Part 18
With just propriety does this city stand, As fix’d by fate, i’ the middle of the land; It has, as in the body, the heart’s place, Fit for her works of piety and grace; The head her sovereign, unto whom she sends All duties that just service comprehends; The eyes may be compar’d, at wisdom’s rate, To the illustrious councillors of state, Set in that orb of royalty, to give light To noble actions, stars of truth and right; The lips the reverend clergy, judges, all That pronounce laws divine or temporal; The arms to the defensive part of men: So I descend unto the heart agen,[368] The place where now you are; witness the love True brotherhood’s cost and triumph, all which move In this most grave solemnity; and in this The city’s general love abstracted is: And as the heart, in its meridian seat, Is styl’d the fountain of the body’s heat, The first thing receives life, the last that dies, Those properties experience well applies To this most loyal city, that hath been In former ages, as in these times, seen The fountain of affection, duty, zeal, And taught all cities through the commonweal; The first that receives quickening life and spirit From the king’s grace, which still she strives t’ inherit, And, like the heart, will be the last that dies In any duty toward good supplies. What can express affection’s nobler fruit, Both to the king, and you his substitute?
At the close of this speech, this Chariot of Honour and Sanctuary of Prosperity, with all her graceful concomitants, and the two other parts of Triumph, take leave of his lordship for that time, and rest from service till the great feast at Guildhall be ended; after which the whole fabric of the Triumph attends upon his honour both towards St. Paul’s and homeward, his lordship accompanied with the grave and honourable senators of the city, amongst whom the two worthy shrieves, his lordship’s grave assistants for the year, the worshipful and generous master Richard Fen and master Edward Brumfield, ought not to pass of my respect unremembered, whose bounty and nobleness for the year will no doubt give the best expression to their own worthiness. Between the Cross and the entrance of Wood Street, that part of Triumph being planted—being the Fragrant Garden of England with the Rainbow—to which the concluding speech hath chiefly reference, there takes its farewell of his lordship, accompanied with the Fountain of Virtue, being the fourth part of the Triumph.
_The last speech._
Mercy’s fair object, the celestial bow, As in the morning it began to shew, It closes up this great triumphal day, And by example shews the year the way, Which if power worthily and rightly spend, It must with mercy both begin and end. It is a year that crowns the life of man, Brings him to peace with honour, and what can Be more desir’d? ’tis virtue’s harvest-time, When gravity and judgment’s in their prime: To speak more happily, ’tis a time given To treasure up good actions fit for heaven. To a brotherhood of honour thou art fixt, That has stood long fair in just virtue’s eye; For within twelve years’ space thou art the sixt That has been lord mayor of this Company. This is no usual grace: being now the last, Close the work nobly up, that what is past, And known to be good in the former five, May in thy present care be kept alive: Then is thy brotherhood for their love and cost Requited amply, but thy own soul most. Health and a happy peace fill all thy days! When thy year ends, may then begin thy praise!
For the fabric or structure of the whole Triumph, in so short a time so gracefully performed, the commendation of that the industry of master Garret Crismas[369] may justly challenge; a man not only excellent in his art, but faithful in his undertakings.
THE WISDOM OF SOLOMON
PARAPHRASED.
_The Wisdome of Solomon Paraphrased. Written by Thomas Middleton. A Jove surgit opus. Printed at London by Valentine Sems, dwelling on Adling hil at the signe of the white Swanne. 1597._ 4to.
_To the Right Honourable and my very good Lord, Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex and Ewe, Viscount of Hereford, Lord Ferrers of Chartley, Bourchier, and Louvaine, Master of Her Majesty’s Horse and Ordnance, Knight of the Honourable Order of the Garter, and one of Her Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Council._
The summer’s harvest, right honourable, is long since reaped, and now it is sowing-time again: behold, I have scattered a few seeds upon the young ground of unskilfulness; if it bear fruit, my labour is well bestowed; but if it be barren, I shall have less joy to set more. The husbandman observes the courses of the moon, I the forces of your favour; he desireth sunshine, I cheerful countenance, which once obtained, my harvest of joy will soon be ripened. My seeds as yet lodge in the bosom of the earth, like infants upon the lap of a favourite, wanting the budding spring-time of their growth, not knowing the east of their glory, the west of their quietness, the south of their summer, the north of their winter; but if the beams of your aspects lighten the small moiety of a smaller implanting, I shall have an every-day harvest, a fruition of content, a branch of felicity.
Your Honour’s addicted in all observance,
THOMAS MIDDLETON.
TO THE GENTLEMEN-READERS.
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GENTLEMEN,—I give you the surveyance of my new-bought ground, and will only stand unto your verdicts. I fear me that the acres of my field pass the ankers of my seed; if wanting seed, then I hope it will not be too much seeded. This is my bare excuse; but, trust me, had my wit been sufficient to maintain the freedom of my will, then both should have been answerable to your wishes; yet, nevertheless, think of it as a willing, though not a fulfilling moiety. But what mean I? While I thus argue, Momus and Zoïlus, those two ravens, devour my seed, because I lack a scarecrow; indeed, so I may have less than I have, when such foul-gutted ravens swallow up my portion: if you gape for stuffing, hie you to dead carrion carcasses, and make them your ordinaries. I beseech you, gentlemen, let me have your aid; and as you have seen the first practice of my husbandry in sowing, so let me have your helping hands unto my reaping.
Yours, devoted in friendship, THOMAS MIDDLETON.
THE WISDOM OF SOLOMON
PARAPHRASED.
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CHAP. I.
Wisdom, elixir of the purest life, VER. 1 Hath taught her lesson to judicial views, To those that judge a cause and end a strife, Which sit[370] in judgment’s seat and justice use; A lesson worthy of divinest care, Quintessence of a true divinest fear:
Unwilling that exordium should retain Her life-infusing speech, doth thus begin: You, quoth she, that give remedy or pain, Love justice, for injustice is a sin; Give unto God his due, his reverend style, And rather use simplicity than guile.
For him that guides the radiant eye of day, 2 Sitting in his star-chamber of the sky, The horizons and hemispheres obey, And winds, the fillers of vacuity; Much less should man tempt God, when all obey, But rather be a guide, and lead the way.
For tempting argues but a sin’s attempt, Temptation is to sin associate; So doing, thou from God art clean exempt, Whose love is never plac’d in his love’s hate: He will be found not of a tempting mind, But found of those which he doth faithful find.
Temptation rather separates from God, 3 Converting goodness from the thing it was, Heaping the indignation of his rod To bruise our bodies like a brittle glass; For wicked thoughts have still a wicked end, In making God our foe, which was our friend.
They muster up revenge, encamp our hate, Undoing what before they meant to do, Stirring up anger and unlucky fate, Making the earth their friend, the heaven their foe: But when heaven’s guide makes manifest his power, The earth their friends doth them like foes devour.
O foolish men, to war against your bliss! 4 O hateful hearts, where wisdom never reign’d! O wicked thoughts, which ever thought amiss! What have you reap’d? what pleasure have you gain’d? A fruit in show, a pleasure to decay, This have you got by keeping folly’s way.
For wisdom’s harvest is with folly nipt, And with the winter of your vice’s frost, Her fruit all scatter’d, her implanting ript, Her name decayèd, her fruition lost: Nor can she prosper in a plot of vice, Gaining no summer’s warmth, but winter’s ice.
Thou barren earth, where virtues never bud; 5 The fruitless womb, where never fruits abide; And thou dry-wither’d sap, which bears no good But the dishonour of thy proud heart’s pride: A seat of all deceit,—deceit deceiv’d, Thy bliss a woe, thy woe of bliss bereav’d!
This place of night hath left no place for day, Here never shines the sun of discipline, But mischief clad in sable night’s array, Thought’s apparition—evil angel’s sign; These reign enhousèd with their mother night, To cloud the day of clearest wisdom’s light.
O you that practise to be chief in sin, 6 Love’s hate, hate’s friend, friend’s foe, foe’s follower, What do you gain? what merit do you win, To be blaspheming vice’s practiser? Your gain is wisdom’s everlasting hate, Your merit grief, your grief your life’s debate.
Thou canst not hide thy thought—God made thy thought, Let this thy caveat be for thinking ill; Thou know’st that Christ thy living freedom bought, To live on earth according to his will: God being thy creator, Christ thy bliss, Why dost thou err? why dost thou do amiss?
He is both judge and witness of thy deeds, 7 He knows the volume which thy heart contains; Christ skips thy faults, only thy virtue reads, Redeeming thee from all thy vice’s pains: O happy crown of mortal man’s content, Sent for our joy, our joy in being sent!
Then sham’st thou not to err, to sin, to stray, To come to composition with thy vice, With new-purg’d feet to tread the oldest way, Leading new sense unto thy old device? Thy shame might flow in thy sin-flowing face, Rather than ebb to make an ebb of grace.
For he which rules the orb of heaven and earth, 8 And the inequal course of every star, Did know man’s thoughts and secrets at his birth, Whether inclin’d to peace or discord’s jar: He knows what man will be ere he be man, And all his deeds in his life’s living span.
Then ’tis impossible that earth can hide Unrighteous actions from a righteous God, For he can see their feet in sin that slide, And those that lodge in righteousness’ abode; He will extend his mercy on the good, His wrath on those in whom no virtues bud.
Many there be, that, after trespass done, 9 Will seek a covert for to hide their shame, And range about the earth, thinking to shun God’s heavy wrath and meritorious[371] blame; They, thinking to fly sin, run into sin, And think to end when they do new begin.
God made the earth, the earth denies their suit, Nor can they harbour in the centre’s womb; God knows their thoughts, although their tongues be mute, And hears the sounds from forth their bodies’ tomb: Sounds? ah! no sounds, but man himself he hears, Too true a voice of man’s most falsest fears.
O see destruction hovering o’er thy head, 10 Mantling herself in wickedness’ array! Hoping to make thy body as her bed, Thy vice her nutriment, thy soul her prey: Thou hast forsaken him that was thy guide, And see what follows to assuage thy pride!
Thy roaring vice’s noise hath cloy’d his ears, Like foaming waves they have o’erwhelm’d thy joy; Thy murmuring,[372] which thy whole body bears, Hath bred thy wail, thy wail thy life’s annoy: Unhappy thoughts, to make a soul’s decay, Unhappy soul, in suffering thoughts to sway!
Then sith[373] the height of man’s felicity 11 Is plung’d within the puddle of misdeeds, And wades amongst discredit’s infamy, Blasting the merit of his virtues’ seeds; Beware of murmuring,—the chiefest ill, From whence all sin, all vice, all pains distil.
O heavy doom proceeding from a tongue, Heavy-light tongue—tongue to thy own decay, In virtue weak, in wickedness too strong, To mischief prone, from goodness gone astray; Hammer to forge misdeeds, to temper lies, Selling thy life to death, thy soul to cries!
Must death needs pay the ransom of thy sin 12 With the dead carcass of descending spirit? Wilt thou of force be snarèd in his gin, And place thy error in destruction’s merit? Life, seek not for thy death; death comes unsought, Buying the life which not long since was bought.
Death and destruction never need[374] a call, They are attendants on life’s pilgrimage, And life to them is as their playing ball, Grounded upon destruction’s anchorage; Seek not for that which unsought will betide, Ne’er wants destruction a provoking guide.
Will you needs act your own destruction? 13 Will you needs harbour your own overthrow? Or will you cause your own eversion, Beginning with despair, ending with woe? Then dye your hearts in tyranny’s array, To make acquittance of destruction’s pay.
What do you meditate but on your death? What do you practise but your living fall? Who of you all have any virtue’s breath, But ready armèd at a mischief’s call? God is not pleasèd at your vices’ savour, But you best pleasèd when you lose his favour.
He made not death to be your conqueror, 14 But you to conquer over death and hell; Nor you to be destruction’s servitor, Enhousèd there where majesty should dwell: God made man to obey at his behest, And man to be obey’d of every beast.
He made not death to be our labour’s hire, But we ourselves made death through our desert; Here never was the kingdom of hell-fire, Before the brand was kindled in man’s heart: Now man defieth God, all creatures man, Vice flourisheth, and virtue lieth wan.
O fruitful tree, whose root is always green, 15 Whose blossoms ever bud, whose fruits increase, Whose top celestial virtue’s seat hath been, Defended by the sovereignty of peace! This tree is righteousness; O happy tree, Immortalisèd by thine own decree!
O hateful plant, whose root is always dry, Whose blossoms never bud, whose fruits decrease, On whom sits the infernal deity, To take possession of so foul a lease! This plant is vice; O too unhappy plant, Ever to die, and never fill death’s want!
Accursèd in thy growth, dead in thy root, 16 Canker’d with sin, shaken with every wind, Whose top doth nothing differ from the foot, Mischief the sap, and wickedness the rind; So the ungodly, like this wither’d tree, Is slack in doing good, in ill too free.
Like this their wicked growth, too fast, too slow; Too fast in sloth, too slow in virtue’s haste; They think their vice a friend when ’tis a foe, In good, in wickedness, too slow, too fast: And as this tree decays, so do they all, Each one copartner of the other’s fall.
CHAP. II.
Indeed they do presage what will betide, 1 With the misgiving verdict of misdeeds; They know a fall will follow after pride, And in so foul a heart grow[375] many weeds: Our life is short, quoth they; no, ’tis too long, Lengthen’d with evil thoughts and evil tongue.
A life must needs be short to them that dies, For life once dead in sin doth weakly live; These die in sin, and mask in death’s disguise, And never think that death new life can give; They say, life dead can never live again: O thoughts, O words, O deeds, fond,[376] foolish, vain!
Vild[377] life, to harbour where such death abodes, 2 Abodes worse than are thoughts, thoughts worse than words, Words half as ill as deeds, deeds sorrow’s odes, Odes ill enchanters of too ill records! Thoughts, words, and deeds, conjoinèd in one song May cause an echo from destruction’s tongue.
Quoth they, ’tis chance whether we live or die, Born or abortive, be or never be; We worship Fortune, she’s our deity; If she denies, no vital breath have we: Here are we placèd in this orb of death, This breath once gone, we never look for breath.
Between both life and death, both hope and fear, 3 Between our joy and grief, bliss and despair, We here possess the fruit of what is here, Born ever for to die, and die death’s heir: Our heritage is death annex’d to life, Our portion death, our death an endless strife.
What is our life, but our life’s tragedy, Extinguish’d in a momentary time? And life to murder life is cruelty, Unripely withering in a flowery prime; An[378] urn of ashes pleasing but the shows, Once dry, the toiling spirit wandering goes.
Like as the traces of appearing clouds 4 Give[379] way when Titan re-salutes the sea, With new-chang’d flames gilding the ocean’s floods, Kissing the cabinet where Thetis lay: So fares our life, when death doth give the wound, Our life is led by death, a captive bound.
When Sol bestrides his golden mountain’s top, Lightening heaven’s tapers with his living fire, All gloomy powers have their diurnal stop, And never gain[380] the darkness they desire; So perisheth our name when we are dead, Ourselves ne’er call’d to mind, our deeds ne’er read.
What is the time we have? what be our days? 5 No time, but shadow of what time should be, Days in the place of hours, which never stays, Beguiling sight of that which sight should see: As soon as they begin, they have their fine; Ne’er wax, still wane, ne’er stay, but still decline.
Life may be call’d the shadow of effect, Because the cloud of death doth shadow it; Nor can our life approaching death reject, They both in one for our election sit; Death follows life in every degree, But life to follow death you never see.
Come we, whose old decrepit age doth halt, 6 Like limping winter, in our winter, sin; Faulty we know we are—tush, what’s a fault? A shadow’d vision of destruction’s gin; Our life begun with vice, so let it end, It is a servile labour to amend.
We joy’d in sin, and let our joys renew; We joy’d in vice, and let our joys remain; To present pleasures future hopes ensue, And joy once lost, let us fetch back again: Although our age can lend no youthful pace, Yet let our minds follow our youthful race.
What though old age lies, heavy on our back, 7 Anatomy of an age-crookèd clime, Let mind perform that which our bodies lack, And change old age into a youthful time: Two heavy things are more than one can bear; Black may the garments be, the body clear.
Decaying things be needful of repair— Trees eaten out with years must needs decline; Nature in time with foul doth cloud her fair, Begirting youthful days with age’s twine: We live; and while we live, come let us joy; To think of after-life, ’tis but a toy.
We know God made us in a living form, 8 But we’ll unmake, and make ourselves again; Unmake that which is made, like winter’s storm, Make unmade things to aggravate our pain: God was our maker, and he made us good, But our descent springs from another blood.
He made us for to live, we mean to die; He made the heaven our seat, we make the earth; Each fashion makes a contrariety, God truest God, man falsest from his birth: Quoth they, this earth shall be our chiefest heaven, Our sin the anchor, and our vice the haven.
Let heaven in earth, and earth in heaven consist, 9 This earth is heaven, this heaven is earthly heaven; Repugnant earth repugnant heaven resist, We joy in earth, of other joys bereaven: This is the paradise of our delight; Here let us live, and die in heaven’s spite.
Here let the monuments of wanton sports Be seated in a wantonness’ disguise; Clos’d in the circuit of venereal forts, To feed the long-starv’d sight of amour’s eyes; Be this the chronicle of our content, How we did sport on earth, still sport was spent.
But in the glory of the brightest day, 10 Heaven’s smoothest brow sometime is furrowèd, And clouds usurp the clime in dim array, Darkening the light which heaven had borrowèd; So in this earthly heaven we daily see That grief is placèd where delight should be.
Here live[381] the righteous, bane unto their lives, O, sound from forth the hollow cave of woe! Here live[381] age-crookèd fathers, widow’d wives— Poor, and yet rich in fortune’s overthrow: Let them not live; let us increase their want, Make barren their desire, augment their scant.
Our law is correspondent to our doom, 11 Our law to doom, is dooming law’s offence; Each one agreeth in the other’s room, To punish that which strives and wants defence: This, cedar-like, doth make the shrub to bend, When shrubs do[382] waste their force but to contend.
The weakest power is subject to obey; The mushrooms humbly kiss the cedar’s foot, The cedar flourishes when they decay, Because her strength is grounded on a root; We are the cedars, they the mushrooms be, Unabled shrubs unto an abled tree.
Then sith[383] the weaker gives the stronger place, 12 The young the elder, and the foot the top, The low the high, the hidden powers the face, All beasts the lion, every spring his stop; Let those which practise contrariety Be join’d to us with inequality.
They say that we offend, we say they do; Their blame is laid on us, our blame on them; They strike, and we retort the strucken blow; So in each garment there’s a differing hem: We end with contraries, as they begun, Unequal sharing of what either won.
In this long conflict between tongue and tongue, 13 Tongue new beginning what one tongue did end, Made this cold battle hot in either’s wrong, And kept no pausing limits to contend; One tongue was echo to the other’s sound, Which breathèd accents between mouth and ground.
He which hath virtue’s arms upon his shield, 14 Draws his descent from an eternal king: He knows discretion can make folly yield, Life conquer death, and vice a captive bring; The other, tutor’d by his mother sin, Respects not deeds nor words, but hopes to win.
The first, first essence of immortal life, 15 Reproves the heart of thought, the eye of sight, The ear of hearing ill, the mind of strife, The mouth of speech, the body of despite; Heart thinks, eyes see, ears hear,[384] minds meditate, Mouth utters both the soul and body’s hate.
But nature, differing in each nature’s kind, Makes differing hearts, each heart a differing thought; Some hath she made to see, some folly-blind, Some famous, some obscure, some good, some naught: So these, which differ[385] in each nature’s reason, Had nature’s time when time was out of season.
Quoth they, he doth reprove our heart of thinking, 16 Our eyes of sight, our ears of hearing ill, Our minds, our hearts, in meditation linking, Our mouths in speaking of our body’s will; Because heart, sight, and mind do disagree, He’d make heart, sight, and mind of their decree.