Part 7

If your example be obey'd The serious few will live ith' silent shade: And not indanger by the wind Or Sunshine, the complexion of their mind: Whose beauty weares so cleare a skin That it decayes with the least taint of sin. Vice growes by custome, nor dare we Reject it as a slave, where it breathes free, And is no priviledge denyed; Nor if advanc'd to higher place envyed. Wherefore your Lordship in your selfe (Not lancht farre in the maine, nor nigh the shelfe Of humbler fortune) lives at ease, Safe from the rocks oth' shore, and stormes oth' Seas. Your soule's a well built City, where There's such munition, that no war breeds feare: No rebels wilde destractions move; For you the heads have crusht; Rage, Envy, Love. And therefore you defiance bid To open enmity, or mischiefe hid In fawning hate and supple pride, Who are on every corner fortifide. Your youth not rudely led by rage Of blood, is now the story of your age Which without boast you may averre 'Fore blackest danger, glory did prefer: Glory not purchast by the breath Of Sycophants, but by encountring death. Yet wildnesse nor the feare of lawes Did make your fight, but justice of the cause. For but mad prodigals they are Of fortitude, who for it selfe love warre. When well made peace hath clos'd the eyes Of discord, loath did not your youth surprize. Your life as well as powre, did awe The bad, and to the good was the best law: When most men vertue did pursue In hope by it to grow in fame like you. Nor when you did to court repaire, Did you your manners alter with the ayre. You did your modesty retaine Your faithfull dealing, the same tongue and braine. Nor did all the soft flattery there Inchant you so, but still you truth could heare. And though your roofes were richly guilt, The basis was on no wards ruine built. Nor were your vassals made a prey, And forc't to curse the Coronation day. And though no bravery was knowne To out-shine yours, you onely spent your owne. For 'twas the indulgence of fate, To give y' a moderate minde, and bounteous state? But I, my Lord, who have no friend Of fortune, must begin where you doe end. 'Tis dang'rous to approach the fire Of action; nor is't safe, farre to retire. Yet better lost ith' multitude Of private men, then on the state t'intrude, And hazard for a doubtfull smile, My stocke of same, and inward peace to spoile. Ile therefore nigh some murm'ring brooke That wantons through my meddowes, with a booke With my _Castara_, or some friend, My youth not guilty of ambition spend. To my own shade (if fate permit) Ile whisper some soft musique of my wit. And flatter to my selfe, Ile see By that, strange motion steale into the tree. But still my first and chiefest care Shall be t'appease offended heaven with prayer: And in such mold my thoughts to cast, That each day shall be spent as 'twere my last How ere it's sweete lust to obey, Vertue though rugged, is the safest way.

_An Elegy upon The Honourable_ Henry Cambell, _sonne to the Earle of_ Arg.

Its false Arithmaticke to say thy breath Expir'd to soone, or irreligious death Prophan'd thy holy youth. For if thy yeares Be number'd by thy vertues or our teares, Thou didst the old _Methusalem_ out-live. Though Time, but twenty yeares account can give Of thy abode on earth, yet every houre Of thy brave youth by vertues wondrous powre Was lengthen'd to a yeare. Each well-spent day Keepes young the body, but the soule makes gray. Such miracles workes goodnesse: and behind Th'ast left to us such stories of thy minde Fit for example; that when them we read, We envy earth the treasure of the dead. Why doe the sinfull riot and survive The feavers of their surfets? Why alive Is yet disorder'd greatnesse, and all they Who the loose lawes of their wilde blood obey? Why lives the gamester, who doth blacke the night With cheats and imprecations? Why is light Looked on by those whose breath may poyson it: Who sold the vigor of their strength and wit To buy diseases: and thou, who faire truth And vertue didst adore, lost in thy youth? But Ile not question fate. Heaven doth conveigh Those first from the darke prison of their clay Who are most fit for heaven. Thou in warre Hadst tane degrees, those dangers felt, which are The props on which peace safely doth subsist And through the Cannons blew and horrid mist Hadst brought her light: And now wert so compleat That naught but death did want to make thee great. Thy death was timely then bright soule to thee, And in thy fate thou suffer'dst not. 'Twas we Who dyed rob'd of thy life: in whose increase Of reall glory both in warre and peace, We all did share: and thou away we feare Didst with thee, the whole stocke of honour beare. Each then be his owne mourner, Wee'le to thee Write hymnes, upon the world an Elegie.

_To_ CASTARA.

Why should we feare to melt away in death; May we but dye together. When beneath In a coole vault we sleepe, the world will prove Religious, and call it the shrine of Love. There, when oth' wedding eve some beautious maid, Suspitious of the faith of man, hath paid The tribute of her vowes; oth' sudden shee Two violets sprouting from the tombe will see: And cry out, ye sweet emblems of their zeale Who live below, sprang ye up to reveale The story of our future joyes, how we The faithfull patterns of their love shall be? If not; hang downe your heads opprest with dew, And I will weepe and wither hence with you.

_To_ CASTARA, _Of what we were before our creation_.

When _Pelion_ wondring saw, that raine which fell But now from angry Heaven, to Heaven ward swell: When th' Indian Ocean did the wanton play, Mingling its billowes with the Balticke sea: And the whole earth was water: O where then Were we _Castara_? In the fate of men Lost underneath the waves? Or to beguile Heaven's justice, lurkt we in _Noahs_ floating Isle? We had no being then. This fleshly frame Wed to a soule, long after, hither came A stranger to it selfe. Those moneths that were But the last age, no news of us did heare. What pompe is then in us? Who th' other day Were nothing; and in triumph now, but clay.

_To the Moment last past._

O Whither dost thou flye? Cannot my vow Intreat thee tarry? Thou wert here but now, And thou art gone: like ships which plough the Sea, And leave no print for man to tracke their way. O unseene wealth! who thee did husband, can Out-vie the jewels of the Ocean, The mines of th' earth! One sigh well spent in thee Had beene a purchase for eternity! We will not loose thee then. _Castara_, where Shall we finde out his hidden sepulcher; And wee'le revive him. Not the cruell stealth Of fate shall rob us, of so great a wealth. Undone in thrift! while we besought his stay, Ten of his fellow moments fled away.

_To_ CASTARA. _Of the knowledge of Love._

Where sleepes the North-wind when the South inspires Life in the spring, and gathers into quires The scatter'd Nightingales; whose subtle eares Heard first th' harmonious language of the Spheares; Whence hath the stone Magneticke force t'allure Th' enamour'd iron; From a seed impure Or naturall did first the Mandrake grow; What powre ith' Ocean makes it ebbe and flow; What strange materials is the azure skye Compacted of; of what its[31] brightest eye The ever flaming Sunne; what people are In th'unknowne world; what worlds in every star; Let curious fancies at this secret rove; _Castara_ what we know, wee'le practise, Love.

[31] her. 1635.

[32]_To the Right Honourable the Countesse of_ C.

Madam,

Should the cold _Muscovit_, whose furre and stove Can scarse prepare him heate enough for love, But view the wonder of your presence, he Would scorne his winters sharpest injury: And trace the naked groves, till he found bayse To write the beautious triumphs of your prayse. As a dull Poet even he would say, Th' unclouded Sun had never showne them day Till that bright minute; that he now admires No more why the coy Spring so soone retires From their unhappy clyme: It doth pursue The Sun, and he derives his light from you. Hee'd tell you how the fetter'd Baltick Sea Is set at freedome, while the yce away Doth melt at your approach; how by so faire Harmonious beauty, their rude manners are Reduc't to order; how to them you bring The wealthiest mines below, above the Spring. Thus would his wonder speake. For he would want Religion to beleeve, there were a Saint Within, and all he saw was but the shrine. But I here pay my vowes to the devine Pure essence there inclos'd, which if it were Not hid in a faire cloud but might appeare In its full lustre, would make Nature live In a state equall to her primitive. But sweetly thats obscur'd. Yet though our eye Cannot the splendor of your soule descry In true perfection, by a glimmering light, Your language yeelds us, we can guesse how bright The Sunne within you shines, and curse th' unkind Eclipse, or else our selves for being blinde. How hastily doth Nature build up man To leave him so imperfect? For he can See nought beyond his sence; she doth controule So farre his sight, he nere discern'd a soule. For had yours beene the object of his eye; It had turn'd wonder to Idolatry.

[32] _To the Right Honourable, my very good Lady, the Countesse of_ C. 1635.

_The harmony of Love._

_Amphion_, O thou holy shade! Bring _Orpheus_ up with thee: That wonder may you both invade, Hearing Loves harmony. You who are soule, not rudely made Up, with Materiall eares, And fit to reach the musique of these spheares.

Harke! when _Castara's_ orbs doe move By my first moving eyes, How great the Symphony of Love, But 'tis the destinies Will not so farre my prayer approve, To bring you hither, here Lest you meete heaven, for Elizium there.

Tis no dull Sublunary flame Burnes in her heart and mine. But something more, then hath a name. So subtle and divine, We know not why, nor how it came. Which shall shine bright, till she And the whole world of love, expire with me.

_To my honoured friend Sir_ ED. P. _Knight_.

You'd leave the silence in which safe we are, To listen to the noyse of warre; And walke those rugged paths, the factious tread, Who by the number of the dead Reckon their glories, and thinke greatnesse stood Unsafe, till it was built on blood. Secure ith' wall our Seas and ships provide (Abhorring wars so barb'rous pride And honour bought with slaughter) in content Lets breath though humble, innocent. Folly and madnesse! Since 'tis ods we nere See the fresh youth of the next yeare. Perhaps not the chast morne, her selfe disclose Againe, t'out-blush th' æmulous rose, Why doth ambition so the mind distresse To make us scorne what we possesse? And looke so farre before us? Since all we Can hope, is varied misery? Goe find some whispering shade neare _Arne_ or _Poe_, And gently 'mong their violets throw Your wearyed limbs, and see if all those faire Enchantments can charme griefe or care? Our sorrowes still pursue us, and when you The ruin'd Capitoll shall view And statues, a disorder'd heape; you can Not cure yet the disease of man, And banish your owne thoughts. Goe travaile where Another Sun and Starres appeare, And land not toucht by any covetous fleet, And yet even there your selfe you'le meet. Stay here then, and while curious exiles find New toyes for a fantastique mind; Enjoy at home what's reall: here the Spring By her aeriall quires doth sing As sweetly to you, as if you were laid Under the learn'd _Thessalian_ shade, Direct your eye-sight inward, and you'le find A thousand regions in your mind Yet undiscover'd. Travell them, and be Expert in home Cosmographie. This you may doe safe both from rocke and shelfe: Man's a whole world within him selfe.

_To_ CASTARA.

Give me a heart where no impure Disorder'd passions rage, Which jealousie doth not obscure, Not vanity t' expence ingage, Nor wooed to madnesse by quient oathes, Or the fine Rhetoricke of cloathes, Which not the softnesse of the age To vice or folly doth decline; Give me that heart (_Castara_) for 'tis thine.

Take thou a heart where no new looke Provokes new appetite: With no fresh charme of beauty tooke, Or wanton stratagem of wit; Not Idly wandring here and there, Led by an am'rous eye or eare. Ayming each beautious marke to hit; Which vertue doth to one confine: Take thou that heart, _Castara_, for 'tis mine.

And now my heart is lodg'd with thee, Observe but how it still Doth listen how thine doth with me; And guard it well, for else it will Runne hither backe; not to be where I am, but 'cause thy heart is here. But without discipline, or skill. Our hearts shall freely 'tweene us move; Should thou or I want hearts, wee'd breath by love.

_To_ CASTARA. _Of true delight._

Why doth the eare so tempt the voyce, That cunningly divides the ayre? Why doth the pallate buy the choyce Delights oth' sea, to enrich her fare?

As soone as I, my eare obey The Eccho's lost even with the breath. And when the sewer takes away I'me left with no more taste, then death.

Be curious in pursuite of eyes To procreate new loves with thine; Satiety makes sence despise What superstition thought divine.

Quicke fancy how it mockes delight? As we conceive, things are not such, The glow-worme is as warme as bright, Till the deceitfull flame we touch.

When I have sold my heart to lust, And bought repentance with a kisse I find the malice of my dust, That told me hell contain'd a blisse.

The Rose yeelds her sweete blandishment Lost in the fold of lovers wreathes, The violet enchants the sent, When earely in the Spring she breaths.

But winter comes and makes each flowre Shrinke from the pillow where it growes, Or an intruding cold hath powre To scorne the perfume of the Rose.

Our sences like false glasses show Smooth beauty where browes wrinkled are, And makes the cosen'd fancy glow. Chaste vertue's onely true[33] and faire.

[33] chaste. 1635.

_To my noblest Friend, I. C. Esquire._

Sir,

I hate the Countries durt and manners, yet I love the silence; I embrace the wit And courtship, flowing here in a full tide. But loathe the expence, the vanity, and pride. No place each way is happy. Here I hold Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold (After a due oath ministred) the height And greatnesse of each star shines in the state: The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence. With others I commune, who tell me whence The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow: Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow, Soone as they happen; and by rote can tell Those _Germane_ townes, even puzzle me to spell. The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, they Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning, or delay: And on each action comment, with more skill Then upon _Livy_, did old _Machavill_. O busie folly! Why doe I my braine Perplex with the dull pollicies of _Spaine_, Or quicke designes of _France_? Why not repaire To the pure innocence oth' Country ayre: And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost give Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not we Arme against passion with Philosophie; And by the aide of leisure, so controule, What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule? Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when We study misteries of other men And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade (Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide, Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate all His stratagems who labours to inthrall The world to his great Master; and youle finde Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind. Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deare A price for glory: Honour doth appeare To statesmen like a vision in the night, And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight. Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respect Indangers them to error; They affect Truth in her naked beauty, and behold Man with an equall eye, not bright in gold Or tall in title; so much him they weigh As Vertue raiseth him above his clay. Thus let us value things: And since we find Time bends us toward death, lets in our mind Create new youth; and arme against the rude Assaults of age; that no dull solitude Oth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care Oth' towne make us not thinke, where now we are And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot His journey, though his steps we numbred not.

_To_ CASTARA. _What Lovers will say when she and he are dead._

I wonder when w'are dead, what men will say; Will not poore Orphan Lovers weepe. The parents of their Loves decay; And envy death the treasure of our sleepe?

Will not each trembling Virgin bring her feares To th' holy silence of my Urne? And chide the Marble with her teares, Cause she so soone faith's obsequie must mourne.

For had Fate spar'd but _Araphill_ (she'le say) He had the great example stood, And forc't unconstant man obey The law of Loves Religion, not of blood.

And youth by female perjury betraid, Will to _Castara's_ shrine deplore His injuries, and death obrayd, That woman lives more guilty, then before.

For while thy breathing purified the ayre Thy Sex (hee'le say) did onely move By the chaste influence of a faire, Whose vertue shin'd in the bright orbe of love.

Now woman, like a Meteor vapor'd forth From dunghills, doth amaze our eyes; Not shining with a reall worth, But subtile her blacke errors to disguise.

Thus will they talke, _Castara_, while our dust In one darke vault shall mingled be. The world will fall a prey to lust, When Love is dead, which hath one fate with me.

_To his Muse._

Here Virgin fix thy pillars, and command They sacred may to after ages stand In witnesse of loves triumph. Yet will we _Castara_, find new worlds in Poetry, And conquer them. Not dully following those Tame lovers, who dare cloth their thoughts in prose. But we will henceforth more Religious prove, Concealing the high mysteries of love From the prophane. Harmonious like the spheares, Our soules shall move, not reacht by humane eares. That Musicke to the Angels, this to fame, I here commit. That when their holy flame, True lovers to pure beauties would rehearse, They may invoke the _Genius_ of my verse.

_FINIS._

A Friend

_Is a man. For the free and open discovery of thoughts to woman can not passe without an over licentious familiarity, or a justly occasion'd suspition; and friendship can neither stand with vice or infamie. He is vertuous, for love begot in sin is a mishapen monster, and seldome out-lives his birth. He is noble, and inherits the vertues of all his progenitors; though happily unskilfull to blazon his paternall coate; So little should nobility serve for story, but when it encourageth to action. He is so valiant, feare could never be listned to, when she whisper'd danger; and yet fights not, unlesse religion confirmes the quarrell lawfull. He submits his actions to the government of vertue, not to the wilde decrees of popular opinion; and when his conscience is fully satisfied, he cares not how mistake and ignorance interpret him. He hath so much fortitude he can forgive an injurie; and when he hath overthrown his opposer, not insult upon his weakenesse. He is an absolute governor; no destroyer of his passions, which he imployes to the noble increase of vertue. He is wise, for who hopes to reape a harvest from the sands, may expect the perfect offices of friendship from a foole. He hath by a liberall education beene softned to civility; for that rugged honesty some rude men posesse, is an indigested Chaos; which may containe the seedes of goodnesse, but it wants forme and order._

_He is no flatterer; but when he findes his friend any way imperfect, he freely but gently informes him; nor yet shall some few errors cancell the bond of friendship; because he remembers no endeavours can raise man above his frailety. He is as slow to enter into that title, as he is to forsake it; a monstrous vice must disobliege, because an extraordinary vertue did first unite; and when he parts, he doth it without a duell. He is neither effeminate, nor a common courtier; the first is so passionate a doater upon himselfe, hee cannot spare love enough to bee justly named friendship: the latter hath his love so diffusive among the beauties, that man is not considerable. He is not accustomed to any sordid way of gaine, for who is any way mechanicke, will sell his friend upon more profitable termes. He is bountifull, and thinkes no treasure of fortune equall to the preservation of him he loves; yet not so lavish, as to buy friendship and perhaps afterward finde himselfe overseene in the purchase. He is not exceptious, for jealousie proceedes from weakenesse, and his vertues quit him from suspitions. He freely gives advice, but so little peremptory is his opinion that he ingenuously submits it to an abler judgement. He is open in expression of his thoughts and easeth his melancholy by inlarging it; and no Sanctuary preserves so safely, as he his friend afflicted. He makes use of no engines of his friendship to extort a secret; but if committed to his charge, his heart receives it, and that and it come both to light together. In life he is the most amiable object to the soule, in death the most deplorable._

_The Funerals of the Honourable, my best friend and Kinsman_, GEORGE TALBOT, Esquire.

_Elegie, 1._