The Workes of Benjamin Jonson

I Sing the just, and uncontrol'd Descent
Of Dame VENETIA DIGBY, styl'd The Faire:
For Mind, and Body, the most excellent
That ever Nature, or the later Ayre
Gave two such Houses as NORTHUMBERLAND,
And STANLEY, to the which shee was Co-heire.

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Speake it, you bold PENATES, you that stand
At either Stemme, and know the veines of good
Run from your rootes; Tell, testifie the grand
Meeting of Graces, that so swell'd the flood
Of vertues in her, as, in short, shee grew
The wonder of her Sexe, and of your Blood.
And tell thou, ALDE-LEGH, None can tell more true
Thy Neeces line, then thou that gav'st thy Name
Into the Kindred, whence thy Adam drew
Meschines honour with the Cestrian fame
Of the first Lupus, to the Familie
By Ranulph [OMITTED]
[_]

The rest of this Song is lost.

3. The Picture of the BODY.

Sitting, and ready to be drawne,
What makes these Velvets, Silkes, and Lawne,
Embroderies, Feathers, Fringes, Lace,
Where every lim takes like a face?

Send these suspected helpes, to aide
Some Forme defective, or decay'd;
This beautie without falshood fayre,
Needs nought to cloath it but the ayre.

Yet something, to the Painters view,
Were fitly interpos'd; so new:
Hee shall, if he can understand,
Worke with my fancie, his owne hand.

Draw first a Cloud: all save her neck;
And, out of that, make Day to breake;
Till, like her face, it doe appeare,
And Men may thinke, all light rose there.

Then let the beames of that, disperse
The Cloud, and show the Universe;
But at such distance, as the eye
May rather yet adore, then spy.

The Heaven design'd, draw next a Spring,
With all that Youth, or it can bring:
Foure Rivers branching forth like Seas,
And Paradise confining these.

Last, draw the circles of this Globe,
And let there be a starry Robe

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Of Constellations 'bout her horld;
And thou hast painted beauties world.

But, Painter, see thou doe not sell
A Copie of this peece; nor tell
Whose 'tis: but if it favour find,
Next sitting we will draw her mind.

4. The MIND.

Painter yo' are come, but may be gone,
Now I have better thought thereon,
This worke I can performe alone;
And give you reasons more then one.

Not, that your Art I doe refuse:
But here I may no colours use.
Beside, your hand will never hit,
To draw a thing that cannot sit.

You could make shift to paint an Eye,
An Eagle towring in the skye,
The Sunne, a Sea, or soundlesse Pit;
But these are like a Mind, not it.

No, to expresse a Mind to sense,
Would aske a Heavens Intelligence;
Since nothing can report that flame,
But what's of kinne to whence it came.

Sweet Mind, then speake your selfe, and say,
As you goe on, by what brave way
Our sense you doe with knowledge fill,
And yet remaine our wonder still.

I call you Muse; now make it true:
Hence-forth may every line be you;
That all may say, that see the frame,
This is no Picture, but the same.

A Mind so pure, so perfect fine,
As 'tis not radiant, but divine:
And so disdaining any tryer;
'Tis got where it can try the fire.

There, high exalted in the Spheare,
As it another Nature were,

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It moveth all; and makes a flight
As circular, as infinite.

Whose Notions when it will expresse
In speech; it is with that excesse
Of grace, and Musique to the eare,
As what it spoke, it planted there.

The Voyce so sweet, the words so faire,
As some soft chime had stroak'd the ayre;
And, though the sound were parted thence,
Still left an Eccho in the sense.

But, that a Mind so rapt, so high,
So swift, so pure, should yet apply
It selfe to us, and come so nigh
Earths grossnesse; There's the how, and why.

Is it because it sees us dull,
And stuck in clay here, it would pull
Us forth, by some Celestiall slight
Up to her owne sublimed hight?

Or hath she here, upon the ground,
Some Paradise, or Palace found
In all the bounds of beautie fit
For her t'inhabit? There is it.

Thrice happy house, that hast receipt
For this so loftie forme, so streight,
So polisht, perfect, round, and even,
As it slid moulded off from Heaven.

Not swelling like the Ocean proud,
But stooping gently, as a Cloud,
As smooth as Oyle pour'd forth, and calme
As showers; and sweet as drops of Balme.

Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a floud
Where it may run to any good;
And where it stayes, it there becomes
A nest of odorous spice, and gummes.

In action, winged as the wind,
In rest, like spirits left behind
Upon a banke, or field of flowers,
Begotten by that wind, and showers.

In thee, faire Mansion, let it rest,
Yet know, with what thou art possest,

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Thou entertaining in thy brest,
But such a Mind, mak'st God thy Guest.

[_]

A whole quaternion in the middest of this Poem is lost, containing entirely the three next pieces of it, and all of the fourth (which in the order of the whole, is the eighth) excepting the very end: which at the top of the next quaternion goeth on thus:

But, for you (growing Gentlemen) the happy branches of two so illustrious Houses as these, where from your honour'd Mother, is in both lines descended; let me leave you this last Legacie of Counsell; which so soone as you arrive at yeares of mature Understanding, open you (Sir) that are the eldest, and read it to your Brethren, for it will concerne you all alike. Vowed by a faithfull Servant, and Client of your Familie, with his latest breath expiring it

B. I.

To Kenelme, Iohn, George.

Boast not these Titles of your Ancestors;
(Brave Youths) th'are their possessions, none of yours:
When your owne Vertues, equall'd have their Names,
'Twill be but faire, to leane upon their Fames;
For they are strong Supporters: But, till then,
The greatest are but growing Gentlemen.
It is a wretched thing to trust to reedes;
Which all men doe, that urge not their owne deeds
Up to their Ancestors; the rivers side,
By which yo'are planted, shew's your fruit shall bide:
Hang all your roomes, with one large Pedigree:
'Tis Vertue alone, is true Nobilitie.
Which Vertue from your Father, ripe, will fall;
Study illustrious Him, and you have all.

9. Elegie on my Muse.

The truly honoured Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby; who living, gave me leave to call her so. Being Her αποθεωσις, or Relation to the Saints.

Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina dolori.

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An Elegie on my Muse.

'Twere time that I ty'd too, now shee is dead,
Who was my Muse, and life of all I dy'd.
The Spirit that I wrote with, and conceiv'd,
All that was good, or great in me she weav'd,
And set it forth; the rest were Cobwebs fine,
Spun out in name of some of the old Nine!
To hang a window, or make darke the roome,
Till swept away, th'were cancell'd with a broome!
Nothing, that could remaine, or yet can stirre
A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!
O! had I seene her laid out a faite Corse,
By Death, on Earth, I should have had remorse
On Nature, for her: who did let her lie,
And saw that portion of her selfe to die.
Sleepie, or stupid Nature, couldst thou part
With such a Raritie, and not rowse Art
With all her aydes, to save her from the seize
Of Vulture death, and those relentlesse cleies?
Thou wouldst have lost the Phœnix, had the kind
Beene trusted to thee: not to't selfe assign'd.
Looke on thy sloth, and give thy selfe undone,
(For so thou art with me) now shee is gone.
My wounded mind cannot sustaine this stroke,
It rages, runs, flies, stands, and would provoke
The world to ruine with it; in her Fall,
I summe up mine owne breaking, and wish all.
Thou hast no more blowes, Fate, to drive at one,
What's left a Poët, when his Muse is gone?
Sure, I am dead, and know it not! I feele
Nothing I doe; but, like a heavie wheele,
Am turned with an others powers. My Passion
Whoorles me about, and to blaspheme in fashion!
I murmure against God, for having ta'en
Her blessed Soule, hence, forth this valley vane
Of teares, and dungeon of calamitie!
I envie it the Angels amitie!
The joy of Saints! the Crowne for which it lives,
The glorie, and gaine of rest, which the place gives!
Dare I prophane, so irreligious bee
To 'greet, or grieve her soft Euthanasee!
So sweetly taken to the Court of blisse,
As spirits had stolne her Spirit, in a kisse,
From off her pillow, and deluded bed;
And left her lovely body unthought dead!
Indeed, she is not dead! but laid to sleepe
In earth, till the last Trumpe awake the Sheepe

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And Goates together, whither they must come
To heare their Judge, and his eternall doome.
To have that finall retribution,
Expected with the fleshes restitution.
For, as there are three Natures, Schoolemen call
One corporall, only; th'other spirituall,
Like single; so, there is a third, commixt,
Of Body and Spirit together, plac'd betwixt
Those other two; which must be judg'd, or crown'd:
This as it guilty is, or guiltlesse found,
Must come to take a sentence, by the sense
Of that great Evidence, the Conscience!
Who will be there, against that day prepar'd,
T'accuse, or quit all Parties to be heard!
O Day of joy, and suretie to the just!
Who in that feast of Resurrection trust!
That great eternall Holy-day of rest,
To Body, and Soule! where Love is all the guest!
And the whole Banquet is full sight of God!
Of joy the Circle, and sole Period!
All other gladnesse, with the thought is barr'd;
Hope, hath her end! and Faith hath her reward!
This being thus: why should my tongue, or pen
Presume to interpell that fulnesse, when
Nothing can more adorne it, then the seat
That she is in, or, make it more compleat?
Better be dumbe, then superstitious!
Who violates the God-head, is most vitious
Against the Nature he would worship. Hee
Will honour'd be in all simplicitie!
Have all his actions, wondred at, and view'd
With silence, and amazement! not with rude,
Dull, and prophane, weake, and imperfect eyes,
Have busie search made in his mysteries!
Hee knowes, what worke h'hath done, to call this Guest,
Out of her noble body, to this Feast:
And give her place, according to her blood
Amongst her Peeres, those Princes of all good!
Saints, Martyrs, Prophets, with those Hierarchies,
Angels, Arch-angels, Principalities,
The Dominations, Vertues, and the Powers,
The Thrones, the Cherube, and Seraphick bowers,
That, planted round, there sing before the Lamb,
A new Song to his praise, and great I AM:
And she doth know, out of the shade of Death,
What 'tis t'enjoy, an everlasting breath!
To have her captiv'd spirit freed from flesh,
And on her Innocence, a garment fresh
And white, as that, put on: and in her hand
With boughs of Palme, a crowned Victrice stand!

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And will you, worthy Sonne, Sir, knowing this,
Put black, and mourning on? and say you misse
A Wife, a Friend, a Lady, or a Love;
Whom her Redeemer, honour'd hath above
Her fellowes, with the oyle of gladnesse, bright
In heaven Empyre, and with a robe of light?
Thither, you hope to come; and there to find
That pure, that pretious, and exalted mind
You once enjoy'd: A short space severs yee,
Compar'd unto that long eternitie,
That shall re-joyne yee. Was she, then, so deare,
When shee departed? you will meet her there,
Much more desir'd, and dearer then before,
By all the wealth of blessings, and the store
Accumulated on her, by the Lord
Of life, and light, the Sonne of God, the Word!
There, all the happy soules, that ever were,
Shall meet with gladnesse in one Theatre;
And each shall know, there, one anothers face:
By beatifick vertue of the Place.
There shall the Brother, with the Sister walke,
And Sons, and Daughters, with their Parents talke;
But all of God; They still shall have to say,
But make him All in All, their Theme, that Day:
That happy Day, that never shall see night!
Where Hee will be, all Beautie to the Sight;
Wine, or delicious fruits, unto tee Taste;
A Musique in the Eares, will ever last;
Unto the Sent, a Spicerie, or Balme;
And to the Touch, a Flower, like soft as Palme.
Hee will all Glory, all Perfection be,
God, in the Union, and the Trinitie!
That holy, great, and glorious Mysterie,
Will there revealed be in Majestie!
By light, and comfort of spirituall Grace;
The vision of our Saviour, face, to face
In his humanitie! To heare him preach
The price of our Redemption, and to teach
Through his inherent righteousnesse, in death,
The safetie of our soules, and forfeit breath!
What fulnesse of beatitude is here?
What love with mercy mixed doth appeare?
To style us Friends, who were, by Nature, Foes?
Adopt us Heires, by grace, who were of those
Had lost our selves? and prodigally spent
Our native portions, and possessed rent;
Yet have all debts forgiven us, and advance
B' imputed right to an inheritance
In his eternall Kingdome, where we sit
Equall with Angels, and Co-heires of it.

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Nor dare we under blasphemy conceive
He that shall be our supreme Judge, should leave
Himselfe so un-inform'd of his elect
Who knowes the hearts of all, and can dissect
The smallest Fibre of our flesh; he can
Find all our Atomes from a point t'a span!
Our closest Creekes, and Corners, and can trace
Each line, as it were graphick, in the face.
And best he knew her noble Character,
For 'twas himselfe who form'd, and gave it her.
And to that forme, lent two such veines of blood
As nature could not more increase the flood
Of title in her! All nobilitie
(But pride, that schisme of incivilitie)
She had, and it became her! she was fit
T'have knowne no envy, but by suffring it!
She had a mind as calme, as she was faire;
Not tost or troubled with light Lady-aire;
But, kept an even gate, as some streight tree
Mov'd by the wind, so comely moved she.
And by the awfull manage of her Eye
She swaid all bus'nesse in the Familie!
To one she said, Doe this, he did it; So
To another, Move; he went; To a third, Go,
He run; and all did strive with diligence
T'obey, and serve her sweet Commandements.
She was in one, a many parts of life;
A tender Mother, a discreeter Wife,
A solemne Mistresse, and so good a Friend,
So charitable, to religious end
In all her petite actions, so devote,
As her whole life was now become one note
Of Pietie, and private holinesse.
She spent more time in teares her selfe to dresse
For her devotions, and those sad essayes
Of sorrow, then all pompe of gaudy daies:
And came forth ever cheered, with the rod
Of divine Comfort, when sh'had talk'd with God.
Her broken sighes did never misse whole sense:
Nor can the bruised heart want eloquence:
For, Prayer is the Incense most perfumes
The holy Altars, when it least presumes.
And hers were all Humilitie! they beat
The doore of Grace, and found the Mercy-Seat.
In frequent speaking by the pious Psalmes
Her solemne houres she spent, or giving Almes,
Or doing other deeds of Charitie,
To cloath the naked, feed the hungry. Shee
Would sit in an Infirmer, whole dayes
Poring, as on a Map, to find the wayes

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To that eternall Rest, where now sh'hath place
By sure Election, and predestin'd grace!
Shee saw her Saviour, by an early light,
Incarnate in the Manger, shining bright
On all the world! Shee saw him on the Crosse
Suffring, and dying to redeeme our losse!
Shee saw him rise, triumphing over Death
To justifie, and quicken us in breath!
Shee saw him too, in glory to ascend
For his designed worke the perfect end
Of raising, judging, and rewarding all
The kind of Man, on whom his doome should fall!
All this by Faith she saw, and fram'd a Plea,
In manner of a daily Apostrophe,
To him should be her Judge, true God, true Man,
Jesus, the onely gotten Christ! who can
As being Redeemer, and Repairer too
(Of lapsed Nature) best know what to doe,
In that great Act of judgement: which the Father
Hath given wholly to the Sonne (the rather
As being the Sonne of Man) to shew his Power,
His Wisdome, and his Justice, in that houre,
The last of houres, and shutter up of all;
Where first his Power will appeare, by call
Of all are dead to life! His Wisdome show
In the discerning of each conscience, so!
And most his Justice, in the fitting parts,
And giving dues to all Mankinds deserts!
In this sweet Extasie, she was rapt hence.
Who reades, will pardon my Intelligence,
That thus have ventur'd these true straines upon;
To publish her a Saint. My Muse is gone.

In pietatis memoriam
quam præstas
Venetiæ tuæ illustrissim:
Marit: dign: Digbeie
Hanc αποθεωσιν, tibi, tuisque sacro.

[_]

The Tenth, being her Inscription, or CROWNE, is lost.

University of Virginia Library

EUPHEME;

OR, THE FAIRE FAME.

1. The Dedication of her CRADLE.

2. The Song of her DESCENT.

3. The Picture of the BODY.

4. The MIND.

To Kenelme, Iohn, George.

9. Elegie on my Muse.

The truly honoured Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby; who living, gave me leave to call her so. Being Her αποθεωσις, or Relation to the Saints.