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Beasts and base straw: already is the stream
Quite turn'd: th' ingrateful rebels this their young
Master (with voice free as the trump of Fame)
Their new king, and thy successor proclaim.

"What busy motions, what wild engines stand
On tiptoe in their giddy brains? th' have fire
Already in their bosoms; and their hand
Already reaches at a sword: they hire
Poisons to speed thee; yet through all the land
What one comes to reveal what they conspire ?
Go now, make much of these: wage still their
[scars.
And bring home on thy breast more thankless

wars,

"Why did I spend my life, and spill my blood, That thy firm hand for ever might sustain A well-pois'd sceptre ? does it now seem good Thy brother's blood be spilt, life spent in vain? 'Gainst thy own sons and brothers thou hast stood In arms, when lesser cause was to complain :

And now cross Fates a watch about thee keep, Can'st thou be careless now, now can'st thou sleep?

"Where art thou man? what cowardly mistake
Of thy great self, hath stol'n king Herod from
thee?

O call thy self home to thy self, wake, wake,
And fence the hanging sword Heav'n throws upon

thee:

Redeem a worthy wrath, rouse thee, and shake
Thy self into a shape that may become thee.

Be Herod, and thou shalt not miss from me
Immortal stings to thy great thoughts, and thee."

So said, her richest snake, which to her wrist
For a beseeming bracelet she had ty'd
(A special worm it was as ever kiss'd
The foamy lips of Cerberus) she apply'd

To the king's heart; the snake no sooner hiss'd,
But Vertue heard it, and away she hy'd,

Dire flames diffuse themselves through every vein,

This done, home to her Hell she hy'd amain.

He wakes, and with him (ne'er to sleep) new fears
His sweat-bedewed bed had now betray'd him,
To a vast field of thorns, ten thousand spears
All pointed in his heart seem'd to invade him :
So mighty were th' amazing characters

With which his feeling dream had thus dismay'd him,

He his own fancy-framed foes defies:

In rage, "My arms, give me my arms," he cries.

As when a pile of food-preparing fire
The breath of artificial lungs embraves,
The caldron-poison'd waters straight conspire,
And beat the hot brass with rebellious waves?
He murmurs and rebukes their bold desire;
Th' impatient liquor, frets, and foams, and raves;
Till his o'erflowing pride suppress the flame,
Whence all his high spirits, and hot courage

came.

So boils the fired Herod's blood-swoln brest,
Not to be slack'd but by a sea of blood.
His faithless crown he feels loose on his crest,
Which on false tyrant's head ne'er firmly stood.

The worm of jealous envy and unrest,

To which his gnaw'd heart is the growing food,
Makes him impatient of the ling'ring light,
Hate the sweet peace of all-composing night.

A thousand prophecies that talk strange things, Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast; And now of late came tributary kings,

Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' East More deep suspicions, and more deadly stings, With which his fev'rous cares their cold increas'd: And now his dream (Hell's firebrand) still more

bright,

[sight. Show'd him his fears, and kill'd him with the

No sooner therefore shall the morning see
(Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of day)
But all his counsellors must summon'd be,
To meet their troubled lord: without delay
Heralds and messengers immediately
Are sent about, who posting every way

To th' heads and officers of every band;
Declare who sends, and what is his command.

Why art thou troubled Herod? what vain fear
Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move?
Heav'ns King, who doffs himself weak flesh to
wear,

Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love:
Nor would he this thy fear'd crown from thee tear,
But give thee a better with himself above.
Poor jealousie! why should he wish to prey
Upon thy crown, who gives his own away.

Make to thy reason man; and mock thy doubts,
Look how below thy fears their causes are;
Thou art a soldier Herod; send thy scouts;
See how he's furnish'd for so fear'd a war,
What armour does he wear? a few thin clouts.
His trumpets? tender cries. His men to dare
So much? rude shepherds.

alas

What his steeds?

Poor beasts! a slow ox, and simple ass.

SELECT POEMS

OF

CHARLES COTTON.

WITH

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,

FROM CAMPBELL,

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