No More Learning

in Lil. Germ_. --_Horace_. --To judge of poets is only the
faculty of poets; and not of all poets, but the best. _Nemo infelicius
de poetis judicavit_, _quam qui de poetis scripsit_. {148a} But some
will say critics are a kind of tinkers, that make more faults than they
mend ordinarily. See their diseases and those of grammarians. It is
true, many bodies are the worse for the meddling with; and the multitude
of physicians hath destroyed many sound patients with their wrong
practice. But the office of a true critic or censor is, not to throw by
a letter anywhere, or damn an innocent syllable, but lay the words
together, and amend them; judge sincerely of the author and his matter,
which is the sign of solid and perfect learning in a man. Such was
Horace, an author of much civility, and (if any one among the heathen can
be) the best master both of virtue and wisdom; an excellent and true
judge upon cause and reason, not because he thought so, but because he
knew so out of use and experience.

Cato, the grammarian, a defender of Lucilius. {149a}

"Cato grammaticus, Latina syren,
Qui solus legit, et facit poetas. "

Quintilian of the same heresy, but rejected. {149b}

Horace, his judgment of Choerillus defended against Joseph Scaliger.
{149c} And of Laberius against Julius. {149d}

But chiefly his opinion of Plautus {149e} vindicated against many that
are offended, and say it is a hard censure upon the parent of all conceit
and sharpness. And they wish it had not fallen from so great a master
and censor in the art, whose bondmen knew better how to judge of Plautus
than any that dare patronise the family of learning in this age; who
could not be ignorant of the judgment of the times in which he lived,
when poetry and the Latin language were at the height; especially being a
man so conversant and inwardly familiar with the censures of great men
that did discourse of these things daily amongst themselves. Again, a
man so gracious and in high favour with the Emperor, as Augustus often
called him his witty manling (for the littleness of his stature), and, if
we may trust antiquity, had designed him for a secretary of estate, and
invited him to the palace, which he modestly prayed off and refused.

_Terence_. --_Menander_. Horace did so highly esteem Terence's comedies,
as he ascribes the art in comedy to him alone among the Latins, and joins
him with Menander.

Now, let us see what may be said for either, to defend Horace's judgment
to posterity and not wholly to condemn Plautus.

_The parts of a comedy and tragedy_. --The parts of a comedy are the same
with a tragedy, and the end is partly the same, for they both delight and
teach; the comics are called ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? , of the Greeks no less than the
tragics.

_Aristotle_. --_Plato_. --_Homer_. --Nor is the moving of laughter always the
end of comedy; that is rather a fowling for the people's delight, or
their fooling. For, as Aristotle says rightly, the moving of laughter is
a fault in comedy, a kind of turpitude that depraves some part of a man's
nature without a disease. As a wry face without pain moves laughter, or
a deformed vizard, or a rude clown dressed in a lady's habit and using
her actions; we dislike and scorn such representations which made the
ancient philosophers ever think laughter unfitting in a wise man. And
this induced Plato to esteem of Homer as a sacrilegious person, because
he presented the gods sometimes laughing. As also it is divinely said of
Aristotle, that to seen ridiculous is a part of dishonesty, and foolish.

_The wit of the old comedy_. --So that what either in the words or sense of
an author, or in the language or actions of men, is awry or depraved does
strangely stir mean affections, and provoke for the most part to
laughter. And therefore it was clear that all insolent and obscene
speeches, jests upon the best men, injuries to particular persons,
perverse and sinister sayings (and the rather unexpected) in the old
comedy did move laughter, especially where it did imitate any dishonesty,
and scurrility came forth in the place of wit, which, who understands the
nature and genius of laughter cannot but perfectly know.

_Aristophanes_. --_Plautus_. --Of which Aristophanes affords an ample
harvest, having not only outgone Plautus or any other in that kind, but
expressed all the moods and figures of what is ridiculous oddly. In
short, as vinegar is not accounted good until the wine be corrupted, so
jests that are true and natural seldom raise laughter with the beast the
multitude. They love nothing that is right and proper. The farther it
runs from reason or possibility with them the better it is.

_Socrates_. --_Theatrical wit_. --What could have made them laugh, like to
see Socrates presented, that example of all good life, honesty, and
virtue, to have him hoisted up with a pulley, and there play the
philosopher in a basket; measure how many foot a flea could skip
geometrically, by a just scale, and edify the people from the engine.
This was theatrical wit, right stage jesting, and relishing a playhouse,
invented for scorn and laughter; whereas, if it had savoured of equity,
truth, perspicuity, and candour, to have tasten a wise or a learned
palate,--spit it out presently! this is bitter and profitable: this
instructs and would inform us: what need we know any thing, that are
nobly born, more than a horse-race, or a hunting-match, our day to break
with citizens, and such innate mysteries?

_The cart_. --This is truly leaping from the stage to the tumbril again,
reducing all wit to the original dung-cart.



Of the magnitude and compass of any fable, epic or dramatic.


_What the measure of a fable is_. --_The fable or plot of a poem
defined_. --_The epic fable_, _differing from the dramatic_. --To the
resolving of this question we must first agree in the definition of the
fable. The fable is called the imitation of one entire and perfect
action, whose parts are so joined and knit together, as nothing in the
structure can be changed, or taken away, without impairing or troubling
the whole, of which there is a proportionable magnitude in the members.
As for example: if a man would build a house, he would first appoint a
place to build it in, which he would define within certain bounds; so in
the constitution of a poem, the action is aimed at by the poet, which
answers place in a building, and that action hath his largeness, compass,
and proportion. But as a court or king's palace requires other
dimensions than a private house, so the epic asks a magnitude from other
poems, since what is place in the one is action in the other; the
difference is an space. So that by this definition we conclude the fable
to be the imitation of one perfect and entire action, as one perfect and
entire place is required to a building. By perfect, we understand that
to which nothing is wanting, as place to the building that is raised, and
action to the fable that is formed. It is perfect, perhaps not for a
court or king's palace, which requires a greater ground, but for the
structure he would raise; so the space of the action may not prove large
enough for the epic fable, yet be perfect for the dramatic, and whole.

_What we understand by whole_. --Whole we call that, and perfect, which
hath a beginning, a midst, and an end. So the place of any building may
be whole and entire for that work, though too little for a palace. As to
a tragedy or a comedy, the action may be convenient and perfect that
would not fit an epic poem in magnitude. So a lion is a perfect creature
in himself, though it be less than that of a buffalo or a rhinocerote.
They differ but in specie: either in the kind is absolute; both have
their parts, and either the whole. Therefore, as in every body so in
every action, which is the subject of a just work, there is required a
certain proportionable greatness, neither too vast nor too minute. For
that which happens to the eyes when we behold a body, the same happens to
the memory when we contemplate an action. I look upon a monstrous giant,
as Tityus, whose body covered nine acres of land, and mine eye sticks
upon every part; the whole that consists of those parts will never be
taken in at one entire view. So in a fable, if the action be too great,
we can never comprehend the whole together in our imagination. Again, if
it be too little, there ariseth no pleasure out of the object; it affords
the view no stay; it is beheld, and vanisheth at once. As if we should
look upon an ant or pismire, the parts fly the sight, and the whole
considered is almost nothing. The same happens in action, which is the
object of memory, as the body is of sight. Too vast oppresseth the eyes,
and exceeds the memory; too little scarce admits either.

_What is the utmost bounds of a fable_. --Now in every action it behoves
the poet to know which is his utmost bound, how far with fitness and a
necessary proportion he may produce and determine it; that is, till
either good fortune change into the worse, or the worse into the better.
For as a body without proportion cannot be goodly, no more can the
action, either in comedy or tragedy, without his fit bounds: and every
bound, for the nature of the subject, is esteemed the best that is
largest, till it can increase no more; so it behoves the action in
tragedy or comedy to be let grow till the necessity ask a conclusion;
wherein two things are to be considered: first, that it exceed not the
compass of one day; next, that there be place left for digression and
art. For the episodes and digressions in a fable are the same that
household stuff and other furniture are in a house. And so far from the
measure and extent of a fable dramatic.

_What by one and entire_. --Now that it should be one and entire. One is
considerable two ways; either as it is only separate, and by itself, or
as being composed of many parts, it begins to be one as those parts grow
or are wrought together. That it should be one the first away alone, and
by itself, no man that hath tasted letters ever would say, especially
having required before a just magnitude and equal proportion of the parts
in themselves. Neither of which can possibly be, if the action be single
and separate, not composed of parts, which laid together in themselves,
with an equal and fitting proportion, tend to the same end; which thing
out of antiquity itself hath deceived many, and more this day it doth
deceive.

_Hercules_. --_Theseus_. --_Achilles_. --_Ulysses_. --_Homer and
Virgil_. --_AEneas_. --_Venus_. --So many there be of old that have thought the
action of one man to be one, as of Hercules, Theseus, Achilles, Ulysses,
and other heroes; which is both foolish and false, since by one and the
same person many things may be severally done which cannot fitly be
referred or joined to the same end: which not only the excellent tragic
poets, but the best masters of the epic, Homer and Virgil, saw. For
though the argument of an epic poem be far more diffused and poured out
than that of tragedy, yet Virgil, writing of AEneas, hath pretermitted
many things. He neither tells how he was born, how brought up, how he
fought with Achilles, how he was snatched out of the battle by Venus; but
that one thing, how he came into Italy, he prosecutes in twelve books.
The rest of his journey, his error by sea, the sack of Troy, are put not
as the argument of the work, but episodes of the argument. So Homer laid
by many things of Ulysses, and handled no more than he saw tended to one
and the same end.

_Theseus_. --_Hercules_. --_Juvenal_. --_Codrus_. --_Sophocles_. --_Ajax_. --
_Ulysses_. --Contrary to which, and foolishly, those poets did, whom the
philosopher taxeth, of whom one gathered all the actions of Theseus,
another put all the labours of Hercules in one work. So did he whom
Juvenal mentions in the beginning, "hoarse Codrus," that recited a volume
compiled, which he called his Theseide, not yet finished, to the great
trouble both of his hearers and himself; amongst which there were many
parts had no coherence nor kindred one with another, so far they were
from being one action, one fable. For as a house, consisting of divers
materials, becomes one structure and one dwelling, so an action, composed
of divers parts, may become one fable, epic or dramatic. For example, in
a tragedy, look upon Sophocles, his Ajax: Ajax, deprived of Achilles'
armour, which he hoped from the suffrage of the Greeks, disdains; and,
growing impatient of the injury, rageth, and runs mad. In that humour he
doth many senseless things, and at last falls upon the Grecian flock and
kills a great ram for Ulysses: returning to his senses, he grows ashamed
of the scorn, and kills himself; and is by the chiefs of the Greeks
forbidden burial. These things agree and hang together, not as they were
done, but as seeming to be done, which made the action whole, entire, and
absolute.

_The conclusion concerning the whole_, _and the parts_. --_Which are
episodes_. --_Ajax and Hector_. --_Homer_. --For the whole, as it consisteth of
parts, so without all the parts it is not the whole; and to make it
absolute is required not only the parts, but such parts as are true. For
a part of the whole was true; which, if you take away, you either change
the whole or it is not the whole. For if it be such a part, as, being
present or absent, nothing concerns the whole, it cannot be called a part
of the whole; and such are the episodes, of which hereafter. For the
present here is one example: the single combat of Ajax with Hector, as it
is at large described in Homer, nothing belongs to this Ajax of
Sophocles.

You admire no poems but such as run like a brewer's cart upon the stones,
hobbling:--

"Et, quae per salebras, altaque saxa cadunt,
Accius et quidquid Pacuviusque vomunt.
Attonitusque legis terrai, frugiferai. " {160a}




SOME POEMS.


TO WILLIAM CAMDEN.


CAMDEN! most reverend head, to whom I owe
All that I am in arts, all that I know--
How nothing's that! to whom my country owes
The great renown, and name wherewith she goes!
Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave,
More high, more holy, that she more would crave.
What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!
What sight in searching the most antique springs!
What weight, and what authority in thy speech!
Men scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.
Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,
Which conquers all, be once o'ercome by thee.
Many of thine, this better could, than I;
But for their powers, accept my piety.



ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER.


HERE lies, to each her parents' ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth;
Yet, all heaven's gifts, being heaven's due,
It makes the father less to rue.
At six months' end, she parted hence,
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soul heaven's queen, whose name she bears,
In comfort of her mother's tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin-train;
Where, while that severed doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth;
Which cover lightly, gentle earth!



ON MY FIRST SON.


FAREWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy;
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
Oh! could I lose all father, now! for why,
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's, and flesh's rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age!
Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry;
For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.



TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT.


HOW I do love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse,
That unto me dost such religion use!
How I do fear myself, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou takest!
What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praisest me,
For writing better, I must envy thee.



OF LIFE AND DEATH.


THE ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds:
Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilful blind is he, then, that would stray,
And hath it in his powers to make his way!
This world death's region is, the other life's:
And here it should be one of our first strifes,
So to front death, as men might judge us past it:
For good men but see death, the wicked taste it.



INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER.


TO-NIGHT, grave sir, both my poor house and I
Do equally desire your company;
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,
But that your worth will dignify our feast,
With those that come; whose grace may make that seem
Something, which else could hope for no esteem.
It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates
The entertainment perfect, not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,
An olive, capers, or some bitter salad
Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,
Lemons and wine for sauce: to these, a coney
Is not to be despaired of for our money;
And though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,
The sky not falling, think we may have larks.
I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some
May yet be there; and godwit if we can;
Knat, rail, and ruff, too. Howsoe'er, my man
Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or of some better book to us,
Of which we'll speak our minds, amidst our meat;
And I'll profess no verses to repeat:
To this if aught appear, which I not know of,
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;
But that which most doth take my muse and me,
Is a pure cup of rich canary wine,
Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine:
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted.
Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but Luther's beer, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooly' or Parrot by;
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men;
But at our parting we will be as when
We innocently met. No simple word
That shall be uttered at our mirthful board,
Shall make us sad next morning; or affright
The liberty that we'll enjoy to-night.



EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY,
A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL.


WEEP with me all you that read
This little story;
And know for whom a tear you shed,
Death's self is sorry.
'Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,
As heaven and nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.
Years he numbered scarce thirteen
When fates turned cruel;
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel;
And did act, what now we moan,
Old men so duly;
As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one
He played so truly.
So, by error to his fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since, alas, too late!
They have repented;
And have sought to give new birth,
In baths to steep him;
But, being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.



EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. H.


WOULDST thou hear what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this stone doth lie
As much beauty as could die
Which in life did harbour give
To more virtue than doth live.
If, at all, she had a fault
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
The other let it sleep with death.
Fitter, where it died, to tell,
Than that it lived at all. Farewell.



EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.


UNDERNEATH this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death! ere thou hast slain another,
Learned, and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.



TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH
LEFT US.


TO draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such,
As neither man, nor muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd, or whore,
Should praise a matron; what would hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above the ill-fortune of them, or the need.
I, therefore, will begin: Soul of the age!
The applause! delight! and wonder of our stage!
My Shakspeare rise!
I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses;
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlow's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I will not seek
For names: but call forth thundering Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of nature's family.
Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His heart doth give the fashion: and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muse's anvil; turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made, as well as born.
And such wert thou! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race
Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-turned, and true filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.



TO CELIA.


DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.



THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS.


SEE the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And, enamoured, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her!
And from her arched brows, such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!



IN THE PERSON OF WOMANKIND.
A SONG APOLOGETIC.


MEN, if you love us, play no more
The fools or tyrants with your friends,
To make us still sing o'er and o'er
Our own false praises, for your ends:
We have both wits and fancies too,
And, if we must, let's sing of you.

Nor do we doubt but that we can,
If we would search with care and pain,
Find some one good in some one man;
So going thorough all your strain,
We shall, at last, of parcels make
One good enough for a song's sake.

And as a cunning painter takes,
In any curious piece you see,
More pleasure while the thing he makes,
Than when 'tis made--why so will we.
And having pleased our art, we'll try
To make a new, and hang that by.



ODE


_To the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that Noble Pair_, _Sir Lucius
Cary and Sir Henry Morison_.


I.

THE TURN.


BRAVE infant of Saguntum, clear
Thy coming forth in that great year,
When the prodigious Hannibal did crown
His cage, with razing your immortal town.
Thou, looking then about,
Ere thou wert half got out,
Wise child, didst hastily return,
And mad'st thy mother's womb thine urn.
How summed a circle didst thou leave mankind
Of deepest lore, could we the centre find!


THE COUNTER-TURN.


Did wiser nature draw thee back,
From out the horror of that sack,
Where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right,
Lay trampled on? the deeds of death and night,
Urged, hurried forth, and hurled
Upon th' affrighted world;
Sword, fire, and famine, with fell fury met,
And all on utmost ruin set;
As, could they but life's miseries foresee,
No doubt all infants would return like thee.


THE STAND.


For what is life, if measured by the space
Not by the act?
Or masked man, if valued by his face,
Above his fact?
Here's one outlived his peers,
And told forth fourscore years;
He vexed time, and busied the whole state;
Troubled both foes and friends;
But ever to no ends:
What did this stirrer but die late?
How well at twenty had he fallen or stood!
For three of his fourscore he did no good.


II.

THE TURN


He entered well, by virtuous parts,
Got up, and thrived with honest arts;
He purchased friends, and fame, and honours then,
And had his noble name advanced with men:
But weary of that flight,
He stooped in all men's sight
To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,
And sunk in that dead sea of life,
So deep, as he did then death's waters sup,
But that the cork of title buoyed him up.


THE COUNTER-TURN


Alas! but Morison fell young:
He never fell,--thou fall'st, my tongue.
He stood a soldier to the last right end,
A perfect patriot, and a noble friend;
But most, a virtuous son.
All offices were done
By him, so ample, full, and round,
In weight, in measure, number, sound,
As, though his age imperfect might appear,
His life was of humanity the sphere.


THE STAND


Go now, and tell out days summed up with fears,
And make them years;
Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage,
To swell thine age;
Repeat of things a throng,
To show thou hast been long,
Not lived: for life doth her great actions spell.
By what was done and wrought
In season, and so brought
To light: her measures are, how well
Each syllabe answered, and was formed, how fair;
These make the lines of life, and that's her air!


III.

THE TURN


It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make men better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:
A lily of a day,
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant, and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures, life may perfect be.


THE COUNTER-TURN


Call, noble Lucius, then for wine,
And let thy looks with gladness shine:
Accept this garland, plant it on thy head
And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead
He leaped the present age,
Possessed with holy rage
To see that bright eternal day;
Of which we priests and poets say,
Such truths, as we expect for happy men:
And there he lives with memory and Ben.


THE STAND


Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went,
Himself to rest,
Or taste a part of that full joy he meant
To have expressed,
In this bright Asterism!
Where it were friendship's schism,
Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,
To separate these twi-
Lights, the Dioscouri;
And keep the one half from his Harry,
But fate doth so alternate the design
Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine.


IV.

THE TURN


And shine as you exalted are;
Two names of friendship, but one star:
Of hearts the union, and those not by chance
Made, or indenture, or leased out t'advance
The profits for a time.
No pleasures vain did chime,
Of rhymes, or riots, at your feasts,
Orgies of drink, or feigned protests:
But simple love of greatness and of good,
That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.


THE COUNTER-TURN


This made you first to know the why
You liked, then after, to apply
That liking; and approach so one the t'other,
Till either grew a portion of the other:
Each styled by his end,
The copy of his friend.
You lived to be the great sir-names,
And titles, by which all made claims
Unto the virtue; nothing perfect done,
But as a Cary, or a Morison.


THE STAND


And such a force the fair example had,
As they that saw
The good, and durst not practise it, were glad
That such a law
Was left yet to mankind;
Where they might read and find
Friendship, indeed, was written not in words;
And with the heart, not pen,
Of two so early men,
Whose lines her rolls were, and records;
Who, ere the first down bloomed upon the chin,
Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.


PRAELUDIUM.


AND must I sing? What subject shall I choose!
Or whose great name in poets' heaven use,
For the more countenance to my active muse?

Hercules? alas, his bones are yet sore
With his old earthly labours t' exact more
Of his dull godhead were sin. I'll implore

Phoebus. No, tend thy cart still. Envious day
Shall not give out that I have made thee stay,
And foundered thy hot team, to tune my lay.

Nor will I beg of thee, lord of the vine,
To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine,
In the green circle of thy ivy twine.

Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid,
That at thy birth mad'st the poor smith afraid.
Who with his axe thy father's midwife played.

Go, cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts,
Or with thy tribade trine invent new sports;
Thou, nor thy looseness with my making sorts.

Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task,
Turn the stale prologue to some painted mask;
His absence in my verse is all I ask.

Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us,
Though he would steal his sisters' Pegasus,
And rifle him; or pawn his petasus.

Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake,
Though they were crushed into one form, could make
A beauty of that merit, that should take

My muse up by commission; no, I bring
My own true fire: now my thought takes wing,
And now an epode to deep ears I sing.



EPODE.


NOT to know vice at all, and keep true state,
Is virtue and not fate:
Next to that virtue, is to know vice well,
And her black spite expel.
Which to effect (since no breast is so sure,
Or safe, but she'll procure
Some way of entrance) we must plant a guard
Of thoughts to watch and ward
At th' eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,
That no strange, or unkind
Object arrive there, but the heart, our spy,
Give knowledge instantly
To wakeful reason, our affections' king:
Who, in th' examining,
Will quickly taste the treason, and commit
Close, the close cause of it.
'Tis the securest policy we have,
To make our sense our slave.
But this true course is not embraced by many:
By many! scarce by any.
For either our affections do rebel,
Or else the sentinel,
That should ring 'larum to the heart, doth sleep:
Or some great thought doth keep
Back the intelligence, and falsely swears
They're base and idle fears
Whereof the loyal conscience so complains.
Thus, by these subtle trains,
Do several passions invade the mind,
And strike our reason blind:
Of which usurping rank, some have thought love
The first: as prone to move
Most frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests,
In our inflamed breasts:
But this doth from the cloud of error grow,
Which thus we over-blow.
The thing they here call love is blind desire,
Armed with bow, shafts, and fire;
Inconstant, like the sea, of whence 'tis born,
Rough, swelling, like a storm;
With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear,
And boils as if he were
In a continual tempest. Now, true love
No such effects doth prove;
That is an essence far more gentle, fine,
Pure, perfect, nay, divine;
It is a golden chain let down from heaven,
Whose links are bright and even;
That falls like sleep on lovers, and combines
The soft and sweetest minds
In equal knots: this bears no brands, nor darts,
To murder different hearts,
But, in a calm and god-like unity,
Preserves community.
O, who is he that, in this peace, enjoys
Th' elixir of all joys?
A form more fresh than are the Eden bowers,
And lasting as her flowers;
Richer than Time and, as Times's virtue, rare;
Sober as saddest care;
A fixed thought, an eye untaught to glance;
Who, blest with such high chance,
Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,
Cast himself from the spire
Of all his happiness? But soft: I hear
Some vicious fool draw near,
That cries, we dream, and swears there's no such thing,
As this chaste love we sing.
Peace, Luxury! thou art like one of those
Who, being at sea, suppose,
Because they move, the continent doth so:
No, Vice, we let thee know
Though thy wild thoughts with sparrows' wings do fly,
Turtles can chastely die;
And yet (in this t' express ourselves more clear)
We do not number here
Such spirits as are only continent,
Because lust's means are spent;
Or those who doubt the common mouth of fame,
And for their place and name,
Cannot so safely sin: their chastity
Is mere necessity;
Nor mean we those whom vows and conscience
Have filled with abstinence:
Though we acknowledge who can so abstain,
Makes a most blessed gain;
He that for love of goodness hateth ill,
Is more crown-worthy still
Than he, which for sin's penalty forbears:
His heart sins, though he fears.
But we propose a person like our Dove,
Graced with a Phoenix' love;
A beauty of that clear and sparkling light,
Would make a day of night,
And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys:
Whose odorous breath destroys
All taste of bitterness, and makes the air
As sweet as she is fair.
A body so harmoniously composed,
As if nature disclosed
All her best symmetry in that one feature!
O, so divine a creature
Who could be false to? chiefly, when he knows
How only she bestows
The wealthy treasure of her love on him;
Making his fortunes swim
In the full flood of her admired perfection?
What savage, brute affection,
Would not be fearful to offend a dame
Of this excelling frame?
Much more a noble, and right generous mind,
To virtuous moods inclined,
That knows the weight of guilt: he will refrain
From thoughts of such a strain,
And to his sense object this sentence ever,
"Man may securely sin, but safely never. "



AN ELEGY.


THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,
And yours, of whom I sing, be such
As not the world can praise too much,
Yet is 't your virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay, so gone
Throughout your form, as though that move,
And draw, and conquer all men's love,
This subjects you to love of one,

Wherein you triumph yet: because
'Tis of yourself, and that you use
The noblest freedom, not to choose
Against or faith, or honour's laws.

But who could less expect from you,
In whom alone Love lives again?
By whom he is restored to men;
And kept, and bred, and brought up true?

His falling temples you have reared,
The withered garlands ta'en away;
His altars kept from the decay
That envy wished, and nature feared;

And on them burns so chaste a flame,
With so much loyalty's expense,
As Love, t' acquit such excellence,
Is gone himself into your name.

And you are he: the deity
To whom all lovers are designed,
That would their better objects find;
Among which faithful troop am I;

Who, as an offering at your shrine,
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat
One spark of your diviner heat
To light upon a love of mine;

Which, if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view,
Yet give me leave t' adore in you
What I, in her, am grieved to want.




FOOTNOTES


{11} "So live with yourself that you do not know how ill yow mind is
furnished. "

{12} ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

{14} "A Puritan is a Heretical Hypocrite, in whom the conceit of his own
perspicacity, by which he seems to himself to have observed certain
errors in a few Church dogmas, has disturbed the balance of his mind, so
that, excited vehemently by a sacred fury, he fights frenzied against
civil authority, in the belief that he so pays obedience to God. "

{17a} Night gives counsel.

{17b} Plutarch in Life of Alexander. "Let it not be, O King, that you
know these things better than I. "

{19a} "They were not our lords, but our leaders. "

{19b} "Much of it is left also for those who shall be hereafter. "

{19c} "No art is discovered at once and absolutely. "

{22} With a great belly. Comes de Schortenhien.

{23} "In all things I have a better wit and courage than good fortune. "

{24a} "The rich soil exhausts; but labour itself is an aid. "

{24b} "And the gesticulation is vile. "

{25a} "An end is to be looked for in every man, an animal most prompt to
change. "

{25b} Arts are not shared among heirs.

{31a} "More loquacious than eloquent; words enough, but little
wisdom. "--_Sallust_.

{31b} Repeated in the following Latin. "The best treasure is in that
man's tongue, and he has mighty thanks, who metes out each thing in a few
words. "--_Hesiod_.

{31c} _Vid. _ Zeuxidis pict. Serm. ad Megabizum. --_Plutarch_.

{32a} "While the unlearned is silent he may be accounted wise, for he
has covered by his silence the diseases of his mind. "

{32b} Taciturnity.

{33a} "Hold your tongue above all things, after the example of the
gods. "--_See_ Apuleius.

{33b} "Press down the lip with the finger. "--Juvenal.

{33c} Plautus.

{33d} Trinummus, Act 2, Scen. 4.

{34a} "It was the lodging of calamity. "--Mart. lib. 1, ep. 85.

{41} ["Ficta omnia celeriter tanquam flosculi decidunt, nec simulatum
potest quidquam esse diuturnum. "--Cicero. ]

{44a} Let a Punic sponge go with the book. --Mart. 1. iv. epig. 10.

{47a} He had to be repressed.

{49a} A wit-stand.

{49b} Martial. lib. xi. epig. 91. That fall over the rough ways and
high rocks.

{59a} Sir Thomas More. Sir Thomas Wiat. Henry Earl of Surrey. Sir
Thomas Chaloner. Sir Thomas Smith. Sir Thomas Eliot. Bishop Gardiner.
Sir Nicolas Bacon, L. K.