To Sir Henry Wotton: Sir, more than Kisses, Letters Mingle Souls

To Sir Henry Wotton: Sir, more than Kisses, Lett

John Donne addresses Sir Henry Wotton with the claim that letters, more than kisses, mingle souls, since they let absent friends speak to each other; this exchange eases the tediousness of the poet's life, without which he says he would wither in a day, passing from a living lock of grass to a mere bottle of hay. He develops the idea that life is a voyage, and that countries, courts, and towns act as rocks or remoras along the way, breaking or stopping ships; yet, though they stain worse than pitch, everyone's condition compels them to touch these places. He compares the extremes to a raging equatorial line and an icy pole, noting two temperate regions lie between; he asks what refuge remains for one parched in the court and frozen in the country, and questions whether cities, built of both extremes, offer any better choice. He likens such a mixture to seeking perfume from dung or garlic, or a cure from a scorpion or torpedo fish. He then judges all three settings equally worst. Cities he calls sepulchres, their inhabitants carcases as though none lived there at all. Courts he calls theatres, where some men play princes and others slaves, all reduced to the same clay. The country he calls a desert, where the good, once gained, is not truly possessed, and where, if born, it is not understood; there men become like beasts, prone to every evil, just as in cities they turn to blocks and in a lewd court to devils. Drawing on the image of the first chaos, where each element's qualities were confusedly mingled with the others, Donne says pride, lust, and covetousness, though each properly belonging to one of the three places, are in fact found in all of them, mingled so that their offspring is incestuous. In such places falsehood is made a citizen while virtue is treated as a foreigner. He warns against anyone claiming that virtue's flinty wall will lock vice out while they merely observe without partaking, since men are like sponges that give out what they take in, and those who see false play would rather deceive than lose. He notes that sin began in the best understandings—angels sinned first, then devils, then man—and that perhaps only beasts do not sin, leaving human beings beastly in everything but the whiteness of unspoiled integrity. He imagines that if men living in these places dared to look within and reclaim themselves, they would greet themselves as strangers, seeing Utopian youth grown into old Italians. He urges Wotton to be his own home and dwell within himself, since lodging anywhere else, mere continuance, breeds hell; instead, like the snail that roams everywhere yet carries its own house and so is always at home, Wotton should follow this easy-paced example and make himself his own palace, lest the world become his prison. He advises against floating like cork on the surface of the world's sea, and equally against sinking like an unattached lead weight into its depths; rather, one should glide through it as fishes do, leaving no print or sound, so that others might dispute whether one even breathes. He tells Wotton not to act as a Galenist who would correct courtly ambition by mixing in a dram of country dullness, adding correctives, but instead, like a chemist, to purge what is bad outright. Donne then turns the advice back on its source, saying he does not truly instruct Wotton but merely repeats the lessons he himself learned from him—lessons drawn free from Germany's schisms, France's lightness, and fair Italy's faithlessness, having taken from these lands all that had worth in them and brought home the faith he carried abroad. Donne declares he thoroughly loves him, and closes by saying that if he himself has been won to know these rules, he has both himself and Wotton, punning on the name Donne as a mark of having truly learned and completed the lesson.

By John Donne · First published 1633 · Genre: Verse Epistle, Metaphysical Poetry, Didactic Poetry · 912 words

First lines

Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls, / For thus, friends absent speak. This ease controls / The tediousness of my life; but for these / I could ideate nothing which could please; / But I should wither in one day, and pass / To a bottle of hay, that am a lock of grass. / Life is a voyage, and in our lives' ways / Countries, courts, towns are rocks, or remoras; / They break or stop all ships, yet our state's such, / That though than pitch they stain worse, we must touch. / If in the furnace of the raging line, / Or under th' adverse icy pole thou pine, / Thou know'st two temperate regions, girded in, / Dwell there; but O, what refuge canst thou win / Parch'd in the court, and in the country frozen? / Shall cities built of both extremes be chosen? / Can dung or garlic be perfume? Or can / A scorpion or torpedo cure a man? / Cities are worst of all three; of all three? / O knotty riddle! each is worst equally. / Cities are sepulchres; they who dwell there / Are carcases, as if none such there were. / And courts are theatres, where some men play / Princes, some slaves, all to one end, of one clay. / The country is a desert, where the good, / Gain'd, inhabits not, born, is not understood. / There men become beasts, and prone to all evils; / In cities blocks, and in a lewd court devils. / As in the first chaos, confusedly, / Each element's qualities were in th' other three, / So pride, lust, covetise, being several / To these three places, yet all are in all, / And mingled thus, their issue is incestuous. / Falsehood is denizen'd; virtue is barbarous. / Let no man say there, "Virtue's flinty wall / Shall lock vice in me, I'll do none, but know all. " / Men are sponges, which, to pour out, receive; / Who know false play, rather than lose, deceive. / For in best understandings sin began, / Angels sinn'd first, then devils, and then man. / Only perchance beasts sin not; wretched we / Are beasts in all but white integrity. / I think if men, which in these places live, / Durst look in themselves, and themselves retrieve, / They would like strangers greet themselves, seeing then / Utopian youth grown old Italian.

Similar titles

Genres

Tags

metaphysical poetry · letter writing · soul connection · friendship · platonic love · baroque · 17th century · verse epistle · conceits · emotional depth · absence · separation

What this Textopian page supports

To Sir Henry Wotton: Sir, more than Kisses, Letters Mingle Souls is listed on Textopian as a poem by John Donne, dated 1633 CE.

This source record anchors work identity, reading entry points, and catalog context for checking claims about the work.

Good citation fit

More by John Donne