The Works of Michael Drayton :: :: University of Virginia Library

That ten-yeares-travell'd Greeke return'd from Sea
Ne'r joyd so much to see his Ithaca,
As I should you, who are alone to me,
More then wide Greece could to that wanderer be,
The winter windes still Easterly doe keepe,
And with keene Frosts have chained up the deepe;
The Sunne's to us a niggard of his Rayes,
But revelleth with our Antipodes;
And seldome to us when he shewes his head,
Muffled in vapours, he straight hies to bed.
In those bleake mountaines can you live where snowe
Maketh the vales up to the hilles to growe;
Whereas mens breathes doe instantly congeale,
And attom'd mists turne instantly to hayle;
Belike you thinke, from this more temperate cost,
My sighes may have the power to thawe the frost,
Which I from hence should swiftly send you thither,
Yet not so swift, as you come slowly hither.
How many a time, hath Phebe from her wayne,
With Phæbus fires fill'd up her hornes againe;
Shee through her Orbe, still on her course doth range,
But you keepe yours still, nor for me will change.
The Sunne that mounted the sterne Lions back,
Shall with the Fishes shortly dive the Brack,
But still you keepe your station, which confines
You, nor regard him travelling the signes.
Those ships which when you went, put out to Sea,
Both to our Groenland, and Virginia,
Are now return'd, and Custom'd have their fraught,
Yet you arrive not, nor returne me ought.

The Thames was not so frozen yet this yeare,
As is my bosome, with the chilly feare

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Of your not comming, which on me doth light,
As on those Climes, where halfe the world is night.

Of every tedious houre you have made two,
All this long Winter here, by missing you:
Minutes are monthes, and when the houre is past,
A yeare is ended since the Clocke strooke last,
When your remembrance puts me on the Racke,
And I should Swound to see an Almanacke,
To reade what silent weekes away are slid,
Since the dire Fates you from my sight have hid.

I hate him who the first Devisor was
Of this same foolish thing, the Hower-glasse,
And of the Watch, whose dribbling sands and Wheele,
With their slow stroakes, make mee too much to feele
Your slackenesse hither, O how I doe ban,
Him that these Dialls against walles began,
Whose Snayly motion of the mooving hand,
(Although it goe) yet seeme to me to stand;
As though at Adam it had first set out,
And had been stealing all this while about,
And when it backe to the first point should come,
It shall be then just at the generall Doome.

The Seas into themselves retract their flowes,
The changing Winde from every quarter blowes,
Declining Winter in the Spring doth call,
The Starrs rise to us, as from us they fall;
Those Birdes we see, that leave us in the Prime,
Againe in Autumne re-salute our Clime.
Sure, either Nature you from kinde hath made,
Or you delight else to be Retrograde.

But I perceive by your attractive powers,
Like an Inchantresse you have charm'd the howers
Into short minutes, and have drawne them back,
So that of us at London, you doe lack
Almost a yeare, the Spring is scarse begonne
There where you live, and Autumne almost done.
With us more Eastward, surely you devise,
By your strong Magicke, that the Sunne shall rise

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Where now it setts, and that in some few yeares
You'l alter quite the Motion of the Spheares.

Yes, and you meane, I shall complaine my love
To gravell'd Walkes, or to a stupid Grove,
Now your companions; and that you the while
(As you are cruell) will sit by and smile,
To make me write to these, while Passers by,
Sleightly looke in your lovely face, where I
See Beauties heaven, whilst silly blockheads, they
Like laden Asses, plod upon their way,
And wonder not, as you should point a Clowne
Up to the Guards, or Ariadnes Crowne;
Of Constellations, and his dulnesse tell,
Hee'd thinke your words were certainly a Spell;
Or him some peice from Creet, or Marcus show,
In all his life which till that time ne'r saw
Painting: except in Alehouse or old Hall
Done by some Druzzler, of the Prodigall.

Nay doe, stay still, whilst time away shall steale
Your youth, and beautie, and your selfe conceale
From me I pray you, you have now inur'd
Me to your absence, and I have endur'd
Your want this long, whilst I have starved bine
For your short Letters, as you helde it sinne
To write to me, that to appease my woe,
I reade ore those, you writ a yeare agoe,
Which are to me, as though they had bin made,
Long time before the first Olympiad.

For thankes and curt'sies sell your presence then
To tatling Women, and to things like men,
And be more foolish then the Indians are
For Bells, for Knives, for Glasses, and such ware,
That sell their Pearle and Gold, but here I stay,
So would I not have you but come away.

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TO MASTER GEORGE SANDYS

Treasurer for the English Colony in VIRGINIA.

Friend, if you thinke my Papers may supplie
You, with some strange omitted Noveltie,
Which others Letters yet have left untould,
You take me off, before I can take hould
Of you at all; I put not thus to Sea,
For two monthes Voyage to Virginia,
With newes which now, a little something here,
But will be nothing ere it can come there.

I feare, as I doe Stabbing; this word, State,
I dare not speake of the Palatinate,
Although some men make it their hourely theame,
And talke what's done in Austria, and in Beame,
I may not so; what Spinola intends,
Nor with his Dutch, which way Prince Maurice bends;
To other men, although these things be free,
Yet (George) they must be misteries to mee.

I scarce dare praise a vertuous friend that's dead,
Lest for my lines he should be censured;
It was my hap before all other men
To suffer shipwrack by my forward pen:
When King James entred; at which joyfull time
I taught his title to this Ile in rime:
And to my part did all the Muses win,
With high-pitch Pæans to applaud him in:
When cowardise had tyed up every tongue,
And all stood silent, yet for him I sung;
And when before by danger I was dar'd,
I kick'd her from me, nor a jot I spar'd.
Yet had not my cleere spirit in Fortunes scorne,
Me above earth and her afflictions borne;
He next my God on whom I built my trust,
Had left me troden lower then the dust:
But let this passe; in the extreamest ill,

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Apollo's brood must be couragious still,
Let Pies, and Dawes, sit dumb before their death,
Onely the Swan sings at the parting breath.

And (worthy George) by industry and use,
Let's see what lines Virginia will produce;
Goe on with Ovid, as you have begunne,
With the first five Bookes; let your numbers run
Glib as the former, so shall it live long,
And doe much honour to the English tongue:
Intice the Muses thither to repaire,
Intreat them gently, trayne them to that ayre,
For they from hence may thither hap to fly,
T'wards the sad time which but to fast doth hie,
For Poesie is followed with such spight,
By groveling drones that never raught her height,
That she must hence, she may no longer staye:
The driery fates prefixed have the day,
Of her departure, which is now come on,
And they command her straight wayes to be gon;
That bestiall heard so hotly her pursue,
And to her succour, there be very few,
Nay none at all, her wrongs that will redresse,
But she must wander in the wildernesse,
Like to the woman, which that holy John
Beheld in Pathmos in his vision.

As th'English now, so did the stiff-neckt Jewes,
Their noble Prophets utterly refuse,
And of those men such poore opinions had,
They counted Esay and Ezechiel mad;
When Jeremy his Lamentations writ,
They thought the Wizard quite out of his wit,
Such sots they were, as worthily to ly,
Lock't in the chaines of their captivity,
Knowledge hath still her Eddy in her Flow,
So it hath beene, and it will still be so.

That famous Greece where learning flowrisht most,
Hath of her muses long since left to boast,
Th'unletter'd Turke, and rude Barbarian trades,

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Where Homer sang his lofty Iliads;
And this vaste volume of the world hath taught,
Much may to passe in little time be brought.

As if to Symptoms we may credit give,
This very time, wherein we two now live,
Shall in the compasse, wound the Muses more,
Then all the old English ignorance before;
Base Balatry is so belov'd and sought,
And those brave numbers are put by for naught,
Which rarely read, were able to awake,
Bodyes from graves, and to the ground to shake
The wandring clouds, and to our men at armes,
'Gainst pikes and muskets were most powerfull charmes.
That, but I know, insuing ages shall,
Raise her againe, who now is in her fall;
And out of dust reduce our scattered rimes,
Th'rejected jewels of these slothfull times,
Who with the Muses would mispend an hower,
But let blind Gothish Barbarisme devoure
These feverous Dogdays, blest by no record,
But to be everlastingly abhord.

If you vouchsafe rescription, stuffe your quill
With naturall bountyes, and impart your skill,
In the description of the place, that I,
May become learned in the soyle thereby;
Of noble Wyats health, and let me heare,
The Governour; and how our people there,
Increase and labour, what supplyes are sent,
Which I confesse shall give me much content;
But you may save your labour if you please,
To write to me ought of your Savages.
As savage slaves be in great Britaine here,
As any one that you can shew me there.
And though for this, Ile say I doe not thirst,
Yet I should like it well to be the first,
Whose numbers hence into Virginia flew,
So (noble Sandis) for this time adue.

209

TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MASTER WILLIAM BROWNE,

of the evill time.

Deare friend, be silent and with patience see,
What this mad times Catastrophe will be;
The worlds first Wisemen certainely mistooke
Themselves, and spoke things quite beside the booke,
And that which they have said of God, untrue,
Or else expect strange judgement to insue.

This Isle is a meere Bedlam, and therein,
We all lye raving, mad in every sinne,
And him the wisest most men use to call,
Who doth (alone) the maddest thing of all;
He whom the master of all wisedome found,
For a marckt foole, and so did him propound,
The time we live in, to that passe is brought,
That only he a Censor now is thought;
And that base villaine, (not an age yet gone,)
Which a good man would not have look'd upon;
Now like a God, with divine worship follow'd,
And all his actions are accounted hollow'd.

This world of ours, thus runneth upon wheeles,
Set on the head, bolt upright with her heeles;
Which makes me thinke of what the Ethnicks told,
Th'opinion, the Pythagorists uphold,
That the immortall soule doth transmigrate;

Wander from body to body.

Then I suppose by the strong power of fate,
That those which at confused Babel were,
And since that time now many a lingering yeare,
Through fools, and beasts, and lunatiques have past,
Are heere imbodyed in this age at last,
And though so long we from that time be gone,
Yet taste we still of that confusion.

For certainely there's scarse one found that now,
Knowes what t'approove, or what to disallow,
All arsey varsey, nothing is it's owne,

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But to our proverbe, all turnd upside downe;
To doe in time, is to doe out of season,
And that speeds best, thats done the farth'st from reason,
Hee's high'st that's low'st, hee's surest in that's out,
He hits the next way that goes farth'st about,
He getteth up unlike to rise at all,
He slips to ground as much unlike to fall;
Which doth inforce me partly to prefer,
The opinion of that mad Philosopher,

Zeno.

Who taught, that those all-framing powers above,
(As tis suppos'd) made man not out of love
To him at all, but only as a thing,
To make them sport with, which they use to bring
As men doe munkeys, puppets, and such tooles
Of laughter: so men are but the Gods fooles.
Such are by titles lifted to the sky,
As wherefore no man knowes, God scarcely why;
The vertuous man depressed like a stone
For that dull Sot to raise himselfe upon;
He who ne're thing yet worthy man durst doe,
Never durst looke upon his countreys foe,
Nor durst attempt that action which might get
Him fame with men: or higher might him set
Then the base begger (rightly if compar'd;)
This Drone yet never brave attempt that dar'd,
Yet dares be knighted, and from thence dares grow
To any title Empire can bestow;
For this beleeve, that Impudence is now
A Cardinall vertue, and men it allow
Reverence, nay more, men study and invent
New wayes, nay, glory to be impudent.

Into the clouds the Devill lately got,
And by the moisture doubting much the rot,
A medicine tooke to make him purge and cast;
Which in short time began to worke so fast,
That he fell too't, and from his backeside flew,
A rout of rascall a rude ribauld crew
Of base Plebeians, which no sooner light,

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Upon the earth, but with a suddaine flight,
They spread this Ile, and as Deucalion once
Over his shoulder backe, by throwing stones
They became men, even so these beasts became,
Owners of titles from an obscure name.

He that by riot, of a mighty rent,
Hath his late goodly Patrimony spent,
And into base and wilfull beggery run
This man as he some glorious act had done,
With some great pension, or rich guift releev'd,
When he that hath by industry atchiev'd
Some noble thing, contemned and disgrac'd,
In the forlorne hope of the times is plac'd,
As though that God had carelessly left all
That being hath on this terrestiall ball,
To fortunes guiding, nor would have to doe
With man, nor ought that doth belong him to,
Or at the least God having given more
Power to the Devill, then he did of yore,
Over this world: the feind as he doth hate
The vertuous man; maligning his estate,
All noble things, and would have by his will,
To be damn'd with him, using all his skill,
By his blacke hellish ministers to vexe
All worthy men, and strangely to perplexe
Their constancie, there by them so to fright,
That they should yeeld them wholely to his might.
But of these things I vainely doe but tell,
Where hell is heaven, and heav'n is now turn'd hell;
Where that which lately blasphemy hath bin,
Now godlinesse, much lesse accounted sin;
And a long while I greatly mervail'd why
Buffoons and Bawdes should hourely multiply,
Till that of late I construed it, that they
To present thrift had got the perfect way,
When I concluded by their odious crimes,
It was for us no thriving in these times.

As men oft laugh at little Babes, when they

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Hap to behold some strange thing in their play,
To see them on the suddaine strucken sad,
As in their fancie some strange formes they had,
Which they by pointing with their fingers showe,
Angry at our capacities so slowe,
That by their countenance we no sooner learne
To see the wonder which they so discerne:
So the celestiall powers doe sit and smile
At innocent and vertuous men the while,
They stand amazed at the world ore-gone,
So farre beyond imagination,
With slavish basenesse, that they silent sit
Pointing like children in describing it.

Then noble friend the next way to controule
These worldly crosses, is to arme thy soule
With constant patience: and with thoughts as high
As these belowe, and poore, winged to flye
To that exalted stand, whether yet they
Are got with paine, that sit out of the way
Of this ignoble age, which raiseth none
But such as thinke their black damnation
To be a trifle; such, so ill, that when
They are advanc'd, those fewe poore honest men
That yet are living, into search doe runne
To finde what mischiefe they have lately done,
Which so preferres them; say thou he doth rise,
That maketh vertue his chiefe excercise.
And in this base world come what ever shall,
Hees worth lamenting, that for her doth fall.

213

UPON THE THREE SONNES OF THE LORD SHEFFIELD,

drowned in Humber.

Light Sonnets hence, and to loose Lovers flie,
And mournfull Maydens sing an Elegie
On those three Sheffields, over-whelm'd with waves,
Whose losse the teares of all the Muses craves;
A thing so full of pitty as this was,
Me thinkes for nothing should not slightly passe.
Treble this losse was, why should it not borrowe,
Through this Iles treble parts, a treble sorrowe:
But Fate did this, to let the world to knowe,
That sorrowes which from common causes growe,
Are not worth mourning for, the losse to beare,
But of one onely sonne, 's not worth one teare.
Some tender hearted man, as I, may spend
Some drops (perhaps) for a deceased friend.
Some men (perhaps) their Wifes late death may rue;
Or Wifes their Husbands, but such be but fewe.
Cares that have us'd the hearts of men to tuch
So oft, and deepely, will not now be such;
Who'll care for losse of maintenance, or place,
Fame, liberty, or of the Princes grace;
Or sutes in law, by base corruption crost,
When he shall finde, that this which he hath lost;
Alas, is nothing to his, which did lose,
Three sonnes at once so excellent as those:
Nay, it is feard that this in time may breed
Hard hearts in men to their owne naturall seed;
That in respect of this great losse of theirs,
Men will scarce mourne the death of their owne heires.

Through all this Ile their losse so publique is,
That every man doth take them to be his,
And as a plague which had beginning there,
So catching is, and raigning every where,
That those the farthest off as much doe rue them,

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As those the most familiarly that knew them;
Children with this disaster are wext sage,
And like to men that strucken are in age;
Talke what it is, three children at one time
Thus to have drown'd, and in their very prime;
Yea, and doe learne to act the same so well,
That then olde folke, they better can it tell.

Invention, oft that Passion us'd to faine,
In sorrowes of themselves but slight, and meane,
To make them seeme great, here it shall not need,
For that this Subject doth so farre exceed
All forc'd Expression, that what Poesie shall
Happily thinke to grace it selfe withall,
Falls so belowe it, that it rather borrowes
Grace from their griefe, then addeth to their sorrowes,
For sad mischance thus in the losse of three,
To shewe it selfe the utmost it could bee:
Exacting also by the selfe same lawe,
The utmost teares that sorrowe had to drawe,
All future times hath utterly prevented
Of a more losse, or more to be lamented.

Whilst in faire youth they lively flourish'd here,
To their kinde Parents they were onely deere:
But being dead, now every one doth take
Them for their owne, and doe like sorrowe make:
As for their owne begot, as they pretended
Hope in the issue, which should have discended
From them againe; nor here doth end our sorrow,
But those of us, that shall be borne to morrowe
Still shall lament them, and when time shall count,
To what vast number passed yeares shall mount,
They from their death shall duly reckon so,
As from the Deluge, former us'd to doe.

O cruell Humber guilty of their gore,
I now beleeve more then I did before,
The Brittish Story, whence thy name begun
Of Kingly Humber, an invading Hun,
By thee devoured, for't is likely thou

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With bloud wert Christned, bloud-thirsty till now.
The Ouse, the Done, and thou farre clearer Trent,
To drowne these Sheffields as you gave consent,
Shall curse the time, that ere you were infus'd,
Which have your waters basely thus abus'd.
The groveling Boore yee hinder not to goe,
And at his pleasure Ferry to and fro,
The very best part of whose soule, and bloud,
Compared with theirs, is viler then your mud.

But wherefore paper, doe I idely spend,
On those deafe waters to so little end,
And up to starry heaven doe I not looke,
In which, as in an everlasting booke,
Our ends are written, O let times rehearse
Their fatall losse, in their sad Aniverse.

216

TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY I. S.

of worldly crosses.

Madame, to shew the smoothnesse of my vaine,
Neither that I would have you entertaine
The time in reading me, which you would spend
In faire discourse with some knowne honest friend,
I write not to you. Nay, and which is more,
My powerfull verses strive not to restore,
What time and sicknesse have in you impair'd,
To other ends my Elegie is squar'd.

Your beauty, sweetnesse, and your gracefull parts
That have drawne many eyes, wonne many hearts,
Of me get little, I am so much man,
That let them doe their utmost that they can,
I will resist their forces: and they be
Though great to others, yet not so to me.
The first time I beheld you, I then sawe
That (in it selfe) which had the power to drawe
My stay'd affection, and thought to allowe
You some deale of my heart; but you have now
Got farre into it, and you have the skill
(For ought I see) to winne upon me still.

When I doe thinke how bravely you have borne
Your many crosses, as in Fortunes scorne,
And how neglectfull you have seem'd to be,
Of that which hath seem'd terrible to me,
I thought you stupid, nor that you had felt
Those griefes which (often) I have seene to melt,
Another woman into sighes and teares,
A thing but seldome in your sexe and yeares,
But when in you I have perceiv'd agen,
(Noted by me, more then by other men)
How feeling and how sensible you are
Of your friends sorrowes, and with how much care
You seeke to cure them, then my selfe I blame,
That I your patience should so much misname,

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Which to my understanding maketh knowne
“Who feeles anothers griefe, can feele their owne.
When straight me thinkes, I heare your patience say,
Are you the man that studied Seneca:
Plinies most learned letters; and must I
Read you a Lecture in Philosophie,
T'avoid the afflictions that have us'd to reach you;
I'le learne you more, Sir, then your bookes can teach you.

Of all your sex, yet never did I knowe,
Any that yet so actually could showe
Such rules for patience, such an easie way,
That who so sees it shall be forc'd to say,
Loe what before seem'd hard to be discern'd,
Is of this Lady, in an instant learn'd.
It is heavens will that you should wronged be
By the malicious, that the world might see
Your Dove-like meekenesse; for had the base scumme,
The spawne of Fiends, beene in your slander dumbe,
Your vertue then had perish'd, never priz'd,
For that the same you had not exercis'd;
And you had lost the Crowne you have, and glory,
Nor had you beene the subject of my Story.
Whilst they feele Hell, being damned in their hate,
Their thoughts, like Devils them excruciate,
Which by your noble suffrings doe torment
Them with new paines, and gives you this content
To see your soule an Innocent, hath suffred,
And up to heaven before your eyes be offred:
Your like we in a burning Glasse may see,
When the Sunnes rayes therein contracted be
Bent on some object, which is purely white,
We finde that colour doth dispierce the light,
And stands untainted: but if it hath got
Some little sully; or the least small spot,
Then it soone fiers it; so you still remaine
Free, because in you they can finde no staine.

God doth not love them least, on whom he layes
The great'st afflictions; but that he will praise

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Himselfe most in them, and will make them fit,
Near'st to himselfe who is the Lambe to sit:
For by that touch, like perfect gold he tries them,
Who are not his, untill the world denies them.
And your example may worke such effect,
That it may be the beginning of a Sect
Of patient women; and that many a day
All Husbands may for you their Founder pray.

Nor is to me your Innocence the lesse,
In that I see you strive not to suppresse
Their barbarous malice; but your noble heart
Prepar'd to act so difficult a part,
With unremoved constancie is still
The same it was, that of your proper ill,
The effect proceeds from your owne selfe the cause,
Like some just Prince, who to establish lawes,
Suffers the breach at his best lov'd to strike,
To learne the vulgar to endure the like.
You are a Martir thus, nor can you be
Lesse to the world so valued by me:
If as you have begun, you still persever,
Be ever good, that I may love you ever.

219

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY PENELOPE CLIFTON.

Must I needes write, who's he that can refuse,
He wants a minde, for her that hath no Muse,
The thought of her doth heav'nly rage inspire,
Next powerfull, to those cloven tongues of fire.

Since I knew ought time never did allowe
Me stuffe fit for an Elegie, till now;
When France and England's Henrie's dy'd, my quill,
Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.
'Tis more then greatnesse that my spirit must raise,
To observe custome I use not to praise;
Nor the least thought of mine yet ere depended,
On any one from whom she was descended;
That for their favour I this way should wooe,
As some poore wretched things (perhaps) may doe;
I gaine the end, whereat I onely ayme,
If by my freedome I may give her fame.

Walking then forth being newly up from bed,
O Sir (quoth one) the Lady Clifton's dead.
When, but that reason my sterne rage withstood,
My hand had sure beene guilty of his blood.
If shee be so, must thy rude tongue confesse it
(Quoth I) and com'st so coldly to expresse it.
Thou shouldst have given a shreeke, to make me feare thee;
That might have slaine what ever had beene neere thee.
Thou shouldst have com'n like Time with thy scalpe bare,
And in thy hands thou shouldst have brought thy haire,
Casting upon me such a dreadfull looke,
As seene a spirit, or th'adst beene thunder strooke,
And gazing on me so a little space,
Thou shouldst have shot thine eye balls in my face,
Then falling at my feet, thou shouldst have said,
O she is gone, and Nature with her dead.

With this ill newes amaz'd by chance I past,
By that neere Grove, whereas both first and last,

220

I saw her, not three moneths before shee di'd.
When (though full Summer gan to vaile her pride,
And that I sawe men leade home ripened Corne,
Besides advis'd me well,) I durst have sworne
The lingring yeare, the Autumne had adjourn'd,
And the fresh Spring had beene againe return'd,
Her delicacie, lovelinesse, and grace,
With such a Summer bravery deckt the place:
But now alas, it lookt forlorne and dead;
And where she stood, the fading leaves were shed,
Presenting onely sorrowe to my sight,
O God (thought I) this is her Embleme right.

And sure I thinke it cannot but be thought,
That I to her by providence was brought.
For that the Fates fore-dooming, shee should die,
Shewed me this wondrous Master peece, that I
Should sing her Funerall, that the world should know it,
That heaven did thinke her worthy of a Poet;
My hand is fatall, nor doth fortune doubt,
For what it writes, not fire shall ere race out.
A thousand silken Puppets should have died,
And in their fulsome Coffins putrified,
Ere in my lines, you of their names should heare
To tell the world that such there ever were,
Whose memory shall from the earth decay,
Before those Rags be worne they gave away.
Had I her god-like features never seene,
Poore sleight Report had tolde me she had beene
A hansome Lady, comely, very well,
And so might I have died an Infidell,
As many doe which never did her see,
Or cannot credit, what she was, by mee.

Nature, her selfe, that before Art prefers
To goe beyond all our Cosmographers,
By Charts and Maps exactly that have showne,
All of this earth that ever can be knowne,
For that she would beyond them all descrie
What Art could not, by any mortall eye;

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A Map of heaven in her rare features drue,
And that she did so lively and so true,
That any soule but seeing it, might sweare
That all was perfect heavenly that was there.
If ever any Painter were so blest,
To drawe that face, which so much heav'n exprest,
If in his best of skill he did her right,
I wish it never may come in my sight,
I greatly doubt my faith (weake man) lest I
Should to that face commit Idolatry.

Death might have tyth'd her sex, but for this one,
Nay, have ta'n halfe to have let her alone;
Such as their wrinkled temples to supply,
Cyment them up with sluttish Mercury,
Such as undrest were able to affright,
A valiant man approching him by night;
Death might have taken such, her end deferd,
Untill the time she had beene climaterd;
When she would have bin at threescore yeares and three,
Such as our best at three and twenty be,
With envie then, he might have overthrowne her,
When age nor time had power to sease upon her.

But when the unpittying Fates her end decreed,
They to the same did instantly proceed,
For well they knew (if she had languish'd so)
As those which hence by naturall causes goe,
So many prayers, and teares for her had spoken,
As certainly their Iron lawes had broken,
And had wak'd heav'n, who clearely would have show'd
That change of Kingdomes to her death it ow'd;
And that the world still of her end might thinke,
It would have let some Neighbouring mountaine sinke,
Or the vast Sea it in on us to cast,
As Severne did about some five yeares past:
Or some sterne Comet his curld top to reare,
Whose length should measure halfe our Hemisphere.
Holding this height, to say some will not sticke,
That now I rave, and am growne lunatique:

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You of what sexe so ere you be, you lye,
'Tis thou thy selfe is lunatique, not I.

I charge you in her name that now is gone,
That may conjure you, if you be not stone,
That you no harsh, nor shallow rimes decline,
Upon that day wherein you shall read mine.
Such as indeed are falsely termed verse,
And will but sit like mothes upon her herse;
Nor that no child, nor chambermaide, nor page,
Disturbe the Rome, the whilst my sacred rage,
In reading is; but whilst you heare it read,
Suppose, before you, that you see her dead,
The walls about you hung with mournfull blacke,
And nothing of her funerall to lacke,
And when this period gives you leave to pause,
Cast up your eyes, and sigh for my applause.

223

UPON THE NOBLE LADY ASTONS DEPARTURE FOR SPAINE.

I many a time have greatly marveil'd, why
Men say, their friends depart when as they die,
How well that word, a dying, doth expresse,
I did not know (I truely must confesse,)
Till her departure, for whose missed sight,
I am enforc'd this Elegy to write:
But since resistlesse fate will have it so,
That she from hence must to Iberia goe,
And my weake wishes can her not detaine,
I will of heaven in policy complaine,
That it so long her travell should adjourne,
Hoping thereby to hasten her returne.

Can those of Norway for their wage procure,

The witches of the Northerly legions sell windes to passengers.

By their blacke spells a winde that shall endure
Till from aboard the wished land men see,
And fetch the harbour, where they long to be,
Can they by charmes doe this, and cannot I
Who am the Priest of Phæbus, and so hie,
Sit in his favour, winne the Poets god,
To send swift Hermes with his snaky rod,
To Æolus Cave, commanding him with care,
His prosperous winds, that he for her prepare,
And from that howre, wherein she takes the seas,
Nature bring on the quiet Halcion dayes,
And in that hower that bird begin her nest,
Nay at that very instant, that long rest
May seize on Neptune, who may still repose,
And let that bird nere till that hower disclose,
Wherein she landeth, and for all that space
Be not a wrinkle seene on Thetis face,
Onely so much breath with a gentle gale,
As by the easy swelling of her saile,
May at

The nearest Harbour of Spaine.

Sebastians safely set her downe
Where, with her goodnes she may blesse the towne.

224

If heaven in justice would have plagu'd by thee
Some Pirate, and grimme Neptune thou should'st be
His Executioner, or what is his worse,
The gripple Merchant, borne to be the curse
Of this brave Iland; let them for her sake,
Who to thy safeguard doth her selfe betake,
Escape undrown'd, unwrackt, nay rather let
Them be at ease in some safe harbour set,
Where with much profit they may vent their wealth
That they have got by villany and stealth,
Rather great Neptune, then when thou dost rave,
Thou once shouldst wet her saile but with a wave.

Or if some proling Rover shall but dare,
To seize the ship wherein she is to fare,
Let the fell fishes of the Maine appeare,
And tell those Sea-thiefes, that once such they were
As they are now, till they assaid to rape;
Grape-crowned Bacchus in a striplings shape,
That came aboard them, and would faine have saild,
To vine-spread

An Ile for the abundance of wine supposed to be the habitation of Bachus

Naxus, but that him they faild,
Which he perceiving, them so monstrous made,
And warne them how, they passengers invade.

Ye South and Westerne winds now cease to blow,
Autumne is come, there be no flowers to grow,
Yea from that place respire, to which she goes,
And to her sailes should show your selfe but foes,
But Boreas and yee Esterne windes arise,
To send her soon to Spaine, but be precise,
That in your aide you seeme not still so sterne,
As we a Summer should no more discerne,
For till that here againe, I may her see,
It will be winter all the yeare with me.

Castor and Polox begot by Jove on Leda in the forme of a Swanne. A constellation ominous to Mariners.

Yee swanne-begotten lovely brother stars,
So oft auspicious to poore Mariners,
Yee twin-bred lights of lovely Leda's brood,
Joves egge-borne issue smile upon the flood,
And in your mild'st aspect doe ye appeare
To be her warrant from all future feare.

225

And if thou ship that bear'st her, doe prove good,
May never time by wormes, consume thy wood
Nor rust thy iron, may thy tacklings last,
Till they for reliques be in temples plac't:
Maist thou be ranged with that mighty Arke,
Wherein just Noah did all the world imbarque,
With that which after Troyes so famous wracke,
From ten yeares travell brought Ulisses backe,
That Argo which to Colchos went from Greece,
And in her botome brought the goulden fleece
Under brave Jason; or that same of Drake,
Wherein he did his famous voyage make
About the world; or Candishes that went
As far as his, about the Continent.

And yee milde winds that now I doe implore,
Not once to raise the least sand on the shore,
Nor once on forfeit of your selves respire:
When once the time is come of her retire,
If then it please you, but to doe your due,
What for those windes I did, Ile doe for you;
Ile wooe you then, and if that not suffice,
My pen shall proove you to have dietyes,
Ile sing your loves in verses that shall flow,
And tell the storyes of your weale and woe,
Ile proove what profit to the earth you bring,
And how t'is you that welcome in the spring;
Ile raise up altars to you, as to show,
The time shall be kept holy, when you blow.
O blessed winds! your will that it may be,
To send health to her, and her home to me.

226

TO MY MOST DEARELY-LOVED FRIEND HENERY REYNOLDS ESQUIRE,

of Poets and Poesie.

My dearely loved friend how oft have we,
In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)
To some well chosen place us'd to retire;
And there with moderate meate, and wine, and fire,
Have past the howres contentedly with chat,
Now talk'd of this, and then discours'd of that,
Spoke our owne verses 'twixt our selves, if not
Other mens lines, which we by chance had got,
Or some Stage pieces famous long before,
Of which your happy memory had store;
And I remember you much pleased were,
Of those who lived long agoe to heare,
As well as of those, of these latter times,
Who have inricht our language with their rimes,
And in succession, how still up they grew,
Which is the subject, that I now pursue;
For from my cradle (you must know that) I,
Was still inclin'd to noble Poesie,
And when that once Pueriles I had read,
And newly had my Cato construed,
In my small selfe I greatly marveil'd then,
Amongst all other, what strange kinde of men
These Poets were; And pleased with the name,
To my milde Tutor merrily I came,
(For I was then a proper goodly page,
Much like a Pigmy, scarse ten yeares of age)
Clasping my slender armes about his thigh.
O my deare master! cannot you (quoth I)
Make me a Poet, doe it; if you can,
And you shall see, Ile quickly be a man,
Who me thus answered smiling, boy quoth he,
If you'le not play the wag, but I may see

227

You ply your learning, I will shortly read
Some Poets to you; Phæbus be my speed,
Too't hard went I, when shortly he began,
And first read to me honest Mantuan,
Then Virgils Eglogues, being entred thus,
Me thought I straight had mounted Pegasus,
And in his full Careere could make him stop,
And bound upon Parnassus by-clift top.
I scornd your ballet then though it were done
And had for Finis, William Elderton.
But soft, in sporting with this childish jest,
I from my subject have too long digrest,
Then to the matter that we tooke in hand,
Jove and Apollo for the Muses stand.

That noble Chaucer, in those former times,
The first inrich'd our English with his rimes,
And was the first of ours, that ever brake,
Into the Muses treasure, and first spake
In weighty numbers, delving in the Mine
Of perfect knowledge, which he could refine,
And coyne for currant, and asmuch as then
The English language could expresse to men,
He made it doe; and by his wondrous skill,
Gave us much light from his abundant quill.

And honest Gower, who in respect of him,
Had only sipt at Aganippas brimme,
And though in yeares this last was him before,
Yet fell he far short of the others store.

When after those, foure ages very neare,
They with the Muses which conversed, were
That Princely Surrey, early in the time
Of the Eight Henry, who was then the prime
Of Englands noble youth; with him there came
Wyat; with reverence whom we still doe name
Amongst our Poets, Brian had a share
With the two former, which accompted are
That times best makers, and the authors were
Of those small poems, which the title beare,

228

Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hit
On many dainty passages of wit.

Gascoine and Churchyard after them againe
In the beginning of Eliza's raine,
Accoumpted were great Meterers many a day,
But not inspired with brave fier, had they
Liv'd but a little longer, they had seene,
Their workes before them to have buried beene.

Grave morrall Spencer after these came on
Then whom I am perswaded there was none
Since the blind Bard his Iliads up did make,
Fitter a taske like that to undertake,
To set downe boldly, bravely to invent,
In all high knowledge, surely excellent.

The noble Sidney, with this last arose,
That Heroe for numbers, and for Prose.
That throughly pac'd our language as to show,
The plenteous English hand in hand might goe
With Greeke and Latine, and did first reduce
Our tongue from Lillies writing then in use;
Talking of Stones, Stars, Plants, of fishes, Flyes,
Playing with words, and idle Similies,
As th'English, Apes and very Zanies be
Of every thing, that they doe heare and see,
So imitating his ridiculous tricks,
They spake and writ, all like meere lunatiques.

Then Warner though his lines were not so trim'd,
Nor yet his Poem so exactly lim'd
And neatly joynted, but the Criticke may
Easily reproove him, yet thus let me say;
For my old friend, some passages there be
In him, which I protest have taken me,
With almost wonder, so fine, cleere, and new
As yet they have bin equalled by few.

Neat Marlow bathed in the Thespian springs
Had in him those brave translunary things,
That the first Poets had, his raptures were,
All ayre, and fire, which made his verses cleere,

229

For that fine madnes still he did retaine,
Which rightly should possesse a Poets braine.

And surely Nashe, though he a Proser were
A branch of Lawrell yet deserves to beare,
Sharply Satirick was he, and that way
He went, since that his being, to this day
Few have attempted, and I surely thinke
Those words shall hardly be set downe with inke;
Shall scorch and blast, so as his could, where he,
Would inflict vengeance, and be it said of thee,
Shakespeare thou hadst as smooth a Comicke vaine,
Fitting the socke, and in thy naturall braine,
As strong conception, and as Cleere a rage,
As any one that trafiqu'd with the stage.

Amongst these Samuel Daniel, whom if I
May spake of, but to sensure doe denie,
Onely have heard some wisemen him rehearse,
To be too much Historian in verse;
His rimes were smooth, his meeters well did close,
But yet his maner better fitted prose:
Next these, learn'd Johnson, in this List I bring,
Who had drunke deepe of the Pierian spring,
Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer,
And long was Lord here of the Theater,
Who in opinion made our learn'st to sticke,
Whether in Poems rightly dramatique,
Strong Seneca or Plautus, he or they,
Should beare the Buskin, or the Socke away.
Others againe here lived in my dayes,
That have of us deserved no lesse praise
For their translations, then the daintiest wit
That on Parnassus thinks, he highst doth sit,
And for a chaire may mongst the Muses call,
As the most curious maker of them all;
As reverent Chapman, who hath brought to us,
Musæus, Homer, and Hesiodus
Out of the Greeke; and by his skill hath reard
Them to that height, and to our tongue endear'd,

230

That were those Poets at this day alive,
To see their bookes thus with us to survive,
They would think, having neglected them so long,
They had bin written in the English tongue.

And Silvester who from the French more weake,
Made Bartas of his sixe dayes labour speake
In naturall English, who, had he there stayd,
He had done well, and never had bewraid,
His owne invention, to have bin so poore
Who still wrote lesse, in striving to write more.

Then dainty Sands that hath to English done,
Smooth sliding Ovid, and hath made him run
With so much sweetnesse and unusuall grace,
As though the neatnesse of the English pace,
Should tell the Jetting Lattine that it came
But slowly after, as though stiffe and lame.

So Scotland sent us hither, for our owne
That man, whose name I ever would have knowne,
To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight,
My Alexander, to whom in his right,
I want extreamely, yet in speaking thus
I doe but shew the love, that was twixt us,
And not his numbers which were brave and hie,
So like his mind, was his cleare Poesie,
And my deare Drummond to whom much I owe
For his much love, and proud I was to know,
His poesie, for which two worthy men,
I Menstry still shall love, and Hauthorne-den,
Then the two Beamounts and my Browne arose,
My deare companions whom I freely chose
My bosome friends; and in their severall wayes,
Rightly borne Poets, and in these last dayes,
Men of much note, and no lesse nobler parts,
Such as have freely tould to me their hearts,
As I have mine to them; but if you shall
Say in your knowledge, that these be not all
Have writ in numbers, be inform'd that I
Only my selfe, to these few men doe tye,

231

Whose workes oft printed, set on every post,
To publique censure subject have bin most;
For such whose poems, be they nere so rare,
In private chambers, that incloistered are,
And by transcription daintyly must goe;
As though the world unworthy were to know,
Their rich composures, let those men that keepe
These wonderous reliques in their judgement deepe,
And cry them up so, let such Peeces bee
Spoke of by those that shall come after me,
I passe not for them: nor doe meane to run,
In quest of these, that them applause have wonne,
Upon our Stages in these latter dayes,
That are so many, let them have ther bayes
That doe deserve it; let those wits that haunt
Those publique circuits, let them freely chaunt
Their fine Composures, and their praise pursue,
And so my deare friend, for this time adue.

232

UPON THE DEATH OF HIS INCOMPARABLE FRIEND, SIR HENRY RAYNSFORD

of Clifford.

Could there be words found to expresse my losse,
There were some hope, that this my heavy crosse
Might be sustained, and that wretched I
Might once finde comfort: but to have him die
Past all degrees that was so deare to me;
As but comparing him with others, hee
Was such a thing, as if some Power should say
I'le take Man on me, to shew men the way
What a friend should be. But words come so short
Of him, that when I thus would him report,
I am undone, and having nought to say,
Mad at my selfe, I throwe my penne away,
And beate my breast, that there should be a woe
So high, that words cannot attaine thereto.
T'is strange that I from my abundant breast,
Who others sorrowes have so well exprest:
Yet I by this in little time am growne
So poore, that I want to expresse my owne.

I thinke the Fates perceiving me to beare
My worldly crosses without wit or feare:
Nay, with what scorne I ever have derided,
Those plagues that for me they have oft provided,
Drew them to counsaile; nay, conspired rather,
And in this businesse laid their heads together
To finde some one plague, that might me subvert,
And at an instant breake my stubborne heart;
They did indeede, and onely to this end
They tooke from me this more then man, or friend.

Hard-hearted Fates, your worst thus have you done,
Then let us see what lastly you have wonne
By this your rigour, in a course so strict,
Why see, I beare all that you can inflict:

233

And hee from heaven your poore revenge to view;
Laments my losse of him, but laughes at you,
Whilst I against you execrations breath;
Thus are you scorn'd above, and curst beneath.

Me thinks that man (unhappy though he be)
Is now thrice happy in respect of me,
Who hath no friend; for that in having none
He is not stirr'd as I am, to bemone
My miserable losse, who but in vaine,
May ever looke to finde the like againe.
This more then mine owne selfe; that who had seene
His care of me where ever I have beene,
And had not knowne his active spirit before,
Upon some brave thing working evermore:
He would have sworne that to no other end
He had beene borne: but onely for my friend.

I had beene happy, if nice Nature had
(Since now my lucke falls out to be so bad)
Made me unperfect, either of so soft
And yeelding temper, that lamenting oft,
I into teares my mournefull selfe might melt;
Or else so dull, my losse not to have felt.
I have by my too deere experience bought,
That fooles and mad men, whom I ever thought
The most unhappy, are in deede not so:
And therefore I lesse pittie can bestowe
(Since that my sence, my sorrowe so can sound)
On those I see in Bedlam that are bound,
And scarce feele scourging; and when as I meete
A foole by Children followed in the Streete,
Thinke I (poore wretch) thou from my griefe art free,
Nor couldst thou feele it, should it light on thee;
But that I am a Christian, and am taught
By him who with his precious bloud me bought,
Meekly like him my crosses to endure,
Else would they please me well, that for their cure,
When as they feele their conscience doth them brand,
Upon themselves dare lay a violent hand;

234

Not suffering Fortune with her murdering knife,
Stand like a Surgeon working on the life,
Desecting this part, that joynt off to cut,
Shewing that Artire, ripping then that gut,
Whilst the dull beastly World with her squint eye,
Is to behold the strange Anatomie.

I am perswaded that those which we read
To be man-haters, were not so indeed,
The Athenian Timon, and beside him more
Of which the Latines, as the Greekes have store;
Nor not they did all humane manners hate,
Nor yet maligne mans dignity and state.
But finding our fraile life how every day,
It like a bubble vanisheth away:
For this condition did mankinde detest,
Farre more incertaine then that of the beast.

Sure heaven doth hate this world and deadly too,
Else as it hath done it would never doe,
For if it did not, it would ne're permit
A man of so much vertue, knowledge, wit,
Of naturall goodnesse, supernaturall grace,
Whose courses when considerately I trace
Into their ends, and diligently looke,
They serve me for Oeconomike booke,
By which this rough world I not onely stemme,
In goodnesse but growe learn'd by reading them.

O pardon me, it my much sorrow is,
Which makes me use this long Parenthesis;
Had heaven this world not hated as I say,
In height of life it had not, tane away
A spirit so brave, so active, and so free,
That such a one who would not wish to bee,
Rather then weare a Crowne, by Armes though got,
So fast a friend, so true a Patriot.
In things concerning both the worlds so wise,
Besides so liberall of his faculties,
That where he would his industrie bestowe,
He would have done, e're one could think to doe.

235

No more talke of the working of the Starres,
For plenty, scarcenesse, or for peace, or Warres.
They are impostures, therefore get you hence
With all your Planets, and their influence.
No more doe I care into them to looke,
Then in some idle Chiromantick booke,
Shewing the line of life, and Venus mount,
Nor yet no more would I of them account,
Then what that tells me, since that what so ere
Might promise man long life: of care and feare,
By nature freed, a conscience cleere, and quiet,
His health, his constitution, and his diet;
Counting a hundred, fourescore at the least,
Propt up by prayers, yet more to be encreast,
All these should faile, and in his fiftieth yeare
He should expire, henceforth let none be deare,
To me at all, lest for my haplesse sake,
Before their time heaven from the world them take,
And leave me wretched to lament their ends
As I doe his, who was a thousand friends.

236

UPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY OLIVE STANHOPE.

Canst thou depart and be forgotten so,
Stanhope thou canst not, no deare Stanhope, no:
But in despight of death the world shall see,
That Muse which so much graced was by thee;
Can black Oblivion utterly out-brave,
And set thee up above thy silent Grave.

I mervail'd much the Derbian Nimphes were dumbe,
Or of those Muses, what should be become,
That of all those, the mountaines there among,
Not one this while thy Epicedium sung;
But so it is, when they of thee were reft,
They all those hills, and all those Rivers left,
And sullen growne, their former seates remove,
Both from cleare Darwin, and from silver Dove,
And for thy losse, they greeved are so sore,
That they have vow'd they will come there no more;
But leave thy losse to me, that I should rue thee,
Unhappy man, and yet I never knew thee:
Me thou didst love unseene, so did I thee,
It was our spirits that lov'd then and not wee;
Therefore without profanenesse I may call
The love betwixt us, love spirituall:
But that which thou affectedst was so true,
As that thereby thee perfectly I knew;
And now that spirit, which thou so lov'dst, still mine,
Shall offer this a Sacrifice to thine,
And reare this Trophe, which for thee shall last,
When this most beastly Iron age is past;
I am perswaded, whilst we two have slept,
Our soules have met, and to each other wept;
That destenie so strongly should forbid,
Our bodies to converse as oft they did:
For certainly refined spirits doe know,
As doe the Angels, and doe here belowe

237

Take the fruition of that endlesse blisse,
As those above doe, and what each one is,
They see divinely, and as those there doe,
They know each others wills, so soules can too.

About that dismall time, thy spirit hence flew,
Mine much was troubled, but why, I not knew,
In dull and sleepy sounds, it often left me,
As of it selfe it ment to have bereft me,
I ask'd it what the cause was, of such woe,
Or what it might be, that might vexe it so,
But it was deafe, nor my demand would here,
But when that ill newes came, to touch mine eare,
I straightwayes found this watchfull sperit of mine,
Troubled had bin to take its leave of thine,
For when fate found, what nature late had done,
How much from heaven, she for the earth had won
By thy deare birth; said, that it could not be
In so yong yeares, what it perceiv'd in thee,
But nature sure, had fram'd thee long before;
And as Rich Misers of their mighty store,
Keepe the most precious longst, so from times past,
She onely had reservd thee till the last;
So did thy wisedome, not thy youth behold,
And tooke thee hence, in thinking thou wast old.
Thy shape and beauty often have to me
Bin highly praysed, which I thought might be,
Truely reported, for a spirit so brave,
Which heaven to thee so bountifully gave;
Nature could not in recompence againe,
In some rich lodging but to entertaine.
Let not the world report then, that the Peake,
Is but a rude place only vast and bleake,
And nothing hath to boast of but her Lead,
When she can say that happily she bred
Thee, and when she shall of her wonders tell
Wherein she doth all other Tracts excell,
Let her account thee greatst, and still to time
Of all the rest, record thee for the prime.

238

TO MASTER WILLIAM JEFFREYS,

Chaplaine to the Lord Ambassadour in Spaine.

My noble friend, you challenge me to write
To you in verse, and often you recite,
My promise to you, and to send you newes;
As 'tis a thing I very seldome use,
And I must write of State, if to Madrid,
A thing our Proclamations here forbid,
And that word State such Latitude doth beare,
As it may make me very well to feare
To write, nay speake at all, these let you know
Your power on me, yet not that I will showe
The love I beare you, in that lofty height,
So cleere expression, or such words of weight,
As into Spanish if they were translated,
Might make the Poets of that Realme amated;
Yet these my least were, but that you extort
These numbers from me, when I should report
In home-spunne prose, in good plaine honest words
The newes our wofull England us affords.

The Muses here sit sad, and mute the while
A sort of swine unseasonably defile
Those sacred springs, which from the by-clift hill
Dropt their pure Nectar into every quill;
In this with State, I hope I doe not deale,
This onely tends the Muses common-weale.

What canst thou hope, or looke for from his pen,
Who lives with beasts, though in the shapes of men,
And what a poore few are we honest still,
And dare to be so, when all the world is ill.

I finde this age of ours markt with this fate,
That honest men are still precipitate
Under base villaines, which till th'earth can vent
This her last brood, and wholly hath them spent,

239

Shall be so, then in revolution shall,
Vertue againe arise by vices fall;
But that shall I not see, neither will I
Maintaine this, as one doth a Prophesie,
That our King James to Rome shall surely goe,
And from his chaire the Pope shall overthrow.
But ô this world is so given up to hell,
That as the old Giants, which did once rebell,
Against the Gods, so this now-living race
Dare sin, yet stand, and Jeere heaven in the face.

But soft my Muse, and make a little stay,
Surely thou art not rightly in thy way,
To my good Jeffrayes was not I about
To write, and see, I suddainely am out,
This is pure Satire, that thou speak'st, and I
Was first in hand to write an Elegie.
To tell my countreys shame I not delight,
But doe bemoane't I am no Democrite:
O God, though Vertue mightily doe grieve
For all this world, yet will I not beleeve
But that shees faire and lovely, and that she
So to the period of the world shall be;
Else had she beene forsaken (sure) of all,
For that so many sundry mischiefes fall
Upon her dayly, and so many take
Armes up against her, as it well might make
Her to forsake her nature, and behind,
To leave no step for future time to find,
As she had never beene, for he that now
Can doe her most disgrace, him they alow
The times chiefe Champion, and he is the man,
The prize, and Palme that absolutely wanne,
For where Kings Clossets her free seat hath bin
She neere the Lodge, not suffered is to Inne,
For ignorance against her stands in state,
Like some great porter at a Pallace gate;
So dull and barbarous lately are we growne,
And there are some this slavery that have sowne,

240

That for mans knowledge it enough doth make,
If he can learne, to read an Almanacke;
By whom that trash of Amadis de Gaule,
Is held an author most authenticall,
And things we have, like Noblemen that be
In little time, which I have hope to see
Upon their foot-clothes, as the streets they ride
To have their hornebookes at their girdles ti'd,
But all their superfluity of spight
On vertues handmaid Poesy doth light,
And to extirpe her all their plots they lay,
But to her ruine they shall misse the way,
For tis alone the Monuments of wit,
Above the rage of Tyrants that doe sit,
And from their strength, not one himselfe can save,
But they shall tryumph o'r his hated grave.

In my conceipt, friend, thou didst never see
A righter Madman then thou hast of me,
For now as Elegiack I bewaile
These poore base times; then suddainely I raile
And am Satirick, not that I inforce
My selfe to be so, but even as remorse,
Or hate, in the proud fulnesse of their hight
Master my fancy, just so doe I write.

But gentle friend as soone shall I behold
That stone of which so many have us tould,
(Yet never any to this day could make)
The great Elixar, or to undertake
The Rose-crosse knowledge, which is much like that
A Tarrying-iron for fooles to labour at,
As ever after I may hope to see,
(A plague upon this beastly world for me,)
Wit so respected as it was of yore,
And if hereafter any it restore,
It must be those that yet for many a yeare,
Shall be unborne that must inhabit here,
And such in vertue as shall be asham'd
Almost to heare their ignorant Grandsires nam'd,

241

With whom so many noble spirits then liv'd,
That were by them of all reward depriv'd.

My noble friend, I would I might have quit
This age of these, and that I might have writ,
Before all other, how much the brave pen,
Had here bin honoured of the English men;
Goodnesse and knowledge, held by them in prise,
How hatefull to them Ignorance and vice,
But it falls out the contrary is true,
And so my Jeffreyes for this time adue.

242

UPON THE DEATH OF MISTRIS ELIANOR FALLOWFIELD.

Accursed Death, what neede was there at all
Of thee, or who to councell did thee call;
The subject whereupon these lines I spend
For thee was most unfit, her timelesse end
Too soone thou wroughtst, too neere her thou didst stand;
Thou shouldst have lent thy leane and meager hand
To those who oft the help thereof beseech,
And can be cured by no other Leech.

In this wide world how many thousands be,
That having past fourescore, doe call for thee.
The wretched debtor in the Jayle that lies,
Yet cannot this his Creditor suffice,
Doth woe thee oft with many a sigh and teare,
Yet thou art coy, and him thou wilt not heare.
The Captive slave that tuggeth at the Oares,
And underneath the Bulls tough sinewes rores,
Begs at thy hand, in lieu of all his paines,
That thou wouldst but release him of his chaines;
Yet thou a niggard listenest not thereto,
With one short gaspe which thou mightst easily do,
But thou couldst come to her ere there was neede,
And even at once destroy both flowre and seede.

But cruell Death if thou so barbarous be,
To those so goodly, and so young as shee;
That in their teeming thou wilt shew thy spight;
Either from marriage thou wilt Maides affright,
Or in their wedlock, Widowes lives to chuse,
Their Husbands bed, and utterly refuse,
Fearing conception; so shalt thou thereby
Extirpate mankinde by thy cruelty.

If after direfull Tragedy thou thirst,
Extinguish Himens Torches at the first;
Build Funerall pyles, and the sad pavement strewe,
With mournfull Cypresse, & the pale-leav'd Yewe.

243

Away with Roses, Myrtle, and with Bayes;
Ensignes of mirth, and jollity, as these,
Never at Nuptials used be againe,
But from the Church the new Bride entertaine
With weeping Nenias, ever and among,
As at departings be sad Requiems song.

Lucina by th'olde Poets that wert sayd,
Women in Childe-birth evermore to ayde,
Because thine Altars, long have layne neglected:
Nor as they should, thy holy fiers reflected
Upon thy Temples, therefore thou doest flye,
And wilt not helpe them in necessitie.

Thinking upon thee, I doe often muse,
Whether for thy deare sake I should accuse
Nature or Fortune, Fortune then I blame,
And doe impute it as her greatest shame,
To hast thy timelesse end, and soone agen
I vexe at Nature, nay I curse her then,
That at the time of need she was no stronger,
That we by her might have enjoy'd thee longer.

But whilst of these I with my selfe debate,
I call to minde how flinty-hearted Fate
Seaseth the olde, the young, the faire, the foule,
No thing of earth can Destinie controule:
But yet that Fate which hath of life bereft thee,
Still to eternall memory hath left thee,
Which thou enjoy'st by the deserved breath,
That many a great one hath not after death.

FINIS.