You have refin'd me, and to worthiest things,
Virtue, art, beauty, fortune, now I see
Rareness, or use, not nature, value brings;

And such, as they are circumstanc'd, they be.
Two ills can ne'er perplex us, sin t' excuse,
But of two good things we may leave or choose.

Therefore at court, which is not virtue's clime,
Where a transcendent height (as lowness me)
Makes her not see, or not show: all my rhyme
Your virtues challenge, which there rarest be;
For as dark texts need notes; some there must be
To usher virtue, and say, This is she.

So in the country's beauty. To this place
You are the season, madam, you the day,
T is but a grave of spices, till your face

Exhale them, and a thick close bud display. Widow'd and reclus'd else, her sweets sh' enshrines; As China, when the Sun at Brasil dines.

Out from your chariot morning breaks at night,
And falsifies both computations so;
Since a new world doth rise here from your light,
We your new creatures by new reck'nings go.
This shows that you from nature loathly stray,
That suffer not an artificial day.

In this you 've made the court th' antipodes,
And will'd your delegate, the vulgar Sun,
To do profane autumnal offices,

Whilst here to you we sacrifices run;
And whether priests or organs, you w' obey,
We sound your influence, and your dictates say.

Yet to that deity which dwells in you,

Your virtuous soul, I now not sacrifice; These are petitions, and not hymns; they sue But that I may survey the edifice. In all religions, as much care hath been Of temple's frames, and beauty, as rites within.

As all which go to Rome, do not thereby Esteem religions, and hold fast the best; But serve discourse and curiosity

With that, which doth religion but invest, And shun th' entangling labyrinths of schools, And make it wit to think the wiser fools:

So in this pilgrimage I would behold

You as you 're Virtue's temple, not as she; What walls of tender crystal her infold, What eyes, hands, bosom, her pure altars be, And after this survey oppose to all Builders of chapels, you, th' Escurial.

Yet not as consecrate, but merely as fair:
On these I cast a lay and country eye.
Of past and future stories, which are rare,
I find you all record and prophecy.
Purge but the book of Fate, that it admit
No sad nor guilty legends, you are it.

If good and lovely were not one, of both
You were the transcript and original,
The elements, the parent, and the growth;
And every piece of you is worth their all.
So entire are all your deeds and you, that you
Must do the same things still; you cannot two.

But these (as nicest school divinity

Serves heresy to further or repress) Taste of poetic rage, or flattery;

And need not, where all hearts one truth profess; Oft from new proofs and new phrase new doubts grow,

As strange attire aliens the men we know.

Leaving then busy praise, and all appeal

To higher courts, sense's decree is true. The mine, the magazine, the common-weal,

The story of beauty, in Twicknam is and you. Who hath seen one, would both; as who hath been In Paradise, would seek the cherubin.

TO SIR EDWARD HERBERT,

SINCE LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY, BEING AT THE SIEGE OF JULYERS.

MAN is a lump, where all beasts needed be,
Wisdom makes him an ark where all agree;
The fool, in whom these beasts do live at jar,
Is sport to others, and a theatre.
L
Nor scapes he so, but is himself their prey;
All which was man in him, is eat away:
And now his beasts on one another feed,
Yet couple in anger, and new monsters breed:
How happy 's he, which hath due place assign'd
To his beasts; and disaforested his mind!
Empal'd himself to keep them out, not in;
Can sow, and dares trust corn, where they have been;
Can use his horse, goat, wolf, and ev'ry beast,
And is not ass himself to all the rest.
Else man not only is the herd of swine,
But he 's those devils too, which did incline
Them to an headlong rage, and made them worse:
For man can add weight to Heav'n's heaviest curse,
As souls, they say, by our first touch take in
The poisonous tincture of original sin;

So to the punishments which God doth fling,
Our apprehension contributes the sting.
To us, as to his chickens, he doth cast
Hemlock; and we, as men, bis hemlock taste:
We do infuse to what he meant for meat,
Corrosiveness, or intense cold or heat.
For God no such specific poison hath

As kills, men know not how; his fiercest wrath
Hath no antipathy, but may be good
At least for physic, if not for our food.
Thus man, that might be his pleasure, is his rod;
And is his devil, that might be his god.
Since then our business is to rectify
Nature, to what she was; we 're led awry
By them, who man to us in little show;
Greater than due, no form we can bestow
On him; for man into himself can draw
All; all his faith can swallow, or reason chaw;
All that is fill'd, and all that which doth fill,
All the round world, to man is but a pill;
In all it works not, but it is in all
Poisonous, or purgative, or cordial.

For knowledge kindles calentures in some,
And is to others icy opium.

As brave as true is that profession then,
Which you do use to make; that you know man.
This makes it credible, you 've dwelt upon
All worthy books; and now are such an one.
Actions are authors, and of those in you
Your friends find ev'ry day a mart of new.

TO THE COUNTESS OF BEDFORD.

Lightness depresseth us, emptiness fills;
We sweat and faint, yet still go down the hills;
As new philosophy arrests the Sun,
And bids the passive Earth about it run;
So we have dull'd our mind, it hath no ends;
Only the body's busy, and pretends.

As dead low Earth eclipses and controls
The quick high Moon: so doth the body souls.
In none but us are such mix'd engines found,
As hands of double office: for the ground
We till with them; and them to Heaven we raise ;
Who prayer-less labours, or without these prays,
Doth but one half, that's none; he which said,
"Plow,

And look not back," to look up doth allow.
Good seed degenerates, and oft obeys
The soil's disease, and into cockle strays :
Let the mind's thoughts be but transplanted so
Into the body, and bastardly they grow.
What hate could hurt our bodies like our love?
We, but no foreign tyrants, could remove
These, not engrav'd, but inborn dignities,
Caskets of souls; temples and palaces.
For bodies shall from death redeemed be
Souls but preserv'd, born naturally free;
As men to our prisons now, souls to us are sent,
Which learn vice there, and come in innocent.
First seeds of every creature are in us,
Whate'er the world hath bad, or precious,
Man's body can produce: hence hath it been,
That stones, worms, frogs, and snakes, in man are

seen:

But who e'er saw, though Nature can work so, That pearl, or gold, or corn, in man did grow? We've added to the world Virginia, and sent Two new stars lately to the firmament;

Worst of spiritual vices, simony:

And not t' have written then, seems little less

Than worst of civil vices, thanklessness.

In this my debt I seem'd loath to confess, In that I seem'd to shun beholdenness: But 't is not so Nothings, as I am, may Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay. Such borrow in their payments, and owe more, By having leave to write so, than before. Yet since rich mines in barren grounds are shown, May not I yield, not gold, but coal or stone? Temples were not demolish'd, though profane : Here Peter Jove's, there Paul hath Dina's fane. So whether my hymns you admit or choose, In me you 've hollow'd a Pagan Muse, And denizon'd a stranger, who, mistaught By blamers of the times they marr'd, hath sought Virtues in corners, which now bravely do Shine in the world's best part, or all it, you. I have been told, that virtue in courtiers' hearts Suffers an ostracism, and departs. Profit, ease, fitness, plenty, bid it go, But whither, only knowing you, I know; Your, or you virtue, two vast uses serves, It ransoms one sex, and one court preserves; There's nothing but your worth, which being true Is known to any other, not to you: And you can never know it; to admit No knowledge of your worth, is some of it. But since to you your praises discords be, Stoop others' ills to meditate with me. Oh, to confess we know not what we should, Is half excuse, we know not what we would.

T' increase with ours those fair souls' company?
But I must end this letter; though it do
Staud on two truths, neither is true to you.
Virtue hath some perverseness; for she will
Neither believe her good, nor other's ill.
Even in you, virtue's best paradise,
Virtue hath some, but wise degrees of vice.
Too many virtues, or too much of one,.
Begets in you unjust suspicion.

And ignorance of vice makes virtue less,
Quenching compassion of our wretchedness.
But these are riddles: some aspersion
Of vice becomes well some complexion.
Statesmen purge vice with vice, and may corrode
The bad with bad, a spider with a toad.
For so ill thralls not them, but they tame ill,
And make her do much good against her will;
But in your common-wealth, or world in you,
Vice hath no office or good work to do.
Take then no vicious purge, but be content
With cordial virtue, your known nourishment.

Mine are short-liv'd; the tincture of your name
Creates in them, but dissipates as fast
New spirits; for strong agents with the same
Force, that doth warm and cherish us, do waste;
Kept hot with strong extracts no bodies last.

So my verse, built of your just praise, might want
Reason and likelihood, the firmest base;
And made of miracle, now faith is scant,
Will vanish soon, and so possess no place;
And you and it too much grace might disgrace.
When all (as truth commands assent) confess

All truth of you, yet they will doubt how I
(One corn of one low ant-hill's dust, and less)
Should name, know, or express a thing so high,
And (not an inch) measure infinity.

I cannot tell them, nor myself, nor you,
But leave, lest truth b' endanger'd by my praise,
And turn to God, who knows I think this true,
And useth oft, when such a heart mis-says,
To make it good; for such a praiser prays.

He will best teach you, how you should lay out
His stock of beauty, learning, favour, blood;
He will perplex security with doubt, [you good,
And clear those doubts; hide from you, and show
And so increase your appetite and food.

He will teach you, that good and bad have not
One latitude in cloisters and in court;
Indifferent there the greatest space hath got,
Some pity's not good there, some vain disport,
On this side sin, with that place may comport.

Yet he, as he bounds seas, will fix your hours,
Which pleasure and delight may not ingress;
And though what none else lost, be truliest yours,
He will make you, what you did not, possess,
By using others' (not vice, but) weakness.
He will make you speak truths, and credibly,
And make you doubt that others do not so:
He will provide you keys and locks, to spy,
And 'scape spies, to good ends, and he will show
What you will not acknowledge, what not know.

For your own conscience he gives innocence,
But for your fame a discreet wariness,
And (though to 'scape than to revenge offence
Be better) he shows both, and to repress
Joy, when your state swells; sadness, when 't is less.

From need of tears he will defend your soul,
Or make a rebaptizing of one tear;
He cannot (that 's, he will not) disenroll

Your name; and when with active joy we hear
This private gospel, then 't is our new year.

Who vagrant transitory comets sees,
Wonders, because they're rare; but a new star,
Whose motion with the firmament agrees,
Is miracle; for there no new things are.

In women so perchance mild innocence
A seldom comet is, but active good
A miracle, which reason 'scapes and sense
For art and nature this in them withstood.

As such a star the Magi led to view

The manger-cradled infant, God below: By virtue's beams (by fame deriv'd from you) May apt souls, and the worst may virtue know.

If the world's age and death be argued well

By the Sun's fall, which now towards Earth doth bend;

Then we might fear that Virtue, since she fell
So low as woman, should be near her end.

But she's not stoop'd, but rais'd; exil'd by men She fled to Heav'n, that's heav'nly things, that's She was in all men thinly scatter'd then. [you;

But now a mass contracted in a few.

She gilded us, but you are gold; and she Informed us, but transubstantiates you: Soft dispositions, which ductile be,

Elixir-like, she makes not clean, but new.

Though you a wife's and mother's name retain,
'T is not as woman, for all are not so;
But Virtue, having made you virtue, 's fain

T' adhere in these names, her and you to show.
Else, being alike pure, we should neither see,
As water being into air rarefi'd,
Neither appear, till in one cloud they be ;
So for our sakes you do low names abide;

Taught by great constellations, (which, being fram'd
Of the most stars, take low names Crab and Bull,
When single planets by the gods are nam'd)
You covet not great names, of great things full.
So you, as woman, one doth comprehend,

And in the vale of kindred others see;
To some you are reveal'd, as in a friend,

And as a virtuous prince far off, to me. To whom, because from you all virtues flow, And 't is not none to dare contemplate you, I, which do so, as your true subject owe Some tribute for that; so these lines are due. If you can think these flatteries, they are, For then your judgment is below my praise. If they were so, oft flatteries work as far As counsels, and as far th' endeavour raise.

So my ill reaching you might there grow good,
But I remain a poison'd fountain still;
And not your beauty, virtue, knowledge, blood,
Are more above all flattery than my will.

And if I flatter any, 't is not you,

But my own judgment, who did long ago Pronounce, that all these praises should be true, And virtue should your beauty' and birth outgrow.

Now that my prophecies are all fulfill'd,

Rather than God should not be honour'd too, And all these gifts confess'd, which he instill'd, Yourself were bound to say that which I do.

So I but your recorder am in this,

Or mouth, and speaker of the universe, A ministerial notary; for 't is

Not I, but you and fame, that make this verse.

I was your prophet in your younger days, And now your chaplain, God in you to praise.

TO MR. J. W.

ALL hail, sweet poet! and full of more strong fire,
Than hath or shall enkindle my dull spirit,
I lov'd what Nature gave thee, but thy merit
Of wit and art I love not, but admire;
Who have before or shall write after thee,
Their works, though toughly laboured, will be
Like infancy or age to man's firm stay,
Or early and late twilights to mid-day.
Men say, and truly, that they better be,
Which be envy'd than pity'd therefore I,
Because I wish the best, do thee envy:
O would'st thou by like reason pity me,
But care not for me, I, that ever was
In Nature's and in Fortune's gifts, alas!
(But for thy grace got in the Muse's school)
A monster and a beggar, am a fool.

Oh, how I grieve, that late-born modesty

Hath got such root in easy waxen hearts, [parts That men may not themselves their own good Extol, without suspect of surquedry; For, but thyself, no subject can be found Worthy thy quill, nor any quill resound

Thy worth but thine: how good it were to see
A poem in thy praise, and writ by thee!

Now if this song be too harsh for rhyme, yet as
The painter's bad god made a good devil,
'T will be good prose, although the verse be evil.
If thou forget the rhyme, as thou dost pass,
Then write, that I may follow, and so be
Thy echo, thy debtor, thy foil, thy zanee.

I shall be thought (if mine like thine I shape)
All the world's lion, though I be thy ape.

TO MR. T. W.

HASTE thee, harsh verse, as fast as thy lame measure
Will give thee leave, to him; my pain and pleasure
I've given thee, and yet thou art too weak,
Feet and a reasoning soul, and tongue to speak.

Tell him, all questions, which men have defended
Both of the place and pains of Hell, are ended;
And 't is decreed, our Hell is but privation
Of him, at least in this Earth's habitation :
And 't is where I am, where in every street
Infections follow, overtake, and meet.
Live I or die, by you my love is sent,
You are my pawns, or else my testament.

TO MR. T. W.

PREGNANT again with th' old twins, Hope and Fear, Oft have I ask'd for thee, both how and where Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were:

As in our streets sly beggars narrowly Watch motions of the giver's hand or eye, And evermore conceive some hope thereby.

And now thy alms is giv'n, the letter's read,
The body risen again, the which was dead,
And thy poor starveling bountifully fed.

After this banquet my soul doth say grace,
And praise thee for 't, and zealously embrace
Thy love; though I think thy love in this case
To be as gluttons', which say midst their meat,
They love that best, of which they most do eat.

INCERTO.

AT once from hence my lines and I depart, I to my soft still walks, they to my heart; I to the nurse, they to the child of art.

Yet as a firm house, though the carpenter Perish, doth stand: as an ambassador Lies safe, howe'er his king be in danger :

So, though I languish, press'd with melancholy,
My verse, the strict map of my misery,
Shall live to see that, for whose want I die.

Therefore I envy them, and do repent,
That from unhappy me things happy are sent;
Yet as a picture, or bare sacrament,
Accept these lines, and if in them there be
Merit of love, bestow that love on me.

TO MR. C. B,

THY friend, whom thy deserts to thee enchain,
Urg'd by this inexcusable occasion,
Thee and the saint of his affection
Leaving behind, doth of both wants complain;
And let the love, I bear to both, sustain

No blot nor maim by this division;
Strong is this love, which ties our hearts in one,
And strong that love pursu'd with amorous pain:
But though besides myself I leave behind

Heaven's liberal and the thrice fair Sun, Going to where starv'd Winter aye doth won; Yet love's hot fires, which martyr my, sad mind, Do send forth scalding sighs, which have the art To melt all ice, but that which walls her heart.

TO MR. S. B.

O THOU, which to search out the secret parts Of th' India, or rather Paradise

Of knowledge, hast with courage and advice
Lately lanch'd into the vast sea of arts,
Disdain not in thy constant travelling

To do as other voyagers, and make
Some turns into less creeks, and wisely take
Fresh water at the Heliconian spring.
I sing not siren-like to tempt; for I

Am harsh; nor as those schismatics with you, Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew; But seeing in you bright sparks of poetry,

I, though I brought no fuel, had desire
With these articulate blasts to blow the fire.

TO MR. B. B.

Is not thy sacred hunger of science

Yet satisfy'd? is not thy brain's rich hive Fulfill'd with honey, which thou dost derive From the arts' spirits and their quintessence? Then wean thyself at last, and thee withdraw From Cambridge, thy old nurse; and, as the rest, Here toughly chew and sturdily digest Th' immense vast volumes of our common law; And begin soon, lest my grief grieve thee too,

Which is that that, which I should have begun In my youth's morning, now late must be done: And I as giddy travellers must do,

Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost Light and strength, dark and tir'd must then

ride post.

If thou unto thy Muse be married,
Embrace her ever, ever multiply;
Be far from me that strange adultery
To tempt thee, and procure her widowhood;
My nurse, (for I had one) because I'm cold,
Divorc'd herself; the cause being in me,
That I can take no new in bigamy;
Not my will only, but pow'r doth withhold;
Hence comes it that these rhymes, which never had
Mother, want matter; and they only have
A little form, the which their father gave:
They are profane, imperfect, oh! too bad
To be counted children of poetry,
Except confirm'd and bishopped by thee.

TO MR. R. W.

Jr, as mine is, thy life a slumber be,
Seem, when thou read'st these lines, to dream of me;
Never did Morpheus, nor his brother, wear
Shapes so like those shapes, whom they would ap-
pear;

As this my letter is like me, for it

That I rejoice, that unto where thou art,
Though I stay here, I can thus send my heart;
As kindly as any enamour'd patient

His picture to his absent love hath sent.
All news I think sooner reach thee than me;
Havens are Heav'ns, and ships wing'd angels be,
The which both gospel and stern threatnings bring;
Guiana's harvest is nipt in the spring,

I fear; and with us (methinks) Fate deals so,
As with the Jew's guide God did; he did show
Him the rich land, but barr'd his entry in:
Our slowness is our punishment and sin.
Perchance, these Spanish businesses being done,
Which as the Earth between the Moon and Sun

Eclipse the light, which Guiana would give,
Our discontinued hopes we shall retrieve:
But if (as all th' all must) hopes smoke away,
Is not almighty Virtue an India?

If men be worlds, there is in every one
Something to answer in some proportion
All the world's riches: and in good men this
Virtue our form's form, and our soul's soul is.

TO MR. J. L.

Or that short roll of friends writ in my heart,
Which with thy name begins, since their depart
Whether in th' English provinces they be,
Or drink of Po, Sequan, or Danuby,
There's none, that sometimes greets us not; and yet
Your Trent is Lethe', that past, us you forget.
You do not duties of societies,

If from th' embrace of a lov'd wife you rise,
View your fat beasts, stretch'd barns, and labour'd
fields,

Eat, play, ride, take all joys, which all day yields,
And then again to your embracements go;
Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow
Upon your Muse; else both we shall repent,
I, that my love, she, that her gifts on you are spent.

TO MR. J. P.

BLESS'D are your north parts, for all this long time My Sun is with you, cold and dark's our clime. Heaven's Sun, which stay'd so long from us this

year,

Stay'd in your north (I think) for she was there,
And hither by kind Nature drawn from thence,
Here rages, chafes, and threatens pestilence;
Yet I, as long as she from hence doth stay,
Think this no south, no summer, nor no day.
With thee my kind and unkind heart is run,
There sacrifice it to that beauteous Sun:
So may thy pastures with their flowery feasts,
As suddenly as lard, fat thy lean beasts;
So may thy woods oft poll'd yet ever wear
A green, and (when she list) a golden hair;
So may all thy sheep bring forth twins; and so

So may thy love and courage ne'er be cold;
Thy son ne'er ward; thy lov'd wife ne'er seem old;
But may'st thou wish great things, and them at-
tain,

As thou tell'st her, and none but her, my pain.