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If hence thy silence be,
As 't is too just a cause;
Let this thought quicken thee,
Minds that are great and free,
Should not on fortune pause,
Tis crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause.
What though the greedie frie
Be taken with false baytes
Of worded balladrie,
They die with their conceits,
And only pitious scorne upon their folly waites. Wherein you triumph yet: because
Then take in hand thy lyre,
Strike in thy proper straine,
With Japhet's lyne, aspire
Sol's chariot for new fire,
To give the world againe:
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's braine.
And since our daintie age
Cannot indure reproofe,
Make not thy selfe a page,
To that strumpet the stage,
But sing high and aloofe,
(hoofe. His altars kept from the decay,
Safe from the wolve's black jaw, and the dull ass's That envie wish'd, and nature fear'd.
MIND OF THE PRONTISPICE TO A BOOKE.
And on them burne so chaste a flame,
With so much loyaltie's expence,
As Love t' aquit such excellence Is gone himselfe into your name. And you are he: the deitie
To whom all lovers are design'd;
That would their better objects find : Among which faithfull troope am l. Who as an off-spring at your shrine,
Have sung this hymne, and here entreat
One sparke of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine.
Which if it kindle not, but scant
Appeare, and that to shortest view,
Yet give me leave t'adore in you What I, in her, am griev'd to want.
From death, and darke oblivion, near the same,
The mistresse of man's life, grave historie,
Doth vindicate it to eternitie.
Might be defrauded, nor the great secur'd,
When vice alike in time with rertue dur'd:
Of truth that searcheth the most secret springs,
Assisted by no strengths, but are her owne,
By wbich, as proper titles, she is knowne,
The light of truth, and life of memorie.
Where do'st thou carelesse lie
Buried in ease'and sloth ?
ODE TO IAMES EARLE OF DESMOND,
[both, WRIT IN QUEENE ELIZABETH'S TIME, SINCE LOST, That eats on wits, and arts, and quite destroyes them
Wuere art thou, Genius? I should use
Thy present aide: arise, Invention,
Wake, and put on the wings of Pindar's Muse,
To towre with my intention Or droop they as disgrac't, [fac't? High, as his mind, that doth advance To see their seats and bowers by chattring pies de- Her upright head, above the reach of chance,
Or the times' envie :
High spirited friend, Thy priest in this strange rapture; heate my braine I send nor balmes, nor cor’sives to your wound, With Delphick fire:
Your fate hath found, That I may sing my thoughts, in some unyulgar | A gentler, and more agile hand, to tend straine.
The cure of that, which is but corporall,
And doubtfull dayes (which were nam'd criticall,) Rich beame of honour, shed your light
Have made their fairest flight, On these darke rymes; that my affection
And now are out of sight.
Wrapt in this paper lie,
You are unkind.
Your covetous hand,
Must now be rayn'd.
True valour doth her owne renowne command clude,
In one full action; nor have you now more (As prov'd in you)
To doe, then be a husband of that store. True noblesse Palme growes straight, though Thinke but how deare you bought, handled ne're so rude
This same which you have caught,
"T is wisdome, and that high, Nor thipke your selfe unfortunate,
For men to use their fortune reverently, If subject to the jealous errours
Even in youth.
Sinke not beneath these terrours :
Hellen, did Homer never see
Thy beauties, yet could write of thee?
Did Sappho, on her seven-tongu'd lute,
So speake (as yet it is not mute)
In whom Anacreon once did joy,
Lie drawne to life, in his soft verse, Let Brontes, and black Steropes,
As he whom Maro did rehearse ? Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating;
Was Lesbia sung by learn'd Catullus? Pyracmon's houre will come to give them ease,
Or Delia's graces by Tibullus? Though but while mettal's heating:
Doth Cynthia, in Propertius' song And, after all the Ætnean ire,
Shine more, then she the stars among?
Is Horace his each love so high
Rap't from the Earth, as not to die?
With bright Lycoris, Gallus' choice,
Whose fame hath an eternall voice.
Or hath Corynna, by the name
Her Ovid gave her, dimn'd the fame
Of Cæsar's daughter, and the line
Which all the world then stylid devine? wit.
Hath Petrarch since his Laura rais'd
Equall with her? or Ronsart prais'd But to your selfe, most loyall lord,
His new Cassandra 'bove the old,
Hath our great Sidney, Stella set,
Where never star shone brighter yet?
Or Constable's ambrosiack Muse (As my hope tells) that our faire Phæbus' shine, Made Dian not his notes refuse? Shall light those places,
Have all these done (and yet I misse
The swan, that so relish'd Pancharis)
Where men may see whom I doe sing, O then (my best-best lov’d) let me importune, Though I, in working of my song, That you will stand,
Come short of all this learned throng, As farre from all revolt, as you are now from for- Yet sure my tunes will be the best, tune.
So much my subject drownes the rest.
Scarce the hill againe doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish,
Phæbus to his crowne againe ; TO THE NOBLE LADY, TAE LADY MARY WORTH.
And the Muses to their braine ;
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumbe, Vulgar languages that want
Words, and sweetnesse, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rime hath so abused,
He that first invented thee,
May his joynts tormented bee, His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
Cramp'd for ever; But then his mother's sweets you so apply,
Still may syllabes jarre with time, Her joyes, her smiles, her loves, as readers take
Still may reason warre with rime,
Was the founder.
Rime the rack of finest wits,
But false weight.
WILLIAM LORD BURLEIGH,
LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND.
Wresting words, from their true calling;
To the ground.
They were bound!
Soone as lazie thou wert knowne,
And was banish'd.
And wit vanish d.
If thou wouldst know the vertues of mankind
Pegasus did fie away,
All light failed!
TO THE SMALL POXE.
So may the king proclaime your conscience is Against a multitude; and (with thy stile (while
Then com’st thou off with victorie and palme,
Thy hearers nectar, and thy clients balme,
Thy sincere practise breeds not thee a fame
Alone, but all thy ranke a reverend name,
Envious and foule disease, could there not be
One beautie in an age, and free from thee? Who thus long safe, would gaine upon the times
What did she worth thy spight? were there not store A right by the prosperitie of their crimes;
Of those that set by their false faces more Who, though their guilt and perjurie they know,
Then this did by her true ? she never sought Thinke, yea and boast, that they have doue it so
Quarrell with Nature, or in ballance brought As, though the court pursues them on the sent,
Art her false servant; nor, for sir Hugh Plot, They will come of, and scape the punishment:
Was drawne to practise other hue, then that When this appeares, just lord, to your sharp sight, Her owne bloud gave her: she ne're had, nor hath Ile does you wrong, that craves you to doe right. Any beliefe, in madam Baud-bee's bath,
Or Turner's oyle of talck. Nor ever got
(grace AN EPIGRAM
That Heaven should make no more; or should amisse,
What beautie would have lovely stilde,
What manners prettie, nature milde, Of hirelings, wranglers, stitchers-to of strife,
What wonder perfect, all were fild Hook-handed barpies, gowned vultures, put
Upon record in this blest child. Upon the reverend pleaders, doe now shut
And, till the comming of the soule
To fetch the flesh, we keepe the roll.
Come, let us here enjoy the shade,
For love in shadow best is made. Thou provist the gentler wayes, to clense the wound, Though envie oft his shadow be, And make the scarre faire; if that will not be,
None brookes the sun-light worse then he.
Yet he himselfe is but a sparke.
A sparke to set whole world a-fire,
And have their being, their waste to see;
And waste still, that they still might be.
TO THE COUNCELLOUR THAT PLEADED AND CARRIED THE
And fills my powers with perswading joy, Such are his powers, whom time hath stil'd,
That you should be too noble to destroy. Now swift, now slow, now tame, now tild;
There may some face or menace of a storme Now hot, now cold, now fierce, now mild ;
Looke forth, but cannot last in such a forme.
If there be nothing wortby you can see
Of graces, or your mercie, here in me,
God, and the good, know to forgive, and save;
I will nor stand to justifie my fault,
By naming in what companie 'twas in,
As I would urge authoritie for sinne. On which with profit I shall never looke,
No, I will stand arraign'd, and cast, to be But must confesse from whom what gift I tooke. The subject of your grace in pardoning me,
And (stil'd your mercie's creature) will live more Not like your countrie-neighbours, that commit Your bonour now, then your disgrace before. Their vice of loving for a Christmasse fit ;
Thinke it was frailtie, mistris, thinke m man, Which is indeed but friendship of the spit :
Thinkethat your selse, like Heaven, forgive me can :
Where weaknesse doth offend, and vertue grieve, But, as a friend, which name your selfe receave, There greatnesse takes a glorie to relieve. And which you (being the worthier) gave me leave Thinke that I once was yours, or may be now, In letters, that mixe spirits, thus to weave.
Nothing is vile, that is a part of you:
Errour and folly in me may have crost Which, how most sacred I will ever keepe, Your just commands; yet those, not I, be lost. So may the fruitfull vine my temples steepe, I am regenerate now, become the child And Fame wake for me, when I yeeld to sleepe. Of your compassion; parents should be mild :
There is no father that for one demerit, Though you sometimes proclaime ine too severe, Or two, or three, a sonne will dis-inherit, Rigid, and harsh, which is a drug austere
That is the last of punishments is meant; In friendship, I confesse: 'but deare friend, heare. No man inflicts that paine, till hope be spent :
An ill-affected limbe (what e're it aile) Little know they, that professe amitie,
We cut not off, till all cures else doe faile: And seeke to scant her comelie libertie,
And then with pause; for sever'd once, that's gone, How much they lame her in her propertie. Would live bis glory, that could keepe it on.
Doe not despaire my mending; to distrust And lesse they know, who being free to use Before you prove a medicine, is unjust : That friendship which no chance but love did chuse, You may so place me, and in such an ayre, Will unto licence that faire leave abuse.
As not alone the cure, but scarre be faire.
That is, if still your favours you apply, It is an act of tyrannie, not love,
And not the bounties you ha' done, deny. In practiz'd friendship wholly to reprove,
Could you demand the gifts you gave, againe ! As flatt'ry, with friends' humours still to move. Why was't? did e're the cloudes aske back their raine?
The Sunne his heat and light? the ayre bis dew? From each of which I labour to be free,
Or winds the spirit, by which the flower so grew ? Yet if with either's vice I teynted be,
That were to wither all, and make a grave Forgive it, as my frailtie, and not me.
Of that wise Nature would a cradle have?
Her order is to cherish, and preserve, For no man lives so out of passion's sway,
Consumption's nature to destroy, and sterve. But shall sometimes be tempted to obey
But to exact againe what once is given,
Is nature's meere obliquitie ! as Heaven
God lightens not at man's each fraile offence,
He pardons, slips, goes by a world of ills,
And then his thunder frights more then it kills. 'Tis true, I'm broke ! vowes, oathes, and all I had He cannot angrie be, but all must quake, Of credit lost. And I am now run madde:
It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake. Or doe upon my selfe some desperate ill;
And how more faire, and lovely lookes the world This sadnesse makes no approaches, but to kill. In a oalme skie; then when the heaven is horld It is a darknesse hath blockt up my sense,
About in cloudes, and wrapt in raging weather, And drives it in to eat on my offence,
As all with storme and tempest ran together.
That makes us live, not that which calls to die. Offended mistris, you are yet so faire,
In darke and sullen mornes, doe we not say, As light breakes from you, that affrights despaire, This looketh like an execution day?