Olor Iscanus A Collection of some Select Poems, and Translations, Formerly written by Mr. Henry Vaughan Silurist. Published by a Friend |
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Tristium Lib. 3o. Eleg. 3a.
To his Wife at Rome, when he was sick. |
 | Olor Iscanus |  |
Tristium Lib. 3o. Eleg. 3a. To his Wife at Rome, when he was sick.
Dearest!
if you those fair Eyes (wondring) stick
On this strange Character, know, I am sick.
Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I
Breath hopeless of all Comforts, but to dye.
What heart (think'st thou) have I in this sad seat
Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete?
Nor aire nor water please: their very skie
Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my Eye,
I scarse dare breath it, and I know not how,
The Earth that bears me shewes unpleasant now.
Nor Diet here's, nor lodging for my Ease,
Nor any one that studies a disease;
No friend to comfort me, none to defray
With smooth discourse the Charges of the day.
All tir'd alone I lye, and (thus) what e're
Is absent, and at Rome I fancy here,
But when thou com'st, I blot the Avie Scrowle,
And give thee full possession of my soule,
Thee (absent) I embrace, thee only voice,
And night and day bely a Husbands Joyes;
Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
That I am thought distracted for thy sake;
When my tir'd Spirits faile, and my sick heart
Drawes in that fire which actuates each part,
If any say, th'art come! I force my pain,
And hope to see thee, gives me life again.
Thus I for thee, whilst thou (perhaps) more blest
Careless of me doest breath all peace and rest,
Which yet I think not, for (Deare Soule!) too well
Know I thy griefe, since my first woes befell.
But if strict heav'n my stock of dayes hath spun
And with my life my errour wilbe gone,
How easie then (O Cæsar!) wer't for thee
To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
That I might yeeld my native aire this breath,
And banish not my ashes after death;
Would thou hadst either spar'd me untill dead,
Or with my bloud redeem'd my absent head,
Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
Wouldst have me live to dye an Exile now.
And must I then from Rome so far meet death,
And double by the place my losse of breath?
Nor in my last of houres on my own bed
(In the sad Conflict) rest my dying head?
Nor my soules Whispers (the last pledge of life,)
Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?
My last words none must treasure, none will rise
And (with a teare) seal up my vanquish'd Eyes,
Without these Rites I dye, distrest in all
The splendid sorrowes of a Funerall,
Unpittied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
In a strange Land goes friendless to the dead.
When thou hear'st this, O how thy faithfull soule
Will sink, whilst griefe doth ev'ry part controule!
How often wilt thou look this way, and Crie,
O where is't yonder that my love doth lye!
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not now for me,
Long since (dear heart!) have I been dead to thee,
Think then I dyed, when Thee and Rome I lost
That death to me more griefe then this hath Cost;
Now, if thou canst (but thou canst not) best wife,
Rejoyce, my Cares are ended with my life,
At least, yeeld not to sorrowes, frequent use
Should make these miseries to thee no newes.
And here I wish my Soul died with my breath
And that no part of me were free from death,
For, if it be Immortall, and outlives
The body, as Pythagoras believes,
Betwixt these Sarmates ghosts, a Roman I
Shall wander, vext to all Eternitie.
On this strange Character, know, I am sick.
Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I
Breath hopeless of all Comforts, but to dye.
38
Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete?
Nor aire nor water please: their very skie
Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my Eye,
I scarse dare breath it, and I know not how,
The Earth that bears me shewes unpleasant now.
Nor Diet here's, nor lodging for my Ease,
Nor any one that studies a disease;
No friend to comfort me, none to defray
With smooth discourse the Charges of the day.
All tir'd alone I lye, and (thus) what e're
Is absent, and at Rome I fancy here,
But when thou com'st, I blot the Avie Scrowle,
And give thee full possession of my soule,
Thee (absent) I embrace, thee only voice,
And night and day bely a Husbands Joyes;
Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
That I am thought distracted for thy sake;
When my tir'd Spirits faile, and my sick heart
Drawes in that fire which actuates each part,
If any say, th'art come! I force my pain,
And hope to see thee, gives me life again.
Thus I for thee, whilst thou (perhaps) more blest
Careless of me doest breath all peace and rest,
Which yet I think not, for (Deare Soule!) too well
Know I thy griefe, since my first woes befell.
But if strict heav'n my stock of dayes hath spun
And with my life my errour wilbe gone,
How easie then (O Cæsar!) wer't for thee
To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
That I might yeeld my native aire this breath,
And banish not my ashes after death;
Would thou hadst either spar'd me untill dead,
Or with my bloud redeem'd my absent head,
Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
Wouldst have me live to dye an Exile now.
And must I then from Rome so far meet death,
And double by the place my losse of breath?
39
(In the sad Conflict) rest my dying head?
Nor my soules Whispers (the last pledge of life,)
Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?
My last words none must treasure, none will rise
And (with a teare) seal up my vanquish'd Eyes,
Without these Rites I dye, distrest in all
The splendid sorrowes of a Funerall,
Unpittied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
In a strange Land goes friendless to the dead.
When thou hear'st this, O how thy faithfull soule
Will sink, whilst griefe doth ev'ry part controule!
How often wilt thou look this way, and Crie,
O where is't yonder that my love doth lye!
Yet spare these tears, and mourn not now for me,
Long since (dear heart!) have I been dead to thee,
Think then I dyed, when Thee and Rome I lost
That death to me more griefe then this hath Cost;
Now, if thou canst (but thou canst not) best wife,
Rejoyce, my Cares are ended with my life,
At least, yeeld not to sorrowes, frequent use
Should make these miseries to thee no newes.
And here I wish my Soul died with my breath
And that no part of me were free from death,
For, if it be Immortall, and outlives
The body, as Pythagoras believes,
Betwixt these Sarmates ghosts, a Roman I
Shall wander, vext to all Eternitie.
But thou (for after death I shall be free,)
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me,
A few Flowres give them, with some Balme, and lay
Them in some Suburb grave hard by the way,
And to Informe posterity, who's there,
This sad Inscription let my marble weare,
“Here lyes the soft-soul'd Lecturer of Love,
“Whose envy'd wit did his own ruine prove.
But thou, (who e'r thou beest, that passing by
Lendst to this sudden stone a hastie Eye,
If e'r thou knew'st of Love the sweet disease,
Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!
This for my tombe: but in my books they'l see
More strong and lasting Monuments of mee,
Which I believe (though fatall) will afford
An Endless name unto their ruin'd Lord.
Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me,
A few Flowres give them, with some Balme, and lay
Them in some Suburb grave hard by the way,
And to Informe posterity, who's there,
This sad Inscription let my marble weare,
“Here lyes the soft-soul'd Lecturer of Love,
“Whose envy'd wit did his own ruine prove.
But thou, (who e'r thou beest, that passing by
Lendst to this sudden stone a hastie Eye,
40
Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!
This for my tombe: but in my books they'l see
More strong and lasting Monuments of mee,
Which I believe (though fatall) will afford
An Endless name unto their ruin'd Lord.
And now thus gone, It rests for love of me
Thou shewst some sorrow to my memory;
Thy Funerall offrings to my ashes beare
With Wreathes of Cypresse bath'd in many a teare,
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
Yet shall that Dust perceive thy pious pain.
But I have done, and my tyr'd sickly head
Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
Take then this word (perhaps my last to tell)
Which though I want, I wish it thee, Fare-well.
Thou shewst some sorrow to my memory;
Thy Funerall offrings to my ashes beare
With Wreathes of Cypresse bath'd in many a teare,
Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
Yet shall that Dust perceive thy pious pain.
But I have done, and my tyr'd sickly head
Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
Take then this word (perhaps my last to tell)
Which though I want, I wish it thee, Fare-well.
| Olor Iscanus | |