Chapter 9

Say, witty fair one, from what sphere Flow these rich numbers you shed here? For sure such incantations come From thence, which strike your readers dumb. A strain, whose measures gently meet Like virgin-lovers or Time's feet; Where language smiles, and accents rise As quick and pleasing as your eyes; The poem smooth, and in each line Soft as yourself, yet masculine; Where not coarse trifles blot the page With matter borrow'd from the age, But thoughts as innocent and high As angels have, or saints that die. These raptures when I first did see New miracles in poetry, And by a hand their good would miss His bays and fountains but to kiss, My weaker genius--cross to fashion-- Slept in a silent admiration: A rescue, by whose grave disguise Pretenders oft have pass'd for wise. And yet as pilgrims humbly touch Those shrines to which they bow so much, And clouds in courtship flock, and run To be the mask unto the sun, So I concluded it was true I might at distance worship you, A Persian votary, and say It was your light show'd me the way. So loadstones guide the duller steel, And high perfections are the wheel Which moves the less, for gifts divine Are strung upon a vital line, Which, touch'd by you, excites in all Affections epidemical. And this made me--a truth most fit-- Add my weak echo to your wit; Which pardon, Lady, for assays Obscure as these might blast your bays; As common hands soil flow'rs, and make That dew they wear weep the mistake. But I'll wash off the stain, and vow No laurel grows but for your brow.

AN EPITAPH UPON THE LADY ELIZABETH, SECOND DAUGHTER TO HIS LATE MAJESTY.

Youth, beauty, virtue, innocence, Heav'n's royal and select expense, With virgin-tears and sighs divine Sit here the genii of this shrine; Where now--thy fair soul wing'd away-- They guard the casket where she lay. Thou hadst, ere thou the light couldst see, Sorrows laid up and stor'd for thee; Thou suck'dst in woes, and the breasts lent Their milk to thee but to lament; Thy portion here was grief, thy years Distill'd no other rain but tears, Tears without noise, but--understood-- As loud and shrill as any blood. Thou seem'st a rosebud born in snow, A flower of purpose sprung to bow To headless tempests, and the rage Of an incensed, stormy age. Others, ere their afflictions grow, Are tim'd and season'd for the blow, But thine, as rheums the tend'rest part, Fell on a young and harmless heart. And yet, as balm-trees gently spend Their tears for those that do them rend, So mild and pious thou wert seen, Though full of suff'rings; free from spleen, Thou didst not murmur, nor revile, But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile. As envious eyes blast and infect, And cause misfortunes by aspect, So thy sad stars dispens'd to thee No influx but calamity; They view'd thee with eclipsed rays, And but the back side of bright days.

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These were the comforts she had here, As by an unseen Hand 'tis clear, Which now she reads, and, smiling, wears A crown with Him who wipes off tears.

TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT UPON HIS GONDIBERT.

Well, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen Poets shall live, when princes die like men. Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill, Of late years clouded with imputed ill, And the soft, youthful couples there may move, As chaste as stars converse and smile above. Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow Calm as rose-leaves, and cool as virgin-snow, Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd, They both delight and dignify the mind; Like to the wat'ry music of some spring, Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing. And where before heroic poems were Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear, And show'd--through all the melancholy flight-- Like some dark region overcast with night, As if the poet had been quite dismay'd, While only giants and enchantments sway'd; Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise, Hast chas'd them hence, and with discoveries So rare and learned fill'd the place, that we Those fam'd grandezas find outdone by thee, And underfoot see all those vizards hurl'd Which bred the wonder of the former world. 'Twas dull to sit, as our forefathers did, At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid, Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire Break through the ashes of thy aged sire, To lend the world such a convincing light As shows his fancy darker than his sight. Nor was't alone the bars and length of days --Though those gave strength and stature to his bays-- Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint. How couldst thou, mur'd in solitary stones, Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou mightst her groans? And, strangely eloquent, thyself divide 'Twixt sad misfortunes and a bloomy bride? Through all the tenour of thy ample song, Spun from thy own rich store, and shar'd among Those fair adventurers, we plainly see Th' imputed gifts inherent are in thee. Then live for ever--and by high desert-- In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert, And in bright Birtha leave thy love enshrin'd Fresh as her em'rald, and fair as her mind, While all confess thee--as they ought to do-- The prince of poets, and of lovers too.

[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. V. ELEG. III.

TO HIS FELLOW-POETS AT ROME, UPON THE BIRTHDAY OF BACCHUS.

This is the day--blithe god of sack--which we, If I mistake not, consecrate to thee, When the soft rose we marry to the bays, And, warm'd with thy own wine, rehearse thy praise; 'Mongst whom--while to thy poet fate gave way-- I have been held no small part of the day. But now, dull'd with the cold Bear's frozen seat, Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gete. My former life, unlike to this my last, With Rome's best wits of thy full cup did taste, Who since have seen the savage Pontic band, And all the choler of the sea and land. Whether sad chance or Heav'n hath this design'd, And at my birth some fatal planet shin'd, Of right thou shouldst the sisters' knots undo, And free thy votary and poet too; Or are you gods--like us--in such a state As cannot alter the decrees of fate? I know with much ado thou didst obtain Thy jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain Was no whit less, for, wand'ring, thou didst run To the Getes too, and snow-weeping Strymon, With Persia, Ganges, and whatever streams The thirsty Moor drinks in the mid-day beams. But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee --To make all sure--doubled thy misery. My sufferings too are many--if it be Held safe for me to boast adversity-- Nor was't a common blow, but from above, Like his that died for imitating Jove; Which, when thou heardst, a ruin so divine And mother-like should make thee pity mine, And on this day, which poets unto thee Crown with full bowls, ask what's become of me? Help, buxom god, then! so may thy lov'd vine Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with wine Load the kind elm, and so thy orgies be With priests' loud shouts and satyrs' kept to thee! So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blest, Nor Pentheus' wand'ring ghost find any rest! And so for ever bright--thy chief desires-- May thy wife's crown outshine the lesser fires! If but now, mindful of my love to thee, Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be. You gods have commerce with yourselves; try then If Caesar will restore me Rome again. And you, my trusty friends--the jolly crew Of careless poets! when, without me, you Perform this day's glad myst'ries, let it be Your first appeal unto his deity, And let one of you--touch'd with my sad name-- Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same, And--sighing--to the rest this thought commend, O! where is Ovid now, our banish'd friend? This do, if in your breasts I e'er deserv'd So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd, Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow Condemning others, did myself allow. And may your happier wits grow loud with fame As you--my best of friends!--preserve my name.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. III. [EPIST. VII.].

TO HIS FRIENDS--AFTER HIS MANY SOLICITATIONS--REFUSING TO PETITION CAESAR FOR HIS RELEASEMENT.

You have consum'd my language, and my pen, Incens'd with begging, scorns to write again. You grant, you knew my suit: my Muse and I Had taught it you in frequent elegy. That I believe--yet seal'd--you have divin'd Our repetitions, and forestall'd my mind, So that my thronging elegies and I Have made you--more than poets--prophesy. But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream Which made me cross the proverb and the stream, And pardon, friends, that I so long have had Such good thoughts of you; I am not so mad As to continue them. You shall no more Complain of troublesome verse, or write o'er How I endanger you, and vex my wife With the sad legends of a banish'd life. I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have pass'd Through greater ones, and can as well at last These petty crosses. 'Tis for some young beast To kick his bands, or wish his neck releas'd From the sad yoke. Know then, that as for me Whom Fate hath us'd to such calamity, I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare The highest ills your malice can prepare. 'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow Of cloudy Aemus, and if she decree Her sportive pilgrim's last bed here must be, I am content; nay, more, she cannot do That act which I would not consent unto. I can delight in vain hopes, and desire That state more than her change and smiles; then high'r I hug a strong despair, and think it brave To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave. Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th' free Waters, without th' expense of arms or breath, Hath still the easiest and the quickest death. Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires Of changing Scythia for the sun and fires Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch, And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I Suspect fate had for me a courtesy? These errors grieve: and now I must forget Those pleas'd ideas I did frame and set Unto myself, with many fancied springs And groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings. And yet I would the worst of fate endure, Ere you should be repuls'd, or less secure. But--base, low souls!--you left me not for this, But 'cause you durst not. Caesar could not miss Of such a trifle, for I know that he Scorns the cheap triumphs of my misery. Then since--degen'rate friends--not he, but you Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new, You shall confess, and fame shall tell you, I At Ister dare as well as Tiber die.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. IV. EPIST. III.

TO HIS INCONSTANT FRIEND, TRANSLATED FOR THE USE OF ALL THE JUDASES OF THIS TOUCHSTONE-AGE.

Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task Master my just impatience, and write down Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown? Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see And teach thy person to posterity? No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man, 'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give Thy name the honour in my verse to live. Whilst yet my ship did with no storms dispute, And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man That with me then an equal fortune ran; But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight; Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone To shun that rescue I reli'd upon; Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim Not only my acquaintance, but my name. Yet know--though deaf to this--that I am he Whose years and love had the same infancy With thine, thy deep familiar that did share Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care; Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights So solemnly endear'd to her delights. But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown The abject of thy breast, not to be known In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not So much as let me know I am forgot. If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then Thou didst dissemble: or if love again, Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide Myself and actions, that I cannot see What could offend thee, but my misery. 'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow Some rescue to my wants, at least I know Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so. I know not what to think! and yet I hear, Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer. Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack. Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand, Whose upper slipp'ry part without command Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind. In the whole world there's nothing I can see Will throughly parallel her ways but thee. All that we hold hangs on a slender twine, And our best states by sudden chance decline. Who hath not heard of Cr[oe]sus' proverb'd gold, Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold? He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent By a poor art could famine scarce prevent; And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end, Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend. Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been, And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in, Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace, In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face. A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we Of one short hour have not the certainty. Hadst thou one day told me the time should be When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see, I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught. And yet 'tis come to pass! nor, though I might Some things foresee, could I procure a sight Of my whole destiny, and free my state From those eternal, higher ties of fate. Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high, Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.

[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. III. ELEG. III.

TO HIS WIFE AT ROME, WHEN HE WAS SICK.

Dearest! if you those fair eyes--wond'ring--stick On this strange character, know I am sick; Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I Breathe hopeless of all comforts, but to die. What heart--think'st thou?--have I in this sad seat, Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete? Nor air nor water please: their very sky Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my eye; I scarce dare breathe it, and, I know not how, The earth that bears me shows unpleasant now. Nor diet here's, nor lodging for my ease, Nor any one that studies a disease; No friend to comfort me, none to defray With smooth discourse the charges of the day. All tir'd alone I lie, and--thus--whate'er Is absent, and at Rome, I fancy here. But when thou com'st, I blot the airy scroll, And give thee full possession of my soul. Thee--absent--I embrace, thee only voice. And night and day belie a husband's joys. Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make That I am thought distracted for thy sake. When my tir'd spirits fail, and my sick heart Draws in that fire which actuates each part, If any say, th'art come! I force my pain, And hope to see thee gives me life again. Thus I for thee, whilst thou--perhaps--more blest, Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest, Which yet I think not, for--dear soul!--too well Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell. But if strict Heav'n my stock of days hath spun, And with my life my error will be gone, How easy then--O Caesar!--were't for thee To pardon one, that now doth cease to be? That I might yield my native air this breath, And banish not my ashes after death. Would thou hadst either spar'd me until dead, Or with my blood redeem'd my absent head! Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou Wouldst have me live to die an exile now. And must I then from Rome so far meet death, And double by the place my loss of breath? Nor in my last of hours on my own bed --In the sad conflict--rest my dying head? Nor my soul's whispers--the last pledge of life,-- Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife? My last words none must treasure, none will rise And--with a tear--seal up my vanquish'd eyes; Without these rites I die, distress'd in all The splendid sorrows of a funeral; Unpitied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head In a strange land goes friendless to the dead. When thou hear'st this, O! how thy faithful soul Will sink, whilst grief doth ev'ry part control! How often wilt thou look this way, and cry, O! where is't yonder that my love doth lie? Yet spare these tears, and mourn not thou for me, Long since--dear heart!--have I been dead to thee. Think then I died, when thee and Rome I lost, That death to me more grief than this hath cost. Now, if thou canst--but thou canst not--best wife, Rejoice, my cares are ended with my life. At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use Should make these miseries to thee no news. And here I wish my soul died with my breath, And that no part of me were free from death; For, if it be immortal, and outlives The body, as Pythagoras believes, Betwixt these Sarmates' ghosts, a Roman I Shall wander, vex'd to all eternity. But thou--for after death I shall be free-- Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me; A few flow'rs give them, with some balm, and lay Them in some suburb grave, hard by the way; And to inform posterity, who's there, This sad inscription let my marble wear; "Here lies the soft-soul'd lecturer of love, Whose envi'd wit did his own ruin prove. But thou,--whoe'er thou be'st, that, passing by, Lend'st to this sudden stone a hasty eye, If e'er thou knew'st of love the sweet disease, Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!" This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see More strong and lasting monuments of me, Which I believe--though fatal--will afford An endless name unto their ruin'd lord. And now thus gone, it rests, for love of me, Thou show'st some sorrow to my memory; Thy funeral off'rings to my ashes bear, With wreaths of cypress bath'd in many a tear. Though nothing there but dust of me remain, Yet shall that dust perceive thy pious pain. But I have done, and my tir'd, sickly head, Though I would fain write more, desires the bed; Take then this word--perhaps my last--to tell, Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell!

AUSONII. IDYLL VI.

CUPIDO [CRUCI AFFIXUS].