THE SENTIMENTS. A POEM TO THE EARL of DANBY IN THE TOWER.
By a PERSON of QUALITY.
LONDON: Printed for James Vade, at the Cock and Sugar-loaf in Fleet-street. 1679.
THE SENTIMENTS.
AH, TOM! hadst thou but read my MACHIAVEL,
Thou might'st have kept in the Exchequer still.
Thou might'st have Pol'd us o're, and o're again,
And more than Monarch, o're Three Kingdoms raign.
The two chief Sinews of Devouring War,
Money and Arms, still at thy Elbows are.
Both in the Mint, and in the Magazine,
A Pageant of thy Power may be seen.
These to thy self thou hadst secur'd, and then
Pompone and Cheese had both neglected been.
But thou, like th' fabulous Dog, to thy dear cost,
Grasping at Shadows, hast the Substance lost.
Subjects that catch at Kingdoms, find at last,
The Globe is onely for a Monarch's grasp.
The Golden-Ball, in Emblematick sence,
Says, Supream Rule onely belongs toth' Prince;
For us 'tis dang'rous; and th' Excess of Power.
Sends the dread Wight, to put it off i'th' TOWER.
Then the man looks, that struck the Isle with fear,
Harmless, as are the uncharg'd Cannon there;
Or as the Figures armed Cap-a-pe,
Which Reliques of our British Glory be.
'Tis not your patience stops the Ills you'd do;
Then stingless Snakes lie still by Patience too:
But as hard Frosts do Torrents quiet make,
Here you're Confin'd for th' Publick safety's sake.
Now may'st thou smile to see the solemn sport,
Which vexes busie Greatness in the Court.
Too late you know, Court-Policie's more fit
To be rejected, than to study it.
Since that the Actions of th' Ambitious are
But as the false Alarms in Running War.
Unquietness and Guilt is all they gain,
And the great Toil is recompenc'd with Pain.
Thrones are the hardest Seats in Palaces,
Where weary Power does never sit at ease.
Methinks I hear thee pleasantly declare,
How rigidly thou art confin'd from Care;
And others growing into thy Disease,
Whilst you for Penance, must endure your Ease.
Fallacious Power, a Great man's worst Disease;
Without it sick, and with it, worse at ease.
'Tis the Court-Gout, of which, men ne're complain;
Fruition numbs and stupifies the Pain.
In its decrease the Patient worse does grow;
In all Distempers else, 'tis never so.
But to thine own Experience I appeal;
Dost thou not now its bitter twinges feel?
Fav'rites depos'd, wish they had never known
Riches or Sway they toil'd to make their own.
A Great Man's Rule and Power is understood
More in the harm they do him, than the good.
Mischiefs make haste, in their access; but slow,
As loaded Snails, when they depart, they go.
Increase of Power, the Tyde of Greatness, is
Thrust on at Land, as Rivers are from Seas:
Which at no Mark can one poor moment stay,
But when it leaves to float, must ebbe away.
A Subjects Grandeur hath this worst of fate,
That where its glory most does elevate,
'Tis blemisht there, by being singular,
And Envy blasts the Fame it cannot share.
The Sun's excess of Lustre, is the Cause,
That o're's own face he such dark Vapors draws:
So since thy Race in glory was begun,
Thou canst not now black Exhalations shun.
Through Mists of Common breath, thy passage lyes,
And from their Lungs, the worst Contagion flyes.
Made bigger, like the Sun at's going down,
Though rob'd o'th' Rays that did his Temples Crown.
A States-man's Greatness, like the Chymist's Stone,
Breeds busie Spies, and Dangers, when 'tis shown.
'Tis dangerous to take into our Breasts
Secrets of Kings, and Kingdoms Interests.
The Jews that swallow'd down their wealthy Stuff,
Found their own Bowels were not safe enough.
Whilst thus to save their Jewels, they Designe,
The Roman Swords, Delv'd into th' living Mine.
Happy's the Man, that can securely please
His humble Mind with Ignorance and Ease;
That ne're approaches on the Icie ground,
Where Monarchs walk, nor their vast depths does sound.
Who's led by no Court-wisp, t'a Precipice,
Where on each side, Ruine presented is.
Whilst a State-Pylot would Charybdis shun,
What boots it, if on Scylla he must run?
'Twixt two Extreams, let Vertue keep her Throne,
The Golden Mean to Statesmen's rarely known.
With Icarus on waxen Plumes they flye,
And soar a pitch, for their weak wings too high,
'Till they come tumbling headlong from the Skie.
Lax't by the Beams they rise, they fall as fast,
As Arrows, when their Elevations past.
So dangerous a Risque thou hadst not run,
Hadst thou took Phoebus's Councel to his Son;
Or thought to th' Builders what Confusion came,
By raising Babel to too high a frame;
Thou hadst not, then, mistook the way to Fame,
And where th'expectedst Glory, met with Shame.
Thou then hadst spent thy Days secure, at ease
Calm as the Halcyons brooding on the Seas.
But obstinate as Phaëton thou wast,
And now maist curse thy rash unbridled haste.
For he that undertakes Great Charles his Wain
Is but another Phaëton in Grain,
And bids the British World betimes complain.
Destruction's threatned by his mad Career,
And all th' Inferior World is struck with fear.
'Tis then high time, that Jove his Thunder take,
And all reserves of Pitty quite forsake;
This must be so, for the Poor Kingdom's sake.
When Ministers their Publick Power reduce
To private Ends, and to peculiar use,
Ill fares the State: for then they act the wrong,
Which to prevent, they only were made strong;
The Noblest task, that does to Power belong.
These always should be easie of Access;
Let Suitors need no Guide, but their Distress;
When high in Power, make their approaches low,
To meet and lift the humble, when they bowe.
They should with patient Ears, attend the Tongue,
And hear th' oppressed out, though ne're so long.
With such a sweet Compassion meet their moan,
They should with that, seem satisfy'd, when gone.
A Gen'rous Temper, sweet Civility,
Forms, without which, Courts but in Chaos lye;
And which, the cognizance have ever been,
Of a safe Greatness, satisfy'd within;
Which covets toyling Power, for others Ease,
Not to be able to offend, but please.
Who never Peace obstruct, because they are
Accountless Stewards to that spender War.
O what a mighty Distance does appear
Between the Court, and this fair Character!
Mankinde doth practise Villany so fast,
As they should act too little, without hast.
Earth which made man, Refin'd, man does esteem,
Although the Author of all Ills to him.
Midas himself knew not a greater Curse,
Than that of Gold; nor can there be a worse.
Branded for folly, wisely yet he went,
By Mighty Bacchus, to Pactolus, sent.
And in the streams his Golden vertue leaves,
Which to her Sands as proudly she bequeaths.
Th' Ambitious States-man do'nt himself admire
For what he hath, but proudly does desire;
Does tacitly confess, he aims at Sway,
Because he's grown too haughty to obey.
His Parasites, who contradict their Heart,
With well-dissembled Lyes, their study'd Art;
Please him, though their own Reason they displease,
Hoping their fawning Arts may gain them Ease.
How vainly glorious does he then appear,
Whom the Proud envy, and the Humble fear!
My Lord,
Since You were placed by the Royal Hand,
On giddy Heights, where none alive could stand:
Since You were destin'd to more watchful Care,
Than Centinels in Towns, the Scenes of War:
To stear the State when dismal Stormes appear'd,
Such, as were by the best State-Pylots fear'd;
Deserves more wonder, that so long You stood,
Than that You e're were shipwrackt in the flood.
Search Ages past, and Records for their Fate,
Great Fav'rites seldome have prov'd fortunate.
Toth' Tower, from the Throne transplanted, now,
Though washt with fruitful Tides, ne're hope to grow.
The Fates thy Term of Greatness did assigne,
To which arriv'd, thou do'st as fast decline:
When Fav'rites set, they never rise to shine;
Or if they do, 'tis a portentous Light,
Like that of Emrald-Rainbows in the Night,
Or Comets, that strike terror to our sight.
States-men, the topmost Boughs of Cedars be,
Adding both height and beauty to the Tree:
But from the Royal Trunk when lopt away,
They quickly fade, and run into decay.
At thy Enstalment, when thy George fell down,
'Twas for an Omen, of thy Ruine, shown.
The Genius of the Isle, the Brave St George,
Left Thee to sullen Fate, and scorn'd his Charge.
What Wisdome then thy Conduct can decry,
Because too weak to baffle Destiny?
Let zealous Fools rejoyce, I cannot choose
But mourn, for the great Excellence we loose.
Such a preposterous Fate does wail it hence,
When it does fall, it rises to our sence.
Great Vertue may be dang'rous whil'st 'tis here,
As Light offends the Eyes by being near.
This Topick well His Royal Highness knew,
And, in Obedience to the King, withdrew.
As the Brave Julius, who did early strive,
At more than man, was hated when alive,
Even for that Vertue; which was rais'd so high,
When dead, it made him strait a Deity.
Our Royal Heroe thus will Fame prefer,
And place him foremost in her Kalender.
So Noble, Valiant, Loyal, One whose Name,
Flyes round the World, upon the Wings of Fame:
Whom, like a Heroe in some Battle lost,
I mention, not in pitty, but in boast.
Whose Subjects, then, shall wish him in the Throne,
Too late, when He to's Kindred Gods is gone.
By being Confin'd, Your Lordship's set at large,
And have from Care and Pow'r a blest discharge.
Being now far more August, within Your Sphere,
Than when the Courts bright Star You did appear.
Let others take their turns of Power and State,
And their own Fortunes so precipitate,
Unless by Yours, they rectifie their Fate.
Leave them to restless Care, being still alarm'd,
With bloudy Factions, though they seem unarm'd;
Who for our Souls-sake, would Religion change,
And think their own the best, for being strange:
Who weary of Our Scepter here, would fly,
To seek new Fashions for Authority,
And fetch us home a Crown three stories high.
From Forreign States, they'd bring Rebellion home,
Then call just Punishment a Martyrdome.
For when by Justice of the Law subdu'd,
They call unwilling suffring, Fortitude.
Coleman his Treasons did negotiate,
In tender Love and Pitty to the State;
And in a work so great, for his defence,
Did satisfie himself with Innocence.
To the grim Tree of Fate, he cheerful came,
By his last Act, t'obtain a Martyr's fame.
Nor did the Rest dismaid approach the Place,
A Dying Martyr's Smiles crown'd ev'ry face.
And I am told his Holiness has given
To ev'ry one of them, A Throne in Heaven.
Each had his Pasport, and, by Mass, 'tis hop't,
There's not a Soul in Purgatory stopt.
Though Conscience be in Man a secret shame
Of doing ill, yet in Cabals they claim
Not only Freedom for the Ills they do,
But call Religion to abet them too.
A Deity they seek in bloud, and boast,
They then have found him, when they've Nature lost.
But whilst with Heaven, they so familiar grow
They to the Earthly Gods disdain to bow.
And their Religion, not from Zeal approve,
But for the gainful Mischiefs which they love.
Mischiefs, whose depths, in Tyber must be found;
And which, no Line, but length of Time, can sound.
FINIS.