An Acknowledgement.

A Letter.] I do not know any clue to the object of this epistle. King, like most churchmen of distinction at the time, was on familiar terms with divers 'persons of quality'. But itmightbe a mere literary exercise—a 'copy of verses'.23 'Nod regardant' is good. It shows, with 'passant' just before that his own reference to heraldry was still floating in King's mind.54 Either of two of the numerous senses of 'blank' would come in here. One istabula rasa, the judgement being obscured by no prepossession; the other 'bull's-eye' or 'target'.59 Orig. as usual, 'Heralds', with no apostrophe to make case or number. If anybody prefers 'herald's' I have no objection.67 indent] In the sense of 'contract', 'engage'.

23 'Nod regardant' is good. It shows, with 'passant' just before that his own reference to heraldry was still floating in King's mind.

54 Either of two of the numerous senses of 'blank' would come in here. One istabula rasa, the judgement being obscured by no prepossession; the other 'bull's-eye' or 'target'.

59 Orig. as usual, 'Heralds', with no apostrophe to make case or number. If anybody prefers 'herald's' I have no objection.

67 indent] In the sense of 'contract', 'engage'.

My best of friends! what needs a chain to tieOne by your merit bound a votary?Think you I have some plot upon my peace,I would this bondage change for a release?Since 'twas my fate your prisoner to be,Heav'n knows I nothing fear, but liberty.Yet you do well, that study to prevent,After so rich a stock of favour spentOn one so worthless, lest my memory10Should let so dear an obligation dieWithout record. This made my precious FriendHer token, as an antidote, to send,Against forgetful poisons; That as theyWho Vespers late, and early Mattins sayUpon their beads, so on this linked scoreIn golden numbers I might reckon o'erYour virtues and my debt, which does surmountThe trivial laws of popular account:For that, within this emblematic knot,20Your beauteous mind, and my own fate, is wrote.The sparkling constellation which combinesThe lock, is your dear self, whose worth outshinesMost of your sex; so solid and so clearYou like a perfect diamond appear;Casting, from your example, fuller lightThan those dim sparks which glaze the brow of night,And gladding all your friends, as doth the rayOf that East-star which wakes the cheerful day.But the black map of death and discontent30Behind that adamantine firmament,That luckless figure, which, like Calvary,Stands strew'd and copied out in skulls, is I:Whose life your absence clouds, and makes my timeMove blindfold in the dark ecliptic line.Then wonder not, if my removed SunSo low within the western tropic run;My eyes no day in this horizon see,Since where You are not, all is night to me.Lastly, the anchor which enfast'ned lies40Upon a pair of deaths, sadly appliesThat Monument of Rest, which harbour mustOur ship-wrackt fortunes in a road of dust.So then, how late soe'er my joyless lifeBe tired out in this affection's strife:Though my tempestuous fancy, like the sky,Travail with storms, and through my wat'ry eye,Sorrow's high-going waves spring many a leak;Though sighs blow loud, till my heart's cordage break;Though Faith, and all my wishes prove untrue,50Yet Death shall fix and anchor Me with You.'Tis some poor comfort, that this mortal scopeWill period, though never crown, my Hope.

My best of friends! what needs a chain to tie

One by your merit bound a votary?

Think you I have some plot upon my peace,

I would this bondage change for a release?

Since 'twas my fate your prisoner to be,

Heav'n knows I nothing fear, but liberty.

Yet you do well, that study to prevent,After so rich a stock of favour spentOn one so worthless, lest my memory10Should let so dear an obligation dieWithout record. This made my precious FriendHer token, as an antidote, to send,Against forgetful poisons; That as theyWho Vespers late, and early Mattins sayUpon their beads, so on this linked scoreIn golden numbers I might reckon o'erYour virtues and my debt, which does surmountThe trivial laws of popular account:For that, within this emblematic knot,20Your beauteous mind, and my own fate, is wrote.

Yet you do well, that study to prevent,

After so rich a stock of favour spent

On one so worthless, lest my memory

10Should let so dear an obligation die

Without record. This made my precious Friend

Her token, as an antidote, to send,

Against forgetful poisons; That as they

Who Vespers late, and early Mattins say

Upon their beads, so on this linked score

In golden numbers I might reckon o'er

Your virtues and my debt, which does surmount

The trivial laws of popular account:

For that, within this emblematic knot,

20Your beauteous mind, and my own fate, is wrote.

The sparkling constellation which combinesThe lock, is your dear self, whose worth outshinesMost of your sex; so solid and so clearYou like a perfect diamond appear;Casting, from your example, fuller lightThan those dim sparks which glaze the brow of night,And gladding all your friends, as doth the rayOf that East-star which wakes the cheerful day.

The sparkling constellation which combines

The lock, is your dear self, whose worth outshines

Most of your sex; so solid and so clear

You like a perfect diamond appear;

Casting, from your example, fuller light

Than those dim sparks which glaze the brow of night,

And gladding all your friends, as doth the ray

Of that East-star which wakes the cheerful day.

But the black map of death and discontent30Behind that adamantine firmament,That luckless figure, which, like Calvary,Stands strew'd and copied out in skulls, is I:Whose life your absence clouds, and makes my timeMove blindfold in the dark ecliptic line.

But the black map of death and discontent

30Behind that adamantine firmament,

That luckless figure, which, like Calvary,

Stands strew'd and copied out in skulls, is I:

Whose life your absence clouds, and makes my time

Move blindfold in the dark ecliptic line.

Then wonder not, if my removed SunSo low within the western tropic run;My eyes no day in this horizon see,Since where You are not, all is night to me.

Then wonder not, if my removed Sun

So low within the western tropic run;

My eyes no day in this horizon see,

Since where You are not, all is night to me.

Lastly, the anchor which enfast'ned lies40Upon a pair of deaths, sadly appliesThat Monument of Rest, which harbour mustOur ship-wrackt fortunes in a road of dust.

Lastly, the anchor which enfast'ned lies

40Upon a pair of deaths, sadly applies

That Monument of Rest, which harbour must

Our ship-wrackt fortunes in a road of dust.

So then, how late soe'er my joyless lifeBe tired out in this affection's strife:Though my tempestuous fancy, like the sky,Travail with storms, and through my wat'ry eye,Sorrow's high-going waves spring many a leak;Though sighs blow loud, till my heart's cordage break;Though Faith, and all my wishes prove untrue,50Yet Death shall fix and anchor Me with You.'Tis some poor comfort, that this mortal scopeWill period, though never crown, my Hope.

So then, how late soe'er my joyless life

Be tired out in this affection's strife:

Though my tempestuous fancy, like the sky,

Travail with storms, and through my wat'ry eye,

Sorrow's high-going waves spring many a leak;

Though sighs blow loud, till my heart's cordage break;

Though Faith, and all my wishes prove untrue,

50Yet Death shall fix and anchor Me with You.

'Tis some poor comfort, that this mortal scope

Will period, though never crown, my Hope.

An Acknowledgement.] This is evidently of the same class as the last poem, if not as evidently addressed to the same person. The recipient of theLettermight be of either sex, for 'mistress' in l. 66 (v. sup.) is not quite decisive in the context. This 'precious Friend' is definitely feminine. Nineteenth—I do not know about twentieth—century man would have been a little uncomfortable about receiving from a lady a gold chain with a grouped diamond pendant, welcome as the enclosed 'lock' might be. But, as Scott and others have long ago remarked, there was none of this false pride in the seventeenth, and you might even take money from the beloved. The combination of death's heads, equally of the time, is more of all time.

Not knowing who should my acquittance take,I know as little what discharge to make.The favour is so great, that it outgoesAll forms of thankfulness I can propose.Those grateful levies which my pen would raise,Are stricken dumb, or buried in amaze.Therefore, as once in Athens there was shownAn Altar built unto the God Unknown,My ignorant devotions must by guess10This blind return of gratitude address,Till you vouchsafe to show me where and howI may to this revealed Goddess bow.

Not knowing who should my acquittance take,

I know as little what discharge to make.

The favour is so great, that it outgoes

All forms of thankfulness I can propose.

Those grateful levies which my pen would raise,

Are stricken dumb, or buried in amaze.

Therefore, as once in Athens there was shown

An Altar built unto the God Unknown,

My ignorant devotions must by guess

10This blind return of gratitude address,

Till you vouchsafe to show me where and how

I may to this revealed Goddess bow.

The Acquittance.] This group of poems is so obviously a group that Hannah's principles of selection in rejecting the present piece and admitting the others may seem unreasonably 'undulating and diverse'. I suppose he thought it rather profane for a bishop evenin futuro, and perhaps rather ambiguous in other ways. But though King became a bishop there is no chance of my becoming an archdeacon, and I think the piece rather pretty.

My Dearest, To let you or the world knowWhat debt of service I do truly oweTo your unpattern'd self, were to requireA language only form'd in the desireOf him that writes. It is the common fateOf greatest duties, to evaporateIn silent meaning, as we often seeFires by their too much fuel smother'd be:Small obligations may find vent, and speak,10When greater the unable debtor break.And such are mine to you, whose favour's storeHath made me poorer then I was before;For I want words and language to declareHow strict my bond, or large your bounties are.Since nothing in my desp'rate fortune found,Can payment make, nor yet the sum compound;You must lose all, or else of force acceptThe body of a bankrupt for your debt.Then, Love, your bond to execution sue,20And take myself, as forfeited to you.

My Dearest, To let you or the world know

What debt of service I do truly owe

To your unpattern'd self, were to require

A language only form'd in the desire

Of him that writes. It is the common fate

Of greatest duties, to evaporate

In silent meaning, as we often see

Fires by their too much fuel smother'd be:

Small obligations may find vent, and speak,

10When greater the unable debtor break.

And such are mine to you, whose favour's store

Hath made me poorer then I was before;

For I want words and language to declare

How strict my bond, or large your bounties are.

Since nothing in my desp'rate fortune found,Can payment make, nor yet the sum compound;You must lose all, or else of force acceptThe body of a bankrupt for your debt.Then, Love, your bond to execution sue,20And take myself, as forfeited to you.

Since nothing in my desp'rate fortune found,

Can payment make, nor yet the sum compound;

You must lose all, or else of force accept

The body of a bankrupt for your debt.

Then, Love, your bond to execution sue,

20And take myself, as forfeited to you.

The Forfeiture.] This piece, which Hannah did not find in his MS., is almost certainly connected with the preceding, and, I think, withAn AcknowledgementandThe Departure, if not also withA Letter. The suggested unreality in thisLetterdisappears to a large extent in them, which is not unnatural.9-10 An ingenious adaptation ofCurae leves, &c.

9-10 An ingenious adaptation ofCurae leves, &c.

Were I to leave no more than a good friend,Or but to hear the summons to my end,(Which I have long'd for) I could then with easeAttire my grief in words, and so appeaseThat passion in my bosom, which outgrowsThe language of strict verse or largest prose.But here I am quite lost; writing to you,All that I pen or think is forc'd and new.My faculties run cross, and prove as weak10T' indite this melancholy task, as speak:Indeed all words are vain; well might I spareThis rend'ring of my tortur'd thoughts in air,Or sighing paper. My infectious griefStrikes inward, and affords me no relief,But still a deeper wound, to lose a sightMore lov'd than health, and dearer than the light.But all of us were not at the same timeBrought forth, nor are we billeted in one clime.Nature hath pitch'd mankind at several rates,20Making our places diverse as our fates.Unto that universal law I bow,Though with unwilling knee, and do allowHer cruel justice, which dispos'd us soThat we must counter to our wishes go.'Twas part of man's first curse, which order'd well,We should not alway with our likings dwell.'Tis only the Triumphant Church where weShall in unsever'd neighbourhood agree.Go then, best soul, and, where You must appear,30Restore the day to that dull hemisphere.Ne'er may the hapless night You leave behindDarken the comforts of Your purer mind.May all the blessings wishes can inventEnrich your days, and crown them with content.And though You travel down into the West,May Your life's Sun stand fixed in the East,Far from the weeping set; nor may my earTake in that killing whisper,You once were.Thus kiss I Your fair hands, taking my leave,40As prisoners at the bar their doom receive.All joys go with You: let sweet peace attendYou on the way, and wait Your journey's end.But let Your discontents and sourer fateRemain with me, borne off in my retrait.Might all your crosses, in that sheet of leadWhich folds my heavy heart, lie buried:'Tis the last service I would do You, and the bestMy wishes ever meant, or tongue profest.Once more I take my leave. And once for all,50Our parting shows so like a funeral,It strikes my soul, which hath most right to beChief Mourner at this sad solemnity.And think not, Dearest, 'cause this parting knellIs rung in verses, that at Your farewellI only mourn in poetry and ink:No, my pen's melancholy plummets sinkSo low, they dive where th' hid affections sit,Blotting that paper where my mirth was writ.Believe 't, that sorrow truest is, which lies60Deep in the breast, not floating in the eyes:And he with saddest circumstance doth part,Who seals his farewell with a bleeding heart.

Were I to leave no more than a good friend,

Or but to hear the summons to my end,

(Which I have long'd for) I could then with ease

Attire my grief in words, and so appease

That passion in my bosom, which outgrows

The language of strict verse or largest prose.

But here I am quite lost; writing to you,

All that I pen or think is forc'd and new.

My faculties run cross, and prove as weak

10T' indite this melancholy task, as speak:

Indeed all words are vain; well might I spare

This rend'ring of my tortur'd thoughts in air,

Or sighing paper. My infectious grief

Strikes inward, and affords me no relief,

But still a deeper wound, to lose a sight

More lov'd than health, and dearer than the light.

But all of us were not at the same time

Brought forth, nor are we billeted in one clime.

Nature hath pitch'd mankind at several rates,

20Making our places diverse as our fates.

Unto that universal law I bow,

Though with unwilling knee, and do allow

Her cruel justice, which dispos'd us so

That we must counter to our wishes go.

'Twas part of man's first curse, which order'd well,

We should not alway with our likings dwell.

'Tis only the Triumphant Church where we

Shall in unsever'd neighbourhood agree.

Go then, best soul, and, where You must appear,30Restore the day to that dull hemisphere.Ne'er may the hapless night You leave behindDarken the comforts of Your purer mind.May all the blessings wishes can inventEnrich your days, and crown them with content.And though You travel down into the West,May Your life's Sun stand fixed in the East,Far from the weeping set; nor may my earTake in that killing whisper,You once were.

Go then, best soul, and, where You must appear,

30Restore the day to that dull hemisphere.

Ne'er may the hapless night You leave behind

Darken the comforts of Your purer mind.

May all the blessings wishes can invent

Enrich your days, and crown them with content.

And though You travel down into the West,

May Your life's Sun stand fixed in the East,

Far from the weeping set; nor may my ear

Take in that killing whisper,You once were.

Thus kiss I Your fair hands, taking my leave,40As prisoners at the bar their doom receive.All joys go with You: let sweet peace attendYou on the way, and wait Your journey's end.But let Your discontents and sourer fateRemain with me, borne off in my retrait.Might all your crosses, in that sheet of leadWhich folds my heavy heart, lie buried:'Tis the last service I would do You, and the bestMy wishes ever meant, or tongue profest.Once more I take my leave. And once for all,50Our parting shows so like a funeral,It strikes my soul, which hath most right to beChief Mourner at this sad solemnity.

Thus kiss I Your fair hands, taking my leave,

40As prisoners at the bar their doom receive.

All joys go with You: let sweet peace attend

You on the way, and wait Your journey's end.

But let Your discontents and sourer fate

Remain with me, borne off in my retrait.

Might all your crosses, in that sheet of lead

Which folds my heavy heart, lie buried:

'Tis the last service I would do You, and the best

My wishes ever meant, or tongue profest.

Once more I take my leave. And once for all,

50Our parting shows so like a funeral,

It strikes my soul, which hath most right to be

Chief Mourner at this sad solemnity.

And think not, Dearest, 'cause this parting knellIs rung in verses, that at Your farewellI only mourn in poetry and ink:No, my pen's melancholy plummets sinkSo low, they dive where th' hid affections sit,Blotting that paper where my mirth was writ.

And think not, Dearest, 'cause this parting knell

Is rung in verses, that at Your farewell

I only mourn in poetry and ink:

No, my pen's melancholy plummets sink

So low, they dive where th' hid affections sit,

Blotting that paper where my mirth was writ.

Believe 't, that sorrow truest is, which lies60Deep in the breast, not floating in the eyes:And he with saddest circumstance doth part,Who seals his farewell with a bleeding heart.

Believe 't, that sorrow truest is, which lies

60Deep in the breast, not floating in the eyes:

And he with saddest circumstance doth part,

Who seals his farewell with a bleeding heart.

The Departure.] The special title of this poem was not in Hannah's MS.6 largest]MS.'larger'.47 An irregular line of this kind (for it is practically an Alexandrine) is so very rare in King that one suspects an error, but Hannah notes no MS. variant. Many, perhaps most, contemporary poets would not have hesitated at 'serv'ce', which with 'I'd' adjusts the thing; but our Bishop is seldom rough and still seldomer licentious.53 this]MS.'the'.56 Orig. 'plommets'.

The Departure.] The special title of this poem was not in Hannah's MS.

6 largest]MS.'larger'.

47 An irregular line of this kind (for it is practically an Alexandrine) is so very rare in King that one suspects an error, but Hannah notes no MS. variant. Many, perhaps most, contemporary poets would not have hesitated at 'serv'ce', which with 'I'd' adjusts the thing; but our Bishop is seldom rough and still seldomer licentious.

53 this]MS.'the'.

56 Orig. 'plommets'.

Fair one, why cannot you an old man love?He may as useful, and more constant prove.Experience shows you that maturer yearsAre a security against those fearsYouth will expose you to; whose wild desireAs it is hot, so 'tis as rash as fire.Mark how the blaze extinct in ashes lies,Leaving no brand nor embers when it diesWhich might the flame renew: thus soon consumes10Youth's wand'ring heat, and vanishes in fumes.When age's riper love unapt to strayThrough loose and giddy change of objects, mayIn your warm bosom like a cinder lie,Quick'ned and kindled by your sparkling eye.'Tis not deni'd, there are extremes in bothWhich may the fancy move to like or loathe:Yet of the two you better shall endureTo marry with the cramp than calenture.Who would in wisdom choose the Torrid Zone20Therein to settle a plantation?Merchants can tell you, those hot climes were madeBut at the longest for a three years' trade:And though the Indies cast the sweeter smell,Yet health and plenty do more Northward dwell;For where the raging sunbeams burn the earth,Her scorched mantle withers into dearth;Yet when that drought becomes the harvest's curse,Snow doth the tender corn most kindly nurse:Why now then woo you not some snowy head30To take you in mere pity to his bed?I doubt the harder task were to persuadeHim to love you: for if what I have saidIn virgins as in vegetals holds true,He'll prove the better nurse to cherish you.Some men we know renown'd for wisdom grownBy old records and antique medals shown;Why ought not women then be held most wiseWho can produce living antiquities?Besides if care of that main happiness40Your sex triumphs in, doth your thoughts possess,I mean your beauty from decay to keep;No wash nor mask is like an old man's sleep.Young wives need never to be sunburnt fear,Who their old husbands for umbrellas wear:How russet looks an orchard on the hillTo one that 's water'd by some neighb'ring drill?Are not the floated meadows ever seenTo flourish soonest, and hold longest green?You may be sure no moist'ning lacks that bride,50Who lies with winter thawing by her side.She should be fruitful too as fields that joinUnto the melting waste of Apennine.Whilst the cold morning-drops bedew the rose,It doth nor leaf, nor smell, nor colour lose;Then doubt not, Sweet! Age hath supplies of wetTo keep You like that flower in water set.Dripping catarrhs and fontinells are thingsWill make You think You grew betwixt two springs.And should You not think so, You scarce allow60The force or merit of Your marriage-vow;Where maids a new creed learn, and must from thenceBelieve against their own or others' sense.Else love will nothing differ from neglect,Which turns not to a virtue each defect.I'll say no more but this; you women makeYour children's reck'ning by the almanac.I like it well, so you contented are,To choose their fathers by that kalendar.Turn then, oldErra Pater, and there see70According to life's posture and degree,What age or what complexion is most fitTo make an English maid happy by it;And You shall find, if You will choose a man,Set justly for Your own meridian,Though You perhaps letOne and Twentywoo,Your elevation is forFifty-Two.

Fair one, why cannot you an old man love?

He may as useful, and more constant prove.

Experience shows you that maturer years

Are a security against those fears

Youth will expose you to; whose wild desire

As it is hot, so 'tis as rash as fire.

Mark how the blaze extinct in ashes lies,

Leaving no brand nor embers when it dies

Which might the flame renew: thus soon consumes

10Youth's wand'ring heat, and vanishes in fumes.

When age's riper love unapt to stray

Through loose and giddy change of objects, may

In your warm bosom like a cinder lie,

Quick'ned and kindled by your sparkling eye.

'Tis not deni'd, there are extremes in both

Which may the fancy move to like or loathe:

Yet of the two you better shall endure

To marry with the cramp than calenture.

Who would in wisdom choose the Torrid Zone

20Therein to settle a plantation?

Merchants can tell you, those hot climes were made

But at the longest for a three years' trade:

And though the Indies cast the sweeter smell,

Yet health and plenty do more Northward dwell;

For where the raging sunbeams burn the earth,

Her scorched mantle withers into dearth;

Yet when that drought becomes the harvest's curse,

Snow doth the tender corn most kindly nurse:

Why now then woo you not some snowy head

30To take you in mere pity to his bed?

I doubt the harder task were to persuade

Him to love you: for if what I have said

In virgins as in vegetals holds true,

He'll prove the better nurse to cherish you.

Some men we know renown'd for wisdom grown

By old records and antique medals shown;

Why ought not women then be held most wise

Who can produce living antiquities?

Besides if care of that main happiness

40Your sex triumphs in, doth your thoughts possess,

I mean your beauty from decay to keep;

No wash nor mask is like an old man's sleep.

Young wives need never to be sunburnt fear,

Who their old husbands for umbrellas wear:

How russet looks an orchard on the hill

To one that 's water'd by some neighb'ring drill?

Are not the floated meadows ever seen

To flourish soonest, and hold longest green?

You may be sure no moist'ning lacks that bride,

50Who lies with winter thawing by her side.

She should be fruitful too as fields that join

Unto the melting waste of Apennine.

Whilst the cold morning-drops bedew the rose,

It doth nor leaf, nor smell, nor colour lose;

Then doubt not, Sweet! Age hath supplies of wet

To keep You like that flower in water set.

Dripping catarrhs and fontinells are things

Will make You think You grew betwixt two springs.

And should You not think so, You scarce allow

60The force or merit of Your marriage-vow;

Where maids a new creed learn, and must from thence

Believe against their own or others' sense.

Else love will nothing differ from neglect,

Which turns not to a virtue each defect.

I'll say no more but this; you women make

Your children's reck'ning by the almanac.

I like it well, so you contented are,

To choose their fathers by that kalendar.

Turn then, oldErra Pater, and there see

70According to life's posture and degree,

What age or what complexion is most fit

To make an English maid happy by it;

And You shall find, if You will choose a man,

Set justly for Your own meridian,

Though You perhaps letOne and Twentywoo,

Your elevation is forFifty-Two.

Paradox. That it is best, &c.] After Hannah's omission ofThe Acquittanceit is not surprising that he did not give this or the next—though a greater excess of prudishness appears in the exclusion ofThe Change, and one begins to think that something more than accident, indolence, or business prevented the appearance of the promised second volume. But if there is some nastiness there is very little naughtiness in them.33 Some have thought 'vegetal', which was not uncommon in the seventeenth century, a better form than 'vegetable', though this latter has prevailed. It is the French word, and though in Latin there is no 'vegetalis' and there is 'vegetabilis', yet this latter has quite a different sense.44 Orig. has 'umbrellaes', not 'umbrellos' (or -oes), which seems to be the older form.46 It would be pardonable to suppose 'drill' an error for 'rill'. But the word is unquestionably used in the sense by Sandys and Jeremy Taylor, and seems to be the same as the slightly older 'trill' in the sense of 'trickle'.

33 Some have thought 'vegetal', which was not uncommon in the seventeenth century, a better form than 'vegetable', though this latter has prevailed. It is the French word, and though in Latin there is no 'vegetalis' and there is 'vegetabilis', yet this latter has quite a different sense.

44 Orig. has 'umbrellaes', not 'umbrellos' (or -oes), which seems to be the older form.

46 It would be pardonable to suppose 'drill' an error for 'rill'. But the word is unquestionably used in the sense by Sandys and Jeremy Taylor, and seems to be the same as the slightly older 'trill' in the sense of 'trickle'.

Love is our Reason's Paradox, which stillAgainst the judgement doth maintain the will:And governs by such arbitrary laws,It only makes the act our liking's cause:We have no brave revenge, but to forgoOur full desires, and starve the tyrant so.They whom the rising blood tempts not to taste,Preserve a stock of love can never waste;When easy people who their wish enjoy,10Like prodigals at once their wealth destroy.Adam till now had stay'd in ParadiseHad his desires been bounded by his eyes.When he did more than look, that made th' offence,And forfeited his state of innocence.Fruition therefore is the bane t' undoBoth our affection and the subject too.'Tis Love into worse language to translate,And make it into Lust degenerate:'Tis to dethrone, and thrust it from the heart,20To seat it grossly in the sensual part.Seek for the star that 's shot upon the ground,And nought but a dim jelly there is found.Thus foul and dark our female stars appear,If fall'n or loos'ned once from Virtue's Sphere.Glow-worms shine only look'd on, and let lie,But handled crawl into deformity:So beauty is no longer fair and bright,Than whilst unstained by the appetite:And then it withers like a blasted flower,30Some pois'nous worm or spider hath crept o'er.Pygmalion's dotage on the carved stone,Shows amorists their strong illusion.Whilst he to gaze and court it was content,He serv'd as priest at Beauty's monument:But when by looser fires t' embraces led,It prov'd a cold hard statue in his bed.Irregular affects, like madmen's dreamsPresented by false lights and broken beams,So long content us, as no near address40Shows the weak sense our painted happiness.But when those pleasing shadows us forsake,Or of the substance we a trial make,Like him, deluded by the fancy's mock,We shipwrack 'gainst an alabaster rock.What though thy mistress far from marble be?Her softness will transform and harden thee.Lust is a snake, and Guilt the Gorgon's head,Which Conscience turns to stone, and Joys to lead.Turtles themselves will blush, if put to name50The act, whereby they quench their am'rous flame.Who then that 's wise or virtuous, would not fearTo catch at pleasures which forbidden were,When those which we count lawful, cannot beRequir'd without some loss of modesty?Ev'n in the marriage-bed, where soft delightsAre customary and authoriz'd rites;What are those tributes to the wanton sense,But toleration of Incontinence?For properly you cannot call that Love60Which does not from the soul, but humour move.Thus they who worship'd Pan or Isis' Shrine,By the fair front judg'd all within divine:Though ent'ring, found 'twas but a goat or cowTo which before their ignorance did bow.Such temples and such goddesses are theseWhich foolish lovers and admirers please:Who if they chance within the shrine to pry,Find that a beast they thought a Deity.Nor makes it only our opinion less70Of what we lik'd before, and now possess;But robs the fuel, and corrupts the spiceWhich sweetens and inflames Love's sacrifice,After fruition once, what is DesireBut ashes kept warm by a dying fire?This is (if any) the Philosopher's StoneWhich still miscarries at projection.For when the Heatad Octointermits,It poorly takes us like Third Ague fits,Or must on embers as dull drugs infuse,80Which we for med'cine not for pleasure use.Since lovers' joys then leave so sick a taste,And soon as relish'd by the sense are past;They are but riddles sure, lost if possest,And therefore only in reversion best.For bate them expectation and delay,You take the most delightful scenes away.These two such rule within the fancy keep,As banquets apprehended in our sleep;After which pleasing trance next morn we wake90Empty and angry at the night's mistake.Give me long dreams and visions of content,Rather than pleasures in a minute spent.And since I know before, the shedding roseIn that same instant doth her sweetness lose,Upon the virgin-stock still let her dwellFor me, to feast my longings with her smell.Those are but counterfeits of joy at best,Which languish soon as brought unto the test.Nor can I hold it worth his pains who tries100To in that harvest which by reaping dies.Resolve me now what spirit hath delight,If by full feed you kill the appetite?That stomach healthi'st is, that ne'er was cloy'd,Why not that Love the best then, ne'er enjoy'd?Since nat'rally the blood, when tam'd or sated,Will cool so fast it leaves the object hated.Pleasures, like wonders, quickly lose their priceWhen Reason or Experience makes us wise.To close my argument then. I dare say110(And without Paradox) as well we mayEnjoy our Love and yet preserve Desire,As warm our hands by putting out the fire.

Love is our Reason's Paradox, which still

Against the judgement doth maintain the will:

And governs by such arbitrary laws,

It only makes the act our liking's cause:

We have no brave revenge, but to forgo

Our full desires, and starve the tyrant so.

They whom the rising blood tempts not to taste,Preserve a stock of love can never waste;When easy people who their wish enjoy,10Like prodigals at once their wealth destroy.Adam till now had stay'd in ParadiseHad his desires been bounded by his eyes.When he did more than look, that made th' offence,And forfeited his state of innocence.Fruition therefore is the bane t' undoBoth our affection and the subject too.'Tis Love into worse language to translate,And make it into Lust degenerate:'Tis to dethrone, and thrust it from the heart,20To seat it grossly in the sensual part.Seek for the star that 's shot upon the ground,And nought but a dim jelly there is found.Thus foul and dark our female stars appear,If fall'n or loos'ned once from Virtue's Sphere.Glow-worms shine only look'd on, and let lie,But handled crawl into deformity:So beauty is no longer fair and bright,Than whilst unstained by the appetite:And then it withers like a blasted flower,30Some pois'nous worm or spider hath crept o'er.Pygmalion's dotage on the carved stone,Shows amorists their strong illusion.Whilst he to gaze and court it was content,He serv'd as priest at Beauty's monument:But when by looser fires t' embraces led,It prov'd a cold hard statue in his bed.Irregular affects, like madmen's dreamsPresented by false lights and broken beams,So long content us, as no near address40Shows the weak sense our painted happiness.But when those pleasing shadows us forsake,Or of the substance we a trial make,Like him, deluded by the fancy's mock,We shipwrack 'gainst an alabaster rock.What though thy mistress far from marble be?Her softness will transform and harden thee.Lust is a snake, and Guilt the Gorgon's head,Which Conscience turns to stone, and Joys to lead.Turtles themselves will blush, if put to name50The act, whereby they quench their am'rous flame.Who then that 's wise or virtuous, would not fearTo catch at pleasures which forbidden were,When those which we count lawful, cannot beRequir'd without some loss of modesty?Ev'n in the marriage-bed, where soft delightsAre customary and authoriz'd rites;What are those tributes to the wanton sense,But toleration of Incontinence?For properly you cannot call that Love60Which does not from the soul, but humour move.Thus they who worship'd Pan or Isis' Shrine,By the fair front judg'd all within divine:Though ent'ring, found 'twas but a goat or cowTo which before their ignorance did bow.Such temples and such goddesses are theseWhich foolish lovers and admirers please:Who if they chance within the shrine to pry,Find that a beast they thought a Deity.Nor makes it only our opinion less70Of what we lik'd before, and now possess;But robs the fuel, and corrupts the spiceWhich sweetens and inflames Love's sacrifice,After fruition once, what is DesireBut ashes kept warm by a dying fire?This is (if any) the Philosopher's StoneWhich still miscarries at projection.For when the Heatad Octointermits,It poorly takes us like Third Ague fits,Or must on embers as dull drugs infuse,80Which we for med'cine not for pleasure use.Since lovers' joys then leave so sick a taste,And soon as relish'd by the sense are past;They are but riddles sure, lost if possest,And therefore only in reversion best.For bate them expectation and delay,You take the most delightful scenes away.These two such rule within the fancy keep,As banquets apprehended in our sleep;After which pleasing trance next morn we wake90Empty and angry at the night's mistake.Give me long dreams and visions of content,Rather than pleasures in a minute spent.And since I know before, the shedding roseIn that same instant doth her sweetness lose,Upon the virgin-stock still let her dwellFor me, to feast my longings with her smell.Those are but counterfeits of joy at best,Which languish soon as brought unto the test.Nor can I hold it worth his pains who tries100To in that harvest which by reaping dies.

They whom the rising blood tempts not to taste,

Preserve a stock of love can never waste;

When easy people who their wish enjoy,

10Like prodigals at once their wealth destroy.

Adam till now had stay'd in Paradise

Had his desires been bounded by his eyes.

When he did more than look, that made th' offence,

And forfeited his state of innocence.

Fruition therefore is the bane t' undo

Both our affection and the subject too.

'Tis Love into worse language to translate,

And make it into Lust degenerate:

'Tis to dethrone, and thrust it from the heart,

20To seat it grossly in the sensual part.

Seek for the star that 's shot upon the ground,

And nought but a dim jelly there is found.

Thus foul and dark our female stars appear,

If fall'n or loos'ned once from Virtue's Sphere.

Glow-worms shine only look'd on, and let lie,

But handled crawl into deformity:

So beauty is no longer fair and bright,

Than whilst unstained by the appetite:

And then it withers like a blasted flower,

30Some pois'nous worm or spider hath crept o'er.

Pygmalion's dotage on the carved stone,

Shows amorists their strong illusion.

Whilst he to gaze and court it was content,

He serv'd as priest at Beauty's monument:

But when by looser fires t' embraces led,

It prov'd a cold hard statue in his bed.

Irregular affects, like madmen's dreams

Presented by false lights and broken beams,

So long content us, as no near address

40Shows the weak sense our painted happiness.

But when those pleasing shadows us forsake,

Or of the substance we a trial make,

Like him, deluded by the fancy's mock,

We shipwrack 'gainst an alabaster rock.

What though thy mistress far from marble be?

Her softness will transform and harden thee.

Lust is a snake, and Guilt the Gorgon's head,

Which Conscience turns to stone, and Joys to lead.

Turtles themselves will blush, if put to name

50The act, whereby they quench their am'rous flame.

Who then that 's wise or virtuous, would not fear

To catch at pleasures which forbidden were,

When those which we count lawful, cannot be

Requir'd without some loss of modesty?

Ev'n in the marriage-bed, where soft delights

Are customary and authoriz'd rites;

What are those tributes to the wanton sense,

But toleration of Incontinence?

For properly you cannot call that Love

60Which does not from the soul, but humour move.

Thus they who worship'd Pan or Isis' Shrine,

By the fair front judg'd all within divine:

Though ent'ring, found 'twas but a goat or cow

To which before their ignorance did bow.

Such temples and such goddesses are these

Which foolish lovers and admirers please:

Who if they chance within the shrine to pry,

Find that a beast they thought a Deity.

Nor makes it only our opinion less

70Of what we lik'd before, and now possess;

But robs the fuel, and corrupts the spice

Which sweetens and inflames Love's sacrifice,

After fruition once, what is Desire

But ashes kept warm by a dying fire?

This is (if any) the Philosopher's Stone

Which still miscarries at projection.

For when the Heatad Octointermits,

It poorly takes us like Third Ague fits,

Or must on embers as dull drugs infuse,

80Which we for med'cine not for pleasure use.

Since lovers' joys then leave so sick a taste,

And soon as relish'd by the sense are past;

They are but riddles sure, lost if possest,

And therefore only in reversion best.

For bate them expectation and delay,

You take the most delightful scenes away.

These two such rule within the fancy keep,

As banquets apprehended in our sleep;

After which pleasing trance next morn we wake

90Empty and angry at the night's mistake.

Give me long dreams and visions of content,

Rather than pleasures in a minute spent.

And since I know before, the shedding rose

In that same instant doth her sweetness lose,

Upon the virgin-stock still let her dwell

For me, to feast my longings with her smell.

Those are but counterfeits of joy at best,

Which languish soon as brought unto the test.

Nor can I hold it worth his pains who tries

100To in that harvest which by reaping dies.

Resolve me now what spirit hath delight,If by full feed you kill the appetite?That stomach healthi'st is, that ne'er was cloy'd,Why not that Love the best then, ne'er enjoy'd?Since nat'rally the blood, when tam'd or sated,Will cool so fast it leaves the object hated.Pleasures, like wonders, quickly lose their priceWhen Reason or Experience makes us wise.

Resolve me now what spirit hath delight,

If by full feed you kill the appetite?

That stomach healthi'st is, that ne'er was cloy'd,

Why not that Love the best then, ne'er enjoy'd?

Since nat'rally the blood, when tam'd or sated,

Will cool so fast it leaves the object hated.

Pleasures, like wonders, quickly lose their price

When Reason or Experience makes us wise.

To close my argument then. I dare say110(And without Paradox) as well we mayEnjoy our Love and yet preserve Desire,As warm our hands by putting out the fire.

To close my argument then. I dare say

110(And without Paradox) as well we may

Enjoy our Love and yet preserve Desire,

As warm our hands by putting out the fire.

Paradox. That Fruition, &c.] Put less tersely but perhaps better by Dryden's most original heroine, Doralice, inMarriage à la Mode, 'The only way to keep us true to each other is never to enjoy'. The notion is old enough, and several other seventeenth-century poets have treated it.22 Nobody has ever assigned a (to me, at least) plausible reason for this universal fancy of the seventeenth century about the jellification of shooting-stars. It is curious, but not inexplicable, that Browne does not touch it.31 King has very coolly turned the Pygmalion story upside down to suit his thesis.50 The talking and blushing turtle (i.e. dove) is another remarkable poetical licence.77 Heatad Octo] An obviously alchemical phrase which I have not interpreted.100 in] Orig. 'inne' = 'get in'. Cf.All's Well that Ends Well, 1. iii, 'to in the crop'.

22 Nobody has ever assigned a (to me, at least) plausible reason for this universal fancy of the seventeenth century about the jellification of shooting-stars. It is curious, but not inexplicable, that Browne does not touch it.

31 King has very coolly turned the Pygmalion story upside down to suit his thesis.

50 The talking and blushing turtle (i.e. dove) is another remarkable poetical licence.

77 Heatad Octo] An obviously alchemical phrase which I have not interpreted.

100 in] Orig. 'inne' = 'get in'. Cf.All's Well that Ends Well, 1. iii, 'to in the crop'.

We lov'd as friends now twenty years and more:Is't time or reason, think you, to give o'er?When, though two prenti'ships set Jacob free,I have not held my Rachel dear at three.Yet will I not your levity accuse;Continuance sometimes is the worse abuse.In judgement I might rather hold it strange,If, like the fleeting world, you did not change:Be it your wisdom therefore to retract,10When perseverance oft is folly's act.In pity I can think, that what you doHath Justice in't, and some Religion too;For of all virtues Moral or Divine,We know, but Love, none must in Heaven shine:Well did you the presumption then foreseeOf counterfeiting immortality:Since had you kept our loves too long alive,We might invade Heaven's prerogative;Or in our progress, like the Jews, comprise20The Legend of an earthly Paradise.Live happy, and more prosperous in the next.You have discharg'd your old friend by the text.Farewell, fair Shadow of a female faith,And let this be our friendship's Epitaph:Affection shares the frailty of our fate,When (like ourselves) 'tis old and out of date:'Tis just all human loves their period have,When friends are frail and dropping to the grave.

We lov'd as friends now twenty years and more:Is't time or reason, think you, to give o'er?When, though two prenti'ships set Jacob free,I have not held my Rachel dear at three.

We lov'd as friends now twenty years and more:

Is't time or reason, think you, to give o'er?

When, though two prenti'ships set Jacob free,

I have not held my Rachel dear at three.

Yet will I not your levity accuse;Continuance sometimes is the worse abuse.In judgement I might rather hold it strange,If, like the fleeting world, you did not change:Be it your wisdom therefore to retract,10When perseverance oft is folly's act.

Yet will I not your levity accuse;

Continuance sometimes is the worse abuse.

In judgement I might rather hold it strange,

If, like the fleeting world, you did not change:

Be it your wisdom therefore to retract,

10When perseverance oft is folly's act.

In pity I can think, that what you doHath Justice in't, and some Religion too;For of all virtues Moral or Divine,We know, but Love, none must in Heaven shine:Well did you the presumption then foreseeOf counterfeiting immortality:Since had you kept our loves too long alive,We might invade Heaven's prerogative;Or in our progress, like the Jews, comprise20The Legend of an earthly Paradise.

In pity I can think, that what you do

Hath Justice in't, and some Religion too;

For of all virtues Moral or Divine,

We know, but Love, none must in Heaven shine:

Well did you the presumption then foresee

Of counterfeiting immortality:

Since had you kept our loves too long alive,

We might invade Heaven's prerogative;

Or in our progress, like the Jews, comprise

20The Legend of an earthly Paradise.

Live happy, and more prosperous in the next.You have discharg'd your old friend by the text.Farewell, fair Shadow of a female faith,And let this be our friendship's Epitaph:

Live happy, and more prosperous in the next.

You have discharg'd your old friend by the text.

Farewell, fair Shadow of a female faith,

And let this be our friendship's Epitaph:

Affection shares the frailty of our fate,When (like ourselves) 'tis old and out of date:'Tis just all human loves their period have,When friends are frail and dropping to the grave.

Affection shares the frailty of our fate,

When (like ourselves) 'tis old and out of date:

'Tis just all human loves their period have,

When friends are frail and dropping to the grave.

The Change.] This poem is almost less of a commonplace than any of King's, and the expression is vigorous. The nearest parallel I know to it is Crabbe's 'Natural Death of Love', and like that it has a curious, if not cheerful, ring of actuality. But the case is more unusual. The Spanish motto (rather dog-Spanish in original) means: 'The wise man changes consciously: the fool [or, rather, madman] perseveres.'22 by the text] = 'formally'? as it were, 'by the card'. Or perhaps with direct reference to the motto.

22 by the text] = 'formally'? as it were, 'by the card'. Or perhaps with direct reference to the motto.

Dear Nan, I would not have thy counsel lost,Though I last night had twice so much been crost;Well is a passion to the market brought,When such a treasure of advice is boughtWith so much dross. And couldst thou me assure,Each vice of mine should meet with such a cure,I would sin oft, and on my guilty browWear every misperfection that I owe,Open and visible; I should not hide10But bring my faults abroad: to hear thee chideIn such a note, and with a quill so sage,It passion tunes, and calms a tempest's rage.Well, I am charm'd, and promise to redressWhat, without shrift, my follies do confessAgainst myself: wherefore let me entreat,When I fly out in that distemper'd heatWhich frets me into fasts, thou wilt reproveThat froward spleen in poetry and love:So though I lose my reason in such fits20Thou'lt rhyme me back again into my wits.

Dear Nan, I would not have thy counsel lost,

Though I last night had twice so much been crost;

Well is a passion to the market brought,

When such a treasure of advice is bought

With so much dross. And couldst thou me assure,

Each vice of mine should meet with such a cure,

I would sin oft, and on my guilty brow

Wear every misperfection that I owe,

Open and visible; I should not hide

10But bring my faults abroad: to hear thee chide

In such a note, and with a quill so sage,

It passion tunes, and calms a tempest's rage.

Well, I am charm'd, and promise to redressWhat, without shrift, my follies do confessAgainst myself: wherefore let me entreat,When I fly out in that distemper'd heatWhich frets me into fasts, thou wilt reproveThat froward spleen in poetry and love:So though I lose my reason in such fits20Thou'lt rhyme me back again into my wits.

Well, I am charm'd, and promise to redress

What, without shrift, my follies do confess

Against myself: wherefore let me entreat,

When I fly out in that distemper'd heat

Which frets me into fasts, thou wilt reprove

That froward spleen in poetry and love:

So though I lose my reason in such fits

20Thou'lt rhyme me back again into my wits.

To my Sister, &c.] Anne King, afterwards Mrs. Dutton and Lady Howe. Howell, the epistoler, admitted her (in rather execrable verse) to that Tenth Museship which has had so many fair incumbents. Izaak Walton left her a ring and called her 'a most generose and ingenious Lady'. The verses assigned to her, which may be found in Hannah's notes, are not of the worst Tenth Muse quality.2 It has been observed, once or twice, that a placid and philosophical temper does not seem to have been one of the Bishop's gifts, and he here acknowledges the fact.8 'Owe', as so often noted, = 'own'.17 And seems to have done due penance for it.

2 It has been observed, once or twice, that a placid and philosophical temper does not seem to have been one of the Bishop's gifts, and he here acknowledges the fact.

8 'Owe', as so often noted, = 'own'.

17 And seems to have done due penance for it.

[Died August 24, 1638.]

I envy not thy mortal triumphs, Death(Thou enemy to Virtue, as to breath),Nor do I wonder much, nor yet complainThe weekly numbers by thy arrow slain.The whole world is thy factory, and we,Like traffic, driven and retail'd by Thee:And where the springs of life fill up so fast,Some of the waters needs must run to waste.It is confess'd, yet must our griefs dispute10That which thine own conclusion doth refute,Ere we begin. Hearken! for if thy earBe to thy throat proportion'd, thou canst hear.Is there no order in the work of Fate?Nor rule, but blindly to anticipateOur growing seasons? or think'st thou 'tis just,To sprinkle our fresh blossoms with thy dust,Till by abortive funerals, thou bringThat to an Autumn, Nature meant a Spring?Is't not enough for thee, that wither'd age20Lies the unpitied subject of thy rage;But like an ugly amorist, thy crestMust be with spoils of Youth and Beauty drest?In other camps, those which sat down to-dayMarch first to-morrow, and they longest stay,Who last came to the service: but in thine,Only confusion stands for discipline.We fall in such promiscuous heaps, none canPut any diff'rence 'twixt thy rear or van;Since oft the youngest lead thy files. For this,30The grieved world here thy accuser is,And I a plaintiff, 'mongst those many ones,Who wet this Lady's urn with zealous moans;As if her ashes, quick'ning into years,Might be again embodied by our tears.But all in vain; the moisture we bestowShall make as soon her curled marble grow,As render heat or motion to that blood,Which through her veins branch't like an azure flood;Whose now still current in the grave is lost,40Lock'd up, and fetter'd by eternal frost.Desist from hence, doting Astrology!To search for hidden wonders in the sky;Or from the concourse of malignant stars,Foretell diseases, gen'ral as our wars:What barren droughts, forerunners of lean dearth,Threaten to starve the plenty of the earth:What horrid forms of darkness must affrightThe sickly world, hast'ning to that long nightWhere it must end. If there no portents are,50No black eclipses for the Kalendar,Our times sad annals will rememb'red beI' th' loss of bright Northumberland and Thee:Two stars of Court, who in one fatal yearBy most untimely set drop'd from their sphere.She in the winter took her flight, and soonAs her perfections reach'd the point of noon,Wrapt in a cloud, contracted her wish'd stayUnto the measure of a short-liv'd day.ButThouin Summer, like an early rose,60By Death's cold hand nipp'd asThoudidst disclose,Took'st a long day to run that narrow stage,Which in two gasping minutes summ'd thy age.And, as the fading rose, when the leaves shed,Lies in its native sweetness buried,Thouin thy virtues bedded and inhearst,Sleep'st with those odours thy pure fame disperst,Where till that Rising Morn thou must remain,In which thy wither'd flowers shall spring again,And greater beauties thy wak'd body vest,70Than were at thy departure here possest.So with full eyes we close thy vault. Content(With what thy loss bequeaths us) to lament,And make that use of thy griev'd funeral,As of a crystal broken in the fall;Whose pitied fractures, gather'd up, and set,May smaller mirrors for thy sex beget;There let them view themselves, until they seeThe end of all their glories shown inThee.Whilst in the truth of this sad tribute, I80Thus strive to canonize thy memory.

I envy not thy mortal triumphs, Death

(Thou enemy to Virtue, as to breath),

Nor do I wonder much, nor yet complain

The weekly numbers by thy arrow slain.

The whole world is thy factory, and we,

Like traffic, driven and retail'd by Thee:

And where the springs of life fill up so fast,

Some of the waters needs must run to waste.

It is confess'd, yet must our griefs dispute10That which thine own conclusion doth refute,Ere we begin. Hearken! for if thy earBe to thy throat proportion'd, thou canst hear.Is there no order in the work of Fate?Nor rule, but blindly to anticipateOur growing seasons? or think'st thou 'tis just,To sprinkle our fresh blossoms with thy dust,Till by abortive funerals, thou bringThat to an Autumn, Nature meant a Spring?Is't not enough for thee, that wither'd age20Lies the unpitied subject of thy rage;But like an ugly amorist, thy crestMust be with spoils of Youth and Beauty drest?In other camps, those which sat down to-dayMarch first to-morrow, and they longest stay,Who last came to the service: but in thine,Only confusion stands for discipline.We fall in such promiscuous heaps, none canPut any diff'rence 'twixt thy rear or van;Since oft the youngest lead thy files. For this,30The grieved world here thy accuser is,And I a plaintiff, 'mongst those many ones,Who wet this Lady's urn with zealous moans;As if her ashes, quick'ning into years,Might be again embodied by our tears.But all in vain; the moisture we bestowShall make as soon her curled marble grow,As render heat or motion to that blood,Which through her veins branch't like an azure flood;Whose now still current in the grave is lost,40Lock'd up, and fetter'd by eternal frost.

It is confess'd, yet must our griefs dispute

10That which thine own conclusion doth refute,

Ere we begin. Hearken! for if thy ear

Be to thy throat proportion'd, thou canst hear.

Is there no order in the work of Fate?

Nor rule, but blindly to anticipate

Our growing seasons? or think'st thou 'tis just,

To sprinkle our fresh blossoms with thy dust,

Till by abortive funerals, thou bring

That to an Autumn, Nature meant a Spring?

Is't not enough for thee, that wither'd age

20Lies the unpitied subject of thy rage;

But like an ugly amorist, thy crest

Must be with spoils of Youth and Beauty drest?

In other camps, those which sat down to-day

March first to-morrow, and they longest stay,

Who last came to the service: but in thine,

Only confusion stands for discipline.

We fall in such promiscuous heaps, none can

Put any diff'rence 'twixt thy rear or van;

Since oft the youngest lead thy files. For this,

30The grieved world here thy accuser is,

And I a plaintiff, 'mongst those many ones,

Who wet this Lady's urn with zealous moans;

As if her ashes, quick'ning into years,

Might be again embodied by our tears.

But all in vain; the moisture we bestow

Shall make as soon her curled marble grow,

As render heat or motion to that blood,

Which through her veins branch't like an azure flood;

Whose now still current in the grave is lost,

40Lock'd up, and fetter'd by eternal frost.

Desist from hence, doting Astrology!To search for hidden wonders in the sky;Or from the concourse of malignant stars,Foretell diseases, gen'ral as our wars:What barren droughts, forerunners of lean dearth,Threaten to starve the plenty of the earth:What horrid forms of darkness must affrightThe sickly world, hast'ning to that long nightWhere it must end. If there no portents are,50No black eclipses for the Kalendar,Our times sad annals will rememb'red beI' th' loss of bright Northumberland and Thee:Two stars of Court, who in one fatal yearBy most untimely set drop'd from their sphere.She in the winter took her flight, and soonAs her perfections reach'd the point of noon,Wrapt in a cloud, contracted her wish'd stayUnto the measure of a short-liv'd day.ButThouin Summer, like an early rose,60By Death's cold hand nipp'd asThoudidst disclose,Took'st a long day to run that narrow stage,Which in two gasping minutes summ'd thy age.And, as the fading rose, when the leaves shed,Lies in its native sweetness buried,Thouin thy virtues bedded and inhearst,Sleep'st with those odours thy pure fame disperst,Where till that Rising Morn thou must remain,In which thy wither'd flowers shall spring again,And greater beauties thy wak'd body vest,70Than were at thy departure here possest.So with full eyes we close thy vault. Content(With what thy loss bequeaths us) to lament,And make that use of thy griev'd funeral,As of a crystal broken in the fall;Whose pitied fractures, gather'd up, and set,May smaller mirrors for thy sex beget;There let them view themselves, until they seeThe end of all their glories shown inThee.Whilst in the truth of this sad tribute, I80Thus strive to canonize thy memory.

Desist from hence, doting Astrology!

To search for hidden wonders in the sky;

Or from the concourse of malignant stars,

Foretell diseases, gen'ral as our wars:

What barren droughts, forerunners of lean dearth,

Threaten to starve the plenty of the earth:

What horrid forms of darkness must affright

The sickly world, hast'ning to that long night

Where it must end. If there no portents are,

50No black eclipses for the Kalendar,

Our times sad annals will rememb'red be

I' th' loss of bright Northumberland and Thee:

Two stars of Court, who in one fatal year

By most untimely set drop'd from their sphere.

She in the winter took her flight, and soon

As her perfections reach'd the point of noon,

Wrapt in a cloud, contracted her wish'd stay

Unto the measure of a short-liv'd day.

ButThouin Summer, like an early rose,

60By Death's cold hand nipp'd asThoudidst disclose,

Took'st a long day to run that narrow stage,

Which in two gasping minutes summ'd thy age.

And, as the fading rose, when the leaves shed,

Lies in its native sweetness buried,

Thouin thy virtues bedded and inhearst,

Sleep'st with those odours thy pure fame disperst,

Where till that Rising Morn thou must remain,

In which thy wither'd flowers shall spring again,

And greater beauties thy wak'd body vest,

70Than were at thy departure here possest.

So with full eyes we close thy vault. Content

(With what thy loss bequeaths us) to lament,

And make that use of thy griev'd funeral,

As of a crystal broken in the fall;

Whose pitied fractures, gather'd up, and set,

May smaller mirrors for thy sex beget;

There let them view themselves, until they see

The end of all their glories shown inThee.

Whilst in the truth of this sad tribute, I

80Thus strive to canonize thy memory.

Elegy on Lady Anne Rich.] Properly Lady Rich, who had been Lady Anne Cavendish. Her brother Charles was that leader of the 'Ca'ndishers' in Lincolnshire whose defeat and death at Gainsborough, after repeated victories in the spring and summer of 1643, was one of the first and most serious blows to the Royal cause. Waller wrote epitaphs both on him and on his sister, but the best on her is Sidney Godolphin's (v. sup., vol. ii, p. 248). She is one of the candidates for the personage of Waller's 'Amoret', and was not impossibly King's 'A. R.' (v. sup.,p. 172).4MS.'arrows'.38 Which]MS.'Once'.48MS.'hasting'.52 Northumberland] Lady Anne Cecil, first wife of Algernon Percy, tenth Earl.55 winter] December 6, 1637.

4MS.'arrows'.

38 Which]MS.'Once'.

48MS.'hasting'.

52 Northumberland] Lady Anne Cecil, first wife of Algernon Percy, tenth Earl.

55 winter] December 6, 1637.

For all the shipwracks, and the liquid gravesLost men have gain'd within the furrow'd waves,The Sea hath fin'd, and for our wrongs paid use,When its wrought foam a Venus did produce.But what repair wilt thou, unhappy Thames,Afford our loss? thy dull unactive streamsCan no new beauty raise, nor yet restoreHer who by thee was ravish'd from our shore:Whose death hath stain'd the glory of thy flood,10And mix'd the guilty channel with her blood.O Neptune! was thy favour only writIn that loose element where thou dost sit?That, after all this time, thou shouldst repentThy fairest blessing to the continent?Say, what could urge this Fate? is Thetis dead,Or Amphitrite from thy wet arms fled?Wast thou so poor in Nymphs, that thy moist loveMust be maintain'd with pensions from above?If none of these, but that, whilst thou didst sleep20Upon thy sandy pillow in the deep,This mischief stole upon us; may our griefWaken thy just revenge on that sly thief,Who, in thy fluid empire, without leave,And unsuspected, durst her life bereave.Henceforth, invert thy order, and provideIn gentlest floods a pilot for our guide.Let rugged seas be lov'd, but the brook's smileShunn'd like the courtship of a crocodile;And where the current doth most smoothly pass,30Think for her sake, that stream Death's looking-glass,To show us our destruction is most near,When pleasure hath begot least sense of fear.Else break thy forked sceptre 'gainst some rock,If thou endure a flatt'ring calm to mockThy far-fam'd pow'r, and violate that lawWhich keeps the angry Ocean in awe.Thy trident will grow useless, which doth stillWild tempests, if thou let tame rivers kill.Meantime, we owe thee nothing. Our first debt40Lies cancell'd in thy wat'ry cabinet.We have for Her thou sent'st us from the main,Return'd a Venus back to thee again.

For all the shipwracks, and the liquid graves

Lost men have gain'd within the furrow'd waves,

The Sea hath fin'd, and for our wrongs paid use,

When its wrought foam a Venus did produce.

But what repair wilt thou, unhappy Thames,

Afford our loss? thy dull unactive streams

Can no new beauty raise, nor yet restore

Her who by thee was ravish'd from our shore:

Whose death hath stain'd the glory of thy flood,

10And mix'd the guilty channel with her blood.

O Neptune! was thy favour only writIn that loose element where thou dost sit?That, after all this time, thou shouldst repentThy fairest blessing to the continent?Say, what could urge this Fate? is Thetis dead,Or Amphitrite from thy wet arms fled?Wast thou so poor in Nymphs, that thy moist loveMust be maintain'd with pensions from above?If none of these, but that, whilst thou didst sleep20Upon thy sandy pillow in the deep,This mischief stole upon us; may our griefWaken thy just revenge on that sly thief,Who, in thy fluid empire, without leave,And unsuspected, durst her life bereave.Henceforth, invert thy order, and provideIn gentlest floods a pilot for our guide.Let rugged seas be lov'd, but the brook's smileShunn'd like the courtship of a crocodile;And where the current doth most smoothly pass,30Think for her sake, that stream Death's looking-glass,To show us our destruction is most near,When pleasure hath begot least sense of fear.

O Neptune! was thy favour only writ

In that loose element where thou dost sit?

That, after all this time, thou shouldst repent

Thy fairest blessing to the continent?

Say, what could urge this Fate? is Thetis dead,

Or Amphitrite from thy wet arms fled?

Wast thou so poor in Nymphs, that thy moist love

Must be maintain'd with pensions from above?

If none of these, but that, whilst thou didst sleep

20Upon thy sandy pillow in the deep,

This mischief stole upon us; may our grief

Waken thy just revenge on that sly thief,

Who, in thy fluid empire, without leave,

And unsuspected, durst her life bereave.

Henceforth, invert thy order, and provide

In gentlest floods a pilot for our guide.

Let rugged seas be lov'd, but the brook's smile

Shunn'd like the courtship of a crocodile;

And where the current doth most smoothly pass,

30Think for her sake, that stream Death's looking-glass,

To show us our destruction is most near,

When pleasure hath begot least sense of fear.

Else break thy forked sceptre 'gainst some rock,If thou endure a flatt'ring calm to mockThy far-fam'd pow'r, and violate that lawWhich keeps the angry Ocean in awe.Thy trident will grow useless, which doth stillWild tempests, if thou let tame rivers kill.

Else break thy forked sceptre 'gainst some rock,

If thou endure a flatt'ring calm to mock

Thy far-fam'd pow'r, and violate that law

Which keeps the angry Ocean in awe.

Thy trident will grow useless, which doth still

Wild tempests, if thou let tame rivers kill.

Meantime, we owe thee nothing. Our first debt40Lies cancell'd in thy wat'ry cabinet.We have for Her thou sent'st us from the main,Return'd a Venus back to thee again.

Meantime, we owe thee nothing. Our first debt

40Lies cancell'd in thy wat'ry cabinet.

We have for Her thou sent'st us from the main,

Return'd a Venus back to thee again.

An Elegy upon Mrs. Kirk, &c.] This and the following were not in Hannah's MS. He, perhaps not quite accurately, regards this as King'sonlyindulgence in what he also regarded as 'the frigid and artificial style popular among his contemporaries'. But he thought it better than the companion piece in Heath'sClarastella(v. inf.). From this latter we learn that Mrs. Kirk was one of the numerous victims of 'shooting the bridge'. The piece is frigid enough certainly, but rather from want of 'conceit' than because of it. (Mr. Thorn-Drury has reminded me of Glapthorne's two elegies on the same subject. They form the last contents of the 1874 reprint and give more detail in their title, 'On the noble and much to be lamented Mrs. Anne Kirk, wife to Mr. Geo. Kirk, Gent. of the Robes and of his Majesty's Bed Chamber, who was unfortunately drowned passing London Bridge, July 6. 1641'.)3 fin'd] = 'paidfine', as often.

3 fin'd] = 'paidfine', as often.

Whether thy father's, or disease's rage,More mortal prov'd to thy unhappy age,Our sorrow needs not question; since the firstIs known for length and sharpness much the worst.Thy fever yet was kind; which the ninth dayFor thy misfortunes made an easy way.When th' other barbarous and hectic fit,In nineteen winters did not intermit.I therefore vainly now not ask thee why10Thou didst so soon in thy youth's mid-way die:But in my sense the greater wonder make,Thy long oppressed heart no sooner brake.Of force must the neglected blossom fall,When the tough root becomes unnatural,And to his branches doth that sap deny,Which them with life and verdure should supply.For parents' shame, let it forgotten be,And may the sad example die with thee.It is not now thy grieved friend's intent20To render thee dull Pity's argument.Thou hast a bolder title unto fame,And at Edge Hill thou didst make good the claim;When, in thy Royal Master's cause and war,Thy ventur'd life brought off a noble scar.Nor did thy faithful services desist,Till death untimely strook thee from the list.Though in that prouder vault, then, which doth tombThy ancestors, thy body find not room,Thine own deserts have purchas'd thee a place,30Which more renowned is than all thy race;For in this earth thou dost ennobled lieWith marks of valour and of loyalty.

Whether thy father's, or disease's rage,

More mortal prov'd to thy unhappy age,

Our sorrow needs not question; since the first

Is known for length and sharpness much the worst.

Thy fever yet was kind; which the ninth day

For thy misfortunes made an easy way.

When th' other barbarous and hectic fit,

In nineteen winters did not intermit.

I therefore vainly now not ask thee why10Thou didst so soon in thy youth's mid-way die:But in my sense the greater wonder make,Thy long oppressed heart no sooner brake.Of force must the neglected blossom fall,When the tough root becomes unnatural,And to his branches doth that sap deny,Which them with life and verdure should supply.For parents' shame, let it forgotten be,And may the sad example die with thee.

I therefore vainly now not ask thee why

10Thou didst so soon in thy youth's mid-way die:

But in my sense the greater wonder make,

Thy long oppressed heart no sooner brake.

Of force must the neglected blossom fall,

When the tough root becomes unnatural,

And to his branches doth that sap deny,

Which them with life and verdure should supply.

For parents' shame, let it forgotten be,

And may the sad example die with thee.

It is not now thy grieved friend's intent20To render thee dull Pity's argument.Thou hast a bolder title unto fame,And at Edge Hill thou didst make good the claim;When, in thy Royal Master's cause and war,Thy ventur'd life brought off a noble scar.Nor did thy faithful services desist,Till death untimely strook thee from the list.

It is not now thy grieved friend's intent

20To render thee dull Pity's argument.

Thou hast a bolder title unto fame,

And at Edge Hill thou didst make good the claim;

When, in thy Royal Master's cause and war,

Thy ventur'd life brought off a noble scar.

Nor did thy faithful services desist,

Till death untimely strook thee from the list.

Though in that prouder vault, then, which doth tombThy ancestors, thy body find not room,Thine own deserts have purchas'd thee a place,30Which more renowned is than all thy race;For in this earth thou dost ennobled lieWith marks of valour and of loyalty.

Though in that prouder vault, then, which doth tomb

Thy ancestors, thy body find not room,

Thine own deserts have purchas'd thee a place,

30Which more renowned is than all thy race;

For in this earth thou dost ennobled lie

With marks of valour and of loyalty.

Mr. Edward Holt.] Holt was King's brother-in-law, having married his sister Elizabeth (v. sup.,p. 173). He died at Oxford in 1643 while attending the King as Groom of the Bedchamber, and was buried in the Cathedral. His father, who outlived him, was a Baronet, and is again abused by King in his will as having been 'implacable'; but the Bishop apparently thought better of his nephew Sir Robert, who was a stout Royalist and churchman both before and after the Restoration. Walton dedicated hisLife of Donneto this Sir Robert Holt. His much-abused grandfather had at any rate set the example of loyalty, and is said to have been plundered or extortioned by Parliamentary 'contributions' or 'compositions' to the amount of about £20,000.

[Died August 6, 1637.]

I see that wreath, which doth the wearer arm'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charmTo keep off Death's pale dart. For, Jonson, thenThou hadst been number'd still with living men.Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade,Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.Amongst those many votaries who comeTo offer up their garlands at thy tomb;Whilst some more lofty pens, in their bright verse10(Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearse),Shall light the dull and thankless world to see,How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee;Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that IPay meaner rites unto thy memory;And since I nought can add but in desire,Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine own fire.What ends soever others' quills invite,I can protest, it was no itch to write,Nor any vain ambition to be read,20But merely love and justice to the dead,Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bringThese drops, as tribute thrown into that spring,To whose most rich and fruitful bead we oweThe purest streams of language which can flow.For 'tis but truth, thou taught'st the ruder ageTo speak by grammar, and reform'dst the stage:Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense,A Lucrece might have heard without offence.Amongst those soaring wits that did dilate30Our English, and advance it to the rateAnd value it now holds, thyself was oneHelp'd lift it up to such proportion;That thus refin'd and rob'd, it shall not spareWith the full Greek or Latin to compare.For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translateGreat Tully's eloquence, or Homer's state?Both which in their unblemish'd lustre shine,From Chapman's pen, and from thyCatiline.All I would ask for thee, in recompense40Of thy successful toil and time's expense,Is only this poor boon; that those who canPerhaps read French, or talk Italian,Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,To show their skill in foreign dialect,Prove not themselves so unnaturally wise,They therefore should their mother-tongue despise(As if her poets, both for style and wit,Not equall'd, or not pass'd, their best that writ),Until by studying Jonson they have known50The height and strength and plenty of their own.Thus in what low earth or neglected roomSoe'er thou sleep'st, thy book shall be thy tomb.Thou wilt go down a happy corse, bestrew'dWith thine own flowers; and feel thyself renew'd,Whilst thy immortal, never-with'ring baysShall yearly flourish in thy readers' praise.And when more spreading titles are forgot,Or spite of all their lead and cere-cloth rot,Thou wrapp'd and shrin'd in thine own sheets wilt lie,60A relic fam'd by all posterity.

I see that wreath, which doth the wearer arm

'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm

To keep off Death's pale dart. For, Jonson, then

Thou hadst been number'd still with living men.

Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade,

Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.

Amongst those many votaries who comeTo offer up their garlands at thy tomb;Whilst some more lofty pens, in their bright verse10(Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearse),Shall light the dull and thankless world to see,How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee;Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that IPay meaner rites unto thy memory;And since I nought can add but in desire,Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine own fire.

Amongst those many votaries who come

To offer up their garlands at thy tomb;

Whilst some more lofty pens, in their bright verse

10(Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearse),

Shall light the dull and thankless world to see,

How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee;

Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I

Pay meaner rites unto thy memory;

And since I nought can add but in desire,

Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine own fire.

What ends soever others' quills invite,I can protest, it was no itch to write,Nor any vain ambition to be read,20But merely love and justice to the dead,Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bringThese drops, as tribute thrown into that spring,To whose most rich and fruitful bead we oweThe purest streams of language which can flow.

What ends soever others' quills invite,

I can protest, it was no itch to write,

Nor any vain ambition to be read,

20But merely love and justice to the dead,

Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bring

These drops, as tribute thrown into that spring,

To whose most rich and fruitful bead we owe

The purest streams of language which can flow.

For 'tis but truth, thou taught'st the ruder ageTo speak by grammar, and reform'dst the stage:Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense,A Lucrece might have heard without offence.Amongst those soaring wits that did dilate30Our English, and advance it to the rateAnd value it now holds, thyself was oneHelp'd lift it up to such proportion;That thus refin'd and rob'd, it shall not spareWith the full Greek or Latin to compare.For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translateGreat Tully's eloquence, or Homer's state?Both which in their unblemish'd lustre shine,From Chapman's pen, and from thyCatiline.All I would ask for thee, in recompense40Of thy successful toil and time's expense,Is only this poor boon; that those who canPerhaps read French, or talk Italian,Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,To show their skill in foreign dialect,Prove not themselves so unnaturally wise,They therefore should their mother-tongue despise(As if her poets, both for style and wit,Not equall'd, or not pass'd, their best that writ),Until by studying Jonson they have known50The height and strength and plenty of their own.

For 'tis but truth, thou taught'st the ruder age

To speak by grammar, and reform'dst the stage:

Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense,

A Lucrece might have heard without offence.

Amongst those soaring wits that did dilate

30Our English, and advance it to the rate

And value it now holds, thyself was one

Help'd lift it up to such proportion;

That thus refin'd and rob'd, it shall not spare

With the full Greek or Latin to compare.

For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translate

Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's state?

Both which in their unblemish'd lustre shine,

From Chapman's pen, and from thyCatiline.

All I would ask for thee, in recompense

40Of thy successful toil and time's expense,

Is only this poor boon; that those who can

Perhaps read French, or talk Italian,

Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,

To show their skill in foreign dialect,

Prove not themselves so unnaturally wise,

They therefore should their mother-tongue despise

(As if her poets, both for style and wit,

Not equall'd, or not pass'd, their best that writ),

Until by studying Jonson they have known

50The height and strength and plenty of their own.

Thus in what low earth or neglected roomSoe'er thou sleep'st, thy book shall be thy tomb.Thou wilt go down a happy corse, bestrew'dWith thine own flowers; and feel thyself renew'd,Whilst thy immortal, never-with'ring baysShall yearly flourish in thy readers' praise.And when more spreading titles are forgot,Or spite of all their lead and cere-cloth rot,Thou wrapp'd and shrin'd in thine own sheets wilt lie,60A relic fam'd by all posterity.

Thus in what low earth or neglected room

Soe'er thou sleep'st, thy book shall be thy tomb.

Thou wilt go down a happy corse, bestrew'd

With thine own flowers; and feel thyself renew'd,

Whilst thy immortal, never-with'ring bays

Shall yearly flourish in thy readers' praise.

And when more spreading titles are forgot,

Or spite of all their lead and cere-cloth rot,

Thou wrapp'd and shrin'd in thine own sheets wilt lie,

60A relic fam'd by all posterity.

Ben. Jonson.] In orig., as so often, 'Johnson'. A contribution toJonsonus Virbius, which, printed nearly twenty years before thesePoems, has one slight variant = 'that' for 'who' in l. 7.5 scythe] Orig. 'sithe', which some great ones (including even the other Johnson) will have to be the proper spelling, and which is certainly usual in Middle English. But 'scythe' is consecrated by the only Sainte Ampoule of orthography—usage; 'sithe' also means 'a path' and 'a sigh', and may be mistaken for 'since', while 'scythe' is unmistakable. And for my part, if I may not have 'scythe' I stickle for 'sigðe'—the undoubted original.38 It was a little dangerous, in Ben's lifetime, to praise others in company with him. But King here corroborates Drummond'sConversations, in which Ben is made to speak well of Chapman on several occasions, and (more particularly) to declare hisIliad, or part of it, 'well done'.42 It is rather curious that Drummond (in one of thoseMarginaliain which he relieves his feelings somewhat subacidly) declares that his robustious guest 'neither understood French nor Italian'.

Ben. Jonson.] In orig., as so often, 'Johnson'. A contribution toJonsonus Virbius, which, printed nearly twenty years before thesePoems, has one slight variant = 'that' for 'who' in l. 7.

5 scythe] Orig. 'sithe', which some great ones (including even the other Johnson) will have to be the proper spelling, and which is certainly usual in Middle English. But 'scythe' is consecrated by the only Sainte Ampoule of orthography—usage; 'sithe' also means 'a path' and 'a sigh', and may be mistaken for 'since', while 'scythe' is unmistakable. And for my part, if I may not have 'scythe' I stickle for 'sigðe'—the undoubted original.

38 It was a little dangerous, in Ben's lifetime, to praise others in company with him. But King here corroborates Drummond'sConversations, in which Ben is made to speak well of Chapman on several occasions, and (more particularly) to declare hisIliad, or part of it, 'well done'.

42 It is rather curious that Drummond (in one of thoseMarginaliain which he relieves his feelings somewhat subacidly) declares that his robustious guest 'neither understood French nor Italian'.

[Died Nov. 6, 1612.]

Keep station, Nature, and rest, Heaven, sureOn thy supporters' shoulders, lest, past cure,Thou dash'd in ruin fall, by a grief's weightWill make thy basis shrink, and lay thy heightLow as the centre. Hark! and feel it readThrough the astonish'd Kingdom, Henry's dead.It is enough; who seeks to aggravateOne strain beyond this, prove[s] more sharp his fateThan sad our doom. The world dares not survive10To parallel this woe's superlative.O killing Rhetoric of Death! two wordsBreathe stronger terrors than plague, fire, or swordsEre conquer'd. This were epitaph and verse,Worthy to be prefix'd in Nature's hearse,Or Earth's sad dissolution; whose fallWill be less grievous, though more general:For all the woe ruin e'er buriedSounds in these fatal accents, Henry's dead.Cease then, unable Poetry; thy phrase20Is weak and dull to strike us with amazeWorthy thy vaster subject. Let none dareTo copy this sad hap, but with despairHanging at his quill's point. For not a streamOf ink can write, much less improve, this theme.Invention highest wrought by grief or witMust sink with him, and on his tombstone split;Who, like the dying Sun, tells us the lightAnd glory of our Day set in his Night.

Keep station, Nature, and rest, Heaven, sure

On thy supporters' shoulders, lest, past cure,

Thou dash'd in ruin fall, by a grief's weight

Will make thy basis shrink, and lay thy height

Low as the centre. Hark! and feel it read

Through the astonish'd Kingdom, Henry's dead.

It is enough; who seeks to aggravate

One strain beyond this, prove[s] more sharp his fate

Than sad our doom. The world dares not survive

10To parallel this woe's superlative.

O killing Rhetoric of Death! two words

Breathe stronger terrors than plague, fire, or swords

Ere conquer'd. This were epitaph and verse,

Worthy to be prefix'd in Nature's hearse,

Or Earth's sad dissolution; whose fall

Will be less grievous, though more general:

For all the woe ruin e'er buried

Sounds in these fatal accents, Henry's dead.

Cease then, unable Poetry; thy phrase

20Is weak and dull to strike us with amaze

Worthy thy vaster subject. Let none dare

To copy this sad hap, but with despair

Hanging at his quill's point. For not a stream

Of ink can write, much less improve, this theme.

Invention highest wrought by grief or wit

Must sink with him, and on his tombstone split;

Who, like the dying Sun, tells us the light

And glory of our Day set in his Night.

Prince Henry.] Besides composing these English verses King contributed two Latin sets toJusta Oxoniensium, one of several Oxfordtombeauxfor the Prince who was taken away from the evil to come. The present poem appears to me (though, of course, the high-strung character of the mourning seems to have been both general and sincere) to be much more 'frigid and artificial' than theMrs. Anne Kirk. Hannah gives several variants, not merely from his usual MS. but from Malone 21. I have taken those which seem to have some point.5-6 For 'Hark ... dead.' the Malone reading is:Death and horror wedTo vent their teeming mischief: Henry's dead.The other MS., for l. 6, has:Through the astonishtworld, Henryisdead.11 Malone MS. 'Compendious Eloquenceof Death', &c.18 For the first half, Malone MS. 'lies in this narrow compass'; the other, 'throngs' for 'lies'.

5-6 For 'Hark ... dead.' the Malone reading is:

Death and horror wedTo vent their teeming mischief: Henry's dead.

Death and horror wed

To vent their teeming mischief: Henry's dead.

The other MS., for l. 6, has:

Through the astonishtworld, Henryisdead.

11 Malone MS. 'Compendious Eloquenceof Death', &c.

18 For the first half, Malone MS. 'lies in this narrow compass'; the other, 'throngs' for 'lies'.

[Sir W. Raleigh? Executed Oct. 29, 1618.]

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