Come, Phyllis, gentle Phyllis! prithee come,
I have a glass of rich old wine at home,
And in my garden curious flowers do grow,
That languish to adorn thy brow.
The ivy and the yellow crowfoot there
With verdant chaplets wait to braid thy hair;
With silver goblets all my house does shine,
And vervain round my altar twine,
On which the best of all my flock shall bleed;
Come, and observe with what officious speed 10
Each lad and lass of all my house attends
Till to my roof the smoke ascends.
If thou wouldst know why thou must be my guest,
I tell thee 'tis to celebrate a Feast,
The Ides of April, which have ever been
Devoted to the Cyprian Queen.
A day more sacred, and more fit for mirth
Than that which gave me (worthless mortal) birth:
For on that day Maecenas first saw light,
Born for our wonder and delight. 20
My Phyllis, since thy years come on apace,
Substitute me in Telephus his place,
He's now employ'd by one more rich, more fair,
And proudly does her shackles wear.
Remember what became of Phaeton;
Remember what befell Bellerophon;
That by ambition from his Father's throne,
And this, by Pegasus thrown down.
Content thyself with what is fit for thee,
Happy that couple that in years agree! 30
Shun others, and accept my parity,
And I will end my loves with thee.
Thou art the last whom I intend to court,
Come then; and (to prepare thee for the sport)
Learn prick-song, and my merry odes rehearse:
Many a care is charm'd by verse.
EPODE III. _To Maecenas._
In time to come, if such a crime should be
As Parricide, (foul villany!)
A clove of garlic would revenge that evil;
(Rare dish for ploughmen, or the Devil!)
Accursed root! how does it jounce and claw!
It works like ratsbane in my maw.
What witch contriv'd this strat'gem for my breath!
Poison'd at once, and stunk to death;
With this vile juice Medea sure did 'noint
Jason, her love, in every joint; 10
When untam'd bulls in yokes he led along,
This made his manhood smell so strong:
This gave her dragon venom to his sting,
And set the hag upon the wing.
I burn, I parch, as dry as dust I am,
Such drought on Puglia never came.
Alcides could not bear so much as I,
He oft was wet, but never dry.
Maecenas! do but taste of your own treat,
And what you gave your poet, eat; 20
Then go to bed, and court your mistress there,
She'll never kiss you I dare swear.
[III. 5 'Jounce', a word worth restoring, is the same as
Shakespeare's 'jaunce' and as 'jaunt'. It seems to be still
provincial, especially in East Anglia (Flatman had property
there), and is equivalent to 'jolt', 'bob up and down',
'wamble in the innerds'.]
EPODE VI.
_Against Cassius Severus, a rerevileful and wanton Poet._
Thou village-cur! why dost thou bark at me?
A wolf might come, and go, for thee.
At me thou open'st wide, and think'st that I
Will bark with thee for company.
I'm of another kind, and bravely dare
(Like th' mastiff) watch my flock with care:
Dare hunt through snow, and seize that savage beast
That might my darling folds molest:
Thou (only in the noise thou mak'st) robust
Leav'st off the chase; leap'st at a crust, 10
But have a care! for if I vent my spleen,
I (for a shift) can make thee grin:
I'll make thee (if iambics once I sing)
To die, like Bupalus, in a string.
When any man insults o'er me, shall I
Put finger in mine eye and cry?
EPODE X. _Against Maevius, a Poet._
And art thou shipp'd, friend Doggerel!--get thee gone,
Thou pest of Helicon.
Now for an hurricane to bang thy sides,
Curst wood, in which he rides!
An east-wind tear thy cables, crack thy oars,
While every billow roars.
With such a wind let all the Ocean swell
As wafted Noll to Hell:
No friendly star o'er all the Sea appear
While thou be'st there; 10
Nor kinder destiny there mayst thou meet
Than the proud Grecian Fleet,
When Pallas did their Admiral destroy
Return'd from ruin'd Troy.
Methinks I see the mariners faint, and thee
Look somewhat scurvily:
Thou call'st on Jove, as if great Jove had time
To mind thy Grub-street Rhyme,
When the proud waves their heads to Heav'n do rear
Himself scarce free from fear: 20
Well! If the Gods should thy wreck'd carcase share
To beasts or fowls of th' air,
I'll sacrifice to them, that they may know
I can be civil too.
[X. 7 The great storm of September 2, 1658, the day before
Cromwell's death.]
[Line: 18 Marvell in 1678, and Otway in _The Atheist_, 1684,
first mentioned the _vicus infaustus_ which humour (or the
want of it) renamed 'Milton' Street, from the proximity of
Bunhill Fields.]
EPODE XI. _To Pettius his Chamber-fellow._
Ah, Pettius! I have done with Poetry,
I've parted with my liberty
For Cupid's slavery.
Cupid, that peevish God, has singled out
Me, from among the rhyming rout,
For boys and girls to flout:
December now has thrice stript every tree,
Since bright Inachia's tyranny
Has laid its chains on me.
Now fie upon me! all about the town 10
My Miss I treated up and down,
I for a squire was known.
Lord, what a whelp was I! to pule and whine,
To sigh, to sob, and to repine!
For thy sake, Mistress mine!
Thou didst my verse, and thou my Muse despise,
My want debas'd me in thine eyes.
Thou wealth, not wit, didst prize.
Fuddled with wine and love my secrets flew,
Stretch'd on those racks, I told thee true 20
What did myself undo.
Well!--plague me not too much, imperious dame,
Lest I blaspheme thy charming name,
And quench my former flame.
I can give others place, and see thee die
Damn'd with their prodigality,
If I set on't, so stout am I.
Thou know'st, my friend, thus have I often said,
When, by her sorceries misled,
Thou bad'st me home to bed: 30
Ev'n then my practice gave my tongue the lie,
I could not her curst house pass by:
I fear'd, but could not fly.
Since that, for young Lyciscus I'm grown mad;
Inachia such a face ne'er had,
It is a lovely lad.
From his embraces I shall ne'er get free,
Nor friends' advice, nor infamy
Can disentangle me:
Yet if some brighter object I should spy, 40
That might perhaps debauch my eye,
And shake my constancy.
EPODE XV. _To his Sweetheart Neaera._
It was a lovely melancholy night;
The Moon, and every star shone bright;
When thou didst swear thou wouldst to me be true,
And do as I would have thee do:
False woman! round my neck thy arms did twine,
Inseparable as the elm and vine:
Then didst thou swear thy passion should endure
To me alone sincere and pure,
Till sheep and wolves should quit their enmity,
And not a wave disturb the sea. 10
Treacherous Neaera! I have been too kind,
But Flaccus can draw off, thou'lt find;
He can that face (as thou dost him) forswear,
And find (it may be) one as fair:
And let me tell thee, when my fury's mov'd,
I hate devoutly, as I lov'd.
But thou, blest gamester, whosoe'er thou be
That proudly dost my drudgery,
Didst thou abound in numerous flocks, and land,
Wert heir to all Pactolus' sand; 20
Though in thy brain thou bor'st Pythagoras,
And carried'st Nereus in thy face,
She'd pick another up, and shab thee off,
And then 'twill be my turn to laugh.
[XV. 23 'Shab off' seems to be still provincially used both in
the intransitive sense '_sneak_ off' and in the transitive as
here '_bundle_ off.']
EPODE XVII. _To Canidia._
I yield, Canidia, to thy art,
Take pity on a penitent heart:
By Proserpine, Queen of the Night,
And by Diana's glimmering light,
By the mysterious volumes all,
That can the stars from Heaven call;
By all that's sacred I implore
Thou to my wits wouldst me restore.
The brave Achilles did forgive
King Telephus, and let him live, 10
Though in the field the King appear'd,
And war with Mysian bands prepar'd.
When on the ground dead Hector lay,
Expos'd, to birds and beasts a prey;
The Trojan Dames in pity gave
Hector an honourable grave.
Ulysses's mariners were turn'd to swine,
Transform'd by Circe's charms divine;
Yet Circe did their doom revoke,
And straight the grunting mortals spoke: 20
Each in his pristine shape appears,
Fearless of dogs to lug their ears.
Oh! do not my affliction scorn!
Enough in conscience I have borne!
My youth and fresh complexion's gone,
Dwindled away to skin and bone.
My hair is powd'red by thy care,
And all my minutes busy are.
Day Night, and Night the Day does chase,
Yet have not I a breathing space! 30
Wretch that I am! I now believe,
No pow'r can from thy charms reprieve:
Now I confess thy magic can
Reach head and heart, and unman man.
What wouldst thou have me say? what more?
O Seas! O Earth! I scorch all o'er!
Hercules himself ne'er burnt like me,
Nor th' flaming Mount in Sicily:
O cease thy spells, lest I be soon
Calcin'd into a pumice-stone! 40
When wilt th' ha' done? What must I pay?
But name the sum, and I obey:
Say: Wilt thou for my ransom take
An hecatomb? or shall I make
A bawdy song t'advance thy trade,
Or court thee with a serenade?
Wouldst thou to Heav'n, and be a star?
I'll hire thee Cassiopeia's Chair.
Castor, to Helen a true friend,
Struck her defaming poet blind; 50
Yet he, good-natur'd gentleman,
Gave the blind bard his eyes again.
Since this, and much more thou canst do,
O rid me of my madness too!
From noble ancestors thy race,
No vulgar blood purples thy face:
Thou searchest not the graves of th' poor,
But necromancy dost abhor:
Gen'rous thy breast, and pure thy hands,
Whose fruitful womb shall people lands, 60
And ere thy childbed-linen's clean,
Thou shall be up and to't again.
_Canidia's Answer._
Go--hang thyself:--I will not hear,
The rocks as soon shall lend an ear
To naked mariners that be
Left to the mercy of the Sea.
Marry come up!--Shall thy bold pride
The mysteries of the Gods deride?
Presumptuous fool! commit a rape
On my repute, and think to 'scape!
Make me a town-talk? Well! ere thou die
Cupid shall vengeance take; or I. 10
Go, get some ratsbane!--'twill not do,
Nay, drink some aqua-fortis too:
No witch shall take thy life away;
Who dares say, Go, when I bid Stay?
No!--I'll prolong thy loathed breath,
And make thee wish in vain for death.
In vain does Tantalus espy
Fruits, he may taste but with his eye.
In vain does poor Prometheus groan,
And Sisyphus stop his rolling stone: 20
Long may they sigh, long may they cry,
But not control their destiny.
And thou in vain from some high wall
Or on thy naked sword mayst fall,
In vain (to terminate thy woes)
Thy hands shall knit the fatal noose:
For on thy shoulders then I'll ride,
And make the Earth shake with my pride.
Think'st thou that I, who when I please
Can kill by waxen images, 30
Can force the Moon down from her sphere,
And make departed ghosts appear,
And mix love-potions!--thinks thy vanity,
I cannot deal with such a worm as thee?
FINIS.
POEMS NOT INCLUDED IN THE EDITIONS OF 1682 AND 1686.
The sources from which these miscellaneous poems are taken are
noted separately. Two, at the time of going to press, have not been
printed--the _Song_ 'Oh no, oh no!' (p. 414) and the _Paraphrase_ of
the 27th Chapter of Job (p. 420).
There is evidence that Flatman contemplated one more Pindaric, but
perhaps it was not written, and certainly not printed. The subject
was to be Admiral Myngs. The _Familiar Letters of Love, Gallantry, and
Several Occasions_, 1718, vol. i, pp. 249 foll., include a letter of
consolation to Flatman's 'Honoured Master', in which he writes, after
some preliminary comments: 'Not to hold you any longer in suspense, my
Noble, my Generous Friend, the Glory of the Sea, the Astonishment
of all the World, is dead. When I have told you this, you cannot be
ignorant of the Person I mean; he has a Name too big to be concealed
from any body that ever heard of Wonder on the Deep, or understands
what 'tis to be brave, to be valiant, to be loyal, to be kind
and honourable, more than all this is too little to describe Sir
_Christopher Myngs_. Guess, my Dearest Master, the Disturbance
so irreparable a Loss must create in one often honour'd with his
Conversation, and many Ways oblig'd by him. We have nothing left of
him now but poor sorrowful _Syl. Taylour_, that other Half of his
Soul, who is now resolv'd for Retirement, and will run no more Hazards
at Sea. Many more Things I might misemploy you with, but this great
load must be first removed, which, I think, will not be, till I have
vented my Grief in a Pindarique, and done the last Office of Kindness
for the Dead. If I can make my Sorrows any thing legible, expect to
bear a Part in them.' The letter is dated from London on June 15,
1666.
Another lost poem--doubtless a Pindaric--on the theme of London is
thus referred to in an autograph letter to Sancroft written from St.
Catharine Hall, Cambridge, on May 13, 1667 (Tanner MS. xlv, fol. 188):
'When I was last with you you were pleasd to take away from me a paper
of imperfect Verses, the first desseign wherof was to comply with your
injunction in saying something on that subject, whose beuty (it may
be) had it continued in that flourishing condition 'twas in at the
time of the imposition of yo^{r} commaunds, might haue heightned my
thoughts as much as it's ruin has now dejected them; or to speak in my
owne way, The Coppy had bin much livelier if th' Originall hadnt bin
so much defaced; and he must be a better Architect then I that can
reare a structure any thing magnificent in so bare an Ichnography.
Thus much S^{r} to let you know how much I am beholding to yo^{r}
forgetfulness in returning my Ode, wherby you haue cover'd many
imperfections, & kept me from being any longer angry with my self for
not finishing what had better never bin begun.'
One poem, sometimes assigned to Flatman has not been reprinted
here--_A Panegyric to his Renowned Majesty, Charles the Second,
King of Great Britain, &c._, a folio sheet issued in 1660, with the
initials 'T. F.', and beginning 'Return, return, strange prodigy of
fate!' Flatman, if it had been his, would not have failed to reprint
it in his own _Poems_. Similarly with an anonymous poem on the
coronation of James II--_To the King, a Congratulatory Poem_, printed
for R. Bentley in 1685--which Mr. W. C. Hazlitt in his _Collections
and Notes_, ii, p. 694, ascribes to Flatman. It begins:
Dread Sir, since it has pleas'd the Pow'rs above
To take the other Object of our love.
This has a faint verbal resemblance to the opening of Flatman's
genuine poem on James (see p. 394), and the misattribution may be due
to this.
_Upon a Chine of Beef._
I.
A chine of beef, God save us all,
Far larger than the butcher's stall,
And sturdier than the City-wall.
II.
For this held out until the foe,
By dint of blade and potent blow,
Fell in pell mell; that did not so.
III.
With stomachs sharper than their knives,
They laid about them for their lives;
Well, Eastcheap men, beware your wives.
IV.
Enragèd weapons storm it round, 10
Each seeking for a gaping wound,
That in its gravy it seems drown'd.
V.
Magnanimous flesh, that didst not fall
At first assault, or second maul,
But a third time defied'st them all!
VI.
What strength can fate's decree revoke?
It was ordain'd thou shouldst be broke;
Alas! time fells the sturdy oak.
VII.
What goodly monuments still appear,
What spondyl-bulwarks are there there, 20
What palisaded ribs are here!
VIII.
This bold monument death defies,
Inscribèd thus, 'To mirth here lies
A trophy and a sacrifice'.
[_Upon a Chine of Beef._] Of doubtful authenticity. The
Horatian adaptation on pp. 356-9 perhaps confirms it, and we
may note the oath (of Flatman's own coinage) at l. 138 of that
poem, 'By sturdy Chine of Beef, and mighty Jove'. The text is
taken from the anonymous version in _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655,
collected by John Cotgrave: it appears on pp. 268-9 of the
_Love-Songs, Epigrams, &c._ An inferior text in _Wit and
Mirth. An Antidote to Melancholy_, 3rd edition, 1682, p. 102,
is headed '_On a Chine of Beef._ By Mr. Tho. Flatman.' If
genuine, this is therefore an early effort; it might be an
undergraduate flight, like the parody on Austin.
The chief variants in _Wit and Mirth_ are:--
Line: 2 'Far longer'.
Line: 10 'storm'd'.
Line: 12 'seem'd'.
Line: 18 'Alas, in time the sturdy oak'.
Line: 19 'What goodly mince did appear'.
Line: 22 'stern Death'.]
_On the Death of the Eminently Ennobled Charles Capell, Esq.;_
_Who, after he had honour'd Winton College with his Education, and
accomplisht himself with a voyage into France, died of the small-pox
at London last Christmas, 1656._
Shower down your ponderous tears, whoe'er you be
Dare write, or read, a Capell's elegy;
Spangle his hearse with pearls, such as were born
'Twixt the blear'd eyelids of an o'ercast morn;
And (but 'tis vain t'expostulate with Death
Or vilify the Fates with frustrate breath)
Pose Destiny with why's--why such a sun
Should set before his noontide stage were run?
Why this fair volume should be bound so fast
In wooden covers, clasp'd-up in such haste? 10
Was Nature fond of its large character
And those divine impressions graven there?
Did she, lest we should spoil't (to waive that sin),
'Cause 'twas the best edition, call it in?
Or would our vaunting Isle, that saints should see
Th' utmost of all our prodigality,
Fearing some detriment by long delay,
Send Heav'n a new-year's-gift before the day?
No: th' empyrean Philomels could sing,
Without his voice, no carols to their King. 20
England's Metropolis (for 'twas in thee
He died) we re-baptize thee Calvary,
The Charnel-house of Gallantry; henceforth
We brand thy front with--Golgotha of Worth.
Had he been swallow'd in that courteous deep
He travell'd o'er, he had been lull'd asleep
In th' amorous Sea-nymphs' stately arms at ease;
His great name would imposthumate the seas,
That, when the waves should swell and tempests rise
(Strong waters challenging the dastard skies), 30
Poor shipwrackt mariners, remembering him,
Should court his asterism, and cease to swim;
Abjure the Fatal Brothers' glow-worm fires,
And dart at him their languishing desires.
Had France intomb'd him (what our land forbids)
Nature had rear'd him stately pyramids
The lofty Alps, where it had been most meet
Their harmless snow should be his winding-sheet;
That alablaster-coverture might be
An emblem of his native purity: 40
Had he fal'n there, it had been true perchance,
_Wickham's Third College might be found in France._
But he return'd from thence, curb'd Neptune's pride,
And, to our fame and grief, came home, and died.
Thus, when the Heav'n has wheel'd its daily race
About our earth, at night its glorious face
Is pox'd with stars, yet Heaven admits no blot,
And every pimple there's a beauty-spot.
Short-liv'd disease, that canst be cured and gone
By one sweet morning's resurrection! 50
Adieu, great sir, whose total he that will
Describe in folio needs a cherub's quill.
Zealous posterity your tomb shall stir,
Hoard up your dust, rifle your sepulchre,
And (as the Turks did Scanderbeg's of old)
Shall wear your bones in amulets of gold.
--But my blasphemous pen profanes his glory;
I'll say but this to all his tragic story:
Were not the world well-nigh its funeral
I'd ne'er believe so bright a star could fall. 60
THO. FLATMAN,
Fellow of New College.
[_On the Death, &c.] From Affectuum Decidua, or Due
Expressions In honour of the truly noble Charles Capell, Esq.
(Son to the right honourable Arthur, Lord Capell, Baron of
Hadham), deceased on Christmas Day 1656. Quis desiderio sit
pudor, aut modus Tam Chari Capitis?--Oxford, Printed Anno
Dom. 1656._]
_On the Picture of the Author, Mr. Sanderson._
Let others style this page a chronicle;
Others Art's mystery; let a third sort dwell
Upon the curious neat artifice, and swear
The sun ne'er saw a shadow half so rare.
He outsays all who lets you understand
The head is Sanderson's, Fathern's the hand.
THO. FLATMAN,
_Inn. Temp. Lond._
[_On the Picture, &c._] This and the following poem are taken
from William Sanderson's _Graphice. Or, The Use of the Pen and
Pensil, Or, the most Excellent Art of Painting._ 1658. With
portrait by Souse, engraved by Faithorne.]
_On the noble Art of Painting._
Strike a bold stroke, my Muse, and let me see
Thou fear'st no colours in thy poetry,
For pictures are dumb poems; they that write
Best poems do but paint in black and white.
The pencil's amulets forbid to die,
And vest us with a fair eternity.
What think ye of the gods, to whose huge name
The pagans bow'd their humble knees? Whence came
Their immortalities but from a shade,
But from those portraitures the painter made? 10
They saddled Jove's fierce eagle like a colt
And made him grasp in 's fist a thunderbolt.
Painters did all: Jove had, at their command,
Spurr'd a jackdaw and held a switch in 's hand.
The demigods, and all their glories, be
Apelles' debtors, for their deity.
Oh how the catholics cross themselves and throng
Around a crucifix, when all along
That's but a picture! How the spruce trim lass
Doats on a picture in the looking-glass! 20
And how ineffable's the peasant's joy
When he has drawn his picture in his boy!
Bright angels condescend to share a part
And borrow glorious plumes from our rare art.
Kings triumph in our sackcloth, monarchs bear
Reverence t' our canvass 'bove the robes they wear.
Great fortunes, large estates, for all their noise,
Are nothing in the world but painted toys.
Th' Egyptian hieroglyphics pictures be,
And painting taught them all their A.B.C. 30
The Presbyterian, th' Independent too,
All would a colour have for what they do.
And who so just that does not sometimes try
To turn pure painter and deceive the eye?
Our honest sleight of hand prevails with all;
Hence springs an emulation general.
Mark how the pretty female-artists try
To shame poor Nature with an Indian dye.
Mark how the snail with 's grave majestic pace
Paints earth's green waistcoat with a silver lace. 40
But--since all rhythms are dark, and seldom go
Without the Sun--the Sun's a painter too;
Heaven's famed Vandyke, the Sun, he paints--'tis clear--
Twelve signs throughout the zodiac every year:
'Tis he, that at the spicy spring's gay birth
Makes pencils of his beams and paints the Earth;
He limns the rainbow when it struts so proud
Upon the dusky surface of a cloud;
He daubs the Moors, and, when they sweat with toil,
'Tis then he paints them all at length in oil; 50
The blushing fruits, the gloss of flowers so pure,
Owe their varieties to his miniature.
Yet, what's the Sun? each thing, where'er we go,
Would be a Rubens, or an Angelo;
Gaze up, some winter night, and you'll confess
Heaven's a large gallery of images.
Then stoop down to the Earth, wonder, and scan
The Master-piece of th' whole creation, Man:
Man, that exact original in each limb,
And Woman, that fair copy drawn from him. 60
Whate'er we see 's one bracelet, whose each bead
Is cemented and hangs by painting's thread.
Thus, like the soul o' th' world, our subtle art
Insinuates itself through every part.
Strange rarity! which canst the body save
From the coarse usage in a sullen grave,
Yet never make it mummy! Strange, that hand,
That spans and circumscribes the sea and land--
That draws from death to th' life, without a spell,
As Orpheus did Eurydice from hell. 70
But all my lines are rude, and all such praise
Dead-colour'd nonsense. Painters scorn slight bays.
Let the great art commend itself, and then
You'll praise the pencil and deride the pen.
T. FLATMAN, lately Fellow of
New Coll. Oxon; now Inn.
Temp. Lond.
_On Mistress S. W., who cured my hand by a plaster applied to the
knife which hurt me._
Wounded and weary of my life,
I to my fair one sent my knife;
The point had pierced my hand as far
As foe would foe in open war.
Cruel, but yet compassionate, she
Spread plasters for my enemy;
She hugg'd the wretch had done me harm,
And in her bosom kept it warm,
When suddenly I found the cure was done,
The pain and all the anguish gone, 10
Those nerves which stiff and tender were
Now very free and active are:
Not help'd by any power above,
But a true miracle of Love.
Henceforth, physicians, burn your bills,
Prescribe no more uncertain pills:
She can at distance vanquish pain,
She makes the grave to gape in vain:
'Mongst all the arts that saving be
None so sublime as sympathy. 20
Oh could it help a wounded breast,
I'd send my soul to have it dress'd.
Yet, rather, let herself apply
The sovereign med'cine to her eye:
There lurks the weapon wounds me deep,
There, that which stabs me in my sleep;
For still I feel, within, a mortall smart,
The salve that heal'd my hand can't cure my heart.
_October 19, 1661._
[_On Mistress S. W._] The above was printed in _Notes and
Queries_ for September 25, 1869; it was contributed by Mr. F.
W. Cosens from a manuscript in his possession, _Miscellanies
by Tho. Flatman, ex Interiori Templo, Londini, Nov. 9, 1661_.
These poems are autograph. This poem is in the Firth MS.,
which clearly is a transcript of the preceding. See p. 278.]
_Song._
I.
Oh no, oh no! it cannot be that I
So long condemn'd to die
Should fool myself with hopes of a reprieve
From her that read my destiny;
She with her basilisk eyes denounc'd my doom.
Why then should I in vain presume,
In vain, fond man, to live
My disappointments poorly to survive?
II.
Oh no, oh no! I know the worst on't now,
My sentence pass'd I know, 10
And I no further expectations have
My wither'd hopes again should grow.
Yet 'tis a satisfaction to be sure
I feel the worst I can endure.
Oh that she yet would save
By her miraculous kindness from the grave.
[_Oh no, &c._] From the Firth MS., which dates the poem 1671,
and notes that it was set by Roger Hill.]
_Epitaph on his eldest Son, Thomas, 1682._
Whoe'er thou art, that look'st upon,
And read'st what lies beneath this stone;
What Beauty, Goodness, Innocence,
In a sad hour was snatch'd from hence.
What reason canst thou have to prize
The dearest object of thine eyes?
Believe this, mortal, what thou valuest most,
And set'st thy soul upon, is soonest lost.
[_Epitaph on his Son._] From Strype's Stow, 1720. Book III,
p. 266. describing the monuments on the north wall of St.
Bride's, Fleet Street. Strype adds, 'These Verses are almost
worn out and gone, and therefore I have preserved them here;
being undoubtedly the easy natural Strain of the Poet, the
Father'.
This Epitaph is in Hackett, _A Collection of Epitaphs_, 1757,
ii. 31, introduced thus--
_'St. Bride's, London_.
Here lies the Body of _Thomas Flatman_, eldest son of
_Thomas Flatman_, and _Hannah_ his wife, who resigned his
beloved soul the 28th of _December_ 1682.'
Strype records that the boy was ten years old. The pastoral
elegy on p. 375 in all probability refers to the same child,
though the date of his death is there given as January 28,
1682/3. Aubrey records (in Aubrey MS. 7, fol. 8 verso) that
Flatman himself was buried in the same grave.]
_Lines to John Northleigh._
Though we that write in rhyme (it is confess'd)
Are wont to praise them most that need it least,
So far from doing what we had design'd
That we become impertinently kind;
Though I'm convinced of this, and right well know
I can add nothing to your Book, or You:
Yet am I forced th' old beaten road to go
And tell my friend what wonders he has done,
Where loyal labours could oblige a Crown--
A Crown asserted by the hand of heaven, 10
By which triumphant laurels now are given;
And may they never, never blasted be
By any Boanerges of Democracy.
Compassionate friend! whose arguments do prove
The force of reason and the power of love;
Taught by your generous and good-natured pen,
The salvage beasts may once more turn to men,
Be reconciled to the ill-treated Throne,
And shun those rocks their fellows split upon:
Your call to th' unconverted may do more 20
Than Orpheus' charms did in the woods before,
Convince the stubborn, and th' unwary lead
By benign arts those blessed steps to tread
In which our glorious Master led the way
To realms of peace and everlasting day.
Farewell, dear friend! and for this once excuse
The last efforts of an expiring Muse.
THOMAS FLATMAN.
[_Lines to John Northleigh_] From _The Triumph of our
Monarchy, Over the Plots and Principles of our Rebels and
Republicans, Being Remarks on their most eminent Libels_. _By
John Northleigh_, 1685; the lines are headed 'To my worthy
Friend, J. Northleigh, Esq., Author of this Book and the
_Parallel_'. Dryden also contributed a poem.]
_Lines to Archbishop Sancroft._
My Lord
When I Your unsought Glories view'd,
And prest (a meane Spectator in the Croud;)
Where every Ey, with sparkling Joy did gaze,
All hearts brimmfull of Blessing, & of Praise;
Extatick with the mighty Theme I went,
And something, some great thing to Write, I meant:
This, sure, said I, must set me all on fire,
This must my dull, unhallow'd Muse inspire:
I try'd in wary words my Verse to dress,
And throng'd my thoughts with awfull Images; 10
For the bold Work, Materialls I desseign'd
High as Your Station, Humble as Your Minde:
Alas! in vaine! my owne Confusion
Strait tumbled th' ill-attempted _Babel_ downe.
Much I desir'd to tell in artfull Rhymes,
Your Magnanimity through the worst of Times
How, like a Rock, amidst the Sea, You stood,
Surrounded with a foaming Popular-Floud;
In that black Night, how You still kept Your way,
When all despair'd the dawning of This Day: 20
With what true Christian Stoicisme, You durst Owne
The slighted Miter, and abandon'd Crowne;
As _Cato_ for the baffled Side declar'd,
Tho' all the Gods, the Conquering Cause preferr'd.
Next, I would have describ'd the Happy Place
Of Your soft minutes in a sweet Recess;
Where all things were in Your Possession,
All You need Wish, for You were all Your Owne[.]
Here Emperours, & Kings, receiv'd at last
The noblest Guerdon for their labours past: 30
Less splendid were those daies, but more secure,
Their last & best were gloriously Obscure.
O those gay Vallies! o those lofty Hills!
Those silent Rivers! & those murmuring Rills!
The melancholy Grove! & peacefull Shade!
For Ease, & Angells-Conversation made!
The Morning's Breath! the sight o' th' rising Sun,
When he starts forth, his Giant-Race to runn!
Faine wou'd I have said, what cannot be express't
But in the sentiments of a wellpleas'd Breast. 40
And now (my Lord!) on Your triumphant Day,
What can Your poor unlettred Beadsman say?
Who know's that Praise, at the Poëtique rate,
Swell's to a Vice, & must deserve Your hate.
When Heav'n vouchsafe's a _Miracle_ to mankinde,
Silence, & Wonder best express our minde.
Durst I Presume, or could Despaire (my Lord!)
I would add Here, for my owne self, one word,
That I might be (whome the World frown's uppon)
An Atome in the beams of Your bright Sun, 50
Almost Invisible; but still shin'd-uppon.
My Lord
Your Grace's most obedient
Servant, & poore Kinsman.
THOMAS FLATMAN.
[_Lines to Archbishop Sancroft._] Exactly reproduced from the
poet's autograph in Tanner MS. 306, of the Bodleian, where
it appears in a group of Sancroft papers at folio 380, and
is endorsed on the outer leaf--'These For his Grace, my Lord
Archbishop of Canterbury, with my humblest Duty.'
The poem must have been written in the last year of Flatman's
life, and have reference to the trial of the Seven Bishops.
With l. 50, 'An Atome in the beams of Your bright Sun',
compare the Pindaric _On the Death of Charles II_, l. 37, 'We
atoms in his beams might sport and play' (p. 392).]
_On the Death of His Grace, James, Duke of Ormond: A Pindaric Ode._
I.
Had not the deathless name of OSSORY
Pow'r to preserve, as well as to create,
And over-rule the dullness of my fate,
A pen so meanly qualified as mine
Might well this mighty task decline,
Too ponderous for feeble Me,
Me so obscure, my glorious theme so bright,
Where all is overpow'ring light
Which never can submit to night.
But sense of deepest gratitude should control 10
All the despondencies of a trembling soul
And force a modest confidence to inspire
The coldest breast with an uncommon fire.
Since then, for aught we know,
The separated happy spirits above
Sometimes regard our pious love,
And are not much disturb'd at what we kindly do.
Let ORMOND'S gentle ghost look down
Full of kind compassion,
And pity what my duty prompts me to. 20
Fain would I pay my tribute ever due
To his immortal memory:
But what immortal methods to pursue
Is understood by very few;
The noblest bard that ever wore the bays
Would here fall short in sorrow, and in praise.
II.
Our stock of tears would soon exhausted be
Were every eye a sea,
And grief would swell to prodigality;
Th' irreparable loss, if duly weigh'd, 30
Would make posterity afraid,
For ORMOND in his radiant course has done
What did amaze, what durst abide the sun,
And struck with terror all the envious lookers on:
Whether with ecstasy we think upon
His goodly person or his matchless mind,
Where shall the most inquisitive mortal find
A more accomplish'd hero left behind?
As he were sent from heaven, design'dly great,
To dote on still, but not presume to imitate, 40
Or whether with regret we cast an eye
On his unbounded liberality,
His unaffected piety,
Or more than human magnanimity
(Virtues inimitable all),
The joyful beadsman and the Church will tell
The story, scarce hereafter credible,
And call his life one long-continued miracle.
III.
Say, all you younger sons of Honour, say,
You that in peace appear so brisk and gay, 50
Is it a little thing to forfeit all
At Loyalty's tremendous call,
And stand with resolution in defence
Of a despised calamitous Prince,
To fight against our stars, and to defy
The last efforts of prosperous villainy,
And--when the hurricane of the state grew high--
To brave the thunder and the lightning scorn,
The beauteous fabric into pieces torn,
Imprisonment and exile to disdain 60
For a neglected Sovereign;
Still to espouse a crazy, tottering crown?
This, mighty ORMOND, was thy own,
This glory thou deserv'dst to have,
This bravery thou hast carried with thee to thy grave.
Let other lesser Great ones live, to try
Thy arduous paths to fame;
Let them bid fair for immortality,
And to procure an everlasting name;
And may thy sacred ashes smile to see 70
Their vain, their frivolous attempts to rival Mighty Thee.
IV.
O noble, fortunate old Man!
Though thou hadst still lived on
To Nestor's centuries, thou hadst died too soon;
Too soon alas! for heav'n could never be
Or weary or ashamed to find fresh toils for thee:
What wiser head, or braver arm than thine
Could heav'n contrive to manage heav'n's design!
And what Herculean labour is too hard
For such a mind, so well prepared, 80
Ever above the prospect of Regard,
And that unfashionable thing, Reward!
Many have been thy gloomy days,
Yet ever happy hast thou been;
In every state thou merit'dst praise,
And thou hast never wanted it within.
All after fourscore years is grief and pain;
Those honourably pass'd, thou didst resign
Thy empire over every heart;
From thine this sceptre never shall depart, 90
But the succession evermore remain:
'Twas time for thee to die, and let a second ORMOND reign.
V.
How shall I mention thy lamented death,
Thy only blemish--thy mortality!
For 'tis too much disparagement for thee
To be involved in common destiny
And like inglorious men give up thy precious breath.
A fiery chariot should have snatch'd thee hence,
And all the host of heav'n convened to see
Th' assumption of a godlike Prince 100
Into th' ineffable society:
Half-way at least part of th' immaculate train
With palms should have attended thee,
Thy harbingers to the triumphant hierarchy,
Then big with wonder mounted up again.
What can the tongues of men or angels say,
What Boanerges ne'er so loud,
If they would speak of thy prodigious day,
Of which an emperor's history would be proud
Farewell, dead Prince--oh might it not be said, 110
Though a desirable euthanasy
Prepared the way for deifying thee,
ORMOND like other men must die,
For he with a fatigue of victory oppress'd
Laid himself only down to rest.
FINIS.
[_On the Death of James, Duke of Ormond._] Printed in folio,
1688, with the title, _On the Death of the Right Honorable the
Duke of Ormond: a Pindaric Ode_. In _Letters from the Dead to
the Living_, 1702, vol. ii, pp. 24-5, Flatman, with his pipe
in his mouth, is introduced complaining that this ode has been
vamped up for the death of King William.]
_Job, Chapter xxvii. Paraphrased._
VERSE 8.
Poor Hypocrite (though ne'er so rich), when God shall call
His double, his dissembling soul, how small,
How beggarly his biggest hopes will show!
Riches command no further than below.
VERSE 9.
When griefs like waves o'er one another roll
And overwhelm his quite-dejected soul,
When he lies groaning on a restless bed,
With a sad bleeding heart, and aching head
Brimfull of anguish and repeated pain,
He weeps and frames his parch'd lips to complain, 10
Breathes up to heaven a very earnest prayer--
Scarce dare he hope, yet dares he not despair--
But all his supplications mount in vain,
God will not hear, nor answer him again.
VERSE 10.
How can he turn religious, and adore
That God he so devoutly mock'd before?
VERSE 11.
I will the depths of Providence reveal;
Th' Almighty's methods will I not conceal.
VERSE 12.
Yet why should I suggest what your own heart,
Were it not vain, might, better far, impart? 20
VERSE 13.
On th' wicked's head this heavy fate shall come,
And this shall be from God th' oppressor's doom.
VERSE 14.
His sons, though more and lovelier they are
Than their decrepit father's silver hair,
Strong as the sons of Anak, bright and brave,
Shall shroud their pride in an untimely grave;
His daughters, though more beauteous every one
Than the seraphic spouse of Solomon,
A sisterhood as numerous and bright
As are the glorious stars that gild the night,-- 30
A bloody cloud their glories shall eclipse;
Death shuts their killing eyes, their charming lips.
Though like a golden harvest they appear,
And every one a full, a laden ear,
Like olive plants amidst their friends be grown,
The sword shall reap, the sword shall hew them down.
The sword and eager famine shall devour
All they enjoy in one unhappy hour.
VERSE 15.
His progeny shall unlamented die,
Buried in black oblivion shall they lie, 40
Unpitied to the dust they shall return,
Nor shall one pious tear bedew their urn.
VERSE 16.
If he have silver plentiful as dust,
Gold pure as that of Ophir, both shall rust
VERSE 17.
Let him have caskets whose each orient gem
Vies with the walls o' th' new Jerusalem,
Raiment more gorgeous than the lily's hue
When every snowy fold is pearl'd with dew,
He's but the just man's steward all the while;
The just shall wear the raiment, part the spoil. 50
VERSE 18.
The house he builds, like that o' th' moth, shall be
Too weak against the wind's least battery;
Or, if it stand the brunt of wind and rain,
'Twill stagger at a thund'ring hurricane;
As tents, it may remove from land to land,
But on a solid basis cannot stand.
VERSE 19.
The rich man shall depart, but not in peace;
When he lies down, his horror shall increase
Just when he's ripe for vengeance and heaven's frown
Death, ah too irksome Death, shall shake him down. 60
Gather'd he shall not be by that kind hand
Which plucks the righteous to blest Canaan's land:
He opes his lids and surfeiteth his eyes
With gazing over all his vanities,
Till some ill chance o' th' sudden dims his sight
And leaves him lost in an eternal night.
VERSES 20, 21.
As mighty waters shall his terrors roar;
He's stolen away and shall be seen no more,
Hurried from his belovèd home, and tost
By th' East wind, fierce as that drown'd Pharaoh's host. 70
VERSE 22.
Jehovah, from whose hand he fain would flee,
Shall add more sting to his calamity:
VERSE 23.
And where his glass has but few sands to run,
His tragicomic life now almost done,
At the last act his deadliest shame shall be
To find an hissing for a _Plaudite._
[_Job._] The text is taken from the Firth MS. The ingenious
paraphrase of the last verse--'Men shall clap their hands
at him, and shall hiss him out of his place'--echoes _The
Review_, ll. 33-5 (p. 302).]
* * *
* * * * *
_Le hore di recreatione:_
OR,
THE PLEASANT HISTORIE OF
_Albino_ and _Bellama_.
Discovering the severall changes of
Fortune, in +CUPIDS+ journey
to +HYMENS+ joyes.
To which is annexed
_Il Insonio Insonadado_, or a sleeping-waking
Dreame, vindicating the
divine breath of Poesie from the tongue-lashes
of some Cynical Poet-quippers,
and Stoicall Philo-prosers
By N. W. Master in Arts, of Queenes
_Colledge in Cambridge_.
---- _Semel in anno Apollo._
Ergo,
_Nè mea metra tibi Musâ composta jocosâ,
Delibata priùs quàm sint contempta relinquas_,
_LONDON_,
Printed by _J.D._ for _C.G._ and are to be sold
at the Princes Armes in _Pauls_ churchyard.
1638.
INTRODUCTION TO NATHANIEL WHITING.
In the case of most of the constituents of these volumes, there was
little need of 'deliberating and pondering' like the excellent Sir
Thomas Bertram, when he had to settle such weighty questions as
whether his niece should or should not go out to dinner, and if so
whether she should walk or drive. But it was not quite the same
in regard to _Albino and Bellama_. The first claim of entrants
here--rarity and novelty to the general, it has without question:
for the book (though it seems to have been issued in two forms, or
at least with two title-pages) is very uncommon, and the author has
escaped the wide-encroaching net of the _D.N.B._ Nor could I allow
this to be balanced by the dull, clumsy, philistine, hackneyed
ribaldry of the nunnery scenes in the middle, or by a page of sheer
nastiness at the end, which is a sort of concentration of Herrick's
foulest epigrams. These things will happen: and they can be skipped.
It gave one more serious pause that 'N. W.' seldom[1] displays
anything like the poetry which far more than compensates for much
milder blots in _Leoline and Sydanis_, and that his book is written in
a singular jargon almost as much out of the common way as the wildest
freaks of Benlowes, but without their excuse of _furor poeticus_. What
turned the scale in his favour, after more than one reading, was
the increasing conviction that the book, in spite or perhaps to some
extent because of its defects, is a really valuable document for the
history of English Literature from the special point of view which was
marked out in the General Introduction. It is noteworthy as a member,
graceless and slatternly, but still a member, of that class of Heroic
Poem which it has been one of my main objects to bring before the
student. It is still more noteworthy in connexion with the history of
English fiction as presenting a special variety of that kind. It was
not till, for the purposes of this collection, and by the kindness of
Professor Firth, who lent me his copy, I read the volume (I knew it
before only by name and from the _Censura Literaria_) that a gap in my
mind's atlas of that fiction was filled in satisfactorily.
I said, in speaking of _Leoline and Sydanis_, that we must take not
merely the Heroic but the Mock-Heroic poem into consideration as
origins for our English examples; and this is very much more the case
with _Albino and Bellama_. Whiting almost parades his knowledge of
Italian; and I should think, from some of the worst as well as the
oddest parts of his poem, that he had pushed his researches as far
as Macaronic. In fact you must go beyond Folengo--to Tifi Odassi and
Fossa Cremonese[2]--to supply a 'further' to his excursions, into the
unsavoury now and then. But turning willingly enough from this,
it will be evident to any instructed reader--and his perlusive
panegyrists point it out--that his purpose is largely satiric. Indeed,
his uncouth lingo[3] has a close connexion with that of Marston and
the other early Elizabethan satirists forty years before him: while he
gives one odd reminders, at the same time, of the prose pamphlet which
was contemporary with these very satirists, and was actually written
by some of them. Now all these links are links with the history of
the Novel backwards; and there are others forward. Change the romance
apparatus into that of common life, of which our examples are French
and Spanish rather than Italian, and you will get out of parts of
_Albino and Bellama_ something by no means unlike the singular farrago
which goes under the name of _The English Rogue_. Besides convincing
the author that prose is much better for such work than verse (which
Head himself saw[4]), present him with more wits, better taste, and a
more advanced state of society and manners, and you will probably
find him some way on the road which leads, however far away, and after
whatever rise, over the hills beyond his dirty marsh, to _Tom Jones_
itself. While, to make a less 'kangaroo' transition in quality though
a farther one in time, much smaller alteration would make _Albino and
Bellama_ into very fair Mrs. Radcliffe.
The curious addition _Il Insonio Insonadado_ or 'Waking-Dream
Undreamt' (whether the title is invented or borrowed, some one with
greater knowledge of Spanish than I possess must decide) may supply
some greater interest than Whiting's escapade in the Heroic Romance.
It is not continuously paged with the rest of the volume, but merely
'signatured' H, H2, &c. as far as a (misprinted) 5. On the whole,
however, it is much less carelessly put to press than _Albino and
Bellama_, and it is also (in parts at least) much more soberly
written. The opening does not promise much, except an example of the
loose, would-be satirical academic commonplaces of the time; but it
afterwards takes on some critical substance, and if I had read it (as
I had not yet) twenty years ago I should have given it a small corner
in an otherwise very scantily occupied chapter of my _History of
Criticism_. Whether the personages introduced before the Heavenly
Court aim at individuals it would be very hard to say: but the
certification of the poetess[5] might have some interest. 'Tenth
Muses', as was said in relation to Anne King (_v. sup._, p. 210),
were not unknown, and Katharine Philips was alive, though as yet but
a child. But women had, before her, made little figure in English
literature. The evidences of popular taste are not quite worthless,
and while the absence of Ben Jonson is noteworthy, the presence
of Drummond is almost equally so, as well as the mention of that
'testiness' which certainly does appear in the poet of Hawthornden.
But the chief critical utterance is the quatrain, solid and judicial
if not very poetical, on Donne.
Of Whiting himself I have been able to find out very little.[6] He
was of Queens' College, Cambridge; Brydges erroneously says
'King's', having misread the misprinted 'Regnalis' of James Bernard's
commendatory poem. And he must have settled down twenty years later
sufficiently to print in 1659, according to Hazlitt, _The Saint's
Triangle of Duties, Deliverances, and Dangers_. The first edition
of _Albino and Bellama_ appeared in 1637, with the title _Le hore di
recreatione: Or, The Pleasant Historie of Albino and Bellama.... By
N. W., Master of Arts, of Queenes Colledge in Cambridge_. The British
Museum also has a copy with an engraved frontispiece as well, adding
_to which is annexed il insonio insonodado_ or the _vindication of
Poesye_. These title-pages are also dated 1638, and the engraved
title-page was also issued in 1639.
In 1633 the birth of the Duke of York was commemorated at Cambridge
in _Ducis Eboracensis Fasciae a Musis Cantabrigiensibus raptim
contextae_. 'N. Whyting, Coll. Regin. Art. Baccal.' contributes two
copies of verse, Latin and Greek, both markedly royalist in tone.
It was not, however, for some time after I had been working on Whiting
that I found considerable new light thrown on him by his prose work,
which is in the British Museum, under his name, though _Albino and
Bellama_ is not. The title of it is abbreviated by Hazlitt, and is in
the original very long, beginning with the Hebrew [Hebrew: el ... bayit
... Eil (to [the] house [of] God)] _Old Jacob's Altar newly repaired;
or The Saints' Triangle of Dangers, Deliverances and Duties_. It is
a solid little quarto of some 260 pages, dedicated to Sir William
Fleetwood, Sir George Fleetwood, 'Baron of Swonholm in Sweadland', and
'his Excellency Charles Lord Fleetwood'. Whiting was now 'Minister' of
Aldwinckle (All Saints, as the registers show[7]) by the patronage
of Sir William, to whom he refers as his 'ancient' and 'affectionate
Mecaenas' in his Cambridge days. He is certainly by this time a
full-blown Puritan. He uses that word itself frequently, and with
pride; refers to 'my reverend grandfather', minister of Elton,
Northants, who was apparently a 'pilgrim father'; speaks of the time
when 'the Episcopal monopoly lasted', and eulogizes 'the faithful
Peters to whom is committed the Word of Reconciliation' (Reconciliation
_à la_ Peters is good!); but also calls Herbert 'divine' and quotes St.
Anselm, though of course without the 'Saint'. Allowing for its
standpoint the book is not virulent, and is a respectable piece of
hortatory divinity on its own side. Besides, the thought that in a few
months 'the Episcopal monopoly' came back again, and that 'the faithful
Peters' received the deferred pay for his various 'commissions',
mitigates judgement not a little; while, to crown all, the contrast
with _Albino and Bellama_ is irresistibly comic. Perhaps, indeed, some
of the ribaldry of the convent scenes in the verse may be due to the
Puritanism which is so distinct in the prose. But it would be an odd
Saint who could construct himself a 'triangle' of any kind of
sanctities or pious experiences out of Whiting's romance. And this,
which is so characteristic of the time, and yet not so uncharacteristic
of all times, adds to my satisfaction in presenting Mr. Nathaniel
Whiting with some little more detail than even Brydges has given. (It
may be added that he was deprived of the living at the Restoration.
Edward Price succeeded him on February 20, 1662-3. According to a brief
notice in _Notes and Queries_,[8] he then migrated to the village of
Cranford, near Kettering, and got together a congregation there. There
is no trace of him in the registers of either of the Cranford
churches.[9] The same authority states that he died childless and was a
benefactor of the free school of Aldwinckle, of which he was master
during the period of his incumbency.)
[Footnote 1: I had written 'nowhere', but hastily. The opening
has not a little which convicts the haste, and I have noted
other passages _infra_.]
[Footnote 2: These oddities of the fifteenth century, with
others, were conveniently republished, in _Maccheronee di
Cinque Poète Italiani_ (Milan: D li, 1864).]
[Footnote 3: He would almost be worth republishing for this
alone, and I say this despite the trouble it has given me.
Those who are curious in rare words and _autoschediastic_
forms ought to prize Whiting highly.]
[Footnote 4: As an instance here, take the incident where
the false Phaeliche, coming to the nunnery, sees the masons
mending the breaches that Rivelezzo's cannon had made. It is
a mere touch, awkward and only half intelligible in the verse.
Less than two centuries later Scott would have given a lively
page and a half of prose description of the scene, with
dialogue thrown in. On the other hand, _in prose_, the
extravagances of the phrase and the incoherences of the story
would have had a better chance of being mended.]
[Footnote 5: 'Marget' is used in _Albino and Bellama_ as a
generic name. But Whiting's irritable and restless fancy may
have put together '_Mag-pie_' and Persius's _poetris pica_.]
[Footnote 6: By the great kindness of the Rev. J. H. Gray,
Tutor and Dean of Queens' College, assisted by the President
of that Society and by the Registrar of the University of
Cambridge, I am enabled to give more than I had found in any
book. Nathaniel Whiting (who seems also to have spelt his name
'Whiteinge' and 'Whitinge') matriculated as Pensioner on March
30, 1629; proceeded B.A. 1631 and M.A. in 1635. He had been
entered at his college on July 1, 1628, and his tutor's name
was Stubbins. In the College accounts from September 1630,
and for four years onwards, Whiting appears as a Scholar,
receiving in the respective years 12s. 6d.; 16s. 3d.; 19s.
7d.; and 15s. 10d. The first payment seems to have been for
part of the year only: but in no year does he come anywhere
near the full income of a Scholar; which, Mr. Gray tells
me, seems to have been £2. There appears to be no subsequent
mention of him in the College records either as Scholar or
Fellow.]
[Footnote 7: Canon Hodgson, Rector of Aldwincle, kindly
allowed Mr. Simpson to examine the registers. The date of
Whiting's institution is March 20, 1652, but already in 1650,
on May 4, he signs the accounts as 'Minister'.]
[Footnote 8: By C. H. and T. Cooper, in the third series, vol.
v, p. 420.]
[Footnote 9: The Rev. C. R. Thursfield kindly allowed Mr.
Simpson to examine the registers.]
CONTENTS
Page
Introduction 424
Commendatory Poems 428
To the right honourable, right worthy, and truly ennobled
hero, John, Lord Lovelace, Baron of Hurley, N.W. S.P.O. 428
To the Reader 429
To the right virtuous and equally beautiful,
S^{ra} Inconstanza Bellarizza 431
The Author's Apology 432
The Author to his Book 433
To his loving friend the Author 435
To the Reader 436
To his loving kinsman the Author 436
Amico suo carissimo N. W. huius Poematis authori
Collegii Reg[i]nalis Canta. in artibus magistro 437
In Authorem, amicissimum suum, Encomiasticon 437
To his Friend, a Panegyric upon his lovers,
Albino and Bellama 438
THE PLEASING HISTORY OF ALBINO AND BELLAMA 439
To those worthy Heroes of our Age, whose noble
Breasts are wet and water'd with the dew of Helicon 539
Il Insonio Insonnadado 540
To the right honourable, right worthy, and truly ennobled hero,
John, Lord Lovelace, Baron of Hurley, N.W. S.P.O.
The law-enactors, whilst time fear'd the rod,
Feign'd in their laws the presence of a god,
Whose awful nod and wisdom grave should be
As hand and signet unto their decree;
And such commanding awe that sacred name
Struck in the vulgar breasts, it teen'd a flame
Of love and duty to their pious hests.
Thus Rhadamanthus in his laws invests
Him whom profaner times styl'd heaven's king.
Minos and others strike the selfsame string. 10
The moral's mine: for, in this quirking season,
When pride and envy steer the helm of reason,
It is, has with press-taskers been, in use
To press the issue of their prose and muse
Under the ensigns of some worthy peer,
Whose very name unsatire can a jeer,
And lock detraction up in beds of clay,
To sleep their suns as rearmice do the day.
Then do they bravely march, with honour arm'd,
Which, as the gods the people, charmeth charm'd. 20
On this known privilege feet I these lines,
In which, though dimmer than your native, shines
Your worth, enfired by my kneèd quill,
Which claims the scale not of deserts, but will,
In your acceptance and the world's surmise.
Then, cynics, bark, and, critics, beam your eyes!
My quill's no pencil to emblazon forth
Your stainless honour and your matchless worth.
As dust-born flies, which 'bout the candle play,
Glide through its arch, encircle, fan, survey, 30
Wink at the presence of day's beamy blaze,
Purr on the glass, or on herb-pillows laze,
Just so my downy muse in distichs dare
Feet the perfection of a silkless fair,
Pumex each part so trimly that her foe
Swears her cheeks roses and her bosom snow;
Nay, has strew'd flowers of desertless praise
T'adorn the tomb of good sir Worthy Crayse.
Under this (ah me!) stone is laid (alas!)
A man--a knight--the best that ever was. 40
His prowess war, his wisdom state did prove,
His kindness kindred, and the world his love;
But when she should with her weak feathers soar
To court a star, or with her feeble oar
Strike such a sea of worth, ride honour's ring,
She dares not touch or snaffle, sail, or wing.
Only as he which limn'd those tears and sighs
Which Iphigenia's death from hearts and eyes
Of kindred drew, but o'er her father's brow
(Telling the world he mourn'd without an how) 50
He drew a veil spake sorrow in excess,
So with a ---- ---- must my muse express
Your sacred worth, concluding it to be
Too high for any bard, if not, for me.
Beside, the world of late has nicknam'd praise,
Calls it an elbow-claw and scraping bays.
Then pardon, sir, this dearth, and judge the why
Is your worth soar'd above Parnasse's eye.
Let not your slights or nescio's (though most just)
Condemn my muse to be enseil'd with dust, 60
Nor let presumption hoist to your embrace.
But rather let your honour bate its place
And stoop unto my measures, since the name
Of patron awes oft times the breath of fame;
And by this honour shall you e'er engage
The knee, hand, duty, air, and thriving age
Of your honour's ever
humbly devoted,
N. W.
[Title. S. P. O.] = it may be just desirable to say, _Salutem
plurimam optat_. The object of the wish was, I suppose, the
_second_ Lord Lovelace. The better known _third_, prominent at
the Revolution and also a John, was born in the same year with
this poem.]
[Line: 6 'teen'd' or 'tined' = 'kindled', as in 'tinder'. The
forms 'tened' and 'tind' also exist, and _Il Insonio_, l. 368,
has 're-teined'.]
[Line: 21 'feet', orig. 'fate', seems at first to equal
'foot', i.e. I 'base', 'establish'. But cf. l. 34 and
_Albino_, 3558, which give it the sense of 'metre',
'versify'.]
[Line: 23 my kneèd quill]--paying homage, as if on bent knee.]
[Line: 32 The verb to 'laze', revived in late nineteenth
century as slang, is as old as Robert Greene's _Alphonsus_.]
[Line: 35 'Pumex' = pumice. Greene used this Latin form as a
noun.
part] misprinted 'parr' in orig.]
[Line: 47 Orig., 'limb'd', a lax seventeenth-century
spelling.]
[Line: 48 'Iphigenia' will scan with the proper pronunciation.
But, as all students of literature have always known, though
some editors of it seem to have thought it an esoteric
discovery, classical names were very loosely accented,
not merely by men of whose education we know nothing, like
Shakespeare, but by University wits like Spenser and Dryden.]
[Line: 60 enseil'd] Same as 'ens_ea_led', 'stamped', 'marked',
or perhaps 'closed up'.]
[Line: 66 age] 'agre' in orig. must be wrong.]
To the Reader.
Courteous Reader--for to such I write--
With native candour view this chequer'd white,
Be truly candid to a candidate
Whom importunings force to antedate
The travails of his quill, and, like a grape
Ere ripened, press it. Yet if I escape
The censure of these times, this critic age,
My muse (like parrots) in a wire cage
Shall not do penance; but I'll not promise it,
'Cause 't doth too much o' th' lips of greatness sit. 10
And 'tis a fault for me to sympathize,
I bring no antic mask in strange disguise,
No sharp invective, nor no comic mirth
Which may to laughter give an easy birth.
Though 'tis in use with them that seek to please
These humorous times (it being a disease
Half epidemical to keep a phrase
Or fancy at stave's end; nought merits praise
Unless with quibbles every staff does end--
Conceited jests which unto lightness tend) 20
Though every page swells with ingenuous plots,
Yet, cry our carps, the authors are but sots.
An elbow-pillow or a motley coat
With them are now the chiefest men of note.
But I nor am, nor hope that name to gain
Of pantomimic: yet did nature deign
The optic-glass of humours to descry
Each man's rank humour only by the eye,
I would have tun'd my muse, that every page
Might swell with humours suiting to this age; 30
This leaf should talk of love and that of state,
This of alarums, that of wonders prate,
This of knights errant, of enchantment that,
This to the itching ears of novels chat.
But ... since my starv'd Fortunes missed that, I have drawn
A picture shadowed o'er with double lawn,
Lest some quick Lyncist with a piercing eye,
Should the young footsteps of a truth espy,
Yet something, I confess, was born of late
Which makes me age it with an ancient date, 40
But let no antic-hunter post to Stow,
To trace out truth upon his even snow.
Annals are dumb of such and such a lord,
Nor of our amorous pair speak half a word,
Monastic writs do not Bellama limn,
Nor abbey-rolls do teem a line of him,
This story has no sires (as 'tis the use)
But weak invention and a feeble muse.
These are the parents that abortive birth
Give to this embryon of desired mirth, 50
Which in the author's name does humbly crave
A charitable censure or a grave.
The purest-bolted flour that is has bran,
Venus her naeve, Helen her stain, nor can
I think these lines are censure-free, impal'd
By th' muses and 'gainst envy's javelins mail'd.
Yet where the faults but whisper, use thy pen
With the _quod non vis_ of the heathen men;
And, if the crimes do in loud echoes speak,
Thy sponge; but not with lashing satires break 60
That sacred bond of friendship, for 't may be
I may hereafter do as much for thee.
Nor do thou think to trample on my muse;
Nor in thy lofty third-air braves accuse
My breast of faintness, or the ballad-whine.
For know my heart is full as big as thine,
And as pure fire heats my octavo bulk
As the grand-folio, or the Reamish hulk,
If but oppos'd with envy, but unless
I truly am what these few words express. 70
Thy ready friend,
N. W.
[Line: 22 'carp' for 'carp_er_' seems to be much rarer than
for 'carp_ing_'. Cf. _In Insonio_, 218.]
[Line: 41 Stow] The famous antiquary had been dead long enough
(since 1605) to 'become a name'.]
[Line: 55 'impal'd', orig. 'impalde', is clearly 'paled-in',
'palisaded',' fortified'.]
[Line: 64 third-air] = 'third _hand_', or what?]
[Line: 68 Reamish] 'N. W.'s' Protestantism would naturally
have a fling at anything connected with Rheims.]
To the right virtuous and equally beautiful,
S^{ra} Inconstanza Bellarizza.
Fairest,
When, by much gazing on those glittering beams
Which (if unmask'd) from day's bright henchman streams,
The Rascians eyes do gain the curse of years,
The loadstone's swarfy hue their tapers clears.
When unicorns have gluts or surfeits ta'en
By browsing liquorice, they to regain
Their stomachs and a cure crash bitter grass.
I leave the application: 'tis a glass
Wherein the dimmest eye may plainly see
What's due to me from you, to you from me. 10
But--I'll only tell the world that for your sake,
My willing muse this task did undertake
At hours of recreation, when a thought
Of your choice worth this and this fancy brought.
Some to the bar will call the truth hereof,
Some wonder why, some pass it by, some scoff.
Because, in this full harvest of your sex,
I 'mongst such thousands glean your name t'annex
Unto, and usher in, these wanton verses,
Some will be apt to think my pen rehearses 20
Love passions 'twixt yourself and some choice he
(The world I know will not suspect 'tis me)
And that I age it lest quick eyes should see.
But in this thought I'm silent; thoughts are free.
Indeed your worth doth just proportion hold
With this high worth which of Bellama's told.
And well my knowledge can inform my pen
To raise a spite in women, love in men.
And if the Fates befriend me that my thread
Outmeasures yours (your worth asleep, not dead, 30
For such worth cannot die) I then will say
You equall'd her and was--(but, truth, away).
If these dull melancholy, grief, or sleep,
From any prone thereto at distance keep;
Let unto you their tribute thanks be paid
For my invention by your worth was ray'd,
My fancy rais'd, enliv'ned, and inspir'd,
That my quick muse my agile hand has tir'd,
Nay, more, methinks I might unchidden call
You subject-object of this poem all; 40
And all in this acknowledgement may trim
You pros'd this poem but 'twas vers'd by him
Who styles himself your servant,
N. W.
[_To S^{ra} Inconstanza Bellarizza._] Who she was is a
question much less answerable than 'Whose Song the Sirens
sang?']
[Line: 3 seq. '_Un_natural History' was getting past its
greatest vogue, and only eight years later _Pseudodoxia
Epidemica_ was to deal it blows all the more deadly because
not unsympathetic. But it was still popular, and a grand
set-off to many poetic 'Rascians'. Whiting is here pilfering
from Greene's _Pandosto_; a passage in the dedication runs,
'The _Rascians_ (right honourable) when by long gazing against
the sun, they become half-blind, recover their sights by
looking at the black load-stone. Unicorns, being glutted, by
browsing on roots of liquorice, sharpen their stomachs with
crashing bitter grass'.]
[Line: 4 'swarfy' = swarthy.]
[Line: 7 That 'bitter' would be grateful to others besides
unicorns after a surfeit of liquorice may be easily admitted.
'Crash' for 'crush' or 'crunch' in this sense is good.]
[Line: 11 The book is badly printed--in hardly any of my
texts have I had to alter more trivial misspellings. Here
intelligent 'setting' would of course have made 'But' a
separate line or fragment of line.]
[Line: 23 age it] = 'throw it back in date'.]
[Line: 42 Not bad for 'You gave the subject' &c.]
The Author's Apology.
Some rigid stoic will (I doubt not) shoot
A quipping censure at this wanton fruit,
And say I better might have us'd my talents
Than t' humour ladies and perfumèd gallants.
Know such that pamphlets, writ in metre, measure
As much invention, judgement, wit, as pleasure.
All learning's not lock'd up in _si_'s and _tum_'s.
Roses, pinks, violets, as well as gums,
Some native fragour have to equal civet. 10
Minerva does not all her treasures rivet
Into the screws of _obs_ and _sols_: but we
Are sea-born birds, and as our pedigree
Came sailing o'er from Normandy and Troy,
So we must have our pretty ermine joy.
One part Italian and of French the other;
Stout Belgia be her sire, and Spain her mother.
So our apparel is so strange and antic
That our great grandsires sure would call us frantic.
And, should they see us on our knees for blessing,
They'd skew aside as frighted at our dressing. 20
We pack so many nations up that we
Wear Spain in waist, and France below the knee.
Thus are our backs affected and indeed
Our brains do travail with the selfsame meed.
We're Chaldees, Hebrews, Latins, Greeks, and yet
But few pure Englishmen are lapped in jet.
We scorn our mother language and had rather
Say _Pater noster_ twice than once Our Father.
This makes our pulpits linsey-woolsey stut
When buskined stages in stiff satin strut. 30
Nay clowns can say, 'This parson knows enough',
But that his language does his knowledge blough.
Is it not time to polish then our Welsh
When hinds and peasants such invectives belch?
Then English bravely study: 'tis no shame
For grave divines to win an English fame.
I've heard a worthy man, approv'd for learning,
Say that in plays and rhymes we may be earning
Both wit and knowledge: and that Sidney-prose
Outmusics Tully, if it 'scape the rose. 40
Then purg'd from gall (ingenuous friends) peruse,
And though you chide the author, spare the muse.
N. W.
[_The Authors Apology._] 9 'Frag_our_' for 'frag_rance_' is
rare, and of course wrong--all the more so because it is right
for 'crash'. But it had somehow got into Italian before it
came thence into English.]
[Line: 11 This wonderful Whitingism is, I suppose, to be
interpreted 'screws' ('scrues' in original), 'stamps for
minting'; _obs_ and _sols_, _oboli_ and _solidi_.]
[Line: 14 ermine] = 'parti-coloured'.]
[Line: 20 'Skew', orig. 'scue', is vivid for the great
grand-paternal revulsion.]
[Line: 22 'N. W.' is not likely to have been ignorant of W.
S.]
[Lines: 24-8 Browne, with a curious self-irony, had not long
before said the same thing in _Religio Medici_.]
[Line: 32 blough] = 'hood-wink', 'muffle', as in Blount. Cf.
_Albino_, l. 309.]
[Line: 40 the nose] The _nasus aduncus_.]
The Author to his Book.
Go gall-less infant of my teeming quill.
Not yet bedew'd in Syracusa's rill,
And like a forward plover gadd'st abroad,
Ere shell-free or before full age has strow'd
On thy smooth back a coat of feathers,
To arm thee 'gainst the force of weathers,
Doom'd to the censure of all ages,
Ere mail'd against the youngest rages.
Perchance some nobles will thee view.
Smile at thee, on thee, like thee new, 10
But when white age has wrinkled thee,
Will slight thy measures, laugh at me.
At first view called pretty,
And perchance styled witty,
By some ladies, until thou
Wearest furrows on thy brow.
Some plumed gallants may
Unclasp thy leaves and say,
Th'art mirthful, but ere long
Give place unto a song. 20
Some courteous scholar,
Purg'd from all choler,
May like, but at last,
Say thou spoil'st his taste.
First, lawyers will
Commend thy skill,
Last, throw thy wit
With Trinit's writ.
Chamber-she's
On their knee 30
will thee praise,
and thy bays.
At first,
till thirst
of new
death you,
then all
men shall
Flee
thee 40
Bee
me.
This is thy doom, I by prophetic spirit
Presage will be the guerdon of my merit:
Yet be no burr, no trencher-fly, nor hound,
To fawn on them whose tongues thy measures wound.
Nor beg those niggards' eyes, who grudge to see
A watch unwinded in perusing thee.
And if state-scratchers do condemn thy jests,
For ruffling satins, and bespangled vests, 50
Tell them they're cozen'd and in vain they puff,
Thou neither aim'st at half-ell band or ruff:
And if thy lines perchance some ermines gash,
'Tis not thy fault, 'twas no intended lash.
Thy pencil limns Don Fuco's portraiture,
And only dost his native worth immure
Within these tilic rinds: nor is thy rage
Against the Cowlists of this youngest age.
Thy rhymes cry _Pax_ to all, nor dost thou scatter
Abuses on their shrines, their saints, or water, 60
And if some civil satire lash thee back,
Because he reads my title, sees my black,
Answer i' th' poet's phrase, and tell them more,
My tale of years had scarce outsummed a score
When my young fancy these light measures meant
The press: but Fate since cancell'd that intent.
Nor claim'd the Church as then a greater part
In me than others, bate my title Art--
But now the scene is changed? confess'd it is.
Must we abjure all youth, born, bury this? 70
Such closet death's desertless, in this glass
Read not what now I am but then I was:
In this reflection may the gravest see
How true we suit--I this, and this with me.
These thorns pick'd out whose venom might have bred
A gangrene in thy reader, struck thee dead.
Thou mayst perhaps invited be to court,
And have a brace of smiles t' approve thy sport.
Those whose grave wisdoms wise do them entitle
(Whose learned nods loud ignorance can stifle), 80
Some of time's numbers on thy lines will scatter,
If not call'd from thee by some higher matter.
Laugh out a rubber, like, and say 'tis good
For pleasure, youth, and leisure, wholesome food.
Some jigging silk-canary, newly bloomed,
When he is crispèd, bathèd, oiled, perfumed
(Which till the second chime will scarce be done),
Upon thy feet will make his crystals run,
Commend the author, vow him service ever,
But from such things his genius him deliver! 90
Some sleekèd Nymphs of country, city, court
Will, next their dogs and monkeys, like thy sport:
Smile, and admire, and, wearied, will (perhaps)
Lay thee to sleep encurtained in their laps.
Oh, happy thou! who would not wish to be
(To gain such dainty lodging) such, or thee?
Say, to please them, the poet undertook
To make thee, from a sheet, thrive to a book,
And if he has to beauty giv'n a gem,
He challengeth a deck of thanks from them: 100
And if some winning creature smile on thee
She shall his L. and his Bellama be.
Betwixt eleven and one some _pro_ and _con_
Will snatch a fancy from thee and put on
A glove or ring of thine to court his lass,
'Twixt term and term when they are turn'd to grass.
Some Titius will lay by his wax and books,
And nim a phrase to bait his amorous hooks.
But stay, I shall be chid, methinks I hear
A censure spread its wings to reach my ear, 110
Tell me I am conceited: then no more,
Go take thy chance, I turn thee out o' th' door.
Mart. ad lib. suum. Epig. 4
_Aetherias lascive cupis volitare per auras_,
_I_, _fuge_, _sed poteras tutior esse domi_.
Mart. lib. 4.
_Si vis auribus Aulicis probari_,
_Exhortor moneoque te_, _libelle_,
_Ut docto placeas Apollinari_.
_Nam si pectore te tenebit ore_,
_Nec ronchos metues maligniorum_.
_Nec scombris tunicas dabis molestas_.
_Et cum carmina floridis Camoenis_,
_Litesque gloriam canas poetum_
_Non est pollicem capitis veraris._
[_The Author to his Book._] Most of this wedge-shaped address
is clear enough. But the reader must fit his own sense to
'_Bee_ me' (ll. 41-2). Whiting's fantastic wit was quite
Habakkukian in its possibilities.]
[Line: 53 'ermines' here = 'peers or other persons of
distinction'.]
[Line: 57 'tilic[k]' = 'linden', from the use of lime-tree
bark for paper.]
[Line: 58 Cowlists] Nothing to do (as I at first thought)
with Cowley's early vogue, but one of Whiting's coinages, and
frequently repeated _infra_, for 'monk'. Cf. l. 1945.]
[Lines: 79-80 entitle--stifle] One of those assonances which
we have seen frequently in Marmion, and which were among
the rather too numerous licences of mid-seventeenth century
prosody.]
[Line: 88 'crystals' = eyes.]
[Line: 100 deck] = 'pack' as with cards.]
[Line: 102 Whether 'L.' stands merely for 'Love', or whether
the 'Signora Inconstanza' &c. bore the initial, or what else
it means, one cannot say. Let us hope that Whiting's 'L.'
_wore_ better than Sterne's.]
[Line: _Mart. Lib._ 4] This epigram, the 86th of the Book,
is partly compressed, and the three final lines are different
from those of the usual texts, which run:
Si damnaverit, ad salariorum
Curras scrinia protinus licebit,
Inversa pueris arande charta.
But I suppose Whiting did not choose to use evil words.]
To his loving friend the Author.
To laud thy muse, or thee to crown with praise,
Is but to light my tapers to the rays
Of gold-locked Ph[oe]bus: since the scheme
Of fabled truth, thy waking seeming dream,
Thy ever-living-loving fame in arts--
Of arts, to us in whole and part imparts.
In arts, thy judgement, phrase, invention,
Of arts, thy poet's vindication.
In mourning elegies I admired thy skill,
In mirthful lays we now admire thy quill. 10
Let Albine, Bellame, by thee live in fame;
Riv'lezzo, Beldame Pazza, live in shame.
Lash on and slash the vice of shavèd crowns
In thy Bardino, nuns, and sylvan clowns.
Give virtue beauty, beauty desert and praise,
And that thy monument of brass shall raise.
[_To his Loving Friend._] This anonymous commendator has
dropped (hardly by intention) a foot in his third line.]
To the Reader.
Reader take heed, complain not of the sting,
Lest others of thy galled sores do sing.
No faulty person, party, here is meant,
Only the vice o' th' age and place is shent.
He that expounds it of himself doth show
Some guilty fault or vice from him doth flow.
If touch'd to th' quick, conceal and them amend,
So 'gainst thee shall all scourging satires end.
WILLIAM PURIFEY, _Rector_
_Ecclesiae de Markefield._
[_To the Reader._] 'William Purifey' at this date has an
uncomfortable resemblance to William _Purefoy_ (1580-1659) the
regicide, who escaped meet guerdon by dying just before the
Restoration. But he was a layman and a Member of Parliament.]
To his loving kinsman the Author.
When first I view'd the travails of thy quill,
I lik'd, approv'd, admir'd thy nimble skill
In sudden raptures, fancies, judgement, phrase,
Invention, quickness, life, detraction, praise--
So that I favour'd their conceit which feign'd
The soul to be an harmony, and reign'd
Amongst the senses with accounts and measures,
All which thy lofty poesy entreasures,
That quaintest warblers cannot with delight
Outworth the poet in his lyric height.
As those which with quick eyes where judgement sits,
Thy vindication of poetic wits
Do read, may see, whose swelling metres teach
All aliens such high English that to reach
Is harder than to like or belch forth scandals.
Witness thy journey, _Somnus_, _Morpheus_, sandals,
The orbs, gods, muses, critics, accusation,
The poet's names, employments, vindication,
These silencèd my pen, it dared no more;
Till, voic'd by thy Bellame again, her store
Of suitors, one approv'd by friends, not her:
Rivelezzo's wrath (wherein most parents err),
Her grief, encloist'ring, entertainment high,
Albino's heart and hers met in their eye,
Their whisp'ring dalliance, Piazzella's care,
Bardino's falsehood, their affections rare,
Her disencloist'ring, and his nunning plot,
The nuns' thick bellies, his repentant grot.
His freedom, flight, encount'ring with his saint,
His conjuration, prodigies, and plaint,
The shepherd lout, Bellama's second quest,
His ghosting, coming from th' Elysian rest,
Their parles, his dis-enghosting, her denials,
His rage, her kindness, both their loves and trials,
Conrad's immuring, Piazzella's fury,
His freedom, Foppo and his monkish jury,
The lovers' ale-house cheer, bed, coarse apparel,
The monks' strict quest, their finding, mirth, and quarrel,
Their scape, fear, raddle, kinsman, and at length
Their nuptial tede, when malice lost its strength.
How thou hast shown (dear coz) thy art in arts,
Let them express who brag of abler parts
Than I, which have a bigger part in thee,
Thy love, and blood, till being cease to be.
JOHN WHITING,
Master of Arts, Clare Hall, Camb.
Amico suo carissimo N. W. huius Poematis authori Collegii Reg[i]nalis
Canta. in artibus magistro.
Pan petat Arcadiam: Druides effundite cantus,
Et iuvenes flores spargite, Bardus adest.
Tu qui struxisti memoranda trophaea poesi,
Dicere multa tibi nescio, nolo nihil.
Vota, preces, calamus, cor, carmen, singula, laudes
Ultro perdignas, concelebrare student.
An decus, ingenium, tua laus, tua facta, peribunt?
Dignum laude virum musa perire vetat.
Corpore defuncto te candida musa sequetur
Admiratur opus, primitiasque tuas. 10
Fata, precor, faustae plectant tua stamina vitae
Ut scribas opera plurima digna tua.
JACOBUS BERNARD sacrosanctae
& individuae Trinitatis Collegii
in artibus magister.
In Authorem, amicissimum suum, Encomiasticon.
The privilege that pen and paper find
'Mongst men falls short, reflecting to the mind.
Virtue herself no other worth displays
Than cank'red censure leaves behind, as rays.
But mental cabonets are they that yield
No forfeiture to batt'ring critics' shield.
If thoughts might character deserts, I dare
Challenge my pencil for the largest share.
But when the vultures of our age must gnaw,
I'll cease for modesty, and say, 'tis law. 10
It's safer far to fail of debt than t' be
Soaring in terms that badge of flattery.
I hate the name, and therefore freely give
My verdict thus as may have power to live
'Gainst calumny. If wit and learning may
Pass with applause, the author hath the day.
Crown'd be those brows with everlasting bays,
Whose worth a pattern is to future days.
'Tis not a poem dropp'd from strength of grape.
That's debtor to the wine's inspiring sap, 20
He to himself alone. Cease urging, earth,
The father well deserve[s] so fair a birth.
And, if a witness may be lawful, then
I'll undertake 't shall fear no vote of men.
But wherein Art is bold itself to glory
Is that which crowns the verge of Whiting's story.
JO. ROSSE.
[_In Authorem._] 5 cabonets] _Sic_ in orig. It is a possible
form of 'cabinets' (for we have 'cabon'), but in which
particular sense of that word the reader must judge. That of a
'locked up', 'jealously guarded' receptacle might do.]
[Line: 22 'Deserve' in orig. John Rosse, though less eccentric
in phrase, is rather more obscure in sense than even his
_amicissimus_.]
To his Friend, a Panegyric upon his lovers, Albino and Bellama.
Though I have vow'd a silence, and as yet
Resolvèd not to travel out in jet,
Chiefly in print, yet your intending press
Makes me my thoughts with courage, language, dress.
With smooth-strain'd metre, that the world may know
My strict engagements, and how much I owe
To you your worth, which may command a line
From him which swears 'gainst all but what's divine.
The highness of your style, the quickness, life,
Will in judicious readers raise a strife, 10
(More than the ball amongst th' engoddess'd three)
Which gains the best, but all are best by me,
Matchless in my conceit: add then to these
The neatness of your plots, and swear a please
To the grim stoic and the satir'd brow
Forceth delight, through strictness, neatness, vow,
Grow abler still in fancy, imp thy quill,
Write anything, if something, fear not ill,
If poesy be thus revenged by thy dream,
How will it flourish when 'ts thy morning theme? 20
Sleeping or waking, let us have thy quill,
And sleep and vigils shall admire thy skill.
I. PICKERING.
[_To his Friend._] The extraordinary badness of the
orthography in the original may be judged from its form for
panegyric--'Panagericke', which is, of course, mere ignorant
setting from dictation, with no 'reading' to correct.]
[Line: 11 Does 'engoddessed' occur elsewhere? If not, I think
I. Pickering should score for it, though it does not apply
very well to three actual goddesses.]
_Imprimatur._ Sa. Baker. June 22, 1637.
[_Imprimatur._] Samuel Baker, Fellow of Christ's, Prebendary of St.
Paul's, and Canon of Windsor and Canterbury, who was deprived of his
preferments in the Rebellion, and seems not to have lived quite long
enough to recover them. The reverse of the imprimatur leaf bears,
in Professor Firth's copy, the inscription 'Ro^{t} Tebbutt His Book
1779'--a date at which the Carolines were not usually appreciated,
though their turn was coming.]
THE PLEASING HISTORY OF _ALBINO_ AND _BELLAMA_
When British Isles--begirt with moist'ned sand,
Neptune's blue palace, and the Triton's walk--
Albania hight, her name who first did land
Of all the sisters, or from rocks of chalk;
From sad oppression had unyok'd their necks,
And paid obedience unto Adell's becks,
Then, in those halcyon days of peace and joy,
A virtuous lady, most transcendent creature,
Fairer than her whose beauty cinder'd Troy--
Grace deck'd her mind, her mind grace['d] her feature; 10
So that each part made Helen out of date,
And every grace a goddess could create.
Virtue and beauty both in her did strive
Which should in worth and grace surpass the other,
Nor age of consistency, both did thrive
Till this Dian' out-ray'd that Cupid's mother.
Nay men, by beams of her clear beauty, might
Scale Titan's chariot, and out-ray his light.
'Mongst Nature's precious things we find a gem,
Blushèd and purpled o'er with amethysts, 20
Which fiery carbuncles with sparkles hem,
And which the em'ralds purest vert entwists,
Meeting so well that lapidaries wist
'Twas em'rald, carbuncle, and amethyst.
So in this precious pair, pure Agathite,
Aurora's purpling blush was clearly seen,
Saba's bright rose, and Leda's swan-like white,--
The true proportion of Adonis' queen--
Blended so well, that in this curious frame
Aurora, Saba, Leda, Venus came. 30
And as the honey-making waxen-thigh'd
Inhabitants of Hybla's fragrant vales,
Whom only Nature's dim instinct does guide,
Choose their commander with their tuneful hails,
Pay homage, honour him, and fear his frowns,
With same observance as the people crowns,--
So, by the same instinct, the blushing rose
Vèil'd bonnet to her cheeks admirèd red,
The lilies to her bosom, brow, and nose,
The Phoenix stripp'd herself to crown her head, 40
The chirping choristers with willing choice
Sat silent to admire her warbling voice.
Perfum'd Arabia with her spice and gums
Paid homage to the odours of her lips;
To her with fawning postures, licks, and hums
The yellow lion and the tiger skips;
Fire dares not scorch her face, nor winter chill her,
And death himself looked pale when called to kill her.
The amorous Sun, if she walk'd out by day,
Would rein his jennets to behold her face; 50
And, wrapt in admiration, by his stay
Had rather melt the orbs than mend his pace;
And if the middle air in walls of jet
Enjail'd his beams, he thawèd into wet.
If in the reign of silent night abroad
She rang'd, the Empress of the lowest sphere,
Amazed at her perfections, left her road,
And rang'd about where she appeared t' appear;
Nay, mourned in darkness if denied her sight,
As when day's henchman does deny her light. 60
The curlèd tapers of the firmament
Did cease to twink, but gazed with fixèd eyes,
In their own orb refusing to be pent,
And strove to leap upon the lower skies;
Nay, did o' th' second air like comets hang,
To dart their crisps at beauty's only spang.
The sea-born planet poppèd out her lamp,
And t' see herself outshin'd by her, did rage;
The marching war-god did remove his camp,
With [this] fair lady curtain-war to wage; 70
Hermes by Jove being of an errand sent
Stay'd on her face, in her embraces pent.
Dull-agèd Saturn (on whose sullen brow
Ne'er dwelt a smile since Jove usurp'd his crown)
To gaze on her his weighty head did bow,
And with a smile unplaited every frown:
Nay, Jove himself descended from his chair
To take a full survey of this--this fair.
And more, her winning looks dispersed such charms,
All eyes commanding and all hearts surprising, 80
That Venus bade her son provide him arms,
Fearing his setting by this bright star's rising:
For, though men say Love's eyes are more than dim,
Yet her fair beauty did enlighten him.
But with entreaties he had beat the air,
And on the tawny moor his waters cast,
For having pow'r to conquer, being fair,
Sh'ad pow'r not to be conquer'd, being chaste;
So that his amorous sleights and wingèd arrow
Could not have oped her breast or pierced her marrow. 90
This Phoenix was Bellama called (a word
Well suiting her deserts), she daughter was
And heir-apparent to a wealthy lord,
Who had more acres than an acre grass:
He loved his lands, and hugged his minted treasure,
Yet his Bellama was his soul of pleasure.
His place of residence was in a chase
Chequered with thick-grown thorns and sturdy oaks,
Wherein majestic stags and bucks did pace
That scorned the hounds, and dared the barbèd strokes; 100
'Twas called Rivelount, not distant far
From Starley, of that shire the metro-star.
The neighbouring swains were palled with coaches' thunder,
And loud curvettings of their foaming steeds,
Whose ironed hoofs did crash the rocks in sunder;
Happy was he, who (sheathed in costly weeds)
Could win admission to this happy place,
Where Nature's wealth was locked up in a face.
Each glance she sent the object did engem,
And he that won a smile possessed a mine; 110
A hair was prizèd at a diadem,
A ribbon made the[m] tread the ecliptic line;
A ring outface a thunder, but a kiss
Was the elixir, heart, and soul of bliss.
Some of their lands, some of their valours spoke,
Some, of their falcons and their merry bells;
Some read the price of such a suit and cloak,
And one of hounds and running horses tells;
All speak of something, yet but few with wit,
All aimed at wise, yet few could purchase it. 120
Some spake in oaths, as if they thought the earth
Was peopled o'er with faithless infidels;
Another swore, because he feared a dearth
Of other language, yet in oaths excels:
All swear enough, and he that did it least
Might be grand swearer at Ven-Bacchus feast.
Others there were that could not bigly prate,
Who did their evidences bring with them;
One brought his halls to plead, one his estate,
This brought a watch to court, and that a gem; 130
One brought a large descent [in] white and black,
Which [he] derivèd from old Pergam's sack.
One brought a reverent sire, whom he called father,
To be the tongue of his reservèd son;
Others with much expense of wax did gather
Some printed rimes to speak when they were gone:
All had their speakers which unclasped their graces,
Yet their court-language dwelt on plaits and places.
One of these suitors was approved to be
A match whose thousands equi-balanced hers; 140
The parents oft would say, 'This shall be he,'
The mother then a bill of love prefers:
But still Bellama faults, and vows that gold
Shall never force her love to have and hold.
The testy father, with a furrowed brow,
Comes to Bellama with demanding why?
Says 'Mine own girl, thou must be rulèd now,
Each knee pays duty to Don Fuco's eye:
And age well knows bean-manors, lands, and treasures
Do cement lovers' hearts, and enjoy their pleasures. 150
Thou must not, wench, be coy. Alas! we find
Beauty as easily bought when money bids
(Though 't be i' th' nonsuch of the female kind),
As horse or cow, the lamb, or frisking kids:
If he be rich we bear his witless brags,
A wealthy fool's more worth than witty rags.'
Bellama, with a look fraught with disdain,
(Though hatred did not make her anger bold)
Says 'Sir, I'm sorry you do entertain
Such high conceits of folly hemmed with gold: 160
Think you no marriage good if equal lands
Be not matchmakers and do join their hands?
Don Fuco has ten thousand pounds a year,
With weighty titles would o'erload a mule,
A piece of arras finely wrought and dear;
But does he square his life to virtue's rule?
With vice as wealth, to countless sums he thrives,
But is, in virtue, full as poor as wives.
He knows to steer an horse and hollo hounds,
But not to guide his actions, less his tongue; 170
He speaks in state, but ev'ry sentence sounds
Of comic fragments or some tavern song.
And shall I him, hail'd by unworthy pelf,
Take to rule me, who cannot rule himself?
Shall I see other female vessels thrive
With mine own nectar, and they fee'd with money,
Whilst I like careful bee do keep my hive,
And work the comb for them to suck the honey?
No, I'll no sharers have in my delight,
I'll have it one and only, else good night. 180
'Tis a fine thing to see a satin paint
That fears to lose her beauty in a press,
That only cares to be precisely quaint,
And spends a twelvemonth's pleasure on a dress:
To see this stroke his honour, and he clip her,
Span ev'ry part, and unresisted lip her.
But I do not in a rank humour rail
'Gainst sober purples, and discreeter robes,
Nor lock up virtues in the paper-jail
With ink-horns, pens, spheres, globes, and Albo-globes. 190
Religion on my heart does love enneal
To those bright tapers of our commonweal.
Yet where, instead of state, proud looks do dwell,
Where wit and wisdom are unlocked with oaths,
Courtship and comeliness are in the shell,
And honour only sits upon the clothes.
Pardon, if unto such I plait my brow,
And steer my thought unto a virgin-vow.'
'Fie,' says the father, 'you're a foolish girl
'Gainst ermines with that height'ned spleen to rail; 200
Dost think there's vice and folly in an earl?
Then virtue sure does penance in the jail.
To kiss and sport with us is held no sin
If that our dalliance do not pass the skin.
Perchance 'tis not a point of state to have
Too large a stock of wisdom in this age,
The epithet to greatness is not grave;
Those that the Muses in their cells encage,
Let them speak oil and civet; but we are lords,
Can speak by signs, and not expressed by words. 210
Wherefore do we to Sable give the room,
And greater numbers far of Adel's stamps
Than to our steward or our lady's groom;
'Cause with reproofs he our choice pleasures damps?
No, 'cause in dedications he should name us,
And by some witty pamphlet make us famous.
Our moral virtues are no guiding rule
To high nobility, or looking-glass,
No more than t' earth the _ne plus ultra_'s Thule,
As 'fore America was found, it was. 220
'Tis fit for those whose bosom-friends are lice,
To know the pain, not sweet delights, of vice.
Dost see yon tender webs Arachne spins,
Through which with ease the lusty bumbles break,
But to the feeble gnats that mesh their gins?
So those sage precepts, which our Sophies speak,
Fetter the passions of each worthless slave;
But over us no sovereign awe they have.'
'My lord, the name of father strikes,' quoth she,
'An awful dread, and makes my ear obey; 230
Yet slip my duty down unto the knee,
And in my silent thoughts check, chide, and say,
"Can they that taste forbidden waters thrive?"
My chaste demeanour I will ne'er survive.
T' avoid the doom of--therefore I'll make choice
Of one whose virtue outs all love to vice,
Not those sleek skins which am'rous are in voice,
Lip-love which, as soon born, dies in a trice.
Our loves reciprocal shall be still dust,
Which into exile packs unlawful lust.' 240
As they discours'd Don Fuco entered in,
With stately garbs befitting such a one,
His body shellèd in a satin skin
Of azure dye, bestarred with topaz stone,
A milk-white beaver, with an ostrich plume,
His very rowels spake a loud perfume.
Having composed his hingèd looks, he glanced
With piercing eyes upon her curious face,
And, steeping sighs in tears and sweat, advanced
Himself to plead with courtly garb and grace. 250
But Fucus, led by most mimetic apes,
Could not depinge Don Fuco's antic shapes.
Such were the postures of his hands and eye,
That had he treasured up his mirthful tones,
They were ingredients for a comedy,
Would into laughter change a widow's groans:
And since that time (Bellama smiled so then)
Love in her dimpled cheeks has found a den.
'Madam,' says he, 'be pleased to trutinate
And wisely weigh your servant's graceful voice; 260
Give due attendance to the airs of state;
I have engraven you Don Fuco's choice.
Give free assent, and let the scornful "No!"
Be quite expungèd from the criss-cross-row.
Alas, I'm not beholding unto letters,
Wherewith our rabbis stuff their swelling books.
I have a way of complimenting better,
To win thy love with comely garbs and looks.
And, if these fail, the name of countess will
Speak with a power above the Sidney-skill. 270
I hate long-winded sentences, which do
Unbreath a man, and hazard much his bellows,
Or pocket-flashes which instruct to woo--
The only virtues of some inkhorn fellows--
I scorn their troths, indods, their ifs or ands,
Or their _O Lord, sir_, when their wit's o' th' sands.
A fluent rascal that can speak in oil,
And clothe his words with silken eloquence,
I know may give a virgin strength the foil.
But a blunt earl that scarcely speaks in sense, 280
Whom thousands honour with the cap and leg,
Beats down a fortress like a roaring Meg.
He needs no Roscian language, but does send
His velvet-coated herald to proclaim
The noble titles which his worth attend:
For honour is th' ambitious lady's aim.
Feature and spicèd words but lead the van,
Honour the front, the noble is the man.'
'My lord,' says she, 'your valour I approve,
That with three selves thus warranteth your suit, 290
With self-conceit, self-confidence, self-love:
Such trees will bear your lordship glorious fruit,
It well befits your greatness not to think
There can denials dwell in air or ink.
Your trencher-cloaks, and your recognizance,
Your coat of arms with noble ermines dight,
Your russian satin, with the cut of France,
Your talking rowels, and your feath'red white,
Are batt'ring rams and guns that speak in thunder,
To crack a breast, and split a heart in sunder. 300
But my mind is Diana's chastest seat,
O'er which the breath of greatness hath no power;
The quiver-bearing boy sounds a retreat,
And Jove avails not with his yellow shower,
The vestal fire outshines blind Cupid's flame
Which oft's eclipsed with sorrow damped with shame.
And, troth, my lord, had I but wit enough
T' assist your lordship in your nuptial tede,
Your lordship should not play at blind man's blough
(Else heavens should renounce their Ganymede): 310
For they that purblind are may plainly see
You grossly hoodwinked are in courting me.
The faults of state I cannot virtues name,
And bear myself upon the wings of pride,
Nor light my taper at another's flame,
Or use the art at beauty's eventide.
I brook not dalliance, or the Venus kiss,
That way of am'rousness, or that, or this.
I cannot seal a welcome with an oath
To those whose absence I had rather have; 320
Nor venture hundreds at that paper-sloth
Of mistress Is'bel and the Pennell-knave.
I know no masking postures, nor with grace
Can tread the brawls, or true coranto pace.
I cannot at the feast of riot sit,
When sea, land, air, are served up in plate;
Nor like Tripherus with a carving wit
Read precepts this and this to dissecate.
Nor in dear murrhine, chargèd to the brim,
Health it about until our mullets swim. 330
I do not love to have my husband be
Discreet by proxies, by his chaplains wise;
Nor do I like the too much cringing knee,
Whose formal bends his black conceits disguise.
Those fawning sharks I cannot call to table,
Which into ermines change your lordship's sable
To have my usher press his master's saddle,
In my opinion cannot pass for good;
I do not love to have my pillow addle,
Meanwhile my woman lets your lordship blood. 340
I am no Androgyne, nor do delight
To diet pages, or your Catamite.'
'Madam, what passion does untune your mind?
What fiend' (says he) 'in you thus rails on greatness?
Who viceth honour, lies, and he is blind
That says court-satins are not trimmed with neatness.
Speak then in balms, forget the peevish why,
And to the "Wilt thou have this"--Answer "Ay".'
'No, no,' says she, 'yet might I know your saint,
If my endeavours can advantage you, 350
With your endowments I would her acquaint,
And limn your rare perfections in her view:
In this one act I may myself approve
More loving, than in entertaining love.
I'll say with what dexterity you can
Run o'er the postures of the court-salute,
How trimly you can kiss a lady's fan,
And neatly manage an embroid'red suit;
How finely Spanish leg-shells you can plait,
And tune your rowels at the court retrait. 360
I might say you are witty, if't be true
That jests and jingles are in brotherhood,
I'll speak your skill in hawks, at flight, in mew,
And at all hunting ceremonies good;
How gracefully you wave your gallant plumes,
And deeply are engaged to deep perfumes.
How kind you are unto our chamber-shes,
How to our marmosets and trencher-pages,
How oily-fingered unto supple knees,
How fain to th' music of our wire cages. 370
How quaintly you supply the usher's room,
How sweetly you can act the privy-groom.
Much more in blazoning your matchless worth,
And counting all your specials, might I say--
But nature ne'er a second did bring forth,
Which to such known perfections can say nay.
I'll cease to praise them, lest my praises make
Your veins of pride with self-conceit to ache.
I will perform what I have promis'd, sir,
Please you t' impart your lady to my maid, 380
I see my words your liver-wort does stir
Into your face, which in your channels strayed.
No more of trouble then, my lord, adieu;
This courteous door divorceth me and you.'
Away flings she, and leaves my lord alone,
More pensive than a widow which bedews
Her husband's corpse with tears, a woman's moan,
Or than the _Lupa_ of diseasèd stews;
So that who saw his jigging head would swear
Wisdom nor wit did ne'er inhabit there. 390
Don Rivelezzo sent a smiling glance,
That they might his consent read in his eye;
But seeing Fuco in a stupid trance,
He was possessed with equal frenesy.
The mother came to th' rescue, and wellnigh
Sent her own wit to bear theirs company.
Fain would he tell the cause of his disasters,
And eagerly her parents strove to know it,
Yet, strangely, them this passion overmasters,
That neither they could ask, nor he could show it; 400
As though an Incubus with vap'rous throngs
Enclasped their bosoms and unvoiced their tongues.
At length Don Fuco cried, 'Bellama cruel,
What evil planet revelled at thy birth,
Or what incensèd god provided fuel
To make me feel hell's torture upon earth?
Was there no way to punish me for sin
But by a maid? No, there our woes begin.
When I with admiration view'd her face,
I boldly durst give any tongue the lie 410
That dared to say, with such supernal grace,
There dwelt one atom of this tyranny.
But--if that virgin's hieroglyphics be
Of love and mildness, take them all for me.
I'll make a casement with this steely blade
In my full breast, through which my soul shall peep,
And make my heart in sanguine liquor wade,
And entrails all in juice of liver steep.
Nay, straightway give hell's ferryman his pay
For wafting me o'er black Cocytus' Bay. 420
Or unto Proserpine I'll post a sprite,
To fetch m' a cup of moist oblivion,
Wherewith the Fairy Queen exilèd quite
Fury from her stout knight and Oberon,
That I not only may forget disgrace,
But quite forget I ever saw her face.'
'Let not', says Rivelez, 'a peevish girl
Hang fetters on your heart, untune your soul:
Dwells there not courage with a worthy earl,
Blind Cupids bow and quiver to control? 430
My lord, take heed, the squinting boy works treason,
By passions to divest your soul of reason.
He by his sly insinuations oft
A good opinion in the heart doth win:
The most obdurate are by him made soft
And homage pay to Love their sovereign sin,
Fires in, nor hurts, the flint; but Cupid can
With flames to cinders waste the flinty man.
A wily fisherman hath store of baits,
Wherewith for amorists he wisely angles, 440
With glitt'ring pomp he for th' ambitious waits,
The greedy carl with silver twists entangles;
The silk-lascivious with a wanton eye,
The austere stoic with a modest "fie!"
The studious Templant he with _Ergo_ calls,
The grave precisian with a matron grace,
The virtuous mind with virtue he enthrals,
A landed heir with a blushed-lily face.
For Epicurean love he wisely trolls
With spiced rarities and frothing bowls. 450
The cross-adorers he with crossing catches,
Yet strange it is that crossing should join hands.
But, to Sir Love-all, all are equal matches,
Grace, beauty, feature, honour, virtue, lands.
This has a dainty hand; that, lip, or eye,
This chaste, that seeming, that will not deny.
None are love-free, unless uncapable
Of those choice blessings Venus' sole son proffers,
None, whom age, fortune, nature, does enable,
With peevish noes neglecteth Hymen's offers. 460
All are inclined to love, and all must bow,
If Cupid's arrow do but write "Love thou".
Invest your noble thoughts with courage, Don,
Let reason, maugre love, triumphant ride,
Millions of ladies breath in Albion,
Have more rose-lilies, and less store of pride.
I'll warrant, though Bellama now say "no",
She'll find, ere long, denial was her foe.'
'Ha!' quoth Don Fuco, with a far-fetched sigh,
Which all that time was drenched o'er-head in grief, 470
'Am I to black Cocytus yet drawn nigh?
Where are th' Elysian shades, thou tott'red thief?
Call Rhadamanthus forth, justice I'll have,
Or in his breast my steel shall dig a grave.
Call forth the Furies with their snaky hairs,
Pale-cheeked Erynnis and her sister hags,
Tell Nemesis I'll fetch her down the stairs,
And try what truth dwells in her wrathful brags.
Dispoison vipers, toads, and crawling adders,
And with their venom stretch her spacious bladders. 480
Bid Cerberus belch, from his triple jaws,
A barking thunder which the earth may shake:
I'll fetch the Dragon's and the Scorpion's paws
From the full zodiac, her face to rake.
Come forth, Demagoras, thy cunning try,
To mask all beauty with a leprosy.
We will no more our lily-stems transplant,
And set our roses on their cheeks and lips;
Their fairness shall not hence surpass the ante,
Their crimson dye the brick or writhled hips. 490
Beauty shall be exiled, despite shall end her,
Or else we'll change her to another gender.
The Thracian harper was a silly ass,
That for his wife passed through the Stygian stench,
The clubman's foolery did his surpass,
That spun and carded for a Lydian wench.
The Greeks were fools that for a light-skirt strumpet
Chang'd the still viol to a loud-mouth'd trumpet.
Jove's blacksmith was no privy counsellor,
To marry Venus for the forehead flag; 500
The jolly huntsman sure did something err
To see a goddess, and become a stag.
Jove was no golden show'r: sure 'twas a gull,
Nor e'er transform'd himself into a bull.'
'Peace, good my lord,' Don Rivelezzo says,
'What uncouth passion doth your soul entrance?
Your words are like the Bacchanalian lays,
Wherewith the priests their god of wine enhance.
What, man! though this fond she from you did start,
Another 'll say, "My lord, with all my heart." 510
Observe the practice of doves masculine,
Which woo their females, with "I come to woo",
Not in a fit of woman cry and whine,
Straight to another haste, if she says no.
If to one face our stock of love we ope,
We pinion Cupid's wings, and fetter hope.
Bellama slights, what then? shall we conclude,
All women will deny you their assent?
A strange induction: call all ladies lewd,
'Cause Flora and some few to Venice went? 520
Amongst a thousand maids, there's scarcely two,
As coy Bellama now hath done, will do.
Wherefore created were those glorious lights,
Which in the azure firmament appear?
Why was day's charioteer with lustre dight?
Only to gild with rays his proper sphere?
No, to lend brightness to the borrowing lamps,
And clear the earth from night's obscuring damps.