But we in chief; our country soon 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,

How justly would our neighbours smile'

69

And though he taught but boys, he made the men. Hence 'twas a master, in those ancient days

praise,

Was a thing full of reverence, profit, fame;
Father itself was but a second name.

He scorn'd the profit; his instructions all
Were, like the science, free and liberal.
He deserv'd honours, but despis'd them too,
As much as those who have them others do.
He knew not that which compliment they call;
Could flatter none, but himself least of all.
So true, so faithful, and so just, as he
Was nought on Earth but his own memory;
His memory, where all things written were,
As sure and fixt as in Fate's books they are.
Thus he in arts so vast a treasure gain'd,
Whilst still 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 sustain,
Like those that work in mines for others' gain :
He, though more nobly, had much more to do,
To search the vein, dig, purge, and mint it too.
Though my excuse would be, I must confess,
Much better had his diligence been less;
But, if a Muse hereafter smile on me,
And say,
"Be thou a poet !" men shall see
That none could a more grateful scholar have;
For what I ow'd his life I'll pay his grave.

W

ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN
OUT OF SCOTLAND.

ELCOME, 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;
Who, when rude Chaos for his help did call,
Spoke but the word and sweetly 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 spilt, which might be said To mark our joyful holiday with red.

'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing, And only work't by such a king.

Again the northern hinds may sing and plough,
And fear no harm but from the weather now;
Again may tradesmen love their pain,
By knowing now for whom they gain;
The armour now may be hung up to sight,
And only in their halls the children fright.
The gain of civil wars will not allow

Bay to the conqueror's brow:

At such a game what fool would venture in,
Where one must lose yet neither side can win?

The sea itself, how rough soe'er,
Could scarce believe such fury here.
How could the Scots and we be enemies grown?
That, and its master Charles, had made us one.
No blood so loud as that of civil war :

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

All their rich blood was spent with gains,
But that which swells their children's veins.
Why sit we still, our spirits wrapt in lead?
Not like them whilst they liv'd, but now they're

dead.

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

So a bold lion, ere he seeks his prey,
Lashes his sides and roars, and then away.
How would the German eagle fear,
To see a new Gustavus there;
How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do
For Jove of old, it now bore thunder too!
Sure there are actions of this height and praise
Destin'd to Charles's days!

What will the triumphs of his battles be,
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;
And we, the prophets' sous, write not by guess.

ON THE DEATH OF

SIR ANTHONY VANDYCK,

THE FAMOUS PAINTER.

VANDYCK is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare
(Though poets in that word with painters share)
T' express her sadness? Poesy must become
An art like Painting here, an art that's dumb.
Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep,
Like some sad picture which he made to weep,
Or those who saw't; for none his works could view
Unmoved with the same passions which he drew.
His pieces so with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures seem, 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 less success,
When her own work in twins she would express.
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was his life less perfect than his art.
Nor was his hand less erring than his heart.
There was no false or fading colour there,
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were.
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew.
Thus still he liv'd, till Heav'n did for him call;
Where reverend Luke salutes him first of all;

Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair,
And could almost wish for his pencil there;
Did he not gladly see how all things shine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilst he, for ever ravish'd with the show,
Scorns his own art, which we admire below.

Only his beauteous lady still he loves
(The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves);
He sees bright angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left so like them here.
And you, fair widow! who stay here alive,
Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve:
Your joys and griefs were wont the same to be;
Begin not now, blest pair! to disagree.
No wonder Death move not his generous mind;
You, and a new-born you, he left behind:
Ev'n Fate express'd his love to his dear wife,
And let him end your picture with his life.

PROMETHEUS

ILL-PAINTED.

How wretched does Prometheus' state appear,
Whilst he his second misery suffers here!
Draw him no more; lest, as he tortur'd stands,
He blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands.
It would the vulture's cruelty outgo,
If once again his liver thus should grow.
Pity him, Jove! and his bold theft allow;

The flames he once stole from thee grant him now!

ODE.

HERE'S to thee, Dick; this whining love despise ; Pledge me, my friend; and drink till thou be'st wise.

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

With all thy servile pains what canst thou win,
But an ill favour'd and uncleanly sin?

A thing so vile, and so short-liv'd,
That Venus' joys, as well as she,
With reason may be said to be
From the neglected foam deriv'd.

Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
Whom would it e'er persuade to court and love;

Could he a woman's heart have seen
(But, oh! no light does hither come),
And view'd her perfectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb?

Follies they have so numberless in store,
That only he who loves them can have more.

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.

Here's to thee again; thy senseless sorrows drown;
Let the glass walk, till all things too go round!
Again, till these two lights be four;
No errour here can dangerous prove:
Thy passion, man, deceiv'd thee more;
None double see like men in love,

FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE.
WHEN chance or cruel business parts us two,
What do our souls, I wonder, do?
Whilst sleep 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 so!
Like loving stars, which oft combine,
Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know.
'Twere an ill world, I'll swear, for every friend,
If distance could their union end:
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.
When he his mighty power will try,
Absence itself does bounteous prove,

And strangely ev'n our presence multiply.
Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine,
Like that which in Heaven's Sun does shine:
He in the upper air and sky

1

Does no effects of heat bestow;
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;
For when we friends together see
So much, so much both one do prove,
That their love then seems but self-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 sigh or two;
Such and so many I'll repay,

As shall themselves make winds to get to you.
A thousand pretty ways we'll think upon,
To mock our separation.

Alas! ten thousand will not do;
My heart will thus no longer stay;
No longer 'twill be kept from you,
But knocks against the breast to get away.
And, when no art affords me help or ease,

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 passage out,

It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage.

TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN,

UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER.

PARDON, my lord, that I am come so late
T' express my joy for your return of fate?
So, when injurious Chance did yon deprive
Of liberty, at first I could not grieve;

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

Great joys, as well as sorrows, make a stay ;
They hinder one another in the crowd,

And none are heard, whilst all would speak aloud.

Should every man's officious gladness haste,

And be afraid to show itself the last,

The throng of gratulations now would be
Another loss to you of liberty.

Whea of your freedom men the news did hear,
Where it was wish'd-for, that is every where,
"Twas like the speech which from your lips does
fall;

As soon as it was heard, it ravish'd all.

So eloquent Tully did from exile come;
Thus long'd for he return'd, and cherish'd Rome;
Which could no more his tongue and counsels miss ;
Rome, the world's head, was nothing without his.
Wrong to those sacred ashes, I should do,
Should I compare any to him but you;
You, to whom Art and Nature did dispense
The consu ship of wit and e'oquence.
Nor did your fate differ from his at all,
Because the loom of exile was his fall;
For the whole world, without a native home,
Is nothing but a prison of larger room.
But like a melting woman suffer'd he,
He who before out-did humanity;

Nor could his spirit constant and stedfast prove.
Whose art 't had been, and greatest end, to move.
You put ill-fortune in so good a dress,
That it out-shone other men's happiness:
Had your prosperity always clearly gone,
As your high merits would have laid it or,
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,
That some strait envy'd your affliction too;
For a clear conscience and heroic mind
In ills their business and the`r glory find.
So, though less worthy stones are drown'd in night,
The faithful diamond keeps his native light,
And is obl g'd to darkness for a ray,
That would be more oppress'd than help'd by day.
Your soul then most show'd her unconquer'd pow-

We'll write whate'er from you we hear;

For that's the posy of the year.
This difference only will remain-
That Time his former face does shew,
Winding into himself again;

For it wanteth one as yet,

Though the Sun pass through't twice a year

The Sun, who is esteem'd the god of wit.
Happy the hans which wear thy sacred rings,
They'll teach those hands to write mysterious
things.

Let other rings, with jewels bright,
Cast around their costly light;
Let them want no noble stone,
By nature rich and art refin'd;
Yet shall thy rings give place to none,

But only that which must thy marriage bind.

PROLOGUE TO THE GUARDIAN:

BEFORE THE PRINCE.

WHO says the times do learning disallow?
'Tis false; 'twas never honour'd so as now.
Wen you appear, great prince! our night is done;
You are our morning-star, and shall be our sun.
But our scene's London now; and by the rout
We perish, if the Round-heads be about:
For now no ornament the head must wear,
No bays, no mitre, not so much as hair.
How can a play pass safely, when we know
Cheapside-cross falls for making but a show?
Our only hope is this, that it may be
A play may pass too, made extempore.
Though other arts poor and neglected grow,
They'll admit poesy, which was always so.
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 that's play'd
Ere 'tis a play, and acted ere 'tis made.
Our ignorance, but our duty too, we show;
I would all ignorant people would do so!
At other times expect our wit or art;
This comedy is acted by the heart,

But power your grace can above Nature give,
It can give power to make abortives live;
In which, if our bold wishes should be crost,
'Tis but the life of one poor week 't has lost :
Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn,
Scarce could it die more quickly than 't was born.

ON THE DEATH OF

MR. WILLIAM HERVEY.
IMMODICIS BREVIS EST ÆTAS, & RARA SENECTUS.
Mart.

Ir was a dismal and a fearful night,

Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling
Light,

When Sleep, Death's image, left my troubled breast,

By something liker death possest.

My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,
And on my soul hung the dull weight
Of some intolerable fate.

What bell was that? ah me! too much I know.

My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,
Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?
O, thou hast left me all alone!
Thy soul and body, when death's agony
Besieg'd around thy noble heart,

Did not with more reluctance part,

Than 1, my dearest friend! do part from thee.
My dearest friend, would I had dy'd for thee!
Life and th's world henceforth will tedious be.
Nor shall I know hereafter what to do,

If once my griefs prove tedious too.
Silent and sad I walk about all day,

As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by
Where their hid treasures lie;
Alas! my treasure's gone! why do I stay?
He was my friend, the truest friend on Earth;
A strong and mighty influence join'd our birth;
Nor did we envy the most sounding name

By friendship given of old to Fame.
None but his brethren he, and sisters, knew,
Whom the kind youth preferr'd to me;
And ev'n in that we did agree,
For much above myself I lov'd them too.
Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
How oft unweary'd have we spent the nights,
Till the Ledaan stars, so fam'd for love,
Wonder'd at us from above!

We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;
But search of deep philosophy,
Wit, eloquence, and poetry,

Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were

thine.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say
Have ye not seen us walking every day?
Was there a tree about which did not know

The love betwixt us two?
Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade;
Or your sad branches thicker join,
And into darksome shades combine,
Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid!
Henceforth, no learned youths beneath you sing,
Till all the tuneful birds t' your boughs they
bring i

friend does lie.

Mute as the grave wherein my
To him my Muse made haste with every strain,
Whilst it was new and warm yet from the brain:
He lov'd my worthless rhymes, and, like a friend,
Would find out something to commend.
Hence now, my Muse! thou canst not me delight:
Be this my latest verse,

With which I now adorn his hearse ;
And this my grief, without thy help, shall write.
Had I a wreath of bays about my brow,

I should contemn that flourishing honour now;
Condemn it to the fire, and joy to hear
It rage and crackle there.

Instead of bays, crown with sad cypress me;
Cypress, which tombs does beautify:
Not Phoebus griev'd, so much as I,

For him who first was made that mournful tree.
Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er
Submitted to inform a body here;

High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have,

But low and humble as his grave:

So high, that all the Virtues there did come.
As to their chiefest seat
Conspicuous and great;

So low, that for me too it made a room.
He scorn'd this busy world below, and all
That we, mistaken mortals! pleasure call;
Was fill'd with innocent gallantry and truth,
Triumphant o'er the sins of youth.
He, like the stars, to which he now is gone,
That shine with beams like flame,
Yet burn not with the same,

Had all the light of youth, of the fire none.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
As if for him Knowledge had rather sought:
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie

In such a short mortality.

Whene'er the skilful youth discours'd or writ,
Still did the notions throng

About his eloquent tongue,

Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.
So strong a wit did Nature to him frame,
As all things but his judgment overcame;
His judgment like the heavenly moon did show,
Tempering tha mighty sea below.
Oh! had he liv'd in Learning's world, what bound
Would have been able to control.

His over-powering soul;

We 'ave lost in him arts that not yet are found.
His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Yet never did his God or friends forget;
And, when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
Retir'd, and gave to them their due:
For the rich help of books he always took,
Though his own searching mind before
Was so with notions written o'er
As if wise Nature had made that her book.
So many virtues join'd in him, as we
Can scarce pick here and there in history;
More than old writers' practice e'er could reach
As much as they could ever teach.

These did Religion, queen of virtues ! sway;

And all their sacred motions steer,
Just like the first and highest sphere,
Which wheels about, and turns all Heaven one way.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
He always liv'd, as other saints do die.
Still with his soul severe account he kept,

Weeping all debts out ere he slept;
Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
Like the Sun's laborious light,

Which still in water sets at night, Unsullied with his journey of the day.

Wondrous young man! why wert thou made so good, To be snatch'd hence ere better understood? Snatch'd before half of thee enough was seen!

Thou ripe, and yet thy life but green'

Nor could thy friends take their last sad farewell;
But danger and infectious death
Maliciously seiz'd on that breath

Where life, spirit, pleasure, always us'd to dwell.
But happy thou, ta'en from this frantic age,
Where ignorance and hypocrisy does rage!
A fitter time for Heaven no soul ere chose,

The place now only free from those.
There 'mong the blest thou dost for ever shine,
And, wheresoe'er thou casts thy view,
Upon that white and radiant crew,

See'st not a soul cloth'd with more light than thine.
And, if the glorious saints cease not to know
Their wretched friends who fight, with life below,
Thy flame to me does still the same abide,

Only more pure and rarefy'd.

There, whilst immortal hymns thou dost rehearse,
Thou dost with holy pity see
Our dull and earthy poesy,

Where grief and misery can be join'd with verse.

He sees thee gentle, fair, and gay, And trusts the faithless April of thy May. Unhappy, thrice unhappy, he,

T" whom thou untry'd dost shine! But there's no danger now for me,

Şince o'er Loretto's shrine, In witness of the shipwreck past, My consecrated vessel hangs at last.

IN IMITATION OF

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAM,

Si tecum mihi, chare Martialis, &c. L. v. Ep. xx.

IF, dearest friend, it my good fate might be
T' enjoy at once a quiet life and thee;
If we for happiness could leisure find,
And wandering Time into a method bind;
We should not sure the great-men's favour need,
Nor on long hopes, the court's thin diet, feed;
We should not patience find daily to hear
The calumnies and flatteries spoken there;
We should not the lords' tables humbly use,
Or talk in ladies' chambers love and news;
But books, and wise discourse, gardens and fields,
And all the joys that unmixt Nature yields;
Thick summer shades, where winter still does lie,
Bright winter fires, that summer's part supply:
Sleep, not control'd by cares, confin'd to night,
Or bound in any rule but appetite :

Free, but not savage or ungracious mirth,
Rich wines, to give it quick and easy birth;
A few companions, which ourselves should chuse,
A gentle mistress, and a gentler Muse.

Such dearest friend! such, without doubt, should

MARGARITA first possest,

If I remember well, my breast,
Margarita first of all;

But when awhile the wanton maid
With my restless heart had play'd,
Martha took the flying ball.

Martha soon did it resign

To the beauteous Catharine. Beauteous Catharine gave place (Though loth and angry she to part With the possession of my heart)

To Eliza's conquering face. Eliza till this hour might reign,

Had she not evil counsels ta'en. Fundamental laws she broke, And still new favourites she chose, Till up in arms my passions rose, And cast away her yoke. Mary then, and gentle Anne,

Both to reign at once began ;