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 silver hair,
Frequent before, grew rare.

Then Revenge, married to Ambition,
Begat black War; then Avarice crept on;
Then limits to each field were ftrain'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 story 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 worse than these, we now fhould feel,

Did not just Charles filence the rage of fteel;
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 loft!

Our Charles, bleft alchemift! (though strange,
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.

ARK that fwift arrow! how it cuts the air,

M How it out-runs thy following cyc!

Ufe all perfuafions now and try

If thou canft call it back, or ftay it there.

That way it went; but thou shalt find
No tract is left behind.

Tool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer theu.
Of all the time thou'ft fhot away,
I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it fhall be too hard a talk to do.
Befides repentance, what canft 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 mult
Both render up our dust.

But his past life who without grief can see;
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.

ICHOLS, my better felf! forbear;

NICH, my het what Cambridge plea

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 I 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 treanis
Are with rich folly gilded; when
The quondam dung-boat is made gay,
Just like the bravery of the men,
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 fhall enjoy

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

MISCELLANIE S.

WE

ΤΗΕ ΜΟΤΤΟ.

"Tentanda via eft, &c"

HAT fhall I do to be for ever known.
And make the age to come my own?
I fhall, like beafts 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 gold, 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 I, her vulgar Rone, for either look,

Out of myfelf it must be frook.
Yet I muit on; What found is 't frikes mine ear?
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear;

It founds like the laft trumpet; for it can
Raife up the buried man.

Unpaft Alps ftop me; but I'll cut them all,
And march, the Mufes' Hannibal.
Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay
Nets of rofes in the way!

Hence, the defire of honours or estate,

And all that is not above Fate! Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days! Which intercepts my coming praise. Come, my best friends, my books! and lead

me on;

"Tis time that I were gone. Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now All I was born to know:

Thy fcholar's victories thou doft far out-do;

He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you.

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

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

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

Whofe verfe walks higheft, 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 fhall 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,
See us, and clouds, below.

D E.

O F W IT.

TELL Thou who matter art of it?

me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit,

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

thousand different fhapes it bears, Comely in thoufand fhapes appears. Yonder we faw it plain; and here 'tis now, Like fpirits, 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.
Hence 'tis a Wit, that greateft 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 muft remain.

Tis not to force fome lifelefs verfes meet
With their five gouty feet.

All, every where, like man's, must be the foul,
And Reason 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 shows 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 else between. Men doubt, because they stand fo thick i' th' fky,

If those be stars which paint the Galaxy. 'Tis not when two like words make up one noise (Jefts 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 mult purge away: 'tis juft
The author blush there, where the reader muft.
'Tis not fuch lines as almoft crack the stage
When Bajazet begins to rage;
Nor the dry chips of fhort-lung'd Seneca;
Nor a tall metaphor in the bombaft way;
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 be,
Yet all things there agree;

As in the ark, join'd without force or ftrife,
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 confusion, lie In that strange mirror of the Deity.

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

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

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

REAT is thy charge, O North! be wife and juft,

England commits her Falkland to thy truft; Return him fafe; Learning would rather choose Her Bodley or her Vatican to lofe:

All things that are but writ or printed there,
In his unbounded breaft engraven are.
There all the fciences 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 thoufand divers fpecies fill the air,
Yet neither crowd nor mix confus'dly there;
Beafts, houses, 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 business 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 itfelf might learned make;
Who hear of nothing, and as yet scarce know,
Whether the Scots in England be or no;
Pace dully on, oft tire, and often stay,
Yet fee his nimble Pegasus fly away.
"Tis Nature's fault, who did thus partial grow,
And her estate of wit on one bestow;
Whilft we, like younger brothers, get at best
But a fmall stock, and muft work out the rest.
How could he answer 't, fhould the ftate 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 for fad war and bloody battle born;
Let them the state defend, and he adorn.

Who had fo many languages in store,
That only fame fhall fpeak of him in more;
Whom England now no more return'd must fee;
He's gone to heaven on his fourth embassy.
On earth he travel'd often; not to fay
I' had been abroad, or pafs loose time away.
In whatsoever land he chanc'd to come,
He read the men and manners, bringing home
Their wisdom, learning, and their piety,
As if he went to conquer, not to fee.
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 born 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 lefs,
Who in his breaft had all things to exprefs.
We fay that learning 's endless, 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 Pellæan youth, did moan
Because that art had no more worlds than one;
And, when he faw that he through all had paft,
He dy'd, left he should idle grow at last.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN.

SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL.

HENCE, and make room for me, all you who

Only to read the epitaph on this tomb!
Here lies the mafter 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 shew
His native Belgia what she'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 thofe 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;
Fo. deeds of age are in their caufes then,
And though he taught but boys, he made the men.
Hence as a mafter, in thofe ancient days
Venen fought knowledge first, and by it praise,
As 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 fcience, 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 niemory;
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 use 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 thofe 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 toe.
Though my excufe would he, I must confefs,.
Much better had his diligence been lefs;

But, if a Mufe hereafter smile on me,
And fay," Be thou a poct!" men fhall fee
That none could a more grateful fcholar 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 raise our spirits more high:

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

To fee a new Guftavus there!

due

To the return of peace and you;

Two greatest bleffings which this age can know!
For that to Thee, for thee to Heaven we owe.
Others by war their conquefts 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 husbands' 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 must lofe, yet neither fide can win?
How justly would our neighbours fmile
At thefe 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 fpent 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.

Whose very peace itself is victory!

When Heaven beftows the best of kings, It bids us think of mighty things: His valour, wisdom, offspring, fpeak no less ; 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'express her sadness? Poefy must 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 those who faw't; for none his works could
view
Unmov'd with the fame pafions which he drew.
His pieces fo with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures feem, or both alive.
Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand,
Which is her own, and which the painter's hand;
And does attempt the like with lefs fuccefs,
When her own work in twins fhe would exprefs.
His all-refembling pencil did out-pafs
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 wifh for his pencil there';
Did he not gladly fee how all things fhine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilft he, for ever ravifh'd with the fhow,
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.

HERE'S

O D E.

's to thee, Dick; this whining love defpife; Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'ft wife.

It fparkles brighter far than fhe :
'Tis pure and right, without deceit ;
And fuch no woman ere will be:
No; they are all sophisticate.

With all thy fervile pains what canst thou win,
But an ill-favour'd and uncleanly fin?

A thing fo vile, and fo fhort-liv'd,
That Venus' joys, as well as fhe,
With reafon may be faid to be
From the neglected foam deriv'd.

Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
Whem would it e'er perfuade to court and love;
Could he a woman's heart have seen

(But oh! no light does thither come),
And view'd her perfectly within,
When he lay fhut up in her womb?

Follies they have fo numberlefs in ftore,
That only he who loves them can have more.
Neither their fighs nor tears are true;
Thofe idly blow, thefe idly fall,
Nothing like to ours at all:
But fighs and tears have fexes too.

Whilft fleep does our dull bodies tie, Methinks at home they should not stay, Content with dreams, but boldly fly Abroad, and meet each other half the way. Sure they do meet, enjoy each other there, And mix, I know not how nor where! Their friendly lights together twine, Though we perceive 't not to be fo! Like loving stars, which oft combine, Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know. "Twere an ill world, I'll fwear, for every friend, If distance could their union end; But Love itself does far advance Above the power of time and space;

It fcorns fuch outward circumstance, His time's for ever, every where his place. I'm there with thee, yet here with me thou art, Lodg'd in each other's heart; "Miracles ceafe not yet in love.

When he his mighty power will try,
Abfence itself does bounteous prove,
And strangely ev'n our prefence multiply.
Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine,
Like that which in Heaven's fun does shine;
He in the upper air and sky
Does no effects of heat beftow;
But, as his beams the farther fly,
He begets warmth, life, beauty, here below.
Friendship is lefs apparent when too nigh,
Like objects if they touch the eye.
Lefs meritorious then is love;
For when we friends together fee
So much, fo much both one do prove,
That their love then feems but felf-love to be.

Each day think on me, and each day I shall
For thee make hours canonical.
By every wind that comes this way,
Send me, at least a figh or two;
Such and fo many I'll repay,
As fhall themselves make winds to get to you.
A thousand pretty ways we'll think upon,
To mock our feparation.

Alas ten thoufand will not do:
My heart will thus no longer flay;
No longer 'twill be kept from you,
But knocks against the breast to get away.
And, when no art affords me help or eafe,
I seek with verse my griefs t' appease;
Just as a bird, that flies about
And beats itself against the cage,
Finding at last no paffage out,
It fits and fings, and so o'ercomes its rage.

FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE.

TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN,

W What do our fouls, I wonder, do?

Of liberty, at first I could not grieve;