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CHORUSES

IN THE TRAGEDY OF CROESUS.

CHORUS FIRST.

WHAT can man's wandring thoughts confine,
Or satisfie his fancies all?

For whil'st he wonders doth designe,
Even great things then doe seeme but small;
What terrour can his sprite appall,
Whilst taking more then it can hold,
He to himselfe contentment doth assigne;
His minde, which monsters breeds,
Imagination feeds,

And with high thoughts quite headlongs rold,
Whil'st seeking here a perfect ease to finde,
Would but melt mountains, and embrace the winde.
What wonder though the soule of man
(A sparke of Heaven that shines below)
Doth labour by all meanes it can,
Like to it selfe, it selfe to show?

The heavenly essence, Heaven would know,
But from this masse, (where bound) till free,
With paine both spend life's little span;
The better part would be above:

And th' earth from th' earth cannot remove;
How can two contraries agree?

"Thus as the best part or the worth doth move, Man of much worth, or of no worth doth prove."

O! from what fountaine doe proceed
These humours of so many kindes?
Each brane doth divers fancies breed,
"As many men, as many mindes:"
And in the world a man scarce findes
Another of his humour right,
Nor are there two so like indeed,
If we remarke their severall graces,
And lineaments of both their faces,
That can abide the proofe of sight.

"If th' outward formes then differ as they doe;
Of force th' affections must be different too."

Ah! passions spoile our better part,
The soule is vext with their dissentions;
We make a God of our owne heart,
And worship all our vaine inventions;
This braine-bred mist of apprehensions
The minde doth with confusion fill;
Whil'st reason in exile doth smart,
And few are free from this infection,
For all are slaves to some affection,
Which doth oppresse the judgement still:
"Those partiall tyrants, not directed right,
Even of the clearest mindes eclipse the light."

A thousand times, O happy he!
Who doth his passions so subdue,
That he may with cleare reason's eye
Their imperfection's fountaines view,

That so he may himselfe renew,
Who to his thoughts prescribing lawes,
Might set his soule from bondage free,
And never from bright reason swerve,
But making passions it to serve,
Would weigh each thing as there were cause:
O greater were that monarch of the minde!
Then if he might command from Thule to Inde.

CHORUS SECOND.

Or all the creatures bred below,
We must call man most miserable;
Who all his time is never able
To purchase any true repose;
His very birth may well disclose
What miseries his blisse ore-throw:
For, first (when born) he cannot know
Who to his state is friend or foe,

Nor how at first he may stand stable,
But even with cryes, and teares, doth show
What dangers do his life enclose;
Whose griefes are sure, whose joyes a fable;
Thus still his dayes in dolour so

He to huge perils must expose;

And with vexation lives, and dyes with woe,
Not knowing whence he came, nor where to go.

Then whilst he holds this lowest place,
O! how uncertaine is his state?
The subject of a constant fate,
To figure forth inconstancy,
Which ever changing as we see,
Is still a stranger unto peace:
For if man prosper but a space,
With each good successe fondly bold,
And puft up in his owne conceit.
He but abuses fortune's grace;
And when that with adversity

His pleasure's treasures end their date,
And with disasters are controll'd,

Straight he begins for griefe to dye:

And still the top of some extreame doth hold, Not suffring summer's heat, nor winter's cold.

His state doth in most danger stand,
Who most abounds in worldly things,
And soares too high with fortune's wings,
Which carry up aspiring mindes,
To be the object of all windes;

The course of such when rightly scan'd,
(Whilst they cannot themselves command)
Transported with an empty name,
Oft unexpected ruine brings;
There were examples in this land,
How worldly blisse the senses blindes,
From which at last oft trouble springs;
He who presumes upon the same,
Hidde poyson in his pleasure findes;

And sayling rashly with the windes of fame,
Doth oft times sinke downe in a sea of shame.

It may be fear'd our king at last,
Whil'st he for nothing is afraid,

Be by prosperity betray'd:

For, growing thus in greatnesse still,

And having worldly things at will,

He thinks though time should all things waste,

Yet his estate shall ever last

The wonder of this peopled round;

And in his own conceit hath said:

No course of Heaven his state can cast,

Nor make his fortune to be ill;

But if the gods a way have lay'd
That he must come to be uncrown'd,
What sudden feares his minde may fill,
And in an instant utterly confound

The state which stands upon so slippery ground?

When such a monarch's minde is bent
To follow most the most unwise,
Who can their folly well disguise
With sugred speeches, poisnous baits,
The secret canker of great states,
From which at first few disassent,
The which at last all do repent,
Then whil'st they must to ruine go;
When kings begin thus to despise
Of honest men the good intent,
Who to assure their soveraignes' seats
Would faine in time some help devise,
And would cut off all cause of woe,
Yet cannot second their conceits:
These dreadfull comets commonly fore-go
A king's destruction, when miscarried so.

CHORUS THIRD.

THOSE Who command above,
High presidents of Heaven,
By whom all things doe move,
As they have order given,
What worldling can arise,
Against them to repine?
Whilst castell'd in the skies,
With providence divine;
They force this peopled round,
Their judgements to confesse,
And in their wrath confound
Proud mortalls who transgresse
The bounds to them assign'd
By Nature in their mind.

Base brood of th' Earth, vaine man,
Why brag'st thou of thy might?
The Heavens thy courses scan,
Thou walk'st still in their sight;
Ere thou wast born, thy deedes
Their registers dilate,

And thinke that none exceedes
The bounds ordain'd by fate;
What Heavens would have thee to,
Though they thy wayes abhorre,
That thou of force must doe,
And thou canst doe no more:
This reason would fulfill,

Their worke should serve their will.

Are we not heires of death,
In whom there is no trust?
Who, toss'd with restlesse breath,
Are but a dramme of dust;
Yet fooles when as we erre,
And Heavens doe wrath contract,
If they a space deferre
Just vengeance to exact,
Pride in our bosome creepes,
And misinformes us thus,
That love in pleasure sleepes,
Or takes no care of us :
"The eye of Heaven beholds,
What every heart enfoldes."

The gods digest no crime,
Though they (delaying long)
In the offender's time,
Secme to neglect a wrong,

Till others of their race
Fill up the cup of wrath,
Whom ruine and disgrace
Long time attended hath;
And Gyges fault we feare,
To Croesus charge be lay'd,
Which love will not forbeare,
Though it be long delay'd:
"For, O! sometimes the gods
Must plague sinne with sharpe rods."

And loe, how Croesus still,
Tormented in his minde,
Like to reeds on a hill,
Doth quake at every winde!
Each step a terrour brings;
Dreames do by night afflict him,
And by day many things;
All his thoughts doe convict him;
He his starre would controule,
This makes ill not the worst,
Whilst he wounds his own soule,
With apprehensions first:
"Man may his fate foresce,

But not shunne Heaven's decree."

CHORUS FOURTH.

LOE all our time even from our birth,
In misery almost exceeds:

For where we finde a moment's mirth,
A month of mourning still succeeds;
Besides the evils that nature breeds,
Whose paines doe us each day appall,
Infirmities which frailty sends,

The losse of that which fortune lends;
And such disasters as oft fall,

Yet to farre worse our states are thrall,
Whil'st wretched man with man contends,
And every one his whole force bends,
How to procure another's losses,
But this torments us most of all:

The minde of man, which many a fancy tosses,
Doth forge unto it selfe a thousand crosses.

O how the soule with all her might
Doth her celestiall forces straine,
That so she may attaine the light
Of Nature's wonders, which remaine
Hid from our eyes! we strive in vaine
To seeke out things that are unsure:
In sciences to seeme profound,
We dive so deepe, we finde uo ground;
And the more knowledge we procure,
The more it doth our mindes allure,
Of mysteries the depth to sound;
Thus our desires we never bound;
Which by degrees thus drawn on still,
The memory may not endure;

But like the tubs which Danaus' daughters fil,
Doth drinke no oftner then constrain'd to spill.

Yet how comes this? and O how can
Cleare'knowledge thus (the soule's chiefe treasure)
Be cause of such a crosse to man,
Which should afford him greatest pleasure?
This is, because we cannot measure

The limits that to it belong,

But (bent to tempt forbidden things)
Doe soare too high with nature's wings,
Still weakest whil'st we thinke us strong;
The Heavens, which hold we do them wrong

To try their grounds, and what thence springs,
This crosse upon us justly brings:
With knowledge, knowledge is confus'd,
And growes a griefe ere it be long;

"That which a blessing is when rightly us'd, Doth grow the greatest crosse when once abus'd.

Ah! what avaiels this unto us,
Who in this vaile of woes abide,
With endlesse toyles to study thus

To learn the thing that Heaven would hide!

And trusting to too blinde a guide,

To spy the planets how they move,

And too (transgressing common barres)
The constellation of the starres,
And all that is decreed above,
Whereof (as oft the end doth prove)
A secret sight our wel-fare marres,

And in our brests breeds endlesse warres,
Whil'st what our horoscopes foretell,
Our expectations doe disprove :

Those apprehended plagues prove such a Hell.
That then we would unknow them till they fell.

This is the pest of great estates,
They by a thousand meanes devise
How to fore-know their doubtful fates;
And like new gyants, scale the skies,
Heavens secret store-house to surprise;
Which sacrilegious skill we see

With what great paine they apprehend it,
And then how foolishly they spend it.
To learne the thing that once must be;
Why should we seeke our destiny?
If it be good, we long attend it;

If it be ill none may amend it:

Such knowledge but torments the minde;
Let us attend the Heavens' decree:

For those whom this ambiguous art doth blinde,
May what they seeke to flye, the rather finde.

And loe of late, what hath our king
By his preposterous travels gain'd,
In searching out each threatned thing,
Which Atis' horoscope contain'd?

For what the Heavens had once ordain'd,
That by no meanes he could prevent;
And yet he labours to finde out
Through all the oracles about,
Of future things the hid event.
This doth his raging minde torment:
(Now in his age unwisely stout)
To fight with Cyrus, but no doubt
The Heavens are griev'd thus to heare told
Long ere the time their darke intent.
Let such of Tantalus the state behold,
Who dare the secrets of great love unfold.

CHORUS FIFTH.

Is'r not a wonder thus to see
How by experience each man reeds
In practis'd volumes penn'd by deeds,
How things below inconstant be;
Yet whil'st our selves continue free,

We ponder oft, but not apply

That pretious oyle, which we might buy,
Best with the price of others' paines,
Which (as what not to us pertaines)
To use we will not condescend,

As if we might the fates defie,

Still whilst untouch'd our state remaines ; But soon the Heavens a change may send: No perfect blisse before the end.

When first we fill with fruitfull seed
The apt conceiving wombe of th' Earth,
And seeme to banish feare of dearth;
With that which it by time may breed,
Still dangers do our hopes exceed :
The frosts may first with cold confound
The tender greenes which decke the ground,
Whose wrath though April's smiles asswage,
It must abide th' Eolian rage,
Which too ore-com'd, whilst we attend
All Ceres' wandring tresses bound,
The reines let from their cloudy cage
May spoile what we expect to spend:
No perfect blisse before the end.

Loe, whil'st the vine-tree great with grapes,
With nectar'd liquor strives to kisse
Embracing elmes not lov'd amisse,
Those clusters lose their comely shapes,
Whilst by the thunder burn'd, in heapes
All Bacchus hopes fall downe and perish:
Thus many thing doe fairly flourish,
Which no perfection can attaine,
And yet we worldlings are so vaine,
That our conceits too high we bend,
If fortune but our spring-time cherish,
Though divers stormes we must sustaine,
To harvest ere our yeares ascend:
No perfect blisse before the end.

By all who in this world have place,
There is a course which must be runne,
And let none thinke that he hath wonne,
Till first he finish'd hath his race;
The forrests through the which we trace,
Breed ravenous beasts, which doe abhorre us,
And lye in wait still to devoure us,
Whil'st brambles doe our steppes beguile,
The feare of which though we exile,
And to our marke with gladnesse tend,
Then balles of gold are laid before us,
To entertaine our thoughts a while,
And our good meaning to suspend :
No perfect blisse before the end.

Behold how Croesus long hath liv'd,
Throughout this spatious world admir'd,
And having all that be desir'd,
A thousand meanes of joy contriv'd;
Yet suddenly is now depriv'd

Of all that wealth; and strangely falles:
For every thing his sprite appalles,
His sonne's decease, his countrye's losse,
And his owne state, which stormes doe tosse:
Thus he who could not apprehend,
Then whil'st he slept in marble walles,

No, nor imagine any crosse,

To beare all those his brest must lend:
No perfect blisse before the end.

And we the Lydians who design'd
To raigne over all who were about us,
Behold how fortune too doth flout us,
And utterly hath us resign'd;
For, to our selves we that assign'd
A monarchie, but knew not how,
Yet thought to make the world to bow,
Which at our forces stood afraid,
We, we by whom these plots were laid,
To thinke of bondage must descend,
And beare the y ke of others now,
O, it is true that Solon said!
While as he yet doth breath extend,
No man is blest; behold the end.

CHORUSES

TO THE TRAGEDY OF DARIUS.

CHORUS FIRST.

O MORE then miserable minde,

Which of all things it selfe worst knowes !
And through presumption made quite blinde,
Is puffed up with every winde,
Which fortune in derision blowes.
The man no stable blisse can finde,
Whose heart is guided by his eye,

And trusts too much betraying showes,
Which make a cunning lye,

Oft short prosperity

Breeds long adversity:

For, who abuse the first, the last ore-throwes.

What thing so good which not some harme may Even to be happy is a dangerous thing.

Who on himselfe too much depends,
And makes an idoll of his wit:
For every favour fortune sends,
Selfe-flatterer still himselfe commends,
And will no sound advice admit,
But at himselfe beginnes and ends,
And never takes a moment's leisure
To try what fault he may commit:

But, drunke with frothes of pleasure,
Thirsts for praise above measure,
Imaginary treasure,

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Which slowly comes, and flyes at every fit; And what is most commended at this time, Succeeding ages may account a crime.

A mighty man who is respected,
And by his subjects thought a god,
Thinkes as his name on high erected,
Hath what he list at home effected,
It may like wonders worke abroad,
O how this folly is detected!
For, though he sit in royall seate,
And as he list his vassals lode,

Yet others who are great,
Live not by his couceit,

Nor weigh what he doth threat,
But plague his pride oft ere he feare the rod;
There are rare qualities requir'd in kings,
"A naked name can never worke great things,"

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But what? the minions of our kings
Who speake at large, and are beleev'd,
Dare brag of many mighty things,
As they could flye, though wanting wings,
And deeds by words might be atchiev'd;
But time at length their lies to light,
Their soveraigne to confusion brings:
Yet so they gaine, they are not griev'd,
But charme their princes' sight,

And make what 's wrong, seeme right,
Thus ruine they his might:

That when he would, he cannot be reliev'd,
"Moe kings in chambers fall by flatteries charms,
Then in the field by th' adversaries armes."

Loe, though the success hath approv'd
What Charidemus had fore-showne,'
Yet with his words no man was mov'd,
"For good men first must be remov❜d,
Before their worth can well be known;"
The king would heare but what he lov'd,
And what him pleas'd not did despise,
So were the better sort orethrowne;

And sycophants unwise,

Who could the truth disguise,

Were suffered high to rise,

That him who rais'd them up, they might cast downe: "Thus princes will not heare, though some deceive

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Of all the passions which possesse the soule,
None so disturbes vaine mortals' mindes,
As vaine ambition which so blindes
The light of them, that nothing can controll,
Nor curb their thoughts who will aspire;
This raging vehement desire

Of soveraignty no satisfaction findes,
But in the breasts of men doth ever roule
The restlesse stone of Sisyph to torment them,
And as his heart who stole the heavenly fire,
The vulture gnaws, so doth that monster rent them,
Had they the world, the world would not content

them.

This race of Ixion to embrace the clouds, Conterne the state wherein they stand, And, save themselves, would all command; "As one desire is quench'd, another buds;"

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And if it fortune that they dye in peace,
(A wonder wondrous rarely seene)
Who conquer first, Heavens finde a meane
To raze their empire, and oft-times their race,
Who comming to the crowne with rest,
And having all in peace possest,

Do straight forget what bloudy broyles have beene,
Ere first their fathers could attaine that place;
"As seas'do flow and ebbe, states rise and fall,
And princes when their actions prosper best,
For feare their greatnesse should oppresse the small,
As of some hated, envied are of all."

We know what end the mighty Cyrus made,
Whom whil'st he striv'd to conquer still,

A woman (justly griev'd) did kill,
And in a bloudy vesseil roll'd his head,
Then said, (whil'st many wondring stood)
"Since thou didst famish for such food,

Now quench thy thirst of bloud with bloud at will;"
Some who succeeded him, since he was dead,
Have raign'da space with pompe, and yet with paine,
Whose glory now can do to us no good;
And what so long they labour'd to obtaine,
All in an instant must be lost againe.

Loe, Darius once so magnified by fame,
By one whom he contemn'd ore-come,
For all his bravery now made dombe,
With down-cast eyes must signifie his shame;
Who puft up with ostentive pride, ·
Thinke Fortune bound to serve their side,
Can never scape, to be the prey of some;

Such spend their prosp'rous dayes, as in a dreame
And as it were in Fortune's bosome sleeping,
Then in a dull security abide,

And of their doubtfull state neglect the keeping,
Whil'st fearfull ruine comes upon them creeping.

Thus the vicissitude of worldly things
Doth oft to us it selfe detect,

When heavenly pow'rs exalt, deject,
Confirme, confound, erect, and ruine kings.
So Alexander, mighty now,

To whom the vanquish'd world doth bow,
With all submission, homage, and respect,
Doth flie a borrow'd flight with Fortune's wings;
Nor enters he his dangerous course to ponder;
Yet if once Fortune bend her cloudy brow,
All those who at his sudden successe wonder,
May gaze as much to see himselfe brought under.

CHORUS THIRD..

TIME, through love's judgement just,
Huge alterations brings:

Those are but fooles who trust
In transitory things,

Whose tailes beare mortall stings,
Which in the end will wound;
And let none thinke it strange,
Though all things earthly change:
In this inferiour round
What is from ruine free?
The elements which be
At variance (as we see)

Each th' other doth confound:
The earth and ayre make warre,
The fire and water are

Still wrestling at debate,

All those through cold and heat,

Through drought and moisture jarre. What wonder though men change and fade, Who of those changing elements are made?

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How dare vaine worldlings vaunt
Of Fortune's goods not lasting,
Evils which our wits enchant?
Expos'd to losse and wasting!
Loe, we to death are hasting,
Whilst we those things discusse:
All things from their beginning,
Still to an end are running,
Heaven hath ordain'd it thus ;
We heare how it doth thunder,
We see th' earth burst asunder,
And yet we never ponder
What this imports to us:
Those fearefull signes doe prove,
That th' angry pow'rs above
Are mov'd to indignation

Against this wretched nation,

Which they no longer love:

What are we but a puffe of breath

Who live assur'd of nothing but of death

Who was so happy yet
As never had some crosse ?
Though on a throne he sit,
And is not us'd with losse,
Yet Fortune once will tosse

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