Chapter 8

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 MY FIRST DAUGHTER.

HERE lies, to each her parents’ ruth, Mary, the daughter of their youth; Yet, all heaven’s gifts, being heaven’s due, It makes the father less to rue. At six months’ end, she parted hence, With safety of her innocence; Whose soul heaven’s queen, whose name she bears, In comfort of her mother’s tears, Hath placed amongst her virgin-train; Where, while that severed doth remain, This grave partakes the fleshly birth; Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

ON MY FIRST SON.

FAREWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy; Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. Oh! could I lose all father, now! for why, Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon ’scaped world’s, and flesh’s rage, And, if no other misery, yet age! Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry; For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.

TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

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 takest! 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.

OF LIFE AND DEATH.

THE ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds: Through which our merit leads us to our meeds. How wilful blind is he, then, that would stray, And hath it in his powers to make his way! This world death’s region is, the other life’s: And here it should be one of our first strifes, So to front death, as men might judge us past it: For good men but see death, the wicked taste it.

INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER.

TO-NIGHT, grave sir, both my poor house and I Do equally desire your company; Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast, With those that come; whose grace may make that seem Something, which else could hope for no esteem. It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates The entertainment perfect, not the cates. Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate, An olive, capers, or some bitter salad Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen, If we can get her, full of eggs, and then, Lemons and wine for sauce: to these, a coney Is not to be despaired of for our money; And though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks, The sky not falling, think we may have larks. I’ll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come: Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some May yet be there; and godwit if we can; Knat, rail, and ruff, too. Howsoe’er, my man Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus, Livy, or of some better book to us, Of which we’ll speak our minds, amidst our meat; And I’ll profess no verses to repeat: To this if aught appear, which I not know of, That will the pastry, not my paper, show of. Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be; But that which most doth take my muse and me, Is a pure cup of rich canary wine, Which is the Mermaid’s now, but shall be mine: Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted, Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted. Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring, Are all but Luther’s beer, to this I sing. Of this we will sup free, but moderately, And we will have no Pooly’ or Parrot by; Nor shall our cups make any guilty men; But at our parting we will be as when We innocently met. No simple word That shall be uttered at our mirthful board, Shall make us sad next morning; or affright The liberty that we’ll enjoy to-night.

EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY, A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH’S CHAPEL.

WEEP with me all you that read This little story; And know for whom a tear you shed, Death’s self is sorry. ’Twas a child that so did thrive In grace and feature, As heaven and nature seemed to strive Which owned the creature. Years he numbered scarce thirteen When fates turned cruel; Yet three filled zodiacs had he been The stage’s jewel; And did act, what now we moan, Old men so duly; As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one He played so truly. So, by error to his fate They all consented; But viewing him since, alas, too late! They have repented; And have sought to give new birth, In baths to steep him; But, being so much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him.

EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. H.

WOULDST thou hear what man can say In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die Which in life did harbour give To more virtue than doth live. If, at all, she had a fault Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth, The other let it sleep with death. Fitter, where it died, to tell, Than that it lived at all. Farewell.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

UNDERNEATH this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother: Death! ere thou hast slain another, Learned, and fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

TO draw no envy, Shakspeare, 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 seemed to raise. These are, as some infamous bawd, or whore, Should praise a matron; what would 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! and wonder of our stage! My Shakspeare 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 disproportioned 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. And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee, I will not seek For names: but call forth thundering Eschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead, To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of nature’s family. Yet must I not give nature all; thy art, My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part. For though the poet’s matter nature be, His heart doth give the fashion: and, that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muse’s anvil; turn the same, And himself with it, that he thinks to frame; Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; For a good poet’s made, as well as born. And such wert thou! Look how the father’s face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakspeare’s mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turnèd, and true filèd lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take Eliza, and our James! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume’s light.

TO CELIA.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine: But might I of Jove’s nectar sup, I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent’st it back to me: Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.

THE TRIUMPH OF CHARIS.

SEE the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And, enamoured, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love’s world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love’s star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements’ strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall o’ the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of beaver? Or swan’s down ever? Or have smelt o’ the bud o’ the brier? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

IN THE PERSON OF WOMANKIND. A SONG APOLOGETIC.

MEN, if you love us, play no more The fools or tyrants with your friends, To make us still sing o’er and o’er Our own false praises, for your ends: We have both wits and fancies too, And, if we must, let’s sing of you.

Nor do we doubt but that we can, If we would search with care and pain, Find some one good in some one man; So going thorough all your strain, We shall, at last, of parcels make One good enough for a song’s sake.

And as a cunning painter takes, In any curious piece you see, More pleasure while the thing he makes, Than when ’tis made—why so will we. And having pleased our art, we’ll try To make a new, and hang that by.

ODE

_To the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that Noble Pair_, _Sir Lucius Cary and Sir Henry Morison_.

I.

THE TURN.

BRAVE infant of Saguntum, clear Thy coming forth in that great year, When the prodigious Hannibal did crown His cage, with razing your immortal town. Thou, looking then about, Ere thou wert half got out, Wise child, didst hastily return, And mad’st thy mother’s womb thine urn. How summed a circle didst thou leave mankind Of deepest lore, could we the centre find!

THE COUNTER-TURN.

Did wiser nature draw thee back, From out the horror of that sack, Where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right, Lay trampled on? the deeds of death and night, Urged, hurried forth, and hurled Upon th’ affrighted world; Sword, fire, and famine, with fell fury met, And all on utmost ruin set; As, could they but life’s miseries foresee, No doubt all infants would return like thee.

THE STAND.

For what is life, if measured by the space Not by the act? Or maskèd man, if valued by his face, Above his fact? Here’s one outlived his peers, And told forth fourscore years; He vexèd time, and busied the whole state; Troubled both foes and friends; But ever to no ends: What did this stirrer but die late? How well at twenty had he fallen or stood! For three of his fourscore he did no good.

II.

THE TURN

He entered well, by virtuous parts, Got up, and thrived with honest arts; He purchased friends, and fame, and honours then, And had his noble name advanced with men: But weary of that flight, He stooped in all men’s sight To sordid flatteries, acts of strife, And sunk in that dead sea of life, So deep, as he did then death’s waters sup, But that the cork of title buoyed him up.

THE COUNTER-TURN

Alas! but Morison fell young: He never fell,—thou fall’st, my tongue. He stood a soldier to the last right end, A perfect patriot, and a noble friend; But most, a virtuous son. All offices were done By him, so ample, full, and round, In weight, in measure, number, sound, As, though his age imperfect might appear, His life was of humanity the sphere.

THE STAND

Go now, and tell out days summed up with fears, And make them years; Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage, To swell thine age; Repeat of things a throng, To show thou hast been long, Not lived: for life doth her great actions spell. By what was done and wrought In season, and so brought To light: her measures are, how well Each syllabe answered, and was formed, how fair; These make the lines of life, and that’s her air!

III.

THE TURN

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make men better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: A lily of a day, 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 Dioscouri; 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 records; Who, ere the first down bloomed upon the chin, Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.

PRÆLUDIUM.

AND must I sing? What subject shall I choose! Or whose great name in poets’ heaven use, For the more countenance to my active muse?

Hercules? alas, his bones are yet sore With his old earthly labours t’ exact more Of his dull godhead were sin. I’ll implore

Phœbus. No, tend thy cart still. Envious day Shall not give out that I have made thee stay, And foundered thy hot team, to tune my lay.

Nor will I beg of thee, lord of the vine, To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine, In the green circle of thy ivy twine.

Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid, That at thy birth mad’st the poor smith afraid. Who with his axe thy father’s midwife played.

Go, cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts, Or with thy tribade trine invent new sports; Thou, nor thy looseness with my making sorts.

Let the old boy, your son, ply his old task, Turn the stale prologue to some painted mask; His absence in my verse is all I ask.

Hermes, the cheater, shall not mix with us, Though he would steal his sisters’ Pegasus, And rifle him; or pawn his petasus.

Nor all the ladies of the Thespian lake, Though they were crushed into one form, could make A beauty of that merit, that should take

My muse up by commission; no, I bring My own true fire: now my thought takes wing, And now an epode to deep ears I sing.

EPODE.