Part 16

Eugenius Philalethes, Oxoniensis.

OLOR ISCANUS.

TO THE RIVER ISCA.

When Daphne's lover here first wore the bays, Eurotas' secret streams heard all his lays, And holy Orpheus, Nature's busy child, By headlong Hebrus his deep hymns compil'd; Soft Petrarch--thaw'd by Laura's flames--did weep On Tiber's banks, when she--proud fair!--could sleep; Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the Thames Doth murmur Sidney's Stella to her streams; While Severn, swoln with joy and sorrow, wears Castara's smiles mix'd with fair Sabrin's tears. Thus poets--like the nymphs, their pleasing themes-- Haunted the bubbling springs and gliding streams; And happy banks! whence such fair flow'rs have sprung, But happier those where they have sat and sung! Poets--like angels--where they once appear Hallow the place, and each succeeding year Adds rev'rence to't, such as at length doth give This aged faith, that there their genii live. Hence th' ancients say, that from this sickly air They pass to regions more refin'd and fair, To meadows strew'd with lilies and the rose, And shades whose youthful green no old age knows; Where all in white they walk, discourse, and sing Like bees' soft murmurs, or a chiding spring. But Isca, whensoe'er those shades I see, And thy lov'd arbours must no more know me, When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams, And my sun sets, where first it sprang in beams, I'll leave behind me such a large, kind light, As shall redeem thee from oblivious night, And in these vows which--living yet--I pay, Shed such a previous and enduring ray, As shall from age to age thy fair name lead, 'Till rivers leave to run, and men to read. First, may all bards born after me --When I am ashes--sing of thee! May thy green banks or streams,--or none-- Be both their hill and Helicon! May vocal groves grow there, and all The shades in them prophetical, Where laid men shall more fair truths see Than fictions were of Thessaly! May thy gentle swains--like flow'rs-- Sweetly spend their youthful hours, And thy beauteous nymphs--like doves-- Be kind and faithful to their loves! Garlands, and songs, and roundelays, Mild, dewy nights, and sunshine days, The turtle's voice, joy without fear, Dwell on thy bosom all the year! May the evet and the toad Within thy banks have no abode, Nor the wily, winding snake Her voyage through thy waters make! In all thy journey to the main No nitrous clay, nor brimstone-vein Mix with thy streams, but may they pass Fresh on the air, and clear as glass, And where the wand'ring crystal treads Roses shall kiss, and couple heads! The factor-wind from far shall bring The odours of the scatter'd Spring, And loaden with the rich arrear, Spend it in spicy whispers there. No sullen heats, nor flames that are Offensive, and canicular, Shine on thy sands, nor pry to see Thy scaly, shading family, But noons as mild as Hesper's rays, Or the first blushes of fair days! What gifts more Heav'n or Earth can add, With all those blessings be thou clad! Honour, Beauty, Faith and Duty, Delight and Truth, With Love and Youth, Crown all about thee! and whatever Fate Impose elsewhere, whether the graver state Or some toy else, may those loud, anxious cares For dead and dying things--the common wares And shows of Time--ne'er break thy peace, nor make Thy repos'd arms to a new war awake! But freedom, safety, joy and bliss, United in one loving kiss, Surround thee quite, and style thy borders The land redeem'd from all disorders!

THE CHARNEL-HOUSE.

Bless me! what damps are here! how stiff an air! Kelder of mists, a second fiat's care, Front'spiece o' th' grave and darkness, a display Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day, Lean, bloodless shamble, where I can descry Fragments of men, rags of anatomy, Corruption's wardrobe, the transplantive bed Of mankind, and th' exchequer of the dead! How thou arrests my sense! how with the sight My winter'd blood grows stiff to all delight! Torpedo to the eye! whose least glance can Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue headlong man. Eloquent silence! able to immure An atheist's thoughts, and blast an epicure. Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dress Would make me wish a Saviour, and confess. Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope, Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope, Whose stretch'd excess runs on a string too high, And on the rack of self-extension die? Chameleons of state, air-monging band, Whose breath--like gunpowder--blows up a land, Come see your dissolution, and weigh What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day. As th' elements by circulation pass From one to th' other, and that which first was I so again, so 'tis with you; the grave And Nature but complot; what the one gave The other takes; think, then, that in this bed There sleep the relics of as proud a head, As stern and subtle as your own, that hath Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath Hath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely then Calm these high furies, and descend to men. Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tomb Check'd him, who thought the world too straight a room. Have I obey'd the powers of face, A beauty able to undo the race Of easy man? I look but here, and straight I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave Beggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save, Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear. Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score Of erring men, and having done, meet more, Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, False, empty honours, traitorous delights, And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites; But these and more which the weak vermins swell, Are couch'd in this accumulative cell, Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone; Day leaves me in a double night, and I Must bid farewell to my sad library. Yet with these notes--Henceforth with thought of thee I'll season all succeeding jollity, Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit; Excess hath no religion, nor wit; But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, One check from thee shall channel it again.

IN AMICUM FNERATOREM.

Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see How I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee. Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more, His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore. As lesser lode-stones with the North consent, Naturally moving to their element, As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fire Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire, So this vast crying sum draws in a less; And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess, For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphere Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear. Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress His messages in chink! not an express Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit, For gold's the best restorative of wit. Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delight I read those lines, which angels do indite! But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurse Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse? Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at once What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones? 'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peal In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol; I fear them not. I have no land to glut Thy dirty appetite, and make thee strut Nimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepare To court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir. For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thou But kick this dross: Parnassus' flow'ry brow I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot That horse which struck a fountain with his foot. A bed of roses I'll provide for thee, And crystal springs shall drop thee melody. The breathing shades we'll haunt, where ev'ry leaf Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf. Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yet Durst make love to, we'll teach the loving fit; We'll suck the coral of their lips, and feed Upon their spicy breath, a meal at need: Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfold That glist'ring grove, the curled wood of gold; Then peep for babies, a new puppet play, And riddle what their prattling eyes would say. But here thou must remember to dispurse, For without money all this is a curse. Thou must for more bags call, and so restore This iron age to gold, as once before. This thou must do, and yet this is not all, For thus the poet would be still in thrall, Thou must then--if live thus--my nest of honey Cancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.

TO HIS FRIEND----

I wonder, James, through the whole history Of ages, such entails of poverty Are laid on poets; lawyers--they say--have found A trick to cut them; would they were but bound To practise on us, though for this thing we Should pay--if possible--their bribes and fee. Search--as thou canst--the old and modern store Of Rome and ours, in all the witty score Thou shalt not find a rich one; take each clime, And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time, Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'rywhere descry A threadbare, goldless genealogy. Nature--it seems--when she meant us for earth Spent so much of her treasure in the birth As ever after niggards her, and she, Thus stor'd within, beggars us outwardly. Woful profusion! at how dear a rate Are we made up! all hope of thrift and state Lost for a verse. When I by thoughts look back Into the womb of time, and see the rack Stand useless there, until we are produc'd Unto the torture, and our souls infus'd To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport They keep afflicted by some ling'ring art; So we are merely thrown upon the stage The mirth of fools and legend of the age. When I see in the ruins of a suit Some nobler breast, and his tongue sadly mute Feed on the vocal silence of his eye, And knowing cannot reach the remedy; When souls of baser stamp shine in their store, And he of all the throng is only poor; When French apes for foreign fashions pay, And English legs are dress'd th' outlandish way, So fine too, that they their own shadows woo, While he walks in the sad and pilgrim shoe; I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sin, To see deserts and learning clad so thin; To think how th' earthly usurer can brood Upon his bags, and weigh the precious food With palsied hands, as if his soul did fear The scales could rob him of what he laid there. Like devils that on hid treasures sit, or those Whose jealous eyes trust not beyond their nose, They guard the dirt and the bright idol hold Close, and commit adultery with gold. A curse upon their dross! how have we sued For a few scatter'd chips? how oft pursu'd Petitions with a blush, in hope to squeeze For their souls' health, more than our wants, a piece? Their steel-ribb'd chests and purse--rust eat them both!-- Have cost us with much paper many an oath, And protestations of such solemn sense, As if our souls were sureties for the pence. Should we a full night's learnèd cares present, They'll scarce return us one short hour's content. 'Las! they're but quibbles, things we poets feign, The short-liv'd squibs and crackers of the brain. But we'll be wiser, knowing 'tis not they That must redeem the hardship of our way. Whether a Higher Power, or that star Which, nearest heav'n, is from the earth most far, Oppress us thus, or angell'd from that sphere By our strict guardians are kept luckless here, It matters not, we shall one day obtain Our native and celestial scope again.

TO HIS RETIRED FRIEND, AN INVITATION TO BRECKNOCK.

Since last we met, thou and thy horse--my dear-- Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here; I wonder, though thyself be thus deceas'd, Thou hast the spite to coffin up thy beast; Or is the palfrey sick, and his rough hide With the penance of one spur mortified? Or taught by thee--like Pythagoras's ox-- Is then his master grown more orthodox Whatever 'tis, a sober cause't must be That thus long bars us of thy company. The town believes thee lost, and didst thou see But half her suff'rings, now distress'd for thee, Thou'ldst swear--like Rome--her foul, polluted walls Were sack'd by Brennus and the savage Gauls. Abominable face of things! here's noise Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys, Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoarse, hellish notes Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats, With new fine Worships, and the old cast team Of Justices vex'd with the cough and phlegm. 'Midst these the Cross looks sad, and in the Shire- Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, With brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange sight Of high monumental hats, ta'en at the fight Of 'Eighty-eight; while ev'ry burgess foots The mortal pavement in eternal boots. Hadst thou been bach'lor, I had soon divin'd Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, or The beauteous churl was to be waited for, And like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, You stay'd, and strok'd the distaff for a kiss. But in this age, when thy cool, settled blood Is ti'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good, I know not how to reach the strange device, Except--Domitian-like--thou murder'st flies. Or is't thy piety? for who can tell But thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell, And--like a badger--with attentive looks In the dark hole sit rooting up of books. Quick hermit! what a peaceful change hadst thou, Without the noise of haircloth, whip, or vow! But there is no redemption? must there be No other penance but of liberty? Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, Thy memory will scarce remain with us, The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim They have not seen thee here since Charles, his reign, Or if they mention thee, like some old man, That at each word inserts--"Sir, as I can Remember"--so the cyph'rers puzzle me With a dark, cloudy character of thee. That--certs!--I fear thou wilt be lost, and we Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee. Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine And precious wit lie dead for want of thine. Shall the dull market-landlord with his rout Of sneaking tenants dirtily swill out This harmless liquor? shall they knock and beat For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat? O let not such prepost'rous tippling be In our metropolis; may I ne'er see Such tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine! Here lives that chymic, quick fire which betrays Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays. I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cup That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up, And teach her yet more charming words and skill Than ever Clia, Chloris, Astrophil, Or any of the threadbare names inspir'd Poor rhyming lovers with a mistress fir'd. Come then! and while the slow icicle hangs At the stiff thatch, and Winter's frosty pangs Benumb the year, blithe--as of old--let us 'Midst noise and war of peace and mirth discuss. This portion thou wert born for: why should we Vex at the time's ridiculous misery? An age that thus hath fool'd itself, and will --Spite of thy teeth and mine--persist so still. Let's sit then at this fire, and while we steal A revel in the town, let others seal, Purchase or cheat, and who can, let them pay, Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day. Innocent spenders we! a better use Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse Rout to their husks; they and their bags at best Have cares in earnest; we care for a jest.

MONSIEUR GOMBAULD.

I've read thy soul's fair nightpiece, and have seen Th' amours and courtship of the silent Queen, Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her To juggle first with Heav'n, then with a lover, With Latmos' louder rescue, and--alas!-- To find her out a hue and cry in brass; Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad Nocturnal pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad In fancies darker than thy cave, thy glass Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass In her calm voyage what discourse she heard Of spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard Ismena led thee through, with thy proud flight O'er Periardes, and deep, musing night Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green The neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seen In their large bowers, with that sad path and seat Which none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat; Their solitary life, and how exempt From common frailty, the severe contempt They have of man, their privilege to live A tree, or fountain, and in that reprieve What ages they consume, with the sad vale Of Diophania, and the mournful tale, Of th' bleeding vocal myrtle; these and more Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score To thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fall From thy first majesty, or ought at all Betray consumption; thy full vig'rous bays Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays Of style, or matter. Just so have I known Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal To their next vale, and proudly there reveal Her streams in louder accents, adding still More noise and waters to her channel, till At last swoln with increase she glides along The lawns and meadows in a wanton throng Of frothy billows, and in one great name Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame. Nor are they mere inventions, for we In th' same piece find scatter'd philosophy And hidden, dispers'd truths that folded lie In the dark shades of deep allegory; So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descry Fables with truth, fancy with history. So that thou hast in this thy curious mould Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old, Which shall these contemplations render far Less mutable, and lasting as their star, And while there is a people or a sun, Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

FOOTNOTES:

So Grosart, for the heat of the original.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. W., SLAIN IN THE LATE UNFORTUNATE DIFFERENCES AT ROUTON HEATH, NEAR CHESTER, 1645.

I am confirmed, and so much wing is given To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n. A full year's grief I struggled with, and stood Still on my sandy hopes' uncertain good, So loth was I to yield; to all those fears I still oppos'd thee, and denied my tears. But thou art gone! and the untimely loss Like that one day hath made all others cross. Have you seen on some river's flow'ry brow A well-built elm or stately cedar grow, Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-ray Beckon'd the sun, and whisper'd to the day, When unexpected from the angry North A fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth, And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground The shady twins, which rushing scatter round Their sighing leaves, whilst overborn with strength Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length? So forc'd fell he; so immaturely Death Stifled his able heart and active breath. The world scarce knew him yet, his early soul Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole A sight than gave one; as if subtly she Would learn our stock, but hide his treasury. His years--should Time lay both his wings and glass Unto his charge--could not be summ'd--alas!-- To a full score; though in so short a span His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick Have quite outgone their own arithmetic. He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull And mossy grey possess'd a solid skull; No crooked knowledge neither, nor did he Wear the friend's name for ends and policy, And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stage Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age And then retir'd; like jewels, in each part He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart. Nor was it only in this he did excel, His equal valour could as much, as well. He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst No injury, nor--as some have--e'er purs'd The sweat and tears of others, yet would be More forward in a royal gallantry Than all those vast pretenders, which of late Swell'd in the ruins of their king and State. He weav'd not self-ends and the public good Into one piece, nor with the people's blood Fill'd his own veins; in all the doubtful way Conscience and honour rul'd him. O that day When like the fathers in the fire and cloud I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd See arms like thine, and men advance, but none So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on. Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie Performance with the soul, that you would swear The act and apprehension both lodg'd there; Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand. But here I lost him. Whether the last turn Of thy few sands call'd on thy hasty urn, Or some fierce rapid fate--hid from the eye-- Hath hurl'd thee pris'ner to some distant sky, I cannot tell, but that I do believe Thy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve. Whatever 'twas, whether that day thy breath Suffer'd a civil or the common death, Which I do most suspect, and that I have Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave; Though thy lov'd ashes miss me, and mine eyes Had no acquaintance with thy exequies, Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight On the cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight, Yet whate'er pious hand--instead of mine-- Hath done this office to that dust of thine, And till thou rise again from thy low bed Lent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head, Though but a private turf, it can do more To keep thy name and memory in store Than all those lordly fools which lock their bones In the dumb piles of chested brass, and stones Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not These marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot Of posthume honours; there is not one sand Sleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that hand And pencil too, so that of force we must Confess their heaps show lesser than thy dust. And--blessed soul!--though this my sorrow can Add nought to thy perfections, yet as man Subject to envy, and the common fate, It may redeem thee to a fairer date. As some blind dial, when the day is done, Can tell us at midnight there was a sun, So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame, May keep some weak remembrance of thy name, And to the faith of better times commend Thy loyal upright life, and gallant end.

Nomen et arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi Conspicere------------

UPON A CLOAK LENT HIM BY MR. J. RIDSLEY.

Here, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heav'n Thy courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not even Whether we die by piecemeal, or at once? Since both but ruin, why then for the nonce Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o'er Me this forc'd hurdle to inflame the score? Had I near London in this rug been seen Without doubt I had executed been For some bold Irish spy, and 'cross a sledge Had lain mess'd up for their four gates and bridge. When first I bore it, my oppressèd feet Would needs persuade me 'twas some leaden sheet; Such deep impressions, and such dangerous holes Were made, that I began to doubt my soles, And ev'ry step--so near necessity-- Devoutly wish'd some honest cobbler by; Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag Seem'd circumcis'd, but had a Gentile shag. Hadst thou been with me on that day, when we Left craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee, When beaten with fresh storms and late mishap It shar'd the office of a cloak, and cap, To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood Like a thick turban, or some lawyer's hood, While the stiff, hollow pleats on ev'ry side Like conduit-pipes rain'd from the bearded hide: I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate Let loose thy mirth at my new shape and state, And with a shallow smile or two profess Some Saracen had lost the clouted dress. Didst ever see the good wife--as they say-- March in her short cloak on the christ'ning day, With what soft motions she salutes the church, And leaves the bedrid mother in the lurch; Just so jogg'd I, while my dull horse did trudge Like a circuit-beast, plagu'd with a gouty judge. But this was civil. I have since known more And worser pranks: one night--as heretofore Th' hast known--for want of change--a thing which I And Bias us'd before me--I did lie Pure Adamite, and simply for that end Resolv'd, and made this for my bosom-friend. O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo-graphy! Thou wouldst have ta'en me, as I naked stood, For one of the seven pillars before the flood. Such characters and hieroglyphics were In one night worn, that thou mightst justly swear I'd slept in cere-cloth, or at Bedlam, where The madmen lodge in straw. I'll not forbear To tell thee all; his wild impress and tricks Like Speed's old Britons made me look, or Picts; His villanous, biting, wire-embraces Had seal'd in me more strange forms and faces Than children see in dreams, or thou hast read In arras, puppet-plays, and gingerbread, With angled schemes, and crosses that bred fear Of being handled by some conjurer; And nearer, thou wouldst think--such strokes were drawn-- I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane. Nay, I believe, had I that instant been By surgeons or apothecaries seen, They had condemned my raz'd skin to be Some walking herbal, or anatomy. But--thanks to th' day!--'tis off. I'd now advise Thee, friend, to put this piece to merchandise. The pedlars of our age have business yet, And gladly would against the Fair-day fit Themselves with such a roof, that can secure Their wares from dogs and cats rained in shower. It shall perform; or if this will not do 'Twill take the ale-wives sure; 'twill make them two Fine rooms of one, and spread upon a stick Is a partition, without lime or brick. Horn'd obstinacy! how my heart doth fret To think what mouths and elbows it would set In a wet day! have you for twopence ere Seen King Harry's chapel at Westminster, Where in their dusty gowns of brass and stone The judges lie, and mark'd you how each one, In sturdy marble-pleats about the knee, Bears up to show his legs and symmetry? Just so would this, that I think't weav'd upon Some stiffneck'd Brownist's exercising loom. O that thou hadst it when this juggling fate Of soldiery first seiz'd me! at what rate Would I have bought it then; what was there but I would have giv'n for the compendious hut? I do not doubt but--if the weight could please-- 'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease. Or a German shirt with enchanted lint Stuff'd through, and th' devil's beard and face weav'd in't. But I have done. And think not, friend, that I This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy. I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse. She did this, 'cause--perhaps--thy love paid thus Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.

UPON MR. FLETCHER'S PLAYS, PUBLISHED 1647.

I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive, Label to wit, verser remonstrative, And in some suburb-page--scandal to thine-- Like Lent before a Christmas scatter mine. This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate Such remnants from thy piece entreat their date; Nor can I dub the copy, or afford Titles to swell the rear of verse with lord; Nor politicly big, to inch low fame, Stretch in the glories of a stranger's name, And clip those bays I court; weak striver I, But a faint echo unto poetry. I have not clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit For plush and velvet's sake, esquire of wit. Yet modesty these crosses would improve, And rags near thee, some reverence may move. I did believe--great Beaumont being dead-- Thy widow'd Muse slept on his flow'ry bed; But I am richly cozen'd, and can see Wit transmigrates: his spirit stay'd with thee; Which, doubly advantag'd by thy single pen, In life and death now treads the stage again. And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit Which starv'd the land, since into schisms split, Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess Wit's last edition is now i' th' press. For thou hast drain'd invention, and he That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee. But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain At the designs of such a tragic brain? Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see Thy most abominable policy? Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit Their Synod fast and pray against thy wit? But they'll not tire in such an idle quest; Thou dost but kill, and circumvent in jest; And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow 'Tis but for Field's, or Swansted's overthrow. Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve The peace of spirits: and when such deeds fail Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail. But--happy thou!--ne'er saw'st these storms, our air Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming fair. Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease, Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace. So nested in some hospitable shore The hermit-angler, when the mid-seas roar, Packs up his lines, and--ere the tempest raves-- Retires, and leaves his station to the waves. Thus thou died'st almost with our peace, and we This breathing time thy last fair issue see, Which I think such--if needless ink not soil So choice a Muse--others are but thy foil. This, or that age may write, but never see A wit that dares run parallel with thee. True, Ben must live! but bate him, and thou hast Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.

UPON THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF THE EVER-MEMORABLE MR. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

I did but see thee! and how vain it is To vex thee for it with remonstrances, Though things in fashion; let those judge, who sit Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit I fear to sin thus near thee; for--great saint!-- 'Tis known true beauty hath no need of paint. Yet, since a label fix'd to thy fair hearse Is all the mode, and tears put into verse Can teach posterity our present grief And their own loss, but never give relief; I'll tell them--and a truth which needs no pass-- That wit in Cartwright at her zenith was. Arts, fancy, language, all conven'd in thee, With those grand miracles which deify The old world's writings, kept yet from the fire Because they force these worst times to admire. Thy matchless genius, in all thou didst write, Like the sun, wrought with such staid heat and light, That not a line--to the most critic he-- Offends with flashes, or obscurity. When thou the wild of humours track'st, thy pen So imitates that motley stock in men, As if thou hadst in all their bosoms been, And seen those leopards that lurk within. The am'rous youth steals from thy courtly page His vow'd address, the soldier his brave rage; And those soft beauteous readers whose looks can Make some men poets, and make any man A lover, when thy slave but seems to die, Turn all his mourners, and melt at the eye. Thus thou thy thoughts hast dress'd in such a strain As doth not only speak, but rule and reign; Nor are those bodies they assum'd dark clouds, Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds, Which who looks on, the rays so strongly beat They'll brush and warm him with a quick'ning heat; So souls shine at the eyes, and pearls display Through the loose crystal-streams a glance of day. But what's all this unto a royal test? Thou art the man whom great Charles so express'd! Then let the crowd refrain their needless hum, When thunder speaks, then squibs and winds are dumb.

TO THE BEST AND MOST ACCOMPLISHED COUPLE----

Blessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads As the mild heav'n on roses sheds, When at their cheeks--like pearls--they wear The clouds that court them in a tear! And may they be fed from above By Him which first ordain'd your love!

Fresh as the hours may all your pleasures be, And healthful as eternity! Sweet as the flowers' first breath, and close As th' unseen spreadings of the rose, When he unfolds his curtain'd head, And makes his bosom the sun's bed!