Which, though I cannot, as an architect
In glorious piles or pyramids erect
Unto your honour; I can tune in song
Aloud, and (happ'ly) it may last as long.

AN EPIGRAM

TO MY MUSE, the lady dIGBY, ON HER HUSBAND, SIR KENELME DIGBY.

THO', happy Muse, thou know my Digby well;
Yet read him in these lines: he doth excell
In honour, courtesie, and all the parts
Court can call hers, or man could call his arts.
He's prudent, valiant, just, and temperate;
In him all vertue is beheld in state:
And he is built like some imperiall roome
For that to dwell in, and be still at home.
His breast is a brave palace, a broad street,
Where all heroique ample thoughts doe meet;
Where nature such a large survey hath ta'en,
As other soules to his dwelt in a lane:
Witnesse his action done at Scanderone :
Upon my birth-day, the eleventh of June;
When the apostle Barnabee the bright
Unto our yeare doth give the longest light,
In signe the subject, and the song will live
Which I have vow'd posteritie to give.

Goe, Muse, in, and salute him. Say he be
Busie, or frowne at first; when he sees thee
He will cleare up his forehead; thinke thou bring'st
Good omen to him, in the note thou sing'st:
For he doth love my verses, and will looke
Upon them, (next to Spenser's noble booke)
And praise them too. O! what a fame 't will be !
What reputation to my lines and me!
When he shall read them at the treasurer's bord!
The knowing Weston, and that learned lord
Allowes them! Then what copies shall be had,
What transcripts begg'd! how cry'd up,and how glad
Wilt thou be, Muse, when this shall them befall
Being sent to one, they will be read of all.

696

New years expect new gifts: sister, your harpe,
Lute, lyre, theorbo, all are call'd to day.
Your change of notes, the flat, the meane, the sharpe,
To show the rites, and t' usher forth the way
Of the new yeare, in a new silken warpe.
To fit the softnesse of our years-gift: when
We sing the best of monarchs, masters, men ;
For, had we here said lesse, we had sung nothing then,

NEW-YEARES-GIFT,

SUNG TO KING CHARLES, 1635.

Rector To day old Janus opens the new yeare, Chori. And shuts the old. Haste, haste, all loyall swaines, [appeare, That know the times, and seasons when t' And offer your just service on these plaines; Best kings expect first-fruits of your glad gaines

TO MY LORD THE KING,

ON THE CHRISTNING HIS SECOND SONNE IAMES.

THAT thou art lov'd of God, this work is done,
Great king, thy having of a second sonne:
And by thy blessing, may thy people see
How much they are belov'd of God, in thee;
Would they would understand it ! princes are
Great aides to empire, as they are great care
To pious parents, who would have their blood
Should take first seisin of the publique good,
As hath thy James, cleans'd from originall drosse,
This day, by baptisme, and his Saviour's crosse.
Grow up, sweet babe, as blessed in thy name,
As in renewing thy good grandsire's fame;
Me thought Great Brittaine in her sea before
Sate safe enough, but now secured more.
At land she triumphs in the triple shade,
Her rose and lilly, intertwind, have made.
Oceano secura meo, securior umbris.

AN ELEGIE

ON THE LADY ANNE PAWLET, MARCHIONESS OF WINTON.

WHAT gentle ghost, besprent with April dew,
Hayles me so solemnly to yonder yewgh?
And beckning wooes me from the fatall tree
To pluck a garland, for her selfe, or me?
I doe obey you, beautie! for in death
You seeme a faire one! O that you had breath,
To give your shade a name! stay, stay, I feele
A horrour in me! all my blood is steele!
Stiffe! starke! my joynts 'gainst one another knock!
Whose daughter? ha! great Savage of the Rock!
He's good, as great. I am almost a stone!
And e're I can ask more of her she's gone!
Alas, I am all marble! write the rest
Thou wouldst have written, Fame, upon my brest:
It is a large faire table, and a true,
And the disposure will be something new,
When I, who would the poet have become,
At least may beare th' inscription to her tombe.
She was the lady Jane, and marchionisse
Of Winchester; the heralds can tell this.
Earle Rivers' grand-child-serve not formes, good,
Fame,

Sound thou her vertues, give her soule a name.
Had I a thousand mouthes, as many tongues,
And voyce to raise them from my brazen lungs,
I durst not aime at that: the dotes were such
Thereof no notion can expresse how much
Their carract was! I, or my trump must breake,
But rather I, should I of that part speake!
It is too neere of kin to Heaven, the soule,
To be describ'd. Fame's fingers are too foule
To touch these mysteries! we may admire
The blaze and splendour, but not handle fire'
What she did here, by great example, well,
T' inlive posteritie, her fame may tell!
And, calling truth to witnesse, make that good
From the inherent graces in her blood!
Else, who doth praise a person by a new,
But a fain'd way, doth rob it of the true.

Her sweetnesse, softnesse, her faire courtesie,
Her wary guardes, her wise simplicitie,
Were like a ring of vertues, 'bout her set,
And pietie the center where all met.

A reverend state she had, an awfull eye,
A dazling, yet inviting, majestie:

What nature, fortune, institution, fact.
Could summe to a perfection, was her act!
How did she leave the world? with what con-
tempt.

Just as she in it liv'd! and so exempt
From all affection! when they urg'd the cure
Of her disease, how did her soule assure
Her suffrings, as the body had beene away!
And to the torturers (her doctors) say,
Stick on your cupping-glasses, feare not, put
Your hottest causticks to, burne, lance, or cut:
'Tis but a body which you can torment,
And I, into the world, all soule was sent !
Then comforted her lord, and blest her sonne,
Chear'd her faire sisters in her race to runne,
With gladnesse temper'd her sad parents' teares,
Made her friends' joyes, to get above their feares,
And, in her last act, taught the standers-by,
With admiration and applause to die!
Let angels sing her glories, who did call
Her spirit home to her originall!
Who saw the way was made it! and were sent
To carry, and conduct the complement
"Twixt death and life! where her mortalitie
Became her birth-day to eternitie!

And now, through circumfused light, she lookes Ou nature's secrets there, as her owne bookes: Speakes Heaven's language! and discourseth free To every order, ev'ry hierarchie!

Beholds her Maker! and in him, doth see
What the beginnings of all beauties be;
And all beatitudes, that thence doe flow:
Which they that have the crowne are sure to

know!

Goe now,
her happy parents, and be sad,
If you not understand what child you had.
If you dare grudge at Heaven and repent
T' have paid againe a blessing was but lent,
And trusted so, as it deposited lay

At pleasure, to be call'd for every day!
If you can envie your owne daughter's blisse,
And wish her state lesse happie then it is!
If you can cast about your either eye,
And see all dead here, or about to dye!
The starres, that are the jewels of the night,
And day, deceasing! with the prince of light,
The Sunne! great kings! and mightiest kingdomes

fall!

Whole nations! nay mankind! the world, with all
That ever had beginning there, to 'ave end!
With what injustice should one soule pretend
T'escape this common knowne necessitie,
When we were all borne, we began to die;
And, but for that contention and brave strife
The Christian hath t' enjoy the future life,
He were the wretched'st of the race of men:
But as he soares at that, he bruiseth then
The serpent's head: gets above death and sinne
And, sure of Heaven, rides triumphing in.

EUPHEME;

OR

THE FAIRE FAME,

LEFT TO POSTERITIE OF THAT TRULY-NOBLE LADY, THE LADY VENETIA DIGBY, LATE WIFE OF SIR KENELME DIGBY, KNIGHT: A GENTLEMAN ABSOLUTE IN ALL NUMBERS.

CONSISTING OF THESE TEN PIECES.

THE DEDICATION OF HER CRADLE.

THE SONG OF HER DESCENT.

THE PICTURE OF HER BODY.
HER MIND.

HER BEING CHOSEN A MUSE.

HER FAIRE OFFICES.

HER HAPPIE MATCH.

HER HOPEFULL ISSUE.

HER ANOMENEIE, OR RELATION TO THE SAINTS.
HER INSCRIPTION, OR CROWNE.

Vivam amare voluptas, defunctum Religio. STAT.

I. THE DEDICATION OF HER CRADLE.

FAIRE Fame, who art ordain'd to crowne
With ever-greene, and great renowne,
Their heads that Envy would hold downe
With her, in shade

Of death and darknesse; and deprive
Their names of being kept alive,

By thee, and Conscience, both who thrive
By the just trade

of goodnesse still: vouchsafe to take
This cradle, and for goodnesse' sake,
A dedicated ensigne make
Thereof to Time.

That all posteritie, as we,
Who read what the Crepundia be,
May something by that twilight see
'Bove rattling rime.

For, though that rattles, timbrels, toyes,
Take little infants with their noyse,
As prop'rest gifts, to girles, and boyes
Of light expense;

Their corrals, whistles, and prime coates, Their painted maskes, their paper boates, With sayles of silke, as the first notes Surprise their sense:

Yet, here are no such trifles brought,
No cobweb calls; no surcoates wrought
With gold, or claspes, which might be bought
On every stall.

But here's a song of her descent;
And call to the high parliament
Of Heaven; where seraphim take tent

Of ord'ring all.

This, utter'd by an ancient bard,
Who claimes (of reverence) to be heard,
As comming with his harpe, prepar'd
To chant her 'gree,

Is sung: as als' her getting up By Jacob's ladder, to the top Of that eternall port kept ope For such as she.

II. THE SONG OF HER DESCENT.

I SING the just, and uncontrol'd descent
Of dame Venetia Digby, styl'd the faire:
For mind, and body, the most excellent

That ever nature, or the later ayre Gave two such houses as Northumberland

And Stanley, to the which she was co-heire. Speake it, you bold Penates, you that stand

At either stemme, and know the veines of good Run from your rootes; tell, testifie the grand

Meeting of graces, that so swell'd the flood Of vertues in her, as, in short, she grew

The wonder of her sexe, and of your blood. And tell thou, Alde-Legh, none can tell more true Thy neece's line,then thou that gav'st thy name Into the kindred, whence thy Adam drew

Meschines' honour with the Cestrian fame Of the first Lupus, to the familie

By Ranulph

[The rest of this song is lost.]

III. THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.

SITTING, and ready to be drawne,
What makes these velvets, silkes, and lawne,
Embroderies, feathers, fringes, lace,
Where every lim takes like a face?

Send these suspected helpes to aide
Some forme defective or decay'd;
This beautie without falshood fayre,
Needs nought to cloath it but the ayre.

Yet something, to the painter's view,
Were fitly interpos'd; so new:
He shall, if he can understand,
Worke with my fancie, his owne hand.

Draw first a cloud: all save her neck;
And, out of that, make day to breake;
Till, like her face, it doe appeare,
And men may thinke all light rose there.

Then let the beames of that disperse The cloud, and show the universe; But at such distance, as the eye May rather yet adore then spy.

The Heaven design'd, draw next a spring, With all that youth or it can bring : Foure rivers branching forth like seas, And paradise confining these.

Last draw the circles of this globe,
And let there be a starry robe
Of constellations 'bout her horld;
And thou hast painted beautie's world.

But painter, see thou doe not sell
A copie of this peece; nor tell
Whose 'tis: but if it favour find,
Next sitting we will draw her mind.

IV. THE MIND.

PAINTER yo' are come, but may be gone,
Now I have better thought thereon,
This work I can performe alone,
And give you reasons more then one.

Not, that your art I doe refuse: But here I may no colours use. Beside, your hand will never hit, To draw a thing that cannot sit.

You could make shift to paint an eye,
An eagle towring in the skye,
The Sunne, a sea, or soundlesse pit;
But these are like a mind, not it.

No, to expresse a mind to sense, Would aske a Heaven's intelligence ; Since nothing can report that flame, But what's of kinne to whence it came.

Sweet mind, then speake your selfe, and say,
As you goe on, by what brave way
Our sense you doe with knowledge fill,
And yet remaine our wonder still.

I call you Muse, now make it true: Henceforth may every line be you; That all may say, that see the frame, This is no picture, but the same.

A mind so pure, so perfect, fine,
As 'tis not radient, but divine:
And so disdaining any tryer;
'Tis got where it can try the fire.

There high exalted in the spheare, As it another nature were,

It moveth all and makes a flight As circular as infinite.

Whose notions when it will expresse In speech, it is with that excesse Of grace and musique to the eare, As what it spoke it planted there.

The voyce so sweet, the words so faire,
As some soft chime had stroak'd the ayre;
And though the sound were parted thence,
Still left au eccho in the sense.

But, that a mind so rapt, so high,
So swift, so pure, should yet apply
It selfe to us, and come so nigh

Earth's grossnesse; there's the how, and why.

BUT, for you (growing gentlemen) the happy branches of two so illustrious houses as these,wherefrom your honour'd mother is in both lines descended; let me leave you this last legacie of counsell; which so soone as you arrive at yeares of mature understanding, open you (sir) that are the eldest, and read it to your brethren, for it will concerne you all alike. Vowed by a faithfull servant, and client of your familie, with his latest breath expiring it.

B. J.

ΤΟ

KENELME, IOHN GEORGE.

Boast not these titles of your ancestors; [yours:
(Brave youths) th' are their possessions, none of
When your owne vertues equall'd have their names,
"Twill be but faire to leane upon their fames;
For they are strong supporters: but, till then,
The greatest are but growing gentlemen.
It is a wretched thing to trust to reedes,
Which all men doe, that urge not their owne deeds
Up to their ancestors; the river's side, [bide:
By which yo' are planted shows your fruit shall

Hang all your roomes with one large pedigree:
'Tis vertue alone, is true nobilitie.
Which vertue from your father ripe will fall;
Study illustrious him, and you have all.

IX. ELEGIE ON MY MUSE,

THE TRULY HONOURED LADY, THE LADY VENETIA DIGBY; WHO LIVING GAVE ME LEAVE TO CALL HER SO.

BEING

HER ANO ENZIE, OR RELATION TO THE SAINTS. Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina dolori.

"TWERE time that I dy'd too, now she is dead,
Who was my Muse, and life of all I sey'd.
The spirit that I wrote with, and conceiv'd,
All that was good, or great in me she weav'd,
And set it forth; the rest were cobwebs fine,
Spun out in name of some of the old nine!
To hang a window or make darke the roome,
Till swept away, th' were cancell'd with a broome!
Nothing, that could remaine, or yet can stirre
A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!

O! bad I seene her laid out a faire corse,
By Death, on earth, I should have had remorse
On Nature, for her: who did let her lie,
And saw that portion of her selfe to die.
Sleepie, or stupid Nature, couldst thou part
With such a raritie, and not rowse Art
With all her aydes, to save her from the seize
Of vulture Death, and those relentlesse cleies?
Thou wouldst have lost the phoenix, had the kind
Beene trusted to thee: not to 't selfe assign'd.
(For so thou art with me) now she is gone.
Looke on thy sloth, and give thy selfe undone,
My wounded mind cannot sustaine this stroke,
It rages, runs, flies, stands, and would provoke
The world to ruin with it; in her fall,

I

summe up my owne breaking, and wish all. Thou hast no more blowes, Fate, to drive at one: Sure, I am dead, and know it not! I feele What's left a poet, when his Muse is gone? Nothing I doe; but, like a heavy wheele, Whoorles me about, and, to blaspheme in fashion, Am turned with another's powers. My passion I murmure against God, for having ta'en Her blessed soule hence, forth this valley vaine Of teares, and dungeon of calamitie! I envie it the angels amitie!

The joy of saints! the crowne for which it lives,
The glorie, and gaine of rest, which the place gives!
Dare I prophane, so irreligious be,

To 'greet, or grieve her soft euthanasee!
So sweetly taken to the court of blisse,
As spirits had stolne her spirit in a kisse,
From off her pillow and deluded bed;
And left her lovely body unthought dead !
Indeed, she is not dead! but laid to sleepe
In earth, till the last trumpe awake the sheepe
And goates together, whither they must come
To heare their judge and his eternall doome;
To have that finall retribution,
Expected with the fleshe's restitution.
For, as there are three natures, schoolèmen call
Oue corporall only, th' other spirituall,
Like single; so, there is a third, commixt
Of body and spirit together, plac'd betwixt