XII. EPISTLE TO ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF

Madam,

20

RUTLAND.

Whilst that for which all virtue now is sold,
And almost every vice, almighty gold,

That which, to boot with hell, is thought worth heaven,

And, for it, life, conscience, yea, souls are given,
Toils, by grave custom, up and down the court,
To every squire, or groom, that will report
Well or ill, only all the following year,

Just to the weight their this day's presents bear;

While it makes huishers serviceable men,
And some one apteth to be trusted then,
Though never after; whiles it gains the voice
Of some grand peer, whose air doth make rejoice
The fool that gave it; who will want and weep
When his proud patron's favors are asleep;
While thus it buys great grace, and hunts poor
fame;

Runs between man and man, 'tween dame and dame;

Solders cracked friendship; makes love last a

day,

Or perhaps less: whilst gold bears all this sway, I, that have none (to send you) send you verse : A present which, if elder writs rehearse

The truth of times, was once of more esteem

20 See ante, p. 40.

Than this our gilt, nor golden age can deem,"
When gold was made no weapon to cut throats,
Or put to flight Astrea, when her ingòts
Were yet unfound, and better placed in earth,
Than here, to give pride fame, and peasants birth.
But let this dross carry what price it will
With noble ignorants, and let them still
Turn upon scornèd verse their quarter-face;
With you, I know, my offering will find grace.
For what a sin 'gainst your great father's spirit
Were it to think that you should not inherit
His love unto the muses, when his skill
Almost you have, or may have, when you will !
Wherein wise Nature you a dowry gave,
Worth an estate treble to that you have!
Beauty, I know, is good, and blood is more;
Riches thought most; but, madam, think what

store

and even,

The world hath seen, which all these had in trust,
And now lie lost in their forgotten dust.
It is the muse alone can raise to heaven,
And at her strong arm's end hold up,
The souls she loves. Those other glorious notes,
Inscribed in touch or marble, or the coats
Painted, or carved upon our great men's tombs
Or in their windows, do but prove the wombs

21"Aurum irrepertum et sic melius situm

Cum terra celat, spernere fortior
Quam cagere humanos in usus

Omne sacrum rapiente dextra.”

HORACE, Od. III. iii. 49–52.

That bred them, graves: when they were born

they died,

That had no muse to make their fame abide.
How many equal with the Argive Queen,
Have beauty known, yet none so famous seen?
Achilles was not first, that valiant was,

Or, in an army's head, that, locked in brass, Gave killing strokes. There were brave men before

Ajax or Idomen, or all the store

That Homer brought to Troy; yet none so live,
Because they lacked the sacred pen could give
Like life unto 'em. Who heaved Hercules
Unto the stars? or the Tyndarides?
Who placed Jason's Argo in the sky?
Or set bright Ariadne's crown so high?
Who made a lamp of Berenice's hair?
Or lifted Cassiopea in her chair,

But only poets, rapt with rage divine?

And such, or my hopes fail, shall make you shine.
You, and that other star, that purest light,
Of all Lucina's train,-Lucy the bright; 22
Than which a nobler, heaven itself knows not;
Who, though she have a better verser got,
Or poet, in the court account, than I,
And, who doth me, though I not him, envỳ 28

22 Lucy, Countess of Bedford. See ante, pp. 39, 42, 50. 23 There can be no doubt, as shown by Gifford, that the person here alluded to is Daniel. The cause of Daniel's "envy" was natural enough, Jonson having superseded him as the writer of masques for the Court on the accession of

Yet, for the timely favors she hath done
To my less sanguine Muse, wherein she' hath won
My grateful soul, the subject of her powers,
I have already used some happy hours

To her remembrance; which when time shall bring

To curious light, to notes I then shall sing,
Will prove old Orpheus' act no tale to be;
For I shall move stocks, stones, no less than he.
Then all that have but done my Muse least grace
Shall thronging come,24 and boast the happy place
They hold in my strange poems, which, as yet,
Had not their form touched by an English wit.

James I. When Daniel took his leave of poetry, he alluded in his closing address to the labors of his past life, by which he had endeavored to improve the tastes and morals of the age, and to the fact of having outlived his popularity, and being obliged to give way to younger men. In that wellknown and affecting passage there is not a solitary trace of querulousness or spleen; nor would it be consistent with his general character to suppose that at any time he betrayed an unworthy jealousy of his rivals. There was a just ground for a strong personal feeling in reference to Jonson; but there is no reason to believe that it ever took a shape of bitterness or detraction. Daniel was one of the most virtuous and honorable men of his time, and Jonson did not hesitate to acknowledge his worth as a man, although he refused to recognize his merits as a poet. "Samuel Daniel," he said, was a good honest man, but no poet." — B.

66

24 Jonson contemplated an Epic poem, to be entitled Herologia, or the Worthies of this Country roused by Fame; but the design was never executed. He here indicates a similar project for celebrating the most distinguished women of his time. — B.

There, like a rich and golden pyramid,

Borne up by statues, shall I rear your head
Above your under-carvèd ornaments,

And show how to the life my soul presents Your form impressed there; not with tickling 25 rhymes

Or commonplaces, filched, that take these times, But high and noble matter, such as flies

From brains entranced, and filled with ecstasies;

Moods, which the godlike Sidney oft did prove, And your brave friend and mine so well did love.

Who, wheresoe'er he be

[The rest is lost.]

XIII. EPISTLE TO KATHARINE, LADY AUBIGNY.26

'Tis grown almost a danger to speak true
Of any good mind, now; there are so few.
The bad by number are so fortified,

As what they've lost t' expect, they dare deride.
So both the praised and praisers suffer; yet,
For others' ill ought none their good forget.
I, therefore, who profess myself in love.

25 The folio reads "tickling"; obviously a misprint. In Jonson's Masque of The Fortunate Isles, Skogan, the jester, is described as a writer in rhyme, "fine tinkling rhyme." The same epithet is also employed by Marvell and Dryden. -B.

26 Daughter of Sir Gervase, afterwards Baron, Clifton, and married to Lord Aubigny in 1607. See ante, p. 75. — B.