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They, neighbours to your eyes,

Then Revenge, married to Ambition,
Show but like Phosphor when the Sun doth rise. Begat black War; then Avarice crept on;
I would have all my mistress' parts

Then limits to each field were strain'd,

And Terminus a god-head gain'd,
One more to Nature than to arts;

To men before was found,
I would not woo the dress,

Besides the sea, no bound.
Or one whose nights give less
Contentment than the day,

In what plain, or what river, hath not been
She's fair, whose beauty only makes her gay. War's story writ in blood (sad story!) seen?

This truth too well our England knows : For 'tis not buildings make a court,

'Twascivil slaughter dy'd her rose ; Or pomp, but 'tis the king's resort : If Jupiter down pour

Nay, then her lily too

With blood's loss paler grew.'
Himself, and in a shower
Hide such bright majesty,

Such griefs, nay worse than these,' we now should le than a golden one it cannot be.


Did not just Charles silence the rage of steel ;

He to our land blest Peace doth bring,
All neighbour countries envying.

Happy who did remain

Unborn till Charles's reign! Leave off unfit complaints, and clear

Where dreaming chymics! is your pain and cost ?

How is your oil, how is your labour lost ! From sighs your breast, and from black clouds

Our Charles, blest alchymist! (though strange, your brow,

Believe it, future times !) did change When the Sun shines not with his wonted cheer,

The iron-age of old
And Fortune throws an adverse cast for you !

Into an age of gold,
That sea which vext with Notus is,
The merry East-winds will to morrow kiss.

The Sun to day rides drowsily,
To-morrow 'twill put on a look more fair:

Laughter and groaning do alternately

Mark that swift arrow! how it cuts the air, Return, and tears sport's nearest neighbours are.

How it out-runs thy following eye! "Tis by the gods appointed so,

Use all persuasions now, and try
That good fare should with mingled dangers flow.

If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.
Who drave his oxen yesterday,

That way it went ; but thou shalt tind
Doth now over the noblest Romans reign,

No tract is left behind. And on the Gabii and the Cures lay

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou. The yoke which from his oxen he had ta’en:

Of all the time thou'st shot away, Whom Hesperus saw poor and low,

I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
The Morning's eye beholds him greatest now. And it shall be too hard a task to do.

Besides repentance, what canst find
If Fortune knit amongst her play

That it hath left behind ?
But seriousness, he shall again go home

Our life is carried with too strong a tide; To his old country-farm of yesterday,

A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
To scolling people no mean jest become;

And is the horse of all our years.
And with the crowned axe, which he
Had rul'd the world, go back and prune some tree;

Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.

We and our glass run out, and must
Nay, if he want the fuel cold requires,

Both render up our dust.
With his own fasces he shall make him fires.

But his past life who without grief can see;

Who never thinks his end too hear,

But says to Fame, “Thou art mine heir;"

That man extends life's natural brevityIN COMMENDATION OF THE TIME WE LIVE UNDER, THE

This is, this is the only way

To out-live Nestor in a day.
Curst be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO

Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught
Smiths (who before could only make

Nichols, my better self! forbear;
The spade, the plough-share, and the rake)

For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures
Arts, in most cruel wise

Man's life t' epitomize!

The schoolboy's sin will light on me,

I shall, in mind at least, a truant be. Then men (fond men, alas !) ride post to th' grave.

Tell me not how you feed your mind And cut those threads which yet the Fates would

With dainties of philosophy;

In Ovid's nut I shall not find
Then Charon sweated at his trade,

The taste once pleased me.
And had a larger ferry made;
Then, then the silver hair,

O tell me not of logic's diverse cheer!
Frequent before, grew rare.

I shall begin to loathe our crambo here.



Tell me not how the waves appear

Why do I stay then? I would meet Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned shire;

Thee there, but plummets hang upon my feet; I shall contemn the troubled Thames

'Tis my chief wish to live with thee, On her chief holiday; ev'n when her streams

But not till I deserve thy company :
Are with rich folly gilded; when

Till then, we'll scorn to let that toy,
The quondam dung-boat is made gay,

Some forty miles, divide our hearts:
Just like the bravery of the men,

Write to me, and I shall enjoy
And graces with fresh paint that day;

Friendship and wit, thy better parts.
When th' city shines with flags and pageants there, | Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings,
And satin doublets, seen not twice a year.

We 'll easily see each other; Love hath wings.



And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go,

Sce us, and clouds, below.
WHAT shall I do to be for ever known,

And make the age to come my own?
I shall, like beasts or common people, die,


Ell me, Otell, what kind of thing is Wit, Unless you write my elegy;

Thou who master art of it? Whilst others great, by being born, are grown;

For the first matter loves variety less; Their mothers' labour, not their own.

Less women love't, either in love or dress. In this scale gold, in th’ other fame does lie,

A thousand different shapes it bears, The weight of that mounts this so high.

Comely in thousand shapes appears. These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; Yonder we saw it plain; and here'tis now,

Brought forth with their own fire and light: Like spirits, in a place we know not how. If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,

London, that vents of false ware so much store, Out of myself it must be strook.

In no ware deceives us more;
Yet I must on. What sound is 't strikes mine ear? For men, led by the colour and the shape,
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear:

Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape.
It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can

Some things do through our judgment Raise up the buried inan.

pass l'npast Alps stop me; but i'll cut them all,

As through a multiplying-glass; And march, the Muses' Hannibal.

And sometimes, if the object be too far, Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay

We take a falling meteor for a star. Nets of roses in the way!

Hence 'tis, a Wit, that greatest word of fame, Hence, the desire of honours or estate,

Grows such a common name; Apd all that is not above Fate !

And Wits by our creation they become, Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days!

Just so as titular bishops made at Rome. Which intercepts my coming praise.

"Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me

Arlmir'd with laughter at a fcast,

Nor florid taik, which can that title gain ; 'Tis time that I were gone.

The proofs of Wit for ever must remain. Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now

'Tis not to force some lifeless verses mcet All I was born to know : Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do;

With their five gouty feet, He conqner'd th' earth, the whole world you. All, every where, like man's, must be the soul, Wel me, learn’d Cicero! whose blest tongue and And Reason the inferior powers controul.

Such were the numbers which could call

The stones into the Theban wall.
Preserves Rome's greatness yet:
Thou art the first of orators; only he

Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see

No towns or houses rais'd by poetry.
Who best can praise thee, next must be.
Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise! Yet'tis not to adorn and gild each part;
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies;

That shows more cost than art.
Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age,

Jeweis at nose and lips but ill appear; And made that art which was a rage.

Rather than all things Wit, let none be there, Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do

Several lights will not be seen, To be like one of you?

If there be nothing else between. Lut you have climbid the mountain's top, there sit Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky, Ou the calm flourishing head of it,

If those be stars which paint the galaxy.

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Tis not when two like words make up one noise Whilst we, like younger brothers, get at best

(Jests for Durch men and English boys); But a small stock, and must work out the rest.
In which who finds out Wit, the same may see How could he answer 't, should the state think fit
In an'grams and acrostic poetry :

To question a monopoly of wit ?
Much less can that have any place

Such is the man whom we require the same
At which a virgin hides her face.

We lent the North ; untouch'd, as is his fame.
'Such dross the fire must purge away: 'tis just He too good for war, and ought to be
The author blush there, where the reader must. As far from danger, as from fear he's free.
Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage

Those men alone (and those are useful too)
When Bajazet begins to rage ;

Whose valour is the only art they know
Nor a tall metaphor in the bombast way;

Were for sad war and bloody battles born;
Nor the dry chips of short-lung'd Seneca ;

Let them the state defend, and he adorn.
Nor upon all things to obtrude

And force some odd similitude.
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 ;

HAT shall we say, since silent now is he
As in the ark, join'd without force or strife,

Who when he spoke, all things would silent be?

Who had so many languages in store,
All creatures dwelt; all creatures that had life:

That only Fame shall speak of him in more;
Or, as the primitive forms of all

Whom England now no more return'd must see;
(If we compare great things with small)
Which, without discord, or contusion, lie

He's gone to Heaven on his fourth embassy.

On Earth he travell’d often ; not to say In that strange mirror of the Deity.

H' had been abroad, or pass loose time away.
But Love, that moulds one man up out of two, In whatsoever land he chanc'd to come,

Makes me forget, and injure you : He read the men and mamers, bringing home
I took you for myself, sure, when I thought Their wisdom, learning, and their piety,
That you in any thing were to be taught.

As if he went to conquer, not too see.
Correct my errour with thy pen;

So well he understood the most and best
And, if any ask me then

Of tongues, that Babel sent into the West ;
What thing right Wit and height of genius is, Spoke them so truly, that he had (you'd swear)
I'll only show your lines, and say, 'Tis this.

Not only liv'd, but been born every where.
Justly each nation's speech to him was known,
Who for the world was made, not us alone;

Nor ought the language of that man be less,
TO THE LORD FALKLAND, Who in his breast bad all things to express.
FOR HIS SAFE RETURN FROM THE NORTHERN We say, that learning's endless, and blame Fate

For not allowing life a longer date:

He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find,
Great is thy charge, O North! he wise and just, He found them not so large as was his mind;
England commits her Falkland to thy trust; But, like the brave Pellæan youth, did moan
Retuin him safe; Learning would rather choose Because that art had no more worlds than one;
Her Bodley or her Vatican to lose :

And, when he saw that he through all had past,
All things that are but writ or printed there, He dy'd, lest he should idle grow at last.
In his unbounded breast engraven are.
There all the sciences together meet,
And every art does all her kindred greet,
Yet justle not, nor quarrel; but as well

Agree as in some commun principle.
So, in an army govern'd right, we see

SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL. (Though out of several countries rais'd it be) That all their order and their place maintain,

Hence, and make room for me, all you who come
The English, Dutch, the Frenchman, and the Danę: Only to read the epitaph on this tomb !
So thousand divers species fill the air,

Here lies the master of my tender years,
Yet neither crowd nor mix confus'dly there; The guardian of my parents' hope and fears;
Beasts, houses, trees, and men, together lie, Whose government ne'er stood me in a tear;
Yet enter undisturb'd into the eye.

All weeping was reserv'd to spend it here.
And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate Come hither, all who bis rare virtues knew,
Thrust into th' noise and business of a state.

And mourn with me: he was your tutor too. All virtues, and some customs of the court,

Let's join our sighs, till they fly far, and shew Other men's labour, are at least his sport;

His native Belgia what she's now to do. Whilst we, who can no action undertake,

The league of grief bids her with us lament; Whom idleness itself might learned make;

By her he was brought forth, and hither sent Who hear of nothing, and as yet scarce know,

In payment of all men we there had lost, Whether the Scots in England be or no;

And all the English blood those wars have cost. Pace dully on, oft tire, and often stay,

Wisely did Nature this learn'd man divide ; Yet see his nimble Pegasus fly away.

His birth was theirs, his death the mournful pride "Tis Nature's fanlt, who did thus partial grow, Of England ; and, t'avoid the envious strife And her estate of wit on one bestow;

Of other lands, all Europe had his life,

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But ce 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
When men sought knowledge first, and by it And hasted to the sea to tell the news :

His waters ran more swiftly than they use,

The sea itself, how rough soe'er, Was a thing full of reverence, prosit, 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 deserv'd honours, 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 fatter 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 Pate'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 labour'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 aray. 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 bore thunder too!
Much better had his diligence been less;
But, if a Muse hereafter smile on me,

Sure there are actions of this height and praise

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 triumphs 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' sons, write not by guess.

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 ? Poesy 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 grief in silence keep, No mothers here lament their children'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 drew'. And take them for their husbands' knells : His pieces so with their live objects strive, No drop of blood is spilt, which might be said That both or pictures seem, or buth alive. To mark our joyful holiday with red.

Nature herself, amaz’d, does doubting stand, 'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing, And does attempt the like with less success,

Which is her own, and which the painter's hand ; And only work’t by such a king.

When her own work in twins she would express, Again the northern hinds may sing and plough,

His all-resembling pencil did out-pass And fear no harm but from the weather now;

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, set 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, till Heav'n did for him call; Where one must lose yet neither side can win ? 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, When chance or cruel business parts us two,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,

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

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

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

Content with dreams, but boldly ily
(The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves); Abroad, and meet each other half the way.
Hle 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 mix, I know not how nor where !
And you, fair widow ! who stay here alive,
Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve:

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

Though we perceive 't not to be so!

Like loving stars, which oft combine,
Bg a not now, blest pair! to disagree.
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. How wretched does Prometheus' state appear,

When he his mighty power will try,
Whilst he his seccad 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.
Pe blame great Jove's less than the painter's hands.
It would the vulture's cruelty outgo,

Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine,

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 fames 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; Here'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,

Send me, at least, a sigh or two; With all thy servile pains 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 assords 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.

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; 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 you deprive
None double see like men in love.

Of liberty, at first I could not grieve ;


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