimation, is my poor fame, in the memory of my friends, and therefore I would be curious of it, and provide that they repent not to have loved me. Since my imprisonment in my bed, I have made a meditition in verse, which I call a Litany; the word you know imports no other than supplication, but all Churches have one form of supplication, by that name. Amongst ancient annals, I mean some 800 years, I have met two litanies in Latin verse, which gave me not the reason of my meditations, for in good faith I thought not upon them then, but they give me a defence, if any man; to a Lay man, and a private, impute it as a fault, to take such divine and public names to his own little thoughts. The first of these was made by Ratpertus a Monk of Suevia; and the other by S. Notker, of whom I will give you this note by the way, that he is a private Saint for a few parishes; they were both but Monks, and the litanies poor and barbarous enough; yet Pope Nicolas the 5. valued their devotion so much that he canonised both their Poems, and commanded them for public service in their Churches: mine is for lesser chapels, which are my friends, and though a copy of it were due to you, now, yet I am so unable to serve myself with writing it for you at this time, (being some 30 staves of 9 lines) that I must entreat you to take a promise that you shall have the first, for a testimony of that duty which I owe to your love, and to myself, who am bound to cherish it by my best offices. That by which it will deserve best acceptation, is, That neither the Roman Church need call it defective, because it abhors not the particular mention of the blessed Triumphers in heaven; nor the Reformed can discreetly accuse it of attributing more than a rectified devotion ought to do. The day before I lay down, I was at London, where I delivered your Letter for Sir Edward Conway, and received another for you, with the copy of my Book, of which it is impossible for me to give you a copy so soon, for it is not of much less than 300 pages. If I die, it shall come to you in that fashion that your Letter desires it. If I warm again, (as I have often seen such beggars as my indisposition is, end themselves soon, and the patient as soon) you and I shall speak together of that, before it be too late to serve you in that commandment. At this time I only assure you, that I have not appointed it upon any person, nor ever purposed to print it: which later perchance you thought, and grounded your request thereupon. A Gent. that visited me yesterday told me that our Church hath lost Mr. Hugh Broughton, who is gone to the Roman side. I have known before, that Serarius the Jesuit was an instrument from Cardinal Baronius to draw him to Rome, to accept a stipend, only to serve the Christian Churches in controversies with the Jews, without endangering himself to change of his persuasion in particular deductions between these Christian Churches, or being inquired of, or tempted thereunto. And I hope he is no otherwise departed from us. If he be, we shall not escape scandal in it; because, though he be a man of many distempers, yet when he shall come to eat assured bread, and to be removed from partialities, to which want drove him, to make himself a reputation, and raise up favourers; you shall see in that course of opposing the Jews, he will produce worthy things: and our Church will perchance blush to have lost a soldier fit for that great battle; and to cherish only those single Duellisms between Rome and England; or that more single, and almost self-homicide, between the unconformed Ministers and Bishops. I writ to you last week that the plague increased; by which you may see that my Letters— opinion of the song, not that I make such trifles for praise; but because as long as you speak comparatively of it with mine own, and not absolutely, so long I am of your opinion even at this time; when I humbly thank God, I ask and have, his comfort of sadder meditations; I do not condemn in myself, that I have given my wit such evaporations as those, if they be free from profaneness, or obscene provocations. Sir, you would pity me if you saw me write, and therefore will pardon me if I write no more: my pain hath drawn my head so awry, and holds it so, that mine eye cannot follow mine hand: I receive you therefore into my prayers, with mine own weary soul, and commend myself to yours. I doubt not but next week I shall be good news to you, for I have mending or dying on my side, which is two to one: If I continue thus, I shall have comfort in this, that my Blessed Saviour exercising his Justice upon my two worldly parts, my fortune, and body, reserves all his mercy for that which best tastes it, and most needs it, my soul. I profess to you truly, that my loathness to give over now, seems to myself an ill sign, that I shall write no more.  
Your poor friend, and God's poor patient, J. Donne.   

To the Humble Lady, the Lady Kingsmel, upon the death of her Husband.  
Madam,  
THose things which God dissolves at once, as he shall do the Sun and Moon, and those bodies at the last conflagration, he never intends to reunite again; but in those things, which he takes in pieces, as he doth man and wife in these divorces, by death, and in single persons, by the divorce of body and soul, God hath another purpose to make them up again. That piece which he takes to himself, is presently cast in a mould, and in an instant made fit for his use; for heaven is not a place of a proficiency, but of present perfection. That piece which he leaves behind in this world, by the death of a part thereof, grows fitter and fitter for him, by the good use of his corrections, and the entire conformity to his will. Nothing disproportions us, nor makes us so uncapable of being reunited to those whom we loved here as murmuring, or not advancing the goodness of him who hath removed them from hence. We would wonder to see a man, who in a wood were left to his liberty to fell what trees he would, take only the crooked and leave the straightest trees; but that man hath perchance a ship to build, and not a house, and so hath use of that kind of timber: let not us, who know that in God's house there are many mansions, but yet have no model, no design of the form of that building, wonder at his taking in of his materials, why he takes the young and leaves the old, or why the sickly over-live those that had better health. We are not bound to think, that souls departed have devested all affections towards them whom they left here; but we are bound to think, that for all their loves they would not be here again: then is the will of God done in earth as it is in heaven, when we neither pretermit his actions, nor resist them; neither pass them over in an inconsideration, as though God had no hand in them; nor go about to take them out of his hands, as though we could direct him to do them better. As God's Scriptures are his will, so his actions are his will; both are testaments, because they testify his mind to us. It is not lawful to add a Schedule to either of his wills: as they do ill, who add to his written will, the Scriptures, a schedule of apocryphal books; so do they also, who to his other will, his manifested actions, add apocryphal conditions, and a schedule of such limitations as these: If God would have stayed thus long, or if God would have proceeded in this or this manner, I could have borne it. To say that our afflictions are greater than we can bear, is so near to despairing, as that the same words express both; for when we consider Cains words in that original Tongue in which God spoke, we cannot tell whether the words be, My punishment is greater than can be borne, or, My sin is greater than can be forgiven. But, Madam, you who willingly sacrificed yourself to God, in your obedience to him in your own sickness, cannot be doubted to dispute with him about any part of you, which he shall be pleased to require at your hands. The difference is great in the loss of an arm, or a head; of a child, or a husband: but to them who are incorporated into Christ their head, there can be no beheading; upon you who are a member of the Spouse of Christ the Church, there can fall no widowhood, nor orphanage upon those children to whom God is father. I have not another office by your husband's death, for I was your Chaplain before in my daily prayers; but I shall enlarge that office with other Collects than before, that God will continue to you that peace which you have ever had in him, and send you quiet and peaceable dispositions in all them with whom you shall have any thing to do, in your temporal estate and matters of this world. Amen.  
At my poor house at S. Paul's 26. Octob. 1624. Your Ladyships very humble and thankful Servant in Chr. Jesus, J. Donne.   

An Epitaph written by Dr. Corbet, Bishop of Oxford, on his friend Dr. Donne.  
HE that would write an Epitaph for thee,  
And write it well, must first begin to be  
Such as thou wert, for none can truly know  
Thy life and worth, but he that hath lived so.  
He must have wit to spare, and to hurl down  
Enough to keep the gallants of the Town.  
He must have learning plenty, both the laws,  
Civil and Common, to Judge any Cause.  
Divinity great store above the rest,  
Not of the last Edition, but the best.  
He must have language, travel, all the Arts,  
Judgement to use, or else he wants thy parts.  
He must have friends the highest, able to do,  
Such as Maecenas, and Augustus too:  
He must have such a sickness, such a death,  
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath.  
He that would write an Epitaph for thee,  
Should first be dead; let it alone for me.   

To the Memory of my ever desired Dr. Donne. An Elegy by H. King. B. C.  
TO have lived eminent in a degree  
Beyond our loftiest thoughts, that is like thee;  
Or t'have had too much merit, is not safe,  
For such excesses find no Epitaph.  
At common graves we have poetic eyes,  
Can melt themselves in easy Elegies;  
Each quill can drop his tributary verse,  
And pin it like the hatchments to the hearse:  
But at thine, poem or inscription  
(Rich soul of wit and language) we have none.  
Indeed a silence does that tomb be fit,  
Where is no Herald left to blazon it.  
Widowed invention justly doth forbear  
To come abroad, knowing thou art not there:  
Late her great patron, whose prerogative  
Maintained and clothed her so as none alive  
Must now presume to keep her at thy rate,  
Though he the Indies for her dower estate.  
Or else that awful fire which once did burn  
In thy clear brain, now fallen into thy urn,  
Lives thereto fright rude empirics from thence,  
Which might profane thee by their Ignorance.  
Who ever writes of thee, and in a style  
Unworthy such a theme, does but revile  
Thy precious dust, and wake a learned spirit,  
Which may revenge his rapes upon thy merit:  
For all a low-pitched fancy can devise  
Will prove at best but hallowed injuries:  
Thou like the dying Swan didst lately sing  
Thy mournful dirge in audience of the King;  
When pale looks and faint accents of thy breath  
Presented so to life that piece of death,  
That it was feared and prophesied by all  
Thou thither cam'st to preach thy funeral.  
Oh hadst thou in an elegiac knell  
Rung out unto the world thine own farewell,  
And in thy high victorious numbers beat  
The solemn measures of thy grieved retreat,  
Thou mightst the poet's service now have missed,  
As well as then thou didst prevent the Priest:  
And never to the world beholden be,  
So much as for an Epitaph for thee.  
I do not like the office; nor is't fit  
Thou who didst lend our age such sums of wit,  
Shouldst now reborrow from her bankrupt mine  
That o'er to bury thee which first was thine:  
Rather still leave us in thy debt, and know,  
Exalted Soul, more glory 'tis to owe  
Thy memory what we can never pay,  
Then with embased coin those rites defray.  
Commit we then thee to thyself, nor blame  
Our drooping loves that thus to thine own fame  
Leave thee executors, since, but thine own  
No pen could do thee Justice, nor bays Crown  
Thy vast deserts, save that we nothing can  
Depute to be thy ashes guardian:  
So Jewellers no art or metal trust  
To form the Diamond, but the Diamonds dust.   
FINIS.