If sever'd friends by sympathy can join,And absent kings be honour'd in their coin;May they do both, who are so curb'd? but weWhom no such abstracts torture, that can seeAnd pay each other a full self-return,May laugh, though all such metaphysics burn.'Tis a kind soul in magnets, that atonesSuch two hard things as iron are and stones,And in their dumb compliance we learn moreOf love, than ever books could speak before.For though attraction hath got all the name,As if that power but from one side came,Which both unites; yet, where there is no senseThere is no passion, nor intelligence:And so by consequence we cannot stateA commerce, unless both we animate.For senseless things, though ne'er so called upon,Are deaf, and feel no invitation,But such as at the last day shall be shedBy the great Lord of life into the dead.'Tis then no heresy to end the strifeWith such rare doctrine as gives iron life.For were it otherwise—which cannot be,And do thou judge my bold philosophy—Then it would follow that if I were dead,Thy love, as now in life, would in that bedOf earth and darkness warm me, and dispenseEffectual informing influence.Since then 'tis clear, that friendship is nought elseBut a joint, kind propension, and excessIn none, but such whose equal, easy heartsComply and meet both in their whole and parts,And when they cannot meet, do not forgetTo mingle souls, but secretly reflectAnd some third place their centre make, where theySilently mix, and make an unseen stay:Let me not say—though poets may be bold—Thou art more hard than steel, than stones more cold,But as the marigold in feasts of dewAnd early sunbeams, though but thin and few,Unfolds itself, then from the Earth's cold breastHeaves gently, and salutes the hopeful East:So from thy quiet cell, the retir'd throneOf thy fair thoughts, which silently bemoanOur sad distractions, come! and richly dress'dWith reverend mirth and manners, check the restOf loose, loath'd men! Why should I longer beRack'd 'twixt two evils? I see and cannot see.
If sever'd friends by sympathy can join,And absent kings be honour'd in their coin;May they do both, who are so curb'd? but weWhom no such abstracts torture, that can seeAnd pay each other a full self-return,May laugh, though all such metaphysics burn.'Tis a kind soul in magnets, that atonesSuch two hard things as iron are and stones,And in their dumb compliance we learn moreOf love, than ever books could speak before.For though attraction hath got all the name,As if that power but from one side came,Which both unites; yet, where there is no senseThere is no passion, nor intelligence:And so by consequence we cannot stateA commerce, unless both we animate.For senseless things, though ne'er so called upon,Are deaf, and feel no invitation,But such as at the last day shall be shedBy the great Lord of life into the dead.'Tis then no heresy to end the strifeWith such rare doctrine as gives iron life.For were it otherwise—which cannot be,And do thou judge my bold philosophy—Then it would follow that if I were dead,Thy love, as now in life, would in that bedOf earth and darkness warm me, and dispenseEffectual informing influence.Since then 'tis clear, that friendship is nought elseBut a joint, kind propension, and excessIn none, but such whose equal, easy heartsComply and meet both in their whole and parts,And when they cannot meet, do not forgetTo mingle souls, but secretly reflectAnd some third place their centre make, where theySilently mix, and make an unseen stay:Let me not say—though poets may be bold—Thou art more hard than steel, than stones more cold,But as the marigold in feasts of dewAnd early sunbeams, though but thin and few,Unfolds itself, then from the Earth's cold breastHeaves gently, and salutes the hopeful East:So from thy quiet cell, the retir'd throneOf thy fair thoughts, which silently bemoanOur sad distractions, come! and richly dress'dWith reverend mirth and manners, check the restOf loose, loath'd men! Why should I longer beRack'd 'twixt two evils? I see and cannot see.
Written about the same time that Mr. John Cleveland wrote his.
A king and no king! Is he gone from us,And stoln alive into his coffin thus?This was to ravish death, and so preventThe rebels' treason and their punishment.He would not have them damn'd, and therefore heHimself deposèd his own majesty.Wolves did pursue him, and to fly the illHe wanders—royal saint!—in sheepskin still.Poor, obscure shelter, if that shelter beObscure, which harbours so much majesty.Hence, profane eyes! the mystery's so deep,Like Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't.Thou flying roll, written with tears and woe,Not for thy royal self, but for thy foe!Thy grief is prophecy, and doth portend,Like sad Ezekiel's sighs, the rebel's end.Thy robes forc'd off, like Samuel's when rent,Do figure out another's punishment.Nor grieve thou hast put off thyself awhile,To serve as prophet to this sinful isle;These are our days of Purim, which oppressThe Church, and force thee to the wilderness.But all these clouds cannot thy light confine,The sun in storms and after them, will shine.Thy day of life cannot be yet complete,'Tis early, sure, thy shadow is so great.But I am vex'd, that we at all can guessThis change, and trust great Charles to such a dress.When he was first obscur'd with this coarse thing,He grac'd plebeians, but profan'd the king:Like some fair church, which zeal to charcoals burn'd,Or his own court now to an alehouse turn'd.But full as well may we blame night, and chideHis wisdom, Who doth light with darkness hide,Or deny curtains to thy royal bed,As take this sacred cov'ring from thy head.Secrets of State are points we must not know;This vizard is thy privy-council now,Thou royal riddle, and in everythingThe true white prince, our hieroglyphic king!Ride safely in His shade, Who gives thee light,And can with blindness thy pursuers smite.O! may they wander all from thee as farAs they from peace are, and thyself from war!And wheresoe'er thou dost design to beWith thy—now spotted—spotless majesty,Be sure to look no sanctuary there,Nor hope for safety in a temple, whereBuyers and sellers trade: O! strengthen notWith too much trust the treason of a Scot!
A king and no king! Is he gone from us,And stoln alive into his coffin thus?This was to ravish death, and so preventThe rebels' treason and their punishment.He would not have them damn'd, and therefore heHimself deposèd his own majesty.Wolves did pursue him, and to fly the illHe wanders—royal saint!—in sheepskin still.Poor, obscure shelter, if that shelter beObscure, which harbours so much majesty.Hence, profane eyes! the mystery's so deep,Like Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't.Thou flying roll, written with tears and woe,Not for thy royal self, but for thy foe!Thy grief is prophecy, and doth portend,Like sad Ezekiel's sighs, the rebel's end.Thy robes forc'd off, like Samuel's when rent,Do figure out another's punishment.Nor grieve thou hast put off thyself awhile,To serve as prophet to this sinful isle;These are our days of Purim, which oppressThe Church, and force thee to the wilderness.But all these clouds cannot thy light confine,The sun in storms and after them, will shine.Thy day of life cannot be yet complete,'Tis early, sure, thy shadow is so great.But I am vex'd, that we at all can guessThis change, and trust great Charles to such a dress.When he was first obscur'd with this coarse thing,He grac'd plebeians, but profan'd the king:Like some fair church, which zeal to charcoals burn'd,Or his own court now to an alehouse turn'd.But full as well may we blame night, and chideHis wisdom, Who doth light with darkness hide,Or deny curtains to thy royal bed,As take this sacred cov'ring from thy head.Secrets of State are points we must not know;This vizard is thy privy-council now,Thou royal riddle, and in everythingThe true white prince, our hieroglyphic king!Ride safely in His shade, Who gives thee light,And can with blindness thy pursuers smite.O! may they wander all from thee as farAs they from peace are, and thyself from war!And wheresoe'er thou dost design to beWith thy—now spotted—spotless majesty,Be sure to look no sanctuary there,Nor hope for safety in a temple, whereBuyers and sellers trade: O! strengthen notWith too much trust the treason of a Scot!
Tis madness sure; and I am in the fit,To dare an eagle with my unfledg'd wit.For what did ever Rome or Athens singIn all their lines, as lofty as his wing?He that an eagle's powers would rehearseShould with his plumes first feather all his verse.I know not, when into thee I would pry,Which to admire, thy wing first, or thine eye;Or whether Nature at thy birth design'dMore of her fire for thee, or of her wind.When thou in the clear heights and upmost airDost face the sun and his dispersèd hair,Ev'n from that distance thou the sea dost spyAnd sporting in its deep, wide lap, the fry.Not the least minnow there but thou canst see:Whole seas are narrow spectacles to thee.Nor is this element of water hereBelow of all thy miracles the sphere.If poets ought may add unto thy store,Thou hast in heav'n of wonders many more.For when just Jove to earth his thunder bends,And from that bright, eternal fortress sendsHis louder volleys, straight this bird doth flyTo Ætna, where his magazine doth lie,And in his active talons brings him moreOf ammunition, and recruits his store.Nor is't a low or easy lift. He soars'Bove wind and fire; gets to the moon, and poresWith scorn upon her duller face; for sheGives him but shadows and obscurity.Here much displeas'd, that anything like nightShould meet him in his proud and lofty flight,That such dull tinctures should advance so far,And rival in the glories of a star,Resolv'd he is a nobler course to try,And measures out his voyage with his eye.Then with such fury he begins his flight,As if his wings contended with his sight.Leaving the moon, whose humble light doth tradeWith spots, and deals most in the dark and shade,To the day's royal planet he doth passWith daring eyes, and makes the sun his glass.Here doth he plume and dress himself, the beamsRushing upon him like so many streams;While with direct looks he doth entertainThe thronging flames, and shoots them back again.And thus from star to star he doth repair,And wantons in that pure and peaceful air.Sometimes he frights the starry swan, and nowOrion's fearful hare, and then the crow.Then with the orb itself he moves, to seeWhich is more swift, th' intelligence or he.Thus with his wings his body he hath broughtWhere man can travel only in a thought.I will not seek, rare bird, what spirit 'tisThat mounts thee thus; I'll be content with this,To think that Nature made thee to expressOur soul's bold heights in a material dress.
Tis madness sure; and I am in the fit,To dare an eagle with my unfledg'd wit.For what did ever Rome or Athens singIn all their lines, as lofty as his wing?He that an eagle's powers would rehearseShould with his plumes first feather all his verse.I know not, when into thee I would pry,Which to admire, thy wing first, or thine eye;Or whether Nature at thy birth design'dMore of her fire for thee, or of her wind.When thou in the clear heights and upmost airDost face the sun and his dispersèd hair,Ev'n from that distance thou the sea dost spyAnd sporting in its deep, wide lap, the fry.Not the least minnow there but thou canst see:Whole seas are narrow spectacles to thee.Nor is this element of water hereBelow of all thy miracles the sphere.If poets ought may add unto thy store,Thou hast in heav'n of wonders many more.For when just Jove to earth his thunder bends,And from that bright, eternal fortress sendsHis louder volleys, straight this bird doth flyTo Ætna, where his magazine doth lie,And in his active talons brings him moreOf ammunition, and recruits his store.Nor is't a low or easy lift. He soars'Bove wind and fire; gets to the moon, and poresWith scorn upon her duller face; for sheGives him but shadows and obscurity.Here much displeas'd, that anything like nightShould meet him in his proud and lofty flight,That such dull tinctures should advance so far,And rival in the glories of a star,Resolv'd he is a nobler course to try,And measures out his voyage with his eye.Then with such fury he begins his flight,As if his wings contended with his sight.Leaving the moon, whose humble light doth tradeWith spots, and deals most in the dark and shade,To the day's royal planet he doth passWith daring eyes, and makes the sun his glass.Here doth he plume and dress himself, the beamsRushing upon him like so many streams;While with direct looks he doth entertainThe thronging flames, and shoots them back again.And thus from star to star he doth repair,And wantons in that pure and peaceful air.Sometimes he frights the starry swan, and nowOrion's fearful hare, and then the crow.Then with the orb itself he moves, to seeWhich is more swift, th' intelligence or he.Thus with his wings his body he hath broughtWhere man can travel only in a thought.I will not seek, rare bird, what spirit 'tisThat mounts thee thus; I'll be content with this,To think that Nature made thee to expressOur soul's bold heights in a material dress.
Sir,You have oblig'd the patriarch, and 'tis knownHe is your debtor now, though for his own.What he wrote is a medley: we can seeConfusion trespass on his piety.Misfortunes did not only strike at him,They chargèd further, and oppress'd his pen;For he wrote as his crosses came, and wentBy no safe rule, but by his punishment.His quill mov'd by the rod; his wits and heDid know no method, but their misery.You brought his Psalms now into tune. Nay allHis measures thus are more than musical;Your method and his airs are justly sweet,And—what's church music right—like anthems meet.You did so much in this, that I believeHe gave the matter, you the form did give.And yet I wish you were not understood,For now 'tis a misfortune to be good!Why then you'll say, all I would have, is this:None must be good, because the time's amiss.For since wise Nature did ordain the night,I would not have the sun to give us light.Whereas this doth not take the use away,But urgeth the necessity of day.Proceed to make your pious work as free,Stop not your seasonable charity.Good works despis'd or censur'd by bad timesShould be sent out to aggravate their crimes.They should first share and then reject our store,Abuse our good, to make their guilt the more.'Tis war strikes at our sins, but it must beA persecution wounds our piety.
Sir,
You have oblig'd the patriarch, and 'tis knownHe is your debtor now, though for his own.What he wrote is a medley: we can seeConfusion trespass on his piety.Misfortunes did not only strike at him,They chargèd further, and oppress'd his pen;For he wrote as his crosses came, and wentBy no safe rule, but by his punishment.His quill mov'd by the rod; his wits and heDid know no method, but their misery.You brought his Psalms now into tune. Nay allHis measures thus are more than musical;Your method and his airs are justly sweet,And—what's church music right—like anthems meet.You did so much in this, that I believeHe gave the matter, you the form did give.And yet I wish you were not understood,For now 'tis a misfortune to be good!Why then you'll say, all I would have, is this:None must be good, because the time's amiss.For since wise Nature did ordain the night,I would not have the sun to give us light.Whereas this doth not take the use away,But urgeth the necessity of day.Proceed to make your pious work as free,Stop not your seasonable charity.Good works despis'd or censur'd by bad timesShould be sent out to aggravate their crimes.They should first share and then reject our store,Abuse our good, to make their guilt the more.'Tis war strikes at our sins, but it must beA persecution wounds our piety.
Now that the public sorrow doth subside,And those slight tears which custom springs are dried;While all the rich and outside mourners passHome from thy dust, to empty their own glass;I—who the throng affect not, nor their state—Steal to thy grave undress'd, to meditateOn our sad loss, accompanied by none,An obscure mourner that would weep alone.So, when the world's great luminary sets,Some scarce known star into the zenith gets,Twinkles and curls, a weak but willing spark,As glow-worms here do glitter in the dark.Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles thereAn humble love unto the light doth bear,And true devotion from an hermit's cellWill Heav'n's kind King as soon reach and as well,As that which from rich shrines and altars flies,Led by ascending incense to the skies:'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the mightOf love makes dark things wait upon the bright,And from my sad retirements calls me forth,The just recorder of thy death and worth.Long didst thou live—if length be measured byThe tedious reign of our calamity—And counter to all storms and changes stillKept'st the same temper, and the selfsame will.Though trials came as duly as the day,And in such mists, that none could see his way,Yet thee I found still virtuous, and sawThe sun give clouds, and Charles give both the law.When private interest did all hearts bend,And wild dissents the public peace did rend,Thou, neither won, nor worn, wert still thyself,Not aw'd by force, nor basely brib'd with pelf.What the insuperable stream of timesDid dash thee with, those suff'rings were, not crimes.So the bright sun eclipses bears; and we,Because then passive, blame him not. Should heFor enforc'd shades, and the moon's ruder veilMuch nearer us than him, be judg'd to fail?Who traduce thee, so err. As poisons byCorrection are made antidotes, so thyJust soul did turn ev'n hurtful things to good,Us'd bad laws so they drew not tears, nor blood.Heav'n was thy aim, and thy great, rare designWas not to lord it here, but there to shine.Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e'erThou pray'd'st for here was peace, and glory there.For though thy course in Time's long progress fellOn a sad age, when war and open'd hellLicens'd all arts and sects, and made it freeTo thrive by fraud, and blood, and blasphemy:Yet thou thy just inheritance didst byNo sacrilege, nor pillage multiply.No rapine swell'd thy state, no bribes, nor fees,Our new oppressors' best annuities.Such clean pure hands hadst thou! and for thy heart,Man's secret region, and his noblest part;Since I was privy to't, and had the keyOf that fair room, where thy bright spirit lay,I must affirm it did as much surpassMost I have known, as the clear sky doth glass.Constant and kind, and plain, and meek, and mildIt was, and with no new conceits defil'd.Busy, but sacred thoughts—like bees—did stillWithin it stir, and strive unto that hillWhere redeem'd spirits, evermore alive,After their work is done, ascend and hive.No outward tumults reach'd this inward place:'Twas holy ground, where peace, and love, and graceKept house, where the immortal restless life,In a most dutiful and pious strife,Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order still;The will serv'd God, and ev'ry sense the will!In this safe state Death met thee, Death, which isBut a kind usher of the good to bliss,Therefore to weep because thy course is run,Or droop like flow'rs, which lately lost the sun,I cannot yield, since Faith will not permitA tenure got by conquest to the pit.For the great Victor fought for us, and HeCounts ev'ry dust that is laid up of thee.Besides, Death now grows decrepit, and hathSpent the most part both of its time and wrath.That thick, black night, which mankind fear'd, is tornBy troops of stars, and the bright day's forlorn.The next glad news—most glad unto the just!—Will be the trumpet's summons from the dust.Then I'll not grieve; nay, more, I'll not allowMy soul should think thee absent from me now.Some bid their dead "Good night!" but I will say"Good morrow to dear Charles!" for it is day.
Now that the public sorrow doth subside,And those slight tears which custom springs are dried;While all the rich and outside mourners passHome from thy dust, to empty their own glass;I—who the throng affect not, nor their state—Steal to thy grave undress'd, to meditateOn our sad loss, accompanied by none,An obscure mourner that would weep alone.So, when the world's great luminary sets,Some scarce known star into the zenith gets,Twinkles and curls, a weak but willing spark,As glow-worms here do glitter in the dark.Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles thereAn humble love unto the light doth bear,And true devotion from an hermit's cellWill Heav'n's kind King as soon reach and as well,As that which from rich shrines and altars flies,Led by ascending incense to the skies:'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the mightOf love makes dark things wait upon the bright,And from my sad retirements calls me forth,The just recorder of thy death and worth.Long didst thou live—if length be measured byThe tedious reign of our calamity—And counter to all storms and changes stillKept'st the same temper, and the selfsame will.Though trials came as duly as the day,And in such mists, that none could see his way,Yet thee I found still virtuous, and sawThe sun give clouds, and Charles give both the law.When private interest did all hearts bend,And wild dissents the public peace did rend,Thou, neither won, nor worn, wert still thyself,Not aw'd by force, nor basely brib'd with pelf.What the insuperable stream of timesDid dash thee with, those suff'rings were, not crimes.So the bright sun eclipses bears; and we,Because then passive, blame him not. Should heFor enforc'd shades, and the moon's ruder veilMuch nearer us than him, be judg'd to fail?Who traduce thee, so err. As poisons byCorrection are made antidotes, so thyJust soul did turn ev'n hurtful things to good,Us'd bad laws so they drew not tears, nor blood.Heav'n was thy aim, and thy great, rare designWas not to lord it here, but there to shine.Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e'erThou pray'd'st for here was peace, and glory there.For though thy course in Time's long progress fellOn a sad age, when war and open'd hellLicens'd all arts and sects, and made it freeTo thrive by fraud, and blood, and blasphemy:Yet thou thy just inheritance didst byNo sacrilege, nor pillage multiply.No rapine swell'd thy state, no bribes, nor fees,Our new oppressors' best annuities.Such clean pure hands hadst thou! and for thy heart,Man's secret region, and his noblest part;Since I was privy to't, and had the keyOf that fair room, where thy bright spirit lay,I must affirm it did as much surpassMost I have known, as the clear sky doth glass.Constant and kind, and plain, and meek, and mildIt was, and with no new conceits defil'd.Busy, but sacred thoughts—like bees—did stillWithin it stir, and strive unto that hillWhere redeem'd spirits, evermore alive,After their work is done, ascend and hive.No outward tumults reach'd this inward place:'Twas holy ground, where peace, and love, and graceKept house, where the immortal restless life,In a most dutiful and pious strife,Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order still;The will serv'd God, and ev'ry sense the will!In this safe state Death met thee, Death, which isBut a kind usher of the good to bliss,Therefore to weep because thy course is run,Or droop like flow'rs, which lately lost the sun,I cannot yield, since Faith will not permitA tenure got by conquest to the pit.For the great Victor fought for us, and HeCounts ev'ry dust that is laid up of thee.Besides, Death now grows decrepit, and hathSpent the most part both of its time and wrath.That thick, black night, which mankind fear'd, is tornBy troops of stars, and the bright day's forlorn.The next glad news—most glad unto the just!—Will be the trumpet's summons from the dust.Then I'll not grieve; nay, more, I'll not allowMy soul should think thee absent from me now.Some bid their dead "Good night!" but I will say"Good morrow to dear Charles!" for it is day.
It is perform'd! and thy great name doth runThrough ev'ry sign, an everlasting sun,Not planet-like, but fixed; and we can seeThy genius stand still in his apogee.For how canst thou an aux eternal miss,Where ev'ry house thy exaltation is?Here's no ecliptic threatens thee with night,Although the wiser few take in thy light.They are not at that glorious pitch, to beIn a conjunction with divinity.Could we partake some oblique ray of thine,Salute thee in a sextile, or a trine,It were enough; but thou art flown so high,The telescope is turn'd a common eye.Had the grave Chaldee liv'd thy book to see,He had known no astrology but thee;Nay, more—for I believe't—thou shouldst have beenTutor to all his planets, and to him.Thus, whosoever reads thee, his charm'd senseProves captive to thy zodiac's influence.Were it not foul to err so, I should lookHere for the Rabbins' universal book:And say, their fancies did but dream of thee,When first they doted on that mystery.Each line's a _via lactea_, where we maySee thy fair steps, and tread that happy wayThy genius led thee in. Still I will beLodg'd in some sign, some face, and some degreeOf thy bright zodiac; thus I'll teach my senseTo move by that, and thee th' intelligence.
It is perform'd! and thy great name doth runThrough ev'ry sign, an everlasting sun,Not planet-like, but fixed; and we can seeThy genius stand still in his apogee.For how canst thou an aux eternal miss,Where ev'ry house thy exaltation is?Here's no ecliptic threatens thee with night,Although the wiser few take in thy light.They are not at that glorious pitch, to beIn a conjunction with divinity.Could we partake some oblique ray of thine,Salute thee in a sextile, or a trine,It were enough; but thou art flown so high,The telescope is turn'd a common eye.Had the grave Chaldee liv'd thy book to see,He had known no astrology but thee;Nay, more—for I believe't—thou shouldst have beenTutor to all his planets, and to him.Thus, whosoever reads thee, his charm'd senseProves captive to thy zodiac's influence.Were it not foul to err so, I should lookHere for the Rabbins' universal book:And say, their fancies did but dream of thee,When first they doted on that mystery.Each line's a _via lactea_, where we maySee thy fair steps, and tread that happy wayThy genius led thee in. Still I will beLodg'd in some sign, some face, and some degreeOf thy bright zodiac; thus I'll teach my senseTo move by that, and thee th' intelligence.
Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when weTook the pure air in its simplicity,And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants wentCringing, and pass'd each step some compliment?What strange, fantastic diagrams they drewWith legs and arms; the like we never knewIn Euclid, Archimede, nor all of thoseWhose learnèd lines are neither verse nor prose?What store of lace was there? how did the goldRun in rich traces, but withal made boldTo measure the proud things, and so derideThe fops with that, which was part of their pride?How did they point at us, and boldly call,As if we had been vassals to them all,Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fateTo yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state?Of all ambitions, this was not the least,Whose drift translated man into a beast.What blind discourse the heroes did afford!This lady was their friend, and such a lord.How much of blood was in it! one could tellHe came from Bevis and his Arundel;Morglay was yet with him, and he could doMore feats with it than his old grandsire too.Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee,Who canst produce a nobler pedigree,And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kinTo some bright star, or to a cherubin?When these in their profuse moods spend the night,With the same sins they drive away the light.Thy learnèd thrift puts her to use, while sheReveals her fiery volume unto thee;And looking on the separated skies,And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes,Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and barsTo heav'n, and there conversest with the stars.Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that beObscur'd with nothing but their privacy,And missing but the false world's glories doMiss all those vices which attend them too!Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise;Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.
Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when weTook the pure air in its simplicity,And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants wentCringing, and pass'd each step some compliment?What strange, fantastic diagrams they drewWith legs and arms; the like we never knewIn Euclid, Archimede, nor all of thoseWhose learnèd lines are neither verse nor prose?What store of lace was there? how did the goldRun in rich traces, but withal made boldTo measure the proud things, and so derideThe fops with that, which was part of their pride?How did they point at us, and boldly call,As if we had been vassals to them all,Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fateTo yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state?Of all ambitions, this was not the least,Whose drift translated man into a beast.What blind discourse the heroes did afford!This lady was their friend, and such a lord.How much of blood was in it! one could tellHe came from Bevis and his Arundel;Morglay was yet with him, and he could doMore feats with it than his old grandsire too.Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee,Who canst produce a nobler pedigree,And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kinTo some bright star, or to a cherubin?When these in their profuse moods spend the night,With the same sins they drive away the light.Thy learnèd thrift puts her to use, while sheReveals her fiery volume unto thee;And looking on the separated skies,And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes,Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and barsTo heav'n, and there conversest with the stars.Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that beObscur'd with nothing but their privacy,And missing but the false world's glories doMiss all those vices which attend them too!Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise;Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.
Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst showThe ruins of mankind, and let us knowHow frail a thing is flesh! though we see thereBut empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here.They are not dead, but full of blood again;I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein.Triumph not o'er their dust; whoever looksIn here, shall find their brains all in their books.Nor is't old Palestine alone survives;Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's Lives.The stones, which sometimes danc'd unto the strainOf Orpheus, here do lodge his Muse again.And you, the Roman spirits, learning hasMade your lives longer than your empire was.Cæsar had perish'd from the world of menHad not his sword been rescu'd by his pen.Rare Seneca, how lasting is thy breath!Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to death.How dull the expert tyrant was, to lookFor that in thee which livèd in thy book!Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and weCommence, when writing, our eternity.Lucilius here I can behold, and seeHis counsels and his life proceed from thee.But what care I to whom thy Letters be?I change the name, and thou dost write to me;And in this age, as sad almost as thine,Thy stately Consolations are mine.Poor earth! what though thy viler dust enrollsThe frail enclosures of these mighty souls?Their graves are all upon record; not oneBut is as bright and open as the sun.And though some part of them obscurely fell,And perish'd in an unknown, private cell,Yet in their books they found a glorious wayTo live unto the Resurrection-day!Most noble Bodley! we are bound to theeFor no small part of our eternity.Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound,Nor that new mode which doth old states confound.Thy legacies another way did go:Nor were they left to those would spend them so.Thy safe, discreet expense on us did flow;Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now.Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever weHereafter write, 'tis thy posterity.This is thy monument! here thou shalt standTill the times fail in their last grain of sand.And wheresoe'er thy silent relics keep,This tomb will never let thine honour sleep,Still we shall think upon thee; all our fameMeets here to speak one letter of thy name.Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe,Where every book is thy large epitaph.
Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst showThe ruins of mankind, and let us knowHow frail a thing is flesh! though we see thereBut empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here.They are not dead, but full of blood again;I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein.Triumph not o'er their dust; whoever looksIn here, shall find their brains all in their books.Nor is't old Palestine alone survives;Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's Lives.The stones, which sometimes danc'd unto the strainOf Orpheus, here do lodge his Muse again.And you, the Roman spirits, learning hasMade your lives longer than your empire was.Cæsar had perish'd from the world of menHad not his sword been rescu'd by his pen.Rare Seneca, how lasting is thy breath!Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to death.How dull the expert tyrant was, to lookFor that in thee which livèd in thy book!Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and weCommence, when writing, our eternity.Lucilius here I can behold, and seeHis counsels and his life proceed from thee.But what care I to whom thy Letters be?I change the name, and thou dost write to me;And in this age, as sad almost as thine,Thy stately Consolations are mine.Poor earth! what though thy viler dust enrollsThe frail enclosures of these mighty souls?Their graves are all upon record; not oneBut is as bright and open as the sun.And though some part of them obscurely fell,And perish'd in an unknown, private cell,Yet in their books they found a glorious wayTo live unto the Resurrection-day!Most noble Bodley! we are bound to theeFor no small part of our eternity.Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound,Nor that new mode which doth old states confound.Thy legacies another way did go:Nor were they left to those would spend them so.Thy safe, discreet expense on us did flow;Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now.Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever weHereafter write, 'tis thy posterity.This is thy monument! here thou shalt standTill the times fail in their last grain of sand.And wheresoe'er thy silent relics keep,This tomb will never let thine honour sleep,Still we shall think upon thee; all our fameMeets here to speak one letter of thy name.Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe,Where every book is thy large epitaph.
For shame desist, why shouldst thou seek my fall?It cannot make thee more monarchical.Leave off; thy empire is already built;To ruin me were to enlarge thy guilt,Not thy prerogative. I am not heMust be the measure to thy victory.The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgraceIf in thy annals I should make a clause.The future ages will disclose such menShall be the glory, and the end of them.Nor do I flatter. So long as there beDescents in Nature, or posterity,There must be fortunes; whether they be good,As swimming in thy tide and plenteous flood,Or stuck fast in the shallow ebb, when weMiss to deserve thy gorgeous charity.Thus, Fortune, the great world thy period is;Nature and you are parallels in this.But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone,I am resolv'd, I will not be undone.I scorn thy trash, and thee: nay, more, I doDespise myself, because thy subject too.Name me heir to thy malice, and I'll be;Thy hate's the best inheritance for me.I care not for your wondrous hat and purse,Make me a Fortunatus with thy curse.How careful of myself then should I be,Were I neglected by the world and thee?Why dost thou tempt me with thy dirty ore,And with thy riches make my soul so poor?My fancy's pris'ner to thy gold and thee,Thy favours rob me of my liberty.I'll to my speculations. Is't bestTo be confin'd to some dark, narrow chestAnd idolize thy stamps, when I may beLord of all Nature, and not slave to thee?The world's my palace. I'll contemplate there,And make my progress into ev'ry sphere.The chambers of the air are mine; those threeWell-furnish'd stories my possession be.I hold them allin capite, and standPropp'd by my fancy there. I scorn your land,It lies so far below me. Here I seeHow all the sacred stars do circle me.Thou to the great giv'st rich food, and I doWant no content; I feed on manna too.They have their tapers; I gaze without fearOn flying lamps and flaming comets here.Their wanton flesh in silks and purple shrouds,And fancy wraps me in a robe of clouds.There some delicious beauty they may woo,And I have Nature for my mistress too.But these are mean; the archetype I can see,And humbly touch the hem of majesty.The power of my soul is such, I canExpire, and so analyze all that's man.First my dull clay I give unto the Earth,Our common mother, which gives all their birth.My growing faculties I send as soon,Whence first I took them, to the humid moon.All subtleties and every cunning artTo witty Mercury I do impart.Those fond affections which made me a slaveTo handsome faces, Venus, thou shalt have.And saucy pride—if there was aught in me—Sol, I return it to thy royalty.My daring rashness and presumptions beTo Mars himself an equal legacy.My ill-plac'd avarice—sure 'tis but small—Jove, to thy flames I do bequeath it all.And my false magic, which I did believe,And mystic lies, to Saturn I do give.My dark imaginations rest you there,This is your grave and superstitious sphere.Get up, my disentangled soul, thy fireIs now refin'd, and nothing left to tireOr clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flightHath brought me to the empyrean light.I am a sep'rate essence, and can seeThe emanations of the Deity,And how they pass the seraphims, and runThrough ev'ry throne and domination.So rushing through the guard the sacred streamsFlow to the neighbour stars, and in their beams—A glorious cataract!—descend to earth,And give impressions unto ev'ry birth.With angels now and spirits I do dwell,And here it is my nature to do well.Thus, though my body you confinèd see,My boundless thoughts have their ubiquity.And shall I then forsake the stars and signs,To dote upon thy dark and cursèd mines?Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buyGuiana with the loss of all the sky?Intelligences shall I leave, and beFamiliar only with mortality?Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shallMy purse and fancy be symmetrical?Are there no objects left but one? must weIn gaining that, lose our variety?Fortune, this is the reason I refuseThy wealth; it puts my books all out of use.'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mindIs big with speculation, when I findMy purse as Randolph's was, and I confessThere is no blessing to an emptiness!The species of all things to me resortAnd dwell then in my breast, as in their port.Then leave to court me with thy hated store;Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.
For shame desist, why shouldst thou seek my fall?It cannot make thee more monarchical.Leave off; thy empire is already built;To ruin me were to enlarge thy guilt,Not thy prerogative. I am not heMust be the measure to thy victory.The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgraceIf in thy annals I should make a clause.The future ages will disclose such menShall be the glory, and the end of them.Nor do I flatter. So long as there beDescents in Nature, or posterity,There must be fortunes; whether they be good,As swimming in thy tide and plenteous flood,Or stuck fast in the shallow ebb, when weMiss to deserve thy gorgeous charity.Thus, Fortune, the great world thy period is;Nature and you are parallels in this.But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone,I am resolv'd, I will not be undone.I scorn thy trash, and thee: nay, more, I doDespise myself, because thy subject too.Name me heir to thy malice, and I'll be;Thy hate's the best inheritance for me.I care not for your wondrous hat and purse,Make me a Fortunatus with thy curse.How careful of myself then should I be,Were I neglected by the world and thee?Why dost thou tempt me with thy dirty ore,And with thy riches make my soul so poor?My fancy's pris'ner to thy gold and thee,Thy favours rob me of my liberty.I'll to my speculations. Is't bestTo be confin'd to some dark, narrow chestAnd idolize thy stamps, when I may beLord of all Nature, and not slave to thee?The world's my palace. I'll contemplate there,And make my progress into ev'ry sphere.The chambers of the air are mine; those threeWell-furnish'd stories my possession be.I hold them allin capite, and standPropp'd by my fancy there. I scorn your land,It lies so far below me. Here I seeHow all the sacred stars do circle me.Thou to the great giv'st rich food, and I doWant no content; I feed on manna too.They have their tapers; I gaze without fearOn flying lamps and flaming comets here.Their wanton flesh in silks and purple shrouds,And fancy wraps me in a robe of clouds.There some delicious beauty they may woo,And I have Nature for my mistress too.But these are mean; the archetype I can see,And humbly touch the hem of majesty.The power of my soul is such, I canExpire, and so analyze all that's man.First my dull clay I give unto the Earth,Our common mother, which gives all their birth.My growing faculties I send as soon,Whence first I took them, to the humid moon.All subtleties and every cunning artTo witty Mercury I do impart.Those fond affections which made me a slaveTo handsome faces, Venus, thou shalt have.And saucy pride—if there was aught in me—Sol, I return it to thy royalty.My daring rashness and presumptions beTo Mars himself an equal legacy.My ill-plac'd avarice—sure 'tis but small—Jove, to thy flames I do bequeath it all.And my false magic, which I did believe,And mystic lies, to Saturn I do give.My dark imaginations rest you there,This is your grave and superstitious sphere.Get up, my disentangled soul, thy fireIs now refin'd, and nothing left to tireOr clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flightHath brought me to the empyrean light.I am a sep'rate essence, and can seeThe emanations of the Deity,And how they pass the seraphims, and runThrough ev'ry throne and domination.So rushing through the guard the sacred streamsFlow to the neighbour stars, and in their beams—A glorious cataract!—descend to earth,And give impressions unto ev'ry birth.With angels now and spirits I do dwell,And here it is my nature to do well.Thus, though my body you confinèd see,My boundless thoughts have their ubiquity.And shall I then forsake the stars and signs,To dote upon thy dark and cursèd mines?Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buyGuiana with the loss of all the sky?Intelligences shall I leave, and beFamiliar only with mortality?Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shallMy purse and fancy be symmetrical?Are there no objects left but one? must weIn gaining that, lose our variety?Fortune, this is the reason I refuseThy wealth; it puts my books all out of use.'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mindIs big with speculation, when I findMy purse as Randolph's was, and I confessThere is no blessing to an emptiness!The species of all things to me resortAnd dwell then in my breast, as in their port.Then leave to court me with thy hated store;Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.
So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires,To his warm Indies the bright sun retires.Where, in those provinces of gold and spice,Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes,Which, so refresh'd, in their return conveyFire into rubies, into crystals, day;And prove, that light in kinder climates canWork more on senseless stones, than here on man.But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take inBoth light and heat, can love and wisdom spinInto one thread, and with that firmly tieThe same bright blessings on posterity:Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown,Shall, with your name, descend still to your own.When I am dead, and malice or neglectThe worst they can upon my dust reflect;—For poets yet have left no names, but suchAs men have envied or despis'd too much—You above both—and what state more excels,Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?—To after ages shall remain entire,And shine still spotless, like your planet's fire.No single lustre neither; the accessOf your fair love will yours adorn and bless;Till, from that bright conjunction, men may viewA constellation circling her and you.So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-bedsFirst peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads,Till yearly blessings so increase their store,Those two can number two-and-twenty more,And the fair bank—by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd—With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound,Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads,Gives them for garlands to the best of heads.Then late posterity—if chance, or someWeak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb,Shall tell them who the poet was, and howHe liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know—Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring,With lights and hymns, and for an offeringThere vow this truth, that love—which in old timesWas censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimesIf hearts mend not—did for thy sake in meFind both his eyes, and all foretell and see.
So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires,To his warm Indies the bright sun retires.Where, in those provinces of gold and spice,Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes,Which, so refresh'd, in their return conveyFire into rubies, into crystals, day;And prove, that light in kinder climates canWork more on senseless stones, than here on man.But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take inBoth light and heat, can love and wisdom spinInto one thread, and with that firmly tieThe same bright blessings on posterity:Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown,Shall, with your name, descend still to your own.When I am dead, and malice or neglectThe worst they can upon my dust reflect;—For poets yet have left no names, but suchAs men have envied or despis'd too much—You above both—and what state more excels,Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?—To after ages shall remain entire,And shine still spotless, like your planet's fire.No single lustre neither; the accessOf your fair love will yours adorn and bless;Till, from that bright conjunction, men may viewA constellation circling her and you.So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-bedsFirst peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads,Till yearly blessings so increase their store,Those two can number two-and-twenty more,And the fair bank—by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd—With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound,Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads,Gives them for garlands to the best of heads.Then late posterity—if chance, or someWeak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb,Shall tell them who the poet was, and howHe liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know—Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring,With lights and hymns, and for an offeringThere vow this truth, that love—which in old timesWas censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimesIf hearts mend not—did for thy sake in meFind both his eyes, and all foretell and see.
Now I have seen her; and by CupidThe young Medusa made me stupid!A face, that hath no lovers slain,Wants forces, and is near disdain.For every fop will freely peepAt majesty that is asleep.But she—fair tyrant!—hates to beGaz'd on with such impunity.Whose prudent rigour bravely bearsAnd scorns the trick of whining tears,Or sighs, those false alarms of grief,Which kill not, but afford relief.Nor is it thy hard fate to beAlone in this calamity,Since I who came but to be gone,Am plagu'd for merely looking on.Mark from her forehead to her footWhat charming sweets are there to do't.A head adorn'd with all those gloriesThat wit hath shadow'd in quaint stories,Or pencil with rich colours drewIn imitation of the true.Her hair, laid out in curious setsAnd twists, doth show like silken nets,Where—since he play'd at hit or miss—The god of Love her pris'ner is,And fluttering with his skittish wingsPuts all her locks in curls and rings.Like twinkling stars her eyes inviteAll gazers to so sweet a light,But then two archèd clouds of brownStand o'er, and guard them with a frown.Beneath these rays of her bright eyes,Beauty's rich bed of blushes lies.Blushes which lightning-like come on,Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon;But leave the lilies of her skinAs fair as ever, and run in,Like swift salutes—which dull paint scorn—'Twixt a white noon and crimson morn.What coral can her lips resemble?For hers are warm, swell, melt, and tremble:And if you dare contend for red,This is alive, the other dead.Her equal teeth—above, below—All of a size and smoothness grow.Where under close restraint and awe—Which is the maiden tyrant law—Like a cag'd, sullen linnet, dwellsHer tongue, the key to potent spells.Her skin, like heav'n when calm and bright,Shows a rich azure under white,With touch more soft than heart supposes,And breath as sweet as new-blown roses.Betwixt this headland and the main,Which is a rich and flow'ry plain,Lies her fair neck, so fine and slender,That gently how you please 'twill bend her.This leads you to her heart, which ta'en,Pants under sheets of whitest lawn,And at the first seems much distress'd,But, nobly treated, lies at rest.Here, like two balls of new fall'n snow,Her breasts, Love's native pillows, grow;And out of each a rose-bud peeps,Which infant Beauty sucking sleeps.Say now, my Stoic, that mak'st sour facesAt all the beauties and the graces,That criest, unclean! though known thyselfTo ev'ry coarse and dirty shelf:Couldst thou but see a piece like this,A piece so full of sweets and bliss,In shape so rare, in soul so rich,Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?
Now I have seen her; and by CupidThe young Medusa made me stupid!A face, that hath no lovers slain,Wants forces, and is near disdain.For every fop will freely peepAt majesty that is asleep.But she—fair tyrant!—hates to beGaz'd on with such impunity.Whose prudent rigour bravely bearsAnd scorns the trick of whining tears,Or sighs, those false alarms of grief,Which kill not, but afford relief.Nor is it thy hard fate to beAlone in this calamity,Since I who came but to be gone,Am plagu'd for merely looking on.Mark from her forehead to her footWhat charming sweets are there to do't.A head adorn'd with all those gloriesThat wit hath shadow'd in quaint stories,Or pencil with rich colours drewIn imitation of the true.Her hair, laid out in curious setsAnd twists, doth show like silken nets,Where—since he play'd at hit or miss—The god of Love her pris'ner is,And fluttering with his skittish wingsPuts all her locks in curls and rings.Like twinkling stars her eyes inviteAll gazers to so sweet a light,But then two archèd clouds of brownStand o'er, and guard them with a frown.Beneath these rays of her bright eyes,Beauty's rich bed of blushes lies.Blushes which lightning-like come on,Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon;But leave the lilies of her skinAs fair as ever, and run in,Like swift salutes—which dull paint scorn—'Twixt a white noon and crimson morn.What coral can her lips resemble?For hers are warm, swell, melt, and tremble:And if you dare contend for red,This is alive, the other dead.Her equal teeth—above, below—All of a size and smoothness grow.Where under close restraint and awe—Which is the maiden tyrant law—Like a cag'd, sullen linnet, dwellsHer tongue, the key to potent spells.Her skin, like heav'n when calm and bright,Shows a rich azure under white,With touch more soft than heart supposes,And breath as sweet as new-blown roses.Betwixt this headland and the main,Which is a rich and flow'ry plain,Lies her fair neck, so fine and slender,That gently how you please 'twill bend her.This leads you to her heart, which ta'en,Pants under sheets of whitest lawn,And at the first seems much distress'd,But, nobly treated, lies at rest.Here, like two balls of new fall'n snow,Her breasts, Love's native pillows, grow;And out of each a rose-bud peeps,Which infant Beauty sucking sleeps.Say now, my Stoic, that mak'st sour facesAt all the beauties and the graces,That criest, unclean! though known thyselfTo ev'ry coarse and dirty shelf:Couldst thou but see a piece like this,A piece so full of sweets and bliss,In shape so rare, in soul so rich,Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?