Chapter 4

Chapter 44,008 wordsPublic domain

A cluster of them makes not half a Moon, What should such tennis-balls do in the skie? And few ’ll not figure out the fashion Of those round firie meteors on high. Ne ought their beards much move us, that do lie Ever cast forward from the Morning sunne, Nor back cast tayls turn’d to our Evening-eye, That fair appear when as the day is done. This matter may lie hid in the starres shadowed Cone.

For in these Planets conflagration, Although the smoke mount up exactly round, Yet by the suns irradiation Made thin and subtil no where else its found By sight, save in the dim and duskish bound Of the projected Pyramid opake, Opake with darknesse, smoke and mists unsound. Yet gilded like a foggie cloud doth make Reflection of fair light that doth our senses take.

This is the reason of that constant site Of Comets tayls and beards: And that their show’s Not pure Pyramidall, nor their ends seem streight But bow’d like brooms, is from the winds that blow, I mean Ethereall winds, such as below Men finden under th’ Equinoctiall line. Their widend beards this aire so broad doth strow Incurvate, and or more or lesse decline: If not, let sharper wits more subtly here divine.

But that experiment of the Optick glasse The greatest argument of all I deem, Ne can I well encounter nor let passe So strong a reason if I may esteem The feat withouten fallacie to been, Nor judge these little sparks and subtile lights Some auncient fixed starres though now first seen, That near the ruin’d Comets place were pight, On which that Optic instrument by chance did light.

Nor finally an uncouth after-sport Of th’ immense vapours that the searching fire Had boyled out, which now themselves consort In severall parts and closely do conspire, Clumper’d in balls of clouds and globes entire Of crudled smoke and heavy clunging mists; Which when they’ve staid awhile at last expire; But while they stay any may see that lists So be that Optick Art his naturall sight assists.

If none of these wayes I may well decline The urging weight of this hard argument, Worst is but parting stakes and thus define: Some Comets be but single Planets brent, Others a synod joyn’d in due consent: And that no new found Meteors they are: Ne further may my wary mind assent From one single experience solitaire, Till all-discovering Time shall further truth declare.

But for the new fixt starres there’s no pretence, Nor beard nor tail to take occasion by, To bring in that unluckie inference Which weaken might this new built mysterie. Certes in raging fire they both did frie. A signe whereof you rightly may aread Their colours changeable varietie First clear and white, then yellow, after red, Then blewly pale, then duller still, till perfect dead.

And as the order of these colours went, So still decreas’d that Cassiopean starre, Till at the length to sight it was quite spent: Which observations strong reasons are, Consuming fire its body did empare And turn to ashes. And the like will be In all the darksome Planets wide and farre. Ne can our Earth from this state standen free A Planet as the rest, and Planets fate must trie.

Ne let the tender heart too harshly deem Of this rude sentence: for what rigour more Is in consuming fire then drowning stream Of Noahs floud which all creaturs choak’d of yore, Saving those few that were kept safe in store In that well builded ship? All else beside Men, birds, and beasts, the lion, buck, and bore Dogs, kine, sheep, horses all that did abide Upon the spacious earth, perish’d in waters wide.

Nor let the slow and misbelieving wight Doubt how the fire on the hard earth may seize; No more then how those waters erst did light Upon the sinfull world. For as the seas Boyling with swelling waves aloft did rise, And met with mighty showers and pouring rain From Heavens spouts; so the broad flashing skies Thickned with brimstone and clouds of fiery bain Shall meet with raging Etna’s and Vesuvius flame.

The burning bowels of this wasting ball Shall gullup up great flakes of rolling fire, And belch out pitchie flames, till over all Having long rag’d, Vulcan himself shall tire And (th’ earth an ashheap made) shall then expire: Here Nature laid asleep in her own Urn With gentle rest right easly will respire, Till to her pristine task she do return As fresh as Phenix young under th’ Arabian Morn.

O happy they that then the first are born, While yet the world is in her vernall pride: For old corruption quite away is worn As metall pure so is her mold well tride. Sweet dews, cool-breathing airs, and spaces wide Of precious spicery wafted with soft wind: Fair comely bodies goodly beautifi’d Snow-limb’d, rose-cheek’d, ruby-lip’d, pearl-ted, star eyn’d Their parts each fair in fit proportion all conbin’d.

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For all the while her purged ashes rest These rellicks dry suck in the heavenly dew, And roscid Manna rains upon her breast, And fills with sacred milk sweet fresh and new, Where all take life and doth the world renew; And then renew’d with pleasure be yfed. A green soft mantle doth her bosome strew With fragrant herbs and flowers embellished, Where without fault or shame all living creatures bed.

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Ne ought we doubt how Nature may recover In her own ashes long time buried, For nought can ever consume that centrall power Of hid spermatick life, which lies not dead In that rude heap, but safely covered; And doth by secret force suck from above Sweet heavenly juice, and therewith nourished Till her just bulk, she doth her life emprove, Made mother of much children that about her move.

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Witnesse that uncouth bird of Arabie Which out of her own ruines doth revive With all th’ exploits of skillfull Chymistrie, Such as no vulgar wit can well believe. Let universall Nature witnesse give That what I sing ’s no feigned forgerie. A needlesse task new fables to contrive, But what I sing is seemly verity Well suting with right reason and Philosophie.

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But the fit time of this mutation No man can finden out with all his pains. For the small sphears of humane reason run Too swift within his narrow compast brains. But that vast Orb of Providence contains A wider period; turneth still and slow. Yet at the last his aimed end he gains. And sure at last a fire will overflow The aged Earth, and all must into ashes go.

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Then all the stately works and monuments Built on this bottome shall to ruine fall. And all those goodly statues shall be brent Which were erect to the memoriall Of Kings Kæsars, ne may better ’fall The boastfull works of brave Poetick pride That promise life and fame perpetuall; Ne better fate may these poor lines abide. Betide what will to what may live no lenger tide!

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This is the course that never-dying Nature Might ever hold from all Eternitie, Renuing still the faint decayed creature Which would grow stark and drie as aged tree, Unlesse by wise preventing Destinie She were at certain periods of years Reduced back unto her Infancie, Which well fram’d argument (as plain appears) My ship from those hard rocks and shelves right safely stears.

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Lo! now my faithfull muse hath represented Both frames of Providence to open view, And hath each point in orient colours painted Not to deceive the sight with seeming shew But earnest to give either part their due; Now urging th’ uncouth strange perplexitie Of infinite worlds and Time, then of a new Softening that harsher inconsistencie To fit the immense goodnesse of the Deity.

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And here by curious men ’t may be expected That I this knot with judgement grave decide, And then proceed to what else was objected. But, ah! What mortall wit may dare t’ areed Heavens counsels in eternall horrour hid? And Cynthius pulls me by my tender ear Such signes I must observe with wary heed: Wherefore my restlesse Muse at length forbear. Thy silver sounded Lute hang up in silence here.

FINIS.

Cupids Conflict.

_Mela._ _Cleanthes._

_Cl._ _Mela_ my dear! why been thy looks so sad As if thy gentle heart were sunk with care? Impart thy case; for be it good or bad Friendship in either will bear equall share. _Mel._ Not so; _Cleanthes_, for if bad it be My self must bleed afresh by wounding thee.

But what it is, my slow, uncertain wit Cannot well judge. But thou shalt sentence give How manfully of late my self I quit, When with that lordly lad by chance I strive: _Cl._ Of friendship _Mela_! let’s that story hear. _Mel._ Sit down _Cleanthes_ then, and lend thine ear.

Upon a day as best did please my mind Walking abroad amidst the verdant field Scattering my carefull thoughts i’ th’ wanton wind The pleasure of my path so farre had till’d My feeble feet that without timely rest Uneath it were to reach my wonted nest.

In secret shade farre moved from mortals sight In lowly dale my wandring limbs I laid On the cool grasse where Natures pregnant wit A goodly bower of thickest trees had made. Amongst the leaves the chearfull birds did fare And sweetly carrol’d to the echoing air.

Hard at my feet ran down a crystall spring Which did the cumbrous pebbles hoarsly chide For standing in the way. Though murmuring The broken stream his course did rightly guide And strongly pressing forward with disdain The grassie flore divided into twain.

The place a while did feed my foolish eye As being new, and eke mine idle ear Did listen oft to that wild harmonie And oft my curious phansie would compare How well agreed the Brooks low muttering Base, With the birds trebbles pearch’d on higher place.

But senses objects soon do glut the soul, Or rather weary with their emptinesse; So I, all heedlesse how the waters roll And mindlesse of the mirth the birds expresse, Into my self ’gin softly to retire After hid heavenly pleasures to enquire.

While I this enterprize do entertain; Lo! on the other side in thickest bushes A mighty noise! with that a naked swain With blew and purple wings streight rudely rushes. He leaps down light upon the flowry green, Like sight before mine eyes had never seen.

At’s snowy back the boy a quiver wore Right fairly wrought and gilded all with gold. A silver bow in his left hand he bore, And in his right a ready shaft did hold. Thus armed stood he and betwixt us tway The labouring brook did break his toilsome way.

The wanton lad whose sport is others pain Did charge his bended bow with deadly dart, And drawing to the head with might and main, With fell intent he aim’d to hit my heart. But ever as he shot his arrows still In their mid course dropt down into the rill.

Of wondrous virtues that in waters been Is needlesse to rehearse, all books do ring Of those strange rarities. But ne’re was seen Such virtue as resided in this spring. The novelty did make me much admire But stirr’d the hasty youth to ragefull ire.

As heedlesse fowls that take their per’lous flight Over that bane of birds, _Averno lake_, Do drop down dead: so dead his shafts did light Amid this stream, which presently did slake Their fiery points, and all their feathers wet Which made the youngster Godling inly fret.

Thus lustfull Love (this was that love I ween) Was wholly changed to consuming ire. And eath it was, sith they’re so near a kin They be both born of one rebellious sire. But he supprest his wrath and by and by For feathered darts, he winged words let flie:

Vain man! said he, and would thou wer’st not vain That hid’st thy self in solitary shade And spil’st thy precious youth in sad disdain Hating this lifes delight! Hath god thee made Part of this world, and wilt not thou partake Of this worlds pleasure for its makers sake?

Unthankfull wretch! Gods gifts thus to reject And maken nought of Natures goodly dower That milders still away through thy neglect And dying fades like unregarded flower. This life is good, what’s good thou must improve, The highest improvement of this life is love.

Had I (but O that envious Destinie, Or Stygian vow, or thrice accursed charm Should in this place free passage thus denie Unto my shafts as messengers of harm! Had I but once transfixt thy froward breast, How would’st thou then----I staid not for the rest;

But thus half angry to the boy replide: How would’st thou then my soul of sense bereave! I blinded, thee more blind should choose my guide! How would’st thou then my muddied mind deceive With fading shows, that in my errour vile, Base lust; I love should tearm, vice, virtue stile.

How should my wicked rymes then idolize Thy wretched power, and with impious wit Impute thy base born passions to the skies And my souls sicknesse count an heavenly fit, My weaknesse strength, my wisdome to be caught My bane my blisse, mine ease to be o’rewraught.

How often through my fondly feigning mind And frantick phansie, in my Mistris eye Should I a thousand fluttering Cupids find Bathing their busie wings? How oft espie Under the shadow of her eye-brows fair Ten thousand Graces sit all naked bare?

Thus haunted should I be with such feat fiends: A pretty madnesse were my portion due. Foolish my self I would not hear my friends. Should deem the true for false, the false for true. My way all dark more slippery then ice My attendents, anger, pride, and jealousies.

Unthankfull then to God I should neglect All the whole world for one poor sorry wight, Whose pestilent eye into my heart project Would burn like poysonous Comet in my spright. Aye me! how dismall then would prove that day Whose onely light sprang from so fatall ray.

Who seeks for pleasure in this mortall life By diving deep into the body base Shall loose true pleasure: But who gainly strive Their sinking soul above this bulk to place Enlarg’d delight they certainly shall find Unbounded joyes to fill their boundlesse mind.

When I my self from mine own self do quit And each thing else; then an all-spreaden love To the vast Universe my soul doth sit Makes me half equall to all-seeing Jove. My mighty wings high stretch’d then clapping light I brush the starres and make them shine more bright.

Then all the works of God with close embrace I dearly hug in my enlarged arms All the hid paths of heavenly Love I trace And boldly listen to his secret charms. Then clearly view I where true light doth rise, And where eternall Night low-pressed lies.

Thus lose I not by leaving small delight But gain more joy, while I my self suspend From this and that; for then with all unite I all enjoy, and love that love commends. That all is more then loves the partiall soul Whose petty loves th’ impartiall fates controll.

Ah son! said he, (and laughed very loud) That trickst thy tongue with uncouth strange disguize, Extolling highly that with speeches proud To mortall men that humane state denies, And rashly blaming what thou never knew Let men experienc’d speak, if they’ll speak true.

Had I once lanc’d thy froward flinty heart And cruddled bloud had thawn with living fire And prickt thy drousie sprite with gentle smart How wouldst thou wake to kindly sweet desire, Thy soul fill’d up with overflowing pleasures Would dew thy lips with hony-dropping measures.

Then wouldst thou caroll loud and sweetly sing In honour of my sacred Deity That all the woods and hollow hills would ring Reechoing thy heavenly harmonie. And eke the hardy rocks with full rebounds Would faithfully return thy silver sounds.

Next unto me would be thy Mistresse fair, Whom thou might setten out with goodly skill Her peerlesse beauty and her virtues rare, That all would wonder at thy gracefull quill. And lastly in us both thy self shouldst raise And crown thy temples with immortall bayes.

But now thy riddles all men do neglect, Thy rugged lines of all do lie forlorn. Unwelcome rymes that rudely do detect The Readers ignorance. Men holden scorn To be so often non-plusd or to spell, And on one stanza a whole age to dwell.

Besides this harsh and hard obscuritie Of the hid sense, thy words are barbarous And strangely new, and yet too frequently Return, as usuall plain and obvious, So that the show of the new thick-set patch Marres all the old with which it ill doth match.

But if thy haughty mind, forsooth, would deign To stoop so low to hearken to my lore, Then wouldst thou with trim lovers not disdeign To adorn the outside, set the best before. Nor rub nor wrinkle would thy verses spoil Thy rymes should run as glib and smooth as oyl.

If that be all, said I, thy reasons slight Can never move my well establishd mind. Full well I wote alwayes the present sprite, Or life that doth possesse the soul, doth blind, Shutting the windows ’gainst broad open day Lest fairer sights its uglinesse bewray.

The soul then loves that disposition best Because no better comes unto her view. The drunkard drunkennesse, the sluggard rest, Th’ Ambitious honour and obeisance due. So all the rest do love their vices base ’Cause virtues beauty comes not into place.

And looser love ’gainst Chastitie divine Would shut the door that he might sit alone. Then wholly should my mind to him incline: And woxen strait, (since larger love was gone) That paultrie sprite of low contracting lust Would fit my soul as if ’t were made for ’t just.

Then should I with my fellow bird or brute So strangely metamorphis’d, either ney Or bellow loud: or if ’t may better sute Chirp out my joy pearch’d upon higher spray. My passions fond with impudence rehearse, Immortalize my madnesse in a verse.

This is the summe of thy deceiving boast That I vain ludenesse highly should admire, When I the sense of better things have lost And chang’d my heavenly heat for hellish fire, Passion is blind, but virtues piercing eye Approching danger can from farre espie.

And what thou dost Pedantickly object Concerning my rude rugged uncouth style, As childish toy I manfully neglect, And at thy hidden snares do inly smile. How ill alas! with wisdome it accords To sell my living sense for livelesse words.

My thought ’s the fittest measure of my tongue, Wherefore I’ll use what’s most significant, And rather then my inward meaning wrong Or my full-shining notion trimly scant, I’ll conjure up old words out of their grave, Or call fresh forrein force in if need crave.

And these attending on my moving mind Shall duly usher in the fitting sense. As oft as meet occasion I find. Unusuall words oft used give lesse offence; Nor will the old contexture dim or marre, For often us’d they’re next to old, thred-bare.

And if the old seem in too rustie hew, Then frequent rubbing makes them shine like gold, And glister all with colour gayly new. Wherefore to use them both we will be bold. Thus lists me fondly with fond folk to toy, And answer fools with equall foolerie.

The meaner mind works with more nicetie, As spiders wont to weave their idle web, But braver spirits do all things gallantly Of lesser failings nought at all affred: So Natures carelesse pencill dipt in light With sprinkled starres hath spattered the Night.

And if my notions clear though rudely thrown And loosely scattered in my poesie, May lend men light till the dead Night be gone, And Morning fresh with roses strew the skie: It is enough, I meant no trimmer frame Or by nice needle-work to seek a name.

Vain man! that seekest name mongst earthly men Devoid of God and all good virtuous lere; Who groping in the dark do nothing ken But mad; with griping care their souls do tear, Or burst with hatred or with envie pine Or burn with rage or melt out at their eyne.

Thrice happy he whose name is writ above, And doeth good though gaining infamie; Requiteth evil turns with hearty love, And recks not what befalls him outwardly: Whose worth is in himself, and onely blisse In his pure conscience that doth nought amisse.

Who placeth pleasure in his purged soul And virtuous life his treasure doth esteem; Who can his passions master and controll, And that true lordly manlinesse doth deem, Who from this world himself hath clearly quit Counts nought his own but what lives in his sprite.

So when his sprite from this vain world shall flit It bears all with it whatsoever was dear Unto it self, passing in easie fit, As kindly ripen’d corn comes out of th’ eare. Thus mindlesse of what idle men will say He takes his own and stilly goes his way.

But the retinue of proud Lucifer, Those blustering Poets that flie after fame And deck themselves like the bright Morning-starre. Alas! it is but all a crackling flame. For death will strip them of that glorious plume That airie blisse will vanish into fume.

For can their carefull ghosts from Limbo take Return, or listen from the bowed skie To heare how well their learned lines do take? Or if they could; is Heavens felicitie So small as by mans praise to be encreas’d, Hells pain no greater then hence to be eas’d?

Therefore once dead in vain shall I transmit My shadow to gazing Posteritie; Cast farre behind me I shall never see’t, On Heavens fair Sunne having fast fixt mine eye. Nor while I live, heed I what man doth praise Or underprize mine unaffected layes.

What moves thee then, said he, to take the pains And spenden time if thou contemn’st the fruit? Sweet fruit of fame, that fills the Poets brains With high conceit and feeds his fainting wit. How pleasant ’tis in honour here to live And dead, thy name for ever to survive!

Or is thy abject mind so basely bent As of thy Muse to maken Merchandize? (And well I wote this is no strange intent.) The hopefull glimps of gold from chattering Pies, From Daws and Crows, and Parots oft hath wrung An unexpected Pegaseian song.

Foul shame on him, quoth I, that shamefull thought Doth entertain within his dunghill breast, Both God and Nature hath my spirits wrought To better temper and of old hath blest My loftie soul with more divine aspires Then to be touchd with such vile low desires.

I hate and highly scorn that Kestrell kind Of bastard scholars that subordinate The precious choice induements of the mind To wealth or worldly good. Adulterate And cursed brood! Your wit and will are born Of th’ earth and circling thither do return.

Profit and honour be those measures scant Of your slight studies and endeavours vain, And when you once have got what you did want You leave your learning to enjoy your gain. Your brains grow low, your bellies swell up high, Foul sluggish fat ditts up your dulled eye.

Thus what the earth did breed, to th’ earth is gone, Like fading hearb or feebly drooping flower, By feet of men and beast quite trodden down, The muck-sprung learning cannot long endure. Back she returns lost in her filthy source, Drown’d, chok’d or slocken by her cruell nurse.