Ben: Ionson's Execration against Vulcan.
ANd why to me this; (thou lame god of fire)
What have I done that mght cal on thine ire?
Or urge thy greedy flames, thus to devoure
So many my yeares labours in one houre!
I ne're attempted ought against thy life,
Nor made lesse line of Love to thy loose wife:
Or in remembrance of thy affront and scorne,
With clowns & tradesmen kept thee close in horn:
'Twas Iupiter that hurld thee head-long downe,
And Mars that gave thee a Lanthorne for a Crowne.
Was it because thou wert of old deny'd,
By Iove, to have Minerva for thy Bride.
[Page]That since thou tak'st all envious care and paine,
To ruine every issue of her Braine?
Had I wrot Treason there, or Heresie,
Impostures, Witchcraft, Charmes, or Blasphemy,
I had deserv'd then thy consuming lookes,
Perhaps to have beene burned with my books:
But on thy Malice tell mee, didst thou spye
Any least loose, or scurrill paper lye
Conceal'd, or kept there; that was fit to be,
By thy owne vote, a Sacrifice to thee?
Did I there wound the honour of the Crowne?
Or taxe the glory of the Church, or Gowne?
Itch to defame the state, or brand the Times,
And my selfe most in leaud selfe-boasting Rimes?
If none of these, why then this fire? or find
A cause before, or leave me one behind.
Had I compil'd from Amadis de Gaule
Th'Esplandians, Arthurs, Palmerins, and all
The learned Library of Don Quixot,
And so some goodlier Monster had begot:
Or spunne out Riddles, or weav'd fifty Tomes
Of Logogriphes, or curious Pallindromes;
Or pump'd for those hard trifles, Anagrams,
Or Ecrosticks, or your finer flames
Of Egges, and Halberds, Cradles and a Herse,
A paire of sizers and a Combe in verse
[Page] Acrosticks, and
Tellesticks, or iumpe names,
Thou then hadst had some colour for thy flames,
On such my serious follies: But thou'lt say,
There were some pieces of as base a Lay,
And as false stampe there: parcells of a play
Fitter to see the fire-light, than the day:
Adulterate Monyes, such as would not goe,
Thou shouldst have staid, till publick fame said so.
She is the Iudge, thou Executioner:
Or if thou needs will trench upon her power,
Thou mightst have yet enioy'd thy cruelty,
With some more thirst and more variety!
Thou mightst have had me perish piece by piece,
To light Tobacco, or save roasted Geese,
Singe Capon, or crispe Pigge, dropping their eyes▪
Condemn'd them to the Ovens with the Pies;
And so have kept me dying a whole age,
Not ravish'd all hence in a minuits rage:
But thats the mark whereof thy right doth boast,
To sow Consumption every where thou go'st.
Had I fore-knowne of this thy least desire,
T'have held a triumph, or a feast of fire;
Especially in paper, that that steame
Had tickled thy large Nostrills, many a Reame,
To redeeme mine I had sent in; enough
Thou shouldst have cried, & all bin proper stuffe.
[Page]The
Talmond and the
Alcaron had come
With pieces of the Legend: the whole summe
Of Errant Knight-hood, with their Dames & Dwarffs,
The charmed Boats, and their inchanted Wharfes:
The Tristeams, Lancelots, Turpins, and the Peeres,
All the mad Rowlands, and sweet Olivers,
VVith Merlins Marvailes, and his Caballs Losse,
VVith the Chimera of the Rosie Crosse,
Their Charmes, their Characters, Hermetticke Rings,
Their Iems of Riches, and bright stone that brings
Invisibility, and Strength, and Tongues,
The art of kindling the true Cole by Lungs.
VVith Nicholas Pasquills, meddle with your match,
And the strong Lines that doe the times so catch:
On Captaine Pamphlets Horse and Foot that salley,
Vpon the Exchange still out of Popes head Alley,
The weekly Currants, with Pauls Seale, and all
The admir'd Discourses of the Prophet Baal,
These (hadst thou pleas'd either to dine or sup)
Had made a meate for Vulcan to lick up.
But in my Deske, what was there to excite
So ravenous and vast an appetite?
I dare not say a Body, but some parts
There were of search and mistery in the Arts:
And the old Venusine in Poetry,
And lighted by the Staggerite could spy,
[Page]Was there made English, with a
Grammer too,
To teach some that, their Nurses could not doe;
The purity of Language; and (among
The rest) my iourney into Scotland Sung,
With all the adventures: three Books not afraid
To speake the Fate of the Sycilian Maid
For our owne Ladies: And in story there
Of our fift Henry, eight of his nine yeare.
In which was Oyle, besides the succours spent,
Which Noble Cotton, Carew, Selden sent.
And twice twelve years Stor'd-up-Humanity,
And humble gleanings in Divinity,
After the Fathers; and those wiser guides,
Whom Factiou had not drawne to study sides.
How in these ruines Vulcan dost thou lurke:
All Soot and Embers, odious, as thy worke?
I now beginne to doubt, if ever grace,
Or goddesse could be patient at thy face.
Thou woe Minerva, or to wit aspire,
'Cause thou canst halt with us in Art and Fire.
Sonne of the Winde; for so thy Mother gone
With Lust conceiv'd thee, Father thou hadst none:
When thou wert born, & that thou lookst at best:
She durst not kisse, but flung thee from her breast.
And so did Iove, when neare meant thee his cup:
No mar'le the Clowns of Lemnos took thee up.
[Page]For none but
Smiths would have made thee a
god, Some Alchimist there may be yet, or odde:
Squire of the Squibs against the Pageant day,
May to thy Name a Vulcanale say,
And for it lose his eyes by Gun-powder,
As the other may his braines by Quick-silver:
Well fare the wise men yet on the Banks-side,
(Our friends the VVatermen) they could provide
Against thy fury, when to serve their needs,
They made a Vulcan on a sheafe of Reeds.
VVhom they durst handle in their holy day coats,
And safely trust to dresse, not burn their boats:
But oh these Reeds, thy meere disdaine of them,
Made thee beget that cruell stratagem:
(Which some are pleas'd to stile but thy mad prank)
Against the Globe, the glory of the banke,
VVhich though it were the Fort of the whol parish,
Fenc'd with a Ditch and forkt out of a Marish:
I saw with two poore Chambers taken in,
And rais'd ere thought could urge: this might have bin.
See the worlds ruines, nothing but the piles.
Left, and wit since to covet it with tiles
The Brethren they straight nois'd it out for newes,
'Twas verily some Relique of the Stewes:
And this a sparkle of that fire let loose,
That was rak'd up: the Winchestrian Goose
[Page]Bred on the Banke in time of Popery,
When Venus there maintain'd the mistery:
But others fell with that conceite by th' eares,
Twas verily a threatning to the Beares;
And that accursed ground, the Paris Garden:
Nay, (sigh'd a sister) 'twas the Nun Kate Arden
Kindled the fire: but then did one returne;
No foole would his owne Harvest spoile, or burn;
If that were so, thou rather wouldst advance
The place that was thy wives inheritance.
O no, cryed all, Fortune for being a whore,
Scapt not his Iustice any iot the more.
He burnt that Idoll of the Revells too:
Nay let Whit [...]-hall with Revells have to doe,
Though but in Dances) it shall know thy power,
There was a iudgement too shew'd in an houre;
He was right Vulcan still, hee did not spare
Troy, though it were so much thy Venus care:
Foole wilt thou let that in example come?
Did she not save from thence to build a Rome?
And what hast thou done in these petty spights,
More then advanc'd the horses and their Rites,
I will not argue thee from them of guilt,
For they were burnt but to be better built:
'Tis true, that in thy wish they were destroy'd,
VVhich thou hast onely vented, not enioy'd.
[Page]So wouldst th' have run upon the
Roles by stealth,
And didst invade part of the Common-wealth:
In those Records (which were our Chroniclers gone)
VVould be remembred by sixe Clerkes to one.
But say all sixe good men, what answer yee,
Lies there no Writ out of the Chancerie
Against this Vulcan? no Iniunction?
No Orders? no Decree? though we be gone
At Common Law, me thinkes in his dispight,
A Court of Equity should doe us right.
But to confine him to the Brew-houses,
The Glasse-house, Die-fates, and their Furnaces:
To live in Sea-coale, and goe out in Smoake,
Or least that vapour might the City choake,
Confine him to some Brickhills, or some Hill-
Foote out in Sussex to an Iron-Mill:
Or in small Faggots have him blaze about,
Vile Tavernes, and the Drunkards pisse him out:
Or in the Bell-mans Lanthorne, like a spye,
Waste to a snuffe, and then stinke out and dye.
I could invent a sentence yet more worse,
But i'le conclude all in a civill curse:
Poxe on your flame-ship (Vulcan) if it be
To all as fatall as t'hath beene to me;
And to Pauls Steeple, which had beene to us
'Bove all your fire-workes: had not Ephesus,
[Page]Or
Alexandria, which though a Divine
Losse yet remaines as unrepaird as mine:
Would you had kept your forge at Aetna still,
And there made swords, bills, glaves, & arms your fill;
Maintain'd a trade at Bilbo, or elsewhere,
Struck in at Millane with the Cutlers there:
Or stai'd where the Fryer and you first met,
That from the Devills Ars did Gunnes beget:
Or fixt in the Low Countries, where you might
On both sides doe your mischiefs with delight:
Blow up and ruine, Mine, and Counter-mine,
Vse your Petarres, and Granats, all your fine
Engines of Murther, and inioy the praise
Of massacring Man-kind so many wayes:
We aske your absence here, we all love peace,
And pray the fruits thereof and the increase,
So doth the King, and most of the Kings men,
That have good places: therefore once agen
Poxe on thee Vulcan; thy Pandora's Pox,
And all the ills that flew out of her Box
Light on thee: or if those plagues will not doe,
Thy wives pox take thee, and Bess Braughtons too.
Upon King CHARLES his Birth-day.
THis is King Charles his birth day, speak it the Tower
Vnto the Ships, and they from Tire to Tire,
Discharging 'bout the Iland in an houre,
As loud as Thunder, and as swift as fire.
Let Ireland meet it out at Sea halfe way,
Repeating all Great Brittaines ioy and more,
Adding her owne glad accents to this day,
Like eccho playing from another shore.
What Drums, or Trumpets, or great Ordnance can,
The Poetry of Steeples with the Bells.
Three Kingdomes mirth in light and ayery man,
Made loftier by the windes all noyses els.
At Bone-fires, Squibs, and mirth, with all their shouts,
That cry the gladnesse which their hearts would pray
If they had leasure, at these lawfull routs,
The often comming of this Holy day:
And then noyse forth the burthen of their song.
Still to have such a Charles, but this Charles long.
To the Queene on her Birth-day.
VP publicke ioy, remember
The sixeteenth of November
Some brave uncommmon way.
And though the parish Steeple
Be silent to the people,
Ring thou it Holy day.
What though the thirsty Towre,
And Guns there spare to powre
Their noyses out in thunder:
As fearefull to awake
The City, as to shake
Their guarded Gates asunder.
Yet let the Trumpets sound,
And shake both aire and ground
With beating of their Drums:
Let every Lire be strung,
Harpe, Lute, Theorbo sprung
With touch of learned thumbs,
That when the Quire is full,
The harmony may pull
The Angels from their Spheares:
And each intelligence,
May wish it selfe a sence,
Whilst it the Ditty heares.
Behold the royall Mary,
The daughter of great Harry,
And sister to iust Lewis,
Comes in the pompe and glory
Of all her Fathers story,
And of her brothers Prowis.
She shewes so farre above
The feigned Queen of Love;
This Sea-girt ground upon,
As here no Venus were
But that she reigning here,
Had put the Ceston on.
See, see our active King,
Hath taken twice the Ring
Vpon the poynted Lance,
VVhilst all the ravish't rout
Doe mingle in a shout,
Hey for the flower of France.
This day the Court doth measure
Her ioy in state and pleasure:
And with a reverend feare,
The revells and the play
Make up this Crowned day
Her one and twenty yeare.
On the Princes Birth-day. An Epigram.
ANd art thou borne, brave Babe, blest be thy birth,
That so hath crown'd our hopes, our spring on earth;
The bed of the chaste Lilly and the Rose,
What month than May was fitter to disclose
This Prince of flowers? soone shoot thou up, and grow
The same that thou art promis'd; but be slow,
And long in changing: let our Nephews see
Thee quickly come, the gardens eye to be,
And still to stand so: Haste now envious Moone,
And interpose thy selfe, care not how soone,
And threat the great Eclips two houres but runne,
Sol will reshine, if not, Charles hath a Sonne.
Non Displicuisse meretur
Festinat Caesar, qui placuisse tibi.
Another on the Birth of the Prince.
ANother Phoenix, though the first is dead,
A second's flowne from his immortall bed,
To make this our Arabia to be
The nest of an eternall progeny.
Choise Nature fram'd the former but to finde
What error might be mended in Man-kinde:
Like some industrious workman, which affect
Their first endeavours onely to correct:
So this the building, that the modell was,
The type of all that now is come to passe:
That but the shadow, this the substance is,
All that was but the prophesie of this:
And when it did this after birth fore-runne,
'Twas but the morning starre unto this Sunne;
The dawning of this day, when Sol did think
We having such a light, that he might wink,
And we ne're misse his lustre: nay so soone
As Charles was borne, he and the pale-fac'd Moon
With envy then did copulate, to try
If such a Birth might be produc'd i'th sky.
[Page]What Heavenly favour made a starre appeare,
To bid wise Kings to doe their homage here,
And prove him truely Christian? long remain
On Earth, sweet Prince, that when great Charles shal reign
In Heaven above, our little Charles may be
As great on Earth, because as good as he.
A Paralell of the Prince to the King.
SO Peleus when he faire Thetis got,
As thou thy Sea-Queene; so to him she brought
A blessed Babe, as thine hath done to thee:
His worthiest prov'd of those times, ours may be
Of these; his had a Pallas for his guide,
Thy wisedome will as well for ours provide:
His Conquered Countries, Cities, Castles, Towers,
A worthy foe; hereafter so may ours.
His all his time, but once Patroclus findes,
But this of ours a world of faithfull friends:
He's vulnerable in no place but one,
And this of ours (we hope) be hurt of none.
His had his Phoenix, ours no teacher needs,
But the example of thy Life and Deeds.
[Page]His
Nestor knew, in Armes his fellow was,
But not in yeares, (too soone runne out his Glasse)
Ours, though not Nestor knew, we trust, shall bee
As wise in Armes, as old in yeares as hee.
His after Death had Homer his reviver:
And ours may better merit to live ever,
By Deeds farre-passing: but (oh sad dispaire)
No hope of Homer, his wit left no heire.
An Elegy on the Lady Jane Paulet, Marchionesse of Winchester.
VVhat goodly Ghost besprint with Aprill dew,
Halls me so solemnly to yonder Yeugh?
And beckoning wooes me from the fatall tree,
To plucke a Garland for her selfe, or me.
I doe obey you beauty; for in death
You seeme a faire one; O that I had breath
To give your shade a name! stay! stay! I feele
A horror in me, all my blood is steele
[Page]Stiffe stark; my ioynts 'gainst one another knock:
Whose daughter? ha? great Savage of the Rock!
He's good, as great! I am almost a stone,
And ere I can aske more of her she's gone!
Alas I am all Marble: write the rest,
Thou wouldst have written fame upon my breast,
It is a large faire Table, and a true,
And the disposure will be somewhat new:
When I who would her Poet have become,
At least may beare th'inscription to her Tombe:
She was the Lady Iane, and Marchionesse
Of Winchester, the Heralds can tell this:
Earle Rivers grand-child, serve not titles, Fame
Sound thou her vertues, give her soule a name.
Had I a thousand mouths, as many tongues,
And voyce to raise them from my brasen Lungs,
I durst not aime at, the Dotes thereof were such,
No Nation can expresse how much
Their Charact was: I or my trump must breake,
But rather I, should I of that part speake,
It is too neare of kin to God the soule
To be describ'd, Fames fingers are too foule
To touch those misteries; we may admire
The heate and splendor, but not handle fire:
What she did by great example well,
T'inlive posterity, her fame may tell;
[Page]And calling truth to witnesse, make it good
From the inherint graces in her blood.
Else who doth prayle a person by a new,
But a feign'd way doth spoyle it of the true:
Her sweetnesse, softnesse, her faire courtesie,
Her wary guards, her wise simplicity,
Were like a ring of vertues 'bout her set,
And Piety the center where all met:
A reverend state she had, an awfull eye,
A darling, yet inviting Maiesty;
VVhat Nature, Fortune, Institution, Fact,
Could heape to a perfection, was her act:
How did she leave the world, with what contempt?
Iust as she in it liv'd, and so exempt
From all affection: when they urg'd the Cure
Of her disease, how did her soule assure
Her sufferings, as the Body had bin away:
And to the torturers her Doctors say,
Sticke on your Cupping-glasses, feare not, put
Your hottest Causticks to burne, lance, or cut:
Tis but a body which you can torment,
And I into the world, with my soule was sent.
Then comforted her Lord, and blest her sonne,
Chear'd her faire sisters in her race to runne.
VVhich gladnesse temper'd her sad parents teares,
Made her friends ioyes to get above their feares.
[Page] And in her last act taught the standers by,
With admiration and applause to dye:
Let Angels sing her glories, who did call
Her spirit home to her originall,
That saw the way was made it, and were sent
To carry and conduct the complement
'Twixt death and life: where her mortality
Became her birth-day to eternity!
And now through circumfused lights she lookes
On Natures secrets there as her owne bookes;
Speakes heavens language, and discourses free
To every Order, every Hierarchy.
Beholds her Maker, and in him doth see
VVhat the beginning of all beauties be,
And all beatitudes that thence doth flow,
VVhich the Elect of God are sure to know.
Goe now her happy parents and be sad,
If yee not understand what child you had;
If you dare quarrell heaven, and repent
To have paid againe a blessing was but lent,
And trusted so as it deposited lay
At pleasure to be cald for every day.
If you can envy your owne daughters blisse;
And wish her state lesse happy than it is;
If you can cast about your either eye,
And see all dead here, or about to dye.
[Page]The Stars that are the iewells of the night,
The day deceasing with the Prince of light
The Sun. Great Kings & mightiest kingdoms fal,
VVhole nations; nay, man-kind, the world, & all
That ever had beginning to have end;
VVith what iniustice can one soule pretend
T'escape this common knowne necessity,
VVhen we were all borne we beganne to dye:
And but for that brave contention and strife,
The Christian hath t'enioy a future life;
He were the wretched'st of the race of men,
But as he soares at that, he bruiseth then
The Serpents head; gets above Death and Sinne▪
And sure of heaven rides triumphing in.
ODE PINDARICK On the the Death of Sir Hen. Morison.
BRave Infant of Saguntum cleare,
Thy comming forth in that great yeare,
When the prodigious Hanibal did Crowne
His rage, with razing your immortall Town.
[Page]Thou looking then about,
Ere thou wert halfe got out:
Wise Child didst hastily returne,
And madst thy Mothers wombe thine Vrne,
How sum'd a Circle didst thou leave mankind,
Of deepest lore could wee the center find.
The Counter-turne.
Did wiser Nature draw thee backe,
From out the horrour of that sack?
Where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right
Lay trampled on the deeds of death and night.
Vrg'd, hurried forth, and hurld
Vpon th' affrighted world:
Sword, fire, famine, with full fury met,
And all on utmost ruine set:
As could they but lives miseries fore-see,
No doubt all Infants would returne like thee.
The Stand.
For what is Life, if measur'd by the space,
Not by the Act?
Or masked man, if valued by his face,
Above his Fact?
[Page]Here's one out-liv'd his Peeres,
And told forth fourescore yeeres,
He vexed time, and busied the whole State,
Troubled both foes and friends,
But ever to no ends:
What did this stirrer but dye late?
How well at twenty had he falne or stood,
For three of his fourescore he did no good.
The Turne.
He entred well by vertuous parts,
Got up and thriv'd with honest Arts,
He purchas'd friends, and fame, and honors then,
And had his Noble Name advanc'd with men.
But weary of that flight,
He stoop'd in all mens sight
To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,
And sunke in that dead Sea of life
Too deepe: as he did then Deaths waters sup,
But that the Corke of Title Boy'd him up.
The Counter-turne.
Alas but Morison fell young;
He never fell, thou tripst my tongue:
[Page]He stood a Souldier to the last night end,
A perfect Patriot, and a noble friend.
But most a vertuous Sonne,
All offices were done
By him so ample, full, and round,
In weight, and measure, number sound,
As though his Age imperfect might appeare,
His life was of Humanity the Spheare.
The Stand.
Goe now and tell out dayes, sum'd up with fears,
And make them yeares:
Produce thy masse of miseries on the Stage,
To swell thine Age,
Repeate of things a throng,
To shew thou hast beene long,
Not liv'd: for life doth her great actions spell,
By what was done, and wrought
In season, and so brought
To light: her measures are how well:
Each sillib' answer'd, and was form'd how faire;
These make the lines of life, and that's her aire.
The Turne.
It is not growing, like a Tree,
In bulke, doth make man better be,
[Page]Or standing long an Oake, three hundued yeare,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and seare:
A Lilly of a day,
Is fairer farre in May,
Although it fall and dye at night,
It was the plant and flower of light;
In small proportions we iust beauty see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
The Counter-turne.
Call Noble Lucius then for wine,
And let thy looks with gladnesse shine,
Accept this Garland, plant it on thy head,
And thinke, nay know thy Morison's not dead.
He leap'd the present age,
Possest with holy rage,
To see the bright eternall day,
Of which we Priests and Poets say
Such truths as wee expect for happy men,
And there he lives with memory: and Ben
The Stand.
Ionson! who sung this of him e're he went
Himselfe to rest,
Or taste a part of that full ioy he meant
To have exprest,
[Page]In this bright Asterisme,
Where it was friendships schisme,
Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,
To separate these twi-
Lights, the Dioscuri,
And keepe the one halfe from his Harry;
But Fate doth so alternate the designe,
VVhilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine.
The Turne.
And shine as you exalted are,
Two names of friendship, but one starre
Of hearts the union: and those not by chance,
Made or indentur'd, or leas'd out to advance
The profits for a time,
No pleasures vaine did chime
Of Rimes, or ryots at your feasts,
Argues of Drinke, or feign'd protests,
But simple Love, of greatnesse and of good,
That knits brave minds, and manners more than blood.
The Counter-turne.
This made you first to know the why
You lik'd: then after to apply
[Page]That likening; and approach so one to th'other,
Till either grew a portion of the other,
Each stiled by his end,
The coppy of his friend;
You liv'd to be the great sirnames,
And titles by which all made claimes
Vnto the vertue: nothing perfect done,
But as a Cary or a Morison.
The Stand.
And such a force the faire example had,
As they that saw
The good, and durst not practise it, were glad
That such a Law
Was left yet to man-kind,
Where they might read, and find
Friendship indeed was written not in words:
And with the Heart, not Pen,
Of two so earely men,
VVhose Lines her Rowles were, and records
VVho e're the first downe; bloomed on the Chin,
Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.
To Hierome Lord Weston vpon his returue from his Embassy.
SVch pleasures as the teeming earth
Doth take in easie Natures birth,
When she puts forth the life of every thing,
And in a dew of sweetest raine,
She lyes deliver'd without paine,
Of the prime beauty of the yeare and spring.
That Rivers in their shores doe runne,
The Clouds racke cleare before the Sunne,
The rudest winds obey the calmest aire;
Rare plants from every banke doe rise,
And every plant the sence surprise,
Because the order of the whole is faire.
The very verdure of her nest,
VVherein she sits so richly drest,
As all the wealth of season there were spread,
Have shew'd the graces and the houres,
Have multiply'd their arts and powers,
In making soft her stromaticke bed.
Such ioyes, such sweets doth your returne,
Bring all your friends, faire Lord, that burne
With ioy to heare your modesty relate
The businesse of your blooming wit,
With all the fruits that follow it,
Both to the honour of the King and state.
O how will the Court be pleas'd,
To see great CHARLES of travell eas'd,
When he beholds a graft of his owne hand,
Spring up an Olive, fruitfull, faire,
To be a shadow of the Aire;
And both a strength and beauty to the Land.
To the right Honourable the L. Treasurer. An Epigram.
IF to my mind, great Lord, I had a state,
I would present you with some curious Plate
Of Norimberg, or Turkie hang your rooms,
Not from the Arras, but the Persian Looms.
I would (if price or prayer) could them get
Send in what or Romano, Tintaret,
[Page] Titian, or
Raphaell, Michaell Angelo, Have left in Fame to equall, or out-goe
The old Greeke hands, in picture, or in stone,
This would I doe, could I thinke VVeston one
Catch'd with these Arts, wherein the Iudge is wife,
As farre as sence, and onely by his eyes.
But you I know, my Lord, and know you can
Discerne betweene a Statue, and a man:
Can doe the things that Statue doe deserve,
And act the businesse which these paint or carve.
What you have studied are the Arts of Life,
To compose men and manners, stint the strife
Of froward Citizens; make Nations know,
What world of Blessings to good Kings they owe;
And mightiest Monarchs feele what large increase
Of Fame and Honour you possesse by peace.
These I looke up at with a measuring eye,
And strike Religion in the standers by.
Which, though I cannot, like as an Architect,
In glorious Piles and Pyramides erect
Vnto your Honour; I can voyce in song
Aloud; and (haply) it may last as long.
To Mr. Ionson upon these Verses.
YOur Verses were commended, as 'tis true,
That they were very good, I meane to you:
For they return'd you Ben I have beene told,
The seld seene summe of forty pound in gold.
These Verses then, being rightly understood,
His Lordship, not Ben: Ionson, made them good.
To my Detractor.
MY Verses were commended, thou didst say,
And they were very good; yet thou thinkst nay.
For thou obiectest, as thou hast beene told,
Th'envy'd returne of forty pound in gold.
Foole do not rate my rimes, I have found thy vice
Is to make cheap the Lord, the Lines the Price:
But bark thou on; I pitty thee poore Cur,
That thou shouldst lose thy noise, thy foame, thy stur,
To be knowne what thou art, thou blatent beast;
But writing against me, thou thinkst at least
[Page]I now would write on thee: no wretch, thy name
Cannot worke out unto it such a Fame:
No man will tarry by thee as he goes
To aske thy name, if he have halfe a nose;
But flye thee like the Pest. Walke not the streete
Out in the Dog-dayes, least the Killer meet
Thy Noddle with his Club; and dashing forth
Thy dirty brains, men see thy want of worth.
To William Earle of New-Castle on the Backing of his Horse.
VVHen first, my Lord, I saw you backe your Horse,
Provoke his mettle, and command his force
To all the uses of the field and race,
Me thought I read the ancient Art of Thrace,
And saw a Centaure past those tales of Greece;
So seem'd your Horse and You, both of a peece:
You shew'd like Perseus upon Pegasus,
Or Castor mounted on his Cillarus:
Or what we heare our home-borne Legend tell,
Of bold Sir Bevis, and his Arundell,
[Page]And so your seate his beauties did endorse,
As I began to wish my selfe a horse.
And surely had I but your Stable seene
Before, I thinke my wish absolv'd had beene:
For never saw I yet the Muses dwell,
Nor any of their Houshold halfe so well.
So well! as when I saw the floore and roome,
I look'd for Hercules to be the Groome.
And cry'd away with the Caesarian Bread,
At these immortall Mangers Virgil fed.
To William Earle of New-Castle. An Epigram on his Fencing.
THey talke of Fencing, and the use of Armes,
The Art of urging, and avoyding harmes;
The Noble Science, and the Mastring skill,
Of making iust approaches, how to kill,
To hit in Angles, and to clash with time,
As all defence, or offence, were a chime.
I hate this measur'd: give me metled fire,
That trembls i'th'blaze, but then mounts higher,
[Page]A swift and darling motion, when a paire
Of men doe meete like rarified aire:
Their weapons darted with that flame and force,
As they out-did the lightning in the course:
This were a spectacle, a sight to draw
Wonder to valour: no, it is a Law
Of daring, not to doe a wrong: tis true,
Next to dispise it being done to you:
To know all heads of danger; where 'tis fit
To bend, to breake, provoke, or suffer it:
And this my Lord is valour: this is yours,
And was your Fathers, and your Ancestors;
Who durst live great, when death appear'd, or bands,
And valiant were with, or without, their hands.
To Sir Kenelme Digby. An Epigram.
THough happy Muse thou know my Digby wel,
Yet take him in these Lines: he doth excell
In Honours, Courtesie, and all the parts
Court can call hers, or man would call his Arts:
[Page]He's prudent, valiant, iust, and temperate,
In him all action is beheld in state.
And he is built, like some Imperiall roome,
For those to dwell in, and be still at home.
His breast is a brave Pallace, a broad street,
Where all Heroicke ample thoughts doe meet;
Where Nature such a large surveigh hath tane,
As others soules, to his, dwell in a lane:
Witnesse his birth-day, the eleventh of Iune,
And his grat action done at Scanderoone.
That day; which I predestin'd am to sing,
For Brittains honour, and to Charles, my King:
Goe Muse in, and salute him, say he be
Busie, or frowne at first, when he sees thee,
He wil chear up his fore-head, think thou bring'st
Good Fortune to him in the Note thou sing'st:
For he doth love my Verses, and will looke
Vpon them, next to Spencers Noble Booke;
And praise them too: O what a Fame 'twill bee?
What reputation to my Lines and me,
When he doth read them at the Treasurers board,
The knowing Weston, and that learned Lord
Allowes them? then what Coppies will be had?
What transcripts made? how cri'd up, & how glad
VVilt thou be Muse, when this shal then befall,
Being sent to one, they will be read of all.
His Mistresse Drawne.
SItting, and ready to be drawne,
What make these Velvets, Silks, and Lawne?
Imbroderies, Feathers, Fringe, and Lace,
When every Limbe takes like a face?
Send these suspected helps to aide,
Some forme defective, and decai'd:
This beauty without falsehood faire,
Needs nought to cloath it but the Aire:
Yet something to the Painters view,
Were fitly interposed, so new
He shall (if he can understand)
Worke by my fancy with his hand.
Draw first a Cloud, all save her necke,
And out of that make day to breake:
Till like her face it doe appeare,
And men may thinke all light rose there.
Then let the beames of that disperse
The Cloud, and shew the Vniverse:
But at such distance, as the eye
May rather it adore than spye:
[Page]The Heavens design'd, draw next a Spring,
With all that youth, or it may bring:
Foure Rivers, branching forth like seas,
And Paradise confin'd in these.
Last draw the Circle of this Globe,
And let there be a starry Robe
Of Constillations 'bout her hurl'd,
And thou hast painted beauties world.
But Painter see you doe not sell
A Coppy of this Piece, nor tell
VVhose 'tis: but if it favour finde,
Next sitting wee will draw her minde.
Her Minde.
PAynter y'are come, but may be gone,
Now I have better thought thereon,
This worke I can performe alone,
And give you reasons more than one,
Not that your Art I doe refuse,
But here I may no Colours use;
[Page]Besides your hand will never hit
To draw the thing that cannot sit.
You could make shift to paint an eye,
An Eagle towring in the skye,
A Sun, a Sea, a Sandlesse pit,
And these are like a Minde, not it.
No, to expresse this Mind to sence,
Would aske a heavens intelligence,
Since that nothing can report that flame,
But what's of kinne to whence it came:
Sweet mind, then speak your self, and say
As you goe on, by what brave way,
Our sence you doe with knowledge fill,
And yet remaine our wonder still.
I call you Muse, now make it true,
Hence forth may every line be you,
That all may say that see the frame,
This is no Picture, but the same:
A mind so pure, so perfect fine,
As 'tis not radiant, but divine,
And so disdaining any tire,
'Tis got where it can trye the fire.
There (high exalted in the Spheare,
As it another Nature were)
It moveth all, and makes a flight,
[Page]As circular as infinite,
Whose Notions when it would expresse
In speech, it is with that excesse,
Of grace and musick to the eare,
As what it spake it planted there.
The voyce so sweet, the words so faire,
As some soft chime had strok'd the ayre,
And though the sound were parted thence,
Still left an Eccho in the sence,
But that a minde so rapt so high,
So swift, so pure should yet apply
It selfe to us, and come so nigh
Earths grossenesse, there's the how, and why?
Is it because it sees us dull
And stuck in Clay here, it would pull
Vs forth by some Coelestiall slight,
Vp to her owne sublimed height?
Or hath shee here upon the ground,
Some Paradise or Pallace found
In all the bounds of Beauty fit
For her t'inhabite? there is it.
Thrice happy house that hast receite,
For this so softly forme, so straite,
So polish'd, perfect, and so even,
As it slid moulded out of Heaven.
[Page]Not swelling like the Ocean proud,
But stooping gently as a Cloud,
As smooth as Oyle powr'd forth, and calme
As showres, and sweet as drops of Balme,
Smooth, soft, and sweet, and all a flood,
Where it may runne to any good,
And where it stayes it there becomes,
A nest of odours, spice, and gummes.
In action winged as the Wind▪
In rest like spirits left behind,
Vpon a Banke or field of flowres,
Begotten by the wind and showers,
In the faire mansion let it rest,
Yet know with what thou art possest,
Thou entertaining in thy breast,
But such a minde mak'st God a Guest.
Sir WILLIAM BVRLASE The Painter, to the Poet.
TO Paint thy worth, if rightly I did know it,
And were but Painter, halfe like thee a Poet,
Ben: I would shew it.
But in this Art, my unskilfull Pen will tire;
Thou, and thy worth, will still be found farre higher,
And I a lyer.
Then what a Painter's here? and what an eater
Of great attempts? whereas his skill's no greater,
And he a Cheater.
Then what a Poet's here, whom by Confession
Of all with me, to Paint without digression,
There's no expression.
An Epigram to the Queens Health.
HAyle MARY, full of grace, it once was said,
And by an Angel, to the Blessed Maid,
The Mother of our Lord: why may not I,
VVithout prophannesse, as a Poet, crie
Haile Marry full of Honours, to my Queene,
The Mother of our Prince? when was there seene
(Except the ioy that the first Mary brought,
VVhereby the safety of the world was wrought)
So generall a gladnesse to an Isle,
To make the hearts of a whole Nation smile,
As in this Prince? let it be lawfull so
To compare small with great, as still we owe
Our thankes to God: then haile to Mary, spring
Of so much health, both to our Land and King.
ODE To himselfe.
I.
COme leave the loathed Stage,
And the more loathsome Age,
Where pride and impudence in faction knit,
Vsurpe the Chaire of wit:
Inditing and arraigning every day,
Something they call a Play.
Let their fastidious vaine
Commission of the braine,
Runne on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn,
They were not made for thee, lesse thou for them.
II.
Say that pour'st 'hem wheat,
And they would Akornes eat:
Twere simple fury, still thy selfe to wast
On such as have no taste:
To offer them a surfeit of pure bread,
VVhose appetites are dead:
[Page]No give them Graines their fill,
Huskes, Draffe to drinke, and swill:
If they love Lees, and leave the lusty VVine,
Envy them not, their pallat's with the Swine,
III.
No doubt a mouldy Tale,
Like Pericles, and Stale
As the Shrives crusts, and nasty as his Fish,
Scraps out of every Dish,
Throwne forth and rak'd into the common Tub,
May keep up the play Club.
Broomes sweepings doe as well
There, as his Masters meale:
For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the Almes-basket of wit.
IV.
And much good do't yee then,
Brave Plush and Velvet men
Can feed on Orts; and safe in your scoene cloaths,
Dare quit upon your Oathes
The Stagers, and the stage-writes too; your Peers,
Of stuffing your large eares
VVith rage of Commicke socks,
VVrought upon twenty Blocks;
[Page]VVhich if they're torne, and foule, and patch'd enough,
The Gamsters share your gilt, and you their stuffe.
V.
Leave things so prostitute,
And take th' Alcaike Lute;
Or thine owne Horace, or Anacreons Lyre;
VVarme thee by Pindars fire:
And though thy Nerves be shrunke, and blood be cold,
Ere yeares have made thee old,
Strike that disdainfull heat
Throughout, to their defeat:
As curious fooles, and envious of thy straine,
May blushing sweare, no Palsi's in thy braine.
VI.
But when they heare thee sing
The glories of thy King;
His zeale to God, and his iust awe of men,
They may be blood-shaken, then
Feele such a flesh-quake to possesse their powers,
That no tun'd Harpe like ours,
In sound of Peace or VVarres,
Shall truely hit the Starres:
VVhen they shall read the Acts of Charles his Reigne,
And see his Chariot triumph 'bove his VVaine.
BEN: JONSON The Poet, to the Painter.
VVHy though I seem of a prodigious waste,
I am not so voluminous and vast,
But there are lines wherewith I might b'embrast.
Tis true; as my womb swells, so my back stoops,
And the whole part grows round, deform'd & droops,
But yet the Tun at Heidleberg had hoops.
You were not ty'd by any Painters Law,
To square my Circle, (I confesse) but draw
My Superficies, that was all you saw.
Which if in compasse of no Art it came,
To be discrib'd by a Monogram,
With one great Blot y'had form'd me as I am.
But since you curious were to have it bee
An Archetipe for all the World to see,
You made it a brave piece, but not like me.
O had I now your Manner, Maiesty, Might,
Your power of handling, shadow, aire, & sprite,
How I could draw, and take hold, and delight!
But you are he can Paint, I can but write,
A Poet hath no more than blacke and white,
Ne knowes he flattering Colours, or false Light.
But when of friendship I would draw the face,
A letter'd minde, and a large heart would place,
To all posterity, I would write Burlase.
Upon my Picture left in Scotland.
I Now thinke Love is rather deafe than blind,
For else it could not bee
That shee
VVhom I adore so much, should so slight me,
And cast my suit behind.
I'me sure my Language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet,
In sentence of as subtle feet,
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
O but my conscious feares, that flie my thoughts between,
Tells me that she hath seene
My hundreds of gray haires,
Told sixe and forty yeares,
Read so much wast, as she could not imbrace
My Mountaine belly, and my Rocky face.
And all these through her eyes have stopt her eares.
On a Gentlewoman, working by an Houre-Glasse.
DOe but consider this small dust,
Here running in the Glasse,
By Atomes mov'd:
VVould you beleeve that it the body was
Of one that lov'd?
And in his Mistris flames, playing like a Flye,
VVas turned into Cynders by her eye?
Yes; as in life, so in their deaths unblest:
A Lovers ashes never can find rest.
To the Ladies of the Court. An Ode.
COme Noble Nymphes, and doe not hide
The ioyes for which you so provide;
If not, to mingle with us men
VVhat doe you here? goe home agen:
Your dressings doe confesse,
By what we see, so curious Arts,
Of Pallas, and Arachnes Arts,
That you could meane no lesse.
VVhy doe you weare the Silke-wormes toyles?
Or glory in the Shell-fish spoyles?
Or strive to shew the graines of Ore,
That you have gathered long before,
VVhereof to make a stocke,
To graft the greene Emrald on,
Or any better water'd Stone,
Or Ruby of the Rocke?
Why doe you smell of Ambergreece?
Whereof was formed Neptunes Neece,
The Queen of Love, unlesse you can,
Like Sea-borne Venus, love a man?
Try, put your selves unto't:
Your lookes, your smiles, and thoughts that meet:
Ambrosian hands, and silver feet,
Doe promise you will do't.
A Sonnet.
THough I am young, and cannot tell
Either what Death, or Love is well,
Yet I have heard they both beare Darts,
And both doe aime at humane hearts.
And then againe I have beene told,
Love wounds with heat, and death with cold,
So that I feare they doe but bring
Extreams, to touch and meane one thing.
As in a ruine we it call,
One thing to be blowne up and fall,
Or to our end like way may have
By a flash of lightning, or a wave:
So Loves inflamed shaft, or band,
Will kill as soone as Deaths cold hand:
Except Loves fires the vertue have
To Mr. Ionson.
BEn: the world is much in debt, & though it may
Some petty reck'nings to small Poets pay:
Pardon if at thy glories Summe they stick,
Being too large for their Arithmaticke.
If they could prize the genius of a Scene,
The learned sweat that makes a language cleane,
Or understand the faith of ancient skill,
Drawn from the Tragicke, Comoecke, Lyricke, quill:
The Greek and Roman denison'd by thee,
And both made richer in thy Poetrie.
This they may know, & knowing this stil grudge
That yet they are not fit of thee to iudge.
I prophesie more strength to after time,
Whose ioy shall call this Isle the Poets clime,
Because 'twas thine, and unto thee return
The borrowed flames, with which thy Muse shall burn.
Then when the stocke of others Fame is spent,
Thy Poetry shall keepe its owne old rent.
FINIS.