he freely but gently informes him; nor yet shall some few errors
cancell the bond of friendship; because he remembers no endeavours can
raise man above his frailety. He is as slow to enter into that title,
as he is to forsake it; a monstrous vice must disobliege, because an
extraordinary vertue did first unite; and when he parts, he doth it
without a duell. He is neither effeminate, nor a common courtier; the
first is so passionate a doater upon himselfe, hee cannot spare love
enough to bee justly named friendship: the latter hath his love so
diffusive among the beauties, that man is not considerable. He is not
accustomed to any sordid way of gaine, for who is any way mechanicke,
will sell his friend upon more profitable termes. He is bountifull, and
thinkes no treasure of fortune equall to the preservation of him he
loves; yet not so lavish, as to buy friendship and perhaps afterward
finde himselfe overseene in the purchase. He is not exceptious, for
jealousie proceedes from weakenesse, and his vertues quit him from
suspitions. He freely gives advice, but so little peremptory is his
opinion that he ingenuously submits it to an abler judgement. He
is open in expression of his thoughts and easeth his melancholy by
inlarging it; and no Sanctuary preserves so safely, as he his friend
afflicted. He makes use of no engines of his friendship to extort a
secret; but if committed to his charge, his heart receives it, and that
and it come both to light together. In life he is the most amiable
object to the soule, in death the most deplorable._
_The Funerals of the Honourable, my best friend and Kinsman_, GEORGE
TALBOT, Esquire.
_Elegie, 1._
Twere malice to the fame; to weepe alone
And not enforce an universall groane
From ruinous man, and make the World complaine:
Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophane
In mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truth
Yet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.
I can relate thy businesse here on earth,
Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birth
Out-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farre
Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,
I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in
Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin.
Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,
Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we may
Without disturbing the harmonious Spheares,
Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.
Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'd
My active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'd
By empty griefes; they who can utter it,
Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.
I stood like _Niobe_ without a grone,
Congeal'd into that monumentall stone
That doth lye over thee: I had no roome
For witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.
And friendships monument, thus had I stood;
But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my blood
With a new life. Ile like a funerall fire
But burne a while to thee, and then expire.
_Elegie, 2._
_Talbot_ is dead. Like lightning which no part
Oth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,
This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in all
The stocke of sorrow, any charme can call
Death sooner up. For musiqu's in the breath
Of thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' death
That brings with it, if you with this compare
All the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.
They cure (Physitians say) the element
Sicke with dull vapors, and to banishment
Confine infections; but this fatall shreeke,
Without the least redresse, is utter'd like
The last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lye
A scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.
What now hath life to boast of? Can I have
A thought lesse darke than th' horror of the grave
Now thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a fault
Past pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?
Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe?
Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,
These vowes to thee! for since great _Talbot's_ gone
Downe to thy silence, I commerce with none
But thy pale people: and in that confute
Mistaking man, that dead men are not mute.
Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eare
Accustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heare
How their cold language tels thee, that thy skin
Is but a beautious shrine, in which black sin
Is Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lust
Hath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.
Great _Atlas_ of the state, descend with me.
But hither, and this vault shall furnish thee
With more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,
And show how false are all those mysteries
Thy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swell
With envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.
It will instruct you, Courtier, that your Art
Of outward smoothnesse and a rugged heart
But cheates your self, and all those subtill wayes
You tread to greatnesse, is a fatall maze
Where you your selfe shall loose, for though you breath
Upward to pride, your center is beneath.
And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;
Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can wound
This unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquence
Will teach my soule to triumph over sence,
Which hath its period in a grave, and there
Showes what are all our pompous surfets here.
Great Orator! deare _Talbot_! Still, to thee
May I an auditor attentive be:
And piously maintaine the same commerce
We held in life! and if in my rude verse
I to the world may thy sad precepts read:
I will on earth interpret for the dead.
_Elegie, 3._
Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and though
I cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goe
In thy cœlestiall journey; and my heart
Expanssion wants, to thinke what now thou art
How bright and wide thy glories; yet I may
Remember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.
Best object to my heart! what vertues be
Inherent even to the least thought of thee!
Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feare
In its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,
Now glorious to my eye, since it possest
The wealthy empyre of that happie chest
Which harbours thy rich dust; for how can he
Be thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?
Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eare
I catch from lonely graves, in hope to heare
Newes from the dead, nor can pale visions fright
His eye, who since thy death feeles no delight
In mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fate
Doth in me a sublimer soule create.
And now my sorrow followes thee, I tread
The milkie way, and see the snowie head
Of _Atlas_ farre below, while all the high
Swolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.
I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while I
Weepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye,
My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;
Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,
Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;
So fraile that every blast of honour can
Swell him above himselfe, each, adverse gust
Him and his glories shiver into dust.
How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a span
His empire, who commands the Ocean.
Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty ore
And th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shore
Nor can it greater seeme, when this great All
For which men quarrell so, is but a ball
Cast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.
And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,
Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;
And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.
From thee, deare _Talbot_, living I did learne
The Arts of life, and by thy light discerne
The truth, which men dispute. But by thee dead
I'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:
And that way sooner master it, than he
To whom both th' Indies tributary be.
_Elegie, 4._
My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breath
Did call upon: affirming that thy death
Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be
Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.
My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,
(Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds weares
T' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:
Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowne
Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe
In griefe a method: without forme I weepe.
The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyes
Wet just as long as are the obsequies.
The widow formerly a yeare doth spend
In her so courtly blackes. But for a Friend
We weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, have
Our very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.
Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame
And thou _Castara_ who had hadst a name,
But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse
Is lost to you, and onely on _Talbots_ herse
Sadly attends. And till times fatall hand
Ruines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.
There to thy selfe, deare _Talbot_, Ile repeate
Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great
Thou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how all
Who out-live thee, see but the Funerall
Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be,
They but weake apparitions are of thee.
So setled were thy thoughts, each action so
Discreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow
Was ere perceiv'd in thee: each word mature
And every sceane of life from sinne so pure
That scarce in its whole history, we can
Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.
Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we must
Addresse our language to a little dust,
And seeke for _Talbot_ there. Injurious fate,
To lay my lifes ambition desolate.
Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,
Not how it can give such another blow.
_Elegie, 5._
Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely bright
As when by death her Soule shines in full light
Freed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that came
From thee (deare _Talbot_) did beget a flame
T' enkindle vertue: which so faire by thee
Became, man, that blind mole, her face did see.
But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwell
Yet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cell
Of some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,
As if of her the old man jealous were.
Nor ever showes her beauty, but to some
_Carthusian_, who even by his vow, is dumbe!
So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea,
A starre about the Articke Circle, may
Then ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shall
Serve at the frozen Pilots funerall.
Thou (brightest constellation) to this maine
Which all we sinners traffique on, didst daigne
The bounty of thy fire, which with so cleare
And constant beames did our frayle vessels steare,
That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,
Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.
But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke
The folly doth of our ambition mocke
And splits our hopes: To every Sirens breath
We listen and even court the face of death,
If painted ore by pleasure: Every wave
Ift hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:
So ruinous is the defect of thee,
To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me
Who liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,
Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.
And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,
To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.
Where shall I then begin to weepe? No grove
Silent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:
With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,
His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse teares
Each eare is so enchanted; that no breath
Is listned to, which mockes report of death.
I'le turne my griefe then inward and deplore
My ruine to my selfe, repeating ore
The story of his vertues; untill I
Not write, but am my selfe his Elegie.
_Elegie, 6._
Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight
To their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder night
From its approach on day, and force day rise
From the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:
Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.
It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herse
Redeemes not _Talbot_, who cold as the breath
Of winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,
Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eare
To breath into his soft expiring prayer.
For had thy life beene by thy vertues spun
Out to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the Sunne
And clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not all
Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall
Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be
The conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.
But all we Poets glory in, is vaine
And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine
One poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flye
By a fooles finger destinate to dye.
Live then in thy true life (great soule) for set
At liberty by death thou owest no debt
T' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sport
Of time and fortune in yand' starry court
A glorious Potentate, while we below
But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.
We follow campes, and to our hopes propose
Th' insulting victor; not remembring those
Dismembred trunkes who gave him victory
By a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants be
And to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,
Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.
The shootings of a wounded conscience
We patiently sustaine to serve our sence
With a short pleasure; So we empire gaine
And rule the fate of businesse, the sad paine
Of action we contemne, and the affright
Which with pale visions still attends our night.
Our joyes false apparitions, but our feares
Are certaine prophecies. And till our eares
Reach that cælestiall musique, which thine now
So cheerefully receive, we must allow
No comfort to our griefes: from which to be
Exempted, is in death to follow thee.
_Elegie, 7._
There is no peace in sinne. Æternall war
Doth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues are
Friends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents be
Harsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.
While thou didst live we did that union finde
In the so faire republick of thy mind,
Where discord never swel'd. And as we dare
Affirme those goodly structures, temples are
Where well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:
The musique of thy soule made us say, there
God had his Altars; every breath a spice
And each religious act a sacrifice.
But death hath that demolisht. All our eye
Of thee now sees doth like a Cittie lye
Raz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flame
That added warmth and beauty to thy frame?
Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fire
The losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?
Or hovers it beneath, the world t' uphold
From generall ruine, and expell that cold
Dull humor weakens it? If so it be;
My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.
But thy example (if kinde heaven had daignd
Frailty that favour) had mankind regaind
To his first purity. For that the wit
Of vice, might not except 'gainst th' Ancherit
As too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:
Teaching the soule by what preservative,
She may from sinnes contagion live secure,
Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.
In this darke mist of error with a cleare
Unspotted light, thy vertue did appeare
T' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rage
Of untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;
Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealth
Of time have spent in ryot, or his health
By surfeits forfeited; if he had seene
What temperance had in thy dyet beene?
What glorious foole had vaunted honours bought
By gold or practise, or by rapin brought
From his fore-fathers, had he understood
How _Talbot_ valued not his owne great blood!
Had Politicians seene him scorning more
The unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the poore
Thatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind
(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth find
Still free admittance: their pale labors had
Beene to be good, not to be great and bad.
But he is lost in a blind vault, and we
Must not admire though sinnes now frequent be
And uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables where
The Law was writ by death now broken are,
By death extinguisht is that Star, whose light
Did shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd right
Which steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,
(That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be.
But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,
Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fire
Enlighten'd. And since thou must never here
Be seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.
_Elegie, 8._
Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all
The cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.
Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room
Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.
Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chest
Is Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the East
When it is purified by th' generall fire
Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher
Then all the gems she vants: transcending far
In fragrant lustre the bright morning star.
Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we
Have by a cataract lost sight, then he
Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night
Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.
Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of day
From the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le pay
Like the just Larke, the tribute of my verse
I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
To rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,
That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.
My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes come
From th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdome
The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose
When the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowes
Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East
Vying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest.
These gentle perfumes usher in the day
Which from the night of his discolour'd clay
Breakes on the sudden: for a Soule so bright
Of force must to her earth contribute light.
But if w' are so far blind, we cannot see
The wonder of this truth; yet let us be
Not infidels: nor like dull Atheists give
Our selves so long to lust, till we believe
(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall
To a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.
The bad mans death is horror. But the just
Keepe something of his glory in his dust.
_FINIS._
CASTARA:
THE THIRD PART.
[Illustration]
_LONDON_
Printed by _Tho. Cotes_, for
_Will. Cooke_ 1640.
A Holy Man
_Is onely Happie. For infelicity and sinne were borne twinnes; Or
rather like some prodigie with two bodies, both draw and expire the
same breath. Catholique faith is the foundation on which he erects
Religion; knowing it a ruinous madnesse to build in the ayre of a
private spirit, or on the sands of any new schisme. His impietie is
not so bold to bring divinity downe to the mistake of reason, or to
deny those misteries his apprehension reacheth not. His obedience moves
still by direction of the Magistrate: And should conscience informe him
that the command is unjust; he judgeth it neverthelesse high treason
by rebellion to make good his tenets; as it were the basest cowardize,
by dissimulation of religion, to preserve temporall respects. Hee
knowes humane pollicie but a crooked rule of action: and therefore
by a distrust of his owne knowledge attaines it: Confounding with
supernaturall illumination, the opinionated judgment of the wise. In
prosperity he gratefully admires the bounty of the Almighty giver, and
useth, not abuseth plenty: But in adversity hee remaines unshaken, and
like some eminent mountaine hath his head above the clouds. For his
happinesse is not meteor-like exhaled from the vapors of this world;
but shines a fixt starre, which when by misfortune it appeares to
fall, onely casts away the slimie matter. Poverty he neither feares
nor covets, but cheerefully entertaines; imagining it the fire which
tries vertue: Nor how tyrannically soever it usurpe on him, doth he pay
to it a sigh or wrinckle: for he who suffers want without reluctancie,
may be poore not miserable. He sees the covetous prosper by usury, yet
waxeth not leane with envie: and when the prosperitie of the impious
flourish, he questiones not the divine justice; for temporall rewards
distinguish not ever the merits of men: and who hath beene of councel
with the Æternall? Fame he weighes not, but esteemes a smoake, yet
such as carries with it the sweetest odour, and riseth usually from
the Sacrifice of our best actions. Pride he disdaines, when he findes
it swelling in himselfe; but easily forgiveth it in another: Nor can
any mans error in life, make him sinne in censure, since seldome the
folly we condemne is so culpable as the severity of our judgement.
He doth not malice the over-spreading growth of his equalls: but
pitties, not despiseth the fall of any man: Esteeming yet no storme
of fortune dangerous, but what is rais'd through our owne demerit.
When he lookes on others vices, he values not himselfe vertuous by
comparison, but examines his owne defects, and findes matter enough
at home for reprehension: In conversation his carriage is neither
plausible to flattery, nor reserv'd to rigor: but so demeanes himselfe
as created for societie. In solitude he remembers his better part is
Angelicall; and therefore his minde practiseth the best discourse
without assistance of inferiour Organs. Lust is the Basiliske he flyes,
a Serpent of the most destroying venome: for it blasts al plants with
the breath, and carries the most murdering Artillery in the eye: He
is ever merry but still modest. Not dissolved into undecent laughter,
or trickled with wit scurrilous or injurious. He cunningly searcheth
into the vertues of others, and liberally commends them: but buries
the vices of the imperfect in a charitable silence, whose manners he
reformes not by invectives but example: In prayer he is frequent not
apparent: yet as he labours not the opinion, so he feares not the
scandall of being thought good. He every day travailes his meditations
up to heaven, and never findes himself wearied with the journey: but
when the necessities of nature returne him downe to earth, he esteemes
it a place, hee is condemned to. Devotion is his Mistresse on which he
is passionately enamord: for that he hath found the most Soveraigne
antidote against sinne, and the onely balsome powerfull to cure those
wounds hee hath receav'd through frailety. To live he knowes a benefit,
and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates
on life. Death how deformed soever an aspect it weares, he is not
frighted with: since it not annihilates, but uncloudes the soule. He
therefore stands every movement prepared to dye: and though he freely
yeelds up himself, when age or sicknesse sommon him; yet he with more
alacritie puts off his earth, when the profession of faith crownes him
a martyr._
_Twenty-two Poems, chiefly Sacred, with Scripture Text._
_Domine labia mea aperies_ DAVID.
Noe monument of me remaine,
My mem'orie rust
In the same marble with my dust:
Ere I the spreadingst Laurell gaine,
By writing wanton or profane.
Ye glorious wonders of the skies,
Shine still bright starres,
Th' Almighties mystick Characters!
Ile not your beautious lights surprise
T' illuminate a womans eyes.
Nor to perfume her veins, will I
In each one set
The purple of the violet.
The untoucht flowre may grow and dye
Safe from my fancies injurie.
Open my lippes, great God! and then
Ile soare above
The humble flight of carnall love.
Upward to thee Ile force my pen,
And trace no path of vulgar men.
For what can our unbounded soules
Worthy to be
Their object finde, excepting thee?
Where can I fixe? since time controules
Our pride, whose motion all things roules.
Should I my selfe ingratiate
T' a Princes smile;
How soone may death my hopes beguile?
And should I farme the proudest state,
I'me Tennant to uncertaine fate.
If I court gold; will it not rust?
And if my love
Toward a female beauty move;
How will that surfet of our lust
Distast us, when resolv'd to dust?
But thou Æternall banquet! where
For ever we
May feede without satietie!
Who harmonie art to the eare,
Who art, while all things else appeare!
While up to thee I shoote my flame
Thou dost dispence
A holy death, that murders sence,
And makes me scorne all pompes, that ayme
All other triumphs than thy name.
It crownes me with a victory
So heavenly, all
That's earth from me away doth fall.
And I, from my corruption free,
Grow in my vowes even part of thee.
_Versa est in luctum cythara mea._ JOB.
Love! I no orgies sing
Whereby thy mercies to invoke:
Nor from the East rich perfumes bring
To cloude the Altars with thy precious smoake.
Nor while I did frequent
Those fanes by lovers rais'd to thee:
Did I loose heathenish rites invent,
To force a blush from injur'd Chastitie.
Religious was the charme
I used affection to intice:
And thought none burnt more bright or warme,
Yet chaste as winter was the Sacrifice.
But now I thee bequeath
To the soft silken youths at Court:
Who may their witty passions breath,
To raise their Mistresse smile, or make her sport.
They'le smooth thee into rime,
Such as shall catch the wanton eare:
And win opinion with the time,
To make them a high sayle of honour beare.
And may a powerfull smile
Cherish their flatteries of wit!
While I my life of fame beguile
And under my owne vine uncounted sit.
For I have seene the Pine
Famed for its travels ore the Sea:
Broken with stormes and age decline,
And in some creeke unpittied rot away.
I have seene Cædars fall,
And in their roome a Mushrome grow:
I have seene Comets, threatning all,
Vanish themselves: I have seene Princes so.
Vaine triviall dust! weake man!
Where is that vertue of thy breath,
That others save or ruine can,
When thou thy selfe art cal'd t'account by death?
When I consider thee
The scorne of Time, and sport of fate:
How can I turne to jollitie
My ill-strung Harpe, and court the delicate?