BOOK IV. ODE XI. _To Phyllis.

Come, Phyllis, gentle Phyllis! prithee come, I have a glass of rich old wine at home, And in my garden curious flowers do grow, That languish to adorn thy brow. The ivy and the yellow crowfoot there With verdant chaplets wait to braid thy hair; With silver goblets all my house does shine, And vervain round my altar twine, On which the best of all my flock shall bleed; Come, and observe with what officious speed 10 Each lad and lass of all my house attends Till to my roof the smoke ascends. If thou wouldst know why thou must be my guest, I tell thee 'tis to celebrate a Feast, The Ides of April, which have ever been Devoted to the Cyprian Queen. A day more sacred, and more fit for mirth Than that which gave me (worthless mortal) birth: For on that day Maecenas first saw light, Born for our wonder and delight. 20 My Phyllis, since thy years come on apace, Substitute me in Telephus his place, He's now employ'd by one more rich, more fair, And proudly does her shackles wear. Remember what became of Phaeton; Remember what befell Bellerophon; That by ambition from his Father's throne, And this, by Pegasus thrown down. Content thyself with what is fit for thee, Happy that couple that in years agree! 30 Shun others, and accept my parity, And I will end my loves with thee. Thou art the last whom I intend to court, Come then; and (to prepare thee for the sport) Learn prick-song, and my merry odes rehearse: Many a care is charm'd by verse.

EPODE III. _To Maecenas._

In time to come, if such a crime should be As Parricide, (foul villany!) A clove of garlic would revenge that evil; (Rare dish for ploughmen, or the Devil!) Accursed root! how does it jounce and claw! It works like ratsbane in my maw. What witch contriv'd this strat'gem for my breath! Poison'd at once, and stunk to death; With this vile juice Medea sure did 'noint Jason, her love, in every joint; 10 When untam'd bulls in yokes he led along, This made his manhood smell so strong: This gave her dragon venom to his sting, And set the hag upon the wing. I burn, I parch, as dry as dust I am, Such drought on Puglia never came. Alcides could not bear so much as I, He oft was wet, but never dry. Maecenas! do but taste of your own treat, And what you gave your poet, eat; 20 Then go to bed, and court your mistress there, She'll never kiss you I dare swear.

[III. 5 'Jounce', a word worth restoring, is the same as Shakespeare's 'jaunce' and as 'jaunt'. It seems to be still provincial, especially in East Anglia (Flatman had property there), and is equivalent to 'jolt', 'bob up and down', 'wamble in the innerds'.]

EPODE VI.

_Against Cassius Severus, a rerevileful and wanton Poet._

Thou village-cur! why dost thou bark at me? A wolf might come, and go, for thee. At me thou open'st wide, and think'st that I Will bark with thee for company. I'm of another kind, and bravely dare (Like th' mastiff) watch my flock with care: Dare hunt through snow, and seize that savage beast That might my darling folds molest: Thou (only in the noise thou mak'st) robust Leav'st off the chase; leap'st at a crust, 10 But have a care! for if I vent my spleen, I (for a shift) can make thee grin: I'll make thee (if iambics once I sing) To die, like Bupalus, in a string. When any man insults o'er me, shall I Put finger in mine eye and cry?

EPODE X. _Against Maevius, a Poet._

And art thou shipp'd, friend Doggerel!--get thee gone, Thou pest of Helicon. Now for an hurricane to bang thy sides, Curst wood, in which he rides! An east-wind tear thy cables, crack thy oars, While every billow roars. With such a wind let all the Ocean swell As wafted Noll to Hell: No friendly star o'er all the Sea appear While thou be'st there; 10 Nor kinder destiny there mayst thou meet Than the proud Grecian Fleet, When Pallas did their Admiral destroy Return'd from ruin'd Troy. Methinks I see the mariners faint, and thee Look somewhat scurvily: Thou call'st on Jove, as if great Jove had time To mind thy Grub-street Rhyme, When the proud waves their heads to Heav'n do rear Himself scarce free from fear: 20 Well! If the Gods should thy wreck'd carcase share To beasts or fowls of th' air, I'll sacrifice to them, that they may know I can be civil too.

[X. 7 The great storm of September 2, 1658, the day before Cromwell's death.]

[Line: 18 Marvell in 1678, and Otway in _The Atheist_, 1684, first mentioned the _vicus infaustus_ which humour (or the want of it) renamed 'Milton' Street, from the proximity of Bunhill Fields.]

EPODE XI. _To Pettius his Chamber-fellow._

Ah, Pettius! I have done with Poetry, I've parted with my liberty For Cupid's slavery. Cupid, that peevish God, has singled out Me, from among the rhyming rout, For boys and girls to flout: December now has thrice stript every tree, Since bright Inachia's tyranny Has laid its chains on me. Now fie upon me! all about the town 10 My Miss I treated up and down, I for a squire was known. Lord, what a whelp was I! to pule and whine, To sigh, to sob, and to repine! For thy sake, Mistress mine! Thou didst my verse, and thou my Muse despise, My want debas'd me in thine eyes. Thou wealth, not wit, didst prize. Fuddled with wine and love my secrets flew, Stretch'd on those racks, I told thee true 20 What did myself undo. Well!--plague me not too much, imperious dame, Lest I blaspheme thy charming name, And quench my former flame. I can give others place, and see thee die Damn'd with their prodigality, If I set on't, so stout am I. Thou know'st, my friend, thus have I often said, When, by her sorceries misled, Thou bad'st me home to bed: 30 Ev'n then my practice gave my tongue the lie, I could not her curst house pass by: I fear'd, but could not fly. Since that, for young Lyciscus I'm grown mad; Inachia such a face ne'er had, It is a lovely lad. From his embraces I shall ne'er get free, Nor friends' advice, nor infamy Can disentangle me: Yet if some brighter object I should spy, 40 That might perhaps debauch my eye, And shake my constancy.

EPODE XV. _To his Sweetheart Neaera._

It was a lovely melancholy night; The Moon, and every star shone bright; When thou didst swear thou wouldst to me be true, And do as I would have thee do: False woman! round my neck thy arms did twine, Inseparable as the elm and vine: Then didst thou swear thy passion should endure To me alone sincere and pure, Till sheep and wolves should quit their enmity, And not a wave disturb the sea. 10 Treacherous Neaera! I have been too kind, But Flaccus can draw off, thou'lt find; He can that face (as thou dost him) forswear, And find (it may be) one as fair: And let me tell thee, when my fury's mov'd, I hate devoutly, as I lov'd. But thou, blest gamester, whosoe'er thou be That proudly dost my drudgery, Didst thou abound in numerous flocks, and land, Wert heir to all Pactolus' sand; 20 Though in thy brain thou bor'st Pythagoras, And carried'st Nereus in thy face, She'd pick another up, and shab thee off, And then 'twill be my turn to laugh.

[XV. 23 'Shab off' seems to be still provincially used both in the intransitive sense '_sneak_ off' and in the transitive as here '_bundle_ off.']

EPODE XVII. _To Canidia._

I yield, Canidia, to thy art, Take pity on a penitent heart: By Proserpine, Queen of the Night, And by Diana's glimmering light, By the mysterious volumes all, That can the stars from Heaven call; By all that's sacred I implore Thou to my wits wouldst me restore. The brave Achilles did forgive King Telephus, and let him live, 10 Though in the field the King appear'd, And war with Mysian bands prepar'd. When on the ground dead Hector lay, Expos'd, to birds and beasts a prey; The Trojan Dames in pity gave Hector an honourable grave. Ulysses's mariners were turn'd to swine, Transform'd by Circe's charms divine; Yet Circe did their doom revoke, And straight the grunting mortals spoke: 20 Each in his pristine shape appears, Fearless of dogs to lug their ears. Oh! do not my affliction scorn! Enough in conscience I have borne! My youth and fresh complexion's gone, Dwindled away to skin and bone. My hair is powd'red by thy care, And all my minutes busy are. Day Night, and Night the Day does chase, Yet have not I a breathing space! 30 Wretch that I am! I now believe, No pow'r can from thy charms reprieve: Now I confess thy magic can Reach head and heart, and unman man. What wouldst thou have me say? what more? O Seas! O Earth! I scorch all o'er! Hercules himself ne'er burnt like me, Nor th' flaming Mount in Sicily: O cease thy spells, lest I be soon Calcin'd into a pumice-stone! 40 When wilt th' ha' done? What must I pay? But name the sum, and I obey: Say: Wilt thou for my ransom take An hecatomb? or shall I make A bawdy song t'advance thy trade, Or court thee with a serenade? Wouldst thou to Heav'n, and be a star? I'll hire thee Cassiopeia's Chair. Castor, to Helen a true friend, Struck her defaming poet blind; 50 Yet he, good-natur'd gentleman, Gave the blind bard his eyes again. Since this, and much more thou canst do, O rid me of my madness too! From noble ancestors thy race, No vulgar blood purples thy face: Thou searchest not the graves of th' poor, But necromancy dost abhor: Gen'rous thy breast, and pure thy hands, Whose fruitful womb shall people lands, 60 And ere thy childbed-linen's clean, Thou shall be up and to't again.

_Canidia's Answer._

Go--hang thyself:--I will not hear, The rocks as soon shall lend an ear To naked mariners that be Left to the mercy of the Sea. Marry come up!--Shall thy bold pride The mysteries of the Gods deride? Presumptuous fool! commit a rape On my repute, and think to 'scape! Make me a town-talk? Well! ere thou die Cupid shall vengeance take; or I. 10 Go, get some ratsbane!--'twill not do, Nay, drink some aqua-fortis too: No witch shall take thy life away; Who dares say, Go, when I bid Stay? No!--I'll prolong thy loathed breath, And make thee wish in vain for death. In vain does Tantalus espy Fruits, he may taste but with his eye. In vain does poor Prometheus groan, And Sisyphus stop his rolling stone: 20 Long may they sigh, long may they cry, But not control their destiny. And thou in vain from some high wall Or on thy naked sword mayst fall, In vain (to terminate thy woes) Thy hands shall knit the fatal noose: For on thy shoulders then I'll ride, And make the Earth shake with my pride. Think'st thou that I, who when I please Can kill by waxen images, 30 Can force the Moon down from her sphere, And make departed ghosts appear, And mix love-potions!--thinks thy vanity, I cannot deal with such a worm as thee?

FINIS.

POEMS NOT INCLUDED IN THE EDITIONS OF 1682 AND 1686.

The sources from which these miscellaneous poems are taken are noted separately. Two, at the time of going to press, have not been printed--the _Song_ 'Oh no, oh no!' (p. 414) and the _Paraphrase_ of the 27th Chapter of Job (p. 420).

There is evidence that Flatman contemplated one more Pindaric, but perhaps it was not written, and certainly not printed. The subject was to be Admiral Myngs. The _Familiar Letters of Love, Gallantry, and Several Occasions_, 1718, vol. i, pp. 249 foll., include a letter of consolation to Flatman's 'Honoured Master', in which he writes, after some preliminary comments: 'Not to hold you any longer in suspense, my Noble, my Generous Friend, the Glory of the Sea, the Astonishment of all the World, is dead. When I have told you this, you cannot be ignorant of the Person I mean; he has a Name too big to be concealed from any body that ever heard of Wonder on the Deep, or understands what 'tis to be brave, to be valiant, to be loyal, to be kind and honourable, more than all this is too little to describe Sir _Christopher Myngs_. Guess, my Dearest Master, the Disturbance so irreparable a Loss must create in one often honour'd with his Conversation, and many Ways oblig'd by him. We have nothing left of him now but poor sorrowful _Syl. Taylour_, that other Half of his Soul, who is now resolv'd for Retirement, and will run no more Hazards at Sea. Many more Things I might misemploy you with, but this great load must be first removed, which, I think, will not be, till I have vented my Grief in a Pindarique, and done the last Office of Kindness for the Dead. If I can make my Sorrows any thing legible, expect to bear a Part in them.' The letter is dated from London on June 15, 1666.

Another lost poem--doubtless a Pindaric--on the theme of London is thus referred to in an autograph letter to Sancroft written from St. Catharine Hall, Cambridge, on May 13, 1667 (Tanner MS. xlv, fol. 188):

'When I was last with you you were pleasd to take away from me a paper of imperfect Verses, the first desseign wherof was to comply with your injunction in saying something on that subject, whose beuty (it may be) had it continued in that flourishing condition 'twas in at the time of the imposition of yo^{r} commaunds, might haue heightned my thoughts as much as it's ruin has now dejected them; or to speak in my owne way, The Coppy had bin much livelier if th' Originall hadnt bin so much defaced; and he must be a better Architect then I that can reare a structure any thing magnificent in so bare an Ichnography. Thus much S^{r} to let you know how much I am beholding to yo^{r} forgetfulness in returning my Ode, wherby you haue cover'd many imperfections, & kept me from being any longer angry with my self for not finishing what had better never bin begun.'

One poem, sometimes assigned to Flatman has not been reprinted here--_A Panegyric to his Renowned Majesty, Charles the Second, King of Great Britain, &c._, a folio sheet issued in 1660, with the initials 'T. F.', and beginning 'Return, return, strange prodigy of fate!' Flatman, if it had been his, would not have failed to reprint it in his own _Poems_. Similarly with an anonymous poem on the coronation of James II--_To the King, a Congratulatory Poem_, printed for R. Bentley in 1685--which Mr. W. C. Hazlitt in his _Collections and Notes_, ii, p. 694, ascribes to Flatman. It begins:

Dread Sir, since it has pleas'd the Pow'rs above To take the other Object of our love.

This has a faint verbal resemblance to the opening of Flatman's genuine poem on James (see p. 394), and the misattribution may be due to this.

_Upon a Chine of Beef._

I.

A chine of beef, God save us all, Far larger than the butcher's stall, And sturdier than the City-wall.

II.

For this held out until the foe, By dint of blade and potent blow, Fell in pell mell; that did not so.

III.

With stomachs sharper than their knives, They laid about them for their lives; Well, Eastcheap men, beware your wives.

IV.

Enragèd weapons storm it round, 10 Each seeking for a gaping wound, That in its gravy it seems drown'd.

V.

Magnanimous flesh, that didst not fall At first assault, or second maul, But a third time defied'st them all!

VI.

What strength can fate's decree revoke? It was ordain'd thou shouldst be broke; Alas! time fells the sturdy oak.

VII.

What goodly monuments still appear, What spondyl-bulwarks are there there, 20 What palisaded ribs are here!

VIII.

This bold monument death defies, Inscribèd thus, 'To mirth here lies A trophy and a sacrifice'.

[_Upon a Chine of Beef._] Of doubtful authenticity. The Horatian adaptation on pp. 356-9 perhaps confirms it, and we may note the oath (of Flatman's own coinage) at l. 138 of that poem, 'By sturdy Chine of Beef, and mighty Jove'. The text is taken from the anonymous version in _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655, collected by John Cotgrave: it appears on pp. 268-9 of the _Love-Songs, Epigrams, &c._ An inferior text in _Wit and Mirth. An Antidote to Melancholy_, 3rd edition, 1682, p. 102, is headed '_On a Chine of Beef._ By Mr. Tho. Flatman.' If genuine, this is therefore an early effort; it might be an undergraduate flight, like the parody on Austin.

The chief variants in _Wit and Mirth_ are:--

Line: 2 'Far longer'.

Line: 10 'storm'd'.

Line: 12 'seem'd'.

Line: 18 'Alas, in time the sturdy oak'.

Line: 19 'What goodly mince did appear'.

Line: 22 'stern Death'.]

_On the Death of the Eminently Ennobled Charles Capell, Esq.;_

_Who, after he had honour'd Winton College with his Education, and accomplisht himself with a voyage into France, died of the small-pox at London last Christmas, 1656._

Shower down your ponderous tears, whoe'er you be Dare write, or read, a Capell's elegy; Spangle his hearse with pearls, such as were born 'Twixt the blear'd eyelids of an o'ercast morn; And (but 'tis vain t'expostulate with Death Or vilify the Fates with frustrate breath) Pose Destiny with why's--why such a sun Should set before his noontide stage were run? Why this fair volume should be bound so fast In wooden covers, clasp'd-up in such haste? 10 Was Nature fond of its large character And those divine impressions graven there? Did she, lest we should spoil't (to waive that sin), 'Cause 'twas the best edition, call it in? Or would our vaunting Isle, that saints should see Th' utmost of all our prodigality, Fearing some detriment by long delay, Send Heav'n a new-year's-gift before the day? No: th' empyrean Philomels could sing, Without his voice, no carols to their King. 20 England's Metropolis (for 'twas in thee He died) we re-baptize thee Calvary, The Charnel-house of Gallantry; henceforth We brand thy front with--Golgotha of Worth. Had he been swallow'd in that courteous deep He travell'd o'er, he had been lull'd asleep In th' amorous Sea-nymphs' stately arms at ease; His great name would imposthumate the seas, That, when the waves should swell and tempests rise (Strong waters challenging the dastard skies), 30 Poor shipwrackt mariners, remembering him, Should court his asterism, and cease to swim; Abjure the Fatal Brothers' glow-worm fires, And dart at him their languishing desires. Had France intomb'd him (what our land forbids) Nature had rear'd him stately pyramids The lofty Alps, where it had been most meet Their harmless snow should be his winding-sheet; That alablaster-coverture might be An emblem of his native purity: 40 Had he fal'n there, it had been true perchance, _Wickham's Third College might be found in France._ But he return'd from thence, curb'd Neptune's pride, And, to our fame and grief, came home, and died. Thus, when the Heav'n has wheel'd its daily race About our earth, at night its glorious face Is pox'd with stars, yet Heaven admits no blot, And every pimple there's a beauty-spot. Short-liv'd disease, that canst be cured and gone By one sweet morning's resurrection! 50 Adieu, great sir, whose total he that will Describe in folio needs a cherub's quill. Zealous posterity your tomb shall stir, Hoard up your dust, rifle your sepulchre, And (as the Turks did Scanderbeg's of old) Shall wear your bones in amulets of gold. --But my blasphemous pen profanes his glory; I'll say but this to all his tragic story: Were not the world well-nigh its funeral I'd ne'er believe so bright a star could fall. 60

THO. FLATMAN, Fellow of New College.

[_On the Death, &c.] From Affectuum Decidua, or Due Expressions In honour of the truly noble Charles Capell, Esq. (Son to the right honourable Arthur, Lord Capell, Baron of Hadham), deceased on Christmas Day 1656. Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus Tam Chari Capitis?--Oxford, Printed Anno Dom. 1656._]

_On the Picture of the Author, Mr. Sanderson._

Let others style this page a chronicle; Others Art's mystery; let a third sort dwell Upon the curious neat artifice, and swear The sun ne'er saw a shadow half so rare. He outsays all who lets you understand The head is Sanderson's, Fathern's the hand.

THO. FLATMAN, _Inn. Temp. Lond._

[_On the Picture, &c._] This and the following poem are taken from William Sanderson's _Graphice. Or, The Use of the Pen and Pensil, Or, the most Excellent Art of Painting._ 1658. With portrait by Souse, engraved by Faithorne.]

_On the noble Art of Painting._

Strike a bold stroke, my Muse, and let me see Thou fear'st no colours in thy poetry, For pictures are dumb poems; they that write Best poems do but paint in black and white. The pencil's amulets forbid to die, And vest us with a fair eternity. What think ye of the gods, to whose huge name The pagans bow'd their humble knees? Whence came Their immortalities but from a shade, But from those portraitures the painter made? 10 They saddled Jove's fierce eagle like a colt And made him grasp in 's fist a thunderbolt. Painters did all: Jove had, at their command, Spurr'd a jackdaw and held a switch in 's hand. The demigods, and all their glories, be Apelles' debtors, for their deity. Oh how the catholics cross themselves and throng Around a crucifix, when all along That's but a picture! How the spruce trim lass Doats on a picture in the looking-glass! 20 And how ineffable's the peasant's joy When he has drawn his picture in his boy! Bright angels condescend to share a part And borrow glorious plumes from our rare art. Kings triumph in our sackcloth, monarchs bear Reverence t' our canvass 'bove the robes they wear. Great fortunes, large estates, for all their noise, Are nothing in the world but painted toys. Th' Egyptian hieroglyphics pictures be, And painting taught them all their A.B.C. 30 The Presbyterian, th' Independent too, All would a colour have for what they do. And who so just that does not sometimes try To turn pure painter and deceive the eye? Our honest sleight of hand prevails with all; Hence springs an emulation general. Mark how the pretty female-artists try To shame poor Nature with an Indian dye. Mark how the snail with 's grave majestic pace Paints earth's green waistcoat with a silver lace. 40 But--since all rhythms are dark, and seldom go Without the Sun--the Sun's a painter too; Heaven's famed Vandyke, the Sun, he paints--'tis clear-- Twelve signs throughout the zodiac every year: 'Tis he, that at the spicy spring's gay birth Makes pencils of his beams and paints the Earth; He limns the rainbow when it struts so proud Upon the dusky surface of a cloud; He daubs the Moors, and, when they sweat with toil, 'Tis then he paints them all at length in oil; 50 The blushing fruits, the gloss of flowers so pure, Owe their varieties to his miniature. Yet, what's the Sun? each thing, where'er we go, Would be a Rubens, or an Angelo; Gaze up, some winter night, and you'll confess Heaven's a large gallery of images. Then stoop down to the Earth, wonder, and scan The Master-piece of th' whole creation, Man: Man, that exact original in each limb, And Woman, that fair copy drawn from him. 60 Whate'er we see 's one bracelet, whose each bead Is cemented and hangs by painting's thread. Thus, like the soul o' th' world, our subtle art Insinuates itself through every part. Strange rarity! which canst the body save From the coarse usage in a sullen grave, Yet never make it mummy! Strange, that hand, That spans and circumscribes the sea and land-- That draws from death to th' life, without a spell, As Orpheus did Eurydice from hell. 70 But all my lines are rude, and all such praise Dead-colour'd nonsense. Painters scorn slight bays. Let the great art commend itself, and then You'll praise the pencil and deride the pen.

T. FLATMAN, lately Fellow of New Coll. Oxon; now Inn. Temp. Lond.

_On Mistress S. W., who cured my hand by a plaster applied to the knife which hurt me._

Wounded and weary of my life, I to my fair one sent my knife; The point had pierced my hand as far As foe would foe in open war. Cruel, but yet compassionate, she Spread plasters for my enemy; She hugg'd the wretch had done me harm, And in her bosom kept it warm, When suddenly I found the cure was done, The pain and all the anguish gone, 10 Those nerves which stiff and tender were Now very free and active are: Not help'd by any power above, But a true miracle of Love.

Henceforth, physicians, burn your bills, Prescribe no more uncertain pills: She can at distance vanquish pain, She makes the grave to gape in vain: 'Mongst all the arts that saving be None so sublime as sympathy. 20 Oh could it help a wounded breast, I'd send my soul to have it dress'd. Yet, rather, let herself apply The sovereign med'cine to her eye: There lurks the weapon wounds me deep, There, that which stabs me in my sleep; For still I feel, within, a mortall smart, The salve that heal'd my hand can't cure my heart.

_October 19, 1661._

[_On Mistress S. W._] The above was printed in _Notes and Queries_ for September 25, 1869; it was contributed by Mr. F. W. Cosens from a manuscript in his possession, _Miscellanies by Tho. Flatman, ex Interiori Templo, Londini, Nov. 9, 1661_. These poems are autograph. This poem is in the Firth MS., which clearly is a transcript of the preceding. See p. 278.]

_Song._

I.

Oh no, oh no! it cannot be that I So long condemn'd to die Should fool myself with hopes of a reprieve From her that read my destiny; She with her basilisk eyes denounc'd my doom. Why then should I in vain presume, In vain, fond man, to live My disappointments poorly to survive?

II.

Oh no, oh no! I know the worst on't now, My sentence pass'd I know, 10 And I no further expectations have My wither'd hopes again should grow. Yet 'tis a satisfaction to be sure I feel the worst I can endure. Oh that she yet would save By her miraculous kindness from the grave.

[_Oh no, &c._] From the Firth MS., which dates the poem 1671, and notes that it was set by Roger Hill.]

_Epitaph on his eldest Son, Thomas, 1682._

Whoe'er thou art, that look'st upon, And read'st what lies beneath this stone; What Beauty, Goodness, Innocence, In a sad hour was snatch'd from hence. What reason canst thou have to prize The dearest object of thine eyes? Believe this, mortal, what thou valuest most, And set'st thy soul upon, is soonest lost.

[_Epitaph on his Son._] From Strype's Stow, 1720. Book III, p. 266. describing the monuments on the north wall of St. Bride's, Fleet Street. Strype adds, 'These Verses are almost worn out and gone, and therefore I have preserved them here; being undoubtedly the easy natural Strain of the Poet, the Father'.

This Epitaph is in Hackett, _A Collection of Epitaphs_, 1757,