And for the few that only lend their ear,
That few is all the world; which with a few
Do ever live, and move, and work, and stir.
This is the heart doth feel, and only know
The rest of all that only bodies bear,
Roll up and down, and fill up but the row;

And serves as others' members, not their own,
The instruments of those that do direct.
Then what disgrace is this, not to be known
To those know not to give themselves respect?
And though they swell with pomp of folly blown,
They live ungrac'd, and die but in neglect.

And for my part, if only one allow
The care my lab'ring spirits take in this;
He is to me a the'tre large enow,
And his applause only sufficient is:
All my respect is bent but to his brow;
That is my all, and all I am is his.

And if some worthy spir'ts be pleased too,

It shall more comfort breed, but not more will.
But what if none? It cannot yet undo
The love I bear unto this holy skill.
This is the thing that I was born to do:
This is my scene; this part must I fulfil

Let those that know not breath esteem of wind,
And set t'a vulgar air their servile song;
Rating their goodness, by the praise they find,
Making their worth on others' fits belong;
As Virtue were the hireling of the mind,
And could not live if Fame had ne'er a tongue :

And undeceived with the paralax

Of a mistaking eye of passion, know

By these mask'd outsides what the inward lacks; Meas'ring man by himself, not by his show: Wond'ring not at their rich and golden backs, That have poor minds, and little else to show.

Nor taking that for them, which well they see
Is not of them, but rather is their load :
The lies of fortune, wherewithal men be
Deemed within, when they be all abroad;
Whose ground, whose grass, whose earth have cap
and knee,

Which they suppose is on themselves bestow'd;

And think (like Isis' ass) all honours are
Giv'n unto them alone; the which are done
Unto the painted idol which they bear,
That only makes them to be gazed on.

For take away their pack, and show them bare,
And see what beast this honour rides upon.

Hath knowledge lent to her's the privy key,
To let them in unto the highest stage

Of causes, secrets, counsels; to survey
The wits of men, their heats, their colds, their rage;
That build, destroy, praise, hate, say and gain-say,
Believe and unbelieve, all in one age?

And shall we trust goodness, as it proceeds
From that unconstant mouth; which with one breath
Will make it bad again, unless it feeds
The present humour that it favoureth?
Shall we esteem, and reckon how it heeds
Our works, that his own vows unhalloweth ?

Then whereto serves it to have been enlarg'd
With this free manumission of the mind,
If for all that we still continue charg'd
With those discover'd errours which we find?
As if our knowledge only were discharg'd,
Yet we ourselves stay'd in a servile kind.

That Virtue must be out of countenance,
If this gross spir't, or that weak shallow brain,
Or this nice wit, or that distemperance,
Neglect, distaste, uncomprehend, disdain:
When such sick eyes can never cast a glance,
But through the colours of their proper stain.
Though I must needs confess, the small respect
That these great seeming-best of men do give,
(Whose brow begets th' inferior sort's neglect)
Might move the wreak irresolute to grieve;
But stronger see how justly this defect

Hath overtook the times wherein we live.

That learning needs must run the common fate
Of all things else, thrust on by her own weight;
Comporting not herself in her estate,

Under this burthen of a self-conceit:
Our own dissentious hands op'ning the gate
Unto contempt, that on our quarrels wait,

Discover'd have our inward government;
And let in hard opinion to disgrace
The general, for some weak impotent,
That bear out their disease with a stol'n face;
Who (silly souls!) the more wit they have spent,
The less they show'd, not bett'ring their bad case.

And see how soon this rolling world can take
Advantage for her dissolution!

Fain to get loose from this withholding stake
Of civil science and discretion;

How glad it would run wild, that it might make
One formless form of one confusion!

Like tyrant Ottomans blindfolded state,
Which must know nothing more, but to obey:
For this seeks greedy ignorance t' abate
Our number, order, living, form and sway:
For this it practises to dissipate

Th' unshelter'd troops, till all be made away.

For since our fathers' sins pull'd first to ground
The pale of this dissever'd dignity,
And overthrew that holy rev'rend bound,
That parted learning and the laity,

And laid all flat in common; to confound
The honour and respect of piety.

It did so much invile the estimate
Of th' open'd and invulgar'd mysteries,
Which now reduc'd unto the basest rate,
Must wait upon the Norman subtleties;
Who being mounted up into their state,
Do best with wrangling rudeness sympathize.

And yet, though now set quite behind the train
Of vulgar sway, (and light of pow'r weigh'd light)
Yet would this giddy innovation fain
Down with it lower, to abase it quite:
And those poor remnants that do yet remain
The spoiled marks of their divided right,

They wholly would deface, to leave no face
Of reverend distinction and degree;
As if they weigh'd no diff'rence in this case,
Betwixt Religion's age and infancy:
Where th'one must creep, th' other stand with grace,
Lest turn'd t' a child, it overturned be.

Though to pull back th' on-running state of things,
(Gath'ring corruption, as it gathers days)
Unto the form of their first orderings,
Is the best means that dissolution stays;
And to go forward, backward right men brings,
T'observe the line from whence they took their
ways.

Yet being once gone wide, and the right way
Not level to the time's condition;

To alter course may bring men more astray:
And leaving what was known, to light on none:
Since ev'ry change, the rev'rence doth decay
Of that which alway should continue one.

For this is that close-kept palladium,
Which once remov'd, brings ruin evermore:
This stirr'd, makes men fore-settled, to become
Curious to know what was believ'd before:
Whilst Faith disputes, that used to be dumb;
And more men strive to talk, than to adore.

For never head-strong Reformation will
Rest, till to th' extreme opposite it run,
And overrun the mean distrusted still;
As b'ing too near of kin to that men shun:
For good and bad, and all must be one ill,
When once there is another truth begun.

So hard it is an even hand to bear,

In temp'ring with such maladies as these;
Lest that our forward passions lanch too near,
And make the cure prove worse than the disease:
For with the worst we will not spare the best,
Because it grows with that which doth displease.

And faults are easier look'd in, than redress'd:
Men running with such eager violence,
At the first view of errours fresh in quest;
As they, to rid an inconvenience,

Stick not to raise a mischief in the stead,
Which after mocks their weak improvidence.

And therefore do make not your own sides bleed,
To prick at others: you that would amend,
By pulling down; and think you can proceed,
By going back unto the farther end :
Let stand that little covert left behind,
Whereon your succours and respects depend;

And bring not down the prizes of the mind,
With under-rating of yourselves so base :
You that the mightie's doors do crouching find,
To sell yourselves to buy a little grace;
Or wait whole months to out-bid simony,
For that which being got, is not your place.

For if it were, what needed you to buy

What was your due? Your thirsting shows your shift,

And little worth, that seeks injuriously
A worthier from his lawful room to lift.
We cannot say, that you were then preferr'd;
But that your money was, or some worse gift.

O scatt'ring gath'rers! that, without regard
Of times to come, will (to be made) undo;
As if you were the last of men, prepar'd
To bury in your graves all other too.
Dare you profane that holy portion,
Which never sacrilegious hand durst do?

Did form-establishing Devotion,
To maintain a respective reverence,
Extend her bountiful provision
With such a charitable providence,
For your deforming hands to dissipate,
And make God's due your impious expense !

No marvel then, though th' over pester'd state
Want room for goodness; if our little hold
Be lessen'd unto such a narrow rate,
That rev'rence cannot sit; sit as it should.
And yet what need we thus for rooms complain;
That shall not want void rooms, if this course hold?

And more than will be fill'd-For who will strain,
To get an empty title, to betray
His hopes; and travel for an honour vain,
And gain a port, without support or stay?
What need hath envy to malign their state,
That will themselves (so kind!) give it away?

This makes indeed our number pass the rate
Of our provisions; which, if dealt aright,
Would yield sufficient room t' accommodate,
More than we have in places requisite.
The ill-disposing only doth us set
In disarray, and out of order quite.

Of our disable and unactive force;

To show true knowledge can both speak and do: Arm'd for the sharp which in these days they find, With all provisions that belong thereto :

That their experience may not come behind
The time's conceit; but leading in their place,
May make men see the weapons of the mind
Are states' best strengths, and kingdoms' chiefest
grace;
[praise,
And rooms of charge, charg'd full with worth and
Makes Majesty appear with her full face;

Shining with all her beams, with all her rays;
Unscanted of her parts, unshadowed
In any darken'd point: which still bewrays
The wain of pow'r, when pow'r 's unfurnished,
And hath not all those entire compliments,
Wherewith the state should for her state be sped.

And though the fortune of some age consents
Unto a thousand errours grossly wrought,
Which flourish'd over with their fair events,
Have pass'd for current, and good courses thought;
The least whereof, in other times, again
Most dang'rous inconveniences have brought;

The circuit of their own particular;
That ev'n th' ignorant may understand,
How that Deceit is but a caviller,
And true unto itself can never stand,
But still must with her own conclusions war.

Can Truth and Honesty, wherein consists
The right repose on Earth, the surest ground
Of trust; come weaker arm'd into the lists,
Than Fraud or Vice, that doth itself confound?
Or shall Presumption, that doth what it lists,
(Not what it ought) carry her courses sound?

Then what safe place out of confusion,
Hath plain proceeding Honesty to dwell?
What suit of grace hath Virtue to put on,
If Vice shall wear as good, and do as well?
If Wrong, if Craft, if Indiscretion,
Act as fair parts, with ends as laudable?

Which all this mighty volume of events,
The world, th' universal map of deeds,
Strongly controls; and proves from all descents,
That the directest courses best succeeds,
When Craft (wrapt still in many comberments)
With all her cunning thrives not, though it speeds.

For should not grave and learn'd Experience,
That looks with th' eyes of all the world beside,
And with all ages holds intelligence,
Go safer than Deceit without a guide ?
Which in the by-paths of her diffidence,
Crossing the ways of right, still runs more wide.

Who will not grant, and therefore this observe,
No state stands sure, but on the grounds of right,
Of virtue, knowledge; judgment to preserve,
And all the pow'rs of learning requisite ?
Though other shifts a present turn may serve,
Yet in the trial they will weigh too light.

And do not thou contemn this swelling tide,
And stream of words, that now doth rise so high
Above the usual banks, and spreads so wide
Over the borders of antiquity:
Which, I confess, comes ever amplify'd
With th' abounding humours that do multiply;

And is with that same hand of happiness
Enlarg'd, as vices are out of their bands:
Yet so as if let out but to redress,

And calm and sway th' affections it commands;
Which as it stirs, it doth again repress,

And brings in th' out-gone malice that withstands.

Pow'r above pow'rs! O heav'nly Eloquence!
That with the strong rein of commanding words
Dost manage, guide, and master th' eminence
Of men's affections, more than all their swords!
Shall we not offer to thy excellence,
The richest treasure that our wit affords ?

Thou that can'st do much more with one poor pen,
Than all the pow'rs of princes can effect;
And draw, divert, dispose and fashion men,
Better than force or rigour can direct!
Should we this ornament of glory then,
As th' unmaterial fruits of shades, neglect?

Or should we careless come behind the rest
In pow'r of words, that go before in worth
When as our accent's equal to the best,
Is able greater wonders to bring forth?
When all that ever hotter spir'ts express'd,
Comes better'd by the patience of the north.

And who (in time) knows whither we may vent

What should I say?-Since it is well approv'd
The speech of Heav'n, with whom they have com-

merce;

That only seem out of themselves remov'd,
And do with more than human skills converse:
Those numbers wherewith Heav'n and Earth are
mov'd,

Show weakness speaks in prose, but pow'r in verse.

Wherein thou likewise seemest to allow,
That th' acts of worthy men should be preserv'd,
As in the holiest tombs we can bestow
Upon their glory that have well deserv'd;
Wherein thou dost no other virtue show,
Than what most barb'rous countries have observ'd:
When all the happiest nations hitherto,
Did with no lesser glory speak, than do.

Now to what else thy malice shall object,
For schools, and arts, and their necessity;
When from my lord, whose judgment must direct
And form and fashion my ability,

I shall have got more strength; thou shalt expect,
Out of my better leisure, my reply.

SONNETS TO DELIA.

SONNET I.

UNTO the boundless ocean of thy beauty
Runs this poor river, charg'd with streams of zeal,
Returning thee the tribute of my duty,
Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal.
Here I unclasp the book of my charg'd soul,
Where I have cast th' accounts of all my care:
Here have I summ'd my sighs; here I enroll
How they were spent for thee; look what they are.
Look on the dear expenses of my youth,
And see how just I reckon with thine eyes:
Examine well thy beauty with my truth;
And cross my cares, e'er greater sums arise.
Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly;

This gain of our best glory shall be sent,
T'enrich unknowing nations with our stores?
What worlds in th' yet unformed occident,

May come refin'd with th' accents that are ours?

SONNET II.

Go, wailing Verse, the infants of my love;
Minerva-like, brought forth without a mother!
Present the image of the cares I prove;
Witness your father's grief exceeds all other. --
Sigh out a story of her cruel deeds,
With interrupted accents of despair;
A monument that whosoever reads,
May justly praise, and blame my loveless fair.
Say her disdain hath dried up my blood,
And starved you, in succours still denying :-
Press to her eyes, importune me some good;
Waken her sleeping pity with your crying:
Knock at her hard heart; beg till y' have mov'd her;
And tell th' unkind how dearly I have lov'd her.

SONNET III.

Is it so hap, this offspring of my care,
These fatal anthems, lamentable songs,
Come to their view who like afflicted are;
Let them sigh for their own, and moan my wrongs,
But untouch'd hearts, with unaffected eye,
Approach not to behold my heaviness:
Clear-sighted, you soon note what is awry;
Whilst blinded souls mine errours never guess :
You blinded souls, whom youth and errour lead!
You out-cast eaglers, dazzled with your sun!
Do you, and none but you, my sorrows read;
You best can judge the wrongs that she hath done.
That she hath done!--the motivé of my pain:
Who whilst I love, doth kill me with disdain.

SONNET VIL

1

FOR had she not been fair, and thus unkind,
Then had no finger pointed at my lightness;-
The world had never known what I do find,
And clouds obscure had shaded still her brightness =
Then had no censor's eye these lines survey'd,
Nor graver brows have judg'd my Muse so vain: 30
No sun my blush and errour bad bewray'd,
Nor yet the world have heard of such disdain.
Then had I walk'd with bold erected face;
No down-cast look had signify'd my miss:
But my degraded hopes, with such disgrace,
Did force me groan out griefs, and utter this.
For being full, should I not then have spoken,
My sense oppress'd had fail'd, and heart had broken.

SONNET IV.

THESE plaintive verse, the posts of my desire, Which haste for succour to her slow regard, Bear not report of any slender fire; Forging a grief, to win a fame's reward. Nor are my passions limn'd for outward hue, For that no colours can depaint my sorrows: Delia herself, and all the world may view [rows. -Best in my face, where cares have till'd deep furNo bays I seek to deck my mourning brow, O clear-ey'd rector of the holy hill! My humble accents bear the olive bough Of intercession, but to move her will. These lines I use, t' unburthen mine own heart; My love affects no fame, nor steams of art.

до

SONNET V.

WHILST youth and errour led my wand'ring mind,
And set my thoughts in heedless ways to range,
All unawares a goddess chaste I find,
(Diana-like) to work my sudden change.
For her no sooner had mine eyes bewray'd,
But with disdain to see me in that place,
With fairest hand the sweet unkindest maid,
Cast water-cold disdain upon my face.
Which turn'd my sport into a heart's despair,
Which still is chas'd while I have any breath,
By mine own thoughts, set on me by my fair:
My thoughts, like hounds, pursue me to my death.
Those that I foster'd of mine own accord,
Are made by her to murther thus their lord.

SONNET VI.

FAIR is my love, and cruel as she 's fair; [sunny;
Her brow-shades frowns, although her eyes are
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair;
And her disdains are gall, her favours honey.
A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour;
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love!
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her:/
Sacred on Earth; design'd a saint above! -
Chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes,-
Live reconciled friends within her brow:
And had she pity to conjoin with those;
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now??
For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,
My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

SONNET VIII.

THOU, poor heart, sacrific'd unto the fairest,
Hast sent the incense of thy sighs to Heav'n ;
And still against her frowns fresh vows repairest,
And made thy passions with her beauty even. ◄
And you, mine eyes, the agents of my heart,
Told the dumb message of my hidden grief;
And oft with careful turns, with silent art,
Did treat the cruel fair to yield relief.
And, you, my verse, the advocates of love,
Have follow'd hard the process of my case;
And urg'd that title which doth plainly prove,
My faith should win, if justice might have place. (0
Yet though I see that nought we do can move;
"T is not disdain must make me cease to love.

SONNET IX.

Ir this be love, to draw a weary breath,
Paint on floods, till the shore cry to th' air;
With downward looks, still reading on the earth,
These sad memorials of my love's despair:
If this be love to war against my soul,
Lie down to wail, rise up to sigh and grieve;
The never-resting stone of care to roll;
Still to complain my griefs, whilst none relieve. - 20
If this be love to clothe me with dark thoughts,
Haunting untrodden paths to wail apart;
My pleasure's horrour, music tragic notes;
Tears in mine eyes, and sorrow at my heart.
If this be love, to live a living death;
Then do I love, and draw this weary breath.

In unkind letters, wrote she cares not how.
Thou pow'r that rul'st the confines of the night,
Laughter-lov'ng goddess, worldly pleasure's queen,'
Intenerate that heart that sets so light;
The truest love that ever yet was seen!
And cause her leave to triumph in this wise,
Upon the prostrate spoil of that poor heart,
That serves a trophy to her conqu'ring eyes;
And must their glory to the world impart.
Once let her know sh' hath done enough to prove me;
And let her pity, if she cannot love me.