_Thou dost, in thy meanness, know!_
_Kings would be to seek, where greatness_
_And their honours to bestow._
_For it such content would breed them,_
_As they would not think they need them._
_And if those, who so aspiring_
_To the Court preferments be,_
_Knew how worthy the desiring_
_Those things are, enjoyed by thee!_
_Wealth and titles would, hereafter,_
_Subjects be for scorn and laughter._
_He that Courtly styles affected,_
_Should a May-Lord's honour have;_
_He that heaps of Wealth collected,_
_Should be counted as a slave:_
_And the man, with few'st things cumbered,_
_With the noblest should be numbered._
_Thou, their folly hast discerned;_
_That neglect thy mind and thee!_
_And to slight them, thou hast learned,_
_Of what title e'er they be!_
_That, no more with thee obtaineth;_
_Than with them, thy meanness gaineth._
_All their riches, honours, pleasures,_
_Poor unworthy trifles seem;_
_If comparèd with thy treasures!_
_And do merit no esteem:_
_For they, true contents provide thee,_
_And from them, can none divide thee._
_Whether thrallèd, or exilèd;_
_Whether poor, or rich thou be!_
_Whether praisèd, or revilèd;_
_Not a rush it is to thee!_
_This, nor that, thy rest doth win thee;_
_But the Mind, which is within thee!_
_Then, O, why so madly dote we_
_On those things that us o'erload?_
_Why no more their vainness note we,_
_But still make of them a god?_
_For, alas, they still deceive us;_
_And, in greatest need, they leave us!_
_Therefore have the Fates provided_
_Well, thou happy Swain! for thee!_
_That may'st here, so far divided_
_From the world's distractions be!_
_Thee, distemper let them never;_
_But in peace continue ever!_
_In these lonely groves, enjoy thou_
_That contentment here begun!_
_And thy hours, so pleased, employ thou_
_Till the latest glass be run!_
_From a fortune so assured,_
_By no temptings, be allured!_
_Much good do 't them, with their glories,_
_Who, in Courts of Princes dwell!_
_We have read in antique stories_
_How some rose, and how they fell._
_And 'tis worthy well the heeding,_
_"There's like end, where's like proceeding."_
_Be thou still, in thy affection,_
_To thy noble Mistress, true!_
_Let her never-matched perfection_
_Be the same unto thy view!_
_And let never other Beauty_
_Make thee fail in love or duty!_
_For if thou shalt not estrangèd,_
_From thy course professed, be;_
_But remain, for aye, unchangèd,_
_Nothing shall have power on thee!_
_Those that slight thee now, shall love thee;_
_And, in spite of spite, approve thee!_
_So those virtues now neglected;_
_To be more esteemed, will come:_
_Yea, those toys so much affected,_
_Many shall be wooèd from._
_And the Golden Age, deplored,_
_Shall, by some, be thought restored._
[Illustration]
Thus sang the Nymph! so rarely-well inspired,
That all the hearers, her brave Strains admired;
And (as I heard by some that there attended)
When this her Song was finished, all was ended.
[Illustration]
_A Postscript._
If any carp, for that my younger Times
Brought forth such idle fruit, as these slight rhymes,
It is no matter, so they do not swear
That they so ill employed, never were.
Whilst their Desires, perhaps, they looselier spent;
I gave my heats of youth this better vent:
And, oft, by writing thus, the blood have tamed,
Which some, with reading wanton Lays enflamed.
Nor care I, though their censure some have past,
Because my Songs exceed the Fidler's Last:
For do they think that I will make my Measures
The longer, or the shorter, for their pleasures?
Or maim, or curtalise my free Invention,
Because Fools weary are, of their attention!
No! Let them know, who do their length condemn;
I Make to please myself, and not for them!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Alresford Pool.
[11] Alresford, 7 miles N. of Winchester.
[12] Winchester.
[13] lawn.
A MISCELLANY
OF
EPIGRAMS, SONNETS, EPITAPHS, AND SUCH OTHER
VERSES, AS WERE FOUND WRITTEN WITH
THE POEM AFOREGOING.
_Of the Invention of the Nine Muses._
The acts of Ages past doth CLIO write.
The Tragedies', MELPOMENE's delight.
THALIA is with Comedies contented.
EUTERPE, first, the Shepherd's Pipe invented.
TERPSICHORE doth Song and Lute apply.
Dancing ERATO found Geometry.
CALLIOPE on loving Verses dwells.
The secrets of the stars, URANIA tells.
POLYHYMNIA, with choice words, the speech doth trim
And great APOLLO shares with all of them.
Those thrice three Feminines, we Muses call;
But that one Masculine is worth them all!
_Of the Labours of HERCULES._
First, he the strong Nemæan lion slew;
The many-headed Hydra, next, o'erthrew.
The Erymanthian Boar he, thirdly, foils,
Then of his golden horns, the Stag he spoils.
The foul Stymphalian birds he, fifthly, frayed:
Next, he, the Queen of Amazons o'erswayed.
Then cleansed AUGIAS' stalls, with filth so full;
And, eighthly, tamed the untamed Bull.
He slew proud DIOMEDES with his horses.
From triple GERION, his rich beard he forces.
He slew the Dragon for the fruit of gold:
And made black CERBERUS the day behold.
_Being left by a Gentleman in his dining-room, where_
_was nothing but a Map of England to entertain_
_him; he thus turned it into Verse._
Fair England, in the bosom of the seas,
Amid her two and fifty Provinces,
Sits like a glorious Empress, whose rich throne
Great Nymphs of Honour come to wait upon.
First, in the height of bravery, appears
Kent, East and South and Middle Saxon Shires;
Next Surrey, Berkshire and Southampton get,
With Dorset, Wilton, and rich Somerset.
Then Devon, with the Cornish promontory,
Glou'ster and Worc'ster, fair Sabrina's glory!
Then Salop, Suffolk, Norfolk large and fair:
Oxford and Cambridge, that thrice learned pair!
Then Lincoln, Derby, Yorkshire, Nottingham,
Northampton, Warwick, Stafford, Buckingham,
Chester and Lancaster with herds well stored,
Huntington, Hertford, Rutland, Hereford.
Then Princely Durham, Bedford, Leic'ster and
Northumber-, Cumber-, and cold Westmoreland.
Brave English Shires! With whom, loved equally,
Welsh Monmouth, Radnor, and Montgomery
Add all the glory, to her train, they can:
So doth Glamorgan, Brecknock, Cardigan,
Carnarvon, Denbigh, Merionethshire,
With Anglesea, which o'er the sea doth rear
Her lofty head. And the first, though last,
Flint, Pembroke, and Caermarthen might be placed.
For all of these, unto their power, maintain
Their mistress, England, with a royal train.
Yea, for Supporters, at each hand hath she,
The Wight and Man, that two brave islands be.
From these, I, to the Scottish Nymphs had journeyed;
But that my friend was back again returned:
Who having kindly brought me to his home,
Alone did leave me in his dining-room;
Where I was fain (and glad I had the hap!)
To beg an entertainment of his Map.
_An Epitaph upon the right virtuous Lady,_
_the Lady SCOTT._
Let none suppose this relic of the Just
Was here wrapped up, to perish in the dust!
No, like best fruits, her time she fully stood,
Then, being grown in Faith, and ripe in Good
(With stedfast hope that She, another day,
Should rise with CHRIST), with Death, here down she lay.
And, that each part which Her in life had graced,
Preserved might be, and meet again at last;
The Poor, the World, the Heavens, and the Grave,
Her Alms, her Praise, her Soul, her Body have.
_An Epitaph upon a Woman and her Child buried_
_together in the same Grave._
Beneath this marble stone doth lie
The subject of Death's tyranny;
A Mother, who, in this close tomb,
Sleeps with the issue of her womb.
Though cruelly inclined was He.
And, with the Fruit, shook down the Tree;
Yet was his cruelty in vain!
For Tree and Fruit shall spring again.
_A Christmas Carol._
_So, now, is come our joyful'st feast;_
_Let every man be jolly!_
_Each room with ivy leaves is drest;_
_And every post, with holly._
_Though some churls at our mirth repine;_
_Round your foreheads, garlands twine!_
_Drown sorrow in a cup of wine;_
_And let us all be merry!_
_Now, all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,_
_And Christmas blocks be burning;_
_Their ovens, they with baked meats choke,_
_And all their spits are turning._
_Without the door, let sorrow lie!_
_And if, for cold, it hap to die;_
_We'll bury it in a Christmas pie,_
_And evermore be merry!_
_Now, every lad is wondrous trim,_
_And no man minds his labour;_
_Our lasses have provided them,_
_A bagpipe and a tabor._
_Young men and maids, and girls and boys,_
_Give life to one another's joys;_
_And you, anon, shall by the noise,_
_Perceive that they are merry._
_Ranking misers, now, do sparing shun;_
_Their Hall, of music soundeth!_
_And dogs thence, with whole shoulders run;_
_So all things there aboundeth._
_The country folk themselves advance;_
_For_ Crowdy-Mutton_'s come out of France!_
_And JACK shall pipe, and JILL shall dance,_
_And all the town be merry._
_NED SWASH hath fetched his Bands from pawn,_
_And all his best apparel;_
_Brisk NELL hath bought a Ruff of Lawn_
_With droppings of the barrel:_
_And those that hardly, all the year,_
_Had bread to eat, or rags to wear,_
_Will have both clothes and dainty fare;_
_And all the day be merry._
_Now poor men, to the Justices,_
_With capons make their arrants:_
_And if they hap to fail of these,_
_They plague them with their warrants._
_But, now, they feed them with good cheer,_
_And what they want, they take in beer;_
_For_ Christmas comes but once a year!
_And then they shall be merry._
_Good farmers in the country, nurse_
_The poor that else were undone;_
_Some landlords spend their money worse_
_On lust and pride in London._
_There, the roist'rers they play:_
_Drab and Dice their lands away;_
_Which may be ours, another day,_
_And therefore let's be merry!_
_The client now his suit forbears,_
_The prisoner's heart is eased._
_The debtor drinks away his cares,_
_And, for the time, is pleased._
_Though others' purses be more fat;_
_Why should we pine, or grieve thereat?_
Hang Sorrow! Care will kill a cat!
_And therefore let's be merry!_
_Hark, how the wags abroad do call_
_Each other forth to rambling!_
_Anon, you'll see them in the Hall,_
_For nuts and apples sc[r]ambling._
_Hark, how the roofs with laughter sound!_
_Anon, they'll think the house goes round;_
_For they, the cellar's depth have found,_
_And, there, they will be merry._
_The wenches, with their wassail bowls,_
_About the streets are singing;_
_The boys are come to catch the owls;_
_The Wild Mare in is bringing:_
_Our kitchen boy hath broke his box;_
_And to the dealing of an ox,_
_Our honest neighbours come by flocks;_
_And, here, they will be merry._
_Now_ Kings _and_ Queens, _poor sheepcots have,_
_And mate with everybody;_
_The honest, now, may play the_ Knave
_And wise men play at_ Noddy.
_Some youths will now a Mumming go,_
_Some others play at_ Rowland-hoe,
_And twenty other gameboys moe_
_Because they will be merry_.
_Then, wherefore, in these merry days_
_Should we, I pray! be duller?_
_No! let us sing some Roundelays_
_To make our mirth the fuller!_
_And whil'st, thus inspired, we sing;_
_Let all the streets with echoes ring!_
_Woods and Hills, and everything,_
_Bear witness we are merry!_
_An Epitaph upon the Porter of a Prison._
Here lie the bones of him, that was, of late,
A churlish Porter of a Prison gate!
Death, many an evening, at his lodging knocked;
But could not take him, for the door was locked!
Yet, at a tavern, late one night, he found him;
And getting him into the cellar, drowned him.
On which the world (that still the worst is thinking)
Reports abroad that "He was killed with drinking!"
Yet let no Prisoner, whether thief or debtor,
Rejoice, as if his fortune were the better!
Their sorrow's likely to be ne'er the shorter!
The Warden lives! though Death hath took the Porter.
_A Sonnet upon a Stolen Kiss_.
Now gentle sleep hath closèd up those eyes,
Which waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe;
And free access unto that sweet lip lies,
From whence I long, the rosy breath to draw.
Methinks, no wrong it were, if I should steal
From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss!
None sees the theft, that would the theft reveal!
Nor rob I her, of ought which she can miss!
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I had done so!
Why then should I, this robbery delay?
O, she may wake! and therewith angry grow!
Well, if she do: I'll back restore that one;
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan!
_An Epitaph upon ABRAHAM GOODFELLOW,_
_a common Alehouse hunter._
Beware, thou look not who hereunder lies!
Unless thou long to weep away thine eyes.
This man, as sorrowful report doth tell us,
Was, when he lived, the Prince of all Good Fellows.
That day he died, it cannot be believed
How, out of reason, all the Alewives grieved.
And what abominable lamentation
They made at _Black Boy_, and at _Salutation_.
They howled and cried, and, ever more, among,
This was the burden of their woful Song.
_Well, go thy ways! thy like hath never been!_
_Nor shall thy match again be ever seen!_
_For, out of doubt, now thou art dead and gone,_
_There's many a Taphouse will be quite undone!_
_And Death, by taking thee, did them more scath_
_Than yet, the Alehouse Project done them hath._
Lo, such a one but yesterday, was he;
But now, he much is altered, you do see!
Since he came hither, he hath left his riot;
Yea, changed both his company and his diet;
And, now, so civil lies, that, to your thinking,
He neither for an Alehouse cares, nor drinking.
_An Epitaph upon a Gentlewoman who had_
_foretold the time of her death._
Her, who, beneath this stone, consuming lies,
For many virtues, we might memorise;
But, most of all, the praise deserveth she
In making of her words and deeds agree.
For she so truly kept the word she spake;
As that with Death, she promise would not break.
"I shall," quoth she, "be dead, before the mid
Of such a month!" And, as she said, she did.
_An Epitaph on a Child, son to Sir W. H. KNIGHT._
Here lies, within a cabinet of stone,
The dear remainder of a Pretty One.
Who did in wit, his years so far out-pass;
His parents' wonder, and their joy he was:
And by his face, you might have deemèd him
To be on earth, some heavenly Cherubim.
Six years with life he laboured; then deceast
To keep the Sabbath of eternal rest:
So that, which many thousand able men
Are labouring for till threescore years and ten;
This blessed child attainèd to, ere seven:
And, now, enjoys it with the saints of heaven.
_A Song._
_Now, Young Man! Thy days and thy glories appear_
_Like sunshine and blossoms in Spring of the year;_
_Thy vigour of body, thy spirits, thy wit,_
_Are perfect, and sound, and untroubled yet._
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Mispend not a morning, so excellent clear!_
_Never, for ever, was happiness here!_
_Thy noontide of life hath but little delight;_
_And sorrows on sorrows will follow at night!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_That Strength, and those beauties that grace thee to-day;_
_To-morrow may perish, and vanish away!_
_Thy Wealth, or thy Pleasures, or Friends that now be,_
_May waste, or deceive, or be traitors to thee!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Thy joints are yet nimble, thy sinews unslack!_
_And marrow, unwasted, doth strengthen thy back!_
_Thy Youth from diseases, preserveth the brain;_
_And blood, with free passage, plumps every vein!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_But, trust me! it will not for ever be so!_
_Those Arms, that are mighty, shall feebler grow!_
_And those Legs, so proudly supporting thee now,_
_With age, or diseases will stagger and bow!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Then all those rare Features, now graceful in thee,_
_Shall, ploughed with Time's furrows, quite ruinèd be!_
_And they who admired and loved thee so much,_
_Shall loathe, or forget thou hadst ever been such!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Those tresses of Hair, which thy youth do adorn,_
_Will look like the meads in a winterly morn;_
_And where red and white intermixed did grow,_
_Dull paleness, a deadly Complexion will show!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_That Forehead imperious, whereon we now view_
_A smoothness and whiteness, enamelled with blue,_
_Will lose that perfection, which youth now maintains;_
_And change it for hollowness, wrinkles, and stains!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Those Ears, thou with music didst oft entertain,_
_And charm with so many a delicate strain;_
_May miss of those pleasures wherewith they are fed,_
_And never hear Song more, when youth is once fled!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Those Eyes, which so many, so much did admire,_
_And with strange affections set thousands on fire;_
_Shut up in that darkness which Age will constrain,_
_Shall never see mortal, no, never again!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Those Lips, whereon Beauty so fully discloses_
_The colour and sweetness of rubies and roses;_
_Instead of that hue, will ghastliness wear:_
_And none shall believe what perfection was there!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Thy Teeth, that stood firmly, like pearls in a row,_
_Shall rotten, and scattered, disorderly grow!_
_Thy Mouth, whose proportion, earth's wonder was thought;_
_Shall robbed of that sweetness, be prizèd at nought._
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_That Gait and those Gestures, that win thee such grace,_
_Will turn to a feeble and staggering pace;_
_And thou, that o'er mountains ran'st nimbly to-day;_
_Shall stumble at every rub in the way!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_By these imperfections, Old Age will prevail._
_Thy marrow, thy sinews, and spirits will fail!_
_And nothing is left thee, when those are once spent,_
_To give, or thyself, or another content!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Those Fancies that lull thee with Dreams of Delight,_
_Will trouble thy quiet, the comfortless night!_
_And thou that now sleepest thy troubles away;_
_Shalt hear how each cockerel gives warning of day!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_Then Thou, that art yet to thousands so dear,_
_Of all, shalt despised or neglected appear!_
_Which, when thou perceiv'st, though now pleasant it be,_
_Thy life will be grievous and loathsome to thee!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_That Lust, which thy youth can so hardly forego,_
_Will leave thee! and leave thee Repentance and Woe!_
_And then, in thy folly no joy thou canst have;_
_Nor hope other rest than a comfortless grave!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_For next, shall thy Breath be quite taken away;_
_Thy Flesh turned to dust, and that dust turned to clay!_
_And those, thou hast lovèd, and shared of thy store;_
_Shall leave thee, forget thee, and mind thee no more!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_And yet, if in time thou remember not this,_
_The slenderest part of thy sorrow it is!_
_Thy Soul, to a torture more fearful, shall wend,_
_Hath ever, and ever, and never an end._
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!
_A Dream._
_When bright PHOEBUS at his rest,_
_Was reposèd in the West;_
_And the cheerful daylight gone,_
_Drew unwelcome darkness on:_
_Night, her blackness wrapt about me;_
_And within, 'twas as without me!_
_Therefore on my tumbled bed,_
_Down I laid my troubled head;_
_Where, mine eyes inured to care,_
_Seldom used to slumbering were:_
_Yet o'ertired of late, with weeping;_
_Then, by chance, they fell asleeping._
_But such visions, me diseased,_
_As in vain that sleep I seized;_
_For I sleeping Fancies had,_
_Which, yet waking, make me sad._
_Some can sleep away their sorrow!_
_But mine doubles every morrow._
_Walking to a pleasant grove,_
_Where I used to think of love,_
_I, methought, a place did view_
_Wherein FLORA's riches grew;_
_Primrose, hyacinth, and lilies,_
_Cowslips, vi'lets, daffodillies._
_There, a fountain close beside,_
_I, a matchless Beauty spied._
_So she lay as if she slept,_
_But much grief, her waking kept._
_And she had no softer pillow_
_Than the hard root of a willow._
_Down her cheeks, the tears did flow,_
_Which a grievèd heart did shew;_
_Her fair eyes, the earth beholding,_
_And her arms, themselves enfolding;_
_She (her Passion to betoken),_
_Sighed as if her heart were broken._
_So much grief, methought, she shewed,_
_That my sorrow, it renewed:_
_But when, nearer her I went,_
_It increased my discontent;_
_For a gentle Nymph she proved,_
_Who, me (long unknown) had loved._
_Straight on me she fixed her look;_
_Which, a deep impression took,_
_And "Of all that live," quoth she,_
_"Thou art welcomest to me!"_
_Then (misdoubting to be blamèd),_
_Thus she spake, as half ashamèd._
_"Thee! unknown, I long affected_
_And, as long, in vain expected,_
_For I had a hopeful thought_
_Thou would'st crave, what others sought!_
_And I, for thy sake! have stayed_
_Many wanton Springs, a Maid."_
_"Still, when any wooèd me,_
_They renewed the thought of thee!_
_And, in hope thou would'st have tried!_
_Their affections, I denied._
_But a lover forced upon me_
_By my friends, hath now undone me."_
_"What I waking, dared not shew;_
_In a dream, thou, now, dost know!_
_But to better my estate,_
_Now, alas, it is too late!_
_And I, both awake and sleeping,_
_Now consume my youth with weeping."_
_Somewhat, then, I would have said;_
_But replyings were denied._
_For, methought, when speak I would,_
_Not a word bring forth I could:_
_And as I, a kiss was taking;_
_That I lost too, by awaking._
PHIL'ARETE.
[Illustration]
+THE KING+'s
+MAJESTY+'s
_Declaration to his_
Subjects,
CONCERNING
lawful Sports to
be used.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
LONDON:
Printed by BONHAM NORTON and JOHN BILL,
Deputy Printers for the King's most
Excellent Majesty.
M.DC.XVIII.
[The text of this Monument of State Folly (the real drift of which was
simply to affront the Puritans) is taken from a copy of the original
edition in the Bodleian Library, Oxford.
We have also given at _pp._ 517-518, the title and additional matter of
its reprint by CHARLES I. in 1633.]
[Illustration]
By the King.
Whereas upon Our return, the last year out of Scotland, We did publish
Our Pleasure touching the recreations of Our people in those parts,
under Our hand: for some causes Us thereunto moving, We have thought
good to command these Our Directions, then given in Lancashire, with
a few words thereunto added and most appliable to these parts of Our
Realms, to be published to all Our subjects.
Whereas We did justly, in Our progress through Lancashire, rebuke
some Puritans and precise people, and took order that the like
unlawful carriage should not be used by any of them hereafter, in the
prohibiting and unlawful punishing of Our good people for using their
lawful recreations and honest exercises upon Sundays and other Holy
Days, after the afternoon Sermon or Service; We now find, that two
sorts of people wherewith that country [_county_] is much infested (We
mean Papists and Puritans) have maliciously traduced and caluminated
those Our just and honourable proceedings. And therefore lest Our
reputation might, upon the one side, though innocently, have some
aspersion laid upon it; and that, upon the other part, Our good people
in that country be misled by the mistaking and misinterpretation of Our
meaning: We have therefore thought good hereby to clear and make Our
Pleasure to be manifested to all Our good people in those parts.