OEDIPUS: THREE CANTOS.  
Wherein is contained: 

1 His unfortunate Infancy.  
2 His execrable Actions.  
3 His lamentable End.    
By T.E. Bach: Art. Cantab.  
Oedipus' sum, non Davus.  
LONDON, Printed by NICHOLAS OKES. 1615.   

TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL THE PATRON AND PATTERN OF GOOD ARTS, Mr. JOHN CLAPHAM, Esquire, one of the six Clerks of the Chancery. D. D.  
SIR, the multitude of Writers in our age hath begotten a scarcity of Patrons. And Poesy is grown so frequent, that it may say with Niobe, inopemse copia fecit: when it own community hath brought it into contempt. Insomuch that being about to publish these slight Composures, which have so far ore-leavened my disposition, addicted to nothing less than popularity; that notwithstanding my desire to suppress it, yet rupto iecore exire caprificus, I was compelled with Catullus, Quoi do●● novum at illepidum libellum, when I could not think of any that would be so partial as to think has nugas esse aliquid: seeing that nowadays Thespis cannot act without the reprehension of Solon: And most men, like supercilious Cato's, ever censure verse to be lose, though it be never so strictly restrained within the limits of untainted numbers: Till at last, through the happy knowledge of yourself, I resolved to make intrusion ambitious to you, from whom I could not choose but conceive encouragement, when your elaborate lines do promise you to favour that in others, which others admire in you. I could here enter into a discourse of your deserved praises, but that I know it cannot be acceptable to an ingenuous disposition; and I find it a burden intolerable for an unable quill. Neither can Alexander digest the soothe of Aristobulus, neither will he suffer any to portray out his stature but Policletus. Sith than I cannot like Protogenes, judge truly the lineis Apellaeis, I will pass over that in silence which would surpass all my endeavours. It is all I seek, if the abundance of your worth may take away any thing from the unworthiness of my imperfect labours. And if that laurel, doctae frontis praemia, which shadows your temples, shall prove to me as Naturalists report to all, 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉, I will not fear the tyrannies of our censuring times; but whilst other Nightingales boast the sufficiency of their Music to comment itself; this only shall excuse her screeching by being the bird of Pallas. To whose protection in you, I commit both it and myself.  
THO. EVANS.   

To the Ingenious and Ingenuous Readers.  
GEntlemen, for the best of you I desire to be no more, and the worst, I hope, will prone no less, To you only I offer the perusing of my labours. If any immodest Thalassius require moving Epigrams, and lascivious Odes, able to corrupt a Vestal, and make Priapus blush at his own rites, I pray him to abstain his frustrated expectation. I love not to set before my Reader, the head of Polypus, Nor do I account it a sufficient excuse for Poets to say; Lasciva est nobis pagina, vita proba. I would have Carmina Ithiphallica, and Fescinina banished from their Writings, and not only themselves to live well, but their lines to be drawn out by their lives. I cannot satisfy neither those greedy pursuers of humours, that would have jests broken against Gentlemen Ushers little legs, every Chenalieres bald pate uncovered, and the deformities of a hooded dame deelphered through her Mask. Nothing but Satyrs, Whips, and Scourges, to such, I say: I will not defile myself with others pitch, judging him always a notorious corrupted person, that best expresses the guilt in others, which he finds liveliest charactered in himself. Yet if any of them shall tempt me, they shall find me an Archilochus, whose Standish can swarm with wasps as well as his Sepulchre. I request also those, that come as Cato into the Theatre, tantum ut exirent, who seeing the Title of my book take it up, where 
Lectis vix paginis duabus  
Spectant descatholicon severe;   
Either not to begin to read, or not to show their dislike in their discontinuance. But as for you, whose squeamish niceness condemns Poesy, because it is so, be as far from me, as I endeavour to be from your ignorance. 'Tis not to you, But, Ad sacra vatum carmen affero nostrum. Now a greater scarcity than you have of wit befall you What mean you to move in a Sphere above your knowledge, and censure exquisite numbers, which your capacity cannot reach to? Know Poesy is Divine: no marvel if it suit not the humour of earthly clods; Grovel with your dejected cogitations, while they breathe heavenly raptures.  
— Quos Cantor Apollo  
Non patitur versare lutum.  
'Tis not your scandalous imputations can sully the lustre of a Poet: the Arch-builder of this Universe is so styled; whom therefore they call 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. No less are those, whom that Divinity with Celestial inspirations abstracts from the society of men. As for myself so far am I from the slighted opinion of such, that it is my wish 
— Me primùm ante omnia Musae.  
Quarum sacra fero, ardenti perculsus amore  
Accipiant, coelique vias, & sidera monstrent.   
And (oh you) that are Castalidum decus sororum, That have been rocked in the laps of the Nursing Muses, suffer me to taste of your Milk; as for your Honey I will not presume to touch. Though my want of industry denies me your Crowns of ivy, yet, Non sum adeo deformis, but that I deem myself worthy of a sprig of Laurel. But I fear my just spleen, and zealous affection hath transported me too far. I will therefore return to you (ingenious Readers) whom I earnestly request, that it may be lawful for me to live, Occipiti coeco, secured in your approbations from all the dislikes which I almost desire may be sprinkled upon me to kindle my more earnest flame. As for the Story I treat of, I will not urge your faith, neither in the thing itself, nor the relation: for being a matter so diversly spoken of amongst divers Writers, I was utterly ignorant, as Sabellicus saith upon the same, In re tam antiqua, & fabulosa, quid certi dicerem. I thought it as good therefore to follow my own fancy, as the uncertainty of others: hoping my authority will pass currant; when Omnibus hoc licitum est Poetis. If at any time, the frequency of reading about the History hath begot imitation, impute it to the obaious aptness of the Author; so copious, that scarce no invention lives from his lines, that another can imagine fit for the same matter. Howsoever community may excuse a bad custom. Few there are which are only supposititij to themselves: and for myself I am not often faulty in that kind. For I protest I have many times took pains to shun his almost inevitable sentences: But I will not make a fault by excusing. Accept it as it is; it is my first child, but not the heir of all the fathers wit. There is some laid up to enrich a second brother, to keep it from accustomed dishonesty, when I shall put it to shift into the world: yet if this prove a grief to the parent, I will instantly be divorced from Thalia, and make myself happy in the progeny from a better stock: Farewell.  
Thine: T. E.   

OEDIPUS.  
CANTO. I.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
Oracle's counselled to preserve, a son  
Exposed is to death, reserved by chance  
Doth all that to him's destined to be done.  
In Father's blood be sleeps his impious lance,  
Partakes incestuous sweets through ignorance:  
Until truth known, he tears out both his eyes,  
So kills his mother, and by lightning dies.  

_●Re gloomy Cynthia pallid queen of night,  
Had seven times paced through each celestial Sign,  
Sometimes a niggard, shutting up her light,  
Sometimes more free bestowing all her shine,  
Since Thebes, the stage of fearful Tragedies,  
With wanton Odes, Rites that unholy are,  
And ceremonious use did solomnize  
The royal nuptials of a royal pair,  
Love was not barren: but locastas womb  
Gave certain notice of ensuing fruits,  
That not a grave all Laius might entomb,  
Issue so well oblivions force confutes.  
Wherefore the hopeful father straight decrees  
To search the fate of yet his unborn heir:  
For man, unpatient of uncertainties,  
loves to know truths, though known they grievous are.  
To Delphos then his brother Creon hies,  
Where great Apollo from his secret Cell  
Declares events in mystic prophecies,  
Answers dark questions, and men's fate foretells.  
Here all obsequious duties done and passed,  
His prayers entreating what his gifts enforced:  
The Heavenly Priest this answer made at last,  
And for their best endeavours told the worst,  
The Child that but an Embryo is as yet  
By Nature rarely good, by Fortune bad,  
Shall wed his mother, brothers shall beget,  
And work his death, of whom his life he had.  
No sooner ended was the dire presage,  
But as a man transformed poor Creon stood:  
Fear such a war with hosts of doubts did wage,  
That tears supplied the office of his blood.  
Not any tincture of Vermilion red,  
Did keep possession on his lifeless cheek,  
But leaving that with salt dew coloured  
The fainting heart to cherish out did seek.  
A sudden palsy quivered every limb,  
So great an earthquake shook that little world;  
His tongue grew infant, and his sight waxed dim:  
His hair (by nature soft) distraction curled:  
Great signs of grief did show a grief too great  
To bond itself, or be expressed in signs;  
As little Tablets do in brief repeat  
The ample sum contained in larger lines.  
No sooner reason was recovered,  
But finding grief should not be long prolonged,  
Ere more made light, what one oreburthened,  
He parts the weight to whom the weight belonged.  
For time not many wasted sands had spent,  
Ere Hast, the Herald of too ill success,  
enforced Suspicion doubt some ill event:  
That knew delay still ushered happiness.  
The longing King sick in this short return,  
Feels many fits of cold despairing fires,  
As often freezing as he oft doth burn,  
Desires to know, yet fears what he desires.  
Tell me (quoth he) yet prithee do not tell:  
If clouds foretell a tempests violence,  
If looks not right coat something that's not well,  
Keep sorrow there, which hurts proceeding thence.  
If thy tongues language harshly jars on chance,  
Conceal the Story of unhappy news,  
I can endure a patiented ignorance,  
And rather this, then to repent, do choose.  
far better is't for me to live in hope,  
Then knowing truths, to have my hopes despair:  
Expected mischiefs have an endless scope,  
And still are present, ere they present are.  
But if that Fortune will so much forget,  
To be herself, as to be fortunate,  
Bet not unwilling to discharge the debt  
That may enrich all my ensuing state.  
Here did he stay, though still he might have spoke,  
Had not Suspense, too covetous of reply,  
Longing to be resolved, more speeches broke,  
When Silence yet gave words more liberty.  
But speechless Creon prisons up his tongue,  
And will not take occasion to reveal;  
But with fixed eyeballs, and a head down hung,  
Declares the message which he would conceal.  
By this the King conjectures, that 'tis ill,  
Yet could not gather what that ill should be:  
He saw too much a fainting heart to kill,  
But not enough to clear uncertainty.  
Therefore afresh he doth renew his suit,  
More earnest now to have him tell the worst,  
Then erst desirous that he should be mute;  
Entreating now, what he refused at first.  
Although (quoth he) by this I know too much  
To make me wretched, though the rest unknown;  
Yet lo, the fondness of our nature's such,  
As much to grieve at doubted ills, as shown.  
Suspicion ever doth far more torment,  
Then can the mischief that we do suspect,  
When never certain of the hid event,  
After one ill, we still a worse expect.  
The ominous blaze of heavens fantastic fire,  
That never shines, but for prodigious end,  
Affrights th'unskilful gazettes that admire,  
When knowing not what, they know they do portend.  
Hadst thou with offerings near solicited  
The Delian Altars, for unhappy truth,  
With hope myself I might have flattered:  
Mine age should near have envied at my youth.  
But sith the Gods do otherwise consent,  
Add not more mischief to the sacred doom,  
Tell what thou knowst, that told, we may prevent,  
Or armed with patience, bear what ere shall come.  
Here rests again the yet uncertain king,  
And here again doth Croon hold his peace,  
A while deferring what his haste did bring;  
That grief late told, might somewhat grief release.  
Fain would he speak some comfort that was feigned,  
Feign would he place the words in other sense:  
But fear of what might happen, him constrained,  
To be offensive, for to shun offence:  
Who being heard, look how— alas I err,  
If I compare what is beyond compare;  
Too flight are words, too weak are Characters  
T'express the passions that unuttered are.  
Well may we draw soft-natured men that melt  
At others sorrows with drowned cheeks & eyes  
But as for him that hath the sorrow felt,  
The cunning'st pencil, with a vail descries.  
Suffice it that he grieves, and spends his hours  
In solitary loneness; casts what must be done,  
Whether to yield unto the higher powers,  
Or by prevention their intents to shun.  
When through times swiftness now the time w●● come,  
That this unhappy issue must be borne,  
The secret sorrows of a labouring womb  
Seizes the queen, of all save grief forlorn.  
Unto whose succour people more devout,  
Invoke P●l●●●●● for an easy birth:  
Saturnia'● Al●●● decked all about,  
Invite their goddess to behold the earth.  
And oh Lupine thou their prayers heard'st,  
Though th'other office of thy Deity  
Had better shown, how much that thou regard'st  
The sacred vows that then were made to thee,  
When with thy nymphs thou rangest in the wood,  
In steady hand clasping an Ivory how,  
The N●●●●● monsters, and the tigers blood  
Make thy darts blush to so thee murder so.  
And dost thou now to pity here begin?  
Or want'st thou Arrows for to tyra●ni●e?  
Lo 〈◊〉 a Monster near before hath been,  
Prey to thy force, grace to thy victories.  
But now I see, what the eternal Fate  
Decrees, shall happen, all you rest decree:  
Your heavenly wills differ from ours estate,  
Which through our weakness still contrary be.  
But, you do all conspire in one consent,  
To make unhappy that which must be so:  
More cruel, when your cruelty might prevent,  
What mischiefs fall after you pity show.  
Wherefore a safe deliverance thou gav'st  
And now a goodly issue springs at last.  
Hadst thou destroyed what thou unkindly savedst,  
My present quill had not told sorrows past.  
For now no sooner was the tidings brought  
To Laius hearing of what's come to pass,  
But that fresh cares, and contradicting thoughts  
Arise to trouble what not settled was.  
But taking truce a while, he goes to see  
After what sort a child so ill might look,  
Whether not monstrous as his manners be,  
Seeing the face is the souls reckoning book.  
Yet he not found what reason thought he should,  
A swarthy visage, clouded up in frowns,  
Sunk eyes, that buried in their houses stood,  
Or torted shadow which his temples crown;  
But there as in a glass himself he saw,  
And in his cheek marked how his cheek was died,  
Where cunning Nature beds of flowers did draw,  
Whose head to crop, hard hearts would have denied.  
Long in this mirror he himself beheld,  
Till like Narciss●● selfe-enamored,  
He seemed transformed; & when his peace he held,  
His own perfections he in silence read,  
In those fair eyes, that seemed to mock his eyes,  
Imagination from her duty swerved,  
Attentive wondering, a self-love descries,  
Being not himself, when he himself observed.  
Pigmalion-like, with many a melting kiss,  
He dotes upon this picture he had made,  
Only desire in him contraried, his,  
Who for his lifeless Image motion prayed:  
This grieving, that his workmanship expressed  
Unto the life, a creature so divine;  
Wished those pure beauties were in ivory dressed,  
Whose white, nor sin might spot, nor time decline.  
What reason is't, that reason should collect  
(Says he, when wonder to his words gave place)  
Our disposition in our eyes aspect,  
Reading our minds imprinted in our face?  
Were that an axiom: who'st that should admire  
This apt proportion of well-orderd parts?  
This breath perfumed to kindle Cupid's fire,  
These precious chains to prison captived hearts:  
And would not grant this were the decent bower,  
Where comely Graces had set down to dwell,  
Where Virtue, of herself an ample dower,  
Wedded herself, divorced from other Cell.  
If glorious Temples with their pride declare  
Th'inhabited greatness of the Deity:  
Oh than what precious jewels lodged are  
In such a gorgeous well built Treasury!  
Surely at least it can but empty be  
Of the expected riches, and not fraught  
With the suspected mass of injury:  
Nought sure can here be harboured that is nought,  
Sin would have ●ose a more unpolished den  
Whose ugly building it could not defile,  
More barbarous looks for direful agents, when  
These seem not rude, and steed of frowning smile.  
Unless, perchance, Vice, weary of contempt,  
Would borrow countenance of this countenance,  
Having no other beauty, but what's lent  
It's own unseen misfeature to advance:  
For had it been truly appareled  
In't own native garments, as soon I should  
Have loathed the form, as that it harboured;  
As soon have hated, as now loved it good.  
Oh could our eyes carry a stronger sight  
Than man's compacted outside could reflect;  
Or were his breast transparent as the light,  
To let weak beams his inward parts detect.  
This gay attire of beauty would no more  
Bewitch our fancies, than a golden chain  
Worn from its place, or Th●tis Paramours  
Divining blush before a shower of rain.  
But when the face, is all we can perceive,  
And as that pleases we affected are,  
How easy is't for beauty to deceive,  
When sin still hides itself by seeming fair?  
And it may be, 'twas for some greater end,  
That subtle Nature framed this feature thus,  
Namely, to further what the Gods pretend,  
Which near she could, were this not glorious.  
Now such a precious sanguine keeps his tide  
In th'azure conduits of well-branched veins,  
As to let out were worse than pa●ricide,  
In other vessel, than what it contains.  
So rare this form, as sure 'tis worse far  
For me to offer violence, then for it  
T'attempt the crimes that to it destined are,  
When It of force, I a free fault commit.  
I love thee, son, too well those powers know  
The hearts of parents, and how much a child  
In barrenest pit●e makes affection grow.  
Oh that thou were't less comely, or less vild.  
Yet how soe'er; shall my kind fondness add  
More power to Fortune, over subject man?  
Who well may triumph if we warning had,  
Yet do not shun her frailty when we can.  
Shall I, to save thy life, go lose mine own?  
Procure the name of Incest to my bed?  
And what 〈◊〉 in ages past been known,  
Suffer a brother in a Father's stead.  
First, let me better manifest my love  
To thee my son, first let this beauty die  
Unspotted, as such beauty doth behove:  
Flowers are ph●ch't, when fresh, not being dry.  
Never shall Writers blot thy memory,  
Or from thy life fetch argument to their song;  
But for thee bl●ne deaths hasty cruelty,  
Deemed virtues hope, hadst thou not died so young.  
Oh you deprived fathers, that with tears,  
Behold your children's time less Funeral,  
Dry, dry your eyes, with them are fled your fears,  
In their deep graves your cares lie tombed all.  
Call not to mind their form, their wantonness  
They wearied time with; never (alas) recount  
The hopes you had, that they your age should bless:  
Such reckonings oft fall short of our account.  
Oft have I seen a curious Gardiner  
Cherish an imp with the kind start ●e had,  
Whose youth gay flowers & goodly blooms did bear;  
But the best fruit his age could show was bad:  
Then he reputes his ●ares, and labours lost,  
Wishing it then had perished when it pleased,  
Or that he near had hoped, since hopes are crossed,  
Then a saved labour might have sorrow eald.  
Many fair Sunshines do our youth adorn:  
But when as age gives liberty to sin,  
A cloudy evening doth eclipse our morn,  
Weeds overgrow the herbs before hath been.  
And far more pleasing do we find it then,  
If being virtuous we had perished  
That our kind parents might larnent us, when  
Living we wring more tears then being dead,  
Here forcing pity somewhat to retire  
A yet-ne're-guilty weapon forth he draws,  
Which lifting up t'accomplish his desire  
Affection stays his hand, and makes him pause.  
The child, with apprehension, innocent  
Smiles at his image in his father's eyes:  
The soone-m●●'d father herewithal relents  
And in distracted passion thus he cries.  
Can nature be so far unnatural,  
As that a father should a Butcher be?  
Can the least drop, that a child's eye let's fall  
Pass unregarded without efficacy?  
Or if there could; can heaven forget to speak,  
In the loud language of confused Thunder?  
Can such an act be, and the clouds not break?  
Not Ioues artillery cleave the earth in sunder?  
Or if example might the fact admit,  
And heaven not punish us for doing ill:  
Can I, whose heart was ne'er so brazen yet,  
As the meanest bloodless creatures blood to spill,  
First on my son my cruelty express?  
A father more inhuman than a man,  
To others kind, to mine own pitiless,  
The sanguine spill, that with my sanguine ran.  
Rather it should be one, thine enemy  
Framed of a harder ●ould, then could be found  
Amongst 〈…〉 tyranny,  
One that would ground a mischief on no ground.  
I never should thy Funerals bewail  
In the 〈◊〉 habit of a weeping black,  
Thy purple still would make my sable pale,  
Mourning my fault, thy death would mourning lack,  
Those hands must be more irreligious far  
Than mine, and challenge a less interest  
In this same life, that must this life debar.  
A heart that's prisoned in an iron breast.  
Hereafter when thy Epitaph worn out  
In letters old, revives thy story new,  
The weeping readers, that do stand about  
And through their tears the crime do greater view,  
Will wrong my softness thus, and thus exclaime●  
What flinty matter did the man compose?  
How rocky was the womb from whence he came?  
That could relentless a sons life depose?  
When we, that but spectators, absent Bee  
And no beholders of what we behold,  
Thaw into water, when we think we see  
The merciless murder which he did of old.  
The stone that now weeps over this Monument  
Was for compassionate tears first made a stone:  
If Pity then attired in marble went,  
What garment did such Cruelty put 〈◊〉  
Our Writers surely do passed times belie,  
And tell but tales for us to 〈◊〉.  
Where in our age can we such acts espy?  
Such deeds beyond our reach to 〈◊〉.  
The seasons are but nicknamed, and we try  
Theirs were the Iron, ours the golden times:  
Only we want their plenty, the reason why,  
Our age is punished for their age's crimes.  
Ere thus a scandal do prevent my death,  
Thy hand, oh child, my scandal shall prevent,  
Finish thy mischiefs with unworthy breath.  
Be worse than thou art able to repent,  
Before that I, in whom compassion fits,  
My unstained hands in guiltless blood pollutes  
Some wretch for such a villanie's more fit,  
I cannot hear thy cries and persecute.  
Here tears from their stopped fountains 'gan to break,  
Whereat he house's up the fatal lenife:  
And having nothing more that he could speak,  
Seeks 'mongst his Swains one to attempt his life.  
Poor men, alas, they all were pitiful,  
Whose only practice ever was to save:  
Yet one there was amongst the rest more 〈◊〉,  
Whose looks of crabbed members notice gave.  
This from his fellows being ealed apart,  
The King thinks 〈…〉  
To him he opes the h●d griefs of his heart,  
And strictly charges that his son do die.  
Do not I pray (quoth he) expostulate,  
Or blame me being thus vunaturall;  
Know only this, Repentance comes too late,  
When either this, or a worse ill must fall.  
And oh dear child, when thy pure soul is freed  
From this corpe prison, let it rest in peace  
In pleasant fields, and on Ambrosia feed;  
Let not my act thy happiness decrease.  
'Tis not the base desire I have to live  
Makes me thus cruel: by my clear thoughts I'd● first  
My second breath, that fame affords me, give,  
Dye twice, then by thy death once live accursed.  
Can Destinies but alter their intent,  
Or Delphes contradict it own presage,  
I'd let an immortality be spent,  
Ere thou shouldst perish in unripened age.  
Now for thyself 'tis, that thyself must die:  
Who else must live the monster of the earth:  
No offering else the Gods can pacify,  
Dye then new borne, ere live to curse thy birth.  
Even as a froward child affected stands,  
Playing the wanton, with some sharp delight,  
Whose sport though pleasing; yet will hurt his hand,  
Cries being had, or taken from his sights  
The like inconstant passions hold this King,  
Grieung to lose what grieves him 〈◊〉,  
And more, alas he sorrows in this thing,  
That that should grieve him which should make him glad.  
Now doth he print his last departing kiss  
When now affection coins some new delay:  
Only (quoth he) I will but utter this,  
Then strives to speak when he had nought to say.  
The mother, not so manly in her woe,  
Speaks all her sorrows in a female eye;  
Like weeping Rhea, when she should forego  
Her first borne son, through Saturn's cruelty.  
After her grief struggling for greater vent,  
Had sighed a farewell from her big-swollen heart,  
With briny Myrrh, that stead of Odours went,  
She balms the Hearse, & now the Hearse departs.  
Now had the Sun, with blushing modesty  
took his unwilling leave on Thetis cheek,  
And other Tapers of the golden sky  
Put out their lights, elsewhere the night to seek;  
When early riser Phorb●●, iolliest swain  
That on Cith●ron tunes an oaten quill,  
Displayed his siluer-flockes upon the plain,  
Himself to be inspired, sat on the Hill.  
Where many morning Madrigals he sang  
In praise of Pan, with many amorous lays  
Of shepherds loves, that all the Meadows rang,  
And Ph●●● seemed attentive with his rays.  
There fell he to compassion Majesty  
And great men's cares in such a bli●●some strain  
As well his Music did his mind descry  
His song, & thoughts did the same notes contain.  
When on the sudden some n●●r neighbouring shrinks  
Not strong enough to syllable its woes,  
Breaks off his pastime, and doth wonder strike  
In him a stranger to such cries an those.  
And listening still, he heard a second voice  
That breathed together Pity, Cruelty:  
Both life and death in one confused noise  
Relenting, that it must persisting be.  
You Powers, said it, that guide these things below,  
Unman me quite from this same shape of man:  
Let all my limbs to Oaken branches grow,  
Obdure my heart, e'en harder, if you can:  
That as I am, I don't so much digress  
From being myself, as yet alas I must  
Be too disloyal, or too pitiless,  
Hazard my virtues, or deceive my trust.  
Authority commands, I do obey,  
And reason 'tis command should be respected:  
And yet remorse Authority gaine-saies;  
Either do threat, if either be neglected.  
Whither, oh then, shall I myself convert,  
On either side I am attached with guilt,  
Shunning a fault, I can't a fault divert,  
But sin as much in blood, that's saved, as spilled.  
Oh 〈◊〉, and in him you earthly Kings,  
That print your wa●en Vassals as you list,  
Observe in me what your injustice brings,  
How much our 〈◊〉 do oft your wills resist.  
Think you, that you can ere yourselves acquit,  
In the assistant doers of your plots?  
The 〈◊〉 's more heinous sure you do commit,  
Doubled dishonour doth your honour blot.  
When not content, with your own virtues waste,  
To the foul acts you might have done alone,  
More are corrupted, more in mischief placed,  
By others crimes to amplysie your own.  
That we beholding in your vices face  
Looks so deformed, deem that our faults are fair:  
And if a King, no dire attempts disgrace,  
Surely in us they but beseeming are.  
Yet, why do I move in too high a Sphere?  
Censure Kings actions? they have Eagles eyes,  
And in their matters further insight bear  
Then the misconstruing common search descries.  
They weigh not Rumours breath, but still direct  
Their not rash doings to some second end:  
Which 'tis not for the vulgar to detect,  
Sith Kings endenour's oft their sight offend.  
Well, howsoe'er, I know there nothing is,  
From good, though falsely styled, so remote,  
Which circumstance, yea in an act as this,  
Cannot of virtue give some seeming note.  
Yet greatness know, though fortune blind hath put  
In our estates some inequality,  
Our minds yet Nature in one mould hath shut,  
And meanness cannot alter quality.  
The same affections that do move in you,  
As well in us, do claim their interest,  
We do not blushless, what you blush to do.  
Our crimes accuse us in like guilty breast.  
Then to discharge me of so bad a charge  
Yet keep a conscience free, immaculate,  
I'll not perform, what I'll perform at large,  
Taught to use others, used for others hate.  
You goodly Poplars, that do fringe this Brook  
With a fair bordure of an even green,  
To you the guilt I leave, which I forsook,  
You shall be faultless, when no fault you ween.  
You hearing want, by which should be conveyed  
Feeling relentance at an infant's moan,  
Unless your griefs in amber wet arrayed  
Seem to weep others sorrows in your own.  
Take you the business of this Tragic deed,  
Forget your Female passions were of yore,  
Let not, alas see you of this take heed,  
New griefs the form, your old griefs changed, restore:  
For so your female softness may forbear  
To work a story, which when one shall tell,  
Renews your late left shape in them that hear:  
Be then still secret, senseless, and farewell.  
Here ends the voice, and here fresh cries begin,  
When the uncertain Swain to be resolved  
pries through the glade, where he obscured had been,  
And viewed a sight that all his joints dissolved.  
A child erst unacquainted with the Air,  
Till now brought forth to bid the Air adieu,  
Whose feet with pliant osiers pierced were,  
Hung up as fruit, that on the Poplar grew,  
Not far his fellow keeper of the folds,  
Pursued with his own guilty steps did run,  
Whose flight, with his retired nearness told  
His eyes abhorred the fact his hands had done.  
A while concealed he stayed, till he espied  
By his sights failing, all discovery  
Absent, and vanished, then eftsoones him he hied  
T'express his goodness, there, where none could see.  
Soon from the willing branches he unloads  
The harmless burden, which retiring back,  
A quivering Ditty with their leaves bestowed  
For the deliverance from a sin so black.  
Th'amazed Shepherd over-gone with wonder,  
Conjectures first, then doubts to gather more.  
Yet the King's virtues keeps suspicion under,  
But still the fact approves his thoughts before.  
When, now alas! the Swain is more perplexed,  
Because he saved, then erst he was to save;  
Compassion now Repentance had annexed:  
Thus second thoughts not the first motions have.  
Fear forced him somewhat from his virtues shrink.  
So much doth danger goodness violate.  
That now he makes a question, and bethinks  
How ill it was to be compassionate.  
Not long in these contrary fits he stood,  
 looking up, he chanced to spy not far  
A man, whose age gave notice he was good,  
Sith livers ill, seldom, long livers are.  
To him drawn near, this spectacle he shows,  
And all the manner, how the child was found,  
Only keeps in, what he still doubts he knows,  
Mistrusting mischief that might once redound.  
The easy natured old man, that had now  
Almost forgot, unpractised, how to weep,  
Let's fall a shower, a watering to bestow  
On his parched beauties, buried in wrinkles deep.  
Who so had seen those lukewarm drops distill,  
For ever would the prodigy remember,  
That tepid Springs should rise from frozen Hill  
Or April rain in midst of cold December.  
Tears soon dissolved, he falls into complaints;  
But with slow speech, and a dull tardy tongue:  
His breath he spent, although for breath he faiuts,  
As well you'd judge it was a swan that sung.  
At last, as poor in words, as in his were,  
His mourning ceased, when through compassion,  
That in his bosom limitless was set,  
He begs the child of Phorbas for his own.  
He yields as willing, as the other asks.  
So after some enquiring chat, they part:  
The anito tend his Flocks, his daily task,  
The other home, burdened, but light in heart.  
Where come; To Corinth's childless king & queen  
He gives the infant, which Polybius  
With care brought up, as it his own had been,  
And from his swollen feet named him Oedipus.  
His after fortunes, and finister fate  
That mischiefs, that unknown to him befell,  
It skills not with continuance to relate  
Another Canto shall it plainly tell.    

OEDIPUS.  
CANTO. II.  

Cothurnal Writers as a rule propose,  
Th'unhappy issue of a Tragedy  
Proceeds from mischiefs not so great, and those  
Have blithe beginnings in their Infancy.  
Oh then! how black may we expect the scene  
Arising from a protasy so sad,  
Sorrow that welcomes, is an unwelcome means  
To Horrors Cell in frightful darkness clad.  
Mischief before was young, and could not go  
But as a learner practised how she might,  
As in her age, so in perfection grow,  
At last to power down all her ripened spite:  
Whom therefore late we as an infant left,  
Now think him fully come to man's estate,  
Enjoying friends, although of friends bereft,  
On whom to all men's thinking fortune waits.  
Enriched with gifts of Nature, gifts of Art,  
Happy in his supposed parents love:  
The hope of Cori●th, and the very heart  
Which Greece desired, once by the same to move,  
In midst of all this earthly jollity,  
Knowledge which he through industry had go●  
More than was trite, proved curiosity,  
And 'tis more dangerous so to know, than not,  
For having now attained to all he could  
By use or precept: as man's nature is  
Insatiate, resolved that 'tis more good  
Rather than to reserve, to search and miss,  
So in th'abundance of quick sight he winks,  
And wantoned with too much, himself persuades  
He yet wants somewhat, and still of that he thinks  
But finds, that it from finding, up was laid,  
Namely, his coming sortune, good, or ill,  
Concealed within the God of Nature's breast,  
In vain for man, t'attempt to know, or will,  
Till Time's commission be too manifest.  
But no impossibility withstands  
Desire, as earnest, as ambitious.  
Sith then his own search not so much commands  
Delphos be hopes, will prove propitious.  
Thither he hasts: What fondness is't that man  
Should burn in so inquisitive a fire  
To know what is Predestinate, and when,  
inquiring what's most hurtful to inquire.  
For say the Augurs do foretell content,  
●ho always presuppose our industry,  
We in predictions ever confident,  
Neglectful prove, to prove at last they lie.  
If ill, Misfortune is no Cockatrice,  
Whose sight infections, if first seen, is shun.  
Bad luck admits no counsel, no advice,  
We fall into it by prevention:  
Witness these rash proceed: for now come  
To Pholus Temple, he with suppliant vows  
Implores the Deities determined doom,  
Who with prophetic fires his Priests endowes.  
Soon the Castalian Nymph inspired, replies,  
Dare Mortals dally with Immortality?  
Think they the Delian Oracle tells lies?,  
That for ones fate, they twice solicit me?  
Do I ere use myself to contradict?  
Or am I not ●t every time the same?  
Am I benign sometimes, and sometimes strict?  
Change I decrees, as you do change your flame?  
If not: why then, what diffidence is this  
In our truth's power, that what once answered was,  
As 'twere to pose us, now propounded is?  
Hope you for better things to come to pass?  
Know, thou that hadst thy sentence yet unborn,  
Which heretofore thy hapless Sire received,  
Though now what we foretold, thou laughst to scorn,  
That our prophetic laurels not deceined.  
Quickly begun, our doom to verify,  
That by thy fate our credit may be won;  
Yet lives thy father, by thy hand to die.  
Thy mother yet, to bear her son a son.  
Fury and madness now possess him first,  
That superstition should enforce belief,  
'Gainst all assurance in his bosom nursed,  
Which in our judgement should persuade us chief.  
Anon with Phoebus he the cause debates,  
I wonder not (says he) that thou dost err,  
Nor do I credit what thou dost relate,  
Thy licence's known, thou art a traveller.  
Tell me, Apollo, if thou canst me tell,  
To whom is man's corrupted inside known?  
Doth not himself, himself perceive, as well  
As you, and best determines of his own?  
If not: how vain is't that thy Temple door  
Commands selfe-knowledge, when do all he can  
To know himself, man knows himself no more,  
Then I believe thou knowst thyself of man?  
And if we do, oh why shouldst thou persuade  
Us to be such, whereof we nothing know,  
But that 'tis false? Never is that gainsaid,  
Which in ourselves we are assured is so.  
See, if celestial eyes, that power have  
To view our entrails, ransack every nook,  
Where cogitation wanders in her cave,  
Observe me throughly with one searching look,  
Mark strictly, and declare if thou canst find  
One thought, one little motion, whereby  
To be confirmed, nay if thou scan'st my mind,  
There nothing dwells, which gives thee not the lie.  
I know thus much, I am not ignorant,  
So far in my soft-natured disposition,  
Though to diseases apt it health may want,  
Yet I presume I'm still mine own Physician.  
And but I find mine innocence gainsays,  
Even with my life I'd finish that intent.  
And yet there are evasions many ways,  
Death set apart, to hinder the event,  
Before those rays, wherewith thou seest me now,  
Twice mask their glories in the clouded West,  
Ere twice Aurora with a bashful brow,  
Ashamed of Tithon, blushes in the East,  
I'll ease this ground whereon I now do tread,  
Of my loathed burden: all the world I'll range,  
Wheresoe'er I am by fame or fancy led,  
That changing climates, I my fate may change.  
Corinth farewell, and all my household Lar,  
Thy pleasures, your protection I forsake,  
For sorrow, dangers, poverty and cares:  
'Tis virtue only me an exile makes.  
Near will I take repentant step to turn,  
Where my mischance is native as my soil:  
And first I'll see thy loved buildings burn,  
Before thy smoke shall tempt me from my toil.  
Parents farewell. Thus I, your hapless son,  
Turn hence m'vnwilling lights: for why I fear  
I am t●●n'd 〈◊〉 like, whose infection  
〈…〉 in the eyeballs; else I know not where.  
Inhospitable, regions stay for me,  
Wildes unfrequented, shores v●●●●'d unknown,  
Night's pitchy birthright, where no Sun they see,  
Each country's mine to breath in, same mine own.  
Thus in distempered blood he D●●ph●s leaves,  
With some few private friends, and as a man  
Desperate, himself of all forecast bereaves,  
Dares all the worst that now misfortune can:  
Even as a Pinnace by a Pirate chased,  
Steers her indifferent keel for any coast,  
Harbours with any danger met in haste,  
Rather than try the danger feared most:  
So he, vntra●eld in the seas of chance,  
To S●ill● from supposed Cha●y●●is hies:  
Mischief once known, and shunned, with ignorance  
Is m●t: the same he follows, which he flies.  
Turn, ●●●e to Corinth, fond misdeeming youth,  
Keep thyself there, and keep thyself secure,  
Our fortune, us, as we the world pursueth;  
And sure she is; but in a place unsure.  
Then be not thou degenerate from good,  
So far, as to take pains in doing ill,  
If thou must quench thy eagle's thirst with blood,  
Eat tediousness, and drink with ease thy fill.  
Change the white livery of Polybius head  
With his effused gore; and that being done,  
Deface the print of M●r●pes chaste bed:  
Think thou dost all, that now this thinkest to shun,  
And so perchance thou mayst prevent with doing  
What thou must do in seeking to prevent.  
Thy wariness works now thine own undoing,  
And by resisting, furthers Fates intent.  
But thou must on to act, and I to ●ell  
Thy deeds of horror, that without thine aid,  
Learning's great armed Goddess on me dwell,  
I shall 〈◊〉 less heinous being afraid.  
From Th●b●s there lies a narrow beaten way,  
Made rudely pleasant with uneven thorn,  
Which wandering long through cool Castalia,  
Loses itself upon a plain unworn.  
There Nature portrayed Flora's counterfeit  
In youthfulst beauties, on a ground of green,  
Which she with such skilled workmanship had se●,  
As well how much she scorned Art was seen.  
Near whose embroidered margin El●● glides,  
With crooked turnings winding in and out,  
That she might longer in the mead abide,  
And find the readiest way in going about.  
Hitherest L●i●● came, as was his use,  
With soluce to spur on the tardy time,  
Reposing his wild thoughts, and taking truce  
With conscience, still accusing him of crime.  
And now (alas) 'twas his unhappy hap,  
As he from Th●b●s to Ph●●●s io●●●ied,  
A little town, within whose purple lap  
Tipsy Lyaus lays his drowsy head.  
Here on this green to meet his thought-dead son  
Posting to Thebes, whose indigested rage,  
In him had all humanity undone,  
Left no respect, neither of state nor age:  
For grown to chooser, after melancholy,  
He rudely rushes through the peaceful train,  
And passing forth with more irreverent folly,  
O'erturns his father's Chariot on the plain.  
The Kingly old man all possessed with spleen,  
Thirsts after a revengeful recompense:  
And as the flies have stings, the Ant her teen,  
He draws the sword he wore for show, not sense.  
His readiness doth prompt his company  
To the like valorous opposition:  
But Oedipus as ready as was he,  
Asks pardon with maintaining, not contrition.  
Now the inconstant Goddess begins to smile,  
Triumphing in her self-loved policy,  
How quaintly she can man's intents beguile,  
And blinder than herself make those that see.  
You Furies too, th'observant slaves of chance,  
Though discords nurses, yet you now conspire,  
Where Death sounds Iron harmony, to dance,  
To crown Erin●is with your brands of 〈◊〉.  
But Nature, where art thou? Where Sympathy  
That Elms and Vines espouseth? vanish gone?  
'Twixt whom, or where should Inclination be,  
If here abandoned in the Sire and Son?  
Or you neglectful Ge●●ij, that attend  
On our directed actions, where are you,  
That now you loiter? Is't to be contemned  
We are indulgent, or a debt we own?  
Me thinks the liberal expense bestowed  
On your unnecessary feasts, might charm  
From you some succour, that some power bestowed  
To hinder purposes that tend to harm.  
But you oft-blamed sistes in my verse,  
That do determine man's uncertain years,  
'Tis you: but thou of all the three most fierce,  
That a so●nes sword mistakest for thy shears,  
By which poor Laius' thread being cut, he falls.  
Even as an antic edifice of stone,  
Struck with a thundering peal of shot, whose walls  
If not by force, would have decayed alone.  
No sooner fell he; but the Thebans fled,  
Some for assistant succour, some for fear.  
Some washed their bloody cheeks in tears they shed  
Others with outcries forced others tear.  
The murderers, not knowing whom th'had slain,  
Howsever would not trust their innocence,  
Their guilt assures them that they shall be ta'en,  
If long they stay: so they depart from thence,  
Leaving the busy multitude employed  
In vain inquiry of they know not whom,  
All the whole cheerfulness of Thebes destroyed,  
And Cadmus' race quite sorrow overcome:  
Amongst the rest, the but halfe-living queen  
Comes where her other best-loved half lay dead:  
Whose mangled body, when she once had seen,  
Her heart his wounds received, but faster bled.  
Anon herself on his stiff trunk she throws,  
Kisses his bloud-left cheeks: oh thus (quoth she)  
The all she hath of thine, thy wife bestows,  
Even till she hath no breath, she'll breathe on thee.  
And being dead, thus on thy grave I'll lie,  
Tombing thee in an Alabaster shrine,  
With open bosom, that the passer by  
May see what thy heart was, by seeing mine.  
And now I think thee happy Niobe,  
Whose marble breast yield to no sense of woes,  
After thou twice seven funerals didst see,  
Twice didst thy children in thy womb enclose.  
Oh would my fortune now like thine might prove,  
I'm sure the grief is greatest I abide.  
Thou but for children mourned'st, I for a Love  
Might have made me a mother ere I died.  
Remembrance now at this sad name of Mother,  
Doth old mishaps to be wept over, bring out.  
A green wounds anguish oft unskinnes another,  
Sorrow's a circle, and still turns about.  
Now comes to mind her childbirths bitterness,  
Made heavier with the burden that she bore,  
Which had he lived yet, would have grieved her less  
Though he had triumphed in his father's gore.  
In vain, oh Laius, didst thou kill thy son,  
When from a stranger thou hast death received:  
If needs thy thread must have been cut, ere spun,  
Would he had lived, thy life to have bereaved.  
He might have best been author of thy death,  
In whom thou livedst: through him perpetual  
Succession might have lengthend thy short breath,  
Built from these ruins towers that near should fall,  
Now both are perished with your memory,  
Of whom no age-withstanding records left;  
Only my breast retains what none can see,  
What soon will fail, so soon of you bereft.  
Oh ill betid thee cruel hearted man,  
If man thou beest, that had a heart so cruel,  
Uncivil monster I think rather, than  
Composed of heavenly fire, and earthly fuel.  
The savage tyrant of the forest would  
Have loathed the fact to do; and being done,  
Flints would have wept, & rocks, if here they stood,  
Would melt as wax at presence of the sun.  
Oh rocks, and snaggy flints, when we compare  
Hard men with you, we do you injury:  
Men are themselves, I most like men they are,  
When they are furthest from humanity.  
Here from the bounds of charity transported,  
She on the murderer bitterly exclaims,  
Wishing him woes not to be comforted,  
To prove his father's ruins, mother's shame.  
Till what her sad attendants could afford,  
She tastes of comfort, if there comfort live  
'Mongst those that in one misery accord,  
Wanting that most, which they desire to give.  
Reason at last established patience;  
So taking up the relics of their King,  
With slow procession they depart from thence  
Towards Thebes, & with them their sad load do bring  
Where long it was not, ere with Funeral Rites,  
The corpses were brought unto the Funeral pile.  
Music sounds harsh, though it elsewhere delights  
What mirth did use; now used, doth mirth exile.  
Performed are the Obsequies at last,  
The people clothed in customary black,  
To give more state unto their sorrow past,  
Mould to present it by their looking back.  
Scarce were their Cypress garlands withered,  
Scarce of their spent tears had they took their leave  
E'er Mischief, Hydra-like, exalts her head,  
Which by the former's loss she doth receive.  
For angry juno, never reconciled,  
To her corrivals brothers progeny,  
Burning in rage, so oft to be beguiled,  
Thus wreaks herself on them with tyranny,  
Hard by the City in Crenaa's sight,  
A hill there is, whose spired top commands  
A spacious prospect, which Phycaeos' height,  
Washing his gravelled feet in Deuces sands.  
Here the too much enraged Goddess placed  
Echidna's daughter, triple featured Sphinx,  
Of rare composure 'bove the doubtful waist,  
Which base grows, as nearer earth it sinks.  
A virgin's face she had, where might be read  
Perfection printed in each graceful part:  
And from her head a golden curtain spread,  
Hangs as the cover to some curious Art.  
As for her voice, no Princes wronged Lad,  
No Siren sweeter, or more cunning sings,  
Plump moving breast, smooth skin, white arms she had,  
Fanning a feather ' pair of painted wings.  
But as an Artist leans his carved work  
On forms deformed: or as each wise man tells,  
Worst Serpents under gayest flowers lurk,  
Or pleasures welcomes have but harsh farewelles:  
So Nature in a Lions half had put,  
That other half; but totally Divine;  
Whose meaning, sith from most it up be shut,  
Disdain not this morality of mine.  
Learning & Knowledge by our Sphinx is meant,  
As hid, as her Aenigmas, posing wits  
In hieroglyphics, and to this intent  
On armed Pallas helmets top she sits.  
On hill she keeps, and so the Muses do,  
Hard are the numbers of a Poet's rhyme,  
Nature, Art, Use, are the thr● steps thereto:  
Care must be had, that we directly climb.  
Nature doth rudely our dull mass prepare,  
And if not helped, contemplates but with sense,  
Her groveling looks downwards dejected are,  
And can derive but earthly knowledge thence.  
But Art erects itself with Reason; scans  
Things above reach: then taking Uses wings,  
Man's spirit soars up higher than a man's,  
hovering above heavens Crystal Orb, he sings.  
Beast, Maid, and Bird, is Nature, Art, and Use,  
Joined in one knowledge, as those three in one,  
If you admit not this, admit excuse.  
Learning's a Sphinx, her riddles are unknown:  
Well, here she held long her dominion,  
Propounding questions unto passers by,  
Given by the Muses to her, on condition,  
If answered, she; else, the not-answerers dye.  
To many lo, her riddles she propounds,  
Whose hidden meaning was so intricate,  
That to her none the mystery expounds,  
So all by her took the last stroke of Fate.  
Thebes long with these injurious wrongs was vexed  
Almost unpeopled: the remainder mewed  
Up in the City walls, that all perplexed,  
They fall to counsel, where they thus conclude;  
That forthwith it abroad be published,  
That who the question of dark Sphinx unfolds,  
Shall to the widow 〈◊〉 Queen be married,  
And th'unswayed Sceptre of the Kingdom hold,  
Soon the shrill Trumpet of dispersed Fame,  
Reported the adventure far and near:  
Amongst the rest to Oedipus it came,  
Pursuing Rumours with an open ear.  
Retiring strait himself into his mind,  
He weighs the prize, casts what the dangers be:  
Then urged with exile, and his fate assigned,  
Resolves to go; if not to speed, to die.  
With winged haste to Theban gates he hies,  
Craves his admittance to the Governor:  
Obtained, he manifests his enterprise,  
So he may have what he adventures for.  
Confirmed more fully, he is welcomed thither,  
Fairly entreated, with the best observance,  
Anon with Creon he goes forth together  
To show jocasta his allegiance.  
Her Majesty dejects him on his knee,  
So much of mother-ignorance perceived,  
Well did that formal reverence agree,  
Had not obedience been therein deceived.  
She takes him up soon from the humble ground,  
When each of other taking stricter view,  
Their hearts 'gan throb, portentous fires they found  
Blaze in their breasts, threatening what would ensue.  
She loves, she likes, both doting on their own,  
Such correspondence had affection bred.  
Hadst thou, o Nature, erst thyself thus shown,  
The son had near the father butchered.  
The modest queen called by the instant night,  
Commits them to a wished untroubled rest,  
Herself withdrawing from attendant sight,  
Enters the privy chamber of her breast.  
Where with a troop of traitorous thoughts surprised  
She finds herself ta'en prisoner by desire,  
With Protean variety so disguised,  
That she at first could not detect the fire:  
Till scorched, she both found out, & loved the flame,  
Grew jealous of it, whispered by her fear,  
The means to get, was but to lose the same,  
But shame commands prevention to forbear.  
Love against shame disputes, and bashful laws,  
Shame 'gainst the lawless liberty of love:  
Both do object, both answer in their cause,  
Till sleep breaks up the Court, and cause removes,  
Early when Phoebe couched her silver horn,  
Drowsy Endymion with a kiss to wake,  
The Rosy horses of the red-cheeked Morn  
To their fresh journey do themselves betake.  
The longing multitude betimes await  
Their Champions coming, who when he arose,  
Condemned himself for sleeping over-late,  
Deferring bliss, or adding time to woes.  
he's ready, and of all things furnished is,  
Only he stays to bid the queen farewell,  
When he bestowed 〈◊〉 first incestuous kiss,  
That after opened the black way to Hell.  
Away he goes, and after him she sent  
Her earnest looks: oft did she go about  
To call him back; but ever that intent  
Was crossed with blushing, nor could words come out.  
So with her prayers for him, she retires:  
When now the Monster, as her manner was,  
Unto her mountains narrow top aspires,  
Watching for strangers, which that way should pass.  
Anon she sees one coming all alone,  
Save that with cries he was accompanied  
Of those, which further off did make their moan,  
Lamenting for his death ere he was dead.  
Approached within the limits of their words,  
Vain man, said she, what rashness bids thee come  
Hither to me, thus of thine own accord,  
Wither with pains I scarce can hale in some?  
Thinkest to prevail? or seekest thou death out here?  
Attend me then: What is't, I feign would know,  
Which in the morn itself on four doth bear,  
At noon on two, at night on three feet goes?  
Now all his wits together he collects,  
Thinks of a thousand species of things,  
Of Sun-obseruing plants, and those infects,  
To whom one day, life and corruption brings.  
But he whose stars maliciously reserved  
For firmer fastening, their slow influence,  
Must from this little danger b●preseru'd,  
That it not lessen Ruins eminence.  
Therefore with too quick readiness inspired,  
That helped but for advantage, he replies;  
If this be all, strict poser, that's required:  
Danger doth easily teach me to be wise.  
The creature thou inquirest for, is Man,  
Who from the mansion where he dwells, doth borrow  
His mutability: who nothing can  
But by degrees, never the same to morrow.  
View first his childhood, when his heavenly fire  
Proportioned to his stature, scarcely warms  
The earthen house, where Nature it inspires,  
He puts no difference 'twixt his legs and arms,  
But as a sluggard, looking up espies  
The morning's clearness, and again doth sleep:  
So he new-born, falls whence he first did rise,  
Still his acquaintance with the earth to keep.  
When grown to man, with countenance more erect  
Having his weary pilgrimage half spent,  
He views his journeys end with strict aspect,  
Contemplats' heaven, from whence his soul was lent  
As for the earth, with a disdainful heel  
He treads upon't, and makes this orbed base  
The weight of two fair sinewy columns feel.  
And of what else leans on their arched space.  
At last, though as a building he still wears  
The same first strengthening, the same timber, walls,  
Yet crazed with batteries of tempestuous years  
His weakness craves more props, more pedestals.  
For after Sunset, when the spotted night  
Puts on a robe of Stars, though now we see  
More Tapers burning, yet if we'd have more light grow,  
An artificial noon must added be.  
Thus men grown old, perchance they wise may  
Yet if their age put one foot in the grave,  
Necessity enforces when he goes  
That he another to supply it have;  
And that's a staff, to free his withered hand  
From th'unsteady Palsy: Behold him than  
He as Apollo's tripos right doth stand,  
And thus what thou inquirest for is man.  
At this such anger, as a man inflames  
E'en to the height of madness, and transports  
Considerative revenge, from whence wrong came,  
Thither where felt, self hindered to retort,  
Possesses Typhon's offspring, who beholding  
Her date expired, flutters her baleful wings,  
Bears talents 'gainst herself, her hair enfolding  
To comb the curled locks, from their rooted springs.  
Anon she digs wells on her cheeks which bleed  
Torrents of gore: when now this prologue past  
The act ensues, in which as 'twas decreed  
From her steep hill, herself she headlong casts.  
Against whose flinty bottom she beats out  
Her subtle brains, being so of breath bereaved,  
Which apprehended by the distant rout,  
Was with no common shouts, and claps received:  
Some fling their caps up, others cheerly sung  
Paeans of triumph; others strewed the ways,  
Whilst some depart from the confused thrung  
To gather Garlands of victorious Bays.  
In brief, themselves they carefully employ  
To gratulate their Countries 'greed Redeemer:  
The Queen expresses in her looks such joy  
As modesty doth counsel best beseems her.  
There with a public, but discreet embrace,  
Her arms do take possession of their own,  
And having given all the respectful grace,  
That with so short acquaintance could be shown,  
Back they return, ushered with musics voice,  
Whose curious running descant, and choice strain  
Would have moved Marble, & made Hints rejoice,  
Able t'have built Thebes Tower's once again.  
The monster laid upon a silly Ass,  
Is by each fearless vulgar eye discerned,  
Her talents toutcht, as she along doth pass,  
For Learning's knot's undone, who is not learned?  
Come to Amphio●s wondrous architect,  
Whose Waste a seven-claspt girdle doth contain;  
The Conqueror, in conscience yet unchecked,  
Claims his reward, Danger requires gain.  
The honest State denies not, but invests  
His Temples in the Theban Royalty:  
The Queen and he soon took their interests  
The each of other, whereto all agree.  
Appointed is the Nuptial day, and come  
Whispered for fatal by the mourning Doves,  
Nor was the Screech-owl, nor the Raven dumb,  
In signs preposterous of preposterous love.  
Hymen's uncheerely flame doth sadly burn  
And sparely drinks the sullen wax that fries  
Less than gives food, not surfeits; hid powers turn  
Thalassios' Ballads into Elegies.  
O Midwife-Goddesse, Love-betrothing Queen  
Show some misliking wonder to forbid:  
Thou frownest when harlots in thy porch are seen:  
Can incest then be in thy Temple hid?  
Borrow some fury of thy brother fell  
And rive thy guilty Mansion, sane profane.  
Better have no place where thy Rites may dwell,  
Then have it blemished with so foul a stain:  
'Tis no dismembered sacrifice of beasts  
Can an incensed Divinity appease.  
Gods traffic not with men, nor to our feasts  
Bring guest-like palates, for a meal to please.  
They laugh our scorned endeavours, and though now  
These from permission gather thy consent,  
Yet shall they find, that a long wrinkled brow  
Is never levelled with fond blandishment.  
In vain exempt they from thy hostiall flame  
To teach the Paphian Turtles love, the gall,  
When in their kisses they shall find the same,  
And bitterness e'en from their sweets shall fall.  
For take imaginations wings, and fly,  
Over ten Summers crowned with ripened corn,  
Let ruddy grapes, ten luscious Autumns die,  
And from their surfeits see an issue borne:  
Two manly Twins, to call their father, brother,  
This Eteocles, Polynices he,  
Antigone the sister to her mother,  
Too fair a blossom from so foul a Tree.  
Mischief is come to age, and pleasure must  
Resign here birthright, what's supposed clear  
Unknown, with knowledge manifests the rust.  
Bad men are guiltless, till their guilt appear.  
Unyoke thy Team yet, weary wagoner,  
Phoebus hath ta'en his horses from the Car.  
Rough are the ways through which thou hast to er,  
And daylight asks no Pilots Arctic Star.  
The Milchcow with full udder bellows home,  
And rich Menalchas folds his fleecy Sheep:  
When Pyrois next, on champed bit doth foam,  
Forwards proceed, Night calls thee now to sleep.    

OEDIPUS.  
CANTO. III.  

UP sluggish fury, see thy Muse's friend  
Solicits matter for thy numerous verse:  
With morn begin, thou, that thy work wouldst end,  
Though night were thy fit'st hearer, yet rehearse.  
Hereto with hasty steps, thou hast o'errun  
An Infant's fate, by whom a Sire did die,  
A mother's changed relation with her son,  
And riddles made in consanguinity.  
Now with as much celerity set down  
The justice of revengeful Nemesis,  
The sicknesses of an abused Crown,  
How sin is punished, though unknown it is.  
Oh! saddest sister of the sacred nine,  
That shroud'st thyself in cabin hung with black,  
Lend me thy Ebon quill, or guide thou mine:  
Endow me now, with what I most would lack.  
Time wearing out, which ignorance made sweet  
With execrable pleasures virtuous thought  
New ills Pandora's box, new opened Fleet  
By whom worse things, than by the first are wrought.  
No soft Etesiae, with cool blasts doth fan  
The sweaty drops from the least labouring brow,  
And frustrate is the use of breathing, when  
The Air is sucked, as from a scalding stow.  
Phoebus' bestriding the fierce Lions back  
Stirs up the fury of th'unloosed Dog,  
Drinks up the Brooks, burns the Earth's vesture black,  
Wants diving vapours from the fenny Bog.  
Dirce commands no further than her head,  
No watery relics show the stranger proof  
How far Ismenos liquid greatness spread;  
The Oxen pass the Ford with unwashed hoof.  
Sickly Diana keeps her Cloudy Chamber,  
Looks not abroad, but with a Countenance pale,  
No healthful Planet spreads his locks of amber,  
But from the earth a counterfeit exhales.  
Abortive Ceres doth her fruit deny  
Adds fuel to her self-consuming fire,  
Which when the patiented Husbandman doth see  
He weeps perhaps to quench his scorched desire.  
There is no place in Thebes stretched Territories  
Free from some plague or other, no age, no sex:  
Here paralleled, were all examples, Stories  
That ever did this Universe perplex.  
Both old and young, fathers and children fall,  
Wives with their husbands, & what's most unkind  
Friends are not left to weep friends funerals,  
Death, just in this, let's none to stay behind.  
Ere scarce the son be raked up in the pyre,  
The flame's again renewed by the mother,  
Oft are they burned in the self-same fire  
Which erst they kindled to consume another.  
No Art prevails: Physicians cannot give  
Themselves assurance, showing their skill they die,  
Promising life to others, they not live:  
The earth more Tombs, the woods more piles deny.  
In these afflictions, the sad King distressed  
Powers out himself in prayer, but unheard,  
He doth entreat to have those ills redressed,  
Or that death only bened from him debarred.  
jone had his Offerings burnt to him with Oak  
juno her Lamb, Isis her Calf did smell:  
The Hyacinth Apollo did invoke,  
Poppy on Ceres safforned Altars fell.  
Pan knew his Pine-tree, & the Lar their whelps,  
Venus her Pigeons, decked with crimson Roses,  
But none are willing to employ their helps.  
No God of Thebes yet otherwise disposes,  
Therefore to neighbouring Delphos they repair,  
Where they do suppliant ask what must be done  
For Thebos deliverance, what offering, prayer,  
The Gods require for satisfaction.  
To them an answer ushered was with Thunder,  
No Star shall look on Thebes but with a frown:  
No plague unheard of, till 'tis felt with wonder,  
Shall cease its siege 'gainst your unpeopled Town,  
Till he that was the murderer of your King  
Be from the Air you breath in banished,  
His wretched presence doth these mischiefs bring  
Which live in him, and shall pursue him fled.  
The King, great thanks upon the Gods bestows,  
Commanding that which to perform behoves,  
The same which justice to oppression owes,  
No more they may establish subjects loves.  
Soon shall my Country's plague be cured now;  
Oh easy Gods, that with compassionate eyes  
Behold Thebes desolate buildings, mark my vow,  
And be auspicious to my enterprise.  
Be present too oh daylights greater guide,  
Impaled with Crownets of Majestic rays,  
That in twelve Empires dost thy Orb divide,  
Variously treading heavens distinguished maze.  
Night-wandering Goddess be not absent neither,  
Nor thou that dost in iron fetters bind  
Blasting Praenester, that with a word canst either  
Call home, or send abroad thy struggling wind.  
And thou lascivious Neptune that dost cast  
Thy amorous arms, thy Trident laid aside,  
Almost about my Monarchies small Waste  
As thou by both her watered sides dost ride.  
Attend me all: By whose hand Laius fell  
Let him no harbour, no abode enjoy,  
No not himself, wherein himself may dwell,  
But when none else, let he himself annoy.  
May his own household God's unfaithful prove,  
And the unnatural Lart in exile worse,  
Reap he most shame, from what he most doth love,  
And may his wife an impious offspring nurse.  
Kill he his father, as he killed his King,  
And let his acts my wishes power outgo,  
If a worse fate than mine can torment bring  
Heaped up, yet do he, what I shun to do.  
And for myself, as I with prayers desire  
My untouched parents may proclaim me good,  
No cooling intermission shall retire,  
Revenge, till blood be washed away with blo●d.  
But play not with us, true Prophetic spirit,  
Thus by denied grants to make us long:  
Search is ambitious, and would all inherit,  
Secrets withheld make inquisition strong.  
A taste but whets the lionish appetite  
For satisfactions earnester p●●●●●it.  
Unto a prisoner, the sp●●e-scanted light  
A bondage is, to want it, and to view't.  
Then do thou (heavenly good●●s) whom it pleased  
To show the means, further the means unfold:  
Point forth the man, that soon we may be eased,  
Or teach us to forget what thou hast ●old.  
Else as impatient patients we far,  
To whom the Ch●●●●k hath prescribed receipts  
Of such ingredients as so hidden are,  
That they are doubted to be skilled deceits.  
Urge Gods no more, replies the sacred Priest:  
Man must work somewhat for his better being,  
Yet if with this thou not contented be'st,  
Blinded Tiresias eyes must help thy seeing.  
Forthwith the faithful Creon is dismissed  
To Phoebus second Oracle, who late  
Lost sight, yet gained a better than he missed,  
As he Celestial matters did debate.  
Far from the City lies a nighted Grove  
Down in the Valley where fleet Dirce glides,  
Where th'untouched Cypress spreads his boughs above  
And from the Sun the subject Bramble hides.  
The aged Oak his rotten branches tends,  
From whose corrupted side thick jelly drops,  
And stooping under many years he bends  
To rest his crippled trunk on younger props:  
There bitter-berried Daphne, Myrrha stood,  
The trembling Apse, the Birch, with smooth thin rind:  
Th'eternal Cedar for my lines too good,  
The upright Alder, and Sunne-guilded Pine.  
In midst of this is situate a Tree  
Of wondrous greatness, whose extended arms  
Meet the large confines of its Empery,  
And fence the weak inhabitants from harms.  
Within the hollow compass of whose trunk  
Nature had cut out an uncivil den,  
Which a cold fountain, without ceasing drunk  
Up of the earth, moats with a miry fen.  
Hear, by his daughter Manto led he meets,  
Reverenced Tiresias, And from the King  
Him, all humanity observed, he greets;  
And further utters what him thither brings.  
Then as the never-erring Prophet wild,  
A hostiall fire upon the Altar's made  
Which they before of Turffs of earth did build,  
And there two coal-black Heifers on were laid.  
The sacred Vates standing by the fire  
In direful robes clad, with box-tree crowned,  
Oft waves his powerful wand, and then inquires  
What Omens in the beasts or flames are found.  
Anon he sings the hideous magic verse,  
Calls on the names of duteous Spirits thrice,  
Thrice doth he smite the shook earth, thrice rehearse,  
What devils may compel, or devils 'tice.  
A bloody shower from his right hand falls,  
And from his left drops blood with Bacchus mixed:  
Then with more earnest voice again he calls  
With steady countenance, on the centre fixed.  
Now dismal Hecate's Dogs began to bark,  
Which to repeat, the wood by Echoes taught  
A night comes now there answering day so dark.  
A blinder Chaos seen, than th'old was thought.  
Up rise the subjects of infernal Dis,  
At which each Tree his frighted branches heaves,  
Many an Oak in splinters shivered is,  
Many an Elm shrinks up his blasted leaves.  
Earth suffers violence, and open rends  
Her sealed up womb, to show her tombed dead,  
The subtle spirits, penetrating fiends  
Out of her caverns lift their crisped heads:  
There might one see the grisly God of Hell  
Put his numb hand out of his frozen Lake;  
Nights very self, three sistered furies fell,  
Picking quaint morsels, on a speckled snake.  
The viperous brood of strange produced brothers.  
Blind Fury running careless of a guide,  
Horror with upright hair, And all the others  
Eternal Darkness doth create or hide.  
Grief 'gainst itself that exercises rage,  
Sickness that droops a lither-head down hung,  
Fear never certain, selfe-despising age,  
Detraction last with her backbiting tongue,  
That even Manto customed to these Rites  
Astonished stood: only her unmoved Sire  
Doth more the ghosts, than ghosts can men affright,  
That trembling Fiends closely themselves retire.  
When he afresh effectual charms infers  
Grave-bedrid corpse out of Death's sleep to wake,  
Who breaking  their Marble sepulchres,  
Their living forms unto their souls retake.  
So many leaves doth not Oeta shed,  
So many Swallows doth not Winter chase,  
So many Bees are not in Hybla fed,  
So many billows wash not Neptune's face,  
As there of sundry Nations ghosts appeared,  
Some with dismembered bodies, some with scars  
Doubly disfigured, and were doubly seared:  
Others untouched, slain by loves stroke, not wars.  
Amongst the rest, Laiu● his head erects  
With meager looks, gored through with ghastly wounds,  
That almost none him by his form detects,  
While thus he speaks, while he in tears abounds.  
Oh house of Cadmus never satisfied  
With blood of kindred, once my Country dear,  
Whose first bade offspring by each other died,  
And still that enmity the last doth bear:  
'Tis not heavens anger, but thy wickedness  
Thou labourest with, no Southwind pestilence brings.  
The thirsty earth unquenched with rain, hurts less,  
Than th'abominable action of thy Kings.  
'Tis he not yet corrected parricide  
My murderer, that for satisfaction  
Of a Sires death, a Mother makes his Bride,  
A worse father, though too bad a son.  
'Tis he, to one womb twice a divers load,  
Cursed with prodigious issue, who, alas!  
Upon himself two brothers hath bestowed:  
Darker Aenig●aes, then ere Sphinxes was.  
He, He, it is, that now my Sceptre sways:  
Whom I, with all your City prosecute,  
Only his exile misery allays,  
And till revenged I still will persecute.  
He gone, the painted spring shall soon repair  
Your withered Arbours with their wont green;  
No poisonous vapour shall infect your Air,  
But all shall be, as it before hath been.  
This done, and the infernal crew dismissed,  
Cre●● departs with sundry thoughts perplexed,  
Who in no steady counsel can persist,  
Approving what's disproved by the next.  
Anon the King is instant for the news,  
And after wanton preparation ended,  
The messenger would feign himself excuse  
From telling it, by telling where it tended.  
But he more earnest through denial, threats  
By torment to extort it from his tongue,  
And mixes with his anger fair entreats,  
Till both prevailed: he hears it, and was stung.  
A while with cogitations much distract,  
He pauses on it, and gins to doubt  
Some subtle stratagem, contrived compact,  
Which Creon forged his Crown to go about.  
This he augments by his unwillingness  
And politic deferings, common tricks  
In those near Crowns to tempt King's easiness,  
When in the State, themselves, they'd surer fix.  
And so concludes of this, for he that knows  
His innocence, cened without prejudice  
Of Reason, credit such reports as those:  
The Gods persuade not what's known otherwise.  
Polybius that yet lives, and yet enjoys  
Meropes kisses, which I never tried  
But as a son, all argument destroys  
Either of incest, or of parricide.  
And as for Laius' death, you Gods can tell  
I'm ignorant of it, my memory  
Records but one that ere by my hand fell:  
Hard is my fortune if that one were he.  
Yet to be further satisfied, he hies,  
Conjures a true narration from his wife  
Of Laius' fortunes; she with tears descries  
Each circumstance both of his death, and life.  
The persons age, the manner, time, and place,  
How, when, and where, he slaughtered was, agree,  
Prove him an homicide unto his face,  
By demonstration, not by fallacy.  
Long he debates the matter in his mind,  
Wherein no resolution can be found;  
Kings wreaths about their heads are faster twined  
Then slightly may be from their heads unbound.  
He balances in even poized scales  
A kingdoms glories, with a kingdoms woes:  
Fear holds when one, love when the other, fails,  
The eye both heaviest, both doth lightest suppose.  
Pills wrapped in sugar, hounyed bitterness,  
The irish taste perswasively dissuades,  
Infected beauty, gorgeous wretchedness  
With tempting frights, emboldening makes afraid,  
Even as the Lodestones Northern Pole doth hold  
Th'attracted Iron, with an amorous kiss:  
But turning thence her wanton lips, behold  
Strange love for stranger hatred changed is.  
Such is the nature of a Crown distressed,  
View only outside, and we're captives ta'en:  
But if we turn our eyes, to see the rest,  
It frights more powrfully, than it can detain.  
Feign would the King, our subject, still command,  
And would as feign his Country had relief.  
Thoughts undetermined, yet are at a stand,  
Whether to keep with care, or leave with grief.  
Fixed thus in wavering, lo a gray-haired man  
Feebled with age and weariness, who first  
E'er Oedipus was a Corinthian,  
Out of Cithaeron brought him to be nursed,  
From Corinth's Coufines to Boe●tia comes,  
With news of crazed Polybius mellowed fall  
Also from foreign rule to fetch him home  
To order his Sires Crown, and Funeral.  
His message done, still Oedipus inquires  
About his death: and much distempered,  
Was it not I (says he) that built the fire  
That was ordained to be his funeral bed?  
Mark if thou knowst me, prithee, don't I look  
Like to a parricide, surfeited with death?  
Say, was he patiented when he life forsook?  
Breathed he not Oedipus when he scarce had breath?  
What disease had he? was't not some unkind thought  
Of my misconstered disobedience?  
Which, whilst within to smother it he sought,  
Festered and burst like to an ulcer thence.  
I, I, 'tis so, the wily Gods beguile  
Me in my fortunes, when their dread intent  
Can have no way been brought about, but while  
My niceness was too wary to prevent:  
I'll try your cunning further: you that made  
My power above itself, there's yet another,  
And a worse mischief you to me have laid,  
See if my absence can defile my mother.  
Never will I her loved loathed presence grant  
To my witched eyes, I must I know not whither,  
Corinth and Thebes live happy in my want,  
Sith without mischief I can live in neither.  
Dis-jointed words end their distracted sound  
In as discordant gesture, giving note  
What troubled dregs did in his brain abound  
When on his looks Frenzy herself did quote.  
Compassion, with patheticke letters prints  
A feeling seeing in spectators by:  
No shame of womanish imputation stints  
The helpless fluxure of th'affected eye.  
Moved with the rest, the aged messenger,  
Learned in the grounds from whence his grief did rise,  
Shows him how far his woes & fears did err,  
And clears his doubts with worse uncertainties.  
Fear not (says he) Meropes wrongful bed,  
She's but a fostering stranger to thy blood,  
These hands to her first thee delivered;  
But to supply defects in womanhood.  
Polybius claimed no interest of a son  
In thee; but of what he bestowed on thee,  
Being his by nothing but adoption:  
Thou nothing owd'st but thanks for charity.  
As a mistrustful patient long diseased,  
His medicines doubts, mislikes his uncouth drinks,  
Wherewith his queasy stomach is displeased,  
His sickness better than his potion thinks:  
So fares the King, who in this remedy  
Collects more dangerous plots to be included,  
Fears that this knowledge will worse ills descry,  
Wishes he still were, as at first, deluded.  
But sith begun, he's minded to go on,  
Fall out what will, he all will have revealed,  
Charging a true and full narration  
Of all his fortunes hitherto concealed;  
Which thus the old man uttered. At what time  
The Sun attended by the heavenly Twins,  
Smiled on the wanton Springs enamelled prime,  
Looked on clear Strymons fishes guilded fins:  
When first the daizies oped their painted lids,  
To wait on Titan without slumbering home:  
I followed my lascivious wandering kids,  
Wither Cithaeron swells her fertile womb.  
There of a Theban Shepherd I received  
Thyself a child, bored through the feet with plants,  
Almost of life, through cruelty bereaved.  
By what chance done, to tell my knowledge wants,  
Your Parents likewise are unknown to me:  
Nor can I tell what of the Swain became,  
And if my sight helps not my memory,  
Describe I cannot, nor unfold his name.  
Herewith the king, eager to sift out all,  
Himself will wretched absolutely make;  
And Phorbas with his fellow swains home calls,  
Of whom the old man new acquaintance takes.  
The rest dismissed, of him it is demanded,  
What child it was, that he away did give:  
At which he blushes; and again commanded,  
A poor found child, he says, that could not live.  
That answer though will not enough suffice,  
The infant's parents, and mischance are urged  
On him, which he with timorousness denies,  
And oft himself with protestations purged.  
Till wrinched awhile upon the torturing rack,  
His constancy turns coward, and bewrays  
Collected secrets, that no proof did lack:  
Thy wife was mother to that child he says.  
Even as a Lion on the Lybian plain,  
Struck with an Arrow from the hunter's Bow,  
Shakes the shagged order of his golden main,  
Doth wrathful fires from his nostrils blow,  
Spits seas of foam from his incensed jaws,  
Shoots sparkles from his ruddy eyeballs, rends  
The earth's green mantle with revengeful claws;  
And 'gainst himself last his fury bends:  
So rages Oedipus, and spurns the ground,  
To call up Furies; lifts his eyes to heaven,  
To see if bright Astraea there sat crowned  
With wreaths of stars above the wandering seve●●.  
Oft doth he shake his head, as if he meant  
Again to settle his distracted brains,  
Many a groan from his gripped heart is sent,  
Many a trembling Earthquake he sustains.  
Till (as extremities never long endure)  
Sleep binds his senses in a jail of jet:  
Yet horror here is not enough secure,  
Dreams catch his swimming fancies in a net.  
His slumbers broken with illusive sights,  
Raise sudden starts, mutter out words abrupt,  
His hair on tiptoe, heaves with vain affrights:  
Rest do minds troubled, rest doth interrupt.  
Anon he wakes, calls for his horse to fly.  
He is pursued: 'tis true, but whither wilt?  
Thou hearest about thee thine own enemy,  
And fly thy country mayst, but not thy guilt.  
Perceiving then how he did err, he smiles  
Even out of griefs Antiperistasie.  
Alas thou err'st not, nor thy dream beguiles,  
Pursued thou art, Crimes the pursuers be.  
But Grief and he grown more familiar,  
Strange welcomes, Artful gratulations ceased,  
Which more in Inns than Mansions used are,  
Not to a daily, but a seldom guest.  
Yet when acquaintance would unnurtured grow,  
And too much on a wearied friend rely,  
Unmannerly, till it be bidden go,  
He looks upon it with disliking eye.  
And to be rid of cumbersome intrusion,  
Cuts kindness shorter, and directly chides  
His trouble from him; when ingrate confusion  
Claims it as due, and courtesy derides:  
And having got the upper hand, insults  
Over his dejected owner, rebell-like:  
As when Ambition gathering head, revolts,  
And at a crowns forbidden lustre strikes.  
When as the King sees that submit he must,  
Impatience thus in syllables breaks out.  
Blast me some powerful vapour into dust,  
Circled me Furies with your brands about.  
Oh let the weight of my impiety  
Press down the centre, dig itself a grave,  
Or from two poles crack the warped axle-tree,  
That Nature may a second labour have.  
Earth shrink thou under me: and thou to whom  
Divided Chaos pitchy darkness sent,  
Let me inhabit in some vaulted room  
Where no light is through guilty crannies lent.  
You Citizens of Thebes, for me distressed,  
Tomb me alive with stones: you childless mothers,  
Striping the milk out from your unsucked breasts,  
You that have lost the names of sons & brothers:  
You widowed Matrons, love-deprived Maids,  
Pierce me at once with clamours loud and thick:  
'Tis I whom Gods do hate, and Man upbraids,  
The very But where Fate her Arrows stick.  
Why do I stay? why doth not heaven ordain  
Some punishing Iron? or some strangling rope?  
Or why descends not some consuming rain?  
Is vengeance laid up for a further scope?  
I have sinned all I can; but I mistake,  
A punishment cannot be thought on fit:  
There's some unheardof creature yet to make,  
That joined to cruelty, may have Art and wit.  
methinks I feel a Vulture peck my liver,  
My entrails by some Tiger eaten up,  
Or in the muddy bottom of a river,  
The nibbling Fry upon my carcase sup.  
Oh my sad soul, do not look pale on death,  
Fear not thy period unto all thy fears:  
Delights but Commas are to gather breath,  
Lest we should tyre ere the full points appears.  
See here (for now he had unsheathed his sword)  
How easy is it for a man to die?  
One little touch, yea oftentimes a word,  
Man's great bulk falls, even conquered with a fly.  
There is but one, and that a narrow way  
To enter life; but if we would go out,  
Of many thousand beaten paths we may  
Take our own choice, we need not go about.  
And this is all that man can call his own,  
What else he hath, Nature or Fortune lends:  
Many can life deny, but death can none.  
Only to die, upon man's will depends.  
Dye then: so setting to his naked breast  
His weapon's point, ready thereon to fall,  
Somewhat detains him to perform the rest;  
Not that he thought death grievous, but too small.  
Death is a Felons sentence: and shall I  
For parricide and incest feel no more?  
Some men do count it happiness to die,  
A cure esteem it rather than a sore.  
Yet say, the violent separation  
Of the acquainted body from the soul,  
Chief to such, who no relation  
Have but to earth, doth manliness control;  
What then? thy Father's death, thy death requires:  
Thy death for incest must the God appease:  
Thy death must quench thy country's funeral fires:  
And with one death canst satisfy all these?  
Couldst thou die often, could thy corpses renewed  
Change tenants oft, couldst thou be borne again,  
Dye again faultless, could vicissitude  
Of life and death draw out an endless pain,  
Revenge might somewhat be suffisd; but now  
Life is thy greatest torment, death espying  
As more remote, so with more frightful brow,  
Sith thou but once, oh be thou long in dying,  
'Tis now grown vulgar to be Stoical,  
Peasants redeem with easy deaths their fears:  
Who would be manly, or heroical,  
What Cowards think intolerable, bears.  
Linger my hasty soul, be not bankerous  
Merely in policy, break not so soon,  
Some sighs thou still hast left to furnish out  
Thy trade with breath; hold out till they be done.  
A sudden shower from his eyes doth rain,  
Have I tears yet? says he: alas vain wet,  
Thou canst not wash away one spot, one stain  
That my least guilt upon my fame hath set.  
'Tis not enough to weep, I oft have used  
Tears in my mirth; let them not look out here,  
Yet power it down, if there be blood infused,  
And see the eye drop after its shed tear;  
You shall weep blood (mine eyes:) & sets his nails  
Where sight had built her azure monument:  
Thus shed yourselves, no moisture else prevails.  
Then from their cracked strings he his eyeballs rend.  
Now, now 'tis finished: I am clear, no light  
Betrays me to myself, I'm living dead,  
Exempt from those that live, by wanting sight;  
From those are dead, because unburied.  
So having all the office of his eye  
Discharged by th'other four, his guidlesse feet  
Are ushered by his hands, when suddenly  
His wife, his mother, both in one him meets.  
Son, husband (cries she) would not both, or neither,  
My wombs Primitiae, my beds second Lord!  
Why turnst thou hence thy hollow circles? whither  
Those rings without their jewels? hold this sword,  
Look on my bosom with the eyes of thought,  
Lend thou the hand, and I will lend the sight:  
My death thou mayst, that hast a fathers wrought.  
Strike thou but home, thou canst not but strike right  
Why dost thou stay? Am I not guilty too?  
Then bear not all the punishment alone,  
Some of't is mine; on me mine own bestow:  
A heavy burden parted seemeth none.  
Oh I conjure thee by these lamps extinguished,  
By all the wrongs and rights that we have done,  
By this womb lastly that hath not distinguished  
Her love betwixt a husband, and a son.  
O'ercome at length, he strikes with one full blow●  
Her life itself to a long flight betakes:  
He wanders thence, secured in dangers now,  
Made less already, then fate less can make.  
Long lived he so, till heaven compassion took:  
Revenge herself saw too much satisfied,  
jone with unwonted thunderbolt him struck  
Into a heap of peaceful ashes dried.  
His sons both kill wars, his daughter's fate,  
To following buskined Writers I commit:  
My Popiniay is lessoned not to prate,  
Where many words may argue little wit.   
FINIS.