Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deare A price for glory: Honour doth appeare To statesmen like a vision in the night, And jugler-like workes o'th' deluded sight. Th' unbusied onely wise: for no respect Indangers them to errour; they affect Truth in her naked beauty, and behold Man with an equall eye, nor bright in gold Or tall in title; so much him they weigh As vertne raiseth him above his clay. Thus let us value things: and since we find Time bends us toward death, let's in our mind Create new youth: and arme against the rude Assaults of age; that no dull solitude
O'th' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care O'th' towne make us not thinke, where now we are And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot His journey, though his steps we numbred not.
WHAT LOVERS WILL SAY WHEN SHE AND HE ARE DEAD.
I WONDER when w'are dead, what men will say; Will not poore orphan lovers weepe, The parents of their loves decay; And envy death the treasure of our sleepe? Will not each trembling virgin bring her feares To th' holy silence of my vrne ?
And chide the marble with her teares, 'Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.
For had Fate spar'd but Araphill (she'le say) He had the great example stood, And forc't unconstant man obey The law of love's religion, not of blood.
And youth by female perjury betraid, Will to Castara's shrine deplore His injuries, and death obrayd, That woman lives more guilty, than before. For while thy breathing purified the ayre Thy sex (heele say) did onely move By the chaste influence of a faire, Whose vertue shin'd in the bright orbe of love. Now woman like a meteor vapour'd forth From dunghills, doth amaze our eyes; Not shining with a reall worth, But subtile her blacke errours to disguise. This will they talke, Castara, while our dust In one darke vault shall mingled be. The world will fall a prey to lust, When love is dead, which hath one fate with me.
HERE virgin fix thy pillars, and command They sacred may to after ages stand In witnesse of love's triumph. Yet will we, Castara, find new worlds in poetry,
And conquer them. Not dully following those Tame lovers, who dare cloth their thoughts in prose. But we will henceforth more religious prove, Concealing the high mysteries of love
From the prophane. Harmonious like the spheares, Our soules shall move, not reacht by humane eares.
That musicke to the angels, this to fame, I bere commit. That when their holy flame, True lovers to pure beauties would rehearse, They may invoke the genius of my verse.
Is a man. For the free and open discovery of thoughts to woman can not passe without an over licentious familiarity, or a justly occasion'd suspition; and friendship can neither stand with vice or infamie. He is vertuous, for love begot in sin is a mishapen monster, and seldome out-lives his birth. He is noble, and inherits the vertues of all his progenitors; though happily unskilfuli to blazon his paternall coate; so little should nobility serve for story, but when it encourageth to action. He is so valiant, feare could never be listned to, when she whis pered danger; and yet fights not, unlesse religion confirmes the quarrel lawfull. He submits his actions to the government of vertue, not to the wilde decrees of popular opinion; and when his conscience is fully satisfied, he cares not how mistake and ignorance interpret him. He hath so much fortitude he can forgive an injurie; and when hee hath overthrowne his opposer, not insult upon his weakenesse. is an absolute governor; no destroyer of his passions, which he employes to the noble increase of vertue. He is wise, for who hopes to reape a harvest from the sands, may expect the perfect offices of friendship from a foole. He hath by a liberall education beene softened to civility; for that rugged honesty some rude men professe, is an indigested chaos; which may containe the seedes of goodnesse, but it wants forme and order.
He is no flatterer; but when he findes his friend any way imperfect, he freely but gently informes him, nor yet shall some few errours cancel the bond of friendship; because he remembers no endeavours can raise man above his frailety. He is as s'ow to enter into that title, as he is to forsake it; a monstrous vice must disobliege, because an extraordinary vertue did first unite; and when he parts, he doth it without a duell. He is neither effeminate, nor a common courtier; the first is so passionate a doater upon himselfe, hee cannot spare love enough to bee justly named friendship: the latter hath his love so diffusive among the beauties, that man is not considerable. He is not accustomed to any sordid way of gaine, for who is any way mechanicke, will sell his friend upon more profitable termes. He is bountifull, and thinkes no treasure of fortune equall to the preservation of him he loves; yet not sa lavish, as to buy friendship aud perhaps afterward finde himselfe overseene in the purchase. He is not exceptious, for jealousie proceedes from weakenesse, and his vertues quit him from suspitions. He freely gives advice, but so little peremptory is his opinion that he ingenuously submits it to an abler judgement. He is open in expression of his thoughts and easeth his melancholy by inlarging it; and no sanctuary preserves so safely, as he his friend afflicted.
These vowes to thee! for since great Talbot's gone Downe to thy silence, I commerce with none But thy pale people; and in that confute Mistaking man, that dead men are not mute. Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eare Accustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heare How their cold language tels thee, that thy skin Is but a beautious shrine, in which black sin Is idoliz'd; thy eyes but spheares where lust Hath its loose motion; and thy end is dust. Great Atlas of the state, descend with me. But hither, and this vault shall furnish thee With more avisos, than thy costly spyes, And show how false are all those mysteries Thy sect receives, and though thy pallace swell With envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell. It will instruct you, courtier, that your art But cheates your selfe, and all those subtill wayes Of outward smoothnesse and a rugged heart You tread to greatnesse, is a fatall maze [breath Where you your selfe shall loose, for though you Vpward to pride, your center is beneath. And 'twill thy rhetorick false flesh confound; Which flatters my fraile thoughts, no time can This unarm'd frame, here is true eloquence [wound Will teach my soule to triumph over sence, Which hath its period in a grave, and there Showes what are all our pompous surfets here. Great orator! deare Talbot! Still, to thee May I an auditor attentive be: And piously maintaine the same commerce We held in life! and if in my rude verse I to the world may thy sad precepts read; I will on Earth interpret for the dead.
LET me contemplate thee (faire soule) and though I cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goe In thy cœlestiall journey, and my heart Expanssion wants, to thinke what now thou art, How bright and wide thy glories; yet I may Remember thee, as thou wert in thy clay. Best object to my heart! what vertues be Inherent even to the least thought of thee! [feare Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings In its leane looke; doth like a prince appeare, Now glorious to my eye, since it possest The wealthy empyre of that happie chest Which harbours thy rich dust; for how can he Be thought a bank'rout that embraces thee? Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eare I catch from lonely graves, in hope to heare Newes from the dead, nor can pale visions fright His eye, who since thy death feeles no delight In man's acquaintance, Mem'ry of thy fate Doth in me a sublimer soule create. And now my sorrow followes thee, I tread The milkie way, and see the snowie head Of Atlas, farre below, while all the high Swolne buildings seeme but atoms to my eye. I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while I Weepe ore the vault where thy sad ashes lye, My soule with thine doth hold commerce above; Where we discerne the stratagems, which love, Jate, and ambition, use, to cozen man; So fraile that every blast of honour can Swell him above himselfe, each adverse gust, Him and his glories shiver into dust. How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a span His empire, who commands the Ocean.
Nor can it greater seeme, when this great All For which men quarrell so, is but a ball Cast downe into the ayre to sport the starres. And all our generall ruines, mortall warres, Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway; And man's so reverend wisedome but their play. From thee, deare Talbot, living I did learne The arts of life, and by thy light discerne The truth which men dispute. But by thee dead I'me taught, upon the world's gay pride to tread: And that way sooner master it, than he To whom both th' Indies tributary be.
My name, deare friend, even thy expiring breath Did call upon: affirming that thy death Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee. My lord, if I with licence of your teares, [weares (Which your great brother's hearse as diamonds T'enrich death's glory) may but speake my owne: I'le prove it, that no sorrow e're was knowne Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe In griefe a method: without forme I weepe. The sonne (rich in his father's fate) hath eyes Wet just as long as are the obsequies. The widow formerly a yeare doth spend In her so courtly blackes. But for a friend We werpe an age, and more than th' anchorit, have Our very thoughts confin'd within a grave. Chast love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame And thou Castara who had hadst a name, But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse Is lost to you, and onely on Talbot's herse Sadly attends. And till Time's fatal hand Ruines, what's left of churches, there shall stand. There to thy selfe, deare Talbot, I'le repeate Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great Thou wert in thy minde's empire, and how all Who out-live thee, see but the funerall Of glory and if yet some vertuous be, They but weake apparitions are of thee. So settled were thy thoughts, each action so Discretely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow Was e're perceiv'd in thee, each word mature And every sceane of life from sinne so pure That scarce in its whole history, we can Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man, Horrour to say thou wert! Curst that we must Addresse our language to a little dust, And seeke for Talbot there. Injurious fate, To lay my life's ambition desolate, Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know Not how it can give such another blow.
CHAST as the nun's first vow, as fairely bright As when by death her soul shines in full light Freed from th' eclipse of Earth, each word that came From thee (deare Talbot) did beget a flame T' enkindle vertue: which so faire by thee Became, man that blind mole her face did see. But now to our eye she's lost, and if she dwell Yet on the Earth; she's confin'd in the cell Of some cold hermit, whoso keeps her there, As if of her the old man jealous were.
Nor ever showes her beauty, but to some Carthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe! So 'mid the yce of the farre northren sea, A starre about the articke circle, may Than ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shall Serve at the frozen pilot's funerall.
Thou (brightest constellation) to this maine Which all we sinners traffique on, didst daigne The bounty of thy fire, which with so cleare And constant beames did our frayle vessels steere, That safely we, what storm so e're bore sway, Past o're the rugged Alpes of th' angry sea. But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke The folly doth of our ambition mocke And splits our hopes: to every syren's breath We listen and even court the face of death, If painted o're by pleasure: every wave If't hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave. So ruinous is the defect of thee,
To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me Who liv'd one life with thing, drew but one breath, Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas And now by fate, I but my selfe survive, [death. To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive. Where shall I then begin to weepe? No grove Silent and darke, but is prophan'd by love: With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares, His busie hopes, loud sighes, and caselesse teares Each care is so enchanted; that no breath Is list'ned to, which mockes report of death. I'le turne my griefe then inward and deplore My ruine to my selfe, repeating ore The story of his virtues; until I
Not write, but am my selfe his elegie.
GoE stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight To their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder night From its approach on day, aud force day rise From the faire east of some bright beutie's eyes; Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse. It hath no power. For mine from his blacké herse Redeemes not Talbot, who cold as the breath Of winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death, Stealing on th' anch'rit, who even wants an eare To breathe into his soft expiring prayer. For had thy life beene by thy vertues spun Out to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the Sunne And clos'd the world's great eye: or were not all Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be The conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me. But all we poets glory in, is vaine And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine One poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flye By a foole's finger destinate to dye." Live then in thy true life (great soule) for set At liberty by death thou owest no debť T exacting Nature: live, freed from the sport Of time and fortune in yand' starry court A glorious potentate, while we below But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe. We follow campes, and to our hopes propose Th' insulting victor; not remembr'ing those Dismembred trunkes who gave him victory By a loath'd fate: we covetous merchants be And to our ayınes pretend treasure and sway, Forgetfull of the treasons of the sea, The shootings of a wounded conscience We patiently sustaine to serve our sence
With a short pleasure; so we empire gaine And rule the fate of businesse, the sad paine Of action we contemne, and the affright Which with pale visions still attends our night. Our joyes false apparitions, but our feares Are certaine prophecies. And till our ears Reach that cælestiall musique, which thine now So cheerefully receive, we must allow No comfort to our griefes: from which to be Exempted, is in death to follow thee.
THERE is no peace in sinne. Eternall warr Doth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues are
Enlighten'd. And since thou must never here Be seene againe: may I o're take thee there.
BOAST not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all The cunning pompe of the Escuriall. Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe. Here is th' epitome of wealth, this chest
Is Nature's chief exchequer, hence the East When it is purified by th' generall fire Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher Than all the gems she vants: transcending far In fragrant lustre the bright morning star.
Friends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents be 'Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we
Harsh ecchos of their heavenly harmonie. While thou didst live we did that union finde
In the so faire republick of thy mind, Where discord never swel'd. And as we dare Affirme those goodly structures, temples are Where well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare: The musique of thy soule made us say, there God had his altars; every breath a spice And each religious act a sacrifice. But death hath that demolisht. All our eye Of thee now sees doth like a cittie lye Ras'd by the cannon. Where is then that flame That added warmth and beauty to thy frame? Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fire, The losses of some maim'd seraphick quire? Or hovers it beneath, the world t' uphold From generall ruine, and expel that cold Dull humour weakens it? If so it be; My sorrow yet must prayse Fate's charity. But thy example (if kinde Heaven had daign'd Frailty that favour) had mankind regain'd To his first purity. For that the wit
Of vice, might not except 'gainst th' ancherit As too to strict; thou didst uncloyster'd live: Teaching the soule by what preservative, She may from sinnes contagion live secure, Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure. In this darke mist of errour with a cleare Vnspotted light, thy vertue did appeare T'obrayd corrupted man.
How could the rage Of untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age; Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the Of time have spent in riot, or his health [wealth By surfeits forfeited; if he had seene What temperance had in thy dyet beene?
What glorious foole had vaunted honours bought By gold or practise, or by rapin brought From his fore-fathers, had he understood How Talbot valued not his own great blood! Had politicians scene him scorning more The unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the poore Thatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind (A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth find Still free admittance: their pale labours had Beene to be good, not to be great and bad. But he is lost in a blind vault, and we Must not admire though sinnes now frequent be And uncontrol'd: since those faire tables where The law was writ by death now broken are, By death extinguisht is that star, whose light Did shine so faithfull, that each ship sayl'd right Which steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we, (That failing) lost in this world's tempest be. But to what orbe so e're thou dost retyre, Far from our ken: 'tis blest, while by thy fire
Have by a cataract lost sight, than he Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retains his light. Thou eclips'd dust! expecting breake of day From the thicke mists about thy tombe, l'le pay Like the just larke, the tribute of my verse: I will invite thee, from thy envious herse To rise, and 'bout the world thy beames to spread, That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead. My zeal deludes me not. What perfumes come From th' happy vault? In her sweet martyrdome The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose When the enamour'd Spring by kissing blowes Soft blushes on her checke, nor th' early East Vying with Paradice, i'th' phoenix nest. These gentle perfumes usher in the day Which from the night of his discolour'd clay Breakes on the sudden: for a soule so bright Of force must to her earth contribute light. But if w' are so far blind, we cannot see The wonder of this truth; yet let us be Not infidels; nor like dull atheists give Our selves so long to lust, till we believe (T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall To a loath'd nothing in our funcrall.
The bad man's death is horrour. But the just Keepes something of his glory in his dust.
Is onely happie. For infelicity and sinne were borne twinnes; or rather like some prodigie with two bodies, both draw and expire the same breath. Catholique faith is the foundation on which he erects religion; knowing it a ruinous madnesse to build in the ayre of a private spirit, or on the sands of any new schisme. His impietie is not so bold to bring divinity downe to the mistake of reason, or to deny those misteries his apprehension reacheth not. His obedience moves still by direction of the magistrate: and should conscience informe him that the command is unjust; he judgeth it neverthelesse high treason by rebellion to make good his tenets; as it were the basest cowardize, by dissimulation of religion, to preserve temporall respects. Hoe knowes
therefore loves, but not doates on life Death how deformed soever an aspect it weares, he is not frighted with since it not annihilates, but uncloudes the soule. He therefore stands every moment prepared to dye: and though he freely yeelds up himselfe, when age or sicknesse sommon him; yet he with more alacritie puts off his earth, when the profession of faith crownes him a martyr.
DOMINE LABIA MEA APERIES.
In the same marble with my dust, Ere I the spreading laurell gaine, By writing wanton or prophane. Ye glorious wonders of the skies,
Shine still, bright starres,
Th' Almightie's mystick characters! Ile not your beautious lights surprize, T'illuminate a woman's eyes.
Nor, to perfume her veines, will I In each one set
The purple of the violet: The untoucht flowre may grow and dye Safe from my fancie's injurie.
Open my lippes, great God! and then
humane pollicie but a crooked rule of action: and therefore by a distrust of his own knowledge attaimes it: confounding with supernaturall illumination, the opinionated judgment of the wise. In prosperity he gratefully admires the bounty of the Almighty giver, and useth, not abuseth plenty but in adversity he remaines unshaken, and like some eminent mountaine hath his head above the clouds. For his happinesse is not meteor-like exhaled from the vapours of this world; but shines a fixt starre, which when by misfortune it appears to fall, onely casts away the slimie matter. Poverty he neither feares nor covets, but cheerefully entertaines; imagining it the fire which tries vertue: nor how ty rannically soever it usurpe on him, doth be pay Nos monument of me remaine, to it a sigh or wrinckle; for he who suffers want without reluctancie, may be poore not miserable. He sees the covetous prosper by usury, yet waxeth not leane with envie and when the posteritie of the impious flourish, he questiones not the divine justice; for temporall rewards distinguish not ever the merits of men : and who hath beene of councel with the Eternall? Fame he weighes not, but esteemes a smoake, yet such as carries with it the sweetest odour, and riseth usually from the sacrifice of our best actions. Pride he disdaines, when he findes it swelling in himselfe; but easily forgiveth it in another: Nor can any man's errour in life, make him sinne in censure, since seldome the folly we condemne is so culpable as the severity of our judgement. He doth not malice the over-spreading growth of his æqualls: but pitties, not despiseth the fall of any man: esteeming yet no storme of fortune dangerous, but what is rais'd through our owne demerit. When he lookes on other's vices, he values not himselfe virtuous by comparison, but examines his owne defects, and findes matter enough at home for reprehension. In conversation his carriage is neither plausible to flattery, nor reserv'd to rigour: but so demeanes himselfe as created for societie. In solitude he remembers his better part is angelicall; and therefore his minde practiseth the best discourse without assistance of inferiour organs. Lust is the basiliske he flyes, a serpent of the most destroying venome: for it blasts al plants with the breath, and carries the most murdering artillery in the eye.. He is ever merry but still modest: not dissolved into undecent laughter, or tickled with wit scurrilous or injurious. He cunningly searcheth into the vertues of others, and liberally commends them: but buries the vices of the imperfect in a charitable silence, whose manners he reformes not by invectives but example. In prayer he is frequent not apparent yet as he labours not the opi-Who harmonie art to the eare, nion, so he feares not the scandall of being thought good. He every day travailes his meditations up to Heaven, and never findes himself wearied with the journey; but when the necessities of nature returne him downe to Earth, he esteemes it a place, hee is condemned to. Devotion is his mistresse on which he is passionately enamour'd for that he hath found the most soveraigne antidote against sinne, and the onely balsome powerfull to cure those wounds bee hath receav'd through frailety. To live he knowes a benefit, and the contempt of it ingratitude, and
The humble flight of carnall love. And trace no path of vulgar men. Vpward to thee lle force my pen,
For what can our unbounded soules Worthy to be
Their object finde, excepting thee? Where can I fixe? since time controules Our pride, whose motion all things roules. Should I my selfe ingratiate
How soone may death my hopes beguile ? And should I farme the proudest state, I'me tennant to uncertaine fate. If I court gold, will it not rust?
Toward a female beauty move, How will that surfet of our lust Distast us, when resolv'd to dust?
But thon, Eternall banquet! where For ever we
May feede without satietie!
Who art, while all things else appeare! While up to thee I shoote my flame,
A holy death, that murders sence, And makes me scorne all pompes, that ayme At other triumphes than thy name. It crownes me with a victory
That's earth from me away doth fall. And 1, from my corruption free, Grow in my vowes even part of thee.
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