The triple fool

 

THE TRIPLE FOOL.
by John Donne

I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry ;
But where's that wise man, that would not be I,
If she would not deny ?
Then as th' earth's inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain ;
And, by delighting many, frees again 
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when 'tis read.
Both are increasèd by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.

 

Donne thinks there’s what we would call a therapeutic advantage in forming his melancholy into verse in order to restrain it. I wonder if he really believed that.

The advantage is lost, however, he says, when someone else comes along and turns his verse into a song, which I suppose often happened. Because the people listening are pleased by the songs, Donne says, the chains which held the pain and grief in check are removed, and they’re once more free to wreak their harm.

The latter claim is certainly true, you have to admit: a song multiplies with music the melancholy of its lyrics alone. A sad song does publish the pain and grief of the one who wrote it. That is what attracts us to them in the first place.