5 Did I for this my country bring

To help their knight against their King,

And raise the first sedition?

Though I the business did decline,

Yet I contrived the whole design,

And sent them their petition.

6 So many nights spent in the City

In that invisible Committee,

The wheel that governs all;

From thence the change in church and state,

And all the mischief bears the date

From Haberdashers' Hall.

7 Did we force Ireland to despair,

Upon the King to cast the war,

To make the world abhor him,

Because the rebels used his name?

Though we ourselves can do the same,

While both alike were for him.

8 Then the same fire we kindled here

With what was given to quench it there,

And wisely lost that nation:

To do as crafty beggars use,

To maim themselves, thereby t'abuse

The simple man's compassion.

9 Have I so often pass'd between

Windsor and Westminster, unseen,

And did myself divide:

To keep his Excellence in awe,

And give the Parliament the law?

For they knew none beside.

10 Did I for this take pains to teach

Our zealous ignorants to preach,

And did their lungs inspire;

Gave them their texts, show'd them their parts,

And taught them all their little arts,

To fling abroad the fire?

11 Sometimes to beg, sometimes to threaten,

And say the Cavaliers are beaten,

To stroke the people's ears;

Then straight, when victory grows cheap,

And will no more advance the heap,

To raise the price of fears.

12 And now the books, and now the bells,

And now our act, the preacher tells,

To edify the people;

All our divinity is news,

And we have made of equal use

The pulpit and the steeple.

13 And shall we kindle all this flame

Only to put it out again,

And must we now give o'er,

And only end where we begun?

In vain this mischief we have done,

If we can do no more.

14 If men in peace can have their right,

Where's the necessity to fight,

That breaks both law and oath?

They'll say they fight not for the cause,

Nor to defend the King and laws,

But us against them both.

15 Either the cause at first was ill,

Or, being good, it is so still;

And thence they will infer,

That either now or at the first

They were deceived; or, which is worst,

That we ourselves may err.

16 But plague and famine will come in,

For they and we are near of kin,

And cannot go asunder:

But while the wicked starve, indeed

The saints have ready at their need

God's providence, and plunder.

17 Princes we are if we prevail,

And gallant villains if we fail.

When to our fame 'tis told,

It will not be our least of praise,

Since a new state we could not raise,

To have destroy'd the old.

18 Then let us stay and fight, and vote,

Till London is not worth a groat;

Oh! 'tis a patient beast!

When we have gall'd and tired the mule,

And can no longer have the rule,

We'll have the spoil at least.

TO THE FIVE MEMBERS OF THE HONOURABLE HOUSE OF COMMONS,

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE POETS.

After so many concurring petitions

From all ages and sexes, and all conditions,

We come in the rear to present our follies

To Pym, Stroud, Haslerig, Hampden, and Hollis.

Though set form of prayer be an abomination,

Set forms of petitions find great approbation;

Therefore, as others from th'bottom of their souls,

So we from the depth and bottom of our bowels,

According unto the bless'd form you have taught us,

We thank you first for the ills you have brought us: 10

For the good we receive we thank him that gave it,

And you for the confidence only to crave it.

Next in course, we complain of the great violation

Of privilege (like the rest of our nation),

But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken,

Which never had being until they were broken;

But ours is a privilege ancient and native,

Hangs not on an ord'nance, or power legislative.

And, first, 'tis to speak whatever we please,

Without fear of a prison or pursuivants' fees. 20

Next, that we only may lie by authority;

But in that also you have got the priority.

Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it

Poetical license, and always did claim it.

By this we have power to change age into youth,

Turn nonsense to sense, and falsehood to truth;

In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty;

This art some poet, or the devil, has taught ye:

And this our property you have invaded,

And a privilege of both Houses have made it. 30

But that trust above all in poets reposed,

That kings by them only are made and deposed,

This though you cannot do, yet you are willing:

But when we undertake deposing or killing,

They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet

Takes full revenge on the villains that do it:

And when we resume a sceptre or crown,

We are modest, and seek not to make it our own.

But is't not presumption to write verses to you,

Who make better poems by far of the two? 40

For all those pretty knacks you compose,

Alas! what are they but poems in prose?

And between those and ours there's no difference,

But that yours want the rhyme, the wit, and the sense:

But for lying (the most noble part of a poet)

You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it;

And though you are modest and seem to abhor it,

'T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it:

Although the old maxim remains still in force,

That a sanctified cause must have a sanctified course, 50

If poverty be a part of our trade,

So far the whole kingdom poets you have made,

Nay, even so far as undoing will do it,

You have made King Charles himself a poet:

But provoke not his Muse, for all the world knows,

Already you have had too much of his prose.

A WESTERN WONDER.

1 Do you not know, not a fortnight ago,

How they bragg'd of a Western Wonder?

When a hundred and ten slew five thousand men,

With the help of lightning and thunder?

2 There Hopton was slain, again and again,

Or else my author did lie;

With a new thanksgiving, for the dead who are living,

To God, and his servant Chidleigh.

3 But now on which side was the miracle tried?

I hope we at last are even;

For Sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their graves,

To cudgel the clowns of Devon.

4 And there Stamford came, for his honour was lame

Of the gout three months together;

But it proved, when they fought, but a running gout,

For his heels were lighter than ever.

5 For now he outruns his arms and his guns,

And leaves all his money behind him;

But they follow after; unless he take water,

At Plymouth again they will find him.

6 What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath lost,

Goes deep in the sequestrations;

These wounds will not heal, with your new great seal,

Nor Jephson's declarations.

7 Now, Peters and Case, in your prayer and grace,

Remember the new thanksgiving;

Isaac and his wife, now dig for your life,

Or shortly you'll dig for your living.

A SECOND WESTERN WONDER.

1 You heard of that wonder, of the lightning and thunder,

Which made the lie so much the louder:

Now list to another, that miracle's brother,

Which was done with a firkin of powder.

2 Oh, what a damp it struck through the camp!

But as for honest Sir Ralph,

It blew him to the Vies without beard or eyes,

But at least three heads and a half.

3 When out came the book, which the newsmonger took,

From the preaching lady's letter,

Where in the first place, stood the conqueror's face,

Which made it show much the better.

4 But now, without lying, you may paint him flying,

At Bristol they say you may find him,

Great William the Con, so fast did he run,

That he left half his name behind him.

5 And now came the post, save all that was lost,

But, alas! we are past deceiving

By a trick so stale, or else such a tale

Might amount to a new thanksgiving.

6 This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,

In the pulpit to fall a weeping,

Though his mouth utter'd lies, truth fell from his eyes,

Which kept the Lord Mayor from sleeping.

7 Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops,

For the laws, not your cause, you that loathe 'em,

Lest Essex should start, and play the second part

Of worshipful Sir John Hotham.

A SONG.

1 Morpheus! the humble god, that dwells

In cottages and smoky cells,

Hates gilded roofs and beds of down;

And though he fears no prince's frown,

Flies from the circle of a crown:

2 Come, I say, thou powerful god,

And thy leaden charming rod,

Dipp'd in the Lethean lake,

O'er his wakeful temples shake,

Lest he should sleep, and never wake.

3 Nature, (alas!) why art thou so

Obligèd to thy greatest foe?

Sleep that is thy best repast,

Yet of death it bears a taste,

And both are the same thing at last.

ON MR JOHN FLETCHER'S WORKS.

So shall we joy, when all whom beasts and worms

Have turn'd to their own substances and forms:

Whom earth to earth, or fire hath changed to fire,

We shall behold more than at first entire;

As now we do to see all thine thy own

In this my Muse's resurrection,

Whose scatter'd parts from thy own race more wounds

Hath suffer'd than Actæon from his hounds;

Which first their brains, and then their belly fed,

And from their excrements new poets bred. 10

But now thy Muse enragèd, from her urn,

Like ghosts of murder'd bodies, does return

T' accuse the murderers, to right the stage,

And undeceive the long-abusèd age,

Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy wit

Gives not more gold than they give dross to it;

Who not content, like felons, to purloin,

Add treason to it, and debase the coin.

But whither am I stray'd? I need not raise

Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; 20

Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built,

Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt

Of eastern kings, who, to secure their reign,

Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain.

Then was wit's empire at the fatal height,

When labouring and sinking with its weight,

From thence a thousand lesser poets sprung,

Like petty princes from the fall of Rome;

When Jonson, Shakespeare, and thyself, did sit,

And sway'd in the triumvirate of wit. 30

Yet what from Jonson's oil and sweat did flow,

Or what more easy Nature did bestow

On Shakespeare's gentler Muse, in thee full grown

Their graces both appear, yet so that none

Can say, Here nature ends, and art begins;

But mix'd like th'elements, and born like twins,

So interwove, so like, so much the same,

None this mere nature, that mere art can name:

'Twas this the ancients meant; nature and skill

Are the two tops of their Parnassus' hill. 40

TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW,

UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF 'PASTOR FIDO.'

Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate,

That few but such as cannot write, translate.

But what in them is want of art or voice,

In thee is either modesty or choice.

While this great piece, restored by thee, doth stand

Free from the blemish of an artless hand,

Secure of fame, thou justly dost esteem

Less honour to create than to redeem.

Nor ought a genius less than his that writ 9

Attempt translation; for transplanted wit

All the defects of air and soil doth share,

And colder brains like colder climates are:

In vain they toil, since nothing can beget

A vital spirit but a vital heat.

That servile path thou nobly dost decline

Of tracing word by word, and line by line.

Those are the labour'd births of slavish brains,

Not the effect of poetry, but pains;

Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords

No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words. 20

A new and nobler way thou dost pursue

To make translations and translators too.

They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame,

True to his sense, but truer to his fame:

Fording his current, where thou find'st it low,

Let'st in thine own to make it rise and flow;

Wisely restoring whatsoever grace

It lost by change of times, or tongues, or place.

Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times,

Betray'st his music to unhappy rhymes. 30

Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength

Stretch'd and dissolved into unsinew'd length:

Yet, after all, (lest we should think it thine)

Thy spirit to his circle dost confine.

New names, new dressings, and the modern cast,

Some scenes, some persons alter'd, and outfaced

The world, it were thy work; for we have known

Some thank'd and praised for what was less their own.

That master's hand which to the life can trace

The airs, the lines, and features of the face, 40

May with a free and bolder stroke express

A varied posture, or a flatt'ring dress;

He could have made those like, who made the rest,

But that he knew his own design was best.

TO THE HON. EDWARD HOWARD,

ON 'THE BRITISH PRINCES.'

What mighty gale hath raised a flight so strong,

So high above all vulgar eyes, so long?

One single rapture scarce itself confines

Within the limits of four thousand lines:

And yet I hope to see this noble heat

Continue till it makes the piece complete,

That to the latter age it may descend,

And to the end of time its beams extend.

When poesy joins profit with delight,

Her images should be most exquisite; 10

Since man to that perfection cannot rise,

Of always virtuous, fortunate, and wise;

Therefore the patterns man should imitate

Above the life our masters should create.

Herein if we consult with Greece and Rome,

Greece (as in war) by Rome was overcome;

Though mighty raptures we in Homer find,

Yet, like himself, his characters were blind:

Virgil's sublimèd eyes not only gazed,

But his sublimèd thoughts to heaven were raised. 20

Who reads the honours which he paid the gods

Would think he had beheld their bless'd abodes;

And that his hero might accomplish'd be,

From divine blood he draws his pedigree.

From that great judge your judgment takes its law,

And by the best original does draw

Bonduca's honour, with those heroes Time 27

Had in oblivion wrapp'd, his saucy crime:

To them and to your nation you are just,

In raising up their glories from the dust;

And to Old England you that right have done,

To show no story nobler than her own.

AN OCCASIONAL IMITATION OF A MODERN AUTHOR UPON THE GAME OF CHESS.

A tablet stood of that abstersive tree,

Where Aethiop's swarthy bird did build her nest;

Inlaid it was with Libyan ivory,

Drawn from the jaws of Afric's prudent beast.

Two kings like Saul, much taller than the rest,

Their equal armies draw into the field;

Till one take th'other pris'ner they contest;

Courage and fortune must to conduct yield.

This game the Persian Magi did invent,

The force of Eastern wisdom to express; 10

From thence to busy Europeans sent,

And styled by modern Lombards pensive Chess.

Yet some that fled from Troy to Rome report,

Penthesilea Priam did oblige;

Her Amazons his Trojans taught this sport,

To pass the tedious hours of ten years' siege.

There she presents herself, whilst kings and peers

Look gravely on whilst fierce Bellona fights;

Yet maiden modesty her motions steers,

Nor rudely skips o'er bishops' heads like knights. 20

THE PASSION OF DIDO FOR AENEAS.

Having at large declared Jove's embassy,

Cyllenius[1] from Aeneas straight doth fly;

He, loth to disobey the god's command,

Nor willing to forsake this pleasant land,

Ashamed the kind Eliza to deceive,

But more afraid to take a solemn leave,

He many ways his lab'ring thoughts revolves;

But fear o'ercoming shame, at last resolves

(Instructed by the god of thieves)[1] to steal

Himself away, and his escape conceal. 10

He calls his captains, bids them rig the fleet,

That at the port they privately should meet;

And some dissembled colour to project,

That Dido should not their design suspect;

But all in vain he did his plot disguise;

No art a watchful lover can surprise.

She the first motion finds; love though most sure,

Yet always to itself seems unsecure.

That wicked fame which their first love proclaim'd,

Foretells the end: the queen with rage inflamed, 20

Thus greets him: 'Thou dissembler! would'st thou fly

Out of my arms by stealth perfidiously?

Could not the hand I plighted, nor the love,

Nor thee the fate of dying Dido move?

And in the depth of winter, in the night,

Dark as thy black designs to take thy flight,

To plough the raging seas to coasts unknown,

The kingdom thou pretend'st to not thine own!

Were Troy restored, thou shouldst mistrust a wind

False as thy vows, and as thy heart unkind. 30

Fly'st thou from me? By these dear drops of brine

I thee adjure, by that right hand of thine,

By our espousals, by our marriage-bed,

If all my kindness ought have merited;

If ever I stood fair in thy esteem,

From ruin me and my lost house redeem.

Cannot my prayers a free acceptance find?

Nor my tears soften an obdurate mind?

My fame of chastity, by which the skies

I reached before, by thee extinguish'd dies. 40

Into my borders now Iarbas falls,

And my revengeful brother scales my walls;

The wild Numidians will advantage take;

For thee both Tyre and Carthage me forsake.

Hadst thou before thy flight but left with me

A young Aeneas who, resembling thee,

Might in my sight have sported, I had then

Not wholly lost, nor quite deserted been;

By thee, no more my husband, but my guest,

Betray'd to mischiefs, of which death's the least.' 50

With fixèd looks he stands, and in his breast

By Jove's command his struggling care suppress'd.

'Great queen! your favours and deserts so great,

Though numberless, I never shall forget;

No time, until myself I have forgot,

Out of my heart Eliza's name shall blot:

But my unwilling flight the gods enforce,

And that must justify our sad divorce.

Since I must you forsake, would Fate permit,

To my desires I might my fortune fit; 60

Troy to her ancient splendour I would raise,

And where I first began, would end my days.

But since the Lycian lots, and Delphic god

Have destined Italy for our abode;

Since you proud Carthage (fled from Tyre) enjoy,

Why should not Latium us receive from Troy?

As for my son, my father's angry ghost

Tells me his hopes by my delays are cross'd,

And mighty Jove's ambassador appear'd

With the same message, whom I saw and heard; 70

We both are grieved when you or I complain,

But much the more when all complaints are vain;

I call to witness all the gods, and thy

Beloved head, the coast of Italy

Against my will I seek.'

Whilst thus he speaks, she rolls her sparkling eyes,

Surveys him round, and thus incensed replies;

'Thy mother was no goddess, nor thy stock

From Dardanus, but in some horrid rock,

Perfidious wretch! rough Caucasus thee bred, 80

And with their milk Hyrcanian tigers fed.

Dissimulation I shall now forget,

And my reserves of rage in order set,

Could all my prayers and soft entreaties force

Sighs from his breast, or from his look remorse.

Where shall I first complain? can mighty Jove

Or Juno such impieties approve?

The just Astræa sure is fled to hell;

Nor more in earth, nor heaven itself will dwell.

Oh, Faith! him on my coasts by tempest cast, 90

Receiving madly, on my throne I placed;

His men from famine, and his fleet from fire

I rescued: now the Lycian lots conspire

With Phoebus; now Jove's envoy through the air

Brings dismal tidings; as if such low care

Could reach their thoughts, or their repose disturb!

Thou art a false impostor, and a fourbe;

Go, go, pursue thy kingdom through the main; 98

I hope, if Heaven her justice still retain,

Thou shalt be wreck'd, or cast upon some rock,

Where thou the name of Dido shalt invoke;

I'll follow thee in fun'ral flames; when dead

My ghost shall thee attend at board and bed,

And when the gods on thee their vengeance show,

That welcome news shall comfort me below.'

This saying, from his hated sight she fled;

Conducted by her damsels to her bed;

Yet restless she arose, and looking out,

Beholds the fleet, and hears the seamen shout

When great Aeneas pass'd before the guard, 110

To make a view how all things were prepared.

Ah, cruel Love! to what dost thou enforce

Poor mortal breasts! Again she hath recourse

To tears and prayers, again she feels the smart

Of a fresh wound from his tyrannic dart.

That she no ways nor means may leave untried,

Thus to her sister she herself applied:

'Dear sister, my resentment had not been

So moving, if this fate I had foreseen:

Therefore to me this last kind office do, 120

Thou hast some int'rest in our scornful foe;

He trusts to thee the counsels of his mind,

Thou his soft hours, and free access canst find;

Tell him I sent not to the Ilian coast

My fleet to aid the Greeks; his father's ghost

I never did disturb; ask him to lend

To this, the last request that I shall send,

A gentle ear; I wish that he may find

A happy passage, and a prosp'rous wind.

The contract I don't plead, which he betray'd, 130

Nor that his promised conquest be delay'd;

All that I ask is but a short reprieve,

Till I forget to love, and learn to grieve;

Some pause and respite only I require,

Till with my tears I shall have quench'd my fire.

If thy address can but obtain one day

Or two, my death that service shall repay.'

Thus she entreats; such messages with tears

Condoling Anne to him, and from him bears:

But him no prayers, no arguments can move; 140

The Fates resist, his ears are stopp'd by Jove.

As when fierce northern blasts from th'Alps descend,

From his firm roots with struggling gusts to rend

An aged sturdy oak, the rattling sound

Grows loud, with leaves and scatter'd arms the ground

Is overlaid; yet he stands fixed; as high

As his proud head is raised towards the sky,

So low t'wards hell his roots descend. With prayers

And tears the hero thus assail'd, great cares

He smothers in his breast, yet keeps his post, 150

All their addresses and their labour lost.

Then she deceives her sister with a smile:

'Anne, in the inner court erect a pile;

Thereon his arms and once-loved portrait lay,

Thither our fatal marriage-bed convey;

All cursèd monuments of him with fire

We must abolish (so the gods require).'

She gives her credit for no worse effect

Than from Sichæus' death she did suspect,

And her commands obeys. 160

Aurora now had left Tithonus' bed,

And o'er the world her blushing rays did spread;

The Queen beheld, as soon as day appear'd,

The navy under sail, the haven clear'd;

Thrice with her hand her naked breast she knocks,

And from her forehead tears her golden locks;

'O Jove!' she cried, 'and shall he thus delude

Me and my realm? why is he not pursued?

Arm, arm,' she cried, 'and let our Tyrians board

With ours his fleet, and carry fire and sword; 170

Leave nothing unattempted to destroy

That perjured race, then let us die with joy.

What if th'event of war uncertain were?

Nor death, nor danger, can the desp'rate fear.

But oh, too late! this thing I should have done,

When first I placed the traitor on my throne.

Behold the faith of him who saved from fire

His honour'd household gods, his aged sire

His pious shoulders from Troy's flames did bear;

Why did I not his carcase piecemeal tear, 180

And cast it in the sea? why not destroy

All his companions, and belovèd boy

Ascanius? and his tender limbs have dress'd,

And made the father on the son to feast?

Thou Sun! whose lustre all things here below

Surveys; and Juno! conscious of my woe;

Revengeful Furies! and Queen Hecate!

Receive and grant my prayer! If he the sea

Must needs escape, and reach th'Ausonian land,

If Jove decree it, Jove's decree must stand; 190

When landed, may he be with arms oppress'd

By his rebelling people, be distress'd

By exile from his country, be divorced

From young Ascanius' sight, and be enforced

To implore foreign aids, and lose his friends

By violent and undeservèd ends!

When to conditions of unequal peace

He shall submit, then may he not possess

Kingdom nor life, and find his funeral 199

I' th'sands, when he before his day shall fall!

And ye, O Tyrians! with immortal hate

Pursue this race, this service dedicate

To my deplorèd ashes; let there be

'Twixt us and them no league nor amity.

May from my bones a new Achilles rise,

That shall infest the Trojan colonies

With fire, and sword, and famine, when at length

Time to our great attempts contributes strength;

Our seas, our shores, our armies theirs oppose,

And may our children be for ever foes!' 210

A ghastly paleness death's approach portends,

Then trembling she the fatal pile ascends;

Viewing the Trojan relics, she unsheath'd

Aeneas' sword, not for that use bequeath'd:

Then on the guilty bed she gently lays

Herself, and softly thus lamenting prays;

'Dear relics! whilst that Gods and Fates give leave,

Free me from cares and my glad soul receive.

That date which Fortune gave, I now must end,

And to the shades a noble ghost descend. 220

Sichæus' blood, by his false brother spilt,

I have revenged, and a proud city built;

Happy, alas! too happy, I had lived,

Had not the Trojan on my coast arrived.

But shall I die without revenge? yet die

Thus, thus with joy to thy Sichæus fly.

My conscious foe my funeral fire shall view

From sea, and may that omen him pursue!'

Her fainting hand let fall the sword besmear'd

With blood, and then the mortal wound appear'd; 230

Through all the court the fright and clamours rise,

Which the whole city fills with fears and cries,

As loud as if her Carthage, or old Tyre

The foe had enter'd, and had set on fire.

Amazèd Anne with speed ascends the stairs,

And in her arms her dying sister rears;

'Did you for this yourself and me beguile?

For such an end did I erect this pile?

Did you so much despise me, in this fate

Myself with you not to associate? 240

Yourself and me, alas! this fatal wound,

The senate, and the people, doth confound.

I'll wash her wound with tears, and at her death,

My lips from hers shall draw her parting breath.'

Then with her vest the wound she wipes and dries;

Thrice with her arm the Queen attempts to rise,

But her strength failing, falls into a swound,

Life's last efforts yet striving with her wound;

Thrice on her bed she turns, with wand'ring sight

Seeking, she groans when she beholds the light. 250

Then Juno, pitying her disastrous fate,

Sends Iris down, her pangs to mitigate.

(Since if we fall before th'appointed day,

Nature and death continue long their fray.)

Iris descends; 'This fatal lock' (says she)

'To Pluto I bequeath, and set thee free;'

Then clips her hair: cold numbness strait bereaves

Her corpse of sense, and th'air her soul receives.

[1] 'Cyllenius'--'God of thieves': Mercury.

[The following two pieces are translated from the Latin of Mancini,

an Italian, contemporary with Petrarch.]

OF PRUDENCE.

Wisdom's first progress is to take a view

What's decent or indecent, false or true.

He's truly prudent who can separate

Honest from vile, and still adhere to that;

Their difference to measure, and to reach

Reason well rectified must Nature teach.

And these high scrutinies are subjects fit

For man's all-searching and inquiring wit;

That search of knowledge did from Adam flow;

Who wants it yet abhors his wants to show. 10

Wisdom of what herself approves makes choice,

Nor is led captive by the common voice.

Clear-sighted Reason Wisdom's judgment leads,

And Sense, her vassal, in her footsteps treads.

That thou to Truth the perfect way may'st know,

To thee all her specific forms I'll show:

He that the way to honesty will learn,

First what's to be avoided must discern.

Thyself from flatt'ring self-conceit defend,

Nor what thou dost not know to know pretend. 20

Some secrets deep in abstruse darkness lie:

To search them thou wilt need a piercing eye.

Not rashly therefore to such things assent,

Which, undeceived, thou after may'st repent;

Study and time in these must thee instruct,

And others' old experience may conduct.

Wisdom herself her ear doth often lend

To counsel offer'd by a faithful friend.

In equal scales two doubtful matters lay,

Thou may'st choose safely that which most doth weigh;

'Tis not secure this place or that to guard, 31

If any other entrance stand unbarr'd:

He that escapes the serpent's teeth may fail,

If he himself secures not from his tail.

Who saith, who could such ill events expect?

With shame on his own counsels doth reflect.

Most in the world doth self-conceit deceive, 37

Who just and good whate'er they act believe;

To their wills wedded, to their errors slaves,

No man (like them) they think himself behaves.

This stiff-neck'd pride nor art nor force can bend,

Nor high-flown hopes to Reason's lure descend.

Fathers sometimes their children's faults regard

With pleasure, and their crimes with gifts reward.

Ill painters, when they draw, and poets write,

Virgil and Titian (self admiring) slight;

Then all they do like gold and pearl appears,

And others' actions are but dirt to theirs.

They that so highly think themselves above

All other men, themselves can only love; 50

Reason and virtue, all that man can boast

O'er other creatures, in those brutes are lost.

Observe (if thee this fatal error touch,

Thou to thyself contributing too much)

Those who are gen'rous, humble, just and wise,

Who not their gold, nor themselves idolise;

To form thyself by their example learn,

(For many eyes can more than one discern),

But yet beware of councils when too full,

Number makes long disputes, and graveness dull; 60

Though their advice be good, their counsel wise,

Yet length still loses opportunities:

Debate destroys despatch, as fruits we see

Rot when they hang too long upon the tree;

In vain that husbandman his seed doth sow,

If he his crop not in due season mow.

A gen'ral sets his army in array

In vain, unless he fight and win the day.

'Tis virtuous action that must praise bring forth,

Without which, slow advice is little worth. 70

Yet they who give good counsel praise deserve,

Though in the active part they cannot serve.

In action, learned counsellors their age,

Profession, or disease, forbids t'engage.

Nor to philosophers is praise denied,

Whose wise instructions after ages guide;

Yet vainly most their age in study spend;

No end of writing books, and to no end:

Beating their brains for strange and hidden things,

Whose knowledge, nor delight, nor profit brings; 80

Themselves with doubts both day and night perplex,

Nor gentle reader please, or teach, but vex.

Books should to one of these four ends conduce--

For wisdom, piety, delight, or use.

What need we gaze upon the spangled sky?

Or into matter's hidden causes pry?

To describe every city, stream, or hill

I' th'world, our fancy with vain arts to fill?

What is't to hear a sophister, that pleads,

Who by the ears the deceived audience leads? 90

If we were wise, these things we should not mind,

But more delight in easy matters find.

Learn to live well, that thou may'st die so too;

To live and die is all we have to do:

The way (if no digression's made) is even,

And free access, if we but ask, is given.

Then seek to know those things which make us bless'd,

And having found them, lock them in thy breast;

Inquiring then the way, go on, nor slack,

But mend thy pace, nor think of going back. 100

Some their whole age in these inquiries waste,

And die like fools before one step they've pass'd;

'Tis strange to know the way, and not t'advance;

That knowledge is far worse than ignorance.

The learned teach, but what they teach, not do,

And standing still themselves, make others go.

In vain on study time away we throw,

When we forbear to act the things we know.

The soldier that philosopher well blamed,

Who long and loudly in the schools declaim'd; 110

'Tell' (said the soldier) 'venerable Sir,

Why all these words, this clamour, and this stir?

Why do disputes in wrangling spend the day,

Whilst one says only yea, and t'other nay?'

'Oh,' said the doctor, 'we for wisdom toil'd,

For which none toils too much.' The soldier smiled;

'You're gray and old, and to some pious use

This mass of treasure you should now reduce:

But you your store have hoarded in some bank,

For which th'infernal spirits shall you thank.' 120

Let what thou learnest be by practice shown;

'Tis said that wisdom's children make her known.

What's good doth open to th'inquirer stand,

And itself offers to th'accepting hand;

All things by order and true measures done,

Wisdom will end, as well as she begun.

Let early care thy main concerns secure,

Things of less moment may delays endure:

Men do not for their servants first prepare,

And of their wives and children quit the care; 130

Yet when we're sick, the doctor's fetch'd in haste,

Leaving our great concernment to the last.

When we are well, our hearts are only set

(Which way we care not) to be rich, or great;

What shall become of all that we have got?

We only know that us it follows not;

And what a trifle is a moment's breath,

Laid in the scale with everlasting death!

What's time when on eternity we think! 139

A thousand ages in that sea must sink.

Time's nothing but a word; a million

Is full as far from infinite as one.

To whom thou much dost owe, thou much must pay,

Think on the debt against th'accounting day.

God, who to thee reason and knowledge lent,

Will ask how these two talents have been spent.

Let not low pleasures thy high reason blind,

He's mad, that seeks what no man e'er could find.

Why should we fondly please our sense, wherein

Beasts us exceed, nor feel the stings of sin? 150

What thoughts man's reason better can become,

Than th'expectation of his welcome home?

Lords of the world have but for life their lease,

And that too (if the lessor please) must cease.

Death cancels nature's bonds, but for our deeds

(That debt first paid) a strict account succeeds;

If here not clear'd, no suretyship can bail

Condemned debtors from th'eternal jail;

Christ's blood's our balsam; if that cure us here,

Him, when our judge, we shall not find severe; 160

His yoke is easy when by us embraced,

But loads and galls, if on our necks 'tis cast.

Be just in all thy actions, and if join'd

With those that are not, never change thy mind.

If ought obstruct thy course, yet stand not still,

But wind about, till you have topp'd the hill;

To the same end men sev'ral paths may tread,

As many doors into one temple lead;

And the same hand into a fist may close,

Which, instantly a palm expanded shows. 170

Justice and faith never forsake the wise,

Yet may occasion put him in disguise;

Not turning like the wind; but if the state

Of things must change, he is not obstinate;

Things past and future with the present weighs,

Nor credulous of what vain rumour says.

Few things by wisdom are at first believed;

An easy ear deceives, and is deceived:

For many truths have often pass'd for lies,

And lies as often put on truth's disguise; 180

As flattery too oft like friendship shows,

So them who speak plain truth we think our foes.

No quick reply to dubious questions make,

Suspense and caution still prevent mistake.

When any great design thou dost intend,

Think on the means, the manner, and the end:

All great concernments must delays endure;

Rashness and haste make all things unsecure;

And if uncertain thy pretensions be,

Stay till fit time wear out uncertainty; 190

But if to unjust things thou dost pretend,

Ere they begin let thy pretensions end.

Let thy discourse be such that thou may'st give

Profit to others, or from them receive:

Instruct the ignorant; to those that live

Under thy care, good rules and patterns give;

Nor is't the least of virtues, to relieve

Those whom afflictions or oppressions grieve.

Commend but sparingly whom thou dost love:

But less condemn whom thou dost not approve; 200

Thy friend, like flatt'ry, too much praise doth wrong,

And too sharp censure shows an evil tongue:

But let inviolate truth be always dear

To thee; e'en before friendship, truth prefer.

Than what thou mean'st to give, still promise less:

Hold fast thy power thy promise to increase.

Look forward what's to come, and back what's past,

Thy life will be with praise and prudence graced: 208

What loss or gain may follow, thou may'st guess,

Thou then wilt be secure of the success;

Yet be not always on affairs intent,

But let thy thoughts be easy, and unbent:

When our minds' eyes are disengaged and free,

They clearer, farther, and distinctly see;

They quicken sloth, perplexities untie,

Make roughness smooth, and hardness mollify;

And though our hands from labour are released,

Yet our minds find (even when we sleep) no rest.

Search not to find how other men offend,

But by that glass thy own offences mend; 220

Still seek to learn, yet care not much from whom,

(So it be learning) or from whence it come.

Of thy own actions, others' judgments learn;

Often by small, great matters we discern:

Youth what man's age is like to be doth show;

We may our ends by our beginnings know.

Let none direct thee what to do or say,

Till thee thy judgment of the matter sway;

Let not the pleasing many thee delight,

First judge if those whom thou dost please judge right. 230

Search not to find what lies too deeply hid,

Nor to know things whose knowledge is forbid;

Nor climb on pyramids, which thy head turn round

Standing, and whence no safe descent is found.

In vain his nerves and faculties he strains

To rise, whose raising unsecure remains:

They whom desert and favour forwards thrust,

Are wise, when they their measures can adjust.

When well at ease, and happy, live content,

And then consider why that life was lent. 240

When wealthy, show thy wisdom not to be

To wealth a servant, but make wealth serve thee.

Though all alone, yet nothing think or do,

Which nor a witness, nor a judge might know.

The highest hill is the most slipp'ry place,

And Fortune mocks us with a smiling face;

And her unsteady hand hath often placed

Men in high power, but seldom holds them fast;

Against her then her forces Prudence joins,

And to the golden mien herself confines. 250

More in prosperity is reason toss'd,

Than ships in storms, their helms and anchors lost:

Before fair gales not all our sails we bear,

But with side winds into safe harbours steer;

More ships in calms, on a deceitful coast,

Or unseen rocks, than in high storms are lost.

Who casts out threats and frowns no man deceives,

Time for resistance and defence he gives;

But flatt'ry still in sugar'd words betrays,

And poison in high-tasted meats conveys; 260

So Fortune's smiles unguarded man surprise,

But when she frowns, he arms, and her defies.

OF JUSTICE.

'Tis the first sanction Nature gave to man,

Each other to assist in what they can;

Just or unjust, this law for ever stands;

All things are good by law which she commands;

The first step, man t'wards Christ must justly live,

Who t'us himself, and all we have, did give;

In vain doth man the name of just expect,

If his devotions he to God neglect;

So must we rev'rence God, as first to know 9

Justice from Him, not from ourselves, doth flow;

God those accepts who to mankind are friends,

Whose justice far as their own power extends;

In that they imitate the power Divine;

The sun alike on good and bad doth shine;

And he that doth no good, although no ill,

Does not the office of the just fulfil.

Virtue doth man to virtuous actions steer,

'Tis not enough that he should vice forbear;

We live not only for ourselves to care,

Whilst they that want it are denied their share. 20

Wise Plato said, the world with men was stored,

That succour each to other might afford;

Nor are those succours to one sort confined,

But sev'ral parts to sev'ral men consign'd;

He that of his own stores no part can give,

May with his counsel or his hands relieve.

If Fortune make thee powerful, give defence

'Gainst fraud and force, to naked innocence:

And when our Justice doth her tributes pay,

Method and order must direct the way. 30

First to our God we must with rev'rence bow;

The second honour to our prince we owe;

Next to wives, parents, children, fit respect,

And to our friends and kindred, we direct;

Then we must those who groan beneath the weight

Of age, disease, or want, commiserate.

'Mongst those whom honest lives can recommend,

Our Justice more compassion should extend;

To such, who thee in some distress did aid,

Thy debt of thanks with int'rest should be paid: 40

As Hesiod sings, spread waters o'er thy field,

And a most just and glad increase 'twill yield.

But yet take heed, lest doing good to one,

Mischief and wrong be to another done;

Such moderation with thy bounty join,

That thou may'st nothing give that is not thine;

That liberality's but cast away,

Which makes us borrow what we cannot pay.

And no access to wealth let rapine bring;

Do nothing that's unjust to be a king. 50

Justice must be from violence exempt,

But fraud's her only object of contempt.

Fraud in the fox, force in the lion dwells;

But Justice both from human hearts expels;

But he's the greatest monster (without doubt)

Who is a wolf within, a sheep without.

Nor only ill injurious actions are,

But evil words and slanders bear their share.

Truth Justice loves, and truth injustice fears,

Truth above all things a just man reveres. 60

Though not by oaths we God to witness call,

He sees and hears, and still remembers all;

And yet our attestations we may wrest

Sometimes to make the truth more manifest;

If by a lie a man preserve his faith,

He pardon, leave, and absolution hath;

Or if I break my promise, which to thee

Would bring no good, but prejudice to me.

All things committed to thy trust conceal,

Nor what's forbid by any means reveal. 70

Express thyself in plain, not doubtful words,

That ground for quarrels or disputes affords:

Unless thou find occasion, hold thy tongue;

Thyself or others careless talk may wrong.

When thou art called into public power,

And when a crowd of suitors throng thy door,

Be sure no great offenders 'scape their dooms; 77

Small praise from lenity and remissness comes;

Crimes pardon'd, others to those crimes invite,

Whilst lookers-on severe examples fright.

When by a pardon'd murd'rer blood is spilt,

The judge that pardon'd hath the greatest guilt;

Who accuse rigour, make a gross mistake;

One criminal pardon'd may an hundred make;

When justice on offenders is not done,

Law, government, and commerce, are o'erthrown;

As besieged traitors with the foe conspire,

T' unlock the gates, and set the town on fire.

Yet lest the punishment th'offence exceed,

Justice with weight and measure must proceed: 90

Yet when pronouncing sentence, seem not glad,

Such spectacles, though they are just, are sad;

Though what thou dost thou ought'st not to repent,

Yet human bowels cannot but relent:

Rather than all must suffer, some must die;

Yet Nature must condole their misery.

And yet, if many equal guilt involve,

Thou may'st not these condemn, and those absolve.

Justice, when equal scales she holds, is blind;

Nor cruelty, nor mercy, change her mind. 100

When some escape for that which others die,

Mercy to those, to these is cruelty.

A fine and slender net the spider weaves,

Which little and light animals receives;

And if she catch a common bee or fly,

They with a piteous groan and murmur die;

But if a wasp or hornet she entrap,

They tear her cords like Samson, and escape;

So like a fly the poor offender dies,

But like the wasp, the rich escapes and flies. 110

Do not, if one but lightly thee offend,

The punishment beyond the crime extend;

Or after warning the offence forget;

So God himself our failings doth remit.

Expect not more from servants than is just,

Reward them well, if they observe their trust;

Nor them with cruelty or pride invade,

Since God and Nature them our brothers made;

If his offence be great, let that suffice;

If light, forgive, for no man's always wise. 120

THE PROGRESS OF LEARNING.

PREFACE.

My early mistress, now my ancient Muse,

That strong Circæan liquor cease t'infuse,

Wherewith thou didst intoxicate my youth,

Now stoop with disenchanted wings to truth;

As the dove's flight did guide Aeneas, now

May thine conduct me to the golden bough:

Tell (like a tall old oak) how learning shoots

To heaven her branches, and to hell her roots.

When God from earth form'd Adam in the East,

He his own image on the clay impress'd;

As subjects then the whole creation came,

And from their natures Adam them did name,

Not from experience (for the world was new),

He only from their cause their natures knew.

Had memory been lost with innocence,

We had not known the sentence nor th'offence;

'Twas his chief punishment to keep in store

The sad remembrance what he was before; 10

And though th'offending part felt mortal pain,

Th' immortal part its knowledge did retain.

After the flood, arts to Chaldea fell;

The father of the faithful there did dwell,

Who both their parent and instructor was;

From thence did learning into Egypt pass:

Moses in all the Egyptian arts was skill'd,

When heavenly power that chosen vessel fill'd;

And we to his high inspiration owe,

That what was done before the flood we know. 20

Prom Egypt, arts their progress made to Greece,

Wrapp'd in the fable of the golden fleece.

Musæus first, then Orpheus, civilise

Mankind, and gave the world their deities;

To many gods they taught devotion,

Which were the distinct faculties of one;

Th' Eternal Cause, in their immortal lines

Was taught, and poets were the first divines:

God Moses first, then David, did inspire,

To compose anthems, for his heavenly choir; 30

To th'one the style of friend he did impart,

On th'other stamp the likeness of his heart:

And Moses, in the old original,

Even God the poet of the world doth call.

Next those old Greeks Pythagoras did rise,

Then Socrates, whom th'oracle call'd Wise;

The divine Plato moral virtue shows,

Then his disciple Aristotle rose,

Who Nature's secrets to the world did teach,

Yet that great soul our novelists impeach; 40

Too much manuring fill'd that field with weeds,

While sects, like locusts, did destroy the seeds;

The tree of knowledge, blasted by disputes,

Produces sapless leaves instead of fruits;

Proud Greece all nations else barbarians held,

Boasting her learning all the world excell'd.

Flying from thence[1] to Italy it came, 47

And to the realm of Naples gave the name,

Till both their nation and their arts did come

A welcome trophy to triumphant Rome;

Then whereso'er her conqu'ring eagles fled,

Arts, learning, and civility were spread;

And as in this our microcosm, the heart

Heat, spirit, motion gives to every part,

So Rome's victorious influence did disperse

All her own virtues through the universe.

Here some digression I must make, t'accuse

Thee, my forgetful, and ingrateful Muse:

Couldst thou from Greece to Latium take thy flight,

And not to thy great ancestor do right? 60

I can no more believe old Homer blind,

Than those who say the sun hath never shined;

The age wherein he lived was dark, but he

Could not want sight who taught the world to see:

They who Minerva from Jove's head derive,

Might make old Homer's skull the Muses' hive;

And from his brain that Helicon distil

Whose racy liquor did his offspring fill.

Nor old Anacreon, Hesiod, Theocrite,

Must we forget, nor Pindar's lofty flight. 70

Old Homer's soul, at last from Greece retired,

In Italy the Mantuan swain inspired.

When great Augustus made war's tempest cease,

His halcyon days brought forth the arts of peace;

He still in his triumphant chariot shines,

By Horace drawn, and Virgil's mighty lines.

'Twas certainly mysterious that the name [2]

Of prophets and of poets is the same;

What the tragedian[3]--wrote, the late success 79

Declares was inspiration, and not guess:

As dark a truth that author did unfold,

As oracles or prophets e'er foretold:

'At last the ocean shall unlock the bound

Of things, and a new world by Tiphys found,

Then ages far remote shall understand

The Isle of Thule is not the farthest land.'

Sure God, by these discov'ries, did design

That his clear light through all the world should shine,

But the obstruction from that discord springs

The prince of darkness made 'twixt Christian kings; 90

That peaceful age with happiness to crown,

From heaven the Prince of Peace himself came down,

Then the true sun of knowledge first appear'd,

And the old dark mysterious clouds were clear'd,

The heavy cause of th'old accursèd flood

Sunk in the sacred deluge of his blood.

His passion man from his first fall redeem'd;

Once more to paradise restored we seem'd;

Satan himself was bound, till th'iron chain

Our pride did break, and let him loose again. 100

Still the old sting remain'd, and man began

To tempt the serpent, as he tempted man;

Then Hell sends forth her furies, Av'rice, Pride,

Fraud, Discord, Force, Hypocrisy their guide;

Though the foundation on a rock were laid,

The church was undermined, and then betray'd:

Though the Apostles these events foretold,

Yet even the shepherd did devour the fold:

The fisher to convert the world began,

The pride convincing of vain-glorious man; 110

But soon his followers grew a sovereign lord,

And Peter's keys exchanged for Peter's sword,

Which still maintains for his adopted son

Vast patrimonies, though himself had none;

Wresting the text to the old giant's sense,

That heaven, once more, must suffer violence.

Then subtle doctors Scriptures made their prize;

Casuists, like cocks, struck out each others eyes;

Then dark distinctions reason's light disguised,

And into atoms truth anatomised. 120

Then Mah'met's crescent, by our feuds increased,

Blasted the learn'd remainders of the East;

That project, when from Greece to Rome it came,

Made Mother Ignorance Devotion's dame;

Then he whom Lucifer's own pride did swell,

His faithful emissary, rose from hell

To possess Peter's chair, that Hildebrand

Whose foot on mitres, then on crowns, did stand;

And before that exalted idol all

(Whom we call gods on earth) did prostrate fall. 130

Then darkness Europe's face did overspread

From lazy cells where superstition bred,

Which, link'd with blind obedience, so increased,

That the whole world some ages they oppress'd;

Till through these clouds the sun of knowledge brake,

And Europe from her lethargy did wake:

Then first our monarchs were acknowledged here,

That they their churches' nursing fathers were.

When Lucifer no longer could advance

His works on the false grounds of ignorance, 140

New arts he tries, and new designs he lays,

Then his well-studied masterpiece he plays;

Loyola, Luther, Calvin he inspires,

And kindles with infernal flames their fires,

Sends their forerunner (conscious of th'event)

Printing, his most pernicious instrument!

Wild controversy then, which long had slept,

Into the press from ruin'd cloisters leap'd;

No longer by implicit faith we err,

Whilst every man's his own interpreter; 150

No more conducted now by Aaron's rod,

Lay-elders from their ends create their god.

But seven wise men the ancient world did know,

We scarce know seven who think themselves not so.

When man learn'd undefiled religion,

We were commanded to be all as one;

Fiery disputes that union have calcined;

Almost as many minds as men we find,

And when that flame finds combustible earth,

Thence _fatuus_ fires, and meteors take their birth; 160

Legions of sects and insects come in throngs;

To name them all would tire a hundred tongues.

So were the Centaurs of Ixion's race,

Who a bright cloud for Juno did embrace;

And such the monsters of Chimæra's kind,

Lions before, and dragons were behind.

Then from the clashes between popes and kings,

Debate, like sparks from flints' collision, springs:

As Jove's loud thunderbolts were forged by heat,

The like our Cyclops on their anvils beat; 170

All the rich mines of learning ransack'd are,

To furnish ammunition for this war:

Uncharitable zeal our reason whets,

And double edges on our passion sets;

'Tis the most certain sign the world's accursed,

That the best things corrupted are the worst;

'Twas the corrupted light of knowledge hurl'd

Sin, death, and ignorance o'er all the world;

That sun like this (from which our sight we have), 179

Gazed on too long, resumes the light he gave;

And when thick mists of doubts obscure his beams,

Our guide is error, and our visions, dreams;

'Twas no false heraldry when madness drew

Her pedigree from those who too much knew;

Who in deep mines for hidden knowledge toils,

Like guns o'ercharged, breaks, misses, or recoils;

When subtle wits have spun their thread too fine,

'Tis weak and fragile, like Arachne's line:

True piety, without cessation toss'd

By theories, the practic part is lost, 190

And like a ball bandied 'twixt pride and wit,

Rather than yield, both sides the prize will quit:

Then whilst his foe each gladiator foils,

The atheist looking on enjoys the spoils.

Through seas of knowledge we our course advance,

Discov'ring still new worlds of ignorance;

And these discov'ries make us all confess

That sublunary science is but guess;

Matters of fact to man are only known,

And what seems more is mere opinion; 200

The standers-by see clearly this event;

All parties say they're sure, yet all dissent;

With their new light our bold inspectors press,

Like Cham, to show their fathers' nakedness,

By whose example after ages may

Discover we more naked are than they;

All human wisdom to divine is folly;

This truth the wisest man made melancholy;

Hope, or belief, or guess, gives some relief,

But to be sure we are deceived brings grief: 210

Who thinks his wife is virtuous, though not so,

Is pleased and patient till the truth he know.

Our God, when heaven and earth he did create,

Form'd man who should of both participate;

If our lives' motions theirs must imitate,

Our knowledge, like our blood, must circulate.

When like a bridegroom from the east, the sun

Sets forth, he thither, whence he came, doth run;

Into earth's spongy veins the ocean sinks,

Those rivers to replenish which he drinks; 220

So learning, which from reason's fountain springs,

Back to the source some secret channel brings.

'Tis happy when our streams of knowledge flow

To fill their banks, but not to overthrow.

Ut metit Autumnus fruges quas parturit Aestas,

Sic ortum Natura, dedit Deus his quoque finem.

[1]'From thence': Gracia Major.

[2] 'The name': Vates.

[3] 'The tragedian': Seneca.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF HENRY LORD HASTINGS, 1650.

Reader, preserve thy peace: those busy eyes

Will weep at their own sad discoveries,

When every line they add improves thy loss,

Till, having view'd the whole, they seem a cross,

Such as derides thy passions' best relief,

And scorns the succours of thy easy grief;

Yet lest thy ignorance betray thy name

Of man and pious, read and mourn; the shame

Of an exemption from just sense doth show

Irrational, beyond excess of woe. 10

Since reason, then, can privilege a tear,

Manhood, uncensured, pay that tribute here

Upon this noble urn. Here, here remains

Dust far more precious than in India's veins;

Within those cold embraces, ravish'd, lies

That which completes the age's tyrannies;

Who weak to such another ill appear,

For what destroys our hope secures our fear.

What sin, unexpiated in this land

Of groans, hath guided so severe a hand? 20

The late great victim[1] that your altars knew,

Ye angry gods! might have excused this new

Oblation, and have spared one lofty light

Of virtue, to inform our steps aright;

By whose example good, condemnèd, we

Might have run on to kinder destiny.

But as the leader of the herd fell first

A sacrifice, to quench the raging thirst

Of inflamed vengeance for past crimes, so none

But this white, fatted youngling could atone, 30

By his untimely fate, that impious smoke,

That sullied earth, and did Heaven's pity choke.

Let it suffice for us that we have lost

In him more than the widow'd world can boast

In any lump of her remaining clay.

Fair as the gray-eyed morn he was; the day,

Youthful, and climbing upwards still, imparts

No haste like that of his increasing parts.

Like the meridian beam, his virtue's light

Was seen as full of comfort, and as bright. 40

Had his noon been as fixed, as clear--but he,

That only wanted immortality

To make him perfect, now submits to night,

In the black bosom of whose sable spite

He leaves a cloud of flesh behind, and flies,

Refined, all ray and glory, to the skies.

Great saint! shine there in an eternal sphere, 47

And tell those powers to whom thou now draw'st near,

That by our trembling sense, in Hastings dead,

Their anger and our ugly faults are read,

The short lines of whose life did to our eyes

Their love and majesty epitomise;

Tell them, whose stern decrees impose our laws;

The feasted grave may close her hollow jaws.

Though Sin search Nature, to provide her here

A second entertainment half so dear,

She'll never meet a plenty like this hearse,

Till Time present her with the universe!

[1] 'Great victim': Charles I.

OF OLD AGE.[1]

CATO, SCIPIO, LÆLIUS.

SCIPIO TO CATO.

Though all the actions of your life are crown'd

With wisdom, nothing makes them more renown'd,

Than that those years, which others think extreme,

Nor to yourself nor us uneasy seem;

Under which weight most, like th'old giants, groan.

When Aetna on their backs by Jove was thrown.

CATO. What you urge, Scipio, from right reason flows:

All parts of age seem burthensome to those

Who virtue's and true wisdom's happiness

Cannot discern; but they who those possess, 10

In what's impos'd by Nature find no grief,

Of which our age is (next our death) the chief,

Which though all equally desire t'obtain,

Yet when they have obtain'd it, they complain;

Such our inconstancies and follies are,

We say it steals upon us unaware:

Our want of reas'ning these false measures makes,

Youth runs to age, as childhood youth o'ertakes.

How much more grievous would our lives appear,

To reach th'eighth hundred, than the eightieth year? 20

Of what in that long space of time hath pass'd,

To foolish age will no remembrance last.

My age's conduct when you seem t'admire

(Which that it may deserve, I much desire),

'Tis my first rule, on Nature, as my guide

Appointed by the gods, I have relied;

And Nature (which all acts of life designs),

Not, like ill poets, in the last declines:

But some one part must be the last of all,

Which like ripe fruits, must either rot or fall. 30

And this from Nature must be gently borne,

Else her (as giants did the gods) we scorn.

LÆLIUS. But, Sir, 'tis Scipio's and my desire,

Since to long life we gladly would aspire,

That from your grave instructions we might hear,

How we, like you, may this great burthen bear.

CAT. This I resolved before, but now shall do

With great delight, since 'tis required by you.

LÆL. If to yourself it will not tedious prove,

Nothing in us a greater joy can move, 40

That as old travellers the young instruct,

Your long, our short experience may conduct.

CAT. 'Tis true (as the old proverb doth relate),

Equals with equals often congregate.

Two consuls[2] (who in years my equals were)

When senators, lamenting I did hear

That age from them had all their pleasures torn, 47

And them their former suppliants now scorn:

They what is not to be accused accuse,

Not others, but themselves their age abuse;

Else this might me concern, and all my friends,

Whose cheerful age with honour youth attends,

Joy'd that from pleasure's slav'ry they are free,

And all respects due to their age they see.

In its true colours, this complaint appears

The ill effect of manners, not of years;

For on their life no grievous burthen lies,

Who are well natured, temperate, and wise;

But an inhuman and ill-temper'd mind,

Not any easy part in life can find. 60

LÆL. This I believe; yet others may dispute,

Their age (as yours) can never bear such fruit

Of honour, wealth, and power to make them sweet;

Not every one such happiness can meet.

CAT. Some weight your argument, my Lælius, bears,

But not so much as at first sight appears.

This answer by Themistocles was made,

(When a Seriphian thus did him upbraid,

'You those great honours to your country owe,

Not to yourself')-'Had I at Seripho[3] 70

Been born, such honour I had never seen,

Nor you, if an Athenian you had been;'

So age, clothed in indecent poverty,

To the most prudent cannot easy be;

But to a fool, the greater his estate,

The more uneasy is his age's weight.

Age's chief arts and arms are to grow wise,

Virtue to know, and known, to exercise;

All just returns to age then virtue makes, 79

Nor her in her extremity forsakes;

The sweetest cordial we receive at last,

Is conscience of our virtuous actions past.

I (when a youth) with reverence did look

On Quintus Fabius, who Tarentum took;

Yet in his age such cheerfulness was seen,

As if his years and mine had equal been;

His gravity was mix'd with gentleness,

Nor had his age made his good humour less;

Then was he well in years (the same that he

Was Consul that of my nativity), 90

(A stripling then), in his fourth consulate

On him at Capua I in arms did wait.

I five years after at Tarentum wan

The quæstorship, and then our love began;

And four years after, when I prætor was,

He pleaded, and the Cincian law[4] did pass.

With useful diligence he used t'engage,

Yet with the temperate arts of patient age

He breaks fierce Hannibal's insulting heats;

Of which exploit thus our friend Ennius treats: 100

He by delay restored the commonwealth,

Nor preferr'd rumour before public health.

[1] This piece is adapted from Cicero, 'De Seucctute.'

[2] 'Two consuls': Caius Salinator, Spurius Albinus.

[3] 'Seripho': an isle to which condemned men were banished.

[4] 'Cincian law': against bribes.

THE ARGUMENT.

When I reflect on age, I find there are

Four causes, which its misery declare.

1. Because our body's strength it much impairs:

2. That it takes off our minds from great affairs:

3. Next, that our sense of pleasure it deprives:

4. Last, that approaching death attends our lives.

Of all these sev'ral causes I'll discourse, 109

And then of each, in order, weigh the force.

THE FIRST PART.

The old from such affairs is only freed,

Which vig'rous youth and strength of body need;

But to more high affairs our age is lent,

Most properly when heats of youth are spent.

Did Fabius and your father Scipio

(Whose daughter my son married) nothing do?

Fabricii, Coruncani, Curii;

Whose courage, counsel, and authority,

The Roman commonwealth restored did boast,

Nor Appius, with whose strength his sight was lost, 120

Who when the Senate was to peace inclined

With Pyrrhus, shew'd his reason was not blind,

Whither's our courage and our wisdom come

When Rome itself conspires the fate of Rome?

The rest with ancient gravity and skill

He spake (for his oration's extant still).

'Tis seventeen years since he had Consul been

The second time, and there were ten between;

Therefore their argument's of little force,

Who age from great employments would divorce. 130

As in a ship some climb the shrouds, t'unfold

The sail, some sweep the deck, some pump the hold;

Whilst he that guides the helm employs his skill,

And gives the law to them by sitting still.

Great actions less from courage, strength, and speed,

Than from wise counsels and commands proceed;

Those arts age wants not, which to age belong,

Not heat but cold experience make us strong.

A Consul, Tribune, General, I have been,

All sorts of war I have pass'd through and seen; 140

And now grown old, I seem t'abandon it,

Yet to the Senate I prescribe what's fit.

I every day 'gainst Carthage war proclaim,

(For Rome's destruction hath been long her aim)

Nor shall I cease till I her ruin see,

Which triumph may the gods design for thee;

That Scipio may revenge his grandsire's ghost,

Whose life at Cannæ with great honour lost

Is on record; nor had he wearied been

With age, if he an hundred years had seen; 150

He had not used excursions, spears, or darts,

But counsel, order, and such aged arts,

Which, if our ancestors had not retain'd,

The Senate's name our council had not gain'd.

The Spartans to their highest magistrate

The name of Elder did appropriate:

Therefore his fame for ever shall remain,

How gallantly Tarentum he did gain,

With vig'lant conduct; when that sharp reply

He gave to Salinator, I stood by, 160

Who to the castle fled, the town being lost,

Yet he to Maximus did vainly boast,

'Twas by my means Tarentum you obtain'd;--

'Tis true, had you not lost, I had not gain'd.

And as much honour on his gown did wait,

As on his arms, in his fifth consulate.

When his colleague Carvilius stepp'd aside,

The Tribune of the people would divide

To them the Gallic and the Picene field;

Against the Senate's will he will not yield; 170

When, being angry, boldly he declares

Those things were acted under happy stars,

From which the commonwealth found good effects,

But otherwise they came from bad aspects.

Many great things of Fabius I could tell,

But his son's death did all the rest excel;

(His gallant son, though young, had Consul been)

His funeral oration I have seen

Often; and when on that I turn my eyes,

I all the old philosophers despise. 180

Though he in all the people's eyes seem'd great,

Yet greater he appear'd in his retreat;

When feasting with his private friends at home,

Such counsel, such discourse from him did come,

Such science in his art of augury,

No Roman ever was more learn'd than he;

Knowledge of all things present and to come,

Rememb'ring all the wars of ancient Rome,

Nor only there, but all the world's beside;

Dying in extreme age, I prophesied 190

That which is come to pass, and did discern

From his survivors I could nothing learn.

This long discourse was but to let you see

That his long life could not uneasy be.

Few like the Fabii or the Scipios are

Takers of cities, conquerors in war.

Yet others to like happy age arrive,

Who modest, quiet, and with virtue live:

Thus Plato writing his philosophy,

With honour after ninety years did die. 200

Th' Athenian story writ at ninety-four

By Isocrates, who yet lived five years more;

His master Gorgias at the hundredth year

And seventh, not his studies did forbear:

And, ask'd why he no sooner left the stage?

Said he saw nothing to accuse old age.

None but the foolish, who their lives abuse,

Age of their own mistakes and crimes accuse.

All commonwealths (as by records is seen) 209

As by age preserved, by youth destroy'd have been.

When the tragedian Nævius did demand,

Why did your commonwealth no longer stand?

'Twas answer'd, that their senators were new,

Foolish, and young, and such as nothing knew;

Nature to youth hot rashness doth dispense,

But with cold prudence age doth recompense.

But age, 'tis said, will memory decay,

So (if it be not exercised) it may;

Or, if by nature it be dull and slow.

Themistocles (when aged) the names did know 220

Of all th'Athenians; and none grow so old,

Not to remember where they hid their gold.

From age such art of memory we learn,

To forget nothing which is our concern;

Their interest no priest nor sorcerer

Forgets, nor lawyer, nor philosopher;

No understanding memory can want,

Where wisdom studious industry doth plant.

Nor does it only in the active live,

But in the quiet and contemplative; 230

When Sophocles (who plays when aged wrote)

Was by his sons before the judges brought,

Because he paid the Muses such respect,

His fortune, wife, and children to neglect;

Almost condemn'd, he moved the judges thus,

'Hear, but instead of me, my Oedipus.'

The judges hearing with applause, at th'end

Freed him, and said, 'No fool such lines had penn'd'.

What poets and what orators can I

Recount, what princes in philosophy, 240

Whose constant studies with their age did strive?

Nor did they those, though those did them survive.

Old husbandmen I at Sabinum know,

Who for another year dig, plough, and sow.

For never any man was yet so old,

But hoped his life one winter more might hold.

Cæcilius vainly said, 'Each day we spend

Discovers something, which must needs offend;'

But sometimes age may pleasant things behold,

And nothing that offends. He should have told 250

This not to age, but youth, who oft'ner see

What not alone offends, but hurts, than we.

That, I in him, which he in age condemn'd,

That us it renders odious, and contemn'd.

He knew not virtue, if he thought this truth;

For youth delights in age, and age in youth.

What to the old can greater pleasure be,

Than hopeful and ingenious youth to see,

When they with rev'rence follow where we lead,

And in straight paths by our directions tread? 260

And e'en my conversation here I see,

As well received by you, as yours by me.

'Tis disingenuous to accuse our age

Of idleness, who all our powers engage

In the same studies, the same course to hold;

Nor think our reason for new arts too old.

Solon the sage his progress never ceased,

But still his learning with his days increased;

And I with the same greediness did seek,

As water when I thirst, to swallow Greek; 270

Which I did only learn, that I might know

Those great examples which I follow now:

And I have heard that Socrates the wise,

Learn'd on the lute for his last exercise.

Though many of the ancients did the same,

To improve knowledge was my only aim.

THE SECOND PART.

Now int' our second grievance I must break, 277

'That loss of strength makes understanding weak.'

I grieve no more my youthful strength to want,

Than, young, that of a bull, or elephant;

Then with that force content, which Nature gave,

Nor am I now displeased with what I have.

When the young wrestlers at their sport grew warm,

Old Milo wept, to see his naked arm;

And cried, 'twas dead. Trifler! thine heart and head,

And all that's in them (not thy arm) are dead;

This folly every looker on derides,

To glory only in thy arms and sides.

Our gallant ancestors let fall no tears,

Their strength decreasing by increasing years; 290

But they advanced in wisdom every hour,

And made the commonwealth advance in power.

But orators may grieve, for in their sides,

Rather than heads, their faculty abides;

Yet I have heard old voices loud and clear,

And still my own sometimes the Senate hear.

When th'old with smooth and gentle voices plead,

They by the ear their well-pleased audience lead:

Which, if I had not strength enough to do,

I could (my Lælius, and my Scipio) 300

What's to be done, or not be done, instruct,

And to the maxims of good life conduct.

Cneius and Publius Scipio, and (that man

Of men) your grandsire, the great African,

Were joyful when the flower of noble blood

Crowded their dwellings, and attending stood,

Like oracles their counsels to receive,

How in their progress they should act and live.

And they whose high examples youth obeys, 309

Are not despisèd, though their strength decays;

And those decays (to speak the naked truth,

Though the defects of age) were crimes of youth.

Intemp'rate youth (by sad experience found)

Ends in an age imperfect and unsound.

Cyrus, though aged (if Xenophon say true),

Lucius Metellus (whom when young I knew),

Who held (after his second consulate)

Twenty-two years the high pontificate;

Neither of these in body, or in mind,

Before their death the least decay did find. 320

I speak not of myself, though none deny

To age, to praise their youth the liberty:

Such an unwasted strength I cannot boast,

Yet now my years are eighty-four almost:

And though from what it was my strength is far,

Both in the first and second Punic war,

Nor at Thermopylæ, under Glabrio,

Nor when I Consul into Spain did go;

But yet I feel no weakness, nor hath length

Of winters quite enervated my strength; 330

And I, my guest, my client, or my friend,

Still in the courts of justice can defend:

Neither must I that proverb's truth allow,

'Who would be ancient, must be early so.'

I would be youthful still, and find no need

To appear old, till I was so indeed.

And yet you see my hours not idle are,

Though with your strength I cannot mine compare;

Yet this centurion's doth your's surmount,

Not therefore him the better man I count. 340

Milo when ent'ring the Olympic game,

With a huge ox upon his shoulder came.

Would you the force of Milo's body find,

Rather than of Pythagoras's mind?

The force which Nature gives with care retain,

But when decay'd, 'tis folly to complain.

In age to wish for youth is full as vain,

As for a youth to turn a child again.

Simple and certain Nature's ways appear,

As she sets forth the seasons of the year. 350

So in all parts of life we find her truth,

Weakness to childhood, rashness to our youth;

To elder years to be discreet and grave,

Then to old age maturity she gave.

(Scipio) you know, how Massinissa bears

His kingly port at more than ninety years;

When marching with his foot, he walks till night;

When with his horse, he never will alight;

Though cold or wet, his head is always bare;

So hot, so dry, his aged members are. 360

You see how exercise and temperance

Even to old years a youthful strength advance.

Our law (because from age our strength retires)

No duty which belongs to strength requires.

But age doth many men so feeble make,

That they no great design can undertake;

Yet that to age not singly is applied,

But to all man's infirmities beside.

That Scipio, who adopted you, did fall

Into such pains, he had no health at all; 370

Who else had equall'd Africanus' parts,

Exceeding him in all the lib'ral arts:

Why should those errors then imputed be

To age alone, from which our youth's not free?

Every disease of age we may prevent,

Like those of youth, by being diligent.

When sick, such mod'rate exercise we use, 377

And diet, as our vital heat renews;

And if our body thence refreshment finds,

Then must we also exercise our minds.

If with continual oil we not supply

Our lamp, the light for want of it will die;

Though bodies may be tired with exercise,

No weariness the mind could e'er surprise.

Cæcilius the comedian, when of age

He represents the follies on the stage,

They're credulous, forgetful, dissolute;

Neither those crimes to age he doth impute,

But to old men, to whom those crimes belong.

Lust, petulance, rashness, are in youth more strong 390

Than ago, and yet young men those vices hate,

Who virtuous are, discreet, and temperate:

And so, what we call dotage seldom breeds

In bodies, but where nature sow'd the seeds.

There are five daughters, and four gallant sons,

In whom the blood of noble Appius runs,

With a most num'rous family beside,

Whom he alone, though old and blind, did guide.

Yet his clear-sighted mind was still intent,

And to his business like a bow stood bent: 400

By children, servants, neighbours so esteem'd,

He not a master, but a monarch seem'd.

All his relations his admirers were,

His sons paid rev'rence, and his servants fear:

The order and the ancient discipline

Of Romans, did in all his actions shine.

Authority kept up old age secures,

Whose dignity as long as life endures.

Something of youth I in old age approve,

But more the marks of age in youth I love. 410

Who this observes may in his body find

Decrepit age, but never in his mind.

The seven volumes of my own reports,

Wherein are all the pleadings of our courts;

All noble monuments of Greece are come

Unto my hands, with those of ancient Rome.

The pontificial, and the civil law,

I study still, and thence orations draw;

And to confirm my memory, at night,

What I hear, see, or do, by day, recite. 420

These exercises for my thoughts I find;

These labours are the chariots of my mind.

To serve my friends, the Senate I frequent,

And there what I before digested vent;

Which only from my strength of mind proceeds,

Not any outward force of body needs;

Which, if I could not do, I should delight

On what I would to ruminate at night.

Who in such practices their minds engage,

Nor fear nor think of their approaching age, 430

Which by degrees invisibly doth creep:

Nor do we seem to die, but fall asleep.

THE THIRD PART.

Now must I draw my forces 'gainst that host

Of pleasures, which i' th'sea of age are lost.

O thou most high transcendant gift of age!

Youth from its folly thus to disengage.

And now receive from me that most divine

Oration of that noble Tarentine,[1]

Which at Tarentum I long since did hear,

When I attended the great Fabius there. 440

Ye gods, was it man's nature, or his fate,

Betray'd him with sweet pleasure's poison'd bait?

Which he, with all designs of art or power,

Doth with unbridled appetite devour:

And as all poisons seek the noblest part,

Pleasure possesses first the head and heart;

Intoxicating both by them, she finds,

And burns the sacred temples of our minds.

Furies, which reason's divine chains had bound,

(That being broken) all the world confound. 450

Lust, murder, treason, avarice, and hell

Itself broke loose, in reason's palace dwell:

Truth, honour, justice, temperance, are fled,

All her attendants into darkness led.

But why all this discourse? when pleasure's rage

Hath conquer'd reason, we must treat with age.

Age undermines, and will in time surprise

Her strongest forts, and cut off all supplies;

And join'd in league with strong necessity,

Pleasure must fly, or else by famine die. 460

Flaminius, whom a consulship had graced,

(Then Censor) from the Senate I displaced;

When he in Gaul, a Consul, made a feast,

A beauteous courtesan did him request

To see the cutting off a pris'ner's head;

This crime I could not leave unpunished,

Since by a private villany he stain'd

That public honour which at Rome he gain'd.

Then to our age (when not to pleasures bent)

This seems an honour, not disparagement. 470

We not all pleasures like the Stoics hate,

But love and seek those which are moderate.

(Though divine Plato thus of pleasures thought,

They us, with hooks and baits, like fishes caught.)

When Questor, to the gods in public halls

I was the first who set up festivals.

Not with high tastes our appetites did force,

But fill'd with conversation and discourse;

Which feasts, Convivial Meetings we did name:

Not like the ancient Greeks, who to their shame, 480

Call'd it a Compotation, not a feast;

Declaring the worst part of it the best.

Those entertainments I did then frequent

Sometimes with youthful heat and merriment:

But now I thank my age, which gives me ease

From those excesses; yet myself I please

With cheerful talk to entertain my guests

(Discourses are to age continual feasts),

The love of meat and wine they recompense,

And cheer the mind, as much as those the sense. 490

I'm not more pleased with gravity among

The aged, than to be youthful with the young;

Nor 'gainst all pleasures proclaim open war,

To which, in age, some nat'ral motions are.

And still at my Sabinum I delight

To treat my neighbours till the depth of night.

But we the sense of gust and pleasure want,

Which youth at full possesses; this I grant;

But age seeks not the things which youth requires,

And no man needs that which he not desires. 500

When Sophocles was asked if he denied

Himself the use of pleasures, he replied,

'I humbly thank th'immortal gods, who me

From that fierce tyrant's insolence set free.'

But they whom pressing appetites constrain,

Grieve when they cannot their desires obtain.

Young men the use of pleasure understand,

As of an object new, and near at hand:

Though this stands more remote from age's sight, 509

Yet they behold it not without delight:

As ancient soldiers, from their duties eased,

With sense of honour and rewards are pleased;

So from ambitious hopes and lusts released,

Delighted with itself our age doth rest.

No part of life's more happy, when with bread

Of ancient knowledge and new learning fed;

All youthful pleasures by degrees must cease,

But those of age even with our years increase.

We love not loaded boards and goblets crown'd,

But free from surfeits our repose is sound. 520

When old Fabricius to the Samnites went

Ambassador, from Rome to Pyrrhus sent,

He heard a grave philosopher maintain,

That all the actions of our life were vain

Which with our sense of pleasure not conspired;

Fabricius the philosopher desired,

That he to Pyrrhus would that maxim teach,

And to the Samnites the same doctrine preach;

Then of their conquest he should doubt no more,

Whom their own pleasures overcame before. 530

Now into rustic matters I must fall,

Which pleasure seems to me the chief of all.

Age no impediment to those can give,

Who wisely by the rules of Nature live.

Earth (though our mother) cheerfully obeys

All the commands her race upon her lays.

For whatsoever from our hand she takes,

Greater or less, a vast return she makes.

Nor am I only pleased with that resource,

But with her ways, her method, and her force. 540

The seed her bosom (by the plough made fit)

Receives, where kindly she embraces it,

Which with her genuine warmth diffused and spread,

Sends forth betimes a green and tender head,

Then gives it motion, life, and nourishment,

Which from the root through nerves and veins are sent;

Straight in a hollow sheath upright it grows,

And, form receiving, doth itself disclose:

Drawn up in ranks and files, the bearded spikes

Guard it from birds as with a stand of pikes. 550

When of the vine I speak, I seem inspired,

And with delight, as with her juice, am fired;

At Nature's godlike power I stand amazed,

Which such vast bodies hath from atoms raised.

The kernel of a grape, the fig's small grain,

Can clothe a mountain and o'ershade a plain:

But thou, (dear Vine!) forbid'st me to be long;

Although thy trunk be neither large nor strong,

Nor can thy head (not help'd) itself sublime,

Yet, like a serpent, a tall tree can climb; 560

Whate'er thy many fingers can entwine,

Proves thy support, and all its strength is thine.

Though Nature gave not legs, it gave the hands,

By which thy prop the proudest cedar stands:

As thou hast hands, so hath thy offspring wings,

And to the highest part of mortals springs.

But lest thou should'st consume thy wealth in vain,

And starve thyself to feed a num'rous train,

Or like the bee (sweet as thy blood) design'd

To be destroy'd to propagate his kind, 570

Lest thy redundant and superfluous juice,

Should fading leaves instead of fruits produce,

The pruner's hand, with letting blood, must quench

Thy heat, and thy exub'rant parts retrench:

Then from the joints of thy prolific stem

A swelling knot is raisèd (call'd a gem),

Whence, in short space, itself the cluster shows, 577

And from earth's moisture mixed with sunbeams grows.

I' th'spring, like youth, it yields an acid taste,

But summer doth, like age, the sourness waste;

Then clothed with leaves, from heat and cold secure,

Like virgins, sweet and beauteous, when mature.

On fruits, flowers, herbs, and plants, I long could dwell,

At once to please my eye, my taste, my smell;

My walks of trees, all planted by my hand,

Like children of my own begetting stand.

To tell the sev'ral natures of each earth,

What fruits from each most properly take birth:

And with what arts to enrich every mould,

The dry to moisten, and to warm the cold. 590

But when we graft, or buds inoculate,

Nature by art we nobly meliorate;

As Orpheus' music wildest beasts did tame,

From the sour crab the sweetest apple came:

The mother to the daughter goes to school,

The species changed, doth her law overrule;

Nature herself doth from herself depart,

(Strange transmigration!) by the power of art.

How little things give law to great! we see

The small bud captivates the greatest tree. 600

Here even the power divine we imitate,

And seem not to beget, but to create.

Much was I pleased with fowls and beasts, the tame

For food and profit, and the wild for game.

Excuse me when this pleasant string I touch

(For age, of what delights it, speaks too much).

Who twice victorious Pyrrhus conquered,

The Sabines and the Samnites captive led,

Great Curius, his remaining days did spend,

And in this happy life his triumphs end. 610

My farm stands near, and when I there retire,

His, and that age's temper I admire:

The Samnites' chief, as by his fire he sate,

With a vast sum of gold on him did wait;

'Return,' said he, 'your gold I nothing weigh,

When those who can command it me obey.'

This my assertion proves, he may be old,

And yet not sordid, who refuses gold.

In summer to sit still, or walk, I love,

Near a cool fountain, or a shady grove. 620

What can in winter render more delight,

Than the high sun at noon, and fire at night?

While our old friends and neighbours feast and play,

And with their harmless mirth turn night to day,

Unpurchased plenty our full tables loads,

And part of what they lent, return t'our gods.

That honour and authority which dwells

With age, all pleasures of our youth excels.

Observe, that I that age have only praised

Whose pillars were on youth's foundations raised, 630

And that (for which I great applause received)

As a true maxim hath been since believed.

That most unhappy age great pity needs,

Which to defend itself, new matter pleads;

Not from gray hairs authority doth flow,

Nor from bald heads, nor from a wrinkled brow,

But our past life, when virtuously spent,

Must to our age those happy fruits present.

Those things to age most honourable are,

Which easy, common, and but light appear, 640

Salutes, consulting, compliment, resort,

Crowding attendance to and from the court:

And not on Rome alone this honour waits,

But on all civil and well-govern'd states.

Lysander, pleading in his city's praise,

From thence his strongest argument did raise,

That Sparta did with honour age support,

Paying them just respect at stage and court.

But at proud Athens youth did age outface,

Nor at the plays would rise, or give them place. 650

When an Athenian stranger of great age

Arrived at Sparta, climbing up the stage,

To him the whole assembly rose, and ran

To place and ease this old and rev'rend man,

Who thus his thanks returns, 'Th' Athenians know

What's to be done, but what they know not do.'

Here our great Senate's orders I may quote,

The first in age is still the first in vote.

Nor honour, nor high birth, nor great command,

In competition with great years may stand. 660

Why should our youth's short, transient, pleasures dare

With age's lasting honours to compare?

On the world's stage, when our applause grows high,

For acting here life's tragic-comedy,

The lookers-on will say we act not well,

Unless the last the former scenes excel:

But age is froward, uneasy, scrutinous,

Hard to be pleased, and parsimonious;

But all those errors from our manners rise,

Not from our years; yet some morosities 670

We must expect, since jealousy belongs

To age, of scorn, and tender sense of wrongs:

Yet these are mollified, or not discern'd,

Where civil arts and manners have been learn'd:

So the Twins' humours,[2] in our Terence, are

Unlike-this harsh and rude, that smooth and fair.

Our nature here is not unlike our wine, 677

Some sorts, when old, continue brisk and fine;

So age's gravity may seem severe,

But nothing harsh or bitter ought t'appear.

Of age's avarice I cannot see

What colour, ground, or reason there should be:

Is it not folly, when the way we ride

Is short, for a long voyage to provide?

To avarice some title youth may own,

To reap in autumn what the spring had sown;

And, with the providence of bees, or ants,

Prevent with summer's plenty winter's wants.

But age scarce sows till death stands by to reap,

And to a stranger's hand transfers the heap; 690

Afraid to be so once, she's always poor,

And to avoid a mischief makes it sure.

Such madness, as for fear of death to die,

Is to be poor for fear of poverty.

[1] 'Tarentine': Archytas, much praised by Horace.

[2] 'Twins' humours': in his comedy called 'Adelphi.'

THE FOURTH PART.

Now against (that which terrifies our age)

The last, and greatest grievance, we engage;

To her grim Death appears in all her shapes,

The hungry grave for her due tribute gapes.

Fond, foolish man! with fear of death surprised,

Which either should be wish'd for, or despised; 700

This, if our souls with bodies death destroy;

That, if our souls a second life enjoy.

What else is to be fear'd, when we shall gain

Eternal life, or have no sense of pain?

The youngest in the morning are not sure

That till the night their life they can secure;

Their age stands more exposed to accidents

Than ours, nor common care their fate prevents:

Death's force (with terror) against Nature strives, 709

Nor one of many to ripe age arrives.

From this ill fate the world's disorders rise,

For if all men were old, they would be wise;

Years and experience our forefathers taught,

Them under laws and into cities brought:

Why only should the fear of death belong

To age, which is as common to the young?

Your hopeful brothers, and my son, to you

(Scipio) and me, this maxim makes too true:

But vig'rous youth may his gay thoughts erect

To many years, which age must not expect. 720

But when he sees his airy hopes deceived,

With grief he says, Who this would have believed?

We happier are than they, who but desired

To possess that which we long since acquired.

What if our age to Nestor's could extend?

'Tis vain to think that lasting which must end;

And when 'tis past, not any part remains

Thereof, but the reward which virtue gains.

Days, months, and years, like running waters flow,

Nor what is past, nor what's to come, we know: 730

Our date, how short soe'er, must us content.

When a good actor doth his part present,

In every act he our attention draws,

That at the last he may find just applause;

So (though but short) yet we must learn the art

Of virtue, on the stage to act our part;

True wisdom must our actions so direct,

Not only the last plaudit to expect;

Yet grieve no more, though long that part should last,

Than husbandmen, because the spring is past. 740

The spring, like youth, fresh blossoms doth produce,

But autumn makes them ripe and fit for use:

So age a mature mellowness doth set

On the green promises of youthful heat.

All things which Nature did ordain, are good,

And so must be received and understood.

Age, like ripe apples, on earth's bosom drops,

While force our youth, like fruits untimely, crops;

The sparkling flame of our warm blood expires,

As when huge streams are pour'd on raging fires; 750

But age unforced falls by her own consent,

As coals to ashes, when the spirit's spent;

Therefore to death I with such joy resort,

As seamen from a tempest to their port.

Yet to that port ourselves we must not force,

Before our pilot, Nature, steers our course.

Let us the causes of our fear condemn,

Then Death at his approach we shall contemn.

Though to our heat of youth our age seems cold,

Yet when resolved, it is more brave and bold. 760

Thus Solon to Pisistratus replied,

Demanded, on what succour he relied,

When with so few he boldly did engage?

He said, he took his courage from his age.

Then death seems welcome, and our nature kind,

When, leaving us a perfect sense and mind,

She (like a workman in his science skill'd)

Pulls down with ease what her own hand did build.

That art which knew to join all parts in one,

Makes the least vi'lent separation. 770

Yet though our ligaments betimes grow weak,

We must not force them till themselves they break.

Pythagoras bids us in our station stand,

Till God, our general, shall us disband.

Wise Solon dying, wish'd his friends might grieve,

That in their memories he still might live.

Yet wiser Ennius gave command to all 777

His friends not to bewail his funeral;

Your tears for such a death in vain you spend,

Which straight in immortality shall end.

In death, if there be any sense of pain,

But a short space to age it will remain;

On which, without my fears, my wishes wait,

But tim'rous youth on this should meditate:

Who for light pleasure this advice rejects,

Finds little, when his thoughts he recollects.

Our death (though not its certain date) we know;

Nor whether it may be this night, or no:

How then can they contented live, who fear

A danger certain, and none knows how near? 790

They err, who for the fear of death dispute,

Our gallant actions this mistake confute.

Thee, Brutus! Rome's first martyr I must name;

The Curtii bravely dived the gulf of flame:

Attilius sacrificed himself, to save

That faith, which to his barb'rous foes he gave;

With the two Scipios did thy uncle fall,

Rather than fly from conqu'ring Hannibal.

The great Marcellus (who restorèd Rome)

His greatest foes with honour did entomb. 800

Their lives how many of our legions threw

Into the breach, whence no return they knew?

Must then the wise, the old, the learned fear,

What not the rude, the young, th'unlearn'd forbear?

Satiety from all things else doth come,

Then life must to itself grow wearisome.

Those trifles wherein children take delight,

Grow nauseous to the young man's appetite;

And from those gaieties our youth requires

To exercise their minds, our age retires. 810

And when the last delights of age shall die,

Life in itself will find satiety.

Now you (my friends) my sense of death shall hear,

Which I can well describe, for he stands near.

Your father, Lælius, and your's, Scipio,

My friends, and men of honour, I did know;

As certainly as we must die, they live

That life which justly may that name receive:

Till from these prisons of our flesh released,

Our souls with heavy burdens lie oppress'd; 820

Which part of man from heaven falling down,

Earth, in her low abyss, doth hide and drown,

A place so dark to the celestial light,

And pure, eternal fire's quite opposite,

The gods through human bodies did disperse

An heavenly soul, to guide this universe,

That man, when he of heavenly bodies saw

The order, might from thence a pattern draw:

Nor this to me did my own dictates show,

But to the old philosophers I owe. 830

I heard Pythagoras, and those who came

With him, and from our country took their name;

Who never doubted but the beams divine,

Derived from gods, in mortal breasts did shine.

Nor from my knowledge did the ancients hide

What Socrates declared the hour he died;

He th'immortality of souls proclaim'd,

(Whom th'oracle of men the wisest named)

Why should we doubt of that whereof our sense

Finds demonstration from experience? 840

Our minds are here, and there, below, above;

Nothing that's mortal can so swiftly move.

Our thoughts to future things their flight direct,

And in an instant all that's past collect.

Reason, remembrance, wit, inventive art,

No nature, but immortal, can impart.

Man's soul in a perpetual motion flows,

And to no outward cause that motion owes;

And therefore that no end can overtake,

Because our minds cannot themselves forsake. 850

And since the matter of our soul is pure

And simple, which no mixture can endure

Of parts, which not among themselves agree;

Therefore it never can divided be.

And Nature shows (without philosophy)

What cannot be divided, cannot die.

We even in early infancy discern

Knowledge is born with babes before they learn;

Ere they can speak they find so many ways

To serve their turn, and see more arts than days: 860

Before their thoughts they plainly can express,

The words and things they know are numberless;

Which Nature only and no art could find,

But what she taught before, she call'd to mind,

These to his sons (as Xenophon records)

Of the great Cyrus were the dying words;

'Fear not when I depart (nor therefore mourn)

I shall be nowhere, or to nothing turn:

That soul which gave me life, was seen by none,

Yet by the actions it design'd was known; 870

And though its flight no mortal eye shall see,

Yet know, for ever it the same shall be.

That soul which can immortal glory give

To her own virtues must for ever live.

Can you believe that man's all-knowing mind

Can to a mortal body be confined?

Though a foul foolish prison her immure

On earth, she (when escaped) is wise and pure.

Man's body when dissolved is but the same 879

With beasts, and must return from whence it came;

But whence into our bodies reason flows,

None sees it when it comes, or where it goes.

Nothing resembles death so much as sleep,

Yet then our minds themselves from slumber keep.

When from their fleshly bondage they are free,

Then what divine and future things they see!

Which makes it most apparent whence they are,

And what they shall hereafter be, declare.'

This noble speech the dying Cyrus made.

Me (Scipio) shall no argument persuade, 890

Thy grandsire, and his brother, to whom Fame

Gave, from two conquer'd parts o' th'world, their name,

Nor thy great grandsire, nor thy father Paul,

Who fell at Cannæ against Hannibal;

Nor I (for 'tis permitted to the aged

To boast their actions) had so oft engaged

In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought,

That only fame our virtuous actions bought;

'Twere better in soft pleasure and repose

Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to close: 900

Some high assurance hath possess'd my mind,

After my death an happier life to find.

Unless our souls from the immortals came,

What end have we to seek immortal fame?

All virtuous spirits some such hope attends,

Therefore the wise his days with pleasure ends.

The foolish and short-sighted die with fear,

That they go nowhere, or they know not where.

The wise and virtuous soul, with clearer eyes,

Before she parts, some happy port descries. 910

My friends, your fathers I shall surely see:

Nor only those I loved, or who loved me,

But such as before ours did end their days,

Of whom we hear, and read, and write their praise.

This I believe; for were I on my way,

None should persuade me to return, or stay:

Should some god tell me that I should be born

And cry again, his offer I would scorn;

Asham'd, when I have ended well my race,

To be led back to my first starting-place. 920

And since with life we are more grieved than joy'd,

We should be either satisfied or cloy'd:

Yet will I not my length of days deplore,

As many wise and learn'd have done before:

Nor can I think such life in vain is lent,

Which for our country and our friends is spent.

Hence from an inn, not from my home, I pass,

Since Nature meant us here no dwelling-place.

Happy when I, from this turmoil set free,

That peaceful and divine assembly see: 930

Not only those I named I there shall greet,

But my own gallant virtuous Cato meet.

Nor did I weep, when I to ashes turn'd

His belov'd body, who should mine have burn'd.

I in my thoughts beheld his soul ascend,

Where his fixed hopes our interview attend:

Then cease to wonder that I feel no grief

From age, which is of my delights the chief.

My hopes if this assurance hath deceived

(That I man's soul immortal have believed), 940

And if I err, no power shall dispossess

My thoughts of that expected happiness,

Though some minute philosophers pretend,

That with our days our pains and pleasures end.

If it be so, I hold the safer side,

For none of them my error shall deride.

And if hereafter no rewards appear, 947

Yet virtue hath itself rewarded here.

If those who this opinion have despised,

And their whole life to pleasure sacrificed,

Should feel their error, they, when undeceived,

Too late will wish that me they had believed.

If souls no immortality obtain,

'Tis fit our bodies should be out of pain.

The same uneasiness which everything

Gives to our nature, life must also bring.

Good acts, if long, seem tedious; so is age,

Acting too long upon this earth her stage.--

Thus much for age, to which when you arrive,

That joy to you, which it gives me, 'twill give. 960

END OF DENHAM'S POETICAL WORKS.