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Miscellaneous works of George Wither

Wither, George (1588-1667)

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Vox Pacifica:
  
Carmen Eucharisticon:
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A Suddain Flash
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A Triple Paradox:
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A Proclamation In the Name of the King of Kings, To all the Inhabitants of the Isles of Great Brittain:
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I. To those Friends, unto whom this Author hath been scandalously mis-represented in private, by some false Brethren and others.
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II. A causual Meditation on Faith, Hope, Fear and Love.
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III. To those who enquire, why this Author is now imprisoned in Newgate?
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IV. A Hymn of Thanksgiving, for deliverance from a dangerous and sharp Sickness, during his Imprisonment.
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V. To them who say, or suppose, that a vain desire of Fame, was this Authors principal motive, to the Composure of what he hath written and published.
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VI. A Meditation, occasioned by considering the manifold Temptations to distrust in GOD, whereby his best Servants are otherwhile proved and exercised.
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VII. Another Scrap, to them, who carp at this Author's frequent writing.
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VIII. An Eccho from the Thunders, in the celestial Temple, reverberating, in part, the effect of what was uttered by their Voices.
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IX. A brief Reproof of them, who take pleasure in Scandalous Invectives, whereby others are personally defamed.
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X. A Disclaim, by way of Advertisement, of a Paper, falsly imputed to this Author.
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XI. To them who object it as a fault, that this Author hath written several Poems, since he resolved to write no more.
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XII. Of Governours and Governments; and how we ought to demean our selves toward them.
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XIII. A Scrap added to the former, since the sending of the Authors Remonstrance to the house of Commons.
  
Verses written by Mr. George Wither upon three Trenchers with Oker, during his close-Imprisonment, and carried to the Lieutenant of the Tower by the said Prisoners Keeper.
  
Hearing it reported, that the Diurnal women cryed the news of his Impeachment for Treason, he composed this Epigram.
  
Ingenii Largitor Venter.
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We must resign; heav'n his great Soul doth claim,
In Storms as loud as his Immortal Fame;
His dying Groans, his last Breath shakes our Isle,
And, Trees uncut, fall for his Funeral-Pile;
About his Palace, their broad Roots are tost
Into the Air; so, Romulus was lost;
So, New-Rome, in a Tempest, mist her King,
And from obeying, fell to worshipping.
On Oeta's top, thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruin'd Oaks, and Pines about him spread:
Those, his last Furie, from the Mountain rent,
Our dying Hero, from the Continent
Ravish'd whole Towns, and Forts from Spaniards reft,
As his last Legacy to Britain left.
The Ocean, which our Hopes had long confin'd,
Could give no Limits to his Vaster Minde.
Our Bounds inlargement was his latest toil,
Nor hath he left us pris'ners to this Isle;
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Under the Tropick, is, our Language spoke,
And Part of Flanders hath receiv'd our Yoke.
From Civil-Broiles, he did us dis-engage,
Found Nobler Objects for our Martial Rage,
And with wise Conduct, to His Country shew'd
Their Antient Way of Conquering abroad.
Ungrateful then, if we no tears allow
To Him, who gave us Peace, and Empire too.
Princes, who fear'd Him, griev'd, concern'd to see
No pitch of Glory, from the Grave is free:
Nature herself, took notice of His Death,
And, sighing, swel'd the Sea, with such a Breath,
That, to remotest shoars, her Billows rowl'd,
Th'approaching Fate of her great Ruler told.
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