What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow,Flow'rs in a sunshine never look so low?Is Nisa still cold flint? or have thy lambsMet with the fox by straying from their dams?
What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow,Flow'rs in a sunshine never look so low?Is Nisa still cold flint? or have thy lambsMet with the fox by straying from their dams?
Ah, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and sheIs kind, and much more white than they can be.But what doth life when most serene affordWithout a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd?Our days of gladness are but short reliefs,Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs:So smiling calms close tempests breed, which breakLike spoilers out, and kill our flocks when weak.I heard last May—and May is still high Spring—The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing.The green wood glitter'd with the golden sun.And all the west like silver shin'd; not oneBlack cloud; no rags, nor spots did stainThe welkin's beauty; nothing frown'd like rain.But ere night came, that scene of fine sights turn'dTo fierce dark show'rs; the air with lightnings burn'd;The wood's sweet syren, rudely thus oppress'd,Gave to the storm her weak and weary breast.I saw her next day on her last cold bed:And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis, dead!
Ah, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and sheIs kind, and much more white than they can be.But what doth life when most serene affordWithout a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd?Our days of gladness are but short reliefs,Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs:So smiling calms close tempests breed, which breakLike spoilers out, and kill our flocks when weak.I heard last May—and May is still high Spring—The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing.The green wood glitter'd with the golden sun.And all the west like silver shin'd; not oneBlack cloud; no rags, nor spots did stainThe welkin's beauty; nothing frown'd like rain.But ere night came, that scene of fine sights turn'dTo fierce dark show'rs; the air with lightnings burn'd;The wood's sweet syren, rudely thus oppress'd,Gave to the storm her weak and weary breast.I saw her next day on her last cold bed:And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis, dead!
So violets, so doth the primrose, fall,At once the Spring's pride, and its funeral.Such easy sweets get off still in their prime,And stay not here to wear the soil of time;While coarser flow'rs, which none would miss, if past,To scorching Summers and cold Autumns last.
So violets, so doth the primrose, fall,At once the Spring's pride, and its funeral.Such easy sweets get off still in their prime,And stay not here to wear the soil of time;While coarser flow'rs, which none would miss, if past,To scorching Summers and cold Autumns last.
Souls need not time. The early forward thingsAre always fledg'd, and gladly use their wings.Or else great parts, when injur'd, quit the crowd,To shine above still, not behind, the cloud.And is't not just to leave those to the nightThat madly hate and persecute the light?Who, doubly dark, all negroes do exceed,And inwardly are true black Moors indeed?
Souls need not time. The early forward thingsAre always fledg'd, and gladly use their wings.Or else great parts, when injur'd, quit the crowd,To shine above still, not behind, the cloud.And is't not just to leave those to the nightThat madly hate and persecute the light?Who, doubly dark, all negroes do exceed,And inwardly are true black Moors indeed?
The punishment still manifests the sin,As outward signs show the disease within.While worth oppress'd mounts to a nobler height,And palm-like bravely overtops the weight.So where swift Isca from our lofty hillsWith loud farewells descends, and foaming fillsA wider channel, like some great port-veinWith large rich streams to fill the humble plain:I saw an oak, whose stately height and shade,Projected far, a goodly shelter made;And from the top with thick diffusèd boughsIn distant rounds grew like a wood-nymph's house.Here many garlands won at roundel-laysOld shepherds hung up in those happy daysWith knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dressOf such bright maids as did true lovers bless.And many times had old Amphion madeHis beauteous flock acquainted with this shade:His flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and whiteAs those the welkin shows in moonshine night.Here, when the careless world did sleep, have IIn dark records and numbers nobly high,The visions of our black, but brightest bardFrom old Amphion's mouth full often heard;With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known,And riddles more, which future time must own:While on his pipe young Hylas play'd, and madeMusic as solemn as the song and shade.But the curs'd owner from the trembling topTo the firm brink did all those branches lop;And in one hour what many years had bred,The pride and beauty of the plain, lay dead.The undone swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss,While storms and cold winds did improve the cross;But nature, which—like virtue—scorns to yield,Brought new recruits and succours to the field;For by next spring the check'd sap wak'd from sleep,And upwards still to feel the sun did creep;Till at those wounds, the hated hewer made,There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.
The punishment still manifests the sin,As outward signs show the disease within.While worth oppress'd mounts to a nobler height,And palm-like bravely overtops the weight.So where swift Isca from our lofty hillsWith loud farewells descends, and foaming fillsA wider channel, like some great port-veinWith large rich streams to fill the humble plain:I saw an oak, whose stately height and shade,Projected far, a goodly shelter made;And from the top with thick diffusèd boughsIn distant rounds grew like a wood-nymph's house.Here many garlands won at roundel-laysOld shepherds hung up in those happy daysWith knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dressOf such bright maids as did true lovers bless.And many times had old Amphion madeHis beauteous flock acquainted with this shade:His flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and whiteAs those the welkin shows in moonshine night.Here, when the careless world did sleep, have IIn dark records and numbers nobly high,The visions of our black, but brightest bardFrom old Amphion's mouth full often heard;With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known,And riddles more, which future time must own:While on his pipe young Hylas play'd, and madeMusic as solemn as the song and shade.But the curs'd owner from the trembling topTo the firm brink did all those branches lop;And in one hour what many years had bred,The pride and beauty of the plain, lay dead.The undone swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss,While storms and cold winds did improve the cross;But nature, which—like virtue—scorns to yield,Brought new recruits and succours to the field;For by next spring the check'd sap wak'd from sleep,And upwards still to feel the sun did creep;Till at those wounds, the hated hewer made,There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.
So thrives afflicted Truth, and so the lightWhen put out gains a value from the night.How glad are we, when but one twinkling starPeeps betwixt clouds more black than is our tar:And Providence was kind, that order'd thisTo the brave suff'rer should be solid bliss:Nor is it so till this short life be done,But goes hence with him, and is still his sun.
So thrives afflicted Truth, and so the lightWhen put out gains a value from the night.How glad are we, when but one twinkling starPeeps betwixt clouds more black than is our tar:And Providence was kind, that order'd thisTo the brave suff'rer should be solid bliss:Nor is it so till this short life be done,But goes hence with him, and is still his sun.
Come, shepherds, then, and with your greenest baysRefresh his dust, who lov'd your learnèd lays.Bring here the florid glories of the spring,And, as you strew them, pious anthems sing,Which to your children and the years to comeMay speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb.While prostrate I drop on his quiet urnMy tears, not gifts; and like the poor that mournWith green but humble turfs, write o'er his hearseFor false, foul prose-men this fair truth in verse."Here Daphnis sleeps, and while the great watch goesOf loud and restless Time, takes his repose.Fame is but noise; all Learning but a thought;Which one admires, another sets at nought,Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps ado:But Death brings knowledge and assurance too."
Come, shepherds, then, and with your greenest baysRefresh his dust, who lov'd your learnèd lays.Bring here the florid glories of the spring,And, as you strew them, pious anthems sing,Which to your children and the years to comeMay speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb.While prostrate I drop on his quiet urnMy tears, not gifts; and like the poor that mournWith green but humble turfs, write o'er his hearseFor false, foul prose-men this fair truth in verse.
"Here Daphnis sleeps, and while the great watch goesOf loud and restless Time, takes his repose.Fame is but noise; all Learning but a thought;Which one admires, another sets at nought,Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps ado:But Death brings knowledge and assurance too."
Cast in your garlands! strew on all the flow'rs,Which May with smiles or April feeds with show'rs,Let this day's rites as steadfast as the sunKeep pace with Time and through all ages run;The public character and famous testOf our long sorrows and his lasting rest.And when we make procession on the plains,Or yearly keep the holiday of swains,Let Daphnis still be the recorded name,And solemn honour of our feasts and fame.For though the Isis and the prouder ThamesCan show his relics lodg'd hard by their streams:And must for ever to the honour'd nameOf noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame:Yet here his stars first saw him, and when FateBeckon'd him hence, it knew no other date.Nor will these vocal woods and valleys fail,Nor Isca's louder streams, this to bewail;But while swains hope, and seasons change, will glideWith moving murmurs because Daphnis died.
Cast in your garlands! strew on all the flow'rs,Which May with smiles or April feeds with show'rs,Let this day's rites as steadfast as the sunKeep pace with Time and through all ages run;The public character and famous testOf our long sorrows and his lasting rest.And when we make procession on the plains,Or yearly keep the holiday of swains,Let Daphnis still be the recorded name,And solemn honour of our feasts and fame.For though the Isis and the prouder ThamesCan show his relics lodg'd hard by their streams:And must for ever to the honour'd nameOf noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame:Yet here his stars first saw him, and when FateBeckon'd him hence, it knew no other date.Nor will these vocal woods and valleys fail,Nor Isca's louder streams, this to bewail;But while swains hope, and seasons change, will glideWith moving murmurs because Daphnis died.
A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes,Then runs along with public plagues and woes,Lies heavy on us; and the very light,Turn'd mourner too, hath the dull looks of night.Our vales, like those of death, a darkness showMore sad than cypress or the gloomy yew;And on our hills, where health with height complied,Thick drowsy mists hang round, and there reside.Not one short parcel of the tedious yearIn its old dress and beauty doth appear.Flow'rs hate the spring, and with a sullen bendThrust down their heads, which to the root still tend.And though the sun, like a cold lover, peepsA little at them, still the day's-eye sleeps.But when the Crab and Lion with acuteAnd active fires their sluggish heat recruit,Our grass straight russets, and each scorching dayDrinks up our brooks as fast as dew in May;Till the sad herdsman with his cattle faints,And empty channels ring with loud complaints.
A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes,Then runs along with public plagues and woes,Lies heavy on us; and the very light,Turn'd mourner too, hath the dull looks of night.Our vales, like those of death, a darkness showMore sad than cypress or the gloomy yew;And on our hills, where health with height complied,Thick drowsy mists hang round, and there reside.Not one short parcel of the tedious yearIn its old dress and beauty doth appear.Flow'rs hate the spring, and with a sullen bendThrust down their heads, which to the root still tend.And though the sun, like a cold lover, peepsA little at them, still the day's-eye sleeps.But when the Crab and Lion with acuteAnd active fires their sluggish heat recruit,Our grass straight russets, and each scorching dayDrinks up our brooks as fast as dew in May;Till the sad herdsman with his cattle faints,And empty channels ring with loud complaints.
Heaven's just displeasure, and our unjust ways,Change Nature's course; bring plagues, dearth, and decays.This turns our lands to dust, the skies to brass,Makes old kind blessings into curses pass:And when we learn unknown and foreign crimes,Brings in the vengeance due unto those climes.The dregs and puddle of all ages now,Like rivers near their fall, on us do flow.Ah, happy Daphnis! who while yet the streamsRan clear and warm, though but with setting beams,Got through, and saw by that declining light,His toil's and journey's end before the night.
Heaven's just displeasure, and our unjust ways,Change Nature's course; bring plagues, dearth, and decays.This turns our lands to dust, the skies to brass,Makes old kind blessings into curses pass:And when we learn unknown and foreign crimes,Brings in the vengeance due unto those climes.The dregs and puddle of all ages now,Like rivers near their fall, on us do flow.Ah, happy Daphnis! who while yet the streamsRan clear and warm, though but with setting beams,Got through, and saw by that declining light,His toil's and journey's end before the night.
A night, where darkness lays her chains and bars,And feral fires appear instead of stars.But he, along with the last looks of day,Went hence, and setting—sunlike—pass'd away.What future storms our present sins do hatchSome in the dark discern, and others watch;Though foresight makes no hurricane prove mild,Fury that's long fermenting is most wild.But see, while thus our sorrows we discourse,Phœbus hath finish'd his diurnal course;The shades prevail: each bush seems bigger grown;Darkness—like State—makes small things swell and frown:The hills and woods with pipes and sonnets round,And bleating sheep our swains drive home, resound.
A night, where darkness lays her chains and bars,And feral fires appear instead of stars.But he, along with the last looks of day,Went hence, and setting—sunlike—pass'd away.What future storms our present sins do hatchSome in the dark discern, and others watch;Though foresight makes no hurricane prove mild,Fury that's long fermenting is most wild.But see, while thus our sorrows we discourse,Phœbus hath finish'd his diurnal course;The shades prevail: each bush seems bigger grown;Darkness—like State—makes small things swell and frown:The hills and woods with pipes and sonnets round,And bleating sheep our swains drive home, resound.
What voice from yonder lawn tends hither? Hark!'Tis Thyrsis calls! I hear Lycanthe bark!His flocks left out so late, and weary grown,Are to the thickets gone, and there laid down.
What voice from yonder lawn tends hither? Hark!'Tis Thyrsis calls! I hear Lycanthe bark!His flocks left out so late, and weary grown,Are to the thickets gone, and there laid down.
Menalcas, haste to look them out! poor sheep,When day is done, go willingly to sleep:And could bad man his time spend as they do,He might go sleep, or die, as willing too.
Menalcas, haste to look them out! poor sheep,When day is done, go willingly to sleep:And could bad man his time spend as they do,He might go sleep, or die, as willing too.
Farewell! kind Damon! now the shepherd's starWith beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far.All creatures that were favourites of dayAre with the sun retir'd and gone away.While feral birds send forth unpleasant notes,And night—the nurse of thoughts—sad thoughts promotes:But joy will yet come with the morning light,Though sadly now we bid good night!
Farewell! kind Damon! now the shepherd's starWith beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far.All creatures that were favourites of dayAre with the sun retir'd and gone away.While feral birds send forth unpleasant notes,And night—the nurse of thoughts—sad thoughts promotes:But joy will yet come with the morning light,Though sadly now we bid good night!
Good night!
Good night!
FromEucharistica Oxoniensia in Caroli Regis nostri e Scotia Reditum Gratulatoria(1641).
As kings do rule like th' heavens, who dispenseTo parts remote and near their influence;So doth our Charles move also; while he postsFrom south to north, and back to southern coasts;Like to the starry orb, which in its roundMoves to those very points; but while 'tis boundFor north, there is—some guess—a trembling fitAnd shivering in the part that's opposite.What were our fears and pantings, what dire fameHeard we of Irish tumults, sword, and flame!Which now we think but blessings, as being sentOnly as matter, whereupon 'twas meant,The British thus united might express,The strength of joinèd Powers to suppress,Or conquer foes. This is Great Britain's bliss;The island in itself a just world is.Here no commotion shall we find or fear,But of the Court's removal, no sad tearOr cloudy brow, but when you leave us. ThenDiscord is loyalty professèd, whenNations do strive, which shall the happier beT' enjoy your bounteous rays of majestyWhich yet you throw in undivided dart,For things divine allow no share or part.The same kind virtue doth at once discloseThe beauty of their thistle and our rose.Thus you do mingle souls and firmly knitWhat were but join'd before; you Scotsmen fitClosely with us, and reuniter prove;You fetch'd the crown before, and now their love.
As kings do rule like th' heavens, who dispenseTo parts remote and near their influence;So doth our Charles move also; while he postsFrom south to north, and back to southern coasts;Like to the starry orb, which in its roundMoves to those very points; but while 'tis boundFor north, there is—some guess—a trembling fitAnd shivering in the part that's opposite.What were our fears and pantings, what dire fameHeard we of Irish tumults, sword, and flame!Which now we think but blessings, as being sentOnly as matter, whereupon 'twas meant,The British thus united might express,The strength of joinèd Powers to suppress,Or conquer foes. This is Great Britain's bliss;The island in itself a just world is.Here no commotion shall we find or fear,But of the Court's removal, no sad tearOr cloudy brow, but when you leave us. ThenDiscord is loyalty professèd, whenNations do strive, which shall the happier beT' enjoy your bounteous rays of majestyWhich yet you throw in undivided dart,For things divine allow no share or part.The same kind virtue doth at once discloseThe beauty of their thistle and our rose.Thus you do mingle souls and firmly knitWhat were but join'd before; you Scotsmen fitClosely with us, and reuniter prove;You fetch'd the crown before, and now their love.
H. Vaughan, Ies. Col.
FromOf the Benefit we may get by our Enemies: translated from Plutarch (1651).
Sure Priam will to mirth incline,And all that are of Priam's line.
Sure Priam will to mirth incline,And all that are of Priam's line.
Feeding on fruits which in the heavens do grow,Whence all divine and holy counsels flow.
Feeding on fruits which in the heavens do grow,Whence all divine and holy counsels flow.
Excel then if thou canst, be not withstood,But strive and overcome the evil with good.
Excel then if thou canst, be not withstood,But strive and overcome the evil with good.
You minister to others' wounds a cure,But leave your own all rotten and impure.
You minister to others' wounds a cure,But leave your own all rotten and impure.
Chance, taking from me things of highest price,At a dear rate hath taught me to be wise.
Chance, taking from me things of highest price,At a dear rate hath taught me to be wise.
[He] Knaves' tongues and calumnies no more doth prizeThan the vain buzzing of so many flies.
[He] Knaves' tongues and calumnies no more doth prizeThan the vain buzzing of so many flies.
His deep, dark heart—bent to supplant—Is iron, or else adamant.
His deep, dark heart—bent to supplant—Is iron, or else adamant.
What though they boast their riches unto us?Those cannot say that they are virtuous.
What though they boast their riches unto us?Those cannot say that they are virtuous.
FromOf the Diseases of the Mind and the Body: translated from Plutarch (1651).
That man for misery excell'dAll creatures which the wide world held.
That man for misery excell'dAll creatures which the wide world held.
A tender kid—see, where 'tis put—I on the hills did slay,Now dress'd and into quarters cut,A pleasant, dainty prey.
A tender kid—see, where 'tis put—I on the hills did slay,Now dress'd and into quarters cut,A pleasant, dainty prey.
FromOf the Diseases of the Mind and the Body: translated from Maximus Tyrius (1651).
O health, the chief of gifts divine!I would I might with thee and thineLive all those days appointed mine!
O health, the chief of gifts divine!I would I might with thee and thineLive all those days appointed mine!
FromThe Mount of Olives(1652).
Draw near, fond man, and dress thee by this glass,Mark how thy bravery and big looks must passInto corruption, rottenness and dust;The frail supporters which betray'd thy trust.O weigh in time thy last and loathsome state!To purchase heav'n for tears is no hard rate.Our glory, greatness, wisdom, all we have,If mis-employ'd, but add hell to the grave:Only a fair redemption of evil timesFinds life in death, and buries all our crimes.
Draw near, fond man, and dress thee by this glass,Mark how thy bravery and big looks must passInto corruption, rottenness and dust;The frail supporters which betray'd thy trust.O weigh in time thy last and loathsome state!To purchase heav'n for tears is no hard rate.Our glory, greatness, wisdom, all we have,If mis-employ'd, but add hell to the grave:Only a fair redemption of evil timesFinds life in death, and buries all our crimes.
My soul, my pleasant soul, and witty,The guest and consort of my body.Into what place now all aloneNaked and sad wilt thou be gone?No mirth, no wit, as heretofore,Nor jests wilt thou afford me more.
My soul, my pleasant soul, and witty,The guest and consort of my body.Into what place now all aloneNaked and sad wilt thou be gone?No mirth, no wit, as heretofore,Nor jests wilt thou afford me more.
What is't to me that spacious rivers runWhole ages, and their streams are never done?Those still remain: but all my fathers died,And I myself but for few days abide.
What is't to me that spacious rivers runWhole ages, and their streams are never done?Those still remain: but all my fathers died,And I myself but for few days abide.
In March birds couple, a new birthOf herbs and flow'rs breaks through the earth;But in the grave none stirs his head,Long is the impris'ment of the dead.
In March birds couple, a new birthOf herbs and flow'rs breaks through the earth;But in the grave none stirs his head,Long is the impris'ment of the dead.
So our decays God comforts byThe stars' concurrent state on high.
So our decays God comforts byThe stars' concurrent state on high.
There are that do believe all things succeedBy chance or fortune: and that nought's decreedBy a divine, wise Will; but blindly callOld Time and Nature rulers over all.
There are that do believe all things succeedBy chance or fortune: and that nought's decreedBy a divine, wise Will; but blindly callOld Time and Nature rulers over all.
From the first hour the heavens were madeUnto the last, when all shall fade,Count—if thou canst—the drops of dew,The stars of heav'n and streams that flow,The falling snow, the dropping show'rs,And in the month of May, the flow'rs,Their scents and colours, and what storeOf grapes and apples Autumn bore,How many grains the Summer bears,What leaves the wind in Winter tears;Count all the creatures in the world,The motes which in the air are hurl'd,The hairs of beasts and mankind, andThe shore's innumerable sand,The blades of grass, and to these lastAdd all the years which now are past,With those whose course is yet to come,And all their minutes in one sum.When all is done, the damned's stateOutruns them still, and knows no date.
From the first hour the heavens were madeUnto the last, when all shall fade,Count—if thou canst—the drops of dew,The stars of heav'n and streams that flow,The falling snow, the dropping show'rs,And in the month of May, the flow'rs,Their scents and colours, and what storeOf grapes and apples Autumn bore,How many grains the Summer bears,What leaves the wind in Winter tears;Count all the creatures in the world,The motes which in the air are hurl'd,The hairs of beasts and mankind, andThe shore's innumerable sand,The blades of grass, and to these lastAdd all the years which now are past,With those whose course is yet to come,And all their minutes in one sum.When all is done, the damned's stateOutruns them still, and knows no date.
I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towersAn old Cilician spend his peaceful hours.Some few bad acres in a waste, wild field,Which neither grass, nor corn, nor vines would yield,He did possess. There—amongst thorns and weeds—Cheap herbs and coleworts, with the common seedsOf chesboule or tame poppies, he did sow,And vervain with white lilies caused to grow.Content he was, as are successful kings,And late at night come home—for long work bringsThe night still home—with unbought messes laidOn his low table he his hunger stay'd.Roses he gather'd in the youthful Spring,And apples in the Autumn home did bring:And when the sad, cold Winter burst with frostThe stones, and the still streams in ice were lost,He would soft leaves of bear's-foot crop, and chideThe slow west winds and ling'ring Summer-tide!
I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towersAn old Cilician spend his peaceful hours.Some few bad acres in a waste, wild field,Which neither grass, nor corn, nor vines would yield,He did possess. There—amongst thorns and weeds—Cheap herbs and coleworts, with the common seedsOf chesboule or tame poppies, he did sow,And vervain with white lilies caused to grow.Content he was, as are successful kings,And late at night come home—for long work bringsThe night still home—with unbought messes laidOn his low table he his hunger stay'd.Roses he gather'd in the youthful Spring,And apples in the Autumn home did bring:And when the sad, cold Winter burst with frostThe stones, and the still streams in ice were lost,He would soft leaves of bear's-foot crop, and chideThe slow west winds and ling'ring Summer-tide!
And rising at midnight the stars espied,All posting westward in a silent glide.
And rising at midnight the stars espied,All posting westward in a silent glide.
The trees we set grow slowly, and their shadeStays for our sons, while we—the planters—fade.
The trees we set grow slowly, and their shadeStays for our sons, while we—the planters—fade.
FromMan in Glory: translated from Anselm (1652).
Here holy Anselm lives in ev'ry page,And sits archbishop still, to vex the age.Had he foreseen—and who knows but he did?—This fatal wrack, which deep in time lay hid,'Tis but just to believe, that little handWhich clouded him, but now benights our land,Had never—like Elias—driv'n him hence,A sad retirer for a slight offence.For were he now, like the returning year,Restor'd, to view these desolations here,He would do penance for his old complaint,And—weeping—say, that Rufus was a saint.
Here holy Anselm lives in ev'ry page,And sits archbishop still, to vex the age.Had he foreseen—and who knows but he did?—This fatal wrack, which deep in time lay hid,'Tis but just to believe, that little handWhich clouded him, but now benights our land,Had never—like Elias—driv'n him hence,A sad retirer for a slight offence.For were he now, like the returning year,Restor'd, to view these desolations here,He would do penance for his old complaint,And—weeping—say, that Rufus was a saint.
From the Epistle-Dedicatory toFlores Solitudinis(1654).
The whole wench—how complete soe'er—was butA specious bait; a soft, sly, tempting slut;A pleasing witch; a living death; a fair,Thriving disease; a fresh, infectious air;A precious plague; a fury sweetly drawn;Wild fire laid up and finely dress'd in lawn.
The whole wench—how complete soe'er—was butA specious bait; a soft, sly, tempting slut;A pleasing witch; a living death; a fair,Thriving disease; a fresh, infectious air;A precious plague; a fury sweetly drawn;Wild fire laid up and finely dress'd in lawn.
Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see,Believe, thou seest mere dreams and vanity,Not real things, but false, and through the airEach-where an empty, slipp'ry scene, though fair.The chirping birds, the fresh woods' shady boughs,The leaves' shrill whispers, when the west wind blows,The swift, fierce greyhounds coursing on the plains,The flying hare, distress'd 'twixt fear and pains,The bloomy maid decking with flow'rs her head,The gladsome, easy youth by light love led;And whatsoe'er here with admiring eyesThou seem'st to see, 'tis but a frail disguiseWorn by eternal things, a passive dressPut on by beings that are passiveless.
Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see,Believe, thou seest mere dreams and vanity,Not real things, but false, and through the airEach-where an empty, slipp'ry scene, though fair.The chirping birds, the fresh woods' shady boughs,The leaves' shrill whispers, when the west wind blows,The swift, fierce greyhounds coursing on the plains,The flying hare, distress'd 'twixt fear and pains,The bloomy maid decking with flow'rs her head,The gladsome, easy youth by light love led;And whatsoe'er here with admiring eyesThou seem'st to see, 'tis but a frail disguiseWorn by eternal things, a passive dressPut on by beings that are passiveless.
From a DiscourseOf Temperance and Patience: translated from Nierembergius (1654).
The naked man too gets the field,And often makes the armèd foe to yield.
The naked man too gets the field,And often makes the armèd foe to yield.
[Some] struggle and groan as if by panthers torn,Or lions' teeth, which makes them loudly mourn;Some others seem unto themselves to die;Some climb steep solitudes and mountains high,From whence they seem to fall inanely down,Panting with fear, till wak'd, and scarce their ownThey feel about them if in bed they lie,Deceiv'd with dreams, and Night's imagery.In vain with earnest strugglings they contendTo ease themselves: for when they stir and bendTheir greatest force to do it, even then mostOf all they faint, and in their hopes are cross'd.Nor tongue, nor hand, nor foot will serve their turn,But without speech and strength within, they mourn.
[Some] struggle and groan as if by panthers torn,Or lions' teeth, which makes them loudly mourn;Some others seem unto themselves to die;Some climb steep solitudes and mountains high,From whence they seem to fall inanely down,Panting with fear, till wak'd, and scarce their ownThey feel about them if in bed they lie,Deceiv'd with dreams, and Night's imagery.
In vain with earnest strugglings they contendTo ease themselves: for when they stir and bendTheir greatest force to do it, even then mostOf all they faint, and in their hopes are cross'd.Nor tongue, nor hand, nor foot will serve their turn,But without speech and strength within, they mourn.
Thou the nepenthe easing griefArt, and the mind's healing relief.
Thou the nepenthe easing griefArt, and the mind's healing relief.
Base man! and couldst thou think Cato aloneWants courage to be dry? and but him, none?Look'd I so soft? breath'd I such base desires,Not proof against this Lybic sun's weak fires?That shame and plague on thee more justly lie!To drink alone, when all our troops are dry.For with brave rage he flung it on the sand,And the spilt draught suffic'd each thirsty band
Base man! and couldst thou think Cato aloneWants courage to be dry? and but him, none?Look'd I so soft? breath'd I such base desires,Not proof against this Lybic sun's weak fires?That shame and plague on thee more justly lie!To drink alone, when all our troops are dry.For with brave rage he flung it on the sand,And the spilt draught suffic'd each thirsty band
[Death keeps off]And will not bear the cryOf distress'd man, nor shut his weeping eye
[Death keeps off]And will not bear the cryOf distress'd man, nor shut his weeping eye
It lives when kill'd, and brancheth when 'tis lopp'd.
It lives when kill'd, and brancheth when 'tis lopp'd.
Like some fair oak, that when her boughsAre cut by rude hands, thicker grows;And from those wounds the iron madeResumes a rich and fresher shade.
Like some fair oak, that when her boughsAre cut by rude hands, thicker grows;And from those wounds the iron madeResumes a rich and fresher shade.
Patience digesteth misery.
Patience digesteth misery.
——They fain would—if they might—Descend to hide themselves in Hell. So lightOf foot is Vengeance; and so near to sin,That soon as done, the actors do beginTo fear and suffer by themselves: Death movesBefore their eyes; sad dens and dusky grovesThey haunt, and hope—vain hope which Fear doth guide!—That those dark shades their inward guilt can hide.
——They fain would—if they might—Descend to hide themselves in Hell. So lightOf foot is Vengeance; and so near to sin,That soon as done, the actors do beginTo fear and suffer by themselves: Death movesBefore their eyes; sad dens and dusky grovesThey haunt, and hope—vain hope which Fear doth guide!—That those dark shades their inward guilt can hide.
But night and day doth his own life molest,And bears his judge and witness in his breast.
But night and day doth his own life molest,And bears his judge and witness in his breast.
Virtue's fair cares some people measureFor poisonous works that hinder pleasure.
Virtue's fair cares some people measureFor poisonous works that hinder pleasure.
Man should with virtue arm'd and hearten'd be,And innocently watch his enemy:For fearless freedom, which none can control,Is gotten by a pure and upright soul.
Man should with virtue arm'd and hearten'd be,And innocently watch his enemy:For fearless freedom, which none can control,Is gotten by a pure and upright soul.
Whose guilty soul, with terrors fraught, doth frameNew torments still, and still doth blow that flameWhich still burns him, nor sees what end can beOf his dire plagues, and fruitful penalty;But fears them living, and fears more to die;Which makes his life a constant tragedy.
Whose guilty soul, with terrors fraught, doth frameNew torments still, and still doth blow that flameWhich still burns him, nor sees what end can beOf his dire plagues, and fruitful penalty;But fears them living, and fears more to die;Which makes his life a constant tragedy.
And for life's sake to lose the crown of life.
And for life's sake to lose the crown of life.
Nature even for herself doth lay a snare,And handsome faces their own traitors are.
Nature even for herself doth lay a snare,And handsome faces their own traitors are.
True life in this is shown,To live for all men's good, not for our own.
True life in this is shown,To live for all men's good, not for our own.
As Egypt's drought by Nilus is redress'd,So thy wise tongue doth comfort the oppress'd.
As Egypt's drought by Nilus is redress'd,So thy wise tongue doth comfort the oppress'd.
[Like] to speedy posts, bear hence the lamp of life.
[Like] to speedy posts, bear hence the lamp of life.
All worldly things, even while they grow, decay;As smoke doth, by ascending, waste away.
All worldly things, even while they grow, decay;As smoke doth, by ascending, waste away.
To live a stranger unto life.
To live a stranger unto life.
From aDiscourse of Life and Death: translated from Nierembergius (1654).
Whose hissings fright all Nature's monstrous ills;His eye darts death, more swift than poison kills.All monsters by instinct to him give place,They fly for life, for death lives in his face;And he alone by Nature's hid commandsReigns paramount, and prince of all the sands.
Whose hissings fright all Nature's monstrous ills;His eye darts death, more swift than poison kills.All monsters by instinct to him give place,They fly for life, for death lives in his face;And he alone by Nature's hid commandsReigns paramount, and prince of all the sands.
The plenteous evils of frail life fill the old:Their wasted limbs the loose skin in dry foldsDoth hang about: their joints are numb'd, and throughTheir veins, not blood, but rheums and waters flow.Their trembling bodies with a staff they stay,Nor do they breathe, but sadly sigh all day.Thoughts tire their hearts, to them their very mindIs a disease; their eyes no sleep can find.
The plenteous evils of frail life fill the old:Their wasted limbs the loose skin in dry foldsDoth hang about: their joints are numb'd, and throughTheir veins, not blood, but rheums and waters flow.Their trembling bodies with a staff they stay,Nor do they breathe, but sadly sigh all day.Thoughts tire their hearts, to them their very mindIs a disease; their eyes no sleep can find.
Against the virtuous man we all make head,And hate him while he lives, but praise him dead.
Against the virtuous man we all make head,And hate him while he lives, but praise him dead.
Long life, oppress'd with many woes,Meets more, the further still it goes.
Long life, oppress'd with many woes,Meets more, the further still it goes.
What greater good had deck'd great Pompey's crownThan death, if in his honours fully blown,And mature glories he had died? those pilesOf huge success, loud fame, and lofty stylesBuilt in his active youth, long lazy lifeSaw quite demolish'd by ambitious strife.He lived to wear the weak and melting snowOf luckless age, where garlands seldom grow,But by repining Fate torn from the headWhich wore them once, are on another shed.
What greater good had deck'd great Pompey's crownThan death, if in his honours fully blown,And mature glories he had died? those pilesOf huge success, loud fame, and lofty stylesBuilt in his active youth, long lazy lifeSaw quite demolish'd by ambitious strife.He lived to wear the weak and melting snowOf luckless age, where garlands seldom grow,But by repining Fate torn from the headWhich wore them once, are on another shed.
Whom God doth take care for, and love,He dies young here, to live above.
Whom God doth take care for, and love,He dies young here, to live above.
Sickness and death, you are but sluggish things,And cannot reach a heart that hath got wings.
Sickness and death, you are but sluggish things,And cannot reach a heart that hath got wings.
FromPrimitive Holiness, set forth in the Life of Blessed Paulinus(1654).