(10)

[Miss L. I. Guiney writes in her essay onHenry Vaughan, the Silurist(Atlantic Monthly, May, 1894): "Mr. Carew Hazlitt has been fortunate enough to discover the advertisement of an eighteenth-century Vaughan reprint."

As to this Mr. Hazlitt writes to me: "I cannot tell where Miss Guiney heard about the Vaughan—not certainly from me. But there is an edition of his 'Spiritual Songs,' 8vo, 1706, of which, however, I don't at present know the whereabouts."]

Silex Scintillans: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations of Henry Vaughan, with Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. London: William Pickering, 1847. [12mo.]

An edition of (6) and part of (8).

The Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations of Henry Vaughan, with a Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. Boston [U. S. A.]: Little, Brown and Company, 1856. [8vo.]

A reprint of (11).

Silex Scintillans, etc.: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, by Henry Vaughan. London: Bell and Daldy. 1858.

A reprint, with a revised text, of (11).

The Fuller Worthies' Library. The Works in Verse and Prose complete of Henry Vaughan, Silurist, for the first time collected and edited: with Memorial-Introduction: Essay on Life and Writings: and Notes: by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart, St. George's, Blackburn, Lancashire. In four Volumes.... Printed for Private Circulation. 1871.

A reprint of the original editions, with biographical and critical matter. Only 50 4to, 106 8vo, and 156 12mocopies printed. In Vol. II. are included the Poems of Thomas Vaughan, with a separate title-page.

The English and Latin Verse-Remains of Thomas Vaughan ('Eugenius Philalethes'), twin-brother of the Silurist. For the first time collected and edited: with Memorial-Introduction and Notes: by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart [etc.].

Silex Scintillans, etc. Sacred Poems and Pious Ejaculations. By Henry Vaughan, "Silurist." With a Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. Job xxxv. 10, 11 [in full]. London: George Bell and Sons, York Street, Covent Garden. 1883. [8vo.]

A reprint, with a text further revised, of (11) and (13), forming a volume of theAldine Poets. Since reprinted in 1891.

The Jewel Poets. Henry Vaughan. Edinburgh. Macniven and Wallace. 1884.

A selection, with a short preface by W. R. Nicoll.

Silex Scintillans. Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, by Henry Vaughan (Silurist). Being a facsimile of the First Edition, published in 1650, with an Introduction by the Rev. William Clare, B.A. (Adelaide). London: Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row. 1885. [12mo.]

A facsimile reprint of (2).

Secular Poems by Henry Vaughan, Silurist. Including a few pieces by his twin-brother Thomas ("Eugenius Philalethes"). Selected and arranged, with Notes and Bibliography, by J. R. Tutin, Editor of "Poems of Richard Crashaw," etc. Hull: J. R. Tutin. 1893.

A selection from Vol. II. of (14).

The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. With an Introduction by H. C. Beeching, Rector of Yattendon. [Publishers' Device.] London: Lawrence and Bullen, 16, Henrietta Street, W.C. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 153-157 Fifth Avenue. 1896. [Two vols. 8vo.]

The present edition. A hundred copies are printed on large paper.

Gentlemen,

To you alone, whose more refined spirits out-wing these dull times, and soar above the drudgery of dirty intelligence, have I made sacred these fancies: I know the years, and what coarse entertainment they afford poetry. If any shall question that courage that durst send me abroad so late, and revel it thus in the dregs of an age, they have my silence: only,

Languescente seculo, liceat ægrotari.

My more calm ambition, amidst the common noise, hath thus exposed me to the world: you have here a flame, bright only in its own innocence, that kindles nothing but a generous thought: which though it may warm the blood, the fire at highest is but Platonic; and the commotion, within these limits, excludes danger. For the satire, it was of purpose borrowed to feather some slower hours; and what you see here is but the interest: it is one of his whose Roman pen had as much true passion for the infirmities of that state, as we should have pityto the distractions of our own: honest—I am sure—it is, and offensive cannot be, except it meet with such spirits that will quarrel with antiquity, or purposely arraign themselves. These indeed may think that they have slept out so many centuries in this satire and are now awakened; which, had it been still Latin, perhaps their nap had been everlasting. But enough of these,—it is for you only that I have adventured thus far, and invaded the press with verse; to whose more noble indulgence I shall now leave it, and so am gone.—

H. V.

When we are dead, and now, no moreOur harmless mirth, our wit, and scoreDistracts the town; when all is spentThat the base niggard world hath lentThy purse, or mine; when the loath'd noiseOf drawers, 'prentices and boysHath left us, and the clam'rous barItems no pints i' th' Moon or Star;When no calm whisp'rers wait the doors,To fright us with forgotten scores;And such aged long bills carry,As might start an antiquary;When the sad tumults of the maze,Arrests, suits, and the dreadful faceOf sergeants are not seen, and weNo lawyers' ruffs, or gowns must fee:When all these mulcts are paid, and IFrom thee, dear wit, must part, and die;We'll beg the world would be so kind,To give's one grave as we'd one mind;There, as the wiser few suspect,That spirits after death affect,Our souls shall meet, and thence will they,Freed from the tyranny of clay,With equal wings, and ancient loveInto the Elysian fields remove,Where in those blessèd walks they'll findMore of thy genius, and my mind.First, in the shade of his own bays,Great Ben they'll see, whose sacred laysThe learnèd ghosts admire, and throngTo catch the subject of his song.Then Randolph in those holy meads,HisLoversandAmyntasreads,Whilst his Nightingale, close by,Sings his and her own elegy.From thence dismiss'd, by subtle roads,Through airy paths and sad abodes,They'll come into the drowsy fieldsOf Lethe, which such virtue yields,That, if what poets sing be true,The streams all sorrow can subdue.Here, on a silent, shady green,The souls of lovers oft are seen,Who, in their life's unhappy space,Were murder'd by some perjur'd face.All these th' enchanted streams frequent,To drown their cares, and discontent,That th' inconstant, cruel sexMight not in death their spirits vex.And here our souls, big with delightOf their new state, will cease their flight:And now the last thoughts will appear,They'll have of us, or any here;But on those flow'ry banks will stay,And drink all sense and cares away.So they that did of these discuss,Shall find their fables true in us.

Tyrant, farewell! this heart, the prizeAnd triumph of thy scornful eyes,I sacrifice to heaven, and giveTo quit my sins, that durst believeA woman's easy faith, and placeTrue joys in a changing face.Yet ere I go: by all those tearsAnd sighs I spent 'twixt hopes and fears;By thy own glories, and that hourWhich first enslav'd me to thy power;I beg, fair one, by this last breath,This tribute from thee after death.If, when I'm gone, you chance to seeThat cold bed where I lodgèd be,Let not your hate in death appear,But bless my ashes with a tear:This influx from that quick'ning eye,By secret pow'r, which none can spy,The cold dust shall inform, and makeThose flames, though dead, new life partakeWhose warmth, help'd by your tears, shall bringO'er all the tomb a sudden springOf crimson flowers, whose drooping headsShall curtain o'er their mournful beds:And on each leaf, by Heaven's command,These emblems to the life shall standTwo hearts, the first a shaft withstood;The second, shot and wash'd in blood;And on this heart a dew shall stay,Which no heat can court away;But fix'd for ever, witness bearsThat hearty sorrow feeds on tears.Thus Heaven can make it known, and trueThat you kill'd me, 'cause I lov'd you.

Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings,Take this message and depart;Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings,At what thy airy voyage brings,That thou cam'st lately from my heart.Tell my lovely foe that IHave no more such spies to send,But one or two that I intend,Some few minutes ere I die,To her white bosom to commend.Then whisper by that holy spring,Where for her sake I would have died,Whilst those water-nymphs did bringFlowers to cure what she had tried;And of my faith and love did sing.That if my Amoret, if sheIn after-times would have it read,How her beauty murder'd me,With all my heart I will agree,If she'll but love me, being dead.

Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings,Take this message and depart;Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings,At what thy airy voyage brings,That thou cam'st lately from my heart.

Tell my lovely foe that IHave no more such spies to send,But one or two that I intend,Some few minutes ere I die,To her white bosom to commend.

Then whisper by that holy spring,Where for her sake I would have died,Whilst those water-nymphs did bringFlowers to cure what she had tried;And of my faith and love did sing.

That if my Amoret, if sheIn after-times would have it read,How her beauty murder'd me,With all my heart I will agree,If she'll but love me, being dead.

Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breathSteal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death;Doating idolater! can silence bringThy saint propitious? or will Cupid flingOne arrow for thy paleness? leave to tryThis silent courtship of a sickly eye.Witty to tyranny, she too well knowsThis but the incense of thy private vows,That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betrayThe sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move,The language of thy tears may make her love.Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fallOn her breast's warmer snow, O may you all,By some strange fate fix'd there, distinctly lie,The much lov'd volume of my tragedy.Where, if you win her not, may this be read,The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.

Amyntas go, thou art undone,Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate;That love is better not begun,Where love is come to love too late.[43]Had she professèd[44]hidden fires,Or show'd one[45]knot that tied her heart,I could have quench'd my first desires,And we had only met to part.But, tyrant, thus to murder men,And shed a lover's harmless blood,And burn him in those flames again,Which he at first might have withstood.Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weepSuch sacred dew, with such pure[46]grace;Durst think them feignèd tears, or seekFor treason in an angel's face.This is her art, though this be true,Men's joys are kill'd with[47]griefs and fears,Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew,Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.This, cruel, thou hast done, and thusThat face hath many servants slain,Though th' end be not to ruin us,But to seek glory by our pain.[48]

Amyntas go, thou art undone,Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate;That love is better not begun,Where love is come to love too late.[43]

Had she professèd[44]hidden fires,Or show'd one[45]knot that tied her heart,I could have quench'd my first desires,And we had only met to part.

But, tyrant, thus to murder men,And shed a lover's harmless blood,And burn him in those flames again,Which he at first might have withstood.

Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weepSuch sacred dew, with such pure[46]grace;Durst think them feignèd tears, or seekFor treason in an angel's face.

This is her art, though this be true,Men's joys are kill'd with[47]griefs and fears,Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew,Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.

This, cruel, thou hast done, and thusThat face hath many servants slain,Though th' end be not to ruin us,But to seek glory by our pain.[48]

FOOTNOTES:[43]MS.Whose pure offering comes too late.[44]MS.profess'd her.[45]MS.the.[46]MS.such a.[47]MS.by.[48]MS.Your aime is sure to ruine us.Seeking your glory by our paine

[43]MS.Whose pure offering comes too late.

[44]MS.profess'd her.

[45]MS.the.

[46]MS.such a.

[47]MS.by.

[48]MS.Your aime is sure to ruine us.Seeking your glory by our paine

[48]

MS.Your aime is sure to ruine us.Seeking your glory by our paine

If, Amoret, that glorious eye,In the first birth of light,And death of Night,Had with those elder fires you spyScatter'd so high,Receivèd form and sight;We might suspect in the vast ring,Amidst these golden glories,And fiery stories;[49]Whether the sun had been the kingAnd guide of day,Or your brighter eye should sway.But, Amoret, such is my fate,That if thy face a starHad shin'd from far,I am persuaded in that state,'Twixt thee and me,Of some predestin'd sympathy.[50]For sure such two conspiring minds,Which no accident, or sight,Did thus unite;Whom no distance can confine,Start, or decline,One for another were design'd.

If, Amoret, that glorious eye,In the first birth of light,And death of Night,Had with those elder fires you spyScatter'd so high,Receivèd form and sight;

We might suspect in the vast ring,Amidst these golden glories,And fiery stories;[49]Whether the sun had been the kingAnd guide of day,Or your brighter eye should sway.

But, Amoret, such is my fate,That if thy face a starHad shin'd from far,I am persuaded in that state,'Twixt thee and me,Of some predestin'd sympathy.[50]

For sure such two conspiring minds,Which no accident, or sight,Did thus unite;Whom no distance can confine,Start, or decline,One for another were design'd.

FOOTNOTES:[49]MS.We may suspect in the vast ring,Which rolls those fiery spheresThro' years and years.[50]MS.There would be perfect sympathy.

[49]MS.We may suspect in the vast ring,Which rolls those fiery spheresThro' years and years.

[49]

MS.We may suspect in the vast ring,Which rolls those fiery spheresThro' years and years.

[50]MS.There would be perfect sympathy.

Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd,And Amoret, of thee we talk'd;The West just then had stolen the sun,And his last blushes were begun:We sate, and mark'd how everythingDid mourn his absence: how the springThat smil'd and curl'd about his beams,Whilst he was here, now check'd her streams:The wanton eddies of her faceWere taught less noise, and smoother grace;And in a slow, sad channel went,Whisp'ring the banks their discontent:The careless ranks of flowers that spreadTheir perfum'd bosoms to his head.And with an open, free embrace,Did entertain his beamy face,Like absent friends point to the West,And on that weak reflection feast.If creatures then that have no sense,But the loose tie of influence,Though fate and time each day removeThose things that element their love,At such vast distance can agree,Why, Amoret, why should not we?

If I were dead, and in my placeSome fresher youth design'dTo warm thee with new fires, and graceThose arms I left behind;Were he as faithful as the sun,That's wedded to the sphere;His blood as chaste and temp'rate run,As April's mildest tear;Or were he rich, and with his heapsAnd spacious share of earth,Could make divine affection cheap,And court his golden birth:For all these arts I'd not believe,—No, though he should be thine—The mighty amorist could giveSo rich a heart as mine.Fortune and beauty thou might'st find,And greater men than I:But my true resolvèd mindThey never shall come nigh.[51]For I not for an hour did love,Or for a day desire,But with my soul had from aboveThis endless, holy fire.

If I were dead, and in my placeSome fresher youth design'dTo warm thee with new fires, and graceThose arms I left behind;

Were he as faithful as the sun,That's wedded to the sphere;His blood as chaste and temp'rate run,As April's mildest tear;

Or were he rich, and with his heapsAnd spacious share of earth,Could make divine affection cheap,And court his golden birth:

For all these arts I'd not believe,—No, though he should be thine—The mighty amorist could giveSo rich a heart as mine.

Fortune and beauty thou might'st find,And greater men than I:But my true resolvèd mindThey never shall come nigh.[51]

For I not for an hour did love,Or for a day desire,But with my soul had from aboveThis endless, holy fire.

FOOTNOTES:[51]MS.But with my true steadfast mindeNone can pretend to vie.

[51]MS.But with my true steadfast mindeNone can pretend to vie.

[51]

MS.But with my true steadfast mindeNone can pretend to vie.

'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die,I'll leave these sighs and tears a legacyTo after-lovers: that, rememb'ring me,Those sickly flames which now benighted be,Fann'd by their warmer sighs, may love; and proveIn them the metempsychosis of love.'Twas I—when others scorn'd—vow'd you were fair,And sware that breath enrich'd the coarser air,Lent roses to your cheeks, made Flora bringHer nymphs with all the glories of the springTo wait upon thy face, and gave my heartA pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart,To arm those eyes against myself; to meThou ow'st that tongue's bewitching harmony.I courted angels from those upper joys,And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice.I made the Indian curse the hours he spentTo seek his pearls, and wisely to repentHis former folly, and confess a sin,Charm'd by the brighter lustre of thy skin.I borrow'd from the winds the gentler wingOf Zephyrus, and soft souls of the spring;And made—to air those cheeks with fresher grace—The warm inspirers dwell upon thy face.Oh! jam satis...

Occasionally written upon a meeting with some of his friends at the Globe Tavern, in a chamber painted overhead with a cloudy sky and some few dispersed stars, and on the sides with landscapes, hills, shepherds and sheep.

Darkness, and stars i' th' mid-day! They inviteOur active fancies to believe it night:For taverns need no sun, but for a sign,Where rich tobacco and quick tapers shine;And royal, witty sack, the poet's soul,With brighter suns than he doth gild the bowl;As though the pot and poet did agree,Sack should to both illuminator be.That artificial cloud, with its curl'd brow,Tells us 'tis late; and that blue space belowIs fir'd with many stars: mark! how they breakIn silent glances o'er the hills, and speakThe evening to the plains, where, shot from far,They meet in dumb salutes, as one great star.The room, methinks, grows darker; and the airContracts a sadder colour, and less fair.Or is't the drawer's skill? hath he no artsTo blind us so we can't know pints from quarts?No, no, 'tis night: look where the jolly clownMusters his bleating herd and quits the down.Hark! how his rude pipe frets the quiet air,Whilst ev'ry hill proclaims Lycoris fair.Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch and sleep,Free from all cares, but thy wench, pipe and sheep!But see, the moon is up; view, where she standsSentinel o'er the door, drawn by the handsOf some base painter, that for gain hath madeHer face the landmark to the tippling trade.This cup to her, that to Endymion give;'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live.Choke may the painter! and his box discloseNo other colours than his fiery nose;And may we no more of his pencil seeThan two churchwardens, and mortality.Should we go now a-wand'ring, we should meetWith catchpoles, whores and carts in ev'ry street:Now when each narrow lane, each nook and cave,Sign-posts and shop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave,When riotous sinful plush, and tell-tale spursWalk Fleet Street and the Strand, when the soft stirsOf bawdy, ruffled silks, turn night to day;And the loud whip and coach scolds all the way;When lust of all sorts, and each itchy bloodFrom the Tower-wharf to Cymbeline, and Lud,Hunts for a mate, and the tir'd footman reels'Twixt chairmen, torches, and the hackney wheels.Come, take the other dish; it is to himThat made his horse a senator: each brimLook big as mine: the gallant, jolly beastOf all the herd—you'll say—was not the least.Now crown the second bowl, rich as his worthI'll drink it to; he, that like fire broke forthInto the Senate's face, cross'd Rubicon,And the State's pillars, with their laws thereon,And made the dull grey beards and furr'd gowns flyInto Brundusium to consult, and lie.This, to brave Sylla! why should it be saidWe drink more to the living than the dead?Flatt'rers and fools do use it: let us laughAt our own honest mirth; for they that quaffTo honour others, do like those that sentTheir gold and plate to strangers to be spent.Drink deep; this cup be pregnant, and the wineSpirit of wit, to make us all divine,That big with sack and mirth we may retirePossessors of more souls, and nobler fire;And by the influx of this painted sky,And labour'd forms, to higher matters fly;So, if a nap shall take us, we shall all,After full cups, have dreams poetical.Let's laugh now, and the press'd grape drink,Till the drowsy day-star wink;And in our merry, mad mirth runFaster, and further than the sun;And let none his cup forsake,Till that star again doth wake;So we men below shall moveEqually with the gods above.

Let's laugh now, and the press'd grape drink,Till the drowsy day-star wink;And in our merry, mad mirth runFaster, and further than the sun;And let none his cup forsake,Till that star again doth wake;So we men below shall moveEqually with the gods above.

Mark, when the evening's cooler wingsFan the afflicted air, how the faint sun,Leaving undone,What he begun,Those spurious flames suck'd up from slime and earthTo their first, low birth,Resigns, and brings.They shoot their tinsel beams and vanities,Threading with those false fires their way;But as you stayAnd see them stray,You lose the flaming track, and subtly theyLanguish away,And cheat your eyes.Just so base, sublunary lovers' heartsFed on loose profane desires,May for an eyeOr face comply:But those remov'd, they will as soon depart,And show their art,And painted fires.Whilst I by pow'rful love, so much refin'd,That my absent soul the same is,Careless to missA glance or kiss,Can with those elements of lust and senseFreely dispense,And court the mind.Thus to the North the loadstones move,And thus to them th' enamour'd steel aspires:Thus AmoretI do affect;And thus by wingèd beams, and mutual fire,Spirits and stars conspire:And this is Love.

They shoot their tinsel beams and vanities,Threading with those false fires their way;But as you stayAnd see them stray,You lose the flaming track, and subtly theyLanguish away,And cheat your eyes.

Just so base, sublunary lovers' heartsFed on loose profane desires,May for an eyeOr face comply:But those remov'd, they will as soon depart,And show their art,And painted fires.

Whilst I by pow'rful love, so much refin'd,That my absent soul the same is,Careless to missA glance or kiss,Can with those elements of lust and senseFreely dispense,And court the mind.

Thus to the North the loadstones move,And thus to them th' enamour'd steel aspires:Thus AmoretI do affect;And thus by wingèd beams, and mutual fire,Spirits and stars conspire:And this is Love.

Leave Amoret, melt not away so fastThy eyes' fair treasure; Fortune's wealthiest castDeserves not one such pearl; for these, well spent,Can purchase stars, and buy a tenementFor us in heaven; though here the pious streamsAvail us not; who from that clue of sunbeamsCould ever steal one thread? or with a kindPersuasive accent charm the wild loud wind?Fate cuts us all in marble, and the BookForestalls our glass of minutes; we may lookBut seldom meet a change; think you a tearCan blot the flinty volume? shall our fearOr grief add to their triumphs? and must weGive an advantage to adversity?Dear, idle prodigal! is it not justWe bear our stars? What though I had not dustEnough to cabinet a worm? nor standEnslav'd unto a little dirt, or sand?I boast a better purchase, and can showThe glories of a soul that's simply true.But grant some richer planet at my birthHad spied me out, and measur'd so much earthOr gold unto my share: I should have beenSlave to these lower elements, and seenMy high-born soul flag with their dross, and lieA pris'ner to base mud, and alchemy.I should perhaps eat orphans, and suck upA dozen distress'd widows in one cup;Nay, further, I should by that lawful stealth,Damn'd usury, undo the commonwealth;Or patent it in soap, and coals, and soHave the smiths curse me, and my laundress too;Geld wine, or his friend tobacco; and so bringThe incens'd subject rebel to his king;And after all—as those first sinners fell—Sink lower than my gold, and lie in hell.Thanks then for this deliv'rance! blessed pow'rs,You that dispense man's fortune and his hours,How am I to you all engag'd! that thusBy such strange means, almost miraculous,You should preserve me; you have gone the wayTo make me rich by taking all away.For I—had I been rich—as sure as fate,Would have been meddling with the king, or State,Or something to undo me; and 'tis fit,We know, that who hath wealth should have no wit,But, above all, thanks to that ProvidenceThat arm'd me with a gallant soul, and sense,'Gainst all misfortunes, that hath breath'd so muchOf Heav'n into me, that I scorn the touchOf these low things; and can with courage dareWhatever fate or malice can prepare:I envy no man's purse or mines: I knowThat, losing them, I've lost their curses too;And Amoret—although our share in theseIs not contemptible, nor doth much please—Yet, whilst content and love we jointly vie,We have a blessing which no gold can buy.

Hail, sacred shades! cool, leafy house!Chaste treasurer of all my vowsAnd wealth! on whose soft bosom laidMy love's fair steps I first betray'd:Henceforth no melancholy flight,No sad wing, or hoarse bird of night,Disturb this air, no fatal throatOf raven, or owl, awake the noteOf our laid echo, no voice dwellWithin these leaves, but Philomel.The poisonous ivy here no moreHis false twists on the oak shall score;Only the woodbine here may twine,As th' emblem of her love, and mine;The amorous sun shall here conveyHis best beams, in thy shades to play;The active air the gentlest show'rsShall from his wings rain on thy flowers;And the moon from her dewy locksShall deck thee with her brightest drops.Whatever can a fancy move,Or feed the eye, be on this grove!And when at last the winds and tearsOf heaven, with the consuming years,Shall these green curls bring to decay,And clothe thee in an aged grey—If ought a lover can foresee,Or if we poets prophets be—From hence transplanted, thou shalt standA fresh grove in th' Elysian land;Where—most bless'd pair!—as here on earthThou first didst eye our growth, and birth;So there again, thou'lt see us moveIn our first innocence and love;And in thy shades, as now, so then,We'll kiss, and smile, and walk again.

In all the parts of earth, from farthest West,And the Atlantic Isles, unto the EastAnd famous Ganges, few there be that knowWhat's truly good, and what is good, in show,Without mistake: for what is't we desire,Or fear discreetly? to whate'er aspire,So throughly bless'd, but ever as we speed,Repentance seals the very act, and deed?The easy gods, mov'd by no other fateThan our own pray'rs, whole kingdoms ruinate,And undo families: thus strife, and warAre the sword's prize, and a litigious barThe gown's prime wish. Vain confidence to shareIn empty honours and a bloody careTo be the first in mischief, makes him dieFool'd 'twixt ambition and credulity.An oily tongue with fatal, cunning sense,And that sad virtue ever, eloquence,Are th' other's ruin, but the common curse;And each day's ill waits on the rich man's purse;He, whose large acres and imprison'd goldSo far exceeds his father's store of old,As British whales the dolphins do surpass.In sadder times therefore, and when the lawsOf Nero's fiat reign'd, an armèd bandSeiz'd on Longinus, and the spacious landOf wealthy Seneca, besieg'd the gatesOf Lateranus, and his fair estateDivided as a spoil: in such sad feastsSoldiers—though not invited—are the guests.Though thou small pieces of the blessèd mineHast lodg'd about thee, travelling in the shineOf a pale moon, if but a reed doth shake,Mov'd by the wind, the shadow makes thee quake.Wealth hath its cares, and want has this relief,It neither fears the soldier nor the thief;Thy first choice vows, and to the gods best known,Are for thy stores' increase, that in all townThy stock be greatest, but no poison liesI' th' poor man's dish; he tastes of no such spice.Be that thy care, when, with a kingly gust,Thou suck'st whole bowls clad in the gilded dustOf some rich mineral, whilst the false wineSparkles aloft, and makes the draught divine.Blam'st thou the sages, then? because the oneWould still be laughing, when he would be goneFrom his own door; the other cried to seeHis times addicted to such vanity?Smiles are an easy purchase, but to weepIs a hard act; for tears are fetch'd more deep.Democritus his nimble lungs would tireWith constant laughter, and yet keep entireHis stock of mirth, for ev'ry object wasAddition to his store; though then—alas!—Sedans, and litters, and our Senate gowns,With robes of honour, fasces, and the frownsOf unbrib'd tribunes were not seen; but hadHe liv'd to see our Roman prætor cladIn Jove's own mantle, seated on his highEmbroider'd chariot 'midst the dust and cryOf the large theatre, loaden with a crown,Which scarce he could support—for it would down,But that his servant props it—and close byHis page, a witness to his vanity:To these his sceptre and his eagle add,His trumpets, officers, and servants cladIn white and purple; with the rest that day,He hir'd to triumph, for his bread, and pay;Had he these studied, sumptuous follies seen,'Tis thought his wanton and effusive spleenHad kill'd the Abderite, though in that age—When pride and greatness had not swell'd the stageSo high as ours—his harmless and just mirthFrom ev'ry object had a sudden birth.Nor was't alone their avarice or pride,Their triumphs or their cares he did deride;Their vain contentions or ridiculous fears,But even their very poverty and tears.He would at Fortune's threats as freely smileAs others mourn; nor was it to beguileHis crafty passions; but this habit heBy nature had, and grave philosophy.He knew their idle and superfluous vows,And sacrifice, which such wrong zeal bestows,Were mere incendiaries; and that the gods,Not pleas'd therewith, would ever be at odds.Yet to no other air, nor better placeOw'd he his birth, than the cold, homely Thrace;Which shows a man may be both wise and good,Without the brags of fortune, or his blood.But envy ruins all: what mighty namesOf fortune, spirit, action, blood, and fame,Hath this destroy'd? yea, for no other causeThan being such; their honour, worth and place,Was crime enough; their statues, arms and crownsTheir ornaments of triumph, chariots, gowns,And what the herald, with a learnèd care,Had long preserv'd, this madness will not spare.So once Sejanus' statue Rome allow'dHer demi-god, and ev'ry Roman bow'dTo pay his safety's vows; but when that faceHad lost Tiberius once, its former graceWas soon eclips'd; no diff'rence made—alas!—Betwixt his statue then, and common brass,They melt alike, and in the workman's handFor equal, servile use, like others stand.Go, now fetch home fresh bays, and pay new vowsTo thy dumb Capitol gods! thy life, thy house,And state are now secur'd: Sejanus liesI' th' lictors' hands. Ye gods! what hearts and eyesCan one day's fortune change? the solemn cryOf all the world is, "Let Sejanus die!"They never lov'd the man, they swear; they knowNothing of all the matter, when, or how,By what accuser, for what cause, or why,By whose command or sentence he must die.But what needs this? the least pretence will hit,When princes fear, or hate a favourite.A large epistle stuff'd with idle fear,Vain dreams, and jealousies, directed hereFrom Caprea does it; and thus ever dieSubjects, when once they grow prodigious high.'Tis well, I seek no more; but tell me howThis took his friends? no private murmurs now?No tears? no solemn mourner seen? must allHis glory perish in one funeral?O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praiseThe moon by night, but court the warmer raysO' th' sun by day; they follow fortune still,And hate or love discreetly, as their willAnd the time leads them. This tumultuous fatePuts all their painted favours out of date.And yet this people that now spurn, and treadThis mighty favourite's once honour'd head,Had but the Tuscan goddess, or his starsDestin'd him for an empire, or had wars,Treason, or policy, or some higher pow'rOppress'd secure Tiberius; that same hourThat he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doom,Had crown'd him emp'ror of the world and RomeBut Rome is now grown wise, and since that sheHer suffrages, and ancient libertyLost in a monarch's name, she takes no careFor favourite or prince; nor will she shareTheir fickle glories, though in Cato's daysShe rul'd whole States and armies with her voice.Of all the honours now within her walls,She only dotes on plays and festivals.Nor is it strange; for when these meteors fall,They draw an ample ruin with them: allShare in the storm; each beam sets with the sun,And equal hazard friends and flatt'rers run.This makes, that circled with distractive fearThe lifeless, pale Sejanus' limbs they tear,And lest the action might a witness need,They bring their servants to confirm the deed;Nor is it done for any other end,Than to avoid the title of his friend.So falls ambitious man, and such are stillAll floating States built on the people's will:Hearken all you! whom this bewitching lustOf an hour's glory, and a little dustSwells to such dear repentance! you that canMeasure whole kingdoms with a thought or span!Would you be as Sejanus? would you have,So you might sway as he did, such a grave?Would you be rich as he? command, dispose,All acts and offices? all friends and foes?Be generals of armies and colleagueUnto an emperor? break or make a league?No doubt you would; for both the good and badAn equal itch of honour ever had.But O! what state can be so great or good,As to be bought with so much shame and blood?Alas! Sejanus will too late confess'Twas only pride and greatness made him less:For he that moveth with the lofty windOf Fortune, and Ambition, unconfin'dIn act or thought, doth but increase his height,That he may loose it with more force and weight;Scorning a base, low ruin, as if heWould of misfortune make a prodigy.Tell, mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thouThat mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow,What but the weight of honours, and large fameAfter your worthy acts, and height of name,Destroy'd you in the end? The envious Fates,Easy to further your aspiring States,Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excess.In ev'ry act did make you thrive the less.Few kings are guilty of grey hairs, or dieWithout a stab, a draught, or treachery.And yet to see him, that but yesterdaySaw letters first, how he will scrape, and pray;And all her feast-time tire Minerva's earsFor fame, for eloquence, and store of yearsTo thrive and live in; and then lest he dotes,His boy assists him with his box and notes.Fool that thou art! not to discern the illThese vows include; what, did Rome's consul killHer Cicero? what, him whose very dustGreece celebrates as yet; whose cause, though just,Scarce banishment could end; nor poison saveHis free-born person from a foreign grave?All this from eloquence! both head and handThe tongue doth forfeit; petty wits may standSecure from danger, but the nobler veinWith loss of blood the bar doth often stain.}CarmenCiceronianum········O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam.········Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the swordOf fierce Antonius; here is not one wordDoth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer farThan thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war.What sadder end than his, whom Athens sawAt once her patriot, oracle, and law?Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in starsWhom his poor father, blind with soot and scars,Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wearThe factious gown, and tire his client's earAnd purse with endless noise. Trophies of war,Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar,And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a pieceOf some torn British galley, and to theseThe ensign too, and last of all the trainThe pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain,Are thought true Roman honours; these the GreekAnd rude barbarians equally do seek.Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prizeBeyond fair virtue; for all virtue diesWithout reward; and yet by this fierce lustOf fame, and titles to outlive our dust,And monuments—though all these things must dieAnd perish like ourselves—whole kingdoms lieRuin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale,What weight affords the mighty general?This is the man, whom Afric's spacious landBounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sandCould not contain—Ye gods! that give to menSuch boundless appetites, why state you themSo short a time? either the one deny,Or give their acts and them eternity.All Æthiopia, to the utmost boundOf Titan's course,—than which no land is foundLess distant from the sun—with him that ploughsThat fertile soil where fam'd[52]Iberus flows,Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'erThe Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its storeOf ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow,—As if that Nature meant to give the blow—Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry sideHe wounds the hill, and by strong hand dividesThe monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay.The world and Nature yield to give him way.And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future warStrikes Italy; success and hope doth fireHis lofty spirits with a fresh desire.All is undone as yet—saith he—unlessOur Pænish forces we advance, and pressUpon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall,And plant our colours in Suburra's vale.O the rare sight! if this great soldier weArm'd on his Getick elephant might see!But what's the event? O glory, how the itchOf thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch!He that but now all Italy and SpainHad conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again;And in the heart of Afric, and the sightOf his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight.Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he postsTo Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts,Both places by his sword secur'd, though heIn this distress must not acknowledg'd be;Where once a general he triumphed, nowTo show what Fortune can, he begs as low.And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'dConquest and war, and did amaze the world,Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath,Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death.For all that blood the field of Cannæ boasts,And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts,No other end—freed from the pile and sword—Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford.Go now, ambitious man! new plots design,March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine;That, after all, at best thou may'st but beA pleasing story to posterity!The Macedon one world could not contain,We hear him of the narrow earth complain,And sweat for room, as if Seriphus IsleOr Gyara had held him in exile;But Babylon this madness can allay,And give the great man but his length of clay.The highest thoughts and actions under heavenDeath only with the lowest dust lays even.It is believed—if what Greece writes be true—That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hewTheir ways through mountains, that their sails full blownLike clouds hung over Athos and did drownThe spacious continent, and by plain forceBetwixt the mount and it, made a divorce;That seas exhausted were, and made firm land,And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand;That on their march his Medes but passing byDrank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry;With whatsoe'er incredible designSostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine.But what's the end? He that the other dayDivided Hellespont, and forc'd his wayThrough all her angry billows, that assign'dNew punishments unto the waves, and wind,No sooner saw the Salaminian seasBut he was driven out by Themistocles,And of that fleet—supposed to be so great,That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat—Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat,Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float,Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood,And fought again with carcases, and blood.O foolish mad Ambition! these are stillThe famous dangers that attend thy will.Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years,Are the next vows; these with religious fearsAnd constancy we pay; but what's so badAs a long, sinful age? what cross more sadThan misery of years? how great an illIs that which doth but nurse more sorrow still?It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood,Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food,And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skinAs in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen.Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit,Are several graces; but where age doth hitIt makes no difference; the same weak voice,And trembling ague in each member lies:A general hateful baldness, with a curs'dPerpetual pettishness; and, which is worst,A foul, strong flux of humours, and more painTo feed, than if he were to nurse again;So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends,That his own sons, and servants, wish his end.His taste and feeling dies; and of that fireThe am'rous lover burns in, no desire:Or if there were, what pleasure could it be,Where lust doth reign without ability?Nor is this all: what matters it, where heSits in the spacious stage? who can nor see,Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voiceOf spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noiseOf trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder canBut scarce inform who enters, or what manHe personates, what 'tis they act, or say?How many scenes are done? what time of day?Besides that little blood his carcase holdsHath lost[53]its native warmth, and fraught with coldsCatarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns,And never but in fits and fevers burns.Such vast infirmities, so huge a stockOf sickness and diseases to him flock,That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew,Nor wanton Maura; physic never slewSo many patients, nor rich lawyers spoilMore wards and widows; it were lesser toilTo number out what manors and domainsLicinius' razor purchas'd: one complainsOf weakness in the back, another pantsFor lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants;Nay, some so feeble are, and full of pain,That infant-like they must be fed again.These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill,And like young birds, that wait the mother's bill,They gape for meat; but sadder far than thisTheir senseless ignorance and dotage is;For neither they, their friends, nor servants know,Nay, those themselves begot, and bred up too,No longer now they'll own; for madly theyProscribe them all, and what, on the last day,The misers cannot carry to the graveFor their past sins, their prostitutes must have.But grant age lack'd these plagues: yet must they seeAs great, as many: frail mortality,In such a length of years, hath many falls,And deads a life with frequent funerals.The nimblest hour in all the span can stealA friend, or brother from's; there's no repealIn death, or time; this day a wife we mourn,To-morrow's tears a son; and the next urnA sister fills. Long-livers have assign'dThese curses still, that with a restless mind,An age of fresh renewing cares they buy,And in a tide of tears grow old and die.Nestor,—if we great Homer may believe—In his full strength three hundred years did live:Happy—thou'lt say—that for so long a timeEnjoy'd free nature, with the grape and wineOf many autumns; but, I prithee thee, hearWhat Nestor says himself, when he his dearAntilochus had lost; how he complainsOf life's too large extent, and copious pains?Of all he meets, he asks what is the causeHe liv'd thus long; for what breach of their lawsThe gods thus punish'd him? what sin had heDone worthy of a long life's misery.Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and heThus wept that his Ulysses lost at sea.Had Priam died before Phereclus' fleetWas built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek,Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had goneIn peace unto the lower shades; his sonSav'd with his plenteous offspring, and the restIn solemn pomp bearing his fun'ral chest.But long life hinder'd this: unhappy he,Kept for a public ruin, liv'd to seeAll Asia lost, and ere he could aspire,In his own house saw both the sword and fire;All white with age and cares, his feeble armHad now forgot the war; but this alarmGathers his dying spirits; and as weAn aged ox worn out with labour seeBy his ungrateful master, after allHis years of toil, a thankless victim fall:So he by Jove's own altar; which shows weAre nowhere safe from heaven, and destiny:Yet died a man; but his surviving queen,Freed from the Greekish sword, was barking seen.I haste to Rome, and Pontus' king let pass,With Lydian Crœsus, whom in vain—alas!—Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend,That happiness came not before the end.What man more bless'd in any age to comeOr past, could Nature show the world, or Rome,Than Marius was? if amidst the pomp of war,And triumphs fetch'd with Roman blood from far,His soul had fled; exile and fetters thenHe ne'er had seen, nor known Minturna's fen;Nor had it, after Carthage got, been saidA Roman general had begg'd his bread.Thus Pompey th' envious gods, and Rome's ill stars—Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars—Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vowsMade Cæsar guiltless; but sent him to loseHis head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd:This Lentulus, and this made him resistThat mangled by no lictor's axe, fell deadEntirely Catiline, and sav'd his head.The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal,Are the last votaries, and their appealIs all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow,They pray for sons, but with a louder vowCommend a female feature: all that canMake woman pleasing now they shift, and scanAnd when[54]reprov'd, they say, Latona's pairThe mother never thinks can be too fair.But sad Lucretia warns to wish no faceLike hers: Virginia would bequeath her graceTo crook-back Rutila in exchange; for stillThe fairest children do their parents fillWith greatest cares; so seldom chastityIs found with beauty; though some few there beThat with a strict, religious care contendTh' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend:Besides, wise Nature to some faces grantsAn easy blush, and where she freely plantsA less instruction serves: but both these join'd,At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd.So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win,And bribe the father to the children's sin;But whom have gifts defiled not? what good faceDid ever want these tempters? pleasing graceBetrays itself; what time did Nero mindA coarse, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'dHis goatish pathic? whence then flow these joysOf a fair issue? whom these sad annoysWait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt seePublic adulterers, and must beSubject to all the curses, plagues, and aweOf jealous madmen, and the Julian law;Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star,Or more escapes than did the god of war.But worse than all, a jealous brain confinesHis fury to no law; what rage assignsIs present justice: thus the rash sword spillsThis lecher's blood; the scourge another kills.But thy spruce boy must touch no other faceThan a patrician? is of any raceSo they be rich; Servilia is as good,With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood.To please a servant all is cheap; what thingIn all their stock to the last suit, and king,But lust exacts? the poorest whore in thisAs generous as the patrician is.But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skinWith a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and himThat Stenobœa murder'd; for both theseCan tell how fatal 'twas in them to please.A woman's spleen then carries most of fate,When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate.Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son,In such a hazard what should he have done?Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best,In whom alone beauty and worth did rest.This Messalina saw, and needs he mustBe ruin'd by the emp'ror, or her lust.All in the face of Rome, and the world's eyeThough Cæsar's wife, a public bigamyShe dares attempt; and that the act might bearMore prodigy, the notaries appear,And augurs to't; and to complete the sinIn solemn form, a dowry is brought in.All this—thou'lt say—in private might have pass'dBut she'll not have it so; what course at last?What should he do? If Messaline be cross'd,Without redress thy Silius will be lost;If not, some two days' length is all he canKeep from the grave; just so much as will spanThis news to Hostia, to whose fate he owesThat Claudius last his own dishonour knows.But he obeys, and for a few hours' lustForfeits that glory should outlive his dust;Nor was it much a fault; for whether heObey'd or not, 'twas equal destiny.So fatal beauty is, and full of waste.That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste.What then should man pray for? what is't that heCan beg of Heaven, without impiety?Take my advice: first to the gods commitAll cares; for they things competent and fitFor us foresee; besides, man is more dearTo them than to himself; we blindly here,Led by the world and lust, in vain assayTo get us portions, wives and sons; but theyAlready know all that we can intend,And of our children's children see the end.Yet that thou may'st have something to commendWith thanks unto the gods for what they send;Pray for a wise and knowing soul; a sad,Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to addA needless horror to thy death; that knows'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes;That starts not at misfortunes, that can swayAnd keep all passions under lock and key;That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefersAn honest want, before rich injurers.All this thou hast within thyself, and mayBe made thy own, if thou wilt take the way;What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what [can]Frail, perilous honours add unto a man?What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife?Virtue alone can make a happy life.To a wise man nought comes amiss: but weFortune adore, and make our deity.

}CarmenCiceronianum········O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam.········

}CarmenCiceronianum

}

Carmen

Ciceronianum

Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the swordOf fierce Antonius; here is not one wordDoth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer farThan thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war.What sadder end than his, whom Athens sawAt once her patriot, oracle, and law?Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in starsWhom his poor father, blind with soot and scars,Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wearThe factious gown, and tire his client's earAnd purse with endless noise. Trophies of war,Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar,And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a pieceOf some torn British galley, and to theseThe ensign too, and last of all the trainThe pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain,Are thought true Roman honours; these the GreekAnd rude barbarians equally do seek.Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prizeBeyond fair virtue; for all virtue diesWithout reward; and yet by this fierce lustOf fame, and titles to outlive our dust,And monuments—though all these things must dieAnd perish like ourselves—whole kingdoms lieRuin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale,What weight affords the mighty general?This is the man, whom Afric's spacious landBounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sandCould not contain—Ye gods! that give to menSuch boundless appetites, why state you themSo short a time? either the one deny,Or give their acts and them eternity.All Æthiopia, to the utmost boundOf Titan's course,—than which no land is foundLess distant from the sun—with him that ploughsThat fertile soil where fam'd[52]Iberus flows,Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'erThe Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its storeOf ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow,—As if that Nature meant to give the blow—Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry sideHe wounds the hill, and by strong hand dividesThe monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay.The world and Nature yield to give him way.And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future warStrikes Italy; success and hope doth fireHis lofty spirits with a fresh desire.All is undone as yet—saith he—unlessOur Pænish forces we advance, and pressUpon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall,And plant our colours in Suburra's vale.O the rare sight! if this great soldier weArm'd on his Getick elephant might see!But what's the event? O glory, how the itchOf thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch!He that but now all Italy and SpainHad conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again;And in the heart of Afric, and the sightOf his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight.Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he postsTo Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts,Both places by his sword secur'd, though heIn this distress must not acknowledg'd be;Where once a general he triumphed, nowTo show what Fortune can, he begs as low.And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'dConquest and war, and did amaze the world,Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath,Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death.For all that blood the field of Cannæ boasts,And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts,No other end—freed from the pile and sword—Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford.Go now, ambitious man! new plots design,March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine;That, after all, at best thou may'st but beA pleasing story to posterity!The Macedon one world could not contain,We hear him of the narrow earth complain,And sweat for room, as if Seriphus IsleOr Gyara had held him in exile;But Babylon this madness can allay,And give the great man but his length of clay.The highest thoughts and actions under heavenDeath only with the lowest dust lays even.It is believed—if what Greece writes be true—That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hewTheir ways through mountains, that their sails full blownLike clouds hung over Athos and did drownThe spacious continent, and by plain forceBetwixt the mount and it, made a divorce;That seas exhausted were, and made firm land,And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand;That on their march his Medes but passing byDrank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry;With whatsoe'er incredible designSostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine.But what's the end? He that the other dayDivided Hellespont, and forc'd his wayThrough all her angry billows, that assign'dNew punishments unto the waves, and wind,No sooner saw the Salaminian seasBut he was driven out by Themistocles,And of that fleet—supposed to be so great,That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat—Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat,Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float,Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood,And fought again with carcases, and blood.O foolish mad Ambition! these are stillThe famous dangers that attend thy will.Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years,Are the next vows; these with religious fearsAnd constancy we pay; but what's so badAs a long, sinful age? what cross more sadThan misery of years? how great an illIs that which doth but nurse more sorrow still?It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood,Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food,And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skinAs in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen.Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit,Are several graces; but where age doth hitIt makes no difference; the same weak voice,And trembling ague in each member lies:A general hateful baldness, with a curs'dPerpetual pettishness; and, which is worst,A foul, strong flux of humours, and more painTo feed, than if he were to nurse again;So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends,That his own sons, and servants, wish his end.His taste and feeling dies; and of that fireThe am'rous lover burns in, no desire:Or if there were, what pleasure could it be,Where lust doth reign without ability?Nor is this all: what matters it, where heSits in the spacious stage? who can nor see,Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voiceOf spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noiseOf trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder canBut scarce inform who enters, or what manHe personates, what 'tis they act, or say?How many scenes are done? what time of day?Besides that little blood his carcase holdsHath lost[53]its native warmth, and fraught with coldsCatarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns,And never but in fits and fevers burns.Such vast infirmities, so huge a stockOf sickness and diseases to him flock,That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew,Nor wanton Maura; physic never slewSo many patients, nor rich lawyers spoilMore wards and widows; it were lesser toilTo number out what manors and domainsLicinius' razor purchas'd: one complainsOf weakness in the back, another pantsFor lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants;Nay, some so feeble are, and full of pain,That infant-like they must be fed again.These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill,And like young birds, that wait the mother's bill,They gape for meat; but sadder far than thisTheir senseless ignorance and dotage is;For neither they, their friends, nor servants know,Nay, those themselves begot, and bred up too,No longer now they'll own; for madly theyProscribe them all, and what, on the last day,The misers cannot carry to the graveFor their past sins, their prostitutes must have.But grant age lack'd these plagues: yet must they seeAs great, as many: frail mortality,In such a length of years, hath many falls,And deads a life with frequent funerals.The nimblest hour in all the span can stealA friend, or brother from's; there's no repealIn death, or time; this day a wife we mourn,To-morrow's tears a son; and the next urnA sister fills. Long-livers have assign'dThese curses still, that with a restless mind,An age of fresh renewing cares they buy,And in a tide of tears grow old and die.Nestor,—if we great Homer may believe—In his full strength three hundred years did live:Happy—thou'lt say—that for so long a timeEnjoy'd free nature, with the grape and wineOf many autumns; but, I prithee thee, hearWhat Nestor says himself, when he his dearAntilochus had lost; how he complainsOf life's too large extent, and copious pains?Of all he meets, he asks what is the causeHe liv'd thus long; for what breach of their lawsThe gods thus punish'd him? what sin had heDone worthy of a long life's misery.Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and heThus wept that his Ulysses lost at sea.Had Priam died before Phereclus' fleetWas built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek,Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had goneIn peace unto the lower shades; his sonSav'd with his plenteous offspring, and the restIn solemn pomp bearing his fun'ral chest.But long life hinder'd this: unhappy he,Kept for a public ruin, liv'd to seeAll Asia lost, and ere he could aspire,In his own house saw both the sword and fire;All white with age and cares, his feeble armHad now forgot the war; but this alarmGathers his dying spirits; and as weAn aged ox worn out with labour seeBy his ungrateful master, after allHis years of toil, a thankless victim fall:So he by Jove's own altar; which shows weAre nowhere safe from heaven, and destiny:Yet died a man; but his surviving queen,Freed from the Greekish sword, was barking seen.I haste to Rome, and Pontus' king let pass,With Lydian Crœsus, whom in vain—alas!—Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend,That happiness came not before the end.What man more bless'd in any age to comeOr past, could Nature show the world, or Rome,Than Marius was? if amidst the pomp of war,And triumphs fetch'd with Roman blood from far,His soul had fled; exile and fetters thenHe ne'er had seen, nor known Minturna's fen;Nor had it, after Carthage got, been saidA Roman general had begg'd his bread.Thus Pompey th' envious gods, and Rome's ill stars—Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars—Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vowsMade Cæsar guiltless; but sent him to loseHis head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd:This Lentulus, and this made him resistThat mangled by no lictor's axe, fell deadEntirely Catiline, and sav'd his head.The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal,Are the last votaries, and their appealIs all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow,They pray for sons, but with a louder vowCommend a female feature: all that canMake woman pleasing now they shift, and scanAnd when[54]reprov'd, they say, Latona's pairThe mother never thinks can be too fair.But sad Lucretia warns to wish no faceLike hers: Virginia would bequeath her graceTo crook-back Rutila in exchange; for stillThe fairest children do their parents fillWith greatest cares; so seldom chastityIs found with beauty; though some few there beThat with a strict, religious care contendTh' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend:Besides, wise Nature to some faces grantsAn easy blush, and where she freely plantsA less instruction serves: but both these join'd,At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd.So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win,And bribe the father to the children's sin;But whom have gifts defiled not? what good faceDid ever want these tempters? pleasing graceBetrays itself; what time did Nero mindA coarse, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'dHis goatish pathic? whence then flow these joysOf a fair issue? whom these sad annoysWait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt seePublic adulterers, and must beSubject to all the curses, plagues, and aweOf jealous madmen, and the Julian law;Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star,Or more escapes than did the god of war.But worse than all, a jealous brain confinesHis fury to no law; what rage assignsIs present justice: thus the rash sword spillsThis lecher's blood; the scourge another kills.But thy spruce boy must touch no other faceThan a patrician? is of any raceSo they be rich; Servilia is as good,With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood.To please a servant all is cheap; what thingIn all their stock to the last suit, and king,But lust exacts? the poorest whore in thisAs generous as the patrician is.But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skinWith a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and himThat Stenobœa murder'd; for both theseCan tell how fatal 'twas in them to please.A woman's spleen then carries most of fate,When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate.Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son,In such a hazard what should he have done?Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best,In whom alone beauty and worth did rest.This Messalina saw, and needs he mustBe ruin'd by the emp'ror, or her lust.All in the face of Rome, and the world's eyeThough Cæsar's wife, a public bigamyShe dares attempt; and that the act might bearMore prodigy, the notaries appear,And augurs to't; and to complete the sinIn solemn form, a dowry is brought in.All this—thou'lt say—in private might have pass'dBut she'll not have it so; what course at last?What should he do? If Messaline be cross'd,Without redress thy Silius will be lost;If not, some two days' length is all he canKeep from the grave; just so much as will spanThis news to Hostia, to whose fate he owesThat Claudius last his own dishonour knows.But he obeys, and for a few hours' lustForfeits that glory should outlive his dust;Nor was it much a fault; for whether heObey'd or not, 'twas equal destiny.So fatal beauty is, and full of waste.That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste.What then should man pray for? what is't that heCan beg of Heaven, without impiety?Take my advice: first to the gods commitAll cares; for they things competent and fitFor us foresee; besides, man is more dearTo them than to himself; we blindly here,Led by the world and lust, in vain assayTo get us portions, wives and sons; but theyAlready know all that we can intend,And of our children's children see the end.Yet that thou may'st have something to commendWith thanks unto the gods for what they send;Pray for a wise and knowing soul; a sad,Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to addA needless horror to thy death; that knows'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes;That starts not at misfortunes, that can swayAnd keep all passions under lock and key;That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefersAn honest want, before rich injurers.All this thou hast within thyself, and mayBe made thy own, if thou wilt take the way;What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what [can]Frail, perilous honours add unto a man?What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife?Virtue alone can make a happy life.To a wise man nought comes amiss: but weFortune adore, and make our deity.

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