« PreviousContinue »
Grave tutor to the learned horse. Both which,
Being beyond sea, burned for one witch:
Their spirits transmigrated to a cat:
And now, above the poole, a face right fat,
With great gray eyes, are lifted up and mew'd?
Thrice did it spit: thrice div'd. At last it view'd
Our braver heroes with a milder glare,
And in a pittious tune began. How dare
Your dainty nostrils (in so hot a season,
When every clerke eats artichoks and peason,
Laxative lettuce, and such windy meat)
Tempt such a passage? when each privie's seat
Is fill'd with buttock? and the wals do sweat
Urine and plaisters? when the noise doth beat
Upon your eares, of discords so un-sweet?
And out-cries of the damned in the Fleet?
Cannot the Plague-bill keep you back? nor bels
Of loud Sepulchre's with their hourely knels,
But you will visit grisly Pluto's hall?
Behold where Cerberus, rear'd on the wall
Of Hol❜borne (three sergeants' heads) looks ore,
And stays but till you come unto the dore!
Tempt not his fury, Pluto is away:
And madame Cæsar, great Proserpina,
Is now from home. You lose your labours quite,
Were you Jove's sons, or had Alcides' might.
They cry'd out, Pusse. He told them he was Banks,
That had so often shew'd 'hem merry pranks.
They laugh't at his laugh-worthy fate.
The tripple head without a sop. At last,
Calling for Radamanthus, that dwelt by
A sope-boyler; and acus him nigh,
Who kept an ale-house; with my little Minos,
An ancient pur-blind fletcher, with a high nose;
They took 'hem all to witnesse of their action:
And so went bravely back, without protraction.
In memory of which most liquid deed,
The city since hath rais'd a pyramide.
And I could wish for their eternis'd sakes,
My Muse had plough'd with his, that sung A-jax.
Or stayre, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,
And, these grudg'd at, art reverenc'd the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks, of soile, of ayre,
Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire.
Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport:
Thy Mount, to which the Dryads do resort,
Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made,
Beneath the broad beech and the chest-nut shade;
That taller tree which of a nut was set,
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.
There in the writhed barke, are cut the names
Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames;
And thence the ruddy Satyres oft provoke
The lighter Faunes, to reach thy ladie's oke.
Thy copp's too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never failes to serve thee season'd deere,
When thou wouldst feast, or exercise thy friends.
The lower land, that to the river bends,
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine and calves do feed:
The middle grounds thy mares, and horses breed.
Each banck doth yeeld thee coneyes; and the topps
Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sydney's copps,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purple phesant, with the speckled side:
The painted partrich lyes in every field,
And for thy messe is willing to be kill'd.
And if the high-swolne Medway faile thy dish,
Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,
Fat aged carps, that run into thy net,
And pikes, now weary their own kinde to eat,
As loth the second draught, or cast to stay,
Officiously at first themselves betray.
Bright eeles, that emulate them, and leape on land,
Before the fisher, or into his hand.
Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres. The early cherry, with the later plum,
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: The blushing apricot and woolly peach
Hang on thy wals, that every child may reach.
And though thy wals be of the countrey stone,
They're rear'd with no man's ruine, no man's grone:
There's none that dwell about themwish them downe;
But all come in, the farmer and the clowne:
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute.
Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make
The better cheeses bring 'hem; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare
An embleme of themselves, in plum or peare.
But what can this (more than expresse their love)
Adde to thy free provisions, farre above
The need of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,
With all that hospitality doth know!
Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to eat,
Without his feare, and of thy lord's owne meat:
Where the same beere and bread, and selfe-same
That is his lordship's, shall be also mine.
And I not faine to sit (as some this day,
At great men's tables) and yet dine away.
Here no man tels my cups; nor, standing by,
A waiter, doth my gluttony envy:
But gives me what I call for, and lets me eate;
He knowes, below, he shall finde plentie of meate;
Thy tables hoord not up for the next day,
Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray
For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there;
As if thou then wert mine, or I raign'd here;
There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.
That found king James, when hunting late this way,
With his brave sonne, the prince, they saw thy fires
Shine bright on every harth, as the desires
Of thy Penates had beene set on flame,
To entertayne them; or the countrey came,
With all their zeale to warme their welcome here.
What (great, I will not say, but) sodaine cheare
Didst thou then make 'hem! and what praise was
On thy good lady then! who therein reap'd [heap'd
The just reward of her high huswifery;
To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh,
When she was farre: and not a roome, but drest,
As if it had expected such a guest!
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.
Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall.
His children thy great lord may call his owne :
A fortune in this age but rarely knowne,
They are, and have beene taught religion: thence
Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.
Each morne, and even, they are taught to pray
With the whole houshold, and may every day
Reade in their vertuous parents' noble parts,
The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other edifices, when they see
Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,
May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.
The whil'st the severall seasons thou hast seene
Of flowry fields, of cop'ces greene,
The mowed meddows, with the fleeced sheep,
And feasts that either shearers keep;
The ripened eares yet humble in their height,
And furrows laden with their weight;
The apple-harvest that doth longer last;
The hogs return'd home fat from mast;
The trees cut out in log; and those boughs made
A fire now, that lent a shade!
Thus Pan and Sylvane having had their rites,
Comus puts in for new delights;
And fils thy open hall with mirth and cheere,
As if in Saturne's raigne it were;
Apollo's harpe, and Hermes' lyre resound,
Nor are the Muses strangers found:
The rout of rurall folk come thronging in,
(Their rudenesse then is thought no sin)
Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace;
And the great heroes of her race,
Sit mixt with losse of state or reverence.
Freedome doth with degree dispence.
The jolly wassall walks the often round,
And in their cups their cares are drown'd:
They think not then which side the cause shall leese,
Nor how to get the lawyer fees.
Such, and no other was that age, of old,
Which boasts t' have had the head of gold.
And such since thou canst make thine own content,
Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent.
Let others watch in guilty armes, and stand
The fury of a rash command,
TO SIR ROBERT WROTH.
Go enter breaches, meet the cannon's rage,
That they may sleep with scarres in age.
How blest art thou, canst love the countrey, Wroth, And shew their feathers shot, and cullours torne,
Whether by choyce, or fate, or both!
And, though so neere the citie and the court,
Art tane with neither's vice nor sport:
And brag that they were therefore borne.
Let this man sweat, and wrangle at the barre,
For every price in every jarre,
That at great times, art no ambitious guest
Of sheriffe's dinner, or maior's feast.
And change possessions, oftner with his breath,
Than either money, war, or death:
Nor com'st to view the better cloth of state;
The richer hangings, or crowne-plate;
Let him, than hardest sires, more disinherit,
And each where boast it as his merit,
Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a sight
Of the short braverie of the night;
To view the jewels, stuffes, the paines, the wit
There wasted, some not paid for yet!
But canst at home in thy securer rest,
Live with un-bought provision blest;
Free from proud porches or their guilded roofes,
'Mong'st loughing heards and solid hoofes:
Along'st the curled woods and painted meades,
Through which a serpent river leades
To blow up orphanes, widdows, and their states;
And think his power doth equall Fate's.
Let that go heape a masse of wretched wealth,
Purchas'd by rapine, worse than stealth,
And brooding o're it sit, with broadest eyes,
Not doing good, scarce when he dyes.
Let thousands more go flatter vice, and winne,
By being organes to great sin,
To some coole courteous shade, which he cals his,
And makes sleep softer than it is!
Get place and honour, and be glad to keepe
The secrets, that shall breake their sleepe:
And, so they ride in purple, eat in plate,
Though poyson, thinke it a great fate.
But thou, my Wroth, if I can truth apply,
Shalt neither that, nor this envy :
Thy peace is made; and, when man's state is well,
'Tis better, if he there can dwell.
Or if thou list the night in watch to breake,
A-bed canst heare the loud stag speake,
In spring oft roused for their master's sport,
Who for it makes thy house his court;
Or with thy friends, the heart of all the yeare,
Divid'st upon the lesser deere;
In autumne, at the partrich mak'st a flight,
And giv'st thy gladder guests the sight;
And in the winter hunt'st the flying hare,
More for thy exercise than fare;
While all that follow their glad eares apply
To the full greatnesse of the cry:
Or hauking at the river or the bush,
Or shooting at the greedy thrush,
Thou dost with some delight the day out-weare,
Although the coldest of the yeare!
God wisheth none should wracke on a strange shelfe:
To him man 's dearer, than t' himselfe.
And, howsoever we may thinke things sweet,
He alwayes gives what he knowes meet;
Which who can use is happy: such be thou.
Thy morning's and thy evening's vow
Be thankes to him, and earnest prayer, to finde
A body sound, with sounder minde;
To do thy countrey service, thy selfe right;
That neither want doe thee affright,
Nor death; but when thy latest sand is spent,
Thou maist thinke life a thing but lent.
As little, as I hope from thee: I know thou canst nor shew, nor beare More hatred, than thou hast to me. My tender, first, and simple yeares
Thou did'st abuse, and then betray; Since stird'st up jealousies and feares,
When all the causes were away. Then, in a soile hast planted me,
Where breathe the basest of thy fooles; Where envious arts professed be,
And pride, and ignorance the schooles, Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,
But, as 't is rumor'd, so beleev'd: Where every freedome is betray'd,
And every goodnesse tax'd, or griev'd.
But, what we're borne for, we must beare:
Our fraile condition it is such,
That, what to all may happen here,
If't chance to me, I must not grutch.
Else, I my state should much mistake,
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kinde: that, for my sake,
There should a miracle be wrought.
No, I doe know, that I was borne
To age, misfortune, sicknesse, griefe: But I will beare these, with that scorne, As shall not need thy false reliefe.
Nor for my peace will I goe farre,
As wandrers doe, that still doe rome; But make my strengths, such as they are, Here in my bosome, and at home.
COME, my Celia, let us prove, While we may, the sports of love; Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever,
Spend not then his gifts in vaine.
Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:
But, if once we loose this light,
'T is, with us, perpetuall night.
Why should we deferre our joyes?
Fame, and rumour are but toyes.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poore houshold spyes?
Or his easier eares beguile,
So removed by our wile?
'T is no sinne, love's fruit to steale,
But the sweet theft to reveale:
To be taken, to be seene,
These have crimes accounted beene.
KISSE me, sweet: the wary lover
Can your favours keepe, and cover,
When the common courting jay
All your bounties will betray.
Kisse againe: no creature comes.
Kisse, and score up wealthy summes
On my lips, thus hardly sundred,
While you breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thousand, then another
Hundred, then unto the tother
Adde a thousand, and so more:
Till you equall with the store,
All the grasse that Rumney yeelds,
Or the sands in Chelsey fields,
Or the drops in silver Thames,
Or the stars, that guild his streames,
In the silent sommer-nights,
When youths ply their stom delights.
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'hem as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pin'd.
THAT WOMEN are but Men's SHADDOWS. FOLLOW a shaddow, it still flies you, Seeme to flye it, it will pursue : So court a mistris, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then, Stil'd but the shaddows of us men?
At morne, and even, shades are longest ;
At noone, they are or short, or none:
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they 're not knowne.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Stil'd but the shaddows of us men?
WHY, Disease, dost thou molest Ladies? and of them the best? Do not men, ynow of rites To thy altars, by their nights Spent in surfets: and their dayes, And nights too, in worser wayes? Take heed, Sicknesse, what you do, I shall feare, you'll surfet too. Live not we, as, all thy stals, Spittles, pest-house, hospitals, Scarce will take our present store? And this age will build no more: 'Pray thee, feed contented, then, Sicknesse, only on us men. Or if needs thy lust will taste Woman-kind; devoure the waste Livers, round about the town. But, forgive me, with thy crown They maintaine the truest trade, And have more diseases made. What should, yet, thy pallat please? Daintinesse, and softer easc, Sleeked lims, and finest blood? If thy leannesse love such food, There are those, that, for thy sake, Do enough; and who would take Any paines; yea, think it price, To become thy sacrifice. That distill their husbands' land In decoctions; and are mann'd With ten emp'ricks, in their chamber, Lying for the spirit of amber. That for the oyle of talck, dare spend More than citizens dare lend Them, and all their officers. That to make all pleasure theirs, Will by coach, and water go, Every stew in towne to know; Dare entayle their loves on any, Bald, or blind, or ne're so many: And, for thee at common game, Play away, health, wealth, and fame. These, Disease, will thee deserve: And will, long ere thou should'st starve, On their bed most prostitute,
Move it, as their humblest sute,
In thy justice to molest
None but them, and leave the rest.
DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And I'le not looke for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise, Doth aske a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath, Not so much honoring thee, As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did'st onely breathe, And sent'st it back to me:
Since when, it growes, and smells, I sweare, Not of it selfe, but thee.
AND must I sing? what subject shall I chuse ?
Or whose great name in poets' Heaven use?
For the more countenance to my active Muse?
Hercules? alas his bones are yet sore
With his old earthly labours. T exact more,
Of his dull god-head, were sinne. I'le implore
Phoebus? no, tend thy cart still. Envious day Shall not give out, that I have made thee stay, And foundred thy hot teame, to tune my lay.
Nor will I begge of thee, lord of the vine,
To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine,
In the greene circle of thy ivie twine.
Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid,
That, at thy birth, mad'st the poore smith affraid,
Who, with his axe, thy father's mid-wife plaid.
Goe, crampe dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts,
Or, with thy tribade trine, invent new sports.
Thou, nor thy loosenesse, with my making sorts.
Let the old boy, your sonne, ply his old taske, Turne the stale prologue to some painted maske, His absence in my verse, is all I aske.
Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us, Though he would steale his sister's Pegasus, And riffle him: or pawne his Petasus.
Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake, (Though they were crusht into one forme) could make A beautie of that merit, that should take
My Muse up by commission: no, I bring
My owne true fire. Now my thought takes wing,
And now an epode to deepe eares I sing.
At th' eye and eare (the ports unto the minde)
That no strange, or unkinde
Object arrive there, but the heart (our spie)
Give knowledge instantly,
To wakefull reason, our affections' king:
Who (in th' examining)
Will quickly taste the treason, and commit
Close, the close cause of it.
'Tis the securest policie we have,
To make our sense our slave.
But this true course is not embrac'd by many :
By many? scarce by any.
For either our affections doe rebell,
They're base, and idle feares
Whereof the loyall conscience so complaines.
Thus by these subtill traines,
Doe severall passions invade the minde,
And strike our reason blinde.
Of which usurping ranck, some have thought love
The first; as prone to move
Most frequent tumults, horrours, and unrests,
In our enflamed brests:
But this doth from the cloud of errour grow,
Which thus we over-blow.
Though we acknowledge, who can so abstayne,
Makes a most blessed gaine,
He that for love of goodnesse hateth ill,
Is more crowne-worthy still,
Than he, which for sin's penalty forbeares;
His heart sins, though he feares.
But we propose a person like our dove,
Grac'd with a phoenix love;
Or else the sentinell
(That should ring larum to the heart) doth sleepe, A beauty of that cleare, and sparkling light, Would make a day of night,
Or some great thought doth keepe
Back the intelligence, and falsely sweares,
And turne the blackest sorrowes to bright joyes:
Whose od'rous breath destroyes
The thing, they here call love, is blinde desire,
Arm'd with bow, shafts, and fire;
Inconstant, like the sea, of whence 't is borne,
Rough, swelling, like a storme:
With whom who sailes, rides on the surge of feare,
And boyles, as if he were
In a continuall tempest. Now, true love
No such effects doth prove;
Of all his happinesse? but soft: I heare
Some vicious foole draw neare,
That is an essence farre more gentle, fine,
Pure, perfect, nay divine;
It is a golden chaine let downe from Heaven,
Whose linkes are bright, and even.
That falls like sleepe on lovers, and combines
The soft, and sweetest mindes
In equall knots: this beares no brands, nor darts,
To murther different hearts,
But, in a calme, and god-like unitie,
O, who is be, that (in this peace) enjoyes
Th' elixir of all joyes?
A forme more fresh, than are the Eden bowers,
And lasting, as her flowers:
Richer than time, and as time's vertue, rare:
Sober, as saddest care:
A fixed thought, an eye un-taught to glance;
Who (blest with such high chance)
Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,
Cast himselfe from the spire
That cryes, we dream, and swears there's no such
As this chaste love we sing.
Peace, luxury, thou art like one of those
Who, being at sea, suppose,
Because they move, the continent doth so.
No, vice, we let thee know,
Though thy wild thoughts with sparrows' wings do
Turtles can chastly dye;
All taste of bitternesse, and makes the ayre
As sweet as she is faire.
A body so harmoniously compos'd,
As Nature disclos'd
All her best symmetrie in that one feature!
O, so divine a creature,
Who could be false to? chiefly when he knowes
How only she bestowes
The wealthy treasure of her love on him;
Making his fortunes swim
In the full flood of her admir'd perfection?
What savage, brute affection,
Would not be fearefull to offend a dame
Of this excelling frame?
Much more a noble and right generous mind
(To vertuous moods inclin'd)
That knowes the weight of guilt: he will refraine
From thoughts of such a straine.
And to his sense object this sentence ever,
Man may securely sinne, but safely never.
EPISTLE TO ELIZABETH COUNTESSE OF RUTLAND.
WHILST that, for which all vertue now is sold,
And almost every vice, almightie gold, [Heaven,
That which, to boote with Hell, is thought worth
And for it, life, conscience, yea soules are given,
Toyles, by grave custome, up and downe the court,
To every squire, or groome, that will report
Well, or ill, only, all the following yeere,
Just to the waight their this daye's presents beare;
While it makes huishers serviceable men,
And some one apteth to be trusted, then,