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DONNE’S POEMS.
TO JOHN DONNE.[1]
Donne, the delight of Phabus, and each Muse,
Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse;
Whose every work, of thy most early wit,
Came forth example, and remains so, yet;
Longer a knowing, than most wits do live;
And which non affection praise enough can give!
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,
Which might with half mankind maintain a strife;
All which I mean to praise, and yet, I would;
But leave, because I cannot as I should.
Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse;
Whose every work, of thy most early wit,
Came forth example, and remains so, yet;
Longer a knowing, than most wits do live;
And which non affection praise enough can give!
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,
Which might with half mankind maintain a strife;
All which I mean to praise, and yet, I would;
But leave, because I cannot as I should.
- ↑ From the edition of 1650.
