TO AMORET.

The Sigh.

Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings, Take this message and depart; Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings, At what thy airy voyage brings, That thou cam'st lately from my heart.

Tell my lovely foe that I Have no more such spies to send, But one or two that I intend, Some few minutes ere I die, To her white bosom to commend.

Then whisper by that holy spring, Where for her sake I would have died, Whilst those water-nymphs did bring Flowers to cure what she had tried; And of my faith and love did sing.

That if my Amoret, if she In after-times would have it read, How her beauty murder'd me, With all my heart I will agree, If she'll but love me, being dead.



TO HIS FRIEND BEING IN LOVE.

Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death; Doating idolater! can silence bring Thy saint propitious? or will Cupid fling One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try This silent courtship of a sickly eye. Witty to tyranny, she too well knows This but the incense of thy private vows, That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay; Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move, The language of thy tears may make her love. Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall On her breast's warmer snow, O may you all, By some strange fate fix'd there, distinctly lie, The much lov'd volume of my tragedy. Where, if you win her not, may this be read, The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.



SONG.

Amyntas go, thou art undone, Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate; That love is better not begun, Where love is come to love too late.[43]

Had she professed[44] hidden fires, Or show'd one[45] knot that tied her heart, I could have quench'd my first desires, And we had only met to part.

But, tyrant, thus to murder men, And shed a lover's harmless blood, And burn him in those flames again, Which he at first might have withstood.

Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep Such sacred dew, with such pure[46] grace; Durst think them feigned tears, or seek For treason in an angel's face.

This is her art, though this be true, Men's joys are kill'd with[47] griefs and fears, Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew, Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.

This, cruel, thou hast done, and thus That face hath many servants slain, Though th' end be not to ruin us, But to seek glory by our pain.[48]

FOOTNOTES:

[43] MS. Whose pure offering comes too late.

[44] MS. profess'd her.

[45] MS. the.

[46] MS. such a.

[47] MS. by.

[48]

MS. Your aime is sure to ruine us. Seeking your glory by our paine



TO AMORET.

Walking in a Starry Evening.

If, Amoret, that glorious eye, In the first birth of light, And death of Night, Had with those elder fires you spy Scatter'd so high, Received form and sight;

We might suspect in the vast ring, Amidst these golden glories, And fiery stories;[49] Whether the sun had been the king And guide of day, Or your brighter eye should sway.

But, Amoret, such is my fate, That if thy face a star Had shin'd from far, I am persuaded in that state, 'Twixt thee and me, Of some predestin'd sympathy.[50]

For sure such two conspiring minds, Which no accident, or sight, Did thus unite; Whom no distance can confine, Start, or decline, One for another were design'd.

FOOTNOTES:

[49] MS.

MS. We may suspect in the vast ring, Which rolls those fiery spheres Thro' years and years.



[50] MS. There would be perfect sympathy.



TO AMORET GONE FROM HIM.

Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd, And Amoret, of thee we talk'd; The West just then had stolen the sun, And his last blushes were begun: We sate, and mark'd how everything Did mourn his absence: how the spring That smil'd and curl'd about his beams, Whilst he was here, now check'd her streams: The wanton eddies of her face Were taught less noise, and smoother grace; And in a slow, sad channel went, Whisp'ring the banks their discontent: The careless ranks of flowers that spread Their perfum'd bosoms to his head. And with an open, free embrace, Did entertain his beamy face, Like absent friends point to the West, And on that weak reflection feast. If creatures then that have no sense, But the loose tie of influence, Though fate and time each day remove Those things that element their love, At such vast distance can agree, Why, Amoret, why should not we?



A SONG TO AMORET.

If I were dead, and in my place Some fresher youth design'd To warm thee with new fires, and grace Those arms I left behind;

Were he as faithful as the sun, That's wedded to the sphere; His blood as chaste and temp'rate run, As April's mildest tear;

Or were he rich, and with his heaps And spacious share of earth, Could make divine affection cheap, And court his golden birth:

For all these arts I'd not believe, —No, though he should be thine— The mighty amorist could give So rich a heart as mine.

Fortune and beauty thou might'st find, And greater men than I: But my true resolved mind They never shall come nigh.[51]

For I not for an hour did love, Or for a day desire, But with my soul had from above This endless, holy fire.

FOOTNOTES:

[51]

MS. But with my true steadfast minde None can pretend to vie.



AN ELEGY.

'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die, I'll leave these sighs and tears a legacy To after-lovers: that, rememb'ring me, Those sickly flames which now benighted be, Fann'd by their warmer sighs, may love; and prove In them the metempsychosis of love. 'Twas I—when others scorn'd—vow'd you were fair, And sware that breath enrich'd the coarser air, Lent roses to your cheeks, made Flora bring Her nymphs with all the glories of the spring To wait upon thy face, and gave my heart A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart, To arm those eyes against myself; to me Thou ow'st that tongue's bewitching harmony. I courted angels from those upper joys, And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice. I made the Indian curse the hours he spent To seek his pearls, and wisely to repent His former folly, and confess a sin, Charm'd by the brighter lustre of thy skin. I borrow'd from the winds the gentler wing Of Zephyrus, and soft souls of the spring; And made—to air those cheeks with fresher grace— The warm inspirers dwell upon thy face. Oh! jam satis ...



A RHAPSODIS:

Occasionally written upon a meeting with some of his friends at the Globe Tavern, in a chamber painted overhead with a cloudy sky and some few dispersed stars, and on the sides with landscapes, hills, shepherds and sheep.

Darkness, and stars i' th' mid-day! They invite Our active fancies to believe it night: For taverns need no sun, but for a sign, Where rich tobacco and quick tapers shine; And royal, witty sack, the poet's soul, With brighter suns than he doth gild the bowl; As though the pot and poet did agree, Sack should to both illuminator be. That artificial cloud, with its curl'd brow, Tells us 'tis late; and that blue space below Is fir'd with many stars: mark! how they break In silent glances o'er the hills, and speak The evening to the plains, where, shot from far, They meet in dumb salutes, as one great star. The room, methinks, grows darker; and the air Contracts a sadder colour, and less fair. Or is't the drawer's skill? hath he no arts To blind us so we can't know pints from quarts? No, no, 'tis night: look where the jolly clown Musters his bleating herd and quits the down. Hark! how his rude pipe frets the quiet air, Whilst ev'ry hill proclaims Lycoris fair. Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch and sleep, Free from all cares, but thy wench, pipe and sheep! But see, the moon is up; view, where she stands Sentinel o'er the door, drawn by the hands Of some base painter, that for gain hath made Her face the landmark to the tippling trade. This cup to her, that to Endymion give; 'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live. Choke may the painter! and his box disclose No other colours than his fiery nose; And may we no more of his pencil see Than two churchwardens, and mortality. Should we go now a-wand'ring, we should meet With catchpoles, whores and carts in ev'ry street: Now when each narrow lane, each nook and cave, Sign-posts and shop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave, When riotous sinful plush, and tell-tale spurs Walk Fleet Street and the Strand, when the soft stirs Of bawdy, ruffled silks, turn night to day; And the loud whip and coach scolds all the way; When lust of all sorts, and each itchy blood From the Tower-wharf to Cymbeline, and Lud, Hunts for a mate, and the tir'd footman reels 'Twixt chairmen, torches, and the hackney wheels. Come, take the other dish; it is to him That made his horse a senator: each brim Look big as mine: the gallant, jolly beast Of all the herd—you'll say—was not the least. Now crown the second bowl, rich as his worth I'll drink it to; he, that like fire broke forth Into the Senate's face, cross'd Rubicon, And the State's pillars, with their laws thereon, And made the dull grey beards and furr'd gowns fly Into Brundusium to consult, and lie. This, to brave Sylla! why should it be said We drink more to the living than the dead? Flatt'rers and fools do use it: let us laugh At our own honest mirth; for they that quaff To honour others, do like those that sent Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent. Drink deep; this cup be pregnant, and the wine Spirit of wit, to make us all divine, That big with sack and mirth we may retire Possessors of more souls, and nobler fire; And by the influx of this painted sky, And labour'd forms, to higher matters fly; So, if a nap shall take us, we shall all, After full cups, have dreams poetical.

Let's laugh now, and the press'd grape drink, Till the drowsy day-star wink; And in our merry, mad mirth run Faster, and further than the sun; And let none his cup forsake, Till that star again doth wake; So we men below shall move Equally with the gods above.



TO AMORET, OF THE DIFFERENCE 'TWIXT HIM AND OTHER LOVERS, AND WHAT TRUE LOVE IS.

Mark, when the evening's cooler wings Fan the afflicted air, how the faint sun, Leaving undone, What he begun, Those spurious flames suck'd up from slime and earth To their first, low birth, Resigns, and brings.

They shoot their tinsel beams and vanities, Threading with those false fires their way; But as you stay And see them stray, You lose the flaming track, and subtly they Languish away, And cheat your eyes.

Just so base, sublunary lovers' hearts Fed on loose profane desires, May for an eye Or face comply: But those remov'd, they will as soon depart, And show their art, And painted fires.

Whilst I by pow'rful love, so much refin'd, That my absent soul the same is, Careless to miss A glance or kiss, Can with those elements of lust and sense Freely dispense, And court the mind.

Thus to the North the loadstones move, And thus to them th' enamour'd steel aspires: Thus Amoret I do affect; And thus by winged beams, and mutual fire, Spirits and stars conspire: And this is Love.



TO AMORET WEEPING.

Leave Amoret, melt not away so fast Thy eyes' fair treasure; Fortune's wealthiest cast Deserves not one such pearl; for these, well spent, Can purchase stars, and buy a tenement For us in heaven; though here the pious streams Avail us not; who from that clue of sunbeams Could ever steal one thread? or with a kind Persuasive accent charm the wild loud wind? Fate cuts us all in marble, and the Book Forestalls our glass of minutes; we may look But seldom meet a change; think you a tear Can blot the flinty volume? shall our fear Or grief add to their triumphs? and must we Give an advantage to adversity? Dear, idle prodigal! is it not just We bear our stars? What though I had not dust Enough to cabinet a worm? nor stand Enslav'd unto a little dirt, or sand? I boast a better purchase, and can show The glories of a soul that's simply true. But grant some richer planet at my birth Had spied me out, and measur'd so much earth Or gold unto my share: I should have been Slave to these lower elements, and seen My high-born soul flag with their dross, and lie A pris'ner to base mud, and alchemy. I should perhaps eat orphans, and suck up A dozen distress'd widows in one cup; Nay, further, I should by that lawful stealth, Damn'd usury, undo the commonwealth; Or patent it in soap, and coals, and so Have the smiths curse me, and my laundress too; Geld wine, or his friend tobacco; and so bring The incens'd subject rebel to his king; And after all—as those first sinners fell— Sink lower than my gold, and lie in hell. Thanks then for this deliv'rance! blessed pow'rs, You that dispense man's fortune and his hours, How am I to you all engag'd! that thus By such strange means, almost miraculous, You should preserve me; you have gone the way To make me rich by taking all away. For I—had I been rich—as sure as fate, Would have been meddling with the king, or State, Or something to undo me; and 'tis fit, We know, that who hath wealth should have no wit, But, above all, thanks to that Providence That arm'd me with a gallant soul, and sense, 'Gainst all misfortunes, that hath breath'd so much Of Heav'n into me, that I scorn the touch Of these low things; and can with courage dare Whatever fate or malice can prepare: I envy no man's purse or mines: I know That, losing them, I've lost their curses too; And Amoret—although our share in these Is not contemptible, nor doth much please— Yet, whilst content and love we jointly vie, We have a blessing which no gold can buy.



UPON THE PRIORY GROVE, HIS USUAL RETIREMENT.

Hail, sacred shades! cool, leafy house! Chaste treasurer of all my vows And wealth! on whose soft bosom laid My love's fair steps I first betray'd: Henceforth no melancholy flight, No sad wing, or hoarse bird of night, Disturb this air, no fatal throat Of raven, or owl, awake the note Of our laid echo, no voice dwell Within these leaves, but Philomel. The poisonous ivy here no more His false twists on the oak shall score; Only the woodbine here may twine, As th' emblem of her love, and mine; The amorous sun shall here convey His best beams, in thy shades to play; The active air the gentlest show'rs Shall from his wings rain on thy flowers; And the moon from her dewy locks Shall deck thee with her brightest drops. Whatever can a fancy move, Or feed the eye, be on this grove! And when at last the winds and tears Of heaven, with the consuming years, Shall these green curls bring to decay, And clothe thee in an aged grey —If ought a lover can foresee, Or if we poets prophets be— From hence transplanted, thou shalt stand A fresh grove in th' Elysian land; Where—most bless'd pair!—as here on earth Thou first didst eye our growth, and birth; So there again, thou'lt see us move In our first innocence and love; And in thy shades, as now, so then, We'll kiss, and smile, and walk again.



JUVENAL'S TENTH SATIRE TRANSLATED.

In all the parts of earth, from farthest West, And the Atlantic Isles, unto the East And famous Ganges, few there be that know What's truly good, and what is good, in show, Without mistake: for what is't we desire, Or fear discreetly? to whate'er aspire, So throughly bless'd, but ever as we speed, Repentance seals the very act, and deed? The easy gods, mov'd by no other fate Than our own pray'rs, whole kingdoms ruinate, And undo families: thus strife, and war Are the sword's prize, and a litigious bar The gown's prime wish. Vain confidence to share In empty honours and a bloody care To be the first in mischief, makes him die Fool'd 'twixt ambition and credulity. An oily tongue with fatal, cunning sense, And that sad virtue ever, eloquence, Are th' other's ruin, but the common curse; And each day's ill waits on the rich man's purse; He, whose large acres and imprison'd gold So far exceeds his father's store of old, As British whales the dolphins do surpass. In sadder times therefore, and when the laws Of Nero's fiat reign'd, an armed band Seiz'd on Longinus, and the spacious land Of wealthy Seneca, besieg'd the gates Of Lateranus, and his fair estate Divided as a spoil: in such sad feasts Soldiers—though not invited—are the guests. Though thou small pieces of the blessed mine Hast lodg'd about thee, travelling in the shine Of a pale moon, if but a reed doth shake, Mov'd by the wind, the shadow makes thee quake. Wealth hath its cares, and want has this relief, It neither fears the soldier nor the thief; Thy first choice vows, and to the gods best known, Are for thy stores' increase, that in all town Thy stock be greatest, but no poison lies I' th' poor man's dish; he tastes of no such spice. Be that thy care, when, with a kingly gust, Thou suck'st whole bowls clad in the gilded dust Of some rich mineral, whilst the false wine Sparkles aloft, and makes the draught divine. Blam'st thou the sages, then? because the one Would still be laughing, when he would be gone From his own door; the other cried to see His times addicted to such vanity? Smiles are an easy purchase, but to weep Is a hard act; for tears are fetch'd more deep. Democritus his nimble lungs would tire With constant laughter, and yet keep entire His stock of mirth, for ev'ry object was Addition to his store; though then—alas!— Sedans, and litters, and our Senate gowns, With robes of honour, fasces, and the frowns Of unbrib'd tribunes were not seen; but had He liv'd to see our Roman praetor clad In Jove's own mantle, seated on his high Embroider'd chariot 'midst the dust and cry Of the large theatre, loaden with a crown, Which scarce he could support—for it would down, But that his servant props it—and close by His page, a witness to his vanity: To these his sceptre and his eagle add, His trumpets, officers, and servants clad In white and purple; with the rest that day, He hir'd to triumph, for his bread, and pay; Had he these studied, sumptuous follies seen, 'Tis thought his wanton and effusive spleen Had kill'd the Abderite, though in that age —When pride and greatness had not swell'd the stage So high as ours—his harmless and just mirth From ev'ry object had a sudden birth. Nor was't alone their avarice or pride, Their triumphs or their cares he did deride; Their vain contentions or ridiculous fears, But even their very poverty and tears. He would at Fortune's threats as freely smile As others mourn; nor was it to beguile His crafty passions; but this habit he By nature had, and grave philosophy. He knew their idle and superfluous vows, And sacrifice, which such wrong zeal bestows, Were mere incendiaries; and that the gods, Not pleas'd therewith, would ever be at odds. Yet to no other air, nor better place Ow'd he his birth, than the cold, homely Thrace; Which shows a man may be both wise and good, Without the brags of fortune, or his blood. But envy ruins all: what mighty names Of fortune, spirit, action, blood, and fame, Hath this destroy'd? yea, for no other cause Than being such; their honour, worth and place, Was crime enough; their statues, arms and crowns Their ornaments of triumph, chariots, gowns, And what the herald, with a learned care, Had long preserv'd, this madness will not spare. So once Sejanus' statue Rome allow'd Her demi-god, and ev'ry Roman bow'd To pay his safety's vows; but when that face Had lost Tiberius once, its former grace Was soon eclips'd; no diff'rence made—alas!— Betwixt his statue then, and common brass, They melt alike, and in the workman's hand For equal, servile use, like others stand. Go, now fetch home fresh bays, and pay new vows To thy dumb Capitol gods! thy life, thy house, And state are now secur'd: Sejanus lies I' th' lictors' hands. Ye gods! what hearts and eyes Can one day's fortune change? the solemn cry Of all the world is, "Let Sejanus die!" They never lov'd the man, they swear; they know Nothing of all the matter, when, or how, By what accuser, for what cause, or why, By whose command or sentence he must die. But what needs this? the least pretence will hit, When princes fear, or hate a favourite. A large epistle stuff'd with idle fear, Vain dreams, and jealousies, directed here From Caprea does it; and thus ever die Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high. 'Tis well, I seek no more; but tell me how This took his friends? no private murmurs now? No tears? no solemn mourner seen? must all His glory perish in one funeral? O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise The moon by night, but court the warmer rays O' th' sun by day; they follow fortune still, And hate or love discreetly, as their will And the time leads them. This tumultuous fate Puts all their painted favours out of date. And yet this people that now spurn, and tread This mighty favourite's once honour'd head, Had but the Tuscan goddess, or his stars Destin'd him for an empire, or had wars, Treason, or policy, or some higher pow'r Oppress'd secure Tiberius; that same hour That he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doom, Had crown'd him emp'ror of the world and Rome But Rome is now grown wise, and since that she Her suffrages, and ancient liberty Lost in a monarch's name, she takes no care For favourite or prince; nor will she share Their fickle glories, though in Cato's days She rul'd whole States and armies with her voice. Of all the honours now within her walls, She only dotes on plays and festivals. Nor is it strange; for when these meteors fall, They draw an ample ruin with them: all Share in the storm; each beam sets with the sun, And equal hazard friends and flatt'rers run. This makes, that circled with distractive fear The lifeless, pale Sejanus' limbs they tear, And lest the action might a witness need, They bring their servants to confirm the deed; Nor is it done for any other end, Than to avoid the title of his friend. So falls ambitious man, and such are still All floating States built on the people's will: Hearken all you! whom this bewitching lust Of an hour's glory, and a little dust Swells to such dear repentance! you that can Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span! Would you be as Sejanus? would you have, So you might sway as he did, such a grave? Would you be rich as he? command, dispose, All acts and offices? all friends and foes? Be generals of armies and colleague Unto an emperor? break or make a league? No doubt you would; for both the good and bad An equal itch of honour ever had. But O! what state can be so great or good, As to be bought with so much shame and blood? Alas! Sejanus will too late confess 'Twas only pride and greatness made him less: For he that moveth with the lofty wind Of Fortune, and Ambition, unconfin'd In act or thought, doth but increase his height, That he may loose it with more force and weight; Scorning a base, low ruin, as if he Would of misfortune make a prodigy. Tell, mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thou That mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow, What but the weight of honours, and large fame After your worthy acts, and height of name, Destroy'd you in the end? The envious Fates, Easy to further your aspiring States, Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excess. In ev'ry act did make you thrive the less. Few kings are guilty of grey hairs, or die Without a stab, a draught, or treachery. And yet to see him, that but yesterday Saw letters first, how he will scrape, and pray; And all her feast-time tire Minerva's ears For fame, for eloquence, and store of years To thrive and live in; and then lest he dotes, His boy assists him with his box and notes. Fool that thou art! not to discern the ill These vows include; what, did Rome's consul kill Her Cicero? what, him whose very dust Greece celebrates as yet; whose cause, though just, Scarce banishment could end; nor poison save His free-born person from a foreign grave? All this from eloquence! both head and hand The tongue doth forfeit; petty wits may stand Secure from danger, but the nobler vein With loss of blood the bar doth often stain.

} Carmen O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam. } Ciceronianum }

Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the sword Of fierce Antonius; here is not one word Doth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer far Than thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war. What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw At once her patriot, oracle, and law? Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in stars Whom his poor father, blind with soot and scars, Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wear The factious gown, and tire his client's ear And purse with endless noise. Trophies of war, Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar, And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a piece Of some torn British galley, and to these The ensign too, and last of all the train The pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain, Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek And rude barbarians equally do seek. Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies Without reward; and yet by this fierce lust Of fame, and titles to outlive our dust, And monuments—though all these things must die And perish like ourselves—whole kingdoms lie Ruin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale, What weight affords the mighty general? This is the man, whom Afric's spacious land Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand Could not contain—Ye gods! that give to men Such boundless appetites, why state you them So short a time? either the one deny, Or give their acts and them eternity. All Aethiopia, to the utmost bound Of Titan's course,—than which no land is found Less distant from the sun—with him that ploughs That fertile soil where fam'd[52] Iberus flows, Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'er The Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its store Of ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow, —As if that Nature meant to give the blow— Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry side He wounds the hill, and by strong hand divides The monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay. The world and Nature yield to give him way. And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar 'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future war Strikes Italy; success and hope doth fire His lofty spirits with a fresh desire. All is undone as yet—saith he—unless Our Paenish forces we advance, and press Upon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall, And plant our colours in Suburra's vale. O the rare sight! if this great soldier we Arm'd on his Getick elephant might see! But what's the event? O glory, how the itch Of thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch! He that but now all Italy and Spain Had conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again; And in the heart of Afric, and the sight Of his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight. Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he posts To Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts, Both places by his sword secur'd, though he In this distress must not acknowledg'd be; Where once a general he triumphed, now To show what Fortune can, he begs as low. And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'd Conquest and war, and did amaze the world, Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath, Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death. For all that blood the field of Cannae boasts, And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts, No other end—freed from the pile and sword— Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford. Go now, ambitious man! new plots design, March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine; That, after all, at best thou may'st but be A pleasing story to posterity! The Macedon one world could not contain, We hear him of the narrow earth complain, And sweat for room, as if Seriphus Isle Or Gyara had held him in exile; But Babylon this madness can allay, And give the great man but his length of clay. The highest thoughts and actions under heaven Death only with the lowest dust lays even. It is believed—if what Greece writes be true— That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hew Their ways through mountains, that their sails full blown Like clouds hung over Athos and did drown The spacious continent, and by plain force Betwixt the mount and it, made a divorce; That seas exhausted were, and made firm land, And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand; That on their march his Medes but passing by Drank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry; With whatsoe'er incredible design Sostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine. But what's the end? He that the other day Divided Hellespont, and forc'd his way Through all her angry billows, that assign'd New punishments unto the waves, and wind, No sooner saw the Salaminian seas But he was driven out by Themistocles, And of that fleet—supposed to be so great, That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat— Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat, Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float, Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood, And fought again with carcases, and blood. O foolish mad Ambition! these are still The famous dangers that attend thy will. Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years, Are the next vows; these with religious fears And constancy we pay; but what's so bad As a long, sinful age? what cross more sad Than misery of years? how great an ill Is that which doth but nurse more sorrow still? It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood, Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food, And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skin As in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen. Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit, Are several graces; but where age doth hit It makes no difference; the same weak voice, And trembling ague in each member lies: A general hateful baldness, with a curs'd Perpetual pettishness; and, which is worst, A foul, strong flux of humours, and more pain To feed, than if he were to nurse again; So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends, That his own sons, and servants, wish his end. His taste and feeling dies; and of that fire The am'rous lover burns in, no desire: Or if there were, what pleasure could it be, Where lust doth reign without ability? Nor is this all: what matters it, where he Sits in the spacious stage? who can nor see, Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voice Of spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noise Of trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can But scarce inform who enters, or what man He personates, what 'tis they act, or say? How many scenes are done? what time of day? Besides that little blood his carcase holds Hath lost[53] its native warmth, and fraught with colds Catarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns, And never but in fits and fevers burns. Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock Of sickness and diseases to him flock, That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew, Nor wanton Maura; physic never slew So many patients, nor rich lawyers spoil More wards and widows; it were lesser toil To number out what manors and domains Licinius' razor purchas'd: one complains Of weakness in the back, another pants For lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants; Nay, some so feeble are, and full of pain, That infant-like they must be fed again. These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill, And like young birds, that wait the mother's bill, They gape for meat; but sadder far than this Their senseless ignorance and dotage is; For neither they, their friends, nor servants know, Nay, those themselves begot, and bred up too, No longer now they'll own; for madly they Proscribe them all, and what, on the last day, The misers cannot carry to the grave For their past sins, their prostitutes must have. But grant age lack'd these plagues: yet must they see As great, as many: frail mortality, In such a length of years, hath many falls, And deads a life with frequent funerals. The nimblest hour in all the span can steal A friend, or brother from's; there's no repeal In death, or time; this day a wife we mourn, To-morrow's tears a son; and the next urn A sister fills. Long-livers have assign'd These curses still, that with a restless mind, An age of fresh renewing cares they buy, And in a tide of tears grow old and die. Nestor,—if we great Homer may believe— In his full strength three hundred years did live: Happy—thou'lt say—that for so long a time Enjoy'd free nature, with the grape and wine Of many autumns; but, I prithee thee, hear What Nestor says himself, when he his dear Antilochus had lost; how he complains Of life's too large extent, and copious pains? Of all he meets, he asks what is the cause He liv'd thus long; for what breach of their laws The gods thus punish'd him? what sin had he Done worthy of a long life's misery. Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he Thus wept that his Ulysses lost at sea. Had Priam died before Phereclus' fleet Was built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek, Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone In peace unto the lower shades; his son Sav'd with his plenteous offspring, and the rest In solemn pomp bearing his fun'ral chest. But long life hinder'd this: unhappy he, Kept for a public ruin, liv'd to see All Asia lost, and ere he could aspire, In his own house saw both the sword and fire; All white with age and cares, his feeble arm Had now forgot the war; but this alarm Gathers his dying spirits; and as we An aged ox worn out with labour see By his ungrateful master, after all His years of toil, a thankless victim fall: So he by Jove's own altar; which shows we Are nowhere safe from heaven, and destiny: Yet died a man; but his surviving queen, Freed from the Greekish sword, was barking seen. I haste to Rome, and Pontus' king let pass, With Lydian Cr[oe]sus, whom in vain—alas!— Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend, That happiness came not before the end. What man more bless'd in any age to come Or past, could Nature show the world, or Rome, Than Marius was? if amidst the pomp of war, And triumphs fetch'd with Roman blood from far, His soul had fled; exile and fetters then He ne'er had seen, nor known Minturna's fen; Nor had it, after Carthage got, been said A Roman general had begg'd his bread. Thus Pompey th' envious gods, and Rome's ill stars —Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars— Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vows Made Caesar guiltless; but sent him to lose His head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd: This Lentulus, and this made him resist That mangled by no lictor's axe, fell dead Entirely Catiline, and sav'd his head. The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal, Are the last votaries, and their appeal Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow, They pray for sons, but with a louder vow Commend a female feature: all that can Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan And when[54] reprov'd, they say, Latona's pair The mother never thinks can be too fair. But sad Lucretia warns to wish no face Like hers: Virginia would bequeath her grace To crook-back Rutila in exchange; for still The fairest children do their parents fill With greatest cares; so seldom chastity Is found with beauty; though some few there be That with a strict, religious care contend Th' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend: Besides, wise Nature to some faces grants An easy blush, and where she freely plants A less instruction serves: but both these join'd, At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd. So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win, And bribe the father to the children's sin; But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace Betrays itself; what time did Nero mind A coarse, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd His goatish pathic? whence then flow these joys Of a fair issue? whom these sad annoys Wait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see Public adulterers, and must be Subject to all the curses, plagues, and awe Of jealous madmen, and the Julian law; Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star, Or more escapes than did the god of war. But worse than all, a jealous brain confines His fury to no law; what rage assigns Is present justice: thus the rash sword spills This lecher's blood; the scourge another kills. But thy spruce boy must touch no other face Than a patrician? is of any race So they be rich; Servilia is as good, With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood. To please a servant all is cheap; what thing In all their stock to the last suit, and king, But lust exacts? the poorest whore in this As generous as the patrician is. But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin With a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and him That Stenob[oe]a murder'd; for both these Can tell how fatal 'twas in them to please. A woman's spleen then carries most of fate, When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate. Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son, In such a hazard what should he have done? Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best, In whom alone beauty and worth did rest. This Messalina saw, and needs he must Be ruin'd by the emp'ror, or her lust. All in the face of Rome, and the world's eye Though Caesar's wife, a public bigamy She dares attempt; and that the act might bear More prodigy, the notaries appear, And augurs to't; and to complete the sin In solemn form, a dowry is brought in. All this—thou'lt say—in private might have pass'd But she'll not have it so; what course at last? What should he do? If Messaline be cross'd, Without redress thy Silius will be lost; If not, some two days' length is all he can Keep from the grave; just so much as will span This news to Hostia, to whose fate he owes That Claudius last his own dishonour knows. But he obeys, and for a few hours' lust Forfeits that glory should outlive his dust; Nor was it much a fault; for whether he Obey'd or not, 'twas equal destiny. So fatal beauty is, and full of waste. That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste. What then should man pray for? what is't that he Can beg of Heaven, without impiety? Take my advice: first to the gods commit All cares; for they things competent and fit For us foresee; besides, man is more dear To them than to himself; we blindly here, Led by the world and lust, in vain assay To get us portions, wives and sons; but they Already know all that we can intend, And of our children's children see the end. Yet that thou may'st have something to commend With thanks unto the gods for what they send; Pray for a wise and knowing soul; a sad, Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to add A needless horror to thy death; that knows 'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes; That starts not at misfortunes, that can sway And keep all passions under lock and key; That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefers An honest want, before rich injurers. All this thou hast within thyself, and may Be made thy own, if thou wilt take the way; What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what [can] Frail, perilous honours add unto a man? What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife? Virtue alone can make a happy life. To a wise man nought comes amiss: but we Fortune adore, and make our deity.

FOOTNOTES:

[52] The original has framed.

[53] The original has low.

[54] The original has why



OLOR ISCANUS.

1651.

——O quis me gelidis in vallibus Iscae Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!



AD POSTEROS.

Diminuat ne sera dies praesentis honorem Quis, qualisque fui, percipe Posteritas. Cambria me genuit, patulis ubi vallibus errans Subjacet aeriis montibus Isca pater. Inde sinu placido suscepit maximus arte Herbertus, Latiae gloria prima scholae. Bis ternos, illo me conducente, per annos Profeci, et geminam contulit unus opem; Ars et amor, mens atque manus certare solebant, Nec lassata illi mensue, manusue fuit. Hinc qualem cernis crevisse: sed ut mea certus Tempora cognoscas, dura mere, scias. Vixi, divisos cum fregerat haeresis Anglos Inter Tysiphonas presbyteri et populi. His primum miseris per am[oe]na furentibus arva Prostravit sanctam vilis avena rosam, Turbarunt fontes, et fusis pax perit undis, Moestaque coelestes obruit umbra dies. Duret ut integritas tamen, et pia gloria, partem Me nullam in tanta strage fuisse, scias; Credidimus nempe insonti vocem esse cruori, Et vires quae post funera flere docent. Hinc castae, fidaeque pati me more parentis Commonui, et lachrymis fata levare meis; Hinc nusquam horrendis violavi sacra procellis, Nec mihi mens unquam, nec manus atra fuit. Si pius es, ne plura petas; satur ille recedat Qui sapit et nos non scripsimus insipidis.



TO THE TRULY NOBLE AND MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED, THE LORD KILDARE DIGBY.

My Lord,

It is a position anciently known, and modern experience hath allowed it for a sad truth, that absence and time,—like cold weather, and an unnatural dormition—will blast and wear out of memory the most endearing obligations; and hence it was that some politicians in love have looked upon the former of these two as a main remedy against the fondness of that passion. But for my own part, my Lord, I shall deny this aphorism of the people, and beg leave to assure your Lordship, that, though these reputed obstacles have lain long in my way, yet neither of them could work upon me: for I am now—without adulation—as warm and sensible of those numerous favours and kind influences received sometimes from your Lordship, as I really was at the instant of fruition. I have no plot by preambling thus to set any rate upon this present address, as if I should presume to value a return of this nature equal with your Lordship's deserts, but the design is to let you see that this habit I have got of being troublesome flows from two excusable principles, gratitude and love. These inward counsellors—I know not how discreetly—persuaded me to this attempt and intrusion upon your name, which if your Lordship will vouchsafe to own as the genius to these papers, you will perfect my hopes, and place me at my full height. This was the aim, my Lord, and is the end of this work, which though but a pazzarello to the voluminose insani, yet as jessamine and the violet find room in the bank as well as roses and lilies, so happily may this, and—if shined upon by your Lordship—please as much. To whose protection, sacred as your name and those eminent honours which have always attended upon it through so many generations, I humbly offer it, and remain in all numbers of gratitude,

My honoured Lord, Your most affectionate, humblest Servant, Vaughan. Newton by Usk this 17 of Decemb. 1647.



THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.

It was the glorious Maro that referred his legacies to the fire, and though princes are seldom executors, yet there came a Caesar to his testament, as if the act of a poet could not be repealed but by a king. I am not, Reader, Augustus vindex: here is no royal rescue, but here is a Muse that deserves it. The Author had long ago condemned these poems to obscurity, and the consumption of that further fate which attends it. This censure gave them a gust of death, and they have partly known that oblivion which our best labours must come to at last. I present thee then not only with a book, but with a prey, and in this kind the first recoveries from corruption. Here is a flame hath been sometimes extinguished, thoughts that have been lost and forgot, but now they break out again like the Platonic reminiscency. I have not the Author's approbation to the fact, but I have law on my side, though never a sword. I hold it no man's prerogative to fire his own house. Thou seest how saucy I am grown, and it thou dost expect I should commend what is published, I must tell thee, I cry no Seville oranges. I will not say, Here is fine or cheap: that were an injury to the verse itself, and to the effects it can produce. Read on, and thou wilt find thy spirit engaged: not by the deserts of what we call tolerable, but by the commands of a pen that is above it.



UPON THE MOST INGENIOUS PAIR OF TWINS, EUGENIUS PHILALETHES, AND THE AUTHOR OF THESE POEMS.

What planet rul'd your birth? what witty star? That you so like in souls as bodies are! So like in both, that you seem born to free The starry art from vulgar calumny. My doubts are solv'd, from hence my faith begins, Not only your faces but your wits are twins.

When this bright Gemini shall from Earth ascend, They will new light to dull-ey'd mankind lend, Teach the star-gazers, and delight their eyes, Being fix'd a constellation in the skies.

T. Powell, Oxoniensis.



TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR UPON THESE HIS POEMS.

I call'd it once my sloth: in such an age So many volumes deep, I not a page? But I recant, and vow 'twas thrifty care That kept my pen from spending on slight ware, And breath'd it for a prize, whose pow'rful shine Doth both reward the striver, and refine. Such are thy poems, friend: for since th' hast writ, I can't reply to any name, but wit; And lest amidst the throng that make us groan, Mine prove a groundless heresy alone, Thus I dispute, Hath there not rev'rence been Paid to the beard at door, for Lord within? Who notes the spindle-leg or hollow eye Of the thin usher, the fair lady by? Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a hand Which, while I aim to strengthen, gives command For my protection; and thou art to me At once my subject and security.

I. Rowlandson, Oxoniensis.



UPON THE FOLLOWING POEMS.

I write not here, as if thy last in store Of learned friends; 'tis known that thou hast more; Who, were they told of this, would find a way To raise a guard of poets without pay, And bring as many hands to thy edition, As th' City should unto their May'r's petition. But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be Thy muster rather than our courtesy; Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appear Poet by voice and suffrage of the shire; That were enough to make my Muse advance Amongst the crutches; nay, it might enhance Our charity, and we should think it fit The State should build an hospital for wit. But here needs no relief: thy richer verse Creates all poets, that can but rehearse, And they, like tenants better'd by their land, Should pay thee rent for what they understand. Thou art not of that lamentable nation Who make a blessed alms of approbation, Whose fardel-notes are briefs in ev'rything, But, that they are not Licens'd by the king. Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth Arm'd—though I speak it—with thy proper worth, And needest not this noise of friends, for we Write out of love, not thy necessity. And though this sullen age possessed be With some strange desamour to poetry, Yet I suspect—thy fancy so delights— The Puritans will turn thy proselytes, And that thy flame, when once abroad it shines, Will bring thee as many friends as thou hast lines.

Eugenius Philalethes, Oxoniensis.



OLOR ISCANUS.



TO THE RIVER ISCA.

When Daphne's lover here first wore the bays, Eurotas' secret streams heard all his lays, And holy Orpheus, Nature's busy child, By headlong Hebrus his deep hymns compil'd; Soft Petrarch—thaw'd by Laura's flames—did weep On Tiber's banks, when she—proud fair!—could sleep; Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the Thames Doth murmur Sidney's Stella to her streams; While Severn, swoln with joy and sorrow, wears Castara's smiles mix'd with fair Sabrin's tears. Thus poets—like the nymphs, their pleasing themes— Haunted the bubbling springs and gliding streams; And happy banks! whence such fair flow'rs have sprung, But happier those where they have sat and sung! Poets—like angels—where they once appear Hallow the place, and each succeeding year Adds rev'rence to't, such as at length doth give This aged faith, that there their genii live. Hence th' ancients say, that from this sickly air They pass to regions more refin'd and fair, To meadows strew'd with lilies and the rose, And shades whose youthful green no old age knows; Where all in white they walk, discourse, and sing Like bees' soft murmurs, or a chiding spring. But Isca, whensoe'er those shades I see, And thy lov'd arbours must no more know me, When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams, And my sun sets, where first it sprang in beams, I'll leave behind me such a large, kind light, As shall redeem thee from oblivious night, And in these vows which—living yet—I pay, Shed such a previous and enduring ray, As shall from age to age thy fair name lead, 'Till rivers leave to run, and men to read. First, may all bards born after me —When I am ashes—sing of thee! May thy green banks or streams,—or none— Be both their hill and Helicon! May vocal groves grow there, and all The shades in them prophetical, Where laid men shall more fair truths see Than fictions were of Thessaly! May thy gentle swains—like flow'rs— Sweetly spend their youthful hours, And thy beauteous nymphs—like doves— Be kind and faithful to their loves! Garlands, and songs, and roundelays, Mild, dewy nights, and sunshine days, The turtle's voice, joy without fear, Dwell on thy bosom all the year! May the evet and the toad Within thy banks have no abode, Nor the wily, winding snake Her voyage through thy waters make! In all thy journey to the main No nitrous clay, nor brimstone-vein Mix with thy streams, but may they pass Fresh on the air, and clear as glass, And where the wand'ring crystal treads Roses shall kiss, and couple heads! The factor-wind from far shall bring The odours of the scatter'd Spring, And loaden with the rich arrear, Spend it in spicy whispers there. No sullen heats, nor flames that are Offensive, and canicular, Shine on thy sands, nor pry to see Thy scaly, shading family, But noons as mild as Hesper's rays, Or the first blushes of fair days! What gifts more Heav'n or Earth can add, With all those blessings be thou clad! Honour, Beauty, Faith and Duty, Delight and Truth, With Love and Youth, Crown all about thee! and whatever Fate Impose elsewhere, whether the graver state Or some toy else, may those loud, anxious cares For dead and dying things—the common wares And shows of Time—ne'er break thy peace, nor make Thy repos'd arms to a new war awake! But freedom, safety, joy and bliss, United in one loving kiss, Surround thee quite, and style thy borders The land redeem'd from all disorders!



THE CHARNEL-HOUSE.

Bless me! what damps are here! how stiff an air! Kelder of mists, a second fiat's care, Front'spiece o' th' grave and darkness, a display Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day, Lean, bloodless shamble, where I can descry Fragments of men, rags of anatomy, Corruption's wardrobe, the transplantive bed Of mankind, and th' exchequer of the dead! How thou arrests my sense! how with the sight My winter'd blood grows stiff to all delight! Torpedo to the eye! whose least glance can Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue headlong man. Eloquent silence! able to immure An atheist's thoughts, and blast an epicure. Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dress Would make me wish a Saviour, and confess. Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope, Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope, Whose stretch'd excess runs on a string too high, And on the rack of self-extension die? Chameleons of state, air-monging band, Whose breath—like gunpowder—blows up a land, Come see your dissolution, and weigh What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day. As th' elements by circulation pass From one to th' other, and that which first was I so again, so 'tis with you; the grave And Nature but complot; what the one gave The other takes; think, then, that in this bed There sleep the relics of as proud a head, As stern and subtle as your own, that hath Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath Hath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely then Calm these high furies, and descend to men. Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tomb Check'd him, who thought the world too straight a room. Have I obey'd the powers of face, A beauty able to undo the race Of easy man? I look but here, and straight I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave Beggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save, Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear. Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score Of erring men, and having done, meet more, Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, False, empty honours, traitorous delights, And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites; But these and more which the weak vermins swell, Are couch'd in this accumulative cell, Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone; Day leaves me in a double night, and I Must bid farewell to my sad library. Yet with these notes—Henceforth with thought of thee I'll season all succeeding jollity, Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit; Excess hath no religion, nor wit; But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, One check from thee shall channel it again.



IN AMICUM F[OE]NERATOREM.

Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see How I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee. Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more, His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore. As lesser lode-stones with the North consent, Naturally moving to their element, As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fire Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire, So this vast crying sum draws in a less; And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess, For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphere Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear. Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress His messages in chink! not an express Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit, For gold's the best restorative of wit. Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delight I read those lines, which angels do indite! But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurse Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse? Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at once What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones? 'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peal In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol; I fear them not. I have no land to glut Thy dirty appetite, and make thee strut Nimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepare To court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir. For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thou But kick this dross: Parnassus' flow'ry brow I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot That horse which struck a fountain with his foot. A bed of roses I'll provide for thee, And crystal springs shall drop thee melody. The breathing shades we'll haunt, where ev'ry leaf Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf. Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yet Durst make love to, we'll teach the loving fit; We'll suck the coral of their lips, and feed Upon their spicy breath, a meal at need: Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfold That glist'ring grove, the curled wood of gold; Then peep for babies, a new puppet play, And riddle what their prattling eyes would say. But here thou must remember to dispurse, For without money all this is a curse. Thou must for more bags call, and so restore This iron age to gold, as once before. This thou must do, and yet this is not all, For thus the poet would be still in thrall, Thou must then—if live thus—my nest of honey Cancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.



TO HIS FRIEND——

I wonder, James, through the whole history Of ages, such entails of poverty Are laid on poets; lawyers—they say—have found A trick to cut them; would they were but bound To practise on us, though for this thing we Should pay—if possible—their bribes and fee. Search—as thou canst—the old and modern store Of Rome and ours, in all the witty score Thou shalt not find a rich one; take each clime, And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time, Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'rywhere descry A threadbare, goldless genealogy. Nature—it seems—when she meant us for earth Spent so much of her treasure in the birth As ever after niggards her, and she, Thus stor'd within, beggars us outwardly. Woful profusion! at how dear a rate Are we made up! all hope of thrift and state Lost for a verse. When I by thoughts look back Into the womb of time, and see the rack Stand useless there, until we are produc'd Unto the torture, and our souls infus'd To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport They keep afflicted by some ling'ring art; So we are merely thrown upon the stage The mirth of fools and legend of the age. When I see in the ruins of a suit Some nobler breast, and his tongue sadly mute Feed on the vocal silence of his eye, And knowing cannot reach the remedy; When souls of baser stamp shine in their store, And he of all the throng is only poor; When French apes for foreign fashions pay, And English legs are dress'd th' outlandish way, So fine too, that they their own shadows woo, While he walks in the sad and pilgrim shoe; I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sin, To see deserts and learning clad so thin; To think how th' earthly usurer can brood Upon his bags, and weigh the precious food With palsied hands, as if his soul did fear The scales could rob him of what he laid there. Like devils that on hid treasures sit, or those Whose jealous eyes trust not beyond their nose, They guard the dirt and the bright idol hold Close, and commit adultery with gold. A curse upon their dross! how have we sued For a few scatter'd chips? how oft pursu'd Petitions with a blush, in hope to squeeze For their souls' health, more than our wants, a piece? Their steel-ribb'd chests and purse—rust eat them both!— Have cost us with much paper many an oath, And protestations of such solemn sense, As if our souls were sureties for the pence. Should we a full night's learned cares present, They'll scarce return us one short hour's content. 'Las! they're but quibbles, things we poets feign, The short-liv'd squibs and crackers of the brain. But we'll be wiser, knowing 'tis not they That must redeem the hardship of our way. Whether a Higher Power, or that star Which, nearest heav'n, is from the earth most far, Oppress us thus, or angell'd from that sphere By our strict guardians are kept luckless here, It matters not, we shall one day obtain Our native and celestial scope again.



TO HIS RETIRED FRIEND, AN INVITATION TO BRECKNOCK.

Since last we met, thou and thy horse—my dear— Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here; I wonder, though thyself be thus deceas'd, Thou hast the spite to coffin up thy beast; Or is the palfrey sick, and his rough hide With the penance of one spur mortified? Or taught by thee—like Pythagoras's ox— Is then his master grown more orthodox Whatever 'tis, a sober cause't must be That thus long bars us of thy company. The town believes thee lost, and didst thou see But half her suff'rings, now distress'd for thee, Thou'ldst swear—like Rome—her foul, polluted walls Were sack'd by Brennus and the savage Gauls. Abominable face of things! here's noise Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys, Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoarse, hellish notes Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats, With new fine Worships, and the old cast team Of Justices vex'd with the cough and phlegm. 'Midst these the Cross looks sad, and in the Shire- Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, With brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange sight Of high monumental hats, ta'en at the fight Of 'Eighty-eight; while ev'ry burgess foots The mortal pavement in eternal boots. Hadst thou been bach'lor, I had soon divin'd Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, or The beauteous churl was to be waited for, And like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, You stay'd, and strok'd the distaff for a kiss. But in this age, when thy cool, settled blood Is ti'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good, I know not how to reach the strange device, Except—Domitian-like—thou murder'st flies. Or is't thy piety? for who can tell But thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell, And—like a badger—with attentive looks In the dark hole sit rooting up of books. Quick hermit! what a peaceful change hadst thou, Without the noise of haircloth, whip, or vow! But there is no redemption? must there be No other penance but of liberty? Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, Thy memory will scarce remain with us, The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim They have not seen thee here since Charles, his reign, Or if they mention thee, like some old man, That at each word inserts—"Sir, as I can Remember"—so the cyph'rers puzzle me With a dark, cloudy character of thee. That—certs!—I fear thou wilt be lost, and we Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee. Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine And precious wit lie dead for want of thine. Shall the dull market-landlord with his rout Of sneaking tenants dirtily swill out This harmless liquor? shall they knock and beat For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat? O let not such prepost'rous tippling be In our metropolis; may I ne'er see Such tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine! Here lives that chymic, quick fire which betrays Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays. I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cup That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up, And teach her yet more charming words and skill Than ever C[oe]lia, Chloris, Astrophil, Or any of the threadbare names inspir'd Poor rhyming lovers with a mistress fir'd. Come then! and while the slow icicle hangs At the stiff thatch, and Winter's frosty pangs Benumb the year, blithe—as of old—let us 'Midst noise and war of peace and mirth discuss. This portion thou wert born for: why should we Vex at the time's ridiculous misery? An age that thus hath fool'd itself, and will —Spite of thy teeth and mine—persist so still. Let's sit then at this fire, and while we steal A revel in the town, let others seal, Purchase or cheat, and who can, let them pay, Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day. Innocent spenders we! a better use Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse Rout to their husks; they and their bags at best Have cares in earnest; we care for a jest.



MONSIEUR GOMBAULD.

I've read thy soul's fair nightpiece, and have seen Th' amours and courtship of the silent Queen, Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her To juggle first with Heav'n, then with a lover, With Latmos' louder rescue, and—alas!— To find her out a hue and cry in brass; Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad Nocturnal pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad In fancies darker than thy cave, thy glass Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass In her calm voyage what discourse she heard Of spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard Ismena led thee through, with thy proud flight O'er Periardes, and deep, musing night Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green The neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seen In their large bowers, with that sad path and seat Which none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat;[55] Their solitary life, and how exempt From common frailty, the severe contempt They have of man, their privilege to live A tree, or fountain, and in that reprieve What ages they consume, with the sad vale Of Diophania, and the mournful tale, Of th' bleeding vocal myrtle; these and more Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score To thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fall From thy first majesty, or ought at all Betray consumption; thy full vig'rous bays Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays Of style, or matter. Just so have I known Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal To their next vale, and proudly there reveal Her streams in louder accents, adding still More noise and waters to her channel, till At last swoln with increase she glides along The lawns and meadows in a wanton throng Of frothy billows, and in one great name Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame. Nor are they mere inventions, for we In th' same piece find scatter'd philosophy And hidden, dispers'd truths that folded lie In the dark shades of deep allegory; So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descry Fables with truth, fancy with history. So that thou hast in this thy curious mould Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old, Which shall these contemplations render far Less mutable, and lasting as their star, And while there is a people or a sun, Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

FOOTNOTES:

[55] So Grosart, for the heat of the original.



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. W., SLAIN IN THE LATE UNFORTUNATE DIFFERENCES AT ROUTON HEATH, NEAR CHESTER, 1645.

I am confirmed, and so much wing is given To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n. A full year's grief I struggled with, and stood Still on my sandy hopes' uncertain good, So loth was I to yield; to all those fears I still oppos'd thee, and denied my tears. But thou art gone! and the untimely loss Like that one day hath made all others cross. Have you seen on some river's flow'ry brow A well-built elm or stately cedar grow, Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-ray Beckon'd the sun, and whisper'd to the day, When unexpected from the angry North A fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth, And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground The shady twins, which rushing scatter round Their sighing leaves, whilst overborn with strength Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length? So forc'd fell he; so immaturely Death Stifled his able heart and active breath. The world scarce knew him yet, his early soul Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole A sight than gave one; as if subtly she Would learn our stock, but hide his treasury. His years—should Time lay both his wings and glass Unto his charge—could not be summ'd—alas!— To a full score; though in so short a span His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick Have quite outgone their own arithmetic. He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull And mossy grey possess'd a solid skull; No crooked knowledge neither, nor did he Wear the friend's name for ends and policy, And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stage Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age And then retir'd; like jewels, in each part He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart. Nor was it only in this he did excel, His equal valour could as much, as well. He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst No injury, nor—as some have—e'er purs'd The sweat and tears of others, yet would be More forward in a royal gallantry Than all those vast pretenders, which of late Swell'd in the ruins of their king and State. He weav'd not self-ends and the public good Into one piece, nor with the people's blood Fill'd his own veins; in all the doubtful way Conscience and honour rul'd him. O that day When like the fathers in the fire and cloud I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd See arms like thine, and men advance, but none So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on. Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie Performance with the soul, that you would swear The act and apprehension both lodg'd there; Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand. But here I lost him. Whether the last turn Of thy few sands call'd on thy hasty urn, Or some fierce rapid fate—hid from the eye— Hath hurl'd thee pris'ner to some distant sky, I cannot tell, but that I do believe Thy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve. Whatever 'twas, whether that day thy breath Suffer'd a civil or the common death, Which I do most suspect, and that I have Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave; Though thy lov'd ashes miss me, and mine eyes Had no acquaintance with thy exequies, Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight On the cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight, Yet whate'er pious hand—instead of mine— Hath done this office to that dust of thine, And till thou rise again from thy low bed Lent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head, Though but a private turf, it can do more To keep thy name and memory in store Than all those lordly fools which lock their bones In the dumb piles of chested brass, and stones Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not These marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot Of posthume honours; there is not one sand Sleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that hand And pencil too, so that of force we must Confess their heaps show lesser than thy dust. And—blessed soul!—though this my sorrow can Add nought to thy perfections, yet as man Subject to envy, and the common fate, It may redeem thee to a fairer date. As some blind dial, when the day is done, Can tell us at midnight there was a sun, So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame, May keep some weak remembrance of thy name, And to the faith of better times commend Thy loyal upright life, and gallant end.

Nomen et arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi Conspicere——————



UPON A CLOAK LENT HIM BY MR. J. RIDSLEY.

Here, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heav'n Thy courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not even Whether we die by piecemeal, or at once? Since both but ruin, why then for the nonce Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o'er Me this forc'd hurdle to inflame the score? Had I near London in this rug been seen Without doubt I had executed been For some bold Irish spy, and 'cross a sledge Had lain mess'd up for their four gates and bridge. When first I bore it, my oppressed feet Would needs persuade me 'twas some leaden sheet; Such deep impressions, and such dangerous holes Were made, that I began to doubt my soles, And ev'ry step—so near necessity— Devoutly wish'd some honest cobbler by; Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag Seem'd circumcis'd, but had a Gentile shag. Hadst thou been with me on that day, when we Left craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee, When beaten with fresh storms and late mishap It shar'd the office of a cloak, and cap, To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood Like a thick turban, or some lawyer's hood, While the stiff, hollow pleats on ev'ry side Like conduit-pipes rain'd from the bearded hide: I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate Let loose thy mirth at my new shape and state, And with a shallow smile or two profess Some Saracen had lost the clouted dress. Didst ever see the good wife—as they say— March in her short cloak on the christ'ning day, With what soft motions she salutes the church, And leaves the bedrid mother in the lurch; Just so jogg'd I, while my dull horse did trudge Like a circuit-beast, plagu'd with a gouty judge. But this was civil. I have since known more And worser pranks: one night—as heretofore Th' hast known—for want of change—a thing which I And Bias us'd before me—I did lie Pure Adamite, and simply for that end Resolv'd, and made this for my bosom-friend. O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo-graphy! Thou wouldst have ta'en me, as I naked stood, For one of the seven pillars before the flood. Such characters and hieroglyphics were In one night worn, that thou mightst justly swear I'd slept in cere-cloth, or at Bedlam, where The madmen lodge in straw. I'll not forbear To tell thee all; his wild impress and tricks Like Speed's old Britons made me look, or Picts; His villanous, biting, wire-embraces Had seal'd in me more strange forms and faces Than children see in dreams, or thou hast read In arras, puppet-plays, and gingerbread, With angled schemes, and crosses that bred fear Of being handled by some conjurer; And nearer, thou wouldst think—such strokes were drawn— I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane. Nay, I believe, had I that instant been By surgeons or apothecaries seen, They had condemned my raz'd skin to be Some walking herbal, or anatomy. But—thanks to th' day!—'tis off. I'd now advise Thee, friend, to put this piece to merchandise. The pedlars of our age have business yet, And gladly would against the Fair-day fit Themselves with such a roof, that can secure Their wares from dogs and cats rained in shower. It shall perform; or if this will not do 'Twill take the ale-wives sure; 'twill make them two Fine rooms of one, and spread upon a stick Is a partition, without lime or brick. Horn'd obstinacy! how my heart doth fret To think what mouths and elbows it would set In a wet day! have you for twopence ere Seen King Harry's chapel at Westminster, Where in their dusty gowns of brass and stone The judges lie, and mark'd you how each one, In sturdy marble-pleats about the knee, Bears up to show his legs and symmetry? Just so would this, that I think't weav'd upon Some stiffneck'd Brownist's exercising loom. O that thou hadst it when this juggling fate Of soldiery first seiz'd me! at what rate Would I have bought it then; what was there but I would have giv'n for the compendious hut? I do not doubt but—if the weight could please— 'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease. Or a German shirt with enchanted lint Stuff'd through, and th' devil's beard and face weav'd in't. But I have done. And think not, friend, that I This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy. I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse. She did this, 'cause—perhaps—thy love paid thus Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.



UPON MR. FLETCHER'S PLAYS, PUBLISHED 1647.

I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive, Label to wit, verser remonstrative, And in some suburb-page—scandal to thine— Like Lent before a Christmas scatter mine. This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate Such remnants from thy piece entreat their date; Nor can I dub the copy, or afford Titles to swell the rear of verse with lord; Nor politicly big, to inch low fame, Stretch in the glories of a stranger's name, And clip those bays I court; weak striver I, But a faint echo unto poetry. I have not clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit For plush and velvet's sake, esquire of wit. Yet modesty these crosses would improve, And rags near thee, some reverence may move. I did believe—great Beaumont being dead— Thy widow'd Muse slept on his flow'ry bed; But I am richly cozen'd, and can see Wit transmigrates: his spirit stay'd with thee; Which, doubly advantag'd by thy single pen, In life and death now treads the stage again. And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit Which starv'd the land, since into schisms split, Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess Wit's last edition is now i' th' press. For thou hast drain'd invention, and he That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee. But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain At the designs of such a tragic brain? Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see Thy most abominable policy? Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit Their Synod fast and pray against thy wit? But they'll not tire in such an idle quest; Thou dost but kill, and circumvent in jest; And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow 'Tis but for Field's, or Swansted's overthrow. Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve The peace of spirits: and when such deeds fail Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail. But—happy thou!—ne'er saw'st these storms, our air Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming fair. Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease, Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace. So nested in some hospitable shore The hermit-angler, when the mid-seas roar, Packs up his lines, and—ere the tempest raves— Retires, and leaves his station to the waves. Thus thou died'st almost with our peace, and we This breathing time thy last fair issue see, Which I think such—if needless ink not soil So choice a Muse—others are but thy foil. This, or that age may write, but never see A wit that dares run parallel with thee. True, Ben must live! but bate him, and thou hast Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.



UPON THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF THE EVER-MEMORABLE MR. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

I did but see thee! and how vain it is To vex thee for it with remonstrances, Though things in fashion; let those judge, who sit Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit I fear to sin thus near thee; for—great saint!— 'Tis known true beauty hath no need of paint. Yet, since a label fix'd to thy fair hearse Is all the mode, and tears put into verse Can teach posterity our present grief And their own loss, but never give relief; I'll tell them—and a truth which needs no pass— That wit in Cartwright at her zenith was. Arts, fancy, language, all conven'd in thee, With those grand miracles which deify The old world's writings, kept yet from the fire Because they force these worst times to admire. Thy matchless genius, in all thou didst write, Like the sun, wrought with such staid heat and light, That not a line—to the most critic he— Offends with flashes, or obscurity. When thou the wild of humours track'st, thy pen So imitates that motley stock in men, As if thou hadst in all their bosoms been, And seen those leopards that lurk within. The am'rous youth steals from thy courtly page His vow'd address, the soldier his brave rage; And those soft beauteous readers whose looks can Make some men poets, and make any man A lover, when thy slave but seems to die, Turn all his mourners, and melt at the eye. Thus thou thy thoughts hast dress'd in such a strain As doth not only speak, but rule and reign; Nor are those bodies they assum'd dark clouds, Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds, Which who looks on, the rays so strongly beat They'll brush and warm him with a quick'ning heat; So souls shine at the eyes, and pearls display Through the loose crystal-streams a glance of day. But what's all this unto a royal test? Thou art the man whom great Charles so express'd! Then let the crowd refrain their needless hum, When thunder speaks, then squibs and winds are dumb.



TO THE BEST AND MOST ACCOMPLISHED COUPLE——

Blessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads As the mild heav'n on roses sheds, When at their cheeks—like pearls—they wear The clouds that court them in a tear! And may they be fed from above By Him which first ordain'd your love!

Fresh as the hours may all your pleasures be, And healthful as eternity! Sweet as the flowers' first breath, and close As th' unseen spreadings of the rose, When he unfolds his curtain'd head, And makes his bosom the sun's bed!

Soft as yourselves run your whole lives, and clear As your own glass, or what shines there! Smooth as heav'n's face, and bright as he When without mask or tiffany! In all your time not one jar meet But peace as silent as his feet!

Like the day's warmth may all your comforts be, Untoil'd for, and serene as he, Yet free and full as is that sheaf Of sunbeams gilding ev'ry leaf, When now the tyrant-heat expires And his cool'd locks breathe milder fires!

And as those parcell'd glories he doth shed Are the fair issues of his head, Which, ne'er so distant, are soon known By th' heat and lustre for his own; So may each branch of yours we see Your copies and our wonders be!

And when no more on earth you must remain, Invited hence to heav'n again, Then may your virtuous, virgin-flames Shine in those heirs of your fair names, And teach the world that mystery, Yourselves in your posterity!

So you to both worlds shall rich presents bring, And, gather'd up to heav'n, leave here a spring.



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. HALL, SLAIN AT PONTEFRACT, 1648.

I knew it would be thus! and my just fears Of thy great spirit are improv'd to tears. Yet flow these not from any base distrust Of a fair name, or that thy honour must Confin'd to those cold relics sadly sit In the same cell an obscure anchorite. Such low distempers murder; they that must Abuse thee so, weep not, but wound thy dust. But I past such dim mourners can descry Thy fame above all clouds of obloquy, And like the sun with his victorious rays Charge through that darkness to the last of days. 'Tis true, fair manhood hath a female eye, And tears are beauteous in a victory, Nor are we so high-proof, but grief will find Through all our guards a way to wound the mind; But in thy fall what adds the brackish sum More than a blot unto thy martyrdom? Which scorns such wretched suffrages, and stands More by thy single worth than our whole bands. Yet could the puling tribute rescue ought In this sad loss, or wert thou to be brought Back here by tears, I would in any wise Pay down the sum, or quite consume my eyes. Thou fell'st our double ruin; and this rent Forc'd in thy life shak'd both the Church and tent. Learning in others steals them from the van, And basely wise emasculates the man, But lodg'd in thy brave soul the bookish feat Serv'd only as the light unto thy heat. Thus when some quitted action, to their shame, And only got a discreet coward's name, Thou with thy blood mad'st purchase of renown, And died'st the glory of the sword and gown. Thy blood hath hallow'd Pomfret, and this blow —Profan'd before—hath church'd the Castle now. Nor is't a common valour we deplore, But such as with fifteen a hundred bore, And lightning-like—not coop'd within a wall— In storms of fire and steel fell on them all. Thou wert no woolsack soldier, nor of those Whose courage lies in winking at their foes, That live at loopholes, and consume their breath On match or pipes, and sometimes peep at death; No, it were sin to number these with thee, But that—thus pois'd—our loss we better see. The fair and open valour was thy shield, And thy known station, the defying field. Yet these in thee I would not virtues call, But that this age must know that thou hadst all. Those richer graces that adorn'd thy mind Like stars of the first magnitude, so shin'd, That if oppos'd unto these lesser lights All we can say is this, they were fair nights. Thy piety and learning did unite, And though with sev'ral beams made up one light, And such thy judgment was, that I dare swear Whole councils might as soon and synods err. But all these now are out! and as some star Hurl'd in diurnal motions from far, And seen to droop at night, is vainly said To fall and find an occidental bed, Though in that other world what we judge West Proves elevation, and a new, fresh East; So though our weaker sense denies us sight, And bodies cannot trace the spirit's flight, We know those graces to be still in thee, But wing'd above us to eternity. Since then—thus flown—thou art so much refin'd That we can only reach thee with the mind, I will not in this dark and narrow glass Let thy scant shadow for perfections pass, But leave thee to be read more high, more quaint, In thy own blood a soldier and a saint.

——Salve aeternum mihi maxime Palla! Aeternumque vale!——



TO MY LEARNED FRIEND, MR. T. POWELL, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF MALVEZZI'S CHRISTIAN POLITICIAN.

We thank you, worthy Sir, that now we see MALVEZZI languag'd like our infancy, And can without suspicion entertain This foreign statesman to our breast or brain; You have enlarg'd his praise, and from your store By this edition made his worth the more. Thus by your learned hand—amidst the coil— Outlandish plants thrive in our thankless soil, And wise men after death, by a strange fate, Lie leiger here, and beg to serve our State. Italy now, though mistress of the bays, Waits on this wreath, proud of a foreign praise; For, wise Malvezzi, thou didst lie before Confin'd within the language of one shore, And like those stars which near the poles do steer Were't but in one part of the globe seen clear. Provence and Naples were the best and most Thou couldst shine in; fix'd to that single coast, Perhaps some cardinal, to be thought wise, And honest too, would ask, what was thy price? Then thou must pack to Rome, where thou mightst lie Ere thou shouldst have new clothes eternally, For though so near the sev'n hills, ne'ertheless Thou cam'st to Antwerp for thy Roman dress. But now thou art come hither, thou mayst run Through any clime as well known as the sun, And in thy sev'ral dresses, like the year, Challenge acquaintance with each peopled sphere. Come then, rare politicians of the time, Brains of some standing, elders in our clime, See here the method. A wise, solid State Is quick in acting, friendly in debate, Joint in advice, in resolutions just, Mild in success, true to the common trust. It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand Allays the heat and burnings of a land; Religion guides it, and in all the tract Designs so twist, that Heav'n confirms the act. If from these lists you wander as you steer, Look back, and catechize your actions here. These are the marks to which true statesmen tend, And greatness here with goodness hath one end.



TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MASTER T. LEWES.

Sees not my friend, what a deep snow Candies our country's woody brow? The yielding branch his load scarce bears, Oppress'd with snow and frozen tears; While the dumb rivers slowly float, All bound up in an icy coat. Let us meet then! and while this world In wild eccentrics now is hurl'd, Keep we, like nature, the same key, And walk in our forefathers' way. Why any more cast we an eye On what may come, not what is nigh? Why vex ourselves with fear, or hope And cares beyond our horoscope? Who into future times would peer, Looks oft beyond his term set here, And cannot go into those grounds But through a churchyard, which them bounds. Sorrows and sighs and searches spend And draw our bottom to an end, But discreet joys lengthen the lease, Without which life were a disease; And who this age a mourner goes, Doth with his tears but feed his foes



TO THE MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED MRS. K. PHILIPS.

Say, witty fair one, from what sphere Flow these rich numbers you shed here? For sure such incantations come From thence, which strike your readers dumb. A strain, whose measures gently meet Like virgin-lovers or Time's feet; Where language smiles, and accents rise As quick and pleasing as your eyes; The poem smooth, and in each line Soft as yourself, yet masculine; Where not coarse trifles blot the page With matter borrow'd from the age, But thoughts as innocent and high As angels have, or saints that die. These raptures when I first did see New miracles in poetry, And by a hand their good would miss His bays and fountains but to kiss, My weaker genius—cross to fashion— Slept in a silent admiration: A rescue, by whose grave disguise Pretenders oft have pass'd for wise. And yet as pilgrims humbly touch Those shrines to which they bow so much, And clouds in courtship flock, and run To be the mask unto the sun, So I concluded it was true I might at distance worship you, A Persian votary, and say It was your light show'd me the way. So loadstones guide the duller steel, And high perfections are the wheel Which moves the less, for gifts divine Are strung upon a vital line, Which, touch'd by you, excites in all Affections epidemical. And this made me—a truth most fit— Add my weak echo to your wit; Which pardon, Lady, for assays Obscure as these might blast your bays; As common hands soil flow'rs, and make That dew they wear weep the mistake. But I'll wash off the stain, and vow No laurel grows but for your brow.



AN EPITAPH UPON THE LADY ELIZABETH, SECOND DAUGHTER TO HIS LATE MAJESTY.

Youth, beauty, virtue, innocence, Heav'n's royal and select expense, With virgin-tears and sighs divine Sit here the genii of this shrine; Where now—thy fair soul wing'd away— They guard the casket where she lay. Thou hadst, ere thou the light couldst see, Sorrows laid up and stor'd for thee; Thou suck'dst in woes, and the breasts lent Their milk to thee but to lament; Thy portion here was grief, thy years Distill'd no other rain but tears, Tears without noise, but—understood— As loud and shrill as any blood. Thou seem'st a rosebud born in snow, A flower of purpose sprung to bow To headless tempests, and the rage Of an incensed, stormy age. Others, ere their afflictions grow, Are tim'd and season'd for the blow, But thine, as rheums the tend'rest part, Fell on a young and harmless heart. And yet, as balm-trees gently spend Their tears for those that do them rend, So mild and pious thou wert seen, Though full of suff'rings; free from spleen, Thou didst not murmur, nor revile, But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile. As envious eyes blast and infect, And cause misfortunes by aspect, So thy sad stars dispens'd to thee No influx but calamity; They view'd thee with eclipsed rays, And but the back side of bright days.