Of fierce Antonius; here is not one word
Doth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer far
Than thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war.
What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw
At once her patriot, oracle, and law?
Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in stars
Whom his poor father, blind with soot and scars,
Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wear
The factious gown, and tire his client's ear
And purse with endless noise. Trophies of war,
Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar,
And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a piece
Of some torn British galley, and to these
The ensign too, and last of all the train
The pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain,
Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek
And rude barbarians equally do seek.
Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize
Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies
Without reward; and yet by this fierce lust
Of fame, and titles to outlive our dust,
And monuments--though all these things must die
And perish like ourselves--whole kingdoms lie
Ruin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale,
What weight affords the mighty general?
This is the man, whom Afric's spacious land
Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand
Could not contain--Ye gods! that give to men
Such boundless appetites, why state you them
So short a time? either the one deny,
Or give their acts and them eternity.
All Aethiopia, to the utmost bound
Of Titan's course,--than which no land is found
Less distant from the sun--with him that ploughs
That fertile soil where fam'd[52] Iberus flows,
Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'er
The Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its store
Of ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow,
--As if that Nature meant to give the blow--
Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry side
He wounds the hill, and by strong hand divides
The monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay.
The world and Nature yield to give him way.
And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar
'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future war
Strikes Italy; success and hope doth fire
His lofty spirits with a fresh desire.
All is undone as yet--saith he--unless
Our Paenish forces we advance, and press
Upon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall,
And plant our colours in Suburra's vale.
O the rare sight! if this great soldier we
Arm'd on his Getick elephant might see!
But what's the event? O glory, how the itch
Of thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch!
He that but now all Italy and Spain
Had conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again;
And in the heart of Afric, and the sight
Of his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight.
Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he posts
To Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts,
Both places by his sword secur'd, though he
In this distress must not acknowledg'd be;
Where once a general he triumphed, now
To show what Fortune can, he begs as low.
And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'd
Conquest and war, and did amaze the world,
Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath,
Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death.
For all that blood the field of Cannae boasts,
And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts,
No other end--freed from the pile and sword--
Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford.
Go now, ambitious man! new plots design,
March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine;
That, after all, at best thou may'st but be
A pleasing story to posterity!
The Macedon one world could not contain,
We hear him of the narrow earth complain,
And sweat for room, as if Seriphus Isle
Or Gyara had held him in exile;
But Babylon this madness can allay,
And give the great man but his length of clay.
The highest thoughts and actions under heaven
Death only with the lowest dust lays even.
It is believed--if what Greece writes be true--
That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hew
Their ways through mountains, that their sails full blown
Like clouds hung over Athos and did drown
The spacious continent, and by plain force
Betwixt the mount and it, made a divorce;
That seas exhausted were, and made firm land,
And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand;
That on their march his Medes but passing by
Drank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry;
With whatsoe'er incredible design
Sostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine.
But what's the end? He that the other day
Divided Hellespont, and forc'd his way
Through all her angry billows, that assign'd
New punishments unto the waves, and wind,
No sooner saw the Salaminian seas
But he was driven out by Themistocles,
And of that fleet--supposed to be so great,
That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat--
Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat,
Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float,
Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood,
And fought again with carcases, and blood.
O foolish mad Ambition! these are still
The famous dangers that attend thy will.
Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years,
Are the next vows; these with religious fears
And constancy we pay; but what's so bad
As a long, sinful age? what cross more sad
Than misery of years? how great an ill
Is that which doth but nurse more sorrow still?
It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood,
Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food,
And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skin
As in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen.
Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit,
Are several graces; but where age doth hit
It makes no difference; the same weak voice,
And trembling ague in each member lies:
A general hateful baldness, with a curs'd
Perpetual pettishness; and, which is worst,
A foul, strong flux of humours, and more pain
To feed, than if he were to nurse again;
So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends,
That his own sons, and servants, wish his end.
His taste and feeling dies; and of that fire
The am'rous lover burns in, no desire:
Or if there were, what pleasure could it be,
Where lust doth reign without ability?
Nor is this all: what matters it, where he
Sits in the spacious stage? who can nor see,
Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voice
Of spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noise
Of trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can
But scarce inform who enters, or what man
He personates, what 'tis they act, or say?
How many scenes are done? what time of day?
Besides that little blood his carcase holds
Hath lost[53] its native warmth, and fraught with colds
Catarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns,
And never but in fits and fevers burns.
Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock
Of sickness and diseases to him flock,
That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew,
Nor wanton Maura; physic never slew
So many patients, nor rich lawyers spoil
More wards and widows; it were lesser toil
To number out what manors and domains
Licinius' razor purchas'd: one complains
Of weakness in the back, another pants
For lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants;
Nay, some so feeble are, and full of pain,
That infant-like they must be fed again.
These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill,
And like young birds, that wait the mother's bill,
They gape for meat; but sadder far than this
Their senseless ignorance and dotage is;
For neither they, their friends, nor servants know,
Nay, those themselves begot, and bred up too,
No longer now they'll own; for madly they
Proscribe them all, and what, on the last day,
The misers cannot carry to the grave
For their past sins, their prostitutes must have.
But grant age lack'd these plagues: yet must they see
As great, as many: frail mortality,
In such a length of years, hath many falls,
And deads a life with frequent funerals.
The nimblest hour in all the span can steal
A friend, or brother from's; there's no repeal
In death, or time; this day a wife we mourn,
To-morrow's tears a son; and the next urn
A sister fills. Long-livers have assign'd
These curses still, that with a restless mind,
An age of fresh renewing cares they buy,
And in a tide of tears grow old and die.
Nestor,--if we great Homer may believe--
In his full strength three hundred years did live:
Happy--thou'lt say--that for so long a time
Enjoy'd free nature, with the grape and wine
Of many autumns; but, I prithee thee, hear
What Nestor says himself, when he his dear
Antilochus had lost; how he complains
Of life's too large extent, and copious pains?
Of all he meets, he asks what is the cause
He liv'd thus long; for what breach of their laws
The gods thus punish'd him? what sin had he
Done worthy of a long life's misery.
Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he
Thus wept that his Ulysses lost at sea.
Had Priam died before Phereclus' fleet
Was built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek,
Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone
In peace unto the lower shades; his son
Sav'd with his plenteous offspring, and the rest
In solemn pomp bearing his fun'ral chest.
But long life hinder'd this: unhappy he,
Kept for a public ruin, liv'd to see
All Asia lost, and ere he could aspire,
In his own house saw both the sword and fire;
All white with age and cares, his feeble arm
Had now forgot the war; but this alarm
Gathers his dying spirits; and as we
An aged ox worn out with labour see
By his ungrateful master, after all
His years of toil, a thankless victim fall:
So he by Jove's own altar; which shows we
Are nowhere safe from heaven, and destiny:
Yet died a man; but his surviving queen,
Freed from the Greekish sword, was barking seen.
I haste to Rome, and Pontus' king let pass,
With Lydian Cr[oe]sus, whom in vain--alas!--
Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend,
That happiness came not before the end.
What man more bless'd in any age to come
Or past, could Nature show the world, or Rome,
Than Marius was? if amidst the pomp of war,
And triumphs fetch'd with Roman blood from far,
His soul had fled; exile and fetters then
He ne'er had seen, nor known Minturna's fen;
Nor had it, after Carthage got, been said
A Roman general had begg'd his bread.
Thus Pompey th' envious gods, and Rome's ill stars
--Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars--
Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vows
Made Caesar guiltless; but sent him to lose
His head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd:
This Lentulus, and this made him resist
That mangled by no lictor's axe, fell dead
Entirely Catiline, and sav'd his head.
The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal,
Are the last votaries, and their appeal
Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow,
They pray for sons, but with a louder vow
Commend a female feature: all that can
Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan
And when[54] reprov'd, they say, Latona's pair
The mother never thinks can be too fair.
But sad Lucretia warns to wish no face
Like hers: Virginia would bequeath her grace
To crook-back Rutila in exchange; for still
The fairest children do their parents fill
With greatest cares; so seldom chastity
Is found with beauty; though some few there be
That with a strict, religious care contend
Th' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend:
Besides, wise Nature to some faces grants
An easy blush, and where she freely plants
A less instruction serves: but both these join'd,
At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd.
So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win,
And bribe the father to the children's sin;
But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face
Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace
Betrays itself; what time did Nero mind
A coarse, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd
His goatish pathic? whence then flow these joys
Of a fair issue? whom these sad annoys
Wait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see
Public adulterers, and must be
Subject to all the curses, plagues, and awe
Of jealous madmen, and the Julian law;
Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star,
Or more escapes than did the god of war.
But worse than all, a jealous brain confines
His fury to no law; what rage assigns
Is present justice: thus the rash sword spills
This lecher's blood; the scourge another kills.
But thy spruce boy must touch no other face
Than a patrician? is of any race
So they be rich; Servilia is as good,
With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood.
To please a servant all is cheap; what thing
In all their stock to the last suit, and king,
But lust exacts? the poorest whore in this
As generous as the patrician is.
But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin
With a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and him
That Stenob[oe]a murder'd; for both these
Can tell how fatal 'twas in them to please.
A woman's spleen then carries most of fate,
When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate.
Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son,
In such a hazard what should he have done?
Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best,
In whom alone beauty and worth did rest.
This Messalina saw, and needs he must
Be ruin'd by the emp'ror, or her lust.
All in the face of Rome, and the world's eye
Though Caesar's wife, a public bigamy
She dares attempt; and that the act might bear
More prodigy, the notaries appear,
And augurs to't; and to complete the sin
In solemn form, a dowry is brought in.
All this--thou'lt say--in private might have pass'd
But she'll not have it so; what course at last?
What should he do? If Messaline be cross'd,
Without redress thy Silius will be lost;
If not, some two days' length is all he can
Keep from the grave; just so much as will span
This news to Hostia, to whose fate he owes
That Claudius last his own dishonour knows.
But he obeys, and for a few hours' lust
Forfeits that glory should outlive his dust;
Nor was it much a fault; for whether he
Obey'd or not, 'twas equal destiny.
So fatal beauty is, and full of waste.
That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste.
What then should man pray for? what is't that he
Can beg of Heaven, without impiety?
Take my advice: first to the gods commit
All cares; for they things competent and fit
For us foresee; besides, man is more dear
To them than to himself; we blindly here,
Led by the world and lust, in vain assay
To get us portions, wives and sons; but they
Already know all that we can intend,
And of our children's children see the end.
Yet that thou may'st have something to commend
With thanks unto the gods for what they send;
Pray for a wise and knowing soul; a sad,
Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to add
A needless horror to thy death; that knows
'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes;
That starts not at misfortunes, that can sway
And keep all passions under lock and key;
That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefers
An honest want, before rich injurers.
All this thou hast within thyself, and may
Be made thy own, if thou wilt take the way;
What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what [can]
Frail, perilous honours add unto a man?
What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife?
Virtue alone can make a happy life.
To a wise man nought comes amiss: but we
Fortune adore, and make our deity.
FOOTNOTES:
[52] The original has _framed_.
[53] The original has _low_.
[54] The original has _why_
OLOR ISCANUS.
1651.
----O quis me gelidis in vallibus Iscae
Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!
AD POSTEROS.
Diminuat ne sera dies praesentis honorem
Quis, qualisque fui, percipe Posteritas.
Cambria me genuit, patulis ubi vallibus errans
Subjacet aeriis montibus Isca pater.
Inde sinu placido suscepit maximus arte
Herbertus, Latiae gloria prima scholae.
Bis ternos, illo me conducente, per annos
Profeci, et geminam contulit unus opem;
Ars et amor, mens atque manus certare solebant,
Nec lassata illi mensue, manusue fuit.
Hinc qualem cernis crevisse: sed ut mea certus
Tempora cognoscas, dura mere, scias.
Vixi, divisos cum fregerat haeresis Anglos
Inter Tysiphonas presbyteri et populi.
His primum miseris per am[oe]na furentibus arva
Prostravit sanctam vilis avena rosam,
Turbarunt fontes, et fusis pax perit undis,
Moestaque coelestes obruit umbra dies.
Duret ut integritas tamen, et pia gloria, partem
Me nullam in tanta strage fuisse, scias;
Credidimus nempe insonti vocem esse cruori,
Et vires quae post funera flere docent.
Hinc castae, fidaeque pati me more parentis
Commonui, et lachrymis fata levare meis;
Hinc nusquam horrendis violavi sacra procellis,
Nec mihi mens unquam, nec manus atra fuit.
Si pius es, ne plura petas; satur ille recedat
Qui sapit et nos non scripsimus insipidis.
TO THE TRULY NOBLE AND MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED,
THE LORD KILDARE DIGBY.
My Lord,
It is a position anciently known, and modern experience hath allowed it
for a sad truth, that absence and time,--like cold weather, and an
unnatural dormition--will blast and wear out of memory the most
endearing obligations; and hence it was that some politicians in love
have looked upon the former of these two as a main remedy against the
fondness of that passion. But for my own part, my Lord, I shall deny
this aphorism of the people, and beg leave to assure your Lordship,
that, though these reputed obstacles have lain long in my way, yet
neither of them could work upon me: for I am now--without adulation--as
warm and sensible of those numerous favours and kind influences received
sometimes from your Lordship, as I really was at the instant of
fruition. I have no plot by preambling thus to set any rate upon this
present address, as if I should presume to value a return of this nature
equal with your Lordship's deserts, but the design is to let you see
that this habit I have got of being troublesome flows from two
excusable principles, gratitude and love. These inward counsellors--I
know not how discreetly--persuaded me to this attempt and intrusion upon
your name, which if your Lordship will vouchsafe to own as the genius to
these papers, you will perfect my hopes, and place me at my full height.
This was the aim, my Lord, and is the end of this work, which though but
a _pazzarello_ to the _voluminose insani_, yet as jessamine and the
violet find room in the bank as well as roses and lilies, so happily may
this, and--if shined upon by your Lordship--please as much. To whose
protection, sacred as your name and those eminent honours which have
always attended upon it through so many generations, I humbly offer it,
and remain in all numbers of gratitude,
My honoured Lord,
Your most affectionate, humblest Servant,
Vaughan.
Newton by Usk this 17 of Decemb. 1647.
THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.
It was the glorious Maro that referred his legacies to the fire, and
though princes are seldom executors, yet there came a Caesar to his
testament, as if the act of a poet could not be repealed but by a king.
I am not, Reader, _Augustus vindex_: here is no royal rescue, but here
is a Muse that deserves it. The Author had long ago condemned these
poems to obscurity, and the consumption of that further fate which
attends it. This censure gave them a gust of death, and they have partly
known that oblivion which our best labours must come to at last. I
present thee then not only with a book, but with a prey, and in this
kind the first recoveries from corruption. Here is a flame hath been
sometimes extinguished, thoughts that have been lost and forgot, but now
they break out again like the Platonic reminiscency. I have not the
Author's approbation to the fact, but I have law on my side, though
never a sword. I hold it no man's prerogative to fire his own house.
Thou seest how saucy I am grown, and it thou dost expect I should
commend what is published, I must tell thee, I cry no Seville oranges. I
will not say, Here is fine or cheap: that were an injury to the verse
itself, and to the effects it can produce. Read on, and thou wilt find
thy spirit engaged: not by the deserts of what we call tolerable, but by
the commands of a pen that is above it.
UPON THE MOST INGENIOUS PAIR OF TWINS,
EUGENIUS PHILALETHES, AND THE AUTHOR OF THESE POEMS.
What planet rul'd your birth? what witty star?
That you so like in souls as bodies are!
So like in both, that you seem born to free
The starry art from vulgar calumny.
My doubts are solv'd, from hence my faith begins,
Not only your faces but your wits are twins.
When this bright Gemini shall from Earth ascend,
They will new light to dull-ey'd mankind lend,
Teach the star-gazers, and delight their eyes,
Being fix'd a constellation in the skies.
T. Powell, Oxoniensis.
TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR UPON THESE HIS POEMS.
I call'd it once my sloth: in such an age
So many volumes deep, I not a page?
But I recant, and vow 'twas thrifty care
That kept my pen from spending on slight ware,
And breath'd it for a prize, whose pow'rful shine
Doth both reward the striver, and refine.
Such are thy poems, friend: for since th' hast writ,
I can't reply to any name, but wit;
And lest amidst the throng that make us groan,
Mine prove a groundless heresy alone,
Thus I dispute, Hath there not rev'rence been
Paid to the beard at door, for Lord within?
Who notes the spindle-leg or hollow eye
Of the thin usher, the fair lady by?
Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a hand
Which, while I aim to strengthen, gives command
For my protection; and thou art to me
At once my subject and security.
I. Rowlandson, Oxoniensis.
UPON THE FOLLOWING POEMS.
I write not here, as if thy last in store
Of learned friends; 'tis known that thou hast more;
Who, were they told of this, would find a way
To raise a guard of poets without pay,
And bring as many hands to thy edition,
As th' City should unto their May'r's petition.
But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be
Thy muster rather than our courtesy;
Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appear
Poet by voice and suffrage of the shire;
That were enough to make my Muse advance
Amongst the crutches; nay, it might enhance
Our charity, and we should think it fit
The State should build an hospital for wit.
But here needs no relief: thy richer verse
Creates all poets, that can but rehearse,
And they, like tenants better'd by their land,
Should pay thee rent for what they understand.
Thou art not of that lamentable nation
Who make a blessed alms of approbation,
Whose fardel-notes are briefs in ev'rything,
But, that they are not _Licens'd by the king_.
Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth
Arm'd--though I speak it--with thy proper worth,
And needest not this noise of friends, for we
Write out of love, not thy necessity.
And though this sullen age possessed be
With some strange desamour to poetry,
Yet I suspect--thy fancy so delights--
The Puritans will turn thy proselytes,
And that thy flame, when once abroad it shines,
Will bring thee as many friends as thou hast lines.
Eugenius Philalethes, Oxoniensis.
OLOR ISCANUS.
TO THE RIVER ISCA.
When Daphne's lover here first wore the bays,
Eurotas' secret streams heard all his lays,
And holy Orpheus, Nature's busy child,
By headlong Hebrus his deep hymns compil'd;
Soft Petrarch--thaw'd by Laura's flames--did weep
On Tiber's banks, when she--proud fair!--could sleep;
Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the Thames
Doth murmur Sidney's Stella to her streams;
While Severn, swoln with joy and sorrow, wears
Castara's smiles mix'd with fair Sabrin's tears.
Thus poets--like the nymphs, their pleasing themes--
Haunted the bubbling springs and gliding streams;
And happy banks! whence such fair flow'rs have sprung,
But happier those where they have sat and sung!
Poets--like angels--where they once appear
Hallow the place, and each succeeding year
Adds rev'rence to't, such as at length doth give
This aged faith, that there their genii live.
Hence th' ancients say, that from this sickly air
They pass to regions more refin'd and fair,
To meadows strew'd with lilies and the rose,
And shades whose youthful green no old age knows;
Where all in white they walk, discourse, and sing
Like bees' soft murmurs, or a chiding spring.
But Isca, whensoe'er those shades I see,
And thy lov'd arbours must no more know me,
When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams,
And my sun sets, where first it sprang in beams,
I'll leave behind me such a large, kind light,
As shall redeem thee from oblivious night,
And in these vows which--living yet--I pay,
Shed such a previous and enduring ray,
As shall from age to age thy fair name lead,
'Till rivers leave to run, and men to read.
First, may all bards born after me
--When I am ashes--sing of thee!
May thy green banks or streams,--or none--
Be both their hill and Helicon!
May vocal groves grow there, and all
The shades in them prophetical,
Where laid men shall more fair truths see
Than fictions were of Thessaly!
May thy gentle swains--like flow'rs--
Sweetly spend their youthful hours,
And thy beauteous nymphs--like doves--
Be kind and faithful to their loves!
Garlands, and songs, and roundelays,
Mild, dewy nights, and sunshine days,
The turtle's voice, joy without fear,
Dwell on thy bosom all the year!
May the evet and the toad
Within thy banks have no abode,
Nor the wily, winding snake
Her voyage through thy waters make!
In all thy journey to the main
No nitrous clay, nor brimstone-vein
Mix with thy streams, but may they pass
Fresh on the air, and clear as glass,
And where the wand'ring crystal treads
Roses shall kiss, and couple heads!
The factor-wind from far shall bring
The odours of the scatter'd Spring,
And loaden with the rich arrear,
Spend it in spicy whispers there.
No sullen heats, nor flames that are
Offensive, and canicular,
Shine on thy sands, nor pry to see
Thy scaly, shading family,
But noons as mild as Hesper's rays,
Or the first blushes of fair days!
What gifts more Heav'n or Earth can add,
With all those blessings be thou clad!
Honour, Beauty,
Faith and Duty,
Delight and Truth,
With Love and Youth,
Crown all about thee! and whatever Fate
Impose elsewhere, whether the graver state
Or some toy else, may those loud, anxious cares
For dead and dying things--the common wares
And shows of Time--ne'er break thy peace, nor make
Thy repos'd arms to a new war awake!
But freedom, safety, joy and bliss,
United in one loving kiss,
Surround thee quite, and style thy borders
The land redeem'd from all disorders!
THE CHARNEL-HOUSE.
Bless me! what damps are here! how stiff an air!
Kelder of mists, a second fiat's care,
Front'spiece o' th' grave and darkness, a display
Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day,
Lean, bloodless shamble, where I can descry
Fragments of men, rags of anatomy,
Corruption's wardrobe, the transplantive bed
Of mankind, and th' exchequer of the dead!
How thou arrests my sense! how with the sight
My winter'd blood grows stiff to all delight!
Torpedo to the eye! whose least glance can
Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue headlong man.
Eloquent silence! able to immure
An atheist's thoughts, and blast an epicure.
Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dress
Would make me wish a Saviour, and confess.
Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope,
Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope,
Whose stretch'd excess runs on a string too high,
And on the rack of self-extension die?
Chameleons of state, air-monging band,
Whose breath--like gunpowder--blows up a land,
Come see your dissolution, and weigh
What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day.
As th' elements by circulation pass
From one to th' other, and that which first was
I so again, so 'tis with you; the grave
And Nature but complot; what the one gave
The other takes; think, then, that in this bed
There sleep the relics of as proud a head,
As stern and subtle as your own, that hath
Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
Hath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely then
Calm these high furies, and descend to men.
Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tomb
Check'd him, who thought the world too straight a room.
Have I obey'd the powers of face,
A beauty able to undo the race
Of easy man? I look but here, and straight
I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit
Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave
Beggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,
Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man
That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can
Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff,
Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear
Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear.
Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score
Of erring men, and having done, meet more,
Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents,
Fantastic humours, perilous ascents,
False, empty honours, traitorous delights,
And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites;
But these and more which the weak vermins swell,
Are couch'd in this accumulative cell,
Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun
Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone;
Day leaves me in a double night, and I
Must bid farewell to my sad library.
Yet with these notes--Henceforth with thought of thee
I'll season all succeeding jollity,
Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit;
Excess hath no religion, nor wit;
But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain,
One check from thee shall channel it again.
IN AMICUM F[OE]NERATOREM.
Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see
How I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee.
Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,
His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.
As lesser lode-stones with the North consent,
Naturally moving to their element,
As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fire
Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire,
So this vast crying sum draws in a less;
And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess,
For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphere
Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear.
Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress
His messages in chink! not an express
Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit,
For gold's the best restorative of wit.
Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delight
I read those lines, which angels do indite!
But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurse
Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse?
Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at once
What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?
'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peal
In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol;
I fear them not. I have no land to glut
Thy dirty appetite, and make thee strut
Nimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepare
To court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir.
For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thou
But kick this dross: Parnassus' flow'ry brow
I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot
That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.
A bed of roses I'll provide for thee,
And crystal springs shall drop thee melody.
The breathing shades we'll haunt, where ev'ry leaf
Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf.
Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yet
Durst make love to, we'll teach the loving fit;
We'll suck the coral of their lips, and feed
Upon their spicy breath, a meal at need:
Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfold
That glist'ring grove, the curled wood of gold;
Then peep for babies, a new puppet play,
And riddle what their prattling eyes would say.
But here thou must remember to dispurse,
For without money all this is a curse.
Thou must for more bags call, and so restore
This iron age to gold, as once before.
This thou must do, and yet this is not all,
For thus the poet would be still in thrall,
Thou must then--if live thus--my nest of honey
Cancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.
TO HIS FRIEND----
I wonder, James, through the whole history
Of ages, such entails of poverty
Are laid on poets; lawyers--they say--have found
A trick to cut them; would they were but bound
To practise on us, though for this thing we
Should pay--if possible--their bribes and fee.
Search--as thou canst--the old and modern store
Of Rome and ours, in all the witty score
Thou shalt not find a rich one; take each clime,
And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time,
Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'rywhere descry
A threadbare, goldless genealogy.
Nature--it seems--when she meant us for earth
Spent so much of her treasure in the birth
As ever after niggards her, and she,
Thus stor'd within, beggars us outwardly.
Woful profusion! at how dear a rate
Are we made up! all hope of thrift and state
Lost for a verse. When I by thoughts look back
Into the womb of time, and see the rack
Stand useless there, until we are produc'd
Unto the torture, and our souls infus'd
To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt
That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout
Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport
They keep afflicted by some ling'ring art;
So we are merely thrown upon the stage
The mirth of fools and legend of the age.
When I see in the ruins of a suit
Some nobler breast, and his tongue sadly mute
Feed on the vocal silence of his eye,
And knowing cannot reach the remedy;
When souls of baser stamp shine in their store,
And he of all the throng is only poor;
When French apes for foreign fashions pay,
And English legs are dress'd th' outlandish way,
So fine too, that they their own shadows woo,
While he walks in the sad and pilgrim shoe;
I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sin,
To see deserts and learning clad so thin;
To think how th' earthly usurer can brood
Upon his bags, and weigh the precious food
With palsied hands, as if his soul did fear
The scales could rob him of what he laid there.
Like devils that on hid treasures sit, or those
Whose jealous eyes trust not beyond their nose,
They guard the dirt and the bright idol hold
Close, and commit adultery with gold.
A curse upon their dross! how have we sued
For a few scatter'd chips? how oft pursu'd
Petitions with a blush, in hope to squeeze
For their souls' health, more than our wants, a piece?
Their steel-ribb'd chests and purse--rust eat them both!--
Have cost us with much paper many an oath,
And protestations of such solemn sense,
As if our souls were sureties for the pence.
Should we a full night's learned cares present,
They'll scarce return us one short hour's content.
'Las! they're but quibbles, things we poets feign,
The short-liv'd squibs and crackers of the brain.
But we'll be wiser, knowing 'tis not they
That must redeem the hardship of our way.
Whether a Higher Power, or that star
Which, nearest heav'n, is from the earth most far,
Oppress us thus, or angell'd from that sphere
By our strict guardians are kept luckless here,
It matters not, we shall one day obtain
Our native and celestial scope again.
TO HIS RETIRED FRIEND, AN INVITATION TO BRECKNOCK.
Since last we met, thou and thy horse--my dear--
Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here;
I wonder, though thyself be thus deceas'd,
Thou hast the spite to coffin up thy beast;
Or is the palfrey sick, and his rough hide
With the penance of one spur mortified?
Or taught by thee--like Pythagoras's ox--
Is then his master grown more orthodox
Whatever 'tis, a sober cause't must be
That thus long bars us of thy company.
The town believes thee lost, and didst thou see
But half her suff'rings, now distress'd for thee,
Thou'ldst swear--like Rome--her foul, polluted walls
Were sack'd by Brennus and the savage Gauls.
Abominable face of things! here's noise
Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys,
Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoarse, hellish notes
Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats,
With new fine Worships, and the old cast team
Of Justices vex'd with the cough and phlegm.
'Midst these the Cross looks sad, and in the Shire-
Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear,
With brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange sight
Of high monumental hats, ta'en at the fight
Of 'Eighty-eight; while ev'ry burgess foots
The mortal pavement in eternal boots.
Hadst thou been bach'lor, I had soon divin'd
Thy close retirements, and monastic mind;
Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, or
The beauteous churl was to be waited for,
And like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss,
You stay'd, and strok'd the distaff for a kiss.
But in this age, when thy cool, settled blood
Is ti'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good,
I know not how to reach the strange device,
Except--Domitian-like--thou murder'st flies.
Or is't thy piety? for who can tell
But thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell,
And--like a badger--with attentive looks
In the dark hole sit rooting up of books.
Quick hermit! what a peaceful change hadst thou,
Without the noise of haircloth, whip, or vow!
But there is no redemption? must there be
No other penance but of liberty?
Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus,
Thy memory will scarce remain with us,
The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim
They have not seen thee here since Charles, his reign,
Or if they mention thee, like some old man,
That at each word inserts--"Sir, as I can
Remember"--so the cyph'rers puzzle me
With a dark, cloudy character of thee.
That--certs!--I fear thou wilt be lost, and we
Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee.
Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine
And precious wit lie dead for want of thine.
Shall the dull market-landlord with his rout
Of sneaking tenants dirtily swill out
This harmless liquor? shall they knock and beat
For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat?
O let not such prepost'rous tippling be
In our metropolis; may I ne'er see
Such tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line
To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine!
Here lives that chymic, quick fire which betrays
Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays.
I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cup
That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up,
And teach her yet more charming words and skill
Than ever C[oe]lia, Chloris, Astrophil,
Or any of the threadbare names inspir'd
Poor rhyming lovers with a mistress fir'd.
Come then! and while the slow icicle hangs
At the stiff thatch, and Winter's frosty pangs
Benumb the year, blithe--as of old--let us
'Midst noise and war of peace and mirth discuss.
This portion thou wert born for: why should we
Vex at the time's ridiculous misery?
An age that thus hath fool'd itself, and will
--Spite of thy teeth and mine--persist so still.
Let's sit then at this fire, and while we steal
A revel in the town, let others seal,
Purchase or cheat, and who can, let them pay,
Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day.
Innocent spenders we! a better use
Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse
Rout to their husks; they and their bags at best
Have cares in earnest; we care for a jest.
MONSIEUR GOMBAULD.