Olor Iscanus.
To the River Isca.
WHen
Daphne's Lover here first wore the
Dayes,
Eurotas secret streams heard all his
Layes.
And holy
Orpheus, Natures
busie Child
By headlong
Hebrus his deep
Eymns Compil'd.
Soft
Petrarch (thaw'd by
Laura's flames) did weep
On
Tybers banks, when she (
prou'd fair!) cou'd sleep;
Mosella boasts
Ausonius, and the
Thames
Doth murmure
SIDNEYS Stella to her
streams,
While
Severn sworn with
Ioy and
sorrow, wears
Castara's smiles mixt with fair
Sabrin's tears.
Thus
Poets (like the
Nymphs, their
pleasing themes)
Haunted the
bubling Springs and
gliding streams,
And
happy banks! whence such
fair slowres have sprung,
But happier those where they have
sate 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'
Auncients say, That, from this
sickly aire
They passe to
Regions more
refin'd and
faire,
To
Meadows strow'd with
Lillies and the
Rose,
And
shades whose
youthfull green no
old age knowes,
Where all in
white they walk, discourse, and Sing
Like Bees
soft murmurs, or a
Chiding Spring.
But
Isca, whensoe'r those
shades I see,
And thy
lov'd Arbours must no more
know me,
When I am layd to
rest hard by thy
streams,
And my
Sun sets, where first it
sprang in beams,
[Page 2]I'le leave; behind me such a
large, kind light,
As shall
redeem thee from
oblivious night,
And in these
vowes 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 and
streams (or none)
Be both their
Hill and
Helicon;
May
Vocall Groves grow there, and all
The
shades in them
Propheticall,
Where (laid) men shall more
faire truths see
Than
fictions were of
Thessalie.
May thy gentle
Swains (like
flowres)
Sweetly spend their
Youthfull houres,
And thy
beauteous Nymphs (like
Doves)
Be
kind and
faithfull to their
Loves;
Garlands, and
Songs, and
Roundelayes,
Mild, dewie
nights, and Sun-shine
dayes,
The
Turtles voyce, Ioy without
fear,
Dwell on thy
bosome all the year!
May the
Evet and the
Tode
Within thy Banks have no abode,
Nor the
wilie, winding Snake
Her
voyage through thy
waters make.
In all thy
Iourney to the
Main
No
nitrous Clay, nor
Brimstone-vein
Mixe with thy
streams, but may they passe
Fresh as the
aire, and cleer as
Glasse,
And where the
wandring Chrystal treads
Rojes shall
kisse, and
Couple heads.
The
factour-wind from far shall bring
The
Odours of the
Scatter'd Spring,
And
loaden with the rich
Aweare,
Spend it in
Spicie whispers there.
No
sullen heals, nor
flames that are
Offensive, and
Canicular,
Thy
Scalie, shading familie,
But
Noones as mild as
Hasper's rayes,
Or the first
blushes of fair dayes.
What
gifts more
Heav'n or
Earth can adde
With all those
blessings be thou
Clad!
Honour, Beautie,
Faith and
Dutie,
Delight and
Truth,
With
Love, and
Youth
Crown all about thee And what ever
Fate
Impose else-where, whether the graver state,
Or some toy else, may those
lomd, anxious Cares
For
dead and
dying things (the Common
[...]ares
And
showes of time) he'r break thy
Peace, nor make
Thy
repos'd Armes to a new warre
awake!
But
Freedome, safety, Ioy and
blisse:
United in one loving
kisse
Surround thee quite, and
stile thy borders
The Land redeem'd from all disorders!
The Charnel-house.
BLesse me! what damps are here? how stiffe an aire?
Kelder of mists, a second
Fiats care,
Front speece o'th' grave and darkness, a Display
Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day;
Leane, bloudless shamble, where I can descrie
Fragments of men, Rags of Anatomie;
Corruptions ward-robe, the transplantive bed
Of mankind, and th'Exchequer of the dead.
How thou arrests my sense? how with the sight
My
winter'd bloud growes stiffe to all delight?
Torpedo to the Eye! whose least glance can
Freeze our wild lusts, and reseue head-long man;
Eloquent silence! able to Immure
An
Atheists thoughts, and blast an
Epicure.
[Page 4]Were I a
Lucian, Nature in this dresse
Would make me wish a Saviour, and Confesse.
Where are you shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope,
Ambitious dreams,
Aymes of an Endless scope,
Whose stretch'd Excesse runs on a string too high
And on the rack of self-extension dye?
Chameleons of state, Aire-monging band,
Whose breath (like Gun-powder) blowes up a land,
Come see your dissolution, and weigh
What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day,
As th' Elements by Circulation passe
From one to th'other, and that which first was
Is so again, so 'tis with you; The grave
And Nature but Complote, what the one gave,
The other takes; I think then, that in this bed
There sleep the Reliques of as proud a head
As stern and subtill as your own, that hath
Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
Hath levell'd Kings with slaves, and wisely then
Calme these high furies, and descend to men;
Thus
Cyrus tam'd the
Macedon, a tombe
Checkt him, who thought the world too straight a Room.
Have I obey'd the
Powers of face,
A beauty able to undoe the Race
Of easie man? I look but here, and strait
I am Inform'd, the lovely Counterfeit
Was but a smoother Clay. That famish'd slave
Begger'd by wealth, who starvea that he may save,
Brings hither but his sheet; Nay, th'
Ostrich-man,
That feeds on
steele and
bullet, he that can
Outswea: his
Lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were
Buffe,
Is
Chap-faln here, wormes without wit, or fear
Defie him now, death hath disarm'd the
Bear.
Thus could I run o'r all the pitteous score
Of erring men, and having done meet more,
Their shuffled
Wills, abortive, vain
Intents,
Phautasrick
humours, perillous
Ascents,
And what soe'r 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'le season all succeeding Iollitie,
Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit,
Excesse hath no
Religion, nor
wit,
But should wild bloud swell to a lawless strain
On Check from thee shall
Channel it again.
In Amicum foeneratorem.
THanks mighty
Silver! I rejoyce to see
How I have spoyl'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 bodyes swarm to th' Center, and that fire
Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire,
So this vast crying summe drawes in a lesse,
And hence this bag more Northward layd I guesse,
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 dresse
His messages in
Chink? not an Expresse
Without a fee for reading, and 'tis fit,
For gold's the best restorative of wit,
O how he gilds them o'r! with what delight
I read those lines, where Angels doe Indite?
[Page 6]But wilt have money
Og? must I dispurse?
Will nothing serve thee but a
Poets curse?
Wilt rob an Altar thus? and sweep it once
What
Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?
'I will never swell thy
Bag, nor ring one peale
In thy dark
Chest. Talk not of
Shreives, or gaole,
I fear them not. I have no land to glutt
Thy durty appetite, and make thee strutt
Nimrod of acres; I'le no Speech prepare
To court the
Hopefull Cormorant, thine heire.
Yet there's a Kingdome, at thy beck, if thou
But kick this drosse,
Parnassus flowre brow
I'le give thee with my
Tempe, and to boot
That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.
A Bed of Roses I'le provide for thee,
And Chrystal Springs shall drop thee melodie;
The breathing shades wee'l haunt, where ev'ry leafe
Shall
whisper us asleep, though thou art deafe;
Those waggish
Nymph too which none ever yet
Durst make love to, wee'l teach the Loving fit,
Wee'l suck the
Corall of their lips, and feed
Upon their spicie breath, a meale 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
pratling 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 doe, and yet this is not all,
For thus the Poet would be still in thrall,
Thou must then (if live thus) my neast of honey,
Cancell old bonds, and beg to lend more money.
To his friend—.
I Wonder,
Iames, through the whole Historie
Of ages, such
Entailes of povertie
Are layd 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 wee
Should pay (if possible) their bribes and fee.
Search (as thou canst) the old and moderne store
Of
Rome and ours, in all the wittie score
Thou shalt not find a rich one; Take each Clime
And run o'r all the pilgrimage of time
Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'ry where descrie
A thredbare, goldless genealogie.
Nature (it seems) when she meant us for Earth
Spent so much of her treasure in the birth
As ever after niggards her, and Shee,
Thus stor'd within, beggers us outwardly.
Wofull profusion I at how dear a rate
Are wee made up? all hope of thrise and state
Lost for a verse: When I by thoughts look back
Into the wombe of time, and see the Rack
Stand useless there, untill we are produc'd
Unto the torture, and our soules infus'd
To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt
That as some tyrants use from their chain'd roue
Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport
They keep afflicted by some lingring art,
So wee are meerly thrown upon the stage
The mirth of fooles, and Legend of the age,
When I see in the ruines of a sute
Some nobler brest, and his tongue sadly mute
Feed on the
Vocall silence of his Eye,
And knowing cannot reach the remedie,
When soules of baser stamp shine in their store,
And he of all the throng is only poore,
[Page 8]When
French apes sor forraign fashions pay,
And
English legs are drest th'outlandish way,
So fine too, that they their own shadows wooe,
While he walks in the
sad and
Pilgrim-shooe,
I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sinne,
To see deserts and learning clad so thinne:
To think how th'earthly Usurer can brood
Upon his bags, and weigh the pretious food
With palsied hands, as if his soul did feare
The Scales could rob him of what he layd there;
Like Divels that on hid Treasures sit, or those
Whose jealous Eyes trust not beyond their nose
They guard the durt, and the bright Idol hold
Close, and Commit adultery with gold.
A Curse upon their drosse! 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 peece?
Their steel-rib'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 soules were sureties for the Pence.
Should we a full nights learned cares present,
They'l scarce return us one short houres Content,
'Las! they're but quibbles, things we Poets feign,
The short-liv'd Squibs and Crackers of the brain.
But wee'l be wiser, knowing 'tis not they
That must redeem the hardship of our way,
Whether a Higher Power, or that starre
Which neerest heav'n, is from the earth most far
Oppresse us thus, or angel'd from that Sphere
By our strict Guardians are kept luckless here,
It matters not, wee shall one day obtain
Our native and Celestiall scope again.
To his retired friend, an Invitation to Brecknock.
SInce last wee met, thou and thy horse (my dear,)
Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here,
I wonder, though thy self be thus deceast,
Thou hast the spite to Coffin up thy beast;
Or is the
Palfrey sick, and his rough hide
With the penance of
One Spur mortifide?
Or taught by thee (like
Pythagoras's Oxe)
Is then his master grown more
Orthodox?
What ever 'tis, a sober cause't must be
That thus long bars us of thy Companie.
The Town believes thee lost, and didst thou see
But half her suffrings, now distrest for thee,
Thou'ldst swear (like
Rome) her soule, polluted walls
Were sackt by
Brennus, and the salvage
Gaules.
Abominable face of things! here's noise
Of bang'd Mortars, blew Aprons, and Boyes,
Pigs, Dogs, and Drums, with the hoarse hellish notes
Of politickly-deafe Usurers throats,
With new fine
worships, and the old east
teame
Of Justices vext with the
Cough, and
flegme.
Midst these the
Crosse looks sad, and in the
Shirt-
-
Hall furs of an old
Saxon Fox appear,
With brotherly Ruffs and Beards, and a strange sight
Of high Monumentall Hats t'ane at the sight
Of
Eighty eight; while ev'ry
Bargessi foots
The mortall
Pavement in eternall boots.
Hadst thou been batc'lour, I had soon divin'd
Thy Close retirements, and Monastick mind,
Perhaps some Nymph had been to visit, or
The beauteous Churle was to be waited for,
And like the
Greek, e'r you the sport would misse
You stai'd, and stroak'd the
Dislosse for a kisse.
[Page 10]But in this age, when thy coole, settled bloud
Is ty'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good,
I know not how to reach the strange device,
Except (
Domitian like) thou murther'st flyes;
Or is't thy pietie? 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 peacefull Change hadst thou
Without the noise of
haire-cloth, whip, or
Vow?
But is there 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 raign,
Or if they mention thee, like some old man.
That at each word inserts— Sir,
as I can
Remember— So the
Cyph'rers puzzle mee
With a dark, cloudie character of thee.
That (certs!) I fear thou wilt be lost, and wee
Must ask the
Fathers e'r 't be long for thee.
Come! leave this sullen state, and let not Wine
And precious Witt lye dead for want of thine,
Shall the dull
Market-land-lord with his
Rout
Of sneaking Tenants durtily swill out
This harmlesse liquor? shall they knock and beat
For Sack, only to talk of
Rye, and
wheat?
O let not such prepost'rous tipling be
In our
Metropolis, may I ne'r see
Such
Tavern-sacrilege, nor load a line
To weep the
Rapes and
Tragedy of wine!
Here lives that
Chimick, quick fire which betrayes
Fresh Spirits to the bloud, and warms our layes,
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
Coelia, Chloris, Astrophil,
[Page 11]Or any of the Thredbare names Inspir'd
Poore riming lovers with a
Mistris sir'd.
Come then I and while the slow Isicle hangs
At the stiffe thatch, and Winters frosty pangs
Benumme the year, blith (as of old let us
'Midst noise and War, of Peace, and mirth discusse.
This portion thou wort born for: why should wee
Vex at the times ridiculous miserie?
An age that thus hath fool'd it selfe, and will
(Spite of thy teeth and mine) persist so still.
Let's sit then at this
fire, and while wee steal
A Revell in the Town, let others seal,
Purchase or Cheat, and who can, let them pay,
Till those black deeds bring on the dark some day;
Innocent spenders wee! 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, wee care for a
Iest.
Monsieur Gombauld.
I'Ave read thy Souls fair night-peece, and have seen
Th'
Amours and Courtship of the
silint Queen,
Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her
To Juggle first with
Heav'n, then with a
Lover,
With
Latmos loweer rescue, and (alas!)
To find her out a
Hue and Crie in Brasse,
Thy Journall of deep Mysteries, and sad
Nocturnall Pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad
In fancies darker than thy
Cave, Thy
Glosse
Of sleepie draughts, and as thy soul did passe
In her calm voyage what discourse she heard
Of Spirits, what dark Groves and ill-shap'd guard
Ismena lead thee through, with thy proud flight
O'r
Periardes, and deep, musing night
The neighbour shades weare, and what forms are seen
In their large Bowers, with that sad path and seat
Which none but light-heeld
Nymphs and
Fairies heat;
Their solitary life, and how exempt
From Common frailtie, the severe contempt
They have of Man, their priviledge to live
A
Tree, or
Fountain, and in that
Reprieve
What ages they consume, with the sad
Vale
Of
Diophania, and the mournfull tale,
Or th' bleeding vocall
Myrtle; These and more
Thy richer thoughts we are upon the score
To thy rare fancy for, nor doest thou fall
From thy first Majesty, or ought at all
Betray Consumption, thy full vigorous
Bayes
Wear the same
green, and scorn the lene decayes
Of
stile, or
matter; Just so have I known
Some
Chrystal 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 lowder accents, adding still
More noise and waters to her Channell, till
At last swoln with Increase she glides along
The Lawnes and Meadows in a wanton throng
Of frothy billows, and in one great name
Swallows the tributary brooks drown'd fame.
Nor are they meere Inventions, for we
In th' same peece find scatter'd
Philosophie
And hidden, disperst truths that folded lye
In the dark shades of deep
Allegorie,
So neatly weav'd, like
Arras, they descrie
Fables with
Truth, Fancy with
Historie.
So that thou hast in this thy curious mould
Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old,
Which shall these Contemplations render far
Lesse mutable, and lasting as their star,
And while there is a
People, or a
Sunne,
Endymions storie with the
Moon shall runne.
An Elegie on the death of Mr. R.W. slain in the late unfortunate differences at Routon Heath, neer Chester, 1645.
I Am Confirm'd, and so much wing is given
To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.
A full years griefe I struggled with, and stood
Still on my sandy hopes uncertain good,
So loth was I to yeeld, to all those fears
I still oppos'd thee, and denyed my tears.
But thou art gone! and the untimely losse
Like that one day, hath made all others Crosse.
Have you seen on some Rivers flowrie brow
A well-built
Elme or stately
Cedar grow,
Whose Curled tops gilt with the Morning-ray
Becken'd the Sun, and whisperd to the day,
When unexpected from the angry
North
A fatall sullen whirle-wind sallies forth,
And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground
The
Shady twins, which rushing scatter round
Their sighing leafes, 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 Soule
Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole
A sight, than gave one; as if su'bt'ly she
Would learn our stock, but hide his treasurie.
His years (should time lay both his
wings and
glasse
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
Arithmetick.
He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull
And mossie
gray possess'd a solid skull,
[Page 14]No Crooked knowledge neither, nor did he
Wear the friends name for Ends and policie,
And then lay'd by; As those
lost Youths of th'stage
Who only flourish'd for the
Play's short age
And then retir'd, like
Iewels in each part
He wore his friends, But chiefly at his heart.
Nor was it only in this he did excell,
His equall valour could as much, as well.
He knew no
fear but of his
God; yet durst
No injurie, nor (as some have
[...]e'r pur'st
The sweat and tears of others, yet would be
More forward in a royall gallantrie
Than all those vast pretenders, which of late
Swell'd in the ruines of their King and State.
He weav'd not
Self-ends, and the
Publick good
Into one piece nor with the peoples bloud
Fill'd his own veins; In all the doubtfull way
Conscience and
Honour rul'd him. O that day
When like the
Fathers in the
Fire and
Cloud
I mist thy face! I might in ev'ry
Crowd
See Armes like thine, and men advance, but none
So neer 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 vic
Performance with the
Soul, that you would swear
The
Act and
apprehension both lodg'd there,
Just so mov'd he: like
short his active hand
Drew bloud, e'r well the foe could understand.
But here I lost him. Whether the last turn
Of thy few sands call'd on thy hastie urn,
Or some fierce rapid fate (hid from the Eye)
Hath hurl'd thee Pris'ner to some distant skye
I cannot tell, but that I doe believe
Thy Courage such as scorn'd a base Reprieve.
What ever 'twas, whether that day thy breath
Suffer'd a
Civill or the
Common death,
Which I doe most suspect, and that I have
Fail'd in the
glories of so known a grave,
[Page 15]Though thy lov'd ashes misse 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 what e'r pious hand (in stead 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
turffe, it can do more
To keep thy name and memory in store
Than all those
Lordly fooles which lock their bones
In the dumb piles of Chested brasse, 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'r thy grave, but can outbid that hand
And pencill too, so that of force wee must
Confesse their
heaps shew lesser than thy
dust.
And (blessed soule!) though this my sorrow can
Adde 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 mid-night,
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 loyall upright life, and gallant End.
Nomen & arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi
Conspicere,—
Upon a Cloke lent him by Mr. I. Ridsley.
HEre, take again thy
Sack-cloth! and thank heav'n
Thy Courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not Even
Whether wee dye by peecemeale, or at once
Since both but ruine, why then for the nonce
Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o're
Me this forc'd
Hurdle to inflame the score?
Had I neer
London in this
Rug been seen
Without doubt I had executed been
For some bold
Irish spy, and crosse a sledge
Had layn mess'd up for their
soure gates and
bridge.
When first I bore it, my oppressed feer.
Would needs perswade me, 'twas some
leaden sheet;
Such deep Impressions, and such dangerous holes
Were made, that I began to doubt my soals,
And ev'ry step (so neer necessity)
Devoutly wish'd some honest Cobler by,
Besides it was so short, the
Iewish rag
Seem'd Circumcis'd, but had a
Gentile shag.
Hadst thou been with me on that day, when wee
Left craggie
Biston, and the fatall
Dee,
When beaten with fresh storms, and late mishap
It shar'd the office of a
Cloke, and
Cap,
To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood
Like a thick
Turband, or some Lawyers
Hood,
While the stiffe, hollow pletes 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 professe
Some
Sarazin had lost the
Clowted Dresse.
Didst ever see the
good wife (as they say)
March in her short cloke on the
Christning day,
[Page 17]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 goutie Judge.
But this was Civill. I have since known mo
[...]e
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 lye
Pure
Adami
[...]e, and simply for that end
Resolv'd, and made this for my bosome-
friend.
O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I
Might teach thee new
Micro-cosmo graphie!
Thou wouldst have ta'ne me, as I naked stood,
For one of th'
seven pillars before the sloud,
Such
Characters and
Hierogliphicks were
In one night wo
[...]n, that thou mightst justly swear
I'd slept in
Cere-cloth, or at
Bedlam where
The mad men lodge in straw, I'le not forbear
To tell thee all, his wild
Impress and
tricks
Like
Speeds old
Britans made me look, or
Pitts;
His villanous, biting,
Wire-embraces
Had seal'd in me more strange formes and faces
Than
Children see in dreams, or thou hast read
In
Arras, Puppet-playes, and
Ginger-bread,
With
angled Schemes, and
Crosses that bred fear
Of being handled by some
Conjurer,
And neerer 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
Herball, or
Anatomie.
But (thanks to th'day!) 'tis off. I'd now advise
Thee friend to put this peece to Merchandize;
The
Pedlars of our age have business yet,
And gladly would against the
Fayr-day fit
Themselves with such a
Roofe, that can secure
Their
Wares from
Dogs and Cats rain'd in
[...]owre,
[Page 18]It shall performe; or if this will not doe
'Twill take the
Ale-wives sure; 'Twill make them
two
Fine Roomes of
One, and spread upon a stick
Is a partition without Lime or Brick.
Horn'd obstinacie! how my heart doth fret
To think what
Mouthes and
Elbowes it would set
In a wet day? have you for two pence e're
Seen King
Harryes Chappell at
Westminster,
Where in their dustie gowns of
Brasse and
Stone
The Judges lye, and markt you how each one
In sturdie Marble-plets about the knee
Bears up to shew his legs and symmetrie?
Iust so would this; That I think't weav'd upon
Some stiffneckt
Brownists exercising loome.
O that thou hadst it when this Jugling fate
Of Souldierie 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 h
[...]tt?
I doe not doubt but (if the weight could please,)
'Twould guard me better than a
Lapland-lease,
Or a
German shirt with Inchanted lint
Stuft'd through, and th'devils
beard and
face weav'd in't.
But I have done. And think not, friend, that I
This freedome took to Jeere thy Courtesie,
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 out-live thy
Cloke, and
Vs.
Upon Mr. Fletchers Playes, published, 1647.
I Knew thee not, not durst
attendance strive
Labell to
wit, Verser remonstrative,
And in some
Suburb-page (scandal to thine)
Like
Lent before a
Christmasse scatter mine,
[Page 19]This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate
Such
remnants from thy
piece Intreat their date;
Nor can I
dub the
Coppy, or afford
Titles to
swell the
reare of
Verse with Lord,
Nor politickly big to
Inch low fame
Stretch in the
glories of a strangers name,
And Clip those
Bayes I Court, weak
striver I,
But a faint
Echo unto
Poetrie.
I have not
Clothes t'adopt me, not must sit
For
Plush and
Velvets sake
Esquire of wit,
Yet
Modestie these
Crosses would improve,
And
Rags neer thee, some
Reverencemay move.
I did believe (great
Beaumont being dead,)
Thy
Widow'd Muse slept on his
flowrie bed;
But I am
richly Cosen'd, and can see
Wit
transmigrates, his
Spirit stayd with thee,
Which
doubly advantag'd by thy
single pen
In
life and
death now treads the
Stage agen;
And thus are wee freed from that
dearth of wit
Which
starv'd the Land since into
Schismes split,
Wherein th'hast done so much, wee must needs guesse
Wits last
Edition is now i'th
Presse,
For thou hast
drain'd Invention, and he
That writes hereafter, doth but
pillage thee.
But thou hast
plotts; and will not the
Kirk strain
At the
Designe of such a
Tragick brain?
Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see
Thy most
abominable policie?
Will not the
Eares assemble, and think't fit
Their
Synod fast, and
pray, against thy wit?
But they'le not
lyre in such an
idle Quest,
Thou doest but
kill, and
Circumvent in
Iest,
And when thy anger'd Muse
swells to a blow
'Tis but for
Field's, or
Swansteed's overthrow.
Yet shall these
Conquests of thy
Bayes outlive
Their
Scotish zeale, and
Compacts made to grieve
The
Peace of
Spirits, and when such deeds fayle
Of their foule Ends, a
faire name is thy
Bayle.
Teem'd with even in thy time, though
seeming faire;
Thy gentle
Soule meant for the
shade, and
ease
Withdrew betimes into the
Land of
Peace;
So
neasted in some Hospitable shore
The
Hermit-angler, when the
mid-Seas roare
Packs up his
lines, and (ere the tempest
raves,
Retyres, and leaves his
station to the
waves.
Thus thou diedst almost with our
peace, and wee
This
breathing time thy last fair
Issue see,
Which I think such (if
needless Ink not soyle
So
Choice a Muse,) others are but thy
foile;
This, or that
age may write, but never see
A
Wit that dares run
Paralell 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 Playes 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
Iudge, who sit
Their
twelve pence out, to
clap their
hands at
wit;
I fear to
Sinne thus
neer thee; for (
great Saint!)
'Tis known,
true beauty hath no need of
paint.
Yet, since a
Labell fixt to thy fair
Hearse
Is all the
Mode, and
tears put into
Verse
Can teach
Posterity our present
griefe
And their own
losse, but never give
reliefe;
I'le tell them (and a
truth which needs no
passe,)
That
wit in
Cartwright at her
Zenith was,
Arts, Fancy, Language, all
Conven'd in thee,
With those
grand Miracles which
deifie
Because they
force these worst times to
admire.
Thy matchless
Genius, in all thou didst write,
Like the
Sun, wrought with such
stayd beat, and
light,
That not a
line (to the most
Critick he)
Offends with
flashes, or
obscuritie.
When thou the
wild of
humours trackst, thy
pen
So Imitates that
Motley slock in men,
As if thou hadst in all their
bosomes been,
And seen those
Leopards that lurk within.
The am'rous
Youth steals from thy
Courtly page
His
vow'd Addresse, the
Souldier 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 dye,
Turn all his
Mourners, and melt at the
Eye.
Thus, thou thy
thoughts hast
drest in such a
strain
As doth not only
speak, but
rule and
raign,
Nor are those
bodyes they assum'd,
dark Clouds,
Or a
thick bark, but
clear, transparent shrouds,
Which who
lookes on, the
Rayes so strongly beat
They'l
brushe and
warm him with a
quickning heat,
So
Souls shine at the
Eyes, and
Pearls display
Through the
loose-Chrystal-streams a glaunce of day.
But what's all this unto a
Royall Test?
Thou art the
Man, whom great
Charles so exprest!
Then let the
Crowd refrain their
needless humme,
When
Thunder speaks, then
Squibs and
Winds are
dumb.
[...]
[...]
[...]
[...]
To the best, and most accomplish'd Couple—
BLessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads
As the mild heav'n on
Roses sheds,
When at their Cheeks (like Pearls) they weare
The Clouds that court them in a teare,
And may they be fed from above
By him which first ordain'd your love!
Fresh as the
houres may all your pleasures be,
And healthfull as
Eternitie!
Sweet as the flowres
first breath, and Close
As th'
unseen spreadings of the Rose,
When he unfolds his Curtain'd head,
And makes his bosome the
Suns bed.
Soft as
your selves run your whole lifes, and cleare
As your own
glasse, or
what shines there;
Smooth as heav'ns
face, and bright as he
When without
Mask, or
Tiffanie,
In all your time not one
Iarre meet
But peace as silent as his
seet.
Like the dayes
Warmth may all your Comforts be,
Untoil'd for, and
Serene as he,
Yet free and full as is that
sheafe
Of Sun-beams gilding ev'ry leafe,
When now the
tyrant-heat expires
And his Cool'd locks breath milder fires.
And as those
parcell'd glories he doth shed
Are the
faire Issues of his head,
Which ne'r so distant are soon known
By th'
heat and
lustre for his own,
So may each branch of yours wee see
Your
Coppyes, and our
Wonders be!
And when no more on Earth you must remain
Invited hence to heav'n again,
Then may your vertuous, virgin-flames
Shine in those
Heires of your fair names,
And teach the world that mysterie
Your selves in your Posteritie!
So you to both worlds shall
rich presents bring,
And
gather'd up to heav'n, leave here a
Spring.
An Elegie on the death of Mr. R. Hall, slain at Pontefract, 1684.
I Knew it would be thus! and my Just fears
Of thy great spirit are Improv'd to tears.
Yet slow these not from any base distrust
Of a fair name, or that thy honour must
Confin'd to those cold reliques sadly sit
In the same Cell an obscure Anchorite.
Such low distempers
Murther, they that must
Abuse thee so,
weep not, but
wound thy dust.
But I past such dimme Mourners can descrie
Thy same above all Clouds of obloquie,
And like the Sun with his victorious rayes
Charge through that darkness to the last of dayes.
'Tis true, fair
Manhood hath a
female Eye,
And tears are beauteous in a Victorie,
Not are wee so high-proofe, but griefe will find
Through all our guards a way to wound the mind;
But in thy fall what addes the brackish summe
More than a blott unto thy
Martyrdome,
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 lofle, or wert thou to be brought
[Page 24]Back here by tears, I would in any wise
Pay down the summe, or quite Consume my Eyes.
Thou fel
[...]'st our double ruine, and this rent
Forc
[...]d in thy life shak'd both the
Church and tent,
Learning in others steales them from the
Van,
And basely wise
Emasculates the man.
But lodged in thy brave soul the
book
[...]sh seat
Serve'd only as the light unto thy
heat;
Thus when some quitted action, to their shame,
And only got a
discreet towards name,
Thou with thy bloud mad'st purchase of renown,
And diedst the glory of the
Sword and
Gown
Thy bloud hath hallow'd
Pomfret, and this blow
(Prophan'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 coopt within a wall)
In stormes of
fire and
steele fell on them all.
Thou went no
wool-sack souldier, nor of those
Whose Courage lies in
winking at their foes,
That live at
loop-holes, and consume their breath
On
Match or
Pipes, and sometimes
peepe at death;
No it were sinne to number these with thee,
But that (thus poiz'd) our losse wee better see.
The fair and open valour was thy
shield,
And thy known station, the
defying suld.
Yet these in thee I would not
Voturs 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 is oppos'd unto these lesser lights
All we can say, is this,
They were fair nights.
Thy
Paty and
Leamme did unite,
And though with
Severall beames made up
one light,
And such thy Judgement was, that I dare swear
Whole
Counsels might as soon, and
Synods erre.
But all these now are out! and as some
Star
Hurl'd in Diurnall motions from far,
[Page 25]And seen to droop at night, is vainly sed
To fall, and find an
Occidentall bed,
Though in that other world what wee Judge
west
Proves
Elevation, and a new, fresh
East.
So though our weaker sense den'es us sight
And bodies cannot trace the
Spirits flight,
Wee know those graces to be still in thee,
But wing'd above us to eternitie.
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 glasse
Let thy scant
shadow for
Perfections passe,
But leave thee to be read more high, more queint,
In thy own bloud a
Souldier and a
Saint.
— Salve aetcrnum mihi maxime Palls!
AEteraumg; vale! —
To my learned friend, Mr. T. Powell, upon His Translation of Malvezzi's Christian Politician.
WEe thank you, worthy Sir, that now we see
Malvezzi languag'd like our Infancie,
And can without suspition entertain
This forraign States-man to our brest 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
corse)
Outlandish plants thrive in our thankless soile,
And wise men after death, by a strange fate,
Lye
Leiguer here, and beg to serve our
State.
Italy now, though
Mistris of the
Bayes,
Waits on this
wreath, proud of a forraign praise,
[Page 26]For, wise
Malvezzi, thou didst lye before
Confin'd within the language of one shore,
And like those
Stars which neer the
Poles doe steer
Wer't but in one part of the
Globe seen cleer,
Provence and
Nap'es were the best and most
Thou couldst thine in, fixt 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 lye
E'r thou shouldst have new cloathes eternally,
For though so neer the
seav'n hills, ne'rthelesse
Thou cam'st to
Antwerp for thy
Roman dresse:
But now then art come hither, thou mayst run
Through any Clime as well known as the
Sun,
And in thy
sev'rall 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 stare
Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,
Ioynt in advice, in resolutions just,
Mild in successe, true to the Common trust.
It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand
Allayes the heat and burnings of a land,
Religion guides it, and in all the Tract
Designes so twist, that heav'n confirms the act;
If from these lists you wander as you steere,
Look back, and
Caltchile your actions here,
These are the
Marks to which true States-men 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 Countries wooddy brow?
The yeelding branch his load scarse bears
Opprest with snow, and
frozen tears,
While the
dumb rivers slowly float,
All bound up in an
Icie Coat.
Let us meet then! and while this world
In wild
Excentricks now is hurld,
Keep wee, like nature, the same
Key,
And walk in our forefathers way;
Why any more cast wee an Eye
On what
may come, not what is
nigh?
Why vex our selves with
feare, or
hope
And cares beyond our
Horoscope?
Who into future times would peere
Looks ost beyond his terme set here,
And cannot goe into those grounds
But through a
Church-yard which them bounds;
Sorrows and sighes and searches spend
And draw our bottome to an end,
But discreet Joyes lengthen the lease
Without which life were a disease,
And who this age a Mourner goes,
Doth with his tears but seed his foes.
To the most Excellently accomplish'd, Mrs K. Philips.
SAy wittie fair one, from what Sphere
Flow these rich numbers you shed here?
For sure such
Incantations come
From thence, which strike your Readers dumbe,
A strain, whose measures gently meet
Like
Virgin-lovers, or times
feet,
Where language
Smiles, and accents rise
As quick, and pleasing as your
Eyes,
The
Poem smooth, and in each line
Soft as
your selfe, yet
Masculine;
Where not Coorse trifles blot the page
With matter borrow'd from the age,
But thoughts as Innocent, and high
As
Angels have, or
Saints that dye.
These Raptures when I first did see
New miracles in Poetrie,
And by a hand, the
[...]r good would misse
His
Bayes and
Fountaines but to kisse,
My weaker
Genius (cr
[...]ss
[...] to fashion)
Slept in a silent admiration,
A Rescue, by whole grace disguise
Pretenders oft have past 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 Votarie, and say
It was your light shew'd me the way.
So
Lodestones guide the duller
Steele,
And high perfections are the
Wheele
[Page 29]Which moves the lesse, for gifts divine
Are strung upon a
Vi
[...]al line
Which touch
[...]d by you, Excites in all
Affectio
[...]s
Epidemicall.
And this made me (a truth most fit)
Adde my weak
Eccho to your wit,
Which pardon, Lady, for Assayes
Obscure as these might blast your Bayes,
As Common hands soyle
Flowres, and make
That dew they wear,
weepe the mistake.
But I'le wash off the
staine, and vow
No
Lawrel growes, but for your
Brow.
An Epitaph upon the Lady Elizabeth, Second Daughter to his late Majestie.
YOuth, Beauty, Vertue, Innocence
Heav'ns royall, and select Expence,
With Virgin-tears, and sighs divine,
Sit here the
Genii of this shrine,
Where now (thy fair soule wing'd away,)
They guard the
Casket where she lay.
Thou hadst, e'r thou the light couldst see,
Sorrowes layd up, and stor'd for thee,
Thou suck'dst in woes, and the
brests lent
Their
Milk to thee, but to lament;
Thy portion here was
griefe, thy years
Distilld no other rain, but tears,
Tears without noise, but (understood)
As lowd, and shrill as any bloud;
Thou seem'st a
Rose bud born in
Snow,
A flowre of purpose sprung to bow
To headless tempests, and the rage
Of an Incensed, stormie Age,
[Page 30]Others, e're their afflictions grow,
Are tim'd, and season'd for the blow,
But thine, as
Rhumes the tend'rest part,
Fell on a
young and
harmless heart.
And yet as
Balm-trees gently spend
Their tears for those, that doe them rend,
So mild and pious thou wert seen,
Though full of
Suffrings, free from
spleen,
Thou didst nor murmure, nor revile,
But d
[...]ank'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 Influxe, but Calamitie,
They view'd thee with
Ecclypsed rayes,
And but the
back-side of bright dayes.
These were the Comforts she had here,
As by an unseen hand 'tis cleer,
Which now she reads, and smiling wears
A Crown with him, who wipes off tears.
To Sir William D' avenant, upon his Gondibert.
WEll, wee are rescued land by thy rare Pen
Poets shall live, when
Princes dye like men.
Th'hast cleer'd the prospect to our harmless
Hill,
Of late years clouded with imputed Ill,
And thy
Soft, youthfull couples there may move
As chast as
Stars converse and smile above.
Th'hast taught their
Language, and their
love to flow
Calme as
Rose-leafes, and coole as
Virgin-snow,
Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd
They both
delight, and
dignifie the mind,
[Page 31]Like to the watrie Musick of some Spring,
Whose pleasant flowings at once
wash and
sing.
And where before
Heroick Poems were
Made up of
Spirits, Prodigies, and
fear,
And shew'd (through all the
Me
[...]ancholy flight,)
Like some dark Region overcast with night,
As if the Poet had been quite dismay'd,
While only
Giants and
Inchantments 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 wee
Those fam'd
Grandeza's find out-done by thee,
And under-foot see all those
Vizards hurl'd,
Which bred the wonder of the former world.
'I was dull to sit, as our fore-fathers did,
At
Crums and
Voyders, 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 shewes his
fancy darker than his sight.
Nor was't alone the
bars and
length of dayes
(Though those gave
strength and
starwe to his
bayes,)
Encounter'd thee, but what's an old Complaint
And kills the fancy, a
forlorn Restraint;
How couldst thou mur'd in solitarie stones
Dresse
BIRTH A'S simi'es, though well thou might'st her
grones?
And, strangely Eloquent, thy self divide
'Twixt
Sad misfortunes, and a
Bloomie 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
mirrour, matchless
Gondibert,
And in
bright Birtha leave thy
love Inshrin'd
Fresh as her
Emrauld, and
fair as her
mind,
While all Confesse thee (as they ought to doe)
The Prince of
Poets, and of
Lovers too.
Tristium Lib. 5 o. Eleg. 3 a. To his fellow-Poets at Rome, upon the birth-day of Bacchus.
THis is the day (blith god of
Sack) which wee
If I mistake not, Consecrate to thee,
When the soft
Rose wee marry to the
Bayes,
And warm'd with thy own wine reherse 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
Bears frozen seat,
Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike
Gere.
My former life, unlike to this my last,
With
Romes best wits of thy full Cup did tast,
Who since have seen the savage
Pontick 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 fatall Planet shin'd,
Of right thou shouldst the
Sisters knots undoe,
And tree thy
Votarie and
Poet too.
Or are you God (like us) in such a slate
As cannot alter the decrees of fate
I know with much adoe thou didst obtain
Thy
Iovial godhead, and on earth thy pain
Was no whit lesse, so wandring thou didst run
To the
Getes too, and Snow-weeping
Strymon,
With
Persia, Ganges, and what ever streams
The thirsly
Moon drinks in the mid-day beames.
But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee
(To make all sure) doubled thy miserie,
My suffrings too are many: if it be
Held safe for me to boast adversitie,
Nor was't a Common blow, but from above
Like his, that died for Imitating
Iove,
Which when thou heardst, a ruine so divine
And
Mother-like, should make thee pitty mine.
[Page 33]And on this day, which
Poets unto thee
Crown with full bowles, ask,
what's become of me?
Help bucksome 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
Orgyes be
With priest lowd showtes, and
Satyrs kept to thee!
So may in death
Lycurgus ne'r be blest,
Nor
Pentheus wandring ghost find any rest!
And so for ever bright (thy Chiefe desires,)
May thy
wifes crown out shine the lesser fires!
It but now, mindfull of my love to thee,
Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.
You
Gods have Commerce with your selves, try then
If
Caesar will restore me
Rome agen.
And you my trusty friends (the Jollie Crew
Of careless
Poets!) when, without me, you
Perform this dayes glad Myst'ries, let it be
Your first Appeal unto his Deitie,
And let one of you (touch'd with my sad name)
Mixing his wine tears, lay down the same,
And (sighing) to the rest this thought Commend,
O! There is
Ovid now our banish'd friend?
This doe, if in your brests I e'r deserv'd
So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd,
Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow
Condemning others, did my selfe allow.
And may your happier wits grow lowd with fame
As you (my best of friends!) preserve my name.
De Ponto, Lib.3 o. To his friends (after his many sollicitations) refusing to petition Caesar for his releasement.
YOu have Consum'd my language, and my pen
Incens'd with begging scorns to write agen.
[Page 34]You grant, you knew my sute: My Muse, and I
Had taught it you in frequent Elegie,
That I believe (yet seal'd) you have divin'd
Our
Repetitions, and
forestal'd my mind,
So that my thronging Elegies, and I
Have made you (more then
Poets) prophesie.
But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream
VVhich made me Crosse 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're
How I endanger you, and vex my
s
[...]ife
VVith the sad legends of a banish'd life.
I'le bear these plagues my selfe: for I have past
Through greater ones, and can as well at last
These pettie Crosses. 'Tis for some young beast
To kick his bands, or with his neck releast
From the sad Yoke. Know then, That as for me
VVhom Fate hath us'd to such calamitie,
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 snowie brow
Of Cloudie
Amles, and if she decree
Her sportive pilgrims
List bed here must be
I am content; nay more, she cannot doe
That Act which I would not consent unto.
I can delight in vain hopes, and desire
That state more then her
Change and
Smiles, then high't
I hugge a strong
despaire, 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'tree
VVaters, without th'Expence of armes or breath
Hath still the easiest, and the quickest death.
VVhy nurse I sorrows then? why these desires
Of Changing
Scythia for the
Sun and
fires
[Page 35]Of some calm kinder aire? what did bewitch
My frantick hopes to flye so vain a pitch,
And thus out-run my self? Mad-man! could I
Suspect fate had for me a Courtesie?
These errours grieve: And now I must forget
Those pleas'd
idoea's I did frame and set
Unto my selfe, with many fancyed
Springs
And
Groves, whose only losse new sorrow brings.
And yet I would the worst of fate endure,
E're you should be repuls'd, or lesse secure,
But (base, low soules!) you left me not for this,
But 'cause you durst not.
Caesar could not misse
Of such a trifle, for I know that he
Scorns the
Cheap triumphs of my miserie.
Then since (degen'rate friends) not he, but you
Cancell my hopes, and make afflictions new,
You shall Confesse, and same shall tell you, I
At
Isler dare as well as
Tyber dye.
De Ponto, lib. 4 o. Eleg. 3 a. To his Inconstant friend, translated for the use of all the Iudases of this touch-stone-Age.
SHall I complain, or not? Or shall I mask
Thy hatefull 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 posteritie?
No, hope is 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 stormes dispute
And tem'prate winds
fed with a calme salute
[Page 36]My prosp'rous failes, thou were the only man
That with me then an equall fortune ran,
But now since angry heav'n with Clouds and night
Stifled those
Sun-beams, thou hast ta'ne thy flight,
Thou knows't I want thee, and art meerly gone
To shun that rescue, I rely'd upon;
Nay, thou dissemblest too, and doest disclame
Not only my
Acquaintance, but my name;
Yet know (though deale to this) that I am he
Whose
years and
love had the same
infancie
With thine, Thy
deep familiar, that did share
Soules with thee, and partake thy
Ioyes or
Care,
Whom the same
Roose lodg'd, and my
Muse those nights
So solemnly endear'd to her delights;
But now, perfidious traitour, I am grown
The
Abject of thy brest, not to be known
In that
false Closes 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 agen,
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
My selfe and actions, that I cannot see
What could offend thee, but my miserie.
'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 Jeare;
Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back
I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.
Knows't not that
Fortune on a
Globe doth stand,
Whose
upper slipprie part without command
Turns
lowest still? the sportive leafes and wind
Are but dull
Emblems of her fickle mind.
[Page 37]In the whole world there's nothing I can see
Will throughly parallel her wayes, but thee.
All that we hold, hangs on a slender twine
And our best states by sudden chance decline;
Who hath not heard of
Croesus proverb'd gold
Yet knowes his foe did him pris'ner hold?
He that once aw'd
Sicilia's proud Extent
By a poor art could famine scarse prevent;
And mighty
Pompey e'r he made an end
Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend;
Nay, he that had so oft
Romes Consull bin,
And forc'd
Iugurtha, 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 swayes all mankind, and wee
Of one short houre have not the certaintie;
Hadst thou one day told me, the time should be
When the
Getes bowes, and th'
Euxine I should see,
I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought
Th' hadst need of all
Anticira in a draught;
And yet 'tis come to passe! nor though I might
Some things foresee, could I procure a sight
Of my whole destinie, and free my state
From those eternall, higher
tyes of fate.
Leave then thy pride, and though now
brave and
high,
Think thou mayst be as
poore and
low as
I.
Tristium Lib. 3 o. Eleg. 3 a. To his Wife at Rome, when he was sick.
DEarest! if you those fair Eyes (wondring) stick
On this strange Character, know,
I am sick.
Sick in the
skirts of the lost world, where I
Breath hopeless of all Comforts, but to dye.
[Page 38]What heart (think'st thou) have I in this sad seat
Tormented 'twixt the
Samomate and
Gete?
Nor
aire nor
water please: their very
skie
Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my Eye,
I scarse dare breath it, and I know not how
The Earth that bears me shewes 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 lye and (thus) what e're
Is absent, and at
Rome I fancy here,
But when then c
[...]m'st, I blot the
Anie Scrowle,
And give thee full possession of my soule,
Thee (absent) I embrace, thee only
voice,
And night and day
holy a Husbands Joyes;
Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
That I am thought distracted for thy sake;
When my tir'd Spirits faile, and my sick heart
Drawes 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 doest breath all peace and rest.
Which yet I think not, for (
Deare Soule!) too well
Know I thy griefe, since my first woes befell.
But if strict heav'n my stock of dayes hath spun
And with my life my errour wilbe gone,
How easie then (
O Caesar!) wer't for thee
To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
That I might yeeld my native aire this breath,
And banish not my ashes after death;
Would thou hadst either spar'd me untill dead,
Or with my bloud redeem'd my absent head,
Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
Wouldst have me live to dye an
Exile now.
And must I then from
Rome so far meet death,
And double by the place my losse of breath?
[Page 39]Nor in my last of houres on my own bed
(In the sad Conflict) rest my dying head?
Nor my soules
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 teare) seal up my vanquish'd Eyes,
Without these
Rites I dye, distrest in all
The
splendid sorrowes of a Funerall,
Unpittied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
In a strange Land goes friendless to the dead.
When thou hear'st this, O how thy faithfull soule
Will sink, whilst griefe doth ev'ry part controule!
How often wilt thou look this way, and Crie,
O where is't yonder that my love doth lye!
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not now for me,
Long since (
dear heart!) have I been dead to thee,
Thank then I dyed, when
Thee and
Rome I lost
That death to me more griefe then this hath Cost;
Now, if thou canst (but thou canst not)
best wise
Rejoyce, my Cares are ended with my life,
At least, yeeld not to sorrowes, frequent use
Should make these miseries to thee no newes.
And here I wish my Soul died with my breath
And that no part of me were free from death,
For, if it be Immortall, and outlives
The body, as
Phythagoras believes,
Betwixt these
Sarmates ghosts, a
Roman I
Shall wander, vext to all Eternitie.
But thou (for after death I shall be free,)
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me,
A few
Flowres give them, with some
Balme, and lay
Them in some
Suburb grave hard by the way,
And to Informe posterity, who's there,
This sad Inscription let my marble weare,
Here lyes the loft-soul'd Lecturer of Love,
Whose envy'd wit did his own ruine prove.
But thou, (who e'r thou beest, that passing by
Lendst to this
sudden stone a
bastie Eye,
[Page 40]If e'r thou knew'st of
Love the sweet disease,
Grudge not to say,
May Ovid
rest in peace!
This for my tombe: but in my books they'l see
More strong and lasting Monuments of mee,
Which I believe (though fatall) will afford
An Endless name unto their ruin'd Lord.
And now thus gone, It rests for love of me
Thou shewst some sorrow to my memory;
Thy Funerall offrings to my ashes beare
With Wreathes of
Cypresse bath'd in many a teare,
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
Yet shall that
Dust perceive thy pious pain.
But I have done, and my tyr'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,
Fare-well.
Ausonii Cupido, Edyl. 6.
IN those blest fields of
Everlasting aire
(Where to a
Myrtle-grove the soules repaire
Of deceas'd
Lovers,) the sad, thoughtfull ghosts
Of
Injur'd Ladyes meet where each accosts
The other with a sigh, whose very breath
Would break a heart, and (
kind Soules!) love in death,
A thick wood clouds their
walks where day scarce peeps,
And on each hand Cypresse and Poppey
sleepes,
The drowsie Rivers
slumber, and
Springs there
Blab not, but softly melt into a teare,
A sickly dull aire
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 flowres, whose bosomes wear
Drops of a
Lever's bloud, 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
Hath sorrow languag'd on him to this houre;
All sad with love they hang their heads, and grieve
As if their passions in each lease did
live;
And here (
alas!) these soft-soul'd Ladies stray,
And (oh! too late !) treason in love betray.
Her blasted birth sad
Semile repeats,
And with her
tears would quench the thund'rers
heats,
Then shakes her bosome, as if fir'd again,
And fears another lightnings
slaming train.
The lovely
Pocris (here) bleeds, sighes, and swounds,
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
Boateman desp'rate
Sapho still admires,
And nothing but the
Sea can quench her
fires.
Distracted
Phoedïa with a restless Eye
Her disdain'd Letters reads, then casts them by.
Rare, faithfull
Thysbe (sequestred from these)
A silent, unseen sorrow doth best please,
For her
Loves sake, and last
good-night, poor she
Walks in the shadow of a
Mulberrie.
Neer her young
Canace with
Dido sits
A lovely Couple, but of desp'rate wits,
Both dy'd alike, both pierc'd their tender brests,
This with her
Fathers Sword, that with their
Guests.
Within the thickest
textures of the Grove
Diana in her
Silver-beams doth rove,
Her Crown of stars the
pi
[...]chi
[...] aire Invades,
And with a faint light
gilds the silent shades,
Whilst her sad thoughts fixt on her
sleepie I ever
To
Latmos-hill, and his retirements move her.
A thousand more through the wide, darksome wood
Feast on their cares, the
Maudlin-Lovers food,
For
griefe and
absence doe but
Edge desire,
And Death is
fuell to a Lovers
fire.
To see these
Trophies of his wanton bow
Cupid comes in, and all in triumph now
[Page 42](Rash, unadvised Boy!) disperseth round
The sleepie Mists, his
Wings and
quiver wound
With noise the quiet aire. This sudden stirre
Betrayes his
godship, and as we from far
A clouded, sickly
Moon observe, so they
Through the
false Mists his
Ecclyps'd torch betray.
A hot pursute thy make, and though with care,
And a slow wing he softly
stems the aire,
Yet they (as subtill now as he) surround
His silenc'd course, and with the thick night bound
Surprize the
Wag. As in a dream we strive
To voyce our thoughts, & vainly would revive
Our Entraunc'd tongues, but can not speech enlarge
'Till the Soule 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 growes, well known to all the ghosts.
Whose stretch'd top (like a
great man rais'd by Fate)
Looks big, and scorns his neighbours low estate;
His
leavy arms into a
green Cloud twist.
And on each Branch doth
sit a lazie mist.
A fatall tree, and luckless to the god,
Where for
disdain in life (loves
worst of
Ods)
The
Queen of shades, fair
Proserpine did rack
The sad
Adonis, hithet now they pack
This little
God, where, first disarm'd, they
bind
His
skittish wings, then both his hands behind
His back they tye, and thus secur'd at last
The
peevish wanton to the tree make fast.
Here at adventure without
Iudge of Jurie
He is condemn'd, while with united furie
They all assaile him; As a thiefe at Bar
Lest 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 rob'd that year,
So now what ever
Fate, or their own
will
Scor'd up in life,
Cupid must pay the bill.
[Page 43]Their
Servants falshood, Jealousie, disdain,
And all the plagues that
abus'd Maids can feign,
Are layd on him, and then to heighten spleen
Their own deaths crown the summe. Prest thus between
His faire accusers, 'tis at last decreed,
He by those weapons, that they died, should bleed.
One grasps an
airie Sword, a second holds
Illusive
fire and in
vain, wanton folds
Belyes a flame; Others lesse kind appear
To let him bloud, and from the purple tear
Create a
Rose. But
Sapho all this while
Harvests the aire, and from a thicken'd pile
Of Clouds like
Leucas top, spreads underneath
A
Sea of Mists, the peacefull billowes breath
Without all noise, yet so exactly move
They seem to
Chide, but distant from above
Reach not the eare, and (thus prepar'd) at once
She doth o'rwhelm him with the
airie Sconce.
Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they
Venus steps in, and without thought, or stay
Invades her
Son; her old disgrace is cost
Into the
Bill, when
Mars and
Shee made
fast
In their Embraces were expos'd to all
The
Scene of gods stark naked in their
fall.
Nor serves a
verball penance, but with hast
From her fair brow (O happy flowres so plac'd!)
She tears a
Rosie garland, and with this
Whips the
untoward Boy, they gently kisse
His
snowie skin, but she with angry hast
Doubles her strength, untill bedew'd at last
With a thin bloudie sweat, their
Innate Red,
(As if griev'd with the Act) grew pale and dead.
This
layd their spleen: And now (
kind soules!) no more
They'l punish him, the torture that he bore,
Seems greater then his crime; with joynt Consent
Fate is made guilty, and
he Innocent.
As in a dream with dangers we contest.
And
fictious pains seem to afflict our rest,
[Page 44]So frighted only in these shades of night
Cupid (got loose) stole to the upper light,
Where ever since (for malice unto these)
The
spitefull Ape doth either
Sex displease.
But O that had these
Ladyes been so wise
To keep his
Arms, and give him but his
Eyes!
Boet. Lib. 1. Metrum 1.
I Whose first year flourish'd with youthfull verse,
In slow, sad numbers now my griefe reherse;
A broken stile my sickly lines afford,
And only tears give weight unto my words;
Yet neither fate nor force my Muse cou'd fright
The only faithfull Consort of my flight;
Thus what was once my green years greatest glorie,
Is now my Comfort, grown decay'd and hoarie,
For killing Cares th'Effects of age spurr'd on
That griefe might find a fitting Mansion;
O'r my young head runs an untimely gray,
And my loose skin shrinks at my blouds decay.
Happy the man whose death in prosp'rous years
Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears.
But O how deale is she to hear the Crie
Of th' opprest S
[...]ule, or shut the weeping Eye!
While treacherous Fortune with slight honours fed
My first estate, she almost drown'd my head,
But now since (clouded thus) she hides those rayes,
Life adds unwelcom'd length unto my dayes;
Why then, my friends, Judg'd you my state so good?
He that may fall once, never firmly stood.
Metrum 2.
O In what haste with Clouds and Night
Ecclyps'd, and having lost her light,
The dull Soule whom distraction rends
Into outward Darkness tends!
How often (by these mists made blind,)
Have earthly cares opprest the mind!
This Soule sometimes wont to survey
The spangled
Zodiacks sine way
Saw th'early Sun in Roses drest
With the Coole Moons unstable Crest,
And whatsoever wanton Star
In various Courses neer or far
Pierc'd through the orbs, he cou'd 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 Seas quiet face
With Impetuous waves is Curld,
What spirit wheeles th'harmonious world,
Or why a Star dropt in the
West
Is seen to rise again by
East,
Who gives the warm Spring temp'rate houres
Decking the Earth with spicie flowres,
Or how it Comes (for mans recruit)
That Autumne yeelds both Grape and fruit,
With many other Secrets, he
Could shew the Cause and Mysterie,
But now that light is almost out,
And the brave Soule lyes Chain'd about
With outward Cares, whose pensive weight
Sinks down her Eyes from their first height,
And clean Contrary to her birth
Poares on this vile and foolish Earth.
Metrum 4.
WHose calme soule in a settled state
Kicks under foot the frowns of Fate,
And in his fortunes bad or good
Keeps the same temper in his bloud,
Not him the slaming Clouds above,
Nor
Alita's fierie tempests move,
No fretting seas from shore to shore
Boyling with Indignation o're
Nor burning thunderbolt that can
A mountain shake, can st
[...]rre this man.
Dull Cowards then! why should we start
To see
[...]hese tyrants act their part?
Nor hope, no fear what may befall
And you d
[...]sarm their malice all.
But wh
[...] d
[...]th faintly fea
[...], or wish
And sets no law to what is
[...]s,
Hath lost the buck
[...]er, and (poor Elfe!)
Makes up a Chain to bind himselfe.
Metrum 5.
O Thou great builder of this starrie frame,
Who fixt in thy eternall throne dost tame
The rapid Spheres, and lest they jarre
Hast giv'n a law to ev'ry starre!
Thou art the Cause that new the Moon
With full or be dulls the starres, and soon
Again growes dark, her light being done,
The neerer still she's to the Sun.
Thou in the early hours of night
Mak'st the coole Evening-star shine bright,
And at Sun-rising ('cause the least)
Look pale and sleepie in the East.
[Page 47]Thou, when the leafes in Winter stray,
Appointst the Sun a shorter way,
And in the pleasant Summer-light
With nimble hourses doest 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-starrs between
The furrowes in meer seed have seen
The Dog-star since (grown up and born)
Hath burnt in stately, full-ear'd Corn.
Thus by Creations law controll'd
All things their proper stations hold
Observing (as thou didst intend)
Why they were made, and for what end.
Only humane actions thou
Hast no Care of, but to the flow
And Ebbe of Fortune leav'st them all,
Hence th' Innocent endures that thrall
Due to the wicked, whilst alone
They sit possessours of his throne,
The Just are kill'd, and Vertue lyes
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
Who e'r thou art, that from above
Doest in such order all things move!
And let not man (of divine art
Not the least, nor vilest part)
[Page 48]By Casuall evills thus bandied, be
The sport of fates obliquitie.
But with that faith thou guid'st the heaven,
Settle this Earth, and make them even.
Metrum 6.
WHen the Crabs sierce Constellation
Burns with the beams of the bright Sun,
Then he that will goe out to sowe,
Shall never reap where he did plough,
But in stead of Corn may rather
The old worlds diet, Accorns gather.
Who the Violet doth love
Must seek her in the flowrie grove,
But never when the
Norths cold wind
The
Russet fields with frost doth bind.
If in the Spring-time (to no end)
The tender Vine for Grapes we bend,
Wee shall find none, for only (still)
Autumne doth the Wine-presse fill.
Thus for all things (in the worlds 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
Crosse to nature, and her reason,
VVould by new wayes old orders rend,
Shall never find a happy End.
Metrum 7.
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,
[Page 49]That angrie Element doth boile,
And from the deep with stormy Coile
Spues up the Sands, which in short space
Scatter, and puddle his Curl'd face;
Then those Calme waters, which but now
Stood clear as heavens unclouded brow,
And like transparent glasse did lye
Open to ev'ry searchers Eye,
Look soulely stirr'd, and (though desir'd)
Resist the sight, because bemir'd,
So often from a high hills 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 peece blocks up her way
And fo
[...]ceth all her streams astray.
Then thou that with inlightned Rayes,
Wouldst see the truth, and in her wayes
Keep without
Errour; neither fear
The future, nor too much give ear
To present Joyes; And give no scope
To griefe, nor much to flatt'ring hope.
For when these Rebels raign, the mind
Is both a Pris'ner, and stark blind.
Lib. 2. Metrum 1.
F
Ortune (when with rash hands she quite turmoiles
The state of things, and in tempestuous foiles
Comes whirling like
Eurious,) beats quire down
With head long force the highest Monarchs crown,
And in his place unto the throne doth fetch
The despis'd looks of some mechanick wretch.
So Jests at tears and miseries, is proud,
And laughs to hear her vassals grone aloud.
These are her sports, thus she her wheele doth drive
And plagues man with her blind prerogative;
[Page 50]Nor is't a favour of Inferiour strain,
If once kickt down, she lets him rise again.
Metrum 2.
IF with an open, bounteous hand
(Wholly left at Mans Command)
Fortune should in one rich flow
As many heaps on him beslow
Of massie gold, as there be sands
Tost 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 vowes reguard,
And in a prodigall reward
Return him all he could in plore,
Adding new horours to his store,
Yet all were nothing. Goods in sight
Are scorn'd, and lust in greedy flight
Layes out for more; What measure then
Can tame these wild desires of men?
Since all wee 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 poore.
Metrum 3.
WHen the Sun from his Rosie bed
The dawning light begins to shed,
The drowsie 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,
[Page 51]Thus, when the warm
Etesian wind
The Earth's seald bosome doth unbind,
Straight she her various store discloses,
And purples every Grove with Roses;
But if the Souths 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 blustring North
In angrie heaps provokes them forth.
If then this world, which holds all Nations,
Suffers it selfe such alterations,
That not this mighty, massie frame,
Nor any part of it can Claime
One certain course, why should man prate,
Or Censure the designs of Fate?
Why from fraile honours, and goods lent
Should he expect things permanent?
[...]nce 'tis enacted by divine decree
[...]hat nothing mortall shall eternall be.
Metrum 4.
WHo wisely would sor 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 hils leave on one hand,
And on the other the false sand;
The first to winds lyes plain and even
From all the blustring points of heaven;
The other hollow and unsure,
No weight of building will endure.
A voyding then the envied state
Of buildings bravely situate,
Remember thou thy selfe to lock
Within some low neglected Rock;
[Page 52]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 Expence
Shall lead a life serene and faire,
And scorn the anger of the aire.
Metrum 5.
HAppy that first white age! when wee
Lived by the Earths meere Charitie,
No soft luxurious Diet then
Had Effeminated men,
No other meat, nor wine had any
Then the Course Mast, or simple honey,
And by the Parents care layd up
Cheap
Berries did the Children sup.
No pompous weare was in those dayes
Of gummie Silks, or Ska
[...]let bayes,
Their beds were on some slowrie brink
And clear Spring water was their drink.
The shadie Pine in the Suns heat
Was their Coole and known Retreat,
For then 'twas not cut down, but stood
The youth and glory of the wood.
The daring Sailer with his slaves
Then had not cut the swelling waves,
Nor for desire of forraign store
Seen any but his native shore.
No stirring Drum had scarr'd that age,
Nor the shrill Trumpets active rage,
No wounds by bitter hatred made
With warm bloud soil'd the shining blade;
For how could hostile madness arm
An age of love to publick harm?
When Common Justice none withstood,
Nor sought rewards for spilling bloud.
[Page 53]O that at length our age would raise
Into the temper of those dayes!
But (worst then
AEtna's fires!) debate
And Avarice inflame our state.
Alas! who was it that first found
Gold hid of purpose under ground,
That sought out Pearles, and div'd to find
Such pretious perils for mankind!
Metrum 6.
HE that thirsts for glories prize,
Thinking that the top of all,
Let him view th'Expansed skies,
And the Earths Contracted ball,
'Twill shame him then, the name he wan
Fils not the short
walk of one man.
2.
O why vainly strive you then
To shake off the bands of Fate,
Though same through the world of men
Should in all tongues your names relate,
And with proud titles swell that storie
The Darke grave scorns your brightest glorie.
3.
There with Nobles beggers sway,
And Kings with Commons share one dust,
What newes of
Brutus at this day,
Or
Fabricius the Just,
Some rude
Verse Cut in stone, or led
Keeps up the names, but they are dead.
4.
So shall, you one day (past reprieve)
Lye (perhaps) without a name,
But if dead you think to live
By this aire of humane fame,
Know, when time stops that posthume breath,
You must endure a second death.
Metrum 7.
THat the world in constant
force
Varies her
Concordant course;
That
seeds jarring
hot and
cold
Doe the
breed perpetuall hold;
That in his golden Coach the
Sun
Brings the
Rofic day still on;
That the
Moon swayes all those
lights
Which
Helper ushers to
dark nights;
That
alternate tydes be sound
The Seas
ambitious waves to bound,
Lest o'r 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 raines he once cast by,
All things that now by turns comply,
Would fall to discord, and this frame
Which now by sociall faith they tame,
And comely orders in that fight
And jarre of th
[...]ngs would perish quite.
This in a holy league of peace
Keeps King and People with Increase;
And in the sacred nuptiall bands
Tyes up chast 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 floting Ile!
Casimirus, Lib.4. Ode 28.
ALlmighty
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 wee here discusse
Please thee, as thy
wise Counsels us?
When thou thy
blessings here dost strow,
And poure on
Earth, we flock and flow
With
Ioyous strife, and
eager care
Strugling 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 foyl'd
Break it; Another sees it
spoil'd
E're it is
gotten: Thus the
world
Is all to
peece-meals cut, and hurl'd
By
sactious 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 poore I may
smile, and be
At rest, and
perfect peace with thee.
Casimirus, Lib. 2. Ode 8.
IT would lesse vex
distressed man
If
Fortune in the same
pace ran
To
ruine him, as he did
rise;
But highest
states fall in a trice.
No
great Successe held ever
long:
A restless
fate afflicts the throng
Of
Kings and
Commons, and lesse dayes
Serve to
destroy them, then to
raise.
Makes
Kingdomes in a
minute sad,
And ev'ry
houre of
life wee drive,
H
[...] o're us a
Prerogative.
Then leave (by
wild Impatience driv'n,
And
rash resents,) to rayle at
heav'n,
Leave an
[...]nly, weak complaint
That
De
[...] and
Fate have no restraint.
In the same houre hat gave thee
breath,
Thou hadst ordain'd thy houre of
death,
But
he loves
most, who here will
buy
With a few tears,
Eternitie.
Casimirus, Lib. 3. Ode 22.
LEt not thy
youth and
false delights
Cheat thee of
life; Those
headely flights
But wast thy
time, which posts away
Like
winds unseen, and swift as they.
Beauty is but meer
paint, whose
die
With times
breath will
dissolve and
flye,
'Tis
wax, 'tis
water, 'tis a
glasse
It
melts, breaks, and
away doth
passe.
'Tis like a
Rose which in the
dawne
The
aire with gentle breath doth
sawne
And
whisper too, but in the houres
Of
night is sullied with smart showres.
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, shatting out all
Thoughts of the
world, whose
longing Eyes
Are ever
Pilgrims in the
skyes,
That views his
bright home, and desires
To
slaine amongst those
glorious fores.
Casimirus Lyric. Lib.3. Ode 23.
'TIs not
rich furniture and
gems
With
Cedar-roofes, and ancient
stems,
Nor yet a
plenteous, lasting floud
Of
gold, that makes man
truly good.
Leave to Inquire in what
faire fields
A
River runs which
much gold yeelds,
Vertue 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 neer to
hell.
But
richer much (from
death releast)
Shines in the
fresh groves of the
East
The
Phoenix, or those
fish that dwell
With
silver'd scales in
Hiddekel.
Let others with rare, various
Pearls
Their
garments dresse, and in
forc'd Curls
Bind up their
locks, look
big and
high,
And shine in
robes of
Scarlet-die.
But in my thoughts more
glorious far
Those
native stars, and
speckles are
Which
birds wear, or the
spots which wee
In
Leopards dispersed see.
The harmless
sheep with her warm
sheet
Cloathes
man, but who his
dark heart sees
Shall find a
wolfe or
Fox within
That kills the
Castor for his
skin.
Vertue alone, and nought else can
A diffrence make 'twixt
beast and
man,
And on her
wines above the
Spheres
To the
true light his
spirit bears.
Casimirus, Lib. 4. Ode 15.
NOthing on
Earth, nothing at all
Can be exempted from the
thrall
Of peevish
weariness! The
Sun
Which our
sore-fathers Judg'd to run
Clear and
unspotted, in our dayes
Is tax'd with
sullen, Ecclips'd rayes.
What ever in the
glorious skie
Man sees, his rash,
andacious Eye
Dares Censure it, and in meer
spite
At
distance will condemn the
light.
The
wholesome mornings, whose
beams cleer
Those
hills our
fathers walkt on here
Wee fancy not nor the
Moons light
Which through their
windows shin'd at
night,
VVee change the
Aire each year, and scorn
Those
Seates, in which we first were
borne.
Some nice, affected
wond'rers love
Belgia's mild winters, others remove
For want of
health and
honestie
To
Summer it in
Italic;
But to no end: The
disease still
Sticks to his
Lord, and kindly will
To
Venice in a
Barge repaire,
Or
Coach it to
Vienna's aire,
And then (to late with
home Content,)
They leave this
[...]rilfull banishment.
But he, whose
Costancie makes sure
His
mind and
mansion, lives secure
From such
vain tasks, can
dine and
sup
VVhere his
old parents bred him up.
Content (no doubt!) most times doth dwell
In
Countrey-shades, or to some
Cell
Confines it selfe, and can alone
Make simple
straw, a Royall
Throne.
Casimirus, Lib.4. Ode 13.
IF
weeping Eyes could wash away
Those
Evills they mourn for
night and day,
Then gladly I to
cure my
fears
With my best
Iewells would buy
tears.
But as
dew feeds the growing
Corn,
So
Crosses that are grown
sorlorn
Increase with
griefe, teares make
teares way,
And
cares kept up, keep
cares in
pay.
That
wretch whom
Fortune finds to
seare,
And
melting still into a
teare,
She
strikes more
boldly, but a
face
Silent and
drie doth her
amaze.
Then leave thy
teares, and redious
tale
Of what thou doest
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
drie 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. In Answer to that Ode of Horace, Beatus Ille qui procul negotiis, &c.
FLaccus not so: That worldly He
Whom in the Countreys
shade we see
Ploughing his own
fields, seldome can
Be justly stil'd,
The Blessed man.
That title only fits a
Saint,
Whose free thoughts far above restraint.
[Page 60]And weighty Cares, can gladly part
With
house and
lands, and leave the smart
Litigious troubles, and lowd 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
deuouring Courts of Law;
But all his time he spends in
tears
For the
Sins of his youthfull years,
Or having tasted those
rich Ioyes
Of a Conscience without
noyse
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 skye
Beholds th'
eternall flames with mirth,
And
globes of
light more large then
Earth,
Then weeps for
Ioy, and through his tears
Looks on the
fire-enamel'd Spheres,
Where with his
Saviour he would be
Listed above mortalitie.
Mean while the
golden stars doe set,
And the
slow-Pilgrim leave all wet
With his own tears, which flow so fast
They make his
sheps light, and soon past.
By this, the
Sun o're night
deceast
Breaks in
fresh Blushes from the
East,
When mindfull of his former
falls
With
strong Cries to his
God he calls,
And with such
deep-drawn sighes doth move
That he turns
anger into
love.
In the Calme
Spring, when the Earth
bears,
And feeds on
Aprils breath, and
tears,
His Eyes accustom'd to the
skyes
Find here
fresh objects, and like
spyes
Or busie
Bees search the soft
flowres
Contemplate the
green fields, and
Bowres,
The
back Parts of the
Deitye
Then sadly sighing sayes.
O how
These slowres with hasty, stretch'd heads grow
And strive for heav'n, but rooted here
Lament the distance with a teare!
The Honey-suckles Clad in white,
The Rose in Red point to the light,
And the Lillies 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!)
Opprest with Earth, on Earth still lye?
Thus speaks he to the neighbour trees
And many sad
Soliloquies
To
Springs, and
Fountaines doth impart,
Seeking God with a longing heart.
But if to ease his busie breast
He thinks of
home, and taking rest
A
Rurall Cott, and
Common fare
Are all his
Cordials against
Care.
There at the
doure of his low
Cell
Under some
shade, or neer some
well
Where the
Coole Poplar growes, his
Plate
Of Common
Earth, without more
state
Expect their
Lord, Salt in a
shell,
Green
Cheese, thin
beere, Draughts that will
tell
No
Tales, a
hospitable Cup,
With some
fresh berries doe make up
His healthfull feast, nor doth he wish
For the fatt
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
Sallads, and the
Bean
By Curious
Pallats never sought,
And to Close with, some Cheap unbought
[Page 62]Dish for
digession, are the most
And Choicest
dainties he can
boast.
Thus seasted, to the
slowrie Groves,
Or pleasant
Rivers he removes,
Where neer some
fair Oke hung with Mast
He shuns the
Souths Infectious blast.
On shadie
hanks sometimes he lyes,
Sometimes the open
Current tryes,
Where with his
line and
feather'd flye
He sports, and takes the
Scaly frie.
Mean-while each
hollow wood and
hill
Doth ring with
lowings long and shrill,
And shadie
Lakes with
Rivers deep,
Eccho the
bleating of the
Sheep.
The
Black-bird with the pleasant
Thrush
And
Nightingale in ev'ry Bush
Choice
Musick give, and
Shepherds play
Unto their
sticks some loving
Lay;
The thirsty
Reapers in thick throngs
Return home from the
field with Songs,
And the
Carts loden with ripe
Corn
Come groning to the well-stor'd
Barn.
Nor passe wee by as the least good,
A
peacefull, loving neighbourhood,
Whose
honest wit, and
Chast 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 neighbours
seat, but taste
These
true delights, ô with what haste
And hatred of his wayes would he
Renounce his
Iewish Crueltie,
And those
Curs'd summes which poor men borrow
On
use to day,
remit to morrow!
Ad fluvium Iscam.
ISea parens florum, placido qui spumeus ore Lambis lapillos aureos,
Qui moestos hyacinthos & picti
[...] topbi Mulces susurris humidis,
Dum
(que)
novas pergunt
menses Consumere
Lunas Coelum
(que)
mortale terit,
Accumulas cum
Sole dies, oevum
(que) per omne
Fidelis Induras
latex,
O quis Inaccessos & quali murmare lucos
Mutumq; Solaris
nemus!
Per te discepti credo
Thracis ire querelas Plectrum
(que)
divini senis.
Venerabili viro, praeceptori suo olim & semper Colendissimo M •o. Mathaeo Herbert.
Quod vixi,
Mathaee, dedit
Pater, haec tamen olim
Vita sluat, nec erit fas meminisse datam.
Vltrà Curâsti Solers, peritura
(que) mecum
Nomina post
Cineres das resonare
meos.
'Divide discipulum: brevis haec & lubrica nostri
Pars vertat
Patri, Posthuma vita
tibi.
Praestrantissimo viro, Thomae Poëllo in suum de Elementis oplicae libellum.
VIvaces
oculorum Ignes & lumina dia
Fixit in
angusto maximus
orbe Deus,
Ille
Explorantes radios dedit, &
vaga lustra
In quibus
Intuitus lex
(que) modus
(que) latent.
Hos tacitos Jactus, lusus
(que) volubilis orbis
Pingis in
Exiguo, magne Poëlle,
libro,
Excursus
(que) situs
(que),
ut Lynceus opticus,
edis
Quot
(que) modis fallunt, quot
(que) adhibenda sides.
AEmula naturae manus! & mens
Conscia coeli!
Illa videre
dedit, vestra videre
docet.
Ad Echum.
O Quae srondosae per amoena
Cubilia silvae
Nympha
volas, luco
(que)
lequax spatiaris in alto,
Annosi
numen nemoris, saltus
(que) verendi
Effatum, cui sola placent
postrema velatûs!
Per te
Narcissi morientis verba, preces
(que)
Per pueri
Lassatam animam, & Conamina vitae
Ultima, palantis
(que) precor
suspiria linguae.
Da quo secretae haec
Incaedua devia sylvae,
Anfractusq; loci dubios, &
lusha repandam.
Sic tibi
perpetuâ (merilo
(que)) haec regna
Juventâ
Luxurient, dabitur
(que) tuis, sine sine,
viretis
Intactas Lunae
lachrymas, & lambere
rorem
Virgineum, Caeli
(que)
animas haurire tepentis.
Nec cedant avo
stellis, sed
lucida sempèt
Et
satiata sacro aeterni
medicamine veris
Ostendant longè
vegetos, ut Sydera,
vultus!
Sit spiret Muscata
Comas, & Cynnama passim!
Dissundat levis umbra, in funere qualia spargit
Phoenicis
rogus out Panchea
nubila slammae!