THE RIGHT WORTHY AND JUDICIOUS FAVOURER OF VIRTUE, MR. FULKE GREVILL.

I Do not here upon this hum'rous stage
Bring my transformed verse apparelled
With others' passions, or with others' rage;
With loves, with wounds, with factions furnished:
But here present thee, only modelled

In this poor frame, the form of mine own heart:
Where, to revive myself, my Muse is led
With motions of her own, t' act her own part,
Striving to make her own contemned art
As fair t' herself as possibly she can ;
Lest seeming of no force, of no desert,
She might repent the course that she began;
And, with these times of dissolution, fall
From goodness, virtue, glory, fame and all.

MUSOPHILUS.

PHILOCOSMUS.

FOND man, Musophilus, that thus dost spend
In an ungainful art thy dearest days,
Tiring thy wits, and toiling to no end,
But to attain that idle smoke of praise!
Now when this busy world cannot attend
Th' untimely music of neglected lays ;
Other delights than these, other desires,
This wiser profit-seeking age requires.

PHILOCOSMUS.

Silly desires of self-abusing man,
Striving to gain th' inheritance of air,
That having done the uttermost he can,
Leaves yet perhaps but beggary t' his heir:
All that great purchase of the breath he wan,
Feeds not his race, or makes his house more fair.

And what art thou the better, thus to leave
A multitude of words to small effect;
Which other times may scorn, and so deceive
Thy promis'd name of what thou dost expect?
Besides some vip'rous critic may bereave
Th' opinion of thy worth for some defect;

And get more reputation of his wit,
By but controlling of some word or sense,
Than thou shalt honour for contriving it
With all thy travail, care, and diligence;
B'ing learning now enough to contradict,
And censure others with bold insolence.

Besides, so many so confus'dly sing,
Whose diverse discords have the music marr'd,
And in contempt that mystery doth bring,
That he must sing aloud that will be heard.
And the receiv'd opinion of the thing,
For some unhallow'd string that vilely jarr'd,

Hath so unseason'd now the ears of men, That who doth touch the tendur of that vein, Is held but vain; and his unreckon❜d pen The title but of levity doth gain.

A poor light gain, to recompense their toil, That thought to get eternity the while!

And therefore leave the left and out-worn course
Of unregarded ways, and labour how
To fit the times with what is most in force;
Be new with men's affections that are new:
Strive not to run an idle counter-course,
Out from the scent of humours men allow.

For not discreetly to compose our parts
Unto the frame of men (which we must be)
Is to put off ourselves, and make our arts
Rebels to nature and society,
Whereby we come to bury our deserts
In th' obscure grave of singularity.

MUSOPHILUS.

Do not profane the work of doing well,
Seduced man, that can'st not look so high
From out that mist of Earth, as thou can'st tell
The ways of right which virtue doth descry;
That overlooks the base contemptibly,
And low-laid follies of mortality.

Nor mete out truth and right-deserving praise
By that wrong measure of confusion,
The vulgar foot; that never takes his ways
By reason, but by imitation;

Rolling on with the rest, and never weighs

The course which he should go, but what is gone.

Well were it with mankind, if what the most
Did like were best: but ignorance will live
By others' square, as by example lost.
And man to man must th' hand of errour give,
That none can fall alone at their own cost;
And all because men judge not, but believe.

For what poor bounds have they, whom but th'
Earth bounds?

What is their end whereto their care attains;
When the thing got relieves not, but confounds;
Having but travail to succeed their pains?
What joy hath he of living, that propounds
Affliction but his end, and grief his gains?
Gath'ring, encroaching, wresting, joining to,
Destroying, building, decking, furnishing,
Repairing, alt'ring, and so much ado,
To his soul's toil, and body's travailing:
And all this doth he, little knowing who
Fortune ordains to have th' inheriting.

And his fair house rais'd high in Envy's eye,
Whose pillars rear'd (perhaps) on blood and wrong,
The spoils and pillage of iniquity,
Who can assure it to continue long?
If rage spar'd not the walls of piety,
Shall the profanest piles of sin keep strong?

How many proud aspiring palaces
Have we known made the prey of wrath and pride;
Levell'd with th' earth, left to forgetfulness;
Whilst titlers their pretended rights decide,
Or civil tumults, or an orderless
Order; pretending change of some strong side?

Then where is that proud title of thy name,
Written in ice of melting vanity?
Where is thine heir left to possess the same ?
Perhaps not so well as in beggary.
Something may rise, to be beyond the shame
Of vile and unregarded poverty.

Which I confess; although I often strive
To clothe in the best habit of my skill,
In all the fairest colours I can give.
Yet for all that methinks she looks but ill;
I cannot brook that face, which (dead-alive)

Shows a quick body, but a bury (dead-alive)

Yet oft we see the bars of this restraint
Holds goodness in, which loose wealth would let fly;
And fruitless riches, barrener than want,
Brings forth small worth from idle liberty:
Which when disorders shall again make scant,
It must refetch her state from poverty.

And could our lines, begotten in this age,
Obtain but such a blessed hand of years,
And 'scape the fury of that threatning rage,
Which in confused clouds ghastly appears;
Who would not strain his travels to engage,
When such true glory should succeed his cares?

But whereas he came planted in the spring,
And had the sun before him of respect;
We, set in th' autumn, in the withering
And sullen season of a cold defect,.

Must taste those sowre distastes the times do bring
Upon the fulness of a cloy'd neglect;

Although the stronger constitutions shall
Wear out th' infection of distemper'd days,
And come with glory to out-live this fall,
Recov'ring of another spring of praise;
Clear'd from th' oppressing humours wherewithal
The idle multitude surcharge their lays.

LIT.

When as (perhaps) the words thou scornest now
May live, the speaking picture of the mind;
The extract of the soul, that labour'd how
To leave the image of her self behind;
Wherein posterity, that love to know,
The just proportion of our spir'ts may find.

For these lines are the veins, the arteries,
And undecaying life-strings of those hearts,
That still shall pant, and still shall exercise
The motion, spir't, and nature both imparts,
And shall with those alive so sympathize,
As nourish'd with their pow'rs, enjoy their parts.

O blessed letters! that combine in one
All ages past, and make one live, with all.
By you we do confer with who are gone,
And the dead-living unto council call:
By you th' unborn shall have communion
Of what we feel, and what doth us befall.

Soul of the world, Knowledge, without thee,
What hath the Earth that truly glorious is?
Why should our pride make such a stir to be,
To be forgot? What good is like to this,
To do worthy the writing, and to write
Worthy the reading, and the world's delight?

And let th' unnatural and wayward race,
Born of one womb with us, but to our shame;
(That never read t' observe, but to disgrace)
Raise all the tempest of their pow'r, to blame;
That puff of folly never can deface

The work a happy genius took to frame.

Yet why should civil learning seek to wound,
And mangle her own members with despite ?
Prodigious wits! that study to confound
The life of wit, to seem to know aright;
As if themselves had fortunately found
Some stand from off the Earth beyond our sight;
Whence overlooking all as from above,
Their grace is not to work, but to reprove.

Eut how came they plac'd in so high degree,
Above the reach and compass of the rest?
Who hath admitted them only to be
Free denizens of skill, to judge the best?
From whom the world as yet could never see
The warrant of their wit soundly express'd.

T'acquaint our times with that perfection
Of high conceit, which only they possess;
That we might have things exquisitely done,
Measur'd with all their strict observances:
Such would (I know) scorn a translation,
Or bring but others' labours to the press;
Yet off these monster-breeding mountains will
Bring forth small mice of great-expected skill.

Presumption, ever fullest of defects,
Fails in the doing to perform her part;
And I have known proud words, and poor effects,
Of such indeed as do condemn this art:
But let them rest; it ever hath been kuown,
They others' virtues scorn, that doubt their own.
LIKE POPE

And for the divers disagreeing cords
Of inter-jangling ignorance, that fill
The dainty ears, and leave no room for words,
The worthier minds neglect, or pardon will:
Knowing the best he hath, he frankly 'fords,
And scorns to be a niggard of his skill.

And that the rather since this short-liv'd race
B'ing fatally the sons but of one day,
That now with all their pow'r ply 't apace,
To hold out with the greatest might they may,
Against confusion that hath all in chase,
To make of all an universal prey.

For now great Nature hath laid down at last
That mighty birth wherewith so long she went,
And over-went the times of ages past,
Here to lie in upon our soft content;
Where fruitful she hath multiply'd so fast,
That all she hath on these times seem'd t' have spent.

All that which might have many ages grac'd,
Is born in one, to make one cloy'd with all;
Where plenty hath impress'd a deep distaste
Of best and worst, and all in general;
That goodness seems goodness to have defac'd,
And virtue hath to virtue giv'n the fall.

For emulation, that proud curse of wit,
Scorning to stay below, or come behind,
Labours upon that narrow top to st
Of sole perfection in the highest kind.
Envy and wonder looking after it,
Thrust likewise on the self-same bliss to find:

And so long striving till they can no more,
Do stuff the place, or others' hopes shut out;
Who doubting to o'ertake those gone before,
Give up their care, and cast no more about;
And so in scorn leave all as fore-possess❜d,
And will be none, where they may not be best.

Ev'n like some empty creek, that long hath lain
Left or neglected of the river by,

Whose searching sides pleas'd with a wand'ring vein,
Finding some little way that close did lie,
Steal in at first; then other streams again
Second the first, then more than all supply;

Till all the mighty main hath borne at last
The glory of his chiefest pow'r that way,
Plying this new-found pleasant room so fast,
Till all be full, and all be at a stay;
And then about, and back again doth cast,
Leaving that full to fall another way:

So fares this hum'rous world, that evermore
Rapt with the current of a present course,
Runs into that which lay contemn'd before;
Then glutted, leaves the same, and falls t' a worse.
Now zeal holds all, no life but to adore;
Then cold in spir't, and faith is of no force.

Straight all that holy was unhallow'd lies,
The scatter'd carcasses of ruin'd vows;
Then truth is false, and now hath blindness eyes;.
Then zeal trusts all, now scarcely what it knows:
That evermore to foolish or to wise,

It fatal is to be seduc'd with shows.

Sacred Religion! mother of form and fear!
How gorgeously sometimes dost thou sit deck'd!
What pompons vestures do we make thee wear,
What stately piles we prodigal erect!
How sweet perfum'd thou art; how shining clear!
How solemnly observ'd; with what respect!

Another time all plain, all quite thread-bare;
Thou must have all within, and nought without;
Sit poorly without light, disrob'd: no care
Of outward grace, t' amuse the poor devout;
Pow'rless, unfollow'd: scarcely men can spare
The necessary rites to set thee out.

Either truth, goodness, virtue are not still
The self-same which they are, and always one,
But alter to the project of our will;
Or we our actions make them wait upon,
Putting them in the liv'ry of our skill,
And cast them off again when we have done.

You, mighty lords, that with respected grace
Do at the stern of fair example stand,
And all the body of this populace
Guide with the turning of your hand;
Keep a right course; bear up from all disgrace;
Observe the point of glory to our land:

Hold up disgraced Knowledge from the ground;
Keep Virtue in request; give Worth her due:
Let not Neglect with barb'rous means confound
So fair a good, to bring in night a-new:
Be not, O be not accessary found

Unto her death, that must give life to you.

Yet wrong they did us, to presume so far
Upon our easy credit and delight;

For once found false, they straight became to mar
Our faith, and their own reputation quite;
That now her truths hardly believed are; [right.
And though sh' avouch the right, she scarce hath

And as for thee, thou huge and mighty frame,
That stands corrupted so with Time's despite,
And giv'st false evidence against their fame
That set thee there to testify their right;
And art become a traitor to their name,
That trusted thee with all the best they might;

No, no; unsparing Time will proudly send
A warrant unto Wrath, that with one frown
Will all these mock'ries of vain-glory rend,
And make them (as before) ungrac'd, unknown;
Poor idle honours, that can ill defend
Your memories, that cannot keep their own,

And whereto serve that wondrous trophy now
That on the goodly plain near Waiton stands?
That huge dumb heap, that cannot tell us how,
Nor what, nor whence it is; nor with whose hands,
Nor for whose glory-it was set to show,
How much our pride mocks that of other lands,

Whereon when as the gazing passenger
Hath greedy look'd with admiration;

And fain would know his birth, and what he were;
How there erected; and how long agon:
Inquires and asks his fellow-traveller
What he hath heard, and his opinion:

And he knows nothing. Then he turns again,
And looks and sighs; and then admires afresh,
And in himself with sorrow doth complain
The misery of dark forgetfulness :
Angry with time that nothing should remain,
Our greatest wonders' wonder to express.

Then Ignorance, with fabulous discourse,
Robbing fair Art and Cunning of their right,
Tells how those stones were by the Devil's force
From Afric brought to Ireland in a night;
And thence to Britany, by magic course,
From giants' hands redeem'd by Merlin's slight:

And then near Ambri plac'd, in memory
Of all those noble Britons murther'd there,
By Hengist and his Saxon treachery,
Coming to parley in peace at unaware.
With this old legend then Credulity
Holds her content, and closes up her care.

But is Antiquity so great a liar?
Or do her younger sons her age abuse;
See'ng after-comers still so apt t' admire
The grave authority that she doth use,
That rev'rence and respect dares not require
Proof of her deeds, or once her words refuse?

The only gazing-stock of ignorance,
And by thy guile the wise admonished,
Shall never more desire such hopes t' advance,
Nor trust their living glory with the dead
That cannot speak, but leave their fame to chance.
Consid'ring in how small a room do lie,
And yet lie safe, (as fresh as if alive)
All those great worthies of antiquity,
Which long fore-liv'd thee, and shall long survive;
Who stronger tombs found for eternity,
Than could the pow'rs of all the Earth contrive.

Where they remain these trifles to upbraid,
Out of the reach of spoil, and way of rage;
Though Time with all his pow'r of years hath laid
Long batt'ry, back'd with undermining age;
Yet they make head only with their own aid,
And war with his all-conqu'ring forces wage;
Pleading the Heav'ns' prescription to be free,
And t' have a grant t' endure as long as he.

PHILOCOSMUS.

Behold how ev'ry man, drawn with delight
Of what he doth, flatters him in his way;
Striving to make his course seem only right,
Doth his own rest and his own thoughts betray:
Imagination bringing bravely dight
Her pleasing images in best array,

With flatt'ring glasses that must show him fair,
And others foul: his skill and wit the best,
Others seduc'd, deceiv'd and wrong in their:
His knowledge right, all ignorant the rest;
Not see'ng how these minions in the air
Present a face of things falsely express'd,
And that the glimm'ring of these errours shown,
Are but a light to let him see his own.

Alas, poor Fame! in what a narrow room,
As an encaged parrot, art thou pent
Here amongst us; where ev'n as good be dumb
As speak, and to be heard with no attent?
How can you promise of the time to come,
When as the present are so negligent?

For when the greater wits cannot attain

This sweet-enchanting knowledge turns you clean
Out from the fields of natural delight,
And makes you hide, unwilling to be seen
In th' open concourse of a public sight:
This skill wherewith you have so cunning been,
Unsinews all your pow'rs, unmans you quite.

Public soci'ty, and commerce of men,
Require another grace, another port:

This eloquence, these rhymes, these phrases then,
Begot in shades, do serve us in no sort:
The unmaterial swelling of your pen

Touch not the spir't that action doth import.

A manly style fitted to manly ears,

Best 'grees with wit; not that which goes so gay,
And commonly the gaudy liv'ry wears

Of nice corruptions, which the times do sway;
And waits on th' humour of his pulse, that bears
His passions set to such a pleasing key.
Such dainties serve only for stomachs weak;
For men do foulest, when they finest speak.

Yet do I not dislike, that in some wise
Be sung the great heroical deserts
Of brave renowned spir'ts; whose exercise
Of worthy deeds may call up others' hearts,
And serve a model for posterities,

To fashion them fit for like glorious parts;
But so that all our spir'ts may tend hereto,

And yet perceive others to reap that gain
Of far inferior virtues in their sight;
They present, with the sharp of envy, strain
To wound them with reproaches and despite ;
And for these cannot have as well as they,

They scorn their faith should deign to look that way.

Hence discontented sects and schisms arise;
Hence interwounding controversies spring,
That feed the simple, and offend the wise,
Who know the consequence of cavilling
Disgrace, that these to others do devise:
Contempt and scorn on all in th' end doth bring,
Like scolding wives, reck'ning each other's fault,
Make standers-by imagine both are naught.

For when to these rare dainties Time admits
All comers, all complexions, all that will;
Where none should be let in but choicest wits,
Whose mild discretion could comport with skill
For when the place their humour neither fits,
Nor they the place; who can expect but ill?

For b'ing unapt for what they took in hand,
And for ought else whereto they shall b' address'd,
They ev'n become th' encumbrance of the land,
As out of rank, disord'ing all the rest:
This grace of theirs to seem to understand,
Mars all their grace, to do without their rest.

Men find that action is another thing,
Than what they in discoursing papers read:
The world's affairs require in managing
More arts than those wherein you clerks proceed
Whilst tim'rous Knowledge stands considering,
Audacious Ignorance hath done the deed.
For who knows most, the more he knows to doubt;
The least discourse is commonly most stout.

MUSOPHILUS.

Much thou hast said, and willingly I hear,
As one that am not so possess'd with love
Of what I do; but that I rather bear
An ear to learn, than a tongue to disprove:
I know men must, as carry'd in their sphere,
According to their proper motions move.

And that course likes them best, which they are on; Yet truth hath certain bounds, but falsehood none. ว

I do confess our limits are but small,
Compar'd with all the whole vast Earth beside;
All which again rated to that great all,
Is likewise as a point, scarcely descry'd:
So that in these respects we may this call
A point but of a point, where we abide.

But if we shall descend from that high stand
Of overlooking contemplation,
And cast our thoughts but to, and not beyond
This spacious circuit which we tread upon;
We then may estimate our mighty land
A world within a world, standing alone.

Where if our fame confin'd cannot get out,
What shall we imagine it is pen'd,
That hath so great a world to walk about;
Whose bounds with her reports have both one end?
Why shall we not rather esteem her stout,
That further than her own scorn to extend ?

Where b'ing so large a room both to do well,
And eke to hear th' applause of things well done;
That further if men shall our virtues tell,
We have more mouths, but not more merit won;
It doth not greater make that which is laud'ble,
The flame is bigger blown, the fire all one.