* * * * *

These were the comforts she had here, As by an unseen Hand 'tis clear, Which now she reads, and, smiling, wears A crown with Him who wipes off tears.



TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT UPON HIS GONDIBERT.

Well, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen Poets shall live, when princes die like men. Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill, Of late years clouded with imputed ill, And the soft, youthful couples there may move, As chaste as stars converse and smile above. Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow Calm as rose-leaves, and cool as virgin-snow, Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd, They both delight and dignify the mind; Like to the wat'ry music of some spring, Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing. And where before heroic poems were Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear, And show'd—through all the melancholy flight— Like some dark region overcast with night, As if the poet had been quite dismay'd, While only giants and enchantments sway'd; Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise, Hast chas'd them hence, and with discoveries So rare and learned fill'd the place, that we Those fam'd grandezas find outdone by thee, And underfoot see all those vizards hurl'd Which bred the wonder of the former world. 'Twas dull to sit, as our forefathers did, At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid, Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire Break through the ashes of thy aged sire, To lend the world such a convincing light As shows his fancy darker than his sight. Nor was't alone the bars and length of days —Though those gave strength and stature to his bays— Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint. How couldst thou, mur'd in solitary stones, Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou mightst her groans? And, strangely eloquent, thyself divide 'Twixt sad misfortunes and a bloomy bride? Through all the tenour of thy ample song, Spun from thy own rich store, and shar'd among Those fair adventurers, we plainly see Th' imputed gifts inherent are in thee. Then live for ever—and by high desert— In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert, And in bright Birtha leave thy love enshrin'd Fresh as her em'rald, and fair as her mind, While all confess thee—as they ought to do— The prince of poets, and of lovers too.



[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. V. ELEG. III.

TO HIS FELLOW-POETS AT ROME, UPON THE BIRTHDAY OF BACCHUS.

This is the day—blithe god of sack—which we, If I mistake not, consecrate to thee, When the soft rose we marry to the bays, And, warm'd with thy own wine, rehearse thy praise; 'Mongst whom—while to thy poet fate gave way— I have been held no small part of the day. But now, dull'd with the cold Bear's frozen seat, Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gete. My former life, unlike to this my last, With Rome's best wits of thy full cup did taste, Who since have seen the savage Pontic band, And all the choler of the sea and land. Whether sad chance or Heav'n hath this design'd, And at my birth some fatal planet shin'd, Of right thou shouldst the sisters' knots undo, And free thy votary and poet too; Or are you gods—like us—in such a state As cannot alter the decrees of fate? I know with much ado thou didst obtain Thy jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain Was no whit less, for, wand'ring, thou didst run To the Getes too, and snow-weeping Strymon, With Persia, Ganges, and whatever streams The thirsty Moor drinks in the mid-day beams. But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee —To make all sure—doubled thy misery. My sufferings too are many—if it be Held safe for me to boast adversity— Nor was't a common blow, but from above, Like his that died for imitating Jove; Which, when thou heardst, a ruin so divine And mother-like should make thee pity mine, And on this day, which poets unto thee Crown with full bowls, ask what's become of me? Help, buxom god, then! so may thy lov'd vine Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with wine Load the kind elm, and so thy orgies be With priests' loud shouts and satyrs' kept to thee! So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blest, Nor Pentheus' wand'ring ghost find any rest! And so for ever bright—thy chief desires— May thy wife's crown outshine the lesser fires! If but now, mindful of my love to thee, Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be. You gods have commerce with yourselves; try then If Caesar will restore me Rome again. And you, my trusty friends—the jolly crew Of careless poets! when, without me, you Perform this day's glad myst'ries, let it be Your first appeal unto his deity, And let one of you—touch'd with my sad name— Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same, And—sighing—to the rest this thought commend, O! where is Ovid now, our banish'd friend? This do, if in your breasts I e'er deserv'd So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd, Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow Condemning others, did myself allow. And may your happier wits grow loud with fame As you—my best of friends!—preserve my name.



[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. III. [EPIST. VII.].

TO HIS FRIENDS—AFTER HIS MANY SOLICITATIONS—REFUSING TO PETITION CAESAR FOR HIS RELEASEMENT.

You have consum'd my language, and my pen, Incens'd with begging, scorns to write again. You grant, you knew my suit: my Muse and I Had taught it you in frequent elegy. That I believe—yet seal'd—you have divin'd Our repetitions, and forestall'd my mind, So that my thronging elegies and I Have made you—more than poets—prophesy. But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream Which made me cross the proverb and the stream, And pardon, friends, that I so long have had Such good thoughts of you; I am not so mad As to continue them. You shall no more Complain of troublesome verse, or write o'er How I endanger you, and vex my wife With the sad legends of a banish'd life. I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have pass'd Through greater ones, and can as well at last These petty crosses. 'Tis for some young beast To kick his bands, or wish his neck releas'd From the sad yoke. Know then, that as for me Whom Fate hath us'd to such calamity, I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare The highest ills your malice can prepare. 'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow Of cloudy Aemus, and if she decree Her sportive pilgrim's last bed here must be, I am content; nay, more, she cannot do That act which I would not consent unto. I can delight in vain hopes, and desire That state more than her change and smiles; then high'r I hug a strong despair, and think it brave To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave. Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th' free Waters, without th' expense of arms or breath, Hath still the easiest and the quickest death. Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires Of changing Scythia for the sun and fires Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch, And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I Suspect fate had for me a courtesy? These errors grieve: and now I must forget Those pleas'd ideas I did frame and set Unto myself, with many fancied springs And groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings. And yet I would the worst of fate endure, Ere you should be repuls'd, or less secure. But—base, low souls!—you left me not for this, But 'cause you durst not. Caesar could not miss Of such a trifle, for I know that he Scorns the cheap triumphs of my misery. Then since—degen'rate friends—not he, but you Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new, You shall confess, and fame shall tell you, I At Ister dare as well as Tiber die.



[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. IV. EPIST. III.

TO HIS INCONSTANT FRIEND, TRANSLATED FOR THE USE OF ALL THE JUDASES OF THIS TOUCHSTONE-AGE.

Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task Master my just impatience, and write down Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown? Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see And teach thy person to posterity? No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man, 'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give Thy name the honour in my verse to live. Whilst yet my ship did with no storms dispute, And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man That with me then an equal fortune ran; But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight; Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone To shun that rescue I reli'd upon; Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim Not only my acquaintance, but my name. Yet know—though deaf to this—that I am he Whose years and love had the same infancy With thine, thy deep familiar that did share Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care; Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights So solemnly endear'd to her delights. But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown The abject of thy breast, not to be known In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not So much as let me know I am forgot. If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then Thou didst dissemble: or if love again, Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide Myself and actions, that I cannot see What could offend thee, but my misery. 'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow Some rescue to my wants, at least I know Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so. I know not what to think! and yet I hear, Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer. Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack. Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand, Whose upper slipp'ry part without command Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind. In the whole world there's nothing I can see Will throughly parallel her ways but thee. All that we hold hangs on a slender twine, And our best states by sudden chance decline. Who hath not heard of Cr[oe]sus' proverb'd gold, Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold? He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent By a poor art could famine scarce prevent; And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end, Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend. Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been, And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in, Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace, In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face. A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we Of one short hour have not the certainty. Hadst thou one day told me the time should be When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see, I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught. And yet 'tis come to pass! nor, though I might Some things foresee, could I procure a sight Of my whole destiny, and free my state From those eternal, higher ties of fate. Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high, Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.



[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. III. ELEG. III.

TO HIS WIFE AT ROME, WHEN HE WAS SICK.

Dearest! if you those fair eyes—wond'ring—stick On this strange character, know I am sick; Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I Breathe hopeless of all comforts, but to die. What heart—think'st thou?—have I in this sad seat, Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete? Nor air nor water please: their very sky Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my eye; I scarce dare breathe it, and, I know not how, The earth that bears me shows unpleasant now. Nor diet here's, nor lodging for my ease, Nor any one that studies a disease; No friend to comfort me, none to defray With smooth discourse the charges of the day. All tir'd alone I lie, and—thus—whate'er Is absent, and at Rome, I fancy here. But when thou com'st, I blot the airy scroll, And give thee full possession of my soul. Thee—absent—I embrace, thee only voice. And night and day belie a husband's joys. Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make That I am thought distracted for thy sake. When my tir'd spirits fail, and my sick heart Draws in that fire which actuates each part, If any say, th'art come! I force my pain, And hope to see thee gives me life again. Thus I for thee, whilst thou—perhaps—more blest, Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest, Which yet I think not, for—dear soul!—too well Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell. But if strict Heav'n my stock of days hath spun, And with my life my error will be gone, How easy then—O Caesar!—were't for thee To pardon one, that now doth cease to be? That I might yield my native air this breath, And banish not my ashes after death. Would thou hadst either spar'd me until dead, Or with my blood redeem'd my absent head! Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou Wouldst have me live to die an exile now. And must I then from Rome so far meet death, And double by the place my loss of breath? Nor in my last of hours on my own bed —In the sad conflict—rest my dying head? Nor my soul's whispers—the last pledge of life,— Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife? My last words none must treasure, none will rise And—with a tear—seal up my vanquish'd eyes; Without these rites I die, distress'd in all The splendid sorrows of a funeral; Unpitied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head In a strange land goes friendless to the dead. When thou hear'st this, O! how thy faithful soul Will sink, whilst grief doth ev'ry part control! How often wilt thou look this way, and cry, O! where is't yonder that my love doth lie? Yet spare these tears, and mourn not thou for me, Long since—dear heart!—have I been dead to thee. Think then I died, when thee and Rome I lost, That death to me more grief than this hath cost. Now, if thou canst—but thou canst not—best wife, Rejoice, my cares are ended with my life. At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use Should make these miseries to thee no news. And here I wish my soul died with my breath, And that no part of me were free from death; For, if it be immortal, and outlives The body, as Pythagoras believes, Betwixt these Sarmates' ghosts, a Roman I Shall wander, vex'd to all eternity. But thou—for after death I shall be free— Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me; A few flow'rs give them, with some balm, and lay Them in some suburb grave, hard by the way; And to inform posterity, who's there, This sad inscription let my marble wear; "Here lies the soft-soul'd lecturer of love, Whose envi'd wit did his own ruin prove. But thou,—whoe'er thou be'st, that, passing by, Lend'st to this sudden stone a hasty eye, If e'er thou knew'st of love the sweet disease, Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!" This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see More strong and lasting monuments of me, Which I believe—though fatal—will afford An endless name unto their ruin'd lord. And now thus gone, it rests, for love of me, Thou show'st some sorrow to my memory; Thy funeral off'rings to my ashes bear, With wreaths of cypress bath'd in many a tear. Though nothing there but dust of me remain, Yet shall that dust perceive thy pious pain. But I have done, and my tir'd, sickly head, Though I would fain write more, desires the bed; Take then this word—perhaps my last—to tell, Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell!



AUSONII. IDYLL VI.

CUPIDO [CRUCI AFFIXUS].

In those bless'd fields of everlasting air —Where to a myrtle grove the souls repair Of deceas'd lovers—the sad, thoughtful ghosts Of injur'd ladies meet, where each accosts The other with a sigh, whose very breath Would break a heart, and—kind souls—love in death. A thick wood clouds their walks, where day scarce peeps, And on each hand cypress and poppy sleeps; The drowsy rivers slumber, and springs there Blab not, but softly melt into a tear; A sickly dull air fans them, which can have, When most in force, scarce breath to build a wave. On either bank through the still shades appear A scene of pensive flow'rs, whose bosoms wear Drops of a lover's blood, the emblem'd truths Of deep despair, and love-slain kings and youths. The Hyacinth, and self-enamour'd boy Narcissus flourish there, with Venus' joy, The spruce Adonis, and that prince whose flow'r Hath sorrow languag'd on him to this hour; All sad with love they hang their heads, and grieve As if their passions in each leaf did live; And here—alas!—these soft-soul'd ladies stray, And—O! too late!—treason in love betray. Her blasted birth sad Semele repeats, And with her tears would quench the thund'rer's heats, Then shakes her bosom, as if fir'd again, And fears another lightning's flaming train. The lovely Procris here bleeds, sighs, and swoons, Then wakes, and kisses him that gave her wounds. Sad Hero holds a torch forth, and doth light Her lost Leander through the waves and night, Her boatman desp'rate Sappho still admires, And nothing but the sea can quench her fires. Distracted Phaedra with a restless eye Her disdain'd letters reads, then casts them by. Rare, faithful Thisbe—sequest'red from these— A silent, unseen sorrow doth best please; For her love's sake and last good-night poor she Walks in the shadow of a mulberry. Near her young Canace with Dido sits, A lovely couple, but of desp'rate wits; Both di'd alike, both pierc'd their tender breasts, This with her father's sword, that with her guest's. Within the thickest textures of the grove Diana in her silver beams doth rove; Her crown of stars the pitchy air invades, And with a faint light gilds the silent shades, Whilst her sad thoughts, fix'd on her sleepy lover, To Latmos hill and his retirements move her. A thousand more through the wide, darksome wood Feast on their cares, the maudlin lover's food; For grief and absence do but edge desire, And death is fuel to a lover's fire. To see these trophies of his wanton bow, Cupid comes in, and all in triumph now— Rash unadvised boy!—disperseth round The sleepy mists; his wings and quiver wound With noise the quiet air. This sudden stir Betrays his godship, and as we from far A clouded, sickly moon observe, so they Through the false mists his eclips'd torch betray. A hot pursuit they make, and, though with care And a slow wing, he softly stems the air, Yet they—as subtle now as he—surround His silenc'd course, and with the thick night bound Surprise the wag. As in a dream we strive To voice our thoughts, and vainly would revive Our entranc'd tongues, but cannot speech enlarge, 'Till the soul wakes and reassumes her charge; So, joyous of their prize, they flock about And vainly swell with an imagin'd shout. Far in these shades and melancholy coasts A myrtle grows, well known to all the ghosts, Whose stretch'd top—like a great man rais'd by Fate— Looks big, and scorns his neighbour's low estate; His leafy arms into a green cloud twist, And on each branch doth sit a lazy mist, A fatal tree, and luckless to the gods, Where for disdain in life—Love's worst of odds— The queen of shades, fair Proserpine, did rack The sad Adonis: hither now they pack This little god, where, first disarm'd, they bind His skittish wings, then both his hands behind His back they tie, and thus secur'd at last, The peevish wanton to the tree make fast. Here at adventure, without judge or jury, He is condemn'd, while with united fury They all assail him. As a thief at bar Left to the law, and mercy of his star, Hath bills heap'd on him, and is question'd there By all the men that have been robb'd that year; So now whatever Fate or their own will Scor'd up in life, Cupid must pay the bill. Their servant's falsehood, jealousy, disdain, And all the plagues that abus'd maids can feign, Are laid on him, and then to heighten spleen, Their own deaths crown the sum. Press'd thus between His fair accusers, 'tis at last decreed He by those weapons, that they died, should bleed. One grasps an airy sword, a second holds Illusive fire, and in vain wanton folds Belies a flame; others, less kind, appear To let him blood, and from the purple tear Create a rose. But Sappho all this while Harvests the air, and from a thicken'd pile Of clouds like Leucas top spreads underneath A sea of mists; the peaceful billows breathe Without all noise, yet so exactly move They seem to chide, but distant from above Reach not the ear, and—thus prepar'd—at once She doth o'erwhelm him with the airy sconce. Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they, Venus steps in, and without thought or stay Invades her son; her old disgrace is cast Into the bill, when Mars and she made fast In their embraces were expos'd to all The scene of gods, stark naked in their fall. Nor serves a verbal penance, but with haste From her fair brow—O happy flow'rs so plac'd!— She tears a rosy garland, and with this Whips the untoward boy; they gently kiss His snowy skin, but she with angry haste Doubles her strength, until bedew'd at last With a thin bloody sweat, their innate red, —As if griev'd with the act—grew pale and dead. This laid their spleen; and now—kind souls—no more They'll punish him; the torture that he bore Seems greater than his crime; with joint consent Fate is made guilty, and he innocent. As in a dream with dangers we contest, And fictious pains seem to afflict our rest, So, frighted only in these shades of night, Cupid—got loose—stole to the upper light, Where ever since—for malice unto these— The spiteful ape doth either sex displease. But O! that had these ladies been so wise To keep his arms, and give him but his eyes!



BOET[HIUS, DE CONSOLATIONE]

LIB. I. METRUM I.

I whose first year flourish'd with youthful verse, In slow, sad numbers now my grief rehearse. A broken style my sickly lines afford, And only tears give weight unto my words. Yet neither fate nor force my Muse could fright, The only faithful consort of my flight. Thus what was once my green years' greatest glory, Is now my comfort, grown decay'd and hoary; For killing cares th' effects of age spurr'd on, That grief might find a fitting mansion; O'er my young head runs an untimely grey, And my loose skin shrinks at my blood's decay. Happy the man, whose death in prosp'rous years Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears! But O! how deaf is she to hear the cry Of th' oppress'd soul, or shut the weeping eye! While treach'rous Fortune with slight honours fed My first estate, she almost drown'd my head, And now since—clouded thus—she hides those rays, Life adds unwelcom'd length unto my days. Why then, my friends, judg'd you my state so good? He that may fall once, never firmly stood.



METRUM II.

O in what haste, with clouds and night Eclips'd, and having lost her light, The dull soul whom distraction rends Into outward darkness tends! How often—by these mists made blind— Have earthly cares oppress'd the mind! This soul, sometimes wont to survey The spangled Zodiac's fiery way, Saw th' early sun in roses dress'd, With the cool moon's unstable crest, And whatsoever wanton star, In various courses near or far, Pierc'd through the orbs, he could full well Track all her journey, and would tell Her mansions, turnings, rise and fall, By curious calculation all. Of sudden winds the hidden cause, And why the calm sea's quiet face With impetuous waves is curl'd, What spirit wheels th' harmonious world, Or why a star dropp'd in the west Is seen to rise again by east, Who gives the warm Spring temp'rate hours, Decking the Earth with spicy flow'rs, Or how it comes—for man's recruit— That Autumn yields both grape and fruit, With many other secrets, he Could show the cause and mystery. But now that light is almost out, And the brave soul lies chain'd about With outward cares, whose pensive weight Sinks down her eyes from their first height. And clean contrary to her birth Pores on this vile and foolish Earth.



METRUM IV.

Whose calm soul in a settled state Kicks under foot the frowns of Fate, And in his fortunes, bad or good, Keeps the same temper in his blood; Not him the flaming clouds above, Nor Aetna's fiery tempests move; No fretting seas from shore to shore, Boiling with indignation o'er, Nor burning thunderbolt that can A mountain shake, can stir this man. Dull cowards then! why should we start To see these tyrants act their part? Nor hope, nor fear what may befall, And you disarm their malice all. But who doth faintly fear or wish, And sets no law to what is his, Hath lost the buckler, and—poor elf!— Makes up a chain to bind himself.



METRUM V.

O Thou great builder of this starry frame, Who fix'd in Thy eternal throne doth tame The rapid spheres, and lest they jar Hast giv'n a law to ev'ry star. Thou art the cause that now the moon With fall orb dulls the stars, and soon Again grows dark, her light being done, The nearer still she's to the sun. Thou in the early hours of night Mak'st the cool evening-star shine bright, And at sun-rising—'cause the least— Look pale and sleepy in the east. Thou, when the leaves in winter stray, Appoint'st the sun a shorter way, And in the pleasant summer light, With nimble hours dost wing the night. Thy hand the various year quite through Discreetly tempers, that what now The north-wind tears from ev'ry tree In spring again restor'd we see. Then what the winter stars between The furrows in mere seed have seen, The dog-star since—grown up and born— Hath burnt in stately, full-ear'd corn. Thus by creation's law controll'd All things their proper stations hold, Observing—as Thou didst intend— Why they were made, and for what end. Only human actions Thou Hast no care of, but to the flow And ebb of Fortune leav'st them all. Hence th' innocent endures that thrall Due to the wicked; whilst alone They sit possessors of his throne. The just are kill'd, and virtue lies Buried in obscurities; And—which of all things is most sad— The good man suffers by the bad. No perjuries, nor damn'd pretence Colour'd with holy, lying sense Can them annoy, but when they mind To try their force, which most men find, They from the highest sway of things Can pull down great and pious kings. O then at length, thus loosely hurl'd, Look on this miserable world, Whoe'er Thou art, that from above Dost in such order all things move! And let not man—of divine art Not the least, nor vilest part— By casual evils thus bandied, be The sport of Fate's obliquity. But with that faith Thou guid'st the heaven Settle this earth, and make them even.



METRUM VI.

When the Crab's fierce constellation Burns with the beams of the bright sun, Then he that will go out to sow, Shall never reap, where he did plough, But instead of corn may rather The old world's diet, acorns, gather. Who the violet doth love, Must seek her in the flow'ry grove, But never when the North's cold wind The russet fields with frost doth bind. If in the spring-time—to no end— The tender vine for grapes we bend, We shall find none, for only—still— Autumn doth the wine-press fill. Thus for all things—in the world's prime— The wise God seal'd their proper time, Nor will permit those seasons, He Ordain'd by turns, should mingled be; Then whose wild actions out of season Cross to Nature, and her reason, Would by new ways old orders rend, Shall never find a happy end.



METRUM VII.

Curtain'd with clouds in a dark night, The stars cannot send forth their light. And if a sudden southern blast The sea in rolling waves doth cast, That angry element doth boil, And from the deep with stormy coil Spews up the sands, which in short space Scatter, and puddle his curl'd face. Then those calm waters, which but now Stood clear as heaven's unclouded brow, And like transparent glass did lie Open to ev'ry searcher's eye, Look foully stirr'd and—though desir'd— Resist the sight, because bemir'd. So often from a high hill's brow Some pilgrim-spring is seen to flow, And in a straight line keep her course, 'Till from a rock with headlong force Some broken piece blocks up the way, And forceth all her streams astray. Then thou that with enlighten'd rays Wouldst see the truth, and in her ways Keep without error; neither fear The future, nor too much give ear To present joys; and give no scope To grief, nor much to flatt'ring hope. For when these rebels reign, the mind Is both a pris'ner, and stark blind.



LIB. II. METRUM I.

Fortune—when with rash hands she quite turmoils The state of things, and in tempestuous foils Comes whirling like Euripus—beats quite down With headlong force the highest monarch's crown, And in his place, unto the throne doth fetch The despis'd looks of some mechanic wretch: So jests at tears and miseries, is proud, And laughs to hear her vassals groan aloud. These are her sports, thus she her wheel doth drive, And plagues man with her blind prerogative; Nor is't a favour of inferior strain, If once kick'd down, she lets him rise again.



METRUM II.

If with an open, bounteous hand —Wholly left at man's command— Fortune should in one rich flow As many heaps on him bestow Of massy gold, as there be sands Toss'd by the waves and winds rude bands, Or bright stars in a winter night Decking their silent orbs with light; Yet would his lust know no restraints, Nor cease to weep in sad complaints. Though Heaven should his vows regard, And in a prodigal reward Return him all he could implore, Adding new honours to his store, Yet all were nothing. Goods in sight Are scorn'd, and lust in greedy flight Lays out for more; what measure then Can tame these wild desires of men? Since all we give both last and first Doth but inflame, and feed their thirst. For how can he be rich, who 'midst his store Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.



METRUM III.

When the sun from his rosy bed The dawning light begins to shed, The drowsy sky uncurtains round, And the—but now bright—stars all drown'd In one great light look dull and tame, And homage his victorious flame. Thus, when the warm Etesian wind The Earth's seal'd bosom doth unbind, Straight she her various store discloses, And purples every grove with roses; But if the South's tempestuous breath Breaks forth, those blushes pine to death. Oft in a quiet sky the deep With unmov'd waves seems fast asleep, And oft again the blust'ring North In angry heaps provokes them forth. If then this world, which holds all nations, Suffers itself such alterations, That not this mighty massy frame, Nor any part of it can claim One certain course, why should man prate, Or censure the designs of Fate? Why from frail honours, and goods lent Should he expect things permanent? Since 'tis enacted by Divine decree That nothing mortal shall eternal be.



METRUM IV.

Who wisely would for his retreat Build a secure and lasting seat, Where stov'd in silence he may sleep Beneath the wind, above the deep; Let him th' high hills leave on one hand, And on the other the false sand. The first to winds lies plain and even, From all the blust'ring points of heaven; The other, hollow and unsure, No weight of building will endure. Avoiding then the envied state Of buildings bravely situate, Remember thou thyself to lock Within some low neglected rock. There when fierce heaven in thunder chides, And winds and waves rage on all sides, Thou happy in the quiet sense Of thy poor cell, with small expense Shall lead a life serene and fair, And scorn the anger of the air.



METRUM V.

Happy that first white age! when we Lived by the Earth's mere charity. No soft luxurious diet then Had effeminated men, No other meat, nor wine had any Than the coarse mast, or simple honey, And by the parents' care laid up Cheap berries did the children sup. No pompous wear was in those days Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize, Their beds were on some flow'ry brink, And clear spring-water was their drink. The shady pine in the sun's heat Was their cool and known retreat, For then 'twas not cut down, but stood The youth and glory of the wood. The daring sailor with his slaves Then had not cut the swelling waves, Nor for desire of foreign store Seen any but his native shore. No stirring drum had scarr'd that age, Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage, No wounds by bitter hatred made With warm blood soil'd the shining blade; For how could hostile madness arm An age of love, to public harm? When common justice none withstood, Nor sought rewards for spilling blood. O that at length our age would raise Into the temper of those days! But—worse than Aetna's fires!—debate And avarice inflame our State. Alas! who was it that first found Gold, hid of purpose under ground, That sought our pearls, and div'd to find Such precious perils for mankind!



METRUM VII.

He that thirsts for glory's prize, Thinking that the top of all, Let him view th' expansed skies, And the earth's contracted ball; 'Twill shame him then: the name he wan Fills not the short walk of one man.

2.

O why vainly strive you then To shake off the bands of Fate, Though Fame through the world of men Should in all tongues your names relate, And with proud titles swell that story: The dark grave scorns your brightest glory.

3.

There with nobles beggars sway, And kings with commons share one dust. What news of Brutus at this day, Or Fabricius the just? Some rude verse, cut in stone, or lead, Keeps up the names, but they are dead.

4.

So shall you one day—past reprieve— Lie—perhaps—without a name. But if dead you think to live By this air of human fame, Know, when Time stops that posthume breath, You must endure a second death.



METRUM VIII.

That the world in constant force Varies her concordant course; That seeds jarring hot and cold Do the breed perpetual hold; That in his golden coach the sun Brings the rosy day still on; That the moon sways all those lights Which Hesper ushers to dark nights; That alternate tides be found The sea's ambitious waves to bound, Lest o'er the wide earth without end Their fluid empire should extend; All this frame of things that be, Love which rules heaven, land, and sea, Chains, keeps, orders as we see. This, if the reins he once cast by, All things that now by turns comply Would fall to discord, and this frame Which now by social faith they tame, And comely orders, in that fight And jar of things would perish quite. This in a holy league of peace Keeps king and people with increase; And in the sacred nuptial bands Ties up chaste hearts with willing hands; And this keeps firm without all doubt Friends by his bright instinct found out. O happy nation then were you, If love, which doth all things subdue, That rules the spacious heav'n, and brings Plenty and peace upon his wings, Might rule you too! and without guile Settle once more this floating isle!



CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XXVIII.

Almighty Spirit! Thou that by Set turns and changes from Thy high And glorious throne dost here below Rule all, and all things dost foreknow! Can those blind plots we here discuss Please Thee, as Thy wise counsels us? When Thou Thy blessings here doth strow, And pour on earth, we flock and flow, With joyous strife and eager care, Struggling which shall have the best share In Thy rich gifts, just as we see Children about nuts disagree. Some that a crown have got and foil'd Break it; another sees it spoil'd Ere it is gotten. Thus the world Is all to piecemeals cut, and hurl'd By factious hands. It is a ball Which Fate and force divide 'twixt all The sons of men. But, O good God! While these for dust fight, and a clod, Grant that poor I may smile, and be At rest and perfect peace with Thee!



CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. II. ODE VII.

It would less vex distressed man If Fortune in the same pace ran To ruin him, as he did rise. But highest States fall in a trice; No great success held ever long; A restless fate afflicts the throng Of kings and commons, and less days Serve to destroy them than to raise. Good luck smiles once an age, but bad Makes kingdoms in a minute sad, And ev'ry hour of life we drive, Hath o'er us a prerogative. Then leave—by wild impatience driv'n, And rash resents—to rail at heav'n; Leave an unmanly, weak complaint That death and fate have no restraint. In the same hour that gave thee breath, Thou hadst ordain'd thy hour of death, But he lives most who here will buy, With a few tears, eternity.



CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. III. ODE XXII.

Let not thy youth and false delights Cheat thee of life; those heady flights But waste thy time, which posts away Like winds unseen, and swift as they. Beauty is but mere paint, whose dye With Time's breath will dissolve and fly; 'Tis wax, 'tis water, 'tis a glass, It melts, breaks, and away doth pass. 'Tis like a rose which in the dawn The air with gentle breath doth fawn And whisper to, but in the hours Of night is sullied with smart showers. Life spent is wish'd for but in vain, Nor can past years come back again. Happy the man, who in this vale Redeems his time, shutting out all Thoughts of the world, whose longing eyes Are ever pilgrims in the skies, That views his bright home, and desires To shine amongst those glorious fires!



CASIMIRUS, LYRIC[ORUM] LIB. III. ODE XXIII.

'Tis not rich furniture and gems, With cedar roofs and ancient stems, Nor yet a plenteous, lasting flood Of gold, that makes man truly good. Leave to inquire in what fair fields A river runs which much gold yields; Virtue alone is the rich prize Can purchase stars, and buy the skies. Let others build with adamant, Or pillars of carv'd marble plant, Which rude and rough sometimes did dwell Far under earth, and near to hell. But richer much—from death releas'd— Shines in the fresh groves of the East The ph[oe]nix, or those fish that dwell With silver'd scales in Hiddekel. Let others with rare, various pearls Their garments dress, and in forc'd curls Bind up their locks, look big and high, And shine in robes of scarlet dye. But in my thoughts more glorious far Those native stars and speckles are Which birds wear, or the spots which we In leopards dispersed see. The harmless sheep with her warm fleece Clothes man, but who his dark heart sees Shall find a wolf or fox within, That kills the castor for his skin. Virtue alone, and nought else can A diff'rence make 'twixt beasts and man; And on her wings above the spheres To the true light his spirit bears.



CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XV.

Nothing on earth, nothing at all Can be exempted from the thrall Of peevish weariness! The sun, Which our forefathers judg'd to run Clear and unspotted, in our days Is tax'd with sullen eclips'd rays. Whatever in the glorious sky Man sees, his rash audacious eye Dares censure it, and in mere spite At distance will condemn the light. The wholesome mornings, whose beams clear Those hills our fathers walk'd on here, We fancy not; nor the moon's light Which through their windows shin'd at night We change the air each year, and scorn Those seats in which we first were born. Some nice, affected wand'rers love Belgia's mild winters, others remove, For want of health and honesty, To summer it in Italy; But to no end; the disease still Sticks to his lord, and kindly will To Venice in a barge repair, Or coach it to Vienna's air; And then—too late with home content— They leave this wilful banishment. But he, whose constancy makes sure His mind and mansion, lives secure From such vain tasks, can dine and sup Where his old parents bred him up. Content—no doubt!—most times doth dwell In country shades, or to some cell Confines itself; and can alone Make simple straw a royal throne.



CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XIII.

If weeping eyes could wash away Those evils they mourn for night and day, Then gladly I to cure my fears With my best jewels would buy tears. But as dew feeds the growing corn, So crosses that are grown forlorn Increase with grief, tears make tears' way, And cares kept up keep cares in pay. That wretch whom Fortune finds to fear, And melting still into a tear, She strikes more boldly, but a face Silent and dry doth her amaze. Then leave thy tears, and tedious tale Of what thou dost misfortunes call. What thou by weeping think'st to ease, Doth by that passion but increase; Hard things to soft will never yield, 'Tis the dry eye that wins the field; A noble patience quells the spite Of Fortune, and disarms her quite.



THE PRAISE OF A RELIGIOUS LIFE BY MATHIAS CASIMIRUS. [EPODON ODE III.] IN ANSWER TO THAT ODE OF HORACE, BEATUS ILLE QUI PROCUL NEGOTIIS, &c.

Flaccus, not so! that worldly he Whom in the country's shade we see Ploughing his own fields, seldom can Be justly styl'd the blessed man. That title only fits a saint, Whose free thoughts, far above restraint And weighty cares, can gladly part With house and lands, and leave the smart, Litigious troubles and loud strife Of this world for a better life. He fears no cold nor heat to blast His corn, for his accounts are cast; He sues no man, nor stands in awe Of the devouring courts of law; But all his time he spends in tears For the sins of his youthful years; Or having tasted those rich joys Of a conscience without noise, Sits in some fair shade, and doth give To his wild thoughts rules how to live. He in the evening, when on high The stars shine in the silent sky, Beholds th' eternal flames with mirth, And globes of light more large than Earth; Then weeps for joy, and through his tears Looks on the fire-enamell'd spheres, Where with his Saviour he would be Lifted above mortality. Meanwhile the golden stars do set, And the slow pilgrim leave all wet With his own tears, which flow so fast They make his sleeps light, and soon past. By this, the sun o'er night deceas'd Breaks in fresh blushes from the East, When, mindful of his former falls, With strong cries to his God he calls, And with such deep-drawn sighs doth move That He turns anger into love. In the calm Spring, when the Earth bears, And feeds on April's breath and tears, His eyes, accustom'd to the skies, Find here fresh objects, and like spies Or busy bees, search the soft flow'rs, Contemplate the green fields and bow'rs, Where he in veils and shades doth see The back parts of the Deity. Then sadly sighing says, "O! how These flow'rs with hasty, stretch'd heads grow And strive for heav'n, but rooted here Lament the distance with a tear! The honeysuckles clad in white, The rose in red, point to the light; And the lilies, hollow and bleak, Look as if they would something speak; They sigh at night to each soft gale, And at the day-spring weep it all. Shall I then only—wretched I!— Oppress'd with earth, on earth still lie?" Thus speaks he to the neighbour trees, And many sad soliloquies To springs and fountains doth impart, Seeking God with a longing heart. But if to ease his busy breast He thinks of home, and taking rest, A rural cot and common fare Are all his cordials against care. There at the door of his low cell, Under some shade, or near some well Where the cool poplar grows, his plate Of common earth without more state Expect their lord. Salt in a shell, Green cheese, thin beer, draughts that will tell No tales, a hospitable cup, With some fresh berries, do make up His healthful feast; nor doth he wish For the fat carp, or a rare dish Of Lucrine oysters; the swift quist Or pigeon sometimes—if he list— With the slow goose that loves the stream, Fresh, various salads, and the bean By curious palates never sought, And, to close with, some cheap unbought Dish for digestion, are the most And choicest dainties he can boast. Thus feasted, to the flow'ry groves Or pleasant rivers he removes, Where near some fair oak, hung with mast, He shuns the South's infectious blast. On shady banks sometimes he lies, Sometimes the open current tries, Where with his line and feather'd fly He sports, and takes the scaly fry. Meanwhile each hollow wood and hill Doth ring with lowings long and shrill, And shady lakes with rivers deep Echo the bleating of the sheep; The blackbird with the pleasant thrush And nightingale in ev'ry bush Choice music give, and shepherds play Unto their flock some loving lay! The thirsty reapers, in thick throngs, Return home from the field with songs, And the carts, laden with ripe corn, Come groaning to the well-stor'd barn. Nor pass we by, as the least good, A peaceful, loving neighbourhood, Whose honest wit, and chaste discourse Make none—by hearing it—the worse, But innocent and merry, may Help—without sin—to spend the day. Could now the tyrant usurer, Who plots to be a purchaser Of his poor neighbour's seat, but taste These true delights, O! with what haste And hatred of his ways, would he Renounce his Jewish cruelty, And those curs'd sums, which poor men borrow On use to-day, remit to-morrow!



AD FLUVIUM ISCAM.

Isca parens florum, placido qui spumeus ore Lambis lapillos aureos; Qui maestos hyacinthos, et picti [Greek: anthea] tophi Mulces susurris humidis; Dumque novas pergunt menses consumere lunas C[oe]lumque mortales terit, Accumulas cum sole dies, aevumque per omne Fidelis induras latex; O quis inaccessos et quali murmure lucos Mutumque solaris nemus! Per te discerpti credo Thracis ire querelas Plectrumque divini senis.



VENERABILI VIRO PRAECEPTORI SUO OLIM ET SEMPER COLENDISSIMO MAGISTRO MATHAEO HERBERT.

Quod vixi, Mathaee, dedit pater, haec tamen olim Vita fluat, nec erit fas meminisse datam. Ultra curasti solers, perituraque mecum Nomina post cineres das resonare meos. Divide discipulum: brevis haec et lubrica nostri Pars vertat patri, posthuma vita tibi.



PRAESTANTISSIMO VIRO THOMAE POELLO IN SUUM DE ELEMENTIS OPTICAE LIBELLUM.[56]

Vivaces oculorum ignes et lumina dia Fixit in angusto maximus orbe Deus; Ille explorantes radios dedit, et vaga lustra In quibus intuitus lexque, modusque latent. Hos tacitos jactus, lususque, volubilis orbis Pingis in exiguo, magne[57] Poelle, libro, Excursusque situsque ut Lynceus opticus, edis, Quotque modis fallunt, quotque adhibenda fides. Aemula Naturae manus! et mens conscia c[oe]li. Ilia videre dedit, vestra videre docet.

FOOTNOTES:

[56] The version in Elementa Opticae has Eximio viro, et amicorum longe optimo, T. P. in hunc suum de Elementis Opticae libellum.

[57] El. Opt. has docte.



AD ECHUM.

O quae frondosae per am[oe]na cubilia silvae Nympha volas, lucoque loquax spatiaris in alto, Annosi numen nemoris, saltusque verendi Effatum, cui sola placent postrema relatus! Te per Narcissi morientis verba, precesque Per pueri lassatam animam, et conamina vitae Ultima, palantisque precor suspiria linguae. Da quo secretae haec incaedua devia silvae, Anfractusque loci dubios, et lustra repandam. Sic tibi perpetua—meritoque—haec regna juventa Luxurient, dabiturque tuis, sine fine, viretis Intactas lunae lachrymas, et lambere rorem Virgineum, c[oe]lique animas haurire tepentis. Nec cedant aevo stellis, sed lucida semper Et satiata sacro aeterni medicamine veris Ostendant longe vegetos, ut sidera, vultus! Sic spiret muscata comas, et cinnama passim! Diffundat levis umbra, in funere qualia spargit Ph[oe]nicis rogus aut Pancheae nubila flammae!

THALIA REDIVIVA.

1678.



TO THE MOST HONOURABLE AND TRULY NOBLE HENRY, LORD MARQUIS AND EARL OF WORCESTER, &c.

My Lord,

Though dedications are now become a kind of tyranny over the peace and repose of great men; yet I have confidence I shall so manage the present address as to entertain your lordship without much disturbance; and because my purposes are governed by deep respect and veneration, I hope to find your Lordship more facile and accessible. And I am already absolved from a great part of that fulsome and designing guilt, being sufficiently removed from the causes of it: for I consider, my Lord, that you are already so well known to the world in your several characters and advantages of honour—it was yours by traduction, and the adjunct of your nativity; you were swaddled and rocked in't, bred up and grew in't, to your now wonderful height and eminence—that for me under pretence of the inscription, to give you the heraldry of your family, or to carry your person through the famed topics of mind, body, or estate, were all one as to persuade the world that fire and light were very bright bodies, or that the luminaries themselves had glory. In point of protection I beg to fall in with the common wont, and to be satisfied by the reasonableness of the thing, and abundant worthy precedents; and although I should have secret prophecy and assurance that the ensuing verse would live eternally, yet would I, as I now do, humbly crave it might be fortified with your patronage; for so the sextile aspects and influences are watched for, and applied to the actions of life, thereby to make the scheme and good auguries of the birth pass into Fate, and a success infallible.

My Lord, by a happy obliging intercession, and your own consequent indulgence, I have now recourse to your Lordship, hoping I shall not much displease by putting these twin poets into your hands. The minion and vertical planet of the Roman lustre and bravery, was never better pleased than when he had a whole constellation about him: not his finishing five several wars to the promoting of his own interest, nor particularly the prodigious success at Actium where he held in chase the wealth, beauty and prowess of the East; not the triumphs and absolute dominions which followed: all this gave him not half that serene pride and satisfaction of spirit as when he retired himself to umpire the different excellencies of his insipid friends, and to distribute laurels among his poetic heroes. If now upon the authority of this and several such examples, I had the ability and opportunity of drawing the value and strange worth of a poet, and withal of applying some of the lineaments to the following pieces, I should then do myself a real service, and atone in a great measure for the present insolence. But best of all will it serve my defence and interest, to appeal to your Lordship's own conceptions and image of genuine verse; with which so just, so regular original, if these copies shall hold proportion and resemblance, then am I advanced very far in your Lordship's pardon: the rest will entirely be supplied me by your Lordship's goodness, and my own awful zeal of being, my Lord,

Your Lordship's most obedient, most humbly devoted servant,

J. W.



TO THE READER.

The Nation of Poets above all Writers has ever challenged perpetuity of name, or as they please by their charter of liberty to call it, Immortality. Nor has the World much disputed their claim, either easily resigning a patrimony in itself not very substantial; or, it may be, out of despair to control the authority of inspiration and oracle. Howsoever the price as now quarrelled for among the poets themselves is no such rich bargain: it is only a vanishing interest in the lees and dregs of Time, in the rear of those Fathers and Worthies in the art, who if they know anything of the heats and fury of their successors, must extremely pity them.

I am to assure, that the Author has no portion of that airy happiness to lose, by any injury or unkindness which may be done to his Verse: his reputation is better built in the sentiment of several judicious persons, who know him very well able to give himself a lasting monument, by undertaking any argument of note in the whole circle of learning.

But even these his Diversions have been valuable with the matchless Orinda; and since they deserved her esteem and commendations, who so thinks them not worth the publishing, will put himself in the opposite scale, where his own arrogance will blow him up.

I. W.



TO MR. HENRY VAUGHAN THE SILURIST: UPON THESE AND HIS FORMER POEMS.[58]

Had I ador'd the multitude, and thence Got an antipathy to wit and sense, And hugg'd that fate, in hope the world would grant 'Twas good affection to be ignorant;[59] Yet the least ray of thy bright fancy seen, I had converted, or excuseless been. For each birth of thy Muse to after-times Shall expiate for all this Age's crimes. First shines thy Amoret, twice crown'd by thee, Once by thy love, next by thy poetry; Where thou the best of unions dost dispense, Truth cloth'd in wit, and Love in innocence; So that the muddy lover may learn here, No fountains can be sweet that are not clear. There Juvenal, by thee reviv'd, declares How flat man's joys are, and how mean his cares; And wisely doth upbraid[60] the world, that they Should such a value for their ruin pay. But when thy sacred Muse diverts her quil The landscape to design of Sion's hill,[61] As nothing else was worthy her, or thee, So we admire almost t' idolatry. What savage breast would not be rapt to find Such jewels in such cabinets enshrin'd? Thou fill'd with joys—too great to see or count— Descend'st from thence, like Moses from the Mount, And with a candid, yet unquestion'd awe Restor'st the Golden Age, when Verse was Law. Instructing us, thou so secur'st[62] thy fame, That nothing can disturb it but my name: Nay, I have hopes that standing so near thine 'Twill lose its dross, and by degrees refine. Live! till the disabused world consent All truths of use, of strength or ornament, Are with such harmony by thee display'd As the whole world was first by number made, And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings Learn, there's no pleasure but in serious things!

Orinda.

FOOTNOTES:

[58] 1664-1667 have To Mr. Henry Vaughan, Silurist, on his Poems.

[59] So 1664-1667. Thalia Rediviva has the ignorant.

[60] 1664 has generally upbraids; 1667, generously upbraids

[61] 1664-1667 have Leon's hill.

[62] 1664 has thou who securest.



UPON THE INGENIOUS POEMS OF HIS LEARNED FRIEND, MR. HENRY VAUGHAN, THE SILURIST.

Fairly design'd! to charm our civil rage With verse, and plant bays in an iron age! But hath steel'd Mars so ductible a soul, That love and poesy may it control? Yes! brave Tyrtaeus, as we read of old, The Grecian armies as he pleas'd could mould; They march'd to his high numbers, and did fight With that instinct and rage, which he did write. When he fell lower, they would straight retreat, Grow soft and calm, and temper their bold heat. Such magic is in Virtue! See here a young Tyrtaeus too, whose sweet persuasive song Can lead our spirits any way, and move To all adventures, either war or love. Then veil the bright Etesia, that choice she, Lest Mars—Timander's friend—his rival be. So fair a nymph, dress'd by a Muse so neat, Might warm the North, and thaw the frozen Gete.

Tho. Powell, D.D.



TO THE INGENIOUS AUTHOR OF THALIA REDIVIVA.

ODE I.

Where reverend bards of old have sate And sung the pleasant interludes of Fate, Thou takest the hereditary shade Which Nature's homely art had made, And thence thou giv'st thy Muse her swing, and she Advances to the galaxy; There with the sparkling Cowley she above Does hand in hand in graceful measures move. We grovelling mortals gaze below, And long in vain to know Her wondrous paths, her wondrous flight: In vain, alas! we grope,[63] In vain we use our earthly telescope, We're blinded by an intermedial night. Thine eagle-Muse can only face The fiery coursers in their race, While with unequal paces we do try To bear her train aloft, and keep her company.

II.

The loud harmonious Mantuan Once charm'd the world; and here's the Uscan swan In his declining years does chime, And challenges the last remains of Time. Ages run on, and soon give o'er, They have their graves as well as we; Time swallows all that's past and more, Yet time is swallow'd in eternity: This is the only profits poets see. There thy triumphant Muse shall ride in state And lead in chains devouring Fate; Claudian's bright Ph[oe]nix she shall bring Thee an immortal offering; Nor shall my humble tributary Muse Her homage and attendance too refuse; She thrusts herself among the crowd, And joining in th' applause she strives to clap aloud

III.

Tell me no more that Nature is severe, Thou great philosopher! Lo! she has laid her vast exchequer here. Tell me no more that she has sent So much already, she is spent; Here is a vast America behind Which none but the great Silurist could find. Nature her last edition was the best, As big, as rich as all the rest: So will we here admit Another world of wit. No rude or savage fancy here shall stay The travelling reader in his way, But every coast is clear: go where he will, Virtue's the road Thalia leads him still. Long may she live, and wreath thy sacred head For this her happy resurrection from the dead.

N. W., Jes. Coll., Oxon.

FOOTNOTES:

[63] The original has flight In raine; alas! we grope.



TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MR. HENRY VAUGHAN THE SILURIST.

See what thou wert! by what Platonic round Art thou in thy first youth and glories found? Or from thy Muse does this retrieve accrue? Does she which once inspir'd thee, now renew, Bringing thee back those golden years which Time Smooth'd to thy lays, and polish'd with thy rhyme? Nor is't to thee alone she does convey Such happy change, but bountiful as day, On whatsoever reader she does shine, She makes him like thee, and for ever thine.

And first thy manual op'ning gives to see Eclipse and suff'rings burnish majesty, Where thou so artfully the draught hast made That we best read the lustre in the shade, And find our sov'reign greater in that shroud: So lightning dazzles from its night and cloud, So the First Light Himself has for His throne Blackness, and darkness his pavilion.

Who can refuse thee company, or stay, By thy next charming summons forc'd away, If that be force which we can so resent, That only in its joys 'tis violent: Upward thy Eagle bears us ere aware, Till above storms and all tempestuous air We radiant worlds with their bright people meet, Leaving this little all beneath our feet. But now the pleasure is too great to tell, Nor have we other bus'ness than to dwell, As on the hallow'd Mount th' Apostles meant To build and fix their glorious banishment. Yet we must know and find thy skilful vein Shall gently bear us to our homes again; By which descent thy former flight's impli'd To be thy ecstacy and not thy pride. And here how well does the wise Muse demean Herself, and fit her song to ev'ry scene! Riot of courts, the bloody wreaths of war, Cheats of the mart, and clamours of the bar, Nay, life itself thou dost so well express, Its hollow joys, and real emptiness, That Dorian minstrel never did excite, Or raise for dying so much appetite.

Nor does thy other softer magic move Us less thy fam'd Etesia to love; Where such a character thou giv'st, that shame Nor envy dare approach the vestal dame: So at bright prime ideas none repine, They safely in th' eternal poet shine.

Gladly th' Assyrian ph[oe]nix now resumes From thee this last reprisal of his plumes; He seems another more miraculous thing, Brighter of crest, and stronger of his wing, Proof against Fate in spicy urns to come, Immortal past all risk of martyrdom.

Nor be concern'd, nor fancy thou art rude T' adventure from thy Cambrian solitude: Best from those lofty cliffs thy Muse does spring Upwards, and boldly spreads her cherub wing.

So when the sage of Memphis would converse With boding skies, and th' azure universe, He climbs his starry pyramid, and thence Freely sucks clean prophetic influence, And all serene, and rapt and gay he pries Through the ethereal volume's mysteries, Loth to come down, or ever to know more The Nile's luxurious, but dull foggy shore.

I. W., A.M. Oxon.

CHOICE POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.



TO HIS LEARNED FRIEND AND LOYAL FELLOW-PRISONER, THOMAS POWEL OF CANT[REFF], DOCTOR OF DIVINITY.

If sever'd friends by sympathy can join, And absent kings be honour'd in their coin; May they do both, who are so curb'd? but we Whom no such abstracts torture, that can see And pay each other a full self-return, May laugh, though all such metaphysics burn. 'Tis a kind soul in magnets, that atones Such two hard things as iron are and stones, And in their dumb compliance we learn more Of love, than ever books could speak before. For though attraction hath got all the name, As if that power but from one side came, Which both unites; yet, where there is no sense There is no passion, nor intelligence: And so by consequence we cannot state A commerce, unless both we animate. For senseless things, though ne'er so called upon, Are deaf, and feel no invitation, But such as at the last day shall be shed By the great Lord of life into the dead. 'Tis then no heresy to end the strife With such rare doctrine as gives iron life. For were it otherwise—which cannot be, And do thou judge my bold philosophy— Then it would follow that if I were dead, Thy love, as now in life, would in that bed Of earth and darkness warm me, and dispense Effectual informing influence. Since then 'tis clear, that friendship is nought else But a joint, kind propension, and excess In none, but such whose equal, easy hearts Comply and meet both in their whole and parts, And when they cannot meet, do not forget To mingle souls, but secretly reflect And some third place their centre make, where they Silently mix, and make an unseen stay: Let me not say—though poets may be bold— Thou art more hard than steel, than stones more cold, But as the marigold in feasts of dew And early sunbeams, though but thin and few, Unfolds itself, then from the Earth's cold breast Heaves gently, and salutes the hopeful East: So from thy quiet cell, the retir'd throne Of thy fair thoughts, which silently bemoan Our sad distractions, come! and richly dress'd With reverend mirth and manners, check the rest Of loose, loath'd men! Why should I longer be Rack'd 'twixt two evils? I see and cannot see.



THE KING DISGUISED.

Written about the same time that Mr. John Cleveland wrote his.

A king and no king! Is he gone from us, And stoln alive into his coffin thus? This was to ravish death, and so prevent The rebels' treason and their punishment. He would not have them damn'd, and therefore he Himself deposed his own majesty. Wolves did pursue him, and to fly the ill He wanders—royal saint!—in sheepskin still. Poor, obscure shelter, if that shelter be Obscure, which harbours so much majesty. Hence, profane eyes! the mystery's so deep, Like Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't. Thou flying roll, written with tears and woe, Not for thy royal self, but for thy foe! Thy grief is prophecy, and doth portend, Like sad Ezekiel's sighs, the rebel's end. Thy robes forc'd off, like Samuel's when rent, Do figure out another's punishment. Nor grieve thou hast put off thyself awhile, To serve as prophet to this sinful isle; These are our days of Purim, which oppress The Church, and force thee to the wilderness. But all these clouds cannot thy light confine, The sun in storms and after them, will shine. Thy day of life cannot be yet complete, 'Tis early, sure, thy shadow is so great. But I am vex'd, that we at all can guess This change, and trust great Charles to such a dress. When he was first obscur'd with this coarse thing, He grac'd plebeians, but profan'd the king: Like some fair church, which zeal to charcoals burn'd, Or his own court now to an alehouse turn'd. But full as well may we blame night, and chide His wisdom, Who doth light with darkness hide, Or deny curtains to thy royal bed, As take this sacred cov'ring from thy head. Secrets of State are points we must not know; This vizard is thy privy-council now, Thou royal riddle, and in everything The true white prince, our hieroglyphic king! Ride safely in His shade, Who gives thee light, And can with blindness thy pursuers smite. O! may they wander all from thee as far As they from peace are, and thyself from war! And wheresoe'er thou dost design to be With thy—now spotted—spotless majesty, Be sure to look no sanctuary there, Nor hope for safety in a temple, where Buyers and sellers trade: O! strengthen not With too much trust the treason of a Scot!



THE EAGLE.

Tis madness sure; and I am in the fit, To dare an eagle with my unfledg'd wit. For what did ever Rome or Athens sing In all their lines, as lofty as his wing? He that an eagle's powers would rehearse Should with his plumes first feather all his verse. I know not, when into thee I would pry, Which to admire, thy wing first, or thine eye; Or whether Nature at thy birth design'd More of her fire for thee, or of her wind. When thou in the clear heights and upmost air Dost face the sun and his dispersed hair, Ev'n from that distance thou the sea dost spy And sporting in its deep, wide lap, the fry. Not the least minnow there but thou canst see: Whole seas are narrow spectacles to thee. Nor is this element of water here Below of all thy miracles the sphere. If poets ought may add unto thy store, Thou hast in heav'n of wonders many more. For when just Jove to earth his thunder bends, And from that bright, eternal fortress sends His louder volleys, straight this bird doth fly To Aetna, where his magazine doth lie, And in his active talons brings him more Of ammunition, and recruits his store. Nor is't a low or easy lift. He soars 'Bove wind and fire; gets to the moon, and pores With scorn upon her duller face; for she Gives him but shadows and obscurity. Here much displeas'd, that anything like night Should meet him in his proud and lofty flight, That such dull tinctures should advance so far, And rival in the glories of a star, Resolv'd he is a nobler course to try, And measures out his voyage with his eye. Then with such fury he begins his flight, As if his wings contended with his sight. Leaving the moon, whose humble light doth trade With spots, and deals most in the dark and shade, To the day's royal planet he doth pass With daring eyes, and makes the sun his glass. Here doth he plume and dress himself, the beams Rushing upon him like so many streams; While with direct looks he doth entertain The thronging flames, and shoots them back again. And thus from star to star he doth repair, And wantons in that pure and peaceful air. Sometimes he frights the starry swan, and now Orion's fearful hare, and then the crow. Then with the orb itself he moves, to see Which is more swift, th' intelligence or he. Thus with his wings his body he hath brought Where man can travel only in a thought. I will not seek, rare bird, what spirit 'tis That mounts thee thus; I'll be content with this, To think that Nature made thee to express Our soul's bold heights in a material dress.



TO MR. M. L. UPON HIS REDUCTION OF THE PSALMS INTO METHOD.

Sir,

You have oblig'd the patriarch, and 'tis known He is your debtor now, though for his own. What he wrote is a medley: we can see Confusion trespass on his piety. Misfortunes did not only strike at him, They charged further, and oppress'd his pen; For he wrote as his crosses came, and went By no safe rule, but by his punishment. His quill mov'd by the rod; his wits and he Did know no method, but their misery. You brought his Psalms now into tune. Nay all His measures thus are more than musical; Your method and his airs are justly sweet, And—what's church music right—like anthems meet. You did so much in this, that I believe He gave the matter, you the form did give. And yet I wish you were not understood, For now 'tis a misfortune to be good! Why then you'll say, all I would have, is this: None must be good, because the time's amiss. For since wise Nature did ordain the night, I would not have the sun to give us light. Whereas this doth not take the use away, But urgeth the necessity of day. Proceed to make your pious work as free, Stop not your seasonable charity. Good works despis'd or censur'd by bad times Should be sent out to aggravate their crimes. They should first share and then reject our store, Abuse our good, to make their guilt the more. 'Tis war strikes at our sins, but it must be A persecution wounds our piety.



TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF C[HARLES] W[ALBEOFFE] ESQUIRE, WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE HERE, AND MADE HIS ENTRANCE INTO IMMORTALITY UPON THE 13 OF SEPTEMBER, IN THE YEAR OF REDEMPTION, 1653.

Now that the public sorrow doth subside, And those slight tears which custom springs are dried; While all the rich and outside mourners pass Home from thy dust, to empty their own glass; I—who the throng affect not, nor their state— Steal to thy grave undress'd, to meditate On our sad loss, accompanied by none, An obscure mourner that would weep alone. So, when the world's great luminary sets, Some scarce known star into the zenith gets, Twinkles and curls, a weak but willing spark, As glow-worms here do glitter in the dark. Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles there An humble love unto the light doth bear, And true devotion from an hermit's cell Will Heav'n's kind King as soon reach and as well, As that which from rich shrines and altars flies, Led by ascending incense to the skies: 'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the might Of love makes dark things wait upon the bright, And from my sad retirements calls me forth, The just recorder of thy death and worth. Long didst thou live—if length be measured by The tedious reign of our calamity— And counter to all storms and changes still Kept'st the same temper, and the selfsame will. Though trials came as duly as the day, And in such mists, that none could see his way, Yet thee I found still virtuous, and saw The sun give clouds, and Charles give both the law. When private interest did all hearts bend, And wild dissents the public peace did rend, Thou, neither won, nor worn, wert still thyself, Not aw'd by force, nor basely brib'd with pelf. What the insuperable stream of times Did dash thee with, those suff'rings were, not crimes. So the bright sun eclipses bears; and we, Because then passive, blame him not. Should he For enforc'd shades, and the moon's ruder veil Much nearer us than him, be judg'd to fail? Who traduce thee, so err. As poisons by Correction are made antidotes, so thy Just soul did turn ev'n hurtful things to good, Us'd bad laws so they drew not tears, nor blood. Heav'n was thy aim, and thy great, rare design Was not to lord it here, but there to shine. Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e'er Thou pray'd'st for here was peace, and glory there. For though thy course in Time's long progress fell On a sad age, when war and open'd hell Licens'd all arts and sects, and made it free To thrive by fraud, and blood, and blasphemy: Yet thou thy just inheritance didst by No sacrilege, nor pillage multiply. No rapine swell'd thy state, no bribes, nor fees, Our new oppressors' best annuities. Such clean pure hands hadst thou! and for thy heart, Man's secret region, and his noblest part; Since I was privy to't, and had the key Of that fair room, where thy bright spirit lay, I must affirm it did as much surpass Most I have known, as the clear sky doth glass. Constant and kind, and plain, and meek, and mild It was, and with no new conceits defil'd. Busy, but sacred thoughts—like bees—did still Within it stir, and strive unto that hill Where redeem'd spirits, evermore alive, After their work is done, ascend and hive. No outward tumults reach'd this inward place: 'Twas holy ground, where peace, and love, and grace Kept house, where the immortal restless life, In a most dutiful and pious strife, Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order still; The will serv'd God, and ev'ry sense the will! In this safe state Death met thee, Death, which is But a kind usher of the good to bliss, Therefore to weep because thy course is run, Or droop like flow'rs, which lately lost the sun, I cannot yield, since Faith will not permit A tenure got by conquest to the pit. For the great Victor fought for us, and He Counts ev'ry dust that is laid up of thee. Besides, Death now grows decrepit, and hath Spent the most part both of its time and wrath. That thick, black night, which mankind fear'd, is torn By troops of stars, and the bright day's forlorn. The next glad news—most glad unto the just!— Will be the trumpet's summons from the dust. Then I'll not grieve; nay, more, I'll not allow My soul should think thee absent from me now. Some bid their dead "Good night!" but I will say "Good morrow to dear Charles!" for it is day.



IN ZODIACUM MARCELLI PALINGENII.

It is perform'd! and thy great name doth run Through ev'ry sign, an everlasting sun, Not planet-like, but fixed; and we can see Thy genius stand still in his apogee. For how canst thou an aux eternal miss, Where ev'ry house thy exaltation is? Here's no ecliptic threatens thee with night, Although the wiser few take in thy light. They are not at that glorious pitch, to be In a conjunction with divinity. Could we partake some oblique ray of thine, Salute thee in a sextile, or a trine, It were enough; but thou art flown so high, The telescope is turn'd a common eye. Had the grave Chaldee liv'd thy book to see, He had known no astrology but thee; Nay, more—for I believe't—thou shouldst have been Tutor to all his planets, and to him. Thus, whosoever reads thee, his charm'd sense Proves captive to thy zodiac's influence. Were it not foul to err so, I should look Here for the Rabbins' universal book: And say, their fancies did but dream of thee, When first they doted on that mystery. Each line's a via lactea, where we may See thy fair steps, and tread that happy way Thy genius led thee in. Still I will be Lodg'd in some sign, some face, and some degree Of thy bright zodiac; thus I'll teach my sense To move by that, and thee th' intelligence.



TO LYSIMACHUS, THE AUTHOR BEING WITH HIM IN LONDON.

Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when we Took the pure air in its simplicity, And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants went Cringing, and pass'd each step some compliment? What strange, fantastic diagrams they drew With legs and arms; the like we never knew In Euclid, Archimede, nor all of those Whose learned lines are neither verse nor prose? What store of lace was there? how did the gold Run in rich traces, but withal made bold To measure the proud things, and so deride The fops with that, which was part of their pride? How did they point at us, and boldly call, As if we had been vassals to them all, Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fate To yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state? Of all ambitions, this was not the least, Whose drift translated man into a beast. What blind discourse the heroes did afford! This lady was their friend, and such a lord. How much of blood was in it! one could tell He came from Bevis and his Arundel; Morglay was yet with him, and he could do More feats with it than his old grandsire too. Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee, Who canst produce a nobler pedigree, And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kin To some bright star, or to a cherubin? When these in their profuse moods spend the night, With the same sins they drive away the light. Thy learned thrift puts her to use, while she Reveals her fiery volume unto thee; And looking on the separated skies, And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes, Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and bars To heav'n, and there conversest with the stars. Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that be Obscur'd with nothing but their privacy, And missing but the false world's glories do Miss all those vices which attend them too! Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise; Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.



ON SIR THOMAS BODLEY'S LIBRARY, THE AUTHOR BEING THEN IN OXFORD.

Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst show The ruins of mankind, and let us know How frail a thing is flesh! though we see there But empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here. They are not dead, but full of blood again; I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein. Triumph not o'er their dust; whoever looks In here, shall find their brains all in their books. Nor is't old Palestine alone survives; Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's Lives. The stones, which sometimes danc'd unto the strain Of Orpheus, here do lodge his Muse again. And you, the Roman spirits, learning has Made your lives longer than your empire was. Caesar had perish'd from the world of men Had not his sword been rescu'd by his pen. Rare Seneca, how lasting is thy breath! Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to death. How dull the expert tyrant was, to look For that in thee which lived in thy book! Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and we Commence, when writing, our eternity. Lucilius here I can behold, and see His counsels and his life proceed from thee. But what care I to whom thy Letters be? I change the name, and thou dost write to me; And in this age, as sad almost as thine, Thy stately Consolations are mine. Poor earth! what though thy viler dust enrolls The frail enclosures of these mighty souls? Their graves are all upon record; not one But is as bright and open as the sun. And though some part of them obscurely fell, And perish'd in an unknown, private cell, Yet in their books they found a glorious way To live unto the Resurrection-day! Most noble Bodley! we are bound to thee For no small part of our eternity. Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound, Nor that new mode which doth old states confound. Thy legacies another way did go: Nor were they left to those would spend them so. Thy safe, discreet expense on us did flow; Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now. Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever we Hereafter write, 'tis thy posterity. This is thy monument! here thou shalt stand Till the times fail in their last grain of sand. And wheresoe'er thy silent relics keep, This tomb will never let thine honour sleep, Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame Meets here to speak one letter of thy name. Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe, Where every book is thy large epitaph.



THE IMPORTUNATE FORTUNE, WRITTEN TO DR. POWEL, OF CANTRE[FF].

For shame desist, why shouldst thou seek my fall? It cannot make thee more monarchical. Leave off; thy empire is already built; To ruin me were to enlarge thy guilt, Not thy prerogative. I am not he Must be the measure to thy victory. The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace If in thy annals I should make a clause. The future ages will disclose such men Shall be the glory, and the end of them. Nor do I flatter. So long as there be Descents in Nature, or posterity, There must be fortunes; whether they be good, As swimming in thy tide and plenteous flood, Or stuck fast in the shallow ebb, when we Miss to deserve thy gorgeous charity. Thus, Fortune, the great world thy period is; Nature and you are parallels in this. But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone, I am resolv'd, I will not be undone. I scorn thy trash, and thee: nay, more, I do Despise myself, because thy subject too. Name me heir to thy malice, and I'll be; Thy hate's the best inheritance for me. I care not for your wondrous hat and purse, Make me a Fortunatus with thy curse. How careful of myself then should I be, Were I neglected by the world and thee? Why dost thou tempt me with thy dirty ore, And with thy riches make my soul so poor? My fancy's pris'ner to thy gold and thee, Thy favours rob me of my liberty. I'll to my speculations. Is't best To be confin'd to some dark, narrow chest And idolize thy stamps, when I may be Lord of all Nature, and not slave to thee? The world's my palace. I'll contemplate there, And make my progress into ev'ry sphere. The chambers of the air are mine; those three Well-furnish'd stories my possession be. I hold them all in capite, and stand Propp'd by my fancy there. I scorn your land, It lies so far below me. Here I see How all the sacred stars do circle me. Thou to the great giv'st rich food, and I do Want no content; I feed on manna too. They have their tapers; I gaze without fear On flying lamps and flaming comets here. Their wanton flesh in silks and purple shrouds, And fancy wraps me in a robe of clouds. There some delicious beauty they may woo, And I have Nature for my mistress too. But these are mean; the archetype I can see, And humbly touch the hem of majesty. The power of my soul is such, I can Expire, and so analyze all that's man. First my dull clay I give unto the Earth, Our common mother, which gives all their birth. My growing faculties I send as soon, Whence first I took them, to the humid moon. All subtleties and every cunning art To witty Mercury I do impart. Those fond affections which made me a slave To handsome faces, Venus, thou shalt have. And saucy pride—if there was aught in me— Sol, I return it to thy royalty. My daring rashness and presumptions be To Mars himself an equal legacy. My ill-plac'd avarice—sure 'tis but small— Jove, to thy flames I do bequeath it all. And my false magic, which I did believe, And mystic lies, to Saturn I do give. My dark imaginations rest you there, This is your grave and superstitious sphere. Get up, my disentangled soul, thy fire Is now refin'd, and nothing left to tire Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight Hath brought me to the empyrean light. I am a sep'rate essence, and can see The emanations of the Deity, And how they pass the seraphims, and run Through ev'ry throne and domination. So rushing through the guard the sacred streams Flow to the neighbour stars, and in their beams —A glorious cataract!—descend to earth, And give impressions unto ev'ry birth. With angels now and spirits I do dwell, And here it is my nature to do well. Thus, though my body you confined see, My boundless thoughts have their ubiquity. And shall I then forsake the stars and signs, To dote upon thy dark and cursed mines? Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy Guiana with the loss of all the sky? Intelligences shall I leave, and be Familiar only with mortality? Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shall My purse and fancy be symmetrical? Are there no objects left but one? must we In gaining that, lose our variety? Fortune, this is the reason I refuse Thy wealth; it puts my books all out of use. 'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind Is big with speculation, when I find My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess There is no blessing to an emptiness! The species of all things to me resort And dwell then in my breast, as in their port. Then leave to court me with thy hated store; Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.



TO I. MORGAN OF WHITEHALL, ESQ., UPON HIS SUDDEN JOURNEY AND SUCCEEDING MARRIAGE.

So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires, To his warm Indies the bright sun retires. Where, in those provinces of gold and spice, Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes, Which, so refresh'd, in their return convey Fire into rubies, into crystals, day; And prove, that light in kinder climates can Work more on senseless stones, than here on man. But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take in Both light and heat, can love and wisdom spin Into one thread, and with that firmly tie The same bright blessings on posterity: Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown, Shall, with your name, descend still to your own. When I am dead, and malice or neglect The worst they can upon my dust reflect; —For poets yet have left no names, but such As men have envied or despis'd too much— You above both—and what state more excels, Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?— To after ages shall remain entire, And shine still spotless, like your planet's fire. No single lustre neither; the access Of your fair love will yours adorn and bless; Till, from that bright conjunction, men may view A constellation circling her and you. So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-beds First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads, Till yearly blessings so increase their store, Those two can number two-and-twenty more, And the fair bank—by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd— With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound, Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads, Gives them for garlands to the best of heads. Then late posterity—if chance, or some Weak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb, Shall tell them who the poet was, and how He liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know— Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring, With lights and hymns, and for an offering There vow this truth, that love—which in old times Was censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimes If hearts mend not—did for thy sake in me Find both his eyes, and all foretell and see.



FIDA; OR, THE COUNTRY BEAUTY. TO LYSIMACHUS.

Now I have seen her; and by Cupid The young Medusa made me stupid! A face, that hath no lovers slain, Wants forces, and is near disdain. For every fop will freely peep At majesty that is asleep. But she—fair tyrant!—hates to be Gaz'd on with such impunity. Whose prudent rigour bravely bears And scorns the trick of whining tears, Or sighs, those false alarms of grief, Which kill not, but afford relief. Nor is it thy hard fate to be Alone in this calamity, Since I who came but to be gone, Am plagu'd for merely looking on. Mark from her forehead to her foot What charming sweets are there to do't. A head adorn'd with all those glories That wit hath shadow'd in quaint stories, Or pencil with rich colours drew In imitation of the true. Her hair, laid out in curious sets And twists, doth show like silken nets, Where—since he play'd at hit or miss— The god of Love her pris'ner is, And fluttering with his skittish wings Puts all her locks in curls and rings. Like twinkling stars her eyes invite All gazers to so sweet a light, But then two arched clouds of brown Stand o'er, and guard them with a frown. Beneath these rays of her bright eyes, Beauty's rich bed of blushes lies. Blushes which lightning-like come on, Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon; But leave the lilies of her skin As fair as ever, and run in, Like swift salutes—which dull paint scorn— 'Twixt a white noon and crimson morn. What coral can her lips resemble? For hers are warm, swell, melt, and tremble: And if you dare contend for red, This is alive, the other dead. Her equal teeth—above, below— All of a size and smoothness grow. Where under close restraint and awe —Which is the maiden tyrant law— Like a cag'd, sullen linnet, dwells Her tongue, the key to potent spells. Her skin, like heav'n when calm and bright, Shows a rich azure under white, With touch more soft than heart supposes, And breath as sweet as new-blown roses. Betwixt this headland and the main, Which is a rich and flow'ry plain, Lies her fair neck, so fine and slender, That gently how you please 'twill bend her. This leads you to her heart, which ta'en, Pants under sheets of whitest lawn, And at the first seems much distress'd, But, nobly treated, lies at rest. Here, like two balls of new fall'n snow, Her breasts, Love's native pillows, grow; And out of each a rose-bud peeps, Which infant Beauty sucking sleeps. Say now, my Stoic, that mak'st sour faces At all the beauties and the graces, That criest, unclean! though known thyself To ev'ry coarse and dirty shelf: Couldst thou but see a piece like this, A piece so full of sweets and bliss, In shape so rare, in soul so rich, Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?



FIDA FORSAKEN.

Fool that I was! to believe blood, While swoll'n with greatness, then most good; And the false thing, forgetful man, To trust more than our true god, Pan. Such swellings to a dropsy tend, And meanest things such great ones bend.

Then live deceived! and, Fida, by That life destroy fidelity. For living wrongs will make some wise, While Death chokes loudest injuries: And screens the faulty, making blinds To hide the most unworthy minds.

And yet do what thou can'st to hide, A bad tree's fruit will be describ'd. For that foul guilt which first took place In his dark heart, now damns his face; And makes those eyes, where life should dwell, Look like the pits of Death and Hell.

Blood, whose rich purple shows and seals Their faith in Moors, in him reveals A blackness at the heart, and is Turn'd ink to write his faithlessness. Only his lips with blood look red, As if asham'd of what they fed.

Then, since he wears in a dark skin The shadows of his hell within, Expose him no more to the light, But thine own epitaph thus write "Here burst, and dead and unregarded Lies Fida's heart! O well rewarded!"



TO THE EDITOR OF THE MATCHLESS ORINDA.

Long since great wits have left the stage Unto the drollers of the age, And noble numbers with good sense Are, like good works, grown an offence. While much of verse—worse than old story— Speaks but Jack-Pudding or John-Dory. Such trash-admirers made us poor, And pies turn'd poets out of door; For the nice spirit of rich verse Which scorns absurd and low commerce, Although a flame from heav'n, if shed On rooks or daws warms no such head. Or else the poet, like bad priest, Is seldom good, but when oppress'd; And wit as well as piety Doth thrive best in adversity For since the thunder left our air Their laurels look not half so fair. However 'tis, 'twere worse than rude, Not to profess our gratitude And debts to thee, who at so low An ebb dost make us thus to flow; And when we did a famine fear, Hast bless'd us with a fruitful year. So while the world his absence mourns, The glorious sun at last returns, And with his kind and vital looks Warms the cold earth and frozen brooks, Puts drowsy Nature into play, And rids impediments away, Till flow'rs and fruits and spices through Her pregnant lap get up and grow. But if among those sweet things, we A miracle like that could see Which Nature brought but once to pass, A Muse, such as Orinda was, Ph[oe]bus himself won by these charms Would give her up into thy arms; And recondemn'd to kiss his tree, Yield the young goddess unto thee.