He will make you speak truths, and credibly,
And make you doubt, that others do not so:
He will provide you keys and locks, to spy
And scape spies, to good ends; and he will show
What you may not acknowledge, what not know.
For your own conscience, he gives innocence,
But for your fame, a discreet wariness;
And though to scape, than to revenge, offence,
Be better, he shows both and to repress
Joy, when your state swells, sadness when 'tis less.
From need of tears he will defend
your soul,
Or make a rebaptizing of one tear;
He cannot (that's, he will not) disenroll
Your name; and when with active joy we hear
This private Gospel, then 'tis our new year.
To the Countess of Huntingdon.
MAN to God's image, Eve to man's was made,
Nor find we that God breathed a soul in her;
Canons will not, church functions you invade,
Nor laws to civil office you prefer.
Who vagrant transitory comets sees,
Wonders, because they're rare; but a new star
Whose motion with the firmament agrees,
Is miracle for there no new things are.
In woman so perchance mild innocence
A seldom comet is, but active good
A miracle, which reason scapes, and sense;
For art and nature this in them withstood.
As such a star, which Magï led to view
The manger-cradled infant, God below;
By virtue's beams, by fame, derived from you,
May apt souls, and the worst may virtue know.
If the world's age and death be argued well
By the sun's fall, which now towards earth doth bend, Then we might fear that virtue, since she fell
So low as woman, should be near her end.
But she's not stooped, but raised; exiled by men
She fled to heaven, that's heavenly things, that's you,
She was in all men, thinly scattered then,
But now amassed, contracted in a few.
She gilded us; but you are gold, and she,
Us she informed, but transubstantiates you;
Soft dispositions which ductile be,
Elixir-like, she makes not clean, but new.
Though you a wife's and mother's name retain,
'Tis not as woman, for all are not so;
But virtue having made you virtue, 's fain
T'adhere in these names, her and you to show.
Else, being alike pure, we should neither see;
As water being into air rarified,
Neither appear, till in one cloud they be,
So for our sakes you do low names abide.
Taught by great constellations, which being framed
Of the most stars, take low names, Crab and Bull,
When single planets by the gods are named,
You covet no great names, of great things full.
So you, as woman, one doth comprehend,
And in the veil of kindred others see;
To some ye are revealed, as in a friend,
And as a virtuous prince far off, to me.
To whom, because from you all virtues flow,
And 'tis not none, to dare contemplate you,
I, which to you as your true subject owe
Some tribute for that, so these lines are due.
If you can think these flatteries, they are,
For then your judgment is below my praise;
If they were so, oft flatteries work as far
As counsels, and as far th' endeavour raise.
"Vale." Anderson's Poets.
So my ill reaching you might there grow good,
But I remain a poisoned fountain still;
But not your beauty, virtue, knowledge, blood
Are more above all flattery, than my will.
And if I flatter any, 'tis not you
But my own judgment, who did long ago
Pronounce, that all these praises should be true,
And virtue should your beauty and birth outgrow.
Now that my prophecies are all fulfilled,
Rather than God should not be honoured too,
And all these gifts confessed, which he instilled,
Yourself were bound to say that which I do.
So I but your recorder am in this,
Or mouth, or speaker of the universe,
A ministerial notary, for 'tis
Not I, but you and fame, that make this verse;
I was your prophet in your younger days,
And now your chaplain, God in you to praise.
ALL hail, sweet poet! more full of more strong fire
Than hath or shall enkindle any spirit *,
I loved what nature gave thee, but this merit
Of wit and art I love not, but admire ;
Who have before, or shall write after thee,
Their works, though toughly laboured, will be
Like infancy or age to man's firm stay,
Or early and late twilights to mid-day.
Men say, and truly, that they better be
Which be envied than pitied: therefore I,
Because I wish thee best, do thee envy;
O would'st thou, by like reason, pity me,
But care not for me, I, that ever was
In nature's and in fortune's gifts, (alas,
Before by thy grace got in th' muses' school)
A monster and a beggar, am a fool.
"And full of more strong fire Than hath or shall enkindle my dull spirit."
O how I grieve, that late-born modesty
Hath got such root in easy waxen hearts,
That men may not themselves their own good parts Extol, without suspect of surquedry;
For, but thyself, no subject can be found
Worthy thy quill, nor any quill resound
Thy work, but thine how good it were to see poem in thy praise, and writ by thee.
Now if this song be too harsh for rhyme, yet, as
The painter's bad god made a good devil,
"Twill be good prose, although the verse be evil.
If thou forget the rhyme as thou do'st pass,
Then write, then I may follow, and so be
Thy debtor, thy echo, thy foil, thy zany.
I shall be thought, if mine like thine I shape,
All the world's lion, though I be thy ape.
HASTE thee, harsh verse, as fast as thy lame measure
Will give thee leave, to him: my pain and pleasure
I have given thee, and yet thou art too weak,
Feet, and a reasoning soul, and tongue to speak.
Tell him, all questions which men have defended
Both of the place and pains of hell, are ended;
And 'tis decreed our hell is but privation
Of him, at least in this earth's habitation.
And 'tis where I am, where in every street
Infections follow, overtake, and meet:
Live I or die, by you my love is sent,
And you're my pawns, or else my testament.
PREGNANT again with th' old twins, hope and fear,
Oft have I asked for thee, both how and where
Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were.
As in our streets sly beggars narrowly
Watch motions of the giver's hand or eye,
And evermore conceive some hope thereby.
And now thy alms is given, thy letter is read,
Thy body risen again, the which was dead,
And thy poor starveling bountifully fed.
After this banquet my soul doth say grace,
And praise thee for it, and zealously embrace
Thy love, though I think thy love in this case
To be as gluttons', which say 'midst their meat,
They love that best of which they most do eat.
At once, from hence, my lines and I depart,
I to my soft still walks, they to my heart;
I to the nurse, they to the child of art.
Yet as a firm house, though the carpenter
Perish, doth stand; as an ambassador
Lies safe, howe'er his king be in danger :
So, though I languish, prest with melancholy,
My verse, the strict map of my misery,
Shall live to see that, for whose want I die.
Therefore I envy them, and do repent,
That from unhappy me, things happy are sent ;
Yet as a picture, or bare sacrament,
Accept these lines, and if in them there be
Merit of love, bestow that love on me.
THY friend, whom thy deserts to thee enchain,
Urged by this unexcusable occasion,
Thee and the saint of his affection
Leaving behind, doth of both wants complain;
And let the love I bear to both sustain
No blot nor maim by this division;
Strong is this love which ties our hearts in one,
Probably, Christopher Brook.-ED.
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