He that cannot see well, let him go softly.Bacon.

He that cannot see well, let him go softly.

Bacon.

FairDaffodils, we weep to seeYou haste away so soon;As yet the early-rising sunHas not attain'd his noon.Stay, stay,Until the hasting dayHas runBut to the even-song;And, having pray'd together, weWill go with you along.We have short time to stay, as you;We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay,As you, or anything.We dieAs your hours do, and dryAway,Like to the summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dew,Ne'er to be found again.

We have short time to stay, as you;We have as short a spring;As quick a growth to meet decay,As you, or anything.We dieAs your hours do, and dryAway,Like to the summer's rain;Or as the pearls of morning's dew,Ne'er to be found again.

Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for a hermitage:If I have freedom in my love,And in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.Richard Lovelace.—1618-1658.

Richard Lovelace.—1618-1658.

Virtuesand discourses are, like friends, necessary in all fortunes; but those are the best, which are friends in our sadnesses, and support us in our sorrows and sad accidents: and in this sense, no man that is virtuous can be friendless; nor hath any man reason to complain of the Divine Providence, or accuse the public disorder of things, or in his own infelicity, since God hath appointed one remedy for all the evils in the world, and that is a contented spirit: for this alone makes a man pass through fire, and not be scorched; through seas, and not be drowned; through hunger and nakedness, and want nothing. For since all the evil in the world consists in the disagreeing between the object and the appetite, as when a man hath what he desires not, or desires what he hath not, or desires amiss; he that composes his spirit to the present accident, hath variety of instances for his virtue, but none to trouble him, because his desires enlarge not beyond his present fortune: and a wise man is placed in the variety of chances, like the nave or centre of a wheel, in the midst of all the circumvolutions and changes of posture, without violence or change, save that it turns gently in compliance with its changed parts, and is indifferent which part is up, and which is down; for there is some virtue or other to be exercised, whatever happens, either patience or thanksgiving, love or fear, moderation or humility, charity or contentedness, and they are every one of them equally in order to his greatend and immortal felicity: and beauty is not made by white or red, by black eyes and a round face, by a straight body and a smooth skin; but by a proportion to the fancy. No rules can make amiability; our minds and apprehensions make that: and so is our felicity; and we may be reconciled to poverty and a low fortune, if we suffer contentedness and the grace of God to make the proportions. For no man is poor that does not think himself so: but if, in a full fortune, with impatience he desires more, he proclaims his wants and his beggarly condition. But because this grace of contentedness was the sum of all the old moral philosophy, and a great duty in Christianity, and of most universal use in the whole course of our lives, and the only instrument to ease the burdens of the world and the enmities of sad chances, it will not be amiss to press it by the proper arguments by which God hath bound it upon our spirits; it being fastened by reason and religion, by duty and interest, by necessity and conveniency, by example, and by the proposition of excellent rewards, no less than peace and felicity.Contentedness in all estates is a duty of religion; it is the great reasonableness of complying with the Divine Providence, which governs all the world, and hath so ordered us in the administration of his great family. He were a strange fool that should be angry because dogs and sheep need no shoes, and yet himself is full of care to get some. God hath supplied those needs to them by natural provisions, and to thee by an artificial: for he hath given thee reason to learn a trade, or some means to make or buy them, so that it only differs in the manner of our provision: and which had you rather want, shoes or reason? and my patron, that hath given me a farm, is freer to me than if he gives a loaf ready baked. But,however, all these gifts come from him, and therefore it is fit he should dispense them as he pleases; and if we murmur here, we may, at the next melancholy, be troubled that God did not make us to be angels or stars. For if that which we are or have do not content us, we may be troubled for every thing in the world which is beside our being or our possessions.God is the master of the scenes; we must not choose which part we shall act; it concerns us only to be careful that we do it well, always saying, "If this please God, let it be as it is:" and we, who pray that God's will may be done in earth as it is in heaven, must remember that the angels do whatsoever is commanded them, and go wherever they are sent, and refuse no circumstances; and if their employment be crossed by a higher decree, they sit down in peace, and rejoice in the event; and when the angel of Judea could not prevail in behalf of the people committed to his charge, because the angel of Persia opposed it, he only told the story at the command of God, and was as content, and worshipped with as great an ecstasy in his proportion, as the prevailing spirit. Do thou so likewise: keep the station where God hath placed you, and you shall never long for things without, but sit at home, feasting upon the Divine Providence and thy own reason, by which we are taught that it is necessary and reasonable to submit to God.For is not all the world God's family? Are not we his creatures? Are we not as clay in the hand of the potter? Do we not live upon his meat, and move by his strength, and do our work by his light? Are we any thing but what we are from him? And shall there be a mutiny among the flocks and herds, because their lord or their shepherd chooses their pastures, and suffersthem not to wander into deserts and unknown ways? If we choose, we do it so foolishly that we cannot like it long, and most commonly not at all: but God, who can do what he pleases, is wise to choose safely for us, affectionate to comply with our needs, and powerful to execute all his wise decrees. Here, therefore, is the wisdom of the contented man, to let God choose for him; for when we have given up our wills to him, and stand in that station of the battle where our great General hath placed us, our spirits must needs rest while our conditions have for their security the power, the wisdom, and the charity of God.Contentedness in all accidents brings great peace of spirit, and is the great and only instrument of temporal felicity. It removes the sting from the accident, and makes a man not to depend upon chance and the uncertain dispositions of men for his well-being, but only on God and his own spirit. We ourselves make our fortunes good or bad; and when God lets loose a tyrant upon us, or a sickness, or scorn, or a lessened fortune, if we fear to die, or know not to be patient, or are proud or covetous, then the calamity sits heavy on us. But if we know how to manage a noble principle, and fear not death so much as a dishonest action, and think impatience a worse evil than a fever, and pride to be the biggest disgrace, and poverty to be infinitely desirable before the torments of covetousness; then we who now think vice to be so easy, and make it so familiar, and think the cure so impossible, shall quickly be of another mind, and reckon these accidents amongst things eligible.But no man can be happy that hath great hopes and great fears of things without, and events depending upon other men, or upon the chances of fortune. The rewardsof virtue are certain, and our provisions for our natural support are certain; or if we want meat till we die, then we die of that disease—and there are many worse than to die with an atrophy or consumption, or unapt and coarser nourishment. But he that suffers a transporting passion concerning things within the power of others, is free from sorrow and amazement no longer than his enemy shall give him leave; and it is ten to one but he shall be smitten then and there where it shall most trouble him; for so the adder teaches us where to strike, by her curious and fearful defending of her head. The old Stoics, when you told them of a sad story, would still answer, "What is that to me?" Yes, for the tyrant hath sentenced you also to prison. Well, what is that? He will put a chain upon my leg; but he cannot bind my soul. No; but he will kill you. Then I will die. If presently, let me go, that I may presently be freer than himself: but if not till anon, or to-morrow, I will dine first, or sleep, or do what reason or nature calls for, as at other times. This, in Gentile philosophy, is the same with the discourse of St. Paul, "I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed, both to be full and to be hungry; both to abound and suffer need."We are in the world like men playing at tables; the chance is not in our power, but to play it is; and when it is fallen we must manage it as we can: and let nothing trouble us, but when we do a base action, or speak like a fool, or think wickedly,—these things God hath put into our powers; but concerning those things which are wholly in the choice of another, they cannot fall under our deliberation, and therefore neither are they fit forour passions. My fear may make me miserable, but it cannot prevent what another hath in his power and purpose; and prosperities can only be enjoyed by them who fear not at all to lose them; since the amazement and passion concerning the future takes off all the pleasure of the present possession. Therefore, if thou hast lost thy land, do not also lose thy constancy; and if thou must die a little sooner, yet do not die impatiently. For no chance is evil to him that is content: and to a man nothing is miserable unless it be unreasonable. No man can make another man to be his slave unless he hath first enslaved himself to life and death, to pleasure or pain, to hope or fear: command these passions, and you are freer than the Parthian kings.

Contentedness in all estates is a duty of religion; it is the great reasonableness of complying with the Divine Providence, which governs all the world, and hath so ordered us in the administration of his great family. He were a strange fool that should be angry because dogs and sheep need no shoes, and yet himself is full of care to get some. God hath supplied those needs to them by natural provisions, and to thee by an artificial: for he hath given thee reason to learn a trade, or some means to make or buy them, so that it only differs in the manner of our provision: and which had you rather want, shoes or reason? and my patron, that hath given me a farm, is freer to me than if he gives a loaf ready baked. But,however, all these gifts come from him, and therefore it is fit he should dispense them as he pleases; and if we murmur here, we may, at the next melancholy, be troubled that God did not make us to be angels or stars. For if that which we are or have do not content us, we may be troubled for every thing in the world which is beside our being or our possessions.

God is the master of the scenes; we must not choose which part we shall act; it concerns us only to be careful that we do it well, always saying, "If this please God, let it be as it is:" and we, who pray that God's will may be done in earth as it is in heaven, must remember that the angels do whatsoever is commanded them, and go wherever they are sent, and refuse no circumstances; and if their employment be crossed by a higher decree, they sit down in peace, and rejoice in the event; and when the angel of Judea could not prevail in behalf of the people committed to his charge, because the angel of Persia opposed it, he only told the story at the command of God, and was as content, and worshipped with as great an ecstasy in his proportion, as the prevailing spirit. Do thou so likewise: keep the station where God hath placed you, and you shall never long for things without, but sit at home, feasting upon the Divine Providence and thy own reason, by which we are taught that it is necessary and reasonable to submit to God.

For is not all the world God's family? Are not we his creatures? Are we not as clay in the hand of the potter? Do we not live upon his meat, and move by his strength, and do our work by his light? Are we any thing but what we are from him? And shall there be a mutiny among the flocks and herds, because their lord or their shepherd chooses their pastures, and suffersthem not to wander into deserts and unknown ways? If we choose, we do it so foolishly that we cannot like it long, and most commonly not at all: but God, who can do what he pleases, is wise to choose safely for us, affectionate to comply with our needs, and powerful to execute all his wise decrees. Here, therefore, is the wisdom of the contented man, to let God choose for him; for when we have given up our wills to him, and stand in that station of the battle where our great General hath placed us, our spirits must needs rest while our conditions have for their security the power, the wisdom, and the charity of God.

Contentedness in all accidents brings great peace of spirit, and is the great and only instrument of temporal felicity. It removes the sting from the accident, and makes a man not to depend upon chance and the uncertain dispositions of men for his well-being, but only on God and his own spirit. We ourselves make our fortunes good or bad; and when God lets loose a tyrant upon us, or a sickness, or scorn, or a lessened fortune, if we fear to die, or know not to be patient, or are proud or covetous, then the calamity sits heavy on us. But if we know how to manage a noble principle, and fear not death so much as a dishonest action, and think impatience a worse evil than a fever, and pride to be the biggest disgrace, and poverty to be infinitely desirable before the torments of covetousness; then we who now think vice to be so easy, and make it so familiar, and think the cure so impossible, shall quickly be of another mind, and reckon these accidents amongst things eligible.

But no man can be happy that hath great hopes and great fears of things without, and events depending upon other men, or upon the chances of fortune. The rewardsof virtue are certain, and our provisions for our natural support are certain; or if we want meat till we die, then we die of that disease—and there are many worse than to die with an atrophy or consumption, or unapt and coarser nourishment. But he that suffers a transporting passion concerning things within the power of others, is free from sorrow and amazement no longer than his enemy shall give him leave; and it is ten to one but he shall be smitten then and there where it shall most trouble him; for so the adder teaches us where to strike, by her curious and fearful defending of her head. The old Stoics, when you told them of a sad story, would still answer, "What is that to me?" Yes, for the tyrant hath sentenced you also to prison. Well, what is that? He will put a chain upon my leg; but he cannot bind my soul. No; but he will kill you. Then I will die. If presently, let me go, that I may presently be freer than himself: but if not till anon, or to-morrow, I will dine first, or sleep, or do what reason or nature calls for, as at other times. This, in Gentile philosophy, is the same with the discourse of St. Paul, "I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed, both to be full and to be hungry; both to abound and suffer need."

We are in the world like men playing at tables; the chance is not in our power, but to play it is; and when it is fallen we must manage it as we can: and let nothing trouble us, but when we do a base action, or speak like a fool, or think wickedly,—these things God hath put into our powers; but concerning those things which are wholly in the choice of another, they cannot fall under our deliberation, and therefore neither are they fit forour passions. My fear may make me miserable, but it cannot prevent what another hath in his power and purpose; and prosperities can only be enjoyed by them who fear not at all to lose them; since the amazement and passion concerning the future takes off all the pleasure of the present possession. Therefore, if thou hast lost thy land, do not also lose thy constancy; and if thou must die a little sooner, yet do not die impatiently. For no chance is evil to him that is content: and to a man nothing is miserable unless it be unreasonable. No man can make another man to be his slave unless he hath first enslaved himself to life and death, to pleasure or pain, to hope or fear: command these passions, and you are freer than the Parthian kings.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind,To war and arms I fly.True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you, too, shall adore,—I could not love thee, dear, so much,Lov'd I not honor more.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,That from the nunneryOf thy chaste breast and quiet mind,To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,The first foe in the field;And with a stronger faith embraceA sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you, too, shall adore,—I could not love thee, dear, so much,Lov'd I not honor more.

Venator.—O my good master, this morning walk has been spent to my great pleasure and wonder; but I pray, when shall I have your direction how to make artificial flies, like to those that the trout loves best, and also how to use them?Piscator.—My honest scholar, it is now past five of the clock; we will fish till nine, and then go to breakfast. Go you to yon sycamore-tree, and hide your bottle of drink under the hollow root of it; for about that time, and in that place, we will make a brave breakfast with a piece of powdered beef, and a radish or two, that I have in my fish-bag: we shall, I warrant you, make a good, honest, wholesome, hungry breakfast, and I will then give you direction for the making and using of your flies; and in the meantime, there is your rod and line, and my advice is, that you fish as you see me do, and let's try which can catch the first fish.Venator.—I thank you, master; I will observe and practise your direction as far as I am able.Piscator.—Look you, scholar, you see I have hold of a good fish: I now see it is a trout. I pray put that net under him, and touch not my line, for if you do, then we break all. Well done, scholar! I thank you.Now for another. Trust me, I have another bite: come, scholar, come, lay down your rod, and help me to land this as you did the other. So now we shall be sure to have a good dish for supper.Venator.—I am glad of that; but I have no fortune: sure, master, yours is a better rod and better tackling.Piscator.—Nay, then, take mine; and I will fish with yours. Look you, scholar, I have another. Come, do as you did before. And now I have a bite at another. Oh me! he has broke all: there's half a line and a good hook lost.Venator.—Ay, and a good trout too.Piscator.—Nay, the trout is not lost; for pray take notice, no man can lose what he never had.Venator.—Master, I can neither catch with the first nor second angle: I have no fortune.Piscator.—Look you, scholar, I have yet another. And now, having caught two brace of trouts, I will tell you a short tale as we walk towards our breakfast. A scholar, a preacher I should say, that was to preach to procure the approbation of a parish that he might be their lecturer, had got from his fellow-pupil the copy of a sermon that was first preached with great commendation by him that composed it; and though the borrower of it preached it, word for word, as it was at first, yet it was utterly disliked as it was preached by the second to his congregation; which the sermon borrower complained of to the lender of it; and thus was answered: "I lent you, indeed, my fiddle, but not my fiddle-stick; for you are to know, that every one cannot make music with my words, which are fitted to my own mouth." And so, my scholar, you are to know, that as the ill pronunciation or ill accenting of words in a sermon spoils it, so the ill carriage of your line, or not fishing even to a foot in a right place, makes you lose your labor; and you are to know, that though you have my fiddle, that is, my very rod and tacklings with which you see I catch fish, yet youhave not my fiddle-stick, that is, you yet have not skill to know how to carry your hand and line, nor how to guide it to a right place; and this must be taught you; for you are to remember, I told you angling is an art, either by practice or a long observation, or both. But take this for a rule: when you fish for a trout with a worm, let your line have so much and not more lead than will fit the stream in which you fish; that is to say, more in a great troublesome stream than in a smaller that is quieter; as near as may be, so much as will sink the bait to the bottom, and keep it still in motion, and not more.But now let's say grace and fall to breakfast. What say you, scholar, to the providence of an old angler? does not this meat taste well? and was not this place well chosen to eat it? for this sycamore-tree will shade us from the sun's heat.Venator.—All excellent good, and my stomach excellent good too. And now I remember and find that true which devout Lessius says: "That poor men, and those that fast often, have much more pleasure in eating than rich men and gluttons, that always feed before their stomachs are empty of their last meal, and call for more; for by that means they rob themselves of that pleasure that hunger brings to poor men." And I do seriously approve of that saying of yours, "that you would rather be a civil, well-governed, well-grounded, temperate, poor angler, than a drunken lord." But I hope there is none such: however, I am certain of this, that I have been at many very costly dinners that have not afforded me half the content that this has done, for which I thank God and you.And now, good master, proceed to your promised direction for making and ordering my artificial fly.Piscator.—My honest scholar, I will do it; for it is a debt due unto you by my promise....... Look how it begins to rain!—and by the clouds, if I mistake not, we shall presently have a smoking shower, and therefore sit close: this sycamore-tree will shelter us; and I will tell you, as they shall come into my mind, more observations of fly-fishing for a trout....... And now, scholar, my direction for fly-fishing is ended with this shower, for it has done raining: and now look about you, and see how pleasantly that meadow looks; nay, and the earth smells as sweetly too. Come, let me tell you what holy Mr. Herbert says of such days and flowers as these; and then we will thank God that we enjoy them, and walk to the river and sit down quietly, and try to catch the other brace of trouts.Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky:The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave;And thou must die.Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie;Thy music shows ye have your closes;And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season'd timber, never gives;But, though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.Venator.—I thank you, good master, for your good direction for fly-fishing, and for the sweet enjoyment of the pleasant day, which is so far spent without offence to God or man; and I thank you for the sweet close of your discourse with Mr. Herbert's verses, who, I have heard, loved angling; and I do the rather believe it, because he had a spirit suitable to anglers, and to those primitive Christians that you love and have so much commended.Piscator.—Well, my loving scholar, and I am pleased to know that you are so well pleased with my direction and discourse.... And now, I think it will be time to repair to our angle-rods, which we left in the water to fish for themselves: and you shall choose which shall be yours; and it is an even lay, one of them catches.And, let me tell you, this kind of fishing with a dead rod, and laying night-hooks, are like putting money to use; for they both work for the owners, when they do nothing but sleep, or eat, or rejoice; as you know we have done this last hour, and sat as quietly, and as free from cares under this sycamore, as Virgil's Tityrus and his Melibœus did, under their broad beech tree. No life, my honest scholar, no life so happy and so pleasant, as the life of a well-governed angler; for when the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams, which we now see glide so quietly by us. Indeed, my good scholar, we may say of angling as Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, "Doubtless, God could have made a better berry, but doubtless, God never did;" and so, if I might be judge, "God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling."

Piscator.—My honest scholar, it is now past five of the clock; we will fish till nine, and then go to breakfast. Go you to yon sycamore-tree, and hide your bottle of drink under the hollow root of it; for about that time, and in that place, we will make a brave breakfast with a piece of powdered beef, and a radish or two, that I have in my fish-bag: we shall, I warrant you, make a good, honest, wholesome, hungry breakfast, and I will then give you direction for the making and using of your flies; and in the meantime, there is your rod and line, and my advice is, that you fish as you see me do, and let's try which can catch the first fish.

Venator.—I thank you, master; I will observe and practise your direction as far as I am able.

Piscator.—Look you, scholar, you see I have hold of a good fish: I now see it is a trout. I pray put that net under him, and touch not my line, for if you do, then we break all. Well done, scholar! I thank you.

Now for another. Trust me, I have another bite: come, scholar, come, lay down your rod, and help me to land this as you did the other. So now we shall be sure to have a good dish for supper.

Venator.—I am glad of that; but I have no fortune: sure, master, yours is a better rod and better tackling.

Piscator.—Nay, then, take mine; and I will fish with yours. Look you, scholar, I have another. Come, do as you did before. And now I have a bite at another. Oh me! he has broke all: there's half a line and a good hook lost.

Venator.—Ay, and a good trout too.

Piscator.—Nay, the trout is not lost; for pray take notice, no man can lose what he never had.

Venator.—Master, I can neither catch with the first nor second angle: I have no fortune.

Piscator.—Look you, scholar, I have yet another. And now, having caught two brace of trouts, I will tell you a short tale as we walk towards our breakfast. A scholar, a preacher I should say, that was to preach to procure the approbation of a parish that he might be their lecturer, had got from his fellow-pupil the copy of a sermon that was first preached with great commendation by him that composed it; and though the borrower of it preached it, word for word, as it was at first, yet it was utterly disliked as it was preached by the second to his congregation; which the sermon borrower complained of to the lender of it; and thus was answered: "I lent you, indeed, my fiddle, but not my fiddle-stick; for you are to know, that every one cannot make music with my words, which are fitted to my own mouth." And so, my scholar, you are to know, that as the ill pronunciation or ill accenting of words in a sermon spoils it, so the ill carriage of your line, or not fishing even to a foot in a right place, makes you lose your labor; and you are to know, that though you have my fiddle, that is, my very rod and tacklings with which you see I catch fish, yet youhave not my fiddle-stick, that is, you yet have not skill to know how to carry your hand and line, nor how to guide it to a right place; and this must be taught you; for you are to remember, I told you angling is an art, either by practice or a long observation, or both. But take this for a rule: when you fish for a trout with a worm, let your line have so much and not more lead than will fit the stream in which you fish; that is to say, more in a great troublesome stream than in a smaller that is quieter; as near as may be, so much as will sink the bait to the bottom, and keep it still in motion, and not more.

But now let's say grace and fall to breakfast. What say you, scholar, to the providence of an old angler? does not this meat taste well? and was not this place well chosen to eat it? for this sycamore-tree will shade us from the sun's heat.

Venator.—All excellent good, and my stomach excellent good too. And now I remember and find that true which devout Lessius says: "That poor men, and those that fast often, have much more pleasure in eating than rich men and gluttons, that always feed before their stomachs are empty of their last meal, and call for more; for by that means they rob themselves of that pleasure that hunger brings to poor men." And I do seriously approve of that saying of yours, "that you would rather be a civil, well-governed, well-grounded, temperate, poor angler, than a drunken lord." But I hope there is none such: however, I am certain of this, that I have been at many very costly dinners that have not afforded me half the content that this has done, for which I thank God and you.

And now, good master, proceed to your promised direction for making and ordering my artificial fly.

Piscator.—My honest scholar, I will do it; for it is a debt due unto you by my promise....

... Look how it begins to rain!—and by the clouds, if I mistake not, we shall presently have a smoking shower, and therefore sit close: this sycamore-tree will shelter us; and I will tell you, as they shall come into my mind, more observations of fly-fishing for a trout....

... And now, scholar, my direction for fly-fishing is ended with this shower, for it has done raining: and now look about you, and see how pleasantly that meadow looks; nay, and the earth smells as sweetly too. Come, let me tell you what holy Mr. Herbert says of such days and flowers as these; and then we will thank God that we enjoy them, and walk to the river and sit down quietly, and try to catch the other brace of trouts.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky:The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave;And thou must die.Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie;Thy music shows ye have your closes;And all must die.Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season'd timber, never gives;But, though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky:The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave;And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie;Thy music shows ye have your closes;And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season'd timber, never gives;But, though the whole world turn to coal,Then chiefly lives.

Venator.—I thank you, good master, for your good direction for fly-fishing, and for the sweet enjoyment of the pleasant day, which is so far spent without offence to God or man; and I thank you for the sweet close of your discourse with Mr. Herbert's verses, who, I have heard, loved angling; and I do the rather believe it, because he had a spirit suitable to anglers, and to those primitive Christians that you love and have so much commended.

Piscator.—Well, my loving scholar, and I am pleased to know that you are so well pleased with my direction and discourse.... And now, I think it will be time to repair to our angle-rods, which we left in the water to fish for themselves: and you shall choose which shall be yours; and it is an even lay, one of them catches.

And, let me tell you, this kind of fishing with a dead rod, and laying night-hooks, are like putting money to use; for they both work for the owners, when they do nothing but sleep, or eat, or rejoice; as you know we have done this last hour, and sat as quietly, and as free from cares under this sycamore, as Virgil's Tityrus and his Melibœus did, under their broad beech tree. No life, my honest scholar, no life so happy and so pleasant, as the life of a well-governed angler; for when the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams, which we now see glide so quietly by us. Indeed, my good scholar, we may say of angling as Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, "Doubtless, God could have made a better berry, but doubtless, God never did;" and so, if I might be judge, "God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling."

I.Thisis the month, and this the happy morn,Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King,Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did sing,That he our deadly forfeit should release,And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.II.That glorious form, that light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-tableTo sit the midst of Trinal Unity,He laid aside; and, here with us to be,Forsook the courts of everlasting day,And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.III.Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,To welcome him to this his new abode,Now while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod,Hath took no print of the approaching light,And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?IV.See how from far upon the eastern roadThe star-led wizards haste with odors sweet!O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,And lay it lowly at his blessèd feet;Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the Angel Choir,From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

Thisis the month, and this the happy morn,Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King,Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did sing,That he our deadly forfeit should release,And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

II.

That glorious form, that light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-tableTo sit the midst of Trinal Unity,He laid aside; and, here with us to be,Forsook the courts of everlasting day,And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

III.

Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the Infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,To welcome him to this his new abode,Now while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod,Hath took no print of the approaching light,And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

IV.

See how from far upon the eastern roadThe star-led wizards haste with odors sweet!O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,And lay it lowly at his blessèd feet;Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the Angel Choir,From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

1.Itwas the winter wild,While the Heaven-born child,All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies;Nature, in awe to him,Had doff'd her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour.2.Only, with speeches fair,She woos the gentle AirTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow,And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinful blame,The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;Confounded, that her Maker's eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities.3.But he, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace:She, crown'd with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphere,His ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And, waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.4.No war, or battle's sound,Was heard the world around:The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hookèd chariot stood,Unstain'd with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.5.But peaceful was the nightWherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began:The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kiss'd,Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.6.The stars, with deep amaze,Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flight,For all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glow,Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.7.And, though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed;And hid his head for shame,As his inferior flameThe new-enlighten'd world no more should need;He saw a greater Sun appearThan his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.8.The shepherds on the lawn,Or ere the point of dawn,Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thenThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below:Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.9.When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greet,As never was by mortal finger strook,Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringèd noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took:The Air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.10.Nature, that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was done,And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.11.At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular light,That with long beams the shame-faced Night array'd;The helmèd cherubim,And swordèd seraphim,Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,Harping in loud and solemn choir,With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir.12.Such music (as 'tis said)Before was never made,But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,While the Creator greatHis constellations set,And the well-balanced world on hinges hung,And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep.13.Ring out, ye crystal spheres!Once bless our human ears,(If ye have power to touch our senses so,)And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to the angelic symphony.14.For, if such holy songEnwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the Age of Gold;And speckled VanityWill sicken soon and die;And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;And Hell itself will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.15.Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will sit between,Thron'd in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissu'd clouds down steering;And Heaven, as at some festival,Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.16.But wisest Fate says, No,This must not yet be so;The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy,That on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorify:Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep,The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.17.With such a horrid clangAs on Mount Sinai rang,While the red fire and smould'ring clouds out brake:The aged Earth, aghast,With terror of that blast,Shall from the surface to the centre shake;When, at the world's last session,The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.18.And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayThe Old Dragon under ground,In straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway;And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.19.The Oracles are dumb;No voice or hideous humRuns through the archèd roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance, or breathèd spell,Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell.20.The lonely mountains o'er,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdg'd with poplar pale,The parting Genius is with sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.21.In consecrated earth,And on the holy hearth,The Lars, and Lemures, moan with midnight plaint;In urns, and altars round,A drear and dying soundAffrights the Flamens at their service quaint;And the chill marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.22.Peor, and Bälim,Forsake their temples dim,With that twice-batter'd God of Palestine;And moonèd Ashtaroth,Heaven's queen and mother both,Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine:The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn;In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.23.And sullen Moloch, fled,Hath left in shadows dread,His burning idol all of blackest hueIn vain with cymbals' ringThey call the grisly king,In dismal dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fast,Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.24.Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove or green,Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud;Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest;Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;In vain, with timbrell'd anthems dark,The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.25.He feels from Juda's landThe dreaded Infant's hand;The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Nor all the gods besideLonger dare abide,Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.26.So, when the sun in bed,Curtain'd with cloudy red,Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail,Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;And the yellow-skirted faysFly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze.27.But see! the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest.Time is our tedious song should here have ending:Heaven's youngest-teemèd star,Hath fix'd her polish'd car,Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;And all about the courtly stableBright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.

Itwas the winter wild,While the Heaven-born child,All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies;Nature, in awe to him,Had doff'd her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize:It was no season then for herTo wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour.

Only, with speeches fair,She woos the gentle AirTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow,And on her naked shame,Pollute with sinful blame,The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;Confounded, that her Maker's eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace:She, crown'd with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphere,His ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And, waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

No war, or battle's sound,Was heard the world around:The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hookèd chariot stood,Unstain'd with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peaceful was the nightWherein the Prince of LightHis reign of peace upon the earth began:The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kiss'd,Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flight,For all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glow,Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And, though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed;And hid his head for shame,As his inferior flameThe new-enlighten'd world no more should need;He saw a greater Sun appearThan his bright throne or burning axletree could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn,Or ere the point of dawn,Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thenThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below:Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greet,As never was by mortal finger strook,Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringèd noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took:The Air, such pleasure loth to lose,With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

10.

Nature, that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was done,And that her reign had here its last fulfilling:She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union.

11.

At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular light,That with long beams the shame-faced Night array'd;The helmèd cherubim,And swordèd seraphim,Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,Harping in loud and solemn choir,With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir.

12.

Such music (as 'tis said)Before was never made,But when of old the Sons of Morning sung,While the Creator greatHis constellations set,And the well-balanced world on hinges hung,And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep.

13.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres!Once bless our human ears,(If ye have power to touch our senses so,)And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time;And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to the angelic symphony.

14.

For, if such holy songEnwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the Age of Gold;And speckled VanityWill sicken soon and die;And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;And Hell itself will pass away,And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

15.

Yea, Truth and Justice thenWill down return to men,Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will sit between,Thron'd in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissu'd clouds down steering;And Heaven, as at some festival,Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall.

16.

But wisest Fate says, No,This must not yet be so;The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy,That on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss;So both himself and us to glorify:Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep,The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.

17.

With such a horrid clangAs on Mount Sinai rang,While the red fire and smould'ring clouds out brake:The aged Earth, aghast,With terror of that blast,Shall from the surface to the centre shake;When, at the world's last session,The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

18.

And then at last our blissFull and perfect is,But now begins; for from this happy dayThe Old Dragon under ground,In straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway;And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.

19.

The Oracles are dumb;No voice or hideous humRuns through the archèd roof in words deceiving.Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance, or breathèd spell,Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell.

20.

The lonely mountains o'er,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdg'd with poplar pale,The parting Genius is with sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

21.

In consecrated earth,And on the holy hearth,The Lars, and Lemures, moan with midnight plaint;In urns, and altars round,A drear and dying soundAffrights the Flamens at their service quaint;And the chill marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.

22.

Peor, and Bälim,Forsake their temples dim,With that twice-batter'd God of Palestine;And moonèd Ashtaroth,Heaven's queen and mother both,Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine:The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn;In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.

23.

And sullen Moloch, fled,Hath left in shadows dread,His burning idol all of blackest hueIn vain with cymbals' ringThey call the grisly king,In dismal dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fast,Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

24.

Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove or green,Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud;Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest;Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;In vain, with timbrell'd anthems dark,The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.

25.

He feels from Juda's landThe dreaded Infant's hand;The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;Nor all the gods besideLonger dare abide,Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:Our Babe, to show his Godhead true,Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew.

26.

So, when the sun in bed,Curtain'd with cloudy red,Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail,Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;And the yellow-skirted faysFly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze.

27.

But see! the Virgin blestHath laid her Babe to rest.Time is our tedious song should here have ending:Heaven's youngest-teemèd star,Hath fix'd her polish'd car,Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;And all about the courtly stableBright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable.

Inthis unhappy battle [of Newbury] was slain the Lord Viscount Falkland; a person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, of so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious and accursed civil war, than that single loss, it must be most infamous, and execrable to all posterity.Before this parliament, his condition of life was so happy that it was hardly capable of improvement. Before he came to be twenty years of age, he was master of a noble fortune, which descended to him by the gift of a grandfather, without passing through his father or mother, who were then both alive, and not well enough contented to find themselves passed by in the descent. His education for some years had been in Ireland, where his father was lord-deputy; so that, when he returned into England, to the possession of his fortune, he was unentangled with any acquaintance or friends, whichusually grow up by the custom of conversation; and therefore was to make a pure election of his company; which he chose by other rules than were prescribed to the young nobility of that time. And it cannot be denied, though he admitted some few to his friendship for the agreeableness of their natures, and their undoubted affection to him, that his familiarity and friendship, for the most part, was with men of the most eminent and sublime parts, and of untouched reputation in point of integrity; and such men had a title to his bosom.He was a great cherisher of wit, and fancy, and good parts in any man; and, if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a most liberal and bountiful patron towards them, even above his fortune; of which, in those administrations, he was such a dispenser, as, if he had been trusted with it to such uses, and if there had been the least of vice in his expense, he might have been thought too prodigal. He was constant and pertinacious in whatsoever he resolved to do, and not to be wearied by any pains that were necessary to that end. And, therefore, having once resolved not to see London, which he loved above all places, till he had perfectly learned the Greek tongue, he went to his own house in the country, and pursued it with that indefatigable industry, that it will not be believed in how short a time he was master of it, and accurately read all the Greek historians.In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles of Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with the most polite and accurate men of that university; who found such an immenseness of wit, and such a solidity of judgment in him, so infinite a fancy, bound in by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast knowledge, that he was not ignorant in anything, yetsuch an excessive humility, as if he had known nothing, that they frequently resorted and dwelt with him, as in a college situated in a purer air; so that his house was a university in a less volume; whither they came not so much for repose as study; and to examine and refine those grosser propositions, which laziness and consent made current in vulgar conversation....He was superior to all those passions and affections which attend vulgar minds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, and to be reputed a lover of all good men; and that made him too much a contemner of those arts, which must be indulged in the transactions of human affairs....He had a courage of the most clear and keen temper, and so far from fear, that he seemed not without some appetite of danger; and therefore, upon any occasion of action, he always engaged his person in those troops which he thought, by the forwardness of the commanders, to be most like to be farthest engaged; and in all such encounters, he had about him an extraordinary cheerfulness, without at all affecting the execution that usually attended them; in which he took no delight, but took pains to prevent it, where it was not by resistance made necessary: insomuch that at Edge-hill, when the enemy was routed, he was like to have incurred great peril, by interposing to save those who had thrown away their arms, and against whom, it may be, others were more fierce for their having thrown them away: so that a man might think he came into the field chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, and charity to prevent the shedding of blood. Yet, in his natural inclination, he acknowledged he was addicted to the profession of a soldier; and shortly after he came to his fortune, beforehe was of age, he went into the Low Countries, with a resolution of procuring command, and to give himself up to it; from which he was diverted by the complete inactivity of that summer; so he returned into England, and shortly after entered upon that vehement course of study we mentioned before, till the first alarm from the north; then again he made ready for the field, and though he received some repulse in the command of a troop of horse, of which he had a promise, he went a volunteer with the earl of Essex.From the entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness and vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of spirit stole upon him, which he had never been used to; yet being one of those who believed that one battle would end all differences, and that there would be so great a victory on one side, that the other would be compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor—which supposition and conclusion generally sunk into the minds of most men, and prevented the looking after many advantages that might then have been laid hold of—he resisted those indispositions. But after the king's return from Brentford, and the furious resolution of the two Houses not to admit any treaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness; and he, who had been so exactly unreserved and affable to all men, that his face and countenance was always present, and vacant, to his company, and held any cloudiness, and less pleasantness of the visage, a kind of rudeness or incivility, became, on a sudden, less communicable; and thence, very sad, pale, and exceedingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, which he had minded before always with more neatness,and industry, and expense, than is usual to so great a soul, he was not now only incurious, but too negligent; and in his reception of suitors, and the necessary or casual addresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, and severe, that there wanted not some men—strangers to his nature and disposition—who believed him proud and imperious; from which no mortal man was ever more free....When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he thought might promote it; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep silence, and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the wordPeace, Peace; and would passionately profess, "that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break his heart." This made some think, or pretend to think, "that he was so much enamoured of peace, that he would have been glad the king should have bought it at any price;" which was a most unreasonable calumny. As if a man, that was himself the most punctual and precise in every circumstance that might reflect upon conscience or honor, could have wished the king to have committed a trespass against either....In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was very cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of the Lord Byron's regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges on both sides with musketeers; from whence he was shot with a musket in the lower part of the belly, and in the instant falling from his horse, his body was not foundtill the next morning; till when, there was some hope he might have been a prisoner; though his nearest friends, who knew his temper, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that incomparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, having so much despatched the true business of life, that the oldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter not into the world with more innocency: whosoever leads such a life, needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him.

Before this parliament, his condition of life was so happy that it was hardly capable of improvement. Before he came to be twenty years of age, he was master of a noble fortune, which descended to him by the gift of a grandfather, without passing through his father or mother, who were then both alive, and not well enough contented to find themselves passed by in the descent. His education for some years had been in Ireland, where his father was lord-deputy; so that, when he returned into England, to the possession of his fortune, he was unentangled with any acquaintance or friends, whichusually grow up by the custom of conversation; and therefore was to make a pure election of his company; which he chose by other rules than were prescribed to the young nobility of that time. And it cannot be denied, though he admitted some few to his friendship for the agreeableness of their natures, and their undoubted affection to him, that his familiarity and friendship, for the most part, was with men of the most eminent and sublime parts, and of untouched reputation in point of integrity; and such men had a title to his bosom.

He was a great cherisher of wit, and fancy, and good parts in any man; and, if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a most liberal and bountiful patron towards them, even above his fortune; of which, in those administrations, he was such a dispenser, as, if he had been trusted with it to such uses, and if there had been the least of vice in his expense, he might have been thought too prodigal. He was constant and pertinacious in whatsoever he resolved to do, and not to be wearied by any pains that were necessary to that end. And, therefore, having once resolved not to see London, which he loved above all places, till he had perfectly learned the Greek tongue, he went to his own house in the country, and pursued it with that indefatigable industry, that it will not be believed in how short a time he was master of it, and accurately read all the Greek historians.

In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles of Oxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with the most polite and accurate men of that university; who found such an immenseness of wit, and such a solidity of judgment in him, so infinite a fancy, bound in by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast knowledge, that he was not ignorant in anything, yetsuch an excessive humility, as if he had known nothing, that they frequently resorted and dwelt with him, as in a college situated in a purer air; so that his house was a university in a less volume; whither they came not so much for repose as study; and to examine and refine those grosser propositions, which laziness and consent made current in vulgar conversation....

He was superior to all those passions and affections which attend vulgar minds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, and to be reputed a lover of all good men; and that made him too much a contemner of those arts, which must be indulged in the transactions of human affairs....

He had a courage of the most clear and keen temper, and so far from fear, that he seemed not without some appetite of danger; and therefore, upon any occasion of action, he always engaged his person in those troops which he thought, by the forwardness of the commanders, to be most like to be farthest engaged; and in all such encounters, he had about him an extraordinary cheerfulness, without at all affecting the execution that usually attended them; in which he took no delight, but took pains to prevent it, where it was not by resistance made necessary: insomuch that at Edge-hill, when the enemy was routed, he was like to have incurred great peril, by interposing to save those who had thrown away their arms, and against whom, it may be, others were more fierce for their having thrown them away: so that a man might think he came into the field chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, and charity to prevent the shedding of blood. Yet, in his natural inclination, he acknowledged he was addicted to the profession of a soldier; and shortly after he came to his fortune, beforehe was of age, he went into the Low Countries, with a resolution of procuring command, and to give himself up to it; from which he was diverted by the complete inactivity of that summer; so he returned into England, and shortly after entered upon that vehement course of study we mentioned before, till the first alarm from the north; then again he made ready for the field, and though he received some repulse in the command of a troop of horse, of which he had a promise, he went a volunteer with the earl of Essex.

From the entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness and vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of spirit stole upon him, which he had never been used to; yet being one of those who believed that one battle would end all differences, and that there would be so great a victory on one side, that the other would be compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor—which supposition and conclusion generally sunk into the minds of most men, and prevented the looking after many advantages that might then have been laid hold of—he resisted those indispositions. But after the king's return from Brentford, and the furious resolution of the two Houses not to admit any treaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness; and he, who had been so exactly unreserved and affable to all men, that his face and countenance was always present, and vacant, to his company, and held any cloudiness, and less pleasantness of the visage, a kind of rudeness or incivility, became, on a sudden, less communicable; and thence, very sad, pale, and exceedingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, which he had minded before always with more neatness,and industry, and expense, than is usual to so great a soul, he was not now only incurious, but too negligent; and in his reception of suitors, and the necessary or casual addresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, and severe, that there wanted not some men—strangers to his nature and disposition—who believed him proud and imperious; from which no mortal man was ever more free....

When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he thought might promote it; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep silence, and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the wordPeace, Peace; and would passionately profess, "that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break his heart." This made some think, or pretend to think, "that he was so much enamoured of peace, that he would have been glad the king should have bought it at any price;" which was a most unreasonable calumny. As if a man, that was himself the most punctual and precise in every circumstance that might reflect upon conscience or honor, could have wished the king to have committed a trespass against either....

In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was very cheerful, and put himself into the first rank of the Lord Byron's regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges on both sides with musketeers; from whence he was shot with a musket in the lower part of the belly, and in the instant falling from his horse, his body was not foundtill the next morning; till when, there was some hope he might have been a prisoner; though his nearest friends, who knew his temper, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that incomparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, having so much despatched the true business of life, that the oldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter not into the world with more innocency: whosoever leads such a life, needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him.

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