For the class on 5.12.2017 at IST BILGI

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Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud

BY JOHN DONNE

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, 

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, 

And soonest our best men with thee do go, 

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well 

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? 

One short sleep past, we wake eternally 

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 

The Flea

BY JOHN DONNE

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,   

How little that which thou deniest me is;   

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;   

Thou know’st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead,

    Yet this enjoys before it woo,

    And pampered swells with one blood made of two,

    And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, nay more than married are.   

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;   

Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,   

And cloistered in these living walls of jet.

    Though use make you apt to kill me,

    Let not to that, self-murder added be,

    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?   

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?   

Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou   

Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now;

    ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be:

    Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me,

    Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.

An Epitaph on S.P.

BY BEN JONSON

A Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel

Weep with me, all you that read 

This little story: 

And know, for whom a tear you shed 

Death's self is sorry. 

'Twas a child, that so did thrive 

In grace and feature, 

As heaven and nature seem'd to strive 

Which own'd the creature. 

Years he number'd scarce thirteen 

When fates turn'd cruel, 

Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been 

The stage's jewel; 

And did act (what now we moan) 

Old men so duly, 

As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one, 

He play'd so truly. 

So, by error, to his fate 

They all consented; 

But viewing him since (alas, too late) 

They have repented; 

And have sought (to give new birth) 

In baths to steep him; 

But being so much too good for earth, 

Heaven vows to keep him.