THE SENTIMENTS. A POEM TO THE EARL of DANBY IN THE TOWER.  
By a PERSON of QUALITY.  
LONDON: Printed for James Vade, at the Cock and Sugar-loaf in Fleetstreet. 1679.   

THE SENTIMENTS.  

AH, TOM! hadst thou but read my MACHIAVELLI,  
Thou mightst have kept in the Exchequer still.  
Thou mightst have Pol'd us o'er, and o'er again,  
And more than Monarch, o'er Three Kingdoms reign.  
The two chief Sinews of Devouring War,  
Money and Arms, still at thy Elbows are.  
Both in the Mint, and in the Magazine,  
A Pageant of thy Power may be seen.  
These to thyself thou hadst secured, and then  
Pompone and Cheese had both neglected been.  
But thou, like th' fabulous Dog, to thy dear cost,  
Grasping at Shadows, hast the Substance lost.  
Subjects that catch at Kingdoms, find at last,  
The Globe is only for a Monarch's grasp.  
The Golden-Ball, in Emblematic sense,  
Says, Supreme Rule only belongs tothth' Prince;  
For us 'tis dangerous; and th' Excess of Power.  
Sends the dread Wight, to put it off i'th' TOWER.  
Then the man looks, that struck the Isle with fear,  
Harmless, as are the uncharged Cannon there;  
Or as the Figures armed Cap-a-pe,  
Which Relics of our British Glory be.  
'Tis not your patience stops the Ills you'd do;  
Then stingless Snakes lie still by Patience too:  
But as hard Frosts do Torrents quiet make,  
Here you're Confined for th' Public safety's sake.  
Now may'st thou smile to see the solemn sport,  
Which vexes busy Greatness in the Court.  
Too late you know, Court-Policie's more fit  
To be rejected, than to study it.  
Since that the Actions of th' Ambitious are  
But as the false Alarms in Running War.  
Unquietness and Gild is all they gain,  
And the great Toil is recompensed with Pain.  
Thrones are the hardest Seats in Palaces,  
Where weary Power does never sit at ease.  
Methinks I hear thee pleasantly declare,  
How rigidly thou art confined from Care;  
And others growing into thy Disease,  
Whilst you for Penance, must endure your Ease.  
Fallacious Power, a Great man's worst Disease;  
Without it sick, and with it, worse at ease.  
'Tis the Court-Gout, of which, men ne'er complain;  
Fruition numbs and stupifies the Pain.  
In its decrease the Patient worse does grow;  
In all Distempers else, 'tis never so.  
But to thine own Experience I appeal;  
Dost thou not now its bitter twinges feel?  
favourites deposed, wish they had never known  
Riches or Sway they toiled to make their own.  
A Great Man's Rule and Power is understood  
More in the harm they do him, than the good.  
Mischiefs make haste, in their access; but slow,  
As loaded Snails, when they depart, they go.  
Increase of Power, the Tide of Greatness, is  
Thrust on at Land, as Rivers are from Seas:  
Which at no Mark can one poor moment stay,  
But when it leaves to float, must ebb away.  
A Subjects Grandeur hath this worst of fate,  
That where its glory most does elevate,  
'Tis blemished there, by being singular,  
And Envy blasts the Fame it cannot share.  
The Sun's excess of Lustre, is the Cause,  
That o're's own face he such dark Vapours draws:  
So since thy Race in glory was begun,  
Thou canst not now black Exhalations shun.  
Through Mists of Common breath, thy passage lies,  
And from their Lungs, the worst Contagion flies.  
Made bigger, like the Sun at's going down,  
Though robbed o'th' Rays that did his Temple's Crown.  
A Statesman's Greatness, like the Chymist's Stone,  
Breeds busy Spies, and Dangers, when 'tis shown.  
'Tis dangerous to take into our Breasts  
Secrets of Kings, and Kingdoms Interests.  
The Jews that swallowed down their wealthy Stuff,  
Found their own Bowels were not safe enough.  
Whilst thus to save their Jewels, they Design,  
The Roman Swords, Delved into th' living Mine.  
Happy's the Man, that can securely please  
His humble Mind with Ignorance and Ease;  
That ne'er approaches on the Icy ground,  
Where Monarches walk, nor their vast depths does sound.  
Who's led by no Court-wisp, t'a Precipice,  
Where on each side, Ruin presented is.  
Whilst a State-Pylot would Charybdis shun,  
What boots it, if on Scylla he must run?  
'Twixt two Extremes, let Virtue keep her Throne,  
The Golden Mean to Statesman's rarely known.  
With Icarus on waxed Plumes they fly,  
And soar a pitch, for their weak wings too high,  
Till they come tumbling headlong from the Sky.  
Laxed by the Beams they rise, they fall as fast,  
As Arrows, when their Elevations past.  
So dangerous a Risque thou hadst not run,  
Hadst thou took Phoebus' Council to his Son;  
Or thought to th' Builders what Confusion came,  
By raising Babel to too high a frame;  
Thou hadst not, then, mistook the way to Fame,  
And where th'expected'st Glory, met with Shame.  
Thou than hadst spent thy Days secure, at ease  
Calm as the Halcyons brooding on the Seas.  
But obstinate as Phaethon thou wast,  
And now mayst curse thy rash unbridled haste.  
For he that undertakes Great Charles his Wain  
Is but another Phaethon in Grain,  
And bids the British World betimes complain.  
Destruction's threatened by his mad Career,  
And all th' Inferior World is struck with fear.  
'Tis then high time, that Jove his Thunder take,  
And all reserves of Pity quite forsake;  
This must be so, for the Poor Kingdom's sake.  
When Ministers their Public Power reduce  
To private Ends, and to peculiar use,  
Ill fares the State: for than they act the wrong,  
Which to prevent, they only were made strong;  
The Noblest task, that does to Power belong.  
These always should be easy of Access;  
Let Suitors need no Guide, but their Distress;  
When high in Power, make their approaches low,  
To meet and lift the humble, when they bow.  
They should with patiented Ears, attend the Tongue,  
And hear th' oppressed out, though ne'er so long.  
With such a sweet Compassion meet their moan,  
They should with that, seem satisfied, when gone.  
A Generous Temper, sweet Civility,  
Forms, without which, Courts but in Chaos lie;  
And which, the cognizance have ever been,  
Of a safe Greatness, satisfied within;  
Which covets toiling Power, for others Ease,  
Not to be able to offend, but please.  
Who never Peace obstruct, because they are  
Accountless Stewards to that spender War.  
O what a mighty Distance does appear  
Between the Court, and this fair Character!  
Mankind doth practise Villainy so fast,  
As they should act too little, without haste.  
Earth which made man, Refined, man does esteem,  
Although the Author of all Ills to him.  
Midas himself knew not a greater Curse,  
Than that of Gold; nor can there be a worse.  
Branded for folly, wisely yet he went,  
By Mighty Bacchus, to Pactolus, sent.  
And in the streams his Golden virtue leaves,  
Which to her Sands as proudly she bequeathes.  
Th' Ambitious Statesman don't himself admire  
For what he hath, but proudly does desire;  
Does tacitly confess, he aims at Sway,  
Because he's grown too haughty to obey.  
His Parasites, who contradict their Heart,  
With well-dissembled Lies, their studied Art;  
Please him, though their own Reason they displease,  
Hoping their fawning Arts may gain them Ease.  
How vainly glorious does he then appear,  
Whom the Proud envy, and the Humble fear!   

My Lord,  
Since You were placed by the Royal Hand,  
On giddy Heights, where none alive could stand:  
Since You were destined to more watchful Care,  
Than Sentinels in Towns, the Scenes of War:  
To steer the State when dismal Storms appeared,  
Such, as were by the best State-Pylots feared;  
Deserves more wonder, that so long You stood,  
Than that You e'er were shipwrackt in the flood.  
Search Ages past, and Records for their Fate,  
Great favourites seldom have proved fortunate.  
Tothth' Tower, from the Throne transplanted, now,  
Though washed with fruitful Tides, ne'er hope to grow.  
The Fates thy Term of Greatness did assign,  
To which arrived, thou dost as fast decline:  
When favourites set, they never rise to shine;  
Or if they do, 'tis a portentous Light,  
Like that of Emrald-Rainbows in the Night,  
Or Comets, that strike terror to our sight.  
Statesmen, the topmost Boughs of Cedars be,  
Adding both height and beauty to the Tree:  
But from the Royal Trunk when lopped away,  
They quickly fade, and run into decay.  
At thy Installment, when thy George fell down,  
'Twas for an Omen, of thy Ruin, shown.  
The Genius of the Isle, the Brave St George,  
Left Thee to sullen Fate, and scorned his Charge.  
What Wisdom then thy Conduct can decry,  
Because too weak to baffle Destiny?  
Let zealous Fools rejoice, I cannot choose  
But mourn, for the great Excellence we lose.  
Such a preposterous Fate does wail it hence,  
When it does fall, it rises to our sense.  
Great Virtue may be dangerous whilst 'tis here,  
As Light offends the Eyes by being near.  
This Topick well His Royal Highness knew,  
And, in Obedience to the King, withdrew.  
As the Brave Julius, who did early strive,  
At more than man, was hated when alive,  
Even for that Virtue; which was raised so high,  
When dead, it made him straight a Deity.  
Our Royal Hero thus will Fame prefer,  
And place him foremost in her Calendar.  
So Noble, Valiant, Loyal, One whose Name,  
Flies round the World, upon the Wings of Fame:  
Whom, like a Hero in some Battle lost,  
I mention, not in pity, but in boast.  
Whose Subjects, then, shall wish him in the Throne,  
Too late, when He to's Kindred Gods is gone.  
By being Confined, Your Lordship's set at large,  
And have from Care and Power a blessed discharge.  
Being now far more August, within Your Sphere,  
Than when the Courts bright Star You did appear.  
Let others take their turns of Power and State,  
And their own Fortunes so precipitate,  
Unless by Yours, they rectify their Fate.  
Leave them to restless Care, being still alarmed,  
With bloody Factions, though they seem unarmed;  
Who for our Souls-sake, would Religion change,  
And think their own the best, for being strange:  
Who weary of Our Sceptre here, would fly,  
To seek new Fashions for Authority,  
And fetch us home a Crown three stories high.  
From Foreign States, they'd bring Rebellion home,  
Then call just Punishment a Martyrdom.  
For when by Justice of the Law subdued,  
They call unwilling suffering, Fortitude.  
Coleman his Treasons did negotiate,  
In tender Love and Pity to the State;  
And in a work so great, for his defence,  
Did satisfy himself with Innocence.  
To the grim Tree of Fate, he cheerful came,  
By his last Act, t'obtain a Martyr's fame.  
Nor did the Rest dismayed approach the Place,  
A Dying Martyr's Smiles crowned every face.  
And I am told his Holiness has given  
To every one of them, A Throne in Heaven.  
Each had his Passport, and, by Mass, 'tis hoped,  
There's not a Soul in Purgatory stopped.  
Though Conscience be in Man a secret shame  
Of doing ill, yet in Cabals they claim  
Not only Freedom for the Ills they do,  
But call Religion to abet them too.  
A Deity they seek in blood, and boast,  
They then have found him, when 've Nature lost.  
But whilst with Heaven, they so familiar grow  
They to the Earthly Gods disdain to bow.  
And their Religion, not from Zeal approve,  
But for the gainful Mischiefs which they love.  
Mischiefs, whose depths, in Tiber must be found;  
And which, no Line, but length of Time, can sound.   
FINIS.