The poems of George Daniel ... From the original mss. in the British Museum: Hitherto unprinted. Edited, with introduction, notes, and illustrations, portrait, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart: In four volumes |
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 | The poems of George Daniel |  |
9
An Addresse By the Author:
not impertinent to the following Poems.
Au Lecteur.
Phancies
are but our owne; and though wee give
'Em birth, perhaps they have noe right to Live;
Why? doe wee wast our Inke and oyle, in vaine?
Wasting our Nights and Dayes in fruitles paine
To bring a Monster forth? a Prodigie?
Or strange Chimæra, of our Fantasie?
What End have wee in this? Is't not Enough
If to our Selves, wee our owne Follies know?
If wee poure out, for other Men to Eat
They'r full, as well as wee, with their owne Meat;
The World's a tottring Stage; and Mankind All
Is but one Antike Individuall;
From time to Time, the Same; noe Age can boast
The better Interlude; for what wee most
Admire, (before our Selves;) or what we lest
Can Iudge of, (After) has nor worst, nor best.
This Mockshow, this Coloss', this Maister-peice
Of Nature, (as wee call it, when wee please
Our partiall frailties) is that bruitish Thing,—
Degenerate, Foolish, giddy, wavering,
Voluptuous, Bloodie, Proud, Insatiate
Lump of Corruption,—which they wondred at
Twelve Centuries a goe; and Time shall bring
To its last point, iust such another Thing.
There is noe wonder, if within the Sphere
Of Nature, ought Irregular appeare:
Wee, are that odde Incorrigible peice
Of Error; tis within vs, the Excess,
Defect, or what wee call Deformitie
To hinder Nature's first made Harmonie.
'Em birth, perhaps they have noe right to Live;
Why? doe wee wast our Inke and oyle, in vaine?
Wasting our Nights and Dayes in fruitles paine
To bring a Monster forth? a Prodigie?
Or strange Chimæra, of our Fantasie?
What End have wee in this? Is't not Enough
If to our Selves, wee our owne Follies know?
If wee poure out, for other Men to Eat
They'r full, as well as wee, with their owne Meat;
The World's a tottring Stage; and Mankind All
Is but one Antike Individuall;
From time to Time, the Same; noe Age can boast
The better Interlude; for what wee most
Admire, (before our Selves;) or what we lest
10
This Mockshow, this Coloss', this Maister-peice
Of Nature, (as wee call it, when wee please
Our partiall frailties) is that bruitish Thing,—
Degenerate, Foolish, giddy, wavering,
Voluptuous, Bloodie, Proud, Insatiate
Lump of Corruption,—which they wondred at
Twelve Centuries a goe; and Time shall bring
To its last point, iust such another Thing.
There is noe wonder, if within the Sphere
Of Nature, ought Irregular appeare:
Wee, are that odde Incorrigible peice
Of Error; tis within vs, the Excess,
Defect, or what wee call Deformitie
To hinder Nature's first made Harmonie.
This, when I looke at, and my Atome take
(A Sand of the rude Heape,) I seeke to make
It cleane; and Softly rubbe away the Slime;
I sleeke it Faire; and weare it, for a Time
My Boast, my Iewell; or more Ideot-like
I sett it in my Cap, where all Eyes Strike
Vpon it; and I, foole, am pleas'd to heare
Them rate it high; as though this Graine did beare
Proportion to a Piramid; this, clawes
My Nature, for a while; but Time, (which drawes
All Things to Irksomenes;) brings in a packe
Of Vanities, whil'st I forgett this Knacke;
Careles, I lay it by; whil'st the rude Heape,
(Which rolleth ever) it away doth Sweepe,
Into the wombe of that insatiate Gulph
Which Lethe, some doe call.—
(A Sand of the rude Heape,) I seeke to make
It cleane; and Softly rubbe away the Slime;
I sleeke it Faire; and weare it, for a Time
My Boast, my Iewell; or more Ideot-like
I sett it in my Cap, where all Eyes Strike
Vpon it; and I, foole, am pleas'd to heare
Them rate it high; as though this Graine did beare
Proportion to a Piramid; this, clawes
My Nature, for a while; but Time, (which drawes
All Things to Irksomenes;) brings in a packe
Of Vanities, whil'st I forgett this Knacke;
Careles, I lay it by; whil'st the rude Heape,
11
Into the wombe of that insatiate Gulph
Which Lethe, some doe call.—
Then I run on, forgetting All had past;
And my poor Sand, lyes mixt, and gravell'd fast;
Chips, Strawes, and Feathers, Bulrushes, and Flowers,
Then take me vp; and make my dayes but Howers;
But as a Child,—not pleas'd with any long,—
To get a Rattle, these away are flung.
What shall I next? what next shall please my Eye;
For All is nothing, but Varietie;
Thus roll I Sisyphean Stones, and play
(Which he can never) all my time away.
And my poor Sand, lyes mixt, and gravell'd fast;
Chips, Strawes, and Feathers, Bulrushes, and Flowers,
Then take me vp; and make my dayes but Howers;
But as a Child,—not pleas'd with any long,—
To get a Rattle, these away are flung.
What shall I next? what next shall please my Eye;
For All is nothing, but Varietie;
Thus roll I Sisyphean Stones, and play
(Which he can never) all my time away.
Late by the Streame, thus did I playing Sit
With Cockle-Shells, (a Pas-time not vnfitt
To my Discretion): Some, as wise as I,
Had Shittle-cockes; (and made them finely flye)
Another sort, had Whirligigs; and Some
At Cheek-stones play'd, or Cherry-pit; of Foame
Others would blow a Sphære, from out a Shell,
And run to catch it, like a Starre when't fell;
Thus Severally; but I, as Serious
As any, to my Folly; Glorious
At each Encounter; and a Victorie
I priz'd, to all my Ioye's Monopolie;
When in the height of All, as Shells must breake,
Mine broke; and I discountenaunct, goe seeke
A fresh one on the Shore; where one I found,
And hot for the Encounter, dress it round;
I washt and Scratcht, and tooke a mightie paine
(For it was worth All that;) till not one graine
Of Sand, or Dirt, was Easy to be seene;
Not Troian Hector, in his Armour Sheene,
Appear'd more Glorious; then my Champion was
Fitt for the Lists, and I to leave the place,
Where I to such high purpose, had bene toyling;
When some kind Influence, (greived at ye oft foyling
Of weake mortalitye) told me, I tooke
Ioy, in my owne Destruction; bade me looke
To what I had bene doing; for that Mudde
I threw away, was my owne Slime; and Stood
All that remain'd, of what I valued once
My dearest Part; gather againe, what Chance
And Providence, are pleas'd to give; once more
Be thy owne Keeper; from this dismall Shore
Not many doe returne.—It ceas'd; I stood
A verie Statua, dull as my owne Mudde;
Not Flint-wrapt Niobe, more stone did rise:
My blood was Corral, and my Breath was Ice;
Extasied from all Sence, to thinke what low
Delusions drew me; and I knew not how;
For all the Sordid Follyes, which I sought
With Earnestnes, were now before me brought,
A Spectacle of Horror; I must breake
This marble of my Shame, my Shame to Speake.
With Cockle-Shells, (a Pas-time not vnfitt
To my Discretion): Some, as wise as I,
Had Shittle-cockes; (and made them finely flye)
Another sort, had Whirligigs; and Some
At Cheek-stones play'd, or Cherry-pit; of Foame
Others would blow a Sphære, from out a Shell,
And run to catch it, like a Starre when't fell;
Thus Severally; but I, as Serious
As any, to my Folly; Glorious
At each Encounter; and a Victorie
I priz'd, to all my Ioye's Monopolie;
When in the height of All, as Shells must breake,
Mine broke; and I discountenaunct, goe seeke
A fresh one on the Shore; where one I found,
12
I washt and Scratcht, and tooke a mightie paine
(For it was worth All that;) till not one graine
Of Sand, or Dirt, was Easy to be seene;
Not Troian Hector, in his Armour Sheene,
Appear'd more Glorious; then my Champion was
Fitt for the Lists, and I to leave the place,
Where I to such high purpose, had bene toyling;
When some kind Influence, (greived at ye oft foyling
Of weake mortalitye) told me, I tooke
Ioy, in my owne Destruction; bade me looke
To what I had bene doing; for that Mudde
I threw away, was my owne Slime; and Stood
All that remain'd, of what I valued once
My dearest Part; gather againe, what Chance
And Providence, are pleas'd to give; once more
Be thy owne Keeper; from this dismall Shore
Not many doe returne.—It ceas'd; I stood
A verie Statua, dull as my owne Mudde;
Not Flint-wrapt Niobe, more stone did rise:
My blood was Corral, and my Breath was Ice;
Extasied from all Sence, to thinke what low
Delusions drew me; and I knew not how;
For all the Sordid Follyes, which I sought
With Earnestnes, were now before me brought,
A Spectacle of Horror; I must breake
This marble of my Shame, my Shame to Speake.
What can I doe (Alas)? but gather in
The little Dirt, which formerly was mine;
A fixèd bodie, orient and bright;
Now a foule mixture, darke in my owne Sight;
As to my Reason, the first Chaos was.
I must goe on; Man, while he has in chase
The world, and obiects vaine, looseth himselfe;
And his poore Sand, turnes wreck't into the Shelfe
Of bruitish Appetite; the Labour's over
If from this Syrte's wee our Sand recover.
13
A fixèd bodie, orient and bright;
Now a foule mixture, darke in my owne Sight;
As to my Reason, the first Chaos was.
I must goe on; Man, while he has in chase
The world, and obiects vaine, looseth himselfe;
And his poore Sand, turnes wreck't into the Shelfe
Of bruitish Appetite; the Labour's over
If from this Syrte's wee our Sand recover.
Where am I now? enveloped as Deepe
To my owne wonder, as my Shame can creepe;
The vast Abisse of nature's vnsearch't wombe
(Mother to Reason, Ignorance's Tombe)
Were a prodigious Title, to enhance
My numbers weighty, and my Name advance;
This might blow vp a Spirrit of that fire
Who loves to Speake, what others but Admire;
For who can Speake, what cannot be exprest?
Readers, know little, and the writer Least.
To my owne wonder, as my Shame can creepe;
The vast Abisse of nature's vnsearch't wombe
(Mother to Reason, Ignorance's Tombe)
Were a prodigious Title, to enhance
My numbers weighty, and my Name advance;
This might blow vp a Spirrit of that fire
Who loves to Speake, what others but Admire;
For who can Speake, what cannot be exprest?
Readers, know little, and the writer Least.
Love is noe more a Ray, from that devine
Flame, then this Fish-scale, Phœbus, is from thine;
Tis a low bruit Affection, now, which binds
In Sensuall Fetters, lowe Earth-seeking minds;
Gold, and Desire, is Love; let minde and Face
Warme Cottages, and be the milkmaid's Grace;
Wee higher tend; Fruition, of that all-
Compounded Evill, is the thing wee call
Love, not improperlie;—and is not witt
Worthy a name? that can be Parasit'?
Clawe my yong Lord, or make my Ladie smile,
With quaint Devises, worthy well her while?
Getting a goodly deale of patronage;
And my Lord's word, The wonder of his Age.
Soe are they both—: but Witt, is growne, of Late
Like the Trunke-hose, laught at, and out of Date.
The Drum, beats loud, to fright our Villages,
Swords are the Pens, which everie Day encrease;
Our Laws, are writt in Blood; and carv'd with Steele,
Worthy the Authors—: but I hope wee feele
Some ghostly Comfort yet; Religion
Has put of late, her best Apparell on;
And wee are all a wooeing fitt to ride,
Who should bring in this faire one, fitt for Bride:
Well; wee have tryed Enough, and rifled Each
Below the Cloaths vnto the naked breech;
And left em Soe; and soe alas they goe,
Poore Ladies, to this Day, and Like to doe;
What Age has ever yet bene free of these?
Tis true, the last King was a man of Peace;
Yet sawcye Qvills would note some blemish int;
And his fam'd Predecessors, though in print,
And painted Cloath, they make her verie fine;
Yes, and her Sister, who did love to Dine
On woodcocke Christians, roasted for the nonce
With Gutts and All;—or if wee should Advance
To bugbeare Harrie, whose imperious breath
Was Law enough;—Oh the fine Dagger sheath!
And Codpeice of that King!—Let Nero rise
Iustified, in his strange Impieties.
Flame, then this Fish-scale, Phœbus, is from thine;
Tis a low bruit Affection, now, which binds
In Sensuall Fetters, lowe Earth-seeking minds;
Gold, and Desire, is Love; let minde and Face
Warme Cottages, and be the milkmaid's Grace;
Wee higher tend; Fruition, of that all-
Compounded Evill, is the thing wee call
Love, not improperlie;—and is not witt
14
Clawe my yong Lord, or make my Ladie smile,
With quaint Devises, worthy well her while?
Getting a goodly deale of patronage;
And my Lord's word, The wonder of his Age.
Soe are they both—: but Witt, is growne, of Late
Like the Trunke-hose, laught at, and out of Date.
The Drum, beats loud, to fright our Villages,
Swords are the Pens, which everie Day encrease;
Our Laws, are writt in Blood; and carv'd with Steele,
Worthy the Authors—: but I hope wee feele
Some ghostly Comfort yet; Religion
Has put of late, her best Apparell on;
And wee are all a wooeing fitt to ride,
Who should bring in this faire one, fitt for Bride:
Well; wee have tryed Enough, and rifled Each
Below the Cloaths vnto the naked breech;
And left em Soe; and soe alas they goe,
Poore Ladies, to this Day, and Like to doe;
What Age has ever yet bene free of these?
Tis true, the last King was a man of Peace;
Yet sawcye Qvills would note some blemish int;
And his fam'd Predecessors, though in print,
And painted Cloath, they make her verie fine;
Yes, and her Sister, who did love to Dine
On woodcocke Christians, roasted for the nonce
With Gutts and All;—or if wee should Advance
To bugbeare Harrie, whose imperious breath
15
And Codpeice of that King!—Let Nero rise
Iustified, in his strange Impieties.
Scoure of[f] the Rust; and set an Edge on Witt,
Let each Line sparkle Courage; till wee Sitt
Constellated with Cæsar, in our owne
Or other's Flatterie; let Vertue (growne
Long out of vse) adde some graines to the Skale
Of what wee claime to; how shall it availe?
What doe wee see applauded, everie Day?
Vice in a vizard goes the safest way;
The goodly masques, of Faith, and Conscience,
Are worne to thrive by; be't without offence
I know none Honest, but to his owne Sight
In his owne Cause, is a Strange Hypocrite.
Let each Line sparkle Courage; till wee Sitt
Constellated with Cæsar, in our owne
Or other's Flatterie; let Vertue (growne
Long out of vse) adde some graines to the Skale
Of what wee claime to; how shall it availe?
What doe wee see applauded, everie Day?
Vice in a vizard goes the safest way;
The goodly masques, of Faith, and Conscience,
Are worne to thrive by; be't without offence
I know none Honest, but to his owne Sight
In his owne Cause, is a Strange Hypocrite.
The Great Aurelius, had a flight beyond
This Region, in the Sphære of his owne mind;
And I admire his Dictates, as they are
To him selfe-Precepts; what a Noble care
It is in man, to give that Seasoning
From his owne Fountaine, shall preserve the Spring.
(Through all the Ambages of Life's Affaire)
Backe to its liveing Source, vnmixt, and Cleare!
This Region, in the Sphære of his owne mind;
And I admire his Dictates, as they are
To him selfe-Precepts; what a Noble care
It is in man, to give that Seasoning
From his owne Fountaine, shall preserve the Spring.
(Through all the Ambages of Life's Affaire)
Backe to its liveing Source, vnmixt, and Cleare!
I can be pleas'd, when Lucian laughs at Witt,
And makes Philosophie, a Dizzard sitt;
Crack-brain'd Menippus, wisely did discerne
They taught the Things which they would never learne.
And makes Philosophie, a Dizzard sitt;
Crack-brain'd Menippus, wisely did discerne
They taught the Things which they would never learne.
I'me Slow in my owne Nature; Dull, and Rude;
Indifferent, in my humor; Solitude
Affects me cheifly; bashfull, have noe feat
Nor iocund humour, to ingratiate;
Yet not Averse, but rather hammer out
What I approve, then Carry mirth about;
I commend freedome; Mirth, I love, beyond
My Genius, and Adore it in my mind;
But cannot be Facete; some Gesture sitts
Still in my Face, which noe full mirth befitts;
And when I force it in, it comes as patt
To make me Laugh, because I know not what
I first meant, should be Ieast; a thousand things
Passe, with the Garbe, when the maine Storie brings
Little to Iudgement; now let me recite
Things not vnworthy, and I spoyle 'em quite.
I have noe gracefull Meine nor faire Accost,
Noe Foyle; Even Diamonds grow dim, in my Dust.
16
Affects me cheifly; bashfull, have noe feat
Nor iocund humour, to ingratiate;
Yet not Averse, but rather hammer out
What I approve, then Carry mirth about;
I commend freedome; Mirth, I love, beyond
My Genius, and Adore it in my mind;
But cannot be Facete; some Gesture sitts
Still in my Face, which noe full mirth befitts;
And when I force it in, it comes as patt
To make me Laugh, because I know not what
I first meant, should be Ieast; a thousand things
Passe, with the Garbe, when the maine Storie brings
Little to Iudgement; now let me recite
Things not vnworthy, and I spoyle 'em quite.
I have noe gracefull Meine nor faire Accost,
Noe Foyle; Even Diamonds grow dim, in my Dust.
In my Discourse I'me common; but can keepe
A trusted Secret, as the Centre deepe,
Within my Bosome; I could never love
One Individuall Atome, much above
Another; I admire; to all I am
Each severall Species; for the glorious Name
Of freindship and Affection, though it draw
My Nature aptly, yet I find it rawe
And but a Phlegme, where I would most expresse:
Now tis a Flame within me; and I lesse
Consider my owne Interest, then the Claime
Another has vnto me, in that Name.
A trusted Secret, as the Centre deepe,
Within my Bosome; I could never love
One Individuall Atome, much above
Another; I admire; to all I am
Each severall Species; for the glorious Name
Of freindship and Affection, though it draw
My Nature aptly, yet I find it rawe
And but a Phlegme, where I would most expresse:
Now tis a Flame within me; and I lesse
Consider my owne Interest, then the Claime
Another has vnto me, in that Name.
17
Now whether Education, or what else
I doe not know, perhaps from principles
Of Constitution, some vnwonted Awe,
Something, vnder what Name I doe not know,
Strikes me, in maiestie; and though I praise
All Government, as Government; I raise
My Selfe, with more Delight, to looke vpon
A monarch's Scepter, then the Axe, or Gowne.
I doe not know, perhaps from principles
Of Constitution, some vnwonted Awe,
Something, vnder what Name I doe not know,
Strikes me, in maiestie; and though I praise
All Government, as Government; I raise
My Selfe, with more Delight, to looke vpon
A monarch's Scepter, then the Axe, or Gowne.
This, when I wondring fixe at; I behold
Our Royall master, in Afflictions old;
But vig'orous in vertue, and Dispred
In all his Princelie Rayes; not hindered
As the Eclipsèd Sun, by the moon's dull
Hydropticke bodie, to obscure him full;
But Charles, whose more illustrious Beams strike throw'
The giddie planet, that the world may know
Tis but her Errant motion; Hee, the Same
Light, to the world; Health and Life-bringing Flame:
Soe Father Saturne, by his Sawcie Son,
Seaven yeare agoe, was interpos'd; tis Runne
I hope out, in our Iland; Meteors must
After a while, burne out, and dye ith' Dust:
But the great Luminaries carrie Flame
T' enrich the world, and make it worth a Name.
Our Royall master, in Afflictions old;
But vig'orous in vertue, and Dispred
In all his Princelie Rayes; not hindered
As the Eclipsèd Sun, by the moon's dull
Hydropticke bodie, to obscure him full;
But Charles, whose more illustrious Beams strike throw'
The giddie planet, that the world may know
Tis but her Errant motion; Hee, the Same
Light, to the world; Health and Life-bringing Flame:
Soe Father Saturne, by his Sawcie Son,
Seaven yeare agoe, was interpos'd; tis Runne
I hope out, in our Iland; Meteors must
After a while, burne out, and dye ith' Dust:
But the great Luminaries carrie Flame
T' enrich the world, and make it worth a Name.
Freedome, and love of Truth, is all I boast;
I know but little, Hee that knowes the most
Is not an Inch beyond me; I can Sitt
Pleased in my owne; Hee's plungèd in his witt;
For Knowledge is a Qvicksand; where wee can
Not free our selves, till wee the burthen, man,
Devest; our Flesh, the Scales which doe obscure
Our Intellectuall Eyes; and Death's the Cure:
Then chang'd, wee move another Nature; See
And know things trulie, as they truly bee
In their owne Causes; till when, wee pursue
A Wildgoose-Chase, to what none ever knew;
Hee that knew All, knew nothing; or at least
Knew, all Hee knew was Follie with the rest.
I know but little, Hee that knowes the most
Is not an Inch beyond me; I can Sitt
Pleased in my owne; Hee's plungèd in his witt;
18
Not free our selves, till wee the burthen, man,
Devest; our Flesh, the Scales which doe obscure
Our Intellectuall Eyes; and Death's the Cure:
Then chang'd, wee move another Nature; See
And know things trulie, as they truly bee
In their owne Causes; till when, wee pursue
A Wildgoose-Chase, to what none ever knew;
Hee that knew All, knew nothing; or at least
Knew, all Hee knew was Follie with the rest.
Then bring me wine; Call in the merrie Crue,
Let petty Sphæres their heightned Peggs vp-Scrue
To rival with the greater; and disperse
Our frolicke Ioyes, to all the vniverse;
Soe Poets are themselves; let Dulnes Sitt
On the dry brow; wee live in mirth and witt;
Be sprightly, as the morne; Anticipate
Time, in his motion; and Astonish Fate
To make our owne; while the dull Sisters winke
And passe our Threds, Halfe-drunke, to see vs Drinke.
Let petty Sphæres their heightned Peggs vp-Scrue
To rival with the greater; and disperse
Our frolicke Ioyes, to all the vniverse;
Soe Poets are themselves; let Dulnes Sitt
On the dry brow; wee live in mirth and witt;
Be sprightly, as the morne; Anticipate
Time, in his motion; and Astonish Fate
To make our owne; while the dull Sisters winke
And passe our Threds, Halfe-drunke, to see vs Drinke.
Are there noe Females in the house come in?
Coy Modesties, where have you Absent bene?
From what, your Wishes rectified, prefer
To our Desires; A Day, has bene a Yeare;
Strike vp a louder Note while wee advance
Preparatoryes, to our Daliance.
Coy Modesties, where have you Absent bene?
From what, your Wishes rectified, prefer
To our Desires; A Day, has bene a Yeare;
Strike vp a louder Note while wee advance
Preparatoryes, to our Daliance.
Me thinkes, againe I thirst; Swell me a Boule,
Lesse Emptie, then the Ayre; Let misers howle
At their slow Incomes; tis a Noble prize
To laugh at fortune and the World despise.
Lesse Emptie, then the Ayre; Let misers howle
19
To laugh at fortune and the World despise.
This hideous Peice of madnes has perchance,
I th' Scæne, less Envie, and lesse Arrogance
Then some wee call Discretions; perhaps lesse
Impietie; but Sin, who can Expresse?
Tis all within vs; and our Thoughts scarce know
What tis wee would, or what wee would not Doe;
Soe then wee whine, vpon our Errors past,
And Swimme our Brains in Follye to the Last.
I th' Scæne, less Envie, and lesse Arrogance
Then some wee call Discretions; perhaps lesse
Impietie; but Sin, who can Expresse?
Tis all within vs; and our Thoughts scarce know
What tis wee would, or what wee would not Doe;
Soe then wee whine, vpon our Errors past,
And Swimme our Brains in Follye to the Last.
Our Fancies are our Follies; and our Boast
Is all our Crime; Strange Paradox! almost
To Stifle Reason; yet it is most true
I've found it, in my Selfe; and Soe may You:
Is all our Crime; Strange Paradox! almost
To Stifle Reason; yet it is most true
I've found it, in my Selfe; and Soe may You:
Ut Surgam Cado.
Munitus, et clausus, contra externa
intra me maneo;
a curis omnibus Securus,
praeter vnam,
vt fractum, subactumq: hunc animum,
rectæ Rationi, ac Deo subiiciam;
et animo
coeteras res humanas.
intra me maneo;
a curis omnibus Securus,
praeter vnam,
vt fractum, subactumq: hunc animum,
rectæ Rationi, ac Deo subiiciam;
et animo
coeteras res humanas.
| The poems of George Daniel | |