The poems of George Daniel :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Daniel, George (1616-1657)

II.

III, IV.

The severall Raignes of Richard the Second Henrie the Fourth, & Henrie the Fifth

[section]

The Raigne of Henry the Fourth.

[subsection]

Crastini Animarum.

Idyllia.

[Man yet a Stranger from ye Africke Side]

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Scattered Fancies;

Formerlie Written, in severall loose papers, now drawne vp in a Liricke Poesie; 1645.

By the Same Author:

------ me tantum dicere Mea
Nunc iuuat: ------

Carmen Protrepticon; Lectori

Men looke on Poems, but they doe not reade
Them to the Sence; which makes the Fancie deade,
And circumscribes the Author in a fewe
Smooth running Words. But if you passe a Due
Censure on Writer's ayme, at iudging well;
Weigh everie word and everie Sillable:
And though you read 'em twice, and something find
To strike your Fancie, thinke there is behind
Another Sence, worth all that you have knowne;
The Poet made 'em Such, and that's His owne.

ODE I

[When I am gone, and these of mine remaine]

When I am gone, and these of mine remaine,
If these, or ought which I call mine, shall Stay;
Read over what I leave, and you againe
Adde to the Sand of Time; and give my Day
As glorious Life as when I stood to breath:
Hee Dyes not, who Survives his Dust in Death.

I doe not Beg a Life beyond my Fate,
Or aske the Courtesie you would not give;
'Tis neither You nor I can set a Date
To written Numbers, if a Muse bid live;
And these may Live; who knowes, when winds disperse
My Earth in Atomes, Men shall read this verse?

ODE II

[How much a verse deceives]

1

How much a verse deceives
Vnhappie man! who weaves

His hopes vpon it?
Thinking to gaine a grace
From some light wanton's face,
With lighter Sonnet;
His Thoughts, his Hope, his Fate hang all vpon it.

2

To Titles, or great Name,
One brings an Epigram,
Yet scarce knowes why;
Another, comes too late,
Deploreing humane ffate,
In Elegie;
Praising a Name, to Raise his owne more high.

3

Some, Souce in bitter Inke,
The venome which they thinke,
To taxe the Times;
Write Satire, to betray
Selfe-gvilt, whilst they display
The Age's Crimes;
And vindicate their owne with biting Rhimes.

4

Some, in a higher Straine,
Must Annalize the Raigne,
Of Cæsar's Glorie;
Breath big, and thunder State,

Lest he Extenuate,
And dimme the Storie;
Which, his Muse tells him, is not Transitorie.

5

Another, doth prefer
To the full Theater,
His giddie verse;
Now, in a Comicke Stile,
Hee wantons; in a while,
Growne big and feirce,
The buskin'd Muse comes out, in Blood and Tears.

6

How much the verse deceives
Our hopes! Like Autumne leaves,
They blow away;
The time wee spent, is lost,
And onlie Time can boast,
In our Decay;
Our verse forgot, not one Line, left to Say.

7

Great Monster! Shall wee gaine
Our Labour for our paine?
And noe more wage?
I'le bring, to stop thy Iawes,
And Cancell all thy Lawes
Of Right or Rage;
A Verse too Stronge for Envie or for Age.

ODE III.

[Give me the Sober Muse and Simple Thought]

1

Give me the Sober Muse and Simple Thought,
To furnish out my Loome;
Let others come,
As they affect, in finer garments Clad;
Happilie farder fett and dearer bought.
If I had sought such, Such I could have had,
At the same rate,
But I decline that State;
Give me the Sober Muse, and Simple Thought.

2

Expect noe fine Thing here, noe gaudie knacke;
But Course and Common Things.
Our Larum rings
Not to the giddie Eare who seekes the Chime
Of Scurril Langvage; or affects the Smacke
Of Brothel-feats, laid Centinel in Rime,
How to betray
Soules to a Sad Decay;
Expect noe fine Thing here, noe gaudie knacke.

3

Oft have I bene deceived; but ofter you
Whose Ioy, in firéd blood
You make your good;
And pant, to see a Fancie Set to light,

That may blow vp old fire, or adde a New
Vnmanlie itching, to the feeble Spright.
Let your thoughts move,
To somewhat worthie of your Love;
Oft have I bene deceived, but ofter you.

4

Repent it, ere too late, Repent in Time,
The Error of your witt;
Thinke it vnfitt
For high-borne Man, soe poorlie to decline;
Scorne sordid Earth, and Ioy, in the Sublime
Raptures of Truth, clad in the liveing Shine
Of modest Fire;
And hate your old Desire:
Repent it, ere too late, Repent in time.

5

Goe, learne the better Arts of Innocence;
Which will instruct you how
To scorne, what now
You sought with Eagernes; and to your Soule,
Propose a richer prize, at lesse expence;
Where the true pleasure lives, without controule
Of doubt or Feare;
One other Step will bring you there:
Goe, learne the better Arts of Innocence.

6

Error has many waies t' entrap a Soule;
A thousand more
Then wee Account her Store;
Changing to everie Sence, with what they please.
Now Light, now fixed, Sometime seeming foule
Vnto the Sence; when She the Sence doth seize
With greater might,
And with as great Delight;
Error has many waies t' entrap a Soule.

7

Depart, false seeming-Ioyes. fond Mirth, Depart;
Treachers of old,
Growne in our Age more bold;
Light hopes and feirce Affections, quit the place;
Lay by your Tirant Scepter; for my heart
Is free to Truth, disdaining Servile waies
Of blinded Sence,
And Passions' large pretence:
Depart, false seeming-Ioyes, fond Mirth, depart.

8

Am I not Sworne a Denizon to Truth?
A free Associate,
Within that State,
Where heaven-bred Peace is Qveene? Onlie to her
I vow the remnant of my halfe-Spent youth;
And never lend false Smiles, an Eye nor Eare;

Noe more Suggest
Your pleasures to my brest;
Am I not Sworne a Denizon to Truth?

9

Nere may my Thoughts Swerve from their fixéd home;
But here in Raptures dwell,
Which none can tell,
Who, blind with Error, run in Sensuall waies;
And though the blood-fired Ruffian, rageing come
With Scorne against my verse; and Spend his praise
In Balladrie,
Defending Luxurie;
Nere may my Thoughts Swerve from their fixéd home.

10

Iust now he frownes, to Strike the Poet dead,
If Eyes could wound, or kill;
And calls them Ill,
The verses he has read; and Sweats, and Swears
A brain-sicke Frensie, overburdenéd,
Has run a Larum to abuse his Eares;
And bring a Cold
Ere years, to make him old;
Iust now he frownes, to Strike the Poet dead.

11

Erect that drowsie head, and yet see Day.
See, the bright Skies

Would Shoot into thy Eyes,
With Glorie, to informe misgvided Sence.
Yet be a Man, and heare what all men Say.
There is a way of Truth and Excellence,
Where Ioy and love,
Will teach the Soule to move:
Erect that drousie head, and yet see Day.

12

Let others Sing of Love and loose delights;
My sober Qvill has vowed
(Though vnderstood
Perhaps by few) to vse her Inke, in praise
Of glorious vertue; this, the irksome nights
Shall melt; and be the labour of my Dayes;
This Sacred Straine,
My howers shall entertaine;
Let others Sing of Love and loose Delights.

ODE IV.

[Our Muses, not exiled, with Sober Feet]

1

Our Muses, not exiled, with Sober Feet,
Draw forth Sad numbers, to a heavie Straine;
And entertaine
Some Sparke of hope, they may renew the heat,
Of Rapture yet.
Though frequent Sorrowes from Iust Causes spring;

Some little Ayre raises my numméd wing;
And Nature, not yet old in Years,
Would Stop the torrent of my fears,
To strike the Liricke String.

2

The thick Ayre hangs in Fogs about my head,
And many Thoughts make my Sad Heart as Dull;
My brest is full
Of mists and Clouds; my Fancie cannot Spread,
(Ore-burdenéd.)
Her features, to the Life, I did intend:
When I begin, it dyes, and makes an End;
In broken grones, abruptly closing,
A Thousand of her beauties loosing;
Beauties which none can lend.

3

Come, yet a little; let our Thoughts forgett
Theire torture; and some pettie Solace find.
If a sad Mind
Can but a little calme her Sorrowes, let
The Muses' heat
Breath gentle Rapture, interposing Fears,
And Sing our deep Cares, vnto patient Ears;
Who wounded, will not scorne our End,
Well-leveil'd; though (ill Shott) it bend
In a Distracted verse.

ODE V.

[Where, where resides content?]

1.

Where, where resides content?
The ioy which mortalls faigne:
'Tis neither in Extent
Of Power, nor full-mouth'd gaine;
Nor in the Emptie Shade
Of honour; nor in Trade,
Nor in vast riot, nor in Swelling boules;
Nor what wee pleasure call,
Diversified. The wall
Of Pallaces are emptie as the holes
Of Scornéd Peasants. Wee may looke
The universe, in everie nooke;
And Cherish giddie Fancie, that wee shall
Find, what is not at all.

2.

For wee may apprehend
Full ioy, in the pursuit
Of our desires; which End,
Before they come to fruit.
Soe doe I often borrow
My pleasures from the morrow;
It comes, and yet my Ioy has noe more Life;
For what can Time produce,
But moveing? Never thus

Will I be Slave to Transitorie Strife;
I will propose vnto my Soule,
A Pleasure beyond Time's controule;
A Path, where Innocence shall teach my Muse
The Raptures she would Chuse.

3.

And there find out, what mortalls, with their Sweat,
Could never gett;
And in the Sober heights of vertue, Clime
To goodlie ravishment;
Vntouch't by Envie, vnimpaired by Time;
For to be free, with a heart Innocent,
Is onlie true Content.

ODE VI.

[Noe more!]

1

Noe more!
Let me awhile be free,
To my dear Muses; exercise your power
On other men, not me;
I am a freeman; know,
I am my Selfe; and you
Can but pretend, (at best) for what you fight;
Long vsurpation cannot give you right.

2

'Tis mine,
The heart you would Subdue,

And Challenge, by prescription, in a twine
Of many years, to you;
I will, in the high Court
Of Iustice, make report,
Of my Sad Case, and beg, on bended knees,
I may have right, from Him who all wrong Sees.

3

'Tis true,
You entred by a sleight,
Vpon my simple nonage; for you drew
A faire pretext of right;
Few freinds (God wot) I had,
To give advice or ayde;
But I must yeild my Earlie years, to those
Who strangers were, and were, indeed, my foes.

4

Now, Man,
Shall I be Slavéd Still?
And kept a Child, with Trifles? Noe, I can
Not Soe forget the Skill
By nature lent; my years
Are now past Childish fears,
And my free Spirrit scornes to obey your power:
Goe seeke an orphan, I am yours noe more.

ODE VII.

[Loe, where Hee comes! the Monarch of the Earth]

1

Loe, where Hee comes! the Monarch of the Earth,
In Royall Scarlet Clad;
Such obiects make me Sad;
Is this a Time for Glorie, or for Mirth?

2

With azure wings, and golden Diadem,
A thousand vassalls waite
Vpon his goodlie State;
And giddilie, the Rout, his Shadowes hemme!

3

Who this Should be, the Iudging Reader knowes;
Ah, sadlie I dare say,
Hee did attend, this Day,
Vpon the Monster, if he bend his browes.

4

For in the front of his Retinue Stands
Bold Ignorance, the first;
And Ostentation nurst
By the same brest, and swathed in the same bands.

5

These misinforme the gaping Multitude,
And Chatter out his Praise

To them, a thousand waies;
What Scepters he has won, what Lands Subdued.

6

For doubtles, great Hee is; though greater farre
Hee be, in their report,
Who limitt out his Court,
To the wide Gire of Heaven's still-moveing Carre.

7

Let not their golden Sonnets Credit gaine,
In your Iudicious Eyes;
He has, in shamefull wise,
Bene baffled oft, and may be soe againe.

8

A Shepheard's Boy, who heard him proudlie boast,
Bearded the Monster late;
(And triumpt in his Fate)
Whose lookes, erewhile, had Cowed a mightie Hoast.

9

Yet Still he lives; for he can never Dye,
Till Time and motion Cease;
Till then, he shall increase,
In all the Glories of his Tirrannie.

10

A thousand, thousand Times, Hee has bene foyled;
And where he most doth raigne,

Hee formerlie was slaine,
By weaker hands, of a small Infant Child.

11

This, this is hee, of whom old Poets sung;
Who, more then once, was slaine,
And still revived againe;
Nor could Hee dye, vpon his Mother flung.

12

There is an Art taught, where true Arts are taught;
(For 'tis not strength alone
Prevailes against his bone)
Will foyle him soone, and bring his strength to naught.

13

Then be not danted, my amazéd Soule;
The Giant, (were Hee more
Then his owne vants) were poore,
To Cope with Boyes, instructed in this Schoole.

14

Thither will I betake me, and there trye
What Sleights will most prevaile,
To make his Footing faile;
Till I be perfect in the Misterye.

15

Then Muster vp, Collossus, to affright
Stupid and retchles Men;

Who know nor how nor when
Nor why, they yeild their exercise, thy might.

16

And I will Sing away my common Cares,
With everie Sand of Time;
Where Rapture shall Sublime
My new-borne Soule in an immortall verse.

ODE VIII.

[Oh, how I wander, oh, where shall, at last]

1

Oh, how I wander, oh, where shall, at last,
My wearied feet have rest? My mind repast?
Where shall I find the wishéd Port of rest,
To Strike away the Fears which have opprest
My wounded Brest?

2

Long Dayes I travell; bitter nights I wake;
Till Heart and Head, with over-watching ake;
I count the Atomes of Time's running Glasse;
And thinke the Howers, (which once did fleetly passe;)
Slow as an Asse.

3

I wonder Time can be soe patient;
My bowells burne till all his glass be spent.
The night brings horror, day gives noe releife,

To my Affliction; one continued greife
Weares out my Life.

4

Some pious Hand direct me! I have gone
From Pole to Pole, and left where I begun.
I tooke the wings which for the Day were drest,
Survaied the orient, to the vtmost west;
But found noe Rest.

5

Yet, yet, at length, let my spent Bodie find
A short repose. Oh, would you be soe kind,
You who can onlie perfect Man's desire,
And give that Rest to which I now Aspire;
A Rest entire.

6

Then should my Soule in mightie Raptures move:
Where Sacred Rapture fires it all in Love;
And ioyne my String to that Celestiall Qvire
Whose Harmonie is one vnited Lire,
Of Sacred Fire.

7

There Centred, Rest in all her Ioyes doth Rest;
Full in her Peace; with Ioy and Glorie Blest;
Still may wee travell out our Age, in Feare,
To find that vpon Earth, which is noe where;
But onlie there.

ODE IX.

[Goe, dote, fond Lover; Seeke]

1

Goe, dote, fond Lover; Seeke
(To smooth lascivious Rhime)
Some beautie, where Sublime
Graces adorne the Cheeke;
Court Lips, or Eyes,
Or what you prise,
With most Affection, as you can devise.

2

And see how long they please
The flitting Sence, with Ioy;
Either they kill or Cloy,
And aggravate Disease;
Noe reall good
Is vnderstood,
Where the maine obiect is but Flesh and Blood.

3

But if you would behold
A Beautie to Entice;
Revert your pur-blind Eyes;
Too blind, and yet too bold.
I'le Shew you here,
In her true Sphere,
Perfection, crownéd in a golden Chaire.

4

'Gainst which the Rage of Time
Could never yet prevaile;
Nor doth She want the Haile
Of Poets, in a Rhime;
Remaining yonge,
Although she sprunge
Ere Time, the Chaos into Forme had flung.

5

Nor Shall you need to bring
Attributes to her praise;
For her Aspect will raise
A Store too vast to Singe;
Such as would pose
Art to disclose
In any verse, and fill a Rheme of Prose.

6

This is that Beautie which
Strikes dead all humane Sence;
From whose sole Influence,
All Creatures are made rich;
And what wee praise,
Soe manie waies,
Are but light Sparkes, shot from these liveing raies.

7

Bring, bring the loftie verse,
And Sonnet out your Dayes;
Let everie word be praise,
And everie Accent peirce
The Ears of Men
With wonder; when
You faile, goe to this Source and fill your Pen.

8

Here, never Ending Love,
Runns in a liveing Streame;
Peace sitts vnder the Beame
Of Glorie; all that move
Is holie here:
Pale Doubt and ffeare
Exiléd are, and Envie comes not neare.

9

The witts who sung of old
Their feilds of lasting pleasure,
Meant this; though in some measure,
(Perhaps) it would not hold;
For humane witt
Can onlie ffitt,
The Sence with Ioy; Soe much they failed of it.

10

Bring in fresh Chaplets: Crowne
Her, worthy all your praise;
And mightie Rapture raise
To sing her Name; lay downe
Your brittle Theame,
Caught in a Dreame,
And raise a Character, in her great name.

ODE X.

[The Day was Darke, and Heaven his bright face Shrouds]

1

The Day was Darke, and Heaven his bright face Shrouds,
In Sable Clouds;
The gaudie Sun, in his Meridian Light,
Was darke as Night;
And horrid Stormes came rolling on the Skye.
The Thunder Strucke, the Lightning feirce did flye;
The Ayre incenséd, all her Streames let fall;
The Cataracts of Heaven theire Doores set ope;
Whose gushing Torrents call
Fresh ffloods, to crosse the avaritious Hope
Of men, to looke it should be faire at all.

2

My Sober Muse can say how it did wound
My Sinnew-bound

Vnvsefull Members; how my Sence was dull,
And my Soule full
Of horror and amazement; I had lost
The nearest faculties that life could boast;
Strucke with the Feare, into an Extasie
Of Feare, like Death; indeed halfe dead with Feare;
Yet knew noe reason why:
I summond all my Sences in, to beare;
But they were Dead, with my Soule's Agonie.

3

When loe! a glance of heaven's Immortall ray,
Found out a way,
(Through the vast mure of Night, into my Soule;
And did controule
My Stupid Sences, putt away my Feare,
Made stronge my frailtie, and my doubts made cleare;
That recollecting all my Thoughts made new,
And weighing the late cause of this Affright;
Vntroubled Heavens I veiwe;
The Sun vnclouded, and the Welkin bright;
Onlie the Storme was in my bosome true.

For vnto him that hath a troubled Spright,
Time has noe Ioy, nor Heaven's bright fface noe Light.

ODE XI.

[And now 'tis Faire; how shall wee Spend the Day?]

1

And now 'tis Faire; how shall wee Spend the Day?
Manage the lustie Steed?
Or see the Eager Hounds pursue the pray;
And laugh to see him bleed?
How shall wee run the ling'ring howers away?

2

Goe see the Gallant Falcon, from her wings,
The Qvarrie Strike?
Or stay to heare Hermogenes, who Sings
Soe Angel-like?
Or see the ffouler lay his treacherous Strings?

3

Or with the baited Hooke, in Deviae's Streame,
Begvile the simple Trout?
Or rather take a Gun, and warre proclaime
To all the Birds about?
Or Sitt and talke, and make the Times our Theame?

4

And where wee faile, the pleasures of the House
Shall our Discourse supplie.
Plumpe Bacchus makes the heart glad, when he flowes
In Cups not niggardlie:
Or shall wee wage, what wee fear not to loose?

5

Some toy at Dice or Cards? Or will you tosse
A Ball att Tenis? Or
Let's boule an hower or two, with the same losse;
Our Time wee loose, noe more.
Or Billiards? or what Else you will propose?

6

Come, shall wee wanton with a Ladie's Eye,
And Appetite provoke?
Or keep the Round of good Societie,
In high-pris'd Indian Smoke?
And let the novice breake the Pipes, lye by?

7

Let's this, or any these; which you like best
Pursue. The Day growes old:
The Sun is halfe his Iourney to the west;
But if to-morrow hold,
With better Pleasures wee will be refresht.

8

Were we but now made dull with Stormie Ayre?
And shall wee use it thus?
That Day which (Doubtles) heaven did prepare,
To fitt vs, in an vse
More Noble; which wee Loose, ere wee'are aware.

9

Come, take thy Qvill along, my Sober Muse,
And wee will find a place
Where wee may freelie Sing, and shade our Browes,
Vnder some Mirtle base;
Such humble Shrubs my Thoughts doe rather Chuse.

10

Or shall wee, vnder crooked Hawthorne Sitt,
And our Sad ffancies dresse?
Or rather chuse our lovéd Elme, and fitt
Notes to our heavinesse?
Not Emulous of ffame, nor Glorious of witt.

11

However, where wee Sitt, or what wee Sing,
The Day shall be made short,
In sober recreations; when the wing
Of ffancie flyes to sport,
Heaven, Ayre, Earth, Water, all their beauties bring.

12

And be the Day or Clear or cloudie Dull,
Our pleasure is the Same;
To-morrowe's Expectation cannot gull
Our Thoughts, in their true Ayme;
Nor take from what wee seeke, in obiects full.

13

Thus then, he pleasure only doth enioy,
Whose pleasure is not tyed,
In change of time, to quicken or destroy;
But, more securely ride,
All winds and weathers, with a Constant Ioye.

Him, nor the Angrie Heavens can Affright,
Nor Serene Skies please, with a better Light.

ODE XII.

[Contented I to frame a rurall ode]

1

Contented I to frame a rurall ode,
In humble Shades;
Admire those Swains who in bright Southerne Glades
Doe make abode;
And Caroll high to Fame, with mounting Qvill:
My obscure Groves best suit my humble Skill.

2

Let me vnto the fameles Deviae's Shore,
Low Accents frame;
Vnenvied in my ffate, or in my ffame;
And raise my Store
ffrom noe man's Harvest; but a Stocke produce
ffrom native bounties, to enrich my Muse.

3

And run, with changing Chords, as ffancie gvides,
To everie new
Obiect of Chance; which wee will more pursue,
The more it slides;
And gather a fresh Stocke, from all wee see;
Our numbers Chargéd in varietie.

4

My Temples bound, not in a wreath of bay;
(For be it farre
From my free Thought, soe high Attempt to dare)
But humble Hay;
May rest secure; and if I be content
My ffate is better, ffame as Eminent.

5

There will I sing, vast Nature in her Store;
And sing the Power
Which gives to Nature all her wealth; the bower
Of All (and more)
Perfection; where all fullnes doth remaine;
Parent to Nature, who doth All sustaine.

6

Nature, made faire in all her best Attire,
Brings it from hence;
Her weakest Ray, her beames of Excellence,

Shoot from one fire;
And not her lest production but doth Stand
A powerfull wittnes of his mightie Hand.

7

As Life and fforme did from his breath proceed,
In the same way
Comes Sence-depriveing Death, and Sharpe Decay.
Wee doe not tread
But a fresh wonder rises, to display
Its beauties; Sparkes from the Eternall Ray.

8

A thousand Times I contemplate his Store,
In earthlie Things;
I yet rise higher, and my Iudgment brings
A Thousand more;
Yet treebled, and I looke vpon the Sun
To gather new, and end where I begun.

9

There is noe Day soe Sad, noe night soe Dull,
But I can meet
Ten miriads of wonder; and forget
That I am full;
From nothing (be it scorned) but I can gather,
A Praise vnto this vniversall Father.

10

Hee rules the ruleing Monarchs of the Earth,
And Peasants poore;
The crawling Emmets have from him their Store;
Lions their Birth;
The Royall Eagle flyes but by his might;
And Hee secures the Sillie Sparrowe's flight.

11

The mightie Cedar getts from him his Sap;
And Shrubs their Iuice;
The Rose and Lillie flourish by his Deawes;
Nettles, by hap,
Come not to seed, but by the Influence
Which He, to everie Creature, doth dispence.

ODE XIII.

[Soe powerfull Nature, doth in Things appeare]

1

Soe powerfull Nature, doth in Things appeare,
To this Great Rector's will;
Some things live but a Day, and some a yeare;
Some, many yeares fullfill;
Some, which in Nature were thought strong enough,
Doe soone Decaye;
And the weake Spray
Which yeilds to everie wind, is sometimes tough.

2

The long-lived Raven sometime knowes a Date
Short as the Sparrowe's Life;
The Stagge and Sheepe may be co-terminate,
In Nature's finall Strife;
The mightie Elephant and Mouse may run
An Equall race;
And in this case,
The Heliotrope may live with the last Sun.

3

That wonder; is it Nature's? that a Flower
Observing all his path,
Should change the Station with Him everie Howre,
And feele a kind of Death,
When his Flame quencht, to westerne waves doth fall;
Againe inspired,
When he is fired;
When in his South he rides, spred most of All.

4

Or, be it Nature's worke, who gave her Power?
The word is the mistake;
You call it Nature, but I call it more;
That which did Nature make.
For what is Nature? but the Creature All
Sealed by his hand;
And cannot Stand
Without his ayde, nor yet without Him fall.

5

For not the Elements whereby we live,
Can Challenge ought in this;
Hee made them Strong, or wasting; he did give
The breath, which still is His,
To everie Creature; Soe that wee can find
Noe Shape at all;
For what wee call
Nature, but his Impression in the Kind.

6

Thus I agree, and thus I dare avow
Nature our Strongest Light;
For the Thing men call Art, I doe not know
A Thing more Sleight;
For what bold Impudence dare boast a Trade?
Or vndertake
More strong to make,
The Creature, the Creator perfect made?

7

This mightie Idoll, which fond men adore,
Is but a Shadow vaine;
Boasting of Knowledge, knoweing nere the more;
But makes an Easie plaine
Path, intricate and rugged; to invite
By silken Clue
Such as pursue
Her winding Steps, to an Eternall night.

8

The Knowledge men would know, if they could tell
What their own thoughts/Soules would know,
Is Nature's Patent, Stampt with Heaven's Great Seale;
Which, well surveigh'd, will Show
Large Misterie, and Misterie vnfold:
Then doe not Strive
(Fond men,) to give
Your ffreedome to a Zanie, blind and bold.

9

It is the great Imposture of the world;
A Snare to ruine Sence;
A pitt where glorious witts have often hurl'd
Their brightest Excellence;
Where Sober Knowledge and the Light of Truth
Were never heard;
But Hee who rear'd
His ffollie loudest, with a high-rais'd mouth.

10

And doubtles, thus the Earth with Iove made warre:
When man shall vndertake
To Circle mightie Nature in the Sphere
Which groveling Fancies make;
What is it This, but to their power, to raise
A mound, to Scale

The Olimpicke wall,
And deprive the Creator of his praise?

11

But mightie Nature, (provident in All)
Did this of old foresee;
And sett before the Face of Truth a wall,
Beyond Discoverie;
Lest Man, too bold in veiwing her bright Shine,
Might proudlie vant
Hee did not want
Of the Perfection iustly call'd Devine.

12

Soe fell the Angells; soe did Man, at first,
And soe doth often fall;
For soe bold Crime how iustlie was Hee curst;
Who seeking, lost it All.
And if there be a parcell of that Fire
Not yet put out;
It is, noe doubt,
From the first Flame, who gave it first entire.

ODE XIV.

[Nothing in Nature can be certaine fixt]

1

Nothing in Nature can be certaine fixt,
But to the mover's will;

All varie, in their Motions strangelie mixt;
Nothing but changeth Still.
And what wee 'count in Nature monstrous,
Is nothing lesse;
It is to vs;
But is a true production, to expresse
The Maker infinite, to noe rules Tyed;
And 'tis his Power to be Diversifyed.

2

Is there a certaine growth in any Tree?
Or Shrub, or humble plant?
Are wee made Iudges which most perfect be,
Or which perfection want?
Shall wee assume vnto the giddie Sence,
What is beyond
All the pretence
Of humane Reason, certainlie to find?
Perhaps the crooked Hawthorne (to the Eye
Of Nature) is as right as Cedars high.

3

'Tis the same hand which clad the blushing Rose,
Which did the Henbane dresse;
The fragrant violet by his bountie growes,
And loathsome weeds noe lesse;
Hee makes the various Tulip please the Eye;
And yet his Care

Doth not denye
To the poore Dazie, happilie as deare;
And sure the vulgar marigold may Cope,
In Nature, with the faméd Heliotrope.

4

Nor did he bid, what wee account most faire,
The Apple, Plumme, or Grape,
Be cherisht more, in Nature's equall Care,
Then her less-valued Heape.
The Crab and Sloae, he doth alike protect;
Nor brambles base
Doth he neglect;
But as the supreme Rector in Each place,
Doth the whole Creature with his bountie fill:
Thus Nature is Expression of his will.

5

How is a Camel better in his Shape
Then the despiséd Gnat?
Why doe wee wonder at the Mimicke Ape?
Or the Rude Parrot's chat?
The Squirrel is as worthy, and the wren
A better note:
Is not the Hen
And her brave Husband, in his golden Coat,
Fair as the Phasiant? or in Nature's Eyes
Perhaps as dear as Birds of Paradice.

6

The Sea, of Water cannot onlie boast;
Nor doth his hand Sustaine
Onlie great Rivers, or the great ones most;
For Hee who gvides the maine,
Is the same Providence to the least Spring;
Not only Thames,
But where I sing,
The fameles Devia, equall bountie claimes:
There will I shade my browes, and bring a Store
Of better verse, to Sing his wonders ore.

ODE XV.

[Vnsatisfyed with Earth]

1

Vnsatisfyed with Earth
(Where Greife and thousand Troubles intermixe
With some poor seeming Mirth)
I put on wings, and mounting higher, fixe
On fairer obiects. See the great
Rector of nature and the vniverse
His gifts disperse,
In everie kind; and all his bounties meet,
To make a Harmonie compleat.

2

This Power, which Nature rules,
And the whole world, is the great God of Power;

The God, which antique Schooles
Have aymed at; the God which wee Adore;
Whose Misterie, Stupendious height,
Includes the obiect of our Faith alone;
For he were none,
If Reason could vnfold him to our Sight;
And to fraile Sence display that Light.

3

Oh Infinite! beyond the Qvill
Of Nature, or her Servant, to display:
Whose Power is but to will;
To whom, the Earth, the Sea, and Heavens obay;
How shall I dare to bring a verse
Before thy Throne of Glorie? Oh, despise
Not what shall rise
From a full Soule; though Sinfull Lips reherse
The Tenor, doe not shut thy Ears.

4

Oh, doe not shut thy Ears,
Offended with my Song; but let my Zeale
Thy Anger and my Fears
Prevent; let thy indulgent Mercie heale
The boyling vlcer of my Sin.
And yet in Time, repaire the Soon-decay
Of thy wrought Clay;
A despised Shred of mankind, who has bin
Made clean before; oh cleanse agin.

5

Then will I bring to thee
My Himnes of Praise; and Celebrate thy Name,
In the best Poesie,
My humble Thoughts, or Zealous fires can frame;
This, all the Tribute I can bring;
And though it be above all Taske of verse,
I must reherse
Something to thee. The widdow can but fling
Her Mites; nor I, alas, but Sing.

6

Naught have I else to give,
Nor can I give it; onlie thine repay,
Whose breath first made me Live,
And gave me Being, in noe obscure way;
Noe vegetable, Plant, nor Beast,
But noblest of thy Creatures, made me man,
And Christian;
Borne in the Light of Truth, where glories feast
The Soule, in Sempiternall Rest.

7

Thou hast redeeméd Mee
From double Death; and the Strict covenant
Is cancelléd by thee;
Wee have a freedome which old Times did want;
Thou hast secured me from the wombe
Vnto this minute; that I now may praise

For all the Dayes
I have compleated, and the Time to come,
Thy mercie, to the Tombe.

8

Then let my Qvill Aspire
In mightie Numbers, and thy Mercies Sing;
A Himn, the Soule to fire
In ioyfull Rapture. Oh! could frailtie bring
Those liveing heights of Poesie,
Which Fancie faine would flatter witt into;
Here they might flow;
But wee are Silent; all our Streames are Drye;
Our Qvills are Stopt, or Idlye Lye.

9

Yet, will I once assay,
To honour thee, in Straines of humble Rhime.
Suffice it, if I pay
A gratefull Tribute. Hee, who gvides the Time
Expects from Man, some howers t' applye
His worke; indeed his owne. For what wee give
To Him, shall live,
Our richest Store; when our fraile Bodies Dye,
And in the Grave, forgotten lye.

ODE XVI.

[Now faire and Cleare, the Heavens are pleas'd to Smile]

1

Now faire and Cleare, the Heavens are pleas'd to Smile;
The purgéd Ayre doth rise,
Full, in her Balme and Spice;
Spiknard and Cassia breath, to reconcile
Opposéd Elements; Aurora faire
Spreads all the Treasure of her haire,
T' envite the Active Phebus more away,
And glad the Creatures in a well-come day.

2

The night is fled, and Daye's best Chorister
Kickes his feild-Bed with Scorne;
In livelie Rapture, borne
To those Etheriall Courts of wonder, where
His Liricke notes, left fyled,
Preservéd are, vnsoyled;
The Royall Eagle, in the welkin towers,
And for his prey, with mightie pineon Scowers.

3

The manly Cocke, has long his Bugle shrilled;
And thriftie villagers
Have long since shaked their Ears;
Each busie in the Labour he is Skill'd;
Their frugall wives Assay
The offices of Day;

The night-pent flockes vnbound, spread ore the Hills,
And Coridon, their Swaine, his loud Pipe Shrills.

4

Only I slug it, with a careles Head;
And my free Genius Steepe
In the wide Gulph of Sleep;
And loose my Spirrits in a tempting Bed.
My Limbes, vnapt to vse,
And all my Ioyes, my Muse,
Forgot in Slumbers; and my heavie Eyes
Invite fresh Dreames; I have noe will to rise.

5

Yet let not vertue leave me; I will Shake
Those fetters into Ayre;
And my quick Thought prepare,
For free and active Rapture. I will make
Rich Nature open All
Her treasures; which shall fall
A harvest, to enrich my sober Qvill;
And purgéd Ears, with gratefull Accents fill.

6

Forsake me, you dull ministers of Sleepe,
And let me Raise my Qvill,
To Court th' Olimpicke Hill,
With Earlie praises; and Survay the Heape

Of Nature's bounties. Then
If I (soe bold) may Pen
Something to praise Him, whom I most admire
My God, my Glorie; I have my Desire.

ODE XVII.

[When I would bring]

1

When I would bring
One verse, to Sing
Thy Name, how Dull am I!
Should I reherse
Some toy in verse,
My giddie Fancie then would flye;
Wretch that I am! How glad
I am of this poore trade,
This Sillye Rime!
Yet when I would endeavour
To Celebrate the giver,
In a well-weigh'd
Iudicious Poesie, how lesse Sublime
My numbers move then ever.

2

When I my Clod
Would kicke, oh God,
How am I fetteréd;
At either heele,
Me think's I feele

A plummet, heavier far then Lead;
Or like the Falcon, knit
Vnto the Perch, I flitt,
And make a bayte;
I picke my Iesses; and assay
For Libertie, in everie way;
But cannot hitt.
I toyle and flutter; faine would breake the grate,
Where I am mewed, of Clay.

3

I may, Sometime,
In halfe a Rime,
Hop from the Turfe; but when
I would attempt
A raveshment,
T' enrich my drye and drousie pen;
Check'd by my bonds, I fall,
And lime my Selfe, in all
The muite and Slime.
The more I would Aspire,
The more (Alas) I tire;
Enforc'd to call
My Clog, to be my Stay; and pant a Time
Vpon my Bed of mire.

4

Poore helples Man,
What number Can

Expresse thy weaknesse? Had
All Qvills bene bent,
To this intent,
How were it more then yet a Shade?
There is a Dismall Screene
Of Earth and Sin betweene
Vs and the bright
Obiects wee would discerne.
How farre are wee to learne
The yet vnknowne
Beauties of Truth? and onlie hope a Light
For which our Bowells yerne.

5

Leave me awhile,
Officious Qvill;
For I have a great Thought
Vnforméd yet;
Nor can I fitt
It to the better Formes I ought.
Let me awhile retire,
Till warmed with Sacred Fire,
My Active nerves
Secure a stronger flight,
To gather (from that Light
Which I admire)
Some ray; (alas) till then the Sinner Sterves,
In a Sad winter's night.

ODE XVIII.

[Thus wee deceive our selves, and Everie Day]

1

Thus wee deceive our selves, and Everie Day
Creates another hope: as wee might Say
Time is not ripe, when our Time flyes away.

2

Were but to-morrow come or next Day here,
Wee should be happie; or some seaven yeare
Hence, wee'le have Peace, and dwell noe more in Feare.

3

How hardly are wee pleas'd, how less content
In present fortunes? And wee still prevent
Our Ioyes, in Expectation of Event.

4

One Day's too long, another is too Short;
Winter is Cold, Summer vnfitt for Sport;
The Spring is bitter, and the Autumne Smart.

5

But for the frost, (God knowes) what wee'd ha' done;
Now wee crye out of Raine; and now the Sun
Shines too too hot, when other fault is none.

6

What wee'd have done! if this Thing had not bene;
Still one mischance or other comes betweene
Vs and our Hopes; or else, the world had seene

7

A Trophie, to convince Posteritie
Of our great Diligence and Industrie;
Our Prudence, Iustice, and our Pietie.

8

But ah! wee are not happie; never since
Some Day of ffate, (as we would make pretence)
Has the same Starre had his owne Influence.

9

Oh God! how mad are men! and I not lesse
Then he the maddest; in the emptines
Of Hope I loose my Youth, I must confesse.

10

And Delatorie Causes still invent,
To my owne preiudice; in the intent
I would pursue most to my owne content.

11

Else why should I, this Day, my Qvill forbeare?
Noe Day noe Line; but in the Kalender
This is a Day, though shortest in the yeare.

12

And am I therfore tyed, (because the Sun
Is not with vs Eight howers,) to leave vndone
The Daye's worke? for a morne or Afternoone.

13

Such students are too regular, and make
A Toyle of their Endeavours; let them take
Their nine for bed-time, and their five to wake.

14

Such method, yet I know not: though I be
A-bed at Ten, I tarrie vp till three,
Next morning; then I watch as much as Hee.

15

For 'tis nor Day, nor night, nor any Time
That can Deterre a Muse, in the sublime
Raptures of Fancie. Had I now a Rhime

16

Of worth and price; this short December Day,
It would spin out, to make my Readers say,
Long Barnabie was never halfe soe Gay.

ODE XIX.

[I doe not feele the Storme]

1

I doe not feele the Storme
Which vexes you in the too soone Decay
Of your fair garden's verdure; where noe Spray
Lookes green, noe Flower
But run into his root.
Your fruit trees lower;
You cannot set your foot
In all your Garden on a liveing worme.

2

The glorie of your Toyle,
The high-pris'd Tulip, has noe Colour now;
The Gilly-flowers are dead; the Rose can show
Nor Red nor Smell,
T' envite the willing Sence.
Who now can tell
The violet's residence?
The Sweet-briar drye, the Lillie has noe foyle.

3

When I, beyond the Rage
Of Time, or winter's malice, now can Show
A liveing Paradice, and lead you through
Greene Alleys, set
With ever-verdant flowers;

The violet
Wants odour to the worst of ours;
Trim Nature stands here in firme Equipage.

4

I have a Rose, will keepe
Its Secret and beautie to another Spring;
(Nor wonder that I say it) I can bring,
This verie Day,
(Dead winter haveing nipt
Yours into Clay)
A goodly Tulip, Stript
In Gold and Purple; Nature not asleepe.

5

How doe they drop away!
Your flowers and Ioyes together? Goe with me
Into Apolloe's Garden, you shall see
To mocke at yours,
And frustrate all your Thought,
A bed of Flowers,
Into quaint Mazes wrought;
The Muses' bower, vnder the liveing Bay.

ODE XX.

[What mad men are wee of the versing trade!]

1

What mad men are wee of the versing trade!
To give our witt

To Everie Censure! And, noe doubt,
A Thousand to the Common Eye has Strayed,
Ere one has hit;
And vs, the workmen, fooles, they flout.

2

An Epicke is too grave, a Satire Sharpe;
Sonnet is Light,
Elegie Dull; in Epigram
Wee want our Salt; and Ignorance will carpe,
Although we write
A Region beyond All they claime.

3

Yet Silly men are wee; and here I should
Desist from all
My Exercise of witt, if sure
I knew an able Iudge to read, that could
But Errors call,
Which Errors were; and know what's pure.

4

I durst not put my witt vnto the Test
Of such a Man;
I find a gvilt, with my owne Eyes,
A partiall Father; yet not soe possest
Of my owne braine
But I can see Deformities,

5

Perhaps a fault, where the good Reader huggs
My verie Name.
And let him Ioy in all he found;
Where I am proud of witt, perhaps he Shruggs;
And Sighes, 'tis Lame;
Soe 'twer, if I to him were bound.

6

But let me give Advice. Doe not pretend
To iudge of witt;
It is an Emmett in a Cloud;
And you have but dimme Eyes, my honest freind.
If wee Submitt,
Your Sence may make this Ant a Toade.

7

Then will I not sitt downe with this Rebuke;
But once againe
Ioy with the Muses; innocent
In my designe; adventuring to looke
In noe man's braine
For witt, beyond his Argument.

ODE XXI.

[When Ease and Sleepe, the busye world has husht]

1

When Ease and Sleepe, the busye world has husht;
And Sixe howers cold, the Sun, our Hemisphere

Has left in Darke;
I with the Muses Ioy, and freely there
Expostulate my Fancies, to the Iust
Ayme of their marke.

2

A Thousand obiects flitt within my braine;
Some slip, as Shadowes; some like Columnes stand
To fixe vpon;
Which I survay, and with a serious hand
Delineate; cheiflie to entertaine
My selfe alone.

3

And though my Body hardly well allowes
These frequent watchings, I am soe much wed
To my Delight,
When Ease and Health would move me to my bed;
And (free from gvilt) with vnperplexéd browes,
Might sleepe the night;

4

Yet rather Chuse I, to my Health's impaire,
With gentle Muses, to bestow my Time,
In the weake blaze
Of a Sad Lampe; and free from greater Crime,
Sing to my selfe the Fancies I prepare,
A Thousand waies.

5

And I will Sing great Things; perhaps to please
The Iudging Reader, and to pussle those
Who pretend more.
But Stay! my carefull Leech noe more allowes;
Checks my Disorder; and has stay'd, to dresse
Mee, a long Hower.

6

For, I must now observe Him; but when Time
M'imposthum'd Members shall againe make light;
I will be free,
In midnight Revels to the Appetite
Of my owne Genius, in the purest Rhime
And Poesie.

ODE XXII.

[Cleare, as vntroubled waters from their Spring]

1

Cleare, as vntroubled waters from their Spring,
And pure, as Innocence her Selfe can Sing;
Modest, as virgin Brides,
Whose gentle blushings hides
What they expresse; Sweet as the blooming Rose;
Faire, as the Earlie Morning, when she Showes
Her golden fface, and Deawie Lockes doth tye
In azure Fillets; Such be my Poesie,

2

Not bound to flatter Titles, or let loose
To vulgar passions, in the Times' abuse;
Not limited, not Free,
Further then modestie
Can warrant, in Each Syllable; not led
To Sooth opinion, neither soe much wed
To my owne Sence, but I all formes may See
In proper orbes; Such be my Poesie.

3

Such be my Poesie, that Number may
In Clear expressions, all my Thoughts display;
Such Rapture fill my Thought,
As I may vtter nought,
Beneath the dignitie of a free Muse;
And gvided by my Genius, Chuse
Obiects sublime; adoreing God, the high
Author of Truth; Such be my Poesie.

ODE XXIII.

[Poore bird! I doe not envie thee]

1

Poore bird! I doe not envie thee;
Pleas'd in the gentle Melodie
Of thy owne Song.
Let crabbéd winter Silence all

The wingéd Qvire; he never shall
Chaine vp thy Tongve:
Poore Innocent!
When I would please my selfe, I looke on thee;
And gvess some sparkes of that Felicitie,
That Selfe-Content.

2

When the bleake Face of winter Spreads
The Earth, and violates the Meads
Of all their Pride;
When Saples Trees and Flowers are fled,
Backe to their Causes, and lye dead
To all beside;
I see thee Sett,
Bidding defiance to the bitter Ayre,
Vpon a wither'd Spray; by cold made bare,
And drooping yet.

3

There, full in notes, to ravish all
My Earth, I wonder what to call
My dullnes; when
I heare thee, prettye Creature, bring
Thy better odes of Praise, and Sing,
To pussle men:
Poore pious Elfe!
I am instructed by thy harmonie,

To sing the Time's vncertaintie,
Safe in my Selfe.

4

Poore Redbrest, caroll out thy Laye,
And teach vs mortalls what to saye.
Here cease the Qvire
Of ayerie Choristers; noe more
Mingle your notes; but catch a Store
From her Sweet Lire;
You are but weake,
Meere summer Chanters; you have neither wing
Nor voice, in winter. Prettie Redbrest, Sing,
What I would speake.

ODE XXIV.

[It is Enough to me]

1

It is Enough to me,
If I her Face may see;
Let others boast her Favours, and pretend
Huge Interests; whilst I
Adore her Modestie;
Which Tongves cannot deprave, nor Swords defend.

2

For could She ffall,
To what we call

Censure; how weake and vulgar were her Fame!
Not Ignorance would hold
Till his long Tale were told;
Though scarcelie he has ever heard her Name.

3

If wee might read
Her truly Charactred:
It were enough, Error to vindicate,
To warme the Stupid wretch,
(Who onlie lives to stretch
His frozen nerves) with Rapture, 'bove his Fate.

4

But while I bring
My verse to Sing
Her Glories, I am strucke with wonder, more;
And all the Formes I see,
But Emptie Shadowes bee,
Of that Perfection which I adore.

5

Be silent then,
All Tongves of Men,
To Celebrate the Sex; for if you fall
To other Faces, you
Wander, and but pursue
Inferior obiects, weake and partiall.

ODE XXV.

[My Dear Pudora, though the greedie Flame]

1

My Dear Pudora, though the greedie Flame
Has Swallowed all the Inke
Which I (the weake Adorer of thy name)
Once lavisht out; yet thinke
A second Store,
Tooke from thy Graces, may to better Light
Celebrate thee; I am not ban'rupt Qvite;
And were I poore
To the Extreame of Ignorance, that Fire
Still liveing in your Eyes, would Heat inspire.

2

Doe not, oh doe not, (Goddes of my Muse)
Thinke I have lost that Zeale
My former Qvill profest; nor thinke I chuse
Of lower Things to tell;
Forbid it, all
My better Fate! noe, rather may I pine
In my owne Ioy,—my verse,—if my designe
Did ever fall
Vnto another obiect; but I still
Steer'd by your Eyes; Starrs to direct my Qvill.

3

Nor blame some looser Sheets, if (when I lackt
Your Light) my verse might Stray

From the precise Path, which your Steps had track't;
I cannot, dare not Say;
But I have gone
Sometimes aside; yet take, in leiu of All
My follies, this Acknowledgment; 'tis small
The wrong I ha' done;
Pardon, where I Nicotiana Sung;
And I dare say, I never did you wrong.

4

For though, in Silvia, I my selfe might please;
'Twas but at once to bring,
Vnder that name, a double Species;
And where I loudest Sing,
With all my Praise,
To honour Her, I but derive a Sparke
From your more radiant Flame, which is the marke
Of all my Bayes;
But Shee, revolted like her Selfe, can claime
Nothing in all my Poesie but Name.

5

This may Suffice; Great Rectres of my Thought,
Daigne once againe to smile
On my Endeavours; and I will not doubt
To vindicate our Ile
From all the blast
Of Envie or Detraction; I will raise
Huge Monuments of wonder, manye-wayes;

Which shall outlast
The rage of Time, and stand the Boast of Fame;
My verse Eternized, in Pudorae's name.

ODE XXVI.

[How am I lost! though some are pleased to say]

1

How am I lost! though some are pleased to say
My mossy Chops estrange
All former Knowledge; and my Brother may,
At distance interchange
Discourse, as to a man he nere had knowne;
It cannot be, perswade
Your Selves; for when you made
Me take a Glass, I knew my Face my owne.

2

The verie Same I had three years agoe;
My Eye, my Lip, and nose,
Little, and great, as then; my high-slick't Brow,
Not bald, as you suppose;
For though I have made riddance of that Haire,
Which full enough did grow,
Cropt in a Zealous bow,
Above each Eare; these but small changes are.

3

For wer't my worke, I need not farre goe seeke
The Face I had last yeare;

The growing Frindge but swept from either Cheeke,
And I as fresh appeare,
As at nineteene; my Perru'ke is as neat
An Equipage as might
Become a wooer, light
In thoughts as in his Dresse; but I forget;

4

Or rather I neglect this Trim of Art;
And have a Care soe small
To what I am in any outward part,
I scarce know one of All;
'Tis not that Forme I looke at. Could I find
My inward Man, compleat
In his Dimensions! let
Mee glorie Truth, the better part's behind.

ODE XXVII.

[Soe should you have my Picture, would it change]

1

Soe should you have my Picture, would it change
And varie to the Time;
But when I see
Art permanent and Nature fade, how Strange
Would it appear to me!
And twitt my Slime
As weake Materialls, to the Painter's stuffe.
There youthfull Still, in my Selfe bald or rough,
With Age and Time enough.

2

'Twould trouble me, when I, with frosted hairs,
Should looke at what I was,
And see my selfe
Sangvine and fresh, my Eyes there quicke and Cleare;
And I, a Sordid Elfe.
What a sweet Glasse
Were this to make me mad! and love againe
My youthfull Follies, and but change the Straine;
Doating, for Light and vaine.

3

Noe, would you see me better, you who presse
To have my Picture tooke,
Beyond all Art;
I leave it here, my selfe; it will expresse
More then the formall looke
Or outward part.
A better draught I leave you; doe not Strike
My Feature to the Cunning of Vandyke;
This, this is farre more like.

4

Here looke vpon Me, as I am in Truth;
Let everie Leafe present
Some severall part;
And draw 'em into forme, to the iust growth
Of my intendement;
To pussle Art,

In her loud boast, and something leave behind
Vnto my Freinds; that whosoe lookes, may find
The Effigies of my Mind.

5

And though, perhaps, the Colours are but poore,
And some defects appeare
To the strict Eye;
You will not Censure want of Cunning more,
To pourtray Truth, if I
Have bristlie haire,
Or my head bald, or beard in Cop'ses grow;
Will Art soe trim me, that they must not show?
Who then my Face could know?

6

Had I bene more exact, I had bene lesse;
And though I might have put
More varnish on;
It had bene Time ill spent, and might expresse
More fine proportion;
But, without doubt,
Lesse to the Life; and I would now appeare
In my Iust Symmetrie: though plaine, yet Cleare;
Soe, may you see me here.

ODE XXVIII.

[What a Strange Thing is Man!]

1

What a Strange Thing is Man!
How weake in his Designe,
His Wisedome! For I can
See others now in mine;
How Dull! how lost!
To what he Studied most.

2

Wee cannot looke vpon
Our inwarde selves, but find
Man generall; for one
Is all and everie Mind,
In some Degree;
Seeing our Selves, wee others see.

3

The same our Common Cares;
Our Passions are alike;
Our causeles Hopes and Fears
At the same obiects strike;
And all our Store
Of Follies, less or more.

4

Our Frailties, our desires,
Our Policies, our Plots,

Are fed from Common Fires:
Not wisedome, in her knots,
But cunning hands,
May, by his owne, loose others' bands.

5

This Image. which wee reare
Vnto our Selves, is not
Soe radiant and Clear
As wee suppose; the lot
Is free to All:
And diverse things, by the same name, we call.

ODE XXIX.

[This Dullnes is improper to the Day]

1

This Dullnes is improper to the Day;
And I am Sad, not in a common way;
My Fancie, Darke as night,
And fixéd; all the Light
Of Reason fled;
And I am dead
Vnto my selfe; I seeke
A Thousand waies to breake
The Cloud which doth involve me, and invade
With a strange Mist, the little light I had.

2

I cannot speake what I would strive to say,
And what I most would doe, I most delay;

I doe not know my Thought;
Or rather I thinke nought
Which can be knowne;
I'me not my owne
Disposer to the poore
Follies of everie howre;
And common Things I can noe more intend,
Then grave Designes; but from all purpose bend.

3

How am I Stupid? How below my thought?
Am I to Sottishnes and nothing brought?
I doe not breath as once,
But closed in Ignorance
I seeme to dwell,
As in a Shell;
Where my close-breathing tires
My Lungs, in oft respires;
And fainting, all my Spirrits loose their vse:
Why am I choack'd? why am I stifled thus?

ODE XXX.

[The Sprightlie Larke, vpon yond Easterne Hill]

1

The Sprightlie Larke, vpon yond Easterne Hill,
His early vowes
Has payed; and summons vp my Lazy Qvill,
Againe to rouse,

And in Cleare notes, like her owne Harmonie,
Salute the Day;
But I, Dull Sinner, Stay,
And her third Himne performed: How dull am I!

2

The golden beames of bright Apollo long
Has warmed the Earth,
And got his morning draught. I have a Tongve,
And noe such Dearth
Of ffancie, to be meerlie silent, when
All Creatures bring
Somewhat for offering;
Why should I sleepe? or not enlarge my Pen?

3

It were but soe, had still the Power of Ice
In Ebon walls,
It Pris'ner kept; I will awake, arise,
When Vertue calls.
Shame were it to prefer a Pillow, soft
With Ease and Sin;
To her resplendent Shine:
I better Feathers take, and mount aloft.

4

Emu'lous of the Larke, in her vprise,
And in her Song,

I quitt this dunghill Earth; let it suffice,
If I, among
The other Creatures, a small Tribute bring;
One verse or note,
Though from a harsher throte:
The poore wren Cherups what the Larke doth Sing.

5

In a Consort of Praise all Creatures ioyne;
The Squallid owle
Twitters a midnight note; though not soe fine,
Yet with a Soule
As gratefull as the nightingale's cleare Song;
The vniverse
Doth the great Himne reherse;
I only bear my part the rest among.

6

Then, with fresh Pineons drest, I will assay
My part to raise;
And celebrate his Name, who to this Day,
Hath many waies
Preserved me. Oh, God! I have a Qvill,
Muddled and lame,
To magnifie thy Name;
Asham'd, I lay it by, I've done soe much soe ill.

ODE XXXI.

[Welcome, my Lampe! awhile]

1

Welcome, my Lampe! awhile,
I may enioy thy oyle,
Without Disturbance; and allay
The foule distempers of the Day,
With sober recreations of the night;
All Eyes are closed, of Ignorance and Spight;
For it is late;
My watch doth prate
Of twelve or one. Deare Muses, wee may yet
Solace an howre. For ever may he gett
The name of Sluggard, who doth grutch
A midnight hower for witt, too much.
For me, I would allow
All time, one Day to you.

2

Yet rather let vs keepe
Our howers, and mocke at Sleepe.
For safest, when the Sun is downe,
From noise and Croud wee are our owne;
Nor yet auspicious Phebus can produce
Effects more glorious from the lab'ring Muse,
Then Luna pale;
Noe idle tale
Of giddie wits perplex her serious howers;
Noe loud day-noises, when the Cittie doores

Are all lockt vp; but onlie such
As ever have a Key too much.
Shee takes her wing. But stay,
The Cocke has summon'd Day.

ODE XXXII.

[Are onlie Poets mad?]

1

Are onlie Poets mad?
'Tis an vnluckie trade;
Our moderne, and the old Democritus,
Saw all the world were Lunatickes with vs;
And if I (partiall) may
The present Age survay;
I am afraide
Wee are not onlie, or not the most mad.

2

See to the Politicke
Is not Hee partly Sicke?
Are his Designes vnmixt with Drosse and Loame?
Has he not some respects he brought from home?
Are all his Counsells weigh'd?
His Actions ballancéd
Within the right
Skale of cleare Iudgment, and not one found light?

3

See all the world vnfram'd,
Strangelie disioynted, lamed;

And Common Men, (who have noe proiect to
Advance their Fortunes,) run a-madding too;
Sneake in their ffollies; prye
At Madnes, Misterie;
And wee may See
The infection spread to All, in some degree.

4

Not least, where often most
Sound Faculties they boast:
This saw, of old, much-seeing Lucian;
And 'tis but now the same; for everie Man
Is bound to his owne heart;
Not blanching any part
Of his owne Sence;
And strives to gvild all Follie with pretence.

5

The learning of the time
Is sicke; and the Sublime
Notions of Men are sunke; our Industrye
Not meerlie simple) has its Subtletye;
All Men have in their waies
Distraction; Pride and Praise,
Makes the world Mad;
The Poet sings, the Polititian's Sad.

ODE XXXIII.

[Oh, doe not breath too loud; though greife sometimes]

1

Oh, doe not breath too loud; though greife sometimes
In rude Expressions, and disordred Rhimes
Appeare;
It is not safe to sigh, too loud, when wee
Deplore, such tender Cases; Poesie
Must here
Curbe her free Qvill, and couch a big intent
In the darke folds of a faigned Argument.

2

But Danger onlie gvilt attends; I bring
White Thoughts, and never learnéd how to sing
Of more
Then Truth and Iustice in each Line might seale;
Vnbyasséd with Spleene, or too much Zeale.
How poore
Should I my selfe account! Had I bene swaied,
By these fraile Passions, this or that t' have said!

3

Then may I boldly vtter my free Thought;
And to the Age, poure all my Bosome out.
I will
Noe longer Swell and pinch my throbbing brest,
With ffears and Fancies, to my owne vnrest.
Poor Qvill!

Yet thou art free, and Iust to all my Care;
I am befreinded Still to have thee neare.

4

And though, perhaps, I privilie expresse
The summe of all my Thoughts, when nothing lesse
Is read;
I write what I intend, and rather Chuse
Such Intricacies; though not soe abstruse
As need
An Index to informe me what the Ayme
Was, when I laied the plott or raised the frame.

ODE XXXIV.

[It is not worth your Care]

It is not worth your Care:
My better Poems, which the greedie Flame
Devour'd; 'tis true, they might have kept my name
More glorious and faire
Vnto Posteritie, then I can hope
From these remaining Trifles; and perhaps
Have given a Light to those who can but grope
The way, and Stumble; or surprised in Trapps
Of Cunning, fall to Ruine. This, and more,
They might have done;
But I am one,
Who value nothing of my private Store.
Who knowes, but they determin'd were, to fall
Part of a greater Ruine? and vnfitt

To give such Light to future Times as shall
Brand our owne Age in witt, for want of witt?
I doe not yet despaire,
When silver-wingéd Peace againe shall Shine,
To raise a Poesie in everie Line,
As high, as full, as faire.

ODE XXXV.

[Poor Clod of Earth, Despise]

1

Poor Clod of Earth, Despise
Thy Slime, and yet be wise.
Thou art vnable to attaine
That Pitch,
And knowing it, not to refraine
Were madnes; yet desist;
Though with a greedy fist
And Itch,
Thou covet it. Leave of to clime
That Hill which will vpbraid thy Time.

2

Though fired with glorie; all
Motives of Honour call
Thee vp to this sublime Endeavour;
Yet know
The golden Anadem is never

Designéd for thy head.
A Thousand, thousand, led
As thou,
With selfe-surmises, yet appeare
Examples, others to deterre.

3

And though the Goale were won
Thou dost propose, vndone
Were yet the greater worke: it is
Beyond
Thy manage, were it taught; to this
My feeble Lampe, as much
Might fire Heaven's greatest Brouch;
And find
Perpetuall Fuell, to Adorne
Th' Horizon better than the Morne.

4

Away, presumptuous wretch!
'Tis set beyond thy reach.
With humble Admiration fall,
And kisse
Thy mother Earth; farewell to all
Thy follies bid; and see
Its state, and thy degree;
Soe misse
Thy certaine ruine. Soe the Sun
Wee see best, in reflection.

5

Invert thy Eyes and see
Its State, and thy degree;
Where many formes appeare, and all
The hid
Causes in Nature rise or fall,
To what wee apprehend,
Which is not true; vnbend
That thred
Of Fancie, knit before; and See,
Truth onlie meets Humilitie.

ODE XXXVI.

[Huge weight of Earth and Sin]

1

Huge weight of Earth and Sin,
Which clogs my lab'ring Thoughts in their vprise;
I am not wise
Enough, to breake my Chaine, or cast my Skin,
With prudent Adders. Could I slip
From my old Slime, how would I skip!
In my new Robes of Innocence, and veiwe
Things in their Causes, absolute and true.

2

Then, in a scornfull heat
And brave Disdaine, enfranchis'd would I flye,
To kisse that Skye,
Wee now admire; and find a fixéd Seat

Above the lower Region; where
Th' attractive Earth, I need not feare;
But move without my Load, and, at one Step,
As eas'ly mount the orbe as downward leape.

3

There could I see and scorne
The busie toyle of Mankind in their waies:
Their Nights and Dayes
How fruitles to the End; as were they borne
To satisfye their Lust and Pride,
To their owne Sence diversifyed;
And added nothing to the gen'rall frame,
But a meer thing, put in, to have a name.

4

How everie other Thing
Applies its part, and has a Motion!
Which (though vnknowne)
Doubtles, it doth aright performe; and bring
Its little to maintaine the whole:
Man onlie, who should have a Soule
More noble and refin'd, by Nature made
Surveiour of the worke, doth nothing Adde.

5

Diverted from the charge,
Entrusted to him meerly, as beyond,
In face and mind,

The other Creatures; with a Thought as large
As all the orbes, and wider too;
Truth (whose vast Circle none can know)
Was onlie bigger; and the Light of Truth,
Met full and radiant here, from North to South.

6

Thus once; but now, alas,
The most despiséd obiect of the world;
From all this hurl'd;
A Slave to Passion and his owne disgrace;
Baited by Follie, and Surprised
In the great Snare, which Hee devised,
Of pleasant vanitie; and all the boast
Hee had of Dignitie and worth is lost.

7

Poor Sand of Earth! how lost
To thy owne ruine, art thou, in thy will;
And plotting Still
Further destruction! as though all were lost
Of thy Creation, in thy Selfe;
Now made a wracke, vpon the Shelfe
Of Ignorance. Hopest there thy selfe to Save
From vtter Death, and the devouring wave?

ODE XXXVII.

[Looke above, and see thy wonder]

Looke above, and see thy wonder;
Downward looke, and see it vnder;
Vpon thy Right hand, see it shine;
And meet thy Left, in the same Line;
Survay the Earth, and sound the deepe;
From those that flye, to those that Creepe,
In everie Creature: and behold,
From the base Mirtle, to the old
Maiesticke oke; veiwe everie plant,
Herbe, root, or flower; none wonder want.
Consider Springs, and as you passe,
Meet wonder in the smallest grasse.
Let even Dust and Atomes rise,
To strike new wonder in thy Eyes.
Observe the rapid orbes, and see
A Cloud beyond Discoverie.
See all about thee, and display
Thy vnderstanding to the ray
Of this combinéd Flame. This tongve
Of vniversall praise has sung
To a Deafe Eare. All obiects stand
To teach, but wee not vnderstand.
Are these obscure? or too remote?
Beyond thy notion, or thy note?
Looke at thy selfe, and wonder more;
Nature contracted in her Store.

ODE XXXVIII.

[Rapt by my better Genius, beyond]

1

Rapt by my better Genius, beyond
The power of Earth; I sitt,
And see all humaine follye in its kind.
Not what wee fancie witt,
But has its blemish there; or Arrogance,
Or selfe-opinion,
Or Impudence, or Flatterie, or Chance,
Or blind Affection,
Support the maine. These set away,
What common Things wee doe or Say.

2

Poor crauling Emmetts! in what busie toyle
Wee slip away our Time?
Our glorious Daylight and our midnight oyle
Spent to enlarge our Crime.
What a prodigious Spectacle I veiwe!
When I from hence looke downe
Vpon the Common Earth, which once I knew,
And made my proper owne!
With as much Zeale, as were my Fate
Chained to the whirle of her Estate.

3

Now got above the mist of flesh and blood,
I am inform'd aright,

In all the Misterie of Bad and Good:
A never-fadeing Light
Surrounds me, that to Iudge I cannot erre.
What have I rashly said?
Arrogant foole! my Taper went out here,
And left me halfe-dismaied,
To thinke how it a Tipe might be
Of the great Light put out in Mee.

ODE XXXIX.

[Never to be at Ease, never to rest]

1

Never to be at Ease, never to rest;
What brest
Is strong enough? What braine, if it were double,
Could beare vnmoved, the assaults of soe much trouble?
Tost on the wave of Chance,
I loose my better Selfe;
Where Ignorance
Cast vp a Shelfe,
To ruine all my vertue; I forgot
My manhood, and the Treasure which I putt
A Sure
And constant rescue from all hands impure.

2

Taught by Example, and the precepts which
From rich

Antiquitie I gathered; I was made
Fortune-proofe in her malice; not afraide
To cope with Danger, in
All Formes She could put on.
But lost within
Opinion,
I was surprised; and ere I could collect
Disperséd Notions, by an indirect
Strange way,
Passion prevailed; I knew not what to Say.

3

Fortified in my Reason, once I thought
(But nought
Availes our owne Surmises) that the power
Of fortune could not Storme me. Ah! noe more
Let woman's Son be proud
In his owne brest or braine.
For soe I stood
To entertaine
All hazard vnappall'd; and had within
As great a Force, as full a Magazin,
As might
Have flattered you to the Same oversight.

Man is not Strong at all; nor wise, nor Fitt,
His owne to manage with his proper witt;
Then least, when borne by Selfe-opinion,
Hee Stops the Light, and wanders in his owne

Darke Principles and notions; hee attains
Nearest Perfection, who his owne restrains.

ODE XL.

[I cannot dwell in Sorrow, neither please]

1

I cannot dwell in Sorrow, neither please
My Selfe with Shadowes. Though I live at Ease,
I cannot laugh away
The trouble of the Day;
Nor yet soe much oppress my Spright,
In Tears to linger out the Night.
I cannot make my Case
Discourse for everie place;
Nor meerlie rest,
In my owne brest,
Silent. I am not proud in Miserie
Nor Sordid in my Hope's vncertaintie.

2

I cannot breake into an Extasie
Of Passion, Danted with my Miserie;
Nor make my owne Cares more
Then Some have bene before.
My Sufferings are noe greater then
The feelings of a Thousand Men,
Perhaps as Innocent;
Why then should I lament

The pettie losse
Of goods or Drosse?
Shall these, which are but casuall, subiect all
My better Treasures to their Rise or Fall?

3

I cannot fall soe low; though I sometimes
May looke into the glasse of these Sad Times;
And 'mongst those Shadowes, See
One that resembles me;
Naked, and nere to ruine, in
His Fortune. Yet I cannot Sin
Soe much to Providence,
As for the pangve of Sence,
Exclaime and rave,
Or wish the Grave
Might end him, with his Sorrowes, or invent
Fears to him, for a further punishment.

4

I cannot safelie looke at my owne Sore,
Nor search too deepe, lest I should make it more.
Soe, the vnknowing Leech
Tortures the bleeding wretch
Vnder his Cure. I am not blind
To my owne Danger; neither find
Soe great a Burthen in
This miserie of mine;

But I may Stand,
And vnderstand
It as the Common Lot, by my owne Share;
Soe prevent Fortune, ere She be aware.

ODE XLI.

[I doe not glorie in my Fate.]

1

I doe not glorie in my Fate.
Nor prise it at an vnder rate.
I doe not boast
Anything I possesse. I am not tyed
Against my Iudgement, vnto any Syde;
Nor am I lost
Soe much to reason, that I chuse
Supported Error, and refuse
Neglected Truth;
Contented to abide
Her votarie, against the vulgar mouth.

2

Let the full Pens of vanitie Contend
In what they please;
And gaine the Ende
Of their owne seeking, humane Praise;
Lost, with the Breath wherein it straies.
I cannot fall
To flatter Pride and Follie in her Ease;

But speake my knowledge, though it should displease
The common-Hall
Of Ignorance; and if I meet
Death, I have found my winding Sheet.

3

I am a Man; in everie Step
Of Life I tread, and cannot leape
Above that name;
Nor can I grovell, in a bruitish way,
Lost to my nature. This is all. I say
I am that Same
Vnsteddye thing wee call a man;
Limited in my Selfe; and can
Neither deface
Nor yet array
That Image; 'Tis my Glorie, my Disgrace.

ODE XLII.

[Goe, make a Rape on Fancie; and bring downe]

1

Goe, make a Rape on Fancie; and bring downe
All formes disperséd in that Region,
Vnto our Common Light;
Then, with a cunning Hand, collect the Parts,
And make a Bodie, to astonish Arts.
Draw your owne Face aright;
Give common Man his Symmetrie, in all

Dimensions of the mind;
This were a worke to bind
The indebted world, a Slave perpetuall.

2

But what thin Shadowes flitt within the Braine?
What obscure notions move to entertaine
Men in their owne Conceite?
Wee looke at Passions through the Subtill glasse
Of Selfe-conceit; and follow them, in chase,
With the loud noise of witt.
Wee run our Selves aground vpon that Shelfe
Our Reason bids vs Shun:
How soone is man vndone,
Who carries his owne Ruine in Himselfe!

3

I cannot reach nor Span my Selfe within
My owne Dimensions. I have often bin
Busie to draw my owne
To my owne Power; and with all Diligence
The dispers'd Fragments of Intelligence
I gladlie would have knowne;
And vs'd, as in my Power, the Facultie
Of everie Sence. The Reach
Of Reason I would fetch
Into the Circle of Capacitie.

4

I would have seen my Selfe, as in a Sheath,
Within my Selfe; and, as my owne, bequeath
Each part to proper use;
My conquer'd Reason, to submit her Power.
My Sence, corrected in Exterior
Obiects, alone, to chuse
What I propose; then doe not aske, what part
I would have gvide the rest;
I would have everie brest
Capable of the rule of his owne Heart.

5

Thus could wee Draw our Selves, the worke were done;
Knowledge were perfected, and truth were won.
Then all our toyle had End,
Our Parts reduc'd Each to his Station;
And wee might live, in re-Creation.
But who shall yet ascend
That great Scientiall orbe, and bring away
The wreath of victorie?
What humane Industrie
Knowes how to Doe? What witt knowes what to Say?

ODE XLIII.

[Walke noe more in those Sweet Shades]

1

Walke noe more in those Sweet Shades,
Where Roses canopie your Heads;

And the fragrant violet spreads,
A purple Tapistrie;
Where all the Qvire had wont to Sing
Their earlie notes; and everie thing
Was pleasure to entrance a King,
Beyond his Destinie.
Ah! now noe more,
Frequent those Shades, you knew or loved before.

2

Goe to the horrid vale of Care,
And tread the Maze of your owne Feare;
There grow noe Bayes nor mirtles there,
But the Sad dismall Yeiugh.
Day birds are banishéd this grove,
The monstrous Batt alone doth rove;
And the dire Screich-owle, percht above
Your over-clouded Brow;
Shall make you Sad
Beyond the Cause of Sorrow which you had.

3

There, horrid Croakings sound; and sad
Accents of Death,—vntimelie made,—
Rend humane Eares; oh! Dismall Shade,
Why am I curst to Chuse
In thy Sad Alleyes to weare out
My Youth? in all my Ioyes forgot.
To thy vnhappie walkes I brought

A more vnhappie Muse;
But a Muse fitt
To ioyne with thy Inhabitants, and Sitt

4

Vpon the Bankes of thy Sad Poole,
Where Frogs and loathsome Toads doe houle;
Where all their Spaune, with yellings foule,
Fill the corrupted Ayre.
To these, my Accents well may Suite;
My harsher grones will strike 'em mute;
And teach 'em to draw ruder out,
Deeper, and worse by farre;
For they are free
Of that ranke venome which imposthumes Mee.

5

With these, then, will I ioyne my verse;
And everie Accent vnto theirs
Shall double grones. Let me reherse
Noe more the tunéd Lay,
To liveing waters; bid Farewell
To all the Silver birds, which dwell
Vpon their Streams: and never tell
Of my owne Devia.
Farewell to all
Wee Ioy, or Peace, or Light, or Pleasure call.

ODE XLIV.

[Away!]

Away!
Fond man, thy braine is Sicke, thy Qvill doth stray;
There is noe Cause of Discontent,
Soe farre should move thee to lament.
Distresséd Fancie doth obscure
Thy Reason, in the Calenture
Of Passion.
Erect thy vnderstanding to
The Cause imagined of thy woe;
Which is noe cause, but a pretence;
Which Reason Sicke, vnto the Sence
Doth Fashion.
In Sober numbers, sing away
Thy Sorrowes; or at lest allay
The Apprehension of thy Ill.
Take, take againe, thy modest Qvill;
And yet retaine the Libertie thy Muse
Would Chuse.

ODE XLV.

[Each Day another Man, another mind]

1

Each Day another Man, another mind;
And wee our Selves forget.
Chang'd in opinion, all wee left behind
Is lost. What once was witt

To our owne tast,
Wee relish not; but in each newer find
More Ioy; and gladlie hast
Through Follie's Zodiacke, from the first to th' Last.

2

Wearie in everie Action, wee pursue,
Ere wee can perfect anye;
Sicke of the old, vnsatisfyed with new,
And greedie after manye;
Never at Ease,
To our owne Thoughts; and what wee ought t' eschew,
With Scorne and Bitternes,
Wee hug, our Glorie; and grow fat in these.

3

Glad in all present madnes; and can looke
Noe further then the Time
Enioyed to the purpose. Let the booke
Of Conscience babble Crime
To the gray haire,
Whose blood is cold, and Sinnewes palsey-strooke;
Let him grow Dead with Feare,
And langvish minutes till he meet the Beere.

4

But wee are yonge; and though wee doe not Love
To hear our Follies read;

Wee yet Act what wee please, and freely move
In everie Step wee tread;
Wee will not See
Backe, to Committed ones; nor yet reprove
Our owne Debilitie;
In the pursuit of a fresh vanitie.

5

Though I confes, when I with Iudgment scan
My Actions, and pervse
My Selfe, in all the frailtyes of a Man;
I doe not much refuse
To see the past
Errors of youth, and Iudge 'em, as I can;
Some please, and some distast,
Some I am proud of, Some away I cast.

6

Though, in a rigid Sence, I must confesse
All humane Actions are
Madnes and Follie; yet this foolishnes
Has made me to appeare,
To my owne Eyes,
My owne full Image; where without all dresse
Of ornamentall Lyes,
I am not blind to my Deformityes.

ODE XLVI.

[I grovell Still, and cannot gaine]

1

I grovell Still, and cannot gaine
The orbe I flutter at in vaine.
My Thought is narrow, and my Langvage weake,
To give my Smaller Comprehensions plaine.
Something it is, I faine would speake,
But as my Fancies rise, they breake.

2

Wrapt in my native weed of Sin,
I cannot cast; but search within
The folds, and would a better raiment find;
Starved in the old Mantle, now worne thin;
This beggar's Coat deiects my mind,
In all Attempts I have designed.

3

Raggs doe not fitt a Court; nor can
Man, in this Motley, meerlie man,
Stand in the privie Chamber of his heart;
Where Knowledge keeps the doore; and Truth doth raigne,
Empresse of all; and everie part
Bound to noe Rule, nor forme of Art.

4

When I (encouragéd by Some
Waiters at large) would nearer come,

To wonder at the Glorie of her State;
I sneak'd, abash'd, into another Roome;
And like Court-gazers, I can prate
Of something seen, but know not what.

5

Thus, Silly man! I am content
To get a Sight, although I went,
Never, beyond the Threshold of her Court;
Enough, I thought I saw her, in her Tent;
And gvest the greatness of her Port,
By what some others did report.

6

But who can tell aright her State?
Forbid to humane Eyes. Of late
I heard one of her nearest Servants Say,
These bold Intruders sate without the Gate,
Ignorant gazers, and did Stay
For Almes, there given, everie Day.

7

Then, with the rest, why may not I,
Talke of gay Sights and braverie,
To make the world esteeme me wise and brave?
But I am Conscious, and well-pleas'd to see
The greatest Priviledge I have,
An equall Man, an Earth-borne Slave.

ODE XLVII.

[Be not too Zealous. I, ere this, have seene]

1

Be not too Zealous. I, ere this, have seene
A Pangve as hot, a votarie as keene,
Dye in its height of Flame;
Where everie word has beene
A Panegericke; all Addresses came
To Celebrate the Glorie of one name.

2

A Qvill, inspiréd with noe vulgar heat,
Made great in Numbers; in his ayme more great;
Supported in his choice;
And honoréd to meete
Acceptance, in a Patron; now in noyse
Of the litigious Rout, has lost his voice.

3

His Zeale is now noe more. His frequent vowes
Are all forgott. The honour of his browes,
His Laurel, witheréd;
His Qvill, perfidious,
Dabbles in common Cisternes; ruinéd
To his first vertue, calls backe what he sed.

4

And runs a-madding, with the vulgar Crew,
Retracting his old Principles, for new

And vndetermin'd things.
Poor man! I sett to veiwe
Thy common frailties, in his waverings.
Be calme! for Passion tires, on her owne wings,

5

And falls in Dirt; a Spectacle of Scorne
To other men. Be constant; but not borne
With a blind violence,
To stand noe more then turne,
To the Suggestions of imperfect Sence:
Who builds on Sands, has noe safe residence.

ODE XLVIII.

[Soe am I slaved by Time]

1

Soe am I slaved by Time,
I modulate my Rhime,
To the soft Liricke; though I rather Chuse,
Had I the ancient Libertie, my Muse
Has seen and knowne;
To breath in bigger notes, and raise a Stile
To the Heroicke Number; but my Qvill
Is not my owne.

2

I once had to produce
A wittnes, that my Muse

100

Was noble in her Choice, and had a wing
Worthy the Subiect; but, alas! I bring
This to my Shame,
My Poems are noe more, noe more to boast;
For in the heape of Ruine they were lost,
Lost, to my name.

3

Let me confesse a Truth;
The honour of my Youth
Was in those leaves; and if I had a Pride,
It was in them, more then in All beside.
And I may Say
(Retaining modestie) they were not in
The Common Ranke; few of this Age have bin
Soe pure as they.

4

I would not be my owne
Herald; but this is knowne
To many of cleare Iudgment, who have bene
Passionate in the losse. Pardon the keene
And tender Zeale
Of an indulgent Father; if it rise
To Frensie, blame not water in my Eyes:
It suits me well.

5

Abortives doe not lacke
Their Tears; and dismall blacke

101

Attends the Funerall; and may not I,
Obliged, in a Paternall Pietie,
To my best Child,
Vtter a Truth vntax'd? Noe matter tho'
Ignorance blatter Follie, it shall goe
As it was Stiled.

6

Sleepe in thy Ashes; live,
Beyond all I could give;
Live in thy Fate, and everie Eye shall pay
Its Tribute to thy vrne, and sadlie Say,
Here is interr'd
A Father's Ioy; who cannot want a Teare
From anie Eye, who sees this Sepulchre
Which Ruin reared.

7

This Storie of thy Fate,
These Tears shall vindicate;
And yet I doubt not but againe to bring
Numbers of weight, and mightie Epicks Sing;
When Time shall raise
Industrious Qvills to meritt. I, till then,
Weare out my Time, with an vnsteddye Pen,
A thousand waies.

8

My better Hopes here fixe,
That I shall intermixe,

102

One Day, when Peace againe our Feilds shall tread,
Something of worth, for all the world to read.
How farre the reach
Of Poesie, enfranchised in her Ayme,
May (iustlie warranted by vertue) claime!
What high things teach!

9

Till when, my numméd Feet,
In ragged Sockes, forget
Those statelie measures; and contented, I
Draw Slender Odes, to the varietie,
Of Chance and Time.
With these I please my selfe, and sing away
My weight of Cares, to linger out the Day,
In Liricke Rhime.

ODE XLIX.

[I am not limited to a precise]

1

I am not limited to a precise
Number, in what I write;
Nor curbe my owne delight
Of Freedome, to be thought more formall wife.
Nor doe I meerlie Strive
To change; but take the next
Which falls to Sence. The Live
Formes of an honest text
Seekes little to Illustrate its intent,
And wrests in Nothing from the Argument.

103

2

Though in these Scattered Fancies I can boast
Noe proper Treatise; for
I catch at everie hower,
And onlie glance at things; I am not lost
To Studies of more weight;
But Shadow out, by these,
What I would chuse to write,
Were I secure in Ease.
And often touch the String I would Applye,
Would Time allow, to its full Harmonye.

3

I cannot Subiect my Designe to Rhime;
That is, I cannot fall
Meerlie to Rhime, and all
My notions hang to any certaine Chime;
But to the nearest Sence
I take a Number fitt,
And hardlie, for pretence
Of finer, loose my witt;
For who that has his Passions subdued,
Can bind his Reason to that Servitude?

4

Man (Lord of Langvage, great Distingvisher
Of Forme, to what is fitt)
Looseth, if he submitt
To Custome, his Prerogative; may cleare

104

All Scruple, and dispose
Of them, by Edict, to
What ever heele propose.
They loose their title, who
Necessite a Forme, or dwell in words;
Soe are they vassalls made, who were borne Lords.

5

Some (who pretend to witt), (Some, I have knowne)
Imagine all the height
Of witt in the Conceipt
Of formall Trifles; these are often Showne
To common Eyes; who, for
It pussles them, admire,
And get a Copie; more
To sooth, then to Desire
Anything tasting witt. These frequent are,
In this witt-venting Age, where none want Share.

6

How some racke all their Faculties, and Squeese
The Iuice of all their Braine!
In a fastidious Straine
Of words, to pussle men; and can but please
Them selves, with a thin Ayre.
What trifle can wee name,
Soe barren, or soe bare?
Be it an Anagram,
To stifle all the Life of common witt;
But busies some Men to be proud in it?

105

7

Of these, not three I ever saw has hit
Within the roade of Sence.
Nay give 'em their pretence,
The Latitude they aske. How below witt
They Stand, I dare not Say;
Lest I be challengéd
Vncapable, that way.
For I am soe indeed;
And 'tis a Qvalitie I not admitt
Within the Region of a noble witt.

ODE L.

[Oh! Doe not warrant Sin in your Applause.]

1

Oh! Doe not warrant Sin in your Applause.
Indeed, I saw your Heart;
And you abhorred the Face on't. Her witt was
Beyond a woman's part;
You hardlie had an Art
To keepe backe blushes, Conscious in her Cause.

2

Fye! doe not Say you love that Spirrit in
The Sex; your heart saies noe;
You cannot valuet as a Common Sin;
It is a monster; though
You would a vizard throw
Vpon such Gestures, as more Masculine.

106

3

What Man but hates a woman bold and proud?
The vertues which beseeme
That Sex, and makes the few good, that are good;
Are Silence, Disesteeme
Of their owne witt, in them;
And Modestie, where All is vnderstoode.

4

Such Petulancies as you would Contend
Are pittifull; more then
Prais-meriting (alas!) and you discend
Below your Iudgement, when
You did applaud it. Men
Sometimes praise ill, where reproofe will not mend.

Oh! Doe not Flatter Her, to her owne Sence;
Custome will make her Errors Impudence.

ODE LI.

[The Coopéd Lion has broke through his Grate]

1

The Coopéd Lion has broke through his Grate,
And forages abroad;
Whilst frighted villagers of Danger prate,
In their amazement woode.
Consider, what
Annoyance may succeed; Hee thirsts for Blood.

107

2

Soe doth the Ruffian, (fetteréd in the Brow
Of awfull modestie)
Pursue his Lusts, when women but allow
Familiaritie.
You hardly know
What Mischeife followes, in his Libertie.

3

Make Short his Fetters, by your powerfull Eye,
And keepe him yet a Slave;
Chained by (your Beautie's Honour) Modestie;
Your Tirrannie is Brave;
Ladies, I doe not see
How he can iniure you without your Leave.

4

For Modestie keeps still, inviolate,
The Honour of a Name;
And who dare presse vpon that prettye State
Which Innocence doth frame?
Noe Tongve dares prate
To wrong your Honour or traduce your Fame.

5

Forgett the Fashion of the Times, and Chuse
Waies proper to your Sex;
Avoid those franticke Habits which abuse

108

Your Creditts, and perplex
You in the vse;
For Fame, will strangelie Glosse vpon the Text.

And 'tis too much Presumption of your Shame
That you are falne, to be Iudged in Fame.

ODE LII.

[Ill suits that froward Scorne]

1

Ill suits that froward Scorne
Your Sexe; I am not tyed
To woman, in a Forme,
Or a Face mortifyed;
Though I confesse
Some things are ornament, Some nothing lesse.

2

Your Silence doe not Change
By vowel, to the worse;
Be free, butt doe not range
In the frequented Course,
Of Appetite;
And rather trust your vertue then your Witt.

3

Something within you knowes
How to informe you best;

109

Conforme your outward browes,
Vnto your inward Brest;
And then appeare,
To informe Men, beyond all Character.

ODE LIII.

[Be not Deceived; I know it by my owne]

1

Be not Deceived; I know it by my owne:
Great Bodies are great Burdens, and incline
More to the Earth; participating in
A larger Measure, what proportion
Soever please your Sence;
Bignes extenuates
Its proper Faculties, with weights;
And Smaller Bodies have more Excellence.

2

Like to the Servile Drudge, some noble man,
Has placed in a great Castle; and you come
To see the Building, and find everie Roome
Vseles to Him; an end is All he can
Manage; or some remote
Parlour his Familye
May comprehend; whilest others lye
Vnswept till the States come, and wast and rott.

110

3

Soe am I, in my Selfe; whilst I admire
Lesse Bodies, where a man is sett soe near
In all his Parts, contracted, as it were,
To a Conveniencie; and the Entire
House he keeps warme and Full,
With his owne proper Store;
Each office, Hee, with Ease, lookes ore;
And lives to vse it All; in noe Roome Dull.

4

Reallie, (it may be my owne Disgrace,
But) I am Confident, wee bigger men
Have Faculties lesse knitt, lesse able, then
Weaker Appearances. I doe not praise
Meer Littlenes, nor from
All Larger derogate;
But by my owne I see, and say't,
I could Lye warmer in a lesser Roome.

ODE LIV.

[Soe flitts the trembling Needle round about]

1

Soe flitts the trembling Needle round about
The Compasse, till it fall
Into its lovéd North; soe clings vnto't,
And will not move at all;
Then with a Mutuall Force these Lovers meet,

111

In a Magneticke Chaine.
Strange Simpathie! and though wee doe not see't,
'Tis in our Selves as plaine.
Nor let vs wonder why,
The Attractive Power should fixe
The Iron to its point; soe may wee vexe
Our Selves perpetuallye.
Rather see everie Creature pointing forth
Its proper obiect, as this meets the North.

2

'Tis seene by everie Eye, in Common things,
How apt and Eagerlie
They ioyne themselves; Everie occasion brings
Proofe to this Propertie.
'Tis not alone the Adamant can boast
This strange Affinitie;
Not Flowers, nor Trees, nor Birds, nor Beasts are lost;
But Each, respectivelie,
Have hidden Flames, and move
By a strange innate Cause,
To its cheife End; insensible what drawes
Soe neare a tye of Love;
But loose all Choice, and their Cheife Sence devour
In the strange force of this magneticke Power.

3

These secret workings in all Bodies are;
And All, at once, are mett

112

In Man, whose motion, more irregular
To all the points doth flitt;
Yet as Affection's obiects still propose,
Hee bends vnto the Point;
And though he varie much, and oft, in those,
Some Qvalitie of Constraint,
Vrges him to incline,
Hee knowes not how, nor why;
But Hee must bend to that darke Simpathie,
Which, yet vnseen, doth shine
Vpon his Heart; and passionat'lie move
Him to behold, or Seeke, desire, or Love.

ODE LV.

[Slip on, Sad Infants, of a groneing Time]

1

Slip on, Sad Infants, of a groneing Time,
Till all your Sand be Spent;
Poor Minutes! flye,
And yet be innocent;
Or man will Apprehend you to his Crime,
And filthilye,
Abuse you, to the lust of his intent.

2

Or might your carefull Mother rather ioy
In an Abortive brood;
Then have you live

113

Gviltye of Tears and Blood
In your first Light; and live but to destroy
What you should give;
Order, in all the Creature, as it Stood.

3

Rather pull in your fearfull Heads, and shrinke,
Nameles, backe to her wombe,
Then breath this Light;
Let Chaos be a Tombe
To close you, yet vnknowne; let Motion winke;
And all the bright
Glories of Day run backe from whence they come.

4

Ah man, vnhappie man! the Infant Day
Peepes with a blubber'd Eye,
To looke vpon
The Night's dire Tragedie;
Sad for our Sins. The Night, in Darke dismay,
Puts mourning on
For our Day Crimes; more Sensible then wee.

5

How many Tears for vs fall everie night!
Besides those of the Day.
If Pittye faile,

114

Terror might vs Affray;
Correcting winds, and Thunder's horrid Light.
But these availe
Not man to Stop, one foot, in his owne way.

ODE LVI.

['Tis not to make a Partie, or to ioyne]

1

'Tis not to make a Partie, or to ioyne
With any Side, that I am what I am.
All Faction I abhorre, all Sects disclaime;
And meerly Love of Truth, vnto the Shyne
Of Reason, which I have,
Gvides me; for had I sought to other Ends,
I could have bene as popular, as brave,
And had as many freinds,
To support all I vndertooke, as they,
Who move beyond me now, and more display.

2

For Hee who setts a valew on his Heart,
May what he lists Atcheive; I am as free
To either Side, or Anie, as I see
Truth to the Skale incline. I have noe part
Beyond the Naturall
Free vse of Reason; and I cannot bend

115

To any blast of Time; nor Stoop, nor fall
To a sinister End;
But must encounter where my Reason gvides,
The Puissance of Any, Either Side.

3

And I am fixt, but yet not rooted in
Opinion, to the hazard of a haire.
I am not limited to anie Square,
But free to any better; I have bin,
Perhaps, not ever thus;
And am as Apt, if a Cleare Motive draw
My Reason, yet to Change. I'me free to chuse,
And doe not care a Straw
How others Censure; for I must incline
To Truth, as my Faith gvides, in her best Shine.

4

And as I stand, all Reason I yet know
Warrants the Path I tread in; all I heare
In controverted Causes, makes it cleare;
For 'tis not Force of Argument can bow
Mee to another forme;
But a cleare Evidence of Truth, which must
Shoot liveing raies, to qvicken and informe
The Soule; and wee may trust
Her secret workings. If wee loose this mind,
She doth not faile to worke; but wee are blind.

116

5

How cleare I stand to Truth! and doe not breath
To any purpose, if I let her goe;
Had I ben Mercenarie, there was no
Second respect, but stood to tempt my faith.
I might have sitt vpon
The wheele of Action, high and Eminent.
I am not meerlie Dull; I could have done,
By a safe President,
As well as other Men; and had I made
But that my End, it had bene noe ill trade.

6

Had Politicke respects invited mee,
You cannot thinke I would have gon this way.
I am derided; and you will not say,
I can grow wealthy. Scorne and Povertie
Attends each Step I tread;
Yet am I fixt. I doe not value Life,
Nor name, nor Fortune; neither am I led
By a Demonstrative
Rule in the Case; nor willinglie admitt
Humane Devices, Subtletye of witt.

7

Though further be it from me to Affect
That obstinacie, which I must confesse,
Is not in nature void; that frowardnes
Many assume, meerlye to contradict

117

I am not in the List,
Truth be my wittnes; but I looke on things
With a cleare Eye, a Iudgment not possest;
For preiudice still brings
A Moat for Either; but I doe my part,
To all I am; with a Clear single Heart.

8

If Single Love of Truth, if Innocence,
If to neglect opinion, not to Strive
For popular Applause; if to beleive,
From principles which in themselves convince,
Be to be factious; if
To labour for an inward Peace, and Sitt
A sad Spectator of the common greife;
If to renounce my witt,
And looke on Qviet meerlie, be a Crime!
I am not wise Enough to observe the Time.

ODE LVII.

['Tis noe new thing, but a worne Maxime in]

1

'Tis noe new thing, but a worne Maxime in
The Schoole of Politickes;
A Subtle opposition; wee have seene
Many of these state trickes.
Oh! 'tis the way to rise!
And wee contemne all morall obstacles:

118

Give me but Power, I looke at nothing else;
I'me iust, and wise:
Let the dull honest Christian labour in
His Tracke of vertue; 'tis a Noble Sin.

2

Stay, whither am I gone? the Time's abuse
Wee never made our Theame;
The Misteries in State concerne not vs.
Alas, I did but dreame.
Mee, Innocence and Truth
Gvide in cleare Paths, without all preiudice
Or rancour. Fancie erring! how it flyes!
And takes a growth,
To a strange height. I should have ravill'd out
A loome of this, had I not lookt into't.

3

Alas! our Sober numbers never knew
To taxe men in their Crimes;
Our Muse (vnapt to Censure) ever flew
A pitch below the Times.
Wee are vncapable
To sound a Misterie, or dive into
The ocean for a Pearle; a Peeble, too,
Suits vs as well.
These, yeild the common feilds: these wee may gather
Without offence; and these, would I chuse rather.

119

4

Let me be free, though in a meane Estate;
And live to vse my owne,
Vnenvied in my Fortune; rather waite,
Then meet a Ioy too soone;
Direct and true in all
My purposes; Safe in the brazen tower
Of my owne brest; let Fortune laugh or loure,
I cannot fall.
Iealous of my owne Passions, free to Truth,
And Swayed by nothing, or to sleight, or Sooth.

5

But pleased in my retire, my Selfe survay,
And Studie my owne Heart;
Turne over a new leafe for everie Day,
And many things impart,
Which Common Sence and Eyes
Oft see not. 'Tis a Speculation
More pleasant then all else I yet have knowne;
And Hee that tryes
With a Discerning Light, shall weare the Spoyles
Of a Selfe-Conquest, fitt to crowne his Toyles.

6

Then kicke the world, and all Selfe-Interest;
Reiect all Hopes and Fears;
Abandon humane witt; and doe not rest

120

In the thin Characters,
Of weake and emptie words.
Beare vp and resigne all, to re-assume
A greater Libertie. Oh! Let me come!
My will accords
To gaine that freedome; I will loose Each part
Of Man, to see my Selfe, in my owne Heart.

ODE LVIII.

[Poore Man! I am as Dull as dull can be]

Poore Man! I am as Dull as dull can be;
Dull in my Selfe, with Sin;
For Sin is heavie. I am darke within,
And cannot see
My selfe. Poor Man! a Cloud has Spred vpon
My Soule, and I am lost; I am vndone.
Huge vapour flyes
Betwixt me and my selfe; all Light is gon.
I am a Chaos growne:
Rise! Sun of Glorie, yet at length arise!

Dispell these Mists, that I, at once, may See
My selfe, in my owne Heart; and All, in Thee.

ODE LIX.

[Not though wee keepe a Soft]

1

Not though wee keepe a Soft
Low number; scorne to read our verse.

121

Strong Pineons flye aloft,
And haughtie Qvills high Things reherse.
Mee better suits to Creepe,
Then with Icarian winge,
Contrive a scornéd Ruine. To the Cheape
Ayre of opinion will I never Singe.
I cannot weepe,
Nor Laugh to Please; I can doe noe such Thinge.

2

Shall I soe farre Submitt
My Reason, perhaps to one lesse?
Or prostitute my witt,
To a more Customarie Dresse?
I am not borne a Slave;
If Fortune worse contrive,
Nature intended better. Yet I have
Somewhat She cannot take, She did not give.
There am I brave:
A Monarch free, though I in fetters Live.

3

Ah! but I must resigne;
For I am not my owne, to Say,
Or Doe. Nothing of mine
But I submitt, to the worne way
Of Custome; I will write
Full Panegerickes to

122

Celebrate Iustice in our Age; make white
Foule Crimes; and tell Posteritie, wee owe
To those that fight
Soe good a Cause, all wee can Say or Doe.

4

Yes, I will say it! and
Put off my Nature, for a while;
My witt, to anie hand
Entrust; and sing, for a State Smile,
Or potent Countenance!
'Tis wisedome to forgett,
Sometimes, our Interests; wise men make Chance
A Deitie. 'Tis madnes to love witt;
May disadvance
A further reach; I'me taught; and I submitt.

5

Were I an Atome, in
The Age's Glasse, I must run free,
Or stop the passage. Men
Are Sands, and run Successivelie,
Each in his way and Place.
If any make a Stop,
The rest want Motion; Each graine, to the Masse
Contributes, to the consummating vp
Of the full Glasse;
And, as the lowest Slide, soe sinkes the Toppe.

123

6

But thus I trifle out,
In weake Surmises, all my Inke;
And loose my better thought,
Whilest I of Time, or customes thinke.
My Numbers not Enthralled,
I will noe longer Span,
By that vncertaine Measure; I have fail'd
And let some better Liricke, if he can,
Prove it Entailed,
From Theban Lire, and Sweet Dircean Swan.

Goe from me now, for many Daies; perchance
Ere I expect, my Qvill and I may meet
On safer Termes, with Honour to advance
Raptures of wonder, to the Royall Seat.
Goe from me far, till then; which if my Song
Erre not with Time, shall not be absent Long.

Deare Muses, wee must part; yet let me give
A verse to Time, in charge of my Desire.
Noe hand, if I am Dead, and these shall live,
Iniure a Line, or word, I you require.
Enioy with Freedome, all your owne conceit,
Let mine not be infring'd, but Equall Great:

124

For Poets sometimes Fancies bring,
When Readers nothing can discerne;
And they, perhaps, may find something
Shall sett him, in his owne, to learne.
And, happilie, a hidden Flame
Of Honour rests, which never came
Within the Reach of Either; yet more true
Then both, to Iudgement. Neither I nor You
Must Iudge our owne.

Adieu.

The Ende.

A Postscript.

These Poems are the onlie remaining Testimonie of some howers which the Author gave vp to the muses; many others from the same Pen, of more consideration, are lost. Hee invites noe man to the expence of his monie or Time, vpon these Fragments; which were intended not to the publike Eye, but his owne retired Fancies, to make Light that burthen which some grone vnder; and had not the request of an endeared Freind prevailed, they had not Exceeded his intention; nor the world (perhaps) in anie Sence pittyed Him. Iuly 17, 1647.