University of Virginia Library

In all the parts of Earth, from farthest West,
And the Atlanticke Isles, unro the East
And famous Ganges; Few there be that know
What's truly good, and what is good in show
Without mistake: For what is't we desire,
Or feare discreetly? to what e're aspire,
So throughly blest; but ever as we speed,
Repentance seales the very Act, and deed.
The easie gods mov'd by no other Fate,
Then our owne pray'rs whole Kingdomes ruinate,
And undoe Families, thus strife, and warre
Are the swords prize, and a litigious barre
The Gownes prime wish; vain confidence to share
In empty honours, and a bloudy care,
To be the first in mischiefe, makes him dye
Fool'd 'twixt ambition, and credulitie;
An oilie tongue with fatall, cunning fence,
And that sad vertue ever, Eloquence,
Are th'others ruine; but the common curse,
And each dayes ill waits on the rich mans purse:
He, whose large acres, and imprison'd gold
So far exceeds his Fathers store of old,
As Brittish Whales the Dolphins doe surpasse.

In sadder times therefore, and when the Lawes
Of Nero's fiat raign'd; an armed band
Ceas'd on Longinus, and the spacious Land
Of wealthy Seneca, besieg'd the gates
Of Lateranus, and his faire estate
Divided as a spoile; In such sad Feasts,
Souldiers (though not invited) are the guests.

Though thou small peeces of the blessed Mine
Hast lodg'd about thee; travelling in the shine
Of a pale Moone, if but a Reed doth shake,
Mov'd by the wind, the shadow makes thee quake.
Wealth hath its cares, and want hath this reliefe,
It neither feares the Souldier, nor the Thiefe;

Thy first choyce vowes, and to the Gods best knowne,
Are for thy stores encrease, that in all towne
Thy stocke be greatest, but no poyson lyes
I'th' poore mans dish, he tasts of no such spice:
Be that thy care, when with a Kingly gust,
Thou suck'st whole Bowles clad in the guilded dust
Of some rich minerall; whilst the false Wine
Sparkles aloft, and makes the draught Divine.

Blam'st thou the Sages then? because the one
Would still be laughing, when he would be gone
From his owne doore, the other cryed to see
His times addicted to such vanity?
Smiles are an easie purchase, but to weep
Is a hard act, for teares are fetch'd more deep;
Democritus his nimble Lungs would tyre
With constant laughter, and yet keep entire
His stocke of mirth, for ev'ry object was
Addition to his store; though then (Alas!)
Sedans, and Litters, and our Senat Gownes,
With Robes of honour, fasces, and the frownes
Of unbrib'd Tribunes were not seene; but had
He lived to see our Roman Prætor clad
In Ioves owne mantle, seated on his high
Embroyder'd Chariot 'midst the dust and Crie
Of the large Theatre, loaden with a Crowne
Which scarse he could support, for it would downe,
But that his servant props it) and close by
His page a witnes to his vanitie:
To these his Scepter, and his Eagle adde
His Trumpets, Officers, and servants clad
In white, and purple; with the rest that day,
He hir'd to triumph for his bread, and pay;
Had he these studied, sumptuous follies seene,
'Tis thought his wanton, and effusive spleene
Had kill'd the Abderite, though in that age
(When pride & greatnes had not swell'd the stage
So high as ours) his harmles, and just mirth
From ev'ry object had a suddaine birth;
Nor wast alone their avarice, or pride,
Their triumphs, or their cares he did deride;
Their vaine contentions, or ridiculous feares;
But even their very poverty, and teares.
He would at fortunes threats as freely smile
As others mourne; nor was it to beguile
His crafty passions; but this habit he
By nature had, and grave Philosophie.
He knew their idle and superfluous vowes,
And sacrifice, which such wrong zeale bestowes,
Were meere Incendiaries; and that the gods
Not pleas'd therewith, would ever be at ods;
Yet to no other aire, nor better place
Ow'd he his birth, then the cold, homely Thrace;
Which shewes a man may be both wise, & good,
Without the brags of fortune, or his bloud.

But envy ruines all: What mighty names
Of fortune, spirit, action, bloud, and fame,
Hath this destroy'd? yea, for no other cause
Then being such; their honour, worth, and place,
Was crime enough; their statues, arms & crowns;
Their ornaments of Triumph, Chariots, Gowns,
And what the Herauld with a learned care,
Had long preserv'd, this madnes will not spare.

So once Sejanus Statue Rome allow'd
Her Demi-god, and ev'ry Roman bow'd
To pay his safeties vowes; but when that face
Had lost Tyberius once, it's former grace
Was soone eclips'd; no diff'rence made (Alas!)
Betwixt his Statue then, and common Brasse;
They melt alike, and in the Workmans hand
For equall, servile use, like others stand.

Goe now fetch home fresh Bayes, and pay new vowes
To thy dumbe Capitoll gods! thy life, thy house,
And state are now secur'd; Sejanus lyes
I'th' Lictors hands; ye gods! what hearts, & eyes
Can one dayes fortune change? the solemne crye
Of all the world is, Let Sejanus dye:
They never lov'd the man they sweare, they know
Nothing of all the matter; when, or how,
By what accuser, for what cause, or why,
By whose command, or sentence he must dye.
But what needs this? the least pretence will hit,
When Princes feare, or hate a Favourite.
A large Epistle stuff'd with idle feare,
Vaine dreames, and jealousies, directed here
From Caprea does it; And thus ever dye
Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high.

'Tis well, I seeke no more; but tell me how
This tooke his friends? no private murmurs now?
No teares? no solemne mourner seene? must all
His Glory perish in one funerall?
O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise
The Moone by night; but court the warmer rayes
O'th' Sun by day; they follow fortune still,
And hate, or love discreetly, as their will
And the time leades them; This tumultuous fate
Puts all their painted favours out of date:

And yet this people that now spurne, & tread
This mighty Favourites once honour'd head,
Had but the Tuscaine goddesse, or his Stars
Destin'd him for an Empire or had wars,
Treason, or policie, or some higher pow'r
Opprest secure Tyberius; that same houre
That he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doome,
Had crown'd him Emp'ror of the world & Rome.

But Rome is now growne wise, & since that she
Her Suffrages, and ancient Libertie,
Lost in a Monarchs name; she takes no care
For Favourite, or Prince; nor will she share
Their fickle glories, though in Cato's dayes
She rul'd whole States, & Armies with her voice,
Of all the honours now within her walls,
She only doats on Playes, and Festivalls:
Nor is it strange; for when these Meteors fall,
They draw an ample ruine with them; All
Share in the storm; each beame sets with the Sun,
And equall hazard friends, and flatt'rers run.
This makes, that circled with distractive feare
The livelesse, pale Sejanus limbes they teare,
And least the action might a witnesse need,
They bring their servants to confirme the deed,
Nor is it done for any other end,
Then to avoid the title of his friend.
So fals ambitious man, and such are still
All floating States built on the peoples will:

Hearken all you! whom this bewitching lust
Of an houres glory, and a little dust
Swels to such deare repentance! you that can
Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span
Would you be as Sejanus? would you have
So you might sway as he did, such a grave?
Would you be rich as he? command, dispose,
All Acts, and Offices? All friends, and foes?
Be Generalls of Armies, and Colleague
Unto an Emperour? breake, or make a league?
No doubt you would; for both the good, and bad,
An eqnall itch of honour ever had:
But O what State can be so great, or good,
As to be bought with so much shame, and bloud!
Alas! Sejanus will too late confesse
'Twas only pride, and greatnes made him lesse:
For he that moveth with the lofty wind
Of Fortune, and ambition, unconfin'd
In act, or thought; doth but increase his height,
That he may loose it with more force, & weight;
Scorning a base, low ruine, as if he
Would of misfortune, make a Prodigie.

Tell mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thou
That mad'st Rome kneele to thy victorious brow,
What but the weight of honours, and large fame
After your worthy Acts, and height of name,
Destroy'd you in the end? the envious Fates
Easie to further your aspiring States,
Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excesse
In ev'ry Act did make you thrive the lesse:
Few Kings are guiltie of gray haires, or dye
Without a stab, a draught, or trecherie:
And yet to see him, that but yesterday
Saw letters first, how he will scrape, and pray;
And all her Feast-time tyre Minervaes eares
For Fame, for Eloquence, and store of yeares
To thrive and live in; and then lest he doates,
His boy assists him with his boxe, and notes;
Foole that thou art! not to discerne the ill
These vows include: what, did Rom's Consull kill
Her Cicero? what, him whose very dust
Greece celebrates as yet; whose cause though just,
Scarse banishment could end; nor poyson saye
His free borne person from a forraigne grave:
All this from Eloquence! both head, and hand,
The tongue doth forfeit; pettie wits may stand
Secure from danger, but the nobler veine,
With losse of bloud the barre doth often staine.

O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam.

Carmen Ciceronianum.

Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the sword
Of fierce Antonius, here is not one word
Doth pinch, I like such stuffe; 'tis safer far
Then thy Philippicks, or Pharsalia's war:
What sadder end then his, whom Athens saw
At once her Patriot, Oracle, and Law?
Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in Stars,
Whom his poore Father, blind with soot, & scars
Sends from the Anviles harmles chine, to weare
The factious gowne, and tyre his Clients eare,
And purse with endles noise; Trophies of war
Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar;
And wheeles of captiv'd Chariots, with a peece
Of some torne Brittish Galley, and to these
The Ensigne too, and last of all the traine
The pensive pris'ner loaden with his Chaine,
Are thought true Roman honors; these the Greek
And rude Barbarians equally doe seeke
Thus aire, and empty fame, are held a prize
Beyond faire vertue; for all vertue dyes
Without reward; And yet by this fierce lust
Of Fame, and titles to ovtlive our dust,
And Monuments; (though all these things must dye
And perish like our selves) whole Kingdomes lye
Ruin'd, and spoil'd: Put Hannibal i'th' scale,
What weight affords the mighty Generall?
This is the man, whom Africks spacious Land
Bounded by th'Indian Sea, and Niles hot sand,
Could not containe; (Ye gods! that give to men
Such boundles appetites, why state you them
So short a time? either the one deny,
Or give their acts, and them Eternitie)
All Æthiopia, to the utmost bound
Of Titans course, (then which no Land is found
Lesse distant from the Sun) with him that ploughs
That fertile soile where fram'd Iberus flowes,
Are not enough to conquer; past now o're
The Pyrene hills, The Alps with all its store
Of Ice, and Rocks clad in eternall snow
(As if that Nature meant to give the blow)
Denyes him passage; straight on ev'ry side
He wounds the Hill, and by strong hand divides
The monstrous pile, nought can ambition stay
The world, and nature yeeld to give him way:
And now past o're the Alps, that mighty bar
'Twixt France, and Rome, feare of the future war
Strikes Italy; successe, and hope doth fire
His lofty spirits with a fresh desire.
All is undone as yet (saith he) unlesse
Our Pænish forces we advance, and presse
Upon Rome's selfe; break downe her gates, & wall,
And plant our Colours in Suburra's Vale.
O the rare slight! if this great souldier wee
Arm'd on his Getick Elephant might see!
But what's the event? O glory! how the itch
Of thy short wonders doth mankinde bewitch!
He that but now all Italy, and Spaine,
Had conquer'd o're, is beaten out againe;
And in the heart of Africk, and the sight
Of his owne Carthage, forc'd to open flight.
Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he posts
To Syria first, then to Bythinia's Coasts;
Both places by his sword secur'd; though he
In this distresse must not acknowledg'd be;
Where once a Generall he triumphed, now
To shew what Fortune can, he begs as low.

And thus that soule, which through all nations hurl'd
Conquest, and warre, and did amaze the world;
Of all those glories rob'd at his last breath,
Fortune would not vouchsafe a souldiers death,
For all that bloud the field of Cannæ boasts,
And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghoasts:
No other end (freed from the pile, and sword)
Then a poore Ring would Fortune him afford.

Goe now ambitious man! new plots designe,
March o're the snowie Alps, and Apennine;
That after all, at best thou mayst but be
A pleasing story to posteritie!

The Macedon one world could not containe,
We heare him of the narrow Earth complaine,
And sweat for roome, as if Seryphus Ile,
Or Gyara had held him in Exile:
But Babylon this madnes can allay,
And give the great man but his length of clay;
The highest thoughts, and actions under Heaven,
Death only with the lowest dust layes even.
It is believed (if what Greece writes be true)
That Xerxes with his Persian Fleet did hewe
Their waies throgh mountains, that their sails full blowne,
Like clouds hung over Athos, and did drowne
The spacious Continent, and by plaine force
Betwixt the Mount, and it made a divorce;
That Seas exhausted were, and made firme land,
And Sestos joyned unto Abidos Strand;
That on their march, his Meades but passing by,
Dranke thee Scamander, and Melenus dry;
With what soe're incredible designe
Sostratus sings inspired with pregnant Wine:
But what's the end? He that the other day
Divided Hellespont, and forc'd his way
Through all her angry billowes; that assigned
New punishments unto the waves, and wind:
No sooner saw the Salaminian Seas,
But he was driven out by Themistocles,
And of that Fleet (suppos'd to be so great,
That all mankinde shar'd in the sad defeate)
Not one Sayle sav'd in a poore Fishers boat,
Chas'd o're the working surge, was glad to float,
Cutting his desp'rate course through the tyr'd floud,
And fought againe with Carkasses, and bloud.
O foolish mad ambition! these are still
The famous dangers that attend thy will.

Give store of dayes, good Iove, give length of yeares,
Are the next vowes; these with religious feares,
And Constancie we pay; but what's so bad,
As a long, sinfull age? what crosse more sad
Then misery of yeares? how great an Ill
Is that, which doth but nurse more sorrow still?
It blacks the face, corrupts, and duls the bloud,
Benights the quickest eye, distasts the food,
And such deep furrowes cuts i'th' Checker'd skin
As in th'old Okes of Tabraca are seene.

Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit,
Are severall graces; but where age doth hit,
It makes no diff'rence; the same weake voice,
And trembling ague in each member lyes:
A generall, batefull baldnes, with a curst
Perpetuall pettishnes; and which is worst,
A foule, strong fluxe of humors, and more paine
To feed, then if he were to nurse again.
So tedious to himselfe, his wife, and friends,
That his owne sonnes, and servants, wish his end,
His tast, and feeling dyes; and of that fire
The am'rous Lover burnes in, no desire:
Or if there were, what pleasure could it be,
Where lust doth raigne without abilitie?
Nor is this all, what matters it, where he
Sits in the spacious Stage? who can nor see,
Nor heare what's acted, whom the stiller voice
Of spirited, wanton ayres, or the loud noise
Of Trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can
But scarce informe who enters, or what man
He personates, what 'tis they act, or say?
How many Scænes are done? what time of day?
Besides that little bloud, his carkasse holds,
Hath low its native warmth, & fraught wth colds,
Catarrhs, and rheumes, to thick, black jelly turns,
And never but in fits, and feavers burnes;
Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock
Of sicknes, and diseases to him flock,
That Hyppia ne're so many Lovers knew,
Nor wanton Maura; Phisick never slew
So many Patients, nor rich Lawyers spoile
More Wards, and Widowes; it were lesser toile
To number out what Mannors, and Demaines,
Licinius razer purchas'd: One complaines
Of weaknes in the back, another pants
For lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants;
Nay some so feeble are, and full of paine,
That Infant like they must be fed againe.
These faint too at their meales; their wine they spill,
And like young birds, that wait the Mothers Bill
They gape for meat; but sadder far then this
Their senslesse ignorance, and dotage is;
For neither they, their friends, nor servants know,
Nay those themselves begot, and bred up too
No longer now they'le owne; for madly they
Proscribe them all, and what on the last day,
The Misers cannot carry to the Grave
For their past sinnes, their prostitutes must have.

But grant age lack'd these plagues; yet must they see
As great, as many: Fraile Mortalitie
In such a length of yeares, hath many falls,
And deads a life with frequent funerals.
The nimblest houre in all the span, can steale
A friend, or brother from's; there's no Repeale
In death, or time; this day a wife we mourne,
To morrowes teares a sonne, and the next Urne
A Sister fills; Long-livers have assign'd
These curses still: That with a restles mind,
An age of fresh renewing cares they buye,
And in a tide of teares grow old and dye.

Nestor, (if we great Homer may believe)
In his full strength three hundred yeares did live:
Happy (thou'lt say) that for so long a time
Enjoy'd free nature with the grape, and Wine
Of many Autumnes; but I prethee, heare
What Nestor sayes himselfe, when he his deare
Antilochus had lost, how he complaines
Of life's too large Extent, and copious paines?
Of all he meets, he askes what is the cause
He lived thus long; for what breach of their Laws
The gods thus punish'd him? what sinne had he
Done worthy of a long lifes miserie?
Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he
Thus wept that his Vlysses lost at Sea.
Had Priam dyed, before Phereclus Fleet
Was built, or Paris stole the fatall Greeke,
Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone
In peace unto the lower shades; His sonne
Saved with his plenteous offspring, and the rest
In solemne pompe bearing his fun'rall Chest;
But long life hinder'd this: Unhappy he,
Kept for a publick ruine; lived to see
All Asia lost, and e're he could expire,
In his owne house saw both the sword, and fire;
All white with age, and cares, his feeble arme
Had now forgot the warre; but this Allarme
Gathers his dying spirits; and as wee
An aged Oxe worne out with labour, see,
By his ungratefull Master, after all
His yeares of toyle, a thankles victime fall:
So he by Ioves owne Altar; which shewes, wee
Are no where safe from Heaven, and destinie:
Yet dyed a man; but his surviving Queene,
Freed from the Greekish sword was barking seen.

I haste to Rome, and Pontus King let passe,
With Lydian Cræsus, whom in vaine (Alas!)
Just Solons grave advice bad to attend,
That happines came not before the end.

What man more blest in any age to come
Or past, could Nature shew the world, or Rome,
Then Marius was? if 'midst the pompe of war,
And triumphs fetch'd with Roman bloud from far
His soule had fled; Exile, and fetters then,
He ne're had seen, nor known Mynturna's fenne;
Nor had it, after Carthage got, been sed,
A Roman Generall had beg'd his bread.

Thus Pompey th'envious gods, & Romes ill stars
(Freed from Campania's feavers, and the Wars)
Doom'd to Achilles sword: Our publick vowes
Made Cæsar guiltles; but sent him to loose
His head at Nile; This curse Cethegus mist;
This Lentulus, and this made him resist
That mangled by no Lictors axe, fell dead
Entirely Catiline, and saved his head.

The anxious Matrons, with their foolish zeale,
Are the last Votaries, and their Appeale
Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow,
They pray for sons, but with a louder vow
Commend a female feature: All that can
Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan:
And why reprov'd they say, Latona's paire
The Mother never thinks can be too faire.

But sad Lucretia warnes to wish no face
Like hers; Virginia would bequeath her grace
To Crooke-backe Rutila in exchange; for still
The fairest children do their Parents fill
With greatest cares; so seldome Chastitie
Is found with beauty; though some few there be
That with a strict, religious care contend
Th'old, modest, Sabine Customes to defend:
Besides, wise nature to some faces grants
An easie blush, and where shee freely plants,
A lesse Instruction serves; but both these joyn'd,
At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloyn'd.

So steel'd a forehead vice hath, that dares win,
And bribe the Father to the Childrens sin;
But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face
Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace
Betraies it selfe; what time did Nero mind
A course, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd
His goatish Pathick? whence then slow these joies
Of a faire issue? whom these sad annoies
Waite, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see
Publick Adulterers, and must be
Subject to all the Curses, Plagues, and awe
Of jealous mad men, and the Iulian Law;
Nor canst thou hope they'le find a milder Starre,
Or more escapes then did the God of Warre;
But worse then all, a jealous braine confines:
His furie to no Law; what rage assignes;
Is present justice: Thus the rash Sword spils
This Lechers bloud, the scourge another kils.
But thy spruce boy must touch no other face
Then a Patrician? Is of any race
So they be rich; Servilia is as good
With wealth, as shee that boasts Iulus blood:
To please a servant all is cheape; what thing
In all their stocke to the last suite, and King
But lust exacts? the poorest whore in this,
As generous as the Patrician is.

But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin
With a chaste soule? aske Theseus sonne, and him
That Stenobæa murther'd; for both these
Can tell how fatall 'twas in them to please;
A womans spleene then carries most of fate,
When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate:
Resolve me now, had Silius been thy sonne,
In such a hazzard what should he have done?
Of all Romes youth, this was the only best,
In whom alone beauty, and worth did rest:
This Messalina saw, and needs he must
Be ruin'd by the Emp'rour, or her lust,
All in the face of Rome, and the worlds eye,
Though Cesars wife, a publicke Bigamie
Shee dares attempt; and that the act might beare
More prodigie, the notaries appeare,
And Augures to't; and to compleat the sin
In solemne forme, a dowrie is brought in;
All this (thou'lt say) in private might have past,
But shee'le not have it so; what course at last?
What should he doe? If Messaline be crost
Without redresse thy Silius will be lost;
If not, some two daies length is all he can
Keep from the grave; just so much as will span
This newes to Hostia, to whose fate he owes
That Claudius last his owne dishonour knowes.

But he obeyes, and for a few houres lust,
Forfeits that glory should outlive his dust,
Nor was it much a fault; for, whether he
Obey'd, or not; 'twas equall destinie:
So fatall beauty is, and full of wast,
That neither wanton can be safe, nor chast.

What then should man pray for? what is't that he
Can beg of Heaven, without Impiety?
Take my advice: first to the Gods commit
All cares; for they things competent, and fit
For us foresee; besides man is more deare
To them, then to himselfe: we blindly here
Led by the world, and lust, in vaine assay
To get us portions, wives, and sonnes; but they
Already know all that we can intend,
And of our Childrens Children see the end.

Yet that thou may'st have something to commend
With thankes unto the Gods for what they send;
Pray for a wise, and knowing soule; a sad
Discreet, true valour, that will scorne to adde
A needlesse horrour to thy death; that knowes
'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes;
That starts not at misfortunes, that can sway,
And keep all passions under locke and key;
That couets nothing, wrongs none, and preferres
An honest want before rich injurers;
All this thou hast within thy selfe, and may
Be made thy owne, if thou wilt take the way;
What boots the worlds wild, loose applause? what
Fraile, perillous honours adde unto a man?
What length of years, wealth, or a rich faire wife?
Vertue alone can make a happy life.
To a wise man nought comes amisse: but we
Fortune adore, and make our Deity.