POEMS, WITH The tenth satire of Juvenal ENGLISHED.  
By Henry Vaughan, Gent.  
— Tam nil, nullâ tibi vendo  
Illiade—  
LONDON, Printed for G. Badger, and are to be sold at his shop under Saint Dunstan's Church in Fleetstreet. 1646.   

To all Ingenious Lovers OF poesy.  
Gentlemen,  
TO you alone, whose more refined Spirits out-wing these dull Times, and soar above the drudgery of dirty Intelligence, have I made sacred these Fancies: I know the years, and what course entertainment they afford Poetry. If any shall question that Courage that durst send me abroad so late, and revel it thus in the Dregs of an Age, they have my silence: only,  
Languescente seculo, liceat aegrotari; My more calm Ambition, amidst the common noise, hath thus exposed me to the World: You have here a Flame, bright only in its own Innocence, that kindles nothing but a generous Thought; which though it may warm the blood, the fire at highest is but Platonic, and the Commotion, within these limits, excludes Danger: For the satire, it was of purpose borrowed, to feather some slower hours; And what you see here, is but the Interest: It is one of his, whose Roman Pen had as much true Passion, for the infirmities of that state, as we should have pity, to the distractions of our own: Honest (I am sure) it is, and offensive cannot be, except it meet with such Spirits that will quarrel with antiquity, or purposely arraign themselves; These indeed may think, that they have slept out so many Centuries in this satire, and are now awaked; which, had it been still Latin, perhaps their Nap had been Everlasting: But enough of these,— It is for you only that I have adventured thus far, and invaded the press with Verse; to whose more noble Indulgence, I shall now leave it; and so am gone.—  
H. V.   

To my Ingenuous Friend, R. W.  
WHen we are dead, and now, no more  
Our harmless mirth, our wit, and score  
Distracts the town; when all is spent  
That the base niggard world hath lent  
Thy purse, or mine; when the loathed noise  
Of Drawers, prentices, and boys  
Hath left us, and the clamorous bar  
Items no pints i'th' moon, or star;  
When no calm whisp'rers wait the doors,  
To fright us with forgotten scores;  
And such aged, long bills carry,  
As might start an Antiquary;  
When the sad tumults of the Maze,  
Arrests, suits, and the dreadful face  
Of Seargeants are not seen, and we  
No Lawyers ruffs, or gowns must fee:  
When all these Mulcts are paid, and I  
From thee, dear wit, must part, and die;  
we'll beg the world would be so kind,  
To give's one grave, as we'll one mind;  
There (as the wiser few suspect,  
That spirits after death affect)  
Our souls shall meet, and thence will they  
(Freed from the tyranny of clay)  
With equal wings, and ancient love  
Into the Elysian fields remove,  
Where in those blessed walks they'll find,  
More of thy Genius, and my mind:  
First, in the shade of his own bays,  
Great BEN they'll see, whose sacred lays,  
The learned Ghosts admire, and throng,  
To catch the subject of his Song.  
Then Randolph in those holy meads,  
His Looers, and Amyntas reads,  
Whilst his nightingale close by,  
Sings his, and her own elegy;  
From thence dismissed by subtle roads,  
Through airy paths, and sad abodes;  
They'll come into the drowsy fields  
Of Lethe, which such virtue yields,  
That (if what Poets sing be true)  
The streams all sorrow can subdue.  
Here on a silent, shady green;  
The souls of Lovers oft are seen,  
Who in their life's unhappy space,  
Were murdered by some perjured face.  
All these th'inchanted streams frequent,  
To drown their Cares, and discontent,  
That th'inconstant, cruel sex  
Might not in death their spirits vex:  
And here our souls big with delight  
Of their new state will cease their flight:  
And now the last thoughts will appear,  
They'll have of us, or any here;  
But on those flowery banks will stay,  
And drink all sense, and cares away.  
So they that did of these discuss,  
Shall find their fables true in us.   

Les Amours.  
TYrant farewell: This heart, the prize  
And triumph of thy scornful eyes,  
I sacrifice to Heaven, and give  
To quit my sins, that durst believe  
A woman's easy faith, and place  
True joys in a changing face.  
Yet e'er I go; by all those tears,  
And sighs I spent twixt hopes, and fears;  
By thy own glories, and that hour  
Which first enslaved me to thy power;  
I beg, fair One, by this last breath,  
This tribute from thee after death.  
If when I'm gone, you chance to see  
That cold bed where I lodged be:  
Let not your hate in death appear,  
But bless my ashes with a tear:  
This influx from that quickening eye,  
By secret power, which none can spy,  
The cold dust shall inform, and make  
Those flames (though dead) new life partake.  
Whose warmth helped by your tears shall bring,  
O'er all the tomb a sudden spring:  
If Crimson flowers, whose drooping heads  
Shall curtain o'er their mournful heads:  
And on each leaf by heaven's command,  
These emblems to the life shall stand:  
Two Hearts, the first a shaft withstood;  
The second, shot, and washed in blood;  
And on this heart a dew shall stay,  
Which no heat can court away;  
But fixed for ever witness bears,  
That hearty sorrow feeds on tears.  
Thus Heaven can make it known, and true,  
That you killed me, 'cause I loved you.   

To Amoretta, The Sigh.  

NImble Sigh on thy warm wings,  
Take this Message, and depart,  
Tell Amoretta, that smiles, and sings.  
At what thy airy voyage brings,  
That thou cam'st lately from my heart.   

Tell my lovely foe, that I  
Have no more such spies to send,  
But one or two that I intend  
Some few minutes ere I die,  
To her white bosom to commend.   

Then whisper by that holy Spring  
Where for her sake I would have died,  
Whilst those water Nymphs did bring  
Flowers to cure what she had tried;  
And of my faith, and love did sing.   

That if my Amoretta, if she  
In aftertimes would have it read,  
How her beauty murdered me,  
With all my heart I will agree,  
If she'll but love me, being dead.    

To his Friend Being in Love.  
Ask Lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath  
Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy Death;  
Doting Idolater! can silence bring  
Thy Saint propitious? or will Cupid fling  
One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try  
This silent Courtship of a sickly eye;  
Witty to tyranny: She too well knows  
This but the incense of thy private vows,  
That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray  
The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;  
Ask her, fool, ask her, if words cannot move,  
The language of thy tears may make her love:  
Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall  
On her breasts warmer snow, O may you all,  
By some strange Fate fixed there, distinctly lie  
The much loved Volume of my Tragedy.  
Where if you win her not, may this be read,  
The cold that freezed you so, did strike me dead.   

Song.  
AMyntas go, thou art undone,  
Thy faithful heart is crossed by fate;  
That Love is better not begun,  
Where Love is come to love too late;  
Had she professed hidden fires,  
Or showed one knot that tied her heart:  
I could have quenched my first desires,  
And we had only met to part;  
But Tyrant, thus to murder men,  
And shed a Lovers harmless blood,  
And burn him in those flames again,  
Which he at first might have with stood▪  
Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep  
Such sacred dew, with such pure grace;  
Durst think them feigned tears, or seek  
For Treason in an angel's face:  
This is her Art, though this be true,  
Men's joys are killed with griefs and fears;  
Yet she like flowers oppr'est with dew,  
Doth thrive and flourish in her tears:  
This cruel thou hast done, and thus,  
That Face hath many servants slain.  
Though th' end be not to ruin us,  
But to seek glory by our pain.   

To Amoretta, Walking in a Starry EVENING.  

IF Amoretta, that glorious Eye,  
In the first birth of light,  
And death of Night,  
Had with those elder fires you spy  
Scattered so high  
Received form, and sight;   

We might suspect in the vast Ring,  
Amidst these golden glories,  
And fiery stories;  
Whether the sun had been the King,  
And guide of Day,  
Or your brighter eye should sway;   

But, Amoretta, such is my fate,  
That if thy face a star  
Had shined from far,  
jam persuaded in that state  
twixt thee, and me,  
Of some predestined sympathy.   

For sure such two conspiring minds,  
Which no accident, or sight,  
Did thus unite;  
Whom no distance can confine,  
Start, or decline,  
One, for another, were designed.    

To Amoretta GONE FROM HIM.  
FAncy, and I, last Evening walked,  
And, Amoretta, of thee we talked;  
The West just then had stolen the Sun,  
And his last blushes were begun:  
We sat, and marked how every thing  
Did mourn his absence; How the Spring  
That smiled, and curled about his beams,  
Whilst he was here, now checked her streams  
The wanton Eddies of her face  
Were taught less noise, and smother grace;  
And in a slow, sad channel went,  
Whispering the banks their discontent:  
The careless ranks of flowers that spread  
Their perfumed bosoms to his head,  
And with an open, free Embrace,  
Did entertain his beamy face;  
Like absent friends point to the West,  
And on that weak reflection feast.  
If Creatures then that have no sense,  
But the loose tye of influence,  
(Though fate, and time each day remove  
Those things that element their love)  
At such vast distance can agree,  
Why, Amoretta, why should not we.   

A Song to Amoretta.  

IF I were dead, and in my place,  
Some fresher youth designed,  
To warm thee with new fires, and grace  
Those arms I left behind;   

Were he as faithful as the sun,  
That's wedded to the Sphere;  
His blood as chaste, and temperate run,  
As April's mildest tear;   

Or were he rich, and with his heaps,  
And spacious share of Earth,  
Could make divine affection cheap,  
And court his golden birth:   

For all these Arts I'd not believe,  
(No though he should be thine)  
The mighty Amorist could give  
So rich a heart as mine.   

Fortune and beauty thou mightst find,  
And greater men than I:  
But my true resolved mind,  
They never shall come nigh.   

For I not for an hour did love,  
Or for a day desire,  
But with my soul had from above,  
This endless holy fire.    

An Elegy.  
'TIs true, I am undone; Yet ere I die,  
I'll leave these sighs, and tears a legacy  
To after-Lovers; that remembering me,  
Those sickly flames which now benighted be,  
Fanned by their warmer sighs may love; and prove  
In them the metempsychosis of Love.  
'Twas I (when others scorned) vowed you were fair,  
And swore that breath enriched the courser air,  
Lent Roses to your cheeks, made Flora bring  
Her Nymphs with all the glories of the Spring  
To wait upon thy face, and gave my heart  
A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart,  
To arm those eyes against myself; to me  
Thou owest that tongue's bewitching harmony:  
I courted Angels from those upper joys,  
And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice:  
I made the Indian curse the hours he spent  
To seek his pearls, and wisely to repent  
His former folly, and confess a sin  
Charmed by the brighter lustre of thy skin.  
I borrowed from the winds, the gentler wing  
Of Zephyrus, and soft souls of the Spring:  
And made (to air those cheeks with fresher grace)  
The warm Inspirers dwell upon thy face.  
Oh! jam satis—   

A Rhapsodis.  
Occasionally written upon a meeting with some of his friends at the Globe tavern, in a Chamber painted over head with a Cloudy sky, and some few dispersed stars, and on the sides with Land 'scape, Hills, shepherds, and Sheep.  

Darkness, & Stars i'th' mid day! they invite  
Our active fancies to believe it night:  
For taverns need no sun, but for a sign,  
Where rich Tobacco, and quick tapers shine;  
And royal, witty sack, the poet's soul,  
With brighter Suns than he doth guild the bowl;  
As though the Pot, and Poet did agree,  
Sack should to both Illuminator be.  
That artificial Cloud with it's curled brow,  
Tells us 'tis late; and that blue space below  
Is fired with many Stars; mark, how they break  
In silent glances o'er the hills, and speak  
The Evening to the plains; where shot from far,  
They meet in dumb salutes, as one great Star.  
The room (Methinks) grows darker; & the air  
Contracts a sadder colour, and less fair:  
Or is't the drawer's skill, hath he no Arts  
To blind us so, we can't know pints from quarts?  
No, no, 'tis night; look where the jolly clown  
Musters his bleating heard, and quits the down.  
Hark! how his rude pipe frets the quiet air,  
Whilst every Hill proclaims Lycoris fair.  
Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch, and sleep,  
Free from all cares; but thy wench, pipe & sheep.  
But see the moon is up; view where she stands  
Sentinel o'er the door, drawn by the hands  
Of some base Painter, that for gain hath made  
Her face the landmark to the tippling trade.  
This Cup to her, that to Endymion give;  
'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live:  
Choke may the Painter! and his box disclose  
No other Colours than his fiery Nose;  
And may we no more of his pencil see,  
Then two Churchwardens, and mortality.  
Should we go now a-wandring, we should meet  
With Catchpoles, whores, & Carts in every street:  
Now when each narrow lane, each nook & Cave,  
Signposts, & shop-doors, pimp for every knave,  
When riotous sinful plush, and tell-tale spurs  
Walk Fleetstreet, & the Strand, when the soft stirs  
Of bawdy, ruffled Silks, turn night to day;  
And the loud whip, and Coach scolds all the way;  
When lust of all sorts, and each itchy blood  
From the tower-wharf to Cymberlyne, and Lud,  
Hunts for a Mate, and the tired footman reels  
twixt chaire-men, torches, & the hackney wheels:  
Come, take the other dish; it is to him  
That made his horse a senator: Each brim  
Look big as mine; The gallant, jolly Beast  
Of all the Herd (you'll say) was not the least.  
Now crown the second bowl, rich as his worth,  
I'll drink it to he! that like fire broke forth  
Into the senate's face, crossed Rubicon,  
And the state's pillars, with their laws thereon:  
And made the dull grey beards, & furred gowns fly  
Into Brundisium to consult; and lie:  
This to brave Sylla! why should it be said,  
We drink more to the living, than the dead?  
Flatterers, and fools do use it: Let us laugh  
At our own honest mirth; for they that quaff  
To honour others, do like those that sent  
Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent:  
Drink deep; this Cup be pregnant; & the wine  
Spirit of wit, to make us all divine,  
That big with Sack, and mirth we may retire  
Possessors of more souls, and nobler fire;  
And by the influx of this painted sky,  
And laboured forms, to higher matters fly;  
So, if a Nap shall take us, we shall all,  
After full Cups have dreams poetical.   

Let's laugh now, and the pressed grape drink,  
Till the drowsy daystar wink;  
And in our merry, mad mirth run  
Faster, and further than the Sun;  
And let none his Cup forsake,  
Till that star again doth wake;  
So we men below shall move  
Equally with the gods above.    

To Amoretta, of the difference twixt him, and other Lovers, and what true Love is.  

Mark, when the Evenings cooler wings  
Fan the afflicted air, how the faint sun,  
Leaving undone,  
What he begun,  
Those spurious flames sucked up from slime, and earth  
To their first, low birth,  
Resigns, and brings.   

They shoot their tinsel beams, and vanities,  
Thredding with those false fires their way;  
But as you stay  
And see them stray,  
You lose the flaming tract, and subtly they  
Languish away,  
And cheat your Eyes.   

Just so base, sublunary Lovers hearts  
Fed on loose profane desires,  
May for an Eye,  
Or face comply:  
But those removed, they will as soon depart,  
And show their Art,  
And painted fires.   

Whilst I by powerful Love, so much refined,  
That my absent soul the same is,  
Careless to miss,  
A glance, or kiss,  
Can with those Elements of lust and sense,  
Freely dispense,  
And court the mind.   

Thus to the North the lodestones move,  
And thus to them th'enamoured steel aspires:  
Thus, Amoretta,  
I do affect;  
And thus by winged beams, and mutual fire,  
Spirits and Stars conspire,  
And this is LOVE.    

To Amoretta WEEPING.  
Leave, Amoretta, melt not away so fast  
Thy Eyes fair treasure, fortune's wealthiest Cast  
Deserves not one such pearl; for these well spent,  
Can purchase stars, and buy a Tenement  
For us in Heaven; though here the pious streams  
Avail us not; who from that Clue of sunbeams  
Could ever steal one thread? or with a kind  
Persuasive Accent charm the wild, loud wind?  
Fate cuts us all in Marble, and the book  
Forestalls our glass of minutes; we may look,  
But seldom meet a change; think you a tear  
Can blot the flinty Volume? shall our fear,  
Or grief add to their triumphs? and must we  
Give an advantage to adversity?  
Dear, idle prodigal! is it not just  
We bear our Stars? What though I had not dust  
Enough to cabinett a worm? nor stand  
Enslaved unto a little dirt, or sand?  
I boast a better purchase, and can show  
The glories of a soul that's simply true.  
But grant some richer Planet at my birth  
Had spied me out, and measured so much earth  
Or gold unto my share; I should have been  
Slave to these lower Elements, and seen  
My high born soul flag with their dross, & lie  
A prisoner to base mud, and alchemy;  
I should perhaps eat Orphans, and suck up  
A dozen distressed widows in one Cup;  
Nay further, I should by that lawful stealth,  
(Damned usury) undo the commonwealth;  
Or Patent it in soap, and coals, and so  
Have the smith's curse me, and my Laundres too;  
Geld wine, or his friend Tobacco; and so bring  
The incensed subject rebel to his King;  
And after all (as those first sinners fell)  
Sink lower than my gold; and lie in Hell.  
Thanks then for this deliverance! blessed powers,  
You that dispense man's fortune, and his hours,  
How am I to you all engaged! that thus  
By such strange means, almost miraculous,  
You should preserve me; you have gone the way  
To make me rich by taking all away.  
For I (had I been rich as sure as fate,  
Would have been meddling with the King, or State,  
Or something to undo me; and 'tis fit  
(We know) that who hath wealth, should have no wit.  
But above all, thanks to that providence,  
That armed me with a gallant soul, and sense  
'Gainst all misfortunes; that hath breathed so much  
Of heaven into me, that I scorn the touch  
Of these low things; and can with courage dare  
What ever fate, or malice can prepare:  
I envy no man's purse, or mines; I know,  
That losing them, I've lost their curses too;  
And, Amoretta, (although our share in these  
Is not contemptible, nor doth much please)  
Yet whilst Content, and Love we jointly vie,  
We have a blessing which no gold can buye.   

UPON THE priory GROVE, His usual retirement.  
Hail sacred shades! cool, leafy House!  
Chaste Treasurer of all my vows,  
And wealth! on whose soft bosom laid  
My loves fair steps I first betrayed:  
Henceforth no melancholy flight,  
No sad wing, or hoarse bird of Night,  
disturb this air, no fatal throat  
Of Raven, or owl, awake the Note  
Of our laid echo, no voice dwell  
Within these leaves, but Philomela.  
The poisonous ivy here no more  
His false twists on the oak shall score,  
Only the Woodbine here may twine,  
As th'emblem of her Love, and mine;  
The Amorous sun shall here convey  
His best beams, in thy shades to play;  
The active air, the gentlest showers,  
Shall from his wings rain on thy flowers;  
And the moon from her dewy locks  
Shall deck thee with her brightest drops:  
What ever can a fancy move,  
Or feed the eye; Be on this Grove;  
And when at last the Winds, and tears  
Of Heaven, with the consuming years,  
Shall these green curls bring to decay,  
And clothe thee in an aged Gray:  
(If ought a Lover can foresee;  
Or if we Poets, Prophets be)  
From hence transplanted, thou shalt stand  
A fresh Grove in th'Elysian Land;  
Where (most blessed pair!) as here on Earth  
Thou first didst eye our growth, and birth;  
So there again, thou'lt see us move  
In our first Innocence, and Love:  
And in thy shades, as now, so then,  
we'll kiss, and smile, and walk again.  
FINIS.   

Iwenals TENTH satire TRANSLATED.  
Nèc verbum verbo curabit reddere fidus  
Interpres—  
LONDON, Printed for G. B. and are to be sold at his Shop under Saint Dunstan's Church. 1646.   

Iwenals tenth satire TRANSLATED.  
IN all the parts of Earth, from farthest West,  
And the Atlantic Isles, unto the East  
And famous Ganges; Few there be that know  
What's truly good, and what is good in show  
Without mistake: For what is't we desire,  
Or fear discreetly? to what ere aspire,  
So throughly blessed; but ever as we speed,  
Repentance seals the very Act, and deed.  
The easy gods moved by no other Fate,  
Then our own prayers whole kingdoms ruinate,  
And undo Families, thus strife, and war  
Are the swords prize, and a litigious bar  
The gowns prime wish; vain confidence to share  
In empty honours, and a bloody care,  
To be the first in mischief, makes him die  
Fooled twixt ambition, and credulity;  
An oily tongue with fatal, cunning sense,  
And that sad virtue ever, Eloquence,  
Are th'others ruin; but the common curse,  
And each days ill waits on the rich man's purse:  
He, whose large acres, and imprisoned gold  
So far exceeds his father's store of old,  
As British Whales the Dolphins do surpass.  
In sadder times therefore, and when the laws  
Of Nero's fiat reigned; an armed band  
Ceased on Longinus, and the spacious Land  
Of wealthy Seneca, besieged the gates  
Of Lateranus, and his fair estate  
Divided as a spoil; In such sad Feasts,  
Soldiers (though not invited) are the guests.  
Though thou small pieces of the blessed Mine  
Hast lodged about thee; travelling in the shine  
Of a pale moon, if but a Reed doth shake,  
Moved by the wind, the shadow makes thee quake.  
Wealth hath its cares, and want hath this relief,  
It neither fears the soldier, nor the thief;  
Thy first choice vows, and to the Gods best known,  
Are for thy stores increase, that in all town  
Thy stock be greatest, but no poison lies  
I'th' poor man's dish, he tastes of no such spice:  
Be that thy care, when with a Kingly gust,  
Thou suck'st whole bowls clad in the guilded dust  
Of some rich mineral; whilst the false Wine  
Sparkles aloft, and makes the draught Divine.  
Blamest thou the Sages then? because the one  
Would still be laughing, when he would be gone  
From his own door, the other cried to see  
His times addicted to such vanity?  
Smiles are an easy purchase, but to weep  
Is a hard act, for tears are fetched more deep;  
Democritus his nimble Lungs would tire  
With constant laughter, and yet keep entire  
His stock of mirth, for every object was  
Addition to his store; though then (Alas!)  
Sedans, and Litters, and our senate gowns,  
With Robes of honour, fasces, and the frowns  
Of unbribed Tribunes were not seen; but had  
He lived to see our Roman Praetor clad  
In Jove's own mantle, seated on his high  
Embroidered Chariot 'midst the dust and cry  
Of the large Theatre, loaden with a crown  
Which scarce he could support, for it would down,  
But that his servant props it) and close by  
His page a witness to his vanity:  
To these his sceptre, and his Eagle add  
His Trumpets, Officers, and servants clad  
In white, and purple; with the rest that day,  
He hired to triumph for his bread, and pay;  
Had he these studied, sumptuous follies seen,  
'Tis thought his wanton, and effusive spleen  
Had killed the Abderite, though in that age  
(When pride & greatness had not swelled the stage  
So high as ours) his harmless, and just mirth  
From every object had a sudden birth;  
Nor wast alone their avarice, or pride,  
Their triumphs, or their cares he did deride;  
Their vain contentions, or ridiculous fears;  
But even their very poverty, and tears.  
He would at fortune's threats as freely smile  
As others mourn; nor was it to beguile  
His crafty passions; but this habit he  
By nature had, and grave philosophy.  
He knew their idle and superfluous vows,  
And sacrifice, which such wrong zeal bestows,  
Were mere Incendiaries; and that the gods  
Not pleased therewith, would ever be at odds;  
Yet to no other air, nor better place  
Owed he his birth, than the cold, homely Thrace;  
Which shows a man may be both wise, & good,  
Without the brags of fortune, or his blood.  
But envy ruins all: What mighty names  
Of fortune, spirit, action, blood, and fame,  
Hath this destroyed? yea, for no other cause  
Then being such; their honour, worth, and place,  
Was crime enough; their statues, arms & crowns;  
Their ornaments of Triumph, Chariots, Gowns,  
And what the herald with a learned care,  
Had long preserved, this madness will not spare.  
So once Sejanus Statue Rome allowed  
Her demigod, and every Roman bowed  
To pay his safeties vows; but when that face  
Had lost Tiberius once, its former grace  
Was soon eclipsed; no difference made (Alas!)  
Betwixt his Statute then, and common brass;  
They melt alike, and in the workman's hand  
For equal, servile use, like others stand.  
Go now fetch home fresh bays, and pay new vows  
To thy dumb Capitol gods! thy life, thy house,  
And state are now secured; Sejanus lies  
I'th'Lictors hands; ye gods! what hearts, & eyes  
Can one days' fortune change? the solemn cry  
Of all the world is, Let Sejanus die:  
They never loved the man they swear, they know  
Nothing of all the matter; when, or how,  
By what accuser, for what cause, or why,  
By whose command, or sentence he must die.  
But what needs this? the least pretence will hit,  
When Princes fear, or hate a Favourite.  
A large Epistle stuffed with idle fear,  
Vain dreams, and jealousies, directed here  
From Caprea does it; And thus ever die  
Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high.  
'Tis well, I seek no more; but tell me how  
This took his friends? no private murmurs now?  
No tears? no solemn mourner seen? must all  
His Glory perish in one funeral?  
O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise  
The moon by night; but court the warmer rays  
O'th' Sun by day; they follow fortune still,  
And hate, or love discreetly, as their will  
And the time leads them; This tumultuous fate  
Puts all their painted favours out of date:  
And yet this people that now spurn, & tread  
This mighty Favourites once honoured head,  
Had but the Tuscaine goddess, or his Stars  
Destined him for an Empire, or had wars,  
Treason, or policy, or some higher power  
Oppressed secure Tiberius; that same hour  
That he received the sad Gemonian doom,  
Had crowned him Emperor of the world, & Rome.  
But Rome is now grown wise, & since that she  
Her Suffrages, and ancient liberty,  
Lost in a monarch's name; she takes no care  
For Favourite, or Prince; nor will she share  
Their fickle glories, though in Cato's days  
She ruled whole States, & Armies with her voice,  
Of all the honours now within her walls,  
She only dotes on plays, and festivals:  
Nor is it strange; for when these Meteors fall,  
They draw an ample ruin with them; All  
Share in the storm; each beam sets with the Sun,  
And equal hazard friends, and flatterers run.  
This makes, that circled with distractive fear  
The liveless, pale Sejanus limbs they tear,  
And lest the action might a witness need,  
They bring their servants to confirm the deed,  
Nor is it done for any other end,  
Then to avoid the title of his friend.  
So falls ambitious man, and such are still  
All floating States built on the people's will:  
harken all you! whom this bewitching lust  
Of an hour's glory, and a little dust  
Swells to such dear repentance! you that can  
Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span  
Would you be as Sejanus? would you have  
So you might sway as he did, such a grave?  
Would you be rich as he? command, dispose,  
All Acts, and Offices? All friends, and foes?  
Be generals of Armies, and Colleague  
Unto an Emperor? break, or make a league?  
No doubt you would; for both the good, and bad,  
An eqnall itch of honour ever had:  
But O what State can be so great, or good,  
As to be bought with so much shame, and blood!  
Alas! Sejanus will too late confess  
'Twas only pride, and greatness made him less:  
For he that moveth with the lofty wind  
Of Fortune, and ambition, unconfined  
In act, or thought; doth but increase his height,  
That he may lose it with more force, & weight;  
Scorning a base, low ruin, as if he  
Would of misfortune, make a prodigy.  
Tell mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thou  
That mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow,  
What but the weight of honours, and large fame  
After your worthy Acts, and height of name,  
Destroyed you in the end? the envious Fates  
Easy to further your aspiring States,  
used them to quell you too; pride, and excess  
In every Act did make you thrive the less:  
Few Kings are guilty of grey hairs, or die  
Without a stab, a draught, or treachery:  
And yet to see him, that but yesterday  
Saw letters first, how he will scrape, and pray;  
And all her Feast-time tyre Minerva's ears  
For Fame, for Eloquence, and store of years  
To thrive and live in; and then lest he dotes,  
His boy assists him with his box, and notes;  
Fool that thou art! not to discern the ill  
These vows include; what, did Rom's consul kill  
Her Cicero? what, him whose very dust  
Greece celebrates as yet; whose cause though just,  
scarce banishment could end; nor poison save  
His free born person from a foreign grave:  
All this from Eloquence! both head, and hand,  
The tongue doth forfeit; petty wits may stand  
Secure from danger, but the nobler vein,  
With loss of blood the bar doth often stain.  
O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam. 
Carmen Ciceronianum.   
Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorned the sword  
Of fierce Antonius, here is not one word  
Doth pinch, I like such stuff; 'tis safer far  
Than thy philippics, or Pharsalia's war:  
What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw  
At once her Patriot, Oracle, and Law?  
Unhappy then is he, and cursed in Stars,  
Whom his poor Father, blind with soot, & scars  
Sends from the Anviles harmless chine, to wear  
The factious gown, and tire his client's ear,  
And purse with endless noise; Trophies of war  
Old rusty armour, with an honoured scar;  
And wheels of captived Chariots, with a piece  
Of some torn British Galley, and to these  
The ensign too, and last of all the train  
The pensive prisoner loaden with his chain,  
Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek  
And rude Barbarians equally do seek  
Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize  
Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies  
Without reward; And yet by this fierce lust  
Of Fame, and titles to outlive our dust,  
And Monuments; (though all these things must die  
And perish like ourselves) whole kingdoms lie  
Ruined, and spoiled: Put Hannibal i'th' scale,  
What weight affords the mighty general?  
This is the man, whom Africks' spacious Land  
Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand,  
Could not contain; (Ye gods! that give to men  
Such boundless appetites, why state you them  
So short a time? either the one deny,  
Or give their acts, and them eternity)  
All Aethiopia, to the utmost bound  
Of Titan's course, (Than which no Land is found  
less distant from the Sun) with him that ploughs  
That fertile soil where framed Iberus flows,  
Are not enough to conquer; past now o'er  
The Pyrene hills, The Alps with all its store  
Of Ice, and Rocks clad in eternal snow  
(As if that Nature meant to give the blow)  
Denies him passage; straight on every side  
He wounds the Hill, and by strong hand divides  
The monstrous pile, nought can ambition stay  
The world, and nature yield to give him way:  
And now past o'er the Alps, that mighty bar  
twixt France, and Rome, fear of the future war  
Strikes Italy; success, and hope doth fire  
His lofty spirits with a fresh desire.  
All is undone as yet (saith he) unless  
Our Paenish forces we advance, and press  
Upon Rome's self; break down her gates, & wall,  
And plant our Colours in Suburra's Vale.  
O the rare slight! if this great soldier we  
Armed on his Getick Elephant might see!  
But what's the event? O glory! how the itch  
Of thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch!  
He that but now all Italy, and Spain,  
Had conquered o'er, is beaten out again;  
And in the heart of afric, and the sight  
Of his own Carthage, forced to open flight.  
Banished from thence, a fugitive he posts  
To Syria first, then to Bythinia's Coasts;  
Both places by his sword secured; though he  
In this distress must not acknowledged be;  
Where once a general he triumphed, now  
To show what Fortune can, he begs as low.  
And thus that soul, which through all nations hurled  
Conquest, and war, and did amaze the world;  
Of all those glories robbed at his last breath,  
Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death,  
For all that blood the field of Cannae boasts,  
And sad Apulia filled with Roman ghosts:  
No other end (freed from the pile, and sword)  
Then a poor Ring would Fortune him afford.  
Go now ambitious man! new plots design,  
March o'er the snowy Alps, and Apennine;  
That after all, at best thou mayst but be  
A pleasing story to posterity!  
The Macedon one world could not contain,  
We hear him of the narrow Earth complain,  
And sweat for room, as if Seryphus I'll,  
Or Gyara had held him in Exile:  
But Babylon this madness can allay,  
And give the great man but his length of clay;  
The highest thoughts, and actions under Heaven,  
Death only with the lowest dust lays even.  
It is believed (if what Greece writes be true)  
That Xerxes with his Persian Fleet did hew  
Their ways through mountains, that their sails full blown,  
Like clouds hung over Athos, and did drown  
The spacious Continent, and by plain force  
Betwixt the Mount, and it made a divorce;  
That Seas exhausted were, and made firm land,  
And Sestos joined unto Abydos Strand;  
That on their march, his meads but passing by,  
Drank thee Scamander, and Melenus dry;  
With what soe'er incredible design  
Sostratus sings inspired with pregnant Wine:  
But what's the end? He that the other day  
Divided Hellespont, and forced his way  
Through all her angry billows; that assigned  
New punishments unto the waves, and wind:  
No sooner saw the Salaminian Seas,  
But he was driven out by Themistocles,  
And of that Fleet (Supposed to be so great,  
That all mankind shared in the sad defeat)  
Not one sail saved in a poor fisher's boat,  
Chased o'er the working surge, was glad to float,  
Cutting his desperate course through the tired flood,  
And fought again with carcases, and blood.  
O foolish mad ambition! these are still  
The famous dangers that attend thy will.  
Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years,  
Are the next vows; these with religious fears,  
And constancy we pay; but what's so bad,  
As a long, sinful age? what cross more sad  
Than misery of years? how great an Ill  
Is that, which doth but nurse more sorrow still?  
It blacks the face, corrupts, and dulls the blood,  
Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food,  
And such deep furrows cuts i'th' chequered skin  
As in th'old oaks of Tabraca are seen.  
Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit,  
Are several graces; but where age doth hit,  
It makes no difference; the same weak voice,  
And trembling ague in each member lies:  
A general, batefull baldness, with a cursed  
Perpetual pettishness; and which is worst,  
A foul, strong flux of humours, and more pain  
To feed, then if he were to nurse again.  
So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends,  
That his own sons, and servants, wish his end,  
His taste, and feeling dies; and of that fire  
The amorous Lover burns in, no desire:  
Or if there were, what pleasure could it be,  
Where lust doth reign without ability?  
Nor is this all, what matters it, where he  
Sits in the spacious Stage? who can nor see,  
Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voice  
Of spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noise  
Of Trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can  
But scarce inform who enters, or what man  
He personates, what 'tis they act, or say?  
How many scenes are done? what time of day?  
Besides that little blood, his carcase holds,  
Hath low its native warmth, & fraught with colds,  
Catarrhs, and rheums, to thick, black jelly turns,  
And never but in fits, and fevers burns;  
Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock  
Of sickness, and diseases to him flock,  
That Hyppia ne'er so many Lovers knew,  
Nor wanton Maura; physic never slew  
So many Patients, nor rich Lawyers spoil  
More Wards, and widows; it were lesser toil  
To number out what manors, and domains,  
Licinius razor purchased: One complains  
Of weakness in the back, another pants  
For lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants;  
Nay some so feeble are, and full of pain,  
That Infant like they must be fed again.  
These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill,  
And like young birds, that wait the mother's Bill  
They gape for meat; but sadder far than this  
Their senseless ignorance, and dotage is;  
For neither they, their friends, nor servants know,  
Nay those themselves begot, and bred up too  
No longer now they'll own; for madly they  
Proscribe them all, and what on the last day,  
The Misers cannot carry to the Grave  
For their past sins, their prostitutes must have.  
But grant age lacked these plagues; yet must they see  
As great, as many: frail mortality  
In such a length of years, hath many falls,  
And deads' a life with frequent funerals.  
The nimblest hour in all the span, can steal  
A friend, or brother from's; there's no repeal  
In death, or time; this day a wife we mourn,  
To morrow's tears a son, and the next urn  
A Sister fills; Long-livers have assigned  
These curses still: That with a restless mind,  
An age of fresh renewing cares they buy,  
And in a tide of tears grow old and die.  
Nestor, (if we great Homer may believe)  
In his full strength three hundred years did live:  
Happy (thou'lt say) that for so long a time  
Enjoyed free nature with the grape, and Wine  
Of many autumns; but I prithee, hear  
What Nestor says himself, when he his dear  
Antilochus had lost, how he complains  
Of life's too large Extent, and copious pains?  
Of all he meets, he asks what is the cause  
He lived thus long; for what breach of their Laws  
The gods thus punished him? what sin had he  
Done worthy of a long life's misery?  
Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he  
Thus wept that his Ulysses lost at Sea.  
Had Priam died, before Phereclus Fleet  
Was built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek,  
Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone  
In peace unto the lower shades; His son  
Saved with his plenteous offspring, and the rest  
In solemn pomp bearing his funeral Chest;  
But long life hindered this: Unhappy he,  
Kept for a public ruin; lived to see  
All Asia lost, and e'er he could expire,  
In his own house saw both the sword, and fire;  
All white with age, and cares, his feeble arm  
Had now forgot the war; but this alarm  
Gathers his dying spirits; and as we  
An aged ox worn out with labour, see,  
By his ungrateful Master, after all  
His years of toil, a thankless victim fall:  
So he by Jove's own Altar; which shows, we  
Are nowhere safe from Heaven, and destiny:  
Yet died a man; but his surviving Queen,  
Freed from the Greekish sword was barking seen.  
I haste to Rome, and Pontus King let pass,  
With Lydian Croesus, whom in vain (Alas!)  
Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend,  
That happiness came not before the end.  
What man more blessed in any age to come  
Or past, could Nature show the world, or Rome,  
Then Marius was? if 'midst the pomp of war,  
And triumphs fetched with Roman blood from far  
His soul had fled; Exile, and fetters then,  
He ne'er had seen, nor known Mynturna's fen;  
Nor had it, after Carthage got, been sed,  
A Roman general had begged his bread.  
Thus Pompey th' envious gods, & Rome's ill stars  
(Freed from Campania's fevers, and the Wars)  
doomed to Achilles' sword: Our public vows  
Made Caesar guiltless; but sent him to lose  
His head at Nile; This curse Cethegus missed;  
This Lentulus, and this made him resist  
That mangled by no lictor's axe, fell dead  
Entirely Catiline, and saved his head.  
The anxious Matrons, with their foolish zeal,  
Are the last Votaries, and their appeal  
Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow,  
They pray for sons, but with a louder vow  
Commend a female feature: All that can  
Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan:  
And why reproved they say, Latona's pair  
The Mother never thinks can be too fair.  
But sad Lucretia warns to wish no face  
Like hers; Virginia would bequeathe her grace  
To crook-back Rutila in exchange; for still  
The fairest children do their Parents fill  
With greatest cares; so seldom chastity  
Is found with beauty; though some few there be  
That with a strict, religious care contend  
Th' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend:  
Besides, wise nature to some faces grants  
An easy blush, and where she freely plants,  
A less Instruction serves; but both these joined,  
At Rome would both be forced or else purloined.  
So steeled a forehead vice hath, that dares win,  
And bribe the Father to the children's sin;  
But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face  
Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace  
Betrays itself; what time did Nero mind  
A course, maimed shape? what blemished youth confined  
His goatish pathic? whence then slow these joys  
Of a fair issue? whom these sad annoys  
Wait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see  
Public Adulterers, and must be  
Subject to all the Curses, Plagues, and awe  
Of jealous mad men, and the Julian Law;  
Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star,  
Or more escapes than did the God of war;  
But worse than all, a jealous brain confines:  
His fury to no Law; what rage assigns;  
Is present justice: Thus the rash Sword spills  
This Lechers blood, the scourge another kills.  
But thy spruce boy must touch no other face  
Then a Patrician? Is of any race  
So they be rich; Servilia is as good  
With wealth, as she that boasts Julus' blood:  
To please a servant all is cheap; what thing  
In all their stock to the last suit, and King  
But lust exacts? the poorest whore in this,  
As generous as the Patrician is.  
But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin  
With a chaste soul? ask Theseus' son, and him  
That Stenobaea murdered; for both these  
Can tell how fatal 'twas in them to please;  
A woman's spleen then carries most of fate,  
When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate:  
Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son,  
In such a hazard what should he have done?  
Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best,  
In whom alone beauty, and worth did rest:  
This Messalina saw, and needs he must  
Be ruined by the Emperor, or her lust,  
All in the face of Rome, and the world's eye,  
Though Caesar's wife, a public bigamy  
She dares attempt; and that the act might bear  
More prodigy, the notaries appear,  
And augurs to't; and to complete the sin  
In solemn form, a dowry is brought in;  
All this (thou'lt say) in private might have past,  
But she'll not have it so; what course at last?  
What should he do? If Messaline be crossed  
Without redress thy Silius will be lost;  
If not, some two days' length is all he can  
Keep from the grave; just so much as will span  
This news to Hostia, to whose fate he owes  
That Claudius last his own dishonour knows.  
But he obeys, and for a few hour's lust,  
Forfeits that glory should outlive his dust,  
Nor was it much a fault; for, whether he  
Obeyed, or not; 'twas equal destiny:  
So fatal beauty is, and full of wast,  
That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste.  
What then should man pray for? what is't that he  
Can beg of Heaven, without Impiety?  
Take my advice: first to the Gods commit  
All cares; for they things competent, and fit  
For us foresee; besides man is more dear  
To them, then to himself: we blindly here  
Led by the world, and lust, in vain assay  
To get us portions, wives, and sons; but they  
Already know all that we can intend,  
And of our children's Children see the end.  
Yet that thou mayst have something to commend  
With thanks unto the Gods for what they send;  
Pray for a wise, and knowing soul; a sad  
Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to add  
A needless horror to thy death; that knows  
'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes;  
That starts not at misfortunes, that can sway,  
And keep all passions under lock and key;  
That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefers  
An honest want before rich injurers;  
All this thou hast within thyself, and may  
Be made thy own, if thou wilt take the way;  
What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what  
Frail, perilous honours add unto a man?  
What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife?  
Virtue alone can make a happy life.  
To a wise man nought comes amiss: but we  
Fortune adore, and make our Deity.  
FINIS.