Olor Iscanus A Collection of some Select Poems, and Translations, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist. Published by a Friend |
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To his retired friend, an Invitation to Brecknock. |
 | Olor Iscanus |  |
9
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 foule, 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 cost teame
Of Justices vext with the Cough, and flegme.
Midst these the Crosse looks sad, and in the Shire-
-Hall furs of an old Saxon Fox appear,
With brotherly Ruffs and Beards, and a strange sight
Of high Monumentall Hats t'ane at the fight
Of Eighty eight; while ev'ry Burgesse foots
The mortall Pavement in eternall boots.
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 foule, 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 cost teame
Of Justices vext with the Cough, and flegme.
Midst these the Crosse looks sad, and in the Shire-
-Hall furs of an old Saxon Fox appear,
With brotherly Ruffs and Beards, and a strange sight
Of high Monumentall Hats t'ane at the fight
Of Eighty eight; while ev'ry Burgesse 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 Distaffe for a kisse.
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.
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 Distaffe for a kisse.
10
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 lend 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 Cœlia, Chloris, Astrophil,
Or any of the Thredbare names Inspir'd
Poore riming lovers with a Mistris fir'd.
Come then! and while the slow I sicle 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 wert 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 Jest.
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 lend 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 Cœlia, Chloris, Astrophil,
11
Poore riming lovers with a Mistris fir'd.
Come then! and while the slow I sicle 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 wert 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 Jest.
| Olor Iscanus | |