Democritus Platonissans, or, An essay upon the infinity of worlds out of Platonick principles hereunto is annexed Cupids conflict, together with the Philosophers devotion, and a particular interpretation appertaining to the three last books of the Song of the soul / by H. More ...

Cupids Conflict.

Mela. Cleanthes.

Cl.

MEla my dear! why been thy looks so sad As if thy gentle heart were sunk with care? Impart thy case; for be it good or bad Friendship in either will bear equall share.

Mel.

Not so; Cleanthes, for if bad it be My self must bleed afresh by wounding thee.

But what it is, my slow, uncertain wit Cannot well judge. But thou shalt sentence give How manfully of late my self I quit, When with that lordly lad by chance I strive.

Cl.

Of friendship Mela! let's that story hear.

Mel.

Sit down Cleanthes then, and lend thine ear.

Upon a day as best did please my mind Walking abroad amidst the verdant field Scattering my carefull thoughts i'th' wanton wind The pleasure of my path so farre had till'd My feeble feet that without timely rest Uneath it were to reach my wonted nest.

In secret shade farre moved from mortals sight In lowly dale my wandring limbs I laid On the cool grasse where Natures pregnant wit A goodly bower of thickest trees had made. Amongst the leaves the chearfull birds did fare And sweetly carrol'd to the echoing air.

Hard at my feet ran down a crystall spring Which did the cumbrous pebbles hoarsly chide For standing in the way. Though murmuring The broken stream his course did rightly guide And strongly pressing forward with disdain The grassie flore divided into twain.

The place a while did feed my foolish eye As being new, and eke mine idle ear Did listen oft to that wild harmonie And oft my curious phansie would compare How well agreed the Brooks low muttering Base, With the birds trebbles pearch'd on higher place.

But senses objects soon do glut the soul, Or rather weary with their emptinesse; So I, all heedlesse how the waters roll And mindlesse of the mirth the birds expresse, Into my self 'gin softly to retire After hid heavenly pleasures to enquire.

While I this enterprize do entertain; Lo! on the other side in thickest bushes A mighty noise! with that a naked swain With blew and purple wings streight rudely rushes. He leaps down light upon the flowry green, Like sight before mine eyes had never seen.

At's snowy back the boy a quiver wore Right fairly wrought and gilded all with gold. A silver bow in his left hand he bore, And in his right a ready shaft did hold. Thus armed stood he and betwixt us tway The labouring brook did break his toilsome way.

The wanton lad whose sport is others pain Did charge his bended bow with deadly dart, And drawing to the head with might and main, With fell intent he aim'd to hit my heart. But ever as he shot his arrows still In their mid course dropt down into the rill.

Of wondrous virtues that in waters been Is needlesse to rehearse, all books do ring Of those strange rarities. But ne're was seen Such virtue as resided in this spring. The novelty did make me much admire But stirr'd the hasty youth to ragefull ire.

As heedlesse fowls that take their per'lous flight Over that bane of birds, Averno lake, Do drop down dead: so dead his shafts did light Amid this stream, which presently did slake Their fiery points, and all their feathers wet Which made the youngster Godling inly fret.

Thus lustfull Love (this was that love I ween) Was wholly changed to consuming ire. And eath it was, fith they're so near a kin They be both born of one rebellious fire. But he supprest his wrath and by and by For feathered darts, he winged words let flie.

Vain man! said he, and would thou wer'st not vain That hid'st thy self in solitary shade And spil'st thy precious youth in sad disdain Hating this lifes delight! Hath God thee made Part of this world, and wilt not thou partake Of this worlds pleasure for its makers sake?

Unthankfull wretch! Gods gifts thus to reject And maken nought of Natures goodly dower That milders still away through thy neglect And dying fades like unregarded flower. This life is good, what's good thou must improve, The highest improvement of this life is love.

Had I (but O that envious Destinie, Or Stygian vow, or thrice accursed charm Should in this place free passage thus denie Unto my shafts as messengers of harm! Had I but once transfixt thy froward breast, How would'st thou then—I staid not for the rest;

But thus half angry to the boy replide: How would'st thou then my soul of sense bereave! I blinded, thee more blind should choose my guide! How would'st thou then my muddied mind deceive With fading shows, that in my errour vile, Base lust, I love should tearm, vice, virtue stile.

How should my wicked rymes then idolize Thy wretched power, and with impious wit Impute thy base born passions to the skies And my souls sicknesse count an heavenly fit, My weaknesse strength, my wisdome to be caught My bane my blisse, mine ease to be o'rewraught.

How often through my fondly feigning mind And frantick phansie, in my Mistris eye Should I a thousand fluttering Cupids find Bathing their busie wings? How oft espie Under the shadow of her eye-brows fair Ten thousand Graces sit all naked bare?

Thus haunted should I be with such feat fiends: A pretty madnesse were my portion due. Foolish my self I would not hear my friends. Should deem the true for false, the false for true. My way all dark more slippery then ice My attendents, anger, pride, and jealousies.

Unthankfull then to God I should neglect All the whole world for one poor sorry wight, Whose pestilent eye into my heart project Would burn like poysonous Comet in my spright. Aye me! how dismall then would prove that day Whose onely light sprang from so fatall ray.

Who seeks for pleasure in this mortall life By diving deep into the body base Shall loose true pleasure: But who gainly strive Their sinking soul above this bulk to place Enlarg'd delight they certainly shall find Unbounded joyes to fill their boundlesse mind.

When I my self from mine own self do quit And each thing else; then an all-spreaden love To the vast Universe my soul doth fit Makes me half equall to all-seeing Jove. My mighty wings high stretch'd then clapping light I brush the starres and make them shine more bright.

Then all the works of God with close embrace I dearly hug in my enlarged arms All the hid paths of heavenly Love I trace And boldly listen to his secret charms. Then clearly view I where true light doth rise, And where eternall Night low-pressed lies.

Thus lose I not by leaving small delight But gain more joy, while I my self suspend From this and that; for then with all unite I all enjoy, and love that love commends. That all is more then loves the partiall soul Whose petty loves th' impartiall fates controll.

Ah fon! said he, (and laughed very loud) That trickst thy tongue with uncouth strange disguize, Extolling highly that with speeches proud To mortall men that humane state denies, And rashly blaming what thou never knew Let men experienc'd speak, if they'll speak true.

Had I once lanc'd thy froward flinty heart And cruddled bloud had thawn with living fire And prickt thy drousie sprite with gentle smart How wouldst thou wake to kindly sweet desire, Thy soul fill'd up with overflowing pleasures Would dew thy lips with hony-dropping measures.

Then wouldst thou caroll loud and sweetly sing In honour of my sacred Deity That all the woods and hollow hills would ring Reechoing thy heavenly harmonie. And eke the hardy rocks with full rebounds Would faithfully return thy silver sounds.

Next unto me would be thy Mistresse fair, Whom thou might setten out with goodly skill Her peerlesse beauty and her virtues rare, That all would wonder at thy gracefull quill. And lastly in us both thy self shouldst raise And crown thy temples with immortall bayes.

But now thy riddles all men do neglect, Thy rugged lines of all do lie forlorn. Unwelcome rymes that rudely do detect The Readers ignorance. Men holden scorn To be so often non-plusd or to spell, And on one stanza a whole age to dwell.

Besides this harsh and hard obscuritie Of the hid sense, thy words are barbarous And strangely new, and yet too frequently Return, as usuall plain and obvious, So that the show of the new thick-set patch Marres all the old with which it ill doth match.

But if thy haughty mind, forsooth, would deign To stoop so low to hearken to my lore, Then wouldst thou with trim lovers not disdeign To adorn the outside, set the best before. Nor rub nor wrinkle would thy verses spoil Thy rymes should run as glib and smooth as oyl.

If that be all, said I, thy reasons slight Can never move my well establishd mind. Full well I wote alwayes the present sprite, Or life that doth possesse the soul, doth blind, Shutting the windows 'gainst broad open day Lest fairer sights its uglinesse bewray.

The soul then loves that disposition best Because no better comes unto her view. The drunkard drunkennesse, the sluggard rest, Th' Ambitious honour and obeisance due. So all the rest do love their vices base 'Cause virtues beauty comes not into place.

And looser love 'gainst Chastitie divine Would shut the door that he might sit alone. Then wholly should my mind to him incline: And woxen strait, (since larger love was gone) That paultrie sprite of low contracting lust Would fit my soul as if't were made for't just.

Then should I with my fellow bird or brute So strangely metamorphis'd, either ney Or bellow loud: or if 't may better sute Chirp out my joy pearch'd upon higher spray. My passions fond with impudence rehearse, Immortalize my madnesse in a verse.

This is the summe of thy deceiving boast That I vain ludenesse highly should admire, When I the sense of better things have lost And chang'd my heavenly heat for hellish fire, Passion is blind, but virtues piercing eye Approching danger can from farre espie.

And what thou dost Pedantickly object Concerning my rude rugged uncouth style, As childish toy I manfully neglect, And at thy hidden snares do inly smile. How ill alas! with wisdome it accords To sell my living sense for livelesse words.

My thought's the fittest measure of my tongue, Wherefore I'll use what's most significant, And rather then my inward meaning wrong Or my full-shining notion trimly scant, I'll conjure up old words out of their grave, Or call fresh forrein force in if need crave.

And these attending on my moving mind Shall duly usher in the fitting sense. As oft as meet occasion I find. Unusuall words oft used give lesse offence; Nor will the old contexture dim or marre, For often us'd they're next to old, thred bare.

And if the old seem in too rustie hew, Then frequent rubbing makes them shine like gold, And glister all with colour gayly new. Wherefore to use them both we will be bold. Thus lists me fondly with fond folk to toy, And answer fools with equall foolerie.

The meaner mind works with more nicetie, As spiders wont to weave their idle web, But braver spirits do all things gallantly Of lesser failings nought at all affred: So Natures carelesse pencill dipt in light With sprinkled starres hath spattered the Night.

And if my notions clear though rudely thrown And loosely scattered in my poesie, May lend men light till the dead Night be gone, And Morning fresh with roses strew the skie: It is enough, I meant no trimmer frame Or by nice needle-work to seek a name.

Vain man! that seekest name mongst earthly men Devoid of God and all good virtuous lere; Who groping in the dark do nothing ken But mad; with griping care their souls do tear, Or burst with hatred or with envie pine Or burn with rage or melt out at their eyne.

Thrice happy he whose name is writ above, And doeth good though gaining infamie; Requiteth evil turns with hearty love, And recks not what befalls him outwardly. Whose worth is in himself, and onely blisse In his pure conscience that doth nought amisse.

Who placeth pleasure in his purged soul And virtuous life his treasure doth esteem; Who can his passions master and controll, And that true lordly manlinesse doth deem, Who from this world himself hath clearly quit Counts nought his own but what lives in his sprite.

So when his sprite from this vain world shall flit It bears all with it whatsoever was dear Unto it self, passing in easie fit, As kindly ripen'd corn comes out of th' eare. Thus mindlesse of what idle men will say He takes his own and stilly goes his way.

But the retinue of proud Lucifer, Those blustering Poets that flie after fame And deck themselves like the bright Morning-starre. Alas! it is but all a crackling flame. For death will strip them of that glorious plume That airie blisse will vanish into fume.

For can their carefull ghosts from Limbo ••ake Return, or listen from the bowed skie To heare how well their learned lines do take? Or if they could; is Heavens felicitie So small as by mans praise to be encreas'd, Hells pain no greater then hence to be eas'd?

Therefore once dead in vain shall I transmit My shadow to gazing Posteritie; Cast farre behind me I shall never see't, On Heavens fair Sunne having fast fixt mine eye. Nor while I live, heed I what man doth praise Or underprize mine unaffected layes.

What moves thee then, said he, to take the pains And spenden time if thou contemn'st the fruit? Sweet fruit of fame, that fills the Poets brains With high conceit and feeds his fainting wit. How pleasant 'tis in honour here to live And dead, thy name for ever to survive!

Or is thy abject mind so basely bent As of thy Muse to maken Merchandize? (And well I wote this is no strange intent.) The hopefull glimps of gold from chattering Pies, From Daws and Crows, and Parots oft hath wrung An unexpected Pegascian song.

Foul shame on him, quoth I, that shamefull thought Doth entertain within his dunghill breast, Both God and Nature hath my spirits wrought To better temper and of old hath blest My loftie soul with more divine aspires Then to be touchd with such vile low desires.

I hate and highly scorn that Kestrell kind Of bastard scholars that subordinate The precious choice induements of the mind To wealth or worldly good. Adulterate And cursed brood! Your wit and will are born Of th' earth and circling thither do return.

Profit and honour be those measures scant Of your slight studies and endeavours vain, And when you once have got what you did want You leave your learning to enjoy your gain. Your brains grow low, your bellies swell up high, Foul sluggish fat ditts up your dulled eye.

Thus what the earth did breed, to th' earth is gone, Like fading hearb or feebly drooping flower, By feet of men and beast quite trodden down, The muck-sprung learning cannot long endure. Back she returns lost in her filthy source, Drown'd, chok'd or slocken by her cruell nurse.

True virtue to her self's the best reward, Rich with her own and full of lively spirit, Nothing cast down for want of due regard, Or 'cause rude men acknowledge not her merit. She knows her worth and stock from whence she sprung, Spreads fair without the warmth of earthly dung,

Dew'd with the drops of Heaven shall flourish long; As long as day and night do share the skie, And though that day and night should fail yet strong And steddie, fixed on Eternitie Shall bloom for ever. So the soul shall speed That loveth virtue for no worldly meed.

Though sooth to sayn, the worldly meed is due To her more then to all the world beside. Men ought do homage with affections true And offer gifts for God doth there reside. The wise and virtuous soul is his own seat To such what's given God himself doth get.

But earthly minds whose sight's seal'd up with mud Discern not this flesh-clouded Deity, Ne do acknowledge any other good Then what their mole-warp hands can feel and trie By groping touch; thus (worth of them unseen) Of nothing worthy that true worth they ween.

Wherefore the prudent Law-givers of old Even in all Nations, with right sage foresight Discovering from farre how clums and cold The vulgar wight would be to yield what's right To virtuous learning, did by law designe Great wealth and honour to that worth divine.

But nought's by law to Poesie due said he, Ne doth the solemn Statesmans head take care Of those that such impertinent pieces be Of common-weals. Thou'd better then to spare Thy uselesse vein. Or tell else, what may move Thy busie Muse such fruitlesse pains to prove.

No pains but pleasure to do the dictates dear Of inward living nature. What doth move The Nightingall to sing so sweet and clear The Thrush, or Lark that mounting high above Chants her shrill notes to heedlesse ears of corn Heavily hanging in the dewy morn.

When life can speak, it can not well withhold T' expresse its own impressions and hid life. Or joy or grief that smoothered lie untold Do vex the heart and wring with restlesse strife. Then are my labours no true pains but ease My souls unrest they gently do appease.

Besides, that is not fruitlesse that no gains Brings to my self. I others profit deem Mine own: and if at these my heavenly flames Others receiven light, right well I ween My time's not lost. Art thou now satisfide Said I: to which the scoffing boy replide.

Great hope indeed thy rymes should men enlight, That be with clouds and darknesse all o'recast, Harsh style and harder sense void of delight The Readers wearied eye in vain do wast. And when men win thy meaning with much pain, Thy uncouth sense they coldly entertain.

For wotst thou not that all the world is dead Unto that Genius that moves in thy vein Of poetrie! But like by like is fed. Sing of my Trophees in triumphant strein, Then correspondent life, thy powerfull verse Shall strongly strike and with quick passion pierce.

The tender frie of lads and lasses young With thirstie eare thee compassing about, Thy Nectar-dropping Muse, thy sugar'd song Will swallow down with eagre hearty draught; Relishing truly what thy rymes convey, And highly praising thy soul-smiting lay.

The mincing maid her mind will then bewray, Her heart-bloud flaming up into her face, Grave matrons will wex wanton and betray Their unresolv'dnesse in their wonted grace; Young boyes and girls would feel a forward spring, And former youth to eld thou back wouldst bring.

All Sexes, Ages, Orders, Occupations Would listen to thee with attentive ear, And eas'ly moved with thy sweet perswasions, Thy pipe would follow with full merry chear. While thou thy lively voice didst loud advance Their tickled bloud for joy would inly dance.

But now, alas! poore solitarie man! In lonesome desert thou dost wander wide To seek and serve thy disappearing Pan, Whom no man living in the world hath eyde: For Pan is dead but I am still alive, And live in men who honour to me give:

They honour also those that honour me With sacred songs. But thou now singst to trees To rocks to Hills, to Caves that senselesse be And mindlesse quite of thy hid mysteries, In the void aire thy idle voice is spread, Thy Muse is musick to the deaf or dead.

Now out alas! said I, and wele-away The tale thou tellest I confesse too true. Fond man so doteth on this living clay His carcase dear, and doth its joyes pursue, That of his precious soul he takes no keep Heavens love and reasons light lie fast asleep.

This bodies life vain shadow of the soul With full desire they closely do embrace, In fleshly mud like swine they wallow and roll, The loftiest mind is proud but of the face Or outward person; if men but adore That walking sepulchre, cares for no more.

This is the measure of mans industry To wexen some body and getten grace To 's outward presence; though true majestie Crown'd with that heavenly light and lively rayes Of holy wesdome and Seraphick love, From his deformed soul he farre remove.

Slight knowledge and lesse virtue serves his turn For this designe. If he hath trod the ring Of pedling arts; in usuall pack-horse form Keeping the rode; O! then 't's a learned thing. If any chanc'd to write or speak what he Conceives not't were a foul discourtesie?

To cleanse the soul from sinne, and still diffide Whether our reasons eye be clear enough To intromit true light, that fain would glide Into purg'd hearts, this way's too harsh and rough: Therefore the clearest truths may well seem dark When sloathfull men have eyes so dimme and stark.

These be our times. But if my minds presage Bear any moment, they can ne're last long, A three branch'd Flame will soon sweep clean the stage Of this old dirty drosse and all wex young. My words into this frozen air I throw Will then grow vocall at that generall thaw.

Nay, now thou'rt perfect mad, said he, with scorn, And full of foul derision quit the place. The skie did rattle with his wings ytorn Like to rent silk. But I in the mean space Sent after him this message by the wind Be't so I'm mad, yet sure I am thou'rt blind.

By this the out-stretch'd shadows of the trees Pointed me home-ward, and with one consent Foretold the dayes descent. So straight I rise Gathering my limbs from off the green pavement Behind me leaving then the slooping Light.

Cl.

And now let's up, Vesper brings on the Night.

FINIS.