Depositum
interea lapides servate fideles.
Donne - 1
Dead did I say? Forgive this _Injury_
I doe him, and his worthes _Infinity_,
To say he is but dead; I dare averre
It better may be term'd a _Massacre_, 10
Then _Sleepe_ or _Death_; See how the _Muses_ mourne
Upon their oaten _Reeds_, and from his _Vrne_
Threaten the World with this _Calamity_,
They shall have _Ballads_, but no _Poetry_.
_Language_ lyes speechlesse; and _Divinity_, 15
Lost such a _Trump_ as even to _Extasie_
Could charme the Soule, and had an _Influence_
To teach best _judgements_, and please dullest _Sense_.
The _Court_, the _Church_, the _Vniversitie_,
Lost _Chaplaine_, _Deane_, and _Doctor_, All these, Three. 20
It was his _Merit_, that his _Funerall_
Could cause a losse so _great_ and _generall_.
If there be any Spirit can answer give
Of such as hence depart, to such as live:
Speake, Doth his body there vermiculate, 25
Crumble to dust, and feele the lawes of Fate?
Me thinkes, _Corruption_, _Wormes_, what else is foule
Should spare the _Temple_ of so faire a _Soule_.
I could beleeve they doe; but that I know
What inconvenience might hereafter grow: 30
Succeeding ages would _Idolatrize_,
And as his _Numbers_, so his _Reliques_ prize.
If that Philosopher, which did avow
The world to be but Motes, was living now:
He would affirme that th' _Atomes_ of his mould 35
Were they in severall bodies blended, would
Produce new worlds of _Travellers_, _Divines_,
Of _Linguists_, _Poets_: sith these severall _lines_
In him concentred were, and flowing thence
Might fill againe the worlds _Circumference_. 40
I could beleeve this too; and yet my faith
Not want a _President_: The _Phœnix_ hath
(And such was He) a power to animate
Her ashes, and herselfe perpetuate.
But, busie Soule, thou dost not well to pry 45
Into these Secrets; _Griefe_, and _Iealousie_,
The more they know, the further still advance,
And finde no way so safe as _Ignorance_.
Let this suffice thee, that his _Soule_ which flew
A pitch of all admir'd, known but of few, 50
(Save those of purer mould) is now translated
From Earth to Heaven, and there _Constellated_.
For, if each _Priest_ of God shine as a _Starre_,
His _Glory_ is as his _Gifts_, 'bove others farre.
HEN. VALENTINE.
_An Elegie upon D^{r}_ Donne.
Is _Donne_, great _Donne_ deceas'd? then England say
Thou 'hast lost a man where language chose to stay
And shew it's gracefull power. I would not praise
That and his vast wit (which in these vaine dayes
Make many proud) but as they serv'd to unlock 5
That Cabinet, his minde: where such a stock
Of knowledge was repos'd, as all lament
(Or should) this generall cause of discontent.
And I rejoyce I am not so severe,
But (as I write a line) to weepe a teare 10
For his decease; Such sad extremities
May make such men as I write _Elegies_.
And wonder not; for, when a generall losse
Falls on a nation, and they slight the crosse,
God hath rais'd _Prophets_ to awaken them 15
From stupifaction; witnesse my milde pen,
Not us'd to upbraid the world, though now it must
Freely and boldly, for, the cause is just.
Dull age, Oh I would spare thee, but th'art worse,
Thou art not onely dull, but hast a curse 20
Of black ingratitude; if not, couldst thou
Part with _miraculous Donne_, and make no vow
For thee and thine, successively to pay
A sad remembrance to his dying day?
Did his youth scatter _Poetrie_, wherein 25
Was all Philosophie? Was every sinne,
Character'd in his _Satyres_? made so foule
That some have fear'd their shapes, and kept their soule
Freer by reading verse? Did he give _dayes_
Past marble monuments, to those, whose praise 30
He would perpetuate? Did hee (I feare
The dull will doubt:) these at his twentieth yeare?
But, more matur'd: Did his full soule conceive,
And in harmonious-holy-numbers weave
[Sidenote: _La Corona. _]
A _Crowne of sacred sonets_, fit to adorne 35
A dying Martyrs brow: or, to be worne
On that blest head of _Mary Magdalen_:
After she wip'd Christs feet, but not till then?
Did hee (fit for such penitents as shee
And hee to use) leave us a _Litany_? 40
Which all devout men love, and sure, it shall,
As times grow better, grow more classicall.
Did he write _Hymnes_, for piety and wit
Equall to those great grave _Prudentius_ writ?
Spake he all _Languages_? knew he all _Lawes_? 45
The grounds and use of _Physicke_; but because
'Twas mercenary wav'd it? Went to see
That blessed place of _Christs nativity_?
Did he returne and preach him? preach him so
As none but hee did, or could do? They know 50
(Such as were blest to heare him know) 'tis truth.
Did he confirme thy age? convert thy youth?
Did he these wonders? And is this deare losse
Mourn'd by so few? (few for so great a crosse. )
But sure the silent are ambitious all 55
To be _Close Mourners_ at his Funerall;
If not; In common pitty they forbare
By repetitions to renew our care;
Or, knowing, griefe conceiv'd, conceal'd, consumes
Man irreparably, (as poyson'd fumes 60
Do waste the braine) make silence a safe way
To'inlarge the Soule from these walls, mud and clay,
(Materialls of this body) to remaine
With _Donne_ in heaven, where no promiscuous paine
Lessens the joy wee have, for, with _him_, all 65
Are satisfyed with _joyes essentiall_.
My thoughts, Dwell on this _Ioy_, and do not call
Griefe backe, by thinking of his Funerall;
Forget he lov'd mee; Waste not my sad yeares;
(Which haste to _Davids_ seventy, fill'd with feares 70
And sorrow for his death;) Forget his parts,
Which finde a living grave in good mens hearts;
And, (for, my first is daily paid for sinne)
Forget to pay my second sigh for him:
Forget his powerfull preaching; and forget 75
I am his _Convert_. Oh my frailtie! let
My flesh be no more heard, it will obtrude
This lethargie: so should my gratitude,
My vowes of gratitude should so be broke;
Which can no more be, then _Donnes_ vertues spoke 80
By any but himselfe; for which cause, I
Write no _Encomium_, but an _Elegie_.
IZ. WA.
[An Elegie _&c. _ _See note_]
[1-3
Our Donne is dead; England should mourne, may say
We had a man where language chose to stay
And shew her gracefull power _1635-69_
]
[35 _Crowne_] Crowme _1633_]
An Elegie upon the death of the Deane of Pauls, D^r. Iohn Donne:
By _M^r. Tho: Carie_.
Can we not force from widdowed Poetry,
Now thou art dead (Great DONNE) one Elegie
To crowne thy Hearse? Why yet dare we not trust
Though with unkneaded dowe-bak't prose thy dust,
Such as the uncisor'd Churchman from the flower 5
Of fading Rhetorique, short liv'd as his houre,
Dry as the sand that measures it, should lay
Upon thy Ashes, on the funerall day?
Have we no voice, no tune? Did'st thou dispense
Through all our language, both the words and sense? 10
'Tis a sad truth: The Pulpit may her plaine,
And sober Christian precepts still retaine,
Doctrines it may, and wholesome Uses frame,
Grave Homilies, and Lectures, But the flame
Of thy brave Soule, that shot such heat and light, 15
As burnt our earth, and made our darknesse bright,
Committed holy Rapes upon our Will,
Did through the eye the melting heart distill;
And the deepe knowledge of darke truths so teach,
As sense might judge, what phansie could not reach; 20
Must be desir'd for ever. So the fire,
That fills with spirit and heat the Delphique quire,
Which kindled first by thy Promethean breath,
Glow'd here a while, lies quench't now in thy death;
The Muses garden with Pedantique weedes 25
O'rspred, was purg'd by thee; The lazie seeds
Of servile imitation throwne away;
And fresh invention planted, Thou didst pay
The debts of our penurious bankrupt age;
Licentious thefts, that make poëtique rage 30
A Mimique fury, when our soules must bee
Possest, or with Anacreons Extasie,
Or Pindars, not their owne; The subtle cheat
Of slie Exchanges, and the jugling feat
Of two-edg'd words, or whatsoever wrong 35
By ours was done the Greeke, or Latine tongue,
Thou hast redeem'd, and open'd Us a Mine
Of rich and pregnant phansie, drawne a line
Of masculine expression, which had good
Old Orpheus seene, Or all the ancient Brood 40
Our superstitious fooles admire, and hold
Their lead more precious, then thy burnish't Gold,
Thou hadst beene their Exchequer, and no more
They each in others dust, had rak'd for Ore.
Thou shalt yield no precedence, but of time, 45
And the blinde fate of language, whose tun'd chime
More charmes the outward sense; Yet thou maist claime
From so great disadvantage greater fame,
Since to the awe of thy imperious wit
Our stubborne language bends, made only fit 50
With her tough-thick-rib'd hoopes to gird about
Thy Giant phansie, which had prov'd too stout
For their soft melting Phrases. As in time
They had the start, so did they cull the prime
Buds of invention many a hundred yeare, 55
And left the rifled fields, besides the feare
To touch their Harvest, yet from those bare lands
Of what is purely thine, thy only hands
(And that thy smallest worke) have gleaned more
Then all those times, and tongues could reape before; 60
But thou art gone, and thy strict lawes will be
Too hard for Libertines in Poetrie.
They will repeale the goodly exil'd traine
Of gods and goddesses, which in thy just raigne
Were banish'd nobler Poems, now, with these 65
The silenc'd tales o'th'Metamorphoses
Shall stuffe their lines, and swell the windy Page,
Till Verse refin'd by thee, in this last Age,
Turne ballad rime, Or those old Idolls bee
Ador'd againe, with new apostasie; 70
Oh, pardon mee, that breake with untun'd verse
The reverend silence that attends thy herse,
Whose awfull solemne murmures were to thee
More then these faint lines, A loud Elegie,
That did proclaime in a dumbe eloquence 75
The death of all the Arts, whose influence
Growne feeble, in these panting numbers lies
Gasping short winded Accents, and so dies:
So doth the swiftly turning wheele not stand
In th'instant we withdraw the moving hand, 80
But some small time maintaine a faint weake course
By vertue of the first impulsive force:
And so whil'st I cast on thy funerall pile
Thy crowne of Bayes, Oh, let it crack a while,
And spit disdaine, till the devouring flashes 85
Suck all the moysture up, then turne to ashes.
I will not draw the envy to engrosse
All thy perfections, or weepe all our losse;
Those are too numerous for an Elegie,
And this too great, to be express'd by mee. 90
Though every pen should share a distinct part,
Yet art thou Theme enough to tyre all Art;
Let others carve the rest, it shall suffice
I on thy Tombe this Epitaph incise.
_Here lies a King, that rul'd as hee thought fit 95
The universall Monarchy of wit;
Here lie two Flamens, and both those, the best,
Apollo's first, at last, the true Gods Priest_.
[An Elegie _&c. _ _Also in Carew's _Poems_ 1640. _ _See note_]
_An Elegie on D^r. DONNE: By Sir Lucius Carie. _
Poets attend, the Elegie I sing
Both of a doubly-named Priest, and King:
In stead of Coates, and Pennons, bring your Verse,
For you must bee chiefe mourners at his Hearse,
A Tombe your Muse must to his Fame supply, 5
No other Monuments can never die;
And as he was a two-fold Priest; in youth,
Apollo's; afterwards, the voice of Truth,
Gods Conduit-pipe for grace, who chose him for
His extraordinary Embassador, 10
So let his Liegiers with the Poets joyne,
Both having shares, both must in griefe combine:
Whil'st Johnson forceth with his Elegie
Teares from a griefe-unknowing Scythians eye,
(Like Moses at whose stroke the waters gusht 15
From forth the Rock, and like a Torrent rusht. )
Let Lawd his funerall Sermon preach, and shew
Those vertues, dull eyes were not apt to know,
Nor leave that Piercing Theme, till it appeares
To be goodfriday, by the Churches Teares; 20
Yet make not griefe too long oppresse our Powers,
Least that his funerall Sermon should prove ours.
Nor yet forget that heavenly Eloquence,
With which he did the bread of life dispense,
Preacher and Orator discharg'd both parts 25
With pleasure for our sense, health for our hearts,
And the first such (Though a long studied Art
Tell us our soule is all in every part,)
None was so marble, but whil'st him he heares,
His Soule so long dwelt only in his eares. 30
And from thence (with the fiercenesse of a flood
Bearing downe vice) victual'd with that blest food
Their hearts; His seed in none could faile to grow,
Fertile he found them all, or made them so:
No Druggist of the Soule bestow'd on all 35
So Catholiquely a curing Cordiall.
Nor only in the Pulpit dwelt his store,
His words work'd much, but his example more,
That preach't on worky dayes, His Poetrie
It selfe was oftentimes divinity, 40
Those Anthemes (almost second Psalmes) he writ
To make us know the Crosse, and value it,
(Although we owe that reverence to that name
Wee should not need warmth from an under flame. )
Creates a fire in us, so neare extreme 45
That we would die, for, and upon this theme.
Next, his so pious Litany, which none can
But count Divine, except a Puritan,
And that but for the name, nor this, nor those
Want any thing of Sermons, but the prose. 50
Experience makes us see, that many a one
Owes to his Countrey his Religion;
And in another, would as strongly grow,
Had but his Nurse and Mother taught him so,
Not hee the ballast on his Judgement hung; 55
Nor did his preconceit doe either wrong;
He labour'd to exclude what ever sinne
By time or carelessenesse had entred in;
Winnow'd the chaffe from wheat, but yet was loath
A too hot zeale should force him, burne them both; 60
Nor would allow of that so ignorant gall,
Which to save blotting often would blot all;
Nor did those barbarous opinions owne,
To thinke the Organs sinne, and faction, none;
Nor was there expectation to gaine grace 65
From forth his Sermons only, but his face;
So Primitive a looke, such gravitie
With humblenesse, and both with Pietie;
So milde was Moses countenance, when he prai'd
For them whose Satanisme his power gainsaid; 70
And such his gravitie, when all Gods band
Receiv'd his word (through him) at second hand,
Which joyn'd, did flames of more devotion move
Then ever Argive Hellens could of love.
Now to conclude, I must my reason bring, 75
Wherefore I call'd him in his title King,
That Kingdome the Philosophers beleev'd
To excell Alexanders, nor were griev'd
By feare of losse (that being such a Prey
No stronger then ones selfe can force away) 80
The Kingdome of ones selfe, this he enjoy'd,
And his authoritie so well employ'd,
That never any could before become
So Great a Monarch, in so small a roome;
He conquer'd rebell passions, rul'd them so, 85
As under-spheares by the first Mover goe,
Banish't so farre their working, that we can
But know he had some, for we knew him man.
Then let his last excuse his first extremes,
His age saw visions, though his youth dream'd dreams. 90
[72 Receiv'd] Receiv' _1633_]
_On D^{r}. _ DONNES _death_:
_By M^{r}. _ Mayne _of Christ-Church in Oxford. _
Who shall presume to mourn thee, _Donne_, unlesse
He could his teares in thy expressions dresse,
And teach his griefe that reverence of thy Hearse,
To weepe lines, learned, as thy Anniverse,
A Poëme of that worth, whose every teare 5
Deserves the title of a severall yeare.
Indeed so farre above its Reader, good,
That wee are thought wits, when 'tis understood,
There that blest maid to die, who now should grieve?
After thy sorrow, 'twere her losse to live; 10
And her faire vertues in anothers line,
Would faintly dawn, which are made Saints in thine.
Hadst thou beene shallower, and not writ so high,
Or left some new way for our pennes, or eye,
To shed a funerall teare, perchance thy Tombe 15
Had not beene speechlesse, or our Muses dumbe;
But now wee dare not write, but must conceale
Thy Epitaph, lest we be thought to steale,
For, who hath read thee, and discernes thy worth,
That will not say, thy carelesse houres brought forth 20
Fancies beyond our studies, and thy play
Was happier, then our serious time of day?
So learned was thy chance; thy haste had wit,
And matter from thy pen flow'd rashly fit,
What was thy recreation turnes our braine, 25
Our rack and palenesse, is thy weakest straine.
And when we most come neere thee, 'tis our blisse
To imitate thee, where thou dost amisse.
Here light your muse, you that do onely thinke,
And write, and are just Poëts, as you drinke, 30
In whose weake fancies wit doth ebbe and flow,
Just as your recknings rise, that wee may know
In your whole carriage of your worke, that here
This flash you wrote in Wine, and this in Beere,
This is to tap your Muse, which running long 35
Writes flat, and takes our eare not halfe so strong;
Poore Suburbe wits, who, if you want your cup,
Or if a Lord recover, are blowne up.
Could you but reach this height, you should not need
To make, each meale, a project ere you feed, 40
Nor walke in reliques, clothes so old and bare,
As if left off to you from _Ennius_ were,
Nor should your love, in verse, call Mistresse, those,
Who are mine hostesse, or your whores in prose;
From this Muse learne to Court, whose power could move 45
A Cloystred coldnesse, or a Vestall love,
And would convey such errands to their eare,
That Ladies knew no oddes to grant and heare;
But I do wrong thee, _Donne_, and this low praise
Is written onely for thy yonger dayes. 50
I am not growne up, for thy riper parts,
Then should I praise thee, through the Tongues, and Arts,
And have that deepe Divinity, to know,
What mysteries did from thy preaching flow,
Who with thy words could charme thy audience, 55
That at thy sermons, eare was all our sense;
Yet have I seene thee in the pulpit stand,
Where wee might take notes, from thy looke, and hand;
And from thy speaking action beare away
More Sermon, then some teachers use to say. 60
Such was thy carriage, and thy gesture such,
As could divide the heart, and conscience touch.
Thy motion did confute, and wee might see
An errour vanquish'd by delivery.
Not like our Sonnes of Zeale, who to reforme 65
Their hearers, fiercely at the Pulpit storme,
And beate the cushion into worse estate,
Then if they did conclude it reprobate,
Who can out pray the glasse, then lay about
Till all Predestination be runne out. 70
And from the point such tedious uses draw,
Their repetitions would make Gospell, Law.
No, In such temper would thy Sermons flow,
So well did Doctrine, and thy language show,
And had that holy feare, as, hearing thee, 75
The Court would mend, and a good Christian bee.
And Ladies though unhansome, out of grace,
Would heare thee, in their unbought lookes, and face.
More I could write, but let this crowne thine Urne,
Wee cannot hope the like, till thou returne. 80
_Upon M^r J. Donne, and his Poems. _
Who dares say thou art dead, when he doth see
(Unburied yet) this living part of thee?
This part that to thy beeing gives fresh flame,
And though th'art _Donne_, yet will preserve thy name.
Thy flesh (whose channels left their crimsen hew, 5
And whey-like ranne at last in a pale blew)
May shew thee mortall, a dead palsie may
Seise on't, and quickly turne it into clay;
Which like the Indian earth, shall rise refin'd:
But this great Spirit thou hast left behinde, 10
This Soule of Verse (in it's first pure estate)
Shall live, for all the World to imitate,
But not come neer, for in thy Fancies flight
Thou dost not stoope unto the vulgar fight,
But, hovering highly in the aire of Wit, 15
Hold'st such a pitch, that few can follow it;
Admire they may. Each object that the Spring
(Or a more piercing influence) doth bring
T'adorne Earths face, thou sweetly did'st contrive
To beauties elements, and thence derive 20
Unspotted Lillies white; which thou did'st set
Hand in hand, with the veine-like Violet,
Making them soft, and warme, and by thy power,
Could'st give both life, and sense, unto a flower.
The Cheries thou hast made to speake, will bee 25
Sweeter unto the taste, then from the tree.
And (spight of winter stormes) amidst the snow
Thou oft hast made the blushing Rose to grow.
The Sea-nimphs, that the watry cavernes keepe,
Have sent their Pearles and Rubies from the deepe 30
To deck thy love, and plac'd by thee, they drew
More lustre to them, then where first they grew.
All minerals (that Earths full wombe doth hold
Promiscuously) thou couldst convert to gold,
And with thy flaming raptures so refine, 35
That it was much more pure then in the Mine.
The lights that guild the night, if thou did'st say,
They looke like eyes, those did out-shine the day;
For there would be more vertue in such spells,
Then in Meridians, or crosse Parallels: 40
What ever was of worth in this great Frame,
That Art could comprehend, or Wit could name,
It was thy theme for Beauty; thou didst see,
Woman, was this faire Worlds Epitomie.
Thy nimble _Satyres_ too, and every straine 45
(With nervy strength) that issued from thy brain,
Will lose the glory of their owne cleare bayes,
If they admit of any others praise.
But thy diviner Poëms (whose cleare fire
Purges all drosse away) shall by a Quire 50
Of Cherubims, with heavenly Notes be set
(Where flesh and blood could ne'r attaine to yet)
There purest Spirits sing such sacred Layes,
In Panegyrique Alleluiaes.
_Arth. Wilson. _
_In memory of Doctor Donne: By M^{r} R. B. _
_Donne_ dead? 'Tis here reported true, though I
Ne'r yet so much desir'd to heare a lye,
'Tis too too true, for so wee finde it still,
Good newes are often false, but seldome, ill:
But must poore fame tell us his fatall day, 5
And shall we know his death, the common way,
Mee thinkes some Comet bright should have foretold
The death of such a man, for though of old
'Tis held, that Comets Princes death foretell,
Why should not his, have needed one as well? 10
Who was the Prince of wits, 'mongst whom he reign'd,
High as a Prince, and as great State maintain'd?
Yet wants he not his signe, for wee have seene
A dearth, the like to which hath never beene,
Treading on harvests heeles, which doth presage 15
The death of wit and learning, which this age
Shall finde, now he is gone; for though there bee
Much graine in shew, none brought it forth as he,
Or men are misers; or if true want raises
The dearth, then more that dearth _Donnes_ plenty praises. 20
Of learning, languages, of eloquence,
And Poësie, (past rauishing of sense,)
He had a magazine, wherein such store
Was laid up, as might hundreds serve of poore.
But he is gone, O how will his desire 25
Torture all those that warm'd them by his fire?
Mee thinkes I see him in the pulpit standing,
Not eares, or eyes, but all mens hearts commanding,
Where wee that heard him, to our selves did faine
Golden Chrysostome was alive againe; 30
And never were we weari'd, till we saw
His houre (and but an houre) to end did draw.
How did he shame the doctrine-men, and use,
With helps to boot, for men to beare th'abuse
Of their tir'd patience, and endure th'expence 35
Of time, O spent in hearkning to non-sense,
With markes also, enough whereby to know,
The speaker is a zealous dunce, or so.
'Tis true, they quitted him, to their poore power,
They humm'd against him; And with face most sowre 40
Call'd him a strong lin'd man, a Macaroon,
And no way fit to speake to clouted shoone,
As fine words [truly] as you would desire,
But [verily,] but a bad edifier.
Thus did these beetles slight in him that good, 45
They could not see, and much lesse understood.
But we may say, when we compare the stuffe
Both brought; He was a candle, they the snuffe.
Well, Wisedome's of her children justifi'd,
Let therefore these poore fellowes stand aside; 50
Nor, though of learning he deserv'd so highly,
Would I his booke should save him; Rather slily
I should advise his Clergie not to pray,
Though of the learn'dst sort; Me thinkes that they
Of the same trade, are Judges not so fit, 55
There's no such emulation as of wit.
Of such, the Envy might as much perchance
Wrong him, and more, then th'others ignorance.
It was his Fate (I know't) to be envy'd
As much by Clerkes, as lay men magnifi'd; 60
And why? but 'cause he came late in the day,
And yet his Penny earn'd, and had as they.
No more of this, least some should say, that I
Am strai'd to Satyre, meaning Elegie.
No, no, had DONNE need to be judg'd or try'd, 65
A Jury I would summon on his side,
That had no sides, nor factions, past the touch
Of all exceptions, freed from Passion, such
As nor to feare nor flatter, e'r were bred,
These would I bring, though called from the dead: 70
Southampton, Hambleton, Pembrooke, Dorsets Earles,
Huntingdon, Bedfords Countesses (the Pearles
Once of each sexe. ) If these suffice not, I
Ten _decem tales_ have of Standers by:
All which, for DONNE, would such a verdict give, 75
As can belong to none, that now doth live.
But what doe I? A diminution 'tis
To speake of him in verse, so short of his,
Whereof he was the master; All indeed
Compar'd with him, pip'd on an Oaten reed. 80
O that you had but one 'mongst all your brothers
Could write for him, as he hath done for others:
(Poets I speake to) When I see't, I'll say,
My eye-sight betters, as my yeares decay,
Meane time a quarrell I shall ever have 85
Against these doughty keepers from the grave,
Who use, it seemes their old Authoritie,
When (Verses men immortall make) they cry:
Which had it been a Recipe true tri'd,
_Probatum esset_, DONNE had never dy'd. 90
For mee, if e'r I had least sparke at all
Of that which they Poetique fire doe call,
Here I confesse it fetched from his hearth,
Which is gone out, now he is gone to earth.
This only a poore flash, a lightning is 95
Before my Muses death, as after his.
Farewell (faire soule) and deigne receive from mee
This Type of that devotion I owe thee,
From whom (while living) as by voice and penne
I learned more, then from a thousand men: 100
So by thy death, am of one doubt releas'd,
And now beleeve that miracles are ceas'd.
_Epitaph. _
_Heere lies Deane Donne_; Enough; Those words alone
Shew him as fully, as if all the stone
His Church of Pauls contains, were through inscrib'd
Or all the walkers there, to speake him, brib'd.
None can mistake him, for one such as Hee 5
DONNE, Deane, or Man, more none shall ever see.
Not man? No, though unto a Sunne each eye
Were turn'd, the whole earth so to overspie.
A bold brave word; Yet such brave Spirits as knew
His Spirit, will say, it is lesse bold then true. 10
_Epitaph upon D^r. Donne_,
By _Endy: Porter_.
This decent Urne a sad inscription weares,
Of _Donnes_ departure from us, to the spheares;
And the dumbe stone with silence seemes to tell
The changes of this life, wherein is well
Exprest, A cause to make all joy to cease, 5
And never let our sorrowes more take ease;
For now it is impossible to finde
One fraught with vertues, to inrich a minde;
But why should death, with a promiscuous hand
At one rude stroke impoverish a land? 10
Thou strict Attorney, unto stricter Fate,
Didst thou confiscate his life out of hate
To his rare Parts? Or didst thou throw thy dart,
With envious hand, at some Plebeyan heart;
And he with pious vertue stept betweene 15
To save that stroke, and so was kill'd unseene
By thee? O 'twas his goodnesse so to doe,
Which humane kindnesse never reacht unto.
Thus the hard lawes of death were satisfi'd,
And he left us like Orphan friends, and di'de. 20
Now from the Pulpit to the peoples eares,
Whose speech shall send repentant sighes, and teares?
Or tell mee, if a purer Virgin die,
Who shall hereafter write her Elegie?
Poets be silent, let your numbers sleepe, 25
For he is gone that did all phansie keepe;
Time hath no Soule, but his exalted verse;
Which with amazements, we may now reherse.
In obitum venerabilis viri _Iohannis Donne_, sacræ
Theologiæ Doctoris, Ecclesiæ Cathedralis Divi _Pauli_,
nuper Decani; Illi honoris, tibi (multum mihi colende
Vir) observantiæ ergo Hæc ego.
_Conquerar? ignavoque sequar tua funera planctu?
Sed lachrimæ clausistis iter: nec muta querelas
Lingua potest proferre pias: ignoscite manes
Defuncti, & tacito finite indulgere dolori.
Sed scelus est tacuisse: cadant in mœsta lituræ 5
Verba. Tuis (docta umbra) tuis hæc accipe jussis
Cæpta, nec officii contemnens pignora nostri
Aversare tuâ non dignum laude Poëtam.
O si Pythagoræ non vanum dogma fuisset:
Inque meum â vestro migraret pectore pectus 10
Musa, repentinos tua nosceret urna furores.
Sed frustra, heu frustra hæc votis puerilibus opto:
Tecum abiit, summoque sedens jam monte Thalia
Ridet anhelantes, Parnassi & culmina vates
Desperare jubet. Verum hâc nolente coactos 15
Scribimus audaces numeros, & flebile carmen
Scribimus (ô soli qui te dilexit) habendum.
Siccine perpetuus liventia lumina somnus
Clausit? & immerito merguntur funere virtus?
Et pietas? & quæ poterant fecisse beatum, 20
Cætera, sed nec te poterant servare beatum.
Quo mihi doctrinam? quorsum impallescere chartis
Nocturnis juvat? & totidem olfecisse lucernas?
Decolor & longos studiis deperdere Soles
Vt prius aggredior, longamque arcessere famam. 25
Omnia sed frustra: mihi dum cunctisque minatur
Exitium crudele & inexorabile fatum.
Nam post te sperare nihil decet: hoc mihi restat
Vt moriar, tenues fugiatque obscurus in auras
Spiritus: ô doctis saltem si cognitus umbris. 30
Illic te (venerande) iterum, (venerande) videbo.
Et dulces audire sonós, & verba diserti
Oris, & æternas dabitur mihi carpere voces.
Quêis ferus infernæ tacuisset Ianitor aulæ
Auditis: Nilusque minus strepuisset: Arion 35
Cederet, & sylvas qui post se traxerat Orpheus.
Eloquio sic ille viros, sic ille movere
Voce feros potuit: quis enim tam barbarus? aut tam
Facundis nimis infestus non motus ut illo
Hortante, & blando victus sermone sileret? 40
Sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat,
Singula sic decuere senem, sic omnia. Vidi,
Audivi & stupui quoties orator in Æde
Paulina stetit, & mira gravitate levantes
Corda, oculosque viros tenuit: dum Nestoris ille 45
Fudit verba (omni quanta mage dulcia melle? )
Nunc habet attonitos, pandit mysteria plebi
Non concessa prius nondum intellecta: revolvunt
Mirantes, tacitique arrectis auribus astant.
Mutatis mox ille modo, formaque loquendi 50
Tristia pertractat: fatumque & flebile mortis
Tempus, & in cineres redeunt quod corpora primos.
Tunc gemitum cunctos dare, tunc lugere videres,
Forsitan à lachrymis aliquis non temperat, atque
Ex oculis largum stillat rorem; ætheris illo 55
Sic pater audito voluit succumbere turbam,
Affectusque ciere suos, & ponere notæ
Vocis ad arbitrium, divinæ oracula mentis
Dum narrat, rostrisque potens dominatur in altis.
Quo feror? audaci & forsan pietate nocenti 60
In nimia ignoscas vati, qui vatibus olim
Egregium decus, et tanto excellentior unus
Omnibus; inferior quanto est, et pessimus, impar
Laudibus hisce, tibi qui nunc facit ista Poëta.
Et quo nos canimus? cur hæc tibi sacra? Poëtæ 65
Desinite: en fati certus, sibi voce canorâ
Inferias præmisit olor, cum Carolus Albâ
(Vltima volventem et Cycnæâ voce loquentem)
Nuper eum, turba & magnatum audiret in Aulâ.
Tunc Rex, tunc Proceres, Clerus, tunc astitit illi 70
Aula frequens. Solâ nunc in tellure recumbit,
Vermibus esca, pio malint nisi parcere: quidni
Incipiant & amare famem? Metuere Leones
Sic olim, sacrosque artus violare Prophetæ
Bellua non ausa est qùamquam jejuna, sitimque 75
Optaret nimis humano satiare cruore.
At non hæc de te sperabimus; omnia carpit
Prædator vermis: nec talis contigit illi
Præda diu; forsan metrico pede serpet ab inde:
Vescere, & exhausto satia te sanguine. Iam nos 80
Adsumus; et post te cupiet quis vivere? Post te
Quis volet, aut poterit? nam post te vivere mors est.
Et tamen ingratas ignavi ducimus auras:
Sustinet & tibi lingua vale, vale dicere: parce
Non festinanti æternum requiescere turbæ. 85
Ipsa satis properat quæ nescit Parca morari,
Nunc urgere colum, trahere atque occare videmus.
Quin rursus (Venerande) Vale, vale: ordine nos te
Quo Deus, & quo dura volet natura sequemur.
Depositum interea lapides servate fideles. 90
Fœlices illâ quêis Ædis parte locari
Quâ jacet iste datur. Forsan lapis inde loquetur,
Parturietque viro plenus testantia luctus
Verba: & carminibus quæ Donni suggeret illi
Spiritus, insolitos testari voce calores 95
Incipiet: (non sic Pyrrhâ jactante calebat. )
Mole sub hâc tegitur quicquid mortale relictum est
De tanto mortale viro. Qui præfuit Ædi huic,
Formosi pecoris pastor, formosior ipse.
Ite igitur, dignisque illum celebrate loquelis, 100
Et quæ demuntur vitæ date tempora famæ. _
Indignus tantorum meritorum Præco, virtutum
tuarum cultor religiosissimus,
DANIEL DARNELLY.
[In obitum _&c. _ _1635-69_, _taking the place of the lines by
Tho: Browne_. ]
[10 pectore] pectore, _1635_]
[21 beatum. ] beatum _1635_]
[23 olfecisse] olfecissë _1635_]
[25 prius aggredior, _1635-69_: prius, aggredior, _1719_
arcessere _Ed_: accessere _1635-69_]
[26-7 mihi dum . . . Exitium _1719_: mihi, dum . . . Exitium,
_1635-39_: mihi dum, . . . Exitium, _1650-69_]
[38 Voce feros] Voceferos _1635_, _1669_]
[79 inde:] inde _1635-39_]
[86 Parca] parca _1635-69_
morari,] morari _1635_]
[88 rursus _1719_: rusus _1635_: nusus _1639-69_]
[96 Incipiet: . . . calebat. _1719_: _no stops_, _1635-69_]
_Elegie on D. D. _
Now, by one yeare, time and our frailtie have
Lessened our first confusion, since the Grave
Clos'd thy deare Ashes, and the teares which flow
In these, have no springs, but of solid woe:
Or they are drops, which cold amazement froze 5
At thy decease, and will not thaw in Prose:
All streames of Verse which shall lament that day,
Doe truly to the Ocean tribute pay;
But they have lost their saltnesse, which the eye
In recompence of wit, strives to supply: 10
Passions excesse for thee wee need not feare,
Since first by thee our passions hallowed were;
Thou mad'st our sorrowes, which before had bin
Onely for the Successe, sorrowes for sinne,
We owe thee all those teares, now thou art dead, 15
Which we shed not, which for our selves we shed.
Nor didst thou onely consecrate our teares,
Give a religious tincture to our feares;
But even our joyes had learn'd an innocence,
Thou didst from gladnesse separate offence: 20
All mindes at once suckt grace from thee, as where
(The curse revok'd) the Nations had one eare.
Pious dissector: thy one houre did treate
The thousand mazes of the hearts deceipt;
Thou didst pursue our lov'd and subtill sinne, 25
Through all the foldings wee had wrapt it in,
And in thine owne large minde finding the way
By which our selves we from our selves convey,
Didst in us, narrow models, know the same
Angles, though darker, in our meaner frame. 30
How short of praise is this? My Muse, alas,
Climbes weakly to that truth which none can passe,
Hee that writes best, may onely hope to leave
A Character of all he could conceive
But none of thee, and with mee must confesse, 35
That fansie findes some checke, from an excesse
Of merit most, of nothing, it hath spun,
And truth, as reasons task and theame, doth shunne.
She makes a fairer flight in emptinesse,
Than when a bodied truth doth her oppresse. 40
Reason againe denies her scales, because
Hers are but scales, shee judges by the lawes
Of weake comparison, thy vertue sleights
Her feeble Beame, and her unequall Weights.
What prodigie of wit and pietie 45
Hath she else knowne, by which to measure thee?
Great soule: we can no more the worthinesse
Of what you were, then what you are, expresse.
_Sidney Godolphin. _
[Footnote: Elegie on D. D. _1635-69_: _it follows Walton's
elegy. _]
_On D^{r}_ John Donne, _late Deane of S. _ Paules, _London_.
Long since this taske of teares from you was due,
Long since, ô Poëts, he did die to you,
Or left you dead, when wit and he tooke flight
On divine wings, and soard out of your sight.
Preachers, 'tis you must weep; The wit he taught 5
You doe enjoy; the Rebels which he brought
From ancient discord, Giants faculties,
And now no more religions enemies;
Honest to knowing, unto vertuous sweet,
Witty to good, and learned to discreet, 10
He reconcil'd, and bid the Vsurper goe;
Dulnesse to vice, religion ought to flow;
He kept his loves, but not his objects; wit
Hee did not banish, but transplanted it,
Taught it his place and use, and brought it home 15
To Pietie, which it doth best become;
He shew'd us how for sinnes we ought to sigh,
And how to sing Christs Epithalamy:
The Altars had his fires, and there hee spoke
Incense of loves, and fansies holy smoake: 20
Religion thus enrich'd, the people train'd,
And God from dull vice had the fashion gain'd.
The first effects sprung in the giddy minde
Of flashy youth, and thirst of woman-kinde,
By colours lead, and drawne to a pursuit, 25
Now once againe by beautie of the fruit,
As if their longings too must set us free,
And tempt us now to the commanded tree.
Tell me, had ever pleasure such a dresse,
Have you knowne crimes so shap'd? or lovelinesse 30
Such as his lips did cloth religion in?
Had not reproofe a beauty passing sinne?
Corrupted nature sorrow'd when she stood
So neare the danger of becomming good,
And wish'd our so inconstant eares exempt 35
From piety that had such power to tempt:
Did not his sacred flattery beguile
Man to amendment? The law, taught to smile,
Pension'd our vanitie, and man grew well
Through the same frailtie by which he fell. 40
O the sick state of man, health does not please
Our tasts, but in the shape of the disease.
Thriftlesse is charitie, coward patience,
Iustice is cruell, mercy want of sense.
What meanes our Nature to barre vertue place, 45
If shee doe come in her owne cloathes and face?
Is good a pill, we dare not chaw to know?
Sense the soules servant, doth it keep us so
As we might starve for good, unlesse it first
Doe leave a pawne of relish in the gust? 50
Or have we to salvation no tie
At all, but that of our infirmitie?
Who treats with us must our affections move
To th' good we flie by those sweets which we love,
Must seeke our palats, and with their delight 55
To gaine our deeds, must bribe our appetite.
These traines he knew, and laying nets to save,
Temptingly sugred all the health hee gave.
But, where is now that chime? that harmony
Hath left the world, now the loud organ may 60
Appeare, the better voyce is fled to have
A thousand times the sweetnesse which it gave.
I cannot say how many thousand spirits
The single happinesse this soule inherits,
Damnes in the other world, soules whom no crosse 65
O'th sense afflicts, but onely of the losse,
Whom ignorance would halfe save, all whose paine
Is not in what they feele, but others gaine,
Selfe executing wretched spirits, who
Carrying their guilt, transport their envy too: 70
But those high joyes which his wits youngest flame
Would hurt to chuse, shall not we hurt to name?
Verse statues are all robbers, all we make
Of monument, thus doth not give but take
As Sailes which Seamen to a forewinde fit, 75
By a resistance, goe along with it,
So pens grow while they lessen fame so left;
A weake assistance is a kinde of theft.
Who hath not love to ground his teares upon,
Must weep here if he have ambition.
_I. Chudleigh. _
[On D^{r} John Donne _&c. _ _1635-69_, _where it follows
Godolphin's_ Elegie]
FINIS.
APPENDIX A.
LATIN POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS
DE LIBRO CVM MVTV-
aretur Impresso; Domi à pueris
frustatim lacerato; et post reddito
Manuscripto.
Doctissimo Amicissimoque v.
D. D. Andrews.
_Parturiunt madido quae nixu praela, recepta,
Sed quae scripta manu, sunt veneranda magis.
Qui liber in pluteos, blattis cinerique relictos,
Si modo sit praeli sanguine tinctus, abit;
Accedat calamo scriptus, reverenter habetur, 5
Involat et veterum scrinia summa Patrum.
Dicat Apollo modum; Pueros infundere libro
Nempe vetustatem canitiemque novo.
Nil mirum, medico pueros de semine natos,
Haec nova fata libra posse dedisse novo. 10
Si veterem faciunt pueri, qui nuperus, Annon
Ipse Pater Iuvenem me dabit arte senem?
Hei miseris senibus! nos vertit dura senectus
Omnes in pueros, neminem at in Iuvenem.
Hoc tibi servasti praestandum, Antique Dierum, 15
Quo viso, et vivit, et juvenescit Adam.
Interea, infirmae fallamus taedia vitae,
Libris, et Coelorum aemulâ amicitiâ.
Hos inter, qui a te mihi redditus iste libellus,
Non mihi tam charus, tam meus, ante fuit. _ 20
<Epigramma>
_Transiit in Sequanam Moenus; Victoris in aedes;
Et Francofurtum, te revehente, meat. _
[DE LIBRO &c. _1635-69_ _among certain prose letters in Latin
and English_
_Title_:--mutuaretur Impresso;] mutuaretur, Impresso,
_1635-69_
frustatim] frustratim _1635-69_
lacerato;] lacerato, _1635-69_]
[2 _manu, sunt_] _manu sunt, 1635-69_]
[4 _abit;_] _abit, 1635-69_]
[<Epigramma> _Ed_: _in old edd. these lines are 3 and 4 of
above poem_. _See note_]
[1 _aedes_;] _aedes, 1635-69_]
Amicissimo, & meritissimo BEN. JONSON.
In Vulponem.
_Qvod arte ausus es hic tuâ, Poeta,
Si auderent hominum Deique juris
Consulti, veteres sequi aemularierque,
O omnes saperemus ad salutem.
His sed sunt veteres araneosi; 5
Tam nemo veterum est sequutor, ut tu
Illos quod sequeris novator audis.
Fac tamen quod agis; tuique primâ
Libri canitie induantur horâ:
Nam chartis pueritia est neganda, 10
Nascanturque senes, oportet, illi
Libri, queis dare vis perennitatem.
Priscis, ingenium facit, laborque
Te parem; hos superes, ut et futuros,
Ex nostrâ vitiositate sumas, 15
Quâ priscos superamus, et futuros. _
[Amicissimo _&c. _ _in sheets added 1650: prefixed originally
to Quarto edition of Jonson's Volpone. 1607, later to Folio
edition of The Workes of Beniamin Jonson. 1616. , when In
Vulponem was added: in both signed I. D. _]
[11 Nascanturque _1607_: Nascunturque _1616_, _1650-69_]
To M^r _George Herbert_, with one of my
Seal(s), of the Anchor and Christ.
_Qvi prius assuetus Serpentum fasce Tabellas
Signare, (haec nostrae symbola parva Domus)
Adscitus domui Domini, patrioque relicto
Stemmate, nanciscor stemmata jure nova.
Hinc mihi Crux primo quae fronti impressa lavacro, 5
Finibus extensis, anchora facta patet.
Anchorae in effigiem Crux tandem desinit ipsam,
Anchora fit tandem Crux tolerata diu.
Hoc tamen ut fiat, Christo vegetatur ab ipso
Crux, et ab Affixo, est Anchora facta, Iesu. 10
Nec Natalitiis penitus serpentibus orbor,
Non ita dat Deus, ut auferat ante data.
Quâ sapiens, Dos est; Quâ terram lambit et ambit,
Pestis; At in nostra fit Medicina Cruce,
Serpens; fixa Cruci si sit Natura; Crucique 15
A fixo, nobis, Gratia tota fluat.
Omnia cum Crux sint, Crux Anchora facta, sigillum
Non tam dicendum hoc quam Catechismus erit.
Mitto nec exigua, exiguâ sub imagine, dona,
Pignora amicitiae, et munera; Vota, preces. 20
Plura tibi accumulet, sanctus cognominis, Ille
Regia qui flavo Dona sigillat Equo. _
[To M^r George Herbert _&c. _ _1650-69_, _in sheets added 1650:
two and a half lines in Walton's Life of Donne (1658): for
Herbert's reply see note Title:_--sent him with one _Walton_
(1670) Seal, _1650-69:_ Seales _Walton_]
[1 fasce] falce _Walton_]
[5 _fronti_] _fronte 1650-69_]
[17 _facta,_] _fixa,_ _1650-69_]
[19 Mitto] Mitto, _1650-69_]
A Sheafe of Snakes used heretofore to be
My Seal, The Crest of our poore Family.
Adopted in Gods Family, and so
Our old Coat lost, unto new armes I go.
The Crosse (my seal at Baptism) spred below, 5
Does, by that form, into an Anchor grow.
Crosses grow Anchors; Bear, as thou shouldst do
Thy Crosse, and that Crosse grows an Anchor too.
But he that makes our Crosses Anchors thus,
Is Christ, who there is crucifi'd for us. 10
Yet may I, with this, my first Serpents hold,
God gives new blessings, and yet leaves the old;
The Serpent, may, as wise, my pattern be;
My poison, as he feeds on dust, that's me.
And as he rounds the Earth to murder sure, 15
My death he is, but on the Crosse, my cure.
Crucifie nature then, and then implore
All Grace from him, crucified there before;
When all is Crosse, and that Crosse Anchor grown,
This Seal's a Catechism, not a Seal alone. 20
Under that little Seal great gifts I send,
<Wishes,> and prayers, pawns, and fruits of a friend.
And may that Saint which rides in our great Seal,
To you, who bear his name, great bounties deal.
[A sheafe _&c. _] _1650-69 and in Walton's_ Life of Donne
(1658), _in all of which and in all subsequent editions except
Grolier the first two lines are printed as a title, Walton
bracketing them_:--
A sheafe of Snakes used heretofore to be
_my Seal, The Crest of our poore Family_.
]
[4 Our . . . unto] My . . . into _Walton_]
[5 at] in _Walton_]
[11 with this I may _Walton_]
[15 to murder sure,] to murder, sure _Walton_]
[16 He is my death; _Walton_]
[22 Wishes, _Ed_: Works, _1650-69_: Both works _Walton_: Lat.
_vota_]
[23-4
Oh may that Saint that rides on our great Seal,
To you that bear his name large bounty deal.
_Walton_.
]
Translated out of _Gazæus_, _Vota Amico facta_. _fol. _ 160.
God grant thee thine own wish, and grant thee mine,
Thou, who dost, best friend, in best things outshine;
May thy soul, ever chearfull, nere know cares,
Nor thy life, ever lively, know gray haires.
Nor thy hand, ever open, know base holds, 5
Nor thy purse, ever plump, know pleits, or folds.
Nor thy tongue, ever true, know a false thing,
Nor thy word, ever mild, know quarrelling.
Nor thy works, ever equall, know disguise,
Nor thy fame, ever pure, know contumelies. 10
Nor thy prayers, know low objects, still Divine;
God grant thee thine own wish, and grant thee mine.
Translated _&c. _] _1650-69_, _in sheets added 1650_: _for
original see note_]
APPENDIX B.
POEMS WHICH HAVE BEEN ATTRIBUTED
TO JOHN DONNE IN THE OLD EDITIONS
AND THE PRINCIPAL MS. COLLEC-
TIONS, ARRANGED ACCORDING
TO THEIR PROBABLE
AUTHORS.
I.
POEMS
PROBABLY BY SIR JOHN ROE, KNT.
_To S^{r} Nicholas Smyth. _
Sleep, next Society and true friendship,
Mans best contentment, doth securely slip
His passions and the worlds troubles. Rock me
O sleep, wean'd from my dear friends company,
In a cradle free from dreams or thoughts, there 5
Where poor men ly, for Kings asleep do fear.
Here sleeps House by famous Ariosto,
By silver-tongu'd Ovid, and many moe,
Perhaps by golden-mouth'd Spencer too pardie,
(Which builded was some dozen Stories high) 10
I had repair'd, but that it was so rotten,
As sleep awak'd by Ratts from thence was gotten:
And I will build no new, for by my Will,
Thy fathers house shall be the fairest still
In Excester. Yet, methinks, for all their Wit, 15
Those wits that say nothing, best describe it.
Without it there is no Sense, only in this
Sleep is unlike a long Parenthesis.
Not to save charges, but would I had slept
The time I spent in London, when I kept 20
Fighting and untrust gallants Company,
In which Natta, the new Knight, seized on me,
And offered me the experience he had bought
With great Expence. I found him throughly taught
In curing Burnes. His thing hath had more scars 25
Then Things himselfe; like Epps it often wars,
And still is hurt. For his Body and State
The Physick and Counsel which came too late,
'Gainst Whores and Dice, hee nowe on mee bestowes
Most superficially: hee speaks of those 30
(I found by him) least soundly who most knows:
He swears well, speakes ill, but best of Clothes,
What fits Summer, what Winter, what the Spring.
He had Living, but now these waies come in
His whole Revenues. Where each Whore now dwells, 35
And hath dwelt, since his fathers death, he tells.
Yea he tells most cunningly each hid cause
Why Whores forsake their Bawds. To these some Laws
He knows of the Duello, and touch his Skill
The least lot in that or those he quarrell will, 40
Though sober; but so never fought. I know
What made his Valour, undubb'd, Windmill go,
Within a Pint at most: yet for all this
(Which is most strange) Natta thinks no man is
More honest than himself. Thus men may want 45
Conscience, whilst being brought up ignorant,
They use themselves to vice. And besides those
Illiberal Arts forenam'd, no Vicar knows,
Nor other Captain less then he; His Schools
Are Ordinaries, where civil men seem fools, 50
Or are for being there; His best bookes, Plaies,
Where, meeting godly Scenes, perhaps he praies.
His first set prayer was for his father, ill
And sick, that he might dye: That had, until
The Lands were gone, he troubled God no more: 55
And then ask'd him but his Right, That the whore
Whom he had kept, might now keep him: She spent,
They left each other on even terms; she went
To Bridewel, he unto the Wars, where want
Hath made him valiant, and a Lieutenant 60
He is become: Where, as they pass apace,
He steps aside, and for his Captains place
He praies again: Tells God, he will confess
His sins, swear, drink, dice and whore thenceforth less,
On this Condition, that his Captain dye 65
And he succeed; But his Prayer did not; They
Both cashir'd came home, and he is braver now
Than'his captain: all men wonder, few know how.
Can he rob? No. Cheat? No. Or doth he spend
His own? No. Fidus, he is thy dear friend, 70
That keeps him up. I would thou wert thine own,
Or thou'hadst as good a friend as thou art one.
No present Want nor future hope made me,
Desire (as once I did) thy friend to be:
But he had cruelly possest thee then, 75
And as our Neighbours the Low-Country men,
Being (whilst they were Loyal, with Tyranny
Opprest) broke loose, have since refus'd to be
Subject to good Kings, I found even so,
Wer't thou well rid of him, thou't have no moe. 80
Could'st thou but chuse as well as love, to none
Thou should'st be second: Turtle and Damon
Should give thee place in songs, and Lovers sick
Should make thee only Loves Hieroglyphick:
Thy Impress should be the loving Elm and Vine, 85
Where now an ancient Oak, with Ivy twine
Destroy'd, thy Symbol is. O dire Mischance!
And, O vile verse! And yet your Abraham France
Writes thus, and jests not. Good Fidus for this
Must pardon me, Satyres bite when they kiss. 90
But as for Natta, we have since faln out:
Here on his knees he pray'd, else we had fought.
And because God would not he should be winner,
Nor yet would have the Death of such a sinner,
At his seeking, our Quarrel is deferr'd, 95
I'll leave him at his Prayers, and (as I heard)
His last; Fidus, and you, and I do know,
I was his friend, and durst have been his foe,
And would be either yet; But he dares be
Neither; Sleep blots him out and takes in thee. 100
"The mind, you know is like a Table-book,
Which, th'old unwipt, new writing never took.
Hear how the Huishers Checques, Cupbord and Fire
I pass'd; by which Degrees young men aspire
In Court; And how that idle and she-state, 105
Whenas my judgment cleer'd, my soul did hate;
How I found there (if that my trifling Pen
Durst take so hard a Task) Kings were but men,
And by their Place more noted, if they erre;
How they and their Lords unworthy men prefer; 110
And, as unthrifts had rather give away
Great Summs to flatterers, than small debts pay,
So they their weakness hide, and greatness show,
By giving them that which to worth they owe:
What Treason is, and what did Essex kill, 115
Not true Treason, but Treason handled ill;
And which of them stood for their Countries good,
Or what might be the Cause of so much Blood.
He said she stunck, and men might not have said
That she was old before that she was dead. 120
His Case was hard, to do or suffer; loth
To do, he made it harder, and did both.
Too much preparing lost them all their Lives,
Like some in Plagues kill'd with preservatives.
Friends, like land-souldiers in a storm at Sea, 125
Not knowing what to do, for him did pray.
They told it all the world; where was their wit?
Cuffs putting on a sword, might have told it.
And Princes must fear Favorites more then Foes,
For still beyond Revenge Ambition goes. 130
How since Her death, with Sumpter-horse that Scot
Hath rid, who, at his coming up, had not
A Sumpter-dog. But till that I can write
Things worth thy Tenth reading (dear Nick) goodnight.
[To S^{r} Nicholas Smyth. _Ed_: Satyra Sexta. To S^{r} _&c. _
_S_: Satires to S^{r} Nic: Smith. 1602 _B_: A Satire: to S^{r}
Nicholas Smith. 1602, _L74_: A Satyricall Letter to S^{r}
Nich: Smith. Quere, if Donnes or S^{r} Th: Rowes. _O'F_: _no
title_ _N_, _TCD_ (_JR in margin_): Satyre VI. _1669_ (_on
which the present text is based_)]
[1 Sleep, next] Sleep next, _1669_]
[2 slip _1669_, _S_: skipp _B_, _L74_, _N_, _O'F_, _TCD_. _In
1669 full stops after slip and rock me and no stop after
troubles_]
[3 Rock] rock _1669_]
[4 my _MSS. _: thy _1669_]
[6 asleep] all sleap _B_]
[9 golden-mouth'd] gold-mouth'd _B_, _S_]
[14 still] still. _1669_]
[25 hath had _L74_, _N_, _O'F_, _S_, _TCD_: had had _1669_:
had _B_]
[26 Things _B_, _L74_, _N_, _O'F_, _S_, _TCD_: T _1669_]
[28-31 _text from B_, _L74_, _N_, _O'F_, _S_, _TCD_, _which
bracket which .
