Comedies, Tragi-comedies, With other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO THE MOST RENOWNED AND HAPPY MOTHER OF ALL LEARNING AND INGENUITIE, THE (LATE MOST FLOURISHING) UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD; THESE POEMS, AS MOST DUE, ARE HUMBLY DEDICATED BY HER MOST DEVOTED HONOURER AND ADMIRER H.M.

[Thus thy left hand the Mighty Stagyrite Supports]

Thus thy left hand the Mighty Stagyrite
Supports, that thou might'st shield him wth thy right:
Whose early Soul aym'd high, yet allwaies hit;
The sharpest, cleanest, full, square, leading Wit;
The best Tyme's Best; could'st farthest, soonest pierce,
Of all that Walk in Prose, or dance in Verse:
Tis CARTWRIGHT, in his shadow's Shadow drest;
He never is transcrib'd that once Writes best.

To the Memory of the most Ingenious and Vertuous Gentleman Mr Wil: Cartvvright, my much valued Friend.

Stay , Prince of Phansie, stay, we are not fit
To welcome or Admire thy Raptures yet;
Such horrid Ignorance benights our Times,
That Wit and Honour are become our Crimes:
But when those happy Pow'rs that guard thy Dust,
To us and to thy Memory shall be just,
And by a Flame from thy bless'd Genius lent,
Shall rescue us from this dull Imprisonment,
Unsequester our Phansies, and create
A Worth that may upon thy Glories wait;
Then we shall understand thee, and descry
The Splendour of Restored Poetry.
Till then, let no bold Hand prophane thy Shrine,
'Tis High Wit-Treason to debase thy Coyn.

K. P.

Upon Mr Cartvvright's Excellent Poems Now collected and published.

If thou wouldst read what the best Poets writ,
Strong sense, and Learning too, as well as Wit;
Brave noble Passions, character'd aright,
Cloath'd in such Language as each word bears weight;
Then read these Poems, where thou mayst behold
Later Times Product, and what was of old.
For by consent of all, Cartvvright was he
Who when the Court and University
Did with most lustre flourish, took all Eyes,
Wrote Wit for Youth, and Learning for the Wise.
His Mirth is pure and Innocent, as free
From lighter follies, as from Ribauldry:
No far-fetch'd Trifles, nor no wrested words,
Which rack the Writer first, and then affords
Small pleasure to the Reader; all that's here
Is easie, naturall, proper, and cleer:
No strutting Sentences, walking on stilts,
Nor Bumbast, which fits only Basket hilts;
Nothing but what is Learning's Standard proof,
Not a grain lighter then what doth behove.
Then these, thus qualified, may well suffice,
For Wit may quickly fall, but hardly rise:
Especially in these our drooping Dayes,
When Bullets are in more request than Bayes;
Yet Cartvvright makes amends by his cleer Wit
For all the Schismes the other Cartwright writ:
His Poems pow'r may best by this be known,
They turn me Poet, who before was none:
So (taken in a good sense) men may call
His taking Verses, Epidemicall.

MONMOUTH.

On Mr Cartvvright's Poems.

They that make choice of Prose, and think what's writ
In Verse is cheap, and easie kind of Wit,
May blush and mend: here's higher Sense and Words
Than all their low-born History affords:
Such as at once may please and teach the Reader,
Pindar and Aristotle bound together:
A Wit that scorn'd to fill up Sense with Rime,
Or to translate old Ends to modern Time;
Cartvvright ne'r skulk'd in a worn Common-place,
But in plain Field at sharp Wit shew'd his face;
Nor on one line did a whole Twelve-month stand,
Like the French Saint, his head was in his Hand,
Ready, and clear, what He would write he knew,
And made his Readers understand it too:
He never tumbled out wild raunting things,
As they who would seem lofty (without wings)
Fine Pipkin-Giants, who can stalk about
Sometimes with Sense, and oftener without;
Who when they come to years, blush and give o'r,
Condemning all themselves had writ before;
No, his learn'd Phansie still was full of Light,
First study'd how, and then began to write;
Not a false Line, nothing without the Rule,
Nor the grave Dull-man, nor the giddy Fool,
But full and proper, all as best befits;
The worst of daies enjoyes the best of Witts.

T. P. Baronet.

On the Incomparable Poems of Mr William Cartvvright, late Student of Christ-Church in Oxford.

Not to deplore our Loss, nor to admire
Thy Wit, I press into the numerous Quire
Of thy Learn'd Friends, nor boldly to invite
The Reader's Eyes, then raise his Appetite
By promising Ambrosia for a Feast,
The Muses Waiters, and the Godds the Guests:
No, this let others speak, I'll only tell
The World when Wit and pleasing Fancy fell;
They dyed with thee, in thy decease they have
Their Funerall, are buried in thy Grave;
That who hereafter shall presume to wound
Thy Ashes and my Truth, and his profound
Non-sense shall with the Nobler Names belye
Of Wit, High Fancie, Rich Conceits, may lye
Dead, unregarded on the common Stall,
The Title, and that only, read by all;
Whilst the wise Readers, by me warned, do
Spare both their Time, Money, and Anger too.
For where hereafter shall the Muses trend
Their eeven Measures? They alas are fled
From their old Seats, their frighted heads to hide
By Helicon's now long neglected side:
There were such times, Great Oxford was the Stage
Both of a Golden and an Iron Age:
But ev'n those Conquerours, which durst defie
Thy Prince's Pow'rs, do grant thee Victory;

And humbly on thy Crowned Temples set
The only Laurell which thy side did get.
Let vanquish'd Nature once but apprehend
A sudden and inevitable end,
She summons all the Spirits from each part,
Poast's fresh Supplies unto the fainting Heart,
And now, near spent, some Action will produce
Beyond the vigour of our warmest Youths,
Then straight she droops and yields, as if that all
Nature's design were but a glorious Fall:
So when Rome's Potent Genius had decreed
Cæsar should triumph, and the Senate bleed,
It calls young Pompey forth, gives him an hour
To try the Sum and utmost of his power;

Omnium postrema certaminum Munda: ibi non pro cetera felicitate, sed diu triste prælium, inusitatam Cæsaris oculis, nefas, de extremis secum agitasse fertur Florus. lib 4. cap. 2.

Wherein even Cæsar fears the doubtful Strife,
Fighting not now for Victory, but Life;
How near the top of Fate the Senate were
That moment that precedes their Fall! for there
Fell the great Faction's Soul, and rose no more,
Or rose not now to emulate, but adore.
So when our Peace-born Poetry perceiv'd
The utmost thread of her short line was weav'd,
More mindfull of her Fame than Life, in hast
She snatch'd the Raies, and richest Beauties, grac'd
Each severall Muse, Wit, Art, and Judgement mixt
She on her new conceived Embrion fixt,
Then did her pregnant Womb this Book disclose,
The happy issue of her dying throwes;
For then her Spirits fail'd; she only cry'd,
I'l have no other Epitaph, and dyed:
And dyed with an Effort, that did befit
Th' expiring Genius of the English Wit.

Edvv: Dering Baronet.

On Mr Cartvvright's excellent Poems, now Collected and Published.

As in a Storm, when Waves with Waves do fight
To sink some lofty Vessel's noble freight,
The Sea-men sweat and run
Lest all should be undone,
And some wish, pray, and vow,
Who nothing else can do:
So now, Wit sinking, all Islands should unite,
Both those that can, and those that cannot write.

Yet all that all can do to honour this,
Is but to tell the World whose Wit it is;
For the try'd Author's Name
Hath past the Test of Fame;
So known a Classick Wit,
That none will question it
But bold Pretenders to the Poets Chair,
Not Judges, but Condemn'd for sitting there.

And hadst not Thou (Learn'd Cartwright) writ so high,
Thy Mourners had been more than Standers-by;
But now we cannot give,
Nor thy full Fame receive,
Nothing can make Thee less,
Fall lower, or encrease,
For thy Whole Name is perfectly thine own,
Both Superstructure and Foundation.

What a rich Soul was thine! so soon knew'st how
To fill the Stage, the Schooles, and Pulpit too;
Thy universall Wit
All Things and Men could fit,
So shap'd for every one
As born for that alone:
Not as where Growth, Sense, Reason, one controuls;
But as if thou hadst had three Rationall Souls.

Thou wrot'st so brave a Verse, that none know which
Is best, the Art or Wit, 'tis all so rich;
Thy Fansies are all new,
Thy Language choice, and true;
The whole Contexture wrought
So much above our Thought
As robbs Thee of thy own; thy Worth is such
We cannot praise 'cause thou deserv'st too much.

Then pay thy self (great Soul of Wit) for we
If we restore, must steal it first from Thee:
Be thy own Bayes, and stand
With or without our Hand;
For thy great Name shall live
While men can take or give:
Outstand all Columns, in th' old World, or New,
Seth's Brick, and all those stones Deucalion threw.

Io: Pettus Knight.

On Mr Cartvvright and his Poems.

Some say that Poets, like Grand Signeurs, hate
Their Brothers, yet will bury them in State.
A bold expression of a strain so high,
No Poet e'r invented such a Lye.
Truth knows, when Cartwright liv'd and was inspir'd,
I envied not what other Men admir'd:
Nor (though on Tombs, Custome and Grief allow
Hyperboles in Marble) will I now
Follow him with a Complement so far,
To plant his Spirit in a New-found Star.
Yet I presume, a more harmonious Sphere
Moves not in Heav'n, than Cartwright mov'd in here.
Witness these Charmes and Raptures, which he sung
Like th' aged Swan; but He, alas, dy'd young.
So did

Præfect [illeg.] Rome, the[illeg.] Sanctuary [illeg.] Treasuary [illeg.] the Law ([illeg.] Historian [illeg.] call him.)

Papinian, whom the Romans saw
The Miracle, and

At the [illeg.] of 36. was [illeg.] put to [illeg.] by [illeg.] for deny [illeg.] to excuse [illeg.] murder [illeg.] his [illeg.] Get[illeg.].

Martyr of their Law;
And still 'mong those the Learn'd Civilians quote,
That grave young Chair-man hath a double Vote.
Much more is due unto this younger Sage,
A Man That merits th' honours of an Age.
All Poets graces may in him be read,
Why should not all their Bayes then crown his head?
'Tis true, he's of our Authors last set forth,
But last in Order is the first in Worth:

If Time be measur'd by an hour glass run,
He may be Johnson's Grand-Child, Fletchers Son.
If by desert, a Muse might be his Mother,
He Homer's Heir, and Hesiod's elder Brother.
Nature allow'd, when she did Cartwright mould,
Not one and Thirty years to make him old,
By living to time-past: There's in his List
Of Friends Pythagoras and Trismegist;
These Ancients will engage our Modern men,
To doat upon their Learning in his Pen.
Nor as his Knowledge grew did's Form decay,
He still was strong and fresh, his Brain was gray.
Such agedness might our young Ladies move
To somewhat more than a Platonick Love,
Which to prevent Fate barrs him their Commerce,
And leaves them what is handsomer, his Verse:
'Tis an Adonis, they may safely wooe,
Yet to our Sex 'twill be a Venus too,
And make (in Poetry such vertue lurks)
His Readers as immortall as his Works.

Robert Stapylton Kt.

On Mr William Cartvvright's excellent Poems, collected and published since his Death.

As that stout Bird proclames the early Day,
While some sad Persians (afraid
Their Shining God is dead, or lost his way)
Darken the Night with their own Shade;

But when they see Him rise, and spread, and stir,
Their Clouds as well as His are gone,
And without thanks to any Harbinger,
They leap into Devotion:

So (Cartvvright) while we speak thy blest Return,
Apparell'd in thy Native Light,
Those sadder Souls that wait upon thy Urn
(Lamenting Wit's eternall Night)

Beleeve it not, till thy own Beams break forth,
And then transported (who can choose?)
With the just admiration of thy Worth,
Forget the Man that brought the news.

Therefore, if Custome had not conquer'd Sense,
Thy Glories should shine forth alone,
For thy Attendants do but borrow hence,
Thy Lustre being all thine own.

Yet, as when Captives who were spar'd unslain,
In numerous Swarms and Heaps are shown,
Increase the Conquerours new spreading Train,
And speak His Worth though they have none:

So live; let the unblasted Laurell-Crown
On thy bright Temples ever sit,
For till thy lofty Soul be voted down,
There's no Mortality of Wit.

Io. Ieffryes Esq;

To the deceased Author of these Poems.

As when the Sun doth in full luster rise,
The lesser Stars straight vanish from tho Skies,
And shrink their wandring Heads into a Night,
Made and drawn o'r them by a greater Light:
So when thy Book, Ingenuous Soul, is read,
Like a bright flame recover'd from the dead,
All the small Poets of our Twilight Times
Call in their borrowed Fires, and break in Rimes.

Poor souls, Thou hast undone them; They are fain
To their torn Black now to return again.
Their Verse no longer will their Reckonings pay,
Thin as their stuff Cloaks, and more lean than they,
Who in a meaguer sadness walk the streets,
As when a hard frost with sharp Hunger meets.

Nor do I wonder; For what e'r of old
Of great Wits born, or made so, hath been told,
Without much flatt'ry to thy Ashes we
Rare Cartvvright, may call Prophecies of Thee:
Whose Native Fancie, quick, fleet, winged, free,
Was such as Poets Fancies ought to be.
Like early Students, toyling in the dark,
Thou did'st not from a cold Flint call the spark

Which was to light thy Candle; Nor did'st beat
Thy frozen Brain into Poetick Heat
Nor did thy Glass inspire Thee, nor the Wine
Go half Wit with Thee in thy drunken Line:
The Children of thy swift Soul from Thee came,
Like Theirs who were deliver'd of a Flame,
Kindled from their own Bowels; Wit in thee,
Was such as vndri'd Fountains use to be;
Which when they have whole years, and Ages run,
Hold still as much as when they first begun:
So Candles which light Candles at the Dore,
Keep all the Treasure which they lent before.

And as thy Wit was like a Spring, so all
The soft streams of it we may Chrystall call:
No cloud of Fancie, no mysterious stroke,
No Verse like those which antient Sybils spoke;
No Oracle of Language, to amaze
The Reader with a dark or Midnight phrase,
Stands in thy Writings, which are all pure Day,
A cleer, bright Sunshine, and the mist away.
That which Thou wrot'st was sense, and that sense good,
Things not first written, and then understood:
Or if sometimes thy Fancy soar'd so high
As to seem lost to the unlearned Eye,
'Twas but like generous Falcons, when high flown,
Which mount to make the Quarrey mere their own.

For thou to Nature had'st joyn'd Art, and skill
In Thee Ben Johnson still held Shakespear's Quill:
A Quill, rul'd by sharp Judgement, and such Laws,
As a well studied Mind, and Reason draws.
Thy Lamp was cherish'd with supplies of Oyle,
Fetch'd from the Romane and the Græcian soyle.
The Muses were but half thy Nurses, who
Didst to their Well joyn Aristotle's too;

Travell'dst through all his secrets, and didst run
A Course in Knowledge dayly like the Sun,
And Nightly too; For when all other Eyes
Were lock'd, and shut, but those that watch the Skies,
Thou, like Discoverers at Sea, went'st on,
To find out new Worlds, to all else unknown.
Nor would thy busie Candle let Thee sleep,
Till Thou hadst fathom'd the unfathom'd Deep.
Hence, like Quick-silver kept from wandring, We
Saw thy swift Wit fixt by Philosophy;
And in that sight saw what we still admire,
Remaining Circles writ in bounded fire.
And as rich Jewels taken as they grow
From the rude Rock, do unfil'd Treasures show,
But by the Artist's Hand polish'd, and put
Into fair figures, and in Angles cut,
Do with their darted Lightnings strike from far
The Eye, like some new many-corner'd Star:
So thy Wit, Cartvvright, with wise Studies met,
Shew'd like a Jewell in a bright Ring set;
Or like rich Medals, which besides the Grace,
Of being gold, take value from the face.

Hence twin perfections in thy Writings knit,
Present us with strange Contraries of Wit:
Strength mix'd with Sweetness Vigorous, with Fair;
Lucan's bold Heights match'd to staid Virgil's care,
Martial's quick salt, joind to Musæus Tongue,
Soft thorns of Fancie which from Roses sprung.
Thou hadst, indeed, a sharp but harmeless Wit;
Made to delight, and please, not wound, or hit:
A Wit which was all Edge, yet none did feel
Rasours in thy quick Line, in thy Verse steel;
Or if they did, only from thence did spring
A pointed Musick, sharpness without sting.

Nor was thy Wit confin'd, or made to sail
By one Wind, like theirs, who write by Retail:
Thine was no Gold or Silver-End Muse, we
All sorts of Poets did behold in Thee.
Dramatick, Lyrick, and Heroick; Thou
Knew'st when to varie Shapes, and where, and how.

Witness thy Royall Captive, where we do
Read thee a Poet, but sad Prophet too:
A Play where Vertue so well languag'd shines,
That Slaves are there made Princes by thy Lines.
Witness thy other Poems too, and Songs,
Such as turn'd Deserts heretofore to Throngs;
And tun'd to th' Musick of a Thracian string,
Made wild men tame, and Peace from Discord spring.

But these thy looser Raptures must submit
To thy rare Sermons, and much holier Wit;
In whose rich Web such Eloquence is seen,
As if the Romane Orator had been
Sent forth to preach the Gospell; And had stood
In our Assemblies powring out his floud.
Thou wert a Poet, but thy Sermons do
Shew thee to be the best of Preachers too;
Who to thy Rhet'rick did'st such skill impart,
As if Thou Heyr to some Apostle wert;
Who taking Wing for Heaven, behind him left
His fiery Tongue to Thee, and that Tongue cleft
Into as many waies to save, as They
Who are worst Sinners use to erre and stray.
What holy Craft did in thy Pulpit move?
How was the Serpent mingled with the Dove?
How have I seen Thee cast thy Net, and then
With holy Cosenage catch'd the Souls of Men?
Preach'd Sin out of their Bosoms, made them see
Both what they were, and what they ought to be?

Made them confess the strait way by Thee strow'd
With Flowers, was far more pleasant than the broad?
Indeed, we Scripture-Wonders oft did spie,
Camels by Thee drawn through a Needle's Eye.

Thou wert not like our New-light men, who still
Their frantick Censers with wild Incense fill:
And holding forth their Shopboard Revelations,
Turn into Bedlam's frighted Congregation.

Nor like our Prester Johns, whom people hear
Twice every Lords day, yet but once a year:
Whose Sermons, like the Sands of the dry Glass
By which they teach, turn'd, for new Sermons pass.
Or as some thrifty Brother, neer half broke,
Makes him new Breeches of his aged Cloke
No, Thou wert one upon whose lips did dwell
A Coal, like that, which from Gods Altar fell.
No twice repeated Non-sense from Thee came:
No Acorn trash, and that Trash still the same.
Thou to all Hearers wert all Things, didst fly
Low to the People, to us Scholars high;
Hadst Milk for Children, and strong Meat for those,
Whose Minds, like thine, to Mens perfections rose.

Much more I should say of Thee, if that Heat
Which wrought in thine, did in my Fancy beat.
But as a Beautious Face, or sparkling Eye,
Doubles its Grace if one deform'd stand by;
So my rude Verse bound up with thine, may add
Some Commendation to Thee by being bad;
And I perhaps, by some be thought to praise
Thy Book by bringing my half wither'd Bayes.

The Wildeness of the Place in which I dwell,
The Desert of my unfrequented Cell,
My want of quick Recruits made from the Citty,
And Times which make it Treason to be witty,

Times where Great Parts do walk abroad by stealth,
And Great Wits live in Plato's Common-wealth,
Have made me dull: my Friends with some remorse
See me, who wrote ill alwaies, now write worse.
The little fire which once I had is lost,
I write, as all my Neighbours speak, in frost.
Or if ought be well said here, I confess
Thou hast inspir'd the matter and the Dress.
As when Elias dropt his Mantle, He
Who took it up began to Prophesie.

Jasper Mayne.

On Mr Will: Cartvvright's excellent Poems, Now collected and Published.

Is Wit condemn'd to dye, that now she sets
Her House in Order, and her Goods in gets?
That things which here and there did loosely lie
She does call home, and up in Bundles tie,
As if there were an Inventory mean't
T'annex to her last Will and Testament?
Or is She Dead? and of her Self bereft,
We seek all Fragments of her which are left,
And what we have, charily keep in store
Because we have no hope of having more?
So when Friends are Deceas'd, and Bodies Burn'd,
Their Scatter'd Ashes are rak't up and Urn'd.
Else why of late so many Poems? more
These last Sev'n years, than in three Sev'ns before?
Thus Suckling, Waller, the Dioscuri
Beaumont and Fletcher, Twins of Poësy:
Thus Thou, whose Clear Soul when it hence did move
Did new white-ore the Milky-way above;
Whose Lines, Clear as that Soul, oft blest a Hand
When in one Single Paper they did stand,
Bestow'st thy whole Self on us, and do'st give
More than is fit we should at once receive.
While thy Dis-joynted Limbs, knit one to one,
Anticipate a Resurrection,
And rise a Spirituall Body, full of Light
And Divine Heat; Agility and Might.

Or is't at last some pow'rfull Influence
Of Stars, or, what does guide Stars, Providence,
Sends Cartvvright now among us? when the Weeds
Of Barbarism do eat out richer Seeds,
This fatall Climacterick unto those
That durst own ought 'bove Ignorance and Prose:
To shame men into Sense, to teach them (what
They now learn to forget) to speak, so flat
Our sharp'st Expressions are, so rude even when
We attempt Eloquence! We speak to Men,
Nay speak to God, in Language will abide
The Iron Bracelets and the Horn by th' side.
This is Sad truth; And 'tis time to learn Wit,
When Men come from the Dead to teach us it.

W: Barker.

On the publication of the Posthume Poems of M. William Cartwright, sometime Student of Christ-Church in OXON.

How subject to new Tumults is this Age!
With War lesse vex'd now, than Poetick Rage!
Were not State-Levellers enough! that yet
We must be plagu'd with Levellers of Wit?
Delvers in Poetry? that only skill
To make Parnassus a St George's Hill?
The Cyrrhan Grove's almost disforrested
To furnish Wreaths for each bold Rimers Head;
The Muses fear a Rape, or a Surprize,
So Phæbus might, but He their Fury flies.

What Pow'r may we invoke then, to withstand
This growing Plague? behold! a courteous Hand,
A kind, and timely Succour doth dispence:
Cartvvright comes forth; blush Sons of Impudence,
And Little Wit! Cartvvright; the Muses Fame,
Just Envy of best Poets, but your Shame.

Edvv: Sherburne Esq;

To my dear Mother the Vniversity of Oxford, Upon Mr Cartvvright's Poems.

Alma Mater,

Many do suck thy Breasts, but new in som
Thy milk turns into froth and spumy scum;
In Others it converts to rheum and steam,
Or some poor wheyish stuff in stead of cream;
In Som it doth malignant humors breed,
And make the head turn round as that-side Tweed;
These humors vapor up unto the brains,
And so break forth to odd fanatic strains;
It makes them dote and rave, fret, fume and foam,
And strangely from their Texts in Pulpits roam,
When they should speak of Rheims, they prate of Rome,
Their theam is birch, their preachment is of broom:
Nor 'mong the Forders only such are found,
But they who pass the Bridg are quite as Round.

Som of thy Sons prove Bastards, sordid, base,
Who having suck'd Thee throw dirt in thy face,
When they have squeez'd thy Nipples, and chast Papps,
They dash thee on the Nose with frumps and rapps;
They grumble at thy Commons, Buildings, Rents,
And would bring Thee to farthing Decrements;
Few by thy milk sound nutriment now gain
For want of good concoction of the brain.

But this choice Son of thine is no such brat,
Thy Milk in him did so coagulat
That it became Elixar, as we see
In these mellifluous streams of Poesie.

Iames Hovvell.

To the Stationer (Mr Moseley) on his Printing Mr Cartvvright's Poems.

I that have undergone the common Fate
In making shift to lose my own Estate,
Have felt that which did Thousands more befall,
Thrice in a Siedge, and once in Goldsmiths-Hall;
Return'd with much adoe to my own Clime,
Am now just strong enough to make a Rime:
Not to write Wit, which I pretend not to,
But to admire those Noble Souls that do:
Whose high Atchievments Thou hast brought to light,
Setting forth Wits who best knew how to write:
Thou rais'd brave Suckling, gav'st him all his own,
Aglaura else had not been waited on:
Then gav'st us melting Carevv, who so long
Maintain'd the Court with many a charming Song:
Then Waller's Muse for Saccharissa flows,
Yet (for his Life) courts the High Court in Prose;
Beaumont and Fletcher's Volume then stood forth,
And taught the World what English Wits are Worth:
Then came the Sophy deck'd by Denham's Quill
With Flowers as fresh as those on Coopers Hill:
Then fam'd Nevvcastle's choice Variety,
With his brave Captain held up Poetry:
Then Madagascar fill'd our British Isle
With Love and Honour, wrought by Davenant's file:
Brave Stapylton translates old Wit and new,
Musæus, Juvenal and Strada too:
Then Pastor Fido (cloath'd by Fanshavv's Pen)
Confess'd 'twas never nobly dress'd till then:
So did Aurora and Oronta too,
Whom hopefull Stanley into English drew:

And Sherburn made old Seneca tell why
Knaves oft triumph while Good men smart and dye:
Then flowry Heath made Clarastella known,
Dressing her fine with good wit of his own:
Then learned Crashavv's Muse proves to the eye
Parnassus lower than Mount Calvary:
And among all these shining costly Pearls
Thou left'st not out Sherley, nor Benlowe's Quarls:
All these thou gav'st us, rich and precious stuff,
And one would think that here was Wit enough.

But after all, thou bringst up in the Reare
One that fills ev'ry Eye, and ev'ry Eare,
Cartvvright, rare Cartvvright, to whom all must bow,
That was best Preacher and best Poet too;
Whose learned Phansie never was at rest,
But always labouring, yet labour'd least:
His Wit's Immortall, and shall honour have
While there's or Slavish Lord or Royall Slave.

And since thy hand is in, gather up all
Those precious Lines which brave Wits have let fall;
Gather up all that from Mayne's fansy fell,
Whose able Muse hath done so oft so well:
Give us all Cleveland, all his gallant lines,
Whose Phansie still in strong Expressions shines:
Give us all Berkenhead whose soul can more
In half an hour than others in four score:
Give us what Covvley's later years brought forth,
His Mistresse shews he was a Wit by birth:
Give us our Northern Vincent, and our Brovvn,
Who are true Wits though not so publike known:
Give us all these, and all omitted here,
For times approach wherein Wit will be dear.
So, as poor folkes delight to talk of wealth,
I name good Wits, though I am none my self.

Jo. Leigh, Esquire.

Vpon the Ingenuous Author and his Poems.

Lend me (Blest spirit) from thy new-born Wing
The meanest Feather, and thy worth I'll sing:
What though the Muses springs are almost dry,
Each heart may find a Fountain in the Eye
Wherein to dip its quill; and 'tis most fit
To mourn, since Death hath over-master'd Wit.
Yet maugre Fate, thy Pregnant Ingeny
Revives thy Dust, and dreads no Victory:
This Birth we owe to Death: so, the Old gone,
A new sprung Phœnix to the World is shown.
Thy Poems are the Lectures of our Age,
Which teach Divinity to tread the Stage;
And new apparell Vertue by thy Dress,
That through thy Fansies she gains Comeliness:
Perhaps our Times may love her now, she looks
So like her selfe, through all thy learned Books;
And undisguised Vice may thence descry
How neer she is to her sad Destiny:
Then died'st Thou well, thus to revenge our Sins;
And, dead, like Sampson kill'st most Philistines.

I.C. B.D. of Ch. Ch.

On Mr Will: Cartwright's excellent Poems.

Cartwright, Thou liv'st; They that suspect Thee dead,
Know thee not yet; Thou liv'st to all that Read:
Our sage Fore-fathers (when they had no Son)
Begat a Pillar, glad to live in Stone:
Thy Marble Book needs no such Masonry,
Is its own Pillar, and Posterity:
When others put off Flesh, They're dead and gone,
But Thou canst change that Rayment, and Live on;
Being return'd in a more happy Dress,
Cloath'd with Ubiquity by this one Press.
Thy Friends whom Five-mile Prisons do confine,
And those that breath within the larger Line,
Will joy to see thy glorious Shadow move,
The Object of their Wonder and their Love.
In thee, all Wit, Art, Learning, meet and flow,
The Poets hand makes the best Oglio:
All learn from Thee; Divines, Philosophers,
And (if the Air could brook them) Courtiers:
They that have lost fair Studies, buying Thee
Will hardly miss their Plunder'd Library:
All gain, except the Stationer, and He
Will lose in Others what he gains by Thee,
For though thy Tenth Impression won't suffice
Those that will buy Thee up at any Price,
Yet he defalkes a Thousand Things would sell
(Before thy Book did blast them) passing well;
Which now lye on his hands, condemn'd to live
At a less Rate that any man will give.
Thus Thou at once dost shame and Crown the Press,
All Poets that succeed Thee shall go less.

Fr. Finch, è Soc. Int. Templ.

ON Mr William Cartvvright's excellent Poems.

VVhy did'st Thou climb so fast,
That in the Morning of thy Age
High Noon was overpast?
We had enjoy'd thee still,
Greater, if less; thy noble Stage
Thou did'st too soon fulfill.

When the World's Sun doth ride
Up to his Zenith, who can hope
Those Glories should abide?
Higher he cannot get,
And having once attain'd his Scope,
Like Thee he needs must set.

But the Sun gone, the Night
Has the same Emanation,
Though by a Proxy light:
So thy full Poems live,
Thou dead; whose warm Reflexion
Still the same heat does give.

And since Thou art so bright,
Our Praises Thou dost far outshine;
Dazling our weaker sight:
The Diamond only can
Cut Diamond; that great Soul of thine
Exceeds the thoughts of Man.

Whats best cannot be prais'd;
The single lustre of the Sun
Cannot by Croud of Stars be rais'd;
Nor can the Spring disclose
Colours, or Sweets, but are undone
In presence of the Rose.

Who can adorn that Face
Whose matchless Beauty once display'd,
All Ornament doth grace?
Write fair and mend, you blot;
Imperfect Silver may crave aid
Of Gilt; Gold needs it not.

Thus whilst thy Giant worth
Bedwarfes our Fansies; all our words
Do Cloud, not set thee forth:
Be then unto our Muse
('Tis all our Plunder'd VVorld affords)
Both Object and Excuse.

Io. Finch.

Vpon Mr. Cartvvright's Poems, published long after his death.

Resigne , proud Dust! what Power entitles thee
To this, which we account our Legacie?
Possession cannot be a Plea; if so,
We should our selves to thee for ever owe.

From earth then (Cartwright,) not as Metals, rise,
Which first refin'd and then impress'd we prize,
But like an Orient Pearl which long time lay
Within his Coffin shell expecting day,
Break forth all Jewell, what from thee we file
Is lost; so rich, so polish'd is thy stile.

But why didst thou such matchless Fansies show
Only that we the greater losse might know?
Why didst thou (cruell Father to thine owne)
Suppress thy Births till they were Orphans grown?
Why did'st thou leave this darksome Universe
Without the light of Poet or of Verse?
For since like Phæbus thou withdrew'st thy light,
Thou might'st have left some Star to guide the night:
What have our Phansies been since thou wert gone?
Nothing but Chaos, and Confusion;
Thy scatter'd Poems in this Chaos made,
Like to the new-born light, a gloomy shade;
But now 'tis wrought into an Orb and Sun,
This day is Poetry's Creation.

Yet I have err'd, as all poor Mortals must,
That think all thine thus long intomb'd in Dust;
Thou with thy Sacred Hymns did'st climb the Spheres,
As penn'd for Angels, not for Humane Ears;
Where thy inspired Verse, divine like thee,
Became a Present to the Deity;
How often were they tun'd to Heavenly Lyre?
How often sung in winged Angels Quire?
From whence at length as minding us were hurl'd
Thy holy Anthems to this lower World.

Sure then the Press did well to stay: before
There was in thee good Wit, good Verse in store;
But we for this fram'd Body did require,
As once Prometheus did, an holy fire;
For Earthly (though pure) Matter cannot move
Untill the Soul descendeth from above.

Thomas Baines.

In Memory of his honoured Friend Mr VVilliam Cartvvright.

VVe're there a Soule so unconfin'd as Thine,
That could it's own great self express
In that inimitable Dress
Wherewith thou didst adorn thy thoughts Divine;
Yet ev'n that Soul unable were to tell
How much of more than Man with Cartwright fell.

The world despaires to know thee half, unless
Thou leave those happy Soules above,
(Of late made happier in thy Love)
To teach that worth, which Thou couldst not express
Till now by Death enlightned: For before,
Thy Modesty hid much, thy Flesh hid more.

As when a Fleet miscarries richly fraught,
Merchants can only sigh in gross
Their sad irreparable Loss,
Unable to recount the Wealth it brought:
So we can only tell we are undone;
Unknown's the Wit, Arts, Language with thee gone:

But if some happy Wave do force to Land
A Box of Jewels from the Main,
The Loss grows greater by this Gain,
By this we the rich Lading understand:
So we sum up our Loss by this thy Book
At what we can scarce guesse at wonder-strook!

We in rude accents thy great worth deplore,
(When Thunder's gone, we heare a Noyse
The Reliques of the former Voice,
And then all's hush'd and quiet as before:)
And this our last wit bring unto thy Herse,
The weak and confus'd Eccho of thy Verse.

What Glass, what Ocean is there here below,
That can reflect a Lustre bright
And Active, as the Native Light?
Much less what Mortall Pencill can it show?
He that would truly know thy worth, must fly
To Heav'n; why sigh we here then? Let us dye;

So shall we see Thee in full glory shine
Amidst those nobler Spirits, where
To Glories of a Lower Sphere
Thou stream'st down Lustre, Knowledge, Love divine:
And heark! me thinks th' enlightned Powers say,
Dear Soul, thou art more Seraphin than They.

Will: Creed.

To the Memory of his deceased Friend. Mr William Cartvvright.

Sad Thoughts delude me, or His Ghost groan'd thrice.
Yee load his Marble with your Elegies:
Like Pelias' Daughters, in a pious rage
To' renew his Youth yee lose his better age.
Your Zeal's prophane, your Superstition more,
That rob, or scandall whom you most adore;
(Who rifle Tombes, for Reliques shrine each Toy,)
Whom Men admire, ne'r let him grow past Boy.
Were't not to slay by Picture, to draw thus
Amidst Child-sports, Scipio and Lælius
(Their Tragick fields chang'd for their Comick Stage)
Stroking with Numbers the affrighted Age?
Mars and Fame's Trump, their Scenick pipe o're stran'd,
Their name from Terence, more, than Africk, gain'd:
But Their Great Acts made all admire their Less;
Whose Sports, like Shadows, heighten'd the whole Dress.

These Flames, to other Flames bequeath'd, his Fame
How can they raise, rais'd only by his Name?
Fate and his Praisers have like Spight betray'd,
Making his highest Sun his shortest Shade:
And should our Love, with greater Malice sin,
To end his Glories where he did begin?
This Work's the Author's Libell; but to those
Who can Proportions from the Foot disclose;
(The Foot, th' old standing Measure) thence draw Lines
To limne an Hercules, or what defines
The Course of Phæbus, Circles of the Arts,
Vertues and Sciences joyn'd for his Parts.

(As those grave Mapps, dumb Tutors, that descry
Ethicks and Arts Embody'd to the Eye)
Let each Hand sway both Globes, as in their Spheare;
That as Divine, this as Philosopher:
And, what beyond the utmost Spheare we guess,
Space and Infinity, his Thoughts express.

For Wit's the Chymick Mercury, that mix'd
With pure Allaies, with th' Arts, not dull'd, but fix'd,
(No Vinegar in Asses hoofs) serves then
More than to cure the Itch, or flux the Pen;
Work's all things unto all, unseen, and scapes
From Earth to Heav'n through gross and aery Shapes.
That Wit, that charm'd the Stage, convinc'd the School,
Did, less in Verse than Samian Numbers, rule.
Thence to the Pulpit rapt, to Paul's third Sphere,
He rapt us too: 'twas Heaven but to heare.
Phani'sies and Reason sainted, Visions grew,
And all that heard, like Saul, did proph'sy too.
All Passions lost, but what he then did shirr;
And all Opinions, but what hee'd preferr.

All this is worse than Slaunder: though a Praise,
Greater than all he lent; but what he was
To tell the World, without a Veyl t' express
What he would be — for we may not be less
Modest than Scepticks; who dare not reveal
Nature's hid Beauties; nor speak Truths, that steal
Like Rivers from their sight; nor tell the houres
Which, e'r they're told, surpass that Line. What Powr's,
What Astrolabe, Degrees and Heights can show
Of spreading Beams, Flames that by Motion grow!
How did He others more, Himself out-do!
His later Fame did still his first renew;
His thriving Parts, his Brains so kept unknit
By Verse (the Youth, not Weakness of his Wit)
That like to Numbers, Infinite, his Store
Ne'r fill'd the Sum, only enlardg'd the Score.

That Monster (Nature made and feared both,
Letting it fall without bounds to its growth,)
The Crocodile, which like Nile's streames, still growes
Bigger as't runns, and with fresh vigour flowes,
Did thus come forth, full grown in its first slime,
And still retain'd that Youth in spight of Time.
Younger with years, with Studies fresher grown,
Still in the Bud, still blooming, yet full blown.
Ambitious Souls, that climing to the height,
Enlarge their Prospect, with their Appetite,
Still towring up, till past the Point they rise;
And end their flight in a steep precipice,
Take not so endless flights, nor aime so high
As He, now only top'd by' Eternity.

O for a Pen, that could supply the Text
Of Virgil's Muse! which leaves the Reader vext,
Led on by eager heat to know the rest,
And what's unknown admiring for the Best.
Wonder and Grief be Muses! Blanks invent
For Virgils and for Cartvvright's Supplement.

But there's a Toleration now; the Hill
Levell'd to' a Plain, all bellowing Cattle fill:
What Spleen (that makes Fools witty) what Disease
(That taught the Rowt to rave Euripides,
Run mad in Verse, and in sick Raptures dye)
Hath seiz'd this Age? must we thy Musick try,
To cure, or tune their Noise? Thy Eagles Plume
May impe Fames Wing, though all the rest consume.
Thy hallow'd Birth w' invoke, to expiate
(More than all ------ Stars) the dismall Fate
Those monstrous Broods long threaten'd from the Press,
Which never labour'd more, nor brought forth less.
As the Dutch Lady, who at once did bear
Numbers, not Births, to date each day i'th' year,
Grew barren by Encrease; and after all,
None could Her, Mother, or them Children, call.

So whilst All write. None judge, we multiply
So many Poems, and no Poetry.
Verse that for Charmes may pass; more Noise than Sense,
As Northern Coyn, for Pounds cheat's us with Pence.
Something that sounds like Wit, but must be lent
More from the Reader, than the Author meant.
Wild Phant'sies chain'd in Verse; whose thicker Skull
Think judging Virgill, where he's Proper, Dull.
Thy Quill, more nimble in the Hand, than Wing,
With every Dash op'ning a fresher Spring,
Shed Words as quick as Thoughts: nor seem'd t' endite,
But to transcribe what lay before in sight:
And with that ease we read, Thou didst dispense
Wit to thy Numbers, and to Wit sure Sense.
By Thee Posterity shall string her Lyre,
Taught both to guide and to repair their Fire:
And from thy Book Readers be Poets made,
(As Silius wrote inspir'd by Maro's Shade)
Which shall, as Giants Bones, amuse the Mind
With doubt to see one grown above the Kind.
Thine, and Our Verse, as Floud-marks, stand to show
How high the Spring once ran, and now how low.

Rob: Waring.

In Memory of Mr William Cartvvright.

As the great World, built in a Week, shall lye
Flat at one blow (for Death and Time shall dye:)
So Oxford, twice-six Ages upward grown,
Sunk all at once, and fell from Best to None.
For (Cartwright) when thy Fall shrunk up the Gown,
Fate scorn'd the Sythe of Time, to mow all down
Slew manly Diggs, high Masters, all the chiefe,
And damn'd all Remnant-Wits to suffer Life.

Yet if thy lofty Soul could stoop from high,
'Twould sweat to build, as others to destroy.
Thou couldst retrive and fashion us again
In that great Shop of Miracles, thy Brain.
Thy Sense and Reason (Man's two Eyes) would reach
All that Lay Prose or Sacred Verse could teach.
Armies of Words and Phansies, rais'd by Thee,
Would rescue all the Arts vast Heptarchy.

But Thou art gone: and groveling Trifles crawl
About the World, which but confirm thy Fall.
The Belgick Floud, which drank down fifty Townes,
At dead-low water shews their humble Crowns:
So, since thy flowing Brain ebb'd down to death,
Small Under-witts do shoot up from beneath.
They spread, and swarm, as fast as Preachers now,
New, Monthly Poets (and their Pictures too)
Who, like that Fellow in the Moon, look bright,
Yet are but Spots because they dwell in Light.

For thy Imperiall Muse at once defines
Lawes to arraign and brand their weak strong lines.
Unmask's the Goblin-Verse that fright's a page
As when old time brought Devills on the Stage.

Knew the right mark of things, saw how to choose,
(For the great Wit's great work is to Refuse,)
And smil'd to see what shouldering there is
To follow Lucan where he trod amiss.
Thine's the right Mettall, Thine's still big with Sense,
And stands as square as a good Conscience.
No Traverse lines, all written like a man:
Their Heights are but the Chaff, their Depths the Bran:
Gross, and not Great; which when it best does hit
Is not the Strength but Corpulence of Wit:
Stuft, swoln, ungirt: but Thine's compact and bound
Close as the Atomes of a Diamond.
Substance and Frame; Raptures not Phrensies grown;
No Rebel-Wit, which beares its Master down;
But checks the Phansy, tames that Giant's Rage
As He that made huge Ascapart his Page.
Such Law, such Conduct, such Oeconomy,
No Demonstrator walks more steadily.
Nothing of Chance, Thou handled'st Fortune then
As roughly as she now does Vertuous men.
Still saw'st thy Way; not a mote in thy Brain;
There needs no spotted Margent make Thee plain.
Great Sense, rich Words, full Numbers, kiss and greet;
The Head's not clogg'd with Cold sent from the Feet.
No grim-stiff-iron Verse, stuck full of Points;
Thy Elephant doth but conceale his joynts.
No line writ with a Gantlet, dragg'd along;
The Purple Queen's silk Cables, smooth and strong.
Thine swims away, clean as its Lord the Sun
Doth 'twixt his Tropicks rather saile than run.

Yet not meer Forme and Posture, built of Slime;
'Tis Substantive with or without its Rime.
Meer Verse hath but the Pace of Wit, treads high,
But, a proud Beggar, in straw-Prose should lye:
For such, if worse, were better, 'twould shew skill;
'Tis somewhat hard to write extremely ill.

Thine, the right Verse is Man, hath Voice, Feet, Sense,
Passion, and Aire, Phansie, Intelligence:
If it want Fire, and be not sweetly fierce,
'Tis but a coward Rime, no true-born Verse.
Where are such Flames, such Puissance and Sway,
As thy Cratander, or Lucasia!
His Soul would fill a Globe; yet big as 'tis,
Hers would informe as great a World as His.
What vast sweet Horrours (Love and Wit) exprest!
Such Living Metaphors, so costly drest,
Thy Language is all Tissue; no one part
But comes from All the Magazines of Art.
For as immortall Harvey's searching Brain
Found the Red Spirit's Circle in each Veyn,
Hath open'd Straights, and saild our World about,
As if He made that Sluice, not found it out:
So Wit, the bloud of Verse, in every line
Drawn by thy hand, doth shoot, and work, and mine,
This Gulfe, that Isthmus, through each Science dart's,
And proves its Circulation through all Arts.
All-over Wit, ne'r runs a-ground, but rides
In ever-flowing never-ebbing Tides.
Not sometimes rampant, sometimes groveling down,
But still keeps up its brave Complexion;
Which, like a German Prince's Title, runs
Both to thy eldest and to all thy Sons.

For Thine's a Spring; Thy Phansie works and beats
Swift as the Pulse, and strikes no second Heats.
Not drawn with Engines; didst not pant, resist,
Long as the all-consuming Alchemist.
Nor for some mighty line were stretcht and torn
Till 'twas thy Son because Nine Months e'r born.
Thou didst but bid it flow, and then thy Stile
Came easily as flatterd Ladies smile.
And hadst writ Greek or Latin with like ease,
But Sense and Reason speak all Languages.

These were thine own, not plunderd; Thou hadst not
Adopted Phansies, Thine were all begot.
Thou knewst such gatherd Raggs would ill befit
Thy Wardrobe, but their Frippery of Wit;
Whose new Productions like new Rome do swell,
Where, for one Native, thrice two strangers dwell.
Thou wert thy self, lett'st all the Godds alone
Which Hesiod rear'd, or Lucian laugh'd down.
Thy Laurell grew on thee, that verdant Crown
Will last, 'tis not usurp'd, 'tis all thine own.

And now tis publish'd; they that pilfer'd Thine
And beat a new broad page out of one line,
(Who adding Brass or Pewter of their own,
Of a Kings shilling made a false Half-crown)
Must quit their Trade, their Night and Shades are gone,
Hee's a bold Thief that robs 'twixt Sun and Sun.
They'l blast thee now, as in this roguing Age
Some writ dull Poems, then raild down the Stage:
They try'd for Wit, but fail'd, then (lest men know it)
With Antonine thank God they are no Poet.
Looking at Verse as on some fatall thing,
As if twere some good Bishop or great King.
No, Thine's as free from Danger as from Gall,
('Twas the bold leaden Prose that routed all:)
Thou hadst no Fangs, though thou wert quick and smart,
Thy Wit was not thy Irascible part.
No bloody drops did from thy Pencill fall,
Thy blackest Scean's but Tragi-comicall.

Nor were these drunken Fumes, Thou didst not write
Warm'd by male Claret or by female White:
Their Giant Sack could nothing heighten Thee,
As far 'bove Tavern Flash as Ribauldry.
Thou thought'st no ranke foul line was strongly writ,
That's but the Scum or Sediment of Wit;
Which sharking Braines do into Publike thrust,
(And though They cannot blush, the Reader must;)

Who when they see't abhor'd, for fear, not shame,
Translate their Bastard to some Other's name.
No rotten Phansies in thy Scenes appear;
Nothing but what a Dying man might hear.
All of all Sexes may pronounce or show it,
Thou (as old Prophets) wert annointed Poet:
Who didst (when thou had'st Sockt and Buskind gone)
Without Remorse put th' holy Girdle on.
Then, then what dreadfull Sweetnesse didst thou show,
Making the Learn'd admire, and tremble too!
Thunder was set in tunes; the Temple shak'd,
Graves of each Bosome open'd, Dead sinns wak'd,
Lightning, and Darknesse, Earthquakes, every thing
As if the Jewes re-crucifi'd their King.
Thou might'st affright our would-be Atheists pride,
Who talk, drink, scribble, all for any side;
Pretending Depths, that Others know but th' Brim,
Soules that can dive because they ne're could swim.

But Cartwright's gone: and now such Levites teach
As that hard Heap to whom old Bede did preach:
Clodds, that can only sink a Ship: whose skull
Can be at once exactly mad and dull:
Still scalding hot, and yet the Brain so dead,
Pigeons apply'd draw nothing from Their head:
Can roar an Age, ne'r out, 'cause never in;
(For they can never end, did ne'r begin.)
But, as His weekly thrice-nine Leagues had hurld
Fourty-yeeres-Hobson eight times round the World,
Yet weaving still the selfe same Lanes and Stiles,
His Ninescore Thousand were not Fifty miles:
So, though our Sermon-winder stretch his Tale
Till the Church marble, nay till his Lungs fail,
Yet, from his first Give eare to' his last Amen,
'Tis but the same sad puffing-work agen.
But thou didst still reveale; still new, and choice;
Wert the great Africk Prince weares no Cloaths twice.

Such Power, that had those Gentiles heard thee then,
They'd cry again the Gods come down to men.
What vast Dominions thy rich Wit would have!
All things that are, and are not, were thy Slave!
Nothing withstood thy Phansy's Battery,
But All confess'd ther's Nothing Poet-free.
Me thinks Thou now art in thy Study set,
Thy Curtain drawn, and all thy Notions met:
How glorious high thy flaming Phansie beats,
While yet thy ballanc'd Judgement still retreats,
Summons, arraignes, confounds, saves, routs, turns, hurls
Ten thousand waies ten hundred thousand Worlds!

But oh! 'twas this, this rapt thee hence; we know
Nothing could fill thy spacious thoughts below.
Thou hadst too much Soul, Nature might assigne
Another's Soul but to embody Thine.
But Wit (the Beauty of the Minde) ne'r stay's,
Tis lost as soon as a bad Girl's good face.
Too oft (like Thee) live's but its thirtieth Yeer,
And then (with Spanish wives) leaves off to bear:
For when it climbs to fourty, tis so high,
Down streight it fals to Beard and Husbandry.
The Poet's head's on fire, that glowing flame
Makes him not cinders, but it melts his Brain.
No Salamanders wool, it burns too strong:
Old Poets onely liv'd long since, not long.
If any to a Cubit stretcht their Span,
Twas not the Poet liv'd, 'twas but the Man.
Bald Æschylus, wither'd Simonides,
Might have been begg'd (as well as Sophocles:)
Half of whose eighty yeers were blank, and thrown
Eighty degrees into the frozen Zone:
Degraded, as that proud Chaldæan was
All the dumb yeers God turn'd him out to grass.
Their Aged Wit's born wrinkled, th' After-birth
Is cold and dry as Elementall earth.

The Poet growes not green, 'tis but his Tree;
His Name, his Verse shall never fade, not Hee.

And so shall Thine, flourish, though thou art dead,
Till every line be blazon'd, and not read:
Shall stand thy Monument, when some that have
Huge Tombs, are found unworthy of a Grave.
Thy Orphan Book shall perish'd Wit restore:
Thus, Thou liv'st after Death, We die before.
For when a coward Victor, in cool blood
Butcher's some Chieftaines who had nobly stood,
Those that have Quarter or (perhaps) Reprieve,
Do blush, and think it scandalous to live:
So We, thy blasted Friends, with shame survive,
Who have so often dy'd, 'cause yet alive.
Our Sighs and fetter'd thoughts blow out our Braines,
(As captiue Cælius dasht out his with's Chaines.)
Thy Oxford's but a Town; since she lost Thee,
England's Right Eye can only weep, not see.
And her bright Sister failes, Both must preferre
Those two proud Dames, London and Westminster.
Behold poor Britaine in its first wild Looks
When it had Swords and Druids, but no Books!
Yet then th' unletter'd Bard could tune his Thought,
For the rough Gaul swam hither to be taught:
But now this savage Isle will soake in Blood
Till 'tis but one red Bog; whose guilty mud
Will sink, or make some Clowd of Brimstone fall;
Or else old Corah's Earthquake sweep down all.
Something, bad Angels hope, the good one feares:

Beasts are but nine daies blind, but Men ten Yeares.

John Berkenhead.

On Mr William Cartvvright's surviving Poems.

Phæbus, 'tis time, lay by thine own Leaves now,

[Statius:

Shade thy gilt Locks with a sad Cypress Bough:
Thy prais'd mourn'd Heir is dead; no Muse, not one
Can call him back to Life, unless his own.
He who could teach the Sisters how to sing,
And thee, Apollo, thy soft Lyre to string,
He whose harmonious Soule (since some there be,
For want of Ayre, deny Spheres Melody)
Hath bid those very Spheres, though they lack sound,
Unto his Pipe to dance their silent Round;
Our and Thy Wonder, He whose name alone
Heightned Parnassus, 'tis He, Cartvvright's gone.
Yet when thou seest (after his own breast's Doom)
His Phœnix-Verse spring from his spicy Tomb,
And think'st that the whole Species is not worn
Quite out, because himself is thus re-born;
Yet, yet forbear thy Lawrell; Wrap thy Head
Still in the Cypress Arbour, for He's dead:
Slip down to Saturne; what Jove's power did do
His Worth will act here, and depose thee too.
And though we now, after his Death, dare write,
Prometheus-like we steal from Heav'n our Light,
That is, from Him; When Thy self sett'st (and He
By very loss of Time's more God than thee)
The petty Stars appear, and shine, yet all
Their Lustre is bequeath'd but from thy fall;
If any Verse (his hand congeal'd) may pass,
'Tis but his own seen fainter in a Glass;

A dead and cold, like and more unlike, shade;
Such as by Thee at Thetis call was made.

And thou, great Prince of Numbers, (like some Lord
Fear'd for his Power, and for his Parts ador'd)
Wert too great for Applause, a full Delight
To th' taken Eare, but Envy to the Sight!
How did the factious London-Wits first praise,
And then with slanderous But maligne thy Bayes!
How they arraign'd thy skill in Comædy,
And before Plutarch su'd thy Play and Thee!
Sir, may This pass upon the Stage? may That?
May Ghosts speak, Sir, or else I pray' say what?
(So hardly could they speak, as if Ghosts grown
Themselves, and turn'd into the Question:)
Nay but, good Sir, Plutarch himselfe saies Nay,
In what Tongue? In our Mother Tongue, we say:
Do, pin your faith upon an English sleeve
For the Greek History; you'l not beleeve
What the first Voice and Truth it self doth speak,
But suspend all untill the Eccho break,
Or Report mocks you; how you go on score!
The Eccho tels not all, and Report more:
'Twas Greek at first, that Greek was Latin made,
That Latin French, that French to English straid:
Thus 'twixt one Plutarch there's more difference,
Than i'th' same Englishman return'd from France.

And thus thy Father Johnson (since naught can
Besides the Sun and Man, beget a Man,
Phœbus and He thy (Sire) was hiss'd at still
More with the Fools Goose-Tongue than the Goose-Quil;
Only 'cause his Theorbo did so much
Excell their Crowd, and jarring Cyttern Touch;
They quarrell his each line, and yet still so
Εμου Θανοντος Γαια scapes the Blow.
Thus (like Alcides) Tryall shew'd Thee Great,
Making thee thrive more by their adverse sweat:

Thus when they thought Antæus most cast down,
He seem'd to kiss the Earth, but graspt the Crown.
They who wrote Tumult; and not Elegy,
Did thy quick strain into a Fame defie;
Great King of Poets! who didst most of all
Rise King when throngs of small Wits sought thy Fall:
So He, whose Rayes thou didst transcribe, the Sun
Suffers Eclipse to be more gaz'd upon.

Thy skill in Wit was not so poorely meek
As theirs whose little Latin and no Greek
Confin'd their whole Discourse to a Street-phrase,
Such Dialect as their next Neighbour's was;
Their Birth-place brought o'th' Stage, the Clown and Quean:
Were full as dear to them as Persian Scean.
Thou (to whom Ware, thus offer'd, smelt as strong
As the Clown's foot) hadst led thy Muse along
Through all learn'd Times and Authors; thy rich Pen
Travers'd more Languages than they read Men;
They but to Spain or Italy advance,
The Leg, or Shrugg, or to our Neighbour France;
Thy Universall Genius did know
The whole Worlds posture, and mixt Idiom too.
But these, as modern faculties, thy Soul
Rear'd higher up, learnt only to controul;
In abler Works and Tongues yet more refin'd,
Thou wedgd'st thy self till they grew to thy Mind;
They were so wrapt about thee, none could tell
A difference, but that Cartvvright did excell.

Thy fair Converse spake thee like one of those
Ancients, who taught parts not to be morose;
So mild and affable, each man below
Thy Talk instructs, yet with an equall Brow;
Discourse draws on Discourse, there's none need fear
A Rose-tongue Preface to a Thorn i'th' Eare;
They may speak on, for thou cull'st Eloquence
From ev'ry Word, and more than they speak Sense:

So their Dialogist is still trapt on,
And eas'ly learns by Commendation:
Nor is this Complement, but Prophecy;
Thou praisest first, then mak'st them such to be:
From late Abilities Sternness frowns abroad;
'Tis safe while they themselves at home applaud.
All thy vast pain and Progress was not such
That in each Science thou might'st know so much:
As some immure Antiquity, till so
They 're cry'd up wondrous Wise, and Useless too:
Thy Arts and Knowledge did but all prælude
That thou might'st enter Orders, not intrude:
How did'st thou Pray! how Preach! how didst thou move
Thy Hands and Eyes! they and the Word our Love!

These Raptures here are ours, which were before
Thy Recreations, pure and fine i'th' Ore;
Thy first Conceptions, though they did not chime,
Were perfect Verse, and only wanted Rime;
For as some said of Grotius, that his Span
Was Born past Non-age, and straight cradled Man;
So didst thou fansie Thoughts, and at the same
Strict hour of day dress them into a Frame.
As Hound and Hawk were once a Game for Lords,
So these thy Pastime; Copies, like our Words,
Sprang cheaply from thee. Then, as others, Great
Dar'd Death and danger, So our Champion met
In stout Resolves the boldest Errour, then
Slaies Knox and Bellarmine, and so's quit agen.
Thou knew'st Time could not wait, nor didst delay
To ripen Ofsprings, till the Fifteenth Day:
Thy Stream ran clear, thou never hadst intent
T' awake some abstruse Notions, only meant
To puzzle Intellects, such as they write,
Who ne'r can English what themselves indite,
But like the Times, which trouble Waters clean,
Then Catch a Frog, which will prove Stork, and raign.

Such Magisteriall Heights do never please
The vigorous Eye, but damp it with Disease.
O I am lost till some Wise man shall please
To open what is meant by ------
Such horrid Wit, we need not go to Sea,
Only read there a while, and learn to pray:
'Twas writ, not to be understood, but read,
He that expounds it must come from the Dead;
Get ------ undertake to sense it true,
For he can tell more than himself e'r knew.
Should we but write so here, it were to set
Before an Ivory Hall, a Porch of Jet,
Which sports with a gay Straw, colour'd like Gold,
The Mettall scorn'd, does on the Glimpse take hold;
Just as that Madam who threw off the meat
O'th' Peacock, as if she th' fair taile would eate.

Verse as some say, 's the Lot of Godds; They have
No Blessings but what first the Poets gave:
Th' Abstruse ones then, serve the Ambrosia up,
And this our Ganymede fils out their Cup:
Their sullen Numbers are not fetter'd more
In Cadence now than chain'd in Sense before.
But thy soft Heliconian Dew will slip
Like Nectar down, and yet scarce touch the Lip:
For, O! how smooth all these contextures glide!
Cleane as the face of any first day's Bride!
How do they melt the Reader! then asswage!
Like holy Passions of the Primitive Age!
Thou hast writ so, that nothing else could stir
In such calm Orbs, but Thy Behaviour:
O for a new Almighty Press, that can
After the Poems, but Reprint the Man!

VV. Tovvers.

Upon the Poems and Plaies of the ever Memorable Mr Will: Cartvvright.

I did but see thee! and how vain it is
To vex thee for it with Remonstrances
Though things in fashion, let those judge, who sit
Their twelve-pence out, to clap their hands at Wit;
I fear to sin thus near thee; for (great Saint!)
'Tis known, true beauty hath no need of paint.

Yet, since a Labell fixt to thy fair Hearse
Is all the mode, and Tears put into Verse
Can teach Posterity our present grief,
And their own loss, but never give relief;
I'll tell them (and a truth which needs no Pass)
That Wit in Cartvvright at her Zenith was.
Arts, Fancy, Language, all conven'd in thee,
With those grand miracles which deifie
The old Worlds Writings, kept yet from the Fire
Because they force these worst times to admire.
Thy matchless Genius, in all thou didst write,
Like the Sun, wrought with such stayd heat, and light,
That not a line (to the most Critick he)
Offends with flashes, or obscurity.

When thou the wild of humors track'st, thy Pen
So Imitates that Motley stock in men,
As if thou hadst in all their bosomes been,
And seen those Leopards that lurke within.
The am'rous Youth steales from thy Courtly page
His vow'd Address, the Souldier his brave rage;

And those soft beautious Readers whose looks can
Make some men Poets, and make any man
A Lover, when thy Slave but seemes to dye,
Turn all his Mourners, and melt at the Eye.
Thus, thou thy Thoughts hast drest in such a strain
As doth not only speak, but rule and raign;
Nor are those bodies they assum'd, dark Clouds,
Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrowds,
Which who looks on, the Rayes so strongly beat
They'l brush, and warm him with a quickning heat,
So Souls shine at the Eyes, and Pearls display
Through the loose-Crystall-streams a glaunce of day.
But what's all this unto a Royall Test?
Thou art the Man, whom great Charles so exprest!
Then let the Crowd refraine their needless humme,
When Thunder speaks, then squibs and winds are dumb.

Henry Vaughan. Silurist.

On Mr William Cartvvright's excellent Poems.

You that think Poets as well may
Be spar'd, as Serjeants at th' last day;
That at condemning have a Muse,
And never Fancy but t' Accuse;
Stand pale and sentenc'd at high sense,
And rail at Wit i' your own Defence:
Say it brings Plagues and Battails still,
And think Parnassus calv'd Edge-hill;
View the Great Cartwright's spacious Wit,
All Instance and Example Writ;
Who in his unclip'd Fancy flew
To such a dazling height as drew
Our little Writers to admire
And be instructed too, as Fire
Shot from above, commands our Gaze,
And does Enlighten as Amaze,
Whilst in his brighter Thoughts we mark
The height of Clouds, but not their Dark;
And he to th' Reader does appear
A Chrystall Wit, Solid and Clear;
Whom no sowre Critick can impeach,
And yet less than a Critick reach,
Unlike those Wits that losing sight,
(Like Birds unseen in their tall flight)
As Land-flouds high and Muddy flow,
And stand on Tiptoe 'cause th' are Low.

He flows clean like some new-pierc'd rock,
And by himself, the Prophet, struck,
Gives Reason to his Fansy still,
Himself inspires th' Inspiring Hill,
Wittier by no immodest strain,
Delights his Reader, does not stain,
No Pandaring Pen here taught loose Love,
His Quill not pluckt from Venus Dove;
Far from Apollo's weaker Prayse,
He spoyles no Virgins to make Bayes.
Marke his salt healing Jests, by which
He rubb'd and kill'd all wanton Itch,
And no man durst loosely come nigh
A Lip, while his chast tooth was by;
He meant his Satyr-wit to coole
Our Vice; and as that holy Poole
Not till disturb'd about did deale
Its health, and only Moov'd did heale;
He alwayes ran harmlesse and pure,
But being Angred still did Cure.

Had this Scene-Wit not met an Age
That frowneth down the mourning Stage,
That all Dramatick Lawes confutes,
And maketh All the Actors Mutes,
(Unlike the gallant Roman Time
When Fancy was so far from Crime,
That two great ruling things seem'd fit
For equall Bayes, Conquest and VVit:
When if a Consul high had eat,
A Poet shar'd and Sung his Meat,
Some Wit still in his bosome lay,
And's Meale became an Ode next day,
When now in Forc'd and last Designe
Laureats are faine to plant th'r own Wine)
How had it crackt the Rooms, and made
Play-seeing th' only London Trade,

When if some close-lan'd Citizen
Zealous for his Labouring Hen,
Had panting for a Midwife run
T' help into th' dark his comming son,
These Bils had made him stop, and send
To bid her Groan till th' Siedge did end,
Though of a Boy he lost the hope
To heir his Prunes and Castile-soap.

And now we Writers too, that think
We sprinkle Balme instead of Inke
On his lov'd Memory, doe curse
The Printers that have made us worse
Poets than Mourners, whose sly drift
Is, thus to rob us of our Theft;
For He unpublish'd did allow
Safe Wit t'all Takers, and We now
Like Pirats praysing Plate-Fleets, deal,
Sadly commend what we would steal.

Ios. Hovve.

To the rich Memory of my Honoured Friend the Learned Author.

Sleep in thy Urn, what makes the modest pant,
For fear they want:
And what the bold
Presume they do, but do not hold;
Wit which like Geography
Takes Bounds and Limit from the Eye
Which waites on its Discovery.
For some have gone
Up to the Torrid and the Frozen Zone,
But there expire
By too much Frost, or too much Fire.
Some Phansies flee
Like those imbark'd with Ptolomy
Who neer the Tropicks Land, and there
Or their own Skill, or Tempests fear,
And leave the rest to some Columbus-care.
Where Wit moves far, but finds the Voyage hard,
Something still 'scapes the secret of their Card;
But to thy Grasping Comprehensive Brain,
Each stream was Main,
No winding Mystery thy view withstands,
No Art, no Science is thy unknown Lands,
What e'r doth rowle
'Twixt Natures either Pole,
Within thy search doth all
A Temperate Habitable Science fall.

Nor do these knowing thoughts unfashion'd pass,
In a rude Mass,
For want of Fire:
Thy Learned Issues to inspire;

Nor yet Precipitated come,
The swift Abortives of a Womb
Ripe for no Midwife but the Tomb,
Wit without shape,
(As Prisoners) is not born, but doth Escape.
And as most things
Spring cloath'd from provident Nature's Wings,
And at once do
Put Limbs on and Apparrell too;
As the same Womb without Demurs
Breeds Ermins, and with them their Furs:
So thou despising Wracks, and Second Spurs,
At once dost both Enliven, and Adorne,
And thy Fair Thoughts are with their Wardrobe borne;
And yet no Rape on disproportion'd Words
Thy Brain affords:
Nor yet a cold indifferency to hit
On all which doth come First, though not come Fit.
Our Thought allows
Of Language for her Spouse:
A Bride which seldome suites,
When forc'd as Coy, or Free as Prostitutes.

Hence both thy Lyrick and Dramatick Quill,
Bath'd in one Still,
Breath Soft and Clean,
Or in thy Ode, or Comick Scene.
Where clear Designes in ambush laid,
In just suspense 'twixt Light and Shade,
Nor out of Sight, nor are Betrayd.
Heap'd plots go wrong,
Good Company consists not in a Throng.
Then comes a Sight,
Which may Amuze, but not Afright,
Thou didst not Rage,
Like a Mortality upon thy Stage:

As those whose Buskin treads so hard,
That each their bloudy Scenes discard,
Enough to cloy St Innocents Church-yard.
'Tis an Invasion this like his who slew
A living Man to draw a Picture true.
Then: thou each part severely didst confine,
To 'ts first designe,
For where mistaken Characters intrude,
Each single Actor is a Multitude:
'Tis like his Doom
Whose throne turn'd Musick-Room,
And was though crown'd heard say,
Give us the Fiddle, we our self will Play.

M. Lluellin.

TO The Memory of Master Cartvvright.

Crown'd with thine owne Choice Bay, we do not bring
Hither our Cheap and humble Offering,
As by it we could raise up ought to Thee:
There's no Accesse comes to the Deity,
By th' Sacrifices, that to th' Altar fall:
(The God is worthy of his Honour:) All
Those wealthy Vowes not make Him, but confesse:
They Testifie the Greatnesse not Encrease.
That scorns to owe to the poore Votary:
Worth were thence Less, whence it could Greater be.

And such is Thine; not born from Others Fame:
Parent, and Honour th' art, of thine Owne Name.
'Twere Wrong t' attest it. When th' Sun to's Mid-way
Has climb'd, who needs bear witnesse to the day?
'Twere to suspect his Lustre, and betray
The Truth, and Evidence of his own Ray.

Cleare as That Fire, and High as is that Fire;
Which did as That, break forth, as That, aspire,
Thine was: Took Wing; disdain'd, and left the ground;
Great, and Unusuall, and with wonder Crown'd:
Reach'd at, & gain'd the Height; touch'd the bold Thyrse;
Made known the Power, and the high Rage of Verse:

All, but th' short Life of Rage; (like th'Lightning's Ray,
Which shines, and dyes; glances, and darts away:)

Thine Lasting was; as that Continuall Fire,
Which t' after Ages wakes i'th' Sepulchre:
With Fancies (like Night-Triumphs) Once we see:
They Shoot, and blaze; but i'th' Presentment dye.

Nor was there Light, and Heat alone; but thence,
That Act of Both, a Quick, Strong Influence
Through all the Parts divided, made them One:
Gave to each Part, t' it self Proportion:
And to the whole; and, in that Union,
Made Life, and Order; Strength, and Beauty joyn.

Nor did this active Mind, and Influence
Reflect upon it self alone; but thence,
(As the Sun's quickning Operation can
Perfect the Mass begun, and finish Man;)
Informe the Hearers; Raise, and Inspire them, with
Those Numbers only; that high, and greater Breath:
(As did the happy Thracian's Powerfull Song,
Which forc'd the Lion, and his Den along;
And plac'd a Soul there:) as if each had been
The Issue and the Creature of thy Pen.

That Life, which Thou on Others could'st confer,
Assume Thy self, and know no Sepulchre:
'Tis to thee, both thy Crown, and Recompence:
The Glory, and Reward of Eloquence.
Live then, (Great Shade) and 'spight of Time and Death,
Take of thine own, another farther Breath.

Rich. Goodridge.

On Mr William Cartvvright's excellent Poems, collected and published since his Death.

Mistake not Reader, 't is not here we come
To beg the mercy of thy milder doom:
Nor thus amasse our Vote to counterpoise
The juster censure, with the louder noise:
Or court your breath, to swell our Authors Name,
With the slight Almes of a petition'd Fame.

Put all your censure on, such as might blast
The vizage of a Zealot at a Fast;
Be it as deadly as a Judge's dream,
That murthers in his sleep; could one quick Beam
Shot from your Eye, out-do the Lightnings Rayes,
And what that cannot, wither the fresh Bayes:
Yet might he scorn your rage, and boldly stand
The fury and the tempest of your hand.
Look on him well and fully, till your sight
Dazled with Lustre, do confess his light:
See how he casts a Man-like heat, a fire
Not lost in sparkes, but in one stream intire:
A gentle friendly flame, like that which shed
His Rayes on th' new-born Roman Princes head.
Without restraint or fetters, fully free,
Great in his rapture, high in Extasie:

Yet standing in his Master's reach and Power,
A Muse subjected to command and Lure:
A Judg'd and Aym'd at Wit, a knowing glance,
The happiness o'th' Brain, and not of Chance.

No sullen night-cap Vein, which must confine
It self to th' tedious Hour-glass, or the Wine;
One that is forc'd by Siedge, and is distrest
Unto the sad surrender of a Jest;
Nor yet a Head of Humour, or of Fit,
A Magazeen, or Polyanthea Wit.

But pardon me Blest Soul, whilst I invade
Thy Name, and mix thy glories thus with shade:
Dwarfing thy Stature whilst that I compute
Thy grown Colossus by a Pygmy's foot.

And if we yet are short, how shall we than
That cannot speak the Poet, praise the Man?
Paint in what figure, colour, or design,
The deep Philosopher or grave Divine?
Express him when he held us forth his light,
Unridling to us the dark Stagyrite?
Whose stubborn knots retain'd their strength, though spred
And moulded in a soft and even thread;
Where Language he to Sense did reconcile,
Reducing Reason unto square and file.

Or view him when his riper thoughts did bear
His studies into a Diviner Sphere:
When that his Voice and Charm th' attentive Throng,
And every Ear was link'd unto his Tongue.
The numerous preass, closing their souls in one,
Stood all transform'd into his Passion.

Now would my verse Triumph, and does prepare
To feather her dull Wing, with fire, and Air:
Impregnated with strong Magnetick force,
To follow him in his Seraphick course.

But I forbear this Theme, deni'd to men
Of common souls, of lay and secular Pen:
It is enough if our unhallow'd Laies
Stand at the Gate, and Threshold of his Praise.

Go forth then Sacred Poet, and Reclaime
Thy art to th' old Religion of its Name:
Possess thy many Glories, for to thee
Belongs a multiplied Eternity:
A full and wealthy share, enough to give
An Age its Breath, which ('cause 'twas thine) shall live.
Declining Poesie from thy Times will write
The Noon, and Epoch of her proudest Height.

Io. Fell. a m. oxon.

On Mr VVil: Cartvvright's excellent Poems, Collected and Published since his death.

Thou whose great Soul display'd it self to Fame
More to preserve true Poetry than thy Name,
Art thus united, that late Times may find
What went with thee by what thou left'st behind:
In both Divine; though the most Bayes do grow
Not from the Parts men have, but those they show;
Which some exhibit only to be known
By others Breath, even whil'st they breath their own.
Thou didst avoid this Path, and from us fly
Lest that thy Fame precede thy Memory;
Which this thy Posthume Of-spring will uphold,
And shall be then most priz'd when 'tis most old:
While thou wert standing none could take thy Height,
Thy Fall (Great Cartwright) made us feel thy Weight;
Whose full Dimension was unknown till dead,
So Corps are measur'd when the Soul is fled:
Now, he that name's thy Name, builds thee a Shrine,
For none will stay to judge who know 'tis Thine.

Iohn Raymond.

To the Memory of Mr William Cartvvright.

Sure 'tis no vulgar chance, or common thing
When I dare move in publike too, and bring
My humble Mite here 'mong the learned Crew
Of those, who've wreath'd their Laurels into Yew.
And who can now contain to see thy Sun
(Blest Cartvvright) setting, and the world undon?
To see sick Learning bed ridden, and all
Her Nerves so discomposed in thy Fall?
That her remaining body can be se'd
But a meer Skeleton since thy Soul is fled:
Invention's in a Trance, and Fancy sits
Benum'd with sorrows Apoplectick Fits:
Our Tempe too is desart, and those high
Springs of sweet Aganippe are grown dry,
Abandon'd by the Nine, who since are said
To haunt a new one which their tears have made
For thee (admired Cartvvright) where they mourn
As if they meant to drown thee in thine Urn.

Nor should they weep a Deluge, could th' ingross
Their Grief to such a Sum as is their loss:
Irreparable loss! for thou didst sit
Inthron'd, our chief Commissioner of Wit:
Whose Buskin rul'd the Genius of our age,
And gave both Life and Lustre to the Stage;

Where thy sweet Raptures such impression made,
They alwaies conquer'd where they did perswade:
The charming language of whose Layes might steep,
Teaching the rigid Stoick how to weep;
And force the sullen Anch'rit to retire
From his damp Cell to thy inchanting Quire.

And must all Fancy die, or have this doom
To be confin'd a pris'ner to thy Tomb?
Awake then glorious Sp'rit! awake, and raise
Thy Temples up, while Coronets of Bayes,
With all those Trophies due to Poets, spread
Their circling branches to surround thy head.
See how the Muses flock here to resign
Themselves as offerings to the new-built shrine
Of thy rich Poems; which shall rear thy Pile
'Bove those aspiring Pyramids of Nile.
For as thy famous Colledge has the trust
Preferr'd to be the Wardrobe of thy Dust,
So hath S. Paul thy Reliques, and shall be
A walking Monument both to them and thee;
Whose Pious Cœmetery shall still keep
Thy Virbius waking, though thy Ashes sleep.

Robert Gardiner ex ho. M. Templi.

On his Deceased Friend Mr Will: Cartvvright's Poems, now Collected and Published.

Summon all Wits that Rome or Greece could boast,
And all our own, that are not yet quite lost;
Bid the Dramatick come
With his whole Wardrobe on,
Tell the quick Lyrick now
And thundring Epick too
That all must come and meet at Cartwright's Hearse;
The Author and the Subject of all Verse.

Let great Augustu's favour'd Laureat know
Here's one wrote Verse as high, though not so slow;
Where Horace cannot miss
Epods as deep as his;
A Wit that ne'r broke loose
To reach bold Lucan's Muse;
Alwayes brim-full, yet never overflows;
Match'd all their Verse, and overmatch'd their Prose.

What Arts and Authours in one Vessell drown'd!
More in him lost than all before him found;
Deep, try'd, Philosophy
With best Philology,
To brandish, or dispute,
To melt down, or confute;
All Arts and Tongues by one rich Youth engross'd,
How much! how soon! but, oh, how sooner lost!

Nor had He these vast Contributions thus
To make him swell, but to stream forth to us;
He broke no Midnight-Sleep
To be, or be thought, deep;
His Oyle for others spent,
On Publick Errands sent;
He out-read most, but out-writ more, and yet
Did alwaies teach more than he read or writ.

And now, yee Town-Wits, who are still so fierce
To vote and drink against all Scholars Verse,
Telling us, 'Tis ill writ,
'Tis Learning, and not VVit,
It tasts of Oxford—oh
That your Verse would do so!
Leave, leave, for now Old Oxford's fled, the New
Is fitted for such Knowing Souls as You.

W. VVaring Esq; A greater Lover of the Author's Memory than his own.

TO The Memory of my most deserving and peculiar Friend Mr Wil. Cartvvright.

Amidst their very Tears they'l smile to see
Me boldly venture at an Elegie
On Thee (sweet Friend) a Subject fit for none
But those that have drunk deep at Helicon:
For how should I thy high-built Fame rehearse
Who hardly can distinguish Prose from Verse?
'Tis a sad Truth —

Yet here I must come in; my Interest
Will claime as large a Sorrow as the Best:
For though my Grief wants Art and Words, yet I
Can Think aloud to thy dear Memory;
And may (while others Write) to after Times
Sing thy own lasting Praise in thy own Rimes.

Hen. Lavves.

On the Death of Mr. William Cartvvright, and the now publishing of his Poems.

Forgive us His dear shade, that we can write
A Funerall verse, and own a grief so light:
'Tis all seven years could do, but thus to break
Our stubborn passion, and make Sorrow speak,
Struck dumb till now. Methinks our Tears would fain
Cement his Dust, and Sighs give Breath again:
Whilst such a Fate we weep, as for some less
Old Stoicks broke, and durst no more Profess.

We mourn not now the Peoples way, as though
Our Elegies did out of Season grow
In some past Twelve-months, or His memory
Could with Black cloaths and Cypress be laid by:
Hee's still New loss to Us; Meaner things may
Perish at once, Cartwright dies every day.

Now help us all ye Powers of Verse, and flow
Into his Praise all that Himself could do;
For who can write without Him? who durst try
To speak His worth, were not His Book so nigh?
Where, if our flame do languish we retire
To his great Genius, and thence take new fire.
No Myst'ry there blocks up the way, no sowre
Nor rugged Verse that must be scann'd twice o'r;
But his soft Numbers gently slide away,
Like Chrystall waters, Smooth, and Deep, as they.

Euterpe was his Muse, Ease and Delight
Lead us along; we Read as He did Write,
Each Poem thus is Play, which yet you'l find
To be the rich o'rflowings of a mind
Furnish'd with Arts and Authors; what he writ,
Was but much-Learning Blossom'd forth in Wit;
Which struggled still for Birth, as when Jove's brain
With Pallas swell'd, not to bring forth was pain.

His stile so pleases the judicious Gown,
As that there's something too for Wits o'th' Town:
Rough handed Criticks do approve, and yet
'Tis treasure for the Ladies Cabinet.
The sturdy Schooleman that spends all his daies
On Cobweb-notions drest in barbarous phrase,
Charm'd with his Quill forthwith becomes less fierce,
And Hercules-like ventures to spin in Verse.
They who (worse than ten Inquisitions) do
Forbid not only Books, but Learning too,
By some strange vertue which these Lines infuse,
Submit their Spirit to his powerfull Muse;
Which thus, like Manna, to all tasts being fit,
Whilst others Love, ev'n They will Pardon it.

How may we then admire His serious time,
That wrote so well, yet drove no Trade in Rime!
If from the Scene and Walks such praise he share,
What must he from his Metaphysick chair?
There he unriddled that mysterious Book,

εδεδομια () μη εδεδομια. plut. in Alex.

Which Aristotle made to be mistook;
And his deep sense did so exactly tell,
Great Alexander knew't not half so well:
So were those Oracles utter'd clear and good,
Which rude Interpreters make less understood.

But who could hear without an Extasie,
When with a gracefull conquering presence He
Stood forth, and, like Almighty Thunder, flung
His numerous strains amongst th' amazed throng?

A pleasing horror strook through every limb,
And every Ear was close chain'd up to Him:
Such Masculine vigour ravish'd our assent;
What He Perswaded, was Commandement:
A sweeter plenty Rhetorick ne'r knew
In Chysostome's Pulpit, nor in Tully's Pew.

'Tis yet our comfort, though his Solid parts,
The best Divinity and depth of Arts
Still buried lye, that now his sprightly Verse
Breakes forth, and springs like flowers on his cold Herse.
Thus shall he live, and every Line shall have
As great applause, as once his Royall Slave:
He shall be read as Canon, to express
What's Fit and Best in every shape and dress.
Whilst all that after come can hope but this,
Only to learn how much they write amiss.

Ralph Bathurst. Trin. Col. Oxon.

On the Death of Mr Cartvvright, and the Life of his desired Poems.

No more, Mad Heretick, no more deny
That blessed Hope which makes us glad to dye,
Dispute no more the Faith of that great Day
Shall free dead Mankind from their gloomy clay;
See here an Arg'ment will stop all your lies
And kill the putrid Gangrene—See Cartwright rise!
Great, and lov'd Cartwright! who alive could quell
All Hydra, and subdue each Limb of Hell,
Here triumphs after Fate, whose Iron strength
His springing Lawrell hath broke through at length,
And in the Resurrection of his Name
And Wit secures unto his Dust the same:
Whose every Atome shall collected rise
As sure, as these immortall Elegies.
For 'tis not more that dry bones then should grow
And live, than 'tis for Arts and Learning Now,
And buried Ashes may as eas'ly see
Theirs, as we this glad Palingenesie.

Oh! bid him welcome from his fragrant Urn,
You Sons of Phæbus, thankefull Odours burn,
And bring large Heaps of Spices, that the Flame
May spread, and shine, in which your Phænix came;
It will be prudent piety to give
Kind Rites to Him, in whom your selves will live,
And on the towring Columns of his Praise
Build your own Fame, and your own lustre raise.

See! He looks pale and pensive still! but This
The Scholars Grace, and chiefest Beauty is;
Allow them paint and washes for their Skin
(Those grosser Orn'ments) that have none within;
Bright Orient formes live here, though they retreat,
And for the Cheek choose a Diviner Seat;

Where they inthroned grow, and bloom as fair
As the sweet Buds which uncurst Eden bare,
And deck his Mind, and Book so, as to be
The Muses Paradise, and their Rosarie.

Then, do not blame his serious Brow and Look,
'Twill be thy Picture if thou read his Book:
And every Line of noble sense drawn there
Reflects on thee no less of Grief, and Fear:
Just Grief for his vast loss; and then as much
Of Fear, no Age will boast another such.
False vacuous Births in every street we see,
But seldome, true and ripen'd, such as He;
Whose Numbers were so full, that he alone
Had been an Oxford, had we wanted one;
Which till He fell we could not; for he stood
'Mong all her Sons the Hector of her Bloud;
Sweet Diggs, and Masters, graver Aglionby,
And, their Forlorn Hope, my dear Aldersey,
Were all legitimate Branches, and her Heart
When rob'd of Them, was pierc'd with tender smart;
But when her Cartvvright went, it broak; and Men
Observe She never was Her selfe since then.
Since then She sits wasted in Sighs and Grief,
And cries her Ruins are beyond relief.
Sh'as lost her Sons, and lost their Father too,
And this Compleates, and desperates her Woe.
No Rachel, nor sad Niobe, like Her,
Who seeks and begs, yet finds no Comforter;
Nor ever shall 'tis doubted more, unless
Perhaps from this her Joseph's Coat and Dress.
This may revive, and call her up again,
Who else had vow'd no smiles to entertain,
But weep her Eyes out on the Tragick Grave
Of her best Cartvvright, and his Royall Slave.

Mat. Smalvvood

On the Death of Mr William Cartvvright.

So! we are now beyond the spleen of Fate,
Our miseries have made us fortunate:
The Grave was Physick here; Death speaks us free,
Her malice now is spent as well as we;
Nay, now our ruin doth so much displease,
That to strike more is to her a disease.
None can deserve her Envy, her Contempt
Exceeds her former anger, she hath spent
No Arrows but on precious lives, and we
Are but the leavings of her tyranny:
Such, whom when she hath taken from the Prease
Cannot requite the Expence of a disease.
He fell a nobler ruine; we that live
Owe our short lives, but to a base Reprieve.
He, when as yet in death he was not lost,
Made Fate suspect her Jurisdiction crost,
'Cause Learning knew no destiny; 'twas He
Whose Studies bordered on Eternity.
Our Speculations were too poor to have
With thee the equall glory of a Grave,
And share a fair mortality that we
Might be thought wise, because we fell with Thee.
Death had thee hence, lost thy large Phansy might
In time take Wing, and with a saving flight
Rove Thee beyond the World into a State
Too high, and so outrun the reach of Fate.

Thou wert so richly good, so great, that we
The Church in Thee ev'n at one view might see;
Saints that so long possess'd the quiet Earth,
And slept out Centuries, were at thy Birth
Regenerate, They liv'd again in thee,
And did out do their former Piety:
And as their Souls contracted in thine own
Did thus forestall the Resurrection,
So in thy Death they met a second Fate,
Nature in Thee did recapitulate.
So fraught wert thou with Learning, that we can
Stile Thee almost a breathing Vatican,
A Library not fram'd of stone and wood,
But animate and Cemented with bloud:
All Arts so suffer'd in thy Fall, that We
May call thy Grave an University,
And look our Schooles out there, as if that now
Eternall Bodley did descend below
To gratifie thy Dust. O! that we might
Install thee Lecturer again, and right
The injur'd Metaphysicks like to be
Eclipsed with their own obscurity
Robb'd of thy Light: and yet they are content
To mourn the ruine of their Ornament.
When He did read, how did we flock to hear?
Sure some Professors became Pupils there:
He would refine Abstractions, it was He
That gave the Text all its authority;
As if the Stagyrite resign'd his Pen,
And took his Censure, not his Comment then:
And though with some the Science goes for pelf,
His Lectures made it to transcend it self:
He us'd the Creatures as a Scale to storm
The spirituall World, and though 'twas torn,
And broken with uncertainties, yet He
By Reason as by Faith a Deity

Could apprehend and reach. Thus having trac'd
These secondary things, his soul made haste
To view the Cause, and there began to plod,
Nothing being left to puzzle him but God;
Whose Mysteries he reach'd, as far as He
Of his great self had made discovery:
He plunderd not the Heavens, nor brought he down
Secrets from thence, which were before unknown:
Yet some there are beleeve their Wits so ripe,
That they can draw a Map of the Arch-Type,
And with strange Opticks tutor'd they can view
The Emanations of the Mystique Jew;
In this his pious Ignorance was best,
And did excell his knowledge of the rest:
But he is gone, and Providence took him
To add to Heaven another Cherubim.
This to our Tears may minister relief,
'Tis his Preferment, that does cause our Grief.

Tho. Vaughan. è Col. Iesu. Oxon.

Upon Mr Cartvvright and his Poems.

1

Great Queen of Shades bring here thy Flowers:
Cut down Elysium to make Bowers
For this sad Hearse: when that is done,
Then weep thy self into a Tomb.

2

Fates, tear your Books; no more's to do,
Unless you can Create a-new
Out of this Chaos: Cartvvright's dead,
And with him the World's Soul is fled.

3

Number by which all things were made,
Is now it self turn'd to a shade;
Nature must needs pine away,
To see her Masterpeece but Clay.

4

His hand could motion so dispence
To guide ev'n an Intelligence,
The Sun might not thus neerer come,
And burn the World before its Doome.

5

Who now shall tell us when we Love?
Sing all those pangs and Sighs we prove
When we enjoy; which sweeter Look,
And are more reall in his Book?

6

Beauty, which is Gods Excellence,
He made the object of the Sence:
Nature was troubled; She ne'r knew
The Rose and Lilly which he drew.

7

Love's Arrows often do recoile
From rocky Hearts without a Spoile;

But thy sure Quill still wounding sped,
And Virgins kiss'd it as they bled.

8

Those mortall Powers he did out-flie,
Courting sometimes Æternity:
Unless that bliss were infinite,
Heaven had not past his Scheme of it.

9

Plato would say the Gods have Ears,
Who left the Musick of the Spheres,
Wishing he oft had faulty been
So he would thus confess his Sin.

10

These are but ashes of his fire:
He tun'd Philosophers to his Lyre;
Where thoughts when down he pleas'd to set,
They, like the Trees, in Numbers met.

11

He Aristotle has unbent,
Made Musick, what he riddles meant,
Cloath'd his own Reason, like his playes;
His Metaphysicks Claim the Bayes.

12

But he, and Stotevile (that Great Pair)
No longer could breath this dull air:
Nor need they Pyramids: who thus dye,
The Ground it self lifts to the Skie.

13

Pictures are drawn by mystick Art,
To naked Eyes that shew no part;
But if you put a Glass between,
Then all the Curious Lines are seen.
So look on Cartwright's dust (though ne'r so far)
Through these few Papers, you'l behold a Star.

Fr. Palmer Student of Ch. Ch. Oxon.

On Mr Cartvvright's Incomparable Poems published after his Death.

Let Times grow ne'r so bad, that none can thrive,
When most men break, Poets we see can live;
And their unbridled Muse securely run
Undaunted through the rage of Tax or Gun:
Thus midd'st the wither'd Trees 'tis alwayes seen
In Winter-time the Laurell holds up green:
Verse made Apollo's self so often told
For Youth and Wisdome, and yet never old:
'Mongst all the Helps of Art and Natures care,
'Tis the true Poet only makes you Faire;
Nay, I have heard some say, ('tis none of mine)
No Verse no Text, no Poet no Divine;
As if a meer bare Sermon nothing claimes
Unless 'tis usher'd in betwixt two Psalms.
A comely madnes sits upon the brow
Of a well-temper'd Poet; Madness now
In other men is Sin, Disease, but here
It graces, not infects the Part that's clear.
Then let's embrace what Cartwright does bequeath,
But he's not dead, for here we see him breath:
Or if we grant him gone, he's only ta'ne
To set a Spoak i'th' Wheel of Charles his VVayn.

Geo: Hill.

On M. Will: Cartwrights Incomparable Poems.

In the great Crowd whose hands are fill'd with Bayes,
To adde unto the Noise, not to thy Praise,
I humbly press to bring
My Offering:
And though thy Worth for the best Wits doth call,
Yet none gives more than he that doth give All;
Which to the World may show
How much I owe;
For I can Wish, Admire, and dare profess
Though some say more, I did not VVonder less.

'Tis a hard Task exactly to rehearse
Whether thou couldst doe more in Prose or Verse;
Thy Words untun'd were sweeter
Than Other's Meeter;
For as thy Verse had Pleasure, Strength, and Sense,
So thy Discourse had Depth and Eloquence:
This pleas'd the Wise, the Young
Ador'd thy Song;
Both had attain'd their Height, for These and Those,
Thy Verse was the best Verse, thy Prose best Prose.

But he that speaks the honour of thy Muse,
Must say 'twas such as Lavves himself did chuse,
Whose all-performing Soul
Intire and whole
Follow'd thy flowing Language up to th' Brim:
As he were born for Thee, and Thou for Him:
The Musick of thy Wit,
Thus tun'd and hit,
Will make thy precious Name advance and spread
As far, as long, as men can sing or read.

J: Cobbe.

Upon the setting forth M. Will: Cartwrights Poems.

Poets let fall your Pens, or write with Feare,
You're bound t' expect the censure of each Eare;
All modern Wits must blush away a Praise,
And silent rather hid, than crown'd with Bayes,
As naked Adam did with Fig-leaves doe:
So Poets must have Lawrell aprons too
To cover, not adorn, so that that Tree
Must now their Shaddow, not their Glory be:
For Cartwright is reviv'd, whose Verse alone
Shewes others guilty of Presumption;
'Twas sin to write, for yet there was a Fall
Of Wit, which most Works to the Fire did call,
But Cartwright has redeem'd; whose Book thus writ,
Declares the Resurrection of Wit.

And as Seth's Pillars in the Deluge stood,
Which told there was a World before the Flood,
And prov'd th' effect of Mankinds liqu'rish Crime,
Declaring too th' Antiquity of Time:
So by thy Works Posterity shall know
The merits of thy Age, before the Flow
And Deluges of Blood, which Wars did bring
T' orecome the World, and drown the Muses Spring.
Reare we thy Book Wits Statue then, to keep
Thy Memory, as Soul from cloudy sleep;
That as by 'n Obelisk rich and lasting, we
May know thy Glory and Æternitie.

Rich: Iles.

To the Memory of Mr VVilliam Cartvvright.

VVhere shall we enter in,
Or how begin
To speak Three men in one,
And all three gone?
Lost all at once, in the same Sepulcher
Lies the best Poet-Priest-Philosopher.

'Tis Cartvvright; it can be
None else but He:
Name but his Third part now,
And scarce that too;
For his Divine and Metaphysick waies
Are left for stronger Wits and better Daies.

See how his Laurell grows,
Smooth, high, and close,
Unblasted, un-cut down,
Unpropt, Alone;
For all these Supplements, which seem to raise,
Come here to gather, not to offer Bayes.

Then view his Youth, think how
That Virgin Brow
Could beare so vast a Weight,
Unwrinkled by't;
Whose Soul, like Alexander's, fill'd the Sphere,
Conquer'd the World before his Thirtieth year.

Yet all his Fansies Power
Made him not sowre;
(Like Moses) he stood out
As meek, as stout;
For, he that doom's and blast's what others writ,
Is some Translator, but no kindly Wit.

Mark (if you can) the Pace
Of his fleet Race;
His Muse does all so swift,
All at one Lift:
So the brave Hebrew Dames, themselves, gave Birth,
And without others Midwifry brought forth.

But though all early came,
Nothing's born lame;
No Fansie's hid, enclos'd,
Nor Want expos'd;
But as great Julius with one Laurell-bough
Conceal'd his Baldness, and recrown'd his Brow.

Where are they now that cry
No Poetry;
Who since themselves miss'd it,
Will damn all Wit;
Such dull grim Judges, were it in their Power,
Would leave nor Heav'n a Star, nor Earth a Flower:

E. Nevill.

To the Memory of the deceased Author Mr William Cartvvright.

'Tis a bold work to fall on Riming now
When (Cartwright) thou art gone who taught'st us how:
Thou wert both Card and Pilot, 'twas thy Hand
Steer'd all our Wit as free from Rocks as Sand;
From running low on Shallowes, or Aside,
Why, when, and where, to anchor, and to ride:
But now, without thy Rules, we creep about
Like Sea-men e'r the Load-stone was found out.
And yet wert thou alive we should not write,
Our Little would be None in thy full Light;
Men would keep up their Palates for thy Muse,
Tasting us but to know what to refuse,
(And who would scribble, never to be read?)
So whether thou art still alive or dead
We should forbear. But yet wee'll trespass on,
If but to tell the World that Thou art gone:
O could we mourn thy Fall with such a Verse
As thou didst powre on honour'd Johnson's Hearse!
An Elegie so high and wisely writ,
It shews who is and who is not a Wit;
Which had He liv'd to read, He had defi'd
All the mad World, having Thee on his side;
For Thou so praisest Him, thy Eulogy
Still dwels on Him, and yet rebounds to Thee;
Thine and His Temples jointly Crown'd: elsewhere
Thou outwrit'st Others, but thy own self there.

VVil. Stanton Esq;

On Mr William Cartvvright excellent Poems.

VVe who at Thy Departure could not mourn,
Have got up Rimes to welcome thy Return:
'Tis the World's fashion now, each Rising Sun
Makes Fooles as fast as Cowards to come on.
Thou hast restor'd us; we were since thy Fall
More lost by Comets, than no Light at all:
False Fires; from Wit and Learned Skill as farr
As the most Mountibank Astrologer.
Yet these so throng'd, so Epidemick grown,
Captains and Poets made up half the Town;
Scribling as madly as the other fight,
As if they try'd how scurvy they could write;
Who first themselves, and then the World, deceiv'd;
Which, possibly they might have Wit, beleev'd:
But now, when seen and air'd, they are undone;
So Moores grow black by coming into th' Sun.

But am not I so too? I raile and curse
This Riming Age, yet help to make it worse:
Can that be Wit in Me that's Fool in Them?
'Tis true: but yet when Cartvvright is the Theam
'Tis a hard thing not to have Poetry;
Hee's sadly dull that cannot write on Thee.

And yet we write not, though we do; for here
None will read Ours because thy Book's so near;
(And he that's never read, hath never writ;)
Tis dangerous to stand too near a Wit.

R. Mason.

On Mr William Cartvvright's excellent Poems.

And why not I? 'tis now within my Reach,
May not I write as well as others preach?
The Eare and Eye may equally dispense
Verse without Wit, as Sermons without Sense:
And, in good sober sadness, as 'tis made,
The Riming work is much the harder Trade.

Cartwright, till now, we could have dress'd thy Shrine;
For 'twas but stealing some good Peece of thine;
Swear it our own, subscribe our names unto't,
And heretofore they made no bones to do't,
Who having robb'd thee, cry 'tis Scholar's Wit;
And then the needy Gallants think th' are quit:
(So the Arrested Knight told Standers-by,
These are poor Folk, they come to beg of me.)
Thus Johnson is decry'd by some who fleece
His Works, as much as he did Rome or Greece:
They judge it lawfull Prize, doing no more
To him, than he to those that dy'd before;
Why do they then let Merchants Ships go free,
Who but translate, worse Ware, and worse than He?
These East-and-West-Translators, not like Ben,
Do but enrich Themselves, He other men.

But Thou, nor this, nor those, wert all thine owne;
Thou didst correct old Witts, but pillag'd none.
Thy Wit liv'd free, free as a good man's Mind;
May Poems, but not Poets, be confin'd.

Fra: Vaughan.

On M. Cartvvright and his Poems.

You'l think it strange to see my Name in print,
Subscrib'd to Verses, and there's something in't
Deserves your Admiration; for you see,
I am what Nature ne'r intended me:
Without a slumber on the forked Mount
Cartvvright makes Poets. On the same accompt
You may be greater, loftier if you please:
Who reads his Strains may write pure Sophocles.
An Author of such Fame that ne'r did sow
Wit in that Field, where Judgment would not grow:
Nor can we hear the Musick of his Verse,
But leaving Earth we straight with Heaven converse.
If we must use as Mortall what we have,
And as Immortall, keep what Fortune gave:
This Treasure left us in his Lines, will be
Pledge of his Worth to all Posterity;
And prove the riches of his Mind, though crost
By an untimely Fate, can ne'r be lost.
'Twill be preserv'd, though not in glorious Tombs,
In Libraries, which are more noble Rooms.
Yet I conceive if this, this precious Book
(Thy Magazine Learn'd Cartwright) had been took
Amongst the Spoiles to Alexander brought,
When with Malignant Starrs Darius fought,
His richest Cabinet had made a Shrine
For Homers Iliads, and these Works of thine.

Hen: Davison.

On Mr Cartvvright's Poems Now collected and Published.

Iust as the Mind departed rears her Frame,
Combines and Trims
Her scatter'd Limbs:
Gathers her self, and is once more the same:
Her All does Spring and Dart,
Through All, and every part:
Is in this Member All, yet no where Lame.
So does great Cartvvright's quickning Fire
Shed it self through, knit, reinspire
His Rapsodies, and owns the Bulk: His Vein,
Diffus'd alike through All, and Every strein,
In a just Volume Lives,
And the whole Cartvvright gives.

As when we view an handsome Feature nigh,
Each Members Draught
Agrees in nought
But this, that each apart does take the Eye:
And though each part that's Linkt
Is Beauteous, and Distinct,
We find a Fresh one i'th' Composure Lye.
So do I find great Cartvvright's Art
The same, and severall in each part:
His Garbs as numerous as his Poems: and
In each him Other still, still Cartvvright stand:
Each Verse gives all his Air,
And yet the whole's more Fair.

He sings: and Streight our Thoughts are his, not Ours:
What's in our Souls
His Verse Controuls;
We quit our Minds, and he Commands our Pow'rs:
He shuffles Souls with us,
And Frames us Thus or Thus:
We change our Humors, as his Muse her Flowers;
If she Laments, we're pleas'd and weep,
She's Blith, we (captive) Triumphs keep;
Shee's Grave, wee're so: If she great Princes wooe,
The Poets Lines are High and Mighty too.
His Muse flies every where,
Yet we our selves find There.

Masculine and Nervous are thy streins, (Great Soul:)
Each Thought of Thine
Makes us Divine;
And bids us Pledge o'th' Fount a full Crown'd Bowl;
Rich, Deep, yet Understood,
We Swear, not Thou, Tis Good:
Pow'rfull to take all judgments, none Controul.
Nimble Apollo gain'd the Bay,
But thou the Nymph her self away:
And all the Muses hanging on thy Lire,
Feel through their Veins now first an Humane fire,
And Alone Cartvvright will
The whole Parnassus fill.

Tho. Severne Ex æde Christi. A.M. Oxon.

On Mr Cartvvright's Poems.

Draw neer poor hungry Mortals to this Shrine,
Whose Muses, like Paul's-Men, on Statues dine:
Whose hide-bound Fancies never act their smiles
'Less fed with Giants, and Enchanted Isles.
Taste Cartvvright, whose admired Language can
Un-phlegme the dulness of an Alderman,
Whose gross conceit could not arive at sense
Higher than that which appertains to Pence:
Here's One will make him write beyond Receiv'd
Of such a One the Sum—I say Receiv'd.

Here's Wit Stenography'd. No Compass steers
A Course unknown to Him: He coasts the Spheres;
For what Platonick Spencer did unfold,
Or smooth-tongu'd Carew to the World hath told,
What came in reach of Fletcher's searching mind,
Or Beaumont's towring Brain could ever find,
What other heads, who must unchristen'd go,
Like Zanies to the Wits in Folio;
All their rare Arts our Author does display:
All Stars mix here, and make a Milky-way.
He sweetly guides the nimble Lyrick feet,
And makes the thundring Epicks aptly meet,
Charm'd by his Numbers Waves forget to land,
Times Wheels are trig'd, and brib'd to make a stand:
Let other Fancies draw the Body whole,
Our Poet's Pencill can pourtray the Soul.

Now as a Lady does disdain to pull
Of ev'ry Flower in a Garden-full,
But rather in one Rose delighted finds
The sev'rall glories of all other Kinds:
So do thou Reader by this Book; since here's
All Wit compriz'd in Pigmy Characters.

H. B. F. Nc. Oxon.

To the Memory of Mr William Cartvvright, On the publication of these His Incomparable Poems

How , in this dearth of Wit, could we dispence
With that, and scarce presume to covet sense!
Till our Green-sickness-appetite, inur'd
To Offalls, from thy Brain was fed, and cur'd;
And husbanding thy Royall Slave would dine
Like men two years beleaguer'd, on one line:
Till this Collation taught us riot, we
Could feast on two, and surfeited on three;
Nor could that heat be found, that might digest
So little, in less time than all was dress'd.
Now our rash Palate at one meal tasts o're
All thy first Viands, and waites new, and more;
Which is return'd so amply pleas'd by this,
The largess hath out-vy'd our avarice.

How had we lost both Mint, and Coyn too, were
That salvage love still fashionable here,
To sacrifice upon the Funerall Wood
All, the deceas'd had e'r held deer and good!
We would bring all our speed, to ransome thine
With Don's rich Gold, and Johnson's silver Mine;
Then to the pile add all that Fletcher writ,
Stamp'd by thy Character a currant Wit:
Suckling's Ore, with Sherley's small mony, by
Heywoods old Iron, and Shakespear's Alchemy.

Yet though thy modesty would ne'r submit
To antiquate a custome so unfit,
Some kinder hand, would not thy Bayes should be
A prey to mean fires, that was lightning free
Since Daphne, though un-sun-burnt from that shape,
Had but chang'd ravishers, not shunn'd the Rape.
But we enjoy more than thou wouldst bequeath,
Those scatter'd leaves united in this wreath;
Where we may read deep Judgement well express'd,
Matter strong limb'd, well ayr'd, and richly dress'd.
No rude unchaste Errataes that may set
A deeper paleness on thy ashes yet,
Thy salt foments no itch where e'r it hit;
The Priest may own all that the Poet writ:
Words here not press'd, serve at their own expence,
No Language rack'd, till it confess thy sence;
Which is throughout so genuine, and good,
All it can beg, is, to be understood.

Wil. Bell.

Upon the Memory of Mr William Cartvvright and his admirable Poems.

Among the splendid ornaments that crown
An Age, and to a Nation add Renown,
Is he whom great Apollo hath inspir'd
With Sacred gift of Poesie admir'd;
Whose charming measures and harmonious straines,
Have power to free the Captive Mind from chaines
Of savage ignorance, and to restore
The civill Customes of the Age of Yore.
When such did live, and taught their learned Rimes
Among us here, then happy were the Times,
Made famous by their Poets Laureate;
But now the Age grown more degenerate,
True Vertue fades, and Learning is contemn'd,
While by unletter'd ignorance condemn'd,
Those worthy Labours unregarded lye;
Nought is cri'd up, but what the Vulgar frie
Of tipsie Cupid-Rimers little worth
In haste to please the Multitude bring forth;
And now a fatall night draws on apace
While pensive Poetry in sad disgrace
Bewailes the close of such a glorious day,
And all Arts seem short-liv'd in her decay.
But see where now appears another Morn,
Whose dawning rayes great Cartvvight doth adorn,

He whose high raptures not unjustly 'aspire
To equall Linus or the Thracian Lyre;
Teaching sowre Hyppocrites that falsely 'accuse
The wholsome precepts of the innocent Muse,
To cease their rayling envy, and to love
Th' admired gift of sacred Pow'rs above.

Hail honour'd Bard, in thy Great Name reviv'd,
And by thy Learned Works made longer liv'd;
Born to rebuke the vices of the Age,
And vindicate the honour of the Stage;
For which we owe what cannot be repay'd,
Only Ingratitude to be essay'd:
Nor can we truly thy true worth express,
Lest we should derogate by an excess;
Yet joy, receiving so much light from thee
As gives new beams to fading Poesie,
And like th' Astronomer, who, by his Art
Numbring the Constellations part by part,
Some new Star having in the heaven espy'd,
Worships it more than all the Stars beside;
Thus we, great Cartvvright, do adore thy Name,
And triumph in the Conquest of thy Fame,
Who hast obscur'd the rout of Poetasters,
That in thy Art presuming to be Masters,
Dishonour'd Phæbus, and his heav'n-born Quire,
Arraying Poesie in false attire.
You then who have in silence mourned long,
The want of one whose true inspired Song
Could teach you all the Charmes of lofty Verse,
His labour'd and well-wov'n lines rehearse,
Stor'd with a certain power to give relief,
And take away th' occasion of your grief:
Where you may also see Art joyn'd with Wit,
So to refine and polish what he writ,
As not to swell with Sentences that rise
Like mounting Waves in fury to the Skies.

Yet creep they not, but with Majestick pace
Keep just decorum, and a comely grace.
His Scenes are harmless, not with such a strain
As barks at Vice more in it self prophane,
Nor made to raise the Vulgar's præsent laughter,
But to be read, and be esteem'd hereafter.
Thus honour'd Cartvvright, maugre envies rage,
Thou here shalt live the glory of thy Age,
For now thy Memory shall here inherit
The praise belonging to thy ample Merit;
Which all succeeding Times will joy to see
Crown'd with such Wreaths of Immortality.

I. P.

Vpon the Author's decease, and Poems.

'Tis treason to thy dust, to praise thy name,
(Immortall Cartvvright) whose unwieldy fame
No single hand can graspe; since he that wou'd
Speak thee aright, and shew how great, how good,
Should be himself as much as thou or more,
He that would well describe, had need stand o'r.

Wert thou not dead, I hardly should suppose
The Wits could be so disingenuous
Each individually to erect
On his own strength, a single Architect
To thy Undying Name, since 'tis a task
Would take a Synthesis of Wits, and ask
An universall Genius, all glory
That's less than that, is but derogatory.

I'll only bless our Fates, that do derive
Thy Soul to us in that which does survive;
And thereby made us Competent to sit
Tenants in Tayl to Poetry and Wit.
Thus when at last th' unmated Phænix dyes,
Out of his Ashes does a second rise,
The toylsome silk-worm thus, when labour's done
Dissolves her self into an only Son:
The difference is, those produce single things,
But from thine Issue a whole Myriad springs,
To populate the world; and make us be
Wits by a Lineall Genealogy.
So 'tis decreed, spite of Fatality
Poets, like Kings, shall never, nor can dye.

Alexander Brome.

TO THE Memory of Mr Cartvvright, and on his Incomparable Poems.

Dart up one Glance to Heav'n, and then you'l see
How all the lesser Stars of Poesie
Contract their Beams, and ev'ry Ray entwine,
And all that Stock of twisted Light resign
To Cartwrights nobler Blaze, who his Retreat
Did in such calm yet various Numbers beat,
When both the Sock and Buskin did appear
With interlaced Feet to interfer,
Posterity from these shall safely call
Only his Phansy Epidemicall,
And Wits best Epoche shall henceforth be
Christen'd alone from his Nativity;
Survey his Royall Slave, and then you'l find
(Though pent in Flesh and Fetters too) a Mind
So even and so fixt, and every Thought
To such a comely Shape and Order wrought,
Not crooked or Eccentrique in its Parts,
All its Designs well knit, so fair its Arts,
That He this universall Suff'rage craves,
He only free appear'd, all others Slaves;
Dissect his other Phansies, 'twill appear
The Skeleton o'th' Matter every where
Is cloth'd with Sense so sinewy so compact,
Not witty loose Lines, or vitious Numbers slack'd;
We must conclude that when he did indite
He wrought as well t' instruct, as to delight,

And sought the Understanding to endear,
As well as to captive or charm the Eare;
Thus like some publique Genius he did throw
Both Light and Influence here on us below,
Who being broke now, like some generall Soul
That through each Limb did active Vigour rowl,
From our benighted Orb, and fixt a Star
To guild the Spheres above, He from afar
Still points his Beams to us, that by their Light
We after him our Archetype may write;
So that when after-Times perhaps shall meet
Phansies that move on soft and easie Feet,
They'l straight cry out, though others did dispense
The Words, twas He that only gave the Sense:
Thus the whole World it self should grow to be
To him at length but as one Legatee;
And all our best Acts but as Copies full
Transcrib'd from him their fair Originall.

Tho: Philipott.

On the Death of Mr Cartvvright, and Resurrection of his Poems.

VVhy stand ye gazing thus? who will appear
Wit's Champion, think ye, in this Hemisphere?
Most Voices are for Cartwright, Cartwright, he
Is th' only Pillar of right Poetry:
For he can best Resist, yea Vanquish those
Who (for their Idoll) Ignorance have chose.
His Poems shew his Wit so sharp and clear
That no poor Scribblers should presume t' appear
At his great Shrine, but such as do intend
To mend their own, his Judgment to commend.
And though sowre Mars now most ascendent be,
Trumpets and Drumms the cry'd-up Harmony,
Yet we will hear our Cartwright; Cartwright shall
Antæus-like grow stronger by his Fall.

C: W.

Upon Mr Cartvvright's Poems.

Clear up Thalia, wipe thine eyes, and sing
Thy Patrons Resurrection, Come and bring
The geniall pack of Sisters hither, now
Wee'l all rejoyce, and thank the Fates, that thou
Brave Cartvvright art reviv'd: sure death resents
Thy Case, she takes 't to heart, and now repents
Sh' has cut thy thread: the debt she owes to thee
Shee'l pay thy Book to wit) Æternity.
Methinks I hear thee breath againe, 'tis here
Thou liv'st and mov'st as in thy proper Sphere,
What all this while alive, and ne'r come forth
Nor walk abroad till now? 'tis fit thy Worth
Should be made known to all and not supprest,
Nor kept in some close Cabinet or Chest,
Where none but Worms can enter, who will feed
And live upon thy Wit, though they cann't read.
But O take heed ye worms of Cartvvright's Wit,
His Lines are strong, you may a surfeit get;
You must forbear who can tast nought but Ink,
And never deeper than the Paper sink;
Your shallow senslesse Teeth must never look
To rellish so profound and wise a Book
As Cartvvright's is, No meaguer Poet, here
You'l find no Drolery, th' effect of Beer
And Ale, such stuff the Poet after vents
Half drunk, when he speaks nought but Complements,

Who racks his Brain, and spends his Wit, and Time,
In seeking not so much for Sense, as Rime.
Thy Works are full of Life, not like the vain
And foolish Embryoes of a giddy brain,
That perish in the first Conception
Like an unhappy and abortive Son:
Who's born a Carkase, and who always dyes
Before he lives, comes forth a Corse, and lyes
Cradl'd in a Coffin: such sons of Death,
Some hasty Wits, when they are out of breath
Produce—Thus when the Poet's drunk and reels
His Verses in the Birth kick up their heels,
They're maim'd within, and crippl'd in the Womb:
Come forth all Scazons, halting up and down,
Such limping Poetry doe some beget,
That staggers ev'ry step for want of Wit.
Each Page is here a Volume; Cartvvright's Pen
Speaks in one dash more than whole Books of Men.

Tho: Cole ex Æde Christi, Oxon.

Vpon the Incomparable Poems of the Learned Mr Cartvvright.

Though some low men by others Verse be rays'd,
Who dully write, and will in Wit be prays'd;
To usher in his Muse Cartvvright needs none,
Panegyrist and Author here are One:
Who send him Verses run on score, as some
Debtors, by giving to a King, become.
Bare Poets think their Title doth high sound
Though they doe only own Parnassus ground:
Yet you a Poet their whole Picture call,
In Cartvvright 'tis but as a nose of th' all.
'Twas he that taught the Passions, which he mov'd,
And by him Metaphysicks sense were prov'd.
Pulpit and School he reconcil'd, a Man
Calvin he made, Stagirit a Christian.
Carmenta did her name to Verse impart,
In Cartvvright ev'ry letter is an Art.
'Tis true, who gives him but a Poet's Fame,
Leaves out above three parts of Cartwright's name;
Yet he writes so, that but a piece of's skill.
May dub another Knight of th' Muses hill;
His winged Fancy was both full and swift,
Did fill the Mind, the Passions up lift.
There rul'd his Pegasus a ballanc'd head,
To run it suffer'd, but to rove forbid.
Sufficient Reading Pegasus preserv'd,
Not chok'd with much, nor with too little starv'd;

Swift but with pomp, and stately in his course,
Both like god Neptune's and Apollo's Horse.
He not Pyreneus-like did force the Nine,
As if his Quill was part of Porcupine,
(For Phœbus loves no Wit cut out, though he
Of Cæsar's birth the great Protector be)
Nor writes he in the Clouds, and a dark Dress,
That him you cannot understand, but ghesse;
Though he had not much more than Homer's sight,
In Verse hee'd Homer's and Eustathius light.
Nor writes he venom, as if now again
Python return'd and did Parnassus stain.
But to their Temple Muses did restore,
And thought th' good man, than the good Scholar, more.
Who e'r the totall Beauty did once limme,
Paints Cartwright; who writes best, has part like him;
Below whom all his Imitators fall,
That we no Copy, but a Rule him call.

B: C: Oxon.

To the Memory of the Incomparable Mr William Cartvvright.

Great Soule of Numbers! Treasury of Arts!
Mirrour of Invention, Judgment, Parts!
Sole Emp'rour, and Dictator of thy Age
Over the Schooles, the Pulpit, and the Stage!
From whose Decease, succeeding Ages shall
Compute, Decay of Wit, and Learnings Fall:
Whence this sad Truth, Posterity shall read,
Cartvvright, and with Him, all the Muses fled:
Excess of Vertue doth thy Vertues soyle:
So Lamps extinguish'd are by too much Oyle:
Though Time, that grief digests, and lessens woes,
Till by degrees the Sense of Loss we lose,
Might have asswaged mine; yet still (Great Soul)
A sacred horrour doth my Thoughts controul,
As if to write of thee were an offence
(Though after seven years Respite) and write Sense.

As he who fairly laies about, doth show
More fury, than the Artificiall Foe
That strikes by Rule, and by the Compass fights:
So he most sorrow shews, that rudely writes,
More mindfull of his Theam than Fame; whilst he
That studdyeth Tears, Commends himself, not Thee.

Since then Sighs vocall and Articulate
But Courtships are, and Complements of Fate:
Great Wonder, and deep sorrow are still best
In a Religious awfull silence dress'd:
As he whose feeble Pencill could not fit
Griefe's Features, drew the Curtain over it,
By that dark Cypress Veyl disclosing more
Than subt'lest Art or Colours could before:
So where no Language can thy worth advance,
'Tis best Devotion to plead Ignorance:

Inferiour Wits (like foiles) being only set
To make thy Diamonds brighter by their Jet.

Rich: Watkins. a. m. c. c. oxon.

Upon the Incomparable Poems of Mr William Cartvvright late Student of Christ Church in Oxford.

Not that Thy perfect Verse does need my praise,
Nor can I add one leaf unto Thy Bays?
The Beauty of Thy Muse admits no stain
To set Her off, Her Colours are in Grain,
All pure and Clean; So that what e'r might be
A Foyl elsewhere, a Blemish were to Thee.

Nor do we write to make thy Volume swell
Hir'd by the Stationer, that it might sell
The better for its Bulk, who so doth see
The Title Page, and that 'twas writ by Thee.
Will not his Judgement forfeit so to doubt
There can be a defect, or ought left out.
Thy eeven Numbers with such weight express
Themselves, and yet in such an open dress
That every one that reads will think th' were writ
Only for the Meridian of his Wit:
The humorous Courtier and the Scholar may
Now jointly read, and both like the same Play;
And meerly for their Credits sake, confess
That no man could say more, nor Thou say less;
Hence then with one consent this suffrage bring,
Cartvvright could only make a Slave, a King.

No such distinction here, that one from thence
May say in this Line's Fansie, in that, Sense,
But both so mixt, Nature so link'd with Art,
Like the same Soul, they're wholly in each part:
Thus shall thy Poems live (Blest Shade) and Fame
After Thy Ashes, celebrate Thy Name.

R. Hill.

On the Death of my dear Friend Mr William Cartvvright, relating to the fore-going Elegies.

I cannot keep my purpose, but must give
Sorrow and Verse their way; nor will I grieve
Longer in silence; no, that poor, poor part
Of natures legacy, Verse void of Art,
And undissembled teares, Cartvvright shall have
Fixt on his Hearse; and wept into his grave.

Muses I need you not; for, Grief and I
Can in your absence weave an Elegy:
Which we will do; and often inter-weave
Sad Looks, and Sighs; the ground-work must receive
Such Characters, or be adjudg'd unfit
For my Friends shroud; others have shew'd their Wit,
Learning, and Language fitly; for these be
Debts due to his great Merits: but for me,
My aymes are like my self, humble and low,
Too mean to speak his praise, too mean to show
The World what it hath lost in losing thee,
Whose Words and Deeds were perfect Harmony.

But now 'tis lost; lost in the silent Grave,
Lost to us Mortals, lost, 'till we shall have
Admission to that Kingdom, where He sings
Harmonious Anthems to the King of Kings.

Sing on blest Soul! be as thou wast below,
A more than common instrument to show
Thy Makers praise; sing on, whilst I lament
Thy loss, and court a holy discontent,
With such pure thoughts as thine, to dwell with me,
Then I may hope to live, and dye like thee,
To live belov'd, dye mourn'd, thus in my grave;
Blessings that Kings have wish'd, but cannot have.

Iz. Wa.

The Stationer.

Now, Gentlemen, I hope you'll say we' are quit,
For here yee have your full Arrears of Wit:
'T hath past the Court, and University,
(Th'old standing Judges of good Poetry:)
Besides, as many Hands attest it here
As there are Shires in England, Weeks i'th' Yeare.
I say Amen to all, like a glad Cleark,
(For those that cannot write may make their Mark.)
I'm sure 'tis new, unsully'd, and unworn,
Though writ before these angry daies were borne.
Six hundred Pages of good Wit? Read, try it:
'Would all that cannot mend this Book would buy it.

Hum. Moseley.

183

POEMS.

A Panegyrick to the most Noble Lucy Countesse of Carlisle.

Madam,
since Jewels by your self are worn,
Which can but darken, what they should adorn;
And that aspiring Incense still presumes
To cloud those Heavens towards which it fumes;
Permit the Injury of these Rites, I pray,
Whose Darkness is increas'd by your full Day;
A day would make you Goddess did you wear,
As they of Old, a Quiver, or a Spear:
For you but want their Trifles, and dissent
Nothing in shape, but meerly Ornament;
Your Limbs leave tracks of Light, still as you go;
Your Gate's Illumination, and for you
Only to move a step is to dispence
Brightness, and force, Splendor, and Influence;
Masses of Ivory blushing here and there
With Purple shedding, if compared, were

184

Blots only cast on Blots, resembling you
No more than Monograms rich Temples do,
For being your Organs would inform and be
Not Instruments but Acts in Others, We
What elsewhere is call'd Beauty, in You hold,
But so much Lustre, cast into a Mould;
Such a serene, soft, rigorous, pleasing, fierce,
Lovely, self-arm'd, naked, Majestickness,
Compos'd of friendly Contraries, do young
Poetique Princes shape, when they do long
To strik out Heroes from a Mortall Wombe,
And mint fair Conquerours for the Age to come.
But Beauty is not all that makes you so
Ador'd, by those who either see or know;
'Tis your proportion'd Soul, for who ere set
A common useless weed in Christall yet?
Or who with Pitch doth Amber Boxes fill?
Balsom and Odors there inhabite still;
As Jewels then have Inward Vertues, so
Proportion'd to that Outward Light they shew,
That, by their Lustre which appears, they bid
Us turn our sense to that which does lye hid;
So 'tis in you: For that Light which we find
Streams in your Eye, is Knowledge in your Mind;
That mixture of bright Colours in your Face,
Is equall Temperance in another place;
That vigour of your Limbs, appears within
True perfect Valour, if we look but in;
And that Proportion which doth each part fill,
Is but dispencing Justice in your Will.
Thus you redeem us from our Errour, who
Thought it a Ladies fame, neither to know
Nor be her self known much; and would not grant
Them Reputation, unless Ignorant;

185

An Heroïna heretofore did pass
With the same faith as Centaures, and it was
A Tenet, that as Women only were
Nature's digressions, who did thence appear
At best but fair Mistakes, if they did do
Heroic Acts, th' were faults of Custome too:
But you who've gain'd the Apex of your Kind,
Shew that there are no Sexes in the Mind,
Being so Candid, that we must confess
That Goodness is your Fashion, or your Dress.
That you, more truly Valorous, do support
Virtue by daring to be good at Court;
Who, beyond all Pretenders, are alone
So much a friend to't, that with it y'are One,
And when We Men, the weaker Vessels, do
Offend, we think we did it against you.
And can the thought be less, when that we see
Grace powrs forth Grace, Good Good, in one Pure, free,
And following Stream, that we no more can tell,
What 'tis you shew, than what true Tinctures dwel
Upon the Doves bright Neck, which are so One,
And Divers, that we think them All, and None.
And this is your quick Prudence, which Conveys
One Grace into another, that who saies,
You now are Courteous, when you change the light,
Will say you're Just, and think it a new sight;
And this is your peculiar Art, we know
Others may do like Actions, but not so:
The Agents alter things, and what does come,
Powerfull from these, flows weaker far from some;
Thus the Suns light makes Day, if it appear,
And casts true Lustre round the Hemisphere;
When if projected from the Moon, that light
Makes not a Day, but only Colours Night;

186

But you we may still full, still perfect call,
As what's still great, is equall still in all.

And from this Largeness of your Mind, you come
To some just wonder, Worship unto some,
Whiles you appear a Court, and are no less
Than a whole Presence, or throng'd glorious Press;
No one can ere mistake you. 'Tis alone
Your Lot, where e'r you come to be still known.
Your Power's its own Witness: you appeare
By some new Conquest, still that you are There.
But sure the Shafts your Vertues shoot, are tipt
With consecrated Gold, which too was dipt
In purer Nectar, for where e'r they do
Print Love, they print Joy, and Religion too;
Hence in your great Endowments Church and Court
Find what t' admire; All wishes thus resort
To you as to their Center, and are then
Sent back, as Centers send back lines agen.

Nor can we say you learnt this hence, or thence,
That this you gain'd by Knowledge, this by Sence;
All is your own, and Native: for as pure
Fire lends it self to all, and will endure
Nothing from others; so what you impart
Comes not from Others Principles, or Art,
But is Ingenite all, and still your Owne,
Your self sufficing to your self alone.
Thus your Extraction is desert, to whom
Vertue, and Life by the same Gift did come.
Your Cradle's thus a Trophe, and with us
'Tis thought a Praise confess'd to be born thus,
And though your Father's glorious Name will be
Full and Majestique in great History
For high designs; yet after Times will boast
You are his chiefest Act, and fame him most.

187

Being then you're th' Elixar, whose least Grain
Cast into any Other, would maintain
All for true Worth, and make the piece Commence
Saint, Nymph, or Goddess, or what not from thence;
If when your Valorous Brother rules the Maine,
And makes the Flouds confess his powerfull Raign,
You should but take the Aire by in your Shell,
You would be thought Sea-born, and we might well
Conclude you such, but that your Deitie
Would have no winged Issue to set bye;
O had you Of-spring to resemble you,
As you have Vertues, then—But oh I do
Complain of our misfortunes, not your Own,
For are bless'd Spirits, for less happy known
Because they have not receiv'd such a Fate
Of Imperfection, as to Procreate?
Eternall things supply themselves; so we
Think this your Mark of Immortalitie.

I now, as those of old, who once had met
A Deity in a shape, did nothing set
By lower, and less formes, securely do
Neglect all else, and having once seen you,
Count others only Natures Pesantry,
And out of Reverence seeing will not see,

Hail your own Riches then, and your own store,
Who thus rule others, but your self far more;
Hail your own Glass and Object, who alone
Deserve to see your Own Reflection;
Persist you still the Faction of all Vowes,
A shape that makes oft Perjuries, and allows
Even broken faith's a Pardon, whiles men do
Swear, and reclaim what they have sworn seeing you.
May you live long the Painters fault, and strife,
Who, for their oft not drawing you to life,

188

Must when their Glass is almost run out, long
To purchase Absolution for the Wrong;
But Poets, who dare still as much, and take
An equal Licence, the same Errours make,
I then put in with them, who as I do
Sue for Release, so I may claime it too.
For since your Worth, and Modesty is such,
None will think this Enough, but You too Much.

On the Imperfection of Christ-Church Buildings.

Arise thou Sacred Heap, and shew a Frame
Perfect at last, and Glorious as thy Name:
Space, and Torn Majesty, as yet are all
Thou hast: we view thy Cradle, as thy Fall.

Our dwelling lyes half desert; The whole space
Unmeeted and unbounded, bears the face
Of the first Ages fields, and we, as they
That stand on hills, have prospect every way:
Like Theseus Sonne, curst by Mistake, the frame
Scattred and Torn, hath parts without a Name,
Which in a Landskip some mischance, not meant,
As dropping of the Spunge, would represent;
And (if no succour come) the Time's not far
When 'twill be thought no College, but a Quar.
Send then Amphion to these Thebes (O Fates)
W'have here as many Breaches, though not gates.
When any Stranger comes, 'tis shewn by us,
As once the face was of Antigonus,
With an half-Visage onely: so that all
We boast is but a Kitchin, or an Hall.
Men thence admire, but help not, 't hath the luck
Of Heathen places that were Thunder-strook,

189

To be ador'd, not toucht; though the Mind and Will
Be in the Pale, the Purse is Pagan still:
Alas th'are Towr's that Thunder do provoke,
We ne'r had Height or Glory for a stroke;
Time, and King Henry roo, did spare us; we
Stood in those dayes both Sythe, and Scepter-free;
Our Ruines then were licenc'd, and we were
Pass'd by untouch'd, that hand was open here.
Blesse we our Throne then! That which did avoid
The fury of those times, seems yet destroy'd:
So this breath'd on by no full Influence
Hath hung e'r since unminded in suspence,
As doubtfull whether't should Escheated be
To Ruine, or Redeem'd to Majesty.
But great Intents stop seconds, and we owe
To Larger Wants, that Bounty is so slow.
A Lordship here, like Curtius might be cast
Into one Hole, and yet not seen at last.
Two sacred Things were thought (by judging souls)
Beyond the Kingdomes Pow'r, Christchurch and Pauls,
Till, by a Light from Heaven shewn, the one
Did gain his second Renovation,
And some good Star ere long, we do not fear,
Will Guide the Wise to Offer some gifts here.
But Ruines yet stand Ruines, as if none
Durst be so good, as first to cast a Stone.
Alas we ask not Prodigies: Wee'd boast
Had we but what is at one Horse-Race lost;
Nor is our House, (as Nature in the fall
Is thought by some) void and bereft of all
But what's new giv'n: Unto our selves we owe
That Sculs are not our Churches Pavement now;
That that's made yet good way; that to his Cup
And Table Christ may come, and not ride up;

190

That no one stumbling fears a worse event,
Nor when he bows falls lower than he meant;
That now our Windows may for Doctrine pass,
And we (as Paul) see Mysteries in a Glass;
That something elsewhere is perform'd, whereby
'Tis seen we can adorn, though not supply.

But if to all Great Buildings (as to Troy)
A God must needs be sent, and we enjoy
No help but Miracle; if so it stand
Decreed by Heav'n, that the same gracious Hand
That perfected our Statutes, must be sent
To finish Christ-Church too, we are Content;
Knowing that he who in the Mount did give
Those Laws, by which his People were to live,
If they had needed then, as now we do,
Would have bestow'd the Stone for Tables too.

A Continuation of the same to the Prince of Wales.

But turn we hence to you, as some there be
Who in the Coppy wooe the Deity;
Who think then most succesfull steps are trod
When they approach the Image for the God.
Our King hath shewn his Bounty, Sir, in you,
By giving whom, h' hath giv'n us Buildings too.
For we see Harvests in a showre, and when
Heav'n drops a Dew, say it drops Flowers then,
Whiles all that blessed fatness doth not fall
To fill that Basket, or this Barn, but All.
We know y'have Vertues in you now which stand
Eager for Action, and expect Command;
Vertues now ripe, Train'd up, and Nurtur'd so
That they wait only when you'l bid them flow.

191

Indulge you then, Our Rising Sun, we may
Say your first Rayes broke here to make a Day:
For though the Light, when grown, powrs fuller streams,
'Tis yet more precious in it's Virgin Beams;
And though the third or fourth may do the Cure,
The Eldest Tear of Balsam's still most pure.
'Tis only then our Pride that we may dwell
As Vertues do in you, compleat and well;
That when a College finish'd, is the sport
And Pastime only of your yonger Court,
An Act, to which some could not well arive
After their fifty, done by you at five,
The late and Tardy Stock of Nephews may
Reading your Story, think you were born Gray;
This is the Thread weaves all our Hopes: for since
All Better Vertues now are call'd the Prince
(As smaller Rivers lose their words, and beare
No name but Ocean when they come in there)
Thence we expect them, as these Streams we know
Can from no other Womb or Bosome flow;
Limne you our Venus then throughout, be she
Christned, some Part at least, your Deity;
That when to take you Painters go about,
They be compell'd to leave some of you out;
Whiles you shew something here that won't admit
Colours and shape, something that cannot sit.
Thus shall you nourish future Writers, who
May give Fame back those things you do bestow:
Where Merits too will be your work, and then
That Age will think you gave not stones, but Men.

192

On His Majesties recovery from the small Pox. 1633.

I do confess the over-forward Tongue
Of publick Duty turns into a Wrong,
And after-Ages, which could ne'r conceive
Our happy CHARLES so frail as to receive
Such a Disease, will know it by the Noyse
Which we have made, in showting forth our Joyes;
And our informing Duty only be
A well-meant Spight, or Loyall Injury.
Let then the name be alter'd, let us say
They were small Stars fixt in a Milky-way,
Or faithfull Turquoises, which Heaven sent
For a Discovery, not a Punishment;
To shew the ill, not make it; and to tell
By their Pale looks the Bearer was not well.
Let the Disease forgotten be, but may
The Joy return as yearly as the Day;
Let there be new Computes, let Reckoning be
Solemnly made from His Recovery;
Let not the Kingdoms Acts hereafter run
From His (though happy) Coronation,
But from His Health, as in a better strain;
That plac'd Him in His Throne, This makes Him Raign.

193

To the King, On His Majesties Return from Scotland. 1633.

VVe are a People now again, and may
Stile Our Selves Subjects: your prolong'd delay
Had almost made our Jealousy engross
New fears, and raise your Absence into loss.
'Tis true the Kingdoms Manners and the Law
Retain'd their wonted Rigour, The same Awe
And Love still kept us Loyall: but 'twas so
As Clocks once set in Motion do yet go,
The Hand being absent; or as when the Quill
Ceaseth to strike, the String yet trembles still.
O Count our Sighs and Fears! there shall not be
Again such Absence, though sure Victory
Would waite on every Step, and would repay
A severall Conquest for each severall day.
We do not Crown your welcome with a Name
Coyn'd from the Journey; nor shall soothing Fame
Call't an adventure: Heretofore when rude
And Haughty Power was known by solitude;
When all that Subjects felt of Majesty,
Was the oppressing Yoke and Tyranny;
Then it had pass'd for Valour, and had been
Thought Progress to have dar'd to have been seen;
And the approaching to a Neighbour Region
No Faith but an Expedition.
But here's no Cause of a triumphant Dance,
'Tis a Return, not a Deliverance.
Your pious Reign secur'd your Throne; your life
Was guard unto your Septer; no rude strife,

194

No violence there disturb'd the Pomp, unless
Their eager Love and Loyalty did press
To see and know, whiles lawfull Majesty
Spread forth it's Presence, and it's Piety.
So hath the God that lay hid in the voice
Of his directing Oracle, made choice
To come in Person, and untouch'd hath crown'd
The Supplicant with his Glory, not his Sound.
Whiles that this Pomp was Moving, whiles a fire
Shot out from you, did but provoke desire,
Not satisfie, how in Loyalty did they
Wish an eternall Solstice, or a Day
That might make Nature stand, striving to bring
E'vn by her wrong more Homage to a King;
But mayst thou dwell with us, Just Charles, and shew
A Beam sometimes to them: So shall we ow
To constant Light, They to Posterity
Shall boast of this, that they were seen by Thee.

To the Queen on the same Occasion.

VVe do presume Our duty to no Eare
Will better sound, than yours, who most did fear.
We know your busie Eye perus'd the Glass,
And Chid the Lazy Sands as they did pass;
We know no hour stole by with present Wing
But heard one Sigh dispatch'd unto your King:
We know his faith too; how that other Faces
Were view'd as Pictures only; how their Graces
Did in this only call his Eye, that seen
They might present some Parcell of his Queen.

195

You were both maim'd whiles sever'd: none could find
VVhole Majsty; y'are perfect, when thus joyn'd.
VVe do not think this Absence can add more
Flames, but call forth those that lay hid before:
As when in thirsty Flowers a gentle Dew
Awakes the Sent which slept, not gives a new.
As for our Joy, 'tis not a sudden Heat
Starts into Noise; but 'tis as true as great;
VVe will be tri'd by yours; for we dare strive
Here, and acknowledge no Prerogative.
VVe then proclame this Triumph be as bright
And large to all, as was your Marriage-night.
Cry we a second Hymen then; and sing,
VVhiles you receive the Husband, we the King.

To the Lady Pavvlet, upon her Present sent to the Vniversity, being the Story of the Nativity and Passion of our Saviour, wrought by her self in Needle-work.

Could we Judge here (most Vertuous Madam) then
Your Needle might receive praise from the Pen:
But this our want bereaves it of that part,
VVhiles to Admire and Thank is all our Art.

The VVork deserves a Shrine, I should rehearse
It's Glories in a Story, not a Verse;
Colours are mixt so subt'ly that thereby
The stealth of Art both takes and cheates the Eye;
At once a Thousand we can gaze upon,
But are deceiv'd by their Transition;
VVhat toucheth is the same; Beam takes from Beam,
The next still like, yet diff'ring in th'extreme:

196

Here runs this Track we see, Thither that tends,
But cann't say here this rose, or there that ends.
Thus while they creep insensibly, we doubt
Whether the one powres not the other out.
Faces so quick and lively, that we may
Fear, if we turn aside they'l steal away.
Postures of Grief so true, that we may swear
Your artfull Fingers have wrought Passion there:
View we the Manger and the Babe, we thence
Beleeve the very Threeds have Innocence;
Then on the Cross such Love and Grief we find,
As 'twere a Transcript of our Saviours Mind;
Each Parcell so expressive, and so fit,
That the whole seems not so much wrought, as writ.
'Tis Sacred Text all, we may quoat, and thence
Extract what may be press'd in our defence.

Blest Mother of the Church, be in the list
Reckon'd from hence the Shee Evangelist:
Nor can the Style be Profanation, when
The Needle may Convert more than the Pen.
When Faith may Come by seeing, and each Leaf
Rightly perus'd prove Gospell to the Deaf.
Had not Saint Hellen happ'ly found the Cross,
By this your Work you had repair'd that loss.
Tell me not of Penelope, we do
See a Web here more Chaste, and Sacred too.
Where are ye now, O Women, you that Sow
Temptations, labouring to express the Bow
And the Blind Archer, you that rarely set,
To please your Loves, a Venus in a Net?
Turn your skill hither: then we shall (no doubt)
See the Kings Daughter glorious too without.
Women sew'd Idle Fig-leaves hither too,
Eve's Nakedness is truly cloath'd by you.

197

On the Birth of the Duke of York.

The State is now past fear, and all that we
Need wish besides is perpetuity.
No gaudy traine of flames, no darkned Sun,
No Change inverting Order did forerun
This Birth, No hurtless Natalitious fire
Playing about him made the Nurse admire,
And Prophesie. Fond Nature shews these things
When Thraldom swels, when Bondmaids bring forth Kings.
And 'tis no favour: for She straight give o'r
Paying these trifles, that She ow no more.
Here Shee's reserv'd, and quiet, as if He
Were her Design, her Plot, her Policy:
Here the enquiring busie Common Eye
Only intent upon New Majesty,
Ne'r looks for further wonder, this alone
Being sufficient, that Hee's silent shewn.
What's Her intent I know not: let it be
My pray'r, that Shee'l be modest, and that He
Have but the second Honour, be still neer;
No imitation of the Father here.
Yet let him, like to him, make power as free
From Blot or Scandall as from Poverty:
Count Bloud and Birth no parts, but something lent
Meerly for outward Grace and Complement;
Get safety by good Life, and raise defence
By better forces, Love and Conscience.
This likewise we expect; the Nurse may find
Something in Shape, wee'l look unto his Mind.

198

The Forehead, Eye, and Lip, poor humble Parts
Too shallow for resemblance, shew the Arts
Of private guessings; Action still hath been
The Royall Mark; Those Parts, which are not seen,
Present the Throne, and Scepter; and the right
Discoverie's made by Judgment, not by Sight.
I cannot to this Cradle promise make
Of Actions fit for growth. A strangled Snake,
Kill'd before known, perhaps 'mongst Heathen hath
Been thought the deed and valour of the Swath.
Far be such Monsters hence; the Buckler here
Is not the Cradle, nor the Dart and Spear
The Infants Rattles; 'tis a Son of Mirth,
Of Peace and Friendship, 'tis a quiet Birth;
Yet if hereafter unfil'd People shall
Call on his Sword, and so provoke their fall,
Let him look bak on that admired Name,
That Spirit of Dispatch, that Soul of Fame,
His Grandfire Henry, tread his steps, in all
Be fully like to him, except his fall.

Although in Royall Births, the Subjects Lot
Be to enjoy what's by the Prince begot;
Yet fasten, Charles, fasten those Eyes you ow
Unto a People, on this Son, to shew
You can be tender too, in this one thing
Suffer the Father to depose the King.
See what delight your Queen takes to peruse
Those fair unspotted Volumes, when She views
In Him that Glance, in Her that decent Grace,
In This sweet Innocence, in All the face
Of both the Parents. May this Blessing prove
A welcome Trouble, puzzling equal Love
How to dispence Embraces, whiles that She
Strives to divide the Mother 'twixt all Three.

199

To Dr Duppa, then Dean of Christ-Church, and Tutor to the Prince of Wales.

VVill you not stay then, and vouchsafe to be
Honour'd a little more Contractedly?
The Reverence here's as much, Though not the Prease;
Our Love as Tender, though the Tumult Less;
And your great Vertues in this narrow Sphere,
Though not so Bright, shine yet as strong as there;
As Sun-Beams drawn into a point do flow
VVith greater force by being fettred so.
Things may a while in the same Order run,
As wheeles once turn'd continue Motion;
And we enjoy a Light, as when the Eye
O'th' VVorld is set all Lustre doth not dye:
But yet this Course, this Light, will so appear,
As only to Convince you have been here.

He's Ours you ask (Great Soveraign) Ours, whom we
VVill gladly ransome with a Subsidy.
Ask of us Lands, Our College, All; we do
Profer what's built, nay, what's intended too:
For he being Absent, 'tis an Heap, and we
Only a Number, no Society.
Hard Rival! for we dare Contest, and use
Such Language, now w'have nothing left to lose.

Y' are only Ours, as some great Ship, that's gone
A Voyage i'th' Kings service, doth still run
Under the name o'th' Company: But we
Think it th' Indulgence of his Majesty
That y' are not whole engross'd, that ye you are
Permitted to be something that we dare

200

Call Ours, being honour'd to retain you thus,
That one Rule may direct the Prince, and us.

Go then another Nature to him; go
A Genius wisht by all, except the Foe:
Fashion those ductile Manners, and inspire
That ample Breast with Clean and Active fire;
That when his Limbs shall write him Man, His Deeds
May write him yours; That from those Richer feeds
Thus sprouting we dividedly may ow
The Son unto our King, the Prince to you.
'Tis in the Power of your great Influence,
What England shall be fifty Harvests hence;
You'l do good to our Nephews now, and be
A Patron unto those you will not see;
Y'instruct a future Common-Wealth, and give
Laws to those People, that as yet don't live.
We see him full already; There's no fear
Of subtle Poyson, for good Axiomes, here,
All will be Health and Antidote, and one
Name will Combine State and Religion;
Heaven and We be Look'd on with one Eye,
And the same Rules guide Faith and Policy:
The Court shall hence become a Church, and you,
In one, be Tutor to a People too.
He shall not now, like other Princes, hear
Some Morall Lecture when the Dinner's neer,
Learn nothing fresh and fasting, but upon
This or that Dish read an instruction;
Hear Livy told, admire some Generals force,
And Stratagem, 'twixt first and second Course;
Then Cloze his Stomach with a Rule, and stay
'Mong Books perhaps to pass a Rainy day;
Or his charg'd Memory with a Maxime task
To take up time before a Tilt or Masque:

201

No, you will Dictate wholesome grounds, and sow
Seeds in his Mind, as pure as that is now;
Breath in your Thoughts, your soul, make him the true,
Resemblance of your Worth, Speak and live you:
That no old granted Sutour may still fear,
VVhen't shall be one, to promise, and to swear.
That those huge Bulks, his Guard, may only be
Like the great Statues in the Gallery
For Ornament not use; not to Afright
Th' Approachers Boldness, but afford a sight;
VVhiles he, defended by a better Art,
Shall have a stronger Guard in every Heart,
And carrying your Vertues to the Throne,
Find that his best defence, t' have need of none.

May he Come forth your VVork, and thence appear
Sacred and Pious, whom our Love may fear;
Discover you in all his Actions, be
'Bove Envy Great, Good above Flattery,
And by a perfect fulness of each part,
Banish from Court that Torment, and this Art.

Go O my VVishes with you: may they keep
Noise off, and make your Journey as your sleep,
Rather repose than Travell: May you meet
No rough way, but in these unequall feet.
Good Fates take Charge of you; and let this be
Your sole Ill-luck, that Good is wisht by me.

202

To the same immediately after the Publick Act at Oxon. 1634.

And now (most worthy Sir) I've time to shew
Some Parcell of that Duty that I ow,
Which like late fruit, grows Vigorous by delay,
Gaining a force more lasting by its stay.
Had I presented you with ought, whiles here,
'T had been to Sacrifice, the Priest not neer;
Forme rather than devotion, and a free
Expression of a Custome, not of me:
I was not then my self; Then not to err
Had been a trespass 'gainst the Miniver;
For, when our Pumps are on, we do dispence
VVith every slip, nay, every Crime, but Sense:
And we're encourag'd in't, the Statutes do't,
VVhich bind some Men to shew they cann't dispute.

Suffer me, Sir, to tell you that we do
Owe these few daies solemnity to you;
For had you not among our Gowns been seen
Enlivening all, Oxford had only been
A Peopled Village, and our Act at best
A Learned Wake or Glorious shepheards feast:
VVhere (in my Judgement) the best thing to see
Had been Jerusalem or Nineveh,
VVhere, for true Exercise, none could surpass
The Puppets, and Great Britaines Looking Glass.
Nor are those Names unusuall; July here
Doth put forth all th' Inventions of the year:
Rare VVorks, and rarer Beasts do meet; we see
In the same street Africk and Germany.

203

Trumpets 'gainst Trumpets blow, the Faction's much,
These cry the Monster-Masters, Those the Dutch:
All Arts find welcome, all men come to do
Their Tricks and slights; Juglers, and Curats too,
Curats that threaten Markets with their Looks,
Arm'd with two weapons, Knives and Table-books;
Men that do itch (when they have eate) to note
The chief distinction 'twixt the Sheep, and Goat;
That do no questions relish but what be
Bord'ring upon the Absolute Decree,
And then haste home, left they should miss the lot
Of venting Reprobation, whiles 'tis hot.
But, above all Good sports, give me the sight
Of the Lay Exercise on Monday night,
VVhere a Reserved stomach doth profess
A zeal-prepared Hunger, of no less
Than ten days laying up, where we may see
How they repaire, how ev'ry man comes Three,
VVhere, to the envy of our Townsmen, some
Among the rest do by Prescription come,
Men that themselves do victuall twice a year,
At Christmas with their Landlords, and once here.
None praise the Act more, and say less; they do
Make all VVine good by drinking, all Beer too;
This was their Christian Freedom here: nay we,
Our selves too then, durst plead a Liberty:
We reform'd Nature, and awak'd the Night,
Making it spring as Glorious as the Light;
That, like the Day did dawn, and break forth here,
Though in a Lower, yet as bright a Sphere;
Sleep was a thing unheard of, unless 'twere
At Sermon after Dinner, all wink'd there;
No Brother then known by the rowling White,
Ev'n they sate there as Children of the Night;

204

None come to see and to be seen; none heares,
My Lords see-buck closeth both Eyes and Eares;
No Health did single, but our Chancellors pass,
Viscounts and Earles throng'd seven in a Glass.
Manners and Language ne'r more free; some meant
Scarce one thing and did yet all Idioms vent;
Spoke Minshew in a Breath; the Inceptors Wine
Made Latine Native: Gray Coats then spoke fine,
And thought that wiser Statute had done wrong
T'allot us four years yet to learn the Tongue.

But Oxford, though throng'd with such People, was
A Court where e'r you only pleas'd to pass;
We reckon'd this your Gift, and that this way
Part of the Progress, not your Journey lay.

I could relate you more, But that I fear
You'l find the Dregs o'th' time surviving here;
And that gets some Excuse: Think then you see
Some Reliques of the Act move yet in me.

On the great Frost. 1634.

Shew me the flames you brag of, you that be
Arm'd with those two fires, Wine, and Poetry:
Y'are now benum'd spight of your Gods and Verse,
And may your Metaphors for Prayers rehearse;
Whiles you that call'd Snow Fleece, and Feathers, do
Wish for true Fleeces, and true Feathers too.

Waters have bound themselves, and cannot run,
Suff'ring what Xerxes fetters would have done;
Our Rivers are one Christall; Shoares are fit
Mirrours, being now, not like to Glass, but it:

205

Our Ships stand all as planted, we may swear
They are not born up only, but grow there.
Whiles Waters thus are Pavements, firm as Stone,
And without faith are each day walk'd upon,
What Parables call'd folly heretofore,
Were wisdome now, To build upon the Shoare.
There's no one dines among us with washt hands,
Water's as scarce here, as in Africk sands;
And we expect it not but from some God
Opening a Fountain, or some Prophets Rod,
Who need not seek out where he may unlock
A stream, what e'r he strook would be true Rock.
When Heaven drops some smaller Showers, our sense
Of Griefe's encreas'd, being but deluded thence;
For whiles we think those drops to entertain,
They fall down Pearl, which came down half way Rain.
Green-Land's Removall, now the poor man fears,
Seeing all VVaters frozen, but his Tears.
We suffer Day continuall, and the Snow
Doth make our Little Night become Noon now.
We hear of some Enchristal'd, such as have
That, which procur'd their death, become their Grave.
Bodies, that destitute of Soul yet stood,
Dead, and not faln; drown'd, and without a Floud;
Nay we, who breath still, are almost as they,
And only may be stil'd a softer Clay;
We stand like Statues, as if Cast, and fit
For life, not having, but expecting it;
Each man's become the Stoick's wise one hence;
For can you look for Passion, where's no Sense?
Which we have not, resolv'd to our first Stone,
Unless it be one Sense to feel w' have none.
Our very Smiths now work not, nay what's more,
Our Dutchmen write but five hours and give o'r.

206

We dare provoke Fate now: we know what is
That last cold, Death, only by suff'ring this.
All fires are Vestall now, and we as they,
Do in our Chimneys keep a Lasting day;
Boasting within doores this domestique Sun,
Adored too with our Religion.
We laugh at fire-Briefs now, although they be
Commended to us by his Majesty;
And 'tis no Treason, for we cannot guess
Why we should pay them for their happiness.
Each hand would be a Scævola's: let Rome
Call that a pleasure henceforth, not a doom.
A Feaver is become a wish: we sit
And think fall'n Angels have one Benefit,
Nor can the thought be impious, when we see
Weather, that Bowker durst not Prophesie;
Such as may give new Epochaes, and make
Another SINCE in his bold Almanack;
Weather may save his doom, and by his foe
Be thought enough for him to undergo.
We now think Alabaster true, and look
A suddain Trump should antedate his Book;
For whiles we suffer this, ought we not fear
The World shall not survive to a fourth year?
And sure we may conclude weak Nature old
And Crazed now, being shee's grown so Cold.

But Frost's not all our Grief: we that so sore
Suffer its stay, fear its departure more:
For when that Leaves us, which so long hath stood,
'Twill make a New Accompt From th'second Floud.

207

To Mr W. B. at the Birth of his first Child.

Y'are now transcrib'd, and Publike View
Perusing finds the Coppy true,
Without Erratas new crept in,
Fully Compleat and Genuine:
And nothing wanting can espy,
But only Bulk and Quantity:
The Text in Letters small we see,
And the Arts in one Epitome.
O what pleasure do you take
To hear the Nurse discovery make,
How the Nose, the Lip, the Eye,
The Forehead full of Majesty,
Shews the Father? how to this
The Mothers Beauty added is:
And after all with gentle Numbers
To wooe the Infant into Slumbers.

And these delights he yields you now,
The Swath, and Cradle, this doth shew:
But hereafter when his force
Shall wield the Rattle, and the Horse;
When his ventring Tongue shall speak
All Synalæphæes, and shall break
This word short off, and make that two,
Pratling as Obligations do;
'Twill ravish the delighted Sense
To view these sports of Innocence,
And make the wisest dote upon
Such pretty Imperfection.

208

These hopeful Cradles promise such
Future Goodness, and so much,
That they prevent my Prayers, and I
Must wish but for formality.

I wish Religion timely be
Taught him with his A B C.
I wish him Good and Constant Health,
His Father's learning, but more VVealth;
And that to use, not Hoard; a Purse
Open to bless, not shut to curse.
May he have many, and fast, friends,
Meaning Good-will, not private Ends,
Such as scorn to understand,
VVhen they name Love, a peece of Land.
May the Swath and VVhistle be
The hardest of his Bonds. May he
Have no sad Cares to break his sleep,
Nor other Cause, than now, to weep.
May he ne'r live to be again,
VVhat he is now, a Child: May Pain
If it do visit, as a Guest
Only call in, not dare to rest.

For a young Lord to his Mistris, who had taught him a Song.

Taught from your Artfull Strains, My Fair,
I've only liv'd e'r since by Air;
VVhose Sounds do make me wish I were
Either all Voice, or else all Eare.
If Souls (as some say) Musick be
I've learnt from you there's one in me;

209

From you, whose Accents make us know
That sweeter Spheres move here below;
From you, whose Limbs are so well met
That we may swear your Bodie's Set:
VVhose Parts are with such Graces Crown'd,
That th'are that Musick without sound.
I had this Love perhaps before,
But you awak'd and made it more.
As when a gentle Ev'ning Showre
Calls forth, and adds, Sent to the Flower;
Henceforth I'l think my Breath is due
No more to Nature, but to you.
Sing I to Pleasure then, or Fame,
I'l know no Antheme, but your Name;
This shall joy Life, this sweeten Death:
You, that have taught, may claim, my Breath.

On Mr Stokes his Book on the Art of Vaulting.

OR, In librum vere Cabalisticum de Ascensu Corporum gravium h. e. in Tractatu de Arte Saliendi editum à Guil. Stokes Almæ Academiæ Hipparcho, & solo temporum horum Ephialte, Carmen de sultorium.

Reader, here is such a Book,
VVill make you leap before you look,
And shift, without being thought a Rook.

The Author's Airy, light, and thin;
VVhom no man saw e'r break a Shin,
Or ever yet leap out of's Skin.

210

When e'r he strain'd at Horse, or Bell,
Tom Charles himself who came to smell
His faults, still swore 'twas clean and well.

His tricks are here in figures dim,
Each line is heavier than his Limb,
And Shadows weighty are to him.

Were Dee alive, or Billingsly,
We shortly should each passage see
Demonstrated by A.B.C.

How would they vex their Mathematicks,
Their Ponderations, and their Staticks,
To shew the Art of these Volaticks?

Be A the Horse, and the Man B.
Parts from the girdle upwards C,
And from the girdle downward D.

If the parts D. proportion'd weigh
To the parts C. neither will sway,
But B lye equall upon A.

Thus would his Horse and all his vectures,
Reduc'd to figures, and to sectures,
Produce new Diagrams and Lectures.

And justly too, for the Pomado,
And the most intricate Strapado,
He'l do for naught in a Bravado.

211

The Herculean Leap he can with slight,
And that twice fifty times a night,
To please the Ladies: Will is right.

The Angelica ne'r put him too't,
Then for the Pegasus, he'l do't
And strike a Fountain with his foot.

When he the Stag-Leap does, you'd swear
The Stag himself, if he were there,
Would like the unwieldy Oxe appear.

He'l fit his strength, if you desire,
Just as his Horse, Lower or Higher,
And twist his Limbs like nealed wyer.

Had you, as I, but seen him once,
You'd swear that Nature for the nonce,
Had made his Body without Bones.

For Arms, sometimes hee'l lye on one,
Sometimes on both, sometimes on none,
And like a Meteor hang alone.

Let none henceforth our Eares abuse,
How Dædalus scap'd the twining Stewes,
Alas that is but flying news.

He us'd wax plumes, as Ovid sings,
Will scorns to tamper with such things,
He is a Dædalus without Wings.

212

Good faith, the Mewes had best look to't,
Lest they go down, and Sheen to boot,
Will and his wooden Horse will do't.

The Troian Steed let Souldiers scan,
And praise th' Invention you that can,
Will puts 'em down both Horse and Man.

At once six Horses Theutobocchus
Leap'd o'r, if

Lib. 3. c. 3.

Florus do not mock us,
'Twas well, but let him not provoke us;

For were the matter to be tri'd,
'Twere Gold to Silver, on Will's side,
He'd quell that Theutobocchus Pride.

I'l say, but this to end the brawle,
Let Theutobocchus in the fall
Cut Will's Cross Caper, and take all.

Then go thy ways, Brave Will, for one,
By Jove 'tis thou must Leap, or none,
To pull bright honour from the Moon.

Philippus Stoicus e Societate Portæ Borealis Oxon.

213

The Dreame.

I dream'd I saw my self lye dead,
And that my Bed my Coffin grew;
Silence and Sleep this strange sight bred,
But wak'd, I found I liv'd anew.
Looking next Morn on your bright face,
Mine Eyes be queath'd mine Heart fresh pain;
A Dart rush'd in with every Grace,
And so I kill'd my self again:
O Eyes, what shall distressed Lovers do,
If open you can kill, if shut you view.

Love inconcealable.

Stig. Ital.

VVho can hide fire? If't be uncover'd, Light,
If cover'd, Smoake betraies it to the sight:
Love is that fire, which still some sign affords,
If hid, the'are Sighs; If open, they are VVords.

214

The Teares.

If Souls consist of water, I
May swear yours glides out of your Eye:
If they may wounds receive, and prove
Festred through Grief, or ancient Love,
Then Fairest, through these Christall doores
Teares flow as purgings of your Sores.
And now the certain Cause I know
Whence the Rose and Lilly grow,
In your fair Cheeks, The often showres
Which you thus weep, do breed these flowers.
If that the Flouds could Venus bring,
And warlike Mars from Flowers spring,
Why may not hence two Gods arise,
This from your Cheeks, that from your Eyes?

Parchment.

Plain Shepherds Wear was only Gray,
And all Sheep then were cloath'd as they,
When Shepherds 'gan to write and think,
Some Sheep stole blackness from the Ink,
And we from thence found out the skill
To make their Parchment do so still.

215

Falshood.

Still do the Stars impart their light
To those that travell in the night;
Still Time runs on, nor doth the Hand
Or Shadow on the Diall stand;
The streames still glide and Constant are:
Only thy Mind
Untrue I find,
Which carelesly
Neglects to be
Like Stream, or Shadow, Hand, or Star,

Fool that I am; I do recall
My words, and swear thou'rt like them all:
Thou seemst like Stars to nourish fire,
But O how cold is thy desire?
And like the Hand upon the Brass,
Thou point'st at me
In mockery,
If I come nigh,
Shade-like thou'lt fly,
And as the Stream with Murmur pass.

Thrice didst thou vow, thrice didst thou swear,
Whispring those Oaths into mine Eare,
And 'tween each one, as Seal of Bliss,
Didst interpose a sweeter kiss:
Alas that also came from Art,
For it did smell
So fresh and wel,
That I presume
'Twas thy Perfume
That made thee swear, and not thy Heart.

216

Tell me who taught thy subtile Eyes
To cheat true hearts with fallacies?
Who did instruct thy Sighs to Lie?
VVho taught thy Kisses Sophistry?
Believe 't 'tis far from honest Rigour;
O how I loath
A tutor'd Oath!
I'l ne'r come nigh
A learned Sigh,
Nor credit Vows in Mood and Figure.

'Twas Venus to me whisper'd this,
Swear and embrace, protest and kiss,
Such Oaths and Vows are fickle things,
My wanton Son does lend them wings:
The Kiss must stay, the Oath must fly:
Heav'n is the Schoole
That gives this Rule:
I cann't prove true
To that and you,
The Goddess is in fault, not I.

VVho for my wrong would thus much do,
For my Revenge may something too;
She, O She make thee true to all,
Marry an Army, and then fall
Through scornfull Hatred and disdain:
But mayst thou be
Still false to me;
For if thy mind
Once more prove kind
Thou'lt swear thine Oaths all o'r again.

217

Beauty and Deniall.

No, no, it cannot be; for who e'r set
A Blockhouse to defend a Garden yet?
Roses ne'r chide my boldness when I go
To crop their Blush; why should your Cheeks do so?
The Lillies ne'r deny their Silk to men;
VVhy should your Hands push off, and draw back then?
The Sun forbids me not his Heat; then why
Comes there to Earth an Edict from your Eye?
I smell Perfumes, and they ne'r think it sin;
VVhy should your Breath not let me take it in?
A Dragon kept the Golden Apples; true;
But must your Breasts be therefore kept so too?
All Fountains else flow freely, and ne'r shrink;
And must yours cheat my Thirst when I would drink?
VVhere Nature knows no prohibition,
Shall Art prove Anti-Nature, and make one?

But O we scorn the profer'd Lip and Face;
And angry Frowns sometimes add quicker Grace
Than quiet Beauty: 'tis that melting kiss
That truly doth distill immortall Bliss
VVhich the fierce struggling Youth by force at Length
Doth make the purchase of his eager strength;
VVich, from the rifled weeping Virgin scant
Snatch'd, proves a Conquest, rather than a Grant.

Beleeve't not: 'tis the Paradox of some One,
That in Old time did love an Amazon,
One of so stiff a Temper, that she might
Have call'd him Spouse upon the Marriage night;

218

Whose Flames consum'd him lest some one might be
Seduc'd hereafter by his Heresie:

That you are Fair and spotless, makes you prove
Fitter to fall a Sacrifice to Love:
On tow'rds his Altar then, vex not the Priest;
'Tis Ominous if the Sacrifice resist:
Who conquers still, and ransacks, we may say
Doth not Affect, but rather is in Pay.
But if there must be reall Lists of Love,
And our Embracing a true wrestling prove,
Bare, and Annoint you then: for, if you'l do
As Wrestlers use, you must be naked too.

Women.

Give me a Girle (if one I needs must meet)
Or in her Nuptiall, or her VVinding sheet;
I know but two good Houres that VVomen have,
One in the Bed, another in the Grave.
Thus of the whole sex all I would desire,
Is to enjoy their Ashes, or their Fire.

To Cupid.

Thou, who didst never see the Light,
Nor knowst the pleasure of the sight,
But alwaies blinded, canst not say
Now it is Night, or now 'tis Day,
So captivate her Sense, so blind her Eye,
That still she Love me, yet she ne'r know why.

219

Thou who dost wound us with such Art,
VVe see no bloud drop from the heart,
And subt'ly Cruell leav'st no sign
To tell the Blow or Hand was thine,
O gently, gently wound my Fair, that Shee
May thence beleeve the VVound did come from thee.

To Venus.

Venus Redress a wrong that's done
By that young sprightfull Boy, thy Son,
He wounds, and then Laughs at the sore,
Hatred it self can do no more.
If I pursue, Hee's Small, and Light,
Both seen at once, and out of sight:
If I do flie, Hee's VVing'd, and then,
At the third step, I'm caught agen:
Lest one day thou thy self mayst suffer so,
Or clip the VVantons VVings, or break his Bow,

A Sigh sent to his absent Love.

I sent a Sigh unto my Blestones Eare,
VVhich lost it's way, and never did come there;
I hastned after, lest some other Fair
Should mildly entertain this travelling Aire:
Each flowry Garden I did search, for fear
It might mistake a Lilly for her Eare;

220

And having there took lodging, might still dwell
Hous'd in the Concave of a Christall Bell.
At last, one frosty morning I did spy
This subtile Wand'rer journeying in the Sky;
At sight of me it trembled, then drew neer,
Then grieving fell, and dropt into a Tear:
I bore it to my Saint, and pray'd her take
This new born Of-spring for the Master's sake:
She took it, and prefer'd it to her Eare,
And now it hears each thing that's whisper'd there.
O how I envy Grief, when that I see
My Sorrow makes a Gem, more blest than me!
Yet Little Pendant, Porter to the Eare,
Let not my Rivall have admittance there;
But if by chance a mild access he gain,
Upon her Lip inflict a gentle pain
Only for Admonition: so when she
Gives eare to him, at least Shee'l think of Me.

Sadness.

Whiles I this standing Lake,
Swath'd up with Ewe and Cypress Boughs,
Do move by Sighs and Vows,
Let Sadness only wake;
That whiles thick Darkness blots the Light,
My thoughts may cast another Night:
In which double Shade,
By Heav'n, and Me made,
O let me weep,
And fall asleep,
And forgotten fade.

221

Heark! from yond' hollow Tree
Sadly sing two Anchoret Owles,
Whiles the Hermit Wolf howls,
And all bewailing me,
The Raven hovers o'r my Bier,
The Bittern on a Reed I hear
Pipes my Elegy,
And warns me to dye;
Whiles from yond' Graves
My wrong'd Love craves
My sad Company.

Cease Hylas, cease thy Call;
Such, O such was thy parting Groan,
Breath'd out to me alone
When thou disdain'd didst fall.
Loe thus unto thy silent Tomb,
In my sad Winding Sheet, I come,
Creeping o'r dead Bones,
And cold Marble Stones,
That I may mourn
Over thy Urn,
And appease thy Groans.

Corinna's Tomb.

Here fair Corinna buri'd lay,
Cloath'd and Lock'd up in silent Clay;
But neighb'ring Shepheards every morn
With constant tears bedew'd her Urn,
Untill with quickning moysture, she
At length grew up into this Tree:

222

Here now unhappy Lovers meet,
And changing Sighs (for so they greet)
Each one unto some conscious Bough
Relates this Oath, and tels that Vow,
Thinking that she with pittying sounds
Whispers soft Comfort to their Wounds:
When 'tis perhaps some wanton Wind,
That striving passage there to find,
Doth softly move the trembling leaves
Into a voice, and so deceives.
Hither sad Lutes they nightly bring,
And gently touch each querulous string,
Till that with soft harmonious numbers
They think th' have woo'd her into Slumbers;
As if, the Grave having an Eare,
When dead things speak the dead should hear.
Here no sad Lover, though of Fame,
Is suffred to engrave his Name,
Lest that the wounding Letters may
Make her thence fade, and pine away:
And so she withering through the pain
May sink into her Grave again.
O why did Fates the Groves uneare?
Why did they envy Wood should hear?
Why, since Dodona's holy Oake,
Have Trees been dumb, and never spoke;
Now Lovers wounds uncured Lye,
And they wax old in misery;
When, if true sense did quicken Wood,
Perhaps shee'd sweat a Balsom floud,
And knowing what the World endures,
Would weep her moysture into Cures.

223

To the memory of a Shipwrackt Virgin.

VVhether thy well-shap'd parts now scattred far
Asunder into Treasure parted are;
VVhether thy Tresses, now to Amber grown,
Still cast a softer day where they are shewn;
Whether those Eyes be Diamonds now, or make
The Carefull Goddess of the Flouds mistake,
Chiding their lingring stay, as if they were
Stars that forgot t' ascend unto their Sphere;
Whether thy Lips do into Corall grow,
Making her wonder how't came red below;
Whether those Orders of thy Teeth, now sown
In several Pearls, enrich each Channell one;
VVhether thy gentle Breath in easie Gales
Now flies, and chastly fils the pregnant Sailes;
Or whether Whole, turn'd Syren, thou dost joy
Only to Sing, unwilling to destroy;
Or else a Nymph far fairer dost encrease
The Virgin Train of the Nereides;
If that all Sense departed not with Breath,
And there is yet some Memory in Death,
Accept this labour, sacred to thy Fame,
Swelling with thee, made Poem by thy Name.

Hearken O VVinds (if that ye yet have Eares
VVho were thus deaf unto my Fair ones Tears)
Fly with this Curse; may Cavernes you contain
Still strugling for Release, but still in vain.

Listen O Flouds; black Night upon you dwell,
Thick Darkness still enwrap you; may you swell

224

Only with Grief; may ye to every thirst
Flow bitter still, and so of all be curst.

And thou unfaithfull, ill-Compacted Pine,
That in her Nuptials didst refuse to shine,
Blaze in her Pile. Whiles thus her death I weep
Swim down my murmuring Lute; move thou the deep
Into soft numbers, as thou passest by,
And make her Fate become her Elegy.

To a Painters handsome Daughter.

Such are your Fathers Pictures, that we do
Beleeve they are not Counterfeits, but true;
So lively, and so fresh, that we may swear
Instead of draughts, He hath plac'd Creatures there;
People, not shadows; which in time will be
Not a dead Number, but a Colony:
Nay, more yet, some think they have skill and Arts,
That th'are well-Bred, and Pictures of good Parts;
And you your Self, faire Julia, do disclose
Such Beauties, that you may seem one of those;
That having Motion gain'd at last, and sense,
Began to know it Self, and stole out thence.
Whiles thus his æmulous Art with Nature strives,
Some think H'hath none, Others he hath two Wives.
If you love none, fair Maid, but Look on all,
You then among his set of Pictures fall;
If that you look on all, and love all men,
The Pictures too will be your Sisters then,
For they as they have Life, so th' have this Fate
In the whole Lump either to Love or Hate;
Your Choice must shew you're of another Fleece,
And tell you are his Daughter, not his Piece:

225

All other proofs are vain; Go not about;
We two'l Embrace, and Love, and clear the doubt.
When you've brought forth your Like, the world will know
You are his Child; what Picture can do so.

Lesbia On her Sparrow.

Tell me not of Joy: there's none
Now my little Sparrow's gone;
He, just as you
Would toy and wooe,
He would chirp and flatter me,
He would hang the Wing awhile,
Till at length he saw me smile,
Lord how sullen he would be?

He would catch a Crumb, and then
Sporting let it go agen,
He from my Lip
Would moysture sip,
He would from my Trencher feed,
Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry Philip when h'had done,
O whose heart can choose but bleed?

O how eager would he fight?
And ne'r hurt though he did bite:
No Morn did pass
But on my Glass
He would sit, and mark, and do
What I did, now ruffle all
His Feathers o'r, now let 'em fall,
And then straightway sleek 'em too.

226

VVhence will Cupid get his Darts
Feather'd now to peirce our hearts?
A wound he may,
Not Love conveigh,
Now this faithfull Bird is gone,
O let Mournfull Turtles joyn
VVith Loving Red-breasts, and combine
To sing Dirges o'r his stone.

The Gnat.

A Gnat mistaking her bright Eye
For that which makes, and rules the Day,
Did in the Rayes disporting fly,
VVont in the Sun-Beams so to play.

Her Eye whose vigour all things draws,
Did suck this little Creature in,
As warmer Jet doth ravish straws,
And thence ev'n forc'd embraces win.

Inviting Heat stream'd in the Rayes,
But hungry fire work'd in the Eye;
VVhose force this Captive Gnat obeys,
And doth through it her Martyr dye.

The VVings went into Air; the Fire
Did turn the rest to Ashes there:
But ere death, strugling to retire,
She thence enforc'd an easie Teare.

227

Happy O Gnat though thus made nought,
VVe wreched Lovers suffer more,
Our Sonnets are thy Buzzings thought,
And we destroy'd by what w' adore.

Perhaps would she but our deaths mourn,
VVe should revive to dye agen:
Thou gain'dst a Tear, but we have scorn;
She weeps for Flies, but Laught at Men.

Love-Teares.

Brag not a Golden Rain O Jove; we see
Cupid descends in Showers as well as thee.

At a dry Dinner.

Call for what wine your please, which likes you best;
Some you must drink your Venison to digest.
VVhy rise you, Sir, so soon: you need not doubt,
He that I do invite sits my meal out;
Most true: But yet your Servants are gay men,
I'l but step home, and drink, and come agen.

A Bill of Fare.

Expect no strange, or puzzling Meat, no Pye
Built by Confusion, or Adultery,
Of forced Nature; No mysterious dish
Requiring an Interpreter, no Fish

228

Found out by modern Luxury: Our Corse Board
Press'd with no spoyls of Elements, doth aford
Meat, like our Hunger, without Art, each Mess
Thus differing from it only, that 'tis less.

Imprimis some Rice Porredge, sweet, and hot,
Three knobs of Sugar season the whole Pot.

Item, one pair of Eggs in a great dish,
So Ordered that they Cover all the Fish.

Item, one gaping Haddocks Head, which will
At least afright the Stomach, if not fill.

Item, one thing in Circles, which we take
Some for an Eele, but th'Wiser for a Snake.

We have not still the same, sometimes we may
Eat muddy Plaise, or Wheate; perhaps next day
Red, or White, Herrings, or an Apple Pye:
There's some variety in Misery.

To this come Twenty Men, and though apace,
We bless these Gifts, the Meal's as short as Grace.
Nor eat we yet in Tumult; but the Meat
Is broke in Order; Hunger here is neat;
Division, subdivision, yet two more
Members, and they divided, as before.
O what a fury would your Stomach feel
To see us vent our Logick on an Eele?
And in one Herring to revive the Art
Of Keckerman, and shew the Eleventh part?
Hunger in Armes is no great wonder, we
Suffer a Siedge without an Enemy.

On Midlent-Sunday, when the Preacher told
The Prodigal's return, and did unfold
His tender welcome, how the good old man
Sent for new Rayment. how the Servant ran
To kill the Fatling Calf, O how each Ear
List'ned unto him, greedy ev'n to hear

229

The bare Relation; how was every Eye
Fixt on the Pulpit; how did each man pry,
And watch, if, whiles he did this word dispence,
A Capon, or a Hen would fly out thence?

Happy the Jews cry we, when Quailes came down
In dry and wholsome Showers, though from the frown
Of Heaven sent, though bought at such a Rate;
To perish full is not the worst of Fate;
We fear we shall dye Empty, and enforce
The Grave to take a Shaddow for a Corse:
For, if this Fasting hold, we do despair
Of life; all needs must vanish into Air;
Air, which now only feeds us, and so be
Exhal'd, like Vapours to Eternity.
W'are much refin'd already, that dull house
Of Clay (our Body) is Diaphanous;
And if the Doctor would but take the pains
To read upon us, Sinnews, Bones, Guts, Veines,
All would appear, and he might shew each one,
Without the help of a Dissection.

In the aboundance of this want, you will
Wonder perhaps how I can use my Quill?
Troth I am like small Birds, which now in Spring,
When they have nought to Eat do sit and Sing.

The Chambermaids Posset.

My Ladies young Chaplain could never arive
More than to four points, or thereabout:
He propos'd fifteen, but was gravell'd at five,
My Lady stood up and still preach'd 'em out.

230

The Red-hatted Vertue's in number but four,
With Grief he remembred, for one was not:
The Habit's divine, not yet in our Power,
Were Faith, Hope, and (Brethren) the third I ha' forgot.

Sir John was resolved to suffer a Drench,
To furnish his Spirit with better Provision
A Posset was made by a Leviticall Wench,
It was of the Chambermaids own Composition.

The Milk it came hot from an Orthodox Cow
Ne'r rid by the Pope, nor yet the Popes Bull;
The heat of Zeal Boyled it, God knows how:
'Twas the Milk of the Word; Beleeve it who will.

The Ingredients were divers, and most of them new,
No Vertue was judg'd in an Antient thing:
In the Garden of Leyden some part of them grew,
And some did our own Universities bring.

Imprimis two handfull of long Digressions,
Well squeexed and press'd at Amsterdam,
They cured Buchanan's dangerous Passions,
Each Grocers Shop now will afford you the same.

Two ounces of Calvinisme not yet refin'd,
By the better Physicians not thought to be good;
But 'twas with the Seal of a Conventicle sign'd,
And approv'd by the Simpling Brotherhood.

One Quarter of Practicall Piety next,
With an Ounce and a half of Histrio-mastrix,
Three Sponfull of T.C.'s confuted Text,
Whose close-noated Ghost hath long ago past Styx.

231

Next Stript whipt Abuses were cast in the Pot,
With the worm eaten Motto not now in fashion;
All these in the Mouth are wondrous hot,
But approvedly Cold in operation.

Next Clever and Doddisme both mixed and fine,
With five or six scruples of Conscience Cases,
Three Drams of Geneva's strict Discipline,
All steept in the sweat of the silenc'd faces.

One Handfull of Doctrines, and Uses, or more,
With the utmost Branch of the fifteenth point,
Then Duties enjoyn'd and Motives good store,
All boyl'd to a Spoonfull, though from a siz'd Pint.

These all have astringent and hard qualities,
And for notable Binders received be,
To avoid the Costiveness thence might arise,
She allay'd them with Christian Liberty.

The Crumbs of Comfort did thicken the Mess,
'Twas turn'd by the frown of a sowre fac'd Brother,
But that you will say converts wickedness,
'Twill serve for the one as well as the Other.

An Ell London-measure of tedious Grace,
Was at the same time Conceiv'd, and said,
'Twas eat with a spoon defil'd with no face,
Nor the Imag'ry of an Apostles head.

Sir John after this could have stood down the Sun,
Dividing the Pulpit and Text with one Fist,
The Glass was Compell'd still Rubbers to run,
And he counted the fift Evangelist.

232

The Pig that for haste, much like a Devout
Entranced Brother, was wont to Come in
VVith white staring Eyes, not quite roasted out,
Came now in a Black Persecution skin.

Stale Mistris Priscilla her Apron-strings straite
Let down for a Line just after his Cure:
Sir John did not nibble, but pouch'd the deceit:
An Advouzon did bait him to make all sure.

On a Gentlewomans Silk-hood.

Is there a Sanctity in Love begun
That every woman veils, and turns Lay-Nun?
Alas your Guilt appears still through the Dress;
You do not so much Cover as Confess:
To me 'tis a Memoriall, I begin
Forthwith to think on Venus and the Gin,
Discovering in these Veyls, so subt'ly set,
At least her upper parts caught in the Net.
Tell me who taught you to give so much light
As may entice, not satisfie the Sight,
Betraying what may cause us to admire,
And kindle only, but not quench desire?
Among your other subtilties, 'tis one
That you see all, and yet are seen of none;
'Tis the Dark-Lanthorn to the face; O then
May we not think there's Treason against Men?
VVhiles thus you only do expose the Lips,
'Tis but a fair and wantonner Eclipse.
Mean't how you will, At once to shew, and hide,
At best is but the Modesty of Pride;

233

Either Unveil you then, or veil quite o'r,
Beauty deserves not so much Foulness more.

But I prophane, like one whose strange desires
Bring to Loves Altar soul and drossie Fires:
Sink O those VVords t'your Cradles; for I know,
Mixt as you are, your Birth came from below:
My Fancy's now all hallow'd, and I find
Pure Vestals in my Thoughts, Priests in my Mind.

So Love appear'd, when, breaking out his way
From the dark Chaos, he first shed the Day;
Newly awak'd out of the Bud so shews
The half seen, half hid, glory of the Rose,
As you do through your Veyls; And I may swear,
Viewing you so, that Beauty doth Bud there.
So Truth lay under Fables, that the Eye
Might Reverence the Mystery, not descry;
Light being so proportion'd, that no more
VVas seen, but what might Cause 'em to adore:
Thus is your Dress so Ord'red, so Contriv'd,
As 'tis but only Poetry Reviv'd.
Such doubtfull Light had Sacred Groves, where Rods
And Twigs, at last did shoot up into Gods;
VVhere then a Shade darkneth the Beautuous Face,
May not I pay a Reverence to the place?
So under-water glimmering Stars appear,
As those (but nearer Stars) your Eyes do here.
So Deities darkned sit, that we may find
A better way to see them in our Mind.
No bold Ixion then be here allow'd,
VVhere Juno dares her self be in the Cloud.
Methinks the first Age comes again, and we
See a Retrivall of Simplicity;
Thus looks the Country Virgin, whose brown hue
Hoods her, and makes her shew even veil'd as you.

234

Blest Mean, that Checks our Hope, and spurs our Fear,
Whiles all doth not lye hid, nor all appear:
O fear ye no Assaults from Bolder men;
When they assaile be this your Armour then.
A Silken Helmet may defend those Parts,
Where softer Kisses are the only Darts.

A Dream Broke.

As Nilus sudden Ebbing, here
Doth leave a scale, and a scale there,
And somewhere else perhaps a Fin,
Which by his stay had Fishes been:
So Dreams, which overflowing be,
Departing leave Half things, which we
For their Imperfectness can call
But Joyes i'th' Fin, or in the Scale.
If when her Teares I haste to kiss,
They dry up, and deceive my Bliss,
May not I say the Waters sink,
And Cheat my Thirst when I would drink?
If when her Breasts I go to press,
Insteed of them I grasp her Dress,
May not I say the Apples then
Are set down, and snatch'd up agen?
Sleep was not thus Death's Brother meant;
'Twas made an Ease, no Punishment.
As then that's finish'd by the Sun,
Which Nile did only leave begun,
My Fancy shall run o'r Sleeps Themes,
And so make up the Web of Dreams:

235

In vain fleet shades, ye do Contest:
Awak'd how e'r I'l think the rest.

Loves Darts.

VVhere is that Learned Wretch that knows
VVhat are those Darts the Veyl'd God throws?
O let him tell me ere I dye
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;
Whether the Sparrows Plumes, or Doves,
Wing them for various Loves;
And whether Gold, or Lead,
Quicken, or dull the Head:
I will annoint and keep them warm,
And make the Weapons heale the Harm.

Fond that I am to aske! who ere
Did yet see thought? or Silence hear?
Safe from the search of humane Eye
These Arrows (as their waies are) flie:
The Flights of Angels part
Not Aire with so much Art;
And snows on Streams, we may
Say, Louder fall than they.
So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the Shaft nor Cure.

A sudden fire of Blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasty Red;
A Glance's Lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;

236

A subt'le taking smile
From Passion, or from Guile;
The Spirit, Life, and Grace
Of motion, Limbs, and Face;
These Misconceits entitles Darts,
And Tears the bleedings of our hearts.

But as the Feathers in the Wing,
Unblemish'd are and no Wounds bring,
And harmless Twigs no Bloodshed know,
Till Art doth fit them for the Bow;
So Lights of flowing Graces
Sparkling in severall places,
Only adorn the Parts,
Till we that make them Darts;
Themselves are only Twigs and Quils:
We give them Shape, and force for Ills.

Beautie's our Grief, but in the Ore,
We Mint, and Stamp, and then adore;
Like Heathen we the Image Crown,
And undiscreetly then fall down:
Those Graces all were meant
Our Joy, not Discontent;
But with untaught desires
We turn those Lights to Fires.
Thus Natures Healing Herbs we take,
And out of Cures do Poysons make.

237

Parthenia for her slain Argalus.

See thy Parthenia stands
Here to receive thy last Commands.
Say quickly, say, for fear
Grief ere thou speaks, make me not hear.
Alas, as well I may
Call to Flowers wither'd Yesterday.
His Beauties, O th'are gone;
His thousand Graces none.
This O ye Gods, is this the due
Ye pay to Men more just than you?
O dye Parthenia, Nothing now remains
Of all thy Argalus, but his Wounds and Stains.

Too late, I now recall,
The Gods foretold me this thy fall;
I grasp'd thee in my Dream,
And loe thou meltd'st into a Stream;
But when They will surprise,
They shew the Fate, and blind the Eyes.
Which Wound shall I first kiss?
Here? there? or that? or this?
Why gave he not the like to me,
That Wound by Wound might answer'd be?
We would have joyntly bled, by Griefs ally'd,
And drank each other's Soul, and so have dy'd.

In silent Groves below
Thy bleeding Wounds thou now dost shew;

238

And there perhaps to Fame
Deliver'st up Pathenia's Name;
Nor do thy Loves abate.
O Gods! O Stars! O Death! O Fate!
But thy Proud Spoyler here
Doth thy snatch'd Glories wear;
And big with undeserv'd success
Swels up his Acts, and thinks Fame less;
And counts my Groans not worthy of Relief,
O Hate! O Anger! O Revenge! O Grief!

Parthenia then shall live,
And something to thy Story give.
Revenge inflame my Breast
To send thy wand'ring Spirit rest.
By our fast Tye, our Trust,
Our one Mind, our one Faith I must:
By my past Hopes and Fears,
My Passions, and my Tears;
By these thy Wounds (my Wounds) I vow,
And by thy Ghost, my Griefe's God now,
I'l not revoke a Thought. Or to thy Tomb
My Off'ring He, or I his Crime will come.

Ariadne deserted by Theseus, as She sits upon a Rock in the Island Naxos, thus complains.

Theseus! O Theseus heark! but yet in vain
Alas deserted I Complain,
It was some neighbouring Rock, more soft than he,
Whose hollow Bowels pittied me,

239

And beating back that false, and Cruell Name,
Did Comfort and revenge my flame.
Then Faithless whither wilt thou fly?
Stones dare not harbour Cruelty.

Tell me you Gods who e'r you are,
Why, O why made you him so fair?
And tell me, Wretch, why thou
Mad'st not thy self more true?
Beauty from him may Copies take,
And more Majestique Heroes make,
And falshood learn a Wile,
From him too, to beguile.
Restore my Clew
'Tis here most due,
For 'tis a Labyrinth of more subtile Art,
To have so fair a Face, so foul a Heart.

The Ravenous Vulture tear his Breast,
The rowling Stone disturb his rest,
Let him next feel
Ixion's Wheel,
And add one Fable more
To cursing Poets store;
And then—yet rather let him live, and twine
His Woof of daies, with some thred stoln from mine;
But if you'l torture him, how e'r,
Torture my Heart, you'l find him there.

Till my Eyes drank up his,
And his drank mine,
Ine'r thought Souls might kiss,
And Spirits joyn:

240

Pictures till then
Took me as much as Men,
Nature and Art
Moving alike my heart,
But his fair Visage made me find
Pleasures and Fears,
Hopes, Sighs, and Tears,
As severall seasons of the Mind.
Should thine Eye, Venus, on his dwell,
Thou wouldst invite him to thy Shell,
And Caught by that live Jet
Venture the second Net,
And after all thy dangers, faithless he,
Shouldst thou but slumber, would forsake ev'n thee.

The Streames so Court the yeelding Banks,
And gliding thence ne'r pay their thanks;
The Winds so wooe the Flow'rs,
Whisp'ring among fresh Bow'rs,
And having rob'd them of their smels,
Fly thence perfum'd to other Cels.
This is familiar Hate to Smile and Kill,
Though nothing please thee yet my Ruine will.
Death hover, hover o'r me then,
Waves let your Christall Womb
Be both my Fate, and Tomb,
I'l sooner trust the Sea, than Men.

Yet for revenge to Heaven I'l call
And breath one Curse before I fall,
Proud of two Conquests Minotaure, and Me,
That by thy Faith, This by thy Perjury,
Mayst thou forget to Wing thy Ships with White,
That the Black sayl may to the longing sight

241

Of thy Gray Father, tell thy Fate, and He
Bequeath the Sea his Name, falling like me:
Nature and Love thus brand thee, whiles I dye
'Cause thou forsak'st, Ægeus 'cause thou drawest nigh.

And yet O Nymphs below who sit,
In whose swift Flouds his Vows he writ;
Snatch a sharp Diamond from the richer Mines,
And in some Mirrour grave these sadder Lines,
Which let some God Convey
To him, that so he may
In that both read at once, and see
Those Looks that Caus'd my destiny.
In Thetis Arms I Ariadne sleep,
Drown'd first by my own Tears, then in the deep;
Twice banished, First by Love, and then by Hate,
The life that I preserv'd became my Fate;
Who leaving all, was by him left alone,
That from a Monster freed himself prov'd one.

That then I — But look! O mine Eyes
Be now true Spies,
Yonder, yonder,
Comes my Dear,
Now my wonder,
Once my fear,
See Satyrs dance along
In a confused Throng,
Whiles Horns and Pipes rude noise
Do mad their lusty Joyes,
Roses his forehead Crown,
And that recrowns the Flow'rs,
Where he walks up and down
He makes the desarts Bow'rs,

242

The Ivy, and the Grape
Hide, not adorn his Shape.
And Green Leaves Cloath his waving Rod,
'Tis either Theseus, or some God.

No drawing of Valentines.

Cast not in Chloe's Name among
The Common undistinguish'd Throng,
I'l neither so advance
The foolish Raign of Chance,
Nor so depress the Throne
Whereon Love sits alone:
If I must serve my Passions, I'l not owe
Them to my fortune; ere I Love, I'l know.

Tell me what God lurks in the Lap
To make that Councel, we call Hap?
What power Conveighs the name?
Who to it adds the Flame?
Can he raise mutuall fires,
And answering desires?
None can assure me that I shall approve
Her whom I draw, or draw her whom I love.

No longer then this Feast abuse,
You choose and like, I like and choose;
My flame is try'd and Just,
Yours taken up on trust.
Hail thus blest Valentine,
And may my Chloe shine
To me and none but me, as I beleeve
We ought to make the whole year but thy Eve.

243

To Lydia whom Men observ'd to make too much of me.

I told you Lydia how 'twould be,
Though Love be blind, his Priests can see;
Your Wisdom that doth rule the Wise,
And Conquers more than your Black Eyes,
That like a Planet doth dispense,
And Govern by its Influence
(Though to all else discreet you be)
Is blemish'd 'cause y'are fond of me.

Your Manners like a Fortress Bar
The Rough approach of Men of War;
The King's and Prince's Servants you
Do use as they their scrivenors do;
The Learned Gown, the City Ruffe,
Your Husband too, scurvy enough:
But still with me you meet and Close,
As if that I were King of those.

You say, you ought how e'r to do
The same thing still; I say so too;
Let Tongues be free, speak what they will,
Say our Love's loud, but let's love still.
I hate a secret stifled flame,
Let yours and mine have Voice, and Name;
Who Censure what twixt us they see
Condemn not you, but Envy me.

244

Go bid the eager flame Congeal
To sober Ice, Bid the Sun steal
The Temper of the frozen Zone
Till Christall say, that Cold's its own.
Bid Jove himself, whiles the grave State
Of Heaven doth our Lots debate,
But think of Leda, and be wise,
And bid Love have equall Eyes.

View Others Lydia as you would
View Pictures, I'l be flesh and bloud;
Fondness, like Beauty that's admir'd,
At once is Censur'd and desir'd;
And they that do it will Confess,
Your Soul in this doth but digress:
But when you thus in Passions rise,
Y' are fond to them, to me y'are wise.

To Chloe who wish'd her self young enough for me.

Chloe , why wish you that your years
Would backwards run, till they meet mine,
That perfect Likeness, which endears
Things unto things, might us Combine?
Our Ages so in date agree,
That Twins do differ more than we.

There are two Births, the one when Light
First strikes the new awak'ned sense;
The Other when two Souls unite;
And we must count our life from thence:
When you lov'd me, and I lov'd you,
Then both of us were born anew.

245

Love then to us did new Souls give,
And in those Souls did plant new pow'rs;
Since when another life we live,
The Breath we breath is his, not ours;
Love makes those young, whom Age doth Chill,
And whom he finds young, keeps young still.

Love, like that Angell that shall call
Our bodies from the silent Grave,
Unto one Age doth raise us all,
None too much, none too little have;
Nay that the difference may be none,
He makes two not alike, but One.

And now since you and I are such,
Tell me what's yours, and what is mine?
Our Eyes, our Ears, our Taste, Smell, Touch,
Do (like our Souls) in one Combine;
So by this, I as well may be
Too old for you, as you for me.

A Valediction.

Bid me not go where neither suns nor Show'rs
Do make or Cherish Flow'rs;
Where discontented things in sadness lye,
And Nature grieves as I;

246

When I am parted from those Eyes,
From which my better day doth rise,
Though some propitious Pow'r
Should plant me in a Bow'r,
VVhere amongst happy Lovers I might see
How Showers and Sun-Beams bring
One everlasting spring,
Nor would those fall, nor these shine forth to me;
Nature her Self to him is lost,
VVho loseth her he honour's most.
Then Fairest to my parting view display
Your Graces all in one full day;
VVhose blessed Shapes I'l snatch and keep, till when
I do return and view agen:
So by this Art Fancy shall Fortune Cross;
And Lovers live by thinking on their loss.

No Platonique Love.

Tell me no more of Minds embracing Minds,
And hearts exchang'd for hearts;
That Spirits Spirits meet, as VVinds do winds,
And mix their subt'lest parts;
That two unbodi'd Effences may kiss,
And then like Angels, twist and feel one Bliss.

I was that silly thing that once was wrought
To Practise this thin Love;
I climb'd from Sex to Soul, from Soul to Thought;
But thinking there to move,
Headlong I rowl'd from Thought to Soul, and then
From Soul I lighted at the Sex agen.

247

As some strict down-look'd Men pretend to fast,
VVho yet in Closets Eat;
So Lovers who profess they Spirits taste,
Feed yet on grosser meat;
I know they boast they Soules to Souls Convey,
How e'r they meet, the Body is the VVay.

Come, I will undeceive thee, they that tread
Those vain Aëriall waies,
Are like young Heyrs, and Alchymists misled
To waste their VVealth and Daies,
For searching thus to be for ever Rich,
They only find a Med'cine for the Itch.

Love but one.

See these two little Brooks that slowly creep
In Snaky windings through the Plains,
I knew them once one River, swift and deep,
Blessing and blest by Poets strains.

Then touch'd with Aw, we thought some God did powr
Those flouds from out his sacred Jar,
Transforming every VVeed into a Flow'r
And every Flower into a Star.

But since it broke it self, and double glides,
The Naked Banks no dress have worn,
And yon dry barren Mountain now derides
These Valleys which lost glories mourn.

248

O Chloris! think how this presents thy Love,
Which when it ran but in one Streame,
We hapy Shepheards thence did thrive and prove,
And thou wast mine and all Mens Theme.

But since't hath been imparted to one more,
And in two Streams doth weakly creep,
Our Common Muse is thence grown low, and poor,
And mine as Lean as these my Sheep

But think withall what honour thou hast lost,
Which we did to thy full Stream pay,
Whiles now that Swain that swears he loves thee most,
Slakes but his Thirst, and goes away?

O in what narrow waies our Minds must move!
We may not Hate, nor yet diffuse our Love!

Absence.

Fly, O fly sad Sigh, and bear
These few Words into his Ear;
Blest where e'r thou dost remain,
Worthier of a softer chain,
Still I live, if it be true
The Turtle lives that's cleft in two:
Tears and Sorrows I have store,
But O thine do grieve me more;
Dye I would, but that I do
Fear my Fate would kill thee too.

259

Consideration.

Fool that I was, that little of my Span
Which I have sinn'd untill it stiles me Man,
I counted life till now, henceforth I'l say
'Twas but a drowzy lingring, or delay:
Let it forgotten perish, let none tell
That I then was, to live is to live well.
Off then thou Old Man, and give place unto
The Ancient of daies; Let him renew
Mine Age like to the Eagles, and endow
My breast with Innocence, That he whom Thou
Hast made a man of sin, and subt'ly sworn
A Vassall to thy Tyranny, may turn
Infant again, and having all of Child,
Want wit hereafter to be so beguild;
O thou that art the way, direct me still
In this long tedious Pilgrimage, and till
Thy Voice be born, Lock up my looser Tongue,
He only is best grown that's thus turn'd young.

Vpon the Translation of Chaucer's Troilus and Creseide by Sir Francis Kinaston.

Pardon me, Sir, this Injury to your Bayes,
That I who only should admire dare Praise.
In this great acclamation to your Name
I add unto the Noise, though not the Fame.

250

'Tis to your happy cares we ow, that we
Read Chaucer now without a Dictionary;
VVhose Faithfull Quill such constant light affords,
That we now read his Thoughts, who read his VVords,
And though we know't done in our Age by you,
May doubt which is the Coppy of the two;
Rome in her Language here begins to know
Laws yet untri'd proud to be fetter'd so;
And taught Our Numbers now at last, is thus
Grown Britaine yet, and owes one Charge to us.
The Good is Common, he, that hetherto
VVas Dumb to Strangers, and's own Country too,
Speaks plainly now to all; being more our own
Ev'n hence, in that thus made to Aliens known.

A Translation of Hugo Grotius's Elegy on Arminius.

Arminius Searcher of Truths deepest part,
High Soaring Mind, Pattern of quick-ey'd Art;
Soul big with Learning, Taken from this Blind
And Dusky Age, where Ignorant Mankind
Doth tremble hoodwink'd with uncertain Night;
Thou now enjoy'st clear Fields of blessed Light,
And whether that the Truth ows much to thee,
Or as by Nature's Lot Man cannot see
All things, in some part thou didst slip (judge they
VVho have that knowing Pow'r, that holy Key)
Surely a frequent Reader of that high
Mysterious book, engaged by no tye
To Man's Decrees, Heav'n knows thou gain'st from thence
A wary and a Quiet Conscience.

251

Full both of Rest and Joy in that blest Seat
Thou find'st what here thou sought'st, and seest how great
A Cloud doth muffle Mortals, what a small,
A vain and empty nothing is that All
VVe here call Knowledge, puff'd with which we Men
Stalk high, oppress, and are oppress'd agen.
Hence do these greater VVars of Mars arise,
Hence lower Hatreds, mean while Truth far flies,
And that good friend of Holy Peace disdains
To shew her self where strife and tumult raigns:
Whence is this Fury, whence this eager Lust
And itch of fighting setled in us? must
Our God become the Subject of our VVar?
VVhy sides, so new, so many? hath the Tare
Of the mischievous Enemy by Night
Been scatter'd in Christ's fields? or doth the spight
Of our depraved Nature, prone to rage,
Suck in all kind of Fuell, and engage
Man as a Party in Gods Cause? or ought
The Curious VVorld whiles that it suffers nought
To lye obscure, and ransakes every Room
Block'd up from Knowledge justly feel this doom?
As that proud Number when they thought to raise
Insolent Buildings, and to reach new waies,
Spread into thousand Languages, and flung
Off the old Concord of their single Tongue.
Alas what's our Intent poor little Flock
Cull'd out of all the world? we bear the Stock
Of new distractions dayly, daily new,
Scoft by the Turk, not pittied by the Jew;
Happy sincere Religion, set apart
As far from Common Faction, as from Art;
VVhich being sure all Staines are wash'd away
By Christ's large Passion, boldly here doth lay

252

All Hope and Faith believing that Just One
Bestoweth life, but payes Confusion;
Whose practice being Love, cares not to pry
Into the secrets of a Mystery;
Not by an over-anxious Search to know
If future things do come to pass or no,
By a defined Law; how God wills too,
Void of 't himself, how not, how far our will
Is sweyed by its Mover, what strict Laws
Exercis'd on it by the highest Cause:
And happy he, who free from all By-ends,
Gapes not for filthy Lucre, nor intends
The noise of Empty Armour, but rais'd high
To better Cares, minds Heaven; and doth try
To see and know the Deity only there
Where he himself discloseth; and with fear
Takes wary steps in narrow waies, led by
The Clew of that good Book that cannot ly;
Who in the midst of Jars walks equall by
An even freedom mix'd with Charity:
Whose pure refined Moderation
Condemn'd of all, it self condemneth none;
Who keeping Modest Limits now doth please
To speak for truth, now holds his Tongue for Peace;
These things in Publike, these in private too,
These neer thine end, thou Counsail'dst still to do,
Arminius when ev'n suffering decay
Under long Cares, weary of further stay
In an unthankfull froward Age, when found
Broke in that slighter part, i'th' better sound;
Thou wert enflam'd, and wholly bent to see
Those Kingdoms unto Thousands shewn by thee;
And thou a Star now added to the Seat
Of that thy Fathers Temple, dost entreat

253

God that he give us as much Light as is fit
Unto his Flock, and grant Content with it;
That he give Teachers, such as do not vent
Their private Fancies; give a full Consent
Of Hearts, if not of Tongues, and do away
By powerfull fire all dim and base Alay
Of mixt dissentions, that Christ's City be
Link'd and united in one amity;
Breath all alike, and being free from strife,
To Heav'n make good their faith, to Earth their life.

Martial lib. 1. Epig. 67.

Ad furem de libro suo.

Th'art out, vile Plagiary, that dost think
A Poet may be made at th' rate of Ink,
And cheap-priz'd Paper; none e'r purchas'd yet
Six or ten Penniworth of Fame or Wit:
Get Verse unpublish'd, new-stamp'd Fancies look,
Which th' only Father of the Virgin Book
Knows, and keeps seal'd in his close Desk within,
Not slubber'd yet by any ruffer Chin;
A Book, once known, ne'r quits the Author; If
Any lies yet impolish'd, any stiff,
VVanting it's Boffes, and it's Cover, do
Get that; I've such, and can be secret too.
He that repeats stoln Verse, and for Fame looks,
Must purchase Silence too as well as Books.

254

Matial. lib. 7. Epig. 59.

Ad Iovem Capitolinum.

Thou Swayer of the Capitoll, whom we
Whiles Cæsar's safe, believe a Deity,
Whiles thee with wishes for themselves all tire,
And to be given, what Gods can give, require,
Think me not proud O Jove, 'cause 'mongst the rest
I only for my self make no request:
To thee I ought for Cæsar's wants alone
To make my Sute, to Cæsar for my own.

In Pompeios Juvenes.

Europe and Asia doth th' young Pompeys hold,
He lyes, if any where, in Lybian Mould:
No wonder if in all the world they dwell;
So great a Ruine ne'r in one place fell.

Si memini fuerunt.

Thou hadst four Teeth, good Elia, heretofore,
But one Cough spit out two, and one two more:
Now thou mayst Cough all day, and safely too;
There's nothing left for the third Cough to do.

255

Martial lib. 10. Ep. 5.

In Maledicum Poëtæm.

VVho e'r vile slighter of the State, in more
Vile verse, hath libell'd those he should adore,
May he quite banish'd from the Bridge and Hill
Walk through the Streets, and 'mongst hoarse Beggars still
Reserved to the last even then entreat
Those mouldy harder Crusts that Dogs won't eat.
A long and wet December, nay, what's more,
Stewes shut against him, keep him cold and poor.
May he proclame those blest, and wish he were
One of the happy Ones, upon the Beer;
And when his slow houre Comes, whiles yet alive,
May he perceive Dogs for his Carcass strive;
And moving's rags fright eager Birds away:
Nor let his single torments in death stay;
But deep Gash'd now by Æacus whips, anon
Task'd with the restless Sisyphus his stone,
Then 'mongst the old blabbers waters standing dry;
Weary all Fables, tire all Poetry,
And when a Fury bids him on truth hit,
Conscience betraying him, cry out I writ.

Martial lib. 11. Ep. 19.

In Lupum.

You gave m' a Mannour, Lupus, but I till
A larger Mannour in my Window still.
A Mannour Call you this? where I can prove
One Sprig of Rew doth make Diana's Grove?

256

VVhich a Grashopper's wing hides? and a small
Emmet in one day only eats down all?
An half-blown Rose-leaf Circles it quite round,
In which our Common Grass is no more found,
Than Cosmus Leaf? or unripe Pepper? where
At the full length cann't lye a Cucumber,
Nor a whole Snake inhabit? I'm afraid
'Tis with one VVorm, one Earewick overlaid;
The Sallow spent the Gnat yet dies, the whole
Plot without Charge is tilled by the Mole,
A Mushroome cannot open, nor Fig grow,
A Violet doth find no room to blow,
A Mouse laies waste the Bounds, my Bayliff more
Doth fear him than the Caledonian Bore;
The Swallow in one Claw takes as she flies
The Crop entire, and in her Nest it lies;
No place for half Priapus, though he do
Stand without Syth, and t'other weapon too;
The harvest in a Cockleshell is put,
And the whole Vintage tunn'd up in a Nut,
Truly but in one Letter, Lupus, thou
Mistaken wert; for when thou didst bestow
This Mead confirm'd unto me by thy Seal,
I'd rather far th'hadst given me a Meal.

Horat. Carm. lib. 4. Ode 13.

Audivere Lyce.

My Prayers are heard, O Lyce, now
They're heard; years write thee Ag'd, yet thou
Youthfull and green in VVill,
Putt'st in for handsome still,
And shameless dost intrude among
The Sports and feastings of the young.

257

There, thaw'd with Wine, thy ragged throat
To Cupid shakes some feeble Note,
To move unwilling fires,
And rouze our lodg'd desires,
When he still wakes in Chia's face,
Chia, that's fresh, and sings with Grace.

For he (choice God) doth, in his flight,
Skip Sapless Oaks, and will not light
Upon thy Cheek, or Brow,
Because deep wrinkles now,
Gray Hairs, and Teeth decayed and worn,
Present thee fowl, and fit for Scorn.

Neither thy Coan Purples lay,
Nor that thy Jewels native day
Can make thee backwards live,
And those lost years retrive
Which Winged Time unto our known
And Publike Annals once hath thrown.

Whither is now that Softness flown?
Whither that Blush, that Motion gone?
Alas what now in thee
Is left of all that She,
That She that loves did breath and deal?
That Horace from himself did steal?

Thou wert a while the cry'd-up Face,
Of taking Arts, and catching Grace,
My Cynara being dead;
But my fair Cynara's thread
Fates broke, intending thine to draw
Till thou contest with th' Aged Daw.

258

That those young Lovers, once thy Prey,
Thy zealous eager Servants, may
Make thee their Common sport,
And to thy house resort
To see a Torch that proudly burn'd
Now into Colder Ashes turn'd.

To Mr Thomas Killegrew on his two Playes, the Prisoners, and Claracilla.

Worthy Sir,

Manners and Men transcrib'd, Customes express'd,
The Rules and Laws Dragmatique not transgress'd,
The Points of Place and Time observ'd and hit,
The Words to things, and things to Persons fit,
The Persons Constant to themselves throughout,
The Machin turning fire not forc'd about;
As Wheels by Wheels, part mov'd, and urg'd by part;
And Choice Materials Work'd with Choicer Art;
Those though at last begg'd from long sweat and Toyl,
Fruits of the Forge, the Anvill, and the File,
Snatch Reverence from Our Judgements; and we do
Admire those Raptures with new Raptures too.

But you whose thoughts are Extasies; who know
No other Mould but that you'l cast it so;
Who in an Even Web rich Fancies twist,
Your self th' Appollo, to your self the Priest;
Whose first unvext Conceptions do come forth,
Like flowers with Kgs' names, stamp'd with native worth;
By Art unpurchas'd make the same things thought
Far greater when begot, than when they're Taught,

259

So the Ingenuous Fountain clearer flows,
And yet no food besides it's own Spring knows.

Others great gathering Wits there are who like
Rude Scholers, steal this Posture from Van Dick,
That Hand or Eye from Titian, and do than
Draw that a Blemish was design'd a Man;
(As that wich goes in Spoyl and Theft we see
For the Most part Comes out Impropriety)
But here no small stoln Parcels slyly lurk,
Nor are your Tablets such Mosaique Work,
The Web, and Woof, are both your own, the peece
One, and no sailing for the Art, or Fleece;
All's from your Self, unchalleng'd All, All so,
That breathing Spices do not freer flow;
No Thrifty Spare or manage of dispence
But things hurl'd out with gracefull Negligence;
A generous Cariage of unwrested VVit;
Expressions like your Manners freely fit;
No Lines that wrack the Reader with such guess,
That some interpret Oracles with less;
Your VVritings are all Christall, such as do
Please Criticks Palats without Criticks too;
You have not what diverts some Men from Sense,
Those two Mysterious things Greek and Pretence;
And happily you want those Shadows, where
Their Absence makes your Graces seem more Clear.

Nor are you he whose Vow wears out a Quill,
In writing to the Stage, and then sits still;
Or as the Elephant breeds (Once in ten years,
And those ten years but once) with labour Bears
A secular Play. But you go on, and shew,
Your Vein is Rich, and full, and can still flow:
That this doth open, not exhaust your Store;
And you can give yet two, and yet two more:

260

Those great eruptions of your Beams do say
VVhen Others Suns are set you'l have a day;
And if Mens approbations be not Lot,
And my Prophetique Bayes seduce me not;
VVhiles he who strains for swelling Scenes, lyes dead
Or only prais'd, you shall live prais'd and read.
Thus trusting to your self you Raign; and do
Prescribe to Others, because none to you.

On the Birth of the Kings's fourth Child. 2636.

Now that your Princely birth, great Queen,'s so shewn,
That both Years may well Claim it as their own,
That by this Early Budding we must hate
Times Past, and think the Spring fell out too Late,
Corrected now by you; VVe æmulous too
Bring forth, and with more Pangs perhaps than You.
Our Birth takes life and speech at once, whom we
Have Charged here to want no Dictionary:
The former Tongue's as hearty, and as true;
But that's your Courts, this only meant to you.

To the Queen on the same; being the Preface before the English Verses sent then from Oxford.

Blest Lady, You, whose Mantle doth divide
The Flouds of Time swelling on either side,
Your Birth so clos'd the Past, yet came so true
A Ciment to that year that did ensue,

261

That Janus did suspect Lucina, lest
She might entrench, and His become Her Feast;
Whiles You may Challenge One Day, and we do
Make Time have now two Daughters, Truth and You.

You bring forth now, Great Queen, as you foresaw
An'Antiquation of the Salique Law;
Y' have shewn once more a Child, whose ev'ry part
May gain unto our Realm a severall Heart,
So given unto Your King, so fitly sent,
As we may Justly Call't your Complement.
O for an Angell here to Sing, we do
Want such a Voice, nay such a Ditty too:
This Cradle too's an Altar, whiles that one
Birth-time Combines the Manger and the Throne:
The very Nurse turns Priestess, and we fear
Will better sing than some grave Poets here.
For now that Royall Births do Come so fast,
That we may fear they'l Commons be at last,
And yet no Plague to Cease, no Star to rise,
But those two Twin-fires only of her Eyes:
Wits will no more Compose, but just Rehearse,
And turn the Pray'r of Thanks into a Verse;
Some, their own Plagiaries, will be read

Marcellus was accused for taking off Augustus his head, and putting the Head of Tiberius upon the same Statue.

In th' Elder Statue with a younger Head;
Or, to bear up perhaps a yeelding Fame,
New torture old VVords into Chronogram:
And there may be much Concourse to this Quill,
For Silenc'd Preachers have most Hearers still.
But what dares now be barren, when our Queen
Transcrib'd is in her second Coppy seen?
Nor is the Father left out there; we may
Say those small Glasses snatch him ev'ry way;
VVhich too do mutually represent
Themselves, as Element doth Element;

262

VVhiles here, there, yonder, All in All are shewn,
Casting each others Beauties, and their own.

Your Sons, Great Sir, may fix your Scepter here,
But 'tis this Sex must make you raign elsewhere;
And though they All be Shafts, 'twill yet be found
These, though the VVeaker, make the deeper VVound.
Come Shee-Munition then, and thus appease
All Claim, and be the Venus of your Seas:
And henceforth look we not t' espy from far
A Guiding Light; This be your Navies Star.

The Conclusion to the Queen.

And now perhaps you'l think a Book more fit,
That like your Infants Soul, shews nothing VVrit.
Yet deem not all our Heart spred in this Noise;
The Book would swell should we but Print blank Joyes:
For we have some that only can rehearse
In Prose, whom Age and Christmas weans from Verse;
All cannot Enter these Poetique Lists;
This Swath's above the Fillets of some Priests,
And you're so wholly happy, that our VVreath
Must proclame Blessings only, not Bequeath.

263

To Mrs Duppa, sent with the Picture of the Bishop of Chichester (her Husband) in a small peece of Glass.

A shape for Temple windows fit,
Y' have here in half a Quarrell writ,
As Temples are themselves in Spots,
And fairer Cities throng'd in Blots.
Though't fill the World as it doth run,
One drop of Light presents the Sun;
And Angels, that whole Nations guide,
Have but a point where they reside.
Such VVrongs redeem themselves, Thus we Confess
That all expressions of him must be less.

Though in those Spots the bounded Sense
Cannot deny Magnificence,
Yet reaching Minds in them may guess
Statues, and Altars, Pyles and Press;
And Fancy seeing more than Sight,
May powre that drop to flouds of Light,
And make that point of th' Compass foot
Round, Round into a Center shoot;
The piece may hit to you then, though't be small,
True Love doth find resemblances in all.

By Conquer'd Pencils 'tis confess'd
His Actions only draw him best,
Actions that, like these Colours, from
The trying fire more beamy come.

264

Yet may He still like this appear
At one Just stand: Let not the year
Imprint his Brow as it doth run,
Nor known when out, nor when begun;
How ere the Shade be, may the Substance long
Confirm't, if right, Confute it, if't be wrong.

I was about to say,
Ill Omens be away,
All Beasts that Age and Art unlucky stile
Keep from his sight a while;
Let no sad Bird from hollow trees dare preach,
Nor Men, that know less, teach;
And to my Self; do you not write,
The whole year breaks in this daies Light;
But I am bid blame Fancy, free the thing,
To solid Minds these Trifles no fears bring.

I was about to pray,
The years good in this day;
That fewer Laws were made, and more were kept,
The Church by Church men swept;
No reall Innovations brought about,
To root the seeming out;
And Justice giv'n, not forc'd by those
VVho know not what they do oppose,
But I am taught firme Minds have firmly stood,
And good-wils work for good unto the Good.

I was about to Chide
The Peoples raging Tide,
And bid them cease to cry the Bishops down
VVhen ought did thwart the Town,

265

VVish 'em think Prelates Men, till we did know
How it with Saints would go;
But I conceiv'd that pious Minds
Drew deepest sleeps in Storms and Winds;
And could from Tempests gain as quiet Dreams
As Shepheards from the Murmur of small Streams.

And you my Lord are he
Who can all wishes free,
Whose round and solid Mind knows to Create
And fashion your own Fate;
Whose firmness can from Ills assure success
Where Others do but guess;
Whose Conscience holy Calms enjoys
'Mid'st the loud Tumults of State-Noise;
Thus gather'd in your self, you stand your own,
Nor rais'd, by giddy changes, nor cast down.

And though your Church do boast
Such (once thought pious) Cost,
That for each Month it shews a severall door,
You yet do open't More;
Though Windows equal Weeks, you giv't a day
More Bright, more clear than they;
And though the Pillers which stand there
Sum up the many hours of th' Year,
The Strength yet, and the Beauty of that frame
Lies not in them so much as in your Name.

A Name that shall in Story
Out-shine even Jewel's glory,
A Name allowed by all as soon as heard,
At once both Lov'd and Fear'd,

266

A Name above all Praise, that will stand high
VVhen Fame it self shall dye,
VVhiles thus your Mind, Pen, Shape, and fit,
Times to your Vertues will submit,
And Manners unto Times, May Heaven bless thus
All Seasons unto you, and you to us.

To the King, on the Birth of the Princess Elizabeth. March 17. 1636.

Great Sir,
Success to your Royal Self, and Us.
VVe're happy too, in that You're happy thus.
For where a Link'd Dependance doth States bless,
The greater fortune doth still name the less.
Can we be Losers thought, when, for a Ray
Or two substracted, we've receiv'd a Day?
VVhen Heaven, for those few peeces of Our Ore
It took, sends in the Elixar to our Store?
And (Mighty Sir) one grain of yours cast in
Turns all our drossie Copper and our Tin,
Hatching to Gold those Metals which the Sun
It self despair'd and only left begun.
'Tis then disloyall Envy to repine,
VV'ave lost some Bullion, but have gain'd a Mine.

If Septers may have Eyes (as 'tis not much
Amiss to grant them Eyes whose fore-sight's such)
This Birth so Soveraign, scattering health each where,
May well be stil'd your Septers Balsom Tear:
VVitness that Grief your Queen did late endure,
Blest be that pitty which doth weep and cure.

267

Your Issue shews you now as in due space
Five Glasses justly distant would your Face,
Where one still flowing Beam illustrates all,
Though by degrees the Light doth weaker fall;
And we thus seeing them shall think we've spi'd
Your Majesty but five times multiplyed;
And this proportion'd Order makes each One
Only a severall step unto your Throne;
Link thus receiving Link, may not we Men
Say that the Golden Chain's let down agen?
Which by a still succeeding growth doth guide
Unto that Chair where the Chain's Head is ty'd?
The're then your selfless Coppi'd; for as some
By Pass, as 'twere, do send each Vertue home
Unto the Cause, and call it That; so we
Reducing Brooks to Seas, Fruit to the Tree,
Conclude that these are You; who, when they grow
Up to a Ripeness, will such Vertues shew,
That they'l be our Example, our Rule too;
For they hereafter must do still as You.
Be they then so receiv'd: Tis others Lot
To have Laws made, Yours (Great Sir) are begot.

On the same to the Queen.

And something too (great Queen) I was about
For You, but as it stuck and would not out
(For we, who have not wit propitious, do
Travell with Verse, and feel our Brain-pangs too)
A nest of Cupids hov'ring in one bright
Cloud did surprize my Fancy, and my Sight;

268

This Flock hedg'd in her Cradle, and She lay
More gratious, more divine, more fresh than they;
Each view'd her Eyes, and in her Eyes were shewn
Darts far more pow'rfull, though less, than their own.

These Venus Eyes (saies One) these are
Our Mothers Sparkes, but Chaster far;
And Thetis silver feet are these,
The Father sure is Lord o'th' Seas.
Fair one (saith this) we bring you flowers,
The Garden one day shall be yours;
Wear on your Cheeks these, when you do
Venture at words you'l speak 'em too.
That Veyl that hides Great Cupids Eyes
(Saith That) must swath her as she lies:
For certain 'tis that this is she
Who destin'd is to make Love see.
Let's pull our Wings, that we may drown
Her Gracefull Limbs in heavenly down;
But they so soft are, that I fear
Feathers will make impressions there.
May she with Love and Aw be seen,
Whiles every part presents a Queen,
And think when first she sees her face,
Her Mother's got behind the Glass.

This said, a Stately Maid appear'd, whose Light
Did put the little Archers all to flight;
Her Shape was more than humane, such I use
To fancy the most Fair, the most Chaste Muse;
And now by one swift Motion being neer
My side, She gently thus did pull mine Ear,
The Emerit Ancient warbling Priests, and you
Nothing beyond Collect, or Ballad do,

269

Dare your salute a Star without tri'd fire?
Or welcome Harmony with an harsher Quire?
Raptures are due. Great Goddess, I leave then:
This Subject only doth befit your Pen.

Vpon the Dramatick Poems of Mr John Fletcher.

Though when all Fletcher writ, and the entire
Man was indulg'd unto that Sacred fire,
His thoughts, and his thoughts dress, appear'd both such,
That 'twas his happy fault to do too much;
Who therefore wisely did submit each birth
To knowing Beaumont e'r it did come forth,
VVorking again, untill he said 'twas fit,
And made him the sobriety of his wit;
Though thus he call'd his Judge into his fame,
And for that aid allow'd him half the name,
'Tis known, that sometimes he did stand alone,
That both the Spunge and Pencill were his own;
That himself judg'd himself, could singly do,
And was at last Beaumont and Fletcher too;

Else we had lost his Shepheardess, a peece
Even and smooth, spun from a finer fleece,
VVhere softness reigns, where Passions Passions greet,
Gentle and high, as Flouds of Balsam meet.
VVhere dress'd in white expressions, sit bright Loves,
Drawn, like their fairest Queen, by milky Doves;
A Piece, which Johnson in a rapture bid
Come up a glorifi'd Work, and so it did.

Else had his Muse set with his Friend; the Stage
Had miss'd those Poems, which yet take the Age;

270

The world had lost those rich exemplars, where
Art, Learning, Wit, sit ruling in one Sphere;
Where the fresh matters soar above old Themes,
As Prophets Raptures do above our Dreams;
Where in a Worthy scorn he dares refuse
All other Gods, and makes the thing his Muse;
Where he calls Passions forth, and layes them so,
As Spirits aw'd by him to come and go;
Where the free Author did what e'r he would,
And nothing will'd, but what a Poet should.

No vast uncivill Bulk swels any Scene,
The strength's ingenuous, and the vigour clean;
None can prevent the Fancy, and see through
At the first opening; all stand wondring how
The thing will be, untill it is, which thence
With fresh delights still cheats, still takes the sense;
The whole design, the shaddows, the lights such
That none can say he shews or hides too much:
Business grows up, ripened by just encrease,
And by as just degrees again doth cease.
The heats and minutes of Affairs are watcht,
And the nice points of Time are met, and snatcht;
Nought later than it should, nought comes before,
Chymists, and Calculators do err more;
Sex, Age, Degree, Affections, Country, Place,
The inward Substance, and the outward Face,
All kept precisely, all exactly fit,
What he would write, he was before he writ.
'Twixt Johnson's grave, and Shakespeare's lighter sound,
His Muse so steer'd that something still was found,
Nor this, nor that, nor both, but so his own,
That 'twas his mark, and he was by it known.
Hence did he take true judgments, hence did strike
All Palates some way, though not all alike:

271

The God of numbers might his numbers crown,
And listning to them wish they were his own.
Thus welcome forth, what Ease, or Wine, or Wit
Durst yet produce, that is, what Fletcher writ.

Another on the same.

[Fletcher, though some call it thy fault, that wit]

Fletcher , though some call it thy fault, that wit
So overflow'd thy Scenes, that ere 'twas fit
To come upon the Stage, Beaumont was fain
To bid thee be more dull, that's write again,
And bate some of thy fire, which from thee came
In a clear, bright, full, but too large a flame;
And after all (finding thy Genius such)
That blunted, and allay'd, 'twas yet too much;
Added his sober spunge, and did contract
Thy plenty to less wit to make't exact:
Yet we through his corrections could see
Much treasure in thy superfluity,
Which was so fil'd away, as when we do
Cut Jewels, that that's lost is Jewell too;
Or as men use to wash Gold, which we know
By losing makes the Stream thence wealthy grow.
They who do on thy works severely sit,
And call thy Store the over-births of wit,
Say thy miscarriages were rare, and when
Thou wert superfluous, that thy fruitfull Pen
Had no fault but abundance, which did lay
Out in one Scene what might well serve a Play;
And hence do grant, that what they call excess
Was to be reckon'd as thy happiness,

272

From whom wit issued in a full Spring-Tide;
Much did inrich the Stage, much flow'd beside.
For that thou couldst thine own free fancy bind
In stricter numbers, and run so confin'd
As to observe the rules of Art, which sway
In the contrivance of a true-born Play,
These works proclame, which thou didst write retir'd
From Beaumont, by none but thy self inspir'd;
Where we see 'twas not chance that made them hit,
Nor were thy Playes the Lotteries of wit,
But like to Durers Pencill, which first knew
The Laws of Faces, and then Faces drew;
Thou knowst the Air, the Colour, and the place,
The Symetry, which gives the Poem grace:
Parts are so fitted unto parts, as do
Shew thou hadst Wit, and Mathematicks too;
Knewst were by line to spare, where to dispence,
And didst beget just Comedies from thence;
Things unto which thou didst such life bequeath,
That they (their own Black-Friers) unacted breath.
Johnson hath writ things lasting, and divine,
Yet his Love-Scenes, Fletcher, compar'd to thine,
Are cold and frosty, and exprest love so,
As heat with Ice, or warm fires mix'd with Snow;
Thou, as if struck with the same generous Darts,
Which burn, and reign in noble Lovers hearts,
Hast cloath'd Affections in such native tires,
And so describ'd them in their own true fires,
Such moving sighs, such undissembled tears,
Such charms of Language, such hopes mixt with fears,
Such grants after denials, such pursutes
After despair, such amorous recruits,
That some who sat Spectators have confest
Themselves transform'd to what they saw exprest,

273

And felt such shafts steal through their captiv'd sense,
As made them rise Parts, and go Lovers thence.
Nor was thy Stile wholly compos'd of Groves,
Or the soft strains of Shepheards and their Loves;
When thou wouldst Comick be, each smiling birth
In that kind, came into the world all mirth,
All point, all edge, all sharpness; we did sit
Sometimes five Acts out in pure sprightfull wit,
Which flow'd in such true salt, that we did doubt
In which Scene we laught most two shillings out.
Shakespeare to thee was dull, whose best Jest lies
I'th' Ladies questions, and the Fools replies,
Old fashion'd wit, which walk'd from Town to Town
In turn'd Hose, which our Fathers call'd the Clown;
Whose wit our nice times would obsceaness call,
And which made Bawdry pass for Comicall:
Nature was all his Art, thy vein was free
As his, but without his scurility;
From whom mirth came unforc'd, no Jest perplex'd,
But without labour clean, chaste and unvext.
Thou wert not like some, our small Poets, who
Could not be Poets, were not we Poets too;
Whose wit is pilfring, and whose vein and wealth
In Poetry lies meerly in their stealth;
Nor did'st thou feel their drought, their pangs, their qualms,
Their rack in writing, who do write for Alms,
Whose wretched Genius, and dependent fires,
But to their Benefactors dole aspires.
Nor hadst thou the sly trick, thy self to praise
Under thy friends names, or to purchase Bayes
Didst write stale commendations to thy Book,
Which we for Beaumont's or Ben Johnson's took:
That debt thou left'st to us, which none but he
Can truly pay, Fletcher, who writes like thee.

274

To the Right Reverend Father in God, Brian, Lord Bishop of Chichester, Tutor to the Prince His Highness, my most gracious Patron

Many, and happy daies.

Syringus, Ergastus.
Syring.
VVhether so fast Ergastus! say
Doth Nysa, or Myrtilla stay,
To meet thee now at Break of day?

Ergast.
With Love, Syringus, I have done,
'Tis duty now that makes me run,
To prevent the rising Sun.

Syring.
VVhat Star hath chill'd thy flames?
What Cross hath made thy fires take others names?

Ergast.
Didst thou not last night hear
The Dirge we sung to the departed year?
'Tis the daies early Prime
That gives new Feet, and VVings to Aged Time,
And I run to provide
Some Rurall present to design the Tide:

Syring.
But to whom this Pious fear?
To whom this opening of the year?

Ergast.
To him, that by Thames flowry side,
Three Kingdoms Eldest Hopes doth guide,
Who his soft Mind and Manners Twines,
Gently, and we do tender Vines.
'Tis he that sings to him the Course
Of Light, and of the Suns great force,
How his Beams meet, and joyn with Showers,
To awake the sleeping Flowers;

275

Where Hail, and Snow have each their Treasures;
How wandring Stars tread equall Measures,
Ordered as ours upon the Plain,
And how sad Clouds drop down in Rain;
He tels from whence the Loud Wind blows,
And how the Bow of VVonder shews
Colours mixt, as in a Loome,
And where doth hang the Thunder's Womb;
How Nature then Cloaths Fields and Woods,
Heaps the high Hills, and powrs out Flouds;
And from thence doth make him run,
To what his Ancesters have done,
Then gives some Lesson, which doth say,
VVhat 'tis to shear, and what to Flea,
And shews at last, in holy Song,
What to the Temple doth belong;
What Offering suits with every Feast,
And how the Altar's to be drest.

Syring.
Now Violets prop his Head,
And soft Flowers make his Bed,
These Blessings he for us prepares,
The Joyes of Harvest Crown his Cares.

Ergast.
He labours that we may
Not cast our Pipes away;
That Swords to Plowsheares may be turn'd,
And neither folds, nor Sheep-coats burn'd;
That no rude Barbarous Hands
May reap our well grown Lands,
And that, sweet Liberty being barr'd,
We not our Selves become the Heard;
Heaven bless him, and his Books,
'Tis he must gild our Hooks,
And for his Charg's Birth-sake, May
Shall be to me one Holy day.

276

Syring.
Come, I'l along with thee, and joyn,
Some hasty Gift to thine;
But we do Pearls, and Amber want,
And pretions Stones are scant.
And how then shall we enter, where
Wealth Ushers in the year?

Ergast.
The Berries of the Misseltoe,
To him will Orient shew;
And the Bee's Bag as Amber come
From the deep Oceans Womb;
And Stones which murmuring Waters Chide,
Stopt by them as they glide,
If giv'n to him, will pretious grow;
Touch him, they must be so.

Syring.
I know a Stream, that to the Sight
Betraies smooth Pebbles, Black, and White;
These I'l present, with which he may
Design each Cross and Happy day.

Ergast.
None, none at all of Blacker hue,
Only the White to him are due,
For Heaven, among the Reverend store
Of Learned Men, Loves no one more.

Syring.
Two days ago
My deep-fleec'd Ewe, should have her Lamb let fall,
Which if't be so,
I mean to offer't to him Dam and all;
And humbly say
I bring a Gift as tender as the Day.

Ergast.
Name not a Gift,
Who e'r bestows, he still returns him more;
That's but our Thrift
When he receives, he adds unto our store:
Let's Altars trim,
Wishes are Lambs, and Kids, and Flocks to him.

277

Syring.
Let's then the Sun arrest,
And so prolong our duties Feast,
Time will stay till he be blest.

Ergast.
Wish thou to his Charge, and then
I'l wish t'himself, and both agen,
Holy things to holy Men.

Syring.
The unvext Earth Flowers to him bring,
And make the year but one great Spring;
Let Nature stand, and serve, and wooe,
And make him Prince of Seasons too.

Ergast.
And his learn'd Guide, no difference know,
But find it one, to Reap, and Sow;
Be Harvest all, and he appear
As soon i'th' Soul, as in the Ear.

Syring.
When his high Charge shall rule the State
(Which Heaven saies shall be, but late)
Let him no Thorns in Manners find,
And in the Many but one Mind;
And Plenty pay him so much bliss,
That's Brothers Sheafs bow all to his.

Ergast.
And he that fits him for that Seat,
May he Figs from

Scotland.

Thistles eat;
Like Ears of Cornlet Men obey,
And when he Breaths, bend all one way;
And if that any dare Contest,
Let his Rod still devour the rest.

Syring.
Let Rams Change Colour, and behold
Their Fleeces Purple dy'd, or Gold:
For this the holy Augur sayes,
Bodes unto Kingdoms happy daies.

Ergast.
And his blest Guide like Fortune win,
And die his Flock too, but within;
And, where of Scarlet they be full,
Wash he their Souls as White as Wooll.

278

Syring.
Let his Great Scepter discords part,
As once the Staff made Flouds forbear,
And let him by diviner Art,
Those Tempests into Bulwarks rear;
As he who lead Men through the deep,
As Shepheards use to Lead their Sheep.

Ergast.
And his Rod sign the easie Flocks,
By being plac'd but in their Sight,
That all their young Ones shew their Locks
Ringstreak'd, Speck'd and mark'd with White;
As that learn'd Man, who Hazell pill'd,
And so by Art his own Flock fill'd.

Syring.
May his Rich Fleece drink Dew, and Lye
VVell drench'd, though all the Earth be dry.

Ergast.
May his Rod bud, and Almonds shew,
Though all the rest do Barren grow.

Syring.
May he not have a Subject look,
To please with murmuring, as the Brook,
And let the Serpent of the year
Not dare to fix his sharp Teeth here.

Ergast.
May his guide pull them out, and so
Sow them that they never grow,
Or if in furrows Arm'd they spring,
Death to themselves their VVeapons bring.

Syring.
May he more Lawrels bring to us,
Than he that set the Calendar thus,
New deeds of Glory will appear,
And make his Deeds round as the Year.

Ergast.
And may his Blessed Guide unt-live
Years, and himself a new Thread give;
And so his days still fresh transmit,
Doing as time, and Conquering it.

Syring.
May Vintage Joys swell both their Bowrs,

Ergast.
And if they O'rflow, O'rflow on Ours.

279

Syring.
O would that VVe, that we, such Prophets were,
As he that slew the Lyon and the Bear.

Ergast.
Credit thy self, our VVishes must prove true,
Far meaner Shepheards have ben Prophets too.

The most faithfull Honourer of Your Lordships Vertues W.C.

A New-years Gift.

Although Propriety be Crost,
By those that cry't up most,
No Vote hath yet pass'd to put down
The pious fires
Of good desires,
Our wishes are as yet our own.

Bless'd be the day then, 'tis New year's,
Natures knows no such fears
As those which do our hearts divide,
In spight of Force
Times keep their Course,
The Seasons run not on their side.

I send my (Muse) to one that knows
What each Relation ows,
One who keeps waking in his Breast
No other sense
But Conscience,
That only is his Interest.

280

Though to be Moderate, in this time,
Be thought almost a Crime,
That vertue yet is his so much,
That they who make
All whom they take
Guilty, durst never Call him such.

He wishes Peace, that Publike Good,
Dry Peace, not bought with Bloud,
Yet such as Honour may maintain,
And such the Crown
VVould gladly own.
VVish o'r that VVish to him again.

He wishes that this Storm Subside,
Hush'd by a turn of Tide,
That one fix'd Calm would smooth the Main,
As VVinds relent
VVhen Furie's spent.
O wish that VVish to him again.

The Joys that Solemn Victories Crown,
VVhen we not slay our own,
Joys that deserve a generall Song
VVhen the day's gain'd
And no Sword stain'd,
Press on and round him in a Throng.

Thoughts rescue, and his danger kiss'd,
Being found as soon as miss'd,
VVish him not taken as before,
Hazard can ne'r
Make him more dear.
We must not fear so long once more.

281

Twist then in one most Glorious Wreath
All Joys you can bequeath,
And see them on the Kingdom thrown,
VVhen there they dwell
He's pleas'd as well,
As if they sate on him alone.

Go, and return, and for his sake
Less noise and Tumult make,
Than Stars when they do run their Rounds;
Though Swords and Spears
Late fill'd his Eares,
He silence Loves, or Gentle Sounds.

A New-years-gift to a Noble Lord. 1640.

My Lord,

Though the distemp'red Many cry they see
The Missall in our Liturgie:
The Almanack that is before it set
Goes true, and is not Popish yet.
VVhiles therefore none indites
This feast of Roman Rites,
VVhiles as yet New-year in Red Paint,
Is not cry'd out on for a Saint;
Presents will be no Offrings, and I may
Season my duty safely with the day.

Now an Impartiall Court, deaf to Pretence,
Sits like the Kingdoms Conscience,
VVhile Actions now are touch'd, and Men are try'd,
VVhether they can the day abide,

282

Though they should go about
To track Offences out,
In Deeds, in Thoughts, Without, Within,
As Casuists, when they search out Sin;
When Others shake, how safe do you appear,
And a Just Patriot know no private fear?

This you have gain'd from an unbiass'd Breast,
Discharg'd of all Self Interest;
From Square, and solid Actions without flaw,
That will in time themselves grow Law,
Actions that shew you mean
Nought to the Common Scene,
That you'l ne'r lengthen power by Lust,
But shape and size it by your Trust,
That you do make the Church the Main, no Bye,
And chiefly mean what Others but Apply.

Were every Light thus Regular as you,
And to it's destin'd Motions true,
Did some not shine too short, but reach about,
And throw their wholsome Lustre out,
What danger then or fear,
Would seize this Sacred Sphere?
Who would impute that Thriving Art
That turns a Charge into a Mart?
We would enjoy, like you, a State Confess'd
Happy by all, still Blessing, and still Bless'd.

But whether false suspicion, or true Crimes
Provoke the Sowreness of the Times;
Whether't be Pride, or Glory call'd Pride, all
Expect at least some sudden fall;

283

And seeing as Vices, so
Their Cures may too far go,
And Want of Moderation be
Both in the Ill, and Remedy,
So that perhaps to bar th' Abuse of Wine,
Their Zeal may lead them to cut up the Vine.

Pray'rs are Our Arms; and the time affords
On a Good Day be said Good Words;
Could I shape Things to Votes, I'd wish a Calm
Soveraign, and soft as Flouds of Balm;
But as it is, I square
The Vote to the Affair,
And wish this Storm may shake the Vine,
Only to make it faster twine;
That hence the Early Type may be made Good,
And our Ark too, rise higher with the Floud.

As then Sick Manners call forth wholsome Laws,
The Good effect of a bad Cause,
So all I wish must settle in this Sum,
That more Strength from Laxations come.
But how can this appear
To humor the New year?
When proper Wishes, fitly meant,
Should breath his Good to whom they're sent.
Y' have a large Mind (my Lord) and that assures,
To wish the Publike Good, is to wish Yours.

284

A New-years-gift to Brian Lord Bishop of Sarum,

upon the Author's entring into holy Orders, 1638.

Now that the Village-Reverence doth lye hid,
As Ægypt's Wisdom did,
In Birds, and Beasts, and that the Tenants Soul,
Goes with his New-year's fowl:
So that the Cock, and Hen, speak more
Now, than in Fables heretofore;
And that the feather'd Things,
Truly make Love have Wings;
Though we no flying Present have to pay,
A Quill yet snatch'd from thence may sign the Day.

But being the Canon bars me Wit and Wine,
Enjoyning the true Vine,
Being the Bayes must yeeld unto the Cross,
And all be now one Loss,
So that my Raptures are to steal
And knit themselves in one pure Zeal,
And that my each days breath
Must be a dayly Death;
Without all Strain or Fury, I must than
Tell you this New-year brings you a new man.

New, not as th' year, to run the same Course o'r
Which it hath run before,
Lest in the Man himself there be a Round,
As in his Humor's found,
And that return seem to make good
Circling of Actions, as of Bloud;

285

Motion as in a Mill
Is busie standing still;
And by such wheeling we but thus prevaile,
To make the Serpent swallow his own Taile.

Nor new by solemnizing looser Toyes,
And erring with less Noyse,
Taking the Flag and Trumpet from the Sin,
So to offend within:
As some Men silence loud Perfumes,
And draw them into shorter Rooms,
This will be understood
More wary, not more Good.
Sins too may be severe, and so no doubt
The Vice but only sowr'd, not rooted out.

But new, by th' Using of each part aright,
Changing both Step and Sight,
That false Direction come not from the Eye,
Nor the foot tread awry,
That neither that the way aver,
VVhich doth tow'rd Fame, or Profit err,
Nor this tread that Path, which
Is not the right, but Rich;
That thus the Foot being fixt, thus lead the Eye,
I pitch my VValk low, but my Prospect high.

New too, to teach my Opinions not t' submit
To Favour, or to VVit;
Nor yet to VValk on Edges, where they may
Run safe in Broader way;
Nor to search out for New Paths, where
Nor Tracks nor Footsteps doth appear,

286

Knowing that Deeps are waies,
Where no Impression staies,
Nor servile thus, nor curious, may I then
Approve my Faith to Heaven, my Life to Men.

But I who thus present my self as New,
Am thus made New by You:
Had not you're Rayes dwelt on me, One long Night
Had shut me up from Sight;
Your Beams exhale me from among
Things tumbling in the Common Throng,
Who thus with your fire burns
Now gives not, but Returns;
To Others then be this a day of Thrift
They do receive, but you Sir make the Gift.

To the Queen after her dangerous Delivery. 1638.

Though we could wish your Issue so Throng'd stood
That all the Court were but one Royall Bloud;
Though Your young Jewels be of so much Cost
That Your least spark of Light must not be lost,
But when t' Your Burthens Heaven not permits
Quiet, as husht as when the Halcyon sits,
And that y'are thought so stored that you may spare
Some Glories and allow blest Saints a share;
Contentedly we suffer such a Cross,
To endear the Tablet by a Copies Loss;
And (as in Urgent Tempests 'tis a taught
Thrift to redeem the Vessell with the Fraught)
We do half willing with the Elixar part
To keep th' Ælembick safe for future Art;

287

Our Treasure thus is shared by the Birth,
Half unto Heaven, th' other half to Earth.

Came your Escape as Issue then, whiles we
Receive your safety as new Progeny:
Be you from henceforth to us a new Vow,
By Vertues dear before, by danger now;
Well Giv'n, and yet no narrowness of Thrift,
VVhat he is great, may be a second Gift;
Thus when the best Act's done, There doth remain
This only to perform that Act again.

See how your Great Just Consort bears the Cross,
Your safeties Gain makes him ore-see the loss;
So that although this Cloud stand at the door,
His Great Designs go on as still before:
Thus Stout Horatius being ready now
To dedicate a Temple, and by Vow
Settle Religion to his God, although
'Twas told his Child was dead, would not let go
The Post o'th' Temple, but unmov'd alone,
Bid them take Care o'th' Funerall, and went on.

Vpon the Birth of the Kings sixth Child. 1640.

Great Mint of Beauties,

Though all your Royall Burthens should come forth
Discharg'd by Emanation, not by Birth;
Though you could so prove Mother as the Soul
VVhen it doth most conceive without Controule;
Though Princes should so frequent from you flow
That we might thence say Sun-Beams issue slow;

288

Nay though those Royal Plants as oft should spring
From you as great Examples from your King,
None would repine or murmur 'Midst such store,
Think the Thrones blessing made the Kingdom poor;
Graines, which are singly rich, become not Cheap
Because th'are many: such grow from the Heap
Where five would each for Number pass alone,
The Sixth Comes Their Improvement and its Own.
We see the Brothers Vertues, growing ripe
By just degrees, aspire to their great Type;
We see the Father thrive in them, and find
W'have Heires, as to his Throne, so to his Mind;
This makes us call for more: The Parents Bloud
Is great security they will be Good.

And these your Constant Tributes to the State
Might make us stand up high, and trample Fate;
We might grow Bold from Conscience of just Good—
Had it the Fortune to be understood;
But some that would see, dazzled with much Light,
View only that which doth confound their Sight:
Others dark by design, do veyl their Eyes,
For fear by their own fault they should grow wise,
And what they cannot miss, by chance should find,
In Justice is what Justice should be, blind.
Yet our great Guide, Careless of Common Voice,
As good by Nature, rather than by Choice,
Sheds the same fruitfull Influence still on all,
As Constant Show'rs on thankless Desarts fall:
And like the unmov'd Rock, though it doth hear
The Murmurs of Rude Waves, whose rage breaks there;
He still gives living Gems, and doth present
To Froward Nations Wealth and Ornament:
Some Stones there are whose Colours do betray
The face of Heaven, and that Scene of Day

289

That Nature Shap'd them in, and thence came forth
Themselves th' Ingenious Records of their Birth.
May then this Pearl (Great Queen) now bred from You,
Congeal'd and fash'on'd of more Heavenly Dew,
Shew forth the Temper of the present State,
And himself be to his own Birth the Date:
That as the solemn Trumpet's publike Blast
At the same time proclaim'd both War and Fast,
He may devoutly valiant praying stand,
As th'Ancient Heroes, with a Spear in's Hand:
And mixing Vows and Fights in one Consent,
Divide himself between the Church and Tent.
But if he be by milder Influence born,
The Son of Peace; The Rose without a Thorne;
What once his Grandsires ripe Designs did boast,
And now his Serious Father labours most,
He as a Pledge sent to both Nations, do;
And Cement Kingdoms now again call'd Two.

And here some Genius prompts me I shall see
Him make Greek Fables Brittish History;
And view now such a Goddess that brought forth,
This floating Island setled by the Birth.

On the Marriage of the Lady Mary to the Prince of Aurange his Son. 1641.

Amids such heat of Business, such State Throng,
Disputing right and wrong,
And the fierce Justle of unclos'd Affairs,
What mean those glorious pairs?
That youth? that Virgin? those all drest?
The whole, and every face a feast?

290

Great Omen, O ye Powers,
May this your Knot be Ours;
Thus where Cold things with hot did jar,
And Dry with Moyst made mutuall VVar,
Love from that Mass did leap,
And what was but an heap,
Rude and ungather'd; swift as thought was hurl'd
Into the Beauty of an Ord'red World.

Go then into his Arms, New as the Morn,
Tender as Blades of Corn,
Soft as the Wooll that Nuptiall posts did Crown,
Or the hallow'd Quinces down,
That Rituall Quince which Brides did eat
When with their Bridegrooms they would treat;
Though you are young as th' Hours,
Or this fresh Months first Flowers,
Yet if Love's Priests can ought discern,
Fairest you are not now to learn
What Hopes, what Sighs, what Tears,
What Joys are, or what Fears;
Ere Time to lower Souls doth motion bring
The Great break out, and of themselves take Wing.

And you (great Sir) 'mongst Spears and Bucklers Born,
And by your Father sworn
To work the Web of his designs Compleat,
Yeeld to this milder Heat,
Upon the same rich Stock we know
Valour and Love doth planted grow;
But Love doth first inspire
The Soul with his soft fire,
Chafing the Breast for noble deeds,
Then in that Seat true Valour Breeds;

291

So Rocks first yeeld a Tear,
Then Gems that will not wear;
So oft the Grecian Swords did first divide
The Bridall Cake, then pierce the Enemy's side.

D' you see (or am I false) yond tender Vine
Methinks on every Twine
Tyara's, Scepters, Crowns, Spoiles, Trophies wears,
And such rich burdens bears;
Which, hanging in their Beautious shapes,
Adorn her Boughs like swelling grapes.
But Time forbids the Rites
Of gath'ring these delights,
And only Sighs allows till he
Hath better knit, and spread your Tree;
Where Union would last long
She fixeth in the yong;
And so grows up; Great Spirits with more Love
Defer their Joyes, than Others do them prove.

But when her Zone shall come to be untide,
And She be twice your Bride,
When She shall blush, and straight wax pale, and then
By turns do both agen;
VVhen her own bashfulness shall prove
The second Nonage to her Love;
Then you will know what Bliss
Angels both have and miss;
How Souls do mix and take fresh growth,
In neither whole, and whole in both;
Pleasures that none can know
But such as have stay'd so;
VVe from long Loves at last to Hymen send,
But Princes Fires begin, where Subjects end.

292

To the Cancellour of the Vniversity of Oxford, then newly chosen. 1641.

VVhen Studies now are blasted, and the Times
Place us in false Lights, and see Acts, as Crimes:
When to heap Knowledge, is but thought to fill
The Mind with more advantage to do ill;
When all your Honour'd Brother's Choice and store
Of Learn'd Remains, with Sweat and Charge fetch'd o'r,
Are thought but useless pieces; and some trust
To see our Schooles mingled with Alby-dust:
That now you dare receive us, and profess
Your Self our Patron; makes you come no less
Then a New Founder; whiles we all alow,
What was Defence before, is Building now.

And this you were reserv'd for, set apart
For times of Hazard, as the Shield and Dart
Laid up in store to be extracted thence,
When serious Need shall ask some tri'd defence.
And who more fit to Manage the Gowns Cause,
Then you whose even Life may dare the Laws?
And the Law-makers too? in whom the Great
Is twisted with the Good, as Light with Heat?
What though your sadder Cares do not profess,
To find the Circles squaring, or to guess
How many Sands within a Grain or two
Will fill the World? These Speculations do
Steal Man from Man, you're He, that can suggest
True Rules, and fashion Manners to the Best:
You can preserve Our Charters, from the Wrong
Of th'untaught Town, as far as now the Tongue

593

Doth from their Understanding; you can give
Freedome to Men, and make that freedome live,
And divest Hate, now, from the Hated Arts;
These are your great Endowments, These your Parts,
And 'tis our honest boast, when this we scan,
We give a Title, but receive a Man.

On the Lady Newburgh, who dyed of the small Pox.

I now beleeve that Heaven once shall shrink
Up like a shrivell'd Scrole, and what we think,
Spread like a larger Curtain, doth involve
The Worlds Great Fabrick, shall at length dissolve
Into a sparing Handfull, and to be
Only a Shrowd for its Mortality:
For her Disease Blest Soul, was but the same
Which alwaies raigneth in that upper Frame;
And hearing of her Fate, we boldly dare
Conclude that Stars, Sphears thicker Portions are.
Only some Angry Pimples which foretell
That which at length must fall, now is not well.

But why think we on Heav'n, when she is gone,
Almost as rich and fair a Mansion?
One who was good so young, that we from her
Against Philosophy may well infer
That Vertues are from Nature; that the Mind
Like the first Paradise may unrefind
Boast Native Glories, and to Art not ow
That ought by Her it doth receive and show.
I may not call her Woman, for she ne'r
Study'd the Glass and Pencill, could not swear

294

Faith to the Lover, and when he was gone
The same unto the next, and yet keep none;
She could not draw ill Vapours like the Sun,
And drop them down upon some yonger One.
Alas her Mind was plac'd above these foul
Corruptions, still as high as now her Soul:
Nor had she any thought that e'r did fear
The open test of the Austerest Ear:
For all of them were such as wretches we
May wish, not hope, for this felicity;
That when we think on Heaven we may find
Thoughts, like the worst of hers, burn in our Mind.

Let not the Ancient glory that they found
The Chain of Vertues, how they all were bound,
How met in one; VVe happier far did see
VVhat they did either dream or Prophesie:
For since that She is gone, where can we find
A pair of Vertues met in all Mankind?
Some one perhaps is Chaste, Another Just,
A Third is valiant, but we may not trust
To see them throng'd again, but still alone
As in a Ring One Spark, one pretious Stone.
I know some little Beauty, and one grain
Of any Vertue doth to Others gain
The Name of Saint or Goddess: but the grace
Of every Limb in her, bright as the Face,
Presenting Chaster Beauties, did conspire
Only to stile her VVoman: 'twas the fire
Of a religious Mind that made her soar
So high above the Sex, Her faith was more
Then others stumbling blindness; only here
She was Immodest, only bold to fear,
And thence adore: for She I must Confess
'Mongst all her Vertues had this one excess.

295

Forgive, thou all of goodness, if that I
By praising blemish, too much Majesty
Injures it self: where Art cannot express,
It veyls and leaves the rest unto a Guess.
So where weak Imitation failes, enshrowd
The awfull Deity in an envious Cloud;
Hadst thou not been so Good, so Vertuous,
Heaven had never been so Covetous;
Each parcell of thee must away, and we
Not have a Child left to resemble thee;
Nothing to shew thou wert, but what alone
Adds to our Grief, thy Ashes, or thy Stone:
And all our glory only can boast thus,
That we had one made Heaven Envy us;
I now begin to doubt whether it were
A true disease or no; VVe well may fear
VVe did mistake: The Gods whom they'l bereave
Do blindfold first, then plausibly deceive:
The Error's now found out, we are beguil'd,
Thou wert Enammel'd rather than Defil'd.

On Mrs Abigall Long, who dyed of two Impostumes.

So to a stronger guarded Fort we use
More battring Engines. Lest that death should loose
A nobler Conquest, Fates Conspiring come
Like Friendship payr'd into an Union.

Tell me, you fatall Sisters, what rich Spoil,
VVhat worthy Honour, is it to beguile
One Maid by two Fates? while you thus bereave
Of life, you do not conquer, but deceive:

296

Me thinks an old decay'd and worn-out face,
A thing that once was VVoman, and in Grace,
One who each Night in Twenty Boxes lies
All took asunder: one w' hath sent her Eyes,
Her Nose, and Teeth, as Earnests unto Death,
Pawns to the Grave till she resign her Breath
And come her self, me thinks this Ruine might
Suffice and glut the Envy of your spight;
VVhy aime you at the Fair? must you have one
VVhose every Limb doth shew perfection?
VVhose well Compacted Members harmony
Speaks her to be Natures Orthography?
Must she appear your Rage? Why then farewell,
All, all the Vertue that on Earth did dwell.
VVhy do I call it Vertue? 'tis dishonour
Thus to bestow that Mortall little on her;
Something she had more Sacred, more Refin'd
Than Vertue is, something above the Mind
And low Conceit of Man, something which Lame
Expression cannot reach, which wants a Name
'Cause 'twas ne'r known before; which I express
Fittest by leaving it unto a Guess;
She was that one, lent to the Earth to shew
That Heavens Bounty did not only ow
Endowments unto Age, that Vertues were
Not to the Staff Confin'd, or the Gray hair;
One that was fit ev'n in her Youth to be
An Hearer of the best Philosophy;
One that did teach by Carriage; One whose looks
Instructed more effectually than Books,
She was not taught like Others how to place
A loose disordered Hair: the Comb and Glass,
As curious Trifles, rather made for loose
And wanton softness than for honest Use;

297

She did neglect: no Place left for the Checks
Of Carefull Kindred; nothing but the Sex
Was womanish in her; She drest her Mind
As others do their Bodies, and refin'd
That better part with Care, and still did wear
More Jewels in her Manners than her Ear;
The World she past through, as the brighter Sun
Doth through unhallowed Stews and Brothels run,
Untouch'd, and uncorrupted; Sin she knew
As honest Men do Cheating, to eschew
Rather than practice; She might well have drest
All Minds, have dealt her Vertues to each Brest,
Enrich'd her Sex, and yet have still been one
Fit for th'amazed Gods to gaze upon.

Pardon, thou Soul of Goodness, if I wrong
Thine Ample Vertues with a sparing Tongue,
Alas, I am compell'd, speaking of thee,
To use one of thy Vertues, Modesty.

Blest Virgin, but that very Name which cals
Thee blest into an Accusation fals;
Virgin is Imperfection, and we do
Conceive Increase to so much Beauty due;
And alas Beauty is no Phenix; why,
O why then wouldst thou not vouchsafe to try
Those Bonds of freedom, that when death did strike,
The World might shew, though not the same, the like?
Why wert not thou stamp'd in another Face,
That whom we now lament we might embrace?
That after thou hadst been long hid in Clay
Thou might'st appear fresh as the early Day,
And seem unto thy wondring Kindred more
Young, although not more Vertuous than before?

But I disturb thy Peace, sleep then among
Thy Ancestors deceas'd, who have been long

298

Lockt up in Silence, whom thy carefull Love
Doth visit in their Urns, as if thou'dst prove
Friendship in the forgetfull dust, and have
A Family united in the Grave.

Enjoy thy death, Blest Maid, nay further do
Enjoy that Name, that very little too;
Some use there is in Ill; we not repine
Or grudge at thy Disease; it did refine
Rather than kill; and thou art upwards gone,
Made purer even by Corruption.
VVhiles thus to Fate thou dost resign thy Breath,
To thee a Birth-day 'tis, to us a Death.

An Epitaph on Mr. Poultney.

True to himself and Others, with whom both
Did bind alike a Promise and an Oath:
Free without Art, or Project; giving still
VVith no more Snare, or hope, than in his Will:
Whose mast'ring even Mind so ballanc'd all
His Thoughts, that they could neither rise nor fall:
Whose train'd desires ne'r tempted Simple Health,
Taught not to vex but manage compos'd Wealth;
A season'd friend not tainted with Design,
Who made these words grow useless Mine and Thine;
An equall Master, whose sincere Intents
Ne'r chang'd good Servants to bad Instruments:
A Constant Husband not divorc'd by Fate,
Loving, and Lov'd, happy in either State,
To whom the gratefull wife hath sadly drest
One Monument here, Another in her Brest;
Poultney in both doth lye, who hitherto
To Others liv'd, to himself only Now.

299

To the Memory of the most vertuous Mrs Ursula Sadleir, who dyed of a Feaver.

Thou whitest Soul, thou thine own Day,
Not fully'd by the Bodies Clay,
Fly to thy Native Seat,
Surrounded with this Heat,
Make thy Disease which would destroy thee
Thy Charriot only to conveigh thee;
And while thou soar'st and leav'st us here beneath,
Wee'l think it thy translation, not thy death.

But with this Empty feign'd Relief
We do but flatter our Just Grief,
And we as well may say
That Martyr dy'd that day,
Ride up in flames, whom we saw Burn,
And into paler Ashes turn,
Who's he that such a Fate Translation calls
Where the whole Body like the Mantle falls?

But we beguile our Sorrows so
By a false Scene of Specious Woe;
VVee'l weigh, and count, and rate
Our loss, then grieve the Fate.
VVee'l know the measure of her worth,
Then mete and deal our Sadness forth:
And when the Sum's made up, and all is clos'd,
Say Death undid what Love himself Compos'd.

300

What Morns did from her smiling rise?
What day was gather'd in her Eyes?
What Air? what Truth? what Art?
What Musick in each Part?
What Grace? what motion? and what skil?
How all by manage doubled still?
Thus 'twixt her self and Nature was a strife,
Nature Materials brought, but she the Life.

The Rose when't only pleas'd the Sence,
Arm'd with no Thorns to give Offence,
That Rose, as yet Curse-free,
VVas not more mild than She,
Clear as the Tears that did bedew her,
Fresh as the Flowers that bestrew her,
Fair while She was, and when She was not, fair,
Some Ruines more than other Buildings are.

Gardens parch'd up with Heat do so
Her Fate as fainter Emblems show.
Thus Incense doth expire;
Thus perfumes dye in fire;
Thus did Diana's Temple burn,
And all her Shrines to Ashes turn.
As She a fairer Temple far did waste
She that was far more Goddess, and more Chaste.

Returning thus as innocent
To Heav'n as she to Earth was lent,
Snatch'd hence ere she drank in
The Taint of Age and Sin,
Her Mind being yet a Paradise,
Free from all VVeeds of spreading Vice,
VVe may Conclude her Feaver, without doubt
VVas but the Flaming Sword to keep Eve out.

301

On the Queens Return from the Low Countries.

Hallow the Threshold, Crown the Posts anew,
The Day shall have it's Due;
Twist all Our Victories into one bright Wreath,
On which let Honour breath;
Then throw it round the Temples of our Queen,
'Tis She that must preserve those glories green.

Courage was cast about her like a Dress
Of Solemn Comeliness;
A gather'd Mind, and an untroubled Face,
Did give her Dangers Grace;
Thus Arm'd with Innocence, secure they move,
Whose highest Treason is but highest Love.

As some bright Star that runs a Direct Course,
Yet with anothers force
Mixeth it's Vertue in a full Dispence
Of one joynt Influence,
Such was her Mind to th' Kings, in all was done;
The Agents diverse, but the Action one.

302

Look then upon her Self, Beautious in Mind,
Scarce Angels more refin'd;
Her Actions Blanch'd, her Conscience still her Sway,
And that not fearing Day:
Then you'l confess She casts a double Beam,
Much shining by her self, but more by them.

Receive her then as the New Springing Light
After a tedious Night:
As holy Hermits do revealed Truth,
Or Æson did his Youth;
Her presence is our Guard, our Strength, our Store,
The Cold snatch some flames thence, the Valiant more.

But something yet Our Holy Priests will say
Is wanting to the Day;
'Twere Sin to let so blest a Feast arise
Without a Sacrifice:
True, if our Flocks were full; but being all
Are gone, the Many-headed Beast must fall.

303

Upon the death of the Right valiant Sir Bevill Grenvill Knight.

Not to be wrought by Malice, Gain, or Pride,
To a Compliance with the Thriving side;
Not to take Arms for love of Change, or Spight;
But only to maintain afflicted Right;
Not to dye vainly in pursuit of Fame,
Perversly seeking after Voice and Name;
Is to resolve, fight, dye, as Martyrs do,
And thus did he, Souldier and Martyr too.

He might (like some reserved men of State,
Who looke not to the Cause, but to it's Fate)
Have stood aloof, engag'd on neither side,
Prepar'd at last to strike in with the Tide:
But well-weigh'd Reason told him, that when Law
Either's renounc'd, or misapply'd by th'awe
Of false-nam'd Patriots, that when the Right
Of King and Subject is suppress'd by Might;
When all Religion either is refus'd
As meer Pretence, or meerly as that us'd,
When thus the fury of Ambition swels,
Who is not Active, Modestly Rebels.
Whence in a just esteem to Church and Crown,
He offered all, and nothing thought his own:
This thrust him into Action, whole and free,
Knowing no Interest but Loyalty;
Not loving Arms as Arms, or Strife for Strife;
Nor wastfull, nor yet sparing of his Life;

304

A great Exactor of himself, and then,
By fair Commands, no less of other men;
Courage and Judgment had their equall part,
Counsell was added to a generous heart;
Affairs were justly tim'd, nor did he catch
At an affected Fame of quick dispatch;
Things were prepar'd, debated, and then done,
Not rashly broke, or vainly overspun;
False Periods no where by design were made,
As are by those that make the War their Trade;
The Building still was suited to the Ground
Whence ev'ry Action issu'd full and round.
We know who blind their men with specious Lyes,
With Revelations, and with Prophesies,
Who promise two things to obtain a third,
And are themselves by the like motives stirr'd.
By no such engins he his Souldiers drawes,
He knew no Arts but Courage, and the Cause:
With these he brought them on as well train'd Men,
And with those two he brought them off agen.

I should I know track him through all the Course
Of his great Actions, shew their worth and force;
But although all are handsome, yet we cast
A more intensive Eye still on the last.

When now th' incensed Legions proudly came
Downe like a Torrent without Bank or Dam:
When undeserv'd success urg'd on their force;
That Thunder must come downe to stop their Course,
Or Greenvill must step in; Then Greenvill stood,
And with himselfe oppos'd, and check'd the Floud.
Conquest or Death was all his thought. So fire
Either o'rcomes, or doth it self expire:
His Courage work 't like flames, cast heat about,
Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out;

305

Not any Pike in that renowned Stand,
But tooke new force from his inspiring hand:
Souldier encourag'd Souldier, Man urg'd Man,
And he urg'd all; so much example can:
Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call,
He was the But, the Mark, the Aim of all:
His Soul this while retir'd from Cell to Cell,
At last flew up from all, and then he fell.
But the devoted stand enraged more
From that his Fate, ply'd hotter than before,
And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yeeld
Each sought an honour'd Grave, so gain'd the field.
Thus he being fall'n, his Action fought anew;
And the Dead Conquer'd, whiles the Living slew.

This was not Natures Courage, nor that thing
We Valour call, which Time and Reason bring;
But a diviner fury fierce and high,
Valour transported into Extasie,
Which Angels looking on us from above.
Use to convey into the Souls they love.

And thou (Blest Soul) whose clear compacted Fame,
As Amber bodies keeps, preserves thy Name,

306

We, who ere while did boast his Presence, do
Now boast a second Grace his Bounty too;
Bounty was Judgement here: for he bestows,
Not who disperseth, but who gives and knows.
And what more wise design, than to renew,
And dress the Brest from whence he knowledge drew;
Thus pious Men, ere their departure, first
Would Crown the fountain that had quench'd their thirst

Hence strive we all his Memory to engross,
Our Common Love before, but now our Loss.

On the Death of the Most hopefull, the Lord Stafford. 1640.

Must then our Loves be short still? must we Choose
Not to enjoy, only admire and lose?
Must Axioms hence grow sadly understood,
And we thus see 'tis dangerous to be good?
So Books begun are broken off, and we
Receive a Fragment for an History:
And as 'twere present Wealth, which was but Debt,
Lose that of which we were not Owners yet.
But as in Books that want the closing Line,
We only can conjecture and repine:
So we must here too only grieve, and guess,
And by our Fancy make what's wanting less.
Thus when rich Webs are left unfinished,
The Spider doth supply them with his thread;
For tell me, what addition can be wrought
To him whose Youth was ev'n the bound of Thought?
Whose Buddings did deserve the Robe, whiles we
In smoothness did the Deeds of Wrinkles see?

307

When his State Nonage might have been thought fit
To break the Custome, and allow'd to sit;
His Actions veil'd his Age, and could not stay,
For that which we call Ripeness and just Day.
Others may wait the Staff and the Gray Hair,
And call that Wisdom which is only Fear;
Christen a Coldness, Temp'rance, and then boast
Full and ripe Vertues when all Action's lost:
This is not to be Noble, but be slack,
And to be good only by th' Almanack;
He who thus staies the Season and expects,
Doth not gain Habits, but disguise defects.
Here Nature outstrip'd Culture, he came try'd,
Streight of himself at first, not Rectifi'd;
Manners so pleasing and so handsome cast,
That still that overcame which was seen last;
All Minds were Captiv'd thence, as if't had been
The same to him to have been lov'd and seen;
Had he not been snatch'd thus, what drove Hearts now
Into his Nets would have driv'n Cities too:
For these his Essays which began to win,
Were but bright Sparks that shew the Mine within;
Rude draughts unto the Picture, things we may
Stile the first Beams of the Encreasing Day;
Which did but only great discoveries bring,
As outward Coolness shews the Inward Spring;
Had he then liv'd; Pow'r ne'r had been thought short
That could not Crush, taught only to support.
No Poor-mans Sighs had been the Lords Perfumes,
No Tenants Nakedness had hung his Rooms,
No Tears had sowr'd his wines, no tedious-Long-
Festivall-service been the Countri's wrong;
A Wretch's Famine had been no dish then,
Nor Greatness thought to eat no Beasts, but Men;

308

Nor had that been esteem'd a Politick Grace
When Sutors came to shew a serious Face;
Or when an humble Cosen did pass by,
Put saving Bus'ness in his frugall Eye;
Things of Injustice then and Potent Hate
Had not been done for th' profit of the State;
Nor had it been the Privilege of High Bloud
To back their Injuries with the Kingdoms good:
Servants and Engines had been two things then,
And difference made 'twixt Instruments and Men.
Nor were his Actions to Content the sight,
Like Artists peeces plac'd in a good Light
That they might take at distance, and obtrude
Something unto the Eye that might delude;
His Deeds did all most perfect then appear
When you observ'd, view'd Close, and did stand neer:
For could there ought else spring from him whose line
From whence he sprung was Rule and Discipline?
Whose Vertues were as Books before him set,
So that they did instruct who did beget;
Taught thence not to be powerfull but know,
Shewing he was their bloud by living so:
For whereas some are by their big Lip known,
Others b' imprinted burning Swords were Shewn,
So they by great deeds are, from which bright Fame
Engraves free Reputation on their Name.
These are their Native marks, and it hath been
The Stafford's lot to have their Signs within.
And though this firm Hæreditary Good
Might boasted be as flowing with the Bloud,
Yet he ne'r grasp'd this stay, but as those, who
Carry Perfumes about them still, scarce do
Themselves perceive 'em, though another's Sense
Suck in th' exhaling Odours: so he thence

309

Ne'r did perceive he carried this good Smell,
But made new still by doing himself well.
T' embalm him then were Vain, where spreading Fame
Supplies the want of Spices, where the Name,
It self preserving, may for oyntment pass,
And he still seen lie Coffin'd as in Glass.
VVhiles thus his Bud is full Flower, and his sole
Beginning doth reproach anothers whole;
Coming so perfect up, that there must needs
Have been found out new Titles for new Deeds;
Though Youth and Laws forbid, which will not let
Statues be rais'd, or he stand brazen yet,
Our minds retaine this Royalty of Kings,
Not to be bound to Time, but judge of things,
And VVorship as they Merit; there we do
Place him at height, and he stands golden too.
A Comfort, but not equall to the Cross;
A fair Remander, but not like the Loss:
For he the last Pledge being gone, we do
Not only lose the Heir, but th' Honour too.
Set we up then this Boast against our wrong,
He left no other Sign that he was young:
And spight of Fate his Living Vertues will,
Though He be dead, keep up the Barr'nny still.

To the Memory of the Most Worthy, Sir Henry Spelman.

Though now the Times perhaps be such that nought
VVas left thee but to dye, and 'twill be thought
An Exprobration to rehearse thy Deeds,
Thriving as Flowers among these courser VVeeds,

310

I cannot yet forbear to grieve, and tell
Thy skill to know, thy Valour to do well.

And what can we do less, when thou art gone
Whose Tenents as thy Manners were thine own;
In not the same Times both the same; not mixt
With th' Ages Torrent, but still clear and Fixt;
As gentle Oyl upon the Streams doth glide
Not mingling with them, though it Smooth the Tide?

What can we less, when thou art gone, whom we
Thought only so much living History?
Thou sifted'st long-hid Dust to find lost Ore
And searchedst Rubbish to encrease our Store.
Things of that Age thou shew'dst, that they seem'd new,
And stand admir'd as if they now first grew;
Time in thy learned Pages, as the Sun
On Ahaz Diall, does thus backward run.

Nor did'st thou this affectedly, as they
Whom Humour leads to know out of the Way:
Thy aym was Publike in't; thy Lamp and Night
Search'd untrod Paths only to set us right;
Thou didst consult the Ancients and their Writ,
To guard the Truth, not exercise the Wit;
Taking but what they said; not, as some do,
To find out what they may be wrested to;
Nor Hope, nor Faction, bought thy Mind to side,
Conscience depos'd all Parts, and was sole Guide.
So 'tis when Authors are not Slaves, but Men,
And do themselves maintain their own free Pen.

This 'twas that made the Priest in every Line,
This 'twas that made the Churches Cause be thine;
Who perhaps hence hath suffer'd the less wrong,
And ows thee much because sh' hath stood so long;
That though her Dress, her Discipline now faints,
Yet her Endowments fall not with her Saints.

311

This 'twas that made thee ransack all thy Store
To shew our Mother what she was before;
What Laws past, what Decrees; the Where, and When
Her Tares were sow'n, and how pull'd up agen;
A Body of that Building, and that Dress,
That Councels may Conspire and yet do less.

Nor doth late Practise take thee, but old Rights,
Witness that Charitable Piece that lights
Our Corps to unbought Graves, though Custome led
So against Nature, as to tax the dead.
Though use had made the Land oft purchas'd be,
And though oft purchas'd keep Propriety;
So that the well Prepared did yet fear,
Though not to dye, yet to undo the Heyr,

Had we what else thy Taper saw thee glean,
'Twould teach our Days perhaps a safer Mean;
Though what we see be much, it may be guess'd
As great was Shewn, so greater was suppress'd.

Go then, go up, Rich Soul; while we here grieve,
Climb till thou see what we do but believe;
VV' have not time to rate thee; thy Fate's such,
VVe know we've lost; our Sons will say how much.

To the Memory of Ben Johnson. Laureat.

Father of Poets, though thine own great Day
Struck from thy Self, scorns that a weaker wray
Should twine in Lustre with it, yet my flame
Kindled from thine, flies upward towards thy name:
For in the acclamation of the less
There's Piety, though from it no access:

312

And though my ruder Thoughts make me of those
Who hide and Cover what they should disclose,
Yet where the Lustre's such, he makes it seen
Better to some that draws the Veyl between.

And what can more be hop'd, since that divine
Free filling Spirit takes it's flight with thine?
Men may have Fury, but no Raptures now,
Like Witches Charm, yet not know whence, nor how,
And through distemper grown not strong, but fierce,
Instead of writing, only Rave in Verse;
Which when by thy Laws judg'd, 'twill be confess'd
'Twas not to be inspir'd, but be possest.

Where shall we find a Muse like thine, that can
So well present, and shew Man unto Man,
That each one finds his Twin, and thinks thy Art
Extends not to the Gestures, but the Heart?
VVhere one so shewing life to life, that we
Think thou taught'st Custome, and not Custome thee;
Manners were Themes, and to thy Scenes still flow
In the same Stream, and are their Comments now;
These Times thus living o'r thy Models, we
Think them not so much VVit, as Prophecie;
And though we know the Character, may and swear
A Sybils finger hath been bufie there.
Things Common thou speak'st proper, which though known
For publike, stamp'd by Thee, grow thence thine own;
Thy thought's so Ord'red, so express'd, that we
Conclude that thou did'st nor discourse, but see:
Language so master'd, that thy numerous feet
Laden with genuine words do alwaies meet
Each in his Art, nothing unfit doth fall,
Shewing the Poet, like the wise men, All.
Thine equall skill thus wresting nothing, made
Thy Pen seem not so much to write, as Trade.

313

That life, that Venus of all Things, which we
Conceive or shew, proportion'd Decency,
Is not found scatt'red in thee here or there,
But like the Soul is wholly every where;
No strange perplexed maze doth pass for plot,
Thou alwaies dost unty, not cut the Knot:
Thy Labyrinth's doors are open'd by one Thread
VVhich tyes and runs through all that's done or said;
No Power comes down wish learned Hat or Rod,
VVit only and Contrivance is thy God.

'Tis easie to gild Gold, there's small skill spent
VVhere ev'n the first rude Mass is Ornament;
Thy Muse took harder Metals, purg'd and boyl'd,
Labour'd and try'd, heated, and beat, and toyl'd,
Sifted the Dross, fyl'd Roughness, then gave dress,
Vexing rude Subjects into Comeliness;
Be it thy Glory then that we may say,
Thou run'st where th' foot was hind'red by the way.

Nor dost thou powre out, but dispence thy vein,
Skill'd when to spare, and when to entertain;
Not like our VVits, who into one piece do
Throvv all that they can say and their friends too;
Pumping themselves for one Terms noise so dry
As if they made their VVils in Poetry.
And such spruce Compositions press the Stage
When men transcribe themselves, and not the Age;
Both sorts of Plays are thus like Pictures shovvn,
Thine of the Common life, theirs of their ovvn.

Thy Models yet are not so fram'd as vve
May call them Libels, and not Imag'ry;
No name on any Basis; 'tis thy skill
To strike the Vice, but spare the Person still:
As he vvho vvhen he savv the Serpent vvreath'd
About his sleeping Son, and as he breath'd,

314

Drink in his Soul, did so the shoot contrive,
To kill the Beast, but keep the Child alive;
So dost thou aime thy Darts, which ev'n when
They kill the Poisons, do but wake the Men.
Thy Thunders thus but purge, and we endure
Thy Lancings better than another's Cure;
And justly too, for th' Age grows more unsound
From the Fools Balsam, than the wise Mans wound.

No rotten talk breaks for a laugh; no Page
Commenc'd man by th' Instructions of thy Stage;
No barganing line there; no provoc'tive Verse;
Nothing but what Lucretia might rehearse;
No need to make good Count'nance Ill, and Use
The Plea of strict life for a looser Muse;
No VVoman rul'd thy Quill; we can descry
No Verse born under any Cynthia's Eye;
Thy Star was Judgement only and right Sense,
Thy Self being to thy self an Influence:
Stout Beauty is thy Grace; Stern pleasures do
Present delights, but mingle horrours too:
Thy Muse doth thus like Joves fierce Girl appear,
With a fair Hand, but grasping of a Spear.

Where are they now that cry thy Lamp did drink
More Oyl than th' Author Wine while he did think?
We do embrace their slander; thou hast writ
Not for Dispatch, but Fame; no Market wit;
'Twas not thy Care that it might pass and sel,
But that it might endure, and be done well;
Nor wouldst thou venture it unto the Ear,
Untill the File would not make smooth, but wear:
Thy Verse came season'd hence, and would not give;
Born not to feed the Author, but to live:
Whence 'mong the choicer Judges rose a strife,
To make thee read a Classick in thy life.

315

Those that do hence applause, and suffrage beg,
'Cause they can Poems form upon one Leg,
Write not to time, but to the Poets Day;
There's difference between Fame and sudden pay:
These Men sing Kingdoms fals as if that Fate
Us'd the same force to a Village, and a State;
These serve Thyeste's Bloudy Supper in,
As if it had only a Sallad been;
Their Catilines are but Fencers, whose fights rise
Not to the Fame of Battell, but of Prize.
But thou still puts true Passions on; dost write
With the same Courage that tri'd Captains fight;
Giv'st the right Blush and colour unto things;
Low without creeping, high without loss of Wings;
Smooth, yet not weak, and by a thorough Care,
Big without swelling, without Painting fair:
They, wretches, while they cannot stand to fit,
Are not Wits, but Materials of Wit.
VVhat though thy searching Muse did rake the Dust
Of Time, and purge old Metals of their Rust?
Is it no labour, no Art, think they, to
Snatch Shipwracks from the Deep as Divers do?
And rescue Jewels from the Covetous Sand,
Making the Seas hid VVealth adorn the Land?
VVhat though thy culling Muse did rob the store
Of Greek and Latine Gardens, to bring o'r
Plants to thy Native Soyl? their Vertues were
Improv'd far more, by being planted here:
If thy Still to their Essence doth refine
So many Drugs, is not the VVater thine?
Thefts thus become Just works; they and their grace
Are wholly thine; thus doth the Stamp and Face
Make that the King's that's ravish'd from the Mine;
In others then 'tis Oare, in thee 'tis Coin.

316

Blest life of Authours, unto whom we owe
Those that we have, and those that we want too:
Th'art all so good, that reading makes thee worse,
And to have writ so well's thine onely curse.
Secure then of thy merit, thou didst hate
That servile base dependance upon fate:
Successe thou ne'r thoughtst vertue, nor that fit,
Which chance, and th'ages fashion did make hit;
Excluding those from life in after-time,
Who into Po'try first brought luck and rime:
Who thought the peoples breath good ayre: sty'ld name
What was but noise; and getting Briefes for fame
Gathered the many's suffrages, and thence
Made commendation a benevolence:
Thy thoughts were their owne Lawrell, and did win
That best applause of being crown'd within.

And though th'exacting age, when deeper yeeres
Had interwoven snow among thy haires,
Would not permit thou shouldst grow old, cause they
Nere by thy writings knew thee young; we may
Say justly, they're ungratefull, when they more
Condemn'd thee, cause thou wert so good before:
Thine Art was thine Arts blurre, and they'll confesse
Thy strong perfumes made them not smell thy lesse.
But, though to erre with thee be no small skill,
And we adore the last draughts of thy Quill:
Though those thy thoughts, which the now queasie age,
Doth count but clods, and refuse of the stage,
Will come up Porcelaine-wit some hundreds hence,
When there will be more manners, and more sense;
'Twas judgement yet to yeeld, and we afford
Thy silence as much fame, as once thy word:
Who like an aged oake, the leaves being gone,
Wast food before, art now religion;
Thought still more rich, though not so richly stor'd,
View'd and enjoy'd before, but now ador'd.

Great soule of numbers, whom we want and boast;
Like curing gold, most valu'd now th'art lost;
When we shall feed on refuse offalls, when
We shall from corne to akornes turne agen;
Then shall we see that these two names are one,
Johnson and Poetry, which now are gone.

317

On the Nativity.

[_]

For the Kings Musick.

Omnes
Heark,

1.
'Tis the Nuptiall Day of Heav'n and Earth;

2.
The Fathers Marriage, and the Sons blest Birth:

3.
The Spheres are giv'n us as a Ring; that Bliss,
Which we call Grace is but the Deitie's Kiss,

Ch.
And what we now do hear Blest Spirits sing,
Is but the happy Po'sie of that Ring.

1.
Whiles Glory thus takes Flesh, & th' Heav'ns are bow'd,
May we not say God Comes down in a Cloud?

2.
Peace dropping thus on Earth, Good will on Men,
May we not say that Manna fals agen?

Ch.
All Wonders we Confess are only his:
But of these Wonders, He the greatest is.

1.
The Mother felt no pangs; for he did pass
As subtle Sun-beams do through purer Glass.

2.
The Virgin no more loss of Name did find,
Than when her Vertues Issu'd from her Mind.

Ch.
The Lilly of the Valleys thus did ow
Unto no Gard'ners Hands that he did grow.

1.
Blest Babe, thy Birth makes Heaven in the Stall;

2.
And we the Manger may thy Altar call:

318

3.
Thine and thy Mothers Eyes as Stars appear;
The Bull no Beast, but Constellation here.

Ch.
Thus Both were Born, the Gospell and the Law,
Moses in Flags did lye, thou in the Straw.
Open O Hearts,

1.
These Gates lift up will win

2.
The King of Glory here to enter in;

3.
Flesh is his Veyl, and House: whiles thus we wooe,
The World will dwell among, and in us too.

Ch.
Flesh is his Veyl, &c.

On the Circumcision.

[_]

For the Kings Musick.

1.
Gently, O Gently, Father, do not bruise
That Tender Vine that hath no Branch to lose;

2.
Be not too Cruel, see the Child doth Smile,
His Bloud was but his Mothers Milk erewhile,

1 Lev.
Fear not the pruning of your Vine,
Hee'l turn your Water into Wine;

2 Lev.
The Mothers Milk that's now his Bloud,
Hereafter will become her Food.

Chor.
'Tis done; so doth the Balsam Tree endure
The Cruell Wounds of those whom it must Cure.

1 Lev.
'Tis but the Passions Essay: This young loss
Only preludes unto his Riper Cross.

1.
Avert, good Heav'n, avert that Fate
To so much Beauty so much Hate.

2 Lev.
Where so great Good is meant
The Bloud's not lost, but spent.

Chor.
Thus Princes feel what People do amise;
The swelling's Ours, although the Lancing his.

2.
When ye fair Heavens White Food bled,
The Rose, say they, from thence grew Red,

319

O then what more Miraculous good,
Must spring from this diviner Floud?

2 Lev.
When that the Rose it self doth bleed,
That Bloud will be the Churches Seed.

Cho.
When that the Rose, &c.

On the Epiphany.

[_]

For the Kings Musick.

1 Mag.
See this is He, whose Star
Did becken us from far;

2 Ma.
And this the Mother whom the Heavens do
Honour, and like Her, bring forth New Stars too.

3 Ma.
I know not which my Thoughts ought first admire:
Here Shew, O Heav'n, another guiding fire.

Cho.
Alas, this Wonder's so above our Skill,
That though w' have found him, we may seek him still.

1 Ma.
Since that our own are Silenc'd, This Mouth be
A more Inspired Oracle to me.

2 Ma.
And these Eyes be my Stars, my Light,

3 Ma.
And this Hand wash an Ethiop white.

Cho.
Wisdom Commands the Stars (we say)
But it was Ours thus to obey.

1 Ma.
He makes our Gold seem Pebble stone;

2 Ma.
Sure 'tis their Greater Solomon;

1 Ma.
Our Myrrh and Frankinsence must not Contest;

3 Ma.
Diviner Perfumes breath from off her Breast.

2 Ma.
Blest Babe, receive our now disparag'd store:

3 Ma.
And where we cann't express, let us Adore.

Cho.
Who against Policy will hence convince,
That Land is blest, that hath so young a Prince.

To the King.
But as those Wise enrich'd his Stable, You
Great Soveraign, have enrich'd his Temple too,
The Inn by You hath not the Church beguil'd;
The Manger to the Altar's Reconcil'd:

320

Since then their Wisdom is by Yours out-gone,
Instead of Three Kings, Fame shall speak of One.

Cho.
Since then, &c.

Confession.

I do confess, O God, my wand'ring Fires
Are kindled not from Zeal, but loose desires;
My ready Tears, shed from Instructed Eyes,
Have not been Pious Griefs, but Subtleties;
And only sorry that Sins miss, I ow
To thwarted wishes al the Sighs I blow:
My Fires thus merit Fire; my Tears the fall
Of Showers provoke; my Sighs for Blasts do call.
O then Descend in Fire; but let it be
Such as snatch'd up the Prophet; such as We
Read of in Moses Bush, a Fire of Joy,
Sent to Enlighten, rather than Destroy.
O then Descend in Showers: But let them be
Showers only and not Tempests; such as we
Feel from the Mornings Eye-lids; such as Feed,
Not Choak the sprouting of the Tender Seed.
O then descend in Blasts: But let them be
Blasts only, and not Whirlwinds; Such as we
Take in for Health's sake, soft and easie Breaths,
Taught to Conveigh Refreshments, and not Deaths.
So shall the Fury of my Fires asswage,
And that turn Fervour which was Brutish Rage;
So shall my Tears be then untaught to feign,
And the diseased Waters Heal'd again;
So shall my Sighs not be as Clouds t'invest
My Sins with Night, but VVinds to purge my Brest.

FINIS.