Of heav'n, that though the world hath done his worst
To put it out by discords most unkind,
Yet doth it still in perfect union stand
With God and man; nor ever will be forc'd
From that most sweet accord; but still agree,
Equal in fortune, in equality.
And this note, madam, of your worthiness
Remains recorded in so many hearts,
As time nor malice cannot wrong your right,
The inheritance of fame you must possess:
You that have built you by your great deserts
(Out of small means) a far more exquisite
And glorious dwelling for your honour'd name,
Than all the gold that leaden minds can frame.
DESCRIPTION OF STONE-HENGE.
AND whereto serves that wondrous trophy now
That on the goodly plain near Walton stands?
That huge dumb heap, that cannot tell us how,
Nor what, nor whence it is; nor with whose hands,
Nor for whose glory-it was set to shew,
How much our pride mocks that of other lands.
Whereon, when as the gazing passenger
Had greedy look'd with admiration;
And fain would know his birth, and what he were;
How there erected; and how long agon:
Inquires and asks his fellow traveller
What he had heard, and his opinion.
And he knows nothing. Then he turns again,
And looks and sighs; and then admires afresh,
And in himself with sorrow doth complain
The misery of dark forgetfulness:
Angry with time that nothing should remain,
Our greatest wonders' wonder to express.
Then ignorance, with fabulous discourse,
Robbing fair art and cunning of their right,
Tells how those stones were by the devil's force
From Afric brought to Ireland in a night;
And thence to Brittany, by magic course,
From giants' hands redeem'd by Merlin's sleight.
And then near Ambri plac'd, in memory
Of all those noble Britons murder'd there,
By Hengist and his Saxon treachery,
Coming to parley, in peace at unaware.
With this old legend then credulity
Holds her content, and closes up her care.
But is antiquity so great a liar?
Or do her younger sons her age abuse;
Seeing after-comers still so apt t' admire
The grave authority that she doth use,
That rev'rence and respect dares not require
Proof of her deeds, or once her words refuse?
Yet wrong they did us, to presume so far
Upon our early credit and delight;
For once found false, they straight became to mar
Our faith, and their own reputation quite;
That now her truths hardly believed are;
And though she avouch the right, she scarce hath right.
And as for thee, thou huge and mighty frame,
That stand'st corrupted so with time's despite,
And giv'st false evidence against their fame
That set thee there to testify their right;
And art become a traitor to their name,
That trusted thee with all the best they might;
Thou shalt stand still bely'd and slandered, The only gazing-stock of ignorance, And by thy guile the wise admonished, Shall never more desire such hopes t' advance, Nor trust their living glory with the dead That cannot speak, but leave their fame to chance. Consid'ring in how small a room do lie, And yet lie safe (as fresh as if alive) All those great worthies of antiquity, Which long fore-liv'd thee, and shall long survive; Who stronger tombs found for eternity, Than could the pow'rs of all the earth contrive.
Where they remain these trifles to upbraid, Out of the reach of spoil, and way of rage; Though time with all his pow'r of years hath laid Long batt'ry, back'd with undermining age; Yet they make head only with their own aid, And war with his all-conqu'ring forces wage; Pleading the heaven's prescription to be free, And t' have a grant t' endure as long as he.
AH! I remember well (and how can I
But evermore remember well?) when first
Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was
The flame we felt; when as we sat and sigh'd
And look'd upon each other, and conceiv'd
Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail;
And yet were well, and yet we were not well,
And what was our disease we could not tell.
Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look: And thus
In that first garden of our simpleness
We spent our childhood: But when years began
To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah, how then
Would she with graver looks, and sweet stern brow,
Check my presumption and my forwardness;
Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show
What she would have me, yet not have me know.
THERE was sometime a nymph, Isulia named, and an Arcadian born, Whose mother dying left her very young Unto her father's charge, who carefully Did breed her up until she came to years Of womanhood, and then provides a match Both rich and young, and fit enough for her. But she, who to another shepherd had, Call'd Sirthis, vow'd her love, as unto one Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, Could not by all her father's means be wrought To leave her choice, and to forget her vow. This nymph one day, surcharg'd with love and grief, Which commonly (the more the pity) dwell As inmates both together, walking forth With other maids to fish upon the shore; Estrays apart, and leaves her company, To entertain herself with her own thoughts: And wanders on so far, and out of sight, As she at length was suddenly surpriz'd
By pirates, who lay lurking underneath
Those hollow rocks, expecting there some prize.
And notwithstanding all her piteous cries,
Intreaties, tears, and prayers, those fierce men
Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force
Into their ship, which in a little creek
Hard by at anchor lay,
And presently they hoisted sail and so away.
When she was thus inshipp'd, and woefully
Had cast her eyes about to view that hell
Of horror, whereinto she was so suddenly
She spies a woman sitting with a child
Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife.
To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies;
"O woman, if that name of woman may
Move you to pity, pity a poor maid;
The most distressed soul that ever breath'd;
And save me from the hands of those fierce men.
Let me not be defil'd and made unclean,
Dear woman, now, and I will be to you
The faithfull'st slave that ever mistress serv'd;
Never poor soul shall be more dutiful,
To do whatever you command, than I.
No toil will I refuse; so that I may
Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd,
Which is all I will ever seek. For know
It is not fear of death lays me thus low,
But of that stain will make my death to blush."
All this would nothing move the woman's heart,
Whom yet she would not leave, but still besought;
"O woman, by that infant at your breast,
And by the pains it cost you at the birth,
Save me, as ever you desire to have
Your babe to joy and prosper in the world:
Which will the better prosper sure, if you
Shall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid!"
Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too
The infant's feet; and "Oh, sweet babe," (said she)
"Could'st thou but to thy mother speak for me,
And crave her to have pity on my case,
Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so much
Although I cannot; child, ah, could'st thou speak."
The infant, whether by her touching it,
Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep,
Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks
Upon the mother, then on her again,
And then it cries, and then on either looks:
Which she perceiving; "blessed child," (said she)
"Although thou can'st not speak, yet dost thou cry
Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child,
Dear mother, it's for me it cries,
It's all the speech it hath. Accept those cries,
Save me at his request from being defil'd:
Let pity move thee, that thus moves thy child."
The woman, tho' by birth and custom rude,
Yet having veins of nature, could not be
But pierceable, did feel at length the point
Of pity enter so, as out gush'd tears,
(Not usual to stern eyes) and she besought
Her husband to bestow on her that prize,
With safeguard of her body at her will.
The captain seeing his wife, the child, the nymph,
All crying to him in this piteous sort,
Felt his rough nature shaken too, and grants
His wife's request, and seals his grant with tears;
And so they wept all four for company:
And some beholders stood not with dry eyes;
Such passion wrought the passion of their prize.
Never was there pardon, that did take
Condemned from the block, more joyful than
This grant to her. For all her misery
Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receiv'd,
By being thus saved from impurity;
And from the woman's feet she would not part,
Nor trust her hand to be without some hold
Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd
Within the ship, which in few days arrives
At Alexandria, whence these pirates were;
And there this woeful maid for two years' space
Did serve, and truly serve this captain's wife,
(Who would not lose the benefit of her
Attendance, for her profit otherwise)
But daring not in such a place as that
To trust herself in woman's habit, crav'd
That she might be apparel'd like a boy;
And so she was, and as a boy she serv'd.
At two years' end her mistress sends her forth
Unto the port for some commodities,
Which whilst she sought for, going up and down,
She heard some merchantmen of Corinth talk,
Who spake that language the Arcadians did,
And were next neighbours of one continent.
To them, all rapt with passion, down she kneels,
Tells them she was a poor distressed boy,
Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took,
And made a slave in Egypt: and besought
Them, as they fathers were of children, or
Did hold their native country dear, they would
Take pity on her, and relieve her youth
From that sad servitude wherein she liv'd:
For which she hoped that she had friends alive
Would thank them one day, and reward them too;
If not, yet that she knew the heav'ns would do.
The merchants mov'd with pity of her case,
Being ready to depart, took her with them,
And landed her upon her country coast:
Where, when she found herself, she prostrate falls,
Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods,
Thanks them who had been her deliverers,
And on she trudges through the desart woods,
Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep,
Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough bogs,
Sustained only by the force of love;
Until she came unto her native plains,
Unto the fields where first she drew her breath.
There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air,
Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all:
And, "Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am," said she,
"Here, notwithstanding all my miseries,
I am, the same I ever was to thee; a pure,
A chaste, and spotless maid."
SIR JOHN SUCKLING-A. D. 1608-41.
A SESSION was held the other day,
And Apollo himself was at it, they say;
The laurel that had been so long reserv'd,
Was now to be given to him best deserv'd.
And therefore the wits of the town came thither,
'Twas strange to see how they flocked together,
Each strongly confident of his own way,
Thought to gain the laurel away that day.
There was Selden, and he sat close by the chair;
Wainman not far off, which was very fair;
Sands with Townsend, for they kept the order;
Digby and Shillingsworth a little further:
There was Lucan's translator too, and he
That makes God so big in's poetry:
Selwin and Waller, and Bartlets both the brothers;
Jack Vaughan and Porter, and divers others.
The first that broke silence was good old Ben,
Prepar'd with Canary wine,
And he told them plainly he deserv'd the bays,
For his were call'd works, where others were but
plays.
And bid them remember how he had purg'd the stage Of errors that had lasted many an age,
And he hop'd they did not think the Silent Woman, The Fox, and the Alchymist outdone by no man.
Apollo stopt him there, and bid him not go on,
"Twas merit, he said, and not presumption
Must carry't, at which Ben turned about
And in great choler offer'd to go out:
But those that were there thought it not fit
To discontent so ancient a wit:
And therefore Apollo call'd him back again,
And made him mine host of his own New Inn.
Tom Carew was next, but he had a fault
That would not well stand with a laureat;
His Muse was hard bound, and th' issue of's brain
Was seldom brought forth but with trouble and pain.
And all that were present there did agree,
A Laureat-Muse should be easy and free,
Yet sure 'twas not that, but 'twas thought that his
Grace
Consider'd he was well he had a cup-bearer's place.
Will Davenant, asham'd of a foolish mischance That he had got lately travelling in France, Modestly hop'd the handsomeness of's Muse Might any deformity about him excuse.
And priz'd black eyes, or a lucky hit
At bowls, above all the trophies of wit;
But Apollo was angry, and publicly said
"Twere fit that a fine were set upon's head.
Wat Montague now stood forth to his trial,
And did not so much as suspect a denial;
But witty Apollo ask'd him first of all
If he understood his own pastoral.
For if he cou'd do it, 'twould plainly appear
He understood more than any man there,
And did merit the bays above all the rest,
But the Monsieur was modest; and silence confest.
During these troubles in the court was hid
One that Apollo soon miss'd, little Cid;
And having spy'd him, call'd him out of the throng,
And advis'd him in his ear not to write so strong.
Murrey was summon'd, but 'twas urg'd, that he
Was chief already of another company.
Hales set by himself most gravely did smile
To see them about nothing keep such a coil;
Apollo had spy'd him, but knowing his mind
Past by, and call'd Falkland, that sate just behind:
But he was of late so gone with divinity,
That he had almost forgot his poetry,
Though to say the truth, and Apollo did know it,
He might have been both his priest and his poet.
At length who but an Alderman did appear,
At which Will Davenant began to swear;
But wiser Apollo bade him draw nigher,
And, when he was mounted a little higher,
He openly declar'd, that the best sign
Of good store of wit's to have good store of coin,
And without a syllable more or less said,
He put the laurel on the Alderman's head.
At this all the wits were in such amaze
That, for a good while, they did nothing but gaze
One upon another; not a man in the place
But had discontent writ at large in his face.
Only the small poets cheer'd up again,
Out of hope, as 'twas thought, of borrowing;
But sure they were out, for he forfeits his crown
When he lends to any poet about the town.
WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Pr'ythee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail ?
Pr'ythee why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Pr'ythee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Pr'ythee why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her :-
The devil take her.
I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen:
Oh things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake, or fair.
At Charing-Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;
And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town,
Vorty at least, in pairs.
Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine,
(His beard no bigger though than thine)
Walk'd on before the rest:
Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The king (God bless him) 'twou'd undo him,
Shou'd he go still so drest.
At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' th' town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the green,
Or Vincent of the crown.
But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;
The parson for him staid:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past
(Perchance) as did the maid.
The maid and thereby hangs a tale-
For such a maid no Whitson ale
Could ever yet produce:
No grape that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.
Her finger was so small, the ring
Wou'd not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter Day,
Is half so fine a sight.
He wou'd have kiss'd her once or twice,
But she wou'd not, she was so nice,
She wou'd not do't in sight;
And then she look'd as who shou'd say,
I will do what I list to day;
And you shall do't at night.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daizy makes comparison,
(Who sees them is undone) For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine pear,
The side that's next the sun.
Her lips were red, and one was thin
Compar'd to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly.
But just as heav'ns wou'd have to cross it,
In came the bride-maids with the posset:
The bridegroom eat in spite;
For had he left the women to't
It wou'd have cost two hours to do't,
Which were too much that night.
At length the candles out; and now,
All that they had not done, they do:
What that is, who can tell?
But I believe it was no more
Than you and I have done before
With Bridget, and with Nell.
'Tis now, since I sat down before That foolish fort, a heart,
(Time strangely spent) a year and more, And still I did my part:
Made my approaches, from her hand
Unto her lip did rise,
And did already understand
The language of her eyes.
Proceeded on with no less art,
My tongue was engineer;
I thought to undermine the heart
By whispering in the ear.
When this did nothing, I brought down
Great cannon oaths, and shot
A thousand thousand to the town,
And still it yielded not.
I then resolv'd to starve the place
By cutting off all kisses,
Praising and gazing on her face,
And all such little blisses.
To draw her out, and from her strength, I drew all batteries in ;
And brought myself to lie at length
As if no siege had been.
When I had done what man could do, And thought the place mine own, The enemy lay quiet too,
And smil'd at all was done.
I sent to know from whence and where
These hopes, and this relief?
A spy inform'd, honour was there,
And did command in chief.
March, march, (quoth I) the word straight give, Let's lose no time, but leave her;
That giant upon air will live,
And hold it out for ever.
To such a place our camp remove As will not siege abide;
I hate a fool that starves her love Only to feed her pride.
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