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They, neighbours to your eyes,
| Then Revenge, married to Ambition, Show but like Phosphor when the Sun doth rise. Begat black War ; then Avarice crept on; I would have all my mistress' parts
Then limits to each field were strain'd,
And Terminus a god-head gain'd,
To meu before was found,
Besides the sea, no bound.
In what plain, or what river, hath not been
War's story writ in blood (sad story!) seen ? For 'tis not buildings make a court,
This truth too well our England knows : Or pomp, but 'tis the king's resort :
'Twas civil slaughter dy'd her rose ;
Nay, then her lily too
With blood's loss paler grew.
Such griefs, nay worse than these, we now should le than a golden one it cannot be.
Did not just Charles silence the rage of steel;
He to our land blest Peace doth bring,
All neighbour countries envying.
Happy who did remain
Unborn till Charles's reign!
Where dreaming chymics! is your pain and cost? From sighs your breast, and from black clouds
How is your oil, how is your labour lost!
Our Charles, blest alchymist! (though strange, your brow,
Believe it, future times !) did change When the Sun shines not with his wonted cheer,
The iron-age of old
Into an age of gold.
UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE. laughter and gronning do alternately
Mark that swift arrow! how it cuts the air, Return, and tears sport's nearest neigbbours are.
How it out-runs thy following eye! 'Tis by the gods appointed so,
Use all persuasions now, and try That good fare should with mingled dangers flow. | If thou canst call it back, or stay it there. Who drave his oxen yesterday,
That way it went ; but thou shalt find Doth now over the noblest Romans reign,
No tract is left behind. And on the Gabij and the Cures lay
Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.
Of all the time thou 'st shot away,
I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind ?
Our life is carried with too strong a tide; To his old country-farm of yesterday,
A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
And is the horse of all our years.
Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.
We and our glass run out, and must
Both render up our dust.
But his past life who without grief can see;
Who never thinks his end too near,
But says to Fame, “ Thou art mine heir;"
That man extends life's natural brevity-
This is, this is the only way
To out-live Nestor in a day.
| AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO
Smiths (who before could only make | Nichols, my better self! forbear;
For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures
are, Man's life ť epitomize!
The schoolboy's sin will light on me,
\ I shall, in mind at least, a truant be. Then men (fond men, alas!) ride post to th’ grare.
Tell me not how you feed your mind And cut those threads which yet the Fates would
With dainties of philosophy;
In Ovid's nut I shall not find
The taste once pleased me.
O tell me not of logic's diverse cheer!
I shall begin to loathe our crambo herre
Tell me not how the waves appear
Why do I stay then? I would meet Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned shire ;
Thee there, but plummets hang upon my feet ; I shall contemn the troubled Thames
'Tis my clief wish to live with thee,
Till then, we'll scorn to let that toy,
Some forty miles, divide our hearts :
Write to me, and I shall enjoy
Friendship and wit, thy better parts. When th' city shines with flags and pageants there, | Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings, And satin doublets, scen not twice a year,
We'll easily see each other; Love hath wings.
| And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go,
See us, and clouds, below.
ODE. OF WIT.
Tell me, Otell, what kind of thing is Wit, i
Thou who master art of it?
For the first matter loves variety less;
Less women love't, either in love or dress. " In this scale gold, in th other fame does lie,
A thousand different shapes it bears, . The weight of that mounts this so high.
Comely in thousand shapes appears. These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; Yonder we saw it plain ; and here 'tis now,
Brought forth with their own fire and light: Like spirits, in a place we know not how. If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,
London, that vents of false ware so much store, Out of myself it must be strook,
In no ware deceives us more; Yet I must on. What sound is 't strikes mine ear? For men, led by the colour and the shape, Sure I Fame's trumpet hear:
Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape. It sounds like the last trumpet ; for it can
Some things do through our judginent Raise up the buried man.
pass Unpast Alps stop me ; but I'll cut them all,
As through a multiplying-glass;
And sometimes, if the object be too far,
We take a falling meteor for a star,
Hence 'tis, a Wit, that greatest word of fame, Hence, the desire of honours or estate,
Grows such a common name;
And Wits by our creation they become,
'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me
Admir'd with laughter at a feast, on ;
| Nor florid talk, which can that title gain;
The proofs of Wit for ever must remain.
'Tis not to force some lifeless verses meet Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do;
With their five gouty feet. He conguer'd th' earth, the whole world you. All, every where, like man's, must be the soul. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and And Reason the inferior powers cortroul. wit
Such were the numbers which could call Preserves Rome's greatness yet:
The stones into the Theban wall. Thou art the first of orators; only he
Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see Who best can praise thee, next must be.
No towns or houses rais'd by poetry. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise ! Yet'tis not to adorn and gi!d each part; Whose verse walks highest, but not flies;
That shows more cost than art. Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, | Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear; And made that art which was a rage.
Rather than all things Wit, let none be there. Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do
Several lights will not be seen,
If there be nothing else between.
If those be stars which paint the galaxy.
T's not when two like words make up one noise | W’hilst we, like younger brothers, get at best
(Jests for Dutcb' men and English boys); But a small stock, and must work out the rest. In which who finds out Wit, the same may see How could he answer 't, should the state think sit In an'grams and acrostic poetry :
To question a monopoly of wit ?
Such is the man whoin we require the same
We lent the North; untouch'd, as is his fame.
Those men alone (and those are useful too)
Whose valour is the only art they know
Were for sad war and bloody battles born;
Let them the state defend, and he adorn.
And force some odd similitude.
ON THE DEATH OF
SIR HENRY WOOTTON.
What shall we say, since sileut now is he
Why when he spoke, all things would silent be? All creatures dwelt; all creatures that had life:
Who had so many languages in store,
That only Fame shall speak of him in more;
Whom England now no more return'd must see; Which, without discord, or confusion, lie
He's gone to Heaven on his fourth embassy, In that strange mirror of the Deity:
On Earth be travell’d often ; not to say
H' had been abroad, or pass loose time away. But Love, that moulds one man up out of two, In whatsoever land he chanc'd to corne, Makes me forget, and injure you:
He read the men and manners, bringing home I took you for myself, sure, when I thought
Their wisdom, learning, and their piety,
As if he went to conquer, not too see.
So well he understood the most, and best
Of tongues, that Babel sent i-o the West ;
Spoke them so truly, that he had (you'd swear) I'll only show your lines, and say, 'Tis this,
Not only liv’d, but been born every where.
Nor ought the language of that man be less,
Who in his breast had all things to express.
We say, that leaming's endless, and blame Fate EXPEDITION AGAINST THE SCOTS.
For not allowing life a louger date: ..
He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find, Great is thy charge, O North! be wise and just,
He found them not so large as was his mind; England commits her Falkland to thy trust;
But, like the brave. Pellæan youth, did moan Retu n him safe; Learning would rather choose Because that art had no more worlds than one; Her Bodley or her Vatican to lose:
And, when he saw that he through all had past, All things that are but writ or printed there, He dy'd, lest he should idle grow at last. 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.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN, So, in an army govern'd right, we see
SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL. (Though out of sercral countries rais'd it be) That all their order and their place maintain, llence, and make room for me, all you who come The English, Dutch, the Frenchman, and the Dane: Only to read the epitaph on this tomb! So thousand divers species fill the air,
Here lies the master of my tender years, Yet neither crowd nor mix confus'dly there; The guardian of my parents' hope and fears; Beasts, houses, trees, and men, togetherle, Whose government ne'er stood me in a tear; Yet enter undisturb'd into the eye.
All weeping was reserv'd to spend it here. And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate Come hither, all who his rare virtues knew, Thrust into th' noise and business of a state,
And mourn with me: he was your tutor too. All virtues, and some customs of the court,
Let's join our sighs, till they fy far, and shew O:her men's labour, are at least his sport;
His native Belgia what she's now to do. Whilst we, who can no action undertake,
The league of grief bids her with us lament; Whoin idleness itself might learned make;
By her he was brought forth, and hither sent Who hear of nothing, and as yet scarce know, In payment of all men we there had lost, Whether the Scots in England be or no;
And all the English blood those wars have cost. Pace dully on, oft tire, and often stay,
Wisely did Nature this learn'd man divide; Yet see his nimble Pegasus fly away.
His birth was theirs, his death the mournful pride "Tis Nature's fault, who did thus partial grow, Of England ; and, t'avoid the envious strife And her cstate of wit on one bestow;
of other lands, all Europe had his life,
ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN...DEATH OF VANDYCK. 69 But we in chief; our country soon was grown
How justly would our neighbours sinile A debtor more to him, than he to 's own.
At these mad quarrels of our isle; He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes, Swell’d with proud hopes to snatch the whole away And built up men against the future times; Whilst we bet all, and yet for nothing play! For deeds of age are in their causes then,
How was the silver Tine frighted before, And though he taught but boys, he made the men.
And durst not kiss the armed shore ! Hence 'twas a master, in those ancient days
His waters ran möre swiftly than they use, When men sought knowledge first, and by it | And hasted to the sea to tell the news : • praise,
The sea itself, how rough soe'er, Was a thing full of reverence, profit, fame ;
Could scarce believe such fury here. Father itself was but a second naine.
How could the Scots and we be enemies grown? He scorn'd the profit; his instructions all
That, and its master Charles, hall made us one. Were, like the science, free and liberal. He deserv'd honours, but despis'd them too,
No blood so loud as that of civil war: As much as those who have them others do.
It calls for dangers from afar. He knew not that which compliment they call;
Let's rather go and seek out them and fame; Could flatter none, but himself least of all.
Thus our fore-fathers got, thus left, a name : So true, so faithful, and so just, as he
All their rich blood was spent with gains, Was pought on Earth but his own memory;
But that which swells their children's veins. His memory, where all things written were, | Why sit we still, our spirits wrapt in lead ? As sure and fixt as in Fate's books they are. .
Not like them whilst they liv'd, but now they're Thus be in arts so vast a treasure gain'd,
dead. Whilst still the use came in, and stock remain'd: The noise at home was but Fate's policy, And, having purchas'd all that man can know,
To raise our spirits more high : He labour'd with 't to enrich others now;
So a bold lion, ere he seeks his prey, Did thus a new and harder task sustain,
Lashes his sides and roars, and then away. Like those that work in mines for others' gain :
How would the German eagle fear, He, though more nobly, had much more to do,
To see a new Gustavus there; To search the vein, dig, purge, and mint it too.
How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do Though my excuse would be, I must confess,
For Jove of old, it now bure thunder too!
Sure there are actions of this height and praise
Destin'd to Charles's days!
What will the triumphs of his battles be,
| Whose very peace itself is victory !
When Heaven bestows the best of kings,
It bids us think of mighty things :
His valour, wisdom, offspring, speak no less; • ON ITIS MAJESTY'S RETURN
And we, the prophets' sons, write not by guess. OUT OF SCOTLAND. WELCOME, great Sir! with all the joy that's due To the return of peace and you;
ON THE DEATH OF
SIR ANTHONY VANDYCK,
THE FAMOUS PAINTER.
Vandyck is dead ; but what bold Muse shall dare Who, when rude Chaos for his help did call,
(Though poets in that word with painters share) Spoke but the word and sweetly order'd all.
T" express her sadness? Poesy must become This happy concord in no blood is writ,
An art like Painting here, an art that's dumb. None can grudge Heaven full thanks for it : | Let's all our solem grief in silence keep, No mothers here lament their children's fate, Like some sad picture which he made to weep, And like the peace, but think it comes too late. - Or those who saw't; for none his works could view No widows hear the jocund bells,
Unmoved with the same passions wbich he drew, And take them for their husbands' knells : His pieces so with their live objects strive, No drop of blood is spilt, which might be said That both or pictures seem, or both alive. To mark our joyful holiday with red.
Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand, 'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing,
Which is her own, and which the pajuter's hand;
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in twips she would express,
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was bis life less perfect than his art.
Nor was his hand less erring than his heart.
There was no false or fading colour there, And only in their halls the children fright.
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were. The gain of civil wars will not allow
Most other men, set next to bim in view, Bay to the conqueror's brow :
Appear'd more shadows than the men hc drew. At such a game what fool would venture in,
Thus still he liv'd, till Heav'n did for him call; Where one must lose yet neither side can win ? Where referend Luke salutes him first of all; .
Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair,
FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCĆ.
Whex chance or cruel business parts us two, Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
What do our souls, I wonder, do? Whilst he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Whilst sleep does our dull bodies tie, Scorns his own art, which we aclmire below,
Methinks at home they should not stay, Only his beauteous lady still he loves
Content with dreams, but boldly ily
Sure they do meet, enjoy each other there,
And mix, I know not how nor where ! Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve :
Their friendly lights together twine, Yourjoys and griefs were wont the same to be;
Though we perceive 't not to be so! Begin not now, blest pair! to disagree.
Like loving stars, which oft combine, No wonder Death move not his generous mind;
Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know. You, and a new-born vou, be left behind:
'Twere an ill world, I'll swear, for every friend, Ev'n Fate express'd his love to his dear wife,
If distance could their union end : , And let him end your picture with hislife.
But Love itself does far advance
It scorns such outward circumstance,
His time's for ever, every where his place.
I'm there with thee, yet here with me thou art,
Lodg'd in each other's heart:
Miracles cease not yet in love. How wretched does Prometheus' state appear,
When he his mighty power will try, Whilst he his seccad misery suffers here !
Absence itself does bounteous prove, Diaw him no more ; lest, as he tortur'd stands, And strangely ev'n our presence multiply. He blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands.
Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine, It would the vulture's cruelty outgo,
Like that which in Heaven's Sun does shine: If once again bis liver thus should grow.
He in the upper air and sky
Does no effects of heat bestow ;
But, as his beams the farther fly,
Friendship is less apparent when too nigh,
Like objects if they touch the eye.
Less meritorious then is love; Here's to thee, Dick; this whining love despise ;
· For when we friends together sec Pledge me, my friend ; and drink till thou be'st
So much, so much both one do prove, wise.
That their love then seems but self-love to be,
Each day think on me, and each day I shall
For thee make hours canonical.
By every wind that comes this way,
Send me, at least, a sigh or two; With all thy servile pains what canst thou win,
Such and so many I'll repay, But an ill favour'd and uncleanly sin ?
As shall themselves make winds to get to you.
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; Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
* No longer 'twill be kept from you, Whom would it e'er persuade to court and love; But knocks against the breast to get away.
Could he a woman's heart have seen
And, when no art affords me help or ease,
I seek with verse my griefs t'appease ;
Just as a bird, that flies about
And beats itself against the cage, Pollies they have so numberless in store,
Finding at last no passage out,
It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage.
TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN, Aere's to thee again ; thy senseless sorrows drown;
UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF TIIE TOWER.
PARDON, my lord, that I am come so late
Of liberty, at first I could not grieve ;