Filed under Culture, Literature, Sexuality
The sexiest poem ever written – by a preacher, no less
Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed
by John Donne
Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labor, I in labor lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th’ eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown, going off, such beauteous state reveals,
as when from flowry meads th’ hill’s shadow steals.
Off with that wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow:
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love’s hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heaven’s angels used to be
Received by 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 evil sprite:
Those set our hairs on end, but these our flesh upright.
License my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta’s balls, cast in men’s views,
That when a fool’s eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books’ gay coverings made
For lay-men, are all women thus arrayed;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see revealed. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to a midwife, show
Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first; why than,
what needst thou have more covering than a man?
John Donne = classic example of reformed rake. Is it possible? Maybe only on a temporary basis though. Mr Donne was fortunate the Daily Mail or any equivalent pub. was not around in the 17th c to document any lapses from the path of righteousness. Lovely poem btw, you must be picking up some tips from Anouk – is this a new blomance on the horizon?
“To teach thee, I am naked first; why than,
what needst thou have more covering than a man?”
Ah, just glorious, FB.
This poem by Andrew Marvell comes to mind..
To His Coy Mistress..
HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv’d virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am’rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp’d power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
not bad, not bad at all…..
SDaedalus:
That’s quite possible. From what I’ve read, a good many of Donne’s more sexual poems were written during his tenure in the church, while much of his religious verse was written during his tomcatting days.
I beg your pardon! I was posting poetry to this blog since before Anouk was a wee babe (blog-wise, I mean)!
http://www.inmalafide.com/2009/08/09/lord-byron-on-women/
Kathy:
Ah, that’s a classic. I posted that one a while ago too:
http://www.inmalafide.com/2009/08/23/andrew-marvell-reminds-you-why-you-should-seize-the-day/
But Marvell’s standard stuff. There’s even more writing from the 17th century and other epochs that would make a prudish conservative red in the face. So much for the “innocent” past.
Sorry Ferdinand. Once again, you called it first.
Oh Lord Byron, how my heart beats for your words on love!
Oh, dear. I’m blushing now. Marvelous poem. The one from Marvell is also excellent. I like The Song of Songs, as well, but it’s almost too ephemeral, euphemistic, and vague. This one gets right down to business, doesn’t it?
The best sex writing is by Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser. Get the Reynolds and Esolen translations respectively for the first two.
Off with that wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow
My likey. A lot.
“what needst thou have more covering than a man?”
There’s a verse in the Quran at 2:187, roughly translating to your wives are covering for you and you are covering for them. [covering has multiple meanings, so translations vary.]
[...] was interested to note on Mr Bardamu’s website this week a poem from her favourite Puritan poet, John Donne (written before he put on his Puritan hat, so to [...]
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