Poems, with the Tenth Satyre of Iuvenal

Poems, with the tenth Satyre of Iuvenal Englished. By Henry Vaughan, Gent.
Vaughan, Henry, 1622-1695.
1646
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Poems, with the tenth Satyre of Iuvenal Englished. By Henry Vaughan, Gent.
Vaughan, Henry, 1622-1695.
Juvenal. Satura 10. English.
[4], 87, [1] p.
Printed for G. Badger, and are to be sold at his shop under Saint Dunstans Church in Fleet-street,
London :
1646.
Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
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Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
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POEMS,
WITH
The tenth SATYRE of
IUVENAL
ENGLISHED.
By Henry Vaughan, Gent.
—Tam nil, nullâ tibi vendo
Illiade—
LONDON,
Printed for G. Badger, and are to be ſold at his
ſhop under Saint Dunſtans Church in
Fleet-ſtreet. 1646.
To all Ingenious Lovers
OF
POESIE.
Gentlemen,
TO you alone, whoſe more refined
Spirits out-wing
theſe dull Times, and ſoare
above the drudgerie of
durty Intelligence, have I made ſacred
theſe Fancies: I know the yeares,
and what courſe entertainment they
affoord Poetry. If any ſhall queſtion
that Courage that durſt ſend me abroad
ſo late, and revell it thus in the
Dregs of an Age, they have my ſilence:
only,
Langueſcente ſeculo, liceat aegrotari;
My more calme Ambition, amidſt
the common noiſe, hath thus expoſed
me to the World: You have here a
Flame, bright only in its owne Innocence,
that kindles nothing but a generous
Thought; which though it
may warme the Bloud, the fire at higheſt
is but Platonick, and the Commotion,
within theſe limits, excludes
Danger: For the Satyre, it was of
purpoſe borrowed, to feather ſome
ſlower Houres; And what you ſee here,
is but the Intereſt: It is one of his,
whoſe Roman Pen had as much true
Paſſion, for the infirmities of that
ſtate, as we ſhould have Pitty, to the
diſtractions of our owne: Honeſt (I am
ſure) it is, and offenſive cannot be, except
it meet with ſuch Spirits that
will quarrell with Antiquitie, or purpoſely
Arraigne themſelves; Theſe
indeed may thinke, that they have ſlept
out ſo many Centuries in this Satyre,
and are now awaked; which, had it
been ſtill Latine, perhaps their Nap
had been Everlaſting: But enough of
theſe,—It is for you only that I have
adventured thus far, and invaded the
Preſſe with Verſe; to whoſe more noble
Indulgence, I ſhall now leave it;
and ſo am gone.—
H. V.
To my Ingenuous
Friend, R. W.
WHen we are dead, and now, no more
Our harmles mirth, our wit, and ſcore
Diſtracts the Towne; when all is ſpent
That the baſe niggard world hath lent
Thy purſe, or mine; when the loath'd noiſe
Of Drawers, Prentiſes, and boyes
Hath left us, and the clam'rous barre
Items no pints i'th' Moone, or Starre;
When no calme whiſp'rers wait the doores,
To fright us with forgotten ſcores;
And ſuch aged, long bils carry,
As might ſtart an Antiquary;
When the ſad tumults of the Maze,
Arreſts, ſuites, and the dreadfull face
Of Seargeants are not ſeene, and wee
No Lawyers Ruffes, or Gownes muſt fee:
When all theſe Mulcts are paid, and I
From thee, deare wit, muſt part, and dye;
Wee'le beg the world would be ſo kinde,
To give's one grave, as wee'de one minde;
There (as the wiſer few ſuſpect,
That ſpirits after death affect)
Our ſoules ſhall meet, and thence will they
(Freed from the tyranny of clay)
With equall wings, and ancient love
Into the Elyſian fields remove,
Where in thoſe bleſſed walkes they'le find,
More of thy Genius, and my mind:
Firſt, in the ſhade of his owne bayes,
Great BEN they'le ſee, whoſe ſacred Layes,
The learned Ghoſts admire, and throng,
To catch the ſubject of his Song.
Then Randolph in thoſe holy Meades,
His Looers, and Amyntas reads,
Whilſt his Nightingall cloſe by,
Sings his, and her owne Elegie;
From thence diſmiſs'd by ſubtill roades,
Through airie paths, and ſad aboads;
They'le come into the drowſie fields
Of Lethe, which ſuch vertue yeelds,
That (if what Poets ſing be true)
The ſtreames all ſorrow can ſubdue.
Here on a ſilent, ſhady greene;
The ſoules of Lovers oft are ſeene,
Who in their lifes unhappy ſpace,
Were murther'd by ſome perjur'd face.
All theſe th'inchanted ſtreames frequent,
To drowne their Cares, and diſcontent,
That th'inconſtant, cruell ſex
Might not in death their ſpirits vex:
And here our ſoules bigge with delight
Of their new ſtate will ceaſe their flight:
And now the laſt thoughts will appeare,
They'le have of us, or any here;
But on thoſe flowry banks will ſtay,
And drinke all ſenſe, and cares away.
So they that did of theſe diſcuſſe,
Shall find their fables true in us.
Les Amours.
TYrant farewell: This heart, the prize
And triumph of thy ſcornfull eyes,
I ſacrifice to Heaven, and give
To quit my ſinnes, that durſt believe
A Womans eaſie faith, and place
True joyes in a changing face.
Yet e're I goe; by all thoſe teares,
And ſighs I ſpent 'twixt hopes, and feares;
By thy owne glories, and that houre
Which firſt inſlav'd me to thy power;
I beg, faire One, by this laſt breath,
This tribute from thee after death.
If when I'm gone, you chance to ſee
That cold bed where I lodged bee:
Let not your hate in death appeare,
But bleſſe my aſhes with a teare:
This influxe from that quickning eye,
By ſecret pow'r, which none can ſpie,
The cold duſt ſhall informe, and make
Thoſe flames (though dead) new life partake.
Whoſe warmth help'd by your tears ſhall bring,
O're all the tombe a ſudden ſpring:
If Crimſon flowers, whoſe drooping heads
Shall curtaine o're their mournfull heads:
And on each leafe by Heavens command,
Theſe Emblemes to the life ſhall ſtand:
Two Hearts, the firſt a ſhaft withſtood;
The ſecond, ſhot, and waſht in bloud;
And on this heart a dew ſhall ſtay,
Which no heate can court away;
But fixt for ever witneſſe beares,
That hearty ſorrow feeds on teares.
Thus Heaven can make it knowne, and true,
That you kill'd me, 'cauſe I lov'd you.
To Amoret,
The Sigh.
NImble Sigh on thy warme wings,
Take this Meſſage, and depart,
Tell Amoret, that ſmiles, and ſings.
At what thy airie voyage brings,
That thon cam'ſt lately from my heart.
Tell my lovely foe, that I
Have no more ſuch ſpies to ſend,
But one or two that I intend
Some few minutes ere I dye,
To her white boſome to commend.
Then whiſper by that holy Spring
Where for her ſake I would have dyed,
Whilſt thoſe water Nymphs did bring
Flowers to cure what ſhe had tryed;
And of my faith, and love did ſing.
That if my Amoret, if ſhe
In after-times would have it read,
How her beauty murther'd mee,
With all my heart I will agree,
If ſhee'le but love me, being dead.
To his Friend
Being in Love.
ASke Lover, ere thou dyeſt; let one poor breath
Steale from thy lips, to tell her of thy Death;
Doating Idolater! can ſilence bring
Thy Saint propitious? or will Cupid fling
One arrow for thy palenes? leave to trye
This ſilent Courtſhip of a ſickly eye;
Witty to tyranny: She too well knowes
This but the incenſe of thy private vowes,
That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray
The ſacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;
Aske her, foole, aske her, if words cannot move,
The language of thy teares may make her love:
Flow nimbly from me then; and when you fall
On her breaſts warmer ſnow, O may you all,
By ſome ſtrange Fate fixt there, diſtinctly lye
The much lov'd Volume of my Tragedy.
Where if you win her not, may this be read,
The cold that freez'd you ſo, did ſtrike me dead.
Song.
AMyntas goe, thou art undone,
Thy faithfull heart is croſt by fate;
That Love is better not begunne,
Where Love is come to lvoe too late;
Had ſhe profeſſed hidden fires,
Or ſhew'd one knot that tyed her heart:
I could have quench'd my firſt deſires,
And we had only met to part;
But Tyrant, thus to murther men,
And ſhed a Lovers harmles bloud,
And burne him in thoſe flames agen,
Which he at firſt might have with ſtood▪
Yet, who that ſaw faire Chloris weep
Such ſacred dew, with ſuch pure grace;
Durſt thinke them fained teares, or ſeeke
For Treaſon in an Angels face:
This is her Art, though this be true,
Mens joyes are kil'd with griefes and feares;
Yet ſhe like flowers oppr'eſt with dew,
Doth thrive and flouriſh in her teares:
This Cruell thou haſt done, and thus,
That Face hath many ſervants ſlaine.
Though th' end be not to ruine us,
But to ſeeke glory by our paine.
To Amoret,
Walking in a Starry
EVENING.
IF Amoret, that glorious Eye,
In the firſt birth of light,
And death of Night,
Had with thoſe elder fires you ſpye
Scatter'd ſo high
Received forme, and ſight;
We might ſuſpect in the vaſt Ring,
Amidſt theſe golden glories,
And fierie ſtories;
Whether the Sunne had been the King,
And guide of Day,
Or your brighter eye ſhould ſway;
But, Amoret, ſuch is my fate,
That if thy face a Starre
Had ſhin'd from farre,
Iam perſwaded in that ſtate
'Twixt thee, and me,
Of ſome predeſtin'd ſympathie.
For ſure ſuch two conſpiring minds,
Which no accident, or ſight,
Did thus unite;
Whom no diſtance can confine,
Start, or decline,
One, for another, were deſign'd.
To Amoret
GONE FROM HIM.
FAncy, and I, laſt Evening walkt,
And, Amoret, of thee we talkt;
The Weſt juſt then had ſtolne the Sun,
And his laſt bluſhes were begun:
We ſate, and markt how every thing
Did mourne his abſence; How the Spring
That ſmil'd, and curl'd about his beames,
Whilſt he was here, now check'd her ſtreames
The wanton Eddies of her face
Were taught leſſe noiſe, and ſmoother grace;
And in a ſlow, ſad channell went,
Whiſp'ring the banks their diſcontent:
The careleſſe ranks of flowers that ſpread
Their perfum'd boſomes to his head,
And with an open, free Embrace,
Did entertaine his beamy face;
Like abſent friends point to the Weſt,
And on that weake reflection feaſt.
If Creatures then that have no ſence,
But the looſe tye of influence,
(Though fate, and time each day remove
Thoſe things that element their love)
At ſuch vaſt diſtance can agree,
Why, Amoret, why ſhould not wee.
A Song to Amoret.
IF I were dead, and in my place,
Some freſher youth deſign'd,
To warme thee with new fires, and grace
Thoſe Armes I left behind;
Were he as faithfull as the Sunne,
That's wedded to the Sphere;
His bloud as chaſte, and temp'rate runne,
As Aprils mildeſt teare;
Or were he rich, and with his heapes,
And ſpacious ſhare of Earth,
Could make divine affection cheape,
And court his golden birth:
For all theſe Arts I'de not believe,
(No though he ſhould be thine)
The mighty Amoriſt could give
So rich a heart as mine.
Fortune and beauty thou mightſt finde,
And greater men then I:
But my true reſolved minde,
They never ſhall come nigh.
For I not for an houre did love,
Or for a day deſire,
But with my ſoule had from above,
This endles holy fire.
An Elegy.
'TIs true, I am undone; Yet e're I dye,
I'le leave theſe ſighes, and teares a legacye
To after-Lovers; that remembring me,
Thoſe ſickly flames which now benighted be,
Fann'd by their warmer ſighs may love; and prove
In them the Metempſuchoſis of Love.
'Twas I (when others ſcorn'd) vow'd you were fair,
And ſware that breath enrich'd the courſer aire,
Lent Roſes to your cheekes, made Flora bring
Her Nymphs with all the glories of the Spring
To waite upon thy face, and gave my heart
A pledge to Cupid for a quicker dart,
To arme thoſe eyes againſt my ſelfe; to me
Thou oweſt that tongues bewitching harmonye:
I courted Angels from thoſe upper joyes,
And made them leave their ſpheres to heare thy voice:
I made the Indian curſe the houres he ſpent
To ſeeke his pearles, and wiſely to repent
His former folly, and confeſſe a ſinne
Charm'd by the brighter luſtre of thy skinne.
I borrow'd from the winds, the gentler wing
Of Zephirus, and ſoft ſoules of the Spring:
And made (to ayre thoſe cheeks wth freſher grace)
The warme Inſpirers dwell upon thy face.
Oh! jam ſatis—
A Rhapſodis.
Occaſionally written upon a meeting
with ſome of his friends at the Globe
Taverne, in a Chamber painted over
head with a Cloudy Skie, and ſome
few diſperſed Starres, and on the ſides
with Land ſcapes, Hills, Shepheards,
and Sheep.
DArknes, & Stars i'th' mid day! they invite
Our active fancies to beleeve it night:
For Tavernes need no Sunne, but for a Signe,
Where rich Tobacco, and quick tapers ſhine;
And royall, witty Sacke, the Poets ſoule,
With brighter Suns then he doth guild the bowl;
As though the Pot, and Poet did agree,
Sack ſhould to both Illuminator be.
That artificiall Cloud with it's curl'd brow,
Tels us 'tis late; and that blew ſpace below
Is fir'd with many Stars; Marke, how they breake
In ſilent glaunces o're the hills, and ſpeake
The Evening to the Plaines; where ſhot from far,
They meet in dumbe ſalutes, as one great Star.
The roome (me thinks) growes darker; & the aire
Contracts a ſadder colour, and leſſe faire:
Or is't the Drawers skill, hath he no Arts
To blind us ſo, we cann't know pints from quarts?
No, no, 'tis night; looke where the jolly Clowne
Muſters his bleating heard, and quits the Downe.
Harke! how his rude pipe frets the quiet aire,
Whilſt ev'ry Hill proclaimes Lycoris faire.
Rich, happy man! that canſt thus watch, and ſleep,
Free from all cares; but thy wench, pipe & ſheep.
But ſee the Moone is up; view where ſhe ſtands
Centinell o're the doore, drawn by the hands
Of ſome baſe Painter, that for gaine hath made
Her face the Landmarke to the tipling trade.
This Cup to her, that to Endymion give;
'Twas wit at firſt, and wine that made them live:
Choake may the Painter! and his Boxe diſcloſe
No other Colours then his fiery Noſe;
And may we no more of his pencill ſee,
Then two Churchwardens, and Mortalitie.
Should we goe now a wandring, we ſhould meet
With Catchpoles, whores, & Carts in ev'ry ſtreet:
Now when each narrow lane, each nooke & Cave,
Signe-poſts, & ſhop-doors, pimp for ev'ry knave,
When riotous ſinfull pluſh, and tell-tale ſpurs
Walk Fleetſtreet, & the Strand, when the ſoft ſtirs
Of bawdy, ruffled Silks, turne night to day;
And the lowd whip, and Coach ſcolds all the way;
When luſt of all ſorts, and each itchie bloud
From the Tower-wharſe to Cymberlyne, and Lud,
Hunts for a Mate, and the tyr'd footman reeles
'Twixt chaire-men, torches, & the hackny wheels:
Come, take the other diſh; it is to him
That made his horſe a Senatour: Each brim
Looke big as mine; The gallant, jolly Beaſt
Of all the Herd (you'le ſay) was not the leaſt.
Now crown the ſecond bowle, rich as his worth,
I'le drinke it to he! that like fire broke forth
Into the Senates face, croſt Rubicon,
And the States pillars, with their Lawes thereon:
And made the dull gray beards, & furr'd gowns fly
Into Brunduſium to conſult; and lye:
This to brave Sylla! why ſhould it be ſed,
We drinke more to the living, then the dead?
Flatt'rers, and fooles doe uſe it: Let us laugh
At our owne honeſt mirth; for they that quaffe
To honour others, doe like thoſe that ſent
Their gold and plate to ſtrangers to be ſpent:
Drink deep; this Cup be pregnant; & the wine
Spirit of wit, to make us all divine,
That big with Sack, and mirth we may retyre
Poſſeſſours of more ſoules, and nobler fire;
And by the influxe of this painted Skie,
And labour'd formes, to higher matters flye;
So, if a Nap ſhall take us, we ſhall all,
After full Cups have dreames Poeticall.
LEts laugh now, and the preſt grape drinke,
Till the drowſie Day-Starre winke;
And in our merry, mad mirth run
Faſter, and further then the Sun;
And let none his Cup forſake,
Till that Starre againe doth wake;
So we men below ſhall move
Equally with the gods above.
To Amoret, of the difference 'twixt him, and
other Lovers, and what true Love is.
MArke, when the Evenings cooler wings
Fanne the afflicted ayre, how the faint Sunne,
Leaving undone,
What he begunne,
Thoſe ſpurious flames ſuckt up from ſlime, and earth
To their firſt, low birth,
Reſignes, and brings.
They ſhoot their tinſill beames, and vanities,
Thredding with thoſe falſe fires their way;
But as you ſtay
And ſee them ſtray,
You looſe the flaming track, and ſubt'ly they
Languiſh away,
And cheate your Eyes.
Juſt ſo baſe, Sublunarie Lovers hearts
Fed on looſe prophane deſires,
May for an Eye,
Or face comply:
But thoſe removed, they will as ſoone depart,
And ſhew their Art,
And painted fires.
Whil'ſt I by pow'rfull Love, ſo much refin'd,
That my abſent ſoule the ſame is,
Careleſſe to miſſe,
A glaunce, or kiſſe,
Can with thoſe Elements of luſt and ſence,
Freely diſpence,
And court the mind.
Thus to the North the Loadſtones move,
And thus to them th'enamour'd ſteel aſpires:
Thus, Amoret,
I doe affect;
And thus by winged beames, and mutuall fire,
Spirits and Stars conſpire,
And this is LOVE.
To Amoret
WEEPING.
Leave, Amoret, melt not away ſo faſt
Thy Eyes faire treaſure, Fortunes wealthieſt Caſt
Deſerves not one ſuch pearle; for theſe well ſpent,
Can purchaſe Starres, and buy a Tenement
For us in Heaven; though here the pious ſtreames
Availe us not; who from that Clue of Sun-beams
Could ever ſteale one thread? or with a kinde
Perſwaſive Accent charme the wild, lowd winde?
Fate cuts us all in Marble, and the Booke
Foreſtalls our glaſſe of minutes; we may looke,
But ſeldome meet a change; thinke you a teare
Can blot the flinty Volume? ſhall our feare,
Or griefe adde to their triumphes? and muſt wee
Give an advantage to adverſitie?
Deare, idle Prodigall! is it not juſt
We beare our Stars? What though I had not duſt
Enough to cabinett a worme? nor ſtand
Enſlav'd unto a little durt, or ſand?
I boaſt a better purchaſe, and can ſhew
The glories of a ſoule that's ſimply true.
But grant ſome richer Planet at my birth
Had ſpyed me out, and meaſur'd ſo much earth
Or gold unto my ſhare; I ſhould have been
Slave to theſe lower Elements, and ſeen
My high borne ſoul flagge with their drosse, & lye
A pris'ner to baſe mud, and Alchymie;
I ſhould perhaps eate Orphans, and ſucke up
A dozen diſtreſt widowes in one Cup;
Nay further, I ſhould by that lawfull ſtealth,
(Damn'd Uſurie) undoe the Common-wealth;
Or Patent it in Soape, and Coales, and ſo
Have the Smiths curſe me, and my Laundres too;
Geld wine, or his friend Tobacco; and ſo bring
The incens'd ſubject Rebell to his King;
And after all (as thoſe firſt ſinners fell)
Sinke lower then my gold; and lye in Hell.
Thanks then for this deliv'rance! bleſſed pow'rs,
You that diſpence mans fortune, and his houres,
How am I to you all engag'd! that thus
By ſuch ſtrange meanes, almoſt miraculous,
You ſhould preſerve me; you have gone the way
To make me rich by taking all away.
For I (had I been rich as ſure as fate,
Would have bin medling with the King, or State,
Or ſomething to undoe me; and 'tis fit
(We know) that who hath wealth, ſhould have no wit.
But above all, thanks to that providence,
That arm'd me with a gallant ſoule, and ſence
'Gainſt all misfortunes; that hath breath'd ſo much
Of Heav'n into me, that I ſcorne the touch
Of theſe low things; and can with courage dare
What ever fate, or malice can prepare:
I envy no mans purſe, or mines; I know,
That looſing them, I've loſt their curſes too;
And, Amoret, (although our ſhare in theſe
Is not contemptible, nor doth much pleaſe)
Yet whilſt Content, and Love we joyntly vye,
We have a bleſſing which no gold can buye.
UPON THE
PRIORIE GROVE,
His uſuall Retyrement.
HAile ſacred ſhades! coole, leavie Houſe!
Chaſte Treaſurer of all my vowes,
And wealth! on whoſe ſoft boſome layd
My loves faire ſteps I firſt betrayd:
Henceforth no melancholy flight,
No ſad wing, or hoarſe bird of Night,
Diſturbe this Aire, no fatall throate
Of Raven, or Owle, awake the Note
Of our laid Eccho, no voice dwell
Within theſe leaves, but Philomel.
The poiſonous Ivie here no more
His falſe twiſts on the Oke ſhall ſcore,
Only the Woodbine here may twine,
As th'Embleme of her Love, and mine;
The Amorous Sunne ſhall here convey
His beſt beames, in thy ſhades to play;
The active ayre, the gentleſt ſhow'rs,
Shall from his wings raine on thy flowers;
And the Moone from her dewie lockes
Shall decke thee with her brighteſt drops:
What ever can a fancie move,
Or feed the eye; Be on this Grove;
And when at laſt the Winds, and Teares
Of Heaven, with the conſuming yeares,
Shall theſe greene curles bring to decay,
And cloathe thee in an aged Gray:
(If ought a Lover can foreſee;
Or if we Poets, Prophets be)
From hence tranſplanted, thou ſhalt ſtand
A freſh Grove in th'Elyſian Land;
Where (moſt bleſt paire!) as here on Earth
Thou firſt didſt eye our growth, and birth;
So there againe, thou 'lt ſee us move
In our firſt Innocence, and Love:
And in thy ſhades, as now, ſo then,
Wee'le kiſſe, and ſmile, and walke agen.
FINIS.
IVVENALS
TENTH
SATYRE
TRANSLATED.
Nèc verbum verbo curabit reddere fidus
Interpres—
LONDON,
Printed for G. B. and are to be ſold at his Shop
under Saint Dunſtans Church. 1646.
IVƲENALS tenth Satyre
TRANSLATED.
IN all the parts of Earth, from fartheſt Weſt,
And the Atlanticke Iſles, unto the Eaſt
And famous Ganges; Few there be that know
What's truly good, and what is good in ſhow
Without miſtake: For what is't we deſire,
Or feare diſcreetly? to what e're aſpire,
So throughly bleſt; but ever as we ſpeed,
Repentance ſeales the very Act, and deed.
The eaſie gods mov'd by no other Fate,
Then our owne pray'rs whole Kingdomes ruinate,
And undoe Families, thus ſtrife, and warre
Are the ſwords prize, and a litigious barre
The Gownes prime wiſh; vain confidence to ſhare
In empty honours, and a bloudy care,
To be the firſt in miſchiefe, makes him dye
Fool'd 'twixt ambition, and credulitie;
An oilie tongue with fatall, cunning ſence,
And that ſad vertue ever, Eloquence,
Are th'others ruine; but the common curſe,
And each dayes ill waits on the rich mans purſe:
He, whoſe large acres, and impriſon'd gold
So far exceeds his Fathers ſtore of old,
As Brittiſh Whales the Dolphins doe ſurpaſſe.
In ſadder times therefore, and when the Lawes
Of Nero's fiat raign'd; an armed band
Ceas'd on Longinus, and the ſpacious Land
Of wealthy Seneca, beſieg'd the gates
Of Lateranus, and his faire eſtate
Divided as a ſpoile; In ſuch ſad Feaſts,
Souldiers (though not invited) are the gueſts.
Though thou ſmall peeces of the bleſſed Mine
Haſt lodg'd about thee; travelling in the ſhine
Of a pale Moone, if but a Reed doth ſhake,
Mov'd by the wind, the ſhadow makes thee quake.
Wealth hath its cares, and want hath this reliefe,
It neither feares the Souldier, nor the Thiefe;
Thy firſt choyce vowes, and to the Gods beſt knowne,
Are for thy ſtores encreaſe, that in all towne
Thy ſtocke be greateſt, but no poyſon lyes
I'th' poore mans diſh, he taſts of no ſuch ſpice:
Be that thy care, when with a Kingly guſt,
Thou ſuck'ſt whole Bowles clad in the guilded duſt
Of ſome rich minerall; whilſt the falſe Wine
Sparkles aloft, and makes the draught Divine.
Blam'ſt thou the Sages then? becauſe the one
Would ſtill be laughing, when he would be gone
From his owne doore, the other cryed to ſee
His times addicted to ſuch vanity?
Smiles are an eaſie purchaſe, but to weep
Is a hard act, for teares are fetch'd more deep;
Democritus his nimble Lungs would tyre
With conſtant laughter, and yet keep entire
His ſtocke of mirth, for ev'ry object was
Addition to his ſtore; though then (Alas!)
Sedans, and Litters, and our Senat Gownes,
With Robes of honour, faſces, and the frownes
Of unbrib'd Tribunes were not ſeene; but had
He lived to ſee our Roman Praetor clad
In Ioves owne mantle, ſeated on his high
Embroyder'd Chariot 'midſt the duſt and Crie
Of the large Theatre, loaden with a Crowne
Which ſcarſe he could ſupport, for it would downe,
But that his ſervant props it) and cloſe by
His page a witnes to his vanitie:
To theſe his Scepter, and his Eagle adde
His Trumpets, Officers, and ſervants clad
In white, and purple; with the reſt that day,
He hir'd to triumph for his bread, and pay;
Had he theſe ſtudied, ſumptuous follies ſeene,
'Tis thought his wanton, and effuſive ſpleene
Had kill'd the Abderite, though in that age
(When pride & greatnes had not ſwell'd the ſtage
So high as ours) his harmles, and juſt mirth
From ev'ry object had a ſuddaine birth;
Nor waſt alone their avarice, or pride,
Their triumphs, or their cares he did deride;
Their vaine contentions, or ridiculous feares;
But even their very poverty, and teares.
He would at fortunes threats as freely ſmile
As others mourne; nor was it to beguile
His crafty paſſions; but this habit he
By nature had, and grave Philoſophie.
He knew their idle and ſuperfluous vowes,
And ſacrifice, which ſuch wrong zeale beſtowes,
Were meere Incendiaries; and that the gods
Not pleas'd therewith, would ever be at ods;
Yet to no other aire, nor better place
Ow'd he his birth, then the cold, homely Thrace;
Which ſhewes a man may be both wiſe, & good,
Without the brags of fortune, or his bloud.
But envy ruines all: What mighty names
Of fortune, ſpirit, action, bloud, and fame,
Hath this deſtroy'd? yea, for no other cauſe
Then being ſuch; their honour, worth, and place,
Was crime enough; their ſtatues, arms & crowns;
Their ornaments of Triumph, Chariots, Gowns,
And what the Herauld with a learned care,
Had long preſerv'd, this madnes will not ſpare.
So once Sejanus Statue Rome allow'd
Her Demi-god, and ev'ry Roman bow'd
To pay his ſafeties vowes; but when that face
Had loſt Tyberius once, it's former grace
Was ſoone eclips'd; no diff'rence made (Alas!)
Betwixt his Statute then, and common Braſſe;
They melt alike, and in the Workmans hand
For equall, ſervile uſe, like others ſtand.
Goe now fetch home freſh Bayes, and pay new vowes
To thy dumbe Capitoll gods! thy life, thy houſe,
And ſtate are now ſecur'd; Sejanus lyes
I'th'Lictors hands; ye gods! what hearts, & eyes
Can one dayes fortune change? the ſolemne crye
Of all the world is, Let Sejanus dye:
They never lov'd the man they ſweare, they know
Nothing of all the matter; when, or how,
By what accuſer, for what cauſe, or why,
By whoſe command, or ſentence he muſt dye.
But what needs this? the leaſt pretence will hit,
When Princes feare, or hate a Favourite.
A large Epiſtle ſtuff'd with idle feare,
Vaine dreames, and jealouſies, directed here
From Caprea does it; And thus ever dye
Subjects, when once they grow prodigious high.
'Tis well, I ſeeke no more; but tell me how
This tooke his friends? no private murmurs now?
No teares? no ſolemne mourner ſeene? muſt all
His Glory periſh in one funerall?
O ſtill true Romans! State-wit bids them praiſe
The Moone by night; but court the warmer rayes
O'th' Sun by day; they follow fortune ſtill,
And hate, or love diſcreetly, as their will
And the time leades them; This tumultuous fate
Puts all their painted favours out of date:
And yet this people that now ſpurne, & tread
This mighty Favourites once honour'd head,
Had but the Tuſcaine goddeſſe, or his Stars
Deſtin'd him for an Empire, or had wars,
Treaſon, or policie, or ſome higher pow'r
Oppreſt ſecure Tyberius; that ſame houre
That he receiv'd the ſad Gemonian doome,
Had crown'd him Emp'ror of the world, & Rome.
But Rome is now growne wiſe, & ſince that ſhe
Her Suffrages, and ancient Libertie,
Loſt in a Monarchs name; ſhe takes no care
For Favourite, or Prince; nor will ſhe ſhare
Their fickle glories, though in Cato's dayes
She rul'd whole States, & Armies with her voice,
Of all the honours now within her walls,
She only doats on Playes, and Feſtivalls:
Nor is it ſtrange; for when theſe Meteors fall,
They draw an ample ruine with them; All
Share in the ſtorm; each beame ſets with the Sun,
And equall hazard friends, and flatt'rers run.
This makes, that circled with diſtractive feare
The liveleſſe, pale Sejanus limbes they teare,
And leaſt the action might a witneſſe need,
They bring their ſervants to confirme the deed,
Nor is it done for any other end,
Then to avoid the title of his friend.
So fals ambitious man, and ſuch are ſtill
All floating States built on the peoples will:
Hearken all you! whom this bewitching luſt
Of an houres glory, and a little duſt
Swels to ſuch deare repentance! you that can
Meaſure whole kingdoms with a thought or ſpan
Would you be as Sejanus? would you have
So you might ſway as he did, ſuch a grave?
Would you be rich as he? command, diſpoſe,
All Acts, and Offices? All friends, and foes?
Be Generalls of Armies, and Colleague
Unto an Emperour? breake, or make a league?
No doubt you would; for both the good, and bad,
An eqnall itch of honour ever had:
But O what State can be ſo great, or good,
As to be bought with ſo much ſhame, and bloud!
Alas! Sejanus will too late confeſſe
'Twas only pride, and greatnes made him leſſe:
For he that moveth with the lofty wind
Of Fortune, and ambition, unconfin'd
In act, or thought; doth but increaſe his height,
That he may looſe it with more force, & weight;
Scorning a baſe, low ruine, as if he
Would of misfortune, make a Prodigie.
Tell mighty Pompey, Craſſus, and O thou
That mad'ſt Rome kneele to thy victorious brow,
What but the weight of honours, and large fame
After your worthy Acts, and height of name,
Deſtroy'd you in the end? the envious Fates
Eaſie to further your aſpiring States,
Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and exceſſe
In ev'ry Act did make you thrive the leſſe:
Few Kings are guiltie of gray haires, or dye
Without a ſtab, a draught, or trecherie:
And yet to ſee him, that but yeſterday
Saw letters firſt, how he will ſcrape, and pray;
And all her Feaſt-time tyre Minervaes eares
For Fame, for Eloquence, and ſtore of yeares
To thrive and live in; and then leſt he doates,
His boy aſſiſts him with his boxe, and notes;
Foole that thou art! not to diſcerne the ill
Theſe vows include; what, did Rom's Conſull kill
Her Cicero? what, him whoſe very duſt
Greece celebrates as yet; whoſe cauſe though juſt,
Scarſe baniſhment could end; nor poyſon ſave
His free borne perſon from a forraigne grave:
All this from Eloquence! both head, and hand,
The tongue doth forfeit; pettie wits may ſtand
Secure from danger, but the nobler veine,
With loſſe of bloud the barre doth often ſtaine.
O fortunatam natam me Conſule Romam.Carmen Ciceronianum.
Had all been thus, thou might'ſt have ſcorn'd the ſword
Of fierce Antonius, here is not one word
Doth pinch, I like ſuch ſtuffe; 'tis ſafer far
Then thy Philippicks, or Pharſalia's war:
What ſadder end then his, whom Athens ſaw
At once her Patriot, Oracle, and Law?
Unhappy then is he, and curs'd in Stars,
Whom his poore Father, blind with ſoot, & ſcars
Sends from the Anviles harmles chine, to weare
The factious gowne, and tyre his Clients eare,
And purſe with endles noiſe; Trophies of war
Old ruſty armour, with an honour'd ſcar;
And wheeles of captiv'd Chariots, with a peece
Of ſome torne Brittiſh Galley, and to theſe
The Enſigne too, and laſt of all the traine
The penſive pris'ner loaden with his Chaine,
Are thought true Roman honors; theſe the Greek
And rude Barbarians equally doe ſeeke
Thus aire, and empty fame, are held a prize
Beyond faire vertue; for all vertue dyes
Without reward; And yet by this fierce luſt
Of Fame, and titles to ovtlive our duſt,
And Monuments; (though all theſe things muſt dye
And periſh like our ſelves) whole Kingdomes lye
Ruin'd, and ſpoil'd: Put Hannibal i'th' ſcale,
What weight affords the mighty Generall?
This is the man, whom Africks ſpacious Land
Bounded by th' Indian Sea, and Niles hot ſand,
Could not containe; (Ye gods! that give to men
Such boundles appetites, why ſtate you them
So ſhort a time? either the one deny,
Or give their acts, and them Eternitie)
All Aethiopia, to the utmoſt bound
Of Titans courſe, (then which no Land is found
Leſſe diſtant from the Sun) with him that ploughs
That fertile ſoile where fram'd Iberus flowes,
Are not enough to conquer; paſt now o're
The Pyrene hills, The Alps with all its ſtore
Of Ice, and Rocks clad in eternall ſnow
(As if that Nature meant to give the blow)
Denyes him paſſage; ſtraight on ev'ry ſide
He wounds the Hill, and by ſtrong hand divides
The monſtrous pile, nought can ambition ſtay
The world, and nature yeeld to give him way:
And now paſt o're the Alps, that mighty bar
'Twixt France, and Rome, feare of the future war
Strikes Italy; ſucceſſe, and hope doth fire
His lofty ſpirits with a freſh deſire.
All is undone as yet (ſaith he) unleſſe
Our Paeniſh forces we advance, and preſſe
Upon Rome's ſelfe; break downe her gates, & wall,
And plant our Colours in Suburra's Vale.
O the rare ſlight! if this great ſouldier wee
Arm'd on his Getick Elephant might ſee!
But what's the event? O glory! how the itch
Of thy ſhort wonders doth mankinde bewitch!
He that but now all Italy, and Spaine,
Had conquer'd o're, is beaten out againe;
And in the heart of Africk, and the ſight
Of his owne Carthage, forc'd to open flight.
Baniſh'd from thence, a fugitive he poſts
To Syria firſt, then to Bythinia's Coaſts;
Both places by his ſword ſecur'd; though he
In this diſtreſſe muſt not acknowledg'd be;
Where once a Generall he triumphed, now
To ſhew what Fortune can, he begs as low.
And thus that ſoule, which through all nations hurl'd
Conqueſt, and warre, and did amaze the world;
Of all thoſe glories rob'd at his laſt breath,
Fortune would not vouchſafe a ſouldiers death,
For all that bloud the field of Cannae boaſts,
And ſad Apulia fill'd with Roman ghoaſts:
No other end (freed from the pile, and ſword)
Then a poore Ring would Fortune him afford.
Goe now ambitious man! new plots deſigne,
March o're the ſnowie Alps, and Apennine;
That after all, at beſt thou mayſt but be
A pleaſing ſtory to poſteritie!
The Macedon one world could not containe,
We heare him of the narrow Earth complaine,
And ſweat for roome, as if Seryphus Ile,
Or Gyara had held him in Exile:
But Babylon this madnes can allay,
And give the great man but his length of clay;
The higheſt thoughts, and actions under Heaven,
Death only with the loweſt duſt layes even.
It is believed (if what Greece writes be true)
That Xerxes with his Perſian Fleet did hewe
Their waies throgh mountains, that their ſails full blowne,
Like clouds hung over Athos, and did drowne
The ſpacious Continent, and by plaine force
Betwixt the Mount, and it made a divorce;
That Seas exhauſted were, and made firme land,
And Seſtos joyned unto Abidos Strand;
That on their march, his Meades but paſſing by,
Dranke thee Scamander, and Melenus dry;
With what ſoe're incredible deſigne
Soſtratus ſings inſpired with pregnant Wine:
But what's the end? He that the other day
Divided Helleſpont, and forc'd his way
Through all her angry billowes; that aſſigned
New puniſhments unto the waves, and wind:
No ſooner ſaw the Salaminian Seas,
But he was driven out by Themiſtocles,
And of that Fleet (ſuppos'd to be ſo great,
That all mankinde ſhar'd in the ſad defeate)
Not one Sayle ſav'd in a poore Fiſhers boat,
Chas'd o're the working ſurge, was glad to float,
Cutting his deſp'rate courſe through the tyr'd floud,
And fought againe with Carkaſſes, and bloud.
O fooliſh mad ambition! theſe are ſtill
The famous dangers that attend thy will.
Give ſtore of dayes, good Iove, give length of yeares,
Are the next vowes; theſe with religious feares,
And Conſtancie we pay; but what's ſo bad,
As a long, ſinfull age? what croſſe more ſad
Then miſery of yeares? how great an Ill
Is that, which doth but nurſe more ſorrow ſtill?
It blacks the face, corrupts, and duls the bloud,
Benights the quickeſt eye, diſtaſts the food,
And ſuch deep furrowes cuts i'th' Checker'd skin
As in th'old Okes of Tabraca are ſeene.
Youth varies in moſt things; ſtrength, beauty, wit,
Are ſeverall graces; but where age doth hit,
It makes no diff'rence; the ſame weake voice,
And trembling ague in each member lyes:
A generall, batefull baldnes, with a curſt
Perpetuall pettiſhnes; and which is worſt,
A foule, ſtrong fluxe of humors, and more paine
To feed, then if he were to nurſe again.
So tedious to himſelfe, his wife, and friends,
That his owne ſonnes, and ſervants, wiſh his end,
His taſt, and feeling dyes; and of that fire
The am'rous Lover burnes in, no deſire:
Or if there were, what pleaſure could it be,
Where luſt doth raigne without abilitie?
Nor is this all, what matters it, where he
Sits in the ſpacious Stage? who can nor ſee,
Nor heare what's acted, whom the ſtiller voice
Of ſpirited, wanton ayres, or the loud noiſe
Of Trumpets cannot pierce; whom thunder can
But ſcarſe informe who enters, or what man
He perſonates, what 'tis they act, or ſay?
How many Scaenes are done? what time of day?
Beſides that little bloud, his carkaſſe holds,
Hath low its native warmth, & fraught wth colds,
Catarrhs, and rheumes, to thick, black jelly turns,
And never but in fits, and feavers burnes;
Such vaſt infirmities, ſo huge a ſtock
Of ſicknes, and diſeaſes to him flock,
That Hyppia ne're ſo many Lovers knew,
Nor wanton Maura; Phiſick never ſlew
So many Patients, nor rich Lawyers ſpoile
More Wards, and Widowes; it were leſſer toile
To number out what Mannors, and Demaines,
Licinius razer purchas'd: One complaines
Of weaknes in the back, another pants
For lack of breath, the third his eyeſight wants;
Nay ſome ſo feeble are, and full of paine,
That Infant like they muſt be fed againe.
Theſe faint too at their meales; their wine they ſpill,
And like young birds, that wait the Mothers Bill
They gape for meat; but ſadder far then this
Their ſenſleſſe ignorance, and dotage is;
For neither they, their friends, nor ſervants know,
Nay thoſe themſelves begot, and bred up too
No longer now they'le owne; for madly they
Proſcribe them all, and what on the laſt day,
The Miſers cannot carry to the Grave
For their paſt ſinnes, their proſtitutes muſt have.
But grant age lack'd theſe plagues; yet muſt they ſee
As great, as many: Fraile Mortalitie
In ſuch a length of yeares, hath many falls,
And deads a life with frequent funerals.
The nimbleſt houre in all the ſpan, can ſteale
A friend, or brother from's; there's no Repeale
In death, or time; this day a wife we mourne,
To morrowes teares a ſonne, and the next Urne
A Siſter fills; Long-livers have aſſign'd
Theſe curſes ſtill: That with a reſtles mind,
An age of freſh renewing cares they buye,
And in a tide of teares grow old and dye.
Neſtor, (if we great Homer may believe)
In his full ſtrength three hundred yeares did live:
Happy (thou'lt ſay) that for ſo long a time
Enjoy'd free nature with the grape, and Wine
Of many Autumnes; but I prethee, heare
What Neſtor ſayes himſelfe, when he his deare
Antilochus had loſt, how he complaines
Of life's too large Extent, and copious paines?
Of all he meets, he askes what is the cauſe
He lived thus long; for what breach of their Laws
The gods thus puniſh'd him? what ſinne had he
Done worthy of a long lifes miſerie?
Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he
Thus wept that his Vlyſſes loſt at Sea.
Had Priam dyed, before Phereclus Fleet
Was built, or Paris ſtole the fatall Greeke,
Troy had yet ſtood, and he perhaps had gone
In peace unto the lower ſhades; His ſonne
Saved with his plenteous offspring, and the reſt
In ſolemne pompe bearing his fun'rall Cheſt;
But long life hinder'd this: Unhappy he,
Kept for a publick ruine; lived to ſee
All Aſia loſt, and e're he could expire,
In his owne houſe ſaw both the ſword, and fire;
All white with age, and cares, his feeble arme
Had now forgot the warre; but this Allarme
Gathers his dying ſpirits; and as wee
An aged Oxe worne out with labour, ſee,
By his ungratefull Maſter, after all
His yeares of toyle, a thankles victime fall:
So he by Ioves owne Altar; which ſhewes, wee
Are no where ſafe from Heaven, and deſtinie:
Yet dyed a man; but his ſurviving Queene,
Freed from the Greekiſh ſword was barking ſeen.
I haſte to Rome, and Pontus King let paſſe,
With Lydian Craeſus, whom in vaine (Alas!)
Juſt Solons grave advice bad to attend,
That happines came not before the end.
What man more bleſt in any age to come
Or paſt, could Nature ſhew the world, or Rome,
Then Marius was? if 'midſt the pompe of war,
And triumphs fetch'd with Roman bloud from far
His ſoule had fled; Exile, and fetters then,
He ne're had ſeen, nor known Mynturna's fenne;
Nor had it, after Carthage got, been ſed,
A Roman Generall had beg'd his bread.
Thus Pompey th' envious gods, & Romes ill ſtars
(Freed from Campania's feavers, and the Wars)
Doom'd to Achilles ſword: Our publick vowes
Made Caeſar guiltles; but ſent him to looſe
His head at Nile; This curſe Cethegus miſt;
This Lentulus, and this made him reſiſt
That mangled by no Lictors axe, fell dead
Entirely Catiline, and ſaved his head.
The anxious Matrons, with their fooliſh zeale,
Are the laſt Votaries, and their Appeale
Is all for beauty; with ſoft ſpeech, and ſlow,
They pray for ſons, but with a louder vow
Commend a female feature: All that can
Make woman pleaſing now they ſhift, and ſcan:
And why reprov'd they ſay, Latona's paire
The Mother never thinks can be too faire.
But ſad Lucretia warnes to wiſh no face
Like hers; Virginia would bequeath her grace
To Crooke-backe Rutila in exchange; for ſtill
The faireſt children do their Parents fill
With greateſt cares; ſo ſeldome Chaſtitie
Is found with beauty; though ſome few there be
That with a ſtrict, religious care contend
Th' old, modeſt, Sabine Cuſtomes to defend:
Beſides, wiſe nature to ſome faces grants
An eaſie bluſh, and where ſhee freely plants,
A leſſe Inſtruction ſerves; but both theſe joyn'd,
At Rome would both be forc'd or elſe purloyn'd.
So ſteel'd a forehead vice hath, that dares win,
And bribe the Father to the Childrens ſin;
But whom have gifts defiled not? what good face
Did ever want theſe tempters? pleaſing grace
Betraies it ſelfe; what time did Nero mind
A courſe, maim'd ſhape? what blemiſh'd youth confin'd
His goatiſh Pathick? whence then ſlow theſe joies
Of a faire iſſue? whom theſe ſad annoies
Waite, and grow up with; whom perhaps thou'lt ſee
Publick Adulterers, and muſt be
Subject to all the Curſes, Plagues, and awe
Of jealous mad men, and the Iulian Law;
Nor canſt thou hope they'le find a milder Starre,
Or more eſcapes then did the God of Warre;
But worſe then all, a jealous braine confines:
His furie to no Law; what rage aſſignes;
Is preſent juſtice: Thus the raſh Sword ſpils
This Lechers bloud, the ſcourge another kils.
But thy ſpruce boy muſt touch no other face
Then a Patrician? Is of any race
So they be rich; Servilia is as good
With wealth, as ſhee that boaſts Iulus blood:
To pleaſe a ſervant all is cheape; what thing
In all their ſtocke to the laſt ſuite, and King
But luſt exacts? the pooreſt whore in this,
As generous as the Patrician is.
But thou wilt ſay what hurt's a beauteous skin
With a chaſte ſoule? aske Theſeus ſonne, and him
That Stenobaea murther'd; for both theſe
Can tell how fatall 'twas in them to pleaſe;
A womans ſpleene then carries moſt of fate,
When ſhame and ſorrow aggravate her hate:
Reſolve me now, had Silius been thy ſonne,
In ſuch a hazzard what ſhould he have done?
Of all Romes youth, this was the only beſt,
In whom alone beauty, and worth did reſt:
This Meſſalina ſaw, and needs he muſt
Be ruin'd by the Emp'rour, or her luſt,
All in the face of Rome, and the worlds eye,
Though Ceſars wife, a publicke Bigamie
Shee dares attempt; and that the act might beare
More prodigie, the notaries appeare,
And Augures to't; and to compleat the ſin
In ſolemne forme, a dowrie is brought in;
All this (thou'lt ſay) in private might have paſt,
But ſhee'le not have it ſo; what courſe at laſt?
What ſhould he doe? If Meſſaline be croſt
Without redreſſe thy Silius will be loſt;
If not, ſome two daies length is all he can
Keep from the grave; juſt ſo much as will ſpan
This newes to Hoſtia, to whoſe fate he owes
That Claudius laſt his owne diſhonour knowes.
But he obeyes, and for a few houres luſt,
Forfeits that glory ſhould outlive his duſt,
Nor was it much a fault; for, whether he
Obey'd, or not; 'twas equall deſtinie:
So fatall beauty is, and full of waſt,
That neither wanton can be ſafe, nor chaſt.
What then ſhould man pray for? what is't that he
Can beg of Heaven, without Impiety?
Take my advice: firſt to the Gods commit
All cares; for they things competent, and fit
For us foreſee; beſides man is more deare
To them, then to himſelfe: we blindly here
Led by the world, and luſt, in vaine aſſay
To get us portions, wives, and ſonnes; but they
Already know all that we can intend,
And of our Childrens Children ſee the end.
Yet that thou may'ſt have ſomething to commend
With thankes unto the Gods for what they ſend;
Pray for a wiſe, and knowing ſoule; a ſad
Diſcreet, true valour, that will ſcorne to adde
A needleſſe horrour to thy death; that knowes
'Tis but a debt which man to nature owes;
That ſtarts not at misfortunes, that can ſway,
And keep all paſſions under locke and key;
That couets nothing, wrongs none, and preferres
An honeſt want before rich injurers;
All this thou haſt within thy ſelfe, and may
Be made thy owne, if thou wilt take the way;
What boots the worlds wild, looſe applauſe? what
Fraile, perillous honours adde unto a man?
What length of years, wealth, or a rich faire wife?
Vertue alone can make a happy life.
To a wiſe man nought comes amiſſe: but we
Fortune adore, and make our Deity.
FINIS.