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They, neighbours to your eyes,
Then Revenge, married to Ambition,
Then limits to each field were strain'd,
And Terminus a god-head gain'd,
To meu before was found,
Besides the sea, no bound.
In what plain, or what river, hath not been
This truth too well our England knows : For 'tis not buildings make a court,
'Twas civil slaughter dy'd her rose ; Or pomp, but 'tis the king's resort : If Jupiter down pour
Nay, then her lily too
With blood's loss paler grew.
Such griefs, nay worse than these, we now should le than a golden one it cannot be.
Did not just Charles silence the rage of steel;
He to our land blest Peace doth bring,
All neighbour countries envying.
Happy who did remain
Unborn till Charles's reign!
Where dreaming chymics! is your pain and cost ?
How is your oil, how is your Labour lost! From sighs your breast, and from black clouds
Our Charles, blest alchymist! (though strange, . your brow,
Believe it, future times !) did change
The iron-age of old
Into an age of gold.
UTON THE SHORTNCSS OF MAN'S LIFE.
Mark that swift arrow! how it cuts the air, Return, and tears sport's nearest neigbbours are.
How it out-runs thy following eye! 'Tis by the gods appointed so,
Use all persuasions now, and try
If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.
That way it went ; but thou shalt find
No tract is left behind. And on the Gabii and the Cures lay
Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.
Of all the time thou'st shot away,
I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind ?
Our life is carried with too strong a tide ; To his old country-farm of yesterday,
A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
And is the horse of all our years.
Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.
We and our glass run out, and must
Both render up our dust.
But his past life who without grief can see;
Who never thinks his end too near,
But says to Fame, “ Thou art mine heir;'*
That man extends life's natural brevity-
This is, this is the only way
To out-live Nestor in a day. Cuest be that wretoh (Death's factor sure) who AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO brought
Nichols, my better self! forbear;
For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures
are, Man's life t' epitomize!
The schoolboy's sin will light on me,
I shall, in mind at least, a truant be. Then men (fond men, alas!) ride post to th' grare.
Tell me not how you feed your mind And cut those threads which yet the Fates would
With dainties of philosophy;
In Ovid's nut I shall not find
The taste once pleased me.
O tell me not of logic's diverse cheer!
I shall begin to loathe our crambo herra
Tell me not how the waves appear Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned shire;
I shall contemn the troubled Thames
Just like the bravery of the men,
TENTANDA VIA EST, &c.
WHAT shall I do to be for ever known,
And make the age to come my own?
Whilst others great, by being born, are grown ;
In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie,
Out of myself it must be strook.
Yet I must on. What sound is 't strikes mine ear?
It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can
Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all,
Hence, the desire of honours or estate,
Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days!
Why do I stay then? I would meet
Till then, we'll scorn to let that toy,
"Tis time that I were gone. Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now All I was born to know:
Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do;
He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and wit
Preserves Rome's greatness yet: Thou art the first of orators; only he
Hence 'tis, a Wit, that greatest word of fame,
And Wits by our creation they become,
All, every where, like man's, must be the soul,
Who best can praise thee, next must be.
Such were the numbers which could call
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies;
To be like one of you?
But you have climb'd the mountain's top, there sit Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky, If those be stars which paint the galaxy.
On the calm flourishing head of it,
Some things do through our judgment pass
As through a multiplying-glass;
T's not when two like words make up one noise
Much less can that have any place
What is it then, which, like the power divine, We only can by negatives define?
In a true piece of Wit all things must be,
(If we compare great things with small) Which, without discord, or confusion, lie In that strange mirror of the Deity.
But Love, that moulds one man up out of two,
What thing right Wit and height of genius is,
TO THE LORD FALKLAND,
FOR HIS SAFE RETURN FROM THE NORTHERN EXPEDITION AGAINST THE SCOTS.
GREAT is thy charge, O North! be wise and just,
All things that are but writ or printed there,
Yet neither crowd nor mix confus'dly there;
And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate
ON THE DEATH OF
SIR HENRY WOOTTON.
WHAT Shall we say, since silent now is he
ON THE DEATH OF MR. JORDAN,
SECOND MASTER AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL.
HENCE, and make room for me, all you who come
ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN...DEATH OF VANDYCK.
But we in chief; our country soon was grown
He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes,
Was a thing full of reverence, profit, fame;
And though he taught but boys, he made the men.
How was the silver Tine frighted before,
The sea itself, how rough soe'er,
All their rich blood was spent with gains,
He scorn'd the profit; his instructions all
And say, "Be thou a poet !" men shall see
ON HIS MAJESTY'S RETURN
ELCOME, great Sir! with all the joy that's due
None can grudge Heaven full thanks for it:
And take them for their husbands' knells:
'Twas only Heaven could work this wondrous thing,
At such a game what fool would venture in,
How justly would our neighbours smile
The noise at home was but Fate's policy,
How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do
When Heaven bestows the best of kings,
ON THE DEATH OF
SIR ANTHONY VANDYCK,
THE FAMOUS PAINTER.
VANDYCK is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare
Where he beholds new sights, divinely fair, And could almost wish for his pencil there; Did he not gladly see how all things shine, Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine, Whilst he, for ever ravish'd with the show, Scorns his own art, which we admire below.
Only his beauteous lady still he loves (The love of heavenly objects Heaven improves); He sees bright angels in pure beams appear, And thinks on her he left so like them here. And you, fair widow! who stay here alive, Since he so much rejoices, cease to grieve: Yourjoys and griefs were wont the same to be; Begin not now, blest pair! to disagree. No wonder Death move not his generous mind; You, and a new-born you, he left behind: Ev'n Fate express'd his love to his dear wife, And let him end your picture with his life.
FRIENDSHIP IN ABSENCE. WHEN chance or cruel business parts us two, What do our souls, I wonder, do? Whilst sleep does our dull bodies tie, Methinks at home they should not stay, Content with dreams, but boldly fly Abroad, and meet each other half the way.
Sure they do meet, enjoy each other there,
And mix, I know not how nor where ! Their friendly lights together twine, Though we perceive 't not to be so! Like loving stars, which oft combine, Yet not themselves their own conjunctions know. "Twere an ill world, I'll swear, for every friend, If distance could their union end: But Love itself does far advance Above the power of time and space; It scorns such outward circumstance, His time's for ever, every where his place.
I'm there with thee, yet here with me thou art,
When he his mighty power will try,
Like that which in Heaven's Sun does shine: He in the upper air and sky Does no effects of heat bestow; But, as his beams the farther fly, He begets warmth, life, beauty, here below, Friendship is less apparent when too nigh, Like objects if they touch the eye. Less meritorious then is love;
For when we friends together see
So much, so much both one do prove,
By every wind that comes this way,
As shall themselves make winds to get to you.
I seek with verse my griefs t' appease;
TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN,
UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER.
PARDON, my lord, that I am come so late