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This, utter'd by an ancient bard,

Last draw the circles of this globe, Who claimes (of reverence) to be heard,

And let there be a starry robe As comming with his harpe, prepar'd

Of constellations 'bout her horld; To chant her 'gree,

And thou hast painted beautie's world.

Is song: as als' her getting up By Jacob's ladder, to the top Of that eternall port kept ope'

for such as she.

But painter, see thou doe not sell
A copie of this peece; nor tell
Whose 'tis : but if it favour find,
Next sitting we will draw her mind.

IV. THE MIND.

PAINTER yo' are come, but may be gone,
Now I have better thought thereon,
This work I can performe alone,
And give you reasons more then one.

11. THE SONG OF HER DESCENT. I sing the just, and uncontrol'd descent

Of dame Venetia Digby, styl'd the faire : For mind, and body, the most excellent

That ever nature, or the later ayre Gare two such houses as Northumberland

And Stanley, to the which she was co-heire. Speake it, you bold Penates, you that stand

At either stemme, and know the veines of good Rug from your rootes; tell, testifie the grand

Meeting of graces, that so swellid the flood Of vertues in her, as, in short, she grew

The wonder of her sexe, and of your blood. And tell thon, Alde-Legh, none can tell more true

Thy neece's line,tben thou that gav'st thy name Into the kindred, whence thy Adam drew

Meschines' honour with the Cestrian fame Of the first Lapns, to the familie

By Ranulph

Not, that your art I doe refuse : But here I may no colours use. 'Beside, your hand will never hit, To draw a thing that cannot sit.

You could make shift to paint an eye,
An eagle towring in the skye,
The Sunne, a sea, or soundlesse pit;
But these are like a mind, not it.

No, to expresse a mind to sense,
Would aske a Heaven's intelligence ;
Since nothing can report that fame,
But what's of kinne to whence it came.

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Sweet mind, then speake your selfe, and say,
As you goe on, by what brave way
Our sense you doe with knowledge fill,
And yet remaine our wonder still.

III. THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.

SITTING, and ready to be drawne,
What makes these velvets, silkes, and lawne,
Embroderies, feathers, fringes, lace,
Where every lim takes like a face?
Send these suspected helpes to aide
Some forme defective or decay'd ;
This beautie without falshood fayre,
Needs nought to cloath it but the ayre.
Yet something, to the painter's view,
Were fitly interpos’d; so new :
He shall, if he can understand,
Worke with my fancie, his owne hand.

I call you Muse, now make it true:
Henceforth may every line be you ;
That all may say, that see the frame,
This is no picture, but the same.
A mind so pure, so perfect, fine,
As 'tis nut radient, but divine:
And so disdaining any tryer;
'Tis got where it can try the fire.
There high exalted in the spheare,
As it another nature were,
It moveth all and makes a flight
As circular as infinite.
Whose notions when it will expresse
In speech, it is with that excesse
Of grace and musique to the eare,
As what it spoke it planted there.
The voyce so sweet, the words so faire,
As some soft chime had stroak'd the ayre;
And though the sound were parted thence,
Still left au eccho in the sense.

Draw first a cloud: all save her neck;
And, out of, that, make day to breake;
Till, like her face, it doe appeare,
And men may thinke all light rose there.

Then let the beames of that disperse
The cloud, and show the universe;
But at such distance, as the eye
May rather yet adore then spy.
The Heaven design'd, draw next a spring,
With all that youth or it can bring :
Foure rivers branching forth like seas,
And paradise confining these.

But, that a mind so rapt, so high,
So swift, so pure, should yet apply
It selfe to us, and come so nigh
Earth's grossnesse; there's the how, and why.

Is it because it sees us dull,

Hang all your roomes with one large pedigree : And stuck in clay here, it would pull

'Tis vertue alone, is true nobilitie Us forth by some celestiall fight

Which vertue from your father ripe will fall; Up to her owne sublimed hight?

Study illustrious him, and you have all.

Or hath she here, upon the ground,
Some paradise, or palace found
In all the bounds of beautie fit
For here to inhabit? There is it.

IX. ELEGIE ON MY MUSE,

THE TRULY HONOURED LADY, THE LADY VENETIA DICE;

WHO LIVING GAVE ME LEAVE TO CALL HER $0.

BEING

Thrice happy house, that hast receipt
For this so loftie forme, so streight,
So polisht, perfect, round, and even,

HER ANOOESEIE, OR RELATION TO THE SAINTS As it slid moulded off from Heaven.

Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina dolori. Not swelling like the ocean proud,

'Twere time that I dy'd too, now she is dead, Bat stooping gently, as a cloud, As smooth as oyle pour'd forth, and calme

Who was my Muse, and life of all I sey'd.

The spirit that I wrote with, and conceird, As showers, and sweet as drops of balme.

All that was good, or great in me she wear'd, Smooth, sost, and sweet, in all a foud

And set it forth; the rest were cobwebs fine, Where it may run to any good;

Spun out in name of some of the old nine ! And where it stayes, it there becomes

To hang a window or make darke the roome, A nest of odorous spice, and gummes.

Till swept away, th' were cancell'd with a broom!
Nothing, that could remaine, or yet can stirre

A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!
In action, winged as the wind,

O! had I seene her laid out a faire corse, In rest, like spirits left behind

By Death, on earth, I should bave had remorse Upon a banke, or field of flowers,

On Nature, for her: who did let ber lie, Begotten by that wind and sbowers.

And saw that portion of her selfe to die. In thee, faire mansion, let it rest,

Sleepie, or stupid Nature, couldst thou part

With such a raritie, and not rowse Art Yet know, with what thou art possest,

With all her aydes, to save her from the seize
Thou entertaining in thy brest
But such a mind, mak'st God thy guest.

Of vulture Death, and those relentlesse cleies?
Thou wouldst have lost the phoenix, had the kind
Beene trusted to thee: not to 't selfe assign'd.

Looke on thy sloth, and give thy selfe undone, (A whole quaternion in the middle of this poem (For so thou art with me) now she is gone. is lost, containing entirely the three next My wounded mind cannot sustaine this stroke

, pieces of it, and all of the fourth (which in it rages, runs, flies, stands, and would proroke the order of the whole, is the eighth) except- The world to ruin with it; in her fall, ing the very end : which at the top of the 1 summe up my owne breaking, and wish all. next quaternion goeth on thus:]

Thou bast no more blowes, Fate, to drive at one: But, for you (growing gentlemen) the happy Sure, I am dead, and know it not! I feele

What's left a poet, when bis Muse is gone? branches of two so illustrious houses as these, where Nothing I doe; but, like a heavy wheele, from your honour'd mother is in both lines de Am turned with another's powers. My passion scended; let me leave you this last legacie of Whoorles me about, and, to blaspheme in fashion, counsell; which so soone as you arrive at yeares 1 murmure against God, for having ta'en of mature understanding, open you (sir) that are Her blessed soule hence, forth this valley vaine the eldest, and read it to your brethren, for it will Of teares, and dungeon of calamitie ! concerne you all alike. Vowed by a faithfull ser- i envie it the angels amitie! vant, and client of your familie, with his latest The joy of saints! the crowne for which it livres breath expiring it.

B.J.

The glorie, and gaine of rest, which the place gires!
Dare I prophane, so irreligious be,
To 'greet, or grieve her soft euthanasee !
So sweetly taken to the court of blisse,

As spirits had stolne her spirit in a kisse,
KENELME, JOHN GEORGE. From off her pillow and deluded bed;

And left her lovely body unthought dead! Buast not these titles of your ancestors; [yours: Indeed, she is not dead! but laid to sleepe (Brave youths) th’ are their possessions, none of In earth, till the last trumpe awake the sheepe When your owne vertues equall'd have their names, And goates together, whither they must come "Twill be but faire to leane upon their fames; To heare their judge and his eternall doome; For they are strong supporters: bot, till then, To have that finall

retribution, The greatest are but growing gentlemen.

Expected with the fleshe's restitution. It is a wretched thing to trust to reedes,

For, as there are three natures, schoolemen call Which all men doe, that urge not their owne deeds One corporall

only, th’ other spirituall, Up to their ancestors; the river's side, [bide: Like single; so, there is a third, commixt By which yo' are planted shows your fruit shall Of body

and spirit together, plac'd betwist

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TO

Those other two; which must be judg'd, or crown'd: ] Unto the scent, a spicerie, or balme;
This as it guilty is, or guiltlesse found,

And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palme.
Must come to take a sentence, by the sense He will all glory, all perfection be,
Of that great evidence, the conscience !

God, in the union, and the Tripitie !
Who will be there against that day prepar'd, That holy, great, and glorious mysterie,
Paccuse, or quit-all parties to be heard !

Will there revealed be in majestie!
O day of joy, and suretie to the just!

By light, and comfort of spirituall grace; Who in that feast of resurrection trust!

The vision of our Saviour, face to face That great eternall boly-day of rest

In his humanitie! to heare him preach To body and soule! where Love is all the guest ! The price of our redemption, and to teach And the whole banquet is full sight of God ! Through his inherent righteousnesse, in death, Of ny the circle, and sole period !

The safetie of our soules, and forfeit breath! All other gladnesse, with the thought is barrd; What fulnesse of beatitude is here? Hope, hath her end! and Faith bath her reward ! What love with mercy mixed doth appeare? This being tbus: why should my tongue or pen To style us friends, who were by nature, foes ? Presume to interpell that fulnesse, when

Adopt us heires, by grace, who were of those Nothing can more adorne it then the seat

Had lost our selves and prodigally spent That she is in, or make it more compleat ? Our native portions, and possessed rent; Better be dumbe then superstitious !

Yet have all debts forgiven us, and advance Who violates the god-head, is most vitious B’imputed right to an inheritance Against the nature he would worship. He

In his eternall kingdome, where we sit Will honour'd be in all simplicitie !

Equall with angels, and co-heires of it. Hare all his actions wondred at, and view'd Nor dare we under blasphemy conceive With silence, and amazement! not with rude, He that shall be our supreme judge, should leave Dull, and prophane, weake and imperfect eyes, Himselfe so un-inform'd of his elect, Hare busie search made in his mysteries! (guest, Who knows the heart of all, and can dissect He knowes what worke l’bath done, to call this The smallest fibre of our flesh; he can Out of her noble body, to this feast :

Find all our atomes from a point t'a span! And give her place, according to her blood Our closest creekes, and corners, and can trace Amongst her peeres, those princes of all good! Each line, as it were graphick, in the face. Saints, martyrs, prophets, with those hierarchies, And best he knew ber noble character, Angels, arch-angels, principalities,

For 'twas himselfe who forin'd, and gave it her. The dominations, vertues, and the powers,

And to that forme lent two such veines of blood The thrones, the cherube, and seraphiek bowers, As nature could not more increase the flood That, planted round, there sing before the Lamb, Of title in her! all nobilitie A new song to his praise, and great LAM: (But pride, that schisme of incivilitie) And she doth know, out of the shade of death, She had, and it became her! she was fit What 't is t'enjoy an everlasting breath!

T'have knowne no envy, but by suffring it! To have her captiv'd spirit freed from flesh, She had a mind as calme as she was faire; And on her innocence a garment fresh

Not tost or troubled with light lady-ayre, And white, as that, put on : and in her hand But kept an even gaite; as some straight tree With boughs of palme, a crowned victrice stand! Mov'd by the wind, so comely moved she. And will you, worthy sonne, sir, knowing this, And by the awfull manage of her eye Put black, and mouming on? and say you misse She swaid all businesse in the familie! A wife, a friend, a lady, or a love;

To one she said, doe this, he did it; so Whom her Redeemer, honour'd hath above To another, move; he went; to a third, go, Her fellowes, with the oyle of gladnesse, bright He run; and all did strive with diligence In Heav'n's empire, and with a robe of light? To obey, and serve her sweet commandements, Thither, you hope to come; and there to find She was in one a many parts of life; That pure, that pretious, and exalted mind A tender mother, a discreeter wife, You once enjoy'd : a short space severs ye

A solemne mistress, and so good a friend, Compar'd unto that long eternitie,

So charitable, to religious end, That shall re-joyne ye. Was she, then, so deare, In all her petite actions, so devote, When she departed you will meet her there, As her whole life was now become one note Much more desir'd, and dearer thep before, Of pietie, and private holinesse. By all the wealth of blessings, and the store She spent more time in teares her selfe to dresse Accumulated on her, by the Lord

For her devotions, and those sad essayes Of life and light, the Sonne of God, the Word! Of sorrow, then all pompe of gaudy daies: There all the happy soules that ever were,

And came forth ever cheered with the rod Shall meet with gladnesse in one theatre ;

Of divine comfort, when sh' had talk'd with God. And each shall know there one another's face, Her broken sighes did never misse whole sense : By beatifick vertue of the place.

Nor can the bruised heart want eloquence : There shall the brother with the sister wakke, For, prayer is the incense most perfumes And sons and daughters with their parents talke; The holy altars, when it least presumes. But all of God; they still shall have to say, And her's were all bumilitie! they beat But make him All in All, their theme, that day : The doore of grace, and found the mercy-seat. That happy day, that never shall see night! In frequent speaking by the pious psalmes Where he will be, all beautie to the sight:

Her solemne hoares she spent, or giving almes, Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste;

Of doing other deeds of charitie, A musique in the eares will ever last ;

To cloath the naked, feed the hungry. She

Would sit in an infirmery, whole dayes

With which, Priapus, he may thanke thy hands, Poring, as on a map, to find the wayes

And, Sylvane, thine that keptst his lands! To that eternall rest, where now sh' hath place Then now beneath some ancient oke he may By sure election, and predestin'd grace;

Now in the rooted grasse him lay, She saw her Saviour, by an earlie light,

Whilst from the higher bankes doe slide the foods; Incarnate in the manger, shining bright

The soft birds quarrell in the woods, On all the world! she saw him on the crosse The fountaines murmure as the streames doe creepe, Suffring, and dying to redeeme our losse !

And all invite to easie sleepe. She saw him rise, triumphing over death,

Then when the thundring Jove, his snow and showres To justifie, and quicken us in breath!

Are gathering by the wintry houres; She saw him too in glory to .scend

Or hence, or thence, he drives with many a bouad For his designed worke the perfect end

Wild bores into his toyles pitch'd round: Of raising, judging, and rewarding all

Or straines on his small forke his subtill nets The kind of man, on whom his doome should fall! For th' eating thrush, or pit-falls sets : All this by faith she saw, and fram'd a plea, And snares the fearfull hare, and new-come crane, In manner of a daily apostrophe,

And 'counts them sweet rewards so ta'en. To hiin should be her judge, true God, true man, Who (amongst these delights) would not forget Jesus, the onely gotten Christ! wbo can

Love's cares so evill, and so great ? As being redeemer, and repairer too

But if, to boot with these, a chaste wife meet (Of lapsed nature) best know what to doe,

for houshold aid, and children sweet ; In that great act of judgement: which the father Such as the Sabines, or a sun-burnt-blowse, Hath given wholly to the sonne (the rather Some lustie quick Apulian's spouse, As being the sonne of man) to show his power, To deck tbe hallow'd harth with old wood fir'd His wisdome, and his justice, in that houre, Against the husband comes home tir'd; The last of houres, and shutter up of all;

That penning the glad fock in hurdles by Where first his power will appeare, by call Their swelling udders doth draw dry: Of all are dead to life! his wisdome show And from the sweet tub wine of this yeare takes, In the discerning of each conscience so!

And unbought viands ready makes : And most his justice, in the fitting parts,

Not Lucrine oysters I could then more prize, And giving dues to all mankind's deserts !

Nor turbot, nor bright golden eyes : In this sweet extasie, she was rapt hence.

If with bright floods, the winter troubled much, Who reades will pardon my intelligence,

1 Into our stas send any such : That thus have ventur'd these true straines upon ; Th’lonian god-wit, nor the ginny-hen To publish her a saint. My Muse is gone. Could not goe downe my belly then

More sweet then olives, that new gather'd be In pietatis memoriam

From fattest branches of the tree; quam pripsias

Or the herb sorrell, that loves meadows still,
Venetiæ tuæ illustrissim.

Or mallowes loosing bodyes ill :
Marit. dign. Digbeie

Or at the feast of bounds, the lambe then slaine,
Hanc ADOOEEIN, tibi, tuisque, sacro. Or kid forc't from the wolfe againe.

Among these cates how glad the sight doth come The Tenth, being her Inscription, or Crowne, is lost. Of the fed flocks approaching home!

To view the weary oxen draw, with bare
And fainting pecks, the turned share!
The wealthy household swarme of bondmen met,
And 'bout the steeming chimpey set !

These thoughts when usurer Alphius, now about PRAISES OF A COUNTRIE LIFE. To turne more farmer, had spoke out

'Gainst th' ides, his moneys he gets in with pajue, FROM HORACE'S BEATUS ILLE, QUI PROCUL NEGOTIIS.

At th’ calends, puts all out againe.
Happie is he, that from all businesse cleere,
As the old race of mankind were,
With bis owne oxen tills his sire's left lands,
And is not in the usurer's bands :

FROM HORACE,
Nor souldier like started with rough alarmes,
Nor dreads the sea's inraged harmes :

ODE THE FIRST, THE FOURTH BOOKE.
But flees the barre and courts, with the proud bords,
And waiting chambers of great lords.
The poplar tall, he then doth marrying twine Venus, againe thou mor'st a warre
With the growne issue of the vine;

Long intermitted pray thee, pray thee spare: And with his hooke lops off the fruitlesse race, I am not such as in the reigne And sets more bappy in the place :

Of the good Cynara I was; refraine, Or in the bending vale beholds a-farre

Sower mother of sweet loves, forbeate The lowing herds there grazing are:

To bend a man now at his fiftieth yeare Or the prest honey in pure pots doth keepe Too stubborne for commands, so slack: Of earth, and sheares the tender sheepe:

Goe where youth's soft entreaties call thee back. Or when that autuinne through the fields lifts round More timely hie thee to the house, His head, with mellow apples crown'd,

With thy bright swans of Paulus Maximus : How plucking peares, his owne hand grafted had, There jest, and feast, make bim thine host, And purple-matching grapes, he's glad!

If a fit livor thou dost seeke to toast :

THE

TO VENUS.

FROM

TO THE

GREAT EXAMPLE OF HONOUR AN

THE MOST NOBLE

TO LYDIA.

For he's both noble, lovely, young,
And for the troubled clyent fyls his tongue
Child of a hundred arts, and farre

MARTIAL, LIB. VIII. 77.
Vill he display the ensines of thy warre.
And when he smiling finds bis grace

Liber, of all thy friends, thou sweetest care,
With tbee 'bove all his rivals' gifts take place, Thou worthy in eternall flower to fare,
He will thee a marble statue make,

If thou be'st wise, with 'Syrian oyle let shine Beneath a sweet-wood roofe, neere Alba Lake: Thy locks, and rosie garlands crowne thy head; There shall thy dainty nostrill take

Darke thy cleare glasse with old Falernian wine ; In many a gumme, and for thy soft eare's sake And heat, with softest love, thy softer bed. Shall verse be set to barpe and lute,

He, that but living halfe his dayes, dies such,
And Phrygian hau'boy, not without the flute. Makes bis life louger then 't was given him, much,
There twice a day in sacred laies,
The youths and tender maids shall sing thy praise:
And in the Salian manner meet
Thrice 'bout thy altar with their ivory feet.
Me now, nor wench, nor wanton boy,

EPIGRAMMES.
Delights, nor credulous hope of mutuall joy,
Nor care I now healths to propound;
Or with fresh flowers to girt my temple round.
But, why, oh why, iny Ligurine,

VERTUE,
Flowmy thin teares,downe these palecheeks of mine?
Or why, my well-grac'd words among,
With an uncomely silence failes my tongue ?

WILLIAM, EARLE OF PEMBROKE, Hard-hearted, I dreame every night I hold thee fast! but fled hence, with the light,

LORD CHAMBERLAINE, &c. Whether in Mars his field thou be,

MY LORD, Or Tyber's winding streames, I follow thee.

While you cannot change your merit, I dare not change your title: it was that made it, and not I.

Under which name I here offer to your lordship ODE IX. BOOKE III.

the ripest of my studies, my Epigrammes; which, though they carry danzer in the sound, do not therefore seeke your shelter : for, when I made them, I had nothing in my conscience, to express

ing of which I did need a cypher. But, if I be Whilst, Lydia, I was lov'd of thee,

falne into those times, wherein, for the likenesse And ('bout thy ivory neck) no youth did fing,

of vice, and facts, every one thinks another's ill His armes more acceptable free,

deeds objected to him ; and that in their ignorant I thought me richer then the Persian king. and guilty mouths, the common voyce is (for their

security) “ Beware the poet," confessing therein Whilst Horace lov'd no mistres more,

so much love to their diseases as they would rather Nor after Cloë did his Lydia sound;

make a party for them, than be either rid, or In name, I went all names before, The Roman Ilia was not more renown'd.

told of them : I must expect, at your lordship's

hand, the protection of truth, and liberty, while 'T is true, l' am Thracian Chloe's, I

you are constant to your own goodnesse. In Who sings so sweet, and with such cunning plaies, forth so many good, and great names (as my verses

thanks whereof I returne you the honor of leading As, for her, I'ld not feare to die, So Fate would give her life, and longer daies.

mention on the better part) to their remembrance LYDIA.

with posterity. Amongst whom, if I have praysed, And I am mutually on fire

unfortunately, any one that doth not deserve; or, With gentle Calais Thurine, Ornith's sonne; if all answer pot, in all numbers, the pictures I For whom I doubly would expire,

have made of them: I hope it will be forgiven So Fate would let the boy a long thred run.

me, that they are no ill pieces, though they be not

like the persons. But I foresee a neerer fate to But, say old love returne should make,

my book, than this: that the vices therein will be And us dis-joyn'd force to her brazen yoke, owned before the vertues (though, there, I have

That I bright Cloë off should shake; And to left Lydia, now the gate stood ope.

avoided all particulars, as I have done names) and

some will be so ready to discredit me, as they will Though he be fairer then a starre;

have the impudence to belye themselves. For, if Thou lighter then the barke of any tree,

I meant them not, it is so. Nor can I hope And then rough Adria, angrier farre;

otherwise. For why should they remit any thing Yet would I wish to love, live, die with thee. of their riot, their pride, their selfe-love, and other VOL. V.

Kk

DIALOGUE OF HORACE AND LYDIA.

HORACE.

LYDIA.

HORACE.

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HORACE.

LYDIA.

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