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They, neighbours to your eyes,
| Then Revenge, married to Ambition, Show but like Phosphor when the Sun doth rise. I | Begat black War; then Avarice crept on; .
Then limits to each field were strain'd, I would have all my mistress' parts
And Terminus a god-head gain'd,
To men before was found,
Besides the sea, no bound.
In what plain, or what river, hath not been
This truth too well our England knows: For 'tis not buildings make a court,
'Twascivil slaughter dy'd her rose; Ur pomp, but 'tis the king's resort :
Nay, then her lily too
. With blood's loss paler grew.
Such griefs, nay worse than these, we now should le than a golden one it cannot be.
Did not just Charles silence the rage of steel; "ODE IV.
He to our land blest Peace doth bring,
All neighbour countries envying.
Happy who did remain
Unborn till Charles's reign!
Where dreaming chymics! is your pain and cost? Leave off unfit complaints, and clear
How is your oil, how is your labour lost ! From sighs your breast, and from black clouds
Our Charles, blest alchymist! (though strange, your brow,
Believe it, future times !) did change When the Sun shines not with his wonted cheer,
The iron-age of old.
Into an age of guld.
UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAX'S LIFE.
| Mark that swift arrow! how it cuts the air, Return, and tears sport's nearest neighbours are. I
How it out-runs thy following eye! 'Tis by the gods appointed so,
l'se all persuasions now, and try That good fare should with mingled dangers flow. If thou canst call it back, or stay it there. Who drave his oxen yesterday,
That way it went ; but thou shalt find Doth now over the noblest Romans reign,
No tract is left behind. And on the Gabii and the Cures lay
Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.
Of all the time thou'st shot away,
I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind ?
Our life is carried with too strong a tide; To his old country-farm of yesterday,
A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
And is the horse of all our years.
Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.
We and our glass run out, and must
Both render up our dust.
| But his past life who without grief can see;
Who never thinks his end too near,
But says to Farne, “Thou art mine heir;"
That man extends life's natural brevityIN COMMENDATION OF THE TIME WE LIVE UNDER, THE
This is, this is the only way I REIGN OF OUR GRACIOUS KING CHARLES.
To out-live Nestor in a day.
Curst be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who
who | AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught
Nichols, my better self! forbear;
For, if thou tell'st what Cainbridge pleasures
are, Man's life t' epitomize!
The schoolboy's sin will light on me, Then men (fund men, alas!) ride post to th' grare. | I shall, in mind at least, a truant be.
Tell me not how you feed your mind And cut those threads which yet the Fates would
With dainties of philosophy;
In Ovid's nut I shall not find
The taste once pleased me.
O tell me not of logic's diverse cheer!
I shall begin to loathe our crambo here.
Tell me not how the waves appear
Why do I stay then? I would meet Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned shire;
Thee there, but plummets hang upon my feet; I shall contemn the troubled Thames
'Tis my chief wish to live with thee, On her chief holiday; ev'n when her streams But not till I deserve thy company : Are with rich folly gilded; when
Till then, we'll scorn to let that toy,
Some forty miles, divide our hearts:
Write to me, and I shall enjoy
Friendship and wit, thy better parts. When th' city shines with flags and pageants there, | Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings, And satin doublets, seen not twice a year,
We 'll easily see each other; Love hath wings.
| And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go,
See us, and clouds, below,
ODE. OF WIT.
Tell me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit, Unless you write my elegy ;
Thou who master art of it? Whilst others great, by being born, are grown; For the first matter loves variety less; Their mothers' labour, not their own.
Less women love 't, either in love or dress. In this scale gold, in th’ other fame does lie,
A thousand different shapes it bears, The weight of that mounts this so high.
Comely in thousand shapes appears. These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; Yonder we saw it plain; and here 'tis now,
Brought forth with their own fire and light: Like spirits, in a place we know not how. If I, ber vulgar stone, for either look,
London, that vents of false ware so much store, Out of myself it must be strook,
. In no ware deceives us more; Yet I must on. What sound is 't strikes mine ear? For men, led by the colour and the shape, Sure I Fame's trumpet hear:
Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape. It sounds like the last trumpet ; for it can
Same thiogs do through our judgment Raise up the buried man.
pass Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all,
· As through a multiplying-glass; And march, the Muses' Hannibal.
And sometimes, if the object be too far, llence, all the flattering vanities that lay
We take a falling meteor for a star, Nets of roses in the way!
Hence 'tis, a Wit, that greatest word of fame, Hence, the desire of honours or estate,
Grows such a common name; Aud all that is not above Fate !
| And Wits by our creation they become, Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days !
Just so as titular bishops made at Rome. Which intercepts my coming praise.
'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me
Admir'd with laughter at a feast, on ;
| Nor Norid talk, which can that title gain; 'Tis time that I were gone.
| The proofs of Wit for ever must remain. Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now All I was born to know:
'Tis not to force some lifeless verses meet Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do;
With their five gouty feet, He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you.
All, every where, like man's, must be the soul, Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and | And Reason the inferior powers controul.
Such were the numbers which could call Preserves Rome's greatness yet:
The stones into the Theban wall. Thou art the first of orators; only he
Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see Who best can praise thee, next must be.
No towns or houses rais'd by poetry. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise ! Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each part; Whose verse walks highest, but not flies;
That shows more cost than art. Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear ; And made that art which was a rage.
Rather than all things Wit, let none be there. Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do
Several lights will not be seen, To be like one of you?
If there be nothing else between. Rut yog have climb'd the mountain's top, there sit Men doubt, because they stand so thick i'th' sky. Un the calm lourishing head of it,
| If those be stars which paint the galaxy.
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 froin 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 force some odd similitude.
ON THE DEATH OF
SIR HENRY WOOTTON. la a true piece of Wit all things must be,
WHAT shall we say, since silent now is he
Who when he spoke, all things would silent be?
Who had so many languages in store,
That only Fame shall speak of hjin in more;
Whom England now no more returu'd must see; (If we compare great things with small) Which, without discord, or confusion, lie
He's gone to Heaven on his fourth embassy,
On Earth he travell’d often ; not to say In that strange mirror of the Deity.
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 manners, bringing home I took you for myself, sure, when I thought
Their wisdom, learning, and their piety,
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; What thing right Wit and height of genius is, Spoke 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,
Who in his breast had all things to express.
| 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.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN,
SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL. (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 sent 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,
ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN...DEATH OF VANDYCK. 69 But we in chief; our country soon was grown i 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 though he taught but boys, he made the men.
And durst not kiss the armed shore ! Hence 'twas a master, in those ancient days
| His waters ran more swiftly than they use, When men sought knowledge first, and by it | And hasted to the sea to tell the news : 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 enernies grown?
That, and its master Charles, had made us one.
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 nogght 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. Wbilst 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 non ;
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,
To see a new Gustavus there;
For Jove of old, it now bure thunder too!
Sure there are actions of this height and praise
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;
And we, the prøphets' sous, write not by guess.
ON THE DEATH OF
SIR ANTHONY VANDYCK;
THE FAMOUS PAINTER.
Vandyck is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare 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 drew. 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,
Which is her own, and which the painter's hand;
| And does attempt the like with less success, And only work’t by such a king. Again the northern hinds may sing and plough,
When her own work in twins she would express. And fear no harm but from the weather now;
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was his life less perfect than his art.
Nor was his band less erring than his heart.
There was no false or fading colour there,
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were.
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew. At sucb 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,
FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE.
Wuex chance or cruel business parts us two, Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
What do our souls, I wonder, do? Whilst he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Whilst sleep does our dull bodies tie, Scorns his own art, which we arlmirc below.
Methinks at home they should not stay, Onlv his beauteous lady still he loves
Content with dreams, but boldly fiy
| Sure they do meet, enjoy each other there, And you, fair widow! who stay here alive,
And mix, I know not how nor where ! Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve :
Their friendly lights together twine, Yourjoys and griefs were wont the same to be ;
Though we perceive 't not to be so! Begin not now, blest pair! to disagree.
Like loving stars, which oft combine, No wonder Death move not his generous mind;
Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know. You, and a new-bom you, he left behind :
"Twere an ill world, I'll swear, for every friend, Ev'n Fate express'd his love to his dear wife,
If listance could their union end :
But Love itself does far advance
It scorns such outward circumstance.
| His time's for ever, every where his place. PROMETHEUS
I'm there with thee, yet here with me thou art, ILL-PAINTED.
Lodgd in each other's heart:
Miracles cease not yet in love. How wretched does Prometheus' state appear,
When be his mighty power will try, Whilst he his second misery suffers here !
Absence itself does bounteous prove, Draw him no more ; lest, as he tortur'd stands, And strangely ev'n our presence multiply. He blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands.
Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine, It would the vulture's cruelty outgo,
Like that which in Heaven's Sun does shine: If once again his liver thus should grow.
He in the upper air and sky Pity him, Jove! and his bold theft allow ;
Does no effects of heat bestow;
But, as his beams the farther ily,
Friendship is less apparent when too nigh,
Like objects if they touch the eye.
Less meritorious then is love; Here's to thee, Dick ; this whining love despise ;
For when we friends together seo Pledge me, my friend ; and drink till thou be'st
So much, so much both one do prove, wise,
That their love then seems but self-love to be.
Each day think on me, and each day I shall
For thee make hours canonical.
By every wind that comes this way,
Send me, at least, a sigh or two; With all thy servile pairs what canst thou win,
Such and so many I'll repay,
As shall themselves make winds to get to you.
A thousand pretty ways we'll think upon,
To mock our separation.
Alas! ten thonsand will not do;
My heart will thus no longer stay; Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
No longer 'twill be kept from you,
But knocks against the breast to get away.
And, when no art affords me help or ease,
I seek with verse my griefs t appeasc;
Just as a bird, that flies about
And beats itself against the cage, Follies they have so numberless in store,
Finding at last no passage out,
It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage.
TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN, Here's to thee again ; thy senseless sorrows drown; )
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?
Of liberty, at first I could not grieve;