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 managed his desires, brought oft checkt sense
Unto 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
Uuto 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.

1640.

ON THE DEATH OF THE MOST HOPEFULI,
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;

[DOW

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 sprong was rule and 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. Tenbalm 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. VOL. VI.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE MOST WORTHY

SIR HENRY SPELMAN.

THOUGH 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
Not 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 Abaz' 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;
Faking 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, it 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,

LAUREAT.

FATHER of poets, though thine own great day Struck from thy selfe, scorns that a weaker ray N n

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
Commene'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 bence 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 Thy este'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 sa'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 soyl? 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? [grace
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

Dame

What was but noise, and getting briefs for fame`
Gathered the many's suffrages, and thence
Made commendation a benevolence:

[they

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

sense;

'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. 'Tis the nuptiall day of Heav'n and Earth; 2., The Father's marriage, and the Son's blest birth:

CH.

[bliss,

3. The spheres are giv'n us as a ring; that Which we call grace is but the Deitie's kiss, And what we now do hear blest spirits sing, Is but the happy po'sie of that ring. Whiles Glory thus takes flesh, and th' Heav'ns are bow'd,

1.

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 his.

2.

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.