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John Donne - metaphysics poet
nunia
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would love to seek translation of these from medieval English to medieval Chinese or any modern meta-language. :)
* The Dissolution
Shee'is dead; And all which die
To their first Elements resolve;
And wee were mutuall Elements to us,
And made of one another.
My body then doth hers involve,
And those things whereof I consist, hereby
In me abundant grow, and burdenous,
And nourish not, but smother.
My fire of Passion, sighes of ayre,
Water of teares, and earthly sad despaire,
Which my materialls bee,
But neere worne out by loves securitie,
Shee, to my losse, doth by her death repaire,
And I might live long wretched so
But that my fire doth with my fuell grow.
Now as those Active Kings
Whose foraine conquest treasure bings,
Receive more, and spend more, and soonest breake:
This ( which I am amaz'd that I can speake)
This death, hath with my store
My use encreas'd
And so my soule more earnestly releas'd,
Will outstrip hers; As bullets flowen before
A latter bullet may o'rtake, the pouder being more.
* The Dampe
When I am dead, and Doctors know not why,
And my friends curiositie
Will have me cut up to survay each part,
When they shall finde your Picture in my heart,
You thinks a sodaine dampe of love
Will through all their senses move,
And worke on them as mee, and so preferre
Your murder, to the name of Massacre.
Poore victories! But if you dare be brave,
And pleasure in your conquest have,
First kill th'enormous gyant, your Disdaine,
And let th'enchantresse Honor, next be slaine,
And like a Goth and VAndall rize,
Deface Records, and Histories
Of your own arts and triumphs over men,
And without such advantage kill me then.
For I could muster up as well as you
My Gyants, and my Witches too,
Which are vast Constancy, and Secretnesse,
But these I neyther looke for, nor professe,
Kill mee as Woman, let mee die
As a meere man; doe you but try
Your passive valor, and you shall finde than,
In that you'have odds enough of any man.
* Loves Deitie
I long to talke with some old lovers ghost,
Who eyed before the god of love was borne:
I cannot thinke that hee, who then lov'd most,
Sunke so low, as to love one which did scorne.
But since this god produc'd a destinie,
And that vice-nature, custome, lets it be;
I must love her, that loves not mee.
Sure, they which made him god, meant not so much,
Nor he, in his young godhead practis'd it;
But when as even flame two hearts did touch
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondencie
Only his subject was; it canno bee
Love, till I love her, that loves mee.
But every moderne god will now extend
His vast prerogative, as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlewe of the God of love.
Oh were wee wak'ned by this Tyrannie
To ungod this child againe, it could not bee
I should love her, who loves not mee.
Rebell and Atheist too, why murmure I,
As though I felt the worst that love could doe?
Love might make me leave loving, might trie
A deeper plague, to make her love me too,
Which, since he loves before, I'am loth to see;
Falshood is worse then hate; and that must bee
I shee whom I love, should love mee.
* The Baite
Come live with me, and bee my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and christall brookes,
With silken lines, and silver hookes.
There will the river whispering runne
Warm'd by thy eyes, more then the Sunne.
And there the 'inamour'd fish will stay
Begging themselves they may betray.
When thou wilt swimme in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channell hath,
Will amorously to thee swimme,
Gladder to catch thee, then thou him.
If thou, to be so seene, beest loath,
By Sunne, or Moone, thou darknest both.
And if my selfe have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.
Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legges, with shells and weeds
Or treacherously poore fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowie net:
Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleavesilke flies
Bewitch poore fishes wandring eyes.
For thee, thou needst no such deceit,
For thou thy selfe art thine owne bait;
That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,
Alas, is wiser farre then I.
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| [9/22/2006 3:26:49 AM] |
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