What is a Poet?

Poeta.—A poet is that which by the Greeks is called κατ εξοχην, ο ποιητής, a maker, or a feigner: his art, an art of imitation or feigning; expressing the life of man in fit measure, numbers, and harmony, according to Aristotle; from the word ποιειν, which signifies to make or feign. Hence he is called a poet, not he which writeth in measure only, but that feigneth and formeth a fable, and writes things like the truth. For the fable and fiction is, as it were, the form and soul of any poetical work or poem.

Poema.—A poem is not alone any work or composition of the poet’s in many or few verses; but even one verse alone sometimes makes a perfect poem. As when Æneas hangs up and consecrates the arms of Abas with this inscription:—

“Æneas hæc de Danais victoribus arma.”[136a]

And calls it a poem or carmen. Such are those in Martial:—

“Omnia, Castor, emis: sic fiet, ut omnia vendas.”[136b]

And—

“Pauper videri Cinna vult, et est pauper.”[136c]

Horatius.—Lucretius.—So were Horace’s odes called Carmina, his lyric songs. And Lucretius designs a whole book in his sixth:—

“Quod in primo quoque carmine claret.”[136d]

Epicum.—Dramaticum.—Lyricum.—Elegiacum.—Epigrammat.—And anciently all the oracles were called Carmina; or whatever sentence was expressed, were it much or little, it was called an Epic, Dramatic, Lyric, Elegiac, or Epigrammatic poem.

Poesis.—Artium regina.—Poet. differentiæ.—Grammatic.—Logic.—Rhetoric.—Ethica.—A poem, as I have told you, is the work of the poet; the end and fruit of his labour and study. Poesy is his skill or craft of making; the very fiction itself, the reason or form of the work. And these three voices differ, as the thing done, the doing, and the doer; the thing feigned, the feigning, and the feigner; so the poem, the poesy, and the poet. Now the poesy is the habit or the art; nay, rather the queen of arts, which had her original from heaven, received thence from the Hebrews, and had in prime estimation with the Greeks transmitted to the Latins and all nations that professed civility. The study of it (if we will trust Aristotle) offers to mankind a certain rule and pattern of living well and happily, disposing us to all civil offices of society. If we will believe Tully, it nourisheth and instructeth our youth, delights our age, adorns our prosperity, comforts our adversity, entertains us at home, keeps us company abroad, travels with us, watches, divides the times of our earnest and sports, shares in our country recesses and recreations; insomuch as the wisest and best learned have thought her the absolute mistress of manners and nearest of kin to virtue. And whereas they entitle philosophy to be a rigid and austere poesy, they have, on the contrary, styled poesy a dulcet and gentle philosophy, which leads on and guides us by the hand to action with a ravishing delight and incredible sweetness. But before we handle the kinds of poems, with their special differences, or make court to the art itself, as a mistress, I would lead you to the knowledge of our poet by a perfect information what he is or should be by nature, by exercise, by imitation, by study, and so bring him down through the disciplines of grammar, logic, rhetoric, and the ethics, adding somewhat out of all, peculiar to himself, and worthy of your admittance or reception.

1.Ingenium.—Seneca.—Plato.—Aristotle.—Helicon.—Pegasus.—Parnassus.—Ovid.—First, we require in our poet or maker (for that title our language affords him elegantly with the Greek) a goodness of natural wit. For whereas all other arts consist of doctrine and precepts, the poet must be able by nature and instinct to pour out the treasure of his mind, and as Seneca saith,Aliquando secundum Anacreontem insanire jucundum esse; by which he understands the poetical rapture. And according to that of Plato,Frustrà poeticas fores sui compos pulsavit. And of Aristotle,Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixturâ dementiæ fuit.Nec potest grande aliquid,et supra cæteros loqui,nisi mota mens. Then it riseth higher, as by a divine instinct, when it contemns common and known conceptions. It utters somewhat above a mortal mouth. Then it gets aloft and flies away with his rider, whither before it was doubtful to ascend. This the poets understood by their Helicon, Pegasus, or Parnassus; and this made Ovid to boast,

“Est deus in nobis, agitante calescimus illoSedibus æthereis spiritus ille venit.”[139a]

Lipsius.—Petron. in. Fragm.—And Lipsius to affirm,Scio,poetam neminem præstantem fuisse,sine parte quadam uberiore divinæ auræ. And hence it is that the coming up of good poets (for I mind not mediocres or imos) is so thin and rare among us. Every beggarly corporation affords the State a mayor or two bailiffs yearly; butSolus rex,aut poeta,non quotannis nascitur. To this perfection of nature in our poet we require exercise of those parts, and frequent.

2.Exercitatio.—Virgil.—Scaliger.—Valer. Maximus.—Euripides.—Alcestis.—If his wit will not arrive suddenly at the dignity of the ancients, let him not yet fall out with it, quarrel, or be over hastily angry; offer to turn it away from study in a humour, but come to it again upon better cogitation; try another time with labour. If then it succeed not, cast not away the quills yet, nor scratch the wainscot, beat not the poor desk, but bring all to the forge and file again; torn it anew. There is no statute law of the kingdom bids you be a poet against your will or the first quarter; if it comes in a year or two, it is well. The common rhymers pour forth verses, such as they are,ex tempore; but there never comes from them one sense worth the life of a day. A rhymer and a poet are two things. It is said of the incomparable Virgil that he brought forth his verses like a bear, and after formed them with licking. Scaliger the father writes it of him, that he made a quantity of verses in the morning, which afore night he reduced to a less number. But that which Valerius Maximus hath left recorded of Euripides, the tragic poet, his answer to Alcestis, another poet, is as memorable as modest; who, when it was told to Alcestis that Euripides had in three days brought forth but three verses, and those with some difficulty and throes, Alcestis, glorying he could with ease have sent forth a hundred in the space, Euripides roundly replied, “Like enough; but here is the difference: thy verses will not last these three days, mine will to all time.” Which was as much as to tell him he could not write a verse. I have met many of these rattles that made a noise and buzzed. They had their hum, and no more. Indeed, things wrote with labour deserve to be so read, and will last their age.

3.Imitatio.—Horatius.—Virgil.—Statius.—Homer.—Horat.—Archil.—Alcæus, &c.—The third requisite in our poet or maker is imitation, to be able to convert the substance or riches of another poet to his own use. To make choice of one excellent man above the rest, and so to follow him till he grow very he, or so like him as the copy may be mistaken for the principal. Not as a creature that swallows what it takes in crude, raw, or undigested, but that feeds with an appetite, and hath a stomach to concoct, divide, and turn all into nourishment. Not to imitate servilely, as Horace saith, and catch at vices for virtue, but to draw forth out of the best and choicest flowers, with the bee, and turn all into honey, work it into one relish and savour; make our imitation sweet; observe how the best writers have imitated, and follow them. How Virgil and Statius have imitated Homer; how Horace, Archilochus; how Alcæus, and the other lyrics; and so of the rest.

4.Lectio.—Parnassus.—Helicon.—Arscoron.—M. T. Cicero.—Simylus.—Stob.—Horat.—Aristot.—But that which we especially require in him is an exactness of study and multiplicity of reading, which maketh a full man, not alone enabling him to know the history or argument of a poem and to report it, but so to master the matter and style, as to show he knows how to handle, place, or dispose of either with elegancy when need shall be. And not think he can leap forth suddenly a poet by dreaming he hath been in Parnassus, or having washed his lips, as they say, in Helicon. There goes more to his making than so; for to nature, exercise, imitation, and study art must be added to make all these perfect. And though these challenge to themselves much in the making up of our maker, it is Art only can lead him to perfection, and leave him there in possession, as planted by her hand. It is the assertion of Tully, if to an excellent nature there happen an accession or conformation of learning and discipline, there will then remain somewhat noble and singular. For, as Simylus saith in Stobæus, Ουτε φύσις ίκανη yινεται τεχνης ατερ, ουτε παν τέχνη μη φυσιν κεκτημένη, without art nature can never be perfect; and without nature art can claim no being. But our poet must beware that his study be not only to learn of himself; for he that shall affect to do that confesseth his ever having a fool to his master. He must read many, but ever the best and choicest; those that can teach him anything he must ever account his masters, and reverence. Among whom Horace and (he that taught him) Aristotle deserved to be the first in estimation. Aristotle was the first accurate critic and truest judge—nay, the greatest philosopher the world ever had—for he noted the vices of all knowledges in all creatures, and out of many men’s perfections in a science he formed still one art. So he taught us two offices together, how we ought to judge rightly of others, and what we ought to imitate specially in ourselves. But all this in vain without a natural wit and a poetical nature in chief. For no man, so soon as he knows this or reads it, shall be able to write the better; but as he is adapted to it by nature, he shall grow the perfecter writer. He must have civil prudence and eloquence, and that whole; not taken up by snatches or pieces in sentences or remnants when he will handle business or carry counsels, as if he came then out of the declaimer’s gallery, or shadow furnished but out of the body of the State, which commonly is the school of men.

Virorum schola respub.—Lysippus.—Apelles.—Nævius.—The poet is the nearest borderer upon the orator, and expresseth all his virtues, though he be tied more to numbers, is his equal in ornament, and above him in his strengths. And (of the kind) the comic comes nearest; because in moving the minds of men, and stirring of affections (in which oratory shows, and especially approves her eminence), he chiefly excels. What figure of a body was Lysippus ever able to form with his graver, or Apelles to paint with his pencil, as the comedy to life expresseth so many and various affections of the mind? There shall the spectator see some insulting with joy, others fretting with melancholy, raging with anger, mad with love, boiling with avarice, undone with riot, tortured with expectation, consumed with fear; no perturbation in common life but the orator finds an example of it in the scene. And then for the elegancy of language, read but this inscription on the grave of a comic poet:

“Immortales mortales si fas esset fiere,Flerent divæ Camœnæ Nævium poetam;Itaque postquam est Orcino traditus thesauro,Obliti sunt Romæ linguâ loqui Latinâ.”[146a]

L. Ælius Stilo.—Plautus.—M. Varro.—Or that modester testimony given by Lucius Ælius Stilo upon Plautus, who affirmed, “Musas,si Latinè loqui voluissent,Plautino sermone fuisse loquuturas.” And that illustrious judgment by the most learned M. Varro of him, who pronounced him the prince of letters and elegancy in the Roman language.

Sophocles.—I am not of that opinion to conclude a poet’s liberty within the narrow limits of laws which either the grammarians or philosophers prescribe. For before they found out those laws there were many excellent poets that fulfilled them, amongst whom none more perfect than Sophocles, who lived a little before Aristotle.

Demosthenes.—Pericles.—Alcibiades.—Which of the Greeklings durst ever give precepts to Demosthenes? or to Pericles, whom the age surnamed Heavenly, because he seemed to thunder and lighten with his language? or to Alcibiades, who had rather Nature for his guide than Art for his master?

Aristotle.—But whatsoever nature at any time dictated to the most happy, or long exercise to the most laborious, that the wisdom and learning of Aristotle hath brought into an art, because he understood the causes of things; and what other men did by chance or custom he doth by reason; and not only found out the way not to err, but the short way we should take not to err.

Euripides.—Aristophanes.—Many things in Euripides hath Aristophanes wittily reprehended, not out of art, but out of truth. For Euripides is sometimes peccant, as he is most times perfect. But judgment when it is greatest, if reason doth not accompany it, is not ever absolute.

Cens. Scal. in Lil. Germ.—Horace.—To judge of poets is only the faculty of poets; and not of all poets, but the best.Nemo infeliciùs de poetis judicavit,quàm qui de poetis scripsit.[148a]But some will say critics are a kind of tinkers, that make more faults than they mend ordinarily. See their diseases and those of grammarians. It is true, many bodies are the worse for the meddling with; and the multitude of physicians hath destroyed many sound patients with their wrong practice. But the office of a true critic or censor is, not to throw by a letter anywhere, or damn an innocent syllable, but lay the words together, and amend them; judge sincerely of the author and his matter, which is the sign of solid and perfect learning in a man. Such was Horace, an author of much civility, and (if any one among the heathen can be) the best master both of virtue and wisdom; an excellent and true judge upon cause and reason, not because he thought so, but because he knew so out of use and experience.

Cato, the grammarian, a defender of Lucilius.[149a]

“Cato grammaticus, Latina syren,Qui solus legit, et facit poetas.”

Quintilian of the same heresy, but rejected.[149b]

Horace, his judgment of Chœrillus defended against Joseph Scaliger.[149c]And of Laberius against Julius.[149d]

But chiefly his opinion of Plautus[149e]vindicated against many that are offended, and say it is a hard censure upon the parent of all conceit and sharpness. And they wish it had not fallen from so great a master and censor in the art, whose bondmen knew better how to judge of Plautus than any that dare patronise the family of learning in this age; who could not be ignorant of the judgment of the times in which he lived, when poetry and the Latin language were at the height; especially being a man so conversant and inwardly familiar with the censures of great men that did discourse of these things daily amongst themselves. Again, a man so gracious and in high favour with the Emperor, as Augustus often called him his witty manling (for the littleness of his stature), and, if we may trust antiquity, had designed him for a secretary of estate, and invited him to the palace, which he modestly prayed off and refused.

Terence.—Menander. Horace did so highly esteem Terence’s comedies, as he ascribes the art in comedy to him alone among the Latins, and joins him with Menander.

Now, let us see what may be said for either, to defend Horace’s judgment to posterity and not wholly to condemn Plautus.

The parts of a comedy and tragedy.—The parts of a comedy are the same with a tragedy, and the end is partly the same, for they both delight and teach; the comics are called διδάσκαλοι, of the Greeks no less than the tragics.

Aristotle.—Plato.—Homer.—Nor is the moving of laughter always the end of comedy; that is rather a fowling for the people’s delight, or their fooling. For, as Aristotle says rightly, the moving of laughter is a fault in comedy, a kind of turpitude that depraves some part of a man’s nature without a disease. As a wry face without pain moves laughter, or a deformed vizard, or a rude clown dressed in a lady’s habit and using her actions; we dislike and scorn such representations which made the ancient philosophers ever think laughter unfitting in a wise man. And this induced Plato to esteem of Homer as a sacrilegious person, because he presented the gods sometimes laughing. As also it is divinely said of Aristotle, that to seen ridiculous is a part of dishonesty, and foolish.

The wit of the old comedy.—So that what either in the words or sense of an author, or in the language or actions of men, is awry or depraved does strangely stir mean affections, and provoke for the most part to laughter. And therefore it was clear that all insolent and obscene speeches, jests upon the best men, injuries to particular persons, perverse and sinister sayings (and the rather unexpected) in the old comedy did move laughter, especially where it did imitate any dishonesty, and scurrility came forth in the place of wit, which, who understands the nature and genius of laughter cannot but perfectly know.

Aristophanes.—Plautus.—Of which Aristophanes affords an ample harvest, having not only outgone Plautus or any other in that kind, but expressed all the moods and figures of what is ridiculous oddly. In short, as vinegar is not accounted good until the wine be corrupted, so jests that are true and natural seldom raise laughter with the beast the multitude. They love nothing that is right and proper. The farther it runs from reason or possibility with them the better it is.

Socrates.—Theatrical wit.—What could have made them laugh, like to see Socrates presented, that example of all good life, honesty, and virtue, to have him hoisted up with a pulley, and there play the philosopher in a basket; measure how many foot a flea could skip geometrically, by a just scale, and edify the people from the engine. This was theatrical wit, right stage jesting, and relishing a playhouse, invented for scorn and laughter; whereas, if it had savoured of equity, truth, perspicuity, and candour, to have tasten a wise or a learned palate,—spit it out presently! this is bitter and profitable: this instructs and would inform us: what need we know any thing, that are nobly born, more than a horse-race, or a hunting-match, our day to break with citizens, and such innate mysteries?

The cart.—This is truly leaping from the stage to the tumbril again, reducing all wit to the original dung-cart.

What the measure of a fable is.—The fable or plot of a poem defined.—The epic fable,differing from the dramatic.—To the resolving of this question we must first agree in the definition of the fable. The fable is called the imitation of one entire and perfect action, whose parts are so joined and knit together, as nothing in the structure can be changed, or taken away, without impairing or troubling the whole, of which there is a proportionable magnitude in the members. As for example: if a man would build a house, he would first appoint a place to build it in, which he would define within certain bounds; so in the constitution of a poem, the action is aimed at by the poet, which answers place in a building, and that action hath his largeness, compass, and proportion. But as a court or king’s palace requires other dimensions than a private house, so the epic asks a magnitude from other poems, since what is place in the one is action in the other; the difference is an space. So that by this definition we conclude the fable to be the imitation of one perfect and entire action, as one perfect and entire place is required to a building. By perfect, we understand that to which nothing is wanting, as place to the building that is raised, and action to the fable that is formed. It is perfect, perhaps not for a court or king’s palace, which requires a greater ground, but for the structure he would raise; so the space of the action may not prove large enough for the epic fable, yet be perfect for the dramatic, and whole.

What we understand by whole.—Whole we call that, and perfect, which hath a beginning, a midst, and an end. So the place of any building may be whole and entire for that work, though too little for a palace. As to a tragedy or a comedy, the action may be convenient and perfect that would not fit an epic poem in magnitude. So a lion is a perfect creature in himself, though it be less than that of a buffalo or a rhinocerote. They differ but in specie: either in the kind is absolute; both have their parts, and either the whole. Therefore, as in every body so in every action, which is the subject of a just work, there is required a certain proportionable greatness, neither too vast nor too minute. For that which happens to the eyes when we behold a body, the same happens to the memory when we contemplate an action. I look upon a monstrous giant, as Tityus, whose body covered nine acres of land, and mine eye sticks upon every part; the whole that consists of those parts will never be taken in at one entire view. So in a fable, if the action be too great, we can never comprehend the whole together in our imagination. Again, if it be too little, there ariseth no pleasure out of the object; it affords the view no stay; it is beheld, and vanisheth at once. As if we should look upon an ant or pismire, the parts fly the sight, and the whole considered is almost nothing. The same happens in action, which is the object of memory, as the body is of sight. Too vast oppresseth the eyes, and exceeds the memory; too little scarce admits either.

What is the utmost bounds of a fable.—Now in every action it behoves the poet to know which is his utmost bound, how far with fitness and a necessary proportion he may produce and determine it; that is, till either good fortune change into the worse, or the worse into the better. For as a body without proportion cannot be goodly, no more can the action, either in comedy or tragedy, without his fit bounds: and every bound, for the nature of the subject, is esteemed the best that is largest, till it can increase no more; so it behoves the action in tragedy or comedy to be let grow till the necessity ask a conclusion; wherein two things are to be considered: first, that it exceed not the compass of one day; next, that there be place left for digression and art. For the episodes and digressions in a fable are the same that household stuff and other furniture are in a house. And so far from the measure and extent of a fable dramatic.

What by one and entire.—Now that it should be one and entire. One is considerable two ways; either as it is only separate, and by itself, or as being composed of many parts, it begins to be one as those parts grow or are wrought together. That it should be one the first away alone, and by itself, no man that hath tasted letters ever would say, especially having required before a just magnitude and equal proportion of the parts in themselves. Neither of which can possibly be, if the action be single and separate, not composed of parts, which laid together in themselves, with an equal and fitting proportion, tend to the same end; which thing out of antiquity itself hath deceived many, and more this day it doth deceive.

Hercules.—Theseus.—Achilles.—Ulysses.—Homer and Virgil.—Æneas.—Venus.—So many there be of old that have thought the action of one man to be one, as of Hercules, Theseus, Achilles, Ulysses, and other heroes; which is both foolish and false, since by one and the same person many things may be severally done which cannot fitly be referred or joined to the same end: which not only the excellent tragic poets, but the best masters of the epic, Homer and Virgil, saw. For though the argument of an epic poem be far more diffused and poured out than that of tragedy, yet Virgil, writing of Æneas, hath pretermitted many things. He neither tells how he was born, how brought up, how he fought with Achilles, how he was snatched out of the battle by Venus; but that one thing, how he came into Italy, he prosecutes in twelve books. The rest of his journey, his error by sea, the sack of Troy, are put not as the argument of the work, but episodes of the argument. So Homer laid by many things of Ulysses, and handled no more than he saw tended to one and the same end.

Theseus.—Hercules.—Juvenal.—Codrus.—Sophocles.—Ajax.—Ulysses.—Contrary to which, and foolishly, those poets did, whom the philosopher taxeth, of whom one gathered all the actions of Theseus, another put all the labours of Hercules in one work. So did he whom Juvenal mentions in the beginning, “hoarse Codrus,” that recited a volume compiled, which he called his Theseide, not yet finished, to the great trouble both of his hearers and himself; amongst which there were many parts had no coherence nor kindred one with another, so far they were from being one action, one fable. For as a house, consisting of divers materials, becomes one structure and one dwelling, so an action, composed of divers parts, may become one fable, epic or dramatic. For example, in a tragedy, look upon Sophocles, his Ajax: Ajax, deprived of Achilles’ armour, which he hoped from the suffrage of the Greeks, disdains; and, growing impatient of the injury, rageth, and runs mad. In that humour he doth many senseless things, and at last falls upon the Grecian flock and kills a great ram for Ulysses: returning to his senses, he grows ashamed of the scorn, and kills himself; and is by the chiefs of the Greeks forbidden burial. These things agree and hang together, not as they were done, but as seeming to be done, which made the action whole, entire, and absolute.

The conclusion concerning the whole,and the parts.—Which are episodes.—Ajax and Hector.—Homer.—For the whole, as it consisteth of parts, so without all the parts it is not the whole; and to make it absolute is required not only the parts, but such parts as are true. For a part of the whole was true; which, if you take away, you either change the whole or it is not the whole. For if it be such a part, as, being present or absent, nothing concerns the whole, it cannot be called a part of the whole; and such are the episodes, of which hereafter. For the present here is one example: the single combat of Ajax with Hector, as it is at large described in Homer, nothing belongs to this Ajax of Sophocles.

You admire no poems but such as run like a brewer’s cart upon the stones, hobbling:—

“Et, quæ per salebras, altaque saxa cadunt,Accius et quidquid Pacuviusque vomunt.Attonitusque legis terraï, frugiferaï.”[160a]

Camden! most reverend head, to whom I oweAll that I am in arts, all that I know—How nothing’s that! to whom my country owesThe great renown, and name wherewith she goes!Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave,More high, more holy, that she more would crave.What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!What sight in searching the most antique springs!What weight, and what authority in thy speech!Men scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,Which conquers all, be once o’ercome by thee.Many of thine, this better could, than I;But for their powers, accept my piety.

Herelies, to each her parents’ ruth,Mary, the daughter of their youth;Yet, all heaven’s gifts, being heaven’s due,It makes the father less to rue.At six months’ end, she parted hence,With safety of her innocence;Whose soul heaven’s queen, whose name she bears,In comfort of her mother’s tears,Hath placed amongst her virgin-train;Where, while that severed doth remain,This grave partakes the fleshly birth;Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy;Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.Oh! could I lose all father, now! for why,Will man lament the state he should envy?To have so soon ’scaped world’s, and flesh’s rage,And, if no other misery, yet age!Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lieBen Jonson his best piece of poetry;For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such,As what he loves may never like too much.

HowI do love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse,That unto me dost such religion use!How I do fear myself, that am not worthThe least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!At once thou mak’st me happy, and unmak’st;And giving largely to me, more thou takest!What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves?What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?When even there, where most thou praisest me,For writing better, I must envy thee.

Theports of death are sins; of life, good deeds:Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.How wilful blind is he, then, that would stray,And hath it in his powers to make his way!This world death’s region is, the other life’s:And here it should be one of our first strifes,So to front death, as men might judge us past it:For good men but see death, the wicked taste it.

To-night, grave sir, both my poor house and IDo equally desire your company;Not that we think us worthy such a guest,But that your worth will dignify our feast,With those that come; whose grace may make that seemSomething, which else could hope for no esteem.It is the fair acceptance, sir, createsThe entertainment perfect, not the cates.Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,An olive, capers, or some bitter saladUshering the mutton; with a short-legged hen,If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,Lemons and wine for sauce: to these, a coneyIs not to be despaired of for our money;And though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,The sky not falling, think we may have larks.I’ll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which someMay yet be there; and godwit if we can;Knat, rail, and ruff, too. Howsoe’er, my manShall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,Livy, or of some better book to us,Of which we’ll speak our minds, amidst our meat;And I’ll profess no verses to repeat:To this if aught appear, which I not know of,That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;But that which most doth take my muse and me,Is a pure cup of rich canary wine,Which is the Mermaid’s now, but shall be mine:Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted.Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,Are all but Luther’s beer, to this I sing.Of this we will sup free, but moderately,And we will have no Pooly’ or Parrot by;Nor shall our cups make any guilty men;But at our parting we will be as whenWe innocently met. No simple wordThat shall be uttered at our mirthful board,Shall make us sad next morning; or affrightThe liberty that we’ll enjoy to-night.

Weepwith me all you that readThis little story;And know for whom a tear you shed,Death’s self is sorry.’Twas a child that so did thriveIn grace and feature,As heaven and nature seemed to striveWhich owned the creature.Years he numbered scarce thirteenWhen fates turned cruel;Yet three filled zodiacs had he beenThe stage’s jewel;And did act, what now we moan,Old men so duly;As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him oneHe played so truly.So, by error to his fateThey all consented;But viewing him since, alas, too late!They have repented;And have sought to give new birth,In baths to steep him;But, being so much too good for earth,Heaven vows to keep him.

Wouldstthou hear what man can sayIn a little? Reader, stay.Underneath this stone doth lieAs much beauty as could dieWhich in life did harbour giveTo more virtue than doth live.If, at all, she had a faultLeave it buried in this vault.One name was Elizabeth,The other let it sleep with death.Fitter, where it died, to tell,Than that it lived at all. Farewell.

Underneaththis sable hearseLies the subject of all verse,Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother:Death! ere thou hast slain another,Learned, and fair, and good as she,Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Todraw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;While I confess thy writings to be such,As neither man, nor muse can praise too much.’Tis true, and all men’s suffrage. But these waysWere not the paths I meant unto thy praise;For silliest ignorance on these may light,Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;Or blind affection, which doth ne’er advanceThe truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise.These are, as some infamous bawd, or whore,Should praise a matron; what would hurt her more?But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,Above the ill-fortune of them, or the need.I, therefore, will begin: Soul of the age!The applause! delight! and wonder of our stage!My Shakspeare rise! I will not lodge thee byChaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lieA little further off, to make thee room:Thou art a monument without a tomb,And art alive still, while thy book doth liveAnd we have wits to read, and praise to give.That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses;For if I thought my judgment were of years,I should commit thee surely with thy peers,And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine,Or sporting Kyd, or Marlow’s mighty line.And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,From thence to honour thee, I will not seekFor names: but call forth thundering Eschylus,Euripides, and Sophocles to us,Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead,To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on,Leave thee alone for the comparisonOf all that insolent Greece, or haughty RomeSent forth, or since did from their ashes come.Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.He was not of an age, but for all time!And all the Muses still were in their prime,When, like Apollo, he came forth to warmOur ears, or like a Mercury to charm!Nature herself was proud of his designs,And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;But antiquated and deserted lie,As they were not of nature’s family.Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.For though the poet’s matter nature be,His heart doth give the fashion: and, that heWho casts to write a living line, must sweat,(Such as thine are) and strike the second heatUpon the Muse’s anvil; turn the same,And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn;For a good poet’s made, as well as born.And such wert thou! Look how the father’s faceLives in his issue, even so the raceOf Shakspeare’s mind and manners brightly shinesIn his well-turnèd, and true filèd lines;In each of which he seems to shake a lance,As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it wereTo see thee in our water yet appear,And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,That so did take Eliza, and our James!But stay, I see thee in the hemisphereAdvanced, and made a constellation there!Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,And despairs day, but for thy volume’s light.

Drinkto me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cup,And I’ll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine:But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring thee,As giving it a hope that thereIt could not withered be.But thou thereon didst only breathe,And sent’st it back to me:Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself, but thee.

Seethe chariot at hand here of Love,Wherein my lady rideth!Each that draws is a swan or a dove,And well the car Love guideth.As she goes, all hearts do dutyUnto her beauty;And, enamoured, do wish, so they mightBut enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by her side,Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do lightAll that Love’s world compriseth!Do but look on her hair, it is brightAs Love’s star when it riseth!Do but mark, her forehead’s smootherThan words that soothe her!And from her arched brows, such a graceSheds itself through the face,As alone there triumphs to the lifeAll the gain, all the good, of the elements’ strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily growBefore rude hands have touched it?Have you marked but the fall o’ the snowBefore the soil hath smutched it?Have you felt the wool of beaver?Or swan’s down ever?Or have smelt o’ the bud o’ the brier?Or the nard in the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

Men, if you love us, play no moreThe fools or tyrants with your friends,To make us still sing o’er and o’erOur own false praises, for your ends:We have both wits and fancies too,And, if we must, let’s sing of you.

Nor do we doubt but that we can,If we would search with care and pain,Find some one good in some one man;So going thorough all your strain,We shall, at last, of parcels makeOne good enough for a song’s sake.

And as a cunning painter takes,In any curious piece you see,More pleasure while the thing he makes,Than when ’tis made—why so will we.And having pleased our art, we’ll tryTo make a new, and hang that by.

To the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that Noble Pair,Sir Lucius Cary and Sir Henry Morison.

Braveinfant of Saguntum, clearThy coming forth in that great year,When the prodigious Hannibal did crownHis cage, with razing your immortal town.Thou, looking then about,Ere thou wert half got out,Wise child, didst hastily return,And mad’st thy mother’s womb thine urn.How summed a circle didst thou leave mankindOf deepest lore, could we the centre find!

Did wiser nature draw thee back,From out the horror of that sack,Where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right,Lay trampled on? the deeds of death and night,Urged, hurried forth, and hurledUpon th’ affrighted world;Sword, fire, and famine, with fell fury met,And all on utmost ruin set;As, could they but life’s miseries foresee,No doubt all infants would return like thee.

For what is life, if measured by the spaceNot by the act?Or maskèd man, if valued by his face,Above his fact?Here’s one outlived his peers,And told forth fourscore years;He vexèd time, and busied the whole state;Troubled both foes and friends;But ever to no ends:What did this stirrer but die late?How well at twenty had he fallen or stood!For three of his fourscore he did no good.

He entered well, by virtuous parts,Got up, and thrived with honest arts;He purchased friends, and fame, and honours then,And had his noble name advanced with men:But weary of that flight,He stooped in all men’s sightTo sordid flatteries, acts of strife,And sunk in that dead sea of life,So deep, as he did then death’s waters sup,But that the cork of title buoyed him up.

Alas! but Morison fell young:He never fell,—thou fall’st, my tongue.He stood a soldier to the last right end,A perfect patriot, and a noble friend;But most, a virtuous son.All offices were doneBy him, so ample, full, and round,In weight, in measure, number, sound,As, though his age imperfect might appear,His life was of humanity the sphere.

Go now, and tell out days summed up with fears,And make them years;Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage,To swell thine age;Repeat of things a throng,To show thou hast been long,Not lived: for life doth her great actions spell.By what was done and wroughtIn season, and so broughtTo light: her measures are, how wellEach syllabe answered, and was formed, how fair;These make the lines of life, and that’s her air!

It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make men better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:A lily of a day,Is fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night;It was the plant, and flower of light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures, life may perfect be.

Call, noble Lucius, then for wine,And let thy looks with gladness shine:Accept this garland, plant it on thy headAnd think, nay know, thy Morison’s not deadHe leaped the present age,Possessed with holy rageTo see that bright eternal day;Of which we priests and poets say,Such truths, as we expect for happy men:And there he lives with memory and Ben.

Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went,Himself to rest,Or taste a part of that full joy he meantTo have expressed,In this bright Asterism!Where it were friendship’s schism,Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,To separate these twi-Lights, the Dioscouri;And keep the one half from his Harry,But fate doth so alternate the designWhilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine.

And shine as you exalted are;Two names of friendship, but one star:Of hearts the union, and those not by chanceMade, or indenture, or leased out t’advanceThe profits for a time.No pleasures vain did chime,Of rhymes, or riots, at your feasts,Orgies of drink, or feigned protests:But simple love of greatness and of good,That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.

This made you first to know the whyYou liked, then after, to applyThat liking; and approach so one the t’other,Till either grew a portion of the other:Each styled by his end,The copy of his friend.You lived to be the great sir-names,And titles, by which all made claimsUnto the virtue; nothing perfect done,But as a Cary, or a Morison.

And such a force the fair example had,As they that sawThe good, and durst not practise it, were gladThat such a lawWas left yet to mankind;Where they might read and findFriendship, indeed, was written not in words;And with the heart, not pen,Of two so early men,Whose lines her rolls were, and records;Who, ere the first down bloomed upon the chin,Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.

Andmust I sing? What subject shall I choose!Or whose great name in poets’ heaven use,For the more countenance to my active muse?

Hercules? alas, his bones are yet soreWith his old earthly labours t’ exact moreOf his dull godhead were sin. I’ll implore

Phœbus. No, tend thy cart still. Envious dayShall not give out that I have made thee stay,And foundered thy hot team, to tune my lay.

Nor will I beg of thee, lord of the vine,To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine,In the green circle of thy ivy twine.

Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid,That at thy birth mad’st the poor smith afraid.Who with his axe thy father’s midwife played.

Go, cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts,Or with thy tribade trine invent new sports;Thou, nor thy looseness with my making sorts.

Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task,Turn the stale prologue to some painted mask;His absence in my verse is all I ask.

Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us,Though he would steal his sisters’ Pegasus,And rifle him; or pawn his petasus.

Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake,Though they were crushed into one form, could makeA beauty of that merit, that should take

My muse up by commission; no, I bringMy own true fire: now my thought takes wing,And now an epode to deep ears I sing.

Notto know vice at all, and keep true state,Is virtue and not fate:Next to that virtue, is to know vice well,And her black spite expel.Which to effect (since no breast is so sure,Or safe, but she’ll procureSome way of entrance) we must plant a guardOf thoughts to watch and wardAt th’ eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,That no strange, or unkindObject arrive there, but the heart, our spy,Give knowledge instantlyTo wakeful reason, our affections’ king:Who, in th’ examining,Will quickly taste the treason, and commitClose, the close cause of it.’Tis the securest policy we have,To make our sense our slave.But this true course is not embraced by many:By many! scarce by any.For either our affections do rebel,Or else the sentinel,That should ring ’larum to the heart, doth sleep:Or some great thought doth keepBack the intelligence, and falsely swearsThey’re base and idle fearsWhereof the loyal conscience so complains.Thus, by these subtle trains,Do several passions invade the mind,And strike our reason blind:Of which usurping rank, some have thought loveThe first: as prone to moveMost frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests,In our inflamèd breasts:But this doth from the cloud of error grow,Which thus we over-blow.The thing they here call love is blind desire,Armed with bow, shafts, and fire;Inconstant, like the sea, of whence ’tis born,Rough, swelling, like a storm;With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear,And boils as if he wereIn a continual tempest. Now, true loveNo such effects doth prove;That is an essence far more gentle, fine,Pure, perfect, nay, divine;It is a golden chain let down from heaven,Whose links are bright and even;That falls like sleep on lovers, and combinesThe soft and sweetest mindsIn equal knots: this bears no brands, nor darts,To murder different hearts,But, in a calm and god-like unity,Preserves community.O, who is he that, in this peace, enjoysTh’ elixir of all joys?A form more fresh than are the Eden bowers,And lasting as her flowers;Richer than Time and, as Times’s virtue, rare;Sober as saddest care;A fixèd thought, an eye untaught to glance;Who, blest with such high chance,Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,Cast himself from the spireOf all his happiness? But soft: I hearSome vicious fool draw near,That cries, we dream, and swears there’s no such thing,As this chaste love we sing.Peace, Luxury! thou art like one of thoseWho, being at sea, suppose,Because they move, the continent doth so:No, Vice, we let thee knowThough thy wild thoughts with sparrows’ wings do fly,Turtles can chastely die;And yet (in this t’ express ourselves more clear)We do not number hereSuch spirits as are only continent,Because lust’s means are spent;Or those who doubt the common mouth of fame,And for their place and name,Cannot so safely sin: their chastityIs mere necessity;Nor mean we those whom vows and conscienceHave filled with abstinence:Though we acknowledge who can so abstain,Makes a most blessèd gain;He that for love of goodness hateth ill,Is more crown-worthy stillThan he, which for sin’s penalty forbears:His heart sins, though he fears.But we propose a person like our Dove,Graced with a Phœnix’ love;A beauty of that clear and sparkling light,Would make a day of night,And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys:Whose odorous breath destroysAll taste of bitterness, and makes the airAs sweet as she is fair.A body so harmoniously composed,As if natùre disclosedAll her best symmetry in that one feature!O, so divine a creatureWho could be false to? chiefly, when he knowsHow only she bestowsThe wealthy treasure of her love on him;Making his fortunes swimIn the full flood of her admired perfection?What savage, brute affection,Would not be fearful to offend a dameOf this excelling frame?Much more a noble, and right generous mind,To virtuous moods inclined,That knows the weight of guilt: he will refrainFrom thoughts of such a strain,And to his sense object this sentence ever,“Man may securely sin, but safely never.”

Thoughbeauty be the mark of praise,And yours, of whom I sing, be suchAs not the world can praise too much,Yet is ’t your virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay, so goneThroughout your form, as though that move,And draw, and conquer all men’s love,This subjects you to love of one,

Wherein you triumph yet: because’Tis of yourself, and that you useThe noblest freedom, not to chooseAgainst or faith, or honour’s laws.

But who could less expect from you,In whom alone Love lives again?By whom he is restored to men;And kept, and bred, and brought up true?

His falling temples you have reared,The withered garlands ta’en away;His altars kept from the decayThat envy wished, and nature feared;

And on them burns so chaste a flame,With so much loyalty’s expense,As Love, t’ acquit such excellence,Is gone himself into your name.

And you are he: the deityTo whom all lovers are designed,That would their better objects find;Among which faithful troop am I;

Who, as an offering at your shrine,Have sung this hymn, and here entreatOne spark of your diviner heatTo light upon a love of mine;

Which, if it kindle not, but scantAppear, and that to shortest view,Yet give me leave t’ adore in youWhat I, in her, am grieved to want.

[11]“So live with yourself that you do not know how ill yow mind is furnished.”

[12]Αυτοδίδακτος

[14]“A Puritan is a Heretical Hypocrite, in whom the conceit of his own perspicacity, by which he seems to himself to have observed certain errors in a few Church dogmas, has disturbed the balance of his mind, so that, excited vehemently by a sacred fury, he fights frenzied against civil authority, in the belief that he so pays obedience to God.”

[17a]Night gives counsel.

[17b]Plutarch in Life of Alexander. “Let it not be, O King, that you know these things better than I.”

[19a]“They were not our lords, but our leaders.”

[19b]“Much of it is left also for those who shall be hereafter.”

[19c]“No art is discovered at once and absolutely.”

[22]With a great belly. Comes de Schortenhien.

[23]“In all things I have a better wit and courage than good fortune.”

[24a]“The rich soil exhausts; but labour itself is an aid.”

[24b]“And the gesticulation is vile.”

[25a]“An end is to be looked for in every man, an animal most prompt to change.”

[25b]Arts are not shared among heirs.

[31a]“More loquacious than eloquent; words enough, but little wisdom.”—Sallust.

[31b]Repeated in the following Latin. “The best treasure is in that man’s tongue, and he has mighty thanks, who metes out each thing in a few words.”—Hesiod.

[31c]Vid.Zeuxidis pict. Serm. ad Megabizum.—Plutarch.

[32a]“While the unlearned is silent he may be accounted wise, for he has covered by his silence the diseases of his mind.”

[32b]Taciturnity.

[33a]“Hold your tongue above all things, after the example of the gods.”—SeeApuleius.

[33b]“Press down the lip with the finger.”—Juvenal.

[33c]Plautus.

[33d]Trinummus, Act 2, Scen. 4.

[34a]“It was the lodging of calamity.”—Mart. lib. 1, ep. 85.

[41][“Ficta omnia celeriter tanquam flosculi decidunt, nec simulatum potest quidquam esse diuturnum.”—Cicero.]

[44a]Let a Punic sponge go with the book.—Mart. 1. iv. epig. 10.

[47a]He had to be repressed.

[49a]A wit-stand.

[49b]Martial. lib. xi. epig. 91. That fall over the rough ways and high rocks.

[59a]Sir Thomas More. Sir Thomas Wiat. Henry Earl of Surrey. Sir Thomas Chaloner. Sir Thomas Smith. Sir Thomas Eliot. Bishop Gardiner. Sir Nicolas Bacon, L.K. Sir Philip Sidney. Master Richard Hooker. Robert Earl of Essex. Sir Walter Raleigh. Sir Henry Savile. Sir Edwin Sandys. Sir Thomas Egerton, L.C. Sir Francis Bacon, L.C.

[62a]“Which will secure a long age for the known writer.”—Horat.de Art. Poetica.

[66a]They have poison for their food, even for their dainty.

[74a]Haud infima ars in principe, ubi lenitas, ubi severitas—plus polleat in commune bonum callere.

[74b]i.e., Machiavell.

[81a]“Censure pardons the crows and vexes the doves.”—Juvenal.

[81b]“Does not spread his net for the hawk or the kite.”—Plautus.

[93]Parrhasius. Eupompus. Socrates. Parrhasius. Clito. Polygnotus. Aglaophon. Zeuxis. Parrhasius. Raphael de Urbino. Mich. Angelo Buonarotti. Titian. Antony de Correg. Sebast. de Venet. Julio Romano. Andrea Sartorio.

[94]Plin. lib. 35. c. 2, 5, 6, and 7. Vitruv. lib. 8 and 7.

[95]Horat. in “Arte Poet.”

[106a]Livy, Sallust, Sidney, Donne, Gower, Chaucer, Spenser, Virgil, Ennius, Homer, Quintilian, Plautus, Terence.

[110a]The interpreter of gods and men.

[111a]Julius Cæsar. Of words,seeHor. “De Art. Poet.;” Quintil. 1. 8, “Ludov. Vives,” pp. 6 and 7.

[111b]A prudent man conveys nothing rashly.

[114a]That jolt as they fall over the rough places and the rocks.

[116a]Directness enlightens, obliquity and circumlocution darken.

[117a]Ocean trembles as if indignant that you quit the land.

[117b]You might believe that the uprooted Cyclades were floating in.

[118a]Those armies of the people of Rome that might break through the heavens.—Cæsar. Comment. circa fin.

[124a]No one can speak rightly unless he apprehends wisely.

[133a]“Where the discussion of faults is general, no one is injured.”

[133b]“Gnaw tender little ears with biting truth.”—Per Sat.1.

[133c]“The wish for remedy is always truer than the hope.”—Livius.

[136a]“Æneas dedicates these arms concerning the conquering Greeks.”—Virg. Æn.lib. 3.

[136b]“You buy everything, Castor; the time will come when you will sell everything.”—Martial, lib. 8, epig. 19.

[136c]“Cinna wishes to seem poor, and is poor.”

[136d]“Which is evident in every first song.”

[139a]“There is a god within us, and when he is stirred we grow warm; that spirit comes from heavenly realms.”

[146a]“If it were allowable for immortals to weep for mortals, the Muses would weep for the poet Nævius; since he is handed to the chamber of Orcus, they have forgotten how to speak Latin at Rome.”

[148a]“No one has judged poets less happily than he who wrote about them.”—Senec. de Brev. Vit, cap. 13, et epist. 88.

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