Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when we
Took the pure air in its simplicity,
And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants went
Cringing, and pass'd each step some compliment?
What strange, fantastic diagrams they drew
With legs and arms; the like we never knew
In Euclid, Archimede, nor all of those
Whose learnèd lines are neither verse nor prose?
What store of lace was there? how did the gold
Run in rich traces, but withal made bold
To measure the proud things, and so deride
The fops with that, which was part of their pride?
How did they point at us, and boldly call,
As if we had been vassals to them all,
Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fate
To yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state?
Of all ambitions, this was not the least,
Whose drift translated man into a beast.
What blind discourse the heroes did afford!
This lady was their friend, and such a lord.
How much of blood was in it! one could tell
He came from Bevis and his Arundel;
Morglay was yet with him, and he could do
More feats with it than his old grandsire too.
Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee,
Who canst produce a nobler pedigree,
And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kin
To some bright star, or to a cherubin?
When these in their profuse moods spend the night,
With the same sins they drive away the light.
Thy learnèd thrift puts her to use, while she
Reveals her fiery volume unto thee;
And looking on the separated skies,
And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes,
Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and bars
To heav'n, and there conversest with the stars.
Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that be
Obscur'd with nothing but their privacy,
And missing but the false world's glories do
Miss all those vices which attend them too!
Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise;
Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.
ON SIR THOMAS BODLEY'S LIBRARY, THE AUTHOR BEING THEN IN OXFORD.
Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst show
The ruins of mankind, and let us know
How frail a thing is flesh! though we see there
But empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here.
They are not dead, but full of blood again;
I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein.
Triumph not o'er their dust; whoever looks
In here, shall find their brains all in their books.
Nor is't old Palestine alone survives;
Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's Lives.
The stones, which sometimes danc'd unto the strain
Of Orpheus, here do lodge his Muse again.
And you, the Roman spirits, learning has
Made your lives longer than your empire was.
Cæsar had perish'd from the world of men
Had not his sword been rescu'd by his pen.
Rare Seneca, how lasting is thy breath!
Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to death.
How dull the expert tyrant was, to look
For that in thee which livèd in thy book!
Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and we
Commence, when writing, our eternity.
Lucilius here I can behold, and see
His counsels and his life proceed from thee.
But what care I to whom thy Letters be?
I change the name, and thou dost write to me;
And in this age, as sad almost as thine,
Thy stately Consolations are mine.
Poor earth! what though thy viler dust enrolls
The frail enclosures of these mighty souls?
Their graves are all upon record; not one
But is as bright and open as the sun.
And though some part of them obscurely fell,
And perish'd in an unknown, private cell,
Yet in their books they found a glorious way
To live unto the Resurrection-day!
Most noble Bodley! we are bound to thee
For no small part of our eternity.
Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound,
Nor that new mode which doth old states confound.
Thy legacies another way did go:
Nor were they left to those would spend them so.
Thy safe, discreet expense on us did flow;
Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now.
Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever we
Hereafter write, 'tis thy posterity.
This is thy monument! here thou shalt stand
Till the times fail in their last grain of sand.
And wheresoe'er thy silent relics keep,
This tomb will never let thine honour sleep,
Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame
Meets here to speak one letter of thy name.
Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe,
Where every book is thy large epitaph.
THE IMPORTUNATE FORTUNE, WRITTEN TO DR. POWEL, OF CANTRE[FF].
For shame desist, why shouldst thou seek my fall?
It cannot make thee more monarchical.
Leave off; thy empire is already built;
To ruin me were to enlarge thy guilt,
Not thy prerogative. I am not he
Must be the measure to thy victory.
The Fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace
If in thy annals I should make a clause.
The future ages will disclose such men
Shall be the glory, and the end of them.
Nor do I flatter. So long as there be
Descents in Nature, or posterity,
There must be fortunes; whether they be good,
As swimming in thy tide and plenteous flood,
Or stuck fast in the shallow ebb, when we
Miss to deserve thy gorgeous charity.
Thus, Fortune, the great world thy period is;
Nature and you are parallels in this.
But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone,
I am resolv'd, I will not be undone.
I scorn thy trash, and thee: nay, more, I do
Despise myself, because thy subject too.
Name me heir to thy malice, and I'll be;
Thy hate's the best inheritance for me.
I care not for your wondrous hat and purse,
Make me a Fortunatus with thy curse.
How careful of myself then should I be,
Were I neglected by the world and thee?
Why dost thou tempt me with thy dirty ore,
And with thy riches make my soul so poor?
My fancy's pris'ner to thy gold and thee,
Thy favours rob me of my liberty.
I'll to my speculations. Is't best
To be confin'd to some dark, narrow chest
And idolize thy stamps, when I may be
Lord of all Nature, and not slave to thee?
The world's my palace. I'll contemplate there,
And make my progress into ev'ry sphere.
The chambers of the air are mine; those three
Well-furnish'd stories my possession be.
I hold them all in capite, and stand
Propp'd by my fancy there. I scorn your land,
It lies so far below me. Here I see
How all the sacred stars do circle me.
Thou to the great giv'st rich food, and I do
Want no content; I feed on manna too.
They have their tapers; I gaze without fear
On flying lamps and flaming comets here.
Their wanton flesh in silks and purple shrouds,
And fancy wraps me in a robe of clouds.
There some delicious beauty they may woo,
And I have Nature for my mistress too.
But these are mean; the archetype I can see,
And humbly touch the hem of majesty.
The power of my soul is such, I can
Expire, and so analyze all that's man.
First my dull clay I give unto the Earth,
Our common mother, which gives all their birth.
My growing faculties I send as soon,
Whence first I took them, to the humid moon.
All subtleties and every cunning art
To witty Mercury I do impart.
Those fond affections which made me a slave
To handsome faces, Venus, thou shalt have.
And saucy pride—if there was aught in me—
Sol, I return it to thy royalty.
My daring rashness and presumptions be
To Mars himself an equal legacy.
My ill-plac'd avarice—sure 'tis but small—
Jove, to thy flames I do bequeath it all.
And my false magic, which I did believe,
And mystic lies, to Saturn I do give.
My dark imaginations rest you there,
This is your grave and superstitious sphere.
Get up, my disentangled soul, thy fire
Is now refin'd, and nothing left to tire
Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight
Hath brought me to the empyrean light.
I am a sep'rate essence, and can see
The emanations of the Deity,
And how they pass the seraphims, and run
Through ev'ry throne and domination.
So rushing through the guard the sacred streams
Flow to the neighbour stars, and in their beams
—A glorious cataract!—descend to earth,
And give impressions unto ev'ry birth.
With angels now and spirits I do dwell,
And here it is my nature to do well.
Thus, though my body you confinèd see,
My boundless thoughts have their ubiquity.
And shall I then forsake the stars and signs,
To dote upon thy dark and cursèd mines?
Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy
Guiana with the loss of all the sky?
Intelligences shall I leave, and be
Familiar only with mortality?
Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shall
My purse and fancy be symmetrical?
Are there no objects left but one? must we
In gaining that, lose our variety?
Fortune, this is the reason I refuse
Thy wealth; it puts my books all out of use.
'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind
Is big with speculation, when I find
My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess
There is no blessing to an emptiness!
The species of all things to me resort
And dwell then in my breast, as in their port.
Then leave to court me with thy hated store;
Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more.