Thus he being fall'n, his action fought anew:
And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.
This was not nature's courage, not that thing
We valour call, which time and reason bring;
But a diviner fury fierce and high,
Valour transported into extasie,
Which angels looking on us from above,
Use to convey into the souls they love.
You now that boast the spirit, aud its sway,
Shew us his second, and wee'l give the day:
We know your politique axiom, lurk, or fly;
Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not dye:
And though you thank God that you lost none there,
'Cause they were such who liv'd not when they were;
Yet your great generall (who doth rise and fall,
As his successes do, whom you dare call,
As fame unto you doth reports dispence,
Either a
or his excellence)
Howe'r he reigns now by unheard of laws,
Could wish his fate together with his cause.
And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame,
As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name.
Whose life affords what doth content both eyes,
Glory for people, substance for the wise,
Go laden up with spoyls, possess that seat
To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat:
And when thou seest an happy period sent
To these distractions, and the storm quite spent,
Look down and say, I have my share in all,
Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.
ON A VERTUOUS YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN
THAT DYED SUDDENLY.
WHEN the old flaming prophet climb'd the sky,
Who, at one glympse, did vanish, and not dye,
He made more preface to a death, than this,
So far from sick, she did not breath amiss:
She who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex:
Whose lowest thought was above all our sex,
Accounted nothing death, but t' be repriev'd,
And dyed as free from sickness as she liv'd.
Others are dragg'd away, or must be driven,
She only saw her time and stept to Heaven;
Where seraphims view all her glories o'r
As one return'd, that had been there before.
For while she did this lower world adorn,
Her body seem'd rather assum'd than born;
So rarifi'd, advanc'd, so pure and whole,
That body might have been another's soul;
And equally a miracle it were
That she could dye, or that she could live here.
THE DEATH OF THE MOST VERTUOUS GENTLEWOMAN,
MRS. ASHFORD,
WHO DYED IN CHILD-BED.
So when the great elixar (which a chast
And even heat hath ripened) doth at last
Stand ready for the birth, th' alembick's womb
Not able to discharge, becomes its tomb;
So that that studied stone is still art's cross,
Not known by its vertue so much as his loss,
And we may think some envious fates combine
In that one ounce to rob us of a mine;
And can our grief be less, whiles here we do
Lose not the stone, but the alembick too?
When death converts that hatching heat to cold,
And makes that dust, which should make all else
gold.
If souls from souls be kindled as some sing,
That to be born and light'ned is one thing;
And that our life is but a tender ray
Snatch'd by the infant from the mother's day;
And if the soul thus kindled must have been
The framer of the body, the soul's inn;
Our loss is doubled then, for that young flame
Flowing from hers, must have been for the same,
As to have cast such glories, show'n such seeds,
Spread forth such matchless vertues, done such
deeds,
Moulded such beautious limbs, that we might see
The mother in each grace, and think that she
Was but reflected, whiles her shape did pass
As the snatch'd likeness doth into a glass,
Which now in vain we look for, for our streams
Of light are but the dawning of her beams;
'Twas not her lot to lay up deeds, and then
Twist them into one vertue as some men
Do hoord up smaller gains, and when they grow
Up to a sum, into one purchase throw;
Her mind came furnish'd in, did charg'd appear,
As trees in the creation, vertues were
Meer natures unto her; nor did she know
Those signs of our defects, to bud and grow;
Goodness her soul, not action, was; and she
Found it the same to do well and to be;
Have made her self the bound of her own sight;
So perfect that her speculation might
And her mind thus her mind contemplating
In brief at once have been the eye and thing.
Her body was so pure that Nature might
Have broke it into forms: that buriall rite
Was here unfit, for it could not be said
"Earth unto earth, dust unto dust was laid;"
All being so simple that the quickest sight
Did judge her limbs but so much fashion'd light;
Her eyes so beamy, you'ld have said the Sun
Lodg'd in those orbs when that the day was done ;
Her mouth that treasure hid, that pearls were blots
And darkness, if compar'd, no gems but spots.
Her lips did like the cherub's flames appear,
Set to keep off the bold for coming there.
Her bosome such that you would guess 'twas this
Way that departed souls pass to their bliss.
Her body thus perspicuous, and her mind
So undefil'd, so beautious, so refin'd,
We may conclude the lilly in the glass
An emblem, though a faint one, of her was.
What others now count qualities and parts
She thought but complements, and meer by-arts,
Yet did perform them with as perfect grace
As they who do arts among vertues place.
She dancing in a cross perplexed thread
Could make such labyrinths, that the guiding
thread
Would be it selfe at loss, and yet you'ld swear
A star mov'd not so even in its sphere;
No looser flames but raptures came from thence,
Her steps stirr'd meditations up, and sense
Resign'd delights to reason, which were wrought
Not to enchant the eye, but catch the thought.
Had she but pleas'd to tune her breath, the winds Would have been hush'd and list'ned, and those minds
Whose passions are their blasts, would have been
As when the halcyon sits: so that her skill [still,
Gave credit unto fables, whiles we see,
Passions like wilder beasts thus tamed be.
Her very looks were tune, we might descry
Consort, and judge of music by the eye:
So that in others that which we call fair,
In her was composition and good air.
When this I tell, will you not hence surmise
Death hath got leave to enter Paradise?
But why do I name death? for as a star
Which e'rewhile darted out a light from far,
Shines not when neer the brighter Sun; she thus
Is not extinct, but does lie hid to us.
ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
THE LORD BAYNING.
So where an hasty vigour doth disclose
An early flame in the more froward rose,
That rareness doth destroy it: wonders owe
This to themselves still, that they cannot grow.
Such ripeness was his fate: thus to appear
At first, was not hereafter to stay here.
Who thither first steps, whither others tend,
When he sets forth is at the journie's end.
But as short things most vigour have, and we
Find force the recompence of brevity;
So was it here: compactedness gave strength,
The like was close, though not spun out at length.
Nothing lay idle in't: experience rules,
Men strengthened books, and cities season'd schools.
Nor did he issue forth to come home thence,
(As some) less man, than they go out from hence;
Who think new air new vices may create,
And stamp sin lawful in another state;
Who make exotick customes native arts,
And loose Italian vices English parts:
He naturaliz'd perfections only; gain'd
A square and solid mind; severely train'd
And manag'd his desires, brought oft checkt sense
Into the sway of reason, coming thence
His own acquaintance, morgag'd unto none,
But was himself his own possession.
Thus stars by journeying still, gain, and dispence,
Drawing at once, and shedding influence;
Thus spheres by regular motion do encrease
Their tunes, and bring their discords into peace.
Hence knew he his own value, ne'r put forth
Honour for merit; pow'r instead of worth,
Nor, when he poyz'd himself, would he prevaile
By wealth, and make his mannors turn the scale:
Desert was only ballanc'd, nor could we
Say my lord's rents were only weight, not he.
Only one slight he had, from being small
Unto himself, he came great unto all.
But great by no man's ruine; for who will
Say that his seat e'r made the next seat ill?
No neighb'ring village was unpeopled here
'Cause it durst bound a noble eye too near.
Who could e'r say my lord and the next marsh
Made frequent heriots? or that any harsh
Oppressive usage made young lives soon fall?
Or who could his seven thousand bad air call?
He blessings shed: men knew not to whom more,
The Sun, or him, they might impute their store.
No rude exaction, or licentious times,
Made his revenues others, or his crimes;
Nor are his legacies poor men's present tears,
Or do they for the future raise their fears:
No such contrivance here, as to profess
Bounty, and with large miseries feed the less;
Fat some with their own alms; bestow, and pill;
And common hungers with great famine fill,
Making an hundred wretches endow ten,
Taking the field, and giving a sheaf then ;
As robbers whom they've spoyl'd perhaps will lend
Small sums to help them to their journies end.
All was untainted here, and th' author such
That every gift from him grew twice as much.
We, who e're while did boast his presence, do
Now boast a second grace, his bounty too;
Bounty was judgement here: for he bestows,
Not who disperseth, but who gives and knows.
And what more wise design, than to renew,
And dress the brest from whence he knowledge drew;
Thus pious men, e're their departure, first [thirst.
Would crown the fountain that had quench'd their
Hence strive we all his memory to engross,
Our common love before, but now our loss.
ON THE DEATH OF THE MOST HOPEFULL,
THE LORD STAFFORD.
MUST then our loves be short still? must we choose
Not to enjoy, only admire and lose?
Must axioms hence grow sadly understood,
And we thus see 'tis "dangerous to be good?"
So books begun are broken off, and we
Receive a fragment for an history:
And as 'twere present wealth, which was but debt,
Lose that of which we were not owners yet.
But as in books that want the closing line,
We only can conjecture and repine:
So we must here too only grieve, and guess,
And by our fancy make what's wanting less.
Thus when rich webs are left unfinished,
The spider doth supply them with his thread;
For tell me, what addition can be wrought
To him whose youth was ev'n the bound of thought?
Whose buddings did deserve the robe, whiles we
In smoothness did the deeds of wrinkles see?
When his state nonage might have been thought fit
To break the custome, and allow'd to sit;
His actions veil'd his age, and could not stay,
For that which we call ripeness and just day.
Others may wait the staff and the gray hair,
And call that wisdom which is only fear;
Christen a coldness, temp'rance, and then boast
Full and ripe vertues when all action's lost:
This is not to be noble, but be slack,
And to be good only by th' almanack;
He who thus staies the season and expects,
Doth not gain habits, but disguise defects.
Here Nature outstrip'd culture, he came try'd,
Streight of himself at first, not rectifi'd;
Manners so pleasing and so handsome cast,
That still that overcame which was seen last;
All minds were captiv'd thence, as if 't had been
The same to him to have been lov'd and seen;
Had he not been snatch'd thus, what drove hearts
Into his nets would have driv'n cities too:
For these his essays which began to win
Were but bright sparks that show the mine within;
Rude draughts unto the picture, things we may Stile the first beams of the encreasing day; Which did but only great discoveries bring, As outward coolness shows the inward spring; Had he then liv'd; pow'r ne'r had been thought That could not crush, taught only to support. [short No poor-man's sighs had been the lord's perfumes, No tenants nakedness had hung his rooms, No tears had sow'rd his wines, no tedious-longFestivall-service been the countri's wrong; A wretch's famine had been no dish then, Nor greatness thought to eat no beasts, but men; Nor had that been esteem'd a politic grace When sutors came to show a serious face; Or when an humble cosen did pass by, Put saving bus'ness in his frugall eye; Things of injustice then and potent hate Had not been done for th' profit of the state; Nor had it been the privilege of high bloud. To back their injuries with the kingdoms good: Servants and engines had been two things then, And difference made 'twixt instruments and men. Nor were his actions to content the sight, Like artist's pieces plac'd in a good light That they might take at distance, and obtrude Something unto the eye that might delude; His deeds did all most perfect then appear When you observ'd, view'd close, and did stand neer. For could there aught else spring from him whose line From whence he sprung was rule aud discipline? Whose vertues were as books before him set, So that they did instruct who did beget; Taught thence not to be powerfull but know, Showing he was their bloud by living so; For whereas some are by their big lip known, Others b' imprinted burning swords were shown, So they by great deeds are, from which bright fame Engraves free reputation on their name. These are their native marks, and it hath been The Stafford's lot to have their signs within. And though this firm hæreditary good Might boasted be as flowing with the blond, Yet he ne'r grasp'd this stay, but as those, who Carry perfumes about them still, scarce do Themselves perceive 'em, though another's sense Suck in th' exaling odours: so he thence Ne'r did perceive he carried this good smell, But made new still by doing himself well. T'embalm him then were vain, where spreading Supplies the want of spices, where the name, [fame It self preserving, may for oyntment pass, And he still seen lie coffin'd as in glass. Whiles thus his bud is full flower, and his sole Beginning doth reproach another's whole; Coming so perfect up, that there must needs Have been found out new titles for new deeds; Though youth and laws forbid, which will not let Statues be rais'd, or he stand brazen yet, Our minds retaine this royalty of kings, "Not to be bound to time," but judge of things; And worship as they merit; there we do Place him at height, and he stands golden too. A comfort, but not equall to the cross; A fair remander, but not like the loss: For he the last pledge being gone, we do Not only lose the heir, but th' honour too. Set we up then this boast against our wrong, He left no other sign that he was young: And spite of fate his living vertues will, Though he be dead, keep up the barr'nny still.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE MOST WORTHY SIR HENRY SPELMAN.
now the times perhaps be such that nought Was left thee but to dye, and 'twill be thought. An exprobration to rehearse thy deeds, Thriving as flowers among these courser weeds, I cannot yet forbear to grieve, and tell Thy skill to know, thy valour to do well.
And what can we do less, when thou art gone
Whose tenents as thy manners were thine own;
In not the same times both the same; not mixt
With th' age's torrent, but still clear and fixt;
As gentle oyl upon the streams doth glide
Net mingling with them, though it smooth the tide ?
What can we less when thou art gone, whom we
Thought only so much living history?
Thou sifted'st long-hid dust to find lost ore,
And searchedst rubbish to encrease our store.
Things of that age thou shew'dst, that they seem'd
And stand admir'd as if they now first grew; [new,
Time in thy learned pages, as the Sun
On Ahaz' diall, does thus backward run.
Nor did'st thou this affectedly, as they
Whom humour leads to know out of the way:
Thy aim was publike in't; thy lamp and night
Search'd untrod paths only to set us right;
Thou didst consult the ancients and their writ,
To guard the truth, not exercise the wit;
Taking but what they said; not, as some do,
To find out what they may be wrested to;
Nor hope, nor faction, bought thy mind to side,
Conscience depos'd all parts, and was sole guide.
So 'tis when authors are not slaves, but men,
And do themselves maintain their own free pen.
This 'twas that made the priest in every line, This 'twas that made the church's cause be thine; Who perhaps hence hath suffer'd the less wrong, And ows the much because sh' hath stood so long; That though her dress, her discipline now faints, Yet her endowments fall not with her saints.
This 'twas that made thee ransack all thy store To shew our mother what she was before; What laws past, what decrees; the where, and when Her tares were sow'n, and how pull'd up agen; A body of that building, and that dress, That councels may conspire and yet do less.
Nor doth late practise take thee, but old rights, Witness that charitable piece that lights Our corps to unbought graves, though custome led So against nature, as to tax the dead. Though use had made the land oft purchas'd be, And though oft purchas'd keep propriety; So that the well prepared did yet fear, Though not to dye, yet to undo the heyr.
Had we what else thy taper saw thee glean, 'Twould teach our days perhaps a safer mean; Though what we see be much, may be guess'd, As great was shewn, so greater was suppress'd.
Go then, go up, rich soul; while we here grieve, Climb till thou see what we do but believe; Whave not time to rate thee; thy fate's such, We know we've lost; our sons will say how much.
TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JOHNSON,
FATHER of poets, though thine own great day Struck from thy selfe, scorns that a weaker rag NA
Should twine in lustre with it, yet my flame
Kindled from thine, flies upward towards thy name:
For in the acclamation of the less
There's piety, though from it no access:
And though my ruder thoughts make me of those
Who hide and cover what they should disclose,
Yet where the lustre's such, he makes it seen
Better to some that draws the veyl between.
And what can more be hop'd, since that divine
Free filling spirit takes it's flight with thine?
Men may have fory, but no raptures now,
Like witches charm, yet not know whence, or how,
but fierce,
And through distemper grown not strong,
Instead of writing, only rave in verse;
Which when by thy laws judg'd, 'twill be confess'd
'Twas not to be inspir'd, but be possest.
Where shall we find a Muse like thine, that can
So well present, and show man unto man,
That each one finds his twin, and thinks thy art
Extends not to the gestures, but the heart?
Where one so shewing life to life, that we
Think thou taught'st custome, and not custome thee;
Manners were themes, and to thy scenes still flow
In the same stream, and are their comments now;
These times thus living o'r thy models, we
Think them not so much wit, as prophecie;
And though we know the character, may and swear
[known
A Sybil's finger hath been busie there.
Things common thou speak'st proper, which though
For publike, stamp'd by thee, grow thence thine
Thy thonghts so ord'red, so express'd, that we
Conclude that thou did'st not discourse, but see;
Language so master'd, that thy numerous feet
Laden with genuine words do alwaies meet
Each in his art, nothing unfit doth fall,
Shewing the poet, like the wise men, all.
Thine equall skill thus wresting nothing, made
Thy pen seem not so much to write, as trade.
That life, that Venus of all things, which we
Conceive or show, proportion'd decency,
Is not found scatt'red in thee here or there,
But like the soul is wholly every where;
No strange perplexed maze doth pass for plot,
Thou alwaies dost unty, not cut the knot:
Thy labyrinth's doors are open'd by one thread
Which tyes and runs through all that's done or said;
No power comes down with learned hat or rod,
Wit only and contrivance is thy god.
'Tis easie to gild gold, there's sinall skill spent
Where ev'n the first rude mass is ornament;
Thy Muse took harder metals, purg'd and boyl'd,
Labour'd and try'd, heated, and beat, and toyl'd,
Sifted the dross, fyl'd roughness, then gave dress,
Vexing rude subjects into comeliness;
Be it thy glory then that we may say,
Thou run'st where th' foot was hind'red by the way.
Nor dost thou powre out, but dispence thy vein,
Skill'd when to spare, and when to entertain;
Not like our wits, who into one piece do
Throw all that they can say and their friends too;
Pumping themselves for one term's noise so dry,
As if they made their wils in poetry.
And such spruce compositions press the stage
When men transcribe themselves, and not the age;
Both sorts of plays are thus like pictures shown,
Thine of the common life, theirs of their own.
Thy models yet are not so fram'd as we
May call them libels, and not imag'ry ;
No name on any basis; 'tis thy skill
To strike the vice, but spare the person still :
As he who when he saw the serpent wreath'd
About his sleeping son, and as he breath'd,
Drink in his soul, did so the shoot contrive,
To kill the beast, but keep the child alive;
So dost thou aime thy darts, which ev'n when
They kill the poisons, do but wake the men.
Thy thunders thus but purge, and we endure
Thy lancings better than another's cure ;
And justly too, for th' age grows more unsound
From the fool's balsam, than the wise man's wound.
No rotten talk breaks for a laugh; no page
Commenc'd man by th' instructions of thy stage;
No barganing line there; no provoc'tive verse ;
Nothing but what Lucretia might rehearse;
No need to make good count'nance ill, and use
The plea of strict life for a looser Muse;
No woman rul'd thy quill; we can descry
No verse born under any Cynthia's eye;
Thy star was judgement only and right sense,
Thy self being to thy self an influence :
Stout beauty is thy grace; stern pleasures do
Present delights, but mingle horrours too:
Thy Muse doth thus like Jove's fierce girl appear,
With a fair hand, but grasping of a spear.
Where are they now that cry thy lamp did drink
More oyl than th' author wine while he did think?
We do embrace their slander; thou hast writ,
Not for dispatch, but fame; no market wit;
'Twas not thy care that it might pass and sell,'
But that it might endure, and be done well;
Nor wouldst thou venture it unto the ear,
Untill the file would not make smooth, but wear:
Thy verse came season'd hence, and would not give;
Born not to feed the author, but to live:
Whence 'mong the choicer judges rose a strife,
To make thee read a classic in thy life.
Those that do hence applause, and suffrage beg,
'Cause they can poems form upon one leg,
Write not to time, but to the poet's day;
There's difference 'tween fame and sudden pay;
These men sing kingdoms false, as if that fate
Us'd the same force to a village, and a state;
These serve Thyeste's bloudy supper in,
As if it had only a sallad been ;
Their Catilines are but fencers, whose fights rise
Not to the fame of battell, but of prize.
But thou still puts true passions on; dost write
With the same courage that tri'd captains fight;
Giv'st the right blush and colour unto things;
Low without creeping, high without loss of wings;
Smooth, yet not weak, and by a thorough care,
Big without swelling, without painting fair:
They, wretches, while they cannot stand to fit,
Are not wits, but materials of wit.
What though thy searching Muse did rake the dust
Of time, and purge old metals of their rust?
Is it no labour, no art, think they, to
Snatch shipwracks from the deep as divers do?
And rescue jewels from the covetous sand,
Making the sea's hid wealth adorn the land?
What though thy culling Muse did rob the store
Of Greek and Latin gardens, to bring o'r
Plants to thy native soy!? their vertues were
Improv'd far more, by being planted here:
If thy still to their essence doth refine
So many drugs, is not the water thine ?
Thefts thus become just works; they and their
Are wholly thine; thus doth the stamp and face
Make that the king's that's ravish'd from the mine; In others then 'tis oare, in thee 'tis coin.
Blest life of authors, unto whom we ow Those that we have, and those that we want too; Th'art all so good that reading makes thee worse, And to have writ so well's thine only curse; Secure then of thy merit, thou didst hate That servile base dependance upon fate; Success thou ne'r thought'st vertue, nor that fit Which chance, or th' age's fashion did make hit; Excluding those from life in after time, Who into po'try first brought luck and rime; Who thought the people's breath good air, stil'd
What was but noise, and getting briefs for fame Gathered the many's suffrages, and thence Made commendation a benevolence :
Thy thoughts were their own lawrell, and did win
That best applause of being crown'd within.
And though th' exacting age, when deeper years
Had interwoven snow among thy hairs,
Would not permit thou shouldst grow old, 'cause
Ne'r by thy writing knew thee young; we may
Say justly, they're ungratefull, when they more
Condemn'd thee, 'cause thou wert so good before:
Thine art was thine act's blur, and they'l confess
Thy strong perfumes made them not smell thy less:
But, though to err with thee be no small skill,
And we adore the last draughts of thy quill;
Though those thy thoughts, which the now queasie
Doth count but clods, and refuse of the stage, [age
Will come up porcelane wit some hundreds hence,
When there will be more manners and more
'Twas judgement yet to yield, and we afford
Thy silence as much fame as once thy word;
Who like an aged oak, the leaves being gone,
Was food before, and now religion;
Thought still more rich, though not so richly stor❜d,
View'd and enjoy'd before, but now ador'd.
Great soul of numbers, whom we want and boast,
Like curing gold, most valu'd now thou'rt lost;
When we shall feed on refuse offals, when
We shall from corn to akorns turn agen;
Then shall we see that these two names are one;
Johnson and poetry, which now are gone.
1 LEV. 'Tis but the passion's essay: this young loss
Only preludes unto his riper cross.
Avert, good Heav'n, avert that fate
To so much beauty so much hate.
Where so great good is meant
The bloud's not lost, but spent.
CHOR. Thus princes feel what people do amise;
The swelling's ours, although the lancing
When ye, fair Heavens, white food bled, The rose, say they, from thence grew red, O then what more miraculous good Must spring from this diviner floud? When that the rose it self doth bleed, That bloud will be the churches seed. When that the rose, &c.
SEE this is he, whose star Did becken us from far;
2 MAG. And this the mother whom the Heavens do Honour, and like her, bring forth new stars
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