The Underwood Read Online

Her Man Described by Her Own Dictamen

Of your trouble, Ben, to ease me,

I will tell what man would please me.

I would have him, if I could,

Noble, or of greater blood;

Titles, I confess, do take me,

And a woman God did make me;

French to boot, at least in fashion,

And his manners of that nation.

Young I'd have him too, and fair,

Yet a man; with crisped hair

Cast in thousand snares and rings

For Love's fingers and his wings:

Chestnut colour, or more slack

Gold, upon a ground of black.

Venus' and Minerva's eyes,

For he must look wanton-wise.

Eyebrows bent like Cupid's bow,

Front an ample field of snow;

Even nose, and cheek (withal)

Smooth as is the billiard ball;

Chin as woolly as the peach,

And his lip should kissing teach,

Till he cherished too much beard,

And make Love or me afeared.

He would have a hand as soft

As the down, and show it oft;

Skin as smooth as any rush,

And so thin to see a blush

Rising through it ere it came;

All his blood should be a flame

Quickly fired as in beginners

In Love's school, and yet no sinners.

'Twere too long to speak of all;

What we harmony do call

In a body should be there.

Well he should his clothes, too, wear,

Yet no tailor help to make him;

Dressed, you still for man should take him,

And not think he'd ate a stake

Or were set up in a brake.

Valiant he should be as fire,

Showing danger more than ire.

Bounteous as the clouds to earth,

And as honest as his birth.

All his actions to be such,

As to do no thing too much.

Nor o'erpraise, nor yet condemn,

Nor out-value, nor contemn;

Nor do wrongs, nor wrongs receive;

Nor tie knots, nor knots unweave;

And from baseness to be free,

As he durst love truth and me.

Such a man, with every part,

I could give my very heart;

But of one, if short he came,

I can rest me where I am.

10. Another Lady's Exception, Present at the Hearing

For his mind I do not care,

That's a toy that I could spare;

Let his title be but great,

His clothes rich, and band sit neat,

Himself young, and face be good,

All I wish is understood.

What you please you parts may call,

'Tis one good part I'd lie withal.

The Musical Strife; in a Pastoral Dialogue

She

Come, with our voices let us war,

And challenge all the spheres,

Till each of us be made a star

And all the world turn ears.

He

At such a call what beast or fowl

Of reason empty is?

What tree or stone doth want a soul?

What man but must lose his?

She

Mix then your notes, that we may prove

To stay the running floods,

To make the mountain quarries move,

And call the walking woods.

He

What need of me? Do you but sing,

Sleep and the grave will wake;

No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting,

But what those lips do make.

She

They say the angels mark each deed

And exercise below,

And out of inward pleasure feed

On what they viewing know.

He

O sing not you then, lest the best

Of angels should be driven

To fall again, at such a feast

Mistaking earth for heaven.

She

Nay, rather both our souls be strained

To meet their high desire;

So they in state of grace retained

May wish us of their choir.

A Song

Oh, do not wanton with those eyes

Lest I be sick with seeing;

Nor cast them down, but let them rise,

Lest shame destroy their being.

Oh, be not angry with those fires,

For then their threats will kill me;

Nor look too kind on my desires,

For then my hopes will spill me.

Oh, do not steep them in thy tears,

For so will sorrow slay me;

Nor spread them as distract with fears,

Mine own enough betray me.

In the Person of Womankind

A Song Apologetic

Men, if you love us, play no more

The fools or tyrants with your friends,

To make us still sing o'er and o'er

Our own false praises, for your ends;

We have both wits and fancies too,

And if we must, let's sing of you.

Nor do we doubt but that we can,

If we would search with care and pain,

Find some one good in some one man;

So going thorough all your strain

We shall, at last, of parcels make

One good enough for a song's sake.

And as a cunning painter takes

In any curious piece you see

More pleasure while the thing he makes

Than when 'tis made, why so will we.

And having pleased our art, we'll try

To make a new, and hang that by.

Another: in Defence of Their Inconstancy

A Song

Hang up those dull and envious fools

That talk abroad of woman's change,

We were not bred to sit on stools,

Our proper virtue is to range;

Take that away, you take our lives,

We are no women then, but wives.

Such as in valour would excel

Do change, though man, and often fight,

Which we in love must do as well,

If ever we will love aright.

The frequent varying of the deed

Is that which doth perfection breed.

Nor is't inconstancy to change

For what is better, or to make,

By searching, what before was strange

Familiar, for the use's sake;

The good from bad is not descried

But as 'tis often vexed and tried.

And this profession of a store

In love, doth not alone help forth

Our pleasure, but preserves us more

From being forsaken than doth worth;

For were the worthiest woman cursed

To love one man, he'd leave her first.

A Nymph's Passion

I love and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my swain,

I fear they'd love him too;

Yet if it be not known

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,

They yet may envy me;

But then if I grow jealous mad

And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn;

And yet it cannot be forborne,

Unless my heart would as my thought be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,

And fresh and fragrant too

As summer's sky or purged air,

And looks as lilies do

That were this morning blown;

Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,

And fear much more that more of him be shown.

But he hath eyes so round and bright

As make away my doubt,

Where Love may all his torches light

Though hate had put them out;

But then, to increase my fears,

What nymph soe'er his voice but hears

Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,

And he loves me; yet no

One unbecoming thought doth move

From either heart, I know;

But so exempt from blame,

As it would be to each a fame,

If love, or fear, would let me tell his name.

The Hour-Glass

Do but consider this small dust

Here running in the glass,

By atoms moved:

Could you believe that this

The body ever was

Of one that loved?

And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,

Turned to cinders by her eye?

Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,

To have 't expressed,

Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

My Picture Left in Scotland

I now think Love is rather deaf than blind,

For else it could not be

That she

Whom I adore so much should so slight me,

And cast my love behind;

I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,

And every close did meet

In sentence of as subtle feet,

As hath the youngest he

That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.

Oh, but my conscious fears

That fly my thoughts between,

Tell me that she hath seen

My hundred of grey hairs,

Told seven-and-forty years,

Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace

My mountain belly, and my rocky face;

And all these through her eyes have stopped her ears.

Against Jealousy

Wretched and foolish jealousy

How cam'st thou thus to enter me?

I ne'er was of thy kind,

Nor have I yet the narrow mind

To vent that poor desire

That others should not warm them at my fire;

I wish the sun should shine

On all men's fruit and flowers, as well as mine.

But under the disguise of love

Thou say'st thou only cam'st to prove

What my affections were.

Think'st thou that love is helped by fear?

Go, get thee quickly forth,

Love's sickness and his noted want of worth,

Seek doubting men to please;

I ne'er will owe my health to a disease.

The Dream

Or scorn, or pity on me take,

I must the true relation make:

I am undone tonight;

Love in a subtle dream disguised

Hath both my heart and me surprised,

Whom never yet he durst attempt awake;

Nor will he tell me for whose sake

He did me the delight,

Or spite,

But leaves me to inquire,

In all my wild desire

Of sleep again, who was his aid;

And sleep so guilty and afraid

As, since, he dares not come within my sight.

An Epitaph on Master Vincent Corbett

I have my piety too, which could

It vent itself but as it would,

Would say as much as both have done

Before me here, the friend and son;

For I both lost a friend and father,

Of him whose bones this grave doth gather:

Dear Vincent Corbett, who so long

Had wrestled with diseases strong

That though they did possess each limb,

Yet he broke them, ere they could him,

With the just canon of his life;

A life that knew nor noise nor strife,

But was, by sweetening so his will,

All order and disposure still.

His mind as pure, and neatly kept,

As were his nurseries, and swept

So of uncleanness or offence,

That never came ill odour thence;

And add his actions unto these,

They were as specious as his trees.

'Tis true, he could not reprehend;

His very manners taught to amend,

They were so even, grave, and holy;

No stubbornness so stiff, nor folly

To licence ever was so light

As twice to trespass in his sight;

His looks would so correct it, when

It chid the vice, yet not the men.

Much from him I profess I won,

And more and more I should have done,

But that I understood him scant.

Now I conceive him by my want,

And pray, who shall my sorrows read,

That they for me their tears will shed;

For truly, since he left to be,

I feel I'm rather dead than he!

Reader, whose life and name did e'er become

An epitaph, deserved a tomb;

Nor wants it here, through penury or sloth;

Who makes the one, so it be first, makes both.

An Epistle to Sir Edward Sackville, now Earl of Dorset

If, Sackville, all that have the power to do

Great and good turns, as well could time them too,

And knew their how and where, we should have then

Less list of proud, hard, or ungrateful men.

For benefits are owed with the same mind

As they are done, and such returns they find.

You then whose will not only, but desire

To succour my necessities took fire,

Not at my prayers, but your sense, which laid

The way to meet what others would upbraid,

And in the act did so my blush prevent,

As I did feel it done as soon as meant;

You cannot doubt but I, who freely know

This good from you, as freely will it owe.

And though my fortune humble me to take

The smallest courtesies with thanks, I make

Yet choice from whom I take them, and would shame

To have such do me good I durst not name.

They are the noblest benefits, and sink

Deepest in man, of which, when he doth think,

The memory delights him more from whom

Than what he hath received. Gifts stink from some,

They are so long a-coming, and so hard;

Where any deed is forced, the grace is marred.

Can I owe thanks for courtesies received

Against his will that does 'em; that hath weaved

Excuses or delays; or done 'em scant,

That they have more oppressed me than my want?

Or if he did it not to succour me

But by mere chance, for interest, or to free

Himself of farther trouble, or the weight

Of pressure, like one taken in a strait?

All this corrupts the thanks; less hath he won

That puts it in his debt-book ere it be done;

Or that doth sound a trumpet, and doth call

His grooms to witness; or else lets it fall

In that proud manner, as a good so gained

Must make me sad for what I have obtained.

No! Gifts and thanks should have one cheerful face,

So each that's done and ta'en becomes a brace.

He neither gives, nor does, that doth delay

A benefit, or that doth throw it away;

No more than he doth thank that will receive

Nought but in corners, and is loath to leave

Least air or print, but flies it: such men would

Run from the conscience of it, if they could.

As I have seen some infants of the sword,

Well known and practised borrowers on their word,

Give thanks by stealth, and whispering in the ear,

For what they straight would to the world forswear;

And speaking worst of those from whom they went

But then, fist-filled, to put me off the scent:

Now, damn me, sir, if you should not command

My sword ('tis but a poor sword, understand)

As far as any poor sword in the land.

Then turning unto him is next at hand,

Damns whom he damned to, as the veriest gull

Has feathers, and will serve a man to pull.

Are they not worthy to be answered so,

That to such natures let their full hands flow,

And seek not wants to succour, but enquire,

Like money-brokers, after names, and hire

Their bounties forth to him that last was made,

Or stands to be, in commission of the blade?

Still, still the hunters of false fame apply

Their thoughts and means to making loud the cry;

But one is bitten by the dog he fed,

And, hurt, seeks cure: the surgeon bids take bread

And sponge-like with it dry up the blood quite,

Then give it to the hound that did him bite.

Pardon, says he, that were a way to see

All the town curs take each their snatch at me.

Oh, is it so? Knows he so much? And will

Feed those at whom the table points at still?

I not deny it, but to help the need

Of any is a great and generous deed:

Yea, of the ungrateful; and he forth must tell

Many a pound and piece, will place one well.

But these men ever want: their very trade

Is borrowing; that but stopped, they do invade

All as their prize, turn pirates here at land,

Have their Bermudas, and their straits i' the Strand;

Man out their boats to the Temple; and not shift

Now, but command, make tribute what was gift;

And it is paid 'em with a trembling zeal,

And superstition I dare scarce reveal

If it were clear; but being so in cloud

Carried and wrapped, I only am allowed

My wonder why the taking a clown's purse,

Or robbing the poor market-folks should nurse

Such a religious horror in the breasts

Of our town gallantry! Or why there rests

Such worship due to kicking of a punk,

Or swaggering with the watch, or drawer, drunk,

Or feats of darkness acted in mid-sun,

And told of with more licence than they were done!

Sure there is mystery in it I not know,

That men such reverence to such actions show!

And almost deify the authors: make

Loud sacrifice of drink for their health's sake,

Rere-suppers in their names, and spend whole nights

Unto their praise in certain swearing rites!

Cannot a man be reckoned in the state

Of valour, but at this idolatrous rate?

I thought that fortitude had been a mean

'Twixt fear and rashness; not a lust obscene,

Or appetite of offending, but a skill

Or science of discerning good and ill.

And you, sir, know it well, to whom I write,

That with these mixtures we put out her light.

Her ends are honesty and public good,

And where they want, she is not understood.

No more are these of us, let them then go;

I have the list of mine own faults to know,

Look to, and cure. He's not a man hath none,

But like to be, that every day mends one

And feels it; else he tarries by the beast.

Can I discern how shadows are decreased

Or grown, by height or lowness of the sun,

And can I less of substance? When I run,

Ride, sail, am coached, know I how far I have gone,

And my mind's motion not? Or have I none?

No! he must feel and know that will advance.

Men have been great, but never good, by chance

Or on the sudden. It were strange that he

Who was this morning such a one should be

Sidney ere night! Or that did go to bed

Coryate should rise the most sufficient head

Of Christendom! And neither of these know,

Were the rack offered them, how they came so;

'Tis by degrees that men arrive at glad

Profit in aught; each day some little add,

In time 'twill be a heap; this is not true

Alone in money, but in manners too.

Yet we must more than move still, or go on,

We must accomplish: 'tis the last keystone

That makes the arch. The rest that there were put

Are nothing till that comes to bind and shut.

Then stands it a triumphal mark! Then men

Observe the strength, the height, the why, and when

It was erected; and still walking under

Meet some new matter to look up and wonder!

Such notes are virtuous men: they live as fast

As they are high; are rooted, and will last.

They need no stilts, nor rise upon their toes.

As if they would belie their stature; those

Are dwarfs of honour, and have neither weight

Nor fashion; if they chance aspire to height,

'Tis like light canes, that first rise big and brave,

Shoot forth in smooth and comely spaces, have

But few and fair divisions; but being got

Aloft, grow less and straitened, full of knot,

And last, go out in nothing; you that see

Their difference cannot choose which you will be.

You know (without my flattering you) too much

For me to be your indice. Keep you such,

That I may love your person (as I do)

Without your gift, though I can rate that too,

By thanking thus the courtesy to life,

Which you will bury; but therein the strife

May grow so great to be example, when

(As their true rule or lesson) either men,

Donors or donees, to their practice shall

Find you to reckon nothing, me owe all.

An Epistle to Master John Selden

I know to whom I write. Here, I am sure,

Though I am short, I cannot be obscure;

Less shall I for the art or dressing care,

Truth and the graces best when naked are.

Your book, my Selden, I have read, and much

Was trusted, that you thought my judgement such

To ask it; though in most of works it be

A penance, where a man may not be free,

Rather than office, when it doth or may

Chance that the friend's affection proves allay

Unto the censure. Yours all need doth fly

Of this so vicious humanity.

Than which there is not unto study a more

Pernicious enemy; we see before

A many of books, even good judgements wound

Themselves through favouring what is there not found.

But I on yours far otherwise shall do,

Not fly the crime, but the suspicion too;

Though I confess (as every muse hath erred,

And mine not least) I have too oft preferred

Men past their terms, and praised some names too much;

But 'twas with purpose to have made them such.

Since, being deceived, I turn a sharper eye

Upon myself, and ask to whom, and why,

And what I write? And vex it many days

Before men get a verse, much less a praise;

So that my reader is assured I now

Mean what I speak, and still will keep that vow.

Stand forth my object, then, you that have been

Ever at home, yet have all countries seen;

And like a compass keeping one foot still

Upon your centre, do your circle fill

Of general knowledge; watched men, manners too,

Heard what times past have said, seen what ours do.

Which grace shall I make love to first: your skill,

Or faith in things? Or is 't your wealth and will

To instruct and teach, or your unwearied pain

Of gathering, bounty in pouring out again?

What fables have you vexed, what truth redeemed,

Antiquities searched, opinions disesteemed,

Impostures branded, and authorities urged!

What blots and errors have you watched and purged

Records and authors of! How rectified

Times, manners, customs! Innovations spied!

Sought out the fountains, sources, creeks, paths, ways,

And noted the beginnings and decays!

Where is that nominal mark, or real rite,

Form, art, or ensign that hath 'scaped your sight?

How are traditions there examined, how

Conjectures retrieved! And a story now

And then of times, besides the bare conduct

Of what it tells us, weaved in to instruct!

I wondered at the richness, but am lost

To see the workmanship so exceed the cost;

To mark the excellent seasoning of your style,

And manly elocution, not one while

With horror rough, then rioting with wit:

But to the subject still the colours fit

In sharpness of all search, wisdom of choice,

Newness of sense, antiquity of voice!

I yield, I yield, the matter of your praise

Flows in upon me, and I cannot raise

A bank against it. Nothing but the round

Large clasp of nature such a wit can bound.

Monarch in letters! 'mongst thy titles shown

Of others' honours, thus enjoy thine own.

I first salute thee so, and gratulate,

With that thy style, thy keeping of thy state,

In offering this thy work to no great name

That would, perhaps, have praised and thanked the same,

But nought beyond. He thou hast given it to,

Thy learned chamber-fellow, knows to do

It true respects. He will not only love,

Embrace, and cherish, but he can approve

And estimate thy pains, as having wrought

In the same mines of knowledge, and thence brought

Humanity enough to be a friend,

And strength to be a champion and defend

Thy gift 'gainst envy. O how I do count

Among my comings-in, and see it mount,

The gain of your two friendships! Hayward and

Selden: two names that so much understand;

On whom I could take up, and ne'er abuse

The credit, what would furnish a tenth muse!

But here's no time, nor place, my wealth to tell;

You both are modest: so am I. Farewell.

An Epistle to a Friend, to Persuade Him to the Wars

Wake, friend, from forth thy lethargy; the drum

Beats brave and loud in Europe, and bids come

All that dare rouse, or are not loath to quit

Their vicious ease and be o'erwhelmed with it.

It is a call to keep the spirits alive

That gasp for action, and would yet revive

Man's buried honour in his sleepy life,

Quickening dead nature to her noblest strife.

All other acts of worldlings are but toil

In dreams, begun in hope, and end in spoil.

Look on the ambitious man, and see him nurse

His unjust hopes with praises begged, or (worse)

Bought flatteries, the issue of his purse,

Till he become both their and his own curse!

Look on the false and cunning man, that loves

No person, nor is loved; what ways he proves

To gain upon his belly, and at last

Crushed in the snaky brakes that he had passed!

See the grave, sour, and supercilious sir –

In outward face, but, inward, light as fur

Or feathers – lay his fortune out to show,

Till envy wound or maim it at a blow!

See him, that's called and thought the happiest man,

Honoured at once and envied (if it can

Be honour is so mixed) by such as would,

For all their spite, be like him if they could.

No part or corner man can look upon,

But there are objects bid him to be gone

As far as he can fly, or follow day,

Rather than here, so bogged in vices, stay.

The whole world here, leavened with madness, swells,

And being a thing blown out of nought, rebels

Against his Maker; high alone with weeds

And impious rankness of all sects and seeds;

Not to be checked or frighted now with fate,

But more licentious made, and desperate!

Our delicacies are grown capital,

And even our sports are dangers; what we call

Friendship is now masked hatred; justice fled,

And shamefastness together; all laws dead

That kept man living; pleasures only sought!

Honour and honesty as poor things thought

As they are made; pride and stiff clownage mixed

To make up greatness! And man's whole good fixed

In bravery or gluttony, or coin,

All which he makes the servants of the groin:

Thither it flows! How much did Stallion spend

To have his court-bred filly there commend

His lace and starch, and fall upon her back

In admiration, stretched upon the rack

Of lust, to his rich suit and title, lord?

Aye, that's a charm and half! She must afford

That all respect; she must lie down – nay, more,

'Tis there civility to be a whore.

He's one of blood and fashion! and with these

The bravery makes; she can no honour leese.

To do 't with cloth, or stuffs, lust's name might merit;

With velvet, plush, and tissues, it is spirit.

Oh, these so ignorant monsters! light, as proud;

Who can behold their manners and not cloud –

Like upon them lighten? If nature could

Not make a verse, anger or laughter would,

To see 'em aye discoursing with their glass

How they may make someone that day an ass;

Planting their purls, and curls spread forth like net,

And every dressing for a pitfall set

To catch the flesh in, and to pound a prick.

Be at their visits: see 'em squeamish, sick,

Ready to cast, at one whose band sits ill,

And then leap mad on a neat piccadill,

And if a breeze were gotten in their tail;

And firk and jerk, and for the coachman rail,

And jealous each of other, yet think long

To be abroad chanting some bawdy song,

And laugh, and measure thighs, then squeak, spring, itch,

Do all the tricks of a salt lady bitch;

For t'other pound of sweetmeats, he shall feel

That pays, or what he will: the dame is steel.

For these with her young company she'll enter

Where Pitts, or Wright, or Modet would not venter,

And comes by these degrees the style to inherit

Of woman of fashion, and a lady of spirit;

Nor is the title questioned with our proud,

Great, brave, and fashioned folk; these are allowed

Adulteries, now, are not so hid, or strange:

They're grown commodity upon exchange.

He that will follow but another's wife

Is loved, though he let out his own for life;

The husband now's called churlish, or a poor

Nature, that will not let his wife be a whore;

Or use all arts, or haunt all companies

That may corrupt her, even in his eyes.

The brother trades a sister, and the friend

Lives to the lord, but to the lady's end.

Less must not be thought on than mistress, or,

If it be thought, killed like her embryons; for,

Whom no great mistress hath as yet infamed,

A fellow of coarse lechery is named;

The servant of the serving-woman, in scorn,

Ne'er came to taste the plenteous marriage-horn.

Thus they do talk. And are these objects fit

For man to spend his money on? His wit,

His time, health, soul? Will he for these go throw

Those thousands on his back, shall after blow

His body to the Counters, or the Fleet?

Is it for these that Fine-man meets the street

Coached, or on foot-cloth, thrice changed every day,

To teach each suit he has the ready way

From Hyde Park to the stage, where at the last

His dear and borrowed bravery he must cast?

When not his combs, his curling irons, his glass,

Sweet bags, sweet powders, nor sweet words will pass

For less security? O God, for these

Is it that man pulls on himself disease,

Surfeit, and quarrel; drinks the tother health,

Or by damnation voids it, or by stealth?

What fury of late is crept into our feasts!

What honour given to the drunkenest guests!

What reputation to bear one glass more,

When oft the bearer is borne out of door!

This hath our ill-used freedom and soft peace

Brought on us, and will every hour increase.

Our vices do not tarry in a place,

But being in motion still, or rather in race,

Tilt one upon another, and now bear

This way, now that, as if their number were

More than themselves, or than our lives, could take,

But both fell pressed under the load they make.

I'll bid thee look no more, but flee, flee, friend,

This precipice and rocks that have no end

Or side, but threatens ruin. The whole day

Is not enough now, but the night's to play;

And whilst our states, strength, body, and mind we waste,

Go make ourselves the usurer's at a cast.

He that no more for age, cramps, palsies can

Now use the bones, we see doth hire a man

To take the box up for him, and pursues

The dice with glassen eyes to the glad views

Of what he throws: like lechers grown content

To be beholders, when their powers are spent.

Can we not leave this worm? Or will we not?

Is that the truer excuse, or have we got

In this, and like, an itch of vanity,

That scratching now's our best felicity?

Well, let it go. Yet this is better than

To lose the forms and dignities of men,

To flatter my good lord, and cry his bowl

Runs sweetly as it had his lordship's soul;

Although perhaps it has: what's that to me,

That may stand by and hold my peace? Will he,

When I am hoarse with praising his each cast,

Give me but that again, that I must waste

In sugar candied or in buttered beer,

For the recovery of my voice? No, there

Pardon his lordship. Flattery's grown so cheap

With him, for he is followed with that heap

That watch and catch at what they may applaud,

As a poor single flatterer, without bawd,

Is nothing; such scarce meat and drink he'll give;

But he that's both, and slave to boot, shall live

And be beloved, while the whores last. O times!

Friend, flee from hence, and let these kindled rhymes

Light thee from hell on earth; where flatterers, spies,

Informers, masters both of arts and lies,

Lewd slanderers, soft whisperers that let blood

The life and fame-veins (yet not understood

Of the poor sufferers); where the envious, proud,

Ambitious, factious, superstitious, loud

Boasters, and perjured, with the infinite more

Prevaricators swarm. Of which the store

(Because they are everywhere amongst mankind

Spread through the world) is easier far to find

Than once to number, or bring forth to hand,

Though thou wert muster-master of the land.

Go, quit 'em all. And take along with thee

Thy true friend's wishes, Colby, which shall be

That thine be just and honest; that thy deeds

Not wound thy conscience, when thy body bleeds;

That thou dost all things more for truth than glory,

And never but for doing wrong be sorry;

That by commanding first thyself, thou mak'st

Thy person fit for any charge thou tak'st;

That fortune never make thee to complain,

But what she gives thou dar'st give her again;

That whatsoever face thy fate puts on,

Thou shrink or start not, but be always one;

That thou think nothing great but what is good,

And from that thought strive to be understood.

So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame

Still precious with the odour of thy name.

And last, blaspheme not; we did never hear

Man thought the valianter 'cause he durst swear,

No more than we should think a lord had had

More honour in him 'cause we have known him mad:

These take, and now go seek thy peace in war;

Who falls for love of God shall rise a star.

An Epitaph on Master Philip Gray

Reader, stay,

And if I had no more to say

But here doth lie, till the last day,

All that is left of Philip Gray,

It might thy patience richly pay:

For if such men as he could die,

What surety of life have thou, and I?

Epistle to a Friend

They are not, sir, worst owers, that do pay

Debts when they can; good men may break their day,

And yet the noble nature never grudge;

'Tis then a crime, when the usurer is judge,

And he is not in friendship. Nothing there

Is done for gain; if't be, 'tis not sincere.

Nor should I at this time protested be,

But that some greater names have broke with me,

And their words too, where I but break my band.

I add that 'but' because I understand

That as the lesser breach; for he that takes

Simply my band, his trust in me forsakes

And looks unto the forfeit. If you be

Now so much friend as you would trust in me,

Venture a longer time, and willingly;

All is not barren land doth fallow lie.

Some grounds are made the richer for the rest,

And I will bring a crop, if not the best.

An Elegy

Can beauty that did prompt me first to write,

Now threaten with those means she did invite?

Did her perfections call me on to gaze,

Then like, then love, and now would they amaze?

Or was she gracious afar off, but near

A terror? Or is all this my fear?

That as the water makes things put in 't straight,

Crooked appear, so that doth my conceit;

I can help that with boldness; and love sware,

And fortune once, to assist the spirits that dare.

But which shall lead me on? Both these are blind;

Such guides men use not, who their way would find,

Except the way be error to those ends,

And then the best are, still, the blindest friends!

Oh how a lover may mistake! To think

Or love or fortune blind, when they but wink

To see men fear; or else, for truth and state,

Because they would free justice imitate,

Veil their own eyes, and would impartially

Be brought by us to meet our destiny.

If it be thus, come love, and fortune go;

I'll lead you on; or if my fate will so

That I must send one first, my choice assigns

Love to my heart, and fortune to my lines.

An Elegy

By those bright eyes, at whose immortal fires

Love lights his torches to inflame desires;

By that fair stand, your forehead, whence he bends

His double bow, and round his arrows sends;

By that tall grove, your hair, whose globy rings

He flying curls and crispeth with his wings;

By those pure baths your either cheek discloses,

Where he doth steep himself in milk and roses;

And lastly by your lips, the bank of kisses,

Where men at once may plant and gather blisses:

Tell me, my loved friend, do you love, or no,

So well as I may tell in verse, 'tis so?

You blush, but do not; friends are either none,

Though they may number bodies, or but one.

I'll therefore ask no more, but bid you love;

And so, that either may example prove

Unto the other, and live patterns how

Others in time may love, as we do now.

Slip no occasion; as time stands not still,

I know no beauty, nor no youth that will.

To use the present, then, is not abuse,

You have a husband is the just excuse

Of all that can be done him; such a one

As would make shift to make himself, alone,

That which we can; who both in you, his wife,

His issue, and all circumstance of life,

As in his place, because he would not vary,

Is constant to be extraordinary.

A Satirical Shrub

A woman's friendship! God whom I trust in,

Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin,

Amongst my many other, that I may

No more (I am sorry for so fond cause) say

At fifty years, almost, to value it

That ne'er was known to last above a fit!

Or have the least of good, but what it must

Put on for fashion, and take up on trust.

Knew I all this afore? Had I perceived

That their whole life was wickedness, though weaved

Of many colours; outward, fresh from spots,

But their whole inside full of ends and knots?

Knew I that all their dialogues and discourse

Were such as I will now relate, or worse?

* * * * * *

* * * * * *

Knew I this woman? Yes; and you do see

How penitent I am, or I should be!

Do not you ask to know her; she is worse

Than all the ingredients made into one curse.

And that poured out upon mankind, can be!

Think but the sin of all her sex, 'tis she!

I could forgive her being proud, a whore,

Perjured, and painted, if she were no more:

But she is such, as she might yet forestall

The devil, and be the damning of us all.

A Little Shrub Growing By

Ask not to know this man. If fame should speak

His name in any metal, it would break.

Two letters were enough the plague to tear

Out of his grave, and poison every ear.

A parcel of court dirt, a heap and mass

Of all vice hurled together; there he was

Proud, false, and treacherous, vindictive, all

That thought can add: unthankful, the lay-stall

Of putrid flesh alive; of blood the sink;

And so I leave to stir him, lest he stink.

An Elegy

Though beauty be the mark of praise,

And yours of whom I sing be such

As not the world can praise too much,

Yet is't your virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like alloy, so gone

Throughout your form, as though that move,

And draw, and conquer all men's love,

This subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet, because

'Tis of yourself, and that you use

The noblest freedom, not to choose

Against or faith, or honour's laws.

But who should less expect from you,

In whom alone Love lives again?

By whom he is restored to men,

And kept, and bred, and brought up true.

His falling temples you have reared,

The withered garlands ta'en away,

His altars kept from the decay

That envy wished, and nature feared.

And on them burn so chaste a flame

With so much loyalty's expense,

As Love, to acquit such excellence,

Is gone himself into your name.

And you are he, the deity

To whom all lovers are designed

That would their better objects find;

Among which faithful troop am I.

Who, as an offering at your shrine,

Have sung this hymn, and here entreat

One spark of your diviner heat

To light upon a love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scant

Appear, and that to shortest view,

Yet give me leave to adore in you

What I, in her, am grieved to want.

An Ode. To Himself

Where dost thou careless lie,

Buried in ease and sloth?

Knowledge that sleeps doth die;

And this security,

It is the common moth

That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.

Are all the Aonian springs

Dried up? Lies Thespia waste?

Doth Clarius' harp want strings,

That not a nymph now sings?

Or droop they, as disgraced

To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced?

If hence thy silence be,

As 'tis too just a cause,

Let this thought quicken thee:

Minds that are great and free,

Should not on fortune pause;

'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.

What though the greedy fry

Be taken with false baits

Of worded balladry,

And think it poesie?

They die with their conceits,

And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.

Then take in hand thy lyre,

Strike in thy proper strain;

With Japhet's line, aspire

Sol's chariot for new fire

To give the world again;

Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.

And since our dainty age

Cannot endure reproof,

Make not thyself a page

To that strumpet, the stage;

But sing high and aloof,

Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof.

The Mind of the Frontispiece to a Book

From death and dark oblivion (near the same)

The mistress of man's life, grave history,

Raising the world to good or evil fame

Doth vindicate it to eternity.

Wise providence would so, that nor the good

Might be defrauded, nor the great secured,

But both might know their ways were understood,

When vice alike in time with virtue dured.

Which makes that, lighted by the beamy hand

Of truth that searcheth the most hidden springs,

And guided by experience, whose straight wand

Doth mete, whose line doth sound the depth of things,

She cheerfully supporteth what she rears,

Assisted by no strengths but are her own;

Some note of which each varied pillar bears;

By which, as proper titles, she is known

Time's witness, herald of antiquity,

The light of truth, and life of memory.

An Ode to James, Earl of Desmond. Writ in Queen Elizabeth's Time, Since Lost, and Recovered

Where art thou, genius? I should use

Thy present aid; arise invention,

Wake, and put on the wings of Pindar's muse,

To tower with my intention

High as his mind, that doth advance

Her upright head above the reach of chance,

Or the time's envy;

Cinthius, I apply

My bolder numbers to thy golden lyre:

O, then inspire

Thy priest in this strange rapture; heat my brain

With Delphic fire,

That I may sing my thoughts in some unvulgar strain.

Rich beam of honour, shed your light

On these dark rhymes, that my affection

May shine through every chink, to every sight,

Graced by your reflection!

Then shall my verses, like strong charms,

Break the knit circle of her stony arms

That holds your spirit,

And keeps your merit

Locked in her cold embraces, from the view

Of eyes more true,

Who would with judgement search, searching conclude

(As proved in you)

True noblesse. Palm grows straight, though handled ne'er so rude.

Nor think yourself unfortunate,

If subject to the jealous errors

Of politic pretext, that wries a state;

Sink not beneath these terrors,

But whisper, O glad innocence,

Where only a man's birth is his offence;

Or the disfavour,

Of such as savour

Nothing, but practise upon honour's thrall.

O virtue's fall!

When her dead essence, like the anatomy

In Surgeons' Hall,

Is but a statist's theme, to read phlebotomy.

Let Brontes and black Steropes

Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating;

Pyracmon's hour will come to give them ease,

Though but while metal's heating;

And after all the Aetnean ire

Gold that is perfect will outlive the fire.

For fury wasteth,

As patience lasteth.

No armour to the mind! He is shot-free

From injury

That is not hurt, not he that is not hit;

So fools, we see,

Oft scape an imputation more through luck than wit.

But to yourself, most loyal lord,

Whose heart in that bright sphere flames clearest,

Though many gems be in your bosom stored,

Unknown which is the dearest,

If I auspiciously divine,

As my hope tells, that our fair Phoebe's shine

Shall light those places

With lustrous graces,

Where darkness with her gloomy-sceptred hand

Doth now command;

O then, my best-best loved, let me importune,

That you will stand

As far from all revolt, as you are now from fortune.

An Ode

High-spirited friend,

I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound;

Your fate hath found

A gentler and more agile hand to tend

The cure of that, which is but corporal,

And doubtful days (which were named critical)

Have made their fairest flight,

And now are out of sight.

Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind

Wrapped in this paper lie,

Which in the taking, if you misapply,

You are unkind.

Your covetous hand,

Happy in that fair honour it hath gained,

Must now be reined.

True valour doth her own renown command

In one full action; nor have you now more

To do than be a husband of that store.

Think but how dear you bought

This fame which you have caught;

Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.

'Tis wisdom, and that high,

For men to use their fortune reverently,

Even in youth.

An Ode

Helen, did Homer never see

Thy beauties, yet could write of thee?

Did Sappho, on her seven-tongued lute,

So speak, as yet it is not mute,

Of Phaon's form? Or doth the boy

In whom Anacreon once did joy,

Lie drawn to life in his soft verse,

As he whom Maro did rehearse?

Was Lesbia sung by learned Catullus,

Or Delia's graces by Tibullus?

Doth Cinthia in Propertius' song

Shine more than she the stars among?

Is Horace his each love so high,

Rapt from the earth, as not to die;

With bright Lycoris, Gallus' choice,

Whose fame hath an eternal voice?

Or hath Corinna, by the name

Her Ovid gave her, dimmed the fame

Of Caesar's daughter, and the line

Which all the world then styled divine?

Hath Petrarch since his Laura raised

Equal with her; or Ronsard praised

His new Cassandra 'bove the old

Which all the fate of Troy foretold?

Hath our great Sidney Stella set,

Where never star shone brighter yet;

Or Constable's ambrosiac muse

Made Dian not his notes refuse?

Have all these done – and yet I miss

The swan that so relished Pancharis –

And shall not I my Celia bring

Where men may see whom I do sing?

Though I, in working of my song,

Come short of all this learned throng,

Yet sure my tunes will be the best,

So much my subject drowns the rest.

A Sonnet to the Noble Lady, the Lady Mary Worth

I, that have been a lover, and could show it,

Though not in these, in rhythms not wholly dumb,

Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become

A better lover, and much better poet.

Nor is my muse, or I ashamed to owe it

To those true numerous graces, whereof some

But charm the senses, others overcome

Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:

For in your verse all Cupid's armory,

His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,

His very eyes are yours to overthrow.

But then his mother's sweets you so apply,

Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take

For Venus' ceston every line you make.

A Fit of Rhyme against Rhyme

Rhyme, the rack of finest wits

That expresseth but by fits

True conceit;

Spoiling senses of their treasure,

Cozening judgement with a measure

But false weight.

Wresting words from their true calling,

Propping verse for fear of falling

To the ground.

Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,

Fastening vowels, as with fetters

They were bound!

Soon as lazy thou wert known,

All good poetry hence was flown,

And art banished.

For a thousand years together

All Parnassus' green did wither,

And wit vanished.

Pegasus did fly away,

At the well no muse did stay,

But bewailed

So to see the fountain dry,

And Apollo's music die,

All light failed!

Starveling rhymes did fill the stage,

Not a poet in an age

Worth a-crowning.

Not a work deserving bays,

Nor a line deserving praise,

Pallas frowning.

Greek was free from rhyme's infection,

Happy Greek by this protection,

Was not spoiled.

Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,

Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,

But rests foiled.

Scarce the hill again doth flourish,

Scarce the world a wit doth nourish,

To restore

Phoebus to his crown again,

And the muses to their brain,

As before.

Vulgar languages that want

Words and sweetness, and be scant

Of true measure,

Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,

That they long since have refused

Other caesure.

He that first invented thee,

May his joints tormented be,

Cramped for ever;

Still may syllabes jar with time,

Still may reason war with rhyme,

Resting never.

May his sense, when it would meet

The cold tumor in his feet,

Grow unsounder.

And his title be long fool,

That in rearing such a school,

Was the founder.

An Epigram on William, Lord Burghley, Lord High Treasurer of England

If thou wouldst know the virtues of mankind,

Read here in one, what thou in all canst find,

And go no farther; let this circle be

Thy universe, though his epitome.

Cecil, the grave, the wise, the great, the good:

What is there more that can ennoble blood?

The orphan's pillar, the true subject's shield,

The poor's full store-house, and just servant's field.

The only faithful watchman for the realm,

That in all tempests never quit the helm,

But stood unshaken in his deeds and name,

And laboured in the work, not with the fame;

That still was good for goodness' sake, nor thought

Upon reward, till the reward him sought.

Whose offices and honours did surprise

Rather than meet him; and before his eyes

Closed to their peace, he saw his branches shoot,

And in the noblest families took root

Of all the land. Who now at such a rate

Of divine blessing, would not serve a state?

An Epigram to Thomas, Lord Ellesmere, the Last Term He Sat Chancellor

So, justest lord, may all your judgements be

Laws, and no change e'er come to one decree;

So may the king proclaim your conscience is

Law to his law, and think your enemies his;

So from all sickness may you rise to health,

The care and wish still of the public wealth;

So may the gentler muses, and good fame

Still fly about the odour of your name:

As, with the safety and honour of the laws,

You favour truth, and me, in this man's cause.

Another to Him

The judge his favour timely then extends

When a good cause is destitute of friends,

Without the pomp of counsel, or more aid

Than to make falsehood blush, and fraud afraid,

When those good few that her defenders be

Are there for charity, and not for fee.

Such shall you hear today, and find great foes,

Both armed with wealth and slander to oppose,

Who, thus long safe, would gain upon the times

A right by the prosperity of their crimes;

Who, though their guilt and perjury they know,

Think – yea, and boast – that they have done it so,

As, though the court pursues them on the scent,

They will come off, and scape the punishment.

When this appears, just lord, to your sharp sight,

He does you wrong that craves you to do right.

An Epigram to the Counsellor that Pleaded and Carried the Cause

That I, hereafter, do not think the Bar

The seat made of a more than civil war,

Or the Great Hall at Westminster the field

Where mutual frauds are fought, and no side yield;

That, henceforth, I believe nor books nor men

Who 'gainst the law weave calumnies, my Benn,

But when I read or hear the names so rife

Of hirelings, wranglers, stitchers-to of strife,

Hook-handed harpies, gowned vultures, put

Upon the reverend pleaders; do now shut

All mouths that dare entitle them (from hence)

To the wolf's study, or dog's eloquence:

Thou art my cause; whose manners since I knew,

Have made me to conceive a lawyer new.

So dost thou study matter, men, and times,

Mak'st it religion to grow rich by crimes;

Dar'st not abuse thy wisdom in the laws,

Or skill, to carry out an evil cause,

But first dost vex and search it. If not sound,

Thou prov'st the gentler ways to cleanse the wound,

And make the scar fair; if that will not be,

Thou hast the brave scorn to put back the fee.

But in a business that will bide the touch,

What use, what strength of reason! and how much

Of books, of precedents hast thou at hand!

As if the general store thou didst command

Of argument, still drawing forth the best,

And not being borrowed by thee, but possessed.

So com'st thou like a chief into the court,

Armed at all pieces, as to keep a fort

Against a multitude, and (with thy style

So brightly brandished) wound'st, defend'st – the while

Thy adversaries fall, as not a word

They had, but were a reed unto thy sword.

Then com'st thou off with victory and palm,

Thy hearers' nectar, and thy client's balm,

The court's just honour, and thy judge's love.

And (which doth all achievements get above)

Thy sincere practice breeds not thee a fame

Alone, but all thy rank a reverend name.

An Epigram to the Smallpox

Envious and foul disease, could there not be

One beauty in an age, and free from thee?

What did she worth thy spite? Were there not store

Of those that set by their false faces more

Than this did by her true? She never sought

Quarrel with nature, or in balance brought

Art, her false servant; nor, for Sir Hugh Platt

Was drawn to practise other hue than that

Her own blood gave her; she ne'er had, nor hath

Any belief in Madam Bawd-be's bath,

Or Turner's oil of talc; nor ever got

Spanish receipt to make her teeth to rot.

What was the cause, then? Thought's! thou in disgrace

Of beauty so to nullify a face

That heaven should make no more; or should amiss

Make all hereafter, hadst thou ruined this?

Aye, that thy aim was: but her fate prevailed;

And, scorned, thou hast shown thy malice, but hast failed.

An Epitaph on Elizabeth Chute

What beauty would have lovely styled,

What manners pretty, nature mild,

What wonder perfect, all were filed,

Upon record, in this blessed child.

And till the coming of the soul

To fetch the flesh, we keep the roll.

A Song

Lover

Come, let us here enjoy the shade,

For love in shadow best is made.

Though envy oft his shadow be,

None brooks the sunlight worse than he.

Mistress

Where love doth shine, there needs no sun,

All lights into his one doth run;

Without which all the world were dark,

Yet he himself is but a spark.

Arbiter

A spark to set whole worlds afire,

Who more they burn, they more desire,

And have their being their waste to see,

And waste still, that they still might be.

Chorus

Such are his powers, whom time hath styled

Now swift, now slow, now tame, now wild;

Now hot, now cold, now fierce, now mild;

The eldest god, yet still a child.

An Epistle to a Friend

Sir, I am thankful, first to heaven for you;

Next to yourself, for making your love true;

Then to your love and gift. And all's but due.

You have unto my store added a book,

On which with profit I shall never look

But must confess from whom what gift I took.

Not like your country neighbours, that commit

Their vice of loving for a Christmas fit,

Which is indeed but friendship of the spit;

But as a friend, which name yourself receive,

And which you, being the worthier, gave me leave

In letters, that mix spirits, thus to weave.

Which, how most sacred I will ever keep,

So may the fruitful vine my temples steep,

And fame wake for me, when I yield to sleep.

Though you sometimes proclaim me too severe,

Rigid, and harsh, which is a drug austere

In friendship, I confess: but, dear friend, hear:

Little know they that profess amity,

And seek to scant her comely liberty,

How much they lame her in her property.

And less they know, who being free to use

That friendship which no chance, but love, did choose,

Will unto licence that fair leave abuse.

It is an act of tyranny, not love,

In practised friendship wholly to reprove,

As flattery with friends' humours still to move.

From each of which I labour to be free;

Yet if with either's vice I tainted be,

Forgive it as my frailty, and not me.

For no man lives so out of passion's sway,

But shall sometimes be tempted to obey

Her fury, yet no friendship to betray.

An Elegy

'Tis true, I'm broke! Vows, oaths, and all I had

Of credit lost.