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Title: Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist, Volume II
Author: Vaughan, Henry, 1621-1695
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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Transcriber's note:

      The ligatures oe and OE are indicated by [oe] and [OE].

      The carat (^) indicates a superscript in the original. One
      carat indicates that the following single letter is
      superscript. A pair of carats indicates that the enclosed
      letters are superscript; for example the abbreviations
      8^vo^ and 12^mo^ are used for the printer's page sizes
      octavo and duodecimo respectively.

      In the poem "In Etesiam Lachrymantem" (Page 221) the
      initial letter of the final line is missing in all extant
      editions; either "C" or "D" seems possible.

      In the Boethius translation Lib. IV. Metrum VI. (page 230),
      the letter 'y' has been added to make line 9/10 read
      "...though they/See other stars..." although it is missing
      in all available editions.

      At many points a period, comma or hyphen seems to be
      omitted in the original. Obvious typographical errors have
      been corrected, but where missing punctuation is not clearly
      an error, or the omission is harmless to the sense, the text
      remains as in the original.

      Footnotes in the original appear on the page where they are
      referenced and are numbered from 1 on each page. Here
      footnotes are numbered consecutively throughout the book and
      are grouped following each chapter or poem to which they
      refer. To locate footnote 17 (for example) search for [17].
      Another search for [17] returns to the point of reference.




The Muses' Library



Edited by E. K. Chambers

With an Introduction by Canon Beeching


George Routledge & Sons, Limited
New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.



TABLE OF CONTENTS                                               vii

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE                                                xv

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF HENRY VAUGHAN'S WORKS                          lvii


   To all Ingenious Lovers of Poesy                               3

   To my Ingenuous Friend, R. W.                                  5

   Les Amours                                                     8

   To Amoret. The Sigh                                           10

   To his Friend, Being in Love                                  11

   Song: [Amyntas go, thou art Undone]                           12

   To Amoret. Walking in a Starry Evening                        13

   To Amoret Gone from him                                       15

   A Song to Amoret                                              16

   An Elegy                                                      17

   A Rhapsodis                                                   18

   To Amoret, of the Difference 'twixt him and other Lovers,     21
   and what True Love is

   To Amoret Weeping                                             23

   Upon the Priory Grove, his Usual Retirement                   26

   Juvenal's Tenth Satire Translated                             28


   Ad Posteros                                                   51

   To the ... Lord Kildare Digby                                 53

   The Publisher to the Reader                                   55

   Upon the Most Ingenious Pair of Twins, Eugenius               57
   Philalethes and the Author of those Poems [by T. Powell,

   To my Friend the Author upon these his Poems [by I.           58
   Rowlandson, Oxoniensis]

   Upon the following Poems [by Eugenius Philalethes,            59

   Olor Iscanus. To the River Isca                               61

   The Charnel-House                                             65

   In Amicum Foeneratorem                                        68

   To his Friend ----                                            70

   To his Retired Friend, An Invitation to Brecknock             73

   Monsieur Gombauld                                             77

   An Elegy on the Death of Mr. R. W., Slain in the late         79
   Unfortunate Differences at Routon Heath, near Chester,

   Upon a Cloak lent him by Mr. J. Ridsley                       83

   Upon Mr. Fletcher's Plays, Published 1647                     87

   Upon the Poems and Plays of the Ever-Memorable Mr. William    90

   To the Best and Most Accomplished Couple ----                 92

   An Elegy on the Death of Mr. R. Hall, Slain at Pontefract,    94

   To my Learned Friend, Mr. T. Powell, upon his Translation     97
   of Malvezzi's Christian Politician

   To my Worthy Friend, Master T. Lewes                          99

   To the Most Excellently Accomplished Mrs. K. Philips         100

   An Epitaph upon the Lady Elizabeth, Second Daughter to his   102
   Late Majesty

   To Sir William Davenant upon his Gondibert                   104


   To his Fellow Poets at Rome, upon the Birthday of Bacchus    106

   To his Friends--after his Many Solicitations--Refusing to    109
   Petition Cæsar for his Releasement

   To his Inconstant Friend, Translated for the Use of all      112
   the Judases of this Touchstone Age

   To his Wife at Rome, when he was Sick                        115

   Ausonii. Idyll vi. Cupido [Cruci Affixus]                    119

   [Translations from Boethius]                                 125

   [Translations from Casimirus]                                144

   The Praise of a Religious Life of Mathias Casimirus. In      152
   Answer to that Ode of Horace, Beatus Ille Qui Procul

   Ad Fluvium Iscam                                             157

   Venerabili Viro, Praeceptori Suo Olim Et Semper              158
   Colendissimo Magistro Mathaeo Herbert

   Praestantissimo Viro, Thomae Poëllo In Suum De Elementis     159
   Opticae Libellum

   Ad Echum                                                     160


   To ... Henry Lord Marquis and Earl of Worcester, &c.         163
   [by J. W.]

   To the Reader [by I. W.]                                     167

   To Mr. Henry Vaughan, the Silurist: upon These and his       169
   Former Poems. [By Orinda]

   Upon the Ingenious Poems of his Learned Friend, Mr. Henry    171
   Vaughan, the Silurist. [By Tho. Powell, D.D.]

   To the Ingenious Author of Thalia Rediviva [By N. W.,        172
   Jes. Coll., Oxon.]

   To my Worthy Friend Mr. Henry Vaughan, the Silurist.         175
   [by I. W., A.M., Oxon.]


   To his Learned Friend and Loyal Fellow-Prisoner, Thomas      178
   Powel of Cant[reff], Doctor of Divinity

   The King Disguised                                           181

   The Eagle                                                    184

   To Mr. M. L. upon his Reduction of the Psalms into Method    187

   To the Pious Memory of C[harles] W[albeoffe] Esquire, Who    189
   Finished his Course Here, and Made his Entrance into
   Immortality upon the 13 of September, in the Year of
   Redemption, 1653

   In Zodiacum Marcelli Palingenii                              193

   To Lysimachus, the Author Being with him in London           195

   On Sir Thomas Bodley's Library, the Author Being Then in     197

   The Importunate Fortune, Written to Dr. Powel, of            200

   To I. Morgan of Whitehall, Esq., upon his Sudden Journey     204
   and Succeeding Marriage

   Fida; or, The Country Beauty. To Lysimachus                  206

   Fida Forsaken                                                209

   To the Editor of the Matchless Orinda                        211

   Upon Sudden News of the Much-Lamented Death of Judge         213

   To Etesia (for Timander); The First Sight                    214

   The Character, to Etesia                                     217

   To Etesia Looking from her Casement at the Full Moon         219

   To Etesia Parted from Him, and Looking Back                  220

   In Etesiam Lachrymantem                                      221

   To Etesia Going Beyond Sea                                   222

   Etesia Absent                                                223


   Some Odes of the Excellent and Knowing [Anicius Manlius]     224
   Severinus [Boethius], Englished

   The Old Man of Verona, out of Claudian                       236

   The Sphere of Archimedes, out of Claudian                    238

   The Ph[oe]nix, out of Claudian                               239


   To his Books                                                 245

   Looking Back                                                 247

   The Shower                                                   248

   Discipline                                                   249

   The Eclipse                                                  250

   Affliction                                                   251

   Retirement                                                   252

   The Revival                                                  254

   The Day Spring                                               255

   The Recovery                                                 257

   The Nativity                                                 259

   The True Christmas                                           261

   The Request                                                  263

   Jordanis                                                     265

   Servilii Fatum, Sive Vindicta Divina                         266

   De Salmone                                                   267

   The World                                                    268

   The Bee                                                      272

   To Christian Religion                                        276

   Daphnis                                                      278


   From Eucharistica Oxoniensia (1641)                          289

   From Of the Benefit we may get by our Enemies (1651)         291

   From Of the Diseases of the Mind and the Body (1651)         293

   From The Mount of Olives (1652)                              294

   From Man in Glory (1652)                                     298

   From Flores Solitudinis (1654)                               299

   From Of Temperance and Patience (1654)                       300

   From Of Life and Death (1654)                                305

   From Primitive Holiness (1654)                               307

   From Hermetical Physic (1655)                                322

   From Cerbyd Fechydwiaeth (1657)                              323

   From Humane Industry (1661)                                  324

NOTES TO VOL. II                                                329

LIST OF FIRST LINES                                             355


Recent inquiries into the life of Henry Vaughan have added but little to
the information already contained in the memoirs of Mr. Lyte and Dr.
Grosart. I have, however, been enabled to put together a few notes on
this somewhat obscure subject, which may be taken as supplementary to
Mr. Beeching's _Introduction_ in Vol. I. It will be well to preface them
by reprinting the account of Anthony à Wood, our chief original
authority (_Ath. Oxon._, ed. Bliss, 1817, iv. 425):

"Henry Vaughan, called the _Silurist_ from that part of Wales whose
inhabitants were in ancient times called Silures, brother twin (but
elder)[1] to Eugenius Philalethes, alias Tho. Vaughan ... was born at
Newton S. Briget, lying on the river Isca, commonly called Uske, in
Brecknockshire, educated in grammar learning in his own country for six
years under one Matthew Herbert, a noted schoolmaster of his time, made
his first entry into Jesus College in Mich. term 1638, aged 17 years;
where spending two years or more in logicals under a noted tutor, was
taken thence and designed by his father for the obtaining of some
knowledge in the municipal laws at London. But soon after the civil war
beginning, to the horror of all good men, he was sent for home, followed
the pleasant paths of poetry and philology, became noted for his
ingenuity, and published several specimens thereof, of which his _Olor
Iscanus_ was most valued. Afterwards applying his mind to the study of
physic, became at length eminent in his own country for the practice
thereof, and was esteemed by scholars an ingenious person, but proud and
humorous.... [A list of Vaughan's works follows.] ... He died in the
latter end of April (about the 29th day) in sixteen hundred ninety and
five, and was buried in the parish church of Llansenfreid, about two
miles distant from Brecknock, in Brecknockshire."

Anthony à Wood seems to have had some personal acquaintance with the
poet, for in his account of Thomas Vaughan (_Ath. Oxon._ iii. 725) he
says that "Olor Iscanus sent me a catalogue of his brother's works."


Henry Vaughan's descent from the Vaughans of Tretower, County Brecon,
has been accurately traced by Dr. Grosart and others. Little has been
hitherto known about his immediate family. Theophilus Jones, in his
_History of Brecknockshire_ (1805-9), ii. 544, says: "Henry Vaughan died
in 1695, aged 75,[2] leaving by his first wife two sons and three
daughters, and by his second a daughter Rachel, who married John
Turberville. His grand-daughter, Denys, or Dyenis, a corruption or
abbreviation of Dyonisia, who was the daughter of Jenkin Jones of
Trebinshwn, by Luce his wife, died single in 1780, aged 92, and is
buried in the Priory churchyard.[3] What became of the remainder of his
family, or whether they are extinct, I know not." To this statement Mr.
Lyte added nothing but some errors, and Dr. Grosart nothing but the
following hypothesis:--

"I am inclined to think that William Vaughan, censor of the College of
Physicians, physician to William III^d., was one of the sons of our
worthy mentioned by Mr. Lyte.... William Vaughan's 'age 20' in 1668
represents 1648 as the birth-date, and that fits in with the love-verse
of the Poems of 1646."

Mr. G. T. Clark, in his _Genealogies of Glamorgan_, p. 240, gives the
following account:--

Henry [Vaughan], ob. 1695, æt. 75, father by first wife of (1) a son,
s.p.; (2) Lucy ob. 29 Aug., 1780, æt. 92,[4] m. Jenkin Jones of
Trebinshwn. Their d. Denise Jones, died single, 1780, æt. 92. By second
wife (3) Rachel, m. John Turberville; (4) Edmund; (5) Alexander, ob.
1622 [!], s.p.; (6) Catharine, m. Wm. Harris; (7) Mary, m. John
Walbeoffe of Llanhamlach; (8) Elizabeth, m. John Arnold; (9) Frances, m.
Wm. Johns of Cwm Dhu.

Unfortunately Mr. Clark is unable to remember his authority for this
pedigree. I have found another, which differs from it in many ways, and
is exceedingly interesting, inasmuch as it gives, for the first time,
the names of Henry Vaughan's two wives, who appear to have been sisters.
It is in a volume of _Brecknockshire Pedigrees_ collected by the Welsh
Herald, Hugh Thomas, and now amongst the Harleian MSS. Hugh Thomas was
born and lived hard by Llansantffread, and must have known Vaughan and
his family personally.


                 (From Harl. MS. 2289, f. 81.)

  Thomas m. Denis, d. and h. to Gwillims of Newton Skethrog.
                       Henry, of Newton.
        Henry, of Newton Skethrog, Doctor of Phisick, m.
         Catharine, d. to Charles Wise, of Ritsonhall,
       Staffordshire, and secondly Elizabeth, her sister.
                |                              |
   Lucy, m. Ch. Greenleafe of     Grisill, m. Roger Prosser.
   Streton-upon-Trent, Staff.
                                  Lucy, m. Jenkin Jones of Trebinshwn.

   Catharine, m.                  Rachel, m. John Turberville
   Tho. Vaughan, of Newton                             of Llangattock.
   Skethrog, m. Frances,          Henry, Parson of Penderin,
   d. to                          m. Janet, d. of Robert
                                  Walbeoffe of Talyllyn.

It will be observed that neither Mr. Clark's pedigree nor Hugh Thomas'
agrees with the number of children assigned to each marriage by
Theophilus Jones, and that neither of them helps out Dr. Grosart's
hypothesis that Dr. William Vaughan was a son of the poet. Mr. W. B. Rye
(_Genealogist_, iii. 33) has made it appear likely that this Dr.
Vaughan, who married Anne Newton, of Romford in Essex, belonged to a
branch of the Vaughans who had been settled in Romford since 1571.

I now proceed to confirm and illustrate the pedigrees by giving such
further facts concerning Vaughan's immediate family as I have been able
with Miss Morgan's assistance, to glean. I can trace no family of Wises
in Staffordshire so early as the seventeenth century, nor any place in
that county called Ritsonhall. It is possible that the R. W. of the
_Elegy_ (vol. ii., p. 79, _note_) may have been a Wise, and also that
the connection between Vaughan and the Staffordshire Egertons may have
been through this family (vol. ii., p. 294, _note_). Vaughan's first
wife Catharine was probably dead before 1658. Thomas Vaughan, in his
diary (MS. Sloane, 1741, f. 106 (b)), makes mention in that year of
"eyewater made at the Pinner of Wakefield by my dear wife and my Sister
Vaughan, who are both now with God." The second wife, Elizabeth,
survived her husband. Administration of his goods was granted to her as
the widow of an intestate in May, 1695.[5] The fine old manor-house at
Newton was pulled down by a stupid land-agent within the memory of man,
but a stone has been found built into the wall of a house half-a-mile
from the site, bearing the inscription "H^VE, 1689." This may well
stand for H[enry and] E[lizabeth] V[aughan]. Newton probably passed to
the poet's eldest son Thomas and his wife Frances.[6] Of their
descendants, if any, we know nothing. There was a William Vaughan of
Llansantffread who, later than 1714, married Mary Games of Tregaer in
Llanfrynach. But this was probably a Vaughan not of Newton, but of
Scethrog, also in Llansantffread (_cf._ footnote to p. xxv. below.) In
1733 William Vaughan was churchwarden of Llanfrynach. In 1740 William
Vaughan of Tregaer was high sheriff of Brecknock. In 1760 Tregaer had
passed by purchase to a Mr. Phillips. The registers of Llanfrynach from
1695-1756 are now lost. Lucy Greenleafe and her sister Catharine are
quite obscure. One of them may have been the niece who was living with
Thomas Vaughan when news came from the country in 1658 of his father's
death (MS. Sloane, 1741, f. 89 (b)). Of the second family, Henry became
Rector of Penderin in 1684, and vacated the living, probably through
death, in 1713. A tablet to his memory hung during the present century
in the church at Penderin, but when the church was restored the tablets
were taken down and buried under the tiles of the chancel. His wife, a
Walbeoffe of Talyllyn, belonged to the same family as the Walbeoffes of
Llanhamlach (vol. ii., p. 189, _note_). The eldest girl, Grisill,
married Roger Prosser. The Prossers were the younger branch of a
Brecknockshire family who had become sadlers and mercers in Brecon. Many
of their tombs are in the Priory church, but Theophilus Jones states
that by his time they were extinct. Grisill Prosser was married a second
time, in 1709, to Morgan Watkins, an attorney, and was buried on August
21, 1737. The second girl, Lucy, married Jenkin Jones of Trebinshwn, a
cousin of Colonel Jenkin Jones, the local Parliamentary leader. Her
daughter, Denise Jones, died single in 1780, as Theophilus Jones states,
and her tombstone in the Priory church records her descent. The third
girl, Rachel, married John Turberville, one of the Turbervilles of
Llangattock, who claimed kinship with the Elizabethan poet of that name.
The following pedigree shows the descendants of the three daughters of
Henry Vaughan's second marriage, so far as they can be traced.[7]

                     Henry Vaughan = 2. Elizabeth Wise.
                 |                    |                 |
 1. Roger   =Grisill ...=2. Morgan   Lucy=Jenkin      Rachel=John
    Prosser,|              Watkins,     |Jones,            |Turberville
    Mercer. |              Attorney.    |of Trebinshwn.    |of Llangattock.
            |                           |                  |
     _______|___                        |               Richard = Mary----?
    |           |                       |           of Llamwyse |
 Walter,       Elizabeth  = Morgan      Denise       and Glan y |
 bapt. 1693.  bapt. 1686. | Davies,    nat. 1688,    rhyd, ob.  |
                          | mercer,    o.s.p. 29     1720.      |
                          | ob. 1727.  Aug., 1780.              |
                          |                                     |
                          |                                   John.
         _________________|_________________                    |
        |                 |                 |                   |
   Thomas             Morgan,         Elizabeth,                |
                     bapt. 8 July,    bapt. 4 April,            |
                     1720,            1725,                     |
                     sep. 20 Nov.,    sep. 6 July,              |
                     1737.            1730.                 Margaret,
                                                            o.s.p. 1765.

It will be seen that I can give no evidence of the existence of any
living descendants of Henry Vaughan.

Henry's grandfather, Thomas Vaughan, a younger son of Charles Vaughan of
Tretower, seems to have come into the possession of Newton through his
marriage with an heiress of the family of Gwillims or Williams. Newton,
or in Welsh Trenewydd, is a farm of about 200 acres in the manor or
lordship, and near the village of Scethrog, both being in the parish of
Llansantffread and hundred of Penkelley. Williams is a common name in
Breconshire, and I cannot trace the descent of Thomas Vaughan's wife. In
the sixteenth century Newton belonged to a family who finally settled on
the name of Howel, ap Howell or Powell.[8] The last of these is
described on his tombstone in Llansantffread Church as "David Morgan
David Howel, who married ... William of Llanhamoloch: and they had issue
one daughter called Denys. He died 2nd June, 1598." Perhaps Newton
passed in some way from David Morgan David Howel to his wife's family,
and so to Thomas Vaughan, who married Denise Gwillims. Theophilus Jones
(ii. 538) records that at a later date other Williams's, also
apparently connected with Llanhamlach, were succeeded by other Vaughans
at Scethrog, hard by Newton. His account is that David Williams,
youngest brother of Sir Thomas Williams of Eltham, married a daughter of
John Walbeoffe of Llanhamlach (_cf._ pedigree in vol. ii., p. 189,
_note_), and bought Scethrog. Their son Charles died without issue, and
the property passed to his wife Mary (Anne in Harl. MS., 2289, t. 39;
_cf._ vol. ii., p. 204, _note_), the daughter of Morgan John of
Wenallt.... She afterwards married Hugh Powell, clerk, parson of
Llansanffread and precentor of St. David's, and her daughter Margaret
married Charles Vaughan, son to Vaughan Morgan of Tretower.[9]

A trace of Thomas Vaughan is probably preserved in a window-head from
the old church of Llansantffread, now destroyed, which has the

  1626.    E. G.    T. V.    W. T.
   W.       F.       I.       [bold reversed 'D'].

T. V. may stand for T[homas] V[aughan].[10]

Of Henry Vaughan, the poet's father, very little is known. His name
appears in a list of Breconshire magistrates for 1620. And we learn from
Thomas Vaughan's diary in Sloane MS. 1741, f. 89 (b), that he died in
August 1658.

The only additional definite fact which I can here record of the poet
himself is that in 1691 he entered a caveat against any institution to
the vicarage of Llandevalley, he claiming the next presentation under a
grant from William Winter, Esq.[11] Mr. Rye has shown that the specimen
of handwriting facsimiled by Dr. Grosart in his edition of Henry
Vaughan's _Works_ cannot possibly be the poet's. The signatures,
however, on the margin of a copy of _Olor Iscanus_, once in the library
of Lady Isham, might be genuine.


Anthony à Wood's statement as to Vaughan's residence at Jesus College,
Oxford, has been generally accepted, but I venture to doubt it on the
following grounds:--

(1) Vaughan's name does not occur in the University Matriculation
Register, although his brother Thomas Vaughan is duly entered as
matriculating from Jesus on 14th December, 1638. The only College
records which help us are the Battel-books for 1638 and 1640. That for
1639 is unfortunately missing. The Rev. Llewellyn Thomas kindly informs
me that he can only trace one undergraduate Vaughan in the two books in
question. The Christian name is not given, but I think that we must
assume it to be Thomas.

(2) Vaughan does not describe himself on any title-page as of Jesus
College; nor does he ever speak of himself as an Oxford man. This
omission is the more noticeable as he would naturally have done so in
the lines _Ad Posteros_ (vol. ii., p. 51), and might well have done so
in those _On Sir Thomas Bodley's Library, the Author being then in
Oxford_ (vol. ii., p. 197).

(3) Anthony à Wood cannot be depended on. He describes Thomas Carew, for
instance, as of C.C.C., whereas he was a most certainly of Merton. And
there was another Henry Vaughan of Jesus, who may have been confused
with the poet. This Henry Vaughan, a son of John Vaughan of Cathlin,
Merionethshire, matriculated at Oriel on July 4, 1634. He afterwards
became a Scholar and Fellow of Jesus, taking his B.A. in 1637 and his
M.A. in 1639. In 1643 he became vicar of Penteg, co. Monmouth, and died
at Abergavenny in 1661. (Wood, _Ath. Oxon._, iii. 531; Foster, _Alumni

(4) The only confirmation of Anthony à Wood's statement is the poem
(vol. ii., p. 289) taken by Dr. Grosart from the _Eucharistica
Oxoniensia_ (1641), and signed "H. Vaughan, Jes. Col." If I am right,
this may be by Vaughan's namesake. He has indeed another poem in that
volume signed "Hen. Vaugh., Jes. Soc." but that is in Latin, and it is
not unexampled for one man to contribute more than one poem, especially
in different tongues, to such collections. Or it may be by Herbert
Vaughan, who was a Gentleman-commoner of the College in 1641, and has,
with Henry Vaughan the Fellow, verses in the [Greek: proteleia] _Anglo
Batava_ of the same year.


There are several passages which make it probable that Vaughan, like his
brother Thomas, bore arms on the King's side in the Civil War. The most
important is in the poem _To Mr. Ridsley_ (vol. ii., p. 83), where he
speaks of the time

         "when this juggling fate
    Of soldiery first seiz'd me."

In the same poem he mentions

               "that day, when we
    Left craggy Biston and the fatal Dee."

"Craggy Biston" is clearly Beeston Castle, one of the outlying defences
of Chester, situated on a steep rock not very far east of the Dee. This
castle was besieged on several occasions during the Civil War,
especially during the campaign of 1645, when Chester was also besieged
by the Parliamentarians.[12] Between Beeston and the Dee was fought, on
September 24, 1645, the battle of Rowton Heath, after which Charles the
First, who had hoped to raise the siege of Chester, was obliged to
retreat to Denbigh.[13] The following lines from Vaughan's _Elegy on Mr.
R. W._ (vol. ii., p. 79), who fell in that battle, seem to have been
written by an eye-witness:

                                "O that day
    When like the fathers in the fire and cloud
    I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd
    See arms like thine, and men advance, but none
    So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
    Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye
    Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie
    Performance with the soul, that you would swear
    The act and apprehension both lodg'd there?
    Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand
    Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand.
    But here I lost him."

This appears to me pretty conclusive evidence; against it, however, must
be set the passage on the Civil War in the autobiographical poem _Ad
Posteros_ (vol. ii., p. 51).

    Vixi, divisos cum fregerat haeresis Anglos
      Inter Tysiphonas presbyteri et populi.
    His primum miseris per amoena furentibus arva
      Prostravit sanctam vilis avena rosam.
    Turbarunt fontes, et fusis pax perit undis,
      Moestaque coelestes obruit umbra dies.
    Duret ut integritas tamen, et pia gloria, partem
      Me nullam in tanta strage fuisse, scias;
    Credidimus nempe insonti vocem esse cruori,
      Et vires quae post funera flere docent.
    Hinc castae, fidaeque pati me more parentis
      Commonui, et lachrimis fata levare meis;
    Hinc nusquam horrendis violavi sacra procellis,
      Nec mihi mens unquam, nec manus atra fuit.

The natural interpretation of this certainly is that Vaughan took no
share in the disturbances of his time, except to grieve over them in
retirement. Yet, in the first place, the lines may have been written
before he took up arms in 1645, and, in the second, they may only mean
that he had no share in _bringing about_ the troubles of England, or in
shedding _innocent_ blood. Similarly when elsewhere, as in _Abel's
Blood_ (vol. i. p. 254), and in the prayer to be quoted below, he
expresses horror of blood-guiltiness, this need not necessarily be taken
as extending to the man who fights in a righteous cause.

Miss Morgan, I may add, suggests that Vaughan was at Rowton Heath, not
as a combatant, but as a physician. The description which he gives of
the battle reads like that of a man who saw it from some commanding
point of view, but was not himself engaged. I think it not improbable
that Vaughan was one of the garrison of Beeston Castle, which is
described to me as "a sort of grand stand for the battle-field." Beeston
Castle was invested by the Parliamentarians in the course of September
1645. On the approach of Charles the troops were drawn off on 19th
September to Chester.[14] Charles no doubt took the opportunity to
strengthen the garrison. After Rowton Heath Beeston Castle was again
besieged, and on November 16th it surrendered. The garrison were allowed
to march across the Dee to Denbigh. I think that this winter ride from
the fallen fortress is the one described by Vaughan in the poem to Mr.
Ridsley. It is the more probable that Vaughan took part in this campaign
of 1645, in that Charles's force was largely recruited from Wales. After
the battle of Naseby on June 14th, the King had marched through Wales,
collecting such levies as he could. He was in Brecon on August 5th.[15]
It is quite possible that Vaughan, whose kinsman Sir William Vaughan was
in command of a brigade, volunteered on this occasion. From Brecon
Charles marched through Radnorshire, Shropshire, Staffordshire,
Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire, Yorkshire, and so to Oxford. In September
he set out again, and after some delay at Hereford and Raglan, finally
made for Chester.

It is just conceivable that it is to some occasion in this campaign that
Vaughan refers when he calls Dr. Powell his "fellow-prisoner" (vol. ii.,
p. 178). The poet may even have been the Captain Vaughan whose name
appears in the official list of prisoners taken at Rowton Heath.[16]
Powell's name is not there, but then the list does not profess to be
complete. But on the whole I think that Vaughan and Powell were only
fellow-prisoners in the Platonic sense of imprisonment in the flesh, and
even if a literal imprisonment is intended, it may have been due to some
act of persecution which Vaughan had to suffer as a Royalist at a later
date. There is in _The Mount of Olives_ (1652) a _Prayer in Adversity
and Troubles occasioned by our Enemies_ (Grosart, vol. iii., p. 75),
which, if it is to be taken--I think it is not--as autobiographical,
seems to show that, at least for a time, he lost his estate. The prayer
runs: "Thou seest, O God, how furious and implacable mine enemies are:
they have not only robbed me of that portion and provision which Thou
hast graciously given me, but they have also washed their hands in the
blood of my friends, my dearest and nearest relations. I know, O God,
and I am daily taught by that disciple whom Thou didst love, that no
murderer hath eternal life abiding in him. Keep me, therefore, O my
God, from the guilt of blood, and suffer me not to stain my soul with
the thoughts of recompense and vengeance, which is a branch of Thy great
prerogative, and belongs wholly unto Thee. Though they persecute me unto
death, and pant after the very dust upon the heads of Thy poor, though
they have taken the bread out of Thy children's mouth, and have made me
a desolation; yet, Lord, give me Thy grace, and such a measure of
charity as may fully forgive them."

It may have been during some such time of trouble, or imprisonment, if
imprisonment there was, that Vaughan's wife lived with Thomas Vaughan,
as will be seen below, in London.


It has not been thought necessary to reprint in this edition of Henry
Vaughan's poems the scanty English and Latin verses of his brother,
Thomas Vaughan. They may be found, together with verses by Virgil and
Campion ascribed to him, in vol. ii. of Dr. Grosart's _Fuller Worthies_
edition. But some account of so curious a person will not be out of

As for his brother, our chief authority is Anthony à Wood (_Ath. Oxon._,
iii. 722), who says that he was the son of Thomas Vaughan of
Llansantffread,[17] that he was born in 1621, educated under Matthew
Herbert and at Jesus College, Oxford, of which he became Fellow, took
orders and received [in 1640] the living of Llansanffread from his
kinsman, Sir George Vaughan [of Fallerstone, Wilts]. He lost his living
in the unquiet times of the Civil War, retired to Oxford, and became an
eminent chemist, afterwards moving to London, where he worked under the
patronage of Sir Robert Murray. He was a great admirer of Cornelius
Agrippa, "a great chymist, a noted son of the fire, an experimental
philosopher, a zealous brother of the Rosicrucian fraternity ... neither
papist nor sectary, but a true resolute protestant in the best sense of
the Church of England." In the great plague he fled with Murray from
London to Oxford, and thence went to the house of Samuel Kem at Albury,
where he died on February 27, 1665/6, of mercury accidentally getting
into his nose while he was operating. He was buried at Albury on March
1st. Writing in 1673, Anthony à Wood gives a list of his alchemical and
mystical treatises published between 1650 and 1655. Of these he had
received a list from Olor Iscanus (Henry Vaughan). They all bear the
name of Eugenius Philalethes, except the _Aula Lucis_ (1652), which was
issued as by S. N., _i.e._ [Thoma]S [Vaugha]N. Some of these pamphlets
contain Vaughan's share of a vigorous and scurrilous controversy with
Henry More, the Platonist. Anthony à Wood distinguishes from Vaughan
another Eugenius Philalethes, author of the _Brief Natural History_
(1669), also one Eirenaeus Philalethes, author of _Ripley Redivivus_ and
other works, and Eirenaeus Philoponos Philalethes, author of _The Marrow
of Alchemy_ (1654-5).[18]

A few facts, from well-known sources, may be added to Anthony à Wood's
account. The University Registers show that "Thos. Vaughan, son of
Thomas of Llansanfraid, co. Brecon, pleb., matriculated from Jesus
College on 14 Dec, 1638, aged 16." He took his B.A. on 18 Feb., 1641/2,
but does not appear to have taken his M.A., though he became Fellow of
his College (Foster, _Alumni Oxon._). John Walker (_Sufferings of the
Clergy_ (1714), p. 389) states that he was ejected from his living on
the charges of "drunkenness, immorality, and bearing arms for the
King."[19] This must have been in 1649, under the Act for the
Propagation of the Gospel in Wales. There exists a letter from Thomas
Vaughan to a friend in London, dated from "Newtown, Ash Wednesday,
1653;"[20] and it appears from Jones' _History of Brecknockshire_ (ii.,
542), that at one time he lived with his brother Henry there. The
allusions to Henry More, to Murray, and to the Isis and Thames seem to
show that he is the Daphnis of his brother's _Eclogue_ (vol. ii., p.
278). No trace of his death or burial can however be now found at
Albury. Mr. Gordon Goodwin points out to me that Dr. Samuel Kem was a
somewhat notorious character (_Dict. Nat. Biog._, s.v. _Kem_): perhaps
this friendship, together with the personal confession quoted below,
throws light on the charges which lost Vaughan his living. On the other
hand Anthony à Wood speaks well of him, and the tone of his writings
bears out this more kindly judgment, at any rate so far as his later
years are concerned.

What has been said fairly well exhausted the available information on
Thomas Vaughan until a few years ago, when Mr. A. E. Waite discovered in
Sloane MS. 1741 a valuable manuscript of his, containing amongst other
things a number of autobiographical memoranda. He printed some extracts
from this in the preface to an edition of some of _The Magical Writings
of Thomas Vaughan_ (Redway, 1888), and has been kind enough to furnish
me with a reference to the MS. itself, which I have carefully examined.
It bears the title _Aqua Vitae non Vitis_, and the inscription "Ex
libris Thomas et Rebecca Vaughan, 1651, Sept. 28. Quos Deus coniunxit
quis separabit?" The contents are partly personal jottings and records
of dreams, partly alchemical formulae. They appear to cover the period
1658-1662. We learn from them the following facts:--Vaughan was married
on September 28, 1651, to a lady named Rebecca (f. 106 (b)). With her
and his "Sister Vaughan" he lived and studied alchemy at the Pinner of
Wakefield.[21] He had previously lodged at Mr. Coalman's in Holborn (f.
104 (b)). His wife died on Saturday, April 17, 1658, and was buried at
Mappersall, in Bedfordshire (f. 106 (b)).[22] In 1658 his father and his
brother W. were both dead, and he mentions the news of his father's
death coming to his niece in a letter from the country (f. 89 (b)). On
April 9, 1659, he saw his brother H. in a dream. On 16 July, 1658, he
was living at Wapping (f. 103 (b)), and at an earlier period at
Paddington. There is an inventory of his wife's goods left at Mrs.
Highgate's, and mention of a Mr. Highgate and a Sir John Underhill (f.
107). He names his cousin, Mr. J. Walbeoffe, with whom he had some money
transactions (f. 18), and speaks of "a certain person with whom I had in
former times revelled away my years in drinking" (f. 103). Perhaps this
also was John Walbeoffe, on whom _see_ vol. ii., p. 189, _note_. The
alchemical formulae and receipts are interesting. In one place (f. 12)
Vaughan announces the discovery of the "Extract of Oil of Halcaly,"
which he had previously found in his wife's days and had lost again.
This he calls "the greatest joy I can ever have in this world after her
death." He seems to have regarded it as the key to an universal solvent.
Nearly every receipt is followed by his and his wife's initials in the
form T. R. V. or T. ^V. R., and by some expression of devotion to her or
of religious piety.

I now come to the remarkable statements made with respect to Thomas
Vaughan in the _Mémoires d'une ex-Palladiste_, now in course of
publication by Miss Diana Vaughan. Miss Vaughan is a lady who has
created a considerable sensation in Paris. Her own account of herself is
that she was brought up as a worshipper of Lucifer, and was for some
years a leading spirit amongst certain androgynous lodges of Freemasons,
in which the worship of Lucifer is largely practised. She has now, owing
to the direct interposition of Joan of Arc, become a Catholic, and has
made it her mission to combat Luciferian Freemasonry in every way. Her
_Memoirs_ are partly a biography, partly an account of this cult.[23]
Miss Vaughan claims to be a great-grand-daughter of Thomas Vaughan's.
She declares him to have been a Luciferian, Grand-master of the
Rosicrucian order, and the founder of modern Freemasonry; and gives an
exhaustive account of his career on the authority of family archives.
The following paragraphs contain the substance of her narrative, the
"legend of Philalethes," as it was told to Miss Vaughan by her father
and her uncle, who were intimate friends of Albert Pike.

The traditional accounts of Thomas Vaughan, says Miss Vaughan, contain
serious errors. The dates of his birth and of his death, and the
pseudonym under which he wrote are all incorrectly stated[24] (p. 110).
He was born in Monmouth in 1612, being two years the elder of his
brother Henry. The two boys were brought up at Oxford, after their
father's death, by their uncle, Robert Vaughan the antiquary,[25] and
entered at Jesus College (p. 114). In 1636, at the age of 24, Thomas
Vaughan went to London, and became the disciple of Robert Fludd, who was
a Rosicrucian (p. 148). The real nature of the Rosicrucians has hitherto
been a mystery. They were in reality Luciferians, and carried on in
secret during the seventeenth century that warfare against Adonai, the
god of the Catholics, out of which had already sprung Wiclif, Luther,
and the Reformation, and out of which was some day to spring, more
deadly and more dangerous still, Freemasonry. The Fraternity of
Rosie-Cross was founded by Faustus Socinus in 1597. He was succeeded as
head of it by Caesar Cremonini (1604-1617), Michael Maier (1617-1622),
Valentin Andreae (1622-1654), and Thomas Vaughan (1654-1678).[26] When
Thomas Vaughan first came to London in 1636, Valentin Andreae was
_Summus Magister_ of the Fraternity, and amongst its leading members
were Robert Fludd and Amos Komenski, or Comenius (pp. 129-148). Robert
Fludd initiated Thomas Vaughan into the lower degrees of the Golden
Cross (p. 148), and sent him to Andreae at Calw, near Stuttgart, with a
letter in which he prophesied for him a miraculous future (p. 163).
After this visit to Germany, Vaughan returned to London, and after
Fludd's death, in 1637, undertook in 1638 his first visit to America. In
many of his writings he speaks as a Christian minister, and at this time
he probably passed as a Nonconformist (p. 164). He was back in London
early in June, 1639 (p. 165), and in the same year visited Denmark, and
made a report to Komenski on the mysterious golden horn found at Tondern
in that country (p. 166). In 1640 Vaughan received from Komenski the
first initiation of the Rosie Cross, and chose the pseudonym of
Eirenaeus Philalethes.[27] He now became exceedingly active, going and
coming upon the face of the earth. When in England, he divided his time
between Oxford and London (p. 167). Between 1640 and 1644 he visited
Hamburg, the Netherlands, Italy and Sweden (pp. 171-174). It was at this
period that he conceived the design of obtaining a far wider circulation
than they had yet met with for the ideas of Faustus Socinus. Some of the
Rosicrucians were already "accepted masons." Vaughan determined to
capture the vast organization of craft masonry by permeating the lodges
with Luciferianism. His associate in this task was Elias Ashmole, with
whose aid, a few years later, he composed the degrees of Apprentice
(1646), Companion (1648), and Master (1649) (pp. 142, 169-175, 197-206).
The Civil War had now approached. Oliver Cromwell was a freemason, a
Rosicrucian, and a friend of Vaughan's (p. 176). With the execution of
Laud came the crisis of Vaughan's life, his initiation into the highest
degree of Rosie Cross by the hands of Lucifer himself. It took place in
this wise. At the last moment Vaughan was substituted for the intended
executioner of Laud.[28] He had prepared a sacramental cloth which he
soaked in the martyr's blood, and on the same night he sacrificed the
relic to Lucifer. The divinity appeared, consecrated Vaughan as
_Magus_, named him as the next _Summus Magister_ of the Fraternity, and
signed a pact, granting him thirty-three years more life, at the end of
which he should be borne away from earth without death (p. 177). In 1645
Vaughan wrote, but did not yet publish, his most important treatise, the
_Introitus Apertus ad Occlusum Regis Palatium_. In 1645, still following
the direct command of Lucifer, he departed for America. Here he met the
apothecary George Starkey, and in his presence performed the alchemical
feat of making gold (p. 179).[29] Here, too, he lived amongst the
Lenni-Lennaps, where he was united to the demon Venus-Astarte in the
form of a beautiful woman, who after eleven days bore him a daughter.
This girl was brought up among the Lenni-Lennaps under the name of Diana
Wulisso-Waghan, and became Miss Diana Vaughan's great-great-grandmother
(p. 181). In 1648 Vaughan returned to England, and after composing the
masonic degree of Master in 1649 (p. 197), he began the publication of
a series of alchemical and, in reality, Luciferian writings. In 1650
appeared the _Anthroposophia Theomagica_ and the _Magia Adamica_, in
1651 the _Lumen de Lumine_; in 1652 the _Aula Lucis_ (p. 211). In 1654
Valentin Andreae died, and Vaughan succeeded him as _Summus Magister_ of
the Rosie Cross, the event being announced to him by the homage of three
demons, Leviathan, Cerberus, and Belphegor (p. 214). In 1655 he
published his _Euphrates_, and in 1656 made his head-quarters at
Amsterdam or Eirenaeopolis. In 1659 came his _Fraternity of R. C._; in
1664 his _Medulla Alchymiae_.[30] In 1666 he exhibited the philosopher's
stone to Helvetius at La Haye and converted him to occultism: in 1667 he
at last resolved to publish his Opus Magnum, the _Introitus Apertus_,
already written in 1645 (p. 215). In 1668 this was followed by the
_Experimenta de Praeparatione Mercurii Sophici_ and the _Tractatus Tres_
(p. 236). The time was now approaching when Vaughan, in fulfilment of
the pact of 1644, must disappear from earth. He named Charles Blount as
his successor (p. 237), and was granted a magical vision of his
grandson, the child of Diana Wulisso-Waghan and a Lenni-Lennap (p. 239).
He finished his _Memoirs_, published the _Ripley Revised_[31] and the
_Enarratio Methodica trium Gebri Medicinarum_, left his poems to his
brother Henry, who published them in the next year as the _Thalia
Rediviva_,[32] and on March 25, 1678, disappeared in the company of
_Lucifer Dieu-Bon_ himself (p. 240). This event is vouched for, not only
by a written statement of Henry Vaughan (p. 114), but also by the
existence in a masonic triangle at Valetta of a magical talisman into
which, when properly evoked, the spirit of Philalethes enters and
records his glorious end for the edification of the Luciferians
present[33] (p. 243).

I fear that I have taken Miss Vaughan with undue seriousness. Her
account of Thomas Vaughan is not only unsupported by direct
evidence,[34] but much of it is of a character which we should not be
justified in accepting, even were direct evidence forthcoming. And it is
all discordant with the little that we do happen to know of Thomas
Vaughan from other sources. The whole thing is, in fact, a pretty
obvious romance of very modern fabrication. It appears to have been
compiled from such information as to the alchemical and mystical writers
of the seventeenth century as was within the reach of Albert Pike and
the brothers Vaughan about the year 1870.[35] It is always better to
explain than to refute an error; and the nature of the Luciferian
tradition of Thomas Vaughan is pretty clearly shown by the fact that it
is not corroborated in a single particular by any of the new facts about
him that have come to light since this probable date of its
composition.[36] The fabricator put Thomas Vaughan's birth-place in
Monmouth instead of Brecon, because he had never seen Dr. Grosart's
_Fuller Worthies_ Edition of Henry Vaughan. He makes no mention of any
of the facts contained in Sloane MS. 1741, because that MS. was still
unknown. And, most fatal of all, he puts Thomas Vaughan's birth in 1612
instead of 1621-2, because Foster's _Alumni Oxonienses_ being yet
unpublished, he was ignorant of the record of that date preserved in the
University Registers. But we can go a step further. We can confute him,
not only by pointing to the books he did not use, but by pointing to
those he did. It has already been shown that the ascription to Vaughan
of the English translation of Maier's _Themis Aurea_ is due to a
misunderstanding of a phrase used by Anthony à Wood. The _Athenae
Oxonienses_ then was one source of the compilation. Another was the
_Histoire de la Philosophie Hermétique_, written by Lenglet-Dufresnoy in
1742. Here is the proof. Miss Vaughan supports her statement as to the
birth-date in 1612 by a quotation from the _Introitus Apertus_, in which
the writer states it to have been composed "en l'an 1645 de notre salut,
et le trente-troisième de mon age." This she professes to translate from
the _editio princeps_ published by Jean Lange in 1667. As a matter of
fact it is taken from the version given in Lenglet-Dufresnoy's book. And
Lenglet-Dufresnoy followed, not the edition of 1667, but the later
edition published by J. M. Faust at Frankfort in 1706. In this the words
are "trigesimo tertio," whereas in the _editio princeps_ they are
"vicesimo tertio," and in W. Cooper's English translation of 1669, "in
the 23rd year of my age," thus bringing the date of the birth of
Eirenaeus Philalethes not to 1612, but to 1622. The "legend of
Philalethes" need detain us no longer. Miss Vaughan's narrative is a
very insufficient basis for regarding the pious minister and mystic
which Thomas Vaughan appears to have been as a secret enemy of
Christianity and a worshipper of Lucifer.

But when the legend is set aside, there still remain certain questions
suggested by it which may be considered without much reference to the
statements of Miss Vaughan. Was Thomas Vaughan a Rosicrucian? And was
he, admittedly the author of a series of tracts under the name of
Eugenius Philalethes, also the author of those which bear the name of
Eirenaeus Philalethes? The first question is, I am afraid, insoluble,
until it has been decided whether the Fraternity of R. C. ever had an
actual existence. Anthony à Wood states that Thomas Vaughan was a
zealous Rosicrucian, but probably Anthony à Wood took the term in the
general sense of mystic and alchemist. On the other hand Vaughan
himself, in his preface to the English translation of the Rosicrucian
manifestoes, seems to disavow any personal acquaintance with the members
of the fraternity. Even this is not conclusive, for the Rosicrucian
rule, as given in the _Laws of the Brotherhood_, published by Sincerus
Renatus in 1710,[37] obliges the members to deny their membership.

There is more material for the discussion of the second question, but I
do not know that it is more possible to come to a definite conclusion.
The personality of the anonymous adept who took the name of Eirenaeus
Philalethes was shrouded in mystery even to his contemporaries. The
fullest account given of him on any of his title-pages is on that of the
_Experimenta de Praeparatione Mercurii Sophici_ (1668), which is said to
be "ex manuscripto Philosophi Americani alias Eyrenaei Philalethis,
natu Angli, habitatione Cosmopolitae."[38] We have also the description
given by George Starkey, or whoever it was, in the _Marrow of Alchemy_
(1654-5), p. 25. Starkey says:--

    "His present place in which he doth abide
         I know not, for the world he walks about,
    Of which he is a citizen; this tide
         He is to visit artists and seek out
            Antiquities a voyage gone and will
            Return when he of travel hath his fill.

    "By nation an Englishman, of note
         His family is in the place where he
    Was born, his fortune's good, and eke his coat
         Of arms is of a great antiquity;
            His learning rare, his years scarce thirty-three;
            Fuller description get you not from me."

Starkey gives the age of Eirenaeus Philalethes as 33 in 1654. This
precisely confirms the writer's own statement in the earlier editions of
the _Introitus Apertus_ that he was 23 in 1645, and fixes the birth-date
as 1621 or 1622. Now this agrees remarkably with the birth-date
ascertained from other sources of Thomas Vaughan. But Thomas died in
1666, and it is usually asserted that Eirenaeus Philalethes lived until
at least 1678. Miss Vaughan states that he must have been alive in that
year, because he then published the _Ripley Revived_, and the _Enarratio
Trium Gebri Medicinarum_. She declares that the author of the
_Enarratio_ mentions the pains taken about that edition (p. 240). I do
not find any prefatory matter in this book at all. There is a preface to
the _Ripley Revived_, but this was written long before 1678, for it
mentions the _Introitus Apertus_, published in 1667, as still in
manuscript. Neither Jean Lange, the editor of the _Introitus Apertus_ of
1667, writing 9th December, 1666, nor William Cooper, the editor of the
English translation[39] of 1669, writing 15th September, 1668, know
whether the author is still alive. In fact he cannot be shown to have
outlived Thomas Vaughan, for there is no proof that the adept who showed
the philosopher's stone to Helvetius on December 27th, 1666,[40] was the
same as he who showed it to George Starkey many years before. I will
briefly enumerate a few other links which connect Eirenaeus Philalethes
with Thomas Vaughan. A German translation of the _Introitus Apertus_,
published at Hamburg under the title of _Abyssus Alchemiae_ (1704), is
said on the title-page to be "von T. de Vagan." Miss Vaughan states that
a similar translation of the first of the _Tres Tractatus_, published at
Hamburg in 1705, also bears this name (p. 237), and this is borne out by
Lenglet-Dufresnoy (iii. 261-6), who speaks of a French MS. of the _Tres
Tractatus_ inscribed "par Thomas de Vagan, dit Philalèthe ou Martin
Birrhius." Birrhius, however, was only the editor. These ascriptions are
probably made on the authority of G. W. Wedelius, who in his preface,
dated 2nd Sept., 1698, to an edition of the _Introitus Apertus_,
published at Jena in 1699, says of the author:--"Ex Anglia tamen vulgo
habetur oriundus ... et Thomas De Vagan appellatus." The English _Three
Tracts_ (1694) are stated on the title-page to have been written in
Latin by Eirenaeus Philalethes; but there is a note in the British
Museum Catalogue to the effect that the Latin original has the name
_Eugenius_ Philalethes. Unfortunately this Latin _Tres Tractatus_,
published in 1668 by Martin Birrhius at Amsterdam, is not in the
Library, and I cannot verify the statement. Finally, I may note that the
_Ripley Revived_ (1678) has an engraved title-page by Robert Vaughan,
who also did the title-page to _Olor Iscanus_, and that Starkey's
_Marrow of Alchemy_ contains, at the end of the preface to Part ii.,
some lines by William Sampson, which mention

                    "Harry Mastix Moor
    Who judged of Nature when he did not know her";

clearly an allusion to More's controversy with Thomas Vaughan.

It will be seen that there is some _primâ facie_ evidence for
identifying Eirenaeus Philalethes with Thomas Vaughan, whereas he was
probably not George Starkey (Eirenaeus Philoponos Philalethes), and
cannot be shown to have been anyone else. But I am not satisfied. We do
not know that Thomas Vaughan was ever in America, and there is the
strong evidence of Anthony à Wood, who distinguishes between Eirenaeus
and Eugenius, and who appears to have had information from Henry Vaughan
himself. Mr. A. E. Waite argues against the identification on the ground
that Eirenaeus Philalethes was a "physical alchemist," whereas Thomas
Vaughan's alchemy was spiritual and mystical. But we have Vaughan's
authority for saying that he had pursued the physical alchemy also.[41]
And he was clearly doing so when he wrote Sloane MS. 1741. A more
pertinent objection is perhaps that Eirenaeus Philalethes appears to
have been in possession of the grand secret when he wrote the _Introitus
Apertus_ in 1645, whereas Thomas Vaughan was still seeking it in 1658.
To pursue the matter further would require a wide knowledge of the
alchemical writings of the seventeenth century, which unfortunately I do
not possess.[42]

My gratitude is due for help received in compiling the biographical and
other notes in these volumes to Dr. Grosart, Mr. C. H. Firth, Mr. W. C.
Hazlitt, Mr. A. E. Waite, and the Rev. Llewellyn Thomas; notably to Miss
G. E. F. Morgan of Brecon, whose knowledge of local genealogy and
antiquities has been invaluable.

   July, 1896.                              E. K. Chambers.


[1] Dr. Grosart, however, says (ii. 298), "In all the pedigrees that
have been submitted to me, Thomas is placed as the first of the twins."
But, as Henry inherited Newton, and Thomas took orders, Anthony à Wood
is probably right.

[2] The tombstone says 73. G. T. Clark repeats Jones' error.

[3] The tombstone is actually in the north aisle of the church itself.

[4] Obviously Mr. Clark has confused Lucy Jones with her daughter,
Denise Jones.

[5] This was noted by Mr W. B. Rye in _The Genealogist_, iii. 33, from
the Entry Book of the Registry at Hereford. Since then Mr. Clark of
Hereford has kindly sent me, through Miss Morgan, a copy of the bond
entered into by the administratrix, Elizabetha Vaughan de Llansanfread,
and her son-in-law and surety, Roger Prosser de Villa Brecon. The bond,
or the copy, is dated in error "30 May, 1694, et 7th Wm. iii."
Administration was granted on May 29, 1695. The inventory of the
personal property amounted to £49 4s. 0d. The witnesses are Walter
Prosser and David Thomas.

[6] An old alphabetical catalogue of wills in the Hereford Registry,
between 1660-1677, has the following entries:--

Thomas Vaughan, Lansamfread, 11 Dec., 1660.
Franca Vaughan, Lansamfread, 16 Nov., 1677.

The wills cannot, in the present state of the Registry, be found
(_Genealogist_, iii., 33). These dates are much too early for the poet's
son and daughter-in-law; but whose are the wills?

[7] The _Turberville_ and _Jones_ lines are taken from Theophilus Jones'
_History of Brecknockshire_ (ii. 444), and from Harl. MS. 2289, f. 70,
respectively. Miss Morgan has kindly traced the Prossers from the
_Registers_ of St. John's and St. Mary's Churches, Brecon.

[8] Miss Morgan tells me that David Morgan David Howel's father, Morgan
ap Howel, is described in a pedigree as "of Trenewydd in Penkelley"; and
I find from Harl. MS. 2289, ff. 84 (b), 85, that the Powells "of Newton
Penkelley" were related to the Powells of Cantreff. (_See_ vol. ii., p.
57, _note_.)

[9] The will of this Charles Vaughan has been abstracted by Mr. W. B.
Rye (_Genealogist_, iii. 33) from the Hereford Will Office. It was made
9th April, 1707, and proved 29th May, 1707. The testator is described as
of Skellrog, Llansanffread, and mention is made of his wife Margaret
Powell, and of a son William. This William, therefore, and not a
grandson of Henry Vaughan, may be the William Vaughan of Llansantffread,
who married Mary Games of Tregaer (p. xxi). Skellrog appears to have
passed to another and probably elder son, Charles.

[10] S. W. Williams, _Llansaintffread Church_ in _Archaeologia
Cambrensis_ (1887.)

[11] W. B. Rye in _Genealogist_, iii. 36, from Entry Book in Hereford
Will Office.

[12] An account of the part played by Beeston Castle during the Civil
War will be found in Ormerod's _History of Cheshire_ (ed. Helsby), ii.
272 _sqq._

[13] Gardiner, _The Great Civil War_, ch. xxxvi.; J. R. Phillips, _The
Civil War in Wales and the Marches_, i. 329; ii. 270.

[14] Ormerod, i. 243.

[15] Phillips, i. 314.

[16] Phillips, ii. 272.

[17] Both Wood and Foster give the father's name as Thomas, but it
appears to be Henry in all the pedigrees.

[18] The following list of Vaughan's admitted prose treatises is mainly
taken from Dr. Grosart:--_Anthroposophia Theomagica_ (1650); _Anima
Magica Abscondita_ (1650); _Magia Adamica_ with the _Coelum Terrae_
(1650); _The Man-Mouse taken in a Trap_ (1650); _The Second Wash; or,
the Moor scoured once more_ (1651) [These two are polemics against Henry
More]; _Lumen de Lumine_, with the _Aphorismi Magici Eugeniani_ (1651);
_The Fame and Confession of the Fraternity of R:C:_ (1653); _Aula Lucis_
(1652); _Euphrates_ (1655); _Nollius' Chymist's Key_ (1657); _A Brief
Natural History_ (1669); [Wood ascribes this to another writer, as it
was not in the list furnished him by Henry Vaughan].--Henry More's
pamphlets against Vaughan are the _Observations upon Anthroposophia
Theomagica and Anima Magica Abscondita_ (1650), issued under the name of
Alazonomastix Philalethes and _The Second Lash of Alazonomastix_ (1651).

[19] Walker falls into the curious confusion of supposing that there
were two Thomas Vaughans, one rector of Llansantffread, the other of
Newton St. Bridget. But "St. Bridget" is only the English form of the
Welsh "Santffread."

[20] Printed from the Rawl. MSS. in Thurloe's _State Papers_, ii. 120.

[21] Is this the inn of that name once in the Gray's Inn Road?
(Cunningham and Wheatley, _Handbook to London_.)

[22] The Rev. Henry Howlett has kindly sent me the following extract
from the registers of Meppershall:--

    Rebecka, the Wife of Mr. Vahanne
          the 26th of Aprill."

[23] An entire literature has grown up in Paris during the last year
around the question whether the cultus of Lucifer is practised in
certain Masonic Lodges. A number of Catholic journalists and
pamphleteers assert very categorically that this is the case, that the
centre of this cultus, containing the full Luciferian initiates, is the
33^rd^ degree of a so-called New and Reformed Palladian Rite, having its
head-quarters at Charlestown, and that the chiefs of this Rite have
obtained a controlling influence over the whole of Freemasonry. The
creed is described as Manichaean in character, with Lucifer as Dieu-Bon
and Adonai, the God of the Catholics, as Dieu-Mauvais. Adonai is the
principle of asceticism, Lucifer of natural humanity and _la joie de
vivre_. The rituals and the accepted interpretation of the Masonic
symbolism used in the lodges, or "triangles," are of a phallic type.
Women are admitted to membership. Immorality, a parody of the Eucharist,
known as the black mass, and the practice of black magic, take place at
the meetings. Lucifer is worshipped in the form of Baphomet, but from
time to time he is personally evoked, and manifested to his followers.
Luciferianism tends to become identical with Satanism, in which Lucifer
and Satan are identified and frankly worshipped as evil. The first
mention of Luciferian Freemasonry was in the _Y-a-t-il des Femmes dans
la Franc Maçonnerie?_ (1891), of the somewhat notorious Leo Taxil. But
the case rests mainly on the alleged revelations of writers who claim to
have themselves been members of the Palladian Rite. The chief of these
are Dr. Hacke or Bataille, Signor Margiotta and Miss Diana Vaughan.
Unfortunately very little evidence is forthcoming as to the identity of
any of these personages. Many leading Masons, _e.g._, M. Papus in his
_Le Diable et l'Occultisme_, deny that Luciferian Freemasonry exists at
all, and it is freely stated (_cf._ _Light_ for 27 June and 4 July,
1896, pp. 305, 322) that Miss Diana Vaughan is a myth, and that her
_Mémoires_ with the rest of the revelations are the ingenious concoction
of a band of irresponsible journalists of whom Leo Taxil is the chief.
No one appears to have seen Miss Vaughan, and she is alleged to be
hiding in some convent from the vengeance of the Luciferians. Probably
there will be some further light thrown on the matter before long: in
the meantime a good summary of the evidence up-to-date may be found in
A. E. Waite's _Devil-Worship in France_ (1896). Assuming that
Luciferianism really exists, I do not for a moment believe that it has
the antiquity which Miss Vaughan claims for it. The various Rites of
modern Freemasonry, with their fantastic and high-sounding degrees, are
comparatively recent excrescences upon the original Craft Masonry. The
New and Reformed Palladian Rite is said to have been founded at
Charlestown by the well-known Mason, Albert Pike, in 1870. It is based
on the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite, which dates from the
beginning of the century. If there is such a thing as Luciferianism, I
do not think we need look further back than 1870 for its origin. As
expounded by Miss Vaughan and others, it is pretty clearly a compilation
from Eliphaz Levi and other occultist and Cabbalistic writers, with a
good deal of modern American Spiritualism thrown in. Albert Pike, a man
of considerable learning, could easily have invented it. Masonic
symbolism lends itself readily enough to a wide range of
interpretations. I do not say that seventeenth-century occultism has
left no traces upon Freemasonry which modern ritual-mongers may have
elaborated; but it is a far cry from this to the belief that Thomas
Vaughan and Luther were Manichaean worshippers of Lucifer and
Protestantism an organized warfare on Adonai.

[24] Miss Vaughan quotes from Allibone's _History of English
Literature_. Allibone only repeats Anthony à Wood's account.

[25] Robert Vaughan belonged to quite a different branch from the
Vaughans of Newton: and, as Sl. MS. 1741 shows, the father of Henry and
Thomas Vaughan did not die until 1658.

[26] Miss Vaughan gives an elaborate account of the Rosicrucians and of
their famous manifestoes, which I have no room to reproduce.

[27] Miss Vaughan states that Thomas Vaughan signed "not _Eugenius
Philalethes_, but _Eirenaeus Philalethes_" (p. 114). But she ascribes to
him the _Anthroposophia Theomagica_ and other writings which are signed,
though she does not mention it, _Eugenius Philalethes_ (p. 211). She
quotes from Anthony à Wood the assertion, which he does not make, that
the English translations of the _Fama Fraternitatis Rosae Crucis_ (1652)
and of Maier's _Themis Aurea_ (1656) both bear the name of Eugenius, and
were by another Thomas Vaughan! The manuscripts of both are, she says,
signed _Eirenaeus_ (p. 163). What Wood says is that he has seen a
translation of Maier's tract, dedicated to Elias Ashmole by [N. L.]/[T.
S.] H. S., and that Ashmole has forgotten whose the initials are. He
does not suggest that this translation is by a Thomas Vaughan. (_Ath.
Oxon._, iii. 724.)

[28] This episode has previously done duty in the _Vingt Ans Après_
(vol. iii., ch. 8-10), of Alexandre Dumas, in which Mordaunt acts as the
executioner of Charles. There is a Latin poem amongst Vaughan's remains
in _Thalia Rediviva_ entitled _Epitaphium Gulielmi Laud Episcopi
Cantuariensis_, full of sorrow for the archbishop's death.

[29] Miss Vaughan refers to Lenglet-Dufresnoy's _Histoire de la
Philosophie Hermétique_ as an authority on Starkey's relations with
Eirenaeus Philalethes. Lenglet-Dufresnoy probably took his account from
_The Marrow of Alchemy_ (1654-5). The prefaces to this are signed with
anagrams of George Starkey's name. But he ascribes the poem to a friend,
who is called in the _Breve Manuductorium ad Campum Sophiae_ Agricola
Rhomaeus. Perhaps Starkey himself was the real author. The title-page
has the name Eirenaeus Philoponus Philalethes, apparently a distinct
designation from that of Eirenaeus Philalethes.

[30] The _Medulla Alchemiae_ (1664) is only a Latin translation of the
_Marrow of Alchemy_ (1654-5) of Eirenaeus Philoponos Philalethes.

[31] The actual name of the tract is _Ripley Revived_.

[32] The _Thalia Rediviva_ was actually published in 1678, not 1679.

[33] Miss Vaughan has herself witnessed this, in the presence of
Lucifer. Moreover, the spirit of Philalethes has appeared, and conversed
with her (pp. 257-267).

[34] Miss Vaughan refers to several family documents, but does not offer
them for inspection. They include (a) the will of her grandfather James,
enumerating the proofs of his descent (p. 111); (b) the autobiographical
Memoirs of Philalethes, from which Miss Vaughan quotes largely (pp. 174,
240); (c) a letter from Fludd to Andreae (pp. 114, 149); (d) a MS. of
the _Introitus Apertus_, of which the margin has been covered by Vaughan
with a comment for Luciferian initiates (pp. 111, 217, 225); (e) a
letter from Andreae in the archives of the Sovereign Patriarchal Council
of Hamburg (p. 197); (f) Henry Vaughan's account of his brother's
disappearance in the archives of the Supreme Dogmatic Directory of
Charleston (p. 114); (g) Masonic rituals in the archives of Masonic
chapters at Bristol and Gibraltar (p. 200); (h) Rosicrucian rituals
drawn up by one Nick Stone in the hands of Dr. W. W. W[estcott] of
London (p. 141). The documents in Masonic hands are presumably, like the
Valetta talisman, now out of Miss Vaughan's reach. A communication
signed Q. V. in _Light_ for May 16, 1896, denies, on Dr. Westcott's
authority, that his rituals have anything to do with Nick Stone, or that
Miss Vaughan ever saw them. Dr. Westcott is the head of the modern
_Societas Rosicruciana in Anglia_. This body does not even pretend to be
the _Fraternity of R. C._ Finally, there is (i) Thomas Vaughan's
original pact with Lucifer, now, according to Miss Vaughan, in holy
hands, and to be destroyed on the day she takes the veil.

[35] Miss Vaughan somewhat naïvely gives us a lead. After describing
Thomas Vaughan's sojourn with Venus-Astarte among the Lenni-Lennaps, she
adds: "This legend is not accepted by all the Elect Mages; there are
those who regard it as fabricated by my grandfather James of Boston, who
was, they believe, of Delaware origin, or, at any rate, a half-breed;
and they even assert that, in the desire to Anglicize himself, he
invented an entirely false genealogy, by way of justifying his change of
the Lennap name Waghan into Vaughan. Herein the opponents of the
Luciferian legend of Thomas Vaughan go too far" (p. 181).

[36] I have already pointed out that Miss Vaughan is quite possibly a
myth. But, if she exists, I do not see any reason to suppose that she
personally invented the "legend of Philalethes." It lies between Leo
Taxil and his friends in 1895, and the alleged founders of Palladism in
or about 1870, that is Albert Pike and Miss Vaughan's father and uncle.
And, so far as it goes, the ignorance shown in the legend of all books
published in the last twenty years is evidence for the earlier date, and
therefore, to some extent, for the actual existence of Luciferianism.

[37] _Cf._ A. E. Waite, _Real History of the Rosicrucians_, p. 274.

[38] The principal writings ascribed to Eirenaeus Philalethes are
_Introitus Apertus in Occlusum Regis Palatium_ (1667), _Tres Tractatus_
(1668), _Experimenta de Praeparatione Mercurii Sophici_ (1668), _Ripley
Revived_ (1678), _Enarratio Trium Gebri Medicinarum_ (1678). The works
of Eirenaeus Philoponos Philalethes (George Starkey?) are often
attributed to him in error. The B. M. Catalogue, s.vv. _Philaletha,
Philalethes_, is a mass of confusions. Lenglet-Dufresnoy, _Histoire de
la Philosophie Hermétique_ (iii. 261-266), gives a long list of printed
and manuscript works. Most of these he had probably never seen. He
probably took many items in his list from one in J. M. Faust's edition
of the _Introitus Apertus_ (Frankfort, 1706); and this, in its turn, was
based on what Eirenaeus Philalethes himself says he has written in the
preface to _Ripley Revived_. He there says, after naming other works:
"Two English Poems I wrote, declaring the whole secret, which are lost.
Also an Enchiridion of Experiments, together with a Diurnal of
Meditations, in which were many Philosophical receipts, declaring the
whole secret, with an Aenigma annexed; which also fell into such hands
which I conceive will never restore it. This last was written in
English." Can this Enchiridion and Diurnal be Sl. MS. 1741? I find no
"Aenigma." Can Starkey have stolen the poems and published them as the
_Marrow of Alchemy_?

[39] The preface to _Ripley Revived_ makes it clear that the _Introitus
Apertus_ was originally written in Latin, not in English.

[40] This is recorded in Helvetius' _Vitulus Aureus_ (1667). Helvetius
describes his master as 43 or 44 years old, and calls him Elias

[41] _See_ the passage from the Epistle to _Euphrates_, quoted by
Grosart (Vol. ii., p. 312).

[42] The "legend of Philalethes" has already been exposed by Mr. A. E.
Waite in his _Devil Worship in France_ (ch. xiii.). I am also indebted
to what Mr. Waite has written on Eirenaeus Philalethes in that book, as
well as in his _True History of the Rosicrucians_ (1887) and his _Lives
of Alchymistical Philosophers_ (1888).



POEMS, | WITH | The tenth SATYRE of | IUVENAL | ENGLISHED. | By _Henry
Vaughan_, Gent. |--_Tam nil, nulla tibi vendo_ | _Illiade_--| _LONDON_,
| Printed for _G. Badger_, and are to be sold at his | shop under Saint
_Dunstan's_ Church in | Fleet-street. 1646. [8^vo^.]

The translation from Juvenal has a separate title-page.

IVVENAL'S | TENTH | SATYRE | TRANSLATED. | _Nèc verbum verbo curabit
reddere fidus_ | _Interpres_--| _LONDON_, | Printed for G. B., and are
to be sold at his Shop | under Saint _Dunstan's_ Church. 1646.


[Emblem] | Silex Scintillans: | _or_ | _SACRED POEMS_ | _and_ | _Priuate
Eiaculations_ | _By_ | Henry Vaughan _Silurist_ | LONDON | _Printed by
T. W. for H. Blunden_ | _at ye Castle in Cornehill._ 1650. [8^vo^.]


TRANSLATIONS, | Formerly written by | _Mr._ Henry Vaughan _Silurist_. |
Published by a Friend. | Virg. Georg. | _Flumina amo, Sylvasq.
Inglorius_--| LONDON | Printed by _T. W._ for _Humphrey Moseley_, | and
are to be sold at his shop, at the | Signe of the Princes Arms in St.
_Pauls_ | Church-yard, 1651. [8^vo^.]

The Preface is dated "Newton by Usk this 17 of Decemb. 1647."

The prose translations in this volume have separate title-pages:

(a) OF THE | BENEFIT | Wee may get by our | ENEMIES. | A DISCOURSE |
Written originally in the | Greek by _Plutarchus Chaeronensis_, |
translated in to Latin by _I. Reynolds_ Dr. | of Divinitie and lecturer
of the Greeke Tongue | In _Corpus Christi_ College In _Oxford_. |
_Englished By_ H: V: _Silurist_. |--_Dolus, an virtus quis in hoste
requirat._ |--_fas est, et ab hoste doceri._ | LONDON. | Printed for
_Humphry Moseley_ [etc.].

Written originally in the | Greek by _Plutarchus Chaeronensis_, | put in
to latine by _I. Reynolds D.D._ | Englished by _H: V:_ Silurist. |
_Omnia perversae poterunt Corrumpere mentes._ | LONDON. | Printed for
_Humphry Moseley_ [etc.].

(c) OF THE DISEASES | OF THE | MIND, | AND THE | BODY, | and which of
them is | most pernicious. | The Question stated, and decided | by
_Maximus Tirius_, a Platonick Philosopher, written originally in | the
Greek, put into Latine by | _John Reynolds_ D.D. | _Englished_ by Henry
Vaughan _Silurist_. | LONDON, | Printed for _Humphry Moseley_ [etc.].

Written Originally in | _Spanish_ by _Don Antonio de Guevara_, | Bishop
of _Carthagena_, and | Counsellour of Estate to | _Charls_ the Fifth
Emperour | of _Germany_. |_Put into English by_ H. Vaughan _Silurist._ |
Virgil. Georg. | _O fortunatos nimiùm, bona si sua nôrint,_ |
_Agricolas!_--| LONDON, | Printed for _Humphry Moseley_ [etc.].


_Silurist_. | With | An excellent Discourse of the | blessed State of
MAN in GLORY, | written by the most Reverend and | holy Father ANSELM
Arch-| Bishop of _Canterbury_, and now | done into English. | Luke 21,
v. 39, 37. | [quoted in full]. | LONDON, Printed for WILLIAM LEAKE at
the | Crown in Fleet-Street between the two | Temple-Gates. 1652

The preface is dated "Newton by Usk this first of October 1651."

The translation from Anselm has a separate title-page:

MAN | IN | GLORY: | OR, | A Discourse of the blessed | state of the
Saints in the | New JERUSALEM. | Written in Latin by the most | Reverend
and holy Father | _ANSELMUS_ | Archbishop of _Canterbury_, and now |
done into English. | Printed _Anno Dom._ 1652.


_Flores Solitudinis._ | Certaine Rare and Elegant | PIECES; | _Viz._ |
Two Excellent Discourses | Of 1. _Temperance, and Patience_; | 2. _Life
| EUCHERIUS, Bp. of LYONS. | And the Life of | PAULINUS, | Bp. of
_NOLA_. | Collected in his Sicknesse and Retirement, | BY | _HENRY
VAUGHAN_, Silurist. | _Tantus Amor Florum, & generandi gloria Mellis._ |
_London_, Printed for _Humphry Moseley_ at the | _Princes Armes_ in St.
_Pauls_ Church-yard. 1654. [12^mo^.]

The Preface is dated "Newton by Usk, in South-Wales, April 17, 1652."
The pieces have separate title-pages:

(a) Two Excellent | DISCOURSES | Of 1. Temperance and Patience. | 2.
Life and Death. | Written in Latin by | _Johan: Euseb: Nierembergius_. |
Englished by | HENRY VAUGHAN, Silurist. | ... _Mors vitam temperet, &
vita Mortem_. | _LONDON:_ | Printed for _Humphrey Moseley_, etc.

The Preface is dated "Newton by Uske neare Sketh-Rock. 1653."

(b) THE WORLD | CONTEMNED, | IN A | Parenetical Epistle written by | the
Reverend Father | _EUCHERIUS_, | Bishop of _Lyons_, to his Kinsman |
_VALERIANUS_. | [Texts] | _London_, Printed for _Humphrey Moseley_ [etc.].

(c) Primitive Holiness, | Set forth in the | LIFE | of blessed |
PAULINUS, | The most Reverend, and | Learned BISHOP of | _NOLA_: |
Collected out of his own Works, | and other Primitive Authors by |
_Henry Vaughan_, Silurist. | 2 Kings _cap._ 2. _ver._ 12 | _My Father,
my Father, the Chariot of_ | Israel, _and the Horsmen thereof._ |
_LONDON_, | Printed for _Humphry Moseley_ [etc.].


Silex Scintillans: | SACRED | POEMS | And private | EJACULATIONS. | The
second Edition, In two Books; | By _Henry Vaughan_, Silurist. | Job
chap. 35 ver. 10, 11. | [quoted in full] | _London_, Printed for _Henry
Crips_, and _Lodo-_ | _wick Lloyd_, next to the Castle in _Cornhil_, |
and in _Popes-head Alley_. 1655. [8^vo^.]

A reissue, with additions and a fresh title-page, of (2). The Preface is
dated "Newton by Usk, near Sketh-rock Septem. 30, 1654."


HERMETICAL | PHYSICK: | _OR_, | The right way to pre-| serve, and to
restore | HEALTH | _BY_ | That famous and faith-| full Chymist, | _HENRY
NOLLIUS_. | Englished by | HENRY UAUGHAN, Gent. | _LONDON._ | Printed
for _Humphrey Moseley_, and | are to be sold at his shop, at the |
_Princes Armes_, in S^t _Pauls Church-Yard_, 1655. [12^mo^.]


_Thalia Rediviva:_ | THE | _Pass-Times_ and _Diversions_ | OF A |
COUNTREY-MUSE, | In Choice | POEMS | On several Occasions. | WITH | Some
Learned _Remains_ of the Eminent | _Eugenius Philalethes_. | Never made
Publick till now. |--Nec erubuit sylvas habitare Thalia. _Virgil._ |
Licensed, _Roger L'Estrange_. | _London_, Printed for _Robert Pawlet_ at
the Bible in | _Chancery-lane_, near _Fleetstreet_, 1678 [8^vo^.]

The Remains of Eugenius Philalethes [Thomas Vaughan] have a separate

_Eugenii Philalethis_, | VIRI | INSIGNISSIMI | ET | Poetarum | Sui
Saeculi, meritò Principis: | _VERTUMNUS_ | ET | _CYNTHIA_, &c. | Q.
Horat. |--_Qui praegravat artes Infra se positas,_ | _extinctus
am[a]bitur._--| _LONDINI_, | Impensis _Roberti Pawlett_, M.DC.LXXVIII.


Olor Iscanus. A collection of some Select Poems, Together with these
Translations following, etc. All Englished by H. Vaughan, Silurist.
London: Printed and are to be sold by Peter Parker ... 1679. [8^vo^.]

A reissue, according to Dr. Grosart (ii. 59) and W. C. Hazlitt
(_Supplement to Third Series Of Collections_, p. 106), of the 1651 _Olor
Iscanus_, with a fresh title-page. I have not seen a copy.


[Miss L. I. Guiney writes in her essay on _Henry Vaughan, the Silurist_
(Atlantic Monthly, May, 1894): "Mr. Carew Hazlitt has been fortunate
enough to discover the advertisement of an eighteenth-century Vaughan

As to this Mr. Hazlitt writes to me: "I cannot tell where Miss Guiney
heard about the Vaughan--not certainly from me. But there is an edition
of his 'Spiritual Songs,' 8^vo^, 1706, of which, however, I don't at
present know the whereabouts."]


Silex Scintillans: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations of Henry
Vaughan, with Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. London: William Pickering,
1847. [12^mo^.]

An edition of (6) and part of (8).


The Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations of Henry Vaughan, with a
Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. Boston [U. S. A.]: Little, Brown and
Company, 1856. [8^vo^.]

A reprint of (11).


Silex Scintillans, etc.: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, by Henry
Vaughan. London: Bell and Daldy. 1858.

A reprint, with a revised text, of (11).


The Fuller Worthies' Library. The Works in Verse and Prose complete of
Henry Vaughan, Silurist, for the first time collected and edited: with
Memorial-Introduction: Essay on Life and Writings: and Notes: by the
Rev. Alexander B. Grosart, St. George's, Blackburn, Lancashire. In four
Volumes.... Printed for Private Circulation. 1871.

A reprint of the original editions, with biographical and critical
matter. Only 50 4^to^, 106 8^vo^, and 156 12^mo^ copies printed. In Vol.
II. are included the Poems of Thomas Vaughan, with a separate

The English and Latin Verse-Remains of Thomas Vaughan ('Eugenius
Philalethes'), twin-brother of the Silurist. For the first time
collected and edited: with Memorial-Introduction and Notes: by the Rev.
Alexander B. Grosart [etc.].


Silex Scintillans, etc. Sacred Poems and Pious Ejaculations. By Henry
Vaughan, "Silurist." With a Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. Job xxxv. 10,
11 [in full]. London: George Bell and Sons, York Street, Covent Garden.
1883. [8^vo^.]

A reprint, with a text further revised, of (11) and (13), forming a
volume of the _Aldine Poets_. Since reprinted in 1891.


The Jewel Poets. Henry Vaughan. Edinburgh. Macniven and Wallace. 1884.

A selection, with a short preface by W. R. Nicoll.


Silex Scintillans. Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, by Henry
Vaughan (Silurist). Being a facsimile of the First Edition, published in
1650, with an Introduction by the Rev. William Clare, B.A. (Adelaide).
London: Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row. 1885. [12^mo^.]

A facsimile reprint of (2).


Secular Poems by Henry Vaughan, Silurist. Including a few pieces by his
twin-brother Thomas ("Eugenius Philalethes"). Selected and arranged,
with Notes and Bibliography, by J. R. Tutin, Editor of "Poems of Richard
Crashaw," etc. Hull: J. R. Tutin. 1893.

A selection from Vol. II. of (14).


The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. With an Introduction by H. C.
Beeching, Rector of Yattendon. [Publishers' Device.] London: Lawrence
and Bullen, 16, Henrietta Street, W.C. New York: Charles Scribner's
Sons, 153-157 Fifth Avenue. 1896. [Two vols. 8^vo^.]

The present edition. A hundred copies are printed on large paper.


                  WITH THE






To you alone, whose more refined spirits out-wing these dull times, and
soar above the drudgery of dirty intelligence, have I made sacred these
fancies: I know the years, and what coarse entertainment they afford
poetry. If any shall question that courage that durst send me abroad so
late, and revel it thus in the dregs of an age, they have my silence:

    Languescente seculo, liceat ægrotari.

My more calm ambition, amidst the common noise, hath thus exposed me to
the world: you have here a flame, bright only in its own innocence, that
kindles nothing but a generous thought: which though it may warm the
blood, the fire at highest is but Platonic; and the commotion, within
these limits, excludes danger. For the satire, it was of purpose
borrowed to feather some slower hours; and what you see here is but the
interest: it is one of his whose Roman pen had as much true passion for
the infirmities of that state, as we should have pity to the
distractions of our own: honest--I am sure--it is, and offensive cannot
be, except it meet with such spirits that will quarrel with antiquity,
or purposely arraign themselves. These indeed may think that they have
slept out so many centuries in this satire and are now awakened; which,
had it been still Latin, perhaps their nap had been everlasting. But
enough of these,--it is for you only that I have adventured thus far,
and invaded the press with verse; to whose more noble indulgence I shall
now leave it, and so am gone.--

                                                                 H. V.


    When we are dead, and now, no more
    Our harmless mirth, our wit, and score
    Distracts the town; when all is spent
    That the base niggard world hath lent
    Thy purse, or mine; when the loath'd noise
    Of drawers, 'prentices and boys
    Hath left us, and the clam'rous bar
    Items no pints i' th' Moon or Star;
    When no calm whisp'rers wait the doors,
    To fright us with forgotten scores;
    And such aged long bills carry,
    As might start an antiquary;
    When the sad tumults of the maze,
    Arrests, suits, and the dreadful face
    Of sergeants are not seen, and we
    No lawyers' ruffs, or gowns must fee:
    When all these mulcts are paid, and I
    From thee, dear wit, must part, and die;
    We'll beg the world would be so kind,
    To give's one grave as we'd one mind;
    There, as the wiser few suspect,
    That spirits after death affect,
    Our souls shall meet, and thence will they,
    Freed from the tyranny of clay,
    With equal wings, and ancient love
    Into the Elysian fields remove,
    Where in those blessèd walks they'll find
    More of thy genius, and my mind.
      First, in the shade of his own bays,
    Great Ben they'll see, whose sacred lays
    The learnèd ghosts admire, and throng
    To catch the subject of his song.
    Then Randolph in those holy meads,
    His _Lovers_ and _Amyntas_ reads,
    Whilst his Nightingale, close by,
    Sings his and her own elegy.
    From thence dismiss'd, by subtle roads,
    Through airy paths and sad abodes,
    They'll come into the drowsy fields
    Of Lethe, which such virtue yields,
    That, if what poets sing be true,
    The streams all sorrow can subdue.
    Here, on a silent, shady green,
    The souls of lovers oft are seen,
    Who, in their life's unhappy space,
    Were murder'd by some perjur'd face.
    All these th' enchanted streams frequent,
    To drown their cares, and discontent,
    That th' inconstant, cruel sex
    Might not in death their spirits vex.
      And here our souls, big with delight
    Of their new state, will cease their flight:
    And now the last thoughts will appear,
    They'll have of us, or any here;
    But on those flow'ry banks will stay,
    And drink all sense and cares away.
      So they that did of these discuss,
      Shall find their fables true in us.


    Tyrant, farewell! this heart, the prize
    And triumph of thy scornful eyes,
    I sacrifice to heaven, and give
    To quit my sins, that durst believe
    A woman's easy faith, and place
    True joys in a changing face.
      Yet ere I go: by all those tears
    And sighs I spent 'twixt hopes and fears;
    By thy own glories, and that hour
    Which first enslav'd me to thy power;
    I beg, fair one, by this last breath,
    This tribute from thee after death.
    If, when I'm gone, you chance to see
    That cold bed where I lodgèd be,
    Let not your hate in death appear,
    But bless my ashes with a tear:
    This influx from that quick'ning eye,
    By secret pow'r, which none can spy,
    The cold dust shall inform, and make
    Those flames, though dead, new life partake
    Whose warmth, help'd by your tears, shall bring
    O'er all the tomb a sudden spring
    Of crimson flowers, whose drooping heads
    Shall curtain o'er their mournful beds:
    And on each leaf, by Heaven's command,
    These emblems to the life shall stand
      Two hearts, the first a shaft withstood;
    The second, shot and wash'd in blood;
    And on this heart a dew shall stay,
    Which no heat can court away;
    But fix'd for ever, witness bears
    That hearty sorrow feeds on tears.
    Thus Heaven can make it known, and true
    That you kill'd me, 'cause I lov'd you.


The Sigh.

    Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings,
      Take this message and depart;
    Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings,
    At what thy airy voyage brings,
      That thou cam'st lately from my heart.

    Tell my lovely foe that I
    Have no more such spies to send,
      But one or two that I intend,
    Some few minutes ere I die,
      To her white bosom to commend.

    Then whisper by that holy spring,
      Where for her sake I would have died,
    Whilst those water-nymphs did bring
      Flowers to cure what she had tried;
    And of my faith and love did sing.

    That if my Amoret, if she
      In after-times would have it read,
    How her beauty murder'd me,
    With all my heart I will agree,
      If she'll but love me, being dead.


    Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath
    Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death;
    Doating idolater! can silence bring
    Thy saint propitious? or will Cupid fling
    One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try
    This silent courtship of a sickly eye.
    Witty to tyranny, she too well knows
    This but the incense of thy private vows,
    That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray
    The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;
    Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move,
    The language of thy tears may make her love.
      Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall
    On her breast's warmer snow, O may you all,
    By some strange fate fix'd there, distinctly lie,
    The much lov'd volume of my tragedy.
    Where, if you win her not, may this be read,
    The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.


    Amyntas go, thou art undone,
      Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate;
    That love is better not begun,
      Where love is come to love too late.[43]

    Had she professèd[44] hidden fires,
      Or show'd one[45] knot that tied her heart,
    I could have quench'd my first desires,
      And we had only met to part.

    But, tyrant, thus to murder men,
      And shed a lover's harmless blood,
    And burn him in those flames again,
      Which he at first might have withstood.

    Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep
      Such sacred dew, with such pure[46] grace;
    Durst think them feignèd tears, or seek
      For treason in an angel's face.

    This is her art, though this be true,
      Men's joys are kill'd with[47] griefs and fears,
    Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew,
      Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.

    This, cruel, thou hast done, and thus
      That face hath many servants slain,
    Though th' end be not to ruin us,
      But to seek glory by our pain.[48]


[43] MS. _Whose pure offering comes too late._

[44] MS. _profess'd her._

[45] MS. _the._

[46] MS. _such a._

[47] MS. _by._


    MS. _Your aime is sure to ruine us._
        _Seeking your glory by our paine_


Walking in a Starry Evening.

    If, Amoret, that glorious eye,
        In the first birth of light,
          And death of Night,
    Had with those elder fires you spy
          Scatter'd so high,
      Receivèd form and sight;

    We might suspect in the vast ring,
      Amidst these golden glories,
        And fiery stories;[49]
    Whether the sun had been the king
        And guide of day,
      Or your brighter eye should sway.

    But, Amoret, such is my fate,
      That if thy face a star
        Had shin'd from far,
    I am persuaded in that state,
        'Twixt thee and me,
    Of some predestin'd sympathy.[50]

    For sure such two conspiring minds,
      Which no accident, or sight,
        Did thus unite;
    Whom no distance can confine,
        Start, or decline,
    One for another were design'd.


[49] MS.

    MS. _We may suspect in the vast ring_,
          _Which rolls those fiery spheres_
            _Thro' years and years._

[50] MS. _There would be perfect sympathy._


    Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd,
    And Amoret, of thee we talk'd;
    The West just then had stolen the sun,
    And his last blushes were begun:
    We sate, and mark'd how everything
    Did mourn his absence: how the spring
    That smil'd and curl'd about his beams,
    Whilst he was here, now check'd her streams:
    The wanton eddies of her face
    Were taught less noise, and smoother grace;
    And in a slow, sad channel went,
    Whisp'ring the banks their discontent:
    The careless ranks of flowers that spread
    Their perfum'd bosoms to his head.
    And with an open, free embrace,
    Did entertain his beamy face,
    Like absent friends point to the West,
    And on that weak reflection feast.
    If creatures then that have no sense,
    But the loose tie of influence,
    Though fate and time each day remove
    Those things that element their love,
    At such vast distance can agree,
    Why, Amoret, why should not we?


    If I were dead, and in my place
      Some fresher youth design'd
    To warm thee with new fires, and grace
      Those arms I left behind;

    Were he as faithful as the sun,
      That's wedded to the sphere;
    His blood as chaste and temp'rate run,
      As April's mildest tear;

    Or were he rich, and with his heaps
      And spacious share of earth,
    Could make divine affection cheap,
      And court his golden birth:

    For all these arts I'd not believe,
      --No, though he should be thine--
    The mighty amorist could give
      So rich a heart as mine.

    Fortune and beauty thou might'st find,
      And greater men than I:
    But my true resolvèd mind
      They never shall come nigh.[51]

    For I not for an hour did love,
      Or for a day desire,
    But with my soul had from above
      This endless, holy fire.



    MS. _But with my true steadfast minde_
        _None can pretend to vie._


    'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die,
    I'll leave these sighs and tears a legacy
    To after-lovers: that, rememb'ring me,
    Those sickly flames which now benighted be,
    Fann'd by their warmer sighs, may love; and prove
    In them the metempsychosis of love.
    'Twas I--when others scorn'd--vow'd you were fair,
    And sware that breath enrich'd the coarser air,
    Lent roses to your cheeks, made Flora bring
    Her nymphs with all the glories of the spring
    To wait upon thy face, and gave my heart
    A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart,
    To arm those eyes against myself; to me
    Thou ow'st that tongue's bewitching harmony.
    I courted angels from those upper joys,
    And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice.
    I made the Indian curse the hours he spent
    To seek his pearls, and wisely to repent
    His former folly, and confess a sin,
    Charm'd by the brighter lustre of thy skin.
    I borrow'd from the winds the gentler wing
    Of Zephyrus, and soft souls of the spring;
    And made--to air those cheeks with fresher grace--
    The warm inspirers dwell upon thy face.
                  _Oh! jam satis_ ...


_Occasionally written upon a meeting with some of his friends at the
      Globe Tavern, in a chamber painted overhead with a cloudy sky and
      some few dispersed stars, and on the sides with landscapes, hills,
      shepherds and sheep._

    Darkness, and stars i' th' mid-day! They invite
    Our active fancies to believe it night:
    For taverns need no sun, but for a sign,
    Where rich tobacco and quick tapers shine;
    And royal, witty sack, the poet's soul,
    With brighter suns than he doth gild the bowl;
    As though the pot and poet did agree,
    Sack should to both illuminator be.
    That artificial cloud, with its curl'd brow,
    Tells us 'tis late; and that blue space below
    Is fir'd with many stars: mark! how they break
    In silent glances o'er the hills, and speak
    The evening to the plains, where, shot from far,
    They meet in dumb salutes, as one great star.
      The room, methinks, grows darker; and the air
    Contracts a sadder colour, and less fair.
    Or is't the drawer's skill? hath he no arts
    To blind us so we can't know pints from quarts?
    No, no, 'tis night: look where the jolly clown
    Musters his bleating herd and quits the down.
    Hark! how his rude pipe frets the quiet air,
    Whilst ev'ry hill proclaims Lycoris fair.
    Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch and sleep,
    Free from all cares, but thy wench, pipe and sheep!
    But see, the moon is up; view, where she stands
    Sentinel o'er the door, drawn by the hands
    Of some base painter, that for gain hath made
    Her face the landmark to the tippling trade.
    This cup to her, that to Endymion give;
    'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live.
    Choke may the painter! and his box disclose
    No other colours than his fiery nose;
    And may we no more of his pencil see
    Than two churchwardens, and mortality.
      Should we go now a-wand'ring, we should meet
    With catchpoles, whores and carts in ev'ry street:
    Now when each narrow lane, each nook and cave,
    Sign-posts and shop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave,
    When riotous sinful plush, and tell-tale spurs
    Walk Fleet Street and the Strand, when the soft stirs
    Of bawdy, ruffled silks, turn night to day;
    And the loud whip and coach scolds all the way;
    When lust of all sorts, and each itchy blood
    From the Tower-wharf to Cymbeline, and Lud,
    Hunts for a mate, and the tir'd footman reels
    'Twixt chairmen, torches, and the hackney wheels.
      Come, take the other dish; it is to him
    That made his horse a senator: each brim
    Look big as mine: the gallant, jolly beast
    Of all the herd--you'll say--was not the least.
      Now crown the second bowl, rich as his worth
    I'll drink it to; he, that like fire broke forth
    Into the Senate's face, cross'd Rubicon,
    And the State's pillars, with their laws thereon,
    And made the dull grey beards and furr'd gowns fly
    Into Brundusium to consult, and lie.
      This, to brave Sylla! why should it be said
    We drink more to the living than the dead?
    Flatt'rers and fools do use it: let us laugh
    At our own honest mirth; for they that quaff
    To honour others, do like those that sent
    Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent.
      Drink deep; this cup be pregnant, and the wine
    Spirit of wit, to make us all divine,
    That big with sack and mirth we may retire
    Possessors of more souls, and nobler fire;
    And by the influx of this painted sky,
    And labour'd forms, to higher matters fly;
    So, if a nap shall take us, we shall all,
    After full cups, have dreams poetical.

    Let's laugh now, and the press'd grape drink,
    Till the drowsy day-star wink;
    And in our merry, mad mirth run
    Faster, and further than the sun;
    And let none his cup forsake,
    Till that star again doth wake;
    So we men below shall move
    Equally with the gods above.


    Mark, when the evening's cooler wings
      Fan the afflicted air, how the faint sun,
                  Leaving undone,
                  What he begun,
    Those spurious flames suck'd up from slime and earth
                  To their first, low birth,
                  Resigns, and brings.

    They shoot their tinsel beams and vanities,
        Threading with those false fires their way;
                  But as you stay
                  And see them stray,
    You lose the flaming track, and subtly they
                  Languish away,
                  And cheat your eyes.

    Just so base, sublunary lovers' hearts
        Fed on loose profane desires,
                  May for an eye
                  Or face comply:
    But those remov'd, they will as soon depart,
                  And show their art,
                  And painted fires.

    Whilst I by pow'rful love, so much refin'd,
        That my absent soul the same is,
                  Careless to miss
                  A glance or kiss,
    Can with those elements of lust and sense
                  Freely dispense,
                  And court the mind.

    Thus to the North the loadstones move,
      And thus to them th' enamour'd steel aspires:
                  Thus Amoret
                  I do affect;
    And thus by wingèd beams, and mutual fire,
                  Spirits and stars conspire:
                  And this is Love.


    Leave Amoret, melt not away so fast
    Thy eyes' fair treasure; Fortune's wealthiest cast
    Deserves not one such pearl; for these, well spent,
    Can purchase stars, and buy a tenement
    For us in heaven; though here the pious streams
    Avail us not; who from that clue of sunbeams
    Could ever steal one thread? or with a kind
    Persuasive accent charm the wild loud wind?
      Fate cuts us all in marble, and the Book
    Forestalls our glass of minutes; we may look
    But seldom meet a change; think you a tear
    Can blot the flinty volume? shall our fear
    Or grief add to their triumphs? and must we
    Give an advantage to adversity?
    Dear, idle prodigal! is it not just
    We bear our stars? What though I had not dust
    Enough to cabinet a worm? nor stand
    Enslav'd unto a little dirt, or sand?
    I boast a better purchase, and can show
    The glories of a soul that's simply true.
      But grant some richer planet at my birth
    Had spied me out, and measur'd so much earth
    Or gold unto my share: I should have been
    Slave to these lower elements, and seen
    My high-born soul flag with their dross, and lie
    A pris'ner to base mud, and alchemy.
    I should perhaps eat orphans, and suck up
    A dozen distress'd widows in one cup;
    Nay, further, I should by that lawful stealth,
    Damn'd usury, undo the commonwealth;
    Or patent it in soap, and coals, and so
    Have the smiths curse me, and my laundress too;
    Geld wine, or his friend tobacco; and so bring
    The incens'd subject rebel to his king;
    And after all--as those first sinners fell--
    Sink lower than my gold, and lie in hell.
      Thanks then for this deliv'rance! blessed pow'rs,
    You that dispense man's fortune and his hours,
    How am I to you all engag'd! that thus
    By such strange means, almost miraculous,
    You should preserve me; you have gone the way
    To make me rich by taking all away.
    For I--had I been rich--as sure as fate,
    Would have been meddling with the king, or State,
    Or something to undo me; and 'tis fit,
    We know, that who hath wealth should have no wit,
    But, above all, thanks to that Providence
    That arm'd me with a gallant soul, and sense,
    'Gainst all misfortunes, that hath breath'd so much
    Of Heav'n into me, that I scorn the touch
    Of these low things; and can with courage dare
    Whatever fate or malice can prepare:
    I envy no man's purse or mines: I know
    That, losing them, I've lost their curses too;
    And Amoret--although our share in these
    Is not contemptible, nor doth much please--
    Yet, whilst content and love we jointly vie,
    We have a blessing which no gold can buy.


    Hail, sacred shades! cool, leafy house!
    Chaste treasurer of all my vows
    And wealth! on whose soft bosom laid
    My love's fair steps I first betray'd:
      Henceforth no melancholy flight,
    No sad wing, or hoarse bird of night,
    Disturb this air, no fatal throat
    Of raven, or owl, awake the note
    Of our laid echo, no voice dwell
    Within these leaves, but Philomel.
    The poisonous ivy here no more
    His false twists on the oak shall score;
    Only the woodbine here may twine,
    As th' emblem of her love, and mine;
    The amorous sun shall here convey
    His best beams, in thy shades to play;
    The active air the gentlest show'rs
    Shall from his wings rain on thy flowers;
    And the moon from her dewy locks
    Shall deck thee with her brightest drops.
    Whatever can a fancy move,
    Or feed the eye, be on this grove!
      And when at last the winds and tears
    Of heaven, with the consuming years,
    Shall these green curls bring to decay,
    And clothe thee in an aged grey
    --If ought a lover can foresee,
    Or if we poets prophets be--
    From hence transplanted, thou shalt stand
    A fresh grove in th' Elysian land;
    Where--most bless'd pair!--as here on earth
    Thou first didst eye our growth, and birth;
    So there again, thou'lt see us move
    In our first innocence and love;
    And in thy shades, as now, so then,
    We'll kiss, and smile, and walk again.


    In all the parts of earth, from farthest West,
    And the Atlantic Isles, unto the East
    And famous Ganges, few there be that know
    What's truly good, and what is good, in show,
    Without mistake: for what is't we desire,
    Or fear discreetly? to whate'er aspire,
    So throughly bless'd, but ever as we speed,
    Repentance seals the very act, and deed?
    The easy gods, mov'd by no other fate
    Than our own pray'rs, whole kingdoms ruinate,
    And undo families: thus strife, and war
    Are the sword's prize, and a litigious bar
    The gown's prime wish. Vain confidence to share
    In empty honours and a bloody care
    To be the first in mischief, makes him die
    Fool'd 'twixt ambition and credulity.
    An oily tongue with fatal, cunning sense,
    And that sad virtue ever, eloquence,
    Are th' other's ruin, but the common curse;
    And each day's ill waits on the rich man's purse;
    He, whose large acres and imprison'd gold
    So far exceeds his father's store of old,
    As British whales the dolphins do surpass.
      In sadder times therefore, and when the laws
    Of Nero's fiat reign'd, an armèd band
    Seiz'd on Longinus, and the spacious land
    Of wealthy Seneca, besieg'd the gates
    Of Lateranus, and his fair estate
    Divided as a spoil: in such sad feasts
    Soldiers--though not invited--are the guests.
      Though thou small pieces of the blessèd mine
    Hast lodg'd about thee, travelling in the shine
    Of a pale moon, if but a reed doth shake,
    Mov'd by the wind, the shadow makes thee quake.
    Wealth hath its cares, and want has this relief,
    It neither fears the soldier nor the thief;
      Thy first choice vows, and to the gods best known,
    Are for thy stores' increase, that in all town
    Thy stock be greatest, but no poison lies
    I' th' poor man's dish; he tastes of no such spice.
    Be that thy care, when, with a kingly gust,
    Thou suck'st whole bowls clad in the gilded dust
    Of some rich mineral, whilst the false wine
    Sparkles aloft, and makes the draught divine.
      Blam'st thou the sages, then? because the one
    Would still be laughing, when he would be gone
    From his own door; the other cried to see
    His times addicted to such vanity?
    Smiles are an easy purchase, but to weep
    Is a hard act; for tears are fetch'd more deep.
    Democritus his nimble lungs would tire
    With constant laughter, and yet keep entire
    His stock of mirth, for ev'ry object was
    Addition to his store; though then--alas!--
    Sedans, and litters, and our Senate gowns,
    With robes of honour, fasces, and the frowns
    Of unbrib'd tribunes were not seen; but had
    He liv'd to see our Roman prætor clad
    In Jove's own mantle, seated on his high
    Embroider'd chariot 'midst the dust and cry
    Of the large theatre, loaden with a crown,
    Which scarce he could support--for it would down,
    But that his servant props it--and close by
    His page, a witness to his vanity:
    To these his sceptre and his eagle add,
    His trumpets, officers, and servants clad
    In white and purple; with the rest that day,
    He hir'd to triumph, for his bread, and pay;
    Had he these studied, sumptuous follies seen,
    'Tis thought his wanton and effusive spleen
    Had kill'd the Abderite, though in that age
    --When pride and greatness had not swell'd the stage
    So high as ours--his harmless and just mirth
    From ev'ry object had a sudden birth.
    Nor was't alone their avarice or pride,
    Their triumphs or their cares he did deride;
    Their vain contentions or ridiculous fears,
    But even their very poverty and tears.
    He would at Fortune's threats as freely smile
    As others mourn; nor was it to beguile
    His crafty passions; but this habit he
    By nature had, and grave philosophy.
    He knew their idle and superfluous vows,
    And sacrifice, which such wrong zeal bestows,
    Were mere incendiaries; and that the gods,
    Not pleas'd therewith, would ever be at odds.
    Yet to no other air, nor better place
    Ow'd he his birth, than the cold, homely Thrace;
    Which shows a man may be both wise and good,
    Without the brags of fortune, or his blood.
      But envy ruins all: what mighty names
    Of fortune, spirit, action, blood, and fame,
    Hath this destroy'd? yea, for no other cause
    Than being such; their honour, worth and place,
    Was crime enough; their statues, arms and crowns
    Their ornaments of triumph, chariots, gowns,
    And what the herald, with a learnèd care,
    Had long preserv'd, this madness will not spare.
      So once Sejanus' statue Rome allow'd
    Her demi-god, and ev'ry Roman bow'd
    To pay his safety's vows; but when that face
    Had lost Tiberius once, its former grace
    Was soon eclips'd; no diff'rence made--alas!--
    Betwixt his statue then, and common brass,
    They melt alike, and in the workman's hand
    For equal, servile use, like others stand.
      Go, now fetch home fresh bays, and pay new vows
    To thy dumb Capitol gods! thy life, thy house,
    And state are now secur'd: Sejanus lies
    I' th' lictors' hands. Ye gods! what hearts and eyes
    Can one day's fortune change? the solemn cry
    Of all the world is, "Let Sejanus die!"
    They never lov'd the man, they swear; they know
    Nothing of all the matter, when, or how,
    By what accuser, for what cause, or why,
    By whose command or sentence he must die.
    But what needs this? the least pretence will hit,
    When princes fear, or hate a favourite.
    A large epistle stuff'd with idle fear,
    Vain dreams, and jealousies, directed here
    From Caprea does it; and thus ever die
    Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high.
      'Tis well, I seek no more; but tell me how
    This took his friends? no private murmurs now?
    No tears? no solemn mourner seen? must all
    His glory perish in one funeral?
    O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise
    The moon by night, but court the warmer rays
    O' th' sun by day; they follow fortune still,
    And hate or love discreetly, as their will
    And the time leads them. This tumultuous fate
    Puts all their painted favours out of date.
      And yet this people that now spurn, and tread
    This mighty favourite's once honour'd head,
    Had but the Tuscan goddess, or his stars
    Destin'd him for an empire, or had wars,
    Treason, or policy, or some higher pow'r
    Oppress'd secure Tiberius; that same hour
    That he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doom,
    Had crown'd him emp'ror of the world and Rome
      But Rome is now grown wise, and since that she
    Her suffrages, and ancient liberty
    Lost in a monarch's name, she takes no care
    For favourite or prince; nor will she share
    Their fickle glories, though in Cato's days
    She rul'd whole States and armies with her voice.
    Of all the honours now within her walls,
    She only dotes on plays and festivals.
    Nor is it strange; for when these meteors fall,
    They draw an ample ruin with them: all
    Share in the storm; each beam sets with the sun,
    And equal hazard friends and flatt'rers run.
    This makes, that circled with distractive fear
    The lifeless, pale Sejanus' limbs they tear,
    And lest the action might a witness need,
    They bring their servants to confirm the deed;
    Nor is it done for any other end,
    Than to avoid the title of his friend.
    So falls ambitious man, and such are still
    All floating States built on the people's will:
      Hearken all you! whom this bewitching lust
    Of an hour's glory, and a little dust
    Swells to such dear repentance! you that can
    Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span!
    Would you be as Sejanus? would you have,
    So you might sway as he did, such a grave?
    Would you be rich as he? command, dispose,
    All acts and offices? all friends and foes?
    Be generals of armies and colleague
    Unto an emperor? break or make a league?
    No doubt you would; for both the good and bad
    An equal itch of honour ever had.
    But O! what state can be so great or good,
    As to be bought with so much shame and blood?
    Alas! Sejanus will too late confess
    'Twas only pride and greatness made him less:
    For he that moveth with the lofty wind
    Of Fortune, and Ambition, unconfin'd
    In act or thought, doth but increase his height,
    That he may loose it with more force and weight;
    Scorning a base, low ruin, as if he
    Would of misfortune make a prodigy.
      Tell, mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thou
    That mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow,
    What but the weight of honours, and large fame
    After your worthy acts, and height of name,
    Destroy'd you in the end? The envious Fates,
    Easy to further your aspiring States,
    Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excess.
    In ev'ry act did make you thrive the less.
    Few kings are guilty of grey hairs, or die
    Without a stab, a draught, or treachery.
    And yet to see him, that but yesterday
    Saw letters first, how he will scrape, and pray;
    And all her feast-time tire Minerva's ears
    For fame, for eloquence, and store of years
    To thrive and live in; and then lest he dotes,
    His boy assists him with his box and notes.
    Fool that thou art! not to discern the ill
    These vows include; what, did Rome's consul kill
    Her Cicero? what, him whose very dust
    Greece celebrates as yet; whose cause, though just,
    Scarce banishment could end; nor poison save
    His free-born person from a foreign grave?
    All this from eloquence! both head and hand
    The tongue doth forfeit; petty wits may stand
    Secure from danger, but the nobler vein
    With loss of blood the bar doth often stain.

                                               } Carmen
    _O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam._     } Ciceronianum

    Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the sword
    Of fierce Antonius; here is not one word
    Doth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer far
    Than thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war.
    What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw
    At once her patriot, oracle, and law?
    Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in stars
    Whom his poor father, blind with soot and scars,
    Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wear
    The factious gown, and tire his client's ear
    And purse with endless noise. Trophies of war,
    Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar,
    And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a piece
    Of some torn British galley, and to these
    The ensign too, and last of all the train
    The pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain,
    Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek
    And rude barbarians equally do seek.
    Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize
    Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies
    Without reward; and yet by this fierce lust
    Of fame, and titles to outlive our dust,
    And monuments--though all these things must die
    And perish like ourselves--whole kingdoms lie
    Ruin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale,
    What weight affords the mighty general?
    This is the man, whom Afric's spacious land
    Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand
    Could not contain--Ye gods! that give to men
    Such boundless appetites, why state you them
    So short a time? either the one deny,
    Or give their acts and them eternity.
    All Æthiopia, to the utmost bound
    Of Titan's course,--than which no land is found
    Less distant from the sun--with him that ploughs
    That fertile soil where fam'd[52] Iberus flows,
    Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'er
    The Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its store
    Of ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow,
    --As if that Nature meant to give the blow--
    Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry side
    He wounds the hill, and by strong hand divides
    The monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay.
    The world and Nature yield to give him way.
    And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar
    'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future war
    Strikes Italy; success and hope doth fire
    His lofty spirits with a fresh desire.
    All is undone as yet--saith he--unless
    Our Pænish forces we advance, and press
    Upon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall,
    And plant our colours in Suburra's vale.
    O the rare sight! if this great soldier we
    Arm'd on his Getick elephant might see!
    But what's the event? O glory, how the itch
    Of thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch!
    He that but now all Italy and Spain
    Had conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again;
    And in the heart of Afric, and the sight
    Of his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight.
    Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he posts
    To Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts,
    Both places by his sword secur'd, though he
    In this distress must not acknowledg'd be;
    Where once a general he triumphed, now
    To show what Fortune can, he begs as low.
      And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'd
    Conquest and war, and did amaze the world,
    Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath,
    Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death.
    For all that blood the field of Cannæ boasts,
    And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts,
    No other end--freed from the pile and sword--
    Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford.
      Go now, ambitious man! new plots design,
    March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine;
    That, after all, at best thou may'st but be
    A pleasing story to posterity!
      The Macedon one world could not contain,
    We hear him of the narrow earth complain,
    And sweat for room, as if Seriphus Isle
    Or Gyara had held him in exile;
    But Babylon this madness can allay,
    And give the great man but his length of clay.
    The highest thoughts and actions under heaven
    Death only with the lowest dust lays even.
    It is believed--if what Greece writes be true--
    That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hew
    Their ways through mountains, that their sails full blown
    Like clouds hung over Athos and did drown
    The spacious continent, and by plain force
    Betwixt the mount and it, made a divorce;
    That seas exhausted were, and made firm land,
    And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand;
    That on their march his Medes but passing by
    Drank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry;
    With whatsoe'er incredible design
    Sostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine.
    But what's the end? He that the other day
    Divided Hellespont, and forc'd his way
    Through all her angry billows, that assign'd
    New punishments unto the waves, and wind,
    No sooner saw the Salaminian seas
    But he was driven out by Themistocles,
    And of that fleet--supposed to be so great,
    That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat--
    Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat,
    Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float,
    Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood,
    And fought again with carcases, and blood.
    O foolish mad Ambition! these are still
    The famous dangers that attend thy will.
      Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years,
    Are the next vows; these with religious fears
    And constancy we pay; but what's so bad
    As a long, sinful age? what cross more sad
    Than misery of years? how great an ill
    Is that which doth but nurse more sorrow still?
    It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood,
    Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food,
    And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skin
    As in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen.
      Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit,
    Are several graces; but where age doth hit
    It makes no difference; the same weak voice,
    And trembling ague in each member lies:
    A general hateful baldness, with a curs'd
    Perpetual pettishness; and, which is worst,
    A foul, strong flux of humours, and more pain
    To feed, than if he were to nurse again;
    So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends,
    That his own sons, and servants, wish his end.
    His taste and feeling dies; and of that fire
    The am'rous lover burns in, no desire:
    Or if there were, what pleasure could it be,
    Where lust doth reign without ability?
    Nor is this all: what matters it, where he
    Sits in the spacious stage? who can nor see,
    Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voice
    Of spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noise
    Of trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can
    But scarce inform who enters, or what man
    He personates, what 'tis they act, or say?
    How many scenes are done? what time of day?
    Besides that little blood his carcase holds
    Hath lost[53] its native warmth, and fraught with colds
    Catarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns,
    And never but in fits and fevers burns.
    Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock
    Of sickness and diseases to him flock,
    That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew,
    Nor wanton Maura; physic never slew
    So many patients, nor rich lawyers spoil
    More wards and widows; it were lesser toil
    To number out what manors and domains
    Licinius' razor purchas'd: one complains
    Of weakness in the back, another pants
    For lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants;
    Nay, some so feeble are, and full of pain,
    That infant-like they must be fed again.
    These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill,
    And like young birds, that wait the mother's bill,
    They gape for meat; but sadder far than this
    Their senseless ignorance and dotage is;
    For neither they, their friends, nor servants know,
    Nay, those themselves begot, and bred up too,
    No longer now they'll own; for madly they
    Proscribe them all, and what, on the last day,
    The misers cannot carry to the grave
    For their past sins, their prostitutes must have.
      But grant age lack'd these plagues: yet must they see
    As great, as many: frail mortality,
    In such a length of years, hath many falls,
    And deads a life with frequent funerals.
    The nimblest hour in all the span can steal
    A friend, or brother from's; there's no repeal
    In death, or time; this day a wife we mourn,
    To-morrow's tears a son; and the next urn
    A sister fills. Long-livers have assign'd
    These curses still, that with a restless mind,
    An age of fresh renewing cares they buy,
    And in a tide of tears grow old and die.
      Nestor,--if we great Homer may believe--
    In his full strength three hundred years did live:
    Happy--thou'lt say--that for so long a time
    Enjoy'd free nature, with the grape and wine
    Of many autumns; but, I prithee thee, hear
    What Nestor says himself, when he his dear
    Antilochus had lost; how he complains
    Of life's too large extent, and copious pains?
    Of all he meets, he asks what is the cause
    He liv'd thus long; for what breach of their laws
    The gods thus punish'd him? what sin had he
    Done worthy of a long life's misery.
    Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he
    Thus wept that his Ulysses lost at sea.
    Had Priam died before Phereclus' fleet
    Was built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek,
    Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone
    In peace unto the lower shades; his son
    Sav'd with his plenteous offspring, and the rest
    In solemn pomp bearing his fun'ral chest.
    But long life hinder'd this: unhappy he,
    Kept for a public ruin, liv'd to see
    All Asia lost, and ere he could aspire,
    In his own house saw both the sword and fire;
    All white with age and cares, his feeble arm
    Had now forgot the war; but this alarm
    Gathers his dying spirits; and as we
    An aged ox worn out with labour see
    By his ungrateful master, after all
    His years of toil, a thankless victim fall:
    So he by Jove's own altar; which shows we
    Are nowhere safe from heaven, and destiny:
    Yet died a man; but his surviving queen,
    Freed from the Greekish sword, was barking seen.
    I haste to Rome, and Pontus' king let pass,
    With Lydian Cr[oe]sus, whom in vain--alas!--
    Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend,
    That happiness came not before the end.
      What man more bless'd in any age to come
    Or past, could Nature show the world, or Rome,
    Than Marius was? if amidst the pomp of war,
    And triumphs fetch'd with Roman blood from far,
    His soul had fled; exile and fetters then
    He ne'er had seen, nor known Minturna's fen;
    Nor had it, after Carthage got, been said
    A Roman general had begg'd his bread.
      Thus Pompey th' envious gods, and Rome's ill stars
    --Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars--
    Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vows
    Made Cæsar guiltless; but sent him to lose
    His head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd:
    This Lentulus, and this made him resist
    That mangled by no lictor's axe, fell dead
    Entirely Catiline, and sav'd his head.
      The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal,
    Are the last votaries, and their appeal
    Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow,
    They pray for sons, but with a louder vow
    Commend a female feature: all that can
    Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan
    And when[54] reprov'd, they say, Latona's pair
    The mother never thinks can be too fair.
      But sad Lucretia warns to wish no face
    Like hers: Virginia would bequeath her grace
    To crook-back Rutila in exchange; for still
    The fairest children do their parents fill
    With greatest cares; so seldom chastity
    Is found with beauty; though some few there be
    That with a strict, religious care contend
    Th' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend:
    Besides, wise Nature to some faces grants
    An easy blush, and where she freely plants
    A less instruction serves: but both these join'd,
    At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd.
      So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win,
    And bribe the father to the children's sin;
    But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face
    Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace
    Betrays itself; what time did Nero mind
    A coarse, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd
    His goatish pathic? whence then flow these joys
    Of a fair issue? whom these sad annoys
    Wait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see
    Public adulterers, and must be
    Subject to all the curses, plagues, and awe
    Of jealous madmen, and the Julian law;
    Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star,
    Or more escapes than did the god of war.
    But worse than all, a jealous brain confines
    His fury to no law; what rage assigns
    Is present justice: thus the rash sword spills
    This lecher's blood; the scourge another kills.
    But thy spruce boy must touch no other face
    Than a patrician? is of any race
    So they be rich; Servilia is as good,
    With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood.
    To please a servant all is cheap; what thing
    In all their stock to the last suit, and king,
    But lust exacts? the poorest whore in this
    As generous as the patrician is.
    But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin
    With a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and him
    That Stenob[oe]a murder'd; for both these
    Can tell how fatal 'twas in them to please.
    A woman's spleen then carries most of fate,
    When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate.
    Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son,
    In such a hazard what should he have done?
    Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best,
    In whom alone beauty and worth did rest.
    This Messalina saw, and needs he must
    Be ruin'd by the emp'ror, or her lust.
    All in the face of Rome, and the world's eye
    Though Cæsar's wife, a public bigamy
    She dares attempt; and that the act might bear
    More prodigy, the notaries appear,
    And augurs to't; and to complete the sin
    In solemn form, a dowry is brought in.
    All this--thou'lt say--in private might have pass'd
    But she'll not have it so; what course at last?
    What should he do? If Messaline be cross'd,
    Without redress thy Silius will be lost;
    If not, some two days' length is all he can
    Keep from the grave; just so much as will span
    This news to Hostia, to whose fate he owes
    That Claudius last his own dishonour knows.
    But he obeys, and for a few hours' lust
    Forfeits that glory should outlive his dust;
    Nor was it much a fault; for whether he
    Obey'd or not, 'twas equal destiny.
    So fatal beauty is, and full of waste.
    That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste.
    What then should man pray for? what is't that he
    Can beg of Heaven, without impiety?
    Take my advice: first to the gods commit
    All cares; for they things competent and fit
    For us foresee; besides, man is more dear
    To them than to himself; we blindly here,
    Led by the world and lust, in vain assay
    To get us portions, wives and sons; but they
    Already know all that we can intend,
    And of our children's children see the end.
      Yet that thou may'st have something to commend
    With thanks unto the gods for what they send;
    Pray for a wise and knowing soul; a sad,
    Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to add
    A needless horror to thy death; that knows
    'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes;
    That starts not at misfortunes, that can sway
    And keep all passions under lock and key;
    That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefers
    An honest want, before rich injurers.
    All this thou hast within thyself, and may
    Be made thy own, if thou wilt take the way;
    What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what [can]
    Frail, perilous honours add unto a man?
    What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife?
    Virtue alone can make a happy life.
    To a wise man nought comes amiss: but we
    Fortune adore, and make our deity.


[52] The original has _framed_.

[53] The original has _low_.

[54] The original has _why_

              OLOR ISCANUS.


    ----O quis me gelidis in vallibus Iscæ
    Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!


    Diminuat ne sera dies præsentis honorem
      Quis, qualisque fui, percipe Posteritas.
    Cambria me genuit, patulis ubi vallibus errans
      Subjacet aeriis montibus Isca pater.
    Inde sinu placido suscepit maximus arte
      Herbertus, Latiæ gloria prima scholæ.
    Bis ternos, illo me conducente, per annos
      Profeci, et geminam contulit unus opem;
    Ars et amor, mens atque manus certare solebant,
      Nec lassata illi mensue, manusue fuit.
    Hinc qualem cernis crevisse: sed ut mea certus
      Tempora cognoscas, dura mere, scias.
    Vixi, divisos cum fregerat hæresis Anglos
      Inter Tysiphonas presbyteri et populi.
    His primum miseris per am[oe]na furentibus arva
      Prostravit sanctam vilis avena rosam,
    Turbarunt fontes, et fusis pax perit undis,
      Moestaque coelestes obruit umbra dies.
    Duret ut integritas tamen, et pia gloria, partem
      Me nullam in tanta strage fuisse, scias;
    Credidimus nempe insonti vocem esse cruori,
      Et vires quæ post funera flere docent.
    Hinc castæ, fidæque pati me more parentis
      Commonui, et lachrymis fata levare meis;
    Hinc nusquam horrendis violavi sacra procellis,
      Nec mihi mens unquam, nec manus atra fuit.
    Si pius es, ne plura petas; satur ille recedat
      Qui sapit et nos non scripsimus insipidis.


My Lord,

It is a position anciently known, and modern experience hath allowed it
for a sad truth, that absence and time,--like cold weather, and an
unnatural dormition--will blast and wear out of memory the most
endearing obligations; and hence it was that some politicians in love
have looked upon the former of these two as a main remedy against the
fondness of that passion. But for my own part, my Lord, I shall deny
this aphorism of the people, and beg leave to assure your Lordship,
that, though these reputed obstacles have lain long in my way, yet
neither of them could work upon me: for I am now--without adulation--as
warm and sensible of those numerous favours and kind influences received
sometimes from your Lordship, as I really was at the instant of
fruition. I have no plot by preambling thus to set any rate upon this
present address, as if I should presume to value a return of this nature
equal with your Lordship's deserts, but the design is to let you see
that this habit I have got of being troublesome flows from two
excusable principles, gratitude and love. These inward counsellors--I
know not how discreetly--persuaded me to this attempt and intrusion upon
your name, which if your Lordship will vouchsafe to own as the genius to
these papers, you will perfect my hopes, and place me at my full height.
This was the aim, my Lord, and is the end of this work, which though but
a _pazzarello_ to the _voluminose insani_, yet as jessamine and the
violet find room in the bank as well as roses and lilies, so happily may
this, and--if shined upon by your Lordship--please as much. To whose
protection, sacred as your name and those eminent honours which have
always attended upon it through so many generations, I humbly offer it,
and remain in all numbers of gratitude,

                        My honoured Lord,
       Your most affectionate, humblest Servant,
Newton by Usk this 17 of Decemb. 1647.


It was the glorious Maro that referred his legacies to the fire, and
though princes are seldom executors, yet there came a Cæsar to his
testament, as if the act of a poet could not be repealed but by a king.
I am not, Reader, _Augustus vindex_: here is no royal rescue, but here
is a Muse that deserves it. The Author had long ago condemned these
poems to obscurity, and the consumption of that further fate which
attends it. This censure gave them a gust of death, and they have partly
known that oblivion which our best labours must come to at last. I
present thee then not only with a book, but with a prey, and in this
kind the first recoveries from corruption. Here is a flame hath been
sometimes extinguished, thoughts that have been lost and forgot, but now
they break out again like the Platonic reminiscency. I have not the
Author's approbation to the fact, but I have law on my side, though
never a sword. I hold it no man's prerogative to fire his own house.
Thou seest how saucy I am grown, and it thou dost expect I should
commend what is published, I must tell thee, I cry no Seville oranges. I
will not say, Here is fine or cheap: that were an injury to the verse
itself, and to the effects it can produce. Read on, and thou wilt find
thy spirit engaged: not by the deserts of what we call tolerable, but by
the commands of a pen that is above it.


    What planet rul'd your birth? what witty star?
    That you so like in souls as bodies are!
    So like in both, that you seem born to free
    The starry art from vulgar calumny.
    My doubts are solv'd, from hence my faith begins,
    Not only your faces but your wits are twins.

    When this bright Gemini shall from Earth ascend,
    They will new light to dull-ey'd mankind lend,
    Teach the star-gazers, and delight their eyes,
    Being fix'd a constellation in the skies.

                                                T. Powell, Oxoniensis.


    I call'd it once my sloth: in such an age
    So many volumes deep, I not a page?
    But I recant, and vow 'twas thrifty care
    That kept my pen from spending on slight ware,
    And breath'd it for a prize, whose pow'rful shine
    Doth both reward the striver, and refine.
    Such are thy poems, friend: for since th' hast writ,
    I can't reply to any name, but wit;
    And lest amidst the throng that make us groan,
    Mine prove a groundless heresy alone,
    Thus I dispute, Hath there not rev'rence been
    Paid to the beard at door, for Lord within?
    Who notes the spindle-leg or hollow eye
    Of the thin usher, the fair lady by?
    Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a hand
    Which, while I aim to strengthen, gives command
    For my protection; and thou art to me
    At once my subject and security.

                                            I. Rowlandson, Oxoniensis.


    I write not here, as if thy last in store
    Of learnèd friends; 'tis known that thou hast more;
    Who, were they told of this, would find a way
    To raise a guard of poets without pay,
    And bring as many hands to thy edition,
    As th' City should unto their May'r's petition.
    But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be
    Thy muster rather than our courtesy;
    Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appear
    Poet by voice and suffrage of the shire;
    That were enough to make my Muse advance
    Amongst the crutches; nay, it might enhance
    Our charity, and we should think it fit
    The State should build an hospital for wit.
      But here needs no relief: thy richer verse
    Creates all poets, that can but rehearse,
    And they, like tenants better'd by their land,
    Should pay thee rent for what they understand.
    Thou art not of that lamentable nation
    Who make a blessed alms of approbation,
    Whose fardel-notes are briefs in ev'rything,
    But, that they are not _Licens'd by the king_.
    Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth
    Arm'd--though I speak it--with thy proper worth,
    And needest not this noise of friends, for we
    Write out of love, not thy necessity.
    And though this sullen age possessèd be
    With some strange desamour to poetry,
    Yet I suspect--thy fancy so delights--
    The Puritans will turn thy proselytes,
    And that thy flame, when once abroad it shines,
    Will bring thee as many friends as thou hast lines.

                                     Eugenius Philalethes, Oxoniensis.



    When Daphne's lover here first wore the bays,
    Eurotas' secret streams heard all his lays,
    And holy Orpheus, Nature's busy child,
    By headlong Hebrus his deep hymns compil'd;
    Soft Petrarch--thaw'd by Laura's flames--did weep
    On Tiber's banks, when she--proud fair!--could sleep;
    Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the Thames
    Doth murmur Sidney's Stella to her streams;
    While Severn, swoln with joy and sorrow, wears
    Castara's smiles mix'd with fair Sabrin's tears.
    Thus poets--like the nymphs, their pleasing themes--
    Haunted the bubbling springs and gliding streams;
    And happy banks! whence such fair flow'rs have sprung,
    But happier those where they have sat and sung!
    Poets--like angels--where they once appear
    Hallow the place, and each succeeding year
    Adds rev'rence to't, such as at length doth give
    This aged faith, that there their genii live.
    Hence th' ancients say, that from this sickly air
    They pass to regions more refin'd and fair,
    To meadows strew'd with lilies and the rose,
    And shades whose youthful green no old age knows;
    Where all in white they walk, discourse, and sing
    Like bees' soft murmurs, or a chiding spring.
      But Isca, whensoe'er those shades I see,
    And thy lov'd arbours must no more know me,
    When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams,
    And my sun sets, where first it sprang in beams,
    I'll leave behind me such a large, kind light,
    As shall redeem thee from oblivious night,
    And in these vows which--living yet--I pay,
    Shed such a previous and enduring ray,
    As shall from age to age thy fair name lead,
    'Till rivers leave to run, and men to read.
        First, may all bards born after me
        --When I am ashes--sing of thee!
        May thy green banks or streams,--or none--
        Be both their hill and Helicon!
        May vocal groves grow there, and all
        The shades in them prophetical,
        Where laid men shall more fair truths see
        Than fictions were of Thessaly!
        May thy gentle swains--like flow'rs--
        Sweetly spend their youthful hours,
        And thy beauteous nymphs--like doves--
        Be kind and faithful to their loves!
        Garlands, and songs, and roundelays,
        Mild, dewy nights, and sunshine days,
        The turtle's voice, joy without fear,
        Dwell on thy bosom all the year!
        May the evet and the toad
        Within thy banks have no abode,
        Nor the wily, winding snake
        Her voyage through thy waters make!
        In all thy journey to the main
        No nitrous clay, nor brimstone-vein
        Mix with thy streams, but may they pass
        Fresh on the air, and clear as glass,
        And where the wand'ring crystal treads
        Roses shall kiss, and couple heads!
        The factor-wind from far shall bring
        The odours of the scatter'd Spring,
        And loaden with the rich arrear,
        Spend it in spicy whispers there.
        No sullen heats, nor flames that are
        Offensive, and canicular,
        Shine on thy sands, nor pry to see
        Thy scaly, shading family,
        But noons as mild as Hesper's rays,
        Or the first blushes of fair days!
        What gifts more Heav'n or Earth can add,
        With all those blessings be thou clad!
              Honour, Beauty,
              Faith and Duty,
              Delight and Truth,
              With Love and Youth,
    Crown all about thee! and whatever Fate
    Impose elsewhere, whether the graver state
    Or some toy else, may those loud, anxious cares
    For dead and dying things--the common wares
    And shows of Time--ne'er break thy peace, nor make
    Thy repos'd arms to a new war awake!
        But freedom, safety, joy and bliss,
        United in one loving kiss,
        Surround thee quite, and style thy borders
        The land redeem'd from all disorders!


    Bless me! what damps are here! how stiff an air!
    Kelder of mists, a second fiat's care,
    Front'spiece o' th' grave and darkness, a display
    Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day,
    Lean, bloodless shamble, where I can descry
    Fragments of men, rags of anatomy,
    Corruption's wardrobe, the transplantive bed
    Of mankind, and th' exchequer of the dead!
    How thou arrests my sense! how with the sight
    My winter'd blood grows stiff to all delight!
    Torpedo to the eye! whose least glance can
    Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue headlong man.
    Eloquent silence! able to immure
    An atheist's thoughts, and blast an epicure.
    Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dress
    Would make me wish a Saviour, and confess.
      Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope,
    Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope,
    Whose stretch'd excess runs on a string too high,
    And on the rack of self-extension die?
    Chameleons of state, air-monging band,
    Whose breath--like gunpowder--blows up a land,
    Come see your dissolution, and weigh
    What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day.
    As th' elements by circulation pass
    From one to th' other, and that which first was
    I so again, so 'tis with you; the grave
    And Nature but complot; what the one gave
    The other takes; think, then, that in this bed
    There sleep the relics of as proud a head,
    As stern and subtle as your own, that hath
    Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
    Hath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely then
    Calm these high furies, and descend to men.
    Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tomb
    Check'd him, who thought the world too straight a room.
      Have I obey'd the powers of face,
    A beauty able to undo the race
    Of easy man? I look but here, and straight
    I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit
    Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave
    Beggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,
    Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man
    That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can
    Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough
    To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff,
    Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear
    Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear.
    Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score
    Of erring men, and having done, meet more,
    Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents,
    Fantastic humours, perilous ascents,
    False, empty honours, traitorous delights,
    And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites;
    But these and more which the weak vermins swell,
    Are couch'd in this accumulative cell,
    Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun
    Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone;
    Day leaves me in a double night, and I
    Must bid farewell to my sad library.
    Yet with these notes--Henceforth with thought of thee
    I'll season all succeeding jollity,
    Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit;
    Excess hath no religion, nor wit;
    But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain,
    One check from thee shall channel it again.


    Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see
    How I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee.
    Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,
    His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.
    As lesser lode-stones with the North consent,
    Naturally moving to their element,
    As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fire
    Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire,
    So this vast crying sum draws in a less;
    And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess,
    For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphere
    Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear.
    Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress
    His messages in chink! not an express
    Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit,
    For gold's the best restorative of wit.
    Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delight
    I read those lines, which angels do indite!
      But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurse
    Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse?
    Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at once
    What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?
    'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peal
    In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol;
    I fear them not. I have no land to glut
    Thy dirty appetite, and make thee strut
    Nimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepare
    To court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir.
    For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thou
    But kick this dross: Parnassus' flow'ry brow
    I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot
    That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.
    A bed of roses I'll provide for thee,
    And crystal springs shall drop thee melody.
    The breathing shades we'll haunt, where ev'ry leaf
    Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf.
    Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yet
    Durst make love to, we'll teach the loving fit;
    We'll suck the coral of their lips, and feed
    Upon their spicy breath, a meal at need:
    Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfold
    That glist'ring grove, the curled wood of gold;
    Then peep for babies, a new puppet play,
    And riddle what their prattling eyes would say.
    But here thou must remember to dispurse,
    For without money all this is a curse.
    Thou must for more bags call, and so restore
    This iron age to gold, as once before.
    This thou must do, and yet this is not all,
    For thus the poet would be still in thrall,
    Thou must then--if live thus--my nest of honey
    Cancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.


    I wonder, James, through the whole history
    Of ages, such entails of poverty
    Are laid on poets; lawyers--they say--have found
    A trick to cut them; would they were but bound
    To practise on us, though for this thing we
    Should pay--if possible--their bribes and fee.
    Search--as thou canst--the old and modern store
    Of Rome and ours, in all the witty score
    Thou shalt not find a rich one; take each clime,
    And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time,
    Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'rywhere descry
    A threadbare, goldless genealogy.
    Nature--it seems--when she meant us for earth
    Spent so much of her treasure in the birth
    As ever after niggards her, and she,
    Thus stor'd within, beggars us outwardly.
    Woful profusion! at how dear a rate
    Are we made up! all hope of thrift and state
    Lost for a verse. When I by thoughts look back
    Into the womb of time, and see the rack
    Stand useless there, until we are produc'd
    Unto the torture, and our souls infus'd
    To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt
    That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout
    Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport
    They keep afflicted by some ling'ring art;
    So we are merely thrown upon the stage
    The mirth of fools and legend of the age.
    When I see in the ruins of a suit
    Some nobler breast, and his tongue sadly mute
    Feed on the vocal silence of his eye,
    And knowing cannot reach the remedy;
    When souls of baser stamp shine in their store,
    And he of all the throng is only poor;
    When French apes for foreign fashions pay,
    And English legs are dress'd th' outlandish way,
    So fine too, that they their own shadows woo,
    While he walks in the sad and pilgrim shoe;
    I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sin,
    To see deserts and learning clad so thin;
    To think how th' earthly usurer can brood
    Upon his bags, and weigh the precious food
    With palsied hands, as if his soul did fear
    The scales could rob him of what he laid there.
    Like devils that on hid treasures sit, or those
    Whose jealous eyes trust not beyond their nose,
    They guard the dirt and the bright idol hold
    Close, and commit adultery with gold.
    A curse upon their dross! how have we sued
    For a few scatter'd chips? how oft pursu'd
    Petitions with a blush, in hope to squeeze
    For their souls' health, more than our wants, a piece?
    Their steel-ribb'd chests and purse--rust eat them both!--
    Have cost us with much paper many an oath,
    And protestations of such solemn sense,
    As if our souls were sureties for the pence.
    Should we a full night's learnèd cares present,
    They'll scarce return us one short hour's content.
    'Las! they're but quibbles, things we poets feign,
    The short-liv'd squibs and crackers of the brain.
      But we'll be wiser, knowing 'tis not they
    That must redeem the hardship of our way.
    Whether a Higher Power, or that star
    Which, nearest heav'n, is from the earth most far,
    Oppress us thus, or angell'd from that sphere
    By our strict guardians are kept luckless here,
    It matters not, we shall one day obtain
    Our native and celestial scope again.


    Since last we met, thou and thy horse--my dear--
    Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here;
    I wonder, though thyself be thus deceas'd,
    Thou hast the spite to coffin up thy beast;
    Or is the palfrey sick, and his rough hide
    With the penance of one spur mortified?
    Or taught by thee--like Pythagoras's ox--
    Is then his master grown more orthodox
    Whatever 'tis, a sober cause't must be
    That thus long bars us of thy company.
    The town believes thee lost, and didst thou see
    But half her suff'rings, now distress'd for thee,
    Thou'ldst swear--like Rome--her foul, polluted walls
    Were sack'd by Brennus and the savage Gauls.
    Abominable face of things! here's noise
    Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys,
    Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoarse, hellish notes
    Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats,
    With new fine Worships, and the old cast team
    Of Justices vex'd with the cough and phlegm.
    'Midst these the Cross looks sad, and in the Shire-
    Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear,
    With brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange sight
    Of high monumental hats, ta'en at the fight
    Of 'Eighty-eight; while ev'ry burgess foots
    The mortal pavement in eternal boots.
      Hadst thou been bach'lor, I had soon divin'd
    Thy close retirements, and monastic mind;
    Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, or
    The beauteous churl was to be waited for,
    And like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss,
    You stay'd, and strok'd the distaff for a kiss.
    But in this age, when thy cool, settled blood
    Is ti'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good,
    I know not how to reach the strange device,
    Except--Domitian-like--thou murder'st flies.
    Or is't thy piety? for who can tell
    But thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell,
    And--like a badger--with attentive looks
    In the dark hole sit rooting up of books.
    Quick hermit! what a peaceful change hadst thou,
    Without the noise of haircloth, whip, or vow!
    But there is no redemption? must there be
    No other penance but of liberty?
    Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus,
    Thy memory will scarce remain with us,
    The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim
    They have not seen thee here since Charles, his reign,
    Or if they mention thee, like some old man,
    That at each word inserts--"Sir, as I can
    Remember"--so the cyph'rers puzzle me
    With a dark, cloudy character of thee.
    That--certs!--I fear thou wilt be lost, and we
    Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee.
      Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine
    And precious wit lie dead for want of thine.
    Shall the dull market-landlord with his rout
    Of sneaking tenants dirtily swill out
    This harmless liquor? shall they knock and beat
    For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat?
    O let not such prepost'rous tippling be
    In our metropolis; may I ne'er see
    Such tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line
    To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine!
    Here lives that chymic, quick fire which betrays
    Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays.
    I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cup
    That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up,
    And teach her yet more charming words and skill
    Than ever C[oe]lia, Chloris, Astrophil,
    Or any of the threadbare names inspir'd
    Poor rhyming lovers with a mistress fir'd.
    Come then! and while the slow icicle hangs
    At the stiff thatch, and Winter's frosty pangs
    Benumb the year, blithe--as of old--let us
    'Midst noise and war of peace and mirth discuss.
    This portion thou wert born for: why should we
    Vex at the time's ridiculous misery?
    An age that thus hath fool'd itself, and will
    --Spite of thy teeth and mine--persist so still.
    Let's sit then at this fire, and while we steal
    A revel in the town, let others seal,
    Purchase or cheat, and who can, let them pay,
    Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day.
    Innocent spenders we! a better use
    Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse
    Rout to their husks; they and their bags at best
    Have cares in earnest; we care for a jest.


    I've read thy soul's fair nightpiece, and have seen
    Th' amours and courtship of the silent Queen,
    Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her
    To juggle first with Heav'n, then with a lover,
    With Latmos' louder rescue, and--alas!--
    To find her out a hue and cry in brass;
    Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad
    Nocturnal pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad
    In fancies darker than thy cave, thy glass
    Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass
    In her calm voyage what discourse she heard
    Of spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard
    Ismena led thee through, with thy proud flight
    O'er Periardes, and deep, musing night
    Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green
    The neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seen
    In their large bowers, with that sad path and seat
    Which none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat;[55]
    Their solitary life, and how exempt
    From common frailty, the severe contempt
    They have of man, their privilege to live
    A tree, or fountain, and in that reprieve
    What ages they consume, with the sad vale
    Of Diophania, and the mournful tale,
    Of th' bleeding vocal myrtle; these and more
    Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score
    To thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fall
    From thy first majesty, or ought at all
    Betray consumption; thy full vig'rous bays
    Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays
    Of style, or matter. Just so have I known
    Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down
    Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal
    To their next vale, and proudly there reveal
    Her streams in louder accents, adding still
    More noise and waters to her channel, till
    At last swoln with increase she glides along
    The lawns and meadows in a wanton throng
    Of frothy billows, and in one great name
    Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame.
      Nor are they mere inventions, for we
    In th' same piece find scatter'd philosophy
    And hidden, dispers'd truths that folded lie
    In the dark shades of deep allegory;
    So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descry
    Fables with truth, fancy with history.
    So that thou hast in this thy curious mould
    Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old,
    Which shall these contemplations render far
    Less mutable, and lasting as their star,
    And while there is a people or a sun,
    Endymion's story with the moon shall run.


[55] So Grosart, for the _heat_ of the original.


    I am confirmed, and so much wing is given
    To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.
    A full year's grief I struggled with, and stood
    Still on my sandy hopes' uncertain good,
    So loth was I to yield; to all those fears
    I still oppos'd thee, and denied my tears.
    But thou art gone! and the untimely loss
    Like that one day hath made all others cross.
    Have you seen on some river's flow'ry brow
    A well-built elm or stately cedar grow,
    Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-ray
    Beckon'd the sun, and whisper'd to the day,
    When unexpected from the angry North
    A fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth,
    And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground
    The shady twins, which rushing scatter round
    Their sighing leaves, whilst overborn with strength
    Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length?
    So forc'd fell he; so immaturely Death
    Stifled his able heart and active breath.
    The world scarce knew him yet, his early soul
    Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole
    A sight than gave one; as if subtly she
    Would learn our stock, but hide his treasury.
    His years--should Time lay both his wings and glass
    Unto his charge--could not be summ'd--alas!--
    To a full score; though in so short a span
    His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man
    Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick
    Have quite outgone their own arithmetic.
    He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull
    And mossy grey possess'd a solid skull;
    No crooked knowledge neither, nor did he
    Wear the friend's name for ends and policy,
    And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stage
    Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age
    And then retir'd; like jewels, in each part
    He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart.
      Nor was it only in this he did excel,
    His equal valour could as much, as well.
    He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst
    No injury, nor--as some have--e'er purs'd
    The sweat and tears of others, yet would be
    More forward in a royal gallantry
    Than all those vast pretenders, which of late
    Swell'd in the ruins of their king and State.
    He weav'd not self-ends and the public good
    Into one piece, nor with the people's blood
    Fill'd his own veins; in all the doubtful way
    Conscience and honour rul'd him. O that day
    When like the fathers in the fire and cloud
    I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd
    See arms like thine, and men advance, but none
    So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
    Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye
    Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie
    Performance with the soul, that you would swear
    The act and apprehension both lodg'd there;
    Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand
    Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand.
    But here I lost him. Whether the last turn
    Of thy few sands call'd on thy hasty urn,
    Or some fierce rapid fate--hid from the eye--
    Hath hurl'd thee pris'ner to some distant sky,
    I cannot tell, but that I do believe
    Thy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve.
    Whatever 'twas, whether that day thy breath
    Suffer'd a civil or the common death,
    Which I do most suspect, and that I have
    Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave;
    Though thy lov'd ashes miss me, and mine eyes
    Had no acquaintance with thy exequies,
    Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight
    On the cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight,
    Yet whate'er pious hand--instead of mine--
    Hath done this office to that dust of thine,
    And till thou rise again from thy low bed
    Lent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head,
    Though but a private turf, it can do more
    To keep thy name and memory in store
    Than all those lordly fools which lock their bones
    In the dumb piles of chested brass, and stones
    Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not
    These marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot
    Of posthume honours; there is not one sand
    Sleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that hand
    And pencil too, so that of force we must
    Confess their heaps show lesser than thy dust.
      And--blessed soul!--though this my sorrow can
    Add nought to thy perfections, yet as man
    Subject to envy, and the common fate,
    It may redeem thee to a fairer date.
    As some blind dial, when the day is done,
    Can tell us at midnight there was a sun,
    So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame,
    May keep some weak remembrance of thy name,
    And to the faith of better times commend
    Thy loyal upright life, and gallant end.

      _Nomen et arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi_


    Here, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heav'n
    Thy courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not even
    Whether we die by piecemeal, or at once?
    Since both but ruin, why then for the nonce
    Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o'er
    Me this forc'd hurdle to inflame the score?
    Had I near London in this rug been seen
    Without doubt I had executed been
    For some bold Irish spy, and 'cross a sledge
    Had lain mess'd up for their four gates and bridge.
    When first I bore it, my oppressèd feet
    Would needs persuade me 'twas some leaden sheet;
    Such deep impressions, and such dangerous holes
    Were made, that I began to doubt my soles,
    And ev'ry step--so near necessity--
    Devoutly wish'd some honest cobbler by;
    Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag
    Seem'd circumcis'd, but had a Gentile shag.
    Hadst thou been with me on that day, when we
    Left craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee,
    When beaten with fresh storms and late mishap
    It shar'd the office of a cloak, and cap,
    To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood
    Like a thick turban, or some lawyer's hood,
    While the stiff, hollow pleats on ev'ry side
    Like conduit-pipes rain'd from the bearded hide:
    I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate
    Let loose thy mirth at my new shape and state,
    And with a shallow smile or two profess
    Some Saracen had lost the clouted dress.
    Didst ever see the good wife--as they say--
    March in her short cloak on the christ'ning day,
    With what soft motions she salutes the church,
    And leaves the bedrid mother in the lurch;
    Just so jogg'd I, while my dull horse did trudge
    Like a circuit-beast, plagu'd with a gouty judge.
      But this was civil. I have since known more
    And worser pranks: one night--as heretofore
    Th' hast known--for want of change--a thing which I
    And Bias us'd before me--I did lie
    Pure Adamite, and simply for that end
    Resolv'd, and made this for my bosom-friend.
    O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I
    Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo-graphy!
    Thou wouldst have ta'en me, as I naked stood,
    For one of the seven pillars before the flood.
    Such characters and hieroglyphics were
    In one night worn, that thou mightst justly swear
    I'd slept in cere-cloth, or at Bedlam, where
    The madmen lodge in straw. I'll not forbear
    To tell thee all; his wild impress and tricks
    Like Speed's old Britons made me look, or Picts;
    His villanous, biting, wire-embraces
    Had seal'd in me more strange forms and faces
    Than children see in dreams, or thou hast read
    In arras, puppet-plays, and gingerbread,
    With angled schemes, and crosses that bred fear
    Of being handled by some conjurer;
    And nearer, thou wouldst think--such strokes were drawn--
    I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane.
    Nay, I believe, had I that instant been
    By surgeons or apothecaries seen,
    They had condemned my raz'd skin to be
    Some walking herbal, or anatomy.
      But--thanks to th' day!--'tis off. I'd now advise
    Thee, friend, to put this piece to merchandise.
    The pedlars of our age have business yet,
    And gladly would against the Fair-day fit
    Themselves with such a roof, that can secure
    Their wares from dogs and cats rained in shower.
    It shall perform; or if this will not do
    'Twill take the ale-wives sure; 'twill make them two
    Fine rooms of one, and spread upon a stick
    Is a partition, without lime or brick.
    Horn'd obstinacy! how my heart doth fret
    To think what mouths and elbows it would set
    In a wet day! have you for twopence ere
    Seen King Harry's chapel at Westminster,
    Where in their dusty gowns of brass and stone
    The judges lie, and mark'd you how each one,
    In sturdy marble-pleats about the knee,
    Bears up to show his legs and symmetry?
    Just so would this, that I think't weav'd upon
    Some stiffneck'd Brownist's exercising loom.
    O that thou hadst it when this juggling fate
    Of soldiery first seiz'd me! at what rate
    Would I have bought it then; what was there but
    I would have giv'n for the compendious hut?
    I do not doubt but--if the weight could please--
    'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease.
    Or a German shirt with enchanted lint
    Stuff'd through, and th' devil's beard and face weav'd in't.
      But I have done. And think not, friend, that I
    This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy.
    I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse
    So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse.
    She did this, 'cause--perhaps--thy love paid thus
    Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.


    I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive,
    Label to wit, verser remonstrative,
    And in some suburb-page--scandal to thine--
    Like Lent before a Christmas scatter mine.
    This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate
    Such remnants from thy piece entreat their date;
    Nor can I dub the copy, or afford
    Titles to swell the rear of verse with lord;
    Nor politicly big, to inch low fame,
    Stretch in the glories of a stranger's name,
    And clip those bays I court; weak striver I,
    But a faint echo unto poetry.
    I have not clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit
    For plush and velvet's sake, esquire of wit.
    Yet modesty these crosses would improve,
    And rags near thee, some reverence may move.
      I did believe--great Beaumont being dead--
    Thy widow'd Muse slept on his flow'ry bed;
    But I am richly cozen'd, and can see
    Wit transmigrates: his spirit stay'd with thee;
    Which, doubly advantag'd by thy single pen,
    In life and death now treads the stage again.
    And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit
    Which starv'd the land, since into schisms split,
    Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess
    Wit's last edition is now i' th' press.
    For thou hast drain'd invention, and he
    That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.
    But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain
    At the designs of such a tragic brain?
    Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see
    Thy most abominable policy?
    Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit
    Their Synod fast and pray against thy wit?
    But they'll not tire in such an idle quest;
    Thou dost but kill, and circumvent in jest;
    And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow
    'Tis but for Field's, or Swansted's overthrow.
    Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive
    Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve
    The peace of spirits: and when such deeds fail
    Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail.
    But--happy thou!--ne'er saw'st these storms, our air
    Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming fair.
    Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease,
    Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace.
    So nested in some hospitable shore
    The hermit-angler, when the mid-seas roar,
    Packs up his lines, and--ere the tempest raves--
    Retires, and leaves his station to the waves.
    Thus thou died'st almost with our peace, and we
    This breathing time thy last fair issue see,
    Which I think such--if needless ink not soil
    So choice a Muse--others are but thy foil.
    This, or that age may write, but never see
    A wit that dares run parallel with thee.
    True, Ben must live! but bate him, and thou hast
    Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.


    I did but see thee! and how vain it is
    To vex thee for it with remonstrances,
    Though things in fashion; let those judge, who sit
    Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit
    I fear to sin thus near thee; for--great saint!--
    'Tis known true beauty hath no need of paint.
      Yet, since a label fix'd to thy fair hearse
    Is all the mode, and tears put into verse
    Can teach posterity our present grief
    And their own loss, but never give relief;
    I'll tell them--and a truth which needs no pass--
    That wit in Cartwright at her zenith was.
    Arts, fancy, language, all conven'd in thee,
    With those grand miracles which deify
    The old world's writings, kept yet from the fire
    Because they force these worst times to admire.
    Thy matchless genius, in all thou didst write,
    Like the sun, wrought with such staid heat and light,
    That not a line--to the most critic he--
    Offends with flashes, or obscurity.
      When thou the wild of humours track'st, thy pen
    So imitates that motley stock in men,
    As if thou hadst in all their bosoms been,
    And seen those leopards that lurk within.
    The am'rous youth steals from thy courtly page
    His vow'd address, the soldier his brave rage;
    And those soft beauteous readers whose looks can
    Make some men poets, and make any man
    A lover, when thy slave but seems to die,
    Turn all his mourners, and melt at the eye.
    Thus thou thy thoughts hast dress'd in such a strain
    As doth not only speak, but rule and reign;
    Nor are those bodies they assum'd dark clouds,
    Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds,
    Which who looks on, the rays so strongly beat
    They'll brush and warm him with a quick'ning heat;
    So souls shine at the eyes, and pearls display
    Through the loose crystal-streams a glance of day.
    But what's all this unto a royal test?
    Thou art the man whom great Charles so express'd!
    Then let the crowd refrain their needless hum,
    When thunder speaks, then squibs and winds are dumb.


    Blessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads
        As the mild heav'n on roses sheds,
        When at their cheeks--like pearls--they wear
        The clouds that court them in a tear!
        And may they be fed from above
        By Him which first ordain'd your love!

    Fresh as the hours may all your pleasures be,
        And healthful as eternity!
        Sweet as the flowers' first breath, and close
        As th' unseen spreadings of the rose,
        When he unfolds his curtain'd head,
        And makes his bosom the sun's bed!

    Soft as yourselves run your whole lives, and clear
        As your own glass, or what shines there!
        Smooth as heav'n's face, and bright as he
        When without mask or tiffany!
        In all your time not one jar meet
        But peace as silent as his feet!

    Like the day's warmth may all your comforts be,
        Untoil'd for, and serene as he,
        Yet free and full as is that sheaf
        Of sunbeams gilding ev'ry leaf,
        When now the tyrant-heat expires
        And his cool'd locks breathe milder fires!

    And as those parcell'd glories he doth shed
        Are the fair issues of his head,
        Which, ne'er so distant, are soon known
        By th' heat and lustre for his own;
        So may each branch of yours we see
        Your copies and our wonders be!

    And when no more on earth you must remain,
        Invited hence to heav'n again,
        Then may your virtuous, virgin-flames
        Shine in those heirs of your fair names,
        And teach the world that mystery,
        Yourselves in your posterity!

    So you to both worlds shall rich presents bring,
    And, gather'd up to heav'n, leave here a spring.


    I knew it would be thus! and my just fears
    Of thy great spirit are improv'd to tears.
    Yet flow these not from any base distrust
    Of a fair name, or that thy honour must
    Confin'd to those cold relics sadly sit
    In the same cell an obscure anchorite.
    Such low distempers murder; they that must
    Abuse thee so, weep not, but wound thy dust.
      But I past such dim mourners can descry
    Thy fame above all clouds of obloquy,
    And like the sun with his victorious rays
    Charge through that darkness to the last of days.
    'Tis true, fair manhood hath a female eye,
    And tears are beauteous in a victory,
    Nor are we so high-proof, but grief will find
    Through all our guards a way to wound the mind;
    But in thy fall what adds the brackish sum
    More than a blot unto thy martyrdom?
    Which scorns such wretched suffrages, and stands
    More by thy single worth than our whole bands.
    Yet could the puling tribute rescue ought
    In this sad loss, or wert thou to be brought
    Back here by tears, I would in any wise
    Pay down the sum, or quite consume my eyes.
    Thou fell'st our double ruin; and this rent
    Forc'd in thy life shak'd both the Church and tent.
    Learning in others steals them from the van,
    And basely wise emasculates the man,
    But lodg'd in thy brave soul the bookish feat
    Serv'd only as the light unto thy heat.
    Thus when some quitted action, to their shame,
    And only got a discreet coward's name,
    Thou with thy blood mad'st purchase of renown,
    And died'st the glory of the sword and gown.
    Thy blood hath hallow'd Pomfret, and this blow
    --Profan'd before--hath church'd the Castle now.
      Nor is't a common valour we deplore,
    But such as with fifteen a hundred bore,
    And lightning-like--not coop'd within a wall--
    In storms of fire and steel fell on them all.
    Thou wert no woolsack soldier, nor of those
    Whose courage lies in winking at their foes,
    That live at loopholes, and consume their breath
    On match or pipes, and sometimes peep at death;
    No, it were sin to number these with thee,
    But that--thus pois'd--our loss we better see.
    The fair and open valour was thy shield,
    And thy known station, the defying field.
      Yet these in thee I would not virtues call,
    But that this age must know that thou hadst all.
    Those richer graces that adorn'd thy mind
    Like stars of the first magnitude, so shin'd,
    That if oppos'd unto these lesser lights
    All we can say is this, they were fair nights.
    Thy piety and learning did unite,
    And though with sev'ral beams made up one light,
    And such thy judgment was, that I dare swear
    Whole councils might as soon and synods err.
      But all these now are out! and as some star
    Hurl'd in diurnal motions from far,
    And seen to droop at night, is vainly said
    To fall and find an occidental bed,
    Though in that other world what we judge West
    Proves elevation, and a new, fresh East;
    So though our weaker sense denies us sight,
    And bodies cannot trace the spirit's flight,
    We know those graces to be still in thee,
    But wing'd above us to eternity.
    Since then--thus flown--thou art so much refin'd
    That we can only reach thee with the mind,
    I will not in this dark and narrow glass
    Let thy scant shadow for perfections pass,
    But leave thee to be read more high, more quaint,
    In thy own blood a soldier and a saint.

        ----_Salve æternum mihi maxime Palla!_
        _Æternumque vale!_----


    We thank you, worthy Sir, that now we see
    MALVEZZI languag'd like our infancy,
    And can without suspicion entertain
    This foreign statesman to our breast or brain;
    You have enlarg'd his praise, and from your store
    By this edition made his worth the more.
    Thus by your learnèd hand--amidst the coil--
    Outlandish plants thrive in our thankless soil,
    And wise men after death, by a strange fate,
    Lie leiger here, and beg to serve our State.
    Italy now, though mistress of the bays,
    Waits on this wreath, proud of a foreign praise;
    For, wise Malvezzi, thou didst lie before
    Confin'd within the language of one shore,
    And like those stars which near the poles do steer
    Were't but in one part of the globe seen clear.
    Provence and Naples were the best and most
    Thou couldst shine in; fix'd to that single coast,
    Perhaps some cardinal, to be thought wise,
    And honest too, would ask, what was thy price?
    Then thou must pack to Rome, where thou mightst lie
    Ere thou shouldst have new clothes eternally,
    For though so near the sev'n hills, ne'ertheless
    Thou cam'st to Antwerp for thy Roman dress.
    But now thou art come hither, thou mayst run
    Through any clime as well known as the sun,
    And in thy sev'ral dresses, like the year,
    Challenge acquaintance with each peopled sphere.
      Come then, rare politicians of the time,
    Brains of some standing, elders in our clime,
    See here the method. A wise, solid State
    Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,
    Joint in advice, in resolutions just,
    Mild in success, true to the common trust.
    It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand
    Allays the heat and burnings of a land;
    Religion guides it, and in all the tract
    Designs so twist, that Heav'n confirms the act.
    If from these lists you wander as you steer,
    Look back, and catechize your actions here.
    These are the marks to which true statesmen tend,
    And greatness here with goodness hath one end.


    Sees not my friend, what a deep snow
    Candies our country's woody brow?
    The yielding branch his load scarce bears,
    Oppress'd with snow and frozen tears;
    While the dumb rivers slowly float,
    All bound up in an icy coat.
      Let us meet then! and while this world
    In wild eccentrics now is hurl'd,
    Keep we, like nature, the same key,
    And walk in our forefathers' way.
    Why any more cast we an eye
    On what may come, not what is nigh?
    Why vex ourselves with fear, or hope
    And cares beyond our horoscope?
    Who into future times would peer,
    Looks oft beyond his term set here,
    And cannot go into those grounds
    But through a churchyard, which them bounds.
    Sorrows and sighs and searches spend
    And draw our bottom to an end,
    But discreet joys lengthen the lease,
    Without which life were a disease;
    And who this age a mourner goes,
    Doth with his tears but feed his foes


    Say, witty fair one, from what sphere
    Flow these rich numbers you shed here?
    For sure such incantations come
    From thence, which strike your readers dumb.
    A strain, whose measures gently meet
    Like virgin-lovers or Time's feet;
    Where language smiles, and accents rise
    As quick and pleasing as your eyes;
    The poem smooth, and in each line
    Soft as yourself, yet masculine;
    Where not coarse trifles blot the page
    With matter borrow'd from the age,
    But thoughts as innocent and high
    As angels have, or saints that die.
      These raptures when I first did see
    New miracles in poetry,
    And by a hand their good would miss
    His bays and fountains but to kiss,
    My weaker genius--cross to fashion--
    Slept in a silent admiration:
    A rescue, by whose grave disguise
    Pretenders oft have pass'd for wise.
    And yet as pilgrims humbly touch
    Those shrines to which they bow so much,
    And clouds in courtship flock, and run
    To be the mask unto the sun,
    So I concluded it was true
    I might at distance worship you,
    A Persian votary, and say
    It was your light show'd me the way.
    So loadstones guide the duller steel,
    And high perfections are the wheel
    Which moves the less, for gifts divine
    Are strung upon a vital line,
    Which, touch'd by you, excites in all
    Affections epidemical.
    And this made me--a truth most fit--
    Add my weak echo to your wit;
    Which pardon, Lady, for assays
    Obscure as these might blast your bays;
    As common hands soil flow'rs, and make
    That dew they wear weep the mistake.
    But I'll wash off the stain, and vow
    No laurel grows but for your brow.


    Youth, beauty, virtue, innocence,
    Heav'n's royal and select expense,
    With virgin-tears and sighs divine
    Sit here the genii of this shrine;
    Where now--thy fair soul wing'd away--
    They guard the casket where she lay.
      Thou hadst, ere thou the light couldst see,
    Sorrows laid up and stor'd for thee;
    Thou suck'dst in woes, and the breasts lent
    Their milk to thee but to lament;
    Thy portion here was grief, thy years
    Distill'd no other rain but tears,
    Tears without noise, but--understood--
    As loud and shrill as any blood.
    Thou seem'st a rosebud born in snow,
    A flower of purpose sprung to bow
    To headless tempests, and the rage
    Of an incensèd, stormy age.
    Others, ere their afflictions grow,
    Are tim'd and season'd for the blow,
    But thine, as rheums the tend'rest part,
    Fell on a young and harmless heart.
    And yet, as balm-trees gently spend
    Their tears for those that do them rend,
    So mild and pious thou wert seen,
    Though full of suff'rings; free from spleen,
    Thou didst not murmur, nor revile,
    But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile.
      As envious eyes blast and infect,
    And cause misfortunes by aspèct,
    So thy sad stars dispens'd to thee
    No influx but calamity;
    They view'd thee with eclipsèd rays,
    And but the back side of bright days.

           *       *       *       *       *

    These were the comforts she had here,
    As by an unseen Hand 'tis clear,
    Which now she reads, and, smiling, wears
    A crown with Him who wipes off tears.


    Well, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen
    Poets shall live, when princes die like men.
    Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill,
    Of late years clouded with imputed ill,
    And the soft, youthful couples there may move,
    As chaste as stars converse and smile above.
    Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow
    Calm as rose-leaves, and cool as virgin-snow,
    Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd,
    They both delight and dignify the mind;
    Like to the wat'ry music of some spring,
    Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing.
      And where before heroic poems were
    Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear,
    And show'd--through all the melancholy flight--
    Like some dark region overcast with night,
    As if the poet had been quite dismay'd,
    While only giants and enchantments sway'd;
    Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise,
    Hast chas'd them hence, and with discoveries
    So rare and learnèd fill'd the place, that we
    Those fam'd grandezas find outdone by thee,
    And underfoot see all those vizards hurl'd
    Which bred the wonder of the former world.
    'Twas dull to sit, as our forefathers did,
    At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid,
    Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire
    Break through the ashes of thy aged sire,
    To lend the world such a convincing light
    As shows his fancy darker than his sight.
    Nor was't alone the bars and length of days
    --Though those gave strength and stature to his bays--
    Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint
    And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint.
    How couldst thou, mur'd in solitary stones,
    Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou mightst her groans?
    And, strangely eloquent, thyself divide
    'Twixt sad misfortunes and a bloomy bride?
    Through all the tenour of thy ample song,
    Spun from thy own rich store, and shar'd among
    Those fair adventurers, we plainly see
    Th' imputed gifts inherent are in thee.
    Then live for ever--and by high desert--
    In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert,
    And in bright Birtha leave thy love enshrin'd
    Fresh as her em'rald, and fair as her mind,
    While all confess thee--as they ought to do--
    The prince of poets, and of lovers too.



    This is the day--blithe god of sack--which we,
    If I mistake not, consecrate to thee,
    When the soft rose we marry to the bays,
    And, warm'd with thy own wine, rehearse thy praise;
    'Mongst whom--while to thy poet fate gave way--
    I have been held no small part of the day.
    But now, dull'd with the cold Bear's frozen seat,
    Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gete.
    My former life, unlike to this my last,
    With Rome's best wits of thy full cup did taste,
    Who since have seen the savage Pontic band,
    And all the choler of the sea and land.
    Whether sad chance or Heav'n hath this design'd,
    And at my birth some fatal planet shin'd,
    Of right thou shouldst the sisters' knots undo,
    And free thy votary and poet too;
    Or are you gods--like us--in such a state
    As cannot alter the decrees of fate?
    I know with much ado thou didst obtain
    Thy jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain
    Was no whit less, for, wand'ring, thou didst run
    To the Getes too, and snow-weeping Strymon,
    With Persia, Ganges, and whatever streams
    The thirsty Moor drinks in the mid-day beams.
    But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee
    --To make all sure--doubled thy misery.
    My sufferings too are many--if it be
    Held safe for me to boast adversity--
    Nor was't a common blow, but from above,
    Like his that died for imitating Jove;
    Which, when thou heardst, a ruin so divine
    And mother-like should make thee pity mine,
    And on this day, which poets unto thee
    Crown with full bowls, ask what's become of me?
      Help, buxom god, then! so may thy lov'd vine
    Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with wine
    Load the kind elm, and so thy orgies be
    With priests' loud shouts and satyrs' kept to thee!
    So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blest,
    Nor Pentheus' wand'ring ghost find any rest!
    And so for ever bright--thy chief desires--
    May thy wife's crown outshine the lesser fires!
    If but now, mindful of my love to thee,
    Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.
    You gods have commerce with yourselves; try then
    If Cæsar will restore me Rome again.
      And you, my trusty friends--the jolly crew
    Of careless poets! when, without me, you
    Perform this day's glad myst'ries, let it be
    Your first appeal unto his deity,
    And let one of you--touch'd with my sad name--
    Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same,
    And--sighing--to the rest this thought commend,
    O! where is Ovid now, our banish'd friend?
    This do, if in your breasts I e'er deserv'd
    So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd,
    Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow
    Condemning others, did myself allow.
    And may your happier wits grow loud with fame
    As you--my best of friends!--preserve my name.



    You have consum'd my language, and my pen,
    Incens'd with begging, scorns to write again.
    You grant, you knew my suit: my Muse and I
    Had taught it you in frequent elegy.
    That I believe--yet seal'd--you have divin'd
    Our repetitions, and forestall'd my mind,
    So that my thronging elegies and I
    Have made you--more than poets--prophesy.
      But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream
    Which made me cross the proverb and the stream,
    And pardon, friends, that I so long have had
    Such good thoughts of you; I am not so mad
    As to continue them. You shall no more
    Complain of troublesome verse, or write o'er
    How I endanger you, and vex my wife
    With the sad legends of a banish'd life.
    I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have pass'd
    Through greater ones, and can as well at last
    These petty crosses. 'Tis for some young beast
    To kick his bands, or wish his neck releas'd
    From the sad yoke. Know then, that as for me
    Whom Fate hath us'd to such calamity,
    I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare
    The highest ills your malice can prepare.
      'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now
    Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow
    Of cloudy Æmus, and if she decree
    Her sportive pilgrim's last bed here must be,
    I am content; nay, more, she cannot do
    That act which I would not consent unto.
    I can delight in vain hopes, and desire
    That state more than her change and smiles; then high'r
    I hug a strong despair, and think it brave
    To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave.
    Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he
    That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th' free
    Waters, without th' expense of arms or breath,
    Hath still the easiest and the quickest death.
    Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires
    Of changing Scythia for the sun and fires
    Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch
    My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch,
    And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I
    Suspect fate had for me a courtesy?
    These errors grieve: and now I must forget
    Those pleas'd ideas I did frame and set
    Unto myself, with many fancied springs
    And groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings.
    And yet I would the worst of fate endure,
    Ere you should be repuls'd, or less secure.
    But--base, low souls!--you left me not for this,
    But 'cause you durst not. Cæsar could not miss
    Of such a trifle, for I know that he
    Scorns the cheap triumphs of my misery.
      Then since--degen'rate friends--not he, but you
    Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new,
    You shall confess, and fame shall tell you, I
    At Ister dare as well as Tiber die.



    Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask
    Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task
    Master my just impatience, and write down
    Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?
    Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see
    And teach thy person to posterity?
    No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man,
    'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can
    Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give
    Thy name the honour in my verse to live.
      Whilst yet my ship did with no storms dispute,
    And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute
    My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man
    That with me then an equal fortune ran;
    But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night
    Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight;
    Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone
    To shun that rescue I reli'd upon;
    Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim
    Not only my acquaintance, but my name.
      Yet know--though deaf to this--that I am he
    Whose years and love had the same infancy
    With thine, thy deep familiar that did share
    Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care;
    Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights
    So solemnly endear'd to her delights.
    But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown
    The abject of thy breast, not to be known
    In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not
    So much as let me know I am forgot.
    If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then
    Thou didst dissemble: or if love again,
    Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me
    That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be
    Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide
    Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide
    Myself and actions, that I cannot see
    What could offend thee, but my misery.
    'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow
    Some rescue to my wants, at least I know
    Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two
    Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so.
    I know not what to think! and yet I hear,
    Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer.
    Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back
    I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.
    Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand,
    Whose upper slipp'ry part without command
    Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind
    Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind.
    In the whole world there's nothing I can see
    Will throughly parallel her ways but thee.
    All that we hold hangs on a slender twine,
    And our best states by sudden chance decline.
    Who hath not heard of Cr[oe]sus' proverb'd gold,
    Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold?
    He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent
    By a poor art could famine scarce prevent;
    And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end,
    Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend.
    Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been,
    And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in,
    Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace,
    In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face.
    A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we
    Of one short hour have not the certainty.
    Hadst thou one day told me the time should be
    When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see,
    I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought
    Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught.
    And yet 'tis come to pass! nor, though I might
    Some things foresee, could I procure a sight
    Of my whole destiny, and free my state
    From those eternal, higher ties of fate.
    Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high,
    Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.



    Dearest! if you those fair eyes--wond'ring--stick
    On this strange character, know I am sick;
    Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I
    Breathe hopeless of all comforts, but to die.
    What heart--think'st thou?--have I in this sad seat,
    Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete?
    Nor air nor water please: their very sky
    Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my eye;
    I scarce dare breathe it, and, I know not how,
    The earth that bears me shows unpleasant now.
    Nor diet here's, nor lodging for my ease,
    Nor any one that studies a disease;
    No friend to comfort me, none to defray
    With smooth discourse the charges of the day.
    All tir'd alone I lie, and--thus--whate'er
    Is absent, and at Rome, I fancy here.
    But when thou com'st, I blot the airy scroll,
    And give thee full possession of my soul.
    Thee--absent--I embrace, thee only voice.
    And night and day belie a husband's joys.
    Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
    That I am thought distracted for thy sake.
    When my tir'd spirits fail, and my sick heart
    Draws in that fire which actuates each part,
    If any say, th'art come! I force my pain,
    And hope to see thee gives me life again.
    Thus I for thee, whilst thou--perhaps--more blest,
    Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest,
    Which yet I think not, for--dear soul!--too well
    Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell.
    But if strict Heav'n my stock of days hath spun,
    And with my life my error will be gone,
    How easy then--O Cæsar!--were't for thee
    To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
    That I might yield my native air this breath,
    And banish not my ashes after death.
    Would thou hadst either spar'd me until dead,
    Or with my blood redeem'd my absent head!
    Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
    Wouldst have me live to die an exile now.
    And must I then from Rome so far meet death,
    And double by the place my loss of breath?
    Nor in my last of hours on my own bed
    --In the sad conflict--rest my dying head?
    Nor my soul's whispers--the last pledge of life,--
    Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?
    My last words none must treasure, none will rise
    And--with a tear--seal up my vanquish'd eyes;
    Without these rites I die, distress'd in all
    The splendid sorrows of a funeral;
    Unpitied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
    In a strange land goes friendless to the dead.
    When thou hear'st this, O! how thy faithful soul
    Will sink, whilst grief doth ev'ry part control!
    How often wilt thou look this way, and cry,
    O! where is't yonder that my love doth lie?
    Yet spare these tears, and mourn not thou for me,
    Long since--dear heart!--have I been dead to thee.
    Think then I died, when thee and Rome I lost,
    That death to me more grief than this hath cost.
    Now, if thou canst--but thou canst not--best wife,
    Rejoice, my cares are ended with my life.
    At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use
    Should make these miseries to thee no news.
    And here I wish my soul died with my breath,
    And that no part of me were free from death;
    For, if it be immortal, and outlives
    The body, as Pythagoras believes,
    Betwixt these Sarmates' ghosts, a Roman I
    Shall wander, vex'd to all eternity.
      But thou--for after death I shall be free--
    Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me;
    A few flow'rs give them, with some balm, and lay
    Them in some suburb grave, hard by the way;
    And to inform posterity, who's there,
    This sad inscription let my marble wear;
    "Here lies the soft-soul'd lecturer of love,
    Whose envi'd wit did his own ruin prove.
    But thou,--whoe'er thou be'st, that, passing by,
    Lend'st to this sudden stone a hasty eye,
    If e'er thou knew'st of love the sweet disease,
    Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!"
    This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see
    More strong and lasting monuments of me,
    Which I believe--though fatal--will afford
    An endless name unto their ruin'd lord.
      And now thus gone, it rests, for love of me,
    Thou show'st some sorrow to my memory;
    Thy funeral off'rings to my ashes bear,
    With wreaths of cypress bath'd in many a tear.
    Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
    Yet shall that dust perceive thy pious pain.
    But I have done, and my tir'd, sickly head,
    Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
    Take then this word--perhaps my last--to tell,
    Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell!



    In those bless'd fields of everlasting air
    --Where to a myrtle grove the souls repair
    Of deceas'd lovers--the sad, thoughtful ghosts
    Of injur'd ladies meet, where each accosts
    The other with a sigh, whose very breath
    Would break a heart, and--kind souls--love in death.
    A thick wood clouds their walks, where day scarce peeps,
    And on each hand cypress and poppy sleeps;
    The drowsy rivers slumber, and springs there
    Blab not, but softly melt into a tear;
    A sickly dull air fans them, which can have,
    When most in force, scarce breath to build a wave.
    On either bank through the still shades appear
    A scene of pensive flow'rs, whose bosoms wear
    Drops of a lover's blood, the emblem'd truths
    Of deep despair, and love-slain kings and youths.
    The Hyacinth, and self-enamour'd boy
    Narcissus flourish there, with Venus' joy,
    The spruce Adonis, and that prince whose flow'r
    Hath sorrow languag'd on him to this hour;
    All sad with love they hang their heads, and grieve
    As if their passions in each leaf did live;
    And here--alas!--these soft-soul'd ladies stray,
    And--O! too late!--treason in love betray.
      Her blasted birth sad Semele repeats,
    And with her tears would quench the thund'rer's heats,
    Then shakes her bosom, as if fir'd again,
    And fears another lightning's flaming train.
    The lovely Procris here bleeds, sighs, and swoons,
    Then wakes, and kisses him that gave her wounds.
    Sad Hero holds a torch forth, and doth light
    Her lost Leander through the waves and night,
    Her boatman desp'rate Sappho still admires,
    And nothing but the sea can quench her fires.
    Distracted Phædra with a restless eye
    Her disdain'd letters reads, then casts them by.
    Rare, faithful Thisbe--sequest'red from these--
    A silent, unseen sorrow doth best please;
    For her love's sake and last good-night poor she
    Walks in the shadow of a mulberry.
    Near her young Canace with Dido sits,
    A lovely couple, but of desp'rate wits;
    Both di'd alike, both pierc'd their tender breasts,
    This with her father's sword, that with her guest's.
    Within the thickest textures of the grove
    Diana in her silver beams doth rove;
    Her crown of stars the pitchy air invades,
    And with a faint light gilds the silent shades,
    Whilst her sad thoughts, fix'd on her sleepy lover,
    To Latmos hill and his retirements move her.
    A thousand more through the wide, darksome wood
    Feast on their cares, the maudlin lover's food;
    For grief and absence do but edge desire,
    And death is fuel to a lover's fire.
      To see these trophies of his wanton bow,
    Cupid comes in, and all in triumph now--
    Rash unadvisèd boy!--disperseth round
    The sleepy mists; his wings and quiver wound
    With noise the quiet air. This sudden stir
    Betrays his godship, and as we from far
    A clouded, sickly moon observe, so they
    Through the false mists his eclips'd torch betray.
    A hot pursuit they make, and, though with care
    And a slow wing, he softly stems the air,
    Yet they--as subtle now as he--surround
    His silenc'd course, and with the thick night bound
    Surprise the wag. As in a dream we strive
    To voice our thoughts, and vainly would revive
    Our entranc'd tongues, but cannot speech enlarge,
    'Till the soul wakes and reassumes her charge;
    So, joyous of their prize, they flock about
    And vainly swell with an imagin'd shout.
      Far in these shades and melancholy coasts
    A myrtle grows, well known to all the ghosts,
    Whose stretch'd top--like a great man rais'd by Fate--
    Looks big, and scorns his neighbour's low estate;
    His leafy arms into a green cloud twist,
    And on each branch doth sit a lazy mist,
    A fatal tree, and luckless to the gods,
    Where for disdain in life--Love's worst of odds--
    The queen of shades, fair Proserpine, did rack
    The sad Adonis: hither now they pack
    This little god, where, first disarm'd, they bind
    His skittish wings, then both his hands behind
    His back they tie, and thus secur'd at last,
    The peevish wanton to the tree make fast.
    Here at adventure, without judge or jury,
    He is condemn'd, while with united fury
    They all assail him. As a thief at bar
    Left to the law, and mercy of his star,
    Hath bills heap'd on him, and is question'd there
    By all the men that have been robb'd that year;
    So now whatever Fate or their own will
    Scor'd up in life, Cupid must pay the bill.
    Their servant's falsehood, jealousy, disdain,
    And all the plagues that abus'd maids can feign,
    Are laid on him, and then to heighten spleen,
    Their own deaths crown the sum. Press'd thus between
    His fair accusers, 'tis at last decreed
    He by those weapons, that they died, should bleed.
    One grasps an airy sword, a second holds
    Illusive fire, and in vain wanton folds
    Belies a flame; others, less kind, appear
    To let him blood, and from the purple tear
    Create a rose. But Sappho all this while
    Harvests the air, and from a thicken'd pile
    Of clouds like Leucas top spreads underneath
    A sea of mists; the peaceful billows breathe
    Without all noise, yet so exactly move
    They seem to chide, but distant from above
    Reach not the ear, and--thus prepar'd--at once
    She doth o'erwhelm him with the airy sconce.
    Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they,
    Venus steps in, and without thought or stay
    Invades her son; her old disgrace is cast
    Into the bill, when Mars and she made fast
    In their embraces were expos'd to all
    The scene of gods, stark naked in their fall.
    Nor serves a verbal penance, but with haste
    From her fair brow--O happy flow'rs so plac'd!--
    She tears a rosy garland, and with this
    Whips the untoward boy; they gently kiss
    His snowy skin, but she with angry haste
    Doubles her strength, until bedew'd at last
    With a thin bloody sweat, their innate red,
    --As if griev'd with the act--grew pale and dead.
    This laid their spleen; and now--kind souls--no more
    They'll punish him; the torture that he bore
    Seems greater than his crime; with joint consent
    Fate is made guilty, and he innocent.
    As in a dream with dangers we contest,
    And fictious pains seem to afflict our rest,
    So, frighted only in these shades of night,
    Cupid--got loose--stole to the upper light,
    Where ever since--for malice unto these--
    The spiteful ape doth either sex displease.
    But O! that had these ladies been so wise
    To keep his arms, and give him but his eyes!



    I whose first year flourish'd with youthful verse,
    In slow, sad numbers now my grief rehearse.
    A broken style my sickly lines afford,
    And only tears give weight unto my words.
    Yet neither fate nor force my Muse could fright,
    The only faithful consort of my flight.
    Thus what was once my green years' greatest glory,
    Is now my comfort, grown decay'd and hoary;
    For killing cares th' effects of age spurr'd on,
    That grief might find a fitting mansion;
    O'er my young head runs an untimely grey,
    And my loose skin shrinks at my blood's decay.
    Happy the man, whose death in prosp'rous years
    Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears!
    But O! how deaf is she to hear the cry
    Of th' oppress'd soul, or shut the weeping eye!
    While treach'rous Fortune with slight honours fed
    My first estate, she almost drown'd my head,
    And now since--clouded thus--she hides those rays,
    Life adds unwelcom'd length unto my days.
    Why then, my friends, judg'd you my state so good?
    He that may fall once, never firmly stood.


    O in what haste, with clouds and night
    Eclips'd, and having lost her light,
    The dull soul whom distraction rends
    Into outward darkness tends!
    How often--by these mists made blind--
    Have earthly cares oppress'd the mind!
      This soul, sometimes wont to survey
    The spangled Zodiac's fiery way,
    Saw th' early sun in roses dress'd,
    With the cool moon's unstable crest,
    And whatsoever wanton star,
    In various courses near or far,
    Pierc'd through the orbs, he could full well
    Track all her journey, and would tell
    Her mansions, turnings, rise and fall,
    By curious calculation all.
    Of sudden winds the hidden cause,
    And why the calm sea's quiet face
    With impetuous waves is curl'd,
    What spirit wheels th' harmonious world,
    Or why a star dropp'd in the west
    Is seen to rise again by east,
    Who gives the warm Spring temp'rate hours,
    Decking the Earth with spicy flow'rs,
    Or how it comes--for man's recruit--
    That Autumn yields both grape and fruit,
    With many other secrets, he
    Could show the cause and mystery.
      But now that light is almost out,
    And the brave soul lies chain'd about
    With outward cares, whose pensive weight
    Sinks down her eyes from their first height.
    And clean contrary to her birth
    Pores on this vile and foolish Earth.


    Whose calm soul in a settled state
    Kicks under foot the frowns of Fate,
    And in his fortunes, bad or good,
    Keeps the same temper in his blood;
    Not him the flaming clouds above,
    Nor Ætna's fiery tempests move;
    No fretting seas from shore to shore,
    Boiling with indignation o'er,
    Nor burning thunderbolt that can
    A mountain shake, can stir this man.
    Dull cowards then! why should we start
    To see these tyrants act their part?
    Nor hope, nor fear what may befall,
    And you disarm their malice all.
    But who doth faintly fear or wish,
    And sets no law to what is his,
    Hath lost the buckler, and--poor elf!--
    Makes up a chain to bind himself.


    O Thou great builder of this starry frame,
    Who fix'd in Thy eternal throne doth tame
    The rapid spheres, and lest they jar
    Hast giv'n a law to ev'ry star.
    Thou art the cause that now the moon
    With fall orb dulls the stars, and soon
    Again grows dark, her light being done,
    The nearer still she's to the sun.
    Thou in the early hours of night
    Mak'st the cool evening-star shine bright,
    And at sun-rising--'cause the least--
    Look pale and sleepy in the east.
    Thou, when the leaves in winter stray,
    Appoint'st the sun a shorter way,
    And in the pleasant summer light,
    With nimble hours dost wing the night.
    Thy hand the various year quite through
    Discreetly tempers, that what now
    The north-wind tears from ev'ry tree
    In spring again restor'd we see.
    Then what the winter stars between
    The furrows in mere seed have seen,
    The dog-star since--grown up and born--
    Hath burnt in stately, full-ear'd corn.
      Thus by creation's law controll'd
    All things their proper stations hold,
    Observing--as Thou didst intend--
    Why they were made, and for what end.
    Only human actions Thou
    Hast no care of, but to the flow
    And ebb of Fortune leav'st them all.
    Hence th' innocent endures that thrall
    Due to the wicked; whilst alone
    They sit possessors of his throne.
    The just are kill'd, and virtue lies
    Buried in obscurities;
    And--which of all things is most sad--
    The good man suffers by the bad.
    No perjuries, nor damn'd pretence
    Colour'd with holy, lying sense
    Can them annoy, but when they mind
    To try their force, which most men find,
    They from the highest sway of things
    Can pull down great and pious kings.
      O then at length, thus loosely hurl'd,
    Look on this miserable world,
    Whoe'er Thou art, that from above
    Dost in such order all things move!
    And let not man--of divine art
    Not the least, nor vilest part--
    By casual evils thus bandied, be
    The sport of Fate's obliquity.
    But with that faith Thou guid'st the heaven
    Settle this earth, and make them even.


    When the Crab's fierce constellation
    Burns with the beams of the bright sun,
    Then he that will go out to sow,
    Shall never reap, where he did plough,
    But instead of corn may rather
    The old world's diet, acorns, gather.
    Who the violet doth love,
    Must seek her in the flow'ry grove,
    But never when the North's cold wind
    The russet fields with frost doth bind.
    If in the spring-time--to no end--
    The tender vine for grapes we bend,
    We shall find none, for only--still--
    Autumn doth the wine-press fill.
      Thus for all things--in the world's prime--
    The wise God seal'd their proper time,
    Nor will permit those seasons, He
    Ordain'd by turns, should mingled be;
    Then whose wild actions out of season
    Cross to Nature, and her reason,
    Would by new ways old orders rend,
    Shall never find a happy end.


    Curtain'd with clouds in a dark night,
    The stars cannot send forth their light.
    And if a sudden southern blast
    The sea in rolling waves doth cast,
    That angry element doth boil,
    And from the deep with stormy coil
    Spews up the sands, which in short space
    Scatter, and puddle his curl'd face.
    Then those calm waters, which but now
    Stood clear as heaven's unclouded brow,
    And like transparent glass did lie
    Open to ev'ry searcher's eye,
    Look foully stirr'd and--though desir'd--
    Resist the sight, because bemir'd.
    So often from a high hill's brow
    Some pilgrim-spring is seen to flow,
    And in a straight line keep her course,
    'Till from a rock with headlong force
    Some broken piece blocks up the way,
    And forceth all her streams astray.
      Then thou that with enlighten'd rays
    Wouldst see the truth, and in her ways
    Keep without error; neither fear
    The future, nor too much give ear
    To present joys; and give no scope
    To grief, nor much to flatt'ring hope.
    For when these rebels reign, the mind
    Is both a pris'ner, and stark blind.


    Fortune--when with rash hands she quite turmoils
    The state of things, and in tempestuous foils
    Comes whirling like Euripus--beats quite down
    With headlong force the highest monarch's crown,
    And in his place, unto the throne doth fetch
    The despis'd looks of some mechanic wretch:
    So jests at tears and miseries, is proud,
    And laughs to hear her vassals groan aloud.
    These are her sports, thus she her wheel doth drive,
    And plagues man with her blind prerogative;
    Nor is't a favour of inferior strain,
    If once kick'd down, she lets him rise again.


        If with an open, bounteous hand
        --Wholly left at man's command--
        Fortune should in one rich flow
        As many heaps on him bestow
        Of massy gold, as there be sands
        Toss'd by the waves and winds rude bands,
        Or bright stars in a winter night
        Decking their silent orbs with light;
        Yet would his lust know no restraints,
        Nor cease to weep in sad complaints.
        Though Heaven should his vows regard,
        And in a prodigal reward
        Return him all he could implore,
        Adding new honours to his store,
        Yet all were nothing. Goods in sight
        Are scorn'd, and lust in greedy flight
        Lays out for more; what measure then
        Can tame these wild desires of men?
        Since all we give both last and first
        Doth but inflame, and feed their thirst.
    For how can he be rich, who 'midst his store
    Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.


        When the sun from his rosy bed
        The dawning light begins to shed,
        The drowsy sky uncurtains round,
        And the--but now bright--stars all drown'd
        In one great light look dull and tame,
        And homage his victorious flame.
        Thus, when the warm Etesian wind
        The Earth's seal'd bosom doth unbind,
        Straight she her various store discloses,
        And purples every grove with roses;
        But if the South's tempestuous breath
        Breaks forth, those blushes pine to death.
        Oft in a quiet sky the deep
        With unmov'd waves seems fast asleep,
        And oft again the blust'ring North
        In angry heaps provokes them forth.
          If then this world, which holds all nations,
        Suffers itself such alterations,
        That not this mighty massy frame,
        Nor any part of it can claim
        One certain course, why should man prate,
        Or censure the designs of Fate?
        Why from frail honours, and goods lent
        Should he expect things permanent?
    Since 'tis enacted by Divine decree
    That nothing mortal shall eternal be.


    Who wisely would for his retreat
    Build a secure and lasting seat,
    Where stov'd in silence he may sleep
    Beneath the wind, above the deep;
    Let him th' high hills leave on one hand,
    And on the other the false sand.
    The first to winds lies plain and even,
    From all the blust'ring points of heaven;
    The other, hollow and unsure,
    No weight of building will endure.
    Avoiding then the envied state
    Of buildings bravely situate,
    Remember thou thyself to lock
    Within some low neglected rock.
    There when fierce heaven in thunder chides,
    And winds and waves rage on all sides,
    Thou happy in the quiet sense
    Of thy poor cell, with small expense
    Shall lead a life serene and fair,
    And scorn the anger of the air.


    Happy that first white age! when we
    Lived by the Earth's mere charity.
    No soft luxurious diet then
    Had effeminated men,
    No other meat, nor wine had any
    Than the coarse mast, or simple honey,
    And by the parents' care laid up
    Cheap berries did the children sup.
    No pompous wear was in those days
    Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize,
    Their beds were on some flow'ry brink,
    And clear spring-water was their drink.
    The shady pine in the sun's heat
    Was their cool and known retreat,
    For then 'twas not cut down, but stood
    The youth and glory of the wood.
    The daring sailor with his slaves
    Then had not cut the swelling waves,
    Nor for desire of foreign store
    Seen any but his native shore.
    No stirring drum had scarr'd that age,
    Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage,
    No wounds by bitter hatred made
    With warm blood soil'd the shining blade;
    For how could hostile madness arm
    An age of love, to public harm?
    When common justice none withstood,
    Nor sought rewards for spilling blood.
      O that at length our age would raise
    Into the temper of those days!
    But--worse than Ætna's fires!--debate
    And avarice inflame our State.
    Alas! who was it that first found
    Gold, hid of purpose under ground,
    That sought our pearls, and div'd to find
    Such precious perils for mankind!


    He that thirsts for glory's prize,
        Thinking that the top of all,
    Let him view th' expansèd skies,
        And the earth's contracted ball;
    'Twill shame him then: the name he wan
    Fills not the short walk of one man.


    O why vainly strive you then
        To shake off the bands of Fate,
    Though Fame through the world of men
        Should in all tongues your names relate,
    And with proud titles swell that story:
    The dark grave scorns your brightest glory.


    There with nobles beggars sway,
        And kings with commons share one dust.
    What news of Brutus at this day,
        Or Fabricius the just?
    Some rude verse, cut in stone, or lead,
        Keeps up the names, but they are dead.


    So shall you one day--past reprieve--
        Lie--perhaps--without a name.
    But if dead you think to live
        By this air of human fame,
    Know, when Time stops that posthume breath,
    You must endure a second death.


    That the world in constant force
    Varies her concordant course;
    That seeds jarring hot and cold
    Do the breed perpetual hold;
    That in his golden coach the sun
    Brings the rosy day still on;
    That the moon sways all those lights
    Which Hesper ushers to dark nights;
    That alternate tides be found
    The sea's ambitious waves to bound,
    Lest o'er the wide earth without end
    Their fluid empire should extend;
    All this frame of things that be,
    Love which rules heaven, land, and sea,
    Chains, keeps, orders as we see.
    This, if the reins he once cast by,
    All things that now by turns comply
    Would fall to discord, and this frame
    Which now by social faith they tame,
    And comely orders, in that fight
    And jar of things would perish quite.
    This in a holy league of peace
    Keeps king and people with increase;
    And in the sacred nuptial bands
    Ties up chaste hearts with willing hands;
    And this keeps firm without all doubt
    Friends by his bright instinct found out.
      O happy nation then were you,
    If love, which doth all things subdue,
    That rules the spacious heav'n, and brings
    Plenty and peace upon his wings,
    Might rule you too! and without guile
    Settle once more this floating isle!


    Almighty Spirit! Thou that by
    Set turns and changes from Thy high
    And glorious throne dost here below
    Rule all, and all things dost foreknow!
    Can those blind plots we here discuss
    Please Thee, as Thy wise counsels us?
    When Thou Thy blessings here doth strow,
    And pour on earth, we flock and flow,
    With joyous strife and eager care,
    Struggling which shall have the best share
    In Thy rich gifts, just as we see
    Children about nuts disagree.
    Some that a crown have got and foil'd
    Break it; another sees it spoil'd
    Ere it is gotten. Thus the world
    Is all to piecemeals cut, and hurl'd
    By factious hands. It is a ball
    Which Fate and force divide 'twixt all
    The sons of men. But, O good God!
    While these for dust fight, and a clod,
    Grant that poor I may smile, and be
    At rest and perfect peace with Thee!


    It would less vex distressèd man
    If Fortune in the same pace ran
    To ruin him, as he did rise.
    But highest States fall in a trice;
    No great success held ever long;
    A restless fate afflicts the throng
    Of kings and commons, and less days
    Serve to destroy them than to raise.
    Good luck smiles once an age, but bad
    Makes kingdoms in a minute sad,
    And ev'ry hour of life we drive,
    Hath o'er us a prerogative.
      Then leave--by wild impatience driv'n,
    And rash resents--to rail at heav'n;
    Leave an unmanly, weak complaint
    That death and fate have no restraint.
    In the same hour that gave thee breath,
    Thou hadst ordain'd thy hour of death,
    But he lives most who here will buy,
    With a few tears, eternity.


    Let not thy youth and false delights
    Cheat thee of life; those heady flights
    But waste thy time, which posts away
    Like winds unseen, and swift as they.
    Beauty is but mere paint, whose dye
    With Time's breath will dissolve and fly;
    'Tis wax, 'tis water, 'tis a glass,
    It melts, breaks, and away doth pass.
    'Tis like a rose which in the dawn
    The air with gentle breath doth fawn
    And whisper to, but in the hours
    Of night is sullied with smart showers.
    Life spent is wish'd for but in vain,
    Nor can past years come back again.
      Happy the man, who in this vale
    Redeems his time, shutting out all
    Thoughts of the world, whose longing eyes
    Are ever pilgrims in the skies,
    That views his bright home, and desires
    To shine amongst those glorious fires!


    'Tis not rich furniture and gems,
    With cedar roofs and ancient stems,
    Nor yet a plenteous, lasting flood
    Of gold, that makes man truly good.
    Leave to inquire in what fair fields
    A river runs which much gold yields;
    Virtue alone is the rich prize
    Can purchase stars, and buy the skies.
    Let others build with adamant,
    Or pillars of carv'd marble plant,
    Which rude and rough sometimes did dwell
    Far under earth, and near to hell.
    But richer much--from death releas'd--
    Shines in the fresh groves of the East
    The ph[oe]nix, or those fish that dwell
    With silver'd scales in Hiddekel.
    Let others with rare, various pearls
    Their garments dress, and in forc'd curls
    Bind up their locks, look big and high,
    And shine in robes of scarlet dye.
    But in my thoughts more glorious far
    Those native stars and speckles are
    Which birds wear, or the spots which we
    In leopards dispersèd see.
    The harmless sheep with her warm fleece
    Clothes man, but who his dark heart sees
    Shall find a wolf or fox within,
    That kills the castor for his skin.
    Virtue alone, and nought else can
    A diff'rence make 'twixt beasts and man;
    And on her wings above the spheres
    To the true light his spirit bears.


    Nothing on earth, nothing at all
    Can be exempted from the thrall
    Of peevish weariness! The sun,
    Which our forefathers judg'd to run
    Clear and unspotted, in our days
    Is tax'd with sullen eclips'd rays.
    Whatever in the glorious sky
    Man sees, his rash audacious eye
    Dares censure it, and in mere spite
    At distance will condemn the light.
    The wholesome mornings, whose beams clear
    Those hills our fathers walk'd on here,
    We fancy not; nor the moon's light
    Which through their windows shin'd at night
    We change the air each year, and scorn
    Those seats in which we first were born.
    Some nice, affected wand'rers love
    Belgia's mild winters, others remove,
    For want of health and honesty,
    To summer it in Italy;
    But to no end; the disease still
    Sticks to his lord, and kindly will
    To Venice in a barge repair,
    Or coach it to Vienna's air;
    And then--too late with home content--
    They leave this wilful banishment.
      But he, whose constancy makes sure
    His mind and mansion, lives secure
    From such vain tasks, can dine and sup
    Where his old parents bred him up.
    Content--no doubt!--most times doth dwell
    In country shades, or to some cell
    Confines itself; and can alone
    Make simple straw a royal throne.


    If weeping eyes could wash away
    Those evils they mourn for night and day,
    Then gladly I to cure my fears
    With my best jewels would buy tears.
    But as dew feeds the growing corn,
    So crosses that are grown forlorn
    Increase with grief, tears make tears' way,
    And cares kept up keep cares in pay.
    That wretch whom Fortune finds to fear,
    And melting still into a tear,
    She strikes more boldly, but a face
    Silent and dry doth her amaze.
    Then leave thy tears, and tedious tale
    Of what thou dost misfortunes call.
    What thou by weeping think'st to ease,
    Doth by that passion but increase;
    Hard things to soft will never yield,
    'Tis the dry eye that wins the field;
    A noble patience quells the spite
    Of Fortune, and disarms her quite.


    Flaccus, not so! that worldly he
    Whom in the country's shade we see
    Ploughing his own fields, seldom can
    Be justly styl'd the blessed man.
      That title only fits a saint,
    Whose free thoughts, far above restraint
    And weighty cares, can gladly part
    With house and lands, and leave the smart,
    Litigious troubles and loud strife
    Of this world for a better life.
    He fears no cold nor heat to blast
    His corn, for his accounts are cast;
    He sues no man, nor stands in awe
    Of the devouring courts of law;
    But all his time he spends in tears
    For the sins of his youthful years;
    Or having tasted those rich joys
    Of a conscience without noise,
    Sits in some fair shade, and doth give
    To his wild thoughts rules how to live.
      He in the evening, when on high
    The stars shine in the silent sky,
    Beholds th' eternal flames with mirth,
    And globes of light more large than Earth;
    Then weeps for joy, and through his tears
    Looks on the fire-enamell'd spheres,
    Where with his Saviour he would be
    Lifted above mortality.
    Meanwhile the golden stars do set,
    And the slow pilgrim leave all wet
    With his own tears, which flow so fast
    They make his sleeps light, and soon past.
    By this, the sun o'er night deceas'd
    Breaks in fresh blushes from the East,
    When, mindful of his former falls,
    With strong cries to his God he calls,
    And with such deep-drawn sighs doth move
    That He turns anger into love.
      In the calm Spring, when the Earth bears,
    And feeds on April's breath and tears,
    His eyes, accustom'd to the skies,
    Find here fresh objects, and like spies
    Or busy bees, search the soft flow'rs,
    Contemplate the green fields and bow'rs,
    Where he in veils and shades doth see
    The back parts of the Deity.
    Then sadly sighing says, "O! how
    These flow'rs with hasty, stretch'd heads grow
    And strive for heav'n, but rooted here
    Lament the distance with a tear!
    The honeysuckles clad in white,
    The rose in red, point to the light;
    And the lilies, hollow and bleak,
    Look as if they would something speak;
    They sigh at night to each soft gale,
    And at the day-spring weep it all.
    Shall I then only--wretched I!--
    Oppress'd with earth, on earth still lie?"
    Thus speaks he to the neighbour trees,
    And many sad soliloquies
    To springs and fountains doth impart,
    Seeking God with a longing heart.
      But if to ease his busy breast
    He thinks of home, and taking rest,
    A rural cot and common fare
    Are all his cordials against care.
    There at the door of his low cell,
    Under some shade, or near some well
    Where the cool poplar grows, his plate
    Of common earth without more state
    Expect their lord. Salt in a shell,
    Green cheese, thin beer, draughts that will tell
    No tales, a hospitable cup,
    With some fresh berries, do make up
    His healthful feast; nor doth he wish
    For the fat carp, or a rare dish
    Of Lucrine oysters; the swift quist
    Or pigeon sometimes--if he list--
    With the slow goose that loves the stream,
    Fresh, various salads, and the bean
    By curious palates never sought,
    And, to close with, some cheap unbought
    Dish for digestion, are the most
    And choicest dainties he can boast.
      Thus feasted, to the flow'ry groves
    Or pleasant rivers he removes,
    Where near some fair oak, hung with mast,
    He shuns the South's infectious blast.
    On shady banks sometimes he lies,
    Sometimes the open current tries,
    Where with his line and feather'd fly
    He sports, and takes the scaly fry.
    Meanwhile each hollow wood and hill
    Doth ring with lowings long and shrill,
    And shady lakes with rivers deep
    Echo the bleating of the sheep;
    The blackbird with the pleasant thrush
    And nightingale in ev'ry bush
    Choice music give, and shepherds play
    Unto their flock some loving lay!
    The thirsty reapers, in thick throngs,
    Return home from the field with songs,
    And the carts, laden with ripe corn,
    Come groaning to the well-stor'd barn.
      Nor pass we by, as the least good,
    A peaceful, loving neighbourhood,
    Whose honest wit, and chaste discourse
    Make none--by hearing it--the worse,
    But innocent and merry, may
    Help--without sin--to spend the day.
    Could now the tyrant usurer,
    Who plots to be a purchaser
    Of his poor neighbour's seat, but taste
    These true delights, O! with what haste
    And hatred of his ways, would he
    Renounce his Jewish cruelty,
    And those curs'd sums, which poor men borrow
    On use to-day, remit to-morrow!


    Isca parens florum, placido qui spumeus ore
            Lambis lapillos aureos;
    Qui mæstos hyacinthos, et picti [Greek: anthea] tophi
            Mulces susurris humidis;
    Dumque novas pergunt menses consumere lunas
            C[oe]lumque mortales terit,
    Accumulas cum sole dies, ævumque per omne
            Fidelis induras latex;
    O quis inaccessos et quali murmure lucos
            Mutumque solaris nemus!
    Per te discerpti credo Thracis ire querelas
            Plectrumque divini senis.


    Quod vixi, Mathæe, dedit pater, hæc tamen olim
      Vita fluat, nec erit fas meminisse datam.
    Ultra curasti solers, perituraque mecum
      Nomina post cineres das resonare meos.
    Divide discipulum: brevis hæc et lubrica nostri
      Pars vertat patri, posthuma vita tibi.


    Vivaces oculorum ignes et lumina dia
      Fixit in angusto maximus orbe Deus;
    Ille explorantes radios dedit, et vaga lustra
      In quibus intuitus lexque, modusque latent.
    Hos tacitos jactus, lususque, volubilis orbis
      Pingis in exiguo, magne[57] Poëlle, libro,
    Excursusque situsque ut Lynceus opticus, edis,
      Quotque modis fallunt, quotque adhibenda fides.
    Æmula Naturæ manus! et mens conscia c[oe]li.
      Ilia videre dedit, vestra videre docet.


[56] The version in _Elementa Opticæ_ has _Eximio viro, et amicorum
longè optimo, T. P. in hunc suum de Elementis Opticæ libellum_.

[57] _El. Opt._ has _docte_.


    O quæ frondosæ per am[oe]na cubilia silvæ
    Nympha volas, lucoque loquax spatiaris in alto,
    Annosi numen nemoris, saltusque verendi
    Effatum, cui sola placent postrema relatus!
    Te per Narcissi morientis verba, precesque
    Per pueri lassatam animam, et conamina vitæ
    Ultima, palantisque precor suspiria linguæ.
    Da quo secretæ hæc incædua devia silvæ,
    Anfractusque loci dubios, et lustra repandam.
    Sic tibi perpetua--meritoque--hæc regna juventa
    Luxurient, dabiturque tuis, sine fine, viretis
    Intactas lunæ lachrymas, et lambere rorem
    Virgineum, c[oe]lique animas haurire tepentis.
    Nec cedant ævo stellis, sed lucida semper
    Et satiata sacro æterni medicamine veris
    Ostendant longe vegetos, ut sidera, vultus!
    Sic spiret muscata comas, et cinnama passim!
    Diffundat levis umbra, in funere qualia spargit
    Ph[oe]nicis rogus aut Pancheæ nubila flammæ!

             THALIA REDIVIVA.



My Lord,

Though dedications are now become a kind of tyranny over the peace and
repose of great men; yet I have confidence I shall so manage the present
address as to entertain your lordship without much disturbance; and
because my purposes are governed by deep respect and veneration, I hope
to find your Lordship more facile and accessible. And I am already
absolved from a great part of that fulsome and designing guilt, being
sufficiently removed from the causes of it: for I consider, my Lord,
that you are already so well known to the world in your several
characters and advantages of honour--it was yours by traduction, and the
adjunct of your nativity; you were swaddled and rocked in't, bred up and
grew in't, to your now wonderful height and eminence--that for me under
pretence of the inscription, to give you the heraldry of your family, or
to carry your person through the famed topics of mind, body, or estate,
were all one as to persuade the world that fire and light were very
bright bodies, or that the luminaries themselves had glory. In point of
protection I beg to fall in with the common wont, and to be satisfied by
the reasonableness of the thing, and abundant worthy precedents; and
although I should have secret prophecy and assurance that the ensuing
verse would live eternally, yet would I, as I now do, humbly crave it
might be fortified with your patronage; for so the sextile aspects and
influences are watched for, and applied to the actions of life, thereby
to make the scheme and good auguries of the birth pass into Fate, and a
success infallible.

My Lord, by a happy obliging intercession, and your own consequent
indulgence, I have now recourse to your Lordship, hoping I shall not
much displease by putting these twin poets into your hands. The minion
and vertical planet of the Roman lustre and bravery, was never better
pleased than when he had a whole constellation about him: not his
finishing five several wars to the promoting of his own interest, nor
particularly the prodigious success at Actium where he held in chase the
wealth, beauty and prowess of the East; not the triumphs and absolute
dominions which followed: all this gave him not half that serene pride
and satisfaction of spirit as when he retired himself to umpire the
different excellencies of his insipid friends, and to distribute laurels
among his poetic heroes. If now upon the authority of this and several
such examples, I had the ability and opportunity of drawing the value
and strange worth of a poet, and withal of applying some of the
lineaments to the following pieces, I should then do myself a real
service, and atone in a great measure for the present insolence. But
best of all will it serve my defence and interest, to appeal to your
Lordship's own conceptions and image of genuine verse; with which so
just, so regular original, if these copies shall hold proportion and
resemblance, then am I advanced very far in your Lordship's pardon: the
rest will entirely be supplied me by your Lordship's goodness, and my
own awful zeal of being, my Lord,

  Your Lordship's most obedient,
      most humbly devoted servant,

                                                                 J. W.


The Nation of Poets above all Writers has ever challenged perpetuity of
name, or as they please by their charter of liberty to call it,
Immortality. Nor has the World much disputed their claim, either easily
resigning a patrimony in itself not very substantial; or, it may be, out
of despair to control the authority of inspiration and oracle. Howsoever
the price as now quarrelled for among the poets themselves is no such
rich bargain: it is only a vanishing interest in the lees and dregs of
Time, in the rear of those Fathers and Worthies in the art, who if they
know anything of the heats and fury of their successors, must extremely
pity them.

I am to assure, that the Author has no portion of that airy happiness to
lose, by any injury or unkindness which may be done to his Verse: his
reputation is better built in the sentiment of several judicious
persons, who know him very well able to give himself a lasting monument,
by undertaking any argument of note in the whole circle of learning.

But even these his Diversions have been valuable with the matchless
Orinda; and since they deserved her esteem and commendations, who so
thinks them not worth the publishing, will put himself in the opposite
scale, where his own arrogance will blow him up.

                                                                 I. W.


    Had I ador'd the multitude, and thence
    Got an antipathy to wit and sense,
    And hugg'd that fate, in hope the world would grant
    'Twas good affection to be ignorant;[59]
    Yet the least ray of thy bright fancy seen,
    I had converted, or excuseless been.
    For each birth of thy Muse to after-times
    Shall expiate for all this Age's crimes.
    First shines thy Amoret, twice crown'd by thee,
    Once by thy love, next by thy poetry;
    Where thou the best of unions dost dispense,
    Truth cloth'd in wit, and Love in innocence;
    So that the muddy lover may learn here,
    No fountains can be sweet that are not clear.
    There Juvenal, by thee reviv'd, declares
    How flat man's joys are, and how mean his cares;
    And wisely doth upbraid[60] the world, that they
    Should such a value for their ruin pay.
      But when thy sacred Muse diverts her quil
    The landscape to design of Sion's hill,[61]
    As nothing else was worthy her, or thee,
    So we admire almost t' idolatry.
    What savage breast would not be rapt to find
    Such jewels in such cabinets enshrin'd?
    Thou fill'd with joys--too great to see or count--
    Descend'st from thence, like Moses from the Mount,
    And with a candid, yet unquestion'd awe
    Restor'st the Golden Age, when Verse was Law.
    Instructing us, thou so secur'st[62] thy fame,
    That nothing can disturb it but my name:
    Nay, I have hopes that standing so near thine
    'Twill lose its dross, and by degrees refine.
    Live! till the disabusèd world consent
    All truths of use, of strength or ornament,
    Are with such harmony by thee display'd
    As the whole world was first by number made,
    And from the charming rigour thy Muse brings
    Learn, there's no pleasure but in serious things!



[58] 1664-1667 have To _Mr. Henry Vaughan, Silurist, on his Poems_.

[59] So 1664-1667. _Thalia Rediviva_ has _the ignorant_.

[60] 1664 has _generally upbraids_; 1667, _generously upbraids_

[61] 1664-1667 have _Leon's hill_.

[62] 1664 has _thou who securest_.


    Fairly design'd! to charm our civil rage
    With verse, and plant bays in an iron age!
    But hath steel'd Mars so ductible a soul,
    That love and poesy may it control?
    Yes! brave Tyrtæus, as we read of old,
    The Grecian armies as he pleas'd could mould;
    They march'd to his high numbers, and did fight
    With that instinct and rage, which he did write.
    When he fell lower, they would straight retreat,
    Grow soft and calm, and temper their bold heat.
    Such magic is in Virtue! See here a young
    Tyrtæus too, whose sweet persuasive song
    Can lead our spirits any way, and move
    To all adventures, either war or love.
    Then veil the bright Etesia, that choice she,
    Lest Mars--Timander's friend--his rival be.
    So fair a nymph, dress'd by a Muse so neat,
    Might warm the North, and thaw the frozen Gete.

                                                     Tho. Powell, D.D.



    Where reverend bards of old have sate
    And sung the pleasant interludes of Fate,
        Thou takest the hereditary shade
        Which Nature's homely art had made,
    And thence thou giv'st thy Muse her swing, and she
            Advances to the galaxy;
    There with the sparkling Cowley she above
    Does hand in hand in graceful measures move.
        We grovelling mortals gaze below,
          And long in vain to know
        Her wondrous paths, her wondrous flight:
          In vain, alas! we grope,[63]
            In vain we use our earthly telescope,
          We're blinded by an intermedial night.
            Thine eagle-Muse can only face
            The fiery coursers in their race,
        While with unequal paces we do try
    To bear her train aloft, and keep her company.


        The loud harmonious Mantuan
    Once charm'd the world; and here's the Uscan swan
        In his declining years does chime,
    And challenges the last remains of Time.
        Ages run on, and soon give o'er,
        They have their graves as well as we;
        Time swallows all that's past and more,
        Yet time is swallow'd in eternity:
        This is the only profits poets see.
    There thy triumphant Muse shall ride in state
        And lead in chains devouring Fate;
        Claudian's bright Ph[oe]nix she shall bring
        Thee an immortal offering;
    Nor shall my humble tributary Muse
    Her homage and attendance too refuse;
        She thrusts herself among the crowd,
    And joining in th' applause she strives to clap aloud


    Tell me no more that Nature is severe,
        Thou great philosopher!
    Lo! she has laid her vast exchequer here.
        Tell me no more that she has sent
        So much already, she is spent;
    Here is a vast America behind
    Which none but the great Silurist could find.
        Nature her last edition was the best,
        As big, as rich as all the rest:
          So will we here admit
          Another world of wit.
    No rude or savage fancy here shall stay
        The travelling reader in his way,
    But every coast is clear: go where he will,
    Virtue's the road Thalia leads him still.
    Long may she live, and wreath thy sacred head
    For this her happy resurrection from the dead.

                                              N. W., Jes. Coll., Oxon.


[63] The original has _flight In raine; alas! we grope_.


    See what thou wert! by what Platonic round
    Art thou in thy first youth and glories found?
    Or from thy Muse does this retrieve accrue?
    Does she which once inspir'd thee, now renew,
    Bringing thee back those golden years which Time
    Smooth'd to thy lays, and polish'd with thy rhyme?
    Nor is't to thee alone she does convey
    Such happy change, but bountiful as day,
    On whatsoever reader she does shine,
    She makes him like thee, and for ever thine.

    And first thy manual op'ning gives to see
    Eclipse and suff'rings burnish majesty,
    Where thou so artfully the draught hast made
    That we best read the lustre in the shade,
    And find our sov'reign greater in that shroud:
    So lightning dazzles from its night and cloud,
    So the First Light Himself has for His throne
    Blackness, and darkness his pavilion.

    Who can refuse thee company, or stay,
    By thy next charming summons forc'd away,
    If that be force which we can so resent,
    That only in its joys 'tis violent:
    Upward thy Eagle bears us ere aware,
    Till above storms and all tempestuous air
    We radiant worlds with their bright people meet,
    Leaving this little all beneath our feet.
    But now the pleasure is too great to tell,
    Nor have we other bus'ness than to dwell,
    As on the hallow'd Mount th' Apostles meant
    To build and fix their glorious banishment.
    Yet we must know and find thy skilful vein
    Shall gently bear us to our homes again;
    By which descent thy former flight's impli'd
    To be thy ecstacy and not thy pride.
    And here how well does the wise Muse demean
    Herself, and fit her song to ev'ry scene!
    Riot of courts, the bloody wreaths of war,
    Cheats of the mart, and clamours of the bar,
    Nay, life itself thou dost so well express,
    Its hollow joys, and real emptiness,
    That Dorian minstrel never did excite,
    Or raise for dying so much appetite.

    Nor does thy other softer magic move
    Us less thy fam'd Etesia to love;
    Where such a character thou giv'st, that shame
    Nor envy dare approach the vestal dame:
    So at bright prime ideas none repine,
    They safely in th' eternal poet shine.

    Gladly th' Assyrian ph[oe]nix now resumes
    From thee this last reprisal of his plumes;
    He seems another more miraculous thing,
    Brighter of crest, and stronger of his wing,
    Proof against Fate in spicy urns to come,
    Immortal past all risk of martyrdom.

    Nor be concern'd, nor fancy thou art rude
    T' adventure from thy Cambrian solitude:
    Best from those lofty cliffs thy Muse does spring
    Upwards, and boldly spreads her cherub wing.

    So when the sage of Memphis would converse
    With boding skies, and th' azure universe,
    He climbs his starry pyramid, and thence
    Freely sucks clean prophetic influence,
    And all serene, and rapt and gay he pries
    Through the ethereal volume's mysteries,
    Loth to come down, or ever to know more
    The Nile's luxurious, but dull foggy shore.

                                                     I. W., A.M. Oxon.



    If sever'd friends by sympathy can join,
    And absent kings be honour'd in their coin;
    May they do both, who are so curb'd? but we
    Whom no such abstracts torture, that can see
    And pay each other a full self-return,
    May laugh, though all such metaphysics burn.
      'Tis a kind soul in magnets, that atones
    Such two hard things as iron are and stones,
    And in their dumb compliance we learn more
    Of love, than ever books could speak before.
    For though attraction hath got all the name,
    As if that power but from one side came,
    Which both unites; yet, where there is no sense
    There is no passion, nor intelligence:
    And so by consequence we cannot state
    A commerce, unless both we animate.
    For senseless things, though ne'er so called upon,
    Are deaf, and feel no invitation,
    But such as at the last day shall be shed
    By the great Lord of life into the dead.
    'Tis then no heresy to end the strife
    With such rare doctrine as gives iron life.
      For were it otherwise--which cannot be,
    And do thou judge my bold philosophy--
    Then it would follow that if I were dead,
    Thy love, as now in life, would in that bed
    Of earth and darkness warm me, and dispense
    Effectual informing influence.
    Since then 'tis clear, that friendship is nought else
    But a joint, kind propension, and excess
    In none, but such whose equal, easy hearts
    Comply and meet both in their whole and parts,
    And when they cannot meet, do not forget
    To mingle souls, but secretly reflect
    And some third place their centre make, where they
    Silently mix, and make an unseen stay:
    Let me not say--though poets may be bold--
    Thou art more hard than steel, than stones more cold,
    But as the marigold in feasts of dew
    And early sunbeams, though but thin and few,
    Unfolds itself, then from the Earth's cold breast
    Heaves gently, and salutes the hopeful East:
    So from thy quiet cell, the retir'd throne
    Of thy fair thoughts, which silently bemoan
    Our sad distractions, come! and richly dress'd
    With reverend mirth and manners, check the rest
    Of loose, loath'd men! Why should I longer be
    Rack'd 'twixt two evils? I see and cannot see.


_Written about the same time that Mr. John Cleveland wrote his._

    A king and no king! Is he gone from us,
    And stoln alive into his coffin thus?
    This was to ravish death, and so prevent
    The rebels' treason and their punishment.
    He would not have them damn'd, and therefore he
    Himself deposèd his own majesty.
    Wolves did pursue him, and to fly the ill
    He wanders--royal saint!--in sheepskin still.
    Poor, obscure shelter, if that shelter be
    Obscure, which harbours so much majesty.
    Hence, profane eyes! the mystery's so deep,
    Like Esdras books, the vulgar must not see't.
      Thou flying roll, written with tears and woe,
    Not for thy royal self, but for thy foe!
    Thy grief is prophecy, and doth portend,
    Like sad Ezekiel's sighs, the rebel's end.
    Thy robes forc'd off, like Samuel's when rent,
    Do figure out another's punishment.
    Nor grieve thou hast put off thyself awhile,
    To serve as prophet to this sinful isle;
    These are our days of Purim, which oppress
    The Church, and force thee to the wilderness.
    But all these clouds cannot thy light confine,
    The sun in storms and after them, will shine.
    Thy day of life cannot be yet complete,
    'Tis early, sure, thy shadow is so great.
      But I am vex'd, that we at all can guess
    This change, and trust great Charles to such a dress.
    When he was first obscur'd with this coarse thing,
    He grac'd plebeians, but profan'd the king:
    Like some fair church, which zeal to charcoals burn'd,
    Or his own court now to an alehouse turn'd.
      But full as well may we blame night, and chide
    His wisdom, Who doth light with darkness hide,
    Or deny curtains to thy royal bed,
    As take this sacred cov'ring from thy head.
    Secrets of State are points we must not know;
    This vizard is thy privy-council now,
    Thou royal riddle, and in everything
    The true white prince, our hieroglyphic king!
    Ride safely in His shade, Who gives thee light,
    And can with blindness thy pursuers smite.
    O! may they wander all from thee as far
    As they from peace are, and thyself from war!
    And wheresoe'er thou dost design to be
    With thy--now spotted--spotless majesty,
    Be sure to look no sanctuary there,
    Nor hope for safety in a temple, where
    Buyers and sellers trade: O! strengthen not
    With too much trust the treason of a Scot!


    Tis madness sure; and I am in the fit,
    To dare an eagle with my unfledg'd wit.
    For what did ever Rome or Athens sing
    In all their lines, as lofty as his wing?
    He that an eagle's powers would rehearse
    Should with his plumes first feather all his verse.
      I know not, when into thee I would pry,
    Which to admire, thy wing first, or thine eye;
    Or whether Nature at thy birth design'd
    More of her fire for thee, or of her wind.
    When thou in the clear heights and upmost air
    Dost face the sun and his dispersèd hair,
    Ev'n from that distance thou the sea dost spy
    And sporting in its deep, wide lap, the fry.
    Not the least minnow there but thou canst see:
    Whole seas are narrow spectacles to thee.
      Nor is this element of water here
    Below of all thy miracles the sphere.
    If poets ought may add unto thy store,
    Thou hast in heav'n of wonders many more.
    For when just Jove to earth his thunder bends,
    And from that bright, eternal fortress sends
    His louder volleys, straight this bird doth fly
    To Ætna, where his magazine doth lie,
    And in his active talons brings him more
    Of ammunition, and recruits his store.
    Nor is't a low or easy lift. He soars
    'Bove wind and fire; gets to the moon, and pores
    With scorn upon her duller face; for she
    Gives him but shadows and obscurity.
    Here much displeas'd, that anything like night
    Should meet him in his proud and lofty flight,
    That such dull tinctures should advance so far,
    And rival in the glories of a star,
    Resolv'd he is a nobler course to try,
    And measures out his voyage with his eye.
    Then with such fury he begins his flight,
    As if his wings contended with his sight.
    Leaving the moon, whose humble light doth trade
    With spots, and deals most in the dark and shade,
    To the day's royal planet he doth pass
    With daring eyes, and makes the sun his glass.
    Here doth he plume and dress himself, the beams
    Rushing upon him like so many streams;
    While with direct looks he doth entertain
    The thronging flames, and shoots them back again.
    And thus from star to star he doth repair,
    And wantons in that pure and peaceful air.
    Sometimes he frights the starry swan, and now
    Orion's fearful hare, and then the crow.
    Then with the orb itself he moves, to see
    Which is more swift, th' intelligence or he.
    Thus with his wings his body he hath brought
    Where man can travel only in a thought.
      I will not seek, rare bird, what spirit 'tis
    That mounts thee thus; I'll be content with this,
    To think that Nature made thee to express
    Our soul's bold heights in a material dress.



    You have oblig'd the patriarch, and 'tis known
    He is your debtor now, though for his own.
    What he wrote is a medley: we can see
    Confusion trespass on his piety.
    Misfortunes did not only strike at him,
    They chargèd further, and oppress'd his pen;
    For he wrote as his crosses came, and went
    By no safe rule, but by his punishment.
    His quill mov'd by the rod; his wits and he
    Did know no method, but their misery.
      You brought his Psalms now into tune. Nay all
    His measures thus are more than musical;
    Your method and his airs are justly sweet,
    And--what's church music right--like anthems meet.
    You did so much in this, that I believe
    He gave the matter, you the form did give.
    And yet I wish you were not understood,
    For now 'tis a misfortune to be good!
      Why then you'll say, all I would have, is this:
    None must be good, because the time's amiss.
    For since wise Nature did ordain the night,
    I would not have the sun to give us light.
    Whereas this doth not take the use away,
    But urgeth the necessity of day.
    Proceed to make your pious work as free,
    Stop not your seasonable charity.
    Good works despis'd or censur'd by bad times
    Should be sent out to aggravate their crimes.
    They should first share and then reject our store,
    Abuse our good, to make their guilt the more.
    'Tis war strikes at our sins, but it must be
    A persecution wounds our piety.


      Now that the public sorrow doth subside,
    And those slight tears which custom springs are dried;
    While all the rich and outside mourners pass
    Home from thy dust, to empty their own glass;
    I--who the throng affect not, nor their state--
    Steal to thy grave undress'd, to meditate
    On our sad loss, accompanied by none,
    An obscure mourner that would weep alone.
      So, when the world's great luminary sets,
    Some scarce known star into the zenith gets,
    Twinkles and curls, a weak but willing spark,
    As glow-worms here do glitter in the dark.
    Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles there
    An humble love unto the light doth bear,
    And true devotion from an hermit's cell
    Will Heav'n's kind King as soon reach and as well,
    As that which from rich shrines and altars flies,
    Led by ascending incense to the skies:
    'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the might
    Of love makes dark things wait upon the bright,
    And from my sad retirements calls me forth,
    The just recorder of thy death and worth.
      Long didst thou live--if length be measured by
    The tedious reign of our calamity--
    And counter to all storms and changes still
    Kept'st the same temper, and the selfsame will.
    Though trials came as duly as the day,
    And in such mists, that none could see his way,
    Yet thee I found still virtuous, and saw
    The sun give clouds, and Charles give both the law.
    When private interest did all hearts bend,
    And wild dissents the public peace did rend,
    Thou, neither won, nor worn, wert still thyself,
    Not aw'd by force, nor basely brib'd with pelf.
      What the insuperable stream of times
    Did dash thee with, those suff'rings were, not crimes.
    So the bright sun eclipses bears; and we,
    Because then passive, blame him not. Should he
    For enforc'd shades, and the moon's ruder veil
    Much nearer us than him, be judg'd to fail?
    Who traduce thee, so err. As poisons by
    Correction are made antidotes, so thy
    Just soul did turn ev'n hurtful things to good,
    Us'd bad laws so they drew not tears, nor blood.
    Heav'n was thy aim, and thy great, rare design
    Was not to lord it here, but there to shine.
    Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e'er
    Thou pray'd'st for here was peace, and glory there.
    For though thy course in Time's long progress fell
    On a sad age, when war and open'd hell
    Licens'd all arts and sects, and made it free
    To thrive by fraud, and blood, and blasphemy:
    Yet thou thy just inheritance didst by
    No sacrilege, nor pillage multiply.
    No rapine swell'd thy state, no bribes, nor fees,
    Our new oppressors' best annuities.
    Such clean pure hands hadst thou! and for thy heart,
    Man's secret region, and his noblest part;
    Since I was privy to't, and had the key
    Of that fair room, where thy bright spirit lay,
    I must affirm it did as much surpass
    Most I have known, as the clear sky doth glass.
    Constant and kind, and plain, and meek, and mild
    It was, and with no new conceits defil'd.
    Busy, but sacred thoughts--like bees--did still
    Within it stir, and strive unto that hill
    Where redeem'd spirits, evermore alive,
    After their work is done, ascend and hive.
    No outward tumults reach'd this inward place:
    'Twas holy ground, where peace, and love, and grace
    Kept house, where the immortal restless life,
    In a most dutiful and pious strife,
    Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order still;
    The will serv'd God, and ev'ry sense the will!
      In this safe state Death met thee, Death, which is
    But a kind usher of the good to bliss,
    Therefore to weep because thy course is run,
    Or droop like flow'rs, which lately lost the sun,
    I cannot yield, since Faith will not permit
    A tenure got by conquest to the pit.
    For the great Victor fought for us, and He
    Counts ev'ry dust that is laid up of thee.
    Besides, Death now grows decrepit, and hath
    Spent the most part both of its time and wrath.
    That thick, black night, which mankind fear'd, is torn
    By troops of stars, and the bright day's forlorn.
    The next glad news--most glad unto the just!--
    Will be the trumpet's summons from the dust.
    Then I'll not grieve; nay, more, I'll not allow
    My soul should think thee absent from me now.
    Some bid their dead "Good night!" but I will say
    "Good morrow to dear Charles!" for it is day.


    It is perform'd! and thy great name doth run
    Through ev'ry sign, an everlasting sun,
    Not planet-like, but fixed; and we can see
    Thy genius stand still in his apogee.
    For how canst thou an aux eternal miss,
    Where ev'ry house thy exaltation is?
    Here's no ecliptic threatens thee with night,
    Although the wiser few take in thy light.
    They are not at that glorious pitch, to be
    In a conjunction with divinity.
    Could we partake some oblique ray of thine,
    Salute thee in a sextile, or a trine,
    It were enough; but thou art flown so high,
    The telescope is turn'd a common eye.
    Had the grave Chaldee liv'd thy book to see,
    He had known no astrology but thee;
    Nay, more--for I believe't--thou shouldst have been
    Tutor to all his planets, and to him.
    Thus, whosoever reads thee, his charm'd sense
    Proves captive to thy zodiac's influence.
    Were it not foul to err so, I should look
    Here for the Rabbins' universal book:
    And say, their fancies did but dream of thee,
    When first they doted on that mystery.
    Each line's a _via lactea_, where we may
    See thy fair steps, and tread that happy way
    Thy genius led thee in. Still I will be
    Lodg'd in some sign, some face, and some degree
    Of thy bright zodiac; thus I'll teach my sense
    To move by that, and thee th' intelligence.


    Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when we
    Took the pure air in its simplicity,
    And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants went
    Cringing, and pass'd each step some compliment?
    What strange, fantastic diagrams they drew
    With legs and arms; the like we never knew
    In Euclid, Archimede, nor all of those
    Whose learnèd lines are neither verse nor prose?
    What store of lace was there? how did the gold
    Run in rich traces, but withal made bold
    To measure the proud things, and so deride
    The fops with that, which was part of their pride?
    How did they point at us, and boldly call,
    As if we had been vassals to them all,
    Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fate
    To yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state?
    Of all ambitions, this was not the least,
    Whose drift translated man into a beast.
    What blind discourse the heroes did afford!
    This lady was their friend, and such a lord.
    How much of blood was in it! one could tell
    He came from Bevis and his Arundel;
    Morglay was yet with him, and he could do
    More feats with it than his old grandsire too.
      Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee,
    Who canst produce a nobler pedigree,
    And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kin
    To some bright star, or to a cherubin?
    When these in their profuse moods spend the night,
    With the same sins they drive away the light.
    Thy learnèd thrift puts her to use, while she
    Reveals her fiery volume unto thee;
    And looking on the separated skies,
    And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes,
    Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and bars
    To heav'n, and there conversest with the stars.
      Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that be
    Obscur'd with nothing but their privacy,
    And missing but the false world's glories do
    Miss all those vices which attend them too!
    Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise;
    Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.


    Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst show
    The ruins of mankind, and let us know
    How frail a thing is flesh! though we see there
    But empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here.
    They are not dead, but full of blood again;
    I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein.
    Triumph not o'er their dust; whoever looks
    In here, shall find their brains all in their books.
      Nor is't old Palestine alone survives;
    Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's Lives.
    The stones, which sometimes danc'd unto the strain
    Of Orpheus, here do lodge his Muse again.
    And you, the Roman spirits, learning has
    Made your lives longer than your empire was.
    Cæsar had perish'd from the world of men
    Had not his sword been rescu'd by his pen.
    Rare Seneca, how lasting is thy breath!
    Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to death.
    How dull the expert tyrant was, to look
    For that in thee which livèd in thy book!
    Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and we
    Commence, when writing, our eternity.
    Lucilius here I can behold, and see
    His counsels and his life proceed from thee.
    But what care I to whom thy Letters be?
    I change the name, and thou dost write to me;
    And in this age, as sad almost as thine,
    Thy stately Consolations are mine.
    Poor earth! what though thy viler dust enrolls
    The frail enclosures of these mighty souls?
    Their graves are all upon record; not one
    But is as bright and open as the sun.
    And though some part of them obscurely fell,
    And perish'd in an unknown, private cell,
    Yet in their books they found a glorious way
    To live unto the Resurrection-day!
      Most noble Bodley! we are bound to thee
    For no small part of our eternity.
    Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound,
    Nor that new mode which doth old states confound.
    Thy legacies another way did go:
    Nor were they left to those would spend them so.
    Thy safe, discreet expense on us did flow;
    Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now.
    Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever we
    Hereafter write, 'tis thy posterity.
    This is thy monument! here thou shalt stand
    Till the times fail in their last grain of sand.
    And wheresoe'er thy silent relics keep,
    This tomb will never let thine honour sleep,
    Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame
    Meets here to speak one letter of thy name.
    Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe,
    Where every book is thy large epitaph.


    For shame desist, why shouldst thou seek my fall?
    It cannot make thee more monarchical.
    Leave off; thy empire is already built;
    To ruin me were to enlarge thy guilt,
    Not thy prerogative. I am not he
    Must be the measure to thy victory.
    The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace
    If in thy annals I should make a clause.
    The future ages will disclose such men
    Shall be the glory, and the end of them.
    Nor do I flatter. So long as there be
    Descents in Nature, or posterity,
    There must be fortunes; whether they be good,
    As swimming in thy tide and plenteous flood,
    Or stuck fast in the shallow ebb, when we
    Miss to deserve thy gorgeous charity.
    Thus, Fortune, the great world thy period is;
    Nature and you are parallels in this.
    But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone,
    I am resolv'd, I will not be undone.
    I scorn thy trash, and thee: nay, more, I do
    Despise myself, because thy subject too.
    Name me heir to thy malice, and I'll be;
    Thy hate's the best inheritance for me.
    I care not for your wondrous hat and purse,
    Make me a Fortunatus with thy curse.
    How careful of myself then should I be,
    Were I neglected by the world and thee?
    Why dost thou tempt me with thy dirty ore,
    And with thy riches make my soul so poor?
    My fancy's pris'ner to thy gold and thee,
    Thy favours rob me of my liberty.
    I'll to my speculations. Is't best
    To be confin'd to some dark, narrow chest
    And idolize thy stamps, when I may be
    Lord of all Nature, and not slave to thee?
    The world's my palace. I'll contemplate there,
    And make my progress into ev'ry sphere.
    The chambers of the air are mine; those three
    Well-furnish'd stories my possession be.
    I hold them all _in capite_, and stand
    Propp'd by my fancy there. I scorn your land,
    It lies so far below me. Here I see
    How all the sacred stars do circle me.
    Thou to the great giv'st rich food, and I do
    Want no content; I feed on manna too.
    They have their tapers; I gaze without fear
    On flying lamps and flaming comets here.
    Their wanton flesh in silks and purple shrouds,
    And fancy wraps me in a robe of clouds.
    There some delicious beauty they may woo,
    And I have Nature for my mistress too.
      But these are mean; the archetype I can see,
    And humbly touch the hem of majesty.
    The power of my soul is such, I can
    Expire, and so analyze all that's man.
    First my dull clay I give unto the Earth,
    Our common mother, which gives all their birth.
    My growing faculties I send as soon,
    Whence first I took them, to the humid moon.
    All subtleties and every cunning art
    To witty Mercury I do impart.
    Those fond affections which made me a slave
    To handsome faces, Venus, thou shalt have.
    And saucy pride--if there was aught in me--
    Sol, I return it to thy royalty.
    My daring rashness and presumptions be
    To Mars himself an equal legacy.
    My ill-plac'd avarice--sure 'tis but small--
    Jove, to thy flames I do bequeath it all.
    And my false magic, which I did believe,
    And mystic lies, to Saturn I do give.
    My dark imaginations rest you there,
    This is your grave and superstitious sphere.
      Get up, my disentangled soul, thy fire
    Is now refin'd, and nothing left to tire
    Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight
    Hath brought me to the empyrean light.
    I am a sep'rate essence, and can see
    The emanations of the Deity,
    And how they pass the seraphims, and run
    Through ev'ry throne and domination.
    So rushing through the guard the sacred streams
    Flow to the neighbour stars, and in their beams
    --A glorious cataract!--descend to earth,
    And give impressions unto ev'ry birth.
    With angels now and spirits I do dwell,
    And here it is my nature to do well.
    Thus, though my body you confinèd see,
    My boundless thoughts have their ubiquity.
    And shall I then forsake the stars and signs,
    To dote upon thy dark and cursèd mines?
    Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy
    Guiana with the loss of all the sky?
    Intelligences shall I leave, and be
    Familiar only with mortality?
    Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shall
    My purse and fancy be symmetrical?
    Are there no objects left but one? must we
    In gaining that, lose our variety?
      Fortune, this is the reason I refuse
    Thy wealth; it puts my books all out of use.
    'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind
    Is big with speculation, when I find
    My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess
    There is no blessing to an emptiness!
    The species of all things to me resort
    And dwell then in my breast, as in their port.
    Then leave to court me with thy hated store;
    Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.


    So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires,
    To his warm Indies the bright sun retires.
    Where, in those provinces of gold and spice,
    Perfumes his progress, pleasures fill his eyes,
    Which, so refresh'd, in their return convey
    Fire into rubies, into crystals, day;
    And prove, that light in kinder climates can
    Work more on senseless stones, than here on man.
      But you, like one ordain'd to shine, take in
    Both light and heat, can love and wisdom spin
    Into one thread, and with that firmly tie
    The same bright blessings on posterity:
    Which so entail'd, like jewels of the crown,
    Shall, with your name, descend still to your own.
      When I am dead, and malice or neglect
    The worst they can upon my dust reflect;
    --For poets yet have left no names, but such
    As men have envied or despis'd too much--
    You above both--and what state more excels,
    Since a just fame like health, nor wants, nor swells?--
    To after ages shall remain entire,
    And shine still spotless, like your planet's fire.
    No single lustre neither; the access
    Of your fair love will yours adorn and bless;
    Till, from that bright conjunction, men may view
    A constellation circling her and you.
      So two sweet rose-buds from their virgin-beds
    First peep and blush, then kiss and couple heads,
    Till yearly blessings so increase their store,
    Those two can number two-and-twenty more,
    And the fair bank--by Heav'n's free bounty crown'd--
    With choice of sweets and beauties doth abound,
    Till Time, which families, like flowers, far spreads,
    Gives them for garlands to the best of heads.
    Then late posterity--if chance, or some
    Weak echo, almost quite expir'd and dumb,
    Shall tell them who the poet was, and how
    He liv'd and lov'd thee too, which thou dost know--
    Straight to my grave will flowers and spices bring,
    With lights and hymns, and for an offering
    There vow this truth, that love--which in old times
    Was censur'd blind, and will contract worse crimes
    If hearts mend not--did for thy sake in me
    Find both his eyes, and all foretell and see.


    Now I have seen her; and by Cupid
    The young Medusa made me stupid!
    A face, that hath no lovers slain,
    Wants forces, and is near disdain.
    For every fop will freely peep
    At majesty that is asleep.
    But she--fair tyrant!--hates to be
    Gaz'd on with such impunity.
    Whose prudent rigour bravely bears
    And scorns the trick of whining tears,
    Or sighs, those false alarms of grief,
    Which kill not, but afford relief.
    Nor is it thy hard fate to be
    Alone in this calamity,
    Since I who came but to be gone,
    Am plagu'd for merely looking on.
      Mark from her forehead to her foot
    What charming sweets are there to do't.
    A head adorn'd with all those glories
    That wit hath shadow'd in quaint stories,
    Or pencil with rich colours drew
    In imitation of the true.
      Her hair, laid out in curious sets
    And twists, doth show like silken nets,
    Where--since he play'd at hit or miss--
    The god of Love her pris'ner is,
    And fluttering with his skittish wings
    Puts all her locks in curls and rings.
      Like twinkling stars her eyes invite
    All gazers to so sweet a light,
    But then two archèd clouds of brown
    Stand o'er, and guard them with a frown.
      Beneath these rays of her bright eyes,
    Beauty's rich bed of blushes lies.
    Blushes which lightning-like come on,
    Yet stay not to be gaz'd upon;
    But leave the lilies of her skin
    As fair as ever, and run in,
    Like swift salutes--which dull paint scorn--
    'Twixt a white noon and crimson morn.
      What coral can her lips resemble?
    For hers are warm, swell, melt, and tremble:
    And if you dare contend for red,
    This is alive, the other dead.
      Her equal teeth--above, below--
    All of a size and smoothness grow.
    Where under close restraint and awe
    --Which is the maiden tyrant law--
    Like a cag'd, sullen linnet, dwells
    Her tongue, the key to potent spells.
      Her skin, like heav'n when calm and bright,
    Shows a rich azure under white,
    With touch more soft than heart supposes,
    And breath as sweet as new-blown roses.
      Betwixt this headland and the main,
    Which is a rich and flow'ry plain,
    Lies her fair neck, so fine and slender,
    That gently how you please 'twill bend her.
      This leads you to her heart, which ta'en,
    Pants under sheets of whitest lawn,
    And at the first seems much distress'd,
    But, nobly treated, lies at rest.
      Here, like two balls of new fall'n snow,
    Her breasts, Love's native pillows, grow;
    And out of each a rose-bud peeps,
    Which infant Beauty sucking sleeps.
      Say now, my Stoic, that mak'st sour faces
    At all the beauties and the graces,
    That criest, unclean! though known thyself
    To ev'ry coarse and dirty shelf:
    Couldst thou but see a piece like this,
    A piece so full of sweets and bliss,
    In shape so rare, in soul so rich,
    Wouldst thou not swear she is a witch?


    Fool that I was! to believe blood,
    While swoll'n with greatness, then most good;
    And the false thing, forgetful man,
    To trust more than our true god, Pan.
    Such swellings to a dropsy tend,
    And meanest things such great ones bend.

    Then live deceived! and, Fida, by
    That life destroy fidelity.
    For living wrongs will make some wise,
    While Death chokes loudest injuries:
    And screens the faulty, making blinds
    To hide the most unworthy minds.

    And yet do what thou can'st to hide,
    A bad tree's fruit will be describ'd.
    For that foul guilt which first took place
    In his dark heart, now damns his face;
    And makes those eyes, where life should dwell,
    Look like the pits of Death and Hell.

    Blood, whose rich purple shows and seals
    Their faith in Moors, in him reveals
    A blackness at the heart, and is
    Turn'd ink to write his faithlessness.
    Only his lips with blood look red,
    As if asham'd of what they fed.

    Then, since he wears in a dark skin
    The shadows of his hell within,
    Expose him no more to the light,
    But thine own epitaph thus write
    "Here burst, and dead and unregarded
    Lies Fida's heart! O well rewarded!"


    Long since great wits have left the stage
    Unto the drollers of the age,
    And noble numbers with good sense
    Are, like good works, grown an offence.
    While much of verse--worse than old story--
    Speaks but Jack-Pudding or John-Dory.
    Such trash-admirers made us poor,
    And pies turn'd poets out of door;
    For the nice spirit of rich verse
    Which scorns absurd and low commerce,
    Although a flame from heav'n, if shed
    On rooks or daws warms no such head.
    Or else the poet, like bad priest,
    Is seldom good, but when oppress'd;
    And wit as well as piety
    Doth thrive best in adversity
    For since the thunder left our air
    Their laurels look not half so fair.
      However 'tis, 'twere worse than rude,
    Not to profess our gratitude
    And debts to thee, who at so low
    An ebb dost make us thus to flow;
    And when we did a famine fear,
    Hast bless'd us with a fruitful year.
    So while the world his absence mourns,
    The glorious sun at last returns,
    And with his kind and vital looks
    Warms the cold earth and frozen brooks,
    Puts drowsy Nature into play,
    And rids impediments away,
    Till flow'rs and fruits and spices through
    Her pregnant lap get up and grow.
    But if among those sweet things, we
    A miracle like that could see
    Which Nature brought but once to pass,
    A Muse, such as Orinda was,
    Ph[oe]bus himself won by these charms
    Would give her up into thy arms;
    And recondemn'd to kiss his tree,
    Yield the young goddess unto thee.


    Learning and Law, your day is done,
    And your work too; you may be gone
    Trever, that lov'd you, hence is fled:
    And Right, which long lay sick, is dead.
    Trever! whose rare and envied part
    Was both a wise and winning heart,
    Whose sweet civilities could move
    Tartars and Goths to noblest love.
      Bold vice and blindness now dare act,
    And--like the grey groat--pass, though crack'd;
    While those sage lips lie dumb and cold,
    Whose words are well-weigh'd and tried gold.
    O, how much to discreet desires
    Differs pure light from foolish fires!
    But nasty dregs outlast the wine,
    And after sunset glow-worms shine.


    What smiling star in that fair night
    Which gave you birth gave me this sight,
    And with a kind aspect tho' keen
    Made me the subject, you the queen?
    That sparkling planet is got now
    Into your eyes, and shines below,
    Where nearer force and more acute
    It doth dispense, without dispute;
    For I who yesterday did know
    Love's fire no more than doth cool snow,
    With one bright look am since undone,
    Yet must adore and seek my sun.
      Before I walk'd free as the wind
    And if but stay'd--like it--unkind;
    I could like daring eagles gaze
    And not be blinded by a face;
    For what I saw till I saw thee,
    Was only not deformity.
    Such shapes appear--compar'd with thine--
    In arras, or a tavern-sign,
    And do but mind me to explore
    A fairer piece, that is in store.
    So some hang ivy to their wine,
    To signify there is a vine.
      Those princely flow'rs--by no storms vex'd--
    Which smile one day, and droop the next,
    The gallant tulip and the rose,
    Emblems which some use to disclose
    Bodied ideas--their weak grace
    Is mere imposture to thy face.
    For Nature in all things, but thee,
    Did practise only sophistry;
    Or else she made them to express
    How she could vary in her dress:
    But thou wert form'd, that we might see
    Perfection, not variety.
      Have you observ'd how the day-star
    Sparkles and smiles and shines from far;
    Then to the gazer doth convey
    A silent but a piercing ray?
    So wounds my love, but that her eyes
    Are in effects the better skies.
    A brisk bright agent from them streams
    Arm'd with no arrows, but their beams,
    And with such stillness smites our hearts,
    No noise betrays him, nor his darts.
    He, working on my easy soul,
    Did soon persuade, and then control;
    And now he flies--and I conspire--
    Through all my blood with wings of fire,
    And when I would--which will be never--
    With cold despair allay the fever,
    The spiteful thing Etesia names,
    And that new-fuels all my flames.


    Go catch the ph[oe]nix, and then bring
    A quill drawn for me from his wing.
    Give me a maiden beauty's blood,
    A pure, rich crimson, without mud,
    In whose sweet blushes that may live,
    Which a dull verse can never give.
    Now for an untouch'd, spotless white,
    For blackest things on paper write,
    Etesia, at thine own expense
    Give me the robes of innocence.
      Could we but see a spring to run
    Pure milk, as sometimes springs have done,
    And in the snow-white streams it sheds,
    Carnations wash their bloody heads,
    While ev'ry eddy that came down
    Did--as thou dost--both smile and frown.
    Such objects, and so fresh would be
    But dull resemblances of thee.
      Thou art the dark world's morning-star,
    Seen only, and seen but from far;
    Where, like astronomers, we gaze
    Upon the glories of thy face,
    But no acquaintance more can have,
    Though all our lives we watch and crave.
    Thou art a world thyself alone,
    Yea, three great worlds refin'd to one;
    Which shows all those, and in thine eyes
    The shining East and Paradise.
      Thy soul--a spark of the first fire--
    Is like the sun, the world's desire;
    And with a nobler influence
    Works upon all, that claim to sense;
    But in summers hath no fever,
    And in frosts is cheerful ever.
      As flow'rs besides their curious dress
    Rich odours have, and sweetnesses,
    Which tacitly infuse desire,
    And ev'n oblige us to admire:
    Such, and so full of innocence
    Are all the charms, thou dost dispense;
    And like fair Nature without arts
    At once they seize, and please our hearts.
    O, thou art such, that I could be
    A lover to idolatry!
    I could, and should from heav'n stray,
    But that thy life shows mine the way,
    And leave a while the Deity
    To serve His image here in thee.


    See you that beauteous queen, which no age tames?
    Her train is azure, set with golden flames:
    My brighter fair, fix on the East your eyes,
    And view that bed of clouds, whence she doth rise.
    Above all others in that one short hour
    Which most concern'd me,[64] she had greatest pow'r.
    This made my fortunes humorous as wind,
    But fix'd affections to my constant mind.
    She fed me with the tears of stars, and thence
    I suck'd in sorrows with their influence.
    To some in smiles, and store of light she broke,
    To me in sad eclipses still she spoke.
    She bent me with the motion of her sphere,
    And made me feel what first I did but fear.
      But when I came to age, and had o'ergrown
    Her rules, and saw my freedom was my own,
    I did reply unto the laws of Fate,
    And made my reason my great advocate:
    I labour'd to inherit my just right;
    But then--O, hear Etesia!--lest I might
    Redeem myself, my unkind starry mother
    Took my poor heart, and gave it to another.


[64] The original has _concerned in_.


    O, subtle Love! thy peace is war,
    It wounds and kills without a scar,
    It works unknown to any sense,
    Like the decrees of Providence,
    And with strange silence shoots me through,
    The fire of Love doth fell like snow.
      Hath she no quiver, but my heart?
    Must all her arrows hit that part?
    Beauties like heav'n their gifts should deal
    Not to destroy us, but to heal.
      Strange art of Love! that can make sound,
    And yet exasperates the wound:
    That look she lent to ease my heart,
    Hath pierc'd it, and improv'd the smart.


    O Dulcis Iuctus, risuque potentior omni!
      Quem decorant lachrimis sidera tanta suis.
    Quam tacitæ spirant auræ! vultusque nitentes
      Contristant veneres, collachrimantque suæ!
    Ornat gutta genas, oculisque simillima gemma:
      Et tepido vivas irrigat imbre rosas.
    Dicite Chaldæi! quæ me fortuna fatigat,
      [C?D?]um formosa dies et sine nube perit[65]?


[65] The original has _peruit_.


    Go, if you must! but stay--and know
    And mind before you go, my vow.
    To ev'ry thing, but heav'n and you,
    With all my heart I bid adieu!
    Now to those happy shades I'll go
    Where first I saw my beauteous foe!
    I'll seek each silent path where we
    Did walk; and where you sat with me
    I'll sit again, and never rest
    Till I can find some flow'r you press'd.
    That near my dying heart I'll keep,
    And when it wants dew I will weep:
    Sadly I will repeat past joys
    And words, which you did sometimes voice
    I'll listen to the woods, and hear
    The echo answer for you there.
    But famish'd with long absence I,
    Like infants left, at last shall cry,
    And tears--as they do milk--will sup
    Until you come, and take me up.


    Love, the world's life! what a sad death
    Thy absence is! to lose our breath
    At once and die, is but to live
    Enlarg'd, without the scant reprieve
    Of pulse and air; whose dull returns
    And narrow circles the soul mourns.
      But to be dead alive, and still
    To wish, but never have our will,
    To be possess'd, and yet to miss,
    To wed a true but absent bliss,
    Are ling'ring tortures, and their smart
    Dissects and racks and grinds the heart!
    As soul and body in that state
    Which unto us, seems separate,
    Cannot be said to live, until
    Reunion; which days fulfil
    And slow-pac'd seasons; so in vain
    Through hours and minutes--Time's long train--
    I look for thee, and from thy sight,
    As from my soul, for life and light.
    For till thine eyes shine so on me,
    Mine are fast-clos'd and will not see.




    Happy is he, that with fix'd eyes
    The fountain of all goodness spies!
    Happy is he that can break through
    Those bonds which tie him here below!
      The Thracian poet long ago,
    Kind Orpheus, full of tears and woe,
    Did for his lov'd Eurydice
    In such sad numbers mourn, that he
    Made the trees run in to his moan,
    And streams stand still to hear him groan.
    The does came fearless in one throng
    With lions to his mournful song,
    And charmed by the harmonious sound,
    The hare stay'd by the quiet hound.
      But when Love height'n'd by despair
    And deep reflections on his fair
    Had swell'd his heart, and made it rise
    And run in tears out at his eyes,
    And those sweet airs, which did appease
    Wild beasts, could give their lord no ease;
    Then, vex'd that so much grief and love
    Mov'd not at all the gods above,
    With desperate thoughts and bold intent,
    Towards the shades below he went;
    For thither his fair love was fled,
    And he must have her from the dead.
    There in such lines, as did well suit
    With sad airs and a lover's lute,
    And in the richest language dress'd
    That could be thought on or express'd,
    Did he complain; whatever grief
    Or art or love--which is the chief,
    And all ennobles--could lay out,
    In well-tun'd woes he dealt about.
    And humbly bowing to the prince
    Of ghosts begg'd some intelligence
    Of his Eurydice, and where
    His beauteous saint resided there.
    Then to his lute's instructed groans
    He sigh'd out new melodious moans;
    And in a melting, charming strain
    Begg'd his dear love to life again.
      The music flowing through the shade
    And darkness did with ease invade
    The silent and attentive ghosts;
    And Cerberus, which guards those coasts
    With his loud barkings, overcome
    By the sweet notes, was now struck dumb.
    The Furies, us'd to rave and howl
    And prosecute each guilty soul,
    Had lost their rage, and in a deep
    Transport, did most profusely weep.
    Ixion's wheel stopp'd, and the curs'd
    Tantalus, almost kill'd with thirst,
    Though the streams now did make no haste,
    But wait'd for him, none would taste.
    That vulture, which fed still upon
    Tityus his liver, now was gone
    To feed on air, and would not stay,
    Though almost famish'd, with her prey.
      Won with these wonders, their fierce prince
    At last cried out, "We yield! and since
    Thy merits claim no less, take hence
    Thy consort for thy recompense:
    But Orpheus, to this law we bind
    Our grant: you must not look behind,
    Nor of your fair love have one sight,
    Till out of our dominions quite."
      Alas! what laws can lovers awe?
    Love is itself the greatest law!
    Or who can such hard bondage brook
    To be in love, and not to look?
    Poor Orpheus almost in the light
    Lost his dear love for one short sight;
    And by those eyes, which Love did guide,
    What he most lov'd unkindly died!
      This tale of Orpheus and his love
    Was meant for you, who ever move
    Upwards, and tend into that light,
    Which is not seen by mortal sight.
    For if, while you strive to ascend,
    You droop, and towards Earth once bend
    Your seduc'd eyes, down you will fall
    Ev'n while you look, and forfeit all.


    What fix'd affections, and lov'd laws
    --Which are the hid, magnetic cause--
    Wise Nature governs with, and by
    What fast, inviolable tie
    The whole creation to her ends
    For ever provident she bends:
    All this I purpose to rehearse
    In the sweet airs of solemn verse.
      Although the Libyan lions should
    Be bound in chains of purest gold,
    And duly fed were taught to know
    Their keeper's voice, and fear his blow:
    Yet, if they chance to taste of blood,
    Their rage which slept, stirr'd by that food
    In furious roaring will awake,
    And fiercely for their freedom make.
    No chains nor bars their fury brooks,
    But with enrag'd and bloody looks
    They will break through, and dull'd with fear
    Their keeper all to pieces tear.
      The bird, which on the wood's tall boughs
    Sings sweetly, if you cage or house,
    And out of kindest care should think
    To give her honey with her drink,
    And get her store of pleasant meat,
    Ev'n such as she delights to eat:
    Yet, if from her close prison she
    The shady groves doth chance to see,
    Straightway she loathes her pleasant food,
    And with sad looks longs for the wood.
    The wood, the wood alone she loves!
    And towards it she looks and moves:
    And in sweet notes--though distant from--
    Sings to her first and happy home!
      That plant, which of itself doth grow
    Upwards, if forc'd, will downwards bow;
    But give it freedom, and it will
    Get up, and grow erectly still.
      The sun, which by his prone descent
    Seems westward in the evening bent,
    Doth nightly by an unseen way
    Haste to the East, and bring up day.
      Thus all things long for their first state,
    And gladly to't return, though late.
    Nor is there here to anything
    A course allow'd, but in a ring:
    Which, where it first began, must end,
    And to that point directly tend.


    Who would unclouded see the laws
    Of the supreme, eternal Cause,
    Let him with careful thoughts and eyes
    Observe the high and spacious skies.
    There in one league of love the stars
    Keep their old peace, and show our wars.
    The sun, though flaming still and hot,
    The cold, pale moon annoyeth not.
    Arcturus with his sons--though they
    See other stars go a far way,
    And out of sight--yet still are found
    Near the North Pole, their noted bound.
    Bright Hesper--at set times--delights
    To usher in the dusky nights:
    And in the East again attends
    To warn us, when the day ascends.
    So alternate Love supplies
    Eternal courses still, and vies
    Mutual kindness; that no jars
    Nor discord can disturb the stars.

      The same sweet concord here below
    Makes the fierce elements to flow
    And circle without quarrel still,
    Though temper'd diversely; thus will
    The hot assist the cold; the dry
    Is a friend to humidity:
    And by the law of kindness they
    The like relief to them repay.
    The fire, which active is and bright,
    Tends upward, and from thence gives light.
    The earth allows it all that space
    And makes choice of the lower place;
    For things of weight haste to the centre,
    A fall to them is no adventure.

      From these kind turns and circulation
    Seasons proceed, and generation.
    This makes the Spring to yield us flow'rs,
    And melts the clouds to gentle show'rs.
    The Summer thus matures all seeds
    And ripens both the corn and weeds.
    This brings on Autumn, which recruits
    Our old, spent store, with new fresh fruits.
    And the cold Winter's blust'ring season
    Hath snow and storms for the same reason.
    This temper and wise mixture breed
    And bring forth ev'ry living seed.
    And when their strength and substance spend
    --For while they live, they drive and tend
    Still to a change--it takes them hence
    And shifts their dress! and to our sense
    Their course is over, as their birth:
    And hid from us they turn to earth.

      But all this while the Prince of life
    Sits without loss, or change, or strife:
    Holding the reins, by which all move
    --And those His wisdom, power, love
    And justice are--and still what He
    The first life bids, that needs must be,
    And live on for a time; that done
    He calls it back, merely to shun
    The mischief, which His creature might
    Run into by a further flight.
    For if this dear and tender sense
    Of His preventing providence,
    Did not restrain and call things back,
    Both heav'n and earth would go to rack,
    And from their great Preserver part;
    As blood let out forsakes the heart
    And perisheth, but what returns
    With fresh and brighter spirits burns.

      This is the cause why ev'ry living
    Creature affects an endless being.
    A grain of this bright love each thing
    Had giv'n at first by their great King;
    And still they creep--drawn on by this--
    And look back towards their first bliss.
    For, otherwise, it is most sure,
    Nothing that liveth could endure:
    Unless its love turn'd retrograde
    Sought that First Life, which all things made.


    If old tradition hath not fail'd,
    Ulysses, when from Troy he sail'd
    Was by a tempest forc'd to land
    Where beauteous Circe did command.
    Circe, the daughter of the sun,
    Which had with charms and herbs undone
    Many poor strangers, and could then
    Turn into beasts the bravest men.
    Such magic in her potions lay,
    That whosoever passed that way
    And drank, his shape was quickly lost.
    Some into swine she turn'd, but most
    To lions arm'd with teeth and claws;
    Others like wolves with open jaws
    Did howl; but some--more savage--took
    The tiger's dreadful shape and look.
      But wise Ulysses, by the aid
    Of Hermes, had to him convey'd
    A flow'r, whose virtue did suppress
    The force of charms, and their success:
    While his mates drank so deep, that they
    Were turn'd to swine, which fed all day
    On mast, and human food had left,
    Of shape and voice at once bereft;
    Only the mind--above all charms--
    Unchang'd did mourn those monstrous harms.
      O, worthless herbs, and weaker arts,
    To change their limbs, but not their hearts!
    Man's life and vigour keep within,
    Lodg'd in the centre, not the skin.
    Those piercing charms and poisons, which
    His inward parts taint and bewitch,
    More fatal are, than such, which can
    Outwardly only spoil the man.
    Those change his shape and make it foul,
    But these deform and kill his soul.


    All sorts of men, that live on Earth,
    Have one beginning and one birth.
    For all things there is one Father,
    Who lays out all, and all doth gather.
    He the warm sun with rays adorns,
    And fills with brightness the moon's horns.
    The azur'd heav'ns with stars He burnish'd,
    And the round world with creatures furnish'd.
    But men--made to inherit all--
    His own sons He was pleas'd to call,
    And that they might be so indeed,
    He gave them souls of divine seed.
    A noble offspring surely then
    Without distinction are all men.
      O, why so vainly do some boast
    Their birth and blood and a great host
    Of ancestors, whose coats and crests
    Are some rav'nous birds or beasts!
    If extraction they look for,
    And God, the great Progenitor,
    No man, though of the meanest state,
    Is base, or can degenerate,
    Unless, to vice and lewdness bent,
    He leaves and taints his true descent.


    _Felix, qui propriis avum transegit in arvis,
    Una domus puerum, &c._

    Most happy man! who in his own sweet fields
    Spent all his time; to whom one cottage yields
    In age and youth a lodging; who, grown old,
    Walks with his staff on the same soil and mould
    Where he did creep an infant, and can tell
    Many fair years spent in one quiet cell!
    No toils of fate made him from home far known,
    Nor foreign waters drank, driv'n from his own.
    No loss by sea, no wild land's wasteful war
    Vex'd him, not the brib'd coil of gowns at bar.
    Exempt from cares, in cities never seen,
    The fresh field-air he loves, and rural green.
    The year's set turns by fruits, not consuls, knows;
    Autumn by apples, May by blossom'd boughs.
    Within one hedge his sun doth set and rise,
    The world's wide day his short demesnes comprise;
    Where he observes some known, concrescent twig
    Now grown an oak, and old, like him, and big.
    Verona he doth for the Indies take,
    And as the Red Sea counts Benacus' Lake.
    Yet are his limbs and strength untir'd, and he,
    A lusty grandsire, three descents doth see.
    Travel and sail who will, search sea or shore;
    This man hath liv'd, and that hath wander'd more.


    _Jupiter in parvo cum cerneret æthera vitro_
                  _Risit, et ad superos, &c._

    When Jove a heav'n of small glass did behold,
    He smil'd, and to the gods these words he told.
    "Comes then the power of man's art to this?
    In a frail orb my work new acted is,
    The poles' decrees, the fate of things, God's laws,
    Down by his art old Archimedes draws.
    Spirits inclos'd the sev'ral stars attend,
    And orderly the living work they bend.
    A feignèd Zodiac measures out the year,
    Ev'ry new month a false moon doth appear.
    And now bold industry is proud, it can
    Wheel round its world, and rule the stars by man.
    Why at Salmoneus' thunder do I stand?
    Nature is rivall'd by a single hand."


    _Oceani summo circumfluus æquore lucus_
    _Trans Indos, Eurumque viret, &c._

    A grove there grows, round with the sea confin'd,
    Beyond the Indies and the Eastern wind,
    Which, as the sun breaks forth in his first beam,
    Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team;
    When with his dewy coach the Eastern bay
    Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching Day,
    And blasted with his burnish'd wheels the Night
    In a pale dress doth vanish from the light.
      This the bless'd Ph[oe]nix' empire is, here he,
    Alone exempted from mortality,
    Enjoys a land, where no diseases reign,
    And ne'er afflicted like our world with pain.
    A bird most equal to the gods, which vies
    For length of life and durance with the skies,
    And with renew'd limbs tires ev'ry age
    His appetite he never doth assuage
    With common food. Nor doth he use to drink
    When thirsty on some river's muddy brink.
    A purer, vital heat shot from the sun
    Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come
    From Tethys lap he tasteth at his need;
    On such abstracted diet doth he feed.
    A secret light there streams from both his eyes,
    A fiery hue about his cheeks doth rise.
    His crest grows up into a glorious star
    Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far,
    That piercing through the bosom of the night
    It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.
    His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings
    --More swift than winds are--have sky-colour'd rings
    Flow'ry and rich: and round about enroll'd
    Their utmost borders glister all with gold.
    He's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth,
    But is himself the parent, and the birth.
    None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves
    Old age, and by his funerals he lives.
    For when the tedious Summer's gone about
    A thousand times: so many Winters out,
    So many Springs: and May doth still restore
    Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before;
    Then press'd with years his vigour doth decline,
    Foil'd with the number; as a stately pine
    Tir'd out with storms bends from the top and height
    Of Caucasus, and falls with its own weight,
    Whose part is torn with daily blasts, with rain
    Part is consum'd, and part with age again;
    So now his eyes grown dusky, fail to see
    Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be
    Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight
    The cloudy moon is, having spent her light.
    And now his wings, which usèd to contend
    With tempests, scarce from the low earth ascend.
    He knows his time is out! and doth provide
    New principles of life; herbs he brings dried
    From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames
    A pile, shall burn, and hatch him with its flames.
    On this the weakling sits; salutes the sun
    With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some
    Of his own fire, that quickly may restore
    The youth and vigour, which he had before.
    Whom, soon as Ph[oe]bus spies, stopping his reins,
    He makes a stand and thus allays his pains.
    O thou that buriest old age in thy grave,
    And art by seeming funerals to have
    A new return of life, whose custom 'tis
    To rise by ruin, and by death to miss
    Ev'n death itself, a new beginning take,
    And that thy wither'd body now forsake!
    Better thyself by this thy change! This said
    He shakes his locks, and from his golden head
    Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire
    The willing bird; to burn is his desire,
    That he may live again: he's proud in death,
    And goes in haste to gain a better breath.
    The spicy heap fir'd with celestial rays
    Doth burn the aged Ph[oe]nix, when straight stays
    The chariot of th' amazèd moon; the pole
    Resists the wheeling swift orbs, and the whole
    Fabric of Nature at a stand remains,
    Till the old bird a new young being gains.
    All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they
    Suffer not Nature's glory to decay.
      By this time, life which in the ashes lurks
    Hath fram'd the heart, and taught new blood new works;
    The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part assumes
    Due vigour; th' embers too are turn'd to plumes;
    The parent in the issue now revives,
    But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives,
    With very little space between the same,
    Were parted only by the middle flame.
      To Nilus straight he goes to consecrate
    His parent's ghost; his mind is to translate
    His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away
    Into a distant land, and doth convey
    The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend
    His journey without number, and defend
    His pious flight, like to a guard; the sky
    Is clouded with the army, as they fly.
    Nor is there one of all those thousands dares
    Affront his leader: they with solemn cares
    Attend the progress of their youthful king;
    Not the rude hawk, nor th' eagle that doth bring
    Arms up to Jove, fight now, lest they displease;
    The miracle enacts a common peace.
    So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris' side
    His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride
    In pearls and habit; he adorns his head
    With royal tires: his steed with gold is led;
    His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought,
    With rare Assyrian needle-work are wrought;
    And proudly reigning o'er his rascal bands,
    He raves and triumphs in his large commands.
      A city of Egypt, famous in all lands
    For rites, adores the sun; his temple stands
    There on a hundred pillars by account,
    Digg'd from the quarries of the Theban mount.
    Here, as the custom did require--they say--
    His happy parent's dust down he doth lay;
    Then to the image of his lord he bends
    And to the flames his burden straight commends.
    Unto the altars thus he destinates
    His own remains; the light doth gild the gates;
    Perfumes divine the censers up do send:
    While th' Indian odour doth itself extend
    To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all
    The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale,
    To which compar'd nectar itself is vile,
    Fills the sev'n channels of the misty Nile.
      O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust!
    Death, to whose force all other creatures must
    Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise;
    'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies.
    Thou hast seen all! and to the times that run
    Thou art as great a witness as the sun.
    Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied
    The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide.
    What year the straggling Phæton did fire
    The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire
    Against thy life; alone thou dost arise
    Above mortality; the destinies
    Spin not thy days out with their fatal clue;
    They have no law, to which thy life is due.



    Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights,
    The clear projections of discerning lights,
    Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume day,
    The track of fled souls, and their Milky Way,
    The dead alive and busy, the still voice
    Of enlarg'd spirits, kind Heav'n's white decoys!
    Who lives with you, lives like those knowing flow'rs,
    Which in commerce with light spend all their hours:
    Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun,
    But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun.
    Beneath you, all is dark, and a dead night,
    Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight.
      By sucking you, the wise--like bees--do grow
    Healing and rich, though this they do most slow,
    Because most choicely; for as great a store
    Have we of books, as bees of herbs, or more:
    And the great task, to try, then know, the good.
    To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food,
    Is a rare, scant performance: for man dies
    Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies.
    But you were all choice flow'rs, all set and drest
    By old sage florists, who well knew the best:
    And I amidst you all am turned a weed!
    Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.
    Then thank thyself, wild fool, that wouldst not be
    Content to know--what was too much for thee!


    Fair shining mountains of my pilgrimage
      And flowery vales, whose flow'rs were stars,
    The days and nights of my first happy age;
      An age without distaste and wars!
    When I by thoughts ascend your sunny heads,
      And mind those sacred midnight lights
    By which I walk'd, when curtain'd rooms and beds
      Confin'd or seal'd up others' sights:
      O then, how bright,
      And quick a light
    Doth brush my heart and scatter night;
      Chasing that shade,
      Which my sins made,
    While I so spring, as if I could not fade!
    How brave a prospect is a bright back-side!
      Where flow'rs and palms refresh the eye!
    And days well spent like the glad East abide,
      Whose morning-glories cannot die!


    Waters above! eternal springs!
    The dew that silvers the Dove's wings!
    O welcome, welcome to the sad!
    Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad!
    Many fair ev'nings, many flow'rs
    Sweeten'd with rich and gentle showers,
    Have I enjoy'd, and down have run
    Many a fine and shining sun;
    But never, till this happy hour,
    Was blest with such an evening-shower!


    Fair Prince of Light! Light's living Well
    Who hast the keys of death and Hell!
    If the mole[66] man despise Thy day,
    Put chains of darkness in his way.
    Teach him how deep, how various are
    The counsels of Thy love and care.
    When acts of grace and a long peace,
    Breed but rebellion, and displease,
    Then give him his own way and will,
    Where lawless he may run, until
    His own choice hurts him, and the sting
    Of his foul sins full sorrows bring.
    If Heaven and angels, hopes and mirth,
    Please not the mole so much as earth:
    Give him his mine to dig, or dwell,
    And one sad scheme of hideous Hell.


[66] The original edition has _mule_.


    Whither, O whither didst thou fly
    When I did grieve Thine holy eye?
    When Thou didst mourn to see me lost,
    And all Thy care and counsels cross'd.
    O do not grieve, where'er Thou art!
    Thy grief is an undoing smart,
    Which doth not only pain, but break
    My heart, and makes me blush to speak.
    Thy anger I could kiss, and will;
    But O Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill.


    O come, and welcome! come, refine!
    For Moors, if wash'd by Thee, will shine.
    Man blossoms at Thy touch; and he,
    When Thou draw'st blood is Thy rose-tree.
    Crosses make straight his crookèd ways,
    And clouds but cool his dog-star days;
    Diseases too, when by Thee blest,
    Are both restoratives and rest.
      Flow'rs that in sunshines riot still,
    Die scorch'd and sapless; though storms kill,
    The fall is fair, e'en to desire,
    Where in their sweetness all expire.
    O come, pour on! what calms can be
    So fair as storms, that appease Thee?


    Fresh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face!
    God's footstool! and man's dwelling-place!
    I ask not why the first believer
    Did love to be a country liver?
    Who, to secure pious content,
    Did pitch by groves and wells his tent;
    Where he might view the boundless sky,
    And all those glorious lights on high,
    With flying meteors, mists, and show'rs,
    Subjected hills, trees, meads, and flow'rs,
    And ev'ry minute bless the King
    And wise Creator of each thing.

      I ask not why he did remove
    To happy Mamre's holy grove,
    Leaving the cities of the plain
    To Lot and his successless train?
    All various lusts in cities still
    Are found; they are the thrones of ill,
    The dismal sinks, where blood is spill'd,
    Cages with much uncleanness fill'd:
    But rural shades are the sweet sense
    Of piety and innocence;
    They are the meek's calm region, where
    Angels descend and rule the sphere;
    Where Heaven lies leiguer, and the Dove
    Duly as dew comes from above.
    If Eden be on Earth at all,
    'Tis that which we the country call.


    Unfold! unfold! Take in His light,
    Who makes thy cares more short than night.
    The joys which with His day-star rise
    He deals to all but drowsy eyes;
    And, what the men of this world miss,
    Some drops and dews of future bliss.

      Hark! how His winds have chang'd their note!
    And with warm whispers call thee out;
    The frosts are past, the storms are gone,
    And backward life at last comes on.
    The lofty groves in express joys
    Reply unto the turtle's voice;
    And here in dust and dirt, O here
    The lilies of His love appear!


    Early, while yet the dark was gay
    And gilt with stars, more trim than day,
    Heav'n's Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose,
    The green immortal Branch arose;           }
    And in a solitary place                    } S. Mark,
    Bow'd to His Father His blest face.        } c. 1, v. 35-
      If this calm season pleased my Prince,
    Whose fulness no need could evince,
    Why should not I, poor silly sheep,
    His hours, as well as practice, keep?
    Not that His hand is tied to these,
    From whom Time holds his transient lease
    But mornings new creations are,
    When men, all night sav'd by His care,
    Are still reviv'd; and well He may
    Expect them grateful with the day.
    So for that first draught of His hand,     }
    Which finish'd heav'n, and sea, and land,  } Job, c. 38,
    The sons of God their thanks did bring,    } v. 7-
    And all the morning stars did sing.        }
    Besides, as His part heretofore
    The firstlings were of all that bore
    So now each day from all He saves
    Their soul's first thoughts and fruits He craves.
    This makes Him daily shed and show'r
    His graces at this early hour;
    Which both His care and kindness show,
    Cheering the good, quickening the slow.
    As holy friends mourn at delay,
    And think each minute an hour's stay,
    So His Divine and loving Dove
    With longing throes[67] doth heave and move,
    And soar about us while we sleep;
    Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep,
    And shine, but always without fail,
    Before the slow sun can unveil,
    In new compassions breaks, like light,
    And morning-looks, which scatter night.
      And wilt Thou let Thy creature be,
    When Thou hast watch'd, asleep to Thee?
    Why to unwelcome loath'd surprises
    Dost leave him, having left his vices?
    Since these, if suffer'd, may again
    Lead back the living to the slain.
    O, change this scourge; or, if as yet
    None less will my transgressions fit,
    Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot do
    What I would not submit unto.


[67] The original has _throws_.



    Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proud
    And previous glories gild that blushing cloud;
    Whose lively fires in swift projections glance
    From hill to hill, and by refracted chance
    Burnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and then
    Fly off in coy and wingèd flames again:
                    If thou this day
                    Hold on thy way,
    Know, I have got a greater light than thine;
    A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine.
      Then get thee down! then get thee down!
      I have a Sun now of my own.


    Those nicer livers, who without thy rays
    Stir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise;
    And wanting light--light, which no wants doth know--
    To thee--weak shiner!--like blind Persians bow.
    But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head,
    From His own bright eternal eye doth shed
                    One living ray,
                    There thy dead day
    Is needless, and man to a light made free,
    Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see.
      Then get thee down! then get thee down!
      I have a Sun now of my own.


Written in the year 1656.

    Peace? and to all the world? Sure One,
    And He the Prince of Peace, hath none!
    He travels to be born, and then
    Is born to travel more again.
    Poor Galilee! thou canst not be
    The place for His Nativity.
    His restless mother's call'd away,
    And not deliver'd till she pay.

      A tax? 'tis so still! we can see
    The Church thrive in her misery,
    And, like her Head at Beth'lem, rise,
    When she, oppress'd with troubles, lies.
    Rise?--should all fall, we cannot be
    In more extremities than He.
    Great Type of passions! Come what will,
    Thy grief exceeds all copies still.
    Thou cam'st from Heav'n to Earth, that we
    Might go from Earth to Heav'n with Thee:
    And though Thou found'st no welcome here,
    Thou didst provide us mansions there.
    A stable was Thy Court, and when
    Men turn'd to beasts, beasts would be men:
    They were Thy courtiers; others none;
    And their poor manger was Thy throne.
    No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,
    Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.
    No rockers waited on Thy birth,
    No cradles stirr'd, nor songs of mirth;
    But her chaste lap and sacred breast,
    Which lodg'd Thee first, did give Thee rest.

      But stay: what light is that doth stream
    And drop here in a gilded beam?
    It is Thy star runs page, and brings
    Thy tributary Eastern kings.
    Lord! grant some light to us, that we
    May with them find the way to Thee!
    Behold what mists eclipse the day!
    How dark it is! Shed down one ray,
    To guide us out of this dark night,
    And say once more, "Let there be light!"


    So, stick up ivy and the bays,
    And then restore the heathen ways.
    Green will remind you of the spring,
    Though this great day denies the thing;
    And mortifies the earth, and all
    But your wild revels, and loose hall.
    Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strow
    Blushing upon your breasts' warm snow,
    That very dress your lightness will
    Rebuke, and wither at the ill.
    The brightness of this day we owe
    Not unto music, masque, nor show,
    Nor gallant furniture, nor plate,
    But to the manger's mean estate.
    His life while here, as well as birth,
    Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
    And all man's greatness you may see
    Condemned by His humility.

      Then leave your open house and noise,
    To welcome Him with holy joys,
    And the poor shepherds' watchfulness,
    Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless.
    What you abound with, cast abroad
    To those that want, and ease your load.
    Who empties thus, will bring more in;
    But riot is both loss and sin.
    Dress finely what comes not in sight,
    And then you keep your Christmas right.


    O thou who didst deny to me
    This world's ador'd felicity,
    And ev'ry big imperious lust,
    Which fools admire in sinful dust,
    With those fine subtle twists, that tie
    Their bundles of foul gallantry--
    Keep still my weak eyes from the shine
    Of those gay things which are not Thine!
    And shut my ears against the noise
    Of wicked, though applauded, joys!
    For Thou in any land hast store
    Of shades and coverts for Thy poor;
    Where from the busy dust and heat,
    As well as storms, they may retreat.
    A rock or bush are downy beds,
    When Thou art there, crowning their heads
    With secret blessings, or a tire
    Made of the Comforter's live fire.
    And when Thy goodness in the dress
    Of anger will not seem to bless,
    Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain,
    Which, as it drops, clears all again.
      O what kind visits daily pass
    'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass:
    With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine
    On those low violets of Thine,
    While the tall tulip is accurst,
    And crowns imperial die with thirst!
    O give me still those secret meals,
    Those rare repasts which Thy love deals!
    Give me that joy, which none can grieve,
    And which in all griefs doth relieve!
    This is the portion Thy child begs;
    Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.


    Quid celebras auratam undam, et combusta pyropis
      Flumina, vel medio quæ serit æthra salo?
    Æternum refluis si pernoctaret in undis
      Ph[oe]bus, et incertam sidera suda Tethyn
    Si colerent, tantæ gemmæ! nil cærula librem:
      Sorderet rubro in littore dives Eos.
    Pactoli mea lympha macras ditabit arenas,
      Atque universum gutta minuta Tagum.
    O caram caput! O cincinnos unda beatos
      Libata! O Domini balnea sancta mei!
    Quod fortunatum voluit spectare canalem,
      Hoc erat in laudes area parva tuas.
    Jordanis in medio perfusus flumine lavit,
      Divinoque tuas ore beavit aquas.
    Ah! Solyma infelix rivis obsessa prophanis!
      Amisit genium porta Bethesda suum.
    Hic Orientis aquæ currunt, et apostata Parphar,
      Atque Abana immundo turbidus amne fluit,
    Ethnica te totam cum f[oe]davere fluenta,
      Mansit Christicolâ Jordanis unus aqua.


    Et sic in cithara, sic in dulcedine vitæ
      Et facti et luctus regnat amarities.
    Quam subito in fastum extensos atque esseda[68] vultus
      Ultrici oppressit vilis arena sinu!
    Si violæ, spiransque crocus: si lilium [Greek: aeinon]
      Non nisi justorum nascitur e cinere:
    Spinarum, tribulique atque infelicis avenæ
      Quantus in hoc tumulo et qualis acervus erit?
    Dii superi! damnosa piis sub sidera longum
      Mansuris stabilem conciliate fidem!
    Sic olim in c[oe]lum post nimbos clarius ibunt,
      Supremo occidui tot velut astra die.
    Quippe ruunt horæ, qualisque in corpore vixit,
      Talis it in tenebras bis moriturus homo.


[68] The original edition misprints _essera_.


_Ad virum optimum, et sibi familiarius notum: D. Thomam Poellum
      Cantrevensem: S. S. Theologiæ Doctorem._

    Accipe prærapido salmonem in gurgite captum,
      Ex imo in summas cum penetrasset aquas,
    Mentitæ culicis quem forma elusit inanis:
      Picta coloratis plumea musca notis.
    Dum captat, capitur; vorat inscius, ipse vorandus;
      Fitque cibi raptor grata rapina mali.
    Alma quies! miseræ merces ditissima vitæ,
      Quam tuto in tacitis hic latuisset aquis!
    Qui dum spumosi fremitus et murmura rivi
      Quæritat, hamato sit cita præda cibo,
    Quam grave magnarum specimen dant ludicra rerum?
      Gurges est mundus: salmo, homo: pluma, dolus.


    Can any tell me what it is? Can you
    That wind your thoughts into a clue
    To guide out others, while yourselves stay in,
              And hug the sin?
      I, who so long have in it liv'd,
              That, if I might,
      In truth I would not be repriev'd,
              Have neither sight
              Nor sense that knows
              These ebbs and flows:
      But since of all all may be said,
      And likeliness doth but upbraid
      And mock the truth, which still is lost
    In fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost;
      I will not strive, nor the rule break,
      Which doth give losers leave to speak.
    Then false and foul world, and unknown
              Ev'n to thy own,
      Here I renounce thee, and resign
      Whatever thou canst say is thine.

        Thou art not Truth! for he that tries
      Shall find thee all deceit and lies,
    Thou art not Friendship! for in thee
    'Tis but the bait of policy;
    Which like a viper lodg'd in flow'rs,
    Its venom through that sweetness pours;
    And when not so, then always 'tis
    A fading paint, the short-liv'd bliss
    Of air and humour; out and in,
    Like colours in a dolphin's skin;
    But must not live beyond one day,
    Or convenience; then away.
    Thou art not Riches! for that trash,
    Which one age hoards, the next doth wash
    And so severely sweep away,
    That few remember where it lay.
    So rapid streams the wealthy land
    About them have at their command;
    And shifting channels here restore,
    There break down, what they bank'd before.
    Thou art not Honour! for those gay
    Feathers will wear and drop away;
    And princes to some upstart line
    Gives new ones, that are full as fine.
    Thou art not Pleasure! for thy rose
    Upon a thorn doth still repose;
    Which, if not cropp'd, will quickly shed,
    But soon as cropp'd, grows dull and dead.
      Thou art the sand, which fills one glass,
    And then doth to another pass;
    And could I put thee to a stay,
    Thou art but dust! Then go thy way,
    And leave me clean and bright, though poor;
    Who stops thee doth but daub his floor;
    And, swallow-like, when he hath done,
    To unknown dwellings must be gone!
      Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours,
    Enrich'd with sunshine and with show'rs;
    Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares,
    The not to be repented shares
    Of time and business; the sure road
    Unto my last and lov'd abode!
                  O supreme Bliss!
    The Circle, Centre, and Abyss
    Of blessings, never let me miss
    Nor leave that path which leads to Thee,
    Who art alone all things to me!
    I hear, I see, all the long day
    The noise and pomp of the broad way.
    I note their coarse and proud approaches,
    Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches.
    But in the narrow way to Thee
    I observe only poverty,
    And despis'd things; and all along
    The ragged, mean, and humble throng
    Are still on foot; and as they go
    They sigh, and say, their Lord went so.
      Give me my staff then, as it stood
    When green and growing in the wood;
    --Those stones, which for the altar serv'd,
    Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd--
    With this poor stick I'll pass the ford,
    As Jacob did; and Thy dear word,
    As Thou hast dress'd it, not as wit
    And deprav'd tastes have poison'd it,
    Shall in the passage be my meat,
    And none else will Thy servant eat.
    Thus, thus, and in no other sort,
    Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't;
    And leaving the wise world their way,
    Go through, though judg'd to go astray.


    From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders,
    Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders,
    Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs,
    And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds,
    To the wild woods I will be gone,
    And the coarse meals of great Saint John.

      When truth and piety are miss'd
    Both in the rulers and the priest;
    When pity is not cold, but dead,
    And the rich eat the poor like bread;
    While factious heads with open coil
    And force, first make, then share, the spoil;
    To Horeb then Elias goes,
    And in the desert grows the rose.
      Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades,
    Where no proud look invades,
    No busy worldling hunts away
    The sad retirer all the day!
    Hail, happy, harmless solitude!
    Our sanctuary from the rude
    And scornful world; the calm recess
    Of faith, and hope, and holiness!
    Here something still like Eden looks;
    Honey in woods, juleps in brooks,
    And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweets
    With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets,
    When the toils of the day are done,
    And the tir'd world sets with the sun.
    Here flying winds and flowing wells
    Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells;
    Their busy murmurs all the night
    To praise or prayer do invite,
    And with an awful sound arrest,
    And piously employ his breast.

      When in the East the dawn doth blush,
    Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush;
    Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread,
    Trees whisper praise, and bow the head:
    Birds, from the shades of night releas'd,
    Look round about, then quit the nest,
    And with united gladness sing
    The glory of the morning's King.
    The hermit hears, and with meek voice
    Offers his own up, and their joys:
    Then prays that all the world may be
    Bless'd with as sweet an unity.

      If sudden storms the day invade,
    They flock about him to the shade:
    Where wisely they expect the end,
    Giving the tempest time to spend;
    And hard by shelters on some bough
    Hilarion's servant, the sage crow.

      O purer years of light and grace!
    The diff'rence is great as the space
    'Twixt you and us, who blindly run
    After false fires, and leave the sun.
    Is not fair Nature of herself
    Much richer than dull paint or pelf?
    And are not streams at the spring-head
    More sweet than in carv'd stone or lead?
    But fancy and some artist's tools
    Frame a religion for fools.

      The truth, which once was plainly taught,
    With thorns and briars now is fraught.
    Some part is with bold fables spotted,
    Some by strange comments wildly blotted;
    And Discord--old Corruption's crest--
    With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest.
    So snow, which in its first descents
    A whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents,
    When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd,
    And after, trodden down and spoil'd.

      O lead me, where I may be free
    In truth and spirit to serve Thee!
    Where undisturb'd I may converse
    With Thy great Self; and there rehearse
    Thy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store,
    Who art all blessings, beg much more.
    Give me the wisdom of the bee,
    And her unwearied industry!
    That from the wild gourds of these days,
    I may extract health, and Thy praise,
    Who canst turn darkness into light,
    And in my weakness show Thy might.

      Suffer me not in any want
    To seek refreshment from a plant
    Thou didst not set; since all must be
    Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee.
    'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs,
    Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rs
    Their wholesomeness, but Thy good will,
    Which truth and pureness purchase still.

      Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence
    Thy kind and saving influence,
    And balm is no more to be had
    In all the coasts of Gilead;
    Go with me to the shade and cell,
    Where Thy best servants once did dwell.
    There let me know Thy will, and see
    Exil'd Religion own'd by Thee;
    For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls,
    And make hills blossom like the vales;
    Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs,
    And fresh delights for all sad hours;
    Till from them, like a laden bee,
    I may fly home, and hive with Thee


    Farewell, thou true and tried reflection
    Of the still poor, and meek election:
    Farewell, soul's joy, the quick'ning health
    Of spirits, and their secret wealth!
    Farewell, my morning-star, the bright
    And dawning looks of the True Light!
    O blessed shiner, tell me whither
    Thou wilt be gone, when night comes hither!
    A seër that observ'd thee in
    Thy course, and watch'd the growth of sin,
    Hath giv'n his judgment, and foretold,
    That westward hence thy course will hold;
    And when the day with us is done,
    There fix, and shine a glorious sun.
    O hated shades and darkness! when
    You have got here the sway again,
    And like unwholesome fogs withstood
    The light, and blasted all that's good,
    Who shall the happy shepherds be,
    To watch the next nativity
    Of truth and brightness, and make way
    For the returning, rising day?
    O what year will bring back our bliss?
    Or who shall live, when God doth this?
      Thou Rock of Ages! and the Rest
    Of all, that for Thee are oppress'd!
    Send down the Spirit of Thy truth,
    That Spirit, which the tender youth,
    And first growths of Thy Spouse did spread
    Through all the world, from one small head!
    Then if to blood we must resist,
    Let Thy mild Dove, and our High-Priest,
    Help us, when man proves false or frowns,
    To bear the Cross, and save our crowns.
    O honour those that honour Thee!
    Make babes to still the enemy!
    And teach an infant of few days
    To perfect by his death Thy praise!
    Let none defile what Thou didst wed,
    Nor tear the garland from her head!
    But chaste and cheerful let her die,
    And precious in the Bridegroom's eye
    So to Thy glory and her praise,
    These last shall be her brightest days.

      Revel[ation] chap. last, vers. 17.
      "_The Spirit and the Bride say, Come._"


_An Elegiac Eclogue. The Interlocutors, Damon, Menalcas._


      What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow,
    Flow'rs in a sunshine never look so low?
    Is Nisa still cold flint? or have thy lambs
    Met with the fox by straying from their dams?


      Ah, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and she
    Is kind, and much more white than they can be.
    But what doth life when most serene afford
    Without a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd?
    Our days of gladness are but short reliefs,
    Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs:
    So smiling calms close tempests breed, which break
    Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks when weak.
    I heard last May--and May is still high Spring--
    The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing.
    The green wood glitter'd with the golden sun.
    And all the west like silver shin'd; not one
    Black cloud; no rags, nor spots did stain
    The welkin's beauty; nothing frown'd like rain.
    But ere night came, that scene of fine sights turn'd
    To fierce dark show'rs; the air with lightnings burn'd;
    The wood's sweet syren, rudely thus oppress'd,
    Gave to the storm her weak and weary breast.
    I saw her next day on her last cold bed:
    And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis, dead!


      So violets, so doth the primrose, fall,
    At once the Spring's pride, and its funeral.
    Such easy sweets get off still in their prime,
    And stay not here to wear the soil of time;
    While coarser flow'rs, which none would miss, if past,
    To scorching Summers and cold Autumns last.


      Souls need not time. The early forward things
    Are always fledg'd, and gladly use their wings.
    Or else great parts, when injur'd, quit the crowd,
    To shine above still, not behind, the cloud.
    And is't not just to leave those to the night
    That madly hate and persecute the light?
    Who, doubly dark, all negroes do exceed,
    And inwardly are true black Moors indeed?


      The punishment still manifests the sin,
    As outward signs show the disease within.
    While worth oppress'd mounts to a nobler height,
    And palm-like bravely overtops the weight.
      So where swift Isca from our lofty hills
    With loud farewells descends, and foaming fills
    A wider channel, like some great port-vein
    With large rich streams to fill the humble plain:
    I saw an oak, whose stately height and shade,
    Projected far, a goodly shelter made;
    And from the top with thick diffusèd boughs
    In distant rounds grew like a wood-nymph's house.
    Here many garlands won at roundel-lays
    Old shepherds hung up in those happy days
    With knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dress
    Of such bright maids as did true lovers bless.
    And many times had old Amphion made
    His beauteous flock acquainted with this shade:
    His flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and white
    As those the welkin shows in moonshine night.
    Here, when the careless world did sleep, have I
    In dark records and numbers nobly high,
    The visions of our black, but brightest bard
    From old Amphion's mouth full often heard;
    With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known,
    And riddles more, which future time must own:
    While on his pipe young Hylas play'd, and made
    Music as solemn as the song and shade.
    But the curs'd owner from the trembling top
    To the firm brink did all those branches lop;
    And in one hour what many years had bred,
    The pride and beauty of the plain, lay dead.
    The undone swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss,
    While storms and cold winds did improve the cross;
    But nature, which--like virtue--scorns to yield,
    Brought new recruits and succours to the field;
    For by next spring the check'd sap wak'd from sleep,
    And upwards still to feel the sun did creep;
    Till at those wounds, the hated hewer made,
    There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.


      So thrives afflicted Truth, and so the light
    When put out gains a value from the night.
    How glad are we, when but one twinkling star
    Peeps betwixt clouds more black than is our tar:
    And Providence was kind, that order'd this
    To the brave suff'rer should be solid bliss:
    Nor is it so till this short life be done,
    But goes hence with him, and is still his sun.


      Come, shepherds, then, and with your greenest bays
    Refresh his dust, who lov'd your learnèd lays.
    Bring here the florid glories of the spring,
    And, as you strew them, pious anthems sing,
    Which to your children and the years to come
    May speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb.
    While prostrate I drop on his quiet urn
    My tears, not gifts; and like the poor that mourn
    With green but humble turfs, write o'er his hearse
    For false, foul prose-men this fair truth in verse.

    "Here Daphnis sleeps, and while the great watch goes
    Of loud and restless Time, takes his repose.
    Fame is but noise; all Learning but a thought;
    Which one admires, another sets at nought,
    Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps ado:
    But Death brings knowledge and assurance too."


      Cast in your garlands! strew on all the flow'rs,
    Which May with smiles or April feeds with show'rs,
    Let this day's rites as steadfast as the sun
    Keep pace with Time and through all ages run;
    The public character and famous test
    Of our long sorrows and his lasting rest.
    And when we make procession on the plains,
    Or yearly keep the holiday of swains,
    Let Daphnis still be the recorded name,
    And solemn honour of our feasts and fame.
    For though the Isis and the prouder Thames
    Can show his relics lodg'd hard by their streams:
    And must for ever to the honour'd name
    Of noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame:
    Yet here his stars first saw him, and when Fate
    Beckon'd him hence, it knew no other date.
    Nor will these vocal woods and valleys fail,
    Nor Isca's louder streams, this to bewail;
    But while swains hope, and seasons change, will glide
    With moving murmurs because Daphnis died.


      A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes,
    Then runs along with public plagues and woes,
    Lies heavy on us; and the very light,
    Turn'd mourner too, hath the dull looks of night.
    Our vales, like those of death, a darkness show
    More sad than cypress or the gloomy yew;
    And on our hills, where health with height complied,
    Thick drowsy mists hang round, and there reside.
    Not one short parcel of the tedious year
    In its old dress and beauty doth appear.
    Flow'rs hate the spring, and with a sullen bend
    Thrust down their heads, which to the root still tend.
    And though the sun, like a cold lover, peeps
    A little at them, still the day's-eye sleeps.
    But when the Crab and Lion with acute
    And active fires their sluggish heat recruit,
    Our grass straight russets, and each scorching day
    Drinks up our brooks as fast as dew in May;
    Till the sad herdsman with his cattle faints,
    And empty channels ring with loud complaints.


      Heaven's just displeasure, and our unjust ways,
    Change Nature's course; bring plagues, dearth, and decays.
    This turns our lands to dust, the skies to brass,
    Makes old kind blessings into curses pass:
    And when we learn unknown and foreign crimes,
    Brings in the vengeance due unto those climes.
    The dregs and puddle of all ages now,
    Like rivers near their fall, on us do flow.
    Ah, happy Daphnis! who while yet the streams
    Ran clear and warm, though but with setting beams,
    Got through, and saw by that declining light,
    His toil's and journey's end before the night.


      A night, where darkness lays her chains and bars,
    And feral fires appear instead of stars.
    But he, along with the last looks of day,
    Went hence, and setting--sunlike--pass'd away.
    What future storms our present sins do hatch
    Some in the dark discern, and others watch;
    Though foresight makes no hurricane prove mild,
    Fury that's long fermenting is most wild.
      But see, while thus our sorrows we discourse,
    Ph[oe]bus hath finish'd his diurnal course;
    The shades prevail: each bush seems bigger grown;
      Darkness--like State--makes small things swell and frown:
    The hills and woods with pipes and sonnets round,
    And bleating sheep our swains drive home, resound.


      What voice from yonder lawn tends hither? Hark!
    'Tis Thyrsis calls! I hear Lycanthe bark!
    His flocks left out so late, and weary grown,
    Are to the thickets gone, and there laid down.


      Menalcas, haste to look them out! poor sheep,
    When day is done, go willingly to sleep:
    And could bad man his time spend as they do,
    He might go sleep, or die, as willing too.


      Farewell! kind Damon! now the shepherd's star
    With beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far.
    All creatures that were favourites of day
    Are with the sun retir'd and gone away.
    While feral birds send forth unpleasant notes,
    And night--the nurse of thoughts--sad thoughts promotes:
    But joy will yet come with the morning light,
    Though sadly now we bid good night!


    Good night!


From _Eucharistica Oxoniensia in Caroli Regis nostri e Scotia Reditum
      Gratulatoria_ (1641).


    As kings do rule like th' heavens, who dispense
    To parts remote and near their influence;
    So doth our Charles move also; while he posts
    From south to north, and back to southern coasts;
    Like to the starry orb, which in its round
    Moves to those very points; but while 'tis bound
    For north, there is--some guess--a trembling fit
    And shivering in the part that's opposite.
    What were our fears and pantings, what dire fame
    Heard we of Irish tumults, sword, and flame!
    Which now we think but blessings, as being sent
    Only as matter, whereupon 'twas meant,
    The British thus united might express,
    The strength of joinèd Powers to suppress,
    Or conquer foes. This is Great Britain's bliss;
    The island in itself a just world is.
    Here no commotion shall we find or fear,
    But of the Court's removal, no sad tear
    Or cloudy brow, but when you leave us. Then
    Discord is loyalty professèd, when
    Nations do strive, which shall the happier be
    T' enjoy your bounteous rays of majesty
    Which yet you throw in undivided dart,
    For things divine allow no share or part.
    The same kind virtue doth at once disclose
    The beauty of their thistle and our rose.
    Thus you do mingle souls and firmly knit
    What were but join'd before; you Scotsmen fit
    Closely with us, and reuniter prove;
    You fetch'd the crown before, and now their love.

                                                 H. Vaughan, Ies. Col.

From _Of the Benefit we may get by our Enemies_: translated from
      Plutarch (1651).

1. [HOMER. ILIAD, I. 255-6.]

    Sure Priam will to mirth incline,
    And all that are of Priam's line.


    Feeding on fruits which in the heavens do grow,
    Whence all divine and holy counsels flow.


    Excel then if thou canst, be not withstood,
    But strive and overcome the evil with good.


    You minister to others' wounds a cure,
    But leave your own all rotten and impure.


    Chance, taking from me things of highest price,
    At a dear rate hath taught me to be wise.


    [He] Knaves' tongues and calumnies no more doth prize
    Than the vain buzzing of so many flies.


    His deep, dark heart--bent to supplant--
    Is iron, or else adamant.


    What though they boast their riches unto us?
    Those cannot say that they are virtuous.

From _Of the Diseases of the Mind and the Body_: translated from
      Plutarch (1651).

1. [HOMER. ILIAD, XVII. 446-7.]

    That man for misery excell'd
    All creatures which the wide world held.

2. [EURIPIDES. BACCHAE, 1170-4.]

    A tender kid--see, where 'tis put--
      I on the hills did slay,
    Now dress'd and into quarters cut,
      A pleasant, dainty prey.

From _Of the Diseases of the Mind and the Body_: translated from Maximus
      Tyrius (1651).


    O health, the chief of gifts divine!
    I would I might with thee and thine
    Live all those days appointed mine!

From _The Mount of Olives_ (1652).

1. [DEATH.]

    Draw near, fond man, and dress thee by this glass,
    Mark how thy bravery and big looks must pass
    Into corruption, rottenness and dust;
    The frail supporters which betray'd thy trust.
    O weigh in time thy last and loathsome state!
    To purchase heav'n for tears is no hard rate.
    Our glory, greatness, wisdom, all we have,
    If mis-employ'd, but add hell to the grave:
    Only a fair redemption of evil times
    Finds life in death, and buries all our crimes.


    My soul, my pleasant soul, and witty,
    The guest and consort of my body.
    Into what place now all alone
    Naked and sad wilt thou be gone?
    No mirth, no wit, as heretofore,
    Nor jests wilt thou afford me more.

3. [PAULINUS. CARM. APP. I. 35-40.]

    What is't to me that spacious rivers run
    Whole ages, and their streams are never done?
    Those still remain: but all my fathers died,
    And I myself but for few days abide.


    In March birds couple, a new birth
    Of herbs and flow'rs breaks through the earth;
    But in the grave none stirs his head,
    Long is the impris'ment of the dead.


    So our decays God comforts by
    The stars' concurrent state on high.


    There are that do believe all things succeed
    By chance or fortune: and that nought's decreed
    By a divine, wise Will; but blindly call
    Old Time and Nature rulers over all.


    From the first hour the heavens were made
    Unto the last, when all shall fade,
    Count--if thou canst--the drops of dew,
    The stars of heav'n and streams that flow,
    The falling snow, the dropping show'rs,
    And in the month of May, the flow'rs,
    Their scents and colours, and what store
    Of grapes and apples Autumn bore,
    How many grains the Summer bears,
    What leaves the wind in Winter tears;
    Count all the creatures in the world,
    The motes which in the air are hurl'd,
    The hairs of beasts and mankind, and
    The shore's innumerable sand,
    The blades of grass, and to these last
    Add all the years which now are past,
    With those whose course is yet to come,
    And all their minutes in one sum.
    When all is done, the damned's state
    Outruns them still, and knows no date.

8. [VIRGIL. GEORGICS, IV. 12-138.]

    I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towers
    An old Cilician spend his peaceful hours.
    Some few bad acres in a waste, wild field,
    Which neither grass, nor corn, nor vines would yield,
    He did possess. There--amongst thorns and weeds--
    Cheap herbs and coleworts, with the common seeds
    Of chesboule or tame poppies, he did sow,
    And vervain with white lilies caused to grow.
    Content he was, as are successful kings,
    And late at night come home--for long work brings
    The night still home--with unbought messes laid
    On his low table he his hunger stay'd.
    Roses he gather'd in the youthful Spring,
    And apples in the Autumn home did bring:
    And when the sad, cold Winter burst with frost
    The stones, and the still streams in ice were lost,
    He would soft leaves of bear's-foot crop, and chide
    The slow west winds and ling'ring Summer-tide!

9. [VIRGIL. AENEID, III. 515.]

    And rising at midnight the stars espied,
    All posting westward in a silent glide.


    The trees we set grow slowly, and their shade
    Stays for our sons, while we--the planters--fade.
From _Man in Glory_: translated from Anselm (1652).

1. [ANSELM.]

    Here holy Anselm lives in ev'ry page,
    And sits archbishop still, to vex the age.
    Had he foreseen--and who knows but he did?--
    This fatal wrack, which deep in time lay hid,
    'Tis but just to believe, that little hand
    Which clouded him, but now benights our land,
    Had never--like Elias--driv'n him hence,
    A sad retirer for a slight offence.
    For were he now, like the returning year,
    Restor'd, to view these desolations here,
    He would do penance for his old complaint,
    And--weeping--say, that Rufus was a saint.

From the Epistle-Dedicatory to _Flores Solitudinis_ (1654).


    The whole wench--how complete soe'er--was but
    A specious bait; a soft, sly, tempting slut;
    A pleasing witch; a living death; a fair,
    Thriving disease; a fresh, infectious air;
    A precious plague; a fury sweetly drawn;
    Wild fire laid up and finely dress'd in lawn.


    Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see,
    Believe, thou seest mere dreams and vanity,
    Not real things, but false, and through the air
    Each-where an empty, slipp'ry scene, though fair.
    The chirping birds, the fresh woods' shady boughs,
    The leaves' shrill whispers, when the west wind blows,
    The swift, fierce greyhounds coursing on the plains,
    The flying hare, distress'd 'twixt fear and pains,
    The bloomy maid decking with flow'rs her head,
    The gladsome, easy youth by light love led;
    And whatsoe'er here with admiring eyes
    Thou seem'st to see, 'tis but a frail disguise
    Worn by eternal things, a passive dress
    Put on by beings that are passiveless.

From a Discourse _Of Temperance and Patience_: translated from
      Nierembergius (1654).


    The naked man too gets the field,
    And often makes the armèd foe to yield.

2. [LUCRETIUS, IV. 1012-1020.]

    [Some] struggle and groan as if by panthers torn,
    Or lions' teeth, which makes them loudly mourn;
    Some others seem unto themselves to die;
    Some climb steep solitudes and mountains high,
    From whence they seem to fall inanely down,
    Panting with fear, till wak'd, and scarce their own
    They feel about them if in bed they lie,
    Deceiv'd with dreams, and Night's imagery.

    In vain with earnest strugglings they contend
    To ease themselves: for when they stir and bend
    Their greatest force to do it, even then most
    Of all they faint, and in their hopes are cross'd.
    Nor tongue, nor hand, nor foot will serve their turn,
    But without speech and strength within, they mourn.


    Thou the nepenthe easing grief
    Art, and the mind's healing relief.


    Base man! and couldst thou think Cato alone
    Wants courage to be dry? and but him, none?
    Look'd I so soft? breath'd I such base desires,
    Not proof against this Lybic sun's weak fires?
    That shame and plague on thee more justly lie!
    To drink alone, when all our troops are dry.

           *       *       *       *       *

    For with brave rage he flung it on the sand,
    And the spilt draught suffic'd each thirsty band


    [Death keeps off]
                  And will not bear the cry
    Of distress'd man, nor shut his weeping eye


    It lives when kill'd, and brancheth when 'tis lopp'd.


    Like some fair oak, that when her boughs
    Are cut by rude hands, thicker grows;
    And from those wounds the iron made
    Resumes a rich and fresher shade.


    Patience digesteth misery.


    ----They fain would--if they might--
    Descend to hide themselves in Hell. So light
    Of foot is Vengeance; and so near to sin,
    That soon as done, the actors do begin
    To fear and suffer by themselves: Death moves
    Before their eyes; sad dens and dusky groves
    They haunt, and hope--vain hope which Fear doth guide!--
    That those dark shades their inward guilt can hide.

10. [INCERTI.]

    But night and day doth his own life molest,
    And bears his judge and witness in his breast.


    Virtue's fair cares some people measure
    For poisonous works that hinder pleasure.

12. [INCERTI.]

    Man should with virtue arm'd and hearten'd be,
    And innocently watch his enemy:
    For fearless freedom, which none can control,
    Is gotten by a pure and upright soul.

13. [INCERTI.]

    Whose guilty soul, with terrors fraught, doth frame
    New torments still, and still doth blow that flame
    Which still burns him, nor sees what end can be
    Of his dire plagues, and fruitful penalty;
    But fears them living, and fears more to die;
    Which makes his life a constant tragedy.

14. [INCERTI.]

    And for life's sake to lose the crown of life.

15. [INCERTI.]

    Nature even for herself doth lay a snare,
    And handsome faces their own traitors are.


                True life in this is shown,
    To live for all men's good, not for our own.

17. [INCERTI.]

    As Egypt's drought by Nilus is redress'd,
    So thy wise tongue doth comfort the oppress'd.

18. [INCERTI.]

    [Like] to speedy posts, bear hence the lamp of life.


    All worldly things, even while they grow, decay;
    As smoke doth, by ascending, waste away.

20. [INCERTI.]

    To live a stranger unto life.

From a _Discourse of Life and Death_: translated from Nierembergius


    Whose hissings fright all Nature's monstrous ills;
    His eye darts death, more swift than poison kills.
    All monsters by instinct to him give place,
    They fly for life, for death lives in his face;
    And he alone by Nature's hid commands
    Reigns paramount, and prince of all the sands.


    The plenteous evils of frail life fill the old:
    Their wasted limbs the loose skin in dry folds
    Doth hang about: their joints are numb'd, and through
    Their veins, not blood, but rheums and waters flow.
    Their trembling bodies with a staff they stay,
    Nor do they breathe, but sadly sigh all day.
    Thoughts tire their hearts, to them their very mind
    Is a disease; their eyes no sleep can find.


    Against the virtuous man we all make head,
    And hate him while he lives, but praise him dead.


    Long life, oppress'd with many woes,
    Meets more, the further still it goes.

5. [JUVENAL. SATIRE X. 278-286.]

    What greater good had deck'd great Pompey's crown
    Than death, if in his honours fully blown,
    And mature glories he had died? those piles
    Of huge success, loud fame, and lofty styles
    Built in his active youth, long lazy life
    Saw quite demolish'd by ambitious strife.
    He lived to wear the weak and melting snow
    Of luckless age, where garlands seldom grow,
    But by repining Fate torn from the head
    Which wore them once, are on another shed.


    Whom God doth take care for, and love,
    He dies young here, to live above.


    Sickness and death, you are but sluggish things,
    And cannot reach a heart that hath got wings.

From _Primitive Holiness, set forth in the Life of Blessed Paulinus_

1. [AUSONIUS. EPIST. XXIV. 115-16.]

    Let me not weep to see thy ravish'd house
    All sad and silent, without lord or spouse,
    And all those vast dominions once thine own
    Torn 'twixt a hundred slaves to me unknown.

2. [AUSONIUS. EPIST. XXIII. 30-1; XXV. 5-9, 14, 17.]

              How could that paper sent,
    That luckless paper, merit thy contempt?
    Ev'n foe to foe--though furiously--replies,
    And the defied his enemy defies.
    Amidst the swords and wounds, there's a salute,
    Rocks answer man, and though hard are not mute.
    Nature made nothing dumb, nothing unkind:
    The trees and leaves speak trembling to the wind.
    If thou dost fear discoveries, and the blot
    Of my love, Tanaquil shall know it not.

3. [PAULINUS. CARM. XI. 1-5; X. 189-92.]

    Obdurate still and tongue-tied, you accuse
    --Though yours is ever vocal--my dull muse;
    You blame my lazy, lurking life, and add
    I scorn your love, a calumny most sad;
    Then tell me, that I fear my wife, and dart
    Harsh, cutting words against my dearest heart.
      Leave, learnèd father, leave this bitter course,
    My studies are not turn'd unto the worse;
    I am not mad, nor idle, nor deny
    Your great deserts, and my debt, nor have I
    A wife like Tanaquil, as wildly you
    Object, but a Lucretia, chaste and true.

4. [PAULINUS. CARM. XXXI. 581-2, 585-90, 601-2, 607-12.]

    This pledge of your joint love, to heaven now fled,
    With honey-combs and milk of life is fed.
    Or with the Bethlem babes--whom Herod's rage
    Kill'd in their tender, happy, holy age--
    Doth walk the groves of Paradise, and make
    Garlands, which those young martyrs from him take.
    With these his eyes on the mild Lamb are fix'd,
    A virgin-child with virgin-infants mix'd.
    Such is my Celsus too, who soon as given,
    Was taken back--on the eighth day--to heaven
    To whom at Alcala I sadly gave
    Amongst the martyrs' tombs a little grave.
    He now with yours--gone both the blessed way--
    Amongst the trees of life doth smile and play;
    And this one drop of our mix'd blood may be
    A light for my Therasia, and for me.

5. [AUSONIUS. EPIST. XXV. 50, 56-7, 60-2.]

    Sweet Paulinus, and is thy nature turn'd?
    Have I so long in vain thy absence mourn'd?
    Wilt thou, my glory, and great Rome's delight,
    The Senate's prop, their oracle, and light,
    In Bilbilis and Calagurris dwell,
    Changing thy ivory-chair for a dark cell?
    Wilt bury there thy purple, and contemn
    All the great honours of thy noble stem?

6. [PAULINUS. CARM. X. 110-331.]

    Shall I believe you can make me return,
    Who pour your fruitless prayers when you mourn,
    Not to your Maker? Who can hear you cry,
    But to the fabled nymphs of Castaly?
    You never shall by such false gods bring me
    Either to Rome, or to your company.
    As for those former things you once did know,
    And which you still call mine, I freely now
    Confess, I am not he, whom you knew then;
    I have died since, and have been born again.
    Nor dare I think my sage instructor can
    Believe it error, for redeemèd man
    To serve his great Redeemer. I grieve not
    But glory so to err. Let the wise knot
    Of worldlings call me fool; I slight their noise,
    And hear my God approving of my choice.
    Man is but glass, a building of no trust,
    A moving shade, and, without Christ, mere dust.
    His choice in life concerns the chooser much:
    For when he dies, his good or ill--just such
    As here it was--goes with him hence, and stays
    Still by him, his strict judge in the last days.
    These serious thoughts take up my soul, and I,
    While yet 'tis daylight, fix my busy eye
    Upon His sacred rules, life's precious sum
    Who in the twilight of the world shall come
    To judge the lofty looks, and show mankind
    The diff'rence 'twixt the ill and well inclin'd.
    This second coming of the world's great King
    Makes my heart tremble, and doth timely bring
    A saving care into my watchful soul,
    Lest in that day all vitiated and foul
    I should be found--that day, Time's utmost line,
    When all shall perish but what is divine;
    When the great trumpet's mighty blast shall shake
    The earth's foundations, till the hard rocks quake
    And melt like piles of snow; when lightnings move
    Like hail, and the white thrones are set above:
    That day, when sent in glory by the Father,
    The Prince of Life His blest elect shall gather;
    Millions of angels round about Him flying,
    While all the kindreds of the Earth are crying;
    And He enthron'd upon the clouds shall give
    His last just sentence, who must die, who live.
      This is the fear, this is the saving care
    That makes me leave false honours, and that share
    Which fell to me of this frail world, lest by
    A frequent use of present pleasures I
    Should quite forget the future, and let in
    Foul atheism, or some presumptuous sin.
    Now by their loss I have secur'd my life,
    And bought my peace ev'n with the cause of strife.
    I live to Him Who gave me life and breath,
    And without fear expect the hour of death.
    If you like this, bid joy to my rich state,
    If not, leave me to Christ at any rate.


            And is the bargain thought too dear,
    To give for heaven our frail subsistence here?
    To change our mortal with immortal homes,
    And purchase the bright stars with darksome stones?
    Behold! my God--a rate great as His breath!--
    On the sad cross bought me with bitter death,
    Did put on flesh, and suffer'd for our good,
    For ours--vile slaves!--the loss of His dear blood.


    Life, Marcellina, leaving thy fair frame,
    Thou didst contemn those tombs of costly fame,
    Built by thy Roman ancestors, and liest
    At Milan, where great Ambrose sleeps in Christ.
    Hope, the dead's life, and faith, which never faints,
    Made thee rest here, that thou mayst rise with saints.


    You that to wash your flesh and souls draw near,
    Ponder these two examples set you here:
    Great Martin shows the holy life, and white,
    Paulinus to repentance doth invite;
    Martin's pure, harmless life, took heaven by force,
    Paulinus took it by tears and remorse;
    Martin leads through victorious palms and flow'rs,
    Paulinus leads you through the pools and show'rs;
    You that are sinners, on Paulinus look,
    You that are saints, great Martin is your book;
    The first example bright and holy is,
    The last, though sad and weeping, leads to bliss


    Here the great well-spring of wash'd souls with beams
    Of living light quickens the lively streams;
    The Dove descends, and stirs them with her wings,
    So weds these waters to the upper springs.
    They straight conceive; a new birth doth proceed
    From the bright streams by an immortal seed.
    O the rare love of God! sinners wash'd here
    Come forth pure saints, all justified and clear.
    So blest in death and life, man dies to sins,
    And lives to God: sin dies, and life begins
    To be reviv'd: old Adam falls away
    And the new lives, born for eternal sway.


    Through pleasant green fields enter you the way
    To bliss; and well through shades and blossoms may
    The walks lead here, from whence directly lies
    The good man's path to sacred Paradise.


    The painful cross with flowers and palms is crown'd,
    Which prove, it springs; though all in blood 'tis drown'd;
    The doves above it show with one consent,
    Heaven opens only to the innocent.

13. [PAULINUS. CARM. XXVII. 387-92.]

    You see what splendour through the spacious aisle,
    As if the Church were glorified, doth smile.
    The ivory-wrought beams seem to the sight
    Engraven, while the carv'd roof looks curl'd and bright.
    On brass hoops to the upmost vaults we tie
    The hovering lamps, which nod and tremble by
    The yielding cords; fresh oil doth still repair
    The waving flames, vex'd with the fleeting air.


    The pains of Saints and Saints' rewards are twins,
    The sad cross, and the crown which the cross wins.
    Here Christ, the Prince both of the cross and crown,
    Amongst fresh groves and lilies fully blown
    Stands, a white Lamb bearing the purple cross:
    White shows His pureness, red His blood's dear loss.
    To ease His sorrows the chaste turtle sings,
    And fans Him, sweating blood, with her bright wings;
    While from a shining cloud the Father eyes
    His Son's sad conflict with His enemies,
    And on His blessed head lets gently down
    Eternal glory made into a crown.
    About Him stand two flocks of diff'ring notes,
    One of white sheep, and one of speckled goats;
    The first possess His right hand, and the last
    Stand on His left; the spotted goats are cast
    All into thick, deep shades, while from His right
    The white sheep pass into a whiter light.


    Those sacred days by tedious Time delay'd,
    While the slow years' bright line about is laid,
    I patiently expect, though much distrest
    By busy longing and a love-sick breast.
    I wish they may outshine all other days;
    Or, when they come, so recompense delays
    As to outlast the summer hours' bright length;
    Or that fam'd day, when stopp'd by divine strength
    The sun did tire the world with his long light,
    Doubling men's labours, and adjourning night.
      As the bright sky with stars, the field with flow'rs,
    The years with diff'ring seasons, months and hours,
    God hath distinguishèd and mark'd, so He
    With sacred feasts did ease and beautify
    The working days: because that mixture may
    Make men--loth to be holy ev'ry day--
    After long labours, with a freer will,
    Adore their Maker, and keep mindful still
    Of holiness, by keeping holy days:
    For otherwise they would dislike the ways
    Of piety as too severe. To cast
    Old customs quite off, and from sin to fast
    Is a great work. To run which way we will,
    On plains is easy, not so up a hill.
      Hence 'tis our good God--Who would all men bring
    Under the covert of His saving wing--
    Appointed at set times His solemn feasts,
    That by mean services men might at least
    Take hold of Christ as by the hem, and steal
    Help from His lowest skirts, their souls to heal.
      For the first step to heaven is to live well
    All our life long, and each day to excel
    In holiness; but since that tares are found
    In the best corn, and thistles will confound
    And prick my heart with vain cares, I will strive
    To weed them out on feast-days, and so thrive
    By handfuls, 'till I may full life obtain,
    And not be swallow'd of eternal pain.

16. [PAULINUS (?). CARM. APP. I.]

    Come, my true consort in my joys and care!
    Let this uncertain and still wasting share
    Of our frail life be giv'n to God. You see
    How the swift days drive hence incessantly,
    And the frail, drooping world--though still thought gay[69]--
    In secret, slow consumption wears away.
    All that we have pass from us, and once past
    Return no more; like clouds, they seem to last,
    And so delude loose, greedy minds. But where
    Are now those trim deceits? to what dark sphere
    Are all those false fires sunk, which once so shin'd,
    They captivated souls, and rul'd mankind?
    He that with fifty ploughs his lands did sow,
    Will scarce be trusted for two oxen now;
    His rich, loud coach, known to each crowded street,
    Is sold, and he quite tir'd walks on his feet.
    Merchants that--like the sun--their voyage made
    From East to West, and by wholesale did trade,
    Are now turn'd sculler-men, or sadly sweat
    In a poor fisher's boat, with line and net.
    Kingdoms and cities to a period tend;
    Earth nothing hath, but what must have an end;
    Mankind by plagues, distempers, dearth and war,
    Tortures and prisons, die both near and far;
    Fury and hate rage in each living breast,
    Princes with princes, States with States contest;
    An universal discord mads each land,
    Peace is quite lost, the last times are at hand.
    But were these days from the Last Day secure,
    So that the world might for more years endure,
    Yet we--like hirelings--should our term expect,
    And on our day of death each day reflect.
    For what--Therasia--doth it us avail
    That spacious streams shall flow and never fail,
    That aged forests hie to tire the winds,
    And flow'rs each Spring return and keep their kinds!
    Those still remain: but all our fathers died,
    And we ourselves but for few days abide.
      This short time then was not giv'n us in vain,
    To whom Time dies, in which we dying gain,
    But that in time eternal life should be
    Our care, and endless rest our industry.
    And yet this task, which the rebellious deem
    Too harsh, who God's mild laws for chains esteem,
    Suits with the meek and harmless heart so right
    That 'tis all ease, all comfort and delight.
    "To love our God with all our strength and will;
    To covet nothing; to devise no ill
    Against our neighbours; to procure or do
    Nothing to others, which we would not to
    Our very selves; not to revenge our wrong;
    To be content with little, not to long
    For wealth and greatness; to despise or jeer
    No man, and if we be despised, to bear;
    To feed the hungry; to hold fast our crown;
    To take from others naught; to give our own,"
    --These are His precepts: and--alas!--in these
    What is so hard, but faith can do with ease?
    He that the holy prophets doth believe,
    And on God's words relies, words that still live
    And cannot die; that in his heart hath writ
    His Saviour's death and triumph, and doth yet
    With constant care, admitting no neglect,
    His second, dreadful coming still expect:
    To such a liver earthy things are dead,
    With Heav'n alone, and hopes of Heav'n, he's fed,
    He is no vassal unto worldly trash,
    Nor that black knowledge which pretends to wash,
    But doth defile: a knowledge, by which men
    With studied care lose Paradise again.
    Commands and titles, the vain world's device,
    With gold--the forward seed of sin and vice--
    He never minds: his aim is far more high,
    And stoops to nothing lower than the sky.
    Nor grief, nor pleasures breed him any pain,
    He nothing fears to lose, would nothing gain,
    Whatever hath not God, he doth detest,
    He lives to Christ, is dead to all the rest.
    This Holy One sent hither from above
    A virgin brought forth, shadow'd by the Dove;
    His skin with stripes, with wicked hands His face
    And with foul spittle soil'd and beaten was;
    A crown of thorns His blessed head did wound.
    Nails pierc'd His hands and feet, and He fast bound
    Stuck to the painful Cross, where hang'd till dead,
    With a cold spear His heart's dear blood was shed.
    All this for man, for bad, ungrateful man,
    The true God suffer'd! not that suff'rings can
    Add to His glory aught, Who can receive
    Access from nothing, Whom none can bereave
    Of His all-fulness: but the blest design
    Of His sad death was to save me from mine:
    He dying bore my sins, and the third day
    His early rising rais'd me from the clay.
    To such great mercies what shall I prefer,
    Or who from loving God shall me deter?
    Burn me alive, with curious, skilful pain,
    Cut up and search each warm and breathing vein;
    When all is done, death brings a quick release,
    And the poor mangled body sleeps in peace.
    Hale me to prisons, shut me up in brass,
    My still free soul from thence to God shall pass.
    Banish or bind me, I can be nowhere
    A stranger, nor alone; my God is there.
    I fear not famine; how can he be said
    To starve who feeds upon the Living Bread?
    And yet this courage springs not from my store,
    Christ gave it me, Who can give much, much more
    I of myself can nothing dare or do,
    He bids me fight, and makes me conquer too.
    If--like great Abr'ham--I should have command
    To leave my father's house and native land,
    I would with joy to unknown regions run,
    Bearing the banner of His blessed Son.
    On worldly goods I will have no design,
    But use my own, as if mine were not mine;
    Wealth I'll not wonder at, nor greatness seek,
    But choose--though laugh'd at--to be poor and meek.
    In woe and wealth I'll keep the same staid mind,
    Grief shall not break me, nor joys make me blind:
    My dearest Jesus I'll still praise, and He
    Shall with songs of deliv'rance compass me.
      Then come, my faithful consort! join with me
    In this good fight, and my true helper be;
    Cheer me when sad, advise me when I stray,
    Let us be each the other's guide and stay;
    Be your lord's guardian: give joint aid and due,
    Help him when fall'n, rise, when he helpeth you,
    That so we may not only one flesh be,
    But in one spirit and one will agree.


[69] The original has _gry_.

From _Hermetical Physic_: translated from Henry Nollius (1655).

1. [HORACE. EPIST. I. 1, 14-5.]

    Where'er my fancy calls, there I go still,
    Not sworn a slave to any master's will.


    There's need, betwixt his clothes, his bed and board,
    Of all that Earth and Sea and Air afford.


    With restless cares they waste the night and day,
    To compass great estates, and get the sway.

4. [JUVENAL. SATIRE XV. 160-164.]

                Whenever did, I pray,
    One lion take another's life away?
    Or in what forest did a wild boar by
    The tusks of his own fellow wounded die?
    Tigers with tigers never have debate;
    And bears among themselves abstain from hate

5. [JUVENAL. SATIRE XV. 169-171.]

    [Some] esteem it no point of revenge to kill,
    Unless they may drink up the blood they spill:
    Who do believe that hands, and hearts, and heads,
    Are but a kind of meat, etc.


    The strongest body and the best
    Cannot subsist without due rest.

From Thomas Powell's _Cerbyd Fechydwiaeth_ (1657).


    Y Pader, pan trier, Duw-tri a'i dododd
      O'i dadol ddaioni,
    Yn faen-gwaddan i bob gweddi,
      Ac athrawieth a wnaeth i ni.

                                                       Ol[or] Vaughan.

From Thomas Powell's _Humane Industry_ (1661).

1. [CAMPION. EPIGR. I. 151.]

    Time's-Teller wrought into a little round,
    Which count'st the days and nights with watchful sound;
    How--when once fix'd--with busy wheels dost thou
    The twice twelve useful hours drive on and show;
    And where I go, go'st with me without strife,
    The monitor and ease of fleeting life.


    The untired strength of never-ceasing motion,
    A restless rest, a toilless operation,
    Heaven then had given it, when wise Nature did
    To frail and solid things one place forbid;
    And parting both, made the moon's orb their bound,
    Damning to various change this lower ground.
    But now what Nature hath those laws transgress'd,
    Giving to Earth a work that ne'er will rest?
    Though 'tis most strange, yet--great King--'tis not new:
    This work was seen and found before, in you.
    In you, whose mind--though still calm--never sleeps,
    But through your realms one constant motion keeps:
    As your mind--then--was Heaven's type first, so this
    But the taught anti-type of your mind is.


    How oft have we beheld wild beasts appear
    From broken gulfs of earth, upon some part
    Of sand that did not sink! How often there
    And thence, did golden boughs o'er-saffron'd start!
    Nor only saw we monsters of the wood,
    But I have seen sea-calves whom bears withstood;
    And such a kind of beast as might be named
    A horse, but in most foul proportion framed.

4. [MARTIAL. EPIGR. I. 105.]

    That the fierce pard doth at a beck
    Yield to the yoke his spotted neck,
    And the untoward tiger bear
    The whip with a submissive fear;
    That stags do foam with golden bits.
    And the rough Libyc bear submits
    Unto the ring; that a wild boar
    Like that which Calydon of yore
    Brought forth, doth mildly put his head
    In purple muzzles to be led;
    That the vast, strong-limb'd buffles draw
    The British chariots with taught awe,
    And the elephant with courtship falls
    To any dance the negro calls:
    Would not you think such sports as those
    Were shows which the gods did expose?
    But these are nothing, when we see
    That hares by lions hunted be, etc.

            NOTES TO VOL. II.


Most of the poems in this volume of 1646 appear to belong to Vaughan's
sojourn as a law-student in London: that, however, on the Priory Grove
must have been written after he had retired to Wales on the outbreak of
the Civil War.

P. 5. To my Ingenious Friend, R. W.

It is probable that this is the R. W. of the Elegy in _Olor Iscanus_ (p.
79). On the attempts to identify him, see the note to that poem. The
_Poems_ of 1646 must have been published while his fate was still

_Pints i' th' Moon or Star._ These are names of rooms, rather than of
inns. _Cf._ Shakespeare, 1 _Henry IV._, ii. 4, 30, "Anon, anon, sir!
Score a pint of bastard in the Half-moon."

P. 6. _Randolph._

The works of Randolph here referred to are his comedy _The Jealous
Lovers_, his pastoral _Amyntas; or, The Impossible Dowry_, and the
following verses _On the Death of a Nightingale_:--

    "Go, solitary wood, and henceforth be
    Acquainted with no other harmony
    Than the pie's chattering, or the shrieking note
    Of boding owls, and fatal raven's throat.
    Thy sweetest chanter's dead, that warbled forth
    Lays that might tempests calm, and still the north,
    And call down angels from their glorious sphere,
    To hear her songs, and learn new anthems there.
    That soul is fled, and to Elysium gone,
    Thou a poor desert left; go then and run.
    Beg there to want a grove, and if she please
    To sing again beneath thy shadowy trees,
    The souls of happy lovers crowned with blisses
    Shall flock about thee, and keep time with kisses."

P. 8. Les Amours.

Lines 22-24 are misprinted in the original; they there run:--

    "O'er all the tomb a sudden spring:
    If crimson flowers, whose drooping heads
    Shall curtain o'er their mournful heads:"

P. 10. To Amoret.

The Amoret of these _Poems_ may or may not be the Etesia of _Thalia
Rediviva_; and she may or may not have been the poet's first wife. _Cf._
_Introduction_ (vol. i, p. xxxiii).

_To her white bosom._ _Cf._ _Hamlet_, ii. 2, 113, where Hamlet addresses
a letter to Ophelia, "in her excellent white bosom, these."

P. 12. Song.

The MS. variant readings to this and to two of the following poems are
written in pencil on a copy of the _Poems_ in the British Museum, having
the press-mark 12304, a 24. There is no indication of their author, or
of the source from which they are taken.

P. 13. To Amoret.

_The vast ring._ _Cf._ _Silex Scintillans_ (vol. i., pp. 150, 284).

P. 18. _A Rhapsodis._

_The Globe Tavern._ This appears to have been near, or even a part of,
the famous theatre. There exists a forged letter of George Peele's, in
which it is mentioned as a resort of Shakespeare's, but there is no
authentic allusion to it by name earlier than an entry in the registers
of St. Saviour's, Southwark, for 1637. An "alehouse" is, however,
alluded to in a ballad on the burning of the old Globe in 1613. (Rendle
and Norman, _Inns of Old Southwark_, p. 326.)

_Tower-Wharf to Cymbeline and Lud_; that is, from the extreme east to
the extreme west of the City. Statues of the mythical kings of Britain
were set up in 1260 in niches on Ludgate. They were renewed when the
gate was rebuilt in 1586. It stood near the Church of St. Martin's,

_That made his horse a senator_; _i.e._ Caligula. _Cf._ Suetonius Vit.
Caligulae, 55: "_Incitato equo, cuius causa pridie circenses, ne
inquietaretur, viciniae silentium per milites indicere solebat, praeter
equile marmoreum et praesepe eburneum praeterque purpurea tegumenta ac
monilia e gemmis, domum etiam et familiam et suppellectilem dedit, quo
lautius nomine eius invitati acciperentur; consulatum quoque traditur

_he that ... crossed Rubicon_, _i.e._ Julius Cæsar.

P. 21. To Amoret.

The third stanza is closely modelled on Donne; _cf._ Introduction (vol.
i., p. xxi). The curious reader may detect many other traces of Donne's
manner of writing in these _Poems_ of 1646.

P. 23. To Amoret Weeping.

_Eat orphans ... patent it._ The ambition of a courtier under the
Stuarts was to get the guardianship of a royal ward, or the grant of a
monopoly in some article of necessity. Dr. Grosart quotes from Tustin's
_Observations; or, Conscience Emblem_ (1646): "By me, John Tustin, who
hath been plundered and spoiled by the patentees for white and grey
soap, eighteen several times, to his utter undoing."

P. 26. Upon the Priory Grove, his usual Retirement.

Mr. Beeching, in the _Introduction_ (vol. i., p. xxiii), states
following Dr. Grosart, that the Priory Grove was "the home of a famous
poetess of the day, Katherine Phillips, better known as 'the Matchless
Orinda.'" Vaughan was certainly a friend of Mrs. Phillips (_cf._ pp.
100, 164, 211, with notes), whose husband, Colonel James Phillips, lived
at the Priory, Cardigan; but she was not married until 1647.

Miss Morgan points out that there is still a wood on the outskirts of
Brecon which is known as the Priory Grove. It is near the church and
remains of a Benedictine Priory on the Honddu.

P. 28. Juvenal's Tenth Satire Translated.

This translation has a separate title-page; _cf._ the _Bibliography_
(vol. ii., p. lvii).


This volume, published in 1651, contains, besides the poems here
reprinted, some prose translations from Plutarch and other writers. The
separate title-pages of these are given in the _Bibliography_ (vol. ii.,
p. lviii): the incidental scraps of verse in them appear on pp. 291-293
of the present volume. The edition of 1651 has, besides the printed
title-page, an engraved title-page by the well-known engraver, who may
or may not have been a kinsman of the poet, Robert Vaughan. It
represents a swan on a river shaded by trees. The _Olor Iscanus_ was
reissued with a fresh title-page in 1679.

P. 52. Ad Posteros.

On the account of Vaughan's life here given, see the _Biographical note_
(vol. ii., p. xxx).

_Herbertus._ Matthew Herbert, Rector of Llangattock. Cf. the poem to him
on p. 158, with its note.

_Castae fidaeque ... parentis_, _i.e._, perhaps, his mother the Church.

_Nec manus atra fuit._ Dr. Grosart omitted the _fuit_, together with the
final _s_ of the preceding line. In this he is naïvely followed by Mr.
J. R. Tutin, in his selection of Vaughan's _Secular Poems_.

P. 53. To the ... Lord Kildare Digby.

Lord Kildare Digby was the eldest son of Robert, first Baron Digby, in
the peerage of Ireland. He succeeded to the title in 1642. He was about
21 at the time of this dedication, and died in 1661 (Dr. Grosart)

The date of the dedication is 17th of December, 1647. A volume was
therefore probably prepared for publication at that date, and
afterwards, as we learn from the publisher's preface, "condemned to
obscurity," and given surreptitiously to the world. At the same time, as
Miss Morgan points out to me, some of the poems in _Olor Iscanus_ must
be of later date than 1647. The death of Charles I. is apparently
alluded to in the lines _Ad Posteros_, and certainly in the "since
Charles his reign" of the _Invitation to Brecknock_ (p. 74). This event
took place on January 30th, 1648/9. The _Epitaph upon the Lady
Elizabeth_ (p. 102), again, cannot be earlier than her death on
September 8th, 1650.

P. 54. The Publisher to the Reader.

_Augustus vindex._ The lives of Vergil attributed to Donatus and others
relate that the poet, in his will, directed that his unfinished _Aeneid_
should be burnt. Augustus, however, interfered and ordered its

P. 57. Commendatory Verses.

These are signed by _T. Powell, Oxoniensis_; _I. Rowlandson,
Oxoniensis_; and _Eugenius Philalethes, Oxoniensis_. Thomas Powell, one
of the Powells of Cantreff, in Breconshire, was born in 1608. He
matriculated from Jesus College on January 25th, 1627/8, took his B.A.
in 1629 and his M.A. in 1632, and became a Fellow of the College. He was
Rector of Cantreff and Vicar of Brecknock, but was ejected by the
Commissioners for the Propagation of the Gospel and went abroad. At the
Restoration he returned to Cantreff and was made D.D. and Canon of St.
David's. But for his death, on the 31st December, 1660, he would
probably have become Bishop of Bristol. He was the author of several
books of no great importance. He appears to have been a close friend of
Vaughan, who addresses various poems to him, and contributed others to
his books. See _Olor Iscanus_, pp. 97, 159; _Thalia Rediviva_, pp. 178,
200, 267; _Fragments and Translations_, pp. 323-326. Powell, in return,
wrote commendatory poems to both the _Olor Iscanus_ and the _Thalia

_I. Rowlandson._ This may have been John Rowlandson, of Queen's College,
Oxford, who matriculated the 17th October, 1634, aged 17, took his B.A.
in 1636, and his M.A. in 1639. Either he or his father, James
Rowlandson, also of Queen's College, was sequestered by the Westminster
Assembly to the vicarage of Battle, Sussex, in 1644. He left it shortly
after and "returned to his benefice from whence he was before thence
driven by the forces raised against the parliament." (_See_ Addl. MS.
15,669, f. 17). There was also another James Rowlandson, son of James
Rowlandson, D.D., Canon of Windsor, who matriculated from Queen's
College on the 9th November, 1632, aged 17, and took his B.A. in
1637.--G. G.

_Eugenius Philalethes._ The author's brother, Thomas Vaughan. See the
_Biographical Note_ (vol. ii., p. xxxiii).

P. 39. _that lamentable nation_, _i.e._ the Scotch.

P. 61. Olor Iscanus.

_Ausonius._ The famous schoolmaster, rhetorician and courtier of the
early fourth century, was born at Bordeaux. One of his most famous poems
is the _Mosella_ (Idyll X), a description of the river and its fish.

_Castara_, Lucy, daughter of William Herbert, Lord Powys, and wife of
the Worcestershire poet, William Habington, who celebrated her in his
poems under that name. The _Castara_ was published in 1634.

_Sabrina_, the tutelar nymph of the Severn. _Cf._ the invocation of her
in Milton's "Comus."

_May the evet and the toad._ This passage is imitated from W. Browne's
_Britannia's Pastorals_, Bk. I., Song 2, II., 277 _sqq._:

    "May never evet nor the toad
    Within thy banks make their abode!
    Taking thy journey from the sea,
    May'st thou ne'er happen in thy way
    On nitre or on brimstone mine,
    To spoil thy taste! this spring of thine
    Let it of nothing taste but earth,
    And salt conceived, in their birth
    Be ever fresh! Let no man dare
    To spoil thy fish, make lock or ware;
    But on thy margent still let dwell
    Those flowers which have the sweetest smell.
    And let the dust upon thy strand
    Become like Tagus' golden sand.
    Let as much good betide to thee,
    As thou hast favour show'd to me."

                                                                 G. G.

_flames that are ... canicular. Cf. A Dialogue between Sir Henry Wotton
and Mr. Donne_ (Poems of John Donne, _Muse's Library_, Vol. I., p. 79):

    "I'll never dig in quarry of a heart
        To have no part,
    Nor roast in fiery eyes, which always are

P. 65. The Charnel-house.

_Kelder_, a caldron; cf. J. Cleveland, _The King's Disguise_:

    "The sun wears midnight; day is beetle-brow'd,
    And lightning is in kelder of a cloud."

_A second fiat's care._ The allusion is to _Genesis_ i. 3: "And God
said, Let there be light (in the Vulgate, _Fiat lux_), and there was
light"; _cf._ Donne, _The Storm_ (_Muses' Library_, II. 4):

    "Since all forms uniform deformity
    Doth cover; so that we, except God say
    Another _Fiat_, shall have no more day."

P. 70. To his Friend ----.

Miss Morgan thinks that the "friend" of this poem, whose name is shown
by the first line to have been James, may perhaps be identified with the
James Howell of the _Epistolae Ho-Elianae_. Howell had Vaughans amongst
his cousins and correspondents, but these appear to have been of the
Golden Grove family.

P. 73. To his retired Friend--an Invitation to Brecknock.

_her foul, polluted walls._ Miss Morgan quotes a statement from Grose's
_Antiquities_ to the effect that the walls of Brecknock were pulled down
by the inhabitants during the Civil War in order to avoid having to
support a garrison or stand a siege.

_the Greek_, _i.e._ Hercules when in love with Omphale.

_Domitian-like_: _Cf._ Suetonius, _Vita Domitiani_, 3: "_Inter initia
principatus cotidie secretum sibi horarum sumere solebat, nec quicquam
amplius quam muscas captare ac stilo praeacuto configere._"

_Since Charles his reign._ This poem must date from after the execution
of Charles I., on January 30, 1648/9. It would appear therefore that
Vaughan was living in Brecknock and not at Newton about the time that
the _Olor Iscanus_ was published.

P. 77. Monsieur Gombauld.

The writer referred to is John Ogier de Gombauld (1567-1666). His prose
tale of _Endymion_ was translated by Richard Hurst in 1637. _Ismena_ and
_Diophania_ who was metamorphosed into a myrtle, are characters in the
story. _Periardes_ is a hill in Armenia whence the Euphrates takes its

P. 79. An Elegy on the Death of Mr. R. W., slain in the late unfortunate
differences at Routon Heath, near Chester.

The battle of Routon, or Rowton, Heath took place on September 24, 1645.
The Royalist forces, under Charles I. and Sir Marmaduke Langdale,
advancing to raise the siege of Chester, were met and routed by the
Parliamentarians under Poyntz. The contemporary pamphlets give a long
list of the prisoners taken at Routon Heath, but name hardly any of
those slain. It is therefore difficult to say who R. W., evidently a
dear friend of Vaughan's, may have been. He appears to have been missing
for a year before he was finally given up. From lines 25-27 we learn
that he was a young man of only twenty. The most likely suggestion for
his identification seems to me that of Mr. C. H. Firth, who points out
to me that the name of one Roger Wood occurs in the list of Catholics
who fell in the King's service as having been slain at Chester. Miss
Southall (_Songs of Siluria_, 1890, p. 124) suggests that he may have
been either Richard Williams, a nephew of Sir Henry Williams, of
Gwernyfed, who died unmarried, or else a son of Richard Winter, of
Llangoed. He might also, I think, have been one of Vaughan's wife's
family, the Wises, and possibly also a Walbeoffe. A reference to the
Walbeoffe pedigree in the note to p. 189 will show that there was a
Robert Walbeoffe, brother of C. W. Miss Morgan thinks that he is a
generation too old, and that the unnamed son of C. W., who, according to
his tombstone, did not survive him, may have been a Robert, and the R.
W. in question. On the question whether Vaughan was himself present at
Routon Heath, _see_ the _Biographical Note_ (vol. ii., p. xxviii).

P. 83. Upon a Cloak lent him by Mr. J. Ridsley.

I do not know who Mr. Ridsley was. On the references to Vaughan's
"juggling fate of soldiery" in this poem, _see_ the _Biographical Note_
(vol. ii., p. xxviii).

_craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee._ Chester stands, of course, on the
Dee, which is "fatal" as the scene of disasters to the Royalist cause.
Dr. Grosart explains Biston as "Bishton (or Bishopstone) in
Monmouthshire," and adds, "'Craggie Biston' refers, no doubt, to certain
caves there. The Poet's school-boy rambles from Llangattock doubtless
included Bishton." I think that Biston is clearly Beeston Castle, one of
the outlying defences of Chester, which played a considerable part in
the siege. It surrendered on November 5, 1645, and the small garrison
was permitted to march to Denbigh (J. R. Phillips, _The Civil War in
Wales and the Marshes_, vol. i., p. 343).

_Micro-cosmography_, the world represented on a small scale in man.
Vaughan means that he had as many lines on him as a map.

_Speed's Old Britons._ John Speed (1555-1629) published his _History of
Great Britain_ in 1614.

_King Harry's Chapel at Westminster_, with its tombs, was already one of
the sights of London.

_Brownist._ The Brownists were the religious followers of Robert Browne
(c. 1550-c. 1633); they were afterwards known as Independents or

P. 86. Upon Mr. Fletcher's Plays.

The first folio edition of Beaumont and Fletcher's _Comedies and
Tragedies_ was published in 1647. Vaughan's lines are not, however,
amongst the commendatory verses there given.

_Field's or Swansted's overthrow._ Nathaniel Field and Eliard Swanston,
who appears to be meant by Swansted, were well-known actors. They were
both members of the King's Company about 1633.

P. 90. Upon the Poems and Plays of the ever-memorable Mr. William

This was printed, together with verses by Tho. Vaughan and many other
writers, in William Cartwright's _Comedies, Tragi-comedies, with other
Poems_, 1651.

P. 94. An Elegy on the Death of Mr. R. Hall, slain at Pontefract, 1648.

Miss Southall thinks that the subject of this elegy may have been a son
of Richard Hall, of High Meadow, in the Forest of Dean, co. Gloucester.
These Halls were connected with the Winters, a Breconshire family. Mr.
C. H. Firth ingeniously suggests to me that for R. Hall we should read
R. Hall[ifax], and points out that a Robert Hallyfax was one of the
garrison at the first siege of Pontefract in 1645. He may have been at
the second siege also. (R. Holmes, _Sieges of Pontefract_, p. 20.)

P. 97. To my learned Friend, Mr. T. Powell, upon his Translation of
Malvezzi's "Christian Politician."

The book referred to is _The Pourtract of the Politicke
Christian-Favourite_. By Marquesse Virgilio Malvezzi, 1647. This is a
translation of _Il Ritratto del Privato Politico Christiano_, published
at Bologna in 1635. It does not contain Vaughan's verses, and no
translator's name is given. The preface of another translation from
Malvezzi, the _Stoa Triumphans_ (1651), is, however, signed "T. P."

P. 99. To my worthy Friend, Master T. Lewes.

Some of the lines in this poem are borrowed from Horace's verses, _Ad
Thaliarcham_ (Book I., Ode 9):

    "Vides, ut alta stet nive candida
    Soracte, nec iam sustineant onus
        Sylvae laborantes, geluque
            Flumina constiterint acuto?

           *       *       *       *       *

    Quid sit futurum eras, fuge quaerere;
    Quam sors dierum cunque debit; lucro

                                                                 G. G.

Dr. Grosart thinks that T. Lewes was "probably of Maes-mawr, opposite
Newton, on the south side of the Usk." Miss Southall identifies him with
Thomas Lewis, incumbent in 1635 of Llanfigan, near Llansantffread. He
was expelled from his living, but returned to it at the Restoration.

P. 100. To the most excellently accomplished Mrs. K. Philips.

Katherine Philips, by birth Katherine Fowler, became the wife in 1647 of
Colonel James Philips, of the Priory, Cardigan. She was a wit and
poetess, and well-known to a large circle of friends as "the matchless
Orinda." Each member of her coterie had a similar fantastic pseudonym,
and it is possible that this may account for the Etesia and Timander,
the Fida and Lysimachus, of Vaughan's poems. The poems of Orinda were
surreptitiously published in 1664, and in an authorised version in 1667.
They include her poem on Vaughan, afterwards prefixed to _Thalia
Rediviva_ (cf. p. 169), but are not accompanied by the present verses
nor by those to her editor in _Thalia Rediviva_ (p. 211).

_A Persian votary_--_i.e._, a Parsee, or fire-worshipper.

P. 102. An Epitaph upon the Lady Elizabeth, Second Daughter to his late

Elizabeth, second daughter of Charles I., was born in 1635. She suffered
from ill-health and grief after her father's execution, and died at
Carisbrooke on September 8, 1650. This poem, therefore, like others in
the volume, must be of later date than the dedication.

P. 104. To Sir William Davenant, upon his Gondibert.

Davenant's _Gondibert_ was first published in 1651. It does not contain
Vaughan's verses.

_thy aged sire._ Is this an allusion to the story that Davenant was in
reality the son of William Shakespeare?

_Birtha_, the heroine of _Gondibert_.

P. 119. Cupido [Cruci Affixus].

Another translation of Ausonius' poems was published by Thomas Stanley
in 1649. There is nothing in the original corresponding to the last four
lines of Vaughan's translation.

Ll. 89-94. The Latin is:

            "Se quisque absolvere gestit,
    Transferat ut proprias aliena in crimina culpas."

Vaughan's simile is borrowed from Donne's _Fourth Elegy_ (_Muses'
Library_, I., 107):

            "as a thief at bar is questioned there,
    By all the men that have been robb'd that year."

P. 125. Translations from Boethius.

These translations are from the _De Consolatione Philosophiae_, a medley
of prose and verse. Vaughan has translated all the verse in the first
two books except the Metrum 3 of Book I. and Metrum 6 of Book II. The
headings of Metra 7 and 8 of Book II. are given in error in _Olor
Iscanus_ as Metra 6 and 7. Some further translations from Books III. and
IV. will be found in _Thalia Rediviva_, pp. 224-235.

P. 144. Translations from Casimirus.

These translations are from the Polish poet Mathias Casimirus
Sarbievius, or Sarbiewski (1595-1640). His Latin _Lyrics_ and _Epodes_,
modelled on Horace, were published in 1625-1631. Sarbiewski was a
Jesuit, and a complete edition of his poems was published by the Jesuits
in 1892.

P. 158. Venerabili viro, praeceptori suo olim et semper colendissimo
Magistro Mathaeo Herbert.

Matthew Herbert was Rector of Llangattock, and apparently acted as tutor
to the young Vaughans. He is mentioned in the lines _Ad Posteros_ (p.
51). Thomas Vaughan also has two sets of Latin verses to him (Grosart,
II., 349), and dedicated to him his _Man-Mouse taken in a Trap_ (1650).
On July 19, 1655, he petitioned for the discharge of the sequestration
on his rectory, which had been sequestered for the delinquency of the
Earl of Worcester (_Cal. Proc. Ctee. for Compositions_, p. 1713). He
died in 1660.

P. 159. Praestantissimo viro Thomae Poëllo in suum de Elementis Opticæ

The _Elementa Opticae_ appeared in 1649. It has no name on the
title-page, but the preface is signed "T. P.," and dated 1649. It
contains the present prefatory verses, together with some others, also
in Latin, by Eugenius Philalethes (Thomas Vaughan).


This volume, published in 1578, at a late date in Henry Vaughan's life,
twenty-three years after the second part of _Silex Scintillans_, must
have been written, at least in part, much earlier. The poem on _The King
Disguised_, for instance, goes back to 1646. At the end of the volume,
with a separate title-page (_cf. Bibliography_), come the Verse Remains
of the poet's brother, Thomas Vaughan. This is the rarest of Vaughan's
collections of poems. The copy once in Mr. Corser's collection, and now
in the British Museum, was believed to be unique. It was used both by
Lyte and Dr. Grosart. But Miss Morgan has come across two other copies,
one in Mr. Locker-Lampson's library at Rowfant, the other in that of Mr.
Joseph, at Brecon.

P. 163. The Epistle-Dedicatory.

Henry Somerset, third Marquis of Worcester, was created Duke of
Beaufort in 1682. He was a distant kinsman of Vaughan's, whose
great-great-grandfather, William Vaughan of Tretower, married Frances
Somerset, granddaughter of Henry, Earl of Worcester. He was a firm
adherent of the Stuarts, and refused to take the oath of allegiance to
William III. (Dr. Grosart).

P. 164. Commendatory Verses.

These are signed by _Orinda_; _Tho. Powell, D.D._; _N. W., Ies. Coll.,
Oxon._; _I. W., A.M. Oxon._

On Orinda, _cf._ the note to p. 100, and on Dr. Powell, that to P. 57.

Mr. Firth suggests that N. W., of Jesus, probably a young man, who
imitates Cowley's _Pindarics_, and does not claim any personal
acquaintance with Vaughan, may be N[athaniel] W[illiams], son of Thomas
Williams, of Swansea, who matriculated in 1672, or N[icholas] W[adham],
of Rhydodyn, Carmarthen, who matriculated in 1669.

I. W., also an Oxford man, is probably the writer of the prefaces to the
Marquis of Worcester and to the Reader, which are signed respectively J.
W. and I. W. Mr. Firth suggests that he may be J[ohn] W[illiams], son of
Sir Henry Williams of Gwernevet, Brecon, who matriculated at Brasenose
in 1642. I have thought that he might be Vaughan's cousin, the second
John Walbeoffe (_cf._ p. 189, note), who is mentioned in Thomas
Vaughan's diary (_cf. Biographical Note_, vol. ii., p. xxxviii), but
there is no proof that Walbeoffe was an Oxford man. Perhaps he is the
friend James to whom a poem in _Olor Iscanus_ is addressed (p. 70).

P. 178. To his Learned Friend and loyal Fellow-prisoner, Thomas Powel of
Cant[reff], Doctor of Divinity.

On Dr. Powell, _cf._ note to p. 57. Vaughan's reason for calling him a
"fellow-prisoner" is discussed in the _Biographical Note_ (vol. ii., p.

P. 181. The King Disguised.

John Cleveland's poem, _The King's Disguise_, here referred to, was
first published as a pamphlet on January 21, 1646. It appears in
Cleveland's _Works_ (1687). The disguising was on the occasion of
Charles the First's flight, on April 27, 1646, from Oxford to the
Scottish camp, of which Dr. Gardiner writes (_History of the Civil War_,
Ch. xli): "At three in the morning of the 27th, Charles, disguised as a
servant, with his beard and hair closely trimmed, passed over Magdalen
Bridge in apparent attendance upon Ashburnham and Hudson."

P. 187. To Mr. M. L., upon his Reduction of the Psalms into Method.

Dr. Grosart identifies M. L. with Matthew Locke, of whom Roger North
says, in his _Memoirs of Music_ (4to, 1846, p. 96): "He set most of the
Psalms to music in parts, for the use of some vertuoso ladyes in the
city." Locke's setting of the _Psalms_ exists only in MS. A copy was in
the library of Dr. E. F. Rimbault, who thinks that the author assisted
Playford in his _Whole Book of Psalms_ (1677). In 1677 he died.

P. 189. To the pious Memory of C[harles] W[albeoffe] Esquire.

Charles Walbeoffe was a man of considerable importance in
Brecknockshire. His name occurs several times in State papers of the
period. A petition of his concerning a ward is dated October 12, 1640.
(_Cal. S. P. Dom._, Car. I., 470, 113). He was High Sheriff in 1648
(Harl. MS. 2,289, f. 174), and a fragment of a warrant signed by him on
April 17 of that year to Thomas Vaughan, treasurer of the county, for
the monthly assessment, is in Harl. MS. 6,831, f. 13. As we might
perhaps gather from Vaughan's poem, he does not seem to have taken an
active part in the Civil War. He did not, like some other members of his
family, sign the _Declaration_ of Brecknock for the Parliament on
November 23, 1645 (J. R. Phillips, _Civil War in Wales and the Marches_,
ii. 284). And he seems to have joined the Royalist rising in Wales of
1648. Information was laid on February 10, 1649, that he "was
Commissioner of Array and Association, raised men and money, subscribed
warrants to raise men against the Parliament's generals, and sat as J.P.
in the court at Brecon when the friends of Parliament were prosecuted"
(_Cal. Proc. Ctee. for Advance of Money_, p. 1017). Afterwards he was
reconciled, sat on the local Committee for Compositions, and again got
into trouble with the authorities. On May 14, 1652, the Brecon Committee
wrote to the Central Committee that, being one of the late Committee, he
would not account for sums in his hands. He was fined £20. (_Cal. Proc.
Ctee. for Compositions_, p. 578.)

Miss Morgan has copied the inscription on his tombstone in Llanhamlach

                           [Arms of Walbeoffe.]

     "Here lieth the body of Charles Walbeoffe, Esqre., who departed
     this life the 13th day of September, 1653, and was married to Mary,
     one of the daughters of Sir Thomas Aubrey of Llantryddid, in the
     county of Glamorgan, Knt., by whom he had issue two sonnes, of whom
     only Charles surviveth."

Charles Walbeoffe the younger died in 1668, and was succeeded by his
cousin John. "This gentleman," says Jones (_Hist. of Brecknock_, ii.,
482), "being of a gay and extravagant turn, left the estate, much
encumbered, to his son Charles, and soon after his death it was
foreclosed and afterwards sold."

This John Walbeoffe is mentioned in Thomas Vaughan's _Diary_ (_cf._ vol.
ii., p. xxxviii). He may be the writer of the preface to _Thalia
Rediviva_ (_cf._ p. 164, note).

It is possible that the R. W. of another of Vaughan's Elegies may also
have been a Walbeoffe. _Cf._ p. 79, _note_.

Dr. Grosart was unable to identify the initials C. W. The Walbeoffes, or
Walbieffes, of Llanhamlach, the next village to Llansantfread, were
among the most important of the _Advenae_, or Norman settlers of
Brecknockshire. They were related, as the following table shows, to the
Vaughans of Tretower. The following extract from the genealogy of the
Walbeoffes of Llanhamlach is compiled from Harl. MS. 2,289. f. 136_b_;
Jones, _History of Brecknockshire_, ii., 484; Miss G. E. F. Morgan, in
_Brecon County Times_ for May 13, 1887.

               William Vaughan
               of Tretower.
         |                     |
      Charles.              Margaret = John Walbeoffe.
           |                                 |
           |                   +-------------+--------------------+---+
           |                   |                                  |   |
 Thomas = Denise Williams.  Charles   = Mary, d. of Sir           | Robert.
           |                ob. 1653. | Thomas Aubrey             |
           |                          | of Llantrithid.           |
           |                          |                           |
         Henry.                       +----------------+          |
           |                          |                |          |
   +-------+---------+                |               Son         |
   |       |         |                |           (name unknown.) |
 Henry. Thomas. W[illiam?]            |                           |
                                      |                           |
                              Charles = Elizabeth, d. and         |
                   nat. 1646, matr.     h. to Thomas Aubrey       |
                 19, vii., 1661, ob.    of Llantrithid.           |
                         s.p. 1668.                               |
                                     John = Catherine Watkins.
                                        John = Susan, d. of Humphry
                                             | Howarth of Whitehouse,
                                             | Herefordshire.
                                  |                       |
                                Charles.      John, Rector of Llanhamlach,
                                             nat. 1675, matr. 3, ii., 1696.

P. 193. In Zodiacum Marcelli Palingenii.

Marcellus Palingenius, or Petro Angelo Manzoli, wrote his didactic and
satirical poem, the _Zodiacus Vitae_, about 1535. It was translated into
English by Barnabee Googe in 1560-1565. The latest edition of the
original is that by C. C. Weise (1832). As we may gather from Vaughan's
lines, Manzoli was an earnest student of occult lore. _Cf._ Gustave
Reynier, _De Marcelli Palingenii Stellatae Poctae Zodiaco Vitae_ (1893).

P. 195. To Lysimachus.

_Bevis ... Arundel ... Morglay_. The allusion is to the _Romance of Sir
Bevis of Hampton_ (ed. E. Kölbing, E. E. T. S., 1885). Arundel was Sir
Bevis' horse, and Morglay his sword.

P. 197. On Sir Thomas Bodley's Library.

If Vaughan was not himself an Oxford man (_Biog. Note_, vol. ii., p.
xxvi), he may have been in Oxford with the King's troops at the end of
August, 1645 (_Biog. Note_, vol. ii., p. xxxi).

_Walsam_, Walsingham, in Norfolk, famous for the rich shrine of Our Lady
of Walsingham, to which many offerings were made.

P. 200. The Importunate Fortune.

I. 105. _My purse, as Randolph's was._ The allusion is to Randolph's _A
Parley with his Empty Purse_, which begins:

    "Purse, who'll not know you have a poet's been,
    When he shall look and find no gold herein?"

P. 204. To I. Morgan, of Whitehall, Esq.

Whitehall appears to be an Anglicised form of Wenallt, more properly
Whitehill. John Morgan, or Morgans, of Wenallt, in Llandetty, was a
kinsman of Vaughan's, as the following table (from Harl. MS., 2,289, f.
39) shows:

             John Morgans.
               Morgan Jones =  Frances, d. of Charles
                            |  Vaughan of Tretower
   |                                        |
John Morgans = Mary, d. to Thomas         Anne =
                 Aubrey of Llantrithid.   1. Charles Williams
                                             of Scethrog.
                                          2. Hugh Powell, parson
                                             of Llansantffread.

P. 211. To the Editor of the Matchless Orinda.

_cf._ p. 100, _note_. These lines do not appear in either the 1664 or
the 1667 edition of Orinda's poems.

P. 213. Upon Sudden News of the Much Lamented Death of Judge Trevers.

"This was probably Sir Thomas Trevor, youngest son of John Trevor, Esq.,
of Trevallyn, co. Denbigh, by Mary, daughter of Sir George Bruges, of
London. He was born 6th July, 1586. He was made one of the Barons of the
Exchequer 12th May, 1625; and was one of the six judges who refused to
accept the new commission offered them by the ruling powers under the
Commonwealth. He died 21st December, 1656, and is buried at
Lemington-Hastang, in Warwickshire." (Dr. Grosart.)

P. 214. To Etesia (for Timander) The First Sight.

I do not think we need look for anything autobiographical in this and
the following poems written to Etesia. They are written "for Timander,"
that is, either to serve the suit of a friend, or as copies of verses
with no personal reference at all. The names Etesia and Timander smack
of Orinda's poetic circle.

P. 224. Translations from Severinus.

Dr. Grosart hunted out an obscure Neapolitan, Marcus Aurelius Severino,
and ascribed to him the originals of these translations. They are of
course from the _De Consolatione Philosophiae_ of Anicius Manlius
Severinus Boethius, and are a continuation of the pieces already printed
in _Olor Iscanus_ (pp. 125-143).

P. 245. Pious Thoughts and Ejaculations.

These are much in the vein of _Silex Scintillans_. They probably belong
to various dates later than 1655, when the second part of that
collection appeared. _The Nativity_ (p. 259) is dated 1656, and _The
True Christmas_ (p. 261) was apparently written after the Restoration.

P. 261. The True Christmas.

Vaughan was no Puritan; _cf._ his lines on _Christ's Nativity_ (vol. i.,
p. 107)--

    "Alas, my God! Thy birth now here
    Must not be numbered in the year,"

but he was not much in sympathy with the ideals of the Restoration
either; _cf._ the passage on "our unjust ways" in _Daphnis_ (p. 284).

P. 267. De Salmone.

On Thomas Powell, _cf._ p. 57, note.

P. 272. The Bee.

_Hilarion's servant, the sage crow._ There seems to be some confusion
between Hilarion, an obscure fourth-century Abbot, and Paul the Hermit,
of whom it is related in his _Life by S. Jerome_ that for sixty years he
was daily provided with half a loaf of bread by a crow.

P. 278. Daphnis.

The subject of the Eclogue appears to be Vaughan's brother Thomas, who
died 27th February, 1666. On him _see_ the _Biographical Note_ (vol.
ii., p. xxxiii).

_true black Moors_; an allusion, perhaps, to Thomas Vaughan's
controversy with Henry More.

_Old Amphion_; perhaps Matthew Herbert, on whom see note to p. 158.

_The Isis and the prouder Thames._ Thomas Vaughan was buried at Albury,
near Oxford.

_Noble Murray._ Thomas Vaughan's patron, himself a poet and alchemist,
Sir Robert Murray, Secretary of State for Scotland. His poems have been
collected by the Hunterian Club.


The larger number of the verses in this section are translated
quotations scattered through Vaughan's prose-pamphlets. Dr. Grosart
identified some of the originals; I have added a few others; but the
larger number remain obscure and are hardly worth spending much labour
upon. The title-pages of the pamphlets will be found in the
_Bibliography_ (vol. ii., p. lvii).

P. 289. From Eucharistica Oxoniensia.

I have already, in the _Biographical Note_ (vol. ii., p. xxviii), given
reasons for doubting whether this poem is by the Silurist. It was first
printed as his by Dr. Grosart. Charles the First was in Scotland, trying
to settle his differences with the Scots, during the closing months of

P. 291. Translations from Plutarch and Maximus Tyrius.

These, together with a translation of Guevara's _De vitae rusticae
laudibus_, were appended to the _Olor Iscanus_. Vaughan did not
translate directly from the Greek, but from a Latin version published in
1613-14 amongst some tracts by John Reynolds, Lecturer in Greek at, and
afterwards President of Corpus Christi College, Oxford.

P. 294. From the Mount of Olives.

A volume of Devotions published by Vaughan in 1652. The preface, dated
1st October, 1651, is addressed to Sir Charles Egerton, Knight, and in
it Vaughan speaks of "that near relation by which my dearest friend
lays claim to your person." It is impossible to say who is the "dearest
friend" referred to. The _Flores Solitudinis_ (1654) is also dedicated
to Sir Charles Egerton. He was probably of Staffordshire. Dr. Grosart
(II. xxxiii) states that in Hanbury Church, co. Stafford, is a monument
_Caroli Egertoni Equitis Aurati_, who died 1662. Perhaps therefore he
was connected with Vaughan's wife's family, the Wises of Staffordshire.

P. 298. From Man in Glory.

This translation from a work attributed to St. Anselm and published as
his in 1639 is appended to the Mount of Olives.

In the original lines 5, 6, are printed in error after lines 7, 8.

P. 299. From Flores Solitudinis.

In 1654 Vaughan published a volume containing (1) translations of two
discourses by Eusebius Nierembergius, (2) a translation of Eucherius,
_De Contemptu Mundi_, (3) an original life of S. Paulinus, Bishop of
Nola. These were poems "collected in his sickness and retirement." The
Epistle-dedicatory to Sir Charles Egerton is dated 1653, and that to the
reader which precedes the translations from Nierembergius on 17th April,

_Bissellius._ John Bissel a Jesuit, (1601-1677), wrote _Deliciae
Aetatis_, _Argonauticon Americanorum_, etc. (Grosart).

_Augurellius._ Johannes Aurelius Augurellius of Rimini (1454-1537),
wrote _Carmina_, _Chrysopoeia_, _Geronticon_, etc. (Grosart).

P. 307. From Primitive Holiness.

This original life of S. Paulinus of Nola, by far the most striking of
Vaughan's prose works, contains a number of poems, pieced together by
Vaughan from lines in Paulinus' own poems and in those of Ausonius
addressed to him. The edition used by Vaughan seems to have been that
published by Rosweyd at Antwerp in 1622. I have traced the sources of
the poems so far as I can in the edition published by W. de Hartel in
the _Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum_ (vols. xxix, xxx

P. 322. From Hermetical Physic.

A translation from the _Naturae Sanctuarium! quod est Physica Hermetica_
(1619) of the alchemist Henry Nollius, published by Vaughan in 1655.

P. 323. From Cerbyd Fechydwiaeth.

This tract is bound up with the Brit. Mus. copy of [Thomas Powell's]
_Quadriga Salutis_ (1657), of which it appears to be a Welsh
translation. The verses, to which nothing corresponds in the English
version, are signed Ol[or] Vaughan (_cf._ Olor Iscanus). Professor
Palgrave (_Y Cymrodor_, 1890-1) translates them as follows: "The Lord's
Prayer, when looked into (we see), the Trinity of His Fatherly goodness
has given it as a foundation-stone of all prayer, and has made it for
our instruction in doctrine." He adds that this Englyn occurs with
others written in an eighteenth-century hand on the fly-leaf of a MS. of
Welsh poetry by Iago ab Duwi.

P. 324. From Humane Industry.

On Thomas Powell _cf._ p. 57, note. The first three of these
translations are marked H. V. in the margin; of the fourth Powell says,
"The translation of Mr. Hen. Vaughan, Silurist, whose excellent Poems
are published." Many other translations are scattered through the book,
but there is nothing to connect them with Vaughan.


                                                         Vol. page
A grove there grows, round with the sea confin'd,         ii. 239

A king and no king! Is he gone from us,                   ii. 181

A tender kid--see, where 'tis put--                       ii. 293

A ward, and still in bonds, one day                        i.  19

A wit most worthy in tried gold to shine,                  i.   2

Accept, dread Lord, the poor oblation;                     i.  92

Accipe prærapido salmonem in gurgite captum,              ii. 267

Against the virtuous man we all make head,                ii. 305

Ah! He is fled!                                            i.  40

Ah! what time wilt Thou come? when shall that cry          i. 123

All sorts of men, who live on Earth,                      ii. 235

All worldly things, even while they grow, decay           ii. 304

Almighty Spirit! Thou that by                             ii. 144

Amyntas go, thou art undone                               ii.  12

And do they so? have they a sense                          i.  87

And for life's sake to lose the crown of life.            ii. 303

And is the bargain thought too dear                       ii. 311

And rising at midnight the stars espied                   ii. 297

And will not bear the cry                                 ii. 301

As Egypt's drought by Nilus is redress'd                  ii. 304

As kings do rule like th' heavens, who dispense           ii. 289

As Time one day by me did pass,                            i. 234

As travellers, when the twilight's come                    i. 146

Ask, lover, e'er thou diest; let one poor breath          ii.  11

Awake, glad heart! get up and sing!                        i. 105

Base man! and couldst thou think Cato alone               ii. 301

Be dumb, coarse measures, jar no more; to me               i. 195

Be still, black parasites,                                 i. 187

Bless me! what damps are here! how stiff an air!          ii.  65

Blessed, unhappy city! dearly lov'd,                       i. 218

Blessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads           ii.  92

Blest be the God of harmony and love!                      i.  76

Blest infant bud, whose blossom-life                       i. 120

Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst show           ii. 197

Bright and blest beam! whose strong projection,            i. 121

Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights:        ii. 245

Bright Queen of Heaven! God's Virgin Spouse!               i. 225

Bright shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss;         i. 114

But night and day doth his own life molest,               ii. 302

Can any tell me what it is? Can you                       ii. 268

Chance taking from me things of highest price             ii. 292

Come, come! what do I here?                                i.  61

Come, drop your branches, strew the way                    i. 216

Come, my heart! come, my head,                             i.  52

Come, my true consort in my joys and care!                ii. 317

Come sapless blossom, creep not still on earth,            i. 166

Curtain'd with clouds in a dark night                     ii. 132

Darkness, and stars i' th' mid-day! They invite           ii.  18

Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day                 i. 227

Dear friend, sit down, and bear awhile this shade          i. 193

Dear friend! whose holy, ever-living lines                 i.  91

Dearest! if you those fair eyes--wond'ring--stick         ii. 115

Death and darkness, get you packing,                       i. 133

Diminuat ne sera dies præsentis honorem                   ii.  51

Draw near, fond man, and dress thee by this glass,        ii. 294

Dust and clay,                                             i. 180

Early, while yet the dark was gay                         ii. 255

Eternal God! Maker of all                                  i. 285

Et sic in cithara, sic in dulcedine vitæ                  ii. 266

Excel then if thou canst, be not withstood,               ii. 291

Fair and young light! my guide to holy                     i. 236

Fair order'd lights--whose motion without noise            i. 155

Fair Prince of Light! Light's living well!                ii. 249

Fair, shining mountains of my pilgrimage                  ii. 247

Fair, solitary path! whose blessed shades                  i. 256

Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proud               ii. 257

Fairly design'd! to charm our civil rage                  ii. 171

False life! a foil and no more, when                       i. 282

Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd,                        ii.  15

Farewell! I go to sleep; but when                          i.  73

Farewell thou true and tried reflection                   ii. 276

Farewell, you everlasting hills! I'm cast                  i.  43

Father of lights! what sunny seed,                         i. 189

Feeding on fruits which in the heavens do grow,           ii. 291

Flaccus, not so: that worldly he                          ii. 152

Fool that I was! to believe blood                         ii. 209

For shame desist, why shouldst thou seek my fall?         ii. 200

Fortune--when with rash hands she quite turmoils          ii. 134

Fresh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face             ii. 252

From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders,                   ii. 272

From the first hour the heavens were made                 ii. 296

Go catch the ph[oe]nix, and then bring                    ii. 217

Go, go, quaint follies, sugar'd sin,                       i. 113

Go, if you must! but stay--and know                       ii. 222

Had I adored the multitude and thence                     ii. 169

Hail, sacred shades! cool, leafy house!                   ii.  26

Happy is he, that with fix'd eyes                         ii. 224

Happy that first white age! when we                       ii. 138

Happy those early days, when I                             i.  59

Have I so long in vain thy absence mourn'd?               ii. 309

He that thirsts for glory's prize,                        ii. 140

Here holy Anselm lives in ev'ry page,                     ii. 298

Here, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heav'n          ii.  83

Here the great well-spring of wash'd souls, with beams    ii. 313

His deep, dark heart--bent to supplant--                  ii. 292

Hither thou com'st: the busy wind all night                i. 207

How could that paper sent,                                ii. 307

How is man parcell'd out! how ev'ry hour                   i. 139

How kind is Heav'n to man! if here                         i. 107

How oft have we beheld wild beasts appear                 ii. 325

How rich, O Lord, how fresh Thy visits are!                i. 105

How shrill are silent tears! when sin got head             i. 124

I am confirm'd, and so much wing is given                 ii.  79

I call'd it once my sloth: in such an age                 ii.  58

I cannot reach it; and my striving eye                     i. 249

I did but see thee! and how vain it is                    ii.  90

I have consider'd it; and find                             i.  90

I have it now:                                             i. 238

I knew it would be thus! and my just fears                ii.  94

I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive              ii.  87

I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towers                   ii. 296

I saw Eternity the other night                             i. 150

I see the Temple in thy pillar rear'd;                     i. 261

I see the use: and know my blood                           i.  69

I've read thy soul's fair nightpiece, and have seen       ii.  77

I walk'd the other day, to spend my hour,                  i. 171

I whose first year flourished with youthful verse,        ii. 125

I wonder, James, through the whole history                ii.  70

I write not here, as if thy last in store                 ii.  59

I wrote it down. But one that saw                          i. 264

If Amoret, that glorious eye,                             ii.  13

"If any have an ear,"                                      i. 242

If I were dead, and in my place                           ii.  16

If old tradition hath not fail'd,                         ii. 233

If sever'd friends by sympathy can join,                  ii. 178

If this world's friends might see but once                 i. 232

If weeping eyes could wash away                           ii. 151

If with an open, bounteous hand                           ii. 135

In all the parts of earth, from farthest West,            ii.  28

In March birds couple, a new birth                        ii. 295

In those bless'd fields of everlasting air                ii. 119

Isca parens florum, placido qui spumeus ore               ii. 157

It is perform'd! and thy great name doth run              ii. 193

It lives when kill'd, and brancheth when 'tis lopp'd      ii. 301

It would less vex distressèd man                          ii. 145

Jesus, my life! how shall I truly love Thee?               i. 200

Joy of my life while left me here!                         i.  67

Knave's tongues and calumnies no more doth prize          ii. 292

King of comforts! King of Life!                            i. 127

King of mercy, King of love,                               i. 174

Learning and Law, your day is done,                       ii. 213

Leave Amoret, melt not away so fast                       ii.  23

Let me not weep to see thy ravish'd house                 ii. 307

Let not thy youth and false delights                      ii. 146

Life, Marcellina, leaving thy fair frame,                 ii. 312

Like some fair oak, that when her boughs                  ii. 302

[Like] to speedy posts, bear hence the lamp of life       ii. 304

Long life, oppress'd with many woes,                      ii. 306

Long since great wits have left the stage                 ii. 211

Lord, bind me up, and let me lie                           i. 161

Lord Jesus! with what sweetness and delights,              i. 177

Lord, since Thou didst in this vile clay                   i. 116

Lord! what a busy restless thing                           i.  48

Lord, when Thou didst on Sinai pitch,                      i. 148

Lord, when Thou didst Thyself undress,                     i.  51

Lord, with what courage, and delight                       i.  80

Love, the world's life! What a sad death                  ii. 223

Man should with virtue arm'd and hearten'd be             ii. 303

Mark, when the evening's cooler wings                     ii.  21

Most happy man! who in his own sweet fields               ii. 236

My dear, Almighty Lord! why dost Thou weep?                i. 220

My God and King! to Thee                                   i. 259

My God, how gracious art Thou! I had slipt                 i.  89

My God! Thou that didst die for me,                        i.  13

My God, when I walk in those groves                        i.  30

My soul, my pleasant soul, and witty,                     ii. 294

My soul, there is a country                                i.  83

Nature even for herself doth lay a snare,                 ii. 303

Nimble sigh on thy warm wings,                            ii.  10

Nothing on earth, nothing at all                          ii. 149

Now I have seen her; and by Cupid                         ii. 206

Now that the public sorrow doth subside                   ii. 189

O book! Life's guide! how shall we part;                   i. 287

O come, and welcome! come, refine!                        ii. 251

O come away,                                               i. 274

O day of life, of light, of love!                          i. 267

O do not go! Thou know'st I'll die!                        i. 214

O dulcis luctus, risuque potentior omni!                  ii. 221

O health, the chief of gifts divine!                      ii. 293

O holy, blessed, glorious Three,                           i. 201

O in what haste, with clouds and night                    ii. 126

O joys! infinite sweetness! with what flowers              i.  71

O knit me, that am crumbled dust! the heap                 i.  46

O my chief good!                                           i.  84

O quæ frondosæ per am[oe]na cubilia silvæ                 ii. 160

O, subtle Love! thy peace is war;                         ii. 220

O tell me whence that joy doth spring                      i. 284

O the new world's new-quick'ning Sun!                      i. 289

O Thou great builder of this starry frame,                ii. 129

O Thou that lovest a pure and whiten'd soul;               i. 130

O Thou! the first-fruits of the dead,                      i.  78

O Thou who didst deny to me                               ii. 263

O Thy bright looks! Thy glance of love                     i. 197

O when my God, my Glory, brings                            i. 260

Obdurate still and tongue-tied, you accuse                ii. 308

Oft have I seen, when that renewing breath                 i.  25

Patience digesteth misery                                 ii. 302

Peace? and to all the world? Sure One,                    ii. 259

Peace, peace! I blush to hear thee; when thou art          i. 108

Peace, peace! I know 'twas brave;                          i.  65

Peace, peace! it is not so. Thou dost miscall              i. 137

Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see,            ii. 299

Praying! and to be married! It was rare,                   i.  37

Quid celebras auratam undam, et combusta pyropis          ii. 265

Quite spent with thoughts, I left my cell, and lay         i.  57

Quod vixi, Mathæe dedit pater, hæc tamen olim             ii. 158

Sacred and secret hand!                                    i. 223

Sad, purple well! whose bubbling eye                       i. 254

Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when we                    ii. 195

Say, witty fair one, from what sphere                     ii. 100

See what thou wert! by what Platonic round                ii. 175

See you that beauteous queen, which no age tames?         ii. 219

Sees not my friend, what a deep snow                      ii.  99

Shall I believe you can make me return,                   ii. 306

Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask                 ii. 112

Sickness and death, you are but sluggish things,          ii. 309

Silence and stealth of days! 'Tis now,                     i.  74

Since dying for me, Thou didst crave no more               i. 278

Since I in storms us'd most to be,                         i. 283

Since in a land not barren still,                          i. 145

Since last we met, thou and thy horse--my dear--          ii.  73

Sion's true, glorious God! on Thee                         i. 269

So from our cold, rude world, which all things tires,     ii. 204

So our decays God comforts by                             ii. 295

So, stick up ivy and the bays,                            ii. 261

Some esteem it no point of revenge to kill                ii. 323

Some struggle and groan as if by panthers torn,           ii. 300

Still young and fine! but what is still in view            i. 230

Sure, it was so. Man in those early days                   i. 101

Sure Priam will to mirth incline,                         ii. 291

Sure, there's a tie of bodies! and as they                 i.  82

Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs,           i. 209

Sweet, harmless live[r]s!--on whose leisure                i. 158

Sweet, sacred hill! on whose fair brow                     i.  49

Tentasti, fateor, sine vulnere sæpius et me                i. liv

Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see                   ii.  68

That man for misery excell'd                              ii. 293

That the fierce pard doth at a beck                       ii. 325

That the world in constant force                          ii. 142

The lucky World show'd me one day                          i. 226

The naked man too gets the field,                         ii. 300

The painful cross with flowers and palms is crown'd,      ii. 314

The pains of Saints and Saints' rewards are twins,        ii. 314

The plenteous evils of frail life fill the old:           ii. 305

The strongest body and the best                           ii. 323

The trees we set grow slowly, and their shade             ii. 297

The untired strength of never-ceasing motion,             ii. 324

The whole wench--how complete soe'er--was but             ii. 298

There are that do believe all things succeed              ii. 295

There's need, betwixt his clothes, his bed and board      ii. 322

They are all gone into the world of light!                 i. 182

--They fain would--if they might--                        ii. 302

This is the day--blithe god of sack--which we,            ii. 106

This pledge of your joint love, to heaven now fled,       ii. 308

Those sacred days by tedious Time delay'd,                ii. 315

Though since thy first sad entrance by                     i. 272

Thou that know'st for whom I mourn,                        i.  54

Thou the nepenthe easing grief                            ii. 301

Thou who didst place me in this busy street                i. 244

Thou, who dost flow and flourish here below,               i. 198

Thou, whose sad heart, and weeping head lies low           i. 133

Through pleasant green fields enter you the way           ii. 313

Through that pure virgin shrine,                           i. 251

Time's teller wrought into a little round,                ii. 324

'Tis a sad Land, that in one day                           i.  23

'Tis dead night round about: Horror doth creep             i.  41

'Tis madness sure; and I am in the fit,                   ii. 184

'Tis not rich furniture and gems,                         ii. 147

'Tis now clear day: I see a rose                           i.  33

'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die,                   ii.  17

To live a stranger unto life                              ii. 304

True life in this is shown,                               ii. 304

'Twas so; I saw thy birth. That drowsy lake                i.  45

Tyrant, farewell! this heart, the prize                   ii.   8

Unfold! Unfold! Take in His light,                        ii. 254

Up, O my soul! and bless the Lord! O God,                  i. 202

Up to those bright and gladsome hills,                     i. 136

Vain, sinful art! who first did fit                        i. 219

Vain wits and eyes                                         i.  16

Virtue's fair cares some people measure                   ii. 303

Vivaces oculorum ignes et lumina dia                      ii. 159

Waters above! eternal springs!                            ii. 248

Weary of this same clay and straw, I laid                  i. 153

We thank you, worthy Sir, that now we see                 ii.  97

Weighing the steadfastness and state                       i. 169

Welcome, dear book, soul's joy and food! The feast         i. 103

Welcome sweet and sacred feast! welcome life!              i. 134

Welcome, white day! a thousand suns,                       i. 184

Well, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen                 ii. 104

What can the man do that succeeds the king?                i. 247

What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow,               ii. 278

What fix'd affections, and lov'd laws                     ii. 228

What happy, secret fountain,                               i. 241

What greater good hath decked great Pompey's crown        ii. 306

What is't to me that spacious rivers run                  ii. 295

What planet rul'd your birth? what witty star?            ii.  57

What smiling star in that fair night,                     ii. 214

What though they boast their riches unto us?              ii. 292

Whatever 'tis, whose beauty here below                     i. 191

When Daphne's lover here first wore the bays,             ii.  61

When first I saw True Beauty, and Thy joys                 i. 168

When first Thou didst even from the grave                  i. 110

When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave            i.  94

When Jove a heav'n of small glass did behold,             ii. 238

When the Crab's fierce constellation                      ii. 131

When the fair year                                         i. 212

When the sun from his rosy bed                            ii. 136

When through the North a fire shall rush                   i.  28

When to my eyes,                                           i.  63

When we are dead, and now, no more                        ii.   5

When with these eyes, clos'd now by Thee,                  i. 271

Whenever did, I pray,                                     ii. 322

Where reverend bards of old have sate                     ii. 172

Where'er my fancy calls, there I go still,                ii. 322

Whither, O whither didst thou fly                         ii. 250

Who wisely would for his retreat                          ii. 137

Who would unclouded see the laws                          ii. 230

Who on you throne of azure sits,                           i. 142

Whom God doth take care for, and love,                    ii. 306

Whose calm soul in a settled state                        ii. 128

Whose guilty soul, with terrors fraught, doth frame,      ii. 303

Whose hissings fright all Nature's monstrous ills,        ii. 305

With restless cares they waste the night and day,         ii. 322

With what deep murmurs, through Time's silent stealth,     i. 280

Y Pader, pan trier, Duw-tri a'i dododd                    ii. 323

You have consum'd my language, and my pen,                ii. 109

You have oblig'd the patriarch: and 'tis known            ii. 187

You minister to others' wounds a cure,                    ii. 291

You see what splendour through the spacious aisle,        ii. 314

You that to wash your flesh and souls draw near,          ii. 312

Youth, beauty, virtue, innocence                          ii. 102

Woodfall & Kinder, Printers, 70-76, Long Acre., W.C.

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