Elegy XX / To his mistress going to bed

John Donne* ( 1572 - March 31, 1631 ) was a jacobean metaphysical poet. His works include sonnets, love poetry, religious poems, Latin translations, epigrams, elegies, songs and sermons.

Donne was born and raised in a roman catholic family. His father, also John Donne, was an ironmonger, who died in 1576, and left his three children and wife, Elizabeth, the daugther of John Heywood, an epigrammatist, and relative of Sir Thomas More, alone. His brother had died of a fever in prison after harbouring a priest, and a uncle, himself a jesuit priest, was executed by being hanged, drawn and quartered. Queen Elizabeth's government uniformly burdened Catholics with harassment and financial penalties. Donne was educated at the Oxford ( Hertford College ) and Cambridge; however, Catholics were barred from graduating. He travelled on the Continent and in 1596-97 accompanied the Earl of Essex on his expeditions to Cadiz and the Azores.

Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy;

Until I labour, I in labour lie.

The foe ofttimes, having the foe in sight,

Is tired with standing, though he never fight.

Offwith that girdle, like heaven's zone glittering,

But a far fairer world encompassing.

Unpin that spangled breast-plate, wich you wear,

That th'eyes of busy fools may be stopp'd there.

Unlace yourself, for that now it is bed-time.

Off with that happy busk, wich I envy,

That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.

Your gown going off such beauteous state reveals,

As when from flowery meads th'hill's shadow steals.

Off with your wiry coronet, and show

The hairy diadems wich on you do grow.

Off with your hose and shoes; then soffly tread

In this love's hallow'd temple, this soft bed.

In such white robes heaven's angels used to be

Revealed to men; thou, angel, bring'st with thee

A heaven-like Mahomet's paradise; and though

Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know

By this these angels from an envil sprite;

Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.

License my roving hands, and let them go

Before, behind, between, above, below.

O, my America, my Newfoundland,

My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd,

My Mine of precious stones, my empery;

How am I blest in thus discovering thee!

To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.

Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee;

As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be

To taste whole joys. Gems wich you women use

Are like Atlanta's ball cast in men's views;

That, when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,

His earthly soul might court that, not them.

Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made

For laymen, are all women thus array'd.

Themselves are only mystic books, wich we

( Whom their imputed grace will dignify)

Must see reveal'd. Then, since that I may know,

As liberally as to thy midwife show

Thyself; cast all, yea, this withe linen hence;

There is no penance due to innocence:

To teach thee, I am naked first; why then,

What needst thou have more covering than a man?