| John Donne (1572–1631). The Poems of John Donne. 1896. | | | | Letters to Several Personages | | To Mr. Rowland Woodward |
| | | LIKE one who in her third widowhood doth profess | |
| Herself a nun, tied to retiredness, | |
| So affects my Muse, now, a chaste fallowness. | |
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| Since she to few, yet to too many hath shown, 1 | |
| How love-song weeds 2 and satiric thorns are grown, | 5 |
| Where seeds of better arts were early sown; | |
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| Though to use and love poetry, to me, | |
| Betroth’d to no one art, be no adultery; | |
| Omissions of good, ill, as ill deeds be. | |
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| For though to us it seem but 3 light and thin, | 10 |
| Yet in those faithful scales, where God throws in | |
| Men’s works, vanity weighs as much as sin. | |
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| If our souls have stain’d their first white, yet we | |
| May clothe them with faith, and dear honesty, | |
| Which God imputes as native purity. | 15 |
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| There is no virtue but religion. | |
| Wise, valiant, sober, just, are names which none | |
| Want, which want not vice-covering discretion. | |
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| Seek we then ourselves in ourselves; for as | |
| Men force the sun with much more force to pass, | 20 |
| By gathering his beams with a crystal glass, | |
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| So we—if we into ourselves will turn, | |
| Blowing our spark 4 of virtue—may out-burn | |
| The straw which doth about our hearts sojourn. | |
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| You know physicians, when they would infuse | 25 |
| Into any oil the souls of simples, use | |
| Places, where they may lie still warm, to choose. | |
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| So works retiredness in us. To roam | |
| Giddily and be everywhere, but at home, | |
| Such freedom doth a banishment become. | 30 |
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| We are but farmers 5 of ourselves, yet may, | |
| If we can stock ourselves, and thrive, uplay | |
| Much, much dear treasure 6 for the great rent day. | |
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| Manure thyself then, to thyself be improved; 7 | |
| And with vain outward things be no more moved, | 35 |
| But to know that I love thee and would be loved. | |
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