And though we die, we shall not perish quite, But live two lives where others have but one.

PHILCOSMUS.

Silly defires of felf-abufing man,
Striving to gain th' inheritance of air,
That having done the uttermoft he can,
Leaves yet perhaps but beggary t' his heir:
All that great purchase of the breath he wan,
Feeds not his race, or makes his house more fair.
And what art thou the better, thus to leave
A multitude of words to small effect;
Which other times may fcorn, and fo deceive
Thy promis'd name of what thou doft expect?
Befides fome vip'rous critic may bereave
Th' opinion of thy worth for fome defect;

And get more reputation of his wit,
By but controlling of fome word or fenfe,
Than thou shalt honour for contriving it
With all thy travel, care, and diligence;
B'ing learning now enough to contradict,
And cenfure others with bold infolence.

Befides, fo many fo confus'dly fing,

Whofe diverse difcords have the mufic marr'd,
And in contempt that mystery doth bring,
That he muft fing aloud that will be heard.
And the receiv'd opinion of the thing,
For fome unhallow'd ftring that vilely jarr'd,
Hath fo unfeafon'd now the ears of men,
That who doth touch the tenor of that vein,
Is held but vain; and his unreckon'd pen
The title but of levity doth gain.

A poor light gain, to recompence their toil,
That thought to get eternity the while!

And therefore leave the left and out-worn
courfe

Of unregarded ways, and labour how

To fit the times with what is most in force;
Be new with men's affections that are new
Strive not to run an idle counter-course,
Out from the scent of humours men allow.
For not difcreetly to compofe our parts
Unto the frame of men (which we must be)
Is to put off ourselves, and make our arts
Rebels to nature and fociety,

Whereby we come to bury our deferts
In th' obfcure grave of fingularity.

MUSOPHILUS.

Do not profane the work of doing well,
Seduced man, that can'ft not look fo high
From out that mist of earth, as thou can't tell
The ways of right which virtue doth defcry;
That overlooks the bafe contemptibly,
And low laid follies of mortality.

Nor mete out truth and right deferving praise
By that wrong measure of confufion,
The vulgar foot that never takes his ways
By reafon, but by imitation;

Rolling on with the rest, and never weighs
The courfe which he should go, but what is gone.
Well were it with mankind, if what the most
Did like were beft: But ignorance will live
By others fquare, as by example loft.
And man to man must th' hand of error give,
That none can fall alone at their own cost;
And all because men judge not, but believe.

For what poor bounds have they, whom bat th' earth bounds?

What is their end whereto their care attains;
When the thing got relieves not, but confounds;
Having but travel to fucceed their pains?
What joy hath he of living, that propounds
Affliction but his end, and grief his gains?

Gath'ring, encroaching, wrefting, joining to,
Deftroying, building, decking, furnishing,
Repairing, alt'ring, and fo much ado,
To his foul's toil, and body's travelling:
And all this doth he, little knowing who
Fortune ordains to have th' inheriting.

And his fair house rais'd high in envy's eye, Whofe pillars rear'd (perhaps) on blood and

wrong,

The spoils and pillage of iniquity,

Who can affure it to continue long?

If rage fpar'd not the walls of piety,

Shall the profaneft piles of fin keep strong?
How many proud, aspiring palaces,

Have we known made the prey of wrath and pride;

Levell'd with th' earth, left to forgetfulness;
Whilft titlers their pretended rights decide,
Or civil tumults, or an orderless

Order; pretending change of some strong fide ?
Then where is that proud title of thy name,
Written in ice of melting vanity?

Where is thine heir left to poffefs the fame?
Perhaps not fo well as in beggary.
Something may rife, to be beyond the shame
Of vile and unregarded poverty.

Which I must confefs; although I often strive To clothe in the best habit of my skill,

In all the fairest colours I can give.

Yet for all that methinks the looks but ill;

I cannot brook that face, which (dead alive)
Shews a quick body, but a bury'd will.

Yet oft we fee the bars of this reftraint
Holds goodness in, which loofe wealth would let

fly:

And fruitless riches, barrener than want,
Brings forth fmall worth from idle liberty:
Which when diforder's fhall again make feant,
It must refetch her ftate from poverty.

But yet in all this interchange of all,
Virtue, we fee, with her fair grace stands fast:
For what high races hath there come to fall
With low difgrace, quite vanithed and past,
Since Chaucer liv'd; who yet lives, and yet
fhall,

Though (which I grieve to fay) but in his last.

Yet what a time hath he wrefted from time, And won upon the mighty waste of days, Unto th' immortal honour of our clime, That by his means came first adorn'd with bays? Unto the facred relics of whofe time, We yet are bound in zeal to offer praise.

And could our lines, begotten in this age, Obtain but fuch a bleffed hand of years, And 'scape the fury of that threatening rage, Which in confufed clouds ghaftly appears; Who would not ftrain his travels to engage, When such true glory should succeed his cares?

But whereas he came planted in the spring,
And had the fun before him of refpect;
We, fet in th' autumn, in the withering
And fullen feafon of a cold defect,

Muft taste those four diftastes the times do bring
Upon the fulness of a cloy'd neglect,

Although the stronger conftitutions fhall Wear out th' infection of distemper'd days, And come with glory to out-live this fall, Recov'ring of another fpringing of praise; Clear'd from th' opprefling humours wherewithal The idle multitude furcharge their lays.

When as (perhaps) the words thou scorneft

дом

May live, the speaking picture of the mind;
The extract of the foul, that labour'd how
To leave the image of herself behind;
Wherein pofterity, that love to know,
The juft proportion of our spir'ts may find.
For thefe lines are the veins, the arteries,
And undecaying life-strings of thofe hearts,
That still shall pant, and still shall exercise
The motion, fpir't and nature both imparts,
And fhall with thofe alive fo fympathile,

As nourish'd with their pow'rs, enjoy their parts.
O bleffed letters! that combine in one
All ages paft, and make one live with all.
By you we do confer with who are gone,
And the dead-living unto council call:
By you th' unborn fhall have communion
Of what we feel, and what doth us befal.

Soul of the world, knowledge, without thee,
What hath the earth that truly glorious is?
Why should our pride make fuch a ftir to be,
To be forgot? What good is like to this,
To do worthy the writing, and to write
Worthy the reading, and the world's delight?

And let th' unnaturai and wayward race, Born of one womb with us, but to our fhame; That never read t' obferve, but to difgrace) Raife all the tempeft of their pow'r, to blame; That puff of folly never can deface The work a happy genius took to frame.

Yet why should civil learning feek to wound, And mangle her own members with defpite? Prodigious wits! that study to confound The life of wit, to feem to know aright; As if themselves had fortunately found Some ftand from off the earth beyond our fight; Whence overlooking all as from above, Their grace is not to work, but to reprove:

But how came they plac'd in fo high degree, Above the reach and compafs of the rest? Who hath admitted them only to be Free denizens of skill, to judge the best? From whom the world as yet could never see The warrant of their wit foundly expreft.

T" acquaint our times with that perfection Of high conceit, which only they poffefs; That we might have things exquifitely done, Meafur'd with all their ftrict obfervances: Such would (I know) fcorn a tranflation, Or bring but others labours to the prefs; Yet oft these monfter-breeding mountains will Bring forth small mice of great expected skill.

Prefumption, ever fulleft of defects,
Fails in the doing to perform her part;
And I have known proud words, and poor effects,
Of fuch indeed as do condemn this art:
But let them reft; it ever hath been known,
They others virtues fcorn that doubt their own.
And for the divers difagreeing cords
Of inter-jangling ignorance, that fill
The dainty ears, and leave no room for words,
The worthier minds neglect, or pardon will:
Knowing the best he hath, he frankly 'fords,
And scorns to be a niggard of his kill.

And that the rather fince this fhort-liv'd race
B'ing fatally the fons but of one day,
That now with all their pow'r ply't apace
To hold out with the greatest might they may,
Against confufion that hath all in chace,
To make of all an univerfal prey.

For now great nature hath laid down at laft
That mighty birth wherewith so long she went,
And over-went the times of ages past,
Here to lie in upon our foft content;
Where fruitful the hath multipli'd so fast,

That all the hath on thefe times feem'd t' have spent.

All that which might have many ages grac'd,
Is born in one, to make one cloy'd with all;
Where plenty hath imprefs'd a deep distaste
Of beft and worst, and all in general;
That goodness seems goodness to have defac'd,
And virtue hath to virtue giv'n the fall.

For emulation, that proud curfe of wit,
Scorning to stay below, or come behind,
Labours upon that narrow top to fit
Of fole perfection in the highest kind.
Envy and wonder looking after it,.
Thruft likewife on the felf-fame blifs to find:

And fo long striving till they can no more,
Do ftuff the piace, or others hopes thut out;
Who doubting to o'ertake thofe gone before,
Give up their care, and caft no more about;
And fo in fcorn leave all as fore-poffeft,
And will be none, where they may not be beft.
Ev'n like fome empty creek, that long hath
lain

Left or neglected of the river by,

Whofe fearching fides pleas'd with a wand'ring

vein,

Finding fome little way that close did lie,
Steal in at first; then other ftreams again
Second the firit, then more than all fupply;

Till all the mighty main hath born at last
The glory of his chiefeft pow'r that way,
Plying this new-found pleafant room so fast,
Till all be full, and all be at a stay;
And then about, and back again doth caft,
Leaving that full to fall another way:

So farcs this hum'rous world, that evermore
Rapt with the current of a prefent course,
Runs into that which lay contemn'd before;
Then glutted, leaves the fame, and falls t' a worse.
Now zeal holds all, no life but to adore;
Then cold in fpir't, and faith is of no force.
Strait all that holy was unhallow'd lies,
The fcatter'd carcafes of ruin'd vows;

Then truth is falfe, and now hath blindness eyes;
Then zeal trusts all, now scarcely what it knows:
That evermore to foolish or to wife,
It fatal is to be feduc'd with shows,

Sacred religion! Mother of form and fear! How gorgeously fometimes, doft thou fit deck'd? What pompous vestures do we make thee wear What stately piles we prodigal erect?

How fweet perfum'd thou art: how fhining clear?

How folemnly observ'd; with what respect?

Another time all plain, all quite thread-bare; Thou must have all within, and nought without; Sit poorly without light difrob'd: No care Of outward grace, t'amufe the poor devout; Pow'rlefs, unfollow'd: Scarcely men can spare The neceffar rites to fet thee out.

Either truth, goodness, virtue are not still The felf-fame which they are, and always one, But alter to the project of our will; Or we our actions make them wait upon, Putting them in the liv'ry of our skill, And caft them off again when we have done. You, mighty lords that with respected grace Do at the ftern of fair example stand, And all the body of this populace Guide with the turning of your hand; Keep a right courfe: bear up from all difgrace; Obferve the print of glory to our land :

Hold up difgraced knowledge from the ground;
Keep virtue in requeft; give worth her due:
Let not neglect with barb'rous means confound
So fair a good, to bring in night anew:
Be not, O be not acceffary found
Unto her death, that must give life to you.
Where will you have your virtuous name fafe
laid

In gorgeous tombs, in facred cells fecure?
Do you not fee thofe proftrate heaps betray'd
Your father's bones, and could not keep them fure?
And will you truft deceitful ftones fair laid
And think they will be to your honour truer ?
No, no; unfparing time will proudly fend
A warrant unto wrath, that with one frown
Will all these mock'ries of vain glory rend,
And make them (as before) ungrac'd, unknown;
Poor idle honours, that can ill defend
Your memories, that cannot keep their own.

And whereto serve that wondrous trophy now That on the goodly plain near Walton ftands? That huge dumb heap, that cannot tell us how, Nor what, nor whence it is; nor with whose hands,

Nor for whofe glory-it was fet to fhew,
How much our pride mocks that of other lands.
Whereon, when as the gazing paffenger
Had greedy look'd with admiration;
And fain would know his birth, and what he were;
How there erected; and how long agon:
Inquires and afks his fellow traveller
What he had heard, and his opinion:

And he knows nothing. Then he turns again,
And looks and fighs; and then admires afresh,
And in h.mfelf with forrow doth complain
The mifery of dark forgetfulness:

Angry with time that nothing should remain,
Our greatest wonders wonder to exprefs.

Then ignorance, with fabulous discourse,
Robbing fair art and cunning of their right,
Tells how thofe ftones were by the devil's force
From Afric brought to Ireland in a night;
And thence to Britanny, by magic course,
From giants hands redeem'd by Merlin's flight : ¦
And then near Ambri plac'd, in memory
Of all thofe noble Britons murder'd there,
By Hengift and his Saxon treachery,
Coming to parley in peace at unaware.
With this old legend then credulity
Holds her content, and clofes up her care.

But is antiquity fo great a liar?
Or do her younger fons her age abuse;
See'ng after-comers ftill fo apt t'admire
The grave authority that the doth use,
That rev'rence and respect dares not require
Proof of her deeds, or once her words refufe?

Yet wrong they did us, to presume so far
Upon our easy credit and delight;
For once found false, they straight became to mar
Our faith, and their own reputation quite;
That now her truths hardly believed are;
And though the avouch the right, she scarce bath
right.

And as for thee, thou huge and mighty frame,
That stands corrupted fo with time's defpite,
| And giv'st false evidence against their fame
That fet thee there to teftify their right;
And art become a traitor to their name,
That trusted thee with all the beft they might;
Thou shalt stand still bely'd and flandered,
The only gazingstock of ignorance,

And by thy guile the wife admonished,
Shall never more defire fuch hopes t' advance,
Nor truft their living glory with the dead
That cannot speak, but leave their fame to chance.
Confid'ring in how small a room do lie,

And yet lie fafe, (as fresh as if alive)
All thofe great worthies of antiquity,
Which long fore-liv'd thee, and shall long furvive;
Who ftronger tombs found for eternity,
Than could the pow'rs of all the earth contrive.

Where they remain these trifles to upbraid,
Out of the reach of fpoil, and way of rage;
Though time with all his pow'r of years hath
laid

Long batt'ry, back'd with undermining age;
Yet they make head only with their own aid,
And war with his all-conqu'ring forces wage;
Pleading the heav'n's prefcription to be free,
And t' have a grant t'endure as long as he.

PHILOCOSMUS.

Behold how ev'ry man, drawn with delight Of what he doth, flatters him in his way; Striving to make his courfe feem only right, Doth his own reft, and his own thoughts betray: Imagination bringing bravely dight Her pleasing images in beft array,

With flatt'ring glasses that must shew him fair, And others foul: His fkill and wit the best, Others feduc'd, deceiv'd and wrong in their ; His knowledge right, all ignorant the reft ;