An Anatomy of the World, Elegy
A FVNERALL ELEGIE.
TIs lost, to trust a Tombe with such a ghest,
Or to confine her in a Marble chest.
Alas, what's Marble, Ieat, or Porphiry,
Priz'd with the Chrysolite of eyther eye,
Or with those Pearles, and Rubies which shee was?
Ioyne the two Indies in one Tombe, 'tis glas;
And so is all to her materials,
Though eueryevery inche were ten escurials.
Yet shee's demolish'd: Can we keepe her then
In workes of hands, or of the wits of men?
Can these memorials, ragges of paper, giuegive
Life to that name, by which name they must liue?
Sickly, alas, short-liu'd, aborted bee
Those Carkas verses, whose soule is not shee.
And can shee, who no longer would be shee,
Being such a Tabernacle, stoope to bee
In paper wrap't; Or, when she would not lie
In such a house, dwell in an Elegie?
But 'tis no matter; we may well allow
Verse to liue so long as the world will now.
For her death wounded it. The world containes
Princes for armes, and Counsailors for braines,
Lawyers for tongues, Diuines for hearts, and more,
The Rich for stomachs, and for backes the Pore;
The Officers for hands, Merchants for feet
By which remote and distant Countries meet.
But those fine spirits, which doe tune and set
This Organ, are those peeces which beget
Wonder and louelove; And these were shee…; and shee
Being spent, the world must needes decrepit bee.
For since death will proceed to triumph still,
He can finde nothing, after her, to kill,
Except the world it selfe, so great as shee.
Thus braue and confident may Nature bee,
Death cannot giuegive her such another blow,
Because shee cannot such another show.
But must we say shee's dead? May't not be said
That as a sundred Clocke is peece-meale laid,
Not to be lost, but by the makers hand
Repolish'd, without error then to stand,
Or as the Affrique Niger streame enwombs
It selfe into the earth, and after comes,
(Hauing first made a naturall bridge, to passe
For many leagues,) farre greater then it was,
May't not be said, that her graue shall restore
Her, greater, purer, firmer, then b…fore?
Heauen may say this, and ioy in't; but can wee
Who liue, and lacke her, here this vantage see?
What is't to vsus, alas, if there hauehave beene
An Angell made a Throne, or Cherubin?
We lose by't: And as aged men are glad
Being tastlesse growne, to ioy in ioyes they had,
So now the sicke staru'd world must feed vpone
This joy, that we had her, who now is gone.
Reioyce then nature, and this world, that you
Fearing the last fires hastning to subdue
Your force and vigor, ere it were neere gone,
Wisely bestow'd, and layd it all on one.
One, whose cleare body was so pure, and thin,
Because it neede disguise no thought within.
T'was but a through-light scarfe, her minde t'enroule,
Or exhalation breath'd out from her soule.
One, whom all men who durst no more, admir'd;
And whom, who ere had worth enough, desir'd;
As when a Temple's built, Saints emulate
To which of them, it shall be consecrate.
But as when Heau'n lookes on vsus with new eyes,
Those new starres eu'ry Artist exercise,
What place they should assigne to them they doubt,
Argue, and agree not, till those starres go out:
So the world studied whose this peece should be.
Till she can be no bodies else, nor shee:
But like a Lampe of Balsamum, desir'd
Rather t'adorne, then last, shee soone expir'd;
Cloath'd in her Virgin white integrity;
For mariage, though it doe not staine, doth dye.
To scape th'infirmities which waite vpone
Woman, shee went away, before sh'was one.
And the worlds busie noyse to ouercome,
Tooke so much death, as seru'd for opium.
For though she could not, nor could chuse to die,
Shee'ath yeelded to too long an Extasie.
He which not knowing her sad History,
Should come to reade the booke of destiny,
How faire and chast, humble and high shee'ad beene,
Much promis'd, much perform'd, at not fifteene,
And measuring future things, by things before,
Should turne the leafe to reade, and read no more,
Would thinke that eyther destiny mistooke,
Or that some leafes were torne out of the booke.
But 'tis not so: Fate did but vsher her
To yeares of Reasons vse, and then infer
Her destiny to her selfe; which liberty
She tooke but for thus much, thus much to die.
Her modesty not suffering her to bee
Fellow-Commissioner with destinee,
Shee did no more but die; if after her
Any shall liue, which dare true good prefer,
EueryEvery such person is her delegate,
T'accomplish that which should hauehave beene her fate.
They shall make vp that booke, and shall hauehave thankes
Of fate and her, for filling vp their blanks.
For future vertuous deeds are Legacies,
Which from the gift of her example rise.
And 'tis in heau'n part of spirituall mirth,
To see how well, the good play her, on earth.
FINIS.
End of the text · John Donne, An Anatomy of the World (1611)