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‘Restore thine image’: the emblematic influence in Donne’s Divine Poems Plutarch was one of the first to point out the parallels between the literary and the visual arts, quoting Simonides in calling poetry ‘articulate painting’ and painting ‘inarticulate poetry’.1 John Donne seems to share this interdisciplinary attitude, moving beyond mere biblical tropes to make use of particularly idiosyncratic religious imagery in his divine poetry. For instance in the ‘Holy Sonnets’ (c. 1609), he likens the connection between Christ and man to that of ‘adamant draw[ing] mine iron heart’, a striking simile with no scriptural precedents. But the conceit is, however, seen almost verbatim in the accompanying verse to an emblem from Georgette de Montenay’s Emblemes, ou Devises Chrestiennes (1571): ‘As the iron is drawn by the magnet, / So the man of God is drawn by Christ.’2

These emblem books first came into fashion after the Italian publication of Andrea Aliciati’s Emblematum Liber in 1531, and although they were not published in England until 1586, it is critically established that Donne would have had access to the wider European pool of emblem literature as well.3 He makes passing reference to the culture itself throughout his works, mentioning ‘emblems’ six times in his poetry and once in his prose letters.4 Indeed, the tradition was so pervasive that in the introduction to his seminal work Studies in Seventeenth-Century Imagery (1939), Mario Praz states that ‘every poetical image contains a potential emblem’.5

However, as Helen Gardner rightly points out, in all artistic representations of religion, there is a perennial conflict between the ‘ostensible emotion’ being portrayed and the artist’s own ‘satisfaction in

1 Plutarch, Moralia, Book IV, ed. G. P. Goold (London: Heinemann, 1999), 347a, p.501. 2 John Donne, The Divine Poems, ed. Helen Gardner, 2nd edn (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978); Georgette de Montenay, Emblemes, ou Devises Chrestiennes (Lyon: Jean Marcovelle, 1571), no. 5. My translation from the French: ‘Comme le fer s’esleve par l’aymant, / L’homme est de Dieu par Christ tiré aussi.’ 3 Josef Lederer, ‘John Donne and the Emblematic Practice’ in The Review of English Studies, Vol. 22, No. 87 (July 1946), 182-200 at 183. 4 Cf. ‘Elegy 13: Love’s Progress’, l. 79; ‘To the Countess of Bedford at New Year’s Tide’, l. 2; ‘Upon the Annunciation and Passion falling upon one day’, l. 4; ‘A Hymn to Christ, at the Author’s last going into Germany’, l. 2 and 4; ‘A Valediction: of Weeping’, l. 7; letter to Sir H. R., l. 6. 5 Mario Praz, Studies in Seventeenth-Century Imagery, Vol. I (London, 1939), p. 2.

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achieving perfect expression’ in the work.6 While Donne’s employment of use of emblem symbology ostensibly seems to make poetic descriptions of faith and prayer all the more thorough, the poet seems self-consciously aware that such attempts are ultimately self-defeating. Although it is the poet’s ‘delight…to write after thy Copie’, he is also alert to the dangers inherent in ‘studying copies, not Originals’.7 He subsequently pleads in ‘Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward’:

Burn off my rusts, and my deformity, Restore thine image, so much, by thy grace, That thou mayst know me

(ll. 40-3; emphasis mine)8 The use of the word ‘restore’ is pertinent, suggesting Donne’s awareness that the true image of God has been subverted in its poetic transformations from original biblical scripture. Donne subscribes to the Platonic anxiety that the poet’s ‘art of representation is…a long way removed from reality’, and as such his divine poetry seems constantly to be in search of the ‘original’ – i.e., God.9 One of the most common tropes used to describe Christ, whether in art or literature, is the attention to his ubiquitous spiritual presence. In the Bible he is repeatedly described in terms of vastness and plenitude, ‘For in him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily’ (Colossians 2:9), and ‘of his fulness have all we received’ (John 1:16).10 Donne reiterates the point in ‘La Corona’, writing of ‘he / Which fills all place, yet none holds him’ (III, ll. 9-10), the conceit itself not even being able to be held in a single line, spilling onto the next line of the stanza. He further explores this concept of spiritual fullness through the physical profusion of Christ’s blood, which is in itself a canonised emblem. Clayton G. MacKenzie attests to its ‘powerful presence’ throughout all ‘Renaissance representations of Christ’, and Donne echoes this sentiment, describing the vastness of the ‘flood [which]/ Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood’ (‘A Hymn to Christ, at the Author’s last going into Germany’, ll. 3-4, emphasis mine).11

However in the most explicit display of Christ’s blood, the crucifixion, the emblem tradition falls short of portraying the event in its entirety. There is a habit of compartmentalising the scene, focussing only on one of the five wounds of Christ, rather than a full depiction of the crucifixion itself. In

6 Donne, The Divine Poems, pp. xv-xvi. 7 Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions & To the Countesse of Bedford, begun in France but never perfected 8 John Donne, Selected Poetry, ed. John Carey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), l. 2. All further references will be to this edition. 9 Plato, The Republic, trans. Francis MacDonald Cornford (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1941), 598b, p. 321. 10 The Bible: Authorized King James Version, eds Robert Carroll and Stephen Prickett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998). 11 Clayton G. MacKenzie, Emblem and Icon in John Donne’s Poetry and Prose (New York: Peter Lang), p. 49.

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Benedictus van Haeften’s Schola Cordis (1629) - a popular emblem book published towards the end of Donne’s lifetime but in circulation years before in manuscript form - Christ is depicted in separate emblems with blood dropping from his pierced hand and bloody forehead, into the heart of man:12

In both instances Christ is miniaturised to a cherub with a halo and wings, and man’s heart is seen as a neat receptacle that is literally filled up by Christ’s spilling forth of blood. The artist seems to deliberately veer away from accurately graphic depictions of the wounded Christ, instead sanitising and censoring his appearance and the scene around him.

Similarly, in the ‘Holy Sonnets’, Donne considers ‘the picture of Christ crucified’ (IX, l. 3), but only focuses his description on separate areas, rather than looking at the whole: the ‘blood [that] fills his frowns’, the ‘tears in his eyes’, and the ‘pierced head’ (IX, ll. 5-6). Indeed, when Donne was ordained into the Church of England in 1615, he took a new seal that depicted the crucifixion, but his friend Izaak Walton described it with the same aversion from real representation; it was ‘like those which Painters draw when they would present us with the picture of Christ crucified on the Cross’ (emphasis mine).13

Donne continues in this vein in ‘Upon the Annunciation and Passion falling upon one day’, writing of the ‘one drop, which thence did fall, / Accepted, would have served, he yet shed all’ (l. 41-2). The image of dripping blood is repeated in ‘La Corona’:

Moist, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soul.

6 RESURRECTION Moist with one drop of thy blood, my dry soul

(V, l. 14 – VI, l. 1)

12 Benedictus van Haeften, Schola Cordis (Antwerp, 1629), no. 25. 13 Izaak Walton, ‘The Life of Dr John Donne’ in Lives of John Donne, Henry Wotton, Rich'd Hooker, George Herbert, &C (London, 1670), p. 56.

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As throughout the whole of ‘La Corona’, the final line of each stanza links to the first line of the next, but here the mise-en-page eerily seems to reiterate the falling drops of blood, dripping from one section to the next, subtly weaving the crucifixion into the structure of the poem but still refusing to depict it in its entirety.

Donne ultimately betrays much keener anxieties in describing the crucifixion than that of the emblem tradition. He considers that he should ‘almost be glad, I do not see / That spectacle of too much weight for me’ (‘Good Friday’, ll. 15-16). He goes on to rhetorically wonder, ‘Could I behold those hands which span the poles, / And tune all spheres at once, pieced with those holes?’ (ll. 21-2). The line break seems significant again here, as ‘the hands which span the poles’ horizontally are suddenly dragged forward by the next line to ‘tune all spheres at once’. Donne puppeteers Christ’s movements on the cross, yet ‘as thou hangst upon the tree; / I turn my back to thee’ (ll. 36-7) – all attempts at describing him upon the cross more precisely are deliberately undermined by the speaker. It is not until his sermons, such as ‘Death’s Duell’, that Donne describes the scene with any real degree of completeness:

There now hangs that sacred Body upon the Crosse, rebaptised in his owne teares and sweat, and embalmed in his owne blood alive. There are those bowels of compassion, which are so conspicuous, so manifested, as that you may see them through his wounds. There those glorious eyes grew faint in the light: so as the Sun ashamed to survive them, departed with his light too.14

The entire picture of Christ on the cross is described here in a single paragraph with almost chilling phrases such as ‘embalmed in his owne blood alive’ and ‘bowels...that you may see…through his wounds’. Donne’s description is noticeably more graphic than any previous poetical attempts, perhaps because the form of the sermon itself, based on scripture, is intrinsically closer to God than that of the poem. As Donne writes, ‘There are not so eloquent books in the world, as the Scriptures: Accept those names of Tropes and Figures.’15

The image of man’s blood spilling onto Christ is seen again in van Haeften’s emblems (no. 9), but the most interesting depiction is probably in Thomas Jenner’s The Soules Solace (1626):16

14 Donne, John Donne's Sermons on the Psalms and Gospels, ed. Evelyn M. Simpson (London: University of California Press, 2003), pp. 247-8, ll. 653-9. 15 Donne, Sermons, II, 170-1 16 Thomas Jenner, The Soules Solace (London, 1626), no. 5.

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The emblem shows a pail of water being poured onto a dirty floor, and another being poured into the sea, representing Christ’s and man’s blood respectively, and in the accompanying verse to the emblem, Jenner writes: ‘But though thy sinnes bee dipt in scarlet die /…Lay them on Christ; in him doth sulnes dwell’. Donne also uses the image of man’s own blood pouring onto Christ in a two-way exchange - it was a common Protestant belief that blood was not only the carrier of Christ’s sacredness, but also man’s sinfulness, and as such he echoes Jenner’s sentiments in his wish to be ‘Dy'd

scarlet in the blood of that pure Lambe’ in An Hymn to the Saints, and to the Marquesse Hamilton (l. 34; emphases mine).

Jenner’s piece clearly directs the reader from the its symbolic to its literal meaning, including written annotations on the images referring to blood poured ‘on us’ and ‘on Christ’, even compartmentalises the two contrary actions by distinctly dividing the two images in separate boxes. Whereas in ‘A Litany’, Donne expresses this same crossover between man and Christ, but deliberately blurs these boundaries for the reader:

Son of God hear us, and since thou

By taking our blood, owest it us again, Gain to thy self, or us allow; And let not both us and thy self be slain;

(XXVIII, ll. 244-7; emphasis mine) Christ clearly takes ‘our blood’ to ‘thy self’, but the myriad of ‘us’, ‘thou’, ‘our’ and ‘thy’ pronouns seem to confuse the distinctions between Christ and man, reinforcing the flowing over of blood between the two to the point of cacophony.

Within these depictions of the exchange between the sinful man and the cleansing Christ, Gilles Deleuze and Rosalind Krauss point out an important paradox:

God made man in His own image and to resemble Him, but through sin, man has lost the resemblance while retaining the image. Having lost a moral existence in order to enter into an aesthetic one, we have become simulacra.17

17 Gilles Deleuze and Rosalind Krauss, ‘Plato and the Simulacrum’ in October, Vol. 27 (Winter, 1983), 45-56 at 48.

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Attempts to rid oneself of sin can thus be considered as part of man’s collective desire to return to the original ‘image’ of God. If it is accepted that man has already become the very ‘simulacra’ that the poet had hoped to overcome, then the issue of representing Christ accurately takes on a renewed sense of anxiety. In emblem portraiture, this tension is responded to with a forceful physical union between Christ and man. Van Haeften’s emblem no. 38 shows the cherub Christ and man grasping each other’s right hands, and with their left holding the twine that joins their hearts:

Their complementary body language reinforces the symmetry that man hopes to regain in becoming closer to the original ‘image’ of God, yet they also seem to be pulling away from each other, becoming further apart, indicative of the Christian’s similarly paradoxical quest to become closer to God.

Donne characteristically tears apart this concrete image of the hope for union, taking this urge to reunite to the extreme; as the simulacrum ‘implies great dimensions, depths, and distances’, he tries to narrow this gap by yoking together familial relationships in an uncomfortable intimacy:18

thou Wast in his mind, who is thy son, and brother, Whom thou conceiv’st, conceived; yea thou art now Thy maker’s maker, and thy father’s mother

(‘La Corona’, II, ll. 9-13) Donne tautologically refers to the Virgin Mary as ‘thy maker’s maker’, describing Christ as both her ‘son’ and ‘brother’; and he also draws together the contrary relationships of ‘father’ and ‘mother’ together in one conjunction, increasing the collective confusion of this description. He goes even further by developing an uncomfortable romantic intimacy in the divine relationship, speaking of ‘our mistress fair religion’ in ‘Satire 3’ (l. 5). In her compelling study on seventeenth century religious poetry, Barbara Lewalski points out

18 Gilles Deleuze and Rosalind Krauss, ‘Plato and the Simulacrum’ at 49.

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that divine emblems were often created by ‘simple transformation of characteristic figures form the love-emblem books’, citing the example of Otto van Veen’s Amorum Emblemata (1608) and subsequent Amoris divini emblemata (1615) - the Eros and Anteros figures neatly substituted with Divine Love and Anima.19 But in Donne’s work, he reverses this process entirely, eroticising pre-existing divine figures in a move that recalls the similarly uncomfortable ambiguities of the Song of Songs. In the ‘Holy Sonnets’ he goes on:

Yet dearly’I love you, and would be loved fain, But am betrothed unto your enemy, Divorce me… Take me to you… …you ravish me

(X, l. 9-14) Donne begins his description of love for God in an ostensibly traditional way, but in calling himself ‘betrothed’ to Satan and needing a ‘divorce’, by implication he involves God in a romantic relationship too, ending the stanza with the awkward desire to ‘ravish me’, betraying an overinvestment in the sanctified body which seems to carry a trace of fervour.

This impulse to narrow the gap of the simulacrum leads to a violent desperation in some depictions – both the artists of emblem portraiture and Donne display a desire to be crucified along with or instead of Christ. They position themselves within one of the defining images of his life in a bid to regain the original ‘resemblance’ they were made in. In the case of emblems, we can see Christ helping man regain this position; in van Haeften’s collection, the two emblems (no. 47 and 48) are placed alongside one another:

In the first (above left), man imagines his heart being nailed to the cross instead of Christ’s – but it is being stretched and twisted out of its shape, suggesting that it can never completely fill this position. The opposite emblem (above right) depicts a similar scene, affixed with the lines ‘You were fixed on

19 Barbara Lewalski, Protestant Poetics and the Seventeenth-Century Religious Lyrics (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1979), p. 184.

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the cross with nails instead of me’, but again seems to reiterate the fact that man can never fully step into Christ’s image – the nail does not seem to fit into the heart, and man recoils at the attempts to do so.20 Donne similarly imagines himself being crucified with Christ, but in a way that still manages to circumvent whole descriptions of the crucifixion. As he asks in ‘The Cross’: ‘Since Christ embraced the Cross itself, dare I / His image, th’ image of his Cross deny?’ (ll. 1-2). This ostensibly reveals an impulse to more closely represent the crucifixion, but on closer analysis it seems that the repetition of ‘His image, th’ image’ focuses more on the symbolism of the object of the cross, rather than its graphic reality. Indeed, the poem was written partially as a response against the 1604 Puritan demands that the sign of the cross should not longer be used in baptisms, showing a contextual mistrust of the emblem too. The comma and pause between the phrase also seems to indicate a slight alteration of meaning: ‘His image’ being God’s ‘original’ image, and ‘th’ image’ being the ‘copy’ image of God that is portrayed by the artist. Donne continues to gesture to the physical pose he will adopt: ‘Who can deny me power, and liberty / To stretch mine arms, and mine own cross to be?’ (ll. 17-18), and again in ‘La Corona’: ‘Now thou art lifted up, draw me to thee’ (V, l. 12), now the puppeteer of himself, rather than of Christ as in ‘Good Friday’.

However these descriptions become increasingly violent, moving beyond the allegorical nature of the emblem tradition to represent a very real urge to reconnect with Christ. In the notorious section of the ‘Holy Sonnets’, Donne calls out: ‘Spit in my face you Jews, and pierce my side, / Buffet, and scoff, scourge, and crucify me’ (VII, ll. 1-2), the harsh consonance of use of the imperative in each verb reinforcing the vehemence of the line. And again in ‘A Litany’, Donne imagines the scene even more clearly:

O be thou nailed unto my heart, And crucified again, Part not from it, though it from thee would part, But let it be by applying so thy pain, Drowned in thy blood, and in thy passions slain.

(‘A Litany’, II, ll. 14-18) Donne repeats the emblematic image of being ‘nailed unto my heart’, but goes further to express his wish to ‘part not from it’, but rather to ‘apply…thy pain’ and ‘drown…in thy blood’. This attack upon the heart is a noticeable feature throughout van Haeften’s collection too:21

20 My translation from the Latin, ‘pro me qui clauis in cruce fixus eras’. 21 Cf. nos 5, 11, 12, 13, 16, 18, 35.

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In this emblem, no. 43, Christ and man are depicted flogging ‘the heart of one who is unwilling to follow the better things’ with whips.22 The sinner is reformed through violence to the heart, or what seems to have become the symbol for his soul. Donne shares this belief, noting: ‘Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell’ (‘Holy Sonnets’, IX, ll. 1-2). Both van Haeften and Donne identify an emblem behind the emblem; but in doing so their descriptions of the soul are all ultimately only nearer to the simulacrum, and further from the original image - as Plato outlines a continuum of reproduction from the original model, through to the copy, and onwards to increasingly less recognisable imitations ending in the simulacrum: ‘The art of representation is…able to reproduce everything because it has little grasp of anything.’23 Perhaps an awareness of this accounts for some of Donne’s attack towards the heart, hoping to literally beat through to the original, as in the ‘Holy Sonnets’:

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for, you As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new. (X, ll. 1-4)

The speaker’s call for Christ to ‘Batter…break, blow, burn’ his heart – or soul – is seen in the attack pictured in van Haeften’s emblem, with the tough alliteration seeming to increase the force behind each blow. T. O. Beaucroft argues that ‘the true emblematic image stands motionless’, but Donne imbues action into the image, tearing and distorting it beyond recognition to show that there is no such thing as a ‘true emblematic image’ of God. 24

22 My translation of the affixed verse from the Latin, ‘inuitum cor meliora sequi.’ 23 Paraphrased from Andrew Otwell, ‘Gerhard Richter and the Simulacrum’ (1997), available at http://www.heyotwell.com/work/arthistory/Richter.html. Quotation from Plato, The Republic, 598b. 24 T. O. Beaucroft, ‘Quarles – and the Emblem Habit’ DubR, 188 (1931), 407-25, at 414.

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After the observable preoccupation with joining man with Christ, Donne’s depictions of death – when the body and the soul are torn apart – is accordingly seen both a negative and positive process. As he expands upon in ‘Death’s Duell’, although man’s body remains and decays on earth, the soul flies upwards and is liberated with God. A similar relationship is accepted within the emblem tradition, as Georgette de Montenay shows in emblem no. 88, subtitled ‘desiderans dissolvi’ or ‘desiring to depart’:

As the subtitle would suggest, the picture shows the skeletal figure of death gladly helping man out of earth without dispute. In the Latin edition of Montenay’s work, published later in 1584, the text beneath the emblem describes the ‘the soul…[that] takes flight’ and looks down from heaven ‘joined to Christ’, at the ‘buried body’.25 This clear separation of soul and body is depicted almost identically in Donne’s ‘Holy Sonnets’ too:

my gluttonous death will instantly unjoint My body, and soul… … my soul, to heaven her first seat, takes flight, And earth-born body, in the earth shall dwell

(III, ll. 5-10; emphases mine) The stanza outlines the ‘unjoint[ing]’ of the body from the soul, and their oppositional movements from remaining in the ‘earth’ to taking flight to ‘heaven her first seat’. Clayton G. MacKenzie also points out that Juan de Horozco y Covarrubias’s Emblemas Morales (1591) develops on this view of death:

25 My translation from the Latin, ‘Suave mori, quoties scelerum mens libera, nullum / Judicis horrescens judicium refugit. / Suave etenim Christo conjungi: et corpus humatum / Regno sublimè despicere aethereo.’

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In the first emblem (above left), titled ‘Enla Muerte esta La Vida’ (‘In Death there is Life’), a flourishing vine grows up through a pile of skulls. In the second (above right), titled ‘Enla Vida esta La Muerte’ (‘In Life there is Death’), a skull balances on top of a decaying shrub.26 The pair typifies Donne’s attitude towards death as a necessary separation, as expounded upon in ‘Death’s Duell’, the final sermon he wrote before his death, which was aptly subtitled ‘A Consolation to the Soule, against the dying Life, and living Death of the body’.

Affixed to the frontspiece of the first publication of this work was also, perhaps most importantly, a portrait which Donne had posed for months before his death, showing him clothed in a shroud. Lewalski comments on Donne’s last action as showing an impulse to ‘make of himself in his burial weeds an emblem for his own and others’ contemplation.’27 Indeed, the portrait (below) even uncannily resembles the form of an emblem itself, complete with an image, encircled by a motto, and subscribed with verse:

26 Clayton G. MacKenzie, Emblem and Icon in John Donne’s Poetry and Prose, p. 44. 27 Lewalski, Protestant Poetics, p. 201.

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Donne’s friend Walton describes the shroud:

this sheet up on him, and so tyed with knots at his head and feet, and his hands so placed…he was purposely turned toward the East, from whence he expected the second coming of his and our Saviour28

Donne deliberately crafted his position in the shroud to correspond to the symbolic eastward position of Christ’s second coming, emblematising himself alongside his saviour in a final mocking of the attempt to bring the copy as close as possible to the divine original. The emblems discussed have clearly been sources of inspiration for Donne. But each image he has used has been stylised, subverted, and made more violent for his own poetic purposes of expressing the fraudulence behind the idea of a stable divine relationship between man and Christ. Emblem portraiture is limited by the fact that its very nature is allegorical, symbolic, metaphoric – despite their omnipresence throughout the Renaissance, they are beset with an intrinsic degree of artificiality. Donne accepts Aquinas’s well-worn dictum that metaphor shadows the truth, where theology should make clear, and knowingly draws from the emblem tradition to make known his own acceptance of the fact that ‘God, as God, is never represented to us’.29 All other expressions of divine poetry merely ‘thrust into

28 Walton, ‘The Life of Dr John Donne’ in Lives, p. 58. 29 Paraphrased from Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologia, vol. 3, trans. Herbert McCabe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), question 12, article 9. Donne, Sermons, VII, 67

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strait corners of poore wit / Thee, who art cornerless and infinite’ (‘Upon the Translation of the Psalms, by Sir Philip Sidney’, ll. 3-4):

God’s image, and seal Makes us idolatrous, And love it, not him, who it should reveal, When we are moved to seem religious Only to vent wit, Lord deliver us.

(‘A Litany’, XXI, ll. 185-9)

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Prickett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998) Donne, John, Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, ed. Anthony Raspa

(Montreal: McGill-Queen's University Press, 1975) –––––-. The Divine Poems, ed. Helen Gardner, 2nd edn (Oxford:

Clarendon Press, 1978) –––––-. John Donne's Sermons on the Psalms and Gospels, ed. Evelyn M. Simpson

(London: University of California Press, 2003) –––––-. Selected Poetry, ed. John Carey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998) Plato, The Republic, trans. Francis MacDonald Cornford (Oxford: Clarendon

Press, 1941) –––––-. Plato’s Theory of Knowledge: the Theaetetus and the Sophist of Plato,

trans. Francis Macdonald Cornford (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964)

Plutarch, Moralia, Book IV, ed. G. P. Goold (London: Heinemann, 1999) Emblem books Alciatus, Andreas, Emblematum Liber (Augustae Vindelicorum: H. Steynerum,

1531) Combe, Thomas ,The Theater of Fine Devices (London, 1593) van Haeften, Benedictus, Schola Cordis (Antwerp, 1629) H. G., The Mirrour of Maiestie (London: William Jones, 1618) Jenner, Thomas, The Soules Solace (London, 1626) Montenay, Georgette de, Emblemes, ou Devises Chrestiennes (Lyon: Jean

Marcovelle, 1571) Peacham, Henry, Minerva Britanna (London, 1608) Paradin, Claude, The Heroicall Devises of M. Claudius Paradin, (London:

William Kearney, 1591)

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Whitney, Geffrey, A Choice of Emblemes (Leyden: F. Raphelengius, 1586) Willet, Andrew, Sacrorum Emblematum Centuria Una (Cambridge, 1592) Vaenius, Otho, Amorum Emblemata (Antwerp, 1608) –––––-. Amoris Divini Emblemata (Antwerp, 1615) Secondary sources Bath, Michael, Speaking Pictures: English Emblem Books and Renaissance Culture

(London: Longman, 1994) Coffin, Charles M., ‘Donne's Divinity’, in The Kenyon Review, Vol. 16, No. 2

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York: Peter Lang) Manning, John, The Emblem (London: Reaktion, 2002) Martz, Louis L., ‘John Donne: The Meditative Voice’, in The Massachusetts

Review, Vol. 1, No. 2 (Winter, 1960) Praz, Mario, Studies in Seventeenth-Century Imagery, Vol. I (London, 1939) Roston, Murray, ‘Donne and the Meditative Tradition’, in Religion &

Literature, Vol. 37, No. 1 (Spring, 2005) Sloane, Mary Cole, ‘Emblem and Meditation: Some Parallels in John Donne's

Imagery’ in South Atlantic Bulletin, Vol. 39, No. 2 (May, 1974) Sloane, Thomas O., ‘Dr. Donne and the Image of Christ’, in Rhetorica: A Journal

of the History of Rhetoric, Vol. 24, No. 2 (Spring, 2006) Warren, Austin, ‘The Very Reverend Dr. Donne’, in The Kenyon Review, Vol.

16, No. 2 (Spring, 1954)