Part 8

Twere malice to the fame; to weepe alone And not enforce an universall groane From ruinous man, and make the World complaine: Yet I'le forbid my griefe to be prophane In mention of thy prayse; I'le speake but truth Yet write more honour than ere shin'd in youth. I can relate thy businesse here on earth, Thy mystery of life, thy noblest birth Out-shin'd by nobler vertue: but how farre Th' hast tane thy journey 'bove the highest star, I cannot speake, nor whether thou art in Commission with a Throne, or Cherubin. Passe on triumphant in thy glorious way, Till thou hast reacht the place assign'd: we may Without disturbing the harmonious Spheares, Bathe here below thy memory in our teares. Ten dayes are past, since a dull wonder seis'd My active soule: Loud stormes of sighes are rais'd By empty griefes; they who can utter it, Doe no vent forth their sorrow, but their wit. I stood like _Niobe_ without a grone, Congeal'd into that monumentall stone That doth lye over thee: I had no roome For witty griefe, fit onely for thy tombe. And friendships monument, thus had I stood; But that the flame I beare thee, warm'd my blood With a new life. Ile like a funerall fire But burne a while to thee, and then expire.

_Elegie, 2._

_Talbot_ is dead. Like lightning which no part Oth' body touches, but first strikes the heart, This word hath murder'd me. Ther's not in all The stocke of sorrow, any charme can call Death sooner up. For musiqu's in the breath Of thunder, and a sweetnesse even ith' death That brings with it, if you with this compare All the loude noyses, which torment the ayre. They cure (Physitians say) the element Sicke with dull vapors, and to banishment Confine infections; but this fatall shreeke, Without the least redresse, is utter'd like The last dayes summons, when Earths trophies lye A scatter'd heape, and time it selfe must dye. What now hath life to boast of? Can I have A thought lesse darke than th' horror of the grave Now thou dost dwell below? Wer't not a fault Past pardon, to raise fancie 'bove thy vault? Hayle Sacred house in which his reliques sleepe? Blest marble give me leave t' approach and weepe, These vowes to thee! for since great _Talbot's_ gone Downe to thy silence, I commerce with none But thy pale people: and in that confute Mistaking man, that dead men are not mute. Delicious beauty, lend thy flatter'd eare Accustom'd to warme whispers, and thou'lt heare How their cold language tels thee, that thy skin Is but a beautious shrine, in which black sin Is Idoliz'd; thy eyes but Spheares where lust Hath its loose motion; and thy end is dust. Great _Atlas_ of the state, descend with me. But hither, and this vault shall furnish thee With more aviso's, then thy costly spyes, And show how false are all those mysteries Thy Sect receives, and though thy pallace swell With envied pride, 'tis here that thou must dwell. It will instruct you, Courtier, that your Art Of outward smoothnesse and a rugged heart But cheates your self, and all those subtill wayes You tread to greatnesse, is a fatall maze Where you your selfe shall loose, for though you breath Upward to pride, your center is beneath. And 'twill thy Rhetorick false flesh confound; Which flatters thy fraile thoughts, no time can wound This unarm'd frame. Here is true eloquence Will teach my soule to triumph over sence, Which hath its period in a grave, and there Showes what are all our pompous surfets here. Great Orator! deare _Talbot_! Still, to thee May I an auditor attentive be: And piously maintaine the same commerce We held in life! and if in my rude verse I to the world may thy sad precepts read: I will on earth interpret for the dead.

_Elegie, 3._

Let me contemplate thee (faire soule) and though I cannot tracke the way, which thou didst goe In thy cœlestiall journey; and my heart Expanssion wants, to thinke what now thou art How bright and wide thy glories; yet I may Remember thee, as thou wert in thy clay. Best object to my heart! what vertues be Inherent even to the least thought of thee! Death which to th' vig'rous heate of youth brings feare In its leane looke; doth like a Prince appeare, Now glorious to my eye, since it possest The wealthy empyre of that happie chest Which harbours thy rich dust; for how can he Be thought a bank'rout that embraces thee? Sad midnight whispers with a greedy eare I catch from lonely graves, in hope to heare Newes from the dead, nor can pale visions fright His eye, who since thy death feeles no delight In mans acquaintance. Mem'ry of thy fate Doth in me a sublimer soule create. And now my sorrow followes thee, I tread The milkie way, and see the snowie head Of _Atlas_ farre below, while all the high Swolne buildings seeme but atomes to my eye. I'me heighten'd by my ruine; and while I Weepe ore the vault where the sad ashes lye, My soule with thine doth hold commerce above; Where we discerne the stratagems, which Love, Hate, and ambition, use, to cozen man; So fraile that every blast of honour can Swell him above himselfe, each, adverse gust Him and his glories shiver into dust. How small seemes greatnesse here! How not a span His empire, who commands the Ocean. Both that, which boasts so much it's mighty ore And th' other, which with pearle, hath pav'd its' shore Nor can it greater seeme, when this great All For which men quarrell so, is but a ball Cast downe into the ayre to sport the starres. And all our generall ruines, mortall warres, Depopulated states, caus'd by their sway; And mans so reverend wisedome but their play. From thee, deare _Talbot_, living I did learne The Arts of life, and by thy light discerne The truth, which men dispute. But by thee dead I'me taught, upon the worlds gay pride to tread: And that way sooner master it, than he To whom both th' Indies tributary be.

_Elegie, 4._

My name, dear friend, even thy expiring breath Did call upon: affirming that thy death Would wound my poor sad heart. Sad it must be Indeed, lost to all thoughts of mirth in thee. My Lord, if I with licence of your teares, (Which your great brother's hearse as dyamonds weares T' enrich deaths glory) may but speake my owne: Ile prove it, that no sorrow ere was knowne Reall as mine. All other mourners keepe In griefe a method: without forme I weepe. The sonne (rich in his fathers fate) hath eyes Wet just as long as are the obsequies. The widow formerly a yeare doth spend In her so courtly blackes. But for a Friend We weepe an age, and more than th' Achorit, have Our very thoughts confin'd within a Grave. Chast Love who hadst thy tryumph in my flame And thou _Castara_ who had hadst a name, But for this sorrow glorious: Now my verse Is lost to you, and onely on _Talbots_ herse Sadly attends. And till times fatall hand Ruines, what's left of Churches, there shall stand. There to thy selfe, deare _Talbot_, Ile repeate Thy owne brave story; tell thy selfe how great Thou wert in thy mindes Empire, and how all Who out-live thee, see but the Funerall Of glory: and if yet some vertuous be, They but weake apparitions are of thee. So setled were thy thoughts, each action so Discreetely ordered, that nor ebbe nor flow Was ere perceiv'd in thee: each word mature And every sceane of life from sinne so pure That scarce in its whole history, we can Finde vice enough, to say thou wert but man. Horror to say thou wert! Curst that we must Addresse our language to a little dust, And seeke for _Talbot_ there. Injurious fate, To lay my lifes ambition desolate. Yet thus much comfort have I, that I know, Not how it can give such another blow.

_Elegie, 5._

Chast as the Nuns first vow, as fairely bright As when by death her Soule shines in full light Freed from th' Eclipse of earth, each word that came From thee (deare _Talbot_) did beget a flame T' enkindle vertue: which so faire by thee Became, man, that blind mole, her face did see. But now t'our eye she's lost, and if she dwell Yet on the earth; she's coffin'd in the cell Of some cold Hermit; who so keepes her there, As if of her the old man jealous were. Nor ever showes her beauty, but to some _Carthusian_, who even by his vow, is dumbe! So 'mid the yce of the farre Northern sea, A starre about the Articke Circle, may Then ours yeeld clearer light; yet that but shall Serve at the frozen Pilots funerall. Thou (brightest constellation) to this maine Which all we sinners traffique on, didst daigne The bounty of thy fire, which with so cleare And constant beames did our frayle vessels steare, That safely we, what storme so ere bore sway, Past ore the rugged Alpes of th' angry Sea. But now we sayle at randome. Every rocke The folly doth of our ambition mocke And splits our hopes: To every Sirens breath We listen and even court the face of death, If painted ore by pleasure: Every wave Ift hath delight w' embrace though 't prove a grave: So ruinous is the defect of thee, To th' undone world in gen'rall. But to me Who liv'd one life with thine, drew but one breath, Possest with th' same mind and thoughts, 'twas death. And now by fate: I but my selfe survive, To keepe his mem'ry, and my griefes alive. Where shall I then begin to weepe? No grove Silent and darke, but is prophan'd by Love: With his warme whispers, and faint idle feares, His busie hopes, loud sighes, and causelesse teares Each eare is so enchanted; that no breath Is listned to, which mockes report of death. I'le turne my griefe then inward and deplore My ruine to my selfe, repeating ore The story of his vertues; untill I Not write, but am my selfe his Elegie.

_Elegie, 6._

Goe stop the swift-wing'd moments in their flight To their yet unknowne coast, goe hinder night From its approach on day, and force day rise From the faire East of some bright beauties eyes: Else vaunt not the proud miracle of verse. It hath no powre. For mine from his blacke herse Redeemes not _Talbot_, who cold as the breath Of winter, coffin'd lyes; silent as death, Stealing on th' Anch'rit, who even wants an eare To breath into his soft expiring prayer. For had thy life beene by thy vertues spun Out to a length, thou hadst out-liv'd the Sunne And clos'd the worlds great eye: or were not all Our wonders fiction, from thy funerall Thou hadst received new life, and liv'd to be The conqueror o're death, inspir'd by me. But all we Poets glory in, is vaine And empty triumph: Art cannot regaine One poore houre lost, nor reskew a small flye By a fooles finger destinate to dye. Live then in thy true life (great soule) for set At liberty by death thou owest no debt T' exacting Nature: Live, freed from the sport Of time and fortune in yand' starry court A glorious Potentate, while we below But fashion wayes to mitigate our woe. We follow campes, and to our hopes propose Th' insulting victor; not remembring those Dismembred trunkes who gave him victory By a loath'd fate: We covetous Merchants be And to our aymes pretend treasure and sway, Forgetfull of the treasons of the Sea. The shootings of a wounded conscience We patiently sustaine to serve our sence With a short pleasure; So we empire gaine And rule the fate of businesse, the sad paine Of action we contemne, and the affright Which with pale visions still attends our night. Our joyes false apparitions, but our feares Are certaine prophecies. And till our eares Reach that cælestiall musique, which thine now So cheerefully receive, we must allow No comfort to our griefes: from which to be Exempted, is in death to follow thee.

_Elegie, 7._

There is no peace in sinne. Æternall war Doth rage 'mong vices. But all vertues are Friends 'mong themselves, and choisest accents be Harsh Eccho's of their heavenly harmonie. While thou didst live we did that union finde In the so faire republick of thy mind, Where discord never swel'd. And as we dare Affirme those goodly structures, temples are Where well-tun'd quires strike zeale into the eare: The musique of thy soule made us say, there God had his Altars; every breath a spice And each religious act a sacrifice. But death hath that demolisht. All our eye Of thee now sees doth like a Cittie lye Raz'd by the cannon. Where is then that flame That added warmth and beauty to thy frame? Fled heaven-ward to repaire, with its pure fire The losses of some maim'd Seraphick quire? Or hovers it beneath, the world t' uphold From generall ruine, and expell that cold Dull humor weakens it? If so it be; My sorrow yet must prayse fates charity. But thy example (if kinde heaven had daignd Frailty that favour) had mankind regaind To his first purity. For that the wit Of vice, might not except 'gainst th' Ancherit As too to strickt; thou didst uncloyster'd live: Teaching the soule by what preservative, She may from sinnes contagion live secure, Though all the ayre she suckt in, were impure. In this darke mist of error with a cleare Unspotted light, thy vertue did appeare T' obrayd corrupted man. How could the rage Of untam'd lust have scorcht decrepit age; Had it seene thy chast youth? Who could the wealth Of time have spent in ryot, or his health By surfeits forfeited; if he had seene What temperance had in thy dyet beene? What glorious foole had vaunted honours bought By gold or practise, or by rapin brought From his fore-fathers, had he understood How _Talbot_ valued not his owne great blood! Had Politicians seene him scorning more The unsafe pompe of greatnesse, then the poore Thatcht roofes of shepheards, where th' unruly wind (A gentler storme than pride) uncheckt doth find Still free admittance: their pale labors had Beene to be good, not to be great and bad. But he is lost in a blind vault, and we Must not admire though sinnes now frequent be And uncontrol'd: Since those faire tables where The Law was writ by death now broken are, By death extinguisht is that Star, whose light Did shine so faithfull: that each ship sayl'd right Which steer'd by that. Nor marvell then if we, (That sailing) lost in this worlds tempest be. But to what Orbe so ere thou dost retyre, Far from our ken: tis blest, while by thy fire Enlighten'd. And since thou must never here Be seene againe: may I ore-take thee there.

_Elegie, 8._

Boast not the rev'rend Vatican, nor all The cunning Pompe of the Escuriall. Though there both th' Indies met in each smal room Th' are short in treasure of this precious tombe. Here is th' Epitome of wealth, this chest Is Natures chiefe Exchequer, hence the East When it is purified by th' generall fire Shall see these now pale ashes sparkle higher Then all the gems she vants: transcending far In fragrant lustre the bright morning star. Tis true, they now seeme darke. But rather we Have by a cataract lost sight, then he Though dead his glory. So to us blacke night Brings darkenesse, when the Sun retaines his light. Thou eclips'd dust! Expecting breake of day From the thicke mists about thy Tombe, I'le pay Like the just Larke, the tribute of my verse I will invite thee, from thy envious herse To rise, and 'bout the World thy beames to spread, That we may see, there's brightnesse in the dead. My zeale deludes me not. What perfumes come From th' happy vault? In her sweete martyrdome The nard breathes never so, nor so the rose When the enamor'd Spring by kissing blowes Soft blushes on her cheeke, nor th' early East Vying with Paradice, ith' Phœnix nest. These gentle perfumes usher in the day Which from the night of his discolour'd clay Breakes on the sudden: for a Soule so bright Of force must to her earth contribute light. But if w' are so far blind, we cannot see The wonder of this truth; yet let us be Not infidels: nor like dull Atheists give Our selves so long to lust, till we believe (T' allay the griefe of sinne) that we shall fall To a loath'd nothing in our Funerall. The bad mans death is horror. But the just Keepe something of his glory in his dust.

_FINIS._

CASTARA:

THE THIRD PART.

_LONDON_

Printed by _Tho. Cotes_, for _Will. Cooke_ 1640.

A Holy Man

_Is onely Happie. For infelicity and sinne were borne twinnes; Or rather like some prodigie with two bodies, both draw and expire the same breath. Catholique faith is the foundation on which he erects Religion; knowing it a ruinous madnesse to build in the ayre of a private spirit, or on the sands of any new schisme. His impietie is not so bold to bring divinity downe to the mistake of reason, or to deny those misteries his apprehension reacheth not. His obedience moves still by direction of the Magistrate: And should conscience informe him that the command is unjust; he judgeth it neverthelesse high treason by rebellion to make good his tenets; as it were the basest cowardize, by dissimulation of religion, to preserve temporall respects. Hee knowes humane pollicie but a crooked rule of action: and therefore by a distrust of his owne knowledge attaines it: Confounding with supernaturall illumination, the opinionated judgment of the wise. In prosperity he gratefully admires the bounty of the Almighty giver, and useth, not abuseth plenty: But in adversity hee remaines unshaken, and like some eminent mountaine hath his head above the clouds. For his happinesse is not meteor-like exhaled from the vapors of this world; but shines a fixt starre, which when by misfortune it appeares to fall, onely casts away the slimie matter. Poverty he neither feares nor covets, but cheerefully entertaines; imagining it the fire which tries vertue: Nor how tyrannically soever it usurpe on him, doth he pay to it a sigh or wrinckle: for he who suffers want without reluctancie, may be poore not miserable. He sees the covetous prosper by usury, yet waxeth not leane with envie: and when the prosperitie of the impious flourish, he questiones not the divine justice; for temporall rewards distinguish not ever the merits of men: and who hath beene of councel with the Æternall? Fame he weighes not, but esteemes a smoake, yet such as carries with it the sweetest odour, and riseth usually from the Sacrifice of our best actions. Pride he disdaines, when he findes it swelling in himselfe; but easily forgiveth it in another: Nor can any mans error in life, make him sinne in censure, since seldome the folly we condemne is so culpable as the severity of our judgement. He doth not malice the over-spreading growth of his equalls: but pitties, not despiseth the fall of any man: Esteeming yet no storme of fortune dangerous, but what is rais'd through our owne demerit. When he lookes on others vices, he values not himselfe vertuous by comparison, but examines his owne defects, and findes matter enough at home for reprehension: In conversation his carriage is neither plausible to flattery, nor reserv'd to rigor: but so demeanes himselfe as created for societie. In solitude he remembers his better part is Angelicall; and therefore his minde practiseth the best discourse without assistance of inferiour Organs. Lust is the Basiliske he flyes, a Serpent of the most destroying venome: for it blasts al plants with the breath, and carries the most murdering Artillery in the eye: He is ever merry but still modest. Not dissolved into undecent laughter, or trickled with wit scurrilous or injurious. He cunningly searcheth into the vertues of others, and liberally commends them: but buries the vices of the imperfect in a charitable silence, whose manners he reformes not by invectives but example: In prayer he is frequent not apparent: yet as he labours not the opinion, so he feares not the scandall of being thought good. He every day travailes his meditations up to heaven, and never findes himself wearied with the journey: but when the necessities of nature returne him downe to earth, he esteemes it a place, hee is condemned to. Devotion is his Mistresse on which he is passionately enamord: for that he hath found the most Soveraigne antidote against sinne, and the onely balsome powerfull to cure those wounds hee hath receav'd through frailety. To live he knowes a benefit, and the contempt of it ingratitude, and therefore loves, but not doates on life. Death how deformed soever an aspect it weares, he is not frighted with: since it not annihilates, but uncloudes the soule. He therefore stands every movement prepared to dye: and though he freely yeelds up himself, when age or sicknesse sommon him; yet he with more alacritie puts off his earth, when the profession of faith crownes him a martyr._

_Twenty-two Poems, chiefly Sacred, with Scripture Text._

_Domine labia mea aperies_ DAVID.

Noe monument of me remaine, My mem'orie rust In the same marble with my dust: Ere I the spreadingst Laurell gaine, By writing wanton or profane.

Ye glorious wonders of the skies, Shine still bright starres, Th' Almighties mystick Characters! Ile not your beautious lights surprise T' illuminate a womans eyes.

Nor to perfume her veins, will I In each one set The purple of the violet. The untoucht flowre may grow and dye Safe from my fancies injurie.

Open my lippes, great God! and then Ile soare above The humble flight of carnall love. Upward to thee Ile force my pen, And trace no path of vulgar men.

For what can our unbounded soules Worthy to be Their object finde, excepting thee? Where can I fixe? since time controules Our pride, whose motion all things roules.

Should I my selfe ingratiate T' a Princes smile; How soone may death my hopes beguile? And should I farme the proudest state, I'me Tennant to uncertaine fate.

If I court gold; will it not rust? And if my love Toward a female beauty move; How will that surfet of our lust Distast us, when resolv'd to dust?

But thou Æternall banquet! where For ever we May feede without satietie! Who harmonie art to the eare, Who art, while all things else appeare!

While up to thee I shoote my flame Thou dost dispence A holy death, that murders sence, And makes me scorne all pompes, that ayme All other triumphs than thy name.

It crownes me with a victory So heavenly, all That's earth from me away doth fall. And I, from my corruption free, Grow in my vowes even part of thee.

_Versa est in luctum cythara mea._ JOB.

Love! I no orgies sing Whereby thy mercies to invoke: Nor from the East rich perfumes bring To cloude the Altars with thy precious smoake.

Nor while I did frequent Those fanes by lovers rais'd to thee: Did I loose heathenish rites invent, To force a blush from injur'd Chastitie.