In the later stanzas he develops the famous simile of the compasses, which his contemporaries valued so highly. This is an excellent illustration of the contention already advanced that Donne could not distinguish between a parallel which was merely exact and one which was also beautiful. Certainly in this case his conception of beauty was mathematical.

Our two soules therefore, which are one,
Though I must goe, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,

Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate.
If they be two, they are two so

As stiffe twin compasses are two,
Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other doe.
And though it in the center sit,

Yet when the other far doth rome,
It leanes, and hearkens after it,

And growes erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to mee, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely runne;

Thy firmnes makes my circle just,

And makes me end, where I begunne.

Of this journey Walton records an instance, which known facts seem to confirm, of thought transference. He says: Two days after their arrival there, Mr Donne was left alone in that room in which Sir Robert, and he, and some other friends had dined together. To this place Sir Robert returned within half an hour; and as he left, so he found, Mr Donne alone; but in

such an ecstasy, and so altered as to his looks, as amazed Sir Robert to behold him; insomuch that he earnestly desired Mr Donne to declare what had befallen him in the short time of his absence. To which Mr Donne was not able to make a present answer; but, after a long and perplexed pause, did at last say: 'I have seen my dear wife pass twice by me through this room, with her hair hanging about her shoulders, and a dead child in her arms: this I have seen since

I saw you.''' A messenger sent post haste to England returned with the information that a dead child had indeed been born “the same day and about the very hour that Mr Donne affirmed he saw her pass by him in his chamber."

Before visiting Paris the travellers had stayed in Amiens. Donne's letters show that from Paris, where he fell ill, they went to Spa, and after journeying through the Spanish Netherlands returned to England. During this journey Donne wrote a good deal of complimentary verse to various ladies. The most interesting of these efforts is that given below, for it contains a direct and humble apology for his extravagant praise of Elizabeth Drury.

TO THE COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD
Begun in France but never perfected

Though I be dead, and buried, yet I have
(Living in you,) Court enough in my grave,

As oft as there I thinke my selfe to bee.
So many resurrections waken mee.

That thankfullnesse your favours have begot

In mee, embalmes mee, that I doe not rot. This season as 'tis Easter, as 'tis spring,

Must both to growth and to confession bring My thoughts dispos'd unto your influence; so, These verses bud, so these confessions grow. First I confesse I have to others lent

Your stock, and over prodigally spent Your treasure, for since I had never knowne Vertue or beautie, but as they are growne you, I should not thinke or say they shine, (So as I have) in any other Mine.

In

Next I confesse this my confession,

For, 'tis some fault thus much to touch

upon

Your praise to you, where half rights seeme too much,

And make your minds sincere complexion blush.

Next I confesse my impenitence, for I

Can scarce repent my first fault, since thereby
Remote low Spirits, which shall ne'r read you,
May in lesse lessons finde enough to doe,
By studying copies, not Originals,

Desunt cætera.

Donne was now forty years old, and without a dependable source of income. His wife's allowance from her father and the hospitality of Sir Robert Drury made his mode of life comfortable, even luxurious. But it was exceedingly precarious, being dependent upon the whim of a patron and the resources of a most extravagant father-in-law. We find, therefore, in Donne

during the next two years an extreme anxiety to stabilize his position. This desire not only led him to an assiduous petitioning of Court favourites, a thing in itself distasteful to our age, but into baser ways, in which we can see him walk only with profound regret. Of his constant begging letters to courtiers asking their recommendation for various posts ranging from obscure ones in the royal household to that of Ambassador to Venice little need be said. Such solicitation was the only means of approach to princes, and the subservient tone of the letters is largely a matter of the conventional phraseology of the time. Besides, Donne was sufficiently distinguished to have a claim. His being commissioned to write the marriage-song for the Princess Elizabeth and the Elector Palatine is guarantee enough of this. In epithalamia Donne was perhaps more consistently successful than in any other kind. He wrote three. first belongs to his Lincoln's Inn days, and shows its date in its audacity and a familiar pun.

Daughters of London, you which bee

Our Golden Mines, and furnish'd Treasurie,

The

You which are Angels, yet still bring with you Thousands of Angels on your mariage daies.

For all that it is an energetic and a tuneful poem. That addressed to the Princess Elizabeth is, however, a much finer piece of work. The marriage took place on St Valentine's Day, 1612. The following is Donne's opening stanza:

Haile Bishop Valentine, whose day this is,
All the Aire is thy Diocis,

And all the chirping Choristers
And other birds are thy Parishioners,

Thou marryest every yeare

The Lirique Larke, and the grave whispering
Dove,

The Sparrow that neglects his life for love,
The household Bird, with the red stomacher,

Thou mak'st the black bird speed as soone,
As doth the Goldfinch, or the Halcyon;
The husband cocke lookes out, and straight is sped,
And meets his wife, which brings her feather-bed.
This day more cheerfully then ever shine,

This day, which might enflame thy self, Old
Valentine.

This is really melodious and gay-the latter being an effect seldom found in Donne.

To his attempts to obtain a Court post through the influence of Lord Hay and other friends no exception can be taken. It was the only course open to him. From the practice of law he was debarred because, although he had profound knowledge in it, he had never qualified, and the Church had been closed to him on account of his refusal to take orders. It was unthinkable that he, poet and wit, brother-in-law to knights and lords, should adopt any plebeian method of earning a living. Yet his need of security was acute, and he adopted a distinctly unsavoury method of attaining it.

At the end of 1612 Frances Howard, Countess of Essex, commenced proceedings to divorce her