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“In the name of the blessed and glorious Trinity, Amen. I John Donne, by the mercy of Christ Jesus, and by the calling of the Church of England, Priest, being at this time in good health and perfect understanding,--praised be God therefor—do hereby make my last Will and Testament in manner and form fol. lowing.

“ First, I give my gracious God an entire sacrifice of body and soul, with my most humble thanks for that assurance which his blessed Spirit imprints in me now of the Salvation of the one, and the Resurrection of the other; and for that constant and cheerful resolution, which the same spirit hath established in me, to live and die in the Religion now professed in the Church of England. In expectation of that Resurrection, I desire my body may be buried—in the most private manner that may be-in that place of St. Paul's Church, London, that the now Residentiaries have at my request designed for that purpose, &c.—And this my last Will and Testament, made in the fear of God, whose mercy I humbly beg, and constantly rely upon in Jesus Christ—and in perfect love and charity with all the worldwhose pardon I ask, from the lowest of my servants, to the highest of my superiors—written all with my own hand, and my name subscribed to every page, of which there are five in num

ber. *

“Sealed December 13, 1630.”

Nor was this blessed sacrifice of Charity expressed only at his death, but in his life also, by a cheerful and frequent visitation of any friend whose mind was dejected, or his fortune necessitous; he was inquisitive after the wants of prisoners, and redeemed many from prison, that lay for their fees or small debts: he was a continual giver to poor scholars, both of this and foreign nations. Besides what he gave with his own hand, he usually sent a servant or a discreet and trusty frie to distribute his charity to all the Prisons in London, at all the festival times of the year, especially at the Birth and Resurrection of our Saviour. He gave an hundred pounds at one time to an old friend, whom he had known live plentifully, and by a too liberal heart and carelessness became decayed in his estate; and when the receiving of it was denied, by the gentleman's saying, “He wanted not;"

* The commencement and conclusion of Dr. Donne's Will were not inserted until the second editien of his Life; as well as the account of his friend who had fallen into embarrassed circumstances.

-for the reader may note, that as there be some spirits so gener. ous as to labour to conceal and endure a sad poverty, rather than expose themselves to those blushes that attend the confession of it; so there be others, to whom Nature and Grace have afforded such sweet and compassionate souls, as to pity and prevent the distresses of mankind ;—which I have mentioned because of Dr. Donne's reply, whose answer was; “ I know you want not what will sustain nature; for a little will do that; but my desire is, that you, who in the days of your plenty have cheered and raised the hearts of so many of your dejected friends, would now reoeive this from me, and use it as a cordial for the cheering of your own :” and upon these terms it was received. He was an happy reconciler of many differences in the families of his friends and kindred,—which he never undertook faintly; for such undertakings have usually faint effects—and they had such a faith in his judgment and impartiality, that he never advised them to any thing in vain. He was, even to her death, a most dutiful son to his Mother, careful to provide for her supportation, of which she had been destitute, but that God raised him up to prevent her ne. cessities; who having sucked in the religion of the Roman Church with the mother's milk, spent her estate in foreign countries, to enjoy a liberty in it, and died in his house but three months before him.

And to the end it may appear how just a steward he was of his Lord and Master's revenue, I have thought fit to let the readei know, that after his entrance into his Deanery, as he numbered his years, he, at the foot of a private account, to which God and his Angels were only witnesses with him,-computed first his revenue, then what was given to the poor, and other pious uses; and lastly, what rested for him and his; and having done that, he then blessed each year's poor remainder with a thankful prayer; which, for that they discover a more than common devotion, the Reader shall partake some of them in his own words:

So all is that remains this year—[1624–5]

Deo Opt. Max. benigno largitori, à me, et ab iis quibus hæc à me reservantur, Gloria et gratia in æternum. Amen.

TRANSLATED THUS. To God all Good, all Great, the benevolent Bestower, by me and by them, for whom, by me, these sums are laid up, be glory and grace ascribed for ever. Amen.

So that this year, [1626] God hath blessed me and mine with :Multiplicatæ sunt super nos misericordiæ tuæ, Domine.

TRANSLATED THUS.
Thy mercies, Oh Lord! are multiplied upon us.

Da, Domine, ut quæ ex immensâ bonitate taâ nobis elargiri dignatus sis, in quorumcunque manus devenerint, in tuam semper cedant gloriam. Amen.

TRANSLATED THUS. Grant, Oh Lord ! that what out of thine infinite bounty Thou hast vouchsafed to lavish upon us, into whosoever hands it may devolve, may always be improved to thy glory. Amen.

In fine horum sex annorum manet : -[1628–9]

Quid habeo quod non accepi à Domino ? Largitur etiam ut que largitus est sua iterum fiant, bono eorum usu ; ut quemadmodum nec officiis hujus mundi, nec loci in quo me posuit dignitati, nec servis, nec egenis, in toto hujus anni curriculo mihi conscius sum me defuisse ; ita et liberi, quibus quæ supersunt, supersunt, grato animo ea accipiant, et beneficum authorem recognoscant. Amen.

TRANSLATED THUS. At the end of these six years remains :What have I, which I have not received from the Lord ? He bestows, also, to the intent that what he hath bestowed may revert to Him by the proper use of it: that, as I have not consciously been wanting to myself during the whole course of the past year, either in discharging my secular duties, in retaining the dignity of any station, or in my conduct towards my servants and the poor,—so my children for whom remains whatever is remaining, may receive it with gratitude, and acknowledge the beneficent Giver. Amen.

But I return from my long digression.

We left the Author sick in Essex, where he was forced to spend much of that Winter, by reason of his disability to remove from that place; and having never, for almost twenty years, omitted his personal attendance on his Majesty in that month, in which he was to attend and preach to him ; nor having ever been left out of the roll and number of Lent Preachers, and there being then-in January, 1630,-a report brought to London, or raised there, that Dr. Donne was dead ; that report gave him occasion to write the following letter to a dear friend :

66 Sir,

“ This advantage you and my other friends have by my frequent fevers, that I am so much the oftener at the gates of Heav. en; and this advantage by the solitude and close imprisonment that they reduce me to after, that I am so much the oftener at my prayers,

in which I shall never leave out your happiness; and I doubt not, among his other blessings, God will add some one to you for my prayers. A man would almost be content to die, if there were no other benefit in death,--to hear of so much sor. row, and so much good testimony from good men, as I,—God be blessed for it-did upon the report of my death : yet I perceive it went not through all ; for one writ to me, that some,-and he said of my friends,-conceived I was not so ill as I pretended, but withdrew myself to live at my ease, discharged of preaching. It is an unfriendly, and, God knows, an ill-grounded interpretation ; for I have always been sorrier when I could not preach, than any could be they could not hear me. It hath been my de. sire, and God may be pleased to grant it, that I might die in the pulpit; if not that, yet that I might take my death in the pulpit; that is, die the sooner by occasion of those labours. Sir, I hope to see you presently after Candlemas; about which time will fall my Lent Sermon at Court, except my Lord Chamberlain believe

me to be dead, and so leave me out of the roll: but as long as I
live, and am not speechless, I would not willingly decline that
service. I have better leisure to write, than you to read; yet I
would not willingly oppress you with too much letter. God so
bless
you
and
your son, as I wish to.

Your poor friend, and Servant
in Christ Jesus,

J. DONNE.”

Before that month ended, he was appointed to preach upon his old constant day, the first Friday in Lent: he had notice of it, and had in his sickness so prepared for that employment, that as he had long thirsted for it, so he resolved his weakness should not hinder his journey; he came therefore to London, some few days before his appointed day of preaching. At his coming thither, many of his friends—who with sorrow saw his sickness had left him but so much flesh as did only cover his bones-doubled his strength to perform that task, and did therefore dissuade him from undertaking it, assuring him however, it was like to shorten his life : but he passionately denied their requests, saying “ he would not doubt that that God, who in so many weaknesses had assisted him with an unexpected strength, would now withdraw it in his last employment; professing an holy ambition to perform that sacred work.” And when, to the amazement of some beholders, he appeared in the pulpit, many of them thought he presented himself not to preach mortification by a living voice, but mortality by a decayed body, and a dying face. And doubtless many did secretly ask that question in Ezekiel.* - Do these bones live ? or can that soul organize that tongue, to speak so long time as the sand in that glass will move towards its centre, and measure out an hour of this dying man's unspent life? Doubtless it cannot.” And

in his zealous prayer, his strong desires enabled his weak body to discharge his memory of his preconceived meditations, which were of dying; the Text being, To God the Lord belong the issues from death.” Many that then saw his tears, and heard his faint and hollow voice, profess

pauses

yet, after

some faint

* Chap. xxxvii. 3.

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