  (Cover art) CASTARA The Second part. Vatumque lascivos triumphos, (Cover art) LONDON A WifeIs the sweetest part in the harmony of our being. To the love of which, as the charmes of Nature inchant us, so the law of grace by speciall priviledge invites us. Without her, Man if piety not restraine him; is the creator of sinne; or, if an innated cold render him not onely the businesse of the present age; the murderer of posterity. She is so religious that every day crownes her a martyr, and her zeale neither rebellious nor uncivill. Shee is so true a friend, her Husband may to her communicate even his ambitions, and if successe Crowne not expectation, remaine neverthelesse uncontemned. Shee is colleague with him in the Empire of prosperity; and a safe retyring place when adversity exiles him from the World. She is so chaste, she never understood the language lust speakes in, nor with a smile applaudes it, although there appeare wit in the Metaphore. Shee is faire only to winne on his affections, nor would she be Mistris of the most eloquent beauty; if there were danger, that might perswade the passionate auditory, to the least irregular thought. Shee is noble by a long descent, but her memory is so evill a herald, shee never boasts the story of her Ancestors. Shee is so moderately rich, that the defect of portion doth neither bring penury to his estate, nor the superfluity licence her to Riot. Shee is liberall, and yet owes not ruine to vanity, but knows Charity, to be the Fifty Poems, chiefly on Wedded Happiness.To Castara, |
| Araph. | Castara, you too fondly court The silken peace with which we cover'd are, Unquiet time may for his sport, Up from its iron den rowse sleepy warre. |
| Cast. | Then in the language of the drum, I will instruct my yet affrighted eare, All women shall in me be dumbe; If I but with my Araphill be there? |
| Araph. | If Fate like an unfaithfull gale, Which having vow'd to th' ship a faire event, Oth' sudden rends her hopefull saile; Blow ruine; will Castara then repent? |
| Cast. | Love shall in that tempestuous showre Her brightest blossome like the blacke-thorne show: Weake friendship prospers by the powre Of fortunes Sunne. I'le in her winter grow. |
| Araph. | If on my skin the noysome skar I should oth'leprosie, or canker weare; Or if the sulph'rous breath of warre Should blast my youth; Should I not be thy feare? |
| Cast. | In flesh may sicknesse horror move, But heavenly zeale will be by it refin'd, For then wee'd like two Angels love, Without a sense; imbrace |
| Araph. | Were it not impious to repine; 'Gainst rigid Fate I should direct my breath. That two must be, whom heaven did joyne In such a happy one, disjoyn'd by death. |
| Cast. | That's no divource. Then shall we see The rites in life, were types o'th marriage state, Our soules on earth contracted be; But they in heaven their nuptials consumate. |
My Lord.
My thoughts are not so rugged, nor doth earth
So farre predominate in me, that mirth
Lookes not as lovely as when our delight
First fashion'd wings to adde a nimbler flight
To lazie time; who would, to have survai'd
Our varied pleasures, there have ever staid.
And they were harmelesse. For obedience
If frailty yeelds to the wild lawes of sence;
We shall but with a sugred venome meete;
No pleasure, if not innocent as sweet.
And that's your choyce: who adde the title good
To that of noble. For although the blood
Of Marshall, Stanley, and 'La Pole doth flow
With happy Brandon's in your veines; you owe
Your vertue not to them. Man builds alone
Oth' ground of honour: For desert's our owne.
Be that your ayme. I'le with Castara sit
Ith' shade, from heat of businesse. While my wit
Is neither big with an ambitious ayme,
To build tall Pyramids Ith' court of fame,
For after ages, or to win conceit
Oth' present, and grow in opinion great.
Rich in our selves, we envy not the East,
Her rockes of Diamonds, or her gold the West.
Arabia may be happy in the death
Of her reviving Phoenix; In the breath
Of coole Favonius, famous be the grove
Of Tempe; while we in each others love.
For that let us be fam'd. And when of all
That Nature made us two, the funerall
Leaves but a little dust; (which then as wed,
Even after death, shall sleepe still in one bed.)
The Bride and Bridegroome on the solemne day,
Shall with warm zeale approach our Urne, to pay
Their vowes, that heaven should blesse so farre their rites,
To shew them the faire paths to our delights.
To a Tombe.
Tyrant o're tyrants, thou who onely dost
Clip the lascivious beauty without lust;
What horror at thy sight shootes through each sence;
How powerfull is thy silent eloquence,
Which never flatters? Thou instruct'st the proud,
That their swolne pompe is but an empty cloud,
Slave to each wind. The faire, those flowers they have
Fresh in their cheeke, are strewd upon a grave.
Thou tell'st the rich, their Idoll is but earth.
The vainely pleas'd, that Syren-like their mirth
Betrayes to mischiefe, and that onely he
Dares welcome death, whose aimes at vertue be.
Which yet more zeale doth to Castara move.
What checks me, when the tombe perswades to love?
To Castara,
Upon thought of Age and Death.
The breath of time shall blast the flowry Spring,
Which so perfumes thy cheeke, and with it bring
So darke a mist, as shall eclipse the light
Of thy faire eyes, in an eternall night.
Some melancholly chamber of the earth,
Thy beauties shall entombe, while all who ere
Lov'd nobly, offer up their sorrowes there.
But I whose griefe no formall limits bound,
Beholding the darke caverne of that ground,
Will there immure my selfe. And thus I shall
Thy mourner be, and my owne funerall.
Else by the weeping magicke of my verse,
Thou hadst reviv'd, to triumph o're thy hearse.
My Lord.
The reverend man by magicke of his prayer
Hath charm'd so, that I and your daughter are
Contracted into one. The holy lights
Smil'd with a cheerfull lustre on our rites,
And every thing presag'd full happinesse
To mutuall love; if you'le the omen blesse.
Nor grieve, my Lord, 'tis perfected. Before
Afflicted Seas sought refuge on the shore
From the angry North-wind. Ere th'astonisht Spring
Heard in the ayre the feather'd people sing,
Ere time had motion, or the Sunne obtain'd
His province o're the day, this was ordain'd.
Nor thinke in her I courted wealth or blood,
Or more uncertaine hopes: for had I stood
On th' highest ground of fortune, the world knowne
No greatnesse but what waited on my throne;
And she had onely had that face and mind,
I, with my selfe, had th'earth to her resign'd.
In vertue there's an Empire. And so sweete
The rule is when it doth with beauty meete,
As fellow Consull; that of heaven they
Nor earth partake; who would her disobey.
This captiv'd me. And ere I question'd why
I ought to love Castara, through my eye,
This soft obedience stole into my heart.
Then found I love might lend to th'quick-ey'd art
Of Reason yet a purer sight: For he
Though blind, taught her these Indies first to see,
In whose possession I at length am blest,
And with my selfe at quiet, here I rest,
As all things to my powre subdu'd, To me
Ther's nought beyond this. The whole world is she.
His Muse speakes to him.
Thy vowes are heard, and thy Castara's name
Is writ as faire ith' Register of Fame,
As th' ancient beauties which translated are
By Poets up to heaven; each there a starre.
And though Imperiall Tiber boast alone
Ovids Corinna, and to Arn is knowne
But Petrarchs Laura; while our famous Thames
Doth murmur Sydneyes Stella to her streames
Yet hast thou Severne left, and she can bring
As many quires of Swans, as they to sing
Thy glorious love: Which living shall by thee
The onely Sov'raigne of those waters be.
Dead in loves firmament, no starre shall shine
So nobly faire, so purely chaste as thine.
To Vaine hope.
Thou dreame of madmen, ever changing gale,
Swell with thy wanton breath the gaudy saile
Of glorious fooles. Thou guid'st them who thee court
To rocks, to quick-sands, or some faithlesse port.
Were I not mad, who when secure at ease,
I might ith' Cabbin passe the raging Seas,
Would like a franticke shipboy wildly haste,
To climbe the giddy top of th'unsafe mast?
Ambition never to her hopes did faine
A greatnesse, but I really obtaine
In my Castara. Wer't not fondnesse then
T' embrace
My Paradise all flowers and fruits both breed:
To rob a barren garden for a weed?
To Castara,
How happy, though in an obscure fortune.
Were we by fate throwne downe below our feare;
Could we be poore? Or question Natures care
In our provision? She who doth afford
A feather'd garment fit for every bird,
And onely voyce enough t'expresse delight.
She who apparels Lillies in their white,
As if in that she'de teach mans duller sence,
Wh'are highest, should be so in innocence.
She who in damaske doth attire the Rose,
(And man t'himselfe a mockery to propose,
'Mong whom the humblest Judges grow to fit)
She who in purple cloathes the Violet:
If thus she cares for things even voyd of sence;
Shall we suspect in us her providence?
On the death of the Right Honourable, George Earle of S.
Bright Saint, thy pardon, if my sadder verse,
Appeare in sighing o're thy glorious hearse,
To envie heaven. For fame it selfe now weares
Griefes Livery, and onely speaks in teares.
And pardon you Castara, if a while
Your memory I banish from my stile;
When I have payd his death the tribute due,
Of sorrow, I'le returne to Love and you.
Is there a name like Talbot, which a showre
Can force from every eye? And hath even powre
To alter natures course? How else should all
Runne wilde with mourning, and distracted fall:
Th' illiterate vulgar in a well tun'd breath,
Lament their losse, and learnedly chide death,
For its
Is yet unheard, as if griefe had no tongue.
Th'amaz'd marriner having lost his way
In the tempestuous desart of the Sea,
Lookes up but findes no starres. They all conspire
To darke themselves, t'enlighten this new fire.
The learn'd Astronomer with daring eye,
Searching to tracke the Spheres through which you flie,
(Most beauteous soule) doth in his journey faile,
And blushing, sayes, the subtlest art is fraile,
And but truths counterset. Your flight doth teach,
Faire Vertue hath an Orbe beyond his reach.
But I grow dull with sorrow. Unkinde Fate
To play the tyrant and subvert the state
Of setled goodnesse. Who shall henceforth stand
A pure example to enforme the Land
Of her loose riot
The wanton pride of greatnesse; and direct
Straid honour in the true magnificke way?
Whose life shall shew what triumph 'tis t'obey
The hard commands of reason? And how sweet
The nuptials are, when wealth and learning meet?
Who will with silent piety confute
Atheisticke Sophistry, and by the fruite
Approve Religions tree? Who'le teach his blood
A Virgin law and dare be great and good?
Who will despise his stiles? And nobly weigh
In judgements ballance, that his honour'd clay
Hath no advantage by them? Who will live
So innocently pious, as to give
The world no scandall? Who'le himself deny,
And to warme passion a cold martyr dye?
My griefe distracts me. If my zeale hath said,
What checks the living: know I serve the dead.
The dead, who needs no monumentall vaults,
With his pale ashes to intombe his faults.
Whose sins beget no libels, whom the poore
For benefit; for worth, the rich adore.
Who liv'd a solitary Phoenix free
From the commerce with mischiefe, joy'd to be
Still gazing heaven-ward, where his thoughts did move,
Fed with the sacred fire of zealous love.
Alone he flourisht, 'till the fatall houre
Did summon him, when gathering from each flowre
Their vertuous odours, from his perfum'd nest,
He tooke his flight to everlasting rest.
There shine great Lord, and with propitious eyes,
Looke downe, and smile upon this sacrifice.
To my worthy Cousin Mr. E. C.
In praise of the City life, in the long Vacation.
I Like the greene plush which your meadows weare;
I praise your pregnant fields, which duly beare
Their wealthy burden to th'industrious Bore.
Nor doe I disallow that who are poore
In minde and fortune, thither should retire:
But hate that he who's warme with
Of any knowledge, and 'mong-us may feast
On Nectar'd wit, should turne himselfe t' a beast,
And graze ith' Country. Why did nature wrong
So much her paines, as to give you a tongue
And fluent language; If converse you hold
With Oxen in the stall, and sheep ith' fold?
But now it's long Vacation you will say
The towne is empty, and who ever may
To th' pleasure of his Country home repaire,
Flyes from th' infection of our London aire.
In this your errour. Now's the time alone
To live here; when the City Dame is gone,
T' her house at Brandford; for beyond that she
Imagines there's no land, but Barbary,
Where lies her husbands Factor. When from hence
Rid is the Country Justice whose non-sence
Corrupted had the language of the Inne,
Where he and his horse litter'd: We beginne
To live in silence, when the noyse oth' Bench
Not deafens Westminster, nor corrupt French
Walkes Fleet-street in her gowne. Ruffes of the Barre,
By the Vacations powre translated are,
To Cut-worke bands. And who were busie here,
Are gone to sow sedition in the shire.
The aire by this is purg'd, and the Termes strife,
Thus fled the City: we the civill life
Lead happily. When in the gentle way,
Of noble mirth, I have the long liv'd day,
Contracted to a moment: I retire.
To my Castara, and meet such a fire
Of mutuall love: that if the City were
Infected, that would purifie the ayre.
Loves Aniversarie
To the Sunne.
Thou art return'd (great Light) to that blest houre
In which I first by marriage, sacred power,
Joyn'd with Castara hearts: And as the same
Thy lustre is, as then, so is our flame:
Which had increast, but that by loves decree,
'Twas such at first, it ne're could greater be.
But tell me (glorious Lampe) in thy survey,
Of things below thee, what did not decay
By age to weaknesse? I since that have seene
The Rose bud forth and fade, the tree grow greene
And wither, and the beauty of the field
With Winter wrinkled. Even thy selfe dost yeeld
Something to time, and to thy grave fall nigher.
But vertuous love is one sweet endlesse fire.
Against them who lay unchastity to the sex of Women.
They meet but with unwholesome Springs,
And Summers which infectious are:
They heare but when the Meremaid sings,
And onely see the falling starre:
Who ever dare,
Affirme no woman chaste and faire.
Goe cure your feavers: and you'le say
The Dog-dayes scorch not all the yeare:
In Copper Mines no longer stay,
But travell to the West, and there
The right ones see:
And grant all gold's not Alchimie.
What mad man 'cause the glow-wormes flame
Is cold, sweares there's no warmth in fire?
Cause some make forfeit of their name,
And slave themselves to mans desire;
Shall the sex free
From guilt, damn'd to the bondage be?
Nor grieve Castara, though 'twere fraile,
Thy Vertue then would brighter shine,
When thy example should prevaile,
And every womans faith be thine.
And were there none:
'Tis Majesty to rule alone.
To the Right Honourable and excellently learned, William Earle of St.
My Lord,
The Laurell doth your reverend temples wreath
As aptly now, as when your youth did breath
Those tragicke raptures which your name shall save
From the blacke edict of a tyrant grave.
Nor shall your Day ere set, till the Sunne shall
From the blind heavens like a cynder fall;
And all the elements intend their strife,
To ruine what they fram'd: Then your fames life,
When desp'rate Time lies gasping, shall expire
Attended by the world ith' generall fire.
Fame lengthens thus her selfe. And I to tread
Your steps to glory, search among the dead,
Where Vertue lies obscur'd; that as I give
Life to her tombe, I spight of time may live.
Now I resolve in triumph of my verse,
To bring great Talbot from that forren hearse,
Which yet doth to her fright his dust enclose:
Then to sing Herbert who so glorious rose,
With the fourth Edward, that his faith doth shine
Yet in the faith of noblest Pembrookes line.
Sometimes my swelling spirits I prepare
To speake the mighty Percy, neerest heire,
In merits as in blood, to Charles the great:
Then Darbies worth and greatnesse to repeat:
Or Morleyes honour, or Mounteagles fame,
Whose valour lies eterniz'd in his name.
But while I thinke to sing those of my bloud,
And my Castara's; Loves unruly flood
Breakes in, and beares away what ever stands,
Built by my busie fancy on the sands.
To Castara,
Upon an embrace.
'Bout th' Husband Oke, the Vine
Thus wreathes to kisse his leavy face:
Their streames thus Rivers joyne,
And lose themselves in the embrace.
But Trees want sence when they infold,
And Waters when they meet, are cold.
Thus Turtles bill, and grone
Their loves into each others eare:
Two flames thus burne in one,
When their curl'd heads to heaven they reare.
But Birds want soule though not desire:
And flames materiall soone expire.
If not prophane; we'll say
When Angels close, their joyes are such.
For we not love obey
That's bastard to a fleshly touch.
Let's close Castara then, since thus
We patterne Angels, and they us.
To the Honourable, G. T.
Let not thy grones force Eccho from her cave,
Or interrupt her weeping o're that wave,
Which last Narcissus kist: let no darke grove
Be taught to whisper stories of thy love.
What though the wind be turn'd? Canst thou not saile
By vertue of a cleane contrary gale,
Into some other Port? Where thou wilt find,
It was thy better Genius chang'd the wind,
To steere thee to some Iland in the West,
For wealth and pleasure, that transcends thy East.
Though Astrodora, like a sullen starre
Eclipse her selfe: Ith' sky of beauty are
Ten thousand other fires, some bright as she.
And who with milder beames, may shine on thee.
Nor yet doth this Eclipse beare a portent,
That should affright the world: The firmament
Enjoyes the light it did, a Sunne as cleare,
And the young Spring doth like a Bride appeare,
As fairely wed to the Thessalian grove
As e're it was; though she and you not love.
And we two, who like two bright stars have shin'd
Ith' heaven of friendship, are as firmely joyn'd
As bloud and love first fram'd us. And to be
Lov'd, and thought worthy to be lov'd by thee,
Is to be glorious. Since fame cannot lend
An honour, equals that of Talbots friend.
Nor envie me that my Castara's flame
Yeelds me a constant warmth: Though first I came
To marriage happy Ilands: Seas to thee
Will yeeld as smooth a way, and winds as free.
Which shall conduct thee (if hope may divine;)
To this delicious port: and make love thine.
To Castara.
The reward of Innocent Love.
We saw and woo'd each others eyes,
My soule contracted then with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice.
By which our Marriage grew divine.
Let wilder youth, whose soule is sense,
Prophane the Temple of delight.
And purchase endlesse penitence,
With the stolen pleasure of one night.
Time's ever ours, while we dispise
The sensuall idoll of our clay.
For though the Sunne doe set and rise,
We joy one everlasting day.
Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
While each of us shine innocent.
The troubled streame is still impure,
With vertue flies away content.
And though opinion often erre,
Wee'le court the modest smile of fame.
For sinnes blacke danger circles her,
Who hath infection in her name.
Thus when to one darke silent roome,
Death shall our loving coffins thrust;
Fame will build columnes on our tombe,
And adde a perfume to our dust.
To my noble Friend, Sir I. P. Knight.
Sir,
Though my deare Talbots Fate exact, a sad
And heavy brow; my verse shall not be clad
For him this houre in mourning: I will write
To you the glory of a pompous night,
Which none (except sobriety) who wit
Or cloathes could boast, but freely did admit.
I (who still sinne for company) was there
And tasted of the glorious supper, where
Meate was the least of wonder. Though the nest
Oth' Phoenix rifled seem'd t'amaze the feast,
And th' Ocean left so poore that it alone
Could since vant wretched herring and poore John.
Lucullus surfets, were but types of this,
And whatsoever riot mention'd is
In story, did but the dull Zanye play,
To this proud night; which rather wee'le terme day:
For th'artificiall lights so thicke were set,
That bright Sun seem'd this to counterfeit
But seven (whom whether we should Sages call
Or deadly sinnes, Ile not dispute) were all
Invited to this pompe. And yet I dare
Pawne my lov'd Muse, th' Hungarian did prepare
Not halfe that quantity of victuall, when
He layd his happy siege to Nortlinghen.
The mist of the perfumes was breath'd so thicke
That Linx himselfe thought his sight fam'd so quicke,
Had there scarce spyed one sober: For the wealth
Of the Canaries was exhaust, the health
Of his good Majestye to celebrate,
Who'le judge them loyall subjects without that:
Yet they, who some fond privilege to mainteine,
Would have rebeld; their best freehold, their braine
Surrender'd there; and five fifteenes did pay
To drink his happy life and reigne. O day
It was thy piety to flye; th' hadst beene
Found accessary else to this fond sinne.
But I forget to speake each stratagem
By which the dishes enter'd, and in them
Each luscious miracle, As if more bookes
Had written beene oth' mystery of Cookes
Then the Philos'phers stone, here we did see
All wonders in the kitchin Alchimy:
But Ile not have you there, before you part
You shall have something of another art.
A banquet raining downe so fast, the good
Old Patriarch would have thought a generall flood:
Heaven open'd and from thence a mighty showre
Of Amber comfits it sweete selfe did powre
Upon our heads, and Suckets from our eye
Like thickend clouds did steale away the sky,
That it was question'd whether heaven were
Black-fryers, and each starre a confectioner;
But I too long detaine you at a feast
You hap'ly surfet of; now every guest
Is reeld downe to his coach; I licence crave
Sir, but to kisse your hands, and take my leave.
To The Right Honourable Archibald Earle of Ar.
If your example be obey'd
The serious few will live ith' silent shade:
And not indanger by the wind
Or Sunshine, the complexion of their mind:
Whose beauty weares so cleare a skin
That it decayes with the least taint of sin.
Vice growes by custome, nor dare we
Reject it as a slave, where it breathes free,
And is no priviledge denyed;
Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed.
Wherefore your Lordship in your selfe
(Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfe
Of humbler fortune) lives at ease,
Safe from the rocks oth' shore, and stormes oth' Seas.
Your soule's a well built City, where
There's such munition, that no war breeds feare:
No rebels wilde destractions move;
For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love.
And therefore you defiance bid
To open enmity, or mischiefe hid
In fawning hate and supple pride,
Who are on every corner fortifide.
Your youth not rudely led by rage
Of blood, is now the story of your age
Which without boast you may averre
'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer:
Glory not purchast by the breath
Of Sycophants, but by encountring death.
Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawes
Did make your fight, but justice of the cause.
For but mad prodigals they are
Of fortitude, who for it selfe love warre.
When well made peace hath clos'd the eyes
Of discord, loath did not your youth surprize.
Your life as well as powre, did awe
The bad, and to the good was the best law:
When most men vertue did pursue
In hope by it to grow in fame like you.
Nor when you did to court repaire,
Did you your manners alter with the ayre.
You did your modesty retaine
Your faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine.
Nor did all the soft flattery there
Inchant you so, but still you truth could heare.
And though your roofes were richly guilt,
The basis was on no wards ruine built.
Nor were your vassals made a prey,
And forc't to curse the Coronation day.
And though no bravery was knowne
To out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne.
For 'twas the indulgence of fate,
To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state?
But I, my Lord, who have no friend
Of fortune, must begin where you doe end.
'Tis dang'rous to approach the fire
Of action; nor is't safe, farre to retire.
Yet better lost ith' multitude
Of private men, then on the state t'intrude,
And hazard for a doubtfull smile,
My stocke of same, and inward peace to spoile.
Ile therefore nigh some murm'ring brooke
That wantons through my meddowes, with a booke
With my Castara, or some friend,
My youth not guilty of ambition spend.
To my own shade (if fate permit)
Ile whisper some soft musique of my wit.
And flatter to my selfe, Ile see
By that, strange motion steale into the tree.
But still my first and chiefest care
Shall be t'appease offended heaven with prayer:
And in such mold my thoughts to cast,
That each day shall be spent as 'twere my last
How ere it's sweete lust to obey,
Vertue though rugged, is the safest way.
An Elegy upon The Honourable Henry Cambell, sonne to the Earle of Arg.
Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breath
Expir'd to soone, or irreligious death
Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares
Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares,
Thou didst the old Methusalem out-live.
Though Time, but twenty yeares account can give
Of thy abode on earth, yet every houre
Of thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powre
Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent day
Keepes young the body, but the soule makes gray.
Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behind
Th'ast left to us such stories of thy minde
Fit for example; that when them we read,
We envy earth the treasure of the dead.
Why doe the sinfull riot and survive
The feavers of their surfets? Why alive
Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they
Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey?
Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night
With cheats and imprecations? Why is light
Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it:
Who sold the vigor of their strength and wit
To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth
And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth?
But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh
Those first from the darke prison of their clay
Who are most fit for heaven. Thou in warre
Hadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which are
The props on which peace safely doth subsist
And through the Cannons blew and horrid mist
Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat
That naught but death did want to make thee great.
Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee,
And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we
Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase
Of reall glory both in warre and peace,
We all did share: and thou away we feare
Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare.
Each then be his owne mourner, Wee'le to thee
Write hymnes, upon the world an Elegie.
To Castara.
Why should we feare to melt away in death;
May we but dye together. When beneath
In a coole vault we sleepe, the world will prove
Religious, and call it the shrine of Love.
There, when oth' wedding eve some beautious maid,
Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paid
The tribute of her vowes; oth' sudden shee
Two violets sprouting from the tombe will see:
And cry out, ye sweet emblems of their zeale
Who live below, sprang ye up to reveale
The story of our future joyes, how we
The faithfull patterns of their love shall be?
If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew,
And I will weepe and wither hence with you.
To Castara,
Of what we were before our creation.
When Pelion wondring saw, that raine which fell
But now from angry Heaven, to Heaven ward swell:
When th' Indian Ocean did the wanton play,
Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea:
And the whole earth was water: O where then
Were we Castara? In the fate of men
Lost underneath the waves? Or to beguile
Heaven's justice, lurkt we in Noahs floating Isle?
We had no being then. This fleshly frame
Wed to a soule, long after, hither came
A stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that were
But the last age, no news of us did heare.
What pompe is then in us? Who th' other day
Were nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.
To the Moment last past.
O Whither dost thou flye? Cannot my vow
Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now,
And thou art gone: like ships which plough the Sea,
And leave no print for man to tracke their way.
O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, can
Out-vie the jewels of the Ocean,
The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in thee
Had beene a purchase for eternity!
We will not loose thee then. Castara, where
Shall we finde out his hidden sepulcher;
And wee'le revive him. Not the cruell stealth
Of fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth.
Undone in thrift! while we besought his stay,
Ten of his fellow moments fled away.
To Castara.
Of the knowledge of Love.
Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspires
Life in the spring, and gathers into quires
The scatter'd Nightingales; whose subtle eares
Heard first th' harmonious language of the Spheares;
Whence hath the stone Magneticke force t'allure
Th' enamour'd iron; From a seed impure
Or naturall did first the Mandrake grow;
What powre ith' Ocean makes it ebbe and flow;
What strange materials is the azure skye
Compacted of; of what its
The ever flaming Sunne; what people are
In th'unknowne world; what worlds in every star;
Let curious fancies at this secret rove;
Castara what we know, wee'le practise, Love.
Madam,
Should the cold Muscovit, whose furre and stove
Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love,
But view the wonder of your presence, he
Would scorne his winters sharpest injury:
And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse
To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse.
As a dull Poet even he would say,
Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day
Till that bright minute; that he now admires
No more why the coy Spring so soone retires
From their unhappy clyme: It doth pursue
The Sun, and he derives his light from you.
Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick Sea
Is set at freedome, while the yce away
Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire
Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are
Reduc't to order; how to them you bring
The wealthiest mines below, above the Spring.
Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want
Religion to beleeve, there were a Saint
Within, and all he saw was but the shrine.
But I here pay my vowes to the devine
Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were
Not hid in a faire cloud but might appeare
In its full lustre, would make Nature live
In a state equall to her primitive.
But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eye
Cannot the splendor of your soule descry
In true perfection, by a glimmering light,
Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright
The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind
Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde.
How hastily doth Nature build up man
To leave him so imperfect? For he can
See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule
So farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule.
For had yours beene the object of his eye;
It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.
The harmony of Love.
Amphion, O thou holy shade!
Bring Orpheus up with thee:
That wonder may you both invade,
Hearing Loves harmony.
You who are soule, not rudely made
Up, with Materiall eares,
And fit to reach the musique of these spheares.
Harke! when Castara's orbs doe move
By my first moving eyes,
How great the Symphony of Love,
But 'tis the destinies
Will not so farre my prayer approve,
To bring you hither, here
Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.
Tis no dull Sublunary flame
Burnes in her heart and mine.
But something more, then hath a name.
So subtle and divine,
We know not why, nor how it came.
Which shall shine bright, till she
And the whole world of love, expire with me.
To my honoured friend Sir Ed. P. Knight.
You'd leave the silence in which safe we are,
To listen to the noyse of warre;
And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread,
Who by the number of the dead
Reckon their glories, and thinke greatnesse stood
Unsafe, till it was built on blood.
Secure ith' wall our Seas and ships provide
(Abhorring wars so barb'rous pride
And honour bought with slaughter) in content
Lets breath though humble, innocent.
Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nere
See the fresh youth of the next yeare.
Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose
Againe, t'out-blush th' Æmulous rose,
Why doth ambition so the mind distresse
To make us scorne what we possesse?
And looke so farre before us? Since all we
Can hope, is varied misery?
Goe find some whispering shade neare Arne or Poe,
And gently 'mong their violets throw
Your wearyed limbs, and see if all those faire
Enchantments can charme griefe or care?
Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you
The ruin'd Capitoll shall view
And statues, a disorder'd heape; you can
Not cure yet the disease of man,
And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile where
Another Sun and Starres appeare,
And land not toucht by any covetous fleet,
And yet even there your selfe you'le meet.
Stay here then, and while curious exiles find
New toyes for a fantastique mind;
Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring
By her aeriall quires doth sing
As sweetly to you, as if you were laid
Under the learn'd Thessalian shade,
Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le find
A thousand regions in your mind
Yet undiscover'd. Travell them, and be
Expert in home Cosmographie.
This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe:
Man's a whole world within him selfe.
To Castara.
Give me a heart where no impure
Disorder'd passions rage,
Which jealousie doth not obscure,
Not vanity t' expence ingage,
Nor wooed to madnesse by quient oathes,
Or the fine Rhetoricke of cloathes,
Which not the softnesse of the age
To vice or folly doth decline;
Give me that heart (Castara) for 'tis thine.
Take thou a heart where no new looke
Provokes new appetite:
With no fresh charme of beauty tooke,
Or wanton stratagem of wit;
Not Idly wandring here and there,
Led by an am'rous eye or eare.
Ayming each beautious marke to hit;
Which vertue doth to one confine:
Take thou that heart, Castara, for 'tis mine.
And now my heart is lodg'd with thee,
Observe but how it still
Doth listen how thine doth with me;
And guard it well, for else it will
Runne hither backe; not to be where
I am, but 'cause thy heart is here.
But without discipline, or skill.
Our hearts shall freely 'tweene us move;
Should thou or I want hearts, wee'd breath by love.
To my noblest Friend, I. C. Esquire.
Sir,
I hate the Countries durt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide.
But loathe the expence, the vanity, and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold
(After a due oath ministred) the height
And greatnesse of each star shines in the state:
The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
Soone as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those Germane townes, even puzzle me to spell.
The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, they
Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning, or delay:
And on each action comment, with more skill
Then upon Livy, did old Machavill.
O busie folly! Why doe I my braine
Perplex with the dull pollicies of Spaine,
Or quicke designes of France? Why not repaire
To the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:
And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost give
Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live
Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not we
Arme against passion with Philosophie;
And by the aide of leisure, so controule,
What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?
Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when
We study misteries of other men
And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade
(Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,
Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate all
His stratagems who labours to inthrall
The world to his great Master; and youle finde
Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.
Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deare
A price for glory: Honour doth appeare
To statesmen like a vision in the night,
And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.
Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respect
Indangers them to error; They affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equall eye, not bright in gold
Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
As Vertue raiseth him above his clay.
Thus let us value things: And since we find
Time bends us toward death, lets in our mind
Create new youth; and arme against the rude
Assaults of age; that no dull solitude
Oth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care
Oth' towne make us not thinke, where now we are
And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot
His journey, though his steps we numbred not.
To Castara.
What Lovers will say when she and he are dead.
I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say;
Will not poore Orphan Lovers weepe.
The parents of their Loves decay;
And envy death the treasure of our sleepe?
Will not each trembling Virgin bring her feares
To th' holy silence of my Urne?
And chide the Marble with her teares,
Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.
For had Fate spar'd but Araphill (she'le say)
He had the great example stood,
And forc't unconstant man obey
The law of Loves Religion, not of blood.
And youth by female perjury betraid,
Will to Castara's shrine deplore
His injuries, and death obrayd,
That woman lives more guilty, then before.
For while thy breathing purified the ayre
Thy Sex (hee'le say) did onely move
By the chaste influence of a faire,
Whose vertue shin'd in the bright orbe of love.
Now woman, like a Meteor vapor'd forth
From dunghills, doth amaze our eyes;
Not shining with a reall worth,
But subtile her blacke errors to disguise.
Thus will they talke, Castara, while our dust
In one darke vault shall mingled be.
The world will fall a prey to lust,
When Love is dead, which hath one fate with me.
To his Muse.
Here Virgin fix thy pillars, and command
They sacred may to after ages stand
In witnesse of loves triumph. Yet will we
Castara, find new worlds in Poetry,
And conquer them. Not dully following those
Tame lovers, who dare cloth their thoughts in prose.
But we will henceforth more Religious prove,
Concealing the high mysteries of love
From the prophane. Harmonious like the spheares,
Our soules shall move, not reacht by humane eares.
That Musicke to the Angels, this to fame,
I here commit. That when their holy flame,
True lovers to pure beauties would rehearse,
They may invoke the Genius of my verse.
FINIS.
A Friend
Is a man. For the free and open discovery of thoughts to woman can not passe without an over licentious familiarity, or a justly occasion'd suspition; and friendship can neither stand with vice or infamie. He is vertuous, for love begot in sin is a mishapen monster, and seldome out-lives his birth. He is noble, and inherits the vertues of all his progenitors; though happily unskilfull to blazon his paternall coate; So little should nobility serve for story, but when it encourageth to action. He is so valiant, feare could never be listned to, when she whisper'd danger; and yet fights not, unlesse religion confirmes the quarrell lawfull. He submits his actions to the government of vertue, not to the wilde decrees of popular opinion; and when his conscience is fully satisfied, he cares not how mistake and ignorance interpret him. He hath so much fortitude he can forgive an injurie; and when he hath overthrown his opposer, not insult upon his weakenesse. He is an absolute governor; no destroyer of his passions, which he imployes to the noble increase of vertue. He is wise, for who hopes to reape a harvest from the sands, may expect the perfect offices of friendship from a foole. He hath by a liberall education beene softned to civility; for that rugged honesty some rude men posesse, is an indigested Chaos; which may containe the seedes of goodnesse, but it wants forme and order.
He is no flatterer; but when he findes his friend any way imperfect, he freely but gently informes him; nor yet shall some few errors cancell the bond of friendship; because he remembers no endeavours can raise man above his frailety. He is as slow to enter into that title, as he is to forsake it; a monstrous vice must disobliege, because an extraordinary vertue did first unite; and when he parts, he doth it without a duell. He is neither effeminate, nor a common courtier; the first is so passionate a doater upon himselfe, hee cannot spare love enough to bee justly named friendship: the latter hath his love so diffusive among the beauties, that man is not considerable. He is not accustomed to any sordid way of gaine, for who is any way mechanicke, will sell his friend upon more profitable termes. He is bountifull, and thinkes no treasure of fortune equall to the preservation of him he loves; yet not so lavish, as to buy friendship and perhaps afterward finde himselfe overseene in the purchase. He is not exceptious, for jealousie proceedes from weakenesse, and his vertues quit him from suspitions. He freely gives advice, but so little peremptory is his opinion that he ingenuously submits it to an abler judgement. He is open in expression of his thoughts and easeth his melancholy by inlarging it; and no Sanctuary preserves so safely, as he his friend afflicted. He makes use of no engines of his friendship to extort a secret; but if committed to his charge, his heart receives it, and that and it come both to light together. In life he is the most amiable object to the soule, in death the most deplorable.
The Funerals of the Honourable, my best friend and Kinsman, George Talbot, Esquire.
Elegie, 1.
Twere malice to the fame; to weepe alone
And not enforce an universall groane
From ruinous man, and make the World complaine:
Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophane
In mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truth
Yet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth.
I can relate thy businesse here on earth,
Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birth
Out-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farre
Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star,
I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in
Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin.
Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way,
Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we may
Without disturbing the harmonious Spheares,
Bathe here below thy memory in our teares.
Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'd
My active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'd
By empty griefes; they who can utter it,
Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit.
I stood like Niobe without a grone,
Congeal'd into that monumentall stone
That doth lye over thee: I had no roome
For witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe.
And friendships monument, thus had I stood;
But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my blood
With a new life. Ile like a funerall fire
But burne a while to thee, and then expire.
Elegie, 2.
Talbot is dead. Like lightning which no part
Oth' body touches, but first strikes the heart,
This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in all
The stocke of sorrow, any charme can call
Death sooner up. For musiqu's in the breath
Of thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' death
That brings with it, if you with this compare
All the loude noyses, which torment the ayre.
They cure (Physitians say) the element
Sicke with dull vapors, and to banishment
Confine infections; but this fatall shreeke,
Without the least redresse, is utter'd like
The last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lye
A scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye.
What now hath life to boast of? Can I have
A thought lesse darke than th' horror of the grave
Now thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a fault
Past pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault?
Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe?
Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe,
These vowes to thee! for since great Talbot's gone
Downe to thy silence, I commerce with none
But thy pale people: and in that confute
Mistaking man, that dead men are not mute.
Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eare
Accustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heare
How their cold language tels thee, that thy skin
Is but a beautious shrine, in which black sin
Is Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lust
Hath its loose motion; and thy end is dust.
Great Atlas of the state, descend with me.
But hither, and this vault shall furnish thee
With more aviso's, then thy costly spyes,
And show how false are all those mysteries
Thy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swell
With envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell.
It will instruct you, Courtier, that your Art
Of outward smoothnesse and a rugged heart
But cheates your self, and all those subtill wayes
You tread to greatnesse, is a fatall maze
Where you your selfe shall loose, for though you breath
Upward to pride, your center is beneath.
And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound;
Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can wound
This unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquence
Will teach my soule to triumph over sence,
Which hath its period in a grave, and there
Showes what are all our pompous surfets here.
Great Orator! deare Talbot! Still, to thee
May I an auditor attentive be:
And piously maintaine the same commerce
We held in life! and if in my rude verse
I to the world may thy sad precepts read:
I will on earth interpret for the dead.
Elegie, 3.
Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and though
I cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goe
In thy coelestiall journey; and my heart
Expanssion wants, to thinke what now thou art
How bright and wide thy glories; yet I may
Remember thee, as thou wert in thy clay.
Best object to my heart! what vertues be
Inherent even to the least thought of thee!
Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feare
In its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare,
Now glorious to my eye, since it possest
The wealthy empyre of that happie chest
Which harbours thy rich dust; for how can he
Be thought a bank'rout that embraces thee?
Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eare
I catch from lonely graves, in hope to heare
Newes from the dead, nor can pale visions fright
His eye, who since thy death feeles no delight
In mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fate
Doth in me a sublimer soule create.
And now my sorrow followes thee, I tread
The milkie way, and see the snowie head
Of Atlas farre below, while all the high
Swolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye.
I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while I
Weepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye,
My soule with thine doth hold commerce above;
Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love,
Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man;
So fraile that every blast of honour can
Swell him above himselfe, each, adverse gust
Him and his glories shiver into dust.
How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a span
His empire, who commands the Ocean.
Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty ore
And th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shore
Nor can it greater seeme, when this great All
For which men quarrell so, is but a ball
Cast downe into the ayre to sport the starres.
And all our generall ruines, mortall warres,
Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway;
And mans so reverend wisedome but their play.
From thee, deare Talbot, living I did learne
The Arts of life, and by thy light discerne
The truth, which men dispute. But by thee dead
I'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread:
And that way sooner master it, than he
To whom both th' Indies tributary be.
Elegie, 4.
My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breath
Did call upon: affirming that thy death
Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be
Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.
My Lord, if I with licence of your teares,
(Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds weares
T' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne:
Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowne
Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe
In griefe a method: without forme I weepe.
The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyes
Wet just as long as are the obsequies.
The widow formerly a yeare doth spend
In her so courtly blackes. But for a Friend
We weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, have
Our very thoughts confin'd within a Grave.
Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame
And thou Castara who had hadst a name,
But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse
Is lost to you, and onely on Talbots herse
Sadly attends. And till times fatall hand
Ruines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand.
There to thy selfe, deare Talbot, Ile repeate
Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great
Thou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how all
Who out-live thee, see but the Funerall
Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be,
They but weake apparitions are of thee.
So setled were thy thoughts, each action so
Discreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow
Was ere perceiv'd in thee: each word mature
And every sceane of life from sinne so pure
That scarce in its whole history, we can
Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.
Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we must
Addresse our language to a little dust,
And seeke for Talbot there. Injurious fate,
To lay my lifes ambition desolate.
Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know,
Not how it can give such another blow.
Elegie, 5.
Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely bright
As when by death her Soule shines in full light
Freed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that came
From thee (deare Talbot) did beget a flame
T' enkindle vertue: which so faire by thee
Became, man, that blind mole, her face did see.
But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwell
Yet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cell
Of some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there,
As if of her the old man jealous were.
Nor ever showes her beauty, but to some
Carthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe!
So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea,
A starre about the Articke Circle, may
Then ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shall
Serve at the frozen Pilots funerall.
Thou (brightest constellation) to this maine
Which all we sinners traffique on, didst daigne
The bounty of thy fire, which with so cleare
And constant beames did our frayle vessels steare,
That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway,
Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea.
But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke
The folly doth of our ambition mocke
And splits our hopes: To every Sirens breath
We listen and even court the face of death,
If painted ore by pleasure: Every wave
Ift hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave:
So ruinous is the defect of thee,
To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me
Who liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,
Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.
And now by fate: I but my selfe survive,
To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive.
Where shall I then begin to weepe? No grove
Silent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love:
With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,
His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse teares
Each eare is so enchanted; that no breath
Is listned to, which mockes report of death.
I'le turne my griefe then inward and deplore
My ruine to my selfe, repeating ore
The story of his vertues; untill I
Not write, but am my selfe his Elegie.
Elegie, 6.
Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight
To their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder night
From its approach on day, and force day rise
From the faire East of some bright beauties eyes:
Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse.
It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herse
Redeemes not Talbot, who cold as the breath
Of winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,
Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eare
To breath into his soft expiring prayer.
For had thy life beene by thy vertues spun
Out to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the Sunne
And clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not all
Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall
Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be
The conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.
But all we Poets glory in, is vaine
And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine
One poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flye
By a fooles finger destinate to dye.
Live then in thy true life (great soule) for set
At liberty by death thou owest no debt
T' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sport
Of time and fortune in yand' starry court
A glorious Potentate, while we below
But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.
We follow campes, and to our hopes propose
Th' insulting victor; not remembring those
Dismembred trunkes who gave him victory
By a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants be
And to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,
Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea.
The shootings of a wounded conscience
We patiently sustaine to serve our sence
With a short pleasure; So we empire gaine
And rule the fate of businesse, the sad paine
Of action we contemne, and the affright
Which with pale visions still attends our night.
Our joyes false apparitions, but our feares
Are certaine prophecies. And till our eares
Reach that cÆlestiall musique, which thine now
So cheerefully receive, we must allow
No comfort to our griefes: from which to be
Exempted, is in death to follow thee.
Elegie, 7.
There is no peace in sinne. Æternall war
Doth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues are
Friends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents be
Harsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie.
While thou didst live we did that union finde
In the so faire republick of thy mind,
Where discord never swel'd. And as we dare
Affirme those goodly structures, temples are
Where well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:
The musique of thy soule made us say, there
God had his Altars; every breath a spice
And each religious act a sacrifice.
But death hath that demolisht. All our eye
Of thee now sees doth like a Cittie lye
Raz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flame
That added warmth and beauty to thy frame?
Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fire
The losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire?
Or hovers it beneath, the world t' uphold
From generall ruine, and expell that cold
Dull humor weakens it? If so it be;
My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity.
But thy example (if kinde heaven had daignd
Frailty that favour) had mankind regaind
To his first purity. For that the wit
Of vice, might not except 'gainst th' Ancherit
As too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live:
Teaching the soule by what preservative,
She may from sinnes contagion live secure,
Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.
In this darke mist of error with a cleare
Unspotted light, thy vertue did appeare
T' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rage
Of untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;
Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealth
Of time have spent in ryot, or his health
By surfeits forfeited; if he had seene
What temperance had in thy dyet beene?
What glorious foole had vaunted honours bought
By gold or practise, or by rapin brought
From his fore-fathers, had he understood
How Talbot valued not his owne great blood!
Had Politicians seene him scorning more
The unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the poore
Thatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind
(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth find
Still free admittance: their pale labors had
Beene to be good, not to be great and bad.
But he is lost in a blind vault, and we
Must not admire though sinnes now frequent be
And uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables where
The Law was writ by death now broken are,
By death extinguisht is that Star, whose light
Did shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd right
Which steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,
(That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be.
But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre,
Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fire
Enlighten'd. And since thou must never here
Be seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.
Elegie, 8.
Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all
The cunning Pompe of the Escuriall.
Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room
Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.
Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chest
Is Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the East
When it is purified by th' generall fire
Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher
Then all the gems she vants: transcending far
In fragrant lustre the bright morning star.
Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we
Have by a cataract lost sight, then he
Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night
Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light.
Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of day
From the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le pay
Like the just Larke, the tribute of my verse
I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
To rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread,
That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.
My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes come
From th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdome
The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose
When the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowes
Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East
Vying with Paradice, ith' Phoenix nest.
These gentle perfumes usher in the day
Which from the night of his discolour'd clay
Breakes on the sudden: for a Soule so bright
Of force must to her earth contribute light.
But if w' are so far blind, we cannot see
The wonder of this truth; yet let us be
Not infidels: nor like dull Atheists give
Our selves so long to lust, till we believe
(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall
To a loath'd nothing in our Funerall.
The bad mans death is horror. But the just
Keepe something of his glory in his dust.
FINIS.
