The Complaint.

Blessed Spirit, thy infant breath,Fitter for the quire of saintsThan for mortals here beneath,Warbles joys, but mine complaints—Plaints that spring from that great lossOf thy little self, sad cross.Yet do I still repair thee by desireWhich warms my benumbed sense, but like false fire.But with such delusive shapes10Still my pensive thoughts are eased,As birds bating at mock grapesAre with empty error pleased.Yet I err not, for decayHath but seized thy house of clay,For lo the lively image of each partMakes deep impression on my waxy heart.Thus learn I to possess the thing I want;Having great store of thee, and yet great scant.Oh let me thus recall thee, ne'er repine,20Since what is thy fate now, must once be mine.

Blessed Spirit, thy infant breath,

Fitter for the quire of saints

Than for mortals here beneath,

Warbles joys, but mine complaints—

Plaints that spring from that great loss

Of thy little self, sad cross.

Yet do I still repair thee by desire

Which warms my benumbed sense, but like false fire.

But with such delusive shapes10Still my pensive thoughts are eased,As birds bating at mock grapesAre with empty error pleased.Yet I err not, for decayHath but seized thy house of clay,For lo the lively image of each partMakes deep impression on my waxy heart.

But with such delusive shapes

10Still my pensive thoughts are eased,

As birds bating at mock grapes

Are with empty error pleased.

Yet I err not, for decay

Hath but seized thy house of clay,

For lo the lively image of each part

Makes deep impression on my waxy heart.

Thus learn I to possess the thing I want;Having great store of thee, and yet great scant.Oh let me thus recall thee, ne'er repine,20Since what is thy fate now, must once be mine.

Thus learn I to possess the thing I want;

Having great store of thee, and yet great scant.

Oh let me thus recall thee, ne'er repine,

20Since what is thy fate now, must once be mine.

Upon the Untimely Death of J. K., &c.] The text is taken from Rawlinson MS. D. 317 of the Bodleian, fol. 175; the monogram of the title was used by King. An unsigned copy is in Harleian MS. 6917 of the British Museum, foll. 96 Verso-97: this omits 'but', l. 8.

Fond, hapless man, lost in thy vain desire;Thy lost desireMay now retire.She, like a salamander, in thy flameSports with Love's name,And lives the same,Unsinged, impenetrably cold.Sure, careless Boy, thou slep'st; and Death, insteadOf thine, conveyed10His dart of lead.This thou unluckily at her hast sent,Who now is bentNot to relent,Though thou spend all thy shafts of gold.I prithee filch another fatal dartAnd pierce my heart;To ease this smart,Strike all my senses dull. Thy force devoursMe and my powers20In tedious hours,And thy injustice I'll proclaimOr use some art to cause her heat return,Or whilst I burnMake her my urn,Where I may bury in a marble chestAll my unrest.Thus her cold breast,If it but lodge, will quench, my flame.

Fond, hapless man, lost in thy vain desire;

Thy lost desire

May now retire.

She, like a salamander, in thy flame

Sports with Love's name,

And lives the same,

Unsinged, impenetrably cold.

Sure, careless Boy, thou slep'st; and Death, instead

Of thine, conveyed

10His dart of lead.

This thou unluckily at her hast sent,

Who now is bent

Not to relent,

Though thou spend all thy shafts of gold.

I prithee filch another fatal dart

And pierce my heart;

To ease this smart,

Strike all my senses dull. Thy force devours

Me and my powers

20In tedious hours,

And thy injustice I'll proclaim

Or use some art to cause her heat return,

Or whilst I burn

Make her my urn,

Where I may bury in a marble chest

All my unrest.

Thus her cold breast,

If it but lodge, will quench, my flame.

The Complaint.] The text is taken from Rawlinson Poet. MS. D. 317, fol. 161, where it is written, without title or signature, in King's autograph. There is a copy in Harleian MS. 6917, fol. 97, entitledThe Complaint.4 thy] theHarl. MS.21 King originally wrote 'And she thy weakness will proclaim', and then added the text as an afterthought.28 will] mayHarl.

4 thy] theHarl. MS.

21 King originally wrote 'And she thy weakness will proclaim', and then added the text as an afterthought.

28 will] mayHarl.

Come, my shadow, constant, true,Stay, and do not fly me:When I court thee or would sue,Thou wilt not deny me.Female loves I find unkindAnd devoid of pity;Therefore I have changed my mindAnd to thee frame this ditty.Child of my body and that flame10From whence our light we borrow,Thou continuest still the sameIn my joy or sorrow.Though thou lov'st the sunshine bestOr enlightened places,Yet thou dost not fly, but rest,'Midst my black disgraces.Thou wouldst have all happy daysWhen thou art approaching,No cloud nor night to dim bright rays20By their sad encroaching.Let but glimmering lights appearTo banish night's obscuring,Thou wilt show thou harbourd'st near,By my side enduring;And, when thou art forced awayBy the sun's declining,Thy length is doubled, to repayThy absence whilst he's shining.As I flatter not thee fair,30So thou art not fading;Age nor sickness can impairThy hue by fierce invading.Let the purest varnished clayArt can show, or Nature,View the shades they cast; and theyGrow duskish like thy feature.'Tis thy truth I most commend—That thou art not fleeting:For, as I embrace my friend,40So thou giv'st him greeting.If I strike, or keep the peace,So thou seem'st to threaten,And single blows by thy increaseLeave my foe double beaten.As thou findst me walk or sit,Standing or down lying,Thou dost all my postures hit,Most apish in thy prying.When our actions so consent—50Expressions dumb, but local—Words are needless complement,Else I could wish thee vocal.Hadst thou but a soul, with senseAnd reason sympathising,Earth could match, nor heaven dispenseA mate so far enticing.Nay, when bedded in the dust,'Mongst shades I have my biding,Tapers can see thy posthume trust60Within my vault residing.Had heaven so pliant women madeOr thou their souls couldst marry,I'd soon resolve to wed my shade;This love would ne'er miscarry.But they thy lightness only share;If shunned, the more they follow,And to pursuers peevish areAs Daphne to Apollo.Yet this experience thou hast taught:70A she-friend and an honourLike thee; nor that nor she is caught,Unless I fall upon her.

Come, my shadow, constant, true,

Stay, and do not fly me:

When I court thee or would sue,

Thou wilt not deny me.

Female loves I find unkind

And devoid of pity;

Therefore I have changed my mind

And to thee frame this ditty.

Child of my body and that flame

10From whence our light we borrow,

Thou continuest still the same

In my joy or sorrow.

Though thou lov'st the sunshine best

Or enlightened places,

Yet thou dost not fly, but rest,

'Midst my black disgraces.

Thou wouldst have all happy days

When thou art approaching,

No cloud nor night to dim bright rays

20By their sad encroaching.

Let but glimmering lights appear

To banish night's obscuring,

Thou wilt show thou harbourd'st near,

By my side enduring;

And, when thou art forced away

By the sun's declining,

Thy length is doubled, to repay

Thy absence whilst he's shining.

As I flatter not thee fair,

30So thou art not fading;

Age nor sickness can impair

Thy hue by fierce invading.

Let the purest varnished clay

Art can show, or Nature,

View the shades they cast; and they

Grow duskish like thy feature.

'Tis thy truth I most commend—

That thou art not fleeting:

For, as I embrace my friend,

40So thou giv'st him greeting.

If I strike, or keep the peace,

So thou seem'st to threaten,

And single blows by thy increase

Leave my foe double beaten.

As thou findst me walk or sit,

Standing or down lying,

Thou dost all my postures hit,

Most apish in thy prying.

When our actions so consent—

50Expressions dumb, but local—

Words are needless complement,

Else I could wish thee vocal.

Hadst thou but a soul, with sense

And reason sympathising,

Earth could match, nor heaven dispense

A mate so far enticing.

Nay, when bedded in the dust,

'Mongst shades I have my biding,

Tapers can see thy posthume trust

60Within my vault residing.

Had heaven so pliant women made

Or thou their souls couldst marry,

I'd soon resolve to wed my shade;

This love would ne'er miscarry.

But they thy lightness only share;

If shunned, the more they follow,

And to pursuers peevish are

As Daphne to Apollo.

Yet this experience thou hast taught:

70A she-friend and an honour

Like thee; nor that nor she is caught,

Unless I fall upon her.

On his Shadow.] The text is taken from King's autograph in Rawlinson Poet D. 317, foll. 173-4: it has neither heading nor signature. At line 25, the last on this page of the MS., the catchword reads 'Yet when', which is slightly more appropriate, but the text continues 'And when'. There is a copy in Harleian MS. 6917, fol. 97 verso-98, entitledOn his Shadow.There are the following variants:8 frame] framed.11 stillom.23 harbourd'st] harbour'st.26 By] At.49 so] thus.55 could] could not (but compare l. 31).64 would] could.

8 frame] framed.

11 stillom.

23 harbourd'st] harbour'st.

26 By] At.

49 so] thus.

55 could] could not (but compare l. 31).

64 would] could.

For this new, and all succeeding years:

January 1, 1630.

If wishes may enrich my boy,My Jack, that art thy father's joy,They shall be showered upon thy headAs thick as manna, angel's bread;And bread I wish thee—this short wordWill furnish both thy back and board;Not Fortunatus' purse or capNor Danae's gold-replenished lapCan more supply thee: but content10Is a large patrimony, sentFrom him who did thy soul infuse.May'st thou this best endowment useIn any state; thy structure isI see complete—a frontispiecePromising fair; may it ne'er beLike Jesuit's volumes, where we seeVirtues and saints adorn the front,Doctrines of devils follow on't:May a pure soul inhabit still20This well-mixed clay; and a straight willBiassed by reason, that by grace.May gems of price maintain their placeIn such a casket: in that listChaste turquoise, sober amethystThat sacred breastplate still surround:Urim and Thummim be there found,Which for thy wearing I design,That in thee King and Priest may join,As 'twas thy grandsire's choice, and mine.30May'st thou attain John the DivineChief of thy titles, though contemptNow brand the clergy; be exempt,I ever wish thee, from each viceThat may that calling scandalize:Let not thy tongue with court oil flow,Nor supple language lay thee lowFor thy preferment; make God's causeThy pulpit's task, not thine applause;May'st thou both preach by line and life;40That thou live well and chaste, a wifeI wish thee, such as is thy sire's,A lawful help 'gainst lustful fires;And though promotions often frownOn married brows, yet lie not downIn single baudry; impure monks,That banish wedlock, license punks.Peace I do wish thee from those warsWhich gownmen talk out at the barsFour times a year; I wish thee peace50Of conscience, country, and increaseIn all that best of men commends,Favour with God, good men thy friends.Last, for a lasting legacyI this bequeath, when thou shalt die,Heaven's monarch bless mine eyes, to seeMy wishes crowned, in crowning thee.

If wishes may enrich my boy,

My Jack, that art thy father's joy,

They shall be showered upon thy head

As thick as manna, angel's bread;

And bread I wish thee—this short word

Will furnish both thy back and board;

Not Fortunatus' purse or cap

Nor Danae's gold-replenished lap

Can more supply thee: but content

10Is a large patrimony, sent

From him who did thy soul infuse.

May'st thou this best endowment use

In any state; thy structure is

I see complete—a frontispiece

Promising fair; may it ne'er be

Like Jesuit's volumes, where we see

Virtues and saints adorn the front,

Doctrines of devils follow on't:

May a pure soul inhabit still

20This well-mixed clay; and a straight will

Biassed by reason, that by grace.

May gems of price maintain their place

In such a casket: in that list

Chaste turquoise, sober amethyst

That sacred breastplate still surround:

Urim and Thummim be there found,

Which for thy wearing I design,

That in thee King and Priest may join,

As 'twas thy grandsire's choice, and mine.

30May'st thou attain John the Divine

Chief of thy titles, though contempt

Now brand the clergy; be exempt,

I ever wish thee, from each vice

That may that calling scandalize:

Let not thy tongue with court oil flow,

Nor supple language lay thee low

For thy preferment; make God's cause

Thy pulpit's task, not thine applause;

May'st thou both preach by line and life;

40That thou live well and chaste, a wife

I wish thee, such as is thy sire's,

A lawful help 'gainst lustful fires;

And though promotions often frown

On married brows, yet lie not down

In single baudry; impure monks,

That banish wedlock, license punks.

Peace I do wish thee from those wars

Which gownmen talk out at the bars

Four times a year; I wish thee peace

50Of conscience, country, and increase

In all that best of men commends,

Favour with God, good men thy friends.

Last, for a lasting legacy

I this bequeath, when thou shalt die,

Heaven's monarch bless mine eyes, to see

My wishes crowned, in crowning thee.

Wishes to my Son, John.] This poem is preserved anonymously in Harleian MS. 6917, foll. 101 verso-102, and Mr. Mason assigns it to Henry King. Lines 28-9 strongly support this attribution, but the date at the head of the poem is a serious difficulty, which can only be met by supposing the lines to have been addressed in 1630 to the son of a second marriage: l. 40 refers to a living wife, who could not be the lady ofThe Exequy. King's authorship must therefore be regarded as doubtful.

Brave flowers, that I could gallant it like youAnd be as little vain!You come abroad and make a harmless show,And to your beds of earth again;You are not proud, you know your birth,For your embroidered garments are from earth.You do obey your months and times, but IWould have it ever spring;My fate would know no winter, never die,10Nor think of such a thing.Oh that I could my bed of earth but view,And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!Oh teach me to see death and not to fear,But rather to take truce;How often have I seen you at a bier,And there look fresh and spruce.You fragrant flowers then teach me that my breathLike yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

Brave flowers, that I could gallant it like you

And be as little vain!

You come abroad and make a harmless show,

And to your beds of earth again;

You are not proud, you know your birth,

For your embroidered garments are from earth.

You do obey your months and times, but IWould have it ever spring;My fate would know no winter, never die,10Nor think of such a thing.Oh that I could my bed of earth but view,And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

You do obey your months and times, but I

Would have it ever spring;

My fate would know no winter, never die,

10Nor think of such a thing.

Oh that I could my bed of earth but view,

And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

Oh teach me to see death and not to fear,But rather to take truce;How often have I seen you at a bier,And there look fresh and spruce.You fragrant flowers then teach me that my breathLike yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

Oh teach me to see death and not to fear,

But rather to take truce;

How often have I seen you at a bier,

And there look fresh and spruce.

You fragrant flowers then teach me that my breath

Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

A Contemplation upon Flowers.] Another very doubtful poem from Harleian MS. 6917, fol. 105 verso, where it is attributed to 'H. Kinge'. Mr. Mason points out in support of the attribution that this MS. contains other poems of King and documents relating to his family; but the poem can hardly be regarded as authenticated. It has, however, been quoted as King's in more than one anthology; and it would probably be missed if omitted from an edition of King's poems.

***

AND

SONGS,

THOMAS FLATMAN.

The Fourth Edition,

With many Additions and Amendments.

———Me quoque vatemDicunt Pastores, sed non Ego credulus illis.Virgil.

———Me quoque vatem

Dicunt Pastores, sed non Ego credulus illis.Virgil.

LONDON,

Printed forBenjamin Tooke, at the Ship inSt.Paul's Church-Yard. 1686.

Cover

Flatman has been condoled with on his name by Mr. Bullen, one of the few persons who have done him some justice in recent years.1I should rather myself, for reasons which will be given presently, condole with him on his date. His father was probably Robert Flatman of Mendham, Norfolk, and it is supposed that the poet was born in London. The date of his birth, recorded here for the first time, was February 21, 1635, about 5.29 in the morning. So his horoscope, preserved by Ashmole,2informs us. When he was elected at Winchester on Michaelmas Day, 1648, he was stated to be 'eleven years old'—a slight miscalculation. He himself inThe Retirement, written in 1665, correctly speaks of his 'thirty years'. He actually entered Winchester in September, 1649. He was transferred in the usual (when uninterrupted) course to New College, Oxford; he was admitted as a probationer on September 11, 1654, but seems not to have matriculated till July 25, 1655; he became Fellow in 1656.3There is no academic record, it would seem, of his ever having taken his degree, though he is spoken of as 'A.B. of Oxford' when, by the King's Letters, he was made M.A. of St. Catherine Hall, Cambridge, in 1666. He went from Oxford to the Inner Temple, in 1655, and was called to the Bar on May 11, 1662. Oldys has a half-satiric reference to his pleading.4He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in April, 1668. In 1672 he married, his wife being favourably spoken of, and gossip—inevitable whether well founded or not—records that his 'Bachelor's Song' (v. inf.) was sung under his windows on the occasion by 'merry friends'. And he died in London on December 8, 1688. Beyond these meagre details, and a statement that he had property at Diss (the cure of Skelton and the homeof Maria Jolly), we know little about him directly or by external evidence. By that of his poems he must have been a friend of good men—Walton, Cotton, Edward Browne5(Sir Thomas's son), Faithorne the engraver, Oldham, and others. His miniature portraits are well spoken of;—one is in possession of the Duke of Buccleuch, seven are in the South Kensington Museum. That, however, which illustrates hisPoemsis from a painting by John Hayls, whom Pepys's Diary has made known to a wider circle than students of the History of English Painting.

Flatman was evidently a tolerable scholar; and his Latinity, of which several specimens will be found here, does no discredit to the Winchester and the New College of the time. When he began English verse-writing does not seem to be known, but it must have been pretty early. He does not appear to have hurried his Muse; but collected his poems first in 1674, issuing augmented editions, to the number of four in all, up to a time shortly before his death. Of these, the third (1682) and the fourth (1686) have a claim to be regarded as authoritative and are the basis of the present text. The 1682 edition, 'With Additions and Amendments', is better printed, and the 1686—which makes a modest attempt to outbid it 'With many Additions and Amendments'—is valuable for the supplementary poems.6His Pindaric epicedes on public men—Ossory, Rupert, the King, &c.—for the most part appeared separately in folio; and in the earlier days of my preparation of this collection I gave myself a good deal of trouble in looking them up. Except the elegy on Ormond (1688) they were reprinted in these two editions. The last (1686) edition of thePoems, after some search, was procured for me. It seems to be much rarer than the third of 1682, which I have long possessed, and is not in the Bodleian. Additional poems, not included in the texts of 1682 and 1686, are added as a supplement. Three of these are taken from a transcript in Professor Firth's collection of an autograph MS. of Flatman which is now in America; the title is 'Miscellanies by Tho. Flatman, ex Interiori Templo Londini. Sic imperantibus fatis. Nov. 9, 1661, 13° Caroli 2di.' This contains in all twenty-three of the poems which have been collated for this reprint. An interesting feature of this manuscript is that it dates a number of the poems. Besides his poems, some pamphlets and Almanacks7have been attributed to him on extremely doubtful evidence, or none at all. Except among his friends, it does not seem even in hisown time to have been the fashion to think much of his verse; and a triplet of Rochester's, dismissing him as an imitator of Cowley, and a bad one, is usually quoted.8Flatman's Pindarics are certainly his weakest poems. But Rochester, for all his wit and wits, was, though an acute, a very ill-natured critic; we know that he thought Cowley himself out of date and (as his representatives in kind, though not in gift, would say to-day) 'early Caroline'. Besides, to dismiss a Pindaric poet of the Restoration as an imitator, and a bad imitator, of Cowley is too obvious to be of much importance. I should certainly admit that the minor Pindaric—of which I have, for my sins or as part of them, probably read as much as any one living—is one of the most dismal departments of English verse. But Flatman's is by no means exceptionally bad, and is at its best better than that of Oldham, or of Otway, or of Swift—men with whom he cannot compare as a man of letters generally. Let us come closer to him and to his work.

Hayls may not have been a great painter; but he certainly seems to have had the knack of putting character in his portraits. Neither that of Pepys nor that of his wife is without it: and that of Flatman has a great deal.9It is what would be called, I suppose, by most superficial judges an 'ugly' face—with a broadretroussénose, lips of the kind sometimes called 'sensual', and a heavy (something of a double) chin. But the forehead is high, the mouth smallish, and above all there are a pair of somewhat melancholy eyes which entirely rescue it from any charge of vulgarity, though it is not exactly refined. It certainly suggests what is called in stock phrase an 'artistic temperament': and it may not be too fanciful to see in it the kind of artistic temperament which aims higher than it can hit, begins what it is unable to finish, and never forgets the yew even among the roses. This complexion is, of course, in a way reflected in the very titles of the few things of Flatman known10to the few people who do know him—'Death', 'A Thought of Death', 'A Dooms-day Thought', 'Nudus Redibo', &c. But it is almost everywhere; and there is no affectation orsensiblerieabout it. Flatman is not, as Longfellow, picturesquely and perhaps Carlylesquely, remarked of Matthiessen and Salis, 'a gentleman who walks through life with a fine white cambric handkerchief pressed to his eyes'. He can write battle-songs and love-songs and festivegaillardisesnaturally enough. But the other vein is also natural, and perhaps more so. The funeral panegyric Odes which make a considerable feature of his works were, of course, almost part of the routine business of a professional poet in those times of patronage: one of his regular sources of revenue, in fives or tens or hundreds of guineas, according to his rank on Parnassus and the rank and liberality of his subject in Church or State or City. But Flatman at his best suffuses them with a grave interest in Death itself—a touch now of Lucretius (who seems to have been a favourite of his), now of the Preacher—which is not in the least conventional. In this curious Second Caroline period of faint survivals of the Renaissance and complete abandonment of its traditions, Flatman's heritage appears to have been this sense of Death. A poet might have a worse portion.

In powers of expression he was not equally well apanaged: and it was unlucky for him that he fell in with the special period of popularity of that difficult and dangerous thing the Pindaric, and had enough of the older taste in him to attempt the short metaphysical lyric: 'The Resolve', 'The Fatigue', 'The Indifferent'. For the first he carried guns hardly heavy enough; for the second his lyrical craft was hardly sufficiently swift and handy to catch every puff of spiritual wind. Yet it is mildly astonishing to find how often he comes near to success, and how near that approach sometimes is. How many poets have tried to put the thought of the first line of the first poem in the complete edition:

No more!—Alas! that bitter word,No more!

and how many have put it more simply and passionately? The 'Morning Hymn' and 'Evening Anthem' have rather strangely missed (owing no doubt to that superficial connexion with Bishop Ken's which is noticed below) association with hundreds and thousands of very often inferior divine poems that have found home in collections. 'The Resolve' begins quite admirably, and only wanted a little more pains on the poet's part to go on as well. 'Love's Bravo' and 'The Expectation' and 'Fading Beauty' and 'The Slight' are very far indeed from being contemptible. The twogaillardises, the 'Bachelor' and the 'Cats', want very little to make them quite capital; and 'The Whim' is in the same case. 'The Advice' actually deserves that adjective, and not a few others will be found pointed out in the notes; while even his Pindarics (at least the earlier ones, for those written after Rochester's death more fully justify his censure than those he can have read) have fine lines and even fine passages.

It is no doubt rather unfortunate that Flatman should have left us so many Horatian translations. For the one thing needful—except in a very few pieces where Horace outgoes himself in massive splendour, and so can be outgone further by more of this, as in Dryden's magnificent version ofTyrrhena regum—the one thing needful in translating Horace is something of his well-known and 'curious' urbane elegance. And this was the very quality which perhaps no Restoration poet—certainly not Flatman—could give. The 'dash of vulgarity'11which Mr. Bullen has too truly stigmatized affects nearly all of them except when transported by passion (which is nowhere in Horace); or fighting hard in a mood of satiric controversy which is quite different from his pococurantism; or using a massive rhetoric which is equally absent from him. The consequence is that what Flatman gives us is not Horace at all; and is not good Flatman. The 'Canidia' pieces, as one would expect, are about the best, and they are not very good.

I own, however, and I am duly prepared to take the consequences of the confession, that Flatman appeals to me, though in a different way, almost as much as any other of the constituents of this volume, though certainly not so much as some of those of the other two. He had the pure misfortune—as the sternest critic must acknowledge it to have been—of being born too late for one period and too early for another. He could not give to his most serious things the 'brave translunary' exaltations and excursions which came naturally to the men of a time just before his, and he could not correct this want by the order and the sense, the neatness and the finish, which were born with the next generation. 'Death' and 'A Thought of Death' and the other things mentioned unfairly but inevitably remind us that we have left Donne and Crashaw, Vaughan, and even Herbert, behind us. 'The Mistake' and 'The Whim' and many others remind us that we have not come to Prior. Yet others—which it were cruel to particularize and which he that reads will easily find for himself—display a lack of the purely lyrical power which, among his own contemporaries, Rochester and Sedley and Aphra Behn, not to mention others, possessed. Nor had he that gift of recognizing the eclipse of the Moon and utilizing the opportunities of the Earth, which has made Dryden, to competent and catholic tastes, all but one of the greatest of English poets. But still he was a 'child of the Moon' herself; and he has the benefits which she never withholds from her children, though they may be accompanied by a disastrous influence. He was no doubt a minor poet in a time when minor poetry was exposed to special disadvantages. But with far less wit he was more of a poet than Cleveland; with far less art he was perhaps as much of a poet as Stanley; and I am not even sure that, with 'weight for age' in the due sense, he was so very much less of a poet than King.And if those who think but little of these others as poets deem this scanty praise let us go further and say that heisa poet—imperfect, disappointing as well as disappointed, only half aneled with the sacred unction and houselled with the divine food—but a poet. Which if any denies he may be 'an excellent person'—as Praed or Praed's Medora so finally puts it—but he does not know much, if indeed he knows anything, about poetry.12

1By judicious remarks in the preface to hisMusa Proterva(London, 1889, p. viii), and by specimens both in that and in its companion,Speculum Amantis.

2In Ashmole MS. 436, at folio 50. Mr. J. K. Fotheringham, who has kindly deciphered the horoscope, points out that there are some inaccuracies in the astrologer's computation, which 'leave a doubt of a few minutes'.

3Mr. Ernest Barker, Librarian of New College, kindly gave Mr. Simpson access to the College records to test the above dates and facts.

Should Flatman for his Client strain the lawsThe Painter gives some colour to the cause:Should Critics censure what the Poet writ,The Pleader quits him at the Bar of wit.

Should Flatman for his Client strain the laws

The Painter gives some colour to the cause:

Should Critics censure what the Poet writ,

The Pleader quits him at the Bar of wit.

5Browne's diary (March, 1663-4) contains repeated mention of 'Mr. Flatman, chirurgeon' of Norwich, who had been a great traveller. This is additional evidence of the connexion of the Flatmans with Norfolk.

6The publisher was Benjamin Tooke, whom Flatman in a letter of November 3, 1675, recommended to Sancroft if he wished to publish his Fifth of November sermon before the House of Commons (Tanner MS. xlii, fol. 181, in Bodley).

7V. inf.,p. 360.

Nor that slow drudge in swift Pindaric strains,Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains,And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose reins.

Nor that slow drudge in swift Pindaric strains,

Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains,

And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose reins.

Flatman, who had no bad blood in him, took a magnanimous revenge (v. inf.,p. 365).

9Four letters of Flatman are published inFamiliar Letters of Love, Gallantry, And Several Occasions, By the Wits of the last and present Age, 1718, vol. i, pp. 249-54. One of these is a letter to an unnamed patron, sending his own portrait for the patron's collection as 'a foil to the rest'.

10And that chiefly because Pope is supposed to have borrowed from them.

11Flatman, however, is much less 'coarse' than most of his contemporaries. Putting a very few pieces aside (not themselves very shocking) he might almost challenge my Lord Roscommon for those 'unspotted bays' which his own supposed debtor Pope assigned, and of which we are all so tired.

12The Additional Poems (p. 408 sq.) I owe to Mr. Percy Simpson, who collected them from their various sources, added variants throughout from the Firth MS., and gave some hints for correcting my own notes. Mr. G. Thorn-Drury has again given his valuable help.

GRACE

THE

DUKE

ORMOND

Lord Lieutenant ofIreland,&c.

In humble acknowledgment ofHis Princely Favours

These1POEMSare with all DutifulRespect

DEDICATED

By his GRACE's

Ever Oblig'd, and most

Obedient Servant,

Thomas Flatman.

1So in 1682, where this Dedication first appeared: 1686 with its usual carelessness 'The', which is most improbable.

Cover

When I was prevail'd upon to make a Fourth Publication of thesePoemswith a great many Additions,it was told me,That without aPrefacethe Book would be unfashionable; Universal Custom had made it a Debt,and in this Age theBill of Farewas as necessary as theEntertainment.To be Civil therefore,and to Comply with Expectation,instead of an elaborate Harangue in Commendation of the Art in general,or what, and what Qualifications go to the making up of aPoetin particular,and without such artificial Imbellishments as use to be the Ornament of Prefaces,asSayings of Philosophers, Ends of Verses, Greek, Latin, Hungarian, French, Welch,orItalian,Be it known unto the Reader,That in my poor OpinionPoetryhas a very near Resemblance to the modern Experiment of theAmbling-Saddle;It's a good Invention for smoothing theTrott of Prose;That's the Mechanical use of it. But Physically it gives present Ease to thePainsof theMind,contracted by violent Surfeit of either good or bad Usage in the World. To be serious,'tis an Innocent Help toShama Man's time when it lies on his hands and his Fancy can relish nothing else. I speak but my own Experience; when any Accident hath either pleas'd or vex'd me beyond my power of expressing either my Satisfaction or Indignation in downrightProse,I found it seasonable forRhiming;and I believe from what follows it may be discern'd when 'twasFair Weather,whenChangeable,and when theQuicksilverfell down toStormandTempest.As to the Measures observ'd by me,I always took a peculiar delight in thePindariquestrain,and that for two Reasons,First,it gave me a liberty now and then to correct the saucy forwardness of aRhime,and to lay it aside till I had a mind to admit it; And secondly, if my Sense fell at any time too short for myStanza, (and it will often happen so in Versifying)I had then opportunity to fill it up with aMetaphorlittle to the purpose,and(upon occasion)to run thatMetaphorstark mad into anAllegory,a practice very frequent and of admirable use amongst theModerns,especially theNoblessof the Faculty. But in good earnest,as to theSubjects,which came in my way to write upon,I must declare that I have chosen only such as might be treated within the Rules ofDecency,and without offence either toReligionorgood Manners.The Caution I receiv'd(by Tradition)from the Incomparable Mr.Cowley,and him I must ever acknowledge but to imitate,if any of the ensuing Copies may deserve the name ofGoodorIndifferent.I have not vanity enough to prescribe how aMuseought to be Courted,and I want leisure to borrow from some Treatises I have seen,which look like so manyAcademiesofComplementsfor that purpose. I have known a man,who when he was about to write would screw his face into more disguises thanScaramuccio,or aQuakerat a Meeting when his Turn came to mount; his breast heav'd,his hair stood on end,his eyes star'd,and the whole man was disorder'd; and truly when he had done, any body at first reading would conclude that at the time he made them he was possess'd with an evil Spirit. Another that seem'd likeNostradamus (when the Whim took him in the head to Prophesie,)he sate upon hisDivining Tripos,his elbow on his knee,his Lamp by his side,all the avenues of light stopp'd,full of expectation when thelittle faint flamesshould steal in through a crevice of theShutters; This Gentleman indeed writ extremeMelancholy Madrigals.I have had the happiness to hear of a Third too,whose whole life wasPoetical,he was aWalking Poem,and his way was this; finding that the fall of the Leaf was already upon him,and prudently foreseeing that in the Winter of his old Age he might possibly want Fodder,he carry'd always about him one ofRaimund Lully's Repositories,a piece ofMathematical Paper,and in what Company soever he came,theSpoonwas always ready for theCivet-Cat,nothing scap'd him thatfell from a Wit:At night his custom was to digest all that he had pirated that Day,under proper Heads; This was hisArsenal,his inexhaustibleMagazine;so that upon occasion he had no more to do,than to give a snap,or two to his Nails; a rub or two upon the sutures of his Head,to turn over hisHint-Book,and the Matter was at hand,his business(after that piece ofLegerdemain)was onlyTacking,andTagging:I never saw but One of this Author's Compositions,and really It troubled me,because It put me in mind, how much time I had mispent in Coffee-Houses,for there was nothing in It,but what I could find a Father for There; Nay, (with a little recollection,)a man might name most of the Birds from whence he had pluckt his Feathers. Some there are that Beseech,Others that Hector theirMuses:Some that Diet theirPegasus,give him his Heats and Ayrings for the Course; Others that endeavour to slop up his broken wind with Medicinal Ale and Bisquet; But these for the most part are men ofIndustry;Rhiming is their proper Business,they are fain to labour hard,and use much Artifice for a poor Livelihood,I wish 'em good Trading. I profess I never had design to be incorporated into the Society; my utmost End was merely for Diversion of my self and a few Friends whom I very well love; and if the question should be ask'd why these Productions are expos'd,I may truly say,I could not help it; One unlucky Copy,like a Bell-weather,stole from me in to the Common,and the rest of the Flock took their opportunity to leave the Enclosure. If I might be proud of any thing,it should be the first Copy of the Book,but therein I had the greatest advantage given me that any Noble Subject could afford. And so much forPrefaceandPoetry,till some very powerful Star shall over-rule my present Resolution.

To the Reader.As in some other cases, I have thought it best to keep the original arrangement of capitals, type-differences, &c., here. The poems are printed, like the greater part of the collection, in modern form, but with no important alterations unnoticed.

You happy issue of a happy wit,As ever yet in charming numbers writ,Welcome into the light, and may we beWorthy so happy a posterity.We long have wish'd for something excellent;But ne'er till now knew rightly what it meant:For though we have been gratified, 'tis true,From several hands with things both fine and new,The wits must pardon me, if I profess,10That till this time the over-teeming pressNe'er set out Poesy in so true a dress:Nor is it all, to have a share of wit,There must be judgement too to manage it;For Fancy's like a rough, but ready horse,Whose mouth is govern'd more by skill than force;Wherein (my friend) you do a maistry own,If not particular to you alone;Yet such at least as to all eyes declaresYour Pegasus the best performs his airs.20Your Muse can humour all her subjects so,That as we read we do both feel and know;And the most firm impenetrable breastWith the same passion that you write's possest.Your lines are rules, which who shall well observeShall even in their errors praise deserve:The boiling youth, whose blood is all on fire,Push'd on by vanity, and hot desire,May learn such conduct here, men may approveAnd not excuse, but even applaud his love.30Ovid, who made an art of what to allIs in itself but too too natural,Had he but read your verse, might then have seenThe style of which his precepts should have been,And (which it seems he knew not) learnt from thenceTo reconcile frailty with innocence.The loveyouwrite virgins and boys may read,And never be debauch'd but better bred;For without love, beauty would bear no price,And dullness, than desire's a greater vice:40Your greater subjects with such force are writSo full of sinewy strength, as well as wit,That when you arereligious, our divinesMay emulate, but not reprove your lines:And when you reason, there the learned crewMay learn to speculate, and speak from you.You no profane, no obscene language useTo smut your paper, or defile your Muse.Your gayest things, as well express'd as meant,Are equally both quaint and innocent.50But your Pindaric Odes indeed are suchThat Pindar's lyre from his own skilful touchNe'er yielded such an harmony, nor yetVerse keep such time on so unequal feet.So by his own generous confessionGreat Tasso by Guarini was outdone:And (which in copying seldom does befall)The ectype's better than th' original.But whilst your fame I labour to send forth,By the ill-doing it I cloud your worth,60In something all mankind unhappy are,And you as mortal too must have your share;'Tis your misfortune to have found a friend,Who hurts and injures where he would commend.But let this be your comfort, that your baysShall flourish green, maugre an ill-couch'd praise.Charles Cotton, Esq.

You happy issue of a happy wit,

As ever yet in charming numbers writ,

Welcome into the light, and may we be

Worthy so happy a posterity.

We long have wish'd for something excellent;

But ne'er till now knew rightly what it meant:

For though we have been gratified, 'tis true,

From several hands with things both fine and new,

The wits must pardon me, if I profess,

10That till this time the over-teeming press

Ne'er set out Poesy in so true a dress:

Nor is it all, to have a share of wit,

There must be judgement too to manage it;

For Fancy's like a rough, but ready horse,

Whose mouth is govern'd more by skill than force;

Wherein (my friend) you do a maistry own,

If not particular to you alone;

Yet such at least as to all eyes declares

Your Pegasus the best performs his airs.

20Your Muse can humour all her subjects so,

That as we read we do both feel and know;

And the most firm impenetrable breast

With the same passion that you write's possest.

Your lines are rules, which who shall well observe

Shall even in their errors praise deserve:

The boiling youth, whose blood is all on fire,

Push'd on by vanity, and hot desire,

May learn such conduct here, men may approve

And not excuse, but even applaud his love.

30Ovid, who made an art of what to all

Is in itself but too too natural,

Had he but read your verse, might then have seen

The style of which his precepts should have been,

And (which it seems he knew not) learnt from thence

To reconcile frailty with innocence.

The loveyouwrite virgins and boys may read,

And never be debauch'd but better bred;

For without love, beauty would bear no price,

And dullness, than desire's a greater vice:

40Your greater subjects with such force are writ

So full of sinewy strength, as well as wit,

That when you arereligious, our divines

May emulate, but not reprove your lines:

And when you reason, there the learned crew

May learn to speculate, and speak from you.

You no profane, no obscene language use

To smut your paper, or defile your Muse.

Your gayest things, as well express'd as meant,

Are equally both quaint and innocent.

50But your Pindaric Odes indeed are such

That Pindar's lyre from his own skilful touch

Ne'er yielded such an harmony, nor yet

Verse keep such time on so unequal feet.

So by his own generous confession

Great Tasso by Guarini was outdone:

And (which in copying seldom does befall)

The ectype's better than th' original.

But whilst your fame I labour to send forth,

By the ill-doing it I cloud your worth,

60In something all mankind unhappy are,

And you as mortal too must have your share;

'Tis your misfortune to have found a friend,

Who hurts and injures where he would commend.

But let this be your comfort, that your bays

Shall flourish green, maugre an ill-couch'd praise.

Charles Cotton, Esq.

You happy, &c.] 16 Cotton may have had several reasons for keeping the form 'maistry'—at any rate it should certainly be kept here, though 'mastery' with or without apostrophatedewould fill the verse properly.50 'Pindarique' or 'Pindariqu'' in the original throughout the Volume.57 ectype] Not uncommon even later for 'copy'.This piece is in the original about half italics, which, for the most part, express no kind of emphasis. The next is almost entirely free from them, and the difference continues throughout the Commendatory Poems in such a fashion as to show that they were used on no principle at all. Flatman's own text has very few, outside of proper names.

50 'Pindarique' or 'Pindariqu'' in the original throughout the Volume.

57 ectype] Not uncommon even later for 'copy'.

This piece is in the original about half italics, which, for the most part, express no kind of emphasis. The next is almost entirely free from them, and the difference continues throughout the Commendatory Poems in such a fashion as to show that they were used on no principle at all. Flatman's own text has very few, outside of proper names.

I.As when a Prince his standard does erect,And calls his subjects to the field,From such as early take his side,And readily obedience yield,He is instructed where he may suspect,And where he safely may confide:So, mighty friend,That you may seeA perfect evidence of loyalty,10No business I pretend;From all th' incumbrances of human life,From nourishing the sinful people's strife,And the increasing weaknesses of age.II.Domestic care, the mind's incurable disease,I am resolv'd I will forget.Ah! could I hope the restless painWould now entirely cease,And never more return again,My thoughts I would in other order set;20By more than protestations I would show,Not the sum total only of the debt,But the particulars of all I owe.III.This I would do: but what will our desire availWhen active heat and vigour fail?'Tis well thou hast more youthful combatants than I,Right able to protect thy immortality:If envy should attack thy spotless name(And that attacks the best of thingsAnd into rigid censure brings30The most undoubted registers of fame),Their fond artillery let them dispense,Piercing wit and murd'ring eloquence,Noble conceit and manly sense,Charming numbers let 'em shineAnd dazzle dead in ev'ry lineThe most malicious of thy foes,Though Hell itself should offer to oppose;I (thy decrepit subject) only can resignThe little life of art is left, to ransom thine:40Fumbling's as bad in poetry,And as ridiculous, as 'tis in gallantry:But if a dart I may prevent,Which at my friend's repute was meant,Let them then direct at me;By dying in so just a war,I possibly may shareIn thy infallible eternity.IV.But, dearest friend(Before it be too late),50Let us a while expostulate,What heat of glory call'd you on,Your learnèd empire to extendBeyond the limits of your own dominion?At home, you were already crown'd with bays:Why foreign trophies do you seek to raise?Poets arcanas have of government,And tho' the homagers of your own continentOut of a sense of duty do submit,Yet public print a jealousy creates,60And intimates a laid designUnto the neighb'ring potentates.Now into all your secret arts they pry,And weigh each hint by rules of policy.Offensive leagues they twine,In councils, rotas, and cabals they sit,Each petty burgess thinks it fitThe Corporation should combineAgainst the Universal Monarchy of Wit,And straight declare for quite abjuring it.V.70Hence then must you prepare for an invasion:Tho' not from such as are reclaim'd by education;In the main points all European wits agree,All allow order, art, and rules of decency,And to be absolutely perfect, ne'er was yetA beauty such, or such a wit.I fear the Pagan and the barbarous,A nation quite Antipodes to us;The infidel unletter'd crew (I mean)Who call that only wit,80Which is indeed but the reverse of it;Creatures in whom civility ne'er shone,But (unto Nature's contradiction)It is their glory to be so obscene,You'd think the legion of th' uncleanWere from the swine (to which they were condemn'd) releas'd,And had these verier swine (than them) possess'd.VI.If these should an advantage takeAnd on thy fame a depredation make,You must submit to the unhappiness;90These are the common enemies of our belief and art,And by hostility possess'dThe world's much greater part:All things with them are measur'd by success:If the battle be not won;If the author do not sell;Into their dull capacities it will not sink,They cannot with deliberation thinkHow bravely the commander led them on,No nor wherein the book was written well:100When ('tis a thing impossible to do)He cannot find his army courage (Sir), nor youYour readers, learning, wit, and judgement too.Robert Thompson, LL.D.

As when a Prince his standard does erect,And calls his subjects to the field,From such as early take his side,And readily obedience yield,He is instructed where he may suspect,And where he safely may confide:So, mighty friend,That you may seeA perfect evidence of loyalty,10No business I pretend;From all th' incumbrances of human life,From nourishing the sinful people's strife,And the increasing weaknesses of age.

As when a Prince his standard does erect,

And calls his subjects to the field,

From such as early take his side,

And readily obedience yield,

He is instructed where he may suspect,

And where he safely may confide:

So, mighty friend,

That you may see

A perfect evidence of loyalty,

10No business I pretend;

From all th' incumbrances of human life,

From nourishing the sinful people's strife,

And the increasing weaknesses of age.

II.

Domestic care, the mind's incurable disease,I am resolv'd I will forget.Ah! could I hope the restless painWould now entirely cease,And never more return again,My thoughts I would in other order set;20By more than protestations I would show,Not the sum total only of the debt,But the particulars of all I owe.

Domestic care, the mind's incurable disease,

I am resolv'd I will forget.

Ah! could I hope the restless pain

Would now entirely cease,

And never more return again,

My thoughts I would in other order set;

20By more than protestations I would show,

Not the sum total only of the debt,

But the particulars of all I owe.

III.

This I would do: but what will our desire availWhen active heat and vigour fail?'Tis well thou hast more youthful combatants than I,Right able to protect thy immortality:If envy should attack thy spotless name(And that attacks the best of thingsAnd into rigid censure brings30The most undoubted registers of fame),Their fond artillery let them dispense,Piercing wit and murd'ring eloquence,Noble conceit and manly sense,Charming numbers let 'em shineAnd dazzle dead in ev'ry lineThe most malicious of thy foes,Though Hell itself should offer to oppose;I (thy decrepit subject) only can resignThe little life of art is left, to ransom thine:40Fumbling's as bad in poetry,And as ridiculous, as 'tis in gallantry:But if a dart I may prevent,Which at my friend's repute was meant,Let them then direct at me;By dying in so just a war,I possibly may shareIn thy infallible eternity.

This I would do: but what will our desire avail

When active heat and vigour fail?

'Tis well thou hast more youthful combatants than I,

Right able to protect thy immortality:

If envy should attack thy spotless name

(And that attacks the best of things

And into rigid censure brings

30The most undoubted registers of fame),

Their fond artillery let them dispense,

Piercing wit and murd'ring eloquence,

Noble conceit and manly sense,

Charming numbers let 'em shine

And dazzle dead in ev'ry line

The most malicious of thy foes,

Though Hell itself should offer to oppose;

I (thy decrepit subject) only can resign

The little life of art is left, to ransom thine:

40Fumbling's as bad in poetry,

And as ridiculous, as 'tis in gallantry:

But if a dart I may prevent,

Which at my friend's repute was meant,

Let them then direct at me;

By dying in so just a war,

I possibly may share

In thy infallible eternity.

IV.

But, dearest friend(Before it be too late),50Let us a while expostulate,What heat of glory call'd you on,Your learnèd empire to extendBeyond the limits of your own dominion?At home, you were already crown'd with bays:Why foreign trophies do you seek to raise?Poets arcanas have of government,And tho' the homagers of your own continentOut of a sense of duty do submit,Yet public print a jealousy creates,60And intimates a laid designUnto the neighb'ring potentates.Now into all your secret arts they pry,And weigh each hint by rules of policy.Offensive leagues they twine,In councils, rotas, and cabals they sit,Each petty burgess thinks it fitThe Corporation should combineAgainst the Universal Monarchy of Wit,And straight declare for quite abjuring it.

But, dearest friend

(Before it be too late),

50Let us a while expostulate,

What heat of glory call'd you on,

Your learnèd empire to extend

Beyond the limits of your own dominion?

At home, you were already crown'd with bays:

Why foreign trophies do you seek to raise?

Poets arcanas have of government,

And tho' the homagers of your own continent

Out of a sense of duty do submit,

Yet public print a jealousy creates,

60And intimates a laid design

Unto the neighb'ring potentates.

Now into all your secret arts they pry,

And weigh each hint by rules of policy.

Offensive leagues they twine,

In councils, rotas, and cabals they sit,

Each petty burgess thinks it fit

The Corporation should combine

Against the Universal Monarchy of Wit,

And straight declare for quite abjuring it.

70Hence then must you prepare for an invasion:Tho' not from such as are reclaim'd by education;In the main points all European wits agree,All allow order, art, and rules of decency,And to be absolutely perfect, ne'er was yetA beauty such, or such a wit.I fear the Pagan and the barbarous,A nation quite Antipodes to us;The infidel unletter'd crew (I mean)Who call that only wit,80Which is indeed but the reverse of it;Creatures in whom civility ne'er shone,But (unto Nature's contradiction)It is their glory to be so obscene,You'd think the legion of th' uncleanWere from the swine (to which they were condemn'd) releas'd,And had these verier swine (than them) possess'd.

70Hence then must you prepare for an invasion:

Tho' not from such as are reclaim'd by education;

In the main points all European wits agree,

All allow order, art, and rules of decency,

And to be absolutely perfect, ne'er was yet

A beauty such, or such a wit.

I fear the Pagan and the barbarous,

A nation quite Antipodes to us;

The infidel unletter'd crew (I mean)

Who call that only wit,

80Which is indeed but the reverse of it;

Creatures in whom civility ne'er shone,

But (unto Nature's contradiction)

It is their glory to be so obscene,

You'd think the legion of th' unclean

Were from the swine (to which they were condemn'd) releas'd,

And had these verier swine (than them) possess'd.

VI.

If these should an advantage takeAnd on thy fame a depredation make,You must submit to the unhappiness;90These are the common enemies of our belief and art,And by hostility possess'dThe world's much greater part:All things with them are measur'd by success:If the battle be not won;If the author do not sell;Into their dull capacities it will not sink,They cannot with deliberation thinkHow bravely the commander led them on,No nor wherein the book was written well:100When ('tis a thing impossible to do)He cannot find his army courage (Sir), nor youYour readers, learning, wit, and judgement too.

If these should an advantage take

And on thy fame a depredation make,

You must submit to the unhappiness;

90These are the common enemies of our belief and art,

And by hostility possess'd

The world's much greater part:

All things with them are measur'd by success:

If the battle be not won;

If the author do not sell;

Into their dull capacities it will not sink,

They cannot with deliberation think

How bravely the commander led them on,

No nor wherein the book was written well:

100When ('tis a thing impossible to do)

He cannot find his army courage (Sir), nor you

Your readers, learning, wit, and judgement too.

Robert Thompson, LL.D.

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