Bosworth-field With a Taste of the Variety of Other Poems, Left by Sir John Beaumont ... Set Forth by his Sonne, Sir Iohn Beaumont |
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Of true Greatnesse:
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143
Of true Greatnesse:
to my Lord Marquesse of Buckingham.
Sir, you are truely great, and euery eye
Not dimme with enuy, ioyes to see you high:
But chiefely mine, which buried in the night,
Are by your beames rais'd and restor'd to light.
You, onely you haue pow'r to make me dwell
In sight of men, drawne from my silent Cell:
Where oft in vaine my pen would haue exprest
Those precious gifts, in which your minde is blest.
But you, as much too modest are to reade
Your prayse, as I too weake your fame to spreade.
All curious formes, all pictures will disgrace
Your worth, which must be studied in your face,
The liuely table, where your vertue shines
More clearely, then in strong and waighty lines.
In vaine I striue to write some noble thing,
To make you nobler for that prudent King:
Whose words so oft, you happy are to heare,
Hath made instruction needlesse to your eare:
Yet giue me leaue in this my silent song,
To shew true Greatenesse, while you passe along;
And if you were not humble, in each line
Might owne your selfe, and say, This grace is mine.
Not dimme with enuy, ioyes to see you high:
But chiefely mine, which buried in the night,
Are by your beames rais'd and restor'd to light.
You, onely you haue pow'r to make me dwell
In sight of men, drawne from my silent Cell:
Where oft in vaine my pen would haue exprest
Those precious gifts, in which your minde is blest.
But you, as much too modest are to reade
Your prayse, as I too weake your fame to spreade.
All curious formes, all pictures will disgrace
Your worth, which must be studied in your face,
The liuely table, where your vertue shines
More clearely, then in strong and waighty lines.
In vaine I striue to write some noble thing,
To make you nobler for that prudent King:
Whose words so oft, you happy are to heare,
Hath made instruction needlesse to your eare:
Yet giue me leaue in this my silent song,
To shew true Greatenesse, while you passe along;
144
Might owne your selfe, and say, This grace is mine.
They that are great, and worthy to be so,
Hide not their rayes, from meanest plants that grow.
Why is the Sunne set in a Throne so hie,
But to giue light to each inferiour eye?
His radiant beames distribute liuely grace
To all, according to their worth and place;
And from the humble ground those vapours draine,
Which are set downe in fruitefull drops of raine.
As God his greatnesse and his wisedome showes
In Kings, whose lawes the acts of men dispose;
So Kings among their seruants those select,
VVhose noble vertues may the rest direct:
VVho must remember that their honour tends
Not to vaine pleasure, but to publike ends:
And must not glory in their stile or birth;
The Starres were made for man, the Heau'n for earth
He whose iust deedes his fellow-seruants please,
May serue his Sour'aigne with more ioy and ease,
Obeying with sincere and faithfull loue,
That pow'rfull hand, which giues his wheele to moue
His Spheare is large, who can his duty know
To Princes? and respect to vs below!
His soule is great, when it in bounds confines;
This scale which rays'd so high, so deepe declines:
These are the steps, by which he must aspire
Beyond all things which earthly hearts desire:
And must so farre dilate his noble minde,
Till it in Heau'n eternall honour finde.
The order of the blessed spirits there
Must be his rule, while he inhabits here:
He must conceiue that worldly glories are
Vaine shadowes, Seas of sorrow, springs of care:
All things which vnder Cynthia leade their life,
Are chain'd in darknesse, borne and nurst in strife:
None scapes the force of this destroying flood,
But he that cleaues to God, his constant good:
He is accurst that will delight to dwell
In this blacke prison, this seditious hell:
When with lesse paine he may imbrace the light,
And on his high Creatour fixe his sight,
Whose gracious presence giues him perfect rest,
And buildes a Paradise within his brest:
Where trees of vertues to their height increase,
And beare the flowres of Ioy, the fruites of peace.
No enuie, no reuenge, no rage, no pride,
No lust, nor rapine should his courses guide;
Though all the world conspire to doe him grace:
Yet he is little, and extremely base:
If in his heart, these vices take their seate;
(No pow'r can make the slaue of passions great.)
Hide not their rayes, from meanest plants that grow.
Why is the Sunne set in a Throne so hie,
But to giue light to each inferiour eye?
His radiant beames distribute liuely grace
To all, according to their worth and place;
And from the humble ground those vapours draine,
Which are set downe in fruitefull drops of raine.
As God his greatnesse and his wisedome showes
In Kings, whose lawes the acts of men dispose;
So Kings among their seruants those select,
VVhose noble vertues may the rest direct:
VVho must remember that their honour tends
Not to vaine pleasure, but to publike ends:
And must not glory in their stile or birth;
The Starres were made for man, the Heau'n for earth
He whose iust deedes his fellow-seruants please,
May serue his Sour'aigne with more ioy and ease,
Obeying with sincere and faithfull loue,
That pow'rfull hand, which giues his wheele to moue
His Spheare is large, who can his duty know
To Princes? and respect to vs below!
His soule is great, when it in bounds confines;
This scale which rays'd so high, so deepe declines:
These are the steps, by which he must aspire
Beyond all things which earthly hearts desire:
145
Till it in Heau'n eternall honour finde.
The order of the blessed spirits there
Must be his rule, while he inhabits here:
He must conceiue that worldly glories are
Vaine shadowes, Seas of sorrow, springs of care:
All things which vnder Cynthia leade their life,
Are chain'd in darknesse, borne and nurst in strife:
None scapes the force of this destroying flood,
But he that cleaues to God, his constant good:
He is accurst that will delight to dwell
In this blacke prison, this seditious hell:
When with lesse paine he may imbrace the light,
And on his high Creatour fixe his sight,
Whose gracious presence giues him perfect rest,
And buildes a Paradise within his brest:
Where trees of vertues to their height increase,
And beare the flowres of Ioy, the fruites of peace.
No enuie, no reuenge, no rage, no pride,
No lust, nor rapine should his courses guide;
Though all the world conspire to doe him grace:
Yet he is little, and extremely base:
If in his heart, these vices take their seate;
(No pow'r can make the slaue of passions great.)
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