Part 8

With courage and success you the bold work begin; Your cradle has not idle been; 165 None e’er but Hercules and you would be At five years’ age worthy a history: And ne’er did fortune better yet The historian to the story fit. As you from all old errors free 170 And purge the body of Philosophy, So from all modern follies he Has vindicated eloquence and wit: His candid style like a clean stream does slide, And his bright fancy all the way 175 Does, like the sunshine, in it play; It does like Thames, the best of rivers, glide, Where the god does not rudely overturn, But gently pour, the crystal urn, And with judicious hand does the whole current guide. ’T has all the beauties Nature can impart, 181 And all the comely dress, without the paint, of Art. _Abraham Cowley._

CVII

_THE DREAM._

No victor that in battle spent, When he at night asleep doth lie Rich in a conquered monarch’s tent, E’er had so vain a dream as I.

Methought I saw the earliest shade 5 And sweetest that the spring can spread, Of jasmin, briar, and woodbine made; And there I saw Clorinda dead.

Though dead she lay, yet could I see No cypress nor no mourning yew; 10 Nor yet the injured lover’s tree; No willow near her coffin grew.

But all showed unconcerned to be, As if just Nature there did strive To be as pitiless as she 15 Was to her lover when alive.

And now, methought, I lost all care, In losing her; and was as free As birds let loose into the air, Or rivers that are got to sea. 20

Methought Love’s monarchy was gone; And whilst elective numbers sway, Our choice and change makes power our own, And those court us whom we obey.

Yet soon, now from my Princess free, 25 I rather frantic grew than glad, For subjects, getting liberty, Get but a license to be mad.

Birds that are long in cages awed, If they get out, awhile will roam; 30 But straight want skill to live abroad, Then pine and hover near their home.

And to the ocean rivers run From being pent in banks of flowers; Not knowing that the exhaling sun 35 Will send them back in weeping showers.

Soon thus for pride of liberty I low desires of bondage found; And vanity of being free Bred the discretion to be bound. 40

But as dull subjects see too late Their safety in monarchal reign, Finding their freedom in a State Is but proud strutting in a chain;

Then growing wiser, when undone, 45 In winter nights sad stories sing In praise of monarchs long since gone, To whom their bells they yearly ring;

So now I mourned that she was dead, Whose single power did govern me; 50 And quickly was by reason led To find the harm of liberty.

Even so the lovers of this land (Love’s empire in Clorinda gone) Thought they were quit from Love’s command, 55 And beauty’s world was all their own.

But lovers, who are Nature’s best Old subjects, never long revolt; They soon in passion’s war contest, Yet in their march soon make a halt. 60

And those, when by my mandates brought Near dead Clorinda, ceased to boast Of freedom found, and wept for thought Of their delightful bondage lost.

And now the day to night was turned, 65 Or sadly night’s close mourning wore; All maids for one another mourned, That lovers now could love no more.

All lovers quickly did perceive They had on earth no more to do 70 Than civilly to take their leave, As worthies that to dying go.

And now all quires her dirges sing, In shades of cypress and of yew; The bells of every temple ring, 75 Where maids their withered garlands strew.

To such extremes did sorrow rise, That it transcended speech and form, And was so lost to ears and eyes As seamen sinking in a storm. 80

My soul, in sleep’s soft fetters bound, Did now for vital freedom strive; And straight, by horror waked, I found The fair Clorinda still alive.

Yet she’s to me but such a light, 85 As are the stars to those who know We can at most but guess their height, And hope they mind us here below. _Sir William Davenant._

CVIII

_THE DIRGE._

What is the existence of man’s life But open war, or slumbered strife? Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements; And never feels a perfect peace, 5 Till death’s cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm, where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood; And each loud passion of the mind Is like a furious gust of wind, 10 Which bears his bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower, which buds and grows, And withers as the leaves disclose; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, 15 Like fits of waking before sleep: Then shrinks into that fatal mould Where its first being was enrolled.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth Is moralized in age and youth: 20 Where all the comforts he can share As wandering as his fancies are; Till in the mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial, which points out 25 The sunset, as it moves about: And shadows out in lines of night The subtle stages of time’s flight, Till all-obscuring earth hath laid The body in perpetual shade. 30

It is a weary interlude, Which doth short joys, long woes include; The world the stage, the prologue tears, The acts vain hope, and varied fears: The scene shuts up with loss of breath, 35 And leaves no epilogue but death. _Henry King._

CIX

_PARAPHRASE FROM SENECA._

Let him that will, ascend the tottering seat Of courtly grandeur, and become as great As are his mounting wishes: as for me, Let sweet repose and rest my portion be; Give me some mean obscure recess, a sphere 5 Out of the road of business, or the fear Of falling lower; where I sweetly may Myself and dear retirement still enjoy: Let not my life or name be known unto The grandees of the time, tost to and fro 10 By censures or applause; but let my age Slide gently by; not overthwart the stage Of public action; unheard, unseen, And unconcerned, as if I ne’er had been. And thus, while I shall pass my silent days 15 In shady privacy, free from the noise And bustles of the mad world, then shall I A good old innocent plebeian die. Death is a mere surprise, a very snare To him, that makes it his life’s greatest care 20 To be a public pageant; known to all, But unacquainted with himself, doth fall. _Sir Matthew Hale._

CX

_VANISHED BLESSINGS._

The voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day-- Those now by me, as they have been, 5 Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoyed in them Shall seem hereafter as a dream.

All earthly comforts vanish thus; So little hold of them have we, 10 That we from them, or they from us, May in a moment ravished be. Yet we are neither just nor wise, If present mercies we despise; Or mind not how there may be made 15 A thankful use of what we had. _George Wither._

CXI

_EPITAPH._

In this marble casket lies A matchless jewel of rich price; Whom Nature in the world’s disdain But showed, and put it up again. _Anon._

CXII

_THE WORLD’S FALLACIES._

False world, thou liest: thou canst not lend The least delight: Thy favours cannot gain a friend, They are so slight: Thy morning pleasures make an end 5 To please at night: Poor are the wants that thou suppliest: And yet thou vaunt’st, and yet thou viest With heaven; fond earth, thou boast’st; false world, thou liest.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales 10 Of endless treasure: Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure: Thou ask’st the conscience what she ails, And swear’st to ease her; 15 There’s none can want where thou suppliest, There’s none can give where thou deniest; Alas! fond world, thou boast’st; false world, thou liest.

What well-advisèd ear regards What earth can say? 20 Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Are painted clay: Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thou canst not play: Thy game at weakest, still thou viest; 25 If seen, and then revied, deniest: Thou art not what thou seem’st; false world, thou liest.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coined treasure; A paradise, that has no stint, 30 No change, no measure; A painted cask, but nothing in’t, Nor wealth, nor pleasure. Vain earth! that falsely thus compliest With man; vain man, that thou reliest 35 On earth: vain man, thou doat’st; vain earth, thou liest.

What mean dull souls in this high measure To haberdash In earth’s base wares, whose greatest treasure Is dross and trash; 40 The height of whose enchanting pleasure Is but a flash? Are these the goods that thou suppliest Us mortals with? Are these the highest? 44 Can these bring cordial peace? False world, thou liest. _Francis Quarles._

CXIII

_TO THE MEMORY OF MR. OLDHAM._

Farewell, too little and too lately known, Whom I began to think, and call my own; For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike, 5 And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike. To the same goal did both our studies drive; The last set out, the soonest did arrive. Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place, Whilst his young friend performed, and won the race. 10 Oh early ripe! to thy abundant store What could advancing age have added more? It might (what nature never gives the young) Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue. But satire needs not those, and wit will shine 15 Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line. A noble error, and but seldom made, When poets are by too much force betrayed; Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime, Still showed a quickness; and maturing time 20 But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme. Once more, hail, and farewell; farewell, thou young, But, ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue! Thy brows with ivy and with laurels bound; But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around. 25 _John Dryden._

CXIV

_AN EPITAPH ON THE EXCELLENT COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON._

The chief perfection of both sexes joined, With neither’s vice nor vanity combined; Of this our age the wonder, love, and care, The example of the following, and despair; Such beauty, that from all hearts love must flow, 5 Such majesty, that none durst tell her so; A wisdom of so large and potent sway, Rome’s Senate might have wished, her Conclave may: Which did to earthly thoughts so seldom bow, Alive she scarce was less in heaven than now; 10 So void of the least pride, to her alone These radiant excellencies seemed unknown; Such once there was; but let thy grief appear, Reader, there is not: Huntingdon lies here. _Lord Falkland._

CXV

_A PAGAN EPITAPH._

In this marble buried lies Beauty may enrich the skies, And add light to Phœbus’ eyes;

Sweeter than Aurora’s air, When she paints the lilies fair, 5 And gilds cowslips with her hair;

Chaster than the virgin spring, Ere her blossoms she doth bring, Or cause Philomel to sing.

If such goodness live ’mongst men, 10 Tell me it: I [shall] know then She is come from heaven again. _Anon._

CXVI

_ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND._

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load Of death, called life; which us from life doth sever. Thy works and alms, and all thy good endeavour, 5 Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod; But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best, Thy handmaids, clad them o’er with purple beams 10 And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams. _John Milton._

CXVII

_AN EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIFE, WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED TOGETHER._

To these, whom death again did wed, This grave’s their second marriage-bed; For though the hand of Fate could force ’Twixt soul and body a divorce, It could not sunder man and wife, 5 ’Cause they both lived but one life. Peace, good reader, do not weep; Peace, the lovers are asleep: They (sweet turtles) folded lie In the last knot that love could tie. 10 And though they lie as they were dead, Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead; (Pillow hard, and sheets not warm) Love made the bed, they’ll take no harm. Let them sleep, let them sleep on, 15 Till this stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn, And they wake into that light, Whose day shall never die in night. 20 _Richard Crashaw._

CXVIII

_EPITAPH._

Here lies a piece of Christ; a star in dust; A vein of gold; a china dish that must Be used in heaven, when God shall feast the just. _Robert Wild._

CXIX

_EPITAPH ON COMPANIONS LEFT BEHIND IN THE NORTHERN SEAS._

I were unkind unless that I did shed, Before I part, some tears upon our dead: And when my eyes be dry, I will not cease In heart to pray their bones may rest in peace: Their better parts (good souls) I know were given 5 With an intent they should return to heaven: Their lives they spent to the last drop of blood, Seeking God’s glory and their country’s good. And as a valiant soldier rather dies, Than yields his courage to his enemies; 10 And stops their way with his hewed flesh, when death Hath quite deprived him of his strength and breath; So have they spent themselves; and here they lie, A famous mark of our discovery. We that survive, perchance may end our days 15 In some employment meriting no praise; And in a dung-hill rot, when no man names The memory of us, but to our shames. They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends Will ever be an honour to their friends. 20 Why drop you so, mine eyes? Nay rather pour My sad departure in a solemn shower. The winter’s cold, that lately froze our blood, Now were it so extreme, might do this good, As make these tears bright pearls, which I would lay 25 Tombed safely with you till doom’s fatal day; That in this solitary place, where none Will ever come to breathe a sigh or groan, Some remnant might be extant of the true And faithful love I ever tendered you. 30 Oh! rest in peace, dear friends, and, let it be No pride to say, the sometime part of me. What pain and anguish doth afflict the head, The heart, and stomach, when the limbs are dead; So grieved, I kiss your graves, and vow to die, 35 A foster-father to your memory. _Thomas James._

CXX

_EPITAPH ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS._

The Lady Mary Villiers lies Under this stone: with weeping eyes The parents that first gave her birth, And their sad friends, laid her in earth. If any of them, reader, were 5 Known unto thee, shed a tear: Or if thyself possess a gem, As dear to thee as this to them, Though a stranger to this place, Bewail in their’s thine own hard case; 10 For thou perhaps at thy return Mayst find thy darling in an urn. _Thomas Carew._

CXXI

_EXEQUY ON HIS WIFE._

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges this complaint; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy grieved friend, whom thou might’st see 5 Quite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee: thou art the book, The library whereon I look, 10 Though almost blind. For thee, loved clay, I languish out, not live, the day, Using no other exercise But what I practise with mine eyes: By which wet glasses I find out 15 How lazily time creeps about To one that mourns; this, only this, My exercise and business is: So I compute the weary hours With sighs dissolvèd into showers. 20 Nor wonder if my time go thus Backward and most preposterous; Thou hast benighted me; thy set This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day (though overcast 25 Before thou hadst thy noontide past), And I remember must in tears, Thou scarce hadst seen so many years As day tells hours. By thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run; 30 But thou wilt never more appear Folded within my hemisphere, Since both thy light and motion, Like a fled star, is fall’n and gone, And ’twixt me and my soul’s dear wish 35 The earth now interposèd is, Which such a strange eclipse doth make As ne’er was read in almanack. I could allow thee for a time To darken me and my sad clime; 40 Were it a month, a year, or ten, I would thy exile live till then; And all that space my mirth adjourn. So thou wouldst promise to return; And putting off thy ashy shroud 45 At length disperse this sorrow’s cloud. But woe is me! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate These empty hopes: never shall I Be so much blest as to descry 50 A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world like thine, My little world! That fit of fire 55 Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls’ bliss: then we shall rise, And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region, where no night Can hide us from each other’s sight. 60 Meantime, thou hast her, earth: much good May my harm do thee. Since it stood With Heaven’s will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest 65 In her, whom living I loved best: With a most free and bounteous grief, I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book 70 Each parcel of this rarity, Which in thy casket shrined doth lie: See that thou make thy reckoning straight, And yield her back again by weight; For thou must audit on thy trust 75 Each grain and atom of this dust, As thou wilt answer him that lent, Not gave, thee, my dear monument. So close the ground, and ’bout her shade Black curtains draw; my bride is laid. 80 Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted! My last good night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must 85 Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there; I will not fail To meet thee in that hallow vale. 90 And think not much of my delay; I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. Each minute is a short degree, 95 And every hour a step towards thee. At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours’ sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. 100 Thus from the sun my bottom steers, And my day’s compass downward bears: Nor labour I to stem the tide, Through which to thee I swiftly glide. ’Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 105 Thou, like the van, first took’st the field, And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave. 110 But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come; And slow howe’er my marches be, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, 115 And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive The crime) I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. 120 _Henry King._

CXXII

_EPITAPH._

Our life is only death! time that ensu’th Is but the death of time that went before; Youth is the death of childhood, age of youth; Die once to God, and then thou diest no more. _Anon._

CXXIII

_SONNET._

As due by many titles, I resign Myself to Thee, O God. First I was made By Thee and for Thee; and, when I was decayed, Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine: I am thy son, made with Thyself to shine; 5 Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid, Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betrayed Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine. Why doth the devil then usurp on me? Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that’s thy right? 10 Except Thou rise, and for thine own work fight, Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see That Thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me, And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me. _John Donne._

CXXIV

_SONNET._

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those, whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, 5 Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow: And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; 10 And poppy’ or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally; And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. _John Donne._

CXXV

_LYCIDAS._