« 上一頁繼續 »
ON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD... TO A PERSON OF HONOUR, 243
Since man to that perfection cannot rise,
Therefore the patterns man should imitate
Above the life our masters should create.
Herein, if we consult with Greece and Rome, Great Strafford ! worthy of that name, though Greece (as in war) by Rome was overcome; all
Though mighty raptures we in Homer find, Of thee could be forgotten, but thy fall,
Yet, like himself, his characters were blind; Crush'd by imaginary treason's weight,
Virgil's Cablimed eyes not only gaz'd, Which too much merit did accumulate:
But bis sublimed thoughts to Heaven were As chymists gold from brass by fire would draw,
rais'd. Pretexts are into treason forgd by law..
Who reads the honours which he paid the gods, His wisdom such, at once it did appear
Would think he had beheld their blest abodes; Three kingdoms' wonder, and three kingdoms' And that his hero might accomplish'd be,
From divine blood he draws his pedigree. While single he stood forth, and seem'd, although From that great judge your judgment takes its Each had an army, as an equal foe.
law, Such was his force of eloquence, to make And by the best original does draw The hearers more concern'd than he that spake ; | Bonduca's honour, with those heroes Time Each seem'd to act that part he came to see, Had in oblivion wrapt, his saucy crime ; And none was more a looker-on than he ; To them and to your nation you are just, So did he move our passions, some were known In raising up their glories from the dust; To wish, for the defence, the crime their own. And to Old England you that right have done Now private pity strove with public hate, To show, no story pobler than her own. Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate: Now they could him, if he could them forgive ; He's not too guilty, but too wise to live; Less seem those facts which Treason's nick-name
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF
HENRY LORD HASTINGS, 1650.
When every line they add improves thy loss, Death from their fears, than 'safety from his Till having view'd the whole, they sum a own,
cross; That his last action all the rest might crown.
Such as derides thy passions' best relief,
Of man and pious, read and mourn: the shame
Of an exemption, from just sense, dotb show
Irrational, beyond excess of woe.
Since reason, then, can privilege a tear,
Manhood, uncensur'd, pay that tribute here, So high above all vulgar eyes ! so long?
Dust far more precious than in India's veins : One single rapture scarce itself confines Within the limits of four thousand lines :
Within these cold embraces, ravish’d, lies
That which compleats the age's tyrannies : And yet I hope to see this noble heat
Who weak to such another ill appear, Continue, till it makes the piece complete,
For what destroys our hope, secures our fear. That to the latter age it may descend, And to the end of time its beams extend.
What sin unexpiated, in this land When Poesy joins profit with delight,
Of groans, hath guided so severe a hand ?
The late great victim 2 that your altars knew, Her images should be most exquisite,
Ye angry gods, might have excus'd this new 1 The honourable Edward Howard, by his oblation, and have spar'd one lofty light
Of virtue, to inform our steps aright; poem called The British Princes, engaged the By whose example good, condemned, we attention of by far the most eminent of his con
Might have run on to kinder destiny. temporaries; who played upon his vanity, as
But as the leader of the herd fell first the wits of half a century'before had done on that of Thomas Coryat, by writing extravagant of inflam'd vengeance for past crimes ; so none
A sacrifice, to quench the raging thirst compliments on his works. See Butler's, Wal. But this white-fatted youngling cou'd atone, ler's, Sprat's, and Dorset's verses in their respective volumes; and in the Select Collection of By his untimely fate; that impious smoke, Miscellaneous Poems, 1780, vol. III. p. 105, are
That sullied Earth, and did Heaven's pity choke. other verses on the same subject, by Marton Clifford, and the lord Vaughan. N.
> King Charles the First,
Let it suffice for us, that we have lost
Thus the constitution In him more than the widow'd world can boast
Condemns them every one, In any lump of her remaining clay.
From the father to the son.
(Our friend) Molleson
Thought us to have out-gone
With a quaint invention,
He complain'd long before,
Ay, and thrice as much more.
And with that wicked lye,
A letter they came by And tell those powers to whom thou now draw'st From our king's majesty. near,
But Fate That by our trembling sense, in HasTiNGS
Brought the letter too late, Their anger and our ugly faults are read;
'Twas of too old a date The short lines of whose life did to our eyes
To relieve their damn'd state.
With seal of wax so green,
Turn'd into good Latin.
But he that gave the hint
Must also pay his stint.
FROM WHENCE WE BROUGHT 10,0001. FOR HIS Had it come in the nick,
Had touch'd us to the quick,
But the messenger fell sick.
Had it later been wrote,
And sooner been brought, Of the pure ones in Pole,
They had got what they sought, Which are damn’d in our scroul.
But now it serves for nought. Who having felt a touch
On Sandys they ran aground, Of Cockram's greedy clutch,
And our return was crown'd
With full ten thousand pound.
KILLIGREW'S RETURN FRON VENICE,
AND MR. WILLIAM MURREY'S FROM SCOTLAND. Nor lend An ear to a friend,
Our resident Tom, Nor an answer would send
From Venice is come, To our letter so well penn'd,
And hath left the statesman behind him:
Talks at the same pitch, Nor assist our affairs
Is as wise, is as rich; With their monies nor their wares,
And just where you left him, you find him. As their answer now declares, But only with their prayers.
But who says he was not Thus they did persist
A man of much plot, Did and said what they list,
May repent that false accusation ; Till the diet was dismist;
Having plotted and penn'd But then our breech they kist.
Six plays, to attend
The farce of his negotiation.
Before you were told
How Satan 3 the old The diet said, Amen.
Came here with a beard to his middle;
Though he chang'd face and name, And because they are loth
Old Will was the same,
At the noise of a can and a fiddle.
3. Mr. W. Murrey.
These statesmen, you believe,
Nor did he like the omen,
For fear it might be his doom
One day for to sing,
With a gullet in string,
-A hymn of Robert Wisdom.
But what was all this business?
For sure it was important :
For who rides i' th' wet
When affairs are not great,
The neighbours make but a sport on't.
To a goodly fat sow's baby,
O John, thou hadst a malice,
The old driver of swine
That day sure was thine,
Or thou hadst not quitted Calais.
At the Hague, they ’re at home;
EAT A PIG.
What gives us that fantastic fit,
That all our judgment and our wit
To vulgar custom we submit ?
Of that foul legion we so detest,
Are in their proper names exprest, All on a weeping Monday,
Why is it then thought sin or shame, With a fat Bulgarian sloven,
Those necessary parts to name; Little admiral John
From whence we went, and whence we came? To Bologne is gone. Whom I think they call Old Loven.
Nature, whate'er she wants, requires;
With love inflaming our desires,
Finds engines fit to quench those fires :
Death she abhors; yet when men die,
We 're present; but no stander-by So often cry'd A pox on?
Looks on when we that loss supply. A knight by land and water
Forbidden wares sell twice as dear ; Esteem'd at such a high rate,
Ev'n sack prohibited last year,
A most abominable rate did bear.
'Tis plain our eyes and ears are nice,
Only to raise, by that device,
Of those commodities the price.
Thus Reason's shadows us betray,
By tropes and figures led astray,
From Nature, both her guide and way.
SARPEDON'S SPEECH TO GLAUCUS,
Thus to Glaucus spake That tender stripling Astcot,
Divine Sarpedon, since he did not find Who was soak'd to the skin,
Others, as great in place, as great in mind. Through drugget so thin,
Above the rest why is our pomp, our power, Having neither cuat nor waistcoat.
Our flock, our herds, and our possessions more?
Why all the tributes land and sea affords He being proudly mounted,
Heap'd in great chargers, load our sumptuous Clad in cloak of Plymouth,
boards? Defy'd cart so base,
Our cheerful guests carouse the sparkling tears For thief without grace,
Of the rich grape, whilst music charms their That goes to make a wry mouth,
IN THE TWELFTH BOOK OF HOMER.
Why, as we pass, do those on Xanthus' shore, It is not thou, but we are blind,
and our corporeal eyes (we find) But that, as well in danger as degree,
Dazzle the optics of our mind.
Love to our citadel resorts, “ Behold cur gallant leaders! These are they
Through those deceitful sally-ports,
What subtle witchcraft man constrains, Could the declining of this fate (oh, friend)
To change his pleasure into pains, Our date to immortality extend ?
And all his freedom into chains ? Or if death sought not them who seek not death, May not a prison, or a grave, Would I advance ? or should my vainer breath
Like wedlock, honour's title have ? With such a glorious folly thee inspire ?
That word makes free-born man a slave.
How happy be that loves not lives !
How unconcern'd in things to come!
If here uneasy, finds at Rome,
Secure from low and private ends,
His life, his zeal, his wealth attends
His prince, his country, and his friends. Pr’YTHEE die and set me free, Or else be
Danger and honour are his joy; Kind and brisk, and gay like me;
But a fond wife, or wanton boy, I pretend not to the wise ones,
May all those generous thoughts destroy. To the grave, to the grave,
Then he lays-by the public care, Or the precise ones.
Thinks of providing for an heir; 'Tis not checks, nor lips, nor eyes,
Learns how to get, and how to spare. That I prize,
Nor fire, nor foe, nor fate, nor night, Quick conceits, or sharp replies ;
The Trojan hero did affright, If wise thou wilt appear and knowing,
Who bravely twice renew'd the fight Repartie, Repartie, To what I'm doing.
Though stiil his foes in number grew,
Thicker their darts and arrows flew,
Yet left alone, no fear he knew.
But Death in all her forms appears,
From every thing he sees and hears, And to see, and to see,
For whom he leads, and whom he bears!. As well as handle.
Love, making all things else his foes, Why so many bolts and locks,
Like a fierce torrent, overflows
Whatever doth his course oppose.
This was the cause the poets sung.
Thy mother from the sea was sprung, Itself were naked.
But they were mad to make thee young. But if a mistress I must have,
Her father not her son art thou : Wise and grave,
From our desires our actions grow; Let her so herself behave;
And from the cause th’ effect must flow, All the day long Susan civil, Pap by night, pap by night,
Love is as old as place or time;
Twas he the fatal tree did climb,
Well may'st thou keep this world in awe; FRIENDSHIP AND SINGLE LIFE, Religion, wisdom, honour, law,
The tyrant in his triumplı draw.
'Tis he commands the powers abore;
Phoebus resigns his darts, and Jove
His thunder, to the god of Love,
His father and son.
To him doth his feign'd mother yield ;
Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose, Nor Mars (her champion)'s flaming shield Whose purple blush the day foreshows; Guards himn when Cupid takes the field. The other three, with his own fires,
Phoebus, the poets' god, inspires; He clips Hope's wings, whose airy bliss
By Shakespear's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, Much higher than fruition is;
Our stage's lustre Rome's outsbines : But less than nothing, if it miss.
These poets near our princes sleep,
And in one grave their mansion keep. When matches Love alone projects
They liv'd to see so many days,
Till time had blasted all their bays;
That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower
That in the Muses' garden grew, Where Love's of blindness dispossest,
And amongst wither'd laurels threw. By perspectives of interest.
Time, which made them their fame outlive, Though Solomon with a thousand wives,
To Cowley scarce did ripeness give.
Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave
Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have ;
In Spenser, and in Jonson, Art Old Rome of children took no care,
Of slower Nature got the start; They with their friends their beds did share,
But both in him so equal are, Secure t adopt a hopeful heir.
None knows which bears the happiest share ;
To him no author was unknown, Love drowsy days and stormy nights
Yet what he wrote was all his own; Makes; and breaks friendship, whose delights He melted not the ancient gold, Feed, but not glut, our appetites.
Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman stores Well-chosen friendship, the most noble
Of poets, and of orators : Of virtues, all our joys makes double,
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, And into halves divides our trouble.
He did not steal, but emulate ! But when th' unlucky knot we tie,
And when he would like them appear, Care, avarice, fear, and jealousy,
Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear : Make friendship languish till it die.
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jason brought the golden fleece ; The wolf, the lion, and the bear,
To him that language (though to none When they their prey in pieces tear,
Of th' others) as his
own was known. To quarrel with themselves forbear :
On a stiff gale (as Flaccus sings)
The Theban swan extends his wings, Yet timorous deer, and harmless sheep, When through th' etherial clouds he Aies : When love into their veins doth creep,
To the same pitch our swan doth rise ; That law of Nature cease to keep.
Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd
When on that gale his wings are stretch'd; Who then can blame the amorous boy,
His fancy and his judgment such, Who the fair Helen to enjoy,
Each to the other seem'd too much, To quench his own, set fire on Troy?
His severe judgment (giving law)
His modest fancy kept in awe : Such is the world's preposterous fate,
As rigid husbands, jealous are, Amongst all creatures, mortal hate
When they believe their wives too fair. Love (though immortal) doth create.
His English streams so pure did flow, But love may beasts excuse, for they
As all that saw and tasted know : 'Their actions not by reason sway,
But for his Latin vein, so clear, But their brute appetites obey.
Strong, full, and high it doth appear,
That were immortal Virgil here,
Of that great portraiture, so truc
A copy, pencil never drew.
Joy aod amazement her did strike,
One soul might through more bodies pass. ANCIENT POETS.
Seeing such transmigration there, OLD Chancer, like the morning star,
She thought it not a fable here.
Such a resemblance of all parts,
Then lights her torch at theirs, to tell,
And show the world this parallel : Darkness again the age invades,
Fixt and contemplative their looks,