POEMS, BY Several Persons.

[Arrangement of woodcut printer's ornaments.]

DƲBLIN, Printed by John Crooke, Printer to the Kings Most Excellent Majesty, for Samuel Dancer next Door to the Bear and Ragged-Staffe in Castle-street. 1663.

To Mr. Cowley on his Davideis.

When to the VVorld thy Muse thou first didst show,
It caus'd in some VVonder and Sorrow too,
That such vast parts God unto Thee had sent,
And that, they were not in his Praises spent.
But those which in this sacred Poem look;
Now find thy Blossoms for thy Fruit they took.
In differing Ages, differing Muses shin'd,
Thy green, the sence did feast, thy ripe the Mind.
In this are met the most admir'd extreams;
The best of Poets, and the best of Theams.
VVriting for Heaven, thou art inspir'd from thence,
Thy Subject thus becomes thy Influence.
Scripture no more the Impious ear shall fright,
Now the best Duty, is the best delight.
Thou dost the Dammin Duel so express,
VVe the Relation praise as the success;
Though there thy Hero did at once subdue
Goliah, Jonathan, and Michal too.
That Act was Heavenly which at once could move,
That Brothers Friendship, and that Sisters Love.
Great Jonathan in whom such Friendship shone,
That We like Him Prize it above a Throne;
Yet know not which in most esteem to hold,
The Friendship, or the Friendship so well told.
His Character ne're reach'd its just Degree,
Unless when sung by David and by Thee.
He to a Friend (such Acts can Friendship do)
The Crown did yield and kept the Friendship too,
VVhich clearly prov'd he for a Crown was fit,
If but because so well he yielded it.
But God gave him, who best Mans worth does rate,
A Crown of Glory for a Crown of State.
He that with so much ease Goliah kill'd,
Does with more ease to Michals Beauty yield,
And higher satisfaction does express
In this submission, then in that success.
If we her Beauties owe not to thy wit,
Saul did his word excell in breaking it.
VVhose wrongs to David, did a short way prove,
To Crown him both with Empire and with Love.
But how her eyes vast power can we suspect
Since no less cause could show that great effect,
Yet since with such Resistless light they shone,
VVhich could not be but to her Father known,
VVhy did he Israel in such danger bring?
Her Eyes had done more then thy Hero's sling:
That, but by death did act the Monsters fall;
But those alive had lead him unto Saul.
Lead him in Loves strong Bonds which all excel;
And are resistless as invisible.
But sure 'twas fitter such a Nymph as she,
The Conquerour of his Conquerour should be,
And that those Lawrel Triumphs which he wore,
Should but see off her Mirtle Triumphs more:
Had Joab spoke such things as thou dost write,
He had been chief in Eloquence as fight;
David, Goliah conquer'd by his sling,
But Joabs telling it did Moabs King.
Such an effect Fate ne're could have control'd,
The Act consider'd and how well 'twas told.
What more by highest virtue could be wrought
It conquer'd when it but Protection sought.
Thy Hero's virtue made it self amends,
For but one Foe it made, and all else Friends.
His Musicks power so well thou dost Rehearse,
That still we hear it Charming in thy verse.
He made the Muses glorious by his Pen,
And They by Thine have made him so agen,
But where, thou mak'st him Jonathan commend,
Thou show'st thy self great Poet, and great Friend,
For of a brave Friend none could write so much,
But such a writer as is highly such.
But why doe'st Thou thy self and us so wrong,
As to begin and not conclude thy song?
For though thy Hero by thy verse is grown
Much greater now then when he fill'd the Throne.
Yet place him there, for thou whose lofty strain.
So well laments his wrongs shouldst sing his Reign.
Thy foes too Envy, and thy Friends deplore,
Those, that so much is writ, these, that no more.

To Orinda.

Madam,
VVHen I but knew you by report,
I fear'd, the Praises of th' admiring Court
Were but their Complements, But now I must
Confess, what I thought Civil is scarce just.
For they imperfect Trophies to you raise,
You deserve Wonder, and they pay but Praise,
A Praise which is as short of your great Due,
As all which yet have writ; come short of you.
You to whom Wonder's pay'd by double right,
Both for your Verses smoothness, and their height.
In me it does not the least trouble breed
That your fair Sex does Ours in Verse exceed.
Since every Poet this great Truth does prove
Nothing so much inspires a Muse, as Love.
Thence has your Sex the best Poetick Fires,
For what's inspir'd must yield to what inspires,
And as our Sex resignes to yours the due,
So all of your bright Sex must yield to you.
Experience showes that never Fountain fed
A stream which could ascend above its Head,
For those whose Wit fam'd Helicor does give,
To rise above its height durst never strive,
Their double Hill too, though 'tis often clear,
Yet often on it Clouds, and Storms appear,
Let none admire then that the antient wit,
Shar'd in those Elements infused it;
Nor that your Muse then theirs ascends much higher,
She sharing in no Element but fire.
Past Ages could not think those things you do,
For their Hill was their Basis and Height too,
So that 'tis Truth, not Complement, to tell
Your lowest height, their highest did excel.
Your nobler thoughts warm'd by a heav'nly Fire
To their bright Centre constantly aspire,
And by the place to which they take their flight
Leaves us no doubt from whence they have their light.
Your Merit has attain'd this high degree
'Tis above Praise as much as Flattery,
And when in that we have drain'd all our store,
All grant from this nought can be distant more.
Though you have sung of Friendships power, so well
That you in that as well as wit excel,
Yet my own Interest obliges me,
To praise your practise more then Theory,
For by that kindness you your Friend did show,
The honour I obtain'd of knowing you.
In Pictures none hereafter will delight,
You draw more to the Life in Black and White,
The Pencil to your Pen must yield the place,
This draws the Soul, where that draws but the Face.
Of blest Retirement such great truths you write:
That 'tis my wish, as much as your delight,
Our gratitude to praise it does think fit
Since all you write are but effects of it.
You English Corneil's, Pompey with such flame
That you but raise our Wonder, and his Fame.
If he could read it, he like us would call
The Copy greater then th' Original.
You cannot mend what is already done,
Unless you'l finish what you have begun.
Who your Translation sees, cannot but say
That 'tis Orinda's work, and but his play.
The French to learn our Language now will seek,
To hear their greatest wit more nobly speak.
Rome too would grant, were our tongue to her known,
Caesar speaks better in't then in his own.
And all those wreaths once circled Pompey's brow
Exalt his fame less then your Verses now.
From these clear Truths all must acknowledge this
If there be Helicon, in Wales it is.
Oh happy Country! which to our Prince gives
His title, and in which Orinda lives.

Ode.

Ʋpon occasion of a Copy of Verses of my Lord Broghills, upon Mr. Cowley's Davideis.

BE gone (said I) Ingrateful Muse, and see
What others thou canst fool as well as me.
Since I grew Man, and wiser ought to be,
My business and my hopes I left for thee:
For thee (which was more hardly given away)
I left, even when a Boy, my Play.
But say, Ingratefull Mistress, say,
What, for all this, what didst Thou ever pay?
Thou'lt say, Perhaps, that Riches are
Not of the growth of Lands, where thou dost Trade.
And I, as well my Country might upbraid
Because I have no Vineyard there.
Well, but in love, thou dost pretend to Reign,
There thine the power and Lordship is,
Thou badst me write, and write, and write again;
'Twas such a way as could not miss.
I, like a Fool, did thee Obey,
I wrote and wrote, but still I wrote in vain,
For after all m' expense of Wit and Pain,
A Rich, unwriting Hand, carry'd the Prize away.
2.
Thus I reply'd, and streight the Muse reply'd
That she had given me Fame,
Bounty Immense! And that too must be try'd,
When I my self am nothing but a name.
Who now, what Reader does not strive
T' invalidate the guift whilst w' are alive?
For when a Poet, now himself does shew,
As if he were a common Foe;
All draw upon him all around,
And every part of him they wound,
Happy the Man that gives the deepest Blow:
And this is all, kind Muse, to thee we owe.
Then in a rage I took
And out o'the Window threw
Ovid, and Horace all the chiming Crew,
Homer himself went with them too,
Hardly escap'd the sacred Mantuan Book:
I my own Off-spring, like Agave tore,
And I resolved, nay I think I swore,
That I no more the Ground would Till and Sowe,
Where only flowry Weeds instead of Corn did grow.
3.
When (see the subtile wayes which Fate does find,
Rebellious Man to binde,
Just to the work for which he is assign'd)
The Muse came in more chearful then before,
And bid me quarrel with her now no more.
Loe thy reward, look here and see,
What I have made (said she)
My Lover, and Belov'd, my Broghill do for thee.
Though thy own verse no lasting fame can give,
Thou shalt at least in his for ever live.
What Criticks, the great Hectors now in Wit,
Who Rant and Challenge all Men that have Writ,
Will dare to oppose thee: when
Broghill in thy defence has drawn his Conquering Pen?
I rose and bow'd my head,
And pardon ask'd for all that I had said,
Well satisfi'd and proud,
I streight resolv'd, and solemnly I vow'd:
That from her Service, now, I ne're would part.
So strangely, large Rewards work on a gratefull Heart.
4.
Nothing so soon the Drooping Spirits raise
As Praises from the Men, whom all men praise.
'Tis the best Cordial, and which only those
Who have at home th' Ingredients can compose.
A Cordial, that restores our fainting Breath,
And keeps up Life even after Death.
The only danger is, least it should be
Too strong a remedy:
Least, in removing cold, it should beget
Too violent a heat;
And into madness, turn the Lethargy.
Ah! Gracious God that I might see
A time when it were Dangerous for me
To be o're heat with Praise!
But I within me bear (alas) too great allayes.
5.
'Tis said, Apelles, when he Venus drew,
Did naked Women for his Patern view,
And with his powerful fancy did refine
Their humane shapes, into a form Divine;
None who had set could her own Picture see
Or say one part was drawn for me:
So, though this noble Painter when he writ,
Was pleas'd to think it fit
That my Books should before him sit,
Not as a cause, but an occasion to his wit:
Yet what have I to boast, or to apply
To my advantage out of it, since I,
Instead of my own likeness, only find
The Bright Idea, there, of the great Writers mind.

The Complaint.

1.
IN a deep Visions intellectual scene,
Beneath a Bowr for sorrow made,
Th' uncomfortable shade,
Of the black Yew's unlucky green,
Mixt with the mourning Willows carefull gray,
Where Reverend Cham cuts out his Famous way,
The Melancholy Cowley lay.
And Lo! a muse appear'd to his clos'd sight,
The Muses oft in Lands of Visions play)
Bodies arrayed, and seen, by an internal Light,)
A golden Harp, with silver strings she bore,
A wondrous Hieroglyphick Robe she wore,
In which all Colours, and all figures were
That Nature or the fancy can create,
That Art can never imitate;
And with loose Pride it wanton'd in the Ayr.
(In such a Dress, in such a well cloath'd Dream,
Shee us'd, of old, near fair Ismena's Stream,
Pindar her Theban Favourite to meet)
A Crown was on her Head, and wings were on her Feet.
2.
She touch'd him with her Harp, and rais'd him from the Ground.
The shaken strings Melodiously Resound.
Art thou return'd at last, sayes she,
To this forsaken place and me?
Thou Prodigal, who didst so loosely waste
Of all thy Youthfull years, the good Estate;
Art thou return'd here, to repent too late?
And gather husks of learning up at last,
Now the Rich Harvest time of Life is past,
And Winter marches on so fast?
But, when I meant t' Adopt Thee for my Son,
And did as learn'd a Portion assign,
As ever any of the mighty Nine
Had to their dearest Children done;
When I resolv'd t'exalt th' anointed Name,
Amongst the Spiritual Lords of peacefull Fame;
Thou changling, thou, bewitcht with noise and shew
Wouldst into Courts and Cities from me go;
Wouldst see the World abroad, and have a share
In all the follies, and the Tumults there,
Thou would'st, forsooth, be something in a State:
And business thou wouldst find, and wouldst Create:
Business! the frivolous pretence
Of humane Lusts to shake off Innocence,
Business! the grave impertinence:
Business! the thing, which I of all things hate,
Business! the contradiction of thy Fate.
3.
Go Renegado cast up thy Account,
And see to what Amount
Thy foolish gains by quitting me:
The sale of Knowledge, Fame and Liberty,
The Fruits of thy unlearn'd Apostacy.
Thou thought'st if once the publick storm were past,
All thy remaining Life should sun-shine be:
Behold the publick storm is past at last,
The Soveraign is to sit at Sea no more,
And, thou, which all the Noble Company,
Art got at last to shore.
But whilst thy fellow Voyagers, I see
All mark'd up to possess the promis'd Land
Thou still alone (alas) dost gapeing stand,
Upon the naked beach, upon the Barren Strand.
4.
As a fair morning of the blessed spring,
After a tedious stormy night;
Such was the glorious Entry of our King,
Enriching moysture drop'd on every thing:
Plenty he sow'd below, and cast about him light.
But then (alas) to thee alone,
One of the Gideons Miracles was shown,
For, every Tree, and every Hearb around;
With Pearly due was crown'd.
And upon all the quickned ground;
The Fruitfull seed of Heaven, did brooding lye,
And nothing, but the Muses Fleece was dry.
It did all other Threats surpass,
When God to his own People said,
(The Men whom through long wandring he had led)
That he would give them Heaven of Brass:
They look'd up to that Heaven in vain,
That Bounteous Heaven, which God did not restrain,
Upon the most unjust to shine and Rain.
5.
The Rachell, for which twice seaven years and more,
Thou didst with Faith, and labour serve,
And didst (if Faith and labour can) deserve,
Though she contracted was to thee,
Giv'n to another thou didst see,
Giv'n to another who had store
Of fairer, and of Richer Wives before,
And not a Leah left, thy recompence to be.
Go on, twice seven years more, thy fortune try,
Twice seven years more, God in his bounty may
Give thee, to fling away
Into the Courts deceitfull Lottery.
But think how likely, 'tis that thou
With the dull work of thy unweildy Plough,
Shouldst in a hard and Barren season thrive,
Shouldst even able be to live,
Thou to whose share so little bread did fall,
In the miraculous year, when Manna rain'd on all.
6.
Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile,
That seem'd at once to pity and revile.
And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
The Melancholy Cowley said,
Ah wanton foe, dar'st thou upbraid,
The Ills which thou thy self hast made?
When, in the Cradle, innocent I lay,
Thou wicked Spirit stolest me away,
And my abused Soul didst bear,
Into thy new found World, I know not where,
Thy Gold Indies in the Ayr;
And ever since I strive in vain
My ravisht Freedom to regain,
Still I Rebell, still thou dost Reign,
Lo, still in verse against thee I complain.
There is a sort of stubborn Weeds
Which, if the Earth but once, it ever breeds.
No wholsom Herb can near them thrive,
No usefull Plant can keep alive:
The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,
Make all my Art and Labour fruitless now,
Where once such Fairies dance, no grass will ever grow.
7.
When my new mind had no infusion known,
Thou gav'st so deep a tincture of thy own,
That ever since I vainly try,
To wash away th' inherent dye;
Long work perhaps may spoile thy Colours quite,
But never will reduce the native white:
To all the Ports of Honour and of gain,
I often stear my course in vain,
Thy Gale comes cross, and drives me back again.
Thou slack'nest all my Nerves of Industry,
By making them so oft to be
The tinckling strings of thy loose minstrelsie.
Who ever this Worlds happiness would see,
Must as entirely cast off thee,
As they who only Heaven desire,
Do from the World retire.
This was my Errour, This my gross mistake,
My self a demy-votary to make.
Thus with Saphira, and her Husbands fate,
(A fault which I like them, am taught too late)
For all that I gave up, I nothing gain,
And perish, for the part which I retain.
8.
Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse,
The Court, and better King t' accuse;
The Heaven under which I live is fair;
The fertile soil will a full Harvest bear;]
Thine, thine is all the Barrenness; if thou
Mak'st me sit still and sing, when I should plough.
When I but think, how many a tedious year
Our patient Soveraign did attend
His long misfortunes fatal end;
How chearfully, and how exempt from fear,
On the great Sovereign, while he did depend:
I ought to be accurs'd, if I refuse
To wait on him, O thou fallacious Muse!
Kings have long hands (they say) and though I be
So distant, they may reach at length to me.
However, of all Princes thou,
Shouldst not reproach Rewards for being small or slow;
Thou who rewardest but with popular breath,
And that too after death.

Ode.

Mr. Cowley's Book presenting it self to the Ʋni­versity Library of Oxford.

HAil Learnings Pantheon! Hail the sacred Ark
Where all the World of Sciences imbarque!
Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long withstood,
Insatiate Times devouring Flood.
Hail Tree of Knowledge, thy leaves Fruit, which well
Dost in the midst of Paradise arise,
Oxford the Muses Paradise,
From which may never Sword the blest expel.
Hail Bank of all past Ages! where they lye
T' inrich with interest Posterity!
Hail Wits Illustrious Galaxy!
Where thousand Lights into one brightness spread,
Hail living University of the Dead!
2.
Unconfus'd Babel of all tongues which e're
The mighty Linguist Fame; or time the mighty Traveller
That could speak, or this could hear.
Majestick Monument and Piramide,
Where still the shapes of parted Souls abide:
Embalm'd in verse, exalted souls which now
Enjoy those Arts they woo'd so well below,
Which now all wonders plainly see,
That have been, are, or are to be,
In the mysterious Library,
The Beatifick Bodley of the Deity.
3.
Will you into your Sacred throng admit
The meanest Brittish Wit?
You gen'ral Councel of the Priests of Fame,
Will ye not murmur or disdain,
That I place, among you claim,
The humblest Deacon of her train?
Will you allow me th' honourable chain?
The Chain of Ornament which here
Your noblest Prisoners proudly wear;
A Chain which will more pleasant seem to me
Then all my own Pindarick Liberty:
Will ye to bind me with those mighty names submit,
Like an Apocripha with holy Writ?
What ever happy book is chained here,
No other place or People need to fear;
His happy Chain's a Pasport to go ev'ry where.
4.
As when a seat in Heaven,
Is to an unmalicious Sinner given,
Who casting round his wandring Eye,
Does none but Patriarchs and Apostles there espye;
Martyrs who did their lives bestow,
And Saints who Martyrs liv'd below;
With trembling and amazement he begins,
To recollect his frailty past and sins,
He doubts almost his Station there,
His soul sayes to it self, how came I here?
It fairs no otherwise with me
When I my self with conscious wonder see,
Amidst this purifi'd elected Company.
With hardships they, and pain
Did to this happiness attain:
No labour I, nor merits can pretend,
I think predestination only was my friend.
5.
Ah, that my Author had been ty'd like me
To such a place, and such a Company!
Instead of sev'ral Companies, sev'ral Men,
And Business which the Muses hate,
He might have then improv'd that small Estate,
Which nature sparingly did to him give,
He might perhaps have thriven then,
And setled, upon me his Child, some what to live.
'T had happier been for him, as well as me
For when all, (alas) is done,
We books, I mean you books will prove to be
The best and noblest conversation.
For though some errours will get in,
Like Tinctures of Original sin:
Yet sure we from our Fathers wit
Draw all the strength and Spirit of it:
Leaving the grosser parts for conversation,
As the best blood of Man 's imploy'd in generation.

Ode.

Sitting and drinking in the Chair, made out of the Reliques of Sir Francis Drakes Ship.

CHear up my Mates the wind does fairly blow,
Clap on more sail and never spare;
Farewell all Lands, for now we are
In the wide Sea of Drink, and merrily we go.
Bless me, 'tis hot! Another bowle of wine,
And we shall cut the Burning Line:
Hey Boyes! she scuds away, and by my head I know,
VVe round the VVorld are sailing now.
VVhat dull men are those who tarry at home,
VVhen abroad they might wantonly roame,
And gain such experience, and spy too
Such Countries, and VVonders as I do?
But pray thee good Pilot, take heed what you do,
And fail not to touch at Peru;
VVith Gold, there the Vessel we'll store,
And never, and never be poor,
And never be poor any more.
2.
What do I mean, what thoughts do me misguide?
As well upon a staffe may Witches ride;
Their fancy'd Journies in the Ayr,
As I sail round the Ocean in a Chair:
'Tis true, but yet the Chair which here you see,
For all its quiet now, and gravity:
Has wandred, and has travailed more,
Then ever Beast, or Fish, or Bird, or ever Tree before.
In every Ayre, and every Sea 't has been,
'T has compas'd all the Earth, and all the Heaven that's seen.
Let not the Popes it self with this compare,
This is the only Universal Chair.
3.
The pious Wandrers Fleet, sav'd from the flame,
(Which still the Reliques did of Troy pursue, And took them for its due)
A Squadron of immortal Nymphs became:
Still with their Arms they roav'd about the Seas,
And still made new, and greater Voyages;
Nor has the first Poetick Ship of Greece,
Though now a star she so Triumphant shew,
And guide her sailing Successors below,
Bright as her ancient freight the shining fleece;
Yet to this day a quiet harbour found,
The tide of Heaven still carries her around.
Only Drakes Sacred vessel which before
Had done, and had seen more,
Then those have done or seen,
Ev'n since they Goddesses, and this a star has been;
As a reward for all her labour past,
Is made the seat of rest at last.
Let the case now quite alter'd be,
And as thou went'st abroad the World to see;
Let the World now come to see thee.
4.
The World will do't: for Curiosity
Does, no less then devotion, Pilgrims make;
And I my self who now love quiet too,
As much almost as any Chair can do,
Would yet a journey take,
An old wheel of that Chariot to see,
Which Phaeton so rashly brake:
Yet what could that say more then these remains of Drake?
Great Relique! thou too, in this Port of ease,
Hast still one way of making Voyages,
The breath of fame, like an auspicious Gale,
The great trade-wind which ne're does fail,
Shall drive thee round the VVorld, and thou shalt run,
As long around it as the Sun.
The streights of time too narrow are for thee,
Lanch forth into an indiscovered Sea,
And steer the endless course of vast Eternity,
Take for thy sail this verse, and for thy Pilot me.

The Country Mouse.

A Paraphrase upon Horace 2. book, Satyr. 6.

AT the large foot of a fair hollow tree,
Close to plow'd ground, seated commodiously,
His ancient and Hereditary house,
There dwelt a good substantial Countrey-Mouse:
Frugal, and grave, and carefull of the main,
Yet, one, who once, did nobly entertain,
A City Mouse well coated, sleek, and grey,
A mouse of high degrees which lost his way,
Wantonly walking forth to take the Ayre,
And arriv'd early, and alighted there,
For a dayes Lodging: the good hearty Host,
The ancient plenty of his hall to boast,
Did all the stores produce, that might excite,
With various tasts, the Courtiers appetite.
Fitches and Beans, Peason, and Oats, and Wheat,
And a large chesnut the delicious meat
VVhich Jove himself, were he a mouse, would eat.
And for a Haut goust there was mixt with these
The swerd of Bacon and the coat of Cheese.
The precious Reliques, which at Harvest he
Had gather'd from the Reapers luxury.
Freely (said he) fall on and never spare,
The bounteous Gods will for the morrow care.
And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay,
And to their Genius sacrific'd the day.
Yet the nice guests Epicurean mind,
(Though breeding made him civil seem and kind)
Despis'd this Country feast, and still his thought
Upon the Cakes and Pies of London wrought.
Your bounty and civility (said he)
VVhich I'm surpris'd in these rude parts to see,
Shews that the Gods have given you a mind,
Too noble for the fate which here you find.
VVhy should a Soul, so virtuous, and so great,
Loose it self thus in an Obscure retreat?
Let savage Beasts lodge in a Country Den,
You should see Towns and Manners know, and men:
And tast the generous Luxury of the Court,
Where all the Mice of quality resort;
VVhere thousand beauteous shees about you move,
And by high fare, are plyant made to love.
VVe all er'e long must render up our Breath,
No cave or hole can shelter us from death.
Since Life, is so uncertain, and so short,
Let's spend it all in feasting and in sport.
Come worthy Sir, come with me, and partake,
All the great things that mortals happy make.
Alas what vertue hath sufficient Arms,
T' oppose bright honour, or soft Pleasures Charms?
VVhat wisdom can their magick force repell?
It was the time, when witty Poets tell,
That Phebus into Thetis bosom fell:
She blusht at first, and then put out the light,
And drew the modest Curnains of the night.
Plainly, the troth to tell, the Sun was set,
And to the Town our wearied Travellours get,
To a Lords house, as Lordly as can be
Made for the use of Pride, and Luxury.
They come, the gentle Courtier at the door,
Stops, and will hardly enter in before.
But this Sir, you command, and being so,
I'm sworn t' obedience, and so in they go.
Behind a hanging in a spacious room,
(The richest works of Morclakes noblest Loom)
They wait awhile their wearyed Limbs to rest,
Till silence should invite them to the feast.
About the hour that Cynthia's Silver light,
Had touch'd the pale Meridies of the night;
At last the various Supper being done,
It happened that the Company was gone.
Into a room remote, Servants and all
To please their noble fancies with a Ball.
Our Host leads forth his Stranger, and does find,
All fitted to the bounties of his mind.
Still on the Table half fill'd dishes stood,
And with delicious bits the floor was strow'd.
The Courteous Mouse presents him with the best,
And both, with fat varieties are blest.
Th' industrious Peasant every where does range,
And thanks the Gods for his Life's happy change.
Loe, in the midst of a well fraighted Pye,
They both at last glutted and wanton lye.
When see the sad Reverse of prosperous fate,
And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait.
With hideous noise, down the rude Servants come,
Six dogs before run barking in the room;
The wretched gluttons fly with wild afright,
And hate the fulness which retards their flight.
Our trembling Peasant wishes now in vain,
That Rocks and Mountains cover'd him again.
Oh how the the change of his poor life he curst
This, of all lives (said he) sure is the worst.
Give me again ye Gods my Cave, and wood,
With peace let Tares, and Acorns be my food.

A Paraphrase upon the 10th. Epistle of the first book of Horace.
Horace to Fuscus Aristius.

HEalth, from the lover of the Country me,
Health, to the lover of the City thee,
A difference in our souls, this only proves,
In all things else, w' agree like marryed doves.
But the warm nest, the crouded dove-house thou
Dost like, I loosely fly from bough to bough.
And Rivers drink and all the shining day,
Upon fair Trees, or mossy Rocks I play,
In fine, I live and Reign when I retire
From all, that you equal with Heaven admire.
Like, one at last, from the Priest service fed,
Loathing the honey Cakes, I long for bread.
Would I a house for happiness erect,
Nature alone should be my Architect.
She'd build it more convenient, then great,
And doubtless in the Country choose her seat.
Is there a place, doth better help supply,
Against the wounds of Winters cruelty?
Is there an Ayr that gentl'er does asswage
The mad Celestial Dogs, or Lyons rage.
Is it not there that sleep (and only there)
Nor noise without, nor cares within does fear?
Does art through pipes, a purer water bring,
Then that which nature strains into a spring?
Can all their Tap'stries, and their Pictures shew,
More beauties then in Hearbs and flowers do grow?
Fountains and Trees our wearied Pride do please
Even in the midst of guilded Pallaces.
And in our towns, that prospect gives delight,
Which opens round the Country to our sight.
Men to the good from which they rashly fly,
Return at last, and their wild Luxury.
Does but in vain with those true joyes contend,
Which nature did to mankind recommend.
The Man who changes gold for burnisht brass
Or small right Gemms, for larger ones of Glass:
Is not, at length, more certain to be made
Ridiculous, and wretched by the trade,
The he, who sells a sollid good to buy,
The painted goods of Pride and Vanity.
If thou, be wise, no glorious fortune choose,
Which 'tis but pain to keep, yet grief to loose.
For, when we place, even trifles, in the heart
With trifles too, unwillingly we part.
An humble Roof, plain bed, and homely board,
More clear, untainted pleasures do afford.
Then all the Tumult of vain greatness brings
To Kings, or to the favourites of Kings,
The horned deer, by nature, arm'd so well,
Did with the horse, in common pasture dwell;
And when they fought, the field it alwayes wonne,
Till the ambitious horse, beg'd help of Man;
And took the bridle, and thenceforth did raign,
Bravely alone, and Lord of all the plain:
But never after, could the Rider get
From off his back, or from his mouth the bit.
So they, who poverty too much do fear,
T' avoid that weight, a greater burden bear,
That they might Pow'r above their equals have,
To cruel Masters, they themselves enslave.
For gold, their Liberty exchang'd we see
The fairest flow'r, which crowns humanity,
And all this mischief, does upon them light;
Only, because they know not how, aright,
That great, but secret happiness, to prize,
That's laid up in a little, for the wise.
That is the best, and easiest Estate,
Which to a man sits close but not too straight,
It's like a shooe, it pinches, and it burns,
Too narrow, and too large, it overturns,
My dearest friend, stop thy desires at last,
And chearfully enjoy the wealth thou hast.
And, if, me, still seeking for more you see,
Chide, and reproach, despise and laugh at me.
Money was made, not to command our will,
But all our lawfull pleasures to fulfill.
Shame be to us, if we our wealth obey,
The Horse doth with the horse man run away.

O Fortunati nimium &c.
A Translation out of Virgil.

OH happy (if his happiness he knowes)
The Country Swain, on whom kind Heav'n bestowes
At home, all Riches that wilde Nature needs,
Whom the just Earth with easy plenty feeds.
'Tis true, no morning Tide of Clients comes,
And fills the painted Channels of his rooms;
Adoring the rich Figures as they pass,
In Tap'stry wrought, or cut in Living Brass:
Nor is his Wooll superfluously dy'd
With the dear Poyson of Assyrian pride:
Nor do Arabian Perfumes vainly spoil
The Nature, Use, and Sweetness of his Oyl.
Instead of these, his calm and harmless life
Free from the Alarm's of Fear, and storms of Strife,
Doth with substantial Blessedness abound,
And the soft wings of Peace cover him round:
Through artless Grotts the murmuring waters glide;
Thick Trees both against Heat and Cold provide:
From whence the Birds salute him, and his ground
With lowing Heards, and bleating Sheep does sound;
And all the Rivers, and the Forrests nigh
Both Food and Game and Exercise supply.
Here a well hardned, active Youth we see
Taught the great Art of chearful Povertie.
Here in this place alone, there still do shine
Some streaks of Love, both Humane and Divine,
From whence Astraea took her flight, and here
Still her last Foot-steps upon Earth appear.
'Tis true, the first which does controul
All the inferiour wheels that move my Soul,
Is that the Muse me her high Priest would make;
Into her holyest Scenes of Mystery take,
And open there to my mindes purged eye
Those wonders which to Sense the Gods deny;
How in the Moon such change of shapes is found:
The Moon the changing Worlds eternal bound.
What shakes the solid Earth, what strong disease,
Dares trouble the firm Centers antient ease,
What makes the Sea retreat, and what advance:
Varieties too regular for chance.
What drives the Chariot on of Winters light,
And stops the lazie Waggon of the night.
But if my dull and frozen Blood deny,
To send forth Spirits that raise a Soul so high.
In the next place, let Woods and Rivers be,
My quiet, though unglorious destiny.
In Life's cool vail let my low, scene be laid,
Cover me Gods, with Tempe's thickest shade.
Happy the Man (I grant, thrice happy he)
Who can through gross effects their causes see:
Whose courage from the deeps of knowledge springs,
Nor vainly fears inevitable things:
But does his walk of, vertue calmly go,
Through all th' allarm's of Death and Hell below.
Happy! but next such Conquerours happy they,
Whose humble Life lies not in fortunes way.
They unconcern'd from their safe distant seat,
Behold the Rods and Scepters of the great.
The quarrels of the mighty without fear,
And the descent of forraign Troops they hear.
Nor can even Rome their steddy course misguide,
With all the lustre of her perishing Pride.
Them never yet did strife or avarice draw,
Into the noiseful markets of the Law,
The Camps of Gowned War, nor do they live
By rules or forms that many mad men give.
Duty for Natures Bounty they repay,
And her sole Laws religiously obey.
Some with bold Labour plough the faithless main,
Some rougher storms in Princes Courts sustain.
Some swell up their sleight sails with pop'lar fame.
Charm'd with the foolish whistlings of a name.
Some their vain wealth to Earth again commit,
With endless cares some brooding o're it sit.
Country and Friends are by some Wretches sold,
To lye on Tyrian Beds, and drink in Gold;
No price too high for profit can be shown,
Not Brothers blood, nor hazards of their own.
Around the World in search of it they roam,
It makes ev'n their Antipodes their home;
Mean while, the prudent Husbandman is found,
In mutual duties striving with his ground,
And half the year he care of that does take,
That half the year grateful return does make.
Each fertile moneth does some new gifts present,
And with new work his industry content.
This, the young Lamb, that, the soft Fleece doth yield,
This, loads with Hey, and that, with Corn the Field:
All sorts of Fruit, crown the rich Autumns Pride:
And on a swelling Hills warm stony side,
The powerful Princely Purple of the Vine,
Twice dy'd with the redoubled Sun does shine;
In th' Evening to a fair ensuing day,
With joy he sees his Flocks and Kids to play.
And loaded Kyne about his Cottage stand.
Inviting with known sound, the Milkers hand.
And when from wholsom labour he doth come.
With wishes to be there, and wish't for home,
He meets at home the softest humane blisses,
His chast Wives welcom and dear Childrens kisses.
And when the Rural Holy dayes invite,
His Genius forth to innocent delight.
On Earths fair bed beneath some sacred shade,
Amidst his equal friends carelesly laid;
He sings thee Bacchus Patron of the Vine,
The Beechen Boul foams with a flood of Wine,
Not to the loss of reason or of strength:
To active games and manly sport at length,
Their mirth ascends, and with fill'd veins they see,
VVho can the best at better trials be.
Such was the Life the prudent Sabins chose
From such the old Hetrurian vertue rose.
Such, Remus and the God his Prother led,
From such firm footing Rome grew the VVorld's head.
Such was the Life that ev'n till now does raise,
The honour of poor Saturns golden dayes:
Before Men born of Earth and buryed there,
Let in the Sea their mortal fate to share.
Before new wayes of perishing were sought,
Before unskilful Death on Anvils wrought.
Before those Beasts which humane Life sustain,
By men unless to the Gods use were slain.

Claudians's Old Man of Verona.

HAppy the Man, who his whole time doth bound,
Within th' enclosure of his little ground.
Happy the Man, whom the same humble place,
(Th' hereditary Cottage of his Race)
From his first rising infancy has known,
And by degrees sees gently bending down,
VVith natural propensions to that Earth
VVhich both preserv'd his Life and gave him birth.
Him no false distant lights by fortune set,
Could ever into foolish wandrings get.
He never dangers either saw, or fear'd:
The dreadful storms at Sea he never heard.
He never heard the shrill alarms of war,
Or the worse noyses of the Lawyers bar.
No change of Consuls mark's to him the year,
The change of seasons is his Calendar.
The cold and heat, VVinter and Summer showes,
Autumne by fruits and spring by flourish knows.
He measures time by Land-marks, and has found,
For the whole day the Dial of his ground.
A neighbouring wood borne with himself he sees,
And loves his old contemporary trees.
He only heard of near Verona's Name,
And knowes it like the Indies, but by fame.
Does with a like concernment notice take,
Of the Red-Sea, and of Benacoes lake.
Thus Health and Strength to a third age enjoyes,
And sees a long Posterity of Boyes.
About the spacious VVorld let others roam,
The Voyage life is longest made at home.

Martial Book 10. Epigram 96. An Epigram.

ME who have liv'd so long among the great,
You wonder to hear talk of a Retreat.
And a retreat so distant as may shew,
No thoughts of a return when once I go.
Give me a Country, how remote so e're.
VVhere happiness a mod'rate rate does bear.
VVhere poverty it self in plenty flowes,
And all the solidness of Riches knowes.
The ground about the house maintains it there,
The house maintains the ground about it here.
Here even hunger's dear, and a full board,
Devours the vital substance of the Lord.
The Land it self does there the feast bestow,
The Land it self must here to Market go.
Three or four suits one Winter here does waste,
One suit does there three or four Winters last.
Here every frugal Man must oft be cold,
And little Luke-warm-fires are to you sold,
There fires an Element as cheap and free,
Almost as any of the other be.
Stay you then here, and live amongst the Great,
Attend their sports and at their tables eat.
When all the bounties here, of men you score:
The places bounty there, shall give you more.

A Paraphrase on the 9th. Ode of Horace his third book, that begins with Donec gratus eram tibi.

1.
WHile but thy self, I did think nothing fair,
And all thy heart fell to my share,
And others did at distance gaze
On the glories of thy face,
Like Persians worshiping the Sun,
My Empire o're thy Soul was great,
Thy power o're mine too was compleat,
And then my greatest Power and Wealth begun;
When to thee I most tribute paid,
When to thee I my self was tribute made.
'Twas then my self, I did repute
Even than a Persian, King more absolute,
And then him to be happier far,
Though he were Brother to his God, the Sun and every Star.
Lydia.
2.
Before you did my Beauties power depose
And Chloe was my bright Successor chose;
I was far happier too,
Then Persian Queens, or Kings, or you:
Although I grant it is a nobler thing
To be a Roman Poet, than a Persian King.
Honour, which Women value more,
Than Men their beauties can adore,
I did enjoy, while I was woo'd by thee,
More then the Roman Ilia, that great she
Who brought forth him that did to Rome give birth,
Rome the great Queen, and Mistress of the Earth.
Rome that is thirty thousand strong in Gods,
Yet of them all, with ease I got the ods,
While I did worship only thee,
And thou too, didst as much for me,
And the World thought our love a Deity.
Horace.
3.
I have another Empress at this hour,
And own fair Chloe as the present power.
O when ever Chloe sings,
And her Theorbos trembling strings,
The passions of her voice express,
(As her voice doth those of her soul confess.)
I think not of her face and hand,
Nor of the wit her tongue doth then command.
Nor of her quick and sparkling eye,
From whence Meridian beams do alwayes fly:
Her voice alone doth all my thoughts controul,
In that Air lyes the Center of my Soul,
Just as the Earth the Center of the World,
Is fixt in ambient ayr about it hurl'd:
And when I hear her Voice both loud and sweet,
Where all imagin'd charms of sounds do meet,
One note calls my soul away
And another bids it stay,
And I to every note cry, I obey.
I, the most solemn sentences of death,
Could gladly hear, if but sung by her breath,
And in that doom would place my Joy and Pride,
If she would sing still as I dy'd.
But, for her, I'de expire my soul as readily,
Might it but reach this immortality,
To live in her's no otherwise than now
And fate, me that survivorship allow,
As the sweet steem of balm, or what is sweeter far,
Her breath, mix Natures with the common ayr.
Lydia.
4.
Calais, now, the sweetest youth
That ever boasted love with truth,
Doth love for love to me return,
And both our hearts in equal ardours burn.
His love shall raise him monuments more high
Then Chloes voice, and all your Poetry
To either of you can supply.
For him I'de dye, and dye again
And suffer all th' Experiments of pain,
And would ev'n many lingring Deaths sustain,
That to his life a minute gain'd might be:
And in that minute sure, hee'd think of me.
For since to live the greatest lover, is
The highest step of Honour and of bliss;
When once I cease to live,
I, that high fame to Calais give.
So when to love, and death, and him I yield,
And he with Conquest keeps the Field,
My name shall be too, in his Triumphs crown'd,
Since I by dying make him so renown'd.
But know O death thou hast no dart,
So sharp as those of love, which pierc'd my Heart.
I that have lov'd twice, can dye once with case:
Death if compar'd with love 's but a disease.
5.
But Lydia what if I no trial make
Of suffering death for Chloes sake,
Nor you for Calais, and we retrive
Those joyes our antient mutual love did give,
For it is very long ago,
Or at least to me seems so,
Since both our hearts a bright example shone,
For following lovers imitation:
And what if we our selves should prove
Imitators of that love,
And again my Lydia's fame
Obscure the Roman Ilia's name,
And Chloes voice, and Chloes Lute
Should be to me for ever mute?
And having been by wandring fires misled
That in Chloes eyes were bred,
I walk in loves blest paths I knew before
And Lydia's eyes do me to them restore,
As Trav'llers who by false fires lost their way
At night, the sun at last, relieves by day?
6.
Though he be then the morning Star more bright,
Yet he shall vanish out of sight,
Like that star at the suns approaching light.
Though in the Sea there floats no peace of rind
More light then is thy poor unsteady mind,
And though with ev'ry small occasions winde,
Your anger more tempestuous be
Then the Adriatick Sea,
I'le try if from the angry foam
Venus a second time can come.
And my kind heart that to a wrack was near
By false lights Calais his eyes did rear,
(As those who dwell on Seacoasts oft betray
Mariners that sail by night,
To rocks and Sands by a false Pharus light,
And so the shipwrack'd goods become their prey,)
Now further than thy eyes shall never try
A guiding Polar star to spy
And if with thee, I may but live and dye,
The powerfull Gods have done enough for me.
But if they can, let them do more for thee.

Ode.

1.
I Often pray'd my uninspiring Muse,
That she would for me some great Subject choose.
Some Hero highly lov'd, and highly fam'd,
Whose thoughts might raise my soul, and make my verses live,
And (as she ought) then ORRERY she nam'd,
And said, all to them would acceptance give,
If but of him they sung,
How e're my Lute were strung:
As men almost adorers prove
Of Priests that for them worship Gods they love.
Do but (said she) recite matters of fact,
Tell, but the things which he did act
On the World's stage; thus write of him and try,
If ev'ry thing thou write'st will not be great and high.
Fear not; I will thy Name advance:
All great inventions were the births of chance.
No longer then with trembling, gaze
On the great Ocean of his praise,
But boldly through it make thy way,
And boldly there my Sovereign Power obey.
And as the needle is drawn by the North,
So his attractive virtues shall call forth,
Both North and South, and all the World t' exalt his worth.
Though round the World none sail but loose a day,
Thou a poor minutes loss shalt never see,
Behold what I, thy Muse will do for thee,
Sail here I say, and gain Eternity.
2.
Thus spoke my Muse; and straight I did acquire,
What I nere felt before, Poetick fire.
And now it burns, and now 'tis upward bent
To his high praise, as its own Element.
And by his verses now I see
What Wit is, and what Wit can be,
Wit, that does scorn to be admir'd as good,
But as such only would be understood;
Wit, to make which as many things do go,
As did to make the World from Chaos grow
(Let there be wit, when the first being sayes, 'tis so)
Wit that from all the Creatures tribute takes,
And them far richer, and more glorious makes.
As the Earths steem we call the Ayr,
Helps the Sun's light, and is thereby more fair.
He is a judicious Wit
And has of things as Nature made them writ:
Just to the likeness of the Life he draws,
In colours too that proper are,
In verse he goes by Mathematick Laws,
Better proportion keeps then Durer farr:
Never Man writ so before,
Never Man will write so more;
Ah, to be equal'd he has done too much;
For in all his Poetry,
The most impartial Eyes do see,
Corregio's sweetness, Titians boulder touch.
3.
Great was his verse, and great too was his Prose;
In both he did new Worlds of wit disclose.
The truth in his Romantick stories told,
Is but the Silver that allayes their Gold.
I once Romances dis-esteem'd,
And full of ill forg'd miracles they seem'd;
The Heroes they describ'd were such,
As either did too little or too much.
In such a glass should nature see her face,
She either would break that, or break the glass.
This cannot be I cry'd,
This never yet was try'd
And them as prose Burlesque I did deride.
But when I once read Parthenissa o're
(Weeping, because I read it not before)
There, I saw Natures restauration,
I saw it, and I saw it on a Throne:
There, if what's Noble, shall unpractic'd be
The guilty World should blush, not he:
There Greek and Roman Authors are more classick grown,
And give soft charming pleasures to the World,
Ore which those Empires, Blood and Rapine hurl'd:
And there the fires, and stings, and wounds of love,
Sweeter then Life, and then death stronger prove:
Thence Kings unborn shall learn to love and fight,
And noble things to do, and noble things to write.
1.
Wonderful man, who to the World conveys
Of Love and Knowledge all the wayes!
He has a strange creating pen,
And can too uncreate agen
All the effects of that, when he
An Orator thinks fit to be.
Witness some English Senates where his words,
Did more then blunt the edge of Legislative swords.
They his words power like lightning felt
And could not in their sheaths but melt,
And as he all the envious clouds broke through,
His words were Lightening and Thunder too.
A trembling in him I have seen.
When to speak he did begin,
But having then gone on, it was not long
Ere trembling seis'd on the attentive throng.
'Twas strange to see on one Man's tongue,
The Ears and Hearts of thousands hung:
'Twas strange, that words should charm that were not sung:
'Twas strange, a little ayr articulate,
Should bind 'Mens souls like chains of Fate.
But as ayr pent in th' Earth, does Earthquakes make,
So did these Sons of Earth and all their models shake,
By that their souls did feel from what he spake;
And come what ever time can cause,
He by perswasion will give laws;
While men have ears, and while his tongue is free,
He will perpetual Dictator be.
5.
Those Arts in which the Romans strove t' excel,
Fighting, and speaking well.
By him their most renown'd effects have shown.
Valour and Wit have not been known,
To be an ordinary conjunction,
And curious Wits of fear admit,
Because, then others, they more dangersspy:
And it has seldom happened yet
But they indulg'd some vice, which made them loth to dye.
But long since he has learn't Lifes noblest use,
Which is at Fames call, living to refuse:
Thus no Man can so well set off perfumes,
While in their mass, as when he them consumes.
When Honour calls to take up arms
There is loud musick in alarms,
Pale Death has lovely killing charms.
O at that call he answer'd still with haste!
Behold thy Lover fame said he,
Behold thy Lover Eccho'd Victory.
Th' assassinating Irish knives,
Through many English Throats had past,
Till by his sword he did revenge at last,
The God of Natures cause on Barbarous Rebells Lives.
6.
Nor is his conduct in affairs of State,
Then in the Wars less fortunate,
His Counsel is the prosperous breath of fate.
By doubtful words I've many Statesmen known,
For Wisdom's Oracles to have gone:
O Wisdom that that then Wit we more mistaken see,
And plac'd by many in formality:
In being still impertinent with a grace,
And speaking nonsence with a solemn face;
In praising, or in blaming former times,
Or thinking to amend the Ages crimes.
Perfectly what thou art I cannot tell,
But perfectly I know where thou dost dwell,
And 'tis in ORREREY'S Capacious Brain;
Long may he live and then thou long wilt reign.
Nor does of Gold the thirst inflame his Breast,
But of that Luscious bliss of making others blest.
Gold that makes and unties the knots
Of Statesmens suttlest Plots,
And makes them say, the business may be done,
They swore before could never be begun:
Accursed Gold, in whose Idolatry,
All Religions agree,
No Man once did so much prize,
As He alwayes did despise,
And wondred how it came to tempt the Wise.
And Business too that others makes Chagrin,
In his looks was never seen,
For they were alwayes clear,
And there nothing did appear,
But what was sweet, serene, bright and Divine,
Like Stars that give their influence, and shine.
7.
Great ORRERY, how can I make an end,
Of praising thee, thee, the most active Friend;
Which of few Statesmen can be said:
But thou a Statesmans Life hast led,
To shew, that Friendship may consist with it:
Ah, else for Devils power were only fit.
From the Addresses of a multitude,
VVhat pleasure could into thy thoughts intrude,
Thy thoughts, which nature meant to entertain
Angels and God, and mankinds noblest uses,
Reasons great depths, and at the worst, the Muses?
Thou knewst the worship power can gain,
Is receiv'd and paid with pain;
And Beasts that came not willingly,
As offerings to fictitious Gods do dye,
By every Priest were disapprov'd;
How can that Beast the People then be lov'd,
That does but forc'd and feign'd oblations give
To Gods true Viceroyes with designs to live?
But loe! a Sacrifice thy self thou art,
And with thy Heaven on Earth, for thy friends sake didst part,
Retirement, where on smooth Seas quietly,
Thou might'st have pass'd from this World to the next,
And thee no Hirricans of fate perplext.
So does the vast Pacific Sea
Reach to both VVorlds, and is from dangers free,
That can from Storms, or Rocks, or Pirates be:
And there the equal trade winds blow,
And Ships nor met, nor overtaen go;
And there the Pilot may the helm forsake
And there long sleeps the passengers may make,
Till by shrill Trumpets sounds they gladly wake.

Christs passion.

1.
ENough, my Muse, of earthly things,
And inspirations but of wind,
Take up thy Lute, and to it bind
Loud, and everlasting strings,
And on 'em play, and to 'em sing,
The happy mournful stories,
The Lamentable glories,
Of the great Crucifyed King.
Mountainous heap of Wonders! which do'st rise
Till Earth thou joynest with the Skies!
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,
To be half seen with mortal eye.
How shall I grasp this boundless thing?
What shall I play? what shall I sing?
I'le sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,
Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed Spirits above
With all their Comments can explain;
How all the whole VVorld's Life to dye did not disdain.
2.
I'le sing the Searchless depths of the Compassion Divine,
The depths unfathom'd yet
By reasons Plummet, and the line of Wit,
Too light the Plummet, and too short the line!
How the Eternal Father did bestow
His own Eternal Son, as ransom for his foe,
I'le sing aloud, that all the World may hear,
The triumph of the buried Conquerour.
How hell was by its Pris'ner Captive led,
And the great slayer death slain by the dead.
3.
Methinks I hear of murthered men the voice,
Mixt with the Murderers confused noise,
Sound from the top of Calvary;
My greedy eyes fly up the Hill and see
Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three;
Oh how unlike the others he!
Look how he bends his gentle head with blessings from the tree!
His gratious hands, ne're stretcht but to do good,
Are nail'd to the infamous wood:
And sinful Man do's fondly bind
The Arms, which he extends t' embrace all humane kind.
4.
Unhappy Man, can'st thou stand by, and see
All this as patient, as he?
Since he thy Sins does bear,
Make thou his sufferings thine own,
And weep, and sigh, and groan,
And beat thy Breast, and tear,
Thy Garments, and thy Hair,
And let thy grief, and let thy love
Through all thy bleeding bowels move,
Do'st thou not see thy Prince, in Purple clad all o're,
Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,
But made at home with richer gore?
Dost thou not see the Roses, which adorne
The thorny Garland, by him worn?
Dost thou not see the horrid traces
Of the sharp scourges, rude embraces;
If yet thou feelest not the smart
Of Thorns and Scourges in thy heart,
If that be yet not Crucified,
Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side.
5.
Open, Oh! open wide the Fountains of thine eyes
And let 'em call
Their stock of moisture forth, where ere it lyes,
For this will ask it all.
'Twould all (alas) too little be,
Though thy salt tears came from the Sea:
Can'st thou deny him this, when he
Has open'd all his vital Springs for thee?
Take heed; for by his sides mysterious flood
May well be understood,
That he will still require some waters to his blood.

On Orinda's Poems. Ode.

WE allow'd Your Beauty, and we did submit
To all the Tyrannies of it;
Ah! Cruel Sex will you depose us too in Wit?
Orinda do's in that too raign,
Do's Man behind her in Proud Triumph draw,
And Cancel great Apollo's Salick Law.
VVe our old Title plead in vain,
Man may be head, but VVoman's now our Brain.
Verse was Loves fire-arms heretofore,
In Beauties Camp it was not known,
Too many Armes besides that Conquerour bore:
'Twas the great Canon we brought down
T' assault a stubborn Town,
Orinda first did a bold sally make,
Our strongest Quarter take,
And so succesful prov'd, that she
Turn'd upon Love himself his own Artillery.
2.
Women as if the Body were there whole,
Did that, and not the soul
Transmit to their Posterity;
If in it something they conceiv'd
Th' abortive Issue never liv'd,
'Twere shame and pity, Orinda if in thee
A Spirit so rich, so noble, and so high
Should unmanur'd or barren lye.
But thou industriously has sow'd, and till'd
The fair, and fruitful field;
And 'tis a strange increase, that it doth yield.
As when the happy Gods above
Meet altogether at a feast,
A secret Joy unspeakably does move,
In their great Mother Cybele's contented breast:
With no less pleasure thou methinks shouldst see,
This thy no less Immortal Progeny:
And in their Birth thou no one touch dost find,
Of th' ancient Curse to Woman-kind.
Thou bring'st not forth with pain,
It neither travel is nor labour of thy brain,
So easily they from thee come
And there is so much room
In th' unexhausted and unfathom'd Womb.
That like the Holland Countess thou mayst bear
A child for every day of all the fertile year.
3.
Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy raise
If to be prais'd I lov'd more than to praise,
VVhere e're I see an excellency.
I must admire to see thy well knit sense
Thy Numbers gentle, and thy passions high,
Those as thy fore-head smooth, these sparkling as thy eye.
'Tis solid, and 'tis manly all,
Or rather 'tis Angelical,
For as in Angels we
Do in thy Verses see
Both improv'd Sexes eminently meet,
They are than Man more strong, and more than VVoman sweet.
4.
They talk of Nine, I know not who
Female Chimera's that o're Poets reign
I ne're could find that fancy true,
But have invok'd them oft I'm sure in vain:
They talk of Sappho, but alas the shame!
Ill manners soil the lustre of her Fame:
Orinda's inward virtue is so bright,
That like a Lanthorn's fair inclosed Light,
It through the paper shines where she does write.
Honour and Friendship, and the Generous scorn,
Of things for which we were not born
Things which of Custom by a fond Disease,
Like that of Girles our vicious Stomachs please.
Are the instructive Subjects of her pen,
And as the Roman Victory
Taught our rude Land, Arts, and Civility,
At once she takes, enslaves, and governs Men.
5.
But Rome with all her Arts could ne're inspire,
A Female Breast with such a fire.
The warlike Amazonian train,
Which in Elysium now do peaceful raign,
And wits milde Empire before Arms prefer
Find 'twill be setled in their sex by her.
Merlin the Prophet, and sure he will not lye
In such an awful Company,
Does Prophesies of Learn'd Orinda shew,
Which he had darkly spoke so long ago.
Ev'n Boadicia's angry Ghost
Forgets her own misfortune, and disgrace,
And to her injur'd Daughters now does boast,
That Romes o'recome at last, by a woman of her Race.

Ode. On Retirement.

NO, no, unfaithful World, thou hast
Too long my easie Heart betray'd,
And me too long thy restless ball hast made:
But I am wiser grown at last,
And will improve by all that I have past.
I know 'twas just I should be practis'd on,
For I was told before,
And told in sober, and instructive Lore,
How little all that trusted thee, have won;
And yet I would make hast to be undone:
But by my sufferings I am better taught,
And shall no more commit that stupid fault.
Go get some other fool,
Whom thou may'st next Cajole,
On me, thy frowns thou wilt in vain bestow,
For I know how
To be as coy, and as reserv'd as thou.
2.
In my remote and humble seat,
Now I'm again possess'd
Of that late fugitive my brest,
From all thy Tumult, and from all thy heat,
I'le find a quiet, and a cool Retreat.
And on the Fetters I have worne,
Look with experienc'd, and revengefull scorn,
In this my Soveraign Privacy.
'Tis true I cannot govern thee,
But yet my self I can subdue,
And that's the nobler Empire of the two.
If every passion had got leave,
It's satisfaction to receive,
Yet, I would it, a higher pleasure call,
To conquer one, then to indulge them all.
3.
For thy inconstant Sea, no more
I'le leave that safe, and solid shore,
No, though to prosper in the cheat,
Thou shouldst my Destiny defeat,
And make me be belov'd, or Rich, or Great.
Nor from my self shouldst me reclaim,
With all the noise, and all the pomp of Fame.
Judiciously I'le these despise,
Too small the Bargain, and too great the price,
For them to cozen twice.
At length this secret I have learn'd,
Who will be happy must be unconcern'd,
Must all their comfort in their Bosom wear,
And seek their Power, and their Treasure there.
4.
No other wealth, will I aspire
But that of Nature to admire,
Nor envy on a Lawrel will bestow,
Whilst I have any in my Garden grow.
And when I would be Great,
'Tis but ascending to a seat,
Which Nature in a lofty Rock has built,
A Throne as free from trouble, as from Guilt.
Where, when my soul her wings does raise,
Above what mortals fear or praise,
With Innocent, and quiet Pride, I'le sit.
And see the humble VVaves pay tribute to my feet
O! Life divine! when free from joys diseas'd,
Not alwayes merry, but 'tis alwayes pleas'd.
5.
A Heart, which is too great a thing
To be a present for a Persian King,
Which God himself, would have to be his Court,
And where bright Angels gladly would resort,
From its own height would much decline,
If this converse it should resign
Ill natur'd VVorld, for Thine.
Thy unwise rigour hath thy Empire lost,
It has not only set me free,
But it has let me see
They only, can of thy possession boast,
Who do enjoy thee least, and understand thee most.
For lo! the Man, whom all mankind admir'd,
Whom every grace adorn'd, and every Muse inspir'd,
Is now Triumphantly retir'd:
The mighty Cowley this hath done,
And over thee a Parthian Conquest won,
VVhich future Ages shall adore,
And which, in this subjects thee more,
Then either Greek; or Roman ever could before.

A Paraphrase on an Ode in Horace third book, beginning thus, Inclusam Danaen turris ahenea.

A Tower of Brass, one would have sed
And Locks, and Bolts and Iron bars
And Guards, as strict, as in the heat of wars
Might have preserv'd one Innocent Maiden-head.
The Jealous Father thought he well might spare,
All further Jealous Care,
And as he walkt, t' himself alone he smil'd
To think how Venus Arts he had beguil'd,
And when he slept, his rest was deep,
But Venus laugh'd to see and hear him sleep.
She taught the Amorous Jove
A Magical receit in Love,
VVhich arm'd him stronger and which help'd him more,
Than all his thunder did, and his Almighty ship before.
2.
She taught him Loves Elixar by which Art,
His Godhead into Gold he did convert.
No Guards did then his passage stay,
He pass'd with ease Gold was the word
Subtle as lightening, bright and quick and fierce;
Gold through Doors and Walls did pierce,
And as that works sometimes upon the sword,
Melted the Maiden-head away,
Even in the secret scabbard where it lay.
The Prudent Macedonian King,
To blow up Towns a Golden Mine, did spring.
He broke through Gates with this Petar,
'Tis the great Art of peace, the Engine 'tis of War;
And Fleets and Armies follow it afar,
The Engine tis at Land, and tis the Seamans Star.
3.
Let all the World, slave to this Tirant be
Creature to this disguised Deity,
Yet it shall never conquer me.
A Guard of Vertues will not let it pass,
And wisdom is a Towre of stronger brass.
The Muses Lawrel round my Temples spread
Does from this Light'nings force secure my head.
Nor will I lift it up so high,
As in the violent Meteors way to lye.
Wealth for its power d' we honour and adore?
The things we hate, ill Fate, and death, have more.
4.
From Towns and Courts, Camps of the Rich and Great,
The vast Xerxean Army I retreat.
And to the small Laconick forces fly,
Which hold the straits of Poverty.
Sellars and Granaries in vain we fill,
With all the bounteous Summers store,
If the mind thirst and hunger still.
The poor rich man's emphatically poor.
Slaves to the things we too much prize,
We Masters grow of all that we despise.
5.
A field of corn, a Fountain and a VVood,
Is all the VVealth by Nature understood.
That Monarch on whom fertile Nile bestowes,
All which the grateful Earth can bear,
Deceives himself, if he suppose
That more than this falls to his share.
VVhatever an Estate does beyond this afford,
Is not a rent paid to the Lord;
But is a tax illegal and unjust,
Exacted from it by that Tyrant Lust.
Much will alwayes wanting be,
To him who much desires.
Thrice happy he to whom the wise indulgency of Heaven,
VVith sparing hand, but just enough has given.

To the Right Honourable, the Lady Mary Butler, at Her Marriage to the Lord Cavendish.

AT such a time as this when all conclude
Nothing but unconcernment can be rude;
The Muses, Madam, will not be deny'd
To be the Bridemaids, where you are the Bride:
They know, in what those wishes have design'd,
What bright opposers they are like to find,
Whose Birth and Beauty never will give way
To such obscure Competitors as they.
But yet as injur'd Princes alwayes strive,
To keep their Title and their Claim alive:
So they affirm they do but ask their due,
Having Hereditary right in you:
And they again would rather undergo,
All that Malitious Ignorance could do,
When Fortune all things sacred did oppress,
Than in this brave ambition want success:
Admit them, Beauteous Madam, then to be
Attendants on this great solemnity,
And ev'ry Muse will in a charming strain
Your Honour and their own pretence maintain.
The first your high extraction shall proclaim,
And what endear'd your Ancestors to fame.
Who do not more excel another stem
Than your Illustrious Father hath done them,
Who fortunes Stratagems hath so surpass'd,
As flatt'ry cannot reach, nor envy blast.
In whom Vicegerency's a greater thing
Than any Crown, but that of Englands King;
Whom forraign Princes do with envy See,
And would be Subjects, to be such as he.
Another shall your Mothers glory raise,
And much her Beauty, more her Virtue praise,
Whose suffering in that noble Way and Cause,
More Veneration than her greatness draws;
And yet how justly is that Greatness due!
Which she with so much ease can govern too.
Another shall of your Great Lover sing
And with his fame inspire some nobler string,
Whom Nature made so handsom and so brave,
And Fortune such a lovely Mistress gave;
This shall relate how fervently he woo'd,
And that how generously 'twas understood:
Shall tell the charms which did his Heart invade,
And then the merits which did yours perswade.
But all the Muses on you both shall treat
Who are as justly kind, as you are great.
And by observing you, assure Mankind
That Love and Fortune are no longer blind.

On Good-Friday and Easter day.

Jesus!
ALmighty Lowness! whose free power
Can or contract it self, or spread
T' Eternity, or to an hour
Who art all Life and can'st be dead;
Where shall I seek thee? If I hope to have
Thee in thy Heav'n, thou 'rt shrunk into the Grave.
Yet low as Graves slow Nature's foot
First trac'd and found thee, she did pry
Into some hearbs poor flowre or root,
E're she durst ask the Stars and Sky:
Shall I then seek thee there? no the deaf stone,
Dumb muffling cloaths can tell that thou art gone.
But there's a place hollow and dark,
Hard too as Tombs in Rocks, yet where
A little would both flame and sparke
If hourly kept with busie care,
Shall I then seek thee there? lend me thy Art
And light to search: that place may prove my Heart.
For Hearts are ev'ry thing, and thou
Art ev'ry where; in Hearts which shine
All day sun-full, and hearts which show
Nightsom as Graves, and such is mine:
Oh might I find thee there, I'de beg thy stay;
Rise what thou would'st, thou should'st not go away.

The Irish Greyhound.

BEhold this Creature's form and State,
Which Nature therefore did Create,
That to the World might be exprest,
What miene there can be in a Beast.
And that we in this shape might find
A Lyon of another kind.
For this Heroick Dog does seem
In Majesty to Rival him.
And yet vouchsafes to Man to shew
Both service and submission too.
By which we this distinction have
That Beast is fierce, but this is brave:
This Dog hath so himself subdu'd
That Hunger cannot make him rude.
And his behaviour does confess,
True Courage dwells with Gentleness:
With sternest Wolves he dares engage,
And Acts on them succesful rage.
Yet too much Curtesie may chance
To put him out of Countenance.
And when in his opposers blood
Fortune does make his virtue good,
This Creature from an Act so brave
Growes not more sullen, but more grave.
He would Man's Guard be not his sport;
Believing he hath ventur'd for't.
But yet no blood or shed or spent
Can ever make him Insolent.
Few Men of him, to do great things have learn'd,
Or when th' are done, to be so unconcern'd.

The Table.

  • TO Mr Cowley on his Davedeis, by a Person of Honour.
  • To Orinda, by the same.
  • Ode, upon oceasion of a Copy of Verses of the Earl of Or­rery's upon Mr. Cowley's Davideis, by Mr. Abraham Cowley. Page 1.
  • Ode. The Complaint by Mr. A. C. Page 4.
  • Ode. Mr. Cowley's book presenting it self to the Ʋniver­sity Library of Oxford, by the same.Page 10.
  • Ode. Sitting and Drinking in the Chair, made out of the Reliques of Sir Francis Drakes ship, by the same. Pag. 13.
  • The Country Mouse. A Paraphrase upon Horace second Book, Satyr 6. by the same. Page 15.
  • A Paraphrase upon the 10th. Epistle of the first Book of Horace, by the same. Page 18.
  • A Translation of Virgil's, O Fortunati Nimium, &c. by the same. Page 21.
  • Claudian's Old Man of Verona, by the same. Page 25.
  • Martial Book 10. Epigram 96. Translated by the same. Page 26.
  • Ode. A Paraphrase on the 9th. Ode of Horace his third book, that begins with Donec gratus eram tibi. By Sir Peter Pett. Page 27.
  • Ode. To the Earl of Orrery, by the same. Page 22.
  • [Page]Ode. On the Passion of our Saviour, by Mr. Abraham Cowley. Page 39.
  • Ode. On Orinda's Poems, by the same. Page 42.
  • Ode. On Retirement. By a Lady. Page 45.
  • Ode. Paraphrase on the Ode of Horace, which begins, Inclu­sam Danaen, by Mr. Abraham Cowley. Page 48.
  • To the Right Honourable the Lady Mary Butler, at her Mar­riage to the Lord Cavendish, by a Lady. Page 51.
  • On Good-friday and Easter day. Jesus! by Dr. Paman. Page 53.
  • The Irish Greyhound. By a Lady. Page 54.
FINIS.

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