To him doth his feign'd mother yield; Nor Mars (her champion)'s flaming shield Guards him when Cupid takes the field.
He clips Hope's wings, whose airy bliss Much higher than fruition is; But less than nothing, if it miss.
When matches Love alone projects The cause transcending the effects, That wild-fire's quench'd in cold neglects:
Whilst those conjunctions prove the best, Where Love's of blindness dispossest, By perspectives of interest.
Though Solomon with a thousand wives, To get a wise successor strives, But one (and he a fool) survives.
Old Rome of children took no care, They with their friends their beds did share, Secure t' adopt a hopeful heir.
Love drowsy days and stormy nights Makes; and breaks friendship, whose delights Feed, but not glut, our appetites.
Well-chosen friendship, the most noble Of virtues, all our joys makes double, And into halves divides our trouble.
But when th' unlucky knot we tie, Care, avarice, fear, and jealousy, Make friendship languish till it die.
The wolf, the lion, and the bear, When they their prey in pieces tear, To quarrel with themselves forbear:
Yet timorous deer, and harmless sheep, When love into their veins doth creep, That law of Nature cease to keep.
Who then can blame the amorous boy, Who the fair Helen to enjoy, To quench his own, set fire on Troy? Such is the world's preposterous fate, Amongst all creatures, mortal hate Love (though immortal) doth create.
But love may beasts excuse, for they 'Their actions not by reason sway, But their brute appetites obey.
But man's that savage beast, whose mind, From reason to self-love declin'd, Delights to prey upon his kind.
MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S DEATH, AND BURIAL AMONGST THE ANCIENT POETS.
OLD Chaucer, like the morning star, To us discovers day from far;
His light those mists and clouds dissolv'd, Which our dark nation long involv'd: But he descending to the shades, Darkness again the age invades.
Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose,
Whose purple blush the day foreshows; The other three, with his own fires, Phoebus, the poets' god, inspires;
By Shakespear's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, Our stage's lustre Rome's outshines : These poets near our princes sleep, And in one grave their mansion keep. They liv'd to see so many days, Till time had blasted all their bays: But cursed be the fatal hour
That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower That in the Muses' garden grew, And amongst wither'd laurels threw. Time, which made them their fame outlive, To Cowley scarce did ripeness give. Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have; In Spenser, and in Jonson, Art Of slower Nature got the start; But both in him so equal are,
None knows which bears the happiest share < To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own; He melted not the ancient gold, Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold To plunder all the Roman stores Of poets, and of orators: Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, He did not steal, but emulate !
And when he would like them appear,
Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear: He not from Rome alone, but Greece, Like Jason brought the golden fleece; To him that language (though to none Of th' others) as his own was known. On a stiff gale (as Flaccus sings) The Theban swan extends his wings, When through th' etherial clouds he flies: To the same pitch our swan doth rise; Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd When on that gale his wings are stretch'd; His fancy and his judgment such, Each to the other seem'd too much, His severe judgment (giving law) His modest fancy kept in awe : As rigid husbands, jealous are, When they believe their wives too fair. His English streams so pure did flow, As all that saw and tasted know: But for his Latin vein, so clear, Strong, full, and high it doth appear, That were immortal Virgil here, Him, for his judge, he would not fear: Of that great portraiture, so true A copy, pencil never drew.
My Muse her song had ended here, But both their Genii straight appear: Joy and amazement her did strike, Two twins she never saw so like. 'Twas taught by wise Pythagoras, One soul might through more bodies pass. Seeing such transmigration there, She thought it not a fable here. Such a resemblance of all parts, Life, death, age, fortune, nature, arts; Then lights her torch at theirs, to tell, And show the world this parallel : Fixt and contemplative their looks,
Still turning over Nature's books: Their works chaste, moral, and divine, Where profit and delight combine; They, gilding dirt, in noble verse Rustic philosophy rehearse. When heroes, gods, or god-like kings, They praise, on their exalted wings To the celestial orbs they climb,
And with th' harmonious spheres keep time: Nor did their actions fall behind
Their words, but with like candour shin'd; Each drew fair characters, yet none Of these they feign'd, excels their own. Both by two generous princes lov'd, Who knew, and judg'd what they approv'd, Yet having each the same desire, Both from the busy throng retire. Their bodies to their minds resign'd, Car'd not to propagate their kind: Yet though both fell before their hour, Time on their offspring hath no power, Nor fire nor Fate their bays shall blast, Nor Death's dark veil their day o'ercast.
To the tune of, "I went from England."
Bur will you now to peace incline, And languish in the main design,
And leave us in the lurch?
I would not monarchy destroy, But as the only way t' enjoy The ruin of the church.
Is not the bishop's bill deny'd, And we still threaten'd to be try'd?
You see the king embraces Those counsels he approv'd before: Nor doth he promise, which is more, That we shall have their places.
Did I for this bring in the Scot? (For 'tis no secret now) the plot
Was Saye's and mine together:
Did I for this return again, And spend a winter there in vain,
Once more t' invite them hither?
Though more our money than our cause Their brotherly assistance draws,
My labour was not lost. At my return I brought you thence Necessity, their strong pretence,
And these shall quit the cost.
Did I for this my country bring To help their knight against their king, And raise the first sedition? Though I the business did decline, Yet I contriv'd the whole design,
And sent them their petition.
So many nights spent in the city In that invisible committee,
If men in peace can have their right, Where's the necessity to fight,
That breaks both law and cath? They'll say they fight not for the cause, Nor to defend the king and laws. But us against them both.
Either the cause at first was ill, Or being good, it is so still;
And thence they will infer, That either now or at the first They were deceiv'd; or, which is worst, That we ourselves may err.
But plague and famine will come in, For they and we are near of kin,
TO FIVE MEMBERS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.
And cannot go asunder : But while the wicked starve, indeed The saints have ready at their need God's providence, and plunder.
Princes we are if we prevail, And gallant villains if we fail :
When to our fame 'tis told, It will not be our least of praise, Since a new state we could not raise.
To have destroy'd the old.
Then let us stay and fight, and vote, Till London is not worth a groat;
Oh'tis a patient beast!
When we have gall'd and tir'd the mule, And can no longer have the rule,
We'll have the spoil at least.
For all those pretty knacks you compose, Alas, what are they but poems in prose? And between those and ours there's no difference, But that yours want the ryme, the wit, and the
But for lying (the most noble part of a poet) You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it ; And though you are modest and seem to abhor it, "T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it:
Although the old maxim remains still in force, That a sanctify'd cause must have a sanctify'd If poverty be a part of our trade, [course,
So far the whole kingdom poets you have made, Nay even so far as undoing will do it, You have made king Charles himself a poct: But provoke not his Muse, for all the world knows,
Already you have had too much of his prose.
HONOURABLE HOUSE OF COMMONS, Do you not know not a fortnight ago,
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE POETS.
AFTER AFTER so many concurring petitions From all ages and sexes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroude, Haslerig, Hampden, and Holles.
Though set form of prayer be an abomination, Set forms of petitions find great approbation : Therefore, as others from th' bottom of their souls,
So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls, According unto the bless'd form you have taught us,
We thank you first for the ills you have brought us: For the good we receive we thank him that gave And you for the confidence only to crave it. [it, Next in course, we complain of the great viola- Of privilege (like the rest of our nation); [tion But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken, Which never had being until they were broken; But ours is a privilege ancient and native, Hangs not on an ordinance, or power legislative. And first, 'tis to speak whatever we please, Without fear of a prison or pursuivant's fees. Next, that we only may lye by authority; But in that also you have got the priority. Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it Poetical licence, and always did claim it. By this we have power to change age into youth, Turn nonsense to sense, and falsehood to truth; In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty; This art some poet, or the Devil, has taught ye: And this our property you have invaded, And a privilege of both houses have made it. But that trust above all in poets reposed, That kings by them only are made and deposed, This though you cannot do, yet you are willing: But when we undertake deposing or killing, They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet
Takes full revenge on the villains that do it: And when we resume a sceptre or crown, We are modest, and seek not to make it our own. But is 't not presumption to write verses to you, Who make better poems by far of the two?
How they bragg'd of a Western Wonder? When a hundred and ten slew five thousand men, With the help of lightning and thunder ?
There Hopton was slain again and again, Or else my author did lye; With a new Thanksgiving, for the dead who are To God, and his servant Chidleigh.
But now on which side was this miracle try'd, [graves, I hope we at last are even; For sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their To cudgel the clowns of Devon.
And there Stamford came, for his honour was Of the gout three months together; [lame But it prov'd when they fought, but a running For his heels were lighter than ever. [gout For now he outruns his arms and his guns,
And leaves all his money behind him; But they follow after; unless he takes water, At Plymouth again they will find him.
When out came the book which the news-monger | But, alas! he had been feasted From the preaching ladies letter, Where, in the first place, stood the Conqueror's Which made it show much the better. [face,
But now without lying, you may paint him flying, At Bristol they say you may find him, Great William the Con, so fast he did run, That he left half his name behind him.
With a spiritual collation, By our frugal mayor, Who can dine on a prayer, And sup on an exhortation. 'Twas mere impulse of spirit, Though he us'd the weapon carnal: Filly foal," quoth he, "My bride thou shalt be,
And now came the post, save all that was lost, And how this is lawful, learn all.
But alas, we are past deceiving By a trick so stale, or else such a tale Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.
This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face, In the pulpit to fall a weeping, Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from his Which kept the lord-mayor from sleeping.
Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops, For the laws, not your cause, you that loath 'em,
"For if no respect of persons Be due 'mongst sons of Adam, In a large extent,
Thereby may be meant That a mare 's as good as a madam."
Then without more ceremony, Not bonnet vail'd, nor kiss'd her, But took her by force,
For better for worse, And us'd her like a sister.
Lest Essex should start, and play the second part Now when in such a saddle Of the worshipful sir John Hotham.
Even to our whole profession A scandal 'twill be counted,
When 'tis talk'd with disdain, Amongst the profane,
How brother Green was mounted.
And in the good time of Christmas,
Which though our saints have damn'd all, Yet when did they hear That a damn'd cavalier
F'er play'd such a Christmas gambal!
Had thy flesh, O Green, been pamper'd With any cates unhallow'd,
Hadst thou sweeten'd thy gums With pottage of plums,
Or profane mine'd pye hadst swallow'd :
Roll'd up in wanton swine's flesh, The fiend might have crep into thee; Then fullness of gut
Might have caus'd thee to rut,
And the Devil have so rid through thee.
A saint will needs be riding,
Though we dare not say
"Tis a falling away,
May there be not some back-sliding?
"No surely," quoth James Naylor, ""Twas but an insurrection
Of the carnal part,
For a Quaker in heart Can never lose perfection.
"For (as our masters' teach us) The intent being well directed, Though the Devil trepan The Adamical man, The saint stands uninfected."
But alas! a Pagan jury Ne'er judges what 's intended; Then say what we can, Brother Green's outward inan
I fear will be suspended.
And our adopted sister Will find no better quarter,
But when him we enrol For a saint, Filly Foal Shall pass herself for a martyr.
Rome, that spiritual Sodom, No longer is thy debtor,
O Colchester, now Who's Sodom but thou, Even according to the letter?
MORPHEUS, the humble god, that dwells In cottages and smoaky cells, Hates gilded roofs and beds of down; And though he fears no prince's frown, Flies from the circle of a crown.
Come, I say, thou powerful god,
And thy leaden charming rod, Dipt in the Lethéan lake, O'er his wakeful temples shake,
Lest he should sleep, and never wake.
Nature (alas!) why art thou so Obliged to thy greatest foe? Sleep that is thy best repast, Yet of death it bears a taste, And both are the same thing at last.
MR. JOHN FLETCHER'S WORKS. So shall we joy, when all whom beasts and worms Have turn'd to their own substances and forms: Whom earth to earth, or fire hath chang'd to fire,
We shall behold more than at first entire; As now we do, to see all thine thy own In this my Muse's resurrection,
Free from the blemish of an artless hand, Secure of fame, thou justly dost esteem Less honour to create, than to redeem. Nor ought a genius less than his that writ, Attempt translation; for transplanted wit, All the defects of air and soil doth share, And colder brains like colder climates are ; In vain they toil, since nothing can beget A vital spirit but a vital heat.
That servile path thou nobly dost decline Of tracing word by word, and line by line. Those are the labour'd births of slavish brains, Not the effect of poetry, but pains; Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words.
A new and nobler way thou dost pursue To make translations and translators too. They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame,
Whose scatter'd parts from thy own race, more True to his sense, but truer to his fame.
Hath suffer'd, than Acteon from his hounds; Which first their brains, and then their belly fed,
And from their excrements new poets bred. But now thy Muse enraged, from her urn, Like ghosts of murder'd bodies, does return T'accuse the murderers, to right the stage, And undeceive the long-abused age,
Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy wit
Gives not more gold than they give dross to it: Who, not content, like felons, to purloin, Add treason to it, and debase the coin. But whither am I stray'd? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, Nor need thy juster title the foul guilt Of eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain. Then was Wit's empire at the fatal height, When labouring and sinking with its weight, From thence a thousand lesser poets sprung, Like petty princes from the fall of Rome; When Jonson, Shakespeare, and thyself did sit, And sway'd in the triumvirate of,witYet what from Jonson's oil and sweat did flow, Or what more easy Nature did bestow
On Shakespeare's gentler Muse, in thee full
Their graces both appear, yet so that none Can say, here Nature ends, and Art begins, But mixt like th' elements, and born like twins,
So interwove, so like, so much the same, None, this mere Nature, that mere Art can name :
Fording his current, where thou find'st it low, Let'st in thine own to make it rise and flow; Wisely restoring whatsoever grace
It lost by change of times, or tougues, or place. Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times, Betray'st his music to unhappy rhymes. Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength Stretch'd and dissolv'd into unsinew'd length: Yet after all, (lest we should think it thine) Thy spirit to his circle dost confine. New names, new dressings, and the modern cast, Some scenes, some persons alter'd, and out- fac'd [known
The world, it were thy work: for we have Some thank'd and prais'd for what was less their
That master's hand which to the life can trace The airs, the lines, and features of the face, May with a free and bolder stroke express A vary'd posture or a flattering dress;
He could have made those like, who made the
But that he knew his own design was best.
'Twas this the ancients meant ; Nature and Skill POOL. To thee dear Tom, myself addressing,
Are the two tops of their Parnassus' hill.
TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW,
UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF PASTOR FIDO.
Suca is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few but such as cannot write, translate,
Most queremoniously confessing, That I of late have been compressing.
Destitute of my wonted gravity,
I perpetrated arts of pravity, In a contagious concavity.
Making efforts with all my puissance, For some venereal rejouissance,
I got (as once may say) a nuysance.
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