Thalia Rediviva The Pass-times and Diversions of a Countrey-muse, In Choice Poems on several Occasions. With Some Learned Remains of the Eminent Eugenius Philalethes. Never made Publick till now [by Henry Vaughan] |
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The importunate Fortune, written to Doctor Powel of Cantre.
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 | Thalia Rediviva |  |
The importunate Fortune, written to Doctor Powel of Cantre.
For shame desist, why should'st thou seek my fall?
It cannot make thee more Monarchical.
Leave off; thy Empire is already built;
To ruine me were to inlarge thy guilt,
Not thy Prerogative. I am not he
Must be the measure to thy victory.
The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace
If in thy Annals I should make a Clause.
The future Ages will disclose such men,
Shall be the glory, and the end of them.
Nor do I flatter. So long as there be
Descents in Nature, or Posterity,
There must be Fortunes; whether they be good,
As swimming in thy Tide and plenteous Flood,
Or stuck fast in the shallow Ebb, when we
Miss to deserve thy gorgeous charity.
Thus, Fortune, the great World thy period is;
Nature and you are Parallels in this.
It cannot make thee more Monarchical.
Leave off; thy Empire is already built;
To ruine me were to inlarge thy guilt,
Not thy Prerogative. I am not he
Must be the measure to thy victory.
The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace
If in thy Annals I should make a Clause.
The future Ages will disclose such men,
Shall be the glory, and the end of them.
Nor do I flatter. So long as there be
Descents in Nature, or Posterity,
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As swimming in thy Tide and plenteous Flood,
Or stuck fast in the shallow Ebb, when we
Miss to deserve thy gorgeous charity.
Thus, Fortune, the great World thy period is;
Nature and you are Parallels in this.
But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone;
I am resolv'd, I will not be undone.
I scorn thy trash and thee: nay more, I do
Despise my self, because thy Subject too.
Name me Heir to thy malice, and I'le be;
Thy hate's the best Inheritance for me.
I care not for your wondrous Hat and Purse:
Make me a Fortunatus with thy Curse.
How careful of my self then should I be,
Were I neglected by the world and thee?
Why do'st thou tempt me with thy dirty Ore,
And with thy Riches make my Soul so poor?
My Fancy's pris'ner to thy Gold and thee,
Thy favours rob me of my liberty.
I'le to my Speculations. Is't best
To be confin'd to some dark narrow chest
And Idolize thy Stamps, when I may be
Lord of all Nature, and not slave to thee?
The world's my Palace. I'le contemplate there,
And make my progress into ev'ry Sphere.
The Chambers of the Air are mine; those three
Well furnish'd Stories my possession be.
I hold them all in Capite, and stand
Propt by my Fancy there. I scorn your Land,
It lies so far below me. Here I see
How all the Sacred Stars do circle me.
Thou to the Great giv'st rich Food, and I do
VVant no Content; I feed on Manna too.
They have their Tapers; I gaze without fear
On flying Lamps, and flaming Comets here.
Their wanton flesh in Silks and Purple Shrouds,
And Fancy wraps me in a Robe of Clouds.
There some delicious beauty they may woo,
And I have Nature for my Mistris too.
I am resolv'd, I will not be undone.
I scorn thy trash and thee: nay more, I do
Despise my self, because thy Subject too.
Name me Heir to thy malice, and I'le be;
Thy hate's the best Inheritance for me.
I care not for your wondrous Hat and Purse:
Make me a Fortunatus with thy Curse.
How careful of my self then should I be,
Were I neglected by the world and thee?
Why do'st thou tempt me with thy dirty Ore,
And with thy Riches make my Soul so poor?
My Fancy's pris'ner to thy Gold and thee,
Thy favours rob me of my liberty.
I'le to my Speculations. Is't best
To be confin'd to some dark narrow chest
And Idolize thy Stamps, when I may be
Lord of all Nature, and not slave to thee?
The world's my Palace. I'le contemplate there,
And make my progress into ev'ry Sphere.
The Chambers of the Air are mine; those three
Well furnish'd Stories my possession be.
I hold them all in Capite, and stand
Propt by my Fancy there. I scorn your Land,
It lies so far below me. Here I see
How all the Sacred Stars do circle me.
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VVant no Content; I feed on Manna too.
They have their Tapers; I gaze without fear
On flying Lamps, and flaming Comets here.
Their wanton flesh in Silks and Purple Shrouds,
And Fancy wraps me in a Robe of Clouds.
There some delicious beauty they may woo,
And I have Nature for my Mistris too.
But these are mean; the Archtype I can see,
And humbly touch the hem of Majestie.
The power of my Soul is such, I can
Expire, and so analyse all that's man.
First my dull Clay I give unto the Earth,
Our common Mother, which gives all their birth.
My growing Faculties I send as soon
VVhence first I took them, to the humid Moon.
All Subtilties and every cunning Art
To witty Mercury I do impart.
Those fond Affections which made me a slave
To handsome Faces, Venus thou shalt have.
And saucy Pride (if there was ought in me,)
Sol, I return it to thy Royalty.
My daring Rashness and Presumptions be
To Mars himself an equal Legacy.
My ill-plac'd Avarice (sure 'tis but small;)
Jove, to thy Flames I do bequeath it all.
And my false Magic, which I did believe,
And mystic Lyes to Saturn I do give.
My dark Imaginations rest you there,
This is your grave and Superstitious Sphære.
And humbly touch the hem of Majestie.
The power of my Soul is such, I can
Expire, and so analyse all that's man.
First my dull Clay I give unto the Earth,
Our common Mother, which gives all their birth.
My growing Faculties I send as soon
VVhence first I took them, to the humid Moon.
All Subtilties and every cunning Art
To witty Mercury I do impart.
Those fond Affections which made me a slave
To handsome Faces, Venus thou shalt have.
And saucy Pride (if there was ought in me,)
Sol, I return it to thy Royalty.
My daring Rashness and Presumptions be
To Mars himself an equal Legacy.
My ill-plac'd Avarice (sure 'tis but small;)
Jove, to thy Flames I do bequeath it all.
And my false Magic, which I did believe,
And mystic Lyes to Saturn I do give.
My dark Imaginations rest you there,
This is your grave and Superstitious Sphære.
Get up my dismtangled Soul, thy fire
Is now refin'd & nothing left to tire,
Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight
Hath brought me to the Empyrean light.
I am a sep'rate Essence, and can see
The Emanations of the Deitie,
And how they pass the Seraphims, and run
Through ev'ry Throne and Domination.
So rushing through the Guard, the Sacred streams
Flow to the neighbour Stars, and in their beams
(A glorious Cataract!) descend to Earth
And give Impressions unto ev'ry birth.
VVith Angels now and Spirits I do dwell.
And here it is my Nature to do well,
Thus, though my Body you confined see,
My boundless thoughts have their Ubiquitie.
And shall I then forsake the Stars and Signs
To dote upon thy dark and cursed Mines?
Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy
Guiana with the loss of all the skie?
Intelligences shall I leave, and be
Familiar only with mortalitie?
Must I know nought, but thy Exchequer? shall
My purse and fancy be Symmetrical?
Are there no Objects left but one? must we
In gaining that, lose our Varietie?
Is now refin'd & nothing left to tire,
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Hath brought me to the Empyrean light.
I am a sep'rate Essence, and can see
The Emanations of the Deitie,
And how they pass the Seraphims, and run
Through ev'ry Throne and Domination.
So rushing through the Guard, the Sacred streams
Flow to the neighbour Stars, and in their beams
(A glorious Cataract!) descend to Earth
And give Impressions unto ev'ry birth.
VVith Angels now and Spirits I do dwell.
And here it is my Nature to do well,
Thus, though my Body you confined see,
My boundless thoughts have their Ubiquitie.
And shall I then forsake the Stars and Signs
To dote upon thy dark and cursed Mines?
Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy
Guiana with the loss of all the skie?
Intelligences shall I leave, and be
Familiar only with mortalitie?
Must I know nought, but thy Exchequer? shall
My purse and fancy be Symmetrical?
Are there no Objects left but one? must we
In gaining that, lose our Varietie?
Fortune, this is the reason I refuse
Thy Wealth; it puts my Books all out of use.
'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind
Is big with speculation, when I find
My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess
There is no Blessing to an Emptiness!
The Species of all things to me resort
And dwell then in my breast, as in their port.
Then leave to Court me with thy hated store,
Thou giv'st me that, to rob my Soul of more.
Thy Wealth; it puts my Books all out of use.
'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind
Is big with speculation, when I find
My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess
There is no Blessing to an Emptiness!
The Species of all things to me resort
And dwell then in my breast, as in their port.
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Thou giv'st me that, to rob my Soul of more.
| Thalia Rediviva | |