THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE EARL OF S.
BRIGHT saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse, To envie Heaven. For fame itselfe now weares Griefe's livery, and onely speaks in teares. And pardon you, Castara, if a while Your memory I banish from my stile : When I have paid his death the tribute due Of sorrow, I 'le return to love and you. Is there a name like Talbot, which a showre Can force from every eye? And hath even powre To alter Nature's course? How else should all Runne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall? Th' illiterate vulgar, in a well-tun'd breath, Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death For its bold rape, while the sad poet's song Is yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue. Th' amaz'd mariner having lost his way In the tempestuous desart of the sea,
Lookes up, but finds no starres. They all conspire To darke themselves, t' enlighten this new fire. The learn'd astronomer, with daring eye, Searching to tracke the spheares through which you flie,
(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile, And blushing says, "The subtlest art is fraile, And but truth's counterfet." Your flight doth teach,
Fair vertue hath an orbe beyond his reach.
But I grow dull with sorrow. Unkinde Fate, To play the tyrant, and subvert the state Of setled goodnesse! Who shall henceforth stand A pure example to enforme the land-
Of her loose riot? Who shall counterchecke The wanton pride of greatnesse, and direct Strayed honour in the true magnificke way? Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t' obey The loud commands of reason? And how sweet The nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet? Who will with silent piety confute
Atheisticke sophistry, and by the fruite Approve religion's tree? Who'll teach his blood A virgin law, and dare be great and good? Who will despise his stiles? and nobly weigh In judgment's ballance, that his honour'd clay Hath no advantage by them? Who will live So innocently pious, as to give
The world no scandall? Who'll himself deny, And to warme passion a cold martyr dye? My grief distracts me. If my zeal hath said, What checks the living: know, I serve the dead. The dead, who need no monumental vaults, With his pale ashes to intombe his faults; Whose sins beget no libels, whom the poore For benefit, for worth, the rich adore. Who liv'd a solitary phoenix, free
From the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to be Still gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did
TO MY WORTHY COUSIN, MR. E. C.
IN PRAISE OF THE CITY LIFE, IN THE LONG VACATION.
I LIKE the green plush which your meadows weare, I praise your pregnant fields, which duly beare Their wealthy burthen to th' industrious Bore. Nor do I disallow, that who are poore
In minde and fortune, thither should retire: But hate that he, who's warme with holy fire Of any knowledge, and 'mong us may feast On nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast, And graze i'th' country. Why did Nature wrong So much her paines, as to give you a tongue And fluent language, if converse you hold With oxen in the stall, and sheepe i'th' fold? But now it's long vacation, you will say The towne is empty, and who ever may To th' pleasure of his country-home repaire, Flies from th' infection of our London aire. In this your errour. Now's the time alone To live here, when the city dame is gone T" her house at Brandford; for beyond that she Imagines there's no land, but Barbary, Where lies her husband's factor. hence
Rid is the country justice, whose non-sence Corrupted had the language of the inne, Where he and his horse litter'd: we beginne To live in silence, when the noyse o`th' bench Nor deafens Westminster, nor corrupt French Walkes Fleet-street in her gowne. Ruffes of the barre,
By the vacation's powre, translated are
To cut-worke bands; and who were busie here, Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.
The aire by this is purg'd, and the terme's strife Thus fled the city: we the civill life Lead happily. When in the gentle way Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day Contracted to a moment: I retire
To my Castara, and meet such a fire Of mutual love, that if the city were Infected, that would purifie the ayre.
THOU art return'd (great light) to that blest houre In which I first by marriage, sacred power, Ioyn'd with Castara hearts: and as the same Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame; Which had increast, but that by Love's decree, 'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be. But tell me, (glorious lampe) in thy survey Of things below thee, what did not decay By age to weaknesse? I since that have seene The rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greene And wither, and the beauty of the field With winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeld Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher; But virtuous love is one sweet endless fire.
UNCHASTITY TO THE SEX OF WOMEN.
THEY meet but with unwholesome springs, And summers which infectious are: They heare but when the mermaid sings, And only see the falling starre : Who ever dare
Affirme no woman chaste and faire.
Goe, cure your feavers; and you'le say The dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare:
In copper mines no longer stay,
But travel to the west, and there The right ones see
And grant all gold's not alchimie.
What madman, 'cause the glow-worme's flame Is cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire? 'Cause some make forfeit of their name, And slave themselves to man's desire : Shall the sex free
From guilt, damn'd to the bondage be?
Nor grieve, Castara, though 'twere fraile,
Thy vertue then would brighter shine, When thy example should prevaile, And every woman's faith be thine; And were there none, 'Tis majesty to rule alone.
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND EXCELLENTLY LEARNED
THE laurell doth your reverend temples wreath, As aptly now as when your youth did breath Those tragicke raptures, which your name shall save From the blacke edict of a tyrant grave. Nor shall your day ere set, till the Sunne shall From the blind Heavens like a cinder fall: And all the elements intend their strife,
To ruine what they fram'd: then your fame's life, When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expire, Attended by the world i'th' general fire. Fame lengthens thus her selfe and I, to tread Your steps to glory, search among the dead, Where Vertue lies obscur'd, that as Life to her tombe, I spight of time may live. Now resolve, in triumph of my verse, To bring great Talbot from that forren hearse, Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose; Then to sing Herbert, who so glorious rose, With the fourth Edward, that his faith doth shine Yet in the faith of noblest Pembroke's line. Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepare To speak the mighty Percy, neerest heire, In merits as in blood, to CHARLES the great : Then Darbie's worth and greatnesse to repeat, Or Morley's honour, or Monteagle's fame, Whose valour lives eternized in his name. But while I think to sing these of my blood, And my Castara's, Love's unruly flood Breakes in, and beares away whatever stands Built by my busie fancy on the sands.
TO THE HONOURABLE G. T.
LET not thy grones force Eccho from her cave, Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave, Which last Narcissus kist: let no darke grove Be taught to whisper stories of thy love.
What tho' the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saile By virtue of a cleane contrary gale,
Into some other port? Where thou wilt find
It was thy better genius chang'd the wind, To steere thee to some island in the West, For wealth and pleasure that transcends thy East. Though Astrodora, like a sullen starre, Eclipse her selfe; i'th' sky of beauty are, Ten thousand other fires, some bright as she, And who, with milder beames, may shine on thee. Nor yet does this eclipse beare a portent, The firmament That should affright the world. Enjoys the light it did, a Sunne as cleare, And the young Spring doth like a bride appeare, As fairly wed to the Thessalian grove As e're it was, though she and you not love. And we two, who like bright stars have shin'd I'th' heaven of friendship, are as firmly joyn'd And to be As blood and love first fram'd us. Lov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee, Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lend An honour, equals that of Talbot's friend, Nor envie me that my Castara's flame Yeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I came To marriage happy islands: Seas to thee Will yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free. Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine :) To this delicious port: and make love thine.
THE REWARD OF INNOCENT LOVE.
WE saw and woo'd each other's eyes, My soule contracted then with thine, And both burnt in one sacrifice, By which our marriage grew divine. 3S2
THOUGH my deare Talbot's fate exact a sad And heavy brow: my verse shall not be clad For him this houre in mourning: I will write Το you the glory of a pompous night, Which none (except sobriety) who wit Or cloathes could boast, but freely did admit. I (who still sinne for company) was there And tasted of the glorious supper, where Meate was the least of wonder. Though the nest O'th' Phoenix rifled seemd t' amaze the feast, And th' ocean left so poore that it alone Could since vaunt wretched herring and poore John. Lucullus' surfets, were but types of this, And whatsoever riot mentioned is
In story, did but the dull zany play,
To this proud night, which rather weel'e term day, For th' artificial lights so thicke were set, That the bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeit. But seven (whom rather we should sages call Or deadly sinnes, I'le not dispute) were all Invited to this pompe. And yet I dare Pawne my lov'd Muse, th' Hungarian did prepare Not halfe that quantity of victuall when He layd his happy siege to Nortlinghen. The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thicke That linx himself, though his sight fam'd so quicke, Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealth Of the Canaries was exhaust, the health Of his good majestye to celebrate, Who'le judge them loyal subject without that; Yet they, who some fond priviledge to maintaine, Would have rebeld, their best freehold, their braine Surrender'd there: and five fifteenes did pay To drink his happy life and raigne. O day It was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beene Found accessory else to this fond sinne. But I forget to speake each stratagem By which the dishes enter'd, and in them
Each luscious miracle, as if more bookes Had written beene o'th' mystery of cookes Than the philosopher's stone, here we did see All wonders in the kitchin alchimy:
But Ile not leave you there, before you part You shall have something of another art. A banquet raining down so fast, the good Old patriarch would have thought a generall flood. Heaven open'd, and from thence a mighty showre Of amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre Vpon our heads, and suckets from our eye Like thickend clouds did steale away the sky, That it was question'd whether Heaven were Black-fryers, and each starre a confectioner; But I too long detaine you at a feast You hap❜ly surfet of; now every guest
Is reeld downe to his coach; I licence crave Sir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.
ARCHIBALD EARLE OF AR.
Ir your example be obey'd
The serious few will live i'th' silent shade: And not indanger by the wind
Or sunshine, the complexion of their mind: Whose beauty weares so cleare a skin That it decayes with the least taint of sin. Vice growes by custome, nor dare we Reject it as a slave, where it breaths free, And is no priviledge deny'd;
Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed. Wherefore your lordship in your selfe (Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfe Of humbler fortune) lives at ease, [seas.
Safe from the rocks o'th' shore, and stormes o'th' Your soule's a well built city, where There's such munition, that no war breeds feare: No rebels wilde destractions move;
For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love. And therefore you defiance bid
To open enmity, or mischiefe hid
In fawning hate and supple pride, Who are on every corner fortifide.
Your youth not rudely led by rage Of blood, is now the story of your age,
Which without boast you may averre 'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:
Glory not purchast by the breath
Of sycophants, but by encountring death. Yet wildnesse nor the fear of lawes Did make you fight, but justness of the cause. For but mad prodigals they are
Of fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.
When well made peace had clos'd the eyes Of discord, sloath did not your youth surprize. Your life as well as powre, did awe
The bad, and to the good was the best law : When most men vertue did pursue
In hope by it to grow in fame like you. Nor when you did to court repaire, Did you your manners alter with the ayre. You did your modesty retaine,
Your faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine. Nor did all the soft flattery there
Inchant you so, but still you truth could heare.
And though your roofes were richly guilt,
The basis was on no ward's ruine built.
Nor were your vassals made a prey, And forc't to curse the coronation day. And though no bravery was knowne
To out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne. For 'twas the indulgence of Fate,
To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state: But I, my lord, who have no friend
Of fortune, must begin where you doe end. 'Tis dang'rous to approach the fire
Of action; nor is't safe, farre to retire,
Yet better lost i'th' multitude
Of private men, than on the state t'intrude, And hazard for a doubtfull smile,
My stocke of fame, and inward peace to spoile. I'le therefore nigh some murm'ring brooke That wantons through my meddowes, with a booke, With my Castara, or some friend, My youth not guilty of ambition spend.
To my owne shade (if fate permit) I'le whisper some soft musique of my wit. And flatter so my selfe, I'le see
By that, strange motion steale into the tree : But still my first and chiefest care
Shall be t' appease offended Heaven with prayer : And in such mold my thoughts to cast, That each day shall be spent as 'twere my last. How ere it's sweete lust to obey,
Vertue thought rugged, is the safest way.
Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee, And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase Of reall glory both in warre and peace, We all did share: and thou away we feare Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare. Each then be his owne mourner. Wee'le to thee Write hymnes, upon the world an elegie.
WHY should we feare to melt away in death; May we but dye together. When beneath In a coole vault we sleepe, the world will prove Religious, and call it the shrine of love. There, when o'th' wedding eve some beautious maid, Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paid
The tribute of her vowes: o'th' sudden shee Two violets sprouting from the tombe will see : And cry out, "Ye sweet emblems of their zeale Who live below, sprang ye up to reveale The story of our future joyes, how we The faithfull patterns of their love shall be;
If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew, And I will weepe and wither hence with you."
AN ELEGY UPON THE HONOURABLE
SONNE TO THE EARLE OF AR.
Ir's false arithmeticke to say thy breath Expir'd too soone, or irreligious death Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares, Thou didst the old Methusalem out-live. Though time but twenty years' account can give Of thy abode on Earth, yet every houre
Of thy brave youth by vertue's wondrous powre Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent day Keeps young the body, but the soule makes gray. Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behind Th'ast left to us such stories of thy minde Fit for example; that when them we read, We envy Earth the treasure of the dead. Why doe the sinfull riot and survive The feavers of their surfets? Why alive Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey? Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night With cheats and imprecations? Why is light Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it : Who sold the vigour of their strength and wit To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?
But I'le not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh Those first from the darke prison of their clay Who are most fit for Heaven. Thou in warre Hadst ta'ne degrees, those dangers felt, which are The props on which peace safely doth subsist And through the cannons blew and horrid mist Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat That naught but death did want to make thee great.
OF WHAT WE WERE BEFORE OUR CREATION.
WHEN Pelion wondring saw, that raine which fell But now from angry Heaven, to heavenward swell : When th' Indian ocean did the wanton play, Mingling its billows with the Balticke sea : And the whole earth was water: O where then Were we, Castara? In the fate of men Lost underneath the waves? Or to beguile Heaven's justice, lurkt we in Noah's floating isle? We had no being then. This fleshly frame Wed to a soule, long after, hither came Those moneths that were A stranger to it selfe. But the last age, no newes of us did heare. What pompe is then in us? Who th' other day Were nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.
TO THE MOMENT LAST PAST.
O WHITHER dost thou flye? cannot my vow Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now, And thou art gone? like ships which plough the sea, And leave no print for man to tracke their way. O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, can Out-vie the jewels of the ocean,
The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in thee Had been a purchase for eternity! We will not loose thee then. Castara, where
Shall we finde out his hidden sepulcher; And wee'le relieve him. Not the cruell stealth Of fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth;
Vndone in thrift! while we besought his stay, Ten of his fellow moments fled away.
OF THE KNOWLEDGE OF LOVE.
WHERE sleepes the north-wind when the south in
Life in the spring, and gathers into quires
The scatter'd nightingales; whose subtle eares Heard first th' harmonious language of the spheares; Whence hath the stone, magnetic force t' allure Th' enamour'd iron; from a seed impure Or naturall did first the mandrake grow; What power i'th' ocean makes it ebb and flow; What strange materials is the azure skye Compacted of; of what it's brightest eye The ever flaming Sunne; what people are
In th' unknowne world; what worlds in every star; Let curious fancies at this secret rove; Castara, what we know, wee'le practise, love.
SHOULD the cold Muscovit whose furre and stove Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love, But view the wonder of your presence, he Would scorne his winter's sharpest injury: And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse, As a dull poet even he would say,
Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day Till that bright minute; that he now admires No more why the coy Spring so soone retires From their unhappy clyme; it doth pursue The Sun, and he derives his light from you. Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick sea Is set at freedome, while the yce away Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are Reduc't to order: how to them you bring The wealthiest mines below, above the spring. Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want Religion to beleeve, there were a saint Within, and all he saw was but the shrine. But here I pay my vowes to the devine Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were Not hid in a faire cloud, but might appeare In its full lustre, would make Nature live In a state equall to her primitive.
But sweetly that's obscur'd. Yet though our eye Cannot the splendour of your soule descry In true perfection, by a glimmering light, Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde. How hastily doth Nature build up man To leave him so imperfect? For he can See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule So farre his sight he ne're discern'd a soule. For had yours beene the object of his eye, It had turn'd wonder to idolatry.
AMPHION, O thou holy shade! Bring Orpheus up with thee: That wonder may you both invade, Hearing love's barmony.
You who are soule, not rudely made
And fit to reach the musique of these sphcares. Vp, with materiall eares,
Harke! when Castara's orbs doe move
By my first moving eyes,
How great the symphony of love,
But 'tis the destinies
Will not so farre my prayre approve,
Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there. To bring you hither, here
'Tis no dull sublunary flame
Burnes in her heart and mine.
But some thing more, than hath a name, So subtle and divine,
We know not why, nor how it came.
Which shall shine bright, till she And the whole world of love, expire with me.
SIR ED. P. KNIGHT.
You'd leave the silence in which safe we are, To listen to the noyse of warre;
And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread, Who by the number of the dead
Reckon their glories and thinke greatness stood Vnsafe, till it was built on blood.
Secure i'th' wall our seas and ships provide (Abhorring war's so barb'rous pride, And honour bought with slaughter) in content Let's breath, thou humble, innocent. Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we ne're See the fresh youth of the next yeare. Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose Againe t' out-blush th' æmulous rose, Why doth ambition so the minde distresse To make us scorne what we possesse? And looke so farre before us? Since all we Can hope, is varied misery?
Goe find some whispering shade neare Arne or Poe, And gently 'mong their violets throw Your weary'd limbs, and see if all those faire
Enchantments can charme griefe or care? Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you The ruin'd capitoll shall view
And statues, a disorder'd heape; you can Not cure yet the disease of man,
And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile where Another Sun and starres appeare,
And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,
And yet even there your selfe youle meete. Stay here then, and while curious exiles find New toyes for a fantastique mind; Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring By her aeriall quires doth sing
As sweetly to you as if you were laid Vnder the learn'd Thessalian shade.
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