way

With his brave fon the prince, they faw thy fires

Shine bright on ev'ry hearth, as the defires Of thy Penates had been fet on flame

To entertain them; or the country came, With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. What (great, I will not fay, but) fudden cheer Didft thou then make 'em! and what praife was heap'd

On thy good lady, then! who therein reap'd The just reward of her high hufwifry;

To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far and not a room but drest,

As if it had expected fuch a guest! Thefe, Penshurst, are thy praife, and yet not all; Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chafte withal. His children thy great lord may call his own: A fortune, in this age, but rarely known. They are, and have been taught religion: thence Their gentler fpirits have fuck'd innocence. Each morn, and even, they are taught to pray With the whole houfehold, and may, ev'ry day, Read in their virtuous parents noble parts,

The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now, Penfhurit, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they fee Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing elfe, May fay, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

III. To Sir Robert Wroth.

How bleft art thou, canft love the country, Wroth,
Whether by choice, or fate, or both!
And though fo pear the city, and the court,

Are ta'en with neither's vice nor fport :.
That at great times, art no ambitious gueft,
Of theriff's dinner, or mayor's leaft;
Nor com'ft to view the better cloth of ftate,
-The richer hangings, or crown-plate;
Nor throng it (when mafquing is) to have a fight
Of the thort bravery of the night;
To view the jewels, ftuffs, the pains, the wit-
There wafted, fome not paid for yet!
But canf at home, in thy fecurer reft,

Live, with unbought provifion bleft;
Free from proud porches, or the gilded roofs,
'Mongit lowing herds, and folid hoofs:
Along the curied woods, and painted meads,
Through which a ferpent river leads
To fome cool courteous fhade, which he calls his,
And makes deep fofter than it is!

Or if thou lift the night in watch to break,
A-bed can hear the loud flag fpeak,
In fpring, oft roufed for thy mafter's iport,
Who for it makes thy house his court;
Or with thy friends, the heart of all the year,
Divid', upon the leffer deer:

autumn, at the patridge mak'st a flight,
And giv'ft thy gladder guets the fight;

And in the winter hunt'ft the flying hare,
More for thy exercife than fare;
While all that follow, their glad ears apply
To the full greatnefs of the cry:
Or hawking at the river, or the bush,
Or fhooting at the greedy thrush,
Thou doft with fome delight the day outwear,
Although the coldest of the year!

The whil'it the feveral fcafons thou haft feen
Of flow'ry fields, of cop'ces green,
The mowed meadows, with the fleeced sheep,
And feafts, that either fhearers keep;
The ripened ears, yet humble in their height,
And furrows laden with their weight;
The apple-harveit, that doth longer last;

The hogs return'd home fat from maft;
The trees cut out in log, and those boughs made
A fire now, that lent a fhade!

Thus Pan and Sylvan having had their rites,
Comus puts in for new delights;
And fills thy open hall with mirth and cheer,
As if in Saturn's reign it were;
Apollo's harp, and Hermes' lyre refound,
Nor are the mufes ftrangers found:
The rout of rural folk come thronging in,
(Their rudeness then is thought no fin),
Thy nobleft fpoufe affords them welcome grace;
And the great heroes of her race

Sit mix'd with lofs of state, or reverence.
Freedom doth with degree difpense.

The jolly waffal walks the often round;

And in their cups their cares are drown'd: They think not then, which fide the cause shal

leefe,

Nor how to get the lawyer fees.

Such and no other was that age of old,

Which boasts t' have had the head of gold.
And fuch, fince thou canft make thine own content
Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent.

Let others watch in guilty arms, and stand
The fury of a rash command,

Go enter breaches, meet the cannons rage,
That they may fleep with fears in age;
And how their feathers fhot, and colours torn,
And brag that they were therefore born.
Let this man fweat, and wrangle at the bar,
For ev'ry price in ev'ry jar,

And change poffeffions oft'ner with his breath,
Than either money, war, or death:
Let him, than hardest fires, more difinherit,
And each where boaft it as his merit,
To blow up orphans, widows, and their states,
And think his power doth equal fate's.
Let that go heap a mafs of wretched wealth,

Purchas'd by rapine, worse than stealth,
And brooding o'er it fit, with broadeft eyes,
Not doing good, fcarce when he dies.
Let thousands more go flatter vice, and win,
By being organs to great fin,
Get place and honour, and be glad to keep
The fecrets that fhall break their fleep:
And fo they ride in purple, eat in plate,

Though poifon, think it a great fate.
But thou, my Wroth, if I can truth apply,
Shalt geither that, nor this envy:

Thy peace is made; and when man's state is well, "Tis better, if he there can dwell.

God wifheth none fhould wreck on a strange shelf:
To him man's dearer, than t' himself.
And how foever we may think things sweet,
He always gives what he knows meet;
Which who can ufe is happy: Such be thou.
Thy morning's and thy evening's vow
Be thanks to him, and earnest pray'r, to find
A body found, with founder mind;
To do thy country fervice, thyfelf right;
That neither want do thee affright,
Nor death; but when thy latest fand is spent,
Thou may'ft think life a thing but lent.

IV. To the World. A farewell for a Gentlewoman, virtuous and noble.

FALSE world, good night, fince thou haft brought
That hour upon my morn of age,
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.
Do not once hope, that thou canst tempt
A fpirit fo refolv'd to tread
Upon thy throat, and live exempt

From all the nets that thou canst spread.
I know thy forms are ftudied arts,

Thy fubtil ways be narrow ftraits;
Thy curtefy but fudden starts,

And what thou call'ft thy gifts, are baits.
I know too, though thou ftrut and paint,
Yet art thou both fhrunk up, and old;
That only fools make thee a faint,

And all thy good is to be fold.
I know thou whole art but a fhop

Of toys, and trifles, traps, and fnares, To take the weak, or make them flop: Yet art thou falfer than thy wares. And knowing this fhould I yet ftay,

Like fuch as blow away their lives, And never will redeem a day,

Enamour'd of their golden gyves? Or having 'fcap'd, fhall I return,

And thrust my neck into the noose, From whence fo lately I did burn

With all my powers, myfelf to loofe? What bird or beaft is known fo dull,

That fled his cage, or broke his chain,
And tasting air and freedom, wull

Render his head in there again?
If thefe who have but fenfe, can fhun
The engines, that have them annoy'd;
Little for me had reafon done,

If i could not thy gins avoid.
Yes, threaten, do. Alas, I fear

As little, as I hope from thee:

I know thou canst nor fhow, nor bear
More hatred, than thou haft to me.
My tender first and fimple years

Thou didst abufe, and then betray;
Since ftirr'dft up jealoufies and fears,
When all the causes were away.
Then in a foil haft planted me,

Where breathe the bafeft of thy fools; Where envious arts profeffed be,

And pride and ignorance the schools:

Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,
But as 'tis rumour'd, fo believ'd;
Where ev'ry freedom is betray'd,

And ev'ry goodness tax'd or griev'd.
But what we're born for, we must bear :
Our frail condition it is fuch,
That what to all may happen here,

If't chance to me, I must not grutch. Elfe I my flate should much mistake, To harbour a divided thought From all my kind: that for my fake, There fhould a miracle be wrought. No! I do know, that I was born

To age, misfortune, sickness, grief: But I will bear thefe, with that scorn, As fhall not need thy false relief. Nor for my peace will I go far,

As wand'rers do, that still do roam; But make my strengths, such as they are, Here in my bofom, and at home.

V. Song To Celia.

COME, my Celia, let us prove,
While we may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever:
He at length our good will fever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that fet, may rife again :
But if once we lofe this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies?
Or his eafier ears beguile,
So removed by our wile?
'Tis no fin love's fruit to steal,
But the sweet theft to reveal:
To be taken, to be feen,

These have crimes accounted been.

VI. To the fame.

Kiss me, fweet: the wary lover
Can your favours keep, and cover,
When the common courting jay
All your bounties will betray.
Kifs again no creature comes.
Kifs and fcore up wealthy fums
On my lips, thus hardly fundred,
While you breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thoufand, then another
Hundred, then unto the other
Add a thousand, and so more:
Till you equal with the store,
All the grafs that Rumney yields,
Or the fands in Chelsea fields,
Or the drops in filver Thames,
Or the ftars that gild his ftreams,
In the filent fummer nights,
When youths ply their ftol'n delights;
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'em as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pin'd.

VII. Song. That Women are but Men's Shadows. FOLLOW a fhadow, it still flies you,

Seem to fly it, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, fhe denies you;
Let her alone, fhe will court you..
Say, are not women truly, then,

Styl'd but the fhadows of us men?
At morn and even, shades are longest;
At noon they are or fhort, or none:
So men at weakeft, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they're not known.
Say, are not women truly, then,

Styl'd but the fhadows of us men?

VIII. Song. To Sickness.

WHY, disease, dost thou moleft
Ladies, and of them the best?
Do not men, enow of rites
To thy altars, by their nights
Spent in furfeits; and their days,
And nights too, in worfer ways?
Take heed, Sickness, what you do,
I fhall fear, you'll furfeit too.
Live not we, as all thy ftalls,
Spittles, peft-house, hofpitals,
Scarce will take our present store?
And this age will build no more:
'Pray thee, feed contented then,
Sickness, only on us men.

Or if it needs thy luft will tafte
Womankind, devour the wafte
Livers, round about the town.
But, forgive me, with thy crown
They maintain the truest trade,
And have more diseases made.

What should yet thy palate pleafe? Daintinefs, and fofter ease, Sleeked limbs, and fineft blood? If thy leannefs love fuch food, There are thofe, that for thy fake, Do enough; and who would take Any pains, yea, think it price, To become thy facrifice? That diftil their husband's land In decoctions; and are man'd With ten emp'rics, in their chamber, Lying for the fpirit of amber. That for the oil of talc dare spend More than citizens dare lend Them, and all their officers. That to make all pleasure theirs, Will by coach and water go, Every stew in town to know; Dare entail their loves on any, Bald, or blind, or ne'er fo many: And for thee at common game, Play away health, wealth, and fame. Thefe, Disease, will thee deferve: And will long, cre thou fhould'st starve, On their beds, most prostitute, Move it, as their humblest suit, In thy juftice to moleft

None but them, and leave the reft

IX. Song. To Celia.

DRINK to me, only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine';
Or leave a kifs but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the foul doth rife,
Doth afk a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar fup,

I would not change for thine.
I fent thee late a rofy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didft only breathe,
And fent'ft it back to me:

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

X.

AND must I fing? what subject shall I choose ?
Or whoft great name in poets heaven use?
For the more countenance to my active muse?

Hercules? alas, his bones are yet fore,
With his old earthly labours. T' exact more,
Of his dull godhead, were fin. I'll implore

Phoebus? No, tend thy cart ftill. Envious day
Shall not give out, that I have made thee stay,
And founder'd thy hot team, to tune my lay.

Nor will I beg of thee, lord of the vine,
To raife my fpirits with thy conjuring wine,
In the green circle of thy ivy twine.

Pallas, nor thee, I call on, mankind maid,
That at thy birth, mad'ft the poor fmith afraid,
Who with his ax, thy father's midwife play'd.

Go cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he fnorts
Or with thy tribade trine, invent new sports.
Thou nor thy loosenefs with my making forts.

Let the old boy, your fon, ply his old task, Turn the ftale prologue to fome painted mask; His abfence in my verfe is all I afk.

Which to effect (fince no breaft is fo fure,

Or fafe, but she'll procure Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard Of thoughts to watch, and ward

At th' eye and ear (the ports unto the mind)
That no ftrange, or unkind

Object arrive there, but the heart (our spy)
Give knowledge instantly,
To wakeful reafon, our affections king:

Who (in th' examining)

Will quickly taste the treason, and commit
Clofe, the close cause of it.

'Tis the fecurelt policy we have,

To make our fenfe our flave.

But this true courfe is not embrac'd by many : By many? fcarce by any.

For either our affections do rebel,

Or else the sentinel

(That should ring larum to the heart) doth sleep, Or fome great thought doth keep

Back the intelligence, and falfely fwears,

They're base, and idle fears

Whereof the loyal confcience fo complains.
Thus by these fubtle trains,

Do feveral paffions invade the mind,

And ftrike our reafon blind;

Of which ufurping rank, fome have thought love
The first; as prone to move

Moft frequent tumults, horrors, and unrefts,
In our enflamed breasts.

But this doth from the cloud of error grow,
Which thus we overblow.

The thing they here call love, is blind defire,
Arm'd with bow, fhafts, and fire;
Inconftant, like the fea, of whence 'tis born,
Rough, fwelling, like a storm:

With whom who fails, rides on the furge of fear,
And boils, as if he were

In a continual tempeft. Now, true love,
No fuch effects doth prove;
That is an effe. ce far more gentle, fine,
Pure, perfect, nay divine;

It is a golden chain let down from heaven,
Whofe links are bright and even.
That falls like fleep on lovers, and combines
The foft, and sweetest minds

In equal knots: this bears no brands, nor darts,
To murther different hearts,

But in a calm, and godlike unity,

Preferves community.

O, who is he, that (in this peace) enjoys
Th' elixir of all joys?

A form more fresh, than are the Eden bow'rs,
And lafting, as her flow'rs:

Richer than time, and as time's virtue rare :
Sober, as faddest care:

A fixed thought, an eye untaught to glance;
Who (bleft with fuch high chance)
Would, at fuggeftion of a steep defire,

Cait himself from the fpire

Of all his happinefs? But foft: I hear
Some vicious fool draw near,

That cries, we dream, and fwears there's no fuch thing,

As this chafe love we fing.

Peace, luxury, thou art like one of thofe

Who, being at fea, suppose,

Because they move, the continent doth fo.
No, vice, we let thee know, [fy,
Though thy wild thoughts with fparrows wings do
Turtles can chastely die;

And yet (in this t' exprefs ourselves more clear)
We do not number here

Such spirits as are only continent,

Because luft's means are spent :

Or thofe, who doubt the common month of fame, And for their place and name,

Cannot fo fafely fin. Their chastity

Is mere neceffity.

Nor mean we thofe, whom vows and confcience
Have fill'd with abftinence:

Though we acknowledge, who can so abstain,
Makes a moft blessed gain.

He that for love of goodness hateth ill,
Is more crown-worthy ftill,
Than he, which for fin's penalty forbears;
His heart fins, though he fears.
But we propofe a perfon like our dove,
Grac'd with a phoenix love;
A beauty of that clear, and sparkling light,
Would make a day of night,

And turn the blackeft forrows to bright joys:
Whofe od'rous breath destroys
All tafte of bitternefs, and makes the air
As fweet as fhe is fair.

A body fo harmoniously compos'd,
As if nature difclos'd

All her best fymmetry in that one feature!
O, fo divine a creature,

Who could be falfe to? chiefly when he knows
How only the bestows

The wealthy treasure of her love on him;
Making his fortunes swim
In the full flood of her admir'd perfection?
What favage, brute affection,
Would not be fearful to offend a dame

Of this excelliug frame?

Much more a noble, and right gen'rous mind
(To virtuous moods inclin'd)
That knows the weight of guilt: he will refrain
From thoughts of such a strain,

And to his fenfe object this fentence ever,

"Man may fecurely fin, but safely never."

XII. Epifile. To Elizabeth, Countess of Rutland,
MADAM,

WHILST that, for which all virtue now is fold,
And almost ev'ry vice, almighty gold,
That which, to boot with hell, is thought worth
heav'n,

And for it, life, confcience, yea fouls are giv'o,
Toils, by grave cuftom, up and down the court,
To ev'ry fquire, or groom, that will report
Well or ill, only all the following year,
Juft to the weight their this day's prefents bear;
While it makes huishers ferviceable men,

And fome one apteth to be trusted then, Though never after; whiles it gains the voice Of fome grand peer, whofe air doth make rejoice

To her remembrance which when time fhall bring To curious light, to notes, I then shall fing, Will prove old Orpheus' act no tale to be:

The fool that gave it; who will want, and weep, When his proud patron's favours are afleep; While thus it buys great grace, and hunts poor fame; [dame;

Runs between man and man; 'tween dame and Solders crack'd friendship; makes love laft a day; Or perhaps lefs: whilft gold bears all this fway, I, that have none to send you, send you verfe;

A prefent which (if elder writs rehearse The truth of times) was once of more efteem,

Than this our gilt, nor golden age can deem, When gold was made no weapon to cut throats, Or put to flight Aftrea, when her ingots Were yet unfound, and better plac'd in earth, Than here, to give pride fame, and peasants birth. But let this drofs carry what price it will

With noble ignorants, and let them ftill Turn upon fcorned verse their quarter-face;

With you, I know, my off'ring will find grace. For what a fin 'gainst your great father's fpirit, Were it to think, that you should not inherit His love unto the mufes, when his skill

Almost you have, or may have when you will? Wherein wife nature you a dowry gave,

Worth an estate, triple to that you have. Beauty I know is good, and blood is more; Riches thought moft; but, madam, think what fore

The world hath feen, which all these had in trust, And now lie loft in their forgotten duft.

It is the mufe alone, can raise to heaven,

And at her ftrong arms end, hold up, and even, The fouls fhe loves. Thofe other glorious notes," Infcrib'd in touch or marble, or the coats Painted, or carv'd upon our great mens tombs,

Or in their windows, do but prove the wombs That bred them, graves: when they were born they dy'd,

That had the mufe to make their fame abide. How many equal with the Argive queen,

Have beauty known, yet none fo famous feen? Achilles was not firft, that valiant was,

Or, in an army's head, that lock'd in brafs Gave killing ftrokes. There were brave men before Ajax, or Idomen, or all the ftore

That Homer brought to Troy; yet none fo live,
Because they lack'd the facred pen, could give
Like life unto 'em. Who heav'd Hercules

Unto the ftars? or the Tyndarides?
Who placed Jafon's Argo in the fky?
Or fet bright Ariadne's crown fo high?
Who made a lamp of Berenice's hair?

Or lifted Caffiopeia in her chair?
But only poets, rapt with rage divine?

[fhine.

And fuch, or my hopes fail, fhall make you You, and that other ftar, that pureft light

Of all Lucina's train, Lucy the bright.
Than which a nobler heav'n itself knows not;
Who though the have a better verfer got,
(Or poet, in the court-account) than I,

And who doth me (though I not him) envy,
Yet for the timely favours the hath done,
To my less fanguine mufe, wherein the hath won
My grateful foul, the subject of her pow'rs,
i have already us'd fome happy hours

For I fhall move ftocks, ftoncs, no lefs than he. Then all that have but done my mufe leaft grace,

Shall thronging come, and boaft the happy place They hold in my ftrange poems, which, as yet, Had not their form touch'd by an English wit. There, like a rich and golden pyramid,

Born up by ftatues, fhall I rear your head, Above your under carved ornaments,

And fhow how to the life my foul prefents Your form impreft there: not with tickling rhymes, Or common places, filch'd, that take thefe times, But high, and noble matter, such as flies

From brains entranc'd, and fill'd with exftafies: Moods, which the godlike Sidney oft did prove, And your brave friend and mine fo well did love. Who, wherefoe'er he be

[The raft is loft.]

XIII. Epifle to Katharine, Lady Aabigney. ·
'Tis grown almost a danger to speak true
Of any good mind, now: there are so few.
The bad, by number, are fo fortify'd,

As what they've loft, t' expect they dare deride; So both the prais'd and praifers fuffer: yet,

For others ill ought none their good forget.
I therefore, who profefs myself in love
With ev'ry virtue, wherefoe'er it move,
And howfoever; as I am at feud

With fin and vice, though with a throne endu'd; And in this name am given out dangerous

By arts, and practice of the vicious,

Such as fufpect themfelves, and think it fit

For their own capital crimes, t' indict my wit; I that have fuffer'd this; and though forfook Of fortune, have not alter'd yet my look, Or fo myself abandon'd, as because

Men are not juft, or keep no holy laws Of nature and fociety, I fhould faint;

Or fear to draw true lines, 'caufe others paint: I, madam, am become your praifer; where, If it may ftand with your foft bluth, to hear Yourself but told unto yourfelf, and fee

In my character what your features be,
You will not from the paper flightly pass:
No lady but at fome time loves her glafs
And this fhall be no falfe one, but as much
Remov'd, as you from need to have it fuch,
Look then, and fee yourfelf. I will not fay

Your beauty; for you fee that ev'ry day;
And fo do many more. All which can call
It perfect, proper, pure, and natural,
Not taken up o' th' doctors, but as well

As I, can fay and fee it doth excel.
That afks but to be cenfur'd by the eyes:

And in thofe outward forms, all fools are wife. Nor that your beauty wanted not a dow'r,

Do I reflect. Some alderman has pow'r, Or coz'ning farmer of the customs fo,

T' advance his doubtful iffue, and o'erflow A prince's fortune: these are gifts of chance, And raile not virtue; they may vice enhance,