And thus sets on him-" See, my lord, how here
Th' eternal providence of God hath brought
You to the shore of safety, (out of fear)
From all the waves of misery, that wrought
To overwhelm you; and hath set you clear,
Where you would be; with having (which you sought
Through all these hazards of distress) a king
Of your own making and establishing.

"And now, my lord, I trust you will sit down,
And rest you after all this passed thrall,
And be yourself, a prince within your own,
Without advent'ring any more at all

Your state in others' bottoms; having known
The dangers that on mighty actors fall;
Since in the foot of your accounts, your gains
Come short to make ev'n reck'ning with your pains.

"Enjoy now what you wrought for in this sort,
(If great men's ends be to enjoy their ends)
And know, the happi'st pow'r, the greatest port,
Is only that which on itself depends.
Here have you state enough, to be a court
Unto yourself! here! where the world attends
On you, (not you on it) observed sole:
You elsewhere but a part, are here the whole.

"The advantages of princes are, we see,
But things conceiv'd imaginarily:
For ev'ry state of fortune, in degree,
Some image hath of principality;
Which they enjoy more natural and free,
Than can great pow'rs, chain'd with observancy,
And with the fetters of respect still ty'd;
B'ing easier far to follow, than to guide.

"And what are courts, but camps of misery?
That do besiege men's states, and still are press'd
T" assail, prevent, complot, and fortify;
In hope t' attain, in fear to be suppress'd.
Where all with shows and with apparency,
Men seem as if for stratagems address'd:
Where Fortune, as the wolf, doth still prefer
The foulest of the train that follows her.

"And where fair hopes are laid, as ambushments,
To intercept your life, and to betray
Your liberty to such entanglements,
As you shall never more get clear away:
Where both th' engagement of your own intents,
And other reck'nings and accounts, shall lay
Such weights upon you, as you shall not part,
Unless you break your credit, or your heart.

"Besides, as exiles ever from your homes,
You live perpetual in disturbancy;
Contending, thrusting, shuffling for your rooms
Of ease or honour, with impatiency;
Building your fortunes upon others' tombs,
For other than your own posterity.
You see, courts few advance; many undo:
And those they do advance, they ruin too.

"And therefore now, my lord, since you are here,
Where you may have your rest with dignity;
Work that you may continue so: and clear
Yourself from out these streights of misery.
Hold your estate and life as things more dear,
Than to be thrown at an uncertainty.

'T is time that you and England have a calm;
And time the olive stood above the palm."

Thus the good father, with an humble thought,
(Bred in a cellulary low retire)
According to his quiet humour, sought
T'avert him from his turbulent desire;
When the great earl began-“ Father, I note
What you with zeal advise, with love require;
And I must thank you for this care you have,
And for those good advertisements you gave.

“And truly, father, could I but get free,
(Without b'ing rent) and hold my dignity;
That sheepcot, which in yonder vale you see,
(Beset with groves, and those sweet springs hard b
I rather would my palace wish to be,
Than any roof of proudest majesty.
But that I cannot do-I have my part:
And I must live in one house with my heart.
"I know that I am fix'd unto a sphere,
That is ordain'd to move-It is the place
My fate appoints me; and the region where
I must, whatever happens, there embrace.
Disturbance, travail, labour, hope, and fear,
Are of that clime, engender'd in that place.
And action best (I see) becomes the best:
The stars that have most glory, have no rest.
"Besides, it were a coward's part to fly
Now from my hold, that have held out so well;
It b'ing the station of my life, where I
Am set to serve, and stand as centinel:
And must of force make good the place, or die,
When Fate and Fortune (those great states) compe
And then we lords in such case ever are,
As Peace can cut our throats as well as War:

"And hath her griefs, and her incumbrances:
And doth with idle rest deform us more
Than any magha can, or sorceress,
With basely wasting all the martial store
Of heat and spir't, (which graceth manliness)
And makes us still false images adore:
Besides profusion of our faculties,
In gross dull glutt'ny, vap'rous gormandise.
"And therefore since I am the man I am,
I must not give a foot, lest I give all.
Nor is this bird within my breast so tame,
As to be fed at hand, and mock'd withal:
I rather would my state were out of frame,
Than my renown should come to get a fall.
No! no! th' ungrateful boy shall never think,
That I, who him enlarg'd to pow'r, will shrink.

"What is our life without our dignity?
Which oft we see comes less by living long.
Whoever was there worth the memory,
And eminent indeed, but still dy'd young?
As if Worth had agreed with Destiny,
That Time, which rights them, should not do thes
Besides, old age doth give (by too long space)
Our souls as many wrinkles as our face.

"And as for my inheritance and state,
(Whatever happen) I will so provide
That law shall, with what strength it hath, colla
The same on mine, and those to mine ally'd:
Although I know she serves the present state,
And can undo again what she hath ty'd.
But that we leave to him, who points out heirs;
And howsoever yet the world is theirs.

Now that the hand of Death hath laid thee there,
Where neither greatness, pomp, nor grace we see,
Nor any diff'rences of earth; and where
No veil is drawn betwixt thy self and thee.
Now, Devonshire, that thou art but a name,
And all the rest of thee besides is gone;
When men conceive thee not but by the fame
Of what thy virtue and thy worth have done:
Now shall my verse, which thou in life did'st grace,
(And which was no disgrace for thee to do)
Not leave thee in the grave, that ugly place,
That few regard, or have respect unto:
Where all attendance and observance ends;
Where all the sunshine of our favour sets;
Where what was ill no countenance defends,
And what was good th' unthankful world forgets.
Here shalt thou have the service of my pen;
(The tongue of my best thoughts) and in this case
I cannot be suppos'd to flatter, when
I speak behind thy back, not to thy face.
Men never soothe the dead, but where they do
Find living ties to hold them thereunto.
And I stand clear from any other chain [breath:
Than of my love; which, free-born, draws free
The benefit thou gav'st me, to sustain
My humble life, I lose it by thy death.
Nor was it such, as it could lay on me
Any exaction of respect so strong,

As t' enforce m' observance beyond thee,
Or make my conscience differ from my tongue:
"For I have learnt, it is the property

For free men to speak truth, for slaves to lie."

And therefore I sincerely will report,
First how thy parts were fair convey'd within;
How that brave mind was built, and in what sort
All thy contexture of thy heart hath been:
Which was so nobly fram'd, so well compos'd,
As Virtue hever had a fairer seat,

Nor could be better lodg'd, nor more repos'd,
Than in that goodly frame; where all things sweet,
And all things quiet, held a peaceful rest;
Where passion did no sudden tumults raise,
That might disturb her-Nor was ever breast
Contain'd so much, and made so little noise:
That by thy silent modesty is found,

The empti'st vessels make the greatest sound.
For thou so well discern'd'st thyself, had'st read
Man and his breath so well, as made thee force
The less to speak; as b'ing ordain'd to spread
Thy self in action, rather than discourse.
Though thou had'st made a general survey
Of all the best of men's best knowledges,
And knew as much as ever learning knew;
Yet did it make thee trust thyself the less,
And less presume-And yet when being mov'd
In private talk to speak; thou did'st bewray
How fully fraught thou wert within; and prov'd,
That thou did'st know whatever wit could say.
Which show'd, thou had'st not books as many have,
For ostentation, but for use: and that

Thy bount'ous memory was such, as gave

A large revenue of the good it gat.
Witness so many volumes, whereto thou
Hast set thy notes under thy learned hand,

And mark'd them with that print, as will show how
The point of thy conceiving thoughts did stand:
That none would think, if all thy life had been
Turn'd into leisure, thou could'st have attain'd
So much of time, to have perus'd and seen
So many volumes that so much contain❜d.
Which furniture may not be deem'd least rare,
Amongst those ornaments that sweetly dight
Thy solitary Wansted'; where thy care
Had gather'd all what heart or eyes delight.
And whereas many others have, we see,
All things within their houses worth the sight;
Except themselves, that furniture of thee,
And of thy presence, gave the best delight.
With such a season, such a temp'rature,
Wert thou composed, as made sweetness one;
And held the tenour of thy life still sure,
In consort with thyself, in perfect tone.
And never man had heart more truly serv'd
Under the regiment of his own care,
And was more at command, and more observ'd
The colours of that modesty he bare,
Than that of thine; in whom men never found
That any show, or speech obscene, could tell
Of any vein thou had'st that was unsound,
Or motion of thy pow'rs that turn'd not well.
And this was thy provision laid within:
Thus wert thou to thyself, and now remains;
What to the world thou outwardly hast been,
What the dimension of that side contains;
Which likewise was so goodly and so large,
As shows that thou wert born t' adorn the days
Wherein thou liv'dst; and also to discharge
Those parts which England's and thy fame should
raise.

'The library at Wansted.

Although in peace thou seem'd'st to be all peace,
Yet b'ing in war, thou wer't all war: and there,
As in thy sphere, thy spir'ts did never cease
To move with indefatigable care

And nothing seem'd more to arride thy heart,
Nor more enlarge thee into jollity,

Than when thou saw'st thy self in armour girt,
Or any act of arms like to be nigh.

The Belgic war first try'd thy martial spir't, [found;
And what thou wert, and what thou would'st be
And mark'd thee there according to thy mer't,
With honour's stamp, a deep and noble wound.
And that same place that rent from mortal men
Immortal Sidney, glory of the field!
And glory of the Muses! and their pen
(Who equal bear the caduce and the shield)
Had likewise been my last; had not the fate
Of England then reserv'd thy worthy blood,
Unto the preservation of a state

That much concern'd her honour and her good;
And thence return'd thee to enjoy the bliss
Of grace and favour in Eliza's sight,
(That miracle of women!) who by this
Made thee beheld according to thy right:
Which fair and happy blessing thou might'st well
Have far more rais'd, had not thine enemy
(Retired privacy) made thee to sell
Thy greatness for thy quiet, and deny

[wiles,

To meet fair Fortune when she came to thee.
For never man did his preferment fly,
And had it in that eminent degree,
As thou; as if it sought thy modesty.
For that which many (whom ambition toils
And tortures with their hopes) hardly attain
With all their thrusts, and should'ring plots, and
Was easily made thine without thy pain.
And without any private malicing,
Or public grievance, every good man joy'd
That virtue could come clear to any thing,
And fair deserts to be so fairly paid.
Those benefits that were bestow'd on thee,
Were not like Fortune's favours: they could see
Eliza's clear-ey'd judgment is renown'd
For making choice of thy ability.
But it will everlastingly rebound
Unto the glory and benignity

Of Britain's mighty monarch, that thou wer't
By him advanced for thy great desert:
It b'ing the fairer work of majesty,
With favour to reward, than to employ.
Although thy services were such, as they
Might ask their grace themselves; yet do we see,
That to success desert hath not a way,
But under princes that most gracious be:
For without thy great valour we had lost
The dearest purchase ever England made;
And made with such profuse, exceeding cost
Of blood and charge, to keep and to invade;
As commutation paid a dearer price
For such a piece of earth: and yet well paid,
And well adventur'd for with great advice,
And happily to our dominions laid:
Without which, out-let England, thou had'st been
From all the rest of th' Earth shut out, and pent
Unto thy self, and forc'd to keep within;
Environ'd round with others' government.
Where now by this, thy large imperial crown
Stands boundless in the west, and hath a way
For noble times, left to make all thine own
That lies beyond it, and force all t' obey.

Of order and obedience, but were then
Loose and in tott'ring, when the charge
Thereof was laid on Montjoy; and that other me.
Chok'd by example, sought to put it off.
And he, out of his native modesty,
(As b'ing no undertaker) labours too
To have avoided that which his ability,
And England's genius, would have him to do:
Alleging how it was a charge unfit

For him to undergo; see'ng such a one
As had more pow'r and means t' accomplish it,
Than he could have, had there so little done.
Whose ill success, (consid'ring his great worth
Was such, as could that mischief be withstood,
It had been wrought) did in itself bring forth
Discouragement, that he should do less good.

The state reply'd, it was not look'd he should Restore it wholly to itself again;

But only now (if possible) he could
In any fash'on but the same retain,
So that it did not fall asunder quite,
B'ing thus dishiver'd in a desp'rate plight.
With courage on he goes; doth execute
With counsel; and returns with victory.
But in what noble fash'on he did suit
This action! with what wit and industry!
Is not to be disgrac'd in this small card:
It asks a spacious map of more regard.
Here is no room to tell, with what strange speed
And secresy he used, to prevent

The enemies designs; nor with what heed
He march'd before report: where what he meant,
Fame never knew herself, till it was done;
His drifts and rumour seldom b'ing all one.
Nor will this place conveniency afford,
To show how he (when dismal Winter storms)
Keeps peace, and makes Mars sheath his sword,
Toils him abroad, and noble acts performs.
Nor how by mast'ring difficulties so,
In times unusual, and by passage hard,
He bravely came to disappoint his foe;
And many times surpris'd him unprepar'd.

Yet let me touch one point of this great act,
That famous siege, the master-work of all;
Where no distress nor difficulties lack'd
T' afflict his weary, tired camp withal:
That when enclos'd by pow'rful enemies
On either side, with feeble troops he lay
Intrench'd in mire, in cold, in miseries;
Kept waking with alarums night and day.
There were who did advise him to withdraw
His army, to some place of safe defence,
From the apparent peril; which they saw
Was to confound them, or to force them thence.
"For now the Spaniard hath possess'd three

state

And kingdom to my faith committed is,
And I must all I can ingeniate

To answer for the same, and render it
Upon as fair a reck'ning as I may:

But if from hence I shall once stir my feet,
The kingdom is undone, and lost this day.
All will fly thither, where they find is Heart;
And Fear shall have none stand to take his part.
"And how shall we answer our country then,
At our return; nay, answer our own fame?
Which howsoever we have done like men,
Will be imbranded with the mark of blame.
And since we here are come unto the point,
For which we toil'd so much, and stay'd so long;
Let us not now our travails disappoint
Of th' honour which doth thereunto belong.
We cannot spend our blood more worthily,
Than in so fair a cause-And if we fall,
We fall with glory and our worth thereby
Shall be renowned, and held dear of all.
And for my part, I count the field to be
The honourablest bed to die upon;
And here your eyes this day shall either see
My body laid, or else this action done.
The Lord, the chief and sov'reign general

Of hosts, makes weak to stand, the strong to fall."
With which brave resolution he so warm'd
Their shaking courage, as they all in one
Set to that noble work; which they perform'd
As gallantly as ever men have done :
Of which 't is better nothing now to say,
Than say too little. For there rests behind
A trophy t' be erected, that will stay
To all posterities, and keep in mind
That glorious act, which did a kingdom save,
Kept the crown whole, and made the peace we have.
And now I will omit to show, therefore,
His management of public bus'nesses;
Which oft are under Fortune's conduct, more
Than ours: and tell his private carri'ges,
Which on his own discretion did rely,
Wherewith his spir't was furnish'd happily.
Mild, affable, and easy of access
He was; but with a due reservedness:
So that the passage to his favours lay
Not common to all comers; nor yet was
So narrow, but it gave a gentle way
To such as fitly might, or ought to pass.
Nor sold he smoke; nor took he up to day
Commodities of men's attendances,

And of their hopes; to pay them with delay,
And entertain them with fair promises.
But as a man that lov'd no great commerce
With bus'ness and with noise, he ever flies
That maze of many ways, which might disperse
Him into other men's uncertainties:

And with a quiet calm sincerity,

H' effects his undertakings really.

His tongue and heart did not turn backs; but went
One way, and kept one course with what he meant.
He us'd no mark at all, but ever ware
His honest inclination open-fac'd:

The friendships that he vow'd most constant were,
And with great judgment and discretion plac'd.
And Devonshire, thy faith hath her reward;
Thy noblest friends do not forsake thee now,
After thy death; but bear a kind regard
Unto thine honour in the grave; and show

Among th' examples of integrity;

Whereby themselves no doubt shall also gain A like regard unto their memory.

Now, mutt'ring Envy, what can'st thou produce,
To darken the bright lustre of such parts?
Cast thy pure stone exempt from all abuse.
Say, what defects could weigh down these deserts :
Summon detraction, to object the worst
That may be told, and utter all it can:
It cannot find a blemish to b' enforc'd
Against him, other than he was a man ;
And built of flesh and blood, and did live here
Within the region of infirmity;

Where all perfections never did appear
To meet in any one so really,
But that his frailty ever did bewray
Unto the world that he was set in clay.
And Gratitude and Charity, I know,
Will keep no note, nor memory will have
Of ought, but of his worthy virtues now,
Which still will live; the rest lies in his grave.
Seeing only such stand ever base and low,
That strike the dead, or mutter under-hand :
And as dogs bark at those they do not know,
So they at such they do not understand.
The worthier sort, who know we do not live
With perfect men, will never be s' unkind;
They will the right to the deceased give,
Knowing themselves must likewise leave behind
Those that will censure them. And they know how
The lion being dead, ev'n hares insult :
And will not urge an imperfection now,
When as he hath no party to consult,
Nor tongue nor advocate to show his mind:
They rather will lament the loss they find,
By such a noble member of that worth,
And know how rare the world such men brings forth.
But let it now sufficient be, that I

The last scene of his act of life bewray,
Which gives th' applause to all, doth glorify
The work-for 't is the ev'ning crowns the day.
This action of our death especially

Shows all a man. Here only he is found.
With what munition he did fortify

His heart; how good his furniture hath been.
And this did he perform in gallant wise:
In this did he comfirm his worthiness.
For on the morrow after the surprise
That sickness made on him with fierce access,
He told his faithful friend, whom he held dear,
(And whose great worth was worthy so to be)
"How that he knew those hot diseases were
Of that contagious force, as he did see
That men were over-tumbl'd suddenly;
And therefore did desire to set a course
And order t' his affairs as speedily,

As might be, ere his sickness should grow worse.
And as for death," said he, "I do not wey;
I am resolv'd and ready in this case.
It cannot come t' affright me any way,
Let it look never with so grim a face:
And I will meet it smiling; for I know
How vain a thing all this world's glory is."
And herein did he keep his word-- Did show
Indeed, as he had promised in this.
For sickness never heard him groan at all,
Nor with a sigh consent to show his pain;
Which howsoever b'ing tyrannical,

He sweetly made it look; and did retain