University of Virginia Library

Miscellanies.

THE MOTTO.

What shall I do to be for ever known,
And make the Age to come my own?
I shall like Beasts or Common People dy,
Unless you write my Elegy;
Whilst others Great, by being Born are grown,
Their Mothers Labour, not their own.
In this Scale Gold, in th'other Fame does ly,
The weight of that, mounts this so high.
These men are Fortunes Jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their own fire and light.
If I, her vulgar stone for either look;
Out of my self it must be strook.
Yet I must on; what sound is't strikes mine ear?
Sure I Fames Trumpet hear.
It sounds like the last Trumpet; for it can
Raise up the bur'ied Man.
Unpast Alpes stop me, but I'll cut through all,
And march, the Muses Hannibal.
Hence all the flattering vanities that lay
Nets of Roses in the way.
Hence the desire of Honors, or Estate;
And all, that is not above Fate.
Hence Love himself, that Tyrant of my days,
Which intercepts my coming praise.
Come my best Friends, my Books, and lead me on;
'Tis time that I were gon.
Welcome, great Stagirite, and teach me now
All I was born to know.
Thy Scholars vict'ries thou dost far out-do;
He conquer'd th' Earth, the whole World you.
Welcome learn'd Cicero, whose blest Tongue and Wit
Preserves Romes greatness yet.
Thou art the first of Ora'tors; only he
Who best can praise Thee, next must be.
Welcome the Mantu'an Swan, Virgil the Wise,
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies.
Who brought green Poesie to her perfect Age;
And made that Art which was a Rage.
Tell me, ye mighty Three, what shall I do
To be like one of you.
But you have climb'd the Mountains top, there sit
On the calm flour'ishing head of it,
And whilst with wearied steps we upward go,
See Us, and Clouds below.

ODE.

Of Wit.

To the Lord Falkland. For his safe Return from the Northern Expedition against the SCOTS.

On the Death of Sir Henry Wootton.

What shall we say, since silent now is He
Who when he Spoke, all things would Silent be?
Who had so many Languages in store,
That onely Fame shall speak of him in More.
Whom England now no more return'd must see.
He's gone to Heav'n on his Fourth Embassie.
On earth he travell'd often; not to say
H'had been abroad, or pass loose Time away.
In whatsoever Land he chanc'd to come,
He read the Men and Manners, bringing home
Their Wisdom, Learning, and their Pietie,
As if he went to Conquer, not to See.
So well he understood the most and best
Of Tongues that Babel sent into the West,
Spoke them so truly, that he had (you'd swear)
Not only Liv'd, but been Born every where.
Justly each Nations Speech to him was known,
Who for the World was made, not us alone.
Nor ought the Language of that Man be less
Who in his Breast had all things to express.
We say that Learning's endless, and blame Fate
For not allowing Life a longer date.
He did the utmost Bounds of Knowledge find,
He found them not so large as was his Mind.
But, like the brave Pellæan Youth, did mone
Because that Art had no more worlds then One.
And when he saw that he through all had past,
He dy'd, lest he should Idle grow at last.

On the Death of Mr. Jordan,

Second Master at Westminster School.

Hence, and make room for me, all you who come
Onely to read the Epitaph on this Tombe.
Here lies the Master of my tender years,
The Guardian of my Parents Hope and Fears,
Whose Government ne'r stood me in a Tear;
All weeping was reserv'd to spend it here.
Come hither all who his rare virtues knew,
And mourn with Me: He was your Tutor too.
Let's joyn our Sighes, till they fly far, and shew
His native Belgia what she's now to do.
The League of grief bids her with us lament;
By her he was brought forth, and hither sent
In payment of all Men we there had lost,
And all the English Blood those wars have cost.
Wisely did Nature this learn'd Man divide;
His Birth was Theirs, his Death the mournful pride
Of England; and t'avoid the envious strife
Of other Lands, all Europe had his Life,
But we in chief; our Countrey soon was grown
A Debter more to Him, then He to'his Own.
He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes,
And built up Men against the future times,
For deeds of Age are in their Causes then,
And though he taught but Boys, he made the Men.
Hence 'twas a Master in those ancient dayes
When men sought Knowledge first, and by it Praise,
Was a thing full of Reverence, Profit, Fame;
Father it self was but a Second Name.
He scorn'd the profit; his Instructions all
Were like the Science, Free and Liberal.
He deserv'd Honors, but despis'd them too
As much as those who have them, others do.
He knew not that which Complement they call;
Could Flatter none, but Himself least of all.
So true, so faithful, and so just as he,
Was nought on earth, but his own Memorie.
His Memory, where all things written were
As sure and fixt as in Fates Books they are.
Thus he in Arts so vast a treasure gain'd,
Whilst still the Use came in, and Stock remain'd.
And having purchas'd all that man can know,
He labor'd with't to enrich others now.
Did thus a new, and harder task sustain,
Like those that work in Mines for others gain.
He, though more nobly, had much more to do,
To search the Vein, dig, purge, and mint it too.
Though my Excuse would be, I must confess,
Much better had his Diligenc[e] been less.
But if a Muse hereafter smile on me,
And say, Be thou a Poet, men shall see
That none could a more grateful Scholar have;
For what I ow'd his Life, I'll pay his Grave.

On his Majesties Return out of Scotland.

On the Death of Sir Anthony Vandike,

The famous Painter.

Prometheus ill-painted.

How wretched does Promethe'us state appear,
Whilst he his Second Mis'ery suffers here!
Draw him no more, lest as he tortur'd stands,
He blame great Joves less then the Painters hands.
It would the Vulturs cruelty outgoe,
If once again his Liver thus should grow.
Pity him Jove, and his bold Theft allow,
The Flames he once stole from thee grant him now.

ODE.

Friendship in Absence.

To the Bishop of Lincoln,

Upon his Enlargement out of the Tower.

Pardon, my Lord, that I am come so late
T'express my joy for your return of Fate.
So when injurious Chance did you deprive
Of Liberty, at first I could not grieve;
My thoughts a while, like you, Imprison'd lay;
Great Joys as well as Sorrows make a Stay;
They hinder one another in the Crowd,
And none are heard, whilst all would speak aloud.
Should every mans officious gladness hast,
And be afraid to shew it self the last;
The throng of Gratulations now would be
Another Loss to you of Libertie.
When of your freedom men the news did hear
Where it was wisht for, that is every where,
'Twas like the Speech which from your Lips does fall,
As soon as it was heard it ravisht all.
So Eloquence Tully did from exile come;
Thus long'd for he return'd, and cherisht Rome,
Which could no more his Tongue and Counsels miss;
Rome, the Worlds head, was nothing without His.
Wrong to those sacred Ashes I should do,
Should I compare any to Him but You;
You to whom Art and Nature did dispence
The Consulship of Wit and Eloquence.
Nor did your fate differ from his at all
Because the doom of Exile was his fall,
For the whole World without a native home
Is nothing but a Pris'on of larger roome.
But like a melting Woman suffer'd He,
He who before out-did Humanitie.
Nor could his Spi'rit constant and stedfast prove,
Whose Art t'had been, and greatest end to Move.
You put ill Fortune in so good a dress
That it out-shone other mens Happiness,
Had your Prosper'ity always clearly gon
As your high Merits would have led it on,
You'had Half been lost, and an Example then
But for the Happy, the least part of men.
Your very sufferings did so graceful shew,
That some straight envy'd your Affliction too.
For a clear Conscience and Heroick Mind
In Ills their Business and their Glory find.
So though less worthy stones are drown'd in night,
The faithful Diamond keeps his native Light,
And is oblig'd to Darkness for a ray
That would be more opprest then helpt by Day.
Your Soul then most shew'd her unconquer'd power,
Was stronger and more armed then the Tower.
Sure unkinde fate will tempt your Spi'rit no more,
Sh'has try'd her Weakness and your Strength before.
To'oppose him still who once has Conquer'd so,
Were now to be your Rebel, not your Foe.
Fortune henceforth will more of Provi'dence have,
And rather be your Friend, then be your Slave.

To a Lady who made Posies for Rings.

Prologue to the Guardian

Before the Prince.

Who says the Times do Learning disallow?
'Tis false; 'twas never Honor'd so as Now.
When you appear, Great Prince, our Night is done;
You are our Morning Star, and shall be'our Sun.
But our Scene's London now; and by the rout
We perish, if the Round-heads be about.
For now no ornament the Head must wear,
No Bays, no Mitre, not so much as Hair.
How can a Play pass safely, when ye know
Cheapside Cross falls for making but a Show?
Our onely Hope is this, that it may be
A Play may pass too, made Extempore.
Though other Arts poor and neglected grow,
They'l admit Po'esie which was always so.
But we contemn the fury of these days,
And scorn no less their Censure then their Praise.
Our Muse, blest Prince, does onely'on you relie;
Would gladly Live, but not refuse to Dye.
Accept our hasty zeal; a thing that's play'd
Ere't is a Play, and Acted ere'tis Made.
Our Ign'orance, but our Duty too we show;
I would all Ignorant People would do so!
At other Times expect our Wit or Art;
This Comedy is Acted by the Heart.

The Epilogue.

The Play, great Sir, is done; yet needs must fear,
Though you brought all your Fathers Mercies here,
It may offend your Highness, and we'have now
Three hours done Treason here for ought we know.
But power your grace can above Nature give,
It can give power to make Abortives Live.
In which if our bold wishes should be crost,
'Tis but the Life of one poor week t'has lost;
Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn,
Scarce could it Dye more quickly then 'twas Born.

On the Death of Mr. William Hervey.

ODE.

In imitation of Horaces Ode.

In imitation of Martials Epigram.

If, dearest Friend, it my good Fate might be
T' enjoy at once a quiet Life and Thee;
If we for Happiness could leisure find,
And wandring Time into a Method bind,
We should not sure the Great Mens favour need,
Nor on long Hopes, the Courts thin Diet, feed.
We should not Patience find daily to hear,
The Calumnies, and Flatteries spoken there.
We should not the Lords Tables humbly use,
Or talk in Ladies Chambers Love and News;
But Books, and wise Discourse, Gardens and Fields,
And all the joys that unmixt Nature yields.
Thick Summer shades where Winter still does ly,
Bright Winter Fires that Summers part supply.
Sleep not controll'd by Cares, confin'd to Night,
Or bound in any rule but Appetite.
Free, but not savage or ungracious Mirth,
Rich Wines to give it quick and easie birth.
A few Companions, which our selves should chuse,
A Gentle Mistress, and a Gentler Muse.
Such, dearest Friend, such without doubt should be
Our Place, our Business, and our Companie.
Now to Himself, alas, does neither Live,
But sees good Suns, of which we are to give
A strict account, set and march thick away;
Knows a man how to Live, and does he stay?

The Chronicle.

A Ballad.

To Sir William Davenant.

Upon his two first Books of Gondibert, finished before his voyage to America.

An Answer to a Copy of Verses sent me to Jersey.

As to a Northern People (whom the Sun
Uses just as the Romish Church has done
Her Prophane Laity, and does assign
Bread only both to serve for Bread and Wine)
A rich Canary Fleet welcome arrives;
Such comfort to us here your Letter gives,
Fraught with brisk racy Verses, in which we
The Soil from whence they came, tast, smell, and see:
Such is your Present to'us; for you must know,
Sir, that Verse does not in this Island grow
No more then Sack; One lately did not fear
(Without the Muses leave) to plant it here.
But it produc'd such base, rough, crabbed, hedge
Rhymes, as ev'en set the hearers Ears on Edge.
Written by ------ Esquire, the
Year of our Lord six hundred thirty three.
Brave Jersey Muse! and he's for this high stile
Call'd to this day the Homer of the Isle.
Alas, to men here no Words less hard be
To Rhime with, then Mount Orgueil is to me.
Mount Orgueil, which in scorn o'th' Muses law
With no yoke-fellow Word will daign to draw.
Stubborn Mount Orgueil! 'tis a work to make it
Come into Rhime, more hard then 'twere to take it.
Alas, to bring your Tropes and Figures here,
Strange as to bring Camels and Ele'phants were.
And Metaphor is so unknown a thing,
'Twould need the Preface of, God save the King.
Yet this I'll say for th' honor of the place,
That by Gods extraordinary Grace
(Which shows the people'have judgment, if not Wit)
The land is undefil'd with Clinches yet.
Which in my poor opinion, I confess,
Is a most sing'ular blessing, and no less
Then Irelands wanting Spiders. And so far
From th' Actual Sin of Bombast too they are,
(That other Crying Sin o'th' English Muse)
That even Satan himself can accuse
None here (no not so much as the Divines)
For th' Motus primò primi to Strong Lines.
Well, since the soil then does not natu'rally bear
Verse, who (a Devil) should import it here?
For that to me would seem as strange a thing
As who did first Wild Beasts into 'Islands bring.
Unless you think that it might taken be
As Green did Gond'ibert, in a Prize at Sea.
But that's a Fortune falls not every day;
'Tis true Green was made by it; for they say
The Parl'ament did a noble bounty do,
And gave him the whole Prize, their Tenths and Fifteens too.

The Tree of Knowledge.

That there is no Knowledge. Against the Dogmatists.

Reason.

The use of it in Divine Matters.

On the Death of Mr. Crashaw.

Anacreontiques:

OR, Some Copies of Verses Translated Paraphrastically out of Anacreon.

I. Love.

I'll sing of Heroes, and of Kings;
In mighty Numbers, mighty things,
Begin, my Muse; but lo, the strings
To my great Song rebellious prove;
The strings will sound of nought but Love.
I broke them all, and put on new;
'Tis this or nothing sure will do.
These sure (said I) will me obey;
These sure Heroick Notes will play.
Straight I began with thundring Jove,
And all th'immortal Pow'ers, but Love,
Love smil'd, and from my'enfeebled Lyre
Came gentle airs, such as inspire
Melting love, soft desire.
Farewel then Heroes, farewel Kings,
And mighty Numbers, mighty Things;
Love tunes my Heart just to my strings.

II Drinking.

The thirsty Earth soaks up the Rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again.
The Plants such in the Earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The Sea it self, which one would think
Should have but little need of Drink,
Drinks ten thousand Rivers up,
So fill'd that they or'eflow the Cup.
The busie Sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the Sea, and when h'as done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun.
They dirnk and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in Nature's Sober found,
But an eternal Health goes round.
Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the Glasses there, for why
Should every creature drink but I,
Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?

III. Beauty.

IV. The Duel.

Yes, I will love then, I will love,
I will not now Loves Rebel prove,
Though I was once his Enemy;
Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I,
Did to the Combate him defy,
An Helmet, Spear, and mighty shield,
Like some new Ajax I did wield.
Love in one hand his Bow did take,
In th'other hand a Dart did shake.
But yet in vain the Dart did throw,
In vain he often drew the Bow.
So well my Armour did resist,
So oft by flight the blow I mist.
But when I thought all danger past,
His Quiver empty'd quite at last,
Instead of Arrow, or of Dart,
He shot Himself into my Heart.
The Living and the Killing Arrow
Ran through the skin, the Flesh, the Blood,
And broke the Bones and scorcht the Marrow,
No Trench or Work of Life withstood.
In vain I now the Walls maintain,
I set out Guards and Scouts in vain,
Since th' En'emy does within remain.
In vain a Breastplate now I wear,
Since in my Breast the Foe I bear.
In vain my Feet their swiftness try;
For from the Body can they fly?

V. Age.

Oft am I by the Women told,
Poor Anacreon thou grow'st old.
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon how they fall?
Whether I grow old or no,
By th'effects I do not know.
This I know without being told,
'Tis Time to Live if I grow Old,
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little Life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.

VI. The Account.

When all the Stars are by thee told,
(The endless Sums of heav'nly Gold)
Or when the Hairs are reckon'd all,
From sickly Autumns Head that fall,
Or when the drops that make the Sea,
Whilst all her Sands thy Counters be;
Thou then, and Thou alone maist prove
Th' Arithmetician of my Love.
An hundred Loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more.
Fair Corinth does such Beauties bear,
So few is an Escaping there.
Write then at Chios seventy three;
Write then at Lesbos (let me see)
Write me at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety Loves, and half a One.
And next to these let me present,
The fair Ionian Regiment.
And next the Carian Company,
Five hundred both Effectively.
Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;
Three hundred 'tis I'am sure Complete.
For arms at Crete each Face does bear,
And every Eye's an Archer there.
Go one; this stop why dost thou make?
Thou thinkst, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a Summe?
Why many Thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such different Nations in his Host.
On; for my Love, if thou be'st weary,
Must find some better Secretary.
I have not yet my Persian told,
Nor yet my Syrian Loves enroll'd,
Nor Indian, nor Arabian;
Nor Cyprian Loves, nor African;
Nor Scythian, nor Italian flames;
There's a whole Map behind of Names.
Of gentle Love i'th' temperate Zone,
And cold ones in the Frigid One,
Cold frozen Loves with which I pine,
And parched Loves beneath the Line.

VII. Gold.

A Mighty pain to Love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss.
But of all pains the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now nor noble Blood,
Nor Wit by Love is understood,
Gold alone does passion move,
Gold Monopolizes love!
A curse on her, and on the Man
Who this traffick first began!
A curse on him who found the Ore!
A curse on him who digg'd the store!
A curse on him who did refine it!
A curse on him who first did coyn it!
A Curse all curses else above
On him, who us'd it first in Love!
Gold begets in Brethren hate,
Gold in Families debate;
Gold does Friendships separate,
Gold does Civil Wars create.
These the smallest harms of it!
Gold, alas, does Love beget.

VIII. The Epicure.

Fill the Bowl with rosie Wine,
Around our temples Roses twine.
And let us chearfully awhile,
Like the Wine and Roses smile.
Crown'd with Roses we contemn
Gyge's wealthy Diadem.
To day is Ours; what do we fear?
To day is Ours; we have it here.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay.
Let's banish Business, banish Sorrow;
To the Gods belongs To morrow.

IX. Another.

Underneath this Myrtle shade,
On flowry beds supinely laid,
With od'orous Oyls my head o're-flowing,
And around it Roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The Heat, and troubles of the Day?
In this more then Kingly state,
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up;
And mingled cast into the Cup,
Wit, and Mirth, and noble Fires,
Vigorous Health, and gay Desires.
The Wheel of Life no less will stay
In a smooth then Rugged way.
Since it equally does flee,
Let the Motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious Oyntments shower,
Nobler wines why do we pour,
Beauteous Flowers why do we spread,
Upon the Mon'uments of the Dead?
Nothing they but Dust can show,
Or Bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with Roses whilst I Live,
Now your Wines and Oyntments give.
After Death I nothing crave,
Let me Alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoicks in the Grave.

X. The Grashopper.

Happy Insect, what can be
In happiness compar'd to Thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Mornings gentle Wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant Cup does fill,
'Tis fill'd where ever thou dost tread,
Nature selfe's thy Ganimed.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier then the happiest King!
All the Fields which thou dost see,
All the Plants belong to Thee,
All that Summer Hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer He, and Land-Lord Thou!
Thou does innocently joy;
Nor does thy Luxury destroy;
The Shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More Harmonious then He.
Thee Country Hindes with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire;
Phœbus is himself thy Sire.
To thee of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer then thy Mirth.
Happy Insect, happy Thou,
Dost neither Age, nor Winter know.
But when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung,
Thy fill, the flowry Leaves among
(Voluptuous, and Wise with all,
Epicuræan Animal!)
Sated with thy Summer Feast,
Thou retir'est to endless Rest.

XI. The Swallow.

Foolish Prater, what do'st thou
So early at my window do
With thy tuneless Serenade?
Well t'had been had Tereus made
Thee as Dumb as Philomel;
There his Knife had done but well.
In thy undiscover'ed Nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o're thy summer joys
Free from the stormy seasons noise:
Free from th'Ill thou'st done to me;
Who disturbs, or seeks out Thee?
Had'st thou all the charming notes
Of the woods Poetick Throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou'st ta'ne from me away;
Cruel Bird, thou'st ta'ne away
A Dream out of my arms to day,
A Dream that ne're must equall'd be
By all that waking Eyes may see.
Thou this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nothing half so good can'st bring,
Though men say, Thou bring'st the Spring.

ELEGIE UPON ANACREON,

Who was choaked by a Grape-Stone.