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Distilling honey; here doth nectar pass,
With copious current, through the verdant grass :
Once lovely boys! and Acis, now a flower,
Are nourish'd with that rarer herb, whose power It was decreed by stedfast Destiny
Created thee, War's potent god! here grows (The world from chaos turn'd) that all should die. The spotless lily and the blushing rose; He who durst fearless pass black Acheron,
And all those divers ornaments abound, And dangers of th' infernal region,
'That variously may paint the gaudy ground. Leading Hell's triple porter captivate,
No willow, Sorrow's garland, there hath room, Was overcome himself by conquering Fate. Nor cypress, sad attendant of a tomb. The Roman Tully's pleasing eloquence,
None but Apollo's tree, and th’ivy twine Which in the ears did lock up every sense
Embracing the stout oak, the fruitful vine, Of the rapt hearer; his mellifluous breath And trees with golden apples loaded down, Could not at all charm unremorseless Death;
On whose fair tops sweet Philomel alone, Nor Solon, so by Greece admir'd, could save
Unmindful of her former misery, Himself, with all his wisdom, from the grave.
'Tunes with her voice a ravishing harmony; Stern Fate brought Maro to his funeral Hame, Whilst all the murmuring brooks that glide along, And would have ended in that fire his fame;
Make up a burthen to her pleasing song. Burning those lofty lines, which now shall be No screech-owi, sad companion of the night; Time's conquerors, and out-last eternity.
No hideous raven with prodigious flight, Even so lov'à Clarke from death no’scape could find, Presaging future ill; nor, Progne, thee, Though arm'd with great Alcides' valiant mind. Yet spotted with young Itis' tragedy, He was adom'd, in years though far more young,
Those sacred bowers receive. There's nothing there With learn'd Cicero's, or a sweeter tongue.
That is not pure; all innocent and rare. And, could dead Virgil hear his lofty strain, Turning my greedy sight another way, He would condemn his own to fire again,
Under a row of storm contemning bay, His youth a Solon's wisdom did presage,
I saw the Thracian singer with his lyre Had envious Time but giv'n him Solon's age. Teach the deaf stones to hear him and admire. Who would not therefore now, if Learning's friend,
Him the whole poets' chorus compass'd round, Bevail his fatal and untimely end?
All whom the oak, all whom the laurel crown'd. Who hath such hard, such unrelenting eyes,
There banish'd Ovid had a lasting home, As not to weep when so much virtue dies?
Better than thou could'st give, ungrateful Rome! The god of poets doth in darkness shrowd
And Lucan (spite of Nero) in each vein His glorious face, and weeps behind a cloud. Had every drop of his spilt blood again: The doleful Muses thinking now to write
Homer, Sol's first-born, was not poor or blind, Sad elegies, their tears confound their sight : But saw as well in body as in mind. But him t Elysium's lasting joys they bring,
Tally, grave Cato, Solon, and the rest
Of Greece's admir'd wise-men, here possest
By these the valiant beroes take their place;
For Virtue's cause. Great Alexander there PHEKUs, expella by the approaching night, Laughs at the Earth's small empire, and did wear Blush'd, and for shame clos din his bashful light, A nobler crown than the whole world could gire: While I, with leaden Morpheus overcome, There did Horatius, Cocles, Sceva, live, The Muse whom I adore enter'd the room: And valiant Decius; who now freely cease Her hair with looser curiosity
From war, and purchase an eternal peace. Did on her comely back dishevelP'd lie:
Next them, beneath a myrtle bower., where dores Her eyes with such attractive beauty shone, And gall-less pigeons build their nests, all Love's As might have wak'd sleeping Endymion.
True faithful servants, with an amorous kiss She bade me rise, and promis'd I should see And soft embrace, enjoy their greediest wish, Thome fields, those mansions of felicity,
Leander with his beauteous Hero plays, We mortals so admire at: speaking thus,
Nor are they parted with dividing seas: She lifts me up upon wing'd Pegasus,
Porcia enjoys her Brutus ; Death no moro On whom I rid; knowing, wherever she
Can now divoree their wedding, as before: Did go, that place must needs a temple be. Thisbe her Pyramus kiss'd, his Thisbe he No sooner was my flying courser come
Embrac'd, each bless'd with t' other's company: To the blest dwellings of Elysium,
And every couple, always dancing, sing When strait a thousand unknown joys resort, Eternal pleasures to Elysium's king. And hemm'd me round; chaste Love's innocuous But see how soon these pleasures fade away! sport!
How near to evening is Delight's short day! A thousand sweets, bought with no following gall, The watching bird, true nuncius of the light, Joys, not like ours, short, but perpetual.
Strait crowd; and all these vanish'd from my sight: How many objects charm my wandering eye, My very Muse herself forsook me too. And bid my soul gaze there eterually!
Me grief and wonder wak'd : what should I do? Here in full streams, Bacchus, thy liquor flows, Oh ! let me follow thee (said I) and go Nor knows to ebb; here Jove's broad tree bestows From life, that I may dream for ever som
With that my flying Muse I thonght to clasp Yet he returns, and with his light
Yet his new-birth will soon restore
What its departure took before.
What though we miss'd our absent king
Awhile? great Charles is come again ;
And with his presence makes us know Fame !
The gratitude to Heaven we owe. For he who speaks his titles, his great name,
So doth a cruel storm impart Must have a breathing time our king :- stay there;
And teach us Palinurus' art:
So from salt floods, wept by our eyes,
A joyful Venus doth arise.
Lest the misjudging world should chance to say Great Neptune's court : let every sparrow bear
I durst not but in secret murmurs pray; From the three Sisters' weeping bark a tear :
To whisper in Jove's ear Let spotted lynxes their sharp talons fill
How much I wish that funeral, With crystal, fetch'd from the Promethean hill:
Or gape at such a great one's fall; Let Cytherea's birds fresh wreaths compose,
This let all ages hear, Knitting the pale-fac'd lily with the rose:
And future times in my soul's picture sce
What I abhor, what I desire to be.
Can preach two hours, and yet his sermon be Let every post a panegyric wear,
But half a quarter long; Each wall, each pillar, gratulations bear: Though, from his old mechanic trade, And yet, let no man invocate a Muse;
By vision he's a pastor made, The very matter will itself infuse
His faith was grown so strong; A sacred fury: let the merry bells
Nay, though he think to gain salvation (For unknown joys work unknown miracles) By calling th' pope the Whore of Babylon. Ring without help of sexton, and presage
I would not be a school-master, though he A new-made holy-day for future age !
His rods no less than fasces deems to be; And, if the ancients us'd to dedicate
Though he in many a place A golden temple to propitious Fate,
Turns Lilly oftener than his gowns, At the return of any noble men,
Till at the last he make the nouns Of heroes, or of emperors, we must then
Fight with the verbs apace; Raise up a double trophy; for their fame
Nay, though he can, in a poetic heat,
Figures, born since, out of poor Virgil beat.
I would not be justice of peace, though he
Can with equality divide the fee,
And stakes with his clerk draw;
Intricate as the law; (As he were primum mobile of Fate)
And, whilst he mulets enormities demurely, Solely relies ; him blind Ambition moves ;
Breaks Priscian's head with sentences securely. His tyranny the bridled subject proves.
I would not be a courtier, though he But all those virtues which they all possest Makes his whole life the truest comedy, Divided, are collected in thy breast,
Although he be a man Great Charles! Let Cæsar boast Pharsalia's fight, In whom the taylor's forming art, Honorius praise the Parthian's unfeign'd fight: And nimble barber, claim more part Let Alexander call himself Jove's peer,
Than Nature herself can;
Though, as he uses men, 'tis his intent
From lawyer's tongues, though they can spin with Who is most near, most like, the Deity.
The shortest cause into a paraphrase ; [ease
From usurers' conscience
(For swallowing up young heirs so fast,
Without all doubt, they'll choak at last)
Make me all innocence,
Good Heaven! and from thy eyes, O Justice ! keepi Hence eye that Sorrow's livery wears !
For though they be not blind, they're oft asleep. What though awhile Apollo please
From singing-mens' religion, who are To visit the Antipodes?
Always at church, just like the crows, 'cause there
They build themselves a nest :
, To strike me: doubtless there had been a fray, From too much poetry, which shines
Had not I providently skipp'd away
Without replying; for to scold is ill,
And can out-sound Homer's Gradivus ; so
I Aung (the darts of wounding poetry) From your court-madams' beauty, which doth
These two or three sharp curses back: “May he' At morning May, at night a January: (carry
Be by his father in his study took
At Shakespeare's plays, instead of my lord Coke! (For though it want an R, it has
May he (though all his writings grow as soon
As Butter's out of estimation)
Get him a poet's name, and so ne'er come
Into a serjeant's or dead judge's room! Or from the stomach of the guard defend me.
May he become some poor physician's prey,
As he his client doth, till bis health be
As far-fetcht as a Greek noun's pedigree!
Nay, for all that, may the disease be gone
Never but in the long vocation !
May neighbours use all quarrels to decide ;
Unless he come in forma pauperis !
Grant this, ye gods that favour poetry!
That all these never-ceasing tongues may be
Brought into reformation, and not dare
To quarrel with a thread-bare black: but spare
Them who bear scholars' names, lest some one take With Nature's hand, not Art's; that pleasures yield
Spleen, and another Ignoramus make.”
TO THE DUTCHESS OP
If I should say, that in your face were seen
Nature's best picture of the Cyprian queen;
If I should swear, under Minerva's name,
Poets (who prophets are) foretold your fame; To morrow let my Sun his beams display,
The future age would think it flattery; Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to day? But to the present, which can witness be,
"Twould seem beneath your bigh deserts, as far A POETICAL REVENGE.
As you above the rest of women are.
When Manners' name with Villiers join'd I see, WESTMINSTER-hall a friend and I agreed
How do I reverence your nobility!
(Envy'd in your dead lord, admir'd in you) To the next court; for though I could not know I half adore them; for what woman can, Much what they meant, yet I might see and hear Besides yourself (nay, I might say what man) (As most spectators do at theatre)
But sex, and birth, and fate, and years excel Things very strange : Fortune did seem to grace
In mind, in fame, in worth, in living well ? My coming there, and helpt me to a place.
Oh, how had this begot idolatry, But, being newly settled at the sport,
If you had liv'd in the world's infancy, A semi-gentleman of the inns of court,
When man's too much religion made the best In a satin suit, redeem'd but yesterday,
Or deities, or semi-gods at least !
But we, forbidden this by piety,
Will make our hearts an altar, and there pray Besides a serjeant, thrust me froin my seat:
Not to, but for, you ; nor that England may At which I 'gan to quarrel, till a neat
Enjoy your equal, when you once are gone, Man in a ruff (whom therefore I did take
But, what's more possible, t'enjoy you long. For barrister) open'd his mouth and spake; "Boy, get you gone, this is no school.” “Oh no;
TO HIS VERY MUCH HONOURED
GODFATHER, MR. A. B.
11 love (for that upon the wings of Fame An action of trespass: till the young man
Shall perhaps mock Death or Time's darts) my Aforesaid, in the satin suit, began
I love it more, because 'twas given by you; * The three concluding stanzas of this poem are I love it most, because 'twas your name too; introduced by Mr. Cowley in his Essays in Verse For if I chance to slip, a conscious shame nad Prose. N.
Plucks me, and bids me not defile your name.
I'm glad that city, t'whom Iow'd before
His learning had out-run the rest of heirs, (But, ah me! Fate hath crost that willing score) Stol'n beard from Time, and leapt to twenty years. A father, gave me a godfather too;
And, as the Sun, though in full glory bright,
Whom I may rightly think, and term, to be And a good-morrow to the beggar brings
With as full rays as to the mightiest kings :
So he, although his worth just state might claim, (When Nature had not licensed my tongue
And give to pride an honourable name,
With courtesy to all, cloath'd virtue so,
That 'twas not higher than his thonghts were low. In whose each look I may a sentence see;
In 's body too no critique eye could find In whose each deed, a teaching homily.
The smallest blemish, to belye his mind;
He was all pureness, and his outward part How shall I pay this debt to you? My fate But represents the picture of his heart. Denies me Indian pearl or Persian plate;
When waters swallow'd mankind, and did cheat Which though it did not, to requite you thus, The bungry worm of its expected meat; Were to send apples to Alcinous,
When gems, pluckt from the shore by ruder hands, And sell the cunning'st way.-No! when I can, Return'd again unto their native sands;
In every leaf, in every verse, write Man ; 'Mongst all those spoils, there was not any prey When my quill relisheth a school no more;
Could equal what this brook bath stol'n away. When my pen-feather'd Muse hath learnt to soar,
Weep then, sad Flood; and, though thou'rt innocent, And gotten wings as well as feet; look then Weep because Fate made thee her instrument: For equal thanks from my unwearied pen:
And, when long grief hath drunk up all thy store, Till future ages say, 'twas you did give
Come to our eyes, and we will lend thee more. A name to me, and I made yours to live.
A TRANSLATION OF , AN ELEGY
VERSES UPON THE BLESSE
SSED VIRGIN, ON THE DEATH OF JOHN LITTLETON, ESQUIRE,
WRITTEN IN LATIN BY THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL DR. A.
Once thou rejoiced’st, and rejoi e for ever,
Whose time of joy shall be expired never :
Who in her womb the hive of comfort bears,
You brought the word of joy, in which was born That to the thirsty traveller may say,
An ha il to all ! let us an hail return ! “ I am accurst; go turn some other way?"
From you “God save” into the world there came; It is unjust: black Flood ! thy guilt is more,
Our echo hail is but an empty name.
What have I said? my pious rage bath been How loaded hives are with their honey fild, Too hot, and acts, whilst it accuseth, sin.
From divers flowers by chymic bees distill'd !
How full the Moon is with her brother's ray,
When she drinks-up with thirsty orb the day!
So full doth Mary of God's light appear.
The fall of mankind under Death's extent • Live with me, brother, or I'll die with thee;"
The quire of blessed angels did lament, And so he did ! Had he been thine, O Rome!
And wish'd a reparation to see
By him, who manhood join'd with deity.
How grateful should man's safaty then appear
To himself, whose safety can the angels cheer!
BENEDICTA TU IN MULIERIBUS.
Deatu came, and troops of sad Diseases led
Life came so too, and troops of Graces led
THAT A PLEASANT POVERTY IS TO DE PREFERRED
BEFORE DISCONTENTED RICHES.
Who did life's blessing give, 'tis fit that she, The laurel to the poet's hand did bow,
Craving the honour of his brow;
And every loving arm embrac'd, and made ET BENEDICTUS FRUCTUS VENTRIS TUI.
With their officious leaves a shade. Wiru mouth divine the Father doth protest,
The beasts too strove his auditors to be,
Forgetting their old tyranny.
And wolf was shepherd to the lamb.
And Muses of the place, were there;
Who, when their little windpipes they had found SPIRITUS SANCTUS SUPERVENIET IN TE.
Unequal to so strange a sound,
O'ercome by art and grief they did expire,
Happy, O happy they, whose tomb might be, The breath gives sparing kisses, nor with power
Mausolus ! envied by thee! l'nlocks the virgin-bosom of the Power :
Why, ! doth gaudy Tagus ravish thee,
Though Neptune's treasure-house it be?
Why doth Pactolus thee bewitch, ET VIRTUS ALTISSIMI OBUMBRABIT TIBI.
Infected yet with Midas' glorious itch? God h's great Son begot ere time begun;
Their dull and sleepy streams are not at all, Mary in time brought forth her little son,
Like other floods, poetical ; Of double substance One ; life he began,
They have no dance, no wanton sport, Gud without mother, without father, man.
No gentle murmur, the lov'd shore to court. Great is the birth ; and 'tis a stranger deed
No fish inhabit the adulterate flood, That she no man, than God no wife, sh uld need ;
Nor can it feed the neighbouring wood; A shade del ghted the child-bearing maid,
No flower or herb is near it found,
But a perpetual winter starves the ground,
An added beauty; whose clear brow
May be my looking-glass to see
What my face is, and what my mind should be! The father's shade was Christ the Deity.
Here waves call waves, and glide along in rank, Let's seek for day, we darkness, whilst our sight
And prattle to the smiling bank ;
Here sad king-fishers tell their tales,
Daisies, the first-born of the teeming spring,
On each side their embroidery bring;
Here lilies wash, and grow more white, ON THE PRAISE OF POETRY.
And daffodils, to see themselves, delight. Tis not a pyramid of marble s one,
Here a fresh arbour gives her amorous shade, 'Though high as our ambition ;
Which Nature, the best gardener, made. 'Tis not a tomb cut out in brass, which can
Here I would sit and sing rude lays, Give life to th' ashes of a man ;
Such as the nymphs and me myself should please, But verses only: they shall fresh appear, Whilst there are men to read or hear.
l'hus I would waste, thus end, my careless days ; When Time shall make the lasting brass decay,
And robin-red-breasts, whom men praise And eat the pyramid away;
For pious birds, should, when I die, Turning that monument wherein men-trust
Make both my monument and elegy.
TO HIS MISTRESS.
Tyrian dye why do you wear,
You whose cheeks best scarlet are: took
Why do you fondly pin His lyre, and gently on it strook,
Pure linen or your skin, The learned stones came dancing all along,
(Your skin that's whiter far) And kept time to the charming song,
Casting a dusky cloud before a star. With artificial pace the warlike pine,
Why bears your neck a golden chain? The elm and his wife the ivy twine,
Did Nature make your hair in vain, With all the better trees, which erst had stood
Of gold most pure and fine ? Unmov'd, forsook their pative wood,
With gems why do you shine! TOL. VII.