Sir, Though-I Thank God for it-I do Hate

Name: Sir, Though-I Thank God for it-I do Hate
Author: John Donne

The speaker addresses "Sir" to declare that though he thanks God for it, he hates this town perfectly, yet one condition among all its ills stands so excellently worst that hatred of it breeds pity toward the rest. Poetry itself he calls a sin akin to bringing dearth and Spaniards in, and like the pestilence or old-fashioned love it catches men riddlingly and never leaves till starved out, yet poets' state is poor and disarmed, like Papists, not worth hating. He compares one such poet to a wretch judged dead at the bar who prompts the man beside him who cannot read, saving that man's life while starving himself to live by his own labored scenes—an image extended to puppets danced above by bellows panting below. Attempts to move love by rhythms fail now, for witchcraft's charms bring none of their old fears, just as rams and slings are now silly battery beside pistolets. Those who write to lords for reward are like singers begging at doors for meat; those who write because all write have that excuse for writing ill; but worst is the beggarly writer who chews others' wits' fruits and, having ravenously and rankly digested them, spews them out as his own—true ownership only of the excrement, not the meat. These do the speaker no harm, nor do those who outdo and out-usure Jews, out-drink the sea, out-swear, and live as familiar with every sin as confessors, sins so strange that schoolmen must build new tenements in hell and canonists could hardly place them within any commandment's reach—but these punish themselves. The true offense is Coscus, whom time—which rots all and makes botches into pox, plodding a calf into an ox—has made a lawyer, though lately he was scarce a poet. Jollier in this new state than newly beneficed ministers, Coscus casts his title of barrister like nets or lime-twigs on every wench he meets, wooing in the language of pleas and the bench: claiming continual love since the thirtieth year of the Queen, injunctions got to stay a rival's suit, promises of remitter of grace by next Lent assizes, letters standing in for affidavits—words that would tear a soft maid's ear worse than scolding Sclavonians or winds roaring in ruined abbeys. The speaker recalls hoping Coscus, once sick with poetry and possessed with Muse, was merely mad, but men who choose law-practice for gain alone are worse than prostituted strumpets. Now, like an owl-like watchman with hand ever at a bill, Coscus talks idly like prisoners who swear for months that mere suretyship brought them there, lying to every suitor in everything like a king's favourite or a king himself; wedged into the bar, bearing burdens like asses, more shameless than carted whores, he lies even to the grave judge, for bastardy does not abound in king's titles, nor simony and sodomy in churchmen's lives, as these vices thrive in him. He will shortly compass all the land from Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover strand, spying out heirs melting with luxury—Satan himself would not joy at their sins as Coscus does. Like a thrifty wench scraping kitchen stuff and barrelling candle-droppings and snuff that after thirty years relicly kept might buy wedding-gear, he gets lands piecemeal, spending as much time wringing each acre as men spend pulling prime at cards. He draws assurances on parchment as large as his fields, huge as glossed civil laws, so vast that men in this forward age are made fathers of the church for writing less. Yet these deeds he does not write, nor pay for the writing, sparing no length—much as, when Luther was first professed, short pater nosters were desired, but having left those laws, men add the Power and Glory clause to Christ's prayer. When Coscus sells or exchanges land, he impairs the writings, slyly and unwatched leaving out "ses heires," as a commentator glosses over hard words or sense, or as controverters leave shrewd words out of vouched texts that might clear the doubt against them. The speaker asks where the spread woods that once clothed those purchased lands have gone—not built with, nor burnt within doors—and where the old landlord's troops and alms are, for now halls hold Carthusian fasts and fulsome Bacchanals equally, both of which he hates; the mean estate is blessed, and in rich men's homes he would have some beasts killed, but no hecatombs, so that none starve and none surfeit so extremely. Good works, he notes, are still allowed as good but are now out of fashion, like old rich wardrobes, and his own words draw no one within the vast reach of the huge statute's jaws.

By John Donne · First published 1633 · Genre: Satire, Verse Epistle, Metaphysical Poetry · 1,446 words

First lines

Sir, though-I thank God for it-I do hate / Perfectly all this town, yet there's one state / In all ill things so excellently best, / That hate toward them breeds pity towards the rest. / Though poetry indeed be such a sin / As I think that brings dearth and Spaniards in; / Though like the pestilence and old-fashion'd love, / Riddlingly it catch men, and doth remove / Never, till it be starved out, yet their state / Is poor, disarm'd, like Papists, not worth hate. / One-like a wretch, which at bar judged as dead / Yet prompts him, which stands next and cannot read, / And saves his life-gives idiot actors means, / Starving himself, to live by his labour'd scenes. / As in some organ, puppets dance above / And bellows pant below, which them do move, / One would move love by rhythms; but witchcraft's charms / Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms. / Rams and slings now are silly battery; / Pistolets are the best artillery. / And they who write to lords, rewards to get, / Are they not like singers at doors for meat? / And they who write, because all write, have still / That excuse for writing, and for writing ill. / But he is worst, who (beggarly) doth chaw / Others' wits' fruits, and in his ravenous maw / Rankly digested, doth those things out-spew, / As his own things; and they're his own, 'tis true; / For if one eat my meat, though it be known / The meat was mine, th' excrement is his own. / But these do me no harm, nor they which use / To outdo -- -, and out-usure Jews, / To out-drink the sea, to out-swear the -- -, / Who with sins of all kinds as familiar be / As confessors, and for whose sinful sake / Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make, / Whose strange sins canonists could hardly tell / In which commandment's large receipt they dwel. / But these punish themselves. The insolence / Of Coscus only breeds my just offence, / Whom time-which rots all, and makes botches pox, / And plodding on, must make a calf an ox- / Hath made a lawyer; which was, alas, of late / But scarce a poet; jollier of this state, / Than are new beneficed ministers, he throws, / Like nets or lime-twigs, wheresoe'er he goes, / His title of barrister on every wench, / And wooes in language of the pleas and bench. / "A motion, lady"-speak Coscus-"I have been / In love e'er since tricesimo of the Queen, / Continual claims I've made, injunctions got, / To stay my rival's suit, that he should not / Proceed. "-Spare me. -"In Hilary term I went, / You said, if I return'd next 'size in Lent, / I should be in remitter of your grace; / In th' interim my letters should take place / Of affidavits. " Words, words, which would tear / The tender labyrinth of a soft maid's ear, / More, more than ten Sclavonians scolding, more / Than when winds in our ruin'd abbeys roar. / When sick with poetry, and possess'd with Muse / Thou wast, and mad, I hoped; but men, which choose / Law-practice for mere gain, bold soul[s] repute / Worse than embrothell'd strumpets, prostitute. / Now like an owl-like watchman, he must walk / His hand still at a bill, now he must talk / Idly, like prisoners, which whole months will swear, / The only suretyship hath brought them there, / And to every suitor lie in everything, / Like a king's favourite, or like a king; / Like a wedge in a block, wring to the bar, / Bearing like asses, and more shameless far / Than carted whores; lie to the grave judge, for / Bastardy 'bounds not in king's titles, nor / Simony and sodomy in churchmen's lives, / As these things do in him; by these he thrives. / Shortly, as the sea, he'll compass all the land, / From Scots to Wight, from Mount to Dover strand; / And spying heirs melting with luxury, / Satan will not joy at their sins, as he. / For as a thrifty wench scrapes kitchen stuff, / And barrelling the droppings, and the snuff / Of wasting candles, which in thirty year / (Relicly kept) perchance buys wedding-gear; / Piecemeal he gets lands, and spends as much time / Wringing each acre, as men pulling prime. / In parchment then, large as his fields, he draws / Assurances, big as gloss'd civil laws, / So huge, that men, in our time's forwardness, / Are Fathers of the church for writing less. / These he writes not, nor for these written pays; / Therefore spares no length-as in those first days / When Luther was profess'd, he did desire / Short pater nosters, saying as a friar / Each day his beads, but having left those laws, / Adds to Christ's prayer the Power and Glory clause. / But when he sells or changes land, he impairs / His writings, and, unwatch'd, leaves out, ses heires, / As slyly as any commenter goes by / Hard words, or sense; or, in divinity, / As controverters in vouch'd texts leave out / Shrewd words, which might against them clear the doubt. / Where are those spread woods which clothed heretofore / Those bought lands? not built, nor burnt within door. / Where the old landlord's troops, and alms? In halls / Carthusian fasts, and fulsome Bacchanals / Equally I hate. Mean's blest; in rich men's homes / I bid kill some beasts, but no hecatombs; / None starve, none surfeit so. But oh, we allow / Good works, as good, but out of fashion now, / Like old rich wardrobes. But my words none draws / Within the vast reach of th' huge statute's jaws.

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Sir, Though-I Thank God for it-I do Hate is listed on Textopian as a poem by John Donne, dated 1633 CE.

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Work type: Poem
Author: John Donne
Date: 1633 CE
Language: English
Genres: Satire, Verse Epistle, Metaphysical Poetry, Invective, Social Commentary
Length: 1,446 words
Structure: 1 section, 1 paragraphs
Reading fit: Standard (8th-9th Grade)

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Genres

Satire — The poem is fundamentally a satirical attack on social vices, using exaggeration, mockery, and bitter irony to expose and condemn corruption in law, poetry, and London society.
Verse Epistle — The poem is structured as a formal letter addressed to 'Sir,' adopting the Renaissance tradition of verse epistles that combine personal address with moral commentary and social criticism.
Metaphysical Poetry — The work exemplifies Donne's metaphysical style through intellectual wit, elaborate conceits, paradox, and the unexpected yoking of abstract concepts with concrete imagery such as organs, bellows, and digestive processes.
Invective — The poem functions as an extended bitter denunciation of particular vices and character types, employing harsh language and passionate intensity to condemn social corruption and moral failings.