First linesJohn Donne

1. How sits this city, late most populous, The Lamentations of Jeremy, for the Most Part According to Tremellius
After those reverend papers, whose soul is To Sir Henry Wotton at His Going Ambassador to Venice
All hail, sweet poet, more full of more strong fire, To Mr. Thomas Woodward
All kings, and all their favourites, The Anniversary
Although thy hand and faith, and good works too, Change
As due by many titles I resign II
As the sweet sweat of roses in a still, The Comparison
As virtuous men pass mildly away, A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
At once from hence my lines and I depart, To Mr. Thomas Woodward
At the round earth’s imagined corners blow VII
Away, thou changeling motley humourist, Satire I
Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you XIV
Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, The Will
Beyond th’ old Pillars many have travalled Sir John Wingfield
Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with tears, Twickenham Garden
Blest are your north parts, for all this long time To Mr. I. L.
Both robb’d of air, we both lie in one ground; Hero and Leander
Busy old fool, unruly Sun, The Sun Rising
By children’s births, and death, I am become Niobe
By miracles exceeding power of man, Crucifying
By our first strange and fatal interview, On His Mistress
Come live with me, and be my love, The Bait
Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy; To His Mistress Going to Bed
Compassion in the world again is bred; Ralphius
Dear love, for nothing less than thee The Dream
Death I recant, and say, “Unsaid by me, Elegy on Mistress Boulstred
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee X
Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise, La Corona
Eternal God⁠—for whom who ever dare Upon the Translation of the Psalms by Sir Philip Sidney, and the Countess of Pembroke, His Sister
Even as lame things thirst their perfection, so To Mr. Edward Guilpin
Fair soul, which wast, not only as all souls be, Obsequies of the Lord Harrington, Brother to the Countess of Bedford
Fair, great, and good, since seeing you we see To the Countess of Salisbury, August 1614
Father of Heaven, and Him, by whom A Litany
Father, part of His double interest XVI
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die, Jealousy
For every hour that thou wilt spare me now, Love’s Usury
For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love; The Canonization
For my first twenty years, since yesterday, The Computation
Go and catch a falling star, Song
Good we must love, and must hate ill, Community
Hail Bishop Valentine, whose day this is; An Epithalamion, or Marriage Song on the Lady Elizabeth and Count Palatine Being Married on St. Valentine’s Day
Hark, news, O envy; thou shalt hear descried Julia
Haste thee, harsh verse, as fast as thy lame measure To Mr. Thomas Woodward
He is stark mad, whoever says, The Broken Heart
He that cannot choose but love, Self-Love
Here take my picture; though I bid farewell, His Picture
Here’s no more news than virtue; I may as well To Sir Henry Wotton
Honour is so sublime perfection, To the Countess of Bedford
I am a little world made cunningly V
I am two fools, I know, The Triple Fool
I am unable, yonder beggar cries, A Lame Beggar
I can love both fair and brown; The Indifferent
I fix mine eye on thine, and there Witchcraft by a Picture
I have done one braver thing The Undertaking
I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost, Love’s Deity
I never stoop’d so low, as they Negative Love
I scarce believe my love to be so pure Love’s Growth
I sing no harm, good sooth, to any wight, A Tale of a Citizen and His Wife
I sing the progress of a deathless soul, The Progress of the Soul
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I The Good-Morrow
I’ll tell thee now (dear love) what thou shalt do A Valediction to His Book
If faithful souls be alike glorified VIII
If in his study he hath so much care Antiquary
If poisonous minerals, and if that tree, IX
If yet I have not all thy love, Lovers’ Infiniteness
If you from spoil of th’ old world’s farthest end Cales and Guyana
If, as mine is, thy life a slumber be, To Mr. Rowland Woodward
Image of her whom I love, more than she, The Dream
Immensity, cloister’d in thy dear womb, Nativity
In what torn ship so ever I embark, A Hymn to Christ, at the Author’s Last Going Into Germany
Is not thy sacred hunger of science To Mr. Basil Brooke
Kind pity chokes my spleen; brave scorn forbids Satire III
Klockius so deeply hath sworn ne’er more to come Klockius
Language, thou art too narrow and too weak Elegy
Let man’s soul be a sphere, and then, in this, Good-Friday, 1613, Riding Westward
Let me pour forth A Valediction of Weeping
Like Esop’s fellow-slaves, O Mercury, Mercurius Gallo-Belgicus
Like one who in her third widowhood doth profess To Mr. Rowland Woodward
Little think’st thou, poor flower, The Blossom
Look to me, faith, and look to my faith, God; Elegy Upon the Untimely Death of the Incomparable Prince Henry
Love, any devil else but you Love’s Exchange
Mad paper, stay, and grudge not here to burn To Mrs. Magdalen Herbert
Madam⁠— To the Countess of Bedford
Madam⁠— To the Countess of Bedford
Madam⁠— To the Countess of Huntingdon
Madam, Epitaph on Himself
Madame⁠— A Letter to the Lady Carey, and Mistress Essex Rich, from Amiens
Man is a lump, where all beasts kneaded be; To Sir Edward Herbert, Now Lord Herbert Cherbury, Being at the Siege of Juliers
Man is the world, and death the ocean, Elegy on the Lady Markham
Mark but this flea, and mark in this, The Flea
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for she The Anagram
Moist with one drop of Thy blood, my dry soul Resurrection
My fortune and my choice this custom break, Omnibus
My name engraved herein A Valediction of My Name, in the Window
Nature’s lay idiot, I taught thee to love, Nature’s Lay Idiot, I Taught Thee to Love
No lover saith, I love, nor any other The Paradox
No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace The Autumnal
Not that in colour it was like thy hair, The Bracelet
Nothing could make me sooner to confess Of the Progress of the Soul
Now thou hast loved me one whole day, Woman’s Constancy
O Thou which to search out the secret parts To Mr. Samuel Brooke
O, let me not serve so, as those men serve, O, Let Me Not Serve So, as Those Men Serve
O, my black soul, now thou art summoned IV
O! Do not die, for I shall hate A Fever
O! might those sighs and tears return again III
Of that short roll of friends writ in my heart, To Mr. I. L.
Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one: XIX
Oh, to what height will love of greatness drive Upon Mr. Thomas Coryat’s Crudities
Once, and but once, found in thy company, The Perfume
Our storm is past, and that storm’s tyrannous rage The Calm
Out of a fired ship, which by no way A Burnt Ship
Philo with twelve years’ study hath been grieved An Obscure Writer
Pregnant again with th’ old twins, Hope and Fear, To Mr. Thomas Woodward
Salute the last and everlasting day, Ascension
Salvation to all that will is nigh; Annunciation
See, sir, how, as the sun’s hot masculine flame To the Earl of Doncaster, with Six Holy Sonnets
Send home my long stray’d eyes to me, The Message
Send me some tokens, that my hope may live The Token
She’s dead; and all which die The Dissolution
Show me dear Christ, thy spouse, so bright and clear. XVIII
Since Christ embraced the cross itself, dare I The Cross
Since I am coming to that Holy room, Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness
Since she must go, and I must mourn, come night, His Parting from Her
Since she whom I loved hath paid her last debt XVII
Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle souls, To Sir Henry Wotton
Sir, though⁠—I thank God for it⁠—I do hate Satire II
Sleep, sleep, old sun, thou canst not have repass’d, Resurrection, Imperfect
So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, The Expiration
Some man unworthy to be possessor Confined Love
Some that have deeper digg’d love’s mine than I, Love’s Alchemy
Sorrow, who to this house scarce knew the way, Elegy on the Lord Chancellor
Spit in my face, you Jews, and pierce my side, XI
Stand still, and I will read to thee A Lecture Upon the Shadow
Sweetest love, I do not go, Song
Take heed of loving me; The Prohibition
Tamely, frail body, abstain today; today The Annunciation and Passion
The heavens rejoice in motion; why should I Variety
The sunbeams in the east are spread; Epithalamion Made at Lincoln’s Inn
This is my play’s last scene; here heavens appoint VI
This twilight of two years, not past, nor next, To the Countess of Bedford, on New Year’s Day
Thou art not so black as my heart, A Jet Ring Sent
Thou hast made me, and shall Thy work decay? I
Thou in the fields walk’st out thy supping hours The Liar
Thou shalt not laugh in this leaf, Muse, nor they Satire V
Thou which art I⁠—’tis nothing to be so⁠— The Storm
Thou, whose diviner soul hath caused thee now To Mr. Tilman After He Had Taken Orders
Though I be dead and buried, yet I have To the Countess of Bedford
Thy father all from thee, by his last will, Disinherited
Thy flattering picture, Phryne, is like thee, Phryne
Thy friend, whom thy deserts to thee enchain, To Mr. Christopher Brooke
Thy sins and hairs may no man equal call; A Licentious Person
’Tis loss to trust a tomb with such a guest, A Funeral Elegy
’Tis the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s, A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy’s Day, Being the Shortest Day
’Tis true, ’tis day; what though it be? Break of Day
To have written then, when you writ, seem’d to me To the Countess of Bedford
To make the doubt clear, that no woman’s true, The Expostulation
To what a cumbersome unwieldiness Love’s Diet
Twice or thrice had I loved thee, Air and Angels
Two souls move here, and mine, a third, must move The Harbinger to the Progress
Two, by themselves, each other, love and fear, Pyramus and Thisbe
Under an undermined and shot-bruised wall Fall of a Wall
Upon this Primrose hill, The Primrose, Being at Montgomery Castle Upon the Hill, on Which It Is Situate
Vengeance will sit above our faults; but till Ode
Well died the world, that we might live to see To the Praise of the Dead, and the Anatomy
Well; I may now receive, and die. My sin Satire IV
What if this present were the world’s last night? XIII
When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead, The Apparition
When I am dead, and doctors know not why, The Damp
When last I died, and, dear, I die The Legacy
When my grave is broke up again The Relic
When that rich soul which to her heaven is gone, An Anatomy of the World
Where is that holy fire, which verse is said Heroical Epistle
Where, like a pillow on a bed, The Ecstacy
Whether that soul which now comes up to you A Hymn to the Saints, and to Marquis Hamilton
Whilst yet to prove Farewell to Love
Who makes the past a pattern for next year, To Sir Henry Goodyere
Whoever Comes to shroud me, do not harm, The Funeral
Whoever guesses, thinks, or dreams, he knows The Curse
Whoever loves, if he do not propose Love’s Progress
Why are we by all creatures waited on? XII
Why this man gelded Martial I muse, Raderus
Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, A Hymn to God the Father
Wilt thou love God as He thee? then digest, XV
With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe, Temple
You that are she, and you that’s double she, To the Lady Bedford
Your mistress, that you follow whores, still taxeth you; A Self-Accuser
Zealously my Muse doth salute all thee, To Mr. Rowland Woodward

All poets.