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That, since leagues we'gan to swear,
From jests prophane and flattering tongues, Foul jars between the man and wife;
From baudy tales and beastly songs, Religion so contemn'd was never,
From after-supper suits, that fear Whilst all are raging in a fever,
A parliament or council's ear;
From Spanish treaties, that may wound They tell by devils, and some sad chance,
The country's peace, the gospel's sound; That that detested league of France,
From Job's false friends, that would entice Which cost so many thousand lives,
My sovereign from Heaven's paradise; And two kings, by religious knives,
From prophets such as Achab's were, Is amongst us, though few descry;
Whose flatterings sooth my sovereign's ear; Though they speak truth, yet say they lie. His frowns more than his Maker's fearing,
Bless my sovereign and his bearing.
From all fruit that is forbidden,
Such for which old Eve was chidden; Ropes make of the rainy bow,
From bread of labours, sweat and toil; That the foxes keep not sheep,
From the poor widow's meal and oil; That men waking do not sleep,
From blood of innocents oft wrangled That all's not gold doth gold appear
From their estates, and from that's strangled ; Believe him not, although he swear.
From the candid poison'd baits
Of Jesuits, and their deceits; To such syrens stop your ear,
Italian sallads, Romish drugs, Their societies forbear.
The milk of Babel's proud whore's dugs; Ye may be tossed like a wave,
From wine that can destroy the brain; Verity may you deceive;
And from the dangerous figs of Spain ; Just fools they may make of you ;
At all banquets, and all feasting,
Bless my sovereign and his tasting.
From prick of conscience, such a sting
As slays the soul, Heav'n bless the king ; Justice should in our towns remain,
From such a bribe as may withdraw Poor men possess their own again;
His thoughts from equity or law;
From such a smooth and beardless chin
As may provoke or tempt to sin;
From such a hand, whose moist palm may And charity amongst us stay;
My sovereign lead out of the way; Peace and plenty should us nourish,
From things polluted and unclean, True religion 'mongst us flourish?
From all things beastly and obscene ; When you find these lying fellows,
From that may set his soul a reeling,
Bless my sovereign and his feeling.
WHERE myrrh and frankincense are thrown,
Let no such scent his nostrils stain;
From smells that poison can the brain
Heav'ns still preserve him. Next I crave, I. SEEING.
Thou wilt be pleas'd, great God! to save From such a face, whose excellence
My sov'reign from a Ganymede, May captivate my sovereign's sense,
Whose whorish breath hath pow'r to lead And make him (Phæbus like) his throne,
His excellence which way it list Resign to some young Phaëton,
O let such lips be never kiss'd! Whose skilless and unstayed band
From a breath so far excelling,
Bless my sovereign and his smelling.
And now, just God, I humbly pray,
That thou wilt take the slime away
ON A DRUNKARD.
Alas! ye look but up the hill on me,
Which shows to you a fair and smooth ascent ; Nor amaranths nor roses do bequeath
The precipice behind ye cannot see,
On which high fortunes are too pronely bent:
ON ÓNE NAMED MARGARET.
Who love enjoys, and placed hath his mind
Where fairer virtues fairest beauties grace; All those rich gems the Indies both send forth;
Then in himself such store of worth doth find, Who, had she liv'd when good was lov'd of men,
That he deserves to find so good a place;
To chilling fears how can he be set forth
When sweet are memories of ruim'd joys.
ON A YOUNG LADY.
It is no hill, but Heaven where you remain; This beauty fair, which death in dust did turn,
And whom desert advanced hath so high And clos'd so soon within a coffin sad,
To reach the guerdon of his burning pain,
His hopes are crown'd. What years of tedious breath
UPON THE DEATH OF JOHN EARL OF LAUDER-
Or those rare worthies who adorn'd our north,
And shone like constellations, thou alone
Second, in virtue's theatre, to none.
But finding all eccentric in our times,
Most debonnaire, in courtesy supreme; Religion into superstition turu'd,
Lov'd of the mean, and honour'd by the great; Justice silenc'd, exiled, or in-urn'd;
Ne'er dash'd by fortune, nor cast down by fate; Truth, faith, and charity reputed crimes;
To present and to after times a theme. The young men destinate by sword to fall,
Aithen, thy tears pour on this silent grave, And trophies of their country's spoils to rear;
And drop them in thy alabaster care, Strange laws the ag'd and prudent to appal,
And Niobe's imagery here become; And forc'd sad yokes of tyranny to bear;
And when thou hast distilled here a tomb, And for no great nor virtuous minds a room
Enchase in it thy pearls, and let it bear, Disdaining life, thou shroud'st into thy tomb.
“ Aithen's best gem and honour shrin'd lies here." When misdevotion every where shall take place, And lofty orators, in thund'ring terms,
Fame, register of time, Shall move you, people, to arise in arms,
Write in thy scroll, that I, And churches hallow'd policy deface;
Of wisdom lover, and sweet poesy, When you shall but one general sepulchre Was cropped in my prime; (As Averroes did one general soul)
And ripe in worth, though green in years, did die. On high, on low, on good, on bad confer, And your dull predecessors rites controulAh! spare this monument, great guests! it keeps Justice, Truth, Peace and Hospitality, Three great justiciars, whom true worth did raise; Friendship, and Love being resolved to die, The Muses' darlings, whose loss Phæbus weeps;
In these lewd times, have chosen here to have Best men's delight, the glory of their days. With just, true, pious
their grave; More we would say, but fear, and stand in awe Them cherished he so much, so much did grace, To turn idolaters, and break your law,
That they on Earth would chuse none other place.
Do not repine, bless'd soul, that humble wits
When Death, to deck his trophies, stopt thy breath, No bigh-strain'd Muse our times and sorrows fits;
Rare ornament and glory of these parts! And we do sigh, not sing, to crown thy hearse.
All with moist eyes might say, and ruthful hearts, The wisest prince e'er manag’a Britain's state That things immortal vassal'd were to Death. Did not disdain, in numbers clear and brave, What good in parts on many shar'd we see, The virtues of thy sire to celebrate,
From Nature, gracious Heaven, or Fortune flor; And fix a rich memorial on his grave.
To make a master-piece of worth below, Thou didst deserve no less; and here in jet, Heaven, Nature, Fortune gave in gross to thee. Gold, touch, brass, porphyry, or Parian stone, That by a prince's hand no lines are set
In honour, bounty, rich—in valour, wit, For thee-the cause is, now this land hath none.
In courtesy ; born of an ancient race; Such giant moods our parity forth brings,
With bays in war, with olives crown'd in peace; We all will nothing be, or all be kings.
Match'd great with offspring for great actions fit.
In this new age, like fate thou fixed staid,
As erst this kingdom given was to thy sire,
The prince his daughter trusted to thy care, AITHEN, thy pearly coronet let fall;
And well the credit of a gem so rare Clad in sad robes, upon thy temples set
Thy loyalty and merit did require. The weeping cypress, or the sable jet.
Years cannot wrong thy worth, that now appears Mourn this thy nurseling's loss, a loss which all By others set as diamonds among pearls : Apollo's choir bemoans, which many years
A queen's dear foster, father to three earls, Cannot repair, nor influence of spheres.
Enough on Earth to triumph are o'er years.
Life a sea voyage is, death is the haven,
For a frail life, which here thou didst enjoy,
BURIED AT AITHEN.
He fram'd to mildness thy half-barbarous swains;
OBSEQUIES OF THE BLESSED PRINCE JAMES.
KING OF GREAT BRITAIN.
For hospitality along thy plains
Let holy David, Solomon the wise,
And bow before thy laurel's anadem ;
Virtue is but a name abstractly trimm'd,
Thou whom free-willor chance hath hither brought, Justice weeps out her eyes, now truly blind;
And read'st, here lies a branch of Maitland's stem, To Niobes the remnant virtues turn; Fame but to blaze thy glories stays behind
And Seyton's offspring; know that either name l'th' world, which late was golden by thy breath,
Designs all worth yet reach'd by human thought. Is iron turu'd, and horrid by thy death.
Tombs elsewhere use life to their guests to give,
These ashes can frail monuments make live.
ANOTHER ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Like to the garden's eye, the flow'r of Row'rs, One it enshrineth sprung of ancient stem,
With purple pomp that dazzle doth the sight; And (if that blood nobility can make)
Or, as among the lesser gems of night, From which some kings have not disdain'd to take The usher of the planet of the hours; Their proud descent, a rare and matchless gem.
Sweet maid, thou shinedst on this world of ours,
Of all perfections having trac'd the height; A beauty here it holds by full assurance,
Thine outward frame was fair, fair inward pow'rs, Than which no blooming rose was more refin'd,
A sapphire lanthorn, and an inceuse light. Nor morning's blush more radiant ever shin'd;
Hence the enamour'd Heaven, as too, too good Ah! too, too like to morn and rose at last !
On Earth's all-thorny soil long to abide, It holds her who in wit's ascendant far
Transplanted to their fields so rare a bud, Did years and sex transcend; to whom the Heaven Where from thy Sun no cloud thee now can hide. More virtue than to all this age had given; Earth moan'd her loss, and wish'd she had the grace For virtue meteor turn'd, when she a star.
Not to have known, or known thee longer space. Fair mirth, sweet conversation, modesty, And what those kings of numbers did conceive By Muses nine, and Graces more than three,
Hard laws of mortal life! Lie clos'd within the compass of this grave.
To which made thralls we come without consent,
Like tapers, lighted to be early spent,
When joys but halting march, and swiftly fly,
The shadow do h not yield unto the Sun, “ Far from these banks exiled be all joys,
But joys and life do waste e'en when begun. Contentments, pleasures, music (care's relief) ! Tears,sighs,plaints, horrours,frightments,sad annoys, Invest these mountains, fill all hearts with grief. Within the closure of this narrow grave “ Here, nightingales and turtles, vent your moans ;
Lie all those graces a good wife could have:
But on this marble they shall not be read,
For then the living envy would the dead,
Loadsiar of love, and loadstone of all hearts, Death cropped hath; the Lesbia chaste is dead !”
Her friends' and husband's only joy, now grief; Thus sigh'd the Tyne, then shrunk beneath his urn;
Is here pent up within a marble frame, And meads, brooks, rivers, hills, about did mourn.
Whose parallel no times, no climates claim.
Verses frail records are to keep a name, The fow'r of virgins, in her prime of years, Or raise from dust men to a life of fame; By ruthless destinies is ta'en away,
The sport and spoil of ignorance; but far And rap'd from Earth, poor Earth! before this day More frail the frames of touch and marble are, Which ne'er was rightly nam'd a vale of tears. Which envy, avarice, time, ere long confound,
Or misdevotion equals with the ground. Beauty to Heaven is filed, sweet modesty
Virtue alone doth last, frees man from death; No more appears; she whose harmonious sounds Did ravish sense, and charm mind's deepest wounds, Stands grav'n in angels' diamantine rolls,
And, though despis'd, and scorned here beneath, Embalm’d with many a tear now low doth lie!
And blazed in the courts above the poles. Fair hopes now vanish'd are. She would have grac'd Thou wast fair virtue's temple, they did dwell, A prince's marriage-bed! but, lo! in Heaven And live ador'd in thee ; nought did excel, Blest paramours to her were to be given !
But what thou either didst possess or love, She liv'd an angel, now is with them plac’d. The Graces' darling, and the maids of Jove;
Courted by Fame for bounties, which the Heaven
Ah, silly soul! what wilt thou say
When he, whom Earth and Heaven obey, Bright saints and angels, there from cares made free, Comes man to judge in the last day? Nought doth becloud thy sovereign good from thee. When he a reason asks, why grace Thou smil'st at Earth's confusions and jars,
And goodness thou wouldst not embrace, And how for Centaurs' children we wage wars:
But steps of vanity didst trace !
Now to prevent thou shouldst desire,
With wat'ry eyes, and sigh-swoll'n heart, What duty writes, that woe blots out again :
O beg, beg in his love a part, Yet love a pyramid of sighs thee rears,
Whilst conscience with remorse doth smart. And doth embalm thee with farewels and tears. That dreaded day of wrath and shame
In flames shall turn this world's huge frame,
0! with what grief shall earthlings groan Though marble porphyry, and mourning touch,
When that great judge, set on his throne, May praise these spoils, yet can they not too much; Examines strictly every one ! For beauty last, and this stone doth close,
Shrill-sounding trumpets through the air Once Earth's delight, Heaven's care, a purest rose. Shall from dark sepulchres each where And, reader, shouldst thou but let fall a tear
Force wretched mortals to appear.
Nature and Death amaz'd remain
And process with their judge maintain.
Display'd then open books shall lie,
For which the guilty world must die.
The Judge enthron'd, whom bribes not gain,
The closest crimes appear shall plain,
And none unpunished remain.
O! who then pity shall poor me?
Or who mine advocate shall be ?
When scarce the justest pass shall free. Her body doth unto this place bequeath,
All wholly holy, dreadful King,
Then, sweet Jesu, call to mind
How of thy pains I was the end,
And favour let me that day find.
In search of me thou, full of pain,
Didst sweat blood, death on cross sustain: Though I have twice been at the doors of Death,
Let not these sufførings be in vain. And twice found shut those gales which ever mourn, This but a lightning is, truce ta'en to breathe, Thou supreme Judge, most just and wise, For late-born sorrows augur fleet return.
Purge me from guilt, which on me lies,
Before that day of thine assize.
"Ah! spare me, prostrate at thy throne.
Show me fair hopes I should not fear.
My prayers imperfect are and weak, “ Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace But worthy of thy grace them make, The murmuring Esk:-may roses shade the place." And save me from Hell's burning lake.