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But we in chief; our country soon was grown

How justly would our neighbours smile' A debtor more to him, than he to 's own.

At these mad quarrels of our isle ; He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes, 'Swell’d with proud hopes to snatch the whole away And built up men against the future times; | Whilst we bet all, and yet for nothing play! For deeds of age are in their causes then,

How was the silver Tine frighted before, And though he taught but boys, he made the men.

And durst not kiss the armed shore ! Hence 'twas a master, in those ancient days

His waters ran more swiftly than they use, When men sought knowledge first, and by it

And hasted to the sea to tell the news : praise,

The sea itself, how rough soe'er, Was a thing full of reverence, profit, fame;

Could scarce believe such fury here. Father itself was but a second name.

How could the Scots and we be enemies grown? He scorn'd the profit; his instructions all

That, and its master Charles, hail made us one.
Were, like the science, free and liberal.
He deserr'd honcurs, but despis'd them too,

No blood so loud as that of civil war:
As much as those who have them others do.

It calls for dangers from afar.
He knew not that which compliment they call; Let's rather go and seek out them and fame;
Could flatter none, but himself least of all.

Thus our fore-fathers got, thus left, a name:
So true, so faithful, and so just, as he

All their rich blood was spent with gains, Was nought on Earth but his own memory ;

But that which swells their children's veins. His memory, where all things written were,

Why sit we still, our spirits wrapt in lead ? As sure and fixt as in Fate's books they are.

Not like them whilst they liv'd, but now they're Thus he in arts so vast a treasure gain'd,

dead. Whilst still the use came in, and stock remain'd: The noise at home was but Fate's policy, And, having purchas'd all that man can know,

To raise our spirits more high : He lahour'd with 't to enrich others now;

So a bold lion, ere he seeks his prey, Did thus a new and harder task sustain,

Lashes his sides and roars, and then way. Like those that work in mines for others' gain :

How would the German eagle fear, He, though more nobly, had much more to do,

To see a new Gustavus there; To search the vein, dig, purge, and mint it too.

How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do Though my excuse would be, I must confess, For Jove of old, it now bure thunder tvo! Much better had his diligence been less;

Sure there are actions of this height and praise
But, if a Muse hereafter smile on me,

Destin'd to Charles's days!
And say, “ Be thou a poet !”' men shall see
That none could a more grateful scholar have;

What will the triunphs of his battles be,
For what I ow'd his life I'll pay his grave.

Whose very peace itself is victory!

When Heaven bestows the best of kings,

It bids us think of mighty things :

His valour, wisdom, offspring, speak no less; ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN

And we, the prophets' sous, write not by guess. OUT OF SCOTLAND. Welcome, great Sir! with all the joy that's due To the return of peace and you ;

Two greatest blessings 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;

Vandyck is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare Who, when rude Chaos for his help did call,

(Though poets in that word with painters share:) Spoke but the word and sweetly order'd all.

T express her sadness? l'oesy must become This happy concord in no blood is writ,

An art like Painting here, an art that's dumb. None can grudge Heaven full thanks for it : Let's all our solemn guici in silence keep, No mothers here lament their chiklren's fate, Like some sad picture which he made to weep, And like the peace, but think it comes too late. Or those who saw't; for none his works could view No widows hear the jocund bells,

Unmoved with the same passions which he dre:x. And take them for their husbands' knells : His pieces so with their live objects strive, No drop of blood is spilt, wh'ch might be said That both or pictures seem, or both alive. To mark our joyful holiday with red.

Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand,

Which is her own, and which the painter's hand; 'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing,

And does attempt the like with less success, . And only work’t hy such a king.

When her own work in twins she would express. Again the northern hinds may sing and plough, And fear no harm but from the weather now;

His all-resembling pencil did out-pass

The mimic imagery of looking-glass. Again may tradesmen love their pain,

Nor was his life less perfect than his art. By knowing now for whom they gain ;

Nor was his hand less erring than his heart. The armour now may be hung up to sight,

There was no false or fading colour there, And only in their halls the children fright.

The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were. The gain of civil wars will not allow

Most other men, sct next to him in view, Bay to the conqueror's brow :

Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew. At such a game what fool would venture in,

Thus still he liv'd, tiil Heav'n did for him call; Where one must lose yet neither side can win ? Where reverend Luke salutes him first of all;

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Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair,
And could almost wish for his pencil there;

Did he not gladly see how all things shine,

When chance or cruel business parts us two, Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,

What do our souls, I wonder, do? Whilst he, for ever ravish'd with the show,

Whilst sleep does our dull bodies tie, Scorns his own art, which we admire below.

Methinks at home they should not stay, Oply his beauteous lady still he loves

Content with dreams, but boldly fly (The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves); Abroad, and meet each other half the way. He sees bright angels in pure beams appear, And thinks on her he left so like them here.

Sure they do meet, enjoy each other there, And you, fair widow ! who stay here alive,

And mix, I know not how nor where! Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve :

Their friendly lights together twine, Your joys and griefs were wont the same to be;

Though we perceive 't not to be so ! Begin not now, blest pair! to disagree.

Like loving stars, which oft combine, No wonder Death move not his generous mind;

| Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know. You, and a new-born you, he left behind :

'Twere an ill world, I'll swear, for every friend, Ev'n Fate express'd his love to his dear wife,

If distance could their union end :
And let him end your picture with his life.

But Love itself does far advance
Above the power of time and space;

It scorns such 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 cease not yet in love. llow wretched does Prometheus' state appear,

When he his mighty power will try, Whilst he his second misery suffers here !

Absence itself does bounteous prove, Draw him no more ; lest, as he tortur'd stands,

And strangely ev'n our presence multiply. He blame great Jore's less than the painter's hands.

Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine, It would the vulture's cruelty outgo,

Like that which in Heaven's Sun does shine: If once again his liver thus should grow.

He in the upper air and sky Pity him, Jove! and his bold theft allow;

Does no effects of heat bestow;
The flames he once stole from thee grant him now!

But, as his beams the farther fly,
He begets warmth, life, beauty, here below.

Friendship is less apparent when too nigh,

Like objects if they touch the eye.

Less meritorious then is love; Ilere's to thee, Dick; this whining love despise ;

For when we friends together see Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'st

So much, so much both one do prove, wise.

That their love then seems but self-love to be.
It sparkles brighter far than she:
'Tis pure and right, without deceit;

Each day think on me, and each day I shall
And such no woman ere will be :

For thee make hours canonical.
No ; they are all sophisticate.'

By every wind that comes this way, enton

Send me, at least, a sigh or two; pero With all thy servile pairs what canst thou win,

Such and so many I'll repay,
But an ill favour'd and uncleanly sin ?

As shall themselves make winds to get to you.
A thing so vile, and so short-liv'd,
That Venus' joys, as well as she,

A thousand pretty ways we'll think upon,
With reason may be said to be

To mock our separation.
From the neglected foam deriv'd.

Alas! ten thousand will not do;

My heart will thus no longer stay; Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;

No longer 'twill be kept from you,
Whom would it e'er persuade to court and love;

| But knocks against the breast to get away.
Could he a woman's heart have seen
(But, oh ! no light does hither come).

And, when no art affords me help or ease, · And view'd her perfectly within,

I seek with verse my griefs t' appease ; When he lay shut up in her womb?

Just as a bird, that flies about

And beats itself against the cage,
Follies they have so numberless in store,

Finding at last no passage out,
That only he who loves them can have more. It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage.

Neither their sighs nor tears are true;
Those idly blow, these idly fall,
Nothing like to ours at all:
But sighs and tears have sexes too.

TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN, Here's to thee again; thy senseless sorrows drown;

UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER. Let the glass walk, till all things too go round !

Again, till these two lights be four; | Pardon, my lord, that I am come so late
No errour here can dangerous prove : T'express my joy for your return of fate?
Thy passion, man, deceiv'd thee more; So, when injurious Chance did yon deprive
None double see like men in love,

,Of liberty, at first I could not grieve;

My thoughts awhile, like you, imprison'd lay;

We'll write whate'er 'rom you we hear; Great joys, as well as sorrows, make a stay ;

For that's the posy of the year, They hinder one another in the crowd,

This differ, 'nce only will reinainAnd none are heard, whilst all would speak aloud.

That 'lime his former face does shew, Should every man's officious gladness haste,

- Winding into himself again ; And be afraid to show itself the last,

But your unweary'd wit is always new. The throng of gratulations now would be

'Tis said, that conjurers have an art found out Anther loss to you of liberty.

To carry spirits confin'd in rings about : Whea of your freedom men the news did hear,

The wonder now will less appear, Where it as wishid-for, that is every where,

When we behold your magic here. 'Twas like the speech which from your lips does

You, by your rings, do prisoners take, fall;

And chain them with your mystic spells, As soon as it was heard, it ravish'd all.

And, the strong witchcraft full to make, So eloquent Tully did from exile come;

Love, the great Devil, charm'd to those circles, Thus long'd for he return'd, and cherish'd Rome;

dwells. Which could no more h s tongue and counsels miss; Romne, the world's head, was nothing without his.

They, who above do varions circles sind, Wrong to those sacred ashes, I should do,

Say, like a ring, th' equator Heaven does bind. Should I compare any to him but you;

When Heaven shall be adorn'd by thee You, to whom Art and Nature did dispense

(Which then more Heaven than 'tis will be) The con su ship of wit an! eloquence.

'Tis thou must write the posy there, Nor did v ur fate differ from his at all,

For it wanteth one as yet, Because the 'nom of exile was his fall;

Though the Sun pass through't twice a year For the whole worll, without a native home,

The Sun, who is esteem'd the god of wit. Is nothing but a prison of larger room.

Happy the han s which wear thy sacred rings, But like a melting woman suffer'd he,

They'll teach those hands to write mysterious He who before out-did humanity;

things. Nor could his spirit constant and stedfast prove.

Let other rings, with jewels bright, Whose art 't had been, and greatest end, to move.

Cast around their costly light; You put ill-fortune in so good a dress,

Let them want no noble stone, That it ont-shone other men's happiness :

By nature rich and art refind; Had your prosperity always clearly gone,

Yet shall thy rings give place to 'none, As your high merits would have laid it or, | But only that which must thy marriage bind. You 'ad half been lost, and an example then But for the happy—the least part of men. Your very sufferings did so graceful shew,

PROLOGUE TO THE GUARDIAN : That some strait envy'd your affliction too; For a clear conscience and heroic mind

BEFORE THE PRINCE. In ills their business and the'r glory find.

Who says the times do learning disallow? So, though less worthy stones are drown'd in night,

'Tis false ; 'twas never honour'd so as now. The faithful diamond keeps his native light,

W 'n you appear, great prince ! our night is done : And is obl g'd to darkness for a ray,

You are our morning-star, and shall be our sun. That would be more oppress'd than help'd by day.

But our scene's London now ; and by the rout Your soul then most show'd her unconquer'd pow We perish, if the Round-heads be about: er,

For now no ornament the head must wear, Was stronger and more armed than the Tower.

No bays, no mitre, not so much as hair. Sure unkind Fate will tempt your spirit no more;

How can a play pass safely, when we know Sh' has try'd her weakness and your strength

Cheapside-cross fails for making but a show? before. T'oppose him still, who once has conquer'd so,

Our only hope is this, that it may be

A play may pass too, made extempore. Were now to be your rebel, not your foe;

Though other arts poor and neglected grow, Fortune henceforth will more of providence have,

They'll admit poesy, which was always so.
And rather be your friend than be your slave.

But we contemn the fury of these days.
And scorn no less their censure than their praise :

Our Muse, blest prince! does only on you rely ;

Would g adly live, but not refuse to die.
Accept our hasty zeal! a thing tiat's play'd

Ere 'tis a play, and acted ere 'tis made.

Our ignorance, but our duty too, we show;
I little thought the time would ever be,

I would all ignorant people would do so!
That I should wit in dwarfish posies see.

At other times expect our wit or art;
As all words in few letters live,

This comedy is acted by the heart,
Thou to few words all sense dost give.
'Twas Nature taught you this rare art,
In such a little much to shew;

Who, all the goo i she did impart

The play, great sir! is done ; yet needls must fear, To womankind, epitomiz'd in you.

Though you brought all your father's inercies here, If, as the ancients did not doubt to sing,

It may offend your highness ; and we ’ave now The turning years be well compar'd t'a ring, Three hours dune treason here, for aught we kpow. But power your grace can above Nature give, / No tuneful birds play with their wonted cheer, It can give power to make abortives live;

And call the learned youths to hear ; In which, if our bold wishes should be crost,

No whistling winds through the glad branches fly : 'Tis but the life of one poor week 't has lost :

But all, with sad solemnity, Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn, Mute and unmoved be, Scarce could it die more quickly than't was born. Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie.

To him my Muse made haste with every strain,

Wbilst it was new and warm yet from the brain : ON THE DEATH OF

| He lov'd my worthless rhymes, and, like a friend, MR. WILLIAM HERVEY.

Would find out something to commend.

Hence now, my Muse! thou canst not me delight: IMMODICIS BREVIS EST ÆTAS, & RARA SENECTUS.


Be this my latest verse,

With which I now adorn his hearse ; It was a dismal and a fearful night,

And this my grief, without thy help, shall write. Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling Had I a wreath of bays about my brow, Light,

I should contemn that flourishing honour pow; When Sleep, Death's imagc, left my troubled Condemn it to the fire, and joy to hear breas',

It rage and crackle there. By something liker death possest.

Instead of bays, crown with sad cypress me; My eyes with tears did unronmangled now,

Cypress, which tombs does beautify: And on my soul hung the dull weight

Not Phabus zriev'd, so much as I, Of some intolerable fate.

For him who first was made that mournful tree. What bell was that? ah me! too much I know.

Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,

Submitted to inform a body here; Why hast thou left ine thus unkindly bere,

High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?

have, 0, thou bast left me all alone!

But low and humble as his grave: Thy soul and body, when death's agony

| So high, that all the Virtues there did come. Besieg'd around thy noble heart,

As to their chiefest seat
Did not with more reluctance part,

Conspicuous and great;
Than 1, my dearest friend ! do part from thee. So low, that for me too it made a room.
My dearest friend, would I had dy'd for thee! He scorn'd this busy world below, and all
Life and th's world henceforth will tedious be. That we, mistaken mortals! pleasure call;
Nor shall I know bereafter what to do,

Was fill'd with innocent gallantry and truth, If once my griefs prove tedious too.

Triumphant o'er the sins of youth. Silent and sad I walk about all day,

He, like the stars, to which he now is gone, As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by

That shine with beams like flaine, Where their hid treasures lie;

Yet burn pot with the same, Alas ! my treasure's gone! why do I stay? Had all the light of youth, of the fire none. He was my friend, the truest friend on Earth; Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught, A strong and mighty influence join'd our birth; As if for him knowledge had rather sucht: Nor did we envy the most sounding name

Nor did more learning ever crowded lie By friendship given of old to Fame.

In such a short mortality. None but his brethren he, and sisters, knew,

Whene'er the skiiful vouth discours'd or writ, Whom the kind youth preferr'd to me;

Still did the notions throng And ey'n in that we did agree,

About his eloquent tongue, For much above myself I lov'd them too.

Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,

So strong a wit did Nature to him frame, How oft unweary'd have we spent the nights, As all thiags but his judgmeut overcame; Till the Ledæan stars, so fam'd for love,

His judgment like the heavenly moon did show, Wonder'd at us from above!

Tempering tha mighty sea be ow. We spent thein not in toys, in lusts, or wine ; Oh! had he liv'd in Learning's world, what bound But search of deep philosophy,

Would have been able to control, Wit, eloquence, and poetry,

His over-powering soul; Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were We 'ave lost in hin arts that not yet are found. thine.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say | Yet never did his God or friends forget; Have ye not seen us walking every day?

And, when deep talk and wisdom came in view, Was there a tree about which did not know

Retird, and gave to them their one: The love betwixt us two?

For the rich help of books he always took, Henceforth, ye gentie trees, for ever fade;

Though his own searching min before Or your sad branches thicker join,

Was so with notions written o'er And into darksome shades combine,

| As if wise Nature had made that her book. Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid !

So many virtues join'd in him, as we Henceforth, no learned youths beneath you sing, I Can scarce pick here and there in history; Till all the tuneful birds t' your boughs they More than old writers' practice e'er could reach bring i

As much as they could ever teach;

These did Religion, queen of virtues ! sway;

He sees thee gentle, fair, and gay, And all their sacred motions steer,

And trusts the faithless April of thy May. Just like the first and highest sphere,

Unhappy, thrice unhappy, he, Which wheels about, and turns all Heaven one way.

T" whom thou untry'd dost sbine! With as much zeal, devotion, piety,

But there's no danger now for me, He always liv d, as other saints do die.

Şince o'er Loretto's shrine, Still with his soul severe account he kept,

In witness of the shipwreck past, Weeping all debts ont ere he slept ;

My consecrated vessel hangs at last.
Then down in peace and innocence he lay,

Like the Sun's laborious light,
Which still in water sets at night,

Unsullied with

Wondrous young man! why wert thou made so good,
To be snatch'd hence ere better understood ?

Si tecum mihi, chare Martialis, &c.
Snatch'd before half of thee enough was seen!

L. v. Ep. xx. Thou ripe, and yet thy life but green!

| JF, dearest friend, it my good fate might be Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell; T' enjoy at once a quiet life and thee; But danger and infectious death

If we for happiness could leisure find, Maliciously seiz'd on that breath

And wandering Time into a method bind; Where life, spirit, pleasure, always us'd to dwell. We should not sure the great-men's favour need, But happy thou, ta'en from this frantic age,

Nor on long hopes, the court's thin diet, feed;

We should not patience find daily to hear Whete ignorance and hypocrisy does rage!

The calumnies and flatteries spoken there ; A fitter time for Heaven no soul ere chose,

We should not the lords' tables humbly use,
The place now only free from those.

Or talk in ladies' chambers love and news;
There'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine,
And, wheresoe'er thou casts thy view,

But books, and wise discourse, gardens and fields, Upon that white and radiant crew,

And all the joys that unmixt Nature yield's;

Thick summer shades, where winter still does lie, See'st not a soul cloth'd with more light than thine.

Bright winter fires, that summer's part supply: And, if the glorious saints cease not to know

Sleep, not control'd by cares, confin'd to night, Their wretched friends who fight with life below, Or bound in any rule but appetite : Thy fame to me does still the same abide,

Free, but not savage or ungracious mirth, Only more pure and rarefy'd.

Rich wines, to give it quick and easy birth; There, whilst immortal hymns thou dost rehearse, | A few companions, which ourselves should chase, Thou dost with boly pity see

A gentle mistress, and a gentler Muse. Our dull and earthy poesy,

Such dearest friend ! such, without doubt, should Where grief and misery can be join'd with verse. be"

Our place, our business, and our company.
Now to himself, alas ! does neither live.

But sees good suns, of which we are to give

A strict account, set and march thick away:

Knows a man how to live, and does he stay?
Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
Perfusus, &c.

Lib. I. Od. v.

To whom now, Pyrrha, art thou kind ?

To what heart-ravish'd lover
Dost thou thy golden locks unbind,

Margarita first possest,
Thy hidden sweets discover,

If I remember well, my breast,
And with large bounty open set

Margarita first of all;
All the bright stores of thy rich cabinet ?

But when awhile the wanton maid

With my restless heart had play'd,
Ah, simple vonth! how oft will be

Martha took the flying ball.
Of thy chang'd faith complain?
And his own fortunes find to be

Martha soon did it resign
So airy and so vain,

To the beauteous Catharine.
Of so cannelcoi-like an hue,

Beauteous Catharine gave place
That still their colour changes with it too!

(Though luth and angry she to part

With the possession of my heart)
How oft, alas! will he admire

To Eliza's conquering face.
The blackness of the skies!
Trembling to hear the wind sound higher,

Eliza till this hour might reign,
And see the billows rise !

Had she not evil counsels ta'en.
Poor unexperienc'd he,

Fundamental laws she broke,
Who ne'er alas ! before had been at sea!

And still new favourites she chose,

Till up in arms my passione rose,
He enjoys thy calmy sunshine now,

And cast away her yoke.
And no breath stirring hears;
In the clear heaven of thy brow

Mary then, and gentle Anne,
No smallest cloud appears.

Both to reign at once began;

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