The works of Sr William Davenant ... Consisting of Those which were formerly Printed, and Those which he design'd for the Press: Now published Out of the Authors Originall Copies |
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To the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
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 | The works of Sr William Davenant |  |
To the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
My Lord;
How much you may oblige, how much delight
The Wise, and Noble, would you die to night!
Would you like some grave sullen Victor die,
Just when the Triumphs for your Victorie
Are setting out: Would you die now, t'eschue
Our wreaths, for what your wisdome did subdue:
And though, th'are only fitted for your head,
Bravely disdaine to weare them, till y'are dead.
Such Cymicke Glory would out-shine the Light
Of Grecian greatness, or of Roman Height.
Not that the Wise, and Noble, can desire
To lose the object, they so much admire;
But Heroes and Saints must shift away
Their Flesh, ere they can get an Holiday:
Then like to Time, or books fam'd Registers,
Victors or Saints renown'd in Kalanders.
You must depart to make your value known,
You may be lik'd, but not ador'd till gone:
So curs'd a Fate hath Humane excellence,
That absence still must raise it to our Sence!
Great Vertue may be dangerous whiles 'tis here.
It wins to love, but it subdues to feare
The Mighty Julios, who so long did strive,
At more than Man, was hated when alive,
Even for that Vertue which was rais'd so high,
When dead, it made him straite a Deitie.
Ambassadors that cramme in their breasts
Secrets of Kings, and Kingdomes Interests,
Have not their Callings full preheminence,
Till they grow greater by removing hence;
Like Subjects here they but attend the Throne,
Yet swell like Kings Companions when th'are gone.
The Wise, and Noble, would you die to night!
Would you like some grave sullen Victor die,
Just when the Triumphs for your Victorie
Are setting out: Would you die now, t'eschue
Our wreaths, for what your wisdome did subdue:
And though, th'are only fitted for your head,
Bravely disdaine to weare them, till y'are dead.
Such Cymicke Glory would out-shine the Light
Of Grecian greatness, or of Roman Height.
Not that the Wise, and Noble, can desire
To lose the object, they so much admire;
But Heroes and Saints must shift away
Their Flesh, ere they can get an Holiday:
Then like to Time, or books fam'd Registers,
Victors or Saints renown'd in Kalanders.
You must depart to make your value known,
You may be lik'd, but not ador'd till gone:
So curs'd a Fate hath Humane excellence,
That absence still must raise it to our Sence!
Great Vertue may be dangerous whiles 'tis here.
It wins to love, but it subdues to feare
The Mighty Julios, who so long did strive,
At more than Man, was hated when alive,
336
When dead, it made him straite a Deitie.
Ambassadors that cramme in their breasts
Secrets of Kings, and Kingdomes Interests,
Have not their Callings full preheminence,
Till they grow greater by removing hence;
Like Subjects here they but attend the Throne,
Yet swell like Kings Companions when th'are gone.
My Lord, In a dull Calme the Pilot growes
To no esteeme, for what he acts or knowes,
But sits neglected, as he useless were.
Or conn'd his Card like a young Passenger:
Yet when the silenc'd Winds recover breath,
VVhen Stormes grow loud enough to waken Death,
Then were he absent, every Trafficker
VVould wish rich wishes by his being there:
So in a Kingdomes Calme, you beare no rate,
But rise to value in a Storme of State.
To no esteeme, for what he acts or knowes,
But sits neglected, as he useless were.
Or conn'd his Card like a young Passenger:
Yet when the silenc'd Winds recover breath,
VVhen Stormes grow loud enough to waken Death,
Then were he absent, every Trafficker
VVould wish rich wishes by his being there:
So in a Kingdomes Calme, you beare no rate,
But rise to value in a Storme of State.
Yet I recant! and begg you would forgive,
That in such Times, I must perswade you live,
For with a Storme we all are overcast,
And Northern Storms are dangerous if they last.
Should you now die (that onely know to Steere)
The VVindes would less afflict us than our feare;
For each small Statesman then would lay his hand
Upon the Helme, and struggle for Command;
Till the disorders that above doe grow,
Provoke our Curses whiles we sinck below.
That in such Times, I must perswade you live,
For with a Storme we all are overcast,
And Northern Storms are dangerous if they last.
Should you now die (that onely know to Steere)
The VVindes would less afflict us than our feare;
For each small Statesman then would lay his hand
Upon the Helme, and struggle for Command;
Till the disorders that above doe grow,
Provoke our Curses whiles we sinck below.
| The works of Sr William Davenant | |