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ON THE DEATH OP
Tis not when two like words make up one noise Whilst we, like younger brothers, get at best
(Jests for Dutch men and English boys) ; But a small stock, and must work out the rest. In which who finds out Wit, the same may see How could he answer 't, should the state think fit In an'grams and acrostic poetry :
To question a monopoly of wit ?
Such is the man whom we require the same
We lent the North ; untouch'd, as is his fame. 'Such dross the fire must purge away: 'tis just He is too good for war, and ought to be The author blush there, where the reader must. As far from danger, as from fear he's free. 'Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage
Those men alone (and those are useful too)
Whose valour is the only art they know
Were for sad war and bloody battles born;
Let thein the state defend, and he adorn.
And furce some odd similitude.
SIR HENRY WOOTTON.
What shall we say, since silent now is he
Who when he spoke, all things would silent be? All creatures dwelt; all creatures that had life:
Who had so many languages in store,
That only Fame shall speak of himn in more; (If we compare great things with small)
Whom England now no more returu'd must see ; Which, without discord, or confusion, lie
He's gone to Heaven on his fourth embassy, In that strange mirror of the Deity.
On Earth he traveild often ; not to say
H' had been abroad, or pass loose time away. But Love, that moulds one man up out of two, In whatsoever land he chanc'd to come,
Makes me forget, and injure you : He read the men and manuers, bringing home
As if he went to conquer, not too see.
So well he understood the mos and best
Of tongues, that Babel sent into the West;
Spuke them so truly, that he had (you'd swear) I'll only show your lines, and say, 'T'is this.
Not only liv'd, but been born every where.
Nor ought the language of that man be less,
We say, that learning's endless, and blame Fate EXPEDITION AGAINST THE Scors.
For not allowing life a longer date :
He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find, Great is thy charge, O North! be wise and just, He found them not so large as was his mind; England commits her Falkland to thy trust; But, like the brave Pellæan youth, did moan Return him safe; Learning would rather choose Because that art had no more worlds than one; Her Bodley or her Vatican to lose:
And, when he saw that he through all had past, All things that are but writ or printed there, He dy'd, lest he should idle grow at last. In his unbounded breast engraven are. There all the sciences together meet, And every art does all her kindred greet, Yet justle not, nor quarrel ; but as well Agree as in some common principle.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN, So, in an army govern'd right, we see (Though out of several countries rais'd it be) That all their order and their place maintain,
Hence, and make room for me, all you who come The English, Dutch, the Frenchman, and the Dane: Only to read the epitaph on this tomb ! So thousand divers species fill the air,
Here lies the master of my tender years, Yet neither crowd nor mix confus’dly there; The guardian of my parents' hope and fears; Beasts, houses, trees, and men, together lie, Whose government ne'er stood me in a tear; Yet enter undisturb’d into the eye.
All weeping was reserv'd to spend it here. And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate Come hither, all who his rare virtues knew, Thrust into th' noise and business of a state.
And mourn with me: he was your tutor too. All virtues, and some customs of the court,
Let's join our sighs, till they fly far, and shew Other men's labour, are at least his sport;
His native Belgia what she's now to do. Whilst we, who can no action undertake,
The league of grief bids her with us lament; Whom idleness itself might learned make;
By her he was brought forth, and hither sént Who hear of nothing, and as yet scarce know, In payment of all men we there had lost, Whether the Scots in England be or no;
And all the English blood those wars have cost. Pace dully on, oft tire, and often stay,
Wisely did Nature this learn'd man divide ; Yet see his nimble Pegasus fly away.
His birth was theirs, his death the mournful pride 'Tis Nature's fault, who did thus partial grow, Of England ; and, t'avoid the envious strife And hirestate of wit on one bestow;
Of other lands, all Europe had his life,
SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL.
ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN...DEATH OF VANDYCK.
But we in chief; our country soon was grown
How justly would our neighbours smile A debtor more to bim, than he to 's own.
At these mad quarrels of our isle ; He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes, Swell’d with proud hopes to snatch the whole away And built up men against the future times; Whilst we bet all, and yet for nothing play! For deeds of age are in their causes then,
How was the silver Tine frighted before,
And durst not kiss the armed shore !
His waters ran more swiftly than they use, praise,
The sea itself, how rough soe'er, Was a thing full of reverence, profit, fame;
Could scarce believe such fury here. Father itself was but a second name.
How could the Scots and we be enemies grown He scorn'd the profit; his instructions all
That, and its master Charles, hail made us one. Were, like the science, free and liberal. He deserr'd honours, but despis'd them too,
No blood so loud as that of civil war: * As much as those who have them others do.
It calls for dangers from afar. He knew not that which compliment they call;
Let's rather go and seek out them and fame; Could flatter none, but himself least of all, Thus our fore-fathers got, thus left, a name : So true, so faithful, and so just, as he
All their rich blood was spent with gains, Was nought on Earth but his own memory ;
But that which swells their children's veins. His memory, where all things written were, Why sit we still, our spirits wrapt in lead ? As sure and fixt as in Fate's books they are. Not like them whilst they liv'd, but now they're Thus he in arts so vast a treasure gain'd,
dead. Whilst still the use came in, and stock remain'd:
The noise at home was but Fate's policy, And, having purchas'd all that man can know,
To raise our spirits more high : He labour'd with 't to enrich others now ;
So a bold lion, ere he seeks his prey, Did thus a new and harder task sustain,
Lashes his sides and roars, and then away. Like those that work in mines for others' gain :
How would the German eagle fear, He, though more nobly, had much more to do,
To see a new Gustavus there; To search the vein, dig, purge, and mint it too. How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do Though my excuse would be, I must confess, For Jove of old, it now bure thunder too! Much better had his diligence been less ; But, if a Muse hereafter smile on me,
Sure there are actions of this height and praise And say, “ Be thou a poet !” men shall see
Destin'd to Charles's days! That none could a more grateful scholar have;
What will the triumphs of his battles be, For what I ow'd his life I'll pay his grave.
Whose very peace itself is victory !
When Heaven bestows the best of kings,
It bids us think of mighty things :
His valour, wisdom, offspring, speak no less; ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN And we, the prwphets' sons, write not by guess.
OUT OF SCOTLAND. Welcome, great Sir! with all the joy that's due To the return of peace and you ;
ON THE DEATH OR Two greatest blessings which this age can know !
SIR ANTHONY VANDICK,
THE FAMOUS PAINTER,
Vandyck is dead; but what bold Muse shall daro Who, when rude Chaos for his help did call, (Though poets in that word with painters share) Spoke but the word and sweetly order'd all.
T express her sadness ? Poesy must become This happy concord in no blood is writ,
An art like Painting here, an art that's dumb. None can grudge Heaven full thanks for it : Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep, No mothers here lament their children's fate, Like some sad picture which he made to weep, And like the peace, but think it comes too late. Or those who saw't; for none his works could view No widows hear the jocund bells,
Unmoved with the same passions which he drex. And take them for their husbands: knells : His pieces so with their live objects strive, No drop of blood is spilt, which might be said That both or pictures seem, or both alive. To mark our joyful holiday with red.
Nature herself, amaz’d, does doubting stand, 'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing, And does attempt the like with less success,
Which is her own, and which the painter's hand; And only work’t by such a king.
When her own work in twins she would express. Again the northern hinds may sing and plough,
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass And fear no harm but from the weather now;
The mimic imagery of looking-glass. Again may tradesmen love their pain, · By knowing row for whom they gain;
Nor was his life less perfect than his art. The armour now may be hung up to sight,
Nor was his band less erring than his heart.
"There was no false or fading colour there, And only in their halls the children fright.
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were. The gain of civil wars will not allow
Most other men, set next to him in view, Bay to the conqueror's brow :
Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew. At such a game what fool would venture in, Thus still he liv'd, till Heav'n did for him call; Where one must lose yet neither side can win? Where reverend Luke salutes him first of all;
Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair,
Onlv his beauteous lady still he loves
Hlow wretched does Prometheus' state appear,
FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE.
What do our souls, I wonder, do?
Content with dreams, but boldiy fiy
And mix, I know not how nor where !
Like loving stars, which oft coinbine, Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know. "Twere an ill world, I'll swear, for every friend,
If distance could their union end:
It scorns such outward circumstance,
Lody'd in each other's heart:
Absence itself does bounteous prove,
Like that which in Heaven's Sun does shine :
But, as his beams the farther íly,
Like objects if they touch the eye.
So much, so much both one do prove,
For thee make hours canonical.
Such and so many I'll repay,
To mock our separation.
No longer 'twill be kept from you,
I seek with verse my griefs t appease ;
Finding at last no passage out,
No; they are all sophisticate.
A thing so vile, and so short-livd,
From the neglected foam deriv'd.
Could he a woman's heart have seen
When he lay shut up in her woinb?
Neither their sighs nor tears are true;
But sighs and tears have sexes too.
Again, till these two lights be four;
TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN,
UPON HIS EXLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER.
Pardon, my lord, that I am come so late T'express my joy for your return of fate? So, when injurious Chance did you deprive Of liberty, at first I could not grieve ;
My thoughts awhile, like you, imprison'd lay ;
We'll write whate'er from you we hear; Great joys, as well as sorrows, make a stay ;
For that's the posy of the year. They hinder one another in the crowd,
This difference only will remainAnd none are heard, whilst all would speak aloud.
That Time his former face does shew, Should every man's officious gladness haste,
Winding into himself again; And be afraid to show itself the last,
But your unweary'd wit is always new. The throng of gratulations now would be
'Tis said, that conjurers have an art found out Another loss to you of liberty.
To carry spirits confin'd in rings about : When of your freedom men the news did hear,
The wonder now will less appear, Where it was wish’d-for, that is every where,
When we behold your inagic here. 'Twas like the speech which from your lips does You, by your rings, do prisoners take,
And chain them with your mystic spells, As soon as it was heard, it ravish'd all.
And, the strong witchcraft full to make, So eloquent Tully did from exile come;
Love, the great Devil, charm'd to those circles, Thus long'd for he return'd, and cherish'd Rome;
dwells. Which could no more his tongue and counsels miss ; Rome, the world's head, was nothing without his.
They, who above do various circles find, Wrong to those sacred ashes, I should do,
Say, like a ring, th' equator Heaven does bind. Should I compare any to him but you ;
When Heaven shall be adorn'd by thee You, to whom Art and Nature did dispense
(Which then more Heaven than 'tis will be) The consulship of wit and eloquence...
"Tis thou must write the posy there, Nor did your fate differ from his at all,
For it wanteth one as yet, Because the doom of exile was his fall;
- Though the Sun pass through’t twice a year For the whole world, without a native home,
The Sun, who is esteem'd the god of wit. Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
Happy the hands which wear thy sacred rings, But like a melting woman suffer'd he,
They'll teach those hands to write mysterious He who before out-did humanity,
things. Nor could his spirit constant and stedfast prove.
Let other rings, with jewels bright, Whose art 't had been, and greatest end, to move.
Cast around their costly light; Yun put ill-fortune in so good a dress,
Let them want no noble stone, That it out-shone other men's happiness :
By nature rich and art refin'd; Had your prosperity always clearly gone,
Yet shall thy rings give place to none,
But only that which must thy marriage bind.
PROLOGUE TO THE GUARDIAN:
Who says the times do learning disallow?
When you appear, great prince ! our night is done ;
You are our morning-star, and shall be our sun. That would be more oppress'd than help'd by day. But our scene's London now ; and by the rout Your soul then most show'd her unconquer'd pow- We perish, if the Round-heads be about: ег, ,
For now no ornament the head must wear,
No bays, no mitre, not so much as hair.
Our only hope is this, that it may be
A play may pass too, made extempore.
Though other arts poor and neglected grow,
They'll admit poesy, which was always so.
But we contemn the fury of these days,
Our Muse, blest prince! does only on you rely ;
Would gladly live, but not refuse to die.
Our ignorance, but our duty too, we show;
At other times expect our wit or art;
This comedy is acted by the heart.
The play, great sir ! is done ; yet needs must fear, To womankind, epitomiz'd in you.
Though you brought all your father's inercies here, If, as the ancients did not doubt to sing,
It may offend your highness; and we ’ave now The turning years be well compar'd ta ring, Three hours done treason here, for augbt we know,
BEFORE TILE PRIXCE.
WHO MADE POSIES FOR RINGS.
But power your grace can above Nature give, No tuneful birds play with their wonted cheer, It can give power to make abortives live;
And call the learned youths to hear ; In which, if our bold wishes should be crost, No whistling winds through the glad branches fy: 'Tis but the life of one poor week 't has lost :
But all, witii sad solemnity, Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn, Mute and unmoved be, Scarce could it die more quickly than 't was born. Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie.
To him my Muse made haute with every strain,
Whilst it was new and warn yet from the brain : ON THE DEATH OF
He lov'd my worthless rhymes, and, like a friend, MR. WILLIAM HERVEY.
Would find out something to commend.
Hence now, my Muse! thou canst not me delight: IMMODICIS BREVIS EST ÆTAS, & RARA SENECTUS.
Be this my latest verse,
With which I now adorn bis hearse ; I was a dismal and a fearful night,
And this my grief, without thy help, shall write.. Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling Had I a wreath of bays about my brow, Light,
I should contemn that flourishing honour now; When Sleep, Death's imagc, left my troubled Condemn it to the fire, and joy to hear breast,
It rage and crackle there.. By something liker death possest.
Instead of bays, crown with sad cypress me; My eyes with tears did uncommanded Aow,
Cypress, which tombs does beautify: And on my soul hung the dull weight
Not Phæbus griev’d, so much as I, Of some intolerable fate.
For him who first was made that mournful tree. What bell was that? ah me! too much I know.
Large was his soul ; as large a soul as e'er My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Submitted to inform a body here; Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?
have, O, thou hast left me all alone!
But low and humble as his grave: Thy soul and body, when death's agony
So high, that all the Virtues there did come. Besieg'd around thy noble heart,
As to their chiefest seat
Conspicuous and great;
Was fill'd with innocent gallantry and truth, If once my griefs prove tedious too.
Triumphant o'er the sins of youth. Silent and sad I walk about all day,
He, like the stars, to which he now is gone, As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by
That shine with beams like flame, Where their hid treasures lie;
Yet burn not with the same, Alas ! my treasure's gone! why do I stay? Had all the light of youth, of the fire none. He was my friend, the truest friend on Earth; Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, A strong and mighty influence join'd our birth; As if for him knowledge had rather sought: Nor did we envy the most sounding name
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie By friendship given of old to Fame.
In such a short mortality. None but his brethren he, and sisters, knew, Whene'er the skilful youth discours d or writ, Whom the kind youth preferr'd to me;
Still did the notions throng And ev'n in that we did agree,
About his eloquent tongue, For much above myself I lov'd them too.
Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
So strong a wit did Nature to him frame, How oft unweary'd have we spent the nights, As all things but his judgment overcame; Till the Ledæan stars, so fam'd for love,
His judgment like the heavenly moon did show, Wonder'd at us from above !
Tempering tha; mighty sea below. We spent thein not in toys, in lusts, or wine ; Oh! had he liv'd in Learning's world, what bound But search of deep philosophy,
Would have been able to control Wit, eloquence, and poetry,
His over-powering soul; Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were we ’ave lost in him arts that not yet are found. thine.
His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say Yet never did his God or friends forget ; Have ye not seen us walking every day?
And, when decp talk and wisdom came in view, Was there a tree about which did not know
Retir'd, and gave to them their due : The love betwixt us two?
For the rich help of books he always took, Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade;
Though his own searching mind lxfore Or your sad branches thicker join,
Was so with notions written o'er And into darksome shades combine,
As if wise Nature had made that her book. Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid !
So many virtues join'd in him, as we Henceforth, no learned youths beneath you sing, Can scarce pick here and there in history; Till all the tuneful birds ļ your boughs they More than old writers' practice e'er could reach, bring i
As much as they could ever teach.