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.

TO CASTARA.

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.

TO HIS MUSE.

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.

A FRIEND

469

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.

Hee

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.

ELEGIE III.

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.

ELEGIE IV.

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.

ELEGIE V.

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.

ELEGIE VI.

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.

ELEGIE VII.

THERE is no peace in sinne. Eternall warr Doth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues are

ELEGIE VIII.

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.

CASTARA.

THE THIRD PART.

A HOLY MAN

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