Minor Poets of the Caroline Period, Vol. III (part 2 of 4)

Minor Poets of the Caroline Period, Vol. III (part 2 of 4)

Yet in this jealous age some such there be, So without cause afraid of novelty, They would not (were it in their pow'r to choose) An old ill practice for a better lose. 90 Men who a rustic plainness so affect, They think God served best by their neglect. Holding the cause would be profan'd by it, Were they at charge of learning or of wit. And therefore bluntly (what comes next) they bring Coarse and unstudied stuffs for offering; Which like th' old Tabernacle's cov'ring are, Made up of badgers' skins, and of goat's hair. But these are paradoxes they must use Their sloth and bolder ignorance t'excuse. 100 Who would not laugh at one will naked go, 'Cause in old hangings truth is pictur'd so? Though plainness be reputed honour's note, They mantles use to beautify the coat; So that a curious (unaffected) dress Adds much unto the body's comeliness: And wheresoe'er the subject's best, the sense Is better'd by the speaker's eloquence.

But, Sir, to you I shall no trophy raise From other men's detraction or dispraise: 110 That jewel never had inherent worth, Which ask'd such foils as these to set it forth. If any quarrel your attempt or style, Forgive them; their own folly they revile. Since, 'gainst themselves, their factious envy shall Allow this work of yours canonical. Nor may you fear the Poet's common lot, Read, and commended, and then quite forgot: The brazen mines and marble rocks shall waste, When your foundation will unshaken last. 120 'Tis Fame's best pay, that you your labours see By their immortal subject crowned be. For ne'er was writer in oblivion hid Who firm'd his name on such a Pyramid.

[Mr. George Sandys.] These verses appeared as commendatory to Sandys' well-known Paraphrase upon the Divine Psalms, 1648. Sandys was not only a friend of King (as of all his group), but, according to l. 14 of this piece, a relation: the exact connexion, however, was unknown to Hannah and Hooper, and is to me. Indeed, l. 18 might be taken to mean that we were not to look further for 'extraction' than to the fact that they were both sons of bishops. Hannah saw this, but drew the inference somewhat too positively.

Mr. Percy Simpson has found the following variants in Sandys' own book:]

[Line: 25 might] would.]

[Line: 27 straight vow'd] strait-vow'd.]

[Lines: 57-62 absent.]

[Line: 64 With] And skill] Art.]

[Line: 89 They would by no means (had they power to choose).

[Line: 90 practice] Custom.]

[Line: 96 stuffs] stuff.]

[Line: 116 Allow] Confess.]

[Line: King may have retouched the piece.]

[Line: 23 Orig. note: [Sir Edwin Sandys' survey of Religion in the West] More properly entitled Europae Speculum (1559).]

[Line: 53 seq. In the original there are side-notes: 'Job', 'Ecclesiastes', 'The Act of Parliament for Public Thanksgiving on the fifth of November, set to a tune by H. Dod a tradesman of London, at the end of his Psalms, which stole from the Press Anno Domini 1620'; 'Hymns', 'Lamentations', 'Psalms', referring to other Paraphrases of Sandys on the various books named, and (in the third place) on certain Songs selected from other parts of the Bible. The unfortunate 'H. Dod a tradesman' may have had his Manes refreshed by a notice in the D.N.B.]

[Line: 70 It was too early for King to recognize, as has been done since, the reason of the 'perfect harmony' he relished as a fact in Sandys. That poet was one of the earliest after Fairfax, and probably before Beaumont or Waller, to master (though not always to practise) the stopped antithetic couplet which was conquering, and to conquer, public favour.]

[Line: 71 It were much to be desired (though Hannah did not think so) that King had allowed his wishes to be satisfied by Sandys' performance, without attempting competition.]

[Line: 79 The reference is, of course, to the universally heard of, but perhaps by extremely few read, 'Sternhold and Hopkins'. The actual terms of King's criticism are not very happy, but nobody then knew, or easily could know, much about literary history. It was a fifteenth- rather than a sixteenth-century fault 'hardly to distinguish verse and rhyme'. Where Sternhold and Hopkins--in common with much greater men, from Wyatt to Gascoigne--sometimes went wrong, was in their inability to attain anything but a 'butterwoman's rank to market'--a sing-song and soulless uniformity of cadence, and (a sin more specially their own) in the hopeless dullness and drabness of their diction.]

The Woes of Esay.

Woe to the worldly men, whose covetous Ambition labours to join house to house, Lay field to field, till their enclosures edge The plain, girdling a country with one hedge: That leave no place unbought, no piece of earth Which they will not engross, making a dearth Of all inhabitants, until they stand Unneighbour'd, as unblest, within their land.

This sin cries in God's ear, who hath decreed The ground they sow shall not return the seed. 10 They that unpeopled countries to create Themselves sole Lords,--made many desolate To build up their own house,--shall find at last Ruin and fearful desolation cast Upon themselves. Their mansion shall become A desert, and their palace prove a tomb. Their vines shall barren be, their land yield tares; Their house shall have no dwellers, they no heirs.

Woe unto those, that with the morning Sun Rise to drink wine, and sit till he have run 20 His weary course; not ceasing until night Have quench'd their understanding with the light: Whose raging thirst, like fire, will not be tam'd, The more they pour, the more they are inflam'd. Woe unto them that only mighty are To wage with wine; in which unhappy war They who the glory of the day have won, Must yield them foil'd and vanquish'd by the tun. Men that live thus, as if they liv'd in jest, Fooling their time with music and a feast; 30 That did exile all sounds from their soft ear But of the harp, must this sad discord hear Compos'd in threats. The feet which measures tread Shall in captivity be fettered: Famine shall scourge them for their vast excess; And Hell revenge their monstrous drunkenness; Which hath enlarg'd itself to swallow such, Whose throats ne'er knew enough, though still too much.

Woe unto those that countenance a sin, Siding with vice, that it may credit win 40 By their unhallow'd vote: that do benight The truth with error, putting dark for light, And light for dark; that call an evil good, And would by vice have virtue understood: That with their frown can sour an honest cause, Or sweeten any bad by their applause. That justify the wicked for reward; And, void of moral goodness or regard, Plot with detraction to traduce the fame Of him whose merit hath enroll'd his name 50 Among the just. Therefore God's vengeful ire Glows on his people, and becomes a fire, Whose greedy and exalted flame shall burn, Till they like straw or chaff to nothing turn. Because they have rebell'd against the right, To God and Law perversely opposite, As plants which Sun nor showers did ever bless, So shall their root convert to rottenness; And their succession's bud, in which they trust, Shall (like Gomorrah's fruit) moulder to dust. 60

Woe unto those that, drunk with self-conceit, Value their own designs at such a rate Which human wisdom cannot reach; that sit Enthron'd, as sole monopolists of wit; That outlook reason, and suppose the eye Of Nature blind to their discovery, Whilst they a title make to understand Whatever secret's bosom'd in the land. But God shall imp their pride, and let them see They are but fools in a sublime degree: 70 He shall bring down and humble those proud eyes, In which false glasses only they look'd wise; That all the world may laugh, and learn by it, There is no folly to pretended wit.

Woe unto those that draw iniquity With cords, and by a vain security Lengthen the sinful trace, till their own chain Of many links, form'd by laborious pain, Do pull them into Hell; that, as with lines And cart-ropes, drag on their unwilling crimes: 80 Who, rather than they will commit no sin, Tempt all occasions to let it in. As if there were no God, who must exact The strict account for every vicious fact; Nor judgement after death. If any be, Let him make speed (say they), that we may see. Why is his work retarded by delay? Why doth himself thus linger on the way? If there be any judge, or future doom, Let It and Him with speed together come. 90

Unhappy men, that challenge and defy The coming of that dreadful Majesty! Better by much for you, he did reverse His purposed sentence on the Universe; Or that the creeping minutes might adjourn Those flames in which you, with the earth, must burn; That time's revolting hand could lag the year, And so put back his day which is too near.

Behold his signs advanc'd like colours fly, To tell the world that his approach is nigh; 100 And in a furious march, he's coming on Swift as the raging inundation, To scour the sinful world; 'gainst which is bent Artillery that never can be spent: Bows strung with vengeance, and flame-feather'd darts Headed with death, to wound transgressing hearts; His chariot wheels wrapp'd in the whirlwind's gyre, His horses hoov'd with flint, and shod with fire: In which amaze, where'er they fix their eye, Or on the melting earth, or up on high, 110 To seek Heaven's shrunk lights, nothing shall appear, But night and horror in their hemisphere: Nor shall th' affrighted sense more objects know Than dark'ned skies above, and Hell below.

[The Woes of Esay.] It may seem strange that a man of poetical velleities, with the magnificent range of choice open to him in the Book of Isaiah, should choose these 'Woes' for verse-paraphrase. But the fact is interesting as combining with others, which have been pointed out here and there already, to show that King, at one time of his life, had leanings to that Puritan-popular temper which, from the days of Langland downwards, had shown itself in England. The couplet verse has some vigour.]

[Line: 84 The original apostrophation (kept by Hannah) of 'every' is 'e'ry'--interesting to compare with the common forms of 'e're' for 'ever' and 'ne're' for 'never'. N. E. D. traces it to the fifteenth century, and notes an eighteenth-century extension to 'e'ery'.]

An Essay on Death and a Prison.

A prison is in all things like a grave, Where we no better privileges have Than dead men, nor so good. The soul once fled Lives freer now, than when she was cloistered In walls of flesh; and though she organs want To act her swift designs, yet all will grant Her faculties more clear, now separate, Than if the same conjunction, which of late Did marry her to earth, had stood in force, Uncapable of death, or of divorce: 10 But an imprison'd mind, though living, dies, And at one time feels two captivities; A narrow dungeon which her body holds, But narrower body which herself enfolds. Whilst I in prison lie, nothing is free, Nothing enlarg'd, but thought and misery; Though every chink be stopp'd, the doors close barr'd, Despite of walls and locks, through every ward These have their issues forth; may take the air, Though not for health, but only to compare 20 How wretched those men are who freedom want, By such as never suffer'd a restraint. In which unquiet travel could I find Aught that might settle my distemper'd mind, Or of some comfort make discovery, It were a voyage well employ'd: but I, Like our raw travellers that cross the seas To fetch home fashions, or some worse disease, Instead of quiet, a new torture bring Home t' afflict me, malice and murmuring. 30 What is't I envy not? no dog nor fly But my desires prefer, and wish were I; For they are free, or, if they were like me, They had no sense to know calamity. But in the grave no sparks of envy live, No hot comparisons that causes give Of quarrel, or that our affections move Any condition, save their own, to love. There are no objects there but shades and night, And yet that darkness better than the light. 40 There lives a silent harmony; no jar Or discord can that sweet soft consort mar. The grave's deaf ear is clos'd against all noise Save that which rocks must hear, the angel's voice: Whose trump shall wake the world, and raise up men Who in earth's bosom slept, bed-rid till then. What man then would, who on death's pillow slumbers, Be re-inspired with life, though golden numbers Of bliss were pour'd into his breast; though he Were sure in change to gain a monarchy? 50 A monarch's glorious state compar'd with his, Less safe, less free, less firm, less quiet is. For ne'er was any Prince advanc'd so high That he was out of reach of misery: Never did story yet a law report To banish fate or sorrow from his Court; Where ere he moves, by land, or through the main, These go along, sworn members of his train. But he whom the kind earth hath entertain'd, Hath in her womb a sanctuary gain'd, 60 Whose charter and protection arm him so, That he is privileg'd from future woe. The coffin 's a safe harbour, where he rides Land-bound, below cross winds, or churlish tides. For grief, sprung up with life, was man's half-brother, Fed by the taste, brought forth by sin, the mother. And since the first seduction of the wife, God did decree to grief a lease for life; Which patent in full force continue must, Till man that disobey'd revert to dust. 70 So that life's sorrows, ratifi'd by God, Cannot expire, or find their period, Until the soul and body disunite, And by two diff'rent ways from each take flight. But they dissolved once, our woes disband, Th' assurance cancell'd by one fatal hand; Soon as the passing bell proclaims me dead, My sorrows sink with me, lie buried In the same heap of dust, the self-same urn Doth them and me alike to nothing turn. 80 If then of these I might election make Whether I would refuse, and whether take, Rather than like a sullen anchorite I would live cas'd in stone, and learn to write A Prisoner's story, which might steal some tears From the sad eyes of him that reads or hears; Give me a peaceful death, and let me meet My freedom seal'd up in my winding sheet. Death is the pledge of rest, and with one bail Two prisons quits, the Body and the Jail. 90

[An Essay.] This piece stands to some work of Donne's much as others of King's do to the lyrics of the greater poet. The couplets are more enjambed than in The Woes of Esay, and the metaphysicality is of the satiric kind. It should not be needful, but may be well, to say that King had no actual experience of prisons. On the other side of the matter the piece might, but by no means need, belong to the series connected with his wife's death.]

The Labyrinth.

Life is a crooked labyrinth, and we Are daily lost in that obliquity. 'Tis a perplexed circle, in whose round Nothing but sorrows and new sins abound. How is the faint impression of each good Drown'd in the vicious channel of our blood? Whose ebbs and tides by their vicissitude Both our great Maker and ourselves delude.

O wherefore is the most discerning eye Unapt to make its own discovery? 10 Why is the clearest and best judging mind In her own ills' prevention dark and blind? Dull to advise, to act precipitate, We scarce think what to do, but when too late. Or if we think, that fluid thought, like seed, Rots there to propagate some fouler deed. Still we repent and sin, sin and repent; We thaw and freeze, we harden and relent. Those fires, which cool'd to-day, the morrow's heat Rekindles. Thus frail nature does repeat 20 What she unlearnt, and still, by learning on, Perfects her lesson of confusion.

Sick soul! what cure shall I for thee devise, Whose leprous state corrupts all remedies? What medicine or what cordial can be got For thee, who poison'st thy best antidote? Repentance is thy bane, since thou by it Only reviv'st the fault thou didst commit. Nor griev'st thou for the past, but art in pain, For fear thou mayst not act it o'er again. 30 So that thy tears, like water spilt on lime, Serve not to quench, but to advance the crime.

My blessed Saviour! unto thee I fly For help against this homebred tyranny. Thou canst true sorrows in my soul imprint, And draw contrition from a breast of flint. Thou canst reverse this labyrinth of sin, My wild affects and actions wander in. O guide my faith! and, by thy grace's clew, Teach me to hunt that kingdom at the view 40 Where true joys reign, which like their day shall last; Those never clouded, nor that overcast.

[The Labyrinth.] 12 her] our Malone MS. 22.]

[Line: 26 Orig. 'anti_dot_', on the eye-[and ear]-system as before.]

_Being waked out of my sleep by a snuff of candle which offended me, I thus thought._

Perhaps 'twas but conceit. Erroneous sense! Thou art thine own distemper and offence. Imagine then, that sick unwholesome steam Was thy corruption breath'd into a dream. Nor is it strange, when we in charnels dwell, That all our thoughts of earth and frailty smell.

Man is a Candle, whose unhappy light Burns in the day, and smothers in the night. And as you see the dying taper waste, 10 By such degrees does he to darkness haste.

Here is the diff'rence: When our bodies' lamps Blinded by age, or chok'd with mortal damps, Now faint, and dim, and sickly 'gin to wink, And in their hollow sockets lowly sink; When all our vital fires ceasing to burn, Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our urn: God will restore those fallen lights again, And kindle them to an eternal flame.

Sic Vita.

KING AND BEAUMONT.

[I.]

Like to the falling of a star; Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh springs gaudy hue; Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chafes the flood; Or bubbles which on water stood; Even such is man, whose borrow'd light Is straight call'd in, and paid to night.

The wind blows out; the bubble dies; The Spring entomb'd in Autumn lies; 10 The dew dries up; the star is shot; The flight is past; and man forgot.

WASTELL.

[II.]

Like as the damask rose you see; Or like the blossom on the tree; Or like the dainty flower of May; Or like the morning to the day; Or like the Sun; or like the shade; Or like the gourd which Jonas had; Even such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. The rose withers; the blossom blasteth; The flower fades; the morning hasteth; The sun sets; the shadow flies; The gourd consumes; and man he dies.

[III.]

Like to the Grass that's newly sprung; Or like a tale that's new begun; Or like the bird that's here to-day; Or like the pearled dew of May; Or like an hour; or like a span; Or like the singing of a swan; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life, and death. The grass withers; the tale is ended; The bird is flown; the dew's ascended; The hour is short; the span not long; The swan's near death; man's life is done.

[IV.]

Like to the bubble in the brook; Or, in a glass, much like a look; Or like a shuttle in weaver's hand; Or like the writing on the sand; Or like a thought; or like a dream; Or like the gliding of the stream; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life, and death. The bubble's cut; the look's forgot; The shuttle's flung; the writing's blot; The thought is past; the dream is gone; The water glides; man's life is done.

[V.]

Like to an arrow from the bow; Or like swift course of watery flow; Or like the time twixt flood and ebb; Or like the spider's tender web; Or like a race; or like a goal; Or like the dealing of a dole; Even such is man whose brittle state Is always subject unto fate. The arrow's shot; the flood soon spent; The time no time; the web soon rent; The race soon run; the goal soon won; The dole soon dealt; man's life first done.

[VI.]

Like to the lightning from the sky; Or like a post that quick doth hie; Or like a quaver in short song; Or like a journey three days long; Or like the snow when summer's come; Or like the pear; or like the plum; Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow, The lightning's past; the post must go; The song is short; the journey's so; The pear doth rot; the plum doth fall; The snow dissolves; and so must all.

QUARLES.

Like to the damask Rose you see, &c.

[VII.]

Like to the blaze of fond delight; Or like a morning clear and bright; Or like a post; or like a shower; Or like the pride of Babel's Tower; Or like the hour that guides the time; Or like to beauty in her prime; Even such is man, whose glory lends His life a blaze or two, and ends. Delights vanish; the morn o'er casteth; The frost breaks; the shower hasteth; The Tower falls; the hour spends; The beauty fades; and man's life ends.

BROWNE.

[VIII.]

Like to a silkworm of one year; Or like a wronged lover's tear; Or on the waves a rudder's dint; Or like the sparkles of a flint: Or like to little cakes perfum'd; Or fireworks made to be consum'd; Even such is man, and all that trust In weak and animated dust. The silkworm droops; the tear's soon shed; The ship's way lost; the sparkle dead; The cake is burnt; the firework done; And man as these as quickly gone.

STRODE.

[IX.]

Like to the rolling of an eye: Or like a star shot from the sky; Or like a hand upon a clock; Or like a wave upon a rock; Or like a wind; or like a flame; Or like false news which people frame; Even such is man, of equal stay Whose very growth leads to decay. The eye is turned; the star down bendeth; The hand doth steal; the wave descendeth; The wind is spent; the flame unfir'd; The news disprov'd; man's life expir'd.

[X.]

Like to an eye which sleep doth chain; Or like a star whose fall we faine [ = feign]; Or like a shade on A[t]haz' watch: Or like a wave which gulfs do snatch; Or like a wind or flame that's past; Or smother'd news confirm'd at last; Even so man's life, pawn'd in the grave, Waits for a rising it must have The eye still sees; the star still blazeth; The shade goes back; the wave escapeth; The wind is turn'd, the flame reviv'd, The news renew'd; and man new liv'd.

[Sic Vita.] On this famous piece see Introduction. Only the first form is attributed to King and appears in his Poems; but it also appears not merely in the singular higgledy-piggledy called the poems of Francis Beaumont, 1653, but in the earlier and better edition of 1640. Simon Wastell was a schoolmaster who had been at Queen's College, Oxford; and who in 1629 appended these sets of verses to a book then entitled Microbiblion. The first is claimed by Quarles, who also wrote another in the form. William Browne's version was not published till 1815, and the authors of the two from the Malone MS. are unknown. The group is probably the palmary example in English of that coterie-and school-verse which distinguished the seventeenth century. The King-Beaumont form is certainly the best and probably the original. (It will be observed that X is palinodic to the others. It is, with IX, attributed as a single piece to Strode and entitled 'On Death and Resurrection' in MS. Malone 16, fol. 35, and Dobell's Poetical Works of W. Strode).

My Midnight Meditation.

Ill busi'd man! why shouldst thou take such care To lengthen out thy life's short kalendar? When every spectacle thou look'st upon Presents and acts thy execution. Each drooping season and each flower doth cry, Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die.

The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well) Is just the tolling of thy passing bell: Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopy Covers alike deceased day and thee. 10 And all those weeping dews which nightly fall, Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.

[My Midnight Meditation.] 11 which] MS. 'that'. In Parnassus Biceps, p. 80, with title 'On Man': ll. 9-10 are absent from this version. Mr. Thorn-Drury thinks that this is Dr. John King's (so ascribed in Malone MS. 21, fol. 2_b_, and Mr. Dobell's MS. of Strode).]

A Penitential Hymn.

Hearken, O God, unto a wretch's cries, Who low dejected at thy footstool lies. Let not the clamour of my heinous sin Drown my requests, which strive to enter in At those bright gates, which always open stand To such as beg remission at thy hand.

Too well I know, if thou in rigour deal, I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal: To my hoarse voice, heaven will no audience grant, But deaf as brass, and hard as adamant 10 Beat back my words; therefore I bring to thee A gracious Advocate to plead for me.

What though my leprous soul no Jordan can Recure, nor floods of the lav'd Ocean Make clean? yet from my Saviour's bleeding side Two large and medicinable rivers glide. Lord, wash me where those streams of life abound, And new Bethesdas flow from ev'ry wound.

If I this precious lather may obtain, I shall not then despair for any stain; 20 I need no Gilead's balm, nor oil, nor shall I for the purifying hyssop call: My spots will vanish in His purple flood, And crimson there turn white, though wash'd with blood.

See, Lord! with broken heart and bended knee, How I address my humble suit to Thee; O give that suit admittance to Thy ears, Which floats to Thee, not in my words, but tears: And let my sinful soul this mercy crave, Before I fall into the silent grave. 30

[A Penitential Hymn.] This piece is referred to by Anthony Wood as one of several 'anthems'. It was, he tells us, intended for Lenten use, and set by Dr. John Wilson, gentleman of the Chapel Royal. To this Dr. Wilson, Hannah thought that his collated MS. copy of King's Poems, which bears the name, had belonged, additional evidence being found in the curious fact that the Hymn appears in that copy out of order, and first.]

An Elegy occasioned by Sickness.

Well did the Prophet ask, Lord, what is Man? Implying by the question none can But God resolve the doubt, much less define What elements this child of dust combine.

Man is a stranger to himself, and knows Nothing so naturally as his woes. He loves to travel countries, and confer The sides of Heaven's vast diameter: Delights to sit in Nile or Bætis' lap, Before he hath sail'd over his own map; 10 By which means he returns, his travel spent, Less knowing of himself than when he went. Who knowledge hunt kept under foreign locks, May bring home wit to hold a paradox, Yet be fools still. Therefore, might I advise, I would inform the soul before the eyes: Make man into his proper optics look, And so become the student and the book. With his conception, his first leaf, begin; What is he there but complicated sin? 20 When riper time, and the approaching birth Ranks him among the creatures of the earth, His wailing mother sends him forth to greet The light, wrapp'd in a bloody winding sheet; As if he came into the world to crave No place to dwell in, but bespeak a grave.

Thus like a red and tempest-boding morn His dawning is: for being newly born He hails th' ensuing storm with shrieks and cries, And fines for his admission with wet eyes. 30

How should that plant, whose leaf is bath'd in tears, Bear but a bitter fruit in elder years? Just such is this, and his maturer age Teems with event more sad than the presage. For view him higher, when his childhood's span Is raised up to youth's meridian; When he goes proudly laden with the fruit Which health, or strength, or beauty contribute; Yet,--as the mounted cannon batters down The towers and goodly structures of a town,-- 40 So one short sickness will his force defeat, And his frail citadel to rubbish beat. How does a dropsy melt him to a flood, Making each vein run water more than blood? A colic wracks him like a northern gust, And raging fevers crumble him to dust. In which unhappy state he is made worse By his diseases than his Maker's curse. God said in toil and sweat he should earn bread, And without labour not be nourished: 50 There, though like ropes of falling dew, his sweat Hangs on his lab'ring brow, he cannot eat.

Thus are his sins scourg'd in opposed themes, And luxuries reveng'd by their extremes. He who in health could never be content With rarities fetch'd from each element, Is now much more afflicted to delight His tasteless palate, and lost appetite.

Besides, though God ordain'd, that with the light Man should begin his work, yet he made night 60 For his repose, in which the weary sense Repairs itself by rest's soft recompense. But now his watchful nights and troubled days Confused heaps of fear and fancy raise. His chamber seems a loose and trembling mine; His pillow quilted with a porcupine; Pain makes his downy couch sharp thorns appear, And ev'ry feather prick him like a spear. Thus, when all forms of death about him keep, He copies death in any form, but sleep. 70

Poor walking-clay! hast thou a mind to know To what unblest beginnings thou dost owe Thy wretched self? fall sick a while, and than Thou wilt conceive the pedigree of Man. Learn shalt thou from thine own anatomy, That earth his mother, worms his sisters be. That he's a short-liv'd vapour upward wrought, And by corruption unto nothing brought. A stagg'ring meteor by cross planets beat, Which often reels and falls before his set; 80 A tree which withers faster than it grows; A torch puff'd out by ev'ry wind that blows; A web of forty weeks spun forth in pain, And in a moment ravell'd out again.

This is the model of frail man: then say That his duration's only for a day: And in that day more fits of changes pass, Than atoms run in the turn'd hour-glass.

So that th' incessant cares which life invade Might for strong truth their heresy persuade, 90 Who did maintain that human souls are sent Into the body for their punishment: At least with that Greek sage still make us cry, Not to be born, or, being born, to die.

But Faith steers up to a more glorious scope, Which sweetens our sharp passage; and firm hope Anchors our torn barks on a blessed shore, Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er. To this, Death is our pilot, and disease The agent which solicits our release. 100

Though crosses then pour on my restless head, Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed: Let this my thought's eternal comfort be, That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see. And when by fortune's or by nature's stroke My body's earthen pitcher must be broke, My soul, like Gideon's lamp, from her crack'd urn Shall Death's black night to endless lustre turn.

[An Elegy, &c.] It is always well to placate Nemesis before finding fault with a fellow-creature's complaints. But this piece, like some others, does rather illustrate that 'tendency to grizzle' which has been noticed in the Introduction. It was no doubt natural to King, and was probably confirmed in him by his wife's early death. It is worth noticing that--a thing rare in his time--he never remarried.]

[Line: 33 this] MS. 'his'.]

[Line: 73 'Than' for 'then' is much rarer than the converse, though we have it once supra. It is odd too here, for 'then' would have done just as well.]

[Line: 90 'Their' = Origen and the Priscillianists.]

[Line: 93 Posidippus? But the thing was a commonplace.]

[Line: 94 Side-note in orig.: Non nasci, aut quam citissime mori.]

The Dirge.

What is th' existence of Man's life But open war, or slumber'd strife? Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements; And never feels a perfect peace, Till Death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm, where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood; And each loud passion of the mind Is like a furious gust of wind, 10 Which beats his bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower, which buds and grows, And withers as the leaves disclose; Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, Like fits of waking before sleep: Then shrinks into that fatal mould, Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth Is moraliz'd in age and youth: 20 Where all the comforts he can share As wand'ring as his fancies are; Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial, which points out The sun-set as it moves about: And shadows out in lines of night The subtile stages of Time's flight, Till all obscuring earth hath laid The body in perpetual shade. 30

It is a weary interlude Which doth short joys, long woes include. The World the stage, the Prologue tears, The Acts vain hope, and varied fears; The Scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no Epilogue but Death.

[The Dirge.] An obvious extension-variation of _Sic Vita_.]

[Line: 8 MS. 'Vies rages with'--rather well.]

[Line: 12 MS. 'cast'--perhaps better.]

[Line: 26 MS. 'His sun-set'.]

[Lines: 27-8 These run in MS.:

Whilst it demonstrates Time's swift flight In the black lines of shady night. ]

[Line: 30 The] MS. 'His'.]

[Line: 35 MS. 'in loss'.]

An Elegy, occasioned by the loss of the most incomparable Lady Stanhope, daughter to the Earl of Northumberland.

[Died November 29, 1654.]

Light'ned by that dim torch our sorrow bears, We sadly trace thy coffin with our tears; And though the ceremonious rites are past Since thy fair body into earth was cast, Though all thy hatchments into rags are torn, Thy funeral robes and ornaments outworn; We still thy mourners, without show or art, With solemn blacks hung round about our heart, Thus constantly the obsequies renew, Which to thy precious memory are due. 10

Yet think not that we rudely would invade The dark recess of thine untroubled shade, Or give disturbance to that happy peace, Which thou enjoy'st at full since thy release: Much less in sullen murmurs do complain Of His decree who took thee back again, And did, ere Fame had spread thy virtue's light, Eclipse and fold thee up in endless night. This, like an act of envy, not of grief, Might doubt thy bliss, and shake our own belief, 20 Whose studied wishes no proportion bear With joys which crown thee now in glory's sphere.

Know then, blest Soul! we for ourselves, not thee, Seal our woe's dictate by this elegy: Wherein our tears, united in one stream, Shall to succeeding times convey this theme, Worth all men's pity, who discern, how rare Such early growths of fame and goodness are. Of these, part must thy sex's loss bewail, Maim'd in her noblest patterns through thy fail; 30 For 'twould require a double term of life To match thee as a daughter or a wife; Both which Northumberland's dear loss improve, And make his sorrow equal to his love. The rest fall for ourselves, who, cast behind, Cannot yet reach the peace which thou dost find; But slowly follow thee in that dull stage Which most untimely posted hence thy age.

Thus, like religious pilgrims, who design A short salute to their beloved shrine, 40 Most sad and humble votaries we come, To offer up our sighs upon thy tomb, And wet thy marble with our dropping eyes, Which, till the spring which feeds their current dries, Resolve each falling night and rising day, This mournful homage at thy grave to pay.

[An Elegy.] The subject of this was Anne Percy, daughter of the Northumberland whose personal umbrage or lukewarm loyalty so grievously affected the Royal cause, and the wife of that Philip Lord Stanhope who afterwards, and after her death, seems to have flirted with Lady Elizabeth Howard before she married Dryden.]

[Line: 28 early] Lady Stanhope was not twenty-one when she died, and had been married little more than two years.]

Poems not included in the Edition of 1657 but added in reissue of 1664

An Elegy upon my best friend, L. K. C.

[Countess of Leinster: died June 15, 1657.]

Should we our sorrows in this method range, Oft as misfortune doth their subjects change, And to the sev'ral losses which befall, Pay diff'rent rites at ev'ry funeral; Like narrow springs, drain'd by dispersed streams, We must want tears to wail such various themes, And prove defective in Death's mournful laws, Not having words proportion'd to each cause.

In your dear loss, my much afflicted sense Discerns this truth by sad experience, 10 Who never look'd my Verses should survive, As wet records, That you are not alive; And less desir'd to make that promise due, Which pass'd from me in jest, when urg'd by you.

How close and slily doth our frailty work! How undiscover'd in the body lurk! That those who this day did salute you well, Before the next were frighted by your knell. O wherefore since we must in order rise, Should we not fall in equal obsequies? 20 But bear th' assaults of an uneven fate, Like fevers which their hour anticipate; Had this rule constant been, my long wish'd end Might render you a mourner for your Friend: As he for you, whose most deplor'd surprise Imprints your death on all my faculties; That hardly my dark phant'sy or discourse This final duty from the pen enforce.

Such influence hath your eclipsed light, It doth my reason, like myself, benight. 30

Let me, with luckless gamesters, then think best (After I have set up and lost my rest), Grown desp'rate through mischance, to venture last My whole remaining stock upon a cast, And flinging from me my now loathed pen, Resolve for your sake ne'er to write again: For whilst successive days their light renew, I must no subject hope to equal you, In whose heroic breast, as in their Sphere, All graces of your sex concentred were. 40

Thus take I my long farewell of that art, Fit only glorious actions to impart; That art wherewith our crosses we beguile, And make them in harmonious numbers smile: Since you are gone, this holds no further use Whose virtue and desert inspir'd my Muse, O may she in your ashes buried be, Whilst I myself become the Elegy.

And as it is observ'd, when Princes die, In honour of that sad solemnity, 50 The now unoffic'd servants crack their staves, And throw them down into their masters' graves: So this last office of my broken verse I solemnly resign upon your hearse; And my brain's moisture, all that is unspent, Shall melt to nothing at the monument. Thus in moist weather, when the marble weeps, You'll think it only his tears reck'ning keeps, Who doth for ever to his thoughts bequeath The legacy of your lamented death. 60

[An Elegy upon my best friend.] King's 'best friend' (or, as a MS. gives it, 'worthiest') was Katharine Stanhope, daughter of John Lord Stanhope of Harrington. Her husband, Robert Cholmondeley, successively created an Irish Viscount, an English Baron (his surname serving as title in each case), and Earl of Leinster, died very shortly after her and before the Restoration. There is a MS. sermon on her death attributed to King, but doubted by Hannah. The poem itself, unlike the next but like the three which follow that, appears printed in the 1664 issue. And it is, on the principles of this collection, not unimportant to notice that in these later printed pieces the irrational prodigality of capitals which, as has been noted, is absent from 1657, reappears. There could be no stronger evidence that these things have nothing to do with the author, and are not worth reproducing.]

[Line: 12 The original bestows a capital even upon 'Alive'--a thing capital in another way as illustrating the utter unreason of the practice.]

[Lines: 15-18 Absent in MS.]

[Line: 36 Orig. 'nev'r'--a form unpronounceable but not uninteresting.]

[Line: 40 your] MS. 'the'.]

[Line: 43 crosses] MS. 'sorrows'.]

On the Earl of Essex.

[Died September 14, 1646.]

Essex, twice made unhappy by a wife, Yet married worse unto the People's strife: He who, by two divorces, did untie His bond of wedlock and of loyalty: Who was by easiness of nature bred, To lead that tumult which first him misled; Yet had some glimm'ring sparks of virtue, lent To see (though late) his error, and repent: Essex lies here, like an inverted flame, Hid in the ruins of his house and name; 10 And as he, frailty's sad example, lies, Warns the survivors in his exequies.

He shows what wretched bubbles great men are, Through their ambition grown too popular: For they, built up from weak opinion, stand On bases false as water, loose as sand. Essex in differing successes tried The fury and the falsehood of each side; Now with applauses deified, and then, Thrown down with spiteful infamy again:-- 20

Tells them, what arts soever them support, Their life is merely Time and Fortune's sport, And that no bladders, blown by common breath, Shall bear them up amidst the waves of Death:

Tells them, no monstrous birth, with pow'r endu'd, By that more monstrous beast, the Multitude,-- No State-Coloss (though tall as that bestrid The Rhodian harbour where their navy rid), Can hold that ill-proportion'd greatness still, Beyond his greater, most resistless will, 30 Whose dreadful sentence, written on the Wall, Did sign the temple-robbing tyrant's fall; But spite of their vast privilege, which strives T' exceed the size of ten prerogatives; Spite of their endless parliament, or grants (In order to those votes and Covenants, When, without sense of their black perjury, They swear with Essex they would live and die), With their dead General ere long they must Contracted be into a span of dust. 40

[On the Earl of Essex.] This and the next two may be called King's chief, if not his only, political poems: that they were kept back till after the Restoration is not surprising. Of Essex--one of the most unfortunate of men, the son of an unlucky father, the husband of one of the worst of women, and of another not much better, a half-hearted rebel, a soldier not less brave than blundering--not much is to be said here. King had some interest in the first and universally known divorce (the second, much less notorious, was from Elizabeth Paulet), for his father had been uncourtly and honest enough to oppose it strongly.]

[Line: 10 This rather vigorous line was to be prophetic as well as true at the time, for when, after the Restoration, the title of Essex was revived it was for the Capels, who still hold it, not for any Devereux. The vigour just referred to is by no means absent from the whole poem, and in an ante-Drydenian piece is really remarkable.]

[Line: 32 temple-robbing tyrant's fall] side-note in orig.: Belshasar, Dan. 5.]

An Elegy on Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle.

[Murdered August 28, 1648.]

In measures solemn as the groans that fall From the hoarse trumpet at some funeral; With trailing Elegy and mournful verse, I wait upon two peerless soldiers' hearse: Though I acknowledge must my sorrow's dress Ill matched to the cause it should express; Nor can I, at my best invention's cost, Sum up the treasure which in them we lost.

Had they, with other worthies of the age, Who late upon the kingdom's bloody stage, 10 For God, the King, and Laws, their valour tried, Through War's stern chance in heat of battle died, We then might save much of our grief's expense, Reputing it, not duty, but offence. They need no tears, nor howling exequy, Who in a glorious undertaking die; Since all that in the bed of honour fell, Live their own Monument and Chronicle.

But these, whom horrid danger did not reach, The wide-mouth'd cannon, nor the wider breach, 20 These, whom, till cruel want and coward fate Penn'd up like famish'd lions in a grate, Were for their daring sallies so much fear'd, Th' assailants fled them like a frighted herd; Resolving now no more to fight, but lurk Trench'd in their line, or earth'd within a work. Where, not like soldiers they, but watchmen, creep, Arm'd for no other office, but to sleep; They, whose bold charge whole armies did amaze, Rend'ring them faint and heartless at the gaze, 30 To see Resolve and Naked Valour charms Of higher proof than all their massy arms; They, whose bright swords ruffled the proudest troop (As fowl unto the tow'ring falcon stoop), Yet no advantage made of their success, Which to the conquer'd spake them merciless (For they, whene'er 'twas begg'd, did safety give, And oft unasked bid the vanquish'd live); Ev'n these, not more undaunted in the field, Than mild and gentle unto such as yield, 40 Were, after all the shocks of battles stood, (Let me not name it) murder'd in cold blood.

Such poor revenge did the enraged Greek Against (till then) victorious Hector seek, Triumphing o'er that body, bound and dead, From whom, in life, the pow'rs of Argos fled. Yet might Achilles borrow some excuse To colour, though not warrant, the abuse: His dearest friend, in the fierce combat foil'd, Was by the Trojan's hand of life despoil'd; 50 From whence unruly grief, grown wild with rage, Beyond the bounds of Honour did engage. But these, confirm'd in their unmanly hate, By counsels cruel, yet deliberate, Did from the stock of bleeding honour hew Two of the noblest branches ever grew; And (which our grief and pity must improve) When brought within their reach with shows of love: For by a treaty they entangled are, And rend'ring up to Mercy is the snare; 60 Whence we have learn'd, whene'er their Saintships treat, The ends are mortal, and the means a cheat; In which the world may read their black intent, Drawn out at large in this sad precedent. Who (though fair promis'd) might no mercy have, But such as once the faithless Bashaw gave, When to his trust deluded Bragadine Himself and Famagosta did resign. Whose envied valour thus to bonds betray'd, Was soon the mark of barb'rous slaughter made: 70 So gallant ships, which rocks and storms had past, Though with torn sails, and spending of their mast, When newly brought within the sight of land, Have been suck'd up by some devouring sand.

You wretched agents for a kingdom's fall, Who yet yourselves the Modell'd Army call; Who carry on and fashion your design By Sylla's, Sylla's red proscription's line, (Rome's Comet once, as you are ours) for shame Henceforth no more usurp the soldier's name: 80 Let not that title in fair battles gain'd Be by such abject things as you profan'd; For what have you achiev'd, the world may guess You are those Men of Might which you profess? Where ever durst you strike, if you met foes Whose valour did your odds in men oppose? Turn o'er the annals of your vaunted fights, Which made you late the People's favourites; Begin your course at Naseby, and from thence Draw out your marches' full circumference, 90 Bridgwater, Bristol, Dartmouth, with the rest Of your well-plotted renders in the West; Then to the angry North your compass bend, Until your spent career in Scotland end, (This is the perfect scale of our mishap Which measures out your conquest by the map), And tell me he that can, What have you won, Which long before your progress was not done? What castle was besieg'd, what Port, what Town, You were not sure to carry ere sat down? 100 There needed no granadoes, no petard, To force the passage, or disperse the guard. No, your good masters sent a Golden Ram To batter down the gates against you came. Those blest Reformers, who procur'd the Swede His armed forces into Denmark lead, 'Mongst them to kindle a sharp war for hire, Who in mere pity meant to quench our fire, Could where they pleased, with the King's own coin, Divert his aids, and strengths at home purloin. 110

Upon sea voyages I sometimes find Men trade with Lapland witches for a wind, And by those purchas'd gales, quick as their thought, To the desired port are safely brought. We need not here on skilful Hopkins call, The State's allow'd Witch-finder General. For (though Rebellion wants no cad nor elf, But is a perfect witchcraft of itself) We could with little help of art reveal Those learn'd magicians with whom you deal: 120 We all your juggles, both for time and place, From Derby-house to Westminster can trace, The circle where the factious jangle meet To trample Law and Gospel under feet; In which, like bells rung backward, they proclaim The Kingdom by their wild-fire set on flame, And, quite perverting their first rules, invent What mischief may be done by Parliament: We know your holy flamens, and can tell What spirits vote within the Oracle; 130 Have found the spells and incantations too, By whose assistance you such wonders do. For divers years the credit of your wars Hath been kept up by these Familiars, Who, that they may their providence express, Both find you pay, and purchase your success: No wonder then you must the garland wear, Who never fought but with a silver spear.

We grant the war's unhappy consequence, With all the num'rous plagues which grow from thence, 140 Murders and rapes, threats of disease and dearth, From you as for the proper Spring take birth; You may for laws enact the public wrongs, With all foul violence to them belongs; May bawl aloud the people's right and pow'r, Till by your sword you both of them devour (For this brave liberty by you upcried Is to all others but yourselves denied), May with seditious fires the land embroil, And, in pretence to quench them, take the spoil; 150 You may Religion to your lust subdue, For these are actions only worthy you: Yet when your projects, crown'd with wish'd event, Have made you masters of the ill you meant, You never must the soldiers' glory share, Since all your trophies executions are: Not thinking your successes understood, Unless recorded and scor'd up in blood.

In which, to gull the people, you pretend, That Military Justice was your end; 160 As if we still were blind, not knowing this To all your other virtues suited is; Who only act by your great grandsires' law, The butcher Cade, Wat Tyler, and Jack Straw, Whose principle was murder, and their sport To cut off those they fear'd might do them hurt: Nay, in your actions we completed find What by those Levellers was but design'd, For now Committees, and your arm'd supplies, Canton the land in petty tyrannies, 170 And for one King of commons in each shire, Four hundred Commons rule as tyrants here. Had you not meant the copies of each deed Should their originals in ill exceed, You would not practice sure the Turkish art, To ship your taken pris'ners for a mart, Lest if with freedom they at home remain, They should (which is your terror) fight again. A thing long since by zealous Rigby moved, And by the faction like himself approv'd; 180 Though you uncounsell'd can such outrage try, Scarce sampled from the basest enemy. Naseby of old, and late St. Fagan's fare, Of these inhuman truckings witness are; At which the captiv'd Welsh, in couples led, Were marketed, like cattle, by the head. Let it no more in History be told That Turks their Christian slaves for aspers sold; When we the Saints selling their brethren see, Who had a Call (they say) to set them free; 190 And are at last by right of conquest grown To claim our land of Canaan for their own. Though luckless Colchester in this outvies Argiers' or Tunis' shameful merchandise; Where the starv'd soldier (as th' agreement was) Might not be suffer'd to their dwelling pass, Till, led about by some insulting band, They first were show'd in triumph through the land: In which, for lack of diet, or of strength, If any fainted through the march's length, 200 Void of the breasts of men, this murd'rous crew All those they could drive on no further, slew; What bloody riddle's this? They mercy give, Yet those who should enjoy it, must not live.

Indeed we cannot less from such expect, Who for this work of ruin are elect: This scum drawn from the worst, who never knew The fruits which from ingenuous breeding grew; But take such low commanders on their lists, As did revolted Jeroboam priests: 210 That 'tis our fate, I fear, to be undone, Like Egypt once with vermin overrun. If in the rabble some be more refin'd, By fair extractions of their birth or mind, Ev'n these corrupted are by such allays, That no impression of their virtue stays. As gold, embased by some mingled dross, Both in its worth and nature suffers loss.

Else, had that sense of honour still surviv'd Which Fairfax from his ancestors deriv'd, 220 He ne'er had show'd himself, for hate or fear, So much degen'rous from renowned Vere (The title and alliance of whose son His acts of valour had in Holland won), As to give up, by his rash dooming breath, This precious pair of lives to timeless death; Whom no brave enemy but would esteem, And, though with hazard of his own, redeem. For 'tis not vainly by the world surmis'd, This blood to private spleens was sacrific'd. 230 Half of the guilt stands charg'd on Whalley's score By Lisle affronted on his guards before; For which his spite by other hands was shown, Who never durst dispute it with his own. Twice guilty coward! first by vote, then eye, Spectator of the shameful tragedy. But Lucas elder cause of quarrel knew, From whence his critical misfortune grew; Since he from Berkeley Castle with such scorn Bold Ransborough's first summons did return, 240 Telling him loudly at the parley's beat, With rogues and rebels he disdain'd to treat.

Some from this hot contest the world persuade His sleeping vengeance on that ground was laid: If so, for ever blurr'd with Envy's brand, His honour gain'd by sea, was lost at land: Nor could he an impending judgement shun, Who did to this with so much fervour run, When late himself, to quit that bloody stain, Was, 'midst his armed guards, from Pomfret slain. 250 But all in vain we here expostulate What took them hence, private or public hate: Knowledge of acted woes small comforts add, When no repair proportion'd can be had: And such are ours, which to the kingdom's eyes Sadly present ensuing miseries, Foretelling in These Two some greater ill From those who now a patent have to kill. Two, whose dear loss leaves us no recompense, Nor them atonement, which in weight or sense 260 With These shall never into balance come, Though all the army fell their hecatomb. Here leave them then; and be 't our last relief To give their merit value in our grief. Whose blood however yet neglected must Without revenge or rites mingle with dust; Not any falling drop shall ever dry, Till to a weeping spring it multiply, Bath'd in whose tears their blasted laurel shall Grow green, and with fresh garlands crown their fall. 270

From this black region then of Death and Night, Great Spirits, take your everlasting flight: And as your valour's mounting fires combine, May they a brighter constellation shine Than Gemini, or than the brother-stars, Castor and Pollux, fortunate to wars; That all fair soldiers, by your sparkling light, May find the way to conquer, when they fight, And by those patterns which from you they take, Direct their course through Honour's Zodiac: 280 But upon traitors frown with dire aspect, Which may their perjuries and guilt reflect; Unto the curse of whose nativity, Prodigious as the Caput Algol be, Whose pale and ghastly tresses still portend Their own despair or hangman for their end. And that succeeding ages may keep safe Your lov'd remembrance in some Epitaph, Upon the ruins of your glorious youth, Inscribed be this monumental truth: 290 Here lie the valiant Lucas and brave Lisle, With Amasa betray'd in Joab's smile: In whom, revenge of Honour taking place, His great corival 's stabb'd in the embrace. And as it was the Hebrew Captain's stain, That he two greater than himself had slain, Shedding the blood of War in time of Peace, When love pretended was, and arms did cease, May the foul murderers expect a fate Like Joab's, blood with blood to expiate; 300 Which, quick as lightning, and as thunder sure, Preventions wisest arts nor shun, nor cure. O may it fall on their perfidious head! That when, with Joab to the Altar fled, Themselves the sword and reach of vengeance flee, No Temple may their sanctuary be.

Last, that nor frailty nor devouring time May ever lose impressions of the crime, Let loyal Colchester (who too late tried To check, when highest wrought, the Rebels' pride, 310 Holding them long and doubtful at the bay, Whilst we, by looking on, gave all away), Be only nam'd: which, like a Column built, Shall both enhearse this blood unnobly spilt, And live, till all her towers in rubbish lie, The monuments of their base cruelty.

[Elegy on Sir Charles Lucas, &c.] This, King's longest poem (except the King Charles), shows, like the preceding, a vigour which might have made him a very formidable political satirist. If he has not Cleveland's wit he is free from Cleveland's abuse of it. The subject is again a well-known one. No impartial authority denies that the execution of Lucas and Lisle was one of the worst blots on that side of the record of the Rebellion, and perhaps the only unforgivable act of Fairfax. Whether he was actuated, as the Royalists generally believed, by a mean personal spite, or allowed himself to be the tool of Ireton, matters uncommonly little; and his own 'Vindication' contains statements demonstrably false. However, as usual in revolutions, the curse came home, and the Colchester 'Septemberings' (as they would actually have been had the New Style prevailed in England) were undoubtedly as much instrumental as anything, next to the execution of the King himself, in turning the national sentiment against the perpetrators. The bracketed notes that follow are, as usual, original.]

[Line: 31 [Sir George Lisle at Newbury charged in his shirt, and routed them.] This was the second battle of Newbury, October 27, 1644: he was knighted at Oxford, December 21, 1645.]

[Line: 49 friend] [Patroclus.]]

[Line: 60 Mercy] Fairfax in his own 'Vindication' admits the 'snare'. 'Delivering upon Mercy is to be understood that some are to suffer, the rest to go free.' In other words, the garrison might take 'mercy' to mean 'quarter', but Fairfax took it to mean 'discretion'.]

[Line: 64 Orig. 'President', as often printed, though of course no scholar like King would deliberately write it.]

[Line: 66 [Famagosta, defended most valiantly by Signior Bragadino in the time of Selimus II, was upon honourable terms surrendered to Mustapha the Bashaw, who, observing no conditions, at his tent murdered the principal commanders, invited thither under show of love, and flayed Bragadine alive.] This siege of Famagosta in 1571, which came just before, and may be said to have been revenged by, Lepanto, greatly affected the mind of Christendom, and is duly chronicled in Knolles, the chief English historical writer of King's day. It is therefore hardly necessary to suppose, with Hannah, that the note was abridged from George Sandys' Travels, though King and Sandys were certainly friends.]

[Lines: 82, 85 I would have left the capitals for the 'Yous' in these lines, as I have already done in other places, because they not improperly further emphasize that emphatic use of the pronoun in different parts of the line which Dryden afterwards perfected. But unfortunately they are not uniformly used, or even in the majority of cases--which shows how utterly haphazard and irrational this capitalization was.]

[Line: 105 [The Swedes hired anno 1644, to invade the King of Denmark, provided to assist his nephew, the King of England.]]

[Line: 115 Hopkins] Hannah only knew for a certainty that the scoundrel Matthew was 'swum' for a wizard, and had to put a 'probably' as to his being executed. There seems to be no doubt (see D.N.B.) that the great and glorious 'Herb Pantagruelion' had its own, and that Hopkins was hanged in 1647, before the date of this poem. But in that distracted time King, like his editor, may easily have been unaware of it.]

[Line: 117 An early literary use of 'cad' for assistant or understrapper.]

[Line: 142 Instead of 'for' Hannah, who very seldom meddled with his text, suggested 'from'. The temptation is obvious, but I think 'for' is possible, and therefore preferable as lectio difficilior.]

[Line: 160 Military Justice] [See the letter sent to Edward Earl of Manchester, Speaker of the House of Peers, pro tempore, from T. Fairfax, dated August 29, 1648, at Hieth.] According to Royalist accounts there were, even in Parliament, speakers bold enough and impartial enough to object to this letter, and to give voice to the common belief that the execution was either an act of private vengeance, or a deliberate affront to the King, or a device to make the pending negotiations with him impossible. It must be remembered that it was three months before the 'Purge' had deprived the Commons of the last remnant of independence or representative quality.]

[Line: 170 petty tyrannies] [Wat Tyler and his complices' design was to take away the King and chief men, and to erect petty tyrannies to themselves in every shire. And already one Littistar, a dyer, had taken upon him in Norfolk the name of King of Commons, and Robert Westborn in Suffolk, Richard II, anno 1381. Speed.] This note from Speed is not exactly quoted and Hannah corrected it, but the variations are of no importance.]

[Line: 176 There is no doubt about the selling of prisoners as convict-slaves to the West Indies (if not, as Rigby proposed, to Algiers) by the Roundheads after the second Civil War. Unluckily James II--born in this and other cases to be the curse of English Royalism--took the reproach away from the other side by authorizing the practice after Sedgmoor.]

[Line: 179 The particular bearer of this name of evil repute in Parliamentary history was Alexander Rigby (1594-1650). He had a brother, Joseph, whose politics were as bad as his own, but who survived the Restoration, and seems to have had a touch of the 'crank' in him. I have not yet come across his Drunkard's Prospective (1656), but it should be agreeable.]

[Line: 183 The savagery of the two-to-one victors at Naseby--especially towards the hapless so-called 'Irishwomen' camp followers--is beyond question, but it does not seem proved that there was much selling of prisoners then. As for St. Fagan's in the second Civil War the case is different, and justifies the following note in the original: 'At St. Fagan's in Glamorganshire, near Cardiff, the Welsh unarmed were taken in very great numbers, and sold for twelve pence apiece to certain merchants, who bought them for slaves to their plantations.']

[Line: 188 aspers] A Turkish coin of the smallest value: the 120th part of a piastre or dollar.]

[Line: 201 murd'rous crew] [Grimes, now a Captain, formerly a tinker at St. Albans, with his own hand killed four of the prisoners, being not able for faintness to go on with the rest, of which number Lieutenant Woodward was one. Likewise at Thame, and at Whateley ( = Wheatley), some others were killed.] This story is backed up by not a few similar ones in different accounts of the time. And indeed, as King very cogently goes on to argue, your tinker-captain is capable of anything.]

[Line: 222 It was Sir Horace Vere (1565-1635), afterwards Lord Vere of Tilbury, under whom Fairfax served, and whose daughter Anne he married.]

[Line: 231 Whalley (spelt, as often with the name, Whaley in printed original) is cleared by others, though he is said by them as by King to have been present and to have had some private grudge against Lisle. Lucas had not only thrown Fairfax's troops into disorder at Marston Moor but is said by some to have actually wounded him in the face. He had also held Berkeley Castle against Rans- or Ra_in_sborough till the outworks were taken, and the guns turned from them on the Castle itself. Rainsborough, with Whalley and Ireton, was actually present at the execution--which as a duty could hardly be incumbent on all three, and with which they were often reproached; and as a matter of course Rainsborough's death shortly afterwards was counted as a 'judgement'. His father had been an officer in the Navy, and the son commanded both by sea and land.]

[Line: 284 Algol] A star of great but varying brightness, the name of which--'The ghoul'--and its position in the head of Medusa in the constellation Perseus, explains the text.]

[Line: 311 long and doubtful] Fairfax, to enhance his exploit, called it 'four months close siege'. It was actually not quite eleven weeks, but the place yielded to nothing but starvation.]

An Elegy upon the most Incomparable King Charles the First.

Call for amazed thoughts, a wounded sense And bleeding hearts at our intelligence. Call for that Trump of Death, the Mandrake's groan Which kills the hearers: this befits alone Our story which through times vast Calendar, Must stand without example or repair. What spouts of melting clouds, what endless springs Pour'd in the Ocean's lap for offerings, Shall feed the hungry torrent of our grief, Too mighty for expression or belief? 10 Though all those moistures which the brain attracts Ran from our eyes like gushing cataracts, Or our sad accents could out-tongue the cries Which did from mournful Hadadrimmon rise, Since that remembrance of Josiah slain In our King's murder is reviv'd again. O pardon me that but from Holy Writ Our loss allows no parallel to it: Nor call it bold presumption that I dare Charles with the best of Judah's Kings compare: 20 The virtues of whose life did I prefer The text acquits me for no flatterer. For he like David perfect in his trust, Was never stain'd like him, with blood or lust. One who with Solomon in judgement tried, Was quick to comprehend, wise to decide (That even his Judges stood amaz'd to hear A more transcendent mover in their sphere), Though more religious: for when doting love Awhile made Solomon apostate prove, 30 Charles ne'er endur'd the Truth which he profest, To be unfix'd by bosom-interest. Bold as Jehosaphat, yet forc'd to fight, And for his own, no unconcerned right. Should I recount his constant time of pray'r, Each rising morn and ev'ning regular, You'd say his practice preach'd, 'They ought not eat Who by devotion first not earn'd their meat:' Thus Hezekiah he exceeds in zeal, Though not (like him) so facile to reveal 40 The treasures of God's House, or His own heart, To be supplanted by some foreign art. And that he might in fame with Joash share When he the ruin'd Temple did repair, His cost on Paul's late ragged fabric spent Must (if no other) be His monument. From this survey the kingdom may conclude His merits, and her losses' magnitude: Nor think he flatters or blasphemes, who tells That Charles exceeds Judea's parallels, 50

[Sidenote:--_Sparguntur in omnes, In te mista fluunt_--Claudian.]

In whom all virtues we concentred see Which 'mongst the best of them divided be. O weak-built glories! which those tempests feel! To force you from your firmest bases reel, What from the strokes of Chance shall you secure, When rocks of Innocence are so unsure? When the World's only mirror slaughter'd lies, Envy's and Treason's bleeding sacrifice; As if His stock of goodness could become No kalendar, but that of martyrdom. 60 See now, ye cursed mountebanks of State, Who have eight years for reformations sate;

[Sidenote: Call'd the Council of Troubles.]

You who dire Alva's counsels did transfer, To act his scenes on England's theatre; You who did pawn yourselves in public faith To slave the Kingdom by your pride and wrath; Call the whole World to witness now, how just, How well you are responsive to your trust, How to your King the promise you perform, With fasts, and sermons, and long prayers sworn, 70 That you intended Peace and Truth to bring To make your Charles Europe's most glorious King.

[Sidenote: The form of taking the Covenant, June 1643.]

Did you for this Lift up your hands on high, To kill the King, and pluck down Monarchy? These are the fruits by your wild faction sown, Which not imputed are, but born your own: For though you wisely seem to wash your hands, The guilt on every vote and order stands; So that convinc'd, from all you did before, Justice must lay the murder at your door. 80 Mark if the body does not bleed anew, In any circumstance approach'd by You, From whose each motion we might plain descry The black ostents of this late tragedy. For when the King, through storms in Scotland bred, To his Great Council for his shelter fled, When in that meeting every error gain'd Redresses sooner granted than complain'd: Not all those frank concessions or amends Did suit the then too powerful faction's ends: 90 No acts of Grace at present would content, Nor promise of Triennial Parl'ament, Till by a formal law the King had past This Session should at Your pleasure last.

So having got the bit, and that 'twas known No power could dissolve You but Your own, Your graceless Junto make such use of this,

[Sidenote: Diodorus Siculus, lib. 2.]

As once was practis'd by Semiramis; Who striving by a subtile suit to prove The largeness of her husband'[s] trust and love, 100 Did from the much abused King obtain That for three days she might sole empress reign; Before which time expir'd, the bloody wife Depriv'd her lord both of his crown and life. There needs no comment when your deeds apply The demonstration of her treachery. Which to effect, by Absolon's foul wile You of the people's heart your prince beguile; Urging what eases they might reap by it Did you their legislative Judges sit. 110 How did you fawn upon, and court the rout, Whose clamour carried your whole plot about? How did you thank seditious men that came To bring petitions which yourselves did frame? And lest they wanted hands to set them on, You led the way by throwing the first stone. For in that libel after midnight born, Wherewith your faction labour'd till the morn,

[Sidenote: Remonstrance of the State of the Kingdom, Dec. 15, 1641.]

That famous lie, you a Remonstrance name; Were not reproaches your malicious aim? 120 Was not the King's dishonour your intent, By slanders to traduce his Government? All which your spiteful cunning did contrive; Men must receive through your false perspective, In which the smallest spots improved were, And every mote a mountain did appear. Thus Caesar by th' ungrateful Senate found His life assaulted through his honour's wound. And now to make Him hopeless to resist,

[Sidenote: Ord. Feb. 29, Voted March 15.]

You guide his sword by vote, which as you list 130 Must strike or spare (for so you did enforce His hand against His reason to divorce

[Sidenote: The Navy seiz'd Mar. 28, 1642.]

Brave Strafford's life), then wring it quite away By your usurping each Militia:

[Sidenote: The London Tumults, Jan. 10, 1641.]

Then seize His magazines, of which possest You turn the weapons 'gainst their master's breast. This done, th' unkennell'd crew of lawless men Led down by Watkins, Pennington, and Venn, Did with confused noise the Court invade; Then all Dissenters in both houses bay'd. 140 At which the King amaz'd is forc'd to fly, The whilst your mouth's laid on maintain the cry. The Royal game dislodg'd and under chase, Your hot pursuit dogs Him from place to place: Not Saul with greater fury or disdain Did flying David from Jeshimon's plain Unto the barren wilderness pursue, Than cours'd and hunted is the King by you. The mountain partridge or the chased roe Might now for emblems of His fortune go, 150 And since all other May-games of the town (Save those yourselves should make) were voted down, The clam'rous pulpit hollaes in resort, Inviting men to your King-catching sport. Where as the foil grows cold you mend the scent By crying Privilege of Parliament, Whose fair pretensions the first sparkles are, Which by your breath blown up enflame the war, And Ireland (bleeding by design) the stale Wherewith for men and money you prevail. 160 Yet doubting that imposture could not last, When all the Kingdom's mines of treasure waste, You now tear down Religion's sacred hedge To carry on the work by sacrilege; Reputing it Rebellion's fittest pay To take both God's and Caesar's dues away. The tenor of which execrable vote Your over-active zealots so promote, That neither tomb, nor temple could escape, Nor dead nor living, your licentious rape. 170 Statues and grave-stones o'er men buried

[Sidenote: * At Basing-Chapel, sold Dec. 29, 1643.]

Robb'd of their brass, the * coffins of their lead; Not the seventh Henry's gilt and curious screen, Nor those which 'mongst our rarities were seen,

[Sidenote: * At Winchester.]

The * chests wherein the Saxon monarchs lay, But must be basely sold or thrown away. May in succeeding times forgotten be Those bold examples of impiety, Which were the Ages' wonder and discourse, You have their greatest ills improv'd by worse. 180

[Sidenote: Lactant. l. 2, c. 4.]

No more be mention'd Dionysius' theft, Who of their gold the heathen shrines bereft; For who with Yours his robberies confer, Must him repute a petty pilferer.

[Sidenote: Julian, Praefectus Aegypti. Theodoret. l. 3, c. 11.]

Nor Julian's scoff, who when he view'd the state Of Antioch's Church, the ornaments and plate, Cried, Meaner vessels would serve turn, or none Might well become the birth of Mary's Son:

[Sidenote: ibid.]

Nor how that spiteful Atheist did in scorn Piss on God's Table, which so oft had borne 190 The Hallow'd Elements, his death present:

[Sidenote: Ganguin. l. 6.]

Nor he that foul'd it with his excrement, Then turn'd the cloth unto that act of shame, Which without trembling Christians should not name.

Nor John of Leyden, who the pillag'd quires Employ'd in Munster for his own attires; His pranks by Hazlerig exceeded be, A wretch more wicked and as mad as he,

[Sidenote: _The Carpet belonging to the Communion Table of Winchester Cathedral_, Dec. 18, 1642. Adrian Emp.]

Who once in triumph led his sumpter moil Proudly bedecked with the Altar's spoil. 200 Nor at Bizantium's sack how Mahomet In St. Sophia's Church his horses set. Nor how Belshazzar at his drunken feasts Carous'd in holy vessels to his guests: Nor he that did the books and anthems tear, Which in the daily Stations used were. These were poor essays of imperfect crimes, Fit for beginners in unlearned times, Siz'd only for that dull meridian Which knew no Jesuit nor Puritan 210 (Before whose fatal birth were no such things As doctrines to depose and murder kings). But since your prudent care enacted well, That there should be no King in Israel, England must write such annals of your reign Which all records of elder mischiefs stain. Churches unbuilt by order, others burn'd; Whilst Paul's and Lincoln are to stables turn'd; And at God's Table you might horses see By (those more beasts) their riders manger'd be, 220

[Sidenote: At Winchcomb in Gloucestershire.]

Some kitchens and some slaughter-houses made, Communion-boards and cloths for dressers laid: Some turn'd to loathsome goals, so by you brought Unto the curse of Baal's house, a draught. The Common Prayers with the Bibles torn, The copes in antic Moorish dances worn, And sometimes, for the wearer's greater mock, The surplice is converted to a frock, Some, bringing dogs, the Sacrament revile, Some, with Copronymus, the Font defile. 230 O God! canst Thou these profanations like? If not, why is Thy thunder slow to strike The cursed authors? who dare think that Thou Dost, when not punish them, their acts allow. All which outrageous crimes, though your pretence Would fasten on the soldiers' insolence, We must believe, that what by them was done Came licens'd forth by your probation. For, as yourselves with Athaliah's brood In strong contention for precedence stood, 240

[Sidenote: Whitehall, Windsor, Feb. 3, 1643.]

You robb'd two Royal Chapels of their plate, Which Kings and Queens to God did dedicate; Then by a vote more sordid than the stealth, Melt down and coin it for the Commonwealth, That is, giv't up to the devouring jaws Of your great Idol Bel, new styl'd The Cause. And though this monster you did well devise To feed by plunder, taxes, loans, excise; (All which provisions You the people tell Scarce serve to diet Your Pantagruel). 250 We no strew'd ashes need to trace the cheat, Who plainly see what mouths the messes eat. Brave Reformation! and a through one too, Which to enrich yourselves must all undo. Pray tell us (those that can), What fruits have grown From all Your seeds in blood and treasure sown? What would you mend? when Your projected State Doth from the best in form degenerate? Or why should You (of all) attempt the cure, Whose facts nor Gospel's test nor Law's endure? 260 But like unwholesome exhalations met From Your conjunction only plagues beget, And in Your circle, as imposthumes fill Which by their venom the whole body kill; For never had You pow'r but to destroy, Nor will, but where You conquer'd to enjoy. This was Your master-prize, who did intend To make both Church and Kingdom's prey Your end. 'Gainst which the King (plac'd in the gap) did strive By His (till then unquestion'd) negative, 270 Which finding You lack'd reason to persuade, Your arguments are into weapons made; So to compel him by main force to yield,

[Sidenote: E. of Essex Army, Aug. 1 1642.]

You had a formed army in the field Before his reared standard could invite Ten men upon his Righteous Cause to fight: Yet ere those raised forces did advance,

[Sidenote: The Standard at Nottingham, Aug. 25, 1642.]

Your malice struck him dead by Ordinance, When your Commissions the whole Kingdom swept With blood and slaughter, Not the King except. 280 Now hard'ned in revolt, You next proceed By pacts to strengthen each rebellious deed,

[Sidenote: June 27, 1643.]

New oaths and vows, and Covenants advance, All contradicting your allegiance, Whose sacred knot you plainly did untie,

[Sidenote: Declaration and Resolution of Parl., Aug. 15, 1642.]

When you with Essex swore to live and die. These were your calves in Bethel and in Dan, Which Jeroboam's treason stablish can, Who by strange pacts and altars did seduce The people to their laws' and King's abuse; 290 All which but serve like Shibboleth to try Those who pronounc'd not your conspiracy; That when your other trains defective are, Forc'd oaths might bring refusers to the snare. And lest those men your counsels did pervert, Might when your fraud was seen the Cause desert, A fierce decree is through the Kingdom sent, Which made it death for any to repent. What strange dilemmas doth Rebellion make? 'Tis mortal to deny, or to partake: 300 Some hang who would not aid your traitorous act,

[Sidenote: History of English and Scottish Presbytery, p. 320.]

Others engag'd are hang'd if they retract. So witches who their contracts have unsworn, By their own Devils are in pieces torn. Thus still the raging tempest higher grows, Which in extremes the King's resolvings throws. The face of Ruin everywhere appears, And acts of outrage multiply our fears; Whilst blind Ambition by successes fed Hath You beyond the bound of subjects led, 310 Who tasting once the sweet of regal sway, Resolving now no longer to obey. For Presbyterian pride contests as high As doth the Popedom for supremacy. Needs must you with unskilful Phaeton Aspire to guide the chariot of the Sun, Though your ill-govern'd height with lightning be Thrown headlong from his burning axle-tree.

[Sidenote: The 19 Propos.]

You will no more petition or debate, But your desire in Propositions state, 330 Which by such rules and ties the King confine, They in effect are summons to resign. Therefore your war is manag'd with such sleight, 'Twas seen you more prevail'd by purse than might; And those you could not purchase to your will, You brib'd with sums of money to sit still. The King by this time hopeless here of peace, Or to procure His wasted People's ease, Which He in frequent messages had tried, By you as oft as shamelessly denied; 330 Wearied by faithless friends and restless foes, To certain hazard doth His life expose:

[Sidenote: April 27, 1646. May 5, 1646.]

When through your quarters in a mean disguise He to His countrymen for succour flies, Who met a brave occasion then to save Their native King from His untimely grave: Had he from them such fair reception gain'd, Wherewith ev'n Achish David entertain'd: But faith to Him or hospitable laws In your Confederate Union were no clause, 340 Which back to you their rend'red Master sends To tell how He was us'd among his friends. Far be it from my thoughts by this black line To measure all within that warlike clime; The still admir'd Montrose some numbers led In his brave steps of loyalty to tread. I only tax a furious party there, Who with our native pests enleagued were. Then 'twas you follow'd Him with hue and cry, Made midnight searches in each liberty, 350

[Sidenote: This Order publish'd by beat of Drum, May 4, 1646.]

Voting it Death to all without reprieve, Who should their Master harbour or relieve. Ev'n in pure pity of both Nations' fame, I wish that act in story had no name. When all your mutual stipulations are Converted at Newcastle to a fair, Where (like His Lord) the King the mart is made, Bought with Your money, and by them betrayed; For both are guilty, they that did contract, And You that did the fatal bargain act. 360 Which who by equal reason shall peruse, Must yet conclude, they had the best excuse: For doubtless they (good men) had never sold, But that you tempted them with English gold; And 'tis no wonder if with such a sum Our brethren's frailty might be overcome. What though hereafter it may prove their lot To be compared with Iscariot? Yet will the World perceive which was most wise, And who the nobler traitor by the price; 370 For though 'tis true both did themselves undo, They made the better bargain of the two, Which all may reckon who can difference Two hundred thousand pounds from thirty-pence. However something is in justice due, Which may be spoken in defence of You; For in your Master's purchase you gave more, Than all your Jewish kindred paid before. And had you wisely us'd what then you bought, Your act might be a loyal ransom thought, 380 To free from bonds your captive sovereign, Restoring Him to his lost Crown again. But You had other plots, your busy hate Plied all advantage on His fallen state, And show'd You did not come to bring Him bail, But to remove Him to a stricter gaol, To Holmby first, whence taken from His bed, He by an army was in triumph led; Till on pretence of safety Cromwell's wile Had juggl'd Him into the Fatal Isle, 390 Where Hammond for his jailor is decreed, And murderous Rolf as lieger-hangman fee'd, Who in one fatal knot two counsels tie, He must by poison or by pistol die. Here now denied all comforts due to life, His friends, His children, and his peerless wife; From Carisbrook He oft but vainly sends, And though first wrong'd, seeks to make you amends; For this He sues, and by His restless pen Importunes Your deaf ears to treat again. 400 Whilst the proud faction scorning to go less,

[Sidenote: Jan. 3, 1647. Jan. 9, 1647.]

Return those trait'rous votes of Non Address, Which follow'd were by th' Armies thund[e]ring To act without and quite against the King. Yet when that cloud remov'd, and the clear light Drawn from His weighty reasons, gave You sight Of Your own dangers, had not their intents

[Sidenote: Colchester Siege.]

Retarded been by some cross accidents; Which for a while with fortunate suspense Check'd or diverted their swoll'n insolence: 410 When the whole Kingdom for a Treaty cried, Which gave such credit to Your falling side,

[Sidenote: June 30, 1648. Treaty Voted, July 28, 1648.]

That you recall'd those votes, and God once more Your power to save the Kingdom did restore; Remember how Your peevish Treators sate, Not to make peace, but to prolong debate; How You that precious time at first delay'd, And what ill use of Your advantage made, As if from Your foul hands God had decreed Nothing but war and mischief should succeed. 420 For when by easy grants the King's assent Did your desires in greater things prevent, When He did yield faster than You entreat, And more than modesty dares well repeat; Yet not content with this, without all sense Or of His honour or His conscience, Still you press'd on, till you too late descried, Twas now less safe to stay than be denied: For like a flood broke loose the armed rout, Then shut Him closer up, and shut You out, 430 Who by just vengeance are since worried By those hand-wolves You for his ruin bred. Thus like two smoking firebrands, You and They Have in this smother chok'd the Kingdom's day: And as you rais'd them first, must share the guilt, With all the blood in those distractions spilt. For though with Sampson's foxes backward turn'd (When he Philistia's fruitful harvest burn'd), The face of your opinions stands averse, All your conclusions but one fire disperse; 440 And every line which carries your designs, In the same centre of confusion joins. Though then the Independents end the work, 'Tis known they took their platform from the Kirk; Though Pilate Bradshaw with his pack of Jews, God's High Vice-gerent at the bar accuse; They but reviv'd the evidence and charge, Your pois'nous Declarations laid at large; Though they condemn'd or made his life their spoil, You were the setters forc'd him to the toil: 450 For you whose fatal hand the warrant writ, The prisoner did for execution fit; And if their axe invade the Regal throat, Remember you first murder'd Him by vote. Thus they receive your tennis at the bound, Take off that head which you had first un-crown'd; Which shows the texture of our mischiefs clew, If ravell'd to the top, begins in You, Who have for ever stain'd the brave intents And credit of our English Parliaments: 460 And in this one caus'd greater ills, and more, Than all of theirs did good that went before. Yet have You kept your word against Your will, Your King is great indeed and glorious still, And you have made Him so. We must impute That lustre which His sufferings contribute To your preposterous wisdoms, who have done All your good deeds by contradiction: For as to work His peace you rais'd this strife, And often shot at Him to save His life; 470 As you took from Him to increase His wealth, And kept Him pris'ner to secure His health; So in revenge of your dissembled spite, In this last wrong you did Him greatest right, And (cross to all You meant) by plucking down Lifted Him up to His Eternal Crown. With this encircled in that radiant sphere, Where thy black murderers must ne'er appear; Thou from th' enthroned Martyrs' blood-stain'd line, Dost in thy virtues bright example shine. 480 And when thy darted beam from the moist sky Nightly salutes thy grieving people's eye, Thou like some warning light rais'd by our fears, Shalt both provoke and still supply our tears, Till the Great Prophet wak'd from his long sleep, Again bids Sion for Josiah weep: That all successions by a firm decree May teach their children to lament for Thee. Beyond these mournful rites there is no art Or cost can Thee preserve. Thy better part 490 Lives in despite of Death, and will endure Kept safe in thy unpattern'd Portraiture: Which though in paper drawn by thine own hand, Shall longer than Corinthian-marble stand, Or iron sculptures: There thy matchless pen Speaks Thee the Best of Kings as Best of Men: Be this Thy Epitaph; for This alone Deserves to carry Thy Inscription. And 'tis but modest Truth (so may I thrive As not to please the best of thine alive, 500 Or flatter my Dead Master, here would I Pay my last duty in a glorious lie): In that admired piece the World may read Thy virtues and misfortunes storied; Which bear such curious mixture, men must doubt Whether Thou wiser wert or more devout. There live, Blest Relic of a saint-like mind, With honours endless, as Thy peace, enshrin'd; Whilst we, divided by that bloody cloud, Whose purple mists Thy murder'd body shroud, 510 Here stay behind at gaze: apt for Thy sake Unruly murmurs now 'gainst Heav'n to make, Which binds us to live well, yet gives no fence To guard her dearest sons from violence. But he whose trump proclaims, Revenge is mine, Bids us our sorrow by our hope confine, And reconcile our Reason to our Faith, Which in thy Ruin such conclusions hath; It dares conclude, God does not keep His Word If Zimri dies in peace that slew his Lord. 520

From my sad Retirement March 11, 1648.

CAROLUS STUART REX ANGLIÆ SECURE CAESUS[1] VITA CESSIT TRICESSIMO IANUARII.

[An Elegy upon King Charles the First.] I have thought it desirable to give this Elegy though Hannah did not, and though I scarcely myself think it to be King's, first because it is very little known (it was strange even to Professor Firth when I asked him about it); secondly, because the 1664 issue or reissue seems worth completing; but thirdly, and principally, because it is well worth giving. It seems to me, in fact, rather too good in a certain way to be King's. He could write, as we have seen, fairly vigorous couplets of a kind rather later than this date; but I do not know where he keeps up such continuous and effective 'slogging' as here. The Colchester piece, which is the natural parallel, is distinctly inferior in that respect. There are, moreover, in the piece some things which I suspect King would not, as well as could not, have written, and which perhaps influenced Hannah in not giving it. The close and effective Biblical parallels are not quite in the Bishop's way in verse, and the clear vigorous summary of the whole rebellion--dates and facts in margin--is like nothing else of his that I know. But--his or not his--it is found with his undoubted work; it is good; and so it shall be given.

But the reader must not suppose that it has never appeared except in the 1664 King or before that. While reading for the present edition I had noticed an entry of a very similar title in Hazlitt, and on looking the book up in the British Museum I found it, as I expected, to be identical in all important respects, putting aside some minor variants and a shorter title, with 1664. The original (in black border at least an inch deep) adds: 'Persecuted by two implacable factions, Imprisoned by the one and murthered by the other, January 30th, 1648.' The final prose clause is the same, and I noticed no various readings, except merest 'literals'--an occasional capital for lower case, '-or' for '-our', and the like--which it did not seem necessary to collate or report exactly.]

[Title] As usual, 'Charls' in original.]

[Line: 14 Zechariah xii. 11 compared with 2 Kings xxiii. 29 and 2 Chronicles xxxv. 22-4.]

[Line: 27 This line is slightly ambiguous. At first one takes 'Judges' as referring to the regicide tribunal--and of course not merely the dignity but the unanswerable logic of Charles's attitude is admitted. But our elegist would hardly admit that the King moved in the sphere of his rebellious subjects, so that it may be a reference to the legally constituted bench of earlier years--'his Judges' in another sense.]

[Line: 40 See 2 Kings xx, 2 Chronicles xxxii, and Isaiah xxxix.]

[Line: 45 A little prosaic. Old St. Paul's was being constantly tinkered: indeed, as is well known from Evelyn's Diary, there were plans for very extensive restoration just before the Fire.]

[Line: 48 Orig. 'losses', which at the time would stand equally well for singular and plural genitive.]

[Line: 58 Orig. 'sacrifise', to get a complete ear-rhyme.]

[Line: 61 This apostrophe to the 'cursed mountebanks of State' is uncommonly vigorous, and much straighter 'hitting from the shoulder' than King usually manages.]

[Line: 100 Orig. 'husband', without 's, and possibly intended.]

[Line: 124 perspective] As commonly = 'telescope'.]

[Line: 138 Watkins I know not; Pennington we have seen in Cleveland; Venn (1586-1650) was John Venn, wool-merchant, M.P., active rebel, and regicide.]

[Line: 142 This (original) may read, 'Your mouths, laid on, maintain the cry', which seems most probable; or, 'Your mouth's [i.e. is] laid on "Maintain the cry".']

[Line: 146 1 Samuel xxiii 24. Jeshimon seems to have escaped Alexander the Concordance-smith.]

[Line: 155 foil] The word in this sense had puzzled me; but the readers of the Clarendon Press put me literally on it by reference to N.E.D. It means the 'scent' or 'track' of a hunted animal and occurs in the first sense in Turbervile, and elsewhere, as well as (figuratively used) in as late and well-known a place as Tom Jones.]

[Line: 199 'Moil'--or rather, more commonly, 'moyle'--is very common for 'mule' in Elizabethan drama, and is said to be still dialectic, especially in Devon and Cornwall.]

[Line: 223 'Goal' would seem here to be used as = 'jakes', though it has been suggested that the common sense of 'jail' will do.]

[Line: 226 Orig. 'Coaps'.]

[Line: 238 'probation' must here = '_ap_probation'.]

[Line: 246 Orig. 'Idol Bel_l_', which may puzzle for a moment. Of course the Dragon's companion and Nebo's is meant. The poet seems indeed rather to have mixed up the monster and the false god.]

[Line: 250 Here again there seems to be a slight confusion between Pantagruel and his glorious father.]

[Lines: 265-6 Another uncommonly vigorous couplet.]

[Line: 312 The writer either intended to continue the set of participles or forgot that he had begun it. But if 'For Presbyterian ... supremacy' be thrown into parenthesis the anacoluthon will be mended--after a fashion.]

[Lines: 373-4 Good again; and with a fore-echo of Dryden's 'Shimei' rhythm and swashing blow.]

[Line: 392 lieger-hangman] 'Hangman resident', house-hangman'.]

[Line: 403 Orig. 'Armies', with the usual choice between singular and plural genitive or (here) nominative plural.]

[Line: 415 I think it well to keep the form 'Treator'.]

[Line: 430 Pointed, if slightly burlesque.]

[Line: 432 hand-wolves] A dog trained and on the leash was said to be 'in hand'.]

[Line: 438 Philisti_a_] The letter here is slightly 'smashed' and the word might be 'Philistins' or 'Philistia's'. It looks more like the former, but the latter is better, and is said to be clear in Mr. Thorn-Drury's copies.]

[Line: 444 platform] This is interesting.]

[Line: 492 Portraiture] A reference to the [Greek: Eikôn Basilikê].]

[Footnote: 1 Orig. C_o_esus.]

Poems in Manuscript.

A Second Elegy on the Countess of Leinster.

Sleep, precious ashes, in thy sacred urn From Death and Grave till th' last trump sounds return; Meanwhile embalm'd in Virtues. Joseph's Tomb Were fitter for thee, than the Earth's dark womb. Cease, Friends, to weep; she's but asleep, not dead,-- Chang'd from her husband's, to her mother's, bed; Or from his bosom into Abram's rather, Where now she rests, Blest Soul, in such a Father. Thus Death hath done his best, and worst. His best, In sending Virtue to her place of rest; 10 His worst, in leaving him, as dead, in life Whose chiefest Joys were in his dearest Wife.

[A Second Elegy on the Countess of Leinster.] Hannah found this in the Pickering MS. 'immediately after' the printed one v. supra. On what other grounds he assigned its subject I do not know; but both, as noted above, have a most extraordinary efflorescence of capitals.]

Epigrams.

I.

Quid faciant leges, ubi sola pecunia regnat? &c.--PETRON. ARBIT.

To what serve Laws, where only Money reigns? Or where a poor man's cause no right obtains? Even those that most austerity pretend, Hire out their tongues, and words for profit lend. What's Judgement then, but public merchandise? And the Court sits, but to allow the price.

II.

Casta suo gladium cum traderet Arria Paeto, &c.--MARTIAL.

When Arria to her Paetus had bequeath'd The sword in her chaste bosom newly sheath'd; Trust me (quoth she) My own wound feels no smart; 'Tis thine (My Paetus) grieves and kills my heart.

III.

Qui pelago credit, magno se faenore tollit, &c.--PETRON. ARBIT.

He whose advent'rous keel ploughs the rough seas, Takes interest of fate for wealth's increase. He that in battle traffics, and pitch'd fields, Reaps with his sword rich harvests, which war yields. Base parasites repose their drunken heads, Laden with sleep and wine, on Tyrian beds; And he that melts in Lust's adult'rous fire, Gets both reward and pleasure for his hire. But Learning only, midst this wanton heat, Hath (save itself) nothing to wear or eat; Faintly exclaiming on the looser Times, That value Wit and Arts below their crimes.

IV.

Pro captu lectoris habent sua fata libelli.

The fate of books is diverse as man's sense: Two critics ne'er shar'd one intelligence.

V.

I would not in my love too soon prevail: An easy conquest makes the purchase stale.[1]

[Epigrams.] This little bunch of epigrams is of no particular value, but being so small may be given for completeness' sake. The first three Hannah found in both Pickering and Malone 22 MSS., together with V, which, I suppose, shocked him so that he did not print it. The Pro captu lectoris, which is the best, is in Malone only.]

[Footnote 1: From a copy most kindly made for me by Mr. Nichol Smith. It is a harmless enough, and rather neat, translation of Petronius, Nolo quod cupio, &c.]

The following group of poems has been printed by Mr. Mason, the first as authentic, the others as doubtful. He points out that The Complaint and On his Shadow are autograph, and written on the same sheet of paper as the lines Upon the Untimely Death of J. K. The text here printed has been supplied by Mr. Percy Simpson from the original MSS., and the few textual notes are his. In view of the uncertainty of the bulk of the matter I [G. S.] have not thought it worth while to add any annotation of the more general kind. In addition, Mr. Mason prints a translation of a Latin elegy on Dr. Spenser, President of Corpus Christi College, Oxford; the Latin text of this in Rawlinson MS. D. 912, fol. 305 verso, is in King's autograph, but the translation is not, and moreover it is so tinkered and changed as to suggest the efforts of a far from facile, if very conscientious, copyist. This has not been printed, and only the first of the following poems can with certainty be ascribed to King.

Upon the Untimely Death of J. K., first born of HK.

Blessed Spirit, thy infant breath, Fitter for the quire of saints Than for mortals here beneath, Warbles joys, but mine complaints-- Plaints that spring from that great loss Of thy little self, sad cross. Yet do I still repair thee by desire Which warms my benumbed sense, but like false fire.

But with such delusive shapes Still my pensive thoughts are eased, 10 As birds bating at mock grapes Are with empty error pleased. Yet I err not, for decay Hath but seized thy house of clay, For lo the lively image of each part Makes deep impression on my waxy heart.

Thus learn I to possess the thing I want; Having great store of thee, and yet great scant. Oh let me thus recall thee, ne'er repine, Since what is thy fate now, must once be mine. 20

[Upon the Untimely Death of J. K., &c.] The text is taken from Rawlinson MS. D. 317 of the Bodleian, fol. 175; the monogram of the title was used by King. An unsigned copy is in Harleian MS. 6917 of the British Museum, foll. 96 Verso-97: this omits 'but', l. 8.]

The Complaint.

Fond, hapless man, lost in thy vain desire; Thy lost desire May now retire. She, like a salamander, in thy flame Sports with Love's name, And lives the same, Unsinged, impenetrably cold. Sure, careless Boy, thou slep'st; and Death, instead Of thine, conveyed His dart of lead. 10 This thou unluckily at her hast sent, Who now is bent Not to relent, Though thou spend all thy shafts of gold. I prithee filch another fatal dart And pierce my heart; To ease this smart, Strike all my senses dull. Thy force devours Me and my powers In tedious hours, 20 And thy injustice I'll proclaim Or use some art to cause her heat return, Or whilst I burn Make her my urn, Where I may bury in a marble chest All my unrest. Thus her cold breast, If it but lodge, will quench, my flame.

[The Complaint.] The text is taken from Rawlinson Poet. MS. D. 317, fol. 161, where it is written, without title or signature, in King's autograph. There is a copy in Harleian MS. 6917, fol. 97, entitled The Complaint.]

[Line: 4 thy] the Harl. MS.]

[Line: 21 King originally wrote 'And she thy weakness will proclaim', and then added the text as an afterthought.]

[Line: 28 will] may Harl.]

On his Shadow

Come, my shadow, constant, true, Stay, and do not fly me: When I court thee or would sue, Thou wilt not deny me. Female loves I find unkind And devoid of pity; Therefore I have changed my mind And to thee frame this ditty. Child of my body and that flame From whence our light we borrow, 10 Thou continuest still the same In my joy or sorrow. Though thou lov'st the sunshine best Or enlightened places, Yet thou dost not fly, but rest, 'Midst my black disgraces. Thou wouldst have all happy days When thou art approaching, No cloud nor night to dim bright rays By their sad encroaching. 20 Let but glimmering lights appear To banish night's obscuring, Thou wilt show thou harbourd'st near, By my side enduring; And, when thou art forced away By the sun's declining, Thy length is doubled, to repay Thy absence whilst he's shining. As I flatter not thee fair, So thou art not fading; 30 Age nor sickness can impair Thy hue by fierce invading. Let the purest varnished clay Art can show, or Nature, View the shades they cast; and they Grow duskish like thy feature. 'Tis thy truth I most commend-- That thou art not fleeting: For, as I embrace my friend, So thou giv'st him greeting. 40 If I strike, or keep the peace, So thou seem'st to threaten, And single blows by thy increase Leave my foe double beaten. As thou findst me walk or sit, Standing or down lying, Thou dost all my postures hit, Most apish in thy prying. When our actions so consent-- Expressions dumb, but local-- 50 Words are needless complement, Else I could wish thee vocal. Hadst thou but a soul, with sense And reason sympathising, Earth could match, nor heaven dispense A mate so far enticing. Nay, when bedded in the dust, 'Mongst shades I have my biding, Tapers can see thy posthume trust Within my vault residing. 60 Had heaven so pliant women made Or thou their souls couldst marry, I'd soon resolve to wed my shade; This love would ne'er miscarry. But they thy lightness only share; If shunned, the more they follow, And to pursuers peevish are As Daphne to Apollo. Yet this experience thou hast taught: A she-friend and an honour 70 Like thee; nor that nor she is caught, Unless I fall upon her.

[On his Shadow.] The text is taken from King's autograph in Rawlinson Poet D. 317, foll. 173-4: it has neither heading nor signature. At line 25, the last on this page of the MS., the catchword reads 'Yet when', which is slightly more appropriate, but the text continues 'And when'. There is a copy in Harleian MS. 6917, fol. 97 verso-98, entitled On his Shadow. There are the following variants:]

[Line: 8 frame] framed.]

[Line: 11 still om.]

[Line: 23 harbourd'st] harbour'st.]

[Line: 26 By] At.]

[Line: 49 so] thus.]

[Line: 55 could] could not (but compare l. 31).]

[Line: 64 would] could.]

Wishes to my Son, John,

For this new, and all succeeding years:

January 1, 1630.

If wishes may enrich my boy, My Jack, that art thy father's joy, They shall be showered upon thy head As thick as manna, angel's bread; And bread I wish thee--this short word Will furnish both thy back and board; Not Fortunatus' purse or cap Nor Danae's gold-replenished lap Can more supply thee: but content Is a large patrimony, sent 10 From him who did thy soul infuse. May'st thou this best endowment use In any state; thy structure is I see complete--a frontispiece Promising fair; may it ne'er be Like Jesuit's volumes, where we see Virtues and saints adorn the front, Doctrines of devils follow on't: May a pure soul inhabit still This well-mixed clay; and a straight will 20 Biassed by reason, that by grace. May gems of price maintain their place In such a casket: in that list Chaste turquoise, sober amethyst That sacred breastplate still surround: Urim and Thummim be there found, Which for thy wearing I design, That in thee King and Priest may join, As 'twas thy grandsire's choice, and mine. May'st thou attain John the Divine 30 Chief of thy titles, though contempt Now brand the clergy; be exempt, I ever wish thee, from each vice That may that calling scandalize: Let not thy tongue with court oil flow, Nor supple language lay thee low For thy preferment; make God's cause Thy pulpit's task, not thine applause; May'st thou both preach by line and life; That thou live well and chaste, a wife 40 I wish thee, such as is thy sire's, A lawful help 'gainst lustful fires; And though promotions often frown On married brows, yet lie not down In single baudry; impure monks, That banish wedlock, license punks. Peace I do wish thee from those wars Which gownmen talk out at the bars Four times a year; I wish thee peace Of conscience, country, and increase 50 In all that best of men commends, Favour with God, good men thy friends. Last, for a lasting legacy I this bequeath, when thou shalt die, Heaven's monarch bless mine eyes, to see My wishes crowned, in crowning thee.

[Wishes to my Son, John.] This poem is preserved anonymously in Harleian MS. 6917, foll. 101 verso-102, and Mr. Mason assigns it to Henry King. Lines 28-9 strongly support this attribution, but the date at the head of the poem is a serious difficulty, which can only be met by supposing the lines to have been addressed in 1630 to the son of a second marriage: l. 40 refers to a living wife, who could not be the lady of The Exequy. King's authorship must therefore be regarded as doubtful.]

A Contemplation upon Flowers.

Brave flowers, that I could gallant it like you And be as little vain! You come abroad and make a harmless show, And to your beds of earth again; You are not proud, you know your birth, For your embroidered garments are from earth.

You do obey your months and times, but I Would have it ever spring; My fate would know no winter, never die, Nor think of such a thing. 10 Oh that I could my bed of earth but view, And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

Oh teach me to see death and not to fear, But rather to take truce; How often have I seen you at a bier, And there look fresh and spruce. You fragrant flowers then teach me that my breath Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

[A Contemplation upon Flowers.] Another very doubtful poem from Harleian MS. 6917, fol. 105 verso, where it is attributed to 'H. Kinge'. Mr. Mason points out in support of the attribution that this MS. contains other poems of King and documents relating to his family; but the poem can hardly be regarded as authenticated. It has, however, been quoted as King's in more than one anthology; and it would probably be missed if omitted from an edition of King's poems.]

* * *

* * * * *

POEMS

AND

SONGS,

BY

THOMAS FLATMAN.

The Fourth Edition,

With many Additions and Amendments.

------Me quoque vatem Dicunt Pastores, sed non Ego credulus illis. Virgil.

LONDON,

Printed for Benjamin Tooke, at the Ship in St. Paul's Church-Yard. 1686.

INTRODUCTION TO THOMAS FLATMAN.

Flatman has been condoled with on his name by Mr. Bullen, one of the few persons who have done him some justice in recent years.[1] I should rather myself, for reasons which will be given presently, condole with him on his date. His father was probably Robert Flatman of Mendham, Norfolk, and it is supposed that the poet was born in London. The date of his birth, recorded here for the first time, was February 21, 1635, about 5.29 in the morning. So his horoscope, preserved by Ashmole,[2] informs us. When he was elected at Winchester on Michaelmas Day, 1648, he was stated to be 'eleven years old'--a slight miscalculation. He himself in The Retirement, written in 1665, correctly speaks of his 'thirty years'. He actually entered Winchester in September, 1649. He was transferred in the usual (when uninterrupted) course to New College, Oxford; he was admitted as a probationer on September 11, 1654, but seems not to have matriculated till July 25, 1655; he became Fellow in 1656.[3] There is no academic record, it would seem, of his ever having taken his degree, though he is spoken of as 'A.B. of Oxford' when, by the King's Letters, he was made M.A. of St. Catherine Hall, Cambridge, in 1666. He went from Oxford to the Inner Temple, in 1655, and was called to the Bar on May 11, 1662. Oldys has a half-satiric reference to his pleading.[4] He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in April, 1668. In 1672 he married, his wife being favourably spoken of, and gossip--inevitable whether well founded or not--records that his 'Bachelor's Song' (v. inf.) was sung under his windows on the occasion by 'merry friends'. And he died in London on December 8, 1688. Beyond these meagre details, and a statement that he had property at Diss (the cure of Skelton and the home of Maria Jolly), we know little about him directly or by external evidence. By that of his poems he must have been a friend of good men--Walton, Cotton, Edward Browne[3] (Sir Thomas's son), Faithorne the engraver, Oldham, and others. His miniature portraits are well spoken of;--one is in possession of the Duke of Buccleuch, seven are in the South Kensington Museum. That, however, which illustrates his Poems is from a painting by John Hayls, whom Pepys's Diary has made known to a wider circle than students of the History of English Painting.

Flatman was evidently a tolerable scholar; and his Latinity, of which several specimens will be found here, does no discredit to the Winchester and the New College of the time. When he began English verse-writing does not seem to be known, but it must have been pretty early. He does not appear to have hurried his Muse; but collected his poems first in 1674, issuing augmented editions, to the number of four in all, up to a time shortly before his death. Of these, the third (1682) and the fourth (1686) have a claim to be regarded as authoritative and are the basis of the present text. The 1682 edition, 'With Additions and Amendments', is better printed, and the 1686--which makes a modest attempt to outbid it 'With many Additions and Amendments'--is valuable for the supplementary poems.[4] His Pindaric epicedes on public men--Ossory, Rupert, the King, &c.--for the most part appeared separately in folio; and in the earlier days of my preparation of this collection I gave myself a good deal of trouble in looking them up. Except the elegy on Ormond (1688) they were reprinted in these two editions. The last (1686) edition of the Poems, after some search, was procured for me. It seems to be much rarer than the third of 1682, which I have long possessed, and is not in the Bodleian. Additional poems, not included in the texts of 1682 and 1686, are added as a supplement. Three of these are taken from a transcript in Professor Firth's collection of an autograph MS. of Flatman which is now in America; the title is 'Miscellanies by Tho. Flatman, ex Interiori Templo Londini. Sic imperantibus fatis. Nov. 9, 1661, 13º Caroli 2^{di}.' This contains in all twenty-three of the poems which have been collated for this reprint. An interesting feature of this manuscript is that it dates a number of the poems. Besides his poems, some pamphlets and Almanacks[5] have been attributed to him on extremely doubtful evidence, or none at all. Except among his friends, it does not seem even in his own time to have been the fashion to think much of his verse; and a triplet of Rochester's, dismissing him as an imitator of Cowley, and a bad one, is usually quoted.[6] Flatman's Pindarics are certainly his weakest poems. But Rochester, for all his wit and wits, was, though an acute, a very ill-natured critic; we know that he thought Cowley himself out of date and (as his representatives in kind, though not in gift, would say to-day) 'early Caroline'. Besides, to dismiss a Pindaric poet of the Restoration as an imitator, and a bad imitator, of Cowley is too obvious to be of much importance. I should certainly admit that the minor Pindaric--of which I have, for my sins or as part of them, probably read as much as any one living--is one of the most dismal departments of English verse. But Flatman's is by no means exceptionally bad, and is at its best better than that of Oldham, or of Otway, or of Swift--men with whom he cannot compare as a man of letters generally. Let us come closer to him and to his work.

Hayls may not have been a great painter; but he certainly seems to have had the knack of putting character in his portraits. Neither that of Pepys nor that of his wife is without it: and that of Flatman has a great deal.[7] It is what would be called, I suppose, by most superficial judges an 'ugly' face--with a broad retroussé nose, lips of the kind sometimes called 'sensual', and a heavy (something of a double) chin. But the forehead is high, the mouth smallish, and above all there are a pair of somewhat melancholy eyes which entirely rescue it from any charge of vulgarity, though it is not exactly refined. It certainly suggests what is called in stock phrase an 'artistic temperament': and it may not be too fanciful to see in it the kind of artistic temperament which aims higher than it can hit, begins what it is unable to finish, and never forgets the yew even among the roses. This complexion is, of course, in a way reflected in the very titles of the few things of Flatman known[8] to the few people who do know him--'Death', 'A Thought of Death', 'A Dooms-day Thought', 'Nudus Redibo', &c. But it is almost everywhere; and there is no affectation or sensiblerie about it. Flatman is not, as Longfellow, picturesquely and perhaps Carlylesquely, remarked of Matthiessen and Salis, 'a gentleman who walks through life with a fine white cambric handkerchief pressed to his eyes'. He can write battle-songs and love-songs and festive gaillardises naturally enough. But the other vein is also natural, and perhaps more so. The funeral panegyric Odes which make a considerable feature of his works were, of course, almost part of the routine business of a professional poet in those times of patronage: one of his regular sources of revenue, in fives or tens or hundreds of guineas, according to his rank on Parnassus and the rank and liberality of his subject in Church or State or City. But Flatman at his best suffuses them with a grave interest in Death itself--a touch now of Lucretius (who seems to have been a favourite of his), now of the Preacher--which is not in the least conventional. In this curious Second Caroline period of faint survivals of the Renaissance and complete abandonment of its traditions, Flatman's heritage appears to have been this sense of Death. A poet might have a worse portion.

In powers of expression he was not equally well apanaged: and it was unlucky for him that he fell in with the special period of popularity of that difficult and dangerous thing the Pindaric, and had enough of the older taste in him to attempt the short metaphysical lyric: 'The Resolve', 'The Fatigue', 'The Indifferent'. For the first he carried guns hardly heavy enough; for the second his lyrical craft was hardly sufficiently swift and handy to catch every puff of spiritual wind. Yet it is mildly astonishing to find how often he comes near to success, and how near that approach sometimes is. How many poets have tried to put the thought of the first line of the first poem in the complete edition:

No more!--Alas! that bitter word, No more!

and how many have put it more simply and passionately? The 'Morning Hymn' and 'Evening Anthem' have rather strangely missed (owing no doubt to that superficial connexion with Bishop Ken's which is noticed below) association with hundreds and thousands of very often inferior divine poems that have found home in collections. 'The Resolve' begins quite admirably, and only wanted a little more pains on the poet's part to go on as well. 'Love's Bravo' and 'The Expectation' and 'Fading Beauty' and 'The Slight' are very far indeed from being contemptible. The two gaillardises, the 'Bachelor' and the 'Cats', want very little to make them quite capital; and 'The Whim' is in the same case. 'The Advice' actually deserves that adjective, and not a few others will be found pointed out in the notes; while even his Pindarics (at least the earlier ones, for those written after Rochester's death more fully justify his censure than those he can have read) have fine lines and even fine passages.

It is no doubt rather unfortunate that Flatman should have left us so many Horatian translations. For the one thing needful--except in a very few pieces where Horace outgoes himself in massive splendour, and so can be outgone further by more of this, as in Dryden's magnificent version of Tyrrhena regum--the one thing needful in translating Horace is something of his well-known and 'curious' urbane elegance. And this was the very quality which perhaps no Restoration poet--certainly not Flatman--could give. The 'dash of vulgarity'[9] which Mr. Bullen has too truly stigmatized affects nearly all of them except when transported by passion (which is nowhere in Horace); or fighting hard in a mood of satiric controversy which is quite different from his pococurantism; or using a massive rhetoric which is equally absent from him. The consequence is that what Flatman gives us is not Horace at all; and is not good Flatman. The 'Canidia' pieces, as one would expect, are about the best, and they are not very good.

I own, however, and I am duly prepared to take the consequences of the confession, that Flatman appeals to me, though in a different way, almost as much as any other of the constituents of this volume, though certainly not so much as some of those of the other two. He had the pure misfortune--as the sternest critic must acknowledge it to have been--of being born too late for one period and too early for another. He could not give to his most serious things the 'brave translunary' exaltations and excursions which came naturally to the men of a time just before his, and he could not correct this want by the order and the sense, the neatness and the finish, which were born with the next generation. 'Death' and 'A Thought of Death' and the other things mentioned unfairly but inevitably remind us that we have left Donne and Crashaw, Vaughan, and even Herbert, behind us. 'The Mistake' and 'The Whim' and many others remind us that we have not come to Prior. Yet others--which it were cruel to particularize and which he that reads will easily find for himself--display a lack of the purely lyrical power which, among his own contemporaries, Rochester and Sedley and Aphra Behn, not to mention others, possessed. Nor had he that gift of recognizing the eclipse of the Moon and utilizing the opportunities of the Earth, which has made Dryden, to competent and catholic tastes, all but one of the greatest of English poets. But still he was a 'child of the Moon' herself; and he has the benefits which she never withholds from her children, though they may be accompanied by a disastrous influence. He was no doubt a minor poet in a time when minor poetry was exposed to special disadvantages. But with far less wit he was more of a poet than Cleveland; with far less art he was perhaps as much of a poet as Stanley; and I am not even sure that, with 'weight for age' in the due sense, he was so very much less of a poet than King. And if those who think but little of these others as poets deem this scanty praise let us go further and say that he is a poet--imperfect, disappointing as well as disappointed, only half aneled with the sacred unction and houselled with the divine food--but a poet. Which if any denies he may be 'an excellent person'--as Praed or Praed's Medora so finally puts it--but he does not know much, if indeed he knows anything, about poetry.[10]

[Footnote 1: By judicious remarks in the preface to his Musa Proterva (London, 1889, p. viii), and by specimens both in that and in its companion, Speculum Amantis.]

[Footnote 2: In Ashmole MS. 436, at folio 50. Mr. J. K. Fotheringham, who has kindly deciphered the horoscope, points out that there are some inaccuracies in the astrologer's computation, which 'leave a doubt of a few minutes'.]

[Footnote 3: Mr. Ernest Barker, Librarian of New College, kindly gave Mr. Simpson access to the College records to test the above dates and facts.]

[Footnote 4:

Should Flatman for his Client strain the laws The Painter gives some colour to the cause: Should Critics censure what the Poet writ, The Pleader quits him at the Bar of wit. ]

[Footnote 3: Browne's diary (March, 1663-4) contains repeated mention of 'Mr. Flatman, chirurgeon' of Norwich, who had been a great traveller. This is additional evidence of the connexion of the Flatmans with Norfolk.]

[Footnote 4: The publisher was Benjamin Tooke, whom Flatman in a letter of November 3, 1675, recommended to Sancroft if he wished to publish his Fifth of November sermon before the House of Commons (Tanner MS. xlii, fol. 181, in Bodley).]

[Footnote 5: V. inf., p. 360.]

[Footnote 6:

Nor that slow drudge in swift Pindaric strains, Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains, And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose reins.

Flatman, who had no bad blood in him, took a magnanimous revenge (v. inf., p. 365).]

[Footnote 7: Four letters of Flatman are published in Familiar Letters of Love, Gallantry, And Several Occasions, By the Wits of the last and present Age, 1718, vol. i, pp. 249-54. One of these is a letter to an unnamed patron, sending his own portrait for the patron's collection as 'a foil to the rest'.]

[Footnote 8: And that chiefly because Pope is supposed to have borrowed from them.]

[Footnote 9: Flatman, however, is much less 'coarse' than most of his contemporaries. Putting a very few pieces aside (not themselves very shocking) he might almost challenge my Lord Roscommon for those 'unspotted bays' which his own supposed debtor Pope assigned, and of which we are all so tired.]

[Footnote 10: The Additional Poems (p. 408 sq.) I owe to Mr. Percy Simpson, who collected them from their various sources, added variants throughout from the Firth MS., and gave some hints for correcting my own notes. Mr. G. Thorn-Drury has again given his valuable help.]

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND

Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, &c.

In humble acknowledgment of His Princely Favours

These[1] POEMS are with all Dutiful Respect DEDICATED By his GRACE's Ever Oblig'd, and most Obedient Servant, Thomas Flatman.

[Footnote 1: So in 1682, where this Dedication first appeared: 1686 with its usual carelessness 'The', which is most improbable.]

To the Reader.

When I was prevail'd upon to make a Fourth Publication of these Poems with a great many Additions, it was told me, That without a Preface the Book would be unfashionable; Universal Custom had made it a Debt, and in this Age the Bill of Fare was as necessary as the Entertainment. To be Civil therefore, and to Comply with Expectation, instead of an elaborate Harangue in Commendation of the Art in general, or what, and what Qualifications go to the making up of a Poet in particular, and without such artificial Imbellishments as use to be the Ornament of Prefaces, as Sayings of Philosophers, Ends of Verses, Greek, Latin, Hungarian, French, Welch, or Italian, Be it known unto the Reader, That in my poor Opinion Poetry has a very near Resemblance to the modern Experiment of the Ambling-Saddle; It's a good Invention for smoothing the Trott of Prose; That's the Mechanical use of it. But Physically it gives present Ease to the Pains of the Mind, contracted by violent Surfeit of either good or bad Usage in the World. To be serious, 'tis an Innocent Help to Sham a Man's time when it lies on his hands and his Fancy can relish nothing else. I speak but my own Experience; when any Accident hath either pleas'd or vex'd me beyond my power of expressing either my Satisfaction or Indignation in downright Prose, I found it seasonable for Rhiming; and I believe from what follows it may be discern'd when 'twas Fair Weather, when Changeable, and when the Quicksilver fell down to Storm and Tempest. As to the Measures observ'd by me, I always took a peculiar delight in the Pindarique strain, and that for two Reasons, First, it gave me a liberty now and then to correct the saucy forwardness of a Rhime, and to lay it aside till I had a mind to admit it; And secondly, if my Sense fell at any time too short for my Stanza, (and it will often happen so in Versifying) I had then opportunity to fill it up with a Metaphor little to the purpose, and (upon occasion) to run that Metaphor stark mad into an Allegory, a practice very frequent and of admirable use amongst the Moderns, especially the Nobless of the Faculty. But in good earnest, as to the Subjects, which came in my way to write upon, I must declare that I have chosen only such as might be treated within the Rules of Decency, and without offence either to Religion or good Manners. The Caution I receiv'd (by Tradition) from the Incomparable Mr. Cowley, and him I must ever acknowledge but to imitate, if any of the ensuing Copies may deserve the name of Good or Indifferent. I have not vanity enough to prescribe how a Muse ought to be Courted, and I want leisure to borrow from some Treatises I have seen, which look like so many Academies of Complements for that purpose. I have known a man, who when he was about to write would screw his face into more disguises than Scaramuccio, or a Quaker at a Meeting when his Turn came to mount; his breast heav'd, his hair stood on end, his eyes star'd, and the whole man was disorder'd; and truly when he had done, any body at first reading would conclude that at the time he made them he was possess'd with an evil Spirit. Another that seem'd like Nostradamus (when the Whim took him in the head to Prophesie,) he sate upon his Divining Tripos, his elbow on his knee, his Lamp by his side, all the avenues of light stopp'd, full of expectation when the little faint flames should steal in through a crevice of the Shutters; This Gentleman indeed writ extreme Melancholy Madrigals. I have had the happiness to hear of a Third too, whose whole life was Poetical, he was a Walking Poem, and his way was this; finding that the fall of the Leaf was already upon him, and prudently foreseeing that in the Winter of his old Age he might possibly want Fodder, he carry'd always about him one of Raimund Lully's Repositories, a piece of Mathematical Paper, and in what Company soever he came, the Spoon was always ready for the Civet-Cat, nothing scap'd him that fell from a Wit: At night his custom was to digest all that he had pirated that Day, under proper Heads; This was his Arsenal, his inexhaustible Magazine; so that upon occasion he had no more to do, than to give a snap, or two to his Nails; a rub or two upon the sutures of his Head, to turn over his Hint-Book, and the Matter was at hand, his business (after that piece of Legerdemain) was only Tacking, and Tagging: I never saw but One of this Author's Compositions, and really It troubled me, because It put me in mind, how much time I had mispent in Coffee-Houses, for there was nothing in It, but what I could find a Father for There; Nay, (with a little recollection,) a man might name most of the Birds from whence he had pluckt his Feathers. Some there are that Beseech, Others that Hector their Muses: Some that Diet their Pegasus, give him his Heats and Ayrings for the Course; Others that endeavour to slop up his broken wind with Medicinal Ale and Bisquet; But these for the most part are men of Industry; Rhiming is their proper Business, they are fain to labour hard, and use much Artifice for a poor Livelihood, I wish 'em good Trading. I profess I never had design to be incorporated into the Society; my utmost End was merely for Diversion of my self and a few Friends whom I very well love; and if the question should be ask'd why these Productions are expos'd, I may truly say, I could not help it; One unlucky Copy, like a Bell-weather, stole from me in to the Common, and the rest of the Flock took their opportunity to leave the Enclosure. If I might be proud of any thing, it should be the first Copy of the Book, but therein I had the greatest advantage given me that any Noble Subject could afford. And so much for Preface and Poetry, till some very powerful Star shall over-rule my present Resolution.

[To the Reader.] As in some other cases, I have thought it best to keep the original arrangement of capitals, type-differences, &c., here. The poems are printed, like the greater part of the collection, in modern form, but with no important alterations unnoticed.]

On the Excellent Poems of my most Worthy Friend, Mr. Thomas Flatman.

You happy issue of a happy wit, As ever yet in charming numbers writ, Welcome into the light, and may we be Worthy so happy a posterity. We long have wish'd for something excellent; But ne'er till now knew rightly what it meant: For though we have been gratified, 'tis true, From several hands with things both fine and new, The wits must pardon me, if I profess, That till this time the over-teeming press 10 Ne'er set out Poesy in so true a dress: Nor is it all, to have a share of wit, There must be judgement too to manage it; For Fancy's like a rough, but ready horse, Whose mouth is govern'd more by skill than force; Wherein (my friend) you do a maistry own, If not particular to you alone; Yet such at least as to all eyes declares Your Pegasus the best performs his airs. Your Muse can humour all her subjects so, 20 That as we read we do both feel and know; And the most firm impenetrable breast With the same passion that you write's possest. Your lines are rules, which who shall well observe Shall even in their errors praise deserve: The boiling youth, whose blood is all on fire, Push'd on by vanity, and hot desire, May learn such conduct here, men may approve And not excuse, but even applaud his love. Ovid, who made an art of what to all 30 Is in itself but too too natural, Had he but read your verse, might then have seen The style of which his precepts should have been, And (which it seems he knew not) learnt from thence To reconcile frailty with innocence. The love you write virgins and boys may read, And never be debauch'd but better bred; For without love, beauty would bear no price, And dullness, than desire's a greater vice: Your greater subjects with such force are writ 40 So full of sinewy strength, as well as wit, That when you are religious, our divines May emulate, but not reprove your lines: And when you reason, there the learned crew May learn to speculate, and speak from you. You no profane, no obscene language use To smut your paper, or defile your Muse. Your gayest things, as well express'd as meant, Are equally both quaint and innocent. But your Pindaric Odes indeed are such 50 That Pindar's lyre from his own skilful touch Ne'er yielded such an harmony, nor yet Verse keep such time on so unequal feet. So by his own generous confession Great Tasso by Guarini was outdone: And (which in copying seldom does befall) The ectype's better than th' original. But whilst your fame I labour to send forth, By the ill-doing it I cloud your worth, In something all mankind unhappy are, 60 And you as mortal too must have your share; 'Tis your misfortune to have found a friend, Who hurts and injures where he would commend. But let this be your comfort, that your bays Shall flourish green, maugre an ill-couch'd praise.

CHARLES COTTON, Esq.

[You happy, &c.] 16 Cotton may have had several reasons for keeping the form 'maistry'--at any rate it should certainly be kept here, though 'mastery' with or without apostrophated e would fill the verse properly.]

[Line: 50 'Pindari_que_' or 'Pindariqu'' in the original throughout the Volume.]

[Line: 57 ectype] Not uncommon even later for 'copy'.]

[This piece is in the original about half italics, which, for the most part, express no kind of emphasis. The next is almost entirely free from them, and the difference continues throughout the Commendatory Poems in such a fashion as to show that they were used on no principle at all. Flatman's own text has very few, outside of proper names.]

To my Friend Mr Thomas Flatman, upon the Publication of his Poems.

I.

As when a Prince his standard does erect, And calls his subjects to the field, From such as early take his side, And readily obedience yield, He is instructed where he may suspect, And where he safely may confide: So, mighty friend, That you may see A perfect evidence of loyalty, No business I pretend; 10 From all th' incumbrances of human life, From nourishing the sinful people's strife, And the increasing weaknesses of age.

II.

Domestic care, the mind's incurable disease, I am resolv'd I will forget. Ah! could I hope the restless pain Would now entirely cease, And never more return again, My thoughts I would in other order set; By more than protestations I would show, 20 Not the sum total only of the debt, But the particulars of all I owe.

III.

This I would do: but what will our desire avail When active heat and vigour fail? 'Tis well thou hast more youthful combatants than I, Right able to protect thy immortality: If envy should attack thy spotless name (And that attacks the best of things And into rigid censure brings The most undoubted registers of fame), 30 Their fond artillery let them dispense, Piercing wit and murd'ring eloquence, Noble conceit and manly sense, Charming numbers let 'em shine And dazzle dead in ev'ry line The most malicious of thy foes, Though Hell itself should offer to oppose; I (thy decrepit subject) only can resign The little life of art is left, to ransom thine: Fumbling's as bad in poetry, 40 And as ridiculous, as 'tis in gallantry: But if a dart I may prevent, Which at my friend's repute was meant, Let them then direct at me; By dying in so just a war, I possibly may share In thy infallible eternity.

IV.

But, dearest friend (Before it be too late), Let us a while expostulate, 50 What heat of glory call'd you on, Your learnèd empire to extend Beyond the limits of your own dominion? At home, you were already crown'd with bays: Why foreign trophies do you seek to raise? Poets arcanas have of government, And tho' the homagers of your own continent Out of a sense of duty do submit, Yet public print a jealousy creates, And intimates a laid design 60 Unto the neighb'ring potentates. Now into all your secret arts they pry, And weigh each hint by rules of policy. Offensive leagues they twine, In councils, rotas, and cabals they sit, Each petty burgess thinks it fit The Corporation should combine Against the Universal Monarchy of Wit, And straight declare for quite abjuring it.

V.

Hence then must you prepare for an invasion: 70 Tho' not from such as are reclaim'd by education; In the main points all European wits agree, All allow order, art, and rules of decency, And to be absolutely perfect, ne'er was yet A beauty such, or such a wit. I fear the Pagan and the barbarous, A nation quite Antipodes to us; The infidel unletter'd crew (I mean) Who call that only wit, Which is indeed but the reverse of it; 80 Creatures in whom civility ne'er shone, But (unto Nature's contradiction) It is their glory to be so obscene, You'd think the legion of th' unclean Were from the swine (to which they were condemn'd) releas'd, And had these verier swine (than them) possess'd.

VI.

If these should an advantage take And on thy fame a depredation make, You must submit to the unhappiness; These are the common enemies of our belief and art, 90 And by hostility possess'd The world's much greater part: All things with them are measur'd by success: If the battle be not won; If the author do not sell; Into their dull capacities it will not sink, They cannot with deliberation think How bravely the commander led them on, No nor wherein the book was written well: When ('tis a thing impossible to do) 100 He cannot find his army courage (Sir), nor you Your readers, learning, wit, and judgement too.

ROBERT THOMPSON, LL.D.

[Line: 103 I have not identified Robert Thompson, LL.D., but I shall always think of him as author of some of the worst Pindaric of his time, which is saying a great deal.]

To my Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman, on the Publishing of these his Poems.

Let not (my friend) th' incredulous sceptic man Dispute what potent Art and Nature can! Let him believe, the birds that did bemoan The loss of Zeuxis' grapes in querulous tone, Were silenc'd by a painted dragon, found A Telesme to restrain their chatt'ring sound, And that one made a mistress could enforce A neighing sigh, ev'n from a stallion horse! Let old Timanthes now unveil the face Of his Atrides, thou'lt give sorrow grace! 10 Now may Parrhasius let his curtain stand! And great Protogenes take off his hand! For all that lying Greece and Latium too Have told us of, thou (only thou) mak'st true. And all the miracles which they could show, Remain no longer faith; but science now. Thou dost those things that no man else durst do, Thou paint'st the lightning, and the thunder too! The soul and voice! Thou'lt make Turks, Jews, with Romanists consent, 20 To break the second great Commandement: And them persuade an adoration giv'n In picture, will as grateful be to Heav'n As one in metre. Th' art is in excess; But yet thy ingenuity makes it less. With pen and pencil thou dost all outshine, In speaking picture, Poesy divine. Poets, creators are! You made us know Those are above, and dread those are below; But 'tis no wonder you such things can dare, 30 That painter, poet, and a prophet are. The stars themselves think it no scorn to be Plac'd, and directed in their way by thee. Thou know'st their virtue, and their situation, The fate of years, and every great mutation; With the same kindness let them look on Earth, As when they gave thee first thy happy birth! The sober Saturn aspects Cynthia bright, Resigning hers, to give us thy new light. 40 The gentle Venus rose with Mercury (Presage of softness in thy Poesy), And Jove and Mars in amicable Trine Do still give spirit to thy polish'd line. Thou mayst do what thou wilt without control: Only thyself and Heav'n can paint thy soul.

FRAN. BARNARD, M.D.

[Let not, &c.] 6 The form Telesme, which may be allowed its italics, reproduces the (late) Greek [Greek: telesma], instead of the Spanish-Arabic 'talisman'.]

[Line: 22 giv'n] Orig. 'giv'd', but correct in previous (1682) edition.]

[Line: 39 Both editions have a comma at 'aspects', which obscures the sense. 'Aspect' is made a transitive verb in the sense of the astrological substantive = 'arranges his situation in regard to the Moon so as to make her resign', &c. 1686 'To' for 'The', wrongly.]

[Line: 46 It would be a shame to rob Francis Barnard of the italics which distinguish the entire line in the original. He died on February 9, 1698, and was buried at St. Botolph's, Bishopsgate.]

To his esteemed Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman, Upon the Publishing of his Poems.

Your Poems (friend) come on the public stage In a debauch'd and a censorious age: Where nothing now is counted standard wit, But what's profane, obscene, or's bad as it. For our great wits, like gallants of the times (And such they are), court only those loose rhymes, Which, like their misses, patch'd and painted are; But scorn what virtuous is and truly fair; Such as your Muse is, who with careful art For all but such, hath wisely fram'd a part. 10 One while (methinks) under some gloomy shade, I see the melancholy lover laid, Pleasing himself in that his pensive fit With what you have on such occasion writ. Another while (methinks) I seem to hear 'Mongst those, who sometimes will unbend their care. And steal themselves out from the busy throng, Your pleasant Songs in solemn consort sung. Again (methinks) I see the grave Divine Lay by his other books, to look on thine, 20 And from thy serious and divine Review See what our duty is, and his own too. Yet, worthy friend, you can't but guess what doom Is like to pass on what you've writ, by some; But there are others, now your book comes forth, Who (I am sure) will prize it as 'tis worth, Who know it fully fraught with staple ware, Such as the Works of the great Cowley are, And 'mongst our rarest English poems, thine Next unto his immortally shall shine. 30

RICH. NEWCOURT.

[Your Poems, &c.] 14 i.e., no doubt, The Desperate Lover (v. inf. p. 336).]

[Line: 18 consort] As so often = 'concert'.]

[Line: 21 divine Review] The poem to Sancroft (inf., p. 301).]

[Line: 31 Richard Newcourt is discoverable and throws a little more light on Flatman's circle of acquaintance. He was a topographer, and drew a map of London published in 1658 by Faithorne the elder (v. inf.).]

To my Worthy Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman, Upon the Publishing of his Poems.

Rude and unpolish'd as my lines can be, I must start forth into the world with thee. That which, yet private, did my wonder raise, Now 'tis made public challenges my praise: Such miracles thy charming verse can do, Where'er it goes, it draws me with it too. This is a kind of birthday to thy Muse! Transported with delight I cannot choose But bid her Welcome to the Light, and tell, How much I value what is writ so well; 10 Tho' thou reap'st no advantage by my rhyme, More than a taper helps the day to shine. Thus in dull pomp does th' empty coach attend To pay respect to some departed friend! The difference of regard in this does lie, That honours dust, mine that which cannot die: For what can blast the labours of thy pen, While wit and virtue are allow'd by men? Thou entertain'st the world with such a feast, So cleanly and so elegantly drest, 20 So stor'd with laudable varieties As may a modest appetite suffice; Whoever is thy guest is sure to find Something or other that may please his mind. Sometimes in pious flames thy Muse aspires Her bosom warm'd with supernat'ral fires; In noble flights with Pindar, soars above; Dallies sometimes with not-indecent love, Thence down into the grave does humbly creep, And renders Death desirable as Sleep. 30 The debonair, the melancholy here Find matter for their mirth, ease for their care. Since such provision's made for all that come, He must be squeamish that goes empty home; If these refections cannot do him good, 'Tis 'cause his stomach's vicious, not the food.

FRANCIS KNOLLYS, Esq.

[Rude and unpolished, &c.] 4 public] Orig. 'publique'. So often 'Pindarique', and sometimes '-iq''.]

[Line: 37 This Knollys is again unknown to me.]

To the Author on his excellent Poems.

I.

Strange magic of thy wit and style, Which to their griefs mankind can reconcile! Whilst thy Philander's tuneful voice we hear Condoling our disastrous state, Touch'd with a sense of our hard fate, We sigh perhaps, or drop a tear, But he the mournful song so sweetly sings, That more of pleasure than regret it brings. With such becoming grief The Trojan chief 10 Troy's conflagration did relate, Whilst ev'n the suffrers in the fire drew near And with a greedy ear Devour'd the story of their own subverted state.

II.

Kind Heav'n (as to her darling son) to thee A double portion did impart, A gift of Painting and of Poesy: But for thy rivals in the painter's art, If well they represent, they can effect No more, nor can we more expect. 20 But more than this thy happy pencils give; Thy draughts are more than representative, For, if we'll credit our own eyes, they live! Ah! worthy friend, couldst thou maintain the state Of what with so much ease thou dost create, We might reflect on death with scorn! But pictures, like th' originals, decay! Of colours those consist, and these of clay; Alike compos'd of dust, to dust alike return!

III.

Yet 'tis our happiness to see 30 Oblivion, Death, and adverse Destiny Encounter'd, vanquish'd, and disarm'd by thee. For if thy pencils fail, Change thy artillery And thou'rt secure of victory. Employ thy quill and thou shall still prevail. The Grand Destroyer, greedy Time, reveres Thy Fancy's imag'ry, and spares The meanest thing that bears Th' impression of thy pen; 40 Tho' coarse and cheap their natural metal were, Stamp'd with thy verse he knows th' are sacred then, He knows them by that character to be Predestinate and set apart for immortality.

IV.

If native lustre in thy themes appear, Improv'd by thee it shines more clear: Or if thy subject's void of native light, Thy Fancy need but dart a beam To gild thy theme, And make the rude mass beautiful and bright. 50 Thou vary'st oft thy strains, but still Success attends each strain: Thy verse is always lofty as the hill, Or pleasant as the plain. How well thy Muse the Pastoral Song improves! Whose nymphs and swains are in their loves As innocent, and yet as kind as doves. But most She moves our wonder and delight, When She performs her loose Pindaric flight, Oft to their outmost reach She will extend 60 Her tow'ring wings to soar on high, And then by just degrees descend: Oft in a swift strait course She glides, Obliquely oft the air divides, And oft with wanton play hangs hov'ring in the sky.

V.

Whilst sense of duty into my artless Muse Th' ambition would infuse To mingle with those Nymphs that homage pay, And wait on thine in her triumphant way, Defect of merit checks her forward pride, 70 And makes her dread t' approach thy chariot side; For 'twere at least a rude indecency (If not profane) t' appear At this solemnity, Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are); But this we will presume to do, At distance, to attend the show, Officious to gather up The scatter'd bays, if any drop From others' temples, and with those 80 A plain plebeian coronet compose. This, as your livery, she'd wear, to hide Her nakedness, not gratify her pride! Such was the verdant dress Which the Offending Pair did frame Of platted leaves, not to express Their pride i'th' novel garb, but to conceal their shame.

N. TATE.

[Line: 42 'th'' for 'they' is an instance, good in its badness, of the uglier apostrophation.]

[Line: 63 strait] So both edd.: but as often for 'strai_gh_t'.]

[Line: 75 'Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are)' should be a comfort to the poetaster. For Nahum had only to wait less than twenty years and he was crowned in the very lifetime of the discrowned 'other' Dryden, who wore the wreath at this time, and who meanwhile had done him the enormous honour of admitting him to collaboration in Absalom and Achitophel. Tate has other verses addressed to Flatman; see his Poems, p. 67.]

To my dear Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman, Upon the Publication of his Poems.

PINDARIC ODE.

I.

Within the haunted thicket, where The feather'd choristers are met to play; And celebrate with voices clear, And accents sweet, the praise of May: The ouzel, thrush, and speckled lark, And Philomel, that loves the dawn and dark: These (the inspired throng) In numbers smooth and strong Adorn their noble theme with an immortal song, While woods and vaults, the brook and neighbouring hill, 10 Repeat the varied close and the melodious trill.

II.

Here feast your ears, but let their eye Wander, and see one of the lesser fry Under a leaf, or on a dancing twig, Ruffle his painted feathers, and look big, Perk up his tail, and hop between The boughs; by moving, only to be seen, Perhaps his troubled breast he prunes, As he doth meditate his tunes: At last (compos'd) his little head he rears, 20 Towards (what he strives to imitate) the spheres; And chirping then begins his best, Falls on to pipe among the rest; Deeming that all's not worth a rush, Without his whistle from the bush.

III.

Th' harmonious sound did reach my ear, That echo'd thy clear name, Which all must know, who e'er did hear Of Cowley or Orinda's fame; I heard the Genius, with surprising grace, 30 Would visit us with his fair offspring, gay As is the morning spring in May; But fairer much, and of immortal race.

IV.

Delighted greatly, as I list'ning stood, The sound came from each corner of the wood; It both the shrubs and cedars shak'd, And my drowsy Muse awak'd; Strange that the sound should be so shrill, That had its passage through a quill. Then I resolv'd thy praises to rehearse, 40 The wonders of thy pen, among the crowd Of thy learn'd friends that sing so loud: But 'twas not to be sung, or reach'd in verse. By my weak notes, scarce to be heard, Or if they could, not worth regard; Desisting therefore I must only send My very kind well wishes to my friend.

OCTAVIAN PULLEYN.

[Within the haunted, &c.] 9 theme] So spelt here; 'theam' elsewhere--a fresh pair of instances from the same book of the absurdity of keeping bad spelling for its own sake.]

[Line: 48 Octavian Pulleyn was probably the son of Octavian Pulleyn, warden of the Stationers' Company; he published Woodford's Paraphrase of the Psalms.]

Commendatory Poems

The following spirited preface and a prefatory poem were printed only in the Poems and Songs of 1674; they are worth preserving here.

Advertisement to the Reader.

By long Prescription time out of mind, the next Leafe to the Title Page claims an EPISTLE to the READER; I had the Project once in my own thoughts too: But the Market is so abominably forestall'd already with all manner of excuses for Printing, that I could not possibly contrive one, that would look any thing New: And besides I never found, amongst all the Epistles that I have read, that the best Rethorick in 'em could perswade me to have a better opinion of the Books for Their sakes: I am apt to believe the rest of Mankind much of my humour in this particular, and therefore do here expose these few Results of my many Idle hours, to the mercy of the wide World, quite guiltless of Address or Ceremony. And that Reader, who will not believe I had some tolerable Reason for This Publication, cannot give me much disturbance, because I'me sure he is not at all acquainted with

T. F.

April 10. 1674.

To his Worthy Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman on the publishing of his Poems.

I.

I think thou art not well advised, my friend, To bring thy spritely Poems on the stage Now when the Muses' empire 's at an end And there 's none left that feel poetic rage, Now Cowley's dead, the glory of the age, And all the lesser singing birds are starved i'th' cage.

II.

Nor was it well done to permit my bush, My holly bush, to hang before thy wine, For friends' applauses are not worth a rush, And every fool can get a gilded sign. In troth I have no faculty at praise; My bush is very full of thorns, though it seems bays.

III.

When I would praise I cannot find a rhyme, But if I have a just pretence to rail, They come in numerous throngs at any time, Their everlasting fountains never fail, They come in troops and for employment pray; If I have any wit, it lies only that way.

IV.

But yet I'll try, if thou wilt rid thy mind Of thoughts of rhyming and of writing well, And bend thy studies to another kind-- I mean, in craft and riches to excel; If thou desert thy friends and better wine, And pay'st no more attendance on the needy Nine.

V.

Go, and renounce thy wit and thy good parts-- Wit and good parts, great enemies to wealth,-- And barter honesty for more thriving arts, Prize gold before a good name, ease, and health. Answer the Dog and Bottle, and maintain There's great ease in a yoke, and freedom in a chain.

VI.

I'll love thee now when this is done, I'll try To sing thy praise, and force my honest Muse to lie.

WALTER POPE.

The Contents.

Page On the Death of the Right Honourable Thomas Earl of Ossory. Pindaric Ode 296

To the Memory of the Incomparable Orinda. Pindaric Ode 298

The review to Dr. W. S. Pindaric Ode 301

To my Worthy Friend Mr. Sam. Woodford on his Excellent Version of the Psalms. Pindaric Ode 306

On the Death of the Truly Valiant George Duke of Albemarle. Pindaric Ode 308

The Retirement. Pindaric Ode, made in the time of the great Sickness 1665 312

Translated out of a part of Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon 314

A Thought of Death. 317

Psalm 39, verses 4 and 5 317

Hymn for the Morning 318

Anthem for the Evening 318

Death. A Song 319

The Happy Man 319

On Mr. Johnson's several Shipwrecks 320

An Explanation of an Emblem engraven by V. H. 321

For Thoughts 321

Against Thoughts 323

A Dooms-Day Thought 325

Virtus sola manet, caetera mortis erunt 327

Translated 328

Psalm 15. Paraphrased 329

Job 330

Nudus Redibo 330

An Elegy on the Earl of Sandwich 331

An Epitaph on the Earl of Sandwich 332

Pastoral 332

On the Death of Mr. Pelham Humfries, a Pastoral Song 334

The Mistake 334

The Incredulous 335

Weeping at parting, Song 335

The Desperate Lover 336

The Fatigue, A Song 337

The Resolve, Song 337

Love's Bravo, Song 338

The Expectation, Song 339

Coridon converted, Song 339

The Humourist, Song 340

Fading Beauty, Song 340

A Dialogue, Cloris and Parthenissa 341

A Dialogue, Orpheus and Eurydice 341

The Bachelor's Song 342

The Bachelor's Song, Second part 343

An Appeal to Cats in the business of Love 343

Advice to an Old Man of 63 about to marry a Girl of 16, Song 343

The Slight, Song 344

The Penitent, Song 345

The Defiance, Song 345

The Surrender, Song 346

The Whim, Song 346

The Renegado, Song 347

Phyllis withdrawn 347

The Malecontent, Song 348

The Indifferent, Song 348

The Harbour, Song 349

The Unconcerned, Song 349

The Immovable, Song 350

The Wish, Song 350

The Cordial made in the year 1637 351

Celadon on Delia singing, Song 351

The Advice, Song 352

To Mr. Sam. Austin of Wadham Coll. Oxon, on his most unintelligible Poems 353

To my ingenious Friend Mr. William Faithorne on his Book of Drawing, Etching, and Graving 354

On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc, to the Worthy Translator Charles Cotton, Esq. 355

A Character of a Belly-God. Catius and Horace 356

The Disappointed. Pindaric Ode 359

On Mrs. E. Montague's Blushing in the Cross-Bath. A Translation 360

Il Infido 361

Il Immaturo, Epitaph 362

On Mrs. Dove, Epitaph 362

Lucretius 362

Paraphrased 362

On Dr. Browne's Travels 363

On Poverty 363

Urania to her Friend Parthenissa. A Dream 364

On the Death of the Earl of Rochester. Pastoral 365

On Dr. Woodford's Paraphrase on the Canticles 366

Laodamia to Protesilaus: One of Ovid's Epistles Translated 367

To the Excellent Master of Music Signior Pietro Reggio, on his Book of Songs 371

In the Temple Church. Epitaph on Sir John King 372

On the Death of my dear Brother Mr. Richard Flatman. Pindaric Ode 373

Coridon on the Death of his dear Alexis 375

A Song on New-years-day before the King 376

On the King's return to Whitehall after his Summer's Progress, 1684 377

To Mr. Isaac Walton on his publication of Thealma 378

Pastoral Dialogue, Castara and Parthenia 379

Castabella going to Sea, Song 380

On the Death of my Worthy Friend Mr. John Oldham. Pindaric Pastoral Ode 380

On Sir John Micklethwaite's Monument in St. Botolphs Aldersgate Church, London 382

Epitaph on Thomas Rock 383

On the Death of the Illustrious Prince Rupert. Pindaric Ode 384

Poema in obitum illustrissimi principis Ruperti Latinè redditum 388

On the much Lamented Death of our late Sovereign Lord King Charles II of blessed Memory. Pindaric Ode 391

To his Sacred Majesty King James II 394

ODES OF HORACE

Book the Second, Ode 19 395

Book the Third, Ode 8 396

Book the Third, Ode 9 396

Book the Third, Ode 12 397

Book the Third, Ode 17 397

Book the Third, Ode 19 398

Book the Third, Ode 20 398

Book the Third, Ode 21 399

Book the Third, Ode 22 399

Book the Third, Ode 3 400

Book the Fourth, Ode 1 400

Book the Fourth, Ode 10 401

Book the Fourth, Ode 11 401

Epode the Third 402

Epode the Sixth 403

Epode the Tenth 403

Epode the Eleventh 404

Epode the Fifteenth 405

Epode the Seventeenth 405

POEMS NOT INCLUDED IN THE EDITIONS OF 1682 AND 1686.

Upon a Chine of Beef 409

On the Death of Charles Capell 410

From W. Sanderson's Graphice:--

On the Picture of the Author 411

On the noble Art of Painting 411

On Mistress S. W. 413

Song ('Oh no, oh no! it cannot be') 414

Epitaph on his eldest Son Thomas 414

Lines to John Northleigh 415

Lines to Archbishop Sancroft 416

On the Death of James, Duke of Ormond. Pindaric Ode 417

Job, ch. xxvii. Paraphrased 420

POEMS.

On the Death of the Right Honourable Thomas Earl of Ossory.

PINDARIC ODE.

Stanza I.

No more!--Alas that bitter word, No more! The Great, the Just, the Generous, the Kind; The universal Darling of Mankind, The noble OSSORY is now No more! The mighty man is fall'n-- From Glory's lofty pinnacle, Meanly like one of us, he fell, Not in the hot pursuit of victory, As gallant men would choose to die; But tamely, like a poor plebeian, from his bed 10 To the dark grave a captive led; Emasculating sighs, and groans around, His friends in floods of sorrow drown'd; His awful truncheon and bright arms laid by, He bow'd his glorious head to Destiny.

II.

Celestial Powers! how unconcern'd you are! No black eclipse or blazing star Presag'd the death of this illustrious man, No deluge, no, nor hurricane; In her old wonted course Nature went on, 20 As if some common thing were done, One single victim to Death's altar's come, And not in Ossory an whole hecatomb. Yet, when the founder of old Rome expir'd, When the Pellëan youth resign'd his breath, And when the great Dictator stoop'd to death, Nature and all her faculties retir'd: Amaz'd she started when amaz'd she saw The breaches of her ancient fundamental law, Which kept the world in awe: 30 For men less brave than him, her very heart did ache, The labouring Earth did quake, And trees their fix'd foundations did forsake; Nature in some prodigious way Gave notice of their fatal day: Those lesser griefs with pain she thus exprest, This did confound, and overwhelm her breast.

III.

Shrink, ye crown'd heads, that think yourselves secure, And from your mould'ring thrones look down, Your greatness cannot long endure, 40 The King of Terrors claims you for his own; You are but tributaries to his dreadful crown: Renown'd, Serene, Imperial, most August, Are only high and mighty epithets for dust. In vain, in vain so high Our tow'ring expectations fly, While th' blossoms of our hopes, so fresh, so gay, Appear, and promise fruit, then fade away. From valiant Ossory's ever loyal hands, What did we not believe! 50 We dream'd of yet unconquer'd lands He to his Prince could give, And neighbouring crowns retrieve: Expected that he would in triumph come Laden with spoils and Afric banners home, As if an hero's years Were as unbounded as our fond desires.

IV.

Lament, lament, you that dare Honour love, And court her at a noble rate 60 (Your prowess to approve), That dare religiously upon her wait, And blush not to grow good, when you grow great, Such mourners suit His virtue, such His State. And you, brave souls, who for your country's good Did wondrous things in fields and seas of blood, Lament th' undaunted chief that led you on; Whose exemplary courage could inspire The most degenerate heart with martial English fire. Your bleeding wounds who shall hereafter dress 70 With an indulgent tenderness; Touch'd with a melting sympathy, Who shall your wants supply, Since he, your good Samaritan, is gone? O Charity! thou richest boon of Heaven, To man in pity given! (For when well-meaning mortals give, The poor's and their own bowels they relieve;) Thou mak'st us with alacrity to die, Miss'd and bewail'd like thee, large-hearted Ossory. 80

V.

Arise, ye blest inhabitants above, From your immortal seats arise, And on our wonder, on our love Gaze with astonish'd eyes. Arise! Arise! make room, Th' exalted Shade is come. See where he comes! What princely port he bears! How God-like he appears! His shining temples round With wreaths of everlasting laurels bound! 90 As from the bloody field of Mons he came, Where he outfought th' hyperboles of Fame. See how the Guardian-Angel of our isle Receives the deifi'd champion with a smile! Welcome, the Guardian-Angel says, Full of songs of joy and praise, Welcome thou art to me, And to these regions of serenity! Welcome, the wingèd choir resounds, While with loud Euge's all the sacred place abounds. 100

[On the Death of the Earl of Ossory.] Thomas Butler (1634-80), by courtesy Earl of Ossory, though not exactly a Marcellus (for he was forty-six when he died), holds a distinguished place among those who have died too soon. He was a soldier, a sailor, a statesman; if not an orator, an effective speaker; and though no milksop or 'good boy', one emphatically, 'of the right sort'. The excellent first line (see Introduction) is well supported by the whole opening quatrain; and it has been left, typographically, as it appears in the original. The rest may undergo the usual law. The poem was first issued in folio in 1681: 'be' was read for 'grow' in l. 63.]

[Line: 58 The French rhyme, as if 'dés_ir_', is not uninteresting.]

To the Memory of the Incomparable Orinda.

PINDARIC ODE.

Stanza I.

A long adieu to all that's bright, Noble, or brave in woman-kind; To all the wonders of their wit, And trophies of their mind: The glowing heat of th' holy fire is gone: To th' altar, whence 'twas kindled, flown; There's nought on earth, but ashes left behind; E'er since th' amazing sound was spread, Orinda's dead; Every soft and fragrant word, 10 All that language could afford; Every high and lofty thing That's wont to set the soul on wing, No longer with this worthless world would stay. Thus, when the death of the great Pan was told, Along the shore the dismal tidings roll'd; The lesser Gods their fanes forsook, Confounded with the mighty stroke, They could not overlive that fatal day, But sigh'd and groan'd their gasping Oracles away. 20

II.

How rigid are the laws of Fate And how severe that black decree! No sublunary thing is free, But all must enter th' adamantine gate: Sooner or later must we come To Nature's dark retiring room: And yet 'tis pity, is it not? The learned, as the fool should die, One, full as low, as t'other lie, Together blended in the general lot! 30 Distinguish'd only from the common crowd By an hing'd coffin or an holland shroud, Though Fame and Honour speak them ne'er so loud. Alas, Orinda! even thou, Whose happy verse made others live, And certain immortality could give; Blasted are all thy blooming glories now, The laurel withers o'er thy brow: Methinks it should disturb thee to conceive That when poor I this artless breath resign, 40 My dust should have as much of Poetry as thine!

III.

Too soon we languish with desire Of what we never could enough admire. On th' billows of this world sometimes we rise So dangerously high, We are to Heaven too nigh: When all in rage (Grown hoary with one minute's age) The very self-same fickle wave, Which the entrancing prospect gave, 50 Swoln to a mountain, sinks into a grave. Too happy mortals, if the Powers above As merciful would be, And easy to preserve the thing we love, As in the giving they are free! But they too oft delude our wearied eyes, They fix a flaming sword 'twixt us and Paradise! A weeping evening blurs a smiling day, Yet why should heads of gold have feet of clay? Why should the man that wav'd th' Almighty wand, 60 That led the murmuring crowd By pillar and by cloud, Shivering atop of aery Pisgah stand Only to see, but never, never tread the Promis'd Land?

IV.

Throw your swords and gauntlets by, You daring Sons of War! You cannot purchase ere you die One honourable scar, Since that fair hand that gilded all your bays; That in heroic numbers wrote your praise, 70 That you might safely sleep in Honour's bed, Itself, alas! is wither'd, cold, and dead: Cold and dead are all those charms That burnish'd your victorious arms; Those useless things hereafter must Blush first in blood, and then in rust: No oil but that of her smooth words can serve Weapon and warrior to preserve. Expect no more from this dull age But folly or poetic rage, 80 Short-liv'd nothings of the stage, Vented to-day, and cried to-morrow down; With her the soul of Poesie is gone, Gone, while our expectations flew As high a pitch as she has done, Exhal'd to Heaven like early dew, Betimes the little shining drops are flown, Ere th' drowsy world perceiv'd that manna was come down

V.

You of the sex that would be fair, Exceeding lovely, hither come, 90 Would you be pure as Angels are, Come dress you by Orinda's tomb, And leave your flattering glass at home. Within that marble mirror see, How one day such as she You must, and yet alas! can never be! Think on the heights of that vast soul, And then admire, and then condole. Think on the wonders of her generous pen, 'Twas she made Pompey truly great; 100 Neither the purchase of his sweat Nor yet Cornelia's kindness made him live again: With envy think, when to the grave you go, How very little must be said of you, Since all that can be said of virtuous woman was her due.

[To the memory, &c.] For 'Orinda', or Katharine Philips, see vol. i. This Pindaric was first printed in her Poems of 1667: the chief variants are--58 blurs] crowns.]

[Line: 71 While you securely sleep.]

[Line: 75 Those useless things] Inglorious arms.]

[Line: 77 can] will.]

[Line: 99 generous om.]

[Line: 101 Neither the expense of blood nor sweat.]

The Review.

PINDARIC ODE to the Reverend Dr. WILLIAM SANCROFT, now Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Stanza I.

When first I stept into th' alluring maze To tread this world's mysterious ways, Alas! I had nor guide, nor clue, No Ariadne lent her hand, Not one of Virtue's guards did bid me stand, Or ask'd me what I meant to do, Or whither I would go: This labyrinth so pleasant did appear, I lost myself with much content, Infinite hazards underwent, 10 Out-straggled Homer's crafty wanderer, And ten years more than he in fruitless travels spent; The one half of my life is gone, The shadow the meridian past; Death's dismal evening drawing on, Which must with damps and mists be overcast, An evening that will surely come, 'Tis time, high time to give myself the welcome home.

II.

Had I but heartily believ'd That all the Royal Preacher said was true, 20 When first I ent'red on the stage, And Vanity so hotly did pursue; Convinc'd by his experience, not my age, I had myself long since retriev'd, I should have let the curtain down, Before the Fool's part had begun: But I throughout the tedious play have been Concern'd in every busy scene; Too too inquisitive I tried Now this, anon another face, 30 And then a third, more odd, took place, Was everything, but what I was. Such was my Protean folly, such my pride, Befool'd through all the tragi-comedy, Where others met with hissing, to expect a Plaudite.

III.

I had a mind the Pastoral to prove, Searching for happiness in Love, And finding Venus painted with a Dove, A little naked Boy hard by, The Dove, which had no gall, 40 The Boy no dangerous arms at all; They do thee wrong, great Love, said I, Much wrong, great Love! ----scarce had I spoke Ere into my unwary bosom came An inextinguishable flame: From fair Amira's eyes the lightning broke, That left me more than thunder-strook; She carries tempest in that lovely name: Love's mighty and tumultuous pain Disorders Nature like an hurricane. 50 Yet couldn't I believe such storms could be, When I launch'd forth to sea; Promis'd myself a calm and easy way, Though I had seen before Piteous ruins on the shore, And on the naked beach Leander breathless lay.

IV.

To extricate myself from Love Which I could ill obey, but worse command, I took my pencils in my hand, With that artillery for conquest strove, 60 Like wise Pygmalion then did I Myself design my deity; Made my own saint, made my own shrine: If she did frown, one dash could make her smile, All bickerings one easy stroke could reconcile, Plato feign'd no idea so divine: Thus did I quiet many a froward day, While in my eyes my soul did play, Thus did the time, and thus myself beguile; Till on a day, but then I knew not why, 70 A tear fall'n from my eye, Wash'd out my saint, my shrine, my deity: Prophetic chance! the lines are gone, And I must mourn o'er what I doted on: I find even Giotto's circle has not all perfection.

V.

To Poetry I then inclin'd; Verse that emancipates the mind, Verse that unbends the soul; That amulet of sickly fame, Verse that from wind articulates a name; 80 Verse for both fortunes fit, to smile and to condole. Ere I had long the trial made, A serious thought made me afraid: For I had heard Parnassus' sacred hill Was so prodigiously high, Its barren top so near the sky; The ether there So very pure, so subtil, and so rare, 'Twould a chameleon kill, The beast that is all lungs, and feeds on air: 90 Poets the higher up that hill they go, Like pilgrims, share the less of what's below: Hence 'tis they ever go repining on, And murmur more than their own Helicon. I heard them curse their stars in ponderous rhymes, And in grave numbers grumble at the times; Yet where th' illustrious Cowley led the way, I thought it great discretion there to go astray.

VI.

From liberal Arts to the litigious Law, Obedience, not ambition, did me draw; 100 I look'd at awful quoif and scarlet gown Through others' optics, not my own: Untie the Gordian knot that will, I see no rhetoric at all In them that learnedly can brawl, And fill with mercenary breath the spacious hall; Let me be peaceable, let me be still. The solitary Tishbite heard the wind, With strength and violence combin'd, That rent the mountains, and did make 110 The solid Earth's foundations shake; He saw the dreadful fire, and heard the horrid noise, But found what he expected in the small still voice.

VII.

Nor here did my unbridled fancy rest, But I must try A pitch more high, To read the starry language of the East; And with Chaldean curiosity Presum'd to solve the riddles of the sky; Impatient till I knew my doom, 120 Dejected till the good direction come, I ripp'd up Fate's forbidden womb, Nor would I stay till it brought forth An easy and a natural birth, But was solicitous to know The yet misshapen embryo (Preposterous crime!) Without the formal midwif'ry of time: Fond man, as if too little grief were given On Earth, draws down inquietudes from Heaven! 130 Permits himself with fear to be unmann'd, Belshazzar-like, grows wan and pale, His very heart begins to fail, Is frighted at that Writing of the Hand, Which yet nor he, nor all his learn'd magicians understand.

VIII.

And now at last what's the result of all? Should the strict audit come, And for th' account too early call; A num'rous heap of ciphers would be found the total sum. When incompassionate age shall plow 140 The delicate Amira's brow, And draw his furrows deep and long, What hardy youth is he Will after that a reaper be, Or sing the harvest song? And what is verse, but an effeminate vent Either of lust or discontent? Colours will starve, and all their glories die, Invented only to deceive the eye; And he that wily Law does love 150 Much more of serpent has than dove, There's nothing in Astrology, But Delphic ambiguity; We are misguided in the dark, and thus Each star becomes an Ignis fatuus: Yet pardon me, ye glorious Lamps of light, 'Twas one of you that led the way, Dispell'd the gloomy night, Became a Phosphor to th' Eternal Day, And show'd the Magi where th' Almighty Infant lay. 160

IX.

At length the doubtful victory's won, It was a cunning ambuscade The World for my felicities had laid; Yet now at length the day's our own, Now conqueror-like let us new laws set down. Henceforth let all our love seraphic turn, The sprightly and the vigorous flame On th' altar let it ever burn, And sacrifice its ancient name: A tablet on my heart next I'll prepare 170 Where I would draw the Holy Sepulchre, Behind it a soft landskip I would lay Of melancholy Golgotha! On th' altar let me all my spoils lay down, And if I had one, there I'd hang my laurel crown. Give me the Pandects of the Law Divine, Such was the Law made Moses' face to shine. Thus beyond Saturn's heavy orb I'll tower, And laugh at his malicious power: Raptur'd in contemplation thus I'll go 180 Above unactive earth, and leave the stars below.

X.

Toss'd on the wings of every wind, After these hoverings to and fro (And still the waters higher grow), Not knowing where a resting-place to find, Whither for sanctuary should I go But, Reverend Sir, to you? You that have triumph'd o'er th' impetuous flood, That, Noah-like, in bad times durst be good, And the stiff torrent manfully withstood, 190 Can save me too; One that have long in fear of drowning bin, Surrounded by the rolling waves of sin; Do you but reach out a propitious hand And charitably take me in, I will not yet despair to see dry land. 'Tis done;--and I no longer fluctuate, I've made the Church my Ark, and Sion's Hill my Ararat.

[The Review.] Dated in the Firth MS. December 17, 1666. Entered in the Stationers' Register on December 17, 1673, as 'A poem or copy intituled the Review, To the Reverend my honored freind Dr. Wm. Sancroft, Deane of St. Paules, A Pindarique Ode'. Similarly in the Firth MS. 'The Review. A Pindarique Ode. To the Reverend, my worthy friend, Dr. Wm. Sandcroft, Dean of St. Paul's': the chief variants only are recorded. The words 'now Lord Archbishop of Canterbury' are added in the fourth edition. In the earlier editions--even that of 1682, when Sancroft had been Primate for four years--the poem is addressed 'to Dr. W. S.' The piece is a rather remarkable 'Religio Laici' for the time, and as anticipating Dryden's; and has some, though rather vague, autobiographic interest. It seems (v. Commendatory Poems) to have attracted some attention as such.]

[Line: 16 must] will MS.]

[Line: 40 had] has MS., 1674-82.]

[Line: 46 fair] my MS.]

[Line: 51 couldn't] did not MS.]

[Line: 56 breathless] shipwrack'd MS.]

[Line: 64 could] should MS.]

[Line: 81 fit] apt MS.]

[Line: 93 ever added in 1684.]

[Line: 113 what] whom MS.]

[Line: 114 seq. It is well known that Astrology maintained its hold throughout the seventeenth century. Dryden himself does not seem to have been by any means insensible to its fascination; and Flatman--who, though a slightly younger man, represents an older temper--may well have been a disciple of Lilly.]

[Line: 135 he] we MS. his] our MS.]

[Line: 148 will] must MS. starve] In its proper sense of 'perish'. Italic in original; but, as has been pointed out, this type is used with such utter capriciousness that it affords no evidence whether the term had any technical vogue among artists of the time.]

[Line: 159 Eternal] Immortal MS.]

[Line: 168 let it] shall for MS.]

[Line: 172 soft] fair MS.]

[Line: 187 Sir] Friend 1674-82.]

[Line: 189 A possible but not necessary reminiscence of Fuller's well-known book, Good Thoughts for Bad Times.]

[Line: 193 the rolling waves] a cataclysm MS.]

To my Reverend Friend, Dr. Sam. Woodford, On his Excellent Version of the Psalms.

PINDARIC ODE.

Stanza I.

See (worthy friend) what I would do (Whom neither Muse nor Art inspire), That have no friend in all the sacred quire, To show my kindness for your Book, and you, Forc'd to disparage what I would admire; Bold man, that dares attempt Pindaric now, Since the great Pindar's greatest Son From the ingrateful age is gone, Cowley has bid th' ingrateful age adieu; Apollo's rare Columbus, he 10 Found out new worlds of Poesy: He, like an eagle, soar'd aloft, To seize his noble prey; Yet as a dove's, his soul was soft, Quiet as Night, but bright as Day: To Heaven in a fiery chariot he Ascended by seraphic Poetry; Yet which of us dull mortals since can find Any inspiring mantle, that he left behind?

II.

His powerful numbers might have done you right; 20 He could have spar'd you immortality, Under that Chieftain's banners you might fight Assur'd of laurels, and of victory Over devouring Time and sword and fire And Jove's important ire: My humble verse would better sing David the Shepherd, than the King: And yet methinks 'tis stately to be one (Though of the meaner sort) Of them that may approach a Prince's throne, 30 If 'twere but to be seen at Court. Such, Sir, is my ambition for a name, Which I shall rather take from you, than give, For in your Book I cannot miss of fame, But by contact shall live. Thus on your chariot wheel shall I Ride safe, and look as big as Aesop's fly, Who from th' Olympian Race new come, And now triumphantly flown home, To's neighbours of the swarm thus proudly said, 40 Don't you remember what a dust I made!

III.

Where'er the Son of Jesse's harp shall sound, Or Israel's sweetest songs be sung, (Like Samson's lion sweet and strong) You and your happy Muse shall be renown'd, To whose kind hand the Son of Jesse owes His last deliverance from all his foes. Blood-thirsty Saul, less barbarous than they, His person only sought to kill; These would his deathless poems slay, 50 And sought immortal blood to spill, To sing whose songs in Babylon would be A new Captivity: Deposèd by these rebels, you alone Restor'd the glorious David to his throne. Long in disguise the royal Prophet lay, Long from his own thoughts banishèd, Ne'er since his death till this illustrious day Was sceptre in his hand, or crown plac'd on his head: He seem'd as if at Gath he still had bin 60 As once before proud Achish he appear'd, His face besmear'd, With spittle on his sacred beard, A laughing-stock to the insulting Philistine. Drest in their rhymes, he look'd as he were mad, In tissue you, and Tyrian purple have him clad.

[To Dr. Sam. Woodford.] First printed in A Paraphrase upon the Psalms of David, 1668. A MS. version is in Rawlinson D. 260 (fol. 27) of the Bodleian. Woodford (1636-1700) though much forgotten now, must have been something more than an ordinary person. As such he might have been, as he was, a St. Paul's boy and an Oxford (Wadham) man, a member of the Inner Temple, an early F.R.S., and later a Canon of Chichester and Winchester. But as such merely he would hardly have been, in the Preface to his Paraphrases of the Canticles (v. inf., p. 366), the first, and for a long time the only, 'ingoing' critic of Milton's blank verse. He does not take quite the right view of it, but it is noteworthy that he should have taken any view of an intelligent character.]

[Line: 12 soar'd] tow'red MS.]

[Line: 16 a om. MS.]

[Line: 18 'But which of us poor mortals' 1668, MS.]

[Line: 20, 21, &c. have] ha' 1668.]

[Line: 25 ire] Dire MS., a word of which a unique instance in the sense of 'dire quality' is quoted in the N.E.D. from Anthony à Wood. The scribe may have misunderstood 'important' ( = 'importunate').]

[Line: 39 flown] got MS.]

[Line: 41 This quaint anti-climax is one of the not very few indications which make of Flatman a sort of rough draft of Prior.]

[Line: 42 seq. Translations of the Psalms have been so numerous--and so bad--that it is difficult to know whether Flatman had any particular translator or translators in his mind while writing the last stanza. It may have been merely the usual Sternhold and Hopkins. At any rate his own friend Tate did not join Brady in lèse-poésie (as well as lèse-majesté against the Son of Jesse) till thirty years after Woodford wrote and eight after Flatman's own death.]

[Line: 55 Restor'd] Restore MS.]

[Line: 59 plac'd] set MS.]

[Line: 63 sacred om. MS.]

On the Death of the truly valiant George Duke of Albemarle.

PINDARIC ODE.

Stanza I.

Now blush thyself into confusion, Ridiculous Mortality With indignation to be trampled on By them that court Eternity; Whose generous deeds and prosperous state Seem poorly set within the reach of Fate, Whose every trophy, and each laurel wreath Depends upon a little breath; Confin'd within the narrow bounds of Time, And of uncertain age, 10 With doubtful hazards they engage, Thrown down, while victory bids them higher climb; Their glories are eclips'd by Death. Hard circumstances of illustrious men Whom Nature (like the Scythian Prince) detains Within the body's chains (Nature, that rigorous Tamberlain). Stout Bajazet disdain'd the barbarous rage Of that insulting conqueror, Bravely himself usurp'd his own expiring power, 20 By dashing out his brains against his iron cage.

II.

But 'tis indecent to complain, And wretched mortals curse their stars in vain, In vain they waste their tears for them that die, Themselves involv'd in the same destiny, No more with sorrow let it then be said The glorious Albemarle is dead. Let what is said of him triumphant be, Words as gay, as is his Fame, And as manly as his name, 30 Words as ample as his praise, And as verdant as his bays, An Epinicion, not an Elegy. Yet why shouldst thou, ambitious Muse, believe Thy gloomy verse can any splendours give, Or make him one small moment longer live? Nothing but what is vulgar thou canst say; Or misbecoming numbers sing; What tribute to his memory canst thou pay, Whose virtue say'd a Crown, and could oblige a King? 40

III.

Many a year distressèd Albion lay By her unnatural offspring torn, Once the World's terror, then its scorn, At home a prison, and abroad a prey: Her valiant Youth, her valiant Youth did kill, And mutual blood did spill; Usurpers then, and many a mushroom Peer Within her palaces did domineer; There did the vulture build his nest, There the owls and satyrs rest, 50 By Zim and Ohim all possest; 'Till England's Angel-Guardian, thou, With pity and with anger mov'd For Albion thy belov'd (Olive-chaplets on thy brow), With bloodless hands upheld'st her drooping head, And with thy trumpets call'dst her from the dead. Bright Phosphor to the rising Sun! That Royal Lamp, by thee did first appear Usher'd into our happy hemisphere; 60 O may it still shine bright and clear! No cloud nor night approach it, but a constant noon!

IV.

Nor thus did thy undaunted valour cease, Or wither with unactive peace: Scarce were our civil broils allay'd, While yet the wound of an intestine war Had left a tender scar, When of our new prosperities afraid, Our jealous neighbours fatal arms prepare; In floating groves the enemy drew near. 70 Loud did the Belgian Lion roar, Upon our coasts th' Armada did appear, And boldly durst attempt our native shore, Till his victorious squadrons check'd their pride, And did in triumph o'er the Ocean ride. With thunder, lightning, and with clouds of smoke He did their insolence restrain, And gave his dreadful law to all the main, Whose surly billows trembled when he spoke, And put their willing necks under his yoke. 80 This the stupendious vanquisher has done, Whose high prerogative it was alone To raise a ruin'd, and secure an envied throne.

V.

Then angry Heav'n began to frown, From Heav'n a dreadful pestilence came down, On every side did lamentations rise; Baleful sigh, and heavy groan, All was plaint, and all was moan! The pious friend with trembling love, Scarce had his latest kindness done, 90 In sealing up his dead friend's eyes, Ere with his own surprising fate he strove, And wanted one to close his own. Death's iron sceptre bore the sway O'er our imperial Golgotha; Yet he with kind, though unconcernèd eyes, Durst stay and see those numerous tragedies. He in the field had seen Death's grisly shape, Heard him in volleys talk aloud, Beheld his grandeur in a glittering crowd, 100 And unamaz'd seen him in cannons gape: Ever unterrified his valour stood Like some tall rock amidst a sea of blood: 'Twas loyalty from sword and pest kept him alive, The safest armour and the best preservative.

VI.

The flaming City next implor'd his aid, And seasonably pray'd His force against the Fire, whose arms the sea obey'd; Wide did th' impetuous torrent spread, Then those goodly fabrics fell, 110 Temples themselves promiscuously there Dropp'd down, and in the common ruin buried were, The City turn'd into one Mongibel: The haughty tyrant shook his curlèd head, His breath with vengeance black, his face with fury red. Then every cheek grew wan and pale, Every heart did yield and fail: Nought but thy presence could its power suppress, Whose stronger light put out the less. As London's noble structures rise, 120 Together shall his memory grow, To whom that beauteous town so much does owe. London! joint Favourite with him thou wert; As both possess'd a room within one heart, So now with thine indulgent Sovereign join, Respect his great friend's ashes, for he wept o'er thine.

VII.

Thus did the Duke perform his mighty stage, Thus did that Atlas of our State With his prodigious acts amaze the age, While worlds of wonders on his shoulders sate; 130 Full of glories and of years, He trod his shining and immortal way, Whilst Albion, compass'd with new floods of tears, Besought his longer stay. Profane that pen that dares describe thy bliss, Or write thine Apotheosis! Whom Heaven and thy Prince to pleasure prove, Entrusted with their armies and their love. In other Courts 'tis dangerous to deserve, Thou didst a kind and grateful Master serve, 140 Who, to express his gratitude to thee, Scorn'd those ill-natur'd arts of policy. Happy had Belisarius bin (Whose forward fortune was his sin) By many victories undone, He had not liv'd neglected, died obscure, If for thy Prince those battles he had won, Thy Prince, magnificent above his Emperor.

VIII.

Among the Gods, those Gods that died like thee, As great as theirs, and full of majesty, 150 Thy sacred dust shall sleep secure, Thy monument as long as theirs endure: There, free from envy, thou with them Shall have thy share of diadem; Among their badges shall be set Thy Garter and thy coronet; Or (which is statelier) thou shalt have A Mausoleum in thy Prince's breast; There thine embalmèd name shall rest, That sanctuary shall thee save 160 From the dishonours of a regal grave: And every wondrous history, Read by incredulous Posterity, That writes of him, shall honourably mention thee, Who by an humble loyalty hast shown, How much sublimer gallantry and renown 'Tis to restore, than to usurp a Monarch's Crown.

[On the Death of the Duke of Albemarle.] First printed in small folio in 1670. Monk died that year. There are some important variants, noted below.]

[Line: 40 a Crown] three Realms 1670.]

[Line: 47 The extreme rapidity of Monk's own transition from commonerhood to the highest rank in the peerage makes this allusion to Oliver's mock-lords rather hazardous; but after all Monk was a gentleman, and had richly deserved it.]

[Line: 49 vulture] bloody vulture 1670.]

[Line: 51 Zim and Ohim are the original Hebrew for the 'wild beasts of the desert' and the 'doleful creatures' who accompany owls and satyrs in Isaiah xiii. 21 (A.V.).]

[Line: 61 bright] warm 1670.]

[After l. 75 ('ride') the following lines appeared in 1670:

Under a gallant Admiral he fought, York, whose success a taller Muse must sing; Who so his country loved, that he forgot He was the Brother of a King; Whose daring courage might inspire A meaner soul than his with martial fire. ]

[Line: 80 put] crouch'd.]

[Line: 81 stupendious] These forms are always worth noting, when they occur.]

[Line: 94 Death's iron sceptre bore the sway] With iron sceptre Death bore all the sway.]

[Line: 96 unconcerned] undisturbed.]

[Line: 97 tragedies] butcheries.]

[Line: 98 shape] face.]

[Line: 99 volleys] niter.]

[Line: 104 kept] saved.]

[Line: 107 And seasonably pray'd] Successfully it prayed.]

[Line: 113 Mongibel] i.e. Etna.]

[Line: 117 did yield and fail] began to fail.]

[After 117 come the following lines:

And had not our Anointed's flame (From heaven towards his subjects sent) Outblazed the furious element, What could the furious element tame? ]

[Line: 121 His] thy.]

[After 122 ('owe') there is a line which completes the rhyme with 'rise': 'For its revived tranquillities.']

[Line: 124 possess'd] took up.]

[Line: 133 floods] seas.]

[Line: 135 Profane] Saucy.]

[Line: 137 prove] strove (so also the texts of 1674, 1676, 1682).]

[Line: 161 a regal] the.]

The Retirement.

PINDARIC ODE MADE IN THE TIME OF THE GREAT SICKNESS, 1665.

Stanza I.

In the mild close of an hot summer's day, When a cool breeze had fann'd the air, And heaven's face look'd smooth and fair; Lovely as sleeping infants be, That in their slumber smiling lie Dandled on their mother's knee, You hear no cry, No harsh, nor inharmonious voice, But all is innocence without a noise: When every sweet, which the sun's greedy ray 10 So lately from us drew, Began to trickle down again in dew; Weary, and faint, and full of thought, Though for what cause I knew not well, What I ail'd I could not tell, I sate me down at an aged poplar's root, Whose chiding leaves excepted and my breast, All the impertinently busied world inclin'd to rest.

II.

I list'ned heedfully around, But not a whisper there was found. 20 The murmuring brook hard by, As heavy, and as dull as I, Seem'd drowsily along to creep; It ran with undiscover'd pace, And if a pebble stopp'd the lazy race, 'Twas but as if it started in its sleep. Echo herself, that ever lent an ear To any piteous moan, Wont to groan with them that groan, Echo herself was speechless here. 30 Thrice did I sigh, thrice miserably cry, Ai me! the Nymph, ai me! would not reply, Or churlish, or she was asleep for company.

III.

There did I sit and sadly call to mind Far and near, all I could find All the pleasures, all the cares, The jealousies, the fears, All the incertainties of thirty years, From that most inauspicious hour Which gave me breath; 40 To that in which the fair Amira's power First made me wish for death: And yet Amira's not unkind; She never gave me angry word, Never my mean address abhorr'd; Beauteous her face, beauteous her mind: Yet something dreadful in her eyes I saw Which ever kept my falt'ring tongue in awe, And gave my panting soul a law. So have I seen a modest beggar stand, 50 Worn out with age and being oft denied, On his heart he laid his hand; And though he look'd as if he would have died The needy wretch no alms did crave: He durst not ask for what he fear'd he should not have.

IV.

I thought on every pensive thing, That might my passion strongly move, That might the sweetest sadness bring; Oft did I think on Death, and oft of Love, The triumphs of the little God, and that same ghastly King. 60 The ghastly King, what has he done? How his pale territories spread! Strait scantlings now of consecrated ground His swelling empire cannot bound, But every day new colonies of dead Enhance his conquests, and advance his throne. The mighty City sav'd from storms of War, Exempted from the crimson flood, When all the land o'erflow'd with blood, Stoops yet once more to a new conqueror: 70 The City which so many rivals bred, Sackcloth is on her loins, and ashes on her head.

V.

When will the frowning Heav'n begin to smile? Those pitchy clouds be overblown, That hide the mighty town, That I may see the mighty pile! When will the angry Angel cease to slay, And turn his brandish'd sword away From that illustrious Golgotha, London, the great Aceldama! 80 When will that stately landscape open lie, The mist withdrawn that intercepts my eye! That heap of Pyramids appear, Which, now, too much like those of Egypt are: Eternal monuments of pride and sin, Magnificent and tall without, but dead men's bones within.

[The Retirement. Exactly dated in the Firth MS., August 17, 1665. Stanza III, found in this MS., was cancelled in 1674, 1676, 1682, but restored in 1686. Stanzas IV and V appear as a separate poem entitled 'Upon the Plague' in Bodley Rawlinson MS. D. 260, fol. 29 verso.]

[Line: 28 moan] tone Firth MS., 1676, 1682.]

[Line: 57 strongly] deeply Firth and Rawlinson MSS.]

[Line: 59 of Love] on Love MSS., 1674, 1676.]

[Line: 66 advance] exalt MSS.]

[Line: 71 rivals MSS.: rival 1682, 1686.]

[Line: 73 begin to om. MSS. Rawlinson reads 'Heavens'.]

[Line: 76 mighty] amazing mighty Rawlinson.]

[Line: 77 angry om. Rawlinson.]

[Line: 85 Eternal] Vast Rawlinson.]

Translated out of a Part of Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon.

I.

After a blust'ring tedious night, The wind's now hush'd and the black tempest o'er, Which th' crazy vessel miserably tore, Behold a lamentable sight! Rolling far off, upon a briny wave, Compassionate Philander spied A floating carcase ride, That seem'd to beg the kindness of a grave.

II.

Sad and concern'd, Philander then Weigh'd with himself the frail, uncertain state 10 Of silly, strangely disappointed men, Whose projects are the sport of Fate. Perhaps (said he) this poor man's desolate wife, In a strange country far away, Expects some happy day This ghastly thing, the comfort of her life;

III.

His son it may be dreads no harm, But kindly waits his father's coming home; Himself secure, he apprehends no storm, But fancies that he sees him come. 20 Perhaps the good old man, that kiss'd this son, And left a blessing on his head, His arms about him spread, Hopes yet to see him ere his glass be run.

IV.

These are the grand intrigues of Man, These his huge thoughts, and these his vast desires, Restless, and swelling like the Ocean From his birth till he expires. See where the naked, breathless body lies To every puff of wind a slave, 30 At the beck of every wave, That once perhaps was fair, rich, stout, and wise!

V.

While thus Philander pensive said, Touch'd only with a pity for mankind, At nearer view, he thought he knew the dead, And call'd the wretched man to mind: Alas, said he, art thou that angry thing, That with thy looks didst threaten death, Plagues and destruction breath, But two days since, little beneath a King! 40

VI.

Ai me! where is thy fury now, Thine insolence, and all thy boundless power, O most ridiculously dreadful thou! Expos'd for beasts and fishes to devour. Go, sottish mortals, let your breasts swell high; All your designs laid deep as Hell, A small mischance can quell, Outwitted by the deeper plots of Destiny.

VII.

This haughty lump a while before Sooth'd up itself, perhaps with hopes of life, 50 What it would do, when it came safe on shore, What for its son, what for its wife; See where the man and all his politics lie. Ye Gods! what gulfs are set between What we have and what we ween, Whilst lull'd in dreams of years to come, we die!

VIII.

Nor are we liable alone To misadventures on the merciless sea, A thousand other things our Fate bring on, And shipwreck'd everywhere we be. 60 One in the tumult of a battle dies Big with conceit of victory, And routing th' enemy, With garlands deck'd, himself the sacrifice.

IX.

Another, while he pays his vows On bended knees, and Heaven with tears invokes, With adorations as he humbly bows, While with gums the altar smokes, In th' presence of his God, the temple falls: And thus religious in vain 70 The flatter'd bigot slain, Breathes out his last within the sacred walls.

X.

Another with gay trophies proud, From his triumphant chariot overthrown, Makes pastime for the gazers of the crowd, That envied him his purchas'd crown. Some with full meals, and sparkling bowls of wine (As if it made too long delay), Spur on their fatal day, Whilst others (needy souls) at theirs repine. 80

XI.

Consider well, and every place Offers a ready road to thy long home, Sometimes with frowns, sometimes with smiling face Th' embassadors of Death do come. By open force or secret ambuscade, By unintelligible ways, We end our anxious days, And stock the large plantations of the Dead.

XII.

But (some may say) 'tis very hard With them, whom heavy chance has cast away, 90 With no solemnities at all interr'd, To roam unburied on the sea: No--'tis all one where we receive our doom, Since, somewhere, 'tis our certain lot Our carcases must rot, And they whom heaven covers need no tomb.

[Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon.] This translation-amplification of one of the most famous passages of the Satyricon is the piece referred to by Nahum Tate at the opening of his commendation (sup., p. 290).]

[Line: 39 'breath', as in l. 72, a seventeenth-century form.]

[Line: 88 A good line, if I mistake not. There is no suggestion even of it in the original, but, as often in Flatman, much of Sir Thomas Browne.]

A Thought of Death.

When on my sick bed I languish, Full of sorrow, full of anguish, Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying, Panting, groaning, speechless, dying, My soul just now about to take her flight Into the regions of eternal night; Oh tell me you, That have been long below, What shall I do! What shall I think, when cruel Death appears, 10 That may extenuate my fears! Methinks I hear some gentle Spirit say, Be not fearful, come away! Think with thyself that now thou shall be free, And find thy long-expected liberty; Better thou mayst, but worse thou canst not be Than in this vale of tears and misery. Like Caesar, with assurance then come on, And unamaz'd attempt the laurel crown, That lies on th' other side Death's Rubicon. 20

[A Thought of Death.] Flatman's best-known, if not his only known thing to most people--the knowledge being due to Warton's suggestion of indebtedness to it on Pope's part in his Dying Christian.]

Psalm xxxix. Vers. 4, 5.

Verse IV.

Lord, let me know the period of my age, The length of this my weary pilgrimage, How long this miserable life shall last, This life that stays so long, yet flies so fast!

Verse V.

Thou by a span measur'st these days of mine, Eternity's the spacious bound of thine: Who shall compare his little span with thee, With thine Incomprehensibility. Man born to trouble leaves this world with pain, His best estate is altogether vain. 10

Hymn for the Morning.

Awake, my soul! Awake, mine eyes! Awake, my drowsy faculties; Awake, and see the new-born light Spring from the darksome womb of Night! Look up and see th' unwearied Sun, Already hath his race begun: The pretty lark is mounted high, And sings her matins in the sky. Arise, my soul! and thou my voice In songs of praise, early rejoice! 10 O Great Creator! Heavenly King! Thy praises let me ever sing! Thy power has made, Thy goodness kept This fenceless body while I slept, Yet one day more hast given me From all the powers of darkness free: O keep my heart from sin secure, My life unblameable and pure, That when the last of all my days is come, Cheerful and fearless I may wait my doom. 20

[Hymn for the Morning.] _This Hymn will of course suggest Ken's infinitely better-known one to everybody. The facts are curious and not quite fully given in Mr. Julian's invaluable Dictionary of Hymnology, where it is not mentioned that Ken and Flatman were both Winchester and New College men of almost exactly the same age and standing. Moreover, Sir Thomas Browne--also a Wykehamist and their contemporary, though a senior--has another very similar composition--one of his rare exercises in verse--towards the end of Religio Medici. The triple connexion with Winchester, and with Latin hymns known to be in use there, is pretty striking, though the matter cannot be followed out here. It is enough to say that the resemblance is chiefly confined to the opening. In the Evening hymns of the two this resemblance is still slighter, though there are passages, naturally enough, that approach each other. Ken's hymns were not published till 1695; but in 1674, the very years of Flatman's original issue, they are palpably referred to in the future bishop's and actual prebendary's Manual of Prayers for the use of the Scholars of Winchester College. Browne's piece must be at least forty years older.]

[Line: 6 hath 1676, 1682: has 1686.]

Anthem for the Evening.

Sleep! downy sleep! come close my eyes, Tir'd with beholding vanities! Sweet slumbers come and chase away The toils and follies of the day: On your soft bosom will I lie, Forget the world, and learn to die. O Israel's watchful Shepherd! spread Tents of Angels round my bed; Let not the Spirits of the air, While I slumber, me ensnare; 10 But save Thy suppliant free from harms, Clasp'd in Thine everlasting Arms. Clouds and thick darkness is Thy Throne, Thy wonderful pavilion: Oh dart from thence a shining ray, And then my midnight shall be day! Thus when the morn in crimson drest, Breaks through the windows of the East, My hymns of thankful praises shall arise Like incense or the morning sacrifice. 20

[Anthem for the Evening.] 19 arise 1682; rise 1686.]

Death.

SONG.

Oh the sad day, When friends shall shake their heads and say Of miserable me, Hark how he groans, look how he pants for breath, See how he struggles with the pangs of Death! When they shall say of these poor eyes, How hollow, and how dim they be! Mark how his breast does swell and rise, Against his potent Enemy! When some old friend shall step to my bedside, 10 Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide, And when his next companions say, How does he do? what hopes? shall turn away, Answering only with a lift-up hand, Who can his fate withstand? Then shall a gasp or two do more Than e'er my rhetoric could before, Persuade the peevish world to trouble me no more!

[Death.] This, in my humble judgement, is finer, as it is certainly more original, than the earlier 'thought' on the same subject. The copy in the Firth MS. reads 'dear' for 'poor' (l. 6) and 'hope' (l. 13), omits 'peevish' in l. 18, and notes that the Song was set to music by Captain Sylvanus Taylor.]

The Happy Man.

Peaceful is he, and most secure, Whose heart and actions all are pure; How smooth and pleasant is his way, Whilst Life's Meander slides away. If a fierce thunderbolt do fly, This man can unconcernèd lie; Knows 'tis not levell'd at his head, So neither noise nor flash can dread: Though a swift whirlwind tear in sunder Heav'n above him, or earth under; 10 Though the rocks on heaps do tumble, Or the world to ashes crumble, Though the stupendious mountains from on high Drop down, and in their humble valleys lie; Should the unruly Ocean roar, And dash its foam against the shore; He finds no tempest in his mind, Fears no billow, feels no wind: All is serene, all quiet there, There's not one blast of troubled air, 20 Old stars may fall, or new ones blaze, Yet none of these his soul amaze; Such is the man can smile at irksome death, And with an easy sigh give up his breath.

[the Happy Man.] In the Firth MS., and dated December 27, 1664.]

[Line: 1 Peaceful] Happy MS.]

[Line: 2 heart] life MS.]

[Line: 13 Though] When MS.]

[Line: 19 all quiet MS., 1674, 1676, 1682: and quiet 1686.]

[Line: 23 at] on MS.]

[Line: 24 give up] resign MS.]

On Mr. Johnson's Several Shipwrecks.

He that has never yet acquainted been With cruel Chance, nor Virtue naked seen, Stripp'd from th' advantages (which vices wear) Of happy, plausible, successful, fair; Nor learnt how long the low'ring cloud may last, Wherewith her beauteous face is overcast, Till she her native glories does recover, And shines more bright, after the storm is over; To be inform'd, he need no further go, Than this Divine Epitome of woe. 10 In Johnson's Life and Writings he may find, What Homer in his Odysses design'd, A virtuous man, by miserable fate, Rend'red ten thousand ways unfortunate; Sometimes within a leaking vessel tost, All hopes of life and the lov'd shore quite lost, While hidden sands, and every greedy wave With horror gap'd themselves into a grave: Sometimes upon a rock with fury thrown, Moaning himself, where none could hear his moan; 20 Sometimes cast out upon the barren sand, Expos'd to th' mercy of a barbarous land: Such was the pious Johnson, till kind Heaven A blessèd end to all his toils had given: To show that virtuous men, though they appear But Fortune's sport, are Providence's care.

[On Mr. Johnson's several Shipwrecks.] First in _Deus Nobiscum. A Narrative of a Great Deliverance at Sea,... By William Johnson, D.D., late Chaplain and Sub-Almoner to His Sacred Majesty,... The Third Edition, Corrected_, London, 1672, small octavo. These are some minor variants.]

An Explanation of an Emblem Engraven by V. H.

Seest thou those Rays, the Light 'bove them? And that gay thing the Diadem? The Wheel and Balance, which are tied To th' Gold, black Clouds on either side? Seest thou the wingèd Trumpeters withal, That kick the World's blue tottering Ball? The flying Globe, the Glass thereon, Those fragments of a Skeleton? The Bays, the Palms, the Fighting men, And written Scroll?--Come tell me then, 10 Did thy o'er-curious eye e'er see An apter scheme of Misery? What's all that Gold and sparkling Stones To that bald Skull, to those Cross Bones? What mean those Blades (whom we adore) To stain the Earth with purple gore? Sack stately towns, silk banners spread, Gallop their coursers o'er the dead? Far more than this? and all to sway But till those sands shall glide away. 20 For when the bubble world shall fly With stretch'd-out plumes, when the brisk eye Shall close with anguish, sink with tears, And th' angels' trumpets pierce our ears, What's haughty man, or those fine things, Which Heaven calls men, though men style kings? Vain World, adieu! and farewell, fond renown! Give me the Glory, that's above the Crown.

[Emblem engraven by V. H.] V. or W[enceslas] H[ollar], I suppose.]

[Line: 13 and sparkling 1674-82: and what those Sparkling 1686.]

[Line: 15 Blades 1674-82: Braves 1686.]

For Thoughts.

I.

Thoughts! What are they? They are my constant friends, Who, when harsh Fate its dull brow bends, Uncloud me with a smiling ray, And in the depth of midnight force a day.

II.

When I retire, and flee The busy throngs of company To hug myself in privacy; O the discourse! the pleasant talk, 'Twixt us (my thoughts) along a lonely walk! 10

III.

You, like the stupefying wine The dying malefactors sip With shivering lip, T' abate the rigour of their doom, By a less troublous cut to their long home; Make me slight crosses, though they pil'd up lie, All by th' enchantments of an ecstasy.

IV.

Do I desire to see The Throne and Majesty Of that proud one, 20 Brother and Uncle to the Stars and Sun? Those can conduct me where such toys reside, And waft me 'cross the main, sans wind and tide.

V.

Would I descry Those radiant mansions 'bove the sky, Invisible by mortal eye? My Thoughts, my Thoughts can lay A shining track thereto, And nimbly fleeting go: Through all the eleven orbs can shove a way, 30 These too, like Jacob's Ladder, are A most Angelic thoroughfare.

VI.

The wealth that shines In th' Oriental mines; Those sparkling gems which Nature keeps Within her cabinets, the deeps; The verdant fields, The rarities the rich World yields; Rare structures, whose each gilded spire Glimmers like lightning; which, while men admire, 40 They deem the neighbouring sky on fire,-- These can I gaze upon, and glut mine eyes With myriads of varieties. As on the front of Pisgah, I Can th' Holy Land through these my optics spy.

VII.

Contemn we then The peevish rage of men, Whose violence ne'er can divorce Our mutual amity; Or lay so damn'd a curse 50 As Non-addresses, 'twixt my thoughts and me: For though I sigh in irons, they Use their old freedom, readily obey; And when my bosom-friends desert me, stay.

VIII.

Come then, my darlings, I'll embrace My privilege; make known The high prerogative I own, By making all allurements give you place; Whose sweet society to me A sanctuary and a shield shall be 60 'Gainst the full quivers of my Destiny.

[Thoughts.] Dated in the Firth MS. May 13, 1659.]

[Line: 13 shivering] trembling MS.]

[Line: 17 th' enchantments] the magic MS.]

[Line: 19 Majesty] awful Majestie MS.]

[Line: 22 Those] These MS.]

[Line: 26 by] to MS.]

[Line: 27 My Thoughts, my Thoughts can] My Thoughts can eas'ly MS.]

[Line: 29 fleeting] flitting MS.]

[Line: 30 a way MS.: 'away' all editions.]

[Line: 31 These too] My Thoughts] MS.: 1686 stupidly misprints 'two'.]

[Line: 38 The] Those MS.]

[Line: 39 Rare] Huge MS. (cf. 'rarities' 38).]

[Line: 40 Glimmers] Glisters MS., 1674, 1676.]

[Line: 42 gaze ... glut] dwell ... tire MS.]

[Line: 43 myriads] millions MS.: fancies 1676.]

[Line: 48 ne'er can] cannot MS.]

Against Thoughts.

I.

Intolerable racks! Distend my soul no more, Loud as the billows when they roar, More dreadful than the hideous thunder-cracks. Foes inappeasable, that slay My best contents, around me stand, Each like a Fury, with a torch in hand; And fright me from the hopes of one good day.

II.

When I seclude myself, and say How frolic will I be, 10 Unfetter'd from my company I'll bathe me in felicity! In come these guests, Which Harpy-like defile my feasts: Oh the damn'd dialogues, the cursèd talk 'Twixt us (my Thoughts) along a sullen walk.

III.

You, like the poisonous wine The gallants quaff To make 'em laugh, And yet at last endure 20 From thence the tortures of a calenture, Fool me with feign'd refections, till I lie Stark raving in a Bedlam ecstasy.

IV.

Do I dread The starry Throne and Majesty Of that high God, Who batters kingdoms with an iron rod, And makes the mountains stagger with a nod? That sits upon the glorious Bow, Smiling at changes here below. 30 These goad me to his grand tribunal, where They tell me I with horror must appear, And antedate amazements by grim fear.

V.

Would I descry Those happy souls' blest mansions 'bove the sky, Invisible by mortal eye, And in a noble speculation trace A journey to that shining place; Can I afford a sigh or two, Or breathe a wish that I might thither go: 40 These clip my plumes, and chill my blazing love That, O, I cannot, cannot soar above.

VI.

The fire that shines In subterranean mines, The crystall'd streams, The sulphur rocks that glow upon The torrid banks of Phlegeton; Those sooty fiends which Nature keeps, Bolted and barr'd up in the deeps; Black caves, wide chasms, which who see confess 50 Types of the pit, so deep, so bottomless! These mysteries, though I fain would not behold, You to my view unfold: Like an old Roman criminal, to the high Tarpeian Hill you force me up, that I May so be hurried headlong down, and die.

VII.

Mention not then The strength and faculties of men; Whose arts cannot expel These anguishes, this bosom-Hell. 60 When down my aching head I lay, In hopes to slumber them away; Perchance I do beguile The tyranny awhile, One or two minutes, then they throng again, And reassault me with a trebled pain: Nay, though I sob in fetters, they Spare me not then; perplex me each sad day, And whom a very Turk would pity, slay.

VIII.

Hence, hence, my Jailors! Thoughts be gone, 70 Let my tranquillities alone. Shall I embrace A crocodile, or place My choice affections on the fatal dart, That stabs me to the heart? I hate your curst proximity, Worse than the venom'd arrows-heads that be Cramm'd in the quivers of my Destiny.

[Against Thoughts.] Entitled in the Firth MS. Thoughts: the Answer to the other, and dated May 18, 1659.]

[Line: 2 Distend] O tear MS.]

[Line: 4 More dreadful than] Less dreadful are MS.]

[Line: 5 Foes inappeasable] Too cruel enemies MS.]

[Line: 19 'em] them MS.]

[Line: 20 Yet thence at last procure MS.: Yet chance at last t' endure 1674.]

[Line: 21 From thence the] The burning MS.]

[Line: 22 refections] reflections 1674.]

[Line: 26 high] great MS.]

[Line: 30 changes here] us poor things MS.]

[Line: 31 grand 1674-82, MS.: great 1686.]

[Line: 47 torrid] burning MS.]

[Line: 50 chasms] chasma's MS.]

[Line: 54 old Roman criminal] adjudged offender 1674.]

[Line: 56 headlong] headly 1674-82.]

[Line: 58 and] nor MS.]

[Line: 59 cannot] ne'er could MS.]

[Line: 63 do] may MS.]

[Line: 64 The] Their MS.]

[Line: 65 throng] swarm MS.]

[Line: 66 And reassault] Then they assault MS.]

[Line: 67 sob] groan MS.]

[Line: 68 each sad] every MS.]

[Line: 70 Thoughts be] get ye MS.]

[Line: 75 Directed at my heart MS.]

[The Firth MS. supplies very interesting evidence of Flatman's care in revision; in l. 54 there is a curious reversion to the original, and more effective, reading.]

A Dooms-Day Thought.

Anno 1659.

Judgement! two syllables can make The haughtiest son of Adam shake. 'Tis coming, and 'twill surely come, The dawning to that Day of Doom; O th' morning blush of that dread day, When Heav'n and Earth shall steal away, Shall in their pristine Chaos hide, Rather than th' angry Judge abide. 'Tis not far off; methinks I see Among the stars some dimmer be; 10 Some tremble, as their lamps did fear A neighbouring extinguisher. The greater luminaries fail, Their glories by eclipses veil, Knowing ere long their borrow'd light Must sink in th' Universal Night. When I behold a mist arise, Straight to the same astonish'd eyes Th' ascending clouds do represent A scene of th' smoking firmament. 20 Oft when I hear a blustering wind With a tempestuous murmur join'd, I fancy, Nature in this blast Practises how to breathe her last, Or sighs for poor Man's misery, Or pants for fair Eternity. Go to the dull church-yard and see Those hillocks of mortality, Where proudest Man is only found By a small swelling in the ground. 30 What crowds of carcases are made Slaves to the pickaxe and the spade! Dig but a foot, or two, to make A cold bed, for thy dead friend's sake, 'Tis odds but in that scantling room Thou robb'st another of his tomb, Or in thy delving smit'st upon A shinbone, or a cranion. When th' prison's full, what next can be But the Grand Gaol-Delivery? 40 The Great Assize, when the pale clay Shall gape, and render up its prey; When from the dungeon of the grave The meagre throng themselves shall heave, Shake off their linen chains, and gaze With wonder, when the world shall blaze. Then climb the mountains, scale the rocks, Force op'n the deep's eternal locks, Beseech the clifts to lend an ear-- Obdurate they, and will not hear. 50 What? ne'er a cavern, ne'er a grot, To cover from the common lot? No quite forgotten hold, to lie Obscur'd, and pass the reck'ning by? No--There's a quick all-piercing Eye Can through the Earth's dark centre pry, Search into th' bowels of the sea, And comprehend Eternity. What shall we do then, when the voice Of the shrill trump with strong fierce noise 60 Shall pierce our ears, and summon all To th' Universe' wide Judgement Hall? What shall we do! we cannot hide, Nor yet that scrutiny abide: When enlarg'd conscience loudly speaks, And all our bosom-secrets breaks; When flames surround, and greedy Hell Gapes for a booty (_who can dwell With everlasting Burnings!_), when Irrevocable words shall pass on men; 70 Poor naked men, who sometimes thought These frights perhaps would come to nought! What shall we do! we cannot run For refuge, or the strict Judge shun. 'Tis too late then to think what course to take; While we live here, we must provision make.

[A Dooms-Day Thought.] This, the last of Flatman's three poems on the Novissima, is perhaps not the worst; except for those who hate 'conceits'. It has a curious genuineness, though in manner it slightly resembles his friend Cotton's 'New Year' poem so highly and rightly praised by Lamb.]

Virtus sola manet, caetera mortis erunt.

I.

Nunquam sitivi, quae vehit aureo Pactolus alveo flumina; quo magis Potatur Hermus, tanto avarae Mentis Hydrops sitibundus ardet.

II.

Frustrà caduci carceris incola Molirer Arces; quilibet angulus Sat ossa post manes reponet; Exiguum satis est Sepulchrum.

III.

Nil stemma penso, nil titulos moror, Cerásve aviti sanguinis indices, 10 Sunt ista fatorum, inque Lethes Naufragium patientur undis.

IV.

Ergo in quieto pectoris ambitu Quid mens anhelas fulgura gloriae, Laudésque inanes, et loquacem Quae populi sedet ore famam?

V.

Letho superstes gloria, somnii Dulcedo vana est, fama malignior Nil tangit umbras, nec feretrum Ingreditur Popularis Aura. 20

VI.

Mansura sector, sola sed invidi Expers Sepulchri sidera trajicit, Spernénsque fatorum tumultus Pellit humum generosa Virtus.

VII.

Praeceps novorum caetera mensium Consumet aetas, seraque temporis Delebit annosi vetustas Utopicae nova Regna Lunae.

[Virtus sola manet.] These Alcaics look like a college exercise, in which kind there have been worse. The third lines, as usual, are the weakest parts. But the English is perhaps better. The decasyllabic quatrain, though practised by Davies, by Davenant, and recently and best of all by Dryden, in Annus Mirabilis, has qualities which it remained for Gray to bring out fully, but which Flatman has not quite missed here. I wonder if Gray knew the piece, especially Stanza III?]

Translated.

I.

I never thirsted for the Golden Flood, Which o'er Pactolus' wealthy sands does roll, From whence the covetous mind receives no good, But rather swells the dropsy of his soul.

II.

On palaces why should I set my mind, Imprison'd in this body's mould'ring clay? Ere long to poor six foot of earth confin'd, Whose bones must crumble at the fatal day.

III.

Titles and pedigrees, what are they to me, Or honour gain'd by our forefathers' toil, 10 The sport of Fate, whose gaudiest pageantry Lethe will wash out, dark Oblivion soil?

IV.

Why then, my soul, who fain wouldst be at ease, Should the World's glory dazzle thy bright eye? Thyself with vain applause why shouldst thou please, Or dote on Fame, which fools may take from thee?

V.

Praise after death is but a pleasant dream, The Dead fare ne'er the worse for ill report; The Ghosts below know nothing of a name, Nor ever popular caresses court. 20

VI.

Give me the lasting Good, Virtue, that flies Above the clouds, that tramples on dull earth, Exempt from Fate's tumultuous mutinies, Virtue, that cannot need a second birth.

VII.

All other things must bend their heads to Time, By age's mighty torrent borne away, Hereafter no more thought on than my rhyme, Or faery kingdoms in Utopia.

Psalm xv. Paraphrased.

Verse I.

Who shall approach the dread Jehovah's Throne Or dwell within thy courts, O Holy One! That happy man whose feet shall tread the road Up Sion's Hill, that holy Hill of God!

Verse II.

He that's devout and strict in all he does, That through the sinful world uprightly goes, The desp'rate heights from whence the great ones fall (Giddy with Fame) turn not his head at all: Stands firm on Honour's pinnacle, and so Fears not the dreadful precipice below. 10 Of Conscience, not of Man, he stands in awe, Just to observe each tittle of the Law! His words and thoughts bear not a double part, His breast is open, and he speaks his heart.

Verse III.

He that reviles not, or with cruel words (Deadly as venom, sharp as two-edg'd swords) Murthers his friend's repute, nor dares believe That rumour which his neighbour's soul may grieve: But with kind words embalms his bleeding Name, Wipes off the rust, and polishes his fame. 20

Verse IV.

He in whose eyes the bravest sinners be Extremely vile, though rob'd in majesty; But if he spies a righteous man (though poor) Him he can honour, love, admire, adore: In Israel's humble plains had rather stay, Than in the tents of Kedar bear the sway: He that severely keeps his sacred vow, No mental reservation dares allow, But what he swears, intends; will rather die, Lose all he has, than tell a solemn lie. 30

Verse V.

He that extorts not from the needy soul, When laws his tyranny cannot control; He whom a thousand empires cannot hire, Against a guiltless person to conspire. He that has these perfections, needs no more; What treasures can be added to his store? The Pyramids shall turn to dust, to hide Their own vast bulk, and haughty Founders' pride. Leviathan shall die within his deep; The eyes of Heaven close in eternal sleep; 40 Confusion may o'erwhelm both sea and land; Mountains may tumble down, but he shall stand.

[Psalm xv.] In the Firth MS.: the chief variant is 'brains' for 'head' in l. 8.]

Job.

Few be the days that feeble man must breath, Yet frequent troubles antedate his death: Gay like a flow'r he comes, which newly grown, Fades of itself, or is untimely mown: Like a thin aery shadow does he fly, Length'ning and short'ning still until he die. And does Jehovah think on such a one, Does he behold him from his mighty Throne? Will he contend with such a worthless thing, Or dust and ashes into Judgement bring? 10

Unclean, unclean is man ev'n from the womb, Unclean he falls into his drowsy tomb. Surely, he cannot answer God, nor be Accounted pure, before such purity.

[Job.] In the Firth MS., which records that it was set by William Hawes.]

Nudus Redibo.

Naked I came, when I began to be A man among the Sons of Misery, Tender, unarm'd, helpless, and quite forlorn, E'er since 'twas my hard fortune to be born; And when the space of a few weary days Shall be expir'd, then must I go my ways. Naked I shall return, and nothing have, Nothing wherewith to bribe my hungry Grave. Then what's the proudest Monarch's glittering robe, Or what's he, more than I, that rul'd the globe? 10 Since we must all without distinction die, And slumber both stark naked, he and I.

[Nudus Redibo.] In the Firth MS., and dated June 15, 1660. It was set by William Gregory.]

[Line: 4 hard fortune] misfortune MS.]

[Line: 7 I shall] shall I MS.]

[Line: 9 glittering] pearly MS.]

An Elegy on the Earl of Sandwich.

If there were aught in Verse at once could raise Or tender pity or immortal praise, Thine obsequies, brave Sandwich, would require Whatever would our nobler thoughts inspire; But since thou find'st by thy unhappy fate, What 'tis to be unfortunately great, And purchase Honour at too dear a rate: The Muse's best attempt, howe'er design'd, Cannot but prove impertinently kind, Thy glorious valour is a theme too high 10 For all the humble arts of Poesy. To side with chance and kingdoms overrun Are little things ambitious men have done; But on a flaming ship thus to despise That life, which others did so highly prize; To fight with fire, and struggle with a wave, And Neptune with unwearied arms outbrave, Are deeds surpassing fab'lous chronicle, And which no future age shall parallel; Leviathan himself's outdone by thee, 20 Thou greater wonder of the deep, than he: Nor could the deep thy mighty ashes hold. The deep that swallows diamonds and gold; Fame ev'n thy sacred relics does pursue, Richer than all the treasures of Peru: While the kind sea thy breathless body brings Safe to the bed of honour and of kings.

[Elegy on the Earl of Sandwich.] Pepys's (the first) Earl, who perished at the fight of Solebay in 1672. The duplication (see next piece) looks as if Flatman had had some personal connexion with him. At any rate there are expressions which are not the mere conventions of such writing. Line 6, and in fact the whole vigorous triplet in which it occurs, must be connected with the nearly certain facts that Sandwich's advice would have prevented the most unfavourable of the conditions under which the English fought; that the Duke of York not only would not listen but hinted at cowardice on Sandwich's part; and that the Earl in consequence, not only, as Mr. David Hannay (A Short History of the Royal Navy, i. 423) says, 'fought the ship on this the last and most glorious day of his life, with determined courage', but refused to attempt to save his life by swimming, when she was grappled by a fireship and burnt. Moreover, the last lines express the fact that the body was only recovered after being washed ashore some days after the battle, when it was duly buried in Westminster Abbey, 'the bed of honour and of kings'.]

An Epitaph on the Earl of Sandwich.

Here lies the dust of that illustrious man, That triumph'd o'er the Ocean; Who for his country nobly courted Death, And dearly sold his glorious breath, Or in a word, in this cold narrow grave Sandwich the Good, the Great, the Brave (Oh frail estate of sublunary things!), Lies equal here with England's greatest kings.

Pastoral.

I.

At break of day poor Celadon Hard by his sheepfolds walk'd alone, His arms across, his head bow'd down, His oaten pipe beside him thrown, When Thirsis, hidden in a thicket by, Thus heard the discontented Shepherd cry.

II.

What is it Celadon has done, That all his happiness is gone! The curtains of the dark are drawn, And cheerful morn begins to dawn, 10 Yet in my breast 'tis ever dead of night, That can admit no beam of pleasant light.

III.

You pretty lambs may leap and play To welcome the new-kindled day, Your shepherd harmless, as are you, Why is he not as frolic too? If such disturbance th' innocent attend, How differs he from them that dare offend!

IV.

Ye Gods! or let me die, or live, If I must die, why this reprieve? 20 If you would have me live, O why Is it with me as those that die! I faint, I gasp, I pant, my eyes are set, My cheeks are pale, and I am living yet.

V.

Ye Gods! I never did withhold The fattest lamb of all my fold, But on your altars laid it down, And with a garland did it crown. Is it in vain to make your altar smoke? Is it all one, to please, and to provoke? 30

VI.

Time was that I could sit and smile, Or with a dance the time beguile: My soul like that smooth lake was still, Bright as the sun behind yon hill, Like yonder stately mountain clear and high, Swift, soft, and gay as that same butterfly.

VII.

But now within there's Civil War, In arms my rebel passions are, Their old allegiance laid aside, The traitors now in triumph ride 40 That many-headed monster has thrown down Its lawful monarch, Reason, from its throne.

VIII.

See, unrelenting Sylvia, see, All this, and more, is 'long of thee: For ere I saw that charming face, Uninterrupted was my peace, Thy glorious beamy eyes have struck me blind, To my own soul the way I cannot find.

IX.

Yet is it not thy fault nor mine; Heav'n is to blame, that did not shine 50 Upon us both with equal rays-- It made thine bright, mine gloomy days; To Sylvia beauty gave, and riches store; All Celadon's offence is, he is poor.

X.

Unlucky stars poor shepherds have, Whose love is fickle Fortune's slave: Those golden days are out of date, When every turtle chose his mate: Cupid, that mighty Prince, then uncontroll'd, Now like a little negro's bought and sold. 60

[Pastoral.] 36 that 1682; the 1686.]

On the Death of Mr. Pelham Humfries.

Pastoral Song.

Did you not hear the hideous groan, The shrieks, and heavy moan That spread themselves o'er all the pensive plain; And rent the breast of many a tender swain? 'Twas for Amintas, dead and gone. Sing, ye forsaken shepherds, sing His praise In careless melancholy lays, Lend Him a little doleful breath: Poor Amintas! cruel Death! 'Twas Thou couldst make dead words to live, 10 Thou that dull numbers couldst inspire With charming voice and tuneful lyre, That life to all, but to Thyself, couldst give; Why couldst Thou not Thy wondrous art bequeath? Poor Amintas! cruel Death! Sing, pious shepherds, while you may, Before th' approaches of the Fatal Day: For you yourselves that sing this mournful song, Alas! ere it be long, Shall, like Amintas, breathless be, 20 Though more forgotten in the grave than He.

[On the Death of Mr. Pelham Humfries.] Pelham Humfries or Humfrey died in the year (1674) of first publication of these Poems. He was a musician and gentleman of the Chapel Royal.]

[Line: 21 than 1682; that 1686.]

The Mistake.

SONG.

I heard a young lover in terrible pain, From whence if he pleas'd, he might soon be releas'd, He swore, and he vow'd again and again, He could not outlive the turmoils of his breast; But, alas, the young lover I found Knew little how cold Love would prove under ground; Why should I believe, prithee, Love, tell me why, Where my own flesh and blood must give me the lie! Let 'em rant while they will, and their destinies brave, They'll find their flames vanish on this side the grave; 10 For though all addresses on purpose are made To be huddled to bed,--'tisn't meant, with a spade!

The Incredulous.

SONG.

I'll ne'er believe for Strephon's sake That Love (whate'er its fond pretences be), Is not a slave to mutability. The Moon and that alike of change partake: Tears are weak, and cannot bind, Vows, alas! but empty wind: The greatest art that Nature gave To th' amorous hypocrite to make him kind, Long ere he dies will take its leave. Had you but seen, as I have done, 10 Strephon's tears, and heard his moan, How pale his cheek, how dim his eye, As if with Chloris he resolv'd to die; And when her spotless soul was fled Heard his amazing praises of the dead; Yet in a very little time address His flame t' another Shepherdess, In a few days giving his love the lie, You'd be as great an infidel as I.

Weeping at Parting.

SONG.

I.

Go, gentle Oriana, go, Thou seest the Gods will have it so; Alas! alas! 'tis much in vain Of their ill usage to complain, To curse them when we want relief, Lessens our courage, not our grief: Dear Oriana, wipe thine eye, The time may come that thou and I Shall meet again, long, long to prove What vigour absence adds to love. 10 Smile, Oriana, then, and let me see That look again, which stole my liberty.

II.

But say that Oriana die (And that sad moment may be nigh), The Gods that for a year can sever, If it please them, can part us ever; They that refresh, can make us weep, And into Death can lengthen sleep. Kind Oriana, should I hear The thing I so extremely fear, 20 'Twill not be strange, if it be said, After a while, I too am dead. Weep, Oriana, weep, for who does know Whether we e'er shall meet again below?

[Weeping at Parting.] In the Firth MS., entitled 'To Oriana weeping at parting', and dated December 31, 1664; 'Set by Mr. Roger Hill.' In l. 3 the MS. reads 'but' for 'much'.]

The Desperate Lover.

I.

O mighty King of Terrors, come! Command thy slave to his long home: Great sanctuary Grave! to thee In throngs the miserable flee; Encircled in thy frozen arms, They bid defiance to their harms, Regardless of those pond'rous little things That discompose th' uneasy heads of kings.

II.

In the cold earth the pris'ner lies Ransom'd from all his miseries; 10 Himself forgotten, he forgets His cruel creditors, and debts; And there in everlasting peace Contentions with their authors cease. A turf of grass or monument of stone Umpires the petty competition.

III.

The disappointed lover there, Breathes not a sigh, nor sheds a tear; With us (fond fools) he never shares In sad perplexities and cares; 20 The willow near his tomb that grows Revives his memory, not his woes; Or rain, or shine, he is advanc'd above Th' affronts of Heaven and stratagems of Love.

IV.

Then, mighty King of Terrors, come, Command thy slave to his long home. And thou, my friend, that lov'st me best, Seal up these eyes that brake my rest; Put out the lights, bespeak my knell, And then eternally farewell. 30 'Tis all th' amends our wretched Fates can give, That none can force a desperate man to live.

[The Desperate Lover.] 28 'brake', if right, must mean 'used to break' by making me behold 'Love or some other vanity'.]

The Fatigue.

A SONG.

Adieu, fond World, and all thy wiles, Thy haughty frowns, and treacherous smiles, They that behold thee with my eyes, Thy double dealing will despise: From thee, false World, my deadly foe, Into some desert let me go; Some gloomy melancholy cave, Dark and silent as the grave; Let me withdraw, where I may be From thine impertinences free: There when I hear the turtle groan, 10 How sweetly would I make my moan! Kind Philomel would teach me there My sorrows pleasantly to bear: There could I correspond with none But Heaven, and my own breast alone.

The Resolve.

SONG.

I.

Had Phyllis neither charms, nor graces More than the rest of women wear, Levell'd by Fate with common faces, Yet Damon could esteem her fair.

II.

Good-natur'd Love can soon forgive Those petty injuries of Time, And all th' affronts of years impute To her misfortune, not her crime.

III.

Wedlock puts Love upon the rack, Makes it confess 'tis still the same 10 In icy age, as it appear'd At first when all was lively flame.

IV.

If Hymen's slaves, whose ears are bored, Thus constant by compulsion be, Why should not choice endear us more Than them their hard necessity?

V.

Phyllis! 'tis true, thy glass does run, But since mine too keeps equal pace, My silver hairs may trouble thee, As much as me thy ruin'd face. 20

VI.

Then let us constant be as Heaven, Whose laws inviolable are, Not like those rambling meteors there That foretell ills, and disappear.

VII.

So shall a pleasing calm attend Our long uneasy destiny, So shall our loves and lives expire, From storms and tempests ever free.

[The Resolve.] The superiority of the first stanza of this to the rest, and the reason of that superiority (the double rhyme 'graces' and 'faces'), are both clear enough. But what is not clear is why Flatman--who, if no great poet, seems usually to have been at no loss for verse or rhyme--should have suddenly run dry of the latter in his first and third lines. If he had not been so stingy the piece might have been worth something. It is not quite worthless as it is.]

Love's Bravo.

SONG.

Why should we murmur, why repine, Phyllis, at thy fate, or mine? Like pris'ners, why do we those fetters shake; Which neither thou, nor I can break? There is a better way to baffle Fate, If mortals would but mind it, And 'tis not hard to find it: Who would be happy, must be desperate; He must despise those stars that fright Only fools that dread the night; 10 Time and chance he must outbrave, He that crouches is their slave. Thus the wise Pagans, ill at ease, Bravely chastis'd their surly Deities.

The Expectation.

SONG.

I.

Why did I ever see those glorious eyes My famish'd soul to tantalize? I hop'd for Heav'n, which I had lately seen, But ne'er perceiv'd the gulf between: In vain for bliss did my presumptions seek, My love so strong I could not hold my tongue, My heart so feeble that I durst not speak.

II.

Yet why do I my constitution blame, Since all my heart is out of frame? 10 'Twere better, sure, my passion to appease, With hope to palliate my disease: And 'twill be something like tranquillity, To hope for that I must not compass yet, And make a virtue of necessity.

[The Expectation.] In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and dated July 11, 1671. It was set by Roger Hill. The chief variants are:--

[Line: 5 presumptions] presumption.]

[Line: 8 that] yet.]

[Line: 14 hope for] think of.]

[Line: 15 must not compass] may not purchase.]

Coridon Converted.

SONG.

I.

When Coridon a slave did lie, Entangled in his Phyllis' eye, How did he sigh! how did he groan! How melancholy was his tone! He told his story to the woods, And wept his passion by the floods; Then Phyllis, cruel Phyllis, too to blame, Regarded not his sufferings, nor his flame.

II.

Then Coridon resolv'd no more His mistress' mercy to implore; 10 How did he laugh, how did he sing! How did he make the forest ring! He told his conquest to the woods, And drown'd his passion in the floods: Then Phyllis, gentle Phyllis, less severe, Would have had him, but he would none of her.

[Coridon Converted.] In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and dated April 29, 1664. It was set by William Gregory. The MS. yields some important corrections:--'conquest' and 'passion' in ll. 13, 14, for the plural of the printed texts; and 'gentle Phyllis' in l. 15 for 'cruel Phyllis'. The plural 'woods' and 'floods' perhaps account for the former variants; the latter is evidently an attempt to adhere strictly to the refrain.]

The Humourist.

SONG.

I.

Good faith! I never was but once so mad To dote upon an idle woman's face, And then, alas! my fortune was so bad To see another chosen in my place; And yet I courted her, I'm very sure, With love as true as his was, and as pure.

II.

But if I ever be so fond again To undertake the second part of love, To reassume that most unmanlike pain, Or after shipwreck do the ocean prove; 10 My mistress must be gentle, kind, and free, Or I'll be as indifferent as she.

[The Humourist.]: In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and dated April 29, 1664. It was set by William Gregory. In the MS. the poem opens 'In faith'.]

Fading Beauty.

SONG.

I.

As poor Aurelia sate alone, Hard by a rivulet's flow'ry side, Envious at Nature's new-born pride, Her slighted self she thus reflected on.

II.

Alas! that Nature should revive These flowers, which after Winter's snow Spring fresh again, and brighter show, But for our fairer sex so ill contrive!

III.

Beauty, like theirs a short-liv'd thing, On us in vain she did bestow, 10 Beauty that only once can grow, An Autumn has, but knows no second Spring.

A Dialogue.

CLORIS AND PARTHENISSA.

C. Why dost thou all address deny? Hard-hearted Parthenissa, why? See how the trembling lovers come, That from thy lips expect their doom. P. Cloris! I hate them all, they know, Nay I have often told them so; Their silly politics abhorr'd: I scorn to make my slave my lord. C. But Strephon's eyes proclaim his love Too brave, tyrannical to prove. 10 P. Ah, Cloris! when we lose our pow'r We must obey the conqueror. C. Yet where a gentle Prince bears sway, It is no bondage to obey. P. But if like Nero, for awhile, With arts of kindness he beguile; How shall the tyrant be withstood When he has writ his laws in blood! C. Love, Parthenissa, all commands: It fetters Kings in charming bands; 20 Mars yields his arms to Cupid's darts, And Beauty softens savage hearts.

Chorus.

_If nothing else can pull the Tyrant down, Kill him with kindness, and the day's your own._

[A Dialogue.] 22 And] But 1674.]

A Dialogue.

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.

Orpheus.

Eurydice, my fair, my fair Eurydice! My love, my joy, my life, if so thou be In Pluto's kingdom answer me; appear And come to thy poor Orpheus.----

Eur. Oh, I hear, I hear, dear Orpheus, but I cannot come Beyond the bounds of dull Elysium. I cannot----

Orph. And why wilt thou not draw near? Is there within these courts a shade so dear As he that calls thee?

Eur. No, there cannot be A thing so lovely in mine eyes as thee. 10 Orph. Why comes not then Eurydice?

Eur. The Fates, The Fates forbid, and these eternal gates, Never unbarr'd to let a pris'ner go, Deny me passage; nay, grim Cerberus too Stands at the door----

_Orph. _But cannot then They that o'er Lethe go, return again? Eur. Never, oh never!----

Orph. Sure they may, let's try If Art can null the Laws of Destiny. My lays compacted Thebes, made every tree Loosen its roots to caper; come let's see 20 What thou and I can do.

Chor. Perchance the throng Of Ghosts may be enchanted with a song, And mov'd to pity.----

Eur. Hark! the hinges move, The gate's unbarr'd. I come, I come, my Love!

Chorus amborum.

'Twas Music, only Music, could unspell Helpless, undone Eurydice from Hell.

[A Dialogue.] Dated in the Firth MS. September 15, 1663; it was set to music by W. Gregory.]

The Bachelor's Song.

Like a dog with a bottle, fast ty'd to his tail, Like vermin in a trap, or a thief in a jail, Like a Tory in a bog, Or an ape with a clog: Such is the man, who when he might go free, Does his liberty lose For a Matrimony noose, And sells himself into captivity.

The dog he does howl, when his bottle does jog, The vermin, the thief, and the Tory in vain 10 Of the trap, of the jail, of the quagmire complain. But well fare poor Pug! for he plays with his clog; And though he would be rid on 't rather than his life, Yet he lugs it, and he hugs it, as a man does his wife.

[The Bachelor's Song]. In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and dated 1670. See Introduction for the rather obvious legend connected with this profane doggerel. As proof of its popularity it may be noted that versions of it appear in the Windsor Drollery, 1672, and the Westminster Drollery, 1691; in the latter there are also The Bachelors Satyr Related and A Reply to The Bachelors Satyr Related. These unauthorized versions have a number of minor variants.]

[Line: 3 Like] Or like 1674-82. 'Tory' in the original, not the transferred sense, which latter Flatman seems himself to have well deserved.]

[Line: 5 Such is the] Even such is a MS. might go] may be MS.]

[Line: 9 his] the 1686.]

[Line: 10 and] om. MS.]

[Line: 11 quagmire] bog do MS.]

The Second Part.

SONG.

How happy a thing were a wedding And a bedding, If a man might purchase a wife For a twelvemonth and a day; But to live with her all a man's life, For ever and for ay, Till she grow as grey as a cat, Good faith, Mr. Parson, I thank you for that.

An Appeal to Cats in the business of Love.

A SONG.

Ye cats that at midnight spit love at each other, Who best feel the pangs of a passionate lover, I appeal to your scratches and your tattered fur, If the business of Love be no more than to purr. Old Lady Grimalkin with her gooseberry eyes, Knew something when a kitten, for why she was wise; You find by experience, the love-fit's soon o'er, Puss! Puss! lasts not long, but turns to Cat-whore! Men ride many miles, Cats tread many tiles, Both hazard their necks in the fray; Only Cats, when they fall From a house or a wall, Keep their feet, mount their tails, and away!

[An appeal to Cats.] Added in 1686. It is a pity we do not possess the tune to which Mr. Humfries, or somebody else, most probably set this lively fantasy. It is quite in the style of Dr. Blow, Humfries's friend and colleague.]

Advice to an Old Man of sixty-three, about to Marry a Girl of sixteen.

SONG.

I.

Now fie upon him! what is Man, Whose life at best is but a span? When to an inch it dwindles down, Ice in his bones, snow on his crown, That he within his crazy brain Kind thoughts of Love should entertain, That he, when harvest comes, should plow, And when 'tis time to reap, go sow, Who, in imagination only strong, Though twice a child, can never twice grow young. 10

II.

Nature did those design for fools, That sue for work, yet have no tools. What fellow-feeling can there be In such a strange disparity? Old age mistakes the youthful breast, Love dwells not there, but Interest: Alas, good man! take thy repose, Get ribband for thy thumbs and toes. Provide thee flannel, and a sheet of lead,-- Think on thy Coffin, not thy Bridal Bed. 20

The Slight.

SONG.

I.

I did but crave that I might kiss, If not her lip, at least her hand, The coolest Lover's frequent bliss, And rude is she that will withstand That inoffensive liberty: She (would you think it?) in a fume Turn'd her about and left the room; Not she, she vow'd, not she.

II.

Well, Chariessa, then said I, If it must thus for ever be, 10 I can renounce my slavery, And since you will not, can be free. Many a time she made me die, Yet (would you think 't?) I lov'd the more, But I'll not take 't as heretofore, Not I, I'll vow, not I.

[The Slight.]: In the Firth MS., a first draft, dated August, 1666, and recorded as having been set to music by Sylvanus Taylor. The variants are important:--]

[Line: 3 frequent] hourly.]

[Lines: 4-5 Which at his wish he may command, Nay, often takes the liberty. The copy in Rawlinson MS. D. 260 (fol. 27 verso) has the same readings.]

The Penitent.

SONG.

I.

Had I but known some years ago What wretched lovers undergo, The tempests and the storms that rise From their Belovèd's dangerous eyes, With how much torment they endure That ague and that calenture; Long since I had my error seen, Long since repented of my sin: Too late the soldier dreads the trumpet's sound That newly has receiv'd his mortal wound. 10

II.

But so adventurous was I My fortunes all alone to try, Needs must I kiss the burning light, Because it shin'd, because 'twas bright. My heart with youthful heat on fire, I thought some God did me inspire; And that blind zeal embold'ned me T' attempt Althea's Deity. Surely those happy Pow'rs that dwell above, Or never courted, or enjoy'd their love. 20

[The Penitent.] In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and dated 1671. It was set by Roger Hill.]

[Line: 9 dreads: loathes MS.]

[Line: 15 heart: breast MS.]

[Line: 18 The reference, if any, to the classical story of Althea is so confused and muddled that perhaps there is none. See The Surrender, below.]

The Defiance.

SONG.

I.

Be not too proud, imperious Dame, Your charms are transitory things, May melt, while you at Heaven aim, Like Icarus's waxen wings; And you a part in his misfortunes bear, Drown'd in a briny Ocean of despair.

II.

You think your beauties are above The Poet's brain and Painter's hand, As if upon the Throne of Love You only should the world command: 10 Yet know, though you presume your title true, There are pretenders that will rival you.

III.

There's an experienc'd rebel, Time, And in his squadron's Poverty; There's Age that brings along with him A terrible artillery: And if against all these thou keep'st thy crown, Th' usurper Death will make thee lay it down.

[The Defiance.] 5 misfortunes 1682: misfortune 1686.]

[Line: 14 'squadron's' is not apostrophated in original, but the practice in this respect is so loose as to be of no value. The plural would make sense, of course.]

The Surrender.

SONG.

I yield, I yield! Divine Althaea, see How prostrate at thy feet I bow, Fondly in love with my captivity, So weak am I, so mighty thou! Not long ago I could defy, Arm'd with wine and company, Beauty's whole artillery: Quite vanquish'd now by thy miraculous charms, Here, fair Althaea, take my arms, For sure he cannot be of human race, That can resist so bright, so sweet a face.

The Whim.

SONG.

I.

Why so serious, why so grave? Man of business, why so muddy? Thyself from Chance thou canst not save With all thy care and study. Look merrily then, and take thy repose; For 'tis to no purpose to look so forlorn, Since the World was as bad before thou wert born, And when it will mend who knows? And a thousand year hence 'tis all one, If thou lay'st on a dunghill, or sat'st on a throne. 10

II.

To be troubled, to be sad, Carking mortal, 'tis a folly, For a pound of Pleasure's not so bad As an ounce of Melancholy: Since all our lives long we travel towards Death, Let us rest us sometimes, and bait by the way, 'Tis but dying at last; in our race let us stay, And we shan't be so soon out of breath. Sit the comedy out, and that done, When the play's at an end, let the curtain fall down. 20

The Renegado.

SONG.

I.

Remov'd from fair Urania's eyes Into a village far away: Fond Astrophil began to say, Thy charms, Urania, I despise; Go bid some other shepherd for thee die, That never understood thy tyranny.

II.

Return'd at length the amorous swain, Soon as he saw his deity, Ador'd again, and bow'd his knee, Became her slave, and wore her chain. 10 The Needle thus that motionless did lie, Trembles, and moves, when the lov'd Loadstone's nigh.

[The Renegado.] In the Firth MS. entitled 'Song', and dated 1671. 'Set by Roger Hill.']

Phyllis withdrawn.

I.

I did but see her, and she's snatch'd away, I find I did but happy seem; So small a while did my contentments stay, As short and pleasant as a dream: Yet such are all our satisfactions here, They raise our hopes, and then they disappear.

II.

Ill-natur'd Stars, that evermore conspire To quench poor Strephon's flame, To stop the progress of his swift desire, And leave him but an aëry name; 10 Why art thou doom'd (of no pretences proud) Ixion-like thus to embrace a cloud?

III.

Yet why should Strephon murmur, why complain, Or envy Phyllis her delight, Why should her pleasures be to him a pain, Easier perhaps out of his sight? No, Strephon, no! If Phyllis happy be, Thou shouldst rejoice, whate'er becomes of thee.

IV.

Amidst the charming glories of the spring In pleasant fields and goodly bowers, 20 Indulgent Nature seems concern'd to bring All that may bless her innocent hours, While thy disastrous Fate has tied thee down To all the noise and tumult of the Town.

V.

Strephon that for himself expects no good To Phyllis wishes everywhere A long serenity without a cloud, Sweet as these smiles of th' infant year. May Halcyons in her bosom build their nest, Whatever storms shall discompose my breast. 30

[Phyllis withdrawn.] The first stanza is a good example of the purely haphazard character of typographical peculiarities at the time. There is not a capital in the original, though in that original elsewhere one would find 'Contentments', 'Dream', 'Satisfactions', and 'Hopes', if not others as well.]

The Malecontent.

SONG.

Phyllis, O Phyllis! Thou art fondly vain, My wavering thoughts thus to molest, Why should my pleasure be the only pain, That must torment my easy breast? If with Prometheus I had stolen fire, Fire from above, As scorching, and as bright, as that of Love, I might deserve Jove's ire, A vulture then might on my liver feed, But now eternally I bleed, 10 And yet on Thee, on Thee lies all the blame, Who freely gav'st the fuel and the flame.

[The Malecontent.] 5 'Stoll'n' in original, though the valued 'èn' is indispensable for the metre.]

The Indifferent.

SONG.

Prithee confess for my sake and your own, Am I the man or no? If I am he, thou canst not do 't too soon, If not, thou canst not be too slow. If Woman cannot love, Man's folly's great Your sex with so much zeal to treat; But if we freely proffer to pursue Our tender thoughts and spotless love, Which nothing shall remove, And you despise all this, pray what are you?

The Harbour.

SONG.

O tedious hopes! when will the storm be o'er! When will the beaten vessel reach the shore! Long have I striv'n with blust'ring winds and tides, Clouds o'er my head, waves on my sides! Which in my dark adventures high did swell, While Heaven was black as Hell. O Love, tempestuous Love, yet, yet at last, Let me my anchor cast, And for the troubles I have undergone, O bring me to a port which I may call my own. 10

The Unconcerned.

SONG.

Now that the world is all in amaze, Drums and trumpets rending heav'ns, Wounds a-bleeding, mortals dying, Widows and orphans piteously crying; Armies marching, towns in a blaze, Kingdoms and states at sixes and sevens: What should an honest fellow do, Whose courage, and fortunes run equally low! Let him live, say I, till his glass be run, As easily as he may; 10 Let the wine, and the sand of his glass flow together, For life's but a winter's day. Alas! from sun to sun, The time's very short, very dirty the weather, And we silently creep away. Let him nothing do, he could wish undone; And keep himself safe from the noise of gun.

[The Unconcerned.] 1 amaze 1674, 1676, 1682: a maze 1686.]

The Immovable.

SONG.

I.

What though the sky be clouded o'er, And Heav'us influence smile no more? Though tempests rise, and earthquakes make The giddy World's foundation shake? A gallant breast contemns the feeble blow Of angry Gods, and scorns what Fate can do.

II.

What if alarums sounded be, And we must face our enemy, If cannons bellow out a death, Or trumpets woo away our breath! 10 'Tis brave amidst the glittering throng to die. Nay, Samson-like, to fall with company.

III.

Then let the swordman domineer, I can nor pike nor musket fear; Clog me with chains, your envies tire, For when I will, I can expire; And when the puling fit of Life is gone, The worst that cruel man can do, is done.

The Wish.

SONG.

I.

Not to the hills where cedars move Their cloudy head, not to the grove Of myrtles in th' Elysian shade, Nor Tempe which the poets made; Not on the spicy mountains play; Or travel to Arabia: I aim not at the careful Throne, Which Fortune's darlings sit upon; No, no, the best this fickle world can give, Has but a little, little time to live. 10

II.

But let me soar, O let me fly Beyond poor Earth's benighted eye, Beyond the pitch swift eagles tower, Above the reach of human power; Above the stars, above the way, Whence Phoebus darts his piercing ray. O let me tread those Courts that are, So bright, so pure, so blest, so fair, As neither thou nor I must ever know On Earth--'tis thither, thither would I go. 20

[The Wish.] Entitled 'A Wish' in the Firth MS., and dated September 10, 1659. It was set by Captain Taylor. The chief variants are 'clouds' for 'stars' in l. 15 and 'the sun' for 'Phoebus' in l. 16.]

The Cordial. In the year 1657.

SONG.

I.

Did you hear of the News (O the News) how it thunders! Do but see, how the block-headed multitude wonders! One fumes, and stamps, and stares to think upon What others wish as fast, Confusion. One swears w' are gone, another just agoing, While a third sits and cries, 'Till his half-blinded eyes Call him pitiful rogue for so doing. Let the tone be what 'twill that the mighty ones utter, Let the cause be what 'twill why the poorer sort mutter; 10 I care not what your State-confounders do, Nor what the stout repiners undergo; I cannot whine at any alterations. Let the Swede beat the Dane, Or be beaten again, What am I in the crowd of the Nations?

II.

What care I if the North and South Poles come together; If the Turk or the Pope's Antichristian, or neither; If fine Astraea be (as Naso said) From mortals in a peevish fancy fled: 20 Rome, when 'twas all on fire, her people mourning, 'Twas an Emperor could stand With his harp in his hand, Sing and play, while the city was burning.

Celadon on Delia singing.

O Delia! for I know 'tis she, It must be she, for nothing less could move My tuneless heart, than something from above. I hate all earthly harmony: Hark, hark, ye Nymphs, and Satyrs all around! Hark, how the baffled Echo faints; see how she dies, Look how the wingèd choir all gasping lies At the melodious sound; See, while she sings How they droop and hang their wings! 10 Angelic Delia, sing no more, Thy song's too great for mortal ear; Thy charming notes we can no longer bear: O then in pity to the World give o'er, And leave us stupid as we were before. Fair Delia, take the fatal choice, Or veil thy beauty, or suppress thy Voice.

His passion thus poor Celadon betray'd, When first he saw, when first he heard the lovely Maid.

The Advice.

SONG.

I.

Poor Celia once was very fair, A quick bewitching eye she had, Most neatly look'd her braided hair, Her dainty cheeks would make you mad, Upon her lip did all the Graces play, And on her breasts ten thousand Cupids lay.

II.

Then many a doting lover came From seventeen till twenty-one, Each told her of his mighty flame, But she, forsooth, affected none. 10 One was not handsome, t'other was not fine, This of tobacco smelt, and that of wine.

III.

But t'other day it was my fate To walk along that way alone, I saw no coach before her gate, But at the door I heard her moan: She dropt a tear, and sighing, seem'd to say, Young ladies, marry, marry while you may!

[The Advice.] In the Firth MS., where it is dated December 22, 1664, and recorded to have been set by Roger Hill; and in Rawlinson MS. D. 260 (fol. 28) of the Bodleian. The variants are trivial. Found also in the Westminster Drollery, 1671, and the Windsor Drollery, 1672: the latter reads 'lock'd' for 'look'd' in l. 3. In l. 9 1682 reads 'her' for 'his'.]

To Mr. Sam. Austin of Wadham Coll. Oxon, On his most unintelligible Poems.

SIR, In that small inch of time I stole, to look On th' obscure depths of your mysterious book, (Heav'n bless my eyesight!) what strains did I see! What steropegeretic Poetry! What hieroglyphic words, what [riddles] all, In letters more than cabalistical! We with our fingers may your verses scan, But all our noddles understand them can No more, than read that dungfork, pothook hand That in Queen's College Library does stand. 10 The cutting hanger of your Wit I can't see, For that same scabbard that conceals your Fancy: Thus a black velvet casket hides a jewel; And a dark woodhouse, wholesome winter fuel; Thus John Tradeskin starves our greedy eyes, By boxing up his new-found rarities; We dread Actaeon's fate, dare not look on, When you do scower your skin in Helicon; We cannot (Lynceus-like) see through the wall Of your strong-mortar'd Poems; nor can all 20 The small shot of our brains make one hole in The bulwark of your book, that fort to win. Open your meaning's door, O do not lock it! Undo the buttons of your smaller pocket, And charitably spend those angels there, Let them enrich and actuate our sphere. Take off our bongraces, and shine upon us, Though your resplendent beams should chance to tan us. Had you but stol'n your verses, then we might Hope in good time they would have come to light; 30 And felt I not a strange poetic heat Flaming within, which reading makes me sweat, Vulcan should take 'em, and I'd not exempt 'em, Because they're things Quibus lumen ademptum. I thought to have commended something there, But all exceeds my commendations far: I can say nothing; but stand still, and stare, And cry, O wondrous, strange, profound, and rare. Vast Wits must fathom you better than thus, You merit more than our praise: as for us 40 The beetles of our rhymes shall drive full fast in, The wedges of your worth to everlasting, My much Apocalyptic friend Sam. Austin.

[To Mr. Sam. Austin.] Samuel Austin the younger (his father of the same name was a respectable divine and a writer of sacred verse of the preceding generation) was a Wadham man, a contemporary of Flatman's, and a common Oxford butt for conceit and affectation. His Panegyric on the Restoration appeared in 1661, and contained a statement that the author 'intended a larger book of poems according as these find acceptance'. He had taken his degree five years earlier, and his poetry, probably in MS., had been soon afterwards made the subject of one of the liveliest and naughtiest of Oxford skits, Naps on Parnassus (London, 1658), where some of Austin's own lucubrations, and more parodies and lampoons on him, appear--side-noted with quaint and scandalous adversaria. Flatman himself contributed, among others, some kitchen-Latin leonines:

O decus Anglorum! vates famose tuorum Cujus pars nona facit Oxenford Helicona,

&c., sometimes dropping into a sort of Macaronic, or at least mongrel dialect:

Haec ratio non est--quid rides?--my meaning's honest.

The elder Samuel Austin, a Cornishman, of Exeter, was a very serious person who wrote, and after difficulties got published in 1629, Austin's Urania, or the Heavenly Muse, with the most unreasonable motto Aut perlegas aut non legas--rendered

Whate'er thou be whose eye do chance to fall Upon this Book, read all or none at all.

For a considerable time I obeyed the second part of this injunction only.

Naps on Parnassus has some important variants and some corrections of the present text. Omitting minor changes, these are:--

[Line: 2 obscure] abstruse.

[Line: 5 what all] what riddles? all (Clearly the right text).

After line 16 is the couplet:

There were Philosophers content to be Renown'd, and famous in obscurity.

Line 18 has a marginal note on 'scower'--'But when he does so, he verifies the Proverb, viz. Æthiopem lavat.'

Lines 29, 30 read:

O were your verses stol'n, that so we might Hope in good time to see them come to light.

After line 36 is the couplet:

I hope some wit when he your honour hears, Will praise your mother's eyes' turpentine tears.

In line 42 is printed 'everlastin' with the note '[g] aufertur in fine, per Apocopen'.]

[Line: 4 The blessed word 'stero (it should be 'ste_rr_o' or 'ste_re_o') -pegeretic' (a rather erratic compound from [Greek: pêgnymi]) is very likely Austin's own for 'strongly put together'.]

[Line: 10 ['The Devil's handwriting in Queen's College Library at Oxford.' Note in orig.] This interesting autograph is still preserved, and a photograph of it may be seen in Mr. Andrew Clark's Anthony à Wood's Life and Times, i. 498 (Oxford Historical Society).]

[Line: 15 John Tradeskin] John Tradescant the second (1608-1662), original collector of the Ashmolean Museum.]

[Line: 27 bongraces] Sun-bonnets.]

To my ingenious Friend Mr. William Faithorne on his Book of Drawing, Etching, and Graving.

Should I attempt an elogy, or frame A paper-structure to secure thy name, The lightning of one censure, one stern frown Might quickly hazard that, and thy renown. But this thy book prevents that fruitless pain. One line speaks purelier thee, than my best strain. Those mysteries (once like the spiteful mould, Which bars the greedy Spaniard from his gold) Thou dost unfold in every friendly page, Kind to the present, and succeeding age. 10 That hand, whose curious art prolongs the date Of frail mortality, and baffles Fate With brass and steel, can surely potent be, To rear a lasting monument for thee: For my part I prefer (to guard the dead) A copper-plate beyond a sheet of lead. So long as brass, so long as books endure, So long as neat-wrought pieces, thou'rt secure. A [Faithorne sculpsit] is a charm can save From dull oblivion, and a gaping grave. 20

[To my Ingenious Friend Mr. William Faithorne.] The elder Faithorne (v. sup., p. 278). The younger, his son and namesake, was but eighteen when Flatman first published. The lines first appeared in The Art of Graveing and Etching ... Published by Will^{m} Faithorne. And Sold at his Shop next to y^{e} Signe of y^{e} Drake without Temple Barre, 1662.]

[Line: 1 'elogy' is no doubt here merely an equivalent for 'eulogy', and rather from éloge than elogium. But it is a pity that it has not been kept in English as an equivalent for the Latin.]

[Line: 5 that fruitless] my slender 1662. Other important variants are:-- Lines 9, 10 read:--

Thine ingenuity reveals, and so By making plain, thou dost illustrious grow. ]

[Line: 14 lasting] stately.

On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc.

To the Worthy Translator, CHARLES COTTON, Esq.

He that would aptly write of warlike men, Should make his ink of blood, a sword his pen; At least he must their memories abuse, Who writes with less than Maro's mighty Muse: All, Sir, that I could say of this great theme (The brave Montluc) would lessen his esteem; Whose laurels too much native verdure have To need the praises vulgar chaplets crave: His own bold hand, what it durst write, durst do, Grappled with enemies, and oblivion too; 10 Hew'd his own monument, and grav'd thereon Its deep and durable inscription. To you, Sir, whom the valiant Author owes His second life, and conquest o'er his foes-- Ill-natur'd foes, Time and Detraction,-- What is a stranger's contribution! Who has not such a share of vanity, To dream that one, who with such industry Obliges all the world, can be oblig'd by me.

[On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc.] Cotton's translation of the admirable Gascon appeared in the same year (1674) with Flatman's Poems.]

A Character of a Belly-God.

CATIUS AND HORACE.

HORACE.

Whence, Brother Case, and whither bound so fast? CA. O, Sir, you must excuse me, I'm in haste. I dine with my (Lord Mayor) and can't allow Time for our eating directory now: Though I must needs confess, I think my rules Would prove Pythagoras and Plato fools. HOR. Grave Sir, I must acknowledge, 'tis a crime To interrupt at such a nick of time; Yet stay a little, Sir, it is no sin; You're to say Grace ere dinner can begin; 10 Since you at food such virtuoso are, Some precepts to an hungry poet spare. CA. I grant you, Sir, next pleasure ta'en in eating Is that (as we do call it) of repeating; I still have kitchen systems in my mind, And from my stomach's fumes a brain well lin'd. HOR. Whence, pray, Sir, learnt you those ingenuous arts, From one at home, or hir'd from foreign parts? CA. No names, Sir (I beseech you), that's foul play, We ne'er name authors, only what they say. 20 1. 'For eggs choose long, the round are out of fashion, 'Unsavoury and distasteful to the nation: 'E'er since the brooding Rump, they're addle too, 'In the long egg lies Cock-a-doodle-doo. 2. 'Choose coleworts planted on a soil that's dry, 'Even they are worse for th' wetting (verily). 3. 'If friend from far shall come to visit, then 'Say thou wouldst treat the wight with mortal hen, 'Don't thou forthwith pluck off the cackling head, 'And impale corpse on spit as soon as dead; 30 'For so she will be tough beyond all measure, 'And friend shall make a trouble of a pleasure. 'Steep'd in good wine let her her life surrender, 'O then she'll eat most admirably tender. 4. 'Mushrooms that grow in meadows are the best; 'For aught I know, there's poison in the rest. 5. 'He that would many happy summers see, 'Let him eat mulberries fresh off the tree, 'Gather'd before the sun's too high, for these 'Shall hurt his stomach less than Cheshire cheese. 40 6. 'Aufidius (had you done so 't had undone ye) 'Sweet'ned his morning's draughts of sack with honey; 'But he did ill, to empty veins to give 'Corroding potion for a lenitive. 7. 'If any man to drink do thee inveigle in, 'First wet thy whistle with some good metheglin. 8. 'If thou art bound, and in continual doubt, 'Thou shalt get in no more till some get out, 'The mussel or the cockle will unlock 'Thy body's trunk, and give a vent to nock. 50 'Some say that sorrel steep'd in wine will do, 'But to be sure, put in some aloes too. 9. 'All shell-fish (with the growing Moon increast) 'Are ever, when she fills her orb, the best: 'But for brave oysters, Sir, exceeding rare, 'They are not to be met with everywhere. 'Your Wall-fleet oysters no man will prefer 'Before the juicy grass-green Colchester. 'Hungerford crawfish match me, if you can, 'There's no such crawlers in the Ocean. 60 10. 'Next for your suppers, you (it may be) think 'There goes no more to 't, but just eat and drink; 'But let me tell you, Sir, and tell you plain, 'To dress 'em well requires a man of brain: 'His palate must be quick, and smart, and strong, 'For sauce, a very critic in the tongue. 11. 'He that pays dear for fish, nay though the best, 'May please his fishmonger, more than his guest, 'If he be ignorant what sauce is proper; 'There's Machiavel in th' ménage of a supper. 70 12. 'For swines-flesh, give me that of the wild boar, 'Pursu'd and hunted all the forest o'er; 'He to the liberal oak ne'er quits his love, 'And when he finds no acorns, grunts at Jove. 'The Hampshire hog with pease and whey that's fed 'Sty'd up, is neither good alive nor dead. 13. 'The tendrils of the vine are salads good, 'If when they are in season understood. 14. 'If servants to thy board a rabbit bring, 'Be wise, and in the first place carve a wing. 80 15. 'When fish and fowl are right, and at just age, 'A feeder's curiosity t' assuage, 'If any ask, who found the mystery, 'Let him inquire no further, I am he. 16. 'Some fancy bread out of the oven hot: 'Variety's the glutton's happiest lot. 17. 'It's not enough the wine you have be pure, 'But of your oil as well you ought be sure. 18. 'If any fault be in the generous wine, 'Set it abroad all night, and 'twill refine, 90 'But never strain 't, nor let it pass through linen, 'Wine will be worse for that, as well as women. 19. 'The vintner that of Malaga and Sherry 'With damn'd ingredients patcheth up Canary, 'With segregative things, as pigeons' eggs, 'Straight purifies, and takes away the dregs. 20. 'An o'er-charg'd stomach roasted shrimps will ease, 'The cure by lettuce is worse than the disease. 21. 'To quicken appetite it will behove ye 'To feed courageously on good anchovy. 100 22. 'Westphalia ham, and the Bologna sausage, 'For second or third course will clear a passage, 'But lettuce after meals! fie on 't, the glutton 'Had better feed upon Ram-alley mutton. 23. ''Twere worth one's while in palace or in cottage, 'Right well to know the sundry sorts of pottage; 'There is your French pottage, Nativity broth, 'Yet that of Fetter-lane exceeds them both; 'About a limb of a departed tup 'There may you see the green herbs boiling up, 110 'And fat abundance o'er the furnace float, 'Resembling whale-oil in a Greenland boat. 24. 'The Kentish pippin's best, I dare be bold, 'That ever blue-cap costard-monger sold. 25. 'Of grapes, I like the raisins of the sun. 'I was the first immortal glory won, 'By mincing pickled herrings with these raisin 'And apples; 'twas I set the world a-gazing, 'When once they tasted of this Hogan fish, 'Pepper and salt enamelling the dish. 120 26. ''Tis ill to purchase great fish with great matter, 'And then to serve it up in scanty platter; 'Nor is it less unseemly, some believe, 'From boy with greasy fist drink to receive, 'But the cup foul within 's enough to make 'A squeamish creature puke and turn up stomach. 27. 'Then brooms and napkins and the Flanders tile, 'These must be had too, or the feast you spoil, 'Things little thought on, and not very dear, 'And yet how much they cost one in a year! 130 28. 'Wouldst thou rub alabaster with hands sable, 'Or spread a diaper cloth on dirty table? 'More cost, more worship: Come: be à la mode; 'Embellish treat, as thou would do an ode.' Hor. O learnèd Sir, how greedily I hear This elegant Diatriba of good cheer! Now by all that's good, by all provant you love, By sturdy Chine of Beef, and mighty Jove; I do conjure thy gravity, let me see The man that made thee this Discovery; 140 For he that sees th' Original's more happy Than him that draws by an ill-favour'd Copy. O bring me to the man I so admire! The Flint from whence brake forth these sparks of fire. What satisfaction would the Vision bring? If sweet the stream, much sweeter is the spring.

[Line: 3 I had struck out the brackets, but replaced them. For some obsolete uses of the mark see Mr. Percy Simpson's Shakesperian Punctuation, pp. 94-5.]

[Line: 57 Wall-fleet 1674-82; Wain-fleet 1686. Wainfleet is in Lincolnshire, famous as the birthplace of the founder of Magdalen College, Oxford. I never heard Wainfleet oysters specially quoted, but if Walter White in his Eastern England (ii. 10) may be trusted, the place was not so very long ago excellent for cockles.]

[Line: 60 The ocean 'crawlers' are at any rate bigger than those of the Kennet.]

[Lines: 75-6 This is a libel.]

[Line: 104 Ram-alley] The constantly cited street of coarse cook-shops.]

[Line: 107 'Nativity' is no doubt 'Christmas', as in 'Nativity-pie'. The reference is to 'plum-broth', the old Christmas dish, made of beef, prunes, raisins, currants, white bread, spices, wine, and sugar.]

[Line: 114 It would be a pity not to keep the form 'cost_ard_-monger'.]

[Line: 119 'Hogan' of course = 'Dutch'. This, the only positive recipe in the poem, would be a sort of salmagundy--not bad, but rather coarse, like most of the cookery of the time. Flatman, had he cared, might evidently have anticipated the earlier Dr. (not Bishop) King, who published his ingenious Art of Cookery in prose and verse (to be found in the ninth volume of Chalmers) some thirty years later.]

[Lines: 125-6. If 'within 's' be extended to 'within is' we shall have in 'to-make' a pleasant Hudibrastic rhyme to 'stomach', which otherwise comes in but ill.]

[Line: 127 What the special use of Dutch tiles was I can only guess. For tankard stands?]

[Lines: 141-2 The plagiarism-hunters may, if they like, accuse Sam Weller of stealing from Flatman when he observed, 'I'm very glad I've seen the 'rig'nal, cos it 's a gratifyin' sort of thing, and eases one's mind so much'.]

The Disappointed.

PINDARIC ODE.

Stanza I.

Oft have I ponder'd in my pensive heart, When even from myself I've stol'n away, And heavily consider'd many a day, The cause of all my anguish and my smart: Sometimes besides a shady grove (As dark as were my thoughts, as close as was my Love), Dejected have I walk'd alone, Acquainting scarce myself with my own moan. Once I resolv'd undauntedly to hear What 'twas my passions had to say, 10 To find the reason of that uproar there, And calmly, if I could, to end the fray: No sooner was my resolution known But I was all confusion. Fierce Anger, flattering Hope, and black Despair, Bloody Revenge, and most ignoble Fear, Now altogether clamorous were; My breast a perfect chaos grown, A mass of nameless things together hurl'd, Like th' formless embryo of the unborn world, 20 Just as it's rousing from eternal night, Before the great Creator said, Let there be Light.

II.

Thrice happy then are beasts, said I, That underneath these pleasant coverts lie, They only sleep, and eat, and drink, They never meditate, nor think; Or if they do, have not th' unhappy art To vent the overflowings of their heart; They without trouble live, without disorder die, Regardless of Eternity. 30 I said, I would like them be wise, And not perplex myself in vain, Nor bite th' uneasy chain, No, no, said I, I will Philosophise! And all th' ill-natur'd World despise: But when I had reflected long, And with deliberation thought How few have practis'd what they gravely taught, (Tho' 'tis but folly to complain) I judg'd it worth a generous disdain, 40 And brave defiance in Pindaric song.

[The Disappointed.] In 1674 and in Contents of 1686 The Disappointment.]

[Line: 21 as] at 1674.]

[Line: 27 unhappy] happy 1682.]

[Line: 29 without disorder die, 1682.]

On Mrs. E. Montague's Blushing in the Cross-Bath.

A TRANSLATION.

I.

Amidst the Nymphs (the glory of the flood) Thus once the beauteous Aegle stood, So sweet a tincture ere the Sun appears, The bashful ruddy morning wears: Thus through a crystal wave the coral glows, And such a blush sits on the virgin rose.

II.

Ye envied waters that with safety may Around her snowy bosom play, Cherish with gentle heat that noble breast Which so much innocence has blest, 10 Such innocence, as hitherto ne'er knew What mischief Venus or her son could do.

Then from this hallow'd place Let the profane and wanton eye withdraw, For Virtue clad in scarlet strikes an awe From the tribunal of a lovely face.

[On Mrs. E. Montague, &c.] This, though I do not know exactly who the lady was, may be taken with the Sandwich epicedes as evidence of Flatman's acquaintance with the Montague family. It is odd that Pepys does not mention him, especially as he does record buying the 'Montelion' Almanack for 1661, which has been attributed to our poet. The Cross-Bath is of course the famous one at Bath itself, which was then the most fashionable, and was visited and used by Pepys himself. It is now 'drawn to the dregs of a democracy'--a cheap public swimming-bath, at a penny entrance or twopence with towel. Flatman's comparison of a blushing cheek to a judge on the bench is worthy of Cleveland, or even of Benlowes. But the extravagance was doubtless, in part at least, conscious.]

Il Infido.

I.

I breathe, 'tis true, wretch that I am, 'tis true; But if to live be only not to die, If nothing in that bubble, Life, be gay, But all t' a tear must melt away; Let fools and Stoics be cajol'd, say I: Thou that lik'st Ease and Love, like me, When once the world says, Farewell both, to thee, What hast thou more to do Than in disdain to say, Thou foolish world, adieu!

II.

There was a time, fool that I was! when I 10 Believ'd there might be something here below. A seeming cordial to my drooping heart That might allay my bitter smart: I call'd it Friend:--but O th' inconstancy Of human things! I tried it long, Its love was fervent, and, I fancied, strong: But now I plainly see, Or 'tis withdrawn, or else 'twas all hypocrisy.

III.

I saw thy much-estrangèd eyes, I saw, False Musidore, thy formal alter'd face, 20 When thou betray'dst my seeming happiness, And coldly took'st my kind address: But know that I will live; for in thy place Heaven has provided for me now A constant friend, that dares not break a vow; That friend will I embrace, And never more my overweening love misplace.

Il Immaturo.

EPITAPH.

Brave Youth, whose too too hasty fate His glories did anticipate, Whose active soul had laid the great design To emulate those Heroes of his line! He show'd the world how great a man Might be contracted to a span; How soon our teeming expectations fail, How little tears and wishes can prevail: Could life hold out with these supplies He'd liv'd still in his parents' eyes, 10 And this cold stone had ne'er said, Here he lies.

On Mrs. Dove, Wife to the Reverend Dr. Henry Dove.

EPITAPH.

'Tis thus----and thus farewell to all Vain mortals do perfection call; To Beauty, Goodness, Modesty, Sweet temper, and true Piety. The rest an Angel's pen must tell: Long, long, belovèd Dust, farewell. Those blessings which we highliest prize Are soonest ravish'd from our eyes.

[On Mrs. Dove, &c.] Dr. Henry Dove was a divine of some mark, chaplain (it must have been rather in the Vicar of Bray line) to Charles, James, and William, Archdeacon of Richmond, and a strongly recommended candidate for the Mastership of Trinity, when young John Montague, Lord Sandwich's son, got it--iure natalium, apparently, as he had previously got his M.A. degree.]

Lucretius.

Sed jam nec Domus accipiet te laeta, nec Uxor Optima, nec dulces occurrent oscula nati Praeripere, et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent.

Paraphrased.

When thou shalt leave this miserable life, Farewell thy house, farewell thy charming wife, Farewell for ever to thy soul's delight, Quite blotted out in everlasting night! No more thy pretty darling babes shall greet thee By thy kind name, nor strive who first shall meet thee. Their kisses with a secret pleasure shall not move thee! For who shall say to thy dead clay, I love thee?

On the Eminent Dr. Edward Browne's Travels.

Thus from a foreign clime rich merchants come, And thus unlade their rarities at home: Thus undergo an acceptable toil, With treasures to enrich their native soil. They for themselves, for others you unfold A cargo swoln with diamonds and gold. With indefatigable travels, they The trading world, the learnèd you, survey; And for renown with great Columbus vie, In subterranean cosmography. 10

[On Dr. Edward Browne's Travels.] Edward Browne, Sir Thomas's eldest son, returned in 1673 from five years' wandering, and Flatman must have written on some of his papers. His Travels were first printed in 1682.]

On Poverty.

I.

O poverty! thou great and wise-man's school! Mistress of Arts! and scandal to the fool! Heav'n's sacred badge, which th' heroes heretofore (Bright caravans of saints and martyrs) wore! To th' Host Triumphant valiant souls are sent From those we call the ragged regiment: Sure guide to everlasting peace above, Thou dost th' impediments remove; Th' unnecessary loads of wealth and state, Which make men swell too big for the strait gate. 10

II.

Thou happy port! where we from storms are free, And need not fear (false world!) thy piracy. Hither for ease and shelter did retire The busy Charles, and wearied Casimire; Abjur'd their thrones, and made a solemn vow, Their radiant heads to thee should ever bow. Why should thy tents so terrible appear Where monarchs reformadoes were? Why should men call that state of life forlorn, Which God approves of, and which kings have borne? 20

III.

Mad Luxury! what do thy vassals reap From a life's long debauch, but late to weep! What the curs'd miser, who would fain ape thee, And wear thy livery, Great Poverty! The prudent wretch for future ages cares, And hoards up sins for his impatient heirs! Full little does he think the time will come When he is gone to his long home, The prodigal youth for whom he took such pains Shall be thy slave, and wear thy loathèd chains. 30

IV.

Fair handmaid to Devotion, by whose aid Our souls are all disrob'd, all naked laid, In thy true mirror men themselves do see Just what they are, not what they seem to be. The flattering world misrepresents our face, And cheats us with a magnifying-glass; Our meanness nothing else does truly show, But only Death, but only thou, Who teach our minds above this Earth to fly, And pant, and breathe for immortality. 40

[On Poverty.] 14 Charles] Of course Charles the Fifth. Casimire] John Casimir of Poland, who had abdicated in 1668 and died in 1672.]

[Line: 18 'Reformadoes'] Lit. officers of a disbanded company, who retained their rank and received half-pay.]

[Lines: 31-40 A stanza added in 1686.]

Urania to her Friend Parthenissa.

A DREAM.

In a soft vision of the night, My Fancy represented to my sight A goodly gentle shade; Methought it mov'd with a majestic grace, But the surprising sweetness of its face Made me amaz'd, made me afraid: I found a secret shivering in my heart, Such as friends feel that meet or part: Approaching nearer with a timorous eye, Is then my Parthenissa dead, said I? 10 Ah Parthenissa! if thou yet are kind, As kind as when, like me, thou mortal wert, When thou and I had equal share in either's heart, How canst thou bear that I am left behind! Dear Parthenissa! O those pleasant hours, That blest our innocent amours! When in the common treasury of one breast, All that was thine or mine did rest. Dear Parthenissa!--Friend! what shall I say? Ah speak to thy Urania! 20 Oh envious Death! nothing but thee I fear'd, No other rival could estrange Her soul from mine or make a change. Scarce had I spoke my passionate fears, And overwhelm'd myself in tears: But Parthenissa smil'd, and then she disappear'd.

On the Death of the Earl of Rochester.

PASTORAL.

I.

As on his death-bed gasping Strephon lay, Strephon the wonder of the plains, The noblest of th' Arcadian swains; Strephon the bold, the witty, and the gay: With many a sigh and many a tear he said, Remember me, ye Shepherds, when I'm dead.

II.

Ye trifling glories of this world, adieu, And vain applauses of the age; For when we quit this earthly stage, Believe me, shepherds, for I tell you true; 10 Those pleasures which from virtuous deeds we have, Procure the sweetest slumbers in the grave.

III.

Then since your fatal hour must surely come, Surely your heads lie low as mine, Your bright meridian sun decline; Beseech the mighty Pan to guard you home, If to Elysium you would happy fly, Live not like Strephon, but like Strephon die.

[On the Death of the Earl of Rochester.] Flatman, it will be observed, makes no reference to Burnet's notorious publication as to Rochester's death-bed repentance. As to the Latin version, he strains the term 'leonine', which ought properly to be used only of lines correctly metred, or intended for metre, but rhymed at middle and end. (He had actually written such: v. sup., p. 353). But these verses, added in 1686, are not uninteresting examples of Latin, metred on English principles and rhymed in stanza, of the same class as Sir F. Kynaston's Troilus, though in different form.

MS. versions are in Bodley, in Aubrey MS. 6, fol. 56 (with the variant 'head' in l. 14), and a worthless copy in MS. Add. B. 105, fol. 19.]

_In obitum illustrissimi ingeniosissimique Joannis, Comitis Roffensis,_

Carmen Pastorale Versu Leonino redditum.

I.

Lecto prostratus Strephon moribundus, Planitierum Strephon decus, Princeps curantium pecus, Audax, facetus, Strephon et jucundus, Lugens pastoribus sic est affatus, Memimini mei cum migratus.

II.

Honores mundi futiles valete, Plaudite aevi et fucata, Mortali scenâ nam mutatâ, Fidem veriloquo adhibete, 10 Voluptas profluens ex virtute Solâ obdormiscit cum salute.

III.

Cum nulla in mortem sit medela, In terram capita cuncta incurvabunt, Soles micantes declinabunt, Pan supplicetor pro tutelâ Beatorum ut recipiant chori: Strephon non doceat vivere sed mori.

On Dr. Woodford's Paraphrase on the Canticles.

I.

Well! since it must be, so let it be, For what do resolutions signify, When we are urg'd to write by destiny?

II.

I had resolv'd, nay, and I almost swore, My bedrid Muse should walk abroad no more: Alas! 'tis more than time that I give o'er.

III.

In the recesses of a private breast I thought to entertain your charming guest, And never to have boasted of my feast.

IV.

But see, my friend, when through the world you go, 10 My lackey-verse must shadow-like pursue, Thin and obscure, to make a foil for you.

V.

'Tis true, you cannot need my feeble praise, A lasting monument to your name to raise, Well known in Heav'n by your angelic lays.

VI.

There in indelible characters they are writ, Where no pretended heights will easy sit, But those of serious consecrated wit.

VII.

By immaterial defecated Love, Your soul its heavenly origin does approve, 20 And in least dangerous raptures soars above.

VIII.

How could I wish, dear friend! unsaid agen (For once I rank'd myself with tuneful men) Whatever dropp'd from my unhallow'd pen!

IX.

The trifling rage of youthful heat once past, Who is not troubled for his wit misplac'd! All pleasant follies breed regret at last.

X.

While reverend Donne's and noble Herbert's flame A glorious immortality shall claim, In the most durable records of Fame, 30

XI.

Our modish rhymes, like culinary fire, Unctuous and earthy, shall in smoke expire; In odorous clouds your incense shall aspire.

XII.

Let th' Pagan-world your pious verse defy, Yet shall they envy when they come to die, Your wiser projects on eternity.

[On Dr. Woodford's Paraphrase.] See above, p. 306. These lines appeared before A Paraphrase upon the Canticles, 1679, and were headed 'To my dear Old Friend, the Reverend Dr. Samuel Woodford, On his Sacred Poems'.]

[Line: 21 approve 1679, 1682: prove 1686.]

[Lines: 25-7 Referring to the comic touches noted above.]

Laodamia to Protesilaus.

ONE OF OVID'S EPISTLES TRANSLATED.

THE ARGUMENT.

Protesilaus lying windbound at Aulis in the Grecian fleet design'd for the Trojan war, his wife Laodamia sends this following Epistle to him.

Health to the gentle man of war, and may What Laodamia sends the Gods convey. The wind that still in Aulis holds my dear, Why was it not so cross to keep him here? Let the wind raise an hurricane at sea, Were he but safe and warm ashore with me. Ten thousand kisses I had more to give him, Ten thousand cautions, and soft words to leave him: In haste he left me, summon'd by the wind, (The wind to barbarous mariners only kind). 10 The seaman's pleasure is the lover's pain, (Protesilaus from my bosom ta'en!) As from my faltering tongue half speeches fell, Scarce could I speak that wounding word Farewell, A merry gale (at sea they call it so) Fill'd every sail with joy, my breast with woe, There went my dear Protesilaus---- While I could see thee, full of eager pain, My greedy eyes epicuris'd on thine, When thee no more, but thy spread sails I view, 20 I look'd, and look'd, till I had lost them too; But when nor thee, nor them I could descry, And all was sea that came within my eye, They say (for I have quite forgot), they say I straight grew pale, and fainted quite away; Compassionate Iphiclus, and the good old man, My mother too to my assistance ran; In haste cold water on my face they threw, And brought me to myself with much ado. They meant it well, to me it seem'd not so, 30 Much kinder had they been to let me go; My anguish with my soul together came, And in my heart burst out the former flame: Since which, my uncomb'd locks unheeded flow, Undrest, forlorn, I care not how I go; Inspir'd with wine, thus Bacchus' frolic rout Stagger'd of old, and straggled all about. Put on, put on, the happy ladies say, Thy royal robes, fair Laodamia. Alas! before Troy's walls my dear does lie, 40 What pleasure can I take in Tyrian dye? Shall curls adorn my head, an helmet thine? I in bright tissues, thou in armour shine? Rather with studied negligence I'll be As ill, if not disguisèd worse than thee. O Paris! rais'd by ruins! mayst thou prove As fatal in thy war, as in thy love! O that the Grecian Dame had been less fair, Or thou less lovely hadst appear'd to her! O Menelaus! timely cease to strive, 50 With how much blood wilt thou thy loss retrieve? From me, ye Gods, avert your heavy doom, And bring my dear, laden with laurels, home: But my heart fails me, when I think of war, The sad reflection costs me many a tear: I tremble when I hear the very name Of every place where thou shalt fight for fame; Besides, th' adventurous ravisher well knew The safest arts his villany to pursue; In noble dress he did her heart surprise, 60 With gold he dazzled her unguarded eyes, He back'd his rape with ships and armèd men, Thus storm'd, thus took the beauteous fortress in. Against the power of Love and force of arms There's no security in the brightest charms. Hector I fear, much do I Hector fear, A man (they say) experienc'd in war, My dear, if thou hast any love for me, Of that same Hector prithee mindful be; Fly him be sure, and every other foe, 70 Lest each of them should prove an Hector too. Remember, when for fight thou shalt prepare, Thy Laodamia charg'd thee, Have a care; For what wounds thou receiv'st are giv'n to her. If by thy valour Troy must ruin'd be, May not the ruin leave one scar on thee; Sharer in th' honour, from the danger free! Let Menelaus fight, and force his way Through the false ravisher's troops t' his Helena. Great be his victory, as his cause is good. 80 May he swim to her in his enemies' blood. Thy case is different.--Mayst thou live to see (Dearest) no other combatant but me! Ye generous Trojans, turn your swords away From his dear breast, find out a nobler prey; Why should you harmless Laodamia slay? My poor good-natur'd man did never know What 'tis to fight, or how to face a foe; Yet in Love's field what wonders can he do! Great is his prowess and his fortune too; 90 Let them go fight, who know not how to woo. Now I must own, I fear'd to let thee go, My trembling lips had almost told thee so. When from thy father's house thou didst withdraw, Thy fatal stumble at the door I saw, I saw it, sigh'd, and pray'd the sign might be Of thy return a happy prophecy! I cannot but acquaint thee with my fear, Be not too brave,--Remember,--Have a care, And all my dreads will vanish into air. 100 Among the Grecians some one must be found That first shall set his foot on Trojan ground; Unhappy she that shall his loss bewail, Grant, O ye Gods, thy courage then may fail. Of all the ships be thine the very last, Thou the last man that lands; there needs no haste To meet a potent and a treacherous foe; Thou'lt land I fear too soon, tho' ne'er so slow. At thy return ply every sail and oar, And nimbly leap on thy deserted shore. 110 All the day long, and all the lonely night, Black thoughts of thee my anxious soul affright: Darkness, to other women's pleasures kind, Augments, like Hell, the torments of my mind. I court e'en dreams, on my forsaken bed False joys must serve, since all my true are fled. What's that same airy phantom so like thee! What wailings do I hear, what paleness see? I wake, and hug myself, 'tis but a dream.-- The Grecian altars know I feed their flame, 120 The want of hallow'd wine my tears supply, Which make the sacred fire burn bright and high. When shall I clasp thee in these arms of mine, These longing arms, and lie dissolv'd in thine? When shall I have thee by thyself alone, To learn the wondrous actions thou hast done? Which when in rapturous words thou hast begun With many and many a kiss, prithee tell on, Such interruptions grateful pauses are, A kiss in story's but an halt in war. 130 But, when I think of Troy, of winds and waves, I fear the pleasant dream my hope deceives: Contrary winds in port detain thee too, In spite of wind and tide why wouldst thou go? Thus, to thy country thou wouldst hardly come, In spite of wind and tide thou went'st from home. To his own city Neptune stops the way, Revere the omen, and the Gods obey. Return, ye furious Grecians, homeward fly, Your stay is not of Chance, but Destiny: 140 How can your arms expect desir'd success, That thus contend for an adulteress? But, let not me forespeak you, no,--set sail, And Heav'n befriend you with a prosperous gale! Ye Trojans! with regret methinks I see Your first encounter with your enemy; I see fair Helen put on all her charms, To buckle on her lusty bridegroom's arms; She gives him arms, and kisses she receives, (I hate the transports each to other gives.) 150 She leads him forth, and she commands him come Safely victorious, and triumphant home; And he (no doubt) will make no nice delay, But diligently do whate'er she say. Now he returns!--see with what amorous speed She takes the pond'rous helmet from his head, And courts the weary champion to her bed. We women, too too credulous, alas! Think what we fear will surely come to pass. Yet, while before the leaguer thou dost lie, 160 Thy picture is some pleasure to my eye; That, I caress in words most kind and free, And lodge it on my breast, as I would thee. There must be something in it more than Art, 'Twere very thee, could it thy mind impart; I kiss the pretty Idol, and complain, As if (like thee) 'twould answer me again. By thy return, by thy dear self, I swear, By our Love's vows, which most religious are, By thy belovèd head, and those gray hairs 170 Which time may on it snow in future years, I come, where'er thy Fate shall bid thee go, Eternal partner of thy weal and woe, So thou but live, tho' all the Gods say No. Farewell,--but prithee very careful be Of thy belovèd Self (I mean) of me.

[Line: 129 grateful] graceful 1682.]

To the Excellent Master of Music, Signior Pietro Reggio, on His Book of Songs.

Tho' to advance thy fame, full well I know How very little my dull pen can do; Yet, with all deference, I gladly wait, Enthrong'd amongst th' attendants on thy state: Thus when Arion, by his friends betray'd, Upon his understanding Dolphin play'd, The scaly people their resentments show'd By pleas'd levoltoes on the wond'ring flood. Great Artist! thou deserv'st our loudest praise From th' garland to the meanest branch of bays; 10 For poets can but Say, thou mak'st them Sing, And th' embryo-words dost to perfection bring; By us the Muse conceives, but when that's done, Thy midwif'ry makes fit to see the Sun; Our naked lines, drest and adorn'd by thee, Assume a beauty, pomp, and bravery; So awful and majestic they appear, They need not blush to reach a Prince's ear. Princes, tho' to poor poets seldom kind, Their numbers turn'd to air with pleasure mind 20 Studied and labour'd tho' our poems be, Alas! they die unheeded without thee, Whose art can make our breathless labours live, Spirit and everlasting vigour give. Whether we write of Heroes and of Kings, In Mighty Numbers, Mighty Things, Or in a humble Ode express our sense Of th' happy state of ease and innocence; A country life where the contented swain Hugs his dear peace, and does a crown disdain; 30 Thy dext'rous notes with all our thoughts comply, Can creep on Earth, can up to Heaven fly; In heights and cadences, so sweet, so strong, They suit a shepherd's reed, an angel's tongue. ----------------But who can comprehend The raptures of thy voice, and miracles of thy hand?

[To Signior Pietro Reggio.] First printed in Songs of Signior Pietro Reggio, folio undated (but issued in 1680); Shadwell and Ayres also contributed to it. It had an engraved title-page of Arion on a Dolphin (cf. l. 5), and was dedicated to the king (cf. l. 18).]

[Line: 8 Levoltoes 1682: levaltoes 1686--both variants of the form 'lavolta'.]

Epitaph on the Incomparable Sir John King in the Temple-Church.

Heic juxta jacet Johannes King Miles, Serenissimo Carolo Secundo In Legibus Angliae Consultus, Illustrissimo Jacobo Duci Eboracensi Sollicitator Generalis.

Qualis, Quantusve sis, Lector, Profundum obstupesce; Labia digitis comprime, Oculos lachrymis suffunde. 10 En! ad pedes tuos Artis et Naturae suprema Conamina, Fatorum Ludibria! Non ita pridem Erat Iste Pulvis omnifariam Doctus, Musarum Gazophylacium, Eloquentiam calluit, claram, puram, innocuam, Legibus suae Patriae erat instructissimus, Suis charus, Principibus gratus, Omnibus urbanus, Sui saeculi 20 Ornamentum illustre, Desiderium irreparabile. Hinc disce Lector, Quantilla Mortalitatis Gloria Splendidissimis decoratae Dotibus.

Dulcem soporem agite Dilecti, Eruditi, Beati Cineres!

Obiit Junii 29, 1677. Aetat. 38.

[Epitaph on the Incomparable Sir John King.] This 'incomparable' was an Etonian and a Cambridge (Queens' College) man, who became K.C. and Attorney-General to the Duke of York.

A first draft is in the Ashmole MS. 826 (fol. 50) of the Bodleian. Ll. 1-6 are at the end of the epitaph, and add a touch of bathos--'Et Interioris Templi Socius'--and the date--'Obiit tercio Calendarum Julii, Anno Æræ Christianæ', 1677; Ætatis 38'. In l. 8 the reading is 'obmutesce'. The 1682 has the simple heading 'In the Temple Church', and reads 'decorata' in l. 24.]

On the Death of my dear Brother Mr. Richard Flatman.

PINDARIC ODE.

Stanza I.

Unhappy Muse! employ'd so oft On melancholy thoughts of Death, What hast thou left so tender, and so soft As thy poor master fain would breath O'er this lamented hearse? No usual flight of fancy can become My sorrows o'er a brother's tomb. O that I could be elegant in tears, That with conceptions, not unworthy thee, Great as thy merit, vigorous as thy years, 10 I might convey thy elegy To th' grief and envy of posterity! A gentler youth ne'er crown'd his parents' cares, Or added ampler joy to their grey hairs: Kind to his friends, to his relations dear, Easy to all.--Alas! what is there here For man to set his heart upon, Since what we dote on most is soonest gone? Ai me! I've lost a sweet companion, A friend, a brother all in one! 20

II.

How did it chill my soul to see thee lie Struggling with pangs in thy last agony! When with a manly courage thou didst brave Approaching Death, and with a steady mind (Ever averse to be confin'd) Didst triumph o'er the Grave. Thou mad'st no womanish moan, But scorn'dst to give one groan: He that begs pity is afraid to die, Only the brave despise their destiny. 30 But, when I call to mind how thy kind eyes Were passionately fix'd on mine, How, when thy falt'ring tongue gave o'er And I could hear thy pleasing voice no more; How, when I laid my cheek to thine, Kiss'd thy pale lips, and press'd thy trembling hand, Thou, in return, smil'dst gently in my face, And hugg'dst me with a close embrace; I am amaz'd, I am unmann'd. Something extremely kind I fain would say, 40 But through the tumult of my breast, With too officious love opprest, I find my feeble words can never force their way.

III.

Belovèd youth! What shall I do! Once my delight, my torment now! How immaturely art thou snatch'd away! But Heaven shines on thee with many a glorious ray Of an unclouded and immortal day, Whilst I lie grovelling here below In a dark stormy night. 50 The blust'ring storm of Life with thee is o'er, For thou art landed on that happy shore, Where thou canst hope or fear no more; Thence with compassion thou shall see The plagues, the wars, the fires, the scarcity, The devastations of an enemy, From which thy early fate has set thee free; For when thou went'st to thy long home, Thou wert exempt from all the ills to come, And shall hereafter be 60 Spectator only of the tragedy Acted on frail mortality. So some one lucky mariner From shipwreck sav'd by a propitious star, Advanc'd upon a neighb'ring rock looks down, And sees far off his old companions drown.

IV.

There in a state of perfect ease, Of never interrupted happiness, Thy large illuminated mind Shall matter of eternal wonder find; 70 There dost thou clearly see how, and from whence The stars communicate their influence, The methods of th' Almighty Architect, How He consulted with Himself alone To lay the wondrous corner-stone, When He this goodly fabric did erect. There, thou dost understand The motions of the secret hand, That guides th' invisible wheel, Which here, we ne'er shall know, but ever feel; 80 There Providence, the vain man's laughing-stock, The miserable good-man's stumbling-block, Unfolds the puzzling riddle to thy eyes, And its own wise contrivance justifies. What timorous man wouldn't be pleas'd to die, To make so noble a discovery?

V.

And must I take my solemn leave Till time shall be no more! Can neither sighs, nor tears, nor prayers retrieve One cheerful hour! 90 Must one unlucky moment sever Us, and our hopes, us and our joys for ever!-- Is this cold clod of Earth that endear'd Thing I lately did my Brother call? Are these the artful fingers that might vie With all the sons of harmony And overpower them all! Is this the studious comprehensive head With curious arts so richly furnished! Alas! thou, and thy glories all are gone, 100 Buried in darkness, and oblivion. 'Tis so--and I must follow thee, Yet but a little while, and I shall see thee, Yet but a little while I shall be with thee, Then some kind friend perhaps may drop one tear for me.

[On the death of Mr. Richard Flatman.] I know nothing of Richard Flatman. He would seem to have been a younger brother.]

[Line: 4 breath] Cf. p. 315, note.]

[Line: 19 Ai 1682--a form found on p. 313, l. 32, and p. 315, l. 41: Ah 1686]

Coridon on the death of his dear Alexis, ob. Jan. 28, 1682/3.

PASTORAL SONG. Set by Dr. BLOW.

Alexis! dear Alexis! lovely boy! O my Damon! O Palaemon! snatch'd away, To some far distant region gone, Has left the miserable Coridon Bereft of all his comforts, all alone! Have you not seen my gentle lad, Whom every swain did love, Cheerful, when every swain was sad, Beneath the melancholy grove? His face was beauteous as the dawn of day, 10 Broke through the gloomy shades of night: O my anguish! my delight! Him (ye kind shepherds) I bewail, Till my eyes and heart shall fail. Tis He that's landed on that distant shore, And you and I shall see him here no more. Return, Alexis! O return! Return, return, in vain I cry; Poor Coridon shall never cease to mourn Thy too untimely, cruel destiny. 20 Farewell for ever, charming boy! And with Thee, all the transports of my joy! Ye powers above, why should I longer live, To waste a few uncomfortable years, To drown myself in tears, For what my sighs and pray'rs can ne'er retrieve?

[Coridon &c.] This and the following poems (pp. 375-407) were added in the collected edition of 1686. Alexis is no doubt the Thomas Flatman whose epitaph, by his father, is printed on p. 414. This and the following poem were sent to Sancroft, with the accompanying letter, preserved in Tanner MS. xxxiv (fol. 235) of the Bodleian:--

My Lord

The first Page of the enclosed Paper is the result of his Mai^{tie's}, and yo^{r} Grace's Commaunds; & the Second of my owne uneasy thoughts on the Death of my beloved Child, who carried yo^{r} Grace's blessing with him into the other World. The severity of the Wether ha's delay'd Both much longer than became the bounden Duty of

My Lord Yo^{r} Grace's most obedient Servant January 9 & meanest Kinsman 1683/4 THOMAS FLATMAN.

The autograph copies of the two poems are in Tanner MS. 306, folios 391 and 392. The variants in this poem are:--

[Line: 11 Broke] Sprung.

[Line: 13 Him [ye] 'Tis He.

[Line: 19 shall] can.

After the poem Flatman has quoted 'Immodicis brevis est aetas, & rara Senectus'.]

A Song on New-Year's-day before the King, Car. 2.

Set by DR. BLOW 1682/3.

My trembling song! awake! arise! And early tell thy tuneful tale, Tell thy great Master, that the Night is gone; The feeble phantoms disappear, And now the New-Year's welcome Sun O'erspreads the eastern skies; He smiles on every hill, he smiles on every vale. His glories fill our hemisphere; Tell Him Apollo greets Him well, And with his fellow Wanderers agrees 10 To reward all His labours, and lengthen His days, In spite of the politic follies of Hell, And vain contrivance of the destinies. Tell Him, a Crown of Thorns no more Shall His sacred temples gore, For all the rigours of His life are o'er. Wondrous Prince! design'd to show What noble minds can bravely undergo, You are our wonder, you our love; Earth from beneath, Heaven from above, 20 Call loud for songs of triumph and of praise, Their voices and their souls they raise; IO PAEAN do we sing, Long live, long live the King! Rise, mighty Monarch, and ascend the Throne, 'Tis yet, once more your own, For Lucifer and all his legions are o'erthrown: Son of the Morning, first-born Son of Light, How wert thou tumbled headlong down, Into the dungeons of eternal night! 30 While th' loyal stars of the celestial quire Surrounded with immortal beams, Mingle their unpolluted flames, Their just Creator to admire. With awful reverence they adore Him, Cover their faces, and fall down before Him; And night and day for ever sing Hosannah, Hallelujah to th' Almighty King!

[A Song.] 10 'Wanderers' after 'Apollo' may give a moment's pause. Then one translates the English into Greek and the Greek into English, obtaining 'Planets' and 'Sun'.]

[Line: 13 Not in the early autograph copy sent to Sancroft (see previous poem).]

[Line: 14 A little risky in its loyalty. Expressions in the piece suggest the Rye-House Plot and its failure; but this was in the March after New-Year's Day, 1682/3.]

[Line: 16 all] now MS. life] Fate MS.]

[Line: 23 'And IÖ PAEAN jointly sing' MS.]

[Line: 32 immortal] augmented MS.]

On the King's return to White-hall, after his Summer's Progress, 1684.

SONG. Set by MR. HENRY PURCELL.

From those serene and rapturous joys A country life alone can give, Exempt from tumult and from noise, Where Kings forget the troubles of their reigns, And are almost as happy as their humble swains, By feeling that they live: Behold th' indulgent Prince is come To view the conquests of His mercy shown To the new Proselytes of His mighty town, And men and angels bid Him welcome home. 10 Not with an helmet or a glitt'ring spear Does He appear; He boast[s] no trophies of a cruel conqueror, Brought back in triumph from a bloody war; But with an olive-branch adorn'd, As once the long expected Dove return'd. Welcome as soft refreshing show'rs, That raise the sickly heads of drooping flow'rs: Welcome as early beams of light To the benighted traveller, 20 When he descries bright Phosphorus from afar, And all his fears are put to flight. Welcome, more welcome does He come Than life to Lazarus from his drowsy tomb, When in his winding-sheet, at his new birth, The strange surprising word was said--Come forth! Nor does the Sun more comfort bring, When he turns Winter into Spring, Than the blest advent of a peaceful King.

Chorus.

With trumpets and shouts we receive the World's Wonder, 30 And let the clouds echo His welcome with thunder, Such a thunder as applauded what mortals had done, When they fix'd on His brows His Imperial Crown.

To Mr. Isaac Walton, on his Publication of Thealma

Long had the bright Thealma lain obscure, Her beauteous charms that might the world allure, Lay like rough diamonds, in the mine, unknown, By all the sons of folly trampled on, Till your kind hand unveil'd her lovely face, And gave her vigour to exert her rays: Happy old man, whose worth all mankind knows, Except thyself, who charitably shows The ready road to Virtue and to Praise, The way to many long and happy days; 10 The noble art of generous Piety, And how to compass an Euthanasy! Hence did he learn the skill of living well, The bright Thealma was his oracle; Inspir'd by Her, he knows no anxious cares In near a century of happy years; Easy he lives, and easy shall he lie On the soft bosom of Eternity. As long as Spenser's noble flames shall burn, And deep devotion shall attend his urn; 20 As long as Chalkhill's venerable name With humble emulation shall enflame Posterity, and fill the rolls of fame, Your memory shall ever be secure, And long beyond our short-liv'd praise endure; As Phidias in Minerva's shield did live, And shar'd that immortality he alone could give.

[To Mr. Isaac Walton.] For Thealma [and Clearchus] itself, and the problems attending it, see vol. ii.]

[Line: 7 Walton published the poem in his ninetieth year and died soon after.]

[Line: 19 Chalkhill was, said Izaak, an 'acquaintant' of Spenser.]

Pastoral Dialogue.

CASTARA AND PARTHENIA.

Parthenia.

My dear Castara, t'other day I heard an ancient shepherd say, Alas for me! my time draws nigh, And shortly, shortly I must die! What meant the man? for lo! apace Torrents of tears ran down his face.

Castara.

Poor harmless maid! why wouldst thou know What, known, must needs create thee woe? 'Twill cloud the sunshine of thy days, And in thy soul such trouble raise, 10 Thou'lt grieve, and tremble, and complain, And say that all thy beauty's vain.

Parthenia.

Ah me! sure 'tis some dreadful thing That can so great disorder bring, Yet tell me, prithee tell me, do, For 'tis some ease the worst to know.

Castara.

To die, Parthenia, is to quit The World, and the Sun's glorious light, To leave our flocks and fields for ever, To part, and never meet again, O never! 20 After that cruel hideous hour, Thou and I shall sing no more; In the cold Earth they will thee lay, And what thou dot'st on shall be clay.

Parthenia.

Alas! why will they use me so, A virgin that no evil do?

Castara.

Roses wither, turtles die, Fair, and kind as thou and I.

Chorus amb.

Then, since 'tis appointed to the dust we must go, Let us innocently live, and virtuously do; 30 Let us love, let us sing, 'tis no matter, 'tis all one, If our lamps be extinguish'd at midnight or noon.