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ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF FORTUNE
They, neighbours to your eyes,
Then Revenge, married to Ambition,
Then limits to each field were strain'd,
And Terminus a god-head gain'd,
To men before was found,
Besides the sea, no bound.
In what plain, or what river, hath not been
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.'
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,
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
Into an age of gold,
UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE.
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
If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.
That way it went ; but thou shalt tind
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,
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind ?
Our life is carried with too strong a tide; To his old country-farm of yesterday,
A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
And is the horse of all our years.
Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.
We and our glass run out, and must
Both render up our dust.
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.
Nichols, my better self! forbear;
For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures
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
The taste once pleased me.
O tell me not of logic's diverse cheer!
I shall begin to loathe our crambo here.
REIGN OF OUR GRACIOUS KING CHARLES.
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 :
Till then, we'll scorn to let that toy,
Some forty miles, divide our hearts:
Write to me, and I shall enjoy
Friendship and wit, thy better parts.
We 'll easily see each other; Love hath wings.
And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go,
Sce us, and clouds, below.
ODE. OF WIT.
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;
Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape.
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.
Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see
No towns or houses rais'd by poetry.
That shows more cost than art.
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.
ON THE DEATH OF
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.
To question a monopoly of wit ?
Such is the man whom we require the same
We lent the North ; untouch'd, as is his fame.
Those men alone (and those are useful too)
Whose valour is the only art they know
Were for sad war and bloody battles born;
Let them the state defend, and he adorn.
And force some odd similitude.
SIR HENRY WOOTTON.
HAT shall we say, since silent now is he
Who when he spoke, all things would silent be?
Who had so many languages in store,
That only Fame shall speak of him in more;
Whom England now no more return'd must see;
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.
Makes me forget, and injure you : He read the men and mamers, bringing home
As if he went to conquer, not too see.
So well he understood the most and best
Of tongues, that Babel sent into the West ;
Not only liv'd, but been born every where.
Nor ought the language of that man be less,
For not allowing life a longer date:
He did the utmost bounds of knowledge find,
And, when he saw that he through all had past,
ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN,
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
Here lies the master of my tender years,
All weeping was reserv'd to spend it here.
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,
ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN...DEATH OF VANDYCK.
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 durst not kiss the armed shore !
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;
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 ;
OUT OF SCOTLAND.
To the return of peace and you ;
SIR ANTHONY VANDÝCK,
Others by war their conquests gain,
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;
ON THE DEATH OF
THE FAMOUS PAINTER.
Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair,
FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE.
What do our souls, I wonder, do?
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
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. 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 :
But Love itself does far advance
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,
Absence itself does bounteous prove,
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;
But, as his beams the farther fly,
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.
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; With all thy servile pains what canst thou win,
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; Whom would that painted toy a beauty move;
No longer 'twill be kept from you,
Could he a woman's heart have seen
And, when no art assords 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,
Neither their sighs nor tears are true;
TO TIIE BISHOP OF LINCOLN,
Again, till these two lights be four; Pardon, my lord, that I am come so late
Of liberty, at first I could not grieve ;
UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER.