Item, a tale or two, some fortnight after;
That yet maintaines you, and your house in laughter.
Item, the Babylonian song you sing;
Item, a faire Greeke poesie for a ring:
With which a learned madame you belye.
Item, a charme surrounding fearefully,
Your partie-per-pale picture, one halfe drawne
In solemne cypres, the other cob-web-lawne.
Item, a gulling imprese for you, at tilt.
Item, your mistris' anagram, i' your hilt.
Item, your owne, sew'd in your mistris' smock.
Item, an epitaph on my lord's cock,
In most vile verses, and cost me more paine,
Than had I made 'hem good, to fit your vaine.
Fortie things more, deare Grand, which you know
true,
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'le pay you.
ONE THAT DESIRED ME NOT TO NAME HIM. Be safe, nor feare thy selfe so good a fame, That, any way, my booke should speake thy name: For, if thou shame, ranck'd with my friends, to goe, I' am more asham'd to have thee thought my foe.
HORNET, thou hast thy wife drest for the stall, To draw thee custome: but her selfe gets all.
TO THOMAS LORD CHANCELOR.
WHIL'ST thy weigh'd judgements, Egerton, I heare,
And know thee, then, a judge, not of one yeare;
Whil'st I behold thee live with purest hands;
That no affection in thy voyce commands;
That still th' art present to the better cause;
And no lesse wise, than skilfull in the lawes;
Whil'st thou art certaine to thy words, once gone,
As is thy conscience, which is alwayes one :
The virgin, long-since fled from Earth, I see,
T'our times return'd, hath made her Heaven in thee.
TO ELIZABETH COUNTESSE OF RUTLAND.
That poets are farre rarer births than kings,
Your noblest father prov'd: like whom, before,
Or then, or since, about our Muses' springs,
Came not that soule exhausted so their store.
Hence was it, that the Destinies decreed
(Save that most masculine issue of his braine) No male unto him: who could so exceed
Nature, they thought, in all, that he would faine. At which, she happily displeas'd, made you: On whom, if he were living now, to look, He should those rare, and absolute numbers view, As he would burne, or better farre his book.
I CANNOT think there 's that antipathy
"T wixt puritanes, and players, as some cry;
Though Lippe, at Paul's, ranne from his text away,
T'inveigh 'gainst playes: what did he then but play?
ON LUCY COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD.
THIS morning, timely rapt with holy fire,
I thought to forme unto my zealous Muse, What kinde of creature I could most desire, To honour, serve, and love; as poets use. I meant to make her faire, and free, and wise, Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great, I meant the day-starre should not brighter rise, Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemne vice of greatnesse, pride; I meant each softest vertue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosome to reside. Only a learned, and a manly soule
I purpos'd her; that should, with even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the sheeres controule Of Destinie, and spin her owne free houres. Such when I meant to faine, and wish'd to see, My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she.
THE ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds:
Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilfull blind is he then, that should stray,
And hath it, in his power, to make his way!
This world death's region is, the other life's:
And here it should be one of our first strifes,
So to front death, as men might judge us past it.
For good men but see death, the wicked tast it,
TO PROULE THE PLAGIARY.
FORBEARE to tempt me, Proule, I will not show
A line unto thee, till the world it know;
Or that I 'ave by two good sufficient men,
To be the wealthy witnesse of my pen:
For all thou hear'st, thou swear'st thy selfe didst doo.
Thy wit lives by it, Proule, and belly too.
Which, if thou leave not soone (though I am loth)
I must a libell make, and cozen both.
ON CASHIERD CAPTAIN SURLY.
SURLY'S old whore in her new silks doth swim:
He cast, yet keeps her well! No, she keeps him..
To put out the word, whore, thou do'st me woo, Throughout my book. "Troth put out woman too.
TO LUCY COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD.
MADAME, I told you late, how I repented,
I ask'd a lord a buck, and he denied me; And, ere I could aske you, I was prevented: For your most noble offer had supply'd me. Straight went I home; and there, most like a poet, I fancied to my selfe, what wine, what wit [it, I would have spent: how every Muse should know And Phoebus-selfe should be at eating it. O madame, if your grant did thus transfer me, Make it your gift. See whither that will beare me.
WOULD you beleeve, when you this mounsieur see,
That his whole body should speake French, not he?
That so much skarfe of France, and hat, and fether,
And shooe, and tye, and garter should come hether,
And land on one, whose face durst never be
Toward the sea, farther than halfe-way tree?
That he, untravell'd, should be French so much,
As French-men in his company should seeme Dutch?
Or had his father, when he did him get,
The French disease, with which he labours yet?
Or hung some mounsieur's picture on the wall,
By which his damme conceiv'd him, clothes and all?
Or is it some French statue? No: 't doth move,
And stoope, and cringe. O then, it needs must prove
The new French-taylor's motion, monthly made,
Daily to turne in Paul's, and helpe the trade.
GOODYERE, I'm glad, and gratefull to report,
My selfe a witnesse of thy few dayes' sport:
Where I both learn'd, why wise-men hawking follow,
And why that bird was sacred to Apollo:
She doth instruct men by her gallant flight,
That they to knowledge so should toure upright,
And never stoope, but to strike ignorance:
Which if they misse, they yet should re-advance
To former height, and there in circle tarrie,
Till they be sure to make the foole their quarrie.
Now, in whose pleasures I have this discerned,
What would his serious actions me have learned?
IF Rome so great, and in her wisest age,
Fear'd not to boast the glories of her stage,
As skilfull Roscius, and grave Æsope, men,
Yet crown'd with honours, as with riches, then;
Who had no lesse a trumpet of their name,
Than Cicero, whose every breath was fame:
How can so great example dye in me,
That, Allen, I should pause to publish thee?
Who both their graces in thy selfe hast more
Out-stript, than they did all that went before:
And present worth in all dost so contract,
As others speak, but only thou dost act.
Weare this renowne. T is just, that who did give
So many poets life, by one should live.
WHEN I would know thee, Goodyere, my thought looks
Upon thy well-made choise of friends, and books;
Then doe I love thee, and behold thy ends
In making thy friends books, and thy books friends:
Now, I must give thy life, and deed, the voyce
Attending such a studie, such a choyce.
Where, though 't be love, that to thy praise doth
It was a knowledge, that begat that love.
ON CAPTAINE HAZARD THE CHEATER.
TOUCH'D with the sinne of false play, in his punque, Hazard a month forswore his; and grew drunke Each night, to drowne his cares: but when the gaine Of what she had wrought came in, and wak'd his braine,
Upon th' accompt, hers grew the quicker trade. Since when, he's sober againe, and all play's made.
WHEN Mill first came to court, the unprofiting foole,
Unworthy such a mistris, such a schoole,
Was dull, and long, ere she would go to man:
At last, ease, appetite, and example wan
The nicer thing to taste her ladie's page;
And, finding good security in his age,
Went on and proving him still, day by day,
Discern'd no difference of his yeares, or play.
Not though that haire grew browne, which once
was amber,
[ber,
And he growne youth, was call'd to his ladie's cham-
Still Mill continu'd: nay, his face growing worse,
And he remov'd to gent'man of the horse,
Mill was the same. Since, both his body and face
Blown up; and he (too unwieldy for that place)
Hath got the steward's chaire; he will not tarry
Longer a day, but with his Mill will marry.
And it is hop'd, that she, like Milo, wull
First bearing him a calfe, beare him a bull.
WHICH of thy names I take, not only beares
A Romane sound, but Romane vertue weares,
Illustrous Vere, or Horace; fit to be
Sung by a Horace, or a Muse as free;
Which thou art to thy selfe: whose fame was won
In th' eye of Europe, where thy deeds were done,
When on thy trumpet she did sound a blast,
Whose rellish to eternity shall last.
I leave thy acts, which should I prosequte
Throughout, might flatt'ry seeme; and to be mute
To any one, were envy: which would dive
Against my grave, and time could not forgive.
I speake thy other graces, not lesse shown,
Nor lesse in practice; but lesse mark'd, lesse known:
Humanity, and piety, which are
As noble in great chiefes, as they are rare;
And best become the valiant man to weare,
Who more should seek men's reverence, than feare
ERE cherries ripe, and straw-berries be gone,
Unto the cryes of London l'le adde one;
Ripe statesmen, ripe: they grow in every street;
At sixe and twenty, ripe. You shall 'hem meet,
And have 'hem yeeld no savour, but of state.
Ripe are their ruffes, their cuffes, their beards,
their gaite,
And grave as ripe, like mellow as their faces.
They know the states of Christendome, not the
places:
Yet have they seen the maps, and bought 'hem too,
And understand 'hem, as most chapmen do.
The counsels, projects, practises they know,
And what each prince doth for intelligence owe,
And unto whom they are the almanacks
For twelves yeares yet to come, what each state
They carry in their pockets Tacitus,
And the Gazetti, or Gallo-Belgicus:
And talke reserv'd, lock'd up, and full of feare,
Nay, aske you, how the day goes, in your eare.
Keep aStarre-chamber sentence close twelve dayes:
And whisper what a proclamation sayes.
They meet in sixes, and at every mart,
Are sure to con the catalogue by heart;
Or, every day, some one at Rimee's looks,
Or Bil's, and there he buyes the names of books.
They all get Porta, for the sundry wayes
To write in cypher, and the severall keyes,
To ope' the character. They have found the sleight
With juyce of limons, onions, pisse, to write;
To breake up seales, and close 'hem. And they
If the states make peace, how it will go [know,
With England. All forbidden books they get.
And of the powder-plot, they will talke yet.
At naming the French king, their heads they shake,
And at the pope, and Spaine slight faces make.
Or 'gainst the bishops, for the brethren, raile,
Much like those brethren; thinking to prevaile
With ignorance on us, as they have done
On them: and therefore do not only shun
Others more modest, but contemne us too,
That know not so much state, wrong, as they do.
TO SIR JOHN RADCLIFFE.
How like a columne, Radcliffe, left alone
For the great marke of vertue, those being gone
Who did, alike with thee, thy house up-beare,
Stand'st thou, to show the times what you all were!
Two bravely in the battaile fell, and dy'd,
Upbraiding rebell's armes, and barbarous pride':
And two, that would have falne as great, as they,
The Belgick fever ravished away.
Thou, that art all their valour, all their spirit,
And thine own goodnesse to encrease thy merit,
Than whose I do not know a whiter soule,
Nor could I, had I seen all Nature's roll,
Thou yet remayn'st, un-hurt, in peace, or war,
Though not unprov'd: which shows, thy fortunes
[are
Willing to expiate the fault in thee,
Wherewith, against thy blood, they' offenders be.
TO LUCY COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD,
WITH MR. DONNE'S SATYRES.
Lucy, you brightnesse of our spheare, who are
Life of the Muses' day, their morning starre !
If works (not th' author's) their own grace should
look,
Whose poemes would not wish to be your book?
But these, desir'd by you, the maker's ends
Crown with their own. Rare poemes aske rare
Yet satyres, since the most of mankind be
Their un-avoided subject, fewest see:
For none ere tooke that pleasure in sin's sense,
But, when they heard it tax'd, took more offence.
They, then, that living where the matter is bred,
Dare for these poems, yet, both aske, and read,
And like them too; must needfully, though few,
Be of the best: and 'mongst those best are you;
Lucy, you brightnesse of our spheare, who are
The Muses' evening, as their morning-starre.
IF, my religion safe, I durst embrace
That stranger doctrine of Pythagoras,
I should beleeve, the soule of Tacitus
In thee, most weighty Savile, liv'd to us!
So hast thou rendred him in all his bounds,
And all his numbers, both of sense and sounds.
But when I read that speciall piece, restor'd,
Where Nero falls, and Galba is ador'd,
To thine owne proper I ascribe then more;
And gratulate the breach, I griev'd before:
Which Fate (it seemes) caus'd in the historie,
Only to boast thy merit in supply.
O, would'st thou adde like hand to all the rest!
Or, better worke! were thy glad countrey blest,
To have her storie woven in thy thred;
Minervae's loome was never richer spred.
For who can master those great parts like thee,
That liv'st from hope, from feare, from faction free;
That hast thy brest so cleere of present crimes,
Thou need'st not shrinke at voyce of after-times;
Whose knowledge claymeth at the helme to stand;
But, wisely, thrusts not forth a forward hand,
No more than Salust in the Romane State !
As, then, his cause, his glorie emulate.
Although to write be lesser than to doo,
It is the next deed, and a great one too.
We need a man that knowes the severall graces
Of historie, and how to apt their places;
Where brevitie, where splendour, and where height,
Where sweetnesse is required, and where weight;
We need a man, can speake of the intents,
The counsells, actions, orders and events
Of state, and censure them: we need his pen
Can write the things, the causes and the men.
But most we need his faith (and all have you)
That dares not write things false, nor hide things true.
WHO shall doubt, Donne, whêr I a poet be,
When I dare send my epigrainmes to thee?
That so alone canst judge, so' alone do'st make:
And in thy censures, evenly, do'st take
As free simplicitie, to dis-avow,
As thou hast best authoritie t' allow.
Read all I send: and if I finde but one
Mark'd by thy hand, and with the better stone,
My title's seal'd. Those that for claps doe write,
Let pui'nees', porters', players' praise delight,
And till they burst, their backs, like asses, load:
A man should seeke great glorie, and not broad.
He that is round within himselfe and streight,
Need seeke no other strength, no other height;
Fortune upon him breaks her selfe, if ill,
And what would hurt his vertue, makes it still.
That thou at once, then, nobly mayst defend
With thine owne course the judgement of thy friend,
Be alwayes to thy gather'd selfe the same:
And studie conscience, more than thou would'st fame.
Though both be good, the latter yet is worst,
And ever is ill got without the first.
THAT thou hast kept thy love, encreast thy will,
Better'd thy trust to letters; that thy skill
Hast taught thy selfe worthy thy pen to tread,
And that to write things worthy to be read:
How much of great example wert thou, Roe,
If time to facts, as unto men would owe?
But much it now availes, what's done, of whom :
The selfe-same deeds, as diversly they come,
From place, or fortune, are made high or low,
And even the praiser's judgement suffers so.
Well, though thy name lesse than our great ones
Thy fact is more: let truth encourage thee.
PLAY-WRIGHT by chance hearing some toyes I' bad
Cry'd to my face, they were th' elixir of wit : [writ,
And I must now beleeve him: for to day,
Five of my jests, then stolne, past him a play.
SEE you yond' motion? not the old fa-ding,
Nor captayne Pod, nor yet the Eltham-thing;
But one more rare, and in the case so new:
His cloake with orient velvet quite lin'd through;
His rosie tyes and garters so ore-blowne,
By his each glorious parcell to be knowne!
He wont was to encounter me aloud,
Where ere he met me; now he's dumbe or proud.
Know you the cause? H' has neither land nor lease,
Nor baudie stock that travells for encrease,
Nor office in the towne, nor place in court,
Nor 'bout the beares, nor noyse to make lords sport.
He is no favorite's favorite, no deare trust
Of any madame, hath neadd squires, and must.
Nor did the king of Denmarke him salute,
When he was here. Nor hath he got a sute,
Since he was gone, more than the one he weares,
Nor are the queene's most honor'd maids by th'eares
About his forme. What then so swels each lim?
Only his clothes have over-leaven❜d him.
THOU hast begun well, Roe, which stand well to, And I know nothing more thou hast to do.
INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER
To night, grave sir, both my poore house and I
Doe equally desire your company:
Not that we think us worthy such a ghest,
But that your worth will dignifie our feast, [seeme,
With those that come; whose grace may make that
Something, which else, could hope for no esteeme.
It is the faire acceptance, sir, creates
The entertaynement perfect: not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectifie your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better sallad
Ushring the mutton; with a short-leg'd hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,
Limons, and wine for sauce: to these a coney
Is not to be despair'd of, for our money; [clarks,
And though fowle now be scarce, yet there are
The skie not falling, think we may bave larks.
l'le tell you of more, and lye, so you will come :
Of partrich, phesant, wood-cock, of which some
May yet be there; and godwit, if we can:
Knat, raile and ruffe too. How so ere my man
Shall reade a pecce of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livie, or of some better booke to us,
Of which we'll speake our minds, amidst our meate;
And I'le professe no verses to repeate:
To this if ought appeare, which I not know of,
That will the pastrie, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;
But that which most doth take my Muse, and me,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary-wine,
Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine:
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their lives, as doe their lines, till now had lasted.
Tabacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but Luther's beere, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooly', or Parrot by;
Nor shall our cups make any guiltie men:
But, at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple word,
That shall be utter'd at our imirthfull boord,'
Shall make us sad next morning: or affright
The libertie, that we'le enjoy to night.
And to your scene lent no lesse dignitie
Of birth, of match, of forme, of chastitie?
Or, more than born for the comparison
Of former age, or glory of our own,
Where you advanced, past those times
The light and marke unto posteritie
Judge they, that can: here I have rs'd to show
A picture, which the world for your must know,
And like it too; if they looke equally:
If not, 'tis fit for you, some should envy.
TO WILLIAM EARLE OF PEMBROKE.
I DOE but name thee, Pembroke, and I finde
It is an epigramine, on all man-kinde;
Against the bad, but of, and to the good:
Both which are ask'd, to have thee understood.
Nor could the age have mist thee, in this strife
Of vice, and vertue, wherein all great life
Almost is exercis'd: and scarce one knows,
To which, yet, of the sides himselfe he owes.
They follow vertue, for reward, to day;
To morrow vice, if she give better pay:
And are so good, or bad, just at a price,
As nothing else discernes the vertue' or vice.
But thou whose nobleesse keepes one stature still,
And one true posture, though besieg'd with ill
Of what ambition, faction, pride can raise ;
Whose life, ev'n they, that envie it, must praise;
That art so reverenc'd, as thy comming in,
But in the view, doth interrupt their sinne;
Thou must draw more: and they, that hope to see
The common-wealth still safe, must studie thee.
How well, faire crowne of your faire sex, might he,
That but the twi-light of your sprite did see,
And noted for what flesh such soules were fram'd,
Know you to be a Sydney, though un-nam'd?
And, being nam'd, how little doth that name
Need any Muse's praise to give it fame?
Which is it selfe, the imprese of the great,
And glorie of them all, but to repeate!
Forgive me then, if mine but say you are
A Sydney: but in that extend as farre
As lowdest praisers, who perhaps would finde
For every part a character assign'd.
My praise is plaine, and where so ere profest,
Becomes none more than you, who need it least.
TO SUSAN COUNTESSE OF MONTGOMERY.
WERE they that nam'd you, prophets? did they see,
Even in the dew of grace, what you would be?
Or did our times require it, to behold
A new Susanna, equall to that old?
Or, because some scarce think that story true,
To make those faithfull, did the Fates send you?
TO MARY LADY WROTH.
MADAME, had all antiquitie been lost,
All history seal'd up, and fables crost
That we had left us; nor by time, nor place,
Least mention of a nymph, a Muse, a Grace,
But even their names were to be made a-new,
Who could not but create them all from you?
He, that but saw you weare the wheaten hat,
Would call you more than Ceres, if not that:
And, drest in shepherd's tyre, who would not say:
You were the bright Oenone, Flora, or May?
If dancing, all would cry th' Idalian queene
Were leading forth the Graces on the greene:
And, armed to the chase, so bare her bow
Diana' alone, so hit, and hunted so.
There's none so dull, that for your stile would aske,
That saw you put on Pallas' plumed caske:
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,
There Juno sate, and yet no peacock by.
So are you Nature's index, and restore,
l' your selfe, all treasure lost of th' age before,
TO SIR EDWARD HERBERT.
IF men get name, for some one vertue: then,
What man art thou, that art so many men,
All-vertuous Herbert! on whose every part
Truth might spend all her voice, Fame all her art.
Whether thy learning they would take, or wit,
Or valour, or thy judgement seasoning it,
Thy standing upright to thy selfe, thy ends
Like straight, thy pietie to God, and friends:
Their latter praise would still the greatest be,
And yet they, all together, lesse than thee.
Dor what you come for, captaine, with your newes;
That's, sit, and eat: doe not my eares abuse.
I oft looke on false coine, to know't from true:
Not that I love it more, than I will you.
Tell the grosse Dutch those grosser tales of yours,
How great you were with their two emperours;
And yet are with their princes: fill them full
Of your Moravian horse, Venetian bull.
Tell them, what parts yo' have taen, whence run
What states yo' have gull'd, and which yet keeps yo'
Give them your services, and embassies [in pay.
In Ireland, Holland, Sweden; pompous lies!
In Hungary, and Poland, Turkie too;
What at Ligorne, Rome, Florence you did doe
|