Part 10

Whose life with care is overcast, That man's not said to live, but last; Nor is't a life, seven years to tell, But for to live that half seven well; And that we'll do, as men who know, Some few sands spent, we hence must go, Both to be blended in the urn, From whence there's never a return.

61. TO HIS HONOURED AND MOST INGENIOUS FRIEND MR CHARLES COTTON

For brave comportment, wit without offence, Words fully flowing, yet of influence, Thou art that man of men, the man alone Worthy the public admiration; Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write, And giv'st our numbers euphony and weight; Tell'st when a verse springs high; how understood To be, or not, born of the royal blood What state above, what symmetry below, Lines have, or should have, thou the best can show:-- For which, my Charles, it is my pride to be, Not so much known, as to be loved of thee:-- Long may I live so, and my wreath of bays Be less another's laurel, than thy praise.

62. A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, SENT TO SIR SIMEON STEWARD

No news of navies burnt at seas; No noise of late spawn'd tittyries; No closet plot or open vent, That frights men with a Parliament: No new device or late-found trick, To read by th' stars the kingdom's sick; No gin to catch the State, or wring The free-born nostril of the King, We send to you; but here a jolly Verse crown'd with ivy and with holly; That tells of winter's tales and mirth That milk-maids make about the hearth; Of Christmas sports, the wassail-bowl, That toss'd up, after Fox-i'-th'-hole; Of Blind-man-buff, and of the care That young men have to shoe the Mare; Of twelf-tide cakes, of pease and beans, Wherewith ye make those merry scenes, Whenas ye chuse your king and queen, And cry out, 'Hey for our town green!'-- Of ash-heaps, in the which ye use Husbands and wives by streaks to chuse; Of crackling laurel, which fore-sounds A plenteous harvest to your grounds; Of these, and such like things, for shift, We send instead of New-year's gift. --Read then, and when your faces shine With buxom meat and cap'ring wine, Remember us in cups full crown'd, And let our city-health go round, Quite through the young maids and the men, To the ninth number, if not ten; Until the fired chestnuts leap For joy to see the fruits ye reap, From the plump chalice and the cup That tempts till it be tossed up.-- Then as ye sit about your embers, Call not to mind those fled Decembers; But think on these, that are t' appear, As daughters to the instant year; Sit crown'd with rose-buds, and carouse, Till LIBER PATER twirls the house About your ears, and lay upon The year, your cares, that's fled and gone: And let the russet swains the plough And harrow hang up resting now; And to the bag-pipe all address, Till sleep takes place of weariness. And thus throughout, with Christmas plays, Frolic the full twelve holy-days.

63. AN ODE TO SIR CLIPSBY CREW

Here we securely live, and eat The cream of meat; And keep eternal fires, By which we sit, and do divine, As wine And rage inspires.

If full, we charm; then call upon Anacreon To grace the frantic Thyrse: And having drunk, we raise a shout Throughout, To praise his verse.

Then cause we Horace to be read, Which sung or said, A goblet, to the brim, Of lyric wine, both swell'd and crown'd, Around We quaff to him.

Thus, thus we live, and spend the hours In wine and flowers; And make the frolic year, The month, the week, the instant day To stay The longer here.

--Come then, brave Knight, and see the cell Wherein I dwell; And my enchantments too; Which love and noble freedom is:-- And this Shall fetter you.

Take horse, and come; or be so kind To send your mind, Though but in numbers few:-- And I shall think I have the heart Or part Of Clipsby Crew.

64. A PANEGYRIC TO SIR LEWIS PEMBERTON

Till I shall come again, let this suffice, I send my salt, my sacrifice To thee, thy lady, younglings, and as far As to thy Genius and thy Lar; To the worn threshold, porch, hall, parlour, kitchen, The fat-fed smoking temple, which in The wholesome savour of thy mighty chines, Invites to supper him who dines: Where laden spits, warp'd with large ribs of beef, Not represent, but give relief To the lank stranger and the sour swain, Where both may feed and come again; For no black-bearded Vigil from thy door Beats with a button'd-staff the poor; But from thy warm love-hatching gates, each may Take friendly morsels, and there stay To sun his thin-clad members, if he likes; For thou no porter keep'st who strikes. No comer to thy roof his guest-rite wants; Or, staying there, is scourged with taunts Of some rough groom, who, yirk'd with corns, says, 'Sir, 'You've dipp'd too long i' th' vinegar; 'And with our broth and bread and bits, Sir friend, 'You've fared well; pray make an end; 'Two days you've larded here; a third, ye know, 'Makes guests and fish smell strong; pray go 'You to some other chimney, and there take 'Essay of other giblets; make 'Merry at another's hearth; you're here 'Welcome as thunder to our beer; 'Manners knows distance, and a man unrude 'Would soon recoil, and not intrude 'His stomach to a second meal.'--No, no, Thy house, well fed and taught, can show No such crabb'd vizard: Thou hast learnt thy train With heart and hand to entertain; And by the arms-full, with a breast unhid, As the old race of mankind did, When either's heart, and either's hand did strive To be the nearer relative; Thou dost redeem those times: and what was lost Of ancient honesty, may boast It keeps a growth in thee, and so will run A course in thy fame's pledge, thy son. Thus, like a Roman Tribune, thou thy gate Early sets ope to feast, and late; Keeping no currish waiter to affright, With blasting eye, the appetite, Which fain would waste upon thy cates, but that The trencher creature marketh what Best and more suppling piece he cuts, and by Some private pinch tells dangers nigh, A hand too desp'rate, or a knife that bites Skin-deep into the pork, or lights Upon some part of kid, as if mistook, When checked by the butler's look. No, no, thy bread, thy wine, thy jocund beer Is not reserved for Trebius here, But all who at thy table seated are, Find equal freedom, equal fare; And thou, like to that hospitable god, Jove, joy'st when guests make their abode To eat thy bullocks thighs, thy veals, thy fat Wethers, and never grudged at. The pheasant, partridge, gotwit, reeve, ruff, rail, The cock, the curlew, and the quail, These, and thy choicest viands, do extend Their tastes unto the lower end Of thy glad table; not a dish more known To thee, than unto any one: But as thy meat, so thy immortal wine Makes the smirk face of each to shine, And spring fresh rose-buds, while the salt, the wit, Flows from the wine, and graces it; While Reverence, waiting at the bashful board, Honours my lady and my lord. No scurril jest, no open scene is laid Here, for to make the face afraid; But temp'rate mirth dealt forth, and so discreet- Ly, that it makes the meat more sweet, And adds perfumes unto the wine, which thou Dost rather pour forth, than allow By cruse and measure; thus devoting wine, As the Canary isles were thine; But with that wisdom and that method, as No one that's there his guilty glass Drinks of distemper, or has cause to cry Repentance to his liberty. No, thou know'st orders, ethics, and hast read All oeconomics, know'st to lead A house-dance neatly, and canst truly show How far a figure ought to go, Forward or backward, side-ward, and what pace Can give, and what retract a grace; What gesture, courtship, comeliness agrees, With those thy primitive decrees, To give subsistence to thy house, and proof What Genii support thy roof, Goodness and greatness, not the oaken piles; For these, and marbles have their whiles To last, but not their ever; virtue's hand It is which builds 'gainst fate to stand. Such is thy house, whose firm foundations trust Is more in thee than in her dust, Or depth; these last may yield, and yearly shrink, When what is strongly built, no chink Or yawning rupture can the same devour, But fix'd it stands, by her own power And well-laid bottom, on the iron and rock, Which tries, and counter-stands the shock And ram of time, and by vexation grows The stronger. Virtue dies when foes Are wanting to her exercise, but, great And large she spreads by dust and sweat. Safe stand thy walls, and thee, and so both will, Since neither's height was raised by th'ill Of others; since no stud, no stone, no piece Was rear'd up by the poor-man's fleece; No widow's tenement was rack'd to gild Or fret thy cieling, or to build A sweating-closet, to anoint the silk- Soft skin, or bath in asses' milk; No orphan's pittance, left him, served to set The pillars up of lasting jet, For which their cries might beat against thine ears, Or in the damp jet read their tears. No plank from hallow'd altar does appeal To yond' Star-chamber, or does seal A curse to thee, or thine; but all things even Make for thy peace, and pace to heaven. --Go on directly so, as just men may A thousand times more swear, than say This is that princely Pemberton, who can Teach men to keep a God in man; And when wise poets shall search out to see Good men, they find them all in thee.

65. ALL THINGS DECAY AND DIE

All things decay with time: The forest sees The growth and down-fall of her aged trees; That timber tall, which three-score lustres stood The proud dictator of the state-like wood, I mean the sovereign of all plants, the oak, Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver's stroke.

66. TO HIS DYING BROTHER, MASTER WILLIAM HERRICK

Life of my life, take not so soon thy flight, But stay the time till we have bade good-night. Thou hast both wind and tide with thee; thy way As soon dispatch'd is by the night as day. Let us not then so rudely henceforth go Till we have wept, kiss'd, sigh'd, shook hands, or so. There's pain in parting, and a kind of hell When once true lovers take their last farewell. What? shall we two our endless leaves take here Without a sad look, or a solemn tear? He knows not love that hath not this truth proved, Love is most loth to leave the thing beloved. Pay we our vows and go; yet when we part, Then, even then, I will bequeath my heart Into thy loving hands; for I'll keep none To warm my breast, when thou, my pulse, art gone, No, here I'll last, and walk, a harmless shade, About this urn, wherein thy dust is laid, To guard it so, as nothing here shall be Heavy, to hurt those sacred seeds of thee.

67. HIS AGE:

DEDICATED TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR JOHN WICKES, UNDER THE NAME OF POSTUMUS

Ah, Posthumus! our years hence fly And leave no sound: nor piety, Or prayers, or vow Can keep the wrinkle from the brow; But we must on, As fate does lead or draw us; none, None, Posthumus, could e'er decline The doom of cruel Proserpine.

The pleasing wife, the house, the ground Must all be left, no one plant found To follow thee, Save only the curst cypress-tree! --A merry mind Looks forward, scorns what's left behind; Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may, And here enjoy our holiday.

We've seen the past best times, and these Will ne'er return; we see the seas, And moons to wane, But they fill up their ebbs again; But vanish'd man, Like to a lily lost, ne'er can, Ne'er can repullulate, or bring His days to see a second spring.

But on we must, and thither tend, Where Ancus and rich Tullus blend Their sacred seed; Thus has infernal Jove decreed; We must be made, Ere long a song, ere long a shade. Why then, since life to us is short, Let's make it full up by our sport.

Crown we our heads with roses then, And 'noint with Tyrian balm; for when We two are dead, The world with us is buried. Then live we free As is the air, and let us be Our own fair wind, and mark each one Day with the white and lucky stone.

We are not poor, although we have No roofs of cedar, nor our brave Baiae, nor keep Account of such a flock of sheep; Nor bullocks fed To lard the shambles; barbels bred To kiss our hands; nor do we wish For Pollio's lampreys in our dish.

If we can meet, and so confer, Both by a shining salt-cellar, And have our roof, Although not arch'd, yet weather-proof, And cieling free, From that cheap candle-baudery; We'll eat our bean with that full mirth As we were lords of all the earth.

Well, then, on what seas we are tost, Our comfort is, we can't be lost. Let the winds drive Our bark, yet she will keep alive Amidst the deeps; 'Tis constancy, my Wickes, which keeps The pinnace up; which, though she errs I' th' seas, she saves her passengers.