English poem
To Mr. Thomas Woodward: Haste Thee, Harsh Verse, as Fast as Thy Lame Measure
by John Donne
Haste thee, harsh verse, as fast as thy lame measure Will give thee leave, to him—my pain and pleasure. I’ve given thee, and yet thou art too weak, Feet, and a reasoning soul, and tongue to speak. Tell him all questions, which men have defended, Both of the place and pains of hell, are ended; And ’tis decreed, our hell is but privation Of him, at least in this earth’s habitation. And ’tis where I am, where in every street Infections follow, overtake, and meet. Live I or die, by you my love is sent; And you’re my pawns, or else my testament.
More by John Donne
- To Mr. Rowland Woodward: Zealously My Muse Doth Salute All Thee
- To Mr. Samuel Brooke
- To Mr. Thomas Woodward: All Hail, Sweet Poet, More Full of More Strong Fire
- To Mr. Thomas Woodward: At Once from Hence My Lines and I Depart
- To Mr. Thomas Woodward: Pregnant Again with th’ Old Twins, Hope and Fear
- To Mr. Tilman After He Had Taken Orders
- To Mrs. Magdalen Herbert
- To Sir Edward Herbert, Now Lord Herbert Cherbury, Being at the Siege of Juliers