The Labyrinth.

An Essay.] This piece stands to some work of Donne's much as others of King's do to the lyrics of the greater poet. The couplets are more enjambed than inThe Woes of Esay, and the metaphysicality is of the satiric kind. It should not be needful, but may be well, to say that King had no actual experience of prisons. On the other side of the matter the piece might, but by no means need, belong to the series connected with his wife's death.

Life is a crooked labyrinth, and weAre daily lost in that obliquity.'Tis a perplexed circle, in whose roundNothing but sorrows and new sins abound.How is the faint impression of each goodDrown'd in the vicious channel of our blood?Whose ebbs and tides by their vicissitudeBoth our great Maker and ourselves delude.O wherefore is the most discerning eye10Unapt to make its own discovery?Why is the clearest and best judging mindIn her own ills' prevention dark and blind?Dull to advise, to act precipitate,We scarce think what to do, but when too late.Or if we think, that fluid thought, like seed,Rots there to propagate some fouler deed.Still we repent and sin, sin and repent;We thaw and freeze, we harden and relent.Those fires, which cool'd to-day, the morrow's heat20Rekindles. Thus frail nature does repeatWhat she unlearnt, and still, by learning on,Perfects her lesson of confusion.Sick soul! what cure shall I for thee devise,Whose leprous state corrupts all remedies?What medicine or what cordial can be gotFor thee, who poison'st thy best antidote?Repentance is thy bane, since thou by itOnly reviv'st the fault thou didst commit.Nor griev'st thou for the past, but art in pain,30For fear thou mayst not act it o'er again.So that thy tears, like water spilt on lime,Serve not to quench, but to advance the crime.My blessed Saviour! unto thee I flyFor help against this homebred tyranny.Thou canst true sorrows in my soul imprint,And draw contrition from a breast of flint.Thou canst reverse this labyrinth of sin,My wild affects and actions wander in.O guide my faith! and, by thy grace's clew,40Teach me to hunt that kingdom at the viewWhere true joys reign, which like their day shall last;Those never clouded, nor that overcast.

Life is a crooked labyrinth, and we

Are daily lost in that obliquity.

'Tis a perplexed circle, in whose round

Nothing but sorrows and new sins abound.

How is the faint impression of each good

Drown'd in the vicious channel of our blood?

Whose ebbs and tides by their vicissitude

Both our great Maker and ourselves delude.

O wherefore is the most discerning eye10Unapt to make its own discovery?Why is the clearest and best judging mindIn her own ills' prevention dark and blind?Dull to advise, to act precipitate,We scarce think what to do, but when too late.Or if we think, that fluid thought, like seed,Rots there to propagate some fouler deed.Still we repent and sin, sin and repent;We thaw and freeze, we harden and relent.Those fires, which cool'd to-day, the morrow's heat20Rekindles. Thus frail nature does repeatWhat she unlearnt, and still, by learning on,Perfects her lesson of confusion.

O wherefore is the most discerning eye

10Unapt to make its own discovery?

Why is the clearest and best judging mind

In her own ills' prevention dark and blind?

Dull to advise, to act precipitate,

We scarce think what to do, but when too late.

Or if we think, that fluid thought, like seed,

Rots there to propagate some fouler deed.

Still we repent and sin, sin and repent;

We thaw and freeze, we harden and relent.

Those fires, which cool'd to-day, the morrow's heat

20Rekindles. Thus frail nature does repeat

What she unlearnt, and still, by learning on,

Perfects her lesson of confusion.

Sick soul! what cure shall I for thee devise,Whose leprous state corrupts all remedies?What medicine or what cordial can be gotFor thee, who poison'st thy best antidote?Repentance is thy bane, since thou by itOnly reviv'st the fault thou didst commit.Nor griev'st thou for the past, but art in pain,30For fear thou mayst not act it o'er again.So that thy tears, like water spilt on lime,Serve not to quench, but to advance the crime.

Sick soul! what cure shall I for thee devise,

Whose leprous state corrupts all remedies?

What medicine or what cordial can be got

For thee, who poison'st thy best antidote?

Repentance is thy bane, since thou by it

Only reviv'st the fault thou didst commit.

Nor griev'st thou for the past, but art in pain,

30For fear thou mayst not act it o'er again.

So that thy tears, like water spilt on lime,

Serve not to quench, but to advance the crime.

My blessed Saviour! unto thee I flyFor help against this homebred tyranny.Thou canst true sorrows in my soul imprint,And draw contrition from a breast of flint.Thou canst reverse this labyrinth of sin,My wild affects and actions wander in.O guide my faith! and, by thy grace's clew,40Teach me to hunt that kingdom at the viewWhere true joys reign, which like their day shall last;Those never clouded, nor that overcast.

My blessed Saviour! unto thee I fly

For help against this homebred tyranny.

Thou canst true sorrows in my soul imprint,

And draw contrition from a breast of flint.

Thou canst reverse this labyrinth of sin,

My wild affects and actions wander in.

O guide my faith! and, by thy grace's clew,

40Teach me to hunt that kingdom at the view

Where true joys reign, which like their day shall last;

Those never clouded, nor that overcast.

The Labyrinth.] 12 her] ourMalone MS. 22.26 Orig. 'antidot', on the eye-[and ear]-system as before.

The Labyrinth.] 12 her] ourMalone MS. 22.

26 Orig. 'antidot', on the eye-[and ear]-system as before.

Perhaps 'twas but conceit. Erroneous sense!Thou art thine own distemper and offence.Imagine then, that sick unwholesome steamWas thy corruption breath'd into a dream.Nor is it strange, when we in charnels dwell,That all our thoughts of earth and frailty smell.Man is a Candle, whose unhappy lightBurns in the day, and smothers in the night.10And as you see the dying taper waste,By such degrees does he to darkness haste.Here is the diff'rence: When our bodies' lampsBlinded by age, or chok'd with mortal damps,Now faint, and dim, and sickly 'gin to wink,And in their hollow sockets lowly sink;When all our vital fires ceasing to burn,Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our urn:God will restore those fallen lights again,And kindle them to an eternal flame.

Perhaps 'twas but conceit. Erroneous sense!

Thou art thine own distemper and offence.

Imagine then, that sick unwholesome steam

Was thy corruption breath'd into a dream.

Nor is it strange, when we in charnels dwell,

That all our thoughts of earth and frailty smell.

Man is a Candle, whose unhappy lightBurns in the day, and smothers in the night.10And as you see the dying taper waste,By such degrees does he to darkness haste.

Man is a Candle, whose unhappy light

Burns in the day, and smothers in the night.

10And as you see the dying taper waste,

By such degrees does he to darkness haste.

Here is the diff'rence: When our bodies' lampsBlinded by age, or chok'd with mortal damps,Now faint, and dim, and sickly 'gin to wink,And in their hollow sockets lowly sink;When all our vital fires ceasing to burn,Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our urn:God will restore those fallen lights again,And kindle them to an eternal flame.

Here is the diff'rence: When our bodies' lamps

Blinded by age, or chok'd with mortal damps,

Now faint, and dim, and sickly 'gin to wink,

And in their hollow sockets lowly sink;

When all our vital fires ceasing to burn,

Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our urn:

God will restore those fallen lights again,

And kindle them to an eternal flame.

Like to the falling of a star;Or as the flights of eagles are;Or like the fresh springs gaudy hue;Or silver drops of morning dew;Or like a wind that chafes the flood;Or bubbles which on water stood;Even such is man, whose borrow'd lightIs straight call'd in, and paid to night.The wind blows out; the bubble dies;10The Spring entomb'd in Autumn lies;The dew dries up; the star is shot;The flight is past; and man forgot.

Like to the falling of a star;

Or as the flights of eagles are;

Or like the fresh springs gaudy hue;

Or silver drops of morning dew;

Or like a wind that chafes the flood;

Or bubbles which on water stood;

Even such is man, whose borrow'd light

Is straight call'd in, and paid to night.

The wind blows out; the bubble dies;10The Spring entomb'd in Autumn lies;The dew dries up; the star is shot;The flight is past; and man forgot.

The wind blows out; the bubble dies;

10The Spring entomb'd in Autumn lies;

The dew dries up; the star is shot;

The flight is past; and man forgot.

Like as the damask rose you see;Or like the blossom on the tree;Or like the dainty flower of May;Or like the morning to the day;Or like the Sun; or like the shade;Or like the gourd which Jonas had;Even such is man, whose thread is spun,Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.The rose withers; the blossom blasteth;The flower fades; the morning hasteth;The sun sets; the shadow flies;The gourd consumes; and man he dies.

Like as the damask rose you see;

Or like the blossom on the tree;

Or like the dainty flower of May;

Or like the morning to the day;

Or like the Sun; or like the shade;

Or like the gourd which Jonas had;

Even such is man, whose thread is spun,

Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.

The rose withers; the blossom blasteth;

The flower fades; the morning hasteth;

The sun sets; the shadow flies;

The gourd consumes; and man he dies.

Like to the Grass that's newly sprung;Or like a tale that's new begun;Or like the bird that's here to-day;Or like the pearled dew of May;Or like an hour; or like a span;Or like the singing of a swan;Even such is man, who lives by breath,Is here, now there, in life, and death.The grass withers; the tale is ended;The bird is flown; the dew's ascended;The hour is short; the span not long;The swan's near death; man's life is done.

Like to the Grass that's newly sprung;

Or like a tale that's new begun;

Or like the bird that's here to-day;

Or like the pearled dew of May;

Or like an hour; or like a span;

Or like the singing of a swan;

Even such is man, who lives by breath,

Is here, now there, in life, and death.

The grass withers; the tale is ended;

The bird is flown; the dew's ascended;

The hour is short; the span not long;

The swan's near death; man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brook;Or, in a glass, much like a look;Or like a shuttle in weaver's hand;Or like the writing on the sand;Or like a thought; or like a dream;Or like the gliding of the stream;Even such is man, who lives by breath,Is here, now there, in life, and death.The bubble's cut; the look's forgot;The shuttle's flung; the writing's blot;The thought is past; the dream is gone;The water glides; man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brook;

Or, in a glass, much like a look;

Or like a shuttle in weaver's hand;

Or like the writing on the sand;

Or like a thought; or like a dream;

Or like the gliding of the stream;

Even such is man, who lives by breath,

Is here, now there, in life, and death.

The bubble's cut; the look's forgot;

The shuttle's flung; the writing's blot;

The thought is past; the dream is gone;

The water glides; man's life is done.

Like to an arrow from the bow;Or like swift course of watery flow;Or like the time twixt flood and ebb;Or like the spider's tender web;Or like a race; or like a goal;Or like the dealing of a dole;Even such is man whose brittle stateIs always subject unto fate.The arrow's shot; the flood soon spent;The time no time; the web soon rent;The race soon run; the goal soon won;The dole soon dealt; man's life first done.

Like to an arrow from the bow;

Or like swift course of watery flow;

Or like the time twixt flood and ebb;

Or like the spider's tender web;

Or like a race; or like a goal;

Or like the dealing of a dole;

Even such is man whose brittle state

Is always subject unto fate.

The arrow's shot; the flood soon spent;

The time no time; the web soon rent;

The race soon run; the goal soon won;

The dole soon dealt; man's life first done.

Like to the lightning from the sky;Or like a post that quick doth hie;Or like a quaver in short song;Or like a journey three days long;Or like the snow when summer's come;Or like the pear; or like the plum;Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow,The lightning's past; the post must go;The song is short; the journey's so;The pear doth rot; the plum doth fall;The snow dissolves; and so must all.

Like to the lightning from the sky;

Or like a post that quick doth hie;

Or like a quaver in short song;

Or like a journey three days long;

Or like the snow when summer's come;

Or like the pear; or like the plum;

Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,

Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow,

The lightning's past; the post must go;

The song is short; the journey's so;

The pear doth rot; the plum doth fall;

The snow dissolves; and so must all.

Like to the damask Rose you see, &c.

Like to the blaze of fond delight;Or like a morning clear and bright;Or like a post; or like a shower;Or like the pride of Babel's Tower;Or like the hour that guides the time;Or like to beauty in her prime;Even such is man, whose glory lendsHis life a blaze or two, and ends.Delights vanish; the morn o'er casteth;The frost breaks; the shower hasteth;The Tower falls; the hour spends;The beauty fades; and man's life ends.

Like to the blaze of fond delight;

Or like a morning clear and bright;

Or like a post; or like a shower;

Or like the pride of Babel's Tower;

Or like the hour that guides the time;

Or like to beauty in her prime;

Even such is man, whose glory lends

His life a blaze or two, and ends.

Delights vanish; the morn o'er casteth;

The frost breaks; the shower hasteth;

The Tower falls; the hour spends;

The beauty fades; and man's life ends.

Like to a silkworm of one year;Or like a wronged lover's tear;Or on the waves a rudder's dint;Or like the sparkles of a flint:Or like to little cakes perfum'd;Or fireworks made to be consum'd;Even such is man, and all that trustIn weak and animated dust.The silkworm droops; the tear's soon shed;The ship's way lost; the sparkle dead;The cake is burnt; the firework done;And man as these as quickly gone.

Like to a silkworm of one year;

Or like a wronged lover's tear;

Or on the waves a rudder's dint;

Or like the sparkles of a flint:

Or like to little cakes perfum'd;

Or fireworks made to be consum'd;

Even such is man, and all that trust

In weak and animated dust.

The silkworm droops; the tear's soon shed;

The ship's way lost; the sparkle dead;

The cake is burnt; the firework done;

And man as these as quickly gone.

Like to the rolling of an eye:Or like a star shot from the sky;Or like a hand upon a clock;Or like a wave upon a rock;Or like a wind; or like a flame;Or like false news which people frame;Even such is man, of equal stayWhose very growth leads to decay.The eye is turned; the star down bendeth;The hand doth steal; the wave descendeth;The wind is spent; the flame unfir'd;The news disprov'd; man's life expir'd.

Like to the rolling of an eye:

Or like a star shot from the sky;

Or like a hand upon a clock;

Or like a wave upon a rock;

Or like a wind; or like a flame;

Or like false news which people frame;

Even such is man, of equal stay

Whose very growth leads to decay.

The eye is turned; the star down bendeth;

The hand doth steal; the wave descendeth;

The wind is spent; the flame unfir'd;

The news disprov'd; man's life expir'd.

Like to an eye which sleep doth chain;Or like a star whose fall we faine [ = feign];Or like a shade on A[t]haz' watch:Or like a wave which gulfs do snatch;Or like a wind or flame that's past;Or smother'd news confirm'd at last;Even so man's life, pawn'd in the grave,Waits for a rising it must haveThe eye still sees; the star still blazeth;The shade goes back; the wave escapeth;The wind is turn'd, the flame reviv'd,The news renew'd; and man new liv'd.

Like to an eye which sleep doth chain;

Or like a star whose fall we faine [ = feign];

Or like a shade on A[t]haz' watch:

Or like a wave which gulfs do snatch;

Or like a wind or flame that's past;

Or smother'd news confirm'd at last;

Even so man's life, pawn'd in the grave,

Waits for a rising it must have

The eye still sees; the star still blazeth;

The shade goes back; the wave escapeth;

The wind is turn'd, the flame reviv'd,

The news renew'd; and man new liv'd.

Sic Vita.] On this famous piece see Introduction. Only the first form is attributed to King and appears in hisPoems; but it also appears not merely in the singular higgledy-piggledy called the poems of Francis Beaumont, 1653, but in the earlier and better edition of 1640. Simon Wastell was a schoolmaster who had been at Queen's College, Oxford; and who in 1629 appended these sets of verses to a book then entitledMicrobiblion. The first is claimed by Quarles, who also wrote another in the form. William Browne's version was not published till 1815, and the authors of the two from the Malone MS. are unknown. The group is probably the palmary example in English of that coterie-and school-verse which distinguished the seventeenth century. The King-Beaumont form is certainly the best and probably the original. (It will be observed that X ispalinodicto the others. It is,withIX, attributed as a single piece to Strode and entitled 'On Death and Resurrection' in MS. Malone 16, fol. 35, and Dobell'sPoetical Works of W. Strode).

Ill busi'd man! why shouldst thou take such careTo lengthen out thy life's short kalendar?When every spectacle thou look'st uponPresents and acts thy execution.Each drooping season and each flower doth cry,Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die.The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well)Is just the tolling of thy passing bell:Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopy10Covers alike deceased day and thee.And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.

Ill busi'd man! why shouldst thou take such care

To lengthen out thy life's short kalendar?

When every spectacle thou look'st upon

Presents and acts thy execution.

Each drooping season and each flower doth cry,

Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die.

The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well)Is just the tolling of thy passing bell:Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopy10Covers alike deceased day and thee.And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.

The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well)

Is just the tolling of thy passing bell:

Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopy

10Covers alike deceased day and thee.

And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,

Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.

My Midnight Meditation.] 11 which]MS.'that'. InParnassus Biceps, p. 80, with title 'On Man': ll. 9-10 are absent from this version. Mr. Thorn-Drury thinks that this is Dr.JohnKing's (so ascribed in Malone MS. 21, fol. 2b, and Mr. Dobell's MS. of Strode).

Hearken, O God, unto a wretch's cries,Who low dejected at thy footstool lies.Let not the clamour of my heinous sinDrown my requests, which strive to enter inAt those bright gates, which always open standTo such as beg remission at thy hand.Too well I know, if thou in rigour deal,I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal:To my hoarse voice, heaven will no audience grant,10But deaf as brass, and hard as adamantBeat back my words; therefore I bring to theeA gracious Advocate to plead for me.What though my leprous soul no Jordan canRecure, nor floods of the lav'd OceanMake clean? yet from my Saviour's bleeding sideTwo large and medicinable rivers glide.Lord, wash me where those streams of life abound,And new Bethesdas flow from ev'ry wound.If I this precious lather may obtain,20I shall not then despair for any stain;I need no Gilead's balm, nor oil, nor shallI for the purifying hyssop call:My spots will vanish in His purple flood,And crimson there turn white, though wash'd with blood.See, Lord! with broken heart and bended knee,How I address my humble suit to Thee;O give that suit admittance to Thy ears,Which floats to Thee, not in my words, but tears:And let my sinful soul this mercy crave,30Before I fall into the silent grave.

Hearken, O God, unto a wretch's cries,

Who low dejected at thy footstool lies.

Let not the clamour of my heinous sin

Drown my requests, which strive to enter in

At those bright gates, which always open stand

To such as beg remission at thy hand.

Too well I know, if thou in rigour deal,I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal:To my hoarse voice, heaven will no audience grant,10But deaf as brass, and hard as adamantBeat back my words; therefore I bring to theeA gracious Advocate to plead for me.

Too well I know, if thou in rigour deal,

I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal:

To my hoarse voice, heaven will no audience grant,

10But deaf as brass, and hard as adamant

Beat back my words; therefore I bring to thee

A gracious Advocate to plead for me.

What though my leprous soul no Jordan canRecure, nor floods of the lav'd OceanMake clean? yet from my Saviour's bleeding sideTwo large and medicinable rivers glide.Lord, wash me where those streams of life abound,And new Bethesdas flow from ev'ry wound.

What though my leprous soul no Jordan can

Recure, nor floods of the lav'd Ocean

Make clean? yet from my Saviour's bleeding side

Two large and medicinable rivers glide.

Lord, wash me where those streams of life abound,

And new Bethesdas flow from ev'ry wound.

If I this precious lather may obtain,20I shall not then despair for any stain;I need no Gilead's balm, nor oil, nor shallI for the purifying hyssop call:My spots will vanish in His purple flood,And crimson there turn white, though wash'd with blood.

If I this precious lather may obtain,

20I shall not then despair for any stain;

I need no Gilead's balm, nor oil, nor shall

I for the purifying hyssop call:

My spots will vanish in His purple flood,

And crimson there turn white, though wash'd with blood.

See, Lord! with broken heart and bended knee,How I address my humble suit to Thee;O give that suit admittance to Thy ears,Which floats to Thee, not in my words, but tears:And let my sinful soul this mercy crave,30Before I fall into the silent grave.

See, Lord! with broken heart and bended knee,

How I address my humble suit to Thee;

O give that suit admittance to Thy ears,

Which floats to Thee, not in my words, but tears:

And let my sinful soul this mercy crave,

30Before I fall into the silent grave.

A Penitential Hymn.] This piece is referred to by Anthony Wood as one of several 'anthems'. It was, he tells us, intended for Lenten use, and set by Dr. John Wilson, gentleman of the Chapel Royal. To this Dr. Wilson, Hannah thought that his collated MS. copy of King'sPoems, which bears the name, had belonged, additional evidence being found in the curious fact that the Hymn appears in that copy out of order, and first.

Well did the Prophet ask,Lord, what is Man?Implying by the question none canBut God resolve the doubt, much less defineWhat elements this child of dust combine.Man is a stranger to himself, and knowsNothing so naturally as his woes.He loves to travel countries, and conferThe sides of Heaven's vast diameter:Delights to sit in Nile or Bætis' lap,10Before he hath sail'd over his own map;By which means he returns, his travel spent,Less knowing of himself than when he went.Who knowledge hunt kept under foreign locks,May bring home wit to hold a paradox,Yet be fools still. Therefore, might I advise,I would inform the soul before the eyes:Make man into his proper optics look,And so become the student and the book.With his conception, his first leaf, begin;20What is he there but complicated sin?When riper time, and the approaching birthRanks him among the creatures of the earth,His wailing mother sends him forth to greetThe light, wrapp'd in a bloody winding sheet;As if he came into the world to craveNo place to dwell in, but bespeak a grave.Thus like a red and tempest-boding mornHis dawning is: for being newly bornHe hails th' ensuing storm with shrieks and cries,30And fines for his admission with wet eyes.How should that plant, whose leaf is bath'd in tears,Bear but a bitter fruit in elder years?Just such is this, and his maturer ageTeems with event more sad than the presage.For view him higher, when his childhood's spanIs raised up to youth's meridian;When he goes proudly laden with the fruitWhich health, or strength, or beauty contribute;Yet,—as the mounted cannon batters down40The towers and goodly structures of a town,—So one short sickness will his force defeat,And his frail citadel to rubbish beat.How does a dropsy melt him to a flood,Making each vein run water more than blood?A colic wracks him like a northern gust,And raging fevers crumble him to dust.In which unhappy state he is made worseBy his diseases than his Maker's curse.God said intoil and sweathe should earn bread,50And without labour not be nourished:There, though like ropes of falling dew, his sweatHangs on his lab'ring brow, he cannot eat.Thus are his sins scourg'd in opposed themes,And luxuries reveng'd by their extremes.He who in health could never be contentWith rarities fetch'd from each element,Is now much more afflicted to delightHis tasteless palate, and lost appetite.Besides, though God ordain'd, that with the light60Man should begin his work, yet he made nightFor his repose, in which the weary senseRepairs itself by rest's soft recompense.But now his watchful nights and troubled daysConfused heaps of fear and fancy raise.His chamber seems a loose and trembling mine;His pillow quilted with a porcupine;Pain makes his downy couch sharp thorns appear,And ev'ry feather prick him like a spear.Thus, when all forms of death about him keep,70He copies death in any form, but sleep.Poor walking-clay! hast thou a mind to knowTo what unblest beginnings thou dost oweThy wretched self? fall sick a while, and thanThou wilt conceive the pedigree of Man.Learn shalt thou from thine own anatomy,That earth his mother, worms his sisters be.That he's a short-liv'd vapour upward wrought,And by corruption unto nothing brought.A stagg'ring meteor by cross planets beat,80Which often reels and falls before his set;A tree which withers faster than it grows;A torch puff'd out by ev'ry wind that blows;A web of forty weeks spun forth in pain,And in a moment ravell'd out again.This is the model of frail man: then sayThat his duration's only for a day:And in that day more fits of changes pass,Than atoms run in the turn'd hour-glass.So that th' incessant cares which life invade90Might for strong truth their heresy persuade,Who did maintain that human souls are sentInto the body for their punishment:At least with that Greek sage still make us cry,Not to be born, or, being born, to die.But Faith steers up to a more glorious scope,Which sweetens our sharp passage; and firm hopeAnchors our torn barks on a blessed shore,Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er.To this, Death is our pilot, and disease100The agent which solicits our release.Though crosses then pour on my restless head,Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed:Let this my thought's eternal comfort be,That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see.And when by fortune's or by nature's strokeMy body's earthen pitcher must be broke,My soul, like Gideon's lamp, from her crack'd urnShall Death's black night to endless lustre turn.

Well did the Prophet ask,Lord, what is Man?Implying by the question none canBut God resolve the doubt, much less defineWhat elements this child of dust combine.

Well did the Prophet ask,Lord, what is Man?

Implying by the question none can

But God resolve the doubt, much less define

What elements this child of dust combine.

Man is a stranger to himself, and knowsNothing so naturally as his woes.He loves to travel countries, and conferThe sides of Heaven's vast diameter:Delights to sit in Nile or Bætis' lap,10Before he hath sail'd over his own map;By which means he returns, his travel spent,Less knowing of himself than when he went.Who knowledge hunt kept under foreign locks,May bring home wit to hold a paradox,Yet be fools still. Therefore, might I advise,I would inform the soul before the eyes:Make man into his proper optics look,And so become the student and the book.With his conception, his first leaf, begin;20What is he there but complicated sin?When riper time, and the approaching birthRanks him among the creatures of the earth,His wailing mother sends him forth to greetThe light, wrapp'd in a bloody winding sheet;As if he came into the world to craveNo place to dwell in, but bespeak a grave.

Man is a stranger to himself, and knows

Nothing so naturally as his woes.

He loves to travel countries, and confer

The sides of Heaven's vast diameter:

Delights to sit in Nile or Bætis' lap,

10Before he hath sail'd over his own map;

By which means he returns, his travel spent,

Less knowing of himself than when he went.

Who knowledge hunt kept under foreign locks,

May bring home wit to hold a paradox,

Yet be fools still. Therefore, might I advise,

I would inform the soul before the eyes:

Make man into his proper optics look,

And so become the student and the book.

With his conception, his first leaf, begin;

20What is he there but complicated sin?

When riper time, and the approaching birth

Ranks him among the creatures of the earth,

His wailing mother sends him forth to greet

The light, wrapp'd in a bloody winding sheet;

As if he came into the world to crave

No place to dwell in, but bespeak a grave.

Thus like a red and tempest-boding mornHis dawning is: for being newly bornHe hails th' ensuing storm with shrieks and cries,30And fines for his admission with wet eyes.

Thus like a red and tempest-boding morn

His dawning is: for being newly born

He hails th' ensuing storm with shrieks and cries,

30And fines for his admission with wet eyes.

How should that plant, whose leaf is bath'd in tears,Bear but a bitter fruit in elder years?Just such is this, and his maturer ageTeems with event more sad than the presage.For view him higher, when his childhood's spanIs raised up to youth's meridian;When he goes proudly laden with the fruitWhich health, or strength, or beauty contribute;Yet,—as the mounted cannon batters down40The towers and goodly structures of a town,—So one short sickness will his force defeat,And his frail citadel to rubbish beat.How does a dropsy melt him to a flood,Making each vein run water more than blood?A colic wracks him like a northern gust,And raging fevers crumble him to dust.In which unhappy state he is made worseBy his diseases than his Maker's curse.God said intoil and sweathe should earn bread,50And without labour not be nourished:There, though like ropes of falling dew, his sweatHangs on his lab'ring brow, he cannot eat.

How should that plant, whose leaf is bath'd in tears,

Bear but a bitter fruit in elder years?

Just such is this, and his maturer age

Teems with event more sad than the presage.

For view him higher, when his childhood's span

Is raised up to youth's meridian;

When he goes proudly laden with the fruit

Which health, or strength, or beauty contribute;

Yet,—as the mounted cannon batters down

40The towers and goodly structures of a town,—

So one short sickness will his force defeat,

And his frail citadel to rubbish beat.

How does a dropsy melt him to a flood,

Making each vein run water more than blood?

A colic wracks him like a northern gust,

And raging fevers crumble him to dust.

In which unhappy state he is made worse

By his diseases than his Maker's curse.

God said intoil and sweathe should earn bread,

50And without labour not be nourished:

There, though like ropes of falling dew, his sweat

Hangs on his lab'ring brow, he cannot eat.

Thus are his sins scourg'd in opposed themes,And luxuries reveng'd by their extremes.He who in health could never be contentWith rarities fetch'd from each element,Is now much more afflicted to delightHis tasteless palate, and lost appetite.

Thus are his sins scourg'd in opposed themes,

And luxuries reveng'd by their extremes.

He who in health could never be content

With rarities fetch'd from each element,

Is now much more afflicted to delight

His tasteless palate, and lost appetite.

Besides, though God ordain'd, that with the light60Man should begin his work, yet he made nightFor his repose, in which the weary senseRepairs itself by rest's soft recompense.But now his watchful nights and troubled daysConfused heaps of fear and fancy raise.His chamber seems a loose and trembling mine;His pillow quilted with a porcupine;Pain makes his downy couch sharp thorns appear,And ev'ry feather prick him like a spear.Thus, when all forms of death about him keep,70He copies death in any form, but sleep.

Besides, though God ordain'd, that with the light

60Man should begin his work, yet he made night

For his repose, in which the weary sense

Repairs itself by rest's soft recompense.

But now his watchful nights and troubled days

Confused heaps of fear and fancy raise.

His chamber seems a loose and trembling mine;

His pillow quilted with a porcupine;

Pain makes his downy couch sharp thorns appear,

And ev'ry feather prick him like a spear.

Thus, when all forms of death about him keep,

70He copies death in any form, but sleep.

Poor walking-clay! hast thou a mind to knowTo what unblest beginnings thou dost oweThy wretched self? fall sick a while, and thanThou wilt conceive the pedigree of Man.Learn shalt thou from thine own anatomy,That earth his mother, worms his sisters be.That he's a short-liv'd vapour upward wrought,And by corruption unto nothing brought.A stagg'ring meteor by cross planets beat,80Which often reels and falls before his set;A tree which withers faster than it grows;A torch puff'd out by ev'ry wind that blows;A web of forty weeks spun forth in pain,And in a moment ravell'd out again.

Poor walking-clay! hast thou a mind to know

To what unblest beginnings thou dost owe

Thy wretched self? fall sick a while, and than

Thou wilt conceive the pedigree of Man.

Learn shalt thou from thine own anatomy,

That earth his mother, worms his sisters be.

That he's a short-liv'd vapour upward wrought,

And by corruption unto nothing brought.

A stagg'ring meteor by cross planets beat,

80Which often reels and falls before his set;

A tree which withers faster than it grows;

A torch puff'd out by ev'ry wind that blows;

A web of forty weeks spun forth in pain,

And in a moment ravell'd out again.

This is the model of frail man: then sayThat his duration's only for a day:And in that day more fits of changes pass,Than atoms run in the turn'd hour-glass.

This is the model of frail man: then say

That his duration's only for a day:

And in that day more fits of changes pass,

Than atoms run in the turn'd hour-glass.

So that th' incessant cares which life invade90Might for strong truth their heresy persuade,Who did maintain that human souls are sentInto the body for their punishment:At least with that Greek sage still make us cry,Not to be born, or, being born, to die.

So that th' incessant cares which life invade

90Might for strong truth their heresy persuade,

Who did maintain that human souls are sent

Into the body for their punishment:

At least with that Greek sage still make us cry,

Not to be born, or, being born, to die.

But Faith steers up to a more glorious scope,Which sweetens our sharp passage; and firm hopeAnchors our torn barks on a blessed shore,Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er.To this, Death is our pilot, and disease100The agent which solicits our release.

But Faith steers up to a more glorious scope,

Which sweetens our sharp passage; and firm hope

Anchors our torn barks on a blessed shore,

Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er.

To this, Death is our pilot, and disease

100The agent which solicits our release.

Though crosses then pour on my restless head,Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed:Let this my thought's eternal comfort be,That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see.And when by fortune's or by nature's strokeMy body's earthen pitcher must be broke,My soul, like Gideon's lamp, from her crack'd urnShall Death's black night to endless lustre turn.

Though crosses then pour on my restless head,

Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed:

Let this my thought's eternal comfort be,

That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see.

And when by fortune's or by nature's stroke

My body's earthen pitcher must be broke,

My soul, like Gideon's lamp, from her crack'd urn

Shall Death's black night to endless lustre turn.

An Elegy, &c.] It is always well to placate Nemesis before finding fault with a fellow-creature's complaints. But this piece, like some others, does rather illustrate that 'tendency togrizzle' which has been noticed in the Introduction. It was no doubt natural to King, and was probably confirmed in him by his wife's early death. It is worth noticing that—a thing rare in his time—he never remarried.33 this]MS.'his'.73 'Than' for 'then' is much rarer than the converse, though we have it oncesupra. It is odd too here, for 'then' would have done just as well.90 'Their' = Origen and the Priscillianists.93 Posidippus? But the thing was a commonplace.94 Side-note in orig.:Non nasci, aut quam citissime mori.

33 this]MS.'his'.

73 'Than' for 'then' is much rarer than the converse, though we have it oncesupra. It is odd too here, for 'then' would have done just as well.

90 'Their' = Origen and the Priscillianists.

93 Posidippus? But the thing was a commonplace.

94 Side-note in orig.:Non nasci, aut quam citissime mori.

What is th' existence of Man's lifeBut open war, or slumber'd strife?Where sickness to his sense presentsThe combat of the elements;And never feels a perfect peace,Till Death's cold hand signs his release.It is a storm, where the hot bloodOutvies in rage the boiling flood;And each loud passion of the mind10Is like a furious gust of wind,Which beats his bark with many a wave,Till he casts anchor in the grave.It is a flower, which buds and grows,And withers as the leaves disclose;Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,Like fits of waking before sleep:Then shrinks into that fatal mould,Where its first being was enroll'd.It is a dream, whose seeming truth20Is moraliz'd in age and youth:Where all the comforts he can shareAs wand'ring as his fancies are;Till in a mist of dark decayThe dreamer vanish quite away.It is a dial, which points outThe sun-set as it moves about:And shadows out in lines of nightThe subtile stages of Time's flight,Till all obscuring earth hath laid30The body in perpetual shade.It is a weary interludeWhich doth short joys, long woes include.The World the stage, the Prologue tears,The Acts vain hope, and varied fears;The Scene shuts up with loss of breath,And leaves no Epilogue but Death.

What is th' existence of Man's life

But open war, or slumber'd strife?

Where sickness to his sense presents

The combat of the elements;

And never feels a perfect peace,

Till Death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm, where the hot bloodOutvies in rage the boiling flood;And each loud passion of the mind10Is like a furious gust of wind,Which beats his bark with many a wave,Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a storm, where the hot blood

Outvies in rage the boiling flood;

And each loud passion of the mind

10Is like a furious gust of wind,

Which beats his bark with many a wave,

Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower, which buds and grows,And withers as the leaves disclose;Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,Like fits of waking before sleep:Then shrinks into that fatal mould,Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a flower, which buds and grows,

And withers as the leaves disclose;

Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,

Like fits of waking before sleep:

Then shrinks into that fatal mould,

Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth20Is moraliz'd in age and youth:Where all the comforts he can shareAs wand'ring as his fancies are;Till in a mist of dark decayThe dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth

20Is moraliz'd in age and youth:

Where all the comforts he can share

As wand'ring as his fancies are;

Till in a mist of dark decay

The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial, which points outThe sun-set as it moves about:And shadows out in lines of nightThe subtile stages of Time's flight,Till all obscuring earth hath laid30The body in perpetual shade.

It is a dial, which points out

The sun-set as it moves about:

And shadows out in lines of night

The subtile stages of Time's flight,

Till all obscuring earth hath laid

30The body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interludeWhich doth short joys, long woes include.The World the stage, the Prologue tears,The Acts vain hope, and varied fears;The Scene shuts up with loss of breath,And leaves no Epilogue but Death.

It is a weary interlude

Which doth short joys, long woes include.

The World the stage, the Prologue tears,

The Acts vain hope, and varied fears;

The Scene shuts up with loss of breath,

And leaves no Epilogue but Death.

The Dirge.] An obvious extension-variation ofSic Vita.8MS.'Vies rages with'—rather well.12MS.'cast'—perhaps better.26MS.'His sun-set'.27-8 These run inMS.:Whilst it demonstrates Time's swift flightIn the black lines of shady night.30 The]MS.'His'.35MS.'inloss'.

The Dirge.] An obvious extension-variation ofSic Vita.

8MS.'Vies rages with'—rather well.

12MS.'cast'—perhaps better.

26MS.'His sun-set'.

27-8 These run inMS.:

Whilst it demonstrates Time's swift flightIn the black lines of shady night.

Whilst it demonstrates Time's swift flight

In the black lines of shady night.

30 The]MS.'His'.

35MS.'inloss'.

[Died November 29, 1654.]

Light'ned by that dim torch our sorrow bears,We sadly trace thy coffin with our tears;And though the ceremonious rites are pastSince thy fair body into earth was cast,Though all thy hatchments into rags are torn,Thy funeral robes and ornaments outworn;We still thy mourners, without show or art,With solemn blacks hung round about our heart,Thus constantly the obsequies renew,10Which to thy precious memory are due.Yet think not that we rudely would invadeThe dark recess of thine untroubled shade,Or give disturbance to that happy peace,Which thou enjoy'st at full since thy release:Much less in sullen murmurs do complainOf His decree who took thee back again,And did, ere Fame had spread thy virtue's light,Eclipse and fold thee up in endless night.This, like an act of envy, not of grief,20Might doubt thy bliss, and shake our own belief,Whose studied wishes no proportion bearWith joys which crown thee now in glory's sphere.Know then, blest Soul! we for ourselves, not thee,Seal our woe's dictate by this elegy:Wherein our tears, united in one stream,Shall to succeeding times convey this theme,Worth all men's pity, who discern, how rareSuch early growths of fame and goodness are.Of these, part must thy sex's loss bewail,30Maim'd in her noblest patterns through thy fail;For 'twould require a double term of lifeTo match thee as a daughter or a wife;Both which Northumberland's dear loss improve,And make his sorrow equal to his love.The rest fall for ourselves, who, cast behind,Cannot yet reach the peace which thou dost find;But slowly follow thee in that dull stageWhich most untimely posted hence thy age.Thus, like religious pilgrims, who design40A short salute to their beloved shrine,Most sad and humble votaries we come,To offer up our sighs upon thy tomb,And wet thy marble with our dropping eyes,Which, till the spring which feeds their current dries,Resolve each falling night and rising day,This mournful homage at thy grave to pay.

Light'ned by that dim torch our sorrow bears,

We sadly trace thy coffin with our tears;

And though the ceremonious rites are past

Since thy fair body into earth was cast,

Though all thy hatchments into rags are torn,

Thy funeral robes and ornaments outworn;

We still thy mourners, without show or art,

With solemn blacks hung round about our heart,

Thus constantly the obsequies renew,

10Which to thy precious memory are due.

Yet think not that we rudely would invadeThe dark recess of thine untroubled shade,Or give disturbance to that happy peace,Which thou enjoy'st at full since thy release:Much less in sullen murmurs do complainOf His decree who took thee back again,And did, ere Fame had spread thy virtue's light,Eclipse and fold thee up in endless night.This, like an act of envy, not of grief,20Might doubt thy bliss, and shake our own belief,Whose studied wishes no proportion bearWith joys which crown thee now in glory's sphere.

Yet think not that we rudely would invade

The dark recess of thine untroubled shade,

Or give disturbance to that happy peace,

Which thou enjoy'st at full since thy release:

Much less in sullen murmurs do complain

Of His decree who took thee back again,

And did, ere Fame had spread thy virtue's light,

Eclipse and fold thee up in endless night.

This, like an act of envy, not of grief,

20Might doubt thy bliss, and shake our own belief,

Whose studied wishes no proportion bear

With joys which crown thee now in glory's sphere.

Know then, blest Soul! we for ourselves, not thee,Seal our woe's dictate by this elegy:Wherein our tears, united in one stream,Shall to succeeding times convey this theme,Worth all men's pity, who discern, how rareSuch early growths of fame and goodness are.Of these, part must thy sex's loss bewail,30Maim'd in her noblest patterns through thy fail;For 'twould require a double term of lifeTo match thee as a daughter or a wife;Both which Northumberland's dear loss improve,And make his sorrow equal to his love.The rest fall for ourselves, who, cast behind,Cannot yet reach the peace which thou dost find;But slowly follow thee in that dull stageWhich most untimely posted hence thy age.

Know then, blest Soul! we for ourselves, not thee,

Seal our woe's dictate by this elegy:

Wherein our tears, united in one stream,

Shall to succeeding times convey this theme,

Worth all men's pity, who discern, how rare

Such early growths of fame and goodness are.

Of these, part must thy sex's loss bewail,

30Maim'd in her noblest patterns through thy fail;

For 'twould require a double term of life

To match thee as a daughter or a wife;

Both which Northumberland's dear loss improve,

And make his sorrow equal to his love.

The rest fall for ourselves, who, cast behind,

Cannot yet reach the peace which thou dost find;

But slowly follow thee in that dull stage

Which most untimely posted hence thy age.

Thus, like religious pilgrims, who design40A short salute to their beloved shrine,Most sad and humble votaries we come,To offer up our sighs upon thy tomb,And wet thy marble with our dropping eyes,Which, till the spring which feeds their current dries,Resolve each falling night and rising day,This mournful homage at thy grave to pay.

Thus, like religious pilgrims, who design

40A short salute to their beloved shrine,

Most sad and humble votaries we come,

To offer up our sighs upon thy tomb,

And wet thy marble with our dropping eyes,

Which, till the spring which feeds their current dries,

Resolve each falling night and rising day,

This mournful homage at thy grave to pay.

An Elegy.] The subject of this was Anne Percy, daughter of the Northumberland whose personal umbrage or lukewarm loyalty so grievously affected the Royal cause, and the wife of that Philip Lord Stanhope who afterwards, and after her death, seems to have flirted with Lady Elizabeth Howard before she married Dryden.28 early] Lady Stanhope was not twenty-one when she died, and had been married little more than two years.Poems not included in the Edition of 1657 but added in reissue of 1664

28 early] Lady Stanhope was not twenty-one when she died, and had been married little more than two years.

[Countess of Leinster: died June 15, 1657.]

Should we our sorrows in this method range,Oft as misfortune doth their subjects change,And to the sev'ral losses which befall,Pay diff'rent rites at ev'ry funeral;Like narrow springs, drain'd by dispersed streams,We must want tears to wail such various themes,And prove defective in Death's mournful laws,Not having words proportion'd to each cause.In your dear loss, my much afflicted sense10Discerns this truth by sad experience,Who never look'd my Verses should survive,As wet records, That you are not alive;And less desir'd to make that promise due,Which pass'd from me in jest, when urg'd by you.How close and slily doth our frailty work!How undiscover'd in the body lurk!That those who this day did salute you well,Before the next were frighted by your knell.O wherefore since we must in order rise,20Should we not fall in equal obsequies?But bear th' assaults of an uneven fate,Like fevers which their hour anticipate;Had this rule constant been, my long wish'd endMight render you a mourner for your Friend:As he for you, whose most deplor'd surpriseImprints your death on all my faculties;That hardly my dark phant'sy or discourseThis final duty from the pen enforce.Such influence hath your eclipsed light,30It doth my reason, like myself, benight.Let me, with luckless gamesters, then think best(After I have set up and lost my rest),Grown desp'rate through mischance, to venture lastMy whole remaining stock upon a cast,And flinging from me my now loathed pen,Resolve for your sake ne'er to write again:For whilst successive days their light renew,I must no subject hope to equal you,In whose heroic breast, as in their Sphere,40All graces of your sex concentred were.Thus take I my long farewell of that art,Fit only glorious actions to impart;That art wherewith our crosses we beguile,And make them in harmonious numbers smile:Since you are gone, this holds no further useWhose virtue and desert inspir'd my Muse,O may she in your ashes buried be,Whilst I myself become the Elegy.And as it is observ'd, when Princes die,50In honour of that sad solemnity,The now unoffic'd servants crack their staves,And throw them down into their masters' graves:So this last office of my broken verseI solemnly resign upon your hearse;And my brain's moisture, all that is unspent,Shall melt to nothing at the monument.Thus in moist weather, when the marble weeps,You'll think it only his tears reck'ning keeps,Who doth for ever to his thoughts bequeath60The legacy of your lamented death.

Should we our sorrows in this method range,

Oft as misfortune doth their subjects change,

And to the sev'ral losses which befall,

Pay diff'rent rites at ev'ry funeral;

Like narrow springs, drain'd by dispersed streams,

We must want tears to wail such various themes,

And prove defective in Death's mournful laws,

Not having words proportion'd to each cause.

In your dear loss, my much afflicted sense10Discerns this truth by sad experience,Who never look'd my Verses should survive,As wet records, That you are not alive;And less desir'd to make that promise due,Which pass'd from me in jest, when urg'd by you.

In your dear loss, my much afflicted sense

10Discerns this truth by sad experience,

Who never look'd my Verses should survive,

As wet records, That you are not alive;

And less desir'd to make that promise due,

Which pass'd from me in jest, when urg'd by you.

How close and slily doth our frailty work!How undiscover'd in the body lurk!That those who this day did salute you well,Before the next were frighted by your knell.O wherefore since we must in order rise,20Should we not fall in equal obsequies?But bear th' assaults of an uneven fate,Like fevers which their hour anticipate;Had this rule constant been, my long wish'd endMight render you a mourner for your Friend:As he for you, whose most deplor'd surpriseImprints your death on all my faculties;That hardly my dark phant'sy or discourseThis final duty from the pen enforce.

How close and slily doth our frailty work!

How undiscover'd in the body lurk!

That those who this day did salute you well,

Before the next were frighted by your knell.

O wherefore since we must in order rise,

20Should we not fall in equal obsequies?

But bear th' assaults of an uneven fate,

Like fevers which their hour anticipate;

Had this rule constant been, my long wish'd end

Might render you a mourner for your Friend:

As he for you, whose most deplor'd surprise

Imprints your death on all my faculties;

That hardly my dark phant'sy or discourse

This final duty from the pen enforce.

Such influence hath your eclipsed light,30It doth my reason, like myself, benight.

Such influence hath your eclipsed light,

30It doth my reason, like myself, benight.

Let me, with luckless gamesters, then think best(After I have set up and lost my rest),Grown desp'rate through mischance, to venture lastMy whole remaining stock upon a cast,And flinging from me my now loathed pen,Resolve for your sake ne'er to write again:For whilst successive days their light renew,I must no subject hope to equal you,In whose heroic breast, as in their Sphere,40All graces of your sex concentred were.

Let me, with luckless gamesters, then think best

(After I have set up and lost my rest),

Grown desp'rate through mischance, to venture last

My whole remaining stock upon a cast,

And flinging from me my now loathed pen,

Resolve for your sake ne'er to write again:

For whilst successive days their light renew,

I must no subject hope to equal you,

In whose heroic breast, as in their Sphere,

40All graces of your sex concentred were.

Thus take I my long farewell of that art,Fit only glorious actions to impart;That art wherewith our crosses we beguile,And make them in harmonious numbers smile:Since you are gone, this holds no further useWhose virtue and desert inspir'd my Muse,O may she in your ashes buried be,Whilst I myself become the Elegy.

Thus take I my long farewell of that art,

Fit only glorious actions to impart;

That art wherewith our crosses we beguile,

And make them in harmonious numbers smile:

Since you are gone, this holds no further use

Whose virtue and desert inspir'd my Muse,

O may she in your ashes buried be,

Whilst I myself become the Elegy.

And as it is observ'd, when Princes die,50In honour of that sad solemnity,The now unoffic'd servants crack their staves,And throw them down into their masters' graves:So this last office of my broken verseI solemnly resign upon your hearse;And my brain's moisture, all that is unspent,Shall melt to nothing at the monument.Thus in moist weather, when the marble weeps,You'll think it only his tears reck'ning keeps,Who doth for ever to his thoughts bequeath60The legacy of your lamented death.

And as it is observ'd, when Princes die,

50In honour of that sad solemnity,

The now unoffic'd servants crack their staves,

And throw them down into their masters' graves:

So this last office of my broken verse

I solemnly resign upon your hearse;

And my brain's moisture, all that is unspent,

Shall melt to nothing at the monument.

Thus in moist weather, when the marble weeps,

You'll think it only his tears reck'ning keeps,

Who doth for ever to his thoughts bequeath

60The legacy of your lamented death.

An Elegy upon my best friend.] King's 'best friend' (or, as a MS. gives it, 'worthiest') was Katharine Stanhope, daughter of John Lord Stanhope of Harrington. Her husband, Robert Cholmondeley, successively created an Irish Viscount, an English Baron (his surname serving as title in each case), and Earl of Leinster, died very shortly after her and before the Restoration. There is a MS. sermon on her death attributed to King, but doubted by Hannah. The poem itself, unlike the next but like the three which follow that, appears printed in the 1664 issue. And it is, on the principles of this collection, not unimportant to notice that in these later printed pieces the irrational prodigality of capitals which, as has been noted, is absent from1657, reappears. There could be no stronger evidence that these things have nothing to do with the author, and are not worth reproducing.12 The original bestows a capital even upon 'Alive'—a thing capital in another way as illustrating the utter unreason of the practice.15-18 Absent inMS.36 Orig. 'nev'r'—a form unpronounceable but not uninteresting.40 your]MS.'the'.43 crosses]MS.'sorrows'.

12 The original bestows a capital even upon 'Alive'—a thing capital in another way as illustrating the utter unreason of the practice.

15-18 Absent inMS.

36 Orig. 'nev'r'—a form unpronounceable but not uninteresting.

40 your]MS.'the'.

43 crosses]MS.'sorrows'.

[Died September 14, 1646.]

Essex, twice made unhappy by a wife,Yet married worse unto the People's strife:He who, by two divorces, did untieHis bond of wedlock and of loyalty:Who was by easiness of nature bred,To lead that tumult which first him misled;Yet had some glimm'ring sparks of virtue, lentTo see (though late) his error, and repent:Essex lies here, like an inverted flame,10Hid in the ruins of his house and name;And as he, frailty's sad example, lies,Warns the survivors in his exequies.He shows what wretched bubbles great men are,Through their ambition grown too popular:For they, built up from weak opinion, standOn bases false as water, loose as sand.Essex in differing successes triedThe fury and the falsehood of each side;Now with applauses deified, and then,20Thrown down with spiteful infamy again:—Tells them, what arts soever them support,Their life is merely Time and Fortune's sport,And that no bladders, blown by common breath,Shall bear them up amidst the waves of Death:Tells them, no monstrous birth, with pow'r endu'd,By that more monstrous beast, the Multitude,—No State-Coloss(though tall as that bestridThe Rhodian harbour where their navy rid),Can hold that ill-proportion'd greatness still,30Beyond his greater, most resistless will,Whose dreadful sentence, written on the Wall,Did sign the temple-robbing tyrant's fall;But spite of their vast privilege, which strivesT' exceed the size of ten prerogatives;Spite of their endless parliament, or grants(In order to those votes and Covenants,When, without sense of their black perjury,They swear with Essex they would live and die),With their dead General ere long they must40Contracted be into a span of dust.

Essex, twice made unhappy by a wife,

Yet married worse unto the People's strife:

He who, by two divorces, did untie

His bond of wedlock and of loyalty:

Who was by easiness of nature bred,

To lead that tumult which first him misled;

Yet had some glimm'ring sparks of virtue, lent

To see (though late) his error, and repent:

Essex lies here, like an inverted flame,

10Hid in the ruins of his house and name;

And as he, frailty's sad example, lies,

Warns the survivors in his exequies.

He shows what wretched bubbles great men are,Through their ambition grown too popular:For they, built up from weak opinion, standOn bases false as water, loose as sand.Essex in differing successes triedThe fury and the falsehood of each side;Now with applauses deified, and then,20Thrown down with spiteful infamy again:—

He shows what wretched bubbles great men are,

Through their ambition grown too popular:

For they, built up from weak opinion, stand

On bases false as water, loose as sand.

Essex in differing successes tried

The fury and the falsehood of each side;

Now with applauses deified, and then,

20Thrown down with spiteful infamy again:—

Tells them, what arts soever them support,Their life is merely Time and Fortune's sport,And that no bladders, blown by common breath,Shall bear them up amidst the waves of Death:

Tells them, what arts soever them support,

Their life is merely Time and Fortune's sport,

And that no bladders, blown by common breath,

Shall bear them up amidst the waves of Death:

Tells them, no monstrous birth, with pow'r endu'd,By that more monstrous beast, the Multitude,—No State-Coloss(though tall as that bestridThe Rhodian harbour where their navy rid),Can hold that ill-proportion'd greatness still,30Beyond his greater, most resistless will,Whose dreadful sentence, written on the Wall,Did sign the temple-robbing tyrant's fall;But spite of their vast privilege, which strivesT' exceed the size of ten prerogatives;Spite of their endless parliament, or grants(In order to those votes and Covenants,When, without sense of their black perjury,They swear with Essex they would live and die),With their dead General ere long they must40Contracted be into a span of dust.

Tells them, no monstrous birth, with pow'r endu'd,

By that more monstrous beast, the Multitude,—

No State-Coloss(though tall as that bestrid

The Rhodian harbour where their navy rid),

Can hold that ill-proportion'd greatness still,

30Beyond his greater, most resistless will,

Whose dreadful sentence, written on the Wall,

Did sign the temple-robbing tyrant's fall;

But spite of their vast privilege, which strives

T' exceed the size of ten prerogatives;

Spite of their endless parliament, or grants

(In order to those votes and Covenants,

When, without sense of their black perjury,

They swear with Essex they would live and die),

With their dead General ere long they must

40Contracted be into a span of dust.

On the Earl of Essex.] This and the next two may be called King's chief, if not his only, political poems: that they were kept back till after the Restoration is not surprising. Of Essex—one of the most unfortunate of men, the son of an unlucky father, the husband of one of the worst of women, and of another not much better, a half-hearted rebel, a soldier not less brave than blundering—not much is to be said here. King had some interest in the first and universally known divorce (the second, much less notorious, was from Elizabeth Paulet), for his father had been uncourtly and honest enough to oppose it strongly.10 This rather vigorous line was to be prophetic as well as true at the time, for when, after the Restoration, the title of Essex was revived it was for the Capels, who still hold it, not for any Devereux. The vigour just referred to is by no means absent from the whole poem, and in an ante-Drydenian piece is really remarkable.32 temple-robbing tyrant's fall] side-note in orig.:Belshasar, Dan. 5.

10 This rather vigorous line was to be prophetic as well as true at the time, for when, after the Restoration, the title of Essex was revived it was for the Capels, who still hold it, not for any Devereux. The vigour just referred to is by no means absent from the whole poem, and in an ante-Drydenian piece is really remarkable.

32 temple-robbing tyrant's fall] side-note in orig.:Belshasar, Dan. 5.

[Murdered August 28, 1648.]

In measures solemn as the groans that fallFrom the hoarse trumpet at some funeral;With trailing Elegy and mournful verse,I wait upon two peerless soldiers' hearse:Though I acknowledge must my sorrow's dressIll matched to the cause it should express;Nor can I, at my best invention's cost,Sum up the treasure which in them we lost.Had they, with other worthies of the age,10Who late upon the kingdom's bloody stage,For God, the King, and Laws, their valour tried,Through War's stern chance in heat of battle died,We then might save much of our grief's expense,Reputing it, not duty, but offence.They need no tears, nor howling exequy,Who in a glorious undertaking die;Since all that in the bed of honour fell,Live their own Monument and Chronicle.But these, whom horrid danger did not reach,20The wide-mouth'd cannon, nor the wider breach,These, whom, till cruel want and coward fatePenn'd up like famish'd lions in a grate,Were for their daring sallies so much fear'd,Th' assailants fled them like a frighted herd;Resolving now no more to fight, but lurkTrench'd in their line, or earth'd within a work.Where, not like soldiers they, but watchmen, creep,Arm'd for no other office, but to sleep;They, whose bold charge whole armies did amaze,30Rend'ring them faint and heartless at the gaze,To see Resolve and Naked Valour charmsOf higher proof than all their massy arms;They, whose bright swords ruffled the proudest troop(As fowl unto the tow'ring falcon stoop),Yet no advantage made of their success,Which to the conquer'd spake them merciless(For they, whene'er 'twas begg'd, did safety give,And oft unasked bid the vanquish'd live);Ev'n these, not more undaunted in the field,40Than mild and gentle unto such as yield,Were, after all the shocks of battles stood,(Let me not name it) murder'd in cold blood.Such poor revenge did the enraged GreekAgainst (till then) victorious Hector seek,Triumphing o'er that body, bound and dead,From whom, in life, the pow'rs of Argos fled.Yet might Achilles borrow some excuseTo colour, though not warrant, the abuse:His dearest friend, in the fierce combat foil'd,50Was by the Trojan's hand of life despoil'd;From whence unruly grief, grown wild with rage,Beyond the bounds of Honour did engage.But these, confirm'd in their unmanly hate,By counsels cruel, yet deliberate,Did from the stock of bleeding honour hewTwo of the noblest branches ever grew;And (which our grief and pity must improve)When brought within their reach with shows of love:For by a treaty they entangled are,60And rend'ring up to Mercy is the snare;Whence we have learn'd, whene'er their Saintships treat,The ends are mortal, and the means a cheat;In which the world may read their black intent,Drawn out at large in this sad precedent.Who (though fair promis'd) might no mercy have,But such as once the faithless Bashaw gave,When to his trust deluded BragadineHimself and Famagosta did resign.Whose envied valour thus to bonds betray'd,70Was soon the mark of barb'rous slaughter made:So gallant ships, which rocks and storms had past,Though with torn sails, and spending of their mast,When newly brought within the sight of land,Have been suck'd up by some devouring sand.You wretched agents for a kingdom's fall,Who yet yourselves the Modell'd Army call;Who carry on and fashion your designBy Sylla's, Sylla's red proscription's line,(Rome's Comet once, as you are ours) for shame80Henceforth no more usurp the soldier's name:Let not that title in fair battles gain'dBe by such abject things as you profan'd;For what have you achiev'd, the world may guessYou are those Men of Might which you profess?Where ever durst you strike, if you met foesWhose valour did your odds in men oppose?Turn o'er the annals of your vaunted fights,Which made you late the People's favourites;Begin your course at Naseby, and from thence90Draw out your marches' full circumference,Bridgwater, Bristol, Dartmouth, with the restOf your well-plotted renders in the West;Then to the angry North your compass bend,Until your spent career in Scotland end,(This is the perfect scale of our mishapWhich measures out your conquest by the map),And tell me he that can, What have you won,Which long before your progress was not done?What castle was besieg'd, what Port, what Town,100You were not sure to carry ere sat down?There needed no granadoes, no petard,To force the passage, or disperse the guard.No, your good masters sent a Golden RamTo batter down the gates against you came.Those blest Reformers, who procur'd the SwedeHis armed forces into Denmark lead,'Mongst them to kindle a sharp war for hire,Who in mere pity meant to quench our fire,Could where they pleased, with the King's own coin,110Divert his aids, and strengths at home purloin.Upon sea voyages I sometimes findMen trade with Lapland witches for a wind,And by those purchas'd gales, quick as their thought,To the desired port are safely brought.We need not here on skilful Hopkins call,The State's allow'd Witch-finder General.For (though Rebellion wants no cad nor elf,But is a perfect witchcraft of itself)We could with little help of art reveal120Those learn'd magicians with whom you deal:We all your juggles, both for time and place,From Derby-house to Westminster can trace,The circle where the factious jangle meetTo trample Law and Gospel under feet;In which, like bells rung backward, they proclaimThe Kingdom by their wild-fire set on flame,And, quite perverting their first rules, inventWhat mischief may be done by Parliament:We know your holy flamens, and can tell130What spirits vote within the Oracle;Have found the spells and incantations too,By whose assistance you such wonders do.For divers years the credit of your warsHath been kept up by these Familiars,Who, that they may their providence express,Both find you pay, and purchase your success:No wonder then you must the garland wear,Who never fought but with a silver spear.We grant the war's unhappy consequence,140With all the num'rous plagues which grow from thence,Murders and rapes, threats of disease and dearth,From you as for the proper Spring take birth;You may for laws enact the public wrongs,With all foul violence to them belongs;May bawl aloud the people's right and pow'r,Till by your sword you both of them devour(For this brave liberty by you upcriedIs to all others but yourselves denied),May with seditious fires the land embroil,150And, in pretence to quench them, take the spoil;You may Religion to your lust subdue,For these are actions only worthy you:Yet when your projects, crown'd with wish'd event,Have made you masters of the ill you meant,You never must the soldiers' glory share,Since all your trophies executions are:Not thinking your successes understood,Unless recorded and scor'd up in blood.In which, to gull the people, you pretend,160That Military Justice was your end;As if we still were blind, not knowing thisTo all your other virtues suited is;Who only act by your great grandsires' law,The butcher Cade, Wat Tyler, and Jack Straw,Whose principle was murder, and their sportTo cut off those they fear'd might do them hurt:Nay, in your actions we completed findWhat by those Levellers was but design'd,For now Committees, and your arm'd supplies,170Canton the land in petty tyrannies,And for one King of commons in each shire,Four hundred Commons rule as tyrants here.Had you not meant the copies of each deedShould their originals in ill exceed,You would not practice sure the Turkish art,To ship your taken pris'ners for a mart,Lest if with freedom they at home remain,They should (which is your terror) fight again.A thing long since by zealous Rigby moved,180And by the faction like himself approv'd;Though you uncounsell'd can such outrage try,Scarce sampled from the basest enemy.Naseby of old, and late St. Fagan's fare,Of these inhuman truckings witness are;At which the captiv'd Welsh, in couples led,Were marketed, like cattle, by the head.Let it no more in History be toldThat Turks their Christian slaves for aspers sold;When we the Saints selling their brethren see,190Whohad a Call(they say) to set them free;And are at last by right of conquest grownTo claim our land of Canaan for their own.Though luckless Colchester in this outviesArgiers' or Tunis' shameful merchandise;Where the starv'd soldier (as th' agreement was)Might not be suffer'd to their dwelling pass,Till, led about by some insulting band,They first were show'd in triumph through the land:In which, for lack of diet, or of strength,200If any fainted through the march's length,Void of the breasts of men, this murd'rous crewAll those they could drive on no further, slew;What bloody riddle's this? They mercy give,Yet those who should enjoy it, must not live.Indeed we cannot less from such expect,Who for this work of ruin are elect:This scum drawn from the worst, who never knewThe fruits which from ingenuous breeding grew;But take such low commanders on their lists,210As did revolted Jeroboam priests:That 'tis our fate, I fear, to be undone,Like Egypt once with vermin overrun.If in the rabble some be more refin'd,By fair extractions of their birth or mind,Ev'n these corrupted are by such allays,That no impression of their virtue stays.As gold, embased by some mingled dross,Both in its worth and nature suffers loss.Else, had that sense of honour still surviv'd220Which Fairfax from his ancestors deriv'd,He ne'er had show'd himself, for hate or fear,So much degen'rous from renowned Vere(The title and alliance of whose sonHis acts of valour had in Holland won),As to give up, by his rash dooming breath,This precious pair of lives to timeless death;Whom no brave enemy but would esteem,And, though with hazard of his own, redeem.For 'tis not vainly by the world surmis'd,230This blood to private spleens was sacrific'd.Half of the guilt stands charg'd on Whalley's scoreBy Lisle affronted on his guards before;For which his spite by other hands was shown,Who never durst dispute it with his own.Twice guilty coward! first by vote, then eye,Spectator of the shameful tragedy.But Lucas elder cause of quarrel knew,From whence his critical misfortune grew;Since he from Berkeley Castle with such scorn240Bold Ransborough's first summons did return,Telling him loudly at the parley's beat,With rogues and rebels he disdain'd to treat.Some from this hot contest the world persuadeHis sleeping vengeance on that ground was laid:If so, for ever blurr'd with Envy's brand,His honour gain'd by sea, was lost at land:Nor could he an impending judgement shun,Who did to this with so much fervour run,When late himself, to quit that bloody stain,250Was, 'midst his armed guards, from Pomfret slain.But all in vain we here expostulateWhat took them hence, private or public hate:Knowledge of acted woes small comforts add,When no repair proportion'd can be had:And such are ours, which to the kingdom's eyesSadly present ensuing miseries,Foretelling in These Two some greater illFrom those who now a patent have to kill.Two, whose dear loss leaves us no recompense,260Nor them atonement, which in weight or senseWith These shall never into balance come,Though all the army fell their hecatomb.Here leave them then; and be 't our last reliefTo give their merit value in our grief.Whose blood however yet neglected mustWithout revenge or rites mingle with dust;Not any falling drop shall ever dry,Till to a weeping spring it multiply,Bath'd in whose tears their blasted laurel shall270Grow green, and with fresh garlands crown their fall.From this black region then of Death and Night,Great Spirits, take your everlasting flight:And as your valour's mounting fires combine,May they a brighter constellation shineThan Gemini, or than the brother-stars,Castor and Pollux, fortunate to wars;That all fair soldiers, by your sparkling light,May find the way to conquer, when they fight,And by those patterns which from you they take,280Direct their course through Honour's Zodiac:But upon traitors frown with dire aspect,Which may their perjuries and guilt reflect;Unto the curse of whose nativity,Prodigious as the Caput Algol be,Whose pale and ghastly tresses still portendTheir own despair or hangman for their end.And that succeeding ages may keep safeYour lov'd remembrance in some Epitaph,Upon the ruins of your glorious youth,290Inscribed be this monumental truth:Here lie the valiant Lucas and brave Lisle,With Amasa betray'd in Joab's smile:In whom, revenge of Honour taking place,His great corival 's stabb'd in the embrace.And as it was the Hebrew Captain's stain,That he two greater than himself had slain,Shedding the blood of War in time of Peace,When love pretended was, and arms did cease,May the foul murderers expect a fate300Like Joab's, blood with blood to expiate;Which, quick as lightning, and as thunder sure,Preventions wisest arts nor shun, nor cure.O may it fall on their perfidious head!That when, with Joab to the Altar fled,Themselves the sword and reach of vengeance flee,No Temple may their sanctuary be.Last, that nor frailty nor devouring timeMay ever lose impressions of the crime,Let loyal Colchester (who too late tried310To check, when highest wrought, the Rebels' pride,Holding them long and doubtful at the bay,Whilst we, by looking on, gave all away),Be only nam'd: which, like a Column built,Shall both enhearse this blood unnobly spilt,And live, till all her towers in rubbish lie,The monuments of their base cruelty.

In measures solemn as the groans that fall

From the hoarse trumpet at some funeral;

With trailing Elegy and mournful verse,

I wait upon two peerless soldiers' hearse:

Though I acknowledge must my sorrow's dress

Ill matched to the cause it should express;

Nor can I, at my best invention's cost,

Sum up the treasure which in them we lost.

Had they, with other worthies of the age,10Who late upon the kingdom's bloody stage,For God, the King, and Laws, their valour tried,Through War's stern chance in heat of battle died,We then might save much of our grief's expense,Reputing it, not duty, but offence.They need no tears, nor howling exequy,Who in a glorious undertaking die;Since all that in the bed of honour fell,Live their own Monument and Chronicle.

Had they, with other worthies of the age,

10Who late upon the kingdom's bloody stage,

For God, the King, and Laws, their valour tried,

Through War's stern chance in heat of battle died,

We then might save much of our grief's expense,

Reputing it, not duty, but offence.

They need no tears, nor howling exequy,

Who in a glorious undertaking die;

Since all that in the bed of honour fell,

Live their own Monument and Chronicle.

But these, whom horrid danger did not reach,20The wide-mouth'd cannon, nor the wider breach,These, whom, till cruel want and coward fatePenn'd up like famish'd lions in a grate,Were for their daring sallies so much fear'd,Th' assailants fled them like a frighted herd;Resolving now no more to fight, but lurkTrench'd in their line, or earth'd within a work.Where, not like soldiers they, but watchmen, creep,Arm'd for no other office, but to sleep;They, whose bold charge whole armies did amaze,30Rend'ring them faint and heartless at the gaze,To see Resolve and Naked Valour charmsOf higher proof than all their massy arms;They, whose bright swords ruffled the proudest troop(As fowl unto the tow'ring falcon stoop),Yet no advantage made of their success,Which to the conquer'd spake them merciless(For they, whene'er 'twas begg'd, did safety give,And oft unasked bid the vanquish'd live);Ev'n these, not more undaunted in the field,40Than mild and gentle unto such as yield,Were, after all the shocks of battles stood,(Let me not name it) murder'd in cold blood.

But these, whom horrid danger did not reach,

20The wide-mouth'd cannon, nor the wider breach,

These, whom, till cruel want and coward fate

Penn'd up like famish'd lions in a grate,

Were for their daring sallies so much fear'd,

Th' assailants fled them like a frighted herd;

Resolving now no more to fight, but lurk

Trench'd in their line, or earth'd within a work.

Where, not like soldiers they, but watchmen, creep,

Arm'd for no other office, but to sleep;

They, whose bold charge whole armies did amaze,

30Rend'ring them faint and heartless at the gaze,

To see Resolve and Naked Valour charms

Of higher proof than all their massy arms;

They, whose bright swords ruffled the proudest troop

(As fowl unto the tow'ring falcon stoop),

Yet no advantage made of their success,

Which to the conquer'd spake them merciless

(For they, whene'er 'twas begg'd, did safety give,

And oft unasked bid the vanquish'd live);

Ev'n these, not more undaunted in the field,

40Than mild and gentle unto such as yield,

Were, after all the shocks of battles stood,

(Let me not name it) murder'd in cold blood.

Such poor revenge did the enraged GreekAgainst (till then) victorious Hector seek,Triumphing o'er that body, bound and dead,From whom, in life, the pow'rs of Argos fled.Yet might Achilles borrow some excuseTo colour, though not warrant, the abuse:His dearest friend, in the fierce combat foil'd,50Was by the Trojan's hand of life despoil'd;From whence unruly grief, grown wild with rage,Beyond the bounds of Honour did engage.But these, confirm'd in their unmanly hate,By counsels cruel, yet deliberate,Did from the stock of bleeding honour hewTwo of the noblest branches ever grew;And (which our grief and pity must improve)When brought within their reach with shows of love:For by a treaty they entangled are,60And rend'ring up to Mercy is the snare;Whence we have learn'd, whene'er their Saintships treat,The ends are mortal, and the means a cheat;In which the world may read their black intent,Drawn out at large in this sad precedent.Who (though fair promis'd) might no mercy have,But such as once the faithless Bashaw gave,When to his trust deluded BragadineHimself and Famagosta did resign.Whose envied valour thus to bonds betray'd,70Was soon the mark of barb'rous slaughter made:So gallant ships, which rocks and storms had past,Though with torn sails, and spending of their mast,When newly brought within the sight of land,Have been suck'd up by some devouring sand.

Such poor revenge did the enraged Greek

Against (till then) victorious Hector seek,

Triumphing o'er that body, bound and dead,

From whom, in life, the pow'rs of Argos fled.

Yet might Achilles borrow some excuse

To colour, though not warrant, the abuse:

His dearest friend, in the fierce combat foil'd,

50Was by the Trojan's hand of life despoil'd;

From whence unruly grief, grown wild with rage,

Beyond the bounds of Honour did engage.

But these, confirm'd in their unmanly hate,

By counsels cruel, yet deliberate,

Did from the stock of bleeding honour hew

Two of the noblest branches ever grew;

And (which our grief and pity must improve)

When brought within their reach with shows of love:

For by a treaty they entangled are,

60And rend'ring up to Mercy is the snare;

Whence we have learn'd, whene'er their Saintships treat,

The ends are mortal, and the means a cheat;

In which the world may read their black intent,

Drawn out at large in this sad precedent.

Who (though fair promis'd) might no mercy have,

But such as once the faithless Bashaw gave,

When to his trust deluded Bragadine

Himself and Famagosta did resign.

Whose envied valour thus to bonds betray'd,

70Was soon the mark of barb'rous slaughter made:

So gallant ships, which rocks and storms had past,

Though with torn sails, and spending of their mast,

When newly brought within the sight of land,

Have been suck'd up by some devouring sand.

You wretched agents for a kingdom's fall,Who yet yourselves the Modell'd Army call;Who carry on and fashion your designBy Sylla's, Sylla's red proscription's line,(Rome's Comet once, as you are ours) for shame80Henceforth no more usurp the soldier's name:Let not that title in fair battles gain'dBe by such abject things as you profan'd;For what have you achiev'd, the world may guessYou are those Men of Might which you profess?Where ever durst you strike, if you met foesWhose valour did your odds in men oppose?Turn o'er the annals of your vaunted fights,Which made you late the People's favourites;Begin your course at Naseby, and from thence90Draw out your marches' full circumference,Bridgwater, Bristol, Dartmouth, with the restOf your well-plotted renders in the West;Then to the angry North your compass bend,Until your spent career in Scotland end,(This is the perfect scale of our mishapWhich measures out your conquest by the map),And tell me he that can, What have you won,Which long before your progress was not done?What castle was besieg'd, what Port, what Town,100You were not sure to carry ere sat down?There needed no granadoes, no petard,To force the passage, or disperse the guard.No, your good masters sent a Golden RamTo batter down the gates against you came.Those blest Reformers, who procur'd the SwedeHis armed forces into Denmark lead,'Mongst them to kindle a sharp war for hire,Who in mere pity meant to quench our fire,Could where they pleased, with the King's own coin,110Divert his aids, and strengths at home purloin.

You wretched agents for a kingdom's fall,

Who yet yourselves the Modell'd Army call;

Who carry on and fashion your design

By Sylla's, Sylla's red proscription's line,

(Rome's Comet once, as you are ours) for shame

80Henceforth no more usurp the soldier's name:

Let not that title in fair battles gain'd

Be by such abject things as you profan'd;

For what have you achiev'd, the world may guess

You are those Men of Might which you profess?

Where ever durst you strike, if you met foes

Whose valour did your odds in men oppose?

Turn o'er the annals of your vaunted fights,

Which made you late the People's favourites;

Begin your course at Naseby, and from thence

90Draw out your marches' full circumference,

Bridgwater, Bristol, Dartmouth, with the rest

Of your well-plotted renders in the West;

Then to the angry North your compass bend,

Until your spent career in Scotland end,

(This is the perfect scale of our mishap

Which measures out your conquest by the map),

And tell me he that can, What have you won,

Which long before your progress was not done?

What castle was besieg'd, what Port, what Town,

100You were not sure to carry ere sat down?

There needed no granadoes, no petard,

To force the passage, or disperse the guard.

No, your good masters sent a Golden Ram

To batter down the gates against you came.

Those blest Reformers, who procur'd the Swede

His armed forces into Denmark lead,

'Mongst them to kindle a sharp war for hire,

Who in mere pity meant to quench our fire,

Could where they pleased, with the King's own coin,

110Divert his aids, and strengths at home purloin.

Upon sea voyages I sometimes findMen trade with Lapland witches for a wind,And by those purchas'd gales, quick as their thought,To the desired port are safely brought.We need not here on skilful Hopkins call,The State's allow'd Witch-finder General.For (though Rebellion wants no cad nor elf,But is a perfect witchcraft of itself)We could with little help of art reveal120Those learn'd magicians with whom you deal:We all your juggles, both for time and place,From Derby-house to Westminster can trace,The circle where the factious jangle meetTo trample Law and Gospel under feet;In which, like bells rung backward, they proclaimThe Kingdom by their wild-fire set on flame,And, quite perverting their first rules, inventWhat mischief may be done by Parliament:We know your holy flamens, and can tell130What spirits vote within the Oracle;Have found the spells and incantations too,By whose assistance you such wonders do.For divers years the credit of your warsHath been kept up by these Familiars,Who, that they may their providence express,Both find you pay, and purchase your success:No wonder then you must the garland wear,Who never fought but with a silver spear.

Upon sea voyages I sometimes find

Men trade with Lapland witches for a wind,

And by those purchas'd gales, quick as their thought,

To the desired port are safely brought.

We need not here on skilful Hopkins call,

The State's allow'd Witch-finder General.

For (though Rebellion wants no cad nor elf,

But is a perfect witchcraft of itself)

We could with little help of art reveal

120Those learn'd magicians with whom you deal:

We all your juggles, both for time and place,

From Derby-house to Westminster can trace,

The circle where the factious jangle meet

To trample Law and Gospel under feet;

In which, like bells rung backward, they proclaim

The Kingdom by their wild-fire set on flame,

And, quite perverting their first rules, invent

What mischief may be done by Parliament:

We know your holy flamens, and can tell

130What spirits vote within the Oracle;

Have found the spells and incantations too,

By whose assistance you such wonders do.

For divers years the credit of your wars

Hath been kept up by these Familiars,

Who, that they may their providence express,

Both find you pay, and purchase your success:

No wonder then you must the garland wear,

Who never fought but with a silver spear.

We grant the war's unhappy consequence,140With all the num'rous plagues which grow from thence,Murders and rapes, threats of disease and dearth,From you as for the proper Spring take birth;You may for laws enact the public wrongs,With all foul violence to them belongs;May bawl aloud the people's right and pow'r,Till by your sword you both of them devour(For this brave liberty by you upcriedIs to all others but yourselves denied),May with seditious fires the land embroil,150And, in pretence to quench them, take the spoil;You may Religion to your lust subdue,For these are actions only worthy you:Yet when your projects, crown'd with wish'd event,Have made you masters of the ill you meant,You never must the soldiers' glory share,Since all your trophies executions are:Not thinking your successes understood,Unless recorded and scor'd up in blood.

We grant the war's unhappy consequence,

140With all the num'rous plagues which grow from thence,

Murders and rapes, threats of disease and dearth,

From you as for the proper Spring take birth;

You may for laws enact the public wrongs,

With all foul violence to them belongs;

May bawl aloud the people's right and pow'r,

Till by your sword you both of them devour

(For this brave liberty by you upcried

Is to all others but yourselves denied),

May with seditious fires the land embroil,

150And, in pretence to quench them, take the spoil;

You may Religion to your lust subdue,

For these are actions only worthy you:

Yet when your projects, crown'd with wish'd event,

Have made you masters of the ill you meant,

You never must the soldiers' glory share,

Since all your trophies executions are:

Not thinking your successes understood,

Unless recorded and scor'd up in blood.

In which, to gull the people, you pretend,160That Military Justice was your end;As if we still were blind, not knowing thisTo all your other virtues suited is;Who only act by your great grandsires' law,The butcher Cade, Wat Tyler, and Jack Straw,Whose principle was murder, and their sportTo cut off those they fear'd might do them hurt:Nay, in your actions we completed findWhat by those Levellers was but design'd,For now Committees, and your arm'd supplies,170Canton the land in petty tyrannies,And for one King of commons in each shire,Four hundred Commons rule as tyrants here.Had you not meant the copies of each deedShould their originals in ill exceed,You would not practice sure the Turkish art,To ship your taken pris'ners for a mart,Lest if with freedom they at home remain,They should (which is your terror) fight again.A thing long since by zealous Rigby moved,180And by the faction like himself approv'd;Though you uncounsell'd can such outrage try,Scarce sampled from the basest enemy.Naseby of old, and late St. Fagan's fare,Of these inhuman truckings witness are;At which the captiv'd Welsh, in couples led,Were marketed, like cattle, by the head.Let it no more in History be toldThat Turks their Christian slaves for aspers sold;When we the Saints selling their brethren see,190Whohad a Call(they say) to set them free;And are at last by right of conquest grownTo claim our land of Canaan for their own.Though luckless Colchester in this outviesArgiers' or Tunis' shameful merchandise;Where the starv'd soldier (as th' agreement was)Might not be suffer'd to their dwelling pass,Till, led about by some insulting band,They first were show'd in triumph through the land:In which, for lack of diet, or of strength,200If any fainted through the march's length,Void of the breasts of men, this murd'rous crewAll those they could drive on no further, slew;What bloody riddle's this? They mercy give,Yet those who should enjoy it, must not live.

In which, to gull the people, you pretend,

160That Military Justice was your end;

As if we still were blind, not knowing this

To all your other virtues suited is;

Who only act by your great grandsires' law,

The butcher Cade, Wat Tyler, and Jack Straw,

Whose principle was murder, and their sport

To cut off those they fear'd might do them hurt:

Nay, in your actions we completed find

What by those Levellers was but design'd,

For now Committees, and your arm'd supplies,

170Canton the land in petty tyrannies,

And for one King of commons in each shire,

Four hundred Commons rule as tyrants here.

Had you not meant the copies of each deed

Should their originals in ill exceed,

You would not practice sure the Turkish art,

To ship your taken pris'ners for a mart,

Lest if with freedom they at home remain,

They should (which is your terror) fight again.

A thing long since by zealous Rigby moved,

180And by the faction like himself approv'd;

Though you uncounsell'd can such outrage try,

Scarce sampled from the basest enemy.

Naseby of old, and late St. Fagan's fare,

Of these inhuman truckings witness are;

At which the captiv'd Welsh, in couples led,

Were marketed, like cattle, by the head.

Let it no more in History be told

That Turks their Christian slaves for aspers sold;

When we the Saints selling their brethren see,

190Whohad a Call(they say) to set them free;

And are at last by right of conquest grown

To claim our land of Canaan for their own.

Though luckless Colchester in this outvies

Argiers' or Tunis' shameful merchandise;

Where the starv'd soldier (as th' agreement was)

Might not be suffer'd to their dwelling pass,

Till, led about by some insulting band,

They first were show'd in triumph through the land:

In which, for lack of diet, or of strength,

200If any fainted through the march's length,

Void of the breasts of men, this murd'rous crew

All those they could drive on no further, slew;

What bloody riddle's this? They mercy give,

Yet those who should enjoy it, must not live.

Indeed we cannot less from such expect,Who for this work of ruin are elect:This scum drawn from the worst, who never knewThe fruits which from ingenuous breeding grew;But take such low commanders on their lists,210As did revolted Jeroboam priests:That 'tis our fate, I fear, to be undone,Like Egypt once with vermin overrun.If in the rabble some be more refin'd,By fair extractions of their birth or mind,Ev'n these corrupted are by such allays,That no impression of their virtue stays.As gold, embased by some mingled dross,Both in its worth and nature suffers loss.

Indeed we cannot less from such expect,

Who for this work of ruin are elect:

This scum drawn from the worst, who never knew

The fruits which from ingenuous breeding grew;

But take such low commanders on their lists,

210As did revolted Jeroboam priests:

That 'tis our fate, I fear, to be undone,

Like Egypt once with vermin overrun.

If in the rabble some be more refin'd,

By fair extractions of their birth or mind,

Ev'n these corrupted are by such allays,

That no impression of their virtue stays.

As gold, embased by some mingled dross,

Both in its worth and nature suffers loss.

Else, had that sense of honour still surviv'd220Which Fairfax from his ancestors deriv'd,He ne'er had show'd himself, for hate or fear,So much degen'rous from renowned Vere(The title and alliance of whose sonHis acts of valour had in Holland won),As to give up, by his rash dooming breath,This precious pair of lives to timeless death;Whom no brave enemy but would esteem,And, though with hazard of his own, redeem.For 'tis not vainly by the world surmis'd,230This blood to private spleens was sacrific'd.Half of the guilt stands charg'd on Whalley's scoreBy Lisle affronted on his guards before;For which his spite by other hands was shown,Who never durst dispute it with his own.Twice guilty coward! first by vote, then eye,Spectator of the shameful tragedy.But Lucas elder cause of quarrel knew,From whence his critical misfortune grew;Since he from Berkeley Castle with such scorn240Bold Ransborough's first summons did return,Telling him loudly at the parley's beat,With rogues and rebels he disdain'd to treat.

Else, had that sense of honour still surviv'd

220Which Fairfax from his ancestors deriv'd,

He ne'er had show'd himself, for hate or fear,

So much degen'rous from renowned Vere

(The title and alliance of whose son

His acts of valour had in Holland won),

As to give up, by his rash dooming breath,

This precious pair of lives to timeless death;

Whom no brave enemy but would esteem,

And, though with hazard of his own, redeem.

For 'tis not vainly by the world surmis'd,

230This blood to private spleens was sacrific'd.

Half of the guilt stands charg'd on Whalley's score

By Lisle affronted on his guards before;

For which his spite by other hands was shown,

Who never durst dispute it with his own.

Twice guilty coward! first by vote, then eye,

Spectator of the shameful tragedy.

But Lucas elder cause of quarrel knew,

From whence his critical misfortune grew;

Since he from Berkeley Castle with such scorn

240Bold Ransborough's first summons did return,

Telling him loudly at the parley's beat,

With rogues and rebels he disdain'd to treat.

Some from this hot contest the world persuadeHis sleeping vengeance on that ground was laid:If so, for ever blurr'd with Envy's brand,His honour gain'd by sea, was lost at land:Nor could he an impending judgement shun,Who did to this with so much fervour run,When late himself, to quit that bloody stain,250Was, 'midst his armed guards, from Pomfret slain.But all in vain we here expostulateWhat took them hence, private or public hate:Knowledge of acted woes small comforts add,When no repair proportion'd can be had:And such are ours, which to the kingdom's eyesSadly present ensuing miseries,Foretelling in These Two some greater illFrom those who now a patent have to kill.Two, whose dear loss leaves us no recompense,260Nor them atonement, which in weight or senseWith These shall never into balance come,Though all the army fell their hecatomb.Here leave them then; and be 't our last reliefTo give their merit value in our grief.Whose blood however yet neglected mustWithout revenge or rites mingle with dust;Not any falling drop shall ever dry,Till to a weeping spring it multiply,Bath'd in whose tears their blasted laurel shall270Grow green, and with fresh garlands crown their fall.

Some from this hot contest the world persuade

His sleeping vengeance on that ground was laid:

If so, for ever blurr'd with Envy's brand,

His honour gain'd by sea, was lost at land:

Nor could he an impending judgement shun,

Who did to this with so much fervour run,

When late himself, to quit that bloody stain,

250Was, 'midst his armed guards, from Pomfret slain.

But all in vain we here expostulate

What took them hence, private or public hate:

Knowledge of acted woes small comforts add,

When no repair proportion'd can be had:

And such are ours, which to the kingdom's eyes

Sadly present ensuing miseries,

Foretelling in These Two some greater ill

From those who now a patent have to kill.

Two, whose dear loss leaves us no recompense,

260Nor them atonement, which in weight or sense

With These shall never into balance come,

Though all the army fell their hecatomb.

Here leave them then; and be 't our last relief

To give their merit value in our grief.

Whose blood however yet neglected must

Without revenge or rites mingle with dust;

Not any falling drop shall ever dry,

Till to a weeping spring it multiply,

Bath'd in whose tears their blasted laurel shall

270Grow green, and with fresh garlands crown their fall.

From this black region then of Death and Night,Great Spirits, take your everlasting flight:And as your valour's mounting fires combine,May they a brighter constellation shineThan Gemini, or than the brother-stars,Castor and Pollux, fortunate to wars;That all fair soldiers, by your sparkling light,May find the way to conquer, when they fight,And by those patterns which from you they take,280Direct their course through Honour's Zodiac:But upon traitors frown with dire aspect,Which may their perjuries and guilt reflect;Unto the curse of whose nativity,Prodigious as the Caput Algol be,Whose pale and ghastly tresses still portendTheir own despair or hangman for their end.And that succeeding ages may keep safeYour lov'd remembrance in some Epitaph,Upon the ruins of your glorious youth,290Inscribed be this monumental truth:Here lie the valiant Lucas and brave Lisle,With Amasa betray'd in Joab's smile:In whom, revenge of Honour taking place,His great corival 's stabb'd in the embrace.And as it was the Hebrew Captain's stain,That he two greater than himself had slain,Shedding the blood of War in time of Peace,When love pretended was, and arms did cease,May the foul murderers expect a fate300Like Joab's, blood with blood to expiate;Which, quick as lightning, and as thunder sure,Preventions wisest arts nor shun, nor cure.O may it fall on their perfidious head!That when, with Joab to the Altar fled,Themselves the sword and reach of vengeance flee,No Temple may their sanctuary be.

From this black region then of Death and Night,

Great Spirits, take your everlasting flight:

And as your valour's mounting fires combine,

May they a brighter constellation shine

Than Gemini, or than the brother-stars,

Castor and Pollux, fortunate to wars;

That all fair soldiers, by your sparkling light,

May find the way to conquer, when they fight,

And by those patterns which from you they take,

280Direct their course through Honour's Zodiac:

But upon traitors frown with dire aspect,

Which may their perjuries and guilt reflect;

Unto the curse of whose nativity,

Prodigious as the Caput Algol be,

Whose pale and ghastly tresses still portend

Their own despair or hangman for their end.

And that succeeding ages may keep safe

Your lov'd remembrance in some Epitaph,

Upon the ruins of your glorious youth,

290Inscribed be this monumental truth:

Here lie the valiant Lucas and brave Lisle,

With Amasa betray'd in Joab's smile:

In whom, revenge of Honour taking place,

His great corival 's stabb'd in the embrace.

And as it was the Hebrew Captain's stain,

That he two greater than himself had slain,

Shedding the blood of War in time of Peace,

When love pretended was, and arms did cease,

May the foul murderers expect a fate

300Like Joab's, blood with blood to expiate;

Which, quick as lightning, and as thunder sure,

Preventions wisest arts nor shun, nor cure.

O may it fall on their perfidious head!

That when, with Joab to the Altar fled,

Themselves the sword and reach of vengeance flee,

No Temple may their sanctuary be.

Last, that nor frailty nor devouring timeMay ever lose impressions of the crime,Let loyal Colchester (who too late tried310To check, when highest wrought, the Rebels' pride,Holding them long and doubtful at the bay,Whilst we, by looking on, gave all away),Be only nam'd: which, like a Column built,Shall both enhearse this blood unnobly spilt,And live, till all her towers in rubbish lie,The monuments of their base cruelty.

Last, that nor frailty nor devouring time

May ever lose impressions of the crime,

Let loyal Colchester (who too late tried

310To check, when highest wrought, the Rebels' pride,

Holding them long and doubtful at the bay,

Whilst we, by looking on, gave all away),

Be only nam'd: which, like a Column built,

Shall both enhearse this blood unnobly spilt,

And live, till all her towers in rubbish lie,

The monuments of their base cruelty.

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