Th' amours and courtship of the silent Queen,
Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her
To juggle first with Heav'n, then with a lover,
With Latmos' louder rescue, and--alas!--
To find her out a hue and cry in brass;
Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad
Nocturnal pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad
In fancies darker than thy cave, thy glass
Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass
In her calm voyage what discourse she heard
Of spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard
Ismena led thee through, with thy proud flight
O'er Periardes, and deep, musing night
Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green
The neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seen
In their large bowers, with that sad path and seat
Which none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat;[55]
Their solitary life, and how exempt
From common frailty, the severe contempt
They have of man, their privilege to live
A tree, or fountain, and in that reprieve
What ages they consume, with the sad vale
Of Diophania, and the mournful tale,
Of th' bleeding vocal myrtle; these and more
Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score
To thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fall
From thy first majesty, or ought at all
Betray consumption; thy full vig'rous bays
Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays
Of style, or matter. Just so have I known
Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down
Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal
To their next vale, and proudly there reveal
Her streams in louder accents, adding still
More noise and waters to her channel, till
At last swoln with increase she glides along
The lawns and meadows in a wanton throng
Of frothy billows, and in one great name
Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame.
Nor are they mere inventions, for we
In th' same piece find scatter'd philosophy
And hidden, dispers'd truths that folded lie
In the dark shades of deep allegory;
So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descry
Fables with truth, fancy with history.
So that thou hast in this thy curious mould
Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old,
Which shall these contemplations render far
Less mutable, and lasting as their star,
And while there is a people or a sun,
Endymion's story with the moon shall run.
FOOTNOTES:
[55] So Grosart, for the _heat_ of the original.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. W., SLAIN IN THE LATE UNFORTUNATE
DIFFERENCES AT ROUTON HEATH, NEAR CHESTER, 1645.
I am confirmed, and so much wing is given
To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.
A full year's grief I struggled with, and stood
Still on my sandy hopes' uncertain good,
So loth was I to yield; to all those fears
I still oppos'd thee, and denied my tears.
But thou art gone! and the untimely loss
Like that one day hath made all others cross.
Have you seen on some river's flow'ry brow
A well-built elm or stately cedar grow,
Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-ray
Beckon'd the sun, and whisper'd to the day,
When unexpected from the angry North
A fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth,
And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground
The shady twins, which rushing scatter round
Their sighing leaves, whilst overborn with strength
Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length?
So forc'd fell he; so immaturely Death
Stifled his able heart and active breath.
The world scarce knew him yet, his early soul
Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole
A sight than gave one; as if subtly she
Would learn our stock, but hide his treasury.
His years--should Time lay both his wings and glass
Unto his charge--could not be summ'd--alas!--
To a full score; though in so short a span
His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man
Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick
Have quite outgone their own arithmetic.
He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull
And mossy grey possess'd a solid skull;
No crooked knowledge neither, nor did he
Wear the friend's name for ends and policy,
And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stage
Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age
And then retir'd; like jewels, in each part
He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart.
Nor was it only in this he did excel,
His equal valour could as much, as well.
He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst
No injury, nor--as some have--e'er purs'd
The sweat and tears of others, yet would be
More forward in a royal gallantry
Than all those vast pretenders, which of late
Swell'd in the ruins of their king and State.
He weav'd not self-ends and the public good
Into one piece, nor with the people's blood
Fill'd his own veins; in all the doubtful way
Conscience and honour rul'd him. O that day
When like the fathers in the fire and cloud
I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd
See arms like thine, and men advance, but none
So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye
Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie
Performance with the soul, that you would swear
The act and apprehension both lodg'd there;
Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand
Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand.
But here I lost him. Whether the last turn
Of thy few sands call'd on thy hasty urn,
Or some fierce rapid fate--hid from the eye--
Hath hurl'd thee pris'ner to some distant sky,
I cannot tell, but that I do believe
Thy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve.
Whatever 'twas, whether that day thy breath
Suffer'd a civil or the common death,
Which I do most suspect, and that I have
Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave;
Though thy lov'd ashes miss me, and mine eyes
Had no acquaintance with thy exequies,
Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight
On the cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight,
Yet whate'er pious hand--instead of mine--
Hath done this office to that dust of thine,
And till thou rise again from thy low bed
Lent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head,
Though but a private turf, it can do more
To keep thy name and memory in store
Than all those lordly fools which lock their bones
In the dumb piles of chested brass, and stones
Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not
These marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot
Of posthume honours; there is not one sand
Sleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that hand
And pencil too, so that of force we must
Confess their heaps show lesser than thy dust.
And--blessed soul!--though this my sorrow can
Add nought to thy perfections, yet as man
Subject to envy, and the common fate,
It may redeem thee to a fairer date.
As some blind dial, when the day is done,
Can tell us at midnight there was a sun,
So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame,
May keep some weak remembrance of thy name,
And to the faith of better times commend
Thy loyal upright life, and gallant end.
_Nomen et arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi_
_Conspicere_------------
UPON A CLOAK LENT HIM BY MR. J. RIDSLEY.
Here, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heav'n
Thy courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not even
Whether we die by piecemeal, or at once?
Since both but ruin, why then for the nonce
Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o'er
Me this forc'd hurdle to inflame the score?
Had I near London in this rug been seen
Without doubt I had executed been
For some bold Irish spy, and 'cross a sledge
Had lain mess'd up for their four gates and bridge.
When first I bore it, my oppressed feet
Would needs persuade me 'twas some leaden sheet;
Such deep impressions, and such dangerous holes
Were made, that I began to doubt my soles,
And ev'ry step--so near necessity--
Devoutly wish'd some honest cobbler by;
Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag
Seem'd circumcis'd, but had a Gentile shag.
Hadst thou been with me on that day, when we
Left craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee,
When beaten with fresh storms and late mishap
It shar'd the office of a cloak, and cap,
To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood
Like a thick turban, or some lawyer's hood,
While the stiff, hollow pleats on ev'ry side
Like conduit-pipes rain'd from the bearded hide:
I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate
Let loose thy mirth at my new shape and state,
And with a shallow smile or two profess
Some Saracen had lost the clouted dress.
Didst ever see the good wife--as they say--
March in her short cloak on the christ'ning day,
With what soft motions she salutes the church,
And leaves the bedrid mother in the lurch;
Just so jogg'd I, while my dull horse did trudge
Like a circuit-beast, plagu'd with a gouty judge.
But this was civil. I have since known more
And worser pranks: one night--as heretofore
Th' hast known--for want of change--a thing which I
And Bias us'd before me--I did lie
Pure Adamite, and simply for that end
Resolv'd, and made this for my bosom-friend.
O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I
Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo-graphy!
Thou wouldst have ta'en me, as I naked stood,
For one of the seven pillars before the flood.
Such characters and hieroglyphics were
In one night worn, that thou mightst justly swear
I'd slept in cere-cloth, or at Bedlam, where
The madmen lodge in straw. I'll not forbear
To tell thee all; his wild impress and tricks
Like Speed's old Britons made me look, or Picts;
His villanous, biting, wire-embraces
Had seal'd in me more strange forms and faces
Than children see in dreams, or thou hast read
In arras, puppet-plays, and gingerbread,
With angled schemes, and crosses that bred fear
Of being handled by some conjurer;
And nearer, thou wouldst think--such strokes were drawn--
I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane.
Nay, I believe, had I that instant been
By surgeons or apothecaries seen,
They had condemned my raz'd skin to be
Some walking herbal, or anatomy.
But--thanks to th' day!--'tis off. I'd now advise
Thee, friend, to put this piece to merchandise.
The pedlars of our age have business yet,
And gladly would against the Fair-day fit
Themselves with such a roof, that can secure
Their wares from dogs and cats rained in shower.
It shall perform; or if this will not do
'Twill take the ale-wives sure; 'twill make them two
Fine rooms of one, and spread upon a stick
Is a partition, without lime or brick.
Horn'd obstinacy! how my heart doth fret
To think what mouths and elbows it would set
In a wet day! have you for twopence ere
Seen King Harry's chapel at Westminster,
Where in their dusty gowns of brass and stone
The judges lie, and mark'd you how each one,
In sturdy marble-pleats about the knee,
Bears up to show his legs and symmetry?
Just so would this, that I think't weav'd upon
Some stiffneck'd Brownist's exercising loom.
O that thou hadst it when this juggling fate
Of soldiery first seiz'd me! at what rate
Would I have bought it then; what was there but
I would have giv'n for the compendious hut?
I do not doubt but--if the weight could please--
'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease.
Or a German shirt with enchanted lint
Stuff'd through, and th' devil's beard and face weav'd in't.
But I have done. And think not, friend, that I
This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy.
I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse
So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse.
She did this, 'cause--perhaps--thy love paid thus
Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.
UPON MR. FLETCHER'S PLAYS, PUBLISHED 1647.
I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive,
Label to wit, verser remonstrative,
And in some suburb-page--scandal to thine--
Like Lent before a Christmas scatter mine.
This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate
Such remnants from thy piece entreat their date;
Nor can I dub the copy, or afford
Titles to swell the rear of verse with lord;
Nor politicly big, to inch low fame,
Stretch in the glories of a stranger's name,
And clip those bays I court; weak striver I,
But a faint echo unto poetry.
I have not clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit
For plush and velvet's sake, esquire of wit.
Yet modesty these crosses would improve,
And rags near thee, some reverence may move.
I did believe--great Beaumont being dead--
Thy widow'd Muse slept on his flow'ry bed;
But I am richly cozen'd, and can see
Wit transmigrates: his spirit stay'd with thee;
Which, doubly advantag'd by thy single pen,
In life and death now treads the stage again.
And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit
Which starv'd the land, since into schisms split,
Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess
Wit's last edition is now i' th' press.
For thou hast drain'd invention, and he
That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.
But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain
At the designs of such a tragic brain?
Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see
Thy most abominable policy?
Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit
Their Synod fast and pray against thy wit?
But they'll not tire in such an idle quest;
Thou dost but kill, and circumvent in jest;
And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow
'Tis but for Field's, or Swansted's overthrow.
Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive
Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve
The peace of spirits: and when such deeds fail
Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail.
But--happy thou!--ne'er saw'st these storms, our air
Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming fair.
Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease,
Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace.
So nested in some hospitable shore
The hermit-angler, when the mid-seas roar,
Packs up his lines, and--ere the tempest raves--
Retires, and leaves his station to the waves.
Thus thou died'st almost with our peace, and we
This breathing time thy last fair issue see,
Which I think such--if needless ink not soil
So choice a Muse--others are but thy foil.
This, or that age may write, but never see
A wit that dares run parallel with thee.
True, Ben must live! but bate him, and thou hast
Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.
UPON THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF THE EVER-MEMORABLE MR. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.
I did but see thee! and how vain it is
To vex thee for it with remonstrances,
Though things in fashion; let those judge, who sit
Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit
I fear to sin thus near thee; for--great saint!--
'Tis known true beauty hath no need of paint.
Yet, since a label fix'd to thy fair hearse
Is all the mode, and tears put into verse
Can teach posterity our present grief
And their own loss, but never give relief;
I'll tell them--and a truth which needs no pass--
That wit in Cartwright at her zenith was.
Arts, fancy, language, all conven'd in thee,
With those grand miracles which deify
The old world's writings, kept yet from the fire
Because they force these worst times to admire.
Thy matchless genius, in all thou didst write,
Like the sun, wrought with such staid heat and light,
That not a line--to the most critic he--
Offends with flashes, or obscurity.
When thou the wild of humours track'st, thy pen
So imitates that motley stock in men,
As if thou hadst in all their bosoms been,
And seen those leopards that lurk within.
The am'rous youth steals from thy courtly page
His vow'd address, the soldier his brave rage;
And those soft beauteous readers whose looks can
Make some men poets, and make any man
A lover, when thy slave but seems to die,
Turn all his mourners, and melt at the eye.
Thus thou thy thoughts hast dress'd in such a strain
As doth not only speak, but rule and reign;
Nor are those bodies they assum'd dark clouds,
Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds,
Which who looks on, the rays so strongly beat
They'll brush and warm him with a quick'ning heat;
So souls shine at the eyes, and pearls display
Through the loose crystal-streams a glance of day.
But what's all this unto a royal test?
Thou art the man whom great Charles so express'd!
Then let the crowd refrain their needless hum,
When thunder speaks, then squibs and winds are dumb.
TO THE BEST AND MOST ACCOMPLISHED COUPLE----
Blessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads
As the mild heav'n on roses sheds,
When at their cheeks--like pearls--they wear
The clouds that court them in a tear!
And may they be fed from above
By Him which first ordain'd your love!
Fresh as the hours may all your pleasures be,
And healthful as eternity!
Sweet as the flowers' first breath, and close
As th' unseen spreadings of the rose,
When he unfolds his curtain'd head,
And makes his bosom the sun's bed!
Soft as yourselves run your whole lives, and clear
As your own glass, or what shines there!
Smooth as heav'n's face, and bright as he
When without mask or tiffany!
In all your time not one jar meet
But peace as silent as his feet!
Like the day's warmth may all your comforts be,
Untoil'd for, and serene as he,
Yet free and full as is that sheaf
Of sunbeams gilding ev'ry leaf,
When now the tyrant-heat expires
And his cool'd locks breathe milder fires!
And as those parcell'd glories he doth shed
Are the fair issues of his head,
Which, ne'er so distant, are soon known
By th' heat and lustre for his own;
So may each branch of yours we see
Your copies and our wonders be!
And when no more on earth you must remain,
Invited hence to heav'n again,
Then may your virtuous, virgin-flames
Shine in those heirs of your fair names,
And teach the world that mystery,
Yourselves in your posterity!
So you to both worlds shall rich presents bring,
And, gather'd up to heav'n, leave here a spring.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. HALL, SLAIN AT PONTEFRACT, 1648.
I knew it would be thus! and my just fears
Of thy great spirit are improv'd to tears.
Yet flow these not from any base distrust
Of a fair name, or that thy honour must
Confin'd to those cold relics sadly sit
In the same cell an obscure anchorite.
Such low distempers murder; they that must
Abuse thee so, weep not, but wound thy dust.
But I past such dim mourners can descry
Thy fame above all clouds of obloquy,
And like the sun with his victorious rays
Charge through that darkness to the last of days.
'Tis true, fair manhood hath a female eye,
And tears are beauteous in a victory,
Nor are we so high-proof, but grief will find
Through all our guards a way to wound the mind;
But in thy fall what adds the brackish sum
More than a blot unto thy martyrdom?
Which scorns such wretched suffrages, and stands
More by thy single worth than our whole bands.
Yet could the puling tribute rescue ought
In this sad loss, or wert thou to be brought
Back here by tears, I would in any wise
Pay down the sum, or quite consume my eyes.
Thou fell'st our double ruin; and this rent
Forc'd in thy life shak'd both the Church and tent.
Learning in others steals them from the van,
And basely wise emasculates the man,
But lodg'd in thy brave soul the bookish feat
Serv'd only as the light unto thy heat.
Thus when some quitted action, to their shame,
And only got a discreet coward's name,
Thou with thy blood mad'st purchase of renown,
And died'st the glory of the sword and gown.
Thy blood hath hallow'd Pomfret, and this blow
--Profan'd before--hath church'd the Castle now.
Nor is't a common valour we deplore,
But such as with fifteen a hundred bore,
And lightning-like--not coop'd within a wall--
In storms of fire and steel fell on them all.
Thou wert no woolsack soldier, nor of those
Whose courage lies in winking at their foes,
That live at loopholes, and consume their breath
On match or pipes, and sometimes peep at death;
No, it were sin to number these with thee,
But that--thus pois'd--our loss we better see.
The fair and open valour was thy shield,
And thy known station, the defying field.
Yet these in thee I would not virtues call,
But that this age must know that thou hadst all.
Those richer graces that adorn'd thy mind
Like stars of the first magnitude, so shin'd,
That if oppos'd unto these lesser lights
All we can say is this, they were fair nights.
Thy piety and learning did unite,
And though with sev'ral beams made up one light,
And such thy judgment was, that I dare swear
Whole councils might as soon and synods err.
But all these now are out! and as some star
Hurl'd in diurnal motions from far,
And seen to droop at night, is vainly said
To fall and find an occidental bed,
Though in that other world what we judge West
Proves elevation, and a new, fresh East;
So though our weaker sense denies us sight,
And bodies cannot trace the spirit's flight,
We know those graces to be still in thee,
But wing'd above us to eternity.
Since then--thus flown--thou art so much refin'd
That we can only reach thee with the mind,
I will not in this dark and narrow glass
Let thy scant shadow for perfections pass,
But leave thee to be read more high, more quaint,
In thy own blood a soldier and a saint.
----_Salve aeternum mihi maxime Palla!_
_Aeternumque vale!_----
TO MY LEARNED FRIEND, MR. T. POWELL, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF MALVEZZI'S
CHRISTIAN POLITICIAN.
We thank you, worthy Sir, that now we see
MALVEZZI languag'd like our infancy,
And can without suspicion entertain
This foreign statesman to our breast or brain;
You have enlarg'd his praise, and from your store
By this edition made his worth the more.
Thus by your learned hand--amidst the coil--
Outlandish plants thrive in our thankless soil,
And wise men after death, by a strange fate,
Lie leiger here, and beg to serve our State.
Italy now, though mistress of the bays,
Waits on this wreath, proud of a foreign praise;
For, wise Malvezzi, thou didst lie before
Confin'd within the language of one shore,
And like those stars which near the poles do steer
Were't but in one part of the globe seen clear.
Provence and Naples were the best and most
Thou couldst shine in; fix'd to that single coast,
Perhaps some cardinal, to be thought wise,
And honest too, would ask, what was thy price?
Then thou must pack to Rome, where thou mightst lie
Ere thou shouldst have new clothes eternally,
For though so near the sev'n hills, ne'ertheless
Thou cam'st to Antwerp for thy Roman dress.
But now thou art come hither, thou mayst run
Through any clime as well known as the sun,
And in thy sev'ral dresses, like the year,
Challenge acquaintance with each peopled sphere.
Come then, rare politicians of the time,
Brains of some standing, elders in our clime,
See here the method. A wise, solid State
Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,
Joint in advice, in resolutions just,
Mild in success, true to the common trust.
It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand
Allays the heat and burnings of a land;
Religion guides it, and in all the tract
Designs so twist, that Heav'n confirms the act.
If from these lists you wander as you steer,
Look back, and catechize your actions here.
These are the marks to which true statesmen tend,
And greatness here with goodness hath one end.
TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MASTER T. LEWES.
Sees not my friend, what a deep snow
Candies our country's woody brow?
The yielding branch his load scarce bears,
Oppress'd with snow and frozen tears;
While the dumb rivers slowly float,
All bound up in an icy coat.
Let us meet then! and while this world
In wild eccentrics now is hurl'd,
Keep we, like nature, the same key,
And walk in our forefathers' way.
Why any more cast we an eye
On what may come, not what is nigh?
Why vex ourselves with fear, or hope
And cares beyond our horoscope?
Who into future times would peer,
Looks oft beyond his term set here,
And cannot go into those grounds
But through a churchyard, which them bounds.
Sorrows and sighs and searches spend
And draw our bottom to an end,
But discreet joys lengthen the lease,
Without which life were a disease;
And who this age a mourner goes,
Doth with his tears but feed his foes
TO THE MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED MRS. K. PHILIPS.