Poems of John Donne/Volume 1/Elegy 7
For other versions of this work, see Elegy 7 (Donne).
ELEGY VII.
Nature’s lay idiot, I taught thee to love,And in that sophistry, O! thou dost proveToo subtle; fool, thou didst not understandThe mystic language of the eye nor hand;Nor couldst thou judge the difference of the airOf sighs, and say, ‘‘This lies, this sounds despair”;Nor by th’ eye’s water cast a maladyDesperately hot, or changing feverously.I had not taught thee then the alphabet10Of flowers, how they, devisefully being setAnd bound up, might with speechless secrecyDeliver errands mutely, and mutually.Remember since all thy words used to beTo every suitor, ‘‘Ay, if my friends agree;”Since household charms, thy husband’s name to teach,Were all the love-tricks that thy wit could reach;
And since an hour’s discourse could scarce have madeOne answer in thee, and that ill array’dIn broken proverbs, and torn sentences.20Thou art not by so many duties his—That from th’ world’s common having sever’d thee,Inlaid thee, neither to be seen, nor see—As mine; who have with amorous delicaciesRefined thee into a blissful paradise.Thy graces and good works my creatures be;I planted knowledge and life’s tree in thee;Which O! shall strangers taste? Must I, alas!Frame and enamel plate, and drink in glass?Chafe wax for other’s seals? break a colt’s force,30And leave him then, being made a ready horse?
l. 2. 1669, Oh, how thou dost prove
l. 7. St. MS.; 1633, call a malady; 1635, now a malady
l. 25. So 1669; 1633, good words