I HATE the countrie's durt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide.
But loathe the expence, the vanity and pride.
No place each way is happy. Here I hold
Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold
(After due oath ministred) the height

And greatnesse of each star shines in the state,
The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.
With others I commune, who tell me whence
The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:
Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
Soone as they happen; and by rote can tell
Those Germane townes, even puzzle me to spell.
The crosse or prosperous fate of princes, they
Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning or delay:
And on each action comment, with more skill
Than upon Livy did old Matchavill,

O busie folly: Why doe I my braine
Perplex with the dull pollicies of Spaine,

Or quick designes of France? Why not repaire
To the pure innocence o'th' country ayre:
And neighbour thee, deare friend? Who so dost give
Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live
Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not we
Arme against passion with philosophie;
And by the aide of leisure, so controule,
What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?
Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when
We study mysteries of other men

And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade
(Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,
Kind Nature's huswifery) contemplate all
His stratagems who labours to inthral
The world to his great master, and youle finde
Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.
Blood is too deare
Not conquest makes us great.

A price for glory: honour doth appeare
To statesmen like a vision in the night,
And jugler-like workes o'th' deluded sight.
Th' unbusied onely wise: for no respect
Indangers them to errour; they affect
Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
Man with an equall eye, nor bright in gold
Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
As vertue raiseth him above his clay.
Thus let us value things: and since we find
Time bends us toward death, let's in our mind
3 S 4

From thee, deare Talbot, living I did learne
The arts of life, and by thy light discerne
The truth which men dispute. But by thee dead
I'me taught, upon the world's gay pride to tread :
And that way sooner master it, than he
To whom both th' Indies tributary be.

:

ELEGIE IV.

My name, deare friend, even thy expiring breath
Did call upon affirming that thy death
Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be
Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee.
My lord if I with licence of your teares, [weares
(Which your great brother's hearse as diamonds
T'enrich death's glory) may but speake my owne :
I'le prove it, that no sorrow e're was knowne
Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe
In griefe a method: without forme I weepe.
The sonne (rich in his father's fate) hath eyes
Wet just as long as are the obsequies.
The widow formerly a yeare doth spend
In her so courtly blackes. But for a friend
We weepe an age, and more than th' anchorit, have
Our very thoughts confin'd within a grave.
Chast love who had thy tryumph in my flame
And thou Castara who had hadst a name,
But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse
Is lost to you, and onely on Talbot's herse
Sadly attends. And till Time's fatal hand
Ruines, what's left of churches, there shall stand.
There to thy selfe, deare Talbot, I'le repeate
Thy own brave story; tell thy selfe how great
Thou wert in thy minde's empire, and how all
Who out-live thee, see but the funerall
Of glory and if yet some vertuous be,
They but weake apparitions are of thee.
So settled were thy thoughts, each action so
Discreetly ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow
Was e're perceiv'd in thee, each word mature
And every sceane of life from sinne so pure
That scarce in its whole history, we can
Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man.
Horrour to say thou wert! Curst that we must
Addresse our language to a little dust,
And seeke for Talbot there. Injurious fate
To lay my life's ambition desolate.

Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know
Not how it can give such another blow.

ELEGIE V.

CHAST as the nun's first vow, as fairely bright
As when by death her soul shines in full light
Freed from th' eclipse of Earth, each word that came
From thee (deare Talbot) did beget a flame
T' enkindle vertue: which so faire by thee
Became, man that blind mole her face did see.
But now to our eye she's lost, and if she dwell
Yet on the Earth; she's confin'd in the cell
Of some cold hermit, whoso keeps her there,
As if of her the old man jealous were.
Nor ever showes her beauty, but to some
Carthusian, who even by his vow, is dumbe!
So 'mid the yce of the farre northren sea,
A starre about the articke circle, may

Than ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shall
Serve at the frozen pilot's funerall.
Thou (brightest constellation) to this maine
Which all we sinners traffique on, didst daigne

The bounty of thy fire, which with so cleare
And constant beames did our frayle vessels steere,
That safely we, what storme so e're bore sway,
Past o're the rugged Alpes of th' angry sea.
But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke
The folly doth of our ambition mocke
And splits our hopes: to every syren's breath
We listen and even court the the face of death,
If painted o're by pleasure: every wave

If't hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave.
So ruinous is the defect of thee,,

To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me
Who liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath,
Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death.
And now by fate, I but my selfe survive,
To keepe his mem'ry and my griefes alive.
Where shall I then begin to weepe? No grove
Silent and darke, but is prophan'd by love:
With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares,
His busie hopes, loud sighes, and ceaselesse teares
Each eare is so inchanted; that no breath
Is list'ned to, which mockes report of death.
I'le turne my griefe then inward and deplore
My ruine to myselfe, repeating ore

The story of his virtues; until I
Not write, but am my selfe his elegie.

Redeemes not Talbot, who cold as the breath
Of winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death,
Stealing on th' anch'rit, who even wants an eare
To breathe into his soft expiring prayer.
For had thy life beene by thy vertues spun
Out to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the Sunne
And clos'd the world's great eye: or were not all
Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall
Thou hadst receiv'd new life, and liv'd to be
The conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me.
But all we poets glory in, is vaine
And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine
One poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flye
By a foole's finger destinate to dye.
Live then in thy true life (great soule) for set
At liberty by death thou owest no debt
T' exacting Nature: live, freed from the sport
Of time and fortune in yand' starry court
A glorious potentate, while we below
But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe.
We follow campes, and to our hopes propose
Th' insulting victor; not rememb'ring those
Dismembred trunkes who gave him victory
By a loath'd fate: we covetous merchants be
And to our aymes pretend treasure and sway,
Forgetfull of the treasons of the sea.
The shootings of a wounded conscience
We patiently sustaine to serve our sence
With a short pleasure; so we empire gaine
And rule the fate of businesse, the sad paine
Of action we contemne, and the affright
Which with pale visions still attends our night.
Our joyes false apparitions, but our feares
Are certaine prophecies. And till our ears

Doth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues are
Friends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents be
Harsh ecchos of their heavenly harmonie.
While thou didst live we did that union finde
In the so faire republick of thy mind,
Where discord never swel'd. And as we dare
Affirme those goodly structures, temples are
Where well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare:
The musique of thy soule made us say, there
God had his altars; every breath a spice
And each religious act a sacrifice.
But death hath that demolisht.
All our eye
Of thee now sees doth like a cittie lye
Ras'd by the cannon. Where is then that flame?
That added warmth and beauty to thy frame?
Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fire,
The losses of some maim'd seraphick quire?
Or hovers it beneath, the world t' uphold
From generall ruine, and expel that cold
Dull humour weakens it? If so it be;
My sorrow yet must prayse Fate's charity.
But thy example (if kinde Heaven had daign'd
Frailty that favour) had mankind regain'd
To his first purity. For that the wit

Of vice, might not except 'gainst th' anchorit
As too to strict; thou didst uncloyster'd live :
Teaching the soule by what preservative,
She may from sinnes contagion live secure,
Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure.
In this darke mist of errour with a cleare
Vnspotted light, thy vertue did appeare
Tobrayd corrupted man. How could the rage
Of untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age;
Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealth
Of time have spent in riot, or his health
By surfeits forfeited; if he had seene
What temperance had in thy dyet beene?
What glorious foole had vaunted honours bought
By gold or practise, or by rapin brought
From his fore-fathers, had he understood
How Talbot valued not his own great blood!
Had politicians seene him scorning more
The unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the poore
Thatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind
(A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth find
Still free admittance: their pale labours had
Beene to be good, not to be great and bad.
But he is lost in a blind vault, and we
Must not admire though sinnes now frequent be
And uncontrol'd: since those faire tables where
The law was writ by death now broken are,
By death extinguisht is that star, whose light
Did shine so faithfull, that each ship sayl'd right
Which steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we,
(That failing) lost in this world's tempest be.
But to what orbe so e're thou dost retyre,
Far from our ken: 'tis blest, while by thy fire
Enlighten'd. And since thou must never here
Be seene againe: may I o're take thee here.

ELEGIE VIII.

BOAST not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all The cunning pompe of the Escuriall.

Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room
Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe.
Here is th' epitome of wealth, this chest
Is Nature's chief exchequer, hence the East
When it is purified by th' generall fire
Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher
Than all the gems she vants: transcending far
In fragrant lustre the bright morning star.
'Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we
Have by a cataract lost sight, than he
Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night
Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retains his light.
Thou eclips'd dust! expecting breake of day
From the thicke mists about thy tombe, I'le pay
Like the just larke, the tribute of my verse:

I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
To rise, and 'bout the world thy beames to spread,
That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead.
My zeal deludes me not. What perfumes coine
From th' happy vault? In her sweet martyrdome
The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose
When the enamour'd Spring by kissing blowes
Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East
Vying with Paradice, i'th' phoenix nest.
These gentle perfumes usher in the day
Which from the night of his discolour'd clay
Breakes on the sudden; for a soule so bright
Of force must to her earth contribute light.
But if w' are so far blind, we cannot see
The wonder of this truth; yet let us be
Not infidels; nor like dull atheists give
Our selves so long to lust, till we believe
(T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall
To a loath'd nothing in our funerall.

The bad man's death is horrour. But the just
Keepes something of his glory in his dust.

CASTARA.

--

THE THIRD PART.

A HOLY MAN

:

Is onely happie. For infelicity and sinne were borne twinnes; or rather like some prodigie with two bodies, both draw and expire the same breath. Catholique faith is the foundation on which he erects religion; knowing it a ruinous madnesse to build in the ayre of a private spirit, or on the sands of any new schisme. His impietie is not so bold to bring divinity downe to the mistake of reason, or to deny those misteries his apprehension reacheth not, His obedience moves still by direction of the magistrate and should conscience informe him that the command is unjust; he judgeth it neverthelesse high treason by rebellion to make good his tenets; as it were the basest cowardize, by dissimulation of religion, to preserve temporall respects. He knowes humane pollicie but a crooked rule of action: and therefore by a distrust of his own knowledge attaines it confounding with supernaturall illumination, the opinionated judgment of the wise. In prosperity he gratefully admires the bounty of the Almighty giver, and useth, not abuseth plenty but in adversity he remains unshaken, and like some eminent mountaine hath his head above the clouds. For his happinesse is