Poems written by A. Cowley.

Miscellanies.

THE MOTTO. Tentanda via est, &c.

WHat shall I do to be for ever known, And make the Age to come my own? I shall like Beasts or Common People dy, Unless you write my Elegy; Whilst others Great, by being Born are grown, Their Mothers Labour, not their own. In this Scale Gold, in th'other Fame does ly, The weight of that, mounts this so high. These men are Fortunes Iewels, moulded bright; Brought forth with their own fire and light. If I, her vulgar stone for either look; Out of my self it must be strook. Yet I must on; what sound is't strikes mine ear? Sure I Fames Trumpet hear. It sounds like the last Trumpet; for it can Raise up the bur'ied Man. Unpast Alpes stop me, but I'll cut through all, And march, the Muses Hannibal. Hence all the flattering vanities that lay Nets of Roses in the way▪

Hence the desire of Honors, or Estate; And all, that is not above Fate. Hence Love himself, that Tyrant of my days, Which intercepts my coming praise. Come my best Friends, my Books, and lead me on; 'Tis time that I were gon. Welcome, great Stagirite, and teach me now All I was born to know. Thy Scholars vict'ories thou dost far out-doe; He conquer'ed th' Earth, the whole World you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero, whose blest Tongue and Wit Preserves Romes greatness yet. Thou art the first of Ora'tors; onely he Who best can praise Thee, next must be. Welcome the Mantu'an Swan, Virgil the Wise, Whose verse walks highest, but not flies. Who brought green Poesie to her perfect Age; And made that Art which was a Rage. Tell me, ye mighty Three, what shall I do To be like one of you. But you have climb'd the Mountains top, there sit On the calm flourishing head of it, And whilst with wearied steps we upward go, See Us, and Clouds below.

ODE. Of Wit.

1.

TEll me, O tell, what kinde of thing is Wit, Thou who Master art of it. For the First Matter loves Variety less; Less Women love't, either in Love or Dress. A thousand different shapes it bears, Comely in thousand shapes appears. Yonder we saw it plain; and here 'tis now, Like Spirits in a Place, we know not How.

2.

London that vents of false Ware so much store, In no Ware deceives us more. For men lead by the Colour, and the Shape, Like Zeuxe's Birds fly to the painted Grape, Some things do through our Iudgement pass As through a Multiplying Glass. And sometimes, if the Object be too far, We take a Falling Meteor for a Star.

3.

Hence 'tis a Wit that greatest word of Fame Grows such a common Name. And Wits by our Creation they become, Iust so, as Tit'ular Bishops made at Rome. 'Tis not a Tale, 'tis not a Iest Admir'ed with Laughter at a feast, Nor florid Talk which can that Title gain; The Proofs of Wit for ever must remain.

4.

'Tis not to force some lifeless Verses meet With their five gowty feet. All ev'ery where, like Mans, must be the Soul, And Reason the Inferior Powers controul. Such were the Numbers which could call The Stones into the Theban wall. Such Miracles are ceast; and now we see No Towns or Houses rais'd by Poetrie.

5.

Yet 'tis not to adorn, and gild each part; That shows more Cost, then Art. Iewels at Nose and Lips but ill appear; Rather then all things Wit, let none be there. Several Lights will not be seen, If there be nothing else between. Men doubt, because they stand so thick i'th' skie, If those be Stars which paint the Galaxie.

6.

'Tis not when two like words make up one noise, Iests for Dutch Men, and English Boys. In which who finds out Wit, the same may see In An'agrams and Acrostiques Poetrie. Much less can that have any place At which a Virgin hides her face, Such Dross the Fire must purge away; 'tis just The Author blush, there where the Reader must.

7.

'Tis not such Lines as almost crack the Stage When Bajazet begins to rage. Nor a tall Metaphor in th'Oxford way, Nor the dry chips of short lung'ed Seneca. Nor upon all things to obtrude, And force some odde Similitude. What is it then, which like the Power Divine We onely can by Negatives define?

8.

In a true piece of Wit all things must be, Yet all things there agree. As in the Ark, joyn'd without force or strife, All Creatures dwelt; all Creatures that had Life. Or as the Primitive Forms of all (If we compare great things with small) Which without Discord or Confusion lie, In that strange Mirror of the Deitie.

9.

But Love that moulds One Man up out of Two. Makes me forget and injure you. I took you for my self sure, when I thought That you in any thing were to be Taught. Correct my error with thy Pen; And if any ask me then, What thing right Wit, and height of Genius is, I'll onely shew your Lines, and say, 'Tis This.

To the Lord Falkland. For his safe Return from the Northern Expedition against the Scots.

GReat is thy Charge, O North; be wise and just, England commits her Falkland to thy trust; Return him safe: Learning would rather choose Her Bodley, or her Vatican to loose. All things that are but writ or printed there, 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. So in an Army govern'ed right we see (Though out of several Countreys rais'd it be) That all their Order and their Place maintain, The English, Dutch, the Frenchman and the Dane. So thousand diverse Species fill the aire, Yet neither crowd nor mix confus'dly there, Beasts, Houses, Trees, and Men together lye, Yet enter undisturb'd into the Eye. And this great Prince of Knowledge is by Fate Thrust into th'noise and business of a State,

All Virtues, and some Customs of the Court, Other mens Labour, are at least his Sport. Whilst we who can no action undertake, Whom Idleness it self might Learned make, Who hear of nothing, and as yet scarce know, Whether the Scots in England be or no. Pace dully on, oft tire, and often stay, Yet see his nimble Pegasus fly away. 'Tis Natures fault who did thus partial grow, And her Estate of Wit on One bestow. Whilst we like younger Brothers, get at best But a small Stock, and must work out the rest. How could he answer't, should the State think fit To question a Monopoly of Wit? Such is the Man whom we require the same We lent the North; untoucht as is his Fame. He is too good for War, and ought to be As far from Danger, as from Fear he's free. Those Men alone (and those are useful too) Whose Valour is the onely Art they know, Were for sad War and bloody Battels born; Let Them the State Defend, and He Adorn.

On the Death of Sir Henry Wootton.

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 onely Fame shall speak of him in More! Whom England now no more return'd must see. He's gone to Heav'en on his Fourth Ambassie. On earth he travell'd often; not to say H'ad been abroad, or past loose Time away. In whatsoever Land he chanc'ed to come, He read the Men and Manners, bringing home Their Wisdom, Learning, and their Pietie, As if he went to Conquer, not to See. So well he understood the most and best Of Tongues that Babel sent into the West, Spoke them so truly, that he had (you'd sweare) Not onely Liv'ed, but been Born every where. Iustly each Nations Speech to him was known, Who for the World was made, not us alone. 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 For not allowing Life a longer date.

He did the utmost Bounds of Knowledge finde, He found them not so large as was his Minde. But, like the brave Pellaean Youth, did mone Because that Art had no more worlds then One. And when he saw that he through all had past, He dy'ed, lest he should Idle grow at last.

On the Death of Mr. Iordan, Second Master at Westminster School.

HEnce, and make room for me, all you who come Onely to read the Epitaph on this Tombe. Here lies the Master of my tender years, The Guardian of my Parents Hope and Fears, Whose Government nere stood me in a Teare; All weeping was reserv'ed to spend it here. Come hither all who his rare virtues knew, And mourn with Me: He was your Tutor too. Let's joyn our Sighes, till they fly far, and shew His native Belgia what she's now to doe. The League of grief bids her with us lament; By her he was brought forth, and hither sent In payment of all Men we there had lost, And all the English Blood those wars have cost. Wisely did Nature this learn'd Man divide; His Birth was Theirs, his Death the mournful pride Of England; and t'avoid the envious strife Of other Lands, all Europe had his Life, But we in chief; our Countrey soon was grown A Debter more to Him, then He to'his Own. He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes, And built up Men against the future times, For deeds of Age are in their Causes then, And though he taught but Boys, he made the Men. Hence 'twas a Master in those ancient dayes When men sought Knowledge first, and by it Praise, Was a thing full of Reverence, Profit, Fame; Father it self was but a Second Name. He scorn'd the profit; his Instructions all Were like the Science, Free and Liberal. He deserv'd Honors, but despis'ed them too As much as those who have them, others do. He knew not that which Complement they call; Could Flatter none, but Himself least of all. So true, so faithful, and so just as he, Was nought on earth, but his own Memorie.

His Memory, where all things written were As sure and fixt as in Fates Books they are. Thus he in Arts so vast a treasure gain'd, Whilst still the Use came in, and Stock remain'd. And having purchas'd all that man can know, He labor'd with't to enrich others now. Did thus a new, and harder task sustain, Like those that work in Mines for others gain. He, though more nobly, had much more to do, To search the Vein, dig, purge, and mint it too. Though my Excuse would be, I must confess, Much better had his Diligence been less. But if a Muse hereafter smile on me, And say, Be thou a Poet, men shall see That none could a more grateful Scholar have; For what I ow'ed his Life, I'll pay his Grave.

On His Majesties Return out of Scotland.

1.

WElcome, great Sir, with all the joy that's due To the return of Peace and You. Two greatest Blessings which this age can know; For that to Thee, for Thee to Heav'en we ow. Others by war their Conquests gain, You like a God your ends obtain. Who when rude Chaos for his help did call, Spoke but the Word, and sweetly Order'd all.

2.

This happy Concord in no Blood is writ, None can grutch heav'en full thanks for it. No Mothers here lament their Childrens fate, And like the Peace, but think it comes too late. No Widows hear the jocond Bells, And take them for their Husbands Knells. No Drop of Blood is spilt which might be said To mark our joyful Holiday with Red.

3.

'Twas onely Heav'en could work this wondrous thing, And onely workt by such a King. Again the Northern Hindes may sing and plow, And fear no harm but from the weather now. Again may Tradesmen love their pain By knowing now for whom they gain. The Armour now may be hung up to sight, And onely in their Halls the Children fright.

4▪

The gain of Civil wars will not allow Bay to the Conquerors Brow▪ At such a Game what fool would venture in, Where one must lose, yet neither side can win? How justly would our Neighbours smile At these mad quarrels of our Isle Sweld with proud hopes to snatch the whole away, Whilst we Bet all, and yet for nothing Play?

5▪

How was the silver Tine frighted before, And durst not kiss the armed shore? His waters ran more swiftly then they use, And hasted to the Sea to tell the News. The Sea it self, how rough so ere, Could scarce believe such fury here. How could the Scots and we be Enemies growne? That, and its Master Charls had made us One.

6.

No Blood so loud as that of Civil war; It calls for Dangers from afar. Let's rather go, and seek out Them, and Fame; Thus our Fore fathers got, thus left a Name. All their rich blood was spent with gains, But that which swells their Childrens Veins. Why sit we still, our Spi'rits wrapt up in Lead? Not like them whilst they Liv'ed, but now they're Dead?

7.

This noise at home was but Fates policie To raise our Sp'irits more high. So a bold Lyon ere he seeks his prey, Lashes his sides, and roars, and then away. How would the Germain Eagle feare, To see a new Gustavus there? How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do For Iove of old, it now bore Thunder too!

8.

Sure there are actions of this height and praise Destin'ed to Charls his days. What will the Triumphs of his Battels be, Whose very Peace it self is Victorie. When Heav'en bestows the best of Kings, It bids us think of mighty things. His Valour, Wisdom, Offspring speak no less; And we the Prophets Sons, write not by Guess.

On the Death of Sir Anthony Vandike, The famous Painter.

VAndike is Dead; but what Bold Muse shall dare (Though Poets in that word with Painters share) T'express her sadness? Po'esie must become An Art, like Painting here, an Art that's Dumbe. Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep, Like some sad Picture which he made to weep, Or those who saw't, for none his works could view Unmov'ed with the same Passions which he drew. His pieces so with their live objects strive, That both or Pictures seem, or both Alive. Nature herself amaz'ed, does doubting stand, Which is her own, and which the Painters Hand. And does attempt the like with less success When her own work in Twins she would express. His All-resembling Pencil did out-pass The mimick Imag'ry of Looking-glass. Nor was his Life less perfect then his Art, Nor was his Hand less erring then 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 then the men he drew. Thus still he liv'ed till heav'en did for him call, Where reverent Luke salutes him first of all. Where he beholds new sights, divinely faire; And could almost wish for his Pencil there; Did he not gladly see how all things shine, Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine, Whilst he for ever ravisht with the show Scorns his own Art which we admire below. Onely his beauteous Lady still he loves; (The love of heav'enly Objects Heav'en improves) He sees bright Angels in pure beams appear, And thinks on her he left so like them here. And you, fair Widow, who stay here alive, Since he so much rejoyces, cease to grieve. Your joys and griefs were wont the same to be; Begin not now, blest Pair, to Disagree. No wonder Death mov'ed not his gen'erous mind. You, and a new-born You, he left behind. Even Fate exprest his love to his dear Wife, And let him end your Picture with his Life.

Prometheus ill-painted.

HOw wretched does Promethe'us state appear, Whilst he his Second Mis'ery suffers here! Draw him no more, lest as he tortur'ed stands, He blame great Ioves less then the Painters hands. It would the Vulturs cruelty outgoe, If once again his Liver thus should grow. Pity him Iove, and his bold Theft allow, The Flames he once stole from thee grant him now.

ODE.

1.

HEre's to thee Dick; this whining Love despise; Pledge me, my Friend, and drink till thou be'st wise. It sparkles brighter far then she: 'Tis pure, and right without deceite; And such no woman ere will be: No; they are all Sophisticate.

2.

With all thy servile pains what canst thou win, But an ill-favor'd, and uncleanly Sin? A thing so vile, and so short-liv'd, That Venus Ioys as well as she With reason may be said to be From the neglected Foam deriv'ed.

3.

Whom would that painted toy a Beauty move, Whom would it ere perswade to court and love, Could he a womans Heart have seen, (But, oh, no Light does thither come) And view'd her perfectly within, When he lay shut up in her womb?

4.

Follies they have so numberless in store, That onely he who loves them can have more. Neither their Sighs nor Tears are true; Those idlely blow, these idlely fall, Nothing like to ours at all. But Sighes and Tears have Sexes too.

5.

Here's to thee again; thy senseless sorrows drown'd; Let the Glass walk, till all things too go round;

Again; till these Two Lights be Four; No error here can dangerous prove; Thy Passion, Man, deceiv'ed thee more; None Double see like Men in Love.

Friendship in Absence.

1.

WHen chance or cruel business parts us two, What do our Souls I wonder do? Whilst sleep does our dull Bodies tie Methinks, at home they should not stay, Content with Dreams, but boldly flie Abroad, and meet each other half the way.

2.

Sure they do meet, enjoy each other there, And mix I know not How, nor Where. Their friendly Lights together twine, Though we perceive't not to be so, Like loving Stars which oft combine, Yet not themselves their own Conjunctions know.

3.

'Twere an ill World, I'll swear, for every friend, If Distance could their Union end. But Love it self does far advance Above the power of Time and Space, It scorns such outward Circumstance, His Times for ever, every where his Place.

4▪

I'am there with Thee, yet here with Me Thou art, Lodg'd in each others heart. Miracles cease not yet in Love, When he his mighty Power will try Absence it self does Bounteous prove, And strangely ev'en our Presence Multiply.

5▪

Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine Like that which in Heav'ens Sun does shine: He in the upper ayr and sky Does no effects of Heat bestow, But as his beams the farther fly He begets Warmth, Life, Beauty here below.

6.

Friendship is less apparent when too nigh, Like Obiects if they touch the Eye.

Less Meritorious then is Love, For when we Friends together see So much, so much Both One do prove, That their Love then seems but Self-love to be.

7.

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, Such and so many I'll repay As shall themselves make Winds to get to you.

8.

A thousand pretty ways we'll think upon To mock our Separation. Alas, ten thousand will not do; My heart will thus no longer stay, No longer 'twill be kept from you, But knocks against the Breast to get away.

9.

And when no Art affords me help or ease, I seek with verse my griefs t'appease. Iust as a Bird that flies about And beats it self against the Cage, Finding at last no passage out It sits, and sings, and so orecomes its rage.

To the Bishop of Lincoln, Upon his Enlargement 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; Great Ioys as well as Sorrows make a Stay; They hinder one another in the Crowd, And none are heard, whilst all would speak aloud. Should every mans officious gladness hast, And be afraid to shew it self the last; The throng of Gratulations now would be Another Loss to you of Libertie. When of your freedom men the news did heare Where it was wisht for, that is every where,

'Twas like the Speech which from your Lips does fall, As soon as it was heard it ravisht all. So Eloqu'ence Tully did from exile come; Thus long'd for he return'd, and cherisht Rome, Which could no more his Tongue and Counsels miss; Rome, the Worlds Head, was nothing without His. Wrong to those sacred Ashes I should do, Should I compare any to Him but You; You to whom Art and Nature did dispence The Consulship of Wit and Eloquence. Nor did your fate differ from his at all Because the doom of Exile was his fall, For the whole World without a native home Is nothing but a Pris'on of larger roome, But like a melting Woman suffer'd He, He who before out-did Humanitie. Nor could his Spi'rit constant and stedfast prove, Whose Art t'had been, and greatest end to Move. You put ill Fortune in so good a dress That it outsh one other mens Happiness. Had your Prosper'ity always clearly gon As your high Merits would have led it on, You'had Half been lost, and an Example then But for the Happy, the least part of men. Your very sufferings did so graceful shew, That some straight envy'ed your Affliction too. For a clear Conscience and Heroick Mind In I lls their Business and their Glory find. So though less worthy stones are drown'd in night, The faithful Diamond keeps his native Light, And is oblig'ed to Darkness for a ray That would be more opprest then helpt by Day. Your Soul then most shew'd her unconquer'd power, Was stronger and more armed then the Tower. Sure unkinde fate will tempt your Spi'rit no more, She'has try'ed her Weakness and your Strength before. To'oppose him still who once has Conquer'd soe, Were now to be your Rebel, not your Foe. Fortune henceforth will more of Provi'dence have, And rather be your Friend, then be your Slave.

To a Lady who made Posies for Rings.

1.

I Little thought the time would ever bee, That I should Wit in Dwarfish Posies see. As all Words in Few Letters live, Thou to few Words all Sense dost give. 'Twas Nature taught you this rare art In such a Littled-Much to shew, Who all the good she did impart To Womankind Epitomiz'ed in you.

2.

If as the Ancients did not doubt to sing, The turning Years be well compar'ed to a Ring, We'll write what ere from you we hear, For that's the Posie of the Year. This difference onely will remain, That Time his former face does shew Winding into himself again, But your unweari'ed Wit is always New.

3.

'Tis said that Conju'rers have an Art found out To carry Spi'rits confin'ed in Rings about. The wonder now will less appear When we behold your Magick here. You by your Rings do Pris'ners take, And chain them with your mystick Spells, And the strong Witchcraft full to make, Love, the great Dev'il, charm'ed to those Circles dwells.

4.

They who above do various Circles finde, Say, like a Ring th' Aequator Heav'en does bind. When Heaven shall be adorn'd by thee (Which then more Heav'en then 'tis will be) 'Tis thou must write the Posie there, For it wanteth one as yet, Though the Sun pass through't twice a year, The Sun who is esteem'd the God of Wit.

5.

Happy the Hands which wear thy sacred Rings, They'll teach those Hands to write mysterious things.

Let other Rings, with Iewels bright, Cast around their costly light, Let them want no noble Stone By Nature rich, and Art refin'd, Yet shall thy Rings give place to none, But onely that which must thy Mariage bind.

Prologue to the Guardian
Before the Prince.

WHo says the Times do Learning disallow? 'Tis false, 'twas never Honor'd so as Now. When you appear, Great Prince, our Night is done; You are our Morning Star, and shall be'our Sun. But our Scene's London now; and by the rout We perish, if the Round-heads be about. For now no ornament the Head must wear, No Bays, no Mitre, not so much as Hair. How can a Play pass safely, when ye know Cheapside Cross falls for making but a Show? Our onely Hope is this, that it may be A Play may pass too, made Extempore. Though other Arts poor and neglected grow, They'l admit Po'esie which was always so. But we contemn the fury of these days, And scorn no less their Censure then their Praise. Our Muse, blest Prince, does onely'on you relie; Would gladly Live, but not refuse to Dye. Accept our hasty Zeal; a thing that's play'd Ere't is a Play, and Acted ere 'tis Made. Our Ign'orance, but our Duty too we show; I would all Igno'rant People would do so! At other Times expect our Wit or Art; This Comedy is Acted by the Heart.

The Epilogue.

THe Play, great Sir, is done; yet needs must fear, Though you brought all your Fathers Mercies here, It may offend your Highness, and we'have now Three hours done Treason here for ought we know. But power your grace can above Nature give, It can give power to make Abortives Live. In which if our bold wishes should be crost, 'Tis but the Life of one poor week t'has lost; Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn, Scarce could it Dye more quickly then 'twas Born.

On the Death of Mr. William Hervey.

Immodicis brevis est aetas, & rara Senectus.

Mart.

1.

IT was a dismal, and a fearful night, Scarce could the Morn drive on th'unwilling Light, When Sleep, Deaths Image, left my troubled brest, By something liker Death possest. My eyes with Tears did uncommanded flow, And on my Soul hung the dull weight Of some Intolerable Fate. What Bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know.

2.

My sweet Companion, and my gentle Peere, Why hast thou left me thus unkindely here, Thy end for ever, and my Life to moan; O thou hast left me all alone! Thy Soul and Body when Deaths Agonie Besieg'ed around thy noble heart, Did not with more reluctance part Then I, my dearest Friend, do part from Thee.

3.

My dearest Friend, would I had dy'ed for thee! Life and this World henceforth will tedious bee. Nor shall I know hereafter what to do If once my Griefs prove tedious too.

Silent and sad I walk about all day, As sullen Ghosts stalk speechless by Where their hid Treasures ly; Alas, my Treasure's gone, why do I stay?

4▪

He was my Friend, the truest Friend on earth; A strong and mighty Influence joyn'd our Birth. Nor did we envy the most sounding Name By Friendship giv'en of old to Fame. None but his Brethren he, and Sisters knew, Whom the kind youth preferr'd to Me; And eve'n in that we did agree, For much above my self I lov'd them too.

5.

Say, for you saw us, ye immortal Lights, How oft unweari'ed have we spent the Nights? Till the Ledaean Stars so fam'ed for Love, Wondred at us from above. We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; But search of deep Philosophy, Wit, Elequence, and Poetry, Arts which I lov'ed, for they, my Friend, were Thine.

6.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Have ye not seen us walking every day? Was there a Tree about which did not know The Love betwixt us two? Henceforth, ye gentle Trees, for ever fade; Or your sad branches thicker joyne, And into darksome shades combine, Dark as the Grave wherein my Friend is laid.

7.

Henceforth no learned Touths beneath you sing, Till all the tuneful Birds to'your bows they bring; No tuneful Birds play with their wonted chear, And call the learned Youths to hear, No whistling Winds through the glad branches fly, But all with sad solemnitie, Mute and unmoved be, Mute as the Grave wherein my Friend does ly.

8.

To him my Muse made haste with every strain Whilst it was new, and warm yet from the Brain. He lov'ed my worthless Rhymes, and like a Friend, Would finde out something to commend.

Hence now, my Muse, thou canst not me delight; Be this my latest verse With which I now adorn his Herse, And this my Grief, without thy help shall write.

9.

Had I a wreath of Bays about my brow, I should contemn that flourishing honor now, Condemn it to the Fire, and joy to hear It rage and crackle there. Instead of Bays, crown with sad Cypress me; Cypress which Tombs does beautifie; Not Phoebus griev'ed so much as I For him, who first was made that mournful Tree.

10.

Large was his Soul; as large a Soul as ere Submitted to Inform a Body here. High as the Place 'twas shortly in Heav'en to have, But low, and humble as his Grave. So high that all the Virtues there did come As to their chiefest seat Conspicuous, and great; So low that for Me too it made a roome.

11.

He scorn'd this busie world below, and all That we, Mistaken Mortals, Pleasure call; Was fill'd with inn'ocent Gallantry and Truth, Triumphant ore the sins of Youth. He like the Stars, to which he now is gone, That shine with beams like Flame Yet burn not with the same, Had all the Light of Youth, of the Fire none.

12.

Knowledge he onely sought, and so soon caught, As if for him Knowledge had rather sought. Nor did more Learning ever crowded lie In such a short Mortalitie. When ere the skilful Youth discourst or writ, Still did the Notions throng About his eloquent Toung, Nor could his Ink flow faster then his Wit.

13.

So strong a Wit did Nature to him frame, As all things but his Iudgement overcame; His Iudgement like the heav'enly Moon did show, Tem'pring that mighty Sea below.

Oh had he liv'ed in Learnings World, what bound Would have been able to controul His over-powering Soul? We'have lost in him Arts that not yet are found.

14.

His Mirth was the pure Spirits of various Wit, Yet never did his God or Friends forget. And when deep talk and wisdom came in view, Retir'ed and gave to them their due. For the rich help of Books he always took, Though his own searching mind before Was so with Notions written ore As if wise Nature had made that her Book.

15.

So many Virtues joyn'd in him, as we Can scarce pick here and there in Historie. More then old Writers Practice ere could reach, As much as they could ever teach. These did Religion, Queen of Virtues sway, And all their sacred Motions steare, Iust like the First and Highest Sphaere Which wheels about, and turns all Heav'en one way.

16.

With as much Zeal, Devotion, Pietie, He always Liv'ed, as other Saints do Dye. Still with his soul severe account he kept. Weeping all Debts out ere he slept. Then down in peace and innocence he lay, Like the Suns laborious light, Which still in Water sets at Night, Unsullied with his Iourney of the Day.

17.

Wondrous young Man, why wert thou made so good, To be snatcht hence ere better understood? Snatcht before half of thee enough was seen! Thou Ripe, and yet thy Life but Green! Nor could thy Friends take their last sad Farewell, But Danger and Infectious Death Malitiously seiz'd on that Breath Where Life, Spirit, Pleasure always us'd to dwell.

18.

But happy Thou, ta'ne from this frantick age, Where Igno'rance and Hypocrisie does rage! A fitter time for Heav'en no soul ere chose, The place now onely free from those.

There 'mong the Blest thou dost for ever shine, And wheresoere thou casts thy view Upon that white and radiant crew, See'st not a Soul cloath'd with more Light then Thine.

19.

And if the glorious Saints cease not to know Their wretched Friends who fight with Life below; Thy Flame to Me does still the same abide, Onely more pure and rarifie'd. There whilst immortal Hymns thou dost reherse, Thou dost with holy pity see Our dull and earthly Poesie, Where Grief and Mis'ery can be joyn'd with Verse.

ODE. In imitation of Horace his Ode.

Quis multâ gracilis te puer in rosâ Perfusus, &c.

Lib. 1. Od. 5.

1.

TO whom now Pyrrha, art thou kinde? To what heart-ravisht Lover, Dost thou thy golden locks unbinde, Thy hidden sweets discover, And with large bounty open set All the bright stores of thy rich Cabinet?

2.

Ah simple Youth, how oft will he Of thy chang'ed Faith complain? And his own Fortunes finde to be So airy and so vain, Of so Camaeleon- like an hew, That still their colour changes with it too?

3.

How oft, alas, will he admire The blackness of the Skies? Trembling to hear the Winds sound higher, And see the billows rise; Poor unexperienc'ed He Who ne're, alas, before had been at Sea!

4.

He'enjoys thy calmy Sun-shine now, And no breath stirring hears, In the clear heaven of thy brow, No smallest Cloud appears. He sees thee gentle, fair, and gay, And trusts the faithless April of thy May.

5.

Unhappy! thrice unhappy He, T'whom Thou untry'ed dost shine! But there's no danger now for Me, Since o're Loretto's Shrine In witness of the Shipwrack past My consecrated Vessel hangs at last.

In imitation of Martials Epigram.

Si tecum mihi care Martialis, &c.

L. 5. Ep. 21:

IF, dearest Friend, it my good Fate might bee T' enjoy at once a quiet Life and Thee; If we for Happiness could leisure finde, And wandring Time into a Method binde, We should not sure the Great Mens favour need, Nor on long Hopes, the Courts thin Diet, feed. We should not Patience find daily to hear, The Calumnies, and Flatteries spoken there. We should not the Lords Tables humbly use, Or talk in Ladies Chambers Love and News. But Books, and wise Discourse, Gardens and Fields, And all the joys that unmixt Natures yields. Thick Summer shades where Winter still does ly, Bright Winter Fires that Summers part supply. Sleep not controll'd by Cares, confin'ed to Night, Or bound in any rule but Appetite. Free, but not savage or ungracious Mirth, Rich Wines to give it quick and easie birth. A few Companions, which ourselves should chuse, A Gentle Mistress, and a Gentler Muse. Such, dearest Friend, such without doubt should be Our Plac, our Business, and our Companie. Now to Himself, alas, does neither Live, But sees good Suns, of which we are to give A strict account, set and march thick away; Knows a man how to Live, and does he stay?

The Chronicle. A Ballad.

1.

MArgarita first possest, If I remember well, my brest, Margarita first of all; But when a while the wanton Maid With my restless Heart had plaid, Martha took the flying Ball.

2.

Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Cartharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loath and angry she to part With the possession of my Heart) To Elisa's conqu'ering face.

3.

Elisa till this Hour might raign Had she not Evil Counsels ta'ne. Fundamental Laws she broke, And still new Favorites she chose, Till up in Arms my Passions rose, And cast away her yoke.

4.

Mary then and gentle Ann Both to reign at once began. Alternately they sway'd, And sometimes Mary was the Fair, And sometimes Ann the Crown did wear, And sometimes Both I' obey'd.

5.

Another Mary then arose And did rigorous Laws impose. A mighty Tyrant she! Long, alas, should I have been Under that Iron-Scepter'd Queen, Had not Rebecca set me free.

6.

When fair Rebecca set me free, 'Twas then a golden Time with mee. But soon those pleasures fled, For the gracious Princess dy'd In her Youth and Beauties pride, And Iudith reigned in her sted.

7.

One Month, three Days, and half an Hour Iudith held the Soveraign Power. Wondrous beautiful her Face, But so weak and small her Wit, That she to govern was unfit, And so Susanna took her place.

8.

But when Isabella came Arm'd with a resistless flame And th'Artillery of her Eye; Whilst she proudly marcht about Greater Conquests to finde out, She beat out Susan by the By.

9.

But in her place I then obey'd Black-ey'd Besse, her Viceroy-Maid, To whom ensu'd a Vacancy. Thousand worse Passions then possest The Interregnum of my brest. Bless me from such an Anarchy!

10.

Gentle Henriette than And a third Mary next began, Then Ione, and Iane, and Audria. And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Katharine, And then a long Et caeera.

11.

But should I now to you relate, The strength and riches of their state, The Powder, Patches, and the Pins, The Ribbans, Iewels, and the Rings, The Lace, the Paint, and warlike things That make up all their Magazins:

12.

If I should tell the politick Arts To take and keep mens hearts, The Letters, Embassies, and Spies, The Frowns, and Smiles, and Flatteries, The Quarrels, Tears, and Perjuries, Numberless, Nameless Mysteries!

13.

And all the Little Lime-twigs laid By Matchavil the Waiting-Maid; I more voluminous should grow (Chiefly if I like them should tell All Change of Weathers that befell) Then Holinshead or Stow.

14.

But I will briefer with them be, Since few of them were long with Me. An higher and a nobler strain My present Emperess does claime, Hele onora, First o'th' Name; Whom God grant long to reign!

To Sir William Davenant. Upon his two first Books of Gondibert, finished before his voyage to America.

MEthinks Heroick Poesie till now Like some fantastick Fairy Land did show, Gods, Devils, Nymphs, Witches and Gyants race, And all but Man in Mans chief work had place. Thou like some worthy Knight with sacred Arms Dost drive the Monsters thence, and end the Charms. Instead of those dost Men and Manners plant, The things which that rich Soil did chiefly want. Yet ev'en thy Mortals do their Gods excell, Taught by thy Muse to Fight and Love so well. By fatal hands whilst present Empires fall, Thine from the Grave past Monarchies recal. So much more thanks from humane kind does merit The Poets Fury, then the Zelots Spirit. And from the Grave thou mak'est this Empire rise Not like some dreadful Ghost t'affright our Eyes, But with more Luster and triumphant state, Then when it crown'd at proud Verona sate:

So will out God rebuild mans perisht frame, And raise him up much Better, yet the same. So God-like Poets do past things reherse, Not change, but Heighten Nature by their Verse. With shame, methinks, great Italy must see Her Conqu'erors rais'ed to Life again by Thee. Rais'd by such pow'erful Verse, that ancient Rome May blush no less to see her Wit orecome. Some men their Fancies like their Faith derive, And think all Ill but that which Rome does give. The Marks of Old and Catholick would finde, To the same Chair would Truth and Fiction binde. Thou in those beaten pathes disdainst to tread, And scorn'st to Live by robbing of the Dead. Since Time does all things change, thou think'st not fit This latter Age should see all New but Wit. Thy Fancy like a Flame its way does make, And leave bright Tracks for following Pens to take. Sure 'twas this noble boldness of the Muse Did thy desire to seek new Worlds infuse, And ne're did Heav'en so much a Voyage bless, If thou canst Plant but there with like success.

An Answer to a Copy of Verses sent me to Iersey.

AS to a Northern People (whom the Sun Uses just as the Romish Church has done Her Prophane Laity, and does assigne Bread onely both to serve for Bread and Wine) A rich Canary Fleet welcome arrives; Such comfort to us here your Letter gives, Fraught with brisk racy Verses, in which we The Soil from whence they came, taste, smel, and see' Such is your Present to' us; for you must know, Sir, that Verse does not in this Island grow No more then Sack; One lately did not feare (Without the Muses leave) to plant it here. But it produc'ed such base, rough, crabbed, hedge Rhymes, as ev'en set the hearers Ears on Edge: Written by—Esquire, the Year of our Lord six hundred thirty three. Brave Iersey Muse! and he's for this high stile Call'd to this day the Homer of the Iste. Alas, to men here no Words less hard be To Rhime with, then * 1.1 Mount Orgueil is to me.

Mount Orgueil, which in scorn o'th' Muses law With no yoke-fellow Word will dain to draw. Stubborn Mount Orgueil! 'tis a work to make it Come into Rhyme, more hard then 'twere to take it. Alas, to bring your Tropes and Figures here, Strange as to bring Camels and Ele'phants were. And Metaphore is so unknown a thing, 'Twould need the Preface of, God save the King. Yet this I'll say for th' honor of the place, That by Gods extraordinary Grace (Which shows the people' have judgement, if not Wit) The land is undefil'ed with Clinches yet. Which in my poor opinion, I confess, Is a most sing'ular blessing, and no less Then Irelands wanting Spiders. And so farre From th' Actual Sin of Bombast too they are, (That other Crying Sin o'th' English Muse That even Satan himself can accuse None here (no not so much as the Divines) For th' Motus primò primi to Strong Lines. Well, since the soil then does not natu'rally beare Verse, who (a Devil) should import it here? For that to me would seem as strange a thing As who did first Wilde Beasts into Islands bring. Unless you think that it might taken be As Green did Gond'ibert, in a Prize at Sea. But that's a Fortune falls not every day; 'Tis true Green was made by it; for they say The Parl'ament did a noble bounty do, And gave him the whole Prize, their Tenths and Fifteens too.

The Tree of Knowledge. That there is no Knowledge. Against the Dogmatists.

1.

THe sacred Tree midst the fair Orchard grew; The Phoenix Truth did on it rest, And built his perfum'ed Nest. That right Porphyrian Tree which did true Logick shew, Each Leaf did learned Notions give, And th' Apples were Demonstrative. So clear rheir Colour and divine, The very shade they cast did other Lights out-shine.

2.

Taste not, said God; 'tis mine and Angels meat; A certain Death does sit Like an ill Worm i'th' Core of it. Ye cannot Know and Live, nor Live or Know and Eat. Thus spoke God, yet Man did go Ignorantly on to Know; Grew so more blinde, and she Who tempted him to this, grew yet more Blinde then He.

3.

The onely Science Man by this did get, Was but to know he nothing Knew. He straight his Nakedness did view, His ign'orant poor estate, and was asham'ed of it. Yet searches Probabilities, And Rhetorick, and Fallacies, And seeks by useless pride With slight and withering Leaves that Nakedness to hide

4.

Henceforth, said God, the wretched Sons of earth Shall sweat for Food in vain That will not long sustain, And bring with Labor forth each fond Abortive Birth. That Serpent too, their Pride, Which aims at things deny'd, That learn'd and eloquent Lust Instead of Mounting high, shall creep upon the Dust.

Reason. The use of it in Divine Matters.

1.

SOme blind themselves, 'cause possibly they may Be led by others a right way; They build on Sands, which if unmov'ed they find, 'Tis but because there was no Wind. Less hard 'tis, not to Erre ourselves, then know If our Fore fathers err'd or no. When we trust Men concerning God, we then Trust not God concerning Men.

2.

Visions and Inspirations some expect Their course here to direct, Like senseless Chymists their own wealth destroy, Imaginary Gold t'enjoy. So Stars appear to drop to us from skie, And gild the passage as they fly. But when they fall, and meet th'opposing ground, What but a sordid Slime is found?

3.

Sometimes their Fancies they 'bove Reason set, And Fast, that they may Dream of Meat. Sometimes ill Spirits their sickly souls delude, And Bastard-Forms obtrude. So Endors wretched Sorceress, although She Saul through his disguise did know, Yet when the Dev'il comes up disguis'd, she cries, Behold, the Gods arise.

4.

In vain, alas, these outward Hopes are try'd; Reason within's our onely Guide. Reason, which (God be prais'd!) still Walks, for all It's old Original Fall. And since itself the boundless Godhead joyn'd With a Reasonable Mind, it plainly shows that Mysteries Divine May with our Reason joyn.

5.

The Holy Book, like the eighth Sphaere, does shine With thousand Lights of Truth Divine. So numberless the Stars, that to the Eye, It makes but all one Galaxie. Yet Reason must assist too, for in Seas So vast and dangerous as these, Our course by Stars above we cannot know, Without the Compass too below.

6.

Though Reason cannot through Faiths Myst'eries see, It sees that There and such they bee; Leads to Heav'ens Door, and there does humbly keep, And there through Chinks and Key-holes peep. Though it, like Moses, by a sad command Must not come in to th' Holy Land, Yet thither it infallibly does Guid, And from afar 'tis all Discry'ed.

On the Death of Mr. Crashaw.

POet and Saint! to thee alone are given The two most sacred Names of Earth and Heaven. The hard and rarest Union which can be Next that of Godhead with Humanitie. Long did the Muses banisht Slaves abide, And built vain Pyramids to mortal pride, Like Moses Thou (though Spells and Charms withstand) Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land. Ah wretched We, Poets of Earth! but Thou Wert Living the same Poet which thou'rt Now. Whilst Angels sing to thee their ayres divine, And joy in an applause so great as thine. Equal society with them to hold, Thou need'st not make new Songs, but say the Old. And they (kind Spirits!) shall all rejoyce to see How little less then They, Exalted Man may bee. Still the old Heathen Gods in Numbers dwell, The Heav'enliest thing on Earth still keeps up Hell. Nor have we yet quite purg'ed the Christian Land; Still Idols here like Calves at Bethel stand. And though Pans Death long since all Oracles breaks, Yet still in Rhyme the Fiend Apollo speaks. Nay with the worst of Heathen dotage We (Vain Men!) the Monster Woman Deifie. Finde Stars, and tye our Fates there in a Face, And Paradice in them by whom we lost it, place. What different faults corrupt our Muses thus? Wanton as Girls, as old Wives, Fabulous! Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain That her eternal Verse employ'd should be On a less subject then Eternitie. And for a sacred Mistress scorn'd to take, But her whom God himself scorn'd not his Spouse to make. It (in a kind) her Miracle did do; A fruitful Mother was, and Virgin too. * 1.2 How well (blest Swan) did Fate contrive thy death; And made thee render up thy tuneful breath In thy great Mistress Arms? thou most divine And richest Off'ering of Loretto's Shrine! Where like some holy Sacrifice t'expire, A Fever burns thee, and Love lights the Fire. Angels (they say) brought the fam'ed Chapel there, And bore the sacred Load in Triumph through the aire.

'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and They, And Thou, their charge, went singing all the way. Pardon, my Mother Church, if I consent That Angels led him when from thee he went, For even in Error sure no Danger is When joyn'd with so much Piety as His. Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak't, and grief, Ah that our greatest Faults were in Belief! And our weak Reason were ev'en weaker yet, Rather then thus our Wills too strong for it. His Faith perhaps in some nice Tenents might Be wrong; his Life, I'm sure, was in the right. And I my self a Catholick will be, So far at least, great Saint, to Pray to thee. Hail, Bard Triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets Militant below! Oppos'ed by our old En'emy, adverse Chance, Attacqu'ed by Envy, and by Ignorance, Enchain'd by Beauty, tortur'ed by Desires, Expos'd by Tyrant-Love to savage Beasts and Fires. Thou from low earth in nobler Flames didst rise, And like Elijah, mount Alive the skies. Elisha-like (but with a wish much less, More fit thy Greatness, and my Littleness) Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove So humble to Esteem, so Good to Love) Not that thy Spirit might on me Doubled be, I ask but Half thy mighty Spirit for Me. And when my Muse soars with so strong a Wing, 'Twill learn of things Divine, and first of Thee to sing.

Anacreontiques: OR, Some Copies of Verses Translated Paraphrastically out of Anacreon.

I. Love.

I'll sing of Heroes, and of Kings; In mighty Numbers, mighty things, Begin, my Muse; but lo, the strings To my great Song rebellious prove; The strings will sound of nought but Love. I broke them all, and put on new; 'Tis this or nothing sure will do. These sure (said I) will me obey; These sure Heroick Notes will play. Straight I began with thundring Iove, And all the' immortal Pow'ers but Love. Love smil'ed, and from my'enfeebled Lyre Came gentle airs, such as inspire Melting love, and soft desire. Farewel then Heroes, farewel Kings, And mighty Numbers, mighty Things; Love tunes my Heart just to my strings.

II. Drinking.

THe thirsty Earth soaks up the Rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again. The Plants suck in the Earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and faire. The Sea it self, which one would think Should have but little need of Drink, Drinks ten thousand Rivers up, So fill'd that they oreflow the Cup. The busie Sun (and one would guess By's drunken firy face no less) Drinks up the Sea, and when'has don, The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun. They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in Nature's Sober found, But an eternal Health goes round. Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the Glasses there, for why Should every creature drink but I, Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?

III. Beauty.

Liberal Nature did dispence To all things Arms for their defence; And some she arms with sin'ewy force, And some with swiftness in the course; Some with hard Hoofs, or forked claws, And some with Horns, or tusked jaws. And some with Scales, and some with Wings, And some with Teeth, and some with Stings. Wisdom to Man she did afford, Wisdom for Shield, and Wit for Sword. What to beauteous Woman-kind, What Arms, what Armour has she'assigne'd? Beauty is both; for with the Faire What Arms, what Armour can compare?

What Steel, what Gold, or Diamond, More Impassible is found? And yet what Flame, what Lightning ere So great an Active force did bear? They are all weapon, and they dart Like Porcupines from every part. Who can, alas, their strength express, Arm'd, when they themselves undress, Cap a pe with Nakedness?

IV. The Duel.

YEs, I will love then, I will love, I will not now Loves Rebel prove, Though I was once his Enemy; Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I, Did to the Combate him defy, An Helmet, Spear, and mighty shield, Like some new Ajax I did wield. Love in one hand his Bow did take, In th'other hand a Dart did shake. But yet in vain the Dart did throw, In vain he often drew the Bow. So well my Armour did resist, So oft by flight the blow I mist. But when I thought all danger past, His Quiver empti'd quite at last, Instead of Arrow, or of Dart, He shot Himself into my Heart. The Living and the Killing Arrow Ran through the skin, the Flesh, the Blood, And broke the Bones, and scortcht the Marrow, No Trench or Work of Life withstood. In vain I now the Walls maintain, I set out Guards and Scouts in vain, Since th' En'emy does within remain. In vain a Breastplate now I wear, Since in my Breast the Foe I bear. In vain my Feet their swiftness try; For from the Body can they fly?

V. Age.

OFt am I by the Women told, Poor Anacreon thou grow'st old. Look how thy Hairs are falling all; Poor Anacreon how they fall? Whether I grow old or no, By th'effects I do not know. This I know without being told, 'Tis Time to Live if I grow Old, 'Tis time short pleasures now to take, Of little Life the best to make, And manage wisely the last stake.

VI. The Account.

WHen all the Stars are by thee told, (The endless Sums of heav'enly Gold) Or when the Hairs are reckon'ed all, From sickly Autumns Head that fall, Or when the drops that make the Sea, Whilst all her Sands thy Counters bee. Thou then, and Thou alone maist prove Th' Arithmeticean of my Love. An hundred Loves at Athens score, At Corinth write an hundred more. Fair Corinth does such Beauties beare, So few is an Escaping there. Write then at Chios seventy three; Write then at Lesbo's (let me see) Write mee at Lesbos ninety down, Full ninety Loves, and half a One. And next to these let me present, The faire Ionian Regiment. And next the Carian Company, Five hundred both Effectively. Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete; Three hundred 'tis I'am sure Complete. For arms at Crete each Face does bear,

And every Eye's and Archer there. Go on; this stop why dost thou make? Thou thinkst, perhaps, that I mistake. Seems this to thee too great a Summe? Why many a Thousand are to come; The mighty Xerxes could not boast Such different Nations in his Host. On; for my Love, if thou be'st weary, Must finde some better Secretary. I have not yet my Persian told. Nor yet my Syrian Loves enroll'd, Nor Indian, nor Arabian; Nor Cyprian Loves, nor African; Nor Scythian, nor Italian flames; There's a whole Map behinde of Names. Of gentle Love i'th' temperate Zone, And cold ones in the Frigid One, Cold frozen Loves with which I' pine, And parched Loves beneath the Line.

VII. Gold.

A Mighty pain to Love it is, And 'tis a pain that pain to miss. But of all pains the greatest pain It is to love, but love in vain. Virtue now nor noble Blood, Nor Wit by Love is understood, Gold alone does passion move, Gold Monopolizes love! A curse on her, and on the Man, Who this traffick first began! A curse on him who found the Oare! A curse on him who digg'ed the store! A curse on him who did refine it! A curse on him who first did coyn it! A curse all curses else above On him, who us'd it first in Love! Gold begets in Brethren hate, Gold in Families debate; Gold does Friendships separate, Gold does Civil wars create. These the smallest harms of it! Gold, alas, does Love beget.

VIII. The Epicure.

FIll the Bowl with rosie Wine, Around our temples Roses twine, And let us chearfully awhile; Like the Wine and Roses smile. Crown'd with Roses we contemn Gyge's wealthy Diadem. To day is Ours; what do we feare? To day is Ours; we have it here. Let's treat it kindely, that it may Wish, at least, with us to stay. Let's banish Business, banish Sorrow; To the Gods belongs To morrow.

IX. Another.

UNderneath this Myrtle shade, On flowry beds supinely laid, With od'orous Oyls my head ore-flowing, And around it Roses growing, What should I do but drink away The Heat, and troubles of the Day? In this more then Kingly state, Love himself shall on me waite. Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up; And mingled cast into the Cup, Wit, and Mirth, and noble Fires, Vigorous Health, and gay Desires. The Wheel of Life no less will stay In a smooth then Rugged way. Since it equally does flee, Let the Motion pleasant bee. Why do we pretious Oyntments shower, Nobler wines why do we pour, Beauteous Flowers why do we spread, Upon the Mon'uments of the Dead? Nothing they but Dust can show, Or Bones that hasten to be so.

Crown me with Roses whilst I Live, Now your Wines and Oyntments give. After Death I nothing crave, Let me Alive my pleasures have, All are Stoicks in the Grave.

X. The Grashopper.

HAppy Insect, what can bee In happiness compar'ed to Thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy Mornings gentle Wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant Cup does fill, 'Tis fill'd where ever thou dost tread, Nature selfe's thy Ganimed. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing; Happier then the happiest King! All the Fields which thon dost see, All the Plants belong to Thee, All that Summer Hours produce, Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plow; Farmer He, and Land-Lord Thou! Thou doest innocently joy, Nor does thy Luxury destroy; The Shepherd gladly heareth thee, More Harmonious then Hee. Thee Countrey Hindes with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year! Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy Sire. To thee of all things upon earth, Life is no longer then thy Mirth. Happy Insect, happy Thou, Dost neither Age, nor Winter know. But when thou'st drunk, and danc'ed, and sung, Thy fill, the flowry Leaves among. (Voluptuous, and Wise with all, Epicuraean Animal!) Sated with thy Summer Feast, Thou retir'est to endless Rest.

XI. The Swallow.

FOolish Prater, what do'st thou So early at my window do With thy tuneless Serenade? Well t'had been had Tereus made Thee as Dumb as Philomel; There his Knife had done but well. In thy undiscover'ed Nest Thou dost all the winter rest, And dream'est ore thy summer joys Free from the stormy seasons noise: Free from th'Ill thou'st done to me; Who disturbs, or seeks out Thee? Had'st thou all the charming notes Of all the woods Poetick Throats, All thy art could never pay What thou'st ta'ne from me away; Cruel Bird, thou'st ta'ne away A Dream out of my arms to day, A Dream that ne're must equal'd bee By all that waking Eyes may see. Thou this damage to repaire, Nothing half so sweet or faire, Nothing half so good can'st bring, Though men say, Thou bring'st the Spring.

ELEGIE UPON ANACREON, Who was choaked by a GRAPE-STONE.

Spoken by the God of Love.

HOw shall I lament thine end, My best Servant, and my Friend? Nay and, if from a Deity So much Deifi'ed as I, It sound not too profane and odd, Oh my Master, and my God! For 'tis true, most mighty Poet, (Though I like not Men should know it) I'am in naked Nature less, Less by much then in thy Dress. All thy Verse is softer farre Then the downy Feathers are, Of my Wings, or of my Arrows, Of my Mothers Doves or Sparrows. Sweet as Lovers freshest kisses, Or their riper following blisses, Graceful, cleanly, smooth and round, All with Venus Girdle bound, And thy Life was all the while Kinde and gentle as thy Stile. The smooth-pac'ed Hours of ev'ery day Glided numerously away. Like thy Verse each Hour did pass, Sweet and short, like that it was. Some do but their Youth allow me, Iust what they by Nature owe me, The Time that's mine, and not their own, The certain Tribute of my Crown, When they grow old, they grow to be Too Busie, or too wise for me. Thou wert wiser, and did'st know None too wise for Love can grow,

Love was with thy Life entwin'd Close as Heat with Fire is joyn'd, A powerful Brand prescrib'ed the date Of thine, like Meleagers Fate. Th' Antiperistasis of Age More enflam'ed thy amorous rage, Thy silver Hairs yielded me more Then even golden curls before. Had I the power of Creation, As I have of Generation, Where I the matter must obey, And cannot work Plate out of Clay, My Creatures should be all like Thee, 'Tis Thou shouldst their Idaea bee. They, like Thee, should throughly hate Bus'iness, Honor, Title, State. Other wealth they should not know But what my Living Mines bestow; The pomp of Kings they should confess At their Crownings to be less Then a Lovers humblest guise, When at his Mistress feet he lies. Rumour they no more should mind Then Men safe-landed do the Wind, Wisdom it self they should not hear When it presumes to be Severe. Beauty alone they should admire, Nor look at Fortunes vain attire, Nor ask what Parents it can shew; With Dead or Old t'has nought to do. They should not love yet All, or Any, But very Much, and very Many. All their Life should gilded be With Mirth, and Wit, and Gayetie, Well remembring, and Applying The Necessity of Dying. Their chearful Heads should always wear All that crowns the flowry year. They should always laugh, and sing, And dance, and strike the harmonious string. Verse should from their Tongue so flow, As if it in the Mouth did grow, As swiftly answering their command, As tunes obey the artful Hand. And whilst I do thus discover Th'ingredients of an happy Lover, 'Tis, my Anacreon, for thy sake I of the Grape no mention make. Till my' Anacreon by thee fell, Cursed Plant, I lov'ed thee well.

And 'twas oft my wanton use To dip my Arrows in thy juice. Cursed Plant, 'tis true I see, Th'old report that goes of Thee, That with Gyants blood the Earth Stain'd and poys'ned gave thee birth, And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spight On Men in whom the Gods delight. Thy Patron Bacchus 'tis no wonder Was brought forth in Flames and Thunder, In rage, in quarrels, and in fights, Worse then his Tygers he delights, In all our heaven I think there be No such ill-natur'ed God as He. Thou pretendest, Trayt'erous Wine, To be the Muses friend and Mine. With Love and Wit thou dost begin, False Fires, alas, to draw us in. Which, if our course we by them keep, Misguide to Madness, or to Sleep. Sleep were well; thou'hast learnt a way To Death it self now to betray. It grieves me when I see what Fate Does on the best of Mankind waite. Poets or Lovers let them be, 'Tis neither Love nor Poesie Can arm against Deaths smallest dart The Poets Head, or Lovers Heart. But when their Life in its decline, Touches th'Inevitable Line, All the Worlds Mortal to'um then, And Wine is Aconite to men. Nay in Deaths Hand the Grape-stone proves As strong as Thunder is in Ioves.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The name of one of the Castles in Iersey.
• * 1.2

  M. Cra∣shaw died of a Fea∣ver at Loretto, being newly chosen Canon of that Church.