
A wife wishes for her husband's death yet complains of his jealousy. Donne imagines the husband instead swollen with poison, lying on his deathbed, his body covered with a hardened, sere bark, his breath as thick and short as the quickest crocheting musician's, on the verge of vomiting his soul loathsomely out of one hell into a new one. Deafened by his poor kindred's howling cries, he is besieged by them begging great legacies with a few feigned tears. In that case, the wife would not weep but be jolly and frolicsome, like a slave who tomorrow will be freed. Yet she weeps instead when she sees him hungrily swallow his own death in the form of heart's-bane jealousy. The speaker tells her to thank him, for he is courteous: in suspecting them, he kindly warns them. They must no longer, as they used to, openly flout his deformity with scoffing riddles, nor, sitting together at his table, adulterate him with words, touches, or even looks. Nor, when he sits down swollen and pampered with great fare and snorts, caged in his basket chair, may they usurp his own bed anymore, nor kiss and play in his house as before. The speaker now sees many dangers, for the house is his realm, his castle, and his diocese. But he proposes an alternative: as envious men who would revile their prince, or counterfeit his coin, exile themselves into another country and do it there, so the speaker and the woman might play in another house instead, and so have nothing to fear. There they will scorn the husband's household policies, his petty plots, and his pensionary spies, just as the inhabitants of the Thames' right side mock London's mayor, or as Germans mock the Pope's pride.
By John Donne · First published 1633 · Genre: Metaphysical Poetry, Dramatic Monologue, Satire · 414 words
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die, / And yet complain'st of his great jealousy; / If, swollen with poison, he lay in his last bed, / His body with a sere bark covered, / Drawing his breath as thick and short as can / The nimblest crocheting musician, / Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew / His soul out of one hell into a new, / Made deaf with his poor kindred's howling cries, / Begging with few feign'd tears great legacies- / Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly, and frolic be, / As a slave, which tomorrow should be free. / Yet weep'st thou, when thou seest him hungerly / Swallow his own death, heart's-bane jealousy? / O give him many thanks, he's courteous, / That in suspecting kindly warneth us. / We must not, as we used, flout openly, / In scoffing riddles, his deformity; / Nor at his board together being sat, / With words, nor touch, scarce looks, adulterate. / Nor when he, swollen and pamper'd with great fare, / Sits down and snorts, caged in his basket chair, / Must we usurp his own bed any more, / Nor kiss and play in his house, as before. / Now I see many dangers; for it is / His realm, his castle, and his diocese. / But if-as envious men, which would revile / Their prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile / Into another country, and do it there- / We play in another house, what should we fear? / There we will scorn his household policies, / His silly plots, and pensionary spies, / As the inhabitants of Thames' right side / Do London's mayor, or Germans the Pope's pride.
Jealousy is listed on Textopian as a poem by John Donne, dated 1633 CE.
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love · betrayal · suspicion · passion · heartbreak · doubt · trust · relationships · metaphysical poetry · romantic themes · possession · insecurity