Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;

It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures,

life

may perfect be.

THE COUNTER-TURN.

Call, noble Lucius, then for wine,

And let thy looks with gladness shine: Accept this garland, plant it on thy head, And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead.

He leaped the present age,

Possessed with holy rage
To see that bright eternal day;

Of which we priests and poets say
Such truths, as we expect for happy men;
And there he lives with memory and Ben.

THE STAND.

Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went,

Himself, to rest,
Or taste a part of that full joy he meant

To have expressed,
In this bright Asterism! -

Where it were friendship's schism,
Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,

To separate these twi

Lights, the Dioscuri; And keep the one half from his Harry. But fate doth so alternate the design, Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must

shine,

IV.

THE TURN.

And shine as you exalted are;

Two names of friendship, but one star: Of hearts the union, and those not by chance Made, or indenture, or leased out t'advance

The profits for a time.

No pleasures vain did chime,
Of rhymes, or riots, at your feasts,

Orgies of drink, or feigned protests:
But simple love of greatness and of good,
That knits brave minds and manners more than

blood.

THE COUNTER-TURN.

This made you first to know the why

You liked, then after, to apply That liking; and approach so one the t'other Till either grew a portion of the other:

Each styled by his end,

The copy of his friend.
You lived to be the great sir-names,

And titles, by which all made claims
Unto the virtue; nothing perfect done,
But as a Cary, or a Morison.

THE STAND.

And such a force the fair example had,

As they that saw The good, and durst not practise it, were glad

That such a law

Was left yet to mankind;

Where they might read and find Friendship, indeed, was written not in words;

And with the heart, not pen,

Of two so early men, Whose lines her rolls were, and recòrds; Who, ere the first down bloomed on the chin, Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, THE LORD HIGH

TREASURER OF ENGLAND.

AN EPISTLE MENDICANT.

1631. MY LORD,

Poor wretched states, pressed by extremities,
Are fain to seek for succors and supplies
Of princes' aids, or good men's charities.

Disease, the enemy, and his engineers,
Want, with the rest of his concealed com-

peers, Have cast a trench about me, now five years,

And made those strong approaches by false

brays, 107

Redoubts, half-moons, horn-works, and such

close ways,107

The muse not peeps out, one of hundred days;

But lies blocked up and straightened, nar

rowed in, Fixed to the bed and boards, unlike to win Health, or scarce breath, as she had never been;

Unless some saving honor of the Crown,
Dare think it, to relieve, no less renown,
A bedrid wit, than a besieged town.

TO THE KING, ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

November 19, 1632.

AN EPIGRAM ANNIVERSARY.

This is King Charles his day. Speak it, thou

Tower, Unto the ships, and they, from tier to tier, Discharge it 'bout the island in an hour,

As loud as thunder, and as swift as fire. Let Ireland meet it out at sea, half-way,

Repeating all Great Britain's joy, and more, Adding her own glad accents to this day,

Like Echo playing from the other shore. What drums or trumpets, or great ordnance can,

The poetry of steeples, with the bells, Three kingdoms' mirth, in light and aëry man,

Made lighter with the wine. All noises else, At bonfires, rockets, fireworks, with the shouts

That cry that gladness which their hearts

would pray.

Had they but grace of thinking, at these routs,

On the often coming of this holy-day: And ever close the burden of the song, Still to have such a Charles, but this Charles

long. The wish is great ; but where the prince is such, What prayers, people, can you think too much!

ON THE RIGHT HONORABLE AND VIRTUOUS

LORD WESTON, LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND.

Upon the day he was made Earl of Portland, February 17, 1632.

TO THE ENVIOU's, 108

Look up, thou seed of envy, and still bring
Thy faint and narrow eyes to read the king
In his great actions : view whom his large hand
Hath raised to be the Port unto his LAND!
Weston ! that waking man! that eye of state !
Who seldom sleeps ! whom bad men only hate!
Why do I irritate or stir up thee,
Thou sluggish spawn, that canst, but wilt not

see !
Feed on thyself for spite, and show thy kind,
To virtue and true worth be ever blind;
Dream thou couldst hurt it, but before thou

wake To effect it, feel thou'st made thine own heart

ache.

108 From Clarendon's character of Lord Portland, it appears that he was not only very generally dislikel and censured, but that he deserved the enmities he incurred. — B.