Reliquiae Wottonianae, or, A collection of lives, letters, poems with characters of sundry personages : and other incomparable pieces of language and art : also additional letters to several persons, not before printed / by the curious pencil of the ever memorable Sir Henry Wottan ...

POEMS.

A Poem

written by Sir HENRY WOTTON in his youth.

O Faithless World, & thy more faithless part, a Womans heart! The true Shop of variety, where sits nothing but fits And feavers of desire, and pangs of love, which toyes remove. Why, was she born to please, or I to trust, words writ in dust? Suffering her Eyes to govern my despair, my pain for air; And fruit of time rewarded with untruth, the food of youth.

Untrue she was: yet, I believ'd her eyes (instructed spies) Till I was taught, that Love was but a School to breed a fool. Or sought she more by triumphs of denial, to make a trial How far her smiles commanded my weakness? yield and confess, Excuse no more thy folly; but for Cure, blush and endure As well thy shame, as passions that were vain: and think, 'tis gain To know, that Love lodg'd in a Womans brest, Is but a guest.

H. W.

Sir Henry Wotton, and Serjeant Hoskins riding on the way.

Ho.

NOble, lovely, vertuous Creature, Purposely so fram'd by Nature To enthral your servants wits.

Wo.

Time must now unite our hearts: Not for any my deserts, But because (me thinks) it fits.

Ho.

Dearest treasure of my thought, And yet wert thou to be bought With my life, thou wert not dear.

Wo.

Secret comfort of my mind, Doubt no longer to be kind, But be so and so appear.

Ho.

Give me love for love again, Let our loves be clear and plain, Heaven is fairest, when 'tis clearest.

Wo.

Lest in clouds, and in differing, We resemble Seamen erring, Farthest off, when we are nearest.

Ho.

Thus with numbers interchanged, Wotton's Muse and mine have ranged, Verse and Journey both are spent.

Wo.

And if Hoskins chance to say, That we well have spent the day, I, for my part, am content.

H. W.

On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia.

YOu meaner Beauties of the Night, That poorly satisfie our Eyes More by your number, then your light, You Common people of the Skies; What are you when the Sun shall rise?

You curious Chanters of the Wood, That warble forth Dame Natures layes, Thinking your Voices understood By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You Violets, that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud Virgins of the year,

As if the Spring were all your own; What are you when the Rose is blown?

So, when my Mistriss shall be seen In Form and Beauty of her mind, By Vertue first, then Choice a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' Eclipse and Glory of her kind?

H. W.

To a Noble Friend in his Sickness.

UNtimely Feaver, rude insulting guest, (heat•…•… How didst thou with such unharmonious Dare to distune his well-composed rest; Whose heart so just and noble stroaks did beat?

What if his Youth and Spirits well may bear More thick assaults, and stronger siege then this? We measure not his courage, but our fear: Not what our selves, but what the Times may miss.

Had not that blood, which thrice his veins did yield, Been better treasur'd for some glorious day: At farthest West to paint the liquid field, And with new Worlds his Masters love to pay?

But let those thoughts, sweet Lord, repose a while, Tend only now thy vigour to regain; And pardon these poor Rimes, that would beguile With mine own grief, some portion of thy pain.

H. W.

A short Hymn upon the Birth of Prince Charles.

YOu that on Stars do look, Arrest not there your sight, Though Natures fairest Book, And signed vvith propitious light; Our Blessing novv is more Divine, Then Planets that at Noon did shine.

To thee alone be praise, From vvhom our Joy descends, Thou Chearer of our Days, Of Causes first, and last of Ends: To thee this May vve sing, by vvhom Our Roses from the Lilies bloom.

Upon this Royal Flower, Sprung from the chastest Bed, Thy glorious sweetness shower, And first let Myrtles Crown his Head; Then Palms and Lawrels wreath'd between; But let the Cypress late be seen.

And so succeeding men, VVhen they the fulness see Of this our Joy, shall then In consort joyn as vvell as vve, To celebrate his Praise above, That spreads our Land vvith fruits of Love.

H. WOTTON.

An Ode to the KING, At his returning from Scotland to the Queen, after his Coronation there.

ROuse up thy self, my gentle Muse, Though now our green conceits be gray, And yet once more do not refuse To take thy Phrygian Harp, and play In honour of this chearful Day.

Make first a Song of Ioy and Love, Which chastely flame in Royal Eyes; Then tune it to the Spheres above When the benignest Stars do rise, And sweet Conjunctions grace the Skies.

To this let all good Hearts resound, While Diadems invest his Head: Long may he live, whose Life doth bound More then his Laws, and better Lead By high Example, then by Dread.

Long may He round about Him see His Roses and His Lillies bloom: Long may His only Dear and He Joy in Ideas of their own, And Kingdoms Hopes so timely sown; Long may they both contend to prove, That best of Crowns is such a Love.

Upon the sudden Restraint of the Earl of Somer∣set, then falling from favour.

DAzled thus with height of place, Whilst our Hopes our wits Beguile, No man marks the narrow space 'Twixt a Prison and a Smile.

Then since Fortunes favours fade, You that in her arms do sleep, Learn to swim and not to wade; For the Hearts of Kings are deep.

But if Greatness be so blind, As to trust in Towers of Air, Let it be with Goodness lin'd, That at least the Fall be fair.

Then though darkned you shall say, When Friends fail and Princes frown, Vertue is the roughest way, But proves at night a Bed of Down.

H. W.

The Character of a Happy Life.

HOw happy is he born and taught, That serveth not anothers will? Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill?

Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepar'd for death; Unti'd unto the World by care Of publick fame, or private breath.

VVho envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice hath ever understood; How deepest wounds are giv'n by praise, Nor rules of State, but rules of good.

VVho hath his life from rumours freed, VVhose conscience is his strong retreat: VVhose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruine make Oppressors great.

VVho God doth late and early pray, More of his grace then gifts to lend: And entertains the harmless day VVith a Religious Book, or Friend.

This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of Lands, And having nothing, yet hath all.

H. W.

On a Bank as I sate a Fishing: A description of the Spring.

ANd now all Nature seem'd in love, The lusty sap began to move; New juiee did stir th'embracing Vines, And Birds had drawn their Valentines: The jealous Trout, that low did lie, Rose at a well-dissembled flie: There stood my Friend, with patient skill Attending of his trembling quill.

Already were the Eves possest VVith the swift Pilgrims daubed nest. The Groves already did rejoyce In Philomels triumphing voice. The showers were short, the weather mild, The morning fresh, the evening smill'd. Ione takes her neat-rub'd Pale, and now She trips to milk the Sand-red Cow; VVhere for some sturdy foot-ball Swain, •…•…ne strokes a sillabub or twain. The Fields and Gardens were beset VVith Tulip, Crocus, Violet: And now, though late, the modest Rose Did more then half a blush disclose. Thus all look'd gay, all full of chear, To welcome the New-livery'd year.

H. W.

A Translation of the CIV. Psalm to the Original Sense.

MY soul exalt the Lord with Hymns of praise: O Lord my God, how boundless is thy might? Whose Throne of State is cloath'd with glorious rays, And round about hast rob'd thy self with light. Who like a curtain hast the Heavens display'd, And in the watry Roofs thy Chambers laid.

Whose chariots are the thickned clouds above, Who walk'st upon the winged winds below, At whose command the airy Spirits move, And fiery meteors their obedience show. Who on this Base the earth didst firmly found, And mad'st the dee•…•… to circumvest it round.

The waves that rise would drown the highest hill, But at thy check they flie, and when they hear Thy thundring voice, they post to do thy will, And bound their furies in their proper sphere: Where surging flouds, and valing ebbs can tell, That none beyond thy marks must sink or swell.

Who hath dispos'd, but thou, the winding way Where springs down from the steepy crags do beat, At which both foster'd Beasts their thirsts allay, And the wild Asses come to quench their heat; Where Birds resort, and in their kind, thy praise Among the branches chant in warbling laies.

The mounts are watred from thy dwelling place, The barns and meads are fill'd for man and beast; Wine glads the heart, and oyl adorns the face, And bread the staff whereon our strength doth rest; Nor shrubs alone feel thy suffizing hand, But even the Cedars that so proudly stand.

So have the Fowls their sundry seats to breed, The ranging Stork in stately Beeches dwells; The climing Goats on hills securely feed, The mining Conies shroud in rocky Cells: Nor can the heavenly lights their course forget, The Moon her turns, or Sun his times to set.

Thou mak'st the Night to over-vail the Day; Then savage Beasts creep from the silent wood, Then Lions whelps lie roaring for their prey, And at thy powerful hand demand their food: VVho when at morn they all recouch again, Then toyling man till eve pursues his pain.

Lord, when on thy various works we look, How richly furnish'd is the earth we tread! VVhere, in the fair Contents of Nature's Book, VVe may the wonders of thy wisdom read: Nor earth alone, but lo, the sea so wide, Where great & small, a world of creatures glide.

There go the Ships that furrow out their way; Yea, thereof Whales enormous sights we see, VVhich yet have scope among the rest to play, And all do wait for their support on thee: VVho hast assign'd each thing his proper food, And in due season dost dispence thy good.

They gather when thy gifts thou dost divide; Their stores abound, if thou thy hand enlarge; Confus'd they are, when thou thy beams dost hide; In dust resolv'd, if thou their breath discharge. Again, when thou of life renew'st the seeds, The withered fields revest their chearful weeds.

Be ever gloried here thy Soveraign Name, That thou may'st smile on all which thou hast made; Whose frown alone can shake this earthly frame, And at whose touch the hills in smoak shall vade. For me, may (while I breathe) both harp & voice, In sweet indictment of thy Hymns rejoyce.

Let Sinners fail, let all Profaness cease; His Praise, (my Soul) His Praise shall be thy Peace.

H. WOTTON.

Tears at the Grave of Sir Albertus Morton (who was buried at Southampton) wept by Sir H. Wotton.

SIlence (in truth) would speak my sorrow best, For, deepest wounds can least their feelings tell; Yet, let me borrow from mine own unrest, But time to bid him, whom I lov'd, farewel.

O my unhappy lines! you that before Have serv'd my youth to vent some vvanton cries, And now congeal'd vvith grief, can scarce implore Strength to accent! Here my Albertus lies.

This is the sable Stone, this is the Cave, And vvomb of earth that doth his Corps embrace; VVhile others sing his praise, let me engrave These bleeding Numbers to adorn the place.

Here vvill I paint the Characters of vvoe, Here vvill I pay my tribute to the Dead, And here my faithful tears in showers shall flovv, To humanize the Flints vvhereon I tread.

VVhere though I mourn my matchless loss alone, And none between my vveakness judge and me; Yet even these gentle vvalls allovv my moan, VVhose doleful Ecchoes to my Plaints agree.

But is he gone? and live I rhyming here, As if some Muse vvould listen to my Lay, VVhen all distun'd sit vvaiting for their Dear, And bathe the Banks vvhere he vvas vvont to play?

Dwell thou in endless Light, discharged Soul; Freed now from Natures, and from Fortunes trust: VVhile on this fluent Globe my glass shall role, And run the rest of my remaining dust.

H. W.

Upon the death of Sir Albert. Morton's Wife.

HE first deceas'd; She for a little tri'd To live without him: lik'd it not, and di'd.

H. W

This Hymn was made by Sir H. Wotton, when he was an Ambassador at Venice, in the time of a great sickness there.

ETernal Mover, vvhose diffused Glory, To shevv our groveling Reason vvhat thou art, Unfolds it self in Clouds of Natures story, VVhere Man, thy proudest Creature, acts his part: VVhom yet (alas) I knovv not vvhy, vve call The VVorlds contracted sum, the little all.

For, vvhat are vve but lumps of vvalking clay? Why should we swel? whence should our spirits rise Are not bruit Beasts as strong, and Birds as gay, Trees longer liv'd, and creeping things as vvise? Only our souls vvas left an inward light, To feel our vveakness, and confess thy might.

Thou then, our strength, Father of life and death, To whom our thanks, our vows, our selves we owe, From me thy tenant of this fading breath, Accept those lines vvhich from thy goodness flovv: And thou that vvert thy Regal Prophets Muse, Do not thy Praise in vveaker strains refuse.

Let these poor Notes ascend unto thy throne, Where Majesty doth sit with Mercy crown'd, Where my Redeemer lives, in whom alone The errours of my wandring life are drown'd: Where all the Quire of heaven resound the same, That only Thine, Thine is the saving Name.

Well then, my Soul, joy in the midst of Pain; Thy Christ that conquer'd hell, shall from above With greater triumph yet return again, And conquer his own Iustice with his Love; Commanding Earth and Seas to render those Unto his Bliss, for whom he paid his Woes.

Now have I done: now are my thoughts at peace, And now my Joyes are stronger then my grief: I feel those Comforts that shall never cease, Future in Hope, but present in Belief. Thy words are true, thy promises are just, And thou wilt find thy dearly bought in Dust.

H. WOTTON