Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

In this unconstant Age when all mens mindes
In various change strive to outvie the windes.
VVhen no man sets his foot upon the square,
But treads on globes and circles; when we are
The Apes of fortune, and desire to be
Resolved on as fickle wheels as she.
As if the Plannets that our rulers are,
Made the souls motion too irregular.
When minds chang ofther then the Greek could dream,
That made the Metempseucos'd soul his theam.

Yea oft to beastly forms: when truth to say,
Moons chang but once a Month, we twice a day.
VVhen none resolves but to be rich, and ill;
Or else resolves to be irresolute still.
In such a tide of mindes, that every hour
Do ebb and flow, by what inspiring power,
By what instinct of grace I cannot tell,
Dost thou resolve so much, and yet so well?
While foolish men whose reason is their sence,
Still wandring in the worlds circumference:
Though holding passions reins with strictest hand
Dost firm and fixed in the Center stand.
Thence thou art setled, other-while they tend
To rove about the circle finde no end.
Thy book I read, and read it with delight,
Resolving so to live as thou dost write.
And yet I guesse thy life thy book produces,
And but expresses thy peculiar uses.
Thy manners dictate, thence thy writing came,
So Lesbians by their works their rules do frame.
Not by the rules the work: thy life had been
Pattern enough, had it at all been seen,
Without a book? books make the difference here,
In them thou liv'st the same but every where.
And this I guesse, though th'art unknown to me,
By thy chast writing; else it could not be
(Dissemble ne're so well) but here and there
Some tokens of that plague would soon appear;
Oft lurking in the skin a secret gout
In books would sometimes blister, and break out.
Contagious sins in which men take delight
Must needs infect the paper when they write.

But let the curious eyes of Lynceus look

Through every nerve, and sinew of this book,
Of which 'tis full: let the most diligent minde
Pry thorow it, each sentence he shall finde.
Season'd with chaste, not with an itching salt,
More savouring of the Lamp then of the male.
But now too many think no wit divine,
Non worthy life, but whose luxurious line
Can ravish Virgins thoughts; And is it fit
To make a Pander, or a Baud of wit?
But tell'em of it, in contempt they look,
And ask in scorn if you would geld the book.
As if th'effeminite brain could nothing do
That should be chaste, and yet be masculine too.
Such books as these (as they themselves indeed
Truly confesse) men do not praise but read.
Such idle books, which it perchance they can
Better the brain, yet they corrupt the man.
Thou hast not one bad line so lustfull bred,
As to die maid, or matrons cheek in red.
Thy modest wit, and witty honest letter
Make both at once my wit, and me the better.
Thy book a garden is, and helps us most
To regain that, which we in Adam lost.
Where on the tree of knowledge we may feed,
But such as no forbidden fruits doth breed.
Whose leaves like those whence Eve her coat did frame,
Serve not to cover, but to cure our shame.
Fraught with all flowers, not onely such as grows
To please the eye, or to delight the nose.
But such as may redeem lost healths again,
And store of Hellebore to purge the brain.
Such as would cure the surfeit man did take
From Adams Apples, such as fain would make

Mans second Paradise, in which should be
The fruits of life, but no forbidden Tree.
It is a garden; ha, I thus did say:
And maids, and Matrons blushing run away.
But maids re-enter these chast pleasing bowers,
Chast Matrons here gather the purest flowers.
Fear not, from this pure Garden do not flye.
In it doth no obscence Pryapus lye.
This is an Eden where no serpents be
To tempt the womans imbecility.
These lines rich sap the fruit to heaven doth raise;
Nor doth the Cinnamon-bark deserve lesse praise,
I mean the stile, being pure, and strong, and round,
Not long, but Pithy: being short breath'd, but sound.
Such as the grave, [illeg.]cute, wise Seneca sings,
The best of Tutours to the worst of Kings.
Not long and empty; lofty but not proud;
Subtile but sweet, high but without a cloud.
Well setled, full of nerves, in brief 'tis such
That in a little hath comprized much.
Like th'Iliads in a Nutshel. And I say
Thus much for stile; though truth should not be gay
In strumpets glittering robes, yet ne're the lesse
She well deserves a Matrons comlinesse.
Being too brave she would our fancies glut,
But we should loath her being too much the slut,
The reasonable soul from heaven obtain'd
The best of bodies; and that man hath gain'd
A double praise, whose noble vertues are
Like to the face, in soul and body faire.
Who then could have a nobler sentence clad
In russet-thread-bare words, is full as mad
As if Apelles should so fondly dote,

As to paint Venus in old Baucys coat.
They erre that would bring stile so basely under;
The lofty language of the Law was thunder.
The wisest 'pothecary knows 'tis skill
Neatly to candy o're the wholesome pill.
Best Physick then, when gaul with suger meets,
Tempring Absinthian bitternesse with sweets.
Such is thy sentence, such thy stile, being read
Men see them both together happ'ly wed,
And so resolve to keep them wed, as we
Resolve to give them to posterity.
'Mongst thy resolves put my resolves in too;
Resolve whose will, thus I resolve to do:
That should my errours chuse anothers line
Whereby to write, I mean to live by thine.