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Then Revenge, married to Ambition, Begat black War; then Avarice crept on ; Then limits to each field were strain'd, , And Terminus a god-head gain'd, - To men before was found, Besides the sea, no bound.
In what plain, or what river, hath not heen
War's story writ in blood (sad story !) seen 2
This truth too well our England knows:
'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
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?
How is your oil, how is your labour lost'
Our Charles, blestalchymist! (though strange,
Believe it, future times') did change
The iron-age of old
Into an age of gold.
ODE PI. UPON THE shortNess of MAN's Life.
Manx that swift arrow! how it cuts the air,
How it out-runs thy following eye
Use all persuasions now, and try
If thou canst call it back, qr stay it there.
That way it went ; but thou shalt find
No tract is left behind.
Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.
Of all the time thou 'st shot away,
I’ll b.d thee fetch but yesterday,
And it shall be too hard a task to do.
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind
Our life is carried with too strong a tide;
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 AWS/WER TO AM IMPITATION TO CAMBRIDGE,
Nichols, my betterself! forbear;
For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures are,
The schoolboy's sin will lighton me,
I shall, in mind at least, a truant be.
Tell me not how you feed your mind
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 here.
WHAT shall I do to be for ever known,
And make the age to come my own?
I shall, like beasts or common people, die,
Unless you write my elegy;
Whilst others great, by being born, are grown;
Their mothers' labour, not their own.
In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie,
The weight of that mounts this so high.
These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their own fire and light:
If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,
Out of myself it must be strook.
Yet I must on. What sound is't strikes mine ear?
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear:
It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can
taise up the buried man.
Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all,
And march, the Muses' Hannibal.
Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay
Nets of roses in the way!
Hence, the desire of honours or estate,
And all that is not above Fate |
Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days'
Which intercepts my coming praise.
Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me
on ; 'Tis time that I were gone. Welcome, great Stagyrite' and teach me now All I was born to know : Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do; He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and wit Preserves Rome's greatness yet: Thou art the first of orators; only he Who best can praise thee, next must be. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, And made that art which was a rage. Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do To be like one of you? But you have climb'd the mountain's top, there sit On the calm flourishing head of it,
And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards ge, See us, and clouds, below.
Tell me, o tell, what kind of thing is wit,
- Thou who master art of it?
For the first matter loves variety less;
Less women love 't, either in love or dress.
A thousand different shapes it bears,
Comely in thousand shapes appears.
Yonder we saw it plain; and here 'tis now,
Like spirits, in a place we know not how.
London, that vents of false ware so much store,
In no ware deceives us more;
For men, led by the colour and the shape,
Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape.
Some things do through our judgment
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,
Grows such a common name;
And Wits by our creation they become,
Just so as titular bishops made at Rome.
'Tis not a tale, ’tis not a jest
Admir'd with laughter at a feast,
Nor florid talk, which can that title gain;
The proofs of Wit for ever must remain.
'Tis not to force some lifeless verses meet
With their five gouty feet.
All, every where, like man's, must be the soul,
And Reason the inferior powers controul.
Such were the numbers which could call
The stones into the Theban wall.
Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see
No towns or houses rais'd by poetry.
Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each part;
That shows more cost than art.
Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear;
Rather than all things Wit, let mone be there.
Several lights will not be seen,
If there be nothing else between.
Mendoubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky,
If those be stars which pai t the galaxy.
Tis not when two like words make up one noise
(Jests for Dutch men and English boys);
In which who finds out Wit, the same may see
In an'grams and acrostic poetry:
Much less can that have any place
At which a virgin hides her face.
’Such dross the fire must purge away: 'tis just
The author blush there, where the reader must.
Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage
When Bajazetbegins to rage;
Nor a tall metaphor in the bombast way;
Nor the dry chips of short-lung’d Seneca; -
Nor upon all things to obtrude
And force some odd similitude.
What is it then, which, like the power divine,
We only can by negatives define?
In a true piece of Wit all things must be,
Yet all things there agree;
As in the ark, join'd without force or strife,
All creatures dwelt; all creatures that had life:
Or, as the primitive forms of all
(If we compare great things with small)
Which, without discord, or confusion, lie
In that strange mirror of the Deity.
Garat is thy charge, O North ! be wise and just,
Fngland commits her Falkland to thy trust;
Return him safe; Learning would rather choose
Her Bodley or her Vatican to lose:
All things that are but writ or printed there,
In his unbounded breast engraven are.
There all the sciences together meet,
And every art does all her kindred greet,
Yet justic not, nor quarrel; but as well
Agree as in some common principle.
So, in an army govern'd right, we see
(Though out of several countries rais'd it be)
That all their order and their place maintain,
The English, Dutch, the Frenchman, and the Dane:
So thousand divers species fill the air,
Yet neither crowd nor mix confus'dly there;
Beasts, houses, trees, and men, together lie,
Yet enter undisturb’d into the eye.
And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate
Thrust into th' noise and business of a state.
All virtues, and some customs of the court,
Other men's labour, are at least his sport;
Whilst we, who can no action undertake,
Whon, idleness itself might learned make;"
Who hear of nothing, and as yet scarce know,
Whether the Scots in England be or no;
Pace dully on, ofttire, and often stay,
Yet see his nimble Pegasus fly away.
"Tis Nature's fault, who did thus partial grow,
And her estate of wit on one bestow;
Whilst we, like younger brothers, get at best
But a small stock, and must work out the rest.
How could he answer 't, should the state think fit
To question a monopoly of wit?
Such is the man whom we require the same
We lent the North; untouch'd, as is his fame.
He is too good for war, and ought to be
As far from danger, as from fear he's free.
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.
on the death or SIR HENRY JWOOTTOM".
What shall we say, since silent now is he
Who when he spoke, all things would silent be?
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;
He's gone to Heaven on his fourthembassy.
On Earth he travell'd often ; not to say
H' had been abroad, or pass loose time away.
In whatsoever land he chanc'd to come,
He read the men and manners, bringing home
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 into the West;"
Spoke them so truly, that he had (you'd swear)
Not only liv'd, but been born every where.
Justly each nation's speech to him was known,
Who for the world was made, not us alone;
Nor ought the language of that man be less,
Who in his breast had all things to express.
We say, that learning's endless, and blame Fate
For not allowing life a longer date:
He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find,
He sound them not so large as was his mind;
But, like the brave Pellaean youth, did moan
Because that art had no more worlds than one ;
And, when he saw that he through all had past,
He dy'd, lest he should idle grow at last.
ow THE DEATH OF Mr. Jord.tv, second Master. At west Minsreit school.
H ENce, and make room for me, all you who come
Only to read the epitaph on this tomb
Here lies the master of my tender years,
The guardian of my parents' hope and fears;
Whose government ne'er stood me in a tear;
All weeping was reserv'd to spend it here.
Come hither, all who his rare virtues knew,
And mourn with me: he was your tutor too.
Let's join our sighs, till they fly far, and shew
His native Belgia what she's now to do.
The league of grief bids her with us lament;
By her he was brought forth, and hither sent
In payment of all men we there had lost,
And all the English blood those wars have cost.
Wisely did Nature this learn'd man divide;
His birth was theirs, his death the mournful pride
Of England; and, to avoid the envious strife
Of other lands, all Europe had his life,
ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN...DEATH OF WANDYCK.
Tour we in chief; our country soon was grown
A debtor more to him, than he to 's own.
Ile pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes,
And built up men against the future times;
For deeds of age are in their causes then,
And though he taught but boys, he made the men.
Hence’twas a master, in those ancient days
When men sought knowledge first, and by it
praise, Was a thing full of reverence, profit, fame; Father itself was but a second name. He scorn'd the profit; his instructions all Were, like the science, free and liberal. He deserv'd honours, but despis'd them too, As much as those who have them others do. He knew not that which compliment they call; Could flatter none, but himself least of all. So true, so faithful, and so just, as he Was nought on Earth but his own memory; His memory, where all things written were, As sure and fixt as in Fate's books they are. Thus he in arts so vast a treasure gain'd, Whilst still the use came in, and stock remain'd : And, having purchas'd all that man can know, He labour'd with "t to enrich others now ; Did thus a new and harder task sustain, Like those that work in mines for others' gain: He, though more nobly, had much more to do, To search the vein, dig, purge, and mint it too. Though my excuse would be, I must confess, Much better had his diligence been less; But, if a Muse hereafter smile on me, and say, “Be thou a poet !” men shall see That none could a more grateful scholar have; Fur what Iow'd his life I'll pay his grave.
Wricour, great Sir! with all the joy that's due
To the retum of peace and you;
Two greatest blessings which this age can know!
For that to thee, for thee to Heaven we owe.
Others by war their conquests gain,
You like a god your ends obtain;
Who, when rude Chaos for his help did call,
Spoke but the word and sweetly order'd all.
This happy concord in no blood is writ,
None can grudge Heaven full thanks for it:
No mothers here lament their children's fate,
And like the peace, but think it comes too late.
No widows hear the jocund bells,
And take them for their husbands' knells:
No drop of blood is spilt, which might be said
To mark our joyful holiday with red.
'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing,
And only work't by such a king.
Arain the northern hinds may sing and plough,
And fear no harm but from the weather now;
Again may tradesmen love their pain,
By knowing now for whom they gain;
The armour now may be hung up to sight,
And only in their halls the children fright.
The gain of civil wars will mot allow
Bay to the conqueror's brow:
At such a game what fool would venture in,
Where one must lose yet neither side can win 2
How justly would our neighbours smile
At these mad quarrels of our isle; Swell'd with proud hopes to snatch the whole away Whilst we bet all, and yet for nothing play !
How was the silver Time frighted before,
And durst not kiss the armed shore ?
His waters ran more swiftly than they use,
And hasted to the sea to tell the news:
The sea itself, how rough soe'er,
Could scarce believe such fury here.
How could the Scots and we be enemies grown?
That, and its master Charles, had made us one.
No blood so loud as that of civil war:
It calls for dangers from afar.
Let's rather go and seek out them and fame;
Thus our fore-fathers got, thus left, a name:
All their rich blood was spent with gains,
But that which swells their children's veins.
Why sit we still, our spirits wrapt in lead 2
Not like them whilst they liv'd, but now they're
The noise at home was but Fate's policy,
To raise our spirits more high:
So a bold lion, ere he seeks his prey,
Lashes his sides and roars, and then away.
How would the German eagle fear,
To see a new Gustavus there;
How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do
For Jove of old, it now bore 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;
And we, the prophets' sons, write not by guess.
on the DEATH or SIR ANTHOVY. P.ANDYCK, The FAMous painter.
Wanovck is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare
(Theugh poets in that word with painters share)
To express her sadness? Poesy must become
An art like Painting here, an art that's dumb.
Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep,
Like some sad picture which he made to weep,
Or those who saw’t; for none his works could view
Unmoved with the same passions which he drew.
His piecesso with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures seem, or both alive.
Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand,
Which is her own, and which the painter's hand;
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in twins she would express.
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was his life less perfect than his art.
Nor was his hand less erring than his heart.
There was no false or fading colour there,
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were.
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew.
Thus still he liv'd, till Heav'n did for him call;
Where reverend Luke salutes him first of all;
Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair,
And could almost wish for his pencil there;
Did he not gladly see how all things shine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilst he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Scorns his own art, which we admire below.
Only his beauteous lady still he loves
(The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves);
He sees bright angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left so like them here.
And you, fair widow' who stay here alive,
Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve:
Yourjoys and griefs were wont the same to be;
Begin not now, blest pair' to disagree.
No wonder Death move not his generous mind;
You, and a new-born you, he left behind:
Ev’n Fate express'd his love to his dear wife,
And let him end your picture with his life.
How wretched does Prometheus' state appear,
Whilst he his second misery suffers here !
Draw him no more; lest, as he tortur’d stands,
He blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands.
It would the vulture's cruelty outgo,
If once again his liver thus should grow.
Pity him, Jove" and his bold theft allow;
The flames he once stole from thee grant him now!
Ilene's to thee, Dick ; this whining love despise ;
Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'st
It sparkles brighter far than she:
'Tis pure and right, without deceit;
And such no woman ere will be:
No ; they are all sophisticate.
With all thy servile paius what canst thou win,
But an ill favour’d and uncleanly sin
A thing so vile, and so short-liv'd,
That Venus' joys, as well as she,
With reason may be said to be
From the neglected foam deriv'd.
Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
Whom would it e'er persuade to court and love;
Could he a woman's heart have seen
(But, oh no light does hither come)
And view'd her perfectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb?
Follies they have so numberless in store,
at only he who loves them can have more.
Neither their sighs nor tears are true;
Those idly blow, these idly fall,
Nothing like to ours at all:
But sighs and tears have sexes too.
Here's to thee again; thy senseless sorrows drown;
ket the glass walk, till all things too go round !
Again, till these two lights be four;
No errour here can dangerous prove:
Thy passion, man, deceiv'd thee more;
None double see like men in love.