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he survived the last mentioned appointment a very short time, dying December 23, 1643, in the thirty-second year of his age, of a malignant fever, called the camp disease, which then prevailed at Oxford. He was honourably interred towards the upper end of the south isle of the cathedral of Christ-church.
Few men have ever been so praised and regretted by their contemporaries, who have left so little to perpetuate their fame. During his sickness, the king and queen, who were then at Oxford, made anxious inquiries about the progress of his disorder. His majesty wore black on the day of his funeral, and being asked the reason, answered that since the Muses had so much mourned for the loss of such a son, it bad been a shame that he should not appear in mourning for the loss of such a subject*. His poems and plays which were published in 1651, are preceded by fifty copies of verses by all the wits of the time, and all in a inost laboured style of panegyric. His other encomiasts inform us that his person was as handsome as his mind, and that he not only understood Greek and Latin, but French and Italian as perfectly as his mother tongue. Dr. Fell, bishop of Oxford, said of bim, “ Cartwright is the utmost man can come to," and Ben Jonson used to say, My son Cartwright writes all like a man."
Although it must be confessed that his works, particularly his dramas, afford little justification of this high character, his poems may perhaps deserve a place among those of his contemporaries. Many of them exhibit tenderness and harmony, a copious, but sometimes, fanciful imagery, and a familiar easy humour which, connected with his amiable disposition as a man, probably led to those encomiums which, witbout this consideration, we should find it difficult to allow. “That,” says Wood, “ which is most remarkable is, that these his high parts and abilities were accompanied with so much sweetness and candour, that they made him equally beloved and admired by all persons, especially those of the gown and court; who esteemed also his life a fair copy of practic piety, a rare example of heroic worth, and in whom arts, learning and language, made up the true complement of perfection.” The same biographer informe us that he wrote Poemata Græca & Latina.
* Oldya' MSS. notes on Langbaine. C.
A PANEGYRICK TO THE MOST NOBLE
LUCY, COUNTESSE OP CARLISLE. MADAM, Since jewels by yourself are worn, Which can but darken what they should adorn; And that aspiring incense still presumes To cloud those Heavens towards which it fumes; Permit the injury of these rites, I pray, Whose darkness is increas'd by your full day ; A day would make you goddess, did you wear, As they of old, a quiver, or a spear: For you but want their trifes, and dissent Nothing in shape, but neerly ornament; Your limbs leave tracks of light, still as you go; Your gate's illumination, and for you Only to more a stip is to dispence Brightness, and torce, splendour, and infuence; Masses of ivory blushing here and there With purple shedding, if compared, were Blots only cast on blots, resembling you No more than Monograni's rich temples do, For being your organs would inform and be, Not instruments, but acts, in others, we What elsewhere is call'd beauty, in you hold, But so much lustre, cast into a mould: Such a serene, soft, rigorous, pleasing, fierce, Lovely, self-armid, naked, majestickness, Compos’d of friendly contraries, do young Poetique princes shape, when they do lung To strik ont heroes from a mortal wombe, And mint fair conquerors for the age to come. But beauty is not all that makes you so Ador'd, by those who either see or know; 'Tis your proportion'd soul, for who ere set A common useless weed io chrystall yet? Or who with pitch doth amber boxes fili? Balsom and odours there inhabite still.: As jewels then bave inward vertues, so Proportion’d to that outward light they show, That, by their lustre which appears, they bid Us turn our sense to that which does lye bid;
So 'tis ia you :' for that light which we find
ON THE IMPERFECTION OF
Thus the Sun's light makes day, if it appear, May you live long the painters' fault and strife,
To purchase absolution for the wrong ;
An equal licence, the same errours make,
Sue for release, so I may claime it too.
Arise, thou sacred heap, and show a frame
Thou hast : we view thy cradle, as thy fall.
Our dwelling lyes half desert; the whole space Nor can you say you learnt this hence, or thence, Unmeeted and unbounded, bears the face That this you gain'd by knowledge, this by sence; of the first age's fields, and we, as they All is your own, and native: for as pure
That stand on hills, have prospect every way: Fire lends it self to all, and will endure
Like Theseus' sonne, curst by mistake, the frame, Nothing from others; so what you impart
Scattred and torn, hath parts without a name, Comes not from others' principles, or art,
Which in a landskip some mischance, not meanl, But is ingepite all, and still your owne,
As dropping of the spunge, would represent; Your self sufficing to your self alone.
And (if no surcour come) the time's not far Thus your extraction is desert, to whoin
When 'twill be thought no college, but a quar. Vertue and life by the same gift did come. Send then Amphion to these Thebes, (O Fates!) Your cradle's thus a trophe, and with us
W' have here as many breaches, though not gates. 'Tis thought a praise confess'd to be born thus. When any stranger comes, 'tis shewn by us, And though your father's glorious name will be As once the face was of Antigonus, Full and majestiqne in great history,
With an half-visage onely: so that all For high designs; yet after times will boast We boast is but a kitchin, or an ball. You are his chiefest act, and fame him most. Men thence admire, but help not,'t hath the luck
Being then you're th’ elixar, whose least grain Of heathen places that were thunder-strook, Cast into any other, would maintain
To be ador'd, not toucht; tho' the mind and will All for true worth, and make the piece commence Be in the pale, the purse is payan still : Saint, nymph,or goddess, or what not, from thence; Alas! thare tow'rs that thunder do provoke, If when your valorous brother rules the maine, We ne'r bad height or glory for a stroke: And makes the fouds confess his powerfull raign, Time, and king Henry too, did spare us; we You should but take the aire by in your shell, Siood in those dayes both sythe and scepter-free; You would be thought sea-born, and we might well Our ruines then were licenc'd, and we were Conclude you such, but that your deitie
Pass'd by untouch'd, that hand was open here. Would have no winged issue to set bye.
Blesse we our throne then ! That which did avoid 0! had you of-spring to resemble you,
The fury of those tives, seems yet destroy'd : As you have verlues, then-But ob! I do
So this, breath'd on by po full influence, Complain of our misfortunes, not your own, Hath hung e'r since unminded in suspence, For are bless'd spirits, for less happy known, As doubtfull whether 't should escheated be Because they have not receiv'd such a fate
To ruine, or redeem'd to majesty. Of imperfection, as to procreate ?
But great intents stop seconds, and we owe Eternall things supply themselves; so we
To larger wants, that bounty is so slow.
A fordship here, like Curtius, might be cast
Two sacred things were thought (by judging souls) By lower and less formes, securely do
Beyond the kingdome's pow'r, Christ-church and Neglect all else, and having once scen you,
Pauls, Count others only Nature's pesantry,
Till, by a light from Heaven shown, the one And ont of reverence seeing will not see.
Did gain his second renoration, Hail your own riches then, and your own store, And some good star ere long, we do not fear, Who thus rule others, but your self far more! Will guide the wise to offer some gifts here. Hail your own glass and object, who alone But ruines yet stand ruines, as if none Deserve to see your own reflection !
Dirst be so good, as first to cast a stone. Persist you still the faction of all vowes,
Alas! we ask not prodigies : wee'd boast, A shape that makes oft perjuries, and allows Had we but what is at one horse-race losi; Even broken faiths a pardon, whiles man do (you. Nor is our house (as Nature in the fall Swear, and reclaim what they have sirom, seeing is thought by some) void and berest of all
But what's new giv'n: unto our selves we owe
SMALL POX 1633.
I Nor, when he vows, falls lower than he meant ;
DO confess the over-forward tongue That now our windows may for doctrine pass,
Of publick duty turns into a wrong, And we (as Paul) see mysteries in a glass ;
And after-ages, which could ne'r conceive That something elsewhere is perform'd, whereby
Our happy Charles so frail as to receive 'Tis seen we can adorn, though not supply.
Such a disease, will know it by the noyse But if to all great buildings (as to Troy)
Which we have made, in showting forth our joyes; A god must needs be sent, and we enjoy
And our informing duty only be No help but miracle, if so it stand
A well-meant spight, or loyall injury. Decreed by Heaven, that the same gracious hand
Let then the name be alter'd, let us say That perfected our statutes, must be sent
They were small stars fixt in a milky-way, To finish Christ-church too, we are content ;
Or faithfull turquoises, which Heaven sent Knowing that he who in the mount did give
For a discovery, not a punishment; Those laws, by which his people were to live,
To show the ill, not make it, and to tell If they had needed then, as now we do,
By their pale looks the bearer was not well.
Let the disease forgotten be, but may
Let there be new computes, let reckoning be
Let not the kingdom's acts hereafter run But turn we hence to you, as some there be
Prom his (though happy) coronation,
But from his health, as in a better strain;
That plac'd bim in bis throne, this makes him raign.
TO THE KING.
ON HIS MAJESTIE'S RETURN FROM SCOTLAND. Whiles all that blessed fatness dotb not fall
Stile our selves subjects : your prolong'd delay Vertues now ripe, train'd up, and nurturd so,
Had almost made our jealousy engross
As clocks once set in inotion do yet go, 'Tis yet more precious in its virgin beams; The hand being absent; or as when the quill And though the third or fourth may do the cure, Ceaseth to strikc, the string yet trembles still. The eldest tear of balsam's still inost pare. O count our sighs and fears ! there shall not be 'Tis only then our pride that we may dwell
Again such absence, though sure victory As vertues do in you, compleat and well ;
Would waite on every step, and would repay That when a college finish'd, is the sport
A severall conquest for each severall day. And pastime only of your yonger court,
We do not crown your welcome with a name An act, to wbich some could not well arive Coyn'd from the journey ; nor shall soothing Fame After their fifty, done by you at five,
Callt an adventure : heretofore, when rude The late and tardy stock of nephews may,
And haughty power was known by solitude ; Reading your story, think you were born gray.
When all that subjects felt of majesty,
But here's no cause of a triumphant dance,
Your pious faith secur'd your throne; your life That when to take you paioters go about,
Was guard unto your scepter ; no rude strife, They be compellid to leave some of you out;
No violence there disturb'd the pomp, unless Whiles you shew something bere that won't admit Their eager love and loyalty did press Colours and shape, something that cannot fit. To see and know, whiles law full majesty Thus shall you nourish future writers, who Spread forth its presence, and its piety. May give Fame back those things you do bestow : So hath the God, that lay hid in the voice Where merits too will be your work, and then Of his directing oracle, made choice That age will think you gave not stones, but men. To come in person, and untouch'd hath crown'd
The supplicant with tris glory, not bis sound.
Whiles that this pomp was moving, whiles a fire View we the manger and the babe, we thence
Then on the cross such love and grief we find, Wish an eternall solstice, or a day
As 'twere a transcript of our Saviour's mind; That might make Nature stand, striving to bring Each parcell so expressive, and so fit, Ev'n by her wrong more homage to a king; That the whole seems not so much wruught, as writ. But mayst thou dwell with us, just Charles, and "L'is sacred text all, we may quoat, and therce show
Extract what may be press'd in our defence. A beam sometimes to them: so shall we ow
Blest mother of the church, be iu the list To constant light, they to posterity
Reckon'd from hence the she evangelist : Shall boast of this, that they were seen by thee. Nor can the style be profanation, when
The needle may convert more than the pen.
When faith may come by seeing, and each lea! TO THE QUEEN, ON THE SAME OCCASION.
Rightly perus'd prore gospell to the deaf. We do presume our duty to no eare
Had not Saint Hellen happ'ly found the cross, Will better sound, than yours, who most did fear. By this your work you had repair'd that loss. We know your busie eye perus'd the glass,
Tell me not of Penelope, we do And chid the lazy sands as they did pass ;
See a web here more chaste, and sacred too.
women! you that són
Turn your skill hitber: then we shall (no doubt)
Eve's nakedness is truly cloath'd by you.
THE BIRTIL OF THE DUKE OF YORK.
Need wish besides is perpetuity.
This birth : no hurtless natalitious fire
Au prophesie. Fond nature shews these things
And 'tis no favour: for she straight gives oor
Paying these trifles, that she ow no more.
Were her design, her plot, her policy:
Here the enquiring, busie, common eye,
Ne'r looks for further wonder, this alone Could we judge here, (most vertuous madam) Being sufficient, that hee's silent shown. then
What's her intent I know not: let it be Your needle might receive praise from the pen : My pray't, that shee'l be modest, and that he But this our want bereaves it of that part,
Hare but the second honour, be still neer; Whiles to admire and thank is all our art.
No imitation of the father here. The work deserves a shrine, I should rehearse Yet let him, like to him, make power as free Its glories in a story, not a verse:
Froin blot or scandall as from poverty: Colours are mixt so subtily, that thereby
Count bloud and birth no parts, but something lentThe stealth of art both takes and cheates the eye; Meerly for ontward grace and complement; At once a thousand we can goze npon,
Get safety by good life, and raise defence Lot are deceir'd by their transition ;
By better forces, love and conscience. What touchieth is the same; beam takes from beam, Tuis likewise we expect; the nurse may find The next still like, yet diff'ring in th’extreme: Something in shape, wee'l look unto his mind. Here runs this track we see, thither that tends, The forehead, eye, and lip, poor humble parts, But cann't say here this rose, or there that ends. Too shallow for resemblance, shew the arts Thus while they creep insensibly, we doubt Of private guessings : action still bath been Whether the one powres not the other ont. The royall mark. Those parts, which are not seen, Paccs so quick and lively, that we may
Present the throne and scepter; and the right Fear, if we turn aside, they'l steal away.
Discoverie's made by judgment, vot by sight. Postures of grief so true, that we may swear I cannot to this cradle promise make Your artfal fingers hare wrought passion there : Of actions Git for growth. A strangled snake
BEING THE STORY OF THE NATIVITY AND PASSION OF
WROUGHT BY HER SELF IN NEEDLE-WORK.