Happy, O happy they, whofe tomb might be, Maufolus! envied by thee!

ODE II.

THAT A PLEASANT POVERTY IS TO BE PREFERRED BEFORE DISCONTENTED RICHES.

WH

HY, O! doth gaudy Tagus ravish thee,
Though Neptune's treasure-house it be?
Why doth Pactolus thee bewitch,
Infected yet with Midas' glorious itch?

Their dull and fleepy streams are not at all,
Like other floods, poetical;

They have no dance, no wanton fport,
No gentle murmur, the lov'd fhore to court.

No fifth inhabit the adulterate flood,

Nor can it feed the neighbouring wood:
No flower or herb is near it found,
But a perpetual winter ftarves the ground.
Give me a river which doth fcorn to show
An added beauty; whofe clear brow
May be my looking-glafs, to fee

What

my Here waves call waves, and glide along in rank, And prattle to the smiling bank; Here fad king-fifhers tell their tales, And fish enrich the brook with filver fcales.

face is, and what my mind fhould be!

Daifius, the first-born of the teeming fpring,

On each fide their embroidery bring;
Here lilies wash, and grow more white,
And daffodils, to fee themselves, delight.
Here a fresh arbour gives her amorous fhade,

Which Nature, the best gardener, made.
Here I would fit and fing rude lays,
Such as the nymphs and me myself should please.
Thus I would wafte, thus end, my careless days;
And robin-red-breafts,.whom men praise
For pious birds, fhould, when I die,
Make both my monument and elegy.

I would have all my miftrefs' parts
Owe more to nature than to arts;

I would not woo the drefs,

Or one whofe nights give lefs
Contentment than the day.

She's fair, whofe beauty only makes her gay.
For 'tis not buildings make a court,
Or pomp, but 'tis the king's refort:
if Jupiter down pour

Himself, and in a shower
Hide fuch bright majefty,
Lefs than a golden one it cannot be.

O DE IV.

ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF FORTUNE.

A Tranflation.

EAVE off unfit complaints, and clear

your brow,

clouds

When the fun fhines not with his wonted cheer,
And fortune throws an adverfe caft for you!
That fea which vext with Notus is,
The merry Eaft winds will to-morrow kifs.
The fun to-day rides drowfily,
To-morrow 'twill put on a look more fair:
Laughter and groaning do alternately
Return, and tears' fperts nearest neighbours are.
'Tis by the gods appointed fo,
That good fare fhould with mingled dangers flow.
Who drave his oxen yesterday,
Doth now over the nobleft Romans reign,
And on the Gabii and the Cures lay
The yoke which from his oxen he had ta'en:
Whom Hefperus faw poor and low,
The morning's eye beholds him greatest now.
If Fortune knit amongst her play
But ferioufnefs, he fhall again go home
To his old country-farm of yesterday,
To fcofing people no mean jeft become;

And with the crowned axe, which he
Had rul'd the world, go back and prune fome

Smiths (who before could only make
The fpade, the plow-fhare, and the rake)
Arts, in most cruel wife
Man's life t' epitomize!

Then men (fond men, alas !) ride poft to th' grave, And cut those threads which yet the Fates would fave;

Then Charon fweated at his trade,
And had a larger ferry made;

Then, then the filver hair,
Frequent before, grew rare.

Then Revenge, married to Ambition,
Begat black War; then Avarice crept on;
Then limits to each field were strain'd,
And Terminus a god-head gain'd,

To men, before, was found,
Befides the fea, no bound.

In what plain, or what river, hath not been
War's ftory writ in blood (fad flory!) feen?
This truth too well our England knows :
'Twas civil flaughter dy'd her rofe;

Nay, then her lily too

With blood's lofs paler grew.

Such griefs, nay worfe than thefe, we now fhould feel,

Did not jufl Charles filence the rage of steel;
He to our land bleft Peace doth bring,
All neighbour countries envying.

Happy who did remain

Unborn till Charles's reign!

Where, dreaming chemicks! is your pain and coft?

How is your oil, how is your labour left!

Our Charles, bleft alchemist! (though ftrange,
Believe it, future times!) did change

The iron-age of old Into an age of gold.

O DE VI.

UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE.

TARK that fwift arrow! how it cuts the air,

Mow it out runs thy following eye!

Ufe all perfuafions now and try
If thou canft call it back, or flay it there.
That way it went; but thou shalt find
No trac is left behind.

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.
Of all the time thou'ft fhot away,
I'll bid thee fetch but yefter lay,
And it fhall be too hard a task to do.
Befides repentance, what can find
That it hath left behind?

Our life is carried with too ftrong a tide;
A doubtful cloud our fubitance bears,
And is the horfe of all our years
Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.
We and our glafs run out, and muft
both render up cur duft.

But his past life who without grief can fee;
Who never thinks his end too near,
But fays to fame, Thou art mine heir;
That man extends life's natural brevity-
This is, this is the only way
To out-live Neftor in a day.

AN ANSWER

TO AN INVITATION TO CAMBRIDGE.

N'for, if thou telitt what Cambridge plea

ICHOLS, my better felf! forbear;

fures are,

The fchool-boys' fin will light on me,

1 fhall, in mind at least, a truant be.
Tell me not how you feed your mind
With dainties of philofophy;
In Ovid's nut 1 fhall not find
The tafte once pleafed me.

O tell me not of logic's diverfe cheer!
I fhall begin to loathe our crambo here.
Tell me not how the waves appear
Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned fhire;
I shall contemn the troubled Thames
On her chief holiday: even when her fireanis
Are with rich folly gilded; when
The quondam dung-boat is made gay,
Just like the bravery of the menu,
And graces with fresh paint that day;
When th' city fhines with flags and pageants there,
And fatin doublets, feen not twice a year.

Why do I stay then? I would meet
Thee there, but plummets hang upon my fect ;
'Tis my chief wish to live with thee,
But not till I deferve thy company:

Till then we'll fcorn to let that toy,
Some forty miles, divide our hearts;
Write to me, and I fha'l enjoy

Friendship and wit, thy better parts.
Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings,
We'll cafily fee each other; Love hath wings.

MISCELLANIE S.

WH

THE MOT TO.

"Tentanda via eft, &c"

HAT I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own? I fhall, like beafis or common people, die, Unless you write my elegy;

Whilft others great, by being born, are grown;
Their mothers' labour, not their own.

In this fcale geld, in th' other fame does lie,
The weight of that mounts this fo high.
Thefe men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their own fire and light:
If 1, her vulgar fione, for either look,
Out of myself it must be ftrook.
Yet I muit on; What found is 't ftrikes mine ear?
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear;

you.

Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose bleft tongue and wit

Preferves Rome's greatness yet: Thou art the first of Orators; only he

Who beft can praise thee, next must be. Welcome the Mantuan fwan, Virgil the wife!

Whofe verfe walks highest, but not flies; Who brought green Poefy to her perfect age,

And made that Art which was a Rage.
Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do
To be like one of you?

But you have climb'd the mountain's top, there fit
On the calm flourishing head of it,

And, whilft with wearied fteps we upward go, and clouds, below.

See us,

TELE

O D E.

O F W IT.

ELL me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit,
Thou who mafter art of it?

For the firft matter loves variety lefs;
Lefs women love 't, either in love or drefs.

A thousand different fhapes it bears, Comely in thoufand fhapes appears. Yonder we faw it plain; and here 'tis now, Like spirits, in a place we know not how. London, that vents of falfe ware fo much ftore, In no ware deceives us more;

For men, led by the colour and the shape,
Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape.

Some things do through our judgment pafs
As through a multiplying-glafs;
And fometimes, if the object be too far,
We take a falling meteor for a ftar.
Hen, e 'tis a Wit, that greatest word of fame,
Grows fuch a common name;

And Wits by our creation they become,
Juft fo as titular bishops made at Rome.
'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jeft
Admir'd with laughter at a feast,
Nor florid talk, which can that title gain;
The proofs of Wit for ever must remain.

Tis not to force fome lifeless verses meet
With their five gouty feet.

All, every where, like man's, must be the foul,
And Reafon the inferior powers control.

Such were the numbers which could call The ftones into the Theban wall. Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we fee No towns or houfes rais'd by poetry. Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each part; That fhows more coft than art, Jewels at nofe and lips but ill appear; Rather than all things Wit, let none be there. Several lights will not be feen,

If there be nothing elfe between. Men doubt, because they stand fo thick th sky,

If those be stars which paint the Galaxy.

'Tis not when two like words make up one noife (Jets for Dutch men and English boys); In which who finds out Wit, the fame may fee In an'grams and acroftic poetry;

Much lefs can that have any place
At which a virgin hides her face;
Such drofs the fire muft purge away: 'tis juft
The author blufh there, where the reader must.
'Tis not fuch lines as almoft crack the ftage
When Bajazet begins to rage;
Nor a tall metaphor in the bombaft way;
Nor the dry chips of fhort-lung'd Seneca;
Nor upon all things to obtrude
And force fome odd fimilitude.
What is it then, which, like the Power Divine,
We only can by negatives define?

In a true piece of Wit all things must he,
Yet all things there agree;

As in the ark, join'd without force or fife,
All creatures dwelt; all creatures that had life;
Or, as the primitive forms of all

(If we compare great things with small) Which, without difcord or confufion, lie

In that ftrange mirror of the Deity.

But Love, that moulds one man up out of two,
Makes me forget, and injure you:

I took you for myself, fure, when I thought
That you in any thing were to be taught.
Correct my error with thy pen;
And, if any ask me then

What thing right Wit and height of Genius is,
I'll only fhew your lines, and fay, 'Tis this.

All things that are but writ or printed there,
In his unbounded breast engraven are.
There all the feciences together meet,
And every art does all her kindred greet,
Yet juftle not, nor quarrel; but as well
Agree as in fome common principle.
So, in an army govern'd right, we fee
(Though out of feveral countries rais'd it be)
That all their order and their place maintain,
The English, Dutch, the Frenchman, and the
Dane;

So thousand divers fpecies fill the air,
Yet neither crowd nor mix confus'dly there;
Beafts, houfes, trees, and men, together lie,
Yet enter undisturb'd into the eye.

And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate
Thruft into th' noife and bufinefs of a state.
. All virtues, and fome cuftoms of the court,
Other men's labour, are at least his fport;
Whilft we, who can no action undertake,
Whom idlenefs itself might learned make;
Who hear of nothing, and as yet fearce know,
Whether the Scots in England be or no;
Pace dully on, oft tire, and often stay,
Yet fee his nimble Pegafus fly away.
"Tis Nature's fault, who did thus partial grow,
And her cftate of wit on one bestow;
Whaft we, like younger brothers, get at best
But a small stock, and must work out the reft.
How could he answer 't, fhould the state think fit
To queftion a monopoly of wit?

Such is the man whom we require the fame
We lent the North; untouch'd, as is his fame.
He is too good for war, and ought to be
As far from danger, as from fear he's free,
Thofe men alone (and those are useful too)
Whofe valour is the only art they know,
Were r fad war and bloody battle born;
Let them the ftate defend, and he adorn.

ON THE DEATH OF

SIR HENRY WOOTTON.

With when he spoke, all things would

THAT fhall we fay, fince filent now is he

filent be?

Who had fo many languages in store,
That only fame thall fpeak of him in more;
Whom England now no more return'd must sce;
He's gone to heaven on his fourth embassy. -
On earth he travel'd often; not to fay
H' had been abroad, or pafs loofe time away.
In whatf.ever land he chanc'd to come,
He read the men and manners, bringing home
Their wifdom, learning, and their piety,
As if he went to conquer, not to see
So well he understood the most and best
Of tongues, that Babel fent into the Weft;
Spoke them fo truly, that he had (you'd fwear)
Not only liv'd, but been oorn every where.
Juftly each nation's fpeech to him was known,
Who for the world was made, not us alone;

Nor ought the language of that man be less,
Who in his breast had all things to express.
We fay that learning 's endlefs, and blame Fate
For not allowing life a longer date:

He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find,
He found them not fo large as was his mind;
But, like the brave Pellaan youth, did moan
Because that art had no more worlds than one;
And, when he faw that he through all had past,
He dy'd, left he should idle grow at last.

Only to read the epitaph on this tomb!
Here lies the master of my tender years,
The guardian of my parents' hope and fears;
Whofe government ne'er stood me in a tear;
All weeping was referv'd to spend it here.
Come hither, all who his rare virtues knew,
And mourn with me: he was your tutor too.
Let's join our fighs, till they fly far and fhew
His native Belgia what fhe's now to do.
The league of grief bids her with us lament;
By her he was brought forth and hither fent
In payment of all men we there had loft,
And all the English blood those wars have coft.
Wifely did Nature this learn'd man divide;
His birth was theirs, his death the mournful pride
Of England; and, t' avoid the envious ftrife
Of other lands, all Europe had his life,
But we in chief; our country foon was grown
A debtor more to him, than he to's own.

He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes,
And built up men against the future times;
For deeds of age are in their causes then,
And though he taught but boys, he made the men.
Hence 'twas a master, in those ancient days
When men fought knowledge firft, and by it praife,
Was a thing full of reverence, profit, fame;
Father itself was but a fecond name.

He fcorn'd the profit; his inftructions all
Were, like the science, free and liberal.
He deferv'd honours, but defpis'd them too,
As much as thofe who have them others do.
He knew not that which compliment they call;
Could flatter none, but himself leaft of all.
So true, fo faithful, and fo juft, as he
Was nought on earth but his own memory;
His memory, where all things written were,
As fure and fixt as in Fate's books they are.
Thus he in arts fo vaft a treasure gain'd,
Whilft ftill the ufe came in, and stock remain'd:
And, having purchas'd all that man can know,
He labour'd with't to enrich others now;
Did thus a new and harder task fuftain,
Like those that work in mines for others' gain:
He, though more nobly, had much more to do,
To fearch the vein, dig, purge, and mint it too.
Though my excufe would be, I must confefs,
Much better had his diligence been lefs;

But, if a Mufe hereafter fmile on me,
And fay," Pe thou a poet!" men shall fee
That none could a more grateful (cholar have;
For what I ow'd his life I'll pay his grave.

ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN OUT OF SCOTLAND.

The noise at home was but Fate's policy,
To raife our fpirits more high:

So a bold lion, ere he feeks his prey,
Lathes his fides and roars, and then away.
How would the German Eagle fear,

To fee a new Guftavus there!

WE

due

To the return of peace and you;

Two greateft bleflings which this age can know!
For that to Thee, for thee to Heaven we owe.
Others by war their conquests gain,
You like a God your ends obtain;
Who, when rude Chaos for his help did call,
Spoke but the word, and fweetly order'd all.
This happy concord in no blood is writ,

None can grudge Heaven full thanks for it:
No mothers here lament their children's fate,
And like the peace, but think it comes too late.
No widows hear the jocund bells,

And take them for their hufbands' knells: No drop of blood is fpilt, which might be faid To mark our joyful holiday with red.

'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing,

And only work't by fuch a king. Again the northern hinds may fing and plough, And fear no harm but from the weather now;

Again may tradefmen love their pain,

By knowing now for whom they gain; The armour now may be hung up to fight, And only in their halls the children fright. The gain of civil wars will not allow

Bay to the conqueror's brow:

At fuch a game what fool would venture in,
Where one muft lofe, yet neither fide can win?
How justly would our neighbours fmile
At these mad quarrels of our ifle;
Swell'd with proud hopes to fnatch the whole

away,

Whilft we bett all, and yet for nothing play!
How was the filver Tine frighted before,

And durft not kifs the armed fhore!
His waters ran more fwiftly than they use,
And hafted to the fea to tell the news:

The fea itself, how rough foe'er,
Could fcarce believe fuch fury here.
How could the Scots and we be enemies grown?
That, and its mafter Charles, had made us one.
No blood fo loud as that of civil war :

It calls for dangers from afar.
Let's rather go and feek out them and fame;
Thus our fore-fathers got, thus left, a name :

All their rich blood was spent with gains,
But that which fwells their children's veins.
Why fit we ftill, our fpirits wrapt in lead?
Not like them whilst they liv'd, but now they're
dead.

When Heaven bestows the best of kings,
It bids us think of mighty things:

His valour, wifdom, offspring, fpeak no lefs;
And we, the prophets' fons, write not by guess.

ON THE DEATH OF

SIR ANTHONY VANDYKE,

VAND

THE FAMOUS PAINTER.

ANDYKE is dead; but what bold Muse thall dare

(Though poets in that word with painters fhare)
T'exprefs her sadness? Poefy muft become
An art like Painting here, an art that's dumb.
Let's all our folemn grief in filence keep,
Like fome fad picture which he made to weep,
Or thofe who faw't; for none his works could
view

Unmov'd with the fame paflions which he drew.
His pieces fo with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures feem, or both alive.
Nature herfelf, amaz'd, does doubting stand,
Which is her own, and which the painter's hand;
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in twins fhe would exprefs.
His all-refembling pencil did out-pals
The mimic imagery of looking-glafs.
Nor was his life lefs perfect than his art,
Nor was his hand lefs erring than his heart.
There was no falfe or fading colour there,
The figures fweet and well-proportion'd were.
Moft other men, fet next to him in view,
Appear'd more fhadows than the men he drew.
Thus ftill he liv'd, till Heav'n did for him call; .
Where reverend Luke falutes him firft of all;
Where he beholds new fights, divinely fair,
And could almoft with for his pencil there;
Did he not gladly fee how all things fhine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilft he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Scorns his own art, which we admire below.

Only his beauteous lady ftill he loves
(The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves);
He fees bright angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left fo like them here.
And you, fair widow! who ftay here alive,
Since he fo much rejoices, ceafe to grieve:
Your joys and griefs were wont the fame to be;
Begin not now, bleft pair! to disagree.