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They, neighbours to your eyes,
Then Revenge, married to Ambition,
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
This truth too well our England knows : For 'tis not buildings make a court,
'Twas civil slaughter dy'd her rose ; Or pomp, but 'tis the king's resort : If Jupiter down pour
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 ?
How is your oil, how is your Labour lost! From sighs your breast, and from black clouds
Our Charles, blest alchymist! (though strange, . your brow,
Believe it, future times !) did change
The iron-age of old
Into an age of gold.
UTON THE SHORTNCSS OF MAN'S LIFE.
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
If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.
That way it went ; but thou shalt find
No tract is left behind. And on the Gabii 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. Cuest be that wretoh (Death's factor sure) who AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO brought
Nichols, my better self! forbear;
For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures
are, Man's life t' 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 herra
Tell me not how the waves appear
Why do I stay then? I would meet
Thee there, but plummets hang upon my feet;
'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, tell, what kind of thing is Wit,
Thou who master art of it?
For the first matter loves variety less; Their mothers' labour, not their own.
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, lence, all the flattering vanities that lay
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, · Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days !
Just so as titular bishops made at Rome.
'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me
Allmir'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.
All, every where, like man's, must be the soul,
Such were the numbers which could call Preserves Rome's greatness yet :
The stones into the Theban wall.
Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see
No towps or houses rais'd by poetry.
That shows more cost than art.
Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear;
Rather than all things Wit, let none be there.
Several lights will not be seen,
If there be nothing else between.
If those be stars which paint the galaxy.
It's not when two like words make up one noise Whilst 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 whom we require the saine
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 silent 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 returu'd must see; Which, without discord, or confusion, lie
He's gone to Heaven on his fourth embassy,
On Earth be travell’d often ; not to say In that strange mirror of the Deity:
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 come,
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 conqner, not too see.
So well he understood the most and best
Of tongues, that Babel sent i ro the West ; What thing right Wit and height of genius is, 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,
We say, that learning's endless, and blame Fate
He did the atmost bounds of knowledge find, Great is thy charge, O North! be wise apd just, He found them not so large as was his mind; England coumits her Falkland to thy trust;
But, like the brave. Pellæan youth, did moan Return him safe; Learning would rather choose Because that art had no more worlds than one; Her Badley 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 bis unbounded breast engraven aie. There all the sciences togeiher meet, And every art does all her kindred greet, Yet justle not, nor quarrel; but as well
ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN, Agree as in some common principle. So, in an army govern'd right, we see
SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL. (Though out of several countries rais'd it be) That all their order and their place maintain,
Hence, 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, together le, 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 Other 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; Whun 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,
FOR HIS SAFE RETURN FROM THE NORTHERN
EXPEDITION AGAINST THE SCOTS.
ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN...DEATH OF VANDYCK.
But re 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 durst not kiss the armed shore !
His waters ran more swiftly than they use,
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, had 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 nought 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 inore 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 inighty things :
His valour, wisdom, offspring, speak no less; ON THIS MAJESTY'S RETURN And we, the prophets' sons, write not by guess.
OUT OF SCOTLAND.
To the return of peace and you ;
SIR ANTHONY VANDYCK,
Others by war their conquests gain,
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 solemn 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, | And does attempt the like with less success,
Which is her own, and which the pajuter's hand ; And only work’t by such a king.
When her own work in twips she would express, Again the northern hinds may sing and plough, And fear no harm'but from the weather now;
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. And only in their halls the children fright.
There was no false or fading colour there,
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were. The gain of civil wars will not allow
Most other men, set next to him 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; #bere one must lose yet neither side can win ? Where referend Luke salutes him first of all;
ON THE DEATH OF
THE FAMOUS PAINTER.
Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair,
Only his beauteous lady still he loves
How wretched does Prometheus' state appear,
FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCË.
What do our souls, I wonder, do?
Content with dreams, but boldly ny
And mix, I know not how nor where!
Like loving stars, which oft combine, Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know. 'Twere an ill world, I'll swear, for every friend,
If distance could their union end :
It scorns such outward circumstance,
Lodg'd in each other's heart :
Absence itself does bounteous prove,
Like that which in Heaven's Sun does shine :
But, as his beams the farther fiy,
Like objects if they touch the eye.
So much, so much both one do prove,
For thee make hours canonical.
Such and so many I'll repay,
To mock our separation.
No longer 'twill be kept from you,
I seek with verse my griefs t'appease ;
Finding at last no passage out,
No; they are all sophisticate.
A thing so vile, and so short-liv'd,
From the neglected foam deriv'd.
Could he a woman's heart have seen
When he lay shut up in her womb?
Neither their sighs nor tears are true;
But sighs and tears have sexes too.
Again, till these two lights be four;
TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN,
UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER.
Pardon, my lord, that I am come so late T'express my joy for your return of fate? So, when injurious Chance did yon deprive Of liberty, at first I could not grieve;