Add to thy free provisions, far above
The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow, With all that hospitality doth know!
Where comes no guest, but is allowed to eat, Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat: Where the same beer and bread, and self-same wine, That is his lordship's, shall be also mine. And I not fain to sit (as some this day, At great men's tables) and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor standing by, A waiter, doth my gluttony envý:
But gives me what I call, and lets me eat, He knows, below, he shall find plenty of meat; Thy tables hoard not up for the next day, Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray For fire, or lights, or livery; all is there; As if thou then wert mine, or I reign'd here: There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. That found king JAMES, when hunting late, this way, With his brave son, the prince; they saw thy fires Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires Of thy Penates had been set on flame,
To entertain them; or the country came,
With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. What (great, I will not say, but) sudden chear
Didst thou then make 'em! and what praise was heap'd
On thy good lady, then! who therein reap'd The just reward of her high huswifry;
To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh, When she was far; and not a room, but drest As if it had expected such a guest!
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal.
His children thy great lord may call his own:
A fortune, in this age, but rarely known. They are, and have been taught religion; thence Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. Each morn, and even, they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Read in their virtuous parents' noble parts, The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see
Those proud ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.
CAMDEN most reverend head, to whom I owe All that I am in arts, all that I know;
(How nothing's that?) to whom my country owes The great renown, and name wherewith she goes! Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave, More high, more holy, that she more would crave. What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things! What sight in searching the most antique springs! What weight, and what authority in thy speech! Men scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teach. Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,
Which conquers all, be once o'ercome by thee. Many of thine, this better could, than I; But for their powers, accept my piety.
ON LORD BACON'S BIRTHDAY.
HAIL, happy GENIUS of this ancient pile ! How comes it all things so about thee smile? The fire, the wine, the men! and in the midst Thou stand'st as if some mystery thou didst !
Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day For whose returns, and many, all these pray; And so do I. This is the sixtieth year, Since BACON, and thy lord was born, and here; Son to the grave wise Keeper of the Seal, Fame and foundation of the English weal. What then his father was, that since is he, Now with a title more to the degree; England's high Chancellor: the destin'd heir, In his soft cradle, to his father's chair: Whose even thread the fates spin round and full, Out of their choicest and their whitest wool. 'Tis a brave cause of joy, let it be known, For 'twere a narrow gladness, kept thine own. Give me a deep-crown'd bowl, that I may sing, In raising him, the wisdom of my king.
DONNE, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse, Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse; Whose every work, of thy most early wit, Came forth example, and remains 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 half mankind maintain a strife; All which I meant to praise, and yet I would; But leave, because I cannot as I should i
How I do love thee, BEAUMONT, and thy Muse, That unto me dost such religion use !
How I do fear myself, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth! At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st; And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st! What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves? What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives? When even there, where most thou praisest me, For writing better, I must envy thee.
ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE.
THIS figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle SHAKESPEARE cut, Wherein the graver had a strife With nature, to out-do the life : O could he but have drawn his wit As well in brass, as he has hit
His face; the print would then surpass All that was ever writ in brass : But since he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture, but his book.
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.
To draw no envy, SHAKESPEARE, on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; While I confess thy writings to be such,
As neither man, nor Muse, can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. These are, as some infamous bawd, or whore, Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more? But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!
The applause! delight! the wonder of our stage! My SHAKESPEARE rise! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further off, to make thee room : Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses : For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or Marlow's mighty line.
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