« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
DONNE, the delight of Phoebus, and each Muse,
Who, to thy one, all other braines refuse;
Whose every work, of thy most early wit,
Came forth example, and remaines so yet:
Longer a knowing, than most wits do live;
And which no affection praise enough can give!
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,
Which might with halfe mankind maintaine a strife;
All which I meane to praise, and yet I would;
But leave, because I cannot as I should!
TO THE PARLIAMENT.
THERE'S reason good, that you good laws should make :
Men's manners ne're were viler, for your sake.
ON SIR VOLUPTUOUS BEAST.
WHILE Beast instructs his faire and innocent wife
In the past pleasures of his sensuall life,
Telling the motions of each petticote,
And how his Ganimede mov'd, and how his goate,
And now, her (hourely) her own cucqueane makes,
In varied shapes, which for his lust she takes:
What doth he else, but say, "Leave to be chaste,
Just wife, and, to change me, make woman's haste."
THAN his chast wife, though Beast now know no more, He 'adulters still: his thoughts lye with a whore.
ON SIR JOHN ROE.
In place of scutcheons, that should decke thy herse, Take better ornaments, my teares, and verse.
DON Surly, to aspire the glorious name
Of a great man, and to be thought the same,
Makes serious use of all great trade he kuowes,
He speakes to men with a Rhinocerote's nose,
Which he thinks great; and so reades verses, too:
And that is done, as he saw great men doe.
H' has tympanies of businesse, in his face,
And can forget men's names, with a great grace.
He will both argue, and discourse in oathes,
Both which are great. And laugh at ill made
That's greater, yet: to crie his owne up neat.
He doth, at meales, alone, his pheasant eat,
Which is maine greatnesse. And, at his still boord,
He drinks to no man; that's, too, like a lord.
He keeps another's wife, which is a spice
Of solemne greatnesse. And he dares, at dice,
Blaspheme God greatly. Or some poore hinde beat,
That breathes in his dog's way: and this is great,
Nay more, for greatnesse sake, he will be one
May heare my Epigrammes, but like of none.
Surly, use other arts, these only can
Stile thee a most great foole, but no great man,
TO THE GHOST OF MARTIAL.
MARTIAL, thou gav'st farre nobler Epigrammes
To thy Domitian, than I can my James:
But in my royall subject I passe thee,
Thou flattered'st thine, mine cannot flatter'd be.
ON CHEV'RIL THE LAWYER.
No cause, nor client fat, will Chev'ril leese,
But as they come, on both sides he takes fees,
And pleaseth both. For while he melts his grease
For this: that winnes, for whom he holds his peace.
TO PERSON GUILTIE.
GUILTIE, because I bade you late be wise,
And to conceale your ulcers, did advise,
You laugh when you are touch'd, and long before
Any man else, you clap your hands and rore,
And cry,Good! good! This quite perverts my sense,
And lyes so farre from wit, 't is impudence.
Beleeve it, Guiltie, if you lose your shame,
I'le lose my modestie, and tell your name.
ON OLD COLT.
FOR all night-sinnes, with other wives, unknown,
Colt, now, doth daily penance in his own.
ON MARGARET RATCLIFFE.
M ARBLE, Weepe, for thou do'st cover
A dead beautie under-neath thee,
Rich as nature could bequeath thee:
Grant then, no rude hand remove her.
Il the gazers on the skies
Read not in faire Heaven's storie,
Expresser truth, or truer glorie,
Than they might in her bright eyes.
R are as wonder was her wit;
And like nectar ever flowing:
Till time, strong by her bestowing,
Conquer'd hath both life and it.
Life whose griefe was out of fashion
In these times; few so have ru'd
Fate in a brother. To conclude,
For wit, feature, and true passion,
Earth, thou hast not such another.
GYPSEE, new baud, is turn'd physitian,
And gets more gold than all the colledge can:
Such her quaint practice is, so it allures,
For what she gave, a whore; a baud, she cures.
ON GILES AND JONE.
WHO sayes that Giles and Jone at discord be?
Th' observing neighbours no such mood can see.
Indeed, poore Giles repents he married ever.
But that his Jone doth too. And Giles would never,
By his free-will, be in Jone's company.
No more would Jone he should. Giles riseth early,
And having got him out of doores is glad.
The like is Jone. But turning home is sad.
And so is Jone. Oft-times when Giles doth finde
Harsh fights at home, Giles wisheth he were blind,
All this doth Jone. Or that his long-yearn'd life
Where quite out-spun. The like wish hath his wife.
The children, that he keepes, Giles sweares are none
Of his begetting. And so sweares his Jone.
In all affections she concurreth still.
If, now, with man and wife, to will and nill The selfe-same things, a note of concord be: I know no couple better can agree !
TO ROBERT EARLE OF SALISBURIE.
WHAT need hast thou of me? or of my Muse?
Whose actions so themselves doe celebrate?
Which should thy countrye's love to speake refuse,
Her foes enough would fame thee in their hate.
"Tofore, great men were glad of poets: now,
I, not the worst, am covetous of thee.
Yet dare not to my thought least hope allow
Of adding to thy fame; thine may to me,
When in my book men reade but Cecil's name,
And what I writ thereof finde farre, and free
From servile flatterie (common poets' shame)
As thou stand'st cleare of the necessitie.
ON CHUFFE, BANKS THE USURER'S KINSMAN. CHUFFE, lately rich in name, in chattels, goods, And rich in issue to inherit all,
Ere blacks were bought for his owne funerall, Saw all his race approach the blacker floods: He meant they thither should make swift repaire, When he made him exectutor, might be heire.
FARIWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sinne was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy,
Seven yeares thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate on the just day.
O, could I lose all father, now. For why,
Will man lament the state he should envie?
To have so soone scap'd world's, and fleshe's rage,
And, if no other miserie, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say here doth lye
Ben. Jonson his best piece of poetrie.
For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what he loves may never like too much. ·
ON MUNGRIL ESQUIRÉ,
His bought armes Mung' not lik'd; for his first day Of bearing them in field, he threw 'hem away: And hath no honour lost, our due'llists say.
TO SIR LUCKLESSE WOO-ALL.
Is this the sir, who, some waste wife to winne,
A knight-hood bought, to goe a wooing in?
'Tis Lucklesse he, that tooke up one on band
To pay at's day of marriage. By my hand
The knight-wright's cheated then: he'll never pay.
Yes, now he weares his knight-hood every day.
PLAY-WRIGHT me reades, and still my verses damnes,
He sayes, I want the tongue of epigrammes;
I have no salt: no bawdrie he doth meane;
For wittie, in his language, is obscene.
Play-wright, I loath to have thy manners knowne
In my chast booke: professe them in thine owne.
TO THE SAME.
SIR Lucklesse, troth, for luck's sake passe by one: He that wooes every widdow, will get none.
TO OLD-END GATHERER.
LONG-GATHERING Old-end, I did feare thee wise,
Thou wert content the author's name to loose:
When having pill'd a book, which no man buyes,
But when (in place) thou didst the patron's choose,
It was as if thou printed had'st an oath,
To give the world assurance thou wert both;,
And that, as puritanes at baptisme doe,
Thou art the father, and the witnesse too.
For, but thy selfe, where, out of motly, 's he
Could save that line to dedicate to thee?
CHEVRIL Cryes out, my verses libells are;
And threatens the starre-chamber, and the barre.
What are thy petulant pleadings, Chev'ril, then,
That quit'st the cause so oft, and rayl'st at men?
TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT.
How I doe love thee, Beaumont, and thy Muse,
That unto me dost such religion use !
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praisest me,
For writing better, I must envie thee.
TO ROBERT EARLE OF SALISBURIE.
WHO can consider thy right courses run,
With what thy vertue on the times hath won,
And not thy fortune; who can clearely see,
The judgement of the king so shine in thee;
And that thou seek'st reward of thy each act,
Not from the publick voyce, but private fact?
Who can behold all envie so declin'd
By constant suffring of thy equall mind;
And can to these be silent, Salisburie,
Without his, thine, and all times injurie?
Curst be his Muse, that could lye dumbe, or hid
To so true worth, though thou thy selfe forbid.
TO THE SAME.
UPON THE ACCESSION OF THE TREASURERSHIP TO HIM.
Nor glad, like those that have new hopes, or suites,
With thy new place, bring I these early fruits
Of love, and what the golden age did hold
A treasure, art: condemn'd in th' age of gold..
Nor glad as those, that old dependents be,
To see thy father's rites new laid on thee.
Nor glad for fashion. Nor to show a fit
Of flattery to thy titles. Nor of wit.
But I am glad to see that time survive,
Where merit is not sepulcher'd alive.
Where good men's vertues them to honours bring,
And not to dangers. When so wise a king
Contends t' have worth enjoy, from his regard,
As her owne conscience, still, the same reward.
These (noblest Cecil) labour'd in my thought,
Wherein what wonder see thy name hath brought?
That whil'st I meant but thine to gratulate,
I've sung the greater fortunes of our state.
TO MY MUSE.
AWAY, and leave me, thou thing most abhord,
That hast betray'd me to a worthlesse lord;
Made me commit most fierce idolatrie
To a great image through thy luxurie.
Be thy next master's more unluckie Muse,
And, as thou 'hast mine, his houres, and youth abuse.
Get him the times' long grudge, the court's ill will;
And reconcil'd, keepe him suspected still.
Make him lose all his friends; and, which is worse,
Almost all wayes, to any better course.
With me thou leav'st an happier Muse than thee,
And which thou brought'st me, welcome povertic,
She shall instruct my after-thoughts to write
Things manly, and not smelling parasite.
But I repent me: stay. Who e're is rais'd,
For worth he has not, he is tax'd, not prais'd.
THAT neither fame, nor love might wanting be
To greatnesse, Cary, I sing that, and thee.
Whose house, if it no other honour had,
In onely thee, might be both great, and glad.
Who, to upbraid the sloth of this our time,
Durst valour make, almost, but not a crime.
Which deed I know not, whether were more high,
Or thou more happie, it to justifie
Against thy fortune: when no foe, that day,
Could conquer thee, but chance, who did betray.
Love thy great losse, which a renowne hath wonne,
To live when Broeck not stands, nor Roor doth
Love honours, which of best example be,
When they cost dearest, and are done most free.
Though every fortitude deserves applause,
It may be much, or little, in the cause.
He's valiant'st, that dares fight, and not for pay;
That vertuous is, when the reward's away.
TO THOMAS EARLE OF SUFFOLKE.
SINCE men have left to doe praise-worthy things, Most think all praises flatteries. But truth brings
The castle and river neere where he was taken.
That sound, and that authority with her name,
As, to be rais'd by her, is onely fame.
Stand high, then, Howard, high in eyes of men,
High in thy blood, thy place, but highest then,
When, in men's wishes, so thy vertues wronght,
As all thy honours were by them first sought:
And thou design'd to be the same thou art,
Before thou wert it, in each good man's heart.
Which, by no lesse confirm'd, than thy king's choice,
Proves, that is God's, which was the people's voice.
PLAY-WRIGHT Convict of publick wrongs to men,
Takes private beatings, and begins againe.
Two kinds of valour he doth show at ones;
Active in 's braine, and passive in his bones.
TO PERTINAX COB.
Coɛ, thon nor souldier, theefe, nor fencer art,
Yet by thy weapon liv'st!, th' hast one good part.
TO WILLIAM ROE.
WHEN Nature bids us leave to live, 't is late
Then to begin, my Roe. He makes a state
In life, that can employ it; and takes hold
On the true causes, ere they grow too old.
Delay is bad, doubt worse, depending worst;
Each best day of our life escapes us, first.
Then, since we (more than many) these truths know:
Though life be short, let us not make it so.
To pluck downe mine, Poll sets up new wits still, Still, 't is his luck to praise me 'gainst his will.
I GRIEVE not, Court-ling, thou art started up
A chamber-critick, and dost dine, and sup
At madame's table, where thou mak'st all wit
Goe high, or low, as thou wilt value it.
'T is not thy judgement breeds the prejudice,
Thy person only, Courtling, is the vice.
TO FINE GRAND.
WHAT is 't, fine Grand, makes thee my friend-ship
Or take an epigramme so fearefully:
The world must know your greatnesse is my debter.
As 't were a challenge, or a borrower's letter?
In-primis, Grand, you owe me for a jest;
I lent you, on meere acquaintance, at a feast.