VERSES, WRITTEN UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS, BY ABRAHAM COWLEY. LONDON, Printed for Henry Herringman, and are to be sold at his Shop on the Lower walk in the New Exchange. 1663. MOst of these Verses, which the Author had no intent to publish, having been lately printed at Dublin without his consent or knowledge, and with many, and some gross mistakes in the Impression, He hath thought fit for his justification in some part to allow me to reprint them here. Henry Herringman. VERSES, WRITTEN UPON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. CHRIST'S PASSION, Taken out of a Greek Ode written by Mr. Masters of New College in Oxford. 1. ENough, my Muse, of earthly things, And inspirations but of wind, Take up thy Lute, and to it bind Loud, and everlasting strings, And on'em play, and to'em sing, The happy mournful stories, The Lamentable glories, Of the great crucified King. Mountainous heap of wonders! which dost rise Till Earth thou joinest with the Skies! Too large at bottom, and at top too high, To be half seen by mortal eye. How shall I grasp this boundless thing? What shall I play? what shall I sing? I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love, Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed Spirits above With all their Comments can explain; How all the whole World's Life to die did not disdain. 2. I'll sing the Searchless depths of the Compassion Divine, The depths unfathomed yet By reason's Plummet, and the line of Wit, Too light the Plummet, and too short the line! How the Eternal Father did bestow His own Eternal Son, as ransom for his foe, I'll sing aloud, that all the World may hear, The triumph of the buried Conqueror. How hell was by its Prisoner Captive led, And the great Slayer Death slain by the Dead. 3. Me thinks I hear of murdered men the voice, Mixed with the Murderers confused noise, Sound from the top of Calvarie; My greedy eyes fly up the Hill, and see Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three; Oh how unlike the others he! Look how he bends his gentle head with blessings from the tree! His gracious hands, ne'er stretched but to do good, Are nailed to the infamous wood: And sinful Man does fond bind The Arms, which he extends t'embrace all humane kind. 4. Unhappy Man, canst thou stand by, and see All this as patient, as he? Since he thy Sins does bear, Make thou his sufferings thine own, And weep, and sigh, and groan, And beat thy Breast, and tear, Thy Garments, and thy Hair, And let thy grief, and let thy love Through all thy bleeding bowels move. Dost thou not see thy Prince, in purple clad all o'er, Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore, But made at home with richer gore? Dost thou not see the Roses, which adorn The thorny Garland, by him worn? Dost thou not see the livid traces Of the sharp scourges rude embraces? If yet thou feelest not the smart Of Thorns and Scourges in thy heart, If that be yet not Crucified, Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side. 5. Open, Oh! open wide the Fountains of thine eyes, And let 'em call Their stock of moisture forth, where ere it lies, For this will ask it all. 'Twould all (alas) too little be, Though thy salt tears came from a Sea: Canst thou deny him this, when he Has opened all his vital Springs for thee? Take heed; for by his sides mysterious flood May well be understood, That he will still require some waters to his blood. On Orinda's Poems. ODE. WE allowed You Beauty, and we did submit To all the Tyrannies of it; Ah! Cruel Sex, will you depose us too in Wit? Orinda does in that too reign, Does Man behind her in Proud Triumph draw, And Cancel great Apollo's Salic Law. We our old Title plead in vain, Man may be Head, but Woman's now the Brain. Verse was Love's fire-arms heretofore, In Beauty's Camp it was not known, Too many Arms besides that Conqueror bore: 'Twas the great Canon we brought down T' assault a stubborn Town; Orinda first did a bold sally make, Our strongest Quarter take, And so successful proved, that she Turned upon Love himself his own Artillery. 2. Women as if the Body were their Whole, Did that, and not the Soul Transmit to their Posterity; If in it sometime they conceived, Th' abortive Issue never lived. 'Twere shame and pity ' Orinda, if in thee A Spirit so rich, so noble, and so high Should unmanured, or barren lie. But thou industriously hast sowed, and tilled The fair, and fruitful field; And 'tis a strange increase, that it doth yield. As when the happy Gods above Meet altogether at a feast, A secret Joy unspeakably does move, In their great Mother Cybele's contented breast: With no less pleasure thou methinks shouldst see, this thy no less Immortal Progeny. And in their Birth thou no one touch dost find, Of th' ancient Curse to Womankind, Thou bring'st not forth with pain, It neither Travel is nor Labour of the brain, So easily they from thee come, And there is so much room In th' unexhausted and unfathomed Womb, That like the Holland Countess thou mayst bear A child for every day of all the fertile year. 3. Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy raise If to be praised I loved more than to praise, Where e'er I see an excellence, I must admire to see thy well knit sense, Thy numbers gentle, and thy Fancies high, Those as thy forehead smooth, these sparkling as thine eye. 'Tis solid, and 'tis manly all, Or rather 'tis Angelical, For as in Angels, we Do in thy Verses see Both improved Sexes eminently meet, They are than Man more strong, and more than Woman sweet. 4. They talk of Nine, I know not who, Female Chimeras that o'er Poet's reign, I ne'er could find that fancy true, But have invoked them oft I'm sure in vain: They talk of Sapph, but alas the shame! Ill manners soil the lustre of her Fame: Orinda's inward virtue is so bright, That like a Lanthorn's fair enclosed Light, It through the paper shines where she does write. Honour and Friendship, and the Generous scorn Of things for which we were not born, (Things that can only by a fond Disease, Like that of Girls, our vicious Stomaches please) Are the instructive Subjects of her pen, And as the Roman Victory Taught our rude Land, Arts, and Civility, At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters Men. 5. But Rome with all her Arts could ne'er inspire, A Female Breast with such a fire. The warlike Amazonian train, Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign, And wits mild Empire before Arms prefer, Hope 'twill be settled in their sex by her. Merlin the Seer, (and sure he would not lie In such a sacred Company,) Does Prophecies of Learned Orinda show, Which he had darkly spoke so long ago. Even Boadicia's angry Ghost Forgets her own misfortune, and disgrace, And to her injured Daughters now does boast, That Rome's o'ercome at last, by'a woman of her Race. ODE. Upon occasion of a Copy of Verses of my Lord Broghills. BE gone (said I) Ingrateful Muse, and see What others thou canst fool as well as me. Since I grew Man, and wiser ought to be, My business and my hopes I left for thee: For thee (which was more hardly given away) I left, even when a Boy, my Play. But say, Ingrateful Mistress, say, What, for all this, what didst Thou ever pay? Thou'lt say, Perhaps, that riches are Not of the growth of Lands, where thou dost Trade. And I, as well my Country might upbraid Because I have no Vineyard there. Well: but in Love, thou dost pretend to Reign, There thine the power and Lordship is, Thou badst me write, and write, and write again; 'Twas such a way as could not miss. I like a Fool, did thee Obey, I wrote, and wrote, but still I wrote in vain, For after all my ' expense of Wit and Pain, A rich, unwriting Hand, carried the Prize away. 2. Thus I complained, and strait the Muse replied, That she had given me Fame, Bounty Immense! And that too must be tried, When I myself am nothing but a name. Who now, what Reader does not strive T' invalidate the gift whilst w' are alive? For when a Poet now himself doth show, As if he were a common Foe, All draw upon him, all around, And every part of him they wound, Happy the Man that gives the deepest Blow: And this is all, kind Muse, to thee we owe. Then in a rage I took And out at Window threw Ovid and Horace, all the chiming Crew, Homer himself went with them too, Hardly escaped the sacred Mantuan Book: I my own Offspring, like Agave tore, And I resolved, nay and I think I swore, That I no more the Ground would Till and Sow, Where only flowery Weeds instead of Corn did grow. 3. When (see the subtle ways which Fate does find, Rebellious man to bind, Just to the work for which he is assigned) The Muse came in more cheerful than before, And bade me quarrel with her now no more. Lo thy reward! look here and see, What I have made (said she) My Lover, and beloved, my Broghill do for thee. Though thy own verse no lasting fame can give, Thou shalt at least in his for ever live. What Critics, the great Hector's now in Wit, Who Rant and Challenge all Men that have VVrit, Will dare to'oppose thee when Broghill in thy defence has drawn his Conquering Pen? I rose and bowed my head, And pardon asked for all that I had said, Well satisfied and proud, I strait resolved, and solemnly I vowed, That from her service now I ne'er would part. So strongly, large Rewards work on a grateful Heart. 4. Nothing so soon the Drooping Spirits can raise As Praises from the Men, whom all men praise. 'Tis the best Cordial, and which only those Who have at home th'Ingredients can compose. A Cordial, that restores our fainting Breath, And keeps up Life even after Death. The only danger is, lest it should be Too strong a remedy: Lest, in removing cold, it should beget Too violent a heat; And into madness, turn the Lethargy. Ah! Gracious God that I might see A time when it were Dangerous for me To be o'er heat with Praise! But I within me bear (alas) too great alleys. 5. 'Tis said, Apelles, when he Venus drew, Did naked Women for his Pattern view, And with his powerful fancy did refine Their humane shapes, into a form Divine; None who had set could her own Picture see, Or say, One part was drawn for me: So, though this nobler Painter when he writ, Was pleased to think it fit That my Book should before him sit, Not as a cause, but an occasion to his wit: Yet what have I to boast, or to apply To my advantage out of it, since I, In stead of my own likeness, only find The Bright Idea there of the great Writers mind? ODE. Mr. Cowley's Book presenting itself to the University Library of Oxford. 1. HAil Learnings Pantheon! Hail the sacred Ark Where all the World of Science does embark! Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long withstood, Insatiate Times devouring Flood. Hail Tree of Knowledge, thy leaves Fruit! which well Dost in the midst of Paradise arise, Oxford the Muse's Paradise, From which may never Sword the blessed expel, Hail Bank of all past Ages! where they lie T' enrich with interest Posterity! Hail Wits Illustrious Galaxy! Where thousand Lights into one brightness spread; Hail living University of the Dead! 2. Unconfused Babel of all tongues which ere The mighty Linguist Fame, or Time the mighty traveller, That could speak, or this could hear. Majestic Monument and Pyramid, Where still the shapes of parted Souls abide ' Embalmed in verse, exalted souls which now Enjoy those Arts they wooed so well below, Which now all wonders plainly see, That have been, are, or are to be, In the mysterious Library, The Beatific Bodley of the Deity. 3. Will you into your Sacred throng admit The meanest British Wit? You Gen'ral Council of the Priests of Fame, Will you not murmur and disdain, That I place among you claim, The humblest Deacon of her train? Will you allow me th'honourable chain? The chain of Ornament which here Your noble Prisoners proudly wear; A Chain which will more pleasant seem to me Than all my own Pindaric Liberty: Will ye to bind me with those mighty names submit, Like an Apocrypha with holy VVrit? What ever happy book is chained here, Nor other place or People need to fear; His Chain's a Passport to go every where. 4. As when a seat in Heaven, Is to an unmalicious Sinner given, Who casting round his wounding eye, Does none but Patriarches and Apostles there espy; Martyrs who did their lives bestow, And Saints who Martyrs lived below; With trembling and amazement he begins, To recollect his frailties past and sins, He doubts almost his Station there, His soul says to itself, How came I here? It fares no otherwise with me When I myself with conscious wonder see, Amidst this purified elected Company. With hardship they, and pain, Did to this happiness attain: No labour I, nor merits can pretend, I think Predestination only was my friend. 5. Ah, that my Author had been tied like me To such a place, and such a Company! In stead of several Countries, several Men, And Business which the Muse's hate, He might have then improved that small Estate, Which nature sparingly did to him give, He might perhaps have thriven then, And settled, upon me his Child, somewhat to live. 'T had happier been for him, as well as me, For when all, (alas) is done, We Books, I mean, You Books, will prove to be The best and noblest conversation. For though some errors will get in, Like Tinctures of Original sin: Yet sure we from our Father's wit Draw all the strength and Spirit of it: Leaving the grosser parts for conversation, As the best blood of Man's employed in generation. ODE. Sitting and drinking in the Chair, made out of the Relics of Sir Francis Drake's Ships. Cheer up my Mates, the wind does fairly blow, Clap on more sail and never spare; Farewell all Lands, for now we are In the wide Sea of Drink, and merrily we go. Bless me, 'tis hot! another bowl of wine, And we shall cut the Burning Line: hay Boys! she scuds away, and by my head I know, We round the World are sailing now. What dull men are those who tarry at home, When abroad they might wantonly room, And gain such experience, and spy too Such Countries, and Wonders as I do? But prithee good Pilot, take heed what you do, And fail not to touch at Peru; With Gold, there the Vessel we'll store, And never, and never be poor, No never be poor any more. 2. What do I mean? what thoughts do me misguide? As well upon a staff may Witches ride Their fancied Journeys in the Air, As I sail round the Ocean in this Chair: 'Tis true; but yet this Chair which here you see, For all its quiet now, and gravity, Has wandered, and has travailed more, Than ever Beast, or Fish, or Bird, or ever Tree before. In every Air, and every Seaed has been, 'T has compassed all the Earth, and all the Heavens 't has seen. Let not the Pope's itself with this compare, This is the only Universal Chair. 3. The pious Wanderers Fleet, saved from the flame, (Which still the Relics did of Troy pursue, And took them for its due) A squadron of immortal Nymphs became: Still with their Arms they row about the Seas, And still make new, and greater voyages; Nor has the first Poetic Ship of Greece, (Though now a star she so Triumphant show, And guide her sailing Successors below, Bright as her ancient freight the shining fleece;) Yet to this day a quiet harbour found, The tide of Heaven still carries her around. Only Drakes Sacred vessel which before Had done, and had seen more, Than those have done or seen, Even since they Goddesses, and this a Star has been; As a reward for all her labour past, Is made the seat of rest at last. Let the case now quite altered be, And as thou wentest abroad the World to see; Let the World now come to see thee. 4. The World will do't; for Curiosity Does no less than devotion, Pilgrims make; And I myself who now love quiet too, As much almost as any Chair can do, Would yet a journey take, An old wheel of that Chariot to see, Which Phaeton so rashly broke: Yet what could that say more than these remains of Drake? Great Relic! thou too, in this Port of ease, Hast still one way of Making Voyages; The breath of fame, like an auspicious Gale, (The great trade-wind which ne'er does fail,) Shall drive thee round the World, and thou shalt run, As long around it as the Sun. The straits of time too narrow are for thee, Launch forth into an indiscovered Sea, And steer the endless course of vast Eternity, Take for thy Sail this Verse, and for thy Pilot Me. ODE. Upon Dr. Harvey. 1 COy Nature, (which remained, though Aged grown, A Beauteous virgin still, enjoyed by none, Nor seen unveiled by any one) When Harveys violent passion she did see, Began to tremble, and to flee, Took Sanctuary like Daphne in a tree: There Daphne's lover stopped, and thought it much The very Leaves of her to touch, But Harvey our Apollo, stopped not so, Into the Bark, and root he after her did go: No smallest Fibres of a Plant, For which the eiebeams Point doth sharpness want, His passage after her withstood. What should she do? through all the moving wood Of Lives endowed with sense she took her flight, Harvey pursues, and keeps her still in sight. But as the Dear long-hunted takes a flood, She leapt at last into the winding streams of blood; Of man's Meander all the Purple reaches made, Till at the heart she stayed, Where turning head, and at a Bay, Thus, by well-purged ears, was she o'erheard to say. 2. Here sure shall I be safe (said she) None will be able sure to see This my retreat, but only He Who made both it and me. The heart of Man what Art can ere reveal? A wall Impervious between Divides the very Parts within, And doth the Heart of man even from its self conceal. She spoke, but e'er she was aware, Harvey was with her there, And held this slippery Proteus in a chain, Till all her mighty Mysteries she descried, Which from his wit the attempt before to hide Was the first Thing that Nature did in vain. 3. He the young Practice of New life did see, Whilst to conceal its toilsome Poverty, It for a Living wrought, both hard, and privately. Before the Liver understood The noble Scarlet Dye of Blood, Before one drop was by it made, Or brought into it, to set up the Trade; Before the untaught Heart began to beat The tuneful March to vital Heat, From all the Souls that living Buildings rear, Whether implyd for earth, or sea, or air, Whether it in the womb or egg be wrought, A strict account to him is hourly brought, How the Great Fabric does proceed, What time and what materials it does need, He so exactly does the work survey, As if he hired the workers by the day. 4. Thus Harvey sought for truth in truths own Book The creatures, which by God himself was writ; And wisely thought 'twas fit, Not to read Comments only upon it, But on th' original itself to look. Methinks in Arts great Circle others stand Locked up together, Hand in Hand, Every one leads as he is led, The same bare path they tread, And Dance like Fairies a Fantastic round, But neither change their motion, nor their ground: Had Harvy to this Road confined his wit, His noble Circle of the Blood, had been untrodden yet. Great Doctor! thouart of Curing cured by thee, We now thy Patient Physic see, From all inveterate diseases free, Purged of old errors by thy care, New dieted, put forth to clearer air, It now will strong, and healthful prove, Itself before Lethargic lay, and could not move. 5. These Useful secrets to his Pen we owe, And thousands more 'twas ready to bestow; Of which a Barba'rous Wars unlearned Rage Has robbed the Ruined Age; O cruel loss! as if the Golden Fleece, With so much cost, and labour bought, And from a far by a Great Hero Brought, Had sunk even in the Ports of Greece. O Cursed War! who can forgive thee this? Houses and towns may rise again, And ten times easier it is To rebuild Paul's, than any work of his. That mighty task none but himself can do, Nay scarce himself too now, For though his Wit the force of Age withstand, His Body alas! and Time it must command, And Nature now, so long by him surpassed, Will sure have her revenge on him at last. ODE, Upon His Majesty's Restoration and Return. Virgil. — Quod optanti Diuûm promittere nemo Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultro. 1. NOw Blessings on you all, ye peaceful Stars, Which meet at last so kindly, and dispense Your universal gentle Influence, To calm the stormy World, and still the rage of Wars. Nor whilst around the Continent, Pleni potentiary Beams ye sent, Did your Pacifick Lights disdain, In their large Treaty, to contain The World apart, o'er which do reign Your seven fair Brethren of great Charles his Wane; No Star amongst ye all did, I believe, Such vigorous assistance give, As that which thirty years ago, At * The Star that appeared at Noon, the day of the King's Birth, just as the King his Father was riding to St. Paul's to give thanks to God for that Blessing. Charles his Birth, did, in despite Of the proud Sun's Meridian Light, His future Glories, and this Year foreshow, No less effects than these we may Be assured of from that powerful Ray, Which could outface the Sun, and overcome the Day. 2. Auspicious Star again arise, And take thy Noon-tide station in the skies, Again all Heaven prodigiously adorn; For lo! thy Charles again is Born. He then was Born with▪ and to Pain: With, and to joy he's born again. And wisely for this second Birth, By which thou certain wert to bless The Land with full and flourishing Happiness Thou mad'st of that fair Month thy choice, In which Heaven, Air, and Sea, and Earth, And all that's in them all does smile, and does rejoice. 'Twas a right Season, and the very Ground Ought with a face of Paradise to be found, Than when we were to entertain Felicity and Innocence again. 3. Shall we again (good Heaven!) that Blessed Pair behold, Which the abused People fond sold For the bright Fruit of the Forbidden Tree, By seeking all like gods to be? Will Peace her Halcyon Nest venture to build Upon a Shore with Shipwrecks filled? And trust that Sea, where she can hardly say, Sh'has known these twenty years one calmy day? Ah! mild and gaulless Dove, Which dost the pure and candid Dwellings love: Canst thou in Albion still delight? Still canst thou think it White? Will ever fair Religion appear In these deformed Ruins? will she clear Th' Augaean Stables of her Churches here? Will justice hazard to be seen Where a High Court of justice e'er has been? Will not the Tragic Scene, And Bradshaw's bloody Ghost affright her there, Her who should never fear? Then may Whitehall for Charles his Seat be fit If justice shall endure at Westminster to sit. 4. Of all, me thinks, we lest should see The cheerful looks again of Liberty. That Name of Crumwell, which does freshly still The Curses of so many sufferers fill, Is still enough to make her stay, And jealous for a while remain, Lest as a Tempest carried him away, Some Hurican should bring him back again. Or she might justlier be afraid Lest that great Serpent, which was all a Tail, (And in his poisonous folds whole Nations Prisoners made) Should a third time perhaps prevail To join again, and with worse sting arise, As it had done, when cut in pieces twice. Return, return, ye Sacred Four, And dread your perished Enemies no more, Your fears are causeless all, and vain Whilst you return in Charles his train, For God does Him, that He might You restore, Nor shall the world him only call, Defender of the Faith, but of ye All. 5. Along with you Plenty and Riches go, With a full Tide to every Port they flow, With a warm fruitful wind o'er all the Country blow. Honour does as ye march her Trumpet sound, The Arts encompass you around, And against all Alarms of Fear, Safety itself brings up the Rear. And in the head of this Angelique band, Lo, how the Goodly Prince at last does stand (O righteous God) on his own happy Land. 'Tis Happy now, which could, with so much ease Recover from so desperate a Disease, A various complicated Ill, VVhose every Symptom was enough to kill, In which one part of Three Frenzy possessed, And Lethargy the rest. 'Tis Happy, which no Bleeding does endure A Surfeit of such Blood to cure. 'Tis Happy, which beholds the Flame In which by hostile hands it ought, to burn, Or that which if from Heaven it came It did but well deserve, all into Bonfire turn. 6. We feared (and almost touched the black degree Of instant Expectation) That the three dreadful Angels we Of Famine, Sword, and Plague should here established see, (God's great Triumvirate of Desolation) To scourge and to destroy the sinful Nation. Justly might Heaven Protectors such as those, And such Committees for their Safety impose, Upon a Land which scarcely Better Chose. We feared that the Fanatique War Which men against God's Houses did declare, Would from th' Almighty Enemy bring down A sure destruction on our Own. We read th' Instructive Histories which tell Of all those endless mischiefs that befell, The Sacred Town which God had loved so well, After that fatal Curse had once been said, His Blood be upon ours, and on our children's head. We knew, though there a greater Blood was spilt, 'Twas scarcely done with greater Gild. We know those miseries did befall Whilst they rebelled against that Prince whom all The rest of Mankind did the Love, and joy, of Mankind call. 7. Already was the shaken Nation Into a wild and deformed Chaos brought. And it was hasting on (we thought) Even to the last of Ills, Annihilation. When in the midst of this confused Night, Lo, the blessed Spirit moved, and there was Light. For in the glorous General's previous Ray, We saw a new created Day. We by it saw, though yet in Mists it shone, The beauteous Work of Order moving on. Where are the men who bragged that God did bless, And with the marks of good success Sign his allowance of their wickedness? Vain men! who thought the Divine Power to find In the fierce Thunder and the violent Wind: God came not till the storm was past, In the still voice of Peace he came at last. ‛ The cruel business of Destruction, May by the Claws of the great Fiend be done. Here, here we see th' Almighty's hand indeed, Both by the Beauty of the Work, we see't, and by the Speed. 8. He who had seen the noble British Heir, Even in that ill disadvantageous Light, With which misfortunes strive t'abuse our sight; He who had seen him in his Cloud so bright: He who had seen the double Pair Of Brothers heavenly good, and Sisters heavenly fair, Might have perceived (me thinks) with ease, (But wicked men see only what they please) That God had no intent t'extinguish quite The pious King's eclipsed Right. He who had seen how by the power Divine All the young Branches of this Royal Line Did in their fire without consuming shine, How through a rough Red sea they had been led, By Wonders guarded, and by Wonders fed. How many years of trouble and distress They'd wandered in their fatal Wilderness, And yet did never murmur or repine; Might (methinks) plainly understand, That after all these conquered Trials past, Th' Almighty Mercy would at last Conduct them with a strong un-erring hand To their own Promised Land. For all the glories of the Earth Ought to be ' entailed by right of Birth, And all Heaven's blessings to come down Upon his Race, to whom alone was given The double Royalty of Earth and Heaven, Who crowned the Kingly with the Martyr's Crown. 9 The Martyr's blood was said of old to be The seed from whence the Church did grow. The Royal Blood which dying Charles did sow, Becomes no less the seed of Royalty. 'Twas in dishonour sown, We find it now in glory grown, The Grave could but the dross of it devour; 'Twas sown in weakness, and 'tis raised in power. We now the Question well decided see, Which Eastern Wits did once contest At the Great Monarch's Feast, Of all on earth what things the strongest be: And some for Women, some for Wine did plead; That is, for Folly and for Rage, Two things which we have known indeed Strong in this latter Age. But as 'tis proved by Heaven at length, The King and Truth have greatest strength, When they their sacred force unite, And twine into one Right, No frantic Commonwealths or Tyrannies, No Cheats, and Perjuries, and Lies, No Nets of humane Policies; No stores of Arms or Gold (though you could join Those of Peru to the great London Mine) No Towns, no Fleets by Sea, or Troops by Land, No deeply entrenched Islands can withstand, Or any small resistance bring Against the naked Truth, and the unarmed King. 10. The foolish Lights which Travellers beguile, End the same night when they begin; No Art so far can upon Nature win As e'er to put out Stars, or long keep Meteors in. where's now that Ignis Fatuus which erewhile misled our wand'ring Isle? Where's the Impostor Cromwell gone? Where's now that Falling-star his Son? Where's the large Comet now whose raging flame So fatal to our Monarchy became? Which o'er our heads in such proud horror stood, Insatiate with our Ruin and our Blood? The fiery tail did to vast length extend; And twice for want of Fuel did expire, And twice renewed the dismal Fire; Though long the Tail, we saw at last its end. The flames of one triumphant day, Which like an Anti-Comet here Did fatally to that appear, For ever frighted it away; Then did th' allotted hour of dawning Right First strike our ravished sight, Which Malice or which Art no more could stay, Than Witches Charms can a retardment bring To the Resuscitation of the Day, Or Resurrection of the Spring. We welcome both, and with improved delight Bless the preceding Winter and the Night. 11. Man ought his Future Happiness to fear, If he be always Happy here. He wants the Bleeding Mark of Grace, The Circumcision of the Chosen race. If no one part of him supplies The duty of a Sacrifice, He is (we doubt) reserved entire As a whole Victim for the Fire. Besides even in this World below, To those who never did Ill Fortune know, The good does nauseous or insipid grow. Consider man's whole Life, and you'll confess, The Sharp Ingredient of some bad success Is that which gives the Taste to all his Happiness. But the true Method of Felicity, Is when the worst Of humane Life is placed the first, And when the Child's Correction proves to be The cause of perfecting the Man; Let our weak Days lead up the Van, Let the brave Second and Triarian Band, Firm against all impression stand; The first we may defeated see; The Virtue and the Force of these, are sure of Victory. 12. Such are the years (great Charles) which now we see Begin their glorious March with Thee: Long may their March to Heaven, & still Triumphant be. Now thou art gotten once before, Ill Fortune never shall o'ertake thee more. To see't again, and pleasure in it find, Cast a disdainful look behind, Things which offend, when present, and affright, In Memory, well painted, move delight. Enjoy then all thy ' afflictions now; Thy Royal Father's came at last: Thy Martyrdom's already past. And different Crowns to both ye owe. No Gold did e'er the Kingly Temples bind, Than thine more tried and more refined. As a choice Medal for Heaven's Treasury God did stamp first upon one side of Thee The Image of his suffering Humanity: On th' other side, turned now to sight, does shine The glorious Image of his Power Divine. 13. So when the wisest Poets seek In all their liveliest colours to set forth A Picture of Heroic worth, (The Pious Trojan, or the Prudent Greek) They choose some comely Prince of heavenly Birth, (No proud Gigantic son of Earth, Who strives t' usurp the god's forbidden seat) They feed him not with Nectar, and the Meat That cannot without joy be eat. But in the cold of want, and storms of adverse chance, They harden his young Virtue by degrees; The beauteous Drop first into Ice does freeze, And into solid Crystal next advance. His murdered friends and kindred he does see, And from his flaming Country flee. Much is he tossed at Sea, and much at Land, Does long the force of angry gods withstand. He does long troubles and long wars sustain, ere he his fatal Birthright gain. With no less time or labour can Destiny build up such a Man, Who's with sufficient virtue filled His ruin'd Country to rebuild. 14. Nor without cause are Arms from Heaven, To such a Hero by the Poets given. No human Metal is of force t'oppose So many and so violent blows. Such was the Helmet, Breastplate, Shield, Which Charles in all Attaques did wield: And all the Weapons Malice e'er could try, Of all the several makes of wicked Policy, Against this Armour struck, but at the stroke, Like Swords of Ice, in thousand pieces broke. To Angels and their Brethren Spirits above, No show on Earth can sure so pleasant prove, As when they great misfortunes see With Courage born and Decency. So were they born when Worc'ster's dismal Day Did all the terrors of black Fate display. So were they born when no Disguises cloud His inward Royalty could shroud, And one of th' Angels whom just God did send To guard him in his noble flight, (A Troop of Angels did him then attend) Assured me in a Vision th' other night, That He (and who could better judge than He?) Did then more Greatness in him see, More Lustre and more Majesty, Than all his Coronation Pomp can show to Human Eye. 15. Him and his Royal Brothers when I saw New marks of honour and of glory, From their affronts and sufferings draw, And look like Heavenly Saints even in their Purgatory; Me-thoughts I saw the three judaean Youths, (Three unhurt Martyrs for the Noblest Truths) In the Chaldaean Furnace walk; How cheerfully and unconcerned they talk! No hair is singed, no smallest beauty blasted; Like painted Lamps they shine unwasted. The greedy fire itself dares not be fed With the blessed Oil of an Anointed Head. The honourable Flame (Which rather Light we ought to name) Does, like a Glory compass them around, And their whole Body's crowned. What are those Two Bright Creatures which we see Walk with the Royal Three In the same Ordeal fire, And mutual joys inspire? Sure they the beauteous Sisters are, Who whilst they seek to bear their share, Will suffer no affliction to be there. Less favour to those Three of old was shown, To solace with their company, The fiery Trials of Adversity; Two Angels join with these, the others had but One. 16. Come forth, come forth, ye men of God beloved, And let the power now of that flame, Which against you so impotent became, On all your Enemies be proved. Come, mighty Charles, desire of Nations, come; Come, you triumphant Exile, home. He's come, he's safe at shore; I hear the noise Of a whole Land which does at once rejoice, I hear th' united People's sacred voice. The Sea which circle's us around, ne'er sent to Land so loud a sound; The mighty shout sends to the Sea a Gale, And swells up every sail; The Bells and Guns are scarcely heard at all; The Artificial Joys drowned by the Natural. All England but one Bonfire seems to be, One Aetna shooting flames into the Sea. The Starry Worlds which shine to us afar, Take ours at this time for a Star. With Wine all rooms, with Wine the Conduits flow; And We, the Priests of a Poetic rage, Wonder that in this Golden Age The Rivers too should not do so. There is no Stoic sure who would not now, Even some Excess allow; And grant that one wild fit of cheerful folly Should end our twenty years of dismal Melancholy. 17. Where's now the Royal Mother, where, To take her mighty share In this so ravishing sight, And with the part she takes to add to the Delight? Ah! why art Thou not here, Thou always Best, and now the Happiest Queen, To see our joy, and with new joy be seen? God has a bright Example made of Thee, To show that Womankind may be Above that Sex, which her Superior seems, In wisely managing the wide Extremes Of great Affliction, great Felicity. How well those different Virtues Thee become, Daughter of Triumphs, Wife of Martyrdom! Thy Princely Mind with so much Courage bore Affliction, that it dares return no more; With so much Goodness used Felicity, That it cannot refrain from coming back to Thee; 'Tis come, and seen to day in all its Bravery. 18. Who's that Heroic Person leads it on, And gives it like a glorious Bride (Richly adorned with Nuptial Pride) Into the hands now of thy Son? 'Tis the good General, the Man of Praise, Whom God at last in gracious pity Did to th' enthralled Nation raise, Their great Zerubbabel to be, To lose the Bonds of long Captivity, And to rebuild their Temple and their City. For ever blest may He and His remain, Who, with a vast, though less-appearing gain, Preferred the solid Great above the Vain, And to the world this Princely Truth has shown, That more 'tis to Restore, than to Usurp a Crown. Thou worthiest Person of the British Story, (Though 'tis not small the British glory) Did I not know my humble Verse must be But ill-proportioned to the Height of Thee, Thou, and the World should see, How much my Muse, the Foe of Flattery, Does make true Praise her Labour and Design; An Iliad or an Aeneid should be Thine. 19 And ill should We deserve this happy day, If no acknowledgements we pay To you, great Patriots, of the Two Most truly Other Houses now, Who have redeemed from hatred and from shame A Parliaments once venerable name; And now the Title of a House restore, To that, which was but slaughter-house before. If my advice, ye Worthies, might be ta'en, Within those reverend places, Which now your living presence graces, Your Marble- Statues always should remain, To keep alive your useful Memory, And to your Successors th' Example be Of Truth, Religion, Reason, Loyalty. For though a firmly settled Peace May shortly make your public labours cease, The grateful Nation will with joy consent, That in this sense you should be said, (Though yet the Name sounds with some dread) To be the Long, the Endless Parliament. The Country Mouse. A Paraphrase upon Horace 2 Book, Satyr. 6. AT the large foot of a fair hollow tree, Close to plow'd ground, seated commodiously, His ancient and Hereditary house, There dwelled a good substantial Country-Mouse: Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main, Yet, one, who once did nobly entertain A City Mouse well coated, sleek, and gay, A Mouse of high degree, which lost his way, Wantonly walking forth to take the Air, And arrived early, and belighted there, For a day's Lodging: the good hearty Host, (The ancient plenty of his hall to boast) Did all the stores produce, that might excite, With various tastes, the Courtier's appetite. Fitches and Beans, Peason, and Oats, and Wheat, And a large Chesnut, the delicious meat Which jove himself, were he a mouse, would eat. And for a Haut goust there was mixed with these The sword of Bacon, and the coat of Cheese. The precious Relics, which at Harvest, he Had gathered from the Reaper's luxury. Freely (said he) fall on and never spare, The bounteous Gods will for to morrow care. And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay, And to their Genius sacrificed the day. Yet the nice guest's Epicurean mind, (Though breeding made him civil seem and kind) Despised this Country feast, and still his thought Upon the Cakes and Pies of London wrought. Your bounty and civility (said he) Which I'm surprised in these rude parts to see, Shows that the Gods have given you a mind, Too noble for the fate which here you find. Why should a Soul, so virtuous, and so great, Lose itself thus in an Obscure retreat? Let savage Beasts lodge in a Country Den, You should see Towns, and Manners know, and men: And taste the generous Lux'ury of the Court, Where all the Mice of quality resort; Where thousand beauteous she's about you move, And by high fare, are pliant made to love. We all e'er long must render up our breath, No cave or hole can shelter us from death. Since Life is so uncertain, and so short, Let's spend it all in feasting and in sport. Come, worthy Sir, come with me, and partake, All the great things that mortals happy make. Alas, what virtue hath sufficient Arms, T' oppose bright Honour, and soft Pleasure's Charms? What wisdom can their magic force repel? It draws this reverend Hermit from his Cell. It was the time, when witty Poets tell, That Phoebus into Thetis bosom fell: She blushed at first, and then put out the light, And drew the modest Curtains of the night. Plainly, the troth to tell, the Sun was set, When to the Town our wearied Travellers get, To a Lords house, as Lordly as can be Made for the use of Pride, and Luxury, They come; the gentle Courtier at the door Stops, and will hardly enter in before. But 'tis, Sir, your command, and being so, I'm sworn t' obedience, and so in they go. Behind a hanging in a spacious room, (The richest work of Morclakes noble Loom) They wait awhile their wearied Limbs to rest, Till silence should invite them to their feast. About the hour that Cynthia's Silver light, Had touched the pale Meridies of the night; At last the various Supper being done, It happened that the Company was gone, Into a room remote, Servants and all, To please their noble fancies with a Ball. Our host leads forth his Stranger, and does find, All fitted to the bounties of his mind. Still on the Table half filled dishes stood, And with delicious bits the floor was strowed. The Courteous Mouse presents him with the best, And both, with fat varieties are blest. Th' industrious Peasant every where does range, And thanks the Gods for his Life's happy change. Lo, in the midst of a well freighted Pie, They both at last glutted and wanton lie. When see the sad Reverse of prosperous fate, And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait. With hideous noise, down the rude Servants come, Six dogs before run barking into th' room; The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright, And hate the fullness which retards their flight. Our trembling Peasant wishes now in vain, That Rocks and Mountains covered him again. Oh how the change of his poor life he cursed! This, of all lives (said he) is sure the worst. Give me again, ye Gods, my Cave, and wood; With peace let Tares, and Acorns be my food. A Paraphrase upon the 10th. Epistle of the first book of Horace. Horace to Fuscus Aristius. HEalth, from the lover of the Country me, Health, to the lover of the City thee, A difference in our souls, this only proves, In all things else, w' agree like married doves. But the warm nest, and crowded dove-house thou Dost like; I loosely fly from bough to bough. And Rivers drink, and all the shining day, Upon fair Trees, or mossy Rocks I play; In fine, I live and Reign when I retire From all that you equal with Heaven admire. Like, one at last, from the Priest's service fled, Loathing the honieed Cakes, I long for Bread. Would I a house for happiness erect? Nature alone should be the Architect. She'd build it more convenient, than great, And doubtless in the Country choose her seat. Is there a place, doth better helps supply, Against the wounds of Winter's cruelty? Is there an Air that gentl'er does assuage The mad Celestial Dogs, or Lion's rage? Is it not there that sleep (and only there) Nor noise without, nor cares within does fear? Does art through pipes, a purer water bring, Than that which nature strains into a spring? Can all your Tapestries, or your Pictures show More beauties than in Herbs and Flowers do grow? Fountains and Trees our wearied Pride do please, Even in the midst of gilded Palaces. And in your towns, that prospect gives delight, Which opens round the Country to our sight. Men to the good from which they rashly fly, Return at last, and their wild Luxury, Does but in vain with those true joys contend, Which nature did to mankind recommend. The Man who changes gold for burnished brass, Or small right Gems, for larger ones of Glass: Is not, at length, more certain to be made Ridiculous, and wretched by the trade, Than he, who sells a solid good, to buy The painted goods of Pride and Vanity. If thou be wise, no glorious fortune choose, Which 'tis but pain to keep, yet grief to lose. For, when we place, even trifles, in the heart, With trifles too, unwillingly we part. An humble Roof, plain bed, and homely board, More clear, untainted pleasures do afford▪ Than all the Tumult of vain greatness brings To Kings, or to the favourites of Kings. The horned Deer by nature armed so well, Did with the Horse, in common pasture dwell; And when they fought, the field it always wan, Till the ambitious Horse begged help of Man▪ And took the bridle, and thenceforth did reign Bravely alone, as Lord of all the plain: But never after, could the Rider get From off his back, or from his mouth the bit. So they, who poverty too much do fear, T' avoid that weight, a greater burden bear; That they might Power above their equals have, To cruel Masters, they themselves enslave. For Gold, their Liberty exchanged we see, That fairest flower, which crowns Humanity. And all this mischief does upon them light, Only, because they know not how, aright, That great, but secret, happiness, to prise, That's laid up in a Little, for the Wise. That is the best, and easiest, Estate, Which to a man sits close, but not too strait▪ 'Tis like a shoe; it pinches, and it burns, Too narrow; and too large it overturns. My dearest friend, stop thy desires at last, And cheerfully enjoy the wealth thou hast. And, if me still seeking for more you see, Chide, and reproach, despise and laugh at me. Money was made, not to command our will, But all our lawful pleasures to fulfil. Shame and woe to us, if we ' our wealth obey; The Horse doth with the Horseman run away. O Fortunati nimium, etc. A Translation out of Virgil. OH happy (if his happiness he knows) The Country Swain, on whom kind Heaven bestows At home all Riches that wise Nature needs; Whom the just Earth with easy plenty feeds. 'Tis true, no morning Tide of Clients comes, And fills the painted Channels of his rooms, Adoring the rich Figures, as they pass, In Tapestry wrought, or cut in Living Brass; Nor is his Wool superfluously died With the dear Poison of Assyrian pride: Nor do Arabian Perfumes vainly spoil The Native Use, and Sweetness of his Oil. Instead of these, his calm and harmless life Free from the Alarm's of Fear, and storms of Strife, Does with substantial Blessedness abound, And the soft wings of Peace cover him round: Through artless Grotts the murmuring waters glide; Thick Trees both against Heat and Cold provide, From whence the Birds salute him; and his ground With lowing Herds, and bleating Sheep does sound; And all the Rivers, and the Forests nigh, Both Food and Game, and Exercise supply. Here a well hardened active youth we see, Taught the great Art of cheerful Poverty. Here, in this place alone, there still do shine Some streaks of Love, both Humane and Divine; From hence Astraea took her flight, and here Still her last Footsteps upon Earth appear. 'Tis true, the first desire which does control All the inferior wheels that move my Soul, Is that the Muse me her high Priest would make; Into her holiest Scenes of Myste'ry take, And open there to my mind's purged eye Those wonders which to Sense the Gods deny; How in the Moon such change of shapes is found: The Moon, the changing Worlds eternal bound. What shakes the solid Earth, what strong disease Dares trouble the firm Centre's ancient ease; What makes the Sea retreat, and what advance: Varieties too regular for chance. What drives the Chariot on of Winter's light, And stops the lazy Wagon of the night. But if my dull and frozen Blood deny, To send forth Spirits that raise a Soul so high; In the next place, let Woods and Rivers be My quiet, though unglorious destiny. In Life's cool vale let my low Scene be laid; Cover me Gods, with Tempe's thickest shade. Happy the man I grant, thrice happy he Who can through gross effects their causes see: Whose courage from the deeps of knowledge springs, Nor vainly fears inevitable things; But does his walk of virtue calmly go, Through all th' alarms of Death and Hell below. Happy! but next such conquerors, happy they, Whose humble Life lies not in fortune's way. They unconcerned from their safe distant seat, Behold the Rods and Sceptres of the great. The quarrels of the mighty without fear, And the descent of foreign Troops they hear. Nor can even Rome their steady course misguide, With all the lustre of her perishing Pride. Them never yet did strife or avarice draw, Into the noisy markets of the Law, The Camps of Gowned War, nor do they live By rules or forms that many mad men give. Duty for Nature's Bounty they repay, And her sole Laws religiously obey. Some with bold Labour plow the faithless main, Some rougher storms in Princes Courts sustain. Some swell up their sleight sails with pop'ular fame, Charmed with the foolish whistlings of a Name. Some their vain wealth to Earth again commit; With endless cares some brooding o'er it sit. Country and Friends are by some Wretches sold, To lie on Tyrian Beds, and drink in Gold; No price too high for profit can be shown; Not Brothers blood▪ nor hazards of their own. Around the World in search of it they roam, It makes even their Antipodes their home; Mean while, the prudent Husbandman is found, In mutual duties striving with his ground, And half the year he care of that does take, That half the year grateful returns does make. Each fertile month does some new gifts present, And with new work his industry content. This, the young Lamb, that, the soft Fleece doth yield, This, loads with Hay, and that, with Corn the Field: All sorts of Fruit crown the rich Autumn's Pride: And on a swelling Hill's warm stony side, The powerful Princely Purple of the Vine▪ Twice died with the redoubled Sun, does shine. In th' Evening to a fair ensuing day, With joy he sees his Flocks and Kids to play; And loaded Cows about his Cottage stand, Inviting with known sound the Milkers hand; And when from wholesome labour he doth come, With wishes to be there, and wished for home, He meets at door the softest humane blisses, His chaste wives welcome, and dear children's kisses. When any Rural Holy days invite His Genius forth to innocent delight, On Earth's fair bed beneath some sacred shade, Amidst his equal friends carelessly laid, He sings thee Bacchus Patron of the Vine, The Beechen Boul foams with a flood of Wine, Not to the loss of reason or of strength: To active games and manly sport at length, Their mirth ascends, and with filled veins they see, Who can the best at better trials be. Such was the Life the prudent Sabins chose, From such the old Hetrurian virtue rose. Such, Remus and the God his Brother led, From such firm footing Rome grew the VVorld's head. Such was the Life that even till now does raise The honour of poor Satur's golden days: Before Men born of Earth and buried there, Let in the Sea their mortal fate to share. Before new ways of perishing were sought, Before unskilful Death on Anvils wrought. Before those Beasts which humane Life sustain, By Men, unless to the God's use were slain. Claudian's Old Man of Verona. HAppy the Man, who his whole time doth bound Within th' enclosure of his little ground. Happy the Man, whom the same humble place, (Th' hereditary Cottage of his Race) From his first rising infancy has known, And by degrees sees gently bending down, With natural propension to that Earth Which both preserved his Life, and gave him birth. Him no false distant lights by fortune set, Could ever into foolish wander get. He never dangers either saw, or feared: The dreadful storms at Sea he never heard. He never heard the shrill alarms of war, Or the worse noises of the Lawyer's bar. No change of Consul's marks to him the year, The change of seasons is his Calendar. The cold and heat, Winter and Summer shows, Autumn by fruits, and Spring by flowers he knows. He measures time by Landmarks, and has found, For the whole day the Dial of his ground. A neighbouring wood born with himself he sees, And loves his old contemporary trees. H'as only heard of near Verona's Name, And knows it like the Indies, but by fame. Does with a like concernment notice take Of the Red-Sea, and of Benacus lake. Thus Health and Strength he to ' a third age enjoys, And sees a long Posterity of Boys. About the spacious World let others roam, The Voyage Life is longest made at home. Martial Book 10. Epigram 96. ME who have lived so long among the great, You wonder to hear talk of a Retreat: And a retreat so distant, as may show No thoughts of a return when once I go. Give me a Country, how remote so e'er, Where happiness a moderate rate does bear. Where poverty itself in plenty flows, And all the solid use of Riches knows. The ground about the house maintains it there, The house maintains the ground about it here. Here even Hunger's dear, and a full board, Devours the vital substance of the Lord. The Land itself does there the feast bestow, The Land itself must here to Market go. Three or four suits one Winter here does waste, One suit does there three or four Winters last. Here every frugal Man must oft be cold, And little Luke-warm-fires are to you sold. There Fire's an Element as cheap and free, Almost as any of the other Three. Stay you then here, and live among the Great, Attend their sports, and at their tables eat. When all the bounties here of Men you score: The Places bounty there, shall give me more. A Paraphrase on an Ode in Horace's third Book, beginning thus, Inclusam Danaen turris ahenea. A Tower of Brass, one would have said, And Locks, and Bolts and Iron bars, And Guards, as strict as in the heat of wars, Might have preserved one Innocent Maidenhead. The Jealous Father thought he well might spare, All further Jealous Care, And as he walked, t' himself alone he smiled, To think how Venus Arts he had beguiled; And when he slept, his rest was deep, But Venus laughed to see and hear him sleep. She taught the Amorous jove A Magical receipt in Love, Which armed him stronger, & which helped him more, Than all his thunder did, and his Almighty-ship before. 2. She taught him Love's Elixir, by which Art, His Godhead into Gold he did convert. No Guards did then his passage stay, He passed with ease; Gold was the Word; Subtle as Lightning, bright and quick and fierce, Gold through Doors and walls did pierce; And as that works sometimes upon the sword, Melted the Maidenhead away, Even in the secret scabbard where it lay. The Prudent Macedonian King, To blow up Towns, a Golden Mine, did spring. He broke through Gates with this Petar, 'Tis the great Art of peace, the Engine 'tis of war; And Fleets and Armies follow it afar, The Ensign 'tis at Land, and 'tis the Seaman's Star. 3. Let all the World, slave to this Tyrant be, Creature to this disguised Deity, Yet it shall never conquer me. A Guard of Virtues will not let it pass, And wisdom is a Tower of stronger brass. The Muse's Laurel round my Temples spread, 'T does from this Lightnings force secure my head. Nor will I lift it up so high, As in the violent Meteor's way to lie. Wealth for its power do we honour and adore? The things we hate, ill Fate, and Death, have more. 4. From Towns and Courts, Camps of the Rich and Great, The vast Xerxean Army I retreat: And to the small Laconic forces fly, Which hold the straits of Poverty. Sellars and Granaries in vain we fill, With all the bounteous Summer's store, If the mind thirst and hunger still. The poor rich man's emphatically poor. Slaves to the things we too much prize, We Masters grow of all that we despise. 5. A field of Corn, a Fountain and a Wood, Is all the Wealth by Nature understood. The Monarch on whom fertile Nile bestows All which that grateful Earth can bear, Deceives himself, if he suppose That more than this falls to his share. Whatever an Estate does beyond this afford, Is not a rent paid to the Lord; But is a tax illegal and unjust, Exacted from it by the Tyrant Lust. Much will always wanting be, To him who much desires. Thrice happy He To whom the wise indulgency of Heaven, With sparing hand, but just enough has given. The Complaint. 1. IN a deep Vision's intellectual scene, Beneath a Bower for sorrow made, Th' uncomfortable shade, Of the black Yew's unlucky green, Mixed with the mourning Willow's careful grey, Where Reverend Cham cuts out his Famous way, The Melancholy Cowley lay. And Lo! a Muse appeared to ' his closed sight, (The Muses oft in Lands of Vision play) Bodied, arrayed, and seen, by an internal Light, A golden Harp, with silver strings she bore, A wondrous Hieroglyphic Robe she wore, In which all Colours, and all figures were, That Nature or that fancy can create, That Art can never imitate; And with loose Pride it wantoned in the Air. In such a Dress, in such a well-cloathed Dream, She used, of old, near fair Ismenus Stream, Pindar her Theban Favourite to meet; A Crown was on her Head, and wings were on her Feet. 2. She touched him with her Harp, and raised him from the Ground. The shaken strings Melodiously Resound. Art thou returned at last, said she, To this forsaken place and me? Thou Prodigal, who didst so loosely waste Of all thy Youthful years, the good Estate; Art thou returned here, to repent too late? And gather husks of Learning up at last, Now the Rich Harvest time of Life is past, And Winter marches on so fast? But, when I meant t' adopt Thee for my Son, And did as learned a Portion assign, As ever any of the mighty Nine Had to their dearest Children done; When I resolved t' exalt thy ' anointed Name, Among the Spiritual Lords of peaceful Fame; Thou Changeling, thou, bewitched with noise and show, Wouldst into Courts and Cities from me go; Wouldst see the World abroad, and have a share In all the follies, and the Tumults there, Thou wouldst, forsooth, be something in a State, And business thou wouldst find, and wouldst Create: Business! the frivolous pretence Of humane Lusts to shake off Innocence; Business! the grave impertinence: Business! the thing which I of all things hate, Business! the contradiction of thy Fate. 3. Go, Renegado, cast up thy Account, And see to what Amount Thy foolish gains by quitting me: The sale of Knowledge, Fame, and Liberty, The fruits of thy unlearned Apostasy. Thou thought'st if once the public storm were passed, All thy remaining Life should sunshine be: Behold the public storm is spent at last, The Sovereign is tossed at Sea no more, And thou, with all the Noble Company, Art got at last to shore. But whilst thy fellow Voyagers, I see All marched up to possess the promised Land, Thou still alone (alas) dost gaping stand, Upon the naked Beach, upon the Barren Sand. 4. As a fair morning of the blessed spring, After a tedious stormy night; Such was the glorious Entry of our King, Enriching moisture dropped on every thing: Plenty he sowed below, and cast about him light. But then (alas) to thee alone, One of Old gideon's Miracles was shown, For every Tree, and every Herb around, With Pearly dew was crowned, And upon all the quickened ground, The Fruitful seed of Heaven did brooding lie, And nothing but the Muse's Fleece was dry. It did all other Threats surpass, When God to his own People said, (The Men whom through long wander he had led) That he would give them even a Heaven of Brass: They looked up to that Heaven in vain, That Bounteous Heaven, which God did not restrain, Upon the most unjust to shine and Rain. 5. The Rachel, for which twice seven years and more, Thou didst with Faith, and Labour serve, And didst (if Faith and labour can) deserve, Though she contracted was to thee, Given to another thou didst see, Given to another who had store Of fairer, and of Richer Wives before, And not a Leah left, thy recompense to be. Go on, twice seven years more, thy fortune try, Twice seven years more, God in his bounty may Give thee, to fling away Into the Courts deceitful Lottery. But think how likely 'tis, that thou With the dull work of thy unwieldy Plough, Shouldst in a hard and Barren season thrive, Shouldst even able be to live; Thou to whose share so little bread did fall, In the miraculous year, when Manna reigned on all. 6. Thus spoke the Muse, and spoke it with a smile, That seemed at once to pity and revile. And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head, The Melancholy Cowley said, Ah wanton foe, dost thou upbraid The Ills which thou thyself hast made? When in the Cradle, innocent I lay, Thou, wicked Spirit, stole'st me away, And my abused Soul didst bear, Into thy new found Worlds I know not where, Thy Golden Indies in the Air; And ever since I strive in vain My ravished Freedom to regain; Still I Rebel, still thou dost Reign, Lo, still in verse against thee I complain. There is a sort of stubborn Weeds Which, if the Earth but once, it ever breeds. No wholesome Herb can near them thrive, No useful Plant can keep alive: The foolish sports I did on thee bestow, Make all my Art and Labour fruitless now; Where once such Fairies dance, no grass doth ever grow. 7. When my new mind had no infusion known, Thou gav'st so deep a tincture of thine own, That ever since I vainly try To wash away th' inherent dye; Long work perhaps may spoil thy Colours quite, But never will reduce the native white: To all the Ports of Honour and of gain, I often steer my course in vain, Thy Gale comes cross, and drives me back again. Thou slack'nest all my Nerves of Industry, By making them so oft to be The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy. Who ever this World's happiness would see, Must as entirely cast off thee, As they who only Heaven desire, Do from the World retire. This was my Error, This my gross mistake, Myself a demy-votary to make. Thus with Saphira, and her Husband's fate, (A fault which I like them, am taught too late) For all that I gave up, I nothing gain, And perish for the part which I retain. 8. Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse, The Court, and better King t' accuse; The Heaven under which I live is fair; The fertile soil will a full Harvest bear; Thine, thine is all the Barrenness; if thou Mak'st me sit still and sing, when I should plough. When I but think, how many a tedious year Our patient Sovereign did attend His long misfortunes fatal end; How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear, On the great Sovereigns will he did depend: I ought to be accursed, if I refuse To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse▪ Kings have long hands (they say) and though I be So distant, they may reach at length to me. However, of all Princes thou Shouldst not reproach Rewards for being small or slow Thou who rewardest but with popular breath, And that too after death. FINIS.