L.A. Seneca the philosopher, his booke of consolation to Marcia. Translated into an English poem

Cap. 20

HOw little do men know their miseries That do not death as natures best gift prise: Whether that she felicity include, Or the calamity that them pursu'd

Doth drive away, or whether she do end The irksome troubles that old age attend, Or that the same the flowre of youth doth crop, In the chiefe prime of his expected hope, Or whether tender childhood she recall, Ere that into a worse condition fall: Shee is the end of all, the help of many, The wish of some, not meriting from any More then from these, to whom without request She with the soonest hath her selfe addrest. Shee free's the slave in spight of his sterne lord, Shakes off his chaines, and of her owne accord Releaseth prisoners that committed stand, By cruell tyrants under strickt command. Shee teacheth them that are in banishment (Whose thoughts and eies are on their country bent) Not to be troubled, how, when they are dead Or in what place they shall be buried. She when blind fortune hath divided ill Her gifts, 'tweene those that had by natures will An equall right, doth them againe restore To that equality they had before. Shee it is that could never yet obey, That takes all sence of poverty away, She it is Marcia whom thy father sought, That makes it not a punishment be thought To have beene borne, but helps us in despight Of fortunes threats, to keepe our minds upright. Death is our refuge, though we tortur'd bee In severall kinds, she us at length shall free: Some their heads downe ward are to gibbets ty'd, And some with stretcht out armes are crucify'd,

Where every member sundry engines rent, And some have stak's thrust through their fundament, Yet death's their cure: here enemies invade, There friends insult, yet death at length brings aid, It is not hard to serve, when at one step We weary growne may into freedome leape: Against the injury of life we have A sure and common benefit, a grave. Thinke but what good a timely death hath brought, And how much ill a longer life hath wrought. Had Pompey this great Empire's strength and pride, At Naples of his burning-feaver dy'd, He then the Prince of Rome had sure beene stil'd, Whereas his glorious hopes were all beguil'd By the addition of a little time, And he throwne swifter downe, then he could climbe. He saw his legions lie before him dead, Whose vanguard by grave Senators was led, That did escape, to testifie to all The too long life of him their Generall: His sacred body he did then submit To base Aegyptians that betrayed it, Though had he liv'd, it would have beene a griefe, To thinke how he was forc't to seeke reliefe, That Pompey through the world surnam'd the great, Of any King should life or aid intreat. Had Tully dy'd when he escap't the slaughter Design'd by Catiline, or with his daughter Had left the world, he had great honor wonne, And had not seene so many mischiefes done, Swords sheath'd in mutuall bowells, and their goods By murd'rers shar'd, who therfore sought their bloods:

Nor beene so much unhappy to behold The Consulary spoyles at out-cries fold, When as our state no insolence debar'd, But unto theeves and traitors gave reward, Encouraging all sorts of lewd designes, The Senate having many Catilines. If Cato, when from Cyprus he did bring To Rome the wealth of that deceased King. Had with the same, intended for the pay Of a dire civill warre, beene cast away, This honour had accompanied his end, That none in Cato's presence durst offend, Whereas a little tract of time compel'd Him, that Romes freedome with his owne upheld, To fly from Caesar and to Pompey cleave, And at the length himselfe of life bereave. An early death no dammage then hath sent Upon thy sonne, but rather did prevent The cares that to a longer life belong, And therefore do not thinke de dy'd too yong. For if the life of the most aged man Considered be, what is it but a span? As in an Inne he lodgeth in the world, And in a moment out againe is hurl'd; So swiftly posts our life, and if the story Thou dost but read of cities that most glory In their antiquity, it will appeare, That nothing can be old accounted here. All humane things are fraile, and haue no right To any part of that vast infinite. We say the earth, men, cities, rivers, seas, Whose larger circuit comprehends all these,

Are but a point compar'd with all the rest, Our life, of no part of a poynt's possest Compar'd with time, the world exceeding farre, Whose revolutions thereby measur'd are. Why should our minds then on that thing be bent, Which brought unto the uttermost extent Is little more then nothing? therefore hee Lives long enough that can contented be: For though thy life a hundred yeeres should last, Yet that compar'd with all the time that's past And is to come, would in effect amount No more then to the shortest in account. He dyed not too soone that liv'd the time. Appointed, though he dyed in his prime: Men live not all alike nor beasts, for some Grow weary, when to fourteene yeeres they come, And that which is their last, is mans first age, Wee all of us have our prefixed stage, Which we by no endeavour can exceed, Nor should we grudge at what is so decreed: He had what was allotted him, no chance His life could ere diminish, or advance, Wee all are in this errour, to conceive That we this world are never like to leave But in old crooked age, when as we know We may as well in youth or childhood goe. Our birth is towards death the first degree, And what we live beyond is given free: Fate ply's her worke, and to delude our sense, Makes death steale on us under lifes pretence, For childhood doth our infancy surprise, And youth or childhood, then age quickely hyes,

And such as seeme increases, if well weigh'd, Are dammages that secretly invade.