Falls so below it, that it rather borrows
Grace from their grief, than addeth to their sorrows.
For sad mischance thus in the loss of three,
To show itself the utmost it could be;
Exacting also by the selfsame law,
The utmost tears that sorrow had to draw,
All future times hath utterly prevented
Of a more loss, or more to be lamented.

Whilst in fair youth they lively flourish'd here,
To their kind parents they were only dear:
But being dead, now every one doth take
Them for their own, and do like sorrow make,
As for their own begot, as they pretended
Hope in the issue, which should have descended
From them again; nor here doth end our sorrow,
But those of us, that shall be born to morrow
Still shall lament them, and when time shall count
To what vast number passed years shall mount,
They from their death shall duly reckon so,
As from the deluge, former us'd to do.

O cruel Humber, guilty of their gore,

I now believe more than I did before
The British story, whence thy name begun
Of kingly Humber, an invading Hun,
By thee devoured, for 'tis likely thou
With blood wert christen'd, blood-thirsty till now
The Ouse, the Done. And thou far clearer Trent,
To drown these Sheffields as you gave consent,
Shall curse the time, that e'er you were infus'd,
Which have your waters basely thus abus'd.
The groveling boor ye hinder not to go,
And at his pleasure ferry to and fro;
The very best part of whose soul, and blood,
Compared with theirs, is viler than your mud.
But wherefore paper do 1 idly spend,
On those deaf waters to so little end?
And up to starry Heaven do I not look,
In which, as in an everlasting book,
Our ends are written? O let times rehearse
Their fatal loss in their sad anniverse.

TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY I. S. OF WORLDLY CROSSES.

MADAM, to show the smoothess of my vein, Neither that I would have you entertain The time in reading me, which you would spend In fair discourse with some known honest friend, I write not to you. Nay, and which is more, My powerful verses strive not to restore What time and sickness have in you impair'd, To other ends my elegy is squar'd.

Your beauty, sweetness, and your graceful parts That have drawn many eyes, won many hearts, Of me get little, I am so much man, That let them do their utmost that they can, I will resist their forces: and they be Though great to others, yet not so to me. The first time I beheld you, I then saw That (in it self) which had the power to draw My stay'd affection, and thought to allow You some deal of my heart; but you have now Got far into it, and you have the skill (For aught I see) to win upon me still.

When I do think how bravely you have borne Your many crosses, as in fortune's scorn, And how neglectful you have seem'd to be, Of that which hath seem'd terrible to me;

I thought you stupid, nor that you had felt
Those griefs which (often) I have seen to melt
Another woman into sighs and tears,

A thing but seldom in your sex and years,
But when in you I have perceiv'd again,
(Noted by me, more than by other men)
How feeling and how sensible you are

Of your friend's sorrows, and with how much care
You seek to cure them, then myself I blame,
That I your patience should so much misname,
Which to my understanding maketh known
"Who feel's another's grief, can feel their own."
When straight methinks, I hear your patience say,
"Are you the man that studied Seneca ;
Pliny's most learned letters; and must I
Read you a lecture in philosophy,
T'avoid the afflictions that have us'd to reach you;"
I'll learn you more, sir, than your books can teach
Of all your sex, yet never did I know, [you."

Any that yet so actually could show
Such rules for patience, such an easy way,
That who so sees it, shall be forc'd to say,
"Lo what before seeem'd hard to be discern'd,
Is of this lady, in an instant learn'd."

It is Heaven's will that you should wronged be
By the malicious, that the world might see
Your dove-like meekness; for had the base scum,
The spawn of fiends, been in your slander dumb,
Your virtue then had perish'd, never priz'd,
For that the same you had not exercis'd;
And you had lost the crown you have, and glory,
Nor had you been the subject of my story.
Whilst they feel Hell, being damned in their hate;
Their toughts, like devils, them excruciate,
Which by your noble sufferings do torment
Them with new pains, and gives you this content
To see your soul an Innocent, hath suffer'd,
An up to Heaven before your eyes be offer❜d:
Your like we in a burning glass may see,
When the Sun's rays therein contracted be
Bent on some object, which is purely white,
We find that colour doth dispierce the light,
And stands untainted: but if it hath got
Some little sully, or the least small spot,
Then it soon fires it; so you still remain
Free, because in you they can find no stain.

1

God doth not love them least, on whom he lays
The great'st affiictions; but that he will praise
Himself most in them, and will make them fit
Near'st to himself who is the Lamb to sit :
For by that touch, like perfect gold he tries them,
Who are not his, until the world denies them.
And your example may work such effect,
That it may be the beginning of a sect

| Of patient women; and that many a day
All husbands may for you their founder pray.
Nor is to me your innocence the less,
In that I see you strive not to suppress
Their barbarous malice; but your noble heart
Prepar'd to act so difficult a part,
With unremoved constancy is still
The same it was, that of your proper ill,
The effect proceeds from your own self the cause,
Like some just prince, who to establish laws
Suffers the breach at his best lov'd to strike,
To learn the vulgar to endure the like.
You are a martyr thus, nor can you be
Less to the world so valued by me:
If as you have begun, you still persevere,
Be ever good, that I may love you ever.

AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF LADY PENELOPE
CLIFTON.

MUST I needs write, who's he that can refuse,
He wants a mind, for her that hath no Muse,
The thought of her doth heav'nly rage inspire,
Next powerful, to those cloven tongues of fire.
Since I knew aught, time never did allow
Me stuff fit for an elegy, till now;
When France and England's Henrys dy'd my quill,
Why, I know not, but it that time lay still.
"Tis more than greatness that my spirit must raise,
To observe custom I use not to praise;
Nor the least thought of mine yet e'er depended
On any one from whom she was descended;
That for their favour I this way should woo,
As some poor wretched things (perhaps) may do;
I gain the end, whereat I only aim,
If by my freedom I may give her fame.

Walking then forth being newly up from bed, "O sir" (quoth one) "the lady Clifton's dead." When, but that reason my stern rage withstood, My hand had sure been guilty of his blood, "If she be so, must thy rude tongue confess it. (Quoth I) "And com'st so coldly to express it! Thou should'st have given a shriek, to make me fear thee,

That might have slain whatever had been near thee; Thou should'st have come like Time, with thy scalp bare, [hair, And in thy hands thou should'st have brought thy Casting upon me such a dreadful look, As seen a spirit, or th'adst been thunderstruck, And gazing on me so a little space, [face, Thou should'st have shot thine eye-balls in my Then falling at my feet, thou should'st have said, 'O she is gone, and Nature with her dead.""

With this ill news amaz'd, by chance I pass'd
By that near grove, whereas both first and last
I saw her, not three months before she dy'd ;
When (tho' full summer 'gan to veil her pride,
And that I saw men lead home ripen'd corn,
Besides advis'd me well,) I durst have sworn
The ling'ring year, the autumn had adjourn'd,
And the fresh spring had been again return'd,
Her delicacy, loveliness, and grace,

With such a summer bravery deck'd the place :
But now, alas! it look'd forlorn and dead;
And where she stood, the fading leaves were shed,
Presenting only sorrow to my sight,
O God! (thought I) this is her emblem right.
And sure I think it cannot but be thought,
That I to her by providence was brought.
For that the Fates fore-dooming she should die,
Showed me this wond'rous master-piece, that I
Should sing her funeral, that the world should
know it,

That Heaven did think her worthy of a poet;
My hand is fatal, nor doth fortune doubt,
For what it writes, not fire shall e'er rase out.
A thousand silken puppets should have died,
And in their fulsome coffins putrified,
Ere in my lines you of their names should hear
To tell the world that such there ever were,
Whose memory shall from the Earth decay,
Before those rags were worn they gave away.
Had I her godlike features never seen,
Poor slight report had told me she had been
A handsome lady, comely, very well,
And so might I have died an infidel,

1

[one,

Death might have tyth'd her sex, but for this Nay, have ta'en half to have let her alone; Such as their wrinkled temples to supply, Cement them up with sluttish Mercury, Such as undress'd were able to affright A valiant man approaching him by night; Death might have taken such, her end deferr'd, [three, Until the time she had been climacter'd When she would have been at threescore years and Such as our best at three-and-twenty be, With envy then, he might have overthrown her, When age nor time had power to seize upon her. But when the unpitying fates her end decreed, They to the same did instantly proceed, For well they knew (if she had languish'd so) As those which hence by natural causes go, So many prayers, and tears for her had spoken, As certainly their iron laws had broken, And had wak'd Heav'n, who clearly would have That change of kingdoms to her death it ow'd; And that the world still of her end might think, It would have let some neighbouring mountain sink;

Or the vast sea it in on us to cast,

[show'd

As Severn did about some five years past:
Or some stern comet his curl'd top to rear,
Whose length should measure half our hemisphere.
Holding this height, to say some will not stick,
That now I rave, and am grown lunatic:
You, of what sex soe'er you be, you lie,
'Tis thou thyself is lunatic, not I.

I charge you in her name that now is gone,
That may conjure you, if you be not stone,
That you no harsh, nor shallow rhymes decline,
Upon that day wherein you shall read mine.
Such as indeed are falsely termed verse,
And will but sit like moths upon her hearse;
Nor that no child, nor chambermaid, nor page,
Disturb the room, the whilst my sacred rage
In reading is; but whilst you hear it read,
Suppose, before you, that you see her dead,
The walls about you hung with mournful black,
And nothing of her funeral to lack;

And when this period gives you leave to pause, Cast up your eyes, and sigh for my applause.

UPON THE NOBLE LADY ASTON'S DEPARTURE FOR

SPAIN.

I MANY a time have greatly marvell'd, why Men say, their friends depart when as they die,

How well that word, a dying, doth express,
I did not know (I truly must confess,)
Till her departure for whose missed sight,
I am enforc'd this elegy to write :
But since resistless fate will have it so,
That she from hence must to Iberia go,
And my weak wishes can her not detain,
I will of Heaven in policy complain,
That it so long her travel should adjourn,
Hoping thereby to hasten her return.

Can those of Norway' for their wage procure,
By their black spells, a wind that shall endure
Till from aboard the wished land men see,
And fetch the harbour where they long to be,
Can they by charms do this, and cannot I,
Who am the priest of Phoebus, and so high
Sit in his favour, win the poet's god,
To send swift Hermes with his snaky rod,
To Aplus' cave, commanding him with care,
His prosperous winds that he for her prepare,
And from that hour wherein she takes the seas,
Nature bring on the quiet halcyon days,
And in that hour that bird begin her nest,
Nay, at that very instant, that long rest
May seize on Neptune, who may still repose,
And let that bird ne'er till that hour disclose,
Wherein she landeth, and for all that space
Be not a wrinkle seen on Thetis' face,
Only so much breath with a gentle gale,
As by the easy swelling of her sail,
May at Sebastian's safely set her down,
Where, with her goodness she may bless the town.
If Heaven in justice would have plagu'd by

thee

Some pirate, and, grim Neptune, thou should'st be
His executioner; or what is worse,
The gripple merchant, born to be the curse
Of this brave island; let them for her sake,
Who to thy safeguard doth herself betake,
Escape undrown'd, unwreck'd; nay rather let
Them be at ease in some safe harbour set,
Where with much profit they may vend their wealth
That they have got by villainy and stealth,
Rather, great Neptune, than when thou dost rave,
Thou once should'st wet her sail but with a wave.
Or if some prowling rover should but dare
To seize the ship wherein she is to fare,
Let the fell fishes of the main appear,
And tell those sea-thieves, that once such they were
As they are now, till they assay'd to rape
Grape-crowned Bacchus in a stripling's shape,
That came aboard them, and would fain have sail'd
To vine-spread Naxus 2, but that him they fail'd,
Which he perceiving, them so monstrous made,
And warn them how they passengers invade.

Ye south and western winds, now cease to blow,
Autumn is come, there be no flowers to grow,
Yea from that place respire, to which she goes,
And to her sails should show yourself but foes,
But Boreas and ye eastern winds, arise,
To send her soon to Spain, but be precise,
That in your aid you seem not still so stern,
As we a summer should no more discern,
For till that here again I may her see,
It will be winter all the year with me.

The witches of the northerly regions sell winds to passengers.

An isle for the abundance of wine supposed to be the habitation of Bacchus.

Ye swan-begotten lovely brother stars,
So oft auspicious to poor mariners,
Ye twin-bred lights of lovely Leda's brood,
Jove's egg-born issue, smile upon the flood,
And in your mild'st aspect do ye appear
To be her warrant from all future fear.

And if thou ship, that bear'st her, do prove good,
May never time by worms consume thy wood,
Nor rust thy iron; may thy tacklings last,
Till they for relics be in temples plac'd ;
May'st thou be ranged with that mighty ark
Wherein just Noah did all the world embark,
With that which after Troy's so famous wreck,
From ten years' travel brought Ulysses back;
That Argo which to Colchis went from Greece,
And in her bottom brought the golden fleece
Under brave Jason; or that same of Drake,
Wherein he did his famous voyage make
About the world; or Ca'ndish's that went
As far as his, about the continent.

And ye mild winds, that now I do implore,
Not once to raise the least sand on the shore,
Nor once on forfeit of yourselves respire:
When once the time is come of her retire,
If then it please you, but to do your due,
What for those winds I did, I'll do for you;
I'll woo you then, and if that not suffice,
My pen shall prove you to have deities,
I'll sing your loves in verses that shall flow,
And tell the stories of your weal and woe,
I'll prove what profit to the earth you bring,
And how 'tis you that welcome in the spring;
I'll raise up altars to you, as to show,
The time shall be kept holy, when you blow.
O blessed winds! your will that it may be,
To send health to her, and her home to me.

TO MY DEARLY LOVED FRIEND, HENRY REYNOLDS, ESQ. OF POETS AND POESY.

My dearly loved friend, how oft have we,
In winter evenings (meaning to be free,)
To some well chosen place us'd to retire,
And there with moderate meat, and wine, and fire,
Have pass'd the hours contentedly with chat,
Now talk'd of this, and then discours'd of that,
Spoke our own verses 'twixt ourselves, if not
Other men's lines, which we by chance had got,
Or some stage pieces famous long before,
Of which your happy memory had store;
And I remember you much pleased were,
Of those who lived long ago to hear,
As well as of those, of these latter times,
Who have enrich'd our language with their rhymes,
And in succession how still up they grew,
Which is the subject that I now pursue;
For from my cradle (you must know that) I
Was still inclin'd to noble poesy,

And when that once pueriles I had read,
And newly had my Cato construed,
In my small self I greatly marvell'd then,
Amongst all other, what strange kind of men
These poets were, and pleased with the name,
To my mild tutor merrily I came,
(For I was then a proper goodly page,
Much like a pigmy, scarce ten years of age)
Clasping my slender arms about his thigh.
"O my dear master! cannot you" (quoth I)
* Castor and Pollux.

"Make me a poet? Do it, if you can, And you shall see, I'll quickly be a man."

And neatly jointed, but the critic may Easily reprove him, yet thus let me say:

"If you'll not play the wag, but I may see
You ply your learning, I will shortly read
Some poets to you." Phœbus be my speed,
To't hard went I, when shortly he began,
And first read to me honest Mantuan,
Then Virgil's Eclogues, being enter'd thus,
Methought I straight had mounted Pegasus,
And in his full career could make him stop,
And bound upon Parnassus' by-clift top.
I scorn'd your ballad then though it were done
And had for Finis, William Elderton.
But soft, in sporting with this childish jest,
I from my subject have too long digress'd,
Then to the matter that we took in hand,
Jove and Apollo for the Muses stand.

That noble Chaucer, in those former times,
The first enrich'd our English with his rhymes,
And was the first of ours that ever brake
Into the Muses' treasure, and first spake
In weighty numbers, delving in the mine
Of perfect knowledge, which he could refine,
And coin for current, and as much as then
The English language could express to men,
He made it do; and by his wondrous skill,
Gave us much light from his abundant quill.
And honest Gower, who in respect of him,
Had only sipp'd at Aganippa's brim,
And though in years this last was him before,
Yet fell he far short of the other's store.

When after those, four ages very near,
They with the Muses which conversed, were
That princely Surrey, early in the time
Of the eighth Henry, who was then the prime
Of England's noble youth; with him there came
Wyat, with reverence whom we still do name
Amongst our poets; Brian had a share
With the two former, which accounted are
That time's best makers, and the authors were
Of those small poems, which the title bear,
Of songs and sonnets, wherein oft they hit
On many dainty passages of wit.

Gascoine and Churchyard after them again
In the beginning of Eliza's reign,
Accounted were great meterers many a day,
But not inspired with brave fire, had they
Liv'd but a little longer, they had seen
Their works before them to have buried been.

Grave moral Spencer after these came on,
Than whom I am persuaded there was none
Since the blind bard his Iliads up did make,
Fitter a task like that to undertake,
To set down boldly, bravely to invent,
In all high knowledge, surely excellent.
The noble Sidney, with this last arose,
That heroe for numbers and for prose,
That throughly pac'd our language as to show,
The plenteous English hand in hand might go
With Greek and Latin, and did first reduce
Our tongue from Lilly's writing then in use;
Talking of stones, stars, plants, of fishes, flies,
Playing with words, and idle similies,
As th' English apes and very zanies be
Of every thing, that they do hear and see,
So imitating his ridiculous tricks,

They speak and write, all like mere lunatics.

Then Warner, tho' his lines were not so trimm'd, Nor yet his poem so exactly limn'd

In him, which I protest have taken me
With almost wonder, so fine, clear, and new,
As yet they have been equalled by few.

Neat Marlow bathed in the Thespian springs
Had in him those brave translunary things,
That the first poets had, his raptures were,
All air, and fire, which made his verses clear,
For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet's brain.
And surely Nashe, though he a proser were,
A branch of laurel yet deserves to bear,
Sharply satyric was he, and that way
He went, since that his being, to this day
Few have attempted, and I surely think
These words shall hardly be set down with ink,
Shall scorch and blast so as his could, where he
Would inflict vengeance; and be it said of thee,
Shakespeare, thou hadst as smooth a comic vein,
Fitting the sock, and in thy natural brain,
As strong conception, and as clear a rage,
As any one that traffic'd with the stage.

Amongst these Sanuel Daniel, whom if I
May speak of, but to censure do deny,
Only have heard some wise men him rehearse,
To be too much historian in verse;

His rhymes were smooth, his meters well did close
But yet his manner better fitted prose:
Next these, learn'd Jonson, in this list I bring,
Who had drunk deep of the Pierian spring,
Whose knowledge did him worthily prefer,
And long was lord here of the theatre,
Who in opinion made our learn'd'st to stick,
Whether in poems tightly dramatic,
Strong Seneca or Plautus, he or they,
Should bear the buskin, or the sock away.
Others again have lived in my days,
That have of us deserved no less praise
For their translations, than the daintiest wit
That on Parnassus thinks, he high'st doth sit,
And for a chair may 'mongst the Muses call,
As the most curious maker of them all;
As reverend Chapman, who hath brought to us,
Musæus, Homer, and Hesiolus

Out of the Greek; and by his skill hath rear'd
Them to that height, and to our tongue endear'd,
That were those pocts at this day alive,

To see their books thus with us to survive,
They would think, having neglected them so long,
They had been written in the English tongue.

And Silvester who from the French more weak,
Made Bartas of his six days' labour speak
In natural English, who, had he there stay'd,
He had done well, and never had bewray'd
His own invention to have been so poor,
Who still wrote less, in striving to write more.

Then dainty Sands, that hath to English done Smooth sliding Ovid, and hath made him run With so much sweetness and unusual grace, As though the neatness of the English pace Should tell the jetting Latin that it came But slowly after, as though stiff and lame. So Scotland sent us hither, for our own That man whose name I ever would have known, To stand by mine, that most ingenious knight, My Alexander, to whom in his right,

I want extremely, yet in speaking thus

I do but show the love, that was 'twixt us,

And not his numbers, which were brave and high,
So like his mind, was his clear poesy.
And my dear Drummond to whom much I owe
For his much love, and proud was I to know
His poesy, for which two worthy men,
I Menstry still shall love, and Hawthornden.
Then the two Beaumonts and my Brown arose,
My dear companions whom I freely chose
My bosom friends; and in their several ways,
Rightly born poets, and in these last days,
Men of much note, and no less nobler parts,
Such as have freely told to me their hearts,
As I have mine to them; but if you shall
Say in your knowledge, that these be not all
Have writ in numbers, be inform'd that I
Only myself, to these few men do tie,
Whose works oft printed, set on every post,
To public censure subject have been most;
For such whose poems, be they ne'er so rare,
In private chambers that encloister'd are,
And by transcription daintily must go,
As though the world unworthy were to know,
Their rich composures, let those men that keep
These wond'rous relics in their judgment deep,
And cry them up so, let such pieces be
Spoke of by those that shall come after me,
I pass not for them, nor do mean to run
In quest of these, that them applause have won,
Upon our stages in these latter days,
That are so many, let them have their bays
That do deserve it; let those wits that haunt
Those public circuits, let them freely chant
Their fine composures, and their praise pursue,
And so, my dear friend, for this time adieu.

IDEAS. I.

LIKE an advent'rous sea-farer am I,
Who hath some long and dang'rous voyage been,
And call'd to tell of his discovery,

How far he sail'd, what countries he had seen :
Proceeding from the port whence he put forth,
Shows by his compass how his course he steer'd;
When east, when west, when south, and when by
As how the pole to ev'ry place was rear'd, [north,
What capes he doubled, of what continent,
The gulphs and straits that strangely he had past,
Where most becalm'd, where with foul weather
And on what rocks in peril to be cast:.
Thus in my love, time calls me to relate
My tedious travels, and oft-varying fate.

11.

[spent,

My heart was slain, and none but you and I ; Who should I think the murder should commit? Since but yourself there was no creature by, But only I, guiltless of murd'ring it. It slew itself; the verdict on the view Do quit the dead, and me not accessary : Well, well, I fear it will be prov'd by you, The evidence so great a proof doth carry. But O! see, see! we need inquire no further, Upon your lips the scarlet drops are found, And in your eye, the boy that did the murder, Your cheeks yet pale, since first he gave the wound. By this I see, however things be past, Yet Heav'n will still have murder out at last.

III.

TAKING my pen, with words to cast my woe, Duly to count the sum of all my cares, I find, my griefs innumerable grow, The reck'nings rise to millions of despairs, And thus dividing of my fatal hours, The payments of my love, I read, and cross, Substracting, set my sweets unto my sours, My joys' arrearage leads me to my loss; And thus mine eyes a debtor to thine eye, Which by extortion gaineth all their looks, My heart hath paid such grievous usury, That all their wealth lies in thy beauty's books, And all is thine which hath been due to me, And I a bankrupt, quite undone by thee.

IV.

BRIGHT star of beauty, on whose eye-lids sit
A thousand nymph-like and enamour'd graces,
The goddesses of memory and wit,
Which there in order take their several places,
In whose dear bosom sweet delicious Love
Lays down his quiver which he once did bear:
Since he that blessed paradise did prove,
And leaves his mother's lap to sport him there,
Let others strive to entertain with words,
My soul is of a braver metal made,

I hold that vile, which vulgar wit affords;
In me 's that faith which time cannot invade.
Let what I praise be still made good by you:
Be you most worthy, whilst I am most true.
V.

NOTHING but No and I, and I and No:
"How falls it out so strangely?" you reply.
I tell you, fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming No, denying I.
I say, "I love;" you sightly answer I :
I say, << You love;" yon peule me out a No:
say, I die;" you echo me with 1:
"Save me," I cry; you sigh me out a No.
Must Woe and I have nought but No and I?
No I, am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave:
Let No and I, with I and you be so :
Then answer No and I, and I and No.

VI.

How many paltry, foolish, painted things,
That now in coaches trouble every street,
Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,
Ere they be well wrapp'd in their winding sheet?
Where I to thee eternity shall give,
When nothing else remaineth of these days,
And queens hereafter shall be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise;
Virgins and matrons reading these my rhymes,
Shall be so much delighted with thy story,
That they shall grieve they liv'd not in these times,
To have seen thee, their sex's only glory:

So thou shalt fly above the vulgar throng,
Still to survive in my immortal song.

VII.

Love in a humour play'd the prodigal, And bade my senses to a solemn feast; Yet more to grace the company withal, Invites my heart to be the chiefest guest: No other drink would serve this glutton's tura But precious tears distilling from mine eyne, Which with my sighs this epicure doth burn, Quaffing carouses in this costly wine;