Part 6

Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bested, Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, 5 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams; Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus’ train. 10 But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view 15 O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon’s sister might beseem, Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty’s praise above 20 The sea-nymphs’, and their powers offended: Yet thou art higher far descended: Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she; in Saturn’s reign 25 Such mixture was not held a stain: Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida’s inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypres lawn, 35 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait; And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 40 There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast: And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 45 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove’s altar sing: And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: 50 But first and chiefest with thee bring, Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along, 55 ’Less Philomel will deign a song, In her sweetest saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her dragon-yoke Gently o’er the accustomed oak: 60 Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song; And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven’s wide pathless way; 70 And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, 75 Swinging slow with sullen roar: Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removèd place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; 80 Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman’s drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour 85 Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold 90 The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those demons that are found, In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent 95 With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptered pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops’ line, Or the tale of Troy divine; 100 Or what, though rare, of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musæus from his bower! Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 105 Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek, And made Hell grant what love did seek! Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, 110 Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and glass; And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride: 115 And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys, and of trophies hung, Of forests and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. 120 Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not tricked and frounced as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kercheft in a comely cloud, 125 While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ushered with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute drops from off the eaves. 130 And, when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring To archèd walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, 135 Where the rude axe with heavèd stroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, 140 Hide me from day’s garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consort as they keep, 145 Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings, in aery stream Of lively portraiture displayed, Softly on my eyelids laid. 150 And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail 155 To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high-embowèd roof With antique pillars massy-proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light: 160 There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced quire below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies, 165 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit, and rightly spell 170 Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 175 And I with thee will choose to live. _John Milton._

LXXXVII

_CONTENTATION._

DIRECTED TO MY DEAR FATHER, AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND, MR. ISAAC WALTON.

Heaven, what an age is this! what race Of giants are sprung up, that dare Thus fly in the Almighty’s face, And with his Providence make war!

I can go nowhere but I meet 5 With malcontents and mutineers, As if in life was nothing sweet, And we must blessings reap in tears.

O senseless man! that murmurs still For happiness, and does not know, 10 Even though he might enjoy his will, What he would have to make him so.

Is it true happiness to be By undiscerning Fortune placed In the most eminent degree, 15 Where few arrive, and none stand fast?

Titles and wealth are Fortune’s toils, Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare: The great are proud of borrowed spoils, The miser’s plenty breeds his care. 20

The one supinely yawns at rest, The other eternally doth toil; Each of them equally a beast, A pampered horse, or labouring moil:

The titulados oft disgraced 25 By public hate or private frown, And he whose hand the creature raised, Has yet a foot to kick him down.

The drudge who wold all get, all save, Like a brute beast both feeds and lies; 30 Prone to the earth, he digs his grave, And in the very labour dies.

Excess of ill-got, ill-kept, pelf Does only death and danger breed; Whilst one rich worldling starves himself 35 With what would thousand others feed.

By which we see that wealth and power, Although they make men rich and great, The sweets of life do often sour, And gull ambition with a cheat. 40

Nor is he happier than these, Who in a moderate estate, Where he might safely live at ease, Has lusts that are immoderate.

For he, by those desires misled, 45 Quits his own vine’s securing shade, To’ expose his naked, empty head To all the storms man’s peace invade.

Nor is he happy who is trim, Tricked up in favours of the fair, 50 Mirrors, with every breath made dim. Birds, caught in every wanton snare.

Woman, man’s greatest woe or bliss, Does ofter far, than serve, enslave, And with the magic of a kiss 55 Destroys whom she was made to save.

Oh! fruitful grief, the world’s disease! And vainer man, to make it so, Who gives his miseries increase By cultivating his own woe. 60

There are no ills but what we make By giving shapes and names to things; Which is the dangerous mistake That causes all our sufferings.

We call that sickness, which is health; 65 That persecution, which is grace; That poverty, which is true wealth; And that dishonour, which is praise.

Alas! our time is here so short, That in what state soe’er ’tis spent, 70 Of joy or woe, does not import, Provided it be innocent.

But we may make it pleasant too, If we will take our measures right, And not what Heaven has done, undo 75 By an unruly appetite.

The world is full of beaten roads, But yet so slippery withal, That where one walks secure, ’tis odds A hundred and a hundred fall. 80

Untrodden paths are then the best, Where the frequented are unsure; And he comes soonest to his rest, Whose journey has been most secure.

It is content alone that makes 85 Our pilgrimage a pleasure here; And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes An ill commodity too dear. _Charles Cotton._

LXXXVIII

_IN PRAISE OF HOPE._

Hope, of all ills that men endure The only cheap and universal cure! Thou captive’s freedom, and thou sick man’s health! Thou loser’s victory, and thou beggar’s wealth! Thou manna, which from heaven we eat, 5 To every taste a several meat! Thou strong retreat, thou sure entailed estate, Which nought has power to alienate! Thou pleasant, honest flatterer, for none Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone! 10

Hope, thou first-fruits of happiness! Thou gentle dawning of a bright success! Thou good preparative, without which our joy Does work too strong, and whilst it cures, destroy; Who out of fortune’s reach dost stand, 15 And art a blessing still in hand! Whilst thee, her earnest-money, we retain, We certain are to gain, Whether she her bargain break, or else fulfil; Thou only good, not worse for ending ill! 20

Brother of Faith, ’twixt whom and thee The joys of Heaven and earth divided be! Though Faith be heir, and have the fixed estate, Thy portion yet in moveables is great. Happiness itself’s all one 25 In thee, or in possession! Only the future’s thine, the present his! Thine’s the more hard and noble bliss; Best apprehender of our joys, which hast So long a reach, and yet canst hold so fast! 30

Hope, thou sad lover’s only friend! Thou way, that may’st dispute it with the end! For love, I fear, ’s a fruit that does delight The taste itself less than the smell and sight. Fruition more deceitful is 35 Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss; Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee Some other way again to thee: And that’s a pleasant country, without doubt, To which all soon return that travel out. 40 _Abraham Cowley._

LXXXIX

_PROLOGUE._

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. SPOKEN BY MR. HART, AT THE ACTING OF ‘THE SILENT WOMAN.’

What Greece, when learning flourished, only knew, Athenian judges, you this day renew. Here too are annual rites to Pallas done, And here poetic prizes lost or won. Methinks I see you, crowned with olives, sit, 5 And strike a sacred horror from the pit. A day of doom is this of your decree, Where even the best are but by mercy free: A day, which none but Jonson durst have wished to see, Here they, who long have known the useful stage, 10 Come to be taught themselves to teach the age. As your commissioners our poets go, To cultivate the virtue which you sow; In your Lycæum first themselves refined, And delegated thence to human-kind. 15 But as ambassadors, when long from home, For new instructions to their princes come, So poets, who your precepts have forgot, Return, and beg they may be better taught: Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown, 20 But by your manners they correct their own. The illiterate writer, empiric-like, applies To minds diseased, unsafe, chance remedies: The learned in schools, where knowledge first began, Studies with care the anatomy of man; 25 Sees virtue, vice, and passions, in their cause, And fame from science, not from fortune, draws. So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade. There haughty dunces, whose unlearnèd pen 30 Could ne’er spell grammar, would be reading men. Such build their poems the Lucretian way; So many huddled atoms make a play; And if they hit in order by some chance, They call that nature which is ignorance. 35 To such a fame let mere town-wits aspire, And their gay nonsense their own cits admire. Our poet, could he find forgiveness here, Would wish it rather than a plaudit there. He owns no crown from those Prætorian bands, 40 But knows that right is in the senate’s hands, Not impudent enough to hope your praise, Low at the Muses’ feet his wreath he lays, And, where he took it up, resigns his bays. 45 Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit, But ’tis your suffrage makes authentic wit. _John Dryden._

XC

_PROLOGUE._

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Though actors cannot much of learning boast, Of all who want it, we admire it most: We love the praises of a learnèd pit, As we remotely are allied to wit. We speak our poet’s wit; and trade in ore, 5 Like those who touch upon the golden shore; Betwixt our judges can distinction make, Discern how much, and why, our poems take: Mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice; Whether the applause be only sound or voice. 10 When our fop-gallants, or our city-folly, Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy: We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise, And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise. Judge then, if we who act, and they who write, 15 Should not be proud of giving you delight. London likes grossly; but this nicer pit Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit; The ready finger lays on every blot; Knows what should justly please, and what should not. 20 Nature herself lies open to your view; You judge by her, what draught of her is true, Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint, Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint. But, by the sacred genius of this place, 25 By every Muse, by each domestic grace, Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well, And, where you judge, presumes not to excel. Our poets hither for adoption come, As nations sued to be made free of Rome: 30 Not in the suffragating tribes to stand, But in your utmost, last, provincial band. If his ambition may those hopes pursue, Who with religion loves your arts and you, Oxford to him a dearer name shall be 35 Than his own mother University. Thebes did his green unknowing youth engage; He chooses Athens in his riper age. _John Dryden._

XCI

_DISTICHES._

River is time in water; as it came, Still so it flows; yet never is the same.

I wake, and so new live; a night’s protection Is a new wonder, whiles a resurrection.

The sun’s up; yet myself and God most bright 5 I can’t see; I’m too dark, and He’s too light.

Let devout prayér cast me to the ground, So shall I yet to heaven be nearer found.

Clay, sand, and rock seem of a different birth; So men; some stiff, some loose, some firm; all earth! 10

By red, green, blue, which sometimes paint the air, Guilt, pardon, Heaven, the rainbow does declare.

The world’s a prison; no man can get out; Let the atheist storm then; Heaven is round about.

The rose is but the flower of a briar; 15 The good man has an Adam to his sire.

The dying mole, some say, opens his eyes; The rich, till ’tis too late, will not be wise.

The sick hart eats a snake, and so grows well; Repentance digests sin, and man ’scapes hell. 20

Flies, oft removed, return. Do they want fear, Or shame, or memory? Flies are everywhere.

Pride cannot see itself by mid-day light; The peacock’s tail is farthest from his sight.

The swallow’s a quick arrow, that may show 25 With what an instant swiftness life doth flow.

The nightingale’s a quire, no single note; O various power of God in one small throat!

The silkworm’s its own wonder; without loom It does provide itself a silken room. 30

The moon is the world’s glass; in which ’twere strange If we saw her’s and saw not our own change.

Herodotus is history’s fresh youth; Thucydides is judgment, age, and truth.

In sadness, Machiavel, thou didst not well, 35 To help the world to run faster to hell.

The Italian’s the world’s gentleman, the Court To which thrift, wit, lust, and revenge resort.

Bogs, purgatory, wolves, and ease, by fame Are counted Ireland’s earth, mistake, curse, shame. 40

The Indies, Philip, spread not like thy robe; Art thou the new horizon to the globe?

Down, pickaxe; to the depths for gold let’s go; We’ll undermine Peru. Is’nt heaven below?

Who gripes too much casts all upon the ground; 45 Too great a greatness greatness doth confound.

All things are wonder since the world began; The world’s a riddle, and the meaning’s man. _Barten Holyday._

XCII

_FAME UNMERITED._

There’s none should places have in Fame’s high court But those that first do win Invention’s fort; Not messengers, that only make report.

To messengers rewards of thanks are due For their great pains, telling their message true, 5 But not the honour to invention new.

Many there are that suits will make to wear Of several patches, stoln both here and there, That to the world they gallants may appear:

And the poor vulgar, who but little know, 10 And reverence all that makes a glistering show, Examine not the same how they came to.

Then do they call their friends and all their kin; They factions make the ignorant to win, And with their help into Fame’s court get in. 15 _Duchess of Newcastle._

XCIII

_ON THE DEATH OF PRINCE HENRY, SON OF JAMES THE FIRST._

Methought his royal person did foretell A kingly stateliness, from all pride clear; His look majestic seemèd to compel All men to love him, rather than to fear. And yet though he were every good man’s joy, 5 And the alonely comfort of his own, His very name with terror did annoy His foreign foes so far as he was known. Hell drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale; Spain trembled; and the most tempestuous sea, (Where Behemoth, the Babylonish whale, 10 Keeps all his bloody and imperious plea) Was swoln with rage, for fear he’d stop the tide Of her o’er-daring and insulting pride. _George Wither._

XCIV

_ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA._

You meaner beauties of the night, Which poorly satisfy our eyes, More by your number than your light,-- You common people of the skies, What are you, when the Moon shall rise? 5

You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own,-- What are you, when the Rose is blown? 10

You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature’s lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents,--what’s your praise, When Philomel her voice doth raise? 15

So when my Mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind? 20 _Sir Henry Wotton._

XCV

_LORD STRAFFORD’S MEDITATIONS IN THE TOWER._

Go, empty joys, With all your noise, And leave me here alone, In sweet sad silence to bemoan The fickle worldly height, 5 Whose danger none can see aright, Whilst your false splendours dim his sight.

Go, and ensnare With your trim ware Some other easy wight, 10 And cheat him with your flattering light; Rain on his head a shower Of honours, favour, wealth, and power; Then snatch it from him in an hour.

Fill his big mind 15 With gallant wind Of insolent applause; Let him not fear all-curbing laws, Nor king, nor people’s frown; But dream of something like a crown, 20 Then, climbing towards it, tumble down.

Let him appear In his bright sphere Like Cynthia in her pride, With starlike troops on every side; 25 For number and clear light Such as may soon o’erwhelm him quite, And blend them both in one dead night.

Welcome, sad night, Grief’s sole delight, 30 Thy mourning best agrees With honour’s funeral obsequies! In Thetis’ lap he lies, Mantled with soft securities, Whose too much sunshine dims his eyes. 35

Was he too bold, Who needs would hold With curbing reins the Day, And make Sol’s fiery steeds obey? Then, sure, as rash was I, 40 Who with ambitious wings did fly In Charles’s Wain too loftily.

I fall, I fall! Whom shall I call? Alas can he be heard, 45 Who now is neither loved nor feared? You who have vowed the ground To kiss, where my blest steps were found, Come, catch me at my last rebound.

How each admires 50 Heaven’s twinkling fires, Whilst from their glorious seat Their influence gives light and heat; But oh! how few there are, Though danger from the act be far, 55 Will run to catch a falling star.

Now ’tis too late To imitate Those lights whose pallidness Argues no inward guiltiness; 60 Their course one way is bent; Which is the cause there’s no dissent In Heaven’s High Court of Parliament. _Anon._

XCVI

_I’LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE._

My dear and only Love, I pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway But purest monarchy: For if confusion have a part, 5 Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a Synod in thy heart, I’ll never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign, And I will reign alone; 10 My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch, 15 To gain or lose it all.

But I will reign and govern still, And always give the law, And have each subject at my will, And all to stand in awe: 20 But ’gainst my batteries if I find Thou storm, or vex me sore, As if thou set me as a blind, I’ll never love thee more.

And in the empire of thy heart, 25 Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part, Or dare to share with me: Or committees if thou erect, Or go on such a score, 30 I’ll smiling mock at thy neglect, And never love thee more.