
The poem builds a sustained mock-blazon contrasting the speaker's mistress with an unnamed rival woman, praising the former while savaging the latter through paired similes. The speaker likens the sweat of his mistress's breast to the sweet scent wrung from roses in a still, to the trickle drawn from a chafed musk cat's pores, and to the almighty balm of the early east. On her neck this sweat forms such a lustre that the drops seem not sweat but pearl carcanets. By contrast, the rank sweaty froth on the rival's brow is likened to the spermatic issue of ripe menstruous boils, or to the scum that Sanserra's starved men, driven by lawless need, drew from parboiled shoes and boots and anything else touched with any sovereign fatness; it is further compared to lying stones falsely coated in saffroned tin, or to warts or wheals hanging on her skin. The mistress's head is called round as the world on every side, like the fatal ball that fell on Ide, or like that thing of which God was so jealous that ravishing it brings death. The rival's head, in contrast, is like a rough-hewn statue of jet, its features barely marked, like the first chaos, or like the flat-seeming face of Cynthia when the earth's shadow embraces her. Her fair breast is likened to Proserpine's white beauty-keeping chest, or to the urn of Jove's best fortune. The rival's breast is like worm-eaten trunks clothed in seal's skin, or a grave that is dust without and stink within. The mistress's arms and hands are like the slender stalk at whose end the woodbine quivers. The rival's skin is compared to rough-barked elm boughs, or to the russet skin of men lately scourged for madness or sin, or to sun-parched quarters set on the city gate — her tanned skin's lamentable state; her short, swollen, gouty fingers are likened to a bunch of ragged carrots. The heat of the mistress's best-loved part is compared to the chemic's masculine equal fire, which in the limbec's warm womb inspires into the earth's worthless dirt a soul of gold. The corresponding part of the rival is likened to the dread mouth of a fired gun, or to hot liquid metals newly run into clay moulds, or to Aetna, around which the grass is burnt away. The speaker then asks whether the rival's kisses are not as filthy as a worm sucking an envenomed sore, whether her hand does not quake in feeling as one gathering flowers still fears a snake, and whether her last act is not as harsh and violent as a plough rending stony ground. He affirms that he and his mistress, by contrast, kiss as devoutly and nicely as good turtledoves, as priests handling reverent sacrifice, and as a surgeon nice in searching wounds, when they embrace, touch, or kiss. The speaker concludes by telling the rival to leave, declaring that he will then leave comparing, since she and comparisons are odious.
By John Donne · First published 1633 · Genre: Metaphysical Poetry, Love Poetry, Satirical Poetry · 691 words
As the sweet sweat of roses in a still, / As that which from chafed musk cat's pores doth trill, / As the almighty balm of th' early east, / Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast; / And on her neck her skin such lustre sets, / They seem no sweat drops, but pearl carcanets. / Rank sweaty froth thy mistress' brow defiles, / Like spermatic issue of ripe menstruous boils, / Or like the scum, which, by need's lawless raw / Enforced, Sanserra's starvèd men did draw / From parboil'd shoes and boots, and all the rest / Which were with any sovereign fatness blest; / And like vile lying stones in saffron'd tin, / Or warts, or wheals, it hangs upon her skin. / Round as the world's her head, on every side, / Like to the fatal ball which fell on Ide; / Or that whereof God had such jealousy, / As for the ravishing thereof we die. / Thy head is like a rough-hewn statue of jet, / Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarce set; / Like the first chaos, or flat seeming face / Of Cynthia, when th' earth's shadows her embrace. / Like Proserpine's white beauty-keeping chest, / Or Jove's best fortune's urn, is her fair breast. / Thine's like worm-eaten trunks, clothed in seal's skin, / Or grave, that's dust without, and stink within. / And like that slender stalk, at whose end stands / The woodbine quivering, are her arms and hands. / Like rough-bark'd elm-boughs, or the russet skin / Of men late scourged for madness, or for sin, / Like sun-parch'd quarters on the city gate, / Such is thy tann'd skin's lamentable state; / And like a bunch of ragged carrots stand / The short swollen fingers of thy gouty hand. / Then like the chemic's masculine equal fire, / Which in the limbec's warm womb doth inspire / Into th' earth's worthless dirt a soul of gold, / Such cherishing heat her best loved part doth hold. / Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gun, / Or like hot liquid metals newly run / Into clay moulds, or like to that Aetna, / Where round about the grass is burnt away. / Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more, / As a worm sucking an envenom'd sore? / Doth not thy fearful hand in feeling quake, / As one which gathering flowers still fears a snake? / Is not your last act harsh and violent, / As when a plough a stony ground doth rent? / So kiss good turtles, so devoutly nice / Are priests in handling reverent sacrifice, / And nice in searching wounds the surgeon is, / As we, when we embrace, or touch, or kiss. / Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus, / She and comparisons are odious.
The Comparison is listed on Textopian as a poem by John Donne, dated 1633 CE.
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metaphysical poetry · love poetry · 17th century · English literature · conceit · comparison · contrast · romantic · passion · desire · introspection · wit