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TO THE PASSER-BY.
By this, although you fancie not the man, To hit in angles, and to clash with time:
I hate such measur'd, give me mettall'd fire, I can lose none in tendring these to you.
That trembles in the blaze, but (then) mounts I gaine, in having leave to keepe my day,
higher! And should grow ricb, had I much more to pay. A quick, and dazeling motion! when a paire
Of bodies meet like rarified ayre!
As they out-did the lightning in the course;
This were a spectacle! a sight to draw
Wonder to valour! No, it is the law
Of daring not to doe a wrong; 'tis true,
Valour to sleight it, being done to you!
To know the heads of danger! where 't is fit
To bend, to breake, provoke, or suffer it!
All this (my lord) is valour! this is yours !
And was your father's! all your ancestours'!
Who durst live great, 'mongst all the colds, and Knew the time, when
heates He lov'd the Muses;
Of humane life! as all the frosts, and sweates Though pow be refuses,
Of fortune! when, or death appear'd, or bands !
And valiant were, with or without their hands.
ON HENRY LORD LA-WARE.
Ir, passenger, thou canst but reade,
Stay, drop a teare for him that 's dead:
Henry, the brave young lord La-ware,
Minerva's and the Muses' care!
What could their care doe 'gainst the spight
Of a disease, that lov'd po light Nor any quick-warming-pan helpe him to bed,
Of honour, por no ayre of good;
But crept like darknesse through his blood,
No love of action, and high arts,
No aime at glorie, or in warre,
Ambition to become a starre,
Could stop the malice of this ill,
Because it durst have noblier dy'd.
At which there are would sell the prince and state, If they goe on, and that thou lov'st a-life
That scarce you heare a publike voyce alive, Their perfum'd judgements, let them kisse thy wife. But whisperd counsells, and those only thrive;
Yet are got off thence with cleare mind and hands
Your happinesse, and doth not speake you blest,
To see you set apart thus from the rest,
T' obtaine of God what all the land should aske?
A nation's sinne got pardon'd! 't were a taske They talk of fencing, and the use of armes, Fit for a bishop's knees! O bow them oft, The art of urging, and avoyding harmes,
My lord, till felt griefe make our stone hearts soft, The noble science, and the maistring skill
And we doe weepe to water for our sinne. Of making just approaches how to kill:
He, that in such a flood as we are in
Of riot and consumption, knowes the way
When all your life's a president of dayes, To teach the people how to fast, and pray, And murmure cannot quarrell at your wayes? And doe their penance to avert God's rod,
How is she barren growne of love! or broke! He is the man, and favorite of God.
That nothing can her gratitude provoke!
’T is not alone the merchant, but the clowne AN EPIGRAM
Is banke-rupt turn'd! the cassock, cloake, and gowne,
TO KING CHARLES FOR ONE HUNDRED POUNDS HE SENT
ME IN MY SICKNESSE.
ON THE PRINCE'S BIRTH.
Great Charles, among the holy gifts of grace
And art thou borne, brave babe? blest be thy birth!
KING CHARLES, AND QUEENE MARY.
Non displicuisse meretur
FOR THE LOSSE OF THEIR FIRST-BORN,
AN EPIGRAM CONSOLATORIE.
Who dares denie that all first fruits are duc
TO THE QUEENE, THEN LYING IN 1630.
Haile, Mary, full of grace, it once was said, Then royall Charles, and Mary, doe not grutch
And by an angell, to the blessed'st maid That the Almightie's will to you is such:
The mother of our Lord: why may not I But thanke his greatnesse, and his goodnesse too;
(Without prophanenesse) yet, a poet, cry And tbinke all still the best that he will doe.
Haile, Mary, full of honours, to my queene, That thought shall make, he will this losse supply(Except the joy that the first Mary brought,
The mother of our prince? when was there seene With a long, large, and blest posteritie! For God, whose essence is so infinite,
Whereby the safetie of man-kind was wrought) Cannot but heape that grace he will requite.
So generall a gladnesse to au isle !
Glorie to God. Then, haile to Mary! spring
Of so much safetie to the realme, and king.
TO OUR GREAT AND GOON KING CHARLES ON HIS ANNI
AN ODE, OR SONG,
BY ALL THE MUSES.
IN CELEBRATION OF HER MAJESTIE'S BIRTH-DAY. 1650.
How happy were the subject! if he knew,
Clio. Up, publike joy, remember
This sixteenth of November,
Some brave un-common way:
Ring thou it holy-day.
And rather wish, in their expense of sack,
So, the allowance from tbe king to use,
As the old bard, should no Canary lack,
'T were better spare a butt, then spill bis Muse. This citie, or to shake
For in the genius of a poet's verse,
The king's fame lives. Go now, denie bis teirce. Thai. Yet, let our trumpets sound;
And cleave both ayre and ground,
With beating of our drums:
TO A FRIEND, AND SONNE.
Sonne, and my friend, I had not call’d you so
To me, or beene the same to you, if show,
Profit, or chance had made us: but I know
What by that name we each to other owe,
Freedome, and truth ; with love from those begot.
Wise-crafts on which the flatterer ventures not.
His is more safe commoditie, or none:
Nor dares he come in the comparison.
But as the wretched painter, who so ill
Painted a dog, that now his subtler skill
Was, t' have a boy stand with a club, and fright
All live dogs from the lane, and bis shop's sight. And of her father's prowesse !
Till he had sold his piece, drawne so unlike:
So doth the flattrer, with farre cunning strike Erul. She showes, so farre above
At a friend's freedome, proves all circling meanes The fained queene of love,
To keepe him off; and how-so-e're be gleanes This sea-girt isle upon:
Some of his formes, he lets him not come neere As here no Venus were;
Where he would fixe, for the distinction's feare.
For as at distance few have facultie
To judge, so all men comming deere can spie,
Though now of flattery, as of picture are
More subtle workes, and finer pieces farre,
Then knew the former ages: yet to life,
All is but web and painting; be the strife
Never so great to get them: and the ends,
Rather to boast rich hangings then rare friends,
TO THE IMMORTALL
MEMORIE AND FRIENDSHIP
OF THAT NOBLE PAIRE, SIR LUCIUS CARY, AND
SIR H. MORISON, Poly. Sweet! happy Mary! all
The people her doe call!
And this the wombe divine !
BRAVE infant of Saguntum, cleare
Thy comming forth in that great yeare,
When the prodigious Hannibal did crowne
Wise child, did'st hastily returne,
And mad'st thy mother's wombe thine urne.
How summ'd a circle didst thou leave man-kind
Of deepest lore, could we the center find !
For want of kuowing the poet, to say him nay? From out the horrour of that sack,
His poet leave to sing his house-hold true; (grant Lay trampled on; the deeds of death, and night He'ld frame such ditties of their store, and want, Urg'd, hurried forth, and horld
Would make the very greene-cloth to looke blew: Upon th’affrighted world:
TO THE HOUSE-HOLD.
Sword, fire, and famine, with fell fury met;
And let thy lookes with gladnesse shine:
Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,
And thinke, nay know, thy Morison's not dead,
He leap'd the present age, Not by the act ?
Possest with holy rage, Or masked man, if valu'd by his face,
To see that bright eternall day: Above his fact?
Of which we priests, and poëts say Here's one out-lip'd his peeres,
Such truths, as we expect for happy men, And told forth fourescore yeares;
And there he lives with memorie; and Ben
Johnson, who sung this of him, e're he went
Himselfe to rest,
Or taste a part of that full joy he meant
In this bright asterisme:
Where it were friendship's schisme, Got ap and thriv'd with honest arts:
(Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry) He purchas'd friends, and fame, and honours then, To separate these twiAnd had his noble name advanc'd with men : Lights, the Dioscuri; But weary of that flight,
And keepe the one halfe from his Harry. He stoop'd in all men's sight
But fate doth so alternate the designe, To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,
Whilst that in Heaven, this light on earth must shine. And sunke in that dead sea of life So deep, as he did then death's waters sup; But that the corke of title boy'd him up.
And shine as you exalted are ;
Two names of friendship, but one starre: Alas, but Morison fell young:
Of hearts the union. And those not by chance He never fell, thou fall'st, my tongue.
Made, or indenture, or leas'd out t' advance He stood, a souldier to the last right end,
The profits for a time. A perfect patriot, and a noble friend,
No pleasures vaine did chime, But most a vertuous sonne.
Of rimes, or ryots, at your feasts, All offices were done
Orgies of drinke, or fain'd protests: By him, so ample, full, and round,
But simple love of greatnesse and of good; In weight, in measure, number, sound,
That knits brave minds and manners more then As though his age imperfect might appeare,
blood. His life was of humanitie the spheare.
This made you first to know the why
That liking; and approach so one the t'other, To swell thine age;
Till either grew a portion of the other :
Each stiled by his end, Repeat of things a throng,
The copie of his friend. To show thou hast beene long
You liv'd to be the great surnames, Not liv'd; for life doth her great actions spell,
And titles, by which all made claimes
Unto the vertue. Nothing perfect done,
But as a Cary, or a Morison.
And such a force the faire example had,
As they that saw It is not growing like a tree
The good, and durst not practise it, were glad In bulke, doth make man better be;
That such a law
Friendship, indeed, was written, not in words: Is fairer farre, in May,
And with the heart, not pen, Although it fall, and die that night;
Of two so early men, It was the plant and flowre of light.
Whose lines her rolles were, and records. In small proportions we just beauties see:
Who, e're the first downe bloomed on the chin, And in sbort measures life may perfect be. Had sow'd these fruits and got the barvest in.
TO THE RIGHT HON. THE
TO THE RIGHT HON.
Weston! that waking man! tbat eye of state!
Who seldome sleepes! whom bad men only hate! LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND Why doe I irritate, or stirre up thee,
Thou sluggish spawne, that canst, but wilt not see! AN EPISTLE MENDICANT. 1631.
Feed on thy selfe for spight, and show thy kind : MY LORD,
To vertue, and true worth, be ever blind.
Dreame thou could'st hurt it, but before thou wake, POORB wretched states, prest by extremities, T'effect it; feele, thou 'ast made thine owne heart Are faine to seeke for succours, and supplies
HIEROME, LORD WESTON,
AN ODE GRATULATORIE, close wayes, The Muse not peepes out, one of hundred dayes ;
FOR HIS RETURNE FROM HIS EMBASSIE. 1632. But lyes block'd up, and straightned, narrow'd in, Such pleasure as the teeming Earth Fix'd to the bed, and boords, unlike to win
Doth take an easie Nature's birth, Health, or scarce breath, as she had never bin ; When she puts forth the life of ev'ry thing:
And in a dew of sweetest raine, Unlesse some saving honour of the crowne,
She lies deliver'd without paine, Dare thinke it, to relieve, no lesse renowne,
Of the prime beautie of the yeare, the Spring. Abed-rid wit, then a besieged towne.
The river in their shores doe run,
The rudest winds obey the calmest ayre,
Rare plants from ev'ry banke doe rise,
And ev'ry plant the sense surprise,
Because the order of the whole is faire !
The very verdure of her nest,
As all the wealth of season there was spread; Discharge it 'bout the iland, in an hoare,
Doth show the Graces and the Houses As lowd as thunder, and as swift as fire.
Have multipli'd their arts and powers, Let Ireland meet it out at sea halfe way,
In making soft her aromatique bed. Repeating all Great Brittain's joy, and more,
Such joyes, such sweets doth your returne Adding her owne glad accents to this day,
Bring all your friends (faire lord) that burne Like Eccho playing from the other shore.
With love to heare your modestie relate, What drums, or trumpets, or great ord’nance can,
The bus'nesse of your blooming wit, The poetrie of steeples, with the bells,
With all the fryit shall follow it,
Both to the honour of the king and state.
When he beholds a graft of his owne hand,
To be a shadow to his heire, And ever close the burden of the song,
And both a strength, and beautie to his land! Still to have such a Charles, but this Charles long. The wish is great; but where the prince is such, What prayers (people) can you thinke too much!