John Donne

The Character Of The Bore

Well; I may now receive and die. My sin Indeed is great, but yet I have been in A purgatory, such as fear'd hell is A recreation, and scant map of this. My mind neither with pride's itch, nor yet hath been Poison'd with love to see or to be seen. I had no suit there, nor new suit to shew, Yet went to court: but as Glare, which did go To mass in jest, catch'd, was fain to disburse The hundred marks, which is the statute's curse, Before he 'scap'd; so't pleas'd my Destiny (Guilty of my sin of going) to think me As prone to all ill, and of good as forget- Ful, as proud, lustful, and as much in debt, As vain, as witless, and as false as they Which dwell in court, for once going that way, Therefore I suffer'd this: Towards me did run A thing more strange than on Nile's slime the sun E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came; A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name: Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies, Than Afric's monsters, Guiana's rarities; Stranger than strangers; one who for a Dane In the Danes' massacre had sure been slain, If he had liv'd then, and without help dies When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise; One whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by; One t' whom th' examining justice sure would cry, Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are. His clothes were strange, though coarse, and black, though bare; Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen) Become tufftaffaty; and our children shall See it plain rash a while, then nought at all. The thing hath travail'd, and, faith, speaks all tongues, And only knoweth what t' all states belongs. Made of th' accents and best phrase of all these, He speaks one language. If strange meats displease, Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste; But pedant's motley tongue, soldier's bombast, Mountebank's drug-tongue, nor the terms of law, Are strong enough preparatives to draw Me to hear this, yet I must be content With his tongue, in his tongue call'd Compliment; In which he can win widows, and pay scores, Make men speak treason, cozen subtlest whores, Outflatter favourites, or outlie either Jovius or Surius, or both together. He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God! How have I sinn'd, that thy wrath's furious rod, This fellow, chooseth me? He saith, Sir, I love your judgment; whom do you prefer For the best linguist? and I sillily Said, that I thought Calepine's Dictionary. Nay, but of men? Most sweet Sir! Beza, then Some Jesuits, and two reverend men Of our two academies, I nam'd. Here He stopt me, and said; Nay, your apostles were Good pretty linguists; so Panurgus was, Yet a poor gentleman; all these may pass By travel. Then, as if he would have sold His tongue, he prais'd it, and such wonders told, That I was fain to say, If you had liv'd, Sir, Time enough to have been interpreter To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tower had stood. He adds, If of court-life you knew the good, You would leave loneness. I said, Not alone My loneness is, but Spartan's fashion, To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last Now; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste; No more can princes' courts, though there be few Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue. He, like to a high-stretch'd lute-string, squeakt, O, Sir! 'Tis sweet to talk of kings! At Westminster, Said I, the man that keeps the Abbey-tombs, And for his price doth, with who ever comes, Of all our Harrys and our Edwards talk, From king to king, and all their kin can walk: Your ears shall hear naught but kings; your eyes meet Kings only; the way to it is King's street. He smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanic coarse; So're all our Englishmen in their discourse. Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, eyes you see, I have but one, Sir; look, he follows me. Certes, they're neatly cloth'd. I of this mind am, Your only wearing is your grogaram. Not so, Sir; I have more. Under this pitch He would not fly. I chaf'd him; but as itch Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron ground Into an edge, hurts worse; so I (fool!) found Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness, He to another key his style doth dress, And asks, What news? I tell him of new plays: He takes my hand, and, as a still which stays A semibrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly As loth to enrich me, so tells many a lie, More than ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stows, Of trivial household trash he knows. He knows When the queen frown'd or smil'd; and he knows what A subtile statesman may gather of that: He knows who loves whom, and who by poison Hastes to an office's reversion; He knows who hath sold his land, and now doth beg A license old iron, boots, shoes, and egg- Shells to transport. Shortly boys shall not play At span-counter, or blow-point, but shall play Toll to some courtier; and, wiser than us all, He knows what lady is not painted. Thus He with home-meats cloys me. I belch, spue, spit, Look pale and sickly, like a patient, yet He thrusts on more; and as he had undertook To say Gallo-Belgicus without book, Speaks of all states and deeds that have been since The Spaniards came to th' loss of Amyens. Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat, Ready to travail, so I sigh and sweat To hear this makaron talk in vain; for yet, Either my humour or his own to fit, He, like a privileg'd spy, whom nothing can Discredit, libels now 'gainst each great man: He names a price for every office paid: He saith, Our wars thrive ill, because delay'd; That offices are entail'd, and that there are Perpetuities of them lasting as far As the last day; and that great officers Do with the pirates share and Dunkirkers. Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes; Who loves whores, who boys, and who goats. I, more amaz'd than Circe's prisoners, when They felt themselves turn beasts, felt myself then Becoming traitor, and methought I saw One of our giant statues ope his jaw To suck me in for hearing him: I found That as burnt venomous leachers do grow sound By giving others their sores, I might grow Guilty, and be free; therefore I did show All signs of loathing; but since I am in, I must pay mine and my forefathers' sin To the last farthing: therefore to my power Toughly and stubbornly I bear this cross; but th' hour Of mercy now was come: he tries to bring Me to pay a fine to 'scape his torturing, And says, Sir, can you spare me? I said, Willingly. Nay, Sir, can you spare me a crown? Thankfully I Gave it as ransom. But as fiddlers still, Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will Thrust one more jigg upon you; so did he With his long complimented thanks vex me. But he is gone, thanks to his needy want, And the prerogative of my crown. Scant His thanks were ended when I (which did see All the court fill'd with such strange things as he) Ran from thence with such or more haste than one Who fears more actions doth haste from prison. At home in wholesome solitariness My piteous soul began the wretchedness Of suitors at court to mourn, and a trance Like his who dreamt he saw hell did advance Itself o'er me: such men as he saw there I saw at court, and worse, and more. Low fear Becomes the guilty, not th' accuser; then Shall I, none's slave, of high born or rais'd men Fear frowns, and my mistress, Truth! betray thee To th' huffing braggart, puft nobility? No, no; thou which since yesterday hast been Almost about the whole world, hast thou seen, O Sun! in all thy journey vanity Such as swells the bladder of our court? I Think he which made your waxen garden, and Transported it from Italy, to stand With us at London, flouts our courtiers; for Just such gay painted things, which no sap nor Taste have in them, ours are!