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Transcriber's Note

General Footnotes have been moved to the end of their relevant
sections.

Most of the poems are followed by explanatory notes and lists of
differences between editions (with Line numbers). These Line Notes
have been kept with the Poems to which they refer.

The List of Contents for Thomas Stanley's Poems has been moved from
the general List of Contents to its logical place after the
Introduction to Thomas Stanley.

The rest of the Transcriber's Note is at the end of the book.




  MINOR POETS OF THE CAROLINE PERIOD

  VOL. III CONTAINING

  JOHN CLEVELAND · THOMAS STANLEY
  HENRY KING · THOMAS FLATMAN
  NATHANIEL WHITING

  EDITED BY

  GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M.A.

  OXFORD
  AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
  1921

  Oxford University Press

  _London   Edinburgh   Glasgow   Copenhagen
  New York   Toronto   Melbourne   Cape Town
  Bombay   Calcutta   Madras  Shanghai_

  Humphrey Milford Publisher to the UNIVERSITY.




PREFATORY NOTE


I am afraid that this third and last volume of _Caroline Poets_ must
reverse the famous apology of the second of the monarchs from whom it
derives its title. It has been an unconscionable time in being born;
though I do not, to speak in character with my authors, know
what hostile divinity bribed Lucina. I cannot blame any one else:
and--though for the first ten years after the appearance of Vol. II
I was certainly very busy, professionally and with other literary
work--I do not think I omitted any opportunity of getting on with the
book. I think I may say that if the time I have actually spent thereon
at spare moments could be put together it would represent a full
year's solid labour, if not more. I make neither complaint nor boast
of this; for it has always been my opinion that a person who holds
such a position as I then held should, if he possibly can, do
something, in unremunerative and unpopular ways, to make the treasure
of English literature more easily accessible. I have thoroughly
enjoyed the work; and I owe the greatest thanks to the authorities of
the Clarendon Press for making it possible.

But no efforts of mine, unless I had been able to reside in Oxford or
London, would have much hastened the completion of the task: for the
materials were hard to select, and, when selected, harder to find in
copies that could be used for printing. Some of them we could not get
hold of in any reasonable time: and the Delegates of the Press were
good enough to have bromide rotographs of the Bodleian copies made for
me. I worked on these as long as I could: but I found at last that the
white print on black ground, crammed and crowded together as it is in
the little books of the time, was not merely troublesome and painful,
but was getting really dangerous, to my extremely weak eyesight.

This necessitated, or almost necessitated, some alterations in the
scheme. One concerned the modernization of spelling, which accordingly
will be found disused in a few later pieces of the volume; another,
and more important one, the revision of the text. This latter was most
kindly undertaken principally by Mr. Percy Simpson, who has had the
benefit of Mr. G. Thorn-Drury's unrivalled knowledge of these minors.
I could not think of cramping the hands of scholars so well versed
as these were in seventeenth-century work: and they have accordingly
bestowed rather more attention than had originally formed part of my
own plan on _apparatus criticus_ and comparison of MSS. The reader
of course gains considerably in yet other respects. I owe these
gentlemen, who may almost be called part-editors of this volume as far
as text is concerned, very sincere thanks; and I have endeavoured as
far as possible to specify their contributions.

When the war came the fortunes of the book inevitably received another
check. The Clarendon Press conducted its operations in many other
places besides Walton Street, and with many other instruments besides
types and paper. Nor had its Home Department much time for such mere
_belles lettres_ as these. Moreover the loss of my own library, and
the difficulties of compensating for that loss in towns less rich
in books than Edinburgh, put further drags on the wheel. So I and my
Carolines had to bide our time still: and even now it has been thought
best to jettison a part of the promised cargo of the ship rather than
keep it longer on the stocks.

The poets whom I had intended to include, and upon whom I had bestowed
more or less labour, but who now suffer exclusion, were Heath,
Flecknoe, Hawkins, Beedome, Prestwich, Lawrence, Pick, Jenkyn, and a
certain 'Philander'. Of these I chiefly regret Heath--the pretty title
of whose _Clarastella_ is not ill-supported by the text, and who
would have 'taken out the taste' of Whiting satisfactorily for some
people--Hawkins, Lawrence, and Jenkyn. Henry Hawkins in _Partheneia
Sacra_ has attained a sort of mystical unction which puts him not so
very far below Crashaw, and perhaps entitles him to rank with that
poet, Southwell, and Chideock Tichborne earlier as the representative
quartette of English Roman Catholic poetry in the major Elizabethan
age. Lawrence's _Arnalte and Lucetida_, not a brilliant thing in
itself, has real literary interest of the historical-comparative kind
as representing a Spanish romance by Diego de San Pedro (best known
as the author of the _Carcel de Amor_) and its French translation by
Herberay, the translator of _Amadis_. But such things remain to be
taken up by some general historian of the 'Heroic' Romance. As for
'Patheryke' [_sic_] Jenkyn he attracted me many years ago by the
agreeable heterography of his name (so far preferable to more recent
sham-Celticizings thereof) and held me by less fantastic merits.
Flecknoe pleaded for a chance against the tyranny of 'glorious John'.
But when it was a question between keeping these and the others with
further delay and letting them go, there could not be much doubt in
which way England expected this man to do his infinitesimal duty.

One instance, not of subtraction but of addition to the original
contents, seems to require slight notice. The eye-weakness just
mentioned having always prevented me from making any regular study of
palaeography, I had originally proposed only to include work already
printed. I was tempted to break my rule in the case of Godolphin: and
made rather a mess of it. An errata list in the present volume (p.
552) will, I believe, repair the blunder. The single censurer of this
(I further believe) single serious lapse of mine was, I remember,
troubled about it as a discredit to the University of Oxford. I
sincerely trust that he was mistaken. None of us can possibly do
credit to our University; we can only derive it from her. To throw any
discredit on her is equally impossible: though of course any member
may achieve such discredit for himself. Let me hope that the balance
against me for indiscreet dealing with perhaps one per cent. of my
fifteen hundred or two thousand pages is not too heavy.

Little need be said of the actual constituents of the volume, which
has however perhaps lost something of its intended 'composition',
in the artistic sense, by losing its tail. A good English edition
of Cleveland has long been wanted: and I think--the thought being
stripped of presumption by the number and valiancy of my helpers--that
we have at last given one. Stanley and King--truer poets than
Cleveland, if less interesting to the general public--also called for
fresh presentation. If anybody demurs to Flatman and still more to
Whiting he must be left to his own opinion. I shall only note here
that on Cleveland I was guilty of injustice to the Library of the
University of Edinburgh (to which I owe much) by saying that
it contained no edition of this reviler of Caledonia. None was
discoverable in my time, the process of overhauling and re-cataloguing
being then incomplete. But my friend and successor, Professor
Grierson, tells me that one has since been found. As to King, I have
recently seen doubts cast on his authorship of 'Tell me no more'. But
I have seen no valid reasons alleged for them, and I do not know of
any one else who has the slightest claim to it.

Of the whole three volumes it is still less necessary to say much. I
have owed special thanks in succession to Mr. Doble, Mr. Milford,
and Mr. Chapman (now Secretary) of the Clarendon Press; to Professors
Firth and Case (indeed, but for the former's generous imparting of
his treasures the whole thing could hardly have been done) for loan
of books as well as answering of questions; and to not a few others,
among whom I may specially mention my friend of many years, the Rev.
William Hunt, D.Litt., Honorary Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford. I
wish the work had done greater credit to all this assistance and to
the generous expenditure of the University and its Press. But such
as it is I can say (speaking no doubt as a fool) that I should myself
have been exceedingly grateful if somebody had done it fifty years
ago: and that I shall be satisfied if only a few people are grateful
for it between now and fifty or five hundred years hence. For there is
stuff in it, though not mine, which will keep as long as the longest
of these periods and longer.[1]

GEORGE SAINTSBURY.

  1 _Royal Crescent, Bath.
  Oak-Apple Day, 1921_.




    [Footnote 1: The tolerably gentle reader will easily understand
    that, in a book written, and even printed, at considerable
    intervals of time, Time itself will sometimes have affected
    statements. There may be a few such cases here. But it seems
    unnecessary to burden the thing with possible Corrigenda, as to
    the post-war price of the Cross-bath (p. 360), &c.]




CONTENTS


                                                           PAGE
  JOHN CLEVELAND                                              1
      Introduction                                            4
      Contents                                               14
      To the Discerning Reader, &c.                          15

    POEMS                                                    19

  THOMAS STANLEY                                             95
      Introduction                                           97
      Contents                                              101

    POEMS NOT PRINTED AFTER 1647                            101
    POEMS PRINTED IN 1647 AND REPRINTED IN 1656
    BUT NOT IN 1651                                         102
    1651 POEMS                                              109
    POEMS APPEARING ONLY IN THE EDITION OF 1656             159

  HENRY KING                                                161
      Introduction                                          163
      Table of Contents                                     167
      The Publishers to the Author                          168

    POEMS, ELEGIES, PARADOXES, AND SONNETS                  169

  THOMAS FLATMAN                                            275
      Introduction                                          277
      Dedication                                            283
      To the Reader                                         284
      Commendatory Poems                                    285
      The Contents                                          294

    POEMS AND SONGS                                         296

  NATHANIEL WHITING                                         423

      Introduction                                          424
      Commendatory Poems                                    428

    THE PLEASING HISTORY OF ALBINO AND BELLAMA              439
      To those worthy Heroes of our Age, whose noble
      Breasts are wet and water'd with the dew of Helicon   539
      Il Insonio Insonnadado                                540




    POEMS

    _BY_

    J. C.

    With Additions, never
    before Printed.

    [Illustration]

    Printed in the Yeare
    1653.




    _J. Cleaveland_ Revived:

    =POEMS,=

    ORATIONS,

    EPISTLES,

    And other of his Genuine
    Incomparable Pieces, never
    before publisht.

    WITH

    Some other Exquisite Remains of
    the most eminent Wits of both the
    Universities that were his
    Contemporaries.

    _Non norunt hæc monumenta mori._


    _LONDON_,
    Printed for _Nathaniel Brook_, at the
    Angel in Corn-hill. 1659.




    _Clievelandi Vindiciæ_;

    OR,

    CLIEVELAND'S

    Genuine POEMS,

    Orations, Epistles, _&c._

    Purged from the many

    False & Spurious Ones

    Which had usurped his Name, and
    from innumerable Errours and
    Corruptions in the True.

    To which are added many never
    Printed before.

    Published according to the Author's own Copies.

    _LONDON_,
    Printed for _Nath. Brooke_, at the _Angel_ in _Corne-Hill_
    near the _Royal Exchange_, 1677.




INTRODUCTION TO JOHN CLEVELAND.


Almost everybody--an everybody not including many bodies--who
has dealt with Cleveland since the revival of interest in
seventeenth-century writers has of necessity dwelt more or less on the
moral that he points, and the tale that he illustrates, if he does not
exactly adorn it. Moral and tale have been also generally summarized
by referring to the undoubted fact that Cleveland had twenty editions
while Milton's _Minor Poems_ had two. I do not propose myself to dwell
long on this part of the matter. The moral diatribe is not my trade:
and while almost any one who wants such a thing can deduce it from
the facts which will be given, those who are unable to effect the
deduction may as well go without it. What I wish to provide is what
it is not easy for any one to provide, and impossible for any one to
provide 'out of his own head'--that is to say an edition, sufficient
for reading and for all literary purposes, of the most probably
authentic of the heterogeneous poems which have clustered round
Cleveland's name. Such an edition did not exist when this collection
of Caroline poets was planned, nor when it was announced: nor has
it been supplied since in this country. One did appear very shortly
afterwards in America,[1] and it has been of use to me: but it
certainly does not make Cleveland's appearance here superfluous. Had
not Professor Case of Liverpool, who had long made Cleveland a special
study, insisted on my giving him in this collection, and most kindly
provided me with stores of his own material, I should not have
attempted the task: and I still hope that Mr. Case will execute a more
extensive edition with the prose, with the doubtful or even certainly
spurious poems duly annotated, and with apparatus which would be out
of place here. It cannot, however, be out of place to include--in
what is almost a corpus of 'metaphysical' poetry of the less easily
accessible class--one who has been regarded from different, but not
very distant, points of view as at once the metaphysical 'furthest'
and as the metaphysical _reductio ad absurdum_.

Cleveland (the name was also very commonly spelt in his own day
'Cleiveland'[2] and 'Cleaveland', as well as otherwise still) was born
at Loughborough, and christened on June 20, 1613. His father, Thomas,
was curate of the parish and assistant master at the Grammar School.
Eight years later the father was made vicar of Hinckley, also provided
with a grammar school, at which John appears to have been educated
till in 1627 he went to Christ's College, Cambridge--where, of course,
the everlasting comparison with his elder contemporary Milton comes in
again for those who like it. He remained at Christ's for seven years
as usual, performing divers college exercises on public occasions,
occasionally of some importance; took his bachelor's degree (also as
usual) in 1631; and in 1634 was elected to a fellowship at St. John's,
proceeding to his M.A. next year. At the end of his probationary
period he did not take orders, but was admitted as _legista_--perhaps
also, though the statement is uncorroborated officially, to the third
learned faculty of Physic. There is also doubt about his incorporation
at Oxford. He served as Tutor and as Rhetoric Praelector: nor are we
destitute of Orations and Epistles of an official character from his
pen. Like the majority of university men at the time--and indeed
like the majority of men of letters and education--he was a strong
Royalist: and was unlikely to stay in Cambridge when the Roundhead mob
of the town was assisted by a Parliamentary garrison in rabbling the
University. It was natural that he should 'retire to Oxon.', and it is
probable that Oxford was his head-quarters from 1642 to 1645. But he
does not seem to have been actually deprived of his fellowship at St.
John's till the last-named year, when the Earl of Manchester, whom
(especially as Lord Kimbolton) Cleveland had bitterly satirized, had
his opportunity of revenge and took it.

For Cleveland had already been active with his pen in the Royalist
cause, and was now appointed to a post of some importance as 'Judge
Advocate' of Newark. The Governor was Sir Richard Willis, for whom
Cleveland replied to Leven's summons to surrender. They held the town
for the King from November to May, when it was given up on Charles's
own order. Then comes the anecdote--more than a hundred years after
date--of Leven's dismissing him with contemptuous lenity. 'Let the
poor fellow go about his business and sell his ballads.' This, though
accepted by Carlyle, and a smart enough invention, has no contemporary
authority, and is made extremely suspicious by its own addition that
Cleveland was so vexed that he took to strong liquors which hastened
his death. Now Newark fell in 1646 and Cleveland lived till 1658. It
would make an interesting examination question, 'How much must a
man drink in a day in order to hasten his death thereby twelve years
afterwards?' And it must be admitted, if true, to be a strong argument
on the side of the good fellow who pleaded that alcohol was a very
_slow_ poison.

He escaped somehow, however: and we hear nothing of his life for
another decade. Then he is again in trouble, being informed against,
to the Council of State, by some Norwich Roundheads who have, however,
nothing to urge against him but his antecedents, his forgathering with
'papists and delinquents', his 'genteel garb' with 'small and scant
means', and (which is important) his 'great abilitie whence he is able
to do the greater disservice', this last a handsome testimonial to
Cleveland, and a remarkable premium upon imbecility. He was
imprisoned at Yarmouth and wrote a very creditable letter to Cromwell,
maintaining his principles, but asking for release, which seems to
have been granted. Cromwell--to do him justice and to alter a line of
his greatest panegyrist save one in verse on another person--

  Never _persecuted_ but for gain,

and he probably did not agree with the officious persons at Norwich
that there was much to be gained by incarcerating a poor Royalist
poet. But Cleveland had been at least three months in prison, and it
is alleged, with something more like _vera causa_ in the allegation,
that he there contracted 'such a weakness and disorder as soon after
brought him to the grave'. A seventeenth-century prison was much
more likely to kill a man in two years than 'strong waters' which had
already been vigorously applied and successfully resisted for ten. He
died in Gray's Inn, of an intermittent fever, on April 29, 1658.

Something will be said presently of the almost hopeless tangle of the
so-called editions of Cleveland's _Poems_. It seems at least probable
that no single one of the twenty--or whatever the number is--can be
justly called authoritative. That he was an extremely popular poet
or rather journalist in verse as well as prose, is absolutely beyond
dispute--the very tangle just referred to proves it--and, though it
may be excessive to call him the most popular poet of his time, he may
fairly be bracketed with Cowley as joint holder of that position. Nor
did his popularity cease as quickly as Cowley's did--the Restoration
indeed was likely to increase rather than diminish it; and the
editions went on till close upon the Revolution itself, while there
were at least two after it, one just on the eve of the eighteenth
century in 1699 and one near its middle in 1742.[3] Considerably
before this, however, the critics had turned against him. 'Grave men',
to quote Edward Phillips and the _Theatrum Poetarum_, 'affirmed him
the best of English poets', but not for long. Fuller, who actually
admired him, admitted that 'Clevelandizing' was dangerous; and Dryden,
who must have admired him at one time, and shows constant traces
of his influence, talks in the _Essay of Dramatic Poesy_ of a
'Catachresis or Clevelandism'. In the eighteenth century he passed
almost out of sight till Johnson brought him up for 'awful exampling'
in the famous Life of Cowley: and he has had few advocates since. Let
us, without borrowing from these advocates or attempting tediously to
confute his enemies, deal with the facts, so far as they are known, of
his life, and with the characteristics of the carefully sifted, but in
no sense 'selected', poetry which will follow.

As for his character as a man, the evidence is entirely in his favour.
He was an honest and consistent politician on his own side, and if
some people think it the wrong side, others are equally positive that
it was the right. If (rather unfairly) we dismiss the encomia on his
character as partisan, there remains the important fact that no one on
the other side says anything definite against it. If he was abusive,
it certainly does not lie with anybody who admires Milton to reproach
him with that. But the fact is, once more, that except in so far as
there is a vague idea that a cavalier, and especially a cavalier poet,
must have been a 'deboshed' person, there is absolutely no evidence
against Cleveland and much in his favour. Also, this is not our
business, which is with him as a poet.

As such he has been subjected to very little really critical
examination.[4] The result of such as I myself have been able to give
him was arrived at somewhat slowly: or rather it flashed upon me,
after reading the poems several times over in different arrangements,
that which gives the serious and satiric pieces higgledy-piggledy as
in the older editions, and that which separates them, as in 1677 and
in Mr. Berdan's American reprint. This result is that I entertain a
very serious doubt whether Cleveland _ever_ wrote 'serious' poetry,
in one sense--he was of course serious enough in his satires--at all.
That, on the other hand, he deliberately set himself to burlesque the
'metaphysical' manner I do not think: or at least (for rather minute
definition is necessary here) I do not think that he executed this
burlesque with any reforming intention or any particular contempt for
the style. Like Butler, whom he in so many ways resembles--who pretty
certainly owed him not a little, and of whom he was, as has often been
pointed out, a sort of rough copy or spoiled draft--he was what he
satirized in the literary way, and he caricatured himself. Of course
if anybody thinks, as the _Retrospective_ Reviewer thought, that
'Fuscara' and 'To the State of Love' are actually and intrinsically
'beautiful specimens of poetic conception', he will scout my notion.
But I do not think that any one who has done me the honour even to
look into these volumes will think me an 'antimetaphysical', and
I must confess that I can see only occasional poetry here--only a
caricature of such methods as may be suggested by Donne's 'Bracelet'
piece, and the best things in Crashaw. It is, for instance, a very
tell-tale thing that there is not, in Cleveland's work, a single one
of the lovely lyrics that enshrine and ennoble the conceits in almost
every one else of the school, from Donne himself to Sherburne.
An American critic, defending Cleveland with the delightful
indiscreetness of most defenders, maintains that these lyrics were
failures--that they were _not_ characteristic of the time. Well, let
us be thankful that almost everybody down to Kynaston and John Hall
'failed' in this way not seldom.

But Cleveland never failed in it: and unfortunately it wants a failure
or two at least of this kind to make a poet. To illustrate what I
mean, let me refer readers to Benlowes--comparison of Cleveland
with whom would not long ago have been impossible except in a large
library. Benlowes is as extravagant as Cleveland, whom (I rather
think) he sometimes copied.[5] But he cannot help this kind of poetic
'failure' from breaking in. Cleveland can, or rather I should say that
he does not try--or has no need to try--to keep it out. In 'Fuscara',
eminently; in 'To the State of Love', perhaps most prettily; in the
'Antiplatonic', most vigorously--in all his poems more or less, he
sets himself to work to accumulate and elaborate conceits for their
own sake. They are not directly suggested by the subject and still
less by each other; they are no spray or froth of passion; they never
suggest (as all the best examples and many not so good in others do)
that indomitable reaching after the infinite which results at least in
an infinite unexpectedness. They are merely card-castles of 'wit' in
its worst sense; mechanical games of extravagant idea-twisting which
simply aim at 'making records'. It is true that people admired them
for being this. It is still truer that similar literary exercises may
be found, and found popular, at the present day. It is even true,
as will be shown later, that it is possible positively to enjoy them
still. But these are different questions.

If Cleveland had little or nothing of the poetry of enthusiastic
thought and feeling, he had not much more of the poetry of
accomplished form, though here also he is exceptionally interesting.
His 'Mark Antony'[6] has been indicated as an early example of
'dactylic' metre. It certainly connects interestingly with some songs
of Dryden's, and has an historical position of its own, but I am by
no means sure (_v. inf._) that it was meant to be dactylic or even
anapaestic.

Cleveland, therefore, was not a great poet, nor even a failure of one:
but he was but just a failure of a very great satirist. Even here, of
course, the Devil's Advocate will find only too much to say against
him. Every one of the pieces requires the editing, polishing, and
criticizing which (we know pretty well) the author never gave to
anything of his. Every one suffers from Cleveland's adoption of the
same method which he used in his purely metaphysical poems, that of
stringing together and heaping up images and observations, instead of
organizing and incorporating them. Every one is a tangled tissue
of temporary allusion, needing endless scholiastry to unravel and
elucidate it. It has been said, and it is true, that we find not a few
reminiscences of Cleveland in Dryden. There is even in the couplet of
the older and smaller poet something of the weight, the impetus,
the _animosity_ of that of the younger and greater. But of Dryden's
_ordonnance_, his generalship, his power of coupling up his couplets
into irresistible column, Cleveland has practically nothing. He has
something of his own 'Rupertismus': but nothing more.

But, for all that, the Satires give us ample reason for understanding
why the Roundheads persecuted Cleveland, and justify their fear of his
'abilities'. He has, though an unequal, an occasional command of
the 'slap-in-the-face' couplet which--as has just been said--not
impossibly taught something to Dryden, or at least awoke something in
him. 'The Rebel Scot', his best thing, does not come so very far short
of the opportunity which the Scots had given: and its most famous
distich

  Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom,
  Not forced him wander, but confined him home,

was again and again revived till the unpopularity of North with South
Britain flamed out last in Bute's time, a hundred years and more after
Cleveland's. Of course it is only ignorance which thinks that this
form of the couplet was invented by Cleveland, or even in his time. It
may be found in Elizabeth's, and in Cleveland's own day was sporadic;
nor did he himself ever approach such continuous and triumphant use of
it as Dryden achieved only two years after Cleveland's own death. But
there is, so to speak, the 'atmosphere' of it, and that atmosphere
occasionally condenses into very concrete thunderbolts. Unfortunately
he knew no mood but abuse, and such an opportunity as that of the
'Elegy on Laud' is almost entirely lost.

However, such as he is--in measure as full as can with any confidence
be imparted; and omitting of course prose work--he is now before the
reader, who will thus be able at last to form his own judgement on
a writer who, perhaps of all English writers, combines the greatest
popularity in his own time with the greatest inaccessibility in modern
editions.

Nor should any reader be deterred from making the examination by the
strictures which have been given above on Cleveland's purely poetical
methods and merits. These strictures were made as cautions, and as a
kind of antidote to the writer's own undisguised partiality for the
'metaphysical' style. It is true that Cleveland, like Benlowes, has
something of a helot of that style about him: and that his want of
purely lyrical power deprives his readers of much of the solace of
his (if not of their) sin. But those natures must be very morose, very
prosaic, or at best steeled against everything else by abhorrence of
'False Wit' who can withstand a certain tickling of amused enjoyment
at the enormous yet sometimes pretty quaintnesses of 'Fuscara' itself;
and still more at those of the 'To the State of Love', which is
his happiest non-satirical thing. From the preliminary wish to be a
'Shaker' to the final description of Chanticleer as

  That Baron Tell-Clock of the night,

the thing is a kind of a carnival of conceit, a fairy-tale of the
fantastic. 'To Julia to expedite her Promise' is somewhat more
laboured and so less happy: and the loss of the lyric form in 'The
Hecatomb to his Mistress' is considerable. The heroic couplet squares
ill with this sort of thing: but the octasyllabic admits it fairly,
and so 'The Antiplatonic' with its greater part, and 'Upon Phillis
walking' with the whole in this metre, are preferable. Yet it must be
acknowledged that one heroic couplet in the former--

  Like an ambassador that beds a queen
  With the nice caution of a sword between,

is worthy of Dryden. Most of the other _seria_ are but _nugae_: and
the chief interest of the 'Edward King' epicede, besides its contrast
with _Lycidas_, is its pretty certain position as model to Dryden's
'Lord Hastings'. But the two 'Mark Antony' pieces and 'Square-Cap'
demand, both from the point of view of tone and from that of metre,
more attention than was given to them above.

If any one not previously acquainted with the piece or the discussions
about it will turn to the text of 'Mark Antony' and read it either
aloud or to himself, I should say that, in the common phrase, it is
a toss-up what scansion his voice will adopt supposing that he
'commences with the commencement'. The first stanza can run quite
agreeably to the usual metrical arrangements of the time, thus:

  When as | the night|ingale | chanted | her vespers
    And the | wild for|ester | couched on | the ground,
  Venus | invi|ted me | in th' eve|ning whispers
    Unto | a fra|grant field | with ros|es crowned,
      Where she | before | had sent
      My wish|es' com|pliment;
      Unto | my heart's | content
      Played with | me on | the green.
          Never | Mark Ant|ony
          Dallied | more wan|tonly
          With the fair | Egypt|ian Queen.

or, in technical language, a decasyllabic quatrain, like _Annus
Mirabilis_ or Gray's _Elegy_, but with hypercatalexis or redundance
in the first and third lines and occasional trochees for iambics;
followed by a batch, rhymed _a a a b c c b_, of seven three-foot lines
also iambic. This, which as far as the first quatrain is concerned
is very nearly the exact metre of Emily Brontë's _Remembrance_ and of
Myers's _St. Paul_, suits the second and third stanzas as well as the
first.

When the reader comes to the fourth stanza, or if, like some irregular
spirits, he takes the last first and begins with it, the most
obvious scansion, though the lines are syllabically the same, will be
different.

  Mys¦tical | gram¦mar of | am¦orous | glan¦ces;
    Feel¦ing of | pul¦ses, the | phy¦sic of | love;
  Rhetor¦ical | cour¦tings and | mu¦sical | dan¦ces;
    Num¦bering of | kiss¦es a¦rith¦metic | prove;
      Eyes ¦ like a|stron¦omy;
      Straight-¦limbed ge|om¦etry;
      In ¦ her art's | in¦geny
      Our wits ¦ were | sharp ¦ and keen.
          Ne¦ver Mark | An¦tony
          Dal¦lied more | wan¦tonly
          With the fair ¦ | Egypt¦ian | Queen.

(Trisyllabic rhythm either dactylic[7] or anapaestic[8] as may be on
general principles preferred.) And this may have occurred to him even
with the first as thus:

  When ¦ as the | night¦ingale | chan¦ted her | ves¦pers.

Now which of these is to be preferred? and which did the author mean?
(two questions which are not so identical as they may seem). My own
answer, which I have already given elsewhere,[9] is that both are
uncertain, and that he probably had each of the rhythms in his head,
but confusedly.[10]

'Square Cap' is much less doubtful, or not doubtful at all, and it may
be thought to prove the anapaestic-dactylic scansion, especially the
anapaestic of 'Mark Antony'. For it will be observed that, even from
the first two verses, you can get no iambic run, except of the most
tumbling character, on the line _here_.

  Come hith|er, Apoll|o's bounc|ing girl,
    And in | a whole hip|pocrene | of sherry
  Let 's drink | a round | till our brains | do whirl,
    Tu|ning our pipes | to make | ourselves merry.
  _A Cam|bridge lass, Ve|nus-like born | of the froth
  Of an old | half-filled jug | of bar|ley broth,
    She, she | is my mis|tress, her sui|tors are many,
    But she'll | have a Square|-cap if e'er | she have any_.

The problem is scarcely one for dogmatic decision, but it is one of
some interest, and of itself entitles Cleveland to attention of the
prosodic kind. For these pieces are quite early--before 1645--and
a third, 'How the Commencement grows new' (q.v.), is undeniably
trisyllabic and meant for some such a tune as the 'Sellenger's Round'
which it mentions.

With such a combination of interests, political, historical, poetical
(as regards school and period), and prosodic, it will hardly be denied
that Cleveland deserves his place here. But I must repeat that I am
here endeavouring to deal with him strictly on the general principles
of this Collection, and am in no way trying to occupy the ground so as
to keep out a more elaborate edition. I have had help from my
friends Professors Firth and Case in information and correction of
contemporary facts; but full comment on Cleveland, from the historical
side, would nearly fill this volume: and the problems of the work
attributed to him would suffice for a very substantial bibliographical
monograph. Neither of these, nor any exhaustive apparatus, even of
the textual kind, do I pretend to supply. I simply endeavour--and have
spent not a little time and trouble in endeavouring--to provide the
student and lover of English literature with an accessible copy,
sufficient in amount and fairly trustworthy in substance, of a curious
and memorable figure in English verse.[11]




    [Footnote 1: _Poems of John Cleveland_, by John M. Berdan, New
    York, 1903.]

    [Footnote 2: It has been said that we ought to adopt
    this spelling because of its connexion with a district of
    Yorkshire, which, before it was ransacked for iron ore, was
    both wild and beautiful. But as everybody now spells _this_
    'Cleveland', and as the title derived from it has always been
    so spelt, the argument seems an odd one.]

    [Footnote 3: I am not certain that I have seen a copy of this,
    and its existence has been denied: but I have certainly seen
    it catalogued somewhere. It should perhaps be added that
    _1699_ is only _1687_ with a fresh title.]

    [Footnote 4: The most important treatments besides Johnson's,
    treatments usefully separated in date, are contained in the
    _Retrospective Review_ (vol. xii), Mr. Gosse's remarks in
    _From Shakespeare to Pope_, and Mr. Berdan's in the edition
    above mentioned.]

    [Footnote 5: They were both St. John's men; and Benlowes must
    have been a benefactor of the College (see Evelyn's _Diary_)
    while Cleveland was Fellow. Also Cleveland's Poems had been
    published, and again and again republished, years before
    _Theophila_ appeared.]

    [Footnote 6: The _Retrospective_ eulogist was deeply hurt by
    Cleveland's parodying this, and of course drags in Milton once
    more. 'Could one fancy Milton parodying _Lycidas_?' Now
    there is considerable difference between 'Mark Antony' and
    _Lycidas_: nor did Cleveland, so far as we know, dream of
    parodying his own poem on King. If Milton had had the humour
    to parody some of his own work, it would have been much the
    better for him and for us. No doubt Cleveland's actual parody
    is rather coarse and not extraordinarily witty: but there is
    no more objection to it in principle than to Thackeray's two
    forms of the 'Willow Song' in _Ottilia_.]

    [Footnote 7: Marked by straight bars.]

    [Footnote 8: Marked by dotted bars.]

    [Footnote 9: _History of English Prosody_ (London, 1906-10),
    vol. iii, app. iii.]

    [Footnote 10: _Very_ confusedly on the trisyllabic side or
    ear: for 'In th' [)e]ven[)i]ng' is a very awkward dactyl, and
    'th' [)e]ven[=i]ng wh[=i]sp' not a much cleverer anapaest,
    while the same remark applies to 'fr[=a]gr[)a]nt f[)i]eld' and
    'w[=i]th r[=o]s[)e]s' and their anapaestic counterparts.]

    [Footnote 11: The extraordinary complexity of the editions
    of Cleveland has been glanced at above. The following summary
    will at least give the reader some idea of the facts, and the
    two original Prefaces will extra-illustrate these facts with
    some views of causes. It need only be added here that the
    principle of the collection now given is, of course, to
    exclude everything that is certainly _not_ Cleveland's: and,
    in giving what certainly and probably is his, to arrange the
    items as far as possible in the order of their publication
    in the author's lifetime, though the impossibility of working
    with an actually complete collection of all the issues before
    one may have occasioned some error here. In the following
    abstract only the _Poems_ are referred to, as they alone
    concern us.

    The original collection is contained in _The Character of a
    London Diurnal_ [prose] with several select _Poems_, London,
    1647. This was reprinted in the same year and the next so
    often that some admit _thirteen_ different issues (of course,
    as was usual at the time, sometimes only 'stop-press' batches
    with slight changes made in what is practically the same
    edition), while no one I think has allowed less than _five_.
    There are substantive additions in several of these, but
    the singular characteristic of the whole, and indeed of
    Cleveland's published _Poems_ generally, is that part of the
    matter, even in the very earliest issue, is certainly not his:
    and that in very early forms these pieces were coolly headed
    'Uncertain Authors'. The extent to which this jumbling and
    misattributing went on in the seventeenth century is generally
    if not very precisely known from the famous cases of _Sic
    Vita_ (_v. inf._, on Bishop King, &c.), and of the epitaph
    sometimes assigned to Browne, more usually to Jonson. Another
    almost equally strange, though perhaps not so commonly known,
    is the assignment of some of the poems of a writer of position
    like the dramatist James Shirley to Carew. But Cleveland must
    have been rather exceptionally careless of his work during
    his life, and he was treated with exceptional impudence (see
    Williamson's _Preface_) after his death. The process went on
    in 1651, to which two issues are assigned, with three or four
    pretty certainly spurious additions, while 1653 and 1654 each
    saw two more, the last being printed again in 1656 and 1657.
    This last was also the last printed in Cleveland's lifetime.

    But he was hardly dead when in 1659 two different issues,
    each of them many times reprinted, took the most astounding
    liberties with his name. The first foisted in more than thirty
    pieces by Robert Fletcher, the translator of Martial. The
    other, calling itself _Cleveland Revived_, contains the
    remarkable and perfectly frank explanation, given below,
    of the principles on which the work of Mr. Williamson was
    conducted, and the critical notions which directed his
    'virtuous endeavours'.

    From the disaster of this singular fashion of building a
    poet's monument out of the fragments of other people's work,
    Cleveland may be said to have never been entirely relieved.
    For though twenty years later, in 1677 _Clievelandi Vindiciae_
    (Preface and full title again subjoined) undertook the task
    and provided a sort of standard (which may, however, be
    over-valued), ten years later still, in 1687, the purged
    collection was reissued with all the spurious matter from
    previous ones heaped again on it, and this, with a fresh
    reissue (new title-paged and with a pasted-on finis[A]) in
    1699, appear to be the commonest copies that occur.

    In such a tangle it is not easy to know how to proceed, and I
    had made and discarded several plans before I fixed upon that
    actually adopted. I have taken the edition of 1653, which,
    with its reprints almost unaltered to 1657, represents the
    latest text current during the author's life and during a full
    lustrum of that. The contents of this I have printed, putting
    its few _spuria_ in italic, in the order in which they there
    appear. Next, I have given a few additions from 1677 (the only
    one of the later accessible editions which even pretends
    to give Cleveland, the whole Cleveland, and nothing but
    Cleveland) and other sources. As was notified above, complete
    _apparatus criticus_ is not attempted in a text with such
    a history, for this would only suit a complete edition of
    Cleveland's whole works: but variants of apparent importance
    are supplied. I should add that while I myself have for many
    years possessed the _textus quasi-receptus_ of 1677, the
    exceeding kindness of Mr. Case left on my shelves--for a time
    disgracefully long as far as I am concerned--copies of 1653
    itself, 1654, 1659, 1662 (with the 'exquisite remains' of
    Dick, Tom, and Harry), 1665, 1668, 1669 (with the letters
    added), and the _omnium gatherums_ of 1687 and 1699. The
    Bodleian copies of the _Poems_ of 1647, 1651, 1653, 1654,
    1657, 1659, 1662, 1668, 1669, 1677, 1687 have also been used
    to check the collations; and the stitched quartos of _The
    King's Disguise_ (undated, but known to be 1647) and the _News
    from Newcastle_, 1651. The British Museum broadside of _The
    Scots' Apostasy_ has also been collated. Mr. Berdan's edition
    I have already mentioned. I have treated the text, as far as
    modernization of spelling goes, on the same principles as in
    preceding volumes.[B]
    ]


        [Footnote A: This is apparently peculiar to some, perhaps to
        one, copy. The British Museum, Bodleian, &c. copies have it
        not.]

        [Footnote B: Since the above Introduction was first written
        an additional revision of the texts has been made by Mr. Percy
        Simpson with assistance from Mr. Thorn-Drury, as referred to
        in the General Preface of this volume. There can be no doubt
        that their labours, superadded to those of Professor Case,
        have enabled me to put forth in this edition a text infinitely
        superior to any previous one, though my part of the credit is
        the least. Yet, after all, I dare say Cleveland remains, as he
        has been impartially described, 'a terrible tangle'.]




CONTENTS


                                                   PAGE

  Preface of _Cleaveland Revived_                    15

  Preface of _Clievelandi Vindiciae_                 17

  POEMS FROM THE 1653 EDITION:
    To the State of Love                             19
    The Hecatomb to his Mistress                     21
    Upon Sir Thomas Martin                           24
    On the Memory of Mr. Edward King                 26
    Upon an Hermaphrodite                            28
    The Author's Hermaphrodite                       30
    * _To the Hectors upon the unfortunate
      death of H. Compton_                           32
    Square-Cap                                       33
    Upon Phillis walking in a morning
      before sun-rising                              35
    Upon a Miser that made a great
      feast, and the next day died
      for grief                                      36
    A Young Man to an Old Woman
      courting him                                   39
    To Mrs. K. T.                                    41
    A Fair Nymph scorning a Black
      Boy courting her                               42
    A Dialogue between two Zealots
      upon the &c. in the Oath                       43
    Smectymnuus, or the Club-Divines                 45
    The Mixed Assembly                               49
    The King's Disguise                              52
    The Rebel Scot                                   56
    The Scots' Apostasy                              60
    Rupertismus                                      62
    Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford                 67
    An Elegy upon the Archbishop
      of Canterbury                                  68
    * _On I. W. A .B. of York_                       69
    Mark Antony                                      71
    The Author's Mock Song to
      Mark Antony                                    72
    How the Commencement grows new                   73
    The Hue and Cry after Sir John
      Presbyter                                      75
    The Antiplatonic                                 77
    Fuscara, or the Bee Errant                       79
    * _An Elegy upon Doctor Chad[d]erton,
      the first Master of
      Emanuel College in Cambridge_                  81
    * _Mary's Spikenard_                             82
    To Julia to expedite her Promise                 83

  POEMS IN 1677 BUT NOT IN 1653:
    Upon Princess Elizabeth, born
    the night before New Year's Day                  85
    The General Eclipse                              85
    Upon the King's Return from Scotland             86

  POEMS CERTAINLY OR PROBABLY GENUINE,
    NOT IN 1653 OR 1677:
    An Elegy on Ben Jonson                           87
    News from Newcastle                              88
    An Elegy upon King Charles the First             92

As stated above, it has been thought better to follow the
miscellaneous arrangement of _1653_ than the classified but not
strictly chronological one of _1677_. For those, however, who may
desire it, the chronological order of the _political_ poems is here
added: 1637-8, _Princess Elizabeth's Birth_; 1640, _A Dialogue_; 1641,
_Epitaph on Strafford_, _Smectymnuus_, _The King's Return_; 1642,
_Rupertismus_; 1643, _Upon Sir Thomas Martin_, _The Mixed Assembly_;
1643-4, _The Rebel Scot_, _The Scots' Apostasy_; 1645, _The Hue and
Cry_, _Elegy on Laud_, _The General Eclipse_, _The King's Disguise_;
1649, _Elegy on Charles I_.




_Preface of Cleaveland Revived_




To the Discerning Reader.

<Prefixed to _Cleaveland Revived_, 1659[1]>

Worthy Friend, there is a saying, _Once well done, and ever done_;
the wisest men have so considerately acted in their times, as by their
learned works to build their own monuments, such as might eternize
them to future ages: our Jonson named his, Works, when others were
called Plays, though they cost him much of the lamp and oil; yet he
so writ, as to oblige posterity to admire them. Our deceased Hero, Mr.
Cleveland, knew how to difference legitimate births from abortives,
his mighty genius anvilled out what he sent abroad, as his informed
mind knew how to distinguish betwixt writing much and well; a few of
our deceased poet's pages being worth cartloads of the scribblers of
these times. It was my fortune to be in Newark, when it was besieged,
where I saw a few [some] manuscripts of Mr. Cleveland's. Amongst
others I have heard that he writ of the Treaty at Uxbridge, as I have
been informed since by a person I intrusted to speak with one of Mr.
Cleveland's noble friends, who received him courteously, and satisfied
his inquiries; as concerning the papers that were left in his custody,
more particularly of the Treaty at Uxbridge, that it was not finished,
nor any of his other papers fit for the press. They were offered to
the judicious consideration of one of the most accomplished persons
of our age, he refusing to have them in any further examination, as he
did not conceive that they could be published without some injury to
Mr. Cleveland; from which time they have remained sealed and locked
up: neither can I wonder at this obstruction, when I consider the
disturbances our author met with in the time of the siege, how scarce
and bad the paper was, the ink hardly to be discerned on it. The
intimacy I had with Mr. Cleveland before and since these civil wars,
gained most of these papers from him, it being not the least of his
misfortunes, out of the love he had to pleasure his friends, to be
unfurnished with his own manuscripts, as I have heard him say often.
He was not so happy as to have any considerable collection of his own
papers, they being dispersed amongst his friends; some whereof when
he writ for them, he had no other answer, but that they were lost, or
through the often reading, transcribing, or folding of them, worn
to pieces. So that though he knew where he formerly bestowed some of
them, yet they were not to be regained. For which reason, the poems he
had left in his hands being so few, [and] of so inconsiderable [small]
a volume, he could not (though he was often solicited) with honour to
himself give his consent to the publishing of them, though indeed most
of his former printed poems were truly his own, except such as have
been lately added, to make up the volume. At the first some few of
his verses were printed with the[2] character of the London Diurnal, a
stitched pamphlet in quarto. Afterwards, as I have heard Mr. Cleveland
say, the copies of verses that he communicated to his friends, the
book-seller by chance meeting with them, being added to his book,
they sold him another impression; in like manner such small additions
(though but a paper or two of his incomparable verses or prose)
posted off other editions, [whereas this edition hath the happiness
to flourish with the remainder of Mr. Cleveland's last never before
printed pieces.] I acknowledge some few of these papers I received
[many of these last new printed papers] from one of Mr. Cleveland's
near acquaintance, which when I sent to his ever to be honoured friend
of Grays-Inn, he had not at that time the leisure to peruse them; but
for what he had read of them, he told the person I intrusted, that he
did believe them to be Mr. Cleveland's, he having formerly spoken of
such papers of his, that were abroad in the hands of his friends, whom
he could not remember. My intention was to reserve the collection of
these manuscripts for my own private use; but finding many of these
I had in my hands already published in the former poems, not knowing
what further proceedings might attend the forwardness of the press,
I thought myself concerned, not out of any worldly [unworthy] ends of
profit, but out of a true affection to my deceased friend, to publish
these his never [other] before extant pieces in Latin and English and
to make this to be somewhat [like] a volume for the study. Some other
poems are intermixed, such as the reader shall find to be of such
persons as were for the most part Mr. Cleveland's contemporaries; some
of them no less eminently known to the three nations. I hope the world
cannot be so far mistaken in his genuine muse, as not to discern his
pieces from any of the other poems; neither can I believe there are
any persons so unkind, as not candidly to entertain the heroic fancies
of the other gentlemen that are worthily placed to live in this
volume. Some of their poems, contrary to my expectation--I being at
such a distance--I have since heard[3] were before in print, but as
they are excellently good and so few, the [but in this second edition
I have crossed them out, only reserving those that were excellently
good, and never before extant. The] reader (I hope) will the more
freely accept them. Thus having ingenuously satisfied thee in these
particulars, I shall not need to insert more; but that I have, to
prevent surreptitious editions, published this collection; that
by erecting this Pyramid of Honour, I might oblige posterity to
perpetuate their memories, which is the highest ambition of him, who
is,

  Newark. Nov. 21, 1658.

  Yours in all virtuous endeavours,
  E. WILLIAMSON.




    [Footnote 1: This singular production is, in the original,
    punctuated after a fashion very suitable, in its entire
    irrationality, to the sentiments of its writer; but I have
    taken the liberty (and no other) of relieving the reader of
    an additional burden by at least separating the sentences. The
    second edition of 1660 shows some alterations which are given
    above in brackets.

    Whether Mr. Williamson was one of the most impudent persons
    in the world, or merely (which seems more probable) an abject
    fool, may be left to the reader to determine. The thing does
    not seem to require much, if any, annotation. The author, I
    think, is not otherwise known, and the name is common enough.
    The well-known Secretary Williamson must have been his
    contemporary, and may have had some connexion with our paragon
    besides that of Cavalier principles. But _he_ was Joseph.]

    [Footnote 2: 'a character' 1662 (third edition).]

    [Footnote 3: 'I have since heard' omitted in 1662.]




The Stationer to the Reader.

<Prefixed to _Cleaveland Revived_, 1660>

Courteous Reader, thy free Acceptance of the former edition,
encouraged me so far as to use my best diligence to gain what still
remained in the hands of the Author's friends. I acknowledge myself
to be obliged to Mr. Williamson, whose worthy example Mr. Cleveland's
other honourers have since pursued. I shall not trouble thee, Reader,
with any further Apologies, but only subscribe Mr. W. W. his last
Verses in his following Elegy on Mr. Cleveland.

  That Plagiary that can filch but one
  Conceit from Him, and keep the Theft unknown,
  At Noon from Phoebus, may by the same sleight,
  Steal Beams, and make 'em pass for his own light.




<Prefixed to _Clievelandi Vindiciae_, 1677[1]>

To the Right Worshipful and Reverend Francis Turner, D.D., Master of
St. John's College in Cambridge, and to the Worthy Fellows of the same
College.

GENTLEMEN,

That we interrupt your more serious studies with the offer of this
piece, the injury that hath been and is done to the deceased author's
ashes not only pleadeth our excuse, but engageth you (whose once he
was, and within whose walls this standard of wit was first set up) in
the same quarrel with us.

Whilst Randolph and Cowley lie embalmed in their own native wax, how
is the name and memory of Cleveland equally profaned by those that
usurp, and those that blaspheme it?--by those that are ambitious to
lay their cuckoo's eggs in his nest, and those that think to raise up
Ph[oe]nixes of wit by firing his spicy bed about him?

We know you have, not without passionate resentments, beheld the
prostitution of his name in some late editions vended under it,
wherein his orations are murthered over and over in barbarous Latin,
and a more barbarous translation: and wherein is scarce one or other
poem of his own to commute for all the rest. At least every Cuirassier
of his hath a fulsome dragooner behind him, and Venus is again
unequally yoked with a sooty anvil-beater. Cleveland thus revived
dieth another death.

You cannot but have beheld with like zealous indignation how enviously
our late mushroom-wits look up at him because he overdroppeth them,
and snarl at his brightness as dogs at the Moon.

Some of these grand Sophys will not allow him the reputation of wit at
all: yet how many such authors must be creamed and spirited to make
up his Fuscara?[2] And how many of their slight productions may be
gigged[3] out of one of his pregnant words? There perhaps you may find
some leaf-gold, here massy wedges; there some scattered rays, here a
galaxy; there some loose fancy frisking in the air, here Wit's Zodiac.

The quarrel in all this is upbraiding merit, and eminence his crime.
His towering[4] fancy scareth so high a pitch that they fly like
shades below him. The torrent thereof (which riseth far above their
high water mark) drowneth their levels. Usurping upon the State Poetic
of the time, he hath brought in such insolent measures of Wit and
Language that, despairing to imitate, they must study to understand.
That alone is Wit with them to which they are commensurate, and what
exceedeth their scantling[5] is monstrous.

Thus they deifie[6] his Wit and Fancy as the clown the plump oyster
when he could not crack it. And now instead of that strenuous
masculine style which breatheth in this author, we have only an
enervous effeminate froth offered, as if they had taken the salivating
pill before they set pen to paper. You must hold your breath in the
perusal lest the jest vanish by blowing on.

Another blemish in this monster of perfection is the exuberance of his
fancy. His manna lieth so thick upon the ground they loathe it. When
he should only fan, he with hurricanos of wit stormeth the sense, and
doth not so much delight his reader, as oppress and overwhelm him.

To cure this excess, their frugal wit hath reduced the world to a
Lessian Diet.[7] If perhaps they entertain their reader with one good
thought (as these new Dictators affect to speak) he may sit down and
say Grace over it: the rest is words and nothing else.

We will leave them therefore to the most proper vengeance, to humour
themselves with the perusal of their own poems: and leave the barber
to rub their thick skulls with bran[8] until they are fit for musk.
Only we will leave this friendly advice with them; that they have one
eye upon John Tradescant's executor,[9] lest among his other Minims of
Art and Nature he expose their slight conceits: and another upon the
Royal Society, lest they make their poems the counterbalance when they
intend to weigh air.

From these unequal censures we appeal to such competent judges as
yourselves, in whose just value of him Cleveland shall live the wonder
of his own, and the pattern of succeeding ages. And although we might
(upon several accompts) bespeak your affections, yet (abstracting from
these) we submit him to your severer judgements, and doubt not but he
will find that patronage from you which is desired and expected by

Your humble Servants.

  J. L.    S. D.[10]




    [Footnote 1: Here we get into _terra cognita_ as regards
    authorship. The editors had been, both of them, Cleveland's
    pupils at St. John's. 'J. L.' was John Lake (1624-1689), a
    man of great distinction--at this time Vicar of Leeds and
    Prebendary of York, later Bishop, first of Sodor and Man and
    then of Chichester, who while he held the last-named see
    had the double glory of withstanding James II as one of 'the
    Seven', and of refusing the Oath to William. 'S. D.' was also
    a Yorkshire clergyman--Samuel Drake--who had not only studied
    under Cleveland at Cambridge, but fought under him at Newark.
    He became Vicar of Pontefract; but (if the _D.N.B._ is right
    in assigning his death to the year 1673) his work on the great
    vindication of his tutor must have been done some time before
    publication. Francis Turner (1638-1700), of a much younger
    generation and an Oxford man, though admitted _ad eundem_ at
    Cambridge in 1662, had been Master of St. John's College since
    1670, and was therefore properly selected as chief dedicatee.
    He was destined to be connected with Lake again in the great
    actions above noted as Bishop of Ely, and for the last ten
    years of his life was an active Jacobite agent.]

    [Footnote 2: The description of _Cleaveland Revived_ in the
    third paragraph is perfectly just, and 'anvil-beater' is an
    obvious echo-gibe at Williamson's own phraseology. It is less
    certain what 'grand Sophys' are specially referred to further
    on--but Dryden _might_ be one.]

    [Footnote 3: A Clevelandish word; _v. infra_, p. 65
    (_Rupertismus_, l. 120).]

    [Footnote 4: In orig., as often, 'touring', but to print this
    nowadays would invite misconception.]

    [Footnote 5: 'Scantling' is used in various senses. Either
    that of 'rough draft' or, as in Taylor, 'small piece' would
    do; but it is at least possible that it is not a noun at all,
    but a direct participle from the verb to 'scantle', found in
    Drayton, and meaning 'to be deficient', 'come short'. Some,
    however, prefer the sense 'dimension' or 'measurement', which
    would make it a sort of varied repetition of 'commensurate'.]

    [Footnote 6: 'Deifie' is of course wrong. 'Defy' is likeliest,
    and in a certain sense (frequent in Elizabethan writers) would
    do; but 'decry' seems wanted.]

    [Footnote 7: A common phrase for an earlier 'Banting' regime
    derived from the _Hygiasticon_ (Antwerp, 1623) of Leonard
    Lessius (1554-1624). I owe this information to the kindness
    of Dr. Comrie, Lecturer on the History of Medicine in the
    University of Edinburgh. The next sentence may, or rather
    must, be a reference to (in fact, a fling at) Dryden, _Essay
    of Dramatic Poesy_ (vol. i, p. 52, ed. Ker, Oxford, 1900),
    who censures Cleveland for not giving 'a _great_ thought' in
    'words ... commonly received'. I owe the reminder of this to
    Mr. Thorn-Drury.]

    [Footnote 8: The use of bran for shampooing is not perhaps so
    well known as that for poultices, foot-baths, &c. It is always
    a _softener_ as well as a detergent.]

    [Footnote 9: Ashmole.]

    [Footnote 10: Perhaps I should add a very few words explaining
    why I have not made this 'authenticated' edition the base of
    mine. I have not done so because the editors, excellent as was
    evidently their intention, have after all given us no reasons
    for their exclusions and inclusions; because, though they
    have corrected some obvious errors, their readings by no means
    always intrinsically commend themselves to me; and especially
    because the distance between 1647 and 1677 reflects itself,
    to no small degree, in a certain definite _modernisation_
    of form, grammatical and prosodic. 1653 has much more
    _contemporariness_.]




POEMS.




To the State of Love. Or the Senses' Festival.


  I saw a vision yesternight,
  Enough to sate a Seeker's sight;
  I wished myself a Shaker there,
  And her quick pants my trembling sphere.
  It was a she so glittering bright,
  You'd think her soul an Adamite;
  A person of so rare a frame,
  Her body might be lined with' same.
  Beauty's chiefest maid of honour,
  You may break Lent with looking on her.                            10
    Not the fair Abbess of the skies,
    With all her nunnery of eyes,
    Can show me such a glorious prize!

  And yet, because 'tis more renown
  To make a shadow shine, she's brown;
  A brown for which Heaven would disband
  The galaxy, and stars be tanned;
  Brown by reflection as her eye
  Deals out the summer's livery.
  Old dormant windows must confess                                   20
  Her beams; their glimmering spectacles,
  Struck with the splendour of her face,
  Do th' office of a burning-glass.
    Now where such radiant lights have shown,
    No wonder if her cheeks be grown
    Sunburned, with lustre of her own.

  My sight took pay, but (thank my charms!)
  I now impale her in mine arms;
  (Love's compasses confining you,
  Good angels, to a circle too.)                                     30
  Is not the universe strait-laced
  When I can clasp it in the waist?
  My amorous folds about thee hurled,
  With Drake I girdle in the world;
  I hoop the firmament, and make
  This, my embrace, the zodiac.
    How would thy centre take my sense
    When admiration doth commence
    At the extreme circumference?

  Now to the melting kiss that sips                                  40
  The jellied philtre of her lips;
  So sweet there is no tongue can praise 't
  Till transubstantiate with a taste.
  Inspired like Mahomet from above
  By th' billing of my heavenly dove,
  Love prints his signets in her smacks,
  Those ruddy drops of squeezing wax,
  Which, wheresoever she imparts,
  They're privy seals to take up hearts.
    Our mouths encountering at the sport,                            50
    My slippery soul had quit the fort,
    But that she stopped the sally-port.

  Next to these sweets, her lips dispense
  (As twin conserves of eloquence)
  The sweet perfume her breath affords,
  Incorporating with her words.
  No rosary this vot'ress needs--
  Her very syllables are beads;
  No sooner 'twixt those rubies born,
  But jewels are in ear-rings worn.                                  60
  With what delight her speech doth enter;
  It is a kiss o' th' second venter.
    And I dissolve at what I hear,
    As if another Rosamond were
    Couched in the labyrinth of my ear.

  Yet that 's but a preludious bliss,
  Two souls pickeering in a kiss.
  Embraces do but draw the line,
  'Tis storming that must take her in.
  When bodies join and victory hovers                                70
  'Twixt the equal fluttering lovers,
  This is the game; make stakes, my dear!
  Hark, how the sprightly chanticleer
  (That Baron Tell-clock of the night)
  Sounds boutesel to Cupid's knight.
    Then have at all, the pass is got,
    For coming off, oh, name it not!
    Who would not die upon the spot?




    [_To the State of Love, &c._ appeared first _1651_.
    The stanzas are not divided in the early editions, but are so
    in _1677_. Carew's _Rapture_ may have given some suggestions,
    Apuleius and Lucretius also; but not much is required. The
    substance is shocking to pure prudery, no doubt; but, as
    observed in the introduction, there is perhaps more gusto in
    the execution than in _Fuscara_.

    A copy of this poem, with many minor variants, is in Bodleian
    MS. Tanner 306, fol. 424: it has one noteworthy reading, 'took
    sey', i.e. 'say' or 'assay'--the hunting term--in l. 27.]

    [Lines: 2, 3 The use of capitals in the seventeenth century is
    so erratic that it is dangerous to base much on it. But both
    'Seekers' and 'Shakers' (a variant of 'Quakers') were actually
    among the countless sects of the time, as well of course as
    'Adamites'. _1651_. _1653_, _1654_, and _1657_ have 'tempt'
    for _1677_ 'sate'.]

    [Line: 4 pants _1677_: 'pulse' _1651_, _1653_, _1654_,
    _1657_.]

    [Line: 10 'You'd break a Lent' _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Lines: 11-13 Benlowes's lines (_v. sup._ i. 356)--

        The lady prioress of the cloistered sky, &c.--

    are more poetic than these, but may be less original. Even
    that, however, is uncertain. Both poets, though Benlowes was
    a good deal the elder, were of St. John's, and must, even in
    other ways, have known each other: _Theophila_ appeared a year
    after the edition in which this poem was first included. But
    the indebtedness may be the other way, or common to an earlier
    original, or non-existent.]

    [Line: 19 Deals out] The earlier texts have 'Dazzle's', but
    _1677_ seems here to have introduced the true reading found
    also in the _MS._ 'Deals out' is far more poetical: the eye
    clothes with its own reflection sky and stars, and earth.]

    [Lines: 20-3 The punctuation of all editions, including Mr.
    Berdan's, makes these lines either totally unintelligible, or
    very confused, by putting a stop at 'spectacles' and none at
    'beams'. That adopted in the text makes it quite clear.]

    [Line: 30 circle] 'compass' _1651_, _1653_, evidently wrong.]

    [Line: 33 It is not impossible that Aphra Behn had these
    lines unconsciously in her head when she wrote her own finest
    passage. Unconsciously, for the drift is quite different; but
    'hurled', 'amorous', and 'world' come close together in both.]

    [Line: 34 _1651_, _1653_ again 'compass' for 'girdle'.]

    [Line: 37 'would', the reading of _1651_, _1653_, infinitely
    better than 'could', that of _1677_.]

    [Line: 45 In this pyramidally metaphysical passage Cleveland
    does not quite play the game. Mahomet's pigeon did not _kiss_
    him. But 'privy seals to take up hearts' is very dear to
    fancy, most delicate, and of liberal conceit. So also 'jewels
    are in ear-rings worn' below; where the game is played to its
    rigour, though the reader may not at first see it.]

    [Line: 46 his] 'her' _1651_, _1653_; but it clearly should be
    'his', which is in _1677_.]

    [Line: 53 _1651_, _1653_ read 'Next to those sweets her lips
    dispense', _nescio an melius_.]

    [Line: 61 her] 'our,' a variant of one edition (_1665_) is all
    wrong.]

    [Line: 62 Mr. Berdan has strangely misinterpreted 'venter'.
    The phrase is quite a common one--'of the second _marriage_.'
    The first kiss comes of lip and lip, the second of lip and
    love.]

    [Line: 67 pickeering] 'marauding', 'skirmishing in front of an
    army'.]

    [Line: 70 For 'join' [jine] _1651_, _1653_ and others have
    'whine'--suggesting the Latin _gannitus_ frequent in such
    contexts. But 'join' must be right. Professor Gordon points
    out that the passage is a reminiscence of Donne, in his
    _Extasie_:

        As 'twixt two equall Armies, Fate
        Suspends uncertaine victorie,
        Our soules (which to advance their state
        Were gone out,) hung 'twixt her, and mee.(13-16.)

    This is contrasted with the bodily 'entergrafting' of l. 9,
    &c.]

    [Line: 74 When 'prose and sense' came in they were very
    contemptuous of this Baron Tell-clock. But the image is
    complete, congruous, and capable of being championed.]

    [Line: 75 'Boutesel' of course = 'boot and saddle', albeit
    'boute' does not mean 'boot'.]




The Hecatomb to his Mistress.


  Be dumb, you beggars of the rhyming trade,
  Geld your loose wits and let your Muse be spayed.
  Charge not the parish with the bastard phrase
  Of balm, elixir, both the Indias,
  Of shrine, saint, sacrilege, and such as these
  Expressions common as your mistresses.
  Hence, you fantastic postillers in song.
  My text defeats your art, ties Nature's tongue,
  Scorns all her tinselled metaphors of pelf,
  Illustrated by nothing but herself.                                10
  As spiders travel by their bowels spun
  Into a thread, and, when the race is run,
  Wind up their journey in a living clew,
  So is it with my poetry and you.
  From your own essence must I first untwine,
  Then twist again each panegyric line.
  Reach then a soaring quill that I may write,
  As with a Jacob's staff, to take her height.
  Suppose an angel, darting through the air,
  Should there encounter a religious prayer                          20
  Mounting to Heaven, that Intelligence
  Should for a Sunday-suit thy breath condense
  Into a body.--Let me crack a string
  In venturing higher; were the note I sing
  Above Heaven's Ela, should I then decline,
  And with a deep-mouthed gamut sound the line
  From pole to pole, I could not reach her worth,
  Nor find an epithet to set it forth.
  Metals may blazon common beauties; she
  Makes pearls and planets humble heraldry.                          30
  As, then, a purer substance is defined
  But by a heap of negatives combined,
  Ask what a spirit is, you'll hear them cry
  It hath no matter, no mortality:
  So can I not define how sweet, how fair;
  Only I say she 's not as others are.
  For what perfections we to others grant,
  It is her sole perfection to want.
  All other forms seem in respect of thee
  The almanac's misshaped anatomy,                                   40
  Where Aries head and face, Bull neck and throat,
  The Scorpion gives the secrets, knees the Goat;
  A brief of limbs foul as those beasts, or are
  Their namesake signs in their strange character.
  As the philosophers to every sense
  Marry its object, yet with some dispense,
  And grant them a polygamy with all,
  And these their common sensibles they call:
  So is 't with her who, stinted unto none,
  Unites all senses in each action.                                  50
  The same beam heats and lights; to see her well
  Is both to hear and feel, to taste and smell.
  For, can you want a palate in your eyes,
  When each of hers contains a double prize,
  Venus's apple? Can your eyes want nose
  When from each cheek buds forth a fragrant rose?
  Or can your sight be deaf to such a quick
  And well-tuned face, such moving rhetoric?
  Doth not each look a flash of lightning feel
  Which spares the body's sheath, and melts the steel?               60
  Thy soul must needs confess, or grant thy sense
  Corrupted with the object's excellence.
  Sweet magic, which can make five senses lie
  Conjured within the circle of an eye!
  In whom, since all the five are intermixed,
  Oh now that Scaliger would prove his sixt!
  Thou man of mouth, that canst not name a she
  Unless all Nature pay a subsidy,
  Whose language is a tax, whose musk-cat verse
  Voids nought but flowers, for thy Muse's hearse                    70
  Fitter than Celia's looks, who in a trice
  Canst state the long disputed Paradise,
  And (what Divines hunt with so cold a scent)
  Canst in her bosom find it resident;
  Now come aloft, come now, and breathe a vein,
  And give some vent unto thy daring strain.
  Say the astrologer who spells the stars,
  In that fair alphabet reads peace and wars,
  Mistakes his globe and in her brighter eye
  Interprets Heaven's physiognomy.                                   80
  Call her the Metaphysics of her sex,
  And say she tortures wits as quartans vex
  Physicians; call her the square circle; say
  She is the very rule of Algebra.
  What e'er thou understand'st not, say 't of her,
  For that 's the way to write her character.
  Say this and more, and when thou hopest to raise
  Thy fancy so as to inclose her praise--
  Alas poor Gotham, with thy cuckoo-hedge!
  Hyperboles are here but sacrilege.                                 90
  Then roll up, Muse, what thou hast ravelled out,
  Some comments clear not, but increase the doubt.
  She that affords poor mortals not a glance
  Of knowledge, but is known by ignorance;
  She that commits a rape on every sense,
  Whose breath can countermand a pestilence;
  She that can strike the best invention dead
  Till baffled poetry hangs down the head--
  She, she it is that doth contain all bliss,
  And makes the world but her periphrasis.                          100




    [_The Hecatomb to his Mistress._] (_1651_.) This
    poem is perhaps the best text to prove (or endeavour to prove)
    that Cleveland's object was really burlesque.]

    [Line: 1 you] 'ye' _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 2 _1651_, _1653_ read 'the' for 'your', and 'splaid':
    'spade' _1677_. 'Spay' or 'splay' to destroy the reproductive
    powers of a female.]

    [Line: 3 the bastard] _1677_ again alters 'the' to 'your',
    which does not seem good.]

    [Line: 5 sacrilege] sacrifice _1677_.]

    [Line: 6 your] their _1653_, &c.]

    [Line: 7 postillers] The word means glossers or commentators
    on Scripture, and has acquired in several languages a
    contemptuous meaning from the frequently commonplace and
    trivial character of such things. 'ye fantastic' _1653_.]

    [Line: 9 _1651_, _1653_ have 'his' for 'her', and in the next
    line 'his self' for 'herself'. The poem is particularly badly
    printed in this group, and I think the _1677_ editors, in
    trying to mend it, have mistaken some places. Thus in ...]

    [Line: 22 They print 'Would' for 'Should'. This may look
    better at first; but I at least can make no real sense of it.
    With 'Should' I can make some. The poet starts an extravagant
    comparison in 19-21; continues it in '[suppose] that
    Intelligence should', &c.; finds it will not do, and breaks
    it off with the parenthetical 'Let me' &c. To bring this out
    I have inserted the --.]

    [Line: 24 _1677_ 'And venture', with a full-stop at 'higher',
    not so well; but in ...]

    [Line: 25 '_un_decline' _1651_, _1653_, &c. is nonsense;
    while in the next line 'sound _agen_' either points to a
    complete breakdown or indicates that, on the most recent
    Cockney principles, 'again' could be pronounced 'ag_ine_'
    and rhymes _à la_ Mrs. Browning. The text is _1677_.]

    [Line: 28 set] shadow _1677_.]

    [Line: 35 define] describe _1677_.]

    [Line: 37 perfections _1651_, _1653_: perfection _1677_.]

    [Line: 43 brief = 'list'.]

    [Line: 44 name-sak'd _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 45 the] your _1677_.]

    [Line: 52 _1677_, not nearly so well, 'see and' for 'feel,
    to'. You want the list of senses completed and summed up by
    such a palate in 'see', which, repeated, spoils all.]

    [Line: 54 _1651_, _1653_ have 'his' for 'hers'; but 'a double
    prize' is more vivid if less strictly defensible than 'the
    beauteous' of _1677_. So in 56 _1677_ opens with 'Seeing each'
    instead of 'When from'--much feebler. But in 57-8 The text,
    which is _1677_, is better than _1653_:

        Or can the sight be deaf _if she but speak_,
        A well-tuned face, such moving rhetoric?

    which indeed is, if not nonsense, most clumsily expressed,
    even if comma at 'face' be deleted.]

    [Line: 60 and melts] yet melts _1677_.]

    [Line: 66 'sixt' _1651_, _1653_, _1677_.]

    [Lines: 70-1 The punctuation of the old texts--no comma at
    'flowers' and one at 'hearse'--makes the passage hard to
    understand. As I have altered this punctuation, it is clear.]

    [Line: 73 what Divines] _1651_, _1653_, &c. 'with Divines'.]

    [Line: 75 come now _1677_: come, come _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 83 square] squared _1677_. If all this is not burlesque
    it is very odd.]

    [Line: 85 you undertake not _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 91 roll] rouse _1651_, _1653_. ravelled] revealed
    _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 98 the] her _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 100 The hundred lines making the _heca_tomb--and the
    metaphysical matter the subject of sacrifice.]




Upon Sir Thomas Martin,

Who subscribed a Warrant thus: 'We the Knights and Gentlemen of the
Committee,' &c. when there was no Knight but himself.


  Hang out a flag and gather pence--A piece
  Which Afric never bred nor swelling Greece
  With stories' tympany, a beast so rare
  No lecturer's wrought cap, nor Bartholomew Fair
  Can match him; nature's whimsey, that outvies
  Tradescant and his ark of novelties;
  The Gog and Magog of prodigious sights,
  With reverence to your eyes, Sir Thomas Knights.
  But is this bigamy of titles due?
  Are you Sir Thomas and Sir Martin too?                             10
  Issachar couchant 'twixt a brace of sirs,
  Thou knighthood in a pair of panniers;
  Thou, that look'st, wrapped up in thy warlike leather,
  Like Valentine and Orson bound together;
  Spurs' representative! thou, that art able
  To be a voider to King Arthur's table;
  Who, in this sacrilegious mass of all,
  It seems has swallowed Windsor's Hospital;
  Pair-royal-headed Cerberus's cousin.
  Hercules' labours were a baker's dozen,                            20
  Had he but trumped on thee, whose forked neck
  Might well have answered at the font for Smec.
  But can a knighthood on a knighthood lie?
  Metal on metal is ill armory;
  And yet the known Godfrey of Bouillon's coat
  Shines in exception to the herald's vote.
  Great spirits move not by pedantic laws;
  Their actions, though eccentric, state the cause,
  And Priscian bleeds with honour. Caesar thus
  Subscribed two consuls with one Julius.                            30
  Tom, never oaded squire, scarce yeoman-high,
  Is Tom twice dipped, knight of a double dye!
  Fond man, whose fate is in his name betrayed!
  It is the setting sun doubles his shade.
  But it 's no matter, for amphibious he
  May have a knight hanged, yet Sir Tom go free!




    [_Upon Sir Thomas Martin._] (_1651_.) We here turn
    to the other side of Cleveland's work, where jest and earnest
    are combined in a very different fashion. Martin was a member
    of the Committee of Sequestration appointed under the Act of
    April 1, 1643, which, in a more fearless and thoroughgoing
    fashion than that of some later legislation, confiscated in
    a lump the property of certain bishops and of political
    opponents generally. The sequestrators for Cambridge were
    this man and two other knights--Sir Dudley North and Sir John
    Cutts; with two esquires--a Captain Symonds and Dudley Pope.]

    [Line: 1 'pence apiece' _1651_, which makes doubtful sense.
    _1653_, _1677_, and all others before me, have 'pence a
    piece', which I believe to be careless printing for the
    text above. The 'piece' is the same as the 'beast', and the
    brackets which follow in the originals are a printer's error.
    'Piece', in this sense of 'rare object', is not uncommon.
    Cf. Prospero's 'Thy mother was a _piece_ of _virtue_.' 'Pence
    apiece' (about the same as the Scotch fishwife's 'pennies
    each'), if not, as Mr. Berdan says, 'proverbial', is certainly
    a perfectly common expression, still I think existing, but it
    is difficult to see how what follows can thus suit it. 'Which'
    must have an antecedent.]

    [Line: 4 'Bartlemew' _1651_, _1653_: 'Bartholmew' _1654_.
    The word was, of course, pronounced 'Bartlemy,' and almost
    dissyllabically.]

    [Line: 5 that outvies] _1651_, _1653_ 'one that outvies',
    perhaps rightly.]

    [Line: 6 Tredeskin _1651_, _1653_: Tredescant _1677_.]

    [Line: 11 The reference to the animal between two burdens
    to whom Issachar is biblically compared (Gen. xlix. 14) is
    perhaps meant to be additionally pointed by 'Sir _Martin_',
    the latter being one of the story-names of the much-enduring
    beast.]

    [Line: 16 voider] The servant who clears the table; also, but
    here less probably, the tray or basket used for the purpose.]

    [Line: 18 The 'Poor Knights of Windsor' having fallen, like
    other institutions, into the maw of plebeian and Puritan
    plunder.]

    [Line: 19 The hyphen at 'Pair-royal', which Mr. Berdan has
    dropped, is important, the term being technical in certain
    card-games and meaning _three_ cards of the same value--kings,
    &c.]

    [Line: 21 trumped on thee = turned thee up like a trump.]

    [Line: 22 'Smec'--of course--'tymnuus', and used both for the
    sake of contempt and as denoting a plurality of person.]

    [Line: 24 The principle of this line is of course part of
    the A B C of the more modern and dogmatic heraldry: the
    application will lie either on sword or spur, the two
    characteristic insignia of knighthood and both metallic.
    _1677_ changed 'ill armory' to 'false heraldry', and Scott was
    probably thinking of this line when he made Prince John and
    Wamba between them use the phrase in _Ivanhoe_.]

    [Line: 25 Godfrey's arms as King of Jerusalem--five golden
    crosses on a silver shield--were commonly quoted, as Cleveland
    quotes them, in special exception to the rule. But my friend
    Mr. F. P. Barnard, Professor of Mediaeval Archaeology in the
    University of Liverpool, to whom I owe the materials of this
    note, tells me that he has collected many other cases,
    English and foreign. The objection, however, was originally
    a practical one, metal on metal and colour on colour being
    difficult to distinguish _in the field_. It passed into a
    technical rule later.]

    [Line: 29 Priscian's head may not have bled here before it was
    broken by Butler; but the dates of the _writing_ of _Hudibras_
    are quite uncertain.]

    [Line: 31 oaded] This singular word is in all the editions I
    have seen. _1699_ makes it 'loaded', with no sense that I can
    see in this passage. Can it be 'oathèd'--be sworn either to
    the commission of the peace or something else that gave the
    title 'Esquire'? 'Oad', however, = woad; cf. Minsheu, _Guide
    into Tongues_, 1617 'Oade, _an hearbe_. Vide _Woade_'. This
    would certainly suit the next line.]




On the memory of Mr. Edward King, drowned in the Irish Seas.


  I like not tears in tune, nor do I prize
  His artificial grief who scans his eyes.
  Mine weep down pious beads, but why should I
  Confine them to the Muse's rosary?
  I am no poet here; my pen 's the spout
  Where the rain-water of mine eyes run out
  In pity of that name, whose fate we see
  Thus copied out in grief's hydrography.
  The Muses are not mermaids, though upon
  His death the ocean might turn Helicon.                            10
  The sea's too rough for verse; who rhymes upon 't
  With Xerxes strives to fetter th' Hellespont.
  My tears will keep no channel, know no laws
  To guide their streams, but (like the waves, their cause)
  Run with disturbance, till they swallow me
  As a description of his misery.
  But can his spacious virtue find a grave
  Within th' imposthumed bubble of a wave?
  Whose learning if we sound, we must confess
  The sea but shallow, and him bottomless.                           20
  Could not the winds to countermand thy death
  With their whole card of lungs redeem thy breath?
  Or some new island in thy rescue peep
  To heave thy resurrection from the deep,
  That so the world might see thy safety wrought
  With no less wonder than thyself was thought?
  The famous Stagirite (who in his life
  Had Nature as familiar as his wife)
  Bequeathed his widow to survive with thee,
  Queen Dowager of all philosophy.                                   30
  An ominous legacy, that did portend
  Thy fate and predecessor's second end.
  Some have affirmed that what on earth we find,
  The sea can parallel in shape and kind.
  Books, arts, and tongues were wanting, but in thee
  Neptune hath got an university.
    We'll dive no more for pearls; the hope to see
  Thy sacred reliques of mortality
  Shall welcome storms, and make the seamen prize
  His shipwreck now more than his merchandise.                       40
  He shall embrace the waves, and to thy tomb
  As to a Royaller Exchange shall come.
  What can we now expect? Water and fire,
  Both elements our ruin do conspire.
  And that dissolves us which doth us compound:
  One Vatican was burnt, another drowned.
  We of the gown our libraries must toss
  To understand the greatness of our loss;
  Be pupils to our grief, and so much grow
  In learning, as our sorrows overflow.                              50
  When we have filled the rundlets of our eyes
  We'll issue 't forth and vent such elegies
  As that our tears shall seem the Irish Seas,
  We floating islands, living Hebrides.




    [_On the Memory of Mr. Edward King._] First printed
    in the memorial volume of Cambridge verse to King, _1638_;
    included in the _Poems_ of _1651_. It is of course easy (and
    it may be feared that it has too often been done) to contrast
    this disadvantageously with _Lycidas_. A specific or generic
    comparison, bringing out the difference of ephemeral and
    eternal style in verse, will not be found unprofitable and is
    almost as easy to make. No reader of Milton--and any one who
    has not read Milton is very unlikely to read this--can need
    information on King or on the circumstances of his death.
    _1651_ and _1653_ add a spurious duplicate, the last fourteen
    lines of W. More's elegy which followed Cleveland's in the
    Cambridge volume.

    * _On the Same._

        Tell me no more of Stoics: canst thou tell
        Who 'twas that when the waves began to swell,
        The ship to sink, sad passengers to call
        'Master, we perish'--slept secure of all?
        Remember this, and him that waking kept
        A mind as constant as he did that slept.
        Canst thou give credit to his zeal and love
        That went to Heaven, and to those flames above,
        Wrapt in a fiery chariot? Since I heard
        Who 'twas, that on his knees the vessel steered
        With hands bolt up to Heaven, since I see
        As yet no signs of his mortality,--
        Pardon me, Reader, if I say he's gone
        The self-same journey in a wat'ry one.
    ]

    [Line: 1 do] will _1638_.]

    [Line: 2 who] that _1638_.]

    [Line: 6 _1651_ 'runs': all other editions (including _1638_)
    'run'. The attraction to 'eyes' is one of the commonest of
    things.]

    [Line: 10 The everlasting confusion of 'mount' and 'fount'
    occurs in 'Helicon.']

    [Line: 26 wonder] miracle _1638_.]

    [Line: 34 _1638_, _1677_, and later editions read, harmlessly
    but needlessly, '_for_ shape'.]

    [Line: 46 'Vatican' used (as Mr. Berdan justly notes) as =
    'library'.

    Cleveland's warmest defenders must admit that this epicede
    is a triumph of 'frigidity'. And the personal note which
    _Lycidas_ itself has been unfairly accused of wanting is here
    non-existent to my eyes, though some have discovered it.]




Upon an Hermaphrodite.


  Sir, or Madam, choose you whether!
  Nature twists you both together
  And makes thy soul two garbs confess,
  Both petticoat and breeches dress.
  Thus we chastise the God of Wine
  With water that is feminine,
  Until the cooler nymph abate
  His wrath, and so concorporate.
  Adam, till his rib was lost,
  Had both sexes thus engrossed.                                     10
  When Providence our Sire did cleave,
  And out of Adam carved Eve,
  Then did man 'bout wedlock treat,
  To make his body up complete.
  Thus matrimony speaks but thee
  In a grave solemnity.
  For man and wife make but one right
  Canonical hermaphrodite.
  Ravel thy body, and I find
  In every limb a double kind.                                       20
  Who would not think that head a pair
  That breeds such factions in the hair?
  One half so churlish in the touch
  That, rather than endure so much
  I would my tender limbs apparel
  In Regulus's nailèd barrel:
  But the other half so small,
  And so amorous withal,
  That Cupid thinks each hair doth grow
  A string for his invis'ble bow.                                    30
  When I look babies in thine eyes
  Here Venus, there Adonis, lies.
  And though thy beauty be high noon
  Thy orb contains both sun and moon.
  How many melting kisses skip
  'Twixt thy male and female lip--
  Twixt thy upper brush of hair
  And thy nether beard's despair?
  When thou speak'st (I would not wrong
  Thy sweetness with a double tongue)                                40
  But in every single sound
  A perfect dialogue is found.
  Thy breasts distinguish one another,
  This the sister, that the brother.
  When thou join'st hands my ear still fancies
  The nuptial sound, 'I, John, take Frances.'
  Feel but the difference soft and rough;
  This is a gauntlet, that a muff.
  Had sly Ulysses, at the sack
  Of Troy, brought thee his pedlar's pack,                           50
  And weapons too, to know Achilles
  From King Lycomedes' Phillis,
  His plot had failed; this hand would feel
  The needle, that the warlike steel.
  When music doth thy pace advance,
  Thy right leg takes the left to dance.
  Nor is 't a galliard danced by one,
  But a mixed dance, though alone.
  Thus every heteroclite part
  Changes gender but thy heart.                                      60
  Nay those, which modesty can mean
  But dare not speak, are epicene.
  That gamester needs must overcome
  That can play both Tib and Tom.
    Thus did Nature's mintage vary,
    Coining thee a Philip and Mary.




    [_Upon an Hermaphrodite._] (_1647_.) This poem
    appeared in the 1640 and all subsequent editions of Randolph's
    poems and in the 1653 edition of Beaumont's. Beaumont had
    preceded Cleveland as a 'dumping-ground' for odds and ends of
    all kinds. But see the following poem.]

    [Line: 1 _1647_ and _1651_ 'Madam_e_', which is not English,
    and which spoils the run of the verse.]

    [Line: 2 twists] _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, and others 'twist'd',
    which is very like the time.]

    [Line: 10 both sexes] _1677_ and later '_the_ sexes'.]

    [Line: 13 I do not know whether it is worth while to point out
    that catalectic or seven-syllabled lines with trochaic effect
    (cf. 9. this, 16, and others), as well as complete trochaic
    dimeters (1, 2, &c.), occur more frequently here than in
    _The Senses' Festival_, _Fuscara_, &c. This, though of
    course Milton has it, was rather more frequent in Randolph's
    generation than in Cleveland's.]

    [Line: 22 _1647_, _1651_, _1677_, and later 'faction', but
    'factions' _1653_.]

    [Line: 25 _1651_, _1653_ &c. '_It_ would', which can hardly be
    right. On the other hand _1677_ and its follower have '_With_
    Regulus his' (l. 26).]

    [Line: 31 It can hardly be necessary to interpret this famous
    and charming phrase.]

    [Line: 48 Line shortened to the trochaic run in _1677_, &c. by
    dropping 'is'.]

    [Line: 52 'Lycomedes' puzzled the earlier printers, who in
    _1647_ and _1651_ make it 'Nicomedes' (corrupted by _1653_ to
    'Nichomedes')--a curiously awkward blunder, as it happens.]

    [Line: 56 the left _1647_, _1653_: thy left _1651_.]

    [Line: 58 The late edition of _1687_, when 'regularity' was
    becoming a fetish, inserted 'all' before 'alone', though
    _1677_--its standard for the genuine poems--has not got it,
    and it is not wanted.]

    [Line: 59 heteroclite part] _1677_ and its followers, puzzled
    by this, the original, reading, read 'apart' (apostrophating
    'Het'roclite'), the sense of which is not clear; while Mr.
    Berdan would emend to 'heteroclitic', which is unnecessary.
    Cleveland may well have scanned 'heter[=o]clite', which is by
    no means an extravagant licence, and has been paralleled by
    Longfellow in 'Eur[=o]clydon'. Indeed, since I wrote this
    note Mr. Simpson has furnished me with a parallel of
    'heter[=o]clite' itself from Harl. MS. 4126, f. 102.]

    [Line: 60 but thy heart _1649_: not the heart _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 62 'But' _1677_: 'And' in earlier texts.]




The Author's Hermaphrodite.

(Made after Mr. Randolph's death, yet inserted into his Poems.)


  Problem of sexes! Must thou likewise be
  As disputable in thy pedigree?
  Thou twins in one, in whom Dame Nature tries
  To throw less than aums ace upon two dice.
  Wert thou served up two in one dish, the rather
  To split thy sire into a double father?
  True, the world's scales are even; what the main
  In one place gets, another quits again.
  Nature lost one by thee, and therefore must
  Slice one in two to keep her number just.                          10
  Plurality of livings is thy state,
  And therefore mine must be impropriate.
  For, since the child is mine and yet the claim
  Is intercepted by another's name,
  Never did steeple carry double truer;
  His is the donative and mine the cure.
  Then say, my Muse (and without more dispute),
  Who 'tis that fame doth superinstitute.
  The Theban wittol, when he once descries
  Jove is his rival, falls to sacrifice.                             20
  That name hath tipped his horns; see, on his knees!
  A health to Hans-in-kelder Hercules!
  Nay, sublunary cuckolds are content
  To entertain their fate with compliment;
  And shall not he be proud whom Randolph deigns
  To quarter with his Muse both arms and brains?
  Gramercy Gossip, I rejoice to see
  She'th got a leap of such a barbary.
  Talk not of horns, horns are the poet's crest;
  For, since the Muses left their former nest                        30
  To found a nunnery in Randolph's quill,
  Cuckold Parnassus is a forked hill.
  But stay, I've waked his dust, his marble stirs
  And brings the worms for his compurgators.
  Can ghost have natural sons? Say, Og, is't meet
  Penance bear date after the winding sheet?
  Were it a Ph[oe]nix (as the double kind
  May seem to prove, being there's two combined)
  I would disclaim my right, and that it were
  The lawful issue of his ashes swear.                               40
  But was he dead? Did not his soul translate
  Herself into a shop of lesser rate;
  Or break up house, like an expensive lord
  That gives his purse a sob and lives at board?
  Let old Pythagoras but play the pimp
  And still there's hopes 't may prove his bastard imp.
  But I'm profane; for, grant the world had one
  With whom he might contract an union,
  They two were one, yet like an eagle spread,
  I' th' body joined, but parted in the head.                        50
  For you, my brat, that pose the Porph'ry Chair,
  Pope John, or Joan, or whatsoe'er you are,
  You are a nephew; grieve not at your state,
  For all the world is illegitimate.
  Man cannot get a man, unless the sun
  Club to the act of generation.
  The sun and man get man, thus Tom and I
  Are the joint fathers of my poetry.
  For since, blest shade, thy verse is male, but mine
  O' th' weaker sex, a fancy feminine,                               60
  We'll part the child, and yet commit no slaughter;
  So shall it be thy son, and yet my daughter.




    [_The Author's Hermaphrodite._] (_1647_.) The note,
    which appears in all editions, seems evidently conclusive as
    to this poem. Moreover the quibbles are right Clevelandish.]

    [Line: 7 'main' is a little ambiguous, or may appear so from
    the recent mention of dice. But that sense will hardly come
    in, and Cleveland was probably thinking of the famous passage
    in Spenser (Artegall's dispute with the giant, _F. Q._ v. ii)
    as to the washing away and washing up of the _sea_. Yet 'main'
    _might_ mean 'stock'. The reading of 'gets place' in one
    edition (_1662_), rather notable for blunders, cannot be
    listened to.]

    [Line: 15 steeple] By synecdoche for 'church' or 'parish'.]

    [Line: 16 donative] A play on words, as also in 'cure'.]

    [Line: 19 Theban wittol] Amphitryon.]

    [Line: 22 Hans-in-kelder] = 'unborn'.

    [Line: 28 She'th] _1667_ changes to 'Th'hast'. barbary]
    'Barbs' or Spanish horses were imported for the stud as early
    as Anglo-Saxon times; but before Cleveland's day actual Arabs
    had been tried.]

    [Line: 34 compurgators] persons who swear in a court of law to
    the innocence or the veracity of some other person.]

    [Line: 35 I was unable to say why the King of Bashan comes in
    here, except that the comparison of the _Dialogue on the &c._,
    'Og the great _commissary_', and the put case about 'penance',
    suggest some church lawyer of portly presence. But Mr. Simpson
    and Mr. Thorn-Drury have traced the thing from this point as
    follows:

    Cf. _A Dialogue upon the &c._, l. 47 'Og the great
    commissary', where the copy in Rawlinson MS. Poet. 26, fol. 94
    _b_, has a marginal note 'Roan'. This was Dr. William Roan,
    of whom an account is given in the _Catalogue of Prints and
    Drawings in the British Museum_, Division 1, 'Political and
    Personal Satires', p. 156: 'Dr. Roane was one of the most
    eminent doctors who acted in Laud's Ecclesiastical Courts;
    he fled from the indignation of the House of Commons, and is
    frequently alluded to in pamphlets and broadsides of the time
    (see _Times Alteration_, Jan. 8, 1641,... _Old News newly
    Revived_, Dec. 21, 1640,...and _The Spirituall Courts
    Epitomised_, June 26, 1641).' The pamphlet illustrated in
    this note is _A Letter front Rhoan in France Written by Doctor
    Roane one of the Doctors of the late Sicke Commons, to his
    Fellow Doctor of the Civill Law. Dated 28, of Iune last past.
    With an Ellegy written by his oune hand upon the death and
    buriall of the said Doctors Commons. Printed in this happy
    yeare, 1641_. (Thomason's copy dated June 28.)

    Mr. Thorn-Drury supplies the following references bearing
    directly on the nickname, and not noticed in the B.M.
    Catalogue: _Foure fugitives meeting Or, The Discourse amongst
    my Lord Finch, Sir Frances Windebank, Sir John Sucklin, and
    Doctor Roane, as they accidentally met in France, with a
    detection of their severall pranks in England. Printed In the
    Yeare, 1641_. 4^{o}.

    Suckling says to Roane, 'Hold there good Doctor _Roane_, and
    take me with you, you are to be blamed too, for not bidding
    farewell to Sir _Paul Pinder_, (at whose beauteous house, you
    have devoured the carkasse of many a cram'd Capon) before you
    fled, but I wonder more, why you came hither so unprovided;
    methinks some English dyet would have bin good for a weake
    stomack: the Church-Wardens of Northhamptonshire promised to
    give you a good fee, if you will goe to 'em, and resolve 'em
    whether they may lawfully take the oath &c. or no.

    '_Wind_. That may very well be, for they have given him a
    great Addition, they stile him, Og the great Commissary, they
    say he was as briske in discharging the new Canons, as he that
    made them.'

    Suckling addresses Roane as 'Immense Doctor Roane': so it is
    possible that it was his personal appearance which suggested
    the name of Og.

    Cf. also _Canidia. The Third Part_, p. 150 (1683):

        Are you a Smock-Sinner, or so,
        Commute soundly, and you shall be let go.
        Fee _Ogg_ the great _Commissary_ before and behind,
        Then sin on, you know my mind.
    ]

    [Line: 39 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, &c. '_It_ would', which can
    hardly be right.]

    [Line: 44 'sob' _1647_, _1651_: _1653_ clearly '_f_ob': 'Sob'
    1677. Cf. _Comedy of Errors_ (iv. iii. 22) 'gives a sob'.
    'Sob' is literally 'an act on the part of a horse of
    recovering its wind after exertion'--hence 'respite'
    (_N.E.D._).]

    [Line: 51 Porph'ry Chair] The Pope's throne, the myths of
    which, as well as of Pope Joan herself, are vulgate. 'Nephew'
    carries out the allusion: Popes' sons being called so

        Better to preserve the peace.
    ]

    [Line: 59 thy] this _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 62 The merit of the style for burlesque use could
    hardly be better brought out.]




*_To the Hectors, upon the unfortunate death of H. Compton._


  You Hectors! tame professors of the sword,
  Who in the chair state duels, whose black word
  Bewitches courage, and like Devils too,
  Leaves the bewitch'd when 't comes to fight and do.
  Who on your errand our best spirits send,
  Not to kill swine or cows, but man and friend;
  Who are a whole court-martial in your drink,
  And dispute honour, when you cannot think,
  Not orderly, but prate out valour as
  You grow inspired by th' oracle of the glass;                      10
  Then, like our zeal-drunk presbyters, cry down
  All law of Kings and God, but what's their own.
  Then y' have the gift of fighting, can discern
  Spirits, who 's fit to act, and who to learn,
  Who shall be baffled next, who must be beat,
  Who killed--that you may drink, and swear, and eat.
  Whilst you applaud those murders which you teach
  And live upon the wounds your riots preach.
    Mere booty-souls! Who bid us fight a prize
  To feast the laughter of our enemies,                              20
  Who shout and clap at wounds, count it pure gain,
  Mere Providence to hear a Compton 's slain.
  A name they dearly hate, and justly; should
  They love 't 'twere worse, their love would taint the blood.
  Blood always true, true as their swords and cause,
  And never vainly lost, till your wild laws
  Scandalled their actions in this person, who
  Truly durst more than you dare think to do.
  A man made up of graces--every move
  Had entertainment in it, and drew love                             30
  From all but him who killed him, who seeks a grave
  And fears a death more shameful than he gave.
    Now you dread Hectors! you whom tyrant drink
  Drags thrice about the town, what do you think?
  (If you be sober) Is it valour, say,
  To overcome, and then to run away?
    Fie! Fie! your lusts and duels both are one;
    Both are repented of as soon as done.




    [_To the Hectors_ (_1653_) is struck out in _1677_
    and Mr. Berdan does not give it. I asterisk it in text; but as
    it might be Cleveland's (though I do not think it is) I do not
    exclude it. The Comptons were a good Royalist family in those
    days. This Henry (not the Bishop) was killed in 1652 in a duel
    by George Brydges, Lord Chandos, who died three years later
    (see Professor Firth's _House of Lords during the Civil
    War_, p. 223). The fame of the Hectors as predecessors of the
    Mohocks and possible objects of Milton's objurgation 'flown
    with insolence and wine', &c., is sufficient. But they seem
    to have been more methodical maniacs and ruffians than their
    successors, and even to have had something of the superior
    quality of Sir Lucius O'Trigger and Captain M^{c}Turk about
    them, as professors and painful preachers of the necessity and
    etiquette of the duel.]

    [Line: 2 state duels] Arrange them like the said Captain
    M^{c}Turk in _St. Ronan's Well_? word] _1653_ (wrongly for
    rhyme, though not necessarily for concord) 'words'.]

    [Line: 19 booty-souls] Apparently 'souls interested in nothing
    but booty'. The piece would seem to have been addressed to
    Hectors in the actual Cavalier camp, or at least party. The
    'enemies' are of course the Roundheads, and it will soon be
    noticed that there is no apodosis or consequence to all these
    'who's', &c. It is literally an 'Address' and no more.]

    [Line: 25 their] = 'the Comptons'--nothing to do with 'their'
    and 'they' in the preceding lines.]

    [Line: 31 Does not run very smoothly: the second 'him' may be
    a foist.]




Square-Cap.


  Come hither, Apollo's bouncing girl,
    And in a whole Hippocrene of sherry
  Let 's drink a round till our brains do whirl,
    Tuning our pipes to make ourselves merry.
  A Cambridge lass, Venus-like, born of the froth
  Of an old half-filled jug of barley-broth,
    She, she is my mistress, her suitors are many,
    But she'll have a Square-cap if e'er she have any.

  And first, for the plush-sake, the Monmouth-cap comes,
    Shaking his head like an empty bottle;                           10
  With his new-fangled oath by Jupiter's thumbs,
    That to her health he'll begin a pottle.
  He tells her that, after the death of his grannam,
  He shall have God knows what per annum.
    But still she replied, 'Good Sir, la-bee;
    If ever I have a man, Square-cap for me!'

  Then Calot Leather-cap strongly pleads,
    And fain would derive the pedigree of fashion.
  The antipodes wear their shoes on their heads,
    And why may not we in their imitation?                           20
  Oh, how this football noddle would please,
  If it were but well tossed on S. Thomas his leas!
    But still she replied, 'Good sir, la-bee;
    If ever I have a man, Square-cap for me!'

  Next comes the Puritan in a wrought-cap,
    With a long-waisted conscience towards a sister.
  And, making a chapel of ease of her lap,
    First he said grace and then he kissed her.
  'Beloved,' quoth he, 'thou art my text.'
  Then falls he to use and application next;                         30
    But then she replied, 'Your text, sir, I'll be;
    For then I'm sure you'll ne'er handle me.'

  But see where Satin-cap scouts about,
    And fain would this wench in his fellowship marry.
  He told her how such a man was not put out
    Because his wedding he closely did carry.
  He'll purchase induction by simony,
  And offers her money her incumbent to be;
    But still she replied, 'Good sir, la-bee;
    If ever I have a man, Square-cap for me!'                        40

  The lawyer's a sophister by his round-cap,
    Nor in their fallacies are they divided,
  The one milks the pocket, the other the tap;
    And yet this wench he fain would have brided.
  'Come, leave these thread-bare scholars,' quoth he,
  'And give me livery and seisin of thee.'
    'But peace, John-a-Nokes, and leave your oration,
    For I never will be your impropriation;
    I pray you therefore, good sir, la-bee;
    For if ever I have a man, Square-cap for me!'                    50




     [_Square-Cap_ (_1647_) is one of the pleasantest
    of all Cleveland's poems. Its prosodic puzzle and profit have
    been indicated in the Introduction, and it might sometimes run
    more easily. But the thorough good-fellowship and _esprit
    de corps_ carry it off more than sufficiently. It would be
    pleasant to think that Mr. Samuel Pepys sang it on the famous
    occasion when he was 'scandalously over-served with drink' as
    an undergraduate. It had been printed only three years when he
    went up, though no doubt written earlier.]

    [Line: 2 Cleveland has got the fount right here.]

    [Line: 7 she is] she's _1653_.]

    [Line: 9 Monmouth-cap] A soldier.]

    [Lines: 13, 14 A most singular blunder in _1677_ (and the
    editions that follow it) shows that Cleveland's 'Vindicators'
    were by no means always attentive to his sense. It reads
    '_her_ grannam' and '_She_ shall have'--the exact effect of
    which, as an inducement to marry him, one would like to hear.]

    [Line: 15 la-bee] = 'let-a-be', 'let me alone'.]

    [Line: 17 One or two editions (but not very good ones) '_Thin_
    Calot'. Calot of course = 'calotte', the lawyer's cap or
    coif.]

    [Line: 18 This is a signal instance of the way in which these
    early anapaestic lines break down into heroics. _1677_ and
    others read '_his_ pedigree'--not so well.]

    [Line: 22 S. Thomas his leas] A decree of Oct. 29, 1632,
    ordains that scholars and students of Corpus and Pembroke
    shall play football only 'upon St. Thomas Layes', the site
    of Downing College later. This decree and the 'S.' of _1651_,
    _1653_, would seem to show that _1677_ is wrong in expanding
    to 'Sir', though two Cambridge editors ought to have known
    the right name. It was also called 'Swinecroft'. (Information
    obtained from the late Mr. J. W. Clark's _Memories and
    Customs_, Cambridge, 1909, through the kindness of Mr. A. J.
    Bartholomew.)]

    [Line: 33 Satin-cap] Clerical: cf. Strode's poem on _The Caps_
    (_Works_, ed. Dobell, p. 106):]

        The Sattin and the Velvet hive
        Unto a Bishopric doth drive.

    [Line: 36 closely ... carry] = 'disguise', 'conceal'.]




Upon Phillis walking in a morning before sun-rising.


  The sluggish morn as yet undressed,
  My Phillis brake from out her East,
  As if she'd made a match to run
  With Venus, usher to the sun.
  The trees, like yeomen of her guard,
  Serving more for pomp than ward,
  Ranked on each side, with loyal duty
  Weave branches to enclose her beauty.
  The plants, whose luxury was lopped,
  Or age with crutches underpropped,                                 10
  Whose wooden carcasses are grown
  To be but coffins of their own,
  Revive, and at her general dole
  Each receives his ancient soul.
  The winged choristers began
  To chirp their mattins, and the fan
  Of whistling winds like organs played,
  Until their voluntaries made
  The wakened Earth in odours rise
  To be her morning sacrifice.                                       20
  The flowers, called out of their beds,
  Start and raise up their drowsy heads;
  And he that for their colour seeks
  May find it vaulting in her cheeks,
  Where roses mix--no civil war
  Between her York and Lancaster.
  The marigold (whose courtier's face
  Echoes the sun and doth unlace
  Her at his rise--at his full stop
  Packs and shuts up her gaudy shop)                                 30
  Mistakes her cue and doth display:
  Thus Phillis antedates the day.
    These miracles had cramped the sun,
  Who, thinking that his kingdom 's won,
  Powders with light his frizzled locks
  To see what saint his lustre mocks.
  The trembling leaves through which he played,
  Dappling the walk with light and shade
  Like lattice-windows, give the spy
  Room but to peep with half an eye;                                 40
  Lest her full orb his sight should dim
  And bid us all good-night in him,
  Till she should spend a gentle ray
  To force us a new-fashioned day.
  But what religious palsy 's this
  Which makes the boughs divest their bliss,
  And, that they might her footsteps straw,
  Drop their leaves with shivering awe?
  Phillis perceived and (lest her stay
  Should wed October unto May,                                       50
  And, as her beauty caused a Spring,
  Devotion might an Autumn bring)
  Withdrew her beams, yet made no night,
  But left the sun her curate-light.




    [_Upon Phillis, &c._ (_1647_.) This is perhaps the
    prettiest, as _The Senses' Festival_ is the most vigorous and
    _Fuscara_ the most laboured, of Cleveland's Clevelandisms.]

    [Line: 6 _1677_ &c. insert 'her' between 'serving' and
    'more'--doubtless on the principle, noticed before, of
    patching lines to supposed 'regularity'.]

    [Line: 7 'Ranked' _1647_, _1677_: 'Banked' _1651_, _1653_.
    As it happens either will do; and at the same time either, if
    original, is likely to have been mistaken for the other.]

    [Line: 8 'Weave' _1647_: 'Wave' _1651_, _1653_: 'Weav'd'
    _1677_ (the printer unconsciously assimilating it to the
    'Ranked' of l. 8). The same remark applies as to the preceding
    line.]

    [Line: 11 are] were _1677_, _1687_.]

    [Line: 18 _1654_ 'Un_to_'.]

    [Line: 19 _1677_ &c. 'weaken'd': _putide_.]

    [Line: 20 A meeting-point of many pious poems.]

    [Line: 24 _1677_ 'vaulting _to_'--hardly an improvement.]

    [Line: 26 Dryden may have had Cleveland in mind (as he pretty
    often, and most naturally had, seeing that the poems must have
    'spent their youth with him') when he wrote some of the latest
    and most beautiful of his own lines to the Duchess of Ormond
    (Lady Mary Somerset):

        O daughter of the Rose whose cheeks unite
        The differing titles of the Red and White.
    ]

    [_1677_ '_Divides_ her York and Lancaster'--pretty
    palpable emendation to supply the apparent lack of a verb.]

    [Lines: 27-30 It has been suggested to me that the sense wants
    mechanical aid to clear it up; and I have therefore made a
    visible parenthesis of 'whose ... shop', following _1677_.]

    [Line: 34 thinking] fearing _1677_.]

    [Line: 36 _1653_ &c. 'saints'--a misprint, as _1647_, _1651_
    have the singular.]

    [Line: 38 Here, for once, Cleveland achieves the really
    poetical conceit.]

    [Line: 42 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, &c. 'bids'--again a mere
    misprint.]

    [Line: 43 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ 'would'.]

    [Line: 47 straw] For 'strew', as in the A. V.]

    [Line: 49 _1649_, _1651_, _1653_, 'perceives' (an unconscious
    echo of 'leaves' in l. 48).]




Upon a Miser that made a great feast, and the next day died for grief.


  Nor 'scapes he so; our dinner was so good
  My liquorish Muse cannot but chew the cud,
  And what delight she took in th' invitation
  Strives to taste o'er again in this relation.
    After a tedious grace in Hopkins' rhyme,
  Not for devotion but to take up time,
  Marched the trained-band of dishes, ushered there
  To show their postures and then as they were.
  For he invites no teeth; perchance the eye
  He will afford the lover's gluttony.                               10
  Thus is our feast a muster, not a fight,
  Our weapons not for service, but for sight.
    But are we tantalized? Is all this meat
  Cooked by a limner for to view, not eat?
  Th' astrologers keep such houses when they sup
  On joints of Taurus or their heavenly Tup.
  Whatever feasts be made are summed up here,
  His table vies not standing with his cheer.
  His churchings, christenings, in this meal are all,
  And not transcribed but in th' original.                           20
  Christmas is no feast movable; for lo,
  The self-same dinner was ten years ago!
  'Twill be immortal if it longer stay,
  The gods will eat it for ambrosia.
    But stay a while;  unless my whinyard fail
  Or is enchanted, I'll cut off th' entail.
  Saint George for England then! have at the mutton
  When the first cut calls me bloodthirsty glutton.
  Stout Ajax, with his anger-coddled brain,
  Killing a sheep thought Agamemnon slain;                           30
  The fiction's now proved true; wounding his roast
  I lamentably butcher up mine host.
  Such sympathy is with his meat, my weapon
  Makes him an eunuch when it carves his capon.
  Cut a goose leg and the poor soul for moan
  Turns cripple too, and after stands on one.
    Have you not heard the abominable sport
  A Lancaster grand-jury will report?
  The soldier with his Morglay watched the mill;
  The cats they came to feast, when lusty Will                       40
  Whips off great puss's leg which (by some charm)
  Proves the next day such an old woman's arm.
  'Tis so with him whose carcass never 'scapes,
  But still we slash him in a thousand shapes.
  Our serving-men (like spaniels) range to spring
  The fowl which he had clucked under his wing.
  Should he on widgeon or on woodcock feed
  It were, Thyestes like, on his own breed.
  To pork he pleads a superstition due,
  But we subscribe neither to Scot nor Jew.                          50
  [No liquor stirs; call for a cup of wine.
  'Tis blood we drink; we pledge thee, Catiline.]
  Sauces we should have none, had he his wish.
  The oranges i' th' margent of the dish
  He with such huckster's care tells o'er and o'er,
  The Hesperian dragon never watched them more.
    But being eaten now into despair
  (Having nought else to do) he falls to prayer.
  'As thou didst once put on the form of bull
  And turned thine Io to a lovely mull,                              60
  Defend my rump, great Jove, grant this poor beef
  May live to comfort me in all this grief.'
  But no Amen was said: see, see it comes!
  Draw, boys, let trumpets sound, and strike up drums.
  See how his blood doth with the gravy swim,
  And every trencher hath a limb of him.
  The venison's now in view, our hounds spend deeper.
  Strange deer, which in the pasty hath a keeper
  Stricter than in the park, making his guest,
  (As he had stoln't alive) to steal it drest!                       70
  The scent was hot, and we, pursuing faster
  Than Ovid's pack of dogs e'er chased their master,
  A double prey at once may seize upon,
  Acteon, and his case of venison.
  Thus was he torn alive; to vex him worse
  Death serves him up now as a second course.
  Should we, like Thracians, our dead bodies eat,
  He would have lived only to save his meat.
  [Lastly; we did devour that corpse of his
  Throughout all Ovid's Metamorphoses.]                              80




    [_Upon a Miser, &c._ (_1647_.) This juxtaposition
    of the serious-sentimental-fanciful with the burlesque-satiric
    may not please some readers. But the older editions which give
    it seem to me better to represent the ideas of the time than
    the later siftings and reclassifications of the age of prose
    and sense. And this is one reason why I follow the order of
    _1653_ rather than that of _1677_.]

    [Line: 2 'Cud' is spelt in _1647_ here and elsewhere in
    Cleveland 'cood'.]

    [Line: 3 In some copies 'i_mi_tation', of course wrongly.]

    [Line: 4 taste] cast _1653_.]

    [Line: 5 Cleveland gibed at Sternhold and Hopkins in prose
    (_The Character of a London Diurnall_) as well as verse.
    _1647_, _1651_ misprint 'rhythm'.]

    [Line: 11 The text, from _1677_, is a clear improvement at
    first sight on the earlier '_This_ is _a_ feast': though I
    would not be too sure that Cleveland did not write it thus.]

    [Line: 16 _1677_ '_the_ heavenly'.]

    [Line: 17 _1677_ 'he made'.]

    [Line: 18 Meaning, apparently, that, as was the custom, the
    table between these sham feast-days was moved off its trestles
    and cleared away; but the feast was a 'standing' one, kept to
    reappear.]

    [Line: 20 in th'] i' th' _1647_, _1651_.]

    [Line: 26 is] it _1647_, _1651_.]

    [Line: 28 _1677_ 'Whe_re_'.]

    [Line: 29 Stout] What _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 31 _1677_ '_the_ roast'.]

    [Line: 34 carves] One edition, of no value (_1665_),
    '_se_rves'.]

    [Line: 35 soul] fool _1677_.]

    [Line: 38 Lancaster, because of the Lancashire witches. See
    Heywood, _Lancashire Witches_, Act V.]

    [Line: 39 Morglay] The sword of Bevis.]

    [Line: 43 'Tis] It's _1677_.]

    [Line: 44 'him' _1647_: 'them' _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 46 These lines appear with some variants and are not
    clear in any text: 'which he had cluck'd under his wing'
    _1677_, for the earlier 'when he hath clock't under her wing'
    _1647_, _1651_, _1653_. Professor Case suggests 'cloakt' (i.e.
    'hidden') for 'clock't'.]

    [Line: 50 Mr. Berdan says, '_Englishmen supposed_ that the
    Scotch did not eat pork'. But, until quite recently, it was a
    fact; and even now there is much less eaten north than south
    of the Tweed. As for Cleveland's day, James the First's
    aversion to it was well known and had been celebrated by Ben
    Jonson. In _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ 'But not a mouth is muzzled
    by the Jew'.]

    [Line: 51-2 Not in earlier editions. Added in _1677_.]

    [Line: 54 _1677_ 'margin of _his_ dish'.]

    [Line: 55 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, &c. omit 'care' and read
    'tells them'.]

    [Line: 59 _1677_ 'Thou that didst'.]

    [Line: 60 'turned thine' _1677_, _1687_: 'turn'st thy' _1647_,
    _1651_, _1653_, &c. mull] Dialectic for 'cow', especially as a
    call-name. It seems to be connected with the sense of the word
    for 'lips', especially large loose ones.]

    [Line: 61 _1677_

        allay my grief,
        O spare me this, this monumental beef.
    ]

    [Line: 66 'hath' _1677_, _1687_: 'has' _1651_, _1653_ and its
    group.]

    [Line: 73 'may' _1651_, _1653_, &c.: 'we' _1677_.]

    [Lines: 79, 80 Added in _1677_ &c., with very doubtful
    advantage.]




A Young Man to an Old Woman courting him.


  Peace, Beldam Eve, surcease thy suit;
  There 's no temptation in such fruit;
  No rotten medlars, whilst there be
  Whole orchards in virginity.
  Thy stock is too much out of date
  For tender plants t' inoculate.
  A match with thee thy bridegroom fears
  Would be thought interest in his years,
  Which, when compared to thine, become
  Odd money to thy grandam sum.                                      10
  Can wedlock know so great a curse
  As putting husbands out to nurse?
  How Pond and Rivers would mistake
  And cry new almanacs for our sake.
  Time sure hath wheeled about his year,
  December meeting Janiveer.
  The Egyptian serpent figures Time,
  And stripped, returns unto his prime.
  If my affection thou wouldst win,
  First cast thy hieroglyphic skin.                                  20
  My modern lips know not, alack!
  The old religion of thy smack.
  I count that primitive embrace
  As out of fashion as thy face.
  And yet, so long 'tis since thy fall,
  Thy fornication 's classical.
  Our sports will differ; thou mayst play
  Lero, and I Alphonso way.
  I'm no translator, have no vein
  To turn a woman young again,                                       30
  Unless you'll grant the tailor's due,
  To see the fore-bodies be new.
  I love to wear clothes that are flush,
  Not prefacing old rags with plush,
  Like aldermen, or under-shrieves
  With canvass backs and velvet sleeves:
  And just such discord there would be
  Betwixt thy skeleton and me.
    Go study salve and treacle, ply
  Your tenant's leg or his sore eye.                                 40
  Thus matrons purchase credit, thank
  Six pennyworth of mountebank;
  Or chew thy cud on some delight
  That thou didst taste in 'eighty-eight;
  Or be but bed-rid once, and then
  Thou'lt dream thy youthful sins again.
  But if thou needs wilt be my spouse,
  First hearken and attend my vows.
  _When Aetna's fires shall undergo_
  _The penance of the Alps in snow;_                                 50
  _When Sol at one blast of his horn_
  _Posts from the Crab to Capricorn;_
  _When th' heavens shuffle all in one_
  _The Torrid with the Frozen Zone;_
  _When all these contradictions meet_,
  _Then, Sibyl, thou and I will greet._
  For all these similes do hold
  In my young heat and thy dull cold.
  Then, if a fever be so good
  A pimp as to inflame thy blood,                                    60
  Hymen shall twist thee and thy page,
  The distinct tropics of man's age.
    Well, Madam Time, be ever bald.
  I'll not thy periwig be called.
  I'll never be 'stead of a lover,
  An aged chronicle's new cover.




    [_A Young Man, &c._ (_1647_.)]

    [Line: 8 _1677_, &c. have 'incest', which is rather tempting,
    but considering the 'odd money' which follows, not, I think,
    absolutely certain.]

    [Line: 13 Edward Pond died in 1629; but the almanac, published
    by him first in 1601, lasted till 1709. Rivers was probably
    Peregrine Rivers, 'Student in Mathematics', writer of one of
    the numerous almanacs of the period. There are in the Bodleian
    copies of his almanacs for 1629, 1630, 1638, all printed at
    Cambridge. (Information supplied to me from Oxford.)]

    [Line: 15 Some copies 'this'.]

    [Line: 22 Rather a good line.]

    [Line: 27 _1651_, _1653_, &c. 'mayst': _1647_, _1677_, &c.
    'must'.]

    [Line: 35 _1647_ 'Monster Shrieves', _1653_
    'Monster-Sheriffs', which can hardly be right.]

    [Line: 44 'eighty-eight] The Armada year, often taken as a
    standard of remoteness not too remote. This, which is the
    later reading, of 1677 _sqq._, seems better than '_Thou takest
    in thy_ Eighty Eight' (_1647_, _1651_, _1653_, &c.).]

    [Lines: 49-62 The italics of _1653_, though discarded in
    _1677_, seem worth keeping, because of the solemn call of
    attention to the particulars of the 'Vow'; they extend in the
    _1653_ text to l. 60. But _1647_ and _1651_, prefix inverted
    commas to ll. 49-56, which seems a more effective ending to
    the 'Vow'.]

    [Line: 53 Some inferior editions put in 'shall'. _1647_,
    _1651_, _1653_, and _1677_ exclude it.]

    [Line: 61 twist] In the sense of 'twine', 'unite'. 'page' =
    'boy'.]

    [Line: 62 _1647_, _1651_ 'Tropicks': _1653_ 'Tropick'; but
    both Cancer and Capricorn are wanted.]




To Mrs. K. T.

(Who asked him why he was dumb.)


  Stay, should I answer, Lady, then
  In vain would be your question:
  Should I be dumb, why then again
  Your asking me would be in vain.
  Silence nor speech, on neither hand,
  Can satisfy this strange demand.
  Yet, since your will throws me upon
  This wished contradiction,
  I'll tell you how I did become
  So strangely, as you hear me, dumb.                                10
    Ask but the chap-fallen Puritan;
  'Tis zeal that tongue-ties that good man.
  (For heat of conscience all men hold
  Is th' only way to catch their cold.)
  How should Love's zealot then forbear
  To be your silenced minister?
  Nay, your Religion which doth grant
  A worship due to you, my Saint,
  Yet counts it that devotion wrong
  That does it in the Vulgar Tongue.                                 20
  My ruder words would give offence
  To such an hallowed excellence,
  As th' English dialect would vary
  The goodness of an Ave Mary.
    How can I speak that twice am checked
  By this and that religious sect?
  Still dumb, and in your face I spy
  Still cause and still divinity.
  As soon as blest with your salute,
  My manners taught me to be mute.                                   30
  For, lest they cancel all the bliss
  You signed with so divine a kiss,
  The lips you seal must needs consent
  Unto the tongue's imprisonment.
  My tongue in hold, my voice doth rise
  With a strange E-la to my eyes,
  Where it gets bail, and in that sense
  Begins a new-found eloquence.
    Oh listen with attentive sight
  To what my pratling eyes indite!                                   40
  Or, lady, since 'tis in your choice
  To give or to suspend my voice,
  With the same key set ope the door
  Wherewith you locked it fast before.
  Kiss once again, and when you thus
  Have doubly been miraculous,
  My Muse shall write with handmaid's duty
  The Golden Legend of your beauty.

    He whom his dumbness now confines
    But means to speak the rest by signs.                            50

_I. C._




    [_To Mrs. K. T., &c._ (_1647_). To this title _1677_
    and its followers add 'Written _calente calamo_'. The variant
    on _currente_ is of some interest, and the statement may have
    been made to excuse the bad opening rhyme.]

    [Line: 5 neither] either _1677_.]

    [Line: 14 'their cold' _1651_, _1653_: 'that cold' _1647_,
    _1677_.]

    [Line: 16 silenced] As some Puritans were before Cleveland
    wrote, and all, or almost all, Churchmen afterwards.]

    [Line: 31 _1677_ 'Lest I should cancel all the bliss'.]

    [Line: 37 bail] _1653_ &c. '_h_ail', which is doubtless a
    misprint.]

    [Line: 40 'prating' _1677_.]

    [Line: 47 'handmaid' _1677_.]

    [Line: 50 _1677_ '_Intends_ to speak'--an obvious correction
    of the 'red-hot pen'. But whether Cleveland's or his
    vindicators' who shall say?]

    [Line: 51 So _1647_, _1651_, _1653_. The couplet is
    meaningless without them.]




A Fair Nymph scorning a Black Boy courting her.


  _Nymph._ Stand off, and let me take the air;
    Why should the smoke pursue the fair?

  _Boy._ My face is smoke, thence may be guessed
    What flames within have scorched my breast.

  _Nymph._ The flame of love I cannot view
    For the dark lantern of thy hue.

  _Boy._ And yet this lantern keeps Love's taper
    Surer than yours, that's of white paper.
    Whatever midnight hath been here,
    The moonshine of your light can clear.                           10

  _Nymph._ My moon of an eclipse is 'fraid,
    If thou shouldst interpose thy shade.

  _Boy._ Yet one thing, Sweetheart, I will ask;
    Take me for a new-fashioned mask.

  _Nymph._ Yes, but my bargain shall be this,
    I'll throw my mask off when I kiss.

  _Boy._ Our curled embraces shall delight
    To checker limbs with black and white.

  _Nymph._ Thy ink, my paper, make me guess
    Our nuptial bed will prove a press,                              20
    And in our sports, if any came,
    They'll read a wanton epigram.

  _Boy._ Why should my black thy love impair?
    Let the dark shop commend the ware;
    Or, if thy love from black forbears,
    I'll strive to wash it off with tears.

  _Nymph._ Spare fruitless tears, since thou must needs
    Still wear about thee mourning weeds.
    Tears can no more affection win
    Than wash thy Ethiopian skin.                                    30




    [_A Fair Nymph, &c._ (_1647_.)]

    [Line: 2 An odd fancy included by Browne among the _Vulgar
    Errors_.]

    [Line: 5 'Thy flaming love' _1677_ &c.]

    [Line: 10 'face will clear' _1677_ &c.]

    [Line: 14 _1677_ 'Take me for a new-fashioned mask': _1647_,
    _1651_ 'Buy me for a new false mask', varied in _1653_ 'Buy
    for me'--apparently a misprint, as the boy does not seem to
    wish to disguise himself.]

    [Line: 15 Yes] Done _1677_.]

    [Line: 20 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, 'make a press', ill repeated
    from above.]

    [Line: 24 'the ware' _1677_: _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, not so
    well, '_thy_ ware'.]

    [Line: 28 _1677_ changed 'thee' to 'thy'.]

    [Line: 30 Some inferior copies '_the_ Ethiopian'.]




A Dialogue between two Zealots upon the &c. in the Oath.


  Sir Roger, from a zealous piece of frieze
  Raised to a vicar of the children's threes;
  Whose yearly audit may by strict account
  To twenty nobles and his vails amount;
  Fed on the common of the female charity
  Until the Scots can bring about their parity;
  So shotten that his soul, like to himself,
  Walks but in cuerpo; this same clergy-elf,
  Encountering with a brother of the cloth,
  Fell presently to cudgels with the Oath.                           10
  The quarrel was a strange misshapen monster,
  &c., (God bless us) which they conster
  The brand upon the buttock of the Beast,
  The Dragon's tail tied on a knot, a nest
  Of young Apocryphas, the fashion
  Of a new mental Reservation.
    While Roger thus divides the text, the other
  Winks and expounds, saying, 'My pious brother,
  Hearken with reverence, for the point is nice.
  I never read on 't, but I fasted twice,                            20
  And so by revelation know it better
  Than all the learn'd idolaters o'th' letter.'
  With that he swelled, and fell upon the theme
  Like great Goliah with his weaver's beam.
  'I say to thee, &c., thou li'st!
  Thou art the curléd lock of Antichrist;
  Rubbish of Babel; for who will not say
  Tongues were confounded in &c.?
  Who swears &c., swears more oaths at once
  Than Cerberus out of his triple sconce.                            30
  Who views it well, with the same eye beholds
  The old half Serpent in his numerous folds.
  Accurst &c. thou, for now I scent
  What lately the prodigious oysters meant!
  Oh Booker! Booker! How camest thou to lack
  This sign in thy prophetic almanac?
  It 's the dark vault wherein th' infernal plot
  Of powder 'gainst the State was first begot.
  Peruse the Oath and you shall soon descry it
  By all the Father Garnets that stand by it;                        40
  'Gainst whom the Church, (whereof I am a member,)
  Shall keep another Fifth Day of November.
  Yet here's not all; I cannot half untruss
  &c.--it's so abhominous!
  The Trojan nag was not so fully lined;
  Unrip &c., and you shall find
  Og the great commissary, and (which is worse)
  The apparitor upon his skew-bald horse.
  Then finally, my babe of grace, forbear,
  &c. will be too far to swear,                                      50
  For 'tis (to speak in a familiar style)
  A Yorkshire wee bit longer than a mile.'
    Here Roger was inspired, and by God's diggers
  He'll swear in words at large but not in figures.
  Now by this drink, which he takes off, as loath
  To leave &c. in his liquid oath.
  His brother pledged him, and that bloody wine
  He swears shall seal the Synod's Catiline.
  So they drunk on, not offering to part
  'Till they had quite sworn out th' eleventh quart,                 60
  While all that saw and heard them jointly pray
  They and their tribe were all &c.




    [_A Dialogue, &c._ (_1647_.) This occurs also in the
    _Rump_ (1662, reprinted London, N. D.). A MS. copy is found in
    Rawlinson MS. Poet. 26 of the Bodleian, at fol. 94, with the
    title '_A Dialogue between 2. Zelots concerning &c. in the
    new Oath_.' 'The Oath' is the famous one formulated in 1640
    by Convocation. Fuller, who was proctor for the diocese of
    Bristol (and who would have been fined heavily for his part,
    'moderate' as he was, if the Puritan Ultras of the Commons
    could have had their way), has left much about it. This
    oath, to be taken by all the clergy, imported approval of
    the doctrine, discipline, and government of the Church, and
    disclaimed, twice over, 'Popish' doctrine and the usurpations
    of the see of Rome. Unluckily the government of the Church was
    defined as 'by archbishops, bishops, deans, and archdeacons,
    _&c._', which last was, in the absence of any other handle,
    seized by the Puritan party as possibly implying all sorts of
    horrors. Cleveland banters them well enough, but hardly with
    the force and directness which he was to show later. The
    Royalists were then under the fatal error of underrating the
    strength of their opponents, and the gullibility of the people
    of England.]

    [Line: 2 'vicar', _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, _MS._: 'vicarage'
    _1677_. 'children' _1651_, _1653_: I have been waiting a
    long time to know what 'children's threes' means. It occurs
    elsewhere, but to my thinking as an obvious reminiscence of
    Cleveland.]

    [Line: 7 shotten] 'like a herring that has spawned', 'thin'.]

    [Line: 8 in cuerpo] 'in body-clothes', 'cloakless'. _1647_,
    _1651_, _1653_ 'Querpo': _MS._ 'Quirpo', with 'cuerpo' written
    above it.]

    [Line: 12 _1677_ extends '&c.' to 'et caetera'. This is a
    mistake, as the actual ampersand occurred in the oath and
    gave some slight assistance to the cavillers. Cleveland's
    expressions--'tail tied on a knot' (l. 14), 'curled lock' (l.
    26), 'numerous folds' (l. 32)--lose their point without the
    ampersand. _1677_ also has '_may_ conster', which though
    possible enough, seems to me neither necessary nor even much
    of an improvement.]

    [Line: 17 _1677_, less euphoniously, 'Whil_st_'.]

    [Line: 22 A reading of the _Rump_ version, 'Than all the
    Idolaters of the letter', though almost certainly a mere
    mistaken correction, has some interest.]

    [Line: 23 fell] sett _MS._]

    [Line: 24 Goliah] This form occurs in all the texts.]

    [Line: 25 In this and other lines that follow much of the
    quaintness is lost by 'extending' the '&c.' of the older
    editions.]

    [Line: 28 were] are _1677_, _MS._]

    [Line: 32 All editions, I think, before _1677_ (which
    substitutes 'false') have 'half'. 'False' is very feeble;
    'half' refers picturesquely to the delineation of the Serpent
    tempting Eve with a human head, being coiled below like the
    curves of the _&c._ 'False' _MS._]

    [Line: 33 _1677_, _MS._ 'Accurst Et Caetera! now, now I
    scent'.]

    [Line: 34 I do not know whether these very Livyish oysters
    have been traced. _1677_ and _MS._ omit 'lately' and read
    'prodigious bloody oysters'.]

    [Line: 35 John Booker (1603-1677), Manchester man,
    haberdasher, writing-master, and astrologer, gained a great
    deal of credit by interpreting an eclipse after the usual
    fashion as portending disaster to kings and princes, the great
    Gustavus Adolphus and the unfortunate Frederick, 'Winter'-King
    of Bohemia, being complaisant enough to die in accordance.]

    [Line: 36 This sign] _1677_, _MS._ 'This _fiend_'--more
    energetically.]

    [Line: 37 ''Tis the dark vault where the' _MS._]

    [Line: 40 The sting of 'the _Father Garnets_ that _stand by_
    it' lies in the words immediately preceding the obnoxious
    '&c.'--'archbishops, bishops, &c.'--whom the Puritan divine
    stigmatizes as Jesuits and traitors to Church and State. As
    has been stated, the oath distinctly, in set terms and twice
    over, abjured Rome and all things Roman; but the Puritans
    of those days, like their descendants, paid no attention to
    trifles of this kind. For 'stand' _MS._ reads 'stood'.]

    [Line: 43 Yet] Nay _MS._]

    [Line: 44 _1647_, _1651_ 'abominous'; _1653_ 'abhominous'.
    The 'h' must be kept in 'ab_h_ominous', though not unusual
    for 'ab_om_-', because it helps to explain, and perhaps to
    justify, _1677_ and _MS._ in reading 'ab_d_ominous'. This,
    though something suggestive of a famous Oxford story, derives
    some colour from 'untruss' and may be right, especially as I
    do not know another example of 'abominous' for 'abominable'.]

    [Line: 47 Og] _v. sup._, p. 31. _MS._ has marginal note
    'Roan'.]

    [Line: 48 'Skew-bald' is not = 'piebald', though most horses
    commonly called piebald are skewbalds. 'Pie[magpie]bald' is
    _black_ and white; skewbald _brown_ (or some other colour not
    black) and white. The Church-courts were much more unpopular,
    in these as in mediaeval times, than the Church, and High
    Commissioners and commissaries and apparitors were alleged to
    lurk under the guileful and dreadful '&c.']

    [Line: 49 'babes' _1677_.]

    [Line: 52 Blount's _Glossographia_ (1656), a useful book,
    shows the ignorance of Northern English then prevailing by
    supposing 'we_a_-bit' (the form found in Cleveland originally)
    to be '_way_-bit'. It is, of course, 'little bit', the Scotch
    'mile and a bittock'.]

    [Line: 53 Here] Then _1647_, _1651_, _1653_. God's diggers] =
    nails or fingers. Commoner in the corruption 'Ods niggers'.]

    [Line: 54 'in words at large' _1647_ ('at length', one issue
    of _1647_): 'at words in large' _1651_, _1653_: 'in words at
    length, and not in figures' _MS._]

    [Line: 58 Edd. 'Cat_a_line', as usual, but _1677_ 'Catiline'.
    'He swears he'll be the Synod's' _MS._]

    [Line: 59 'Thus they drink on, not offering to depart' _MS._]

    [Line: 60 _1677_ omits 'quite'--no doubt for the old syllabic
    reason. _MS._ substitutes 'fully'.]

    [Line: 62 Perhaps nowhere is the comic surprise of the symbol
    more wanted than here, and more of a loss when that symbol is
    extended.]




Smectymnuus, or the Club-Divines.


  Smectymnuus! The goblin makes me start!
  I' th' name of Rabbi Abraham, what art?
  Syriac? or Arabic? or Welsh? what skill't?
  Ap all the bricklayers that Babel built,
  Some conjurer translate and let me know it;
  Till then 'tis fit for a West Saxon poet.
  But do the brotherhood then play their prizes
  Like mummers in religion with disguises,
  Out-brave us with a name in rank and file?
  A name, which, if 'twere trained, would spread a mile!             10
  The saints' monopoly, the zealous cluster
  Which like a porcupine presents a muster
  And shoots his quills at bishops and their sees,
  A devout litter of young Maccabees!
  Thus Jack-of-all-trades hath devoutly shown
  The Twelve Apostles on a cherry-stone;
  Thus faction 's _à la mode_ in treason's fashion,
  Now we have heresy by complication.
  Like to Don Quixote's rosary of slaves
  Strung on a chain; a murnival of knaves                            20
  Packed in a trick, like gipsies when they ride,
  Or like colleagues which sit all of a side.
  So the vain satyrists stand all a row
  As hollow teeth upon a lute-string show.
  Th' Italian monster pregnant with his brother,
  Nature's diæresis, half one another,
  He, with his little sides-man Lazarus,
  Must both give way unto Smectymnuus.
  Next Sturbridge Fair is Smec's; for, lo! his side
  Into a five-fold lazar's multiplied.                               30
  Under each arm there 's tucked a double gizzard;
  Five faces lurk under one single vizard.
  The Whore of Babylon left these brats behind,
  Heirs of confusion by gavelkind.
  I think Pythagoras' soul is rambled hither
  With all the change of raiment on together.
  Smec is her general wardrobe; she'll not dare
  To think of him as of a thoroughfare.
  He stops the gossiping dame; alone he is
  The purlieu of a metempsychosis;                                   40
  Like a Scotch mark, where the more modest sense
  Checks the loud phrase, and shrinks to thirteen pence:
  Like to an ignis fatuus whose flame,
  Though sometimes tripartite, joins in the same;
  Like to nine tailors, who, if rightly spelled,
  Into one man are monosyllabled.
  Short-handed zeal in one hath cramped many
  Like to the Decalogue in a single penny.
    See, see how close the curs hunt under sheet
  As if they spent in quire and scanned their feet.                  50
  One cure and five incumbents leap a truss;
  The title sure must be litigious.
  The Sadducees would raise a question
  Who must be Smec at th' Resurrection.
  Who cooped them up together were to blame.
  Had they but wire-drawn and spun out their name,
  'Twould make another Prentices' Petition
  Against the bishops and their superstition.
    Robson and French (that count from five to five,
  As far as nature fingers did contrive--                            60
  She saw they would be 'sessors, that 's the cause
  She cleft their hoof into so many claws)
  May tire their carrot-bunch, yet ne'er agree
  To rate Smectymnuus for poll-money.
    Caligula--whose pride was mankind's bail,
  As who disdained to murder by retail,
  Wishing the world had but one general neck,--
  His glutton blade might have found game in Smec.
  No echo can improve the author more
  Whose lungs pay use on use to half a score.                        70
  No felon is more lettered, though the brand
  Both superscribes his shoulder and his hand.
  Some Welshman was his godfather, for he
  Wears in his name his genealogy.
    The banns are asked, would but the times give way,
  Betwixt Smectymnuus and Et Caetera.
  The guests, invited by a friendly summons,
  Should be the Convocation and the Commons.
  The priest to tie the foxes' tails together
  Mosely, or Sancta Clara, choose you whether.                       80
  See what an offspring every one expects,
  What strange pluralities of men and sects!
  One says he'll get a vestry, but another
  Is for a synod; Bet upon the mother.
  Faith, cry St. George! Let them go to 't and stickle
  Whether a conclave or a conventicle.
  Thus might religions caterwaul, and spite
  Which uses to divorce, might once unite.
  But their cross fortunes interdict their trade;
  The groom is rampant but the bride displayed.                      90
    My task is done, all my he goats are milked.
  So many cards i' th' stock, and yet be bilked?
  I could by letters now untwist the rabble,
  Whip Smec from constable to constable;
  But there I leave you to another dressing;
  Only kneel down and take your father's blessing.
    May the Queen Mother justify your fears
    And stretch her patent to your leather ears!




    [_Smectymnuus, &c._ (_1647_.) Whether this lively
    skit on the five 'reverend men whose friend' Milton was (as
    far as he could be proud of being anything but himself) proud
    of being was in Milton's own mind when he wrote his _Apology_
    for the acrostically named treatise, one cannot say. It is
    a lively 'mime' enough, and he seems to throw back that word
    with some special meaning. Cleveland's poem may have appeared
    in the summer of 1641. Naturally, it is in the _Rump_ poems.]

    [Line: 3 All editions 'skilt'. It apparently must be as in
    text: 'skill't' for 'skill'st' = 'dost thou [or 'does it']
    signify?']

    [Line: 4 _1677_, &c. 'Ape', but 'Ap' in the Welsh sense (Welsh
    having just been mentioned) does well enough. It would go, not
    too roughly for Cleveland's syntax, with 'conjurer'. Let some
    wizard, descended from all these, _and therefore knowing all
    tongues_, translate.]

    [Line: 6 This is rather interesting. Does it refer to Wessex
    or Devonshire dialect of the day, or to old West Saxon? Junius
    did not edit Cædmon till fourteen years later, but there was
    study of Anglo-Saxon from Parker's time at Cambridge.]

    [Line: 7 the brotherhood] 'Brother' and 'sister' being
    constant sneers at the Puritan.

    play their prizes] = 'fight'.]

    [Line: 10 Perhaps another sneer at the 'train-bands' of the
    City.]

    [Line: 15 'distinctly' _1677_.]

    [Line: 16 '_in_ a' _1677_.]

    [Line: 18 I suppose _à la mode_, which is in _1677_, is right;
    but the '_all_-a-mode' of _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ is tempting.]

    [Line: 20 'murnival' or 'mournival'. Four aces, kings, &c.,
    especially at gleek.]

    [Line: 22 _1677_, &c. 'Or like _the College_'.]

    [Line: 24 'h_a_llow' _1653_.]

    [Line: 25 I knew not this monster, and suspected that he would
    not be a delicate monster to know. But Mr. Thorn-Drury has
    found him in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, 1777, p. 482. Lazarus
    Collondo, a Genoese, had a small brother growing out of his
    side, with one leg, two arms, &c., &c.]

    [Line: 29 'Smec' will now be an even greater attraction at the
    Sturbridge fair at Cambridge. All fairs rejoiced in monsters.]

    [Line: 36 '_The_ change', as in _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ and its
    group, including the _Rump_ version, is not so good as 'her',
    which _1677_ reads.]

    [Line: 38 i.e. 'to go on to any _other_ body'.]

    [Line: 40 'Purlieu' seems to be used in the sense of
    'precinct' or 'province'.]

    [Lines: 41-2 These lines are in all the seventeenth-century
    editions I have seen, but not in Mr. Berdan's. The Scots pound
    was of course only twenty English pence, and so the mark (two
    thirds) 'shrank' accordingly.]

    [Line: 49 _1647_, _1651_, _1677_ insert 'a' before 'sheet'.
    The metaphor is probably as old as hunting. 'Spend', as
    Professor Case reminds me, has had already in _The Miser_, l.
    67, the sense of 'give tongue'. 'Scanned their feet' for 'kept
    pace' is good enough; but why the five should leap a truss,
    and why this should be litigious, I again frankly confess
    myself to have been ignorant. Mr. Simpson, however, quotes R.
    Fletcher in _Ex Otio Negotium_, 1656, p. 202, 'The model of
    the new Religion':

        How many Queere-religions? clear your throat,
        May a man have a penyworth? four a groat?
        Or do the _Iuncto_ leap at truss a fayle?
        Three tenents clap while five hang on the tayle?

    Cleveland seems to have tried in this piece to equal the
    mystery of the title of 'Smec' by his own matter, and to have
    succeeded very fairly.]

    [Line: 54 _1677_, &c. '_shall_ be'. 'at th'' _1647_, _1677_:
    'at the' _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 55 cooped] cooked _1647_, _1651_.]

    [Line: 56 _1677_, &c. '_the_ name'.]

    [Line: 57 An absurd, but doubtless in the circumstances
    dangerous, document of the kind was actually disseminated, in
    which the prentices bold engaged 'to defend his Sacred Majesty
    against Popish innovations such as archbishops and bishops
    appear to be'.]

    [Line: 63 carrot-bunch] Cant for 'fingers'.]

    [Line: 70 'pay' _1653_, _1677_: 'pays' _1647_, _1651_. _1677_
    '_and_ use'.]

    [Line: 75 'Banns' _1677_: 'Banes' in earlier texts. _1653_
    'time'.]

    [Line: 78 The Convocation which had been guilty of '&c.', and
    the Commons who mostly sympathized with 'Smec'.]

    [Line: 79 foxes' tails] As at Samson's marriage (Judges xv.
    4-7.)]

    [Line: 80 Mosel[e]y, Milton's printer; and Sancta Clara, the
    Jesuit?]

    [Line: 82 _1677_ 'plurality'.]

    [Line: 83 'Vestry, but' _1677_: 'Vestery' _1647_, _1651_,
    _1653_.]

    [Line: 84 _1677_ 'Bets'.]

    [Line: 90 The heraldic terms are pretty plain, but _1677_
    reads 'is spade' i.e. 'spayed', as in _The Hecatomb to his
    Mistress_, l. 2.]

    [Line: 94 Rhyme here really badly managed.]

    [Line: 95 _1677_ 'another's'.]

    [Line: 97 The fear and dislike of Henrietta Maria (whom Mr.
    Berdan supposes to be meant) among the disaffected is only too
    certain: and the fate of Prynne's ears for his scandal of her
    is notorious. But why _at this time_ she should be called a
    Queen Mother (it was her proper title afterwards, and she was
    one of the very few to whom it was actually given), and what
    the last line means, I know not. Nor does Professor Firth,
    unless Marie de Médicis (who _was_ Queen Mother in France
    and had visited England) had, as he suggests, a share in some
    leather patent, and is meant here. Smec's ears are 'vellum' in
    _Rupertismus_, 169 (_v. inf._, p. 67).]




The Mixed Assembly.


  Flea-Bitten synod, an assembly brewed
  Of clerks and elders _ana_, like the rude
  Chaos of Presbyt'ry, where laymen guide
  With the tame woolpack clergy by their side.
  Who asked the banns 'twixt these discoloured mates?
  A strange grotesco this; the Church and states,
  Most divine tick-tack, in a piebald crew,
  To serve as table-men of divers hue!
  She, that conceived an Ethiopian heir
  By picture, when the parents both were fair,                       10
  At sight of you had born a dappled son,
  You checkering her imagination.
  Had Jacob's flock but seen you sit, the dams
  Had brought forth speckled and ring-streakéd lambs.
  Like an impropriator's motley kind
  Whose scarlet coat is with a cassock lined;
  Like the lay-thief in a canonic weed,
  Sure of his clergy ere he did the deed;
  Like Royston crows, who are (as I may say)
  Friars of both the Orders, Black and Gray;                         20
  So mixed they are, one knows not whether 's thicker,
  A layer of burgess, or a layer of vicar.
    Have they usurped what Royal Judah had,
  And now must Levi too part stakes with Gad?
  The sceptre and the crosier are the crutches,
  Which, if not trusted in their pious clutches,
  Will fail the cripple State. And were 't not pity
  But both should serve the yardwand of the City?
  That Isaac might stroke his beard and sit
  Judge of [Greek: eis Haidou] and _elegerit_?                       30
  Oh that they were in chalk and charcoal drawn!
  The miscellany-satyr and the faun
  And all th' adulteries of twisted nature
  But faintly represent this riddling feature;
  Whose members being not tallies, they'll not own
  Their fellows at the Resurrection.
  Strange scarlet doctors these! They'll pass in story
  For sinners half refined in Purgatory,
  Or parboiled lobsters, where there jointly rules
  The fading sables and the coming gules.                            40
  The flea that Falstaff damned thus lewdly shows
  Tormented in the flames of Bardolph's nose.
  Like him that wore the dialogue of cloaks
  This shoulder John-a-Stiles, that John-a-Nokes;
  Like Jews and Christians in a ship together
  With an old neck-verse to distinguish either;
  Like their intended discipline to boot,
  Or whatsoe'er hath neither head nor foot;
  Such may their stript-stuff-hangings seem to be,
  Sacrilege matched with codpiece simony.                            50
  Be sick and dream a little, you may then
  Fancy these linsey-woolsey vestry-men.
    Forbear, good Pembroke, be not over-daring.
  Such company may chance to spoil thy swearing,
  And thy drum-major oaths, of bulk unruly,
  May dwindle to a feeble 'By my truly'!
  He that the noble Percy's blood inherits,
  Will he strike up a Hotspur of the spirits?
  He'll fright the Obadiahs out of tune
  With his uncircumciséd Algernoon;                                  60
  A name so stubborn, 'tis not to be scanned
  By him in Gath with the six-fingered hand.
    See, they obey the magic of my words!
  Presto! they're gone, and now the House of Lords
  Looks like the withered face of an old hag,
  But with three teeth like to a triple gag.
    A jig! a jig! and in this antic dance
  Fielding and Doxie Marshall first advance.
  Twisse blows the Scotch-pipes, and the loving brace
  Puts on the traces and treads cinque-a-pace.                       70
  Then Saye and Sele must his old hamstrings supple,
  And he and rumpled Palmer make a couple.
  Palmer 's a fruitful girl if he'll unfold her;
  The midwife may find work about her shoulder.
  Kimbolton, that rebellious Boanerges,
  Must be content to saddle Dr. Burges.
  If Burges get a clap, 'tis ne'er the worse,
  But the fifth time of his compurgators.
  Noll Bowles is coy; good sadness, cannot dance
  But in obedience to the ordinance.                                 80
  Here Wharton wheels about till mumping Lidy,
  Like the full moon, hath made his lordship giddy.
  Pym and the members must their giblets levy
  T' encounter Madam Smec, that single bevy.
  If they two truck together, 'twill not be
  A child-birth, but a gaol-delivery.
  Thus every Ghibelline hath got his Guelph
  But Selden,--he 's a galliard by himself;
  And well may be; there 's more divines in him
  Than in all this, their Jewish Sanhedrim:                          90
  Whose canons in the forge shall then bear date
  When mules their cousin-germans generate.
  Thus Moses' law is violated now;
  The ox and ass go yoked in the same plough.
  Resign thy coach-box, Twisse; Brooke's preacher he
  Would sort the beasts with more conformity.
    Water and earth make but one globe; a Roundhead
    Is clergy-lay, party-per-pale compounded.




    [_The Mixed Assembly_ (_1647_.) This was the famous
    'Westminster' Assembly which met in July, 1643--a hodge-podge
    of half a score peers, a score of commoners, and about four
    times as many divines as laymen. Tanner MS. 465, of
    the Bodleian, has a poor copy of this poem; but some
    transpositions and omissions suggest that it preserves an
    earlier draft. Lines 63-6 follow 52; 71-8, 81-2, are omitted.]

    [Line: 1 Flea-bitten] As of a horse--the laymen appearing like
    specks on the body of clergy.]

    [Line: 2 _ana_] Usually interpreted in the apothecary's sense,
    'in equal quantities', written so in prescriptions and said to
    be from the Greek--[Greek: ana] being thus used.]

    [Lines: 6, 7 'Church and State's, Most divine' _MS._]

    [Line: 19 In a fable a Royston crow (the town being on the way
    to Cambridge had probably a bad reputation for fleecing the
    guileless undergraduate) advised an innocent of his kind to
    drop a shellfish from a height on rocks where the Royston bird
    was waiting and secured the meat.]

    [Line: 28 _1677_ changes 'But' to 'That'.]

    [Line: 29 _1677_ inserts '_go_' before 'stroke'. But Cleveland
    probably scanned 'I-sa-ac'. The reference is to Isaac
    Pennington: cf. _The Rebel Scot_, l. 79.]

    [Line: 30 The phrase is of course Homeric (_sc._ [Greek:
    domous]) and with its companion combines the idea of an
    ecclesiastical condemnation ('delivering over to Satan') and a
    civil execution, a writ of _elegit_.]

    [Line: 32 faun] All old editions, I think, and Mr. Berdan,
    'fa_w_n'. But the _animal_ (always now indicated by that
    spelling) is not of a 'twisted nature', the half-god is.]

    [Line: 40 One of those that taught Dryden something.]

    [Line: 41 Cleveland, like most Royalists and their master,
    was evidently sound on Shakespeare. A copy of _1677_ in
    my possession has a manuscript list of references on the
    fly-leaf.]

    [Line: 46 'neck-verse'] = for benefit of clergy.]

    [Line: 49 'Stript', _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, is evidently
    'striped', and is printed 'strip'd' in _1677_.]

    [Line: 53 Philip Herbert, fourth Earl of Pembroke, though a
    patron of literature and the arts, was a man of bad character
    and a virulent Roundhead.]

    [Line: 55 'thy' _1677_: 'these' _1647_, _1651_, _1653_.

    of bulk unruly] if Vulcan rule you _MS._]

    [Line: 59 _1647_, _1651_ 'Obadiahs': _1653_ and its group
    'Obadiah': _1677_ 'Obadiah's'.]

    [Line: 60 Algernon Percy, tenth Earl of Northumberland--who
    repented too late of his rebellion and tried to prevent the
    consequences--seems to have joined the Roundheads out of pique
    (his pride was notorious) at neglect of his suggestions and
    interference with his powers as Lord High Admiral. By putting
    the fleet into the hands of the Parliament he did the
    King perhaps more hurt than any other single person at the
    beginning of the war. 'Algernoon' _1647_, _1651_: later texts
    spoil the point of the next line by using the conventional
    form.]

    [Line: 68 Fielding] Basil, the degenerate son of the first
    Earl of Denbigh. He actually served in the Parliamentary Army,
    but like Northumberland, who did not go that length, repented
    too late.

    Doxie Marshall] The Stephen Marshall of _Smectymnuus_ and the
    'Geneva Bull' of _The Rebel Scot_, l. 21; exactly why
    'Doxie' I do not know. Possibly 'prostitute' from his eager
    Presbyterianism. It is odd that Anne and Rebecca Marshall, two
    famous actresses of the Restoration to whom the term might be
    applied with some direct justification, used to be counted his
    daughters, though this is now denied.]

    [Line: 69 Twisse] William (1578-1646), the Prolocutor of the
    Assembly.]

    [Line: 71 Saye and Sele] William Fiennes, first Viscount
    (1582-1662). Of very bad reputation as a slippery customer.]

    [Line: 72 rumpled] Mr. Berdan 'rumbled', on what authority
    and with what meaning I do not know. 'Rumpled', which is in
    _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, and _1677_, no doubt refers to
    the untidy bands, &c. of a slovenly priest. Herbert Palmer
    (1604-1647) was a man of good family but a bitter Puritan.
    He was first Fellow and then President of Queens' College,
    Cambridge, where Cleveland doubtless knew him. The odd
    description reads like that of a sort of deformed dwarf.]

    [Line: 75 Kimbolton] Edward, Lord (1602-1671), just about to
    become the well-known Earl of Manchester of the Rebellion.
    Like Northumberland and Denbigh, he repented, but only
    after he had been not too politely shelved for Fairfax and
    Cromwell.]

    [Line: 76 Cleveland would have been delighted had he known the
    fate of Cornelius Burges (1589?-1665), of whom he evidently
    had a pretty bad idea. Burges, a Wadham and Lincoln man, was
    one of the leaders of the Puritans among the London clergy,
    and a great favourite with the House of Commons in the Long
    Parliament. He wanted to suppress cathedrals; and, being a
    practical man and preacher at Wells during the Commonwealth,
    did his best by buying the deanery and part of the estates.
    Wherefore he was promptly and properly ruined by the
    Restoration, and died in well-deserved poverty. He was
    vice-president of the Westminster Assembly.]

    [Line: 79 Oliver Bowles, a Puritan divine. _1653_ omits the
    comma after 'sadness' found in _1651_,--a neat punctuation,
    meaning 'in good sadness, he cannot dance'. Phrases like 'in
    good truth', 'in good sadnesse' were the utmost licence of
    speech which the Puritans permitted themselves.]

    [Line: 81 Philip, fourth Lord Wharton (1613-1696) took the
    anti-Royalist side very early, but cut a very poor figure at
    Edgehill and abandoned active service. He did not figure
    under the Commonwealth, but was a zealous Whig after the
    Restoration, and a prominent Williamite in the last years of
    his long life. Who 'Lidy' (_1653_) or 'Lidie' (_1677_)
    was seems unknown. Professor Firth suggests a misprint for
    'Sidie,' i.e. Sidrach Simpson (1600?-1655), a busy London
    Puritan and member of the Assembly. Another ingenious
    suggestion made to me is that 'mumping Lid[d]y' may be one
    of the queer dance-names of the period, or actually a woman,
    Wharton being no enemy to the sex. But I do not know that
    there was such a dance, and as all the other pairs are males,
    being members of the Assembly, it would be odd if there were
    an exception here. For 'Here' _1647_, _1651_ read 'Her'.]

    [Line: 88 The exceptional position of Selden is well hit
    off here. His character and his earning were just able to
    neutralize, though not to overcome, the curse of Laodicea.]

    [Line: 95 'Brooke' is Robert Brooke, second Lord Brooke,
    cousin and successor of Fulke Greville--the 'fanatic Brooke'
    who had his 'guerdon meet' by being shot in his attack on
    Lichfield Cathedral. _Mercurius Anti-Britannicus_, 1645, p.
    23, has:

        Like my Lord Brooke's _Coachman_
        Preaching out of a tub.

    (I owe this citation to Mr. Simpson.)]




The King's Disguise.


  And why a tenant to this vile disguise
  Which who but sees, blasphemes thee with his eyes?
  My twins of light within their penthouse shrink,
  And hold it their allegiance now to wink.
  O, for a state-distinction to arraign
  Charles of high treason 'gainst my Sovereign!
  What an usurper to his prince is wont,
  Cloister and shave him, he himself hath don' 't.
  His muffled feature speaks him a recluse--
  His ruins prove him a religious house!                             10
  The sun hath mewed his beams from off his lamp
  And majesty defaced the royal stamp.
  Is 't not enough thy dignity 's in thrall,
  But thou'lt transmute it in thy shape and all,
  As if thy blacks were of too faint a dye
  Without the tincture of tautology?
  Flay an Egyptian for his cassock skin,
  Spun of his country's darkness, line 't within
  With Presbyterian budge, that drowsy trance,
  The Synod's sable, foggy Ignorance;                                20
  Nor bodily nor ghostly negro could
  Roughcast thy figure in a sadder mould.
  This privy-chamber of thy shape would be
  But the close mourner of thy Royalty.
  Then, break the circle of thy tailor's spell,
  A pearl within a rugged oyster's shell.
  Heaven, which the minster of thy person owns,
  Will fine thee for dilapidations.
  Like to a martyred abbey's coarser doom,
  Devoutly altered to a pigeon-room;                                 30
  Or like a college by the changeling rabble,
  Manchester's elves, transformed into a stable;
  Or if there be a profanation higher;
  Such is the sacrilege of thine attire,
  By which thou'rt half deposed.--Thou look'st like one
  Whose looks are under sequestration;
  Whose renegado form at the first glance
  Shows like the Self-denying Ordinance;
  Angel of light, and darkness too, (I doubt)
  Inspired within and yet possessed without;                         40
  Majestic twilight in the state of grace,
  Yet with an excommunicated face.
  Charles and his mask are of a different mint;
  A psalm of mercy in a miscreant print.
  The sun wears midnight, day is beetle-browed,
  And lightning is in kelder of a cloud.
  O the accursed stenography of fate!
  The princely eagle shrunk into a bat!
  What charm, what magic vapour can it be
  That checks his rays to this apostasy?                             50
  It is no subtile film of tiffany air,
  No cobweb vizard such as ladies wear,
  When they are veiled on purpose to be seen,
  Doubling their lustre by their vanquished screen.
  No, the false scabbard of a prince is tough
  And three-piled darkness, like the smoky slough
  Of an imprisoned flame; 'tis Faux in grain;
  Dark lantern to our bright meridian.
  Hell belched the damp; the Warwick Castle vote
  Rang Britain's curfew, so our light went out.                      60
  [A black offender, should he wear his sin
  For penance, could not have a darker skin.]
  His visage is not legible; the letters
  Like a lord's name writ in fantastic fetters;
  Clothes where a Switzer might be buried quick;
  Sure they would fit the body politic;
  False beard enough to fit a stage's plot
  (For that 's the ambush of their wit, God wot),
  Nay, all his properties so strange appear,
  Y' are not i' th' presence though the King be there.               70
  A libel is his dress, a garb uncouth,
  Such as the _Hue and Cry_ once purged at mouth.
    Scribbling assassinate! Thy lines attest
  An earmark due, Cub of the Blatant Beast;
  Whose breath, before 'tis syllabled for worse,
  Is blasphemy unfledged, a callow curse.
  The Laplanders, when they would sell a wind
  Wafting to hell, bag up thy phrase and bind
  It to the bark, which at the voyage end
  Shifts poop and breeds the colic in the Fiend.                     80
  But I'll not dub thee with a glorious scar
  Nor sink thy sculler with a man-of-war.
  The black-mouthed _Si quis_ and this slandering suit
  Both do alike in picture execute.
  But since w' are all called Papists, why not date
  Devotion to the rags thus consecrate?
  As temples use to have their porches wrought
  With sphinxes, creatures of an antic draught,
  And puzzling portraitures to show that there
  Riddles inhabited; the like is here.                               90
    But pardon, Sir, since I presume to be
  Clerk of this closet to your Majesty.
  Methinks in this your dark mysterious dress
  I see the Gospel couched in parables.
  At my next view my purblind fancy ripes
  And shows Religion in its dusky types;
  Such a text royal, so obscure a shade
  Was Solomon in Proverbs all arrayed.
    Come, all the brats of this expounding age
  To whom the spirit is in pupilage,                                100
  You that damn more than ever Samson slew,
  And with his engine, the same jaw-bone too!
  How is 't he 'scapes your inquisition free
  Since bound up in the Bible's livery?
  Hence, Cabinet-intruders! Pick-locks, hence!
  You, that dim jewels with your Bristol sense:
  And characters, like witches, so torment
  Till they confess a guilt though innocent!
  Keys for this coffer you can never get;
  None but St. Peter's opes this cabinet,                           110
  This cabinet, whose aspect would benight
  Critic spectators with redundant light.
  A Prince most seen is least. What Scriptures call
  The Revelation, is most mystical.
    Mount then, thou Shadow Royal, and with haste
  Advance thy morning-star, Charles, overcast.
  May thy strange journey contradictions twist
  And force fair weather from a Scottish mist.
  Heaven's confessors are posed, those star-eyed sages,
  T' interpret an eclipse thus riding stages.                       120
  Thus Israel-like he travels with a cloud,
  Both as a conduct to him and a shroud.
  But oh, he goes to Gibeon and renews
  A league with mouldy bread and clouted shoes!




    [_The Kings Disguise._] That assumed on the fatal
    journey from Oxford to the camp of the Scots. (First printed
    as a quarto pamphlet of four leaves; Thomason bought his copy
    on 21 January, 1647; reprinted in the 1647 _Poems_. Vaughan
    wrote a poem on the same subject about the same time.)]

    [Line: 1 a tenant to] so coffin'd in _1677_.]

    [Line: 2 Which] That _1677_.]

    [Line 4: _1677_ omits 'now', rather to one's surprise, as the
    value 'allegi-ance' is of the first rather than of the second
    half of the century. It is therefore probably right.]

    [Line: 14 transmute] transcribe _1677_. The two
    readings obviously pertain to two different senses of
    'blacks'--'clothes' and 'ink'.]

    [Line: 17 for] from _1647_ (pamphlet).]

    [Line: 18 line 't] lin'de _1647_ (pamphlet).]

    [Line: 19 The _1677_ 'Vindicators' had forgotten 'budge'
    in the sense of 'fur' (perhaps they were too loyal to read
    Milton) and made it 'b_a_dge'.]

    [Line: 20 _1651_, _1653_ 'Synod', with no hyphen but perhaps
    meant for a compound. The genitive is perhaps better. The
    comma at 'sable', which Mr. Berdan omits, is important.]

    [Lines: 21-2 The error of those who say that such a rhyme
    points to the pronunciation of the _l_ in words like 'could'
    is sufficiently shown by the fact that 'coud' is frequent.
    It is, of course, a mere eye-rhyme, like many of Spenser's
    earlier. 'No bodily' _1647_ (pamphlet).]

    [Line: 23 shape] garb _1677_.]

    [Line: 24 of] to _1677_.]

    [Line: 25 'Twill break' _1647_, _1653_. tailor's] jailor's
    _1647_, _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 29 _1653_, but obviously by a mere misprint,
    'co_u_rser'.]

    [Line: 31 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ '_the_ college'. It is said
    that the definite article usually at this time designates 'the
    College _of Physicians_'. But, as Mr. Berdan well observes,
    'the case was unfortunately too common to admit of
    identification'. Cleveland's restless wit was not idle
    in calling 'Manchester's elves'--the Parliamentary
    troops--'changelings'. The soldier ought to be a King's man:
    and indeed pretended to be.]

    [Line: 32 _1647_ (pamphlet) 'reformed'.]

    [Line: 40 This and l. 47 are examples of the Drydenian line
    before Dryden, so frequent in Cleveland.]

    [Line: 46 = 'The unborn child of a cloud'.]

    [Line: 47 Alliteration, and some plausibility of verse,
    seduced _1677_ into 'of State', but I think 'fate' is better.]

    [Line: 50 checks] shrinks _1647_, _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Lines: 55-6 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ read

        _Nor_ the false scabbard of a Princ_e's_ tough
        _Metal_ and three-piled darkness like the slough.

    Some fight might be made for 'Metal', but 'Nor' is
    indefensible. I am half inclined to transfer it above to l. 52
    and take 'No' thence. The text, which is _1677_, is I
    suppose a correction. Both _1647_ texts mark 'slough' with
    an asterisk, and have a marginal note 'A damp in coal-pits
    usual'.]

    [Line: 57 I cannot understand what Mr. Berdan--who prints
    'Fawkes'--means by saying it is not authorized by any edition,
    whereas his own apparatus gives 'Faux' in every one. It is
    a mere question of spelling. 'Three-piled darkness' equally
    surrounds to me his further remark that he 'adopted it as the
    only reading approximating sense; _treason in grain_'. The
    metaphor of the dark lantern cloaked is surely clear enough;
    and this 'in grain' is one of the innumerable passages showing
    the rashness of invariably interpreting 'in grain' as = 'with
    the grain of the cochineal insect'. Beyond all doubt it has
    the simple sense of _penitus_, 'inward'.]

    [Line: 58 bright] high _1647_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 59 the Warwick Castle vote] The Resolution of the
    Commons on May 6, 1646, that the King, after the Scots sold
    him, should be lodged in Warwick Castle.]

    [Lines: 61-2 Not in _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ and its group, but
    added in _1677_.]

    [Line: 63 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ '_Thy_ visage'.]

    [Line: 67 _1677_ has the very considerable and not at once
    acceptable alteration of 'thatch a poet's plot'. But it may
    have been Cleveland.]

    [Line: 72 _1647_, _1651_, again give an asterisked note,
    'Britanicus', showing the definite, not general, reference of
    'Hue and Cry'. It seems that _Mercurius Britannicus_ did issue
    a 'Hue and Cry' after the King, for which the editor, Captain
    Audley, was put in the Gate-house till he apologized.]

    [Line: 75 _1651_ 'wreath', corrupted into 'wrath' in _1653_.]

    [Line: 76 Blount stupidly thought 'callow' to mean 'lewd or
    wicked', as if 'unfledged' did not ratify the usual sense.]

    [Line: 80 breeds] brings _1647_, _1651_.]

    [Line: 83 _Si quis_] The first words of a formal inquiry as
    to disqualifications in a candidate for orders, &c. It would
    apply to the Hue and Cry itself.]

    [Line: 85 It being a favourite Puritan trick to identify
    'Royalist' with 'Papist'. 'Date' apparently in the sense of
    'begin', which it usually has only as neuter.]

    [Line: 89 puzzling] _1677_ and its followers 'purling', with
    no sense.]

    [Line: 95 _1677_ 'The second view' and 'wipes'.]

    [Line: 106 Bristol] as of diamonds.]

    [Line: 109 coffer] cipher _1677_, &c.]

    [Line: 110 opes] ope _1677_.]

    [Line: 116 'Charles' _1677_: _1647_, _1651_, _1653,_ by a
    clear error 'Charles's'.]

    [Line: 120 'T' interpret an' _1647_ (pamphlet): 'To interpret
    an' _1647_ (Poems) _1653_, _1677_. _1651_ omits 'To' and reads
    the 'an' which seems bad in metre and meaning alike.]




The Rebel Scot.


  How, Providence? and yet a Scottish crew?
  Then Madam Nature wears black patches too!
  What? shall our nation be in bondage thus
  Unto a land that truckles under us?
  Ring the bells backward! I am all on fire.
  Not all the buckets in a country quire
  Shall quench my rage. A poet should be feared,
  When angry, like a comet's flaming beard.
  And where 's the stoic can his wrath appease,
  To see his country sick of Pym's disease?                          10
  By Scotch invasion to be made a prey
  To such pigwiggin myrmidons as they?
  But that there 's charm in verse, I would not quote
  The name of Scot without an antidote;
  Unless my head were red, that I might brew
  Invention there that might be poison too.
  Were I a drowsy judge whose dismal note
  Disgorgeth halters as a juggler's throat
  Doth ribbons; could I in Sir Emp'ric's tone
  Speak pills in phrase and quack destruction;                       20
  Or roar like Marshall, that Geneva bull,
  Hell and damnation a pulpit full;
  Yet to express a Scot, to play that prize,
  Not all those mouth-grenadoes can suffice.
  Before a Scot can properly be curst,
  I must like Hocus swallow daggers first.
    Come, keen iambics, with your badger's feet
  And badger-like bite till your teeth do meet.
  Help, ye tart satirists, to imp my rage
  With all the scorpions that should whip this age.                  30
  Scots are like witches; do but whet your pen,
  Scratch till the blood come, they'll not hurt you then.
  Now, as the martyrs were enforced to take
  The shapes of beasts, like hypocrites, at stake,
  I'll bait my Scot so, yet not cheat your eyes;
  A Scot within a beast is no disguise.
    No more let Ireland brag her harmless nation
  Fosters no venom since the Scot's plantation:
  Nor can ours feigned antiquity maintain;
  Since they came in, England hath wolves again.                     40
  The Scot that kept the Tower might have shown,
  Within the grate of his own breast alone,
  The leopard and the panther, and engrossed
  What all those wild collegiates had cost
  The honest high-shoes in their termly fees;
  First to the salvage lawyer, next to these.
  Nature herself doth Scotchmen beasts confess,
  Making their country such a wilderness:
  A land that brings in question and suspense
  God's omnipresence, but that Charles came thence,                  50
  But that Montrose and Crawford's loyal band
  Atoned their sins and christ'ned half the land.
  Nor is it all the nation hath these spots;
  There is a Church as well as Kirk of Scots.
  As in a picture where the squinting paint
  Shows fiend on this side, and on that side saint.
  He, that saw Hell in 's melancholy dream
  And in the twilight of his fancy's theme,
  Scared from his sins, repented in a fright,
  Had he viewed Scotland, had turned proselyte.                      60
  A land where one may pray with cursed intent,
  'Oh may they never suffer banishment!'
  Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom;
  Not forced him wander but confined him home!
  Like Jews they spread and as infection fly,
  As if the Devil had ubiquity.
  Hence 'tis they live at rovers and defy
  This or that place, rags of geography.
  They're citizens o' th' world; they're all in all;
  Scotland's a nation epidemical.                                    70
  And yet they ramble not to learn the mode,
  How to be dressed, or how to lisp abroad;
  To return knowing in the Spanish shrug,
  Or which of the Dutch States a double jug
  Resembles most in belly or in beard,
  (The card by which the mariners are steered).
  No, the Scots-errant fight and fight to eat,
  Their Ostrich stomachs make their swords their meat.
  Nature with Scots as tooth-drawers hath dealt
  Who use to hang their teeth upon their belt.                       80
  Yet wonder not at this their happy choice,
  The serpent 's fatal still to Paradise.
  Sure, England hath the hemorrhoids, and these
  On the north postern of the patient seize
  Like leeches; thus they physically thirst
  After our blood, but in the cure shall burst!
  Let them not think to make us run o' th' score
  To purchase villenage, as once before
  When an act passed to stroke them on the head,
  Call them good subjects, buy them gingerbread.                     90
  Not gold, nor acts of grace, 'tis steel must tame
  The stubborn Scot; a Prince that would reclaim
  Rebels by yielding, doth like him, or worse,
  Who saddled his own back to shame his horse.
    Was it for this you left your leaner soil,
  Thus to lard Israel with Egypt's spoil?
  They are the Gospel's life-guard; but for them,
  The garrison of New Jerusalem,
  What would the brethren do? The Cause! The Cause!
  Sack-possets and the fundamental laws!                            100
  Lord! what a godly thing is want of shirts!
  How a Scotch stomach and no meat converts!
  They wanted food and raiment, so they took
  Religion for their seamstress and their cook.
  Unmask them well; their honours and estate,
  As well as conscience, are sophisticate.
  Shrive but their titles and their money poise,
  A laird and twenty pence pronounced with noise,
  When construed, but for a plain yeoman go,
  And a good sober two-pence; and well so.                          110
  Hence then, you proud impostors; get you gone,
  You Picts in gentry and devotion;
  You scandal to the stock of verse, a race
  Able to bring the gibbet in disgrace.
  Hyperbolus by suffering did traduce
  The ostracism and shamed it out of use.
  The Indian, that Heaven did forswear
  Because he heard some Spaniards were there,
  Had he but known what Scots in Hell had been,
  He would Erasmus-like have hung between.                          120
  My Muse hath done. A voider for the nonce!
  I wrong the Devil should I pick their bones;
  That dish is his; for, when the Scots decease,
  Hell, like their nation, feeds on barnacles.
    A Scot, when from the gallow-tree got loose,
    Drops into Styx and turns a Solan goose.




    [_The Rebel Scot._] This famous piece is said to be
    the only one of Cleveland's poems which is in every edition.
    In _1677_ it is accompanied by a Latin version (of very little
    merit, and probably if not certainly by 'another hand')
    which I do not give. A poor copy is in Tanner MS. 465 of the
    Bodleian, at fol. 92, with the title 'A curse on the Scots'.
    The piece is hot enough, and no wonder; but it would no doubt
    have been hotter if it had been written later, when Cleveland
    was actually gagged by Leven's dismissal of him. It is not
    unnoteworthy that the library of the University of Edinburgh
    contains not a single one of the numerous seventeenth-century
    editions of Cleveland. Years afterwards, when a Douglas had
    chequered the disgrace of 'the Dutch in the Medway' by a
    brave death, Marvell, who probably knew our poet, composed
    for 'Cleveland's Ghost' a half palinode, half continuation,
    entitled 'The _Loyal_ Scot'.]

    [Line: 10 It would seem that Pym had not yet gone to his
    account, as he died on December 6, 1643, after getting
    Parliament to accept the Covenant and the Scots to invade
    England.]

    [Line: 12 The early texts have Drayton's name correctly:
    _1677_ makes it 'Pigwidgin'.]

    [Line: 15 It seems hardly necessary to remind the reader of
    the well-known habit of painting Judas's hair red.]

    [Line: 19 could ... tone] or in the Empiric's misty tone
    _MS._]

    [Line: 21 Stephen Marshall, the 'Smec.' man and a mighty
    cushion-thumper (who denounced the 'Curse of Meroz' on all
    who came not to destroy those in any degree opposed to the
    Parliament), actually preached Pym's funeral sermon.]

    [Line: 22 'Damnati-on'. But _MS._ reads 'a whole pulpit
    full'.]

    [Line: 28 _1653_ has the obvious blunder of 'feet' repeated
    for 'teeth'. The first 'feet' is itself less obvious, but I
    suppose the strong claw and grip of the badger's are meant.
    Some, however, refer it to the supposed lop-sidedness or
    inequality of badgers' feet, answering to the [)]-- of the
    iamb. I never knew but one badger, who lived in St. Clement's,
    Oxford, and belonged (surreptitiously) to Merton College. I
    did not notice his feet.]

    [Line: 32 The more usual reproach was the other way--that 'the
    Scot would not fight _till_ he saw his own blood'.]

    [Line: 38 _1677_, less well, '_that_ Scot'.]

    [Line: 39 'ours ... maintain' _1647_, _1651_, _1653_: 'our ...
    obtain' _1677_.]

    [Line: 41 The Scot] Sir William Balfour, a favoured servant of
    the King, who deserted to the other side.]

    [Line: 44 A difficulty has been made about 'collegiate',
    but there is surely none. The word (or 'colleg_ian_') is old
    slang, and hardly slang for 'jail-bird'. The double use of
    the Tower as a prison and a menagerie should of course be
    remembered.]

    [Line: 45 high-shoes] Country folk in boots.

    termly] = 'when they came up to business'.]

    [Line: 51 Crawford] Ludovic, sixteenth Earl, who fought
    bravely all through the Rebellion, served after the downfall
    in France and Spain, and died, it is not accurately known when
    or where, but about 1652.]

    [Line: 52 A fine line. _1677_ does not improve it by reading
    '_their_ land'.]

    [Lines: 63-4 The central and most often quoted couplet.]

    [Lines: 65-6 follow 70 in the _MS._]

    [Line: 67 at rovers] Common for shooting not at a definite
    mark, but at large.]

    [Line: 70 epidemical] In the proper sense of 'travelling from
    country to country', not doubtless without the transferred one
    of a 'travelling _plague_'.]

    [Line: 74 States] not the Provinces; but the representative
    Hogan Mogans themselves.]

    [Line: 78 'Ostrich' in _1677_: _1647_, _1651,_ and _1653_ the
    older 'estrich'.]

    [Line: 80 hang] string _1677_.]

    [Line: 81 'But why should we be made your frantic choice?'
    _MS._]

    [Line: 82 'England too hath emerods' _MS._]

    [Line: 83 _1651_, _1653_ have a middle form between 'emerod'
    and 'hemorrhoid'--'Hemeroids'. _1647_ 'Hemerods'.]

    [Line: 84 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ and its group, oddly,
    'posture'.]

    [Line: 89 The Parliamentary bribe or Danegelt of 1641.]

    [Line: 95 'left' _1653_, &c., _1677_: 'gave' _1647_, _1651_.
    The _MS._ reads 'But they may justly quit their leaner soil.
    'Tis to lard ...']

    [Line: 101 _1651_, _1653_ 'goodly', but here, I think, the old
    is not the better.]

    [Line: 107 'money' _1647_, _1651_, _1653_: 'moneys' _1677_.]

    [Line: 108 _1647_, _1653_, &c. 'pound', wrongly. Twenty Scots
    pence = not quite two-pence English. Therefore 'well so'.]

    [Line: 118 _1641_, _1651_, and _1653_ 'the Spaniards', but
    'some' (_1677_) is more pointed.]

    [Line: 120 Erasmus] Regarded as neither Papist nor
    Protestant?]

    [Cleveland never wrote anything else of this force
    and fire: and it, or parts of it, were constantly revived when
    the occasion presented itself.]




The Scots' Apostasy.


  Is 't come to this? What? shall the cheeks of Fame,
  Stretched with the breath of learned Loudoun's name,
  Be flagged again? And that great piece of sense,
  As rich in loyalty as eloquence,
  Brought to the test, be found a trick of state?
  Like chemists' tinctures, proved adulterate?
  The Devil sure such language did achieve
  To cheat our unforewarned Grandam Eve,
  As this impostor found out to besot
  Th' experienced English to believe a Scot!                         10
  Who reconciled the Covenant's doubtful sense,
  The Commons' argument, or the City's pence?
  Or did you doubt persistence in one good
  Would spoil the fabric of your brotherhood,
  Projected first in such a forge of sin,
  Was fit for the grand Devil's hammering?
  Or was 't ambition that this damned fact
  Should tell the world you know the sins you act?
  The infamy this super-treason brings
  Blasts more than murders of your sixty kings;                      20
  A crime so black, as being advis'dly done,
  Those hold with this no competition.
  Kings only suffered then; in this doth lie
  Th' assassination of Monarchy.
  Beyond this sin no one step can be trod,
  If not t' attempt deposing of your God.
  Oh, were you so engaged that we might see
  Heaven's angry lightning 'bout your ears to flee
  Till you were shrivelled to dust, and your cold Land
  Parched to a drought beyond the Lybian sand!                       30
  But 'tis reserved! Till Heaven plague you worse,
  Be objects of an epidemic curse.
  First, may your brethren, to whose viler ends
  Your power hath bawded, cease to count you friends,
  And, prompted by the dictate of their reason,
  Reproach the traitors though they hug the treason:
  And may their jealousies increase and breed
  Till they confine your steps beyond the Tweed:
  In foreign nations may your loath'd name be
  A stigmatizing brand of infamy,                                    40
  Till forced by general hate you cease to roam
  The world, and for a plague go live at home;
  Till you resume your poverty and be
  Reduced to beg where none can be so free
  To grant: and may your scabby Land be all
  Translated to a general hospital:
  Let not the sun afford one gentle ray
  To give you comfort of a summer's day;
  But, as a guerdon for your traitorous war,
  Live cherished only by the Northern Star:                          50
  No stranger deign to visit your rude coast,
  And be to all but banished men as lost:
  And such, in heightening of the infliction due,
  Let provoked princes send them all to you:
  Your State a chaos be where not the Law,
  But power, your lives and liberties may awe:
  No subject 'mongst you keep a quiet breast,
  But each man strive through blood to be the best;
  Till, for those miseries on us you've brought,
  By your own sword our just revenge be wrought.                     60
  To sum up all--let your religion be,
  As your allegiance, masked hypocrisy,
  Until, when Charles shall be composed in dust,
  Perfumed with epithets of good and just,
  HE saved, incenséd Heaven may have forgot
  T' afford one act of mercy to a Scot,
    Unless that Scot deny himself and do
    (What's easier far) renounce his Nation too.




    [_The Scots' Apostasy_ was first printed as a
    broadside in _1646_, and assigned at the time to Cleveland by
    Thomas Old. It was included in _1651_, but not admitted by the
    'Vindicators' in _1677_. But it is in all the central group of
    editions except _Cleaveland Revived_, where absence is usually
    a strong proof of genuineness; and it is extremely like him.
    Mr. Berdan has admitted it, and so do I. Professor Case has
    noted a catalogue entry of _The Scot's Constancy, an answer to
    J. C's._ [_al._ Or an Answer to Cleveland's] _Scots' Apostasy_
    (G. R. Bastick) [_al._ Robin Bostock], London April 1647. The
    'J. C's' is of course pertinent.]

    [Line: 2 John Campbell (1598-1633), from 1620 Baron Loudoun
    in his wife's right, was, after taking a violent part on the
    Covenant side in the earlier Scotch-English war, instrumental
    in concluding peace; and was made in 1641 Chancellor of
    Scotland and Earl of Loudoun.]

    [Line: 4 as] 'and' _1653_.]

    [Line: 9 'imposture' _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 20 The celebrated and grisly collection of Scottish
    monarchs in Holyrood was not yet in existence; for its
    imaginative creator only painted it in 1684, and there are
    106, not sixty. But the remoteness of Scottish pedigrees was
    popularly known: and if it be not true that all Scottish kings
    were murdered, not a few had been.]

    [Line: 24 'Assassination' is valued at six syllables.]

    [Line: 28 'to' _1651_, &c.: 'into' _1646_.]

    [Line: 31 Till] and tell _1646_, _1651_.]

    [Line: 34 'count you' _1646_, _1651_, _1653_, &c.: 'be your'
    _1687_. This prayer, at any rate, was heard pretty soon.]

    [Line: 38 'steps' _1651_, &c.: 'ships' _1646_.]

    [Line: 42 'go', misprinted 'to' in _1653_, &c.]

    [Lines: 67-8 Not in _1646_.]




Rupertismus.


  O that I could but vote myself a poet,
  Or had the legislative knack to do it!
  Or, like the doctors militant, could get
  Dubbed at adventure Verser Banneret!
  Or had I Cacus' trick to make my rhymes
  Their own antipodes, and track the times!
  'Faces about,' says the remonstrant spirit,
  'Allegiance is malignant, treason merit.'
  Huntingdon colt, that posed the sage recorder,
  Might be a sturgeon now and pass by order.                         10
  Had I but Elsing's gift (that splay-mouthed brother
  That declares one way and yet means another),
  Could I thus write asquint, then, Sir, long since
  You had been sung a great and glorious Prince!
  I had observed the language of these days,
  Blasphemed you, and then periwigged the phrase
  With humble service and such other fustian,
  Bells which ring backward in this great combustion.
  I had reviled you, and without offence;
  The literal and equitable sense                                    20
  Would make it good. When all fails, that will do 't;
  Sure that distinction cleft the Devil's foot!
  This were my dialect, would your Highness please
  To read me but with Hebrew spectacles;
  Interpret counter what is cross rehearsed;
  Libels are commendations when reversed.
  Just as an optic glass contracts the sight
  At one end, but when turned doth multiply 't.
  But you're enchanted, Sir, you're doubly free
  From the great guns and squibbing poetry,                          30
  Whom neither bilbo nor invention pierces,
  Proof even 'gainst th' artillery of verses.
  Strange that the Muses cannot wound your mail!
  If not their art, yet let their sex prevail.
  At that known leaguer, where the bonny Besses
  Supplied the bow-strings with their twisted tresses,
  Your spells could ne'er have fenced you, every arrow
  Had lanced your noble breast and drunk the marrow.
  For beauty, like white powder, makes no noise
  And yet the silent hypocrite destroys.                             40
  Then use the Nuns of Helicon with pity
  Lest Wharton tell his gossips of the City
  That you kill women too, nay maids, and such
  Their general wants militia to touch.
  Impotent Essex! Is it not a shame
  Our Commonwealth, like to a Turkish dame,
  Should have an eunuch guardian? May she be
  Ravished by Charles, rather than saved by thee!
  But why, my Muse, like a green-sickness girl,
  Feed'st thou on coals and dirt? A gelding earl                     50
  Gives no more relish to thy female palate
  Than to that ass did once the thistle sallet.
  Then quit the barren theme and all at once,
  Thou and thy sisters like bright Amazons,
  Give Rupert an alarum. Rupert! one
  Whose name is wit's superfetation,
  Makes fancy, like eternity's round womb,
  Unite all valour, present, past, to come!
  He who the old philosophy controls
  That voted down plurality of souls!                                60
  He breathes a Grand Committee; all that were
  The wonders of their age constellate here.
  And as the elder sisters, Growth and Sense,
  Souls paramount themselves, in man commence
  But faculties of reasons queen; no more
  Are they to him (who was complete before),
  Ingredients of his virtue. Thread the beads
  Of Caesar's acts, great Pompey's and the Swede's,
  And 'tis a bracelet fit for Rupert's hand,
  By which that vast triumvirate is spanned.                         70
  Here, here is palmistry; here you may read
  How long the world shall live and when 't shall bleed.
  What every man winds up, that Rupert hath,
  For Nature raised him of the Public Faith;
  Pandora's brother, to make up whose store
  The gods were fain to run upon the score.
  Such was the painter's brief for Venus' face;
  Item, an eye from Jane; a lip from Grace.
  Let Isaac and his cits flay off the plate
  That tips their antlers, for the calf of state;                    80
  Let the zeal-twanging nose, that wants a ridge,
  Snuffling devoutly, drop his silver bridge;
  Yes, and the gossip spoon augment the sum
  Although poor Caleb lose his christendom;
  Rupert outweighs that in his sterling self
  Which their self-want pays in commuting pelf.
  Pardon, great Sir, for that ignoble crew
  Gains when made bankrupt in the scales with you.
  As he, who in his character of Light
  Styled it God's shadow, made it far more bright                    90
  By an eclipse so glorious (light is dim
  And a black nothing when compared to Him),
  So 'tis illustrious to be Rupert's foil
  And a just trophy to be made his spoil.
  I'll pin my faith on the Diurnal's sleeve
  Hereafter, and the Guildhall creed believe;
  The conquests which the Common Council hears
  With their wide listening mouth from the great Peers
  That ran away in triumph. Such a foe
  Can make them victors in their overthrow;                         100
  Where providence and valour meet in one,
  Courage so poised with circumspection
  That he revives the quarrel once again
  Of the soul's throne; whether in heart, or brain,
  And leaves it a drawn match; whose fervour can
  Hatch him whom Nature poached but half a man;
  His trumpet, like the angel's at the last,
  Makes the soul rise by a miraculous blast.
  Was the Mount Athos carved in shape of man
  As 'twas designed by th' Macedonian                               110
  (Whose right hand should a populous land contain,
  The left should be a channel to the main),
  His spirit would inform th' amphibious figure
  And, strait-laced, sweat for a dominion bigger.
  The terror of whose name can out of seven,
  Like Falstaff's buckram men, make fly eleven.
  Thus some grow rich by breaking. Vipers thus,
  By being slain, are made more numerous.
  No wonder they'll confess no loss of men,
  For Rupert knocks 'em till they gig again.                        120
  They fear the giblets of his train, they fear
  Even his dog, that four-legged cavalier;
  He that devours the scraps that Lunsford makes;
  Whose picture feeds upon a child in steaks;
  Who, name but Charles, he comes aloft for him,
  But holds up his malignant leg at Pym.
  'Gainst whom they have these articles in souse:
  First, that he barks against the sense o' th' House;
  Resolved delinquent, to the Tower straight,
  Either to th' Lions' or the Bishop's Grate:                       130
  Next, for his ceremonious wag o' th' tail.
  (But there the sisterhood will be his bail,
  At least the Countess will, Lust's Amsterdam,
  That lets in all religions of the game.)
  Thirdly, he smells intelligence; that 's better
  And cheaper too than Pym's from his own letter,
  Who 's doubly paid (Fortune or we the blinder!)
  For making plots and then for fox the finder:
  Lastly, he is a devil without doubt,
  For, when he would lie down, he wheels about,                     140
  Makes circles, and is couchant in a ring;
  And therefore score up one for conjuring.
  'What canst thou say, thou wretch!' 'O quarter, quarter!
  I'm but an instrument, a mere Sir Arthur.
  If I must hang, O let not our fates vary,
  Whose office 'tis alike to fetch and carry!'
  No hopes of a reprieve; the mutinous stir
  That strung the Jesuit will dispatch a cur.
  'Were I a devil as the rabble fears,
  I see the House would try me by my peers!'                        150
  There, Jowler, there! Ah, Jowler! 'st, 'tis nought!
  Whate'er the accusers cry, they're at a fault:
  And Glyn and Maynard have no more to say
  Than when the glorious Strafford stood at bay.
    Thus libels but annexed to him, we see,
  Enjoy a copyhold of victory.
  Saint Peter's shadow healed; Rupert's is such
  'Twould find Saint Peter's work and wound as much.
  He gags their guns, defeats their dire intent;
  The cannons do but lisp and compliment.                           160
  Sure, Jove descended in a leaden shower
  To get this Perseus; hence the fatal power
  Of shot is strangled. Bullets thus allied
  Fear to commit an act of parricide.
  Go on, brave Prince, and make the world confess
  Thou art the greater world and that the less.
  Scatter th' accumulative king; untruss
  That five-fold fiend, the State's Smectymnuus,
  Who place religion in their vellum ears
  As in their phylacters the Jews did theirs.                       170
  England's a paradise (and a modest word)
  Since guarded by a cherub's flaming sword.
  Your name can scare an atheist to his prayers,
  And cure the chincough better than the bears.
  Old Sibyl charms the toothache with you; Nurse
  Makes you still children; and the ponderous curse
  The clowns salute with is derived from you,
  'Now, Rupert take thee, rogue, how dost thou do?'
  In fine the name of Rupert thunders so,
  Kimbolton's but a rumbling wheelbarrow.                           180




    [_Rupertismus_] '_To P. Rupert_' in the _1647_ texts
    (Bodley and Case copies). The odd title _Rupertismus_ was
    first given in _1651_. This poem expresses the earlier and
    more sanguine Cavalier temper, when things on the whole went
    well. Rupert's admirable quality as an officer naturally made
    him a sort of Cavalier cynosure and (with his being half a
    foreigner) a bugbear to the Roundheads; while neither party
    had yet found out his fatal defects as a general. Hence
    'Rupertismus' not ill described the humour of both sides. The
    dog who figures so largely was a real dog (said of course to
    be a familiar spirit), and Professor Firth tells me that he
    has a pamphlet (1642) entitled _Observations upon P. R.'s
    white dog called Boy, carefully taken by T. B._, with a
    picture of the animal. It was replied to by _The Parliament's
    Unspotted Bitch_ next year.]

    [Lines: 1, 2 The 'legislative knack' to vote oneself everything
    good and perfect has always been a gift of Houses of Commons.
    It was rather shrewd of Cleveland to formulate it so early and
    so well.]

    [Line: 4 Bannerets being properly dubbed on the field of
    battle. 'Adventure' _1677_: 'Adventures' _1647_, _1651_,
    _1687_: 'adventurers' _1653_ and its group.]

    [Line: 5 Cacus' trick] of dragging his cattle by the tails.]

    [Line: 7 spirit] A word their abuse of which was constantly
    thrown in the face of the Puritans till Swift's thrice
    rectified vitriol almost destroyed the abuse itself.]

    [Line: 8 malignant] in the technical Roundhead sense.]

    [Line: 9 The gibe at Huntingdon, clear enough from the
    passage, is one of many old local insults. I can remember
    when it was a little unsafe, in one of the Channel islands, to
    speak of a donkey. This particular jest recurs in Pepys (May
    22, 1677), who was in a way a Huntingdon man.]

    [Line: 11 Elsing] Clerk to the House of Commons.]

    [Line: 13 'thus' _1677_: 'but' _1647_ and the earlier texts.
    write] _1653_, 'right'--evidently one of the numerous mistakes
    due to dictating copy.]

    [Line: 14 '_The_ Prince' was a title which Rupert monopolized
    early and kept till his death.]

    [Line: 15 'these' _1677_: 'the' _1647_, _1651_, _1653_,
    _1687_.]

    [Line: 20 _1677_ 'th' equitable'.]

    [Line: 24 The rhyme of '-cles' to an _ee_ syllable occurs in
    Dryden.]

    [Line: 31 'Who' _1653_ and its group.]

    [Line: 35 Carthage. Rupert's devotion to ladies was lifelong.]

    [Line: 39 'White' or noiseless powder was a constant object of
    research.]

    [Line: 45 Essex was _twice_ divorced on the ground mentioned,
    and his efficiency in the field was not to be much greater
    than that in the chamber.]

    [Line: 53 _1677_, &c., '_his_ barren theme'.]

    [Line: 65 _1654_ 'faculty'. _1677_ 'Reason Queen'. I am not
    sure which is right.]

    [Lines: 66-7 So punctuated in _1677_. Earlier texts and _1687_
    'who were to him complete before. Ingredients of his virtue
    thread' ... _1677_ reads 'virtues'.]

    [Line: 68 '_the_ Swede': of course Gustavus Adolphus.]

    [Line: 73 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ 'Whatever'.]

    [Line: 74 _1677_, apparently alone, 'o_n_ the'].

    [Line: 78 _1653_, evidently by slip, '_for_ Jane'.]

    [Line: 79 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ 'Cit'z' (not quite bad for
    '_citiz_ens) and 'flea of the place'. 'Flea' for 'flay' is not
    uncommon: the rest is absurd. 'Isaac' was Isaac Pennington,
    father of that Judith whose obliging disposition Mr. Pepys has
    commemorated.]

    [Line: 80 'Antl_ets_', which occurs in all, is not impossible
    for 'antl_ers_' (the everlastingly ridiculed citizen 'horns').
    But _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ forgot the Golden Calf altogether
    in their endeavour to provide a rhyme for their own misprint
    (l. 79) by reading 'Stace'.]

    [Line: 83 'Gossip's' (_1651_, _1677_) is not wanted and hisses
    unnecessarily.]

    [Line: 86 'self-wants' _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, _1687_. _1677_,
    most improbably, 'committee'. The whole passage refers to the
    subscriptions of plate and money in lieu of personal service
    which Pennington, as Lord Mayor, promised 'on the Public
    Faith'. Rupert's self outweighs all this vicarious
    performance.]

    [Line: 89 'whom' _1653_, _1654._]

    [Line: 92 to] with _1677_.]

    [Line: 95 Diurnal] Which Cleveland satirized in his first
    published (prose) work.]

    [Line: 98 As Wharton at Edgehill. 'Mouths' _1647_, _1687_.]

    [Line: 100 them] men _1677_.]

    [Line: 109 Was the] 'Twas the _1647_, _1651_, _1653_: Was that
    _1677_. 'Was' = 'if it were'.]

    [Line: 110 designed] _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ 'defin'd', with a
    clear _f_, not long _s_.]

    [Line: 113 would] _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ might.]

    [Line: 114 The text is _1677_, which, however, reads (with the
    usual want of strait-lacedness) 'straight'. _1651_, _1653_,
    have 'Yet' for 'And', which is corrected in some of their own
    group, and 'sweats'.]

    [Line: 117 some] Like Mr. Badman a little later.]

    [Line: 120 gig] = 'spin like a top'. Dryden uses the word in
    the same sense and almost in the same phrase in the Prologue
    to _Amphitryon_, l. 21: _v. sup._, p. 17.]

    [Line: 121 giblets] Apparently in the sense of 'offal',
    'refuse'.]

    [Line: 123 Lunsford] Sir Thomas, 1610?-1653. The absurd
    legends about this Cavalier's 'child-eating' are referred to
    in, originally, _Hudibras_ and in Lacy's _Old Troop_, and at
    second-hand (probably from the text also, though it is not
    quoted) in the notes to Scott's _Woodstock_. _1651_ and _1653_
    have 'which' for second 'that'.]

    [Line: 124 steaks] All old editions 'stakes'--a very common
    spelling, which Mr. Berdan keeps. As he modernizes the rest,
    his readers may be under the impression that the ogre impaled
    the infants before devouring them, which was not, I think,
    alleged by the most savoury professor on the Roundhead side.]

    [Line: 127 souse] = 'pickle'. 'they have these' _1677_:
    'they've several' _1647_, _1651_: 'they have several' _1653_.]

    [Line: 130 Bishop's] _1677_, _1687_ editions have the
    apostrophe. Laud is probably referred to in 'Bishop's'. The
    force of all this, and its application to other times, are
    admirable.]

    [Line: 133 The Countess--pretty clearly Lucy Hay, Countess
    of Carlisle (1599-1660)--beauty, wit, harlot, and traitress
    (though, too late, she repented). Amsterdam] The religious
    indifference of the Dutch being a common reproach.

    _1677_ and its followers read 'with' for 'will', which would
    alter the sense completely.]

    [Line: 134 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ have 'religious' in the
    well-known noun sense, and it is possibly better.]

    [Line: 144 Sir Arthur Haselrig (died 1661)--a very busy person
    throughout the troubles, but not considered as exactly a prime
    mover.]

    [Line: 148 _1677_ '_the_ cur'.]

    [Line: 149 'rabble' is _1677_ and seems good, though the
    earlier 'rebel' might do.]

    [Line: 152 a fault] _1677_ default--not so technical.]

    [Line: 153 Serjeants John Glyn[ne] (1607-66) and John Maynard
    (1602-90) were well-known legal bandogs on the Roundhead side
    in the earlier stages; but both trimmed cleverly during
    the later, and sold themselves promptly to the Crown at the
    Restoration. Glynne died soon. Maynard lived to prosecute the
    victims of the Popish Plot, and to turn his coat once more, at
    nearly ninety, for William of Orange.]

    [Line: 155 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ 'l_a_bels': _1677_ 'Thus
    libels but amount to him we see T' enjoy'.]

    [Line: 158 _1677_ 'St. Peter', which looks plausible, though
    I am not sure that it is better than the genitive. _1647_,
    _1651_, _1653_ have 'yet' for 'and' as in other cases.]

    [Line: 167 the accumulative king] Pym? who was nicknamed
    'king' Pym, and if not exactly 'accumulative' (for his debts
    were paid by Parliament) must have been expensive and was
    probably rapacious. Others think it means 'the Committee',
    'accumulative' being = 'cumulative' (or rather 'plural'). They
    quote, not without force, our poet's prose _Character of
    a Country Committee man_, 'a Committee man is a name of
    multitude', the phrase 'accumulative treason' occurring in the
    context.]

    [Line: 175 _1677_ transfers 'the' to before 'Nurse'--a
    great loss, the unarticled and familiar 'Nurse' being far
    better--and reads 'Sibils charm'.]

    [Line: 176 'and' _1653_, 1677: 'nay and' _1647_, _1651_,
    _1687._]

    [Line: 177 _1677_ 'Clown salutes'.]




Epitaph on the Earl of Strafford.


  Here lies wise and valiant dust
  Huddled up 'twixt fit and just;
  Strafford, who was hurried hence
  'Twixt treason and convenience.
  He spent his time here in a mist;
  A Papist, yet a Calvinist;
  His Prince's nearest joy and grief
  He had, yet wanted all relief;
  The prop and ruin of the State;
  The People's violent love and hate;                                10
  One in extremes loved and abhorred.
  Riddles lie here, or in a word,
  Here lies blood; and let it lie
  Speechless still and never cry.




    [_Epitaph, &c._ In the Bodleian copy of _1647_
    and in Professor Case's (3rd issue) and in all others except
    _Cleaveland Revived_ (_1659_) and _1677_; but in some of
    the earliest classed with the work of 'Uncertain Authors'.
    Winstanley (no very strong authority, it is true) calls it
    Cleveland's and 'excellent'. It is perhaps too much to say
    with Mr. Berdan, that it is 'unlike his manner'. There is
    certainly in it a manner which he does not often display, but
    the pity and the terror of that great tragedy might account
    for part of this, and the difficulty (for any Royalist) of
    speaking freely of it for more. It is rather fine, I think.]

    [Line: 4 The pitiful truth could hardly be better put.]

    [Line: 6 Obscure, but not un-Clevelandish.]

    [Lines: 7-8 Punctuation altered to get what seems the necessary
    sense. A comma which _1653_ has at 'grief' (not to mention a
    full stop in the _1647_ texts) obscures this, and a comma at
    'wanted', which Mr. Berdan puts, does so even more. The
    phrase is once more fatally just and true. He enjoyed all his
    master's affection and received all his grief, but 'wanted'
    his support and relief. Professor Case, however, would cling
    to the stop, at least the comma, at 'grief'.]

    [Line: 12 or] Other editions 'and'. For 'Riddles' cf. _The
    King's Disguise_, ll. 89-90.]

    [Lines: 13-14 For the third time 'he says it', and there is
    no more to say.--In _1653_ there follows a Latin Epitaph on
    Strafford which has nothing to do with this. It is in some
    phrases enigmatic enough to be Cleveland's, but it is not
    certainly his, and as it is neither English nor verse we need
    hardly give it.]




An Elegy upon the Archbishop of Canterbury.


  I need no Muse to give my passion vent,
  He brews his tears that studies to lament.
  Verse chemically weeps; that pious rain
  Distilled with art is but the sweat o' th' brain
  Whoever sobbed in numbers? Can a groan
  Be quavered out by soft division?
  'Tis true for common formal elegies
  Not Bushel's Wells can match a poet's eyes
  In wanton water-works; he'll tune his tears
  From a Geneva jig up to the spheres.                               10
  But then he mourns at distance, weeps aloof.
  Now that the conduit head is our own roof,
  Now that the fate is public, we may call
  It Britain's vespers, England's funeral.
  Who hath a pencil to express the Saint
  But he hath eyes too, washing off the paint?
  There is no learning but what tears surround,
  Like to Seth's pillars in the Deluge drowned.
  There is no Church; Religion is grown
  So much of late that she 's increased to none,                     20
  Like an hydropic body, full of rheums,
  First swells into a bubble, then consumes.
  The Law is dead or cast into a trance,--
  And by a law dough-baked, an Ordinance!
  The Liturgy, whose doom was voted next,
  Died as a comment upon him the text.
  There's nothing lives; life is, since he is gone,
  But a nocturnal lucubration.
  Thus you have seen death's inventory read
  In the sum total,--Canterbury's dead;                              30
  A sight would make a Pagan to baptize
  Himself a convert in his bleeding eyes;
  Would thaw the rabble, that fierce beast of ours,
  (That which hyena-like weeps and devours)
  Tears that flow brackish from their souls within,
  Not to repent, but pickle up their sin.
  Meantime no squalid grief his look defiles.
  He gilds his sadder fate with nobler smiles.
  Thus the world's eye, with reconciléd streams,
  Shines in his showers as if he wept his beams.                     40
  How could success such villanies applaud?
  The State in Strafford fell, the Church in Laud;
  The twins of public rage, adjudged to die
  For treasons they should act, by prophecy;
  The facts were done before the laws were made;
  The trump turned up after the game was played.
  Be dull, great spirits, and forbear to climb,
  For worth is sin and eminence a crime.
  No churchman can be innocent and high.
  'Tis height makes Grantham steeple stand awry.                     50




    [_An Elegy, &c._ (_1647_.) If the Strafford
    epitaph seemed too serious, as well as too concentrated and
    passionate, for Cleveland, this on Strafford's fellow worker
    and fellow victim may seem almost a caricature of our author's
    more wayward and more fantastic manner. Yet there are fine
    lines in it, and perhaps nowhere else do we see the Dryden
    fashion of verse (though not of thought) more clearly
    foreshadowed. It appears to come under 'Uncertain Authors'
    in some _1647_ texts, but _1677_ gives it. Title in _1647_,
    _1651_, _1653_ 'On the Archbishop of Canterbury' only.]

    [Line: 4 _1677_ '_by_ art'.]

    [Line: 6 _1677_ '_in_ soft'.]

    [Line: 8 Thomas Bushel[l] or Bushnell (1594-1674) was a page
    of Bacon's and afterwards a great 'projector' in mining and
    mechanical matters generally. He dabbled largely in fancy
    fountains and waterworks--a queer taste of the seventeenth
    century in which even the sober Evelyn records his own
    participation.]

    [Lines: 9-10 Cf. the opening of the elegy on King, 'I like not
    tears in tune'.]

    [Line: 11 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, &c. '_when_ he mourns',
    which is hardly so good.]

    [Line: 18 Seth's pillars] A tradition, preserved in Josephus,
    that the race of Seth engraved antediluvian wisdom on two
    pillars, one of brick, the other of stone, the latter of which
    outlasted the Deluge.]

    [Line: 20 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_, &c. '_From_ much'.]

    [Line: 34 _1647_, _1651_ misprint '_Agena_-like.]

    [Line: 35 _1653_ misprints 'blackish'.]

    [Line: 38 _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ 'noble'.]

    [Line: 44 _1677_, omitting the comma at 'act', makes something
    like nonsense; 'by prophecy' goes, I think, with 'adjudged to
    die'.]

    [Line: 50 One would expect 'Chesterfield', for Grantham
    nowadays does not look very crooked--at least from the
    railway. But Fuller in the _Worthies_ quotes this as
    a proverb. Some take it as referring to the height and
    slenderness of the steeple and an optical illusion. They might
    quote 'The high masts _flickered_ as they lay afloat'. But few
    travellers had the excuse of Iphigenia.]




*On I. W. A. B. of York.


  Say, my young sophister, what think'st of this?
  Chimera's real, _Ergo falleris_.
  The lamb and tiger, fox and goose agree
  And here concorp'rate in one prodigy.
  Call an Haruspex quickly: let him get
  Sulphur and torches, and a laurel wet,
  To purify the place: for sure the harms
  This monster will produce transcend his charms.--
  'Tis Nature's masterpiece of Error, this,
  And redeems whatever she did amiss                                 10
  Before, from wonder and reproach, this last
  Legitimateth all her by-blows past.
    Lo! here a general Metropolitan,
  And arch-prelatic Presbyterian!
  Behold his pious garbs, canonic face,
  A zealous _Episcopo-mastix_ Grace--
  A fair blue-apron'd priest, a Lawn-sleeved brother,
  One leg a pulpit holds, a tub the other.
  Let 's give him a fit name now if we can,
  And make th' Apostate once more Christian.                         20
  'Proteus' we cannot call him: _he_ put on
  His change of shapes by a succession,
  Nor 'the Welsh weather-cock', for that we find
  At once doth only wait upon the wind.
  These speak him not: but if you'll name him right,
  Call him Religion's Hermaphrodite.
  His head i' the sanctified mould is cast,
  Yet sticks th'abominable mitre fast.
  He still retains the 'Lordship' and the 'Grace',
  And yet hath got a reverend elder's place.                         30
  Such acts must needs be his, who did devise
  By crying altars down to sacrifice
  To private malice; where you might have seen
  His conscience holocausted to his spleen.
  Unhappy Church! the viper that did share
  Thy greatest honours, helps to make thee bare,
  And void of all thy dignities and store.
  Alas! thine own son proves the forest boar,
  And, like the dam-destroying cuckoo, he,
  When the thick shell of his Welsh pedigree                         40
  By thy warm fostering bounty did divide
  And open--straight thence sprung forth parricide:
  As if 'twas just revenge should be dispatched
  In thee, by th' monster which thyself hadst hatched.
  Despair not though, in Wales there may be got,
  As well as Lincolnshire, an antidote
  'Gainst the foul'st venom he can spit, though 's head
  Were changed from subtle grey to pois'nous red.
  Heaven with propitious eyes will look upon
  Our party, now the curséd thing is gone;                           50
  And chastise Rebels who nought else did miss
  To fill the measure of their sins, but his--
  Whose foul imparalleled apostasy,
  Like to his sacred character, shall be
  Indelible. When ages, then of late
  More happy grown, with most impartial fate
  A period to his days and time shall give,
  He by such Epitaphs as this shall live.
    _Here York's great Metropolitan is laid,
    Who God's Anointed, and His Church, betrayed._                   60




    [_On I. W. A. B. of York._ (_1647_.) This vigorous
    onslaught on the trimmer John Williams, Archbishop of York,
    who began public life as a tool of Buckingham's and ended it
    as a kind of tolerated half-deserter to the Parliament, was
    turned out by the 'Vindicators' in _1677_. There may, however,
    have been reasons for this, other than certain spuriousness.
    Williams, though driven to doubtful conduct by his enmity
    with Laud, never called himself anything but a Royalist, was
    imprisoned as such, and is said to have died of grief (perhaps
    of compunction) at the King's execution. Also both Lake and
    Drake were Yorkshire men. The piece is vigorous, if not quite
    Clevelandish in the presence of some enjambment, and the
    absence of extravagant conceit.]

    [Line: 2 _falleris_] In advancing the general observation that
    'twy-natured is no nature'.]

    [Line: 10 whatever] Perhaps we should read 'whatsoe'er'.]

    [Line: 15 'garb' _1653_.]

    [Line: 16 A parody of course on Prynne's _Histrio-mastix_.]

    [Line: 21 'he' = Proteus. Williams went right over.]

    [Line: 23 Williams was very popular with his fellow
    provincials. He took refuge in Wales when the war broke out,
    and was made a sort of mediator by the Welsh after Naseby.]

    [Line: 26 'Religion's' _1647_; 'Religious' _1651_, _1653_.]

    [Line: 27 _1651_, _1653_, 'I' th'': but here, as often, the
    apostrophation ruins the verse.]

    [Line: 30 'hath' _1653_: 'has' _1647_, _1651_.]

    [Line: 32 Williams had been chairman of the Committee 'to
    consider innovations' in 1641. His private malice was to
    Laud.]

    [Line: 46 I am not certain of the meaning. But Lincolnshire
    (at least Lindsey) was strongly Royalist early in the war till
    Cromwell's successes at Grantham, Lea Moor, and Winceby in
    1643.]

    [Line: 53 _1647_, _1651_ 'unparalleled'.]




Mark Antony.


  When as the nightingale chanted her vespers,
    And the wild forester couched on the ground,
  Venus invited me in th' evening whispers
    Unto a fragrant field with roses crowned,
        Where she before had sent
        My wishes' compliment;
        Unto my heart's content
        Played with me on the green.
            Never Mark Antony
            Dallied more wantonly                                    10
            With the fair Egyptian Queen.

  First on her cherry cheeks I mine eyes feasted,
    Thence fear of surfeiting made me retire;
  Next on her warmer lips, which, when I tasted,
    My duller spirits made active as fire.
        Then we began to dart,
        Each at another's heart,
        Arrows that knew no smart,
        Sweet lips and smiles between.
            Never Mark, &c.                                          20

  Wanting a glass to plait her amber tresses
    Which like a bracelet rich deckéd mine arm,
  Gaudier than Juno wears when as she graces
    Jove with embraces more stately than warm,
        Then did she peep in mine
        Eyes' humour crystalline;
        I in her eyes was seen
        As if we one had been.
            Never Mark, &c.

  Mystical grammar of amorous glances;                               30
    Feeling of pulses, the physic of love;
  Rhetorical courtings and musical dances;
    Numbering of kisses arithmetic prove;
        Eyes like astronomy;
        Straight-limbed geometry;
        In her art's ingeny
        Our wits were sharp and keen.
            Never Mark Antony
            Dallied more wantonly
            With the fair Egyptian Queen.




    [_Mark Antony._ The unusual prosodic interest of
    this piece, and its companion, has been explained in the
    Introduction. The pair appeared first in 1647 (3rd), where
    they follow _The Character of a London Diurnal_ and precede
    the _Poems_.]

    [Line: 14 'warmer' some copies of _1653_: _1647_, _1651_
    'warm'. Cf. 'bluer' in the 'Mock Song', l. 14 (below).]

    [Line: 15 _1677_, &c. 'made _me_ active'--a bad blunder.]

    [Line: 35 'Straight limb' _1647_.]

    [Line: 36 'art's' is _1677_ for 'heart's' in _1647_, _1651_,
    _1653_. I rather prefer it, but with some doubts.]

    [Line: 37 _1677_, &c. emends by substituting 'were' for
    _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ 'are'.]




The Author's Mock Song to Mark Antony.


  When as the night-raven sung Pluto's matins
    And Cerberus cried three amens at a howl,
  When night-wandering witches put on their pattens,
    Midnight as dark as their faces are foul;
        Then did the furies doom
        That the nightmare was come.
        Such a misshapen groom
        Puts down Su. Pomfret clean.
            Never did incubus
            Touch such a filthy sus                                  10
            As this foul gypsy quean.

  First on her gooseberry cheeks I mine eyes blasted,
    Thence fear of vomiting made me retire
  Unto her bluer lips, which when I tasted,
    My spirits were duller than Dun in the mire.
        But then her breath took place
        Which went an usher's pace
        And made way for her face!
        You may guess what I mean.
            Never did, &c.                                           20

  Like snakes engendering were platted her tresses,
    Or like the slimy streaks of ropy ale;
  Uglier than Envy wears, when she confesses
    Her head is periwigged with adder's tail.
        But as soon as she spake
        I heard a harsh mandrake.
        Laugh not at my mistake,
        Her head is epicene.
            Never did, &c.

  Mystical magic of conjuring wrinkles;                              30
    Feeling of pulses, the palmistry of hags;
  Scolding out belches for rhetoric twinkles;
    With three teeth in her head like to three gags;
        Rainbows about her eyes
        And her nose, weather-wise;
        From them the almanac lies,
        Frost, Pond, and Rivers clean.
            Never did incubus
            Touch such a filthy sus
            As this foul gypsy quean.                                40




    [_The Author's Mock Song._ In _1647_ this runs on as
    a continuation of 'Mark Anthony'.]

    [Line: 1 _1677_ _putidissime_ 'nightingale', as in the
    preceding poem. 'Night-raven' _1647_, _1651_, _1653_ is
    certainly right. Mr. Berdan's copy seems to have '_But_ as',
    which I rather like; but mine has 'When'.]

    [Line: 2 howl] hole _1647_.]

    [Line: 16 _1677_ 'when', not impossibly.]

    [Line: 21 platted] placed _1647_.]

    [Line: 22 _1647_, _1651_ 'the': omitted in _1653_: 'to'
    inserted in _1677_.]

    [Line: 37 Cf. _A Young Man, &c._, l. 13.]




How the Commencement grows new.


  It is no coranto-news I undertake;
  New teacher of the town I mean not to make;
  No New England voyage my Muse does intend;
  No new fleet, no bold fleet, nor bonny fleet send.
  But, if you'll be pleased to hear out this ditty,
  I'll tell you some news as true and as witty,
      _And how the Commencement grows new._

  See how the simony doctors abound,
  All crowding to throw away forty pound.
  They'll now in their wives' stammel petticoats vapour              10
  Without any need of an argument draper.
  Beholding to none, he neither beseeches
  This friend for venison nor t'other for speeches,
      _And so the Commencement grows new._

  Every twice a day teaching gaffer
  Brings up his Easter-book to chaffer;
  Nay, some take degrees who never had steeple,--
  Whose means, like degrees, comes from placets of people.
  They come to the fair and, at the first pluck,
  The toll-man Barnaby strikes 'um good luck,                        20
      _And so the Commencement grows new._

  The country parsons come not up
  On Tuesday night in their old College to sup;
  Their bellies and table-books equally full,
  The next lecture-dinner their notes forth to pull;
  How bravely the Margaret Professor disputed,
  The homilies urged, and the school-men confuted;
      _And so the Commencement grows new._

  The inceptor brings not his father the clown
  To look with his mouth at his grogoram gown;                       30
  With like admiration to eat roasted beef,
  Which invention posed his beyond-Trent belief;
  Who should he but hear our organs once sound,
  Could scarce keep his hoof from Sellenger's round,
      _And so the Commencement grows new._

  The gentleman comes not to show us his satin,
  To look with some judgment at him that speaks Latin,
  To be angry with him that marks not his clothes,
  To answer 'O Lord, Sir' and talk play-book oaths,
  And at the next bear-baiting (full of his sack)                    40
  To tell his comrades our discipline's slack;
      _And so the Commencement grows new._

  We have no prevaricator's wit.
  Ay, marry sir, when have you had any yet?
  Besides no serious Oxford man comes
  To cry down the use of jesting and hums.
  Our ballad (believe 't) is no stranger than true;
  Mum Salter is sober, and Jack Martin too,
      _And so the Commencement grows new._




    [_How the Commencement, &c._, belongs to the same
    group as the _Mark Antony_ poems and _Square-Cap_, and there
    is the same ambiguity between four anapaests and five iambs.
    You would certainly take line 1 as it stands in _1677_ with
    ''Tis' for 'It is', and probably as it stands here, for a
    heroic if line 2 did not come to undeceive you. And this line
    2 is bad as either.

    First printed in _1653_. MS. copies are found in Rawlinson
    MS. Poet. 147, pp. 48-9, and Tanner MS. 465, fol. 83, of the
    Bodleian. Neither copy is good, but each helps to restore the
    text (see ll. 18 and 38). The Tanner MS. also has on fol. 44
    an indignant poem 'Upon Mr. Cl. who made a Song against the
    DD^{rs}', beginning

        Leave off, vain Satirist, and do not think,
        To stain our reverend purple with thy ink.

    It adds the interesting evidence that the poem became a
    popular song at Cambridge:

        Must gitterns now and fiddles be made fit,
        Be tuned and keyed to sweake [?squeak] a Johnian wit?
        Must now thy poems be made fidlers' notes,
        Puffed with Tobacco through their sooty throats?
        .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .
        Are thy strong lines and mighty cart-rope things
        Now spun so small, they'll twist on fiddle strings?
        Canst thou prove Ballad-poet of the times?
        Can thy proud fancy stoop to penny rimes?

    (This latter information, as to MSS., is Mr. Simpson's.)]

    [Line: 5 out] but _1653_.]

    [Line: 9 forty pound] Still the regular doctorate fee, though
    relatively three or four times heavier then than now.]

    [Line: 10 stammel] Properly a stuff; but, as generally or
    often red in colour, the colour itself.]

    [Line: 11 I am not certain of the meaning of this line though
    I could conjecture.]

    [Line: 13 nor t'other for speeches] _MS._ 'that for his
    breeches'.]

    [Line: 15 _1677_ inserts 'the' before 'teaching', but the
    absence of the article is much more characteristic.]

    [Line: 18 The 'Vindicators', in the new bondage of grammar,
    'come'.

    Placets] both _MSS._: places _1653_: placers _1677_.
    'Placets', evidently right, would baffle a non-university
    printer; probably the editors of _1677_ attempted to correct
    it, but were again baffled by the printer.]

    [Line: 22 _1677_ 'they do not come up'--a natural but
    unnecessary patching of the line.]

    [Line: 23 old] _1677_ own--less well, I think.

    Both _MSS._ read in ll. 22-3:

        The country parson cometh not up,
        Till Tuesday night in his old College to sup.
    ]

    [Line: 26 'Marg_e_ret' _1653_: Marg'ret' _1677_.]

    [Line: 29 inceptor] = 'M.A. to be'.]

    [Line: 30 'o' of 'grog[o]ram' usually omitted, but both _1653_
    and _1677_ have it here.]

    [Line: 32 The North usually salting and boiling its beef?]

    [Line: 38 Tanner MS. has the metrical punctuation 'To
    be'angry' found occasionally in texts of the time: 'marks'
    Tanner MS., all the texts have 'makes'.]

    [Line: 40 at the next bear-baiting] in his next company
    _MSS._]

    [Line: 44 _1653_ 'we' for 'you', less pointedly, I think.]

    [Line: 45 Cleveland lived to think better of Oxford--at
    least to take refuge and be warmly welcomed there. There
    has probably been no time at which either University was not
    convinced that the other, whatever its merits, could not see a
    joke.]

    [Line: 48 _1665_ (not a very good edition) and the _MSS._ read
    'Mu_n_', which was of course the usual short for Edmund. But
    'Mu_m_' in the context is appropriate enough and generally
    read.

    The intense Cambridge flavour of this seems to require
    special comment by a Cambridge man. For the duties of the
    'Prevaricator' refer to Peacock's _Observations on the
    Statutes of the University of Cambridge_, 1841 (information
    kindly furnished by Mr. A. J. Bartholomew).]




The Hue and Cry after Sir John Presbyter.


  With hair in characters and lugs in text;
  With a splay mouth and a nose circumflexed;
  With a set ruff of musket-bore that wears
  Like cartridges or linen bandoleers
  Exhausted of their sulphurous contents
  In pulpit fire-works, which that bomball vents;
  The Negative and Covenanting Oath,
  Like two mustachoes issuing from his mouth;
  The bush upon his chin like a carved story,
  In a box-knot cut by the Directory:                                10
  Madam's confession hanging at his ear,
  Wire-drawn through all the questions, how and where;
  Each circumstance so in the hearing felt
  That when his ears are cropped he'll count them gelt;
  The weeping cassock scared into a jump,
  A sign the presbyter's worn to the stump,--
  The presbyter, though charmed against mischance
  With the divine right of an Ordinance!
    _If you meet any that do thus attire 'em,
    Stop them, they are the tribe of Adoniram._                      20
  What zealous frenzy did the Senate seize,
  That tare the Rochet to such rags as these?
  Episcopacy minced, reforming Tweed
  Hath sent us runts even of her Church's breed,
  Lay-interlining clergy, a device
  That 's nickname to the stuff called lops and lice.
  The beast at wrong end branded, you may trace
  The Devil's footsteps in his cloven face;
  A face of several parishes and sorts,
  Like to a sergeant shaved at Inns of Courts.                       30
  What mean the elders else, those Kirk dragoons,
  Made up of ears and ruffs like ducatoons;
  That hierarchy of handicrafts begun;
  Those New Exchange men of religion?
  Sure, they're the antick heads, which placed without
  The church, do gape and disembogue a spout.
  Like them above the Commons' House, have been
  So long without; now both are gotten in.
    Then what imperious in the bishop sounds,
  The same the Scotch executor rebounds;                             40
  This stating prelacy the classic rout
  That spake it often, ere it spake it out.
    (So by an abbey's skeleton of late
    I heard an echo supererogate
    Through imperfection, and the voice restore,
    As if she had the hiccough o'er and o'er.)
  'Since they our mixed diocesans combine
  Thus to ride double in their discipline,
  That Paul's shall to the Consistory call
  A Dean and Chapter out of Weavers' Hall,                           50
  Each at the ordinance for to assist
  With the five thumbs of his groat-changing fist.
    Down, Dagon-synod, with thy motley ware,
  Whilst we do swagger for the Common Prayer
  (That dove-like embassy that wings our sense
  To Heaven's gate in shape of innocence)
  Pray for the mitred authors, and defy
  These demicastors of divinity!
    For, when Sir John with Jack-of-all-trades joins,
  His finger 's thicker than the prelates' loins.'                   60




    [_The Hue and Cry._ (_1653_.) 1 'in characters' = in
    shorthand: _1677_ has 'character', wrongly. 'lugs' = ears. 'in
    text' = in capitals.

    Cf. _Clievelandi Vindiciae_, 1677, p. 122 (Cleveland's letter
    on a Puritan who had deserted to the Royalists. His officer
    complained that he had absconded with official money):
    'I doubt not, but you will pardon your Man. He hath but
    transcribed Rebellion, and copied out that Disloyalty in
    Shorthand, which you have committed in Text.']

    [Line: 6 bomball] A compound of 'bomb' and 'ball'.]

    [Line: 20 Adoniram] Byfield, a clerk of the Westminster
    Assembly whose minutes have been published in modern times.
    A great ejector of the clergy, who unfortunately did not live
    long enough to be ejected himself.]

    [Line: 26 This stuff does not by any means sound nice.]

    [Line: 32 ducatoons] One would take it that the ducatoon had a
    back view of some one's head; but a passage of _Hudibras_, and
    Grey's note on it, have complicated the matter with a story
    about the Archduke Albert of Austria, which seems to have
    little if any relevance _here_.]

    [Line: 35 antick heads] = 'gargoyles'.]

    [Line: 41 classic] As in Milton. Nor is this the only point
    in which the two old Christ's men, now on such opposite sides,
    agree in the 'New Forcers of Conscience' and this piece.]

    [Line: 52 _1653_ great-changing--a mere misprint.]

    [Line: 54 do swagger for] _1677_ most suspiciously improves to
    '_are champions_ for'.]

    [From l. 43 onwards _1653_ has the whole in italics, and
    it is pretty clear that after the first four lines the Echo
    speaks to the end. The 'Vindicators' do not seem to have seen
    this, though the absence of the quotes above would not prove
    it. Professor Case, however, thinks that 'So' refers to what
    precedes, and that in l. 47 and onwards the author and Echo
    speaks. It is possible.]




The Antiplatonic.


  For shame, thou everlasting wooer,
  Still saying grace and never falling to her!
  Love that 's in contemplation placed
  Is Venus drawn but to the waist.
  Unless your flame confess its gender,
  And your parley cause surrender,
  Y' are salamanders of a cold desire
  That live untouched amidst the hottest fire.

  What though she be a dame of stone,
  The widow of Pygmalion,                                            10
  As hard and unrelenting she
  As the new-crusted Niobe,
  Or (what doth more of statue carry)
  A nun of the Platonic quarry?
  Love melts the rigour which the rocks have bred--
  A flint will break upon a feather-bed.
  For shame, you pretty female elves,
  Cease for to candy up your selves;
  No more, you sectaries of the game,
  No more of your calcining flame!                                   20
  Women commence by Cupid's dart
  As a king hunting dubs a hart.
  Love's votaries enthral each other's soul,
  Till both of them live but upon parole.

  Virtue's no more in womankind
  But the green-sickness of the mind;
  Philosophy (their new delight)
  A kind of charcoal appetite.
  There 's no sophistry prevails
  Where all-convincing love assails,                                 30
  But the disputing petticoat will warp,
  As skilful gamesters are to seek at sharp.

  The soldier, that man of iron,
  Whom ribs of horror all environ,
  That's strung with wire instead of veins,
  In whose embraces you're in chains,
  Let a magnetic girl appear,
  Straight he turns Cupid's cuirassier.
  Love storms his lips, and takes the fortress in,
  For all the bristled turnpikes of his chin.                        40

  Since love's artillery then checks
  The breastworks of the firmest sex,
  Come, let us in affections riot;
  Th' are sickly pleasures keep a diet.
  Give me a lover bold and free,
  Not eunuched with formality,
  Like an ambassador that beds a queen
  With the nice caution of a sword between.




    [_The Antiplatonic._ (_1653_.) This is a sort of
    half-way house between Cleveland's burlesques and his serious
    or semi-serious poems like _Fuscara_. It is also nearer to
    Suckling and the graceful-graceless school than most of his
    things. It is good.]

    [Line: 2 The alteration of _1677_ 'and ne'er fall to her' may
    be only an example of the tendency to 'regularize' (in this
    case by the omission of an extra foot). But I confess it seems
    to me better: for the slight irregularity of the construction
    replaces that of the line to advantage.]

    [Line: 10 I don't know whether the conceit of 'Pygmalion's
    _widow_' returning to marble (or ivory) when her
    husband-lover's embraces ceased is original with Cleveland. If
    it is, I make him my compliment. There is at any rate no hint
    of it in Ovid.]

    [Line: 18 _1677_ changed the good old '_for_' to 'thus'.]

    [Line: 19 sectaries of] = 'heretics in'.]

    [Line: 20 This is good: 'calcining flame' is good.]

    [Line: 22 'dubs' is said to mean 'stabs', as it certainly
    means 'strikes'; but this seems to have little or no
    appropriateness here and to ignore the quaint conceit of
    'commence' in its academic meaning. 'Women _take their
    degrees_ by Cupid's dart: as the fact of being hunted by a
    king _ennobles_ a hart.' Cupid = the King of Love.]

    [Line: 24 'parole' too has a very delectable double meaning.
    This poem is really full of most excellent differences.]

    [Lines: 25-9 The lesson of the unregenerate Donne and the
    never-regenerate Carew.]

    [Line: 32 gamesters] = 'fencers'. to seek at sharp] = 'not
    good at sword-play'.]

    [Line: 33 'The sol-di-er'. By the way, did Butler borrow this
    'iron' and 'environ' rhyme from Cleveland?]

    [Line: 43 The apostrophating mania made _1653_ contract to
    'let's' and spoil the verse.]

    [Line: 44 Th'] here of course = 'they'.]




Fuscara, or the Bee Errant.


  Nature's confectioner, the bee
  (Whose suckets are moist alchemy,
  The still of his refining mould
  Minting the garden into gold),
  Having rifled all the fields
  Of what dainties Flora yields,
  Ambitious now to take excise
  Of a more fragrant paradise,
  At my Fuscara's sleeve arrived
  Where all delicious sweets are hived.                              10
  The airy freebooter distrains
  First on the violets of her veins,
  Whose tincture, could it be more pure,
  His ravenous kiss had made it bluer.
  Here did he sit and essence quaff
  Till her coy pulse had beat him off;
  That pulse which he that feels may know
  Whether the world 's long-lived or no.
  The next he preys on is her palm,
  That alm'ner of transpiring balm;                                  20
  So soft, 'tis air but once removed;
  Tender as 'twere a jelly gloved.
  Here, while his canting drone-pipe scanned
  The mystic figures of her hand,
  He tipples palmistry and dines
  On all her fortune-telling lines.
  He bathes in bliss and finds no odds
  Betwixt her nectar and the gods',
  He perches now upon her wrist,
  A proper hawk for such a fist,                                     30
  Making that flesh his bill of fare
  Which hungry cannibals would spare;
  Where lilies in a lovely brown
  Inoculate carnation.
  He _argent_ skin with _or_ so streamed
  As if the milky way were creamed.
  From hence he to the woodbine bends
  That quivers at her fingers' ends,
  That runs division on the tree
  Like a thick-branching pedigree.                                   40
  So 'tis not her the bee devours,
  It is a pretty maze of flowers;
  It is the rose that bleeds, when he
  Nibbles his nice phlebotomy.
  About her finger he doth cling
  I' th' fashion of a wedding-ring,
  And bids his comrades of the swarm
  Crawl as a bracelet 'bout her arm.
  Thus when the hovering publican
  Had sucked the toll of all her span,                               50
  Tuning his draughts with drowsy hums
  As Danes carouse by kettle-drums,
  It was decreed, that posie gleaned,
  The small familiar should be weaned.
  At this the errant's courage quails;
  Yet aided by his native sails
  The bold Columbus still designs
  To find her undiscovered mines.
  To th' Indies of her arm he flies,
  Fraught both with east and western prize;                          60
  Which when he had in vain essayed,
  Armed like a dapper lancepresade
  With Spanish pike, he broached a pore
  And so both made and healed the sore:
  For as in gummy trees there 's found
  A salve to issue at the wound,
  Of this her breach the like was true:
  Hence trickled out a balsam, too.
  But oh, what wasp was 't that could prove
  Ravaillac to my Queen of Love!                                     70
  The King of Bees now 's jealous grown
  Lest her beams should melt his throne,
  And finding that his tribute slacks,
  His burgesses and state of wax
  Turned to a hospital, the combs
  Built rank-and-file like beadsmen's rooms,
  And what they bleed but tart and sour
  Matched with my Danae's golden shower,
  Live-honey all,--the envious elf
  Stung her, 'cause sweeter than himself.                            80
    Sweetness and she are so allied
  The bee committed parricide.




    [_Fuscara._ (_1651_.) Cleveland's most famous poem
    of the amatory, as _The Rebel Scot_ is of the political, kind.
    In _1677_ and since it has been set in the forefront of his
    _Poems_, and Johnson draws specially on it for his famous
    diatribe against the metaphysicals in the 'Life of Cowley'. It
    seems to me inferior both to _The Muses' Festival_ and to
    _The Antiplatonic_, and, as was said in the Introduction, it
    betrays, to me, something of an intention to fool the lovers
    of a fashionable style to the top of their bent. But it has
    extremely pretty things in it; and Mr. Addison, who denounced
    and scorned 'false wit', never 'fair-sexed it' in half so
    poetical a manner.]

    [Line: 2 'Suckets' or 'succades' should need interpretation
    to no reader of _Robinson Crusoe_: and no one who has not read
    _Robinson Crusoe_ deserves to be taken into consideration.]

    [Line: 13 tincture] Said to be used here in an alchemical
    sense for 'gold'. But the plain meaning is much better.]

    [Line: 18 Although the sense is not quite the same as, it is
    much akin to, that of Browning's question--

        'Who knows but the world may end to night?'
    ]

    [Line: 20 Cleveland of course uses the correct and not the
    modern and blundering sense of 'transpire'.]

    [Line: 22 This 'jelly gloved' is _not_ like 'mobled queen' or
    'calcining flame'.]

    [Lines: 25-6 _1653_ and its group have a queer misprint
    (carried out so as to rhyme, but hardly possible as a true
    reading) of 'dives' and 'lives'. If they had had 'In' instead
    of 'On' it would have been on the (metaphysical) cards,
    especially with 'bathes' following.]

    [Line: 28 _1653_, less well, '_the_ nectar'.]

    [Line: 30 Neat, i' faith!]

    [Line: 33 'a lovely _brown_' as being _Fuscara_.]

    [Line: 35 Here Cleveland dares his 'ill armoury again'; _v.
    sup._, p. 25. 'He' _1651_, _1653_: 'Her' _1677_.]

    [Line: 48 as] _1677_, unnecessarily, 'like'. Some (baddish)
    editions '_on_ a bracelet'.]

    [Line: 52 Hardly necessary to notice as another of Cleveland's
    Shakespearian touches.]

    [Line: 62 The correcter form is 'lancep_e_sade'.]

    [Line: 70 '_Ratillias_' _1651_: '_Ratilias_' _1653_: corrected
    in _1677_.]

    [Line: 71 _1677_, dropping the verb from 'now's', improves the
    sense very much.]




*An Elegy upon Doctor Chad[d]erton, the first Master of Emanuel
College in Cambridge, being above an hundred years old when he died.

(_Occasioned by his long-deferred funeral._)


  Pardon, dear Saint, that we so late
  With lazy sighs bemoan thy fate,
  And with an after-shower of verse
  And tears, we thus bedew thy hearse.
  Till now, alas! we did not weep,
  Because we thought thou didst but sleep.
  Thou liv'dst so long we did not know
  Whether thou couldst now die or no.
  We looked still when thou shouldst arise
  And ope the casements of thine eyes.                               10
  Thy feet, which have been used so long
  To walk, we thought, must still go on.
  Thine ears, after a hundred year,
  Might now plead custom for to hear.
    Upon thy head that reverend snow
  Did dwell some fifty years ago:
  And then thy cheeks did seem to have
  The sad resemblance of a grave.
    Wert thou e'er young? For truth I hold
  And do believe thou wert born old.                                 20
  There 's none alive, I'm sure, can say
  They knew thee young, but always grey.
  And dost thou now, venerable oak,
  Decline at Death's unhappy stroke?
  Tell me, dear son, why didst thou die
  And leave 's to write an elegy?
  We're young, alas! and know thee not.
  Send up old Abram and grave Lot.
  Let them write thy Epitaph and tell
  The world thy worth; they kenned thee well.                        30
  When they were boys, they heard thee preach
  And thought an angel did them teach.
    Awake them then: and let them come
  And score thy virtues on thy tomb,
  That we at those may wonder more
  Than at thy many years before.




    [_An Elegy, &c._ This and the following piece are
    among the disputed poems, but as they occur in _1653_ I give
    them, with warning and asterisked. The _D.N.B._ allows (with
    a ?) 104 years (1536?-1640) to Chadderton. As the first Master
    of the House of pure Emmanuel he might be supposed unlikely
    to extract a tear from Cleveland. But he had resigned his
    Mastership nearly twenty years before his death, and that
    death occurred before the troubles became _insanabile vulnus_.
    There is nothing to require special annotation in it, or
    indeed in either, though in _Doctor Chadderton_, l. 23, one
    may safely guess that either 'thou' or 'now' is an intrusion;
    in l. 25 of the same that 'son' should be 'sir', 'sire',
    'saint', &c.; and in l. 29 that 'th' Epitaph' is likelier.]




*Mary's Spikenard.


        Shall I presume,
        Without perfume,
        My Christ to meet
        That is all sweet?
  No! I'll make most pleasant posies,
  Catch the breath of new-blown roses,
  Top the pretty merry flowers,
  Which laugh in the fairest bowers,
  Whose sweetness Heaven likes so well,
  It stoops each morn to take a smell.                               10
    Then I'll fetch from the Ph[oe]nix' nest
  The richest spices and the best,
  Precious ointments I will make;
  Holy Myrrh and aloes take,
  Yea, costly Spikenard in whose smell
  The sweetness of all odours dwell.
  I'll get a box to keep it in,
  Pure as his alabaster skin:
  And then to him I'll nimbly fly
  Before one sickly minute die.                                      20
  This box I'll break, and on his head
  This precious ointment will I spread,
  Till ev'ry lock and ev'ry hair
  For sweetness with his breath compare:
  But sure the odour of his skin
  Smells sweeter than the spice I bring.
    Then with bended knee I'll greet
  His holy and belovéd feet;
  I'll wash them with a weeping eye,
  And then my lips shall kiss them dry;                              30
  Or for a towel he shall have
  My hair--such flax as nature gave.
    But if my wanton locks be bold,
  And on Thy sacred feet take hold,
  And curl themselves about, as though
  They were loath to let thee go,
    O chide them not, and bid away,
    For then for grief they will grow grey.




    [_Mary's Spikenard_ (_1652_) of course suggests
    Crashaw; and yet when one reads it the thought must surely
    occur, 'How differently Crashaw would have done it!' I do
    not think either is Cleveland's, though the odd string of
    unrelated conceits in the Chadderton piece is not unlike him.
    In the other there is nothing like his usual style; but it is
    very pretty, and I will not say he could not have done it as
    an exception. But in that case it is a pity he did not make it
    a rule.]




To Julia to expedite her Promise.


  Since 'tis my doom, Love's undershrieve,
                    Why this reprieve?
  Why doth my she-advowson fly
                    Incumbency?
  Panting expectance makes us prove
  The antics of benighted love,
  And withered mates when wedlock joins,
  They're Hymen's monkeys, which he ties by th' loins
  To play, alas! but at rebated foins.

  To sell thyself dost thou intend                                   10
                    By candle end,
  And hold the contract thus in doubt,
                    Life's taper out?
  Think but how soon the market fails;
  Your sex lives faster than the males;
  As if, to measure age's span,
  The sober Julian were th' account of man,
  Whilst you live by the fleet Gregorian.

  Now since you bear a date so short,
                    Live double for 't.                              20
  How can thy fortress ever stand
                    If 't be not manned?
  The siege so gains upon the place
  Thou'lt find the trenches in thy face.
  Pity thyself then if not me,
  And hold not out, lest like Ostend thou be
  Nothing but rubbish at delivery.

  The candidates of Peter's chair
                    Must plead grey hair,
  And use the simony of a cough                                      30
                    To help them off.
  But when I woo, thus old and spent,
  I'll wed by will and testament.
  No, let us love while crisped and curled;
  The greatest honours, on the agéd hurled,
  Are but gay furloughs for another world.

  To-morrow what thou tenderest me
                    Is legacy.
  Not one of all those ravenous hours
                    But thee devours.                                40
  And though thou still recruited be,
  Like Pelops, with soft ivory,
  Though thou consume but to renew,
  Yet Love as lord doth claim a heriot due;
  That 's the best quick thing I can find of you.

  I feel thou art consenting ripe
                    By that soft gripe,
  And those regealing crystal spheres.
                    I hold thy tears
  Pledges of more distilling sweets,                                 50
  The bath that ushers in the sheets.
    Else pious Julia, angel-wise,
    Moves the Bethesda of her trickling eyes
    To cure the spital world of maladies.




    [_To Julia, &c._ Johnson singled out the opening
    verse of this as a special example of 'bringing remote ideas
    together'.]

    [Line: 1 'Shrieve' of course = 'Sheriff'.]

    [Lines: 3-4 'advowson' (again of course, but these things get
    curiously mistaken nowadays) = '_right_ of presenting to or
    enjoying a benefice'. 'Incumbency' = 'the actual _occupation_
    or enjoyment'. Cf. _Square-Cap_, ll. 37-8.]

    [Line: 9 rebated] The opposite of '_un_bated' in
    _Hamlet_--with the button _on_.]

    [Line: 11 Mr. Pepys on November 6, 1660, watched this process
    (which was specially used in ship-selling) for the first time
    and with interest. 'candle' _1653_: 'candle's' _1677_.]

    [Lines: 17-18 Not a very happy 'conceiting' of the fact that in
    a millennium and a half the Julian reckoning had got ten days
    behindhand.]

    [Line: 27 The siege of Ostend (1601-4) lasted three years and
    seventy-seven days.]

    [Line: 34 Did a far greater Cambridge poet think of this in
    writing

        'When the locks are crisp and curl'd?'

    (_The Vision of Sin._)]

    [Line: 48 regealing] Cleveland seems to use this unusual word
    in the sense of '_un_freezing'.]

    [Line: 51 _1677_ spoils sense and verse alike by beginning the
    line with 'Than'. The 'tears' _are_ the 'bath'.]




Poems in 1677 but not in 1653.




Upon Princess Elizabeth, born the night before New Year's Day.


  Astrologers say Venus, the self-same star,
  Is both our Hesperus and Lucifer;
  The antitype, this Venus, makes it true;
  She shuts the old year and begins the new.
  Her brother with a star at noon was born;
  She, like a star both of the eve and morn.
  Count o'er the stars, fair Queen, in babes, and vie
  With every year a new Epiphany.




    [_Upon Princess Elizabeth._ Not before _1677_. This
    slight thing is inaccurately entitled, for the Princess was
    born on December 26, 1638.]

    [Line: 1 The rhyme of 'star' and 'Lucif_er_', which occurs
    (with 'travell_er_') in Dryden, is--like all Cleveland's
    rhymes, I think without exception--perfectly sound on the
    general principle then observed, and observed partly at all
    times, that _a vowel may, for rhyming purposes, take the sound
    that it has in a similar connexion but in another word_.]

    [Line: 5 brother] Charles II.]




The General Eclipse.


  Ladies that gild the glittering noon,
  And by reflection mend his ray,
  Whose beauty makes the sprightly sun
  To dance as upon Easter-day,
    What are you now the Queen 's away?

  Courageous Eagles, who have whet
  Your eyes upon majestic light,
  And thence derived such martial heat
  That still your looks maintain the fight,
    What are you since the King's good-night?                        10

  Cavalier-buds, whom Nature teems
  As a reserve for England's throne,
  Spirits whose double edge redeems
  The last Age and adorns your own,
    What are you now the Prince is gone?

  As an obstructed fountain's head
  Cuts the entail off from the streams,
  And brooks are disinherited,
  Honour and Beauty are mere dreams
    Since Charles and Mary lost their beams!                         20
  Criminal Valours, who commit
  Your gallantry, whose paean brings
  A psalm of mercy after it,
  In this sad solstice of the King's,
    Your victory hath mewed her wings!

  See, how your soldier wears his cage
  Of iron like the captive Turk,
  And as the guerdon of his rage!
  See, how your glimmering Peers do lurk,
    Or at the best, work journey-work!                               30

  Thus 'tis a general eclipse,
  And the whole world is al-a-mort;
  Only the House of Commons trips
  The stage in a triumphant sort.
    Now e'en John Lilburn take 'em for't!




    [_The General Eclipse._ The poem is of course a
    sort of variation or _scherzo_ on 'You meaner beauties of the
    night'.]

    [Line: 20 We are so accustomed to the double name 'Henrietta
    Maria' that the simple 'Queen Mary' may seem strange. But it
    was the Cavalier word at Naseby.]

    [Line: 32 al-a-mort] Formerly quite naturalized, especially in
    the form all-amort. See _N.E.D._, s.v. 'Alamort'.]




Upon the King's Return from Scotland.


  Returned, I'll ne'er believe 't; first prove him hence;
  Kings travel by their beams and influence.
  Who says the soul gives out her gests, or goes
  A flitting progress 'twixt the head and toes?
  She rules by omnipresence, and shall we
  Deny a prince the same ubiquity?
  Or grant he went, and, 'cause the knot was slack,
  Girt both the nations with his zodiac,
  Yet as the tree at once both upward shoots,
  And just as much grows downward to the roots,                      10
  So at the same time that he posted thither
  By counter-stages he rebounded hither.
  Hither and hence at once; thus every sphere
  Doth by a double motion interfere;
  And when his native form inclines him east,
  By the first mover he is ravished west.
  Have you not seen how the divided dam
  Runs to the summons of her hungry lamb;
  But when the twin cries halves, she quits the first?
  Nature's commendam must be likewise nursed.                        20
  So were his journeys like the spider spun
  Out of his bowels of compassion.
  Two realms, like Cacus, so his steps transpose,
  His feet still contradict him as he goes.
  England 's returned that was a banished soil.
  The bullet flying makes the gun recoil.
  Death 's but a separation, though endorsed
  With spade and javelin; we were thus divorced.
  Our soul hath taken wing while we express
  The corpse, returning to our principles.                           30
  But the Crab-tropic must not now prevail;
  Islands go back but when you're under sail.
  So his retreat hath rectified that wrong;
  Backward is forward in the Hebrew tongue.
  Now the Church Militant in plenty rests,
  Nor fears, like th' Amazon, to lose her breasts.
  Her means are safe; not squeezed until the blood
  Mix with the milk and choke the tender brood.
  She, that hath been the floating ark, is that
  She that 's now seated on Mount Ararat.                            40
  Quits Charles; our souls did guard him northward thus
  Now he the counterpart comes south to us.




    [_Upon the King's Return, &c._ In 1641--an
    ill-omened and unsuccessful journey, which lasted from August
    to November. The piece is one of the very few of those in
    _Cleaveland Revived_ acknowledged and admitted by _Clievelandi
    Vindiciae_.]

    [Line: 3 _1659_ 'ghests'; _1662_, _1668_ 'guests'; _1677_
    'gests'. See _N.E.D._, s.v. 'gest' _sb._^{4}. which defines
    it as 'the various stages of a journey, especially of a royal
    progress; the route followed or planned'.]

    [Line: 20 commendam] (misprinted '-dum' from _1659_ to
    _1677_). A benefice held with another; something additional.]

    [Line: 21: 'spider' _1677_; 'spider's' _1659_, _1662_,
    _1668_.]

    [Line: 25 'banished' _1677_: 'barren' _1659_, _1662_, _1668_.]

    [Line: 30 In this very obscure and ultra-Clevelandian
    line _1677_ reads 'their'. I think 'our'--the reading of
    _Cleaveland Revived_, followed by _1662_ and _1668_--is
    better. But the whole poem (one of Cleveland's earliest
    political attempts) is weak and pithless.]

    [Line: 33 'that' _1687_: 'the' _1659_, _1662_, _1668_.]

    [Line: 42 'counterpart' _1677_: 'counterpane' _1659_, _1662_,
    _1668_.]




Poems certainly or almost certainly Cleveland's but not included in
1653 or 1677.




    [_Poems, &c._ I have been exceedingly chary of
    admission under this head, for there seems to me to be no
    reasonable _via media_ between such severity and the complete
    reprinting of _1687_--with perhaps the _known_ larcenies
    in that and its originals left out. Thus, of eleven poems
    given--but as 'not in _1677_'--by Mr. Berdan I have kept but
    three, besides one or two which, though not in _1677_, are in
    _1653_, and so appear above. Of these the Jonson Elegy from
    _Jonsonus Virbius_ is signed, and as well authenticated as
    anything can be; _News from Newcastle_ is quoted by Johnson
    and therefore of importance to students of the _Lives_. The
    _Elegy upon Charles I_ is in _1654_ among the poems which
    that collection adds to _1653_, is very like him, and relieves
    Cleveland partly, if not wholly, from the charge of being
    wanting to the greatest occasion of his life and calling.]




An Elegy on Ben Jonson.


  Who first reformed our stage with justest laws,
  And was the first best judge in his own cause;
  Who, when his actors trembled for applause,
  Could (with a noble confidence) prefer
  His own, by right, to a whole theatre;
  From principles which he knew could not err:

  Who to his fable did his persons fit,
  With all the properties of art and wit,
  And above all that could be acted, writ:

  Who public follies did to covert drive,                            10
  Which he again could cunningly retrive,
  Leaving them no ground to rest on and thrive:

  Here JONSON lies, whom, had I named before,
  In that one word alone I had paid more
  Than can be now, when plenty makes me poor.

J. CL.




    [_An Elegy, &c._ Although this appears neither in
    _1653_ nor in _1677_, it is included, with some corruptions
    not worth noting, in some editions both before and after the
    latter. Gifford ascribed to Cleveland another unsigned Elegy
    in _Jonsonus Virbius_ and one of the Odes to Ben Jonson on his
    own Ode to himself, 'Come, quit the loathèd stage'. There is
    no authority for the ascription in either case, and the styles
    of both pieces are as unlike as possible to Cleveland's.]

    [Line: 2 Orig., by a slip, '_your_ own cause'. Cleveland may
    have meant to address the poet throughout, or till the last
    verse; but, if so, he evidently changed his mind.]




News from Newcastle:

Upon the Coal-pits about Newcastle-upon-Tyne.


  England 's a perfect world, has Indies too;
  Correct your maps, Newcastle is Peru!
  Let th' haughty Spaniard triumph till 'tis told
  Our sooty min'rals purify his gold.
  This will sublime and hatch the abortive ore,
  When the sun tires and stars can do no more.
  No! mines are current, unrefined, and gross;
  Coals make the sterling, Nature but the dross.
  For metals, Bacchus-like, two births approve;
  Heaven's heat 's the Semele, and ours the Jove.                    10
  Thus Art doth polish Nature; 'tis her trade:
  So every madam has her chambermaid.
    Who'd dote on gold? A thing so strange and odd,
  'Tis most contemptible when made a god!
  All sins and mischiefs thence have rise and swell;
  One Indies more would make another Hell.
  Our mines are innocent, nor will the North
  Tempt poor mortality with too much worth.
  Th' are not so precious; rich enough to fire
  A lover, yet make none idolater.                                   20
  The moderate value of our guiltless ore
  Makes no man atheist, nor no woman whore.
  Yet why should hallowed Vesta's glowing shrine
  Deserve more honour than a flaming mine?
  These pregnant wombs of heat would fitter be,
  Than a few embers, for a deity.
  Had he our pits, the Persian would admire
  No sun, but warm 's devotion at our fire.
  He'd leave the trotting Whipster, and prefer
  This profound Vulcan 'bove that Wagoner.                           30
  For wants he heat, or light? would he have store
  Of both? 'Tis here. And what can suns give more?
  Nay, what 's that sun but, in a different name,
  A coal-pit rampant, or a mine on flame?
  Then let this truth reciprocally run,
  The sun 's Heaven's coalery, and coals our sun;
  A sun that scorches not, locked up i' th' deep;
  The bandog 's chained, the lion is asleep.
  That tyrant fire, which uncontrolled doth rage,
  Here 's calm and hushed, like Bajazet i' th' cage.                 40
  For in each coal-pit there doth couchant dwell
  A muzzled Etna, or an innocent Hell.
  Kindle the cloud, you'll lightning then descry;
  Then will a day break from the gloomy sky;
  Then you'll unbutton though December blow,
  And sweat i' th' midst of icicles and snow;
  The dog-days then at Christmas. Thus is all
  The year made June and equinoctial.
  If heat offend, our pits afford us shade,
  Thus summer 's winter, winter 's summer made.                      50
  What need we baths, what need we bower or grove?
  A coal-pit's both a ventiduct and stove.
  Such pits and caves were palaces of old;
  Poor inns, God wot, yet in an age of gold;
  And what would now be thought a strange design,
  To build a house was then to undermine.
  People lived under ground, and happy dwellers
  Whose jovial habitations were all cellars!
  These primitive times were innocent, for then
  Man, who turned after fox, but made his den.                       60
    But see a fleet of rivals trim and fine,
  To court the rich infanta of our mine;
  Hundreds of grim Leanders dare confront,
  For this loved Hero, the loud Hellespont.
  'Tis an armado royal doth engage
  For some new Helen with this equipage;
  Prepared too, should we their addresses bar,
  To force their mistress with a ten years' war,
  But that our mine 's a common good, a joy
  Made not to ruin but enrich our Troy.                              70
  Thus went those gallant heroes of old Greece,
  The Argonauts, in quest o' th' Golden Fleece.
  But oh! these bring it with 'em and conspire
  To pawn that idol for our smoke and fire.
  Silver 's but ballast; this they bring ashore
  That they may treasure up our better ore.
  For this they venter rocks and storms, defy
  All the extremities of sea and sky.
  For the glad purchase of this precious mould,
  Cowards dare pirates, misers part with gold.                       80
  Hence 'tis that when the doubtful ship sets forth
  The knowing needle still directs it north,
  And Nature's secret wonder, to attest
  Our Indies' worth, discards both east and west.
    For 'tis not only fire commends this spring,
  A coal-pit is a mine of everything.
  We sink a jack-of-all-trades shop, and sound
  An inversed Burse, an Exchange under ground.
  This Proteus earth converts to what you'd ha' 't:
  Now you may weave 't to silk, then coin 't to plate,               90
  And, what 's a metamorphosis more dear,
  Dissolve it and 'twill melt to London beer.
  For whatsoe'er that gaudy city boasts,
  Each month derives to these attractive coasts.
  We shall exhaust their chamber and devour
  Their treasures of Guildhall, the Mint, the Tower.
  Our staiths their mortgaged streets will soon divide,
  Blathon owe Cornhill, Stella share Cheapside.
  Thus will our coal-pits' charity and pity
  At distance undermine and fire the City.                          100
  Should we exact, they'd pawn their wives and treat
  To swap those coolers for our sovereign heat.
  'Bove kisses and embraces fire controls;
  No Venus heightens like a peck of coals.
  Medea was the drudge of some old sire
  And Aeson's bath a lusty sea-coal fire.
  Chimneys are old men's mistresses, their inns,
  A modern dalliance with their measled shins.
  To all defects the coal-heap brings a cure,
  Gives life to age and raiment to the poor.                        110
  Pride first wore clothes; Nature disdains attire;
  She made us naked 'cause she gave us fire.
  Full wharfs are wardrobes, and the tailor's charm
  Belongs to th' collier; he must keep us warm.
  The quilted alderman with all 's array
  Finds but cold comfort on a frosty day;
  Girt, wrapped, and muffled, yet with all that stir
  Scarce warm when smoth'red in his drowsy fur;
  Not proof against keen Winter's batteries
  Should he himself wear all 's own liveries,                       120
  But chilblains under silver spurs bewails
  And in embroid'red buckskins blows his nails.
    Rich meadows and full crops are elsewhere found:
  We can reap harvest from our barren ground.
  The bald parched hills that circumscribe our Tyne
  Are no less fruitful in their hungry mine.
  Their unfledged tops so well content our palates,
  We envy none their nosegays and their sallets.
  A gay rank soil like a young gallant grows
  And spends itself that it may wear fine clothes,                  130
  Whilst all its worth is to its back confined.
  Our wear 's plain outside, but is richly lined;
  Winter 's above, 'tis summer underneath,
  A trusty morglay in a rusty sheath.
  As precious sables sometimes interlace
  A wretched serge or grogram cassock case.
  Rocks own no spring, are pregnant with no showers,
  Crystals and gems grow there instead of flowers;
  Instead of roses, beds of rubies sweat
  And emeralds recompense the violet.                               140
  Dame Nature not, like other madams, wears,
  Where she is bare, pearls on her breasts or ears.
  What though our fields present a naked sight?
  A paradise should be an adamite.
  The northern lad his bonny lass throws down
  And gives her a black bag for a green gown.




    [_News from Newcastle_, if not Cleveland's, is
    infinitely more of a Clevelandism than any other
    attributed piece, either in the untrustworthy (or rather
    upside-down-trustworthy) _Cleaveland Revived_ or elsewhere. It
    first appeared as a quarto pamphlet, 'London. Printed in the
    year 1651. By William Ellis', and with a headline to the poem
    'Upon the Coalpits about Newcastle-upon-Tyne'. This quarto
    furnishes the only sound text. It was reprinted very corruptly
    in _Cleaveland Revived_, _1660_, and thence in the editions
    of _1662_, _1668_, _1687_, and later. A collation of _1660_
    is given. Title in _1660_ 'News from Newcastle, Or, Newcastle
    Coal-pits'. MS. Rawlinson Poet, 65 of the Bodleian has a
    version agreeing in the main with _1660_.]

    [Line: 1 has] hath _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 5 'obortive' _1668_.]

    [Line: 7 _1651_, later texts, and _MS._ 'No mines', which has
    no meaning without a stop or interjection.]

    [Line: 8 'nature's' _MS._]

    [Line: 10 'Heaven heats' _1660_. The mine is the womb of
    Semele warmed by the sun: the furnace the thigh of Jove heated
    by coal.]

    [Line: 11 her] the _1660_: its _MS._]

    [Line: 12 has] hath _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 15 'sin and mischief hence' _1660_: 'sin and mischief
    thence' _MS._]

    [Line: 16 Indies] India _1660._]

    [Line: 17 mines] times _MS._]

    [Line: 19 _1660_ 'so': _1651_ 'too', unconsciously repeating
    the 'too much' of l. 18.]

    [Line: 20 none] no _MS._]

    [Line: 22 Simply an adaptation of the earlier conclusion--

        'Should make men atheists and not women whores'.
    ]

    [Line: 23 Vesta's glowing] Vestals' sacred _1660_. shrine]
    shine _MS._]

    [Line: 29 trotting Whipster] Phoebus, of course.]

    [Line: 30 This] Our _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 31 light? would he] light, or would _1660_. store]
    Misprinted 'more' in _1651_.]

    [Line: 32 suns] Sun _MS._]

    [Line: 33 that] the _1660_.]

    [Line: 34 on flame] or flame _1660_.]

    [Line: 36 coalery] Original and pleasing. 'Collier' is used
    below.]

    [Line: 37 scorches] scorcheth _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 38 bandog's] lion's _1660_. lion] bandog _1660_.]

    [Line: 42 or] and _MS._]

    [Line: 43 the] this _MS._]

    [Line: 45 'Un_bottom_,' by evident error, in _1668_.]

    [Line: 47 Thus] Then _MS._]

    [Line: 49 'offends' _1660_. 'affords' _1660_.]

    [Line: 60 but made] made but _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 61 rivals] vitals _1660_.]

    [Line: 63 dare] do _1660_.]

    [Line: 68 their] this _1660_, _MS._]

    [Lines: 71-2 Omitted in _1660_ and all later texts. _1651_
    misprints 'Argeuauts'.]

    [Line: 73 'em] them _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 75 ashore] on shore _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 76 better] richer _MS._]

    [Line: 78 extremities] extremity _1660_.]

    [Line: 81 'tis that] is it _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 82 knowing] naving _1660_: knavish _MS._]

    [Line: 83 wonder] wonders _1660_.]

    [Line: 84 both] with _MS._]

    [Line: 85 For 'tis not] For Tyne. Not _1660_ (without the
    period at l. 84), _MS._]

    [Line: 86 of] for _1660_.]

    [Line: 87 _1651_ mispunctuates with a comma at 'sink';
    _1660_ adds comma at 'jack-of-all-trades' and 'sound': _MS._
    punctuates correctly.]

    [Line: 88 inversed] inverse _1660_.]

    [Line: 89 you'd] you'l _1660_.]

    [Line: 90 weave 't] wear't _1660_. then] now _1660_. coin 't]
    com't _1660_.]

    [Line: 91 And] Or _MS._]

    [Line: 92 melt] turn _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 93 boasts] boast _1660_.]

    [Line: 94 derives] doth drive _1660_, _MS._ these] our _1660_,
    _MS._ coasts] coast _1660_.]

    [Line: 96 treasures] treasure _1660_, _MS._ the Mint, the] and
    mint o' th' _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 97 staiths] Wooden erections projecting into the river,
    which were used to store the coal and fitted with spouts for
    shooting it into the ships. divide] deride _1660_.]

    [Line: 98 'Blathon their Cornhill, Stella' _MS_: 'Blazon their
    Cornhill-stella,' _1660_.] Blathon, now Blaydon, the mining
    district. 'owe' = own. 'Stella' Hall, near Blaydon, was a
    nunnery before the Dissolution, when it passed into the
    hands of the Tempests. (Mr. Nichol Smith kindly supplied this
    information.)]

    [Line: 102 swap] swop _1660_.]

    [Line: 105 drudge] drugge _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 109 the] a _1659_. brings] gives _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 110 life] youth _1660_.]

    [Line: 113 tailor's] sailor's _MS._]

    [Line: 115 with] in _1660_.]

    [Line: 116 on] in _1660_, _MS._]

    [Line: 117 that] this _1660_.]

    [Line: 119 Not] Nor'st _MS._ 'proof enough' _1651_: 'enough'
    is omitted in _1660_, and deleted by a seventeenth-century
    corrector in the Bodleian copy of _1651_.]

    [Line: 121 chilblains] chilblain _1660_.]

    [Line: 126 fruitful] pregnant _1660_.]

    [Line: 128 and] or _MS._]

    [Line: 134 Cleveland has used 'morglay', Bevis's sword, as a
    common noun elsewhere; but of course an imitator might seize
    on this.]

    [Line: 138 grow] are _1660_.]

    [Line: 139 sweat] sweet _1668_, _1687_, _MS._]

    [Line: 142 on] in _1660_. or] and _1660_. 'breasts, not ears'
    _MS._]

    [Lines: 145-6 Or as a modern Newcastle song, more decently but
    less picturesquely, puts it in the lass's own mouth--

        'He sits in his hole,
        As black as a coal,
        And brings the white money to me--O!'
    ]




An Elegy upon King Charles the First, murdered publicly by his
Subjects.


  Were not my faith buoyed up by sacred blood,
  It might be drowned in this prodigious flood;
  Which reason's highest ground doth so exceed,
  It leaves my soul no anch'rage but my creed;
  Where my faith, resting on th' original,
  Supports itself in this, the copy's fall.
  So while my faith floats on that bloody wood,
  My reason 's cast away in this red flood
  Which near o'erflows us all. Those showers past
  Made but land-floods, which did some valleys waste.                10
  This stroke hath cut the only neck of land
  Which between us and this red sea did stand,
  That covers now our world which curséd lies
  At once with two of Egypt's prodigies
  (O'ercast with darkness and with blood o'errun),
  And justly since our hearts have theirs outdone.
  Th' enchanter led them to a less known ill
  To act his sin, than 'twas their king to kill;
  Which crime hath widowed our whole nation,
  Voided all forms, left but privation                               20
  In Church and State; inverting every right;
  Brought in Hell's state of fire without light.
  No wonder then if all good eyes look red,
  Washing their loyal hearts from blood so shed;
  The which deserves each pore should turn an eye
  To weep out even a bloody agony.
  Let nought then pass for music but sad cries,
  For beauty bloodless cheeks and blood-shot eyes.
  All colours soil but black; all odours have
  Ill scent but myrrh, incens'd upon this grave.                     30
  It notes a Jew not to believe us much
  The cleaner made by a religious touch
  Of this dead body, whom to judge to die
  Seems the Judaical impiety.
  To kill the King, the Spirit Legion paints
  His rage with law, the Temple and the saints.
  But the truth is, he feared and did repine
  To be cast out and back into the swine.
  And the case holds, in that the Spirit bends
  His malice in this act against his ends;                           40
  For it is like the sooner he'll be sent
  Out of that body he would still torment.
  Let Christians then use otherwise this blood;
  Detest the act, yet turn it to their good;
  Thinking how like a King of Death he dies
  We easily may the world and death despise.
  Death had no sting for him and its sharp arm,
  Only of all the troop, meant him no harm.
  And so he looked upon the axe as one
  Weapon yet left to guard him to his throne.                        50
  In his great name then may his subjects cry,
  'Death, thou art swallowed up in victory.'
  If this, our loss, a comfort can admit,
  'Tis that his narrowed crown is grown unfit
  For his enlargéd head, since his distress
  Had greatened this, as it made that the less.
  His crown was fallen unto too low a thing
  For him who was become so great a king.
  So the same hands enthroned him in that crown
  They had exalted from him, not pulled down.                        60
  And thus God's truth by them hath rendered more
  Than e'er man's falsehood promised to restore;
  Which, since by death alone he could attain,
  Was yet exempt from weakness and from pain.
  Death was enjoined by God to touch a part,
  Might make his passage quick, ne'er move his heart,
  Which even expiring was so far from death
  It seemed but to command away his breath.
  And thus his soul, of this her triumph proud,
  Broke like a flash of lightning through the cloud                  70
  Of flesh and blood; and from the highest line
  Of human virtue, passed to be divine.
  Nor is 't much less his virtues to relate
  Than the high glories of his present state.
  Since both, then, pass all acts but of belief,
  Silence may praise the one, the other grief.
  And since upon the diamond no less
  Than diamonds will serve us to impress,
  I'll only wish that for his elegy
  This our Josias had a Jeremy.                                      80




    [_An Elegy, &c._ See above. First printed in
    _Monumentum Regale_, _1649,_ p. 49; then in the _1654_ edition
    of Cleveland.]

    [Line: 3 _1654_, _1657_, _1669_ 'doth'. Other (it is true
    inferior) texts, such as _1659_, _1665,_ and the successors of
    _1677_, 'do': which any one who has ever read his Pepys must
    know to be possible in the singular.]

    [Line: 33 'this' _1649_: 'their' _1653_ and later editions.]

    [Line: 35 paints = 'tries to disguise'.]

    [Since these sheets were last revised, and when they
    were ready for press, Mr. Simpson discovered and communicated
    to me some variants (from Bodley MSS.) of Cleveland's pieces
    on Chadderton (_v. sup._ p. 81) and Williams (p. 69). His note
    is as follows:

    "There is a version of the _Elegy upon Doctor Chadderton_
    (page 81) in Ashmole MS. 36-7, fol. 263. After l. 14 four
    lines are inserted:

        We thought, for so we would it have,
        Thou hadst outlived death and the grave,
        Hadst been past dying, and by thine own
        Brave virtue been immortal grown.

    Not very brilliant, but no one would have any motive for
    interpolating such lines. Further, ll. 17-18 are omitted.

    25 'dear S^{nt}.' i.e. as conjectured in the note, 'Saint.'

    30 'Kend' written in a larger hand, with a view to emphasis.
    Query, a favourite word of Chadderton?

    In the same MS. is a version of the poem on Archbishop
    Williams (p. 69). Most readings are bad, but the following are
    noteworthy:

    4 concorporate one.

    11 And vindicate whate'er.

        55                when happier ages (which of late
        The viper cherish'd) with unpartial fate."
    ]


       * * *


       *       *       *       *       *




POEMS

AND

TRANSLATIONS.

BY

_THOMAS STANLEY_ Esquire.

  _Quæ mea culpa tamen, nisi si lusisse vocari
  Culpa potest: nisi culpa potest & amasse, vocari?_

Tout vient a poinct qui peut attendre.

Printed for the Author, and his Friends, 1647.




POEMS,

BY

_THOMAS STANLEY_ ESQUIRE.

  _Quæ mea culpa tamen, nisi si lusisse vocari
  Culpa potest: nisi culpa potest & amasse, vocari?_

[Illustration]


Printed in the Year,

1651.




INTRODUCTION TO THOMAS STANLEY


Thomas Stanley, poet, scholar, translator, and historian of
philosophy, occupies a position in literary history, and in the
general knowledge of fairly instructed people, which is less
unenviable than that of Cleveland, almost equally curious, but more
distinctly accidental. In a way--in more ways than one--he cannot be
said to be exactly unknown. Everybody who has received the once usual
'liberal education', if not directly acquainted with his work on
classical literature, has seen his _History of Philosophy_ referred to
in later histories; and his notes on Aeschylus quoted, and sometimes
fought over, in later editions. His translations have attained a place
in that private-adventure Valhalla of English translations--Bohn's
Library. A few at least of his poems are in all or most of the
anthologies. Not many writers have such an anchor with four flukes,
lodged in the general memory, as this. And yet there are probably few
people who have any very distinct knowledge or idea of his work as a
whole; his _Poems_ (until a time subsequent to the original promise of
them in this Collection) had never been issued since his own day save
in one of the few-copied reprints of the indefatigable Sir Egerton
Brydges; and he makes small figure in most literary histories.

The reasons of this, however, are not very far to seek. For a very
considerable time during the later seventeenth and the whole of the
eighteenth century, if not later, Stanley was a recognized authority
on history and scholarship: but during this time a philosopher and a
scholar would have been usually thought to derogate, strangely and not
quite pardonably, by writing and translating love poetry in a style
of 'false wit' the most contrary to the precepts of Mr. Addison.
We cannot even be sure that Stanley himself would not have been
short-sighted enough to feel a certain shame at his harmless
_fredaines_ in verse, for he certainly never published or fully
collected them at all after he was six and twenty, though he lived to
double that age. He seems, moreover, though most forward to help other
men of letters, to have been in all other ways a decidedly retiring
person--a man of books rather than of affairs. Though an unquestioned
Royalist, and not accused of any dishonourable compliance, he seems to
have been quite undisturbed during the Civil War, no doubt because
of his observation of the precept [Greek: lathe biôsas]. In short, he
took no trouble to keep himself before any public except the public
of letters, and the public of letters chose to keep him only in his
capacity as scholar.

If, however, he put himself not forward it was not for want of means
and opportunity to do so. After some mistakes about his genealogy,
it has been made certain that he was descended, though with the bend
sinister, from the great house that bears the same name, and through a
branch which enriched itself by commerce and settled in Hertfordshire
and Essex. His mother was a Hammond of the family which has been
referred to in dealing with his uncle the poet (vol. ii), and he was
also connected with Sandys, Lovelace, and Sherburne, all of whom were
his intimate friends, as were John Hall and Shirley the dramatist.
He seems always to have been a man of means: and used them liberally,
though less thoughtlessly than Benlowes, in assisting brother men of
letters. He is not said to have been at any of the great schools,
but his private tutor William Fairfax (son of Edward of Tasso fame)
appears to have grounded him thoroughly in scholarship. At thirteen he
went to Pembroke College (then Hall), Cambridge, entering in June 1639
and matriculating in December. He is said to have entered at Oxford
next year. He was co-opted at Cambridge in 1642 as (apparently) a
gentleman pensioner or commoner. He married early, his wife's name
being Dorothy Enyon, and they had several children, of whom
four survived him when he died, in 1678, at Suffolk Street, St.
Martin's-in-the-Fields.

There is a tendency--which is perhaps rather slightly unfair than
positively unjust--to suspect a poet who is specially given to
translation: and not exactly to discard the suspicion in the ratio of
his excellence as a translator. The reason behind this is sufficient,
as has been said, to free it from the charge of positive injustice as
a general rule, for it may be plausibly contended that a true poet,
with nature and his own soul to draw upon, will not experience any
great necessity to go to some one else for matter. But these general
rules are always dangerous in particular application, and therefore
it has been said that the notion is not quite fair. In fact, if it
is examined as it does apply to individuals, it becomes clear that
it will not do as a general rule at all--that like some other general
rules it is practically useless. That Chaucer was _grant translateur_
may be said to be neither here nor there in the circumstances. But
Spenser did not disdain translation; Dryden evidently did it for
love as well as for money, though the latter may have been its chief
attraction for Pope; and a poet such as Shelley, who was very nearly
_the_ poet, by no means despised it.

When, however, we come to examine Stanley's work we may perhaps
discover something in the very excellence of his translations which
connects itself usefully with his original poems. These translations
are excellent because he has almost unerringly selected writers who
are suitable to the poetical style of his own day, and has transposed
them into English verse of that style. But in his original poems
there is perhaps a little too much suggestion of something not wholly
dissimilar. They are (pretty as they almost always are, and beautiful
as they sometimes are) a little devoid of the spontaneity and _élan_
which distinguish the best things of the time from Carew and Crashaw
down to Kynaston and John Hall. There is a very little of the
_exercise_ about them. Moreover, not quite as a necessary consequence
of this, there is a want of decided character. Stanley is much more a
typical minor Caroline poet than he is Stanley, and so much must
needs be said critically in these volumes on the type that it seems
unnecessary to repeat it on an individual who gives that type with
little idiosyncrasy, even while giving it in some abundance and with
real charm. Only let it be added that we could not have a better foil
to Cleveland, who, though unpolished, is always 'Manly, Sir, manly!'
than this scholarly and graceful but somewhat epicene poet.

There are, however, some peculiarities about his work which made
me slow to make up my mind about the fashion of presenting it. His
translations are numerous: but this collection was not originally
intended to include translations unless they were inextricably
connected with issues of original work, or where, as in Godolphin's
case, there was a special reason. Further, the translations, which are
from a large number of authors, ancient and modern, sometimes
include prose as well as verse. Thirdly, even the original poems were
cross-issued in widely different arrangements. In short, the thing
was rather a muddle, and though no one has occupied me in my various
visits to the British Museum and the Bodleian during the past ten
or twelve years oftener than Stanley, I postponed him from volume
to volume. At last, and very recently a feasible plan suggested
itself--to give the edition of 1651 as Brydges had done, this being
after all the only one which at once represents revision and definite
literary purpose, and to let the translations in this represent--as
the poet seems himself to have selected them to do--his translating
habits and studies. Before these I have printed the original poems of
the first or 1647 edition, and after them the few which he seems to
have allowed to be added to the set versions in Gamble's _Airs and
Dialogues_ ten years later. I think this will put Stanley on a
fair level with the rest of our flock. Those who want his
classical translations from Anacreon, Ausonius, the Idylls, and the
_Pervigilium_, as well as from Johannes Secundus, will not have much
difficulty in finding them; and I did not see my way to load
this volume with Preti's _Oronta_, Montalvan's _Aurora_, &c. The
bibliography of these things is rather complicated, and I do not
pretend to have followed it out exhaustively. In fact this is
certainly the case as far as my own collations of 1647, made at the
British Museum, and those furnished me from the Bodleian copy are
concerned.[1] But the differences are rarely of importance. 1647, a
private issue, was reprinted in 1650 and 1651: while Gamble's
_Airs and Dialogues_ appeared in 1656 and was reissued with a fresh
title-page in 1657. In the latter year Stanley furnished another
composer--John Wilson, Professor of Music at Oxford--with the
letterpress of _Psalterium Carolinum_, the King's devotions from the
_Eikon_ versified. His _History of Philosophy_ appeared in 1655: his
_Aeschylus_ in 1663.

Some years ago (London, 1893) a beautiful illustrated edition of his
_Anacreon_ appeared, and more recently--but, as I have noted, after
the announcement of this collection--a carefully arranged and collated
edition of the original _Lyrics_ with a few selected translations
(Tutin, Hull, 1907), edited by Miss L. Imogen Guiney. I have not found
Miss Guiney's work useless, and if I have occasionally had to question
her emendations that is only a matter of course.




    [Footnote 1: I am informed by three subsequent collators more
    experienced in such work than myself--Mr. Percy Simpson, Mr.
    Thorn-Drury, and a Clarendon Press reader--that they have not
    found some differences which my own comparison-notes of some
    years ago seemed to show between the British Museum and the
    Bodleian copies of 1647. No doubt they are right. Some of the
    dates given above have also been corrected by them.]




CONTENTS


                                                           PAGE

  THOMAS STANLEY                                             95
      Introduction                                           97

    POEMS NOT PRINTED AFTER 1647                            101
      Despair                                               101
      The Picture                                           101
      Opinion                                               101

    POEMS PRINTED IN 1647 AND REPRINTED IN 1656
    BUT NOT IN 1651                                         102
      The Dream                                             102
      To Chariessa, beholding herself in a Glass            102
      The Blush                                             103
      The Cold Kiss                                         103
      The Idolater                                          104
      The Magnet                                            104
      On a Violet in her Breast                             105
      Song: 'Foolish lover, go and seek'                    105
      The Parting                                           106
      Counsel                                               106
      Expostulation with Love in Despair                    107
      Song: 'Faith, 'tis not worth thy pains and care'      108
      Expectation                                           108

    1651 POEMS                                              109
      The Dedication: To Love                               109
      The Glow-worm                                         110
      The Breath                                            111
      Desiring her to burn his Verses                       111
      The Night                                             112
      Excuse for wishing her less Fair                      113
      Chang'd, yet Constant                                 113
      The Self-deceiver (_Montalvan_)                       115
      The Cure                                              115
      Celia Singing                                         117
      A la Mesme                                            117
      The Return                                            118
      Song: 'When I lie burning in thine eye'               119
      The Sick Lover (_Guarini_)                            119
      Song: 'Celinda, by what potent art'                   120
      Song: 'Fool, take up thy shaft again'                 120
      Delay                                                 121
      Commanded by his Mistress to woo for her
      (_Marina_)                                            121
      The Repulse                                           122
      The Tomb                                              123
      The Enjoyment (_St.-Amant_)                           124
      To Celia Pleading Want of Merit                       126
      The Bracelet (_Tristan_)                              127
      The Kiss                                              128
      Apollo and Daphne (_Garcilasso Marino_)               128
      Speaking and Kissing                                  129
      The Snow-ball                                         129
      The Deposition                                        130
      To his Mistress in Absence (_Tasso_)                  130
      Love's Heretic                                        130
      La Belle Confidente                                   132
      La Belle Ennemie                                      132
      The Dream (_Lope de Vega_)                            133
      To the Lady D.                                        133
      Love Deposed                                          134
      The Divorce                                           134
      Time Recovered (_Casone_)                             135
      The Bracelet                                          135
      The Farewell                                          136
      Claim to Love (_Guarini_)                             137
      To his Mistress, who dreamed he was wounded
      (_Guarini_)                                           137
      The Exchange                                          138
      Unaltered by Sickness                                 138
      On his Mistress's Death (_Petrarch_)                  139
      The Exequies                                          139
      The Silkworm                                          140
      A Lady Weeping (_Montalvan_)                          140
      Ambition                                              141
      Song: 'When, dearest beauty, thou shall pay'          141
      The Revenge                                           142
      Song: 'I will not trust thy tempting graces'          142
      Song: 'No, I will sooner trust the wind'              143
      To a Blind Man in Love (_Marino_)                     143
        Answer                                              143
      Song: 'I prithee let my heart alone'                  144
      The Loss                                              144
      The Self-Cruel                                        145
      Song (_by M. W. M._):
      'Wert thou yet fairer than thou art'                  145
        Answer                                              146
      The Relapse                                           146
      To the Countess of S. with the Holy Court             147
      Song (_De Voiture_):
      'I languish in a silent flame'                        147
      Drawn for Valentine by the L. D. S.                   148
      The Modest Wish (_Barclay_)                           148
      E Catalectis Veterum Poetarum                         149
      On the Edition of Mr. Fletcher's Works                149
      To Mr. W. Hammond                                     150
      On Mr. Shirley's Poems                                151
      On Mr. Sherburn's Translation of Seneca's _Medea_,
      and Vindication of the Author                         152
      On Mr. Hall's Essays                                  153
      On Sir John Suckling his Picture and Poems            154
      The Union (_by Mr. William Fairfax_)                  154
        The Answer                                          154
      Pythagoras his Moral Rules                            155

    POEMS APPEARING ONLY IN THE EDITION OF 1656             159
      'On this swelling bank, once proud'                   159
      'Dear, fold me once more in thine arms!'              160
      'The lazy hours move slow'                            160




POEMS NOT PRINTED AFTER 1647




_Despair._


    No, no, poor blasted Hope!
  Since I (with thee) have lost the scope
  Of all my joys, I will no more
            Vainly implore
  The unrelenting Destinies:
  He that can equally sustain
  The strong assaults of joy or pain,
  May safely laugh at their decrees.

    Despair, to thee I bow,
  Whose constancy disdains t' allow                                  10
  Those childish passions that destroy
            Our fickle joy;
  How cruel Fates so e'er appear,
  Their harmless anger I despise,
  And fix'd, can neither fall nor rise,
  Thrown below hope, but rais'd 'bove fear.




    [_Despair._] Note here the skill and success of the
    use of the short--almost 'bob'--lines, and the _In Memoriam_
    arrangement of rhyme in the last half of each stanza.]




_The Picture._


  Thou that both feel'st and dost admire
  The flames shot from a painted fire,
  Know Celia's image thou dost see:
  Not to herself more like is she.
  He that should both together view
  Would judge both pictures, or both true.
  But thus they differ: the best part
  Of Nature this is; that of Art.




    [_The Picture._] The conceit wraps up the point of
    the epigram.]




_Opinion._


  Whence took the diamond worth? the borrow'd rays
  That crystal wears, whence had they first their praise?
  Why should rude feet contemn the snow's chaste white,
  Which from the sun receives a sparkling light,
  Brighter than diamonds far, and by its birth
  Decks the green garment of the richer earth?
  Rivers than crystal clearer, when to ice
  Congeal'd, why do weak judgements so despise?
  Which, melting, show that to impartial sight
  Weeping than smiling crystal is more bright.                       10
    But Fancy those first priz'd, and these did scorn,
  Taking their praise the other to adorn.
  Thus blind is human sight: opinion gave
  To their esteem a birth, to theirs a grave;
  Nor can our judgements with these clouds dispense,
  Since reason sees but with the eyes of sense.




    [_Opinion._] As in _The Dream_, distinctly nervous
    stopped couplet.]




POEMS PRINTED IN 1647 AND REPRINTED IN 1656 BUT NOT IN 1651




_The Dream._


  That I might ever dream thus! that some power
  To my eternal sleep would join this hour!
  So, willingly deceiv'd, I might possess
  In seeming joys a real happiness.
  Haste not away: oh do not dissipate
  A pleasure thou so lately didst create!
  Stay, welcome Sleep; be ever here confin'd;
  Or if thou wilt away, leave her behind.




    [_The Dream._] Closed couplets, already of
    considerable accomplishment. Reprinted in _1656_ in an
    enlarged form; after ll. 1-4 the poem continued:--

        Death, I would gladly bow beneath thy charms,
        If thou couldst bring my Doris to my arms,
        That thus at last made happy I might prove
        In life the hell, in death the heaven of love.
        Haste not away so soon, mock not my joy,
        With the delusive sight or empty noise
        Of happiness; oh do not dissipate
        A pleasure thou so lately didst create!
        Shadows of life or death do such bliss give,
        That 'tis an equal curse to wake or live.
        Stay then, kind Sleep; be ever here confin'd;
        Or if thou wilt away, leave her behind.
    ]




_To Chariessa, beholding herself in a Glass._


  Cast, Chariessa, cast that glass away,
  Nor in its crystal face thine own survey.
  What can be free from Love's imperious laws
  When painted shadows real flames can cause?
  The fires may burn thee from this mirror rise
  By the reflected beams of thine own eyes;
  And thus at last, fallen with thyself in love,
  Thou wilt my rival, thine own martyr prove.
  But if thou dost desire thy form to view,
  Look in my heart where Love thy picture drew;                      10
  And then, if pleased with thine own shape thou be,
  Learn how to love thyself in loving me.




    [_To Chariessa &c._] ]

    [Line: 12 _1656_ 'by loving'.]




_The Blush._


  So fair Aurora doth herself discover
  (Asham'd o' th' aged bed of her cold lover)
  In modest blushes, whilst the treacherous light
  Betrays her early shame to the world's sight.
  Such a bright colour doth the morning rose
  Diffuse, when she her soft self doth disclose
  Half drown'd in dew, whilst on each leaf a tear
  Of night doth like a dissolv'd pearl appear;
  Yet 'twere in vain a colour out to seek
  To parallel my Chariessa's cheek;                                  10
  Less are conferr'd with greater, and these seem
  To blush like her, not she to blush like them.
    But whence, fair soul, this passion? what pretence
  Had guilt to stain thy spotless innocence?
  Those only this feel who have guilty been,
  Not any blushes know, but who know sin.
  Then blush no more; but let thy chaster flame,
  That knows no cause, know no effects of shame.




    [_The Blush._] Interesting to compare prosodically
    with _The Dream_ and _Opinion_. A much older fashion of
    couplet, here and there overlapped and breathless, but
    pointing towards the newer. In l. 11 Miss Guiney has
    unfortunately altered 'conferr'd' (_confero_ = 'to set side
    by side') to 'compar'd'. In l. 15, _1647_ has the common 'bin'
    and l. 16 'knows' for the second 'know'.]




_The Cold Kiss._


  Such icy kisses, anchorites that live
  Secluded from the world, to dead skulls give;
  And those cold maids on whom Love never spent
  His flame, nor know what by desire is meant,
  To their expiring fathers such bequeath,
  Snatching their fleeting spirits in that breath:
  The timorous priest doth with such fear and nice
  Devotion touch the Holy Sacrifice.

  Fie, Chariessa! whence so chang'd of late,
  As to become in love a reprobate?                                  10
  Quit, quit this dullness, Fairest, and make known
  A flame unto me equal with mine own.
  Shake off this frost, for shame, that dwells upon
  Thy lips; or if it will not so be gone,
  Let 's once more join our lips, and thou shalt see
  That by the flame of mine 'twill melted be.




    [_The Cold Kiss._] There are some very trifling
    alterations, all for the worse, in _1656_ (Gamble).]




_The Idolater._


  Think not, pale lover, he who dies,
  Burnt in the flames of Celia's eyes,
  Is unto Love a sacrifice;

  Or, by the merit of this pain,
  Thou shalt the crown of martyrs gain!
  Those hopes are, as thy passion, vain.

  For when, by death, from these flames free,
  To greater thou condemn'd shalt be,
  And punish'd for idolatry,

  Since thou (Love's votary before                                   10
  Whilst He was kind) dost him no more,
  But, in his shrine, Disdain adore.

  Nor will this fire (the gods prepare
  To punish scorn) that cruel Fair,
  (Though now from flames exempted) spare;

  But as together both shall die,
  Both burnt alike in flames shall lie,
  She in thy breast, thou in her eye.




    [_The Idolater._] ]

    [Line: 11 'He' altered in _1656_ to 'she', which Miss Guiney
    adopts. But of course 'He' is Love.]

    [Line: 18 breast _1647_: later, much worse, 'heart'.]




_The Magnet._


  Ask the empress of the night
    How the Hand which guides her sphere,
  Constant in unconstant light,
    Taught the waves her yoke to bear,
  And did thus by loving force
  Curb or tame the rude sea's course.

  Ask the female palm how she
    First did woo her husband's love;
  And the magnet, ask how he
    Doth th' obsequious iron move;                                   10
  Waters, plants, and stones know this:
  That they love; not what Love is.
  Be not then less kind than these,
    Or from Love exempt alone!
  Let us twine like amorous trees,
    And like rivers melt in one.
  Or, if thou more cruel prove,
  Learn of steel and stones to love.




    [_The Magnet._] ]

    [Line: 9 'he' _1647_, altered to 'she' in _1656_. One would
    expect 'he' to avoid identical rhyme, but Stanley was a
    scholar and the Greek is [Greek: hê Magnêtis lithos], and the
    other things to be 'asked' are feminine.]

    [In l. 13 'then' became 'thou', neither for better nor for
    worse.]




_On a Violet in her Breast._


  See how this violet, which before
    Hung sullenly her drooping head,
  As angry at the ground that bore
    The purple treasure which she spread,
  Doth smilingly erected grow,
  Transplanted to those hills of snow.

  And whilst the pillows of thy breast
    Do her reclining head sustain,
  She swells with pride to be so blest,
    And doth all other flowers disdain;                              10
  Yet weeps that dew which kissed her last,
  To see her odours so surpass'd.

  Poor flower! how far deceiv'd thou wert,
    To think the riches of the morn,
  Or all the sweets she can impart,
    Could these or sweeten or adorn,
  Since thou from them dost borrow scent,
  And they to thee lend ornament!




    [_On a Violet in her Breast._]

    [Line: 6 'hills of snow' is probably as old as the Garden of
    Eden (if there was snow there). But Stanley must have known
    the exquisite second verse of 'Take, oh take those lips away'
    in _The Bloody Brother_. I would ask any one who despises
    this as a mere commonplace love-poem to note--if he can--the
    splendid swell of the verse to the fourth line, and then the
    'turn' of the final couplet. With Stanley and his generation
    that swell and turn passed--never to reappear till William
    Blake revived it nearly a century and a half afterwards.]




_Song._


  Foolish Lover, go and seek
    For the damask of the rose,
    And the lilies white dispose
  To adorn thy mistress' cheek;

  Steal some star out of the sky,
    Rob the phoenix, and the east
    Of her wealthy sweets divest,
  To enrich her breath or eye!

  We thy borrow'd pride despise:
    For this wine, to which we are                                   10
    Votaries, is richer far
  Than her cheek, or breath, or eyes.

  And should that coy fair one view
    These diviner beauties, she
    In this flame would rival thee,
  And be taught to love thee too.

  Come, then, break thy wanton chain,
    That when this brisk wine hath spread
    On thy paler cheek a red,
  Thou, like us, mayst Love disdain.                                 20

  Love, thy power must yield to wine!
    And whilst thus ourselves we arm,
    Boldly we defy thy charm:
  For these flames extinguish thine.




    [_Song._] A Donne-inspired one, doubtless, but not
    ill justified. 'Distinguish' in the last line is one of the
    numerous misprints of _1656_.]




_The Parting._


      I go, dear Saint, away,
          Snatch'd from thy arms
      By far less pleasing charms,
      Than those I did obey;
  But when hereafter thou shall know
      That grief hath slain me, come,
          And on my tomb
      Drop, drop a tear or two;
  Break with thy sighs the silence of my sleep,
  And I shall smile in death to see thee weep.                       10

      Thy tears may have the power
          To reinspire
      My ashes with new fire,
      Or change me to some flower,
  Which, planted 'twixt thy breasts, shall grow:
      Veil'd in this shape, I will
          Dwell with thee still,
      Court, kiss, enjoy thee too:
  Securely we'll contemn all envious force,
  And thus united be by death's divorce.                             20




    [_The Parting._] ]

    [Line: 19 contemn _1647_: contain _1656_.]




_Counsel._


  When deceitful lovers lay
    At thy feet their suppliant hearts,
  And their snares spread to betray
    Thy best treasure with their arts,
  Credit not their flatt'ring vows:
  Love such perjury allows.

  When they with the choicest wealth
    Nature boasts of, have possess'd thee;
  When with flowers (their verses' stealth),
    Stars, or jewels they invest thee,                               10
  Trust not to their borrow'd store:
  'Tis but lent to make thee poor.

  When with poems they invade thee,
    Sing thy praises or disdain;
  When they weep, and would persuade thee
    That their flames beget that rain;
  Let thy breast no baits let in:
  Mercy 's only here a sin!

  Let no tears or offerings move thee,
    All those cunning charms avoid;                                  20
  For that wealth for which they love thee,
    They would slight if once enjoy'd.
  Who would keep another's heart
  With her own must never part.




    [_Counsel._]

    [Line: 7 'the' altered in _1656_ to 'their', which is clearly
    wrong. But the untrustworthiness of Gamble's text is still
    better illustrated by l. 10, which he twists into--

        Stars _to_ jewels they _di_vest thee.

    The copy was probably dictated to a very careless, ignorant,
    or stupid workman.]

    [Lines: 23-4. This pointed if cynical conclusion was changed in
    _1657_ to the much feebler

        Guard thy unrelenting mind;
        None are cruel but the kind.
    ]




_Expostulation with Love in Despair._


  Love, with what strange tyrannic laws must they
  Comply, which are subjected to thy sway!
  How far all justice thy commands decline,
  Which though they hope forbid, yet love enjoin!
  Must all are to thy hell condemn'd sustain
  A double torture of despair and pain?
  Is 't not enough vainly to hope and woo,
  That thou shouldst thus deny that vain hope too?
  It were some joy, Ixion-like, to fold
  The empty air, or feed on hopes as cold;                           10
  But if thou to my passion this deny,
  Thou mayst be starv'd to death as well as I;
  For how can thy pale sickly flame burn clear
  When death and cold despair inhabit near?
  Rule in my breast alone, or thence retire;
  Dissolve this frost, or let that quench thy fire.
    Or let me not desire, or else possess!
    Neither, or both, are equal happiness.




    [_Expostulation, &c._] The texts of _1647_ and
    _1656_ differ considerably here, and Miss Guiney has attempted
    a 'composite text'--a thing for which I have small fancy.
    That given above is from _1647_: _1656_ runs as follows in the
    first quatrain:

        Love, what tyrannic laws must they obey
        Who bow beneath thy uncontrolled sway;
        Or how unjust will that harsh empire prove
        Forbids to hope, and yet commands to love.

    and reads in l. 9 'hope' for 'joy'; l. 10 'thought that's
    cold'; l. 14 'old' and 'here' for 'cold' and 'near'; l. 15
    (entirely different)

        Then let thy dim heat warm, or else expire.

    l. 16 'the' for 'thy'; and in the closing distich '_Thus_ let
    me not' and '_Either_ or both'. The interest of this piece is
    almost wholly centred on the penultimate line, which, being an
    evident and intended contradiction to

        Amare liceat si potiri non licet,

    gives us at once the connexion, in Stanley's mind, with that
    strange, Mrs. Grundy-shocking, but 'insolent and passionate'
    piece which is attributed, credibly enough, to Apuleius, but
    rather less credibly as a latinizing of Menander's [Greek:
    _Anechomenos_]. The contrast of the sensuous fire of this
    with Stanley's rather vapid and languid metaphysicalities is a
    notable one.]




_Song._


  Faith, 'tis not worth thy pains and care
            To seek t' ensnare
      A heart so poor as mine:
            Some fools there be
            Hate liberty,
  Whom with more ease thou mayst confine.

  Alas! when with much charge thou hast
            Brought it at last
      Beneath thy power to bow,
            It will adore                                            10
            Some twenty more,
  And that, perhaps, you'll not allow.

  No, Chloris, I no more will prove
            The curse of love,
      And now can boast a heart
            Hath learn'd of thee
            Inconstancy,
  And cozen'd women of their art.




    [_Song._]

    [Lines: 2, 3. The quality and value of _1656_ are again well
    illustrated by its readings of 'inspire' for 'ensnare' and
    'pure' for 'poor'.]




_Expectation._


    Chide, chide no more away
  The fleeting daughters of the day,
  Nor with impatient thoughts outrun
          The lazy sun,
  Or think the hours do move too slow;
          Delay is kind,
      And we too soon shall find
  That which we seek, yet fear to know.

    The mystic dark decrees
  Unfold not of the Destinies,                                       10
  Nor boldly seek to antedate
          The laws of Fate;
  Thy anxious search awhile forbear,
          Suppress thy haste,
      And know that Time at last
  Will crown thy hope or fix thy fear.




    [_Expectation._] There is a suggestion here of John
    Hall's beautiful _Call_ ('Romira, stay'), and the two pieces
    appeared so close together that it is difficult to say which
    may have been the first. Perhaps the resemblance was what made
    Stanley omit it in _1651_. In l. 5 _1656_ reads '_N_or'.]




1651 POEMS




THE DEDICATION

_To Love._


  Thou, whose sole name all passions doth comprise,
  Youngest and oldest of the Deities;
  Born without parents, whose unbounded reign
  Moves the firm earth, fixeth the floating main,
  Inverts the course of heaven; and from the deep
  Awakes those souls that in dark Lethe sleep,
  By thy mysterious chains seeking t' unite,
  Once more, the long-since torn Hermaphrodite.
  He, who thy willing pris'ner long was vow'd,
  And uncompell'd beneath thy sceptre bow'd,                         10
  Returns at last in thy soft fetters bound,
  With victory, though not with freedom crown'd:
  And, of his dangers pass'd a grateful sign,
  Suspends this tablet at thy numerous shrine.




    [_The Dedication._ In 1647 printed at p. 49 with
    the title 'Conclusion, to Love', and obviously intended to
    end that collection, but a number of unpaged leaves were
    subsequently added containing the complimentary verses
    addressed to Fletcher and others. The following variants
    occur: 11 'by thy kind power unbound'. 12 'At least with
    freedom, though not conquest crown'd'. 14 'Suspends these
    papers'. Stanley also appended a list of Greek quotations
    justifying the cento. There is an intrinsic interest attaching
    to them in that they _may_ have suggested a similar process to
    Gray. A further comparison-contrast may also interest some as
    to the lines themselves--that of the famous and magnificent
    opening of Mr. Swinburne's _Tristram of Lyonesse_.

    The notes annotate the following phrases:--1 '(_a_) all
    passions', 2 '(_b_) Youngest and (_c_) oldest', 3 '(_d_)
    Born', 4 '(_e_) Moves', 7 '(_f_) By thy mysterious ...' The
    Greek has been slightly corrected in spelling and accents.

    (_a_) Alexis apud Athenaeum:

                  [Greek: synenênegmenos
        Pantachothen en heni topô poll' eidê pherôn,
        Hê tolma men gar andros, hê de deilia
        Gynaikos], &c.

    Sophocles:

        [Greek: Kypris ou Kypris monon,
        All' esti pantôn onomatôn epônymos].

    (_b_) Plato, _Sympos._: [Greek: Phêmi neôtaton auton einai
    theôn, kai aei neon.]

    (_c_. _d_) Plato: [Greek: To gar en tois presbytatois einai
    tôn theôn timion. Tekmêrion de toutou: goneis gar erôtos out'
    eisin, oute legontai hyp' oudenos oute idiôtou oute poiêtou.]

    (_e_) Oppian. _Cyneg._ 2:

        [Greek: Gaia pelei statherê, beleessi de soisi doneitai
        Astatos epleto pontos, atar sy ge kai ton epêxas;
        Êlythes eis aithêr', oiden de se makros Olympos.
        Deimainei de se panta, kai ouranos eurys hyperthe
        Gaiês hossa t' enerthe kai ethnea lygra kamontôn
        Hoi lêthês men aphyssan hypo stoma nêpathes hydôr.]

    (_f_) Plato: [Greek: Prôton men gar tria ên ta genê ta tôn
    anthrôpôn (sc. [Greek: arren, thêly, kai androgynon]). Mox
    addit, [Greek: Esti dê oun ek tosou ho erôs emphytos allêlôn
    tois anthrôpois kai tês archaias physeôs synagôgeus kai
    epicheirôn poiêsai hen ek duoin, <kai> iasasthai tên physin tên
    anthrôpinên.] Phil. Jud. [Greek: peri tês kosmopoiias. Epei
    de eplasthê hê gynê theasamenos adelphon eidos kai syngenê
    morphên êsmenise tê thea erôs de epiginomenos kathaper
    henos zôon ditta tmêmata diestêkota synagôgôn eis tauton
    harmottetai.] ]




POEMS




_The Glow-worm._


  Stay, fairest Chariessa, stay and mark
  This animated gem, whose fainter spark
  Of fading light its birth had from the dark.

  A Star thought by the erring passenger,
  Which falling from its native orb dropt here,
  And makes the earth (its centre) now its sphere.

  Should many of these sparks together be,
  He that the unknown light far off should see,
  Would think it a terrestrial Galaxy.

  Take 't up, fair Saint; see how it mocks thy fright!               10
  The paler flame doth not yield heat, though light,
  Which thus deceives thy reason, through thy sight.

  But see how quickly it (ta'en up) doth fade,
  To shine in darkness only being made,
  By th' brightness of thy light turn'd to a shade;

  And burnt to ashes by thy flaming eyes,
  On the chaste altar of thy hand it dies,
  As to thy greater light a sacrifice.




    [_The Glow-worm._] Sir Egerton Brydges thought that
    'A stile of poetry so full of quaint and far-fetched conceits
    cannot be commended as the most chaste and classical';
    but that, 'among trifles of this kind, _The Glow-worm_ is
    singularly elegant and happy'. Perhaps a later judgement,
    while waiving the indispensableness, or even pre-eminence,
    of chastity and classicality in verse, may doubt whether _The
    Glow-worm_ itself is not rather too 'elegant' to be as 'happy'
    as some other things even of its author's. The last verse
    redeems it, though, to some extent.]

    [Line: 2 _1647_ 'This living star of earth'. I suppose Stanley
    did not like the recurrence of 'star', or he may have thought
    that the same sound (-_ar_) recurred still more excessively
    in the rhymes. In itself the earlier reading is certainly the
    better.]

    [Line: 4 erring] deceiv'd _1647_.]

    [Line: 12 'Which doth deceive' _1647_.]

    [Line: 15 thy] the _1647_.]




_The Breath._


  Favonius the milder breath o' th' Spring,
  When proudly bearing on his softer wing
  Rich odours, which from the Panchean groves
  He steals, as by the Phoenix' pyre he moves,
  Profusely doth his sweeter theft dispense
  To the next rose's blushing innocence,
  But from the grateful flower, a richer scent
  He back receives than he unto it lent.
  Then laden with his odours' richest store,
  He to thy breath hastes; to which these are poor!                  10
  Which whilst the amorous wind to steal essays,
  He like a wanton Lover 'bout thee plays,
  And sometimes cooling thy soft cheek doth lie,
  And sometimes burning at thy flaming eye:
  Drawn in at last by that breath we implore,
  He now returns far sweeter than before,
  And rich by being robb'd, in thee he finds
  The burning sweets of Pyres, the cool of Winds.




    [_The Breath._] This appears in all three editions,
    _1656_ following _1647_ in the following variants: l. 8 'He
    doth receive'; l. 11 'while he sportively'; l. 16 'back' for
    'now'.]




_Desiring her to burn his Verses._


  These papers, Chariessa, let thy breath
  Condemn; thy hand unto the flames bequeath;
  'Tis fit, who gave them life, should give them death.

  And whilst in curled flames to Heaven they rise,
  Each trembling sheet shall as it upwards flies,
  Present itself to thee a sacrifice.

  Then when about its native orb it came,
  And reach'd the lesser lights o' th' sky, this flame
  Contracted to a star should wear thy name.

  Or falling down on earth from its bright sphere,                   10
  Shall in a diamond's shape its lustre bear,
  And trouble (as it did before) thine ear.

  But thou wilt cruel even in mercy be,
  Unequal in thy justice, who dost free
  Things without sense from flames, and yet not Me.




    [_Desiring her to burn his Verses._] _Title_, _1647_
    'To Chariessa, desiring', &c.]

    [Line: 4 whilst] as _1647_.]

    [Line: 7 about] above _1647_.]

    [Line: 14 who] that _1647_.]




_The Night._

A DIALOGUE.


                  _Chariessa._

          What if Night
  Should betray us, and reveal
          To the light
  All the pleasures that we steal?

                  _Philocharis._

          Fairest, we
  Safely may this fear despise;
          How can She
  See our actions who wants eyes?

                  _Chariessa._

          Each dim star
  And the clearer lights, we know,                                   10
          Night's eyes are;
  They were blind that thought her so!

                  _Philocharis._

          Those pale fires
  Only burn to yield a light
          T' our desires,
  And though blind, to give us sight.

                  _Chariessa._

          By this shade
  That surrounds us might our flame
          Be betray'd,
  And the day disclose its name.                                     20

                  _Philocharis._

          Dearest Fair,
  These dark witnesses we find
          Silent are;
  Night is dumb as well as blind.

                    _Chorus._

      Then whilst these black shades conceal us,
            We will scorn
            Th' envious Morn,
      And the Sun that would reveal us.
  Our flames shall thus their mutual light betray,
  And night, with these joys crown'd, outshine the day.              30




    [_The Night._] Entitled in _1647_ 'Amori Notturni. A
    Dialogue between Philocharis and Chariessa'.]

    [Line: 2 and] or _1647_.]

    [Line: 8 who] that _1647_.]

    [Line: 18 surrounds] conceals _1647_.]

    The metrical arrangement here is very delightful, and
    the Chorus-adjustment particularly happy.]




_Excuse for wishing her less Fair._


  Why thy passion should it move
    That I wish'd thy beauty less?
  Fools desire what is above
    Power of nature to express;
  And to wish it had been more.
  Had been to outwish her store!

  If the flames within thine eye
    Did not too great heat inspire,
  Men might languish yet not die,
    At thy less ungentle fire;                                       10
  And might on thy weaker light
  Gaze, and yet not lose their sight.

  Nor wouldst thou less fair appear,
    For detraction adds to thee;
  If some parts less beauteous were,
    Others would much fairer be:
  Nor can any part we know
  Best be styl'd, when all are so.

  Thus this great excess of light,
    Which now dazzles our weak eyes,                                 20
  Would, eclips'd, appear more bright;
    And the only way to rise,
  Or to be more fair, for thee,
  Celia, is less fair to be.




    [_Excuse for wishing her less Fair._] _1647_
    prefixes 'To Celia'.]

    [Line: 7 the] thy _1647_.]

    [Line: 9 yet] and _1647_.]

    [Line: 10 less ungentle] then less scorching _1647_.]

    [Line: 23 for] _1656_ 'than', which, like much else in this
    edition, is pure nonsense.

    Brydges thought that 'one cannot avoid admiring the ingenuity
    exercised in this continual play upon words'. But surely

    In things like this the play of words became
    A play of thought, and therefore shames all shame.
    ]




_Chang'd, yet Constant._


      Wrong me no more
        In thy complaint,
    Blam'd for inconstancy;
      I vow'd t' adore
        The fairest Saint,
    Nor chang'd whilst thou wert she:
  But if another thee outshine,
  Th' inconstancy is only thine.

      To be by such
        Blind fools admir'd,                                         10
    Gives thee but small esteem,
      By whom as much
        Thou'dst be desir'd,
    Didst thou less beauteous seem:
  Sure why they love they know not well,
  Who why they should not cannot tell.

      Women are by
        Themselves betray'd,
    And to their short joys cruel,
      Who foolishly                                                  20
        Themselves persuade
    Flames can outlast their fuel;
  None (though Platonic their pretence)
  With reason love unless by sense.

      And He, by whose
        Command to thee
    I did my heart resign,
      Now bids me choose
        A Deity
    Diviner far than thine;                                          30
  No power can Love from Beauty sever;
  I'm still Love's subject, thine was never.

      The fairest She
        Whom none surpass
    To love hath only right,
      And such to me
        Thy beauty was
    Till one I found more bright;
  But 'twere as impious to adore
  Thee now, as not t' have done 't before.                           40

      Nor is it just
        By rules of Love
    Thou shouldst deny to quit
      A heart that must
        Another's prove,
    Ev'n in thy right to it;
  Must not thy subjects captives be
  To her who triumphs over Thee?

      Cease then in vain
        To blot my name                                              50
    With forg'd Apostasy,
      Thine is that stain
        Who dar'st to claim
    What others ask of Thee.
  Of Lovers they are only true
  Who pay their hearts where they are due.




    [_Chang'd, yet Constant._] Here, perhaps for the
    first time, we get the _fire_ of the period communicating to
    the verse its own glow and flicker. It is a pity he allowed
    himself double rhymes in stanza 3, which break the note (those
    at the end of st. 4 do not). There are no variants; the poem
    is not in _1647_. But Miss Guiney has proposed to substitute
    'hearts' for 'they' in the last line.]




_The Self-deceiver._

MONTALVAN.


  Deceiv'd and undeceiv'd to be
    At once I seek with equal care,
  Wretched in the discovery,
    Happy if cozen'd still I were:
  Yet certain ill of ill hath less
  Than the mistrust of happiness.

  But if when I have reach'd my aim
    (That which I seek less worthy prove),
  Yet still my love remains the same,
    The subject not deserving love;                                  10
  I can no longer be excus'd,
  Now more in fault as less abus'd.

  Then let me flatter my desires,
    And doubt what I might know too sure,
  He that to cheat himself conspires,
    From falsehood doth his faith secure;
  In love uncertain to believe
  I am deceiv'd, doth undeceive.

  For if my life on doubt depend,
    And in distrust inconstant steer,                                20
  If I essay the strife to end
    (When Ignorance were Wisdom here),
  All thy attempts how can I blame
  To work my death? I seek the same.




    [_The Self-deceiver._] (On Stanley's translations
    see Introduction.) Juan Perez de Montalvan (1602-1638)
    belonged to the best age of Spanish literature, and was, in
    proportion, almost as prolific in plays and _autos_ as his
    master Lope. He was accused of 'Gongorism', and this piece is
    one somewhat of 'conviction'.]




_The Cure._


                       _Nymph._

  What busy cares too timely born
    (Young Swain!) disturb thy sleep?
  Thy early sighs awake the Morn,
    Thy tears teach her to weep.

                       _Shepherd._

  Sorrows, fair Nymph, are full alone;
    Nor counsel can endure.

                       _Nymph._

  Yet thine disclose, for until known
    Sickness admits no cure.

                       _Shepherd._

  My griefs are such as but to hear
    Would poison all thy joys,                                       10
  The pity which thou seem'st to bear
    My health, thine own destroys.

                       _Nymph._

  How can diseaséd minds infect?
    Say what thy grief doth move!

                       _Shepherd._

  Call up thy virtue to protect
    Thy heart, and know 'twas love.

                       _Nymph._

  Fond Swain!

                       _Shepherd._

                   By which I have been long
    Destin'd to meet with hate.

                       _Nymph._

  Fy, Shepherd, fy: thou dost love wrong,
    To call thy crime thy fate.                                      20

                       _Shepherd._

  Alas what cunning could decline
    What force can love repel?

                       _Nymph._

  Yet, there 's a way to unconfine
    Thy heart.

                       _Shepherd._

                      For pity tell.

                       _Nymph._

  Choose one whose love may be allur'd
    By thine: who ever knew
  Inveterate diseases cur'd
    But by receiving new?

                       _Shepherd._

  All will like her my soul perplex.

                       _Nymph._

    Yet try.

                       _Shepherd._

                     Oh could there be,                              30
  But any softness in that sex,
    I'd wish it were in thee.

                       _Nymph._

  Thy prayer is heard: learn now t' esteem
    The kindness she hath shown,
  Who thy lost freedom to redeem
    Hath forfeited her own.




    [_The Cure_. As this appears only in _1651_ there
    are no variants. The 'common measure' has little of the
    magic common at the time, and is sometimes banal to
    eighteenth-century level. But we rise in the next.]




_Celia Singing._


    Roses in breathing forth their scent,
    Or stars their borrowed ornament;
    Nymphs in the wat'ry sphere that move,
    Or Angels in their orbs above;
    The wingéd chariot of the light,
    Or the slow silent wheels of night;
    The shade, which from the swifter sun
    Doth in a circular motion run;
  Or souls that their eternal rest do keep,
  Make far more noise than Celia's breath in sleep.                  10

    But if the Angel, which inspires
    This subtile flame with active fires,
    Should mould this breath to words, and those
    Into a harmony dispose,
    The music of this heavenly sphere
    Would steal each soul out at the ear,
    And into plants and stones infuse
    A life that Cherubins would choose;
  And with new powers invert the laws of Fate,
  Kill those that live, and dead things animate.                     20




    [_Celia Singing._] _1647_ 'Celia sleeping or
    singing', and printed without stanza-break.]

    [Line: 10 more] Some imp of the press altered 'more' to 'less'
    in the later 'edition'. _1647_ has 'more', which has been
    restored in text.]

    [Line: 12 _1647_ 'frame'--tempting, but perhaps not certain.]

    [Line: 13 _1647_ 'his'--again _nescio an recte_.]

    [Line: 19 _1647_ 'power'.]




_A la Mesme._


  Belle voix, dont les charmes desrobent mon âme,
  Et au lieu d'un esprit m'animent d'une flamme,
  Dont je sens la subtile et la douce chaleur
  Entrer par mon oreille et glisser dans mon c[oe]ur;
  Me faisant esprever par cette aimable vie,
  Nos âmes ne consistent que d'une harmonie;
  Que la vie m'est douce, la mort m'est sans peine,
  Puisqu'on les trouve toutes deux dans ton haleine:
  Ne m'espargne donc pas; satisfais tes rigueurs;
  Car si tu me souffres de vivre, je me meurs.                       10




    [_A la Mesme_] _1647_ 'A une Dame qui chantoit'.
    Stanley does not, like some more modern English writers of
    French verse, neglect his final _e_'s, but he takes remarkable
    liberties with the caesura. 'Esprever' (l. 5) is not wrong
    necessarily.]




_The Return._


Beauty, whose soft magnetic chains
  _Beauty, thy harsh imperious chains_
      Nor time nor absence can untie,
      _As a scorned weight I here untie_,
  Thy power the narrow bounds disdains
  _Since thy proud empire those disdains_
      Of Nature or philosophy,
      _Of reason or philosophy_,
  That canst by unconfinéd laws
  _That wouldst within tyrannic laws_
  A motion, though at distance, cause.
  _Confine the power of each free cause._

  Drawn by the sacred influence
  _Forced by the potent influence_
      Of thy bright eyes, I back return;
      _Of thy disdain I back return_,
  And since I nowhere can dispense
  _Thus with those flames I do dispense_,
    With flames that do in absence burn,                             10
    _Which, though they would not light, did burn;_
  I rather choose 'midst them t' expire
  _And rather will through cold expire_
  Than languish by a hidden fire.
  _Than languish at a frozen fire._

      But if thou the insulting pride
      _But whilst I the insulting pride_
        Of vulgar Beauties dost despise,
        _Of thy vain beauty do despise_,
      Who by vain triumphs deified,
      _Who gladly wouldst be deified_,
        Their votaries do sacrifice,
        _By making me thy sacrifice;_
  Then let those flames, whose magic charm
  _May love thy heart, which to his charm_
  At distance scorch'd, approach'd but warm.
  _Approached seemed cold, at distance warm._




    [_The Return--(Palinode.)_] The _1647_ edition
    contains _two_ poems, _The Return_ and _Palinode_, which stand
    to each other in a curious relation. In _1651_ _Palinode_ has
    disappeared. I have thought it best to print them together.
    The lines in roman type are those of _The Return_, those in
    italic belong to _Palinode_. The latter reappeared in _1657_,
    with slight alterations as below. In _Pal._ 5 Miss Guiney
    reads 'would' for 'wouldst', evidently not quite understanding
    the sense or the grammar of the time. The second person
    connects itself with the vocative in 'Beauty' and the 'thou'
    twice implied in 'thy'.]

    [In _Palinode_, l. 7, _1657_ reads 'powerful' for
    'potent'; l. 12 'in' for 'at'.]

    [In _The Return_, l. 2, _1651_ 'unite'--an obvious
    misprint; l. 3, _1647_ 'bound'; l. 5, _1647_ 'That', _1651_
    'Thou'; l. 10, _1657_ 'which' for 'that'; l. 11, 'twixt'--not
    so well; l. 13, 'the' is dropped by mere accident in
    _1651_--'the', not 'th',' is required.]




_Song._


  When I lie burning in thine eye.
    Or freezing in thy breast,
  What Martyrs, in wish'd flames that die,
    Are half so pleas'd or blest?

  When thy soft accents through mine ear
    Into my soul do fly,
  What Angel would not quit his sphere,
    To hear such harmony?

  Or when the kiss thou gav'st me last
    My soul stole in its breath,                                     10
  What life would sooner be embrac'd
    Than so desir'd a death?

  [When I commanded am by thee,
    Or by thine eye or hand,
  What monarch would not prouder be
    To serve than to command?]

  Then think no freedom I desire,
    Or would my fetters leave,
  Since Phoenix-like I from this fire
    Both life and youth receive.                                     20




    [_Song._] Sir Egerton thought this (which, by the
    way, Lovelace may have seen, or _vice versa_) 'a very elegant
    little song, with all the harmony of _modern_ rhythm'.
    One might perhaps substitute 'with more of the harmony of
    _contemporary_ rhythm than Stanley always attains'. It is
    certainly much better than _The Cure_. The bracketed stanza
    was dropped in _1651_, but it seemed better to restore it
    thus in text than to degrade it hither. One or two extremely
    unimportant misprints occur in one or other version, but are
    not worth noting.]




_The Sick Lover._

GUARINI.


      My sickly breath
    Wastes in a double flame;
      Whilst Love and Death
    To my poor life lay claim;
  The fever, in whose heat I melt,
  By her that causeth it not felt.

      Thou who alone
    Canst, yet wilt grant no ease,
      Why slight'st thou one
    To feed a new disease?                                           10
  Unequal fair! the heart is thine;
  Ah, why then should the pain be mine?




    [_The Sick Lover._] Not a great thing. In l. 6, Miss
    Guiney thinks 'it', which is in all texts, should be 'is'. But
    'it' is wanted and 'is' is not. 'The fever not [_being_] felt'
    is no excessively 'absolute' construction.]




_Song._


  Celinda, by what potent art
      Or unresisted charm,
  Dost thou thine ear and frozen heart
      Against my passion arm?

  Or by what hidden influence
      Of powers in one combin'd,
  Dost thou rob Love of either sense,
      Made deaf as well as blind?

  Sure thou, as friends, united hast
      Two distant Deities;                                           10
  And scorn within thy heart hast plac'd,
      And love within thine eyes.

  Or those soft fetters of thy hair,
      A bondage that disdains
  All liberty, do guard thine ear
      Free from all other chains.

  Then my complaint how canst thou hear,
      Or I this passion fly,
  Since thou imprison'd hast thine ear,
      And not confin'd thine eye?                                    20




    [_Song--Celinda, &c._] Again, mere commonplace
    common measure. '_Those_ soft fetters of thy hair' (l. 13) is
    at least as good as 'mobled queen', but otherwise the phrase
    rather sinks to the measure. 'friends' (l. 9) is misprinted
    'friend' in _1647_, and Sir Egerton has mispunctuated 'friends
    united'.]




_Song._


  Fool, take up thy shaft again;
                        If thy store
  Thou profusely spend in vain,
      Who can furnish thee with more?
  Throw not then away thy darts
  On impenetrable hearts.

  Think not thy pale flame can warm
                        Into tears,
  Or dissolve the snowy charm
      Which her frozen bosom wears,                                  10
  That expos'd, unmelted lies
  To the bright suns of her eyes.

  But since thou thy power hast lost,
                 Nor canst fire
  Kindle in that breast, whose frost
      Doth these flames in mine inspire,
  Not to thee but her I'll sue,
  That disdains both me and you.




    [_Song--Fool, &c._] An extremely pretty measure,
    not ill-parted with phrase and imagery. The 'Take, oh! take'
    motive reappears.]




_Delay._


  Delay! Alas, there cannot be
  To Love a greater tyranny:
  Those cruel beauties that have slain
  Their votaries by their disdain,
  Or studied torments, sharp and witty,
  Will be recorded for their pity,
  And after-ages be misled
  To think them kind, when this is spread.
    Of deaths the speediest is despair,
  Delays the slowest tortures are;                                   10
  Thy cruelty at once destroys,
  But Expectation starves my joys.
  Time and Delay may bring me past
  The power of Love to cure, at last;
  And shouldst thou wish to ease my pain,
  Thy pity might be lent in vain;
  Or if thou hast decreed, that I
  Must fall beneath thy cruelty,
  O kill me soon! Thou wilt express
  More mercy, ev'n in showing less.                                  20




_Commanded by his Mistress to woo for her._

MARINO.


  Strange kind of love! that knows no president,
  A faith so firm as passeth Faith's extent,
  By a tyrannic beauty long subdu'd,
  I now must sue for her to whom I su'd,
  Unhappy Orator! who, though I move
  For pity, pity cannot hope to prove:
  Employing thus against myself my breath,
  And in another's life begging my death.

  But if such moving powers my accents have,
  Why first my own redress do I not crave?                           10
  What hopes that I to pity should incline
  Another's breast, who can move none in thine?
  Or how can the griev'd patient look for ease,
  When the physician suffers the disease?
  If thy sharp wounds from me expect their cure,
  'Tis fit those first be heal'd that I endure.

  Ungentle fair one! why dost thou dispense
  Unequally thy sacred influence?
  Why pining me, offer'st the precious food
  To one by whom nor priz'd, nor understood;                         20
  So some clear brook to the full main, to pay
  Her needless crystal tribute hastes away,
  Profusely foolish; whilst her niggard tide
  Starves the poor flowers that grow along her side.

  Thou who my glories art design'd to own,
  Come then, and reap the joys that I have sown:
  Yet in thy pride acknowledge, though thou bear
  The happy prize away, the palm I wear.
  Nor the obedience of my flame accuse,
  That what I sought, myself conspir'd to lose:                      30
  The hapless state where I am fix'd is such,
  To love I seem not, 'cause I love too much.




    [_Commanded by his Mistress, &c._] Marino[i]'s name
    is so frequent in books on literature, and his work so
    little known to the ordinary reader, that this example may
    be welcome. The rather snip-snap antithesis, and the somewhat
    obvious conceit, show the famous Italian really at his worst.
    'President' (l. 1), though not impossible, is probably for
    'pre_ce_dent'. The whole piece has a special interest as
    showing how this 'conceit' and 'false wit' actually encouraged
    the growth of the stopped antithetic couplet which was to be
    turned against both.]




_The Repulse._


          Not that by this disdain
                  I am releas'd,
  And freed from thy tyrannic chain,
          Do I myself think bless'd;

          Nor that thy flame shall burn
                  No more; for know
  That I shall into ashes turn,
          Before this fire doth so.

          Nor yet that unconfin'd
                  I now may rove,                                    10
  And with new beauties please my mind,
          But that thou ne'er didst love:

          For since thou hast no part
                  Felt of this flame,
  I only from thy tyrant heart
          Repuls'd, not banish'd am.

          To lose what once was mine
                  Would grieve me more
  Than those inconstant sweets of thine
          Had pleas'd my soul before.                                20

          Now I have not lost the bliss
                  I ne'er possest;
  And spite of fate am blest in this,
          That I was never blest.




    [_The Repulse._] In the third line of this rather
    fine poem _1656_ reads 'romantic' for 'tyrannic', and Miss
    Guiney adopts it. To me it seems quite inappropriate, and one
    of the errors of dictation so common in that 'edition'.]

    [Line: 21 _1647_ reads '_that_ bliss'.]




_The Tomb._


    When, cruel fair one, I am slain
                      By thy disdain,
    And, as a trophy of thy scorn,
        To some old tomb am borne,
    Thy fetters must their power bequeath
                      To those of Death;
    Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
  Like monumental fires within an urn;
  Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove
  There is more liberty in Death than Love.                          10

    And when forsaken Lovers come,
                      To see my tomb,
    Take heed thou mix not with the crowd
        And (as a Victor) proud
    To view the spoils thy beauty made
                      Press near my shade,
    Lest thy too cruel breath or name
  Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
  And thou, devour'd by this revengeful fire,
  His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire.                          20

    [Or should my dust thy pity move
                      That could not love,
    Thy sighs might wake me, and thy tears
        Renew my life and years.
    Or should thy proud insulting scorn
                      Laugh at my urn,
    Kindly deceived by thy disdain,
  I might be smil'd into new life again.
  Then come not near, since both thy love and hate
  Have equal power to love or animate.]                              30

    But if cold earth, or marble, must
                      Conceal my dust,
    Whilst hid in some dark ruins, I
        Dumb and forgotten lie,
    The pride of all thy victory
                      Will sleep with me;
    And they who should attest thy glory,
  Will, or forget, or not believe this story.
  Then to increase thy triumph, let me rest,
  Since by thine eye slain, buried in thy breast.                    40




    [_The Tomb._] Brydges, though thinking the end of
    this poem 'a feeble conceit', admits that 'there are passages
    in it that are more than pretty'. It is certainly one of
    Stanley's best, and he seems to have taken some trouble
    with it. In _1651_ he dropped the bracketed stanza 3 and
    substituted the text for the last couplet of stanza 2, which
    reads in _1647_:

        And (thou in this fire sacrificed to me)
        We might each other's mutual martyr be.

    In the last line of the omitted stanza 'love' is certainly
    wrong, and Miss Guiney's suggestion of 'kill' is almost
    _certissima_. But she seems to have had a different copy of
    _1647_ before her from that which I collated, for she does not
    notice a variant, or set of variants, in ll. 37-9:

          And they _that_ should _this triumph know_
        Will or forget or not believe _it so_,
        Then to increase thy _glories_, &c.

    In l. 5 _1647_ reads 'thy power'.]




_The Enjoyment._

ST.-AMANT.


  Far from the court's ambitious noise
  Retir'd, to those more harmless joys
  Which the sweet country, pleasant fields,
  And my own court, a cottage, yields;
  I liv'd from all disturbance free,
  Though prisoner (Sylvia) unto thee;
  Secur'd from fears, which others prove,
  Of the inconstancy of Love;
  A life, in my esteem, more blest,
  Than e'er yet stoop'd to Death's arrest.                           10

  My senses and desires agreed,
  With joint delight each other feed:
  A bliss, I reach'd, as far above
  Words, as her beauty, or my love;
  Such as compar'd with which, the joys
  Of the most happy seem but toys:
  Affection I receive and pay,
  My pleasures knew not Grief's allay:
  The more I tasted I desir'd,
  The more I quench'd my thirst was fir'd.                           20

  Now, in some place where Nature shows
  Her naked beauty, we repose;
  Where she allures the wand'ring eye
  With colours, which faint art outvie;
  Pearls scatter'd by the weeping morn,
  Each where the glitt'ring flowers adorn;
  The mistress of the youthful year
  (To whom kind Zephyrus doth bear
  His amorous vows and frequent prayer)
  Decks with these gems her neck and hair.                           30

  Hither, to quicken Time with sport,
  The little sprightly Loves resort,
  And dancing o'er the enamel'd mead,
  Their mistresses the Graces lead;
  Then to refresh themselves, repair
  To the soft bosom of my fair;
  Where from the kisses they bestow
  Upon each other, such sweets flow
  As carry in their mixéd breath
  A mutual power of life and death.                                  40

  Next in an elm's dilated shade
  We see a rugged Satyr laid,
  Teaching his reed, in a soft strain,
  Of his sweet anguish to complain;
  Then to a lonely grove retreat,
  Where day can no admittance get,
  To visit peaceful solitude;
  Whom seeing by repose pursu'd,
  All busy cares, for fear to spoil
  Their calmer courtship, we exile.                                  50

  There underneath a myrtle, thought
  By Fairies sacred, where was wrought
  By Venus' hand Love's mysteries,
  And all the trophies of her eyes,
  Our solemn prayers to Heaven we send,
  That our firm love might know no end;
  Nor time its vigour e'er impair:
  Then to the wingéd God we sware,
  And grav'd the oath in its smooth rind,
  Which in our hearts we deeper find.                                60

  Then to my dear (as if afraid
  To try her doubted faith) I said,
  'Would in thy soul my form as clear,
  As in thy eyes I see it, were.'
  She kindly angry saith, 'Thou art
  Drawn more at large within my heart;
  These figures in my eye appear
  But small, because they are not near,
  Thou through these glasses seest thy face,
  As pictures through their crystal case.'                           70

  Now with delight transported, I
  My wreathéd arms about her tie;
  The flattering Ivy never holds
  Her husband Elm in stricter folds:
  To cool my fervent thirst, I sip
  Delicious nectar from her lip.
  She pledges, and so often past
  This amorous health, till Love at last
  Our souls did with these pleasures sate,
  And equally inebriate.                                             80

  Awhile, our senses stol'n away,
  Lost in this ecstasy we lay,
  Till both together rais'd to life,
  We re-engage in this kind strife.
  Cythaera with her Syrian boy
  Could never reach our meanest joy.
  The childish God of Love ne'er tried
  So much of love with his cold bride,
  As we in one embrace include,
  Contesting each to be subdu'd.                                     90




    [_The Enjoyment._] _La Jouissance_, one of
    Saint-Amant's early lyric pieces, which is here translated,
    was not so famous as his _Solitude_, which will be found
    (Englished by the matchless Orinda a little after Stanley's
    time) in vol. i, p. 601, of this collection; but it
    was popular and much imitated. Stanley has cut it down
    considerably, for the original has nineteen stanzas--some of
    them, I suppose, too 'warm' for the translator's modest muse.]

    [Line: 59 Brydges misprints '_k_ind']




_To Celia Pleading Want of Merit._


    Dear, urge no more that killing cause
                    Of our divorce;
    Love is not fetter'd by such laws,
                    Nor bows to any force:
    Though thou deniest I should be thine,
  Yet say not thou deserv'st not to be mine.

    Oh rather frown away my breath
                    With thy disdain,
    Or flatter me with smiles to death;
                    By joy or sorrow slain,                          10
    'Tis less crime to be kill'd by thee,
  Than I thus cause of mine own death should be.

    Thyself of beauty to divest,
                    And me of love,
    Or from the worth of thine own breast
                    Thus to detract, would prove
    In us a blindness, and in thee
  At best a sacrilegious modesty.

    But, Celia, if thou wilt despise
                    What all admire,                                 20
    Nor rate thyself at the just price
                    Of beauty or desire,
    Yet meet my flames, and thou shalt see
  That equal love knows no disparity.




    [_To Celia Pleading, &c._] _1647_ has in title 'To
    _One that Pleaded her own_', and 'Dearest' for 'Celia' in l.
    19.]




_Love's Innocence._


  See how this Ivy strives to twine
  Her wanton arms about the Vine,
  And her coy lover thus restrains,
  Entangled in her amorous chains;
  See how these neighb'ring Palms do bend
  Their heads, and mutual murmurs send,
  As whispering with a jealous fear
  Their loves, into each other's ear.
  Then blush not such a flame to own,
  As like thyself no crime hath known;                               10
  Led by these harmless guides, we may
  Embrace and kiss as well as they.
    And like those blesséd souls above,
  Whose life is harmony and love,
  Let us our mutual thoughts betray,
  And in our wills our minds display;
  This silent speech is swifter far
  Than the ears' lazy species are;
  And the expression it affords,
  As our desires, 'bove reach of words.                              20
    Thus we, my dear, of these may learn
  A passion others not discern;
  Nor can it shame or blushes move,
  Like plants to live, like Angels love:
    Since all excuse with equal innocence,
    What above reason is, or beneath sense.




    [_Love's Innocence._] In _1647_ the following
    differences occur: Title, 'The Innocence of Love'; l. 1,
    '(Dear) doth twine' for 'strives to twine'; l. 7, 'To one
    another whispering there'; ll. 9-10, 'Then blush not, _Fair,
    that_ flame to _show, Which_ like thyself no crime _can
    know_'; ll. 11-12, '_Thus led by those chaste_ guides, we
    may Embrace and kiss as _free_ as they'; l. 20, 'As _are our
    flames_'; l. 21, 'Thus, _Doris, we_'.]




_The Bracelet._

TRISTAN.


    Now Love be prais'd! that cruel fair,
        Who my poor heart restrains
        Under so many chains,
  Hath weav'd a new one for it of her hair.

    These threads of amber us'd to play
        With every courtly wind;
        And never were confin'd;
  But in a thousand curls allow'd to stray.

    Cruel each part of her is grown;
        Nor less unkind than she                                     10
        These fetters are to me,
  Which to restrain my freedom, lose their own.




    [_The Bracelet._] Little survives, even in literary
    memories, of François Tristan l'Hermite (1601-1655), except
    the success of his _Marianne_ (Maria_m_ne), 1636, one of the
    most famous French tragedies of the period outside Corneille.
    M. Ed. Fournier gave him a niche in Crépet's _Poètes Français_
    (Paris, 1861), ii. 539-52, but did not include the original
    of this piece. The _In Memoriam_ rhyme-order, though the line
    lengths are different, is interesting. Stanley had perhaps
    borrowed, before translating it, the 'soft fetters of her
    hair', noted above, though the fancy is of course primaeval
    and perennial.]




_The Kiss._


    When on thy lip my soul I breathe,
            Which there meets thine,
    Freed from their fetters by this death
        Our subtle forms combine;
    Thus without bonds of sense they move,
  And like two Cherubins converse by love.

    Spirits, to chains of earth confin'd,
              Discourse by sense;
    But ours, that are by flames refin'd,
        With those weak ties dispense.                               10
    Let such in words their minds display;
  We in a kiss our mutual thoughts convey.

    But since my soul from me doth fly,
              To thee retir'd,
    Thou canst not both retain: for I
        Must be with one inspir'd.
    Then, dearest, either justly mine
  Restore, or in exchange let me have thine.

    Yet, if thou dost return mine own,
              Oh tak't again!                                        20
    For 'tis this pleasing death alone
        Gives ease unto my pain.
    Kill me once more, or I shall find
  Thy pity, than thy cruelty, less kind.




    [_The Kiss._] Title in _1647_ 'The _killing_ Kiss',
    and several other variants. An answer to this poem appears in
    Jordan's _Claraphi and Clarinda_.]

    [Line: 4 _1647_ 'They both unite and join'. But Miss Guiney's
    suspicion that 'forms' may be a misprint obviously shows
    forgetfulness of the philosophical sense of the word =
    'ideas', 'immortal parts'. Cf. Spenser, 'For soul is _form_'.]

    [Line: 6 by] _1647_ 'and'--perhaps better.]

    [Line: 12 _1647_ 'Our lips, not tongues, each other's thoughts
    betray'. (Miss Guiney's copy seems to have '_our_ tongues',
    which cannot be right.)]

    [Line: 15 for I] and I _1647_.]

    [Line: 17 dearest] _1647_ 'Doris'. This is the second time
    (_v. sup._, p. 126) that poor Doris has been disestablished.]




_Apollo and Daphne._

GARCILASSO MARINO.


  When Phoebus saw a rugged bark beguile
    His love, and his embraces intercept,
  The leaves, instructed by his grief to smile,
    Taking fresh growth and verdure as he wept:
  'How can', saith he, 'my woes expect release,
  When tears the subject of my tears increase!'

  His chang'd, yet scorn-retaining Fair he kiss'd,
    From the lov'd trunk plucking a little bough;
  And though the conquest which he sought he miss'd,
    With that triumphant spoil adorns his brow.                      10
  Thus this disdainful maid his aim deceives:
  Where he expected fruit he gathers leaves.




    [_Apollo and Daphne._] Why Garcilasso I do not know.
    Marini's name was Giambattista.]

    [Line: 6 The first 'tears' certainly looks odd, and Miss
    Guiney conjectures 'leaves'. But the ways of Marinism are not
    thus. Apollo's tears _watered_ the laurel and so made it
    grow. His tears increased their subject, the vapid vegetable
    substitute for Daphne's flesh and blood.]




_Speaking and Kissing._


  The air, which thy smooth voice doth break,
    Into my soul like lightning flies;
  My life retires whilst thou dost speak,
    And thy soft breath its room supplies.

  Lost in this pleasing ecstasy,
    I join my trembling lips to thine;
  And back receive that life from thee,
    Which I so gladly did resign.

  Forbear, Platonic fools, t' inquire
    What numbers do the soul compose!
  No harmony can life inspire,
    But that which from these accents flows.




    [_Speaking and Kissing._] This is _smarter_ than
    Stanley's usual style.]




_The Snow-ball._


  Doris, I that could repel
  All those darts about thee dwell,
  And had wisely learn'd to fear,
  'Cause I saw a foe so near;
  I that my deaf ear did arm
  'Gainst thy voice's powerful charm,
  And the lightning of thine eye
  Durst (by closing mine) defy,
  Cannot this cold snow withstand
  From the whiter of thy hand.                                       10
  Thy deceit hath thus done more
  Than thy open force before:
  For who could suspect or fear
  Treason in a face so clear;
  Or the hidden fires descry
  Wrapt in this cold outside lie?
  Flames might thus involv'd in ice
  The deceiv'd world sacrifice;
  Nature, ignorant of this
  Strange antiperistasis,                                            20
  Would her falling frame admire,
  That by snow were set on fire.




    [_The Snow-ball._] Doris maintains here the place
    she lost above. The tripping seventeenth-century 'sevens' are
    well spent on her. In l. 10 Miss Guiney thinks that 'whiter',
    the sole reading, must be 'winter'. [Greek: hêkista]: that
    Stanley meant 'the whiter _snow_' is, to me, certain.]

    [Line: 20 'Antiperistasis' = 'reaction' or 'topsyturvyfication'
    (Thackeray).]




_The Deposition._


    Though when I lov'd thee thou wert fair,
          Thou art no longer so;
    Those glories all the pride they wear
          Unto opinion owe;
  Beauties, like stars, in borrow'd lustre shine;
    And 'twas my love that gave thee thine.

    The flames that dwelt within thine eye
          Do now, with mine, expire;
    Thy brightest graces fade and die
          At once with my desire;                                    10
  Love's fires thus mutual influence return;
    Thine cease to shine, when mine to burn.

    Then, proud Celinda, hope no more
          To be implor'd or woo'd,
    Since by thy scorn thou dost restore
          The wealth my love bestow'd;
  And thy despis'd disdain too late shall find
    That none are fair but who are kind.




    [_The Deposition._] In _1647_ '_A_ Deposition _from
    Beauty_'. Also l. 3, 'do' for 'all'; l. 9, 'glories' for
    'graces'; l. 16, 'That' for 'The' and 'which' for 'my'.]




_To his Mistress in Absence._

TASSO.


    Far from thy dearest self, the scope
              Of all my aims,
          I waste in secret flames;
    And only live because I hope.
          Oh, when will Fate restore
          The joys, in whose bright fire
    My expectation shall expire,
  That I may live because I hope no more!




_Love's Heretic._


  He whose active thoughts disdain
      To be captive to one foe,
  And would break his single chain,
      Or else more would undergo;
  Let him learn the art of me,
  By new bondage to be free!

  What tyrannic mistress dare
      To one beauty love confine,
  Who, unbounded as the air,
      All may court but none decline?                                10
  Why should we the heart deny
  As many objects as the eye?

  Wheresoe'er I turn or move,
      A new passion doth detain me:
  Those kind beauties that do love,
      Or those proud ones that disdain me;
  This frown melts, and that smile burns me;
  This to tears, that ashes turns me.

  Soft fresh Virgins, not full blown,
      With their youthful sweetness take me;                         20
  Sober Matrons, that have known
      Long since what these prove, awake me;
  Here staid coldness I admire;
  There the lively active fire.

  She that doth by skill dispense
      Every favour she bestows,
  Or the harmless innocence,
      Which nor court nor city knows,
  Both alike my soul enflame,
  That wild Beauty, and this tame.                                   30

  She that wisely can adorn
      Nature with the wealth of Art,
  Or whose rural sweets do scorn
      Borrow'd helps to take a heart,
  The vain care of that's my pleasure,
  Poverty of this my treasure.

  Both the wanton and the coy,
      Me with equal pleasures move;
  She whom I by force enjoy,
      Or who forceth me to love:                                     40
  This, because she'll not confess,
  That not hide, her happiness.

  She whose loosely flowing hair,
      Scatter'd like the beams o' th' morn,
  Playing with the sportive air,
      Hides the sweets it doth adorn,
  Captive in that net restrains me,
  In those golden fetters chains me.

  Nor doth she with power less bright
      My divided heart invade,                                       50
  Whose soft tresses spread like night
      O'er her shoulders a black shade;
  For the starlight of her eyes
  Brighter shines through those dark skies.

  Black, or fair, or tall, or low,
      I alike with all can sport;
  The bold sprightly Thais woo,
      Or the frozen Vestal court;
  Every Beauty takes my mind,
  Tied to all, to none confin'd.                                     60




    [_Love's Heretic._] This, for Stanley, longish piece
    has few _vv. ll._ But _1647_ reads in l. 34 'that' instead
    of 'to', and the singular 'pleasure' in l. 38. The piece is
    rather in the Suckling vein; but Stanley did not play the
    light-o'-love quite successfully.]




_La Belle Confidente._


  You earthly souls that court a wanton flame,
          Whose pale weak influence
  Can rise no higher than the humble name,
          And narrow laws of sense,
        Learn by our friendship to create
          An immaterial fire,
        Whose brightness Angels may admire,
          But cannot emulate.

  Sickness may fright the roses from her cheek,
          Or make the lilies fade;                                   10
  But all the subtile ways that Death doth seek,
          Cannot my love invade.
        Flames that are kindled by the eye,
          Through time and age expire;
        But ours, that boast a reach far higher,
          Can nor decay nor die.

  For when we must resign our vital breath,
          Our loves by Fate benighted,
  We by this friendship shall survive in death,
          Even in divorce united.                                    20
        Weak Love, through fortune or distrust,
          In time forgets to burn,
        But this pursues us to the urn,
          And marries either's dust.




    [_La Belle Confidente._] On this Sir Egerton:
    'However far-fetched these ideas may be, there is uncommon
    elegance and ingenuity in the expression, and polish in the
    versification.' There is also something more than polish--a
    _concerted_ effect which 'elegance and ingenuity' do not often
    reach. In l. 16, 'Cannot' appears in _1647_ for 'Can nor';
    'And' for 'For' in l. 17; and ll. 18, 20 are changed over and
    run:

        Even in divorce delighted,
        .    .    .    .    .    .
        Still in the grave united.
    ]




_La Belle Ennemie._


  I yield, dear enemy, nor know
  How to resist so fair a foe!
  Who would not thy soft yoke sustain,
  And bow beneath thy easy chain,
  That with a bondage bless'd might be,
  Which far transcends all liberty?
    But since I freely have resign'd
  At first assault my willing mind,
  Insult not o'er my captiv'd heart
  With too much tyranny and art,                                     10
  Lest by thy scorn thou lose the prize
  Gain'd by the power of thy bright eyes,
  And thou this conquest thus shalt prove,
  Though got by Beauty, kept by Love!




_The Dream._

LOPE DE VEGA.


  To set my jealous soul at strife,
      All things maliciously agree,
      Though sleep of Death the image be,
  Dreams are the portraiture of life.

  I saw, when last I clos'd my eyes,
      Celinda stoop t' another's will;
      If specious Apprehension kill,
  What would the truth without disguise?

  The joys which I should call mine own,
      Methought this rival did possess:                              10
      Like dreams is all my happiness;
  Yet dreams themselves allow me none.




    [_The Dream._] The actual and full _In Memoriam_
    arrangement is the point of interest here. Stanley, however,
    is even less successful than the few other seventeenth-century
    practitioners in getting the full rhythmical sweep of the form
    into operation. He breaks the circle and so loses the charm.]




_To the Lady D._


MADAM,
          The blushes I betray,
  When at your feet I humbly lay
  These papers, beg you would excuse
  Th' obedience of a bashful Muse,
  Who, bowing to your strict command,
  Trusts her own errors to your hand,
  Hasty abortives, which, laid by,
  She meant, ere they were born should die:
  But since the soft power of your breath
  Hath call'd them back again from Death,                            10
  To your sharp judgement now made known,
  She dares for hers no longer own;
  The worst she must not, these resign'd
  She hath to th' fire, and where you find
  Those your kind Charity admir'd,
  She writ but what your eyes inspir'd.




    [_To the Lady D._] This in _1647_ is the Dedication
    'To my most honour'd Aunt the Lady Dormer'. She was a daughter
    of Sir William Hammond and wife of Sir Robert Dormer, Knight,
    of Chearsley, Bucks. In _1647_ Stanley added to the poem
    '_Madam, Your Ladyships Greatest admirer and most humble
    Servant_, THO. STANLEY'.]




_Love Deposed._


      You that unto your mistress' eyes
        Your hearts do sacrifice,
  And offer sighs or tears at Love's rich shrine,
                Renounce with me
                Th' idolatry,
  Nor this infernal Power esteem divine.

      The brand, the quiver, and the bow,
        Which we did first bestow,
  And he as tribute wears from every lover,
                I back again                                         10
                From him have ta'en,
  And the impostor, now unveil'd, discover.

      I can the feeble child disarm,
        Untie his mystic charm,
  Divest him of his wings, and break his arrow;
                We will obey
                No more his sway,
  Nor live confin'd to laws or bounds so narrow.

      And you, bright Beauties, that inspire
        The Boy's pale torch with fire,                              20
  We safely now your subtle power despise,
                And unscorch'd may
                Like atoms play,
  And wanton in the sunshine of your eyes.

      Nor think hereafter by new arts
        You can bewitch our hearts,
  Or raise this devil by your pleasing charm;
                We will no more
                His power implore,
  Unless, like Indians, that he do no harm.                          30




_The Divorce._


  Dear, back my wounded heart restore,
    And turn away thy powerful eyes;
  Flatter my willing soul no more!
    Love must not hope what Fate denies.

  Take, take away thy smiles and kisses!
    Thy love wounds deeper than disdain;
  For he that sees the heaven he misses,
    Sustains two hells, of loss and pain.

  Shouldst thou some other's suit prefer,
    I might return thy scorn to thee,                                10
  And learn apostasy of her,
    Who taught me first idolatry.

  Or in thy unrelenting breast
    Should I disdain or coyness move,
  He by thy hate might be releas'd,
    Who now is prisoner to thy love.

  Since then unkind Fate will divorce
    Those whom Affection long united,
  Be thou as cruel as this force,
    And I in death shall be delighted.                               20

  Thus while so many suppliants woo.
    And beg they may thy pity prove,
  I only for thy scorn do sue:
    'Tis charity here not to love.




    [_The Divorce._] A rise from one or two preceding
    pieces.]

    [Line: 12 Who] That _1647_.]

    [Line: 14 I] cold _1647_.]

    [Line: 15 He] I _1647_.]

    [Line: 16 is] am _1647_.]

    [Line: 21 while] whilst _1647_. woo] do _1647_.]

    [Line: 22 'Implore thy pity they may prove' _1647_.]




_Time Recovered._

CASONE.


  Come, my dear, whilst youth conspires
  With the warmth of our desires;
  Envious Time about thee watches,
  And some grace each minute snatches;
  Now a spirit, now a ray,
  From thy eye he steals away;
  Now he blasts some blooming rose,
  Which upon thy fresh cheek grows;
  Gold now plunders in a hair;
  Now the rubies doth impair                                         10
  Of thy lips; and with sure haste
  All thy wealth will take at last;
  Only that of which thou mak'st
  Use in time, from time thou tak'st.




    [_Time Recovered._] This 'very light and good'
    version is from Guido Casoni (so more usually), a poet of the
    Trevisan March (1587-1640), and founder of the Academy of
    the _Incogniti_ at Venice, to the Transactions of which he
    contributed most of his work.]




_The Bracelet._


      Rebellious fools that scorn to bow
        Beneath Love's easy sway,
      Whose stubborn wills no laws allow,
        Disdaining to obey,
  Mark but this wreath of hair, and you shall see,
  None that might wear such fetters would be free!

      I once could boast a soul like you,
        As unconfin'd as air;
      But mine, which force could not subdue,
        Was caught within this snare;                                10
  And, by myself betray'd, I, for this gold,
  A heart that many storms withstood, have sold.

      No longer now wise Art inquire,
        With this vain search delighted,
      How souls, that human breasts inspire,
        Are to their frames united;
  Material chains such spirits well may bind,
  When this soft braid can tie both arm and mind

      Now, Beauties, I defy your charm,
        Rul'd by more powerful art:                                  20
      This mystic wreath which crowns my arm,
        Defends my vanquish'd heart;
  And I, subdu'd by one more fair, shall be
  Secur'd from Conquest by Captivity.




    [_The Bracelet._] Almost certainly suggested by
    Donne. If so the suggestion was very rashly taken, but the
    result might have been worse.]

    [Line: 7 soul] heart _1647_. l. 12 is an alteration--as Miss
    Guiney very rightly says to its detriment--of _1647_, which
    reads--

        Have to mine enemy my freedom sold.
    ]

    [Line: 15 _1647_ 'that do our life inspire'.]

    [Line: 22 _1647_ 'Guards and defends my heart'.]




_The Farewell._


  Since Fate commands me hence, and I
  Must leave my soul with thee, and die,
  Dear, spare one sigh, or else let fall
  A tear to crown my funeral,
  That I may tell my grievéd heart,
  Thou art unwilling we should part,
  And Martyrs, that embrace the fire,
  Shall with less joy than I expire.

  With this last kiss I will bequeath
  My soul transfus'd into thy breath,                                10
  Whose active heat shall gently slide
  Into thy breast, and there reside,
  And be in spite of Fate, thus bless'd
  By this sad death, of Heaven possess'd.
  Then prove but kind, and thou shalt see
  Love hath more power than Destiny.




    [_The Farewell._] In lines 13 and 14 of this all
    editions vary slightly. _1647_ has 'may' for 'be', which
    latter word opens the next line, turning out 'sad'. The text
    is _1651_, _1656_, keeping l. 13 of _1647_, has for l. 14 the
    text of _1651_.]




_Claim to Love._

GUARINI.


  Alas! alas! thou turn'st in vain
      Thy beauteous face away,
  Which, like young sorcerers, rais'd a pain
      Above its power to lay.

  Love moves not, as thou turn'st thy look,
      But here doth firmly rest;
  He long ago thy eyes forsook,
      To revel in my breast.

  Thy power on him why hop'st thou more
      Than his on me should be?                                      10
  The claim thou lay'st to him is poor,
      To that he owns from me.

  His substance in my heart excels
      His shadow in thy sight;
  Fire, where it burns, more truly dwells,
      Than where it scatters light.




_To his Mistress, who dreamed he was wounded._

GUARINI.


    Thine eyes, bright Saint, disclose,
              And thou shalt find
  Dreams have not with illusive shows
              Deceiv'd thy mind:
  What sleep presented to thy view,
  Awake, and thou shalt find is true.

    Those mortal wounds I bear,
              From thee begin,
  Which though they outward not appear,
              Yet bleed within.                                      10
  Love's flame like active lightning flies,
  Wounding the heart, but not the eyes.

    But now I yield to die
              Thy sacrifice,
  Nor more in vain will hope to fly
              From thy bright eyes:
  Their killing power cannot be shunn'd,
  Open or closed alike they wound.




    [_To his Mistress, &c._] _1647_ 'To Doris dreaming
    he was wounded'. Guarini is not there mentioned.]




_The Exchange._

DIALOGUE.


                      _Phil._

  That kiss, which last thou gav'st me, stole
      My fainting life away,
  Yet, though to thy breast fled, my soul
      Still in mine own doth stay;

                      _Char._

  And with the same warm breath did mine
      Into thy bosom slide;
  There dwell contracted unto thine,
      Yet still with me reside.

                      _Chor._

  Both souls thus in desire are one,
      And each is two in skill;                                      10
  Doubled in intellect alone,
      United in the will.
  Weak Nature no such power doth know:
  Love only can these wonders show.




    [_The Exchange._] _1647_ 'Exchange of Souls'. In
    editions other than _1651_ there is a refrain after each
    stanza-speech:

        Weak Nature no such power doth know,
        Love only can these wonders show.
    ]




_Unaltered by Sickness._


  Sickness, in vain thou dost invade
  A Beauty that can never fade!
  Could all thy malice but impair
  One of the sweets which crown this fair,
  Or steal the spirits from her eye,
  Or kiss into a paler dye
  The blushing roses of her cheek,
  Our drooping hopes might justly seek
  Redress from thee, and thou might'st save
  Thousands of lovers from the grave:                                10
  But such assaults are vain, for she
  Is too divine to stoop to thee;
  Blest with a form as much too high
  For any change, as Destiny,
  Which no attempt can violate;
  For what's her Beauty, is our Fate.




    [_Unaltered by Sickness._] Lines 1 and 2 are
    expanded in _1656_ to:

        Pale, envious Sickness, hence! no more
        Possess our breast, too cold before.
        In vain, alas! thou dost invade
        Those beauties which can never fade.
    ]

    [Line: 4 'On those sweets which crown the fair' _1656_.]

    [Line: 7 blushing] blooming _1657_.]

    [Line: 8 drooping] dropping _1647_: suffering _1656_.]

    [Line: 14 For any] _1656_ _But_ any--nonsensically.]




_On his Mistress's Death._

PETRARCH.


  Love the ripe harvest of my toils
  Began to cherish with his smiles,
  Preparing me to be indued
  With all the joys I long pursued,
  When my fresh hopes, fair and full blown,
  Death blasts, ere I could call my own.

  Malicious Death! why with rude force
  Dost thou my Fair from me divorce?
  False Life! why in this loathéd chain
  Me from my Fair dost thou detain?                                  10
  In whom assistance shall I find?
  Alike are Life and Death unkind.

  Pardon me, Love; thy power outshines,
  And laughs at their infirm designs.
  She is not wedded to a tomb,
  Nor I to sorrow in her room.
  They, what thou join'st, can ne'er divide
  She lives in me, in her I died.




_The Exequies._


          Draw near,
      You Lovers that complain
      Of Fortune or Disdain,
    And to my ashes lend a tear;
    Melt the hard marble with your groans,
    And soften the relentless stones,
  Whose cold embraces the sad subject hide,
  Of all Love's cruelties, and Beauty's pride!

          No verse,
      No epicedium bring,                                            10
      Nor peaceful requiem sing,
    To charm the terrors of my hearse;
    No profane numbers must flow near
    The sacred silence that dwells here.
  Vast griefs are dumb; softly, oh! softly mourn,
  Lest you disturb the peace attends my urn.

          Yet strew
      Upon my dismal grave
      Such offerings as you have,
    Forsaken cypress and sad yew;                                    20
    For kinder flowers can take no birth,
    Or growth, from such unhappy earth.
  Weep only o'er my dust, and say, Here lies
  To Love and Fate an equal sacrifice.




    [_The Exequies._] A very good stanza, the rhythm
    rising and swelling admirably. In the final couplet of the
    first, _1647_ reads--

                          do a victim hide,
        That, paid to Beauty, on Love's altar died.
    ]




_The Silkworm._


  This silkworm, to long sleep retir'd,
  The early year hath re-inspir'd,
  Who now to pay to thee prepares
  The tribute of her pleasing cares;
  And hastens with industrious toil
  To make thy ornament, her spoil:
  See with what pains she spins for thee
  The thread of her own destiny;
  Then growing proud in Death, to know
  That all her curious labours thou                                  10
  Wilt, as in triumph, deign to wear,
  Retires to her soft sepulchre.
    Such, dearest, is that hapless state,
  To which I am design'd by Fate,
  Who by thee, willingly, o'ercome,
  Work mine own fetters and my tomb.




    [_The Silkworm._] ]

    [Line: 1 This] The _1647_.]

    [Line: 6 Miss Guiney insists, in the teeth of all texts, upon
    changing over 'thy' and 'her', saying that 'facts and the
    context force' the reversal. I am afraid that the genius of
    seventeenth-century poetry did not care much for facts or
    context at any time. But here no violence is done to either.
    Nine men out of ten wishing to say 'to make out of the spoil
    of herself an ornament for thee' would have probably put it in
    the same way, especially if they wanted the rhyme 'spoil'.]

    [Line: 10 'That _her rich work and_ labours' _1647_.]

    [Line: 14 'I destined am' _1647_.]




_A Lady Weeping._

MONTALVAN.


  As when some brook flies from itself away,
  The murmuring crystal loosely runs astray;
  And as about the verdant plain it winds,
  The meadows with a silver riband binds,
  Printing a kiss on every flower she meets,
  Losing herself to fill them with new sweets,
  To scatter frost upon the lily's head,
  And scarlet on the gilliflower to spread;
  So melting sorrow, in the fair disguise
  Of humid stars, flow'd from bright Cloris' eyes,                   10
  Which wat'ring every flower her cheek discloses,
  Melt into jasmines here, there into roses.




    [_A Lady Weeping._] Few people, I think, will accept
    Miss Guiney's suggestion of 'tears' for 'stars' in l. 10,
    especially after 'humid'. The shooting star, which dissolved
    on reaching earth into dew or 'jelly', is very common with
    Carolines.]




_Ambition._


    I must no longer now admire
      The coldness which possess'd
        Thy snowy breast,
  That can by other flames be set on fire.
    Poor Love, to harsh Disdain betray'd,
    Is by Ambition thus out-weigh'd.

    Hadst thou but known the vast extent
      Of constant faith, how far
        'Bove all that are
  Born slaves to Wealth, or Honour's vain ascent;                    10
    No richer treasure couldst thou find
    Than hearts with mutual chains combin'd.

    But Love is too despis'd a name,
      And must not hope to rise
        Above these ties;
  Honour and Wealth outshine his paler flame;
    These unite souls, whilst true desire
    Unpitied dies in its own fire.

    Yet, cruel fair one, I did aim
      With no less justice too,                                      20
        Than those that sue
  For other hopes, and thy proud fortunes claim.
    Wealth honours, honours wealth approve,
    But Beauty's only meant for Love.




    [_Ambition._] ]

    [Line: 16 Miss Guiney thinks that the singular 'Honour',
    though in all texts, is obviously wrong. I should say that
    the plural would be more obviously wronger. The mistake, of
    course, comes from importing a modern distinction.]




_Song._


  When, dearest beauty, thou shalt pay
  Thy faith and my vain hope away
  To some dull soul that cannot know
  The worth of that thou dost bestow;
  Lest with my sighs and tears I might
  Disturb thy unconfin'd delight,
  To some dark shade I will retire,
  And there, forgot by all, expire.

  Thus, whilst the difference thou shalt prove
  Betwixt a feign'd and real love,                                   10
  Whilst he, more happy, but less true,
  Shall reap those joys I did pursue,
  And with those pleasures crownéd be
  By Fate, which Love design'd for me,
  Then thou, perhaps, thyself wilt find
  Cruel too long, or too soon kind.




    [_Song._] Not one of Stanley's worst.]




_The Revenge._

RONSARD.


  Fair Rebel to thyself and Time,
      Who laugh'st at all my tears,
  When thou hast lost thy youthful prime,
      And Age his trophy rears,

  Weighing thy inconsiderate pride
      Thou shalt in vain accuse it,
  Why beauty am I now denied,
      Or knew not then to use it?

  Then shall I wish, ungentle fair,
      Thou in like flames mayst burn;                                10
  Venus, if just, will hear my prayer,
      And I shall laugh my turn.




    [_The Revenge._] Not one of his best, even as a
    translation. The suspicion of _flatness_ which occurs too
    often in him could not be more fatal than in connexion
    with Ronsard's famous and beautiful sonnet. But Stanley has
    handicapped himself almost inconceivably. He has thrown away
    the half-sad, half-scornful burst of the opening 'Quand vous
    serez bien vieille'--the vivid picture of the crone half
    boasting, half regretting her love and her disdain, by the
    flicker of fire and candle, to the listening handmaiden,
    and the final touch as to the use of life. In fact I have
    sometimes wondered whether he really meant this masterpiece.]




_Song._


  I will not trust thy tempting graces,
      Or thy deceitful charms;
  Nor pris'ner be to thy embraces,
      Or fetter'd in thy arms;
  No, Celia, no, not all thy art
  Can wound or captivate my heart.

  I will not gaze upon thy eyes,
      Or wanton with thy hair,
  Lest those should burn me by surprise,
      Or these my soul ensnare;                                      10
  Nor with those smiling dangers play,
  Or fool my liberty away.

  Since then my wary heart is free,
      And unconfin'd as thine,
  If thou wouldst mine should captiv'd be,
      Thou must thine own resign,
  And gratitude may thus move more
  Than Love or Beauty could before.




    [_Song._] Another capital stanza-mould, especially
    in 1. The next is even better.

    This Song is also in _Select Airs and Dialogues, set by Mr.
    Jeremy Savill_, _1659_.]




_Song._


    No, I will sooner trust the wind,
              When falsely kind
  It courts the pregnant sails into a storm,
    And when the smiling waves persuade,
      Be willingly betray'd,
    Than thy deceitful vows or form.

    Go, and beguile some easy heart
              With thy vain art;
  Thy smiles and kisses on those fools bestow,
    Who only see the calms that sleep                                10
      On this smooth flatt'ring deep,
    But not the hidden dangers know.

    They that like me thy falsehood prove,
              Will scorn thy love.
  Some may, deceiv'd at first, adore thy shrine;
    But he that, as thy sacrifice,
      Doth willingly fall twice,
    Dies his own martyr, and not thine.




    [_Song._]

    [Line: 12 the] thy _1647_.]




_To a Blind Man in Love._

MARINO.


  Lover, than Love more blind, whose bold thoughts dare
  Fix on a woman is both young and fair!
  If Argus, with a hundred eyes, not one
  Could guard, hop'st thou to keep thine, who hast none?




    [_To a Blind Man in Love._] 2 The ellipsis of 'who'
    before 'is' is one of the few grammatical licences which are
    really awkward in poetry. In _Oronta 1647_, where this poem
    also appeared with two other translations from Marino, the
    reading is 'woman that is young'; and in 7 'Senses too'.]




_Answer._


  I'm blind, 'tis true, but, in Love's rules, defect
  Of sense is aided by the intellect;
  And senses by each other are supplied:
  The touch enjoys what's to the sight denied.




_Song._


  I Prithee let my heart alone,
    Since now 'tis rais'd above thee,
  Not all the beauty thou dost own,
    Again can make me love thee:

  He that was shipwreck'd once before
    By such a Syren's call,
  And yet neglects to shun that shore,
    Deserves his second fall.

  Each flatt'ring kiss, each tempting smile,
    Thou dost in vain bestow,                                        10
  Some other lovers might beguile,
    Who not thy falsehood know.

  But I am proof against all art.
    No vows shall e'er persuade me
  Twice to present a wounded heart
    To her that hath betray'd me.

  Could I again be brought to love
    Thy form, though more divine,
  I might thy scorn as justly move,
    As now thou sufferest mine.                                      20




    [_Song._] Pretty, and the double rhymes in stanzas 1
    and 4 well brought off.]

    [Line: 7 _1656_ '_the_ shore'.]




_The Loss._


      Yet ere I go,
  Disdainful Beauty, thou shall be
    So wretched, as to know
  What joys thou fling'st away with me.

      A faith so bright,
  As Time or Fortune could not rust;
    So firm, that lovers might
  Have read thy story in my dust,

      And crown'd thy name
  With laurel verdant as thy youth,                                  10
    Whilst the shrill voice of Fame
  Spread wide thy beauty and my truth.

      This thou hast lost;
  For all true lovers, when they find
    That my just aims were crost,
  Will speak thee lighter than the wind.

      And none will lay
  Any oblation on thy shrine,
    But such as would betray
  Thy faith, to faiths as false as thine.                            20

      Yet, if thou choose
  On such thy freedom to bestow,
    Affection may excuse,
  For love from sympathy doth flow.




    [_The Loss._] Still good. But I have once more to
    demur to Miss Guiney's opinion that 'Thy' in l. 20, though
    found in all texts, should 'almost certainly' be 'Their'.
    In the first place, conjectural emendations in the teeth
    of text-agreement are never to be made without absolute
    necessity. In the second, the hackneyed observation about
    the less obvious reading is never so true as of the Caroline
    poets. In the third, this particular correction, if obvious
    in one sense, is but specious in another, and '_Their_ faith'
    will be found on examination to make less, not more, sense
    than 'Thy'. The meaning is, 'Such faith as thou mightest
    repose in them after being false to me', i.e. 'They would
    leave thee for other light-o'-loves'.]




_The Self-Cruel._


  Cast off, for shame, ungentle Maid,
    That misbecoming joy thou wear'st;
  For in my death, though long delay'd,
    Unwisely cruel thou appear'st.
  Insult o'er captives with disdain,
  Thou canst not triumph o'er the slain.

  No, I am now no longer thine,
    Nor canst thou take delight to see
  Him whom thy love did once confine,
    Set, though by Death, at liberty;                                10
  For if my fall a smile beget,
  Thou gloriest in thy own defeat.

  Behold how thy unthrifty pride
    Hath murder'd him that did maintain it!
  And wary souls, who never tried
    Thy tyrant beauty, will disdain it:
  But I am softer, and that me
  Thou wouldst not pity, pity thee.




    [_The Self-Cruel._] Merely 'Song' in _1647_.

    The observations in the preceding note apply to Miss Guiney's
    supposition that 'that' in the penultimate line is a misprint
    for 'though'. 'I pity thee _in_ (or 'for') that thou wouldst
    not pity me.']




_Song._

BY M. W. M.


  Wert thou yet fairer than thou art,
  Which lies not in the power of Art;
  Or hadst thou in thine eyes more darts
  Than ever Cupid shot at hearts;
  Yet if they were not thrown at me,
  I would not cast a thought on thee,

  I'd rather marry a disease,
  Than court the thing I cannot please;
  She that will cherish my desires,
  Must meet my flames with equal fires.                              10
  What pleasure is there in a kiss
  To him that doubts the heart's not his?

  I love thee not because th' art fair,
  Softer than down, smoother than air;
  Nor for the Cupids that do lie
  In either corner of thine eye:
  Wouldst thou then know what it might be?
  'Tis I love you, 'cause you love me.




    [_Song._] In _1647_ the song itself is not given,
    and the title of Stanley's piece is '_In Answer to a Song_,
    Wert thou much fairer than thou art, &c.' I do not know
    who Master W. M. was--possibly Walter Montagu, Abbé de
    Saint-Martin, whom we have met once or twice in commendatory
    poems, and who was of the Cavalier literary set.]




_Answer._


  Wert thou by all affections sought,
  And fairer than thou wouldst be thought;
  Or had thine eyes as many darts
  As thou believ'st they shoot at hearts;
  Yet if thy love were paid to me,
  I would not offer mine to thee.

  I'd sooner court a fever's heat,
  Than her that owns a flame as great;
  She that my love will entertain,
  Must meet it with no less disdain;                                 10
  For mutual fires themselves destroy,
  And willing kisses yield no joy.

  I love thee not because alone
  Thou canst all beauty call thine own
  Nor doth my passion fuel seek
  In thy bright eye or softer cheek:
  Then, fairest, if thou wouldst know why
  I love thee, 'cause thou canst deny.




_The Relapse._


  Oh, turn away those cruel eyes,
    The stars of my undoing!
  Or Death, in such a bright disguise,
    May tempt a second wooing.

  Punish their blindly impious pride,
    Who dare contemn thy glory;
  It was my fall that deified
    Thy name, and seal'd thy story.

  Yet no new sufferings can prepare
    A higher praise to crown thee;                                   10
  Though my first Death proclaim thee fair,
    My second will unthrone thee.

  Lovers will doubt thou canst entice
    No other for thy fuel,
  And if thou burn one victim twice,
    Both think thee poor and cruel.




    [_The Relapse._] One of the author's best. Double
    rhymes often brought him luck. It was reprinted in Lawes's
    _Airs and Dialogues, the Second Book_, 1655, p. 7, with the
    heading 'He would not be tempted'. In _1647_ called 'Song'
    only. This edition also reads in l. 5 'blind and impious', and
    in l. 7 'thy name' for 'my fall'. This last, which doubtless
    is a slip, seems to occur in some copies of _1651_, but
    Brydges prints it correctly.]




_To the Countess of S. with the Holy Court._


      MADAM,
  Since every place you bless, the name
  This book assumes may justlier claim,
  (What more a court than where you shine?
  And where your soul, what more divine?)
  You may, perhaps, doubt at first sight,
  That it usurps upon your right;
  And praising virtues, that belong
  To you, in others, doth yours wrong;
  No; 'tis yourself you read, in all
  Perfections earlier ages call                                      10
  Their own; all glories they e'er knew
  Were but faint prophecies of you.
    You then have here sole interest whom 'tis meant
    As well to entertain, as represent.




    [_To the Countess of S._] This lady has been
    supposed, probably enough, to be Dorothy Sidney or Spencer,
    Countess of Sunderland, and Waller's 'Sacharissa'. _The
    Holy Court_ was a manual of devotion by the Jesuit Caussin,
    translated into English as early as 1626.]




_Song._

DE VOITURE.


    I languish in a silent flame;
      For she, to whom my vows incline,
      Doth own perfections so divine,
  That but to speak were to disclose her name
    If I should say that she the store
      Of Nature's graces doth comprise,
      The love and wonder of all eyes,
  Who will not guess the beauty I adore?

    Or though I warily conceal
      The charms her looks and soul possess;                         10
      Should I her cruelty express,
  And say she smiles at all the pains we feel;

    Among such suppliants as implore
      Pity, distributing her hate,
      Inexorable as their fate,
  Who will not guess the beauty I adore?




    [_Song._] Stanley was less _impar congressus_ with
    Voiture than with Ronsard, and this is well done. The stanza
    is well framed and is different from the French ('Je me tais
    et me sens brûler', Chanson LIV, _[Oe]uvres_ de Voiture, ed.
    Ubicini, Paris, 1855, ii. 336).]




_Drawn for Valentine by the L. D. S._


  Though 'gainst me Love and Destiny conspire,
  Though I must waste in an unpitied fire,
  By the same Deity, severe as fair,
  Commanded adoration and despair;
  Though I am mark'd for sacrifice, to tell
  The growing age what dangerous glories dwell
  In this bright dawn, who, when she spreads her rays,
  Will challenge every heart, and every praise;
  Yet she who to all hope forbids my claim,
  By Fortune's taught indulgence to my flame.                        10
    Great Queen of Chance! unjustly we exclude
  Thy power an interest in beatitude,
  Who, with mysterious judgement, dost dispense
  The bounties of unerring Providence,
  Whilst we, to whom the causes are unknown,
  Would style that blindness thine, which is our own;
  As kind in justice to thyself as me,
  Thou hast redeem'd thy name and votary;
  Nor will I prize this less for being thine,
  Nor longer at my destiny repine:                                   20
  Counsel and choice are things below thy state;
  Fortune relieves the cruelties of Fate.




_The Modest Wish._

BARCLAY.


  Reach incense, boy! thou pious Flamen, pray!
  To genial Deities these rites we pay.
  Fly far from hence, such as are only taught
  To fear the Gods by guilt of crime or thought!
  This is my suit; grant it, Celestial Powers,
  If what my will affects, oppose not yours.
    First, pure before your altars may I stand,
  And practise studiously what you command;
  My parents' faith devoutly let me prize,
  Nor what my ancestors esteem'd, despise;                           10
  Let me not vex'd inquire (when thriving ill
  Depresseth good) why thunder is so still?
  No such ambitious knowledge trouble me;
  Those curious thoughts advance not Piety:
  Peaceful my house, in wife and children bless'd,
  Nor these beyond my fortunes be increas'd:
  None cozen me with Friendship's specious gloss;
  None dearly buy my friendship with their loss:
  To suits nor wars my quiet be betray'd;
  My quiet, to the Muses justly paid:                                20
  Want never force me court the rich with lies,
  And intermix my suit with flatteries:
  Let my sure friends deceive the tedious light,
  And my sound sleeps, with debts not broke, the night:
  Cheerful my board, my smiles shar'd by my wife,
  O Gods! yet mindful still of human life,
  To die nor let me wish nor fear; among
  My joys mix griefs, griefs that not last too long:
  My age be happy; and when Fate shall claim
  My thread of life, let me survive in fame.      30
    Enough: the gods are pleas'd; the flames aspire,
    And crackling laurel triumphs in the fire.




_E Catalectis Vet[erum] Poet[arum]_


  A small well-gotten stock and country seat
  I have, yet my content makes both seem great.
  My quiet soul to fears is not inur'd,
  And from the sins of Idleness secur'd.
  Others may seek the camp, others the town,
  And fool themselves with pleasure or renown;
  Let me, unminded in the common crowd,
  Live master of the time that I'm allow'd.




_On the Edition of Mr. Fletcher's Works._


  Fletcher (whose fame no age can ever waste;
  Envy of ours, and glory of the last)
  Is now alive again; and with his name
  His sacred ashes wak'd into a flame;
  Such as before did by a secret charm
  The wildest heart subdue, the coldest warm,
  And lend the ladies' eyes a power more bright,
  Dispensing thus to either, heat and light.
    He to a sympathy those souls betray'd,
  Whom Love or Beauty never could persuade;                          10
  And in each mov'd spectator could beget
  A real passion by a counterfeit:
  When first Bellario bled, what lady there
  Did not for every drop let fall a tear?
  And when Aspasia wept, not any eye
  But seem'd to wear the same sad livery.
  By him inspir'd, the feign'd Lucina drew
  More streams of melting sorrow than the true;
  But then the Scornful Lady did beguile
  Their easy griefs, and teach them all to smile.                    20
    Thus he affections could or raise or lay;
  Love, Grief, and Mirth thus did his charms obey:
  He Nature taught her passions to outdo,
  How to refine the old, and create new;
  Which such a happy likeness seem'd to bear,
  As if that Nature Art, Art Nature were.
    Yet all had nothing been, obscurely kept
  In the same urn wherein his dust hath slept,
  Nor had he ris' the Delphic wreath to claim,
  Had not the dying scene expir'd his name.                          30
  Oh the indulgent justice of this age,
  To grant the Press, what it denies the Stage!
  Despair our joy hath doubled; he is come
  Twice welcome by this _post-liminium_;
  His loss preserv'd him; they that silenc'd wit
  Are now the authors to eternize it:
    Thus poets are in spite of Fate reviv'd,
    And plays, by intermission, longer liv'd.




    [_On [the Edition of Mr.] Fletcher's Works._] The
    bracketed words omitted in _1647_, when, as the book itself
    (the first folio of Beaumont and Fletcher) had just appeared,
    they were unnecessary. The variants are slight: 'could' and
    'did' in lines 5 and 11 are changed over; in l. 19, 'doth'
    (again reflecting the immediate presentation). In l. 29
    'rise': the form 'ris'' is recognized by Ben Jonson. In l. 30
    Miss Guiney thinks 'not' 'clearly a misprint' for 'with'. But
    this is clearly a misunderstanding of 'expir'd', which is used
    with its proper transitive force as in Latin. 'Had not the
    dying stage [the suppressed and decadent theatre of 1647]
    expired [uttered with its passing breath] his name, the book
    would not have been published [and so made him rise and claim
    the crown].' ll. 31, 32 were omitted in the Beaumont and
    Fletcher Folio, 1647.

    It can hardly be necessary to annotate the well-known
    characters of 'the twins' that Stanley introduces. Brydges,
    by printing 'Scornful Lady' without capitals, unnecessarily
    obscured one of them.]




_To Mr. W. Hammond._


  Thou best of friendship, knowledge, and of art!
  The charm of whose lov'd name preserves my heart
  From female vanities (thy name, which there,
  Till Time dissolves the fabric, I must wear),
  Forgive a crime which long my soul opprest,
  And crept by chance in my unwary breast,
  So great, as for thy pardon were unfit,
  And to forgive were worse than to commit,
  But that the fault and pain were so much one,
  The very act did expiate what was done.                            10
    I, who so often sported with the flame,
  Play'd with the Boy, and laugh'd at both as tame,
  Betray'd by Idleness and Beauty, fell
  At last in love, love, both the sin and hell:
  No punishment great as my fault esteem'd,
  But to be that which I so long had seem'd.
  Behold me such, a face, a voice, a lute,
  The sentence in a minute execute!
  I yield; recant; the faith which I before
  Denied, profess; the power I scorn'd, implore.                     20
  Alas, in vain! no prayers, no vows can bow
  Her stubborn heart, who neither will allow.
  But see how strangely what was meant no less
  Than torment, prov'd my greatest happiness:
  Delay, that should have sharpen'd, starv'd Desire,
  And Cruelty not fann'd, but quench'd my fire;
  Love bound me: now by kind Disdain set free,
  I can despise that Love as well as she.
  That sin to friendship I away have thrown:
  My heart thou mayst without a rival own,                           30
  While such as willingly themselves beguile,
  And sell away their freedoms for a smile,
  Blush to confess our joys as far above
  Their hopes, as Friendship's longer liv'd than Love.




    [_To Mr. W. Hammond._] In _1647_, as usually,
    initials only. His relation (see Introduction) and the author
    of the poems in vol. ii. As in some other cases, this poem
    shows the _nisus_ of the more or less stopped couplet--the way
    in which it was communicating energy to writers of the time
    even when they mainly belong to the older division.]

    [Line: 30 _1647_ 'Nor any flame, but what is thine, will
    own'.]




_On Mr. Shirley's Poems._


  When, dearest friend, thy verse doth re-inspire
  Love's pale decaying torch with brighter fire,
  Whilst everywhere thou dost dilate thy flame,
  And to the world spread thy Odelia's name,
  The justice of all ages must remit
  To her the prize of Beauty, thee of Wit.
    Then, like some skilful artist, that to wonder
  Framing a piece, displeas'd, takes it asunder,
  Thou Beauty dost depose, her charms deny,
  And all the mystic chains of Love untie:                           10
  Thus thy diviner Muse a power 'bove Fate
  May boast, that can both make and uncreate.
    Next thou call'st back to life that love-sick boy,
  To the kind-hearted nymphs less fair than coy,
  Who, by reflex beams burnt with vain desire,
  Did, Phoenix-like, in his own flames expire:
  But should he view his shadow drawn by thee,
  He with himself once more in love would be.
    Echo (who though she words pursue, her haste
  Can only overtake and stop the last)                               20
  Shall her first speech and human veil obtain
  To sing thy softer numbers o'er again.
  Thus, into dying poetry, thy Muse
  Doth full perfection and new life infuse;
  Each line deserves a laurel, and thy praise
  Asks not a garland, but a grove of bays;
  Nor can ours raise thy lasting trophies higher,
  Who only reach at merit to admire.
    But I must chide thee, friend: how canst thou be
  A patron, yet a foe to poetry?                                     30
  For while thou dost this age to verse restore,
  Thou dost deprive the next of owning more;
  And hast so far e'en future aims surpast,
  That none dare write: thus being first and last,
  All, their abortive Muses will suppress,
  And poetry by this increase grow less.




    [_On Mr. Shirley's Poems._] _1647_ initials (I. S.),
    as usual. The same remark applies here as to the last piece.
    Shirley's _Poems_ (which include a reciprocal compliment to
    our author's) appear at the end of the sixth volume of Dyce's
    standard edition of his plays, and therefore are not included
    in this collection. They are, however, interesting, though
    there is nothing in them so good as the famous 'Glories of our
    blood and state'. 'Odelia' (a curious and rather suspicious
    name) appears pretty frequently in them. Shirley was a friend
    not merely of Stanley, but of Hammond and Prestwich (_v.
    inf._) and others of the set. Some of the poems usually
    attributed to Carew appear to be really his. His _Poems_ were
    published in 1646, a year before Stanley's.--There are some
    quite unimportant variants between _1647_ and _1651_: 'that'
    and 'who' in l. 7; 'a' and 'some' in l. 8; 'words' and
    'speech' in l. 19; and l. 30 has the absurd reading 'A patron,
    yet a _friend_ to poesy'. _1647_ omits lines 31 and 32, and
    reads

        Thou hast so far all future times surpassed

    in l. 33. Miss Guiney suggests 'voice' for 'veil' in l.
    21. But 'veil' is far more poetical as = The _body_ of her
    disguise and humiliation after her aerial enfranchisement.]




_On Mr. Sherburn's Translation of Seneca's Medea,
and Vindication of the Author._


  That wise philosopher, who had design'd
  To life the various passions of the mind,
  Did wrong'd Medea's jealousy prefer
  To entertain the Roman theatre;
  Both to instruct the soul, and please the sight,
  At once begetting horror and delight.
    This cruelty thou dost once more express,
  Though in a strange, no less becoming dress;
  And her revenge hast robb'd of half its pride,
  To see itself thus by itself outvied,                              10
  That boldest ages past may say, our times
  Can speak, as well as act their highest crimes.
    Nor was 't enough to do his scene this right,
  But what thou gav'st to us, with equal light
  Thou wouldst bestow on him, nor wert more just
  Unto the author's work, than to his dust;
  Thou dost make good his title, aid his claim,
  Both vindicate his poem and his name,
  So shar'st a double wreath; for all that we
  Unto the poet owe, he owes to thee.                                20
  Though change of tongues stol'n praise to some afford,
  Thy version hath not borrow'd, but restor'd.




    [_On Mr. Sherburn's Translation, &c._] Title in
    _1647_ rather longer, but with initials, 'To Mr. E. S. on his
    Translation of Medea, with the other Tragedies of Seneca
    the Philosopher and vindicating of their Author'. Sherburn
    (afterwards Sir Edward) had the rather capriciously adjudged
    honour of appearing in Chalmers's _Poets_, which accounts for
    his absence here.]

    [Line: 20 _1647_ reads 'author' for 'poet', an obvious
    overlooking of the occurrence of the word just before.]




_On Mr. Hall's Essays._


  Wits that matur'd by time have courted praise,
  Shall see their works outdone in these Essays;
  And blush to know, thy earlier years display
  A dawning, clearer than their brightest day.
  Yet I'll not praise thee, for thou hast outgrown
  The reach of all men's praises, but thine own.
  Encomiums to their objects are exact;
  To praise, and not at full, is to detract.
  And with most justice are the best forgot,
  For praise is bounded when the theme is not:                       10
  Since mine is thus confin'd, and far below
  Thy merit, I forbear it, nor will show
  How poor the autumnal pride of some appears,
  To the ripe fruit thy vernal season bears.
  Yet though I mean no praise, I come t'invite
  Thy forward aims still to advance their flight;
  Rise higher yet, what though thy spreading wreath
  Lessen to their dull sight who stay beneath?
  To thy full learning how can all allow
  Just praise, unless that all were learn'd as thou?                 20
  Go on in spite of such low souls, and may
  Thy growing worth know age, though not decay,
  Till thou pay back thy theft; and live to climb
  As many years as thou hast snatch'd from Time.




    [_On Mr. Hall's Essays._] _1647_ 'To Mr. I. H. on
    his Essays'. These were the much-praised _Horae Vacivae_ (see
    Introduction to Hall, vol. ii). Besides the slight difference
    in general title the _1647_ version divides itself. The first
    division consists of the first four lines only. A second, to
    Mr. I. H., appears elsewhere, beginning:

        _I'll not commend thee_, for thou hast outgrown--

    and going on as above, except that 'full' is foisted up from
    l. 8 to l. 7 ('full objects'), to the destruction of sense and
    metre.]

    [Line: 3 earlier] early _1647_.]

    [Line: 13 'The pride of others' autumns poor appears' _1647_.]




_On S[ir] J[ohn] S[uckling], his Picture and Poems._


  Suckling, whose numbers could invite
  Alike to wonder and delight,
  And with new spirit did inspire
  The Thespian scene and Delphic lyre,
  Is thus express'd in either part,
  Above the humble reach of Art.
  Drawn by the pencil, here you find
  His form, by his own pen, his mind.




    [_On Sir John Suckling, his Picture and Poems._]
    Initials only in original titles. These poems were the
    _Fragmenta Aurea_ of 1646.]




_The Union._

[Greek: Mia psychê duo sômata.]

BY MR. WILLIAM FAIRFAX.


  As in the crystal centre of the sight,
  Two subtle beams make but one cone of light,
  Or when one flame twin'd with another is,
  They both ascend in one bright pyramis;
  Our spirits thus into each other flow,
  One in our being, one in what we know,
  In what we will, desire, dislike, approve,
  In what we love, and one is that pure love,
  As in a burning glass th' aërial flame,
  With the producing ray, is still the same:                         10
  We to Love's purest quintessence refin'd,
  Do both become one undefilèd mind.
  This sacred fire into itself converts
  Our yielding spirits, and our melting hearts,
  Till both our souls into one spirit run,
  So several lines are in their centre one.
  And when thy fair idea is imprest
  In the soft tablet of my easier breast,
  The sweet reflection brings such sympathy,
  That I my better self behold in thee;                              20
  And all perfections that in thee combine,
  By this resultance are entirely mine;
  Thy rays disperse my shades, who only live
  Bright in the lustre thou art pleas'd to give.




    [_The Union_]
    ]

    [Line: 12 undefiled] undivided _1647_.]

    [Line: 18 tablet] table _1647_.]




_Answer._


  If we are one, dear friend! why shouldst thou be
  At once unequal to thyself and me?
  By thy release thou swell'st my debt the more,
  And dost but rob thyself to make me poor.
  What part can I have in thy luminous cone?
  What flame, since my love's thine, can call my own?
  The palest star is less the son of night,
  Who, but thy borrow'd, know no native light:
  Was 't not enough thou freely didst bestow
  The Muse, but thou wouldst give the laurel too?                    10
  And twice my aims by thy assistance raise,
  Conferring first the merit, then the praise?
  But I should do thee greater injury,
  Did I believe this praise were meant to me,
  Or thought, though thou hast worth enough to spare,
  T' enrich another soul, that mine should share.
  Thy Muse, seeming to lend, calls home her fame,
  And her due wreath doth in renouncing claim.




    [_Answer._] In l. 10 of the 'Answer' _1647_ has
    'must'. At the end of the poem in _1647_ is the couplet

        [Greek: Dysmore thêlymanôn glyky mê lege kentron erôtôn;
                  Mounos TAS MOUSAS olbios esti THELÔN.]
    ]




_Pythagoras, his Moral Rules._


  First to immortal God thy duty pay,
  Observe thy vow, honour the saints: obey
  Thy prince and rulers, nor their laws despise:
  Thy parents reverence, and near allies:
  Him that is first in virtue make thy friend;
  And with observance his kind speech attend:
  Nor, to thy power, for light faults cast him by;
  Thy power is neighbour to necessity.
    These know, and with intentive care pursue;
  But Anger, Sloth, and Luxury subdue.                               10
  In sight of others, or thyself, forbear
  What 's ill; but of thyself stand most in fear.
  Let Justice all thy words and actions sway,
  Nor from the even course of reason stray;
  For know that all men are to die ordain'd,
  And riches are as quickly lost as gain'd.
  Crosses that happen by divine decree,
  If such thy lot, bear not impatiently.
  Yet seek to remedy with all thy care,
  And think the just have not the greatest share.                    20
  'Mongst men discourses good and bad are spread,
  Despise not those, nor be by these misled.
  If any some notorious falsehood say,
  Thou the report with equal judgement weigh.
  Let not men's smoother promises invite,
  Nor rougher threats from just resolves thee fright.
  If ought thou wouldst attempt, first ponder it,
  Fools only inconsiderate acts commit.
  Nor do what afterward thou mayst repent,
  First learn to know the thing on which th'art bent.                30
  Thus thou a life shalt lead with joy replete.
    Nor must thou care of outward health forget;
  Such temperance use in exercise and diet,
  As may preserve thee in a settled quiet.
  Meats unprohibited, not curious, choose,
  Decline what any other may accuse:
  The rash expense of vanity detest,
  And sordidness: a mean in all is best.
  Hurt not thyself; act nought thou dost not weigh;
  And every business of the following day                            40
  As soon as by the morn awak'd, dispose;
  Nor suffer sleep at night thy eyes to close,
  Till thrice that diary thou hast o'errun;
  How slipt? what deeds, what duty left undone?
  Thus thy account summ'd up from first to last,
  Grieve for the ill, joy for what good hath past.
    These, if thou study, practise, and affect,
  To sacred Virtue will thy steps direct.
  Nature's eternal fountain I attest,
  Who did the soul with fourfold power invest.                       50
  Ere thou begin, pray well thy work may end,
  Then shall thy knowledge to all things extend,
  Divine and human; where enlarg'd, restrain'd;
  How Nature is by general likeness chain'd.
  Vain Hope nor Ignorance shall dim thy sight:
  Then shalt thou see that hapless men invite
  Their ills; to good, though present, deaf and blind;
  And few the cure of their misfortunes find:
  This only is the fate that harms, and rolls,
  Through miseries successive, human souls.                          60
  Within is a continual hidden fight,
  Which we to shun must study, not excite:
  Good God! how little trouble should we know,
  If thou to all men wouldst their genius show!
    But fear not thou; men come of heav'nly race,
  Taught by diviner Nature what t' embrace;
  Which, if pursued, thou all I nam'd shalt gain,
  And keep thy soul clear from thy body's stain:
  In time of prayer and cleansing meats denied
  Abstain from; thy mind's reins let reason guide:                   70
    Then rais'd to Heaven, thou from thy body free,
    A deathless saint, no more shalt mortal be.




    [_Pythagoras, his Moral Rules._] Stanley's three
    vocations of poet, translator, and philosopher come well
    together in this closing piece, and the prose commentary
    completes the exposition in little.]




The common received opinion that _Pythagoras_ is not the author of
these verses, seems to be defended by _Chrysippus_ in _Agellius_,
_Plutarch_, _Laertius_, and _Iamblichus_, who affirm that the rules
and sense only were his, digested into verse by some of his scholars.
But it is not improbable that they did no more than collect the
verses, and so gave occasion to the mistake; for _Laertius_ confesseth
that _Pythagoras_ used to deliver his precepts to his disciples in
verse, one of which was

  [Greek: Pê parebên? ti d' erexa? ti moi deon ouk etelesthê?]
  _How slipt? what deeds, what duty left undone?_

Of this opinion I believe _Clemens Alexandrinus_, who cites one of
these lines under his name, and _Proclus_, when he calls him [Greek:
tôn chrysôn epôn patera], _the father of the golden verses_.

  [_thy duty pay_]

[Greek: Nomô hôs diakeitai]; though _Hierocles_ in another sense read
[Greek: diakeintai].

  [_thy vow_]

[Greek: Horkos]. _Hierocles_, [Greek: têrêsis tôn theiôn nomôn],
_observance of religious rules_.

  [_honour the saints_]

[Greek: Hêrôas]. _Laertius_ on these words explains _souls whereof the
air is full. Hierocles, angels, the sons of God, &c._

  [_Thy prince and rulers_]

[Greek: Katachthonious daimonas], _Hierocles_, [Greek: Tous epi gês
politeuesthai dynamenous]; _capable of government_.

  [_nor their laws despise_]

[Greek: Ennoma rhezein]. _Hierocles_ [Greek: Peithesthai hois
apoleloipasin hêmin parangelmasi]; _to obey their commands_.

  [_with observance_]

[Greek: Erga epôphelima], _that is_, [Greek: euergesia, therapeia]:
_yet, Hierocles otherwise_.

  [_Thy power is neighbour to necessity_]

Whatsoever necessity can force thee to bear, it is in thy power to
bear voluntarily. If thy friend have wronged thee, how canst thou
say, thou art not able to endure his company, when imprisonment might
constrain thee to it? See _Hierocles_.

  [_'Mongst men discourses good and bad are spread;_
  _Despise not these,[1] nor be by those misled._]

So _Hierocles_; _Marcilius_ reads [Greek: ôn] (that is, [Greek: oun])
for [Greek: hôn] which best agrees with this sense.

  [_what any other may accuse_]

[Greek: phthonon]. _Hierocles_ interprets [Greek: mempsin], _invidia_,
so taken sometimes by _Cicero_, _Marcell._

  [_And every business of the following day
  As soon as by the morn awak'd, dispose_]

These two lines I have inserted upon the authority of _Porphyrius_,

  [Greek: Pro men oun tou hypnou tauta heautô ta epê epadein hekaston.
                                        Mêd' hypnon malakoisin], &c.

  [Greek: Pro de tês exanastaseôs ekeina:
                  Prôta men ex hypnoio meliphronos exypanistas
                  Eu mala poipneuein hos' en hêmati erga telessei].

  _He advised every one before he slept to repeat these verses to himself,
            Nor suffer sleep at night, &c.
  And before he rose these,
            And every business, &c._

How much this confirms _Pythagoras_ the author, and his scholars but
disposers of the verses (who, as it appears, forgot these two), is
evident enough. The main argument they insist upon, who labour to
prove the contrary, is derived from these words,

  [_Nature's eternal fountain I attest,
  Who did the soul with fourfold power invest_]

Where _Marcilius_ expounds [Greek: paradonta tetrakên][2] _illum a
quo scientiam_ [Greek: tetraktyos], _acceperant, is autem doctor eorum
Pythagoras_, as if it were

  _Him who the Tetrad to our souls exprest,
  (Nature's eternal fountain) I attest;_

And then takes pains to show that his scholars used to swear by him.
But [Greek: paradidonai psychê mathêtôn] for [Greek: didaskein] is
not without a little violence to [Greek: hametera psycha] (which makes
_Iamblic[h]us_ read [Greek: hameteras sophias]) _Marcilius_ in this
being the less excusable for confessing immediately, _Animae vero
nostrae dixerunt Pythagorei quoniam quaternarius animae numerus est_,
an explanation inconsistent with the other, but (as I conceive) truer;
_Macrobius_ expressly agreeth with it; _Iuro tibi per eum qui dat
animae nostrae quaternarium numerum_; or, as others,

  _Per qui nostrae animae numerum dedit ipse quaternum._

_By him who gave us life--God._ In which sense, [Greek: pagan aennaou
physeôs] much more easily will follow [Greek: paradonta] than [Greek:
tetrakên]. The four powers of the soul are, _mens_, _scientia_,
_opinio_, _sensus_, which _Aristotle_ calls _the four instruments of
judgement_, _Hierocles_, [Greek: kritikas dynameis]. The _mind_ is
compared to a unit, in that of many singulars it makes one. _Science_
to the number _two_ (which amongst the Pythagoreans is _numerus
infinitatis_), because it proceeds from things certain and granted to
uncertain and infinite. _Opinion_ to _three_, a number of indefinite
variety. _Sense_ to _four_, as furnishing the other three. In this
exposition I am the more easily persuaded to dissent from _Plutarch_,
_Hierocles_, _Iamblichus_, and other interpreters, since they differ
no less amongst themselves.

  [_Within is a continual hidden fight_]

Betwixt Reason and Appetite.

  [_how little trouble_]

As _Marcilius_ reads, [Greek: Ê pollôn], &c.

  [_their genius_]

[Greek: Hoiô daimoni], _Hierocles_ expounds [Greek: hoia psychê].
  _Genius_ includes both.

  [_what t' embrace_]

_Hierocles_ [Greek: panta ta deonta], _all that they ought to do._

  [_from the[3] body's stain_]

_Hierocles from the infection of the body._

  [_In times[3] of prayer_]

[Greek: En te lysei psychês], _Meditation_. See _Plato in Phaedone_.

  [_and cleansing_]

Which extended (saith _Hierocles_) [Greek: heôs sitiôn kai potôn kai
tês holês diaitês tou thnêtou hêmôn sômatos] _to meat and drink_, &c.

  [_meats denied_]

What they were is expressed by _Laertius_, _Suidas_, _Hierocles_,
_Agellius_, &c. _Hierocles_ affirms that in these words [Greek: hôn
eipomen], he cites his _sacred Apothegms_: [Greek: ta de epi merous
en tois hierois apophthegmasin, en aporrhêtô paredidoito], _Concerning
meat is particularly delivered in his holy Apothegms, that which was
not lawful to make known to every one._ Which is a great testimony
that _Pythagoras_, and not any of his disciples, writ these verses;
for if the author had cited him before in the third person (as they
argue from [Greek: paradonta tetrakên][4]), he would have cited him
now in the first.




    [Footnote 1: 'These' and 'those' are originally 'crossed over'
    in text and note.]

    [Footnote 2: [Greek: tetrakên] should, as indeed the context
    proclaims, be [Greek: tetraktyn].]

    [Footnote 3: Slight alteration of text in notes again
    original.]

    [Footnote 4: See above. The mistake is an odd one because
    the original oath is in hexameters and [Greek: tetraktyn] is
    absolutely necessary as the last word.]


FINIS.




POEMS APPEARING ONLY IN THE EDITION OF 1656


  On this swelling bank, once proud
    Of its burden, Doris lay:
  Here she smil'd, and did uncloud
    Those bright suns eclipse the day;
  Here we sat, and with kind art
    She about me twin'd her arms,
  Clasp'd in hers my hand and heart,
    Fetter'd in those pleasing charms.

  Here my love and joys she crown'd,
    Whilst the hours stood still before me,                          10
  With a killing glance did wound,
    And a melting kiss restore me.
  On the down of either breast,
    Whilst with joy my soul retir'd,
  My reclining head did rest,
    Till her lips new life inspir'd.
  Thus, renewing of these sights
    Doth with grief and pleasure fill me,
  And the thought of these delights
    Both at once revive and kill me!                                 20




  Dear, fold me once more in thine arms!
    And let me know
    Before I go
  There is no bliss but in those charms.
    By thy fair self I swear
    That here, and only here,
  I would for ever, ever stay:
  But cruel Fate calls me away.

  How swiftly the light minutes slide!
    The hours that haste                                             10
    Away thus fast
  By envious flight my stay do chide.
    Yet, Dear, since I must go,
    By this last kiss I vow,
  By all that sweetness which dwells with thee,
  Time shall move slow, till next I see thee.




  The lazy hours move slow,
    The minutes stay;
  Old Time with leaden feet doth go,
    And his light wings hath cast away.
  The slow-pac'd spheres above
    Have sure releas'd
  Their guardians, and without help move,
    Whilst that the very angels rest.

  The number'd sands that slide
    Through this small glass,                                        10
  And into minutes Time divide,
    Too slow each other do displace;
  The tedious wheels of light
    No faster chime,
  Than that dull shade which waits on night:
    For Expectation outruns Time.

  How long, Lord, must I stay?
    How long dwell here?
  O free me from this loathèd clay!
    Let me no more these fetters wear!                               20
  With far more joy
    Shall I resign my breath,
  For, to my griev'd soul, not to die
    Is every minute a new death.




    [The three pieces which appear in _1656_ only have
    no great character, and were very likely written for Gamble
    _to_ tunes--seldom a very satisfactory process.]


       * * *


       *       *       *       *       *




  POEMS,

  ELEGIES,

  PARADOXES,

  and

  SONNETS.


  _LONDON_.

  Printed by _J. G._ for _Rich: Marriot_
  and _Hen: Herringman_, and sold in
  St. _Dunstans_ Churchyard _Fleet-street_,
  and at the _New-Exchange_.

  1657.




INTRODUCTION TO HENRY KING.


Among the numerous possible extensions of that practice of writing
_Dialogues of the Dead_ which has been, at various times, rather
unusually justified of its practitioners, not the least tempting would
be one which should embody the expectations and the disappointment of
the pious Bishop who held the see of Chichester in Fuller's Bad and
Better Times--long afterwards, between 1843 and 1888. In the former
year, as most students of English poetry know, the late Archdeacon
Hannah, then a young Fellow of Lincoln College, published a most
admirable edition of part of King's _Poems_; and announced that the
rest must be left for a separate volume 'which will be published
without delay'. He lived forty-five years longer, and 'the rest'
was by no means an extensive one; but, whatever may have been the
reason,[1] the second volume never appeared, while, to complete the
misfortune, King's one famous thing, the beautiful

  Tell me no more how fair she is--

is not in the first. Nor has any one since attempted to supply the
deficiency,[2] though that benefactor of the lovers of Caroline
poetry, Mr. J. R. Tutin, included a fifteen-page selection of King's
poems, with Donne and Walton, in one of his 'Orinda Booklets'
(Hull, 1904) some little time after the plan of this collection was
announced, and when its first volume was passing through the press.

There must have been many readers who, like the present writer long
enough ago, have felt a sensation of mingled amazement and chagrin on
buying Dr. Hannah's book and _not_ finding 'Tell me no more' in it.
For that poem, though in certain 'strange and high' qualities it is
the inferior of the best jets of the Caroline genius, is one of the
most faultless and perfect things in this or indeed in any period of
English poetry, and may be said to impart the Caroline essence in a
form that can be (in the medical sense) 'borne' by all who have any
feeling for poetry at all, as hardly anything else does. It enlists,
with unerring art, the peculiar virtue of the metre--that of
expressing settled but not violent hopelessness--which Cowper
afterwards utilized, more terribly but hardly more skilfully, in
'The Castaway'. It has the 'metaphysical' fancifulness of thought and
diction, tempered to a reasonable but not an excessive degree 'below
proof' and so fit for general consumption. No one who possesses
literary 'curiosity'--in the good old sense, not the degenerate modern
one--can be indifferent to seeing what else the author of this could
do.

It may be frankly and at once admitted that he has nothing exactly to
match it. The once even more famous--and still perhaps not much less
famous--_Sic Vita_, is not certainly his; and, though a fine thing,
is very distinctly open to the metaphysical reproach of _playing
with_ its subject too much--of that almost wilfully mechanical and
factory-like conceit-mongering which reaches its extreme in Cleveland.
If it is King's, 'The Dirge' is a sort of extended handling of
it--less epigrammatic but more poetical, and brought down again to
that _via media_ of metaphysicality which is King's special path. He
is, in fact, a sort of Longfellow of this particular style and school
of poetry--from the other side; a sort of Donne _in usum vulgi_. 'The
Exequy' and 'The Elegy', 'Silence' and 'Brave Flowers', are all in
this middle way; and perhaps his treading of it may be a reason why he
has been comparatively neglected--the great vulgar not being grateful
for poetry which never can fully please it, and the small wanting
something more concentrated and '_above_ proof'. But even if he had
not lacked complete presentment so long, such a collection as this
would be manifestly incomplete without him. It has not, however, been
thought necessary to include his verse translations of the Psalms,
which form a separate volume, not much more successful than most of
the attempts at that impossible task. With the admirable English
of the Authorized or the Prayer-Book Versions at choice, and the
admirable Latin of the Vulgate to fall back upon, nobody can want
stuff like

  Earth is the Lord's with her increase,
    And all that there have place:
  He founded it upon the Seas,
    And made the floods her base.[3]

Henry King's private and public history (for he had more to do with
public affairs than can have been at all comfortable to himself)
had no very obvious connexion with poetry, except in so far as
circumstances fed what was clearly a special taste of his for elegiac
writing. He was born in 1592 at Worminghall in Bucks., for some time
the abode of a family which, whether its tracing to 'the ancient Kings
[by function, not name merely] of Devonshire' was fiction or fact,
was, and had been for generations, highly respectable. The Kings
had recently addicted themselves very specially to education at
Westminster and Christ Church (there are said to have been five of the
same family on the books of the House at one time) and to the
clerical profession. The poet-bishop was the eldest son of John
King, Prebendary of St. Paul's and Chaplain to the Queen, himself a
verse-writer, and after having been Dean of Christ Church, Bishop of
London from 1611 to 1621. The son--if not without some nepotism yet
with results which fully justified it--became himself Prebendary of
St. Paul's (as did a brother, who was still younger, in the same
year) when he was only four-and-twenty; and successively received the
archdeaconry of Colchester (1617); a canonry at Christ Church (1624);
and the deanery of Rochester (1639). He had then the good and evil
luck to be one of the large batch of Bishops made or translated by
Charles on the very eve of the Rebellion. He never sat in the House of
Lords before its suppression; and he had taken possession of his see
but a short time when he was rabbled out of his palace at Chichester
and plundered of his property, contrary to the terms of surrender
of the City, by Waller's soldiers. He was also ousted from the rich
living of Petworth, usually held _in commendam_ with the (poor)
bishopric of Chichester, by that particularly pestilent Puritan,
Francis Cheynell. He seems to have passed great part of the
Interregnum with the Salters of Richkings, near Langley in Bucks.
(a house well famed for hospitality at different times and under
different owners and names[4]), and at the Restoration he recovered
his preferments, Edmund Calamy _tertius_ having the extraordinary
impudence to state that Cheynell was 'put out to make room for King'.
And he held them for nearly a decade longer, dying in 1669. He left
children and also grandchildren, one of whom, Elizabeth, seems to have
married Isaac Houblon, Pepys's 'handsome man'.

Despite King's persecutions by the Puritans he was accused of a
leaning to Puritanism, as his father had been before him,[5] but
seemingly without much foundation. He appears to have been a sound
Churchman, and a very good man in every way, though with a slight
tendency (not to be too harshly judged by those who have lived in
quieter times) to 'grizzle', as it is familiarly called, over his
tribulations. He was also what was termed at the time 'a painful
preacher' and a popular one. Pepys, it is true, did not like him when
he first heard him, and afterwards thought a sermon of his 'mean'.
But between these two he describes a third as 'good and eloquent'; and
Samuel's judgements on such matters, always unliterary, were also much
conditioned by circumstances, and by the curious remnant of Puritan
leaven which always remained in that very far from pure lump.

King's poems must, from various signs, have been much handed about in
manuscript; but how they came to be collected and published in 1657
is quite unknown. They were at first attributed by some to his brother
Philip; and a reprint, or perhaps merely the remainder with a fresh
title-page, in 1700 actually attributed them to Ben Jonson, which
was going far even in a period which had seen Kirkman and was to see
Curll.[6] One or two pieces besides _Sic Vita_ are doubtful, and one
or two more certainly not his; but on the whole the collection seems
to be fairly trustworthy, from Dr. Hannah's comparison of it with MS.
copies. And it rarely offers _cruces_ of interpretation.

As to the origin and general character of the pieces there is nothing
surprising about it either. King belonged to a time when, fortunately,
churchmanship, scholarship, and literature were almost inseparably
connected; and by accident or preference he seems, all his life, to
have been thrown or drawn into the society of men of letters. He was
a friend if not a 'son' of Ben Jonson; he was an intimate of Donne's,
and one of the recipients of the famous blood-stone seals; he was
for more than forty years (as he has himself recorded in a letter to
Walton) a friend of 'honest Isaac' [_sic_]. And if his middle days
were politically unhappy, they, and still more his earlier, were
poetically fortunate. How, and in what degree, he caught the wind
as it blew has been partly indicated above: the text should show the
rest.[7]




    [Footnote 1: I have suggested below that some slight scruples
    of pudibundity may have had their influence; but if they had
    been serious the Archdeacon would hardly have promised this
    rest.]

    [Footnote 2: Until quite recently, and after this present
    edition had been long printed, one appeared in America (Yale
    University Press, 1914) by Lawrence Mason, Ph.D.]

    [Footnote 3: I think this will justify the critic (whoever
    he was) whose sentence--'quaint mediocrity and inappropriate
    metre'--offended Hannah's editorial chivalry as 'very
    unjust'. Indeed, I should make it stronger and say 'irritating
    inadequacy alike in metre and phrase'.]

    [Footnote 4: Especially that of Percy Lodge in the eighteenth
    century, when it was the Dowager Duchess of Somerset's: see
    Shenstone, Lady Luxborough, and Southey's _Doctor_, chaps. 107
    and 108. Between the times it had belonged to Bathurst, and
    was then also a home of men of letters.]

    [Footnote 5: With the complementary and not unusual libel that
    he died a Romanist.]

    [Footnote 6: Between the two dates there had been a fresh
    _issue_ in 1664, with four new elegies. But it has been
    doubted whether even this was a new _edition_.]

    [Footnote 7: The text of the following poems will be found, as
    far as Hannah's edition goes, to differ not greatly from his;
    but it has been collated with the originals in print and MS.
    by myself and, more carefully still, by Mr. Percy Simpson. The
    remaining poems (including the fourth or 'King Charles' Elegy
    added in 1664, which Hannah did not give) are adapted in
    the same way from direct photographic copies of the
    originals--collated where necessary. The variants of _Sic
    Vita_ which the Archdeacon collected are of such interest and
    so characteristic of seventeenth-century poetry that it seemed
    desirable to reproduce them.

    It may perhaps be added that the 1657 text is very carefully
    and well printed, requiring so little modernization
    as practically to justify the standard adopted in this
    collection. To modernize Chaucer or Chatterton has always
    seemed to me, though from slightly different points of view, a
    grievous error or worse. But to show how close, when scholarly
    writing met careful printing, the result even before the
    Restoration was to what it would have been to-day, I have
    printed the opening poem exactly as it originally stood,
    and have drawn attention in a note to the fewness of the
    differences. Because other typographers, not deacons in their
    craft, and confronted perhaps with copy as bad as, say,
    mine, _plus_ the eccentric _ethelorthography_ of the period,
    lavished italics and capitals and superfluous _e_'s, and
    strappadoed the spelling, I cannot see why the eyes of a
    present-day reader should be unnecessarily vexed.--Hannah's
    edition, as far as it goes, can hardly be too well spoken
    of by any one who does not think that, in order to magnify
    himself, it is necessary to belittle his predecessors. One
    cannot but regret that he did not (as he might most easily
    have done, even in the single volume) complete his work. As it
    is, I am deeply indebted to him. I have, however, restored
    the order of the original, which he altered partly to get
    chronological sequence in the Elegies, &c., and partly to
    make subject-heads for his groups--a proceeding which to me is
    rarely satisfactory. But I have borrowed his useful datings of
    the individual pieces under their titles.]




Table of Contents.


                                                             Page
   1. Sonnet. The Double Rock                                 169
   2. The Vow-Breaker                                         169
   3. Upon a Table-Book presented to a Lady                   170
   4. To the same Lady upon Mr. Burton's _Melancholy_         170
   5. The Farewell                                            170
   6. A Blackmoor Maid wooing a fair Boy:
            sent to the Author by Mr. Hen. Rainolds           171
   7. The Boy's Answer to the Blackmoor                       171
   8. To a Friend upon Overbury's Wife given to her           172
   9. Upon the same                                           172
  10. To A. R. upon the same                                  172
  11. An Epitaph on Niobe turned to Stone                     172
  12. Upon a Braid of Hair in a Heart sent by Mrs. E. H.      173
  13. Sonnet. 'Tell me no more how fair she is'               173
  14. Sonnet. 'Were thy heart soft as thou art fair'          174
  15. Sonnet. 'Go, thou that vainly'                          174
  16. Sonnet. To Patience                                     174
  17. Silence. A Sonnet                                       175
  18. Love's Harvest                                          175
  19. The Forlorn Hope                                        176
  20. The Retreat                                             176
  21. Sonnet. 'Tell me, you stars'                            177
  22. Sonnet. 'I prithee turn that face away'                 177
  23. Sonnet. 'Dry those fair', &c.                           177
  24. Sonnet. 'When I entreat', &c.                           178
  25. To a Lady who sent me a copy of verses at my going
            to bed                                            178
  26. [The Pink. Omitted: not King's.]
  27. To his Friends of Christ Church, &c.                    179
  28. The Surrender                                           180
  29. The Legacy                                              181
  30. The Short Wooing                                        182
  31. St. Valentine's Day                                     183
  32. To his unconstant Friend                                184
  33. Madam Gabrina, Or the Ill-favour'd  Choice              185
  34. The Defence                                             187
  35. To One demanding why Wine sparkles                      188
  36. By occasion of the Young Prince his happy Birth         188
  37. Upon the King's happy return from Scotland              190
  38. To the Queen at Oxford                                  192
  39. A Salutation of His Majesty's ship the _Sovereign_      193
  40. An Epitaph on his most honoured friend, Richard,
            Earl of Dorset                                    194
  41. The Exequy                                              195
  42. The Anniverse. An Elegy                                 198
  43. On Two Children, &c.                                    198
  44. A Letter                                                199
  45. An Acknowledgement                                      201
  46. The Acquittance                                         202
  47. The Forfeiture                                          202
  48. The Departure. An Elegy                                 203
  49. Paradox. That it is best for a young Maid to marry
            an Old Man                                        204
  50. Paradox. That Fruition destroys Love                    206
  51. The Change                                              209
  52. To my sister Anne King, &c.                             210
  53. An Elegy upon the immature loss of the most virtuous
            Lady Anne Rich                                    210
  54. An Elegy upon Mrs. Kirk, unfortunately drowned
            in Thames                                         212
  55. An Elegy upon the death of Mr. Edward Holt              213
  56. To my dead friend Ben Jonson                            214
  57. An Elegy upon Prince Henry's death                      216
  58. An Elegy upon S. W. R.                                  217
  59. An Elegy upon the Lord Bishop of London, John King      217
  60. Upon the death of my ever desired friend,
            Doctor Donne, Dean of Paul's                      218
  61. An Elegy upon the most victorious King of Sweden,
            Gustavus Adolphus                                 220
  62. To my noble and judicious friend Sir Henry Blount
            upon his Voyage                                   223
  63. To my honoured friend Mr. George Sandys                 226
  64. The Woes of Esay                                        230
  65. An Essay on Death and a Prison                          232
  66. The Labyrinth                                           234
  67. Being waked out of my sleep                             235
  68. Sic Vita                                                236
  69. My Midnight Meditation                                  238
  70. A Penitential Hymn                                      238
  71. An Elegy occasioned by Sickness                         239
  72. The Dirge                                               241
  73. An Elegy occasioned by the loss of the most
            incomparable Lady Stanhope, &c.                   242

  POEMS NOT INCLUDED IN THE EDITION OF 1657 BUT IN THAT OF 1664:

  74. An Elegy upon my best friend, L. K. C.                  244
  75. On the Earl of Essex                                    245
  76. An Elegy on Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle      246
  77. An Elegy upon the most incomparable King
            Charles the First                                 255

  POEMS IN MANUSCRIPT:

  78. A Second Elegy on the Countess of Leinster              267
  79. Epigram. From Petronius Arbiter, c. 14                  267
  80. Epigram. From Martial, i. 14                            268
  81. Epigram. From Petronius Arbiter, c. 83                  268
  82. Epigram. From Petronius Arbiter                         268
  83. Epigram. _Pro captu_, &c.                               268
  84. Upon the Untimely Death of J. K., first born of H. K.   269
  85. The Complaint                                           269
  86. On his Shadow                                           270
  87. Wishes to my Son, John                                  272
  88. A Contemplation upon Flowers                            273




The Publishers to the Author.


SIR,

It is the common fashion to make some address to the Readers, but we
are bold to direct ours to you, who will look on this publication with
anger, which others must welcome into the world with joy.

The Lord Verulam comparing ingenious authors to those who had orchards
ill neighboured, advised them to publish their own labours, lest
others might steal the fruit: Had you followed his example, or liked
the advice, we had not thus trespassed against your consent, or been
forced to an apology, which cannot but imply a fault committed. The
best we can say for ourselves is, that if we have injured you, it is
merely in your own defence, preventing the present attempts of others,
who to their theft would (by their false copies of these Poems) have
added violence, and some way have wounded your reputation.

Having been long engaged on better contemplations, you may, perhaps,
look down on these _Juvenilia_ (most of them the issues of your
youthful Muse) with some disdain; and yet the courteous reader may
tell you with thanks, that they are not to be despised, being far
from abortive, nor to be disowned, because they are both modest and
legitimate. And thus if we have offered you a view of your younger
face, our hope is you will behold it with an unwrinkled brow, though
we have presented the mirror against your will.

We confess our design hath been set forward by friends that honour
you, who, lest the ill publishing might disfigure these things from
whence you never expected addition to your credit (sundry times
endeavoured and by them defeated) furnished us with some papers
which they thought authentic; we may not turn their favour into an
accusation, and therefore give no intimation of their names, but
wholly take the blame of this hasty and immethodical impression upon
ourselves, being persons at a distance, who are fitter to bear it than
those who are nearer related. In hope of your pardon we remain,

Your most devoted servants,

RICH. MARRIOT.

HEN. HERRINGMAN.




POEMS

Printed in 1657.




_Sonnet. The Double Rock._


  Since thou hast view'd some Gorgon, and art grown
          A solid stone:
  To bring again to softness thy hard heart
          Is past my art.
  Ice may relent to water in a thaw;
  But stone made flesh Loves Chymistry ne're saw.

  Therefore by thinking on thy hardness, I
          Will petrify;
  And so within our double Quarryes Wombe,
          Dig our Loves Tombe.                                       10
  Thus strangely will our difference agree;
  And, with our selves, amaze the world, to see
  How both Revenge and Sympathy consent
  To make two Rocks each others Monument.




    [_The Double Rock._] In this very typical
    metaphysicality of a good _second_ water (see note on
    Introduction), it will be observed that there is nothing
    archaic or irregular in the spelling except the usual
    'ne'_re_' for 'ne'_er_', the insertion of the three
    superfluous _e_'s in lines 9, 10, and at most two or three
    gratuitous capitals with, if anybody pleases, the omission
    of the apostrophe for the possessive in ll. 6, 9, 10, and
    14. 'Chymistry' I should have kept, of course, even if I had
    altered these others.]




_The Vow-Breaker._


  When first the magic of thine eye,
  Usurp'd upon my liberty,
  Triumphing in my heart's spoil, thou
  Didst lock up thine in such a vow;
  _When I prove false, may the bright day_
  _Be governed by the Moon's pale ray!_
  (As I too well remember.) This
  Thou said'st, and seal'dst it with a kiss.

    O Heavens! and could so soon that tie
  Relent in slack apostacy?                                          10
  Could all thy oaths, and mortgag'd trust,
  Vanish? like letters form'd in dust
  Which the next wind scatters. Take heed,
  Take heed, Revolter; know this deed
  Hath wrong'd the world, which will fare worse
  By thy example than thy curse.

    Hide that false brow in mists. Thy shame
  Ne'er see light more, but the dim flame
  Of funeral lamps. Thus sit and moan,
  And learn to keep thy guilt at home.                               20
  Give it no vent; for if again
  Thy Love or Vows betray more men,
  At length (I fear) thy perjur'd breath
  Will blow out day, and waken Death.




    [Line: 9 Orig. 'Ty', no doubt on the Spenserian principle of
    eye-rhyme. This and some others of the shorter poems which
    follow have been found by Mr. Thorn-Drury in miscellanies of
    the period, not merely well-known ones like _Wits'
    Recreations_ (1641), but more obscure collections such as
    _Parnassus Biceps_, 1651, and _Wits' Interpreter_, 1655. The
    usual variants occur; but they are seldom, if ever, _me
    judice_ of interest. One or two I have borrowed with
    acknowledgement.]




_Upon a Table-Book presented to a Lady._


  When your fair hand receives this little book
  You must not there for prose or verses look.
  Those empty regions which within you see,
  May by yourself planted and peopled be:
  And though we scarce allow your sex to prove
  Writers (unless the argument be Love);
  Yet without crime or envy you have room
  Here, both the scribe and author to become.




    [_Upon a Table-Book, &c._] The title in one of
    Hannah's MS. copies has '_Noble_ Lady'. The person addressed
    does not seem to have been identified.]




_To the same Lady upon Mr. Burton's Melancholy._


  If in this Glass of Humours you do find
  The passions or diseases of your mind,
  Here without pain, you safely may endure,
  Though not to suffer, yet to read your cure.
  But if you nothing meet you can apply,
  Then, ere you need, you have a remedy.
    And I do wish you never may have cause
  To be adjudg'd by these fantastic laws;
  But that this book's example may be known,
  By others' Melancholy, not your own.                               10




    [Line: 6 _MS._ '_before_ you need'--perhaps better. The lady
    to whom the _Anatomy_ was likely to be congenial must have
    been worth knowing.]




_The Farewell._

_Splendidis longùm valedico nugis._


  Farewell, fond Love, under whose childish whip,
  I have serv'd out a weary prenti'ship;
  Thou that hast made me thy scorn'd property,
  To doat on rocks, but yielding loves to fly:
  Go, bane of my dear quiet and content,
  Now practise on some other patient.

  Farewell, false Hope, that fann'd my warm desire
  Till it had rais'd a wild unruly fire,
  Which nor sighs cool, nor tears extinguish can,
  Although my eyes out-flow'd the Ocean:      10
  Forth of my thoughts for ever, Thing of Air,
  Begun in error, finish'd in despair.

  Farewell, vain World, upon whose restless stage
  'Twixt Love and Hope I have fool'd out my age;
  Henceforth, ere sue to thee for my redress,
  I'll woo the wind, or court the wilderness;
  And buried from the day's discovery,
  Study a slow yet certain way to die.

  My woful monument shall be a cell,
  The murmur of the purling brook my knell;                          20
  My lasting epitaph the rock shall groan:
  Thus when sad lovers ask the weeping stone,
  What wretched thing does in that centre lie?
  The hollow Echo will reply, 'twas I.




    [_The Farewell._] The following are the variants of
    Malone MS. 22:


    Lines: 4-6

        To doat on those that lov'd not and to fly
        Love that woo'd me. Go, bane of my content,
        And practise ...
    ]

    [Line: 21

        And for an epitaph the rock shall groan
        Eternally: if any ask the stone.
    ]

    [Line: 23 centre] compass.]




_A Blackmoor Maid wooing a fair Boy: sent to the Author by
Mr. Hen. Rainolds._


  Stay, lovely boy, why fly'st thou me
  That languish in these flames for thee?
  I'm black, 'tis true: why so is Night,
  And Love doth in dark shades delight.
  The whole world, do but close thine eye,
  Will seem to thee as black as I;
  Or ope 't, and see what a black shade
  Is by thine own fair body made,
  That follows thee where'er thou go;
  (O who, allow'd, would not do so?)                                 10
    Let me for ever dwell so nigh,
  And thou shall need no other shade than I.
                                    _Mr. Hen. Rainolds._




_The Boy's Answer to the Blackmoor._


  Black maid, complain not that I fly,
  When Fate commands antipathy:
  Prodigious might that union prove,
  Where Night and Day together move,
  And the conjunction of our lips
  Not kisses make, but an eclipse;
  In which the mixed black and white
  Portends more terror than delight.
  Yet if my shadow thou wilt be,
  Enjoy thy dearest wish: but see                                    10
  Thou take my shadow's property,
  That hastes away when I come nigh:
    Else stay till death hath blinded me,
  And then I will bequeath myself to thee.




    [_A Blackmoor Maid_, and _Answer._] I do not know
    whether the exact connexion between these two poems and
    Cleveland's 'Fair Nymph scorning a Black Boy' (_v. sup._, p.
    42) has ever been discussed. But if 'Mr. Hen. Rainolds' is
    Drayton's friend, the verses printed above must have the
    priority, for nothing seems to be known of him after 1632.

    In Rawlinson MS. 1092, fol. 271, there are curious versions
    of these poems (the first is ascribed to William Strode),
    inverting the parts 'A black boy in love with a fair maid',
    and 'The fair maid's answer'.]




_To a Friend upon Overbury's Wife given to her._


  I know no fitter subject for your view
  Than this, a meditation ripe for you,
  As you for it. Which, when you read, you'll see
  What kind of wife yourself will one day be:
  Which happy day be near you, and may this
  Remain with you as earnest of my wish;
  When you so far love any, that you dare
  Venture your whole affection on his care,
  May he for whom you change your virgin-life
  Prove good to you, and perfect as this Wife.                       10




    [_To a Friend upon Overbury's Wife, &c._] King
    seems to have been fond of giving this popular production as
    a present, for the first of the three poems is certainly
    not addressed to the recipient of the others, and it seems
    probable that 2 and 3 are also independent. Hannah, without
    giving any reason, save the initials, suggests that 'A. R.'
    was Lady Anne Rich (_v. inf._).]




_Upon the same._


  Madam, who understands you well would swear,
  That you the Life, and this your Copy were.




_To A. R. upon the same._


  Not that I would instruct or tutor you
  What is a wife's behest, or husband's due,
  Give I this Widow-Wife. Your early date
  Of knowledge makes such precepts slow and late.
  This book is but your glass, where you shall see
  What yourself are, what other wives should be.




    [_To A. R._]

    [Line: 3 Widow-] Overbury himself being dead.]




_An Epitaph on Niobe turned to Stone._


  This pile thou seest built out of flesh, not stone,
  Contains no shroud within, nor mould'ring bone.

  This bloodless trunk is destitute of tomb
  Which may the soul-fled mansion enwomb.

  This seeming sepulchre (to tell the troth)
  Is neither tomb nor body, and yet both.




_Upon a Braid of Hair in a Heart sent by Mrs. E. H._


  In this small character is sent
  My Love's eternal monument.
  Whilst we shall live, know this chain'd heart
  Is our affection's counterpart.
  And if we never meet, think I
  Bequeath'd it as my legacy.




    [_Upon a Braid of Hair, &c._] There is something
    rather out of the common way about this little piece. King
    married early and his wife died after a few years. How he
    loved her _The Exequy_ and _The Anniverse_ will tell in a few
    pages. But her initials were A. B. (Anne Berkeley) not E.
    H. On the other hand, his sister _E_lizabeth married Edward
    _H_olt, groom of the bedchamber to Charles I, who died in
    attendance on his master (see Elegy on him, _inf._). The
    verses might be fraternal, and are certainly sincere.]




_Sonnet._


  Tell me no more how fair she is,
    I have no mind to hear
  The story of that distant bliss
    I never shall come near:
  By sad experience I have found
  That her perfection is my wound.

  And tell me not how fond I am
    To tempt a daring Fate,
  From whence no triumph ever came,
    But to repent too late:                                          10
  There is some hope ere long I may
  In silence dote myself away.

  I ask no pity, Love, from thee,
    Nor will thy justice blame,
  So that thou wilt not envy me
    The glory of my flame:
  Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies,
  In that it falls her sacrifice.




    [_Tell me no more, &c._] The heading of this famous
    thing as 'Sonnet' has, of course, nothing surprising in it: in
    fact, the successive attachment of the title to five poems in
    a batch here and to four more a little lower down--no one
    of which is a quatorzain, and hardly two of which agree in
    form--is a capital example of the looseness with which that
    title was used. MS. copies appear to have 'Sonnet' with _no_
    particular addition in some cases.

    On 'Tell me no more' itself see Introduction. The last two
    lines are, as they should be, the finest part--with the
    fullness of contrasted vowel-sound in 'crowns', 'heart',
    'e'er', and 'dies', and the emphasis of 'her'.]




_Sonnet._


  Were thy heart soft as thou art fair,
  Thou wer't a wonder past compare:
  But frozen Love and fierce disdain
  By their extremes thy graces stain.
  Cold coyness quenches the still fires
  Which glow in lovers' warm desires;
  And scorn, like the quick lightning's blaze,
  Darts death against affections gaze.
    O Heavens, what prodigy is this
    When Love in Beauty buried is!                                   10
    Or that dead pity thus should be
    Tomb'd in a living cruelty.




    [_Were thy heart, &c._] This is not much inferior
    except as concerns the metre.]




_Sonnet._


  Go, thou that vainly dost mine eyes invite
  To taste the softer comforts of the night,
  And bid'st me cool the fever of my brain
  In those sweet balmy dews which slumber pain;
  Enjoy thine own peace in untroubled sleep,
  Whilst my sad thoughts eternal vigils keep.

  O couldst thou for a time change breasts with me,
  Thou in that broken glass shouldst plainly see
  A heart which wastes in the slow smoth'ring fire
  Blown by Despair, and fed by false Desire,                         10
  Can only reap such sleeps as sea-men have,
  When fierce winds rock them on the foaming wave.




    [_Go, thou that, &c._] What made the excellent
    Archdeacon-to-be select this in preference to 'Tell me no
    more' as a specimen of King's presumed 'juvenile productions'
    it is difficult to discover. But

        Blown by Despair, and fed by false Desire

    is certainly a fine line.]




_Sonnet. To Patience._


  Down, stormy passions, down; no more
  Let your rude waves invade the shore
  Where blushing reason sits, and hides
  Her from the fury of your tides.
  Fit only 'tis, where you bear sway,
  That fools or frantics do obey;
  Since judgement, if it not resists,
  Will lose itself in your blind mists.

  Fall easy, Patience, fall like rest
  Whose soft spells charm a troubled breast:                         10
  And where those rebels you espy,
  O in your silken cordage tie
  Their malice up! so shall I raise
  Altars to thank your power, and praise
  The sovereign vertue of your balm,
  Which cures a tempest by a calm.




    [_To Patience._] So also he gave this very
    commonplace 'production' and the next, which is a little
    better.]




_Silence. A Sonnet._


  Peace, my heart's blab, be ever dumb,
  Sorrows speak loud without a tongue:
  And, my perplexed thoughts, forbear
  To breathe yourselves in any ear:
    'Tis scarce a true or manly grief,
    Which gads abroad to find relief.

  Was ever stomach that lack'd meat
  Nourish'd by what another eat?
  Can I bestow it, or will woe
  Forsake me, when I bid it go?                                      10
    Then I'll believe a wounded breast
    May heal by shrift, and purchase rest.

  But if, imparting it, I do
  Not ease myself, but trouble two,
  'Tis better I alone possess
  My treasure of unhappiness:
    Engrossing that which is my own
    No longer than it is unknown.

  If silence be a kind of death,
  He kindles grief who gives it breath;                              20
  But let it rak'd in embers lie,
  On thine own hearth 'twill quickly die:
    And spite of fate, that very womb
    Which carries it, shall prove its tomb.




_Love's Harvest._


  Fond Lunatic forbear, why dost thou sue
  For thy affection's pay ere it is due?
  Love's fruits are legal use; and therefore may
  Be only taken on the marriage day.
    Who for this interest too early call,
    By that exaction lose the principal.

  Then gather not those immature delights,
  Until their riper autumn thee invites.
  He that abortive corn cuts off his ground,
  No husband but a ravisher is found:                                10
    So those that reap their love before they wed,
    Do in effect but cuckold their own bed.




    [_Love's Harvest._]

    [Lines: 11, 12, Malone MS. 22 has the singular: 'So he', &c.]




_The Forlorn Hope._


  How long, vain Hope, dost thou my joys suspend?
  Say! must my expectation know no end?
  Thou wast more kind unto the wand'ring Greek
  Who did ten years his wife and country seek:
    Ten lazy winters in my glass are run,
    Yet my thought's travail seems but new begun.

  Smooth quicksand which the easy world beguiles,
  Thou shall not bury me in thy false smiles.
  They that in hunting shadows pleasure take,
  May benefit of thy illusion make.                                  10
    Since thou hast banish'd me from my content
    I here pronounce thy final banishment.

  Farewell, thou dream of nothing! thou mere voice!
  Get thee to fools that can feed fat with noise:
  Bid wretches mark'd for death look for reprieve,
  Or men broke on the wheel persuade to live.
    Henceforth my comfort and best hope shall be,
    By scorning Hope, ne'er to rely on thee.




    [_The Forlorn Hope._]

    [Line: 10 _MS._ 'illusions'--perhaps better.]

    [Line: 14 can] _MS._ 'will'.]




_The Retreat._


  Pursue no more (my thoughts!) that false unkind,
  You may as soon imprison the North-wind;
  Or catch the lightning as it leaps; or reach
  The leading billow first ran down the breach;
  Or undertake the flying clouds to track
  In the same path they yesterday did rack.
    Then, like a torch turn'd downward, let the same
    Desire which nourish'd it, put out your flame.

  Lo! thus I do divorce thee from my breast,
  False to thy vow, and traitor to my rest!                          10
  Henceforth thy tears shall be (though thou repent)
  Like pardons after execution sent.
  Nor shalt thou ever my love's story read,
  But as some epitaph of what is dead.
    So may my hope on future blessings dwell,
    As 'tis my firm resolve and last farewell.




    [_The Retreat._]

    [Line: 4 'first' of course = 'that first'. One naturally asks
    'beach'? but perhaps unreasonably.]

    [Line: 6 'rack' as a verb in this sense is interesting, and
    certainly not common.]




_Sonnet._


  Tell me, you stars that our affections move,
  Why made ye me that cruel one to love?
  Why burns my heart her scorned sacrifice,
  Whose breast is hard as crystal, cold as ice?

  God of Desire! if all thy votaries
  Thou thus repay, succession will grow wise;
  No sighs for incense at thy shrine shall smoke,
  Thy rites will be despis'd, thy altars broke.

  O! or give her my flame to melt that snow
  Which yet unthaw'd does on her bosom grow;                         10
  Or make me ice, and with her crystal chains
  Bind up all love within my frozen veins.




    [_Tell me, &c._]

    [Line: 6 succession] = 'those who come after us'.]




_Sonnet._


  I prithee turn that face away
  Whose splendour but benights my day.
  Sad eyes like mine, and wounded hearts
  Shun the bright rays which beauty darts.
    Unwelcome is the Sun that pries
    Into those shades where sorrow lies.

  Go, shine on happy things. To me
  That blessing is a misery:
  Whom thy fierce Sun not warms, but burns,
  Like that the sooty Indian turns.                                  10
    I'll serve the night, and there confin'd
    Wish thee less fair, or else more kind.




    [_I prithee, &c._] Part of this is very neat and
    good, but it tails off.]




_Sonnet._


  Dry those fair, those crystal eyes,
  Which like growing fountains rise
  To drown their banks. Grief's sullen brooks
  Would better flow in furrow'd looks.
    Thy lovely face was never meant
    To be the shore of discontent.

  Then clear those wat'rish stars again
  Which else portend a lasting rain;
  Lest the clouds which settle there
  Prolong my winter all the year:                                    10
    And the example others make
    In love with sorrow for thy sake.




    [_Dry those fair, &c._] This piece is also claimed
    for Lord Pembroke (see _Preface_ to this volume). It might be
    his, King's, or the work of almost any lyrical poet in this
    collection and of many outside of it.]




_Sonnet._


  When I entreat, either thou wilt not hear,
  Or else my suit arriving at thy ear
  Cools and dies there. A strange extremity!
  To freeze i' th' Sun, and in the shade to fry.
  Whilst all my blasted hopes decline so soon,
  'Tis evening with me, though at high noon.

    For pity to thyself, if not to me,
  Think time will ravish, what I lose, from thee.
  If my scorch'd heart wither through thy delay,
  Thy beauty withers too. And swift decay                            10
  Arrests thy youth. So thou whilst I am slighted
  Wilt be too soon with age or sorrow nighted.




    [_When I entreat, &c._]

    [Line: 6 'E-ven-ing'.]




_To a Lady who sent me a copy of verses at my going to bed._


  Lady, your art or wit could ne'er devise
  To shame me more than in this night's surprise.
  Why, I am quite unready, and my eye
  Now winking like my candle, doth deny
  To guide my hand, if it had aught to write;
  Nor can I make my drowsy sense indite
  Which by your verses' music (as a spell
  Sent from the Sybellean Oracle)
  Is charm'd and bound in wonder and delight,
  Faster than all the leaden chains of night.                        10

    What pity is it then you should so ill
  Employ the bounty of your flowing quill,
  As to expend on him your bedward thought,
  Who can acknowledge that large love in nought
  But this lean wish; that fate soon send you those
  Who may requite your rhymes with midnight prose?
    Meantime, may all delights and pleasing themes
  Like masquers revel in your maiden dreams,
  Whilst dull to write, and to do more unmeet,
  I, as the night invites me, fall asleep.                           20




    [_To a Lady._] Malone MS. 22, at fol. 34, has a
    first draft of this poem, in which ll. 1-10 appear thus:

        Doubtless the Thespian Spring doth overflow
        His learned bank: else how should ladies grow
        Such poets as to court th' unknowing time
        In verse, and entertain their friends in rhyme?
        Or you some Sybil are, sent to untie
        The knotty riddles of all poetry,
        Whilst your smooth numbers such perfections tell
        As prove yourself a modern oracle.

    ll. 11-20 follow as in the text.]

    [Line: 8 'Sybellean', though an incorrect, is a rather pretty
    form and good to keep. It will be remembered that as a girl's
    name 'Syb_e_lla' or 'Sib_e_lla' is not unknown, beside 'Sybilla'
    and 'Sybil'.]

    [Line: 20 This outrageous assonance may have been meant in
    character--the poet being too much 'in the arms of Porpus' to
    notice it.]




    [There follows in the original a piece called _The Pink_,
    but in the Errata acknowledgement is made that King did
    not write it. It is therefore omitted here.]




_To his Friends of Christ Church upon the mislike of the
Marriage of the Arts acted at Woodstock._


  But is it true, the Court mislik'd the play,
  That Christ Church and the Arts have lost the day;
  That _Ignoramus_ should so far excel,
  Their hobby-horse from ours hath born the bell?

    Troth! you are justly serv'd, that would present
  Ought unto them, but shallow merriment;
  Or to your marriage-table did admit
  Guests that are stronger far in smell than wit.

    Had some quaint bawdry larded ev'ry scene,
  Some fawning sycophant, or courted quean;                          10
  Had there appear'd some sharp cross-garter'd man
  Whom their loud laugh might nickname Puritan,
  Cas'd up in factious breeches and small ruff,
  That hates the surplice, and defies the cuff:
  Then sure they would have given applause to crown
  That which their ignorance did now cry down.

    Let me advise, when next you do bestow
  Your pains on men that do but little know,
  You do no Chorus nor a comment lack,
  Which may expound and construe ev'ry Act:                          20
  That it be short and slight; for if 't be good
  Tis long, and neither lik'd nor understood.

  Know 'tis Court fashion still to discommend
  All that which they want brain to comprehend.




    [_To his Friends of Christ Church._] The occasion of
    this piece was one of those 'sorrowful chances' which befall
    those who endeavour to please kings, whatever their name. 'The
    play' was Barton Holyday's _Technogamia_, and the 'misliking'
    (James actually 'offered' to go away twice, though, being
    a good-natured person, he was persuaded to sit it out) is
    chronicled by Antony Wood under the author's name. It had
    been acted with great applause in the House itself, and two
    of King's younger brothers were among the performers. Also the
    'frost' was made more unkind by the success at Cambridge of
    Ruggles's _Ignoramus_. So King's spleen, if unwise, was not
    quite unmotived. The date was August, 1621.]

    [Line: 14 There is no probable reference to Malvolio, despite
    the association of 'cross-garter'd' and 'Puritan'; but the
    tone of the passage enables one to some extent to understand
    why the Puritan party conceived themselves to be deserted by
    King.]




_The Surrender._


    My once dear Love! hapless that I no more
  Must call thee so; the rich affection's store
  That fed our hopes, lies now exhaust and spent,
  Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent.

    We, that did nothing study but the way
  To love each other, with which thoughts the day
  Rose with delight to us, and with them, set,
  Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.

    We, that did nothing wish that Heav'n could give,
  Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live                           10
  Beyond that wish, all these now cancel must,
  As if not writ in faith, but words and dust.

    Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make,
  Witness the chaste desires that never brake
  Into unruly heats; witness that breast
  Which in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest,
  'Tis no default in us; I dare acquite
  Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white,
  As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy
  Us to each other, and Heaven did untie                             20
  Faster than vows could bind. O that the stars,
  When lovers meet, should stand oppos'd in wars!

    Since then some higher Destinies command,
  Let us not strive nor labour to withstand
  What is past help. The longest date of grief
  Can never yield a hope of our relief;
  And though we waste ourselves in moist laments,
  Tears may drown us, but not our discontents.

    Fold back our arms, take home our fruitless loves,
  That must new fortunes try, like turtle-doves                      30
  Dislodged from their haunts. We must in tears
  Unwind a love knit up in many years.
  In this last kiss I here surrender thee
  Back to thyself, so thou again art free.
  Thou in another, sad as that, resend
  The truest heart that lover ere did lend.

    Now turn from each. So fare our sever'd hearts,
  As the divorc'd soul from her body parts.




    [_The Surrender._] Title 'An Elegy' in Malone MS.
    22.]

    [Line: 13 Yet] _MS._ 'But'.]

    [Line: 17 'acquite' may be for rhyme only; but if 'requite',
    why not?]

    [Line: 34 so] _MS._ 'lo'.]

    [This piece and the next must be interpreted as each reader
    chooses. They are not without touches of sincerity, but might
    as well be exercises in the school of King's great friend and
    master, Donne.]




_The Legacy._


  My dearest Love! when thou and I must part,
  And th' icy hand of death shall seize that heart
  Which is all thine; within some spacious will
  I'll leave no blanks for legacies to fill:
    'Tis my ambition to die one of those,
    Who, but himself, hath nothing to dispose.

  And since that is already thine, what need
  I to re-give it by some newer deed?
  Yet take it once again. Free circumstance
  Does oft the value of mean things advance:                         10
    Who thus repeats what he bequeath'd before,
    Proclaims his bounty richer than his store.

  But let me not upon my love bestow
  What is not worth the giving. I do owe
  Somewhat to dust: my body's pamper'd care,
  Hungry corruption and the worm will share.
    That mould'ring relic which in earth must lie,
    Would prove a gift of horror to thine eye.

  With this cast rag of my mortality,
  Let all my faults and errors buried be.                            20
  And as my cere-cloth rots, so may kind fate
  Those worst acts of my life incinerate.
    He shall in story fill a glorious room,
    Whose ashes and whose sins sleep in one tomb.

  If now to my cold hearse thou deign to bring
  Some melting sighs as thy last offering,
  My peaceful exequies are crown'd. Nor shall
  I ask more honour at my funeral.
    Thou wilt more richly balm me with thy tears,
    Than all the nard fragrant Arabia bears.                         30

  And as the Paphian Queen by her grief's show'r
  Brought up her dead Love's spirit in a flow'r:
  So by those precious drops rain'd from thine eyes,
  Out of my dust, O may some virtue rise!
    And like thy better Genius thee attend,
    Till thou in my dark period shall end.

  Lastly, my constant truth let me commend
  To him thou choosest next to be thy friend.
  For (witness all things good) I would not have
  Thy youth and beauty married to my grave,                          40
    'T would show thou didst repent the style of wife,
    Shouldst thou relapse into a single life.

  They with preposterous grief the world delude,
  Who mourn for their lost mates in solitude;
  Since widowhood more strongly doth enforce
  The much lamented lot of their divorce.
    Themselves then of their losses guilty are,
    Who may, yet will not, suffer a repair.

  Those were barbarian wives, that did invent
  Weeping to death at th' husband's monument;                        50
  But in more civil rites she doth approve
  Her first, who ventures on a second love;
    For else it may be thought, if she refrain,
    She sped so ill, she durst not try again.

  Up then, my Love, and choose some worthier one,
  Who may supply my room when I am gone;
  So will the stock of our affection thrive
  No less in death, than were I still alive.
    And in my urn I shall rejoice, that I
    Am both testator thus and legacy.                                60




    [_The Legacy._] The remark made above applies
    especially to _The Legacy_, for there are no known or likely
    circumstances in King's life corresponding to it; while at the
    same time it might be the fancy of a young lover-husband. The
    first six stanzas have something of the 'yew-and-roses' charm
    of their great originals: the last four justify the ancients
    in holding that extravagance too often comports frigidity.]




_The Short Wooing._


  Like an oblation set before a shrine,
  Fair one! I offer up this heart of mine.
  Whether the Saint accept my gift or no,
  I'll neither fear nor doubt before I know.
  For he whose faint distrust prevents reply,
  Doth his own suit's denial prophesy.

    Your will the sentence is; who free as Fate
  Can bid my love proceed, or else retreat.
  And from short views that verdict is decreed
  Which seldom doth one audience exceed.                             10
  Love asks no dull probation, but like light
  Conveys his nimble influence at first sight.

    I need not therefore importune or press;
  This were t' extort unwilling happiness:
  And much against affection might I sin:
  To tire and weary what I seek to win.
  Towns which by ling'ring siege enforced be
  Oft make both sides repent the victory.

    Be Mistress of yourself: and let me thrive
  Or suffer by your own prerogative.                                 20
  Yet stay, since you are Judge, who in one breath
  Bear uncontrolled power of Life and Death,
  Remember (Sweet) pity doth best become
  Those lips which must pronounce a suitor's doom.

    If I find that, my spark of chaste desire
  Shall kindle into Hymen's holy fire:
  Else like sad flowers will these verses prove,
  To stick the coffin of rejected Love.




    [_The Short Wooing._] A fair average
    metaphysicality.]




_St. Valentine's Day_


  Now that each feather'd chorister doth sing
  The glad approaches of the welcome Spring:
  Now Ph[oe]bus darts forth his more early beam
  And dips it later in the curled stream,
  I should to custom prove a retrograde
  Did I still dote upon my sullen shade.

    Oft have the seasons finish'd and begun;
  Days into months, those into years have run,
  Since my cross stars and inauspicious fate
  Doom'd me to linger here without my mate                           10
  Whose loss ere since befrosting my desire,
  Left me an Altar without gift or fire.

    I therefore could have wish'd for your own sake
  That Fortune had design'd a nobler stake
  For you to draw, than one whose fading day
  Like to a dedicated taper lay
  Within a tomb, and long burnt out in vain,
  Since nothing there saw better by the flame.

    Yet since you like your chance, I must not try
  To mar it through my incapacity.                                   20
  I here make title to it, and proclaim
  How much you honour me to wear my name;
  Who can no form of gratitude devise,
  But offer up myself your sacrifice.

    Hail, then, my worthy lot! and may each morn
  Successive springs of joy to you be born:
  May your content ne'er wane until my heart
  Grown bankrupt, wants good wishes to impart.
  Henceforth I need not make the dust my shrine,
  Nor search the grave for my lost Valentine.                        30




    [_St. Valentine's Day._] I suppose, though I do
    not remember an instance, that in the good days before the
    prettiest of English customs succumbed--partly to the growth
    of Vulgarity and partly to the competition of the much less
    interesting Christmas Card--some one, or more than one, must
    have made a collection of _literary_ Valentines. In that case
    this should have figured. It has a good deal of 'Henry King,
    his mark'--good taste, freedom from mawkishness, melody, and
    enough poetical essence to save it from the merely mediocre.
    The coincidence of l. 24 with the more passionate close
    of 'Tell me no more' should not escape notice.--I have not
    altered '_ere_ since' to '_e'er_ since' in text, because the
    emendation, though almost, is not quite certain.]




_To his unconstant Friend._


  But say, thou very woman, why to me
  This fit of weakness and inconstancy?
  What forfeit have I made of word or vow,
  That I am rack'd on thy displeasure now?
  If I have done a fault, I do not shame
  To cite it from thy lips, give it a name:
  I ask the banes, stand forth, and tell me why
  We should not in our wonted loves comply?
  Did thy cloy'd appetite urge thee to try
  If any other man could love as I?                                  10
  I see friends are like clothes, laid up whilst new,
  But after wearing cast, though ne'er so true.
  Or did thy fierce ambition long to make
  Some lover turn a martyr for thy sake?
  Thinking thy beauty had deserv'd no name
  Unless someone do perish in that flame:
  Upon whose loving dust this sentence lies,
  Here 's one was murther'd by his mistress' eyes.

    Or was't because my love to thee was such,
  I could not choose but blab it? swear how much                     20
  I was thy slave, and doting let thee know,
  I better could myself than thee forgo.

    Hearken! ye men that e'er shall love like me,
  I'll give you counsel gratis: if you be
  Possess'd of what you like, let your fair friend
  Lodge in your bosom, but no secrets send
  To seek their lodging in a female breast;
  For so much is abated of your rest.
  The steed that comes to understand his strength
  Grows wild, and casts his manager at length:                       30
  And that tame lover who unlocks his heart
  Unto his mistress, teaches her an art
  To plague himself; shows her the secret way
  How she may tyrannize another day.

    And now, my fair Unkindness, thus to thee;
  Mark how wise Passion and I agree:
  Hear and be sorry for't. I will not die
  To expiate thy crime of levity:
  I walk (not cross-arm'd neither), eat, and live,
  Yea live to pity thy neglect, not grieve                           40
  That thou art from thy faith and promise gone,
  Nor envy him who by my loss hath won.
  Thou shalt perceive thy changing Moon-like fits
  Have not infected me, or turn'd my wits
  To lunacy. I do not mean to weep
  When I should eat, or sigh when I should sleep;
  I will not fall upon my pointed quill,
  Bleed ink and poems, or invention spill
  To contrive ballads, or weave elegies
  For nurses' wearing when the infant cries.                         50
  Nor like th' enamour'd Tristrams of the time,
  Despair in prose and hang myself in rhyme.
  Nor thither run upon my verses' feet,
  Where I shall none but fools or madmen meet,
  Who midst the silent shades, and myrtle walks,
  Pule and do penance for their mistress' faults.
  I'm none of those poetic malcontents
  Born to make paper dear with my laments:
  Or wild Orlando that will rail and vex,
  And for thy sake fall out with all the sex.                        60
  No, I will love again, and seek a prize
  That shall redeem me from thy poor despise.
  I'll court my fortune now in such a shape
  That will no faint dye, nor starv'd colour take.

    Thus launch I off with triumph from thy shore,
  To which my last farewell; for never more
  Will I touch there. I put to sea again
  Blown with the churlish wind of thy disdain.
  Nor will I stop this course till I have found
  A coast that yields safe harbour, and firm ground.                 70

    Smile, ye Love-Stars; wing'd with desire I fly,
  To make my wishes' full discovery:
  Nor doubt I but for one that proves like you,
  I shall find ten as fair, and yet more true.




    [_To his unconstant Friend._]

    [Line: 7 I have thought it better to keep the form 'ban_e_',
    which was not uncommon (and, if I am not mistaken, was sometimes
    made to carry a pun with it), instead of the now usual, and even
    then authoritative, 'ban_n_'.]

    [Line: 11 laid] Orig. 'lad'--an evident misprint.]

    [Line: 16 had perisht _Malone MS. 22._]

    [Line: 57 Orig., as often, 'mal_e_contents'.

    This piece is one of King's few attempts to play the 'dog'.
    It is, as one would expect, not very happy, but it might be
    worse.]




_Madam Gabrina, Or the Ill-favour'd Choice._

  _Con mala Muger el remedio_
  _Mucha Tierra por el medio._


  I have oft wond'red why thou didst elect
  Thy mistress of a stuff none could affect,
  That wore his eyes in the right place. A thing
  Made up, when Nature's powers lay slumbering.
  One, where all pregnant imperfections met
  To make her sex's scandal: Teeth of jet,
  Hair dy'd in orp'ment, from whose fretful hue
  Canidia her highest witchcrafts drew.
  A lip most thin and pale, but such a mouth
  Which like the poles is stretched North and South                  10
  A face so colour'd, and of such a form,
  As might defiance bid unto a storm:
  And the complexion of her sallow hide
  Like a wrack'd body wash'd up by the tide:
  Eyes small: a nose so to her vizard glued
  As if 'twould take a Planet's altitude.
  Last for her breath, 'tis somewhat like the smell
  That does in Ember weeks on Fish-street dwell;
  Or as a man should fasting scent the Rose
  Which in the savoury Bear-garden grows.                            20
  If a Fox cures the paralytical,
  Hadst thou ten palsies, she'd outstink them all.

    But I have found thy plot: sure thou didst try
  To put thyself past hope of jealousy:
  And whilst unlearned fools the senses please,
  Thou cur'st thy appetite by a disease;
  As many use, to kill an itch withal,
  Quicksilver or some biting mineral.

    Dote upon handsome things each common man
  With little study and less labour can;                             30
  But to make love to a deformity,
  Only commends thy great ability,
  Who from hard-favour'd objects draw'st content,
  As estriches from iron nutriment.

    Well, take her, and like mounted George, in bed
  Boldly achieve thy Dragon's maiden-head:
  Where (though scarce sleep) thou mayst rest confident
  None dares beguile thee of thy punishment:
  The sin were not more foul that he should commit,
  Than is that She with whom he acted it.                            40

    Yet take this comfort: when old age shall raze,
  Or sickness ruin many a good face,
  Thy choice cannot impair; no cunning curse
  Can mend that night-piece, that is, make her worse.




    [_Madam Gabrina_]

    [Line: 7 'Orp[i]ment' = yellow arsenic--then, and to some
    extent still, used as a gold-dye.]

    [Line: 39 Malone MS. 22 omits _that_.]

    [Line: 41 It is curious that King, who has elsewhere followed
    Spenser in the matter of eye-rhyme pretty closely, did not
    spell 'raze', 'race', which was a very usual form and perhaps,
    as in 'race-ship', the commoner pronunciation.--The whole poem
    is one of his most disappointing. His Spanish distich--which
    (adopting Mr. Browning's use of 'fix') might be paraphrased:

        If a bad woman once has fix'd you,
        Put many a mile of ground betwixt you--

    says nothing about mere _ugliness_; while, on the other hand,
    King does not utilize the prescription of absence as the only
    cure for ill-placed love. He has at first sight simply added
    (though, as one would expect, not in the most offensive form)
    another to the far too numerous dull and loathsome imitations
    of one of Horace's rare betrayals of the fact that he was not
    a gentleman. But see on next.]




_The Defence._

  _Piensan los Enamorados_
  _Que tienen los otros los ojos quebrantados._


  Why slightest thou what I approve?
  Thou art no Peer to try my love,
  Nor canst discern where her form lies,
  Unless thou saw'st her with my eyes.

    Say she were foul and blacker than
  The Night, or sunburnt African,
  If lik'd by me, 'tis I alone
  Can make a beauty where was none;
  For rated in my fancy, she
  Is so as she appears to me.                                        10

    But 'tis not feature, or a face,
  That does my free election grace,
  Nor is my liking only led
  By a well-temper'd white and red;
  Could I enamour'd grow on those,
  The Lily and the blushing Rose
  United in one stalk might be
  As dear unto my thoughts as she.

    But I look farther, and do find
  A richer beauty in her mind;                                       20
  Where something is so lasting fair,
  As time or age cannot impair.
  Hadst thou a perspective so clear,
  Thou couldst behold my object there;
  When thou her virtues shouldst espy,
  They'd force thee to confess that I
  Had cause to like her, and learn thence
  To love by judgement, not by sense.




    [_The Defence._] This is very much better, though we
    need not have had to wade through the other poem to get to it.
    It has neither the conciseness nor the finish of Ausonius's
    triumphant confession to Crispa, but is good enough. The
    Spanish heading here, which in the original has an unnecessary
    comma at _otros_ and an unnecessary divorce of space between
    _quebranta_ and _dos_, may be roughly rendered:

        For it is still the lover's mind
        That all, except himself, are blind.

    The piece is also assigned to Rudyard. Mr. Thorn-Drury notes a
    variant at ll. 23-8 of some interest from _Parnassus Biceps_,
    where the title is 'A Lover to one dispraising his Mistress':

                                  so clear
        That thou couldst view my object there;
        When thou her virtues didst espy,
        Thou 'ldst wonder and confess that I
        Had cause to like; and learn from hence
        To love.
    ]




_To One demanding why Wine sparkles._


  So diamonds sparkle, and thy mistress' eyes;
  When 'tis not fire but light in either flies.
  Beauty not thaw'd by lustful flames will show
  Like a fair mountain of unmelted snow:
  Nor can the tasted vine more danger bring
  Than water taken from the crystal spring,
  Whose end is to refresh and cool that heat
  Which unallay'd becomes foul vice's seat:
  Unless thy boiling veins, mad with desire
  Of drink, convert the liquor into fire.                            10
  For then thou quaff'st down fevers, thy full bowls
  Carouse the burning draughts of Portia's coals.

    If it do leap and sparkle in the cup,
  'Twill sink thy cares, and help invention up.
  There never yet was Muse or Poet known
  Not dipt or drenched in this Helicon.
  But Tom! take heed thou use it with such care
  As witches deal with their familiar.
  For if thy virtue's circle not confine
  And guard thee from the Furies rais'd by wine,                     20
  'Tis ten to one this dancing spirit may
  A Devil prove to bear thy wits away;
  And make thy glowing nose a map of Hell
  Where Bacchus' purple fumes like meteors dwell.
  Now think not these sage morals thee invite
  To prove Carthusian or strict Rechabite;
  Let fool's be mad, wise people may be free,
  Though not to license turn their liberty.
  He that drinks wine for health, not for excess,
  Nor drowns his temper in a drunkenness,                            30
  Shall feel no more the grape's unruly fate,
  Then if he took some chilling opiate.




    [_To One demanding, &c._] If not exactly Poetry,
    this is at least sense, as was once remarked (or in words to
    that effect), with 'Latin' for 'Poetry', by the late Professor
    Nettleship, with regard to a composition not in verse.

    Malone MS. 22, fol. 24, has an earlier draft of this poem,
    commencing:

        We do not give the wine a sparkling name,
        As if we meant those sparks implied a flame;
        The flame lies in our blood: and 'tis desire
        Fed by loose appetite sets us on fire,

    and concluding with lines 29-32.]




_By occasion of the Young Prince his happy Birth._

[Charles II. Born May 29, 1630.]


  At this glad triumph, when most poets use
  Their quill, I did not bridle up my Muse
  For sloth or less devotion. I am one
  That can well keep my Holy-days at home;

  That can the blessings of my King and State
  Better in pray'r than poems gratulate;
  And in their fortunes bear a loyal part,
  Though I no bonfires light but in my heart.

    Truth is, when I receiv'd the first report
  Of a new star risen and seen at Court;                             10
  Though I felt joy enough to give a tongue
  Unto a mute, yet duty strook me dumb:
  And thus surpris'd by rumour, at first sight
  I held it some allegiance not to write.

    For howe'er children, unto those that look
  Their pedigree in God's, not the Church book,
  Fair pledges are of that eternity
  Which Christians possess not till they die;
  Yet they appear, view'd in that perspective
  Through which we look on men long since alive,                     20
  Like succours in a Camp, sent to make good
  Their place that last upon the watches stood.
  So that in age, or fate, each following birth
  Doth set the parent so much nearer earth:
  And by this grammar we our heirs may call
  The smiling Preface to our funeral.

    This sadded my soft sense, to think that he
  Who now makes laws, should by a bold decree
  Be summon'd hence, to make another room,
  And change his royal palace for a tomb.                            30
  For none ere truly lov'd the present light,
  But griev'd to see it rivall'd by the night:
  And if 't be sin to wish that light extinct,
  Sorrow may make it treason but to think't.
  I know each malcontent or giddy man,
  In his religion, with the Persian
  Adores the rising Sun; and his false view
  Best likes, not what is best, but what is new.
  O that we could these gangrenes so prevent
  (For our own blessing, and their punishment),                      40
  That all such might, who for wild changes thirst,
  Rack'd on a hopeless expectation, burst,

  To see us fetter time, and by his stay
  To a consistence fix the flying day;
  And in a Solstice by our prayers made,
  Rescue our Sun from death or envy's shade.

    But here we dally with fate, and in this
  Stern Destiny mocks and controls our wish;
  Informing us, if fathers should remain
  For ever here, children were born in vain;                         50
  And we in vain were Christians, should we
  In this world dream of perpetuity.
  Decay is Nature's Kalendar; nor can
  It hurt the King to think he is a man;
  Nor grieve, but comfort him, to hear us say
  That his own children must his sceptre sway.
  Why slack I then to contribute a vote,
  Large as the kingdom's joy, free as my thought?
  Long live the Prince! and in that title bear
  The world long witness that the King is here:                      60
  May he grow up, till all that good he reach
  Which we can wish, or his Great Father teach:
  Let him shine long, a mark to land and main,
  Like that bright spark plac'd nearest to Charles' Wain,
  And, like him, lead succession's golden team,
  Which may possess the British diadem.

    But in the mean space, let his Royal Sire,
  Who warms our hopes with true Promethean fire,
  So long his course in time and glory run,
  Till he estate his virtue on his son.                              70
  So in his father's days this happy One
  Shall crowned be, yet not usurp the Throne;
  And Charles reign still, since thus himself will be
  Heir to himself, through all posterity.




    [_By occasion, &c._]

    [Line: 8 Orig. 'bon_e_-fires', as often, the spelling being
    accepted by recent authorities as etymological. But bones do
    not make good fires: 'ba_n_e-fire', the acknowledged Northern
    form, which has been held to support this origin, is a very
    likely variant of' ba_l_e-fire', and the obvious '_bon_-fire'
    in the holiday sense is by no means so absurd as it has been
    represented to be.]

    [Line: 10 This 'new star' occurs again and again in courtly
    verse throughout Charles's life and at his death, but the
    accounts of it are uncomfortably conflicting. Some say that
    Venus was visible all day long--a phenomenon of obvious
    application; others make it Mercury--whereto also an
    application, at which the person concerned would have laughed
    very genially, is possible. But neither is a '_new_ star';
    and the miracle is perhaps more judiciously put as that of _a_
    star, no matter what, shining brightly at noonday.]

    [Line: 22 that] _MS._ 'who'.]

    [Line: 27 'sadded' has some interest.]

    [Line: 47 'But here we with fate dally' _Malone MS. 22._]

    [Line: 50 were born] _MS._ 'would live'--not so well.]

    [Line: 57 vote] In the sense of _votum_ = 'wish'.]

    [Line: 60 long] _MS._ 'glad'.]

    [Line: 63 long] _MS._ 'forth'.]

    [Line: 70 _MS._ 'virtues'.]




_Upon the King's happy return from Scotland._


  So breaks the day, when the returning Sun
  Hath newly through his winter tropic run,
  As You (Great Sir!) in this regress come forth
  From the remoter climate of the North.

    To tell You now what cares, what fears we past,
  What clouds of sorrow did the land o'er-cast,
  Were lost, but unto such as have been there,
  Where the absented Sun benights the year:
  Or have those countries travel'd, which ne'er feel
  The warmth and virtue of his flaming wheel.                        10

    How happy yet were we! that when You went,
  You left within Your Kingdom's firmament
  A Partner-light, whose lustre may despise
  The nightly glimm'ring tapers of the skies,
  Your peerless Queen; and at each hand a Star,
  Whose hopeful beams from You enkindled are.
  Though (to say truth) the light, which they could bring,
  Serv'd but to lengthen out our evening.

    Heaven's greater lamps illumine it; each spark
  Adds only this, to make the sky less dark.                         20
  Nay, She, who is the glory of her sex,
  Did sadly droop for lack of Your reflex:
  Oft did She her fair brow in loneness shroud,
  And dimly shone, like Venus in a cloud.

    Now are those gloomy mists dry'd up by You,
  As the world's eye scatters the ev'ning dew:
  And You bring home that blessing to the land,
  Which absence made us rightly understand.

    Here may You henceforth stay! there need no charms
  To hold You, but the circle of her arms,                           30
  Whose fruitful love yields You a rich increase,
  Seals of Your joy, and of the kingdom's peace.
  O may those precious pledges fix You here,
  And You grow old within that crystal sphere!

    Pardon this bold detention. Else our love
  Will merely an officious trouble prove.
  Each busy minute tells us, as it flies,
  That there are better objects for Your eyes.
  To them let us leave You, whilst we go pray,
  Raising this triumph to a Holy-day.                                40

    And may that soul the Church's blessing want,
  May his content be short, his comforts scant,
  Whose bosom-altar does no incense burn,
  In thankful sacrifice for Your return.




    [_Upon the King's happy return, &c._] Hannah notes
    that this appears with variants, but signed, in MS. Ashm.
    38, fol. 51. I have not thought it necessary to collate this
    version from a work described by good authorities as 'a bad
    MS.'. The piece itself, however, with others of King's, may
    well have been in Dryden's mind when he composed his own batch
    of Restoration welcome-poems to Charles II and Clarendon,
    within three or four years of the publication of these. There
    is no plagiarism: Heaven forbid that I should take part in
    plagiarism-hunting. But there is a sort of resemblance in
    form and tone (especially in the use of 'You' and 'Your'
    as pivots), and (though with great improvement) in
    versification.--The capital Y's here are almost complete in
    the original, and I have completed them.]




_To the Queen at Oxford._


  Great Lady! that thus, quite against our use,
  We speak your welcome by an English Muse,
  And in a vulgar tongue our zeals contrive,
  Is to confess your large prerogative,
  Who have the pow'rful freedom to dispense
  With our strict Rules, or Custom's difference.

    'Tis fit, when such a Star deigns to appear,
  And shine within the academic sphere,
  That ev'ry college, grac'd by your resort,
  Should only speak the language of your Court;                      10
  As if Apollo's learned quire, but You,
  No other Queen of the Ascendent knew.

    Let those that list invoke the Delphian name,
  To light their verse, and quench their doting flame;
  In Helicon it were high treason now,
  Did any to a feign'd Minerva bow;
  When You are present, whose chaste virtues stain
  The vaunted glories of her maiden brain.

    I would not flatter. May that diet feed
  Deform'd and vicious souls; they only need                         20
  Such physic, who, grown sick of their decays,
  Are only cur'd with surfeits of false praise;
  Like those, who, fall'n from youth or beauty's grace,
  Lay colours on, which more belie the face.

    Be You still what You are; a glorious theme
  For Truth to crown. So when that diadem
  Which circles Your fair brow drops off, and time
  Shall lift You to that pitch our prayers climb;
  Posterity will plait a nobler wreath,
  To crown Your fame and memory in death.                            30
  This is sad truth and plain, which I might fear
  Would scarce prove welcome to a Prince's ear;
  And hardly may you think that writer wise,
  Who preaches there where he should poetize;
  Yet where so rich a bank of goodness is,
  Triumphs and Feasts admit such thoughts as this,
  Nor will your virtue from her client turn,
  Although he bring his tribute in an urn.

    Enough of this: who knows not when to end
  Needs must, by tedious diligence, offend.                          40
  Tis not a poet's office to advance
  The precious value of allegiance.
  And least of all the rest do I affect
  To word my duty in this dialect.

    My service lies a better way, whose tone
  Is spirited by full devotion.
  Thus, whilst I mention _You_, _Your Royal Mate_,
  And _Those_ which your blest line perpetuate,
  I shall such votes of happiness rehearse,
  Whose softest accents will out-tongue my verse.                    50




    [_To the Queen at Oxford._] This poem was omitted
    in Hannah's MS., and it is in no way clear to what visit it
    refers. The absence of any reference to politics shows that
    it cannot have been Henrietta's residence at Merton during the
    Rebellion.]

    [Line: 29 plait] Orig 'plat'.]




_A Salutation of His Majesty's ship The Sovereign._


  Move on, thou floating trophy built to Fame!
  And bid her trump spread thy majestic name;
  That the blue Tritons, and those petty Gods
  Which sport themselves upon the dancing floods,
  May bow, as to their Neptune, when they feel
  The awful pressure of thy potent keel.

    Great wonder of the time! whose form unites
  In one aspect two warring opposites,
  Delight and horror; and in them portends
  Diff'ring events both to thy foes and friends;                     10
  To these thy radiant brow, Peace's bright shrine,
  Doth like that golden constellation shine,
  Which guides the seaman with auspicious beams,
  Safe and unshipwrack'd through the troubled streams.
  But, as a blazing meteor, to those
  It doth ostents of blood and death disclose.
  For thy rich decks lighten like Heaven's fires,
  To usher forth the thunder of thy tires.

    O never may cross wind, or swelling wave,
  Conspire to make the treach'rous sands thy grave:                  20
  Nor envious rocks, in their white foamy laugh,
  Rejoice to wear thy loss's Epitaph.
  But may the smoothest, most successful gales
  Distend thy sheet, and wing thy flying sails:
  That all designs which must on thee embark,
  May be securely plac'd, as in the Ark.
  May'st thou, where'er thy streamers shall display,
  Enforce the bold disputers to obey:
  That they, whose pens are sharper than their swords,
  May yield in fact, what they denied in words.                      30
  Thus when th' amazed world our seas shall see
  Shut from usurpers, to their own Lord free,
  Thou may'st, returning from the conquered main,
  With thine own triumphs be crown'd _Sovereign_.




    [_A Salutation, &c._] The _Sovereign_, _Sovereign of
    the Seas_, or _Royal Sovereign_ (I am not sure what name she
    bore during the Rebellion) is one of the famous _literary_
    ships of the English Navy. She was built in 1637 at Woolwich
    by Phineas and Peter Pett out of a whole year's ship-money;
    and if the means for raising her cost (£80,000) were
    unpopular, a great deal of pride was taken in the ship
    herself. Thomas Heywood wrote an account of her which has
    been frequently quoted. See, for instance, Mr. David Hannay's
    _Short History of the Royal Navy_, i. 172, 173. She was of
    1637 tons burthen; was pierced for 98 great guns with many
    smaller murdering-pieces and chasers; and was most elaborately
    decorated, with carved stern, galleries, black and gold
    angels, trophies and emblems of all sorts--besides a baker's
    dozen of allegorical, mythological, and historical statues
    of personages from Cupid to King Edgar on horseback, as
    figureheads and elsewhere. She fought all through the
    Dutch wars; escaped the disgraceful disaster in the Medway;
    distinguished herself at La Hogue, where a great part is
    assigned to her by some accounts in chasing Tourville's
    _Soleil Royal_ ashore; and was burnt by accident, not long
    after, at Chatham in 1696--her sixtieth year.]

    [Line: 11 The 'radiant brow' is of course the gilded
    figurehead group. There was no actual 'Peace' among the
    allegories, but the Cupid, a 'child bridling a lion', might
    perhaps stand for her.]

    [Line: 18 'Tire' is of course 'tier': the _Sovereign_ was a
    three-decker. Professor Skeat approves the spelling, which
    occurs in Milton and elsewhere. But some would have a special
    word 'tire', not for the _row_ but the actual 'fire' or
    'shooting' (_tir_) of the guns--which would do well enough
    here.]

    [Lines: 19-22 King's own age would, after the event, have
    instanced this as an example of Fate granting prayers to the
    letter yet evading them in the spirit. The _Sovereign_ did
    escape wind and wave, sand and rock, as well as the enemy, but
    only to perish otherwise.]

    [Line: 24 'Sheets' in plural in Hannah's MS. Another in
    the Ashmolean collection 'clo[a]th[e]s'--a good naval
    technicality.]

    [Lines: 27-34 Referring to the _Mare Clausum_ dispute and the
    English insistence on the lowering of foreign flags.]




_An Epitaph on his most honoured friend, Richard, Earl of Dorset._

[Died March 28, 1624.]


  Let no profane ignoble foot tread near
  This hallow'd piece of earth: _Dorset lies here_.
  A small sad relique of a noble spirit,
  Free as the air, and ample as his merit;
  Whose least perfection was large, and great
  Enough to make a common man complete.
  A soul refin'd and cull'd from many men,
  That reconcil'd the sword unto the pen,
  Using both well. No proud forgetting Lord,
  But mindful of mean names, and of his word.                        10
  One that did love for honour, not for ends,
  And had the noblest way of making friends
  By loving first. One that did know the Court,
  Yet understood it better by report
  Than practice, for he nothing took from thence
  But the king's favour for his recompense.

    One for religion, or his country's good,
  That valu'd not his fortune, nor his blood.
  One high in fair opinion, rich in praise,
  And full of all we could have wish'd, but days.                    20

    He that is warn'd of this, and shall forbear
    To vent a sigh for him, or lend a tear;
    May he live long and scorn'd, unpitied fall,
    And want a mourner at his funeral.




    [_An Epitaph._] This Dorset was the third earl,
    Richard. As a very young man he married the famous Lady Anne
    Clifford, whose ill-luck in husbands may have been partly
    caused, but must have been somewhat compensated, by her
    masterful temper. Dorset, who died young, was both a libertine
    and a spendthrift; but King seems to have thought well enough
    of him not only to write this epitaph, but to lend him, or
    guarantee for him, a thousand pounds (quite £3,000 to-day),
    which he had at any rate not got back thirty years afterwards.
    The present piece appears, with variants, in Corbet's _Poems_,
    but King seems to have the better claim. Hannah gives a
    considerable body of various readings from the Corbet version
    and one in the Ashmole MS. 38, but it hardly seems worth while
    to burden the page-foot with them, for the epitaph is mere
    'common-form' and of no special interest.]




_The Exequy._


  Accept, thou Shrine of my dead Saint,
  Instead of dirges this complaint;
  And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse,
  Receive a strew of weeping verse
  From thy griev'd friend, whom thou might'st see
  Quite melted into tears for thee.

    Dear loss! since thy untimely fate,
  My task hath been to meditate
  On thee, on thee: thou art the book,
  The library, whereon I look,                                       10
  Though almost blind. For thee (lov'd clay)
  I languish out, not live, the day,
  Using no other exercise
  But what I practise with mine eyes:
  By which wet glasses, I find out
  How lazily time creeps about
  To one that mourns; this, only this,
  My exercise and bus'ness is:
  So I compute the weary hours
  With sighs dissolved into showers.                                 20

    Nor wonder, if my time go thus
  Backward and most preposterous;
  Thou hast benighted me; thy set
  This eve of blackness did beget,
  Who wast my day (though overcast,
  Before thou hadst thy noon-tide past),
  And I remember must in tears,
  Thou scarce hadst seen so many years
  As day tells hours. By thy clear Sun,
  My love and fortune first did run;                                 30
  But thou wilt never more appear
  Folded within my hemisphere,
  Since both thy light and motion
  Like a fled star is fall'n and gone,
  And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish
  The earth now interposed is,
  Which such a strange eclipse doth make,
  As ne'er was read in almanac.

    I could allow thee, for a time,
  To darken me and my sad clime,                                     40
  Were it a month, a year, or ten,
  I would thy exile live till then;
  And all that space my mirth adjourn,
  So thou wouldst promise to return;
  And putting off thy ashy shroud,
  At length disperse this sorrow's cloud.

    But woe is me! the longest date
  Too narrow is to calculate
  These empty hopes: never shall I
  Be so much blest as to descry                                      50
  A glimpse of thee, till that day come,
  Which shall the earth to cinders doom,
  And a fierce fever must calcine
  The body of this world, like thine,
  My Little World! That fit of fire
  Once off, our bodies shall aspire
  To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise,
  And view ourselves with clearer eyes
  In that calm region, where no night
  Can hide us from each other's sight.                               60

    Meantime, thou hast her, Earth; much good
  May my harm do thee. Since it stood
  With Heaven's will, I might not call
  Her longer mine, I give thee all
  My short-liv'd right and interest
  In her, whom living I lov'd best:
  With a most free and bounteous grief,
  I give thee, what I could not keep.
  Be kind to her, and prithee look
  Thou write into thy Dooms-day book                                 70
  Each parcel of this rarity,
  Which in thy casket shrin'd doth lie:
  See that thou make thy reck'ning straight,
  And yield her back again by weight;
  For thou must audit on thy trust
  Each grain and atom of this dust,
  As thou wilt answer _Him_ that lent,
  Not gave thee, my dear monument.

    So close the ground, and 'bout her shade
  Black curtains draw;--my Bride is laid.                            80

    Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed,
  Never to be disquieted!
  My last good night! Thou wilt not wake,
  Till I thy fate shall overtake:
  Till age, or grief, or sickness, must
  Marry my body to that dust
  It so much loves; and fill the room
  My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
  Stay for me there; I will not fail
  To meet thee in that hollow vale:                                  90
  And think not much of my delay;
  I am already on the way,
  And follow thee with all the speed
  Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
  Each minute is a short degree,
  And ev'ry hour a step towards thee.
  At night, when I betake to rest,
  Next morn I rise nearer my West
  Of life, almost by eight hours' sail
  Than when sleep breath'd his drowsy gale.                         100

    Thus from the Sun my bottom steers,
  And my day's compass downward bears:
  Nor labour I to stem the tide,
  Through which to _Thee_ I swiftly glide.

    'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield,
  Thou, like the van, first took'st the field,
  And gotten hast the victory,
  In thus adventuring to die
  Before me, whose more years might crave
  A just precedence in the grave.                                   110
  But heark! My pulse, like a soft drum,
  Beats my approach, tells _Thee_ I come;
  And slow howe'er my marches be,
  I shall at last sit down by _Thee_.

    The thought of this bids me go on,
  And wait my dissolution
  With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive
  The crime), I am content to live
  Divided, with but half a heart,
  Till we shall meet and never part.                                120




    [_The Exequy._] This beautiful poem (which bore in
    Hannah's MS. the sub-title, itself not unmemorable, 'To his
    Matchless never-to-be forgotten Friend') makes, with 'Tell
    me no more', King's chief claim to poetic rank. It is not--he
    never is--splendid, or strange, or soul-shaking; but for
    simplicity, sincerity, tenderness, and grace--nay, as the time
    went, nature--it has, in its modest way, not many superiors.

    Versions are found in Ashmole MS. 36, fol. 253, and Rawlinson
    Poet. MS. 160. fol. 41 verso.]

    [Line: 36 The] All three MSS. read 'An', which, considering
    the obvious double meaning of 'earth', is perhaps better.]

    [Lines: 67-8 Assonance, though not elsewhere unknown, is not
    common in King.]

    [Line: 81 seq. If the last paragraph has seemed to any to
    approach 'False Wit' this ought to make amends. And so with
    the conclusion.]




_The Anniverse. An Elegy._


  So soon grown old! hast thou been six years dead?
  Poor earth, once by my Love inhabited!
  And must I live to calculate the time
  To which thy blooming youth could never climb,
  But fell in the ascent! yet have not I
  Studied enough thy loss's history.

    How happy were mankind, if Death's strict laws
  Consum'd our lamentations like the cause!
  Or that our grief, turning to dust, might end
  With the dissolved body of a friend!                               10

    But sacred Heaven! O, how just thou art
  In stamping death's impression on that heart,
  Which through thy favours would grow insolent,
  Were it not physic'd by sharp discontent.
  If, then, it stand resolv'd in thy decree,
  That still I must doom'd to a desert be,
  Sprung out of my lone thoughts, which know no path
  But what my own misfortune beaten hath;--
  If thou wilt bind me living to a corse,
  And I must slowly waste; I then of force                           20
  Stoop to thy great appointment, and obey
  That will which nought avails me to gainsay.

    For whilst in sorrow's maze I wander on,
  I do but follow life's vocation.
  Sure we were made to grieve: at our first birth,
  With cries we took possession of the earth;
  And though the lucky man reputed be
  Fortune's adopted son, yet only he
  Is Nature's true-born child, who sums his years
  (Like me) with no arithmetic but tears.                            30




    [_The Anniverse._] Not quite so good as _The
    Exequy_, but not bad. The Hannah-Pickering MS. had a few
    variants, not worth entering here in most cases.]

    [Line: 19 corse] This word had odd luck in a well-printed
    book, and a generally well-written MS., for it shows in the
    one as 'coarse', in the other as 'course'--both errors not
    infrequent at the time.]

    [Line: 22 avails] This is the MS. reading: the book has
    'avail'.]

    [Line: 26 took] _MS._ 'take'.]




_On Two Children, dying of one disease, and buried in one grave._


  Brought forth in sorrow, and bred up in care,
  Two tender children here entombed are:
  One place, one sire, one womb their being gave,
  They had one mortal sickness, and one grave.
  And though they cannot number many years
  In their account, yet with their parent's tears
  This comfort mingles; Though their days were few,
  They scarcely sin, but never sorrow knew;
  So that they well might boast, they carried hence
  What riper ages lose, their innocence.                             10

  You pretty losses, that revive the fate,
  Which, in your mother, death did antedate,
  O let my high-swoln grief distil on you
  The saddest drops of a parental dew:
  You ask no other dower than what my eyes
  Lay out on your untimely exequies:
  When once I have discharg'd that mournful score,
  Heav'n hath decreed you ne'er shall cost me more,
  Since you release and quit my borrow'd trust,
  By taking this inheritance of dust.                                20




    [_On Two Children, &c._] The number of King's
    children is uncertain, but as the eldest certainly died
    _before_ the mother, and his sons lived, one nearly as long as
    the Bishop, the other a little longer, Hannah seems justified
    in arguing from this piece that there were five.]




_A Letter._


  I ne'er was dress'd in forms; nor can I bend
  My pen to flatter any, nor commend,
  Unless desert or honour do present
  Unto my verse a worthy argument.

    You are my friend, and in that word to me
  Stand blazon'd in your noblest heraldry;
  That style presents you full, and does relate
  The bounty of your love, and my own fate,
  Both which conspir'd to make me yours. A choice,
  Which needs must, in the giddy people's voice,                     10
  That only judge the outside, and, like apes,
  Play with our names, and comment on our shapes,
  Appear too light: but it lies you upon,
  To justify the disproportion.

    Truth be my record, I durst not presume
  To seek to you, 'twas you that did assume
  Me to your bosom. Wherein you subdu'd
  One that can serve you, though ne'er could intrude
  Upon great titles; nor knows how t' invade
  Acquaintance: Like such as are only paid                           20
  With great men's smiles; if that the passant Lord
  Let fall a forc'd salute, or but afford
  The nod regardant. It was test enough
  For me, you ne'er did find such servile stuff
  Couch'd in my temper; I can freely say,
  I do not love you in that common way
  For which Great Ones are lov'd in this false time:
  I have no wish to gain, nor will to climb;
  I cannot pawn my freedom, nor outlive
  My liberty, for all that you can give.                             30
  And sure you may retain good cheap such friends,
  Who not your fortune make, but you, their ends.
  I speak not this to vaunt in my own story,
  All these additions are unto your glory;
  Who, counter to the world, use to elect,
  Not to take up on trust, what you affect.
  Indeed 'tis seldom seen that such as you
  Adopt a friend, or for acquaintance sue;
  Yet you did this vouchsafe, you did descend
  Below yourself to raise an humble friend,                          40
  And fix him in your love: where I will stand
  The constant subject of your free command.
  Had I no airy thoughts, sure you would teach
  Me higher than my own dull sphere to reach:
  And, by reflex, instruct me to appear
  Something (though coarse and plain) fit for your wear.

    Know, best of friends, however wild report
  May justly say, I am unapt to sort
  With your opinion or society
  (Which truth would shame me, did I it deny),                       50
  There 's something in me says, I dare make good,
  When honour calls me, all I want in blood.

    Put off your giant titles, then I can
  Stand in your judgement's blank an equal man.
  Though hills advanced are above the plain,
  They are but higher earth, nor must disdain
  Alliance with the vale: we see a spade
  Can level them, and make a mount a glade.
  Howe'er we differ in the Heralds' book,
  He that mankind's extraction shall look                            60
  In Nature's rolls, must grant we all agree
  In our best part's immortal pedigree:
  You must by that perspective only view
  My service, else 'twill ne'er show worthy you.

    You see I court you bluntly, like a friend,
  Not like a mistress; my Muse is not penn'd
  For smooth and oily flights: and I indent
  To use more honesty than compliment.

    But I have done; in lieu of all you give,
  Receive his thankful tribute, who must live                        70
  Your vow'd observer, and devotes a heart
  Which will in death seal the bold counterpart.




    [_A Letter._] I do not know any clue to the object
    of this epistle. King, like most churchmen of distinction
    at the time, was on familiar terms with divers 'persons of
    quality'. But it _might_ be a mere literary exercise--a 'copy
    of verses'.]

    [Line: 23 'Nod regardant' is good. It shows, with 'passant'
    just before that his own reference to heraldry was still
    floating in King's mind.]

    [Line: 54 Either of two of the numerous senses of 'blank'
    would come in here. One is _tabula rasa_, the judgement
    being obscured by no prepossession; the other 'bull's-eye' or
    'target'.]

    [Line: 59 Orig. as usual, 'Heralds', with no apostrophe to
    make case or number. If anybody prefers 'herald's' I have no
    objection.]

    [Line: 67 indent] In the sense of 'contract', 'engage'.]




_An Acknowledgement._


  My best of friends! what needs a chain to tie
  One by your merit bound a votary?
  Think you I have some plot upon my peace,
  I would this bondage change for a release?
  Since 'twas my fate your prisoner to be,
  Heav'n knows I nothing fear, but liberty.

    Yet you do well, that study to prevent,
  After so rich a stock of favour spent
  On one so worthless, lest my memory
  Should let so dear an obligation die                               10
  Without record. This made my precious Friend
  Her token, as an antidote, to send,
  Against forgetful poisons; That as they
  Who Vespers late, and early Mattins say
  Upon their beads, so on this linked score
  In golden numbers I might reckon o'er
  Your virtues and my debt, which does surmount
  The trivial laws of popular account:
  For that, within this emblematic knot,
  Your beauteous mind, and my own fate, is wrote.                    20

    The sparkling constellation which combines
  The lock, is your dear self, whose worth outshines
  Most of your sex; so solid and so clear
  You like a perfect diamond appear;
  Casting, from your example, fuller light
  Than those dim sparks which glaze the brow of night,
  And gladding all your friends, as doth the ray
  Of that East-star which wakes the cheerful day.

    But the black map of death and discontent
  Behind that adamantine firmament,                                  30
  That luckless figure, which, like Calvary,
  Stands strew'd and copied out in skulls, is I:
  Whose life your absence clouds, and makes my time
  Move blindfold in the dark ecliptic line.

    Then wonder not, if my removed Sun
  So low within the western tropic run;
  My eyes no day in this horizon see,
  Since where You are not, all is night to me.

    Lastly, the anchor which enfast'ned lies
  Upon a pair of deaths, sadly applies                               40
  That Monument of Rest, which harbour must
  Our ship-wrackt fortunes in a road of dust.

    So then, how late soe'er my joyless life
  Be tired out in this affection's strife:
  Though my tempestuous fancy, like the sky,
  Travail with storms, and through my wat'ry eye,
  Sorrow's high-going waves spring many a leak;
  Though sighs blow loud, till my heart's cordage break;
  Though Faith, and all my wishes prove untrue,
  Yet Death shall fix and anchor Me with You.                        50
    'Tis some poor comfort, that this mortal scope
    Will period, though never crown, my Hope.




    [_An Acknowledgement._] This is evidently of the
    same class as the last poem, if not as evidently addressed
    to the same person. The recipient of the _Letter_ might be of
    either sex, for 'mistress' in l. 66 (_v. sup._) is not quite
    decisive in the context. This 'precious Friend' is definitely
    feminine. Nineteenth--I do not know about twentieth--century
    man would have been a little uncomfortable about receiving
    from a lady a gold chain with a grouped diamond pendant,
    welcome as the enclosed 'lock' might be. But, as Scott and
    others have long ago remarked, there was none of this false
    pride in the seventeenth, and you might even take money from
    the beloved. The combination of death's heads, equally of the
    time, is more of all time.]




_The Acquittance._


  Not knowing who should my acquittance take,
  I know as little what discharge to make.
  The favour is so great, that it outgoes
  All forms of thankfulness I can propose.
  Those grateful levies which my pen would raise,
  Are stricken dumb, or buried in amaze.
  Therefore, as once in Athens there was shown
  An Altar built unto the God Unknown,
  My ignorant devotions must by guess
  This blind return of gratitude address,                            10
  Till you vouchsafe to show me where and how
  I may to this revealed Goddess bow.




    [_The Acquittance._] This group of poems is so
    obviously a group that Hannah's principles of selection in
    rejecting the present piece and admitting the others may seem
    unreasonably 'undulating and diverse'. I suppose he thought
    it rather profane for a bishop even _in futuro_, and perhaps
    rather ambiguous in other ways. But though King became a
    bishop there is no chance of my becoming an archdeacon, and I
    think the piece rather pretty.]




_The Forfeiture._


  My Dearest, To let you or the world know
  What debt of service I do truly owe
  To your unpattern'd self, were to require
  A language only form'd in the desire
  Of him that writes. It is the common fate
  Of greatest duties, to evaporate
  In silent meaning, as we often see
  Fires by their too much fuel smother'd be:
  Small obligations may find vent, and speak,
  When greater the unable debtor break.                              10
  And such are mine to you, whose favour's store
  Hath made me poorer then I was before;
  For I want words and language to declare
  How strict my bond, or large your bounties are.

    Since nothing in my desp'rate fortune found,
  Can payment make, nor yet the sum compound;
  You must lose all, or else of force accept
  The body of a bankrupt for your debt.
  Then, Love, your bond to execution sue,
  And take myself, as forfeited to you.                              20




    [_The Forfeiture._] This piece, which Hannah did
    not find in his MS., is almost certainly connected with the
    preceding, and, I think, with _An Acknowledgement_ and
    _The Departure_, if not also with _A Letter_. The suggested
    unreality in this _Letter_ disappears to a large extent in
    them, which is not unnatural.]

    [Lines: 9-10 An ingenious adaptation of _Curae leves_, &c.]




_The Departure. An Elegy._


  Were I to leave no more than a good friend,
  Or but to hear the summons to my end,
  (Which I have long'd for) I could then with ease
  Attire my grief in words, and so appease
  That passion in my bosom, which outgrows
  The language of strict verse or largest prose.
  But here I am quite lost; writing to you,
  All that I pen or think is forc'd and new.
  My faculties run cross, and prove as weak
  T' indite this melancholy task, as speak:                          10
  Indeed all words are vain; well might I spare
  This rend'ring of my tortur'd thoughts in air,
  Or sighing paper. My infectious grief
  Strikes inward, and affords me no relief,
  But still a deeper wound, to lose a sight
  More lov'd than health, and dearer than the light.
  But all of us were not at the same time
  Brought forth, nor are we billeted in one clime.
  Nature hath pitch'd mankind at several rates,
  Making our places diverse as our fates.                            20
  Unto that universal law I bow,
  Though with unwilling knee, and do allow
  Her cruel justice, which dispos'd us so
  That we must counter to our wishes go.
  'Twas part of man's first curse, which order'd well,
  We should not alway with our likings dwell.
  'Tis only the Triumphant Church where we
  Shall in unsever'd neighbourhood agree.

    Go then, best soul, and, where You must appear,
  Restore the day to that dull hemisphere.                           30
  Ne'er may the hapless night You leave behind
  Darken the comforts of Your purer mind.
  May all the blessings wishes can invent
  Enrich your days, and crown them with content.
  And though You travel down into the West,
  May Your life's Sun stand fixed in the East,
  Far from the weeping set; nor may my ear
  Take in that killing whisper, _You once were._

    Thus kiss I Your fair hands, taking my leave,
  As prisoners at the bar their doom receive.                        40
  All joys go with You: let sweet peace attend
  You on the way, and wait Your journey's end.
  But let Your discontents and sourer fate
  Remain with me, borne off in my retrait.
  Might all your crosses, in that sheet of lead
  Which folds my heavy heart, lie buried:
  'Tis the last service I would do You, and the best
  My wishes ever meant, or tongue profest.
  Once more I take my leave. And once for all,
  Our parting shows so like a funeral,                               50
  It strikes my soul, which hath most right to be
  Chief Mourner at this sad solemnity.

    And think not, Dearest, 'cause this parting knell
  Is rung in verses, that at Your farewell
  I only mourn in poetry and ink:
  No, my pen's melancholy plummets sink
  So low, they dive where th' hid affections sit,
  Blotting that paper where my mirth was writ.

    Believe 't, that sorrow truest is, which lies
  Deep in the breast, not floating in the eyes:                      60
  And he with saddest circumstance doth part,
  Who seals his farewell with a bleeding heart.




    [_The Departure._] The special title of this poem
    was not in Hannah's MS.]

    [Line: 6 largest] _MS._ 'larg_er_'.]

    [Line: 47 An irregular line of this kind (for it is
    practically an Alexandrine) is so very rare in King that one
    suspects an error, but Hannah notes no MS. variant. Many,
    perhaps most, contemporary poets would not have hesitated at
    'serv'ce', which with 'I'd' adjusts the thing; but our Bishop
    is seldom rough and still seldomer licentious.]

    [Line: 53 this] _MS._ 'the'.]

    [Line: 56 Orig. 'plommets'.]




_Paradox._

_That it is best for a Young Maid to marry an Old Man._


  Fair one, why cannot you an old man love?
  He may as useful, and more constant prove.
  Experience shows you that maturer years
  Are a security against those fears
  Youth will expose you to; whose wild desire
  As it is hot, so 'tis as rash as fire.
  Mark how the blaze extinct in ashes lies,
  Leaving no brand nor embers when it dies
  Which might the flame renew: thus soon consumes
  Youth's wand'ring heat, and vanishes in fumes.                     10
  When age's riper love unapt to stray
  Through loose and giddy change of objects, may
  In your warm bosom like a cinder lie,
  Quick'ned and kindled by your sparkling eye.
  'Tis not deni'd, there are extremes in both
  Which may the fancy move to like or loathe:
  Yet of the two you better shall endure
  To marry with the cramp than calenture.
  Who would in wisdom choose the Torrid Zone
  Therein to settle a plantation?                                    20
  Merchants can tell you, those hot climes were made
  But at the longest for a three years' trade:
  And though the Indies cast the sweeter smell,
  Yet health and plenty do more Northward dwell;
  For where the raging sunbeams burn the earth,
  Her scorched mantle withers into dearth;
  Yet when that drought becomes the harvest's curse,
  Snow doth the tender corn most kindly nurse:
  Why now then woo you not some snowy head
  To take you in mere pity to his bed?                               30
  I doubt the harder task were to persuade
  Him to love you: for if what I have said
  In virgins as in vegetals holds true,
  He'll prove the better nurse to cherish you.
  Some men we know renown'd for wisdom grown
  By old records and antique medals shown;
  Why ought not women then be held most wise
  Who can produce living antiquities?
  Besides if care of that main happiness
  Your sex triumphs in, doth your thoughts possess,                  40
  I mean your beauty from decay to keep;
  No wash nor mask is like an old man's sleep.
  Young wives need never to be sunburnt fear,
  Who their old husbands for umbrellas wear:
  How russet looks an orchard on the hill
  To one that 's water'd by some neighb'ring drill?
  Are not the floated meadows ever seen
  To flourish soonest, and hold longest green?
  You may be sure no moist'ning lacks that bride,
  Who lies with winter thawing by her side.                          50
  She should be fruitful too as fields that join
  Unto the melting waste of Apennine.
  Whilst the cold morning-drops bedew the rose,
  It doth nor leaf, nor smell, nor colour lose;
  Then doubt not, Sweet! Age hath supplies of wet
  To keep You like that flower in water set.
  Dripping catarrhs and fontinells are things
  Will make You think You grew betwixt two springs.
  And should You not think so, You scarce allow
  The force or merit of Your marriage-vow;                           60
  Where maids a new creed learn, and must from thence
  Believe against their own or others' sense.
  Else love will nothing differ from neglect,
  Which turns not to a virtue each defect.
  I'll say no more but this; you women make
  Your children's reck'ning by the almanac.
  I like it well, so you contented are,
  To choose their fathers by that kalendar.
  Turn then, old _Erra Pater_, and there see
  According to life's posture and degree,                            70
  What age or what complexion is most fit
  To make an English maid happy by it;
  And You shall find, if You will choose a man,
  Set justly for Your own meridian,
  Though You perhaps let _One and Twenty_ woo,
  Your elevation is for _Fifty-Two_.




    [_Paradox. That it is best, &c._] After Hannah's
    omission of _The Acquittance_ it is not surprising that he
    did not give this or the next--though a greater excess of
    prudishness appears in the exclusion of _The Change_, and one
    begins to think that something more than accident, indolence,
    or business prevented the appearance of the promised second
    volume. But if there is some nastiness there is very little
    naughtiness in them.]

    [Line: 33 Some have thought 'vegetal', which was not uncommon
    in the seventeenth century, a better form than 'vegetable',
    though this latter has prevailed. It is the French word,
    and though in Latin there is no 'vegetalis' and there is
    'vegetabilis', yet this latter has quite a different sense.]

    [Line: 44 Orig. has 'umbrell_ae_s', not 'umbrell_o_s' (or
    -oes), which seems to be the older form.]

    [Line: 46 It would be pardonable to suppose 'drill' an error
    for 'rill'. But the word is unquestionably used in the sense
    by Sandys and Jeremy Taylor, and seems to be the same as the
    slightly older 'trill' in the sense of 'trickle'.]




_Paradox._

_That Fruition destroys Love._


  Love is our Reason's Paradox, which still
  Against the judgement doth maintain the will:
  And governs by such arbitrary laws,
  It only makes the act our liking's cause:
  We have no brave revenge, but to forgo
  Our full desires, and starve the tyrant so.

    They whom the rising blood tempts not to taste,
  Preserve a stock of love can never waste;
  When easy people who their wish enjoy,
  Like prodigals at once their wealth destroy.                       10
  Adam till now had stay'd in Paradise
  Had his desires been bounded by his eyes.
  When he did more than look, that made th' offence,
  And forfeited his state of innocence.
  Fruition therefore is the bane t' undo
  Both our affection and the subject too.
  'Tis Love into worse language to translate,
  And make it into Lust degenerate:
  'Tis to dethrone, and thrust it from the heart,
  To seat it grossly in the sensual part.                            20
  Seek for the star that 's shot upon the ground,
  And nought but a dim jelly there is found.
  Thus foul and dark our female stars appear,
  If fall'n or loos'ned once from Virtue's Sphere.
  Glow-worms shine only look'd on, and let lie,
  But handled crawl into deformity:
  So beauty is no longer fair and bright,
  Than whilst unstained by the appetite:
  And then it withers like a blasted flower,
  Some pois'nous worm or spider hath crept o'er.                     30
  Pygmalion's dotage on the carved stone,
  Shows amorists their strong illusion.
  Whilst he to gaze and court it was content,
  He serv'd as priest at Beauty's monument:
  But when by looser fires t' embraces led,
  It prov'd a cold hard statue in his bed.
  Irregular affects, like madmen's dreams
  Presented by false lights and broken beams,
  So long content us, as no near address
  Shows the weak sense our painted happiness.                        40
  But when those pleasing shadows us forsake,
  Or of the substance we a trial make,
  Like him, deluded by the fancy's mock,
  We shipwrack 'gainst an alabaster rock.
  What though thy mistress far from marble be?
  Her softness will transform and harden thee.
  Lust is a snake, and Guilt the Gorgon's head,
  Which Conscience turns to stone, and Joys to lead.
    Turtles themselves will blush, if put to name
  The act, whereby they quench their am'rous flame.                  50
  Who then that 's wise or virtuous, would not fear
  To catch at pleasures which forbidden were,
  When those which we count lawful, cannot be
  Requir'd without some loss of modesty?
  Ev'n in the marriage-bed, where soft delights
  Are customary and authoriz'd rites;
  What are those tributes to the wanton sense,
  But toleration of Incontinence?
  For properly you cannot call that Love
  Which does not from the soul, but humour move.                     60
  Thus they who worship'd Pan or Isis' Shrine,
  By the fair front judg'd all within divine:
  Though ent'ring, found 'twas but a goat or cow
  To which before their ignorance did bow.
  Such temples and such goddesses are these
  Which foolish lovers and admirers please:
  Who if they chance within the shrine to pry,
  Find that a beast they thought a Deity.
  Nor makes it only our opinion less
  Of what we lik'd before, and now possess;                          70
  But robs the fuel, and corrupts the spice
  Which sweetens and inflames Love's sacrifice,
  After fruition once, what is Desire
  But ashes kept warm by a dying fire?
  This is (if any) the Philosopher's Stone
  Which still miscarries at projection.
  For when the Heat _ad Octo_ intermits,
  It poorly takes us like Third Ague fits,
  Or must on embers as dull drugs infuse,
  Which we for med'cine not for pleasure use.                        80
    Since lovers' joys then leave so sick a taste,
  And soon as relish'd by the sense are past;
  They are but riddles sure, lost if possest,
  And therefore only in reversion best.
  For bate them expectation and delay,
  You take the most delightful scenes away.
  These two such rule within the fancy keep,
  As banquets apprehended in our sleep;
  After which pleasing trance next morn we wake
  Empty and angry at the night's mistake.                            90
  Give me long dreams and visions of content,
  Rather than pleasures in a minute spent.
  And since I know before, the shedding rose
  In that same instant doth her sweetness lose,
  Upon the virgin-stock still let her dwell
  For me, to feast my longings with her smell.
  Those are but counterfeits of joy at best,
  Which languish soon as brought unto the test.
  Nor can I hold it worth his pains who tries
  To in that harvest which by reaping dies.                         100

    Resolve me now what spirit hath delight,
  If by full feed you kill the appetite?
  That stomach healthi'st is, that ne'er was cloy'd,
  Why not that Love the best then, ne'er enjoy'd?
  Since nat'rally the blood, when tam'd or sated,
  Will cool so fast it leaves the object hated.
  Pleasures, like wonders, quickly lose their price
  When Reason or Experience makes us wise.

  To close my argument then. I dare say
  (And without Paradox) as well we may                              110
  Enjoy our Love and yet preserve Desire,
  As warm our hands by putting out the fire.




    [_Paradox. That Fruition, &c._] Put less tersely but
    perhaps better by Dryden's most original heroine, Doralice,
    in _Marriage à la Mode_, 'The only way to keep us true to
    each other is never to enjoy'. The notion is old enough, and
    several other seventeenth-century poets have treated it.]

    [Line: 22 Nobody has ever assigned a (to me, at least)
    plausible reason for this universal fancy of the seventeenth
    century about the jellification of shooting-stars. It is
    curious, but not inexplicable, that Browne does not touch it.]

    [Line: 31 King has very coolly turned the Pygmalion story
    upside down to suit his thesis.]

    [Line: 50 The talking and blushing turtle (i.e. dove) is
    another remarkable poetical licence.]

    [Line: 77 Heat _ad Octo_] An obviously alchemical phrase which
    I have not interpreted.]

    [Line: 100 in] Orig. 'inne' = 'get in'. Cf. _All's Well that
    Ends Well_, 1. iii, 'to in the crop'.]




_The Change._

_El sabio muda conscio: El loco persevera._


  We lov'd as friends now twenty years and more:
  Is't time or reason, think you, to give o'er?
  When, though two prenti'ships set Jacob free,
  I have not held my Rachel dear at three.

    Yet will I not your levity accuse;
  Continuance sometimes is the worse abuse.
  In judgement I might rather hold it strange,
  If, like the fleeting world, you did not change:
  Be it your wisdom therefore to retract,
  When perseverance oft is folly's act.                              10

    In pity I can think, that what you do
  Hath Justice in't, and some Religion too;
  For of all virtues Moral or Divine,
  We know, but Love, none must in Heaven shine:
  Well did you the presumption then foresee
  Of counterfeiting immortality:
  Since had you kept our loves too long alive,
  We might invade Heaven's prerogative;
  Or in our progress, like the Jews, comprise
  The Legend of an earthly Paradise.                                 20

    Live happy, and more prosperous in the next.
  You have discharg'd your old friend by the text.
  Farewell, fair Shadow of a female faith,
  And let this be our friendship's Epitaph:

  Affection shares the frailty of our fate,
  When (like ourselves) 'tis old and out of date:
  'Tis just all human loves their period have,
  When friends are frail and dropping to the grave.




    [_The Change._] This poem is almost less of
    a commonplace than any of King's, and the expression is
    vigorous. The nearest parallel I know to it is Crabbe's
    'Natural Death of Love', and like that it has a curious, if
    not cheerful, ring of actuality. But the case is more unusual.
    The Spanish motto (rather dog-Spanish in original) means: 'The
    wise man changes consciously: the fool [or, rather, madman]
    perseveres.']

    [Line: 22 by the text] = 'formally'? as it were, 'by the
    card'. Or perhaps with direct reference to the motto.]




_To my Sister Anne King, who chid me in verse for being angry._


  Dear Nan, I would not have thy counsel lost,
  Though I last night had twice so much been crost;
  Well is a passion to the market brought,
  When such a treasure of advice is bought
  With so much dross. And couldst thou me assure,
  Each vice of mine should meet with such a cure,
  I would sin oft, and on my guilty brow
  Wear every misperfection that I owe,
  Open and visible; I should not hide
  But bring my faults abroad: to hear thee chide                     10
  In such a note, and with a quill so sage,
  It passion tunes, and calms a tempest's rage.

    Well, I am charm'd, and promise to redress
  What, without shrift, my follies do confess
  Against myself: wherefore let me entreat,
  When I fly out in that distemper'd heat
  Which frets me into fasts, thou wilt reprove
  That froward spleen in poetry and love:
  So though I lose my reason in such fits
  Thou'lt rhyme me back again into my wits.                          20




    [_To my Sister, &c._] Anne King, afterwards Mrs.
    Dutton and Lady Howe. Howell, the epistoler, admitted her (in
    rather execrable verse) to that Tenth Museship which has had
    so many fair incumbents. Izaak Walton left her a ring and
    called her 'a most generose and ingenious Lady'. The verses
    assigned to her, which may be found in Hannah's notes, are not
    of the worst Tenth Muse quality.]

    [Line: 2 It has been observed, once or twice, that a placid
    and philosophical temper does not seem to have been one of the
    Bishop's gifts, and he here acknowledges the fact.]

    [Line: 8 'Owe', as so often noted, = 'own'.]

    [Line: 17 And seems to have done due penance for it.]




_An Elegy upon the immature loss of the most vertuous Lady Anne Rich._

[Died August 24, 1638.]


  I envy not thy mortal triumphs, Death
  (Thou enemy to Virtue, as to breath),
  Nor do I wonder much, nor yet complain
  The weekly numbers by thy arrow slain.
  The whole world is thy factory, and we,
  Like traffic, driven and retail'd by Thee:
  And where the springs of life fill up so fast,
  Some of the waters needs must run to waste.

    It is confess'd, yet must our griefs dispute
  That which thine own conclusion doth refute,                       10
  Ere we begin. Hearken! for if thy ear
  Be to thy throat proportion'd, thou canst hear.
  Is there no order in the work of Fate?
  Nor rule, but blindly to anticipate
  Our growing seasons? or think'st thou 'tis just,
  To sprinkle our fresh blossoms with thy dust,
  Till by abortive funerals, thou bring
  That to an Autumn, Nature meant a Spring?
  Is't not enough for thee, that wither'd age
  Lies the unpitied subject of thy rage;                             20
  But like an ugly amorist, thy crest
  Must be with spoils of Youth and Beauty drest?
  In other camps, those which sat down to-day
  March first to-morrow, and they longest stay,
  Who last came to the service: but in thine,
  Only confusion stands for discipline.
  We fall in such promiscuous heaps, none can
  Put any diff'rence 'twixt thy rear or van;
  Since oft the youngest lead thy files. For this,
  The grieved world here thy accuser is,                             30
  And I a plaintiff, 'mongst those many ones,
  Who wet this Lady's urn with zealous moans;
  As if her ashes, quick'ning into years,
  Might be again embodied by our tears.
  But all in vain; the moisture we bestow
  Shall make as soon her curled marble grow,
  As render heat or motion to that blood,
  Which through her veins branch't like an azure flood;
  Whose now still current in the grave is lost,
  Lock'd up, and fetter'd by eternal frost.                          40

    Desist from hence, doting Astrology!
  To search for hidden wonders in the sky;
  Or from the concourse of malignant stars,
  Foretell diseases, gen'ral as our wars:
  What barren droughts, forerunners of lean dearth,
  Threaten to starve the plenty of the earth:
  What horrid forms of darkness must affright
  The sickly world, hast'ning to that long night
  Where it must end. If there no portents are,
  No black eclipses for the Kalendar,                                50
  Our times sad annals will rememb'red be
  I' th' loss of bright Northumberland and Thee:
  Two stars of Court, who in one fatal year
  By most untimely set drop'd from their sphere.
  She in the winter took her flight, and soon
  As her perfections reach'd the point of noon,
  Wrapt in a cloud, contracted her wish'd stay
  Unto the measure of a short-liv'd day.
  But _Thou_ in Summer, like an early rose,
  By Death's cold hand nipp'd as _Thou_ didst disclose,              60
  Took'st a long day to run that narrow stage,
  Which in two gasping minutes summ'd thy age.
  And, as the fading rose, when the leaves shed,
  Lies in its native sweetness buried,
  _Thou_ in thy virtues bedded and inhearst,
  Sleep'st with those odours thy pure fame disperst,
  Where till that Rising Morn thou must remain,
  In which thy wither'd flowers shall spring again,
  And greater beauties thy wak'd body vest,
  Than were at thy departure here possest.                           70
    So with full eyes we close thy vault. Content
  (With what thy loss bequeaths us) to lament,
  And make that use of thy griev'd funeral,
  As of a crystal broken in the fall;
  Whose pitied fractures, gather'd up, and set,
  May smaller mirrors for thy sex beget;
  There let them view themselves, until they see
  The end of all their glories shown in _Thee_.
    Whilst in the truth of this sad tribute, I
  Thus strive to canonize thy memory.                                80




    [_Elegy on Lady Anne Rich._] Properly Lady Rich,
    who had been Lady Anne Cavendish. Her brother Charles was that
    leader of the 'Ca'ndishers' in Lincolnshire whose defeat and
    death at Gainsborough, after repeated victories in the spring
    and summer of 1643, was one of the first and most serious
    blows to the Royal cause. Waller wrote epitaphs both on him
    and on his sister, but the best on her is Sidney Godolphin's
    (_v. sup._, vol. ii, p. 248). She is one of the candidates
    for the personage of Waller's 'Amoret', and was not impossibly
    King's 'A. R.' (_v. sup._, p. 172).]

    [Line: 4 _MS._ 'arrows'.]

    [Line: 38 Which] _MS._ 'Once'.]

    [Line: 48 _MS._ 'hasting'.]

    [Line: 52 Northumberland] Lady Anne Cecil, first wife of
    Algernon Percy, tenth Earl.]

    [Line: 55 winter] December 6, 1637.]




_An Elegy upon Mrs. Kirk, unfortunately drowned in Thames._


  For all the shipwracks, and the liquid graves
  Lost men have gain'd within the furrow'd waves,
  The Sea hath fin'd, and for our wrongs paid use,
  When its wrought foam a Venus did produce.
    But what repair wilt thou, unhappy Thames,
  Afford our loss? thy dull unactive streams
  Can no new beauty raise, nor yet restore
  Her who by thee was ravish'd from our shore:
  Whose death hath stain'd the glory of thy flood,
  And mix'd the guilty channel with her blood.                       10

    O Neptune! was thy favour only writ
  In that loose element where thou dost sit?
  That, after all this time, thou shouldst repent
  Thy fairest blessing to the continent?
  Say, what could urge this Fate? is Thetis dead,
  Or Amphitrite from thy wet arms fled?
  Wast thou so poor in Nymphs, that thy moist love
  Must be maintain'd with pensions from above?
  If none of these, but that, whilst thou didst sleep
  Upon thy sandy pillow in the deep,                                 20
  This mischief stole upon us; may our grief
  Waken thy just revenge on that sly thief,
  Who, in thy fluid empire, without leave,
  And unsuspected, durst her life bereave.
  Henceforth, invert thy order, and provide
  In gentlest floods a pilot for our guide.
  Let rugged seas be lov'd, but the brook's smile
  Shunn'd like the courtship of a crocodile;
  And where the current doth most smoothly pass,
  Think for her sake, that stream Death's looking-glass,             30
  To show us our destruction is most near,
  When pleasure hath begot least sense of fear.

    Else break thy forked sceptre 'gainst some rock,
  If thou endure a flatt'ring calm to mock
  Thy far-fam'd pow'r, and violate that law
  Which keeps the angry Ocean in awe.
  Thy trident will grow useless, which doth still
  Wild tempests, if thou let tame rivers kill.

    Meantime, we owe thee nothing. Our first debt
  Lies cancell'd in thy wat'ry cabinet.                              40
  We have for Her thou sent'st us from the main,
  Return'd a Venus back to thee again.




    [_An Elegy upon Mrs. Kirk, &c._] This and the
    following were not in Hannah's MS. He, perhaps not quite
    accurately, regards this as King's _only_ indulgence in what
    he also regarded as 'the frigid and artificial style popular
    among his contemporaries'. But he thought it better than the
    companion piece in Heath's _Clarastella_ (_v. inf._). From
    this latter we learn that Mrs. Kirk was one of the numerous
    victims of 'shooting the bridge'. The piece is frigid enough
    certainly, but rather from want of 'conceit' than because
    of it. (Mr. Thorn-Drury has reminded me of Glapthorne's two
    elegies on the same subject. They form the last contents of
    the 1874 reprint and give more detail in their title, 'On the
    noble and much to be lamented Mrs. Anne Kirk, wife to Mr. Geo.
    Kirk, Gent. of the Robes and of his Majesty's Bed Chamber,
    who was unfortunately drowned passing London Bridge, July 6.
    1641'.)]

    [Line: 3 fin'd] = '_paid_ fine', as often.]




_An Elegy upon the death of Mr. Edward Holt_.


  Whether thy father's, or disease's rage,
  More mortal prov'd to thy unhappy age,
  Our sorrow needs not question; since the first
  Is known for length and sharpness much the worst.
  Thy fever yet was kind; which the ninth day
  For thy misfortunes made an easy way.
  When th' other barbarous and hectic fit,
  In nineteen winters did not intermit.

    I therefore vainly now not ask thee why
  Thou didst so soon in thy youth's mid-way die:                     10
  But in my sense the greater wonder make,
  Thy long oppressed heart no sooner brake.
  Of force must the neglected blossom fall,
  When the tough root becomes unnatural,
  And to his branches doth that sap deny,
  Which them with life and verdure should supply.
  For parents' shame, let it forgotten be,
  And may the sad example die with thee.

    It is not now thy grieved friend's intent
  To render thee dull Pity's argument.                               20
  Thou hast a bolder title unto fame,
  And at Edge Hill thou didst make good the claim;
  When, in thy Royal Master's cause and war,
  Thy ventur'd life brought off a noble scar.
  Nor did thy faithful services desist,
  Till death untimely strook thee from the list.

    Though in that prouder vault, then, which doth tomb
  Thy ancestors, thy body find not room,
  Thine own deserts have purchas'd thee a place,
  Which more renowned is than all thy race;                          30
  For in this earth thou dost ennobled lie
  With marks of valour and of loyalty.




    [_Mr. Edward Holt._] Holt was King's brother-in-law,
    having married his sister Elizabeth (_v. sup._, p. 173). He
    died at Oxford in 1643 while attending the King as Groom of
    the Bedchamber, and was buried in the Cathedral. His father,
    who outlived him, was a Baronet, and is again abused by
    King in his will as having been 'implacable'; but the Bishop
    apparently thought better of his nephew Sir Robert, who was
    a stout Royalist and churchman both before and after the
    Restoration. Walton dedicated his _Life of Donne_ to this Sir
    Robert Holt. His much-abused grandfather had at any rate set
    the example of loyalty, and is said to have been plundered or
    extortioned by Parliamentary 'contributions' or 'compositions'
    to the amount of about £20,000.]




_To my dead friend Ben. Jonson._

[Died August 6, 1637.]


  I see that wreath, which doth the wearer arm
  'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm
  To keep off Death's pale dart. For, Jonson, then
  Thou hadst been number'd still with living men.
  Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade,
  Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.

    Amongst those many votaries who come
  To offer up their garlands at thy tomb;
  Whilst some more lofty pens, in their bright verse
  (Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearse),                      10
  Shall light the dull and thankless world to see,
  How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee;
  Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I
  Pay meaner rites unto thy memory;
  And since I nought can add but in desire,
  Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine own fire.

    What ends soever others' quills invite,
  I can protest, it was no itch to write,
  Nor any vain ambition to be read,
  But merely love and justice to the dead,                           20
  Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bring
  These drops, as tribute thrown into that spring,
  To whose most rich and fruitful bead we owe
  The purest streams of language which can flow.

    For 'tis but truth, thou taught'st the ruder age
  To speak by grammar, and reform'dst the stage:
  Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense,
  A Lucrece might have heard without offence.
  Amongst those soaring wits that did dilate
  Our English, and advance it to the rate                            30
  And value it now holds, thyself was one
  Help'd lift it up to such proportion;
  That thus refin'd and rob'd, it shall not spare
  With the full Greek or Latin to compare.
  For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translate
  Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's state?
  Both which in their unblemish'd lustre shine,
  From Chapman's pen, and from thy _Catiline_.
  All I would ask for thee, in recompense
  Of thy successful toil and time's expense,                         40
  Is only this poor boon; that those who can
  Perhaps read French, or talk Italian,
  Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,
  To show their skill in foreign dialect,
  Prove not themselves so unnaturally wise,
  They therefore should their mother-tongue despise
  (As if her poets, both for style and wit,
  Not equall'd, or not pass'd, their best that writ),
  Until by studying Jonson they have known
  The height and strength and plenty of their own.                   50

    Thus in what low earth or neglected room
  Soe'er thou sleep'st, thy book shall be thy tomb.
  Thou wilt go down a happy corse, bestrew'd
  With thine own flowers; and feel thyself renew'd,
  Whilst thy immortal, never-with'ring bays
  Shall yearly flourish in thy readers' praise.
  And when more spreading titles are forgot,
  Or spite of all their lead and cere-cloth rot,
  Thou wrapp'd and shrin'd in thine own sheets wilt lie,
  A relic fam'd by all posterity.                                    60




    [_Ben. Jonson._] In orig., as so often, 'Jo_h_nson'.
    A contribution to _Jonsonus Virbius_, which, printed nearly
    twenty years before these _Poems_, has one slight variant =
    'that' for 'who' in l. 7.]

    [Line: 5 scythe] Orig. 'sithe', which some great ones
    (including even the other Johnson) will have to be the proper
    spelling, and which is certainly usual in Middle English.
    But 'scythe' is consecrated by the only Sainte Ampoule of
    orthography--usage; 'sithe' also means 'a path' and 'a
    sigh', and may be mistaken for 'since', while 'scythe' is
    unmistakable. And for my part, if I may not have 'scythe' I
    stickle for 'sigðe'--the undoubted original.]

    [Line: 38 It was a little dangerous, in Ben's lifetime, to
    praise others in company with him. But King here corroborates
    Drummond's _Conversations_, in which Ben is made to speak well
    of Chapman on several occasions, and (more particularly) to
    declare his _Iliad_, or part of it, 'well done'.]

    [Line: 42 It is rather curious that Drummond (in one of
    those _Marginalia_ in which he relieves his feelings somewhat
    subacidly) declares that his robustious guest 'neither
    understood French nor Italian'.]




_An Elegy upon Prince Henry's death_

[Died Nov. 6, 1612.]


  Keep station, Nature, and rest, Heaven, sure
  On thy supporters' shoulders, lest, past cure,
  Thou dash'd in ruin fall, by a grief's weight
  Will make thy basis shrink, and lay thy height
  Low as the centre. Hark! and feel it read
  Through the astonish'd Kingdom, Henry's dead.
  It is enough; who seeks to aggravate
  One strain beyond this, prove[s] more sharp his fate
  Than sad our doom. The world dares not survive
  To parallel this woe's superlative.                                10
  O killing Rhetoric of Death! two words
  Breathe stronger terrors than plague, fire, or swords
  Ere conquer'd. This were epitaph and verse,
  Worthy to be prefix'd in Nature's hearse,
  Or Earth's sad dissolution; whose fall
  Will be less grievous, though more general:
  For all the woe ruin e'er buried
  Sounds in these fatal accents, Henry's dead.
  Cease then, unable Poetry; thy phrase
  Is weak and dull to strike us with amaze                           20
  Worthy thy vaster subject. Let none dare
  To copy this sad hap, but with despair
  Hanging at his quill's point. For not a stream
  Of ink can write, much less improve, this theme.
  Invention highest wrought by grief or wit
  Must sink with him, and on his tombstone split;
  Who, like the dying Sun, tells us the light
  And glory of our Day set in his Night.




    [_Prince Henry._] Besides composing these English
    verses King contributed two Latin sets to _Justa Oxoniensium_,
    one of several Oxford _tombeaux_ for the Prince who was taken
    away from the evil to come. The present poem appears to me
    (though, of course, the high-strung character of the mourning
    seems to have been both general and sincere) to be much more
    'frigid and artificial' than the _Mrs. Anne Kirk_. Hannah
    gives several variants, not merely from his usual MS. but from
    Malone 21. I have taken those which seem to have some point.]

    [Lines: 5-6 For 'Hark ... dead.' the Malone reading is:

                      Death and horror wed
      To vent their teeming mischief: Henry's dead.

    The other MS., for l. 6, has:

      Through the astonisht _world_, Henry _is_ dead.
    ]

    [Line: 11 Malone MS. '_Compendious Eloquence_ of Death', &c.]

    [Line: 18 For the first half, Malone MS. 'lies in this narrow
    compass'; the other, 'throngs' for 'lies'.]




_An Elegy upon S. W. R._

[Sir W. Raleigh? Executed Oct. 29, 1618.]


  I will not weep, for 'twere as great a sin
  To shed a tear for thee, as to have bin
  An actor in thy death. Thy life and age
  Was but a various scene on fortune's stage,
  With whom thou tugg'st and strov'st ev'n out of breath
  In thy long toil: ne'er master'd till thy death;
  And then, despite of trains and cruel wit,
  Thou didst at once subdue malice and it.

    I dare not then so blast thy memory
  As say I do lament or pity thee.                                   10
  Were I to choose a subject to bestow
  My pity on, he should be one as low
  In spirit as desert;--that durst not die,
  But rather were content by slavery
  To purchase life: or I would pity those,
  Thy most industrious and friendly foes;
  Who, when they thought to make thee scandal's story,
  Lent thee a swifter flight to Heav'n and glory;--
  That thought, by cutting off some wither'd days
  (Which thou couldst spare them), to eclipse thy praise;            20
  Yet gave it brighter foil, made thy ag'd fame
  Appear more white and fair, than foul their shame:
  And did promote an execution
  Which (but for them) Nature and Age had done.

    Such worthless things as these were only born
  To live on Pity's alms (too mean for scorn).
  Thou diedst an envious wonder, whose high fate
  The world must still admire, scarce imitate.




    [_S. W. R._] The initials are not in _MS._, and the
    identification, though almost certain, is a conjecture of
    Hannah's. Almost every line fits Raleigh.]

    [Line: 27 envious] Spenser has this sense, to which in some
    cases the original 'invidious' comes very close.]




_An Elegy upon the L. Bishop of London, John King._

[Died on Good Friday, 1621.]


  Sad relic of a blessed soul! whose trust
  We sealed up in this religious dust:
  O do not thy low exequies suspect,
  As the cheap arguments of our neglect.
  'Twas a commanded duty, that thy grave
  As little pride as thou thyself should have.

    Therefore thy covering is an humble stone,
  And but a word for thy inscription.
  When those that in the same earth neighbour thee,
  Have each his chronicle and pedigree:                              10
  They have their waving pennons and their flags
  (Of matches and alliance formal brags),
  When thou (although from ancestors thou came,
  Old as the Heptarchy, great as thy name,)
  Sleep'st there inshrin'd in thy admired parts,
  And hast no heraldry but thy deserts.
  Yet let not them their prouder marbles boast,
  For they rest with less honour, though more cost.

    Go, search the world, and with your mattocks wound
  The groaning bosom of the patient ground:                          20
  Dig from the hidden veins of her dark womb
  All that is rare and precious for a tomb;
  Yet when much treasure, and more time, is spent,
  You must grant his the nobler monument,

    Whose Faith stands o'er him for a hearse, and hath
    The Resurrection for his epitaph.




    [_John King._] Hannah thought this piece in bad
    taste, and a neglect of the dead Bishop's wishes. As epitaphs
    go this seems rather severe.]

    [Line: 8 but a word] _Resurgam_. Orig. note.]

    [Line: 9 neighbour] In St. Paul's.]

    [Line: 13 ancestors] The Kings of Devonshire referred to in
    Introduction.]




_Upon the death of my ever desired friend, Doctor Donne, Dean of
Paul's._

[Died March 31, 1631.]


  To have lived eminent, in a degree
  Beyond our loftiest flights, that is, like thee;
  Or t' have had too much merit is not safe;
  For such excesses find no epitaph.
  At common graves, we have poetic eyes,
  Can melt themselves in easy elegies;
  Each quill can drop his tributary verse,
  And pin it, with the hatchments, to the hearse:
  But at thine, poem or inscription
  (Rich soul of wit and language!) we have none;                     10
  Indeed a silence does that tomb befit,
  Where is no herald left to blazon it.
  Widow'd invention justly doth forbear
  To come abroad, knowing thou art not here,
  Late her great patron; whose prerogative
  Maintain'd and cloth'd her so, as none alive
  Must now presume to keep her at thy rate,
  Though he the Indies for her dower estate:
  Or else that awful fire, which once did burn
  In thy clear brain, now fall'n into thy urn,                       20
  Lives there to fright rude empirics from thence,
  Which might profane thee by their ignorance.
  Who ever writes of thee, and in a style
  Unworthy such a theme, does but revile
  Thy precious dust, and wake a learned spirit
  Which may revenge his rapes upon thy merit.
  For all a low-pitch'd fancy can devise,
  Will prove, at best, but hallow'd injuries.

    Thou, like the dying swan, didst lately sing
  Thy mournful dirge in audience of the king;                        30
  When pale looks, and faint accents of thy breath,
  Presented so to life that piece of death,
  That it was fear'd and prophesied by all
  Thou thither cam'st to preach thy funeral.
  O! hadst thou in an elegiac knell
  Rung out unto the world thine own farewell;
  And in thy high victorious numbers beat
  The solemn measure of thy griev'd retreat,
  Thou might'st the poet's service now have miss'd,
  As well as then thou didst prevent the priest:                     40
  And never to the world beholden be
  So much as for an epitaph for thee.

    I do not like the office. Nor is 't fit,
  Thou, who didst lend our age such sums of wit,
  Shouldst now reborrow from her bankrupt mine
  That ore to bury thee, which once was thine.
  Rather still leave us in thy debt; and know
  (Exalted soul!) more glory 'tis to owe
  Unto thy hearse what we can never pay,
  Than with embased coin those rites defray.                         50

    Commit we then thee to thyself: nor blame
  Our drooping loves, which thus to thine own fame
  Leave thee executor; since, but thy own,
  No pen could do thee justice, nor bays crown
  Thy vast desert; save that, we nothing can
  Depute to be thy ashes' guardian.

    So jewellers no art or metal trust
    To form the diamond, but the diamond's dust.




    [_Dr. Donne._] This is also found in some editions
    of Donne's _Poems_ and in Walton's _Life_, and Hannah took
    repeated pains to record the variants. I have borrowed those
    which seemed of importance. King's friendship with Donne
    (whose executor he was) was peculiarly intimate, as Walton, a
    friend of both, elaborately testifies. But the greatest of the
    many great Deans of St. Paul's was certainly 'beyond' King's
    'loftiest flights' (or, as Walton read, 'thoughts'), and the
    Bishop is here below even these.]

    [Line: 8 pin it] This was literally done.]

    [Line: 30 Refers to Donne's last sermon at Court, to his long
    illness, and to the ghastly pallor perpetuated by the famous
    picture of him in his shroud.]

    [Line: 37 'High victorious numbers' is not bad, and the whole
    passage does bare justice to Donne's mastery of the graver
    epicede, which equalled Jonson's of the lighter.]

    [Line: 41 beholden] Some versions have the common form
    'behold_ing_'.]

    [Line: 44 'Wit'--in that seventeenth-century sense of which
    Sir Henry Craik has so well defined the object--'not to excite
    laughter but to compel attention'--was regarded, and rightly,
    as Donne's special glory, and the best thing written on his
    death was Carew's

          A king who ruled as he thought fit
        The universal monarchy of Wit.
    ]

    [Line: 49 For 'Unto thy hearse' the Walton version reads 'Thy
    memory'.]




_An Elegy upon the most victorious King of Sweden, Gustavus Adolphus._

[Killed at the battle of Lützen, Nov. 6, 1632.]


  Like a cold fatal sweat which ushers death,
  My thoughts hang on me, and my lab'ring breath
  Stopp'd up with sighs, my fancy, big with woes,
  Feels two twinn'd mountains struggle in her throes,--
  Of boundless sorrow one,--t' other of sin;--
  For less let no one rate it, to begin
  Where honour ends.--In great Gustavus' flame,
  That style burnt out, and wasted to a name,
  Does barely live with us. As when the stuff
  That fed it, fails, the taper turns to snuff,                      10
  With this poor snuff, this airy shadow, we
  Of Fame and Honour must contented be;
  Since from the vain grasp of our wishes fled
  Their glorious substance is, now He is dead.

    Speak it again, and louder, louder yet;
  Else, whilst we hear the sound, we shall forget
  What it delivers. Let hoarse rumour cry,
  Till she so many echoes multiply,
  Those may like num'rous witnesses confute
  Our unbelieving souls, that would dispute                          20
  And doubt this truth for ever. This one way
  Is left our incredulity to sway;
  To waken our deaf sense, and make our ears
  As open and dilated as our fears;
  That we may feel the blow, and feeling, grieve,
  At what we would not fain, but must believe.
  And in that horrid faith, behold the world
  From her proud height of expectation hurl'd,
  Stooping with him, as if she strove to have
  No lower centre now than Sweden's grave.                           30

    O could not all thy purchas'd victories
  Like to thy fame thy flesh immortalize?
  Were not thy virtue nor thy valour charms
  To guard thy body from those outward harms
  Which could not reach thy soul? could not thy spirit
  Lend somewhat which thy frailty might inherit
  From thy diviner part, that Death, nor Hate,
  Nor Envy's bullets e'er could penetrate?
  Could not thy early trophies in stern fight
  Torn from the Dane, the Pole, the Moscovite?                       40
  Which were thy triumph's seeds, as pledges sown,
  That when thy honour's harvest was ripe grown,
  With full-summ'd wing thou falcon-like wouldst fly,
  And cuff the Eagle in the German sky:
  Forcing his iron beak and feathers feel
  They were not proof 'gainst thy victorious steel.
  Could not all these protect thee? or prevail
  To fright that coward Death, who oft grew pale
  To look thee and thy battles in the face?
  Alas! they could not: Destiny gives place                          50
  To none; nor is it seen that princes' lives
  Can saved be by their prerogatives.
  No more was thine; who, clos'd in thy cold lead,
  Dost from thyself a mournful lecture read
  Of man's short-dated glory: learn, you kings,
  You are, like him, but penetrable things;
  Though you from demi-gods derive your birth
  You are at best but honourable earth:
  And howe'er sifted from that coarser bran,
  Which does compound and knead the common man,                      60
  Nothing's immortal, or from earth refin'd
  About you, but your office and your mind.
  Here then break your false glasses, which present
  You greater than your Maker ever meant:
  Make truth your mirror now, since you find all
  That flatter you, confuted by his fall.

    Yet, since it was decreed, thy life's bright Sun
  Must be eclips'd ere thy full course was run,
  Be proud thou didst, in thy black obsequies,
  With greater glory set, than others rise.                          70
  For in thy death, as life, thou heldest one
  Most just and regular proportion.
  Look how the circles drawn by compass meet
  Indivisibly joined, head to feet,
  And by continued points which them unite,
  Grow at once circular and infinite:
  So did thy Fate and Honour now contend
  To match thy brave beginning with thy end.
  Therefore thou hadst, instead of passing bells,
  The drums' and cannons' thunder for thy knells;                    80
  And in the field thou didst triumphing die,
  Closing thy eyelids with a victory:
  That so by thousands who there lost their breath,
  King-like thou might'st be waited on in death.
  Lived Plutarch now, and would of Caesar tell,
  He could make none but Thee his parallel;
  Whose tide of glory, swelling to the brim,
  Needs borrow no addition from him.                                 90
  When did great Julius, in any clime,
  Achieve so much, and in so small a time?
  Or if he did, yet shalt Thou in that land
  Single, for him, and unexampled stand.
  When o'er the Germans first his Eagle towr'd,
  What saw the legions which on them he pour'd?
  But massy bodies, made their swords to try,
  Subjects, not for his fight, but slavery.
  In that so vast expanded piece of ground
  (Now Sweden's theatre and tomb), he found                         100
  Nothing worth Caesar's valour or his fear,
  No conqu'ring army, nor a Tilly there,
  Whose strength, nor wiles, nor practice in the war
  Might the fierce torrent of thy triumphs bar,
  But that thy winged sword twice made him yield,
  Both from his trenches beat, and from the field.

    Besides, the Roman thought he had done much,
  Did he the bank of Rhenus only touch.
  But though his march was bounded by the Rhine,
  Not Oder nor the Danube thee confine;                             110
  And, but thy frailty did thy fame prevent,
  Thou hadst thy conquests stretch'd to such extent,
  Thou might'st Vienna reach, and after span
  From Mulda to the Baltic Ocean.

    But death hath spann'd thee: nor must we divine
  What heir thou leav'st to finish thy design,
  Or who shall thee succeed, as champion
  For liberty and for religion.

    Thy task is done; as in a watch, the spring,
  Wound to the height, relaxes with the string:                     120
  So thy steel nerves of conquest, from their steep
  Ascent declin'd, lie slack'd in thy last sleep.

    Rest then, triumphant soul! for ever rest!
  And, like the Ph[oe]nix in her spicy nest,
  Embalm'd with thine own merit, upward fly,
  Born in a cloud of perfume to the sky.
  Whilst as in deathless urns, each noble mind
  Treasures thy ashes which are left behind.

    And if perhaps no Cassiopeian spark
  (Which in the North did thy first rising mark)                    130
  Shine o'er thy hearse; the breath of our just praise
  Shall to the firmament thy virtues raise;
  Then fix, and kindle them into a star,
  Whose influence may crown thy glorious war.

      _----O Famâ ingens, ingentior armis,
    Rex Gustave, quibus Coelo te laudibus aequem?_
                      Virgil. _Aeneid. lib. 2._ [11?]




    [_Gustavus Adolphus._] This piece had been
    previously printed in the _Swedish Intelligencer_, 1633, with
    other elegies on the subject, one of which (in Malone MS. 21)
    is also ascribed to King, but without any other evidence, and
    (as Hannah seems to be right in thinking) very improbably. He
    gives some variants, only two of which seem to me important
    enough to reproduce. There are also versions in Rawlinson
    Poetic MS. 26, fol. 51, and 160, fol. 39.]

    [Line: 4 throes] Orig. 'thro_w_s'.]

    [Lines: 6-7 Hannah in his note, though in his text he
    had followed _1657_, as above, prefers the reading of the
    _Intelligencer_--a full-stop at 'it', and 'To begin', which
    is to a certain extent supported by a capitalized 'To' in his
    MS., though there is not a full-stop. He has two notes on the
    subject, and for a moment I was perplexed. But I feel certain
    that the _1657_ text is right. Hannah's parallel from King's
    prose, 'I begin there where all must end', is specious, but
    not convincing. On the other hand, 'To begin, &c.' is wanted
    to complete 'for less' and to explain 'sin'. Honour, as the
    next sentence further tells us, perished with Gustavus, and it
    is a solecism to attempt to continue it in verse. This is,
    in the Archdeacon's words elsewhere, 'frigid and artificial'
    enough; but it is also sufficiently 'metaphysical'.]

    [Line: 10 Orig. has full-stop at 'snuff', but this (which
    Hannah keeps and does not comment on) leaves nothing to
    complete 'as'.]

    [Line: 11 airy] For the 'ayerie' of edition and Malone MS.,
    the _Intelligencer_, and Rawlinson MS. 160 have 'fiery'--I
    think, in the context, better.]

    [Line: 96. Orig. note. _Magis triumphati quam victi_. Tacit.
    _de Mor. Ger._]

    [Lines: 135-7 The end quotation (from _Aen._ xi. 124-5) is not
    in MS.]




_To my Noble and Judicious Friend Sir Henry Blount upon his Voyage._


  Sir, I must ever own myself to be
  Possess'd with human curiosity
  Of seeing all that might the sense invite
  By those two baits of profit and delight:
  And since I had the wit to understand
  The terms of native or of foreign land;
  I have had strong and oft desires to tread
  Some of those voyages which I have read.
  Yet still so fruitless have my wishes prov'd,
  That from my Country's smoke I never mov'd:                        10
  Nor ever had the fortune (though design'd)
  To satisfy the wand'rings of my mind.
  Therefore at last I did with some content,
  Beguile myself in time, which others spent;
  Whose art to provinces small lines allots,
  And represents large kingdoms but in spots.
  Thus by Ortelius and Mercator's aid
  Through most of the discover'd world I stray'd.
  I could with ease double the Southern Cape,
  And in my passage Afric's wonders take:                            20
  Then with a speed proportion'd to the scale
  Northward again, as high as Zemla sail.
  Oft hath the travel of my eye outrun
  (Though I sat still) the journey of the Sun:
  Yet made an end, ere his declining beams
  Did nightly quench themselves in Thetis' streams.
  Oft have I gone through Egypt in a day,
  Not hinder'd by the droughts of Lybia;
  In which, for lack of water, tides of sand
  By a dry deluge overflow the land.                                 30
  There I the Pyramids and Cairo see,
  Still famous for the wars of Tomombee,
  And its own greatness; whose immured sense
  Takes forty miles in the circumference.
  Then without guide, or stronger caravan
  Which might secure the wild Arabian,
  Back through the scorched deserts pass, to seek
  Once the world's Lord, now the beslaved Greek,
  Made by a Turkish yoke and fortune's hate
  In language as in mind, degenerate.                                40

    And here all wrapp'd in pity and amaze
  I stand, whilst I upon the Sultan gaze;
  To think how he with pride and rapine fir'd
  So vast a territory hath acquir'd;
  And by what daring steps he did become
  The Asian fear, and scourge of Christendom:
  How he achiev'd, and kept, and by what arts
  He did concentre those divided parts;
  And how he holds that monstrous bulk in awe,
  By settled rules of tyranny, not Law:                              50
  So rivers large and rapid streams began,
  Swelling from drops into an Ocean.

    Sure who e'er shall the just extraction bring
  Of this gigantic power from the spring;
  Must there confess a higher Ordinance
  Did it for terror to the earth advance.
  For mark how 'mongst a lawless straggling crew,
  Made up of Arab, Saracen, and Jew,
  The world's disturber, faithless Mahomet
  Did by impostures an opinion get:                                  60
  O'er whom he first usurps as Prince, and than
  As prophet does obtrude his Alcoran.
  Next, how fierce Ottoman his claim made good
  From that unblest religion, by blood;
  Whilst he the Eastern kingdoms did deface,
  To make their ruin his proud Empire's base.
  Then like a comet blazing in the skies,
  How death-portending Amurath did rise,
  When he his horned crescents did display
  Upon the fatal plains of Servia;                                   70
  And farther still his sanguine tresses spread,
  Till Croya life and conquests limited.
  Lastly, how Mahomet thence styl'd the Great,
  Made Constantine's his own Imperial seat;
  After that he in one victorious bond
  Two Empires grasp'd, of Greece and Trebizond.

    This, and much more than this, I gladly read,
  Where my relators it had storyed;
  Besides that people's manners and their rites,
  Their warlike discipline and order'd fights;                       80
  Their desp'rate valour, hard'ned by the sense
  Of unavoided Fate and Providence:
  Their habit, and their houses, who confer
  Less cost on them than on their sepulchre:
  Their frequent washings, and the several bath
  Each Meschit to itself annexed hath:
  What honour they unto the Mufty give,
  What to the Sovereign under whom they live:
  What quarter Christians have; how just and free
  To inoffensive travellers they be:                                 90
  Though I confess, like stomachs fed with news,
  I took them in for wonder, not for use,
  Till your experienc'd and authentic pen
  Taught me to know the places and the men;
  And made all those suspected truths become
  Undoubted now, and clear as axiom.

    Sir, for this work more than my thanks is due;
  I am at once inform'd and cur'd by you.
  So that, were I assur'd I should live o'er
  My periods of time run out before;                                100
  Ne'er needed my erratic wish transport
  Me from my native lists to that resort,
  Where many at outlandish marts unlade
  Ingenuous manners, and do only trade
  For vices and the language. By your eyes
  I here have made my full discoveries;
  And all your countries so exactly seen,
  As in the voyage I had sharer been.
  By this you make me so; and the whole land
  Your debtor: which can only understand                            110
  How much she owes you, when her sons shall try
  The solid depths of your rare history,
  Which looks above our gadders' trivial reach,
  The commonplace of travellers, who teach
  But table-talk; and seldomly aspire
  Beyond the country's diet or attire;
  Whereas your piercing judgement does relate
  The policy and manage of each State.
  And since she must here without envy grant
  That you have further journey'd the Levant                        120
  Than any noble spirit by her bred
  Hath in your way as yet adventured;
  I cannot less in justice from her look,
  Than that she henceforth canonize your book
  A rule to all her travellers, and you
  The brave example; from whose equal view
  Each knowing reader may himself direct,
  How he may go abroad to some effect,
  And not for form: what distance and what trust
  In those remoter parts observe he must:                           130
  How he with jealous people may converse,
  Yet take no hurt himself by that commerce.
  So when he shall embark'd in dangers be,
  Which wit and wary caution not foresee;
  If he partake your valour and your brain,
  He may perhaps come safely off again,
  As you have done; though not so richly fraught
  As this return hath to our staple brought.

    I know your modesty shuns vulgar praise,
  And I have none to bring; but only raise                          140
  This monument of Honour and of Love,
  Which your long known deserts so far improve,
  They leave me doubtful in what style to end,
  Whether more your admirer or your friend.




    [_Sir Henry Blount, &c._] Blount (1602-82) was of
    Trinity College, Oxford, published his _Voyage to the Levant_
    in 1636, and was knighted four years later. He was a good
    Royalist in the early days of the Rebellion, but something of
    a renegade later. His book has been variously judged, but was
    very popular, and was translated into more than one foreign
    language.]

    [Line: 61 'Than' for 'then' as often.]

    [Line: 76 Orig. 'Tr_a_b_e_zond', which at any rate keeps closer
    than the usual form to Trapezus.]

    [Line: 86 'Meschit' = of course 'mosque'. The form seems to be
    nearest to the Spanish _mezquita_.]

    [Line: 102 lists] Here in the sense (akin to the flannelly
    one) of boundary, as in _Hamlet_, IV. v. 99, 'The ocean,
    overpeering of his _list_', and several other Shakespearian
    places.]

    [Lines: 124-5 canonize ... rule] A play of words.]




_To my honoured Friend Mr. George Sandys._


  It is, Sir, a confess'd intrusion here
  That I before your labours do appear,
  Which no loud herald need, that may proclaim
  Or seek acceptance, but the Author's fame.
  Much less that should this happy work commend,
  Whose subject is its licence, and doth send
  It to the world to be receiv'd and read,
  Far as the glorious beams of truth are spread.

    Nor let it be imagin'd that I look
  Only with custom's eye upon your book;                             10
  Or in this service that 'twas my intent
  T' exclude your person from your argument:
  I shall profess, much of the love I owe,
  Doth from the root of our extraction grow;
  To which though I can little contribute,
  Yet with a natural joy I must impute
  To our tribe's honour, what by you is done
  Worthy the title of a Prelate's son.

    And scarcely have two brothers farther borne
  A father's name, or with more value worn                           20
  Their own, than two of you; whose pens and feet
  Have made the distant points of Heav'n to meet;
  He by exact discoveries of the West,
  Yourself by painful travels in the East

    Some more like you might pow'rfully confute
  Th' opposers of Priests' marriage by the fruit.
  And (since 'tis known for all their straight vow'd life,
  They like the sex in any style but wife)
  Cause them to change their cloister for that state
  Which keeps men chaste by vows legitimate:                         30
  Nor shame to father their relations,
  Or under nephews' names disguise their sons.
  This child of yours, born without spurious blot,
  And fairly midwiv'd as it was begot,
  Doth so much of the parent's goodness wear,
  You may be proud to own it for your heir.
  Whose choice acquits you from the common sin
  Of such, who finish worse than they begin:
  You mend upon yourself, and your last strain
  Does of your first the start in judgement gain;                    40
  Since what in curious travel was begun,
  You here conclude in a devotion.

    Where in delightful raptures we descry
  As in a map, Sion's chorography
  Laid out in so direct and smooth a line,
  Men need not go about through Palestine:
  Who seek Christ here will the straight road prefer,
  As nearer much than by the Sepulchre.
  For not a limb grows here, but is a path;
  Which in God's City the blest centre hath:                         50
  And doth so sweetly on each passion strike,
  The most fantastic taste will somewhat like.
  To the unquiet soul Job still from hence
  Pleads in th' example of his patience.
  The mortified may hear the wise King preach,
  When his repentance made him fit to teach.
  Nor shall the singing Sisters be content
  To chant at home the Act of Parliament,
  Turn'd out of reason into rhyme by one
  Free of his trade, though not of Helicon,                          60
  Who did in his poetic zeal contend
  Others' edition by a worse to mend.
  Here are choice Hymns and Carols for the glad,
  With melancholy Dirges for the sad:
  And David (as he could his skill transfer)
  Speaks like himself by an interpreter.
  Your Muse rekindled hath the Prophet's fire,
  And tun'd the strings of his neglected lyre;
  Making the note and ditty so agree,
  They now become a perfect harmony.                                 70

    I must confess, I have long wish'd to see
  The Psalms reduc'd to this conformity:
  Grieving the songs of Sion should be sung
  In phrase not diff'ring from a barbarous tongue.
  As if, by custom warranted, we may
  Sing that to God we would be loath to say.
  Far be it from my purpose to upbraid
  Their honest meaning, who first offer made
  That book in metre to compile, which you
  Have mended in the form, and built anew:                           80
  And it was well, considering the time,
  Which hardly could distinguish verse and rhyme.
  But now the language, like the Church, hath won
  More lustre since the Reformation;
  None can condemn the wish or labour spent
  Good matter in good words to represent.

    Yet in this jealous age some such there be,
  So without cause afraid of novelty,
  They would not (were it in their pow'r to choose)
  An old ill practice for a better lose.                             90
  Men who a rustic plainness so affect,
  They think God served best by their neglect.
  Holding the cause would be profan'd by it,
  Were they at charge of learning or of wit.
  And therefore bluntly (what comes next) they bring
  Coarse and unstudied stuffs for offering;
  Which like th' old Tabernacle's cov'ring are,
  Made up of badgers' skins, and of goat's hair.
  But these are paradoxes they must use
  Their sloth and bolder ignorance t'excuse.                        100
  Who would not laugh at one will naked go,
  'Cause in old hangings truth is pictur'd so?
  Though plainness be reputed honour's note,
  They mantles use to beautify the coat;
  So that a curious (unaffected) dress
  Adds much unto the body's comeliness:
  And wheresoe'er the subject's best, the sense
  Is better'd by the speaker's eloquence.

    But, Sir, to you I shall no trophy raise
  From other men's detraction or dispraise:                         110
  That jewel never had inherent worth,
  Which ask'd such foils as these to set it forth.
  If any quarrel your attempt or style,
  Forgive them; their own folly they revile.
  Since, 'gainst themselves, their factious envy shall
  Allow this work of yours canonical.
  Nor may you fear the Poet's common lot,
  Read, and commended, and then quite forgot:
  The brazen mines and marble rocks shall waste,
  When your foundation will unshaken last.                          120
  'Tis Fame's best pay, that you your labours see
  By their immortal subject crowned be.
  For ne'er was writer in oblivion hid
  Who firm'd his name on such a Pyramid.




    [_Mr. George Sandys._] These verses appeared as
    commendatory to Sandys' well-known _Paraphrase upon the Divine
    Psalms_, 1648. Sandys was not only a friend of King (as of all
    his group), but, according to l. 14 of this piece, a relation:
    the exact connexion, however, was unknown to Hannah and
    Hooper, and is to me. Indeed, l. 18 might be taken to mean
    that we were not to look further for 'extraction' than to the
    fact that they were both sons of bishops. Hannah saw this, but
    drew the inference somewhat too positively.

    Mr. Percy Simpson has found the following variants in Sandys'
    own book:]

        [Line: 25 might] would.]

        [Line: 27 straight vow'd] strait-vow'd.]

        [Lines: 57-62 _absent_.]

        [Line: 64 With] And  skill] Art.]

        [Line: 89 They would by no means (had they power to choose).

        [Line: 90 practice] Custom.]

        [Line: 96 stuffs] stuff.]

        [Line: 116 Allow] Confess.]

        [Line: King may have retouched the piece.]

    [Line: 23 Orig. note: [Sir Edwin Sandys' survey of Religion in
    the West] More properly entitled _Europae Speculum_ (1559).]

    [Line: 53 seq. In the original there are side-notes: 'Job',
    'Ecclesiastes', 'The Act of Parliament for Public Thanksgiving
    on the fifth of November, set to a tune by H. Dod a tradesman
    of London, at the end of his Psalms, which stole from the
    Press Anno Domini 1620'; 'Hymns', 'Lamentations', 'Psalms',
    referring to other Paraphrases of Sandys on the various books
    named, and (in the third place) on certain Songs selected from
    other parts of the Bible. The unfortunate 'H. Dod a tradesman'
    may have had his Manes refreshed by a notice in the _D.N.B._]

    [Line: 70 It was too early for King to recognize, as has been
    done since, the reason of the 'perfect harmony' he relished
    as a fact in Sandys. That poet was one of the earliest after
    Fairfax, and probably before Beaumont or Waller, to master
    (though not always to practise) the stopped antithetic couplet
    which was conquering, and to conquer, public favour.]

    [Line: 71 It were much to be desired (though Hannah did not
    think so) that King had allowed his wishes to be satisfied by
    Sandys' performance, without attempting competition.]

    [Line: 79 The reference is, of course, to the universally
    heard of, but perhaps by extremely few read, 'Sternhold and
    Hopkins'. The actual terms of King's criticism are not very
    happy, but nobody then knew, or easily could know, much
    about literary history. It was a fifteenth- rather than a
    sixteenth-century fault 'hardly to distinguish _verse_ and
    _rhyme_'. Where Sternhold and Hopkins--in common with much
    greater men, from Wyatt to Gascoigne--sometimes went wrong,
    was in their inability to attain anything but a 'butterwoman's
    rank to market'--a sing-song and soulless uniformity of
    cadence, and (a sin more specially their own) in the hopeless
    dullness and drabness of their diction.]




_The Woes of Esay._


  Woe to the worldly men, whose covetous
  Ambition labours to join house to house,
  Lay field to field, till their enclosures edge
  The plain, girdling a country with one hedge:
  That leave no place unbought, no piece of earth
  Which they will not engross, making a dearth
  Of all inhabitants, until they stand
  Unneighbour'd, as unblest, within their land.

    This sin cries in God's ear, who hath decreed
  The ground they sow shall not return the seed.                     10
  They that unpeopled countries to create
  Themselves sole Lords,--made many desolate
  To build up their own house,--shall find at last
  Ruin and fearful desolation cast
  Upon themselves. Their mansion shall become
  A desert, and their palace prove a tomb.
  Their vines shall barren be, their land yield tares;
  Their house shall have no dwellers, they no heirs.

    Woe unto those, that with the morning Sun
  Rise to drink wine, and sit till he have run                       20
  His weary course; not ceasing until night
  Have quench'd their understanding with the light:
  Whose raging thirst, like fire, will not be tam'd,
  The more they pour, the more they are inflam'd.
  Woe unto them that only mighty are
  To wage with wine; in which unhappy war
  They who the glory of the day have won,
  Must yield them foil'd and vanquish'd by the tun.
  Men that live thus, as if they liv'd in jest,
  Fooling their time with music and a feast;                         30
  That did exile all sounds from their soft ear
  But of the harp, must this sad discord hear
  Compos'd in threats. The feet which measures tread
  Shall in captivity be fettered:
  Famine shall scourge them for their vast excess;
  And Hell revenge their monstrous drunkenness;
  Which hath enlarg'd itself to swallow such,
  Whose throats ne'er knew enough, though still too much.

    Woe unto those that countenance a sin,
  Siding with vice, that it may credit win                           40
  By their unhallow'd vote: that do benight
  The truth with error, putting dark for light,
  And light for dark; that call an evil good,
  And would by vice have virtue understood:
  That with their frown can sour an honest cause,
  Or sweeten any bad by their applause.
  That justify the wicked for reward;
  And, void of moral goodness or regard,
  Plot with detraction to traduce the fame
  Of him whose merit hath enroll'd his name                          50
  Among the just. Therefore God's vengeful ire
  Glows on his people, and becomes a fire,
  Whose greedy and exalted flame shall burn,
  Till they like straw or chaff to nothing turn.
  Because they have rebell'd against the right,
  To God and Law perversely opposite,
  As plants which Sun nor showers did ever bless,
  So shall their root convert to rottenness;
  And their succession's bud, in which they trust,
  Shall (like Gomorrah's fruit) moulder to dust.                     60

    Woe unto those that, drunk with self-conceit,
  Value their own designs at such a rate
  Which human wisdom cannot reach; that sit
  Enthron'd, as sole monopolists of wit;
  That outlook reason, and suppose the eye
  Of Nature blind to their discovery,
  Whilst they a title make to understand
  Whatever secret's bosom'd in the land.
  But God shall imp their pride, and let them see
  They are but fools in a sublime degree:                            70
  He shall bring down and humble those proud eyes,
  In which false glasses only they look'd wise;
  That all the world may laugh, and learn by it,
  There is no folly to pretended wit.

    Woe unto those that draw iniquity
  With cords, and by a vain security
  Lengthen the sinful trace, till their own chain
  Of many links, form'd by laborious pain,
  Do pull them into Hell; that, as with lines
  And cart-ropes, drag on their unwilling crimes:                    80
  Who, rather than they will commit no sin,
  Tempt all occasions to let it in.
  As if there were no God, who must exact
  The strict account for every vicious fact;
  Nor judgement after death. If any be,
  Let him make speed (say they), that we may see.
  Why is his work retarded by delay?
  Why doth himself thus linger on the way?
  If there be any judge, or future doom,
  Let It and Him with speed together come.                           90

    Unhappy men, that challenge and defy
  The coming of that dreadful Majesty!
  Better by much for you, he did reverse
  His purposed sentence on the Universe;
  Or that the creeping minutes might adjourn
  Those flames in which you, with the earth, must burn;
  That time's revolting hand could lag the year,
  And so put back his day which is too near.

    Behold his signs advanc'd like colours fly,
  To tell the world that his approach is nigh;                      100
  And in a furious march, he's coming on
  Swift as the raging inundation,
  To scour the sinful world; 'gainst which is bent
  Artillery that never can be spent:
  Bows strung with vengeance, and flame-feather'd darts
  Headed with death, to wound transgressing hearts;
  His chariot wheels wrapp'd in the whirlwind's gyre,
  His horses hoov'd with flint, and shod with fire:
  In which amaze, where'er they fix their eye,
  Or on the melting earth, or up on high,                           110
  To seek Heaven's shrunk lights, nothing shall appear,
  But night and horror in their hemisphere:
  Nor shall th' affrighted sense more objects know
  Than dark'ned skies above, and Hell below.




    [_The Woes of Esay._] It may seem strange that a man
    of poetical velleities, with the magnificent range of choice
    open to him in the Book of Isaiah, should choose these 'Woes'
    for verse-paraphrase. But the fact is interesting as combining
    with others, which have been pointed out here and there
    already, to show that King, at one time of his life, _had_
    leanings to that Puritan-popular temper which, from the
    days of Langland downwards, had shown itself in England. The
    couplet verse has some vigour.]

    [Line: 84 The original apostrophation (kept by Hannah) of
    'every' is 'e'ry'--interesting to compare with the common
    forms of 'e're' for 'ever' and 'ne're' for 'never'. _N. E.
    D._ traces it to the fifteenth century, and notes an
    eighteenth-century extension to 'e'ery'.]




_An Essay on Death and a Prison._


  A prison is in all things like a grave,
  Where we no better privileges have
  Than dead men, nor so good. The soul once fled
  Lives freer now, than when she was cloistered
  In walls of flesh; and though she organs want
  To act her swift designs, yet all will grant
  Her faculties more clear, now separate,
  Than if the same conjunction, which of late
  Did marry her to earth, had stood in force,
  Uncapable of death, or of divorce:                                 10
  But an imprison'd mind, though living, dies,
  And at one time feels two captivities;
  A narrow dungeon which her body holds,
  But narrower body which herself enfolds.
  Whilst I in prison lie, nothing is free,
  Nothing enlarg'd, but thought and misery;
  Though every chink be stopp'd, the doors close barr'd,
  Despite of walls and locks, through every ward
  These have their issues forth; may take the air,
  Though not for health, but only to compare                         20
  How wretched those men are who freedom want,
  By such as never suffer'd a restraint.
  In which unquiet travel could I find
  Aught that might settle my distemper'd mind,
  Or of some comfort make discovery,
  It were a voyage well employ'd: but I,
  Like our raw travellers that cross the seas
  To fetch home fashions, or some worse disease,
  Instead of quiet, a new torture bring
  Home t' afflict me, malice and murmuring.                          30
  What is't I envy not? no dog nor fly
  But my desires prefer, and wish were I;
  For they are free, or, if they were like me,
  They had no sense to know calamity.
  But in the grave no sparks of envy live,
  No hot comparisons that causes give
  Of quarrel, or that our affections move
  Any condition, save their own, to love.
  There are no objects there but shades and night,
  And yet that darkness better than the light.                       40
  There lives a silent harmony; no jar
  Or discord can that sweet soft consort mar.
  The grave's deaf ear is clos'd against all noise
  Save that which rocks must hear, the angel's voice:
  Whose trump shall wake the world, and raise up men
  Who in earth's bosom slept, bed-rid till then.
  What man then would, who on death's pillow slumbers,
  Be re-inspired with life, though golden numbers
  Of bliss were pour'd into his breast; though he
  Were sure in change to gain a monarchy?                            50
  A monarch's glorious state compar'd with his,
  Less safe, less free, less firm, less quiet is.
  For ne'er was any Prince advanc'd so high
  That he was out of reach of misery:
  Never did story yet a law report
  To banish fate or sorrow from his Court;
  Where ere he moves, by land, or through the main,
  These go along, sworn members of his train.
  But he whom the kind earth hath entertain'd,
  Hath in her womb a sanctuary gain'd,                               60
  Whose charter and protection arm him so,
  That he is privileg'd from future woe.
  The coffin 's a safe harbour, where he rides
  Land-bound, below cross winds, or churlish tides.
  For grief, sprung up with life, was man's half-brother,
  Fed by the taste, brought forth by sin, the mother.
  And since the first seduction of the wife,
  God did decree to grief a lease for life;
  Which patent in full force continue must,
  Till man that disobey'd revert to dust.                            70
  So that life's sorrows, ratifi'd by God,
  Cannot expire, or find their period,
  Until the soul and body disunite,
  And by two diff'rent ways from each take flight.
  But they dissolved once, our woes disband,
  Th' assurance cancell'd by one fatal hand;
  Soon as the passing bell proclaims me dead,
  My sorrows sink with me, lie buried
  In the same heap of dust, the self-same urn
  Doth them and me alike to nothing turn.                            80
  If then of these I might election make
  Whether I would refuse, and whether take,
  Rather than like a sullen anchorite
  I would live cas'd in stone, and learn to write
  A _Prisoner's story_, which might steal some tears
  From the sad eyes of him that reads or hears;
  Give me a peaceful death, and let me meet
  My freedom seal'd up in my winding sheet.
  Death is the pledge of rest, and with one bail
  Two prisons quits, the Body and the Jail.                          90




    [_An Essay._] This piece stands to some work of
    Donne's much as others of King's do to the lyrics of the
    greater poet. The couplets are more enjambed than in _The Woes
    of Esay_, and the metaphysicality is of the satiric kind. It
    should not be needful, but may be well, to say that King had
    no actual experience of prisons. On the other side of the
    matter the piece might, but by no means need, belong to the
    series connected with his wife's death.]




_The Labyrinth._


  Life is a crooked labyrinth, and we
  Are daily lost in that obliquity.
  'Tis a perplexed circle, in whose round
  Nothing but sorrows and new sins abound.
  How is the faint impression of each good
  Drown'd in the vicious channel of our blood?
  Whose ebbs and tides by their vicissitude
  Both our great Maker and ourselves delude.

    O wherefore is the most discerning eye
  Unapt to make its own discovery?                                   10
  Why is the clearest and best judging mind
  In her own ills' prevention dark and blind?
  Dull to advise, to act precipitate,
  We scarce think what to do, but when too late.
  Or if we think, that fluid thought, like seed,
  Rots there to propagate some fouler deed.
  Still we repent and sin, sin and repent;
  We thaw and freeze, we harden and relent.
  Those fires, which cool'd to-day, the morrow's heat
  Rekindles. Thus frail nature does repeat                           20
  What she unlearnt, and still, by learning on,
  Perfects her lesson of confusion.

    Sick soul! what cure shall I for thee devise,
  Whose leprous state corrupts all remedies?
  What medicine or what cordial can be got
  For thee, who poison'st thy best antidote?
  Repentance is thy bane, since thou by it
  Only reviv'st the fault thou didst commit.
  Nor griev'st thou for the past, but art in pain,
  For fear thou mayst not act it o'er again.                         30
  So that thy tears, like water spilt on lime,
  Serve not to quench, but to advance the crime.

    My blessed Saviour! unto thee I fly
  For help against this homebred tyranny.
  Thou canst true sorrows in my soul imprint,
  And draw contrition from a breast of flint.
  Thou canst reverse this labyrinth of sin,
  My wild affects and actions wander in.
  O guide my faith! and, by thy grace's clew,
  Teach me to hunt that kingdom at the view                          40
  Where true joys reign, which like their day shall last;
  Those never clouded, nor that overcast.




    [_The Labyrinth._] 12 her] our _Malone MS. 22._]

    [Line: 26 Orig. 'anti_dot_', on the eye-[and ear]-system as
    before.]




_Being waked out of my sleep by a snuff of candle which offended me,
  I thus thought._


  Perhaps 'twas but conceit. Erroneous sense!
  Thou art thine own distemper and offence.
  Imagine then, that sick unwholesome steam
  Was thy corruption breath'd into a dream.
  Nor is it strange, when we in charnels dwell,
  That all our thoughts of earth and frailty smell.

    Man is a Candle, whose unhappy light
  Burns in the day, and smothers in the night.
  And as you see the dying taper waste,                              10
  By such degrees does he to darkness haste.

    Here is the diff'rence: When our bodies' lamps
  Blinded by age, or chok'd with mortal damps,
  Now faint, and dim, and sickly 'gin to wink,
  And in their hollow sockets lowly sink;
  When all our vital fires ceasing to burn,
  Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our urn:
      God will restore those fallen lights again,
      And kindle them to an eternal flame.




_Sic Vita._


KING AND BEAUMONT.

  [I.]

  Like to the falling of a star;
  Or as the flights of eagles are;
  Or like the fresh springs gaudy hue;
  Or silver drops of morning dew;
  Or like a wind that chafes the flood;
  Or bubbles which on water stood;
  Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
  Is straight call'd in, and paid to night.

      The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
      The Spring entomb'd in Autumn lies;                            10
      The dew dries up; the star is shot;
      The flight is past; and man forgot.


WASTELL.

  [II.]

  Like as the damask rose you see;
  Or like the blossom on the tree;
  Or like the dainty flower of May;
  Or like the morning to the day;
  Or like the Sun; or like the shade;
  Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
  Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
  Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
    The rose withers; the blossom blasteth;
    The flower fades; the morning hasteth;
    The sun sets; the shadow flies;
    The gourd consumes; and man he dies.


  [III.]

  Like to the Grass that's newly sprung;
  Or like a tale that's new begun;
  Or like the bird that's here to-day;
  Or like the pearled dew of May;
  Or like an hour; or like a span;
  Or like the singing of a swan;
  Even such is man, who lives by breath,
  Is here, now there, in life, and death.
    The grass withers; the tale is ended;
    The bird is flown; the dew's ascended;
    The hour is short; the span not long;
    The swan's near death; man's life is done.


  [IV.]

  Like to the bubble in the brook;
  Or, in a glass, much like a look;
  Or like a shuttle in weaver's hand;
  Or like the writing on the sand;
  Or like a thought; or like a dream;
  Or like the gliding of the stream;
  Even such is man, who lives by breath,
  Is here, now there, in life, and death.
    The bubble's cut; the look's forgot;
    The shuttle's flung; the writing's blot;
    The thought is past; the dream is gone;
    The water glides; man's life is done.


  [V.]

  Like to an arrow from the bow;
  Or like swift course of watery flow;
  Or like the time twixt flood and ebb;
  Or like the spider's tender web;
  Or like a race; or like a goal;
  Or like the dealing of a dole;
  Even such is man whose brittle state
  Is always subject unto fate.
    The arrow's shot; the flood soon spent;
    The time no time; the web soon rent;
    The race soon run; the goal soon won;
    The dole soon dealt; man's life first done.


  [VI.]

  Like to the lightning from the sky;
  Or like a post that quick doth hie;
  Or like a quaver in short song;
  Or like a journey three days long;
  Or like the snow when summer's come;
  Or like the pear; or like the plum;
  Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
    Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow,
    The lightning's past; the post must go;
    The song is short; the journey's so;
    The pear doth rot; the plum doth fall;
    The snow dissolves; and so must all.


QUARLES.

  Like to the damask Rose you see, &c.


  [VII.]

  Like to the blaze of fond delight;
  Or like a morning clear and bright;
  Or like a post; or like a shower;
  Or like the pride of Babel's Tower;
  Or like the hour that guides the time;
  Or like to beauty in her prime;
  Even such is man, whose glory lends
  His life a blaze or two, and ends.
    Delights vanish; the morn o'er casteth;
    The frost breaks; the shower hasteth;
    The Tower falls; the hour spends;
    The beauty fades; and man's life ends.


BROWNE.

  [VIII.]

  Like to a silkworm of one year;
  Or like a wronged lover's tear;
  Or on the waves a rudder's dint;
  Or like the sparkles of a flint:
  Or like to little cakes perfum'd;
  Or fireworks made to be consum'd;
  Even such is man, and all that trust
  In weak and animated dust.
    The silkworm droops; the tear's soon shed;
    The ship's way lost; the sparkle dead;
    The cake is burnt; the firework done;
    And man as these as quickly gone.


STRODE.

  [IX.]

  Like to the rolling of an eye:
  Or like a star shot from the sky;
  Or like a hand upon a clock;
  Or like a wave upon a rock;
  Or like a wind; or like a flame;
  Or like false news which people frame;
  Even such is man, of equal stay
  Whose very growth leads to decay.
  The eye is turned; the star down bendeth;
    The hand doth steal; the wave descendeth;
    The wind is spent; the flame unfir'd;
    The news disprov'd; man's life expir'd.


  [X.]

  Like to an eye which sleep doth chain;
  Or like a star whose fall we faine [ = feign];
  Or like a shade on A[t]haz' watch:
  Or like a wave which gulfs do snatch;
  Or like a wind or flame that's past;
  Or smother'd news confirm'd at last;
  Even so man's life, pawn'd  in  the grave,
  Waits for a rising it must have
    The eye still sees; the star still blazeth;
    The shade goes back; the wave escapeth;
    The wind is turn'd, the flame reviv'd,
    The news renew'd; and man new liv'd.




    [_Sic Vita._] On this famous piece see Introduction.
    Only the first form is attributed to King and appears in
    his _Poems_; but it also appears not merely in the singular
    higgledy-piggledy called the poems of Francis Beaumont, 1653,
    but in the earlier and better edition of 1640. Simon Wastell
    was a schoolmaster who had been at Queen's College, Oxford;
    and who in 1629 appended these sets of verses to a book then
    entitled _Microbiblion_. The first is claimed by Quarles, who
    also wrote another in the form. William Browne's version was
    not published till 1815, and the authors of the two from the
    Malone MS. are unknown. The group is probably the palmary
    example in English of that coterie-and school-verse which
    distinguished the seventeenth century. The King-Beaumont form
    is certainly the best and probably the original. (It will be
    observed that X is _palinodic_ to the others. It is, _with_
    IX, attributed as a single piece to Strode and entitled
    'On Death and Resurrection' in MS. Malone 16, fol. 35, and
    Dobell's _Poetical Works of W. Strode_).




_My Midnight Meditation._


  Ill busi'd man! why shouldst thou take such care
  To lengthen out thy life's short kalendar?
  When every spectacle thou look'st upon
  Presents and acts thy execution.
    Each drooping season and each flower doth cry,
    Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die.

  The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well)
  Is just the tolling of thy passing bell:
  Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopy
  Covers alike deceased day and thee.                                10
    And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,
    Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.




    [_My Midnight Meditation._] 11 which] _MS._ 'that'.
    In _Parnassus Biceps_, p. 80, with title 'On Man': ll. 9-10
    are absent from this version. Mr. Thorn-Drury thinks that this
    is Dr. _John_ King's (so ascribed in Malone MS. 21, fol. 2_b_,
    and Mr. Dobell's MS. of Strode).]




_A Penitential Hymn._


  Hearken, O God, unto a wretch's cries,
  Who low dejected at thy footstool lies.
  Let not the clamour of my heinous sin
  Drown my requests, which strive to enter in
  At those bright gates, which always open stand
  To such as beg remission at thy hand.

    Too well I know, if thou in rigour deal,
  I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal:
  To my hoarse voice, heaven will no audience grant,
  But deaf as brass, and hard as adamant                             10
  Beat back my words; therefore I bring to thee
  A gracious Advocate to plead for me.

    What though my leprous soul no Jordan can
  Recure, nor floods of the lav'd Ocean
  Make clean? yet from my Saviour's bleeding side
  Two large and medicinable rivers glide.
  Lord, wash me where those streams of life abound,
  And new Bethesdas flow from ev'ry wound.

    If I this precious lather may obtain,
  I shall not then despair for any stain;                            20
  I need no Gilead's balm, nor oil, nor shall
  I for the purifying hyssop call:
  My spots will vanish in His purple flood,
  And crimson there turn white, though wash'd with blood.

    See, Lord! with broken heart and bended knee,
  How I address my humble suit to Thee;
  O give that suit admittance to Thy ears,
  Which floats to Thee, not in my words, but tears:
  And let my sinful soul this mercy crave,
  Before I fall into the silent grave.                               30




    [_A Penitential Hymn._] This piece is referred to by
    Anthony Wood as one of several 'anthems'. It was, he tells us,
    intended for Lenten use, and set by Dr. John Wilson, gentleman
    of the Chapel Royal. To this Dr. Wilson, Hannah thought that
    his collated MS. copy of King's _Poems_, which bears the name,
    had belonged, additional evidence being found in the curious
    fact that the Hymn appears in that copy out of order, and
    first.]




_An Elegy occasioned by Sickness._


  Well did the Prophet ask, _Lord, what is Man?_
  Implying by the question none can
  But God resolve the doubt, much less define
  What elements this child of dust combine.

    Man is a stranger to himself, and knows
  Nothing so naturally as his woes.
  He loves to travel countries, and confer
  The sides of Heaven's vast diameter:
  Delights to sit in Nile or Bætis' lap,
  Before he hath sail'd over his own map;                            10
  By which means he returns, his travel spent,
  Less knowing of himself than when he went.
  Who knowledge hunt kept under foreign locks,
  May bring home wit to hold a paradox,
  Yet be fools still. Therefore, might I advise,
  I would inform the soul before the eyes:
  Make man into his proper optics look,
  And so become the student and the book.
  With his conception, his first leaf, begin;
  What is he there but complicated sin?                              20
  When riper time, and the approaching birth
  Ranks him among the creatures of the earth,
  His wailing mother sends him forth to greet
  The light, wrapp'd in a bloody winding sheet;
  As if he came into the world to crave
  No place to dwell in, but bespeak a grave.

    Thus like a red and tempest-boding morn
  His dawning is: for being newly born
  He hails th' ensuing storm with shrieks and cries,
  And fines for his admission with wet eyes.                         30

    How should that plant, whose leaf is bath'd in tears,
  Bear but a bitter fruit in elder years?
  Just such is this, and his maturer age
  Teems with event more sad than the presage.
  For view him higher, when his childhood's span
  Is raised up to youth's meridian;
  When he goes proudly laden with the fruit
  Which health, or strength, or beauty contribute;
  Yet,--as the mounted cannon batters down
  The towers and goodly structures of a town,--                      40
  So one short sickness will his force defeat,
  And his frail citadel to rubbish beat.
  How does a dropsy melt him to a flood,
  Making each vein run water more than blood?
  A colic wracks him like a northern gust,
  And raging fevers crumble him to dust.
  In which unhappy state he is made worse
  By his diseases than his Maker's curse.
  God said in _toil and sweat_ he should earn bread,
  And without labour not be nourished:                               50
  There, though like ropes of falling dew, his sweat
  Hangs on his lab'ring brow, he cannot eat.

    Thus are his sins scourg'd in opposed themes,
  And luxuries reveng'd by their extremes.
  He who in health could never be content
  With rarities fetch'd from each element,
  Is now much more afflicted to delight
  His tasteless palate, and lost appetite.

    Besides, though God ordain'd, that with the light
  Man should begin his work, yet he made night                       60
  For his repose, in which the weary sense
  Repairs itself by rest's soft recompense.
  But now his watchful nights and troubled days
  Confused heaps of fear and fancy raise.
  His chamber seems a loose and trembling mine;
  His pillow quilted with a porcupine;
  Pain makes his downy couch sharp thorns appear,
  And ev'ry feather prick him like a spear.
  Thus, when all forms of death about him keep,
  He copies death in any form, but sleep.                            70

  Poor walking-clay! hast thou a mind to know
  To what unblest beginnings thou dost owe
  Thy wretched self? fall sick a while, and than
  Thou wilt conceive the pedigree of Man.
  Learn shalt thou from thine own anatomy,
  That earth his mother, worms his sisters be.
  That he's a short-liv'd vapour upward wrought,
  And by corruption unto nothing brought.
  A stagg'ring meteor by cross planets beat,
  Which often reels and falls before his set;                        80
  A tree which withers faster than it grows;
  A torch puff'd out by ev'ry wind that blows;
  A web of forty weeks spun forth in pain,
  And in a moment ravell'd out again.

    This is the model of frail man: then say
  That his duration's only for a day:
  And in that day more fits of changes pass,
  Than atoms run in the turn'd hour-glass.

    So that th' incessant cares which life invade
  Might for strong truth their heresy persuade,                      90
  Who did maintain that human souls are sent
  Into the body for their punishment:
  At least with that Greek sage still make us cry,
  Not to be born, or, being born, to die.

    But Faith steers up to a more glorious scope,
  Which sweetens our sharp passage; and firm hope
  Anchors our torn barks on a blessed shore,
  Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er.
  To this, Death is our pilot, and disease
  The agent which solicits our release.                             100

    Though crosses then pour on my restless head,
  Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed:
  Let this my thought's eternal comfort be,
  That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see.
  And when by fortune's or by nature's stroke
  My body's earthen pitcher must be broke,
  My soul, like Gideon's lamp, from her crack'd urn
  Shall Death's black night to endless lustre turn.




    [_An Elegy, &c._] It is always well to placate
    Nemesis before finding fault with a fellow-creature's
    complaints. But this piece, like some others, does rather
    illustrate that 'tendency to _grizzle_' which has been noticed
    in the Introduction. It was no doubt natural to King, and was
    probably confirmed in him by his wife's early death. It
    is worth noticing that--a thing rare in his time--he never
    remarried.]

    [Line: 33 this] _MS._ 'his'.]

    [Line: 73 'Than' for 'then' is much rarer than the converse,
    though we have it once _supra_. It is odd too here, for 'then'
    would have done just as well.]

    [Line: 90 'Their' = Origen and the Priscillianists.]

    [Line: 93 Posidippus? But the thing was a commonplace.]

    [Line: 94 Side-note in orig.: _Non nasci, aut quam citissime
    mori._]




_The Dirge._


  What is th' existence of Man's life
  But open war, or slumber'd strife?
  Where sickness to his sense presents
  The combat of the elements;
  And never feels a perfect peace,
  Till Death's cold hand signs his release.

    It is a storm, where the hot blood
  Outvies in rage the boiling flood;
  And each loud passion of the mind
  Is like a furious gust of wind,                                    10
  Which beats his bark with many a wave,
  Till he casts anchor in the grave.

    It is a flower, which buds and grows,
  And withers as the leaves disclose;
  Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
  Like fits of waking before sleep:
  Then shrinks into that fatal mould,
  Where its first being was enroll'd.

    It is a dream, whose seeming truth
  Is moraliz'd in age and youth:                                     20
  Where all the comforts he can share
  As wand'ring as his fancies are;
  Till in a mist of dark decay
  The dreamer vanish quite away.

    It is a dial, which points out
  The sun-set as it moves about:
  And shadows out in lines of night
  The subtile stages of Time's flight,
  Till all obscuring earth hath laid
  The body in perpetual shade.                                       30

    It is a weary interlude
  Which doth short joys, long woes include.
  The World the stage, the Prologue tears,
  The Acts vain hope, and varied fears;
  The Scene shuts up with loss of breath,
  And leaves no Epilogue but Death.




    [_The Dirge._] An obvious extension-variation of _Sic
    Vita_.]

    [Line: 8 _MS._ 'Vies rages with'--rather well.]

    [Line: 12 _MS._ 'cast'--perhaps better.]

    [Line: 26 _MS._ 'His sun-set'.]

    [Lines: 27-8 These run in _MS._:

        Whilst it demonstrates Time's swift flight
        In the black lines of shady night.
    ]

    [Line: 30 The] _MS._ 'His'.]

    [Line: 35 _MS._ '_in_ loss'.]




_An Elegy, occasioned by the loss of the most incomparable Lady
Stanhope, daughter to the Earl of Northumberland._

[Died November 29, 1654.]


  Light'ned by that dim torch our sorrow bears,
  We sadly trace thy coffin with our tears;
  And though the ceremonious rites are past
  Since thy fair body into earth was cast,
  Though all thy hatchments into rags are torn,
  Thy funeral robes and ornaments outworn;
  We still thy mourners, without show or art,
  With solemn blacks hung round about our heart,
  Thus constantly the obsequies renew,
  Which to thy precious memory are due.                              10

    Yet think not that we rudely would invade
  The dark recess of thine untroubled shade,
  Or give disturbance to that happy peace,
  Which thou enjoy'st at full since thy release:
  Much less in sullen murmurs do complain
  Of His decree who took thee back again,
  And did, ere Fame had spread thy virtue's light,
  Eclipse and fold thee up in endless night.
  This, like an act of envy, not of grief,
  Might doubt thy bliss, and shake our own belief,                   20
  Whose studied wishes no proportion bear
  With joys which crown thee now in glory's sphere.

    Know then, blest Soul! we for ourselves, not thee,
  Seal our woe's dictate by this elegy:
  Wherein our tears, united in one stream,
  Shall to succeeding times convey this theme,
  Worth all men's pity, who discern, how rare
  Such early growths of fame and goodness are.
  Of these, part must thy sex's loss bewail,
  Maim'd in her noblest patterns through thy fail;                   30
  For 'twould require a double term of life
  To match thee as a daughter or a wife;
  Both which Northumberland's dear loss improve,
  And make his sorrow equal to his love.
  The rest fall for ourselves, who, cast behind,
  Cannot yet reach the peace which thou dost find;
  But slowly follow thee in that dull stage
  Which most untimely posted hence thy age.

    Thus, like religious pilgrims, who design
  A short salute to their beloved shrine,                            40
  Most sad and humble votaries we come,
  To offer up our sighs upon thy tomb,
  And wet thy marble with our dropping eyes,
  Which, till the spring which feeds their current dries,
  Resolve each falling night and rising day,
  This mournful homage at thy grave to pay.




    [_An Elegy._] The subject of this was Anne Percy,
    daughter of the Northumberland whose personal umbrage or
    lukewarm loyalty so grievously affected the Royal cause, and
    the wife of that Philip Lord Stanhope who afterwards, and
    after her death, seems to have flirted with Lady Elizabeth
    Howard before she married Dryden.]

    [Line: 28 early] Lady Stanhope was not twenty-one when she
    died, and had been married little more than two years.]




Poems not included in the Edition of 1657 but added in reissue of 1664




_An Elegy upon my best friend, L. K. C._

[Countess of Leinster: died June 15, 1657.]


  Should we our sorrows in this method range,
  Oft as misfortune doth their subjects change,
  And to the sev'ral losses which befall,
  Pay diff'rent rites at ev'ry funeral;
  Like narrow springs, drain'd by dispersed streams,
  We must want tears to wail such various themes,
  And prove defective in Death's mournful laws,
  Not having words proportion'd to each cause.

    In your dear loss, my much afflicted sense
  Discerns this truth by sad experience,                             10
  Who never look'd my Verses should survive,
  As wet records, That you are not alive;
  And less desir'd to make that promise due,
  Which pass'd from me in jest, when urg'd by you.

    How close and slily doth our frailty work!
  How undiscover'd in the body lurk!
  That those who this day did salute you well,
  Before the next were frighted by your knell.
  O wherefore since we must in order rise,
  Should we not fall in equal obsequies?                             20
  But bear th' assaults of an uneven fate,
  Like fevers which their hour anticipate;
  Had this rule constant been, my long wish'd end
  Might render you a mourner for your Friend:
  As he for you, whose most deplor'd surprise
  Imprints your death on all my faculties;
  That hardly my dark phant'sy or discourse
  This final duty from the pen enforce.

    Such influence hath your eclipsed light,
  It doth my reason, like myself, benight.                           30

    Let me, with luckless gamesters, then think best
  (After I have set up and lost my rest),
  Grown desp'rate through mischance, to venture last
  My whole remaining stock upon a cast,
  And flinging from me my now loathed pen,
  Resolve for your sake ne'er to write again:
  For whilst successive days their light renew,
  I must no subject hope to equal you,
  In whose heroic breast, as in their Sphere,
  All graces of your sex concentred were.                            40

    Thus take I my long farewell of that art,
  Fit only glorious actions to impart;
  That art wherewith our crosses we beguile,
  And make them in harmonious numbers smile:
  Since you are gone, this holds no further use
  Whose virtue and desert inspir'd my Muse,
  O may she in your ashes buried be,
  Whilst I myself become the Elegy.

    And as it is observ'd, when Princes die,
  In honour of that sad solemnity,                                   50
  The now unoffic'd servants crack their staves,
  And throw them down into their masters' graves:
  So this last office of my broken verse
  I solemnly resign upon your hearse;
  And my brain's moisture, all that is unspent,
  Shall melt to nothing at the monument.
  Thus in moist weather, when the marble weeps,
  You'll think it only his tears reck'ning keeps,
  Who doth for ever to his thoughts bequeath
  The legacy of your lamented death.                                 60




    [_An Elegy upon my best friend._] King's 'best
    friend' (or, as a MS. gives it, 'worthiest') was Katharine
    Stanhope, daughter of John Lord Stanhope of Harrington. Her
    husband, Robert Cholmondeley, successively created an Irish
    Viscount, an English Baron (his surname serving as title in
    each case), and Earl of Leinster, died very shortly after her
    and before the Restoration. There is a MS. sermon on her death
    attributed to King, but doubted by Hannah. The poem itself,
    unlike the next but like the three which follow that, appears
    printed in the 1664 issue. And it is, on the principles of
    this collection, not unimportant to notice that in these later
    printed pieces the irrational prodigality of capitals which,
    as has been noted, is absent from _1657_, reappears. There
    could be no stronger evidence that these things have nothing
    to do with the author, and are not worth reproducing.]

    [Line: 12 The original bestows a capital even upon 'Alive'--a
    thing capital in another way as illustrating the utter
    unreason of the practice.]

    [Lines: 15-18 Absent in _MS._]

    [Line: 36 Orig. 'nev'r'--a form unpronounceable but not
    uninteresting.]

    [Line: 40 your] _MS._ 'the'.]

    [Line: 43 crosses] _MS._ 'sorrows'.]




_On the Earl of Essex._

[Died September 14, 1646.]


  Essex, twice made unhappy by a wife,
  Yet married worse unto the People's strife:
  He who, by two divorces, did untie
  His bond of wedlock and of loyalty:
  Who was by easiness of nature bred,
  To lead that tumult which first him misled;
  Yet had some glimm'ring sparks of virtue, lent
  To see (though late) his error, and repent:
  Essex lies here, like an inverted flame,
  Hid in the ruins of his house and name;                            10
  And as he, frailty's sad example, lies,
  Warns the survivors in his exequies.

    He shows what wretched bubbles great men are,
  Through their ambition grown too popular:
  For they, built up from weak opinion, stand
  On bases false as water, loose as sand.
  Essex in differing successes tried
  The fury and the falsehood of each side;
  Now with applauses deified, and then,
  Thrown down with spiteful infamy again:--                          20

    Tells them, what arts soever them support,
  Their life is merely Time and Fortune's sport,
  And that no bladders, blown by common breath,
  Shall bear them up amidst the waves of Death:

    Tells them, no monstrous birth, with pow'r endu'd,
  By that more monstrous beast, the Multitude,--
  No State-_Coloss_ (though tall as that bestrid
  The Rhodian harbour where their navy rid),
  Can hold that ill-proportion'd greatness still,
  Beyond his greater, most resistless will,                          30
  Whose dreadful sentence, written on the Wall,
  Did sign the temple-robbing tyrant's fall;
  But spite of their vast privilege, which strives
  T' exceed the size of ten prerogatives;
  Spite of their endless parliament, or grants
  (In order to those votes and Covenants,
  When, without sense of their black perjury,
  They swear with Essex they would live and die),
  With their dead General ere long they must
  Contracted be into a span of dust.                                 40




    [_On the Earl of Essex._] This and the next two may
    be called King's chief, if not his only, political poems:
    that they were kept back till after the Restoration is not
    surprising. Of Essex--one of the most unfortunate of men, the
    son of an unlucky father, the husband of one of the worst of
    women, and of another not much better, a half-hearted rebel, a
    soldier not less brave than blundering--not much is to be
    said here. King had some interest in the first and universally
    known divorce (the second, much less notorious, was from
    Elizabeth Paulet), for his father had been uncourtly and
    honest enough to oppose it strongly.]

    [Line: 10 This rather vigorous line was to be prophetic as
    well as true at the time, for when, after the Restoration, the
    title of Essex was revived it was for the Capels, who still
    hold it, not for any Devereux. The vigour just referred to
    is by no means absent from the whole poem, and in an
    ante-Drydenian piece is really remarkable.]

    [Line: 32 temple-robbing tyrant's fall] side-note in orig.:
    _Belshasar_, Dan. 5.]




_An Elegy on Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle._

[Murdered August 28, 1648.]


  In measures solemn as the groans that fall
  From the hoarse trumpet at some funeral;
  With trailing Elegy and mournful verse,
  I wait upon two peerless soldiers' hearse:
  Though I acknowledge must my sorrow's dress
  Ill matched to the cause it should express;
  Nor can I, at my best invention's cost,
  Sum up the treasure which in them we lost.

    Had they, with other worthies of the age,
  Who late upon the kingdom's bloody stage,                          10
  For God, the King, and Laws, their valour tried,
  Through War's stern chance in heat of battle died,
  We then might save much of our grief's expense,
  Reputing it, not duty, but offence.
  They need no tears, nor howling exequy,
  Who in a glorious undertaking die;
  Since all that in the bed of honour fell,
  Live their own Monument and Chronicle.

    But these, whom horrid danger did not reach,
  The wide-mouth'd cannon, nor the wider breach,                     20
  These, whom, till cruel want and coward fate
  Penn'd up like famish'd lions in a grate,
  Were for their daring sallies so much fear'd,
  Th' assailants fled them like a frighted herd;
  Resolving now no more to fight, but lurk
  Trench'd in their line, or earth'd within a work.
  Where, not like soldiers they, but watchmen, creep,
  Arm'd for no other office, but to sleep;
  They, whose bold charge whole armies did amaze,
  Rend'ring them faint and heartless at the gaze,                    30
  To see Resolve and Naked Valour charms
  Of higher proof than all their massy arms;
  They, whose bright swords ruffled the proudest troop
  (As fowl unto the tow'ring falcon stoop),
  Yet no advantage made of their success,
  Which to the conquer'd spake them merciless
  (For they, whene'er 'twas begg'd, did safety give,
  And oft unasked bid the vanquish'd live);
  Ev'n these, not more undaunted in the field,
  Than mild and gentle unto such as yield,                           40
  Were, after all the shocks of battles stood,
  (Let me not name it) murder'd in cold blood.

    Such poor revenge did the enraged Greek
  Against (till then) victorious Hector seek,
  Triumphing o'er that body, bound and dead,
  From whom, in life, the pow'rs of Argos fled.
  Yet might Achilles borrow some excuse
  To colour, though not warrant, the abuse:
  His dearest friend, in the fierce combat foil'd,
  Was by the Trojan's hand of life despoil'd;                        50
  From whence unruly grief, grown wild with rage,
  Beyond the bounds of Honour did engage.
  But these, confirm'd in their unmanly hate,
  By counsels cruel, yet deliberate,
  Did from the stock of bleeding honour hew
  Two of the noblest branches ever grew;
  And (which our grief and pity must improve)
  When brought within their reach with shows of love:
  For by a treaty they entangled are,
  And rend'ring up to Mercy is the snare;                            60
  Whence we have learn'd, whene'er their Saintships treat,
  The ends are mortal, and the means a cheat;
  In which the world may read their black intent,
  Drawn out at large in this sad precedent.
  Who (though fair promis'd) might no mercy have,
  But such as once the faithless Bashaw gave,
  When to his trust deluded Bragadine
  Himself and Famagosta did resign.
  Whose envied valour thus to bonds betray'd,
  Was soon the mark of barb'rous slaughter made:                     70
  So gallant ships, which rocks and storms had past,
  Though with torn sails, and spending of their mast,
  When newly brought within the sight of land,
  Have been suck'd up by some devouring sand.

    You wretched agents for a kingdom's fall,
  Who yet yourselves the Modell'd Army call;
  Who carry on and fashion your design
  By Sylla's, Sylla's red proscription's line,
  (Rome's Comet once, as you are ours) for shame
  Henceforth no more usurp the soldier's name:                       80
  Let not that title in fair battles gain'd
  Be by such abject things as you profan'd;
  For what have you achiev'd, the world may guess
  You are those Men of Might which you profess?
  Where ever durst you strike, if you met foes
  Whose valour did your odds in men oppose?
  Turn o'er the annals of your vaunted fights,
  Which made you late the People's favourites;
  Begin your course at Naseby, and from thence
  Draw out your marches' full circumference,                         90
  Bridgwater, Bristol, Dartmouth, with the rest
  Of your well-plotted renders in the West;
  Then to the angry North your compass bend,
  Until your spent career in Scotland end,
  (This is the perfect scale of our mishap
  Which measures out your conquest by the map),
  And tell me he that can, What have you won,
  Which long before your progress was not done?
  What castle was besieg'd, what Port, what Town,
  You were not sure to carry ere sat down?                          100
  There needed no granadoes, no petard,
  To force the passage, or disperse the guard.
  No, your good masters sent a Golden Ram
  To batter down the gates against you came.
  Those blest Reformers, who procur'd the Swede
  His armed forces into Denmark lead,
  'Mongst them to kindle a sharp war for hire,
  Who in mere pity meant to quench our fire,
  Could where they pleased, with the King's own coin,
  Divert his aids, and strengths at home purloin.                   110

    Upon sea voyages I sometimes find
  Men trade with Lapland witches for a wind,
  And by those purchas'd gales, quick as their thought,
  To the desired port are safely brought.
  We need not here on skilful Hopkins call,
  The State's allow'd Witch-finder General.
  For (though Rebellion wants no cad nor elf,
  But is a perfect witchcraft of itself)
  We could with little help of art reveal
  Those learn'd magicians with whom you deal:                       120
  We all your juggles, both for time and place,
  From Derby-house to Westminster can trace,
  The circle where the factious jangle meet
  To trample Law and Gospel under feet;
  In which, like bells rung backward, they proclaim
  The Kingdom by their wild-fire set on flame,
  And, quite perverting their first rules, invent
  What mischief may be done by Parliament:
  We know your holy flamens, and can tell
  What spirits vote within the Oracle;                              130
  Have found the spells and incantations too,
  By whose assistance you such wonders do.
  For divers years the credit of your wars
  Hath been kept up by these Familiars,
  Who, that they may their providence express,
  Both find you pay, and purchase your success:
  No wonder then you must the garland wear,
  Who never fought but with a silver spear.

    We grant the war's unhappy consequence,
  With all the num'rous plagues which grow from thence,             140
  Murders and rapes, threats of disease and dearth,
  From you as for the proper Spring take birth;
  You may for laws enact the public wrongs,
  With all foul violence to them belongs;
  May bawl aloud the people's right and pow'r,
  Till by your sword you both of them devour
  (For this brave liberty by you upcried
  Is to all others but yourselves denied),
  May with seditious fires the land embroil,
  And, in pretence to quench them, take the spoil;                  150
  You may Religion to your lust subdue,
  For these are actions only worthy you:
  Yet when your projects, crown'd with wish'd event,
  Have made you masters of the ill you meant,
  You never must the soldiers' glory share,
  Since all your trophies executions are:
  Not thinking your successes understood,
  Unless recorded and scor'd up in blood.

    In which, to gull the people, you pretend,
  That Military Justice was your end;                               160
  As if we still were blind, not knowing this
  To all your other virtues suited is;
  Who only act by your great grandsires' law,
  The butcher Cade, Wat Tyler, and Jack Straw,
  Whose principle was murder, and their sport
  To cut off those they fear'd might do them hurt:
  Nay, in your actions we completed find
  What by those Levellers was but design'd,
  For now Committees, and your arm'd supplies,
  Canton the land in petty tyrannies,                               170
  And for one King of commons in each shire,
  Four hundred Commons rule as tyrants here.
  Had you not meant the copies of each deed
  Should their originals in ill exceed,
  You would not practice sure the Turkish art,
  To ship your taken pris'ners for a mart,
  Lest if with freedom they at home remain,
  They should (which is your terror) fight again.
  A thing long since by zealous Rigby moved,
  And by the faction like himself approv'd;                         180
  Though you uncounsell'd can such outrage try,
  Scarce sampled from the basest enemy.
  Naseby of old, and late St. Fagan's fare,
  Of these inhuman truckings witness are;
  At which the captiv'd Welsh, in couples led,
  Were marketed, like cattle, by the head.
  Let it no more in History be told
  That Turks their Christian slaves for aspers sold;
  When we the Saints selling their brethren see,
  Who _had a Call_ (they say) to set them free;                     190
  And are at last by right of conquest grown
  To claim our land of Canaan for their own.
  Though luckless Colchester in this outvies
  Argiers' or Tunis' shameful merchandise;
  Where the starv'd soldier (as th' agreement was)
  Might not be suffer'd to their dwelling pass,
  Till, led about by some insulting band,
  They first were show'd in triumph through the land:
  In which, for lack of diet, or of strength,
  If any fainted through the march's length,                        200
  Void of the breasts of men, this murd'rous crew
  All those they could drive on no further, slew;
  What bloody riddle's this? They mercy give,
  Yet those who should enjoy it, must not live.

  Indeed we cannot less from such expect,
  Who for this work of ruin are elect:
  This scum drawn from the worst, who never knew
  The fruits which from ingenuous breeding grew;
  But take such low commanders on their lists,
  As did revolted Jeroboam priests:                                 210
  That 'tis our fate, I fear, to be undone,
  Like Egypt once with vermin overrun.
  If in the rabble some be more refin'd,
  By fair extractions of their birth or mind,
  Ev'n these corrupted are by such allays,
  That no impression of their virtue stays.
  As gold, embased by some mingled dross,
  Both in its worth and nature suffers loss.

    Else, had that sense of honour still surviv'd
  Which Fairfax from his ancestors deriv'd,                         220
  He ne'er had show'd himself, for hate or fear,
  So much degen'rous from renowned Vere
  (The title and alliance of whose son
  His acts of valour had in Holland won),
  As to give up, by his rash dooming breath,
  This precious pair of lives to timeless death;
  Whom no brave enemy but would esteem,
  And, though with hazard of his own, redeem.
  For 'tis not vainly by the world surmis'd,
  This blood to private spleens was sacrific'd.                     230
  Half of the guilt stands charg'd on Whalley's score
  By Lisle affronted on his guards before;
  For which his spite by other hands was shown,
  Who never durst dispute it with his own.
  Twice guilty coward! first by vote, then eye,
  Spectator of the shameful tragedy.
  But Lucas elder cause of quarrel knew,
  From whence his critical misfortune grew;
  Since he from Berkeley Castle with such scorn
  Bold Ransborough's first summons did return,                      240
  Telling him loudly at the parley's beat,
  With rogues and rebels he disdain'd to treat.

    Some from this hot contest the world persuade
  His sleeping vengeance on that ground was laid:
  If so, for ever blurr'd with Envy's brand,
  His honour gain'd by sea, was lost at land:
  Nor could he an impending judgement shun,
  Who did to this with so much fervour run,
  When late himself, to quit that bloody stain,
  Was, 'midst his armed guards, from Pomfret slain.                 250
  But all in vain we here expostulate
  What took them hence, private or public hate:
  Knowledge of acted woes small comforts add,
  When no repair proportion'd can be had:
  And such are ours, which to the kingdom's eyes
  Sadly present ensuing miseries,
  Foretelling in These Two some greater ill
  From those who now a patent have to kill.
  Two, whose dear loss leaves us no recompense,
  Nor them atonement, which in weight or sense                      260
  With These shall never into balance come,
  Though all the army fell their hecatomb.
  Here leave them then; and be 't our last relief
  To give their merit value in our grief.
  Whose blood however yet neglected must
  Without revenge or rites mingle with dust;
  Not any falling drop shall ever dry,
  Till to a weeping spring it multiply,
  Bath'd in whose tears their blasted laurel shall
  Grow green, and with fresh garlands crown their fall.             270

    From this black region then of Death and Night,
  Great Spirits, take your everlasting flight:
  And as your valour's mounting fires combine,
  May they a brighter constellation shine
  Than Gemini, or than the brother-stars,
  Castor and Pollux, fortunate to wars;
  That all fair soldiers, by your sparkling light,
  May find the way to conquer, when they fight,
  And by those patterns which from you they take,
  Direct their course through Honour's Zodiac:                      280
  But upon traitors frown with dire aspect,
  Which may their perjuries and guilt reflect;
  Unto the curse of whose nativity,
  Prodigious as the Caput Algol be,
  Whose pale and ghastly tresses still portend
  Their own despair or hangman for their end.
  And that succeeding ages may keep safe
  Your lov'd remembrance in some Epitaph,
  Upon the ruins of your glorious youth,
  Inscribed be this monumental truth:                               290
    Here lie the valiant Lucas and brave Lisle,
    With Amasa betray'd in Joab's smile:
    In whom, revenge of Honour taking place,
    His great corival 's stabb'd in the embrace.
  And as it was the Hebrew Captain's stain,
  That he two greater than himself had slain,
  _Shedding the blood of War in time of Peace_,
  When love pretended was, and arms did cease,
  May the foul murderers expect a fate
  Like Joab's, blood with blood to expiate;                         300
  Which, quick as lightning, and as thunder sure,
  Preventions wisest arts nor shun, nor cure.
  O may it fall on their perfidious head!
  That when, with Joab to the Altar fled,
  Themselves the sword and reach of vengeance flee,
  No Temple may their sanctuary be.

    Last, that nor frailty nor devouring time
  May ever lose impressions of the crime,
  Let loyal Colchester (who too late tried
  To check, when highest wrought, the Rebels' pride,                310
  Holding them long and doubtful at the bay,
  Whilst we, by looking on, gave all away),
  Be only nam'd: which, like a Column built,
  Shall both enhearse this blood unnobly spilt,
  And live, till all her towers in rubbish lie,
  The monuments of their base cruelty.




    [_Elegy on Sir Charles Lucas, &c._] This, King's
    longest poem (except the _King Charles_), shows, like
    the preceding, a vigour which might have made him a very
    formidable political satirist. If he has not Cleveland's wit
    he is free from Cleveland's abuse of it. The subject is again
    a well-known one. No impartial authority denies that the
    execution of Lucas and Lisle was one of the worst blots on
    that side of the record of the Rebellion, and perhaps the only
    unforgivable act of Fairfax. Whether he was actuated, as the
    Royalists generally believed, by a mean personal spite, or
    allowed himself to be the tool of Ireton, matters uncommonly
    little; and his own 'Vindication' contains statements
    demonstrably false. However, as usual in revolutions, the
    curse came home, and the Colchester 'Septemberings' (as
    they would actually have been had the New Style prevailed in
    England) were undoubtedly as much instrumental as anything,
    next to the execution of the King himself, in turning the
    national sentiment against the perpetrators. The _bracketed_
    notes that follow are, as usual, original.]

    [Line: 31 [Sir George Lisle at Newbury charged in his shirt,
    and routed them.] This was the _second_ battle of Newbury,
    October 27, 1644: he was knighted at Oxford, December 21,
    1645.]

    [Line: 49 friend] [Patroclus.]]

    [Line: 60 Mercy] Fairfax in his own 'Vindication' admits the
    'snare'. 'Delivering upon Mercy is to be understood that
    some are to suffer, the rest to go free.' In other words, the
    garrison might take 'mercy' to mean 'quarter', but Fairfax
    took it to mean 'discretion'.]

    [Line: 64 Orig. 'President', as often printed, though of
    course no scholar like King would deliberately write it.]

    [Line: 66 [Famagosta, defended most valiantly by Signior
    Bragadino in the time of Selimus II, was upon honourable
    terms surrendered to Mustapha the Bashaw, who, observing no
    conditions, at his tent murdered the principal commanders,
    invited thither under show of love, and flayed Bragadine
    alive.] This siege of Famagosta in 1571, which came just
    before, and may be said to have been revenged by, Lepanto,
    greatly affected the mind of Christendom, and is duly
    chronicled in Knolles, the chief English historical writer of
    King's day. It is therefore hardly necessary to suppose,
    with Hannah, that the note was abridged from George Sandys'
    _Travels_, though King and Sandys were certainly friends.]

    [Lines: 82, 85 I would have left the capitals for the 'Yous'
    in these lines, as I have already done in other places,
    because they not improperly further emphasize that emphatic
    use of the pronoun in different parts of the line which Dryden
    afterwards perfected. But unfortunately they are not uniformly
    used, or even in the majority of cases--which shows how
    utterly haphazard and irrational this capitalization was.]

    [Line: 105 [The Swedes hired anno 1644, to invade the King of
    Denmark, provided to assist his nephew, the King of England.]]

    [Line: 115 Hopkins] Hannah only knew for a certainty that the
    scoundrel Matthew was 'swum' for a wizard, and had to put
    a 'probably' as to his being executed. There seems to be
    no doubt (see _D.N.B._) that the great and glorious 'Herb
    Pantagruelion' had its own, and that Hopkins was hanged in
    1647, before the date of this poem. But in that distracted
    time King, like his editor, may easily have been unaware of
    it.]

    [Line: 117 An early literary use of 'cad' for assistant or
    understrapper.]

    [Line: 142 Instead of 'for' Hannah, who very seldom meddled
    with his text, suggested 'from'. The temptation is obvious,
    but I think 'for' is possible, and therefore preferable as
    _lectio difficilior_.]

    [Line: 160 Military Justice] [See the letter sent to Edward
    Earl of Manchester, Speaker of the House of Peers, _pro
    tempore_, from T. Fairfax, dated August 29, 1648, at Hieth.]
    According to Royalist accounts there were, even in Parliament,
    speakers bold enough and impartial enough to object to this
    letter, and to give voice to the common belief that the
    execution was either an act of private vengeance, or a
    deliberate affront to the King, or a device to make the
    pending negotiations with him impossible. It must be
    remembered that it was three months before the 'Purge' had
    deprived the Commons of the last remnant of independence or
    representative quality.]

    [Line: 170 petty tyrannies] [Wat Tyler and his complices'
    design was to take away the King and chief men, and to erect
    petty tyrannies to themselves in every shire. And already one
    Littistar, a dyer, had taken upon him in Norfolk the name of
    King of Commons, and Robert Westborn in Suffolk, Richard
    II, anno 1381. _Speed._] This note from Speed is not exactly
    quoted and Hannah corrected it, but the variations are of no
    importance.]

    [Line: 176 There is no doubt about the selling of prisoners as
    convict-slaves to the West Indies (if not, as Rigby proposed,
    to Algiers) by the Roundheads after the second Civil War.
    Unluckily James II--born in this and other cases to be the
    curse of English Royalism--took the reproach away from the
    other side by authorizing the practice after Sedgmoor.]

    [Line: 179 The particular bearer of this name of evil repute
    in Parliamentary history was Alexander Rigby (1594-1650). He
    had a brother, Joseph, whose politics were as bad as his own,
    but who survived the Restoration, and seems to have had a
    touch of the 'crank' in him. I have not yet come across his
    _Drunkard's Prospective_ (1656), but it should be agreeable.]

    [Line: 183 The savagery of the two-to-one victors at
    Naseby--especially towards the hapless so-called 'Irishwomen'
    camp followers--is beyond question, but it does not seem
    proved that there was much selling of prisoners then. As for
    St. Fagan's in the second Civil War the case is different, and
    justifies the following note in the original: 'At St. Fagan's
    in Glamorganshire, near Cardiff, the Welsh unarmed were taken
    in very great numbers, and sold for twelve pence apiece
    to certain merchants, who bought them for slaves to their
    plantations.']

    [Line: 188 aspers] A Turkish coin of the smallest value: the
    120th part of a piastre or dollar.]

    [Line: 201 murd'rous crew] [Grimes, now a Captain, formerly
    a tinker at St. Albans, with his own hand killed four of the
    prisoners, being not able for faintness to go on with the
    rest, of which number Lieutenant Woodward was one. Likewise
    at Thame, and at Whateley ( = Wheatley), some others were
    killed.] This story is backed up by not a few similar ones
    in different accounts of the time. And indeed, as King very
    cogently goes on to argue, your tinker-captain is capable of
    anything.]

    [Line: 222 It was Sir Horace Vere (1565-1635), afterwards Lord
    Vere of Tilbury, under whom Fairfax served, and whose daughter
    Anne he married.]

    [Line: 231 Whalley (spelt, as often with the name, Whaley in
    printed original) is cleared by others, though he is said
    by them as by King to have been present and to have had
    some private grudge against Lisle. Lucas had not only thrown
    Fairfax's troops into disorder at Marston Moor but is said
    by some to have actually wounded him in the face. He had also
    held Berkeley Castle against Rans- or Ra_in_sborough till
    the outworks were taken, and the guns turned from them on
    the Castle itself. Rainsborough, with Whalley and Ireton,
    was actually present at the execution--which as a duty could
    hardly be incumbent on all three, and with which they were
    often reproached; and as a matter of course Rainsborough's
    death shortly afterwards was counted as a 'judgement'. His
    father had been an officer in the Navy, and the son commanded
    both by sea and land.]

    [Line: 284 Algol] A star of great but varying brightness, the
    name of which--'The _ghoul_'--and its position in the head of
    Medusa in the constellation Perseus, explains the text.]

    [Line: 311 long and doubtful] Fairfax, to enhance his exploit,
    called it 'four months close siege'. It was actually not
    quite eleven weeks, but the place yielded to nothing but
    starvation.]




_An Elegy upon the most Incomparable King Charles the First._


    Call for amazed thoughts, a wounded sense
  And bleeding hearts at our intelligence.
  Call for that Trump of Death, the Mandrake's groan
  Which kills the hearers: this befits alone
  Our story which through times vast Calendar,
  Must stand without example or repair.
  What spouts of melting clouds, what endless springs
  Pour'd in the Ocean's lap for offerings,
  Shall feed the hungry torrent of our grief,
  Too mighty for expression or belief?                               10
  Though all those moistures which the brain attracts
  Ran from our eyes like gushing cataracts,
  Or our sad accents could out-tongue the cries
  Which did from mournful Hadadrimmon rise,
  Since that remembrance of Josiah slain
  In our King's murder is reviv'd again.
    O pardon me that but from Holy Writ
  Our loss allows no parallel to it:
  Nor call it bold presumption that I dare
  Charles with the best of Judah's Kings compare:                    20
  The virtues of whose life did I prefer
  The text acquits me for no flatterer.
  For he like David perfect in his trust,
  Was never stain'd like him, with blood or lust.
    One who with Solomon in judgement tried,
  Was quick to comprehend, wise to decide
  (That even his Judges stood amaz'd to hear
  A more transcendent mover in their sphere),
  Though more religious: for when doting love
  Awhile made Solomon apostate prove,                                30
    Charles ne'er endur'd the Truth which he profest,
  To be unfix'd by bosom-interest.
  Bold as Jehosaphat, yet forc'd to fight,
  And for his own, no unconcerned right.
  Should I recount his constant time of pray'r,
  Each rising morn and ev'ning regular,
  You'd say his practice preach'd, 'They ought not eat
  Who by devotion first not earn'd their meat:'
  Thus Hezekiah he exceeds in zeal,
  Though not (like him) so facile to reveal                          40
  The treasures of God's House, or His own heart,
  To be supplanted by some foreign art.
  And that he might in fame with Joash share
  When he the ruin'd Temple did repair,
  His cost on Paul's late ragged fabric spent
  Must (if no other) be His monument.
    From this survey the kingdom may conclude
  His merits, and her losses' magnitude:
  Nor think he flatters or blasphemes, who tells
  That Charles exceeds Judea's parallels,                            50

  [Sidenote:--_Sparguntur in omnes,
  In te mista fluunt_--Claudian.]

  In whom all virtues we concentred see
  Which 'mongst the best of them divided be.
    O weak-built glories! which those tempests feel!
  To force you from your firmest bases reel,
  What from the strokes of Chance shall you secure,
  When rocks of Innocence are so unsure?
  When the World's only mirror slaughter'd lies,
  Envy's and Treason's bleeding sacrifice;
  As if His stock of goodness could become
  No kalendar, but that of martyrdom.                                60
    See now, ye cursed mountebanks of State,
  Who have eight years for reformations sate;

  [Sidenote: _Call'd the Council of Troubles._]

  You who dire Alva's counsels did transfer,
  To act his scenes on England's theatre;
  You who did pawn yourselves in public faith
  To slave the Kingdom by your pride and wrath;
  Call the whole World to witness now, how just,
  How well you are responsive to your trust,
  How to your King the promise you perform,
  With fasts, and sermons, and long prayers sworn,                   70
  That you intended Peace and Truth to bring
  To make your Charles _Europe's most glorious King_.

  [Sidenote: _The form of taking the Covenant_, June 1643.]

  Did you for this _Lift up your hands on high_,
  To kill the King, and pluck down Monarchy?
  These are the fruits by your wild faction sown,
  Which not imputed are, but born your own:
  For though you wisely seem to wash your hands,
  The guilt on every vote and order stands;
  So that convinc'd, from all you did before,
  Justice must lay the murder at your door.                          80
  Mark if the body does not bleed anew,
  In any circumstance approach'd by You,
  From whose each motion we might plain descry
  The black ostents of this late tragedy.
  For when the King, through storms in Scotland bred,
  To his Great Council for his shelter fled,
  When in that meeting every error gain'd
  Redresses sooner granted than complain'd:
  Not all those frank concessions or amends
  Did suit the then too powerful faction's ends:                     90
  No acts of Grace at present would content,
  Nor promise of Triennial Parl'ament,
  Till by a formal law the King had past
  This Session should at Your pleasure last.

    So having got the bit, and that 'twas known
  No power could dissolve You but Your own,
  Your graceless Junto make such use of this,

  [Sidenote: _Diodorus Siculus_, lib. 2.]

  As once was practis'd by Semiramis;
  Who striving by a subtile suit to prove
  The largeness of her husband'[s] trust and love,                  100
  Did from the much abused King obtain
  That for three days she might sole empress reign;
  Before which time expir'd, the bloody wife
  Depriv'd her lord both of his crown and life.
  There needs no comment when your deeds apply
  The demonstration of her treachery.
    Which to effect, by Absolon's foul wile
  You of the people's heart your prince beguile;
  Urging what eases they might reap by it
  Did you their legislative Judges sit.                             110
  How did you fawn upon, and court the rout,
  Whose clamour carried your whole plot about?
  How did you thank seditious men that came
  To bring petitions which yourselves did frame?
  And lest they wanted hands to set them on,
  You led the way by throwing the first stone.
  For in that libel after midnight born,
  Wherewith your faction labour'd till the morn,

  [Sidenote: _Remonstrance of the State of the Kingdom_,
  Dec. 15, 1641.]

  That famous lie, you a Remonstrance name;
  Were not reproaches your malicious aim?                           120
  Was not the King's dishonour your intent,
  By slanders to traduce his Government?
  All which your spiteful cunning did contrive;
  Men must receive through your false perspective,
  In which the smallest spots improved were,
  And every mote a mountain did appear.
  Thus Caesar by th' ungrateful Senate found
  His life assaulted through his honour's wound.
    And now to make Him hopeless to resist,

  [Sidenote: _Ord._ Feb. 29, _Voted_ March 15.]

  You guide his sword by vote, which as you list                    130
  Must strike or spare (for so you did enforce
  His hand against His reason to divorce

  [Sidenote: _The Navy seiz'd_ Mar. 28, 1642.]

  Brave Strafford's life), then wring it quite away
  By your usurping each Militia:

  [Sidenote: _The London Tumults_, Jan. 10, 1641.]

  Then seize His magazines, of which possest
  You turn the weapons 'gainst their master's breast.
    This done, th' unkennell'd crew of lawless men
  Led down by Watkins, Pennington, and Venn,
  Did with confused noise the Court invade;
  Then all Dissenters in both houses bay'd.                         140
  At which the King amaz'd is forc'd to fly,
  The whilst your mouth's laid on maintain the cry.
    The Royal game dislodg'd and under chase,
  Your hot pursuit dogs Him from place to place:
  Not Saul with greater fury or disdain
  Did flying David from Jeshimon's plain
  Unto the barren wilderness pursue,
  Than cours'd and hunted is the King by you.
  The mountain partridge or the chased roe
  Might now for emblems of His fortune go,                          150
  And since all other May-games of the town
  (Save those yourselves should make) were voted down,
  The clam'rous pulpit hollaes in resort,
  Inviting men to your King-catching sport.
  Where as the foil grows cold you mend the scent
  By crying Privilege of Parliament,
  Whose fair pretensions the first sparkles are,
  Which by your breath blown up enflame the war,
  And Ireland (bleeding by design) the stale
  Wherewith for men and money you prevail.                          160
    Yet doubting that imposture could not last,
  When all the Kingdom's mines of treasure waste,
  You now tear down Religion's sacred hedge
  To carry on the work by sacrilege;
  Reputing it Rebellion's fittest pay
  To take both God's and Caesar's dues away.
    The tenor of which execrable vote
  Your over-active zealots so promote,
  That neither tomb, nor temple could escape,
  Nor dead nor living, your licentious rape.                        170
  Statues and grave-stones o'er men buried

  [Sidenote: * _At Basing-Chapel, sold_ Dec. 29, 1643.]

  Robb'd of their brass, the * coffins of their lead;
  Not the seventh Henry's gilt and curious screen,
  Nor those which 'mongst our rarities were seen,

  [Sidenote: * _At Winchester._]

  The * chests wherein the Saxon monarchs lay,
  But must be basely sold or thrown away.
  May in succeeding times forgotten be
  Those bold examples of impiety,
  Which were the Ages' wonder and discourse,
  You have their greatest ills improv'd by worse.                   180

  [Sidenote: _Lactant._ l. 2, c. 4.]

    No more be mention'd Dionysius' theft,
  Who of their gold the heathen shrines bereft;
  For who with Yours his robberies confer,
  Must him repute a petty pilferer.

  [Sidenote: _Julian, Praefectus Aegypti. Theodoret_. l. 3, c. 11.]

  Nor Julian's scoff, who when he view'd the state
  Of Antioch's Church, the ornaments and plate,
  Cried, Meaner vessels would serve turn, or none
  Might well become the birth of Mary's Son:

  [Sidenote: ibid.]

    Nor how that spiteful Atheist did in scorn
  Piss on God's Table, which so oft had borne                       190
  The Hallow'd Elements, his death present:

  [Sidenote: _Ganguin_. l. 6.]

  Nor he that foul'd it with his excrement,
  Then turn'd the cloth unto that act of shame,
  Which without trembling Christians should not name.

    Nor John of Leyden, who the pillag'd quires
  Employ'd in Munster for his own attires;
  His pranks by Hazlerig exceeded be,
  A wretch more wicked and as mad as he,

  [Sidenote: _The Carpet belonging to the Communion Table of
  Winchester Cathedral_, Dec. 18, 1642. _Adrian Emp._]

  Who once in triumph led his sumpter moil
  Proudly bedecked with the Altar's spoil.                          200
    Nor at Bizantium's sack how Mahomet
  In St. Sophia's Church his horses set.
  Nor how Belshazzar at his drunken feasts
  Carous'd in holy vessels to his guests:
    Nor he that did the books and anthems tear,
  Which in the daily Stations used were.
    These were poor essays of imperfect crimes,
  Fit for beginners in unlearned times,
  Siz'd only for that dull meridian
  Which knew no Jesuit nor Puritan                                  210
  (Before whose fatal birth were no such things
  As doctrines to depose and murder kings).
  But since your prudent care enacted well,
  That there should be no King in Israel,
  England must write such annals of your reign
  Which all records of elder mischiefs stain.
    Churches unbuilt by order, others burn'd;
  Whilst Paul's and Lincoln are to stables turn'd;
  And at God's Table you might horses see
  By (those more beasts) their riders manger'd be,                  220

  [Sidenote: _At Winchcomb in Gloucestershire._]

  Some kitchens and some slaughter-houses made,
  Communion-boards and cloths for dressers laid:
  Some turn'd to loathsome goals, so by you brought
  Unto the curse of Baal's house, a draught.
  The Common Prayers with the Bibles torn,
  The copes in antic Moorish dances worn,
  And sometimes, for the wearer's greater mock,
  The surplice is converted to a frock,
  Some, bringing dogs, the Sacrament revile,
  Some, with Copronymus, the Font defile.                           230
  O God! canst Thou these profanations like?
  If not, why is Thy thunder slow to strike
  The cursed authors? who dare think that Thou
  Dost, when not punish them, their acts allow.
  All which outrageous crimes, though your pretence
  Would fasten on the soldiers' insolence,
  We must believe, that what by them was done
  Came licens'd forth by your probation.
  For, as yourselves with Athaliah's brood
  In strong contention for precedence stood,                        240

  [Sidenote: _Whitehall, Windsor_, Feb. 3, 1643.]

  You robb'd two Royal Chapels of their plate,
  Which Kings and Queens to God did dedicate;
  Then by a vote more sordid than the stealth,
  Melt down and coin it for the Commonwealth,
  That is, giv't up to the devouring jaws
  Of your great Idol Bel, new styl'd The Cause.
  And though this monster you did well devise
  To feed by plunder, taxes, loans, excise;
  (All which provisions You the people tell
  Scarce serve to diet Your Pantagruel).                            250
  We no strew'd ashes need to trace the cheat,
  Who plainly see what mouths the messes eat.
    Brave Reformation! and a through one too,
  Which to enrich yourselves must all undo.
  Pray tell us (those that can), What fruits have grown
  From all Your seeds in blood and treasure sown?
  What would you mend? when Your projected State
  Doth from the best in form degenerate?
  Or why should You (of all) attempt the cure,
  Whose facts nor Gospel's test nor Law's endure?                   260
  But like unwholesome exhalations met
  From Your conjunction only plagues beget,
  And in Your circle, as imposthumes fill
  Which by their venom the whole body kill;
  For never had You pow'r but to destroy,
  Nor will, but where You conquer'd to enjoy.
    This was Your master-prize, who did intend
  To make both Church and Kingdom's prey Your end.
  'Gainst which the King (plac'd in the gap) did strive
  By His (till then unquestion'd) negative,                         270
  Which finding You lack'd reason to persuade,
  Your arguments are into weapons made;
  So to compel him by main force to yield,

  [Sidenote: _E. of Essex Army_, Aug. 1 1642.]

  You had a formed army in the field
  Before his reared standard could invite
  Ten men upon his Righteous Cause to fight:
  Yet ere those raised forces did advance,

  [Sidenote: _The Standard at Nottingham_, Aug. 25, 1642.]

  Your malice struck him dead by Ordinance,
  When your Commissions the whole Kingdom swept
  With blood and slaughter, _Not the King except_.                  280
    Now hard'ned in revolt, You next proceed
  By pacts to strengthen each rebellious deed,

  [Sidenote: June 27, 1643.]

  New oaths and vows, and Covenants advance,
  All contradicting your allegiance,
  Whose sacred knot you plainly did untie,

  [Sidenote: _Declaration and Resolution of Parl._, Aug. 15, 1642.]

  When you with Essex _swore to live and die_.
  These were your calves in Bethel and in Dan,
  Which Jeroboam's treason stablish can,
  Who by strange pacts and altars did seduce
  The people to their laws' and King's abuse;                       290
  All which but serve like Shibboleth to try
  Those who pronounc'd not your conspiracy;
  That when your other trains defective are,
  Forc'd oaths might bring refusers to the snare.
  And lest those men your counsels did pervert,
  Might when your fraud was seen the Cause desert,
  A fierce decree is through the Kingdom sent,
  Which made it death for any to repent.
  What strange dilemmas doth Rebellion make?
  'Tis mortal to deny, or to partake:                               300
  Some hang who would not aid your traitorous act,

  [Sidenote: _History of English and Scottish Presbytery_, p. 320.]

  Others engag'd are hang'd if they retract.
  So witches who their contracts have unsworn,
  By their own Devils are in pieces torn.
    Thus still the raging tempest higher grows,
  Which in extremes the King's resolvings throws.
  The face of Ruin everywhere appears,
  And acts of outrage multiply our fears;
  Whilst blind Ambition by successes fed
  Hath You beyond the bound of subjects led,                        310
  Who tasting once the sweet of regal sway,
  Resolving now no longer to obey.
  For Presbyterian pride contests as high
  As doth the Popedom for supremacy.
  Needs must you with unskilful Phaeton
  Aspire to guide the chariot of the Sun,
  Though your ill-govern'd height with lightning be
  Thrown headlong from his burning axle-tree.

  [Sidenote: _The 19 Propos._]

  You will no more petition or debate,
  But your desire in Propositions state,                            330
  Which by such rules and ties the King confine,
  They in effect are summons to resign.
  Therefore your war is manag'd with such sleight,
  'Twas seen you more prevail'd by purse than might;
  And those you could not purchase to your will,
  You brib'd with sums of money to sit still.
    The King by this time hopeless here of peace,
  Or to procure His wasted People's ease,
  Which He in frequent messages had tried,
  By you as oft as shamelessly denied;                              330
  Wearied by faithless friends and restless foes,
  To certain hazard doth His life expose:

  [Sidenote: April 27, 1646. May 5, 1646.]

  When through your quarters in a mean disguise
  He to His countrymen for succour flies,
  Who met a brave occasion then to save
  Their native King from His untimely grave:
  Had he from them such fair reception gain'd,
  Wherewith ev'n Achish David entertain'd:
  But faith to Him or hospitable laws
  In your Confederate Union were no clause,                         340
  Which back to you their rend'red Master sends
  To tell how He was us'd among his friends.
  Far be it from my thoughts by this black line
  To measure all within that warlike clime;
  The still admir'd Montrose some numbers led
  In his brave steps of loyalty to tread.
  I only tax a furious party there,
  Who with our native pests enleagued were.
  Then 'twas you follow'd Him with hue and cry,
  Made midnight searches in each liberty,                           350

  [Sidenote: _This Order publish'd by beat of Drum_, May 4, 1646.]

  Voting it Death to all without reprieve,
  Who should their Master harbour or relieve.
  Ev'n in pure pity of both Nations' fame,
  I wish that act in story had no name.
  When all your mutual stipulations are
  Converted at Newcastle to a fair,
  Where (like His Lord) the King the mart is made,
  Bought with Your money, and by them betrayed;
  For both are guilty, they that did contract,
  And You that did the fatal bargain act.                           360
  Which who by equal reason shall peruse,
  Must yet conclude, they had the best excuse:
  For doubtless they (good men) had never sold,
  But that you tempted them with English gold;
  And 'tis no wonder if with such a sum
  Our brethren's frailty might be overcome.
  What though hereafter it may prove their lot
  To be compared with Iscariot?
  Yet will the World perceive which was most wise,
  And who the nobler traitor by the price;                          370
  For though 'tis true both did themselves undo,
  They made the better bargain of the two,
  Which all may reckon who can difference
  Two hundred thousand pounds from thirty-pence.
    However something is in justice due,
  Which may be spoken in defence of You;
  For in your Master's purchase you gave more,
  Than all your Jewish kindred paid before.
  And had you wisely us'd what then you bought,
  Your act might be a loyal ransom thought,                         380
  To free from bonds your captive sovereign,
  Restoring Him to his lost Crown again.
    But You had other plots, your busy hate
  Plied all advantage on His fallen state,
  And show'd You did not come to bring Him bail,
  But to remove Him to a stricter gaol,
  To Holmby first, whence taken from His bed,
  He by an army was in triumph led;
  Till on pretence of safety Cromwell's wile
  Had juggl'd Him into the Fatal Isle,                              390
  Where Hammond for his jailor is decreed,
  And murderous Rolf as lieger-hangman fee'd,
  Who in one fatal knot two counsels tie,
  He must by poison or by pistol die.
  Here now denied all comforts due to life,
  His friends, His children, and his peerless wife;
  From Carisbrook He oft but vainly sends,
  And though first wrong'd, seeks to make you amends;
  For this He sues, and by His restless pen
  Importunes Your deaf ears to treat again.                         400
  Whilst the proud faction scorning to go less,

  [Sidenote: Jan. 3, 1647. Jan. 9, 1647.]

  Return those trait'rous votes of Non Address,
  Which follow'd were by th' Armies thund[e]ring
  To act without and quite against the King.
  Yet when that cloud remov'd, and the clear light
  Drawn from His weighty reasons, gave You sight
  Of Your own dangers, had not their intents

  [Sidenote: _Colchester Siege._]

  Retarded been by some cross accidents;
  Which for a while with fortunate suspense
  Check'd or diverted their swoll'n insolence:                      410
  When the whole Kingdom for a Treaty cried,
  Which gave such credit to Your falling side,

  [Sidenote: June 30, 1648. _Treaty Voted_, July 28, 1648.]

  That you recall'd those votes, and God once more
  Your power to save the Kingdom did restore;
  Remember how Your peevish Treators sate,
  Not to make peace, but to prolong debate;
  How You that precious time at first delay'd,
  And what ill use of Your advantage made,
  As if from Your foul hands God had decreed
  Nothing but war and mischief should succeed.                      420
  For when by easy grants the King's assent
  Did your desires in greater things prevent,
  When He did yield faster than You entreat,
  And more than modesty dares well repeat;
  Yet not content with this, without all sense
  Or of His honour or His conscience,
  Still you press'd on, till you too late descried,
  Twas now less safe to stay than be denied:
  For like a flood broke loose the armed rout,
  Then shut Him closer up, and shut You out,                        430
  Who by just vengeance are since worried
  By those hand-wolves You for his ruin bred.
    Thus like two smoking firebrands, You and They
  Have in this smother chok'd the Kingdom's day:
  And as you rais'd them first, must share the guilt,
  With all the blood in those distractions spilt.
  For though with Sampson's foxes backward turn'd
  (When he Philistia's fruitful harvest burn'd),
  The face of your opinions stands averse,
  All your conclusions but one fire disperse;                       440
  And every line which carries your designs,
  In the same centre of confusion joins.
  Though then the Independents end the work,
  'Tis known they took their platform from the Kirk;
  Though Pilate Bradshaw with his pack of Jews,
  God's High Vice-gerent at the bar accuse;
  They but reviv'd the evidence and charge,
  Your pois'nous Declarations laid at large;
  Though they condemn'd or made his life their spoil,
  You were the setters forc'd him to the toil:                      450
  For you whose fatal hand the warrant writ,
  The prisoner did for execution fit;
  And if their axe invade the Regal throat,
  Remember you first murder'd Him by vote.
  Thus they receive your tennis at the bound,
  Take off that head which you had first un-crown'd;
  Which shows the texture of our mischiefs clew,
  If ravell'd to the top, begins in You,
  Who have for ever stain'd the brave intents
  And credit of our English Parliaments:                            460
  And in this one caus'd greater ills, and more,
  Than all of theirs did good that went before.
    Yet have You kept your word against Your will,
  Your King is great indeed and glorious still,
  And you have made Him so. We must impute
  That lustre which His sufferings contribute
  To your preposterous wisdoms, who have done
  All your good deeds by contradiction:
  For as to work His peace you rais'd this strife,
  And often shot at Him to save His life;                           470
  As you took from Him to increase His wealth,
  And kept Him pris'ner to secure His health;
  So in revenge of your dissembled spite,
  In this last wrong you did Him greatest right,
  And (cross to all You meant) by plucking down
  Lifted Him up to His Eternal Crown.
    With this encircled in that radiant sphere,
  Where thy black murderers must ne'er appear;
  Thou from th' enthroned Martyrs' blood-stain'd line,
  Dost in thy virtues bright example shine.                         480
  And when thy darted beam from the moist sky
  Nightly salutes thy grieving people's eye,
  Thou like some warning light rais'd by our fears,
  Shalt both provoke and still supply our tears,
  Till the Great Prophet wak'd from his long sleep,
  Again bids Sion for Josiah weep:
  That all successions by a firm decree
  May teach their children to lament for Thee.
    Beyond these mournful rites there is no art
  Or cost can Thee preserve. Thy better part                        490
  Lives in despite of Death, and will endure
  Kept safe in thy unpattern'd Portraiture:
  Which though in paper drawn by thine own hand,
  Shall longer than Corinthian-marble stand,
  Or iron sculptures: There thy matchless pen
  Speaks Thee the Best of Kings as Best of Men:
  Be this Thy Epitaph; for This alone
  Deserves to carry Thy Inscription.
  And 'tis but modest Truth (so may I thrive
  As not to please the best of thine alive,                         500
  Or flatter my Dead Master, here would I
  Pay my last duty in a glorious lie):
  In that admired piece the World may read
  Thy virtues and misfortunes storied;
  Which bear such curious mixture, men must doubt
  Whether Thou wiser wert or more devout.
    There live, Blest Relic of a saint-like mind,
  With honours endless, as Thy peace, enshrin'd;
  Whilst we, divided by that bloody cloud,
  Whose purple mists Thy murder'd body shroud,                      510
  Here stay behind at gaze: apt for Thy sake
  Unruly murmurs now 'gainst Heav'n to make,
  Which binds us to live well, yet gives no fence
  To guard her dearest sons from violence.
  But he whose trump proclaims, _Revenge is mine_,
  Bids us our sorrow by our hope confine,
  And reconcile our Reason to our Faith,
  Which in thy Ruin such conclusions hath;
  It dares conclude, God does not keep His Word
  If _Zimri dies in peace that slew his Lord_.                      520

              From my sad Retirement
                  March 11, 1648.

  CAROLUS STUART REX ANGLIÆ SECURE CAESUS[1]
      VITA CESSIT TRICESSIMO IANUARII.




    [_An Elegy upon King Charles the First._] I have
    thought it desirable to give this Elegy though Hannah did
    not, and though I scarcely myself think it to be King's,
    first because it is very little known (it was strange even to
    Professor Firth when I asked him about it); secondly, because
    the 1664 issue or reissue seems worth completing; but thirdly,
    and principally, because it is well worth giving. It seems to
    me, in fact, rather too good in a certain way to be King's.
    He could write, as we have seen, fairly vigorous couplets of
    a kind rather later than this date; but I do not know where he
    keeps up such continuous and effective 'slogging' as here. The
    Colchester piece, which is the natural parallel, is distinctly
    inferior in that respect. There are, moreover, in the piece
    some things which I suspect King would not, as well as could
    not, have written, and which perhaps influenced Hannah in not
    giving it. The close and effective Biblical parallels are not
    quite in the Bishop's way in verse, and the clear vigorous
    summary of the whole rebellion--dates and facts in margin--is
    like nothing else of his that I know. But--his or not his--it
    is found with his undoubted work; it is good; and so it shall
    be given.

    But the reader must not suppose that it has never appeared
    except in the 1664 King or before that. While reading for the
    present edition I had noticed an entry of a very similar title
    in Hazlitt, and on looking the book up in the British Museum
    I found it, as I expected, to be identical in all important
    respects, putting aside some minor variants and a shorter
    title, with 1664. The original (in black border at least
    an inch deep) adds: 'Persecuted by two implacable factions,
    Imprisoned by the one and murthered by the other, January
    30th, 1648.' The final prose clause is the same, and I noticed
    no various readings, except merest 'literals'--an occasional
    capital for lower case, '-or' for '-our', and the like--which
    it did not seem necessary to collate or report exactly.]

    [_Title_] As usual, 'Charls' in original.]

    [Line: 14 Zechariah xii. 11 compared with 2 Kings xxiii. 29
    and 2 Chronicles xxxv. 22-4.]

    [Line: 27 This line is slightly ambiguous. At first one takes
    'Judges' as referring to the regicide tribunal--and of course
    not merely the dignity but the unanswerable logic of Charles's
    attitude is admitted. But our elegist would hardly admit that
    the King moved in the sphere of his rebellious subjects, so
    that it may be a reference to the legally constituted bench of
    earlier years--'_his_ Judges' in another sense.]

    [Line: 40 See 2 Kings xx, 2 Chronicles xxxii, and Isaiah
    xxxix.]

    [Line: 45 A little prosaic. Old St. Paul's was being
    constantly tinkered: indeed, as is well known from Evelyn's
    _Diary_, there were plans for very extensive restoration just
    before the Fire.]

    [Line: 48 Orig. 'losses', which at the time would stand
    equally well for singular and plural genitive.]

    [Line: 58 Orig. 'sacrifise', to get a complete ear-rhyme.]

    [Line: 61 This apostrophe to the 'cursed mountebanks of State'
    is uncommonly vigorous, and much straighter 'hitting from the
    shoulder' than King usually manages.]

    [Line: 100 Orig. 'husband', without 's, and possibly
    intended.]

    [Line: 124 perspective] As commonly = 'telescope'.]

    [Line: 138 Watkins I know not; Pennington we have seen in
    Cleveland; Venn (1586-1650) was John Venn, wool-merchant,
    M.P., active rebel, and regicide.]

    [Line: 142 This (original) may read, 'Your mouths, laid
    on, maintain the cry', which seems most probable; or, 'Your
    mouth's [_i.e._ is] laid on "Maintain the cry".']

    [Line: 146 1 Samuel xxiii 24. Jeshimon seems to have escaped
    Alexander the Concordance-smith.]

    [Line: 155 foil] The word in this sense had puzzled me; but
    the readers of the Clarendon Press put me literally on it by
    reference to _N.E.D._ It means the 'scent' or 'track' of a
    hunted animal and occurs in the first sense in Turbervile,
    and elsewhere, as well as (figuratively used) in as late and
    well-known a place as _Tom Jones_.]

    [Line: 199 'Moil'--or rather, more commonly, 'moyle'--is very
    common for 'mule' in Elizabethan drama, and is said to be
    still dialectic, especially in Devon and Cornwall.]

    [Line: 223 'Goal' would seem here to be used as = 'jakes',
    though it has been suggested that the common sense of 'jail'
    will do.]

    [Line: 226 Orig. 'Coaps'.]

    [Line: 238 'probation' must here = '_ap_probation'.]

    [Line: 246 Orig. 'Idol Bel_l_', which may puzzle for a moment.
    Of course the Dragon's companion and Nebo's is meant. The poet
    seems indeed rather to have mixed up the monster and the false
    god.]

    [Line: 250 Here again there seems to be a slight confusion
    between Pantagruel and his glorious father.]

    [Lines: 265-6 Another uncommonly vigorous couplet.]

    [Line: 312 The writer either intended to continue the set
    of participles or forgot that he had begun it. But if 'For
    Presbyterian ... supremacy' be thrown into parenthesis the
    anacoluthon will be mended--after a fashion.]

    [Lines: 373-4 Good again; and with a fore-echo of Dryden's
    'Shimei' rhythm and swashing blow.]

    [Line: 392 lieger-hangman] 'Hangman resident',
    house-hangman'.]

    [Line: 403 Orig. 'Armies', with the usual choice between
    singular and plural genitive or (here) nominative plural.]

    [Line: 415 I think it well to keep the form 'Treator'.]

    [Line: 430 Pointed, if slightly burlesque.]

    [Line: 432 hand-wolves] A dog trained and on the leash was
    said to be 'in hand'.]

    [Line: 438 Philisti_a_] The letter here is slightly 'smashed'
    and the word might be 'Philistins' or 'Philistia's'. It looks
    more like the former, but the latter is better, and is said to
    be clear in Mr. Thorn-Drury's copies.]

    [Line: 444 platform] This is interesting.]

    [Line: 492 Portraiture] A reference to the [Greek: Eikôn
    Basilikê].]


        [Footnote: 1 Orig. C_o_esus.]




Poems in Manuscript.




_A Second Elegy on the Countess of Leinster._


  Sleep, precious ashes, in thy sacred urn
  From Death and Grave till th' last trump sounds return;
  Meanwhile embalm'd in Virtues. Joseph's Tomb
  Were fitter for thee, than the Earth's dark womb.
  Cease, Friends, to weep; she's but asleep, not dead,--
  Chang'd from her husband's, to her mother's, bed;
  Or from his bosom into Abram's rather,
  Where now she rests, Blest Soul, in such a Father.
  Thus Death hath done his best, and worst. His best,
  In sending Virtue to her place of rest;                            10
  His worst, in leaving him, as dead, in life
  Whose chiefest Joys were in his dearest Wife.




    [_A Second Elegy on the Countess of Leinster._] Hannah found
    this in the Pickering MS. 'immediately after' the printed
    one _v. supra_. On what other grounds he assigned its subject
    I do not know; but both, as noted above, have a most
    extraordinary efflorescence of capitals.]




_Epigrams._


I.

    Quid faciant leges, ubi sola pecunia regnat? &c.--PETRON.
    ARBIT.

  To what serve Laws, where only Money reigns?
  Or where a poor man's cause no right obtains?
  Even those that most austerity pretend,
  Hire out their tongues, and words for profit lend.
      What's Judgement then, but public merchandise?
      And the Court sits, but to allow the price.

II.

    Casta suo gladium cum traderet Arria Paeto, &c.--MARTIAL.

  When Arria to her Paetus had bequeath'd
  The sword in her chaste bosom newly sheath'd;
  Trust me (quoth she) My own wound feels no smart;
  'Tis thine (My Paetus) grieves and kills my heart.

III.

    Qui pelago credit, magno se faenore tollit, &c.--PETRON.
    ARBIT.

  He whose advent'rous keel ploughs the rough seas,
  Takes interest of fate for wealth's increase.
  He that in battle traffics, and pitch'd fields,
  Reaps with his sword rich harvests, which war yields.
  Base parasites repose their drunken heads,
  Laden with sleep and wine, on Tyrian beds;
  And he that melts in Lust's adult'rous fire,
  Gets both reward and pleasure for his hire.
  But Learning only, midst this wanton heat,
  Hath (save itself) nothing to wear or eat;
  Faintly exclaiming on the looser Times,
  That value Wit and Arts below their crimes.


IV.

    Pro captu lectoris habent sua fata libelli.

  The fate of books is diverse as man's sense:
  Two critics ne'er shar'd one intelligence.


V.

  I would not in my love too soon prevail:
  An easy conquest makes the purchase stale.[1]




    [_Epigrams._] This little bunch of epigrams is of
    no particular value, but being so small may be given for
    completeness' sake. The first three Hannah found in both
    Pickering and Malone 22 MSS., together with V, which, I
    suppose, shocked him so that he did not print it. The _Pro
    captu lectoris_, which is the best, is in Malone only.]


        [Footnote 1: From a copy most kindly made for me by Mr.
        Nichol Smith. It is a harmless enough, and rather neat,
        translation of Petronius, _Nolo quod cupio, &c._]




    The following group of poems has been printed by Mr. Mason,
    the first as authentic, the others as doubtful. He points out
    that _The Complaint_ and _On his Shadow_ are autograph, and
    written on the same sheet of paper as the lines _Upon the
    Untimely Death of J. K._ The text here printed has been
    supplied by Mr. Percy Simpson from the original MSS., and the
    few textual notes are his. In view of the uncertainty of the
    bulk of the matter I [G. S.] have not thought it worth while
    to add any annotation of the more general kind. In addition,
    Mr. Mason prints a translation of a Latin elegy on Dr.
    Spenser, President of Corpus Christi College, Oxford; the
    Latin text of this in Rawlinson MS. D. 912, fol. 305 verso, is
    in King's autograph, but the translation is not, and moreover
    it is so tinkered and changed as to suggest the efforts of a
    far from facile, if very conscientious, copyist. This has not
    been printed, and only the first of the following poems can
    with certainty be ascribed to King.


_Upon the Untimely Death of J. K., first born of HK._

      Blessed Spirit, thy infant breath,
      Fitter for the quire of saints
      Than for mortals here beneath,
      Warbles joys, but mine complaints--
      Plaints that spring from that great loss
      Of thy little self, sad cross.
  Yet do I still repair thee by desire
  Which warms my benumbed sense, but like false fire.

      But with such delusive shapes
      Still my pensive thoughts are eased,                           10
      As birds bating at mock grapes
      Are with empty error pleased.
      Yet I err not, for decay
      Hath but seized thy house of clay,
  For lo the lively image of each part
  Makes deep impression on my waxy heart.

  Thus learn I to possess the thing I want;
  Having great store of thee, and yet great scant.
  Oh let me thus recall thee, ne'er repine,
  Since what is thy fate now, must once be mine.                     20




    [_Upon the Untimely Death of J. K., &c._] The text
    is taken from Rawlinson MS. D. 317 of the Bodleian, fol. 175;
    the monogram of the title was used by King. An unsigned
    copy is in Harleian MS. 6917 of the British Museum, foll. 96
    Verso-97: this omits 'but', l. 8.]




_The Complaint._


  Fond, hapless man, lost in thy vain desire;
                Thy lost desire
                May now retire.
  She, like a salamander, in thy flame
                Sports with Love's name,
                And lives the same,
          Unsinged, impenetrably cold.
  Sure, careless Boy, thou slep'st; and Death, instead
                Of thine, conveyed
                His dart of lead.                                    10
  This thou unluckily at her hast sent,
                Who now is bent
                Not to relent,
          Though thou spend all thy shafts of gold.
  I prithee filch another fatal dart
                And pierce my heart;
                To ease this smart,
  Strike all my senses dull. Thy force devours
                Me and my powers
                In tedious hours,                                    20
          And thy injustice I'll proclaim
  Or use some art to cause her heat return,
                Or whilst I burn
                Make her my urn,
  Where I may bury in a marble chest
                All my unrest.
                Thus her cold breast,
          If it but lodge, will quench, my flame.




    [_The Complaint._] The text is taken from Rawlinson
    Poet. MS. D. 317, fol. 161, where it is written, without title
    or signature, in King's autograph. There is a copy in Harleian
    MS. 6917, fol. 97, entitled _The Complaint_.]

    [Line: 4 thy] the _Harl. MS._]

    [Line: 21 King originally wrote 'And she thy weakness will
    proclaim', and then added the text as an afterthought.]

    [Line: 28 will] may _Harl._]




_On his Shadow_


  Come, my shadow, constant, true,
      Stay, and do not fly me:
  When I court thee or would sue,
      Thou wilt not deny me.
  Female loves I find unkind
      And devoid of pity;
  Therefore I have changed my mind
      And to thee frame this ditty.
  Child of my body and that flame
      From whence our light we borrow,                               10
  Thou continuest still the same
      In my joy or sorrow.
  Though thou lov'st the sunshine best
      Or enlightened places,
  Yet thou dost not fly, but rest,
      'Midst my black disgraces.
  Thou wouldst have all happy days
      When thou art approaching,
  No cloud nor night to dim bright rays
      By their sad encroaching.                                      20
  Let but glimmering lights appear
      To banish night's obscuring,
  Thou wilt show thou harbourd'st near,
      By my side enduring;
  And, when thou art forced away
      By the sun's declining,
  Thy length is doubled, to repay
      Thy absence whilst he's shining.
  As I flatter not thee fair,
      So thou art not fading;                                        30
  Age nor sickness can impair
      Thy hue by fierce invading.
  Let the purest varnished clay
      Art can show, or Nature,
  View the shades they cast; and they
      Grow duskish like thy feature.
  'Tis thy truth I most commend--
      That thou art not fleeting:
  For, as I embrace my friend,
      So thou giv'st him greeting.                                   40
  If I strike, or keep the peace,
      So thou seem'st to threaten,
  And single blows by thy increase
      Leave my foe double beaten.
  As thou findst me walk or sit,
      Standing or down lying,
  Thou dost all my postures hit,
      Most apish in thy prying.
  When our actions so consent--
      Expressions dumb, but local--                                  50
  Words are needless complement,
      Else I could wish thee vocal.
  Hadst thou but a soul, with sense
      And reason sympathising,
  Earth could match, nor heaven dispense
      A mate so far enticing.
  Nay, when bedded in the dust,
      'Mongst shades I have my biding,
  Tapers can see thy posthume trust
      Within my vault residing.                                      60
  Had heaven so pliant women made
      Or thou their souls couldst marry,
  I'd soon resolve to wed my shade;
      This love would ne'er miscarry.
  But they thy lightness only share;
      If shunned, the more they follow,
  And to pursuers peevish are
      As Daphne to Apollo.
  Yet this experience thou hast taught:
      A she-friend and an honour                                     70
  Like thee; nor that nor she is caught,
      Unless I fall upon her.




    [_On his Shadow._] The text is taken from King's
    autograph in Rawlinson Poet D. 317, foll. 173-4: it has
    neither heading nor signature. At line 25, the last on this
    page of the MS., the catchword reads 'Yet when', which is
    slightly more appropriate, but the text continues 'And when'.
    There is a copy in Harleian MS. 6917, fol. 97 verso-98,
    entitled _On his Shadow._ There are the following variants:]

        [Line: 8 frame] framed.]

        [Line: 11 still _om._]

        [Line: 23 harbourd'st] harbour'st.]

        [Line: 26 By] At.]

        [Line: 49 so] thus.]

        [Line: 55 could] could not (but compare l. 31).]

        [Line: 64 would] could.]




_Wishes to my Son, John,_

_For this new, and all succeeding years:_

_January 1, 1630._


  If wishes may enrich my boy,
  My Jack, that art thy father's joy,
  They shall be showered upon thy head
  As thick as manna, angel's bread;
  And bread I wish thee--this short word
  Will furnish both thy back and board;
  Not Fortunatus' purse or cap
  Nor Danae's gold-replenished lap
  Can more supply thee: but content
  Is a large patrimony, sent                                         10
  From him who did thy soul infuse.
  May'st thou this best endowment use
  In any state; thy structure is
  I see complete--a frontispiece
  Promising fair; may it ne'er be
  Like Jesuit's volumes, where we see
  Virtues and saints adorn the front,
  Doctrines of devils follow on't:
  May a pure soul inhabit still
  This well-mixed clay; and a straight will                          20
  Biassed by reason, that by grace.
  May gems of price maintain their place
  In such a casket: in that list
  Chaste turquoise, sober amethyst
  That sacred breastplate still surround:
  Urim and Thummim be there found,
  Which for thy wearing I design,
  That in thee King and Priest may join,
  As 'twas thy grandsire's choice, and mine.
  May'st thou attain John the Divine                                 30
  Chief of thy titles, though contempt
  Now brand the clergy; be exempt,
  I ever wish thee, from each vice
  That may that calling scandalize:
  Let not thy tongue with court oil flow,
  Nor supple language lay thee low
  For thy preferment; make God's cause
  Thy pulpit's task, not thine applause;
  May'st thou both preach by line and life;
  That thou live well and chaste, a wife                             40
  I wish thee, such as is thy sire's,
  A lawful help 'gainst lustful fires;
  And though promotions often frown
  On married brows, yet lie not down
  In single baudry; impure monks,
  That banish wedlock, license punks.
  Peace I do wish thee from those wars
  Which gownmen talk out at the bars
  Four times a year; I wish thee peace
  Of conscience, country, and increase                               50
  In all that best of men commends,
  Favour with God, good men thy friends.
  Last, for a lasting legacy
  I this bequeath, when thou shalt die,
  Heaven's monarch bless mine eyes, to see
  My wishes crowned, in crowning thee.




    [_Wishes to my Son, John._] This poem is preserved
    anonymously in Harleian MS. 6917, foll. 101 verso-102, and Mr.
    Mason assigns it to Henry King. Lines 28-9 strongly support
    this attribution, but the date at the head of the poem is a
    serious difficulty, which can only be met by supposing the
    lines to have been addressed in 1630 to the son of a second
    marriage: l. 40 refers to a living wife, who could not be
    the lady of _The Exequy_. King's authorship must therefore be
    regarded as doubtful.]




_A Contemplation upon Flowers._


  Brave flowers, that I could gallant it like you
      And be as little vain!
  You come abroad and make a harmless show,
      And to your beds of earth again;
  You are not proud, you know your birth,
  For your embroidered garments are from earth.

  You do obey your months and times, but I
      Would have it ever spring;
  My fate would know no winter, never die,
      Nor think of such a thing.                                     10
  Oh that I could my bed of earth but view,
  And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

  Oh teach me to see death and not to fear,
      But rather to take truce;
  How often have I seen you at a bier,
      And there look fresh and spruce.
  You fragrant flowers then teach me that my breath
  Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.




    [_A Contemplation upon Flowers._] Another very
    doubtful poem from Harleian MS. 6917, fol. 105 verso, where it
    is attributed to 'H. Kinge'. Mr. Mason points out in support
    of the attribution that this MS. contains other poems of King
    and documents relating to his family; but the poem can hardly
    be regarded as authenticated. It has, however, been quoted as
    King's in more than one anthology; and it would probably be
    missed if omitted from an edition of King's poems.]


       * * *


       *       *       *       *       *




  POEMS

  AND

  SONGS,


  BY


  _THOMAS FLATMAN._


  The Fourth Edition,

  With many Additions and Amendments.




                      _------Me quoque vatem_
  _Dicunt Pastores, sed non Ego credulus illis._  Virgil.




  _LONDON_,

  Printed for _Benjamin Tooke_, at the Ship in
  St. _Paul_'s Church-Yard. 1686.




INTRODUCTION TO THOMAS FLATMAN.


Flatman has been condoled with on his name by Mr. Bullen, one of
the few persons who have done him some justice in recent years.[1]
I should rather myself, for reasons which will be given presently,
condole with him on his date. His father was probably Robert Flatman
of Mendham, Norfolk, and it is supposed that the poet was born in
London. The date of his birth, recorded here for the first time,
was February 21, 1635, about 5.29 in the morning. So his horoscope,
preserved by Ashmole,[2] informs us. When he was elected at Winchester
on Michaelmas Day, 1648, he was stated to be 'eleven years old'--a
slight miscalculation. He himself in _The Retirement_, written in
1665, correctly speaks of his 'thirty years'. He actually entered
Winchester in September, 1649. He was transferred in the usual (when
uninterrupted) course to New College, Oxford; he was admitted as a
probationer on September 11, 1654, but seems not to have matriculated
till July 25, 1655; he became Fellow in 1656.[3] There is no academic
record, it would seem, of his ever having taken his degree, though he
is spoken of as 'A.B. of Oxford' when, by the King's Letters, he was
made M.A. of St. Catherine Hall, Cambridge, in 1666. He went from
Oxford to the Inner Temple, in 1655, and was called to the Bar on May
11, 1662. Oldys has a half-satiric reference to his pleading.[4] He
was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in April, 1668. In 1672 he
married, his wife being favourably spoken of, and gossip--inevitable
whether well founded or not--records that his 'Bachelor's Song' (_v.
inf._) was sung under his windows on the occasion by 'merry friends'.
And he died in London on December 8, 1688. Beyond these meagre
details, and a statement that he had property at Diss (the cure
of Skelton and the home of Maria Jolly), we know little about him
directly or by external evidence. By that of his poems he must have
been a friend of good men--Walton, Cotton, Edward Browne[3] (Sir
Thomas's son), Faithorne the engraver, Oldham, and others. His
miniature portraits are well spoken of;--one is in possession of the
Duke of Buccleuch, seven are in the South Kensington Museum. That,
however, which illustrates his _Poems_ is from a painting by John
Hayls, whom Pepys's Diary has made known to a wider circle than
students of the History of English Painting.

Flatman was evidently a tolerable scholar; and his Latinity, of
which several specimens will be found here, does no discredit to the
Winchester and the New College of the time. When he began English
verse-writing does not seem to be known, but it must have been pretty
early. He does not appear to have hurried his Muse; but collected his
poems first in 1674, issuing augmented editions, to the number of four
in all, up to a time shortly before his death. Of these, the
third (1682) and the fourth (1686) have a claim to be regarded as
authoritative and are the basis of the present text. The 1682
edition, 'With Additions and Amendments', is better printed, and the
1686--which makes a modest attempt to outbid it 'With many Additions
and Amendments'--is valuable for the supplementary poems.[4] His
Pindaric epicedes on public men--Ossory, Rupert, the King, &c.--for
the most part appeared separately in folio; and in the earlier days of
my preparation of this collection I gave myself a good deal of trouble
in looking them up. Except the elegy on Ormond (1688) they were
reprinted in these two editions. The last (1686) edition of the
_Poems_, after some search, was procured for me. It seems to be much
rarer than the third of 1682, which I have long possessed, and is not
in the Bodleian. Additional poems, not included in the texts of 1682
and 1686, are added as a supplement. Three of these are taken from
a transcript in Professor Firth's collection of an autograph MS. of
Flatman which is now in America; the title is 'Miscellanies by Tho.
Flatman, ex Interiori Templo Londini. Sic imperantibus fatis. Nov. 9,
1661, 13º Caroli 2^{di}.' This contains in all twenty-three of
the poems which have been collated for this reprint. An interesting
feature of this manuscript is that it dates a number of the poems.
Besides his poems, some pamphlets and Almanacks[5] have been
attributed to him on extremely doubtful evidence, or none at all.
Except among his friends, it does not seem even in his own time to
have been the fashion to think much of his verse; and a triplet of
Rochester's, dismissing him as an imitator of Cowley, and a bad one,
is usually quoted.[6] Flatman's Pindarics are certainly his weakest
poems. But Rochester, for all his wit and wits, was, though an acute,
a very ill-natured critic; we know that he thought Cowley himself out
of date and (as his representatives in kind, though not in gift, would
say to-day) 'early Caroline'. Besides, to dismiss a Pindaric poet of
the Restoration as an imitator, and a bad imitator, of Cowley is too
obvious to be of much importance. I should certainly admit that the
minor Pindaric--of which I have, for my sins or as part of them,
probably read as much as any one living--is one of the most
dismal departments of English verse. But Flatman's is by no means
exceptionally bad, and is at its best better than that of Oldham, or
of Otway, or of Swift--men with whom he cannot compare as a man of
letters generally. Let us come closer to him and to his work.

Hayls may not have been a great painter; but he certainly seems to
have had the knack of putting character in his portraits. Neither that
of Pepys nor that of his wife is without it: and that of Flatman has
a great deal.[7] It is what would be called, I suppose, by most
superficial judges an 'ugly' face--with a broad _retroussé_ nose, lips
of the kind sometimes called 'sensual', and a heavy (something of a
double) chin. But the forehead is high, the mouth smallish, and above
all there are a pair of somewhat melancholy eyes which entirely rescue
it from any charge of vulgarity, though it is not exactly refined.
It certainly suggests what is called in stock phrase an 'artistic
temperament': and it may not be too fanciful to see in it the kind of
artistic temperament which aims higher than it can hit, begins what it
is unable to finish, and never forgets the yew even among the roses.
This complexion is, of course, in a way reflected in the very titles
of the few things of Flatman known[8] to the few people who do know
him--'Death', 'A Thought of Death', 'A Dooms-day Thought', 'Nudus
Redibo', &c. But it is almost everywhere; and there is no
affectation or _sensiblerie_ about it. Flatman is not, as Longfellow,
picturesquely and perhaps Carlylesquely, remarked of Matthiessen and
Salis, 'a gentleman who walks through life with a fine white cambric
handkerchief pressed to his eyes'. He can write battle-songs and
love-songs and festive _gaillardises_ naturally enough. But the other
vein is also natural, and perhaps more so. The funeral panegyric Odes
which make a considerable feature of his works were, of course, almost
part of the routine business of a professional poet in those times of
patronage: one of his regular sources of revenue, in fives or tens or
hundreds of guineas, according to his rank on Parnassus and the rank
and liberality of his subject in Church or State or City. But Flatman
at his best suffuses them with a grave interest in Death itself--a
touch now of Lucretius (who seems to have been a favourite of his),
now of the Preacher--which is not in the least conventional. In this
curious Second Caroline period of faint survivals of the Renaissance
and complete abandonment of its traditions, Flatman's heritage appears
to have been this sense of Death. A poet might have a worse portion.

In powers of expression he was not equally well apanaged: and it was
unlucky for him that he fell in with the special period of popularity
of that difficult and dangerous thing the Pindaric, and had enough of
the older taste in him to attempt the short metaphysical lyric: 'The
Resolve', 'The Fatigue', 'The Indifferent'. For the first he carried
guns hardly heavy enough; for the second his lyrical craft was hardly
sufficiently swift and handy to catch every puff of spiritual wind.
Yet it is mildly astonishing to find how often he comes near to
success, and how near that approach sometimes is. How many poets have
tried to put the thought of the first line of the first poem in the
complete edition:

  No more!--Alas! that bitter word, _No more!_

and how many have put it more simply and passionately? The 'Morning
Hymn' and 'Evening Anthem' have rather strangely missed (owing no
doubt to that superficial connexion with Bishop Ken's which is noticed
below) association with hundreds and thousands of very often inferior
divine poems that have found home in collections. 'The Resolve' begins
quite admirably, and only wanted a little more pains on the poet's
part to go on as well. 'Love's Bravo' and 'The Expectation' and
'Fading Beauty' and 'The Slight' are very far indeed from being
contemptible. The two _gaillardises_, the 'Bachelor' and the 'Cats',
want very little to make them quite capital; and 'The Whim' is in the
same case. 'The Advice' actually deserves that adjective, and not
a few others will be found pointed out in the notes; while even
his Pindarics (at least the earlier ones, for those written after
Rochester's death more fully justify his censure than those he can
have read) have fine lines and even fine passages.

It is no doubt rather unfortunate that Flatman should have left us
so many Horatian translations. For the one thing needful--except in a
very few pieces where Horace outgoes himself in massive splendour, and
so can be outgone further by more of this, as in Dryden's magnificent
version of _Tyrrhena regum_--the one thing needful in translating
Horace is something of his well-known and 'curious' urbane
elegance. And this was the very quality which perhaps no Restoration
poet--certainly not Flatman--could give. The 'dash of vulgarity'[9]
which Mr. Bullen has too truly stigmatized affects nearly all of them
except when transported by passion (which is nowhere in Horace);
or fighting hard in a mood of satiric controversy which is quite
different from his pococurantism; or using a massive rhetoric which is
equally absent from him. The consequence is that what Flatman gives us
is not Horace at all; and is not good Flatman. The 'Canidia' pieces,
as one would expect, are about the best, and they are not very good.

I own, however, and I am duly prepared to take the consequences of
the confession, that Flatman appeals to me, though in a different way,
almost as much as any other of the constituents of this volume, though
certainly not so much as some of those of the other two. He had the
pure misfortune--as the sternest critic must acknowledge it to have
been--of being born too late for one period and too early for another.
He could not give to his most serious things the 'brave translunary'
exaltations and excursions which came naturally to the men of a time
just before his, and he could not correct this want by the order and
the sense, the neatness and the finish, which were born with the next
generation. 'Death' and 'A Thought of Death' and the other things
mentioned unfairly but inevitably remind us that we have left Donne
and Crashaw, Vaughan, and even Herbert, behind us. 'The Mistake' and
'The Whim' and many others remind us that we have not come to Prior.
Yet others--which it were cruel to particularize and which he that
reads will easily find for himself--display a lack of the purely
lyrical power which, among his own contemporaries, Rochester and
Sedley and Aphra Behn, not to mention others, possessed. Nor had he
that gift of recognizing the eclipse of the Moon and utilizing the
opportunities of the Earth, which has made Dryden, to competent and
catholic tastes, all but one of the greatest of English poets. But
still he was a 'child of the Moon' herself; and he has the benefits
which she never withholds from her children, though they may be
accompanied by a disastrous influence. He was no doubt a minor poet
in a time when minor poetry was exposed to special disadvantages. But
with far less wit he was more of a poet than Cleveland; with far less
art he was perhaps as much of a poet as Stanley; and I am not even
sure that, with 'weight for age' in the due sense, he was so very much
less of a poet than King. And if those who think but little of these
others as poets deem this scanty praise let us go further and say that
he _is_ a poet--imperfect, disappointing as well as disappointed,
only half aneled with the sacred unction and houselled with the
divine food--but a poet. Which if any denies he may be 'an excellent
person'--as Praed or Praed's Medora so finally puts it--but he does
not know much, if indeed he knows anything, about poetry.[10]




    [Footnote 1: By judicious remarks in the preface to his _Musa
    Proterva_ (London, 1889, p. viii), and by specimens both in
    that and in its companion, _Speculum Amantis_.]

    [Footnote 2: In Ashmole MS. 436, at folio 50. Mr. J. K.
    Fotheringham, who has kindly deciphered the horoscope, points
    out that there are some inaccuracies in the astrologer's
    computation, which 'leave a doubt of a few minutes'.]

    [Footnote 3: Mr. Ernest Barker, Librarian of New College,
    kindly gave Mr. Simpson access to the College records to test
    the above dates and facts.]

    [Footnote 4:

        Should Flatman for his Client strain the laws
        The Painter gives some colour to the cause:
        Should Critics censure what the Poet writ,
        The Pleader quits him at the Bar of wit.
    ]

    [Footnote 3: Browne's diary (March, 1663-4) contains repeated
    mention of 'Mr. Flatman, chirurgeon' of Norwich, who had
    been a great traveller. This is additional evidence of the
    connexion of the Flatmans with Norfolk.]

    [Footnote 4: The publisher was Benjamin Tooke, whom Flatman
    in a letter of November 3, 1675, recommended to Sancroft if
    he wished to publish his Fifth of November sermon before the
    House of Commons (Tanner MS. xlii, fol. 181, in Bodley).]

    [Footnote 5: _V. inf._, p. 360.]

    [Footnote 6:

        Nor that slow drudge in swift Pindaric strains,
        Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains,
        And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose reins.

    Flatman, who had no bad blood in him, took a magnanimous
    revenge (_v. inf._, p. 365).]

    [Footnote 7: Four letters of Flatman are published in
    _Familiar Letters of Love, Gallantry, And Several Occasions,
    By the Wits of the last and present Age_, 1718, vol. i, pp.
    249-54. One of these is a letter to an unnamed patron, sending
    his own portrait for the patron's collection as 'a foil to the
    rest'.]

    [Footnote 8: And that chiefly because Pope is supposed to have
    borrowed from them.]

    [Footnote 9: Flatman, however, is much less 'coarse' than most
    of his contemporaries. Putting a very few pieces aside (not
    themselves very shocking) he might almost challenge my Lord
    Roscommon for those 'unspotted bays' which his own supposed
    debtor Pope assigned, and of which we are all so tired.]

    [Footnote 10: The Additional Poems (p. 408 sq.) I owe to Mr.
    Percy Simpson, who collected them from their various sources,
    added variants throughout from the Firth MS., and gave some
    hints for correcting my own notes. Mr. G. Thorn-Drury has
    again given his valuable help.]




  TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND

  _Lord Lieutenant of_ Ireland, _&c._

  In humble acknowledgment of
  His Princely Favours

  These[1] _POEMS_ are with all Dutiful
  Respect
  DEDICATED
  By his GRACE's
  Ever Oblig'd, and most
  Obedient Servant,
  _Thomas Flatman_.

    [Footnote 1: So in 1682, where this Dedication first appeared:
    1686 with its usual carelessness 'The', which is most
    improbable.]




To the Reader.


_When I was prevail'd upon to make a Fourth Publication of these_
Poems _with a great many Additions, it was told me, That without a_
Preface _the Book would be unfashionable; Universal Custom had made it
a Debt, and in this Age the_ Bill of Fare _was as necessary as the_
Entertainment. _To be Civil therefore, and to Comply with Expectation,
instead of an elaborate Harangue in Commendation of the Art in
general, or what, and what Qualifications go to the making up of a_
Poet _in particular, and without such artificial Imbellishments as use
to be the Ornament of Prefaces, as_ Sayings of Philosophers, Ends of
Verses, Greek, Latin, Hungarian, French, Welch, _or_ Italian, _Be it
known unto the Reader, That in my poor Opinion_ Poetry _has a very
near Resemblance to the modern Experiment of the_ Ambling-Saddle;
_It's a good Invention for smoothing the_ Trott of Prose; _That's the
Mechanical use of it. But Physically it gives present Ease to the_
Pains _of the_ Mind, _contracted by violent Surfeit of either good or
bad Usage in the World. To be serious, 'tis an Innocent Help to_ Sham
_a Man's time when it lies on his hands and his Fancy can relish
nothing else. I speak but my own Experience; when any Accident hath
either pleas'd or vex'd me beyond my power of expressing either my
Satisfaction or Indignation in downright_ Prose, _I found it
seasonable for_ Rhiming; _and I believe from what follows it may be
discern'd when 'twas_ Fair Weather, _when_ Changeable, _and when the_
Quicksilver _fell down to_ Storm _and_ Tempest. _As to the Measures
observ'd by me, I always took a peculiar delight in the_ Pindarique
_strain, and that for two Reasons, First, it gave me a liberty now and
then to correct the saucy forwardness of a_ Rhime, _and to lay it
aside till I had a mind to admit it; And secondly, if my Sense fell at
any time too short for my_ Stanza, (_and it will often happen so in
Versifying_) _I had then opportunity to fill it up with a_ Metaphor
_little to the purpose, and (upon occasion) to run that_ Metaphor
_stark mad into an_ Allegory, _a practice very frequent and of
admirable use amongst the_ Moderns, _especially the_ Nobless _of the
Faculty. But in good earnest, as to the_ Subjects, _which came in my
way to write upon, I must declare that I have chosen only such as
might be treated within the Rules of_ Decency, _and without offence
either to_ Religion _or_ good Manners. _The Caution I receiv'd (by
Tradition) from the Incomparable Mr._ Cowley, _and him I must ever
acknowledge but to imitate, if any of the ensuing Copies may deserve
the name of_ Good _or_ Indifferent. _I have not vanity enough to
prescribe how a_ Muse _ought to be Courted, and I want leisure to
borrow from some Treatises I have seen, which look like so many_
Academies _of_ Complements _for that purpose. I have known a man, who
when he was about to write would screw his face into more disguises
than_ Scaramuccio, _or a_ Quaker _at a Meeting when his Turn came to
mount; his breast heav'd, his hair stood on end, his eyes star'd_,
_and the whole man was disorder'd; and truly when he had done, any
body at first reading would conclude that at the time he made them he
was possess'd with an evil Spirit. Another that seem'd like_
Nostradamus _(when the Whim took him in the head to Prophesie,) he
sate upon his_ Divining Tripos, _his elbow on his knee, his Lamp by
his side, all the avenues of light stopp'd, full of expectation when
the_ little faint flames _should steal in through a crevice of the
Shutters; This Gentleman indeed writ extreme_ Melancholy Madrigals. _I
have had the happiness to hear of a Third too, whose whole life was_
Poetical, _he was a_ Walking Poem, _and his way was this; finding that
the fall of the Leaf was already upon him, and prudently foreseeing
that in the Winter of his old Age he might possibly want Fodder, he
carry'd always about him one of_ Raimund Lully's Repositories, _a
piece of_ Mathematical Paper, _and in what Company soever he came,
the_ Spoon _was always ready for the_ Civet-Cat, _nothing scap'd him
that_ fell from a Wit: _At night his custom was to digest all that he
had pirated that Day, under proper Heads; This was his_ Arsenal, _his
inexhaustible_ Magazine; _so that upon occasion he had no more to do,
than to give a snap, or two to his Nails; a rub or two upon the
sutures of his Head, to turn over his_ Hint-Book, _and the Matter was
at hand, his business (after that piece of_ Legerdemain) _was only_
Tacking, _and_ Tagging: _I never saw but One of this Author's
Compositions, and really It troubled me, because It put me in mind,
how much time I had mispent in Coffee-Houses, for there was nothing in
It, but what I could find a Father for There; Nay, (with a little
recollection,) a man might name most of the Birds from whence he had
pluckt his Feathers. Some there are that Beseech, Others that Hector
their_ Muses: _Some that Diet their_ Pegasus, _give him his Heats and
Ayrings for the Course; Others that endeavour to slop up his broken
wind with Medicinal Ale and Bisquet; But these for the most part are
men of_ Industry; _Rhiming is their proper Business, they are fain to
labour hard, and use much Artifice for a poor Livelihood, I wish 'em
good Trading. I profess I never had design to be incorporated into the
Society; my utmost End was merely for Diversion of my self and a few
Friends whom I very well love; and if the question should be ask'd why
these Productions are expos'd, I may truly say, I could not help it;
One unlucky Copy, like a Bell-weather, stole from me in to the Common,
and the rest of the Flock took their opportunity to leave the
Enclosure. If I might be proud of any thing, it should be the first
Copy of the Book, but therein I had the greatest advantage given me
that any Noble Subject could afford. And so much for_ Preface _and_
Poetry, _till some very powerful Star shall over-rule my present
Resolution._




    [_To the Reader._] As in some other cases, I have thought
    it best to keep the original arrangement of capitals,
    type-differences, &c., here. The poems are printed, like the
    greater part of the collection, in modern form, but with no
    important alterations unnoticed.]




  On the Excellent Poems of my most Worthy
  Friend, Mr. Thomas Flatman.


  You happy issue of a happy wit,
  As ever yet in charming numbers writ,
  Welcome into the light, and may we be
  Worthy so happy a posterity.
  We long have wish'd for something excellent;
  But ne'er till now knew rightly what it meant:
  For though we have been gratified, 'tis true,
  From several hands with things both fine and new,
  The wits must pardon me, if I profess,
  That till this time the over-teeming press                         10
  Ne'er set out Poesy in so true a dress:
  Nor is it all, to have a share of wit,
  There must be judgement too to manage it;
  For Fancy's like a rough, but ready horse,
  Whose mouth is govern'd more by skill than force;
  Wherein (my friend) you do a maistry own,
  If not particular to you alone;
  Yet such at least as to all eyes declares
  Your Pegasus the best performs his airs.
  Your Muse can humour all her subjects so,                          20
  That as we read we do both feel and know;
  And the most firm impenetrable breast
  With the same passion that you write's possest.
  Your lines are rules, which who shall well observe
  Shall even in their errors praise deserve:
  The boiling youth, whose blood is all on fire,
  Push'd on by vanity, and hot desire,
  May learn such conduct here, men may approve
  And not excuse, but even applaud his love.
  Ovid, who made an art of what to all                               30
  Is in itself but too too natural,
  Had he but read your verse, might then have seen
  The style of which his precepts should have been,
  And (which it seems he knew not) learnt from thence
  To reconcile frailty with innocence.
  The love _you_ write virgins and boys may read,
  And never be debauch'd but better bred;
  For without love, beauty would bear no price,
  And dullness, than desire's a greater vice:
  Your greater subjects with such force are writ                     40
  So full of sinewy strength, as well as wit,
  That when you are _religious_, our divines
  May emulate, but not reprove your lines:
  And when you reason, there the learned crew
  May learn to speculate, and speak from you.
  You no profane, no obscene language use
  To smut your paper, or defile your Muse.
  Your gayest things, as well express'd as meant,
  Are equally both quaint and innocent.
  But your Pindaric Odes indeed are such                             50
  That Pindar's lyre from his own skilful touch
  Ne'er yielded such an harmony, nor yet
  Verse keep such time on so unequal feet.
  So by his own generous confession
  Great Tasso by Guarini was outdone:
  And (which in copying seldom does befall)
  The ectype's better than th' original.
  But whilst your fame I labour to send forth,
  By the ill-doing it I cloud your worth,
  In something all mankind unhappy are,                              60
  And you as mortal too must have your share;
  'Tis your misfortune to have found a friend,
  Who hurts and injures where he would commend.
  But let this be your comfort, that your bays
  Shall flourish green, maugre an ill-couch'd praise.

  CHARLES COTTON, Esq.




    [_You happy, &c._] 16 Cotton may have had several reasons for
    keeping the form 'maistry'--at any rate it should certainly be
    kept here, though 'mastery' with or without apostrophated _e_
    would fill the verse properly.]

    [Line: 50 'Pindari_que_' or 'Pindariqu'' in the original
    throughout the Volume.]

    [Line: 57 ectype] Not uncommon even later for 'copy'.]

    [This piece is in the original about half italics, which, for
    the most part, express no kind of emphasis. The next is
    almost entirely free from them, and the difference continues
    throughout the Commendatory Poems in such a fashion as to show
    that they were used on no principle at all. Flatman's own text
    has very few, outside of proper names.]




  To my Friend Mr Thomas Flatman, upon the
  Publication of his Poems.


  I.

  As when a Prince his standard does erect,
  And calls his subjects to the field,
  From such as early take his side,
  And readily obedience yield,
  He is instructed where he may suspect,
  And where he safely may confide:
  So, mighty friend,
  That you may see
  A perfect evidence of loyalty,
  No business I pretend;                                             10
  From all th' incumbrances of human life,
  From nourishing the sinful people's strife,
  And the increasing weaknesses of age.


  II.

  Domestic care, the mind's incurable disease,
  I am resolv'd I will forget.
  Ah! could I hope the restless pain
  Would now entirely cease,
  And never more return again,
  My thoughts I would in other order set;
  By more than protestations I would show,                           20
  Not the sum total only of the debt,
  But the particulars of all I owe.


  III.

  This I would do: but what will our desire avail
  When active heat and vigour fail?
  'Tis well thou hast more youthful combatants than I,
  Right able to protect thy immortality:
  If envy should attack thy spotless name
  (And that attacks the best of things
  And into rigid censure brings
  The most undoubted registers of fame),                             30
  Their fond artillery let them dispense,
  Piercing wit and murd'ring eloquence,
  Noble conceit and manly sense,
  Charming numbers let 'em shine
  And dazzle dead in ev'ry line
  The most malicious of thy foes,
  Though Hell itself should offer to oppose;
  I (thy decrepit subject) only can resign
  The little life of art is left, to ransom thine:
  Fumbling's as bad in poetry,                                       40
  And as ridiculous, as 'tis in gallantry:
  But if a dart I may prevent,
  Which at my friend's repute was meant,
  Let them then direct at me;
  By dying in so just a war,
  I possibly may share
  In thy infallible eternity.


  IV.

  But, dearest friend
  (Before it be too late),
  Let us a while expostulate,                                        50
  What heat of glory call'd you on,
  Your learnèd empire to extend
  Beyond the limits of your own dominion?
  At home, you were already crown'd with bays:
  Why foreign trophies do you seek to raise?
  Poets arcanas have of government,
  And tho' the homagers of your own continent
  Out of a sense of duty do submit,
  Yet public print a jealousy creates,
  And intimates a laid design                                        60
  Unto the neighb'ring potentates.
  Now into all your secret arts they pry,
  And weigh each hint by rules of policy.
  Offensive leagues they twine,
  In councils, rotas, and cabals they sit,
  Each petty burgess thinks it fit
  The Corporation should combine
  Against the Universal Monarchy of Wit,
  And straight declare for quite abjuring it.


  V.

  Hence then must you prepare for an invasion:                       70
  Tho' not from such as are reclaim'd by education;
  In the main points all European wits agree,
  All allow order, art, and rules of decency,
  And to be absolutely perfect, ne'er was yet
  A beauty such, or such a wit.
  I fear the Pagan and the barbarous,
  A nation quite Antipodes to us;
  The infidel unletter'd crew (I mean)
  Who call that only wit,
  Which is indeed but the reverse of it;                             80
  Creatures in whom civility ne'er shone,
  But (unto Nature's contradiction)
  It is their glory to be so obscene,
  You'd think the legion of th' unclean
  Were from the swine (to which they were condemn'd) releas'd,
  And had these verier swine (than them) possess'd.


  VI.

  If these should an advantage take
  And on thy fame a depredation make,
  You must submit to the unhappiness;
  These are the common enemies of our belief and art,                90
  And by hostility possess'd
  The world's much greater part:
  All things with them are measur'd by success:
  If the battle be not won;
  If the author do not sell;
  Into their dull capacities it will not sink,
  They cannot with deliberation think
  How bravely the commander led them on,
  No nor wherein the book was written well:
  When ('tis a thing impossible to do)                              100
  He cannot find his army courage (Sir), nor you
  Your readers, learning, wit, and judgement too.

  ROBERT THOMPSON, LL.D.




    [Line: 103 I have not identified Robert Thompson, LL.D., but
    I shall always think of him as author of some of the worst
    Pindaric of his time, which is saying a great deal.]




  To my Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman, on the
  Publishing of these his Poems.


  Let not (my friend) th' incredulous sceptic man
  Dispute what potent Art and Nature can!
  Let him believe, the birds that did bemoan
  The loss of Zeuxis' grapes in querulous tone,
  Were silenc'd by a painted dragon, found
  A _Telesme_ to restrain their chatt'ring sound,
  And that one made a mistress could enforce
  A neighing sigh, ev'n from a stallion horse!
  Let old Timanthes now unveil the face
  Of his Atrides, thou'lt give sorrow grace!                         10
  Now may Parrhasius let his curtain stand!
  And great Protogenes take off his hand!
  For all that lying Greece and Latium too
  Have told us of, thou (only thou) mak'st true.
  And all the miracles which they could show,
  Remain no longer faith; but science now.
  Thou dost those things that no man else durst do,
  Thou paint'st the lightning, and the thunder too!
  The soul and voice!
  Thou'lt make Turks, Jews, with Romanists consent,                  20
  To break the second great Commandement:
  And them persuade an adoration giv'n
  In picture, will as grateful be to Heav'n
  As one in metre. Th' art is in excess;
  But yet thy ingenuity makes it less.
  With pen and pencil thou dost all outshine,
  In speaking picture, Poesy divine.
  Poets, creators are! You made us know
  Those are above, and dread those are below;
  But 'tis no wonder you such things can dare,                       30
  That painter, poet, and a prophet are.
  The stars themselves think it no scorn to be
  Plac'd, and directed in their way by thee.
  Thou know'st their virtue, and their situation,
  The fate of years, and every great mutation;
  With the same kindness let them look on Earth,
  As when they gave thee first thy happy birth!
  The sober Saturn aspects Cynthia bright,
  Resigning hers, to give us thy new light.                          40
  The gentle Venus rose with Mercury
  (Presage of softness in thy Poesy),
  And Jove and Mars in amicable Trine
  Do still give spirit to thy polish'd line.
  Thou mayst do what thou wilt without control:
  _Only thyself and Heav'n can paint thy soul._

  FRAN. BARNARD, M.D.




    [_Let not, &c._] 6 The form _Telesme_, which may be allowed
    its italics, reproduces the (late) Greek [Greek: telesma],
    instead of the Spanish-Arabic 'talisman'.]

    [Line: 22 giv'n] Orig. 'giv'_d_', but correct in previous
    (1682) edition.]

    [Line: 39 Both editions have a comma at 'aspects', which
    obscures the sense. 'Aspect' is made a transitive verb in
    the sense of the astrological substantive = 'arranges his
    situation in regard to the Moon so as to make her resign', &c.
    1686 'To' for 'The', wrongly.]

    [Line: 46 It would be a shame to rob Francis Barnard of the
    italics which distinguish the entire line in the original.
    He died on February 9, 1698, and was buried at St. Botolph's,
    Bishopsgate.]




  To his esteemed Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman,
  Upon the Publishing of his Poems.


  Your Poems (friend) come on the public stage
  In a debauch'd and a censorious age:
  Where nothing now is counted standard wit,
  But what's profane, obscene, or's bad as it.
  For our great wits, like gallants of the times
  (And such they are), court only those loose rhymes,
  Which, like their misses, patch'd and painted are;
  But scorn what virtuous is and truly fair;
  Such as your Muse is, who with careful art
  For all but such, hath wisely fram'd a part.                       10
  One while (methinks) under some gloomy shade,
  I see the melancholy lover laid,
  Pleasing himself in that his pensive fit
  With what you have on such occasion writ.
  Another while (methinks) I seem to hear
  'Mongst those, who sometimes will unbend their care.
  And steal themselves out from the busy throng,
  Your pleasant _Songs_ in solemn consort sung.
  Again (methinks) I see the grave Divine
  Lay by his other books, to look on thine,                          20
  And from thy serious and divine _Review_
  See what our duty is, and his own too.
  Yet, worthy friend, you can't but guess what doom
  Is like to pass on what you've writ, by some;
  But there are others, now your book comes forth,
  Who (I am sure) will prize it as 'tis worth,
  Who know it fully fraught with staple ware,
  Such as the _Works_ of the great Cowley are,
  And 'mongst our rarest English poems, thine
  Next unto his immortally shall shine.                              30

  RICH. NEWCOURT.




    [_Your Poems, &c._] 14 i.e., no doubt, _The Desperate Lover_
    (_v. inf._ p. 336).]

    [Line: 18 consort] As so often = 'concert'.]

    [Line: 21 divine _Review_] The poem to Sancroft (_inf._, p.
    301).]

    [Line: 31 Richard Newcourt is discoverable and throws a little
    more light on Flatman's circle of acquaintance. He was a
    topographer, and drew a map of London published in 1658 by
    Faithorne the elder (_v. inf._).]




  To my Worthy Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman,
  Upon the Publishing of his Poems.


  Rude and unpolish'd as my lines can be,
  I must start forth into the world with thee.
  That which, yet private, did my wonder raise,
  Now 'tis made public challenges my praise:
  Such miracles thy charming verse can do,
  Where'er it goes, it draws me with it too.
  This is a kind of birthday to thy Muse!
  Transported with delight I cannot choose
  But bid her _Welcome to the Light_, and tell,
  How much I value what is writ so well;                             10
  Tho' thou reap'st no advantage by my rhyme,
  More than a taper helps the day to shine.
  Thus in dull pomp does th' empty coach attend
  To pay respect to some departed friend!
  The difference of regard in this does lie,
  _That_ honours dust, _mine_ that which cannot die:
  For what can blast the labours of thy pen,
  While wit and virtue are allow'd by men?
  Thou entertain'st the world with such a feast,
  So cleanly and so elegantly drest,                                 20
  So stor'd with laudable varieties
  As may a modest appetite suffice;
  Whoever is thy guest is sure to find
  Something or other that may please his mind.
  Sometimes in pious flames thy Muse aspires
  Her bosom warm'd with supernat'ral fires;
  In noble flights with Pindar, soars above;
  Dallies sometimes with not-indecent love,
  Thence down into the grave does humbly creep,
  And renders Death desirable as Sleep.                              30
  The debonair, the melancholy here
  Find matter for their mirth, ease for their care.
  Since such provision's made for all that come,
  He must be squeamish that goes empty home;
  If these refections cannot do him good,
  'Tis 'cause his stomach's vicious, not the food.

  FRANCIS KNOLLYS, Esq.




    [_Rude and unpolished, &c._] 4 public] Orig. 'publique'. So
    often 'Pindarique', and sometimes '-iq''.]

    [Line: 37 This Knollys is again unknown to me.]




  To the Author on his excellent Poems.


  I.

  Strange magic of thy wit and style,
  Which to their griefs mankind can reconcile!
  Whilst thy Philander's tuneful voice we hear
  Condoling our disastrous state,
  Touch'd with a sense of our hard fate,
  We sigh perhaps, or drop a tear,
  But he the mournful song so sweetly sings,
  That more of pleasure than regret it brings.
  With such becoming grief
  The Trojan chief                                                   10
  Troy's conflagration did relate,
  Whilst ev'n the suffrers in the fire drew near
  And with a greedy ear
  Devour'd the story of their own subverted state.


  II.

  Kind Heav'n (as to her darling son) to thee
  A double portion did impart,
  A gift of Painting and of Poesy:
  But for thy rivals in the painter's art,
  If well they represent, they can effect
  No more, nor can we more expect.                                   20
  But more than this _thy_ happy pencils give;
  Thy draughts are more than representative,
  For, if we'll credit our own eyes, they _live!_
  Ah! worthy friend, couldst thou maintain the state
  Of what with so much ease thou dost create,
  We might reflect on death with scorn!
  But pictures, like th' originals, decay!
  Of colours those consist, and these of clay;
  Alike compos'd of dust, to dust alike return!


  III.

  Yet 'tis our happiness to see                                      30
  Oblivion, Death, and adverse Destiny
  Encounter'd, vanquish'd, and disarm'd by thee.
  For if thy pencils fail,
  Change thy artillery
  And thou'rt secure of victory.
  Employ thy quill and thou shall still prevail.
  The Grand Destroyer, greedy Time, reveres
  Thy Fancy's imag'ry, and spares
  The meanest thing that bears
  Th' impression of thy pen;                                         40
  Tho' coarse and cheap their natural metal were,
  Stamp'd with thy verse he knows th' are sacred then,
  He knows them by that character to be
  Predestinate and set apart for immortality.


  IV.

  If native lustre in thy themes appear,
  Improv'd by thee it shines more clear:
  Or if thy subject's void of native light,
  Thy Fancy need but dart a beam
  To gild thy theme,
  And make the rude mass beautiful and bright.                       50
  Thou vary'st oft thy strains, but still
  Success attends each strain:
  Thy verse is always lofty as the hill,
  Or pleasant as the plain.
  How well thy Muse the Pastoral Song improves!
  Whose nymphs and swains are in their loves
  As innocent, and yet as kind as doves.
  But most She moves our wonder and delight,
  When She performs her loose Pindaric flight,
  Oft to their outmost reach She will extend                         60
  Her tow'ring wings to soar on high,
  And then by just degrees descend:
  Oft in a swift strait course She glides,
  Obliquely oft the air divides,
  And oft with wanton play hangs hov'ring in the sky.


  V.

  Whilst sense of duty into my artless Muse
  Th' ambition would infuse
  To  mingle with those Nymphs that homage pay,
  And wait on thine in her triumphant way,
  Defect of merit checks her forward pride,                          70
  And makes her dread t' approach thy chariot side;
  For 'twere at least a rude indecency
  (If not profane) t' appear
  At this solemnity,
  Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are);
  But this we will presume to do,
  At distance, to attend the show,
  Officious to gather up
  The scatter'd bays, if any drop
  From others' temples, and with those                               80
  A plain plebeian coronet compose.
  This, as your livery, she'd wear, to hide
  Her nakedness, not gratify her pride!
  Such was the verdant dress
  Which the Offending Pair did frame
  Of platted leaves, not to express
  Their pride i'th' novel garb, but to conceal their shame.

  N. TATE.




    [Line: 42 'th'' for 'they' is an instance, good in its
    badness, of the uglier apostrophation.]

    [Line: 63 strait] So _both_ edd.: but as often for
    'strai_gh_t'.]

    [Line: 75 'Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are)'
    should be a comfort to the poetaster. For Nahum had only to
    wait less than twenty years and he _was_ crowned in the very
    lifetime of the discrowned 'other' Dryden, who wore the wreath
    at this time, and who meanwhile had done him the enormous
    honour of admitting him to collaboration in _Absalom and
    Achitophel_. Tate has other verses addressed to Flatman; see
    his _Poems_, p. 67.]




  To my dear Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman,
  Upon the Publication of his Poems.

  PINDARIC ODE.


  I.

  Within the haunted thicket, where
  The feather'd choristers are met to play;
  And celebrate with voices clear,
  And accents sweet, the praise of May:
  The ouzel, thrush, and speckled lark,
  And Philomel, that loves the dawn and dark:
  These (the inspired throng)
  In numbers smooth and strong
  Adorn their noble theme with an immortal song,
  While woods and vaults, the brook and neighbouring hill,           10
  Repeat the varied close and the melodious trill.


  II.

  Here feast your ears, but let their eye
  Wander, and see one of the lesser fry
  Under a leaf, or on a dancing twig,
  Ruffle his painted feathers, and look big,
  Perk up his tail, and hop between
  The boughs; by moving, only to be seen,
  Perhaps his troubled breast he prunes,
  As he doth meditate his tunes:
  At last (compos'd) his little head he rears,                       20
  Towards (what he strives to imitate) the spheres;
  And chirping then begins his best,
  Falls on to pipe among the rest;
  Deeming that all's not worth a rush,
  Without his whistle from the bush.


  III.

  Th' harmonious sound did reach my ear,
  That echo'd _thy_ clear name,
  Which all must know, who e'er did hear
  Of Cowley or Orinda's fame;
  I heard the Genius, with surprising grace,                         30
  Would visit us with his fair offspring, gay
  As is the morning spring in May;
  But fairer much, and of immortal race.


  IV.

  Delighted greatly, as I list'ning stood,
  The sound came from each corner of the wood;
  It both the shrubs and cedars shak'd,
  And my drowsy Muse awak'd;
  Strange that the sound should be so shrill,
  That had its passage through a quill.
  Then I resolv'd _thy_ praises to rehearse,                         40
  The wonders of _thy pen_, among the crowd
  Of thy learn'd friends that sing so loud:
  But 'twas not to be sung, or reach'd in verse.
  By my weak notes, scarce to be heard,
  Or if they could, not worth regard;
  Desisting therefore I must only send
  My very kind well wishes to my friend.

  OCTAVIAN PULLEYN.




    [_Within the haunted, &c._] 9 theme] So spelt here; 'theam'
    elsewhere--a fresh pair of instances from the same book of the
    absurdity of keeping bad spelling for its own sake.]

    [Line: 48 Octavian Pulleyn was probably the son of Octavian
    Pulleyn, warden of the Stationers' Company; he published
    Woodford's _Paraphrase of the Psalms_.]




_Commendatory Poems_

The following spirited preface and a prefatory poem were printed only
in the _Poems and Songs_ of 1674; they are worth preserving here.


Advertisement to the Reader.

_By long_ Prescription time out of mind, _the next Leafe to the_ Title
Page _claims an_ EPISTLE to the READER; _I had the Project once in
my own thoughts too: But the Market is so abominably_ forestall'd
_already with all manner of excuses for Printing, that I could not
possibly contrive_ one, _that would look any thing_ New: _And besides
I never found, amongst all the_ Epistles _that I have read, that the
best Rethorick in 'em could perswade me to have a better opinion of
the Books for_ Their _sakes: I am apt to believe the rest of Mankind
much of my humour in this particular, and therefore do here expose
these few Results of my many Idle hours, to the mercy of the wide
World, quite guiltless of_ Address _or_ Ceremony. _And that_
Reader, who will _not believe I had some tolerable Reason for_ This
Publication, _cannot give me much disturbance, because I'me sure he is
not at all acquainted with_

_T. F._

April 10. 1674.




  To his Worthy Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman
  on the publishing of his Poems.


  I.

  I think thou art not well advised, my friend,
  To bring thy spritely Poems on the stage
  Now when the Muses' empire 's at an end
  And there 's none left that feel poetic rage,
  Now Cowley's dead, the glory of the age,
  And all the lesser singing birds are starved i'th' cage.


  II.

  Nor was it well done to permit my bush,
  My holly bush, to hang before thy wine,
  For friends' applauses are not worth a rush,
  And every fool can get a gilded sign.
  In troth I have no faculty at praise;
  My bush is very full of thorns, though it seems bays.


  III.

  When I would praise I cannot find a rhyme,
  But if I have a just pretence to rail,
  They come in numerous throngs at any time,
  Their everlasting fountains never fail,
  They come in troops and for employment pray;
  If I have any wit, it lies only that way.


  IV.

  But yet I'll try, if thou wilt rid thy mind
  Of thoughts of rhyming and of writing well,
  And bend thy studies to another kind--
  I mean, in craft and riches to excel;
  If thou desert thy friends and better wine,
  And pay'st no more attendance on the needy Nine.


  V.

  Go, and renounce thy wit and thy good parts--
  Wit and good parts, great enemies to wealth,--
  And barter honesty for more thriving arts,
  Prize gold before a good name, ease, and health.
  Answer the Dog and Bottle, and maintain
  There's great ease in a yoke, and freedom in a chain.


  VI.

  I'll love thee now when this is done, I'll try
  To sing thy praise, and force my honest Muse to lie.

  WALTER POPE.




The Contents.


                                                     Page
  On the Death of the Right
  Honourable Thomas Earl of
  Ossory. Pindaric Ode                                296

  To the Memory of the Incomparable
  Orinda. Pindaric Ode                                298

  The review to Dr. W. S. Pindaric Ode                301

  To my Worthy Friend Mr. Sam.
  Woodford on his Excellent
  Version of the Psalms. Pindaric Ode                 306

  On the Death of the Truly Valiant
  George Duke of Albemarle. Pindaric Ode              308

  The Retirement. Pindaric Ode,
  made in the time of the great
  Sickness 1665                                       312

  Translated out of a part of
  Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon                       314

  A Thought of Death.                                 317

  Psalm 39, verses 4 and 5                            317

  Hymn for the Morning                                318

  Anthem for the Evening                              318

  Death. A Song                                       319

  The Happy Man                                       319

  On Mr. Johnson's several Shipwrecks                 320

  An Explanation of an Emblem
  engraven by V. H.                                   321

  For Thoughts                                        321

  Against Thoughts                                    323

  A Dooms-Day Thought                                 325

  Virtus sola manet, caetera mortis erunt             327

  Translated                                          328

  Psalm 15. Paraphrased                               329

  Job                                                 330

  Nudus Redibo                                        330

  An Elegy on the Earl of Sandwich                    331

  An Epitaph on the Earl of Sandwich                  332

  Pastoral                                            332

  On the Death of Mr. Pelham Humfries,
  a Pastoral Song                                     334

  The Mistake                                         334

  The Incredulous                                     335

  Weeping at parting, Song                            335

  The Desperate Lover                                 336

  The Fatigue, A Song                                 337

  The Resolve, Song                                   337

  Love's Bravo, Song                                  338

  The Expectation, Song                               339

  Coridon converted, Song                             339

  The Humourist, Song                                 340

  Fading Beauty, Song                                 340

  A Dialogue, Cloris and Parthenissa                  341

  A Dialogue, Orpheus and Eurydice                    341

  The Bachelor's Song                                 342

  The Bachelor's Song, Second part                    343

  An Appeal to Cats in the business of Love           343

  Advice to an Old Man of 63 about
  to marry a Girl of 16, Song                         343

  The Slight, Song                                    344

  The Penitent, Song                                  345

  The Defiance, Song                                  345

  The Surrender, Song                                 346

  The Whim, Song                                      346

  The Renegado, Song                                  347

  Phyllis withdrawn                                   347

  The Malecontent, Song                               348

  The Indifferent, Song                               348

  The Harbour, Song                                   349

  The Unconcerned, Song                               349

  The Immovable, Song                                 350

  The Wish, Song                                      350

  The Cordial made in the year 1637                   351

  Celadon on Delia singing, Song                      351

  The Advice, Song                                    352

  To Mr. Sam. Austin of Wadham Coll. Oxon,
  on his most unintelligible Poems                    353

  To my ingenious Friend Mr. William Faithorne
  on his Book of Drawing, Etching, and Graving        354

  On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc,
  to the Worthy Translator Charles Cotton, Esq.       355

  A Character of a Belly-God. Catius and Horace       356

  The Disappointed. Pindaric Ode                      359

  On Mrs. E. Montague's Blushing
  in the Cross-Bath. A Translation                    360

  Il Infido                                           361

  Il Immaturo, Epitaph                                362

  On Mrs. Dove, Epitaph                               362

  Lucretius                                           362

  Paraphrased                                         362

  On Dr. Browne's Travels                             363

  On Poverty                                          363

  Urania to her Friend Parthenissa. A Dream           364

  On the Death of the Earl of Rochester. Pastoral     365

  On Dr. Woodford's Paraphrase on the Canticles       366

  Laodamia to Protesilaus: One of Ovid's Epistles
  Translated                                          367

  To the Excellent Master of Music
  Signior Pietro Reggio, on his Book of Songs         371

  In the Temple Church. Epitaph on Sir John King      372

  On the Death of my dear Brother
  Mr. Richard Flatman. Pindaric Ode                   373

  Coridon on the Death of his dear Alexis             375

  A Song on New-years-day before the King             376

  On the King's return to Whitehall
  after his Summer's Progress, 1684                   377

  To Mr. Isaac Walton on his publication of Thealma   378

  Pastoral Dialogue, Castara and Parthenia            379

  Castabella going to Sea, Song                       380

  On the Death of my  Worthy Friend
  Mr. John Oldham. Pindaric Pastoral Ode              380

  On Sir John Micklethwaite's Monument in
  St. Botolphs Aldersgate Church, London              382

  Epitaph on Thomas Rock                              383

  On the Death of the Illustrious
  Prince Rupert. Pindaric Ode                         384

  Poema in obitum illustrissimi principis
  Ruperti Latinè redditum                             388

  On the much Lamented Death of our late
  Sovereign Lord King Charles II of
  blessed Memory. Pindaric Ode                        391

  To his Sacred Majesty King James II                 394


ODES OF HORACE

  Book the Second, Ode 19                             395

  Book the Third, Ode 8                               396

  Book the Third, Ode 9                               396

  Book the Third, Ode 12                              397

  Book the Third, Ode 17                              397

  Book the Third, Ode 19                              398

  Book the Third, Ode 20                              398

  Book the Third, Ode 21                              399

  Book the Third, Ode 22                              399

  Book the Third, Ode 3                               400

  Book the Fourth, Ode 1                              400

  Book the Fourth, Ode 10                             401

  Book the Fourth, Ode 11                             401

  Epode the Third                                     402

  Epode the Sixth                                     403

  Epode the Tenth                                     403

  Epode the Eleventh                                  404

  Epode the Fifteenth                                 405

  Epode the Seventeenth                               405


POEMS NOT INCLUDED IN THE EDITIONS OF 1682 AND 1686.

  Upon a Chine of Beef                                409

  On the Death of Charles Capell                      410

  From W. Sanderson's _Graphice_:--

    On the Picture of the Author                      411

    On the noble Art of Painting                      411

  On Mistress S. W.                                   413

  Song ('Oh no, oh no! it cannot be')                 414

  Epitaph on his eldest Son Thomas                    414

  Lines to John Northleigh                            415

  Lines to Archbishop Sancroft                        416

  On the Death of James, Duke of Ormond.
  Pindaric Ode                                        417

  Job, ch. xxvii. Paraphrased                         420




POEMS.

_On the Death of the Right Honourable Thomas Earl of Ossory._

PINDARIC ODE.


  _Stanza_ I.

  No more!--Alas that bitter word, _No more!_
  The Great, the Just, the Generous, the Kind;
  The universal Darling of Mankind,
  The noble OSSORY is now _No more!_
        The mighty man is fall'n--
      From Glory's lofty pinnacle,
      Meanly like one of us, he fell,
    Not in the hot pursuit of victory,
      As gallant men would choose to die;
  But tamely, like a poor plebeian, from his bed                     10
      To the dark grave a captive led;
    Emasculating sighs, and groans around,
        His friends in floods of sorrow drown'd;
    His awful truncheon and bright arms laid by,
    He bow'd his glorious head to Destiny.


  II.

    Celestial Powers! how unconcern'd you are!
      No black eclipse or blazing star
    Presag'd the death of this illustrious man,
      No deluge, no, nor hurricane;
    In her old wonted course Nature went on,                         20
      As if some common thing were done,
    One single victim to Death's altar's come,
    And not in Ossory an whole hecatomb.
    Yet, when the founder of old Rome expir'd,
    When the Pellëan youth resign'd his breath,
    And when the great Dictator stoop'd to death,
    Nature and all her faculties retir'd:
    Amaz'd she started when amaz'd she saw
  The breaches of her ancient fundamental law,
        Which kept the world in awe:                                 30
  For men less brave than him, her very heart did ache,
      The labouring Earth did quake,
    And trees their fix'd foundations did forsake;
      Nature in some prodigious way
      Gave notice of their fatal day:
    Those lesser griefs with pain she thus exprest,
    This did confound, and overwhelm her breast.


  III.

  Shrink, ye crown'd heads, that think yourselves secure,
        And from your mould'ring thrones look down,
        Your greatness cannot long endure,                           40
      The King of Terrors claims you for his own;
  You are but tributaries to his dreadful crown:
    Renown'd, Serene, Imperial, most August,
  Are only high and mighty epithets for dust.
      In vain, in vain so high
      Our tow'ring expectations fly,
    While th' blossoms of our hopes, so fresh, so gay,
    Appear, and promise fruit, then fade away.
  From valiant Ossory's ever loyal hands,
        What did we not believe!                                     50
      We dream'd of yet unconquer'd lands
        He to his Prince could give,
        And neighbouring crowns retrieve:
        Expected that he would in triumph come
  Laden with spoils and Afric banners home,
        As if an hero's years
    Were as unbounded as our fond desires.


  IV.

    Lament, lament, you that dare Honour love,
      And court her at a noble rate                                  60
        (Your prowess to approve),
    That dare religiously upon her wait,
    And blush not to grow good, when you grow great,
    Such mourners suit _His_ virtue, such _His_ State.
    And you, brave souls, who for your country's good
    Did wondrous things in fields and seas of blood,
    Lament th' undaunted chief that led you on;
    Whose exemplary courage could inspire
  The most degenerate heart with martial English fire.
    Your bleeding wounds who shall hereafter dress                   70
      With an indulgent tenderness;
      Touch'd with a melting sympathy,
        Who shall your wants supply,
    Since he, your good Samaritan, is gone?
    O Charity! thou richest boon of Heaven,
        To man in pity given!
  (For when well-meaning mortals give,
    The poor's and their own bowels they relieve;)
    Thou mak'st us with alacrity to die,
  Miss'd and bewail'd like thee, large-hearted Ossory.               80


  V.

  Arise, ye blest inhabitants above,
      From your immortal seats arise,
    And on our wonder, on our love
      Gaze with astonish'd eyes.
      Arise! Arise! make room,
      Th' exalted Shade is come.
  See where he comes! What princely port he bears!
      How God-like he appears!
      His shining temples round
  With wreaths of everlasting laurels bound!                         90
  As from the bloody field of Mons he came,
  Where he outfought th' hyperboles of Fame.
  See how the Guardian-Angel of our isle
  Receives the deifi'd champion with a smile!
    Welcome, the Guardian-Angel says,
      Full of songs of joy and praise,
        Welcome thou art to me,
    And to these regions of serenity!
      Welcome, the wingèd choir resounds,
  While with loud _Euge's_ all the sacred place abounds.            100




    [_On the Death of the Earl of Ossory._] Thomas Butler
    (1634-80), by courtesy Earl of Ossory, though not exactly
    a Marcellus (for he was forty-six when he died), holds a
    distinguished place among those who have died too soon. He
    was a soldier, a sailor, a statesman; if not an orator, an
    effective speaker; and though no milksop or 'good boy', one
    emphatically, 'of the right sort'. The excellent first line
    (see Introduction) is well supported by the whole opening
    quatrain; and it has been left, typographically, as it appears
    in the original. The rest may undergo the usual law. The poem
    was first issued in folio in 1681: 'be' was read for 'grow' in
    l. 63.]

    [Line: 58 The French rhyme, as if 'dés_ir_', is not
    uninteresting.]




_To the Memory of the Incomparable Orinda._

PINDARIC ODE.


  _Stanza_ I.

  A long adieu to all that's bright,
    Noble, or brave in woman-kind;
  To all the wonders of their wit,
    And trophies of their mind:
  The glowing heat of th' holy fire is gone:
    To th' altar, whence 'twas kindled, flown;
  There's nought on earth, but ashes left behind;
    E'er since th' amazing sound was spread,
              Orinda's dead;
    Every soft and fragrant word,                                    10
    All that language could afford;
      Every high and lofty thing
      That's wont to set the soul on wing,
  No longer with this worthless world would stay.
  Thus, when the death of the great Pan was told,
  Along the shore the dismal tidings roll'd;
      The lesser Gods their fanes forsook,
      Confounded with the mighty stroke,
      They could not overlive that fatal day,
  But sigh'd and groan'd their gasping Oracles away.                 20


  II.

      How rigid are the laws of Fate
      And how severe that black decree!
      No sublunary thing is free,
  But all must enter th' adamantine gate:
      Sooner or later must we come
      To Nature's dark retiring room:
      And yet 'tis pity, is it not?
      The learned, as the fool should die,
      One, full as low, as t'other lie,
  Together blended in the general lot!                               30
  Distinguish'd only from the common crowd
  By an hing'd coffin or an holland shroud,
  Though Fame and Honour speak them ne'er so loud.
        Alas, Orinda! even thou,
      Whose happy verse made others live,
  And certain immortality could give;
  Blasted are all thy blooming glories now,
      The laurel withers o'er thy brow:
  Methinks it should disturb thee to conceive
  That when poor I this artless breath resign,                       40
  My dust should have as much of Poetry as thine!


  III.

      Too soon we languish with desire
  Of what we never could enough admire.
  On th' billows of this world sometimes we rise
          So dangerously high,
        We are to Heaven too nigh:
          When all in rage
        (Grown hoary with one minute's age)
        The very self-same fickle wave,
        Which the entrancing prospect gave,                          50
  Swoln to a mountain, sinks into a grave.
  Too happy mortals, if the Powers above
        As merciful would be,
  And easy to preserve the thing we love,
        As in the giving they are free!
  But they too oft delude our wearied eyes,
  They fix a flaming sword 'twixt us and Paradise!
  A weeping evening blurs a smiling day,
  Yet why should heads of gold have feet of clay?
  Why should the man that wav'd th' Almighty wand,                   60
      That led the murmuring crowd
        By pillar and by cloud,
  Shivering atop of aery Pisgah stand
  Only to see, but never, never tread the Promis'd Land?


  IV.

          Throw your swords and gauntlets by,
            You daring Sons of War!
          You cannot purchase ere you die
            One honourable scar,
  Since that fair hand that gilded all your bays;
  That in heroic numbers wrote your praise,                          70
  That you might safely sleep in Honour's bed,
  Itself, alas! is wither'd, cold, and dead:
          Cold and dead are all those charms
          That burnish'd your victorious arms;
          Those useless things hereafter must
          Blush first in blood, and then in rust:
  No oil but that of her smooth words can serve
          Weapon and warrior to preserve.
          Expect no more from this dull age
          But folly or poetic rage,                                  80
          Short-liv'd nothings of the stage,
  Vented to-day, and cried to-morrow down;
  With her the soul of Poesie is gone,
          Gone, while our expectations flew
          As high a pitch as she has done,
          Exhal'd to Heaven like early dew,
          Betimes the little shining drops are flown,
  Ere th' drowsy world perceiv'd that manna was come down


  V.

      You of the sex that would be fair,
        Exceeding lovely, hither come,                               90
      Would you be pure as Angels are,
        Come dress you by Orinda's tomb,
      And leave your flattering glass at home.
      Within that marble mirror see,
      How one day such as she
  You must, and yet alas! can never be!
      Think on the heights of that vast soul,
      And then admire, and then condole.
  Think on the wonders of her generous pen,
        'Twas she made Pompey truly great;                          100
        Neither the purchase of his sweat
  Nor yet Cornelia's kindness made him live again:
        With envy think, when to the grave you go,
        How very little must be said of you,
  Since all that can be said of virtuous woman was her due.




    [_To the memory, &c._] For 'Orinda', or Katharine Philips,
    see vol. i. This Pindaric was first printed in her _Poems_ of
    1667: the chief variants are--58 blurs] crowns.]

    [Line: 71 While you securely sleep.]

    [Line: 75 Those useless things] Inglorious arms.]

    [Line: 77 can] will.]

    [Line: 99 generous _om._]

    [Line: 101 Neither the expense of blood nor sweat.]




_The Review._

PINDARIC ODE to the Reverend Dr. WILLIAM SANCROFT, now Lord Archbishop
of Canterbury.


  _Stanza_ I.

  When first I stept into th' alluring maze
      To tread this world's mysterious ways,
        Alas! I had nor guide, nor clue,
      No Ariadne lent her hand,
  Not one of Virtue's guards did bid me stand,
      Or ask'd me what I meant to do,
        Or whither I would go:
  This labyrinth so pleasant did appear,
      I lost myself with much content,
        Infinite hazards underwent,                                  10
      Out-straggled Homer's crafty wanderer,
  And ten years more than he in fruitless travels spent;
        The one half of my life is gone,
        The shadow the meridian past;
        Death's dismal evening drawing on,
  Which must with damps and mists be overcast,
        An evening that will surely come,
  'Tis time, high time to give myself the welcome home.


  II.

        Had I but heartily believ'd
  That all the Royal Preacher said was true,                         20
        When first I ent'red on the stage,
  And Vanity so hotly did pursue;
  Convinc'd by his experience, not my age,
        I had myself long since retriev'd,
        I should have let the curtain down,
          Before the Fool's part had begun:
  But I throughout the tedious play have been
        Concern'd in every busy scene;
      Too too inquisitive I tried
      Now this, anon another face,                                   30
      And then a third, more odd, took place,
      Was everything, but what I was.
    Such was my Protean folly, such my pride,
    Befool'd through all the tragi-comedy,
  Where others met with hissing, to expect a _Plaudite_.


  III.

      I had a mind the Pastoral to prove,
      Searching for happiness in Love,
      And finding Venus painted with a Dove,
        A little naked Boy hard by,
        The Dove, which had no gall,                                 40
      The Boy no dangerous arms at all;
      They do thee wrong, great Love, said I,
      Much wrong, great Love! ----scarce had I spoke
  Ere into my unwary bosom came
      An inextinguishable flame:
  From fair Amira's eyes the lightning broke,
      That left me more than thunder-strook;
  She carries tempest in that lovely name:
      Love's mighty and tumultuous pain
  Disorders Nature like an hurricane.                                50
  Yet couldn't I believe such storms could be,
        When I launch'd forth to sea;
  Promis'd myself a calm and easy way,
      Though I had seen before
      Piteous ruins on the shore,
  And on the naked beach Leander breathless lay.


  IV.

      To extricate myself from Love
  Which I could ill obey, but worse command,
      I took my pencils in my hand,
  With that artillery for conquest strove,                           60
      Like wise Pygmalion then did I
      Myself design my deity;
      Made my own saint, made my own shrine:
  If she did frown, one dash could make her smile,
  All bickerings one easy stroke could reconcile,
  Plato feign'd no idea so divine:
  Thus did I quiet many a froward day,
      While in my eyes my soul did play,
  Thus did the time, and thus myself beguile;
  Till on a day, but then I knew not why,                           70
      A tear fall'n from my eye,
  Wash'd out my saint, my shrine, my deity:
      Prophetic chance! the lines are gone,
  And I must mourn o'er what I doted on:
  I find even Giotto's circle has not all perfection.


  V.

        To Poetry I then inclin'd;
      Verse that emancipates the mind,
        Verse that unbends the soul;
        That amulet of sickly fame,
      Verse that from wind articulates a name;                       80
  Verse for both fortunes fit, to smile and to condole.
        Ere I had long the trial made,
        A serious thought made me afraid:
  For I had heard Parnassus' sacred hill
        Was so prodigiously high,
      Its barren top so near the sky;
            The ether there
  So very pure, so subtil, and so rare,
      'Twould a chameleon kill,
  The beast that is all lungs, and feeds on air:                     90
  Poets the higher up that hill they go,
  Like pilgrims, share the less of what's below:
      Hence 'tis they ever go repining on,
  And murmur more than their own Helicon.
  I heard them curse their stars in ponderous rhymes,
  And in grave numbers grumble at the times;
  Yet where th' illustrious Cowley led the way,
  I thought it great discretion there to go astray.


  VI.

  From liberal Arts to the litigious Law,
  Obedience, not ambition, did me draw;                             100
  I look'd at awful quoif and scarlet gown
  Through others' optics, not my own:
      Untie the Gordian knot that will,
      I see no rhetoric at all
    In them that learnedly can brawl,
  And fill with mercenary breath the spacious hall;
    Let me be peaceable, let me be still.
    The solitary Tishbite heard the wind,
      With strength and violence combin'd,
      That rent the mountains, and did make                         110
      The solid Earth's foundations shake;
  He saw the dreadful fire, and heard the horrid noise,
  But found what he expected in the _small still voice_.

  VII.

  Nor here did my unbridled fancy rest,
              But I must try
              A pitch more high,
  To read the starry language of the East;
  And with Chaldean curiosity
  Presum'd to solve the riddles of the sky;
  Impatient till I knew my doom,                                    120
  Dejected till the good direction come,
  I ripp'd up Fate's forbidden womb,
  Nor would I stay till it brought forth
  An easy and a natural birth,
  But was solicitous to know
  The yet misshapen embryo
            (Preposterous crime!)
  Without the formal midwif'ry of time:
  Fond man, as if too little grief were given
  On Earth, draws down inquietudes from Heaven!                     130
  Permits himself with fear to be unmann'd,
      Belshazzar-like, grows wan and pale,
      His very heart begins to fail,
  Is frighted at that Writing of the Hand,
  Which yet nor he, nor all his learn'd magicians understand.


  VIII.

    And now at last what's the result of all?
      Should the strict audit come,
      And for th' account too early call;
  A num'rous heap of ciphers would be found the total sum.
    When incompassionate age shall plow                             140
      The delicate Amira's brow,
    And draw his furrows deep and long,
      What hardy youth is he
    Will after that a reaper be,
      Or sing the harvest song?
  And what is verse, but an effeminate vent
      Either of lust or discontent?
  Colours will starve, and all their glories die,
  Invented only to deceive the eye;
      And he that wily Law does love                                150
      Much more of serpent has than dove,
      There's nothing in Astrology,
      But Delphic ambiguity;
  We are misguided in the dark, and thus
  Each star becomes an _Ignis fatuus_:
  Yet pardon me, ye glorious Lamps of light,
      'Twas one of you that led the way,
      Dispell'd the gloomy night,
    Became a Phosphor to th' Eternal Day,
  And show'd the Magi where th' Almighty Infant lay.                160


  IX.

      At length the doubtful victory's won,
      It was a cunning ambuscade
  The World for my felicities had laid;
      Yet now at length the day's our own,
  Now conqueror-like let us new laws set down.
  Henceforth let all our love seraphic turn,
      The sprightly and the vigorous flame
      On th' altar let it ever burn,
      And sacrifice its ancient name:
  A tablet on my heart next I'll prepare                            170
  Where I would draw the Holy Sepulchre,
  Behind it a soft landskip I would lay
        Of melancholy Golgotha!
  On th' altar let me all my spoils lay down,
  And if I had one, there I'd hang my laurel crown.
  Give me the Pandects of the Law Divine,
  Such was the Law made Moses' face to shine.
      Thus beyond Saturn's heavy orb I'll tower,
      And laugh at his malicious power:
  Raptur'd in contemplation thus I'll go                            180
  Above unactive earth, and leave the stars below.


  X.

      Toss'd on the wings of every wind,
      After these hoverings to and fro
      (And still the waters higher grow),
  Not knowing where a resting-place to find,
  Whither for sanctuary should I go
          But, Reverend Sir, to you?
  You that have triumph'd o'er th' impetuous flood,
  That, Noah-like, in bad times durst be good,
  And the stiff torrent manfully withstood,                         190
          Can save me too;
  One that have long in fear of drowning bin,
  Surrounded by the rolling waves of sin;
  Do you but reach out a propitious hand
          And charitably take me in,
  I will not yet despair to see dry land.
    'Tis done;--and I no longer fluctuate,
  I've made the Church my Ark, and Sion's Hill my Ararat.




    [_The Review._] Dated in the Firth MS. December 17, 1666.
    Entered in the Stationers' Register on December 17, 1673,
    as 'A poem or copy intituled the Review, To the Reverend
    my honored freind Dr. Wm. Sancroft, Deane of St. Paules, A
    Pindarique Ode'. Similarly in the Firth MS. 'The Review. A
    Pindarique Ode. To the Reverend, my worthy friend, Dr. Wm.
    Sandcroft, Dean of St. Paul's': the chief variants only are
    recorded. The words 'now Lord Archbishop of Canterbury' are
    added in the fourth edition. In the earlier editions--even
    that of 1682, when Sancroft had been Primate for four
    years--the poem is addressed 'to Dr. W. S.' The piece is
    a rather remarkable 'Religio _Laici_' for the time, and as
    anticipating Dryden's; and has some, though rather vague,
    autobiographic interest. It seems (_v._ Commendatory Poems) to
    have attracted some attention as such.]

    [Line: 16 must] will _MS._]

    [Line: 40 had] has _MS._, _1674-82_.]

    [Line: 46 fair] my _MS._]

    [Line: 51 couldn't] did not _MS._]

    [Line: 56 breathless] shipwrack'd _MS._]

    [Line: 64 could] should _MS._]

    [Line: 81 fit] apt _MS._]

    [Line: 93 ever _added in 1684_.]

    [Line: 113 what] whom _MS._]

    [Line: 114 seq. It is well known that Astrology maintained its
    hold throughout the seventeenth century. Dryden himself
    does not seem to have been by any means insensible to its
    fascination; and Flatman--who, though a slightly younger man,
    represents an older temper--may well have been a disciple of
    Lilly.]

    [Line: 135 he] we _MS._ his] our _MS._]

    [Line: 148 will] must _MS._ starve] In its proper sense of
    'perish'. Italic in original; but, as has been pointed out,
    this type is used with such utter capriciousness that it
    affords no evidence whether the term had any technical vogue
    among artists of the time.]

    [Line: 159 Eternal] Immortal _MS._]

    [Line: 168 let it] shall for _MS._]

    [Line: 172 soft] fair _MS._]

    [Line: 187 Sir] Friend _1674-82_.]

    [Line: 189 A possible but not necessary reminiscence of
    Fuller's well-known book, _Good Thoughts for Bad Times_.]

    [Line: 193 the rolling waves] a cataclysm _MS._]




_To my Reverend Friend, Dr. Sam. Woodford, On his Excellent Version of
the Psalms._

PINDARIC ODE.


  _Stanza_ I.

  See (worthy friend) what I would do
  (Whom neither Muse nor Art inspire),
  That have no friend in all the sacred quire,
  To show my kindness for your Book, and you,
  Forc'd to disparage what I would admire;
  Bold man, that dares attempt Pindaric now,
          Since the great Pindar's greatest Son
          From the ingrateful age is gone,
  Cowley has bid th' ingrateful age adieu;
          Apollo's rare Columbus, he                                 10
          Found out new worlds of Poesy:
          He, like an eagle, soar'd aloft,
            To seize his noble prey;
          Yet as a dove's, his soul was soft,
            Quiet as Night, but bright as Day:
  To Heaven in a fiery chariot he
  Ascended by seraphic Poetry;
  Yet which of us dull mortals since can find
  Any inspiring mantle, that he left behind?


  II.

  His powerful numbers might have done you right;                    20
  He could have spar'd you immortality,
  Under that Chieftain's banners you might fight
  Assur'd of laurels, and of victory
  Over devouring Time and sword and fire
        And Jove's important ire:
        My humble verse would better sing
        David the Shepherd, than the King:
  And yet methinks 'tis stately to be one
        (Though of the meaner sort)
  Of them that may approach a Prince's throne,                       30
        If 'twere but to be seen at Court.
  Such, Sir, is my ambition for a name,
  Which I shall rather take from you, than give,
  For in your Book I cannot miss of fame,
        But by contact shall live.
      Thus on your chariot wheel shall I
  Ride safe, and look as big as Aesop's fly,
      Who from th' Olympian Race new come,
      And now triumphantly flown home,
  To's neighbours of the swarm thus proudly said,                    40
  _Don't you remember what a dust I made!_


  III.

  Where'er the Son of Jesse's harp shall sound,
          Or Israel's sweetest songs be sung,
          (Like Samson's lion sweet and strong)
  You and your happy Muse shall be renown'd,
  To whose kind hand the Son of Jesse owes
  His last deliverance from all his foes.
  Blood-thirsty Saul, less barbarous than they,
          His person only sought to kill;
          These would his deathless poems slay,                      50
          And sought immortal blood to spill,
  To sing whose songs in Babylon would be
          A new Captivity:
  Deposèd by these rebels, you alone
  Restor'd the glorious David to his throne.
  Long in disguise the royal Prophet lay,
          Long from his own thoughts banishèd,
    Ne'er since his death till this illustrious day
  Was sceptre in his hand, or crown plac'd on his head:
  He seem'd as if at Gath he still had bin                           60
  As once before proud Achish he appear'd,
        His face besmear'd,
        With spittle on his sacred beard,
  A laughing-stock to the insulting Philistine.
  Drest in their rhymes, he look'd as he were mad,
  In tissue you, and Tyrian purple have him clad.




    [_To Dr. Sam. Woodford._] First printed in _A Paraphrase upon
    the Psalms of David_, 1668. A MS. version is in Rawlinson D.
    260 (fol. 27) of the Bodleian. Woodford (1636-1700) though
    much forgotten now, must have been something more than an
    ordinary person. As such he might have been, as he was, a St.
    Paul's boy and an Oxford (Wadham) man, a member of the Inner
    Temple, an early F.R.S., and later a Canon of Chichester and
    Winchester. But as such merely he would hardly have been, in
    the Preface to his Paraphrases of the Canticles (_v. inf._,
    p. 366), the first, and for a long time the only, 'ingoing'
    critic of Milton's blank verse. He does not take quite the
    right view of it, but it is noteworthy that he should have
    taken any view of an intelligent character.]

    [Line: 12 soar'd] tow'red _MS._]

    [Line: 16 a _om._ _MS._]

    [Line: 18 'But which of us poor mortals' _1668_, _MS._]

    [Line: 20, 21, &c. have] ha' _1668_.]

    [Line: 25 ire] Dire _MS._, a word of which a unique instance
    in the sense of 'dire quality' is quoted in the _N.E.D._ from
    Anthony à Wood. The scribe may have misunderstood 'important'
    ( = 'importunate').]

    [Line: 39 flown] got _MS._]

    [Line: 41 This quaint anti-climax is one of the not very few
    indications which make of Flatman a sort of rough draft of
    Prior.]

    [Line: 42 seq. Translations of the Psalms have been so
    numerous--and so bad--that it is difficult to know whether
    Flatman had any particular translator or translators in his
    mind while writing the last stanza. It may have been merely
    the usual Sternhold and Hopkins. At any rate his own
    friend Tate did not join Brady in _lèse-poésie_ (as well as
    _lèse-majesté_ against the Son of Jesse) till thirty years
    after Woodford wrote and eight after Flatman's own death.]

    [Line: 55 Restor'd] Restore _MS._]

    [Line: 59 plac'd] set _MS._]

    [Line: 63 sacred _om._ _MS._]




_On the Death of the truly valiant George Duke of Albemarle._

PINDARIC ODE.


  _Stanza_ I.

  Now blush thyself into confusion,
            Ridiculous Mortality
  With indignation to be trampled on
          By them that court Eternity;
  Whose generous deeds and prosperous state
  Seem poorly set within the reach of Fate,
  Whose every trophy, and each laurel wreath
          Depends upon a little breath;
  Confin'd within the narrow bounds of Time,
        And of uncertain age,                                        10
  With doubtful hazards they engage,
  Thrown down, while victory bids them higher climb;
        Their glories are eclips'd by Death.
  Hard circumstances of illustrious men
  Whom Nature (like the Scythian Prince) detains
        Within the body's chains
        (Nature, that rigorous Tamberlain).
  Stout Bajazet disdain'd the barbarous rage
        Of that insulting conqueror,
  Bravely himself usurp'd his own expiring power,                    20
  By dashing out his brains against his iron cage.


  II.

        But 'tis indecent to complain,
  And wretched mortals curse their stars in vain,
  In vain they waste their tears for them that die,
  Themselves involv'd in the same destiny,
  No more with sorrow let it then be said
        The glorious Albemarle is dead.
  Let what is said of him triumphant be,
        Words as gay, as is his Fame,
        And as manly as his name,                                    30
        Words as ample as his praise,
        And as verdant as his bays,
  An _Epinicion_, not an Elegy.
  Yet why shouldst thou, ambitious Muse, believe
  Thy gloomy verse can any splendours give,
  Or make him one small moment longer live?
  Nothing but what is vulgar thou canst say;
        Or misbecoming numbers sing;
  What tribute to his memory canst thou pay,
  Whose virtue say'd a Crown, and could oblige a King?               40


  III.

  Many a year distressèd Albion lay
        By her unnatural offspring torn,
        Once the World's terror, then its scorn,
  At home a prison, and abroad a prey:
  Her valiant Youth, her valiant Youth did kill,
        And mutual blood did spill;
  Usurpers then, and many a mushroom Peer
    Within her palaces did domineer;
  There did the vulture build his nest,
        There the owls and satyrs rest,                              50
        By _Zim_ and _Ohim_ all possest;
  'Till England's Angel-Guardian, thou,
        With pity and with anger mov'd
          For Albion thy belov'd
        (Olive-chaplets on thy brow),
  With bloodless hands upheld'st her drooping head,
  And with thy trumpets call'dst her from the dead.
        Bright Phosphor to the rising Sun!
  That Royal Lamp, by thee did first appear
  Usher'd into our happy hemisphere;                                 60
        O may it still shine bright and clear!
  No cloud nor night approach it, but a constant noon!


  IV.

  Nor thus did thy undaunted valour cease,
        Or wither with unactive peace:
        Scarce were our civil broils allay'd,
  While yet the wound of an intestine war
        Had left a tender scar,
  When of our new prosperities afraid,
  Our jealous neighbours fatal arms prepare;
  In floating groves the enemy drew near.                            70
        Loud did the Belgian Lion roar,
  Upon our coasts th' Armada did appear,
  And boldly durst attempt our native shore,
  Till his victorious squadrons check'd their pride,
  And did in triumph o'er the Ocean ride.
  With thunder, lightning, and with clouds of smoke
        He did their insolence restrain,
  And gave his dreadful law to all the main,
  Whose surly billows trembled when he spoke,
  And put their willing necks under his yoke.                        80
  This the stupendious vanquisher has done,
  Whose high prerogative it was alone
  To raise a ruin'd, and secure an envied throne.


  V.

        Then angry Heav'n began to frown,
  From Heav'n a dreadful pestilence came down,
  On every side did lamentations rise;
        Baleful sigh, and heavy groan,
        All was plaint, and all was moan!
        The pious friend with trembling love,
        Scarce had his latest kindness done,                         90
        In sealing up his dead friend's eyes,
  Ere with his own surprising fate he strove,
        And wanted one to close his own.
        Death's iron sceptre bore the sway
        O'er our imperial Golgotha;
  Yet he with kind, though unconcernèd eyes,
  Durst stay and see those numerous tragedies.
  He in the field had seen Death's grisly shape,
        Heard him in volleys talk aloud,
  Beheld his grandeur in a glittering crowd,                        100
  And unamaz'd seen him in cannons gape:
  Ever unterrified his valour stood
  Like some tall rock amidst a sea of blood:
  'Twas loyalty from sword and pest kept him alive,
  The safest armour and the best preservative.


  VI.

  The flaming City next implor'd his aid,
        And seasonably pray'd
  His force against the Fire, whose arms the sea obey'd;
      Wide did th' impetuous torrent spread,
        Then those goodly fabrics fell,                             110
    Temples themselves promiscuously there
  Dropp'd down, and in the common ruin buried were,
      The City turn'd into one Mongibel:
    The haughty tyrant shook his curlèd head,
  His breath with vengeance black, his face with fury red.
      Then every cheek grew wan and pale,
      Every heart did yield and fail:
  Nought but thy presence could its power suppress,
      Whose stronger light put out the less.
      As London's noble structures rise,                            120
      Together shall his memory grow,
  To whom that beauteous town so much does owe.
  London! joint Favourite with him thou wert;
  As both possess'd a room within one heart,
  So now with thine indulgent Sovereign join,
  Respect his great friend's ashes, for he wept o'er thine.


  VII.

  Thus did the Duke perform his mighty stage,
      Thus did that Atlas of our State
  With his prodigious acts amaze the age,
  While worlds of wonders on his shoulders sate;                    130
      Full of glories and of years,
  He trod his shining and immortal way,
  Whilst Albion, compass'd with new floods of tears,
      Besought his longer stay.
  Profane that pen that dares describe thy bliss,
      Or write thine _Apotheosis!_
  Whom Heaven and thy Prince to pleasure prove,
  Entrusted with their armies and their love.
  In other Courts 'tis dangerous to deserve,
  Thou didst a kind and grateful Master serve,                      140
  Who, to express his gratitude to thee,
  Scorn'd those ill-natur'd arts of policy.
      Happy had Belisarius bin
      (Whose forward fortune was his sin)
      By many victories undone,
  He had not liv'd neglected, died obscure,
    If for thy Prince those battles he had won,
  Thy Prince, magnificent above his Emperor.


  VIII.

  Among the Gods, those Gods that died like thee,
  As great as theirs, and full of majesty,                          150
        Thy sacred dust shall sleep secure,
  Thy monument as long as theirs endure:
  There, free from envy, thou with them
  Shall have thy share of diadem;
        Among their badges shall be set
        Thy Garter and thy coronet;
        Or (which is statelier) thou shalt have
  A _Mausoleum_ in thy Prince's breast;
        There thine embalmèd name shall rest,
        That sanctuary shall thee save                              160
  From the dishonours of a regal grave:
        And every wondrous history,
        Read by incredulous Posterity,
  That writes of _him_, shall honourably mention _thee_,
        Who by an humble loyalty hast shown,
  How much sublimer gallantry and renown
  'Tis to _restore_, than to _usurp_ a Monarch's Crown.




    [_On the Death of the Duke of Albemarle._] First printed
    in small folio in 1670. Monk died that year. There are some
    important variants, noted below.]

    [Line: 40 a Crown] three Realms _1670_.]

    [Line: 47 The extreme rapidity of Monk's own transition from
    commonerhood to the highest rank in the peerage makes this
    allusion to Oliver's mock-lords rather hazardous; but after
    all Monk was a gentleman, and had richly deserved it.]

    [Line: 49 vulture] bloody vulture _1670_.]

    [Line: 51 _Zim_ and _Ohim_ are the original Hebrew for the
    'wild beasts of the desert' and the 'doleful creatures' who
    accompany owls and satyrs in Isaiah xiii. 21 (A.V.).]

    [Line: 61 bright] warm _1670_.]

    [After l. 75 ('ride') the following lines appeared in 1670:

        Under a gallant Admiral he fought,
        York, whose success a taller Muse must sing;
        Who so his country loved, that he forgot
        He was the Brother of a King;
        Whose daring courage might inspire
        A meaner soul than his with martial fire.
    ]

    [Line: 80 put] crouch'd.]

    [Line: 81 stupendious] These forms are always worth noting,
    when they occur.]

    [Line: 94 Death's iron sceptre bore the sway] With iron
    sceptre Death bore all the sway.]

    [Line: 96 unconcerned] undisturbed.]

    [Line: 97 tragedies] butcheries.]

    [Line: 98 shape] face.]

    [Line: 99 volleys] niter.]

    [Line: 104 kept] saved.]

    [Line: 107 And seasonably pray'd] Successfully it prayed.]

    [Line: 113 Mongibel] i.e. Etna.]

    [Line: 117 did yield and fail] began to fail.]

    [After 117 come the following lines:

        And had not our Anointed's flame
        (From heaven towards his subjects sent)
        Outblazed the furious element,
        What could the furious element tame?
    ]

    [Line: 121 His] thy.]

    [After 122 ('owe') there is a line which completes the rhyme
    with 'rise': 'For its revived tranquillities.']

    [Line: 124 possess'd] took up.]

    [Line: 133 floods] seas.]

    [Line: 135 Profane] Saucy.]

    [Line: 137 prove] strove (so also the texts of _1674_, _1676_,
    _1682_).]

    [Line: 161 a regal] the.]




_The Retirement._

PINDARIC ODE MADE IN THE TIME OF THE GREAT SICKNESS, 1665.


  _Stanza_ I.

  In the mild close of an hot summer's day,
      When a cool breeze had fann'd the air,
      And heaven's face look'd smooth and fair;
      Lovely as sleeping infants be,
      That in their slumber smiling lie
        Dandled on their mother's knee,
          You hear no cry,
      No harsh, nor inharmonious voice,
  But all is innocence without a noise:
  When every sweet, which the sun's greedy ray                       10
      So lately from us drew,
  Began to trickle down again in dew;
        Weary, and faint, and full of thought,
        Though for what cause I knew not well,
        What I ail'd I could not tell,
    I sate me down at an aged poplar's root,
  Whose chiding leaves excepted and my breast,
  All the impertinently busied world inclin'd to rest.


  II.

        I list'ned heedfully around,
        But not a whisper there was found.                           20
        The murmuring brook hard by,
          As heavy, and as dull as I,
        Seem'd drowsily along to creep;
        It ran with undiscover'd pace,
  And if a pebble stopp'd the lazy race,
  'Twas but as if it started in its sleep.
  Echo herself, that ever lent an ear
        To any piteous moan,
        Wont to groan with them that groan,
        Echo herself was speechless here.                            30
  Thrice did I sigh, thrice miserably cry,
    Ai me! the Nymph, ai me! would not reply,
  Or churlish, or she was asleep for company.


  III.

  There did I sit and sadly call to mind
      Far and near, all I could find
      All the pleasures, all the cares,
        The jealousies, the fears,
  All the incertainties of thirty years,
  From that most inauspicious hour
      Which gave me breath;                                          40
  To that in which the fair Amira's power
      First made me wish for death:
    And yet Amira's not unkind;
      She never gave me angry word,
      Never my mean address abhorr'd;
    Beauteous her face, beauteous her mind:
    Yet something dreadful in her eyes I saw
    Which ever kept my falt'ring tongue in awe,
        And gave my panting soul a law.
    So have I seen a modest beggar stand,                            50
    Worn out with age and being oft denied,
        On his heart he laid his hand;
    And though he look'd as if he would have died
        The needy wretch no alms did crave:
  He durst not ask for what he fear'd he should not have.


  IV.

        I thought on every pensive thing,
        That might my passion strongly move,
        That might the sweetest sadness bring;
    Oft did I think on Death, and oft of Love,
  The triumphs of the little God, and that same ghastly King.        60
        The ghastly King, what has he done?
        How his pale territories spread!
  Strait scantlings now of consecrated ground
        His swelling empire cannot bound,
  But every day new colonies of dead
  Enhance his conquests, and advance his throne.
  The mighty City sav'd from storms of War,
        Exempted from the crimson flood,
        When all the land o'erflow'd with blood,
  Stoops yet once more to a new conqueror:                           70
        The City which so many rivals bred,
  Sackcloth is on her loins, and ashes on her head.


  V.

  When will the frowning Heav'n begin to smile?
        Those pitchy clouds be overblown,
        That hide the mighty town,
        That I may see the mighty pile!
  When will the angry Angel cease to slay,
        And turn his brandish'd sword away
        From that illustrious Golgotha,
        London, the great Aceldama!                                  80
  When will that stately landscape open lie,
  The mist withdrawn that intercepts my eye!
        That heap of Pyramids appear,
  Which, now, too much like those of Egypt are:
        Eternal monuments of pride and sin,
  Magnificent and tall without, but dead men's bones within.




    [_The Retirement._ Exactly dated in the Firth MS., August 17,
    1665. Stanza III, found in this MS., was cancelled in _1674_,
    _1676_, _1682_, but restored in _1686_. Stanzas IV and V
    appear as a separate poem entitled 'Upon the Plague' in Bodley
    Rawlinson MS. D. 260, fol. 29 verso.]

    [Line: 28 moan] tone _Firth MS._, _1676_, _1682_.]

    [Line: 57 strongly] deeply _Firth and Rawlinson MSS._]

    [Line: 59 of Love] on Love _MSS._, _1674_, _1676_.]

    [Line: 66 advance] exalt _MSS._]

    [Line: 71 rivals _MSS._: rival _1682_, _1686_.]

    [Line: 73 begin to _om._ _MSS._ _Rawlinson_ reads 'Heavens'.]

    [Line: 76 mighty] amazing mighty _Rawlinson_.]

    [Line: 77 angry _om._ _Rawlinson_.]

    [Line: 85 Eternal] Vast _Rawlinson_.]




_Translated out of a Part of Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon._


  I.

  After a blust'ring tedious night,
  The wind's now hush'd and the black tempest o'er,
  Which th' crazy vessel miserably tore,
        Behold a lamentable sight!
  Rolling far off, upon a briny wave,
      Compassionate Philander spied
        A floating carcase ride,
  That seem'd to beg the kindness of a grave.


  II.

        Sad and concern'd, Philander then
  Weigh'd with himself the frail, uncertain state                    10
  Of silly, strangely disappointed men,
        Whose projects are the sport of Fate.
  Perhaps (said he) this poor man's desolate wife,
      In a strange country far away,
        Expects some happy day
  This ghastly thing, the comfort of her life;


  III.

        His son it may be dreads no harm,
  But kindly waits his father's coming home;
  Himself secure, he apprehends no storm,
        But fancies that he sees him come.                           20
  Perhaps the good old man, that kiss'd this son,
        And left a blessing on his head,
          His arms about him spread,
  Hopes yet to see him ere his glass be run.


  IV.

        These are the grand intrigues of Man,
  These his huge thoughts, and these his vast desires,
  Restless, and swelling like the Ocean
        From his birth till he expires.
  See where the naked, breathless body lies
        To every puff of wind a slave,                               30
          At the beck of every wave,
  That once perhaps was fair, rich, stout, and wise!


  V.

      While thus Philander pensive said,
  Touch'd only with a pity for mankind,
  At nearer view, he thought he knew the dead,
      And call'd the wretched man to mind:
  Alas, said he, art thou that angry thing,
  That with thy looks didst threaten death,
      Plagues and destruction breath,
  But two days since, little beneath a King!                         40


  VI.

      Ai me! where is thy fury now,
  Thine insolence, and all thy boundless power,
  O most ridiculously dreadful thou!
  Expos'd for beasts and fishes to devour.
  Go, sottish mortals, let your breasts swell high;
      All your designs laid deep as Hell,
        A small mischance can quell,
  Outwitted by the deeper plots of Destiny.


  VII.

      This haughty lump a while before
  Sooth'd up itself, perhaps with hopes of life,                     50
  What it would do, when it came safe on shore,
      What for its son, what for its wife;
  See where the man and all his politics lie.
      Ye Gods! what gulfs are set between
        What we have and what we ween,
  Whilst lull'd in dreams of years to come, we die!


  VIII.

      Nor are we liable alone
  To misadventures on the merciless sea,
  A thousand other things our Fate bring on,
      And shipwreck'd everywhere we be.                              60
  One in the tumult of a battle dies
      Big with conceit of victory,
        And routing th' enemy,
  With garlands deck'd, himself the sacrifice.


  IX.

      Another, while he pays his vows
  On bended knees, and Heaven with tears invokes,
  With adorations as he humbly bows,
      While with gums the altar smokes,
  In th' presence of his God, the temple falls:
      And thus religious in vain                                     70
        The flatter'd bigot slain,
  Breathes out his last within the sacred walls.


  X.

      Another with gay trophies proud,
  From his triumphant chariot overthrown,
  Makes pastime for the gazers of the crowd,
      That envied him his purchas'd crown.
  Some with full meals, and sparkling bowls of wine
      (As if it made too long delay),
        Spur on their fatal day,
  Whilst others (needy souls) at theirs repine.                      80


  XI.

      Consider well, and every place
  Offers a ready road to thy long home,
  Sometimes with frowns, sometimes with smiling face
      Th' embassadors of Death do come.
  By open force or secret ambuscade,
      By unintelligible ways,
        We end our anxious days,
  And stock the large plantations of the Dead.


  XII.

      But (some may say) 'tis very hard
  With them, whom heavy chance has cast away,                        90
  With no solemnities at all interr'd,
      To roam unburied on the sea:
  No--'tis all one where we receive our doom,
      Since, somewhere, 'tis our certain lot
        Our carcases must rot,
  And they whom heaven covers need no tomb.




    [_Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon._] This
    translation-amplification of one of the most famous passages
    of the _Satyricon_ is the piece referred to by Nahum Tate at
    the opening of his commendation (_sup._, p. 290).]

    [Line: 39 'breath', as in l. 72, a seventeenth-century form.]

    [Line: 88 A good line, if I mistake not. There is no
    suggestion even of it in the original, but, as often in
    Flatman, much of Sir Thomas Browne.]




_A Thought of Death._


  When on my sick bed I languish,
  Full of sorrow, full of anguish,
      Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,
      Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,
  My soul just now about to take her flight
  Into the regions of eternal night;
          Oh tell me you,
        That have been long below,
          What shall I do!
  What shall I think, when cruel Death appears,                      10
      That may extenuate my fears!
  Methinks I hear some gentle Spirit say,
      Be not fearful, come away!
  Think with thyself that now thou shall be free,
  And find thy long-expected liberty;
  Better thou mayst, but worse thou canst not be
  Than in this vale of tears and misery.
  Like Caesar, with assurance then come on,
  And unamaz'd attempt the laurel crown,
  That lies on th' other side Death's Rubicon.                       20




    [_A Thought of Death._] Flatman's best-known, if not his
    only known thing to most people--the knowledge being due to
    Warton's suggestion of indebtedness to it on Pope's part in
    his _Dying Christian._]




_Psalm xxxix. Vers. 4, 5._


  _Verse_ IV.

  Lord, let me know the period of my age,
  The length of this my weary pilgrimage,
  How long this miserable life shall last,
  This life that stays so long, yet flies so fast!


  _Verse_ V.

  Thou by a span measur'st these days of mine,
  Eternity's the spacious bound of thine:
  Who shall compare his little span with thee,
  With thine Incomprehensibility.
  Man born to trouble leaves this world with pain,
  His best estate is altogether vain.                                10




_Hymn for the Morning._


  Awake, my soul! Awake, mine eyes!
  Awake, my drowsy faculties;
  Awake, and see the new-born light
  Spring from the darksome womb of Night!
  Look up and see th' unwearied Sun,
  Already hath his race begun:
  The pretty lark is mounted high,
  And sings her matins in the sky.
  Arise, my soul! and thou my voice
  In songs of praise, early rejoice!                                 10
  O Great Creator! Heavenly King!
  Thy praises let me ever sing!
  Thy power has made, Thy goodness kept
  This fenceless body while I slept,
  Yet one day more hast given me
  From all the powers of darkness free:
  O keep my heart from sin secure,
  My life unblameable and pure,
  That when the last of all my days is come,
  Cheerful and fearless I may wait my doom.                          20




    [_Hymn for the Morning._] _This Hymn will of course suggest
    Ken's infinitely better-known one to everybody. The facts are
    curious and not quite fully given in Mr. Julian's invaluable
    _Dictionary of Hymnology_, where it is not mentioned that Ken
    and Flatman were both Winchester and New College men of
    almost exactly the same age and standing. Moreover, Sir Thomas
    Browne--also a Wykehamist and their contemporary, though a
    senior--has another very similar composition--one of his rare
    exercises in verse--towards the end of _Religio Medici_. The
    triple connexion with Winchester, and with Latin hymns known
    to be in use there, is pretty striking, though the matter
    cannot be followed out here. It is enough to say that the
    resemblance is chiefly confined to the opening. In the
    _Evening_ hymns of the two this resemblance is still slighter,
    though there are passages, naturally enough, that approach
    each other. Ken's hymns were not _published_ till 1695; but
    in 1674, the very years of Flatman's original issue, they
    are palpably referred to in the future bishop's and actual
    prebendary's _Manual of Prayers for the use of the Scholars
    of Winchester College_. Browne's piece must be at least forty
    years older.]

    [Line: 6 hath _1676_, _1682_: has _1686_.]




_Anthem for the Evening._


  Sleep!  downy sleep!  come close my eyes,
  Tir'd with beholding vanities!
  Sweet slumbers come and chase away
  The toils and follies of the day:
  On your soft bosom will I lie,
  Forget the world, and learn to die.
  O Israel's watchful Shepherd! spread
  Tents of Angels round my bed;
  Let not the Spirits of the air,
  While I slumber, me ensnare;                                       10
  But save Thy suppliant free from harms,
  Clasp'd in Thine everlasting Arms.
    Clouds and thick darkness is Thy Throne,
    Thy wonderful pavilion:
    Oh dart from thence a shining ray,
    And then my midnight shall be day!
    Thus when the morn in crimson drest,
    Breaks through the windows of the East,
  My hymns of thankful praises shall arise
  Like incense or the morning sacrifice.                             20




    [_Anthem for the Evening._] 19 arise _1682_; rise _1686_.]




_Death._

_SONG._


      Oh the sad day,
  When friends shall shake their heads and say
      Of miserable me,
  Hark how he groans, look how he pants for breath,
  See how he struggles with the pangs of Death!
        When they shall say of these poor eyes,
      How hollow, and how dim they be!
      Mark how his breast does swell and rise,
      Against his potent Enemy!
  When some old friend shall step to my bedside,                     10
  Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide,
      And when his next companions say,
  How does he do? what hopes? shall turn away,
      Answering only with a lift-up hand,
        Who can his fate withstand?
      Then shall a gasp or two do more
      Than e'er my rhetoric could before,
  Persuade the peevish world to trouble me no more!




    [_Death._] This, in my humble judgement, is finer, as it is
    certainly more original, than the earlier 'thought' on the
    same subject. The copy in the Firth MS. reads 'dear' for
    'poor' (l. 6) and 'hope' (l. 13), omits 'peevish' in l. 18,
    and notes that the Song was set to music by Captain Sylvanus
    Taylor.]




_The Happy Man._


  Peaceful is he, and most secure,
  Whose heart and actions all are pure;
  How smooth and pleasant is his way,
  Whilst Life's Meander slides away.
      If a fierce thunderbolt do fly,
      This man can unconcernèd lie;
      Knows 'tis not levell'd at his head,
  So neither noise nor flash can dread:
      Though a swift whirlwind tear in sunder
      Heav'n above him, or earth under;                              10
      Though the rocks on heaps do tumble,
      Or the world to ashes crumble,
  Though the stupendious mountains from on high
  Drop down, and in their humble valleys lie;
      Should the unruly Ocean roar,
      And dash its foam against the shore;
      He finds no tempest in his mind,
      Fears no billow, feels no wind:
      All is serene, all quiet there,
      There's not one blast of troubled air,                         20
      Old stars may fall, or new ones blaze,
      Yet none of these his soul amaze;
  Such is the man can smile at irksome death,
  And with an easy sigh give up his breath.




    [_the Happy Man._] In the Firth MS., and dated December 27,
    1664.]

    [Line: 1 Peaceful] Happy _MS._]

    [Line: 2 heart] life _MS._]

    [Line: 13 Though] When _MS._]

    [Line: 19 all quiet _MS._, _1674_, _1676_, _1682_: and quiet
    _1686_.]

    [Line: 23 at] on _MS._]

    [Line: 24 give up] resign _MS._]




_On Mr. Johnson's Several Shipwrecks._


  He that has never yet acquainted been
  With cruel Chance, nor Virtue naked seen,
  Stripp'd from th' advantages (which vices wear)
  Of happy, plausible, successful, fair;
  Nor learnt how long the low'ring cloud may last,
  Wherewith her beauteous face is overcast,
  Till she her native glories does recover,
  And shines more bright, after the storm is over;
  To be inform'd, he need no further go,
  Than this Divine Epitome of woe.                                   10
  In Johnson's Life and Writings he may find,
  What Homer in his Odysses design'd,
  A virtuous man, by miserable fate,
  Rend'red ten thousand ways unfortunate;
  Sometimes within a leaking vessel tost,
  All hopes of life and the lov'd shore quite lost,
  While hidden sands, and every greedy wave
  With horror gap'd themselves into a grave:
  Sometimes upon a rock with fury thrown,
  Moaning himself, where none could hear his moan;                   20
  Sometimes cast out upon the barren sand,
  Expos'd to th' mercy of a barbarous land:
  Such was the pious Johnson, till kind Heaven
  A blessèd end to all his toils had given:
  To show that virtuous men, though they appear
  But Fortune's sport, are Providence's care.




    [_On Mr. Johnson's several Shipwrecks._] First in _Deus
    Nobiscum. A Narrative of a Great Deliverance at Sea,... By
    William Johnson, D.D., late Chaplain and Sub-Almoner to His
    Sacred Majesty,... The Third Edition, Corrected_, London,
    1672, small octavo. These are some minor variants.]




_An Explanation of an Emblem Engraven by V. H._


  Seest thou those Rays, the Light 'bove them?
  And that gay thing the Diadem?
  The Wheel and Balance, which are tied
  To th' Gold, black Clouds on either side?
  Seest thou the wingèd Trumpeters withal,
  That kick the World's blue tottering Ball?
  The flying Globe, the Glass thereon,
  Those fragments of a Skeleton?
  The Bays, the Palms, the Fighting men,
  And written Scroll?--Come tell me then,                            10
  Did thy o'er-curious eye e'er see
  An apter scheme of Misery?
  What's all that Gold and sparkling Stones
  To that bald Skull, to those Cross Bones?
  What mean those Blades (whom we adore)
  To stain the Earth with purple gore?
  Sack stately towns, silk banners spread,
  Gallop their coursers o'er the dead?
  Far more than this? and all to sway
  But till those sands shall glide away.                             20
  For when the bubble world shall fly
  With stretch'd-out plumes, when the brisk eye
  Shall close with anguish, sink with tears,
  And th' angels' trumpets pierce our ears,
  What's haughty man, or those fine things,
  Which Heaven calls men, though men style kings?
      Vain World, adieu! and farewell, fond renown!
      Give me the Glory, that's above the Crown.




    [_Emblem engraven by V. H._] V. or W[enceslas] H[ollar], I
    suppose.]

    [Line: 13 and sparkling _1674-82_: and what those Sparkling
    _1686_.]

    [Line: 15 Blades _1674-82_: Braves _1686_.]




_For Thoughts._


  I.

      _Thoughts!_ What are they?
          They are my constant friends,
  Who, when harsh Fate its dull brow bends,
        Uncloud me with a smiling ray,
  And in the depth of midnight force a day.


  II.

          When I retire, and flee
        The busy throngs of company
        To hug myself in privacy;
          O the discourse! the pleasant talk,
  'Twixt us (my thoughts) along a lonely walk!                       10


  III.

        You, like the stupefying wine
        The dying malefactors sip
              With shivering lip,
        T' abate the rigour of their doom,
  By a less troublous cut to their long home;
  Make me slight crosses, though they pil'd up lie,
  All by th' enchantments of an ecstasy.


  IV.

        Do I desire to see
        The Throne and Majesty
            Of that proud one,                                       20
  _Brother and Uncle to the Stars and Sun?_
  Those can conduct me where such toys reside,
  And waft me 'cross the main, sans wind and tide.


  V.

            Would I descry
      Those radiant mansions 'bove the sky,
      Invisible by mortal eye?
        My _Thoughts_, my _Thoughts_ can lay
        A shining track thereto,
        And nimbly fleeting go:
  Through all the eleven orbs can shove a way,                       30
  These too, like Jacob's Ladder, are
  A most Angelic thoroughfare.


  VI.

            The wealth that shines
        In th' Oriental mines;
        Those sparkling gems which Nature keeps
        Within her cabinets, the deeps;
            The verdant fields,
        The rarities the rich World yields;
        Rare structures, whose each gilded spire
  Glimmers like lightning; which, while men admire,                  40
        They deem the neighbouring sky on fire,--
  These can I gaze upon, and glut mine eyes
        With myriads of varieties.
          As on the front of Pisgah, I
  Can th' Holy Land through these my optics spy.


  VII.

            Contemn we then
        The peevish rage of men,
        Whose violence ne'er can divorce
        Our mutual amity;
        Or lay so damn'd a curse                                     50
  As _Non-addresses_, 'twixt my thoughts and me:
        For though I sigh in irons, they
  Use their old freedom, readily obey;
  And when my bosom-friends desert me, stay.


  VIII.

        Come then, my darlings, I'll embrace
        My privilege; make known
        The high prerogative I own,
  By making all allurements give you place;
        Whose sweet society to me
  A sanctuary and a shield shall be                                  60
  'Gainst the full quivers of my Destiny.




    [_Thoughts._] Dated in the Firth MS. May 13, 1659.]

    [Line: 13 shivering] trembling _MS._]

    [Line: 17 th' enchantments] the magic _MS._]

    [Line: 19 Majesty] awful Majestie _MS._]

    [Line: 22 Those] These _MS._]

    [Line: 26 by] to _MS._]

    [Line: 27 My _Thoughts_, my _Thoughts_ can] My Thoughts can
    eas'ly _MS._]

    [Line: 29 fleeting] flitting _MS._]

    [Line: 30 a way _MS._: 'away' all editions.]

    [Line: 31 These too] My Thoughts] _MS._: _1686_ stupidly
    misprints 'two'.]

    [Line: 38 The] Those _MS._]

    [Line: 39 Rare] Huge _MS._ (cf. 'rarities' 38).]

    [Line: 40 Glimmers] Glisters _MS._, _1674_, _1676_.]

    [Line: 42 gaze ... glut] dwell ... tire _MS._]

    [Line: 43 myriads] millions _MS._: fancies _1676_.]

    [Line: 48 ne'er can] cannot _MS._]




_Against Thoughts._


  I.

        Intolerable racks!
          Distend my soul no more,
        Loud as the billows when they roar,
  More dreadful than the hideous thunder-cracks.
        Foes inappeasable, that slay
        My best contents, around me stand,
  Each like a Fury, with a torch in hand;
  And fright me from the hopes of one good day.


  II.

        When I seclude myself, and say
          How frolic will I be,                                      10
        Unfetter'd from my company
        I'll bathe me in felicity!
          In come these guests,
        Which Harpy-like defile my feasts:
  Oh the damn'd dialogues, the cursèd talk
  'Twixt us (my _Thoughts_) along a sullen walk.


  III.

        You, like the poisonous wine
          The gallants quaff
          To make 'em laugh,
        And yet at last endure                                       20
  From thence the tortures of a calenture,
  Fool me with feign'd refections, till I lie
  Stark raving in a Bedlam ecstasy.


  IV.

            Do I dread
        The starry Throne and Majesty
            Of that high God,
  Who batters kingdoms with an iron rod,
  And makes the mountains stagger with a nod?
        That sits upon the glorious Bow,
        Smiling at changes here below.                               30
  These goad me to his grand tribunal, where
  They tell me I with horror must appear,
  And antedate amazements by grim fear.


  V.

            Would I descry
  Those happy souls' blest mansions 'bove the sky,
  Invisible by mortal eye,
  And in a noble speculation trace
        A journey to that shining place;
        Can I afford a sigh or two,
  Or breathe a wish that I might thither go:                         40
  These clip my plumes, and chill my blazing love
  That, O, I cannot, cannot soar above.


  VI.

            The fire that shines
        In subterranean mines,
            The crystall'd streams,
        The sulphur rocks that glow upon
        The torrid banks of Phlegeton;
        Those sooty fiends which Nature keeps,
        Bolted and barr'd up in the deeps;
  Black caves, wide chasms, which who see confess                    50
  Types of the pit, so deep, so bottomless!
  These mysteries, though I fain would not behold,
        You to my view unfold:
  Like an old Roman criminal, to the high
  Tarpeian Hill you force me up, that I
  May so be hurried headlong down, and die.


  VII.

            Mention not then
  The strength and faculties of men;
  Whose arts cannot expel
  These anguishes, this bosom-Hell.                                  60
  When down my aching head I lay,
  In hopes to slumber them away;
        Perchance I do beguile
        The tyranny awhile,
  One or two minutes, then they throng again,
  And reassault me with a trebled pain:
        Nay, though I sob in fetters, they
  Spare me not then; perplex me each sad day,
  And whom a very Turk would pity, slay.


  VIII.

      Hence, hence, my Jailors! _Thoughts_ be gone,                  70
      Let my tranquillities alone.
            Shall I embrace
        A crocodile, or place
  My choice affections on the fatal dart,
        That stabs me to the heart?
        I hate your curst proximity,
  Worse than the venom'd arrows-heads that be
  Cramm'd in the quivers of my Destiny.




    [_Against Thoughts._] Entitled in the Firth MS. _Thoughts: the
    Answer to the other_, and dated May 18, 1659.]

    [Line: 2 Distend] O tear _MS._]

    [Line: 4 More dreadful than] Less dreadful are _MS._]

    [Line: 5 Foes inappeasable] Too cruel enemies _MS._]

    [Line: 19 'em] them _MS._]

    [Line: 20 Yet thence at last procure _MS._: Yet chance at last
    t' endure _1674_.]

    [Line: 21 From thence the] The burning _MS._]

    [Line: 22 refections] reflections _1674_.]

    [Line: 26 high] great _MS._]

    [Line: 30 changes here] us poor things _MS._]

    [Line: 31 grand _1674-82_, _MS._: great _1686_.]

    [Line: 47 torrid] burning _MS._]

    [Line: 50 chasms] chasma's _MS._]

    [Line: 54 old Roman criminal] adjudged offender _1674_.]

    [Line: 56 headlong] headly _1674-82_.]

    [Line: 58 and] nor _MS._]

    [Line: 59 cannot] ne'er could _MS._]

    [Line: 63 do] may _MS._]

    [Line: 64 The] Their _MS._]

    [Line: 65 throng] swarm _MS._]

    [Line: 66 And reassault] Then they assault _MS._]

    [Line: 67 sob] groan _MS._]

    [Line: 68 each sad] every _MS._]

    [Line: 70 _Thoughts_ be] get ye _MS._]

    [Line: 75 Directed at my heart _MS._]

    [The Firth MS. supplies very interesting evidence of Flatman's
    care in revision; in l. 54 there is a curious reversion to the
    original, and more effective, reading.]




_A Dooms-Day Thought._

_Anno 1659._


  _Judgement!_ two syllables can make
  The haughtiest son of Adam shake.
  'Tis coming, and 'twill surely come,
  The dawning to that Day of Doom;
  O th' morning blush of that dread day,
  When Heav'n and Earth shall steal away,
  Shall in their pristine Chaos hide,
  Rather than th' angry Judge abide.
  'Tis not far off; methinks I see
  Among the stars some dimmer be;                                    10
  Some tremble, as their lamps did fear
  A neighbouring extinguisher.
  The greater luminaries fail,
  Their glories by eclipses veil,
  Knowing ere long their borrow'd light
  Must sink in th' Universal Night.
  When I behold a mist arise,
  Straight to the same astonish'd eyes
  Th' ascending clouds do represent
  A scene of th' smoking firmament.                                  20
  Oft when I hear a blustering wind
  With a tempestuous murmur join'd,
  I fancy, Nature in this blast
  Practises how to breathe her last,
  Or sighs for poor Man's misery,
  Or pants for fair Eternity.
    Go to the dull church-yard and see
  Those hillocks of mortality,
  Where proudest Man is only found
  By a small swelling in the ground.                                 30
  What crowds of carcases are made
  Slaves to the pickaxe and the spade!
  Dig but a foot, or two, to make
  A cold bed, for thy dead friend's sake,
  'Tis odds but in that scantling room
  Thou robb'st another of his tomb,
  Or in thy delving smit'st upon
  A shinbone, or a cranion.
    When th' prison's full, what next can be
  But the Grand Gaol-Delivery?                                       40
  The Great Assize, when the pale clay
  Shall gape, and render up its prey;
  When from the dungeon of the grave
  The meagre throng themselves shall heave,
  Shake off their linen chains, and gaze
  With wonder, when the world shall blaze.
  Then climb the mountains, scale the rocks,
  Force op'n the deep's eternal locks,
  Beseech the clifts to lend an ear--
  Obdurate they, and will not hear.                                  50
  What? ne'er a cavern, ne'er a grot,
  To cover from the common lot?
  No quite forgotten hold, to lie
  Obscur'd, and pass the reck'ning by?
  No--There's a quick all-piercing Eye
  Can through the Earth's dark centre pry,
  Search into th' bowels of the sea,
  And comprehend Eternity.
    What shall we do then, when the voice
  Of the shrill trump with strong fierce noise                       60
  Shall pierce our ears, and summon all
  To th' Universe' wide Judgement Hall?
  What shall we do! we cannot hide,
  Nor yet that scrutiny abide:
  When enlarg'd conscience loudly speaks,
  And all our bosom-secrets breaks;
  When flames surround, and greedy Hell
  Gapes for a booty (_who can dwell
  With everlasting Burnings!_), when
  Irrevocable words shall pass on men;                               70
  Poor naked men, who sometimes thought
  These frights perhaps would come to nought!
  What shall we do! we cannot run
  For refuge, or the strict Judge shun.
  'Tis too late _then_ to think what course to take;
  While we live here, we must provision make.




    [_A Dooms-Day Thought._] This, the last of Flatman's three
    poems on the _Novissima_, is perhaps not the worst; except
    for those who hate 'conceits'. It has a curious _genuineness_,
    though in manner it slightly resembles his friend Cotton's
    'New Year' poem so highly and rightly praised by Lamb.]




_Virtus sola manet, caetera mortis erunt._


  I.

  _Nunquam sitivi, quae vehit aureo_
  _Pactolus alveo flumina; quo magis_
    _Potatur Hermus, tanto avarae_
      _Mentis Hydrops sitibundus ardet_.


  II.

  _Frustrà caduci carceris incola_
  _Molirer Arces; quilibet angulus_
    _Sat ossa post manes reponet;_
      _Exiguum satis est Sepulchrum_.


  III.

  _Nil stemma penso, nil titulos moror_,
  _Cerásve aviti sanguinis indices_,                                 10
    _Sunt ista fatorum, inque Lethes_
      _Naufragium patientur undis_.


  IV.

  _Ergo in quieto pectoris ambitu_
  _Quid mens anhelas fulgura gloriae_,
    _Laudésque inanes, et loquacem_
      _Quae populi sedet ore famam?_


  V.

  _Letho superstes gloria, somnii_
  _Dulcedo vana est, fama malignior_
    _Nil tangit umbras, nec feretrum_
      _Ingreditur Popularis Aura_.                                   20


  VI.

  _Mansura sector, sola sed invidi_
  _Expers Sepulchri sidera trajicit_,
    _Spernénsque fatorum tumultus_
      _Pellit humum generosa Virtus._


  VII.

  _Praeceps novorum caetera mensium_
  _Consumet aetas, seraque temporis_
    _Delebit annosi vetustas_
      _Utopicae nova Regna Lunae_.




    [_Virtus sola manet._] These Alcaics look like a college
    exercise, in which kind there have been worse. The third
    lines, as usual, are the weakest parts. But the English is
    perhaps better. The decasyllabic quatrain, though practised by
    Davies, by Davenant, and recently and best of all by Dryden,
    in _Annus Mirabilis_, has qualities which it remained for Gray
    to bring out fully, but which Flatman has not quite missed
    here. I wonder if Gray knew the piece, especially Stanza III?]




_Translated._


  I.

  I never thirsted for the Golden Flood,
    Which o'er Pactolus' wealthy sands does roll,
  From whence the covetous mind receives no good,
    But rather swells the dropsy of his soul.


  II.

  On palaces why should I set my mind,
    Imprison'd in this body's mould'ring clay?
  Ere long to poor six foot of earth confin'd,
    Whose bones must crumble at the fatal day.


  III.

  Titles and pedigrees, what are they to me,
    Or honour gain'd by our forefathers' toil,                       10
  The sport of Fate, whose gaudiest pageantry
    Lethe will wash out, dark Oblivion soil?


  IV.

  Why then, my soul, who fain wouldst be at ease,
    Should the World's glory dazzle thy bright eye?
  Thyself with vain applause why shouldst thou please,
    Or dote on Fame, which fools may take from thee?


  V.

  Praise after death is but a pleasant dream,
    The Dead fare ne'er the worse for ill report;
  The Ghosts below know nothing of a name,
    Nor ever popular caresses court.                                 20


  VI.

  Give me the lasting Good, Virtue, that flies
    Above the clouds, that tramples on dull earth,
  Exempt from Fate's tumultuous mutinies,
    Virtue, that cannot need a second birth.


  VII.

  All other things must bend their heads to Time,
    By age's mighty torrent borne away,
  Hereafter no more thought on than my rhyme,
    Or faery kingdoms in Utopia.




_Psalm xv. Paraphrased._


  Verse I.

  Who shall approach the dread Jehovah's Throne
  Or dwell within thy courts, O Holy One!
  That happy man whose feet shall tread the road
  Up Sion's Hill, that holy Hill of God!


  Verse II.

  He that's devout and strict in all he does,
  That through the sinful world uprightly goes,
  The desp'rate heights from whence the great ones fall
  (Giddy with Fame) turn not his head at all:
  Stands firm on Honour's pinnacle, and so
  Fears not the dreadful precipice below.                            10
  Of Conscience, not of Man, he stands in awe,
  Just to observe each tittle of the Law!
  His words and thoughts bear not a double part,
  His breast is open, and he speaks his heart.


  Verse III.

  He that reviles not, or with cruel words
  (Deadly as venom, sharp as two-edg'd swords)
  Murthers his friend's repute, nor dares believe
  That rumour which his neighbour's soul may grieve:
  But with kind words embalms his bleeding Name,
  Wipes off the rust, and polishes his fame.                         20


  Verse IV.

  He in whose eyes the bravest sinners be
  Extremely vile, though rob'd in majesty;
  But if he spies a righteous man (though poor)
  Him he can honour, love, admire, adore:
  In Israel's humble plains had rather stay,
  Than in the tents of Kedar bear the sway:
  He that severely keeps his sacred vow,
  No mental reservation dares allow,
  But what he swears, intends; will rather die,
  Lose all he has, than tell a solemn lie.                           30


  Verse V.

  He that extorts not from the needy soul,
  When laws his tyranny cannot control;
  He whom a thousand empires cannot hire,
  Against a guiltless person to conspire.
  He that has these perfections, needs no more;
  What treasures can be added to his store?
  The Pyramids shall turn to dust, to hide
  Their own vast bulk, and haughty Founders' pride.
  Leviathan shall die within his deep;
  The eyes of Heaven close in eternal sleep;                         40
  Confusion may o'erwhelm both sea and land;
  Mountains may tumble down, but he shall stand.




    [_Psalm xv._] In the Firth MS.: the chief variant is 'brains'
    for 'head' in l. 8.]




_Job._


  Few be the days that feeble man must breath,
  Yet frequent troubles antedate his death:
  Gay like a flow'r he comes, which newly grown,
  Fades of itself, or is untimely mown:
  Like a thin aery shadow does he fly,
  Length'ning and short'ning still until he die.
  And does Jehovah think on such a one,
  Does he behold him from his mighty Throne?
  Will he contend with such a worthless thing,
  Or dust and ashes into Judgement bring?                            10

    Unclean, unclean is man ev'n from the womb,
  Unclean he falls into his drowsy tomb.
  Surely, he cannot answer God, nor be
  Accounted pure, before such purity.




    [_Job._] In the Firth MS., which records that it was set by
    William Hawes.]




_Nudus Redibo._


  Naked I came, when I began to be
  A man among the Sons of Misery,
  Tender, unarm'd, helpless, and quite forlorn,
  E'er since 'twas my hard fortune to be born;
  And when the space of a few weary days
  Shall be expir'd, then must I go my ways.
  Naked I shall return, and nothing have,
  Nothing wherewith to bribe my hungry Grave.
    Then what's the proudest Monarch's glittering robe,
  Or what's he, more than I, that rul'd the globe?                   10
  Since we must all without distinction die,
  And slumber both stark naked, he and I.




    [_Nudus Redibo._] In the Firth MS., and dated June 15, 1660.
    It was set by William Gregory.]

    [Line: 4 hard fortune] misfortune _MS._]

    [Line: 7 I shall] shall I _MS._]

    [Line: 9 glittering] pearly _MS._]




_An Elegy on the Earl of Sandwich._


  If there were aught in Verse at once could raise
  Or tender pity or immortal praise,
  Thine obsequies, brave Sandwich, would require
  Whatever would our nobler thoughts inspire;
  But since thou find'st by thy unhappy fate,
  What 'tis to be unfortunately great,
  And purchase Honour at too dear a rate:
  The Muse's best attempt, howe'er design'd,
  Cannot but prove impertinently kind,
  Thy glorious valour is a theme too high                            10
  For all the humble arts of Poesy.
  To side with chance and kingdoms overrun
  Are little things ambitious men have done;
  But on a flaming ship thus to despise
  That life, which others did so highly prize;
  To fight with fire, and struggle with a wave,
  And Neptune with unwearied arms outbrave,
  Are deeds surpassing fab'lous chronicle,
  And which no future age shall parallel;
  Leviathan himself's outdone by thee,                               20
  Thou greater _wonder of the deep_, than he:
  Nor could the deep thy mighty ashes hold.
  The deep that swallows diamonds and gold;
  Fame ev'n thy sacred relics does pursue,
  Richer than all the treasures of Peru:
  While the kind sea thy breathless body brings
  Safe to the bed of honour and of kings.




    [_Elegy on the Earl of Sandwich._] Pepys's (the first) Earl,
    who perished at the fight of Solebay in 1672. The duplication
    (see next piece) looks as if Flatman had had some personal
    connexion with him. At any rate there are expressions which
    are not the mere conventions of such writing. Line 6, and in
    fact the whole vigorous triplet in which it occurs, must be
    connected with the nearly certain facts that Sandwich's advice
    would have prevented the most unfavourable of the conditions
    under which the English fought; that the Duke of York not only
    would not listen but hinted at cowardice on Sandwich's part;
    and that the Earl in consequence, not only, as Mr. David
    Hannay (_A Short History of the Royal Navy_, i. 423) says,
    'fought the ship on this the last and most glorious day of his
    life, with determined courage', but refused to attempt to save
    his life by swimming, when she was grappled by a fireship and
    burnt. Moreover, the last lines express the fact that the body
    was only recovered after being washed ashore some days after
    the battle, when it was duly buried in Westminster Abbey, 'the
    bed of honour and of kings'.]




_An Epitaph on the Earl of Sandwich._


  Here lies the dust of that illustrious man,
    That triumph'd o'er the Ocean;
  Who for his country nobly courted Death,
    And dearly sold his glorious breath,
  Or in a word, in this cold narrow grave
    Sandwich the Good, the Great, the Brave
  (Oh frail estate of sublunary things!),
  Lies equal here with England's greatest kings.




_Pastoral._


  I.

      At break of day poor Celadon
      Hard by his sheepfolds walk'd alone,
      His arms across, his head bow'd down,
      His oaten pipe beside him thrown,
  When Thirsis, hidden in a thicket by,
  Thus heard the discontented Shepherd cry.


  II.

      What is it Celadon has done,
      That all his happiness is gone!
      The curtains of the dark are drawn,
      And cheerful morn begins to dawn,                              10
  Yet in my breast 'tis ever dead of night,
  That can admit no beam of pleasant light.


  III.

      You pretty lambs may leap and play
      To welcome the new-kindled day,
      Your shepherd harmless, as are you,
      Why is he not as frolic too?
  If such disturbance th' innocent attend,
  How differs he from them that dare offend!


  IV.

      Ye Gods! or let me die, or live,
      If I must die, why this reprieve?                              20
      If you would have me live, O why
      Is it with me as those that die!
  I faint, I gasp, I pant, my eyes are set,
  My cheeks are pale, and I am living yet.


  V.

      Ye Gods! I never did withhold
      The fattest lamb of all my fold,
      But on your altars laid it down,
      And with a garland did it crown.
  Is it in vain to make your altar smoke?
  Is it all one, to please, and to provoke?                          30


  VI.

      Time was that I could sit and smile,
      Or with a dance the time beguile:
      My soul like that smooth lake was still,
      Bright as the sun behind yon hill,
  Like yonder stately mountain clear and high,
  Swift, soft, and gay as that same butterfly.


  VII.

      But now _within_ there's Civil War,
      In arms my rebel passions are,
      Their old allegiance laid aside,
      The traitors now in triumph ride                               40
  That many-headed monster has thrown down
  Its lawful monarch, Reason, from its throne.


  VIII.

      See, unrelenting Sylvia, see,
      All this, and more, is 'long of thee:
      For ere I saw that charming face,
      Uninterrupted was my peace,
  Thy glorious beamy eyes have struck me blind,
  To my own soul the way I cannot find.


  IX.

      Yet is it not thy fault nor mine;
      Heav'n is to blame, that did not shine                         50
      Upon us both with equal rays--
      It made thine bright, mine gloomy days;
  To Sylvia beauty gave, and riches store;
  All Celadon's offence is, he is poor.


  X.

      Unlucky stars poor shepherds have,
      Whose love is fickle Fortune's slave:
      Those golden days are out of date,
      When every turtle chose his mate:
  _Cupid_, that mighty Prince, then uncontroll'd,
  Now like a little negro's bought and sold.                         60




    [_Pastoral._] 36 that _1682_; the _1686_.]




_On the Death of Mr. Pelham Humfries._

_Pastoral Song._


          Did you not hear the hideous groan,
            The shrieks, and heavy moan
  That spread themselves o'er all the pensive plain;
  And rent the breast of many a tender swain?
          'Twas for Amintas, dead and gone.
  Sing, ye forsaken shepherds, sing _His_ praise
          In careless melancholy lays,
          Lend _Him_ a little doleful breath:
            Poor Amintas! cruel Death!
  'Twas _Thou_ couldst make dead words to live,                      10
          Thou that dull numbers couldst inspire
          With charming voice and tuneful lyre,
  That life to all, but to _Thyself_, couldst give;
  Why couldst _Thou_ not _Thy_ wondrous art bequeath?
            Poor Amintas! cruel Death!
          Sing, pious shepherds, while you may,
  Before th' approaches of the Fatal Day:
  For you yourselves that sing this mournful song,
            Alas! ere it be long,
          Shall, like Amintas, breathless be,                        20
  Though more forgotten in the grave than _He_.




    [_On the Death of Mr. Pelham Humfries._] Pelham Humfries or
    Humfrey died in the year (1674) of first publication of these
    Poems. He was a musician and gentleman of the Chapel Royal.]

    [Line: 21 than _1682_; that _1686_.]




_The Mistake._

_SONG._


  I heard a young lover in terrible pain,
  From whence if he pleas'd, he might soon be releas'd,
    He swore, and he vow'd again and again,
  He could not outlive the turmoils of his breast;
      But, alas, the young lover I found
  Knew little how cold Love would prove under ground;
      Why should I believe, prithee, Love, tell me why,
  Where my own flesh and blood must give me the lie!
  Let 'em rant while they will, and their destinies brave,
  They'll find their flames vanish on this side the grave;           10
  For though all addresses on purpose are made
  To be _huddled to bed_,--'tisn't meant, _with a spade!_




_The Incredulous._

_SONG._


      I'll ne'er believe for Strephon's sake
      That Love (whate'er its fond pretences be),
  Is not a slave to mutability.
  The Moon and that alike of change partake:
      Tears are weak, and cannot bind,
      Vows, alas! but empty wind:
      The greatest art that Nature gave
  To th' amorous hypocrite to make him kind,
    Long ere he dies will take its leave.
      Had you but seen, as I have done,                              10
      Strephon's tears, and heard his moan,
      How pale his cheek, how dim his eye,
  As if with Chloris he resolv'd to die;
      And when her spotless soul was fled
  Heard his amazing praises of the dead;
      Yet in a very little time address
      His flame t' another Shepherdess,
  In a few days giving his love the lie,
  You'd be as great an infidel as I.




_Weeping at Parting._

_SONG._


  I.

          Go, gentle Oriana, go,
          Thou seest the Gods will have it so;
          Alas! alas! 'tis much in vain
          Of their ill usage to complain,
          To curse them when we want relief,
          Lessens our courage, not our grief:
          Dear Oriana, wipe thine eye,
          The time may come that thou and I
  Shall meet again, long, long to prove
  What vigour absence adds to love.                                  10
  Smile, Oriana, then, and let me see
  That look again, which stole my liberty.


  II.

          But say that Oriana die
          (And that sad moment may be nigh),
          The Gods that for a year can sever,
          If it please them, can part us ever;
          They that refresh, can make us weep,
          And into Death can lengthen sleep.
          Kind Oriana, should I hear
          The thing I so extremely fear,                             20
          'Twill not be strange, if it be said,
          After a while, I too am dead.
  Weep, Oriana, weep, for who does know
  Whether we e'er shall meet again below?




    [_Weeping at Parting._] In the Firth MS., entitled 'To Oriana
    weeping at parting', and dated December 31, 1664; 'Set by Mr.
    Roger Hill.' In l. 3 the MS. reads 'but' for 'much'.]




_The Desperate Lover._


  I.

          O mighty King of Terrors, come!
          Command thy slave to his long home:
          Great sanctuary Grave! to thee
          In throngs the miserable flee;
          Encircled in thy frozen arms,
          They bid defiance to their harms,
  Regardless of those pond'rous little things
  That discompose th' uneasy heads of kings.


  II.

          In the cold earth the pris'ner lies
          Ransom'd from all his miseries;                            10
          Himself forgotten, he forgets
          His cruel creditors, and debts;
          And there in everlasting peace
          Contentions with their authors cease.
  A turf of grass or monument of stone
  Umpires the petty competition.


  III.

          The disappointed lover there,
          Breathes not a sigh, nor sheds a tear;
          With us (fond fools) he never shares
          In sad perplexities and cares;                             20
          The willow near his tomb that grows
          Revives his memory, not his woes;
  Or rain, or shine, he is advanc'd above
  Th' affronts of Heaven and stratagems of Love.


  IV.

          Then, mighty King of Terrors, come,
          Command thy slave to his long home.
          And thou, my friend, that lov'st me best,
          Seal up these eyes that brake my rest;
          Put out the lights, bespeak my knell,
          And then eternally farewell.                               30
  'Tis all th' amends our wretched Fates can give,
  That none can force a desperate man to live.




    [_The Desperate Lover._] 28 'brake', if right, must mean 'used
    to break' by making me behold 'Love or some other vanity'.]




_The Fatigue._

_A SONG._


  Adieu, fond World, and all thy wiles,
  Thy haughty frowns, and treacherous smiles,
  They that behold thee with my eyes,
  Thy double dealing will despise:
  From thee, false World, my deadly foe,
  Into some desert let me go;
  Some gloomy melancholy cave,
  Dark and silent as the grave;
  Let me withdraw, where I may be
  From thine impertinences free:
  There when I hear the turtle groan,                                10
  How sweetly would I make my moan!
  Kind Philomel would teach me there
  My sorrows pleasantly to bear:
  There could I correspond with none
  But Heaven, and my own breast alone.




_The Resolve._

_SONG._


  I.

  Had Phyllis neither charms, nor graces
      More than the rest of women wear,
  Levell'd by Fate with common faces,
      Yet Damon could esteem her fair.


  II.

  Good-natur'd Love can soon forgive
      Those petty injuries of Time,
  And all th' affronts of years impute
      To her misfortune, not her crime.


  III.

  Wedlock puts Love upon the rack,
      Makes it confess 'tis still the same                           10
  In icy age, as it appear'd
      At first when all was lively flame.


  IV.

  If Hymen's slaves, whose ears are bored,
      Thus constant by compulsion be,
  Why should not choice endear us more
      Than them their hard necessity?


  V.

  Phyllis! 'tis true, thy glass does run,
      But since mine too keeps equal pace,
  My silver hairs may trouble thee,
      As much as me thy ruin'd face.                                 20


  VI.

  Then let us constant be as Heaven,
      Whose laws inviolable are,
  Not like those rambling meteors there
      That foretell ills, and disappear.


  VII.

  So shall a pleasing calm attend
      Our long uneasy destiny,
  So shall our loves and lives expire,
      From storms and tempests ever free.




    [_The Resolve._] The superiority of the first stanza of this
    to the rest, and the reason of that superiority (the double
    rhyme 'graces' and 'faces'), are both clear enough. But what
    is not clear is why Flatman--who, if no great poet, seems
    usually to have been at no loss for verse or rhyme--should
    have suddenly run dry of the latter in his first and third
    lines. If he had not been so stingy the piece might have been
    worth something. It is not quite worthless as it is.]




_Love's Bravo._

_SONG._


  Why should we murmur, why repine,
        Phyllis, at thy fate, or mine?
  Like pris'ners, why do we those fetters shake;
        Which neither thou, nor I can break?
  There is a better way to baffle Fate,
        If mortals would but mind it,
          And 'tis not hard to find it:
  Who would be happy, must be desperate;
        He must despise those stars that fright
          Only fools that dread the night;                           10
        Time and chance he must outbrave,
        He that crouches is their slave.
        Thus the wise Pagans, ill at ease,
  Bravely chastis'd their surly Deities.




_The Expectation._

_SONG._


  I.

  Why did I ever see those glorious eyes
      My famish'd soul to tantalize?
  I hop'd for Heav'n, which I had lately seen,
      But ne'er perceiv'd the gulf between:
  In vain for bliss did my presumptions seek,
          My love so strong
          I could not hold my tongue,
  My heart so feeble that I durst not speak.


  II.

  Yet why do I my constitution blame,
      Since all my heart is out of frame?                            10
  'Twere better, sure, my passion to appease,
      With hope to palliate my disease:
  And 'twill be something like tranquillity,
          To hope for that
          I must not compass yet,
  And make a virtue of necessity.




    [_The Expectation._] In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and
    dated July 11, 1671. It was set by Roger Hill. The chief
    variants are:--

    [Line: 5 presumptions] presumption.]

    [Line: 8 that] yet.]

    [Line: 14 hope for] think of.]

    [Line: 15 must not compass] may not purchase.]




_Coridon Converted._

_SONG._


  I.

      When Coridon a slave did lie,
      Entangled in his Phyllis' eye,
      How did he sigh! how did he groan!
      How melancholy was his tone!
      He told his story to the woods,
      And wept his passion by the floods;
  Then Phyllis, cruel Phyllis, too to blame,
  Regarded not his sufferings, nor his flame.


  II.

      Then Coridon resolv'd no more
      His mistress' mercy to implore;                                10
      How did he laugh, how did he sing!
      How did he make the forest ring!
      He told his conquest to the woods,
      And drown'd his passion in the floods:
  Then Phyllis, gentle Phyllis, less severe,
  Would have had him, but he would none of her.




    [_Coridon Converted._] In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and
    dated April 29, 1664. It was set by William Gregory. The MS.
    yields some important corrections:--'conquest' and 'passion'
    in ll. 13, 14, for the plural of the printed texts; and
    'gentle Phyllis' in l. 15 for 'cruel Phyllis'. The plural
    'woods' and 'floods' perhaps account for the former variants;
    the latter is evidently an attempt to adhere strictly to the
    refrain.]




_The Humourist._

_SONG._


  I.

  Good faith! I never was but once so mad
  To dote upon an idle woman's face,
  And then, alas! my fortune was so bad
  To see another chosen in my place;
  And yet I courted her, I'm very sure,
  With love as true as his was, and as pure.


  II.

  But if I ever be so fond again
  To undertake the second part of love,
  To reassume that most unmanlike pain,
  Or after shipwreck do the ocean prove;                             10
  My mistress must be gentle, kind, and free,
  Or I'll be as indifferent as she.




    [_The Humourist._]: In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song',
    and dated April 29, 1664. It was set by William Gregory. In
    the MS. the poem opens 'In faith'.]




_Fading Beauty._

_SONG._


  I.

  As poor Aurelia sate alone,
      Hard by a rivulet's flow'ry side,
      Envious at Nature's new-born pride,
  Her slighted self she thus reflected on.


  II.

  Alas! that Nature should revive
      These flowers, which after Winter's snow
      Spring fresh again, and brighter show,
  But for our fairer sex so ill contrive!


  III.

  Beauty, like theirs a short-liv'd thing,
      On us in vain she did bestow,                                  10
      Beauty that only once can grow,
  An Autumn has, but knows no second Spring.




_A Dialogue._

CLORIS AND PARTHENISSA.


    _C._ Why dost thou all address deny?
  Hard-hearted Parthenissa, why?
  See how the trembling lovers come,
  That from thy lips expect their doom.
    _P._ Cloris! I hate them all, they know,
  Nay I have often told them so;
  Their silly politics abhorr'd:
  I scorn to make my slave my lord.
    _C._ But Strephon's eyes proclaim his love
  Too brave, tyrannical to prove.                                    10
    _P._ Ah, Cloris! when we lose our pow'r
  We must obey the conqueror.
    _C._ Yet where a gentle Prince bears sway,
  It is no bondage to obey.
    _P._ But if like Nero, for awhile,
  With arts of kindness he beguile;
  How shall the tyrant be withstood
  When he has writ his laws in blood!
    _C._ Love, Parthenissa, all commands:
  It fetters Kings in charming bands;                                20
  Mars yields his arms to Cupid's darts,
  And Beauty softens savage hearts.

  Chorus.

  _If nothing else can pull the Tyrant down,
  Kill him with kindness, and the day's your own._




    [_A Dialogue._] 22 And] But _1674_.]




_A Dialogue._

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.


  _Orpheus._

  Eurydice, my fair, my fair Eurydice!
  My love, my joy, my life, if so thou be
  In Pluto's kingdom answer me; appear
  And come to thy poor Orpheus.----

                                  _Eur._ Oh, I hear,
  I hear, dear Orpheus, but I cannot come
  Beyond the bounds of dull Elysium.
  I cannot----

              _Orph._ And why wilt thou not draw near?
  Is there within these courts a shade so dear
  As he that calls thee?

                    _Eur._ No, there cannot be
  A thing so lovely in mine eyes as thee.                            10
    _Orph._ Why comes not then Eurydice?

                                      _Eur._ The Fates,
  The Fates forbid, and these eternal gates,
  Never unbarr'd to let a pris'ner go,
  Deny me passage; nay, grim Cerberus too
  Stands at the door----

                      _Orph. _But cannot then
  They that o'er Lethe go, return again?
    _Eur._ Never, oh never!----

                        _Orph._ Sure they may, let's try
  If Art can null the Laws of Destiny.
  My lays compacted Thebes, made every tree
  Loosen its roots to caper; come let's see                          20
  What thou and I can do.

                      _Chor._ Perchance the throng
  Of Ghosts may be enchanted with a song,
  And mov'd to pity.----

                      _Eur._ Hark! the hinges move,
  The gate's unbarr'd. I come, I come, my Love!

  _Chorus amborum._

  'Twas Music, only Music, could unspell
  Helpless, undone Eurydice from Hell.




    [_A Dialogue._] Dated in the Firth MS. September 15, 1663; it
    was set to music by W. Gregory.]




_The Bachelor's Song._


  Like a dog with a bottle, fast ty'd to his tail,
  Like vermin in a trap, or a thief in a jail,
          Like a Tory in a bog,
            Or an ape with a clog:
  Such is the man, who when he might go free,
           Does his liberty lose
             For a Matrimony noose,
  And sells himself into captivity.

  The dog he does howl, when his bottle does jog,
  The vermin, the thief, and the Tory in vain                        10
  Of the trap, of the jail, of the quagmire complain.
  But well fare poor Pug! for he plays with his clog;
  And though he would be rid on 't rather than his life,
  Yet he lugs it, and he hugs it, as a man does his wife.




    [_The Bachelor's Song_]. In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song',
    and dated 1670. See Introduction for the rather obvious
    legend connected with this profane doggerel. As proof of its
    popularity it may be noted that versions of it appear in the
    _Windsor Drollery_, 1672, and the _Westminster Drollery_,
    1691; in the latter there are also _The Bachelors Satyr
    Related_ and _A Reply to The Bachelors Satyr Related_. These
    unauthorized versions have a number of minor variants.]

    [Line: 3 Like] Or like _1674-82_. 'Tory' in the original, not
    the transferred sense, which latter Flatman seems himself to
    have well deserved.]

    [Line: 5 Such is the] Even such is a _MS._ might go] may be
    _MS._]

    [Line: 9 his] the _1686_.]

    [Line: 10 and] _om. MS._]

    [Line: 11 quagmire] bog do _MS._]




_The Second Part._

_SONG._


  How happy a thing were a wedding
            And a bedding,
  If a man might purchase a wife
    For a twelvemonth and a day;
  But to live with her all a man's life,
      For ever and for ay,
  Till she grow as grey as a cat,
  Good faith, Mr. Parson, I thank you for that.




_An Appeal to Cats in the business of Love._

_A SONG._


  Ye cats that at midnight spit love at each other,
  Who best feel the pangs of a passionate lover,
  I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur,
  If the business of Love be no more than to purr.
  Old Lady Grimalkin with her gooseberry eyes,
  Knew something when a kitten, for why she was wise;
  You find by experience, the love-fit's soon o'er,
  _Puss! Puss!_ lasts not long, but turns to _Cat-whore!_
          Men ride many miles,
          Cats tread many tiles,
        Both hazard their necks in the fray;
          Only Cats, when they fall
          From a house or a wall,
        Keep their feet, mount their tails, and away!




    [_An appeal to Cats._] Added in _1686_. It is a pity we do not
    possess the tune to which Mr. Humfries, or somebody else, most
    probably set this lively fantasy. It is quite in the style of
    Dr. Blow, Humfries's friend and colleague.]




_Advice to an Old Man of sixty-three, about to Marry a Girl of
sixteen._

_SONG._


  I.

        Now fie upon him! what is Man,
        Whose life at best is but a span?
        When to an inch it dwindles down,
        Ice in his bones, snow on his crown,
        That he within his crazy brain
        Kind thoughts of Love should entertain,
        That he, when harvest comes, should plow,
        And when 'tis time to reap, go sow,
  Who, in imagination only strong,
  Though twice a child, can never twice grow young.                  10


  II.

        Nature did those design for fools,
        That sue for work, yet have no tools.
        What fellow-feeling can there be
        In such a strange disparity?
        Old age mistakes the youthful breast,
        Love dwells not there, but Interest:
        Alas, good man! take thy repose,
        Get ribband for thy thumbs and toes.
  Provide thee flannel, and a sheet of lead,--
  Think on thy Coffin, not thy Bridal Bed.                           20




_The Slight._

_SONG._


  I.

  I did but crave that I might kiss,
      If not her lip, at least her hand,
  The coolest Lover's frequent bliss,
      And rude is she that will withstand
      That inoffensive liberty:
  She (would you think it?) in a fume
      Turn'd her about and left the room;
        Not she, she vow'd, not she.

  II.

  Well, Chariessa, then said I,
      If it must thus for ever be,                                   10
  I can renounce my slavery,
      And since you will not, can be free.
      Many a time she made me die,
  Yet (would you think 't?) I lov'd the more,
      But I'll not take 't as heretofore,
      Not I, I'll vow, not I.




    [_The Slight._]: In the Firth MS., a first draft, dated
    August, 1666, and recorded as having been set to music by
    Sylvanus Taylor. The variants are important:--]

    [Line: 3 frequent] hourly.]

    [Lines: 4-5 Which at his wish he may command, Nay, often takes
    the liberty. The copy in Rawlinson MS. D. 260 (fol. 27 verso)
    has the same readings.]




_The Penitent._

_SONG._


  I.

      Had I but known some years ago
      What wretched lovers undergo,
      The tempests and the storms that rise
      From their Belovèd's dangerous eyes,
      With how much torment they endure
      That ague and that calenture;
      Long since I had my error seen,
      Long since repented of my sin:
  Too late the soldier dreads the trumpet's sound
  That newly has receiv'd his mortal wound.                          10


  II.

      But so adventurous was I
      My fortunes all alone to try,
      Needs must I kiss the burning light,
      Because it shin'd, because 'twas bright.
      My heart with youthful heat on fire,
      I thought some God did me inspire;
      And that blind zeal embold'ned me
      T' attempt Althea's Deity.
  Surely those happy Pow'rs that dwell above,
  Or never courted, or enjoy'd their love.                           20




    [_The Penitent._] In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and dated
    1671. It was set by Roger Hill.]

    [Line: 9 dreads: loathes _MS._]

    [Line: 15 heart: breast _MS._]

    [Line: 18 The reference, if any, to the _classical_ story of
    Althea is so confused and muddled that perhaps there is none.
    See _The Surrender_, below.]




_The Defiance._

_SONG._


  I.

      Be not too proud, imperious Dame,
      Your charms are transitory things,
      May melt, while you at Heaven aim,
      Like Icarus's waxen wings;
  And you a part in his misfortunes bear,
  Drown'd in a briny Ocean of despair.


  II.

      You think your beauties are above
      The Poet's brain and Painter's hand,
      As if upon the Throne of Love
      You only should the world command:                             10
  Yet know, though you presume your title true,
  There are pretenders that will rival you.


  III.

      There's an experienc'd rebel, Time,
      And in his squadron's Poverty;
      There's Age that brings along with him
      A terrible artillery:
  And if against all these thou keep'st thy crown,
  Th' usurper Death will make thee lay it down.




    [_The Defiance._] 5 misfortunes _1682_: misfortune _1686_.]

    [Line: 14 'squadron's' is not apostrophated in original, but
    the practice in this respect is so loose as to be of no value.
    The plural would make sense, of course.]




_The Surrender._

_SONG._


  I yield, I yield! Divine Althaea, see
      How prostrate at thy feet I bow,
  Fondly in love with my captivity,
      So weak am I, so mighty thou!
      Not long ago I could defy,
      Arm'd with wine and company,
      Beauty's whole artillery:
  Quite vanquish'd now by thy miraculous charms,
      Here, fair Althaea, take my arms,
  For sure he cannot be of human race,
  That can resist so bright, so sweet a face.




_The Whim._

_SONG._


  I.

    Why so serious, why so grave?
      Man of business, why so muddy?
    Thyself from Chance thou canst not save
      With all thy care and study.
  Look merrily then, and take thy repose;
  For 'tis to no purpose to look so forlorn,
  Since the World was as bad before thou wert born,
      And when it will mend who knows?
    And a thousand year hence 'tis all one,
  If thou lay'st on a dunghill, or sat'st on a throne.               10


  II.

    To be troubled, to be sad,
      Carking mortal, 'tis a folly,
    For a pound of Pleasure's not so bad
      As an ounce of Melancholy:
  Since all our lives long we travel towards Death,
  Let us rest us sometimes, and bait by the way,
  'Tis but dying at last; in our race let us stay,
      And we shan't be so soon out of breath.
    Sit the comedy out, and that done,
  When the play's at an end, let the curtain fall down.              20




_The Renegado._

_SONG._


  I.

  Remov'd from fair Urania's eyes
        Into a village far away:
  Fond Astrophil began to say,
        Thy charms, Urania, I despise;
  Go bid some other shepherd for thee die,
  That never understood thy tyranny.


  II.

  Return'd at length the amorous swain,
        Soon as he saw his deity,
  Ador'd again, and bow'd his knee,
        Became her slave, and wore her chain.                        10
  The Needle thus that motionless did lie,
  Trembles, and moves, when the lov'd Loadstone's nigh.




    [_The Renegado._] In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and dated
    1671. 'Set by Roger Hill.']




_Phyllis withdrawn._


  I.

  I did but see her, and she's snatch'd away,
      I find I did but happy seem;
  So small a while did my contentments stay,
      As short and pleasant as a dream:
  Yet such are all our satisfactions here,
  They raise our hopes, and then they disappear.


  II.

  Ill-natur'd Stars, that evermore conspire
      To quench poor Strephon's flame,
  To stop the progress of his swift desire,
      And leave him but an aëry name;                                10
  Why art thou doom'd (of no pretences proud)
  Ixion-like thus to embrace a cloud?


  III.

  Yet why should Strephon murmur, why complain,
      Or envy Phyllis her delight,
  Why should her pleasures be to him a pain,
      Easier perhaps out of his sight?
  No, Strephon, no! If Phyllis happy be,
  Thou shouldst rejoice, whate'er becomes of thee.


  IV.

  Amidst the charming glories of the spring
      In pleasant fields and goodly bowers,                          20
  Indulgent Nature seems concern'd to bring
      All that may bless her innocent hours,
  While thy disastrous Fate has tied thee down
  To all the noise and tumult of the Town.


  V.

  Strephon that for himself expects no good
      To Phyllis wishes everywhere
  A long serenity without a cloud,
      Sweet as these smiles of th' infant year.
  May Halcyons in her bosom build their nest,
  Whatever storms shall discompose my breast.                        30




    [_Phyllis withdrawn._] The first stanza is a good example of
    the purely haphazard character of typographical peculiarities
    at the time. There is not a capital in the original, though
    in that original elsewhere one would find 'Contentments',
    'Dream', 'Satisfactions', and 'Hopes', if not others as well.]




_The Malecontent._

_SONG._


  Phyllis, O Phyllis! Thou art fondly vain,
    My wavering thoughts thus to molest,
  Why should my pleasure be the only pain,
    That must torment my easy breast?
  If with Prometheus I had stolen fire,
              Fire from above,
  As scorching, and as bright, as that of Love,
        I might deserve Jove's ire,
  A vulture then might on my liver feed,
        But now eternally I bleed,                                   10
  And yet on Thee, on Thee lies all the blame,
  Who freely gav'st the fuel and the flame.




    [_The Malecontent._] 5 'Stoll'n' in original, though the
    valued 'èn' is indispensable for the metre.]




_The Indifferent._

_SONG._


  Prithee confess for my sake and your own,
        Am I the man or no?
  If I am he, thou canst not do 't too soon,
  If not, thou canst not be too slow.
  If Woman cannot love, Man's folly's great
        Your sex with so much zeal to treat;
  But if we freely proffer to pursue
        Our tender thoughts and spotless love,
        Which nothing shall remove,
  And you despise all this, pray what are you?




_The Harbour._

_SONG._


  O tedious hopes! when will the storm be o'er!
    When will the beaten vessel reach the shore!
  Long have I striv'n with blust'ring winds and tides,
    Clouds o'er my head, waves on my sides!
  Which in my dark adventures high did swell,
  While Heaven was black as Hell.
      O Love, tempestuous Love, yet, yet at last,
          Let me my anchor cast,
      And for the troubles I have undergone,
  O bring me to a port which I may call my own.                      10




_The Unconcerned._

_SONG._


  Now that the world is all in amaze,
    Drums and trumpets rending heav'ns,
  Wounds a-bleeding, mortals dying,
    Widows and orphans piteously crying;
  Armies marching, towns in a blaze,
    Kingdoms and states at sixes and sevens:
      What should an honest fellow do,
  Whose courage, and fortunes run equally low!
    Let him live, say I, till his glass be run,
          As easily as he may;                                       10
  Let the wine, and the sand of his glass flow together,
      For life's but a winter's day.
          Alas! from sun to sun,
    The time's very short, very dirty the weather,
    And we silently creep away.
  Let him nothing do, he could wish undone;
  And keep himself safe from the noise of gun.




    [_The Unconcerned._] 1 amaze _1674_, _1676_, _1682_: a maze
    _1686_.]




_The Immovable._

_SONG_.


  I.

  What though the sky be clouded o'er,
  And Heav'us influence smile no more?
  Though tempests rise, and earthquakes make
  The giddy World's foundation shake?
    A gallant breast contemns the feeble blow
    Of angry Gods, and scorns what Fate can do.


  II.

  What if alarums sounded be,
  And we must face our enemy,
  If cannons bellow out a death,
  Or trumpets woo away our breath!                                   10
    'Tis brave amidst the glittering throng to die.
    Nay, Samson-like, to fall with company.


  III.

  Then let the swordman domineer,
  I can nor pike nor musket fear;
  Clog me with chains, your envies tire,
  For when I will, I can expire;
    And when the puling fit of Life is gone,
    The worst that cruel man can do, is done.




_The Wish._

_SONG._


  I.

      Not to the hills where cedars move
      Their cloudy head, not to the grove
      Of myrtles in th' Elysian shade,
      Nor Tempe which the poets made;
      Not on the spicy mountains play;
      Or travel to Arabia:
      I aim not at the careful Throne,
      Which Fortune's darlings sit upon;
  No, no, the best this fickle world can give,
  Has but a little, little time to live.                             10


  II.

      But let me soar, O let me fly
      Beyond poor Earth's benighted eye,
      Beyond the pitch swift eagles tower,
      Above the reach of human power;
      Above the stars, above the way,
      Whence Phoebus darts his piercing ray.
      O let me tread those Courts that are,
      So bright, so pure, so blest, so fair,
  As neither thou nor I must ever know
  On Earth--'tis thither, thither would I go.                        20




    [_The Wish._] Entitled 'A Wish' in the Firth MS., and dated
    September 10, 1659. It was set by Captain Taylor. The chief
    variants are 'clouds' for 'stars' in l. 15 and 'the sun' for
    'Phoebus' in l. 16.]




_The Cordial. In the year 1657._

_SONG._


  I.

  Did you hear of the News (O the News) how it thunders!
  Do but see, how the block-headed multitude wonders!
  One fumes, and stamps, and stares to think upon
      What others wish as fast, Confusion.
      One swears w' are gone, another just agoing,
        While a third sits and cries,
        'Till his half-blinded eyes
      Call him pitiful rogue for so doing.
  Let the tone be what 'twill that the mighty ones utter,
  Let the cause be what 'twill why the poorer sort mutter;           10
      I care not what your State-confounders do,
      Nor what the stout repiners undergo;
      I cannot whine at any alterations.
        Let the Swede beat the Dane,
        Or be beaten again,
      What am I in the crowd of the Nations?


  II.

  What care I if the North and South Poles come together;
  If the Turk or the Pope's Antichristian, or neither;
      If fine Astraea be (as Naso said)
      From mortals in a peevish fancy fled:                          20
      Rome, when 'twas all on fire, her people mourning,
        'Twas an Emperor could stand
        With his harp in his hand,
      Sing and play, while the city was burning.




_Celadon on Delia singing._


        O Delia! for I know 'tis she,
  It must be she, for nothing less could move
  My tuneless heart, than something from above.
        I hate all earthly harmony:
  Hark, hark, ye Nymphs, and Satyrs all around!
  Hark, how the baffled Echo faints; see how she dies,
  Look how the wingèd choir all gasping lies
        At the melodious sound;
          See, while she sings
        How they droop and hang their wings!                         10
          Angelic Delia, sing no more,
  Thy song's too great for mortal ear;
  Thy charming notes we can no longer bear:
  O then in pity to the World give o'er,
  And leave us stupid as we were before.
    Fair Delia, take the fatal choice,
  Or veil thy beauty, or suppress thy Voice.

    His passion thus poor Celadon betray'd,
  When first he saw, when first he heard the lovely Maid.




_The Advice._

_SONG._


  I.

  Poor Celia once was very fair,
      A quick bewitching eye she had,
  Most neatly look'd her braided hair,
      Her dainty cheeks would make you mad,
  Upon her lip did all the Graces play,
  And on her breasts ten thousand Cupids lay.


  II.

  Then many a doting lover came
      From seventeen till twenty-one,
  Each told her of his mighty flame,
      But she, forsooth, affected none.                              10
  One was not handsome, t'other was not fine,
  This of tobacco smelt, and that of wine.


  III.

  But t'other day it was my fate
      To walk along that way alone,
  I saw no coach before her gate,
      But at the door I heard her moan:
  She dropt a tear, and sighing, seem'd to say,
  Young ladies, marry, marry while you may!




    [_The Advice._] In the Firth MS., where it is dated December
    22, 1664, and recorded to have been set by Roger Hill; and in
    Rawlinson MS. D. 260 (fol. 28) of the Bodleian. The variants
    are trivial. Found also in the _Westminster Drollery_, 1671,
    and the _Windsor Drollery_, 1672: the latter reads 'lock'd'
    for 'look'd' in l. 3. In l. 9 _1682_ reads 'her' for 'his'.]




_To Mr. Sam. Austin of Wadham Coll. Oxon, On his most unintelligible
Poems._


    SIR,
  In that small inch of time I stole, to look
  On th' obscure depths of your mysterious book,
  (Heav'n bless my eyesight!) what strains did I see!
  What steropegeretic Poetry!
  What hieroglyphic words, what [riddles] all,
  In letters more than cabalistical!
  We with our fingers may your verses scan,
  But all our noddles understand them can
  No more, than read that dungfork, pothook hand
  That in Queen's College Library does stand.                        10
  The cutting hanger of your Wit I can't see,
  For that same scabbard that conceals your Fancy:
  Thus a black velvet casket hides a jewel;
  And a dark woodhouse, wholesome winter fuel;
  Thus John Tradeskin starves our greedy eyes,
  By boxing up his new-found rarities;
  We dread Actaeon's fate, dare not look on,
  When you do scower your skin in Helicon;
  We cannot (Lynceus-like) see through the wall
  Of your strong-mortar'd Poems; nor can all                         20
  The small shot of our brains make one hole in
  The bulwark of your book, that fort to win.
  Open your meaning's door, O do not lock it!
  Undo the buttons of your smaller pocket,
  And charitably spend those angels there,
  Let them enrich and actuate our sphere.
  Take off our bongraces, and shine upon us,
  Though your resplendent beams should chance to tan us.
  Had you but stol'n your verses, then we might
  Hope in good time they would have come to light;                   30
  And felt I not a strange poetic heat
  Flaming within, which reading makes me sweat,
  Vulcan should take 'em, and I'd not exempt 'em,
  Because they're things _Quibus lumen ademptum_.
    I thought to have commended something there,
  But all exceeds my commendations far:
  I can say nothing; but stand still, and stare,
  And cry, O wondrous, strange, profound, and rare.
  Vast Wits must fathom you better than thus,
  You merit more than our praise: as for us                          40
    The beetles of our rhymes shall drive full fast in,
    The wedges of your worth to everlasting,
    My much Apocalyptic friend _Sam. Austin_.




    [_To Mr. Sam. Austin._] Samuel Austin the younger (his father
    of the same name was a respectable divine and a writer of
    sacred verse of the preceding generation) was a Wadham man,
    a contemporary of Flatman's, and a common Oxford butt for
    conceit and affectation. His _Panegyric on the Restoration_
    appeared in 1661, and contained a statement that the author
    'intended a larger book of poems according as these find
    acceptance'. He had taken his degree five years earlier, and
    his poetry, probably in MS., had been soon afterwards made
    the subject of one of the liveliest and naughtiest of Oxford
    skits, _Naps on Parnassus_ (London, 1658), where some of
    Austin's own lucubrations, and more parodies and lampoons
    on him, appear--side-noted with quaint and scandalous
    _adversaria_. Flatman himself contributed, among others, some
    kitchen-Latin leonines:

        O decus Anglorum! vates famose tuorum
        Cujus pars nona facit Oxenford Helicona,

    &c., sometimes dropping into a sort of Macaronic, or at least
    mongrel dialect:

        Haec ratio non est--quid rides?--my meaning's honest.

    The elder Samuel Austin, a Cornishman, of Exeter, was a very
    serious person who wrote, and after difficulties got published
    in 1629, _Austin's Urania, or the Heavenly Muse_, with the
    most unreasonable motto _Aut perlegas aut non legas_--rendered

        Whate'er thou be whose eye do chance to fall
        Upon this Book, read all or none at all.

    For a considerable time I obeyed the second part of this
    injunction only.

    _Naps on Parnassus_ has some important variants and some
    corrections of the present text. Omitting minor changes, these
    are:--

    [Line: 2 obscure] abstruse.

    [Line: 5 what all] what riddles? all (Clearly the right text).

    After line 16 is the couplet:

        There were Philosophers content to be
        Renown'd, and famous in obscurity.

    Line 18 has a marginal note on 'scower'--'But when he does so,
    he verifies the Proverb, viz. Æthiopem lavat.'

    Lines 29, 30 read:

        O were your verses stol'n, that so we might
        Hope in good time to see them come to light.

    After line 36 is the couplet:

        I hope some wit when he your honour hears,
        Will praise your mother's eyes' turpentine tears.

    In line 42 is printed 'everlastin' with the note '[g] aufertur
    in fine, per Apocopen'.]

    [Line: 4 The blessed word 'stero (it should be 'ste_rr_o'
    or 'ste_re_o') -pegeretic' (a rather erratic compound from
    [Greek: pêgnymi]) is very likely Austin's own for 'strongly
    put together'.]

    [Line: 10 ['The Devil's handwriting in Queen's College Library
    at Oxford.' Note in orig.] This interesting autograph is still
    preserved, and a photograph of it may be seen in Mr. Andrew
    Clark's Anthony à Wood's _Life and Times_, i. 498 (Oxford
    Historical Society).]

    [Line: 15 John Tradeskin] John Tradescant the second
    (1608-1662), original collector of the Ashmolean Museum.]

    [Line: 27 bongraces] Sun-bonnets.]




_To my ingenious Friend Mr. William Faithorne on his Book of Drawing,
Etching, and Graving._


  Should I attempt an elogy, or frame
  A paper-structure to secure thy name,
  The lightning of one censure, one stern frown
  Might quickly hazard that, and thy renown.
  But this thy book prevents that fruitless pain.
  One line speaks purelier thee, than my best strain.
  Those mysteries (once like the spiteful mould,
  Which bars the greedy Spaniard from his gold)
  Thou dost unfold in every friendly page,
  Kind to the present, and succeeding age.                           10
  That hand, whose curious art prolongs the date
  Of frail mortality, and baffles Fate
  With brass and steel, can surely potent be,
  To rear a lasting monument for thee:
  For my part I prefer (to guard the dead)
  A copper-plate beyond a sheet of lead.
  So long as brass, so long as books endure,
  So long as neat-wrought pieces, thou'rt secure.
      A [_Faithorne sculpsit_] is a charm can save
      From dull oblivion, and a gaping grave.                        20




    [_To my Ingenious Friend Mr. William Faithorne._] The _elder_
    Faithorne (_v. sup._, p. 278). The younger, his son and
    namesake, was but eighteen when Flatman first published. The
    lines first appeared in _The Art of Graveing and Etching ...
    Published by Will^{m} Faithorne. And Sold at his Shop next to
    y^{e} Signe of y^{e} Drake without Temple Barre, 1662._]

    [Line: 1 'elogy' is no doubt here merely an equivalent for
    'eulogy', and rather from _éloge_ than _elogium_. But it is a
    pity that it has not been kept in English as an equivalent for
    the Latin.]

    [Line: 5 that fruitless] my slender _1662_. Other important
    variants are:-- Lines 9, 10 read:--

        Thine ingenuity reveals, and so
        By making plain, thou dost illustrious grow.
    ]

    [Line: 14 lasting] stately.




_On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc._

  To the Worthy Translator,
  CHARLES COTTON, Esq.


  He that would aptly write of warlike men,
  Should make his ink of blood, a sword his pen;
  At least he must their memories abuse,
  Who writes with less than Maro's mighty Muse:
  All, Sir, that I could say of this great theme
  (The brave Montluc) would lessen his esteem;
  Whose laurels too much native verdure have
  To need the praises vulgar chaplets crave:
  His own bold hand, what it durst write, durst do,
  Grappled with enemies, and oblivion too;                           10
  Hew'd his own monument, and grav'd thereon
  Its deep and durable inscription.
  To you, Sir, whom the valiant Author owes
  His second life, and conquest o'er his foes--
  Ill-natur'd foes, Time and Detraction,--
  What is a stranger's contribution!
  Who has not such a share of vanity,
  To dream that one, who with such industry
  Obliges all the world, can be oblig'd by me.




    [_On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc._] Cotton's
    translation of the admirable Gascon appeared in the same year
    (1674) with Flatman's _Poems._]




_A Character of a Belly-God._

CATIUS AND HORACE.


  HORACE.

      _Whence_, _Brother Case_, _and whither bound so fast?_
  CA. O, Sir, you must excuse me, I'm in haste.
      I dine with my (Lord Mayor) and can't allow
      Time for our eating directory now:
      Though I must needs confess, I think my rules
      Would prove Pythagoras and Plato fools.
 HOR. _Grave Sir_, _I must acknowledge_, _'tis a crime_
      _To interrupt at such a nick of time_;
      _Yet stay a little_, _Sir_, _it is no sin_;
      _You're to say Grace ere dinner can begin_;                    10
      _Since you at food such virtuoso are_,
      _Some precepts to an hungry poet spare_.
  CA. I grant you, Sir, next pleasure ta'en in eating
      Is that (as we do call it) of repeating;
      I still have kitchen systems in my mind,
      And from my stomach's fumes a brain well lin'd.
 HOR. _Whence, pray, Sir, learnt you those ingenuous arts_,
      _From one at home, or hir'd from foreign parts_?
  CA. No names, Sir (I beseech you), that's foul play,
      We ne'er name authors, only what they say.                     20
   1. 'For eggs choose long, the round are out of fashion,
      'Unsavoury and distasteful to the nation:
      'E'er since the brooding Rump, they're addle too,
      'In the long egg lies Cock-a-doodle-doo.
   2. 'Choose coleworts planted on a soil that's dry,
      'Even they are _worse for th' wetting_ (verily).
   3. 'If friend from far shall come to visit, then
      'Say thou wouldst treat the wight with mortal hen,
      'Don't thou forthwith pluck off the cackling head,
      'And impale corpse on spit as soon as dead;                    30
      'For so she will be tough beyond all measure,
      'And friend shall make a trouble of a pleasure.
      'Steep'd in good wine let her her life surrender,
      'O then she'll eat most admirably tender.
   4. 'Mushrooms that grow in meadows are the best;
      'For aught I know, there's poison in the rest.
   5. 'He that would many happy summers see,
      'Let him eat mulberries fresh off the tree,
      'Gather'd before the sun's too high, for these
      'Shall hurt his stomach less than Cheshire cheese.             40
   6. 'Aufidius (had you done so 't had undone ye)
      'Sweet'ned his morning's draughts of sack with honey;
      'But he did ill, to empty veins to give
      'Corroding potion for a lenitive.
   7. 'If any man to drink do thee inveigle in,
      'First wet thy whistle with some good metheglin.
   8. 'If thou art bound, and in continual doubt,
      'Thou shalt get in no more till some get out,
      'The mussel or the cockle will unlock
      'Thy body's trunk, and give a vent to nock.                    50
      'Some say that sorrel steep'd in wine will do,
      'But to be sure, put in some aloes too.
   9. 'All shell-fish (with the growing Moon increast)
      'Are ever, when she fills her orb, the best:
      'But for brave oysters, Sir, exceeding rare,
      'They are not to be met with everywhere.
      'Your Wall-fleet oysters no man will prefer
      'Before the juicy grass-green Colchester.
      'Hungerford crawfish match me, if you can,
      'There's no such crawlers in the Ocean.                        60
  10. 'Next for your suppers, you (it may be) think
      'There goes no more to 't, but just eat and drink;
      'But let me tell you, Sir, and tell you plain,
      'To dress 'em well requires a man of brain:
      'His palate must be quick, and smart, and strong,
      'For sauce, a very critic in the tongue.
  11. 'He that pays dear for fish, nay though the best,
      'May please his fishmonger, more than his guest,
      'If he be ignorant what sauce is proper;
      'There's Machiavel in th' _ménage_ of a supper.                70
  12. 'For swines-flesh, give me that of the wild boar,
      'Pursu'd and hunted all the forest o'er;
      'He to the liberal oak ne'er quits his love,
      'And when he finds no acorns, grunts at Jove.
      'The Hampshire hog with pease and whey that's fed
      'Sty'd up, is neither good alive nor dead.
  13. 'The tendrils of the vine are salads good,
      'If when they are in season understood.
  14. 'If servants to thy board a rabbit bring,
      'Be wise, and in the first place carve a wing.                 80
  15. 'When fish and fowl are right, and at just age,
      'A feeder's curiosity t' assuage,
      'If any ask, who found the mystery,
      'Let him inquire no further, I am he.
  16. 'Some fancy bread out of the oven hot:
      'Variety's the glutton's happiest lot.
  17. 'It's not enough the wine you have be pure,
      'But of your oil as well you ought be sure.
  18. 'If any fault be in the generous wine,
      'Set it abroad all night, and 'twill refine,                   90
      'But never strain 't, nor let it pass through linen,
      'Wine will be worse for that, as well as women.
  19. 'The vintner that of Malaga and Sherry
      'With damn'd ingredients patcheth up Canary,
      'With segregative things, as pigeons' eggs,
      'Straight purifies, and takes away the dregs.
  20. 'An o'er-charg'd stomach roasted shrimps will ease,
      'The cure by lettuce is worse than the disease.
  21. 'To quicken appetite it will behove ye
      'To feed courageously on good anchovy.                        100
  22. 'Westphalia ham, and the Bologna sausage,
      'For second or third course will clear a passage,
      'But lettuce after meals! fie on 't, the glutton
      'Had better feed upon Ram-alley mutton.
  23. ''Twere worth one's while in palace or in cottage,
      'Right well to know the sundry sorts of pottage;
      'There is your French pottage, Nativity broth,
      'Yet that of Fetter-lane exceeds them both;
      'About a limb of a departed tup
      'There may you see the green herbs boiling up,                110
      'And fat abundance o'er the furnace float,
      'Resembling whale-oil in a Greenland boat.
  24. 'The Kentish pippin's best, I dare be bold,
      'That ever blue-cap costard-monger sold.
  25. 'Of grapes, I like the raisins of the sun.
      'I was the first immortal glory won,
      'By mincing pickled herrings with these raisin
      'And apples; 'twas I set the world a-gazing,
      'When once they tasted of this _Hogan_ fish,
      'Pepper and salt enamelling the dish.                         120
  26. ''Tis ill to purchase great fish with great matter,
      'And then to serve it up in scanty platter;
      'Nor is it less unseemly, some believe,
      'From boy with greasy fist drink to receive,
      'But the cup foul within 's enough to make
      'A squeamish creature puke and turn up stomach.
  27. 'Then brooms and napkins and the Flanders tile,
      'These must be had too, or the feast you spoil,
      'Things little thought on, and not very dear,
      'And yet how much they cost one in a year!                    130
  28. 'Wouldst thou rub alabaster with hands sable,
      'Or spread a diaper cloth on dirty table?
      '_More cost, more worship_: Come: be _à la mode_;
      'Embellish treat, as thou would do an ode.'
 Hor. _O learnèd Sir_, _how greedily I hear_
      _This elegant_ Diatriba _of good cheer!_
      _Now by all that's good_, _by all provant you love_,
      _By sturdy_ Chine of Beef, _and mighty_ Jove;
      _I do conjure thy_ gravity, _let me see_
      _The man that made thee this_ Discovery;                      140
      _For he that sees th'_ Original's _more happy_
      _Than him that draws by an ill-favour'd_ Copy.
      _O bring me to the man I so admire!_
      _The_ Flint _from whence brake forth these sparks of fire_.
        _What satisfaction would the Vision bring?_
        _If sweet the stream_, _much sweeter is the spring_.




    [Line: 3 I had struck out the brackets, but replaced them.
    For some obsolete uses of the mark see Mr. Percy Simpson's
    _Shakesperian Punctuation_, pp. 94-5.]

    [Line: 57 Wall-fleet _1674-82_; Wain-fleet _1686._ Wainfleet
    is in Lincolnshire, famous as the birthplace of the founder
    of Magdalen College, Oxford. I never heard Wainfleet oysters
    specially quoted, but if Walter White in his _Eastern England_
    (ii. 10) may be trusted, the place was not so very long ago
    excellent for cockles.]

    [Line: 60 The ocean 'crawlers' are at any rate bigger than
    those of the Kennet.]

    [Lines: 75-6 This is a libel.]

    [Line: 104 Ram-alley] The constantly cited street of coarse
    cook-shops.]

    [Line: 107 'Nativity' is no doubt 'Christmas', as in
    'Nativity-_pie_'. The reference is to 'plum-broth', the old
    Christmas dish, made of beef, prunes, raisins, currants, white
    bread, spices, wine, and sugar.]

    [Line: 114 It would be a pity not to keep the form
    'cost_ard_-monger'.]

    [Line: 119 '_Hogan_' of course = 'Dutch'. This, the
    only positive _recipe_ in the poem, would be a sort of
    salmagundy--not bad, but rather coarse, like most of the
    cookery of the time. Flatman, had he cared, might evidently
    have anticipated the earlier Dr. (not Bishop) King, who
    published his ingenious _Art of Cookery_ in prose and verse
    (to be found in the ninth volume of Chalmers) some thirty
    years later.]

    [Lines: 125-6. If 'within 's' be extended to 'within _is_'
    we shall have in 'to-make' a pleasant Hudibrastic rhyme to
    'stomach', which otherwise comes in but ill.]

    [Line: 127 What the special use of Dutch tiles was I can only
    guess. For tankard stands?]

    [Lines: 141-2 The plagiarism-hunters may, if they like, accuse
    Sam Weller of stealing from Flatman when he observed, 'I'm
    very glad I've seen the 'rig'nal, cos it 's a gratifyin' sort
    of thing, and eases one's mind so much'.]




_The Disappointed._

PINDARIC ODE.


  _Stanza_ I.

  Oft have I ponder'd in my pensive heart,
  When even from myself I've stol'n away,
  And heavily consider'd many a day,
  The cause of all my anguish and my smart:
        Sometimes besides a shady grove
  (As dark as were my thoughts, as close as was my Love),
        Dejected have I walk'd alone,
  Acquainting scarce myself with my own moan.
  Once I resolv'd undauntedly to hear
  What 'twas my passions had to say,                                 10
  To find the reason of that uproar there,
  And calmly, if I could, to end the fray:
  No sooner was my resolution known
        But I was all confusion.
  Fierce Anger, flattering Hope, and black Despair,
  Bloody Revenge, and most ignoble Fear,
        Now altogether clamorous were;
      My breast a perfect chaos grown,
    A mass of nameless things together hurl'd,
    Like th' formless embryo of the unborn world,                    20
    Just as it's rousing from eternal night,
  Before the great Creator said, _Let there be Light._


  II.

    Thrice happy then are beasts, said I,
  That underneath these pleasant coverts lie,
  They only sleep, and eat, and drink,
    They never meditate, nor think;
  Or if they do, have not th' unhappy art
  To vent the overflowings of their heart;
  They without trouble live, without disorder die,
        Regardless of Eternity.                                      30
      I said, I would like them be wise,
      And not perplex myself in vain,
      Nor bite th' uneasy chain,
  No, no, said I, I will Philosophise!
  And all th' ill-natur'd World despise:
    But when I had reflected long,
    And with deliberation thought
  How few have practis'd what they gravely taught,
    (Tho' 'tis but folly to complain)
  I judg'd it worth a generous disdain,                              40
  And brave defiance in Pindaric song.




    [_The Disappointed._] In 1674 and in Contents of 1686 _The
    Disappointment._]

    [Line: 21 as] at _1674_.]

    [Line: 27 unhappy] happy _1682_.]

    [Line: 29 without disorder die, _1682_.]




_On Mrs. E. Montague's Blushing in the Cross-Bath._

A TRANSLATION.


  I.

  Amidst the Nymphs (the glory of the flood)
    Thus once the beauteous Aegle stood,
  So sweet a tincture ere the Sun appears,
    The bashful ruddy morning wears:
  Thus through a crystal wave the coral glows,
  And such a blush sits on the virgin rose.


  II.

  Ye envied waters that with safety may
    Around her snowy bosom play,
  Cherish with gentle heat that noble breast
    Which so much innocence has blest,                               10
  Such innocence, as hitherto ne'er knew
  What mischief Venus or her son could do.

    Then from this hallow'd place
  Let the profane and wanton eye withdraw,
  For Virtue clad in scarlet strikes an awe
  From the tribunal of a lovely face.




    [_On Mrs. E. Montague, &c._] This, though I do not know
    exactly who the lady was, may be taken with the Sandwich
    epicedes as evidence of Flatman's acquaintance with the
    Montague family. It is odd that Pepys does not mention him,
    especially as he does record buying the 'Montelion' Almanack
    for 1661, which has been attributed to our poet. The
    Cross-Bath is of course the famous one at Bath itself, which
    was then the most fashionable, and was visited and used
    by Pepys himself. It is now 'drawn to the dregs of a
    democracy'--a cheap public swimming-bath, at a penny entrance
    or twopence with towel. Flatman's comparison of a blushing
    cheek to a judge on the bench is worthy of Cleveland, or even
    of Benlowes. But the extravagance was doubtless, in part at
    least, conscious.]




_Il Infido._


  I.

  I breathe, 'tis true, wretch that I am, 'tis true;
  But if to live be only not to die,
  If nothing in that bubble, Life, be gay,
      But all t' a tear must melt away;
  Let fools and Stoics be cajol'd, say I:
      Thou that lik'st Ease and Love, like me,
  When once the world says, Farewell both, to thee,
        What hast thou more to do
  Than in disdain to say, Thou foolish world, adieu!


  II.

  There was a time, fool that I was! when I                          10
  Believ'd there might be something here below.
  A seeming cordial to my drooping heart
      That might allay my bitter smart:
  I call'd it _Friend_:--but O th' inconstancy
      Of human things! I tried it long,
    Its love was fervent, and, I fancied, strong:
        But now I plainly see,
  Or 'tis withdrawn, or else 'twas all hypocrisy.


  III.

  I saw thy much-estrangèd eyes, I saw,
  False Musidore, thy formal alter'd face,                           20
  When thou betray'dst my seeming happiness,
      And coldly took'st my kind address:
  But know that I will live; for in thy place
      Heaven has provided for me now
  A constant friend, that dares not break a vow;
        That friend will I embrace,
  And never more my overweening love misplace.




_Il Immaturo._

EPITAPH.


    Brave Youth, whose too too hasty fate
    His glories did anticipate,
  Whose active soul had laid the great design
  To emulate those Heroes of his line!
    He show'd the world how great a man
    Might be contracted to a span;
  How soon our teeming expectations fail,
  How little tears and wishes can prevail:
    Could life hold out with these supplies
    He'd liv'd still in his parents' eyes,                           10
  And this cold stone had ne'er said, _Here he lies._




_On Mrs. Dove, Wife to the Reverend Dr. Henry Dove._

EPITAPH.


  'Tis thus----and thus farewell to all
  Vain mortals do perfection call;
  To Beauty, Goodness, Modesty,
  Sweet temper, and true Piety.
  The rest an Angel's pen must tell:
  Long, long, belovèd Dust, farewell.
  Those blessings which we highliest prize
  Are soonest ravish'd from our eyes.




    [_On Mrs. Dove, &c._] Dr. Henry Dove was a divine of some
    mark, chaplain (it must have been rather in the Vicar of
    Bray line) to Charles, James, _and_ William, Archdeacon
    of Richmond, and a strongly recommended candidate for
    the Mastership of Trinity, when young John Montague, Lord
    Sandwich's son, got it--_iure natalium_, apparently, as he had
    previously got his M.A. degree.]




_Lucretius._


  _Sed jam nec Domus accipiet te laeta, nec Uxor_
  _Optima_, _nec dulces occurrent oscula nati_
  _Praeripere_, _et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent_.


_Paraphrased._


  When thou shalt leave this miserable life,
  Farewell thy house, farewell thy charming wife,
  Farewell for ever to thy soul's delight,
  Quite blotted out in everlasting night!
  No more thy pretty darling babes shall greet thee
  By thy kind name, nor strive who first shall meet thee.
  Their kisses with a secret pleasure shall not move thee!
  For who shall say to thy dead clay, I love thee?




_On the Eminent Dr. Edward Browne's Travels._


  Thus from a foreign clime rich merchants come,
  And thus unlade their rarities at home:
  Thus undergo an acceptable toil,
  With treasures to enrich their native soil.
  They for themselves, for others you unfold
  A cargo swoln with diamonds and gold.
  With indefatigable travels, they
  The trading world, the learnèd you, survey;
  And for renown with great Columbus vie,
  In subterranean cosmography.                                       10




    [_On Dr. Edward Browne's Travels._] Edward Browne, Sir
    Thomas's eldest son, returned in 1673 from five years'
    wandering, and Flatman must have written on some of his
    papers. His _Travels_ were first printed in 1682.]




_On Poverty._


  I.

  O poverty! thou great and wise-man's school!
  Mistress of Arts! and scandal to the fool!
  Heav'n's sacred badge, which th' heroes heretofore
  (Bright caravans of saints and martyrs) wore!
  To th' Host Triumphant valiant souls are sent
  From those we call the ragged regiment:
  Sure guide to everlasting peace above,
      Thou dost th' impediments remove;
  Th' unnecessary loads of wealth and state,
  Which make men swell too big for the strait gate.                  10


  II.

  Thou happy port! where we from storms are free,
  And need not fear (false world!) thy piracy.
  Hither for ease and shelter did retire
  The busy Charles, and wearied Casimire;
  Abjur'd their thrones, and made a solemn vow,
  Their radiant heads to thee should ever bow.
  Why should thy tents so terrible appear
      Where monarchs reformadoes were?
  Why should men call that state of life forlorn,
  Which God approves of, and which kings have borne?                 20


  III.

  Mad Luxury! what do thy vassals reap
  From a life's long debauch, but late to weep!
  What the curs'd miser, who would fain ape thee,
  And wear thy livery, Great Poverty!
  The prudent wretch for future ages cares,
  And hoards up sins for his impatient heirs!
  Full little does he think the time will come
      When he is gone to his long home,
  The prodigal youth for whom he took such pains
  Shall be thy slave, and wear thy loathèd chains.                   30


  IV.

  Fair handmaid to Devotion, by whose aid
  Our souls are all disrob'd, all naked laid,
  In thy true mirror men themselves do see
  Just what they are, not what they seem to be.
  The flattering world misrepresents our face,
  And cheats us with a magnifying-glass;
  Our meanness nothing else does truly show,
      But only Death, but only thou,
  Who teach our minds above this Earth to fly,
  And pant, and breathe for immortality.                             40




    [_On Poverty._] 14 Charles] Of course Charles the Fifth.
    Casimire] John Casimir of Poland, who had abdicated in 1668
    and died in 1672.]

    [Line: 18 'Reformadoes'] Lit. officers of a disbanded company,
    who retained their rank and received half-pay.]

    [Lines: 31-40 A stanza added in 1686.]




_Urania to her Friend Parthenissa._

A DREAM.


  In a soft vision of the night,
  My Fancy represented to my sight
    A goodly gentle shade;
  Methought it mov'd with a majestic grace,
  But the surprising sweetness of its face
    Made me amaz'd, made me afraid:
  I found a secret shivering in my heart,
  Such as friends feel that meet or part:
  Approaching nearer with a timorous eye,
  Is then my Parthenissa dead, said I?                               10
  Ah Parthenissa! if thou yet are kind,
  As kind as when, like me, thou mortal wert,
  When thou and I had equal share in either's heart,
    How canst thou bear that I am left behind!
    Dear Parthenissa! O those pleasant hours,
        That blest our innocent amours!
    When in the common treasury of one breast,
        All that was thine or mine did rest.
  Dear Parthenissa!--Friend! what shall I say?
        Ah speak to thy Urania!                                      20
  Oh envious Death! nothing but thee I fear'd,
        No other rival could estrange
        Her soul from mine or make a change.
        Scarce had I spoke my passionate fears,
        And overwhelm'd myself in tears:
  But Parthenissa smil'd, and then she disappear'd.




_On the Death of the Earl of Rochester._

PASTORAL.


  I.

  As on his death-bed gasping Strephon lay,
      Strephon the wonder of the plains,
      The noblest of th' Arcadian swains;
  Strephon the bold, the witty, and the gay:
  With many a sigh and many a tear he said,
  Remember me, ye Shepherds, when I'm dead.


  II.

  Ye trifling glories of this world, adieu,
      And vain applauses of the age;
      For when we quit this earthly stage,
  Believe me, shepherds, for I tell you true;                        10
  Those pleasures which from virtuous deeds we have,
  Procure the sweetest slumbers in the grave.


  III.

  Then since your fatal hour must surely come,
      Surely your heads lie low as mine,
      Your bright meridian sun decline;
  Beseech the mighty Pan to guard you home,
  If to Elysium you would happy fly,
  Live not like Strephon, but like Strephon die.




    [_On the Death of the Earl of Rochester._] Flatman, it will be
    observed, makes no reference to Burnet's notorious publication
    as to Rochester's death-bed repentance. As to the Latin
    version, he strains the term 'leonine', which ought properly
    to be used only of lines correctly metred, or intended for
    metre, but rhymed at middle and end. (He had actually written
    such: _v. sup._, p. 353). But these verses, added in 1686,
    are not uninteresting examples of Latin, metred on English
    principles and rhymed in stanza, of the same class as Sir F.
    Kynaston's _Troilus_, though in different form.

    MS. versions are in Bodley, in Aubrey MS. 6, fol. 56 (with the
    variant 'head' in l. 14), and a worthless copy in MS. Add. B.
    105, fol. 19.]




_In obitum illustrissimi ingeniosissimique Joannis, Comitis
Roffensis,_

_Carmen Pastorale Versu Leonino redditum._


  I.

  _Lecto prostratus Strephon moribundus_,
          _Planitierum Strephon decus_,
          _Princeps curantium pecus_,
  _Audax, facetus, Strephon et jucundus_,
  _Lugens pastoribus sic est affatus_,
  _Memimini mei cum migratus_.


  II.

  _Honores mundi futiles valete_,
          _Plaudite aevi et fucata_,
          _Mortali scenâ nam mutatâ_,
  _Fidem veriloquo adhibete_,                                        10
  _Voluptas profluens ex virtute_
  _Solâ obdormiscit cum salute_.


  III.

  _Cum nulla in mortem sit medela_,
          _In terram capita cuncta incurvabunt_,
          _Soles micantes declinabunt_,
  _Pan supplicetor pro tutelâ_
  _Beatorum ut recipiant chori:_
  _Strephon non doceat vivere sed mori_.




_On Dr. Woodford's Paraphrase on the Canticles._


  I.

  Well!  since it must be, so let it be,
  For what do resolutions signify,
  When we are urg'd to write by destiny?


  II.

  I had resolv'd, nay, and I almost swore,
  My bedrid Muse should walk abroad no more:
  Alas! 'tis more than time that I give o'er.


  III.

  In the recesses of a private breast
  I thought to entertain your charming guest,
  And never to have boasted of my feast.


  IV.

  But see, my friend, when through the world you go,                 10
  My lackey-verse must shadow-like pursue,
  Thin and obscure, to make a foil for you.


  V.

  'Tis true, you cannot need my feeble praise,
  A lasting monument to your name to raise,
  Well known in Heav'n by your angelic lays.


  VI.

  There in indelible characters they are writ,
  Where no pretended heights will easy sit,
  But those of serious consecrated wit.


  VII.

  By immaterial defecated Love,
  Your soul its heavenly origin does approve,                        20
  And in least dangerous raptures soars above.


  VIII.

  How could I wish, dear friend! unsaid agen
  (For once I rank'd myself with tuneful men)
  Whatever dropp'd from my unhallow'd pen!


  IX.

  The trifling rage of youthful heat once past,
  Who is not troubled for his wit misplac'd!
  All pleasant follies breed regret at last.


  X.

  While reverend Donne's and noble Herbert's flame
  A glorious immortality shall claim,
  In the most durable records of Fame,                               30


  XI.

  Our modish rhymes, like culinary fire,
  Unctuous and earthy, shall in smoke expire;
  In odorous clouds your incense shall aspire.


  XII.

  Let th' Pagan-world your pious verse defy,
  Yet shall they envy when they come to die,
  Your wiser projects on eternity.




    [_On Dr. Woodford's Paraphrase._] See above, p. 306. These
    lines appeared before _A Paraphrase upon the Canticles_,
    1679, and were headed 'To my dear Old Friend, the Reverend Dr.
    Samuel Woodford, On his Sacred Poems'.]

    [Line: 21 approve _1679_, _1682_: prove _1686_.]

    [Lines: 25-7 Referring to the comic touches noted above.]




_Laodamia to Protesilaus._

ONE OF OVID'S EPISTLES TRANSLATED.

THE ARGUMENT.

_Protesilaus lying windbound at Aulis in the Grecian fleet design'd
for the Trojan war, his wife Laodamia sends this following Epistle to
him._


  Health to the gentle man of war, and may
  What Laodamia sends the Gods convey.
  The wind that still in Aulis holds my dear,
  Why was it not so cross to keep him here?
  Let the wind raise an hurricane at sea,
  Were he but safe and warm ashore with me.
  Ten thousand kisses I had more to give him,
  Ten thousand cautions, and soft words to leave him:
  In haste he left me, summon'd by the wind,
  (The wind to barbarous mariners only kind).                        10
  The seaman's pleasure is the lover's pain,
  (Protesilaus from my bosom ta'en!)
  As from my faltering tongue half speeches fell,
  Scarce could I speak that wounding word _Farewell_,
  A merry gale (at sea they call it so)
  Fill'd every sail with joy, my breast with woe,
  There went my dear Protesilaus----
  While I could see thee, full of eager pain,
  My greedy eyes epicuris'd on thine,
  When thee no more, but thy spread sails I view,                    20
  I look'd, and look'd, till I had lost them too;
  But when nor thee, nor them I could descry,
  And all was sea that came within my eye,
  They say (for I have quite forgot), they say
  I straight grew pale, and fainted quite away;
  Compassionate Iphiclus, and the good old man,
  My mother too to my assistance ran;
  In haste cold water on my face they threw,
  And brought me to myself with much ado.
  They meant it well, to me it seem'd not so,                        30
  Much kinder had they been to let me go;
  My anguish with my soul together came,
  And in my heart burst out the former flame:
  Since which, my uncomb'd locks unheeded flow,
  Undrest, forlorn, I care not how I go;
  Inspir'd with wine, thus Bacchus' frolic rout
  Stagger'd of old, and straggled all about.
  Put on, put on, the happy ladies say,
  Thy royal robes, fair Laodamia.
  Alas! before Troy's walls my dear does lie,                        40
  What pleasure can I take in Tyrian dye?
  Shall curls adorn my head, an helmet thine?
  I in bright tissues, thou in armour shine?
  Rather with studied negligence I'll be
  As ill, if not disguisèd worse than thee.
    O Paris! rais'd by ruins! mayst thou prove
  As fatal in thy war, as in thy love!
  O that the Grecian Dame had been less fair,
  Or thou less lovely hadst appear'd to her!
  O Menelaus! timely cease to strive,                                50
  With how much blood wilt thou thy loss retrieve?
  From me, ye Gods, avert your heavy doom,
  And bring my dear, laden with laurels, home:
  But my heart fails me, when I think of war,
  The sad reflection costs me many a tear:
  I tremble when I hear the very name
  Of every place where thou shalt fight for fame;
  Besides, th' adventurous ravisher well knew
  The safest arts his villany to pursue;
  In noble dress he did her heart surprise,                          60
  With gold he dazzled her unguarded eyes,
  He back'd his rape with ships and armèd men,
  Thus storm'd, thus took the beauteous fortress in.
  Against the power of Love and force of arms
  There's no security in the brightest charms.
    Hector I fear, much do I Hector fear,
  A man (they say) experienc'd in war,
  My dear, if thou hast any love for me,
  Of that same Hector prithee mindful be;
  Fly him be sure, and every other foe,                              70
  Lest each of them should prove an Hector too.
  Remember, when for fight thou shalt prepare,
  Thy Laodamia charg'd thee, Have a care;
  For what wounds thou receiv'st are giv'n to her.
  If by thy valour Troy must ruin'd be,
  May not the ruin leave one scar on thee;
  Sharer in th' honour, from the danger free!
  Let Menelaus fight, and force his way
  Through the false ravisher's troops t' his Helena.
  Great be his victory, as his cause is good.                        80
  May he swim to her in his enemies' blood.
  Thy case is different.--Mayst thou live to see
  (Dearest) no other combatant but me!
    Ye generous Trojans, turn your swords away
  From his dear breast, find out a nobler prey;
  Why should you harmless Laodamia slay?
  My poor good-natur'd man did never know
  What 'tis to fight, or how to face a foe;
  Yet in Love's field what wonders can he do!
  Great is his prowess and his fortune too;                          90
  Let them go fight, who know not how to woo.
    Now I must own, I fear'd to let thee go,
  My trembling lips had almost told thee so.
  When from thy father's house thou didst withdraw,
  Thy fatal stumble at the door I saw,
  I saw it, sigh'd, and pray'd the sign might be
  Of thy return a happy prophecy!
  I cannot but acquaint thee with my fear,
  Be not too brave,--Remember,--Have a care,
  And all my dreads will vanish into air.                           100
    Among the Grecians some one must be found
  That first shall set his foot on Trojan ground;
  Unhappy she that shall his loss bewail,
  Grant, O ye Gods, thy courage then may fail.
    Of all the ships be thine the very last,
  Thou the last man that lands; there needs no haste
  To meet a potent and a treacherous foe;
  Thou'lt land I fear too soon, tho' ne'er so slow.
  At thy return ply every sail and oar,
  And nimbly leap on thy deserted shore.                            110
    All the day long, and all the lonely night,
  Black thoughts of thee my anxious soul affright:
  Darkness, to other women's pleasures kind,
  Augments, like Hell, the torments of my mind.
  I court e'en dreams, on my forsaken bed
  False joys must serve, since all my true are fled.
  What's that same airy phantom so like thee!
  What wailings do I hear, what paleness see?
  I wake, and hug myself, 'tis but a dream.--
  The Grecian altars know I feed their flame,                       120
  The want of hallow'd wine my tears supply,
  Which make the sacred fire burn bright and high.
    When shall I clasp thee in these arms of mine,
  These longing arms, and lie dissolv'd in thine?
  When shall I have thee by thyself alone,
  To learn the wondrous actions thou hast done?
  Which when in rapturous words thou hast begun
  With many and many a kiss, prithee tell on,
  Such interruptions grateful pauses are,
  A kiss in story's but an halt in war.                             130
    But, when I think of Troy, of winds and waves,
  I fear the pleasant dream my hope deceives:
  Contrary winds in port detain thee too,
  In spite of wind and tide why wouldst thou go?
  Thus, to thy country thou wouldst hardly come,
  In spite of wind and tide thou went'st from home.
  To his own city Neptune stops the way,
  Revere the omen, and the Gods obey.
  Return, ye furious Grecians, homeward fly,
  Your stay is not of Chance, but Destiny:                          140
  How can your arms expect desir'd success,
  That thus contend for an adulteress?
  But, let not me forespeak you, no,--set sail,
  And Heav'n befriend you with a prosperous gale!
    Ye Trojans! with regret methinks I see
  Your first encounter with your enemy;
  I see fair Helen put on all her charms,
  To buckle on her lusty bridegroom's arms;
  She gives him arms, and kisses she receives,
  (I hate the transports each to other gives.)                      150
  She leads him forth, and she commands him come
  Safely victorious, and triumphant home;
  And he (no doubt) will make no nice delay,
  But diligently do whate'er she say.
  Now he returns!--see with what amorous speed
  She takes the pond'rous helmet from his head,
  And courts the weary champion to her bed.
    _We women, too too credulous, alas!_
    _Think what we fear will surely come to pass_.
  Yet, while before the leaguer thou dost lie,                      160
  Thy picture is some pleasure to my eye;
  That, I caress in words most kind and free,
  And lodge it on my breast, as I would thee.
  There must be something in it more than Art,
  'Twere very thee, could it thy mind impart;
  I kiss the pretty Idol, and complain,
  As if (like thee) 'twould answer me again.
    By thy return, by thy dear self, I swear,
  By our Love's vows, which most religious are,
  By thy belovèd head, and those gray hairs                         170
  Which time may on it snow in future years,
  I come, where'er thy Fate shall bid thee go,
  Eternal partner of thy weal and woe,
  So thou but live, tho' all the Gods say No.
    Farewell,--but prithee very careful be
    Of thy belovèd Self (I mean) of me.




    [Line: 129 grateful] graceful _1682_.]




_To the Excellent Master of Music, Signior Pietro Reggio, on His Book
of Songs._


  Tho' to advance thy fame, full well I know
  How very little my dull pen can do;
  Yet, with all deference, I gladly wait,
  Enthrong'd amongst th' attendants on thy state:
  Thus when Arion, by his friends betray'd,
  Upon his understanding Dolphin play'd,
  The scaly people their resentments show'd
  By pleas'd levoltoes on the wond'ring flood.
    Great Artist! thou deserv'st our loudest praise
  From th' garland to the meanest branch of bays;                    10
  For poets can but _Say_, thou mak'st them _Sing_,
  And th' embryo-words dost to perfection bring;
  By us the Muse conceives, but when that's done,
  Thy midwif'ry makes fit to see the Sun;
  Our naked lines, drest and adorn'd by thee,
  Assume a beauty, pomp, and bravery;
  So awful and majestic they appear,
  They need not blush to reach a Prince's ear.
  Princes, tho' to poor poets seldom kind,
  Their numbers turn'd to air with pleasure mind                     20
  Studied and labour'd tho' our poems be,
  Alas! they die unheeded without thee,
  Whose art can make our breathless labours live,
  Spirit and everlasting vigour give.
  Whether we write of _Heroes and of Kings_,
  _In Mighty Numbers, Mighty Things_,
  Or in a humble Ode express our sense
  Of th' happy state of ease and innocence;
  A country life where the contented swain
  Hugs his dear peace, and does a crown disdain;                     30
  Thy dext'rous notes with all our thoughts comply,
  Can creep on Earth, can up to Heaven fly;
  In heights and cadences, so sweet, so strong,
  They suit a shepherd's reed, an angel's tongue.
  ----------------But who can comprehend
  The raptures of thy voice, and miracles of thy hand?




    [_To Signior Pietro Reggio._] First printed in _Songs of
    Signior Pietro Reggio_, folio undated (but issued in 1680);
    Shadwell and Ayres also contributed to it. It had an engraved
    title-page of Arion on a Dolphin (cf. l. 5), and was dedicated
    to the king (cf. l. 18).]

    [Line: 8 Levoltoes _1682_: levaltoes _1686_--both variants of
    the form 'lavolta'.]




Epitaph on the Incomparable Sir John King in the Temple-Church.


    _Heic juxta jacet_
    _Johannes King Miles_,
  _Serenissimo Carolo Secundo_
    _In Legibus Angliae Consultus_,
  _Illustrissimo Jacobo Duci Eboracensi_
    _Sollicitator Generalis._

  _Qualis, Quantusve sis, Lector_,
          _Profundum obstupesce;_
  _Labia digitis comprime_,
          _Oculos lachrymis suffunde_.                               10
            _En! ad pedes tuos_
  _Artis et Naturae suprema Conamina_,
            _Fatorum Ludibria!_
            _Non ita pridem_
  _Erat Iste Pulvis omnifariam Doctus_,
          _Musarum Gazophylacium_,
  _Eloquentiam calluit, claram, puram, innocuam_,
  _Legibus suae Patriae erat instructissimus_,
  _Suis charus, Principibus gratus, Omnibus urbanus_,
            _Sui saeculi_                                            20
  _Ornamentum illustre_, _Desiderium irreparabile_.
            _Hinc disce Lector_,
  _Quantilla Mortalitatis Gloria_
  _Splendidissimis decoratae Dotibus_.

            _Dulcem soporem agite_
            _Dilecti_, _Eruditi_, _Beati Cineres!_


  Obiit _Junii 29_, _1677_.
      Aetat. 38.




    [_Epitaph on the Incomparable Sir John King._] This
    'incomparable' was an Etonian and a Cambridge (Queens'
    College) man, who became K.C. and Attorney-General to the Duke
    of York.

    A first draft is in the Ashmole MS. 826 (fol. 50) of the
    Bodleian. Ll. 1-6 are at the end of the epitaph, and add
    a touch of bathos--'Et Interioris Templi Socius'--and the
    date--'Obiit tercio Calendarum Julii, Anno Æræ Christianæ',
    1677; Ætatis 38'. In l. 8 the reading is 'obmutesce'. The
    1682 has the simple heading 'In the Temple Church', and reads
    'decorata' in l. 24.]




_On the Death of my dear Brother Mr. Richard Flatman._

PINDARIC ODE.


  _Stanza_ I.

      Unhappy Muse! employ'd so oft
      On melancholy thoughts of Death,
  What hast thou left so tender, and so soft
      As thy poor master fain would breath
        O'er this lamented hearse?
  No usual flight of fancy can become
      My sorrows o'er a brother's tomb.
  O that I could be elegant in tears,
  That with conceptions, not unworthy thee,
  Great as thy merit, vigorous as thy years,                         10
        I might convey thy elegy
  To th' grief and envy of posterity!
  A gentler youth ne'er crown'd his parents' cares,
  Or added ampler joy to their grey hairs:
  Kind to his friends, to his relations dear,
  Easy to all.--Alas! what is there here
        For man to set his heart upon,
  Since what we dote on most is soonest gone?
  Ai me! I've lost a sweet companion,
        A friend, a brother all in one!                              20


  II.

  How did it chill my soul to see thee lie
  Struggling with pangs in thy last agony!
  When with a manly courage thou didst brave
  Approaching Death, and with a steady mind
        (Ever averse to be confin'd)
        Didst triumph o'er the Grave.
        Thou mad'st no womanish moan,
        But scorn'dst to give one groan:
  He that begs pity is afraid to die,
  Only the brave despise their destiny.                              30
  But, when I call to mind how thy kind eyes
        Were passionately fix'd on mine,
        How, when thy falt'ring tongue gave o'er
  And I could hear thy pleasing voice no more;
        How, when I laid my cheek to thine,
  Kiss'd thy pale lips, and press'd thy trembling hand,
  Thou, in return, smil'dst gently in my face,
        And hugg'dst me with a close embrace;
        I am amaz'd, I am unmann'd.
      Something extremely kind I fain would say,                     40
        But through the tumult of my breast,
        With too officious love opprest,
  I find my feeble words can never force their way.


  III.

      Belovèd youth! What shall I do!
      Once my delight, my torment now!
    How immaturely art thou snatch'd away!
  But Heaven shines on thee with many a glorious ray
    Of an unclouded and immortal day,
        Whilst I lie grovelling here below
          In a dark stormy night.                                    50
  The blust'ring storm of Life with thee is o'er,
  For thou art landed on that happy shore,
        Where thou canst hope or fear no more;
        Thence with compassion thou shall see
  The plagues, the wars, the fires, the scarcity,
  The devastations of an enemy,
  From which thy early fate has set thee free;
        For when thou went'st to thy long home,
  Thou wert exempt from all the ills to come,
        And shall hereafter be                                       60
        Spectator only of the tragedy
        Acted on frail mortality.
        So some one lucky mariner
  From shipwreck sav'd by a propitious star,
  Advanc'd upon a neighb'ring rock looks down,
  And sees far off his old companions drown.


  IV.

        There in a state of perfect ease,
  Of never interrupted happiness,
        Thy large illuminated mind
  Shall matter of eternal wonder find;                               70
  There dost thou clearly see how, and from whence
  The stars communicate their influence,
  The methods of th' Almighty Architect,
  How He consulted with Himself alone
        To lay the wondrous corner-stone,
  When He this goodly fabric did erect.
        There, thou dost understand
        The motions of the secret hand,
        That guides th' invisible wheel,
  Which here, we ne'er shall know, but ever feel;                    80
  There Providence, the vain man's laughing-stock,
  The miserable good-man's stumbling-block,
  Unfolds the puzzling riddle to thy eyes,
  And its own wise contrivance justifies.
  What timorous man wouldn't be pleas'd to die,
  To make so noble a discovery?


  V.

      And must I take my solemn leave
        Till time shall be no more!
  Can neither sighs, nor tears, nor prayers retrieve
        One cheerful hour!                                           90
      Must one unlucky moment sever
  Us, and our hopes, us and our joys for ever!--
  Is this cold clod of Earth that endear'd Thing
      I lately did my Brother call?
  Are these the artful fingers that might vie
      With all the sons of harmony
      And overpower them all!
      Is this the studious comprehensive head
  With curious arts so richly furnished!
  Alas! thou, and thy glories all are gone,                         100
  Buried in darkness, and oblivion.
      'Tis so--and I must follow thee,
    Yet but a little while, and I shall see thee,
    Yet but a little while I shall be with thee,
  Then some kind friend perhaps may drop one tear for me.




    [_On the death of Mr. Richard Flatman._] I know nothing
    of Richard Flatman. He would seem to have been a younger
    brother.]

    [Line: 4 breath] Cf. p. 315, note.]

    [Line: 19 Ai _1682_--a form found on p. 313, l. 32, and p.
    315, l. 41: Ah _1686_]




_Coridon on the death of his dear Alexis, ob. Jan. 28, 1682/3._

PASTORAL SONG. Set by Dr. BLOW.


  Alexis! dear Alexis! lovely boy!
      O my Damon! O Palaemon! snatch'd away,
      To some far distant region gone,
  Has left the miserable Coridon
  Bereft of all his comforts, all alone!
      Have you not seen my gentle lad,
        Whom every swain did love,
      Cheerful, when every swain was sad,
        Beneath the melancholy grove?
  His face was beauteous as the dawn of day,                         10
        Broke through the gloomy shades of night:
          O my anguish! my delight!
        _Him_ (ye kind shepherds) I bewail,
          Till my eyes and heart shall fail.
  Tis _He_ that's landed on that distant shore,
  And you and I shall see him here no more.
          Return, Alexis! O return!
          Return, return, in vain I cry;
  Poor Coridon shall never cease to mourn
  Thy too untimely, cruel destiny.                                   20
        Farewell for ever, charming boy!
  And with _Thee_, all the transports of my joy!
  Ye powers above, why should I longer live,
  To waste a few uncomfortable years,
        To drown myself in tears,
  For what my sighs and pray'rs can ne'er retrieve?




    [_Coridon &c._] This and the following poems (pp. 375-407)
    were added in the collected edition of 1686. Alexis is no
    doubt the Thomas Flatman whose epitaph, by his father, is
    printed on p. 414. This and the following poem were sent to
    Sancroft, with the accompanying letter, preserved in Tanner
    MS. xxxiv (fol. 235) of the Bodleian:--

        My Lord

        The first Page of the enclosed Paper is the result of his
        Mai^{tie's}, and yo^{r} Grace's Commaunds; & the Second of my
        owne uneasy thoughts on the Death of my beloved Child, who
        carried yo^{r} Grace's blessing with him into the other World.
        The severity of the Wether ha's delay'd Both much longer than
        became the bounden Duty of

                                My Lord
                                    Yo^{r} Grace's most obedient Servant
          January 9                       & meanest Kinsman
          1683/4                                   THOMAS FLATMAN.


    The autograph copies of the two poems are in Tanner MS. 306,
    folios 391 and 392. The variants in this poem are:--

    [Line: 11 Broke] Sprung.

    [Line: 13 _Him_ [ye] 'Tis He.

    [Line: 19 shall] can.

    After the poem Flatman has quoted 'Immodicis brevis est aetas,
    & rara Senectus'.]




_A Song on New-Year's-day before the King, Car. 2._

_Set by_ DR. BLOW 1682/3.


      My trembling song! awake! arise!
      And early tell thy tuneful tale,
  Tell thy great Master, that the Night is gone;
      The feeble phantoms disappear,
      And now the New-Year's welcome Sun
        O'erspreads the eastern skies;
  He smiles on every hill, he smiles on every vale.
      His glories fill our hemisphere;
      Tell Him Apollo greets Him well,
    And with his fellow Wanderers agrees                             10
    To reward all His labours, and lengthen His days,
  In spite of the politic follies of Hell,
      And vain contrivance of the destinies.
  Tell Him, a Crown of Thorns no more
        Shall His sacred temples gore,
  For all the rigours of His life are o'er.
      Wondrous Prince! design'd to show
  What noble minds can bravely undergo,
      You are our wonder, you our love;
      Earth from beneath, Heaven from above,                         20
  Call loud for songs of triumph and of praise,
      Their voices and their souls they raise;
        IO PAEAN do we sing,
      Long live, long live the King!
  Rise, mighty Monarch, and ascend the Throne,
        'Tis yet, once more your own,
  For Lucifer and all his legions are o'erthrown:
  Son of the Morning, first-born Son of Light,
        How wert thou tumbled headlong down,
  Into the dungeons of eternal night!                                30
  While th' loyal stars of the celestial quire
        Surrounded with immortal beams,
        Mingle their unpolluted flames,
        Their just Creator to admire.
        With awful reverence they adore Him,
  Cover their faces, and fall down before Him;
        And night and day for ever sing
  _Hosannah_, _Hallelujah to th' Almighty King!_




    [_A Song._] 10 'Wanderers' after 'Apollo' may give a moment's
    pause. Then one translates the English into Greek and the
    Greek into English, obtaining 'Planets' and 'Sun'.]

    [Line: 13 Not in the early autograph copy sent to Sancroft
    (see previous poem).]

    [Line: 14 A little risky in its loyalty. Expressions in the
    piece suggest the Rye-House Plot and its failure; but this was
    in the March _after_ New-Year's Day, 1682/3.]

    [Line: 16 all] now _MS._ life] Fate _MS._]

    [Line: 23 'And IÖ PAEAN jointly sing' _MS._]

    [Line: 32 immortal] augmented _MS._]




_On the King's return to White-hall, after his Summer's Progress,
1684._

_SONG. Set by_ MR. HENRY PURCELL.


  From those serene and rapturous joys
  A country life alone can give,
  Exempt from tumult and from noise,
  Where Kings forget the troubles of their reigns,
  And are almost as happy as their humble swains,
          By feeling that _they_ live:
        Behold th' indulgent Prince is come
  To view the conquests of His mercy shown
  To the new Proselytes of His mighty town,
  And men and angels bid Him welcome home.                           10
  Not with an helmet or a glitt'ring spear
            Does He appear;
  He boast[s] no trophies of a cruel conqueror,
  Brought back in triumph from a bloody war;
    But with an olive-branch adorn'd,
    As once the long expected Dove return'd.
        Welcome as soft refreshing show'rs,
  That raise the sickly heads of drooping flow'rs:
        Welcome as early beams of light
          To the benighted traveller,                                20
  When he descries bright Phosphorus from afar,
      And all his fears are put to flight.
      Welcome, more welcome does He come
  Than life to Lazarus from his drowsy tomb,
  When in his winding-sheet, at his new birth,
  The strange surprising word was said--Come forth!
        Nor does the Sun more comfort bring,
        When he turns Winter into Spring,
  Than the blest advent of a peaceful King.


  _Chorus._

  With trumpets and shouts we receive the World's Wonder,            30
  And let the clouds echo His welcome with thunder,
  Such a thunder as applauded what mortals had done,
  When they fix'd on His brows His Imperial Crown.




_To Mr. Isaac Walton, on his Publication of Thealma_


  Long had the bright _Thealma_ lain obscure,
  Her beauteous charms that might the world allure,
  Lay like rough diamonds, in the mine, unknown,
  By all the sons of folly trampled on,
  Till your kind hand unveil'd her lovely face,
  And gave her vigour to exert her rays:
  Happy old man, whose worth all mankind knows,
  Except thyself, who charitably shows
  The ready road to Virtue and to Praise,
  The way to many long and happy days;                               10
  The noble art of generous Piety,
  And how to compass an Euthanasy!
  Hence did he learn the skill of living well,
  The bright _Thealma_ was his oracle;
  Inspir'd by Her, he knows no anxious cares
  In near a century of happy years;
  Easy he lives, and easy shall he lie
  On the soft bosom of Eternity.
  As long as Spenser's noble flames shall burn,
  And deep devotion shall attend his urn;                            20
  As long as Chalkhill's venerable name
  With humble emulation shall enflame
  Posterity, and fill the rolls of fame,
  Your memory shall ever be secure,
  And long beyond our short-liv'd praise endure;
  As Phidias in Minerva's shield did live,
  And shar'd that immortality he alone could give.




    [_To Mr. Isaac Walton._] For _Thealma_ [_and Clearchus_]
    itself, and the problems attending it, see vol. ii.]

    [Line: 7 Walton published the poem in his ninetieth year and
    died soon after.]

    [Line: 19 Chalkhill was, said Izaak, an 'acquaintant' of
    Spenser.]




_Pastoral Dialogue._

CASTARA AND PARTHENIA.


  _Parthenia._

  My dear Castara, t'other day
  I heard an ancient shepherd say,
  Alas for me! my time draws nigh,
  And shortly, shortly I must die!
  What meant the man? for lo! apace
  Torrents of tears ran down his face.


  _Castara._

  Poor harmless maid! why wouldst thou know
  What, known, must needs create thee woe?
  'Twill cloud the sunshine of thy days,
  And in thy soul such trouble raise,                                10
  Thou'lt grieve, and tremble, and complain,
  And say that all thy beauty's vain.


  _Parthenia._

  Ah me! sure 'tis some dreadful thing
  That can so great disorder bring,
  Yet tell me, prithee tell me, do,
  For 'tis some ease the worst to know.


  _Castara._

  To die, Parthenia, is to quit
  The World, and the Sun's glorious light,
  To leave our flocks and fields for ever,
  To part, and never meet again, O never!                            20
  After that cruel hideous hour,
  Thou and I shall sing no more;
  In the cold Earth they will thee lay,
  And what thou dot'st on shall be clay.


  _Parthenia._

  Alas! why will they use me so,
  A virgin that no evil do?


  _Castara._

  Roses wither, turtles die,
  Fair, and kind as thou and I.


  _Chorus amb._

  Then, since 'tis appointed to the dust we must go,
  Let us innocently live, and virtuously do;                         30
  Let us love, let us sing, 'tis no matter, 'tis all one,
  If our lamps be extinguish'd at midnight or noon.




_Castabella Going to Sea._

_SONG. Set by_ MR. JAMES HART.


  I.

  Hark, hark! methinks I hear the seamen call,
      The boist'rous seamen say,
    Bright Castabella, come away!
  The wind sits fair, the vessel's stout and tall,
    Bright Castabella, come away!
      For Time and Tide can never stay.


  II.

  Our mighty Master Neptune calls aloud,
      The Zephyrs gently blow,
    The Tritons cry, You are too slow,
  For every Sea-nymph of the glittering crowd                        10
    Has garlands ready to throw down
      When you ascend your wat'ry throne.


  III.

  See, see! she comes, she comes, and now adieu!
      Let's bid adieu to shore,
    And to all we fear'd before;
  O Castabella! we depend on you,
    On you our better fortunes lay,
  Whose eyes and voice the winds and seas obey.




    [_Castabella Going to Sea._] There was a _Philip_ Hart in the
    next generation who was a composer, and perhaps James was his
    father; for the less reputed and more professional arts
    like music, painting, engraving, dancing, &c. tended to be
    hereditary in those days.]

    [Line: 17 Byron might have alleged Flatman's practice, in the
    same context of sea-piece, for the too-celebrated 'There let
    him _lay_'. But the correct use is possible.]




_On the Death of my worthy friend Mr. John Oldham._

PINDARIC PASTORAL ODE.


  _Stanza I._

  Undoubtedly 'tis thy peculiar fate,
      Ah miserable Astragon!
      Thou art condemn'd alone
  To bear the burthen of a wretched life,
  Still in this howling wilderness to roam,
  Whilst all thy bosom friends unkindly go,
  And leave thee to lament them here below.
      Thy dear Alexis wouldn't stay,
  Joy of thy life, and pleasure of thine eyes,
        Dear Alexis went away,                                       10
    With an invincible surprise;
  Th' angelic youth early dislik'd this state,
  And innocently yielded to his fate;
  Never did soul of a celestial birth
    Inform a purer piece of earth:
        O! that 'twere not in vain,
  To wish what's past might be retriev'd again!
      Thy dotage, thy Alexis then
    Had answer'd all thy vows and prayers,
    And crown'd with pregnant joys thy silver hairs,                 20
  Lov'd to this day amongst the living sons of men.


  II.

      And thou, my friend, hast left me too,
    Menalcas! poor Menalcas! even thou!
    Of whom so loudly Fame has spoke
  In the records of her eternal book,
  Whose disregarded worth ages to come
  Shall wail with indignation o'er thy tomb.
  Worthy wert thou to live, as long as Vice
  Should need a satire, that the frantic age
  Might tremble at the lash of thy poetic rage.                      30
    Th' untutor'd world in after times
    May live uncensur'd for their crimes,
  Freed from the dreads of thy reforming pen,
      Turn to old Chaos once again.
  Of all th' instructive bards, whose more than Theban lyre,
  Could salvage souls with manly thoughts inspire,
    Menalcas worthy was to live:
        Tell me, ye mournful swains,
  Say you his fellow-shepherds that survive,
  Has my ador'd Menalcas left behind                                 40
        On all these pensive plains
  A gentler shepherd with a braver mind?
  Which of you all did more majestic show,
  Or wore the garland on a sweeter brow?


  III.

    But wayward Astragon resolves no more
  The death of his Menalcas to deplore.
  The place to which he wisely is withdrawn
        Is altogether blest.
    There, no clouds o'erwhelm his breast,
    No midnight cares shall break his rest,                          50
  For all is everlasting cheerful dawn.
        The Poets' charming bliss,
        Perfect ease and sweet recess,
        There shall he long possess.
  The treacherous world no more shall him deceive,
  Of hope and fortune he has taken leave;
  And now in mighty triumph does he reign
      O'er the unthinking rabble's spite
      (His head adorn'd with beams of light)
    And the dull wealthy fool's disdain.                             60
  Thrice happy he, that dies the Muses' friend;
  He needs no obelisk, no pyramid
        His sacred dust to hide,
  He needs not for his memory to provide,
  For well he knows his praise can never end.




    [_On the Death of Mr. John Oldham._] Oldham died in 1683.]

    [Alexis seems to be Richard Flatman, Oldham Menalcas, the poet
    himself Astragon. It is curious that the printers--and
    perhaps even the writers--of this time were so besotted with
    'apostrophation' as even to use it when the full value is
    metrically necessary, as here in 'wouldn't', which must be
    'would _not_' to scan.

    These lines were first printed before _Remains of Mr. John
    Oldham in Verse and Prose_, 1684. The chief variants are:

    [Line: 8 wouldn't] would not.

    [Line: 12 angelic] Angel-like.

    [Line: 13 innocently yielded] cheerfully submitted.

    [Line: 29 satire] In original, as often, 'Satyr'.]

    [Line: 50 shall] can.]

    [Lines 52 and 54 form one long line, followed by 53,
    which reads 'soft recess'; lines 58 and 59 are transposed.]

    [Line: 65 For well he knows] For he might well foresee.]




On Sir John Micklethwaite's Monument in S. Botolphs-Aldersgate-Church,
London.


                          M. S.

      _Heic juxta spe plenâ resurgendi situm est_
                  _Depositum mortale_

  _JOANNIS MICKLETHWAITE Equitis_,
    _Serenissimo Principi Carolo II. a Medicinâ_,
  _Qui cum primis solertissimus_, _fidissimus_, _felicissimus_,
    _In Collegio Medicorum Londinensium_
    _Lustrum integrum et quod excurrit_
  _Praesidis Provinciam dignissimè ornavit:_
  _Et tandem emenso aetatis tranquillae stadio_,                     10
            _Pietate sincerâ_,
    _Inconcussâ vitae integritate_,
    _Benignâ morum suavitate_,
    _Sparsâ passim Philanthropiâ_
            _Spectabilis_;
      _Miserorum Asylum_,
      _Maritus optimus_,
      _Parens indulgentissimus_,
            _Suorum luctus_,
  _Bonorum omnium Amor et Deliciae_,                                 20
        _Septuagenarius senex_,
            _Coelo maturus_,
  _Fato non invitus cessit_
    _IV Kal. Augusti Anno salutis MDCLXXXII_.
            _Caetera loquantur_
  _Languentium deploranda suspiria_,
        _Viduarum ac Orphanorum_
  _Propter amissum Patronum profundi gemitus_,
            _Pauperumque_,
        _Nudorum jam, atque esurientium_                             30
            _Importuna Viscera_,
  _Monumenta, hoc marmore longe perenniora_.
    _Maerens posuit pientissima Conjunx_.




    [_On Sir John Micklethwaite's Monument_, &c.] Micklethwaite
    (1612-82) was President of the College of Physicians 1676-81
    (_lustrum integrum_).]

    [Line: 8 _Et quod excurrit_ is a technical Latin phrase in
    scientific post-classical writers for 'and more', 'above'.]

    [Line: 10 _emenso ... stadio_.] The exact threescore years and
    ten.]

    [Line: 33 _pientissima_.] The usual form for inscriptions,
    though _piissimus_ (in spite of Cicero's condemnation) was
    used elsewhere.]




M. S.

_Heic juxta jacet_

_THOMAS ROCK Armg. Salopiensis_,

_Vitâ functus Januarii 3. Aetat. 62. 1678_


                _En Lector!_

    _Cinerem non vulgarem_,
        _Virum vere magnum_,
    _Si prisca fides, pietasque primaeva_,
    _Si amicitiae foedera strictissima_,
    _Si pectus candidum, et sincerum_,                               10
          _Ac integerrima Vita_,
  _Virum vere magnum conflare poterint_.
      _En hominem Cordatum!_
      _Calamitosae Majestatis_
  (_Furente nuperâ perduellium rabie_)
          _Strenuum assertorem_,
          _Obstinatum Vindicem!_
  _En animae generosae quantillum Ergastulum!_
            _O charum Deo Depositum!_
          _Vestrum undequaquam Inopes_,                              20
          _Vestrum quotcunque Viri praestantiores_,
            _Dolorem inconsolabilem_,
  _Desiderium, in omne aevum, irreparabile!_




    [_Thomas Rock._] I know not Thomas Rock, Esq. His Royalism
    (ll. 10-13) was befitting a Salopian.]




_On the Death of the Illustrious Prince Rupert._

PINDARIC ODE.


  _Stanza_ I.

  MAN surely is not what he seems to be;
    Surely ourselves we overrate,
  Forgetting that like other creatures, we
    Must bend our heads to Fate.
  Lord of the whole Creation, MAN
    (How big the title shows!)
  Trifles away a few uncertain years,
    Cheated with hopes, and rack'd with fears,
    Through all Life's little span,
  Then down to silence and to darkness goes;                         10
  And when we die, the crowd that trembling stood
  Erewhile struck with the terror of a nod,
  Shake off their wonted reverence with their chains,
  And at their pleasure use our poor remains.
        Ah, mighty Prince!
  Whom lavish Nature and industrious Art
    Had fitted for immortal Fame,
  Their utmost bounty could no more impart;
    How comes it that thy venerable name
    Should be submitted to my theme?                                 20
  Unkindly baulk'd by the prime skilful men,
  Abandon'd to be sullied by so mean a pen!
  Tell me, ye skilful men, if you have read
  In all the fair memorials of the Dead,
    A name so formidably great,
  So full of wonders, and unenvi'd love,
  In which all virtues and all graces strove,
    So terrible, and yet so sweet;
  Show me a star in Honour's firmament,
  (Of the first magnitude let it be)                                 30
  That from the darkness of this World made free,
  A brighter lustre to this World has lent.
    Ye men of reading, show me one
    That shines with such a beam as His.
    Rupert's a constellation
  Outvies Arcturus, and the Pleïades.
  And if the Julian Star of old outshone
  The lesser fires, as much as them the Moon,
  Posterity perhaps will wonder why
    An hero more divine than he                                      40
  Should leave (after his Apotheosis)
  No gleam of light in all the Galaxy
  Bright as the Sun in the full blaze of noon.


  III.

  How shall my trembling Muse thy praise rehearse!
  Thy praise too lofty ev'n for Pindar's verse!
    Whence shall she take her daring flight,
      That she may soar aloft
    In numbers masculine and soft,
      In numbers adequate
    To thy renown's celestial height!                                50
    If from thy noble pedigree
  The royal blood that sparkled in thy veins
  A low plebeian eulogy disdains,
  And he blasphemes that meanly writes of thee;
  If from thy martial deeds she boldly rise,
    And sing thy valiant infancy,
    Rebellious Britain after felt full well,
  Thou from thy cradle wert a miracle.
  Swaddled in armour, drums appeas'd thy cries,
  And the shrill trumpet sung thy lullabies.                         60
  The babe Alcides thus gave early proof
    In the first dawning of his youth,
  When with his tender hand the snakes he slew,
  What monsters in his riper years he would subdue.


  IV.

  Great Prince, in whom Mars and Minerva join'd
  Their last efforts to frame a mighty mind,
  A pattern for brave men to come, design'd:
  How did the rebel troops before thee fly!
    How of thy genius stand in awe!
      When from the sulphurous cloud                                 70
        Thou in thunder gav'st aloud
        Thy dreadful law
      To the presumptuous enemy.
  In vain their traitorous ensigns they display'd,
    In vain they fought, in vain they pray'd,
    At thy victorious arms dismay'd.
  Till Providence for causes yet unknown,
    Causes mysterious and deep,
    Conniv'd awhile, as if asleep,
  And seem'd its dear Anointed to disown;                            80
  The prosperous villany triumph'd o'er the Crown,
  And hurl'd the best of monarchs from his Throne.
    O tell it not in Gath, nor Ascalon!
    The best of monarchs fell by impious power,
    Th' unspotted Victim for the guilty bled.
  He bow'd, he fell, there where he bow'd he fell down dead;
  Baptiz'd Blest Martyr in his sacred gore.


  V.

  Nor could those tempests in the giddy State,
  O mighty Prince, thy loyalty abate.
  Though put to flight, thou fought'st the Parthian way,             90
    And still the same appear'dst to be
    Among the beasts and scaly fry,
  A Behemoth on land and a Leviathan at sea;
    Still wert thou brave, still wert thou good,
    Still firm to thy allegiance stood
  Amidst the foamings of the popular flood.
  (Cato with such a constancy of mind,
  Espous'd that cause which all his Gods declin'd.)
        Till gentler stars amaz'd to see
  Thy matchless and undaunted bravery,                              100
  Blush'd and brought back the murthered Father's Son,
  Lest thou shouldst plant him in th' Imperial Throne,
    Thou with thy single hand alone.
  He that forgets the glories of that day,
    When CHARLES the Merciful return'd,
  Ne'er felt the transports of glad Sion's Joy,
  When she had long in dust and ashes mourn'd:
  He never understood with what surprise
  She open'd her astonish'd eyes
  To see the goodly fabric of the second Temple rise.               110


  VI.

  When CHARLES the Merciful his entrance made
    The day was all around serene,
    Not one ill-boding cloud was seen
      To cast a gloomy shade
    On the triumphal cavalcade.
    In that, his first, and happy scene,
  The Pow'rs above foretold his halcyon reign,
  In which, like them, he evermore should prove
  The kindest methods of Almighty Love:
  And when black crimes his justice should constrain,               120
  His pious breast should share the criminal's pain:
  Fierce as the Lion can he be, and gentle as the Dove.
  Here stop, my Muse,--the rest let Angels sing,
  Some of those Angels, who with constant care
  To His Pavilion, near attendants are,
  A life-guard giv'n him by th' Omnipotent King,
    Th' Omnipotent King, whose character he bears,
      Whose diadem on Earth he wears;
  And may he wear it long, for many, many years.


  VII.

  And now (illustrious Ghost!) what shall we say?                   130
  What tribute to thy precious memory pay?
  Thy death confounds, and strikes all sorrows dumb.
    Kingdoms and empires make their moan,
  Rescu'd by thee from desolation;
  In pilgrimage hereafter shall they come,
  And make their offerings before thy tomb,
  Great Prince, so fear'd abroad, and so ador'd at home
  Jove's Bird that durst of late confront the Sun,
  And in the wanton German banners play'd,
    Now hangs her wing and droops her head,                         140
  Now recollects the battles thou hast won,
    And calls too late to thee for aid.
  All Christendom deplores the loss,
  Whilst bloody Mahomet like a whirlwind flies,
  And insolently braves the ill-befriended cross.
  Europe in blood, and in confusion lies,
        Thou in an easy good old age,
    Remov'd from this tumultuous stage,
    Sleep'st unconcern'd at all its rage,
  Secure of Fame, and from Detraction free:                         150
  He that to greater happiness would attain,
    Or towards Heav'n would swifter fly,
    Must be much more than mortal man,
    And never condescend to die.

_Dec. 13, 1682._




    [_On the Death of Prince Rupert._] First printed in folio,
    1683; there are two trivial changes in the text--'Blest Martyr
    baptized', l. 87, and 'Diadems', l. 128. That both the English
    and the Latin of these poems are Flatman's, despite the
    _Authore Anonymo_ of the latter, is a conclusion which I shall
    give up at once on production of any positive evidence to the
    contrary, but shall hold meanwhile. Rupert's love for the Arts
    would of itself attract Flatman, and he hints at this in ll.
    16 and 65.]

    [Line: 21 The 'prime skilfulness' may glance at Dryden--there
    were few others who were primely skilful at funeral odes or
    any other in 1682. But Rupert had kept aloof from Court for
    years.]

    [Lines: 74-6 Orig. 'displaid' and 'dismaid': but not 'pr_ai_d'.]

    [Lines: 90-4 A rather ingenious handling of those adventurous
    and almost heroic cruises of Rupert's with the remnant of the
    Royalist fleet which some have unkindly (and in strictness
    quite unjustifiably) called 'buccaneering' or 'piratical'.]

    [Lines: 111-29 One would have expected, instead of the banal
    laudation of Charles, something about Rupert's share in the
    Dutch wars, and his occupations in chemistry, engraving, &c.
    But there was perhaps some ox on Flatman's tongue (for the
    Prince had not been fortunate at the last in fight); and,
    besides, all these later poems show a want of the spirit and
    the verve which is by no means wanting in the earlier. The
    words to Woodford (_v. sup._, p. 367) were rather too well
    justified.]




Poema in Obitum Illustrissimi Principis Ruperti

Latine Redditum

Non carmine Pindarico (ut illud) sed, (ut vocatur,)

Lapidario

(Quod est medium inter Oratoriam et Poesin)

Vide sis Emanuelem Thesaurum, in Patriarchis.

AUTHORE ANONYMO.


  I.

  _Proculdubio non sumus quod videmur_,
    _Et nosmet ipsos aequo plus aestimamus_,
  _Obliti quod_, _veluti Creatis omnibus_,
    _Et nobis etiam Fato succumbendum_.
  _Homo_, _totius Terrarum Orbis Dominus_,
    (_Heu quam superbe_, _quam fastuose sonat!_)
  _Paucos et incertos illudit annos_,
    _Nunc spe deceptus_, _nunc metu cruciatus_,
    _Per angustum Vitae curriculum_,
  _Tandem ad taciturnas labitur Tenebras_.                           10
  _Et quando morimur_, _quam cito Turba tremula_,
  _Jamdudum Nutus terrore percita_,
  _Venerationem solitam_ (_cum Catenis_) _exuunt_
  _Et ad libitum despectas tractant Reliquias_.
      _Potentissime Princeps!_
  _Quem prodiga Natura_, _et Ars industria_
    _Ad celebritatem immortalem adaptâssent_,
  _Cui plus addere non valuit ipsius ultima Benignitas_;
    _Unde venit quod Nomen tuum Venerandum_
    _Themati meo prostitueretur?_                                    20
  _Per Viros Doctiores ingrate neglectum_,
  _Et indoctâ meâ Musâ delineari relictum!_


  II.

  _Dicite mihi_, _Viri peritiores_, _si legistis_
  _In pulchris Mortuorum Catalogis_
    _Nomen adeo formidate Magnum_,
  _Tantis Mirâclis et inaemulo amore refertum;_
  _In quo omnes Charites & Virtutes concertârunt_.
  _Adeo terribile_, _et adeo dulce Nomen_.
  _Ostendite mihi Stellam in Firmamento Honoris_
    (_Sit etiam Primae Magnitudinis_)                                30
  _Quae a tenebris hujus Mundi erepta_
  _Majorem Mundo fulgorem praestitit;_
    _O Viri eruditi_, _ostendite mihi unam_,
    _Quae tam splendido Radio effulget_.
    _Rupertus est Constellatio--_
  _Praelucens Arcturum et Pleiades_.
  _Et si olim Stella Juliana praefulsit_
  _Ignes minores_, _quantum illos Luna_,
  _Posteritas forsitan mirabitur_, _quare_
    _Hero illo multo Divinior_,                                      40
  _Nullum_ (_post ejus Apotheosin_)
  _In Galaxiâ jubar relinqueret_
  _Sole clarius Meridionali_.


  III.

  _Quo pacto Musa mea tremens laudes tuas recitabit?_
  _Laudes tuas_, _etiam Pindari Carmine excelsiores!_
    _Unde volatum sumet audacem_,
      _Ut in altum sublevetur_
    _In Numeris Masculis et Blandis_,
      _In numeris adaequatis_
    _Coelesti Famae tuae sublimitati?_                               50
    _Si a Nobili tuâ Genealogiâ_
  _Sanguis Regalis in Venis tuis scintillans_
  _Humilem et Plebeiam dedignatur Eulogiam_,
  (_Nam de Te modice loquens Blasphemat_)
  _Si a claris Bellicis facinoribus incipiet_,
    _Et Virilia incunabula decantet_,
    _Rebellis jamdudum sentivit Britannia_,
  _Quantis Mirandis Cunae tuae claruere_,
  _Loricis fasciatus_, _Tympana lachrymas demulserunt_,
  _Et Tubarum clangores somnum allicierunt:_                         60
  _Sic olim Alcides praematurum dedit specimen_
    _In primo Infantiae Diluculo_,
  _Angues teneris collidens manibus_
  _Qualia in aetate provectâ superaret Monstra_.


  IV.

  _Auguste Princeps_, _in quo Mars et Minerva suas_
  _Vires contulere ingentem formare Animum_
  _Praeclaris Posteris in Exemplar designatum_,
  _Quoties Turmae Rebelles coram te profugerunt_
  _Genii tui Numine terrefactae?_
      _Cum de Nube Sulphureâ_                                        70
      _Fulminibus dedisti sonoris_
      _Leges tuas tremendas_
    _Perduellibus insolentibus_,
  _Frustra vexilla explicârunt perfida_,
    _Frustra pugnârunt_, _frustra fuderunt preces_,
    _Armis tuis Victricibus attonitae._
  _Donec Superi_, _causis adhuc incognitis_,
    _Causis secretis et profundis_
    _Connivêre paulisper_, _quasi obdormientes_,
  _Et peramatum Christum suum dereliquisse videbantur_.              80
  _In Coronam triumphavit prosperum Nefas_
  _Et Regum optimum a Solio deturbavit_,
    _Ne annuntietis hoc in Gath aut Ascalon_,
    _Monarcharum optimus impiâ vi corruit_,
  _Immaculata Victima pro Sontibus fudit sanguinem:_
  _Inclinavit se, cecidit_, _ubi inclinaverat cecidit mortuus_
  _Martyr beatus in Sacro suo Cruore Baptisatus_.


  V.

  _Nec valuerunt Turbines in Anarchiâ istâ vertiginosâ_,
  _Invicte Princeps_, _fidelitatem tuam vibrare_,
  _Nam retrocedens pugnasti more Parthico_,                          90
    _Et semper Idem remansisti_,
    _Inter pecora_, _et pisces squamosas_,
  _In terrâ Behemoth_, _in mari Leviathan:_
    _Infractus adhuc et adhuc Bonus_
    _Fidelitati firmiter perseverasti_
  _Inter fremitus Fluctuum Popularium_.
  _Sic olim Cato pari animi constantiâ_
  _Causam desponsavit_, _quam Dii omnes repudiârunt_.
    _Donec Planetae benigniores_, _stupentes aspicere_
  _Imparilem et impavidam tuam fortitudinem_,                       100
  _Erubuerunt_, _et Percussi Patris filium reduxerunt_,
  _Ne tu illum in Solio Imperiali collocares_,
    _Tu unicâ tuâ manu solus_.
  _Qui Solis istius splendores oblitus fuerit_
    _Quo Clementissimus redivit Carolus_,
  _Nunquam sentivit laetae Sionis gaudia_
  _Cum diu pulvere et cineribus lugisset_;
    _Nunquam intellexit quali Raptu_
  _Oculos extollebat attonitos_
  _Templi Secundi Structuram renascentem videns_.                   110


  VI.

  _Cum Carolus Clemens introitum fecit_
    _Coelum erat undique serenum_,
    _Nulla male-ominosa Nubes apparuit_
    _Umbram dare tenebricosam_,
    _In Equitatum istum Triumphalem_.
    _In illa primâ et felici Scenâ_
  _Praedixere Superi Regimen ejus Halcyoneum_
  _In quo sicut illi_, _in aeternum probaret_
  _Benignissimas Methodos praepotentis Amoris_.
  _Et cum magna flagitia Vindictam eius provocarent_,               120
  _Pectus ejus humanius Rei compateretur poenas_.
  _Ut Leo ferox, mitis ut Columba_.
    _Hic sileat Musa--quod reliquum est Angeli praedicent_,
    _Angeli isti qui assiduâ curâ_
  _Tentorio ejus quam proxime inserviunt_
  _Somatophylaces à Rege Omnipotente delegati_,
    _A Rege Omnipotente_, _cujus Majestatem praefert_,
    _Cujus in terrâ gerit Diadema_
  _Et diu gerat per multos, multos annos_.


  VII.

  _Quid autem_, (_Illustris Anima_) _quid dicemus?_                 130
  _Quale Tributum Piae tuae Memoriae solvemus?_
    _Mors tua obtundit et mutum reddit Dolorem_.
    _Regna et Imperia lugubres planetus faciunt_
  _Ab extremâ Ruinâ per te redempta_.
  _Posthac è longe Peregrinantes venient_,
  _Et ad Tumulum tuum Oblationes tribuent_,
  _O Magne Princeps foris verende_, _et domi venerate!_
  _Jovis Ales, qui dudum Solem tentare ausus est_,
  _Et in mollibus Germanorum lusit vexillis_,
    _Nunc alas demittit_, _et caput declinat_,                      140
  _Nunc repetit Victorias a Te potitas_,
    _Et sero nimis tuum implorat auxilium_.
  _Orbis Christianus deplorat Damnum_,
  _Dum truculentus Mahomet Turbinis instar volat_
  _Et impotenter bacchatur in male-sustentatam Crucem_.
  _Sanguine et ruinâ volutans Europa jacet_.
    _Tu in tranquillâ et plenâ senectute_
    _Semotus a tumultuoso Mundi Theatro_
    _Rabiosâ eius insaniâ intactus dormis_,
  _Famae securus et ab omni obtrectatione liber_.                   150
  _Qui ampliorem attineret felicitatem_,
    _Vel usque ad Coelos ocyus volaret_,
    _Oportet esse plusquam Mortalem_,
    _Nec unquam prorsus dignari mori_.




    [_Poema in Obitum, &c._] Heading: 'Vide sis' = _vide, si
    vis._]

    [_Emanuel, &c._] Pepys read his 'new _Emanuel Thesaurus_
    [_Tesaufro_] _Patriarchae_' on Jan. 23, 1660/1. It was a
    genealogy of Christ and a very popular book.]

    [Line: 22 _delineari_] _deliniri_ in the text. 'Fidelitati'
    in l. 95 should be the ablative. In 63 'teneribus manibus' was
    probably a printer's blunder, but the author must be credited
    with such erroneous forms as 'sentivit' and 'lugisset'.]




_On the much lamented Death of our late Sovereign Lord King Charles
II. of Blessed Memory._

A PINDARIC ODE.


  _Stanza_ I.

  Alas! Why are we tempted to complain,
  That Heav'n is deaf to all our cries!
  Regardless of poor mortals' miseries!
  And all our fervent pray'rs devoutly vain!
  Tis hard to think th' immortal Powers attend
  Human affairs, who ravish from our sight
  The Man, on whom such blessings did depend,
    Heav'n's and mankind's delight!
  The Man! O that opprobrious word, _The Man!_
  Whose measure of duration's but a span,                            10
  Some other name at Babel should have been contriv'd
    (By all the vulgar World t' have been receiv'd),
    A word as near as could be to Divinity,
  Appropriate to Crown'd Heads, who never ought to die;
      Some signal word that should imply
    All but the scandal of mortality.
    'Tis fit, we little lumps of crawling Earth,
      Deriv'd from a plebeian birth,
      Such as our frail forefathers were,
      Should to our primitive dust repair;                           20
    But Princes (like the wondrous Enoch) should be free
      From Death's unbounded tyranny,
      And when their godlike race is run,
      And nothing glorious left undone,
  Never submit to Fate, but only disappear.


  II.

  But, since th' eternal Law will have it so,
  That Monarchs prove at last but finer clay,
    What can their humble vassals do?
  What reverence, what devotion can we pay,
  When these, our earthly Gods, are snatch'd away?                   30
  Yes, we can mourn, Yes, we can beat our breast,
  Yes, we can call to mind those happy days
      Of pleasure, and of rest,
  When CHARLES the Merciful did reign,
    That Golden Age, when void of cares,
      All the long summer's day,
    We atoms in his beams might sport and play:
    Yes, we can teach our children to bewail
      His fatal loss, when we shall fail,
      And make babes learn in after days                             40
    The pretty way of stammering out his praise,
  His merited praise, which shall in every age
      With all advantage flame
    In spite of furies or infernal rage,
  And imp the wings, and stretch the lungs of Fame.


  III.

  Excellent Prince, whom every mouth did bless,
    And every bended knee adore,
  On whom we gaz'd with ecstasy of joy
  (A vision which did satisfy, but never cloy)
  From whom we dated all our happiness,                              50
    And from above could ask no more,
  Our gladsome cup was fill'd till it ran o'er.
  Our land (like Eden) flourish'd in his time,
    Defended by an Angel's Sword,
    A terror 'twas to those abroad,
  But all was Paradise to those within:
  Nor could th' Old Serpent's stratagem
  Ever supplant his well-watch'd diadem.
  Excellent Prince, of whom we once did say
    With a triumphant noise,                                         60
      In one united voice,
      On that stupendious day,
    _Long live, Long live the King!_
    And songs of IO PAEAN sing,
  How shall we bear this tragical surprise,
  Now we must change _Long live_, for _Here he lies_?


  IV.

  Have you forgot? (but who can him forget?)
    You watchful Spirits that preside
      O'er sublunary things,
  Who, when you look beneath, do oft deride,                         70
  Not without cause, some other petty Kings;
    Have you forgot the greatness of his mind,
    The bravery of his elevated soul,
    (But he had still a Goshen there)
  When darkest cares around his Royal heart did wind,
      As waves about a steady rock do roll:
        With what disdain he view'd
    The fury of the giddy multitude,
  And bare the Cross, with more than manly fortitude,
      As he had learn'd in sacred lore,                              80
    His mighty Master had done long before?
      And you must ever own
      (Or else you very little know
      Of what we think below)
    That when the hurricanes of th' State were o'er,
    When in his noontide blaze he did appear,
      His gentle awful brow
    Added fresh lustre to th' Imperial Crown,
  By birthright, and by virtue, more than once his own.


  V.

    He was! but what he was, how great, how good,                    90
    How just, how he delighted not in blood,
    How full of pity, and how strangely kind,
    How hazardously constant to his friend,
    In Peace how glorious, and in War how brave,
  Above the charms of life, and terrors of the grave--
      When late posterity shall tell:
    What he has done shall to a volume swell,
    And every line abound with miracle
      In that prodigious Chronicle.
    Forgive, unbodied Sovereign, forgive,                           100
    And from your shining mansion cast an eye
    To pity our officious blasphemy,
    When we have said the best we can conceive.
    Here stop, presumptuous Muse! thy daring flight,
  Here hide thy baffled head in shades of night,
  Thou too obscure, thy dazzling theme too bright,
    For what thou shouldst have said, with grief struck dumb,
    Will more emphatically be supplied
  By the joint groans of melancholy Christendom.




    [_On the Death of King Charles II._] First printed in folio in
    1685.]

    [Line: 25 Browning somewhere in a letter laughs at this line,
    in the form 'Kings do not die, they only disappear', which
    is neither Flatman's nor Waller's, from whom he borrowed the
    notion, nor Oldham's, who has it likewise, though both these
    have the 'disappear'. The thought is not foolish: it means,
    'their names and works live after them'. But Browning's
    knowledge of Flatman, as of other out-of-the-ways, is
    interesting. He might have made him a 'Person of Importance'.]




_To His Sacred Majesty King James II._


  Dread Prince! whom all the world admires and fears,
    By Heav'n design'd to wipe away our tears,
    To heal our wounds, and drooping spirits raise,
    And to revive our former halcyon days,
    Permit us to assure ourselves, that you
    Your happy brother's fortune will pursue,
  For what great thing is that you dare not do?
  Whose long known, unexampled gallantry
  So oft has shaken th' Earth, and curb'd the haughty Sea.
    And may those Stars, that ever o'er you shone,                   10
    Double their influence on your peaceful throne.
    May you in honourable deeds outshine
    The brightest heroes of your Royal line,
    That when your enemies shall the sceptre see
    Grasp'd in a hand enur'd to victory,
  The rebels may like Lucifer fall down,
  Or fly like phantoms from the rising Sun.

    _Extremum Hunc Arethusa mihi concede Laborem._

  Virgil.




ODES OF HORACE

PARAPHRASED BY THOMAS FLATMAN.


BOOK II. ODE XIX.

_Being half foxt he praiseth Bacchus._


  In a blind corner jolly Bacchus taught
    The Nymphs and Satyrs poetry;
  Myself (a thing scarce to be thought)
    Was at that time a stander by.
  And ever since the whim runs in my head,
    With heavenly frenzy I'm on fire;
  Dear Bacchus, let me not be punishèd
    For raving, when thou didst inspire.
  Ecstatically drunk, I now dare sing
    Thy bigot Thyades, and the source                                10
  Whence thy brisk wine, honey, and milk did spring,
    Enchannell'd by thy sceptre's force.
  Bold as I am, I dare yet higher fly,
    And sing bright Ariadne's Crown,
  Rejoice to see bold Pentheus' destiny,
    And grave Lycurgus tumbled down.
  Rivers and seas thine empire all obey,
    When thou thy standard dost advance,
  Wild mountaineers, thy vassals, trim and gay,
    In tune and time stagger and dance.                              20
  Thou, when great Jove began to fear his throne
    (In no small danger then he was),
  The mighty Rhoecus thou didst piss upon,
    And of that lion mad'st an ass.
  'Tis true, thy talent is not war, but mirth;
    The fiddle, not the trumpet, thine;
  Yet didst thou bravely lay about thee then,
    Great Moderator, God of Wine.
  And when to Hell in triumph thou didst ride
    O'er Cerberus thou didst prevail,                                30
  The silly cur, thee for his Master own'd,
    And like a puppy wagg'd his tail.




    [_Odes of Horace._] On Flatman's Horatian versions generally
    see Introduction. The notes they call for are few.]

    [Line: 14 Crown] Not in the usual vague poetic sense, but the
    star _Corona Ariadnes_.]




BOOK III. ODE VIII. _To Maecenas._


  Learnèd Maecenas, wonder not that I
  (A Bachelor) invoke that Deity,
  Which at this feast the married rout adore,
                          And yearly do implore.
  They pray the gods to make their burthen light,
  And that their yoke-fellows may never fight:
  I praise them, not for giving me a wife,
                          But saving of my life.
  By heav'n redeem'd, I 'scap'd a falling tree,
  And yearly own that strange delivery,                              10
  Yearly rejoice, and drink the briskest wine,
                          Not spill it at their shrine.
  Come, my Maecenas, let us drink, and thus
  Cherish that life those Pow'rs have given us:
  A thousand cups to midwife this new birth,
                          With inoffensive mirth.
  No State-affairs near my Maecenas come,
  Since all are fall'n that fought victorious Rome.
  By civil broils the Medes, our foes, will fall.
                          The weakest to the wall.                   20
  Our fierce and ancient enemy of Spain
  Is now subdu'd, and tamely bears our chain.
  The savage Scythian too begins to yield,
                          About to quit the field.
  Bear they the load of government that can;
  Thou, since a private, and good-natur'd man,
  Enjoy th' advantage of the present hour,
                          For why shouldst thou look sour?




BOOK III. ODE IX. _Horace and Lydia._


 _Hor._ While I was lovely in thine eye,
           And while no soft embrace but mine
        Encircled thy fair ivory neck,
          I did the Persian King outshine.

 _Lyd._ While Horace was an honest lad,
          And Chloe less than Lydia lov'd,
        Lydia was then a matchless Lass,
          And in a sphere 'bove Ilia mov'd.

 _Hor._ But Chloe now has vanquish'd me,
          That lute and voice who could deny?                        10
        Methinks might I but save her life,
          I could myself even dare to die.

 _Lyd._ Young Calais is my gallant,
          He burns me with his flaming eye;
        To save the pretty villain's life,
          Twice over I could dare to die.
 _Hor._ But say I Lydia lov'd again,
          And would new-braze Love's broken chain?
        Say I should turn my Chloe off,
          And take poor Lydia home again?                            20

 _Lyd._ Why then though he a fixèd star.
          Thou lighter than a cork shouldst be,
        Mad, and unquiet as the sea,
          Yet would I live, and die with thee.




BOOK III. ODE XII.


  No more Love's subjects, but his slaves they be,
  That dare not o'er a glass of wine be free,
  But quit, for fear of friends, their liberty.

  Fond Neobule! thou art lazy grown,
  Away thy needle, web, and distaff thrown,
  Thou hop'st thy work by Hebrus will be done.

  A sturdy youth, and a rank rider he,
  Can run a race, and box most manfully,
  Swim like a duck, and caper like a flea.

  He hunts the stag, and all the forest o'er                         10
  With strength and craft pursues the savage boar:
  He minds the sport, and thou desir'st no more.




BOOK III. ODE XVII. _To Aelius Lamia._


  Brave Aelius, sprung from an heroic line,
  Whose pedigree in long descents do shine,
  That add'st new glories to the Lamian name,
          And rear'st fresh trophies to their fame!
  Descended from Prince Lamus, whose command
  Reach from the Formian walls, o'er sea and land;
  Well was he known our ancestors among,
          Where gentle Liris slides along.
  Great as thou art, time will not thee obey:
  To-morrow's like to be a blust'ring day,                           10
  Some tempest too is threat'ned from the east,
          As by th' unlucky crow I guess'd:
  'Tis dry to-day! Now lay thy fuel in,
  Ere the unwelcome season do begin,
  Good victuals get, and frolic friends together,
          Armour of proof against ill weather.




    [xvii. 2 'Do shine' is probably a misprint, due to the
    contiguous s's, for 'does' or 'do's shine'. So below in l. 6,
    'reach' should probably be 'reach_t_' An apparent but not
    real false concord between plural nouns and singular verb was
    common in the seventeenth century.]




BOOK III. ODE XIX. _To Telephus._


  I.

  Thou por'st on Helvicus, and studiest in vain,
  How many years pass'd betwixt King and King's reign,
  To make an old woman ev'n twitter for joy
  At an eighty-eight story, or the scuffle at Troy:
    But where the good wine, and best fire is
      When the cruel North-wind does blow,
      And the trees do penance in snow;
    Where the poet's delight and desire is,
  Thou, pitiful book-worm, ne'er troublest thy brain.


  II.

  Come, drawer, some claret, we'll drown this new Moon.              10
  More candles t' improve this dull night into noon:
  let the healths, let the house, and the glasses turn round,
  But no tears, except those of the tankard, abound.
    Come! here's a good health to the Muses,
      Three brimmers to the three times three,
      And one to each grace let there be;
  The triple-skull'd dog bite him that refuses.


  III.

  Let's be mad as March-hares, call the minstrels and singers,
  Strike up there!--kick that rogue--he has chilblains on's fingers, 20
  Let that whoreson our neighbour, on his bags that lies thinking,
  Bear a part in the storm, but not the calm of our drinking.
    Come! bring us a wench, or two, prithee;
      Thou Telephus look'st pretty fair,
      And hast a good thick head of hair,
    Fetch him Chloe, she's buxom, and loves to trade with thee;
  Call Glycera to me, for I am one of her swingers.




    [xix. A good example of the curious 'skimble skamble'
    anapaests before Dryden and Prior.]

    [Line: 4 an eighty-eight story] Of the Armada.]




BOOK III. ODE XX. _To Pyrrhus._


  Dry Pyrrhus, little dost thou know,
  What 'tis to make a whelp forgo
  His lioness,--faith 'twill not do!
                          It will be so.

  Nearchus understands his game,
  If he resolves to quit his fame,
  What's that to you? To save his name
                          You'll purchase shame.

  If before peace you war prefer,
  Shoot at his butt--you'll find from her                            10
  A Rowland for your Oliver,
                          That I dare swear.

  He is a gay, and sanguine man,
  His periwig the wind does fan,
  And she will hug him, now and than,
                          Do what you can.




BOOK III. ODE XXI. _To his Wine-Vessels._


  Kind Brother Butt! as old, and brisk, as I
        (For we had both the same nativity),
  Whether to mirth, to brawls, or desperate love,
        Or sleep, thy gentle power does move;
  By what, or name, or title dignifi'd;
  Thou need'st not fear the nicest test to 'bide:
  Corvinus' health since we may not refuse,
        Give down amain thy generous juice.
  Corvinus, tho' a Stoic, will not balk
  Thy charms, for he can drink, as well as talk.                     10
  Old Cato, tho' he often were morose,
        Yet he would sometimes take a dose.
  O Wine! thou mak'st the thick-skull'd fellow soft;
  Easest the Statesman, vex'd with cares full oft;
  Unriddlest all intrigues with a free bowl,
        Thou arrant pick-lock of the Soul!
  Thou dost our gasping, dying hopes revive;
  To peasants, souls as big as princes' give;
  Inspired by thee they scorn their slavish fears,
        And bid their rulers shake their ears.                       20
  All this, and more (great Bacchus) thou canst do,
  But if kind Venus be assistant too,
  Then bring more candles to expel the night,
        Till Phoebus puts the stars to flight.




BOOK III. ODE XXII. _Upon Diana._


  Gentle Diana, Goddess bright,
  Who midwiv'st infants into light,
  The mountain's Deity tripartite,
                  And Queen of Night,
  To thee I consecrate my Pine,
  Henceforth it shall be ever thine,
  Yearly I'll offer at this shrine
                  The blood of swine.




BOOK III. ODE III. _To Venus._


  'Tis true, I was a sturdy soldier once,
  And bravely under Cupid's banners fought:
  Disbanded now, his service I renounce,
      My warlike weapons serve for nought.

  Here! take my helmet, sword, and shield,
  My bow, my quiver, my artillery;
  Chloe has beaten me quite out of th' field,
      And leads me in captivity.

  Great Venus! thou that know'st what I have been,
  How able, and how true a friend to smocks!                         10
  Revenge my quarrel on th' imperious quean,
      And pay her with a pox!




BOOK IV. ODE I. _To Venus._


  No more of War:--Dread Cytherea, cease;
    Thy feeble soldier sues for peace.
  Alas! I am not now that man of might,
    As when fair Cynara bade me fight.
  Leave, Venus, leave! consider my gray hairs
    Snow'd on by fifty tedious years.
  My forts are slighted, and my bulwarks down:
    Go, and beleaguer some strong town.
  Make thy attempts on Maximus; there's game
    To entertain thy sword and flame.                                10
  There Peace and Plenty dwell: He's of the Court,
    Ignorant what 'tis to storm a fort:
  There sound a charge; he's generous and young,
    He's unconcern'd, lusty, and strong:
  He of thy silken banners will be proud,
    And of thy conquests talk aloud.
  His bags are full: the lad thou mayst prefer
    To be thy treasurer in war.
  He may erect gold statues to thy name,
    And be the trumpet of thy fame:                                  20
  Thy Deity the zealous youth will then invoke,
    And make thy beauteous altars smoke.
  With voice and instruments thy praise shall sound,
    Division he, and Love the ground;
  There, twice a day the gamesome company
    Of lads and lasses in debvoir to thee,
  Like Mars's priests their numbers shall advance,
    And sweetly sing, and nimbly dance.
  But as for me! I'm quite dispirited,
    I court nor maid, nor boy to bed!                                30
  I cannot drink, nor bind a garland on,
    Alas! my dancing days are done!
  But hold--Why do these tears steal from my eyes?
    My lovely Ligurinus, why?
  Why does my falt'ring tongue disguise my voice
    With rude and inarticulate noise?
  O Ligurin! 'tis thou that break'st my rest,
    Methinks I grasp thee in my breast:
  Then I pursue thee in my passionate dreams
    O'er pleasant fields and purling streams.                        40




    [IV. i. 7 'slighted' = 'razed,' the original sense of 'to make
    level'.]

    [Line: 24 I confess this line beat me at first. But no doubt
    it has a musical sense, for in music both 'division' (notes
    run together) and 'ground' (a recurrent motive) have technical
    meanings. The punctuation above, Mr. Simpson's, makes this
    clearer.]

    [Line: 26 'De_b_voir' is worth keeping.]




BOOK IV. ODE X. _To Ligurinus, a beauteous Youth._


  'Tis true, thou yet art fair, my Ligurine,
  No down as yet environs cheek or chin:
  But when those hairs which now do flow, shall fall,
  And when thy rosy cheeks turn wan and pale:
  When in thy glass another Ligurine thou
  Shalt spy, and scarce thy bearded self shall know;
  Then thou (despis'd) shalt sing this piteous song;
  Why am I old? or why was ever young?




BOOK IV. ODE XI. _To Phyllis._


  Come, Phyllis, gentle Phyllis! prithee come,
  I have a glass of rich old wine at home,
  And in my garden curious flowers do grow,
        That languish to adorn thy brow.
  The ivy and the yellow crowfoot there
  With verdant chaplets wait to braid thy hair;
  With silver goblets all my house does shine,
        And vervain round my altar twine,
  On which the best of all my flock shall bleed;
  Come, and observe with what officious speed                        10
  Each lad and lass of all my house attends
        Till to my roof the smoke ascends.
  If thou wouldst know why thou must be my guest,
  I tell thee 'tis to celebrate a Feast,
  The Ides of April, which have ever been
        Devoted to the Cyprian Queen.
  A day more sacred, and more fit for mirth
  Than that which gave me (worthless mortal) birth:
  For on that day Maecenas first saw light,
        Born for our wonder and delight.                             20
  My Phyllis, since thy years come on apace,
  Substitute me in Telephus his place,
  He's now employ'd by one more rich, more fair,
        And proudly does her shackles wear.
  Remember what became of Phaeton;
  Remember what befell Bellerophon;
  That by ambition from his Father's throne,
        And this, by Pegasus thrown down.
  Content thyself with what is fit for thee,
  Happy that couple that in years agree!                             30
  Shun others, and accept my parity,
        And I will end my loves with thee.
  Thou art the last whom I intend to court,
  Come then; and (to prepare thee for the sport)
  Learn prick-song, and my merry odes rehearse:
        Many a care is charm'd by verse.




EPODE III. _To Maecenas._


  In time to come, if such a crime should be
    As Parricide, (foul villany!)
  A clove of garlic would revenge that evil;
    (Rare dish for ploughmen, or the Devil!)
  Accursed root! how does it jounce and claw!
    It works like ratsbane in my maw.
  What witch contriv'd this strat'gem for my breath!
    Poison'd at once, and stunk to death;
  With this vile juice Medea sure did 'noint
    Jason, her love, in every joint;                                 10
  When untam'd bulls in yokes he led along,
    This made his manhood smell so strong:
  This gave her dragon venom to his sting,
    And set the hag upon the wing.
  I burn, I parch, as dry as dust I am,
    Such drought on Puglia never came.
  Alcides could not bear so much as I,
    He oft was wet, but never dry.
  Maecenas! do but taste of your own treat,
    And what you gave your poet, eat;                                20
  Then go to bed, and court your mistress there,
    She'll never kiss you I dare swear.




    [III. 5 'Jounce', a word worth restoring, is the same as
    Shakespeare's 'jaunce' and as 'jaunt'. It seems to be still
    provincial, especially in East Anglia (Flatman had property
    there), and is equivalent to 'jolt', 'bob up and down',
    'wamble in the innerds'.]




EPODE VI.

_Against Cassius Severus, a rerevileful and wanton Poet._


  Thou village-cur! why dost thou bark at me?
    A wolf might come, and go, for thee.
  At me thou open'st wide, and think'st that I
    Will bark with thee for company.
  I'm of another kind, and bravely dare
    (Like th' mastiff) watch my flock with care:
  Dare hunt through snow, and seize that savage beast
    That might my darling folds molest:
  Thou (only in the noise thou mak'st) robust
    Leav'st off the chase; leap'st at a crust,                       10
  But have a care! for if I vent my spleen,
    I (for a shift) can make thee grin:
  I'll make thee (if iambics once I sing)
    To die, like Bupalus, in a string.
  When any man insults o'er me, shall I
    Put finger in mine eye and cry?




EPODE X. _Against Maevius, a Poet._


  And art thou shipp'd, friend Doggerel!--get thee gone,
                Thou pest of Helicon.
  Now for an hurricane to bang thy sides,
                Curst wood, in which he rides!
  An east-wind tear thy cables, crack thy oars,
                While every billow roars.
  With such a wind let all the Ocean swell
                As wafted Noll to Hell:
  No friendly star o'er all the Sea appear
                While thou be'st there;                              10
  Nor kinder destiny there mayst thou meet
                Than the proud Grecian Fleet,
  When Pallas did their Admiral destroy
                Return'd from ruin'd Troy.
  Methinks I see the mariners faint, and thee
                Look somewhat scurvily:
  Thou call'st on Jove, as if great Jove had time
                To mind thy Grub-street Rhyme,
  When the proud waves their heads to Heav'n do rear
                Himself scarce free from fear:                       20
  Well! If the Gods should thy wreck'd carcase share
                To beasts or fowls of th' air,
  I'll sacrifice to them, that they may know
                I can be civil too.




    [X. 7 The great storm of September 2, 1658, the day before
    Cromwell's death.]

    [Line: 18 Marvell in 1678, and Otway in _The Atheist_, 1684,
    first mentioned the _vicus infaustus_ which humour (or the
    want of it) renamed 'Milton' Street, from the proximity of
    Bunhill Fields.]




EPODE XI. _To Pettius his Chamber-fellow._


  Ah, Pettius! I have done with Poetry,
    I've parted with my liberty
      For Cupid's slavery.
  Cupid, that peevish God, has singled out
    Me, from among the rhyming rout,
      For boys and girls to flout:
  December now has thrice stript every tree,
    Since bright Inachia's tyranny
      Has laid its chains on me.
  Now fie upon me! all about the town                                10
    My Miss I treated up and down,
      I for a squire was known.
  Lord, what a whelp was I! to pule and whine,
    To sigh, to sob, and to repine!
      For thy sake, Mistress mine!
  Thou didst my verse, and thou my Muse despise,
    My want debas'd me in thine eyes.
      Thou wealth, not wit, didst prize.
  Fuddled with wine and love my secrets flew,
    Stretch'd on those racks, I told thee true                       20
      What did myself undo.
  Well!--plague me not too much, imperious dame,
    Lest I blaspheme thy charming name,
      And quench my former flame.
  I can give others place, and see thee die
    Damn'd with their prodigality,
      If I set on't, so stout am I.
  Thou know'st, my friend, thus have I often said,
    When, by her sorceries misled,
      Thou bad'st me home to bed:                                    30
  Ev'n then my practice gave my tongue the lie,
    I could not her curst house pass by:
      I fear'd, but could not fly.
  Since that, for young Lyciscus I'm grown mad;
    Inachia such a face ne'er had,
      It is a lovely lad.
  From his embraces I shall ne'er get free,
    Nor friends' advice, nor infamy
      Can disentangle me:
  Yet if some brighter object I should spy,                          40
    That might perhaps debauch my eye,
      And shake my constancy.




EPODE XV. _To his Sweetheart Neaera._


  It was a lovely melancholy night;
    The Moon, and every star shone bright;
  When thou didst swear thou wouldst to me be true,
    And do as I would have thee do:
  False woman! round my neck thy arms did twine,
    Inseparable as the elm and vine:
  Then didst thou swear thy passion should endure
    To me alone sincere and pure,
  Till sheep and wolves should quit their enmity,
    And not a wave disturb the sea.                                  10
  Treacherous Neaera! I have been too kind,
    But Flaccus can draw off, thou'lt find;
  He can that face (as thou dost him) forswear,
    And find (it may be) one as fair:
  And let me tell thee, when my fury's mov'd,
    I hate devoutly, as I lov'd.
  But thou, blest gamester, whosoe'er thou be
    That proudly dost my drudgery,
  Didst thou abound in numerous flocks, and land,
    Wert heir to all Pactolus' sand;                                 20
  Though in thy brain thou bor'st Pythagoras,
    And carried'st Nereus in thy face,
  She'd pick another up, and shab thee off,
    And then 'twill be my turn to laugh.




    [XV. 23 'Shab off' seems to be still provincially used both in
    the intransitive sense '_sneak_ off' and in the transitive as
    here '_bundle_ off.']




EPODE XVII. _To Canidia._


  I yield, Canidia, to thy art,
  Take pity on a penitent heart:
  By Proserpine, Queen of the Night,
  And by Diana's glimmering light,
  By the mysterious volumes all,
  That can the stars from Heaven call;
  By all that's sacred I implore
  Thou to my wits wouldst me restore.
  The brave Achilles did forgive
  King Telephus, and let him live,                                   10
  Though in the field the King appear'd,
  And war with Mysian bands prepar'd.
  When on the ground dead Hector lay,
  Expos'd, to birds and beasts a prey;
  The Trojan Dames in pity gave
  Hector an honourable grave.
  Ulysses's mariners were turn'd to swine,
  Transform'd by Circe's charms divine;
  Yet Circe did their doom revoke,
  And straight the grunting mortals spoke:                           20
  Each in his pristine shape appears,
  Fearless of dogs to lug their ears.
  Oh! do not my affliction scorn!
  Enough in conscience I have borne!
  My youth and fresh complexion's gone,
  Dwindled away to skin and bone.
  My hair is powd'red by thy care,
  And all my minutes busy are.
  Day Night, and Night the Day does chase,
  Yet have not I a breathing space!                                  30
  Wretch that I am! I now believe,
  No pow'r can from thy charms reprieve:
  Now I confess thy magic can
  Reach head and heart, and unman man.
  What wouldst thou have me say? what more?
  O Seas! O Earth! I scorch all o'er!
  Hercules himself ne'er burnt like me,
  Nor th' flaming Mount in Sicily:
  O cease thy spells, lest I be soon
  Calcin'd into a pumice-stone!                                      40
  When wilt th' ha' done? What must I pay?
  But name the sum, and I obey:
  Say: Wilt thou for my ransom take
  An hecatomb? or shall I make
  A bawdy song t'advance thy trade,
  Or court thee with a serenade?
  Wouldst thou to Heav'n, and be a star?
  I'll hire thee Cassiopeia's Chair.
  Castor, to Helen a true friend,
  Struck her defaming poet blind;                                    50
  Yet he, good-natur'd gentleman,
  Gave the blind bard his eyes again.
  Since this, and much more thou canst do,
  O rid me of my madness too!
  From noble ancestors thy race,
  No vulgar blood purples thy face:
  Thou searchest not the graves of th' poor,
  But necromancy dost abhor:
  Gen'rous thy breast, and pure thy hands,
  Whose fruitful womb shall people lands,                            60
  And ere thy childbed-linen's clean,
  Thou shall be up and to't again.




_Canidia's Answer._


  Go--hang thyself:--I will not hear,
  The rocks as soon shall lend an ear
  To naked mariners that be
  Left to the mercy of the Sea.
  Marry come up!--Shall thy bold pride
  The mysteries of the Gods deride?
  Presumptuous fool! commit a rape
  On my repute, and think to 'scape!
  Make me a town-talk? Well! ere thou die
  Cupid shall vengeance take; or I.                                  10
  Go, get some ratsbane!--'twill not do,
  Nay, drink some aqua-fortis too:
  No witch shall take thy life away;
  Who dares say, Go, when I bid Stay?
  No!--I'll prolong thy loathed breath,
  And make thee wish in vain for death.
  In vain does Tantalus espy
  Fruits, he may taste but with his eye.
  In vain does poor Prometheus groan,
  And Sisyphus stop his rolling stone:                               20
  Long may they sigh, long may they cry,
  But not control their destiny.
  And thou in vain from some high wall
  Or on thy naked sword mayst fall,
  In vain (to terminate thy woes)
  Thy hands shall knit the fatal noose:
  For on thy shoulders then I'll ride,
  And make the Earth shake with my pride.
  Think'st thou that I, who when I please
  Can kill by waxen images,                                          30
  Can force the Moon down from her sphere,
  And make departed ghosts appear,
  And mix love-potions!--thinks thy vanity,
  I cannot deal with such a worm as thee?




FINIS.




POEMS NOT INCLUDED IN THE EDITIONS OF 1682 AND 1686.


The sources from which these miscellaneous poems are taken are
noted separately. Two, at the time of going to press, have not been
printed--the _Song_ 'Oh no, oh no!' (p. 414) and the _Paraphrase_ of
the 27th Chapter of Job (p. 420).

There is evidence that Flatman contemplated one more Pindaric, but
perhaps it was not written, and certainly not printed. The subject
was to be Admiral Myngs. The _Familiar Letters of Love, Gallantry, and
Several Occasions_, 1718, vol. i, pp. 249 foll., include a letter of
consolation to Flatman's 'Honoured Master', in which he writes, after
some preliminary comments: 'Not to hold you any longer in suspense, my
Noble, my Generous Friend, the Glory of the Sea, the Astonishment
of all the World, is dead. When I have told you this, you cannot be
ignorant of the Person I mean; he has a Name too big to be concealed
from any body that ever heard of Wonder on the Deep, or understands
what 'tis to be brave, to be valiant, to be loyal, to be kind
and honourable, more than all this is too little to describe Sir
_Christopher Myngs_. Guess, my Dearest Master, the Disturbance
so irreparable a Loss must create in one often honour'd with his
Conversation, and many Ways oblig'd by him. We have nothing left of
him now but poor sorrowful _Syl. Taylour_, that other Half of his
Soul, who is now resolv'd for Retirement, and will run no more Hazards
at Sea. Many more Things I might misemploy you with, but this great
load must be first removed, which, I think, will not be, till I have
vented my Grief in a Pindarique, and done the last Office of Kindness
for the Dead. If I can make my Sorrows any thing legible, expect to
bear a Part in them.' The letter is dated from London on June 15,
1666.

Another lost poem--doubtless a Pindaric--on the theme of London is
thus referred to in an autograph letter to Sancroft written from St.
Catharine Hall, Cambridge, on May 13, 1667 (Tanner MS. xlv, fol. 188):

'When I was last with you you were pleasd to take away from me a paper
of imperfect Verses, the first desseign wherof was to comply with your
injunction in saying something on that subject, whose beuty (it may
be) had it continued in that flourishing condition 'twas in at the
time of the imposition of yo^{r} commaunds, might haue heightned my
thoughts as much as it's ruin has now dejected them; or to speak in my
owne way, The Coppy had bin much livelier if th' Originall hadnt bin
so much defaced; and he must be a better Architect then I that can
reare a structure any thing magnificent in so bare an Ichnography.
Thus much S^{r} to let you know how much I am beholding to yo^{r}
forgetfulness in returning my Ode, wherby you haue cover'd many
imperfections, & kept me from being any longer angry with my self for
not finishing what had better never bin begun.'

One poem, sometimes assigned to Flatman has not been reprinted
here--_A Panegyric to his Renowned Majesty, Charles the Second,
King of Great Britain, &c._, a folio sheet issued in 1660, with the
initials 'T. F.', and beginning 'Return, return, strange prodigy of
fate!' Flatman, if it had been his, would not have failed to reprint
it in his own _Poems_. Similarly with an anonymous poem on the
coronation of James II--_To the King, a Congratulatory Poem_, printed
for R. Bentley in 1685--which Mr. W. C. Hazlitt in his _Collections
and Notes_, ii, p. 694, ascribes to Flatman. It begins:

  Dread Sir, since it has pleas'd the Pow'rs above
  To take the other Object of our love.

This has a faint verbal resemblance to the opening of Flatman's
genuine poem on James (see p. 394), and the misattribution may be due
to this.




_Upon a Chine of Beef._


  I.

  A chine of beef, God save us all,
  Far larger than the butcher's stall,
  And sturdier than the City-wall.


  II.

  For this held out until the foe,
  By dint of blade and potent blow,
  Fell in pell mell; that did not so.


  III.

  With stomachs sharper than their knives,
  They laid about them for their lives;
  Well, Eastcheap men, beware your wives.


  IV.

  Enragèd weapons storm it round,                                    10
  Each seeking for a gaping wound,
  That in its gravy it seems drown'd.


  V.

  Magnanimous flesh, that didst not fall
  At first assault, or second maul,
  But a third time defied'st them all!


  VI.

  What strength can fate's decree revoke?
  It was ordain'd thou shouldst be broke;
  Alas! time fells the sturdy oak.


  VII.

  What goodly monuments still appear,
  What spondyl-bulwarks are there there,                             20
  What palisaded ribs are here!


  VIII.

  This bold monument death defies,
  Inscribèd thus, 'To mirth here lies
  A trophy and a sacrifice'.




    [_Upon a Chine of Beef._] Of doubtful authenticity. The
    Horatian adaptation on pp. 356-9 perhaps confirms it, and we
    may note the oath (of Flatman's own coinage) at l. 138 of that
    poem, 'By sturdy Chine of Beef, and mighty Jove'. The text is
    taken from the anonymous version in _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655,
    collected by John Cotgrave: it appears on pp. 268-9 of the
    _Love-Songs, Epigrams, &c._ An inferior text in _Wit and
    Mirth. An Antidote to Melancholy_, 3rd edition, 1682, p. 102,
    is headed '_On a Chine of Beef._ By Mr. Tho. Flatman.' If
    genuine, this is therefore an early effort; it might be an
    undergraduate flight, like the parody on Austin.

    The chief variants in _Wit and Mirth_ are:--

    Line: 2 'Far longer'.

    Line: 10 'storm'd'.

    Line: 12 'seem'd'.

    Line: 18 'Alas, in time the sturdy oak'.

    Line: 19 'What goodly mince did appear'.

    Line: 22 'stern Death'.]




_On the Death of the Eminently Ennobled Charles Capell, Esq.;_

_Who, after he had honour'd Winton College with his Education, and
accomplisht himself with a voyage into France, died of the small-pox
at London last Christmas, 1656._


  Shower down your ponderous tears, whoe'er you be
  Dare write, or read, a Capell's elegy;
  Spangle his hearse with pearls, such as were born
  'Twixt the blear'd eyelids of an o'ercast morn;
  And (but 'tis vain t'expostulate with Death
  Or vilify the Fates with frustrate breath)
  Pose Destiny with why's--why such a sun
  Should set before his noontide stage were run?
  Why this fair volume should be bound so fast
  In wooden covers, clasp'd-up in such haste?                        10
  Was Nature fond of its large character
  And those divine impressions graven there?
  Did she, lest we should spoil't (to waive that sin),
  'Cause 'twas the best edition, call it in?
  Or would our vaunting Isle, that saints should see
  Th' utmost of all our prodigality,
  Fearing some detriment by long delay,
  Send Heav'n a new-year's-gift before the day?
  No: th' empyrean Philomels could sing,
  Without his voice, no carols to their King.                        20
    England's Metropolis (for 'twas in thee
  He died) we re-baptize thee Calvary,
  The Charnel-house of Gallantry; henceforth
  We brand thy front with--Golgotha of Worth.
    Had he been swallow'd in that courteous deep
  He travell'd o'er, he had been lull'd asleep
  In th' amorous Sea-nymphs' stately arms at ease;
  His great name would imposthumate the seas,
  That, when the waves should swell and tempests rise
  (Strong waters challenging the dastard skies),                     30
  Poor shipwrackt mariners, remembering him,
  Should court his asterism, and cease to swim;
  Abjure the Fatal Brothers' glow-worm fires,
  And dart at him their languishing desires.
    Had France intomb'd him (what our land forbids)
  Nature had rear'd him stately pyramids
  The lofty Alps, where it had been most meet
  Their harmless snow should be his winding-sheet;
  That alablaster-coverture might be
  An emblem of his native purity:                                    40
  Had he fal'n there, it had been true perchance,
  _Wickham's Third College might be found in France._
    But he return'd from thence, curb'd Neptune's pride,
  And, to our fame and grief, came home, and died.
  Thus, when the Heav'n has wheel'd its daily race
  About our earth, at night its glorious face
  Is pox'd with stars, yet Heaven admits no blot,
  And every pimple there's a beauty-spot.
  Short-liv'd disease, that canst be cured and gone
  By one sweet morning's resurrection!                               50
    Adieu, great sir, whose total he that will
  Describe in folio needs a cherub's quill.
  Zealous posterity your tomb shall stir,
  Hoard up your dust, rifle your sepulchre,
  And (as the Turks did Scanderbeg's of old)
  Shall wear your bones in amulets of gold.
  --But my blasphemous pen profanes his glory;
  I'll say but this to all his tragic story:
    Were not the world well-nigh its funeral
    I'd ne'er believe so bright a star could fall.                   60

                                 THO. FLATMAN,
                                       Fellow of New College.




    [_On the Death, &c.] From Affectuum Decidua, or Due
    Expressions In honour of the truly noble Charles Capell, Esq.
    (Son to the right honourable Arthur, Lord Capell, Baron of
    Hadham), deceased on Christmas Day 1656. Quis desiderio sit
    pudor, aut modus Tam Chari Capitis?--Oxford, Printed Anno
    Dom. 1656._]




_On the Picture of the Author, Mr. Sanderson._


  Let others style this page a chronicle;
  Others Art's mystery; let a third sort dwell
  Upon the curious neat artifice, and swear
  The sun ne'er saw a shadow half so rare.
    He outsays all who lets you understand
    The head is Sanderson's, Fathern's the hand.

                                THO. FLATMAN,
                                    _Inn. Temp. Lond._




    [_On the Picture, &c._] This and the following poem are taken
    from William Sanderson's _Graphice. Or, The Use of the Pen and
    Pensil, Or, the most Excellent Art of Painting._ 1658. With
    portrait by Souse, engraved by Faithorne.]




_On the noble Art of Painting._


  Strike a bold stroke, my Muse, and let me see
  Thou fear'st no colours in thy poetry,
  For pictures are dumb poems; they that write
  Best poems do but paint in black and white.
    The pencil's amulets forbid to die,
  And vest us with a fair eternity.
  What think ye of the gods, to whose huge name
  The pagans bow'd their humble knees? Whence came
  Their immortalities but from a shade,
  But from those portraitures the painter made?                      10
  They saddled Jove's fierce eagle like a colt
  And made him grasp in 's fist a thunderbolt.
  Painters did all: Jove had, at their command,
  Spurr'd a jackdaw and held a switch in 's hand.
  The demigods, and all their glories, be
  Apelles' debtors, for their deity.
    Oh how the catholics cross themselves and throng
  Around a crucifix, when all along
  That's but a picture! How the spruce trim lass
  Doats on a picture in the looking-glass!                           20
  And how ineffable's the peasant's joy
  When he has drawn his picture in his boy!
  Bright angels condescend to share a part
  And borrow glorious plumes from our rare art.
  Kings triumph in our sackcloth, monarchs bear
  Reverence t' our canvass 'bove the robes they wear.
  Great fortunes, large estates, for all their noise,
  Are nothing in the world but painted toys.
  Th' Egyptian hieroglyphics pictures be,
  And painting taught them all their A.B.C.                          30
  The Presbyterian, th' Independent too,
  All would a colour have for what they do.
  And who so just that does not sometimes try
  To turn pure painter and deceive the eye?
    Our honest sleight of hand prevails with all;
  Hence springs an emulation general.
  Mark how the pretty female-artists try
  To shame poor Nature with an Indian dye.
  Mark how the snail with 's grave majestic pace
  Paints earth's green waistcoat with a silver lace.                 40
    But--since all rhythms are dark, and seldom go
  Without the Sun--the Sun's a painter too;
  Heaven's famed Vandyke, the Sun, he paints--'tis clear--
  Twelve signs throughout the zodiac every year:
  'Tis he, that at the spicy spring's gay birth
  Makes pencils of his beams and paints the Earth;
  He limns the rainbow when it struts so proud
  Upon the dusky surface of a cloud;
  He daubs the Moors, and, when they sweat with toil,
  'Tis then he paints them all at length in oil;                     50
  The blushing fruits, the gloss of flowers so pure,
  Owe their varieties to his miniature.
    Yet, what's the Sun? each thing, where'er we go,
  Would be a Rubens, or an Angelo;
  Gaze up, some winter night, and you'll confess
  Heaven's a large gallery of images.
  Then stoop down to the Earth, wonder, and scan
  The Master-piece of th' whole creation, Man:
  Man, that exact original in each limb,
  And Woman, that fair copy drawn from him.                          60
  Whate'er we see 's one bracelet, whose each bead
  Is cemented and hangs by painting's thread.
  Thus, like the soul o' th' world, our subtle art
  Insinuates itself through every part.
  Strange rarity! which canst the body save
  From the coarse usage in a sullen grave,
  Yet never make it mummy! Strange, that hand,
  That spans and circumscribes the sea and land--
  That draws from death to th' life, without a spell,
  As Orpheus did Eurydice from hell.                                 70
    But all my lines are rude, and all such praise
  Dead-colour'd nonsense. Painters scorn slight bays.
  Let the great art commend itself, and then
  You'll praise the pencil and deride the pen.

                                T. FLATMAN, lately Fellow of
                                    New Coll. Oxon; now Inn.
                                    Temp. Lond.




_On Mistress S. W., who cured my hand by a plaster applied to the
knife which hurt me._


  Wounded and weary of my life,
  I to my fair one sent my knife;
  The point had pierced my hand as far
  As foe would foe in open war.
  Cruel, but yet compassionate, she
  Spread plasters for my enemy;
  She hugg'd the wretch had done me harm,
  And in her bosom kept it warm,
  When suddenly I found the cure was done,
  The pain and all the anguish gone,                                 10
  Those nerves which stiff and tender were
  Now very free and active are:
  Not help'd by any power above,
  But a true miracle of Love.

  Henceforth, physicians, burn your bills,
  Prescribe no more uncertain pills:
  She can at distance vanquish pain,
  She makes the grave to gape in vain:
  'Mongst all the arts that saving be
  None so sublime as sympathy.                                       20
  Oh could it help a wounded breast,
  I'd send my soul to have it dress'd.
  Yet, rather, let herself apply
  The sovereign med'cine to her eye:
  There lurks the weapon wounds me deep,
  There, that which stabs me in my sleep;
  For still I feel, within, a mortall smart,
  The salve that heal'd my hand can't cure my heart.

  _October 19, 1661._




    [_On Mistress S. W._] The above was printed in _Notes and
    Queries_ for September 25, 1869; it was contributed by Mr. F.
    W. Cosens from a manuscript in his possession, _Miscellanies
    by Tho. Flatman, ex Interiori Templo, Londini, Nov. 9, 1661_.
    These poems are autograph. This poem is in the Firth MS.,
    which clearly is a transcript of the preceding. See p. 278.]




_Song._


  I.

  Oh no, oh no! it cannot be that I
      So long condemn'd to die
  Should fool myself with hopes of a reprieve
      From her that read my destiny;
  She with her basilisk eyes denounc'd my doom.
      Why then should I in vain presume,
      In vain, fond man, to live
  My disappointments poorly to survive?


  II.

  Oh no, oh no! I know the worst on't now,
      My sentence pass'd I know,      10
  And I no further expectations have
      My wither'd hopes again should grow.
  Yet 'tis a satisfaction to be sure
      I feel the worst I can endure.
      Oh that she yet would save
  By her miraculous kindness from the grave.




    [_Oh no, &c._] From the Firth MS., which dates the poem 1671,
    and notes that it was set by Roger Hill.]




_Epitaph on his eldest Son, Thomas, 1682._


  Whoe'er thou art, that look'st upon,
  And read'st what lies beneath this stone;
  What Beauty, Goodness, Innocence,
  In a sad hour was snatch'd from hence.
  What reason canst thou have to prize
  The dearest object of thine eyes?
  Believe this, mortal, what thou valuest most,
  And set'st thy soul upon, is soonest lost.




    [_Epitaph on his Son._] From Strype's Stow, 1720. Book III,
    p. 266. describing the monuments on the north wall of St.
    Bride's, Fleet Street. Strype adds, 'These Verses are almost
    worn out and gone, and therefore I have preserved them here;
    being undoubtedly the easy natural Strain of the Poet, the
    Father'.

    This Epitaph is in Hackett, _A Collection of Epitaphs_, 1757,
    ii. 31, introduced thus--

                        _'St. Bride's, London_.
    Here lies the Body of _Thomas Flatman_, eldest son of
    _Thomas Flatman_, and _Hannah_ his wife, who resigned his
    beloved soul the 28th of _December_ 1682.'

    Strype records that the boy was ten years old. The pastoral
    elegy on p. 375 in all probability refers to the same child,
    though the date of his death is there given as January 28,
    1682/3. Aubrey records (in Aubrey MS. 7, fol. 8 verso) that
    Flatman himself was buried in the same grave.]




_Lines to John Northleigh._


  Though we that write in rhyme (it is confess'd)
  Are wont to praise them most that need it least,
  So far from doing what we had design'd
  That we become impertinently kind;
  Though I'm convinced of this, and right well know
  I can add nothing to your Book, or You:
  Yet am I forced th' old beaten road to go
  And tell my friend what wonders he has done,
  Where loyal labours could oblige a Crown--
  A Crown asserted by the hand of heaven,                            10
  By which triumphant laurels now are given;
  And may they never, never blasted be
  By any Boanerges of Democracy.
    Compassionate friend! whose arguments do prove
  The force of reason and the power of love;
  Taught by your generous and good-natured pen,
  The salvage beasts may once more turn to men,
  Be reconciled to the ill-treated Throne,
  And shun those rocks their fellows split upon:
  Your call to th' unconverted may do more                           20
  Than Orpheus' charms did in the woods before,
  Convince the stubborn, and th' unwary lead
  By benign arts those blessed steps to tread
  In which our glorious Master led the way
  To realms of peace and everlasting day.

  Farewell, dear friend! and for this once excuse
  The last efforts of an expiring Muse.

                       THOMAS FLATMAN.




    [_Lines to John Northleigh_] From _The Triumph of our
    Monarchy, Over the Plots and Principles of our Rebels and
    Republicans, Being Remarks on their most eminent Libels_. _By
    John Northleigh_, 1685; the lines are headed 'To my worthy
    Friend, J. Northleigh, Esq., Author of this Book and the
    _Parallel_'. Dryden also contributed a poem.]




_Lines to Archbishop Sancroft._


  My Lord
        When I Your unsought Glories view'd,
  And prest (a meane Spectator in the Croud;)
  Where every Ey, with sparkling Joy did gaze,
  All hearts brimmfull of Blessing, & of Praise;
  Extatick with the mighty Theme I went,
  And something, some great thing to Write, I meant:
  This, sure, said I, must set me all on fire,
  This must my dull, unhallow'd Muse inspire:
  I try'd in wary words my Verse to dress,
  And throng'd my thoughts with awfull Images;                       10
  For the bold Work, Materialls I desseign'd
  High as Your Station, Humble as Your Minde:
  Alas! in vaine! my owne Confusion
  Strait tumbled th' ill-attempted _Babel_ downe.
    Much I desir'd to tell in artfull Rhymes,
  Your Magnanimity through the worst of Times
  How, like a Rock, amidst the Sea, You stood,
  Surrounded with a foaming Popular-Floud;
  In that black Night, how You still kept Your way,
  When all despair'd the dawning of This Day:                        20
  With what true Christian Stoicisme, You durst Owne
  The slighted Miter, and abandon'd Crowne;
  As _Cato_ for the baffled Side declar'd,
  Tho' all the Gods, the Conquering Cause preferr'd.
    Next, I would have describ'd the Happy Place
  Of Your soft minutes in a sweet Recess;
  Where all things were in Your Possession,
  All You need Wish, for You were all Your Owne[.]
  Here Emperours, & Kings, receiv'd at last
  The noblest Guerdon for their labours past:                        30
  Less splendid were those daies, but more secure,
  Their last & best were gloriously Obscure.
  O those gay Vallies! o those lofty Hills!
  Those silent Rivers! & those murmuring Rills!
  The melancholy Grove! & peacefull Shade!
  For Ease, & Angells-Conversation made!
  The Morning's Breath! the sight o' th' rising Sun,
  When he starts forth, his Giant-Race to runn!
  Faine wou'd I have said, what cannot be express't
  But in the sentiments of a wellpleas'd Breast.                     40
    And now (my Lord!) on Your triumphant Day,
  What can Your poor unlettred Beadsman say?
  Who know's that Praise, at the Poëtique rate,
  Swell's to a Vice, & must deserve Your hate.
  When Heav'n vouchsafe's a _Miracle_ to mankinde,
  Silence, & Wonder best express our minde.

    Durst I Presume, or could Despaire (my Lord!)
  I would add Here, for my owne self, one word,
  That I might be (whome the World frown's uppon)
  An Atome in the beams of Your bright Sun,                          50
  Almost Invisible; but still shin'd-uppon.

                            My Lord
                              Your Grace's most obedient
                              Servant, & poore Kinsman.
                                        THOMAS FLATMAN.




    [_Lines to Archbishop Sancroft._] Exactly reproduced from the
    poet's autograph in Tanner MS. 306, of the Bodleian, where
    it appears in a group of Sancroft papers at folio 380, and
    is endorsed on the outer leaf--'These For his Grace, my Lord
    Archbishop of Canterbury, with my humblest Duty.'

    The poem must have been written in the last year of Flatman's
    life, and have reference to the trial of the Seven Bishops.
    With l. 50, 'An Atome in the beams of Your bright Sun',
    compare the Pindaric _On the Death of Charles II_, l. 37, 'We
    atoms in his beams might sport and play' (p. 392).]




_On the Death of His Grace, James, Duke of Ormond: A Pindaric Ode._


  I.

      Had not the deathless name of OSSORY
          Pow'r to preserve, as well as to create,
          And over-rule the dullness of my fate,
      A pen so meanly qualified as mine
          Might well this mighty task decline,
          Too ponderous for feeble Me,
      Me so obscure, my glorious theme so bright,
          Where all is overpow'ring light
          Which never can submit to night.
      But sense of deepest gratitude should control                  10
      All the despondencies of a trembling soul
      And force a modest confidence to inspire
      The coldest breast with an uncommon fire.
          Since then, for aught we know,
      The separated happy spirits above
          Sometimes regard our pious love,
  And are not much disturb'd at what we kindly do.
          Let ORMOND'S gentle ghost look down
              Full of kind compassion,
      And pity what my duty prompts me to.                           20
      Fain would I pay my tribute ever due
              To his immortal memory:
      But what immortal methods to pursue
              Is understood by very few;
      The noblest bard that ever wore the bays
      Would here fall short in sorrow, and in praise.


  II.

      Our stock of tears would soon exhausted be
              Were every eye a sea,
      And grief would swell to prodigality;
      Th' irreparable loss, if duly weigh'd,                         30
      Would make posterity afraid,
      For ORMOND in his radiant course has done
      What did amaze, what durst abide the sun,
      And struck with terror all the envious lookers on:
      Whether with ecstasy we think upon
      His goodly person or his matchless mind,
          Where shall the most inquisitive mortal find
          A more accomplish'd hero left behind?
          As he were sent from heaven, design'dly great,
      To dote on still, but not presume to imitate,                  40
          Or whether with regret we cast an eye
          On his unbounded liberality,
              His unaffected piety,
      Or more than human magnanimity
              (Virtues inimitable all),
      The joyful beadsman and the Church will tell
      The story, scarce hereafter credible,
      And call his life one long-continued miracle.


  III.

      Say, all you younger sons of Honour, say,
      You that in peace appear so brisk and gay,                     50
      Is it a little thing to forfeit all
          At Loyalty's tremendous call,
      And stand with resolution in defence
      Of a despised calamitous Prince,
      To fight against our stars, and to defy
      The last efforts of prosperous villainy,
      And--when the hurricane of the state grew high--
      To brave the thunder and the lightning scorn,
      The beauteous fabric into pieces torn,
      Imprisonment and exile to disdain                              60
          For a neglected Sovereign;
      Still to espouse a crazy, tottering crown?
          This, mighty ORMOND, was thy own,
      This glory thou deserv'dst to have,
  This bravery thou hast carried with thee to thy grave.
      Let other lesser Great ones live, to try
          Thy arduous paths to fame;
      Let them bid fair for immortality,
      And to procure an everlasting name;
      And may thy sacred ashes smile to see                          70
  Their vain, their frivolous attempts to rival Mighty Thee.


  IV.

          O noble, fortunate old Man!
              Though thou hadst still lived on
          To Nestor's centuries, thou hadst died too soon;
          Too soon alas! for heav'n could never be
      Or weary or ashamed to find fresh toils for thee:
          What wiser head, or braver arm than thine
          Could heav'n contrive to manage heav'n's design!
      And what Herculean labour is too hard
              For such a mind, so well prepared,                     80
      Ever above the prospect of Regard,
      And that unfashionable thing, Reward!
              Many have been thy gloomy days,
              Yet ever happy hast thou been;
          In every state thou merit'dst praise,
          And thou hast never wanted it within.
      All after fourscore years is grief and pain;
          Those honourably pass'd, thou didst resign
              Thy empire over every heart;
          From thine this sceptre never shall depart,                90
          But the succession evermore remain:
  'Twas time for thee to die, and let a second ORMOND reign.


  V.

          How shall I mention thy lamented death,
          Thy only blemish--thy mortality!
      For 'tis too much disparagement for thee
          To be involved in common destiny
      And like inglorious men give up thy precious breath.
      A fiery chariot should have snatch'd thee hence,
      And all the host of heav'n convened to see
          Th' assumption of a godlike Prince                        100
          Into th' ineffable society:
      Half-way at least part of th' immaculate train
          With palms should have attended thee,
      Thy harbingers to the triumphant hierarchy,
          Then big with wonder mounted up again.
          What can the tongues of men or angels say,
              What Boanerges ne'er so loud,
          If they would speak of thy prodigious day,
          Of which an emperor's history would be proud
      Farewell, dead Prince--oh might it not be said,               110
          Though a desirable euthanasy
          Prepared the way for deifying thee,
          ORMOND like other men must die,
      For he with a fatigue of victory oppress'd
          Laid himself only down to rest.

                        FINIS.




    [_On the Death of James, Duke of Ormond._] Printed in folio,
    1688, with the title, _On the Death of the Right Honorable the
    Duke of Ormond: a Pindaric Ode_. In _Letters from the Dead to
    the Living_, 1702, vol. ii, pp. 24-5, Flatman, with his pipe
    in his mouth, is introduced complaining that this ode has been
    vamped up for the death of King William.]




_Job, Chapter xxvii. Paraphrased._


  VERSE 8.

  Poor Hypocrite (though ne'er so rich), when God shall call
  His double, his dissembling soul, how small,
  How beggarly his biggest hopes will show!
  Riches command no further than below.


  VERSE 9.

  When griefs like waves o'er one another roll
  And overwhelm his quite-dejected soul,
  When he lies groaning on a restless bed,
  With a sad bleeding heart, and aching head
  Brimfull of anguish and repeated pain,
  He weeps and frames his parch'd lips to complain,                  10
  Breathes up to heaven a very earnest prayer--
  Scarce dare he hope, yet dares he not despair--
  But all his supplications mount in vain,
  God will not hear, nor answer him again.


  VERSE 10.

  How can he turn religious, and adore
  That God he so devoutly mock'd before?


  VERSE 11.

  I will the depths of Providence reveal;
  Th' Almighty's methods will I not conceal.


  VERSE 12.

  Yet why should I suggest what your own heart,
  Were it not vain, might, better far, impart?                       20


  VERSE 13.

  On th' wicked's head this heavy fate shall come,
  And this shall be from God th' oppressor's doom.


  VERSE 14.

  His sons, though more and lovelier they are
  Than their decrepit father's silver hair,
  Strong as the sons of Anak, bright and brave,
  Shall shroud their pride in an untimely grave;
  His daughters, though more beauteous every one
  Than the seraphic spouse of Solomon,
  A sisterhood as numerous and bright
  As are the glorious stars that gild the night,--                   30
  A bloody cloud their glories shall eclipse;
  Death shuts their killing eyes, their charming lips.
  Though like a golden harvest they appear,
  And every one a full, a laden ear,
  Like olive plants amidst their friends be grown,
  The sword shall reap, the sword shall hew them down.
  The sword and eager famine shall devour
  All they enjoy in one unhappy hour.


  VERSE 15.

  His progeny shall unlamented die,
  Buried in black oblivion shall they lie,                           40
  Unpitied to the dust they shall return,
  Nor shall one pious tear bedew their urn.


  VERSE 16.

  If he have silver plentiful as dust,
  Gold pure as that of Ophir, both shall rust


  VERSE 17.

  Let him have caskets whose each orient gem
  Vies with the walls o' th' new Jerusalem,
  Raiment more gorgeous than the lily's hue
  When every snowy fold is pearl'd with dew,
  He's but the just man's steward all the while;
  The just shall wear the raiment, part the spoil.                   50


  VERSE 18.

  The house he builds, like that o' th' moth, shall be
  Too weak against the wind's least battery;
  Or, if it stand the brunt of wind and rain,
  'Twill stagger at a thund'ring hurricane;
  As tents, it may remove from land to land,
  But on a solid basis cannot stand.


  VERSE 19.

  The rich man shall depart, but not in peace;
  When he lies down, his horror shall increase
  Just when he's ripe for vengeance and heaven's frown
  Death, ah too irksome Death, shall shake him down.                 60
  Gather'd he shall not be by that kind hand
  Which plucks the righteous to blest Canaan's land:
  He opes his lids and surfeiteth his eyes
  With gazing over all his vanities,
  Till some ill chance o' th' sudden dims his sight
  And leaves him lost in an eternal night.


  VERSES 20, 21.

  As mighty waters shall his terrors roar;
  He's stolen away and shall be seen no more,
  Hurried from his belovèd home, and tost
  By th' East wind, fierce as that drown'd Pharaoh's host.           70


  VERSE 22.

  Jehovah, from whose hand he fain would flee,
  Shall add more sting to his calamity:


  VERSE 23.

  And where his glass has but few sands to run,
  His tragicomic life now almost done,
  At the last act his deadliest shame shall be
  To find an hissing for a _Plaudite._




    [_Job._] The text is taken from the Firth MS. The ingenious
    paraphrase of the last verse--'Men shall clap their hands
    at him, and shall hiss him out of his place'--echoes _The
    Review_, ll. 33-5 (p. 302).]


       * * *


       *       *       *       *       *




  _Le hore di recreatione:_

  OR,

  THE PLEASANT HISTORIE OF
  _Albino_ and _Bellama_.

  Discovering the severall changes of
  Fortune, in +CUPIDS+ journey
  to +HYMENS+ joyes.

  To which is annexed
  _Il Insonio Insonadado_, or a sleeping-waking
  Dreame, vindicating the
  divine breath of Poesie from the tongue-lashes
  of some Cynical Poet-quippers,
  and Stoicall Philo-prosers

  By N. W. Master in Arts, of Queenes
  _Colledge in Cambridge_.

  ---- _Semel in anno Apollo._

  Ergo,
  _Nè mea metra tibi Musâ composta jocosâ,
  Delibata priùs quàm sint contempta relinquas_,

  _LONDON_,
  Printed by _J.D._ for _C.G._ and are to be sold
  at the Princes Armes in _Pauls_ churchyard.
  1638.




INTRODUCTION TO NATHANIEL WHITING.


In the case of most of the constituents of these volumes, there was
little need of 'deliberating and pondering' like the excellent Sir
Thomas Bertram, when he had to settle such weighty questions as
whether his niece should or should not go out to dinner, and if so
whether she should walk or drive. But it was not quite the same
in regard to _Albino and Bellama_. The first claim of entrants
here--rarity and novelty to the general, it has without question:
for the book (though it seems to have been issued in two forms, or
at least with two title-pages) is very uncommon, and the author has
escaped the wide-encroaching net of the _D.N.B._ Nor could I allow
this to be balanced by the dull, clumsy, philistine, hackneyed
ribaldry of the nunnery scenes in the middle, or by a page of sheer
nastiness at the end, which is a sort of concentration of Herrick's
foulest epigrams. These things will happen: and they can be skipped.
It gave one more serious pause that 'N. W.' seldom[1] displays
anything like the poetry which far more than compensates for much
milder blots in _Leoline and Sydanis_, and that his book is written in
a singular jargon almost as much out of the common way as the wildest
freaks of Benlowes, but without their excuse of _furor poeticus_. What
turned the scale in his favour, after more than one reading, was
the increasing conviction that the book, in spite or perhaps to some
extent because of its defects, is a really valuable document for the
history of English Literature from the special point of view which was
marked out in the General Introduction. It is noteworthy as a member,
graceless and slatternly, but still a member, of that class of Heroic
Poem which it has been one of my main objects to bring before the
student. It is still more noteworthy in connexion with the history of
English fiction as presenting a special variety of that kind. It was
not till, for the purposes of this collection, and by the kindness of
Professor Firth, who lent me his copy, I read the volume (I knew it
before only by name and from the _Censura Literaria_) that a gap in my
mind's atlas of that fiction was filled in satisfactorily.

I said, in speaking of _Leoline and Sydanis_, that we must take not
merely the Heroic but the Mock-Heroic poem into consideration as
origins for our English examples; and this is very much more the case
with _Albino and Bellama_. Whiting almost parades his knowledge of
Italian; and I should think, from some of the worst as well as the
oddest parts of his poem, that he had pushed his researches as far
as Macaronic. In fact you must go beyond Folengo--to Tifi Odassi and
Fossa Cremonese[2]--to supply a 'further' to his excursions, into the
unsavoury now and then. But turning willingly enough from this,
it will be evident to any instructed reader--and his perlusive
panegyrists point it out--that his purpose is largely satiric. Indeed,
his uncouth lingo[3] has a close connexion with that of Marston and
the other early Elizabethan satirists forty years before him: while he
gives one odd reminders, at the same time, of the prose pamphlet which
was contemporary with these very satirists, and was actually written
by some of them. Now all these links are links with the history of
the Novel backwards; and there are others forward. Change the romance
apparatus into that of common life, of which our examples are French
and Spanish rather than Italian, and you will get out of parts of
_Albino and Bellama_ something by no means unlike the singular farrago
which goes under the name of _The English Rogue_. Besides convincing
the author that prose is much better for such work than verse (which
Head himself saw[4]), present him with more wits, better taste, and a
more advanced state of society and manners, and you will probably
find him some way on the road which leads, however far away, and after
whatever rise, over the hills beyond his dirty marsh, to _Tom Jones_
itself. While, to make a less 'kangaroo' transition in quality though
a farther one in time, much smaller alteration would make _Albino and
Bellama_ into very fair Mrs. Radcliffe.

The curious addition _Il Insonio Insonadado_ or 'Waking-Dream
Undreamt' (whether the title is invented or borrowed, some one with
greater knowledge of Spanish than I possess must decide) may supply
some greater interest than Whiting's escapade in the Heroic Romance.
It is not continuously paged with the rest of the volume, but merely
'signatured' H, H2, &c. as far as a (misprinted) 5. On the whole,
however, it is much less carelessly put to press than _Albino and
Bellama_, and it is also (in parts at least) much more soberly
written. The opening does not promise much, except an example of the
loose, would-be satirical academic commonplaces of the time; but it
afterwards takes on some critical substance, and if I had read it (as
I had not yet) twenty years ago I should have given it a small corner
in an otherwise very scantily occupied chapter of my _History of
Criticism_. Whether the personages introduced before the Heavenly
Court aim at individuals it would be very hard to say: but the
certification of the poetess[5] might have some interest. 'Tenth
Muses', as was said in relation to Anne King (_v. sup._, p. 210),
were not unknown, and Katharine Philips was alive, though as yet but
a child. But women had, before her, made little figure in English
literature. The evidences of popular taste are not quite worthless,
and while the absence of Ben Jonson is noteworthy, the presence
of Drummond is almost equally so, as well as the mention of that
'testiness' which certainly does appear in the poet of Hawthornden.
But the chief critical utterance is the quatrain, solid and judicial
if not very poetical, on Donne.

Of Whiting himself I have been able to find out very little.[6] He
was of Queens' College, Cambridge; Brydges erroneously says
'King's', having misread the misprinted 'Regnalis' of James Bernard's
commendatory poem. And he must have settled down twenty years later
sufficiently to print in 1659, according to Hazlitt, _The Saint's
Triangle of Duties, Deliverances, and Dangers_. The first edition
of _Albino and Bellama_ appeared in 1637, with the title _Le hore di
recreatione: Or, The Pleasant Historie of Albino and Bellama.... By
N. W., Master of Arts, of Queenes Colledge in Cambridge_. The British
Museum also has a copy with an engraved frontispiece as well, adding
_to which is annexed il insonio insonodado_ or the _vindication of
Poesye_. These title-pages are also dated 1638, and the engraved
title-page was also issued in 1639.

In 1633 the birth of the Duke of York was commemorated at Cambridge
in _Ducis Eboracensis Fasciae a Musis Cantabrigiensibus raptim
contextae_. 'N. Whyting, Coll. Regin. Art. Baccal.' contributes two
copies of verse, Latin and Greek, both markedly royalist in tone.

It was not, however, for some time after I had been working on Whiting
that I found considerable new light thrown on him by his prose work,
which is in the British Museum, under his name, though _Albino and
Bellama_ is not. The title of it is abbreviated by Hazlitt, and is in
the original very long, beginning with the Hebrew [Hebrew: el ... bayit
... Eil (to [the] house [of] God)] _Old Jacob's Altar newly repaired;
or The Saints' Triangle of Dangers, Deliverances and Duties_. It is
a solid little quarto of some 260 pages, dedicated to Sir William
Fleetwood, Sir George Fleetwood, 'Baron of Swonholm in Sweadland', and
'his Excellency Charles Lord Fleetwood'. Whiting was now 'Minister' of
Aldwinckle (All Saints, as the registers show[7]) by the patronage
of Sir William, to whom he refers as his 'ancient' and 'affectionate
Mecaenas' in his Cambridge days. He is certainly by this time a
full-blown Puritan. He uses that word itself frequently, and with
pride; refers to 'my reverend grandfather', minister of Elton,
Northants, who was apparently a 'pilgrim father'; speaks of the time
when 'the Episcopal monopoly lasted', and eulogizes 'the faithful
Peters to whom is committed the Word of Reconciliation' (Reconciliation
_à la_ Peters is good!); but also calls Herbert 'divine' and quotes St.
Anselm, though of course without the 'Saint'. Allowing for its
standpoint the book is not virulent, and is a respectable piece of
hortatory divinity on its own side. Besides, the thought that in a few
months 'the Episcopal monopoly' came back again, and that 'the faithful
Peters' received the deferred pay for his various 'commissions',
mitigates judgement not a little; while, to crown all, the contrast
with _Albino and Bellama_ is irresistibly comic. Perhaps, indeed, some
of the ribaldry of the convent scenes in the verse may be due to the
Puritanism which is so distinct in the prose. But it would be an odd
Saint who could construct himself a 'triangle' of any kind of
sanctities or pious experiences out of Whiting's romance. And this,
which is so characteristic of the time, and yet not so uncharacteristic
of all times, adds to my satisfaction in presenting Mr. Nathaniel
Whiting with some little more detail than even Brydges has given. (It
may be added that he was deprived of the living at the Restoration.
Edward Price succeeded him on February 20, 1662-3. According to a brief
notice in _Notes and Queries_,[8] he then migrated to the village of
Cranford, near Kettering, and got together a congregation there. There
is no trace of him in the registers of either of the Cranford
churches.[9] The same authority states that he died childless and was a
benefactor of the free school of Aldwinckle, of which he was master
during the period of his incumbency.)




    [Footnote 1: I had written 'nowhere', but hastily. The opening
    has not a little which convicts the haste, and I have noted
    other passages _infra_.]

    [Footnote 2: These oddities of the fifteenth century, with
    others, were conveniently republished, in _Maccheronee di
    Cinque Poète Italiani_ (Milan: D li, 1864).]

    [Footnote 3: He would almost be worth republishing for this
    alone, and I say this despite the trouble it has given me.
    Those who are curious in rare words and _autoschediastic_
    forms ought to prize Whiting highly.]

    [Footnote 4: As an instance here, take the incident where
    the false Phaeliche, coming to the nunnery, sees the masons
    mending the breaches that Rivelezzo's cannon had made. It is
    a mere touch, awkward and only half intelligible in the verse.
    Less than two centuries later Scott would have given a lively
    page and a half of prose description of the scene, with
    dialogue thrown in. On the other hand, _in prose_, the
    extravagances of the phrase and the incoherences of the story
    would have had a better chance of being mended.]

    [Footnote 5: 'Marget' is used in _Albino and Bellama_ as a
    generic name. But Whiting's irritable and restless fancy may
    have put together '_Mag-pie_' and Persius's _poetris pica_.]

    [Footnote 6: By the great kindness of the Rev. J. H. Gray,
    Tutor and Dean of Queens' College, assisted by the President
    of that Society and by the Registrar of the University of
    Cambridge, I am enabled to give more than I had found in any
    book. Nathaniel Whiting (who seems also to have spelt his name
    'Whiteinge' and 'Whitinge') matriculated as Pensioner on March
    30, 1629; proceeded B.A. 1631 and M.A. in 1635. He had been
    entered at his college on July 1, 1628, and his tutor's name
    was Stubbins. In the College accounts from September 1630,
    and for four years onwards, Whiting appears as a Scholar,
    receiving in the respective years 12s. 6d.; 16s. 3d.; 19s.
    7d.; and 15s. 10d. The first payment seems to have been for
    part of the year only: but in no year does he come anywhere
    near the full income of a Scholar; which, Mr. Gray tells
    me, seems to have been £2. There appears to be no subsequent
    mention of him in the College records either as Scholar or
    Fellow.]

    [Footnote 7: Canon Hodgson, Rector of Aldwincle, kindly
    allowed Mr. Simpson to examine the registers. The date of
    Whiting's institution is March 20, 1652, but already in 1650,
    on May 4, he signs the accounts as 'Minister'.]

    [Footnote 8: By C. H. and T. Cooper, in the third series, vol.
    v, p. 420.]

    [Footnote 9: The Rev. C. R. Thursfield kindly allowed Mr.
    Simpson to examine the registers.]




CONTENTS

                                                                 Page
  Introduction                                                    424

  Commendatory Poems                                              428
    To the right honourable, right worthy, and truly ennobled
    hero, John, Lord Lovelace, Baron of Hurley, N.W. S.P.O.       428

    To the Reader                                                 429

    To the right virtuous and equally beautiful,
    S^{ra} Inconstanza Bellarizza                                 431

    The Author's Apology                                          432

    The Author to his Book                                        433

    To his loving friend the Author                               435

    To the Reader                                                 436

    To his loving kinsman the Author                              436

    Amico suo carissimo N. W. huius Poematis authori
    Collegii Reg[i]nalis Canta. in artibus magistro               437

    In Authorem, amicissimum suum, Encomiasticon                  437

    To his Friend, a Panegyric upon his lovers,
    Albino and Bellama                                            438

    THE PLEASING HISTORY OF ALBINO AND BELLAMA                    439

    To those worthy Heroes of our Age, whose noble
    Breasts are wet and water'd with the dew of Helicon           539

    Il Insonio Insonnadado                                        540




To the right honourable, right worthy, and truly ennobled hero,
John, Lord Lovelace, Baron of Hurley, N.W. S.P.O.


  The law-enactors, whilst time fear'd the rod,
  Feign'd in their laws the presence of a god,
  Whose awful nod and wisdom grave should be
  As hand and signet unto their decree;
  And such commanding awe that sacred name
  Struck in the vulgar breasts, it teen'd a flame
  Of love and duty to their pious hests.
  Thus Rhadamanthus in his laws invests
  Him whom profaner times styl'd heaven's king.
  Minos and others strike the selfsame string.                       10
  The moral's mine: for, in this quirking season,
  When pride and envy steer the helm of reason,
  It is, has with press-taskers been, in use
  To press the issue of their prose and muse
  Under the ensigns of some worthy peer,
  Whose very name unsatire can a jeer,
  And lock detraction up in beds of clay,
  To sleep their suns as rearmice do the day.
  Then do they bravely march, with honour arm'd,
  Which, as the gods the people, charmeth charm'd.                   20
  On this known privilege feet I these lines,
  In which, though dimmer than your native, shines
  Your worth, enfired by my kneèd quill,
  Which claims the scale not of deserts, but will,
  In your acceptance and the world's surmise.
  Then, cynics, bark, and, critics, beam your eyes!
  My quill's no pencil to emblazon forth
  Your stainless honour and your matchless worth.
  As dust-born flies, which 'bout the candle play,
  Glide through its arch, encircle, fan, survey,                     30
  Wink at the presence of day's beamy blaze,
  Purr on the glass, or on herb-pillows laze,
  Just so my downy muse in distichs dare
  Feet the perfection of a silkless fair,
  Pumex each part so trimly that her foe
  Swears her cheeks roses and her bosom snow;
  Nay, has strew'd flowers of desertless praise
  T'adorn the tomb of good sir Worthy Crayse.
  Under this (ah me!) stone is laid (alas!)
  A man--a knight--the best that ever was.                           40
  His  prowess war, his wisdom state did prove,
  His kindness kindred, and the world his love;
  But when she should with her weak feathers soar
  To court a star, or with her feeble oar
  Strike such a sea of worth, ride honour's ring,
  She dares not touch or snaffle, sail, or wing.
  Only as he which limn'd those tears and sighs
  Which Iphigenia's death from hearts and eyes
  Of kindred drew, but o'er her father's brow
  (Telling the world he mourn'd without an how)                      50
  He drew a veil spake sorrow in excess,
  So with a ---- ---- must my muse express
  Your sacred worth, concluding it to be
  Too high for any bard, if not, for me.
  Beside, the world of late has nicknam'd praise,
  Calls it an elbow-claw and scraping bays.
  Then pardon, sir, this dearth, and judge the why
  Is your worth soar'd above Parnasse's eye.
  Let not your slights or nescio's (though most just)
  Condemn my muse to be enseil'd with dust,                          60
  Nor let presumption hoist to your embrace.
  But rather let your honour bate its place
  And stoop unto my measures, since the name
  Of patron awes oft times the breath of fame;
  And by this honour shall you e'er engage
  The knee, hand, duty, air, and thriving age

           Of your honour's ever
                  humbly devoted,
                             N. W.




    [Title. S. P. O.] = it may be just desirable to say, _Salutem
    plurimam optat_. The object of the wish was, I suppose, the
    _second_ Lord Lovelace. The better known _third_, prominent at
    the Revolution and also a John, was born in the same year with
    this poem.]

    [Line: 6 'teen'd' or 'tined' = 'kindled', as in 'tinder'. The
    forms 'tened' and 'tind' also exist, and _Il Insonio_, l. 368,
    has 're-teined'.]

    [Line: 21 'feet', orig. 'fate', seems at first to equal
    'foot', i.e. I 'base', 'establish'. But cf. l. 34 and
    _Albino_, 3558, which give it the sense of 'metre',
    'versify'.]

    [Line: 23 my kneèd quill]--paying homage, as if on bent knee.]

    [Line: 32 The verb to 'laze', revived in late nineteenth
    century as slang, is as old as Robert Greene's _Alphonsus_.]

    [Line: 35 'Pumex' = pumice. Greene used this Latin form as a
    noun.

    part] misprinted 'parr' in orig.]

    [Line: 47 Orig., 'limb'd', a lax seventeenth-century
    spelling.]

    [Line: 48 'Iphigenia' will scan with the proper pronunciation.
    But, as all students of literature have always known, though
    some editors of it seem to have thought it an esoteric
    discovery, classical names were very loosely accented,
    not merely by men of whose education we know nothing, like
    Shakespeare, but by University wits like Spenser and Dryden.]

    [Line: 60 enseil'd] Same as 'ens_ea_led', 'stamped', 'marked',
    or perhaps 'closed up'.]

    [Line: 66 age] 'agre' in orig. must be wrong.]




To the Reader.


  Courteous Reader--for to such I write--
  With native candour view this chequer'd white,
  Be truly candid to a candidate
  Whom importunings force to antedate
  The travails of his quill, and, like a grape
  Ere ripened, press it. Yet if I escape
  The censure of these times, this critic age,
  My muse (like parrots) in a wire cage
  Shall not do penance; but  I'll not promise it,
  'Cause 't doth too much o' th' lips of greatness sit.              10
  And 'tis a fault for me to sympathize,
  I bring no antic mask in strange disguise,
  No sharp invective, nor no comic mirth
  Which may to laughter give an easy birth.
  Though 'tis in use with them that seek to please
  These humorous times (it being a disease
  Half epidemical to keep a phrase
  Or fancy at stave's end; nought merits praise
  Unless with quibbles every staff does end--
  Conceited jests which unto lightness tend)                         20
  Though every page swells with ingenuous plots,
  Yet, cry our carps, the authors are but sots.
  An elbow-pillow or a motley coat
  With them are now the chiefest men of note.
  But I nor am, nor hope that name to gain
  Of pantomimic: yet did nature deign
  The optic-glass of humours to descry
  Each man's rank humour only by the eye,
  I would have tun'd my muse, that every page
  Might swell with humours suiting to this age;                      30
  This leaf should talk of love and that of state,
  This of alarums, that of wonders prate,
  This of knights errant, of enchantment that,
  This to the itching ears of novels chat.
  But ... since my starv'd Fortunes missed that, I have drawn
  A picture shadowed o'er with double lawn,
  Lest some quick Lyncist with a piercing eye,
  Should the young footsteps of a truth espy,
  Yet something, I confess, was born of late
  Which makes me age it with an ancient date,                        40
  But let no antic-hunter post to Stow,
  To trace out truth upon his even snow.
  Annals are dumb of such and such a lord,
  Nor of our amorous pair speak half a word,
  Monastic writs do not Bellama limn,
  Nor abbey-rolls do teem a line of him,
  This story has no sires (as 'tis the use)
  But weak invention and a feeble muse.
  These are the parents that abortive birth
  Give to this embryon of desired mirth,                             50
  Which in the author's name does humbly crave
  A charitable censure or a grave.
  The purest-bolted flour that is has bran,
  Venus her naeve, Helen her stain, nor can
  I think these lines are censure-free, impal'd
  By th' muses and 'gainst envy's javelins mail'd.
  Yet where the faults but whisper, use thy pen
  With the _quod non vis_ of the heathen men;
  And, if the crimes do in loud echoes speak,
  Thy sponge; but not with lashing satires break                    60
  That sacred bond of friendship, for 't may be
  I may hereafter do as much for thee.
  Nor do thou think to trample on my muse;
  Nor in thy lofty third-air braves accuse
  My breast of faintness, or the ballad-whine.
  For know my heart is full as big as thine,
  And as pure fire heats my octavo bulk
  As the grand-folio, or the Reamish hulk,
  If but oppos'd with envy, but unless
  I truly am what these few words express.                           70
               Thy ready friend,
                            N. W.




    [Line: 22 'carp' for 'carp_er_' seems to be much rarer than
    for 'carp_ing_'. Cf. _In Insonio_, 218.]

    [Line: 41 Stow] The famous antiquary had been dead long enough
    (since 1605) to 'become a name'.]

    [Line: 55 'impal'd', orig. 'impalde', is clearly 'paled-in',
    'palisaded',' fortified'.]

    [Line: 64 third-air] = 'third _hand_', or what?]

    [Line: 68 Reamish] 'N. W.'s' Protestantism would naturally
    have a fling at anything connected with Rheims.]




To the right virtuous and equally beautiful,
S^{ra} Inconstanza Bellarizza.


    Fairest,
  When, by much gazing on those glittering beams
  Which (if unmask'd) from day's bright henchman streams,
  The Rascians eyes do gain the curse of years,
  The loadstone's swarfy hue their tapers clears.
  When unicorns have gluts or surfeits ta'en
  By browsing liquorice, they to regain
  Their stomachs and a cure crash bitter grass.
  I leave the application: 'tis a glass
  Wherein the dimmest eye may plainly see
  What's due to me from you, to you from me.                         10
  But--I'll only tell the world that for your sake,
  My willing muse this task did undertake
  At hours of recreation, when a thought
  Of your choice worth this and this fancy brought.
  Some to the bar will call the truth hereof,
  Some wonder why, some pass it by, some scoff.
  Because, in this full harvest of your sex,
  I 'mongst such thousands glean your name t'annex
  Unto, and usher in, these wanton verses,
  Some will be apt to think my pen rehearses                         20
  Love passions 'twixt yourself and some choice he
  (The world I know will not suspect 'tis me)
  And that I age it lest quick eyes should see.
  But in this thought I'm silent; thoughts are free.
  Indeed your worth doth just proportion hold
  With this high worth which of Bellama's told.
  And well my knowledge can inform my pen
  To raise a spite in women, love in men.
  And if the Fates befriend me that my thread
  Outmeasures yours (your worth asleep, not dead,                    30
  For such worth cannot die) I then will say
  You equall'd her and was--(but, truth, away).
  If these dull melancholy, grief, or sleep,
  From  any prone thereto at distance keep;
  Let unto you their tribute thanks be paid
  For my invention by your worth was ray'd,
  My fancy rais'd, enliv'ned, and inspir'd,
  That my quick muse my agile hand has tir'd,
  Nay, more, methinks I might unchidden call
  You subject-object of this poem all;                               40
  And all in this acknowledgement may trim
  You pros'd this poem but 'twas vers'd by him
      Who styles himself your servant,
                                  N. W.




    [_To S^{ra} Inconstanza Bellarizza._] Who she was is a
    question much less answerable than 'Whose Song the Sirens
    sang?']

    [Line: 3 seq. '_Un_natural History' was getting past its
    greatest vogue, and only eight years later _Pseudodoxia
    Epidemica_ was to deal it blows all the more deadly because
    not unsympathetic. But it was still popular, and a grand
    set-off to many poetic 'Rascians'. Whiting is here pilfering
    from Greene's _Pandosto_; a passage in the dedication runs,
    'The _Rascians_ (right honourable) when by long gazing against
    the sun, they become half-blind, recover their sights by
    looking at the black load-stone. Unicorns, being glutted, by
    browsing on roots of liquorice, sharpen their stomachs with
    crashing bitter grass'.]

    [Line: 4 'swarfy' = swarthy.]

    [Line: 7 That 'bitter' would be grateful to others besides
    unicorns after a surfeit of liquorice may be easily admitted.
    'Crash' for 'crush' or 'crunch' in this sense is good.]

    [Line: 11 The book is badly printed--in hardly any of my
    texts have I had to alter more trivial misspellings. Here
    intelligent 'setting' would of course have made 'But' a
    separate line or fragment of line.]

    [Line: 23 age it] = 'throw it back in date'.]

    [Line: 42 Not bad for 'You gave the subject' &c.]




The Author's Apology.


  Some rigid stoic will (I  doubt not) shoot
  A quipping censure at this wanton fruit,
  And say I better might have us'd my talents
  Than t' humour ladies and perfumèd gallants.
  Know such that pamphlets, writ in metre, measure
  As much invention, judgement, wit, as pleasure.
  All learning's not lock'd up in _si_'s and _tum_'s.
  Roses, pinks, violets, as well as gums,
  Some native fragour have to equal civet.                           10
  Minerva does not all her treasures rivet
  Into the screws of _obs_ and _sols_: but we
  Are sea-born birds, and as our pedigree
  Came sailing o'er from Normandy and Troy,
  So we must have our pretty ermine joy.
  One part Italian and of French the other;
  Stout Belgia be her sire, and Spain her mother.
  So our apparel is so strange and antic
  That our great grandsires sure would call us frantic.
  And, should they see us on our knees for blessing,
  They'd skew aside as frighted at our dressing.                     20
  We pack so many nations up that we
  Wear Spain in waist, and France below the knee.
  Thus are our backs affected and indeed
  Our brains do travail with the selfsame meed.
  We're Chaldees, Hebrews, Latins, Greeks, and yet
  But few pure Englishmen are lapped in jet.
  We scorn our mother language and had rather
  Say _Pater noster_ twice than once Our Father.
  This makes our pulpits linsey-woolsey stut
  When buskined stages in stiff satin strut.                         30
  Nay clowns can say, 'This parson knows enough',
  But that his language does his knowledge blough.
  Is it not time to polish then our Welsh
  When hinds and peasants such invectives belch?
  Then English bravely study: 'tis no shame
  For grave divines to win an English fame.
  I've heard a worthy man, approv'd for learning,
  Say that in plays and rhymes we may be earning
  Both wit and knowledge: and that Sidney-prose
  Outmusics Tully, if it 'scape the rose.                            40
  Then purg'd from gall (ingenuous friends) peruse,
  And though you chide the author, spare the muse.
                                              N. W.




    [_The Authors Apology._] 9 'Frag_our_' for 'frag_rance_' is
    rare, and of course wrong--all the more so because it is right
    for 'crash'. But it had somehow got into Italian before it
    came thence into English.]

    [Line: 11 This wonderful Whitingism is, I suppose, to be
    interpreted 'screws' ('scrues' in original), 'stamps for
    minting'; _obs_ and _sols_, _oboli_ and _solidi_.]

    [Line: 14 ermine] = 'parti-coloured'.]

    [Line: 20 'Skew', orig. 'scue', is vivid for the great
    grand-paternal revulsion.]

    [Line: 22 'N. W.' is not likely to have been ignorant of W.
    S.]

    [Lines: 24-8 Browne, with a curious self-irony, had not long
    before said the same thing in _Religio Medici_.]

    [Line: 32 blough] = 'hood-wink', 'muffle', as in Blount. Cf.
    _Albino_, l. 309.]

    [Line: 40 the nose] The _nasus aduncus_.]




The Author to his Book.


  Go gall-less infant of my teeming quill.
  Not yet bedew'd in Syracusa's rill,
  And like a forward plover gadd'st abroad,
  Ere shell-free or before full age has strow'd
    On thy smooth back a coat of feathers,
    To arm thee 'gainst the force of weathers,
    Doom'd to the censure of all ages,
    Ere mail'd against the youngest rages.
      Perchance some nobles will thee view.
      Smile at thee, on thee, like thee new,                         10
      But when white age has wrinkled thee,
      Will slight thy measures, laugh at me.
        At first view called pretty,
        And perchance styled witty,
        By some ladies, until thou
        Wearest furrows on thy brow.
          Some plumed gallants may
          Unclasp thy leaves and say,
          Th'art mirthful, but ere long
          Give place unto a song.                                    20
            Some courteous scholar,
            Purg'd from all choler,
            May like, but at last,
            Say thou spoil'st his taste.
              First, lawyers will
              Commend thy skill,
              Last, throw thy wit
              With Trinit's writ.
                Chamber-she's
                On their knee                                        30
                will thee praise,
                and thy bays.
                  At first,
                  till thirst
                  of new
                  death you,
                    then all
                    men shall
                      Flee
                      thee                                           40
                      Bee
                      me.

  This is thy doom, I by prophetic spirit
  Presage will be the guerdon of my merit:
  Yet be no burr, no trencher-fly, nor hound,
  To fawn on them whose tongues thy measures wound.
  Nor beg those niggards' eyes, who grudge to see
  A watch unwinded in perusing thee.
  And if state-scratchers do condemn thy jests,
  For ruffling satins, and bespangled vests,                         50
  Tell them they're cozen'd and in vain they puff,
  Thou neither aim'st at half-ell band or ruff:
  And if thy lines perchance some ermines gash,
  'Tis not thy fault, 'twas no intended lash.
  Thy pencil limns Don Fuco's portraiture,
  And only dost his native worth immure
  Within these tilic rinds: nor is thy rage
  Against the Cowlists of this youngest age.
  Thy rhymes cry _Pax_ to all, nor dost thou scatter
  Abuses on their shrines, their saints, or water,                   60
  And if some civil satire lash thee back,
  Because he reads my title, sees my black,
  Answer i' th' poet's phrase, and tell them more,
  My tale of years had scarce outsummed a score
  When my young fancy these light measures meant
  The press: but Fate since cancell'd that intent.
  Nor claim'd the Church as then a greater part
  In me than others, bate my title Art--
  But now the scene is changed? confess'd it is.
  Must we abjure all youth, born, bury this?                         70
  Such closet death's desertless, in this glass
  Read not what now I am but then I was:
  In this reflection may the gravest see
  How true we suit--I this, and this with me.
  These thorns pick'd out whose venom might have bred
  A gangrene in thy reader, struck thee dead.
  Thou mayst perhaps invited be to court,
  And have a brace of smiles t' approve thy sport.
  Those whose grave wisdoms wise do them entitle
  (Whose learned nods loud ignorance can stifle),                    80
  Some of time's numbers on thy lines will scatter,
  If not call'd from thee by some higher matter.
  Laugh out a rubber, like, and say 'tis good
  For pleasure, youth, and leisure, wholesome food.
  Some jigging silk-canary, newly bloomed,
  When he is crispèd, bathèd, oiled, perfumed
  (Which till the second chime will scarce be done),
  Upon thy feet will make his crystals run,
  Commend the author, vow him service ever,
  But from such things his genius him deliver!                       90
  Some sleekèd Nymphs of country, city, court
  Will, next their dogs and monkeys, like thy sport:
  Smile, and admire, and, wearied, will (perhaps)
  Lay thee to sleep encurtained in their laps.
  Oh, happy thou! who would not wish to be
  (To gain such dainty lodging) such, or thee?
  Say, to please them, the poet undertook
  To make thee, from a sheet, thrive to a book,
  And if he has to beauty giv'n a gem,
  He challengeth a deck of thanks from them:                        100
  And if some winning creature smile on thee
  She shall his L. and his Bellama be.
  Betwixt eleven and one some _pro_ and _con_
  Will snatch a fancy from thee and put on
  A glove or ring of thine to court his lass,
  'Twixt term and term when they are turn'd to grass.
  Some Titius will lay by his wax and books,
  And nim a phrase to bait his amorous hooks.
  But stay, I shall be chid, methinks I hear
  A censure spread its wings to reach my ear,                       110
  Tell me I am conceited: then no more,
  Go take thy chance, I turn thee out o' th' door.


Mart. ad lib. suum. Epig. 4

  _Aetherias lascive cupis volitare per auras_,
  _I_, _fuge_, _sed poteras tutior esse domi_.


Mart. lib. 4.

  _Si vis auribus Aulicis probari_,
  _Exhortor moneoque te_, _libelle_,
  _Ut docto placeas Apollinari_.
  _Nam si pectore te tenebit ore_,
  _Nec ronchos metues maligniorum_.
  _Nec scombris tunicas dabis molestas_.
  _Et cum carmina floridis Camoenis_,
  _Litesque gloriam canas poetum_
  _Non est pollicem capitis veraris._




    [_The Author to his Book._] Most of this wedge-shaped address
    is clear enough. But the reader must fit his own sense to
    '_Bee_ me' (ll. 41-2). Whiting's fantastic wit was quite
    Habakkukian in its possibilities.]

    [Line: 53 'ermines' here = 'peers or other persons of
    distinction'.]

    [Line: 57 'tilic[k]' = 'linden', from the use of lime-tree
    bark for paper.]

    [Line: 58 Cowlists] Nothing to do (as I at first thought)
    with Cowley's early vogue, but one of Whiting's coinages, and
    frequently repeated _infra_, for 'monk'. Cf. l. 1945.]

    [Lines: 79-80 entitle--stifle] One of those assonances which
    we have seen frequently in Marmion, and which were among
    the rather too numerous licences of mid-seventeenth century
    prosody.]

    [Line: 88 'crystals' = eyes.]

    [Line: 100 deck] = 'pack' as with cards.]

    [Line: 102 Whether 'L.' stands merely for 'Love', or whether
    the 'Signora Inconstanza' &c. bore the initial, or what else
    it means, one cannot say. Let us hope that Whiting's 'L.'
    _wore_ better than Sterne's.]

    [Line: _Mart. Lib._ 4] This epigram, the 86th of the Book,
    is partly compressed, and the three final lines are different
    from those of the usual texts, which run:

      Si damnaverit, ad salariorum
      Curras scrinia protinus licebit,
      Inversa pueris arande charta.

    But I suppose Whiting did not choose to use evil words.]




To his loving friend the Author.


  To laud thy muse, or thee to crown with praise,
  Is but to light my tapers to the rays
  Of gold-locked Ph[oe]bus: since the scheme
  Of fabled truth, thy waking seeming dream,
  Thy ever-living-loving fame in arts--
  Of arts, to us in whole and part imparts.
  In arts, thy judgement, phrase, invention,
  Of arts, thy poet's vindication.
  In mourning elegies I admired thy skill,
  In mirthful lays we now admire thy quill.                          10
  Let Albine, Bellame, by thee live in fame;
  Riv'lezzo, Beldame Pazza, live in shame.
  Lash on and slash the vice of shavèd crowns
  In thy Bardino, nuns, and sylvan clowns.
  Give virtue beauty, beauty desert and praise,
  And that thy monument of brass shall raise.




    [_To his Loving Friend._] This anonymous commendator has
    dropped (hardly by intention) a foot in his third line.]




To the Reader.


  Reader take heed, complain not of the sting,
  Lest others of thy galled sores do sing.
  No faulty person, party, here is meant,
  Only the vice o' th' age and place is shent.
  He that expounds it of himself doth show
  Some guilty fault or vice from him doth flow.
  If touch'd to th' quick, conceal and them amend,
  So 'gainst thee shall all scourging satires end.

        WILLIAM PURIFEY, _Rector_
        _Ecclesiae de Markefield._




    [_To the Reader._] 'William Purifey' at this date has an
    uncomfortable resemblance to William _Purefoy_ (1580-1659) the
    regicide, who escaped meet guerdon by dying just before the
    Restoration. But he was a layman and a Member of Parliament.]




To his loving kinsman the Author.


  When first I view'd the travails of thy quill,
  I lik'd, approv'd, admir'd thy nimble skill
  In sudden raptures, fancies, judgement, phrase,
  Invention, quickness, life, detraction, praise--
  So that I favour'd their conceit which feign'd
  The soul to be an harmony, and reign'd
  Amongst the senses with accounts and measures,
  All which thy lofty poesy entreasures,
  That quaintest warblers cannot with delight
  Outworth the poet in his lyric height.
  As those which with quick eyes where judgement sits,
  Thy vindication of poetic wits
  Do read, may see, whose swelling metres teach
  All aliens such high English that to reach
  Is harder than to like or belch forth scandals.
  Witness thy journey, _Somnus_, _Morpheus_, sandals,
  The orbs, gods, muses, critics, accusation,
  The poet's names, employments, vindication,
  These silencèd my pen, it dared no more;
  Till, voic'd by thy Bellame again, her store
  Of suitors, one approv'd by friends, not her:
  Rivelezzo's wrath (wherein most parents err),
  Her grief, encloist'ring, entertainment high,
  Albino's heart and hers met in their eye,
  Their whisp'ring dalliance, Piazzella's care,
  Bardino's  falsehood, their  affections rare,
  Her disencloist'ring, and his nunning plot,
  The nuns' thick bellies, his repentant grot.
  His freedom, flight, encount'ring with his saint,
  His conjuration, prodigies, and plaint,
  The shepherd lout, Bellama's second quest,
  His ghosting, coming from th' Elysian rest,
  Their parles, his dis-enghosting, her denials,
  His rage, her kindness, both their loves and trials,
  Conrad's immuring, Piazzella's fury,
  His freedom, Foppo and his monkish jury,
  The lovers' ale-house cheer, bed, coarse apparel,
  The monks' strict quest, their finding, mirth, and quarrel,
  Their scape, fear, raddle, kinsman, and at length
  Their nuptial tede, when malice lost its strength.
  How thou hast shown (dear coz) thy art in arts,
  Let them express who brag of abler parts
  Than I, which have a bigger part in thee,
  Thy love, and blood, till being cease to be.

                         JOHN WHITING,
          Master of Arts, Clare Hall, Camb.




Amico suo carissimo N. W. huius Poematis authori Collegii Reg[i]nalis
Canta. in artibus magistro.


  Pan petat Arcadiam: Druides effundite cantus,
    Et iuvenes flores spargite, Bardus adest.
  Tu qui struxisti memoranda trophaea poesi,
    Dicere multa tibi nescio, nolo nihil.
  Vota, preces, calamus, cor, carmen, singula, laudes
    Ultro perdignas, concelebrare student.
  An decus, ingenium, tua laus, tua facta, peribunt?
    Dignum laude virum musa perire vetat.
  Corpore defuncto te candida musa sequetur
    Admiratur opus, primitiasque tuas.                               10
  Fata, precor, faustae plectant tua stamina vitae
    Ut scribas opera plurima digna tua.

        JACOBUS BERNARD sacrosanctae
          & individuae Trinitatis Collegii
          in artibus magister.




In Authorem, amicissimum suum, Encomiasticon.


  The privilege that pen and paper find
  'Mongst men falls short, reflecting to the mind.
  Virtue herself no other worth displays
  Than cank'red censure leaves behind, as rays.
  But mental cabonets are they that yield
  No forfeiture to batt'ring critics' shield.
  If thoughts might character deserts, I dare
  Challenge my pencil for the largest share.
  But when the vultures of our age must gnaw,
  I'll cease for modesty, and say, 'tis law.                         10
  It's safer far to fail of debt than t' be
  Soaring in terms that badge of flattery.
  I hate the name, and therefore freely give
  My verdict thus as may have power to live
  'Gainst calumny. If wit and learning may
  Pass with applause, the author hath the day.
  Crown'd be those brows with everlasting bays,
  Whose worth a pattern is to future days.
  'Tis not a poem dropp'd from strength of grape.
  That's debtor to the wine's inspiring sap,                         20
  He to himself alone. Cease urging, earth,
  The father well deserve[s] so fair a birth.
  And, if a witness may be lawful, then
  I'll undertake 't shall fear no vote of men.
  But wherein Art is bold itself to glory
  Is that which crowns the verge of Whiting's story.

                            JO. ROSSE.




    [_In Authorem._] 5 cabonets] _Sic_ in orig. It is a possible
    form of 'cabinets' (for we have 'cabon'), but in which
    particular sense of that word the reader must judge. That of a
    'locked up', 'jealously guarded' receptacle might do.]

    [Line: 22 'Deserve' in orig. John Rosse, though less eccentric
    in phrase, is rather more obscure in sense than even his
    _amicissimus_.]




To his Friend, a Panegyric upon his lovers, Albino and Bellama.


  Though I have vow'd a silence, and as yet
  Resolvèd not to travel out in jet,
  Chiefly in print, yet your intending press
  Makes me my thoughts with courage, language, dress.
  With smooth-strain'd metre, that the world may know
  My strict engagements, and how much I owe
  To you your worth, which may command a line
  From him which swears 'gainst all but what's divine.
  The highness of your style, the quickness, life,
  Will in judicious readers raise a strife,                          10
  (More than the ball amongst th' engoddess'd three)
  Which gains the best, but all are best by me,
  Matchless in my conceit: add then to these
  The neatness of your plots, and swear a please
  To the grim stoic and the satir'd brow
  Forceth delight, through strictness, neatness, vow,
  Grow abler still in fancy, imp thy quill,
  Write anything, if something, fear not ill,
  If poesy be thus revenged by thy dream,
  How will it flourish when 'ts thy morning theme?                   20
  Sleeping or waking, let us have thy quill,
  And sleep and vigils shall admire thy skill.

                        I. PICKERING.




    [_To his Friend._] The extraordinary badness of the
    orthography in the original may be judged from its form for
    panegyric--'Panagericke', which is, of course, mere ignorant
    setting from dictation, with no 'reading' to correct.]

    [Line: 11 Does 'engoddessed' occur elsewhere? If not, I think
    I. Pickering should score for it, though it does not apply
    very well to three actual goddesses.]




_Imprimatur._ Sa. Baker. June 22, 1637.




[_Imprimatur._] Samuel Baker, Fellow of Christ's, Prebendary of St.
Paul's, and Canon of Windsor and Canterbury, who was deprived of his
preferments in the Rebellion, and seems not to have lived quite long
enough to recover them. The reverse of the imprimatur leaf bears,
in Professor Firth's copy, the inscription 'Ro^{t} Tebbutt His Book
1779'--a date at which the Carolines were not usually appreciated,
though their turn was coming.]




THE PLEASING HISTORY OF _ALBINO_ AND _BELLAMA_


  When British Isles--begirt with moist'ned sand,
  Neptune's blue palace, and the Triton's walk--
  Albania hight, her name who first did land
  Of all the sisters, or from rocks of chalk;
    From sad oppression had unyok'd their necks,
    And paid obedience unto Adell's becks,

  Then, in those halcyon days of peace and joy,
  A virtuous lady, most transcendent creature,
  Fairer than her whose beauty cinder'd Troy--
  Grace deck'd her mind, her mind grace['d] her feature;             10
    So that each part made Helen out of date,
    And every grace a goddess could create.

  Virtue and beauty both in her did strive
  Which should in worth and grace surpass the other,
  Nor age of consistency, both did thrive
  Till this Dian' out-ray'd that Cupid's mother.
    Nay men, by beams of her clear beauty, might
    Scale Titan's chariot, and out-ray his light.

  'Mongst Nature's precious things we find a gem,
  Blushèd and purpled o'er with amethysts,                           20
  Which fiery carbuncles with sparkles hem,
  And which the em'ralds purest vert entwists,
    Meeting so well that lapidaries wist
    'Twas em'rald, carbuncle, and amethyst.

  So in this precious pair, pure Agathite,
  Aurora's purpling blush was clearly seen,
  Saba's bright rose, and Leda's swan-like white,--
  The true proportion of Adonis' queen--
    Blended so well, that in this curious frame
    Aurora, Saba, Leda, Venus came.                                  30

  And as the honey-making waxen-thigh'd
  Inhabitants of Hybla's fragrant vales,
  Whom only Nature's dim instinct does guide,
  Choose their commander with their tuneful hails,
    Pay homage, honour him, and fear his frowns,
    With same observance as the people crowns,--

  So, by the same instinct, the blushing rose
  Vèil'd bonnet to her cheeks admirèd red,
  The lilies to her bosom, brow, and nose,
  The Phoenix stripp'd herself to crown her head,                    40
    The chirping choristers with willing choice
    Sat silent to admire her warbling voice.

  Perfum'd Arabia with her spice and gums
  Paid homage to the odours of her lips;
  To her with fawning postures, licks, and hums
  The yellow lion and the tiger skips;
    Fire dares not scorch her face, nor winter chill her,
    And death himself looked pale when called to kill her.

  The amorous Sun, if she walk'd out by day,
  Would rein his jennets to behold her face;                         50
  And, wrapt in admiration, by his stay
  Had rather melt the orbs than mend his pace;
    And if the middle air in walls of jet
    Enjail'd his beams, he thawèd into wet.

  If in the reign of silent night abroad
  She rang'd, the Empress of the lowest sphere,
  Amazed at her perfections, left her road,
  And rang'd about where she appeared t' appear;
    Nay, mourned in darkness if denied her sight,
    As when day's henchman does deny her light.                      60

  The curlèd tapers of the firmament
  Did cease to twink, but gazed with fixèd eyes,
  In their own orb refusing to be pent,
  And strove to leap upon the lower skies;
    Nay, did o' th' second air like comets hang,
    To dart their crisps at beauty's only spang.

  The sea-born planet poppèd out her lamp,
  And t' see herself outshin'd by her, did rage;
  The marching war-god did remove his camp,
  With [this] fair lady curtain-war to wage;                         70
    Hermes by Jove being of an errand sent
    Stay'd on her face, in her embraces pent.

  Dull-agèd Saturn (on whose sullen brow
  Ne'er dwelt a smile since Jove usurp'd his crown)
  To gaze on her his weighty head did bow,
  And with a smile unplaited every frown:
    Nay, Jove himself descended from his chair
    To take a full survey of this--this fair.

  And more, her winning looks dispersed such charms,
  All eyes commanding and all hearts surprising,                     80
  That Venus bade her son provide him arms,
  Fearing his setting by this bright star's rising:
    For, though men say Love's eyes are more than dim,
    Yet her fair beauty did enlighten him.

  But with entreaties he had beat the air,
  And on the tawny moor his waters cast,
  For having pow'r to conquer, being fair,
  Sh'ad pow'r not to be conquer'd, being chaste;
    So that his amorous sleights and wingèd arrow
    Could not have oped her breast or pierced her marrow.            90

  This Phoenix was Bellama called (a word
  Well suiting her deserts), she daughter was
  And heir-apparent to a wealthy lord,
  Who had more acres than an acre grass:
    He loved his lands, and hugged his minted treasure,
    Yet his Bellama was his soul of pleasure.

  His place of residence was in a chase
  Chequered with thick-grown thorns and sturdy oaks,
  Wherein majestic stags and bucks did pace
  That scorned the hounds, and dared the barbèd strokes;            100
    'Twas called Rivelount, not distant far
    From Starley, of that shire the metro-star.

  The neighbouring swains were palled with coaches' thunder,
  And loud curvettings of their foaming steeds,
  Whose ironed hoofs did crash the rocks in sunder;
  Happy was he, who (sheathed in costly weeds)
    Could win admission to this happy place,
    Where Nature's wealth was locked up in a face.

  Each glance she sent the object did engem,
  And he that won a smile possessed a mine;                         110
  A hair was prizèd at a diadem,
  A ribbon made the[m] tread the ecliptic line;
    A ring outface a thunder, but a kiss
    Was the elixir, heart, and soul of bliss.

  Some of their lands, some of their valours spoke,
  Some, of their falcons and their merry bells;
  Some read the price of such a suit and cloak,
  And one of hounds and running horses tells;
    All speak of something, yet but few with wit,
    All aimed at wise, yet few could purchase it.                   120

  Some spake in oaths, as if they thought the earth
  Was peopled o'er with faithless infidels;
  Another swore, because he feared a dearth
  Of other language, yet in oaths excels:
    All swear enough, and he that did it least
    Might be grand swearer at Ven-Bacchus feast.

  Others there were that could not bigly prate,
  Who did their evidences bring with them;
  One brought his halls to plead, one his estate,
  This brought a watch to court, and that a gem;                    130
    One brought a large descent [in] white and black,
    Which [he] derivèd from old Pergam's sack.

  One brought a reverent sire, whom he called father,
  To be the tongue of his reservèd son;
  Others with much expense of wax did gather
  Some printed rimes to speak when they were gone:
    All had their speakers which unclasped their graces,
    Yet their court-language dwelt on plaits and places.

  One of these suitors was approved to be
  A match whose thousands equi-balanced hers;                       140
  The parents oft would say, 'This shall be he,'
  The mother then a bill of love prefers:
    But still Bellama faults, and vows that gold
    Shall never force her love to have and hold.

  The testy father, with a furrowed brow,
  Comes to Bellama with demanding why?
  Says 'Mine own girl, thou must be rulèd now,
  Each knee pays duty to Don Fuco's eye:
    And age well knows bean-manors, lands, and treasures
    Do cement lovers' hearts, and enjoy their pleasures.            150

  Thou must not, wench, be coy. Alas! we find
  Beauty as easily bought when money bids
  (Though 't be i' th' nonsuch of the female kind),
  As horse or cow, the lamb, or frisking kids:
    If he be rich we bear his witless brags,
    A wealthy fool's more worth than witty rags.'

  Bellama, with a look fraught with disdain,
  (Though hatred did not make her anger bold)
  Says 'Sir, I'm sorry you do entertain
  Such high conceits of folly hemmed with gold:                     160
    Think you no marriage good if equal lands
    Be not matchmakers and do join their hands?

  Don Fuco has ten thousand pounds a year,
  With weighty titles would o'erload a mule,
  A piece of arras finely wrought and dear;
  But does he square his life to virtue's rule?
    With vice as wealth, to countless sums he thrives,
    But is, in virtue, full as poor as wives.

  He knows to steer an horse and hollo hounds,
  But not to guide his actions, less his tongue;                    170
  He speaks in state, but ev'ry sentence sounds
  Of comic fragments or some tavern song.
    And shall I him, hail'd by unworthy pelf,
    Take to rule me, who cannot rule himself?

  Shall I see other female vessels thrive
  With mine own nectar, and they fee'd with money,
  Whilst I like careful bee do keep my hive,
  And work the comb for them to suck the honey?
    No, I'll no sharers have in my delight,
    I'll have it one and only, else good night.                     180

  'Tis a fine thing to see a satin paint
  That fears to lose her beauty in a press,
  That only cares to be precisely quaint,
  And spends a twelvemonth's pleasure on a dress:
    To see this stroke his honour, and he clip her,
    Span ev'ry part, and unresisted lip her.

  But I do not in a rank humour rail
  'Gainst sober purples, and discreeter robes,
  Nor lock up virtues in the paper-jail
  With ink-horns, pens, spheres, globes, and Albo-globes.           190
    Religion on my heart does love enneal
    To those bright tapers of our commonweal.

  Yet where, instead of state, proud looks do dwell,
  Where wit and wisdom are unlocked with oaths,
  Courtship and comeliness are in the shell,
  And honour only sits upon the clothes.
    Pardon, if unto such I plait my brow,
    And steer my thought unto a virgin-vow.'

  'Fie,' says the father, 'you're a foolish girl
  'Gainst ermines with that height'ned spleen to rail;              200
  Dost think there's vice and folly in an earl?
  Then virtue sure does penance in the jail.
    To kiss and sport with us is held no sin
    If that our dalliance do not pass the skin.

  Perchance 'tis not a point of state to have
  Too large a stock of wisdom in this age,
  The epithet to greatness is not grave;
  Those that the Muses in their cells encage,
    Let them speak oil and civet; but we are lords,
    Can speak by signs, and not expressed by words.                 210

  Wherefore do we to Sable give the room,
  And greater numbers far of Adel's stamps
  Than to our steward or our lady's groom;
  'Cause with reproofs he our choice pleasures damps?
    No, 'cause in dedications he should name us,
    And by some witty pamphlet make us famous.

  Our moral virtues are no guiding rule
  To high nobility, or looking-glass,
  No more than t' earth the _ne plus ultra_'s Thule,
  As 'fore America was found, it was.                               220
    'Tis fit for those whose bosom-friends are lice,
    To know the pain, not sweet delights, of vice.

  Dost see yon tender webs Arachne spins,
  Through which with ease the lusty bumbles break,
  But to the feeble gnats that mesh their gins?
  So those sage precepts, which our Sophies speak,
    Fetter the passions of each worthless slave;
    But over us no sovereign awe they have.'

  'My lord, the name of father strikes,' quoth she,
  'An awful dread, and makes my ear obey;                           230
  Yet slip my duty down unto the knee,
  And in my silent thoughts check, chide, and say,
    "Can they that taste forbidden waters thrive?"
    My chaste demeanour I will ne'er survive.

  T' avoid the doom of--therefore I'll make choice
  Of one whose virtue outs all love to vice,
  Not those sleek skins which am'rous are in voice,
  Lip-love which, as soon born, dies in a trice.
    Our loves reciprocal shall be still dust,
    Which into exile packs unlawful lust.'                          240

  As they discours'd Don Fuco entered in,
  With stately garbs befitting such a one,
  His body shellèd in a satin skin
  Of azure dye, bestarred with topaz stone,
    A milk-white beaver, with an ostrich plume,
    His very rowels spake a loud perfume.

  Having composed his hingèd looks, he glanced
  With piercing eyes upon her curious face,
  And, steeping sighs in tears and sweat, advanced
  Himself to plead with courtly garb and grace.                     250
    But Fucus, led by most mimetic apes,
    Could not depinge Don Fuco's antic shapes.

  Such were the postures of his hands and eye,
  That had he treasured up his mirthful tones,
  They were ingredients for a comedy,
  Would into laughter change a widow's groans:
    And since that time (Bellama smiled so then)
    Love in her dimpled cheeks has found a den.

  'Madam,' says he, 'be pleased to trutinate
  And wisely weigh your servant's graceful voice;                   260
  Give due attendance to the airs of state;
  I have engraven you Don Fuco's choice.
    Give free assent, and let the scornful "No!"
    Be quite expungèd from the criss-cross-row.

  Alas, I'm not beholding unto letters,
  Wherewith our rabbis stuff their swelling books.
  I have a way of complimenting better,
  To win thy love with comely garbs and looks.
    And, if these fail, the name of countess will
    Speak with a power above the Sidney-skill.                      270

  I hate long-winded sentences, which do
  Unbreath a man, and hazard much his bellows,
  Or pocket-flashes which instruct to woo--
  The only virtues of some inkhorn fellows--
    I scorn their troths, indods, their ifs or ands,
    Or their _O Lord, sir_, when their wit's o' th' sands.

  A fluent rascal that can speak in oil,
  And clothe his words with silken eloquence,
  I know may give a virgin strength the foil.
  But a blunt earl that scarcely speaks in sense,                   280
    Whom thousands honour with the cap and leg,
    Beats down a fortress like a roaring Meg.

  He needs no Roscian language, but does send
  His velvet-coated herald to proclaim
  The noble titles which his worth attend:
  For honour is th' ambitious lady's aim.
    Feature and spicèd words but lead the van,
    Honour the front, the noble is the man.'

  'My lord,' says she, 'your valour I approve,
  That with three selves thus warranteth your suit,                 290
  With self-conceit, self-confidence, self-love:
  Such trees will bear your lordship glorious fruit,
    It well befits your greatness not to think
    There can denials dwell in air or ink.

  Your trencher-cloaks, and your recognizance,
  Your coat of arms with noble ermines dight,
  Your russian satin, with the cut of France,
  Your talking rowels, and your feath'red white,
    Are batt'ring rams and guns that speak in thunder,
    To crack a breast, and split a heart in sunder.                 300

  But my mind is Diana's chastest seat,
  O'er which the breath of greatness hath no power;
  The quiver-bearing boy sounds a retreat,
  And Jove avails not with his yellow shower,
    The vestal fire outshines blind Cupid's flame
    Which oft's eclipsed with sorrow damped with shame.

  And, troth, my lord, had I but wit enough
  T' assist your lordship in your nuptial tede,
  Your lordship should not play at blind man's blough
  (Else heavens should renounce their Ganymede):                    310
    For they that purblind are may plainly see
    You grossly hoodwinked are in courting me.

  The faults of state I cannot virtues name,
  And bear myself upon the wings of pride,
  Nor light my taper at another's flame,
  Or use the art at beauty's eventide.
    I brook not dalliance, or the Venus kiss,
    That way of am'rousness, or that, or this.

  I cannot seal a welcome with an oath
  To those whose absence I had rather have;                         320
  Nor venture hundreds at that paper-sloth
  Of mistress Is'bel and the Pennell-knave.
    I know no masking postures, nor with grace
    Can tread the brawls, or true coranto pace.

  I cannot at the feast of riot sit,
  When sea, land, air, are served up in plate;
  Nor like Tripherus with a carving wit
  Read precepts this and this to dissecate.
    Nor in dear murrhine, chargèd to the brim,
    Health it about until our mullets swim.                         330

  I do not love to have my husband be
  Discreet by proxies, by his chaplains wise;
  Nor do I like the too much cringing knee,
  Whose formal bends his black conceits disguise.
    Those fawning sharks I cannot call to table,
    Which into ermines change your lordship's sable

  To have my usher press his master's saddle,
  In my opinion cannot pass for good;
  I do not love to have my pillow addle,
  Meanwhile my woman lets your lordship blood.                      340
    I am no Androgyne, nor do delight
    To diet pages, or your Catamite.'

  'Madam, what passion does untune your mind?
  What fiend' (says he) 'in you thus rails on greatness?
  Who viceth honour, lies, and he is blind
  That says court-satins are not trimmed with neatness.
    Speak then in balms, forget the peevish why,
    And to the "Wilt thou have this"--Answer "Ay".'

  'No, no,' says she, 'yet might I know your saint,
  If my endeavours can advantage you,                               350
  With your endowments I would her acquaint,
  And limn your rare perfections in her view:
    In this one act I may myself approve
    More loving, than in entertaining love.

  I'll say with what dexterity you can
  Run o'er the postures of the court-salute,
  How trimly you can kiss a lady's fan,
  And neatly manage an embroid'red suit;
    How finely Spanish leg-shells you can plait,
    And tune your rowels at the court retrait.                      360

  I might say you are witty, if't be true
  That jests and jingles are in brotherhood,
  I'll speak your skill in hawks, at flight, in mew,
  And at all hunting ceremonies good;
    How gracefully you wave your gallant plumes,
    And deeply are engaged to deep perfumes.

  How kind you are unto our chamber-shes,
  How to our marmosets and trencher-pages,
  How oily-fingered unto supple knees,
  How fain to th' music of our wire cages.                          370
    How quaintly you supply the usher's room,
    How sweetly you can act the privy-groom.

  Much more in blazoning your matchless worth,
  And counting all your specials, might I say--
  But nature ne'er a second did bring forth,
  Which to such known perfections can say nay.
    I'll cease to praise them, lest my praises make
    Your veins of pride with self-conceit to ache.

  I will perform what I have promis'd, sir,
  Please you t' impart your lady to my maid,                        380
  I see my words your liver-wort does stir
  Into your face, which in your channels strayed.
    No more of trouble then, my lord, adieu;
    This courteous door divorceth me and you.'

  Away flings she, and leaves my lord alone,
  More pensive than a widow which bedews
  Her husband's corpse with tears, a woman's moan,
  Or than the _Lupa_ of diseasèd stews;
    So that who saw his jigging head would swear
    Wisdom nor wit did ne'er inhabit there.                         390

  Don Rivelezzo sent a smiling glance,
  That they might his consent read in his eye;
  But seeing Fuco in a stupid trance,
  He was possessed with equal frenesy.
    The mother came to th' rescue, and wellnigh
    Sent her own wit to bear theirs company.

  Fain would he tell the cause of his disasters,
  And eagerly her parents strove to know it,
  Yet, strangely, them this passion overmasters,
  That neither they could ask, nor he could show it;                400
    As though an Incubus with vap'rous throngs
    Enclasped their bosoms and unvoiced their tongues.

  At length Don Fuco cried, 'Bellama cruel,
  What evil planet revelled at thy birth,
  Or what incensèd god provided fuel
  To make me feel hell's torture upon earth?
    Was there no way to punish me for sin
    But by a maid? No, there our woes begin.

  When I with admiration view'd her face,
  I boldly durst give any tongue the lie                            410
  That dared to say, with such supernal grace,
  There dwelt one atom of this tyranny.
    But--if that virgin's hieroglyphics be
    Of love and mildness, take them all for me.

  I'll make a casement with this steely blade
  In my full breast, through which my soul shall peep,
  And make my heart in sanguine liquor wade,
  And entrails all in juice of liver steep.
    Nay, straightway give hell's ferryman his pay
    For wafting me o'er black Cocytus' Bay.                         420

  Or unto Proserpine I'll post a sprite,
  To fetch m' a cup of moist oblivion,
  Wherewith the Fairy Queen exilèd quite
  Fury from her stout knight and Oberon,
    That I not only may forget disgrace,
    But quite forget I ever saw her face.'

  'Let not', says Rivelez, 'a peevish girl
  Hang fetters on your heart, untune your soul:
  Dwells there not courage with a worthy earl,
  Blind Cupids bow and quiver to control?                           430
    My lord, take heed, the squinting boy works treason,
    By passions to divest your soul of reason.

  He by his sly insinuations oft
  A good opinion in the heart doth win:
  The most obdurate are by him made soft
  And homage pay to Love their sovereign sin,
    Fires in, nor hurts, the flint; but Cupid can
    With flames to cinders waste the flinty man.

  A wily fisherman hath store of baits,
  Wherewith for amorists he wisely angles,                          440
  With glitt'ring pomp he for th' ambitious waits,
  The greedy carl with silver twists entangles;
    The silk-lascivious with a wanton eye,
    The austere stoic with a modest "fie!"

  The studious Templant he with _Ergo_ calls,
  The grave precisian with a matron grace,
  The virtuous mind with virtue he enthrals,
  A landed heir with a blushed-lily face.
    For Epicurean love he wisely trolls
    With spiced rarities and frothing bowls.                        450

  The cross-adorers he with crossing catches,
  Yet strange it is that crossing should join hands.
  But, to Sir Love-all, all are equal matches,
  Grace, beauty, feature, honour, virtue, lands.
    This has a dainty hand; that, lip, or eye,
    This chaste, that seeming, that will not deny.

  None are love-free, unless uncapable
  Of those choice blessings Venus' sole son proffers,
  None, whom age, fortune, nature, does enable,
  With peevish noes neglecteth Hymen's offers.                      460
    All are inclined to love, and all must bow,
    If Cupid's arrow do but write "Love thou".

  Invest your noble thoughts with courage, Don,
  Let reason, maugre love, triumphant ride,
  Millions of ladies breath in Albion,
  Have more rose-lilies, and less store of pride.
    I'll warrant, though Bellama now say "no",
    She'll find, ere long, denial was her foe.'

  'Ha!' quoth Don Fuco, with a far-fetched sigh,
  Which all that time was drenched o'er-head in grief,              470
  'Am I to black Cocytus yet drawn nigh?
  Where are th' Elysian shades, thou tott'red thief?
    Call Rhadamanthus forth, justice I'll have,
    Or in his breast my steel shall dig a grave.

  Call forth the Furies with their snaky hairs,
  Pale-cheeked Erynnis and her sister hags,
  Tell Nemesis I'll fetch her down the stairs,
  And try what truth dwells in her wrathful brags.
    Dispoison vipers, toads, and crawling adders,
    And with their venom stretch her spacious bladders.             480

  Bid Cerberus belch, from his triple jaws,
  A barking thunder which the earth may shake:
  I'll fetch the Dragon's and the Scorpion's paws
  From the full zodiac, her face to rake.
    Come forth, Demagoras, thy cunning try,
    To mask all beauty with a leprosy.

  We will no more our lily-stems transplant,
  And set our roses on their cheeks and lips;
  Their fairness shall not hence surpass the ante,
  Their crimson dye the brick or writhled hips.                     490
    Beauty shall be exiled, despite shall end her,
    Or else we'll change her to another gender.

  The Thracian harper was a silly ass,
  That for his wife passed through the Stygian stench,
  The clubman's foolery did his surpass,
  That spun and carded for a Lydian wench.
    The Greeks were fools that for a light-skirt strumpet
    Chang'd the still viol to a loud-mouth'd trumpet.

  Jove's blacksmith was no privy counsellor,
  To marry Venus for the forehead flag;                             500
  The jolly huntsman sure did something err
  To see a goddess, and become a stag.
    Jove was no golden show'r: sure 'twas a gull,
    Nor e'er transform'd himself into a bull.'

  'Peace, good my lord,' Don Rivelezzo says,
  'What uncouth passion doth your soul entrance?
  Your words are like the Bacchanalian lays,
  Wherewith the priests their god of wine enhance.
    What, man! though this fond she from you did start,
    Another 'll say, "My lord, with all my heart."                  510

  Observe the practice of doves masculine,
  Which woo their females, with "I come to woo",
  Not in a fit of woman cry and whine,
  Straight to another haste, if she says no.
    If to one face our stock of love we ope,
    We pinion Cupid's wings, and fetter hope.

  Bellama slights, what then? shall we conclude,
  All women will deny you their assent?
  A strange induction: call all ladies lewd,
  'Cause Flora and some few to Venice went?                         520
    Amongst a thousand maids, there's scarcely two,
    As coy Bellama now hath done, will do.

  Wherefore created were those glorious lights,
  Which in the azure firmament appear?
  Why was day's charioteer with lustre dight?
  Only to gild with rays his proper sphere?
    No, to lend brightness to the borrowing lamps,
    And clear the earth from night's obscuring damps.

  Why has Dame Nature so much brightness lent
  To diamonds, topazes, and other gems?                             530
  Only t' enrich themselves? no, to augment
  The glory of our rings and diadems.
    The ostrich for himself wears not his plumes,
    Nor for 's own nose the civet cat perfumes.

  So, on our sprucest ladies, matchless graces
  Were not bestowèd to delight themselves.
  Pandora was not treasured up in faces,
  To bring content unto possessing elves.
    But 'cause our heroes should the comfort find
    Of winning beauty and a willing mind.                           540

  The maid of Babylon, I know, was fair,
  And rich in all the lineaments of beauty;
  Yet was she kind, which did not them impair,
  But showed to Nature's hests her forward duty.
    For Nature's bounty best requited is,
    By yielding free assent to Hymen's bliss.

  The Queen of Carthage dear respects bestowed
  Upon the straggling prince of ruined Troy.
  Choice love unto Leander Hero showed:
  The Cyprian goddess wooed her sappy boy.                          550
    All fraught with pity; but that peevish girl,
    'Bout whose sleek waist hell's vipers wind and twirl.

  Nor such examples wants our latest age,
  Of virgin lovers these to parallel,
  Who, every way, those former equipage,
  With whom records and modern pamphlets swell.
    Then courage, Don, fear not to find a face
    That hath more pity, and more lovely grace.'

  'Much ease' (quoth Fuco) 'to my lovesick heart,
  My lord, is by your sage advisement brought.                      560
  For I supposed th' Idalian younker's dart
  Had fest'red so, no easement could be bought,
    I on her looked through such a pleasing glass,
    As though that sex in her contracted was.

  I thought t' have sent my physic-doctor forth
  Unto his herbal, to address my ill;
  T' ask Æsculapius for some earth-born worth,
  Which might accomplish my intended will.
    But that 'tis said Apollo once complained
    No herb to cure love's fevers could be gained.                  570

  Whilst an opinion of her matchless grace
  Scorchèd my bosom with affection's gleams,
  Mine eyes ne'er straggled to another face,
  Nor could I bathe my thoughts in Lethe's streams.
    But now I'll sound retrait; reclaim my mind,
    Not catch a falling star, nor grasp the wind.'

  This said, with sparkling sack he wash'd the lane,
  Which to the limbeck of his body leads--
  Health to Bellama, and a health again,
  Till, where his feet his wingèd beaver treads,                    580
    So well he took his sack without a toast.
    That, 'stead of kissing her, he kiss'd the post.

  Dispassioned quite, as in a breathless calm,
  Don Rivelezzo bids Don Fuco 'dieu;
  But hooted loudly, like a shrill-toned shawm,
  When his swift steed took farewell of his view.
    Accursing Fate, and railing on his daughter,
    Which might beget in Heraclitus laughter.

  'Have I', says he, 'such Crassian heaps of gold,
  Condemned to sleep in iron-ribbèd chests?                         590

  Did I delight in vestments coarse and old,
  Wherein Anthropophages have dug them nests?
    Nay, wish'd there were no tavern-juice, or sports,
    Or change of fashions, but in princes' courts?

  Have I sat brooding o'er my treasured plate,
  And summed the surplusage of each year's rent,
  Confined my spendings to a weekly rate,
  Enjoined a penance when th' allowance spent?
    And when an earl tuned every grace to win her,
    She slights his vows: nor gales nor gold can pin her!           600

  But since she slights my matches, I will match her:
  She shall of peevishness the harvest reap.
  Since this Don's matchless fortunes could not catch her:
  I shall ere long make her affections cheap.
    Her love shall stoop to court a common farm,
    A lordship then shall scorn to fold an arm.'

  'My lord,' her mother, Lady Arda, said,
  'A parent's ire ought not to force assent.
  Wealth, blent with vice, can ne'er disheart a maid
  To whom bless'd virtue is the choice content.                     610
    There's other things do maid's affections stir,
    Beside a manor, and a "please you sir".'

  'Madam' (quoth he), 'in vain you do excuse
  Your daughter's folly with your friendly air,
  The next I offer she shall not refuse.
  Sirrah, go harness straight my wheeling chair,
    I'll try if less content and pleasure dwells
    In princes' courts than in monastic cells.'

  When he was coached, the Lady Arda went
  To fair Bellam', bedewed with streaming tears:                    620
  'The gods', said she, 'have ravelled thy content,
  Sorrows uncomfort will thy virgin years:
    For unto Darwey does thy father haste,
    Where he will vow thee everlasting chaste.'

  'Madam,' says she, 'I feed on naught but gall,
  Aloes and rue, 'cause of my father's wrath.
  Th' occasion though of his displeasure shall
  With bays, instead of cypress, strew my path.
    When virtue seals the contract, welcome Hymen,
    But till that, ever shall my heart deny men.'                   630

  Thus sate they parling. Lady Arda urged,
  Producing reasons to enforce assent.
  Bellama answered, begged, excused, and purged
  Herself from blame, by urging love, content.
    But urging and excusing, let them sit,
    And see the father champing on the bit;

  Who, coming to the cage of virgin-pride,
  Knocked at the wicket with the iron crow,
  To whose small neck white fillets ne'er were tied.
  Which in more ancient days did childbed show.                     640
    He rapped so hard, the sound did fright the air,
    Yet still none came: none was not locked in prayer.

  At length the janitor, of stature large,
  With crozier-staff, girt in a hair-cloth frock,
  Whose meagre looks did call for Charon's barge,
  And all whose body was a sapless stock,
    Came, and with churlish voice demanded who
    With such shrill ho's rejoiced their civil croe.

  'Friend,' says my lord, 'my errand wings my speed,
  Speaks high importance with the prioress;                         650
  Thou, in these angel-looks, my haste mayst read;
  Help me to th' presence of the abbatess.'
    The porter's heart soon stepp'd into his eye,
    Tuning his language to a quick reply.

  'My lord,' says he, 'obedience is my duty,
  Whilst your commands speak in so high a tone.
  Yet, lest your smooth-chinn'd youths lay siege to beauty,
  Your lordship, spite of state, must walk alone.
    I am an eunuch; else in vain I vow'd,
    I had mistook my pillow in a crowd.'                            660

  Him he conducted to the kitchen, where
  Store of anatomies employed was;
  Some did the candlesticks, some lavers clear,
  Some scourèd pewter, some reburnished brass,
    Don asks the cause; the porter him acquaints,
    'Twas 'gainst a feast of high account, All Saints.

  Within the hall a younger sort of girls,
  Yet coarse enough, did brush vermilion looks.
  Some crosses rubbed, some, ropes of praying pearls;
  Some dusted vestments, some, their gilded books.                  670
    Some kneaded wafers: and his effige stamped,
    Whose purple streams the dragon's sulphurs damped.

  All at Don Rivelezzo were amazed,
  And, looking, one rubbed off a nose of wax,
  A second razed a cheek; another gazed
  And plucked from Kath' her periwig of flax.
    One blinded Serrat, and did rend her silk;
    One broke the cruse, and spilt the virgin-milk.

  Don passed through these into an inner room,
  Where was another rank of virgin-fry,                             680
  Some weaving arras on the nimble loom,
  And intertwisting gold with tapestry,
    With silk of Naples twisted in small ropes;
    Some did the cowls embroider, some the copes.

  At last he came into an upper place,
  Climbing thereto by richly gilded stairs,
  Where sate another troop, of nobler race,
  On quilted cushions, and in ivory chairs.
    About the centre, in a robe of state,
    The matron Vesta of the virgins sate.                           690

  These were employed about far nobler things,
  For some of sainted hair did bracelets twine;
  Others strung beads to stint the knees of kings;
  Some trimmed with costly gems the Lady's shrine.
    One tuned the music, and a witty other
    Footed an _Ave_ to the Virgin-mother.

  The grave old matron, crawling from her throne
  Of Indian teeth, arched o'er with cloth of gold,
  Upon her aged knees with zealous tone
  Says, 'Heaven's messenger, what is't you would?'                  700
    Th' amazed lord with wonder quarrelled long,
    Ere he could unvoice his silenced tongue.

  'Madam,' says he, 'why pay you reverence?
  Why are you guilty of th' adoring sin?
  'Tis a delusion of your weak'ned sense,
  I am no Cherub, Pow'r, nor Seraphin.
    The heralds style me Rivelezzo's Don,
    Your friend and servant, with a cap and con--'

  'My lord,' quoth she, 'excuse my fond mistake,
  For o'er my sight I wear a duskish glass.                         710
  My zeal in pious actions sure did make
  Me give you more respects than civil was.
    But take your seat; and if my power or skill
    Can crown your wishes, be you sure I will.'

  'Madam,' says he, 'I have a scornful lass
  Whom nature has enriched with special grace,
  To whose perfections her reflecting glass
  Is parasite, adds pride unto her face:
    So that, though earldoms court her, her disdains
    Nonsuits their service, and her brow unplains.                  720

  Into your number of chaste-zealous shes,
  Entrance unto this girl vouchsafe, I pray,
  Unto your order. I the constant fees
  Of gold and acres, and of vows will pay.
    Since she Don slighted, I have vowed to see
    How long she'll honour the religious knee.'

  Quoth she, 'Those virgins which my hallowed roof
  Does canopy, my prudence does protect.
  I make blind love and folly stand aloof,
  And all love's paper-plots I do detect.                           730
    Great ones have oft assayed, but yet my care
    Has buried their entreaties in the air.

  With godly precepts I enrich their minds,
  And make them (which is rare) at eighteen good.
  I 'dmit no roisters; only maids and hinds
  To do them service, and prepare us food.
    Please you to send your daughter, she shall be
    Crowned with delights of most transcendent glee.'

  'Heavens', says Don, 'crown your ensuing days
  With all delights which wait your holy orders,                    740
  May the sad cypress and the bridal bays
  Ne'er sprig nor blossom in your quiet borders.
    I'll plume my swift endeavours: I'll make haste
    T' invest Bellama with your habits chaste.'

  When Don's farewell had ceased to move the air,
  Says Piazzella to her virgin train,
  'We, with th' enjoyment of this lady fair,
  Shall stuff our carcanets with mickle gain.
    We'll frolic it, and taste the choicest pleasures,
    Nor shall our joys be listed in with measures.                  750

  The credulous world we gull with silver shrines,
  Our grave behaviours and retired lives,
  When we in naked truth are libertines,
  And taste the pillow joys of sprightful wives,
    When through the vault our lusty shavelings pace,
    All the choice measures of delight to chase.'

  Thus leave them with their hair-lack crowns,
  And see Rivelezzo now arrived at home,
  Who by that time had plained his brow from frowns,
  And all becalmed with sugarèd words doth come:                    760
    Then tells his lady he had found a tow'r,
    Would guard Bellama from Jove's yellow show'r.

  Servants are posted to the old Exchange,
  Others to sellers of the silkworm's spoils,
  Some to brisk Proteuses, smirk tailors, range,
  Some to the stationers, some haste for oils.
    One carves the image of a martyred saint,
    Another breathes a soul with gold or paint.

  None must be idle till, in marshalled ranks,
  All things be ord'red for this virgin-vow.                        770
  Farewell ye spongy teats and puff'd-paste flanks,
  Bellama's bridal tede is lighted now.
    Her husband is Virginity, yet look,
    Her beads for rings, for songs she'll change her book.

  The coach is harnessèd, 'Bellama come',
  The father says, 'hence with that dew of grief;
  Give not a sad adieu unto our home,
  But in thy thoughts let comfort rule as chief.'
    She craved a blessing on her globe-like joints;
    Then coachèd thither where her sire appoints.                   780

  As the sweet-voicèd Philomele does sit
  I' th' pikèd eglantine, with sorrow dressed,
  'Cause some rude sylvan in a raging fit
  Snatched her faint chickens from their downy nest.
    So did the lady Arda, dight with mourning,
    Deplore Bellama's loss with her returning.

  As when sly Reynald in his widenèd jaws
  Is seizing on the nimbly-frisking lamb,
  Or when the tiger, with his sharp'ned paws,
  Hath caught the infant of the becking dam:                        790
    And then the shepherd's care prevents the sharks,
    One loudly howls, the other hoarsely barks.

  So, semblably, when as the waiting crew
  Saw the departing of their golden age,
  One gives Bellama, with eye-dew, adieu,
  Another's grief unlocked the frenzy cage.
    Some tore their hair, some rent their should'ring bands,
    Some thwacked their breasts, and wrung their oily hands.

  But all in vain, their Indian mine was gone,
  Their minting house deprivèd of the stamp,                        800
  Their costly gems were changed to pebble stone,
  Their hemisphere forsaken by their lamp:
    Saturn's exiled, Jove awes this massy ball,
    And now the iron age ungoldeth all.

  The wand'ring wheels, bestud with iron knobs,
  Posted Bellama to the virgin-tower,
  Which freed her from the noise of servile throbs;
  Is entertainèd like a goddy power,
    Led by the seeming saints unto the place
    Where sate Pazzella with a matron grace.                        810

  If Rivelezzo's presence frighted them,
  Much more they at Bellama were amaz'd;
  They called her Phoenix, beauty's only gem,
  And all with fixèd tapers on her gazed:
    Some had a mean, some curious were before,
    But her first sight showed self-conceit the door.

  For as when Tithon's bride breaks out afar,
  And through th' expanse spreads forth her youngest light,
  She, by degrees, pops out each twinkling star,
  And dims at length the mistress of the night--                    820
    As winter chapel-clerks, when prayers are done,
    Dis-light each flazing wax or tallow sun.

  So, when Bellama brightly did appear,
  With morning rays in the monastic hall,
  She veiled each face that movèd in that sphere,
  And further, by degrees unfacèd all.
    Nay, at the last, the mistress of the train
    Looked like pale Phoebe in her dark'ned wain.

  And as day's prince, light lustre's archi-beam,
  Lends to the moon her silver midnight rays;                       830
  As from the ocean wat'ry current stream
  Though ev'ry cadent to that Chaos strays;
    As to a room befogged with mists of night
    Th' incensèd weeks do lend a midday light;

  So to each brow Bellama's brow gives white;
  To ev'ry cheek Bellama's cheek gave roses;
  To ev'ry eye Bellama's eye gave sight;
  To ev'ry breath Bellama's breath gave posies;
    To ev'ry part Bellama's part gave grace;
    To ev'ry face Bellama gave a face.                              840

  Some called her goddess of the Cyprian isle;
  Some said Troy's ruin was untombed again;
  Some her the self-enamoured boy did style;
  Some said the boat-boy did delude their train.
    One named her thus, one said she was another,
    But all confessed sh' exceeded Cupid's mother.

  The aged patroness with palsied lips
  Mutt'red a welcome to her lovely guest;
  But at that time the moon was in eclipse,
  Which with enfeebling fears did them arrest.                      850
    Some shrilly screamed; some brazen pans did clang,
    To ease her travail and abate her pang.

  And when the monthly-hornèd queen had got
  Her face again with silver glitter rayed,
  Save only what the dragon's tail does spot,
  On their pale lilies blushing claret strayed.
    Then did the aged voice repeat again,
    'Welcome, fair lady, to my maiden-train.'

  Her instauration was somewhat strange.
  Led by nine vestals (for th' odd number was                       860
  Highly esteemèd in their sacred range,
  As by the poet in his quaffing glass),
    Each of her jointed lilies one did hold,
    Save only that which waits the wedding gold.

  Adorned with vestures, white as bleachèd snow,
  A cypress mantle over which was cast,
  So lightly hung 'twould not abide a blow,
  A milk-white ribbon locked unto her waist,
    Graced with a crucifix: her slender wrists
    With praying beads were wreathed on sable twists.               870

  Grave Piazella ushered her along,
  Bravely attended with her choicest nuns,
  Without drum, trumpet, or an armèd throng,
  Or champing coursers, or the wide-mouthed guns.
    Each held religion in some holy right,
    With holy water which the devils fright.

  Into the place of holy worship they
  Ent'red where gaudy superstition was,
  Saints, altars, store of crucifixes gay,
  Whose stately worths my weak expression pass.                     880
    Scarce was there known a canonizèd saint
    Which carving did not there beget, or paint.

  With strong devotion all the virgins prayed
  At the direction of the praying bead,
  Their _Ave-Maries_, _Santo_, _Salve's_ said,
  Invoking ev'ry saint to intercede.
    Piezza then, Bellama kneeling down,
    Did wreathe her temple with the virgin-crown.

  These rites performed, behind an iron grate
  Appearèd breathing cowls and walking copes,                       890
  Whose writhèd looks their births did antedate
  And change the ciphers girdled in with ropes.
    Their hair had purchas'd wings and flew away.
    So did their brains, as some did whisp'ring say.

  Unto this monast'ry in gloomy shades,
  From Crostfull Priory these shavelings pace,
  Distant from hence not two Italian stades.
  Earth's bloodless womb was wimbled all the space.
    Under the craggy rocks and champian did
    A roadway lie, from vulgar prying hid.                          900

  This darksome path they usually did tread
  To traffic with their she-sequest'red zeal,
  With whom for curtain-dalliance oft they plead.
  But their success my muse dares not en-neale.
    These loving sportings are not faults: the sin
    Is when our walls keep not the scandal in.

  Amongst the holy men that hither came,
  To join their issue with the sisterhood,
  A votary, Albino call'd by name,
  Not Fortune's white-boy, yet of abbey-blood.                      910
    His great-grandfather, some few ages since,
    Of Glastonbury primate was, and prince.

  His stature did not reach the tip-toe height,
  Nor with the long-necked cranes did conflicts wage,
  Something complete by nature not by sleight,
  Some twenty circled snakes summed up his age;
    Discreet as tiroes are, had store of wit,
    In that he knew to use, and husband it.

  By civil carriage, and his modest look,
  He gained the love of his lord Priorist,                          920
  He bowlèd, coursèd, angled in the brook,
  His pleasure was his joy and pleasures list.
    Oft would he rove (had his content a dearth)
    Through th' hollow belly of th' unbowelled earth.

  Sometimes permitted, sometimes by command
  From his Lord Prior to the holy mother.
  Conveying voices, or the paper-hand
  Oft-times alone, scarce sorted with another.
    The matron did with courteous eye respect him;
    Knowing no ill of him, did not suspect him.                     930

  She oft would praise his monkship to her train,
  Calling his breast blest virtue's choice's shrine;
  And vowed she seldom saw such beauty reign
  Upon a face that's purely masculine.
    And 'twas not common at his years to find
    So neat a person with so pure a mind.

  He'd freedom of discourse, not privacy,
  Jests, sporting, laughter, and lip-dalliance;
  Oft on Bellama would he fix his eye,
  And she to him would answer glance for glance.                    940
    They gazed so long and oft, till they did tie
    Their hearts together only by the eye.

  Love's fever, at the casements of the soul
  Ent'ring, inflamèd every secret part,
  That passion now his reason doth control,
  And with the gyves of love enchains his heart:
    And walking with Bardino, seeking pleasures,
    He did Bellama sing in lofty measures.


To his companion in praise of Bellama.

  Dost see yon tow'ring hills, yon spreading trees,
  Which wrap their lofty heads in clouds? Dost see                  950
  Yon house of little worth, and lesser height?
  Dost think a jewel of ten thousand weight
  Can dwell within that sooty carcanet?
  Dost think the gaudy sun each night does set
  And riseth from yon roof? Dost think the moon,
  With double horn and glitt'ring tapers, soon
  Will issue thence? Didst ever see an eye
  Which checked the beams of awful majesty?
  Dost think an earth-born beauty can be found,
  Which darts forth lustre from the sullen ground--                 960
  To kiss the glorious skies? Or canst thou think
  The queen of beauty dwells in such a chink?
  Dost think? 'tis poor, why do I question so?
  Thou dar'st confirm all this by oath, I know,
  Since my Bellama's there, all life, all breath,
  Whose presence can enlive the soul of death,
  Despite of sickly Nature: she is all fair
  And truly meriteth Bellezza's chair.
  All those fair treasures, which dispersèd lie
  'Twixt poles and parallels, pay to her eye,                       970
  And with her span contracted in her meet
  As radiant, red, white, smooth, soft, rich, and sweet,
  She is the world's epitome and soul,
  And with her inch of earth outworths the whole.
  She's beauty's archi-fount: as riv'lets small
  Borrow from greater currents, and they all
  Pay tribute to the ocean, just so
  The dimmer shafts of wingèd Cupid's bow
  Borrow from brighter, [and] the brightest pay
  Homage unto Bellama--beauty's day.                                980
  I tell thee there's not one small worth of hers
  But loudly says that foppish Nature errs
  In other beauties: nor is this all, for why?
  Her thoughts pluck stars, and dark th' imperial sky.
  Virtue and beauty both: why, 'tis as rare
  As frosts in June or comets in the air,
  As crows in Africk, Æolus want puffs,
  Or she-precisians want Geneva ruffs.
  Yet my Bellam', alone and one, unites
  The beauteous colours, noble red and whites,                      990
  With heaven's issue, Virtue: dar'st then deny,
  If not divine, her half a deity?
  Tip Cynthia's horns with wonder, wind aloud,
  And mount the saddle of a wingèd cloud,
  Then circle earth, and see if thou canst find
  Half such a feature with so rare a mind.
  I know when thou return'st thou'lt say with me,
  Bellama's beauty is a _A per se_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Thus he to rocks and bushes did discover
  The secret flames which scorched his heated breast:              1000
  Though he as yet was not a vocal lover,
  But shrouded his close love in smiles and jest.
    Yet Fortune oftentimes does Venus grace.
    He got lip-freedom in an eyeless place.

  For there a Turk's Elysium was the stage
  Whereon the virgins acted parts of mirth,
  Which Nature did with nobler gifts engage,
  And deckèd more than other parts of earth:
    And Bellam's breath was such a powerful thing,
    It here did keep an everlasting spring.                        1010

  The angry puffings of congealing East
  And sturdy North, cold Winter's stoutest roisters,
  Durst ne'er of curled locks the trees divest,
  Nor e'er were heard to whistle in their cloisters.
    Such vernal blasts came from Bellama's mouth
    Kept here Favonius, and the dropping South.

  And if sharp frosts did, in her absence, steal
  Into this place, and glaz'd the tattling streams,
  Then into crystal would the springs congeal,
  And ev'ry flower was rayed with silver beams.                    1020
    Yet if Bellama did but glance her eye,
    The crystal and the silver thence did fly.

  Nay, strange it was to hear the purling wet,
  The saucy frost with angry murmurs chide,
  And with its constant jars and strugglings fret,
  Then thaw to tears, and on the Venice slide.
    Yet oft Bellama would call in her rays,
    To view the silver purls and crystal ways.

  Into this garden once Albino got;
  Yet ah! but once, and met his sovereign fair,                    1030
  Hoping their hearts should tie the Gordian knot
  He fanned her beauty with such courting air.
    For, though he was a monk, love did instruct him,
    And to Love's palace Fortune did conduct him.

  He oftentimes with trembling thumb would press
  Her dancing vein, way to her heart to find,
  Whilst conscious she her looks with red would dress,
  Fearing her pulse was traitor to her mind.
    For 'tis entruthed by some that by this vein
    We may the knowledge of affections gain.                       1040

  Such knowledge gained he by her pulse's touch,
  Which leapt to meet, not chide, his busy thumbs,
  That he desired a kiss; and found it such
  Whose sweetness far outsweet[en]s Hybla's combs:
    Then cried, 'Give for each lip a cherry sweet,
    And then a third, in which they two may meet.'

  Such quick'ning heat was from those kisses lent,
  That thawed his voice and did unfreeze his tongue,
  Packed thence despair, exilèd discontent,
  And made him vent what was concealèd long.                       1050
    For though desire and love each minute bid him.
    Yet fear, his habit, and her beauty, chid him.

  'Madam,' quoth he, 'vouchsafe a courteous ear
  Unto my words, sent from an amorous heart.
  Which hath long time been wracked with hope and fear,
  Grisly despair, and Cupid's awful dart,
    And till this time (restrained by black disasters)
    Could ne'er apply lip-love or vowel-plasters.

  Be pleased to know (yet sure you needs must know it)
  A beauty so divine must needs divine,                            1060
  Though I should want heart, hand, or voice to show it,
  When first your beauty in mine eyes did shine,
    They slipped into my breast, and told my heart
    The god of love by them had sent a dart.

  My heart made quick reply (if hearts have voice)
  You ever have such faithful servants been,
  That what you like, I'll freely call my choice:
  For beauty, brought by you, does fires teen.
    Carry this message back, tell her 'tis best
    That hers should heat my bosom, I her breast.'                 1070

  'Peace, peace.' quoth she, 'speak not a work of love,
  For fear my anger scorns and folly writes.
  Eagles love eagles, and the dove the dove.
  Hawks brook not buzzards: or the pheasant kites.
    Equals love equals: but unequal flame
    Is teened with folly, and expires with shame.'

  'True, quoth he,' likeness does the heart incline;
  Greatness loves greatness without farther search,
  Yet crawling ivies lofty elms entwine,
  And gall-less turtles with the eagles perch.                     1080
    I baulk your greatness: for as good, not great,
    I homage pay, and loves alarums beat.

  Those airy titles which ambition swell,
  And puff like bladders [are] like bladders burst,
  The worldling's goddess, which in chests does dwell,
  Is gnawn with rust, and makes the chesters curst.
    Honour is tied unto the prince's eye
    And wealth to Fortune's mutability.

  I have not wealth (nor do I want), what then?
  Must Hymen stoop unto the nods of gold?                          1090
  Must I vail bonnet unto ermine men?
  And virtue by the herald be controlled?
    No, love does blaze the noblest arms: and she
    That can maintain herself in love, can me.'

  'Stay, stay.' quoth she, 'you will be out of wind.
  Methinks the voice of greatness speaks delight.
  Our poets only then feign Cupid blind,
  When children of the sun do dote on night,
    Or folly, mounted on Icarian wings,
    Courts queens' affections and does gaze on kings.'             1100

  'No,' says Albino, ''tis the contrary.
  Love never is more purblind than when earth
  Joins house to house, and pedigrees do tie
  Scutcheons to scutcheons in pure virtue's dearth.
    For regal flames blest goodness only teens,
    And virtue ought to court the love of queens.

  We all are born for public good: 'tis vain
  With torchlight to embellish Titan's rays,
  Or cast our stock of water in the main,
  Such love from laws of love and nature strays.                   1110
    But those that Fortune hath enriched with goods
    Should dam up nature's wants, by mixing bloods.

  Was I the Caesar of the Roman stems,
  (Once only darling to the King of skies),
  Did both the Indies pay me tribute-gems,
  I'd not unite a double majesty.
    For being no distinction in degree,
    She would assume that honour due to me.

  She'd chide me sooner than I durst check her,
  And (as the proverb) _quarrel for the breeches_.                 1120
  On some choice mean that honour I'd confer
  Should sue with humble 'Sirs', and low beseeches.
    Thus was she tied to payment of respects,
    I licensed with state-love to mix neglects.

  Where beauty does indite, and virtues seal,
  Greatness is not required to set his hand:
  Though greatness here may virtue's acts repeal,
  Yet virtue's acts in Cupid's courts must stand.
    Then where I find grace, feature, virtues, dwell,
    I've greatness, wealth, and honour--toll the bell!             1130

  Then with kind airs, life of my wishes, speak,
  Bid honour know his distance, wealth depart,
  And let the day of true contentment break
  From thy clear lips, to cheer my misted heart.
    O, with one circle let my arms enfold
    The soul of honour and the heart of gold.'

  'Sir,' quoth Bellama, 'wealth is not my aim,
  Nor does the gales of honour heave my soul,
  I higher prize an action than a name,
  And value more a pamphlet than a roll.                           1140
    Where I with comeliness find virtue mixed,
    My love, eyes, thoughts, are on that object fixed.

  I speak not much of love, lest you presume;
  And speak a little, lest you should despair.
  I would not have my words your hopes deplume,
  Nor feather them to reach the highest air.
    I sum up all in this, whenas I say,
    I will not with disdains thy service pay.'

  Oh happy words! oh more than sacred breath!
  Albino, live! Bellama says thou must.                            1150
  Confront dire Fate, and challenge meagre Death:
  'Tis not in them to moulder thee to dust.
    Yet be advised, let not proud folly in,
    The conquest is as great to hold as win.

  Our anchorist with all the words that joy,
  Hearting a lover, was acquainted with,
  Accosts his saint, rewards the wingèd boy,
  And congees to the queen of heat and pith.
    Smilèd and glanced, paid thanks, desired a kiss;
    And prayed time give an age unto his bliss.                    1160

  But when day's lamp had wan the western clime,
  And wrapt his head in sea-green Thetis' lap,
  Our lover must observe the chanting time
  And bids his saint adieu. Oh hard mishap!
    Oh, 'tis a hell to think what hellish pain
    True lovers by unkind divorcement gain!

  Yet, by that time the hoary-headed sire
  Had summed twelve sixty minutes, he again
  Returned t' his lady, when bright Titan's fire
  Was newly risen from the brackish main:                          1170
    And, common greetings passed amidst their pleasures,
    He in his lady's hands these lines entreasures.


Upon Bellama's walking in the garden, and with him.

  My teeming fancy strives, choice fair, to chain
  Eternity to time, that ne'er shall wane;
  And make those garden-minutes see the sun
  Entombed in darkness, and the earth unspun
  Ere they expire, that all succeeding times
  May know and tell the subject of these rhymes.
  Assist me, Flora, that I may with grace
  Worthy its honour, shadow forth that place                       1180
  Of spreading trees, sweet herbs, and fragrant flowers,
  Enriched with pleasing walks and shady bowers.
  Each twig, with amorous touch, embraced his mate,
  Like Bacchus' sacred tree his propping state;
  Or ivy, elm, that neither sun nor wind
  To his retirèd conclaves passage find.
  Within whose walls a half-night's darkness dwells,
  Which satyrs' growing palaces excels,
  Or anchorets' secluding hermitage.
  Here, like a common theatre or stage,                            1190
  Each spicèd child of earth, in summer robe
  And Iris' mantle, opes his closèd globe,
  Knows his appearing cue, and freely plays
  O' th' wished-for presence of your quick'ning rays.
  Such perfect vivifying influence
  Dwells in your looks, Light's chariot driven hence,
  That your sole presence can create a spring,
  From winter's frozen bands can loose each thing,
  From earth's entombing sepulchre can raise
  Each sleeping flow'r, to chant forth Maia's praise.              1200
  This made amazement seize my mind to view
  Half-agèd winter bid so soon adieu
  To this Elysium of the pagans' joy.
  And Chloris, with her new-brush'd clothes so coy
  Before, and hardly to be won, come forth
  Crowned with the glory of her springing worth,
  To court our eyes, nay more, the bare-faced earth
  Covered with carpets green, befringèd round
  With smiling rosy trees, with glorious store
  Of daisies, suckles, cowslips, studded o'er.                     1210
  Like hunting vests of satonisco green,
  Embossed with gems by fawns and wood-nymphs' queen,
  Worn when the tushèd boar, bear, panting hart
  Th' unkennel, rouse, disfrank with nimble art.
  And, lest your spotless souls should suffer ill,
  Air's fleeting tuns crystalline streams distil,
  To wash the grassy-tufted tapestry
  Which whistling winds, with murm'rings, haste to dry.
  And ev'ry tender branch whereon you tread
  To make your tracing, pacing, moves its head.                    1220
  Alcinous' orchard, or that precious root
  Which bore old Atlas' daughters golden fruit;
  Th' Idalian mount where Cytherea strayed,
  Or that where Ceres' luckless daughter played
  Whenas the king of shades surprisèd her.
  Nor may the Roman's pride with this confer,
  For here all Maia's treasures are united
  Which do, which shall, or senses e'er delighted,
  Yet summered by your eye each flower does bud,
  Blossoms, sprouts, opens, blooms, and chews the cud.             1230
  Your presence hearts them all. O be as kind
  As unto them to me; shoot through my rind.
  Shine through my heart with one, one smiling ray!
  So shall it open, blossom, sprout as they--
  Spiced with the choicest sweets e'er Venus had,
  In all the postures of true service clad,
  Trimmed with the beauties of the richest spring.
  All fertile too, all store of fruit shall bring:
  This, choice affection; that, chaste loyalty;
  This, vows; that, service; and that, constancy,                  1240
  Made up into a nosegay, circled in
  With twists of love, which youth and virtue spin.
  Then, breath and ray, make and accept the posy
  And seal a contract 'twixt the lily and rosy.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Enspherèd thus with virgins, oft he would
  Tell pretty tales, fraught with conceited mirth,
  Discourse of foreign states sometimes unfold,
  (A sudden jest may give to laughter birth.)
    Thus to beguile the time, he oft would do,
    And unsuspected did his lady woo.                              1250

  Then privately sometimes with her would walk
  Along a pavèd way, where lofty trees
  Bore only witness of their am'rous talk,
  Plaiting their branchèd pride that none might see.
    And, lest quick envy should their dalliance spy,
    Themselves about the trees the brambles tie.

  Here in soft whispers did he court her love,
  And strove by oath their loves to ratify.
  'Madam,' says he, 'this reason may you move,
  That day and malice have too many eyes                           1260
    When my lips are sealed, and I attempt in vain
    To send the children of my teeming brain.

  Not half so vigilant the dragon was,
  Which Colchos' treasure watch'd, as is your dame;
  So that they must through Argus headpiece pass
  Which seek here to enkindle Cupid's flame.
    I know your jealous matron does discover
    How my faint heart about your breast does hover.'

  'Sir,' says Bellama, 'there is no such haste.
  Time will appoint our loves some fitter seasons,                 1270
  My father must ungirdle first my waist,
  Love will not be repelled by force, but reasons:
    And more, you know it is in vain to strive,
    Here's no escaping this monastic hive.

  When as the third day's sun, three hours or more,
  Our zenith has behind him left, hither
  Return, and I will meet thee; not before'.
  'My thoughts', quoth he, 'do in your absence wither,
    Pinched with the sharpest blasts cold winter breathes,
    But your, _your_ looks, my heart with blossoms wreathes.       1280

  That foolish glass, which measures time with sand,
  Enough of gravel has to meet a year.
  With lesser trouble I could Hermes' wand,
  Than the sad torture of your absence, bear:
    Change then those hours to minutes, days to day;
    If you say't shall be so time must obey.'

  'Alas,' quoth she, 'my faith is not so strong,
  To think reality with language dwells,
  Nor can I think you count those minutes long
  When you're employèd with your beads and bells.                  1290
    Yet t' has the face of truth: I'll therefore try
    If time will pay such duty to mine eye.'

  'These words have lent my body a new soul,
  And shot', quoth he, 'a fire through every vein;
  Doubt not your voice time's circle can control,
  And make the sun his hasty jennets rein.
    Nay more, methinks m' enlight'ned eyes discover
    'Bout you the gods with veilèd bonnets hover.

  I'm half-persuaded 'twas not blasphemy
  For me to say your nod can ravel Fate;                           1300
  Thaw into chaos this firm globe of dry;
  Beckon the planets; and their tow'rs unslate.
    Methinks I see the sun nailed to his sky,
    Unnath his car, and throw his whipstaff by.'

  'Peace, peace,' quoth she, 'Albino! thou dost rave,
  Why dwells such language on thy wretching tongue?
  Wilt thou just vengeance force to dig thy grave?
  Think'st thou stern Fate will suffer such a wrong?
    Pinion thy words; let them not soar so high,
    Lest they should gash the clouds and ope the sky               1310

  We must not play with sharps, nor kiss the flame,
  Dally with heaven, or upbraid the gods,
  Lest their just anger make their powers tame
  Such saucy scandals with their plagues and rods.
    Then wing no more Bellama's name, but let
    The pearl be callèd pearl, the jet but jet.

  Go home in clouds, lest Envy see thy face;
  And come not till those minutes task the watch.'
  'Madam,' says he, 'I'll bid them mend their pace.
  'Tis just with lovers every hair to catch                        1320
    That dights occasion's brow, change date for date,
    Entrench sometimes upon the rights of Fate.

  Yet your command shall stand, I'll not transgress,
  But watch the hand until it joint the hour,
  And all my paths with gloomy shades will dress,
  That undiscovered I may win this bow'r.
    May all the blessings which a lover's voice
    Breathes on his lady wait on you, my choice.'

  Here did they meet to rivet fast their heart,
  Where not a breath their private joys disturb;                   1330
  They thought no eye a saucy ray durst dart,
  Or any voice had power their loves to curb.
    So credulous are lovers, and so fain
    To their conjectures would _conclusum_'s chain.

  But this bright sun of joy eclipsèd was,
  And pitchy clouds their glorious sky did smutch:
  Then Venus' joys were like to Venice glass,
  Poor glass-like toys that perish with a touch.
    A guardian's anger, or a parent's frown,
    Nips love's fresh blossoms and a wish uncrown.                 1340

  The jealous matron, from her tow'ring loft,
  O'erlooked th' ambitious trees which hemmed them in;
  O'erheard their vows, their sighs, and language soft;
  And saw how Cupid leapt from skin to skin,
    The traffic of their lips, and how thin balms
    Did glue and cement fast their melting palms.

  When she perceived the progress of their love,
  Religious care empanelled straight a jury
  Of thoughts and plots, this stranger to remove,
  Soothèd with profit, and enflamed with fury,                     1350
    Ush'ring her language with a threat'ning frown,
    She asked her business with that shavèd crown.

  Why was that sickly voice whose feeble gales
  Can raise no echoes, hand- and elbow-chat,
  Eye-dialogue's discourse, and wanton tales,
  That way of am'rousness and this, and that?
    'Speak truth, Bellama, has thy heart, as voice,
    Decreed that youthful monk thine only choice?'

  Bellama, startled at this sudden news,
  Yet did her answers all consist of noes;                         1360
  But yet, alas! her blood observed the cues,
  And called by guilt, her lily banks o'erflows:
    So that, though she with settled vows denied,
    Yet to the eye her blushes guilty cried.

  When as the matron's busy eyes had read
  Love on her cheeks in bloody letters writ,
  She asked her why blind folly thus had led
  Her reason 'gainst religion, state, or wit?
    Or, if she needs must love, why did she scowl
    Upon state-satins, and embrace a cowl?                         1370

  Bellama to excuses tuned her air,
  Framing pretences for her amorous faith,
  But yet, alas! such was Pazzella's care,
  From her excuses she withheld her faith.
    And, with a voice shrill and as fierce as thunder,
    Sware she would knap their silly loves in sunder.

  Those scarlet gowns which doom offenders' death,
  Or the proscriptions of the Roman state,
  Had not the tithe of that affrighting breath,
  Although they weak'ned hell and threat'ned Fate,                 1380
    As had these words which feeble love did shiver,
    Snap his weak strings, and crack his emptied quiver.

  But, all this while, Albino sate with pleasure,
  And on his trencher joy and mirth attend;
  Nor to delight will he allow a measure,
  As at one sitting he his stock would spend.
    Nay, if he slept, he dreamed of naught but rings,
    Gloves, fans, masks, monkeys, and such pretty things.

  And when the time of his approach approached,
  His eye did travel with the dial's hand,                         1390
  Then started up to see Don Phoebus coached,
  Bade him make haste and at that minute stand,
    That this blest day may count more moments' flight
    Than could the stout Alcides' genial night.

  But oft we see before a sudden dash,
  The sun salutes the earth with hottest gleams:
  So here, before misfortune's harshest lash,
  Joy on Albino shot his choicest beams;
    That every thought was crownèd with a star,
    And rid with Venus in her silver car.                          1400

  Rose out o' th' vault with love and hope adust,
  And in conceit fed on his future sweet,
  Thinking what most may please, not what's most just.
  And with what phrase he should his lady greet:
    Vowing, in this full heat of lust and pride,
    To try how fast Bellama's girdle's tied.

  But as our alchemists do study much,
  Spend all their wits and wealth to find that stone
  Which baser metals doth engold with touch,
  (As he which once did awe the Phrygian throne)                   1410
    And when they long have dreamèd of a mass,
    Their silver's turned to tin, their gold to brass.

  Just so our amorist, stuffed full with hope,
  Came to this walk for his expected treasure,
  The crystal casements of his soul did ope
  To let in th' object of his joy and pleasure:
    But when he thought t' have found his lovely lass,
    His love was lady-smocks, his lady grass.

  He searched with stricter care each bush and bow'r,
  Than did the fairy king and Hob his man;                         1420
  Throwing his eyes into each branchèd tow'r,
  And midst the sharp'ned pikes of brambles ran.
    Pricked forward with desire, enraged with spite,
    And venteth here what love and hate indite.


Upon his Bellama using and forsaking the Walk.

  When, walking, I sent forth my watchful eyes
  To fetch in objects, like Bellona's spies,
  Along this swelling way which chequered was
  With smooth-faced pebbles, not with pikèd grass,
  Bellama paced, whose only pacing set
  Upon the pavèd walk a coronet                                    1430
  Of Flora's pride--carnations, tulips, lilies,
  Pansies, pinks, roses, daffadowndillies.
  Nay more, methought, I saw the rubbish way
  Sapphires, pearls, rubies, onyx-stones, outray.
  The very channel, proud of her blest weight,
  Swelled up with pride unto the ridge's height,
  To kiss her feet, and made the way an alley.
  With this choice fair mine eyes (ah!) once did dally,
  Nature's epitome, whose curious brow
  Was like a smoothèd mount of bleachèd snow,                      1440
  At whose clear foot Nature divine did place
  Two diamonds, which did enlighten all her face.
  So that 'twas like those orbs wherein do stray
  The planet-lamps, or Cupid's sucking way;
  And from these gems such silver rays were sent
  Which hatchèd o'er her light accoutrement.
  So that dull fancies would have thought she had
  In cambric, holland, or pure lawn, been clad.
  Nay, I at first thought it had Cynthia bin
  Deck'd in her brother's sunshine ermelin.                        1450
  She shot such glorious beams: but now, alas!
  She's gone, she's fled, and lo! the mourning grass
  Is hayed already, and th' ungemmed stone
  At feathers catch to fly where she is gone.
  The branchèd beech, the oak, and tow'ring ash,
  Bend both their brows and boughs my face to lash.
  The angry thorns my hands, though armèd, scratch,
  And testy brambles at my vestures catch
  (Which was before the curse of human sin,
  But now, by her, outsmelled the eglantine),                      1460
  I, wonder-strucken, asked a holy thistle,
  Which with his sharp'ned pikes began to bristle,
  (But know at first 'twas but an homely weed,
  Her presence made it holy, not its seed)
  Why all with ireful looks thus threat'ned me?
  'It is supposed, Bellama fair,' quoth he,
  'The goddess of this walk was forced by you
  To this benighted path to bid adieu.'
  'Alas!' quoth I (meanwhile the thistle paus'd),
  'Their wrath is undeserved, I never caused                       1470
  By any ill demeans that saint to leave
  This place, and widow every branch and greave.
  Unto your testates I myself refer,
  How choicely I have ever honoured her,
  Have paid my tribute-compliments, and gave
  Respects as much as due, or she, would have.
  But people (worse than those that people stews)
  Whose only joy consists in telling news,
  Or Pazzell' else with her envenomed lips,
  Your glory and my comfort do eclipse,                            1480
  'Tis them they ought to chide, for only they
  Compel her to forsake this gloomy way.
  Yet spite of all disasters, fate, and hell,
  Albino's heart shall with Bellama dwell:
  And though chill winter nip both you and me,
  We shall, ere long, our suns and summers see.'

       *       *       *       *       *

  This said, he straight forsook his silent grove,
  Trimming his looks which passion did untrim,
  And hastes to find the object of his love.
  But such an eye the matron cast on him,                          1490
    That fury on her looks did seem to dwell,
    And envy to her face transplanted hell.

  Heartless Albino with much pain did view
  How on her looks madness and anger ranged,
  And on Bellam' he private glances threw
  To bring him word if that she stood unchanged,
    If she continued square, despite of them,
    Whose jealous eyes did all their actions hem.

  Bellama knew the language of his eye,
  But could not give respect to Cupid's law,                       1500
  For Piazella to her eyes did tie
  A constant watch, which kept her eyes in awe:
    That she was forced to peep within her veil,
    For there the matron did her eyes enjail.

  The ragged crew, which are enwrapt in chains
  Through grates, more freedom have of sight than she,
  Which in them both produced such griefs and pains
  Too sharp and loud to be expressed by me.
    Albino now does judge his absence better,
    And chose a proxy to present a letter.                         1510

  One of his order (deemed a trusty friend
  Endeared to him by favours, oath, and vow),
  Was his Talthibius, ordained to send
  To her whose beauty makes stiff Atlas bow.
    The monk embraced the office, and did swear,
    By all our scarlet oaths, faith, truth, and care.

  Albino now to every Santo prays,
  And for success his hands with zeal does rear,
  Courting his lady in some Irish lays,
  And robbed his finger of its golden sphere.                      1520
    En-nealed _I live in hope_, and sure grief's waves,
    If anchorless, had been t'is wishes graves.


To mee's faire Metres, Vandebrad Isile of te fine towne of Vaschester.

  Ick predee metres be not coy,
  But intertaune mee's love vit joy:
  For me be not a snottee boy.

  Vat tough me russell not in silke,
  And keep mee's servaunts vit capes ilke,
  Yet me be not a sop of milke.

  Vat tough me vil not stautly stret,
  And ilke de Peacock poudely jet;                                 1530
  Yet me be vary pruce and neat.

  Vat tough me vil not lye vit pimpes,
  And pend me's coyne on light-teale shrimpes,
  Yet me can hug, busse prettee nymphes.

  Vat tough me ha ne Hauke ne Hound,
  And vil not suare begot, idzound,
  Yet faith mee's frolique, plumpe and sound.

  Vat tough me cannot Maudam say,
  And vit ty Fan an Monkee play,
  Yet me con flatter vel as thay.                                  1540

  Vat tough me connot honour tee
  Vit titles laudee C or D,
  Yet tou sault a good Metress bee.

  Vat tough, vat tough, Ick say, vat tough,
  Ick say, udsnigs, in feck I trough,
  Yet Ick drive not te Caurt and Plough.

  Then pretee, pretee, buxome faire,
  Let me not launguish in despaire,
  But say me's sutes all gaunted are.

  Let ne mee's Irish borrell speach,                               1550
  In tyne affection mauke o breach,
  For me con better say so teach.

  And me can be as blyth and free
  As auny push or saunten hee,
  Ten say, and ved, and bed vit me.

        _Tyne faytfull friend and good servaune_,
        Patrick Applous, _te fine, te bave, te
        gallaun Irish-mon_.


Upon the Ring sent to his Bellama.

  Cupid oft-times disdains to dwell
  In lofty palace, but does shell
  Himself in straw-thatched roof, and choose
  For novel a September rose
  Before a diamond to present,                                     1560
  Or time in silver ceilings pent;
  Great gifts enforce, but small ones woo,
  And forced respects will never do.
  He questions his own worth that fears
  To whisper in his mistress' ears
  With smallest gifts, since true worth hates
  A boon which for him loudly prates,
  And female worths may justly slight
  Those that but with gilt swords dare fight.
  These make me send this little ring                              1570
  (An emblem of a greater thing),
  Tis bruised--hence representeth true
  My heart, bruised, bent, and bowed for you.
  Anatomists conclude by art
  A vein is stretchèd to the heart
  Fro' th' smallest finger of the left;
  From vein and finger comes this gift:
  Hence merits better, since we find
  Many send presents, few their mind.


Upon the Posy _I live in hope_.

  'Tis hope that makes me live, and when                           1580
  My hope's transferred to other men,
  Divorced from me, health cannot give
  A strength to make my rent heart live.
  A rented heart 'tis truly called,
  For love of virtues you enthralled,
  Tenant at will to you, and pays
  Large rents of sighs each hour and days.
  But to what number they amount,
  Puzzles arithmetic to count.
  Then, courteous landlady, be please                              1590
  To seal my heart a lifelong lease.
  Else ev'ry slight and frown of yours
  Will turn your tenant out of doors.
  Yet hope persuades me not to doubt
  My heart shall not be turnèd out.
  For you have promisèd to come
  And live with it, or exchange home;
  So I be landlord unto thine,
  And you be landlady to mine.
  Say 'Aye' to this, and only Fate                                 1600
  Shall change the tenor of our state.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Bardino from the coven posts with speed
  Unto Albino's only polar star,
  Loaden with blessings, and beware take heed
  As the great grandame's son prepared for war,
    Or as a widow's son, whose only joy
    Hangs on the nuptials of her lusty boy.

  Like as a pilot to some floating keel
  When as the bustlers from old Æol's cave
  On Neptune's furrowed back make it to reel,                      1610
  And at his death shoot billow after wave:
    So tossed in seas of grief Albino tied
    His love's choice pinnace to Bardino's guide.

  But Bishop-Guts, tun-bellied, all-paunched friar,
  In sight of Lesbia's tow'rs, split his fair galley,
  Proved a dissembling and perfidious liar;
  From his foul breast deceit and hate did sally.
    The seeds of every sin in him did bud,
    Nothing did wither but this one thing, _Good_.

  For to win credit with the Lady-mother,                          1620
  And raise a liking of himself in her,
  He proved a traitor to his abbey-brother,
  With abbotess in private does confer,
    And unto her imparts his amorous news,
    She, not Bellam', his vowèd service views.

  But to Albino he returned with faith
  (Yet 'twas an oath), 'I importuned thy saint,
  Pressed her t' unlock thy secrets: but she saith
  "What purblind folly does thy heart attaint?
    Thou know'st what offers I refused, and thou'll                1630
    Confine my love unto a starvèd cowl!"

  'Away flings she, and leaves me disconsolate,
  Nor after deigned to me a wonted look:
  Now is Albino pinched with cruel Fate.
  Which is the better, Cupid, or thy book?
    Hadst viewed her beauty with a scornful eye
    Thou hadst not tasted of her pride and fie.

  Hapless Albin', and hapless so much more
  Because Albin', rest quiet with thy lot;
  If Nilus overflow his sandy floor,                               1640
  Above twelve cubits, it procures a rot.
    When at too high a pitch affections tow'r,
    Fate with misfortunes oft their hopes doth sour.

  Wound not the harmless air with mournful hoots,
  Steer not 'gainst Volga's stream thy feeble keel,
  Be not like him who 'gainst a whirlwind shoots,
  Or like the cockatrice in pecking steel;
    For acts, 'gainst Nature wrought, despite do gain,
    And love o'erlooking Fortune, reaps disdain.'

  But let us see what strange effect this news                     1650
  Writes in his breast (disaster's fatal book),
  What stronger plot his working fancy brews
  If's lofty thoughts be at this answer shook--
    Alas! they are, so weak a thing is man,
    Crash'd into atoms with a slighting fan.

  His blood retires unto his throbbing heart,
  His wannèd cheeks with lawn were overspread,
  An aspen-trembling loos'ned every part,
  His spirits fainted and his vitals fled,
    And his quick heart with such strong motions beated            1660
    That it, though chilled with fear, his body heated.

  Ent'ring his chamber, strewèd o'er with rue,
  He leaned his head upon his swelling pillow,
  And, sighing, cried 'Bellama! is this true?
  Must I be doomèd to the barren willow?
    I thought, exempted from my pedant's art,
    I should no more have felt the willow's smart.

  Thy eyes spake love: and every glance you sent
  Writ on my heart, "Albino is approv'd";
  Whensoe'er my eyes unto thy feature went,                        1670
  And met with thine, they brought me word "_You lov'd_",
    Then can Bellama not Bellama be?
    She may Bellama be, but not to me.

  Blest heavens! how have men deserved your ire,
  That made you frame this curse, this thing called _Woman_,
  So comely and so useful, giving fire
  To sear us men and yet disdain to know man?
    Why on their faces have you placed such charms,
    To make us court with sighs the worst of harms.'

  Pandora's box of woes was openèd then,                           1680
  When first they took in hand to make a woman,
  And all the Furies joined to torture men;
  Yet women first were rare, but now grown common,
    And mischiefs high, when once they common grow
    Entomb great states, and commons overthrow.

  Thou Love (what should I call thee?) dost entice,
  Nay check'st rebellion in the awful gods;
  Women thy weapons are, of such high price,
  That beat with them they humbly kiss the rods.
    No life, no joy, no sweet, without a lass;                     1690
    And yet no sweet nor joy since woman was.

  Our eyes do ne'er mistake the day for night,
  Nor can the pale-hewed pinks for roses pass,
  But when on women's colours they do light.
  Then (bribed) they look as through a painted glass,
    So that what women are we never see
    But what we wish and fancy them to be.

  'Mongst thousand virgins which do suck this air,
  I never knew but one, but one--one good;
  Whom I supposèd full as good as fair,                            1700
  And she was making e'er Deucalion's flood:
    But she--alas! what should I say?--but she
    Is woe to man, a woman unto me.'

  Thus in his height'ned fury he condemns
  Both Fate and Fortune, honour, wealth, and worth,
  Raileth on virgins and their beauteous gems,
  And curseth Nature that did bring her forth,
    But, above all, his sharp incensèd muse
    In wrathful odes Don Cupid does accuse.


An invective against Cupid.

  Thou Love, if thou wilt suffer this, be blind,                   1710
  Deaf, dumb, and stupid, and unwisely kind
  More unto slights than merits, and reward
  Respects and negligence with same regard.
  If satins difference and maids adorn
  Than Nature has with beauty, more with scorn,
  That they must fligger, scoff, deride, and jeer,
  Appoint their servants certain hours t' appear,
  Afford by number kisses, sights by tale,
  Command a certain distance, and impale
  Love's game from taste or touch, and, if at all                  1720
  Men do transgress, steep all their words in gall,
  Check but the least presumption, and with frowns
  Strike as much terror unto us as crowns--
  Love, if thou'lt suffer this, and wink at them,
  Make us esteem a pebble for a gem,
  Stoop, cringe, adore, sue, flatter, and admire,
  And in our bosoms teen'st thy amorous fire--
  May all the haggish Furies soundly lash
  And with their snaky whips thy sinews gash!
  May all the tortures Hell encloseth fall                         1730
  On thee, if not enough, and more than all.
  But we--we men, will be no more thy slaves
  And women's too: we'll pack unto our graves:
  And in our silent beds of earth will court
  The slender-waisted worms, and with them sport,
  Dally, hug, toy, and vow their wimbling buss
  Is full as sweet as women's was to us.
  Enwalled with dust we'll lie: till Nature shall
  Perceive thy malice, Cupid, and her fall,
  And woo's, with sighs and tears in loving guise,                 1740
  For a replantage of the world, to rise,
  Then shall our wills ungod thee and thy mother,
  And Cupids be ourselves one to another.
  Then in thy temples shall no voice be heard,
  But screech-owls, dors, and daws; no altar reared
  Whereon to sacrifice true lovers' hearts,
  Scalded with sighs, and gallèd with thy darts.
  For we ourselves ourselves will temples call,
  And make our bosoms altars, whereon shall
  From fourteen to fourscore the females fairs                     1750
  Burn frankincense of love with sighs and prayers:
  And change the custom so that maidens then
  Shall court, admire, adore, and woo us men.

       *       *       *       *       *

  This said, he strove t' unbillow all with slumbers,
  But th' more he strove to rest less rest he takes.
  His watchful thoughts each tattling minute numbers,
  Bellama's wakening beauty him awakes.
    And having purchased sleep, though they were dim,
    Bellama's beauty darted rays at him.

  Then, starting up her substance fair to catch,                   1760
  He lost the shadow, and did rave again:
  'Can grovelling brambles lofty cedars scratch?
  Or waddling ducks o'ertop the tow'ring crane?
    Yet virtues, imped with person, reach a sky,
    And to an higher pitch than Fortune fly.

  There is a tree (as our historians write),
  Alpina hight, of fair and glorious glee,
  With branches fine and glorious blossoms dight
  But never tasted by the witty bee,
    Fearing death lodgeth there; and this he fears                 1770
    'Cause to the eye so glorious it appears.

  Not much unlike to these our women are,
  Whom Nature has in dainty colours dressed;
  And of our women likest are the fair,
  For with much beauty virtues seldom rest.
    Would Jove all women I had judged to be
    Alpina-like, or, if not all, yet she!

  The queen of beauty strumpet was to Mars,
  Officious bawd unto lascivious Jove,
  A patroness of those that ride in cars,                          1780
  And in her court nor virtue reigns nor love:
    But lust and vanity, with wily trains,
    That he repentance buys which beauty gains.

  Sh'as many trulls, like Menelaus' wife,
  And she such light-skirt things for chaste ones sells;
  With whom dissembling and deceits are rife,
  Smiles, tears, sighs, looks, with such enchanting spells.
    If they but bend their brows and shoot out frowns,
    They crack a sceptre and distemple crowns.

  Yet stay: but by the sour we know not sweet,                     1790
  White's silver hue adjoined to black shines best,
  How should we know our hands but by our feet?
  Health's only prized when sickness doth arrest.
    This principle, perhaps, Bellama holds:
    Summer is known by winter's chilling colds.

  Perchance Bellama did not breath that woe,
  Which by Bardino was conveyed to me,
  Nor dwelt upon her lips that scornful "No":
  'Twas only forgèd by her dame and he.
  But--why should suspicion steal into my breast?                  1800
  Suspect a friend, deceit with friendship rest?

  No: Phaeton, base son to Day's bright blaze,
  Daring his chariot, felt Jove's thunder fire.
  Astronomers, whilst on the stars they gaze,
  Oft-times do sink into the dirty mire.
    Only the eagle, without purblind damps,
    Can fix his eyes upon the prince of lamps.

  The son of Daedalus soared up so high,
  That Phoebus plucked his waxen jointed wings,
  It was her pride checked my ambitious eye.                       1810
  True love, to hatred changed by slights, has stings.
    I'll write invectives: no! I'll only try
    What virtue dwells in slighting poesie.'


To his Bellama slighting him.

  I'll bore the heavens, pierce the clouds a vein,
  Make them full torrents weep of brackish rain,
  To second my laments; methinks the sun,
  Knowing my clue is ravelled and undone,
  That my Bellama slights, should, vexed, resign
  T' his sister's chariot his ecliptic line.
  Bid Phoebe run horn-mad, and loudly cry,                         1820
  Froth, howl, as in a fit of lunacy,
  Nay, throw a poison on Endymion's lips,
  Threaten to drown the world, the sun eclipse.
  Keep the stars order still? or can they stir
  And not digress? Know they how not to err?
  Sure, no: I saw bright Paphos snuff her lamp,
  Yet vowed to quench it with eternal damp,
  Hurl all away, if that her servant's love
  Be had in no regard, and awful Jove
  Hurry along the milky way to find                                1830
  That sniffling deity, that wingèd blind--
  And vowed to clip his wings as short as monks
  Their stubbed beards more short than panèd trunks,
  Unless he shot a dart with more than speed,
  To make Bellama's heart affections bleed.
  Bold ocean foams with spite, his neb-tides roar,
  His billows top and top-mast high do soar.
  Nature herself is sullen, keeps her bed,
  And will not rise so much as dress her head:
  Regardless of the seasons, will not see                          1840
  Loud winds deplume the bush and tow'ring tree.
  The ploughman furrows earth, sows seed i' th' tides,
  But nature weeps for me, his pains derides.
  Copernicus his tenet's verified,
  The massy globe does 'bout its centre ride.
  All things disranked, nothing observes its state,
  Change time and tide, or post or antedate.
  But thou, Bellam', art deaf to me and blind,
  Steel'st thine affections, flint'st thy hardenèd mind,
  And strik'st fire thence t' inflame my tinder heart,             1850
  Thou oil'st the flame, but I endure the smart.
  How oft have I, when others' eyes have slept,
  Like sentinels to armies, watchings kept!
  And when the thought o' th' saints' thrice blissful home
  Which (ah! too seldom) 'mongst my thoughts did come,
  Then, spite of goodness, blessed E was lost
  And you the haven of me tempest-tost.
  Have I made envious art admire thy worth,
  Touched the Ela of praise t' emblazon 't forth?
  Bid sleep goodnight, quiet and rest adieu,                       1860
  Made myself no self to entitle you?
  And, after this sad purgatory, must
  My hopes be laid i' th' dust for want of dust?
  Then know, Bellama, since thou aim'st at wealth
  Where Fortune has bestowed her largest dealth,
  That wealth may puff a clod of earth like leaven,
  But virtuous want alone ensouleth heaven.
  Know more, I scorned thy fortune: 'twas thyself
  I courted, not thy slight-adored pelf,
  And had not mortals' curse blessed thee, and I                   1870
  Had swelled with honour and nobility,
  My love, once fixed on virtue, parents' hate
  In both might shake, but ne'er evert love's state.
  I aim at virtue's bliss, and if I find
  The heart and bosom good, I slight the rind.
  But since, Bellama, thou regard'st not me,
  I scorn to cringe, adore, and flatter thee.
  For he that rules his thoughts has a nobler soul
  Than he that awes the world from pole to pole.
  Thus, fair, adieu! with love these measures scan,                1880
  And know my love was but a fit of man.

       *       *       *       *       *

  We'll leave Albino in this frantic mood,
  And view Bellama, pargèd o'er with fear,
  Asking a member of her sisterhood
  (For love and virtues unto her most dear),
    Amongst their sportings, and their chaste delights,
    Wherefore Albino did refrain their sights.

  Barraba (her the font those letters gave)
  Said, 'I presume I rightly guess the cause'.
  Bellama urged (thanks to the purblind knave),                    1890
  'Twas thus', quoth she--yet made a two day's pause.
    At length, with importunings overcome,
    She told her why Albino kept at home.

  'Bardino did deceive his trust', quoth she,
  'Told all, yet sung another song to him:
  His love came lapped in paper unto thee,
  He with quaint words did his affections limn,
    Vowed service: but Bardino (ah the shame!)
    Unclasped his secrets to our jealous dame.'

  'Am I an infidel? or dare I tie',                                1900
  Quoth fair Bellama 'unto this belief?
  Shall just revenge in my soft bosom die?
  And shall I melt my heart with secret grief?
    I'll scold with him.' Says chaste Barraba, 'No,
    For by that others will your wishes know.'

  What she should do (plung'd in this depth of woe)
  Bellama knew not, nor durst counsel ask:
  More dangers wait her, if she send or go,
  Than if she underwent Alcides' task.
    Distracted were her thoughts in silence tied,                  1910
    Till love and honour buzzled, then she cried,

  'Ah! false Bardino, shame of holy orders!
  Whither, ah! whither didst thou send thy troth?
  To be grand factor in the frozen borders
  For them whose decks do make old ocean froth?
    And truthless thou, locked in this gloomy cell,
    Plott'st baseness to enlarge the crown of hell.

  Unjust Bardin', unworthy of a cope,
  Or (whose employments holy) other vest,
  Didst [thou], oh didst thy conscience scour with soap,           1920
  And washed all faith from off thy glazèd breast?
    And, faithless, thou esteemest less of vow
    Than clownish whistlers which do steer the plough.

  Where didst encage thine eyes? durst thou behold
  (Acting this crime) the castle of the stars?
  How stopp'st thine ears? didst hear the heavens scold,
  And chide in wind and thunder threat'ning wars?
    Durst touch the hallowed water, spittle, salt,
    The cross or pax, and yet attempt this fault?

  Those sacred bagnios, wherein pagans wash                        1930
  Their sullied limbs for their mosquea's door,
  The pottage-penance and repentant lash,
  Their hair-cloth shirt, skin-shoes, and thousand more;
    Th' arch-vicar's pardon, and the purging flame
    Can ne'er absolve thy crime or clear thy fame.

  Pack then from human eyes, and shroud thy sin,
  Under the curtains of eternal night;
  Perfidiousness does make thee near of kin
  To hell's black fiends, with robes of horror dight.
    Pack, pack, begone, the ferryman does stay                     1940
    To waft thy paunch o'er th' Acherontic bay.

  But peace, Bellama, dost thou think it fit
  To value at so mean a price thy pearl?
  Applaud thyself, count it a point of wit
  To take a cowlist and refuse an earl.
    The world shall be uncentred, ere 't be said
    Beauty takes lodging in an humble maid.

  What then? shall every fashion fashion me,
  As in religion by the church's eye,
  So by the world's must I in loving see?                          1950
  No, I the world's supremacy deny.
    Hence with those loves which profit only measures,
    I hate that heart which only shoots at treasures.

  The Cyprian goddess is not fed with ploughs,
  Nor Cupid's arrow guided is with acres.
  Vulcan permitted was to shake the boughs,
  But Mars suck'd in the sweets without partakers.
    Youth, youth pursues; for with autumnal looks
    Cupid does seldom bait his eighteen hooks.

  Who in pleuretic passions does deny                              1960
  To open veins, to shut death out o' th' doors?
  Who will not in sharp fevers Galen try,
  To weaken humours, and unstop the pores?
    The quickest eye does want the quick'ning sun,
    And to the sea the drilling cadents run.

  Who, when Sir Cupid enters at the eye,
  With pride and coy disdain shuts comfort forth?
  I'll make ambition stoop now, love, says I,
  And satin thoughts shall veil to tammy worth:
    By lovely maids the lovely lovèd are,                          1970
    And by the fair most favoured are the fair.'

  Thus did she rage, her resolution love;
  Which spite of all disasters she will harbour,
  Hoping blest fate will so propitious prove,
  T' enclose her monk and her in Cupid's arbour:
    But leave her surfeiting with hope, and view
    When to monastic vows she'll bid adieu.

  Till Cynthia twice twelve times repairèd had
  Her silver horns, she was encloistered here:
  When some kind planet moved her loving dad                       1980
  To fetch her thence his frosted age to cheer,
    Hence, virgin vow, away black vestments hurled,
    Bellama's born again into the world.

  He with his lady mounted on his jen-
  Net to the nunnery with haste does ride,
  Accompanied with troops of harnessed men
  And vowed a siege if Piazzell' denied,
    To batter down the holy walls with guns,
    And fright the hag with all her simp'ring nuns.

  He in an ambush placed his iron crew,                            1990
  Bade them prepare when as the trump did call,
  Dismounting then the janitor him knew
  And led the lordly couple through the hall,
    Parlours, and chambers, to the conclave where
    The pious nuns their branchèd lilies rear.

  Bellama craved a blessing, they it gave;
  Then Rivelezzo he did softly ask
  If the monastic roof should be her grave?
  If now she grievèd for Don Fuco's task?
    If, after two years' bondage, now she would                    2000
    Answer more kindly to the voice of gold?

  'My lord,' quoth she, with humble knee and voice.
  'I am not tired with my nicer vow,
  Nor hate I Hymen, might my eyes make choice,
  Ask when I'll marry, and I'll answer now.'
    'A man', quoth he, 'for face and virtue choose,
    And on mine honour I will not refuse.'

  Pazzella fearing that their whisp'ring would
  Presage no good unto her huffing waste,
  Broke off their parle; and Rivelezzo told                        2010
  That his fair daughter zealous was and chaste:
    And that her mind no evil did attaint,
    'She almost has attained to be a saint.

  Such high-prized comforts, joys, rewards, and glory
  Our happy walls enseal and curtain in,
  That we alone survive: all praise and story
  Are called hell's tortures and the whips of sin.
    The local motion of our soul's in heaven,
    We hate blind Turkism and the Jewish leaven.'

  'Madam,' quoth Don, 'you need no advocate,                       2020
  Since you yourself can plead your cause so well;
  But that my sex does interdict this state,
  What your words might effect I cannot tell.
    But sure it does unscrew a virgin's heart,
    To hear of love, and never feel his dart.'

  'Madam, forsooth,' quoth Lady Arda, 'I
  Ne'er found such comfort i' th' innupted life,
  Nor think the blessings of virginity
  Can equal the contentments of a wife.
    My voice should not assent unto her vow                        2030
    To wreath with willow sprigs her melting brow.'

  Quoth Piazzella, 'I am grievèd sore
  To hear such scandals thrown upon our vow,
  To hear Diana, whom all ought t' adore
  And her chaste votaries depravèd now.
    I know not what contents attend a wife
    But sure they equal not th' innupted life.

  Again, your honours you do much impeach
  To force your daughter from this happy state;
  'Twixt her and happiness you make a breach,                      2040
  And pull upon your heads a cursèd fate.
    Heavens unbuckle will their clouds of rain,
    Death or diseases, if you part our train.

  The body's better than the sheathing skin,
  And ought with greater care to be maintained;
  The guest is far more worthy than the inn,
  And ought with greater study to be trained.
    The soul mounts heaven, when earth's agèd womb
    The skeleton (her issue) does entomb.'

  'Away with arguments, in vain you plead;                         2050
  Our vow', quoth they, 'locked not her girdle ever.'
  'I', quoth Pazzella, 'do abjure the tede:
  Hymen shall ne'er my holy orders sever.
    But spite of all the tricks the world does nurse,
    I'll keep my virgins from the bridal curse.'

  Without demurs, Don Rivelezzo then
  With shrill-voiced trumpet made an echo speak;
  Straight was the house environèd with men,
  Which with their leaden globes an entrance break.
    The air was frighted with the powder-thunder,                  2060
    The bellowing noise did split the rocks in sunder.

  Affrighted thus, the matron bid them gang,
  And to Bellama gave a sad adieu;
  Yet in her heart she griped with Envy's fang,
  And o'er her looks a veil of sorrow drew.
    The joyful parents, having got their daughter,
    Gave a farewell unto the house with laughter.

  Leaving the coach and cloister, we'll take part
  With poor Albino in his woe and grief,
  Who, seeing Fortune his designs did thwart,                      2070
  And Neptune's grandchild brought him no relief,
    Did think to win her presence in disguise:
    He that but one way tries is hardly wise.

  He plotted to invest himself with robe
  Might speak him nobly born, and gallant heir
  To some vast measures of this wealthy globe,
  Seated aloft in honour's oval chair--
    Procure him then some store of lacèd capes
    To wait on him with servile garbs and shapes.

  Pretending to be one o'th' Spanish court,                        2080
  Giving strange accents to our modern speech,
  And hither came his wand'ring mind to sport,
  But that he faces lacked to tune each breach.
    Besides he knew the matron's care was such,
    She love untwisted in the eye or touch.

  Then a new project did he get on's brain,
  And sheared the downy moss from his smooth chin,
  Intending to be one o' th' virgin-train,
  Like Jupiter, husked in a female skin:
    But that he feared religion could not bridle                   2090
    His active heat 'twixt linen to be idle.

  He thought his breaking voice would him betray
  (Unless he said he ever had a cold),
  He feared the curtsey and the female play,
  Or that his face would make him seem too old.
    But above all he fear'd he should not lock
    His legs within the compass of a smock.

  In costly vestures he would be arrayed
  Of high descent, and fearing lest his sire
  Would force him to an hated pillow, strayed                      2100
  With them to teen the holy vestal fire.
    He would be nobly born, not out of pride,
    But to be sheeted by Bellama's side.

  He had no treasure, but would promise fair,
  That, settled there, he should be fed in state,
  Hoping to win the porter with kind air,
  That with Bellama he might thread the gate.
    He all would venture: and upon this plot
    Would place his fortunes, and the Gordian knot.

  In such accoutrement he veilèd was,                              2110
  That to himself Albino was not known.
  He lookèd for Albino's face i' th' glass;
  But nothing of himself t' himself was shown.
    Each way a maid, enriched with special grace,
    As though he had unflow'r'd Adonis' face.

  He styl'd himself Felice, only child,
  To him who at that time was Folco's duke;
  And was so like to her whom he was styled
  That she could scarcely say 'twas not her look.
    For what's of Issa and her picture writ                        2120
    Was found in them, they tasked the poet's wit.

  Unto this virgin-cage she fast did pace,
  And, knocking at the gate, the porter came,
  Who, seeing riches on her back and face,
  With humble voice desired to know her name.
    'My name (good friend),' quoth she, 'Felice is,
    I come to taste your choice monastic bliss.'

  'Madam,' Avaro said, 'our rubbish stone
  With cement join'd shall precious straight be made,
  In that they shall ensphere so fair an one.'                     2130
  Felice, smiling at the porter, said,
    'Hath time with iron jaws eat out this part
    Which now these masons do repair by art?'

  And truth it was, Felice, Folco's heir,
  Flying the disaster of an hated tede,
  Couched in disguises at a cottage bare
  (But how? when? where? task not my amorous lede).
    So that Pazzella's faith writ on her brow
    The noble treasures of Felice's vow.

  'Not time it was, but an unhappy hour'                           2140
  The porter said 'we had a virtuous fair,
  Daughter unto a man of mighty power,
  So like yourself I think you sisters are,'
    (How largely flatt'ry has dispersed its song
    That it does oil and smooth a porter's tongue!)

  'Bellama hight by her uncourteous sire,
  Fetched hence, who, when my lady did deny,
  Begirt our holy walls with sulphur-fire,
  And summoned harnessed men which close did lie.
    They with their leaden worlds at us did play                   2150
    And frighted (as you see) these stones away.'

  Felice, knowing that her adamant,
  Th' impulsive cause of this her virgin-vow,
  Was vanished thence, and gleams of joy did want
  And wanning sorrow revelled on her brow.
    Scarce could she speak and every jointing trembled,
    Yet feared the porter, and her fear dissembled.

  Pazzella and the virgins her esteemed,
  Seeing her feature and unequalled grace,
  Before they knew his parentage or deemed                         2160
  He was descended from high Folco's race.
    But, knowing that, their joys did swell so high,
    That grief for sorrow slinked aside to cry.

  But ere the next day's sun to let out day
  Night's ebon box unlocked, she did not brook
  To hear their private whispers, talk, and pray,
  Erect the host, and kiss a gilded book.
    For, her, Bellama has possessèd solely,
    So that their water could not make her holy.

  Instead of 'Virgin-mother' she would say,                        2170
  'My dearest lady, hear my sad complaint.'
  Nor to she-saints would she devoutly pray,
  'Cause none but her Bellama was a saint.
    Unto Lorretta, as Bellam', she swears:
    And calls their holy water but her tears.

  She wond'red oft how her Bellama did
  Two years continue in this hated cell;
  And in her thoughts she oftentimes her chid,
  For dwelling where but formal good does dwell,
    Since in her absence she could scarce abide                    2180
    To sojourn here a double eventide.

  Her brains acquainted was no whit with sloth,
  But plotted how she might escape that jail:
  And to this end she vowed her virgin-oath
  Should for her quick returning put in bail;
    She thought her breach of virgin-oath no sin
    Because she only wore the formal skin.

  She missed, in ransacking her cabinet,
  A precious jewel, far exceeding rare,
  Which on her brow the lady duchess set,                          2190
  As a true pledge of her indulgent care:
    Far richer than that pearl which Egypt's queen
    Quaffed to her Mark, dissolved in liquor keen.

  But for all this a curious fit of man
  Did force her, for assay, to enter in
  To see if fasting did their rosies wan,
  Or folly led not in the Paphian sin,
    Thinking her wit could manumise her straight
    From that lank cloister by some nimble sleight.

  This she pretended to have lost as she                           2200
  (Fainted with fears, and with her travels tired)
  In the cool shade of a well-hairèd tree
  Threw water on her joints with labour fired.
    For heavens parch the air with hotter rays
    When with his flaming tongue the dogstar bays.

  'Madam,' quoth she, with feignèd tears and sigh,
  'Grant me your licence to go seek my gem,
  The place of my reposure is but nigh';
  Swore by those fires that did enlighten them,
    By her virginity and virgin-vow,                               2210
    Return ere time could pace a triple now.

  Quoth Piazella, 'I will send a maid
  To seek your jewel out with studied care,
  Direct her to the shade wherein you stayed,
  For you forbidden are the common air.
    Our gardens, beautified with Maya's glee,
    Your farthest journey must and ought to be.'

  She urged again, but all in vain she asked;
  The prioress remembered still the earl,
  And feared Felice his departure masked,                          2220
  Under pretence of seeking for a pearl.
    And more suspicious thoughts unto her came
    'Cause she so often kissed Bellama's name.

  She, seeing that this plot did want a stamp,
  To make it current pass like lawful coins,
  Feared her departure from this lanky camp,
  And vowed to try the virgin's skill at foins.
    Yet, ere she would attempt that amorous play,
    She would attempt escapes some other way.

  She viewed the casements, and did boldly wrench,                 2230
  With courage masculine, the squarèd bars:
  But they did scorn the vigour of a wench,
  Like sturdy oaks which slight the windy jars.
    Nay more, deep waters did begirt them round,
    That from the glass he could not see the ground.

  Then on the porter did she kindly smile,
  And by full tale gave free respects to him;
  Thinking to gull Avaro by this wile,
  Joinèd with language oiled, perfumed, and trim,
    Quoth she, 'Thy trust, and skill I must employ                 2240
    And for thy pains thou shalt have treasures, boy.'

  The greedy porter, like a goshawk, seized
  With griping talons on this pheasant cock,
  'Madam', says he, 'my skill is not diseased,
  Nor dwells dissembling with the honest frock.
    Disclose your secrets, and be sure if man
    Can do you service, then Avaro can.'

  Felice then, as prologue to her suit,
  Gave him a purse full fraught with pseudo-gold;
  Told him her bounty brought no worser fruit                      2250
  If in th' achievement he'd be true and bold.
    'Thou must, some evening, let me pass the gates
    And straggle half a mile to gather dates.'

  'Madam, I'll do 't: it is a small request,
  Since you do merit better at my hand.
  If fortune be propitious to my best.
  You on the common shore this night I'll land
    My hands have eyes and only what they see
    Will they believe--give me my minted fee.'

  Felice then plucked out a silken purse,                          2260
  Great, and as musical as th' other was,
  Pretending it was stuffed with metal curse,
  When 't only was with circled ragges of glass;
    Which purposely she did with di'monds cut,
    To gull the porter's hopes and fill his gut.

  'Heavens augment your store, madam,' quoth he,
  'I'll wait for you at the middle age of night;
  Come to my lodge and softly call for me.'
  This handsome cheat Felice did delight.
    To cozen the deceivers is no fraud,                            2270
    To use a pimp, and cheat a rusty bawd.

  She scarcely knew what letters spellèd grief,
  For all her thoughts with regal crowns were wreathed,
  Yet 'mongst them all Bellama ruled as chief.
  At time of rest her body she unsheathed,
    And housed within the linen walls her limbs,
    Till night and sleep did their quick tapers dim.

  Avaro (when day's sister's misty fog
  Had poppèd out Apollo's searching eye,
  And gen'ral silence human tongues did clog                       2280
  Locking all senses up with lethargy)
    Stepp'd to his purses, and began to think
    How he should order his belovèd chink.

  He'd hang his lodge with arras weaved with gold
  That his successor there might sleep in state,
  Or else if some revenues would be sold
  He'd give them Darwey, bought at any rate
    That all the nuns with prayers and holy names
    Might fetch his soul from out the purging flames.

  'I'll mend highways, or hospitals repair,                        2290
  Else build a college, and endow 't with mines.'
  Thus did he build his castles in the air
  For all's not cash that jingles, gold that shines;
    His glassy coin [must] leap out of the mint
    Ere on his brow the stamp did current print.

  Thus was he gull'd, as once a king of France
  Paid a French monsieur for a prancing steed--
  Gave him a purse whose richness did enhance
  Th' enclosèd gem, supposed a noble meed,
    But when for golden mountains he did gape,                     2300
    He oped the purse, and only found a rape.

  'Oh! what full anger redded o'er his looks!
  What tides of rage and fury swelled his spleen!
  He curseth her with candles, bells, and books;
  And vowed ere long on her to wreak his teen.
    'Ah me!' quoth he, 'such brittle things are lasses
    Which one poor letter changeth unto glasses.'

  Felice, now perceiving all was quiet,
  Hearing no noise, unless a belly-blast
  Which might proceed from an unwholesome diet,                    2310
  Tied her apparel on with nimble haste,
    And, coming to the lodge, with knuckle knock
    She strove to summon out the lazy frock.

  But the grim Tartar was so soundly lulled,
  Without a dram of opium, steeped in ale--
  Tirèd with vexing that he was so gulled--
  That all Felice's rappings naught avail;
    Till, vexèd with demurs she knock'd so loud,
    It raised a thunder like a breaking cloud.

  Just at that moment did Pazzell' awake                           2320
  From an affrighting dream, wherein she saw
  A dreadful lion her Felice take,
  And tear her body with his sharp'ned paw;
    And hearing this shrill noise, fear said 'twas true,
    Danger did threaten her monastic crew.

  Her frosted limbs she heavèd out of bed,
  And shelled her body in her night-apparel,
  Arming her hands with pistols stuffed with lead,
  Which anger firing, with the air did quarrel,
    And, groping in the dark, her foot did slip,                   2330
    Which out o' th' barrels made the bullets skip.

  Felice, at that thunder-clap amazed,
  With haste retired from the porter's cell,
  And meeting her, on one another gazed.
  The porter, starting up, did ring the bell,
    The virgins shrieked, which all made murmurs shrill
    Like Irish hubbubs in pursuit of ill.

  When reason somewhat had becalmed their rage,
  The abbotess Felice sharply checked.
  'Madam,' says she, 'I only came t' assuage                       2340
  Intestine heats which all my body decked
    In scarlet dye; and being much appalled,
    With frisking fairies, I the porter called.'

  'Go, go, you are a wanton girl,' quoth she,
  'That fain would tempt my porter unto folly.'
  'Madam,' Felice said, 'you injure me.
  Sure, if lascivious I had been so jolly,
    I might have met with many men more able,
    Before I did invest myself with sable.'

  'Oh madam! madam!' mad Avaro cried,                              2350
  'Why do you think she could o'ercome your frock?
  I ne'er did yield, yet have been often tried;
  My courage hath withstood a greater shock.
    Yet sure she would--she would have passed the gates;
    The reason why, forsooth, to gather dates.

  I am afraid your dukedom-girl does long
  Not for the porter, he is out of date;
  But for an oily cavalier that 's strong,
  May teach her virginship a mother's fate.
    Madam, look well; see if you miss no glass,                    2360
    I'm sure with brittle coin she gulled an ass.'

  Then told the story: Piazzella fretted,
  'This is the jewel which you would have sought
  When in all haste from hence you would have jetted!
  What your intendments were my wisdom thought,
    I'll have no gadders, and t' allay your heat
    I have a diet will prevent a sweat.'

  In a retired room she locked her up,
  Devoid of lustful mates with her to play;
  Allowed her pulse, and juice of clouds to sup,                   2370
  And bade her scores of Ave Maries say.
    Three artificial days she lodgèd there,
    Where every day to her did seem a year.

  When she had paid this penance for her crime
  (Which in her judgement was accounted bad),
  She was again amongst the virgins prime,
  On promise that she would not henceforth gad.
    Yet still she plotted, but where'er she went,
    The angry destines thwarted her intent.

  Then, from Bellam' since walls did her encell,                   2380
  She thought t' employ her talent to the best.
  One of the virgins had some vogliarell,
  And earnestly desir'd with her to rest.
    Who ere the morn did Piacinto sing,
    And wore her blushes on her rubied ring.

  Next night she chose another, then another;
  Her curious palate so to novels stood,
  That every one had hope to be a mother,
  And near of kin, united in one blood.
    But yet, alas! this pleasure lasted not:                       2390
    Their virgin-girdles could not keep their knot.

  Not many fortnights after they had took
  These physic-potions from their doctor's reins,
  One told her folly by her meagre look,
  Another had more blue than on her veins,
    Others were qualmish, and another longs:
    All spake their pleasures, yet all held their tongues.

  One long'd for citrons, and another grapes,
  That grew on Alps' steep height, others for peaches;
  One strangely did desire the tails of apes                       2400
  Steepèd in juice of myrtles, holms, and beeches.
    Some palates must be fed with implumed quails,
    And nothing must approach this tongue but rails.

  Some longed for crayfish, shrimps, cods, plaice, and oysters;
  One for a lemon that doth grow on thorns;
  Another longeth for some blood of roisters,
  Spiced with the scrapings of pale Cynthia's horns;
    One on the bosom of the matron skips,
    And spite of her full nose did gnaw her lips;

  One bade them fill an orc of Bacchus water,                      2410
  Her thirsty soul she said would drain a tun;
  One from her window bids a poor translator
  Cut her a cantle of the gaudy sun;
    But above all I like that witty girl,
    Which longed to feed upon a glorrah earl.

  The jealous matron with suspicious eye
  Did read their common ill in every face;
  Espied the breach of their virginity,
  And feared a plantage with an infant race.
    Yet still suppressed her knowledge, till at last               2420
    Their heaving bellies kissed their thick'ned waist.

  She then, with friendly summonings, did call
  The grave lord abbot and his smooth-chin race;
  Who, coachèd, came unto the virgin-hall,
  But all the rabble through the vault did pace.
    Arrivèd here, she cookèd dainty cates
    To please the abbot and his tempo-pates.

  So called a council 'bout her quondam maids--
  Each one admiring who durst be so bold,
  Since none had entrance, nor the virgins strayed,                2430
  And for the porter he was known too cold.
    The prior feared lest one of his square caps
    Should guilty be of those upheaving laps.

  It was decreed that they all should be
  Shrived, being sejoinèd from each other's ken;
  But, ere that time, the teemers did decree
  What answer to return the shriving men.
    Felice did instruct them to deny
    That she gave birth unto their pregnancy.

  But they should say, and to that saying seal,                    2440
  With strong asseverations that 'Into
  Our fast-locked room a youthful blade did steal,
  And with the best of wooing did us woo.
    Our cases are the same with Merlin's mother:
    We think our lover was his father's brother.

  'Twas one man's act, or, clothed with human shape,
  He was angelical; and this we thought
  Because there was no semblance of a rape.
  We gave him our assent as soon as sought.
    We judged unmaiding better in the dark                         2450
    Than, Daphne-like, an husking o'er with bark.'

  The shrivers to their lords return with smiles,
  And on their looks a joy ovall chhriots' had,                 [*]2453
  Said they confessèd them with zeal and wiles,
  And by a plain narration knew the dad--
    One of those ever-youthfuls came from heaven,
    And in the virgins' wombs did lay a leaven.

  The abbot at this news did much rejoice,
  Since with a kind aspect the Virgin Lady,
  Viewing this nunn'ry, did ordain this choice,                    2460
  And for the issue did appoint this daddy.
    They shall be prophets, priests of high renown,
    And virgins which shall keep their bellies down.

  Provide them childbed linen, mantles, swaddles,
  Rockers and nurses, all officious shes,
  With rattles, corals, little cars, and cradles,
  And give them beads to wait upon their knees.
    Rome's high arch-vicar shall a testate be
    To the first-born whom Nature makes a he.

  Take pens, and smooth-strain anthems write in bays,              2470
  Make new orisons unto all the saints,
  And to Lucina chant invoking lays,
  To move her pity these young mothers' plaints;
    Say her fair temple need not fear the flame,
    Whilst here she wins her an eternal fame.

  Felice smiled to see their studied care,
  To foster whom she at her pleasure got.
  But Piazzella, starting from her chair,
  Callèd Felice to survey her knot,
    And finding it as at the first 'twas tied,                     2480
    'How 'scapèd you this goddy sire?' she cried.

  'Madam,' quoth he--Felice, 'I confess
  I was a party in those spruce delights;
  But Nature curseth some with barrenness,
  As (I have heard) Albertus Magnus writes.
    So that though my desires were full as big,
    I was not heavèd with that curtain jig!

  Reason _fortasse's_ on her words did stamp,
  Which did entruth them (though they were but squibs).
  This done, the prior did remove his camp,                        2490
  And all the friars, with hemp-girdled ribs,
    All great with expectation, and as fain
    Would be delivered as the full-flanked train.

  They sung canzones ere the sun could rise,
  And Ave-Maries out of number said,
  Lucina wond'red at this strange disguise,
  That nuns and monks to her devoutly prayed.
    All beads were rattled, and all saints invoked,
    Some squealed, some tenored, and some hoarsely croaked.

  With this conceit, Felice frolic grew,                           2500
  And sported bravely in the silent hours.
  Her bed-mates call'd her Angel; yet none knew
  That 'twas Albino which had cropped their flowers.
    But, though they revelled in the night, the day
    Threw hailstorms on their lust to chill their play.

  Yet had their pleasure not a grandsire life,
  For tattling slumbers did their joys untone.
  'You vowed, Felice, I should be your wife,'
  Says Cloe, 'ere you loosed my virgin-zone,
    But ah!' so waked, and feared her vocal slumber                2510
    Would from her eyelids force a Trent and Humber.

  Says Phill', 'Felice, had I known at first
  You only wore the name of Folco's daughter,
  I would have suff'red an untamèd thirst
  Ere lust had brought mine honour unto slaughter,
    But oh----' and, starting up, she feared her dream
    Would ere 'twas long obscure joy's mirthful gleam.

  'Well, well,' says Floris, ''tis an happy change
  To loose mine honour for an angel-mate,
  But angels will not house in such a grange:                      2520
  This is the offspring of Felice's pate.
    But ah----' so sighed, and sighing causèd fears
    Lest her plump rosies should be ploughed with tears.

  Yet, you must know, the virgins did not use
  To blab their private actions in a dream,
  But that the cunning matron did infuse
  Some atoms of the Quiris into cream;
    And, ere they were enclosed in Somnus' arms,
    She drenched their fancies in these liquid charms.

  Then, with unsealèd eyes, she made her ears                      2530
  Keep privy watch to intercept their talk:
  Yet would have washed her knowledge out with tears,
  And wished it written in her mind with chalk.
    One while she thanked the God of slumber, then,
    Her curses threw him down to Pluto's den.

  But when Aurora, in her tissue vest,
  Mantled with blushes, rose from Tithon's side,
  And through a casement of th' adorèd east
  Sent Phosphorus to usher in her pride--
    Ere Phoebus our horizon did array                              2540
    With silver glitter of the blooming day--

  She snatched her termers from the sweet embrace,
  And golden fetters of death's elder brother,
  Bidding them hence those deading slumbers chase
  T' implore the favour of the Virgin-mother.
    They starting up with more than common speed,
    Each shelled her body in her modest weed.

  So called to chapel those whose pregnant wombs
  The angel's pills had heaved above their waists,
  Like to a surfeit ta'en of Hybla's combs,                        2550
  When we are too indulgent to our tastes.
    But left Felice out to cut or sew,
    Or to embroider with the lanky crew.

  Which made a sudden faintness loose each part,
  And every joint was like an aspen leaf;
  Her rosy twins retired to her heart,
  Her looks were coloured like a sunburnt sheaf,
    As the stiff bristles of an aged boar
    Were her smooth locks, which o'er her cheeks she wore

  And juster cause had none than she to fear,                      2560
  For as from quiet slumber she awoke
  She heard the ptisick pick Pazzella's ear
  That she had knowledge of what Floris spoke.
    And now she doubted all would come to th' scanning
    Their longing, swelling and their sudden wanning.

  The virgins wondered at Felice's change,
  To see her eyes fix'd in a white-limed wall;
  Each feared herself, and each conceived 'twas strange
  Lest the disease was epidemical:--
    That Merlin's uncle changed Felice's hue,                      2570
    And streaked their temples with a purple blue.

  But leave her sighing with these sterile dames,
  We'll crowd into the house of sacred vows
  Where consciousness, begetting female shames,
  Spread scarlet carpets on their cheeks and brows.
    They looked, and blushed, and glanced on one another:
    Each cursed the minute which did dub her mother.

  The holy brethren, through the mouldy pipe,
  At that same time did unexpected come,
  To know if th' goddy issue yet was ripe                          2580
  To give adieu unto their skin-sealed home.
    But viewing still their wombs, with zealous hands,
    They prayed Lucina to untie their bands.

  Their chantings dead, the abbotess began;
  'Brethren, you see what sad misfortune haps
  Unto my virgins by the oil of man,
  Witness the heaving of their spongy paps.
    We of an angel dreamed, but if he was
    He shall hereafter for an evil pass.

  'I made their slumbers vocal, so they told                       2590
  'Twas Folco's duke's supposèd daughter's work.
  Larved with that name, it seems some roister bold
  Them to unvirgin cunningly did lurk.
    But since 'tis so, the proverb shall stand good,
    Tart sauces must be mixed with luscious food.

  I knew him to be wanton, and to chill
  The raging heat of his unbridled lust,
  I doomed him three days' penance, judged an ill
  Would make him sapless as the summer's dust.
    But since that failed, days shall be chang'd to years,         2600
    Minutes to months, till paid his tribute tears.

  I'll try if grief will drain his melting reins,
  And hang a crutch upon his able back;
  If sorrow will unblood his swelling veins
  And make his sinews, shrunk with famine, crack.
    I'll make a purgatory, where with hunger,
    Frost, flame, and snow, I'll tame my virgin-monger.

  I'll give command a dungeon shall be made,
  To whose close womb the sun shall never pry,
  Nor Cynthia dare to peep: for gloomy shade                       2610
  Like cloudy night shall purblind every eye:
    Bare measure four-foot broad; and for that height
    'T shall make him by constraint, not court, lie slight.

  A bedstead hewn out of the craggy rock,
  Not arched with cedar wainscot, knobbed with gold;
  His bed no shrinker, but a sturdy flock,
  Swans shall not be deplumed his limbs t'infold.
    Nor curtained with the travails of the loom
    Of poor Arachne, ere she had her doom.

  I will not spend the ransom of a crown                           2620
  For curious dainties to delight his taste.
  I'll fetch no fowls from off the Parthian down,
  Or Phaenicopter for luxurious waste.
    I will no mullet from Corsica take,
    Oysters from Circe's or the Lucrine lake.

  I will allow him pottage, thicked with bran,
  Of barley-meal a choenix every day,
  A sovereign diet for a frolic man
  That is affected with the Paphian play.
    And lest his stomach should too chol'ric grow,                 2630
    I will afford him some congealed snow.'

  The bald-pate crew this penance well approved,
  And, in a trice, all things she ready got.
  So well she stirred her stumps (as it behoved)
  She being hatcher of this starving plot.
    This done, with friendly words and courteous air,
    She called Felice to her house of prayer.

  'It suits not with your greatness, madam fair,
  Being sole daughter to so great a man,
  To lodge with those which your inferiors are,                    2640
  As much as is an inch unto a span,
    And I'm afraid the Duke will fume and swear,
    Should but your lodging step into his ear.'

  'Madam,' quoth she, 'you harbour needless fears.
  Goodness, not greatness, differenceth maids.
  My father's no tobacconist; and swears
  In point of honour like our scarlet blades.
    And, by my faith, it more contenteth me
    To sheet with maidens though of mean degree.

  I am surchargèd with the black-hued choler,                      2650
  Which strikes my fancy with most ugly shapes.
  I durst not rest a-darkness for a dolour,
  Without a pillow-friend to scare those apes:
    Let Cloe with conceits my spirits wing,
    Or melancholy will my requiem sing.'

  'You shall,' says she, 'have Sesamoidesse.
  For all entreats are of too dull a print.

  We must respect your father's worthiness,
  His honour must your love and passions stint,
    And your own worth must highly be regarded,                    2660
    How shall I else expect to be rewarded?'

  Then did she take her by the tender hand,
  And led her to her grot in princely state.
  She feared not much, nor did her will withstand,
  Judging divorcement was her harshest fate;
    But when she saw the entrance was so narrow
    A sudden fear did eat up all her marrow.

  Pazzella, viewing her supposèd lass,
  Repented her of her intended ills;
  But injuries engraven are on brass,                              2670
  And women's jointures are to have their wills.
    And lest remorse should chill her angry mood,
    Fuel was added by the brotherhood.

  'Then,' says she, 'madam, you behold the cage
  Which I preparèd for your honour's good,
  Where you may spend the autumn of your age.
  Till age and winter have congealed your blood.
    You may retire to ease: for envy can
    Nor dares to say you're not an able man.

  When twice ten circled snakes are crawled away,                  2680
  You shall enjoy companions masculine,
  To give instructions in that youthful play
  Is fed with Ceres and the god of wine.
    And, if my virgins shall hereafter be
    Lascivious given, I will send for thee.'

  Into this coven was Felice thrust,
  With bars and locks the entrance sealèd fast,
  Now must he pay a dear rate for his lust,
  His curtain-vezzo, and the coral taste.
    Sure his repentance will be full as dear                       2690
    As the philosopher's _non tanti_ were.

  Ah, foppish monk! did not Bellama's 'no'
  Give thee a warning-piece presaging danger,
  But thou must headlong rush upon thy woe?
  Happy's that man which is to lust a stranger!
    If this of dalliance is the constant fee,
    Let them d----dally that do list, for me.

  Here, when the barking star his sceptre waved,
  When in our clime we feel an Ethiope's heat,
  An undervault the subtil matron paved,                           2700
  With fire and flame to force a constant sweat,
    That, as from flowers hot limbecks water 'still,
    So by this stove from him sweat-currents drill.

  Then, for the winter season she provided
  A melting cloud full fraught with feath'red rain
  (Whose curious art the air-borne clouds derided),
  Which through some oillet holes might passage gain.
    His cabin should have been, like Alps' cold height,
    Mantled and strewèd o'er with winter's white.

  And 'twas so dark, I cannot see to write.                        2710
  Nay, at a nonplus it all pencils sets.
  'Twas hell's epitome, the cage of night,
  Walled in with pitch and roofed o'er with jets.
    The lynx at midday here would wish for day,
    And cats without a torch must grope their way.

  But leave him labyrinthed and thus distressed,
  And see Bellama, and examine how
  She brooks the absence of her bosom-guest,
  If discontent does revel on her brow.
    It does: for why, she dreams and never sleeps,                 2720
    She feeds and fats not, laughs, but ever weeps.

  'Disaster hangs upon Albino gyves,'
  Says she, 'else Envy keeps him prisoner,
  Or a new bull does interdict them wives,
  So seals the lips of my petitioner.
    Else the smirk knave is so devout in pray'r,
    He has no time to kiss the common air.

  But does he love? or is 't a fit of mirth,
  Which, like to children's fancies, soon expire
  Ere language or employment give them birth,                      2730
  Flashing affections, aged like thunder-fire?
    His eyes shot Cupids at my yielding heart,
    But his firm breast repelled my feeble dart.

  Perchance he judged my forwardness to love,
  By too much court'sy, and my frequent glances.
  So thought in jest my willingness to prove,
  Not with that sober passion which entrances;
    But with lip-love, which to the heart ne'er sinks,
    And paper-vows which take their birth from inks.

  But stay: does greatness use to be denied?                       2740
  Beauty and bravery command a grant.
  Yet might my looks and carriage plumed with pride
  His humble and untow'ring spirit daunt.
    Daunt? no: his soul's a temper most divine,
    Dares soar aloft to kiss the sun's near shine.

  Then love he does: but must this action, woo,
  Be tied by patent only unto men?
  Some unfrequented paths of love I'll go,
  And in some riddles court him by my pen.
    Yet first to th' abbey I'll dispatch a post,                   2750
    To make inquiry where my monk doth host.'

  The merchant is not with desires so big,
  When as he ploughs the sea for Indian mines;
  With slower steps the sons of Bacchus trig
  To sack-shops for the French and Spanish wines;
    Than she to Tagus bids her servant go
    To Croftfull Abbey where her wishes grow.

  Gone is the messenger: but small success
  Waits on his travels, for he back returns
  With, 'Madam, where Albino's none can guess.                     2760
  They think his ashes are enclosed in urns.
    For time, say they, has counted fortnights many,
    Since his choice feature object was to any.'

  This answer shot an hailstorm at her heart,
  Whose sudden chillness jellied all her blood,
  Sh' applièd Holco to unscrew the dart,
  But her assayments brought her little good.
    For, but Albino, none can cure her ill,
    Not physic potions, or the druggard's skill.

  'Ah me! has Fate my dear Albino ta'en?                           2770
  Then farewell music, and you sprucing trade;
  Either my tears shall body him again,
  Or send my ghost to wait upon his shade.
    For she is judged a light unconstant lover,
    Whose flame the ashes of neglect can cover.'

  Have you beheld how, when the moors and marsh
  Belch vapours to blemish bright Titan's eye,
  They with his rays wage conflicts long and harsh,
  Confining them unto their proper sky
    (Bribèd perchance by envious night to wrap                     2780
    Day and his champion in his sooty lap).

  So that to us appears nor sun nor day,
  And only faith persuades us there is both,
  Till day and sun call in each straggling ray,
  And force a passage, spite of fume and froth:
    Yet then the day but newly seems to dawn,
    And o'er the sun a veil of cypress drawn.

  Just so diseasing sorrow, armed with tears,
  Sighs, and black melancholy veiled her face;
  So that no ray of loveliness appears,                            2790
  And only faith persuades us she has grace.
    Her eyes retired, her double blush was wanned,
    Her locks dissevered, and her lilies tanned.

  And as, in her which arted looks does wear,
  Men look for nature's steps, and cannot trace her;
  Since she, by nature nothing less than fair,
  Hath purchased from the shops such worth to grace her;
    Though foul, now fair and sleek, though age did plough
    And made long furrows in her cheek and brow.

  So knowledge here was in a maze: the eye,                        2800
  That knew Bellama, did Bellama seek,
  And, looking on her, nothing could descry
  Spake her Bellama, or in eye or cheek.
    To love's harsh laws she gave such constant duty,
    Sh'ad only left an anagram of beauty.

  She threw herself upon her couch of ease,
  And marshalled all her thoughts in just arrays;
  This brought small comfort, that did hardly please,
  And in that thought despair the sceptre sways.
    Yet thought she not death could a period set,                  2810
    Unless he did some strange advantage get.

  'He's young and lusty: every vein does swell
  With aqua-vitae, coral juice of life;
  His skill in magic else can frame a spell
  To distance meagre death and Atrop's knife.
    Yet love gives birth to fear: I'll send to search
    The lion's flinty bed, and vulture's perch.

  I and my woman will attend the quest,
  Veiled in disguises of some country lasses;
  No state-distinction, for my humble breast                       2820
  Shall leave all pride with silks, perfumes, and glasses;
    And, if with _non inventus_ we return,
    I'll Venus' witchcraft hate and Cupid spurn.'

  When as the sovereign of the day had drawn
  A veil of brightness o'er the twinkling lamps,
  And threw on Cynthia's brow a double lawn,
  Clearing the welkin from benighting damps,
    They in the habits of a milking maid
    (All but skin-linen) did their beauties shade.

  And in these coarse attires they hasted out                      2830
  To seek Albino through each wood and plain,
  Whom we will leave to pace the world about
  And see Felice, wet with eye-lid rain,
    Whose bondage was the greater, since despair
    Blasted all hopes which promised her the air.

  The brazen bull, strappado, or the rack,
  The faggot-torture, and the piked barrell,
  Balanced with his, degrees of sorrow lack:
  'Tis with a bulrush to decide a quarrel.
    The famine wherewithal the Thracian knight                     2840
    Was sent to Pluto wants a little weight.

  He that stole fire fro' th' chariot of the Sun,
  Whose liver's vulture-gnawn at Caucasus;
  He that the counsels of the gods unspun,
  Like wanton's eyes, stone-rolling Sisyphus;
    Hold best proportion with these sharp'ned woes,
    Which stern misfortune on Felice throws.

  She, that was glutted with most curious cates,
  Had every pleasure to content her lust,
  Who had command o'er Fortune and the Fates,                      2850
  Now sups up pulse and gnaws a fleecèd crust.
    She that had many girls is now alone,
    And of so many cannot compass one.

  Had I a fancy steeped in sorrow's brine,
  Invention witty in the threnes of woe;
  Could sad experience dictate every line,
  A dearth of words would to my muse say 'No'.
    I may as well go fathom all the spheres
    As measure her disasters, count her tears.

  Oft on remembrance of that harmless bliss,                       2860
  Which (copèd) she enjoyed, her thoughts would feed,
  Oft on Bellama's beauty, touch and kiss,
  Till strucken dead with thought of present need.
    Then would she raise her thoughts, and hope for day,
    And starting up from silence boldly say:

  'Despite of Envy's vipers, tricks, and wiles,
  My cradle-playmate, Mirth, I'll ne'er forsake,
  But taste Sardinian herbs shall raise up smiles,
  Though I was wafting o'er the Stygian lake.
    Tortures shall ne'er unman me; but I'll be                     2870
    Albino, Malice, 'spite of her and thee.

  Delays ofttimes, from time's secluded parts,
  Bring help to helpless not expecting aid;
  Some of the gods will pity these my smarts,
  Not suffer them to whet the sexton's spade.
    Or if the gods--'midst flames then scorpion-like
    I'll gore my breast, and fall on mine own pike.

  Yet had I suff'red for a courteous one,
  These woes should ne'er had power t' have raised a sorrow
  But when mine eyes did in my breast enthrone                     2880
  Her--her of whom hell cruelty may borrow.
    This is the height of woe, death, and diseases,
    Nay, hell itself to this comparèd pleases.

  Yet stay, say Neptune's palace shall be land,
  And this firm ball of earth a liquid brack;
  Say the North Pole with Phoebus shall be tanned,
  And to the South the lilies shall be black.
    Say this, and more, before thou dare to say
    Bellama is _Màboun'_ or _Mà bellà_.'

  No more of this: we'll for her freedom plot.                     2890
  A pious monk, perceiving well her smart,
  With diligence assayed to purge each spot
  With holy cruse from her diviner part.
    But still her answer was--nor man, nor lover,
    Nor she the virgin's ankles did discover.

  'Alas! my brother I am not a male,
  But a weak sience of the weaker sex.
  The ladies spake the truth (might truth prevail)
  But me with torture Piazell' doth vex;
    'Cause, at my entrance, I did promise fair;                    2900
    Yet 't proves court-language, merely, purely, air.

  But all this time she would not licence deign
  That I three yards behind should leave the gates,
  And fumèd when I would have left her train,
  T' have sought a jewel, and to gather dates.
    So that the Duke my father ne'er had ken
    Of my encloist'ring in this hate-light den.

  But, 'gainst it now resolving, I intend
  To turn the stream of his munificence
  On you, dear brother, if you'll be my friend,                    2910
  And plot how I may be delivered hence.
    Lend your endeavours: and I'll lend my wit,
    Vow faithfulness, and I will warrant it.

  I'll woo my father for his free assent,
  If to your barren cowl you'll bid farewell,
  That Hymen's rites may perfect our content,
  By joyful echoes of the marriage bell.
    'Cause you in person do resemble him
    Whom 'mongst all men I only judgèd trim.'

  The monk gave ear unto her winning prate                         2920
  And gazèd on her beauty masculine,
  Whose feature might delude a wiser pate,
  Assisted only by a tallow-shine.
    (For by an unctious salve she kept her chin
    From the hair-mantle of an agèd skin.)

  'Madam', says he, 'I judge your language true,
  And to your vows I dare my credence lace:
  Your virgin-blushes innocence do show,
  And modesty is printed on your face.
    Faith, truth, and honesty reside with me:                      2930
    My best endeavours shall your servants be.'

  'Well,' says Felice, 'I have now decreed
  (Since Phoebus has forsook our hemisphere),
  To sheath my body in your holy weed,
  Then through the private walk my course will steer.
    So from your holy walls I'll take my flight,
    Or by permission, or in silent night.

  And when I am arrived at Folco's towers,
  My father shall your matchless kindness know,
  Who, I am sure, will summon all his powers                       2940
  To fetch thee from this house of flame and snow:
    And who with much contentment will not brook
    Some three days' penance to be made a duke?

  For, by inheritance, the dukedom's mine
  When death unbody shall my father's soul.
  Since no heir-male's descended from our line,
  The Salic law cannot my right control.
    And, to assure thee that I'm only thine,
    I swear by all the powers that are divine.'

  Then did she circle with ensphering arm                          2950
  Conrado's neck and amorously him lipp'd,
  Which did the amorist so strongly charm
  That he with haste out of his vestments skipped,
    And bade Felice change: for in good deed
    He should full well become her virgin weed.

  Felice undressed, and dressed, and having made
  Herself a monk, put on Conrado's face,
  And some few minutes with her monkship played,
  Then gave a farewell to that hated place.
    But ere her quick dispatch could post her thence               2960
    Her beauty shot a fire through every sense.

  Fear now exiled the confidence he tied,
  Forced by affection, to Felice's words,
  Revoked his promise now,--all aid denied;
  And, with majestic looks and gesture's lords
    His flaming lust dissolved his pious snow,
    And now his loud desires will have no 'No'.

  But vows to disenclothe her and to break
  Her virgin-seal despite of force or smiles,
  Till Folco strove and made his noddle leak                       2970
  Sardonic liquor to new-paint the tiles,
    So hasted out, and to the matron gave
    The iron porter of Conrado's grave.

  Imping his haste, he threads the vaulted lane,
  Not wounded by his soles this many a day,
  Like those which, when arraigned, a pardon gain
  Dare neither at the jail nor gallows stay.
    And coming to the postern gate he knocked,
    Which at devotion time was always locked.

  But when the last Amen had silenced prayer,                      2980
  The porter to Albino entrance gave;
  Who straight was brought unto the judgement chair,
  Where, furred with state, did sit the abbot grave.
    Who said, 'Conrade, why was your stay so long?
    You missed the manna of the evensong.'

  Pseudo-Conrado answered him, 'My lord,
  I found Felice so oppressed with grief,
  That charity commanded me t'afford
  By learning, prayers, and anthems, some relief.
    And truly on my faith I am persuaded                           2990
    A virgin-lady with these weeds is shaded.

  I, moved to pity by her streaming tears,--
  Her sighing gales, loud threnes, and sad laments,
  Won by her beauty, and her tender years,
  Have promised aid, confirmed by your assents,
    And in all haste will tell her father's grace
    What clouds of woe bemist Felice's face.

  She promised me when as her freedom's sealed,
  When she shall re-enjoy the glorious light,
  When the sad sentence of her woe's repealed                      3000
  She will be mine in spite of envy's might.
    Nay more, she from the dukedom will extract
    Some lordships to perform a pious act.'

  Forthwith, a synod of the holy men
  Was called to broach the wisdom of their pates.
  The questions were proposed--"Who? What? and When?
  The 'who', is Folco's daughter; 'what', estates;
    The 'when', so soon as she, by Folco's powers,
    Shall shell her body in proud Gurby's towers.

  This answer smelt of profit, and did gain                        3010
  The abbot's liking, and his griping crew.
  Says he, 'Conrado, true content does reign
  And triumph in our thoughts: we yield to you.
    Success wait on thy voice: for to thy care
    Our wishes, hopes, desires, entrusted are.'

  'Fear not,' quoth he, 'my faith dares warrant all.
  All things are real as my words are true.
  Myself will pace unto fair Gurby hall,
  And with emphatic language plead and sue:
    So that old Folco's lungs shall crack with laughter            3020
    To hear me chat the travails of his daughter.

  First she, mistrusting that she should be forc'd,
  By his proud nod, unto a hated pillow,
  From folly, Folco, folk, herself divorced,
  To twist, for scornèd maids, some wreaths of willow.
    How zealously she prayed, and looked demurely!
    She is, in thought and word, a virgin surely.

  But the conceit is this--Who bridles laughter,
  That virgins holy, pure, and nuns to boot,
  Should thicken with the pills of Folco's daughter,               3030
  Sing lullabies, and to Lucina hoot?
    T' increase the wonder then, and imp his pleasures,
    To Folco I'll present these waggish measures.'


      _Behold, admire, and some contentment gather_
      _From nuns that teem, manned by a virgin-father._

  Wonder and admiration cease to gaze
  On flashing meteors, stars, and comets' blaze.
  Let not Vitruvius or th' Ichonian beast,
  Putzol or Etna slide into your breast.
  Ope not your ears unto those cracks of thunder,                  3040
  Whose cannon-echoes split the orbs in sunder.
  Lend not your audience to those fond reports
  Of Ob'ron, Mabell, and their fairy sports,
  Nor tie your credence to the poet's pen
  Which writes the noble acts of warlike men,
  Of monsters, mooncalves, merry games, and masks,
  Atlas' stiff shoulders, and Alcides' tasks.
  Amazement flies these babbles, and does pin
  Faith, eyes, and thoughts, unto this curtain-sin;
  That a pure virgin should unvirgin others,                       3050
  And, though a virgin, yet make many mothers;
  Make them heave up, be qualmish, pale, and cry
  'A midwife (ho!) a midwife: else we die.'
  It is an Afric crow, a sable swan,
  To have a vestal puffèd up with man:
  But that so many nuns unmaidened are
  B' a nun without a man is more than rare.
  The Sybil's virgin is not worth a rush,
  And Merlin's mother may with envy blush.
  These, though they soared above the pitch of reason,             3060
  Yet crossed not nature's order, course, or season.
  For women teemed as women, but a woman
  As man, makes virgins teem, and yet is no man.
  This--this is object unto fame and wonder,
  Then make each clime with this _Mirandum_ thunder.


  About this time night summoned them to rest,
  And each repairèd to his sturdy bed.
  Albino's fears his hopes and joys suppressed;
  But, in the rest, content struck sorrow dead.
    They slept until the bright enlight'ned air,                   3070
    With silver glitter, called them up to prayer.

  But our Albin' took earlier leave of sleep,
  And sheathed his body in his monkish vests;
  Knocked at his lodge, which did the entrance keep,
  Who that he could not wake himself protests:
    'Thou art some fury, hag, or Hob I trow,
    That boldly at my lodge dost thunder so.'

  Albino says, 'What frenzy damps thy reason?
  Arise, my haste commands a frequent rap.'
  'Begone,' quoth he, 'entreats are out of season.                 3080
  Worshipful Hob, I'll have another nap.
    'Tis not mine hour to rise until I hear
    The clapper sound a _surge_ in mine ear.'

  When our young monk had many minutes spent,
  And could not Foppo from his pillow rear,
  About that time light's charioteer had sent
  Day's trusty harbinger his orb to clear.
    He searched the walls, and trafficked with the lock;
    But all in vain, he must implore the frock.

  The chapel-clerk, as constant to his hour                        3090
  As is day's herald which at breaking crows,
  Seeing Aurora did his windows scour
  And leapt into his chamber, straight arose:
    Making the shrill-toned bell in echoes speak,
    'Awake and rise to prayer, the day does break.'

  Foppo was at that time in Morpheus' court,
  Where he with apparitions was affrighted;
  The scene was changed, then came a dainty sport,
  Whose sudden neatness every sense delighted;
    Then dreamt Albine, their renegado monk                        3100
    Was knocking at his lodge, the other _Nunc_.

  Then dreamt he saw a table richly spread
  With all the dainties riot ever felt;
  All birds of warrant which in woods are bred,
  With salmon, mullet, turbot, trout, and smelt:
    The princely-pacing deer, entombed in paste,
    Embalmed with spices to delight the taste.

  A sparkling wine, drawn newly from the cheek
  Of some chaste fair which blushes coloured red,
  With brisk canary and enlivening Greek,                          3110
  Poetic sherry which can sharpen lead--
    This ravish'd Foppo with a taste content,
    Till to his ear the bell an errand sent.

  When, starting up, he deemed the bell did call
  His able stomach to a founder's feast,
  And with all speed was swogging to the hall,
  But that Albino stayed him by the crest,
    And lew-warm claret from his hogshead drew
    To make his stomach give the deer adieu.

  Quoth he, 'Thou son of Somnus, drowsy slave!                     3120
  Why didst thou not at my loud summons rise?
  But in a fit of lunacy did rave
  As though thy wit had ta'en some new disguise?
    I'll be your Hob, your hag: and, though I'm loath,
    Will now chastise thee for thy feignèd sloth.'

  But whilst his passion took a breathing space,
  The wak'ned porter from his fists did creep,
  Fixèd his goggles on his youthful face,
  And then rememb'red his prophetic sleep.
    Tells him he's not Conrado; for he knows                       3130
    That brow, those cheeks, lips, eyes, Albino owes.

  'And though your wrath should grind me unto powder,
  Without a warrant, I will ope no gate.'
  This answer made Albino's anger louder,
  And vowed a passage, bought at any rate.
    So leapt upon the slave with nimble strength,
    And measured on the earth his ugly length.

  Albino hastes to th' postern; having got
  The keys, but 'mongst so many much was puzzled
  To find the right; Foppo meanwhile did trot                      3140
  Unto some chambers where the shavelings nuzzled,
    And them with outcries raisèd to surprise
    Albino, larvèd in Conrado's guise.

  Like penancers with linen on their backs,
  The baldpates ran to seize upon their prey;
  But yet their haste a semi-moment lacks:
  Albino through the gate had found a way.
    And, snatching out the keys, did them encage,
    Raising a bulwark to withstand their rage.

  Then thanked his stars that thus delivered him                   3150
  From dangers which did threaten naught but death.
  For he by th' verge of _Mare mort_ did swim,
  And did expect his latest gale to breath.
    Nay, these late troubles had him so dishearted
    That every shadow 'lmost the union parted.

  You, whose disasters some proportion hold,
  Help my weak fancy to express his fears;
  Teach me my rhymes in cypress to enfold,
  From thwarted lovers borrow me some tears;
    Fetch me some groans from the ascending thief;                 3160
    And from the Inquisition fetch me grief.

  Without demurs, Albino left the wicket,
  Fearing the monks should bribe the faithless lock,
  And steered his course unto a well-grown thicket,
  Whose lofty hill was armed with many a rock.
    He envies sculls that wait on spit and oven,
    And vows ne'er more to see that hated coven.

  Have you beheld the stately-pacing stag,
  Flying the echoes of some deep-mouthed hounds?
  How first his brow does wear a ferny flag,                       3170
  And with curvettings beats the quaking ground;
    Telling the fawns and wood-nymphs that he scorns
    The hounds, horse, huntsmen, and their warbling horns.

  But when he is embossed in blood and sweat,
  When travail on his swiftness fetters hangs,
  He then is frighted with the shrill recheat,
  And fears a pinking with the yellers' fangs.
    Seeks ev'rywhere for shelter, and dares rush
    Malèd with fear, into the sharpest bush.

  So fared it with Albino: whilst he had                           3180
  Fate at a beck, commanded Fortune's wheel,
  Was callèd by his Donnes, active lad,
  He thought his joys were wallèd in with steel,
    Slighted misfortune, envy set at naught,
    And, braving malice, dared in every thought.

  But when his tow'ring heart was taught to know
  Humiliation, and self-confidence
  Was strucken dead with famine, flame, and snow;
  Although his genial stars had freed him thence,
    He fears the monkish rabble, and he shrouds                    3190
    Himself in caves, encurtained round with clouds.

  In his dark house he heard a feeble voice,
  Breathed from the corals of some weak'ned maid.
  At first concealment was his better choice,
  Till pity set an edge upon his blade.
    Then guided by the cry, he saw a roister
    Did in his arms perforce a nymph encloister.

  Yet, seeing home-spun russet, stopped his pace;
  Saying, 'By this what honour shall I gain?'
  But in his eye so curious was her face,                          3200
  Though masked and blubbered o'er with brackish rain,
    That he forthwith unsheathed his trusty Turk,
    Called forth that blood which in his veins did lurk.

  So, stepping forward, cries, 'Injurious slave,
  Unto what baseness does thy folly tempt her?'
  Who answered him, 'Fond fool, thy foolish brave
  From my decreèd end shall not exempt her.
    Befriend me, Queen of Cyprus! and in spite
    Of force or fortune, I'll have my delight.'

  'Desist,' Albino says, 'or else I vow,                           3210
  By all those tapers which enrich the night,
  I'll make pale death strew cypress on thy brow.
  And to th' infernal shades thy soul will fright.
    Cease from thy brutish rape, or else prepare
    Thy cursed lungs to draw the Stygian air.'

  Quoth the rude Sylvan, 'I am past that age
  Which with bugbears the foppish nurse does fright.
  Hence, curtain-squire, smock-groom, and urine-page!
  I'll have no testates unto my delight.
    Pack hence with speed, or by Actaeon's head,                   3220
    My weighty falchion shall pronounce thee dead.'

  'Well,' says Albino, 'since thou'lt not desist,
  Prove the adventures of a bloody duel.
  One of our threads fell Atrop's shall untwist,
  For to my rage kind pity lendeth fuel.
    To free a virgin from thy gripping paws
    I judge well pleasing unto nature's laws.'

  They clasp'd their helms, and buckled to their fight,
  'Twixt whom no umpire was but meagre death.
  The woodwards green with Tyrian dye was dight                    3230
  Who now desires a minute's space to breath.
    Albino gave the truce, yet but to breath;
    His valour scorned to crowd into the sheath.

  Then did his nimble sleight and courage show,
  Feigning a stroke, but pointed at his breast,
  Which oped a door whereat his spirits flew,
  And wellnigh set his fainting soul at rest.
    With that th' enfeebled Sylvan weakly cries
    'Hold, hold thy hand! or else Sylvanus dies.'

  'Dost call for mercy,' says Albino, 'now?                        3240
  And all thy thoughts erstwhile triumphant rid?
  I seek not murder, may I save my vow.
  That I should joy in blood my stars forbid.
    I am content the virgin's voice shall seal
    Thy death, or pardon, if thou make appeal.'

  'Fair virgin,' quoth Sylvanus, 'pity is
  The only grace that gives a virgin price.
  Remission crowns a heart with greater bliss,
  Than to hang iron on weak nature's vice.
    The rays of your bright beauty urged desire;                   3250
    Your feature kindled lust, love blowed the fire.'

  The virgin answered, 'I did never suck
  The tiger's dugs, the lioness, and bear,
  Nor from a reeking breast an heart did pluck.
  Never will I in blood with vulture's share.
    But, since submission speaks from voice and knee,
    Kind pity thins the fault, and pardons thee.'

  Then to Albino says, 'Heroic youth,
  May all the blessings which attend on man
  Felicitate thy life; and to buy truth                            3260
  To words, I dare do more than virgins can.
    But, above all, I wish may nature's pride,
    Lilies and roses, intertwine thy bride.

  But yet alas! to recompense by airs
  So large a bounty and so free is poor.
  Yet why may not a spotless virgin's prayers,
  Wing'd with desire, unclasp high heaven's door?
    Accept of this, and if the Fates befriend me,
    These blessings which I wished for shall attend thee.'

  'Nature's sole wonder, beauty's only gem,'                       3270
  Quoth he, 'my valour and my feeble arms
  (If your perfections had not strenght'ned them)
  Could not have freed you from intended harms.
    Ascribe the honour to your matchless face.
    My courage merits not the meanest place.

  Yet had I swum through seas of steaming blood,
  And passed through nitre flames that belch forth lead,
  Had all the Furies armed with vipers stood,
  T' have stopped my passage or pronounced me dead--
    I would have thrown the die my fortune tried,                  3280
    T' have bought you freedom though in crimson dyed.

  For, when mine eyes sent forth the farthest glance,
  To fetch th' idea of your beauty in,
  That very sight my senses did entrance,
  And make my thoughts excuse Sylvanus' sin.
    For sure your quick'ning rays can melt a snow
    On which the winds of age and sorrow blow.

  But why do I upon the Ela raise
  Thy noble worth, and yet intend to woo?
  Since beauty oft displays her plumes at praise,                  3290
  Then by this doing I myself undo.
    But where I virtues find, refined as gold,
    Despair shall never make affections cold.

  Be pleasèd then to think the god of Love
  With gilded arrow has transfixed my heart,
  And let my purple breast your pity move.
  With balsam of regard allay my smart,
    Send thy quick eyes into my breast to see,
    What tortures prick my heart to purchase thee.'

  'Sir, I am grieved,' quoth she, 'you are allied                  3300
  To him whose quiver crowns a lover's wish.
  Else at a twelve-score distance might y' have spied
  You cast your net to mesh a simple fish.
    Your worth and feature does entitle you
    To Cytherea with her silver hue.

  When I, alas! am but an homely maid,
  Born to a spindle and to serve a plough.
  To milk my spongy-teated cows I strayed,
  Which here amongst these tender hazels low.
    My starvèd fortunes cannot think of love,                      3310
    Nor does my envy wound the billing dove.'

  This answer silencèd Albino's hopes,
  Which spake as loud as though they kissed the sheets;
  He in his thoughts commends the quiet copes
  Which taste no sour in hunting after sweets.
  'Alcides' life,' quoth he, 'compared to mine,
  Is trouble-free, spiced with contents divine.

  Fair maid, what hatred frosteth your desires?
  What steams of envy choke bright Venus' lamp?
  Give some kind fuel to maintain my fires,                        3320
  A frown of yours will all my vitals damp.
    Oil o'er my writhled heart, or let me know
    From what black heads these bitter cadents flow.'

  'Your favours, sir, have such commanding power,
  That 'tis unjust your wishes to deny,
  Accursed with all black tempests be that hour
  In which my heart gave credit to mine eye.
    Else would I not have been so much averse
    T' a mind so noble and a feature terse.

  But now alas! myself myself am not,                              3330
  For heartless I my heart have giv'n away:
  An abbey-brother has that treasure got,
  Albino hight--he's Phoebus of my day.
    Your habit speaks you a monk, sir, if you can
    Tell me where I may find that (ah me) man.

  Be pleased,' quoth she, 'to tell me where I may,
  Or go myself, or else a servant send.'
  'Fair maid,' quoth he, 'it is a gloomy way
  Leads to the bed of your benighted friend.
    His ashes are in Darwey Abbey laid,                            3340
    But his faint ghost walks i' th' Elysian shade.'

  'But is he dead?' says she, and loudly shrieked,
  Which waked Narcissus' hate to second her,
  Her rosies dewed with melting crystal reeked,
  And sorrow did her trembling heart inter.
    Symptoms of sad deplorings ne'er were known,
    Which were not in her sharp lamentings shown.

  'Choice maid,' quoth he, 'do not destroy your rosies,
  And blast your beauty with such scalding sighs.
  In nature's garden there are choicer posies,                     3350
  More comely features, and more agile thighs.
    What though Albino's dead? another may
    Be trulier termed the Phoebus of your day.'

  'Oh, do not stain,' says she, 'his spotless name!
  Within his bosom every virtue ranged.
  Equals to him dull nature cannot frame,
  Though she should labour till herself be changed:
    It is a shame to ask more favours yet:
    Grant me this one, because my sun is set.

  My pity saved, when as your fury had                             3360
  The rough-pawed Sylvan mincèd with your skene.
  Oh, with same courage let your mind be clad,
  With your sharp scimitar my liver dreane.
    Why should I be a liver, since he's dead
    Who was my hope, my health, my heart, my head'.

  'How am I chang'd!' quoth he, 'my heart does beat
  The fainting summons of the Child of Sin.
  My knees do quarrel, and a chilling sweat
  Cold as the dew of winter oils my skin.
    Fear snatcheth from my roseate banks their blood,              3370
    And drowns my liver in a sanguine flood.

  'Tis strange a naked breast of bleachèd snow,
  And crystal mounts enriched with coral heads,
  (On which the purple violets do grow)
  Should dare mine arm, and strike my courage dead.
    My steel a breast of iron has unhinged.
    And knees of brass have to my fury cringed.

  Had some vast Gog or he whom Tellus brought--
  One got by Fury or Gradivus' mate--
  Who, but with monsters, ne'er conversed with ought,              3380
  Dared with a look, mine arm had weak'ned Fate.
    But, at this feeble voice my blood does start,
    And into pity melts my swelling heart.

  Then name no more those words: for they at once
  Do both unedge my valour and my steel.
  Too safely do your virtues keep the sconce.
  My steadiest thoughts, struck with these letters, reel.
    My sacrilegious hand shall never stain
    Virtue's sole temple, and the grace's fane.

  Dry up those furrowing cadents. Will you give                    3390
  Your lovely self in marriage unto him,
  If I shall say Albino yours does live,
  And in your view his comely portrait limn?
    Say, aye, to this: and I will try my skill,
    To make him pace along yon craggy hill.'

  ''Tis the countenance which my wishes crave,
  Naught half so sweet,' says she, 'as Hymen's tedes.'
  Albino then the haired earth did shave,
  And hedged two circles in with ropes of beads;
    Then, quart'ring them, did take the virgin's hand,             3400
    And bade her with unshaken courage stand.

  'Thou must not be surpris'd with shivering fear,
  Though Cerberus, the janitor of Hell,
  Though seven-headed Hydra, panther, bear,
  The lion, tiger, or the dragon yell;
    Although a monster spits forth flashing powder,
    Though clouds and winds strive which should bellow louder.'

  This said, with cruse of holy water he
  Besprinkled o'er himself, besprinkled her,
  And zealously did cross: the same did she,                       3410
  Like a devout Romezzo conjurer.
    This done: 'Fair maid,' quoth he, 'if Fates befriend me,
    The servant of your beauty shall attend thee.'

  Then 'gan [he] to invoke, or seem t' invoke,
  With uncouth language the infernal crew--
  'Vitz, Allafoun, Trallasht with elfish poke,
  Trollox and Chimchish, with your grisly hue,
    Gnarzell and Phrizoll which in Styx do wade,
    _Lê portè_ Albino from the Stygian shade.'

  When from his lips these words had ta'en their flight,           3420
  A shuffling whirl-puff roared amongst the trees,
  Th' affrighted leaves took flight, the grass looked white,
  The quaking poplars fell upon their knees.
    Jove's sacred tree stood cringing unto it,
    And bowed his head, else 'twas in sunder split.

  Then, from a breaking cloud, a sheet of fire
  Encircled them, and dashed against an oak,
  Ush'ring a thunder, whose untamed ire
  Like dreadful tyrants naught but terror spoke.
    And as unwilling to depart from them                           3430
    His ireful cracks the trembling grove did hem.

  These, suddenly succeeding so the first,
  And at that instant when he feigned a spell,
  Did make Albino judge himself accursed,
  Thinking his voice unhinged the gates of hell.
    Bellama's rosies wore as white as snow,
    As though the Phyma did upon them blow.

  And justly, for though these but common were,
  Yet at that time when faintness kept the wicket,
  Which at each shadow oped the gate to fear,                      3440
  In that dark place, that unfrequented thicket--
    I blame not though her courage had been colder,
    And in art magic wish Albino bolder.

  But when the storm was passed, his courage got
  The conquest of his fear, made his quick eyes
  Stand sentinel t' advantage more his plot:
  And, looking from the mountain, he espies
    A man descending, as he told the maid,
    Which the loud tempest of his fears allayed.

  Then says, 'Behold the object of your hope'.                     3450
  Away springs she from off that gloomy place,
  Posts to the hill, forsakes her magic cope.
  Meanwhile Albino doffs Conrado's face,
    And set upon his looks Albino's dye;
    So, imped with love, unto the mount did fly.

  Where he espied Bellama rove about
  Crying, 'Albino, dost thou fly from me?'
  The man was but a silly shepherd lout
  That climbed the hill his fleecy train to see.
    And when his eyes had healthed his wealthy flocks,             3460
    Trudged to his cote, walled in with sturdy rocks.

  Albin', encount'ring her, says, 'Lovely maid,
  Was 't your small voice that did Albino call?'
  ''Twas I, poor I', the fainting virgin said,
  'Why was I forced from Rhadamanthus' hall?'
    'Who was 't, quoth he, 'that, with commanding air,
      Snatch'd me forth' arms of Proserpina fair?'

  'It was a courteous monk,' quoth she, 'whom I
  Humbly entreated to deliver thee.'
  'Alas! sweet maid,' quoth he, 'Fates do deny                     3470
  Freedom from thence, nor can I pay the fee.
    'Fee!' says she, 'fear not: if an earldom can
    Purchase thy freedom, I will give it, man.'

  'Thou canst not ransom one from Pluto's jail,
  Shouldst thou lay down the gaudy triple crown;
  With steely-hearted Fate naught can prevail,
  On whose harsh brow there ever dwells a frown.
    Speak fair, thy business: for I must begone,
    Grim Charon waits for me at Acheron.'

  'Ah me,' quoth she, 'and is it truth I hear?                     3480
  Then, dear Albino, I will wait on thee.'
  'You're like to find', quoth he, 'but homely cheer,
  If in my diet you partake with me.'
    'Famine's a favour unto me,' says she,
    'Bridewell a bride-house, if I live with thee.

  But, prithee, what is Rhadamanthus fell,
  And she whom thou didst Proserpina call?'
  'Sweetest,' quoth he, 'he is the judge of hell,
  That dooms us tortures, or does us enthral.
    For, if our innocence do plead for us,                         3490
    We're led t' Elysium from dark Erebus.

  That other was the Thracian harper-mate,
  Whom Pluto forced unto his gloomy house,
  His devilship with smiles to recreate,
  Full bowls of his nepenthe to carouse.'
    'I'm glad I know', quoth she, 'for jealous fears
    Unto my heart did travel from my ears.'

  'Why, lovely maid, did ever I behold
  Before this time', quoth he, 'your comely face?'
  'How! dear Albino, must you now be told                          3500
  Who your Bellama is? 'tis high disgrace.
    Sure you of Lethe's streams have deeply drank,
    Which doth the powers of your mind disrank.'

  'Ha!' quoth Albino, 'can my dullness think
  That homely russets my Bellama veil?
  I deeply of oblivion sure did drink,
  Did I not know her from a milking pail.
    Peace, pretty fair, do not my saints profane,
    Her beauty has not such coarse lodging ta'en.'

  'Well,' quoth Bellama, 'will you me discard,                     3510
  When for your sake I've run through all disasters?
  Must slights and _nescios_ now be my reward?
  Will you make ulcers, and apply no plasters?
    Clothed in this coarse array, I roved abroad
    To find the place of thy secure abode.'

  'Sweet,' says Albino, 'let not anger dress
  Thy stainless lilies in distraction's dye.
  Let ignorance plead pardon, for I guess
  Some other beauties may "Albino" cry.
    Might now a ghost permitted be to kiss,                        3520
    My lips should suck from thine a cherry-bliss.'

  'Why,' says Bellama, 'has a ghost no lips?
  Is there no pleasure dwells in spirits' veins?
  This "might a ghost" does all my joys eclipse,
  For now I have my labour for my pains.
    Pray, what was Merlin's father? is 't not said
    Spirits have power a damsel to unmaid?'

  These words, proceeding from Bellama's lips,
  Did make Albino myrrhine juice carouse,
  To raise an active heat, which nimbly skips                      3530
  In every vein like fays in Ob'ron's house.
    But when he was no ghost, and hoped to merit
    Love for love, he found her of another spirit.

  'Away, fond monk!' quoth she, 'dost think that I
  Into a sea of grief will wade with thee?
  And drown my fortunes? make an earldom die?
  Dost think humility resides with me?
    Canst think I'll choose a pebble, slight a pearl,
    Marry a threadbare cowl and scorn an earl?

  What door to thy presumption did I ope?                          3540
  What symptoms of affections did I show?
  What actions gainful birth unto thy hope?
  Or from what vow did thy assurance grow?
    Cease then, for I take it in high disdain,
    To thy coarse worth my smallest ray to chain.'

  'Disdain?' quoth young Albino. 'Can this be
  The voice of my Bellame? Is there such odds?
  If not in birth, in worth I equal thee,
  Although my muse shot love into the gods.
    Disdain's a pitch too high for maids to reach,                 3550
    Scarce will the queen of pride such doctrine teach.

  Presumption too? does he deserve that brand,
  Who dallies with consent, invited to 't?
  What firmer seal than language, lip, and hand?
  What better warrant than desired to do 't?
    Say, he is saucy that, with crusted fists,
    Paws a court-silk, and melts her balmy wrists.

  Who feeted that enigma, whose kind air
  Spake me the only high in thy esteem?
  Was I not bosomed more than parents, fair?                       3560
  Did not thine own voice that saint-secret seem?
    Who bribed your full face-gazings? and what she
    Judged none praise, lip, deserving of but me?

  Did not you in mysterious postures woo me?
  And 'gainst Bardino levied all your spite?
  Nay, by Barraba sent invitements to me?
  And dubbed me by your knot the Red-rose Knight?
    Did not your wish glue feathers on your feet
    To thread a casement when I paced the street?

  And after these, ah! thousand more, and nearer                   3570
  Seals of thy love, must slights unseal your lips?
  A puny mistress-hunter well may fear her,
  When pride at high noon can my sun eclipse.
    Fury! lend me thy poison, Rage! thy breath,
    That I, by pride doomed, may doom beauty death.

  You pale-faced shadows of the gloomy isles,
  Fill up my gall, and lend me all your pow'rs,
  To torture women who, enriched with wiles,
  From their moist eyes send forth dissembling show'rs.
    Would Jove the mount had barren been of stones                 3580
    Whereof old Pyrrha fram'd the female bones!

  Would Sea's daughter, that same queen of faces,
  Her alabaster box would deign to me,
  Once Phao's ferry pay that gave such graces,
  Which till that time the sun did never see.
    That I not only might, as others are,
    Be counted comely, but o' th' fairest fair.

  Then would I sleight those formal tricks of love,
  Those sighs, tears, vows, complaints, and folded arms;
  Caps, cringes, oaths, and compliments to move                    3590
  Th' affections of a girl expecting charms.
    For wealth, wit, wisdom, eloquence, and greatness
    Are less inducements unto love than neatness.'

  'How now? Albino, is your doublet grown
  Too straight', says she, 'that you do puff and swell?
  Peace! peace! let not your choler thus be shown.'
  'A thing impossible', says he, 'you tell.
    In vain we call for peace, and calmness praise,
    When love and hate intestine wars do raise.

  Women have double pupils, so they can                            3600
  Kill like the basilisk but with a glance.
  Their very praise does blast and wither man,
  Like frost and winter, or his soul entrance.
    They're all like Glaucus' wife, whose filthy charms
    Won poor Ulysses to her lustful arms.

  They're Holgoy, Africans, and fiends they are--
  Words know not what they are, they're hell to me--,
  Would Jove I had the Heliostrophio fair,
  To touch all maids, or, if not all, yet thee:
    Or had been born under the Scorpion's head,                    3610
    With amulets t' have struck thy beauty dead.

  Ah! faithless Polupists, that thus can change
  Into an hundred thousand shapes your minds!
  Phoebe to you is constant; tides do range,
  Yet back return; more settled are the winds--
    Mere Pompholyx which with each breath does stray.
    Your loves catch feathers too, and fly away.

  Sometimes a fit of sullens seals your jaws,
  In contemplation big (of Jove knows what),
  And then again, as if your tongues made laws,                    3620
  You weary time with your eternal chat.
    Ah Mantuan! [Mantuan!] thy pen is not a liar,
    Although thy habit says thou wert a friar.

  Erstwhile a sober nun Bellama was,
  Then a Lucretia, at another gale
  I know not what, a straggling country lass,
  A quinque-lettered, 'haps, which set to sale,
    Now, none more willing unto love than she,
    And now more further off from love or me.

  Yet call that hasty language back a while.                       3630
  Bellama is not such, she's Cupid's dart;
  Teach me, great Jove, to make Bellama smile,
  And with one ray sun her Albino's heart.
    Thou purblind boy! teach me to gain Bellama:'
    Straight Echo's voice returned him answer, '_Ama._'

  'Thanks, gentle Echo, might thy voice divine
  Speak truth in this, that love commandeth love.
  I would through every mood and tense decline
  _Amo_, and saint thee too, my joy, my dove!
    Nay, thou shouldst be whate'er fond babblers prate,            3640
    Albino's goddess, though Narcissus' hate.

  Oh! would to Jove I were in courteous France,
  Or else that happy place in France with me,
  That with more tongues thou mightst make _ama_ dance
  Within these silent woods from tree to tree.
    Or would thou hadst imperial power from Jove,
    In the imperious mood to bid her love.'

  Quoth she, 'Unworthy of a conquest's he
  That for a cannon's roar his ensigns veils:
  Unworthy of a rose or rosy glee                                  3650
  Is he, whose courage at her javelins fails:
    They're feeble amorists that for a "fie!"
    Run from their colours, and in silence lie.

  'Tis our prerogative to have entreat
  With every phrase that flatt'ry does enhance,
  To win our loves, though every stroke they beat,
  Our hearts beat Cupid's march, tune Venus' dance.
    In their desires they never yet did perish
    Which feed our humours, and our passions cherish.

  To prove the truth of thy affections, I                          3660
  Shot forth that language, headed with disdain.
  My heart is thine which, till death close mine eye
  With steely thumb, thy bosom shall retain.
    Caesar's proud nod shall not command that bliss
    Whose sweets are promised by this melting kiss.'

  'Ha!' quoth Albino, 'dare I trust mine ears
  With this blest air? And am I sure I wake?
  Or is 't a dream which wakeneth into tears?
  'Tis truth: then crawl hence, Furies, toad, and snake!
    The earth her mines, sea vomit shall their pearl,              3670
    Ere I leave her, who for me left an earl.'

  Then sate they dallying in a shady bow'r,
  Where maples, ash, and thorn did them embrace:
  Whilst her enliv'ning breath produced each flow'r
  In curious knots to damask o'er the place.
    Oh! who would not his soul and substance tenter,
    To be circumference to such a centre?

  Now have our amorists attained the height
  Of true content; and sate like billing doves.
  She tells her quest, he his monastic flight,                     3680
  Whilst both recount their passions, fears, and loves,
    Till Titans hasting to moist Thetis' arms
    Bade them provide against his sister's harms.

  Then, joining heart and hand with easy pace,
  They travelled to a pague adjoining near
  Where in a straw-thatched roof (an homely place
  For such a pair) they entertainèd were,
    And what fine cates old Kath'rine could afford,
    Was served in state unto an aged board.

  Their table with rich damask cloths was spread,                  3690
  Whose every twist outvied the double cable,
  The napkins diaper, of equal thread,
  The mourning trenchers clothèd were in sable.
    A curious salt cut out o' th' boulder stone--
    And for their plate--sincerely there was none.

  The dropsied host like to a sew'r did strut,
  To marshal every dish; and first did bring
  A spacious bowl, to scour the narrow gut,
  Of nut brown ale, a liquor for a king.
    And says, 'My Bona Roba, drink this bowl,                      3700
    'Twill clear thy throat, and cheer thy drooping soul.'

  Next came the mumping hostess and set down
  A lusty dish of milk--sky-coloured blue,
  Crumbed with the ludgets of the lusty brown,
  Which two months since was piping hot and new;
    'Yet 'tis', says she, 'as savoury in good law
    As wheaten trash which crams the ladies' maw.'

  This good old crone was troubled so with wind,
  Her coats did dance to th' music of her belly.
  Next came a barley dumpling whose harsh rind                     3710
  Was oilèd o'er with a fine tallow jelly
    Brought by a mincing Marget, passing trim,
    Whose juicy nose did make the pudding swim.

  Next came some glotrah (which the ploughman flanks
  Joined with a pudding on a holy day)
  Brought by a jetting dame, on whom in ranks
  And discipline of state whole troops did stray
    Of--I forbear to say, lest these rude feet
    With queasy dames and lady readers meet.

  Last, a tough cheese must lock the stomach's door,               3720
  Milked from a cow that fed on naught but burrs,
  Had lain five winters on [a] spongy floor,
  To gain an harness and a coat of furs;
    So neatly peopled too, 'twas judg'd a court,
    Such herds of gentles did about it sport.

  Qualmish Bellama could not eat a bit,
  'Cause luscious meats a surfeit soon provoke.
  Albino vent'red but was fain to spit,
  Lest those harsh viands should his monkship choke.
    And whilst he hawkèd, and Bellama laugh'd,                     3730
    The trumping hostess stole a thumping draught.

  'Are you so dainty-toothèd,' quoth mine host,
  'That country victuals will not down with you?
  You shall be fed with custards, pies, and roast.
  Cannot your chops a boneless pudding chew?
    I trow far worser is than this your fare,
    Unless you kitchen-sculls and lick-spits are.'

  'Ma' gep ma' faw,' the crabbèd hostess said,
  'Let 'em e'en fast if they'll not eat their soul.
  Is not my daughter Maudge as fine a maid?                        3740
  And yet by mack you see she trolls the bowl.
    I've dressed a supper sure has pleasèd those,
    Had wider purses far, and better clothes.'

  'Pray, mother, 'gainst the young mon do not rage,'
  Says full-lipped Madge, 'for he must be your son.
  We are alike in face, of equal age;
  Then ho! the match is soon concluded on.
    Kuss me, my honest Dick, for we this night
    With crickle crackle will the goblins fright.'

  'Mass,' says mine host, 'I like the fellow well.                 3750
  To suckle bairns I'll give him tidy mull,
  And my brown mare as sound as any bell,
  With ten good shear-hogs to afford him wool,
    And, if they please me, after me they shall
    Sell nappy yale within this trusty wall.'

  'Feck,' says mine hostess, 'they shall have a bed
  With good strong sheets to pig together in,
  A brazen pot, a kettle, and a lead,
  Platters, bowls, pails, and an old kilderkin.
    And if they please m' a brace of wheels to spin                3760
    Mantles and clouts to wrap their bantlings in.'

  Our lovers at this pretty talk did smile,
  Then says Albino 'Here is no such haste,
  I like: but yet we'll respite it a while,
  Thou shall be, duck, some three nights longer chaste.
    I'll man my sister at day's next attiring,
    Then back and give my Maudge a curtain spring.'

  When as his yielding had appeased the billows
  Of their loud passions, and their meat digested,
  Night's middle age invited to their pillows,                     3770
  But tell I dare not how the lovers rested,
    Whether co-sheeting was allowed as fit,
    Monastic vows dispensing well with it.

  But this I say, there was but one guest-room,
  Hanged with a pentice cloth spoke age enough;
  The spiders here had one continued loom:
  Here rats and mice did play at blind man's blough.
    Their bed had many tasters, but no tester,
    Their bedding ushered in thin-sided Easter.

  Repentant mattress for chastising Lent,                          3780
  Stout as a face of steel, which ne'er will yield;
  Their sheets were tenants, weekly payed rent,
  The pillow was with juice of noddles steeled,
    And therefore fit to bolster any sin.
    Their coverlet was of a bullock's skin.

  Their urine vessel was of Ticknall make,
  Whose inside was with unshorn vellet clad.
  Their bedstead floated in a springing lake
  Where frogs and newts their rendezvouses had.
    This was their guest-bed, and there was no other,              3790
    Think you Bellama then lodged with her brother?

  No: such pure virtues saint Bellama's breast,
  And such clear sparks of honour heat his soul,
  That such a thought would stain her virgin crest,
  And blur the sacreds of Albino's roll.
    Then die, black thoughts! Bellama's chaste denials
    Repelled all charms of love and Venice-trials.

  Nay, he ne'er tempted, nor attempted once
  To scale the fortress of her virgin-tower,
  For her chaste noes and vows did guard the sconce,               3800
  That 'twas impregnable, not forced by power.
    And, though he did ensphere her naked waist,
    Yet durst my faith and oath conclude her chaste.

  This longing on Albino worked so strong,
  That, when the god of slumbers did entreat
  Him to his court, into his thoughts did throng
  His house of penance, hunger, cold and sweat.
    So powerful was his dream entruthed with fear,
    That his strong faith concluded he was there.

  And in some sort he was, for when the East                       3810
  Was purpled with the blushes of the morn,
  When his benumbèd senses were released
  By the shrill sound of Gallus' bugle horn--
    He heard a sound of words, and looking out,
    He saw a legion of the monkish rout.

  For you must know that, when Albino's wit
  Had won him freedom, and Conrado thrall,
  The jealous matron somewhat fearèd it,
  And the next morning did 'Conrado' call,
    Who (brooking ill his lodging) struck with fear,               3820
    Made answer to the matron's question, 'Here'.

  So, when her eyes suspicion truth had made,
  She asked Conrado how that came to pass,
  Quoth he, 'Credulity my fear o'erswayed,
  I was deluded with the dukedom lass.
    She promised me a dukedom for my pains,
    And I, poor I, thought it sufficient gains!'

  'Ha!' quoth the matron, 'could thy falsehood serve
  Thus to dishonour me, and all my train?
  His penalty is thine; till every nerve                           3830
  Shrink up with famine, thou shalt here remain.
    Time will not measure years ere thou wilt say,
    A dukedom for thy penance is no pay.'

  'Madam,' quoth he, 'my senses were bewitchèd
  With that pure white which dwelt upon her brow;
  I scratched and pinched, but still my humours itchèd,
  I stood upright, but still my heart did bow.
    Who would not twice ten minutes in a brook
    Chin-high and thirsty stand, to be a duke?'

  Quoth she, 'I see that folly oversways,                          3840
  And Venus sovereign is of every sect.
  To beauty every order homage pays,
  Whilst only age and blackness gain neglect.
    I 'xcuse thy frailty--haste unto thy dell--
    The sentence of Felice's flight repell.'

  Conrado thanked her, and away did pack
  (As one reprievèd from the gallow tree
  Still fearing that stern justice plucked him back)
  Lest, Janus-like, her face should changèd be.
    For well he knew the monthly hornèd queen                      3850
    No oft'ner fills her orb than she her spleen.

  He Nature blamed, he could no faster run;
  But, coming to the gate, the porter oped,
  Who, much appalled to see a youthful nun,
  Says, 'Mistress, do you travel to be coped?
    Give me my fee: for sure, a plump-cheeked lass
    Shall not the porter's lodge unkissèd pass.'

  He could not quiet his impatient lust
  Till he had shown the ensigns of his habit;
  His parèd crown, with Venus' rays adust,                         3860
  Then left the mongrel his supposèd rabbit,
    And slinked away from his monastic veil,
    Just like a dog that newly burnt his tail.

  When he had cast his woman, and put on
  The habit of his order, he made haste
  Unto his lord, told him Felice's gone,
  And that his conscience did conclude her chaste.
    'She Folco's large endowments must inherit,
    And promised me to recompense my merit.'

  The prior, smiling at his folly, checked                         3870
  Him for Apella's faith, and said his lass
  Was young Albino in nun-vestments decked.
  '(If that our porter had his double glass),
    And since thy coming cleareth every doubt,
    Harness yourselves to seek the younker out.'

  As the attendants of an hunting prince,
  Intending to disfrank an o'ergrown boar,
  View the impressions of his feet, which, since
  Last eve, were printed on the sandy shore,
    Beating each bush, and in each cabin searching                 3880
    To find his frank, and not the pheasants perching.

  And as when Reynald, with his wily plot,
  Into the squadron of the geese is crept,
  And grandsire Gander on his back has got,
  Th' affrighted geese, like them which watch-tow'rs kept,
    With shrill-toned gabblings wake the slumb'ring towns,
    By Phoebe's candle to go seek the downs--

  Some arm themselves with spits, one with a ladle,
  Some snatch up pickforks, one a bill or knife.
  The ambling nurse runs out and leaves the cradle,                3890
  And the awed midwife flies the teeming wife;
    Old grandsire greybeard his tuff bilbo gets,
    And grandame Grissel with her distaff jets.

  Just so our hair-lack monks pursued their quest,
  Searched for his view, and threaded every grove
  With bells, beads, books, and holy water blest,
  And armed with envy's whips about did rove,
    Their runagado Reynald to surprise,
    And came to Stean ere the sun could rise.

  Which sight unspirited Albino quite,                             3900
  That his invention could not teem a plot;
  For in his looks his fear was writ in white,
  And to his heart his frighted blood did trot.
    Yet, calling courage to appear o' th' stage,
    He sheathed his body in his woven cage.

  Then hasting to the host, bade him awake,
  Desired his counsel and assisting hand,
  Says now his life and safety lay at stake.
  For, at his door, a troop of shavelings stand.
    'I am their errand: I must bid adieu                           3910
    To lovely Maudge, mine hostess, and to you.'

  'Ho!' quoth mine host, and rubbed his gummy eyes,
  'What says my son? Must thou be whirled away?
  I warrant, boy, my club shall still their cries,
  When 'bout their costards I shall make it play.
    I'll dye their stark-nak'd crowns with their own blood,
    Then let 'em come if that they think it good.'

  'Good Sickerlin,' says Maudge, 'ere they shall have
  My honey-sweeten Dick, I'll scratch and bite,
  With scalding water I'll their noddles shave;                    3920
  Then buss me Dick, thy Maudge will for thee fight.'
    'Thanks,' quoth he, 'duck, but yet it cannot be
    That thy endeavours should advantage me.

  But yet methinks I see some comfort dawn:
  Yon tinker's budget strengthens every joint.
  Send me some clothes by time's harsh grinders gnawn,
  And I will be a tinker in each point.
    My sister must have rags; and be my trull.
    Thus veiled and clothed we will the shavelings gull.'

  Accoutred in these robes of state, he made                       3930
  His face and hands in sooty vestures mourn.
  Then waked Bellama, who was sore afraid
  To see a tinker, and away does turn.
    But grasping only air she shrilly cried,
    'Art fled, Albino, from thy sweetheart's side?'

  Which words, so shrilly spoke, made Echo babble;
  Who, winged with envy, out o' th' window flies,
  Carries 'Albino' to the monkish rabble,
  They, hearing that, Perduers made their eyes
    And, swelled with rage, against the door did knock,            3940
    Whose aged breast could not endure the shock.

  This stroke Albino's heart did almost break,
  Yet bids Bellama sheath her body in
  These homely rags, which only safety speak.
  'Care not for coarseness, so they hide the skin,
    And at this tinker's habit do not wonder,
    'Tis but the curtain thy Albino's under.'

  'What tipsied fellows at my door do beat
  Thus early,' quoth mine host, 'is this your manners?
  What? must mine hostess wait upon th' entreat                    3950
  Of tailors, cobblers, carpenters, and tanners?
    If drinking be your errand, where ye got
    Your last night's fuddling-cap, this morning trot.'

  Impatient they did make the door unhinge,
  Which gave an entrance to enraged Bardino.
  He to the reverend host did lowly cringe,
  Told him his errand was to seek Albino.
    And as they did his homely cottage hem,
    Albino's name came leaping unto them.

  'Ho!' quoth mine host, 'unto mine house there came,              3960
  Last night for lodging, a stout tinker knave,
  Who now is ticking with his ragged dame.
  Go, if with him ye any business have;
    But who Albino is I cannot tell.
    Here's no sike mon does penance in my cell.'

  Into the arras-ceilèd parlour then,
  The copesters went, in every corner snooked,
  The tinker's visage none of them did ken,
  But for Albino on Albino looked.
    Well might he cozen them, whenas his saint                     3970
    Knew not his face under that mask of paint.

  Then as they searchèd every place by chance
  Conrado did his monkish vestments own
  He lent Felice at their affiance.
  The host, perceiving that the clothes were known,
    Said, 'Yesterday, about the after three,
    A fellow came and pawned those clothes to me.'

  They asked Bellama then why she did call
  Upon Albino. 'Why, forsooth,' said she,
  'I was a servant once in Darwey Hall,                            3980
  Where that young monk I oftentimes did see;
    Who oft in private would disport with me,
    And promised that I should his sweeting be.

  But, by misfortune being turned away,
  This jovial tinker took me unto wife,
  So, as this morn by his warm side I lay,
  I of Albino dreamed--my joy, my life.'
    'He's not thy mon,' quoth Maudge; 'thou li'st, base drab':
    'Peace, housewife,' says mine host, 'you tattling blab.'

  Thus had the scene been changed, had not the sire                3990
  Suppressed her babblings with a check and grin.
  The monks, well satisfied, gang to the fire
  To taste the juice of Kate's old kilderkin.
    The tinker and mine host would always cry,
    'Fill, hostess, fill! the monks are still a-dry.'


_Canzone._

  Drink full ones, tinker, methinks the monks are dry,
  Drink healths, mine host, the monks do fear a thirst.
  Are the monks thirsty? the monks will quickly try
  If they or the tinker want a pillow first.
    Else will we jig and hay unto the black pot's sound,           4000
    Till to that music the house shall dance the round.

  Then fill a dozen, hostess, we'll have a merry cup,
  And make the tinker forfeit his budget and his brass.
  'Faith,' says the tinker, 'I'll make your monkships sup
  Till ye sing requiems in reading of the mass.'
    Then fill a gallon, hostess, we'll health it all about,
    Till all complain o' th' headache, the falling, or the gout.

  Come on, dropping shavelings, let's see you count your beads,
  I am half afraid you'll stutter in the mass.
  Gramercy, lovely pots, and nimble Ganymedes,                     4010
  That brought more water than what holy was.
    Well, saucy tinker, well, pray finger you your brass,
    And let the monks alone, 'lone, they'll finger well the mass.

  Pray, Gaffer Cowlists, why are ye so bald
  To cool your _pia maters_ in a sweat?
  Or did the water your wise noddles scald,
  Which your devotions and hot zeal did heat?
    Or are ye given unto Venus play?
    I am afraid there went the hair away.

  But base Bardino did this mirth eclipse                          4020
  (In his monastic life Albino's friend),
  Viewing the travail of his hand, his lips,
  He, by a secret mark, Albino kenned.
    For, by some strange mishap, was set a brand,
    An azure spot upon his abler hand.

  Says he, 'Methinks you are too frolic, tinker,
  Your mirth I fear presageth your disgrace,
  You must no longer be mine hostess' skinker,
  For you will say, unless y' have brazed your face--
    That you both see and do Albino know:                          4030
    If you deny 't, I have your hand to show.

  During the time that you were cowled and coped,
  On your right hand there dwelt a cerule mark,
  Which ne'er would off, although 'twas often soaped.'
  'Well,' quoth mine host, 'but pray your worship, hark,
    May not two men be like? may there not be
    The selfsame spot of him, and you, and me?'

  This could not yet appease Bardino's hate,
  Still teeming mischief, and with envy big;
  So, starting up, he fumed, and loud did prate,                   4040
  And snatchèd off Albino's periwig.
    Now 'gainst two witnesses he could not stand,
    Whenas his head bore witness with his hand.

  Albino excused, it was by nature so,
  Saying no razor e'er did touch his skull.
  'No,' says Bardino, 'it again does grow;
  Thou canst not with this fop my wisdom gull.
    Keep him, my brethren, and meanwhile I will
    Fetch the watch-beggar and his rusty bill.'

  Bellama did meanwhile what language can,                         4050
  With oilèd words and pity-pleading tears,
  Beseeching these to free her weddèd man.
  But to her voice they cottoned had their ears,
    Until an Angel did appear unto them,
    And with his goldy looks and music woo them.

  Then did they yield to let them go away,
  And they meantime would feign a deading sleep.
  They for a second licence would not stay,
  But hasting out along the ditches creep.
    And as they went a raddle-man they meet,                       4060
    Whom with kind airs and highway phrase they greet.

  And, greeting past, Albino did require
  To change apparel with him, and his trade,
  Giving him cash to hasten his desire.
  'With all my heart,' the raddle-younker said
    (Ne'er questioning the cause); 'yet, by the mass,
    My dames will say I am a podging ass.'

  Thus changed they clothes and budgets: then with lead
  On the new tinker's hand Albino made
  A mark like his, to gull his envious bead.                       4070
  With raddle-crimson then, fit for his trade,
    He clothed his face, and gave Bellama some,
    So trudged away, for fear the monk should come.

  Have you beheld a hound in sudden fright,
  Whom powder feared, or else the staff did beat,
  How oft he turns, and looks, yet keeps on flight?
  So they, with glancing eyes, would oft retreat,
    Yet movèd forward still as in a ship
    The pilots backward look, yet forward skip.

  But our new tinker, swellèd with content,                        4080
  Fearing no colours, to the town did pass,
  Crying, as he along the hamlet went,
  'Ha y' any need ho! of a tinker's brass?'
    Bardino now returned in a chafe,
    And ask'd the tinker's name, who answer'd, 'Rafe.'

  'Where dwell'st thou?' 'Anywhere?' 'How long
  Hast tink'ring used?' 'I cannot tell.'
  Then 'bout the tinker all the monks did throng,
  Whilst he, poor fellow, thought h' had been in hell.
    For till that day he never saw such creatures,                 4090
    And what they were he knew not by their features.

  Bardino fearèd this was but a gull,
  And says, 'Good fellow, let me see thy hand.'
  'I'm not asham'd to show 't, by cock and bull.'
  Bardino, viewing 't well, espied the brand,
    And says, 'Sir youth, before you cozened me:
    But now in sooth I will be meet with thee.'

  'Devil or friar, whatsoe'er thou art,
  What taunting language dost thou give to me?
  Ha!' quoth the tinker. Quoth Bardino, 'Smart                     4100
  Shall give a comment of my words to thee.'
    'Smart?' quoth the tinker. 'Swig for Smart and you:
    I bid defiance unto all thy crew.

  Talk not to me of Smart: for if you prate
  This knotty staff shall bastinado you.
  I'll set a scarlet cap upon thy pate,
  And lace thy shoulders with a purple blue.'
    'Peace, honest tinker,' say the other monks.
    'Aye! I will peace it, if I catch the hunks.'

  But let the monks and tinker take their chances.                 4110
  We'll view the travels of our raddle-man,
  With faint Bellam', whom every fear entrances,
  And every trance does make her roses wan.
    Thus far their loves have tragi-comic been,
    Thwarted by Fate and the unconstant Queen.

  But every planet with kind aspect now
  Views their long-travelled loves; and Venus' boy
  Smiles on their wishes with auspicious brow.
  Now a full harvest must they have of joy,
    Though sowed with black disasters, dangers, fears,             4120
    Dispair, hope, doubtings, sad complaints, and tears.

  For aged Starley's tow'rs (that fatal stage
  Where Danes did act their juries once in blood,
  When bellowing cannons belchèd out their rage)
  Within the kenning of our lovers stood.
    And the well-tunèd bells did loud proclaim
    Joy to the lovers in great Hymen's name.

  A near ally Albino in this town
  (By order a devout Carthusian) had,
  Whose voice he hoped with joy their loves should crown.          4130
  But he, a slave in raddle vestures clad
    And a ragged Marget seeing, started back,
    Bidding his knaveship to some other pack.

  He would have no commerce with such as he,
  He had no ewes whose backs did want his raddle,
  And if he over-saucy needs would be,
  With a good bat he would his gaskins swaddle.
    'The Provost Marshal else, if this does fail,
    Shall show you lodging in the whipstock jail.'

  This language sounded in Bellama's ears                          4140
  Like the sad voice of death, yet fear no slaughter.
  To joy straight changed shall be this scene of tears,
  And stead of grief the child of pleasure, laughter.
    My promise stands unshaked: for this short anger
    Brings not their loves nor safeties unto danger.

  'Sir,' quoth Albino, 'there was once a time
  When you esteemed those wingèd minutes sainted
  You spent with me (when Fortune was in prime),
  For you and I have better been acquainted;
    Though some disasters and stern Fate have made                 4150
    Me take this homely garb and homelier trade.

  Some blood which in your azure channels glide
  Dwells in my veins: I am Albino hight,
  And lest you think this smells too much of pride,
  View this triangle on my able right.'
    That sight unto rejoicings beat alarms,
    His kinsman then ensphered him in his arms.

  So led them both under his archèd roof,
  Breathing kind welcomes from his courteous lips;
  Excus'd his ignorance and sharp reproof,                         4160
  Asked what misfortune did his worth eclipse.
    Demanding how coy Fortune dealt with him,
    And who she was that was so passing trim?

  'Unless high heavens do forbid the bane,
  This maid shall be my bride, though homely dressed;
  Clothes oftentimes the purest beauty stain,
  And Venus most unclothed is clothèd best.
    Under this roof of rags Bellama dwells,
    Fraught with diviner worth than nature spells.'

  'Hymen enrich your wishes with content,                          4170
  As benign heaven has enriched your face
  With nature's glory, beauty's orient,'
  Says the Carthusian with a comely grace;
    'Thrice welcome! welcome! for your lovely grace
    Will add a lustre to my homely place.'

  'Sir, my endeavours shall be wholly spent
  Henceforth,' quoth she, 'to recompense your air.'
  'This is no time, forsooth, to compliment,
  Prithee adjourn thy words of courtship, fair,
    For till our hands be joined as well as hearts                 4180
    I fear', quoth he, 'supplanting Envy's darts.

  Good cousin, ere the next day's sun be rolled
  Th' Apogaeum, our meridian point,
  Favour our wishes with the "have and hold".
  Tie us so fast fate may not us disjoint.
    For Envy, like a snake, does crawl about,
    And winds her tail in where she holes her snout.

  Omit no nuptial rites; with holy oil
  Let her anoint the posts, with virgin hand
  To Janus consecrate the wether's spoil,                          4190
  And to those gods which for our households stand,
    Procure horn torches to be borne along,
    And cry "Thalassus!" with a bridal song.

  Provide me store of nuts to throw about
  With a full hand unto the gaping boys,
  That from the tumults of the struggling rout
  All voices may be damped that speak not joys.
    Over us two let the same Flamine fall,
    And let the wheaten cake consummate all.

  Nor will we manumiss these robes of state,                       4200
  Within whose walls blest safety only dwells.
  Lest our known faces, and apparel, prate
  In louder echoes than the marriage bells.
    Then say, fair lady, truth I do not jeer,
    Will you be wedded to a scarleteer?'

  Quoth she, with blushes carpeting her cheek,
  'And is that question, prithee, yet to ask?
  Your worth does merit the unequalled Greek,
  Without nun-penance or Alcides' task.
    Then [I] pray you (in truth it is no gull)                     4210
    Will you be married to a tinker's trull?'

  Thus sleep and mirth did cut the night: and ere
  The sovereignty was ta'en from Cynthia's horn,
  When at East's casement newly did appear
  The orient brightness of the rising morn,
    Albino rose, and to the church did haste
    T' un-nun Bellama and ungird her waist.

  When the Carthusian's voice had crowned their amours
  With an assurance of Thalassian joys,
  The air was thinnèd with the joyful clamours                     4220
  (Not of state-satins) but of grammar boys;
    And our fresh sponsants in that height of mirth
    To every pleasure gave an easy birth.

  Now are they landed on the isle of bliss,
  Where every joy courts their desires with pleasure;
  Envy did then her snaky train dismiss,
  For their espousals did all sweet entreasure.
    Dead grief bequeathed her stings to thorn and thistle.
    Nor durst a sigh within those borders whistle.

  Then, as sea-merchants when their reeling galley,                4230
  Drunk with salt Neptune, hazardeth their breaths,
  To calm bold tempest and the Triton's valley,
  Hack on the quiet shore their brackèd sheaths,
    So did our amorists, half wrack'd with eye-men,
    Devote their raddle vests to Love and Hymen.

  Some marrow-lancing eye perchance may quarrel,
  'Cause with the bridal torch my muse expires;
  And in loud jeers his tow'ring voice apparel,
  Taxing the faintness of my metric fires,
    Because my lines tread not the common path                     4240
    Of fortune, issue, and appeasing wrath.

  Perhaps I dare not lengthen out my story
  With those events succeeding time begot,
  Lest some disaster should eclipse their glory,
  And the pure ermines of their pleasures spot.
    For having screwed them into firm embraces,
    I will not waken hate or rouse disgraces.

  Yet beauty (know) when virtue shines upon her,
  And virtues (know) [when] skin-perfections gloss 'em,
  Awe Fortune's wrath, and challenge heaven's honour.              4250
  Hell cannot cancel them, nor Envy dross 'em.
    Love! if to me the same content thou'lt yield,
    I'll limn thy mother on Minerva's shield.




Notes: The Pleasing History of _Albino_ and _Bellama_

    [Line: 6 In which of the various fancy _Bruts_ 'Adell' occurs
    I am not at the moment certain. Brydges, I suppose, deceived
    by _Don_ Fuco, &c., oddly 'places the scene in Spain'.]

    [Line: 15 age of consistency] = 'grow tired of existing
    together'--a Whitingism almost _Brownist_ in character.]

    [Line: 25 'Agathite'] 'Agath' is a form of 'agate': is
    'agathite' a coinage suggested by the blending of colours in
    the agate?]

    [Line: 27 Saba] The Queen of Sheba.]

    [Line: 50 rein] Orig. 'veine'. But it must, as the little
    Errata paragraph at the end admits, be 'rein'. All this may be
    extravagant, but it is poetry.]

    [Line: 61 'The curlèd tapers of the firmament' is not exactly
    contemptible, I fancy.]

    [Line: 66 Whiting must certainly have known his Shakespeare.
    'Crisp' appears there nowhere as a noun, but its use here must
    almost certainly have been suggested by the '_crisp_ heaven'
    of _Timon_, iv. iii. 183. 'Spang' is Baconian, and not
    uncommon.]

    [Line: 70 Orig. has 'Lady Curtain' and no 'this'--a state of
    things which led me quite wrong at first.]

    [Line: 126 _Ven_-Bacchus] Venus-Bacchus?]

    [Lines: 131-2 I have ventured to suggest 'mendings' for these
    exceedingly gappy lines.]

    [Line: 148 knee] This is the correction in the _errata_ of
    'tener'.]

    [Line: 149 bean-manors] = Manors held at a bean instead of a
    peppercorn? Or misprint for 'bea_u_-manors'? This latter, for
    'Beaumanor' is a known name, and Beaumanoir a better, would be
    quite like Whiting. My friend Sir Frederick Pollock, to whom I
    appealed after a question whether 'bene' in a legal sense
    was possible, decided that the phrase could have no technical
    meaning either as 'bean' or 'bene', but suggested 'rents'.
    This makes excellent sense, but is not, perhaps, on that
    account more likely here.]

    [Line: 211 Sable] Any black-coated man of letters.]

    [Line: 212 Adel's stamps] I suppose, the coin of the realm.]

    [Line: 219 A Master of Arts ought to have known better than to
    make 'Thule' mono-syllabic, though the general public used
    to pronounce it so in reference to a once popular book of the
    late Mr. William Black's.]

    [Line: 259 trutinate] = 'balance'. Don Fuco also had
    apparently enjoyed the advantages of a classical education.]

    [Line: 275 'Indod' like 'adad', and many other forms of
    corrupted evasion of the Third Commandment.]

    [Lines: 290-1 Tennyson is known to have been no inconsiderable
    reader, but he can hardly have known this parody--by
    anticipation--of a famous line in _[OE]none_.]

    [Line: 295 trencher-cloaks] cut short? '_Re_cognizance' is
    again, if not exactly Shakespearian, not far off.]

    [Line: 309 Here 'blough' is certainly in the sense of
    'muffle', and therefore gives a light on the use _supra_
    (_Author's Apology_, l. 5).]

    [Line: 322 Why this fling at Skelton's exceedingly pretty
    verses to Isabel Pennel I do not in the least know.]

    [Line: 327 Tripherus] See Juvenal, _Sat._ xi. 137.]

    [Line: 394 Orig. 'phrentezy'.]

    [Line: 418 entrails] Orig. 'intrals'. Not a very common form,
    but justified by the Low Latin _intralia_.]

    [Lines: 421-4 There is a reference to Drayton's _Nymphidia_,
    where Oberon and Pigwiggen drink from a 'bottell' of 'Lethe
    spring', and forget their quarrel. For a further reference to
    this poem, see l. 1420.]

    [Line: 465 'breath'. A seventeenth-century form.]

    [Line: 489 I have kept 'ante' because I do not know whether it
    is for 'aunt' or 'ant'. Neither seems to give much sense.]

    [Line: 500 There is certainly a long _s_ in original, and
    'sore-head' is intelligible, but 'forehead' would go better
    with 'flag'.]

    [Line: 537 Whiting, for all his extravagance, triviality, and
    so forth, has occasionally an odd gift of phrase. 'Pandora was
    not treasured up in faces' is an instance.]

    [Line: 538 possessing elves] = 'The actual possessors'.]

    [Line: 541 The maid] Thisbe, I suppose, though there is
    nothing to separate her from other maids that 'sat in
    Babylon'.]

    [Line: 551 peevish girl] Scylla.]

    [Lines: 569-70 See Ovid _Met._ I. 523.]

    [Line: 591 coarse] Orig. 'course', as so often.]

    [Line: 600 'gales' = rents, or royalties, in reference to the
    earl's land.]

    [Line: 639 Orig. 'phillits'.]

    [Line: 648 I have left 'croe' because I do not know whether it
    stands for 'crew' or (as above) 'crow' = 'knocker'.]

    [Line: 651 angel-looks] = 'those of a messenger'.]

    [Line: 668 'vermilion looks' suggests Dryden's 'church
    vermilion', but that would have no sense in the context.]

    [Line: 677 Serrat] Our Lady of Montserrat? Why St. Katherine
    should have a specially flaxen wig is another of the posers
    occurring so constantly. But after all why should she _not_?]

    [Line: 748 The author, from several signs, must have written
    this odd poem in no small haste. But he must indeed have been
    in a hurry when, as would here seem, he confounded 'casket'
    and 'carcanet'. Cf. l. 953.]

    [Line: 757 Some word like 'talking' is wanted here.]

    [Line: 748 The author, from several signs, must have written
    this odd poem in no small haste. But he must indeed have been
    in a hurry when, as would here seem, he confounded 'casket'
    and 'carcanet'. Cf. l. 953.]

    [Line: 757 Some word like 'talking' is wanted here.]

    [Line: 822 I suppose 'flazing' (the original) is only a
    misprint for 'flaring'; but with Whiting you can never be
    quite sure.]

    [Line: 829 Orig. 'archy-'.]

    [Line: 834 Orig. 'weekes', as in Spenser, _F. Q._ ii. x. 30,
    2.]

    [Line: 844 'boat-boy'? Phaon who is mentioned ll. 3582 foll.,
    and whose later stage of beauty might entitle him to complete
    his quintet with his 'fare' Venus, Helen, and Narcissus.]

    [Line: 862 'the poet'. Horace in _Odes_, III. xix. 11-15.]

    [Line: 904 en-neale] Whiting has used this word before,
    l. 191, but less oddly. It seems here to mean 'portray
    indelibly', 'preserve as in mosaic or enamel'. Cf. l. 1521.]

    [Line: 918 Butler, as Brydges noticed, must surely have seen
    this.]

    [Line: 920 That 'Prior' is usual and sufficient did not matter
    to Whiting: he wanted three syllables and an easy rhyme, so he
    made what he wanted.]

    [Line: 953 This line settles the question (_v. sup._, l. 748)
    as to Whiting's confusion of 'casket' and 'carcanet'. It
    is even possible to guess at the cause--the original French
    _carcan_, 'a prisoner's chain', 'prison' suggesting 'place of
    confinement'.]

    [Line: 975 'Archy-' in original as before. The use of the
    French corresponding form 'archi-' instead of the English
    'arch-' is probably not accidental.]

    [Line: 987 The sharp change here from the straightforward
    'frosts' &c. to this ellipse of 'as [that] he [should] want'
    is noticeable.]

    [Lines: 989-90 Another Dryden suggestion. The improvement in

        O daughter of the Rose, whose cheeks unite
        The differing titles of the red and white,

    is of course immense. But Cambridge poets have always had a
    laudable habit of reading each other, and _Albino and Bellama_
    was not such a very old poem when Dryden went up.]

    [Line: 998 Original, ridiculously enough, '_a_ A perc_ee_'!
    I think Whiting's is the worst printed book of the scores, if
    not hundreds, I have read for this collection.]

    [Line: 1004 It is delightful to think how the persons who were
    shortly to hold Cleveland for a greatest living poet must have
    enjoyed this metaphysical translation of 'He kissed her when
    nobody was looking'!]

    [Line: 1027 'Venice' for 'glass'--'ice'. As I have said,
    you may do almost anything you like to Whiting in the way of
    interpretation.]

    [Line: 1058 So, again, I suppose 'vowel-plasters' means 'vocal
    pleadings', but I should not dare to be certain.]

    [Line: 1068 'Teen', as more than once annotated, = 'light'; so
    eight lines lower.]

    [Line: 1081 Of the numerous shades of the word 'baulk',
    'parry' or 'foil' comes nearest here]

    [Line: 1084 are] 'or' in the original.]

    [Line: 1086 'Chester'] = 'he who chests'--and why not?]

    [Line: 1112 The metaphors as well as the bloods are something
    mixed: but again, why not?]

    [Line: 1130 Although 'toll' was never (and then less than
    now) confined to funerals Whiting had better have used another
    word.]

    [Line: 1155 'Anchorist', is at any rate better than
    'Priorist'. Fuller used it later.]

    [Line: 1172 If Bellama, who indeed seems to have been an
    outspoken young lady, had regarded manners in regard to her
    love as little as Agamemnon in regard to his wife, she might
    have told him that his verses were rather long.]

    [Line: 1211 satonisco]? Form of 'satin', unknown elsewhere.]

    [Line: 1214 'frank', again Shakespearian, is of course
    proper to the boar only; but Whiting did not regard invidious
    distinctions.]

    [Line: 1244 There is, of course, not the slightest
    justification for 'rosy', but our poet was _supra_ not merely
    _grammaticam_ but _vocabularium_ and everything else.]

    [Line: 1271 An odd and rather awkward metaphor.]

    [Line: 1294 Orig. 'quoth she'--but, of course, Albino is the
    speaker.]

    [Line: 1306 Does 'wretch_ing_' occur elsewhere? 'Wretch' as
    a verb is quoted, but only as Scots, and only in the sense
    of 'be miserly'. Whiting, though not muddle-headed, was so
    feather-headed in the use of words that one must take into
    account the possibility of '_r_etching', i.e. 'vomiting
    blasphemy', and can hardly neglect as _im_possible a careless
    confusion with 'wretch_less_, = 'reckless'.]

    [Line: 1340 The poet changes number from 'nips' to 'uncrown'
    with his usual lightness of heart.]

    [Line: 1376 Cf. Ps. xlvi. 9, 'Knappeth the spear in sunder'.]

    [Lines: 1420-4 This is a reference to Drayton's _Nymphidia_,
    where Hob searches for the Fairy Queen, who has gone off with
    Pigwiggen (cf. ll. 421-4).--It will he observed that, as in
    the case of Kingsley's hero, 'the party is taken ill with a
    poem' on every provocation.]

    [Line: 1432 We want 'Daffa-down_a_-dillies'.]

    [Line: 1442 An Alexandrine: not as yet common in the piece.]

    [Line: 1450 'ermelin', with its equivalents, is rather the
    commoner form in all mediaeval languages.]

    [Line: 1461 _Carduus benedictus_]

    [Line: 1519 Why 'Irish' who can say? The only sensible remark
    which presents itself on this piece of nonsense (I have not,
    of course, attempted to alter the gibberish in any way) is
    that dialect seems to have been increasing its hold on popular
    fancy off the stage, as well as in Brome's _Northern Lass_,
    &c. on it.]

    [Line: 1521 Here 'en-nealed' throws its light backward on the
    use _supra_ (l. 904) as simply 'enamelled'.]

    [Line: 1539 vit] 'vil' in original.]

    [Line: 1558 Orig. 'choyce'; but this must be one of the
    innumerable misprints which the Errata paragraph treats so
    cavalierly.]

    [Line: 1559 For novel] = 'as a novelty'?]

    [Line: 1561 Orig. '_s_eiling'--the _s_ being common (though,
    of course, wrong) earlier as well as at this time.]

    [Line: 1569 Orig. 'guilt'.]

    [Line: 1602 'coven' in this sense should be 'covent', but
    Whiting affects the form: see 2686, 3167.]

    [Line: 1615 A sufficiently mysterious line.]

    [Line: 1645 Orig. 'Volgo's'.]

    [Line: 1714 Query, 'If satin's difference can maids adorn'.]

    [Line: 1716 'fligger' has a certain dialectic sense of
    'flutter', and as its congener 'flicker' has one of 'snigger',
    'jeer', it probably has that here.]

    [Line: 1745 dors] = 'bumblebees'--somewhat unworthily yoked.]

    [Line: 1750 The extraordinary double plural of 'females fairs'
    (orig. 'fair_e_s') would seem impossible in any other author.
    Perhaps 'female', but the rhyme requires 'fairs'.]

    [Line: 1784 'Sh'as'] A no doubt unintentional compelling of
    the apostrophe to do double duty.]

    [Line: 1844 Whiting was apparently more fashionable in his
    astronomy than Bacon or Browne.]

    [Line: 1863 The slang use of 'dust' is found in Wilkins's
    _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_. 1607, 'Come, down with
    your dust'. One would be disposed to think it a parallel
    to 'dross', &c.--terms contemptuous of money, but generally
    employed by those who have not got it.]

    [Line: 1865 dealth] I suppose this is another of Whiting's
    many inventions. Cf. _Il Insonio_, 347.]

    [Line: 1873 Orig. 'everts', which must be wrong.]

    [Line: 1882 Orig. 'phrentick'. This middle form between
    'fren_e_tic' and 'fr_a_ntic' is M. E. (for instance, in
    Langland), but is not, I think, common later.]

    [Line: 1883 pargèd] This is one of Whiting's redeeming
    vividnesses. The verb is, of course, the same as 'parget'--'to
    plaster or distemper'. Cf. _Il Insonio_, 73.]

    [Line: 1911 Whether 'buzzled' is 'bustled' or 'buzzed' I am
    not sure. Cf. _Il Insonio_, 107. 'He buzzles like a bustard in
    a wind'.]

    [Line: 1930 Orig. 'Bagno's'.]

    [Line: 1931 for] Not quite impossible, but unlikely. 'Fore'?]

    [Line: 1945 'cowlist' may raise a doubt as to the passage
    _supra, The Author to his Book_, l. 58.]

    [Line: 1959 I suppose 'eighteen hooks' means hooks to catch
    persons eighteen years old. But for cautions against being too
    sure Whiting is sovereign.]

    [Line: 1965 'drilling' for 'trickling' we had before.]

    [Line: 1969 'tamm[e]y's (as in original). Still a word for
    coarse cloth.]

    [Line: 1984 Once more, if 'jen-_net_' is superfluous and you
    cannot think of any rhyme but 'Bennet' why not overrun?]

    [Line: 1995 b_l_anched?] 'Lilies' equalling 'cheeks'? But I
    would not dictate to Whiting.]

    [Line: 2009 huffing waste] 'Pretentious prodigality', as
    Bellama was a rich pensioner.]

    [Line: 2027 'innupted' is better and better. According to that
    lofty view of the genuine writer which insists that he shall
    never be at a loss for a word to fit matter and form at once,
    Whiting should stand very high.]

    [Line: 2048 Orig. 'ear_r_hs'.]

    [Line: 2071 Neptune's grandchild] Cupid; but the affiliation
    is irregular.]

    [Line: 2083 The only meaning I can think of for this
    marvellous phrase is, 'He could get the various _dresses_,
    but he could not change his own face to suit and give voice to
    them'.]

    [Line: 2116 Felice] Orig. 'Phæliche' throughout.]

    [Line: 2120 Issa] _v._ Martial, i. 110, on the pet dog of
    Publius:

        Hanc ne lux rapiat suprema totam,
        Picta Publius exprimit tabella,
        In qua tam similem videbis Issam,
        Ut sit tam similis sibi nec ipsa, &c. &c.

    ]

    [Line: 2137 lede] = 'speech', 'tale'. Whether Whiting got this
    from Chaucer's 'ledene' one cannot say; but he seems to have
    been a man of some reading.]

    [Line: 2150 worlds] Play on 'globes'?]

    [Line: 2154 'And' would make the next line and a half refer to
    Bellama, which does not seem likely.]

    [Line: 2174 'Lorrett_a_ is, all things considered, a rather
    unfortunate feminizing of Lorett_o_ to denote Our Lady
    thereof.]

    [Lines: 2188-93 Is this one of the 'misplaced staves' so very
    coolly left to the reader's discovery in the Errata-note?
    (_v. inf._, p. 551). It looks as if it ought to come after its
    present successor.]

    [Line: 2196 'rosies', another coinage, of which Whiting was
    fond: see ll. 2523, 3344, 3348, 3436.]

    [Line: 2220 his] Not that the Prioress thought him masculine
    as yet.]

    [Line: 2226 camp] Orig. 'came'--from the rhyme an obvious
    misprint, but why 'lanky'? Because of mortifications? Cf. 2199
    'lankcloister' and 2553 'lanky crew'.]

    [Line: 2301 rape] Probably for 'rap', 'valueless coin'.]

    [Line: 2382 vogliarell[a] 'Little wish', 'fancy'.]

    [Line: 2404 crayfish] Orig. 'creevish' is nearer to
    _écrevisse_ and the M. E. _crevis_ than the more modern
    forms.]

    [Line: 2410 orc] 'vessel as big as a whale'. Orig. 'Orke'.]

    [Line: 2415 'glorrah'. Evidently the same word as 'glotrah'
    in l. 3714, and apparently some kind of food capable of being
    made into a 'shape'.]

    [Line: 2427 tempo-pates. Query, pates as bald as Father
    Time's.]

    [Line: 2453 [*] The first part of this 'pie' is pretty clearly
    'jovial', but the rest is mere guesswork. Perhaps 'a jovial
    charect'.]

    [Line: 2527 Quiris?]

    [Line: 2552 sew] 'sue' in orig.]

    [Line: 2562 'ptisick' = 'phthisic' would be intelligible in
    another context, but not here.]

    [Line: 2592 Larv'd] = 'masked'.]

    [Line: 2613 In the original, 'by constraint, not, court, lye
    sleight'. The punishment fits the crime he had committed in
    the nuns' narrow beds.]

    [Line: 2652 a-darkness] Like 'a-bed', &c.]

    [Line: 2656 'Sesamoidesse'. From the Greek [Greek:
    sêsamoeides], a kind of reseda, the medical use of which is
    noted in Hippocrates; Strabo also refers to it as a charm in
    vogue to reduce tumours.]

    [Line: 2686 'Coven', as before.]

    [Line: 2689 'vezzo'] Cf. 'vogliarell'.]

    [Line: 2721 'Not' carried on to 'laughs'.]

    [Line: 2754 trig] To 'trot', 'run'. Apparently Lancashire and
    Yorkshire dialect to this day.]

    [Line: 2833 'eye-lid rain' may be tears, or a misprint for
    'eye-_let_'; _v. sup._, l. 795.]

    [Line: 2851 fleecèd] = 'mouldy'.]

    [Line: 2861 copèd]? = 'encountered', 'met with'. Cf 3855.]

    [Line: 2862 Orig. '_Of_ on'.]

    [Line: 2889 Orig. 'Mà boun'.']

    [Line: 2897 sience] = 'scion'.]

    [Line: 2924 salve] Where did she get it?]

    [Line: 2970 Folco] ? Albino-Felice rather.]

    [Line: 2971 Sardonic, an adjective formed from 'sardonyx'?]

    [Line: 2993 threnes] = 'wailings'--_Graece_.]

    [Line: 3038 'Vitruvius' for 'Vesuvius' is going pretty far,
    but can be caught up. 'Ichonian' eludes me.]

    [Line: 3043 Here Whiting seems to present one of his
    characteristic retorts to criticism: 'If you say Mab for
    Mabel, why may I not say Mabel for Mab?']

    [Line: 3101 'the other _Nunc_'] We say 'the other day', and
    'just now'. Why not 'the other minute', and so 'the other
    now'?]

    [Line: 3116 swogging] Palsgrave, in a passage which I owe
    to the late Professor Skeat, 'I swag as a fat person's belly
    swaggeth as he goeth', might almost have been annotating
    this passage. Cf. also, of course, 'swagger'. As for the _o_,
    'Maggie' and 'Moggie', 'flap' and 'flop', and a hundred other
    pairs, occur.]

    [Line: 3118 We had 'claret' thus used in Benlowes, vol. 1, p.
    358 (l. 202).]

    [Line: 3143 larvèd] As before, l. 2592.]

    [Line: 3152 Is this found elsewhere?]

    [Line: 3155 The union of body and soul.]

    [Line: 3158 Orig. 'rithmes'.]

    [Line: 3160 'Ascending' _&c._ 'the ladder'.]

    [Line: 3170 'Ferny flag' is not so bad for the tossed
    antlers.]

    [Line: 3179 Malèd] Is this for 'mailed'? = '_armoured_ by fear
    against the briars'?]

    [Line: 3182 _Donnes_] _Donne_? 'ladies'?]

    [Line: 3202 Where again he got a trusty or untrusty Turkish or
    other blade 'you shall tell me', as Prince Seithenin says. But
    it is doubtless 'necessary to the action'.]

    [Line: 3208 Orig. 'Cypresse', which is quite another thing,
    unless he meant Libitina.]

    [Line: 3210 Orig., which I quote merely to show the
    extraordinary ill-printing of the book, '_o_lse'!]

    [Line: 3228 Was a 'helm' part of the dress which a monk
    suddenly flying from his cloister would have 'at _temp._ of
    tale'?]

    [Line: 3230 Orig. 'wooddards'.]

    [Line: 3264 airs] = 'breaths' = 'words'?]

    [Line: 3277 Orig. 'led'.]

    [Line: 3329 terse] I do not remember a similarly _concrete_
    application of 'terse' as 'elegant', 'well-modelled and
    outlined'. But, as has been so frequently asked, 'Why not?'
    Indeed, the plumber's 'wiped' for a 'shaped' joint, though
    certainly not so intended, is a translation of it.]

    [Line: 3343 Narcissus' hate] = Echo.]

    [Lines: 3344, 3348 Orig., as before, '_rosy_es'.]

    [Line: 3354 not] Orig. '_h_ot'!]

    [Line: 3363 'Dreane' is, of course, 'drain'. There is a form
    _drenian_ (though it is not the only one) in A.S. Cf. p. 539,
    l. 2.]

    [Line: 3367 Rather a fine line, and 'the Child of Sin', though
    of course not original, is interesting _before Milton_ for
    Death.]

    [Line: 3374 This looks at first like a most remarkable
    super-painting of the lily. But the violets are the veins.]

    [Line: 3396 Orig. ''Tis th' countenance': but Whiting is
    rarely, if ever, rough to this extent, and his printer might
    do anything.]

    [Line: 3437 _Phyma_] Whiting, or his printer, must surely have
    confused [Greek: phyma], 'a malignant growth', 'tumour', with
    [Greek: physa], 'a fiery blast'.]

    [Line: 3442 had] Orig. 'ha_b_'. So in l. 3437 'u_g_on' and in
    l. 3444 'whe_o_'. There was apparently no correction of the
    press at all.]

    [Line: 3460 healthed] = 'seen that they were in health'.]

    [Line: 3467 forth'] So orig. Of course Whiting may have
    written 'for_th_ th''.]

    [Lines: 3493-7 Some confusion here between Proserpine and
    Eurydice.]

    [Line: 3533 This scene has a _Robin-and-Makyne_ character,
    which might have been made very good and is actually not quite
    bad.]

    [Line: 3558 feeted] = 'put into metre'.]

    [Line: 3581 Orig. 'f_t_am'd'.]

    [Line: 3582 seq. The story of Aphrodite and her gift to Phao
    is vulgate, but the goddess's _alias_ is not Greek to me.
    In the atrocious printing of the original it might be either
    'Sea's' or (more nearly) 'Se_d_'s'. The latter is a clear
    _vox nihili_, and as, I suppose, even Nathaniel Whiting in the
    height of his pranks would not make 'Se-a' a dissyllable,
    I suppose also that he wrote '_the_ Sea's' and the printer
    dropped the article.]

    [Line: 3604 Circe is rather loosely called Glaucus' _wife_.]

    [Line: 3606 Who was or were Holgoy?]

    [Line: 3608 'Helio_tro_pion' rather--the Moonstone, much used
    in magic.]

    [Line: 3612 Polupists] = 'pluralists'.]

    [Line: 3616 Pompholyx is a 'bubble', thence a 'blister', and
    thence again a sort of eczema. But whether it became a name
    for one of the 'Fauna of Fancy' I do not find.]

    [Line: 3617 'Your loves catch feathers.' In the original,
    'Your loves with catch-feathers'; the 'with' seems to have
    been taken over from the preceding line.]

    [Line: 3622 Mantuan] There is a similar reference in _Il
    Insonio_, ll. 365-6.]

    [Line: 3627 'Quinque _literae_' is said to be used of Hebrew
    roots. But whether anybody preceded Whiting's restless and
    fantastic ingenuity in making a half English half Latin
    _femina quinque literarum_ to match the _homo trium_ I do not
    know. The word itself is obvious enough.]

    [Line: 3676 'Tenter' = stretch on tenter-hooks, rack.]

    [Line: 3685 pague] Lat. _pagus_, anglicized and transferred
    from 'district' to 'village'.]

    [Line: 3704 'Lugget' is said to be still dialectic for 'a
    small load of corn', and there are numerous senses of 'lug'
    meaning 'protuberances'. So I suppose 'ludgets' are knobs or
    lumps of bread. But to tell the truth the description of this
    meal requires nearly as strong a stomach to read as the meal
    itself to eat, and I shall say little more of it. Naughtiness
    is sometimes (though by no means so necessarily as appears to
    some authors and critics) amusing: nastiness never is. I shall
    therefore take the liberty of not annotating for a page or
    two.]

    [Line: 3796 This line would be a good text for a discourse on
    the type of writing. 'Blur the holier entries of Albino's page
    with the recording Angel' is its equivalent, and there have
    been times when that would have been approved as '_w_ery
    pretty'. But 'roule' in orig. may be a misprint for 'soule'.]

    [Line: 3797 'Venice' and 'Venus' have been played upon before
    by the writer: they are probably, but not quite necessarily,
    interchanged here by the printer. It may perhaps be noted that
    in the original the printer, weary of mere misspelling
    and misprinting, has taken to mispaging. The text goes on
    straight, but the pages after 129 are numbered 26, 12, 132,
    133, 130, 131, 136, 137, 134, 135, 140, 141, and so on.]

    [Lines: 3806-7 It is odd what good lines and phrases this
    poetaster can sometimes turn out.

                         Into his thoughts did throng
        His house of penance, hunger, cold, and sweat,

    is worthy the most undoubted poet.]

    [Line: 3844 'dell' is not unlike Whiting, but, of course,
    'cell' suggests itself.]

    [Line: 3845 'repell' = repeal.]

    [Line: 3871 Apella] _Credat Iudaeus_.]

    [Line: 3874 Not 'saw double' but 'had the use of his eyes'.]

    [Line: 3892 Orig. 'tuffe'. Was Whiting reminiscent of _The
    Nun's Priest's Tale_ here?]

    [Line: 3939 Perduer] Apparently 'a soldier who goes on a
    forlorn hope'.]

        [made their eyes] = 'stared as hard as they could'.
        Whiting himself certainly 'makes his _words_ perduers'
        in this sense.]

    [Line: 3948 Orig. 'tispyde'.]

    [Line: 3967 'Copester' (orig. 'coapster') here, and 'coped'
    ('coap't') in l. 4032, have nothing to do with the amorous
    sense in which the word has been formerly used. The
    signification is simply 'wearing a cope'.

    The 'Canzone' appears to aim at a sort of 'The Queen was in
    the parlour' measure:

        Drink full ones tinker | methinks the monks are dry;

    though the lines, as they always do in such cases,
    occasionally simulate regular decasyllables.]

    [Line: 4047 fop] Same as 'fob' = 'put off with a false or
    trumped-up excuse'.]

    [Line: 4054 Angel] The old pun on the coin.]

    [Line: 4060 raddle-man] A hawker of coarse red paint.]

    [Line: 4067 'podging', though it has various more definite
    senses, appears to be still dialectically used for 'stupid'.]

    [Line: 4102 I do not find any of the recognized senses of
    'swig' (orig. 'swigge') that fits this very well as = 'a fig',
    or something coarser. But it may well be coined.]

    [Line: 4122 If anybody asks where Starley is it will be
    sufficient to answer that it is where the Danes used cannons.
    But 'act their juries' (if right) is one of those at first
    sight mad phrases of our author's which really have, if little
    method, some meaning.]

    [Line: 4152 glide] Plural by the common attraction to
    'channels'.]

    [Line: 4177 'air' (orig. 'ayre') is, I suppose, as before =
    'breath' = 'words'.]

    [Line: 4188 Albino's remarkably catholic conglomeration of
    classical and Christian wedding-rites might, in a more modern
    writer, be a satire on Renaissance habits. In him it is only a
    survival of them.]

    [Lines: 4230-6 In this stanza Whiting gives a final flourish
    of his wondrous diction. I feel sure he must have leant back
    in his chair and looked lovingly at

        Hack on the quiet shore their brackèd sheaths,

    and I should not presume to be too certain as to the exact
    meaning of 'half-wrack'd with eye-men', though I think I know.
    The insouciance with which he shuffles off the not impertinent
    question 'How did a somewhat "arbitrary gent" like Don
    Rivelezzo take this sort of thing?' is also rather charming.]

       *       *       *       *       *




    TO THOSE WORTHY HEROES OF OUR
  Age, whose noble Breasts are wet
    and wat'red with the dew of
    Helicon, N.W. wisheth ever-
        flourishing Laurels.

  You noble laureates, whose able quills
  In framing odes, do drean the sacred rills
  Of Aganippe dry, within whose breasts
  The sire of Æsculapius safely rests;
  And all the Muses' temple, deign your rays
  To cheer the measures of an infant bayes,
  Spread forth the banners of your worths to shield
  His younger Muse, unable yet to wield
  Arms 'gainst the monsters of this critic age,
  Envy, detraction, and Saturnine rage.                              10
  I to myself assume not double worth,
  Or that my teeming fancy can bring forth
  Words to make wonder stand amazed, do try
  To vindicate the breath of poesy.
  In such a thought I'm silent, but because
  I've heard invectives belched from the jaws
  Of _nil-scientes_, whose audacious brags
  Have raised a thunder like a shoal of dags
  T' affright endeavours.
  In writing, which if my weak studies hit                           20
  Of any fancy speaking worth or wit,
  If I have snatchèd any fainting Muse
  From the black jaws of envy and abuse,
  Shooting a soul into her, and new breath,
  Maugre those tongues that doomèd her to death--
  Echo forth thanks unto coy Daphne's lover
  (About whose fane the sacred Nine do hover)
  Whose kindness smiled on my uncrushed designs;
  And locked a muse in my unworthy lines,
  Able to blunt the darts of envy, pare                              30
  The sharpest-hoofèd satyr, and with air
  Shrill as the voice of thunder, chide those galls
  That belch forth scandals and invective bawls.
  Nay, he, befriending me above my merit,
  Unseen of any heaved my wingèd spirit
  T' a higher court than the Star chamber is,
  Where souls may surfeit with immortal bliss;
  And taught my fancy, in those quiet slumbers,
  What, waking, I have folded up in numbers;
  To tell the brood of critics that there are                        40
  Some few, or if not some, yet one, that dare
  (Backèd by your thrice-sacred worths) expose
  These lines and letters to the ken of prose.

  _The humble admirer
  of your muses_ N.W.




    [_To those Worthy_ 2 drean] _v. sup._, l. 3363.]

    [Line: 6 'an infant bayes' is rather curious. But cf.
    'youthful bays', l. 122 _infra._]




_Il Insonio Insonnadado._


  When (in the silent age of sable night)
  The silver way with Phoebe's glimm'ring light
  And her attendants was adorned, and when
  Fast slumbers scaled the eyes of drowsy men,
  I ent'red Morpheus' Court, that iv'ry port
  Whereat benighted fancies pass that sort
  With real good, Sleep was the janitor
  Who let me in, without one crumb of ore,
  Into the spacious hall, whose darksome floor
  With downy beds and quilts was pavèd o'er,                         10
  Instead of marble stones. Here nuzzled both
  The hated spawn of idleness and sloth,
  _Icilone_ and _Phantaso_, the one
  Wrapt in a mantle, set with stars and stones,
  Chequered with flow'rs, and trimmed with antic shapes,
  Playing with children, feathers, flies, and apes,
  Blowing up spittle bladders, and the other
  Stretched on the bosom of his quiet mother,
  Folded in furs and feathers, would not stir
  To earn a penny, or to 'please you, sir,'                          20
  With cap and curtsey. Wond'ring much, to me
  The wingèd post came with an embassy.
  I, frighted with his strange apparel, shrunk
  Away, and closely into feathers sunk.
  He, smiling, said, 'Let not my strange arraying,
  Kind youth, beget amazement or dismaying.
  I'll show thee where in marshalled order stray
  Whole troops of laureates ensphered with bay';
  Then spread his wingèd sails, and caught my hair,
  Without a sense of motion through the air                          30
  Conducting me, through where the salamander
  (If faith b' historical) does breath and wander.
  Then through those glorious orbs, enriched with gems,
  The palaces of seven diadems.
  Then through the firmament where glitt'ring spangs
  Like blazing topazes in crystal hangs.
  Three storeys higher was the Galupin
  Where Jove was frolic with his goddy kin;
  Hither was I uplifted, then mine eye
  Besprinkled was by nimble Mercury                                  40
  With liquor which with strength did me endue
  T' abide the presence of th' immortal crew.
  The whisp'ring vaults I openèd of my brain,
  The counsels of the gods to entertain,
  And, fearing memory, with short-lived chalk
  (Wanting the tongue of paper) writ their talk.
    The patron of Parnassus and the Nine,
  To Jove presented and the rest divine
  Their suits, with comely grace and majesty.
  But Phoebus was the orator: 'Lo! I                                 50
  Thy daughters undertook to patronize,
  Great Emperor of the crystal-spangled skies!
  And shield their measures from the sullen rage
  Of envious ignorance, this critic age.
  (For none inveigh against poetic measures
  But those that never had Pandora's treasures)
  Yet such a shoal of ignorants I find,
  'Tis thought the greater part o' th' world is blind;
  That, maugre all my scourges, in the dark
  Against the Muses they will snarl and bark.                        60
  Let wingèd-sandalled Hermes post to call
  And summon them unto thy judgement hall,
  That you may know their rage is want of brains.'
  Hermes took post, and brought the silly trains.
  Jove waved his sceptre and commanded hush.
  Then calls a gaudy piece of empty plush,
  And asked what he could say 'gainst Poetry:
  'Ha! ha!' quoth he, and fleered with blinking eye,
  'I have a mistress' (then begins a tale
  Which made Jove call for some nectarean ale                        70
  To arm his ears 'gainst nonsense, and his side
  'Gainst laughter's fury) 'has too much of pride.
  She's fair as is a wall new-parged with lime,
  She's wise enough; for age, she's in her prime.
  I vow her service, but she slights me, why?
  Marry, I have no vein in Poesy,
  But what I take on trust o' th' second hand.
  She jeers and says, "This cannot well be scanned;
  This has a foot too little, that too much;
  This is a borrowed line"--"she knows 't by th' touch;              80
  Tells me the double Indies shall not gain
  Her love without the smirk poetic vein.
  Despairing, I against the Muses rail,
  And wished my hands had crusted been with flail.
  Then should not I have needed proxy-verse,
  T' have won a milkmaid, neither coy nor terse.
  "Tush," say I, "Madam, this same ragged crew
  Of rhyming dizzards are not worthy you.
  Plato exiled them from his commonweal.
  Their tongues will flatter, and their fingers steal.               90
  Mere sycophants that, for a trencher-bit,
  Will swear y' have beauty mixed with purest wit.
  And if you anger them, will in a rage
  Unsay 't and rail 'gainst you, your sex, and age."
  Hundred invectives more I often use
  Against the Poet and his strumpet muse.
  But I protest 'tis to dissuade my lady:
  For had I wit, Phoebus should be my daddy.
  Then, sacred sisters! I implore your bays
  Make me a bard, and I'll descant your praise.'                    100
  'No,' quoth the Muses, 'Helicon ne'er brooks
  T' have servants which do wear such simple looks.'
  So sent him packing with a flea in 's ear.
    Apollo called another to appear,
  A feeble brain, that at a gen'ral dye
  Had got the sable hue of infamy.
  He buzzles like a bustard in a wind,
  And with his _aio_'s strikes the vulgar blind,
  In whom, if we believe Pythagoras,
  I think the soul of Battus housèd was.                            110
  He is demanded why he thus does bawl
  'Gainst soaring wits, not worms that earthly crawl?
  Clothing his face with impudence, his looks
  With pride, and with high self-conceit (his books,
  So are his words, he speaks in print) 'Why? why?
  Have I not cause t' exclaim on Poesy?
  I'm a divine, not a fond prattling poet.
  I am a preacher, I would have you know it.'
  'Peace! arrogant,' says Hermes, 'else I'll drive
  Thee quick into the black infernal hive.                          120
  There was a time when thou admir'dst with praise
  Each sprig of laurel, slip of youthful bays.
  But Envy's master now: or th' cause of it
  Is, thou ne'er hop'st t' attain that height of wit.
  But say the truth (yet truth will scarce abide thee)
  Are there not some that jeer and do deride thee
  In lofty measures, and thou wanting skill
  To vindicate thy credit by thy quill?
  Dost scold?' Quoth he, 'I do acknowledge it.
  I blamed the Muses, 'cause I wanted wit;                          130
  And darted scandals at Apollo's lyre.
  Yet pardon, mighty Æsculapius' sire,
  And ye blest goddesses, my grand offence,
  And on your altars I'll burn frankincense,
  Nay, build rich trophies unto Poetry.'
  ''Tis good to see a convert mind: stand by.'
  Apollo said. Says Vulcan, 'By the mass,
  I have espied a plump-cheek'd bonny lass.
  She is a wrig, I warrant. Where's my wife?
  Oh! 'tis a hell to live a coupled life.'                          140
  Thus did the Blacksmith mutter, till Apollo
  Cited the damsel with a gentle holloa.
  Up comes the Marget with a mincing pace,
  A city-stride, court-garb, and smirking face,
  So curtsied to the gods, yet 'twas but short.
  Then says Apollo (meaning to make sport)
  'What occupation use you, art, or trade?
  Are you a virgin?' 'Yes, a chambermaid
  Forsooth I am, I have my virgin seal.
  To honest Vulcan I dare make m'appeal:                            150
  He'll pawn his head, had I kept Venus' room,
  Mars had not dubbed him with Actaeon's doom.'
  'A merry wench, in faith!' says Jove, 'yet stay.
  To serious parle let's fall from wanton play.
  You are accused as one that does condemn
  And boldly scoff the laurel diadem.'
  'I once', quoth she, 'admired them all, until
  I found my praise returned but traffic ill.
  for when I praised, they praisèd me again:
  So I had only praises for my pain.                                160
  Then wittily I oftentimes would flout,
  And say, the poets' was a needy rout;
  Of all professions sure it was the worst,
  Just like the cockatrice i' th' shell accurst,
  With many more; yet though our tongues did jar,
  Our quarrel ended in a lippy war.
  We kissed to friendship, like the nurse and child,'
  And there she stopped, whereat the heavens smiled.
    Then came a servingman, a blunt old knave,
  That dared Parnassus with a saucy brave.                          170
  'In youth,' says he, 'I rhymed and framèd notes
  To Pan's choice music and the shepherds' throats:
  And many a lusty bowl of cream have got
  For Kate's three brace of rhymes, which was, God wot,
  But once removed from prose, and, for a song,
  The iron-hoofèd Hobs 'bout me did throng.
  But now old age my wit and fancy nips,
  I gall the Muses with satyric quips;
  Yet might I with the eagle cast my bill,
  And gain my youth, I would regain my skill.'                      180
    This done, the pursuivant Apollo posts
  T' Elysium, to call the poets' ghosts,
  That paid th' infernal ferryman his fee.
  There saw I Homer, but he saw not me;
  Lascivious Ovid, and Virgilius grave,
  Satyric Juvenal, and Martial brave,
  Splay-footed Plautus, limping Ennius,
  Propertius, Horace, and Boethius.
  Amongst the moderns came the Fairy Queen,
  Old Geoffrey, Sidney, Drayton, Randolph, Greene,                  190
  The double Beaumont, [    ] Drummond, Browne--
  Each had his chaplet, and his ivy crown.
  'How rested ye amidst those gloomy shades?'
  Says Jupiter, 'See ye not other trades,
  Learnings, and sciences, have constant springs,
  Summers and autumns without winterings?
  They'll have no hailstorms, fleezy rain, nor frost,
  A pregnant-witted bard did silence break.
  Homer 'twas not, he could not see to speak.                       200
  Virgil it was not, he had got a wrench:
  Nor B. nor M., for they had got a wench.
  Ennius was lame, and much did fear his shins;
  Horace was busy with the kilderkins,
  Ovid employed with his belovèd flea,
  Old Geoffrey's language was not fit for plea.
  Drayton on 's brains a new Moon-calf was getting,
  And testy Drummond could not speak for fretting.
  I knew the Roscian's feature, not his name;
  Yet 'tis engraven on the shawm of Fame.                           210
  With settled grace he boldly did advance:
  'Father of gods! King of the large expanse!
  We oft have heard proud Envy belching forth
  Fogs, mists, and fumes, t' eclipse the metric worth,
  And know the teeming world did never nurse
  So great a mischief as the critic curse.
  Our souls one minute have not rested quiet
  Since carps, we know, was _Ignoramus_' diet.
  If Wisdom's fetial call to the sand
  We have revenge; our standish is at hand,                         220
  That rights our wrongs: but 'gainst Don Silly's rails
  The fist is heaved, for paper naught avails.
  We sate in counsel, did intend to sue
  With a petition to this noble crew;
  The substance this, that ye would either give
  Wit and discretion unto all that live,
  Or make them idiots, deprived of reason.
  Else, but to speak, let it be counted treason.
  But we appeal, great gods, 'tis now my theme--
  To clear from mud pure Aganippa's stream,                         230
  Assist, Pierides, maintain your fires
  With greater care than can the Vestals theirs;
  'Tis merely loss of time, and paper both
  By refutation to chastise their sloth.
  Then I the juice of Helicon will sup
  Not in nutshell, but Colocassian cup,
  Shall make my fancy catch at naught but gems,
  And wreathe the Muses' brows with diadems.
  Methinks this draught such virtue does infuse
  As if in every sense there dwelt a muse,                          240
  A spirit of valour to ungod great war,
  Should he but send a ram, but to the bar;
  Who knows not Vaticinium does imply
  In equal measures verse and prophecy,
  An inspiration, a celestial touch?
  Such is the poet's raptures, prophet's such.
  _Vates_, a bard, and him that does presage;
  _Vaticinor_, possessed with either rage.
  _Poema_ is a book, in numbers framed,
  Fast cémented with sense, by working named,                       250
  To which the choicest orator stands bare.
  _Poesis_ does, in a sublimer air,
  Things human and divine expose to view.
  The first philosophy that Fame e'er knew
  Was honoured with the name of Poetry,
  Enriched with rules of pure morality,
  Reading instructions unto heathen men.
  With more contentment than the Stoic's pen.
  The ancients unto poets only gave
  The epithets of wise, divine, and grave;                          260
  Because their metres taught the world to know
  To whom they did their holy worship owe.
  The Greek is free, and kinder in her praise
  Which she bestows upon poetic lays.
  She calls all that which takes not essence by
  A matter pre-existent, poesy.
  So makes the world a poem: and by this
  The great creator a great poet is.
  Nay more, that language on the Nine bestows
  (As ev'ry callent of that idiom knows)                            270
  In her etymologues, an higher grace,
  Calls them [Greek: paideutas], and whose measures trace
  The steps of Nature, human and divine,
  The abstruse mysteries of both untwine,
  Unlock the _exta_ of each science, art,
  By cunning search; again, not as a part,
  Nor a grand column only, but entreasures
  The soul of learning in the poet's measures.
  All other arts (which use and learning gave)
  Precepts and rules as sure foundations have,                      280
  Whenas the poet's pen alone 's inspired,
  With high enthusiasms by heaven fired,
  Ennius them holy calls; and Plato says
  Furies divine are in the poet's lays.
  Nor wanted he himself the poet's wit;
  He _Dithyrambos_ and love passions writ.
  The Regal Prophet was a true-born poet,
  As to the life his well-tuned metres show it;
  Composed to music by that holy man,
  Ere Hopkins and Sternhold knew how to scan.                       290
  Hence, chicken-augurs, with your crooked staves,
  Whose rash conjectures crown and dig us graves.
  A lofty fancy, steepèd in the fount
  Of Pegasus, an higher pitch can mount.
  Sibylline oracles did speak in verse;
  Their scattered leaves in measures did rehearse
  The mysteries of man's redemption by
  The incarnation of a deity.
  Grave Maro, I remember, in an ode
  (An eclogue) treads the same prophetic road.                      300
  Those famous _Druides_, renowned of late,
  Treated at large o' th' soul's immortal state.
  Man's spirit does not to the gloomy shade
  Of _Erebus_, o'er black _Cocytus_, wade.
  Death sets no period, is the lesser part
  Of human life; for the same breath does dart
  Vigour to every sinew in the bulk.
  Man lives as freely in another hulk.
  Who readeth Ovid's Metamorphosin,
  And thinks not Moses' soul was sheathèd in                        310
  His body by a transmigration?
  He from the chaos tells the world's plantation.
  Maro accords, and gives the world a soul
  Which does this well-compacted lump control;
  And by illumination he discovered
  How then the spirit o'er the water hovered.
  Th' inspirèd pen of old Pythagoras
  By _Naso's_ guide relates how in this mass
  All things do alter shape, yet soon Dame Nature
  Of one form lost informs another feature.                         320
  No substance 's nothingèd in this large globe,
  But 'gainst some feast puts on a newer robe.
  The earth, resolved to water, rarefies
  Into pure air; the thinner water flies;
  The purer air assumes a scorching heat.
  They, back returning, orderly retreat:
  Those subtle sparks converted are to breath,
  The spissy air, being doomed unto death,
  Turns into sea, earth's made a thick'ned water.
  Thus wily Nature is a strange translator.                         330
  (My lady readers I refer to Sandys,
  But the grave learnèd unto Ovid's hands.)
  Nor Seneca divine wants prophesies.
  Near to the death of time, an age shall rise
  In which says he, the ocean shall untie
  The wat'ry bands of things and to the eye
  Of Tiphys, a new world appear
  Unheard before by the most itching ear,
  In glory matching this. Then Thule no more
  Shall be th' earth's _ne plus ultra_ bound or door,               340
  Our eights i' th' hundred would large heaps of treasures
  Set in their wills to buy Zorastus' measures.
  Mass-priests for dirges then would lose their fee;
  These would the surest _de profundis_ be.
  Shopsters and gallants to his house would hop
  More than t' exchanges or canary-shop.
  And poets brisk would have a larger dealth,
  Than holy confessors of dead men's wealth.
  I might be infinite, should I but show
  For what grave arts the world to poets owe.                       350
  Apelles had not been without Parnasse,
  The pencil's worth had only dwelt on glass,
  Or dusty tablets, guided by those apes,
  In imitation of some antic shapes.
  Venus a portrait had, Pygmalion missed
  That speechless female which he hugged and kissed.
  Had not th' enlivening breath of poetry
  T' a higher pitch reared up dull fantasy.
  How quickly worthy acts of famous men
  Died in the wane of our poetic pen!                               360
  How rudely by the monks (which only had
  The key of learning) were their actions clad!
  King Ethelbert's closed in his Polyander,
  To Christ for church buildings he's gone without meander.
  Such stuff the tombs of Bede and Petrarch have,
  The razor from all monky pates did shave
  Wit with their hair, except in Mantuan.
  Re-teined by Vida and Politian,
  And many others was this glorious sun,
  Which glitter shall till earth's last thread be spun.             370
  We raise shall obelisks by Apollo's breath,
  Which owe no homage to the rage of death.
  By pen Honterus creatures limned to life,
  Better than could the cynic with his knife.
  Pliny comparèd unto him did err;
  He was a chemic and cosmographer.
  How bravely does the Scottish bard depinge
  The planets' order and the spheric hinge!
  Brave Petrarch, latined by our learned clerk,
  Lights us a lamp to guide us in this dark.                        380
  And critic age says that stout Alexander,
  (Whose warlike steps o'er all this globe did wander)
  Fixing on brave Pelides' tomb his eye,
  Rapt with a noble envy loud did cry,
  'Happy, O happy thou! whole actions still
  Live, being enbreathed by the immortal quill
  Of worthy Homer!' nay, when his sword had gained
  Those wealthy realms o'er which Darius reigned,
  He 'mongst his treasures found a casket fair,
  So set with gold and gems it rayed the air,                       390
  And called in day despite of clouds or nights--
  Yet the best use (as grave Patricius writes)
  This cabinet could serve to, was t' entomb
  Homer's choice Iliads in his glorious womb.
  Of Zoarastus now some wonders hear,
  And barrel his disciples in thine ear,
  Whose rhymes could charm foul Cerber's bawling tongue,
  And pick hell's lock with his enchanting song;
  From Stygian shade conducting whom they listed,
  And whom they pleased with hellish fogs bemisted.                 400
  Oh golden metres, rhymes outworthing gold,
  At what high prices would they now be sold
  If they were extant! friend for friend would sell
  Lordships, books, banners, to redeem from hell.
  How many ages has those Greeks survived
  (Than all their predecessors longer lived),
  Which showed their noble worths at Ilium's grave?
  Yet thrice Nestorean age them Homer gave.
  How bravely Lucan tells succeeding ages
  The seven-hillèd city's bloody rages!                             410
  Moist clouds long since have washed the purpled grass,
  Yet red as ever 'tis in Lucan's glass.
  To Carthage' Queen the wand'ring Trojan prince
  Pretended love, but dead it is long since,
  And dust are they; yet Virgil's lofty verse
  Makes him speak wars, she love, from under th' hearse.
  Long since did Hellespont gulp in Leander,
  When he presumed on naked breast to wander.
  Hero's watch-candle's out; they vanished quite.
  Yet Ovid says all was but yesternight.                            420
  A great while since the cheating miller stole
  The scholars' meal by a quadruple toll:
  They gave him th' hornbook, taught his daughter Greek,
  Yet look in Chaucer--done the other week.
  Ir'n-sinewed Talus with his steely flail
  Long since i' th' right of justice did prevail
  Under the sceptre of the Fairy Queen:
  Yet Spenser's lofty measures makes it green.
  Donne was a poet and a grave divine,
  Highly esteemèd for the sacred Nine                               430
  That aftertimes shall say whilst there's a sun
  'This verse, this sermon, was composed by Dun'.
  What by heroic acts to man accrues,
  When grisly Charon for his waftage sues,
  If his great grandchild, and his grandchild's son,
  May not the honours, which his sword hath won,
  Read, graved on paper by a poet's pen,
  When marble monuments are dust, and when
  Time has eat off his paint and lettered gold;
  For verse alone keeps honour out o' th' mould?                    440
  The press successively gives birth to verse,
  Shall steely tombs outlive the buckram hearse?
  To other things the same proportion hold
  Pure rhymes which lofty volumes do enfold.
  Autumnal frosts would nip the double rose,
  If cherish'd only by the breath of prose.
  Beauty of beauty's not the smallest part
  Which is bestowèd by our liberal art.
  Orpheus, Arion, and the scraping crew,
  To wire and parchèd guts may bid adieu,                           450
  Or audience beg; were 't not for sprightful bays,
  Which to the strings composeth merry lays.
  But with the Muses I'm so fall'n in love
  That I forget thy presence, mighty Jove!
  And through the spacious universe do walk:
  But this shall set a period to my talk.'
  Jove stretch'd his sceptre then, with frolic grace,
  And joy triumphèd on the heaven's face.
  The orbs made music, and the planets danced:
  The Muses' glory was by all enhanced.                             460
  Jove then intended for to ratify
  Decrees in the behoof of poesy,
  Giving the bards his hand to kiss; and made
  Chaplets of laurel which should never fade.
  But Vulcan, to Gradive placed in oppose,
  Was nodding fast and bellowing through the nose.
  His armèd brow fell down; and lighting right
  His antlers did the marching god unsight.
  Mars fumed, the gods laughed out, the spheres did shake,
  At which shrill noise I starting did awake,                       470
  And looking up (East having oped his doors)
  Amazèd I beheld a troop of scores,
  And wond'ring, thought they'd been ale-debts, but found
  I them had chalkèd in my dreaming swound.
  I trow not the decree: 'twas Vulcan's fault--
  Yet dreams are seldom sound, like him they halt.
  Take this: and, if I can so happy be,
  I'll write, in my next slumbers, the decree.




    [Line: _Il Insonio Insonnadado_] 13 The names taken from the
    well-known passage of Ovid, _Met._ xi. 640 seq.]

    [Line: 37 Galupin?]

    [Line: 38 goddy kin. Read perhaps 'goddykin', on the analogy
    of 'mannikin', and interpret of Ganymede. On the other hand
    Whiting affects there adjectives in -_y_: see the examples
    quoted, _Albino_, l. 808, where 'goddy' actually occurs.]

    [Line: 76 Orig. 'da_v_e'. 'Have' seems more likely, but
    therefore perhaps less Whitingish, than 'dare'.]

    [Line: 86 terse] 'polished'. Cf. _Albino_, 3329.]

    [Line: 88 Orig. 'rithming'. This generally = 'rhyming' but may
    = 'rhythming'.]

    [Line: 108 _aio_'s] = Latin 'I say it'. For similar plurals,
    cf. _conclusum_'s in _Albino_, 1334, and _fortasse_'s, 2488.]

    [Line: 191 double Beaumont] Francis and Sir John. The mention
    of Drummond is interesting, for I do not remember many.]

    [Line: 198 I do not remember many 'plays' on that consonance
    of 'rime' and 'rhyme' which is a main argument for not
    confusing the spelling. In previous line orig. 'fleezie'.]

    [Line: 202 I suppose 'M.' is Martial: which of the B.'s (it is
    surely not Boethius?) the other letter libels I know not.]

    [Line: 205 Ovid] The allusion is to the spurious _De Pulice_
    printed in the early editions of Ovid.]

    [Line: 209 If people read Whiting I suppose somebody would say
    that this 'Roscian' must be Shakespeare.]

    [Line: 218 Ruggles's almost famous play had been written a
    quarter of a century and performed before the King more than
    twenty years earlier, but it had only been printed in 1630.]

    [Line: 219 'fetial' (orig. 'fæcial') = the
    priest-herald-ambassador who delivered the ultimatum of war or
    proclaimed peace. 'Sand' = arena.]

    [Line: 236 Colocassian] = made of the great leaves of the
    Egyptian water-lily.]

    [Line: 249 Here we get into the old critical commonplaces of
    the Italians as to Poema, Poesis, &c.]

    [Line: 270 callent] = 'knower'. Whether Whitings invention I
    know not: he might in the context have been directly thinking
    of Pliny's 'vaticinandi callentes'.]

    [Line: 275 exta = 'entrails', not merely as 'inwards'
    'secrets', but as possessing indications for haruspices.]

    [Line: 290 Hopkins and Sternhold: cf. _sup._, King, p. 228.]

    [Line: 331 Orig. has simply 'sands' (the proper pronunciation)
    with a small _s_. Sandys's _Ovid_ was extremely popular.]

    [Line: 337 Orig. 'Typhis'. Tethys? as in the passage of
    Seneca's _Medea_, to which Whiting refers ('Tethys novos
    deteget orbes'). But Tiphys, the helmsman of the Argonauts, and
    watcher of the seas, may be meant: cf. the prominence given to
    him in Virgil's 4th Eclogue, 'Alter erit tum Tiphys'.]

    [Line: 342 Zorastus] Spelt '_Zoarastus_' in l. 395. The
    reference is to the reputed oracles of Zoroaster, printed
    in _Magia Philosophica, hoc est Francisci Patricii Summi
    Philosophi Zoroaster & eius 320 Oracula Chaldaica_, Hamburg,
    1593. Patrizzi, whose _Della Poetica_ (Ferrara, 1586) ranks
    high in Renaissance criticism, is named at l. 392.]

    [Line: 363 Polyander]?]

    [Line: 364 Whether this overflowing line is a flirt of
    Whiting's heels or a slip of pen or press may be doubtful.]

    [Line: 368 Re-teined. Cf. the dedication to _Albino_, l. 6.]

    [Line: 373 Honterus] Author of _Cosmographiae Rudimenta_,
    1534, several revisions or re-issues of which appeared in the
    sixteenth century.]

    [Lines: 373-393 These lines are full of allusions which I
    cannot exactly interpret. In fact the whole poem, evidently
    suggested in style by Marston, Tourneur, and others, is a sort
    of mystification.]

    [Line: 432 Orig. 'Dun'. One of the commonest spellings, and
    apparently the usual pronunciation.]




_FINIS._


Gentle Reader, beare with some faults, which through the obscuritie
of the copie, and the absence of the Authour have escaped; as page 3.
line 24. for veyne read reyne. p. 3. l. 6. for enjoyed read enjayld.
p. 6. l. 10. for tener read knee. p. 12. l. 24 for Satamit read
Catamite. Two staves there are misplaced, to the reforming whereof
the sence will direct thee: what other errours thou findest, let thy
pen amend, excusing the presse, and un-staining the Author.

[These corrections have been made in the text.]




    [Footnote: _Errata notes_] The sublime coolness of this has
    been noted. The poet or his reader, less conscientious than
    the present editor, decided at p. 12 that it was not _tanti_.
    As a matter of fact 'Satamit' was already corrected in the
    copy used.]




ERRATA. VOL. II


  Page 237. _Psalm 141._      l. 22 _for_ severed _read_ severe
                              l. 23 _for_ not _read_ no
                              l. 31 _for_ arresse _read_ accesse
  Page 238. _Chorus._         l. 42 _for_ When _read_ Whom
            _Constancy._      l. 21 _for_ rain _read_ ruin
  Page 239. (first) _Song._   l. 14 _for_ blow _read_ blew
                              l. 27 _for_ you _read_ your
            (second) _Song._  l. 26 _for_ soon _read_ seen
                              l. 30 _for_ those _read_ these
  Page 240. _Lines._          l.  7 _for_ needs _read_ weeds
                              l. 22 _for_ instant _read_ distant
                              l.  6 _for_ field _read_ fields
  Page 241. _Psalm 137._      l.  8 _for_ captive _read_ captived
  Page 242. _Ballet._         l. 29 _for_ eye _read_ eyes
                              l. 41 _for_ Those moods _read_
                                          These woods
                              l. 63 _for_ wood _read_ woods
  Page 243. _Song._           l. 14 _for_ then _read_ there
            _Epistle._        l. 39 _for_ life _read_ less
  Page 245. _Quatrains_[2].   l.  4 _for_ side _read_ Tide
                              l.  9 _for_ flee; _MS._ fly
  Page 246. _Epistle._        l. 30 _for_ captur'd _read_ captiv'd
  Page 247. _Hymn._           l. 10 _for_ Life _read_ less
            _Farewell._       l. 27 _for_ Disraye _read_ Disease
  Page 248. _Sir F. Carew._   l.  8 _for_ fought _read_ sought
  Page 260.                   l. 34 _for_ soon _read_ seen
  Page 261. _Sonnet._         l.  5 _for_ sure _read_ free
                              l. 11 _for_ pride _read_ prize
                              l. 25 _for_ grate _read_ grace
                              l. 27 _for_ fate _read_ face

_Madam, 'tis true_ is printed in Jonson's _Underwoods_ (1640, p. 247),
where it opens _Fair Friend, 'tis true_, and follows _A New-Year's
Gift sung to King Charles, 1635_. Godolphin's Commendatory Poem to
Sandys's _Paraphrase of the Divine Poems_, 1648, was accidentally
omitted from this collection: but as it is easily accessible, it has
not been thought necessary to reprint it among these _Errata_.




VOL. III


Page 431, note, l. 6 from bottom, _for_ 'hateful' _read_ 'grateful'.


Printed in England at the Oxford University Press

       *       *       *       *       *




  Transcriber's Note

  Tables of Contents have been added to two of the books, where they
  were only present in the initial List of Contents.

  In the original, the Commendatory Poems were printed in two columns,
  and the line numbers were placed convenient to the length of line,
  occasionally 29, 41, etc. Since all the poems are now in single column
  format, the line numbers in the Commendatory Poems have been restored
  to the usual 30, 40, etc.

  At the time of the Caroline Period, England still followed the Julian
  calendar (after Julius Caesar, 44 B.C.), and celebrated New Year's Day
  on March 25th (Annunciation Day). Most Catholic countries accepted the
  Gregorian calendar (after Pope Gregory XIII) from some time after 1582
  (the Catholic countries of France, Spain, Portugal, and Italy in 1582,
  Belgium, the Netherlands, and Switzerland within a year or two,
  Hungary in 1587, and Scotland in 1600), and celebrated New Year's Day
  on January 1st. England finally changed to the Gregorian calendar in
  1752.

  This is the reason for the double dates in the early months of the
  years in some of the Notes. There is a reference on page 415 to 28th
  December, 1682, followed by a reference to January 28th, 1682/3. (1682
  in England; 1683 in Scotland). Only after March 25th (Julian New Years
  Day) was the year the same in the two countries. The Julian calendar
  was known as 'Old Style', and the Gregorian calendar as 'New Style'
  (N.S.).

  = = indicated bold text; _ _ indicates italic text;
  + + indicates spaced text; ^{} indicates a superscript.




  Errata (only obvious Printers' Errors have been corrected):

  Page 68: [Footnote: 'fellnw' corrected to (2nd) 'fellow'.
    "... this on Strafford's fellow worker and fellow victim...."

  Page 76: [Line: 20 'publisbed' corrected to 'published'.
    "whose minutes have been published in modern times".

  Page 109: 'topô' should be 'typô'. May be a printer's error, or
  Saintsbury's or Stanley's original: retained.

    "Pantachothen en heni topô poll' eidê pherôn,"

  Page 226: [Line: 64 'Witb]' corrected to 'With'

  Page 256: [Sidenote: 'flunnt' corrected to 'fluunt'.
    "--_Sparguntur in omnes, In te mista fluunt_--Claudian."

  Page 259, Sidenote: _Ganguin_. l. 6.]

  The historian's name is usually given as Gaguin nowadays, but
  formerly Guaguin was usual.

  Page 301: 'freind' (sic) has been retained. There were no enforced
  spelling 'rules' at this time.

    "Entered in the Stationers' Register on December 17, 1673, as
    'A poem or copy intituled the Review, To the Reverend my honored
    freind Dr. Wm. Sancroft, Deane of St. Paules, A Pindarique Ode'."

  Page 361: Stanza number I. missing. Added for consistency.

  Page 384: Missing Stanza number 'II'. Present in the Latin version.

  Page 431: 'hateful' corrected to 'grateful' as per the errata on
  page 562.

    "[Line: 7 That 'bitter' would be grateful to others besides
    unicorns after a surfeit of liquorice may be easily admitted."

  Page 433: 'tbee' corrected to 'thee'.
    "Smile at thee, on thee, like thee new,"

  Page 497: Possible Printer's error, mentioned, but not corrected,
  by Saintsbury:

        "The shrivers to their lords return with smiles,
         And on their looks a joy ovall chhriots had,"

    could be:

        "The shrivers to their lords return with smiles,
         And on their looks a joviall charact' had,"

    (See Note, Line 2453).

  Page 528: 'contiued' corrected to 'continued'.
    "The spiders here had one continued loom:"

  Page 539 (Note): 'tbe' corrected to 'the'; 'balf; corrected to
  'half'.

    "and I should not presume to be too certain as to the exact
   meaning of 'half-wrack'd with eye-men',"