Page:The Poems of John Donne - 1896 - Volume 1.djvu/166

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
110
DONNE’S POEMS.
Though you be much loved in the prince’s hall,
There things that seem exceed substantial;
Gods, when ye fumed on altars, were pleased well,
Because you were burnt, not that they liked your smell;
You’re loathsome all, being taken simply alone;
Shall we love ill things join’d, and hate each one?
If you were good, your good doth soon decay;
70And you are rare; that takes the good away:
And my perfumes I give most willingly
To embalm thy father’s corpse; what? will he die?


ELEGY V.

HIS PICTURE.

Here take my picture; though I bid farewell,
Thine, in my heart, where my soul dwells, shall dwell.
’Tis like me now, but I dead, ’twill be more,
When we are shadows both, than ’twas before.
When weatherbeaten I come back; my hand
Perhaps with rude oars torn, or sun-beams tann’d,
My face and breast of haircloth, and my head
With care’s harsh sudden hoariness o’erspread,
My body a sack of bones, broken within,
10And powder’s blue stains scatter’d on my skin;
If rival fools tax thee to have loved a man,
So foul and coarse, as, O! I may seem then,


l. 8. So 1635; 1633, With care’s rash sudden storms being o’erspread,