For God’s Sake hold your tongue, and let me love (Biography and Selected Poetry of John
Is a new paper/book (Digital only) I have uploaded to Academia.edu and showcases a chapter from the forthcoming book ‘The Devil’s Servant’.
This book holds itself up as a publication on its own but is also an in-depth chapter from the forthcoming book (mentioned above)
John Donne, is a cousin by marriage whom I relate too, at least three times closely, He is also one of the influential figures that made up the John Mintern Circle (John Mintern, being the Devil’s Servant)
John Donne is a page from my family history as much as he is from our English Tudor past, once locked away in Newgate prison for the woman he loved.
This book is genealogy, history and poetry as it should be.
For God’s Sake, hold your tongue and let me love will also be available on Kindle, Google Play as well my website. (free wherever possible / Academia.edu included)
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king’s real, or his stampèd face
Contemplate; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas, alas, who’s injured by my love?
What merchant’s ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
Call her one, me another fly,
We’re tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
The phœnix riddle hath more wit
By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We’ll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for Love.
And thus invoke us: “You, whom reverend love
Made one another’s hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
Who did the whole world’s soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
(So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
A pattern of your love!”