Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist, Volume II

by Henry Vaughan · English · Gutenberg #28375 · 468,994 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist, Volume II

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist, Volume II

Author: Henry Vaughan

Commentator: H. C. Beeching

Editor: E. K. Chambers

Release date: March 20, 2009 [eBook #28375]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28375

Credits: E-text prepared by Susan Skinner, David Cortesi, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF HENRY VAUGHAN, SILURIST, VOLUME II ***

E-text prepared by Susan Skinner, David Cortesi, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)

Transcriber's note:

The ligatures oe and OE are indicated by [oe] and [OE].

The carat (^) indicates a superscript in the original. One
carat indicates that the following single letter is
superscript. A pair of carats indicates that the enclosed
letters are superscript; for example the abbreviations
8^vo^ and 12^mo^ are used for the printer's page sizes
octavo and duodecimo respectively.

In the poem "In Etesiam Lachrymantem" (Page 221) the
initial letter of the final line is missing in all extant
editions; either "C" or "D" seems possible.

In the Boethius translation Lib. IV. Metrum VI. (page 230),
the letter 'y' has been added to make line 9/10 read
"...though they/See other stars..." although it is missing
in all available editions.

At many points a period, comma or hyphen seems to be
omitted in the original. Obvious typographical errors have
been corrected, but where missing punctuation is not clearly
an error, or the omission is harmless to the sense, the text
remains as in the original.

Footnotes in the original appear on the page where they are
referenced and are numbered from 1 on each page. Here
footnotes are numbered consecutively throughout the book and
are grouped following each chapter or poem to which they
refer. To locate footnote 17 (for example) search for [17].
Another search for [17] returns to the point of reference.

POEMS OF HENRY VAUGHAN

SILURIST.

VOL. II.

The Muses' Library

POEMS OF HENRY VAUGHAN

SILURIST

Edited by E. K. Chambers

With an Introduction by Canon Beeching

VOL. II.

London:
George Routledge & Sons, Limited
New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

PAGE

TABLE OF CONTENTS vii

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE xv

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF HENRY VAUGHAN'S WORKS lvii

POEMS WITH THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL ENGLISHED, 1646 1

To all Ingenious Lovers of Poesy 3

To my Ingenuous Friend, R. W. 5

Les Amours 8

To Amoret. The Sigh 10

To his Friend, Being in Love 11

Song: [Amyntas go, thou art Undone] 12

To Amoret. Walking in a Starry Evening 13

To Amoret Gone from him 15

A Song to Amoret 16

An Elegy 17

A Rhapsodis 18

To Amoret, of the Difference 'twixt him and other Lovers, 21
and what True Love is

To Amoret Weeping 23

Upon the Priory Grove, his Usual Retirement 26

Juvenal's Tenth Satire Translated 28

OLOR ISCANUS. 1651.

Ad Posteros 51

To the ... Lord Kildare Digby 53

The Publisher to the Reader 55

Upon the Most Ingenious Pair of Twins, Eugenius 57
Philalethes and the Author of those Poems [by T. Powell,
Oxoniensis]

To my Friend the Author upon these his Poems [by I. 58
Rowlandson, Oxoniensis]

Upon the following Poems [by Eugenius Philalethes, 59
Oxoniensis]

Olor Iscanus. To the River Isca 61

The Charnel-House 65

In Amicum Foeneratorem 68

To his Friend ---- 70

To his Retired Friend, An Invitation to Brecknock 73

Monsieur Gombauld 77

An Elegy on the Death of Mr. R. W., Slain in the late 79
Unfortunate Differences at Routon Heath, near Chester,
1645

Upon a Cloak lent him by Mr. J. Ridsley 83

Upon Mr. Fletcher's Plays, Published 1647 87

Upon the Poems and Plays of the Ever-Memorable Mr. William 90
Cartwright

To the Best and Most Accomplished Couple ---- 92

An Elegy on the Death of Mr. R. Hall, Slain at Pontefract, 94
1648

To my Learned Friend, Mr. T. Powell, upon his Translation 97
of Malvezzi's Christian Politician

To my Worthy Friend, Master T. Lewes 99

To the Most Excellently Accomplished Mrs. K. Philips 100

An Epitaph upon the Lady Elizabeth, Second Daughter to his 102
Late Majesty

To Sir William Davenant upon his Gondibert 104

TRANSLATIONS FROM OVID.

To his Fellow Poets at Rome, upon the Birthday of Bacchus 106

To his Friends--after his Many Solicitations--Refusing to 109
Petition Caesar for his Releasement

To his Inconstant Friend, Translated for the Use of all 112
the Judases of this Touchstone Age

To his Wife at Rome, when he was Sick 115

Ausonii. Idyll vi. Cupido [Cruci Affixus] 119

[Translations from Boethius] 125

[Translations from Casimirus] 144

The Praise of a Religious Life of Mathias Casimirus. In 152
Answer to that Ode of Horace, Beatus Ille Qui Procul
Negotiis.

Ad Fluvium Iscam 157

Venerabili Viro, Praeceptori Suo Olim Et Semper 158
Colendissimo Magistro Mathaeo Herbert

Praestantissimo Viro, Thomae Poello In Suum De Elementis 159
Opticae Libellum

Ad Echum 160

THALIA REDIVIVA. 1678.

To ... Henry Lord Marquis and Earl of Worcester, &c. 163
[by J. W.]

To the Reader [by I. W.] 167

To Mr. Henry Vaughan, the Silurist: upon These and his 169
Former Poems. [By Orinda]

Upon the Ingenious Poems of his Learned Friend, Mr. Henry 171
Vaughan, the Silurist. [By Tho. Powell, D.D.]

To the Ingenious Author of Thalia Rediviva [By N. W., 172
Jes. Coll., Oxon.]

To my Worthy Friend Mr. Henry Vaughan, the Silurist. 175
[by I. W., A.M., Oxon.]

CHOICE POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

To his Learned Friend and Loyal Fellow-Prisoner, Thomas 178
Powel of Cant[reff], Doctor of Divinity

The King Disguised 181

The Eagle 184

To Mr. M. L. upon his Reduction of the Psalms into Method 187

To the Pious Memory of C[harles] W[albeoffe] Esquire, Who 189
Finished his Course Here, and Made his Entrance into
Immortality upon the 13 of September, in the Year of
Redemption, 1653

In Zodiacum Marcelli Palingenii 193

To Lysimachus, the Author Being with him in London 195

On Sir Thomas Bodley's Library, the Author Being Then in 197
Oxford

The Importunate Fortune, Written to Dr. Powel, of 200
Cant[reff]

To I. Morgan of Whitehall, Esq., upon his Sudden Journey 204
and Succeeding Marriage

Fida; or, The Country Beauty. To Lysimachus 206

Fida Forsaken 209

To the Editor of the Matchless Orinda 211

Upon Sudden News of the Much-Lamented Death of Judge 213
Trevers

To Etesia (for Timander); The First Sight 214

The Character, to Etesia 217

To Etesia Looking from her Casement at the Full Moon 219

To Etesia Parted from Him, and Looking Back 220

In Etesiam Lachrymantem 221

To Etesia Going Beyond Sea 222

Etesia Absent 223

TRANSLATIONS.

Some Odes of the Excellent and Knowing [Anicius Manlius] 224
Severinus [Boethius], Englished

The Old Man of Verona, out of Claudian 236

The Sphere of Archimedes, out of Claudian 238

The Ph[oe]nix, out of Claudian 239

PIOUS THOUGHTS AND EJACULATIONS.

To his Books 245

Looking Back 247

The Shower 248

Discipline 249

The Eclipse 250

Affliction 251

Retirement 252

The Revival 254

The Day Spring 255

The Recovery 257

The Nativity 259

The True Christmas 261

The Request 263

Jordanis 265

Servilii Fatum, Sive Vindicta Divina 266

De Salmone 267

The World 268

The Bee 272

To Christian Religion 276

Daphnis 278

FRAGMENTS AND TRANSLATIONS. 1641-1661.

From Eucharistica Oxoniensia (1641) 289

From Of the Benefit we may get by our Enemies (1651) 291

From Of the Diseases of the Mind and the Body (1651) 293

From The Mount of Olives (1652) 294

From Man in Glory (1652) 298

From Flores Solitudinis (1654) 299

From Of Temperance and Patience (1654) 300

From Of Life and Death (1654) 305

From Primitive Holiness (1654) 307

From Hermetical Physic (1655) 322

From Cerbyd Fechydwiaeth (1657) 323

From Humane Industry (1661) 324

NOTES TO VOL. II 329

LIST OF FIRST LINES 355

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.

Recent inquiries into the life of Henry Vaughan have added but little to
the information already contained in the memoirs of Mr. Lyte and Dr.
Grosart. I have, however, been enabled to put together a few notes on
this somewhat obscure subject, which may be taken as supplementary to
Mr. Beeching's _Introduction_ in Vol. I. It will be well to preface them
by reprinting the account of Anthony a Wood, our chief original
authority (_Ath. Oxon._, ed. Bliss, 1817, iv. 425):

"Henry Vaughan, called the _Silurist_ from that part of Wales whose
inhabitants were in ancient times called Silures, brother twin (but
elder)[1] to Eugenius Philalethes, alias Tho. Vaughan ... was born at
Newton S. Briget, lying on the river Isca, commonly called Uske, in
Brecknockshire, educated in grammar learning in his own country for six
years under one Matthew Herbert, a noted schoolmaster of his time, made
his first entry into Jesus College in Mich. term 1638, aged 17 years;
where spending two years or more in logicals under a noted tutor, was
taken thence and designed by his father for the obtaining of some
knowledge in the municipal laws at London. But soon after the civil war
beginning, to the horror of all good men, he was sent for home, followed
the pleasant paths of poetry and philology, became noted for his
ingenuity, and published several specimens thereof, of which his _Olor
Iscanus_ was most valued. Afterwards applying his mind to the study of
physic, became at length eminent in his own country for the practice
thereof, and was esteemed by scholars an ingenious person, but proud and
humorous.... [A list of Vaughan's works follows.] ... He died in the
latter end of April (about the 29th day) in sixteen hundred ninety and
five, and was buried in the parish church of Llansenfreid, about two
miles distant from Brecknock, in Brecknockshire."

Anthony a Wood seems to have had some personal acquaintance with the
poet, for in his account of Thomas Vaughan (_Ath. Oxon._ iii. 725) he
says that "Olor Iscanus sent me a catalogue of his brother's works."

(a) THE VAUGHAN GENEALOGY.

Henry Vaughan's descent from the Vaughans of Tretower, County Brecon,
has been accurately traced by Dr. Grosart and others. Little has been
hitherto known about his immediate family. Theophilus Jones, in his
_History of Brecknockshire_ (1805-9), ii. 544, says: "Henry Vaughan died
in 1695, aged 75,[2] leaving by his first wife two sons and three
daughters, and by his second a daughter Rachel, who married John
Turberville. His grand-daughter, Denys, or Dyenis, a corruption or
abbreviation of Dyonisia, who was the daughter of Jenkin Jones of
Trebinshwn, by Luce his wife, died single in 1780, aged 92, and is
buried in the Priory churchyard.[3] What became of the remainder of his
family, or whether they are extinct, I know not." To this statement Mr.
Lyte added nothing but some errors, and Dr. Grosart nothing but the
following hypothesis:--

"I am inclined to think that William Vaughan, censor of the College of
Physicians, physician to William III^d., was one of the sons of our
worthy mentioned by Mr. Lyte.... William Vaughan's 'age 20' in 1668
represents 1648 as the birth-date, and that fits in with the love-verse
of the Poems of 1646."

Mr. G. T. Clark, in his _Genealogies of Glamorgan_, p. 240, gives the
following account:--

Henry [Vaughan], ob. 1695, aet. 75, father by first wife of (1) a son,
s.p.; (2) Lucy ob. 29 Aug., 1780, aet. 92,[4] m. Jenkin Jones of
Trebinshwn. Their d. Denise Jones, died single, 1780, aet. 92. By second
wife (3) Rachel, m. John Turberville; (4) Edmund; (5) Alexander, ob.
1622 [!], s.p.; (6) Catharine, m. Wm. Harris; (7) Mary, m. John
Walbeoffe of Llanhamlach; (8) Elizabeth, m. John Arnold; (9) Frances, m.
Wm. Johns of Cwm Dhu.

Unfortunately Mr. Clark is unable to remember his authority for this
pedigree. I have found another, which differs from it in many ways, and
is exceedingly interesting, inasmuch as it gives, for the first time,
the names of Henry Vaughan's two wives, who appear to have been sisters.
It is in a volume of _Brecknockshire Pedigrees_ collected by the Welsh
Herald, Hugh Thomas, and now amongst the Harleian MSS. Hugh Thomas was
born and lived hard by Llansantffread, and must have known Vaughan and
his family personally.

PEDIGREE OF VAUGHAN OF TRETOWER AND NEWTON.

(From Harl. MS. 2289, f. 81.)

Thomas m. Denis, d. and h. to Gwillims of Newton Skethrog.
|
Henry, of Newton.
|
Henry, of Newton Skethrog, Doctor of Phisick, m.
Catharine, d. to Charles Wise, of Ritsonhall,
Staffordshire, and secondly Elizabeth, her sister.
| |
Lucy, m. Ch. Greenleafe of Grisill, m. Roger Prosser.
Streton-upon-Trent, Staff.
Lucy, m. Jenkin Jones of Trebinshwn.

Catharine, m. Rachel, m. John Turberville
Tho. Vaughan, of Newton of Llangattock.
Skethrog, m. Frances, Henry, Parson of Penderin,
d. to m. Janet, d. of Robert
Walbeoffe of Talyllyn.

It will be observed that neither Mr. Clark's pedigree nor Hugh Thomas'
agrees with the number of children assigned to each marriage by
Theophilus Jones, and that neither of them helps out Dr. Grosart's
hypothesis that Dr. William Vaughan was a son of the poet. Mr. W. B. Rye
(_Genealogist_, iii. 33) has made it appear likely that this Dr.
Vaughan, who married Anne Newton, of Romford in Essex, belonged to a
branch of the Vaughans who had been settled in Romford since 1571.

I now proceed to confirm and illustrate the pedigrees by giving such
further facts concerning Vaughan's immediate family as I have been able
with Miss Morgan's assistance, to glean. I can trace no family of Wises
in Staffordshire so early as the seventeenth century, nor any place in
that county called Ritsonhall. It is possible that the R. W. of the
_Elegy_ (vol. ii., p. 79, _note_) may have been a Wise, and also that
the connection between Vaughan and the Staffordshire Egertons may have
been through this family (vol. ii., p. 294, _note_). Vaughan's first
wife Catharine was probably dead before 1658. Thomas Vaughan, in his
diary (MS. Sloane, 1741, f. 106 (b)), makes mention in that year of
"eyewater made at the Pinner of Wakefield by my dear wife and my Sister
Vaughan, who are both now with God." The second wife, Elizabeth,
survived her husband. Administration of his goods was granted to her as
the widow of an intestate in May, 1695.[5] The fine old manor-house at
Newton was pulled down by a stupid land-agent within the memory of man,
but a stone has been found built into the wall of a house half-a-mile
from the site, bearing the inscription "H^VE, 1689." This may well
stand for H[enry and] E[lizabeth] V[aughan]. Newton probably passed to
the poet's eldest son Thomas and his wife Frances.[6] Of their
descendants, if any, we know nothing. There was a William Vaughan of
Llansantffread who, later than 1714, married Mary Games of Tregaer in
Llanfrynach. But this was probably a Vaughan not of Newton, but of
Scethrog, also in Llansantffread (_cf._ footnote to p. xxv. below.) In
1733 William Vaughan was churchwarden of Llanfrynach. In 1740 William
Vaughan of Tregaer was high sheriff of Brecknock. In 1760 Tregaer had
passed by purchase to a Mr. Phillips. The registers of Llanfrynach from
1695-1756 are now lost. Lucy Greenleafe and her sister Catharine are
quite obscure. One of them may have been the niece who was living with
Thomas Vaughan when news came from the country in 1658 of his father's
death (MS. Sloane, 1741, f. 89 (b)). Of the second family, Henry became
Rector of Penderin in 1684, and vacated the living, probably through
death, in 1713. A tablet to his memory hung during the present century
in the church at Penderin, but when the church was restored the tablets
were taken down and buried under the tiles of the chancel. His wife, a
Walbeoffe of Talyllyn, belonged to the same family as the Walbeoffes of
Llanhamlach (vol. ii., p. 189, _note_). The eldest girl, Grisill,
married Roger Prosser. The Prossers were the younger branch of a
Brecknockshire family who had become sadlers and mercers in Brecon. Many
of their tombs are in the Priory church, but Theophilus Jones states
that by his time they were extinct. Grisill Prosser was married a second
time, in 1709, to Morgan Watkins, an attorney, and was buried on August
21, 1737. The second girl, Lucy, married Jenkin Jones of Trebinshwn, a
cousin of Colonel Jenkin Jones, the local Parliamentary leader. Her
daughter, Denise Jones, died single in 1780, as Theophilus Jones states,
and her tombstone in the Priory church records her descent. The third
girl, Rachel, married John Turberville, one of the Turbervilles of
Llangattock, who claimed kinship with the Elizabethan poet of that name.
The following pedigree shows the descendants of the three daughters of
Henry Vaughan's second marriage, so far as they can be traced.[7]

It will be seen that I can give no evidence of the existence of any
living descendants of Henry Vaughan.

Henry's grandfather, Thomas Vaughan, a younger son of Charles Vaughan of
Tretower, seems to have come into the possession of Newton through his
marriage with an heiress of the family of Gwillims or Williams. Newton,
or in Welsh Trenewydd, is a farm of about 200 acres in the manor or
lordship, and near the village of Scethrog, both being in the parish of
Llansantffread and hundred of Penkelley. Williams is a common name in
Breconshire, and I cannot trace the descent of Thomas Vaughan's wife. In
the sixteenth century Newton belonged to a family who finally settled on
the name of Howel, ap Howell or Powell.[8] The last of these is
described on his tombstone in Llansantffread Church as "David Morgan
David Howel, who married ... William of Llanhamoloch: and they had issue
one daughter called Denys. He died 2nd June, 1598." Perhaps Newton
passed in some way from David Morgan David Howel to his wife's family,
and so to Thomas Vaughan, who married Denise Gwillims. Theophilus Jones
(ii. 538) records that at a later date other Williams's, also
apparently connected with Llanhamlach, were succeeded by other Vaughans
at Scethrog, hard by Newton. His account is that David Williams,
youngest brother of Sir Thomas Williams of Eltham, married a daughter of
John Walbeoffe of Llanhamlach (_cf._ pedigree in vol. ii., p. 189,
_note_), and bought Scethrog. Their son Charles died without issue, and
the property passed to his wife Mary (Anne in Harl. MS., 2289, t. 39;
_cf._ vol. ii., p. 204, _note_), the daughter of Morgan John of
Wenallt.... She afterwards married Hugh Powell, clerk, parson of
Llansanffread and precentor of St. David's, and her daughter Margaret
married Charles Vaughan, son to Vaughan Morgan of Tretower.[9]

A trace of Thomas Vaughan is probably preserved in a window-head from
the old church of Llansantffread, now destroyed, which has the
inscription:--

1626. E. G. T. V. W. T.
W. F. I. [bold reversed 'D'].

T. V. may stand for T[homas] V[aughan].[10]

Of Henry Vaughan, the poet's father, very little is known. His name
appears in a list of Breconshire magistrates for 1620. And we learn from
Thomas Vaughan's diary in Sloane MS. 1741, f. 89 (b), that he died in
August 1658.

The only additional definite fact which I can here record of the poet
himself is that in 1691 he entered a caveat against any institution to
the vicarage of Llandevalley, he claiming the next presentation under a
grant from William Winter, Esq.[11] Mr. Rye has shown that the specimen
of handwriting facsimiled by Dr. Grosart in his edition of Henry
Vaughan's _Works_ cannot possibly be the poet's. The signatures,
however, on the margin of a copy of _Olor Iscanus_, once in the library
of Lady Isham, might be genuine.

(b) VAUGHAN AND JESUS COLLEGE, OXFORD.

Anthony a Wood's statement as to Vaughan's residence at Jesus College,
Oxford, has been generally accepted, but I venture to doubt it on the
following grounds:--

(1) Vaughan's name does not occur in the University Matriculation
Register, although his brother Thomas Vaughan is duly entered as
matriculating from Jesus on 14th December, 1638. The only College
records which help us are the Battel-books for 1638 and 1640. That for
1639 is unfortunately missing. The Rev. Llewellyn Thomas kindly informs
me that he can only trace one undergraduate Vaughan in the two books in
question. The Christian name is not given, but I think that we must
assume it to be Thomas.

(2) Vaughan does not describe himself on any title-page as of Jesus
College; nor does he ever speak of himself as an Oxford man. This
omission is the more noticeable as he would naturally have done so in
the lines _Ad Posteros_ (vol. ii., p. 51), and might well have done so
in those _On Sir Thomas Bodley's Library, the Author being then in
Oxford_ (vol. ii., p. 197).

(3) Anthony a Wood cannot be depended on. He describes Thomas Carew, for
instance, as of C.C.C., whereas he was a most certainly of Merton. And
there was another Henry Vaughan of Jesus, who may have been confused
with the poet. This Henry Vaughan, a son of John Vaughan of Cathlin,
Merionethshire, matriculated at Oriel on July 4, 1634. He afterwards
became a Scholar and Fellow of Jesus, taking his B.A. in 1637 and his
M.A. in 1639. In 1643 he became vicar of Penteg, co. Monmouth, and died
at Abergavenny in 1661. (Wood, _Ath. Oxon._, iii. 531; Foster, _Alumni
Oxon._)

(4) The only confirmation of Anthony a Wood's statement is the poem
(vol. ii., p. 289) taken by Dr. Grosart from the _Eucharistica
Oxoniensia_ (1641), and signed "H. Vaughan, Jes. Col." If I am right,
this may be by Vaughan's namesake. He has indeed another poem in that
volume signed "Hen. Vaugh., Jes. Soc." but that is in Latin, and it is
not unexampled for one man to contribute more than one poem, especially
in different tongues, to such collections. Or it may be by Herbert
Vaughan, who was a Gentleman-commoner of the College in 1641, and has,
with Henry Vaughan the Fellow, verses in the [Greek: proteleia] _Anglo
Batava_ of the same year.

There are several passages which make it probable that Vaughan, like his
brother Thomas, bore arms on the King's side in the Civil War. The most
important is in the poem _To Mr. Ridsley_ (vol. ii., p. 83), where he
speaks of the time

"when this juggling fate
Of soldiery first seiz'd me."

In the same poem he mentions

"that day, when we
Left craggy Biston and the fatal Dee."

"Craggy Biston" is clearly Beeston Castle, one of the outlying defences
of Chester, situated on a steep rock not very far east of the Dee. This
castle was besieged on several occasions during the Civil War,
especially during the campaign of 1645, when Chester was also besieged
by the Parliamentarians.[12] Between Beeston and the Dee was fought, on
September 24, 1645, the battle of Rowton Heath, after which Charles the
First, who had hoped to raise the siege of Chester, was obliged to
retreat to Denbigh.[13] The following lines from Vaughan's _Elegy on Mr.
R. W._ (vol. ii., p. 79), who fell in that battle, seem to have been
written by an eye-witness:

"O that day
When like the fathers in the fire and cloud
I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd
See arms like thine, and men advance, but none
So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye
Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie
Performance with the soul, that you would swear
The act and apprehension both lodg'd there?
Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand
Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand.
But here I lost him."

This appears to me pretty conclusive evidence; against it, however, must
be set the passage on the Civil War in the autobiographical poem _Ad
Posteros_ (vol. ii., p. 51).

Vixi, divisos cum fregerat haeresis Anglos
Inter Tysiphonas presbyteri et populi.
His primum miseris per amoena furentibus arva
Prostravit sanctam vilis avena rosam.
Turbarunt fontes, et fusis pax perit undis,
Moestaque coelestes obruit umbra dies.
Duret ut integritas tamen, et pia gloria, partem
Me nullam in tanta strage fuisse, scias;
Credidimus nempe insonti vocem esse cruori,
Et vires quae post funera flere docent.
Hinc castae, fidaeque pati me more parentis
Commonui, et lachrimis fata levare meis;
Hinc nusquam horrendis violavi sacra procellis,
Nec mihi mens unquam, nec manus atra fuit.

The natural interpretation of this certainly is that Vaughan took no
share in the disturbances of his time, except to grieve over them in
retirement. Yet, in the first place, the lines may have been written
before he took up arms in 1645, and, in the second, they may only mean
that he had no share in _bringing about_ the troubles of England, or in
shedding _innocent_ blood. Similarly when elsewhere, as in _Abel's
Blood_ (vol. i. p. 254), and in the prayer to be quoted below, he
expresses horror of blood-guiltiness, this need not necessarily be taken
as extending to the man who fights in a righteous cause.

Miss Morgan, I may add, suggests that Vaughan was at Rowton Heath, not
as a combatant, but as a physician. The description which he gives of
the battle reads like that of a man who saw it from some commanding
point of view, but was not himself engaged. I think it not improbable
that Vaughan was one of the garrison of Beeston Castle, which is
described to me as "a sort of grand stand for the battle-field." Beeston
Castle was invested by the Parliamentarians in the course of September
1645. On the approach of Charles the troops were drawn off on 19th
September to Chester.[14] Charles no doubt took the opportunity to
strengthen the garrison. After Rowton Heath Beeston Castle was again
besieged, and on November 16th it surrendered. The garrison were allowed
to march across the Dee to Denbigh. I think that this winter ride from
the fallen fortress is the one described by Vaughan in the poem to Mr.
Ridsley. It is the more probable that Vaughan took part in this campaign
of 1645, in that Charles's force was largely recruited from Wales. After
the battle of Naseby on June 14th, the King had marched through Wales,
collecting such levies as he could. He was in Brecon on August 5th.[15]
It is quite possible that Vaughan, whose kinsman Sir William Vaughan was
in command of a brigade, volunteered on this occasion. From Brecon
Charles marched through Radnorshire, Shropshire, Staffordshire,
Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire, Yorkshire, and so to Oxford. In September
he set out again, and after some delay at Hereford and Raglan, finally
made for Chester.

It is just conceivable that it is to some occasion in this campaign that
Vaughan refers when he calls Dr. Powell his "fellow-prisoner" (vol. ii.,
p. 178). The poet may even have been the Captain Vaughan whose name
appears in the official list of prisoners taken at Rowton Heath.[16]
Powell's name is not there, but then the list does not profess to be
complete. But on the whole I think that Vaughan and Powell were only
fellow-prisoners in the Platonic sense of imprisonment in the flesh, and
even if a literal imprisonment is intended, it may have been due to some
act of persecution which Vaughan had to suffer as a Royalist at a later
date. There is in _The Mount of Olives_ (1652) a _Prayer in Adversity
and Troubles occasioned by our Enemies_ (Grosart, vol. iii., p. 75),
which, if it is to be taken--I think it is not--as autobiographical,
seems to show that, at least for a time, he lost his estate. The prayer
runs: "Thou seest, O God, how furious and implacable mine enemies are:
they have not only robbed me of that portion and provision which Thou
hast graciously given me, but they have also washed their hands in the
blood of my friends, my dearest and nearest relations. I know, O God,
and I am daily taught by that disciple whom Thou didst love, that no
murderer hath eternal life abiding in him. Keep me, therefore, O my
God, from the guilt of blood, and suffer me not to stain my soul with
the thoughts of recompense and vengeance, which is a branch of Thy great
prerogative, and belongs wholly unto Thee. Though they persecute me unto
death, and pant after the very dust upon the heads of Thy poor, though
they have taken the bread out of Thy children's mouth, and have made me
a desolation; yet, Lord, give me Thy grace, and such a measure of
charity as may fully forgive them."

It may have been during some such time of trouble, or imprisonment, if
imprisonment there was, that Vaughan's wife lived with Thomas Vaughan,
as will be seen below, in London.

(d) THOMAS VAUGHAN.

It has not been thought necessary to reprint in this edition of Henry
Vaughan's poems the scanty English and Latin verses of his brother,
Thomas Vaughan. They may be found, together with verses by Virgil and
Campion ascribed to him, in vol. ii. of Dr. Grosart's _Fuller Worthies_
edition. But some account of so curious a person will not be out of
place.

As for his brother, our chief authority is Anthony a Wood (_Ath. Oxon._,
iii. 722), who says that he was the son of Thomas Vaughan of
Llansantffread,[17] that he was born in 1621, educated under Matthew
Herbert and at Jesus College, Oxford, of which he became Fellow, took
orders and received [in 1640] the living of Llansanffread from his
kinsman, Sir George Vaughan [of Fallerstone, Wilts]. He lost his living
in the unquiet times of the Civil War, retired to Oxford, and became an
eminent chemist, afterwards moving to London, where he worked under the
patronage of Sir Robert Murray. He was a great admirer of Cornelius
Agrippa, "a great chymist, a noted son of the fire, an experimental
philosopher, a zealous brother of the Rosicrucian fraternity ... neither
papist nor sectary, but a true resolute protestant in the best sense of
the Church of England." In the great plague he fled with Murray from
London to Oxford, and thence went to the house of Samuel Kem at Albury,
where he died on February 27, 1665/6, of mercury accidentally getting
into his nose while he was operating. He was buried at Albury on March
1st. Writing in 1673, Anthony a Wood gives a list of his alchemical and
mystical treatises published between 1650 and 1655. Of these he had
received a list from Olor Iscanus (Henry Vaughan). They all bear the
name of Eugenius Philalethes, except the _Aula Lucis_ (1652), which was
issued as by S. N., _i.e._ [Thoma]S [Vaugha]N. Some of these pamphlets
contain Vaughan's share of a vigorous and scurrilous controversy with
Henry More, the Platonist. Anthony a Wood distinguishes from Vaughan
another Eugenius Philalethes, author of the _Brief Natural History_
(1669), also one Eirenaeus Philalethes, author of _Ripley Redivivus_ and
other works, and Eirenaeus Philoponos Philalethes, author of _The Marrow
of Alchemy_ (1654-5).[18]

A few facts, from well-known sources, may be added to Anthony a Wood's
account. The University Registers show that "Thos. Vaughan, son of
Thomas of Llansanfraid, co. Brecon, pleb., matriculated from Jesus
College on 14 Dec, 1638, aged 16." He took his B.A. on 18 Feb., 1641/2,
but does not appear to have taken his M.A., though he became Fellow of
his College (Foster, _Alumni Oxon._). John Walker (_Sufferings of the
Clergy_ (1714), p. 389) states that he was ejected from his living on
the charges of "drunkenness, immorality, and bearing arms for the
King."[19] This must have been in 1649, under the Act for the
Propagation of the Gospel in Wales. There exists a letter from Thomas
Vaughan to a friend in London, dated from "Newtown, Ash Wednesday,
1653;"[20] and it appears from Jones' _History of Brecknockshire_ (ii.,
542), that at one time he lived with his brother Henry there. The
allusions to Henry More, to Murray, and to the Isis and Thames seem to
show that he is the Daphnis of his brother's _Eclogue_ (vol. ii., p.
278). No trace of his death or burial can however be now found at
Albury. Mr. Gordon Goodwin points out to me that Dr. Samuel Kem was a
somewhat notorious character (_Dict. Nat. Biog._, s.v. _Kem_): perhaps
this friendship, together with the personal confession quoted below,
throws light on the charges which lost Vaughan his living. On the other
hand Anthony a Wood speaks well of him, and the tone of his writings
bears out this more kindly judgment, at any rate so far as his later
years are concerned.

What has been said fairly well exhausted the available information on
Thomas Vaughan until a few years ago, when Mr. A. E. Waite discovered in
Sloane MS. 1741 a valuable manuscript of his, containing amongst other
things a number of autobiographical memoranda. He printed some extracts
from this in the preface to an edition of some of _The Magical Writings
of Thomas Vaughan_ (Redway, 1888), and has been kind enough to furnish
me with a reference to the MS. itself, which I have carefully examined.
It bears the title _Aqua Vitae non Vitis_, and the inscription "Ex
libris Thomas et Rebecca Vaughan, 1651, Sept. 28. Quos Deus coniunxit
quis separabit?" The contents are partly personal jottings and records
of dreams, partly alchemical formulae. They appear to cover the period
1658-1662. We learn from them the following facts:--Vaughan was married
on September 28, 1651, to a lady named Rebecca (f. 106 (b)). With her
and his "Sister Vaughan" he lived and studied alchemy at the Pinner of
Wakefield.[21] He had previously lodged at Mr. Coalman's in Holborn (f.
104 (b)). His wife died on Saturday, April 17, 1658, and was buried at
Mappersall, in Bedfordshire (f. 106 (b)).[22] In 1658 his father and his
brother W. were both dead, and he mentions the news of his father's
death coming to his niece in a letter from the country (f. 89 (b)). On
April 9, 1659, he saw his brother H. in a dream. On 16 July, 1658, he
was living at Wapping (f. 103 (b)), and at an earlier period at
Paddington. There is an inventory of his wife's goods left at Mrs.
Highgate's, and mention of a Mr. Highgate and a Sir John Underhill (f.
107). He names his cousin, Mr. J. Walbeoffe, with whom he had some money
transactions (f. 18), and speaks of "a certain person with whom I had in
former times revelled away my years in drinking" (f. 103). Perhaps this
also was John Walbeoffe, on whom _see_ vol. ii., p. 189, _note_. The
alchemical formulae and receipts are interesting. In one place (f. 12)
Vaughan announces the discovery of the "Extract of Oil of Halcaly,"
which he had previously found in his wife's days and had lost again.
This he calls "the greatest joy I can ever have in this world after her
death." He seems to have regarded it as the key to an universal solvent.
Nearly every receipt is followed by his and his wife's initials in the
form T. R. V. or T. ^V. R., and by some expression of devotion to her or
of religious piety.

I now come to the remarkable statements made with respect to Thomas
Vaughan in the _Memoires d'une ex-Palladiste_, now in course of
publication by Miss Diana Vaughan. Miss Vaughan is a lady who has
created a considerable sensation in Paris. Her own account of herself is
that she was brought up as a worshipper of Lucifer, and was for some
years a leading spirit amongst certain androgynous lodges of Freemasons,
in which the worship of Lucifer is largely practised. She has now, owing
to the direct interposition of Joan of Arc, become a Catholic, and has
made it her mission to combat Luciferian Freemasonry in every way. Her
_Memoirs_ are partly a biography, partly an account of this cult.[23]
Miss Vaughan claims to be a great-grand-daughter of Thomas Vaughan's.
She declares him to have been a Luciferian, Grand-master of the
Rosicrucian order, and the founder of modern Freemasonry; and gives an
exhaustive account of his career on the authority of family archives.
The following paragraphs contain the substance of her narrative, the
"legend of Philalethes," as it was told to Miss Vaughan by her father
and her uncle, who were intimate friends of Albert Pike.

The traditional accounts of Thomas Vaughan, says Miss Vaughan, contain
serious errors. The dates of his birth and of his death, and the
pseudonym under which he wrote are all incorrectly stated[24] (p. 110).
He was born in Monmouth in 1612, being two years the elder of his
brother Henry. The two boys were brought up at Oxford, after their
father's death, by their uncle, Robert Vaughan the antiquary,[25] and
entered at Jesus College (p. 114). In 1636, at the age of 24, Thomas
Vaughan went to London, and became the disciple of Robert Fludd, who was
a Rosicrucian (p. 148). The real nature of the Rosicrucians has hitherto
been a mystery. They were in reality Luciferians, and carried on in
secret during the seventeenth century that warfare against Adonai, the
god of the Catholics, out of which had already sprung Wiclif, Luther,
and the Reformation, and out of which was some day to spring, more
deadly and more dangerous still, Freemasonry. The Fraternity of
Rosie-Cross was founded by Faustus Socinus in 1597. He was succeeded as
head of it by Caesar Cremonini (1604-1617), Michael Maier (1617-1622),
Valentin Andreae (1622-1654), and Thomas Vaughan (1654-1678).[26] When
Thomas Vaughan first came to London in 1636, Valentin Andreae was
_Summus Magister_ of the Fraternity, and amongst its leading members
were Robert Fludd and Amos Komenski, or Comenius (pp. 129-148). Robert
Fludd initiated Thomas Vaughan into the lower degrees of the Golden
Cross (p. 148), and sent him to Andreae at Calw, near Stuttgart, with a
letter in which he prophesied for him a miraculous future (p. 163).
After this visit to Germany, Vaughan returned to London, and after
Fludd's death, in 1637, undertook in 1638 his first visit to America. In
many of his writings he speaks as a Christian minister, and at this time
he probably passed as a Nonconformist (p. 164). He was back in London
early in June, 1639 (p. 165), and in the same year visited Denmark, and
made a report to Komenski on the mysterious golden horn found at Tondern
in that country (p. 166). In 1640 Vaughan received from Komenski the
first initiation of the Rosie Cross, and chose the pseudonym of
Eirenaeus Philalethes.[27] He now became exceedingly active, going and
coming upon the face of the earth. When in England, he divided his time
between Oxford and London (p. 167). Between 1640 and 1644 he visited
Hamburg, the Netherlands, Italy and Sweden (pp. 171-174). It was at this
period that he conceived the design of obtaining a far wider circulation
than they had yet met with for the ideas of Faustus Socinus. Some of the
Rosicrucians were already "accepted masons." Vaughan determined to
capture the vast organization of craft masonry by permeating the lodges
with Luciferianism. His associate in this task was Elias Ashmole, with
whose aid, a few years later, he composed the degrees of Apprentice
(1646), Companion (1648), and Master (1649) (pp. 142, 169-175, 197-206).
The Civil War had now approached. Oliver Cromwell was a freemason, a
Rosicrucian, and a friend of Vaughan's (p. 176). With the execution of
Laud came the crisis of Vaughan's life, his initiation into the highest
degree of Rosie Cross by the hands of Lucifer himself. It took place in
this wise. At the last moment Vaughan was substituted for the intended
executioner of Laud.[28] He had prepared a sacramental cloth which he
soaked in the martyr's blood, and on the same night he sacrificed the
relic to Lucifer. The divinity appeared, consecrated Vaughan as
_Magus_, named him as the next _Summus Magister_ of the Fraternity, and
signed a pact, granting him thirty-three years more life, at the end of
which he should be borne away from earth without death (p. 177). In 1645
Vaughan wrote, but did not yet publish, his most important treatise, the
_Introitus Apertus ad Occlusum Regis Palatium_. In 1645, still following
the direct command of Lucifer, he departed for America. Here he met the
apothecary George Starkey, and in his presence performed the alchemical
feat of making gold (p. 179).[29] Here, too, he lived amongst the
Lenni-Lennaps, where he was united to the demon Venus-Astarte in the
form of a beautiful woman, who after eleven days bore him a daughter.
This girl was brought up among the Lenni-Lennaps under the name of Diana
Wulisso-Waghan, and became Miss Diana Vaughan's great-great-grandmother
(p. 181). In 1648 Vaughan returned to England, and after composing the
masonic degree of Master in 1649 (p. 197), he began the publication of
a series of alchemical and, in reality, Luciferian writings. In 1650
appeared the _Anthroposophia Theomagica_ and the _Magia Adamica_, in
1651 the _Lumen de Lumine_; in 1652 the _Aula Lucis_ (p. 211). In 1654
Valentin Andreae died, and Vaughan succeeded him as _Summus Magister_ of
the Rosie Cross, the event being announced to him by the homage of three
demons, Leviathan, Cerberus, and Belphegor (p. 214). In 1655 he
published his _Euphrates_, and in 1656 made his head-quarters at
Amsterdam or Eirenaeopolis. In 1659 came his _Fraternity of R. C._; in
1664 his _Medulla Alchymiae_.[30] In 1666 he exhibited the philosopher's
stone to Helvetius at La Haye and converted him to occultism: in 1667 he
at last resolved to publish his Opus Magnum, the _Introitus Apertus_,
already written in 1645 (p. 215). In 1668 this was followed by the
_Experimenta de Praeparatione Mercurii Sophici_ and the _Tractatus Tres_
(p. 236). The time was now approaching when Vaughan, in fulfilment of
the pact of 1644, must disappear from earth. He named Charles Blount as
his successor (p. 237), and was granted a magical vision of his
grandson, the child of Diana Wulisso-Waghan and a Lenni-Lennap (p. 239).
He finished his _Memoirs_, published the _Ripley Revised_[31] and the
_Enarratio Methodica trium Gebri Medicinarum_, left his poems to his
brother Henry, who published them in the next year as the _Thalia
Rediviva_,[32] and on March 25, 1678, disappeared in the company of
_Lucifer Dieu-Bon_ himself (p. 240). This event is vouched for, not only
by a written statement of Henry Vaughan (p. 114), but also by the
existence in a masonic triangle at Valetta of a magical talisman into
which, when properly evoked, the spirit of Philalethes enters and
records his glorious end for the edification of the Luciferians
present[33] (p. 243).

I fear that I have taken Miss Vaughan with undue seriousness. Her
account of Thomas Vaughan is not only unsupported by direct
evidence,[34] but much of it is of a character which we should not be
justified in accepting, even were direct evidence forthcoming. And it is
all discordant with the little that we do happen to know of Thomas
Vaughan from other sources. The whole thing is, in fact, a pretty
obvious romance of very modern fabrication. It appears to have been
compiled from such information as to the alchemical and mystical writers
of the seventeenth century as was within the reach of Albert Pike and
the brothers Vaughan about the year 1870.[35] It is always better to
explain than to refute an error; and the nature of the Luciferian
tradition of Thomas Vaughan is pretty clearly shown by the fact that it
is not corroborated in a single particular by any of the new facts about
him that have come to light since this probable date of its
composition.[36] The fabricator put Thomas Vaughan's birth-place in
Monmouth instead of Brecon, because he had never seen Dr. Grosart's
_Fuller Worthies_ Edition of Henry Vaughan. He makes no mention of any
of the facts contained in Sloane MS. 1741, because that MS. was still
unknown. And, most fatal of all, he puts Thomas Vaughan's birth in 1612
instead of 1621-2, because Foster's _Alumni Oxonienses_ being yet
unpublished, he was ignorant of the record of that date preserved in the
University Registers. But we can go a step further. We can confute him,
not only by pointing to the books he did not use, but by pointing to
those he did. It has already been shown that the ascription to Vaughan
of the English translation of Maier's _Themis Aurea_ is due to a
misunderstanding of a phrase used by Anthony a Wood. The _Athenae
Oxonienses_ then was one source of the compilation. Another was the
_Histoire de la Philosophie Hermetique_, written by Lenglet-Dufresnoy in
1742. Here is the proof. Miss Vaughan supports her statement as to the
birth-date in 1612 by a quotation from the _Introitus Apertus_, in which
the writer states it to have been composed "en l'an 1645 de notre salut,
et le trente-troisieme de mon age." This she professes to translate from
the _editio princeps_ published by Jean Lange in 1667. As a matter of
fact it is taken from the version given in Lenglet-Dufresnoy's book. And
Lenglet-Dufresnoy followed, not the edition of 1667, but the later
edition published by J. M. Faust at Frankfort in 1706. In this the words
are "trigesimo tertio," whereas in the _editio princeps_ they are
"vicesimo tertio," and in W. Cooper's English translation of 1669, "in
the 23rd year of my age," thus bringing the date of the birth of
Eirenaeus Philalethes not to 1612, but to 1622. The "legend of
Philalethes" need detain us no longer. Miss Vaughan's narrative is a
very insufficient basis for regarding the pious minister and mystic
which Thomas Vaughan appears to have been as a secret enemy of
Christianity and a worshipper of Lucifer.

But when the legend is set aside, there still remain certain questions
suggested by it which may be considered without much reference to the
statements of Miss Vaughan. Was Thomas Vaughan a Rosicrucian? And was
he, admittedly the author of a series of tracts under the name of
Eugenius Philalethes, also the author of those which bear the name of
Eirenaeus Philalethes? The first question is, I am afraid, insoluble,
until it has been decided whether the Fraternity of R. C. ever had an
actual existence. Anthony a Wood states that Thomas Vaughan was a
zealous Rosicrucian, but probably Anthony a Wood took the term in the
general sense of mystic and alchemist. On the other hand Vaughan
himself, in his preface to the English translation of the Rosicrucian
manifestoes, seems to disavow any personal acquaintance with the members
of the fraternity. Even this is not conclusive, for the Rosicrucian
rule, as given in the _Laws of the Brotherhood_, published by Sincerus
Renatus in 1710,[37] obliges the members to deny their membership.

There is more material for the discussion of the second question, but I
do not know that it is more possible to come to a definite conclusion.
The personality of the anonymous adept who took the name of Eirenaeus
Philalethes was shrouded in mystery even to his contemporaries. The
fullest account given of him on any of his title-pages is on that of the
_Experimenta de Praeparatione Mercurii Sophici_ (1668), which is said to
be "ex manuscripto Philosophi Americani alias Eyrenaei Philalethis,
natu Angli, habitatione Cosmopolitae."[38] We have also the description
given by George Starkey, or whoever it was, in the _Marrow of Alchemy_
(1654-5), p. 25. Starkey says:--

"His present place in which he doth abide
I know not, for the world he walks about,
Of which he is a citizen; this tide
He is to visit artists and seek out
Antiquities a voyage gone and will
Return when he of travel hath his fill.

"By nation an Englishman, of note
His family is in the place where he
Was born, his fortune's good, and eke his coat
Of arms is of a great antiquity;
His learning rare, his years scarce thirty-three;
Fuller description get you not from me."

Starkey gives the age of Eirenaeus Philalethes as 33 in 1654. This
precisely confirms the writer's own statement in the earlier editions of
the _Introitus Apertus_ that he was 23 in 1645, and fixes the birth-date
as 1621 or 1622. Now this agrees remarkably with the birth-date
ascertained from other sources of Thomas Vaughan. But Thomas died in
1666, and it is usually asserted that Eirenaeus Philalethes lived until
at least 1678. Miss Vaughan states that he must have been alive in that
year, because he then published the _Ripley Revived_, and the _Enarratio
Trium Gebri Medicinarum_. She declares that the author of the
_Enarratio_ mentions the pains taken about that edition (p. 240). I do
not find any prefatory matter in this book at all. There is a preface to
the _Ripley Revived_, but this was written long before 1678, for it
mentions the _Introitus Apertus_, published in 1667, as still in
manuscript. Neither Jean Lange, the editor of the _Introitus Apertus_ of
1667, writing 9th December, 1666, nor William Cooper, the editor of the
English translation[39] of 1669, writing 15th September, 1668, know
whether the author is still alive. In fact he cannot be shown to have
outlived Thomas Vaughan, for there is no proof that the adept who showed
the philosopher's stone to Helvetius on December 27th, 1666,[40] was the
same as he who showed it to George Starkey many years before. I will
briefly enumerate a few other links which connect Eirenaeus Philalethes
with Thomas Vaughan. A German translation of the _Introitus Apertus_,
published at Hamburg under the title of _Abyssus Alchemiae_ (1704), is
said on the title-page to be "von T. de Vagan." Miss Vaughan states that
a similar translation of the first of the _Tres Tractatus_, published at
Hamburg in 1705, also bears this name (p. 237), and this is borne out by
Lenglet-Dufresnoy (iii. 261-6), who speaks of a French MS. of the _Tres
Tractatus_ inscribed "par Thomas de Vagan, dit Philalethe ou Martin
Birrhius." Birrhius, however, was only the editor. These ascriptions are
probably made on the authority of G. W. Wedelius, who in his preface,
dated 2nd Sept., 1698, to an edition of the _Introitus Apertus_,
published at Jena in 1699, says of the author:--"Ex Anglia tamen vulgo
habetur oriundus ... et Thomas De Vagan appellatus." The English _Three
Tracts_ (1694) are stated on the title-page to have been written in
Latin by Eirenaeus Philalethes; but there is a note in the British
Museum Catalogue to the effect that the Latin original has the name
_Eugenius_ Philalethes. Unfortunately this Latin _Tres Tractatus_,
published in 1668 by Martin Birrhius at Amsterdam, is not in the
Library, and I cannot verify the statement. Finally, I may note that the
_Ripley Revived_ (1678) has an engraved title-page by Robert Vaughan,
who also did the title-page to _Olor Iscanus_, and that Starkey's
_Marrow of Alchemy_ contains, at the end of the preface to Part ii.,
some lines by William Sampson, which mention

"Harry Mastix Moor
Who judged of Nature when he did not know her";

clearly an allusion to More's controversy with Thomas Vaughan.

It will be seen that there is some _prima facie_ evidence for
identifying Eirenaeus Philalethes with Thomas Vaughan, whereas he was
probably not George Starkey (Eirenaeus Philoponos Philalethes), and
cannot be shown to have been anyone else. But I am not satisfied. We do
not know that Thomas Vaughan was ever in America, and there is the
strong evidence of Anthony a Wood, who distinguishes between Eirenaeus
and Eugenius, and who appears to have had information from Henry Vaughan
himself. Mr. A. E. Waite argues against the identification on the ground
that Eirenaeus Philalethes was a "physical alchemist," whereas Thomas
Vaughan's alchemy was spiritual and mystical. But we have Vaughan's
authority for saying that he had pursued the physical alchemy also.[41]
And he was clearly doing so when he wrote Sloane MS. 1741. A more
pertinent objection is perhaps that Eirenaeus Philalethes appears to
have been in possession of the grand secret when he wrote the _Introitus
Apertus_ in 1645, whereas Thomas Vaughan was still seeking it in 1658.
To pursue the matter further would require a wide knowledge of the
alchemical writings of the seventeenth century, which unfortunately I do
not possess.[42]

My gratitude is due for help received in compiling the biographical and
other notes in these volumes to Dr. Grosart, Mr. C. H. Firth, Mr. W. C.
Hazlitt, Mr. A. E. Waite, and the Rev. Llewellyn Thomas; notably to Miss
G. E. F. Morgan of Brecon, whose knowledge of local genealogy and
antiquities has been invaluable.

July, 1896. E. K. Chambers.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Dr. Grosart, however, says (ii. 298), "In all the pedigrees that
have been submitted to me, Thomas is placed as the first of the twins."
But, as Henry inherited Newton, and Thomas took orders, Anthony a Wood
is probably right.

[2] The tombstone says 73. G. T. Clark repeats Jones' error.

[3] The tombstone is actually in the north aisle of the church itself.

[4] Obviously Mr. Clark has confused Lucy Jones with her daughter,
Denise Jones.

[5] This was noted by Mr W. B. Rye in _The Genealogist_, iii. 33, from
the Entry Book of the Registry at Hereford. Since then Mr. Clark of
Hereford has kindly sent me, through Miss Morgan, a copy of the bond
entered into by the administratrix, Elizabetha Vaughan de Llansanfread,
and her son-in-law and surety, Roger Prosser de Villa Brecon. The bond,
or the copy, is dated in error "30 May, 1694, et 7th Wm. iii."
Administration was granted on May 29, 1695. The inventory of the
personal property amounted to L49 4s. 0d. The witnesses are Walter
Prosser and David Thomas.

[6] An old alphabetical catalogue of wills in the Hereford Registry,
between 1660-1677, has the following entries:--

Thomas Vaughan, Lansamfread, 11 Dec., 1660.
Franca Vaughan, Lansamfread, 16 Nov., 1677.

The wills cannot, in the present state of the Registry, be found
(_Genealogist_, iii., 33). These dates are much too early for the poet's
son and daughter-in-law; but whose are the wills?

[7] The _Turberville_ and _Jones_ lines are taken from Theophilus Jones'
_History of Brecknockshire_ (ii. 444), and from Harl. MS. 2289, f. 70,
respectively. Miss Morgan has kindly traced the Prossers from the
_Registers_ of St. John's and St. Mary's Churches, Brecon.

[8] Miss Morgan tells me that David Morgan David Howel's father, Morgan
ap Howel, is described in a pedigree as "of Trenewydd in Penkelley"; and
I find from Harl. MS. 2289, ff. 84 (b), 85, that the Powells "of Newton
Penkelley" were related to the Powells of Cantreff. (_See_ vol. ii., p.
57, _note_.)

[9] The will of this Charles Vaughan has been abstracted by Mr. W. B.
Rye (_Genealogist_, iii. 33) from the Hereford Will Office. It was made
9th April, 1707, and proved 29th May, 1707. The testator is described as
of Skellrog, Llansanffread, and mention is made of his wife Margaret
Powell, and of a son William. This William, therefore, and not a
grandson of Henry Vaughan, may be the William Vaughan of Llansantffread,
who married Mary Games of Tregaer (p. xxi). Skellrog appears to have
passed to another and probably elder son, Charles.

[10] S. W. Williams, _Llansaintffread Church_ in _Archaeologia
Cambrensis_ (1887.)

[11] W. B. Rye in _Genealogist_, iii. 36, from Entry Book in Hereford
Will Office.

[12] An account of the part played by Beeston Castle during the Civil
War will be found in Ormerod's _History of Cheshire_ (ed. Helsby), ii.
272 _sqq._

[13] Gardiner, _The Great Civil War_, ch. xxxvi.; J. R. Phillips, _The
Civil War in Wales and the Marches_, i. 329; ii. 270.

[14] Ormerod, i. 243.

[15] Phillips, i. 314.

[16] Phillips, ii. 272.

[17] Both Wood and Foster give the father's name as Thomas, but it
appears to be Henry in all the pedigrees.

[18] The following list of Vaughan's admitted prose treatises is mainly
taken from Dr. Grosart:--_Anthroposophia Theomagica_ (1650); _Anima
Magica Abscondita_ (1650); _Magia Adamica_ with the _Coelum Terrae_
(1650); _The Man-Mouse taken in a Trap_ (1650); _The Second Wash; or,
the Moor scoured once more_ (1651) [These two are polemics against Henry
More]; _Lumen de Lumine_, with the _Aphorismi Magici Eugeniani_ (1651);
_The Fame and Confession of the Fraternity of R:C:_ (1653); _Aula Lucis_
(1652); _Euphrates_ (1655); _Nollius' Chymist's Key_ (1657); _A Brief
Natural History_ (1669); [Wood ascribes this to another writer, as it
was not in the list furnished him by Henry Vaughan].--Henry More's
pamphlets against Vaughan are the _Observations upon Anthroposophia
Theomagica and Anima Magica Abscondita_ (1650), issued under the name of
Alazonomastix Philalethes and _The Second Lash of Alazonomastix_ (1651).

[19] Walker falls into the curious confusion of supposing that there
were two Thomas Vaughans, one rector of Llansantffread, the other of
Newton St. Bridget. But "St. Bridget" is only the English form of the
Welsh "Santffread."

[20] Printed from the Rawl. MSS. in Thurloe's _State Papers_, ii. 120.

[21] Is this the inn of that name once in the Gray's Inn Road?
(Cunningham and Wheatley, _Handbook to London_.)

[22] The Rev. Henry Howlett has kindly sent me the following extract
from the registers of Meppershall:--

"1658.
Buried.
Rebecka, the Wife of Mr. Vahanne
the 26th of Aprill."

[23] An entire literature has grown up in Paris during the last year
around the question whether the cultus of Lucifer is practised in
certain Masonic Lodges. A number of Catholic journalists and
pamphleteers assert very categorically that this is the case, that the
centre of this cultus, containing the full Luciferian initiates, is the
33^rd^ degree of a so-called New and Reformed Palladian Rite, having its
head-quarters at Charlestown, and that the chiefs of this Rite have
obtained a controlling influence over the whole of Freemasonry. The
creed is described as Manichaean in character, with Lucifer as Dieu-Bon
and Adonai, the God of the Catholics, as Dieu-Mauvais. Adonai is the
principle of asceticism, Lucifer of natural humanity and _la joie de
vivre_. The rituals and the accepted interpretation of the Masonic
symbolism used in the lodges, or "triangles," are of a phallic type.
Women are admitted to membership. Immorality, a parody of the Eucharist,
known as the black mass, and the practice of black magic, take place at
the meetings. Lucifer is worshipped in the form of Baphomet, but from
time to time he is personally evoked, and manifested to his followers.
Luciferianism tends to become identical with Satanism, in which Lucifer
and Satan are identified and frankly worshipped as evil. The first
mention of Luciferian Freemasonry was in the _Y-a-t-il des Femmes dans
la Franc Maconnerie?_ (1891), of the somewhat notorious Leo Taxil. But
the case rests mainly on the alleged revelations of writers who claim to
have themselves been members of the Palladian Rite. The chief of these
are Dr. Hacke or Bataille, Signor Margiotta and Miss Diana Vaughan.
Unfortunately very little evidence is forthcoming as to the identity of
any of these personages. Many leading Masons, _e.g._, M. Papus in his
_Le Diable et l'Occultisme_, deny that Luciferian Freemasonry exists at
all, and it is freely stated (_cf._ _Light_ for 27 June and 4 July,
1896, pp. 305, 322) that Miss Diana Vaughan is a myth, and that her
_Memoires_ with the rest of the revelations are the ingenious concoction
of a band of irresponsible journalists of whom Leo Taxil is the chief.
No one appears to have seen Miss Vaughan, and she is alleged to be
hiding in some convent from the vengeance of the Luciferians. Probably
there will be some further light thrown on the matter before long: in
the meantime a good summary of the evidence up-to-date may be found in
A. E. Waite's _Devil-Worship in France_ (1896). Assuming that
Luciferianism really exists, I do not for a moment believe that it has
the antiquity which Miss Vaughan claims for it. The various Rites of
modern Freemasonry, with their fantastic and high-sounding degrees, are
comparatively recent excrescences upon the original Craft Masonry. The
New and Reformed Palladian Rite is said to have been founded at
Charlestown by the well-known Mason, Albert Pike, in 1870. It is based
on the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite, which dates from the
beginning of the century. If there is such a thing as Luciferianism, I
do not think we need look further back than 1870 for its origin. As
expounded by Miss Vaughan and others, it is pretty clearly a compilation
from Eliphaz Levi and other occultist and Cabbalistic writers, with a
good deal of modern American Spiritualism thrown in. Albert Pike, a man
of considerable learning, could easily have invented it. Masonic
symbolism lends itself readily enough to a wide range of
interpretations. I do not say that seventeenth-century occultism has
left no traces upon Freemasonry which modern ritual-mongers may have
elaborated; but it is a far cry from this to the belief that Thomas
Vaughan and Luther were Manichaean worshippers of Lucifer and
Protestantism an organized warfare on Adonai.

[24] Miss Vaughan quotes from Allibone's _History of English
Literature_. Allibone only repeats Anthony a Wood's account.

[25] Robert Vaughan belonged to quite a different branch from the
Vaughans of Newton: and, as Sl. MS. 1741 shows, the father of Henry and
Thomas Vaughan did not die until 1658.

[26] Miss Vaughan gives an elaborate account of the Rosicrucians and of
their famous manifestoes, which I have no room to reproduce.

[27] Miss Vaughan states that Thomas Vaughan signed "not _Eugenius
Philalethes_, but _Eirenaeus Philalethes_" (p. 114). But she ascribes to
him the _Anthroposophia Theomagica_ and other writings which are signed,
though she does not mention it, _Eugenius Philalethes_ (p. 211). She
quotes from Anthony a Wood the assertion, which he does not make, that
the English translations of the _Fama Fraternitatis Rosae Crucis_ (1652)
and of Maier's _Themis Aurea_ (1656) both bear the name of Eugenius, and
were by another Thomas Vaughan! The manuscripts of both are, she says,
signed _Eirenaeus_ (p. 163). What Wood says is that he has seen a
translation of Maier's tract, dedicated to Elias Ashmole by [N. L.]/[T.
S.] H. S., and that Ashmole has forgotten whose the initials are. He
does not suggest that this translation is by a Thomas Vaughan. (_Ath.
Oxon._, iii. 724.)

[28] This episode has previously done duty in the _Vingt Ans Apres_
(vol. iii., ch. 8-10), of Alexandre Dumas, in which Mordaunt acts as the
executioner of Charles. There is a Latin poem amongst Vaughan's remains
in _Thalia Rediviva_ entitled _Epitaphium Gulielmi Laud Episcopi
Cantuariensis_, full of sorrow for the archbishop's death.

[29] Miss Vaughan refers to Lenglet-Dufresnoy's _Histoire de la
Philosophie Hermetique_ as an authority on Starkey's relations with
Eirenaeus Philalethes. Lenglet-Dufresnoy probably took his account from
_The Marrow of Alchemy_ (1654-5). The prefaces to this are signed with
anagrams of George Starkey's name. But he ascribes the poem to a friend,
who is called in the _Breve Manuductorium ad Campum Sophiae_ Agricola
Rhomaeus. Perhaps Starkey himself was the real author. The title-page
has the name Eirenaeus Philoponus Philalethes, apparently a distinct
designation from that of Eirenaeus Philalethes.

[30] The _Medulla Alchemiae_ (1664) is only a Latin translation of the
_Marrow of Alchemy_ (1654-5) of Eirenaeus Philoponos Philalethes.

[31] The actual name of the tract is _Ripley Revived_.

[32] The _Thalia Rediviva_ was actually published in 1678, not 1679.

[33] Miss Vaughan has herself witnessed this, in the presence of
Lucifer. Moreover, the spirit of Philalethes has appeared, and conversed
with her (pp. 257-267).

[34] Miss Vaughan refers to several family documents, but does not offer
them for inspection. They include (a) the will of her grandfather James,
enumerating the proofs of his descent (p. 111); (b) the autobiographical
Memoirs of Philalethes, from which Miss Vaughan quotes largely (pp. 174,
240); (c) a letter from Fludd to Andreae (pp. 114, 149); (d) a MS. of
the _Introitus Apertus_, of which the margin has been covered by Vaughan
with a comment for Luciferian initiates (pp. 111, 217, 225); (e) a
letter from Andreae in the archives of the Sovereign Patriarchal Council
of Hamburg (p. 197); (f) Henry Vaughan's account of his brother's
disappearance in the archives of the Supreme Dogmatic Directory of
Charleston (p. 114); (g) Masonic rituals in the archives of Masonic
chapters at Bristol and Gibraltar (p. 200); (h) Rosicrucian rituals
drawn up by one Nick Stone in the hands of Dr. W. W. W[estcott] of
London (p. 141). The documents in Masonic hands are presumably, like the
Valetta talisman, now out of Miss Vaughan's reach. A communication
signed Q. V. in _Light_ for May 16, 1896, denies, on Dr. Westcott's
authority, that his rituals have anything to do with Nick Stone, or that
Miss Vaughan ever saw them. Dr. Westcott is the head of the modern
_Societas Rosicruciana in Anglia_. This body does not even pretend to be
the _Fraternity of R. C._ Finally, there is (i) Thomas Vaughan's
original pact with Lucifer, now, according to Miss Vaughan, in holy
hands, and to be destroyed on the day she takes the veil.

[35] Miss Vaughan somewhat naively gives us a lead. After describing
Thomas Vaughan's sojourn with Venus-Astarte among the Lenni-Lennaps, she
adds: "This legend is not accepted by all the Elect Mages; there are
those who regard it as fabricated by my grandfather James of Boston, who
was, they believe, of Delaware origin, or, at any rate, a half-breed;
and they even assert that, in the desire to Anglicize himself, he
invented an entirely false genealogy, by way of justifying his change of
the Lennap name Waghan into Vaughan. Herein the opponents of the
Luciferian legend of Thomas Vaughan go too far" (p. 181).

[36] I have already pointed out that Miss Vaughan is quite possibly a
myth. But, if she exists, I do not see any reason to suppose that she
personally invented the "legend of Philalethes." It lies between Leo
Taxil and his friends in 1895, and the alleged founders of Palladism in
or about 1870, that is Albert Pike and Miss Vaughan's father and uncle.
And, so far as it goes, the ignorance shown in the legend of all books
published in the last twenty years is evidence for the earlier date, and
therefore, to some extent, for the actual existence of Luciferianism.

[37] _Cf._ A. E. Waite, _Real History of the Rosicrucians_, p. 274.

[38] The principal writings ascribed to Eirenaeus Philalethes are
_Introitus Apertus in Occlusum Regis Palatium_ (1667), _Tres Tractatus_
(1668), _Experimenta de Praeparatione Mercurii Sophici_ (1668), _Ripley
Revived_ (1678), _Enarratio Trium Gebri Medicinarum_ (1678). The works
of Eirenaeus Philoponos Philalethes (George Starkey?) are often
attributed to him in error. The B. M. Catalogue, s.vv. _Philaletha,
Philalethes_, is a mass of confusions. Lenglet-Dufresnoy, _Histoire de
la Philosophie Hermetique_ (iii. 261-266), gives a long list of printed
and manuscript works. Most of these he had probably never seen. He
probably took many items in his list from one in J. M. Faust's edition
of the _Introitus Apertus_ (Frankfort, 1706); and this, in its turn, was
based on what Eirenaeus Philalethes himself says he has written in the
preface to _Ripley Revived_. He there says, after naming other works:
"Two English Poems I wrote, declaring the whole secret, which are lost.
Also an Enchiridion of Experiments, together with a Diurnal of
Meditations, in which were many Philosophical receipts, declaring the
whole secret, with an Aenigma annexed; which also fell into such hands
which I conceive will never restore it. This last was written in
English." Can this Enchiridion and Diurnal be Sl. MS. 1741? I find no
"Aenigma." Can Starkey have stolen the poems and published them as the
_Marrow of Alchemy_?

[39] The preface to _Ripley Revived_ makes it clear that the _Introitus
Apertus_ was originally written in Latin, not in English.

[40] This is recorded in Helvetius' _Vitulus Aureus_ (1667). Helvetius
describes his master as 43 or 44 years old, and calls him Elias
Artistes.

[41] _See_ the passage from the Epistle to _Euphrates_, quoted by
Grosart (Vol. ii., p. 312).

[42] The "legend of Philalethes" has already been exposed by Mr. A. E.
Waite in his _Devil Worship in France_ (ch. xiii.). I am also indebted
to what Mr. Waite has written on Eirenaeus Philalethes in that book, as
well as in his _True History of the Rosicrucians_ (1887) and his _Lives
of Alchymistical Philosophers_ (1888).

BIBLIOGRAPHY OF HENRY VAUGHAN'S WORKS.

(1)

The translation from Juvenal has a separate title-page.

(2)

(3)

The Preface is dated "Newton by Usk this 17 of Decemb. 1647."

The prose translations in this volume have separate title-pages:

(4)

The preface is dated "Newton by Usk this first of October 1651."

The translation from Anselm has a separate title-page:

(5)

The Preface is dated "Newton by Usk, in South-Wales, April 17, 1652."
The pieces have separate title-pages:

The Preface is dated "Newton by Uske neare Sketh-Rock. 1653."

(6)

A reissue, with additions and a fresh title-page, of (2). The Preface is
dated "Newton by Usk, near Sketh-rock Septem. 30, 1654."

(7)

(8)

The Remains of Eugenius Philalethes [Thomas Vaughan] have a separate
title-page.

(9)

Olor Iscanus. A collection of some Select Poems, Together with these
Translations following, etc. All Englished by H. Vaughan, Silurist.
London: Printed and are to be sold by Peter Parker ... 1679. [8^vo^.]

A reissue, according to Dr. Grosart (ii. 59) and W. C. Hazlitt
(_Supplement to Third Series Of Collections_, p. 106), of the 1651 _Olor
Iscanus_, with a fresh title-page. I have not seen a copy.

(10)

[Miss L. I. Guiney writes in her essay on _Henry Vaughan, the Silurist_
(Atlantic Monthly, May, 1894): "Mr. Carew Hazlitt has been fortunate
enough to discover the advertisement of an eighteenth-century Vaughan
reprint."

As to this Mr. Hazlitt writes to me: "I cannot tell where Miss Guiney
heard about the Vaughan--not certainly from me. But there is an edition
of his 'Spiritual Songs,' 8^vo^, 1706, of which, however, I don't at
present know the whereabouts."]

(11)

Silex Scintillans: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations of Henry
Vaughan, with Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. London: William Pickering,
1847. [12^mo^.]

An edition of (6) and part of (8).

(12)

The Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations of Henry Vaughan, with a
Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. Boston [U. S. A.]: Little, Brown and
Company, 1856. [8^vo^.]

A reprint of (11).

(13)

Silex Scintillans, etc.: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, by Henry
Vaughan. London: Bell and Daldy. 1858.

A reprint, with a revised text, of (11).

(14)

The Fuller Worthies' Library. The Works in Verse and Prose complete of
Henry Vaughan, Silurist, for the first time collected and edited: with
Memorial-Introduction: Essay on Life and Writings: and Notes: by the
Rev. Alexander B. Grosart, St. George's, Blackburn, Lancashire. In four
Volumes.... Printed for Private Circulation. 1871.

A reprint of the original editions, with biographical and critical
matter. Only 50 4^to^, 106 8^vo^, and 156 12^mo^ copies printed. In Vol.
II. are included the Poems of Thomas Vaughan, with a separate
title-page.

The English and Latin Verse-Remains of Thomas Vaughan ('Eugenius
Philalethes'), twin-brother of the Silurist. For the first time
collected and edited: with Memorial-Introduction and Notes: by the Rev.
Alexander B. Grosart [etc.].

(15)

Silex Scintillans, etc. Sacred Poems and Pious Ejaculations. By Henry
Vaughan, "Silurist." With a Memoir by the Rev. H. F. Lyte. Job xxxv. 10,
11 [in full]. London: George Bell and Sons, York Street, Covent Garden.
1883. [8^vo^.]

A reprint, with a text further revised, of (11) and (13), forming a
volume of the _Aldine Poets_. Since reprinted in 1891.

(16)

The Jewel Poets. Henry Vaughan. Edinburgh. Macniven and Wallace. 1884.

A selection, with a short preface by W. R. Nicoll.

(17)

Silex Scintillans. Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, by Henry
Vaughan (Silurist). Being a facsimile of the First Edition, published in
1650, with an Introduction by the Rev. William Clare, B.A. (Adelaide).
London: Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row. 1885. [12^mo^.]

A facsimile reprint of (2).

(18)

Secular Poems by Henry Vaughan, Silurist. Including a few pieces by his
twin-brother Thomas ("Eugenius Philalethes"). Selected and arranged,
with Notes and Bibliography, by J. R. Tutin, Editor of "Poems of Richard
Crashaw," etc. Hull: J. R. Tutin. 1893.

A selection from Vol. II. of (14).

(19)

The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist. With an Introduction by H. C.
Beeching, Rector of Yattendon. [Publishers' Device.] London: Lawrence
and Bullen, 16, Henrietta Street, W.C. New York: Charles Scribner's
Sons, 153-157 Fifth Avenue. 1896. [Two vols. 8^vo^.]

The present edition. A hundred copies are printed on large paper.

POEMS,

WITH THE

TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL

ENGLISHED.

1646.

TO ALL INGENIOUS LOVERS OF POESY.

Gentlemen,

To you alone, whose more refined spirits out-wing these dull times, and
soar above the drudgery of dirty intelligence, have I made sacred these
fancies: I know the years, and what coarse entertainment they afford
poetry. If any shall question that courage that durst send me abroad so
late, and revel it thus in the dregs of an age, they have my silence:
only,

Languescente seculo, liceat aegrotari.

My more calm ambition, amidst the common noise, hath thus exposed me to
the world: you have here a flame, bright only in its own innocence, that
kindles nothing but a generous thought: which though it may warm the
blood, the fire at highest is but Platonic; and the commotion, within
these limits, excludes danger. For the satire, it was of purpose
borrowed to feather some slower hours; and what you see here is but the
interest: it is one of his whose Roman pen had as much true passion for
the infirmities of that state, as we should have pity to the
distractions of our own: honest--I am sure--it is, and offensive cannot
be, except it meet with such spirits that will quarrel with antiquity,
or purposely arraign themselves. These indeed may think that they have
slept out so many centuries in this satire and are now awakened; which,
had it been still Latin, perhaps their nap had been everlasting. But
enough of these,--it is for you only that I have adventured thus far,
and invaded the press with verse; to whose more noble indulgence I shall
now leave it, and so am gone.--

H. V.

TO MY INGENUOUS FRIEND, R. W.

When we are dead, and now, no more
Our harmless mirth, our wit, and score
Distracts the town; when all is spent
That the base niggard world hath lent
Thy purse, or mine; when the loath'd noise
Of drawers, 'prentices and boys
Hath left us, and the clam'rous bar
Items no pints i' th' Moon or Star;
When no calm whisp'rers wait the doors,
To fright us with forgotten scores;
And such aged long bills carry,
As might start an antiquary;
When the sad tumults of the maze,
Arrests, suits, and the dreadful face
Of sergeants are not seen, and we
No lawyers' ruffs, or gowns must fee:
When all these mulcts are paid, and I
From thee, dear wit, must part, and die;
We'll beg the world would be so kind,
To give's one grave as we'd one mind;
There, as the wiser few suspect,
That spirits after death affect,
Our souls shall meet, and thence will they,
Freed from the tyranny of clay,
With equal wings, and ancient love
Into the Elysian fields remove,
Where in those blessed walks they'll find
More of thy genius, and my mind.
First, in the shade of his own bays,
Great Ben they'll see, whose sacred lays
The learned ghosts admire, and throng
To catch the subject of his song.
Then Randolph in those holy meads,
His _Lovers_ and _Amyntas_ reads,
Whilst his Nightingale, close by,
Sings his and her own elegy.
From thence dismiss'd, by subtle roads,
Through airy paths and sad abodes,
They'll come into the drowsy fields
Of Lethe, which such virtue yields,
That, if what poets sing be true,
The streams all sorrow can subdue.
Here, on a silent, shady green,
The souls of lovers oft are seen,
Who, in their life's unhappy space,
Were murder'd by some perjur'd face.
All these th' enchanted streams frequent,
To drown their cares, and discontent,
That th' inconstant, cruel sex
Might not in death their spirits vex.
And here our souls, big with delight
Of their new state, will cease their flight:
And now the last thoughts will appear,
They'll have of us, or any here;
But on those flow'ry banks will stay,
And drink all sense and cares away.
So they that did of these discuss,
Shall find their fables true in us.

LES AMOURS

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

TO AMORET.

The Sigh.

Nimble sigh, on thy warm wings,
Take this message and depart;
Tell Amoret, that smiles and sings,
At what thy airy voyage brings,
That thou cam'st lately from my heart.

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

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

That if my Amoret, if she
In after-times would have it read,
How her beauty murder'd me,
With all my heart I will agree,
If she'll but love me, being dead.

TO HIS FRIEND BEING IN LOVE.

Ask, lover, ere thou diest; let one poor breath
Steal from thy lips, to tell her of thy death;
Doating idolater! can silence bring
Thy saint propitious? or will Cupid fling
One arrow for thy paleness? leave to try
This silent courtship of a sickly eye.
Witty to tyranny, she too well knows
This but the incense of thy private vows,
That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray
The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;
Ask her, fool, ask her; if words cannot move,
The language of thy tears may make her love.
Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall
On her breast's warmer snow, O may you all,
By some strange fate fix'd there, distinctly lie,
The much lov'd volume of my tragedy.
Where, if you win her not, may this be read,
The cold that freez'd you so, did strike me dead.

SONG.

Amyntas go, thou art undone,
Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate;
That love is better not begun,
Where love is come to love too late.[43]

Had she professed[44] hidden fires,
Or show'd one[45] knot that tied her heart,
I could have quench'd my first desires,
And we had only met to part.

But, tyrant, thus to murder men,
And shed a lover's harmless blood,
And burn him in those flames again,
Which he at first might have withstood.

Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep
Such sacred dew, with such pure[46] grace;
Durst think them feigned tears, or seek
For treason in an angel's face.

This is her art, though this be true,
Men's joys are kill'd with[47] griefs and fears,
Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew,
Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.

This, cruel, thou hast done, and thus
That face hath many servants slain,
Though th' end be not to ruin us,
But to seek glory by our pain.[48]

FOOTNOTES:

[43] MS. _Whose pure offering comes too late._

[44] MS. _profess'd her._

[45] MS. _the._

[46] MS. _such a._

[47] MS. _by._

[48]

MS. _Your aime is sure to ruine us._
_Seeking your glory by our paine_

TO AMORET.

Walking in a Starry Evening.

If, Amoret, that glorious eye,
In the first birth of light,
And death of Night,
Had with those elder fires you spy
Scatter'd so high,
Received form and sight;

We might suspect in the vast ring,
Amidst these golden glories,
And fiery stories;[49]
Whether the sun had been the king
And guide of day,
Or your brighter eye should sway.

But, Amoret, such is my fate,
That if thy face a star
Had shin'd from far,
I am persuaded in that state,
'Twixt thee and me,
Of some predestin'd sympathy.[50]

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

FOOTNOTES:

[49] MS.

MS. _We may suspect in the vast ring_,
_Which rolls those fiery spheres_
_Thro' years and years._

[50] MS. _There would be perfect sympathy._

TO AMORET GONE FROM HIM.

Fancy and I, last evening, walk'd,
And Amoret, of thee we talk'd;
The West just then had stolen the sun,
And his last blushes were begun:
We sate, and mark'd how everything
Did mourn his absence: how the spring
That smil'd and curl'd about his beams,
Whilst he was here, now check'd her streams:
The wanton eddies of her face
Were taught less noise, and smoother grace;
And in a slow, sad channel went,
Whisp'ring the banks their discontent:
The careless ranks of flowers that spread
Their perfum'd bosoms to his head.
And with an open, free embrace,
Did entertain his beamy face,
Like absent friends point to the West,
And on that weak reflection feast.
If creatures then that have no sense,
But the loose tie of influence,
Though fate and time each day remove
Those things that element their love,
At such vast distance can agree,
Why, Amoret, why should not we?

A SONG TO AMORET.

If I were dead, and in my place
Some fresher youth design'd
To warm thee with new fires, and grace
Those arms I left behind;

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

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

For all these arts I'd not believe,
--No, though he should be thine--
The mighty amorist could give
So rich a heart as mine.

Fortune and beauty thou might'st find,
And greater men than I:
But my true resolved mind
They never shall come nigh.[51]

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

FOOTNOTES:

[51]

MS. _But with my true steadfast minde_
_None can pretend to vie._

AN ELEGY.

'Tis true, I am undone: yet, ere I die,
I'll leave these sighs and tears a legacy
To after-lovers: that, rememb'ring me,
Those sickly flames which now benighted be,
Fann'd by their warmer sighs, may love; and prove
In them the metempsychosis of love.
'Twas I--when others scorn'd--vow'd you were fair,
And sware that breath enrich'd the coarser air,
Lent roses to your cheeks, made Flora bring
Her nymphs with all the glories of the spring
To wait upon thy face, and gave my heart
A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart,
To arm those eyes against myself; to me
Thou ow'st that tongue's bewitching harmony.
I courted angels from those upper joys,
And made them leave their spheres to hear thy voice.
I made the Indian curse the hours he spent
To seek his pearls, and wisely to repent
His former folly, and confess a sin,
Charm'd by the brighter lustre of thy skin.
I borrow'd from the winds the gentler wing
Of Zephyrus, and soft souls of the spring;
And made--to air those cheeks with fresher grace--
The warm inspirers dwell upon thy face.
_Oh! jam satis_ ...

A RHAPSODIS:

_Occasionally written upon a meeting with some of his friends at the
Globe Tavern, in a chamber painted overhead with a cloudy sky and
some few dispersed stars, and on the sides with landscapes, hills,
shepherds and sheep._

Darkness, and stars i' th' mid-day! They invite
Our active fancies to believe it night:
For taverns need no sun, but for a sign,
Where rich tobacco and quick tapers shine;
And royal, witty sack, the poet's soul,
With brighter suns than he doth gild the bowl;
As though the pot and poet did agree,
Sack should to both illuminator be.
That artificial cloud, with its curl'd brow,
Tells us 'tis late; and that blue space below
Is fir'd with many stars: mark! how they break
In silent glances o'er the hills, and speak
The evening to the plains, where, shot from far,
They meet in dumb salutes, as one great star.
The room, methinks, grows darker; and the air
Contracts a sadder colour, and less fair.
Or is't the drawer's skill? hath he no arts
To blind us so we can't know pints from quarts?
No, no, 'tis night: look where the jolly clown
Musters his bleating herd and quits the down.
Hark! how his rude pipe frets the quiet air,
Whilst ev'ry hill proclaims Lycoris fair.
Rich, happy man! that canst thus watch and sleep,
Free from all cares, but thy wench, pipe and sheep!
But see, the moon is up; view, where she stands
Sentinel o'er the door, drawn by the hands
Of some base painter, that for gain hath made
Her face the landmark to the tippling trade.
This cup to her, that to Endymion give;
'Twas wit at first, and wine that made them live.
Choke may the painter! and his box disclose
No other colours than his fiery nose;
And may we no more of his pencil see
Than two churchwardens, and mortality.
Should we go now a-wand'ring, we should meet
With catchpoles, whores and carts in ev'ry street:
Now when each narrow lane, each nook and cave,
Sign-posts and shop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave,
When riotous sinful plush, and tell-tale spurs
Walk Fleet Street and the Strand, when the soft stirs
Of bawdy, ruffled silks, turn night to day;
And the loud whip and coach scolds all the way;
When lust of all sorts, and each itchy blood
From the Tower-wharf to Cymbeline, and Lud,
Hunts for a mate, and the tir'd footman reels
'Twixt chairmen, torches, and the hackney wheels.
Come, take the other dish; it is to him
That made his horse a senator: each brim
Look big as mine: the gallant, jolly beast
Of all the herd--you'll say--was not the least.
Now crown the second bowl, rich as his worth
I'll drink it to; he, that like fire broke forth
Into the Senate's face, cross'd Rubicon,
And the State's pillars, with their laws thereon,
And made the dull grey beards and furr'd gowns fly
Into Brundusium to consult, and lie.
This, to brave Sylla! why should it be said
We drink more to the living than the dead?
Flatt'rers and fools do use it: let us laugh
At our own honest mirth; for they that quaff
To honour others, do like those that sent
Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent.
Drink deep; this cup be pregnant, and the wine
Spirit of wit, to make us all divine,
That big with sack and mirth we may retire
Possessors of more souls, and nobler fire;
And by the influx of this painted sky,
And labour'd forms, to higher matters fly;
So, if a nap shall take us, we shall all,
After full cups, have dreams poetical.

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

TO AMORET, OF THE DIFFERENCE 'TWIXT HIM AND OTHER LOVERS,
AND WHAT TRUE LOVE IS.

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

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

Just so base, sublunary lovers' hearts
Fed on loose profane desires,
May for an eye
Or face comply:
But those remov'd, they will as soon depart,
And show their art,
And painted fires.

Whilst I by pow'rful love, so much refin'd,
That my absent soul the same is,
Careless to miss
A glance or kiss,
Can with those elements of lust and sense
Freely dispense,
And court the mind.

Thus to the North the loadstones move,
And thus to them th' enamour'd steel aspires:
Thus Amoret
I do affect;
And thus by winged beams, and mutual fire,
Spirits and stars conspire:
And this is Love.

TO AMORET WEEPING.

Leave Amoret, melt not away so fast
Thy eyes' fair treasure; Fortune's wealthiest cast
Deserves not one such pearl; for these, well spent,
Can purchase stars, and buy a tenement
For us in heaven; though here the pious streams
Avail us not; who from that clue of sunbeams
Could ever steal one thread? or with a kind
Persuasive accent charm the wild loud wind?
Fate cuts us all in marble, and the Book
Forestalls our glass of minutes; we may look
But seldom meet a change; think you a tear
Can blot the flinty volume? shall our fear
Or grief add to their triumphs? and must we
Give an advantage to adversity?
Dear, idle prodigal! is it not just
We bear our stars? What though I had not dust
Enough to cabinet a worm? nor stand
Enslav'd unto a little dirt, or sand?
I boast a better purchase, and can show
The glories of a soul that's simply true.
But grant some richer planet at my birth
Had spied me out, and measur'd so much earth
Or gold unto my share: I should have been
Slave to these lower elements, and seen
My high-born soul flag with their dross, and lie
A pris'ner to base mud, and alchemy.
I should perhaps eat orphans, and suck up
A dozen distress'd widows in one cup;
Nay, further, I should by that lawful stealth,
Damn'd usury, undo the commonwealth;
Or patent it in soap, and coals, and so
Have the smiths curse me, and my laundress too;
Geld wine, or his friend tobacco; and so bring
The incens'd subject rebel to his king;
And after all--as those first sinners fell--
Sink lower than my gold, and lie in hell.
Thanks then for this deliv'rance! blessed pow'rs,
You that dispense man's fortune and his hours,
How am I to you all engag'd! that thus
By such strange means, almost miraculous,
You should preserve me; you have gone the way
To make me rich by taking all away.
For I--had I been rich--as sure as fate,
Would have been meddling with the king, or State,
Or something to undo me; and 'tis fit,
We know, that who hath wealth should have no wit,
But, above all, thanks to that Providence
That arm'd me with a gallant soul, and sense,
'Gainst all misfortunes, that hath breath'd so much
Of Heav'n into me, that I scorn the touch
Of these low things; and can with courage dare
Whatever fate or malice can prepare:
I envy no man's purse or mines: I know
That, losing them, I've lost their curses too;
And Amoret--although our share in these
Is not contemptible, nor doth much please--
Yet, whilst content and love we jointly vie,
We have a blessing which no gold can buy.

UPON THE PRIORY GROVE, HIS USUAL RETIREMENT.

Hail, sacred shades! cool, leafy house!
Chaste treasurer of all my vows
And wealth! on whose soft bosom laid
My love's fair steps I first betray'd:
Henceforth no melancholy flight,
No sad wing, or hoarse bird of night,
Disturb this air, no fatal throat
Of raven, or owl, awake the note
Of our laid echo, no voice dwell
Within these leaves, but Philomel.
The poisonous ivy here no more
His false twists on the oak shall score;
Only the woodbine here may twine,
As th' emblem of her love, and mine;
The amorous sun shall here convey
His best beams, in thy shades to play;
The active air the gentlest show'rs
Shall from his wings rain on thy flowers;
And the moon from her dewy locks
Shall deck thee with her brightest drops.
Whatever can a fancy move,
Or feed the eye, be on this grove!
And when at last the winds and tears
Of heaven, with the consuming years,
Shall these green curls bring to decay,
And clothe thee in an aged grey
--If ought a lover can foresee,
Or if we poets prophets be--
From hence transplanted, thou shalt stand
A fresh grove in th' Elysian land;
Where--most bless'd pair!--as here on earth
Thou first didst eye our growth, and birth;
So there again, thou'lt see us move
In our first innocence and love;
And in thy shades, as now, so then,
We'll kiss, and smile, and walk again.

JUVENAL'S TENTH SATIRE TRANSLATED.

In all the parts of earth, from farthest West,
And the Atlantic Isles, unto the East
And famous Ganges, few there be that know
What's truly good, and what is good, in show,
Without mistake: for what is't we desire,
Or fear discreetly? to whate'er aspire,
So throughly bless'd, but ever as we speed,
Repentance seals the very act, and deed?
The easy gods, mov'd by no other fate
Than our own pray'rs, whole kingdoms ruinate,
And undo families: thus strife, and war
Are the sword's prize, and a litigious bar
The gown's prime wish. Vain confidence to share
In empty honours and a bloody care
To be the first in mischief, makes him die
Fool'd 'twixt ambition and credulity.
An oily tongue with fatal, cunning sense,
And that sad virtue ever, eloquence,
Are th' other's ruin, but the common curse;
And each day's ill waits on the rich man's purse;
He, whose large acres and imprison'd gold
So far exceeds his father's store of old,
As British whales the dolphins do surpass.
In sadder times therefore, and when the laws
Of Nero's fiat reign'd, an armed band
Seiz'd on Longinus, and the spacious land
Of wealthy Seneca, besieg'd the gates
Of Lateranus, and his fair estate
Divided as a spoil: in such sad feasts
Soldiers--though not invited--are the guests.
Though thou small pieces of the blessed mine
Hast lodg'd about thee, travelling in the shine
Of a pale moon, if but a reed doth shake,
Mov'd by the wind, the shadow makes thee quake.
Wealth hath its cares, and want has this relief,
It neither fears the soldier nor the thief;
Thy first choice vows, and to the gods best known,
Are for thy stores' increase, that in all town
Thy stock be greatest, but no poison lies
I' th' poor man's dish; he tastes of no such spice.
Be that thy care, when, with a kingly gust,
Thou suck'st whole bowls clad in the gilded dust
Of some rich mineral, whilst the false wine
Sparkles aloft, and makes the draught divine.
Blam'st thou the sages, then? because the one
Would still be laughing, when he would be gone
From his own door; the other cried to see
His times addicted to such vanity?
Smiles are an easy purchase, but to weep
Is a hard act; for tears are fetch'd more deep.
Democritus his nimble lungs would tire
With constant laughter, and yet keep entire
His stock of mirth, for ev'ry object was
Addition to his store; though then--alas!--
Sedans, and litters, and our Senate gowns,
With robes of honour, fasces, and the frowns
Of unbrib'd tribunes were not seen; but had
He liv'd to see our Roman praetor clad
In Jove's own mantle, seated on his high
Embroider'd chariot 'midst the dust and cry
Of the large theatre, loaden with a crown,
Which scarce he could support--for it would down,
But that his servant props it--and close by
His page, a witness to his vanity:
To these his sceptre and his eagle add,
His trumpets, officers, and servants clad
In white and purple; with the rest that day,
He hir'd to triumph, for his bread, and pay;
Had he these studied, sumptuous follies seen,
'Tis thought his wanton and effusive spleen
Had kill'd the Abderite, though in that age
--When pride and greatness had not swell'd the stage
So high as ours--his harmless and just mirth
From ev'ry object had a sudden birth.
Nor was't alone their avarice or pride,
Their triumphs or their cares he did deride;
Their vain contentions or ridiculous fears,
But even their very poverty and tears.
He would at Fortune's threats as freely smile
As others mourn; nor was it to beguile
His crafty passions; but this habit he
By nature had, and grave philosophy.
He knew their idle and superfluous vows,
And sacrifice, which such wrong zeal bestows,
Were mere incendiaries; and that the gods,
Not pleas'd therewith, would ever be at odds.
Yet to no other air, nor better place
Ow'd he his birth, than the cold, homely Thrace;
Which shows a man may be both wise and good,
Without the brags of fortune, or his blood.
But envy ruins all: what mighty names
Of fortune, spirit, action, blood, and fame,
Hath this destroy'd? yea, for no other cause
Than being such; their honour, worth and place,
Was crime enough; their statues, arms and crowns
Their ornaments of triumph, chariots, gowns,
And what the herald, with a learned care,
Had long preserv'd, this madness will not spare.
So once Sejanus' statue Rome allow'd
Her demi-god, and ev'ry Roman bow'd
To pay his safety's vows; but when that face
Had lost Tiberius once, its former grace
Was soon eclips'd; no diff'rence made--alas!--
Betwixt his statue then, and common brass,
They melt alike, and in the workman's hand
For equal, servile use, like others stand.
Go, now fetch home fresh bays, and pay new vows
To thy dumb Capitol gods! thy life, thy house,
And state are now secur'd: Sejanus lies
I' th' lictors' hands. Ye gods! what hearts and eyes
Can one day's fortune change? the solemn cry
Of all the world is, "Let Sejanus die!"
They never lov'd the man, they swear; they know
Nothing of all the matter, when, or how,
By what accuser, for what cause, or why,
By whose command or sentence he must die.
But what needs this? the least pretence will hit,
When princes fear, or hate a favourite.
A large epistle stuff'd with idle fear,
Vain dreams, and jealousies, directed here
From Caprea does it; and thus ever die
Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high.
'Tis well, I seek no more; but tell me how
This took his friends? no private murmurs now?
No tears? no solemn mourner seen? must all
His glory perish in one funeral?
O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise
The moon by night, but court the warmer rays
O' th' sun by day; they follow fortune still,
And hate or love discreetly, as their will
And the time leads them. This tumultuous fate
Puts all their painted favours out of date.
And yet this people that now spurn, and tread
This mighty favourite's once honour'd head,
Had but the Tuscan goddess, or his stars
Destin'd him for an empire, or had wars,
Treason, or policy, or some higher pow'r
Oppress'd secure Tiberius; that same hour
That he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doom,
Had crown'd him emp'ror of the world and Rome
But Rome is now grown wise, and since that she
Her suffrages, and ancient liberty
Lost in a monarch's name, she takes no care
For favourite or prince; nor will she share
Their fickle glories, though in Cato's days
She rul'd whole States and armies with her voice.
Of all the honours now within her walls,
She only dotes on plays and festivals.
Nor is it strange; for when these meteors fall,
They draw an ample ruin with them: all
Share in the storm; each beam sets with the sun,
And equal hazard friends and flatt'rers run.
This makes, that circled with distractive fear
The lifeless, pale Sejanus' limbs they tear,
And lest the action might a witness need,
They bring their servants to confirm the deed;
Nor is it done for any other end,
Than to avoid the title of his friend.
So falls ambitious man, and such are still
All floating States built on the people's will:
Hearken all you! whom this bewitching lust
Of an hour's glory, and a little dust
Swells to such dear repentance! you that can
Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span!
Would you be as Sejanus? would you have,
So you might sway as he did, such a grave?
Would you be rich as he? command, dispose,
All acts and offices? all friends and foes?
Be generals of armies and colleague
Unto an emperor? break or make a league?
No doubt you would; for both the good and bad
An equal itch of honour ever had.
But O! what state can be so great or good,
As to be bought with so much shame and blood?
Alas! Sejanus will too late confess
'Twas only pride and greatness made him less:
For he that moveth with the lofty wind
Of Fortune, and Ambition, unconfin'd
In act or thought, doth but increase his height,
That he may loose it with more force and weight;
Scorning a base, low ruin, as if he
Would of misfortune make a prodigy.
Tell, mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thou
That mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow,
What but the weight of honours, and large fame
After your worthy acts, and height of name,
Destroy'd you in the end? The envious Fates,
Easy to further your aspiring States,
Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excess.
In ev'ry act did make you thrive the less.
Few kings are guilty of grey hairs, or die
Without a stab, a draught, or treachery.
And yet to see him, that but yesterday
Saw letters first, how he will scrape, and pray;
And all her feast-time tire Minerva's ears
For fame, for eloquence, and store of years
To thrive and live in; and then lest he dotes,
His boy assists him with his box and notes.
Fool that thou art! not to discern the ill
These vows include; what, did Rome's consul kill
Her Cicero? what, him whose very dust
Greece celebrates as yet; whose cause, though just,
Scarce banishment could end; nor poison save
His free-born person from a foreign grave?
All this from eloquence! both head and hand
The tongue doth forfeit; petty wits may stand
Secure from danger, but the nobler vein
With loss of blood the bar doth often stain.

} Carmen
_O fortunatam natam me Consule Romam._ } Ciceronianum
}

Had all been thus, thou might'st have scorn'd the sword
Of fierce Antonius; here is not one word
Doth pinch; I like such stuff, 'tis safer far
Than thy Philippics, or Pharsalia's war.
What sadder end than his, whom Athens saw
At once her patriot, oracle, and law?
Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in stars
Whom his poor father, blind with soot and scars,
Sends from the anvil's harmless chine, to wear
The factious gown, and tire his client's ear
And purse with endless noise. Trophies of war,
Old rusty armour, with an honour'd scar,
And wheels of captiv'd chariots, with a piece
Of some torn British galley, and to these
The ensign too, and last of all the train
The pensive pris'ner loaden with his chain,
Are thought true Roman honours; these the Greek
And rude barbarians equally do seek.
Thus air, and empty fame, are held a prize
Beyond fair virtue; for all virtue dies
Without reward; and yet by this fierce lust
Of fame, and titles to outlive our dust,
And monuments--though all these things must die
And perish like ourselves--whole kingdoms lie
Ruin'd and spoil'd: put Hannibal i' th' scale,
What weight affords the mighty general?
This is the man, whom Afric's spacious land
Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Nile's hot sand
Could not contain--Ye gods! that give to men
Such boundless appetites, why state you them
So short a time? either the one deny,
Or give their acts and them eternity.
All Aethiopia, to the utmost bound
Of Titan's course,--than which no land is found
Less distant from the sun--with him that ploughs
That fertile soil where fam'd[52] Iberus flows,
Are not enough to conquer; pass'd now o'er
The Pyrrhene hills, the Alps with all its store
Of ice, and rocks clad in eternal snow,
--As if that Nature meant to give the blow--
Denies him passage; straight on ev'ry side
He wounds the hill, and by strong hand divides
The monstrous pile; nought can ambition stay.
The world and Nature yield to give him way.
And now pass'd o'er the Alps, that mighty bar
'Twixt France and Rome, fear of the future war
Strikes Italy; success and hope doth fire
His lofty spirits with a fresh desire.
All is undone as yet--saith he--unless
Our Paenish forces we advance, and press
Upon Rome's self; break down her gates and wall,
And plant our colours in Suburra's vale.
O the rare sight! if this great soldier we
Arm'd on his Getick elephant might see!
But what's the event? O glory, how the itch
Of thy short wonders doth mankind bewitch!
He that but now all Italy and Spain
Had conquer'd o'er, is beaten out again;
And in the heart of Afric, and the sight
Of his own Carthage, forc'd to open flight.
Banish'd from thence, a fugitive he posts
To Syria first, then to Bithynia's coasts,
Both places by his sword secur'd, though he
In this distress must not acknowledg'd be;
Where once a general he triumphed, now
To show what Fortune can, he begs as low.
And thus that soul which through all nations hurl'd
Conquest and war, and did amaze the world,
Of all those glories robb'd, at his last breath,
Fortune would not vouchsafe a soldier's death.
For all that blood the field of Cannae boasts,
And sad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghosts,
No other end--freed from the pile and sword--
Than a poor ring would Fortune him afford.
Go now, ambitious man! new plots design,
March o'er the snowy Alps and Apennine;
That, after all, at best thou may'st but be
A pleasing story to posterity!
The Macedon one world could not contain,
We hear him of the narrow earth complain,
And sweat for room, as if Seriphus Isle
Or Gyara had held him in exile;
But Babylon this madness can allay,
And give the great man but his length of clay.
The highest thoughts and actions under heaven
Death only with the lowest dust lays even.
It is believed--if what Greece writes be true--
That Xerxes with his Persian fleet did hew
Their ways through mountains, that their sails full blown
Like clouds hung over Athos and did drown
The spacious continent, and by plain force
Betwixt the mount and it, made a divorce;
That seas exhausted were, and made firm land,
And Sestos joined unto Abydos strand;
That on their march his Medes but passing by
Drank thee, Scamander, and Melenus dry;
With whatsoe'er incredible design
Sostratus sings, inspir'd with pregnant wine.
But what's the end? He that the other day
Divided Hellespont, and forc'd his way
Through all her angry billows, that assign'd
New punishments unto the waves, and wind,
No sooner saw the Salaminian seas
But he was driven out by Themistocles,
And of that fleet--supposed to be so great,
That all mankind shar'd in the sad defeat--
Not one sail sav'd, in a poor fisher's boat,
Chas'd o'er the working surge, was glad to float,
Cutting his desp'rate course through the tir'd flood,
And fought again with carcases, and blood.
O foolish mad Ambition! these are still
The famous dangers that attend thy will.
Give store of days, good Jove, give length of years,
Are the next vows; these with religious fears
And constancy we pay; but what's so bad
As a long, sinful age? what cross more sad
Than misery of years? how great an ill
Is that which doth but nurse more sorrow still?
It blacks the face, corrupt and dulls the blood,
Benights the quickest eye, distastes the food,
And such deep furrows cuts i' th' checker'd skin
As in th' old oaks of Tabraca are seen.
Youth varies in most things; strength, beauty, wit,
Are several graces; but where age doth hit
It makes no difference; the same weak voice,
And trembling ague in each member lies:
A general hateful baldness, with a curs'd
Perpetual pettishness; and, which is worst,
A foul, strong flux of humours, and more pain
To feed, than if he were to nurse again;
So tedious to himself, his wife, and friends,
That his own sons, and servants, wish his end.
His taste and feeling dies; and of that fire
The am'rous lover burns in, no desire:
Or if there were, what pleasure could it be,
Where lust doth reign without ability?
Nor is this all: what matters it, where he
Sits in the spacious stage? who can nor see,
Nor hear what's acted, whom the stiller voice
Of spirited, wanton airs, or the loud noise
Of trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can
But scarce inform who enters, or what man
He personates, what 'tis they act, or say?
How many scenes are done? what time of day?
Besides that little blood his carcase holds
Hath lost[53] its native warmth, and fraught with colds
Catarrhs, and rheums, to thick black jelly turns,
And never but in fits and fevers burns.
Such vast infirmities, so huge a stock
Of sickness and diseases to him flock,
That Hyppia ne'er so many lovers knew,
Nor wanton Maura; physic never slew
So many patients, nor rich lawyers spoil
More wards and widows; it were lesser toil
To number out what manors and domains
Licinius' razor purchas'd: one complains
Of weakness in the back, another pants
For lack of breath, the third his eyesight wants;
Nay, some so feeble are, and full of pain,
That infant-like they must be fed again.
These faint too at their meals; their wine they spill,
And like young birds, that wait the mother's bill,
They gape for meat; but sadder far than this
Their senseless ignorance and dotage is;
For neither they, their friends, nor servants know,
Nay, those themselves begot, and bred up too,
No longer now they'll own; for madly they
Proscribe them all, and what, on the last day,
The misers cannot carry to the grave
For their past sins, their prostitutes must have.
But grant age lack'd these plagues: yet must they see
As great, as many: frail mortality,
In such a length of years, hath many falls,
And deads a life with frequent funerals.
The nimblest hour in all the span can steal
A friend, or brother from's; there's no repeal
In death, or time; this day a wife we mourn,
To-morrow's tears a son; and the next urn
A sister fills. Long-livers have assign'd
These curses still, that with a restless mind,
An age of fresh renewing cares they buy,
And in a tide of tears grow old and die.
Nestor,--if we great Homer may believe--
In his full strength three hundred years did live:
Happy--thou'lt say--that for so long a time
Enjoy'd free nature, with the grape and wine
Of many autumns; but, I prithee thee, hear
What Nestor says himself, when he his dear
Antilochus had lost; how he complains
Of life's too large extent, and copious pains?
Of all he meets, he asks what is the cause
He liv'd thus long; for what breach of their laws
The gods thus punish'd him? what sin had he
Done worthy of a long life's misery.
Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he
Thus wept that his Ulysses lost at sea.
Had Priam died before Phereclus' fleet
Was built, or Paris stole the fatal Greek,
Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone
In peace unto the lower shades; his son
Sav'd with his plenteous offspring, and the rest
In solemn pomp bearing his fun'ral chest.
But long life hinder'd this: unhappy he,
Kept for a public ruin, liv'd to see
All Asia lost, and ere he could aspire,
In his own house saw both the sword and fire;
All white with age and cares, his feeble arm
Had now forgot the war; but this alarm
Gathers his dying spirits; and as we
An aged ox worn out with labour see
By his ungrateful master, after all
His years of toil, a thankless victim fall:
So he by Jove's own altar; which shows we
Are nowhere safe from heaven, and destiny:
Yet died a man; but his surviving queen,
Freed from the Greekish sword, was barking seen.
I haste to Rome, and Pontus' king let pass,
With Lydian Cr[oe]sus, whom in vain--alas!--
Just Solon's grave advice bad to attend,
That happiness came not before the end.
What man more bless'd in any age to come
Or past, could Nature show the world, or Rome,
Than Marius was? if amidst the pomp of war,
And triumphs fetch'd with Roman blood from far,
His soul had fled; exile and fetters then
He ne'er had seen, nor known Minturna's fen;
Nor had it, after Carthage got, been said
A Roman general had begg'd his bread.
Thus Pompey th' envious gods, and Rome's ill stars
--Freed from Campania's fevers, and the wars--
Doom'd to Achilles' sword: our public vows
Made Caesar guiltless; but sent him to lose
His head at Nile: this curse Cethegus miss'd:
This Lentulus, and this made him resist
That mangled by no lictor's axe, fell dead
Entirely Catiline, and sav'd his head.
The anxious matrons, with their foolish zeal,
Are the last votaries, and their appeal
Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow,
They pray for sons, but with a louder vow
Commend a female feature: all that can
Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan
And when[54] reprov'd, they say, Latona's pair
The mother never thinks can be too fair.
But sad Lucretia warns to wish no face
Like hers: Virginia would bequeath her grace
To crook-back Rutila in exchange; for still
The fairest children do their parents fill
With greatest cares; so seldom chastity
Is found with beauty; though some few there be
That with a strict, religious care contend
Th' old, modest, Sabine customs to defend:
Besides, wise Nature to some faces grants
An easy blush, and where she freely plants
A less instruction serves: but both these join'd,
At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloin'd.
So steel'd a forehead Vice hath, that dares win,
And bribe the father to the children's sin;
But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face
Did ever want these tempters? pleasing grace
Betrays itself; what time did Nero mind
A coarse, maim'd shape? what blemish'd youth confin'd
His goatish pathic? whence then flow these joys
Of a fair issue? whom these sad annoys
Wait, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt see
Public adulterers, and must be
Subject to all the curses, plagues, and awe
Of jealous madmen, and the Julian law;
Nor canst thou hope they'll find a milder star,
Or more escapes than did the god of war.
But worse than all, a jealous brain confines
His fury to no law; what rage assigns
Is present justice: thus the rash sword spills
This lecher's blood; the scourge another kills.
But thy spruce boy must touch no other face
Than a patrician? is of any race
So they be rich; Servilia is as good,
With wealth, as she that boasts Iulus' blood.
To please a servant all is cheap; what thing
In all their stock to the last suit, and king,
But lust exacts? the poorest whore in this
As generous as the patrician is.
But thou wilt say what hurt's a beauteous skin
With a chaste soul? Ask Theseus' son, and him
That Stenob[oe]a murder'd; for both these
Can tell how fatal 'twas in them to please.
A woman's spleen then carries most of fate,
When shame and sorrow aggravate her hate.
Resolve me now, had Silius been thy son,
In such a hazard what should he have done?
Of all Rome's youth, this was the only best,
In whom alone beauty and worth did rest.
This Messalina saw, and needs he must
Be ruin'd by the emp'ror, or her lust.
All in the face of Rome, and the world's eye
Though Caesar's wife, a public bigamy
She dares attempt; and that the act might bear
More prodigy, the notaries appear,
And augurs to't; and to complete the sin
In solemn form, a dowry is brought in.
All this--thou'lt say--in private might have pass'd
But she'll not have it so; what course at last?
What should he do? If Messaline be cross'd,
Without redress thy Silius will be lost;
If not, some two days' length is all he can
Keep from the grave; just so much as will span
This news to Hostia, to whose fate he owes
That Claudius last his own dishonour knows.
But he obeys, and for a few hours' lust
Forfeits that glory should outlive his dust;
Nor was it much a fault; for whether he
Obey'd or not, 'twas equal destiny.
So fatal beauty is, and full of waste.
That neither wanton can be safe, nor chaste.
What then should man pray for? what is't that he
Can beg of Heaven, without impiety?
Take my advice: first to the gods commit
All cares; for they things competent and fit
For us foresee; besides, man is more dear
To them than to himself; we blindly here,
Led by the world and lust, in vain assay
To get us portions, wives and sons; but they
Already know all that we can intend,
And of our children's children see the end.
Yet that thou may'st have something to commend
With thanks unto the gods for what they send;
Pray for a wise and knowing soul; a sad,
Discreet, true valour, that will scorn to add
A needless horror to thy death; that knows
'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes;
That starts not at misfortunes, that can sway
And keep all passions under lock and key;
That covets nothing, wrongs none, and prefers
An honest want, before rich injurers.
All this thou hast within thyself, and may
Be made thy own, if thou wilt take the way;
What boots the world's wild, loose applause? what [can]
Frail, perilous honours add unto a man?
What length of years, wealth, or a rich fair wife?
Virtue alone can make a happy life.
To a wise man nought comes amiss: but we
Fortune adore, and make our deity.

FOOTNOTES:

[52] The original has _framed_.

[53] The original has _low_.

[54] The original has _why_

OLOR ISCANUS.

1651.

----O quis me gelidis in vallibus Iscae
Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!

AD POSTEROS.

Diminuat ne sera dies praesentis honorem
Quis, qualisque fui, percipe Posteritas.
Cambria me genuit, patulis ubi vallibus errans
Subjacet aeriis montibus Isca pater.
Inde sinu placido suscepit maximus arte
Herbertus, Latiae gloria prima scholae.
Bis ternos, illo me conducente, per annos
Profeci, et geminam contulit unus opem;
Ars et amor, mens atque manus certare solebant,
Nec lassata illi mensue, manusue fuit.
Hinc qualem cernis crevisse: sed ut mea certus
Tempora cognoscas, dura mere, scias.
Vixi, divisos cum fregerat haeresis Anglos
Inter Tysiphonas presbyteri et populi.
His primum miseris per am[oe]na furentibus arva
Prostravit sanctam vilis avena rosam,
Turbarunt fontes, et fusis pax perit undis,
Moestaque coelestes obruit umbra dies.
Duret ut integritas tamen, et pia gloria, partem
Me nullam in tanta strage fuisse, scias;
Credidimus nempe insonti vocem esse cruori,
Et vires quae post funera flere docent.
Hinc castae, fidaeque pati me more parentis
Commonui, et lachrymis fata levare meis;
Hinc nusquam horrendis violavi sacra procellis,
Nec mihi mens unquam, nec manus atra fuit.
Si pius es, ne plura petas; satur ille recedat
Qui sapit et nos non scripsimus insipidis.

TO THE TRULY NOBLE AND MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED,
THE LORD KILDARE DIGBY.

My Lord,

It is a position anciently known, and modern experience hath allowed it
for a sad truth, that absence and time,--like cold weather, and an
unnatural dormition--will blast and wear out of memory the most
endearing obligations; and hence it was that some politicians in love
have looked upon the former of these two as a main remedy against the
fondness of that passion. But for my own part, my Lord, I shall deny
this aphorism of the people, and beg leave to assure your Lordship,
that, though these reputed obstacles have lain long in my way, yet
neither of them could work upon me: for I am now--without adulation--as
warm and sensible of those numerous favours and kind influences received
sometimes from your Lordship, as I really was at the instant of
fruition. I have no plot by preambling thus to set any rate upon this
present address, as if I should presume to value a return of this nature
equal with your Lordship's deserts, but the design is to let you see
that this habit I have got of being troublesome flows from two
excusable principles, gratitude and love. These inward counsellors--I
know not how discreetly--persuaded me to this attempt and intrusion upon
your name, which if your Lordship will vouchsafe to own as the genius to
these papers, you will perfect my hopes, and place me at my full height.
This was the aim, my Lord, and is the end of this work, which though but
a _pazzarello_ to the _voluminose insani_, yet as jessamine and the
violet find room in the bank as well as roses and lilies, so happily may
this, and--if shined upon by your Lordship--please as much. To whose
protection, sacred as your name and those eminent honours which have
always attended upon it through so many generations, I humbly offer it,
and remain in all numbers of gratitude,

My honoured Lord,
Your most affectionate, humblest Servant,
Vaughan.
Newton by Usk this 17 of Decemb. 1647.

THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.

It was the glorious Maro that referred his legacies to the fire, and
though princes are seldom executors, yet there came a Caesar to his
testament, as if the act of a poet could not be repealed but by a king.
I am not, Reader, _Augustus vindex_: here is no royal rescue, but here
is a Muse that deserves it. The Author had long ago condemned these
poems to obscurity, and the consumption of that further fate which
attends it. This censure gave them a gust of death, and they have partly
known that oblivion which our best labours must come to at last. I
present thee then not only with a book, but with a prey, and in this
kind the first recoveries from corruption. Here is a flame hath been
sometimes extinguished, thoughts that have been lost and forgot, but now
they break out again like the Platonic reminiscency. I have not the
Author's approbation to the fact, but I have law on my side, though
never a sword. I hold it no man's prerogative to fire his own house.
Thou seest how saucy I am grown, and it thou dost expect I should
commend what is published, I must tell thee, I cry no Seville oranges. I
will not say, Here is fine or cheap: that were an injury to the verse
itself, and to the effects it can produce. Read on, and thou wilt find
thy spirit engaged: not by the deserts of what we call tolerable, but by
the commands of a pen that is above it.

UPON THE MOST INGENIOUS PAIR OF TWINS,
EUGENIUS PHILALETHES, AND THE AUTHOR OF THESE POEMS.

What planet rul'd your birth? what witty star?
That you so like in souls as bodies are!
So like in both, that you seem born to free
The starry art from vulgar calumny.
My doubts are solv'd, from hence my faith begins,
Not only your faces but your wits are twins.

When this bright Gemini shall from Earth ascend,
They will new light to dull-ey'd mankind lend,
Teach the star-gazers, and delight their eyes,
Being fix'd a constellation in the skies.

T. Powell, Oxoniensis.

TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR UPON THESE HIS POEMS.

I call'd it once my sloth: in such an age
So many volumes deep, I not a page?
But I recant, and vow 'twas thrifty care
That kept my pen from spending on slight ware,
And breath'd it for a prize, whose pow'rful shine
Doth both reward the striver, and refine.
Such are thy poems, friend: for since th' hast writ,
I can't reply to any name, but wit;
And lest amidst the throng that make us groan,
Mine prove a groundless heresy alone,
Thus I dispute, Hath there not rev'rence been
Paid to the beard at door, for Lord within?
Who notes the spindle-leg or hollow eye
Of the thin usher, the fair lady by?
Thus I sin freely, neighbour to a hand
Which, while I aim to strengthen, gives command
For my protection; and thou art to me
At once my subject and security.

I. Rowlandson, Oxoniensis.

UPON THE FOLLOWING POEMS.

I write not here, as if thy last in store
Of learned friends; 'tis known that thou hast more;
Who, were they told of this, would find a way
To raise a guard of poets without pay,
And bring as many hands to thy edition,
As th' City should unto their May'r's petition.
But thou wouldst none of this, lest it should be
Thy muster rather than our courtesy;
Thou wouldst not beg as knights do, and appear
Poet by voice and suffrage of the shire;
That were enough to make my Muse advance
Amongst the crutches; nay, it might enhance
Our charity, and we should think it fit
The State should build an hospital for wit.
But here needs no relief: thy richer verse
Creates all poets, that can but rehearse,
And they, like tenants better'd by their land,
Should pay thee rent for what they understand.
Thou art not of that lamentable nation
Who make a blessed alms of approbation,
Whose fardel-notes are briefs in ev'rything,
But, that they are not _Licens'd by the king_.
Without such scrape-requests thou dost come forth
Arm'd--though I speak it--with thy proper worth,
And needest not this noise of friends, for we
Write out of love, not thy necessity.
And though this sullen age possessed be
With some strange desamour to poetry,
Yet I suspect--thy fancy so delights--
The Puritans will turn thy proselytes,
And that thy flame, when once abroad it shines,
Will bring thee as many friends as thou hast lines.

Eugenius Philalethes, Oxoniensis.

OLOR ISCANUS.

TO THE RIVER ISCA.

When Daphne's lover here first wore the bays,
Eurotas' secret streams heard all his lays,
And holy Orpheus, Nature's busy child,
By headlong Hebrus his deep hymns compil'd;
Soft Petrarch--thaw'd by Laura's flames--did weep
On Tiber's banks, when she--proud fair!--could sleep;
Mosella boasts Ausonius, and the Thames
Doth murmur Sidney's Stella to her streams;
While Severn, swoln with joy and sorrow, wears
Castara's smiles mix'd with fair Sabrin's tears.
Thus poets--like the nymphs, their pleasing themes--
Haunted the bubbling springs and gliding streams;
And happy banks! whence such fair flow'rs have sprung,
But happier those where they have sat and sung!
Poets--like angels--where they once appear
Hallow the place, and each succeeding year
Adds rev'rence to't, such as at length doth give
This aged faith, that there their genii live.
Hence th' ancients say, that from this sickly air
They pass to regions more refin'd and fair,
To meadows strew'd with lilies and the rose,
And shades whose youthful green no old age knows;
Where all in white they walk, discourse, and sing
Like bees' soft murmurs, or a chiding spring.
But Isca, whensoe'er those shades I see,
And thy lov'd arbours must no more know me,
When I am laid to rest hard by thy streams,
And my sun sets, where first it sprang in beams,
I'll leave behind me such a large, kind light,
As shall redeem thee from oblivious night,
And in these vows which--living yet--I pay,
Shed such a previous and enduring ray,
As shall from age to age thy fair name lead,
'Till rivers leave to run, and men to read.
First, may all bards born after me
--When I am ashes--sing of thee!
May thy green banks or streams,--or none--
Be both their hill and Helicon!
May vocal groves grow there, and all
The shades in them prophetical,
Where laid men shall more fair truths see
Than fictions were of Thessaly!
May thy gentle swains--like flow'rs--
Sweetly spend their youthful hours,
And thy beauteous nymphs--like doves--
Be kind and faithful to their loves!
Garlands, and songs, and roundelays,
Mild, dewy nights, and sunshine days,
The turtle's voice, joy without fear,
Dwell on thy bosom all the year!
May the evet and the toad
Within thy banks have no abode,
Nor the wily, winding snake
Her voyage through thy waters make!
In all thy journey to the main
No nitrous clay, nor brimstone-vein
Mix with thy streams, but may they pass
Fresh on the air, and clear as glass,
And where the wand'ring crystal treads
Roses shall kiss, and couple heads!
The factor-wind from far shall bring
The odours of the scatter'd Spring,
And loaden with the rich arrear,
Spend it in spicy whispers there.
No sullen heats, nor flames that are
Offensive, and canicular,
Shine on thy sands, nor pry to see
Thy scaly, shading family,
But noons as mild as Hesper's rays,
Or the first blushes of fair days!
What gifts more Heav'n or Earth can add,
With all those blessings be thou clad!
Honour, Beauty,
Faith and Duty,
Delight and Truth,
With Love and Youth,
Crown all about thee! and whatever Fate
Impose elsewhere, whether the graver state
Or some toy else, may those loud, anxious cares
For dead and dying things--the common wares
And shows of Time--ne'er break thy peace, nor make
Thy repos'd arms to a new war awake!
But freedom, safety, joy and bliss,
United in one loving kiss,
Surround thee quite, and style thy borders
The land redeem'd from all disorders!

THE CHARNEL-HOUSE.

Bless me! what damps are here! how stiff an air!
Kelder of mists, a second fiat's care,
Front'spiece o' th' grave and darkness, a display
Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day,
Lean, bloodless shamble, where I can descry
Fragments of men, rags of anatomy,
Corruption's wardrobe, the transplantive bed
Of mankind, and th' exchequer of the dead!
How thou arrests my sense! how with the sight
My winter'd blood grows stiff to all delight!
Torpedo to the eye! whose least glance can
Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue headlong man.
Eloquent silence! able to immure
An atheist's thoughts, and blast an epicure.
Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dress
Would make me wish a Saviour, and confess.
Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope,
Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope,
Whose stretch'd excess runs on a string too high,
And on the rack of self-extension die?
Chameleons of state, air-monging band,
Whose breath--like gunpowder--blows up a land,
Come see your dissolution, and weigh
What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day.
As th' elements by circulation pass
From one to th' other, and that which first was
I so again, so 'tis with you; the grave
And Nature but complot; what the one gave
The other takes; think, then, that in this bed
There sleep the relics of as proud a head,
As stern and subtle as your own, that hath
Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
Hath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely then
Calm these high furies, and descend to men.
Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tomb
Check'd him, who thought the world too straight a room.
Have I obey'd the powers of face,
A beauty able to undo the race
Of easy man? I look but here, and straight
I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit
Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave
Beggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,
Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man
That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can
Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff,
Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear
Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear.
Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score
Of erring men, and having done, meet more,
Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents,
Fantastic humours, perilous ascents,
False, empty honours, traitorous delights,
And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites;
But these and more which the weak vermins swell,
Are couch'd in this accumulative cell,
Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun
Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone;
Day leaves me in a double night, and I
Must bid farewell to my sad library.
Yet with these notes--Henceforth with thought of thee
I'll season all succeeding jollity,
Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit;
Excess hath no religion, nor wit;
But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain,
One check from thee shall channel it again.

IN AMICUM F[OE]NERATOREM.

Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see
How I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee.
Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,
His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.
As lesser lode-stones with the North consent,
Naturally moving to their element,
As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fire
Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire,
So this vast crying sum draws in a less;
And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess,
For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphere
Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear.
Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress
His messages in chink! not an express
Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit,
For gold's the best restorative of wit.
Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delight
I read those lines, which angels do indite!
But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurse
Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse?
Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at once
What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?
'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peal
In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol;
I fear them not. I have no land to glut
Thy dirty appetite, and make thee strut
Nimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepare
To court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir.
For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thou
But kick this dross: Parnassus' flow'ry brow
I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot
That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.
A bed of roses I'll provide for thee,
And crystal springs shall drop thee melody.
The breathing shades we'll haunt, where ev'ry leaf
Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf.
Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yet
Durst make love to, we'll teach the loving fit;
We'll suck the coral of their lips, and feed
Upon their spicy breath, a meal at need:
Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfold
That glist'ring grove, the curled wood of gold;
Then peep for babies, a new puppet play,
And riddle what their prattling eyes would say.
But here thou must remember to dispurse,
For without money all this is a curse.
Thou must for more bags call, and so restore
This iron age to gold, as once before.
This thou must do, and yet this is not all,
For thus the poet would be still in thrall,
Thou must then--if live thus--my nest of honey
Cancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.

TO HIS FRIEND----

I wonder, James, through the whole history
Of ages, such entails of poverty
Are laid on poets; lawyers--they say--have found
A trick to cut them; would they were but bound
To practise on us, though for this thing we
Should pay--if possible--their bribes and fee.
Search--as thou canst--the old and modern store
Of Rome and ours, in all the witty score
Thou shalt not find a rich one; take each clime,
And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time,
Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'rywhere descry
A threadbare, goldless genealogy.
Nature--it seems--when she meant us for earth
Spent so much of her treasure in the birth
As ever after niggards her, and she,
Thus stor'd within, beggars us outwardly.
Woful profusion! at how dear a rate
Are we made up! all hope of thrift and state
Lost for a verse. When I by thoughts look back
Into the womb of time, and see the rack
Stand useless there, until we are produc'd
Unto the torture, and our souls infus'd
To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt
That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout
Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport
They keep afflicted by some ling'ring art;
So we are merely thrown upon the stage
The mirth of fools and legend of the age.
When I see in the ruins of a suit
Some nobler breast, and his tongue sadly mute
Feed on the vocal silence of his eye,
And knowing cannot reach the remedy;
When souls of baser stamp shine in their store,
And he of all the throng is only poor;
When French apes for foreign fashions pay,
And English legs are dress'd th' outlandish way,
So fine too, that they their own shadows woo,
While he walks in the sad and pilgrim shoe;
I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sin,
To see deserts and learning clad so thin;
To think how th' earthly usurer can brood
Upon his bags, and weigh the precious food
With palsied hands, as if his soul did fear
The scales could rob him of what he laid there.
Like devils that on hid treasures sit, or those
Whose jealous eyes trust not beyond their nose,
They guard the dirt and the bright idol hold
Close, and commit adultery with gold.
A curse upon their dross! how have we sued
For a few scatter'd chips? how oft pursu'd
Petitions with a blush, in hope to squeeze
For their souls' health, more than our wants, a piece?
Their steel-ribb'd chests and purse--rust eat them both!--
Have cost us with much paper many an oath,
And protestations of such solemn sense,
As if our souls were sureties for the pence.
Should we a full night's learned cares present,
They'll scarce return us one short hour's content.
'Las! they're but quibbles, things we poets feign,
The short-liv'd squibs and crackers of the brain.
But we'll be wiser, knowing 'tis not they
That must redeem the hardship of our way.
Whether a Higher Power, or that star
Which, nearest heav'n, is from the earth most far,
Oppress us thus, or angell'd from that sphere
By our strict guardians are kept luckless here,
It matters not, we shall one day obtain
Our native and celestial scope again.

TO HIS RETIRED FRIEND, AN INVITATION TO BRECKNOCK.

Since last we met, thou and thy horse--my dear--
Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here;
I wonder, though thyself be thus deceas'd,
Thou hast the spite to coffin up thy beast;
Or is the palfrey sick, and his rough hide
With the penance of one spur mortified?
Or taught by thee--like Pythagoras's ox--
Is then his master grown more orthodox
Whatever 'tis, a sober cause't must be
That thus long bars us of thy company.
The town believes thee lost, and didst thou see
But half her suff'rings, now distress'd for thee,
Thou'ldst swear--like Rome--her foul, polluted walls
Were sack'd by Brennus and the savage Gauls.
Abominable face of things! here's noise
Of banged mortars, blue aprons, and boys,
Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoarse, hellish notes
Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats,
With new fine Worships, and the old cast team
Of Justices vex'd with the cough and phlegm.
'Midst these the Cross looks sad, and in the Shire-
Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear,
With brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange sight
Of high monumental hats, ta'en at the fight
Of 'Eighty-eight; while ev'ry burgess foots
The mortal pavement in eternal boots.
Hadst thou been bach'lor, I had soon divin'd
Thy close retirements, and monastic mind;
Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, or
The beauteous churl was to be waited for,
And like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss,
You stay'd, and strok'd the distaff for a kiss.
But in this age, when thy cool, settled blood
Is ti'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good,
I know not how to reach the strange device,
Except--Domitian-like--thou murder'st flies.
Or is't thy piety? for who can tell
But thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell,
And--like a badger--with attentive looks
In the dark hole sit rooting up of books.
Quick hermit! what a peaceful change hadst thou,
Without the noise of haircloth, whip, or vow!
But there is no redemption? must there be
No other penance but of liberty?
Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus,
Thy memory will scarce remain with us,
The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim
They have not seen thee here since Charles, his reign,
Or if they mention thee, like some old man,
That at each word inserts--"Sir, as I can
Remember"--so the cyph'rers puzzle me
With a dark, cloudy character of thee.
That--certs!--I fear thou wilt be lost, and we
Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee.
Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine
And precious wit lie dead for want of thine.
Shall the dull market-landlord with his rout
Of sneaking tenants dirtily swill out
This harmless liquor? shall they knock and beat
For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat?
O let not such prepost'rous tippling be
In our metropolis; may I ne'er see
Such tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line
To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine!
Here lives that chymic, quick fire which betrays
Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays.
I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cup
That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up,
And teach her yet more charming words and skill
Than ever C[oe]lia, Chloris, Astrophil,
Or any of the threadbare names inspir'd
Poor rhyming lovers with a mistress fir'd.
Come then! and while the slow icicle hangs
At the stiff thatch, and Winter's frosty pangs
Benumb the year, blithe--as of old--let us
'Midst noise and war of peace and mirth discuss.
This portion thou wert born for: why should we
Vex at the time's ridiculous misery?
An age that thus hath fool'd itself, and will
--Spite of thy teeth and mine--persist so still.
Let's sit then at this fire, and while we steal
A revel in the town, let others seal,
Purchase or cheat, and who can, let them pay,
Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day.
Innocent spenders we! a better use
Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse
Rout to their husks; they and their bags at best
Have cares in earnest; we care for a jest.

MONSIEUR GOMBAULD.

I've read thy soul's fair nightpiece, and have seen
Th' amours and courtship of the silent Queen,
Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her
To juggle first with Heav'n, then with a lover,
With Latmos' louder rescue, and--alas!--
To find her out a hue and cry in brass;
Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad
Nocturnal pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad
In fancies darker than thy cave, thy glass
Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pass
In her calm voyage what discourse she heard
Of spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard
Ismena led thee through, with thy proud flight
O'er Periardes, and deep, musing night
Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green
The neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seen
In their large bowers, with that sad path and seat
Which none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat;[55]
Their solitary life, and how exempt
From common frailty, the severe contempt
They have of man, their privilege to live
A tree, or fountain, and in that reprieve
What ages they consume, with the sad vale
Of Diophania, and the mournful tale,
Of th' bleeding vocal myrtle; these and more
Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score
To thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fall
From thy first majesty, or ought at all
Betray consumption; thy full vig'rous bays
Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays
Of style, or matter. Just so have I known
Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down
Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal
To their next vale, and proudly there reveal
Her streams in louder accents, adding still
More noise and waters to her channel, till
At last swoln with increase she glides along
The lawns and meadows in a wanton throng
Of frothy billows, and in one great name
Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame.
Nor are they mere inventions, for we
In th' same piece find scatter'd philosophy
And hidden, dispers'd truths that folded lie
In the dark shades of deep allegory;
So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descry
Fables with truth, fancy with history.
So that thou hast in this thy curious mould
Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old,
Which shall these contemplations render far
Less mutable, and lasting as their star,
And while there is a people or a sun,
Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

FOOTNOTES:

[55] So Grosart, for the _heat_ of the original.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. W., SLAIN IN THE LATE UNFORTUNATE
DIFFERENCES AT ROUTON HEATH, NEAR CHESTER, 1645.

I am confirmed, and so much wing is given
To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.
A full year's grief I struggled with, and stood
Still on my sandy hopes' uncertain good,
So loth was I to yield; to all those fears
I still oppos'd thee, and denied my tears.
But thou art gone! and the untimely loss
Like that one day hath made all others cross.
Have you seen on some river's flow'ry brow
A well-built elm or stately cedar grow,
Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-ray
Beckon'd the sun, and whisper'd to the day,
When unexpected from the angry North
A fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth,
And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground
The shady twins, which rushing scatter round
Their sighing leaves, whilst overborn with strength
Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length?
So forc'd fell he; so immaturely Death
Stifled his able heart and active breath.
The world scarce knew him yet, his early soul
Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole
A sight than gave one; as if subtly she
Would learn our stock, but hide his treasury.
His years--should Time lay both his wings and glass
Unto his charge--could not be summ'd--alas!--
To a full score; though in so short a span
His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man
Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick
Have quite outgone their own arithmetic.
He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull
And mossy grey possess'd a solid skull;
No crooked knowledge neither, nor did he
Wear the friend's name for ends and policy,
And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stage
Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age
And then retir'd; like jewels, in each part
He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart.
Nor was it only in this he did excel,
His equal valour could as much, as well.
He knew no fear but of his God; yet durst
No injury, nor--as some have--e'er purs'd
The sweat and tears of others, yet would be
More forward in a royal gallantry
Than all those vast pretenders, which of late
Swell'd in the ruins of their king and State.
He weav'd not self-ends and the public good
Into one piece, nor with the people's blood
Fill'd his own veins; in all the doubtful way
Conscience and honour rul'd him. O that day
When like the fathers in the fire and cloud
I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd
See arms like thine, and men advance, but none
So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.
Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye
Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie
Performance with the soul, that you would swear
The act and apprehension both lodg'd there;
Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand
Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand.
But here I lost him. Whether the last turn
Of thy few sands call'd on thy hasty urn,
Or some fierce rapid fate--hid from the eye--
Hath hurl'd thee pris'ner to some distant sky,
I cannot tell, but that I do believe
Thy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve.
Whatever 'twas, whether that day thy breath
Suffer'd a civil or the common death,
Which I do most suspect, and that I have
Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave;
Though thy lov'd ashes miss me, and mine eyes
Had no acquaintance with thy exequies,
Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight
On the cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight,
Yet whate'er pious hand--instead of mine--
Hath done this office to that dust of thine,
And till thou rise again from thy low bed
Lent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head,
Though but a private turf, it can do more
To keep thy name and memory in store
Than all those lordly fools which lock their bones
In the dumb piles of chested brass, and stones
Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not
These marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot
Of posthume honours; there is not one sand
Sleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that hand
And pencil too, so that of force we must
Confess their heaps show lesser than thy dust.
And--blessed soul!--though this my sorrow can
Add nought to thy perfections, yet as man
Subject to envy, and the common fate,
It may redeem thee to a fairer date.
As some blind dial, when the day is done,
Can tell us at midnight there was a sun,
So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame,
May keep some weak remembrance of thy name,
And to the faith of better times commend
Thy loyal upright life, and gallant end.

_Nomen et arma locum servant, te, amice, nequivi_
_Conspicere_------------

UPON A CLOAK LENT HIM BY MR. J. RIDSLEY.

Here, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heav'n
Thy courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not even
Whether we die by piecemeal, or at once?
Since both but ruin, why then for the nonce
Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o'er
Me this forc'd hurdle to inflame the score?
Had I near London in this rug been seen
Without doubt I had executed been
For some bold Irish spy, and 'cross a sledge
Had lain mess'd up for their four gates and bridge.
When first I bore it, my oppressed feet
Would needs persuade me 'twas some leaden sheet;
Such deep impressions, and such dangerous holes
Were made, that I began to doubt my soles,
And ev'ry step--so near necessity--
Devoutly wish'd some honest cobbler by;
Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag
Seem'd circumcis'd, but had a Gentile shag.
Hadst thou been with me on that day, when we
Left craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee,
When beaten with fresh storms and late mishap
It shar'd the office of a cloak, and cap,
To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood
Like a thick turban, or some lawyer's hood,
While the stiff, hollow pleats on ev'ry side
Like conduit-pipes rain'd from the bearded hide:
I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate
Let loose thy mirth at my new shape and state,
And with a shallow smile or two profess
Some Saracen had lost the clouted dress.
Didst ever see the good wife--as they say--
March in her short cloak on the christ'ning day,
With what soft motions she salutes the church,
And leaves the bedrid mother in the lurch;
Just so jogg'd I, while my dull horse did trudge
Like a circuit-beast, plagu'd with a gouty judge.
But this was civil. I have since known more
And worser pranks: one night--as heretofore
Th' hast known--for want of change--a thing which I
And Bias us'd before me--I did lie
Pure Adamite, and simply for that end
Resolv'd, and made this for my bosom-friend.
O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I
Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo-graphy!
Thou wouldst have ta'en me, as I naked stood,
For one of the seven pillars before the flood.
Such characters and hieroglyphics were
In one night worn, that thou mightst justly swear
I'd slept in cere-cloth, or at Bedlam, where
The madmen lodge in straw. I'll not forbear
To tell thee all; his wild impress and tricks
Like Speed's old Britons made me look, or Picts;
His villanous, biting, wire-embraces
Had seal'd in me more strange forms and faces
Than children see in dreams, or thou hast read
In arras, puppet-plays, and gingerbread,
With angled schemes, and crosses that bred fear
Of being handled by some conjurer;
And nearer, thou wouldst think--such strokes were drawn--
I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane.
Nay, I believe, had I that instant been
By surgeons or apothecaries seen,
They had condemned my raz'd skin to be
Some walking herbal, or anatomy.
But--thanks to th' day!--'tis off. I'd now advise
Thee, friend, to put this piece to merchandise.
The pedlars of our age have business yet,
And gladly would against the Fair-day fit
Themselves with such a roof, that can secure
Their wares from dogs and cats rained in shower.
It shall perform; or if this will not do
'Twill take the ale-wives sure; 'twill make them two
Fine rooms of one, and spread upon a stick
Is a partition, without lime or brick.
Horn'd obstinacy! how my heart doth fret
To think what mouths and elbows it would set
In a wet day! have you for twopence ere
Seen King Harry's chapel at Westminster,
Where in their dusty gowns of brass and stone
The judges lie, and mark'd you how each one,
In sturdy marble-pleats about the knee,
Bears up to show his legs and symmetry?
Just so would this, that I think't weav'd upon
Some stiffneck'd Brownist's exercising loom.
O that thou hadst it when this juggling fate
Of soldiery first seiz'd me! at what rate
Would I have bought it then; what was there but
I would have giv'n for the compendious hut?
I do not doubt but--if the weight could please--
'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease.
Or a German shirt with enchanted lint
Stuff'd through, and th' devil's beard and face weav'd in't.
But I have done. And think not, friend, that I
This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy.
I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse
So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse.
She did this, 'cause--perhaps--thy love paid thus
Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.

UPON MR. FLETCHER'S PLAYS, PUBLISHED 1647.

I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive,
Label to wit, verser remonstrative,
And in some suburb-page--scandal to thine--
Like Lent before a Christmas scatter mine.
This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate
Such remnants from thy piece entreat their date;
Nor can I dub the copy, or afford
Titles to swell the rear of verse with lord;
Nor politicly big, to inch low fame,
Stretch in the glories of a stranger's name,
And clip those bays I court; weak striver I,
But a faint echo unto poetry.
I have not clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit
For plush and velvet's sake, esquire of wit.
Yet modesty these crosses would improve,
And rags near thee, some reverence may move.
I did believe--great Beaumont being dead--
Thy widow'd Muse slept on his flow'ry bed;
But I am richly cozen'd, and can see
Wit transmigrates: his spirit stay'd with thee;
Which, doubly advantag'd by thy single pen,
In life and death now treads the stage again.
And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit
Which starv'd the land, since into schisms split,
Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess
Wit's last edition is now i' th' press.
For thou hast drain'd invention, and he
That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.
But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain
At the designs of such a tragic brain?
Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see
Thy most abominable policy?
Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit
Their Synod fast and pray against thy wit?
But they'll not tire in such an idle quest;
Thou dost but kill, and circumvent in jest;
And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow
'Tis but for Field's, or Swansted's overthrow.
Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive
Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve
The peace of spirits: and when such deeds fail
Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail.
But--happy thou!--ne'er saw'st these storms, our air
Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming fair.
Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease,
Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace.
So nested in some hospitable shore
The hermit-angler, when the mid-seas roar,
Packs up his lines, and--ere the tempest raves--
Retires, and leaves his station to the waves.
Thus thou died'st almost with our peace, and we
This breathing time thy last fair issue see,
Which I think such--if needless ink not soil
So choice a Muse--others are but thy foil.
This, or that age may write, but never see
A wit that dares run parallel with thee.
True, Ben must live! but bate him, and thou hast
Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.

UPON THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF THE EVER-MEMORABLE MR. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

I did but see thee! and how vain it is
To vex thee for it with remonstrances,
Though things in fashion; let those judge, who sit
Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit
I fear to sin thus near thee; for--great saint!--
'Tis known true beauty hath no need of paint.
Yet, since a label fix'd to thy fair hearse
Is all the mode, and tears put into verse
Can teach posterity our present grief
And their own loss, but never give relief;
I'll tell them--and a truth which needs no pass--
That wit in Cartwright at her zenith was.
Arts, fancy, language, all conven'd in thee,
With those grand miracles which deify
The old world's writings, kept yet from the fire
Because they force these worst times to admire.
Thy matchless genius, in all thou didst write,
Like the sun, wrought with such staid heat and light,
That not a line--to the most critic he--
Offends with flashes, or obscurity.
When thou the wild of humours track'st, thy pen
So imitates that motley stock in men,
As if thou hadst in all their bosoms been,
And seen those leopards that lurk within.
The am'rous youth steals from thy courtly page
His vow'd address, the soldier his brave rage;
And those soft beauteous readers whose looks can
Make some men poets, and make any man
A lover, when thy slave but seems to die,
Turn all his mourners, and melt at the eye.
Thus thou thy thoughts hast dress'd in such a strain
As doth not only speak, but rule and reign;
Nor are those bodies they assum'd dark clouds,
Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds,
Which who looks on, the rays so strongly beat
They'll brush and warm him with a quick'ning heat;
So souls shine at the eyes, and pearls display
Through the loose crystal-streams a glance of day.
But what's all this unto a royal test?
Thou art the man whom great Charles so express'd!
Then let the crowd refrain their needless hum,
When thunder speaks, then squibs and winds are dumb.

TO THE BEST AND MOST ACCOMPLISHED COUPLE----

Blessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads
As the mild heav'n on roses sheds,
When at their cheeks--like pearls--they wear
The clouds that court them in a tear!
And may they be fed from above
By Him which first ordain'd your love!

Fresh as the hours may all your pleasures be,
And healthful as eternity!
Sweet as the flowers' first breath, and close
As th' unseen spreadings of the rose,
When he unfolds his curtain'd head,
And makes his bosom the sun's bed!

Soft as yourselves run your whole lives, and clear
As your own glass, or what shines there!
Smooth as heav'n's face, and bright as he
When without mask or tiffany!
In all your time not one jar meet
But peace as silent as his feet!

Like the day's warmth may all your comforts be,
Untoil'd for, and serene as he,
Yet free and full as is that sheaf
Of sunbeams gilding ev'ry leaf,
When now the tyrant-heat expires
And his cool'd locks breathe milder fires!

And as those parcell'd glories he doth shed
Are the fair issues of his head,
Which, ne'er so distant, are soon known
By th' heat and lustre for his own;
So may each branch of yours we see
Your copies and our wonders be!

And when no more on earth you must remain,
Invited hence to heav'n again,
Then may your virtuous, virgin-flames
Shine in those heirs of your fair names,
And teach the world that mystery,
Yourselves in your posterity!

So you to both worlds shall rich presents bring,
And, gather'd up to heav'n, leave here a spring.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. HALL, SLAIN AT PONTEFRACT, 1648.

I knew it would be thus! and my just fears
Of thy great spirit are improv'd to tears.
Yet flow these not from any base distrust
Of a fair name, or that thy honour must
Confin'd to those cold relics sadly sit
In the same cell an obscure anchorite.
Such low distempers murder; they that must
Abuse thee so, weep not, but wound thy dust.
But I past such dim mourners can descry
Thy fame above all clouds of obloquy,
And like the sun with his victorious rays
Charge through that darkness to the last of days.
'Tis true, fair manhood hath a female eye,
And tears are beauteous in a victory,
Nor are we so high-proof, but grief will find
Through all our guards a way to wound the mind;
But in thy fall what adds the brackish sum
More than a blot unto thy martyrdom?
Which scorns such wretched suffrages, and stands
More by thy single worth than our whole bands.
Yet could the puling tribute rescue ought
In this sad loss, or wert thou to be brought
Back here by tears, I would in any wise
Pay down the sum, or quite consume my eyes.
Thou fell'st our double ruin; and this rent
Forc'd in thy life shak'd both the Church and tent.
Learning in others steals them from the van,
And basely wise emasculates the man,
But lodg'd in thy brave soul the bookish feat
Serv'd only as the light unto thy heat.
Thus when some quitted action, to their shame,
And only got a discreet coward's name,
Thou with thy blood mad'st purchase of renown,
And died'st the glory of the sword and gown.
Thy blood hath hallow'd Pomfret, and this blow
--Profan'd before--hath church'd the Castle now.
Nor is't a common valour we deplore,
But such as with fifteen a hundred bore,
And lightning-like--not coop'd within a wall--
In storms of fire and steel fell on them all.
Thou wert no woolsack soldier, nor of those
Whose courage lies in winking at their foes,
That live at loopholes, and consume their breath
On match or pipes, and sometimes peep at death;
No, it were sin to number these with thee,
But that--thus pois'd--our loss we better see.
The fair and open valour was thy shield,
And thy known station, the defying field.
Yet these in thee I would not virtues call,
But that this age must know that thou hadst all.
Those richer graces that adorn'd thy mind
Like stars of the first magnitude, so shin'd,
That if oppos'd unto these lesser lights
All we can say is this, they were fair nights.
Thy piety and learning did unite,
And though with sev'ral beams made up one light,
And such thy judgment was, that I dare swear
Whole councils might as soon and synods err.
But all these now are out! and as some star
Hurl'd in diurnal motions from far,
And seen to droop at night, is vainly said
To fall and find an occidental bed,
Though in that other world what we judge West
Proves elevation, and a new, fresh East;
So though our weaker sense denies us sight,
And bodies cannot trace the spirit's flight,
We know those graces to be still in thee,
But wing'd above us to eternity.
Since then--thus flown--thou art so much refin'd
That we can only reach thee with the mind,
I will not in this dark and narrow glass
Let thy scant shadow for perfections pass,
But leave thee to be read more high, more quaint,
In thy own blood a soldier and a saint.

----_Salve aeternum mihi maxime Palla!_
_Aeternumque vale!_----

TO MY LEARNED FRIEND, MR. T. POWELL, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF MALVEZZI'S
CHRISTIAN POLITICIAN.

We thank you, worthy Sir, that now we see
MALVEZZI languag'd like our infancy,
And can without suspicion entertain
This foreign statesman to our breast or brain;
You have enlarg'd his praise, and from your store
By this edition made his worth the more.
Thus by your learned hand--amidst the coil--
Outlandish plants thrive in our thankless soil,
And wise men after death, by a strange fate,
Lie leiger here, and beg to serve our State.
Italy now, though mistress of the bays,
Waits on this wreath, proud of a foreign praise;
For, wise Malvezzi, thou didst lie before
Confin'd within the language of one shore,
And like those stars which near the poles do steer
Were't but in one part of the globe seen clear.
Provence and Naples were the best and most
Thou couldst shine in; fix'd to that single coast,
Perhaps some cardinal, to be thought wise,
And honest too, would ask, what was thy price?
Then thou must pack to Rome, where thou mightst lie
Ere thou shouldst have new clothes eternally,
For though so near the sev'n hills, ne'ertheless
Thou cam'st to Antwerp for thy Roman dress.
But now thou art come hither, thou mayst run
Through any clime as well known as the sun,
And in thy sev'ral dresses, like the year,
Challenge acquaintance with each peopled sphere.
Come then, rare politicians of the time,
Brains of some standing, elders in our clime,
See here the method. A wise, solid State
Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,
Joint in advice, in resolutions just,
Mild in success, true to the common trust.
It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand
Allays the heat and burnings of a land;
Religion guides it, and in all the tract
Designs so twist, that Heav'n confirms the act.
If from these lists you wander as you steer,
Look back, and catechize your actions here.
These are the marks to which true statesmen tend,
And greatness here with goodness hath one end.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MASTER T. LEWES.

Sees not my friend, what a deep snow
Candies our country's woody brow?
The yielding branch his load scarce bears,
Oppress'd with snow and frozen tears;
While the dumb rivers slowly float,
All bound up in an icy coat.
Let us meet then! and while this world
In wild eccentrics now is hurl'd,
Keep we, like nature, the same key,
And walk in our forefathers' way.
Why any more cast we an eye
On what may come, not what is nigh?
Why vex ourselves with fear, or hope
And cares beyond our horoscope?
Who into future times would peer,
Looks oft beyond his term set here,
And cannot go into those grounds
But through a churchyard, which them bounds.
Sorrows and sighs and searches spend
And draw our bottom to an end,
But discreet joys lengthen the lease,
Without which life were a disease;
And who this age a mourner goes,
Doth with his tears but feed his foes

TO THE MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED MRS. K. PHILIPS.

Say, witty fair one, from what sphere
Flow these rich numbers you shed here?
For sure such incantations come
From thence, which strike your readers dumb.
A strain, whose measures gently meet
Like virgin-lovers or Time's feet;
Where language smiles, and accents rise
As quick and pleasing as your eyes;
The poem smooth, and in each line
Soft as yourself, yet masculine;
Where not coarse trifles blot the page
With matter borrow'd from the age,
But thoughts as innocent and high
As angels have, or saints that die.
These raptures when I first did see
New miracles in poetry,
And by a hand their good would miss
His bays and fountains but to kiss,
My weaker genius--cross to fashion--
Slept in a silent admiration:
A rescue, by whose grave disguise
Pretenders oft have pass'd for wise.
And yet as pilgrims humbly touch
Those shrines to which they bow so much,
And clouds in courtship flock, and run
To be the mask unto the sun,
So I concluded it was true
I might at distance worship you,
A Persian votary, and say
It was your light show'd me the way.
So loadstones guide the duller steel,
And high perfections are the wheel
Which moves the less, for gifts divine
Are strung upon a vital line,
Which, touch'd by you, excites in all
Affections epidemical.
And this made me--a truth most fit--
Add my weak echo to your wit;
Which pardon, Lady, for assays
Obscure as these might blast your bays;
As common hands soil flow'rs, and make
That dew they wear weep the mistake.
But I'll wash off the stain, and vow
No laurel grows but for your brow.

AN EPITAPH UPON THE LADY ELIZABETH, SECOND DAUGHTER TO HIS LATE MAJESTY.

Youth, beauty, virtue, innocence,
Heav'n's royal and select expense,
With virgin-tears and sighs divine
Sit here the genii of this shrine;
Where now--thy fair soul wing'd away--
They guard the casket where she lay.
Thou hadst, ere thou the light couldst see,
Sorrows laid up and stor'd for thee;
Thou suck'dst in woes, and the breasts lent
Their milk to thee but to lament;
Thy portion here was grief, thy years
Distill'd no other rain but tears,
Tears without noise, but--understood--
As loud and shrill as any blood.
Thou seem'st a rosebud born in snow,
A flower of purpose sprung to bow
To headless tempests, and the rage
Of an incensed, stormy age.
Others, ere their afflictions grow,
Are tim'd and season'd for the blow,
But thine, as rheums the tend'rest part,
Fell on a young and harmless heart.
And yet, as balm-trees gently spend
Their tears for those that do them rend,
So mild and pious thou wert seen,
Though full of suff'rings; free from spleen,
Thou didst not murmur, nor revile,
But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile.
As envious eyes blast and infect,
And cause misfortunes by aspect,
So thy sad stars dispens'd to thee
No influx but calamity;
They view'd thee with eclipsed rays,
And but the back side of bright days.

* * * * *

These were the comforts she had here,
As by an unseen Hand 'tis clear,
Which now she reads, and, smiling, wears
A crown with Him who wipes off tears.

TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT UPON HIS GONDIBERT.

Well, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen
Poets shall live, when princes die like men.
Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill,
Of late years clouded with imputed ill,
And the soft, youthful couples there may move,
As chaste as stars converse and smile above.
Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow
Calm as rose-leaves, and cool as virgin-snow,
Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd,
They both delight and dignify the mind;
Like to the wat'ry music of some spring,
Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing.
And where before heroic poems were
Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear,
And show'd--through all the melancholy flight--
Like some dark region overcast with night,
As if the poet had been quite dismay'd,
While only giants and enchantments sway'd;
Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise,
Hast chas'd them hence, and with discoveries
So rare and learned fill'd the place, that we
Those fam'd grandezas find outdone by thee,
And underfoot see all those vizards hurl'd
Which bred the wonder of the former world.
'Twas dull to sit, as our forefathers did,
At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid,
Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire
Break through the ashes of thy aged sire,
To lend the world such a convincing light
As shows his fancy darker than his sight.
Nor was't alone the bars and length of days
--Though those gave strength and stature to his bays--
Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint
And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint.
How couldst thou, mur'd in solitary stones,
Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou mightst her groans?
And, strangely eloquent, thyself divide
'Twixt sad misfortunes and a bloomy bride?
Through all the tenour of thy ample song,
Spun from thy own rich store, and shar'd among
Those fair adventurers, we plainly see
Th' imputed gifts inherent are in thee.
Then live for ever--and by high desert--
In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert,
And in bright Birtha leave thy love enshrin'd
Fresh as her em'rald, and fair as her mind,
While all confess thee--as they ought to do--
The prince of poets, and of lovers too.

[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. V. ELEG. III.

TO HIS FELLOW-POETS AT ROME, UPON THE BIRTHDAY OF BACCHUS.

This is the day--blithe god of sack--which we,
If I mistake not, consecrate to thee,
When the soft rose we marry to the bays,
And, warm'd with thy own wine, rehearse thy praise;
'Mongst whom--while to thy poet fate gave way--
I have been held no small part of the day.
But now, dull'd with the cold Bear's frozen seat,
Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gete.
My former life, unlike to this my last,
With Rome's best wits of thy full cup did taste,
Who since have seen the savage Pontic band,
And all the choler of the sea and land.
Whether sad chance or Heav'n hath this design'd,
And at my birth some fatal planet shin'd,
Of right thou shouldst the sisters' knots undo,
And free thy votary and poet too;
Or are you gods--like us--in such a state
As cannot alter the decrees of fate?
I know with much ado thou didst obtain
Thy jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain
Was no whit less, for, wand'ring, thou didst run
To the Getes too, and snow-weeping Strymon,
With Persia, Ganges, and whatever streams
The thirsty Moor drinks in the mid-day beams.
But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee
--To make all sure--doubled thy misery.
My sufferings too are many--if it be
Held safe for me to boast adversity--
Nor was't a common blow, but from above,
Like his that died for imitating Jove;
Which, when thou heardst, a ruin so divine
And mother-like should make thee pity mine,
And on this day, which poets unto thee
Crown with full bowls, ask what's become of me?
Help, buxom god, then! so may thy lov'd vine
Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with wine
Load the kind elm, and so thy orgies be
With priests' loud shouts and satyrs' kept to thee!
So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blest,
Nor Pentheus' wand'ring ghost find any rest!
And so for ever bright--thy chief desires--
May thy wife's crown outshine the lesser fires!
If but now, mindful of my love to thee,
Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.
You gods have commerce with yourselves; try then
If Caesar will restore me Rome again.
And you, my trusty friends--the jolly crew
Of careless poets! when, without me, you
Perform this day's glad myst'ries, let it be
Your first appeal unto his deity,
And let one of you--touch'd with my sad name--
Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same,
And--sighing--to the rest this thought commend,
O! where is Ovid now, our banish'd friend?
This do, if in your breasts I e'er deserv'd
So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd,
Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow
Condemning others, did myself allow.
And may your happier wits grow loud with fame
As you--my best of friends!--preserve my name.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. III. [EPIST. VII.].

TO HIS FRIENDS--AFTER HIS MANY SOLICITATIONS--REFUSING TO PETITION CAESAR
FOR HIS RELEASEMENT.

You have consum'd my language, and my pen,
Incens'd with begging, scorns to write again.
You grant, you knew my suit: my Muse and I
Had taught it you in frequent elegy.
That I believe--yet seal'd--you have divin'd
Our repetitions, and forestall'd my mind,
So that my thronging elegies and I
Have made you--more than poets--prophesy.
But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream
Which made me cross the proverb and the stream,
And pardon, friends, that I so long have had
Such good thoughts of you; I am not so mad
As to continue them. You shall no more
Complain of troublesome verse, or write o'er
How I endanger you, and vex my wife
With the sad legends of a banish'd life.
I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have pass'd
Through greater ones, and can as well at last
These petty crosses. 'Tis for some young beast
To kick his bands, or wish his neck releas'd
From the sad yoke. Know then, that as for me
Whom Fate hath us'd to such calamity,
I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare
The highest ills your malice can prepare.
'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now
Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow
Of cloudy Aemus, and if she decree
Her sportive pilgrim's last bed here must be,
I am content; nay, more, she cannot do
That act which I would not consent unto.
I can delight in vain hopes, and desire
That state more than her change and smiles; then high'r
I hug a strong despair, and think it brave
To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave.
Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he
That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th' free
Waters, without th' expense of arms or breath,
Hath still the easiest and the quickest death.
Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires
Of changing Scythia for the sun and fires
Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch
My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch,
And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I
Suspect fate had for me a courtesy?
These errors grieve: and now I must forget
Those pleas'd ideas I did frame and set
Unto myself, with many fancied springs
And groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings.
And yet I would the worst of fate endure,
Ere you should be repuls'd, or less secure.
But--base, low souls!--you left me not for this,
But 'cause you durst not. Caesar could not miss
Of such a trifle, for I know that he
Scorns the cheap triumphs of my misery.
Then since--degen'rate friends--not he, but you
Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new,
You shall confess, and fame shall tell you, I
At Ister dare as well as Tiber die.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. IV. EPIST. III.

TO HIS INCONSTANT FRIEND, TRANSLATED FOR THE USE OF ALL THE JUDASES OF
THIS TOUCHSTONE-AGE.

Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask
Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task
Master my just impatience, and write down
Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?
Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see
And teach thy person to posterity?
No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man,
'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can
Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give
Thy name the honour in my verse to live.
Whilst yet my ship did with no storms dispute,
And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute
My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man
That with me then an equal fortune ran;
But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night
Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight;
Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone
To shun that rescue I reli'd upon;
Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim
Not only my acquaintance, but my name.
Yet know--though deaf to this--that I am he
Whose years and love had the same infancy
With thine, thy deep familiar that did share
Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care;
Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights
So solemnly endear'd to her delights.
But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown
The abject of thy breast, not to be known
In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not
So much as let me know I am forgot.
If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then
Thou didst dissemble: or if love again,
Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me
That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be
Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide
Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide
Myself and actions, that I cannot see
What could offend thee, but my misery.
'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow
Some rescue to my wants, at least I know
Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two
Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so.
I know not what to think! and yet I hear,
Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer.
Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back
I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.
Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand,
Whose upper slipp'ry part without command
Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind
Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind.
In the whole world there's nothing I can see
Will throughly parallel her ways but thee.
All that we hold hangs on a slender twine,
And our best states by sudden chance decline.
Who hath not heard of Cr[oe]sus' proverb'd gold,
Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold?
He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent
By a poor art could famine scarce prevent;
And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end,
Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend.
Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been,
And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in,
Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace,
In a foul marsh wa

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/28375