To the Countess of Bedford: to have Written then

Name: To the Countess of Bedford: to have Written then, when you Writ, Seem'D to Me
Author: John Donne

The poem is a verse letter addressed to the Countess of Bedford, in which the poet excuses his delay in replying to a letter she had written him. He begins by weighing two faults against each other: to have written back immediately would have seemed like simony, the worst of spiritual vices, while failing to write at all would seem the worst civil vice, thanklessness. He admits he seemed loath to confess his debt to her by writing, and equally loath to seem beholden by not writing, but insists this reading is wrong: being "nothing" himself, he can pay all he has and still owe everything, and such a debtor owes more for the very leave to write than he did before. Since rich mines are found in barren ground, he hopes he may offer her not gold but coal or stone. He compares himself to a pagan temple not demolished but rededicated, as Peter took Jove's temple and Paul took Dian's fane, so that whether or not she accepts his verses, she has hallowed a pagan muse in him and made a denizen of a stranger who, mistaught by those who blame the times, has sought virtue in corners now shining in the world's best part, or wholly in her. He recounts having been told that virtue in courtiers' hearts is ostracized and driven out by profit, ease, fitness, and plenty, but says he alone, through knowing her, knows where such banished virtue goes. Her virtue serves two great uses: it ransoms one sex and preserves one court. Her worth, he says, is known to everyone but herself, and she can never truly know it, since admitting no knowledge of her own worth is itself part of that worth. Since praise is discordant to her ears, he asks her instead to join him in considering others' failings. He turns to a meditation on human weakness: confessing we do not know what we should is only half an excuse, since we also do not know what we would. Lightness depresses people and emptiness fills them; they sweat and faint yet still decline. Just as the new philosophy holds the sun still and sets the passive earth in motion around it, so the human mind has been dulled and left without true purpose, while only the body stays busy and merely pretends to act. As the low, dead earth can eclipse the high moon, so the body eclipses the soul. Only in human beings are such mixed instruments found as hands with double office, tilling the ground and also raised toward heaven; one who labors without prayer, or prays without labor, does only half, which amounts to nothing, for the one who said to plough and not look back still permitted looking up. Good seed degenerates in diseased soil and turns to cockle; likewise the mind's thoughts, transplanted into the body, grow corrupted. He asks what hatred could harm human bodies as much as human love does, since no foreign tyrant but people themselves strip away these inborn dignities, the caskets of souls, temples and palaces. Bodies will be redeemed from death, while souls are merely preserved, having been born naturally free; souls come into bodies as men now come into prisons, entering innocent and learning vice there. The first seeds of every creature are said to lie within human beings, so that whatever is base or precious in the world, the body can produce, which is why stones, worms, frogs, and snakes are seen to arise in man. Yet no one has seen pearl, gold, or corn grow in a man, though nature could work such a thing. He notes that Virginia has been added to the world and two new stars sent to the firmament, and asks why people should grudge themselves, rather than heaven, the honor of increasing the company of fair souls. He says he must end the letter, though it rests on two truths, neither of which is true of her. Virtue itself has a kind of perverseness, refusing to believe either its own goodness or others' ill; even in her, virtue's best paradise, virtue admits some degrees of vice, though wisely measured. Too many virtues, or too much of one, breeds unjust suspicion in her, and ignorance of vice diminishes virtue by quenching compassion for human wretchedness. These, he allows, are riddles, since some tincture of vice suits certain temperaments well; statesmen purge vice with vice, setting bad against bad like a spider against a toad, so that ill does not enslave them but they instead tame ill and force it to do good against its own will. But in her commonwealth, or the world that is within her, vice has no office and no good work to perform, and so he counsels her to take no such vicious purge, but to remain content with cordial virtue, her own known nourishment.

By John Donne · First published 1633 · Genre: Metaphysical Poetry, Verse Epistle, Dedicatory Poetry · 1,150 words

First lines

To have written then, when you writ, seem'd to me / Worst of spiritual vices, simony; / And not to have written then seems little less / Than worst of civil vices, thanklessness. / In this, my debt I seem'd loth to confess; / In that, I seem'd to shun beholdingness. / But 'tis not so; nothings, as I am, may / Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay. / Such borrow in their payments, and owe more / By having leave to write so, than before. / Yet, since rich mines in barren grounds are shown, / May I not yield (not gold but) coal or stone? / Temples were not demolish'd, though profane; / Here Peter Jove's; there Paul hath Dian's fane. / So whether my hymns you admit or choose, / In me you've hallowed a pagan muse, / And denizen'd a stranger, who, mistaught / By blamers of the times they marr'd, hath sought / Virtues in corners, which now bravely do / Shine in the world's best part, or all it-you. / I have been told, that virtue in courtiers' hearts / Suffers an ostracism, and departs. / Profit, ease, fitness, plenty, bid it go; / But whither, only knowing you, I know. / Your, or you virtue, two vast uses serves; / It ransoms one sex, and one court preserves. / There's nothing but your worth, which being true / Is known to any other, not to you. / And you can never know it; to admit / No knowledge of your worth, is some of it. / But since to you your praises discords be, / Stoop others' ills to meditate with me. / O! to confess we know not what we should, / Is half excuse, we know not what we would. / Lightness depresseth us, emptiness fills; / We sweat and faint, yet still go down the hills / As new philosophy arrests the sun, / And bids the passive earth about it run, / So we have dull'd our mind; it hath no ends; / Only the body's busy, and pretends. / As dead low earth eclipses and controls / The quick high moon, so doth the body souls. / In none but us are such mix'd engines found, / As hands of double office; for the ground / We till with them, and them to heaven we raise. / Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays, / Doth but one half, that's none; He which said, "Plough / And look not back," to look up doth allow. / Good seed degenerates, and oft obeys / The soil's disease, and into cockle strays. / Let the mind's thoughts be but transplanted so / Into the body, and bastardly they grow. / What hate could hurt our bodies like our love? / We, but no foreign tyrants, could remove / These not engraved, but inborn dignities, / Caskets of souls, temples and palaces; / For bodies shall from death redeemed be, / Souls but preserved, born naturally free. / As men to our prisons now, souls to us are sent, / Which learn vice there, and come in innocent. / First seeds of every creature are in us; / Whate'er the world hath bad, or precious, / Man's body can produce; hence hath it been / That stones, worms, frogs, and snakes in man are seen. / But whoe'er saw, though nature can work so, / That pearl, or gold, or corn in man did grow? / We've added to the world Virginia, and sent / Two new stars lately to the firmament. / Why grudge we us (not heaven) the dignity / To increase with ours those fair souls' company? / But I must end this letter; though it do / Stand on two truths, neither is true to you. / Virtue has some perverseness, for she will / Neither believe her good, nor others' ill. / Even in you, virtue's best paradise, / Virtue hath some, but wise degrees of vice. / Too many virtues, or too much of one, / Begets in you unjust suspicion; / And ignorance of vice makes virtue less, / Quenching compassion of our wretchedness. / But these are riddles; some aspersion / Of vice becomes well some complexion. / Statesmen purge vice with vice, and may corrode / The bad with bad, a spider with a toad. / For so, ill thralls not them, but they tame ill, / And make her do much good against her will. / But in your commonwealth or world in you, / Vice hath no office or good work to do. / Take then no vicious purge, but be content / With cordial virtue, your known nourishment.

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To the Countess of Bedford: to have Written then, when you Writ, Seem'D to Me 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: Metaphysical Poetry, Verse Epistle, Dedicatory Poetry, Philosophical Poetry, Religious Poetry
Length: 1,150 words
Structure: 1 section, 1 paragraphs
Reading fit: Fairly Easy (7th Grade)

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Genres

Metaphysical Poetry — Donne's signature style employs elaborate intellectual conceits, paradoxes, and witty arguments about virtue and vice; uses complex philosophical reasoning and abstract imagery characteristic of metaphysical verse.
Verse Epistle — Structured as a formal letter to the Countess of Bedford with direct address, personal communication, and epistolary conventions; the poem's form itself is that of a dedicated missive.
Dedicatory Poetry — Written to honor and celebrate a patron's virtues; follows Renaissance convention of commendatory verse offering praise and acknowledgment of the dedicatee's worth.
Philosophical Poetry — Engages in sustained meditation on virtue, vice, human nature, and the soul-body relationship; uses poetic form to explore abstract metaphysical and ethical concepts.