Poems, Poem 29 – Elegy 5
Obſequies to the Lord Harringtons brother.
To the Counteſſe of Bedford.
FAire ſoule, which waſt, not onelyonly, as all ſoules bee,
Then when thou waſt infuſed, harmony,
But did'ſt continue ſo; and now doſt beare
A part in Gods great organ, this whole Spheare:
If looking up to God; or downe to us,
Thou finde that any way is pervious,
Twixt heav'n and earth, and that mans actions doe
Come to your knowledge, and affections too,
See, and with joy, mee to that good degree
Of goodneſſe growne, that I can ſtudie thee,
And, by theſe meditations refin'd,
Can unapparell and enlarge my minde,
And ſo can make by this ſoft extaſie,
This place a map of heav'n, my ſelfe of thee.
Thou ſeeſt mee here at midnight, now all reſt;
Times dead-low water; when all mindes deveſt
To morrows buſineſſe, when the labourers have
Such reſt in bed, that their laſt Church-yard grave,
Subject to change, will ſcarce be'a type of this,
Now when the clyent, whoſe laſt hearing is
To morrow, ſleeps, when the condemned man,
(Who when hee opes his eyes, muſt ſhut them than
Againe by death,) although ſad watch hee keepe,
Doth practice dying by a little ſleepe,
Thou at this midnight ſeeſt mee, and as ſoone
As that Sunne riſes to mee, midnight's noone,
All the world growes tranſparent, and I ſee
Through all, both Church and State, in ſeeing thee;
And I diſcerne by favour of this light,
My ſelfe, the hardeſt object of the ſight.
God is the glaſſe; as thou when thou doſt ſee
Him who ſees all, ſeeſt all concerning thee,
So, yet unglorified, I comprehend
All, in theſe mirrors of thy wayes, and end;
Though God be our true glaſſ, through which we ſee
All, ſince the beeing of all things is hee,
Yet are the trunkes which doe to us derive
Things, in proportion fit by perſpective,
Deeds of good men, for by their living here,
Vertues, indeed remote, ſeeme to be nere;
But where can I affirme, or where arreſt
My thoughts on his deeds? which ſhall I call beſt?
For fluid vertue cannot be look'd on,
Nor can endure a contemplation;
As bodies change, and as I do not weare
Thoſe Spirits, humors, blood I did laſt yeare,
And, as if on a ſtreame I fixe mine eye,
That drop, which I looked on, is preſently
Puſht with more waters from my ſight, and gone,
So in this ſea of vertues, can no one
Bee'inſiſted on, vertues, as rivers, paſſe,
Yet ſtill remaines that vertuous man there was;
And as if man feeds on mans fleſh, and ſo
Part of his body to another owe,
Yet at the laſt two perfect bodies riſe,
Becauſe God knowes where every Atome lyes;
So, if one knowledge were made of all thoſe,
Who knew his minutes well, hee might diſpoſe
His vertues into names, and ranks; but I
Should injure Nature, Vertue, and Deſtinie,
Should I divide and diſcontinue ſo,
Vertue, which did in one intireneſſe grow.
For as, hee that would ſay, ſpirits are fram'd
Of all the pureſt parts that can be nam'd,
Honours not ſpirits halfe ſo much, as hee
Which ſayes, they have no parts, but ſimple bee;
So is't of vertue; for a point and one
Are much entirer then a million.
And had Fate meant to have his vertues told,
It would have let him live to have beene old,
So then, that vertue in ſeaſon, and then this,
We might have ſeene, and ſaid, that now he is
Witty, now wiſe, now temperate, now juſt:
In good ſhort lives, vertues are faine to thruſt,
And to be ſure betimes to get a place,
When they would exerciſe, lacke time, and ſpace.
So was it in this perſon, forc'd to bee
For lack of time, his owne epitome.
So to exhibit in few yeares as much,
As all the long breath'd Chronicles can touch;
As when an Angell down from heav'n doth flye,
Our quick thought cannot keepe him company,
Wee cannot thinke, now hee is at the Sunne,
Now through the Moon, now he through th'aire doth run,
Yet when he's come, we know he did repaire
To all twixt Heav'n and Earth, Sunne, Moon, and Aire.
And as this Angell in an inſtant, knowes,
And yet wee know, this ſodaine knowledge growes
By quick amaſſing ſeverall formes of things,
Which he ſucceſſively to order brings;
When they, whoſe ſlow-pac'd lame thoughts cannot goe
So faſt as hee, thinke that he doth not ſo;
Juſt as a perfect reader doth not dwell,
On every ſyllable, nor ſtay to ſpell,
Yet without doubt, hee doth diſtinctly ſee
And lay together every A, and B;
So, in ſhort liv'd good men, is'not underſtood
Each ſeverall vertue, but the compound good.
For, they all vertues paths in that pace tread,
As Angells goe, and know, and as men read.
O why ſhould then theſe men, theſe lumps of Balme
Sent hither, the worlds tempeſt to becalme,
Before by deeds they are diffus'd and ſpred,
And ſo make us alive, themſelves be dead?
O Soule, O circle, why ſo quickly bee
Thy ends, thy birth and death clos'd up in thee?
Since one foot of thy compaſſe ſtill was plac'd
In heav'n, the other might ſecurely'have pac'd
In the moſt large extent, through every path,
Which the whole world, or man, the abridgment hath.
Thou knowſt, that though the tropique circles have
(Yea and thoſe ſmall ones which the Poles engrave,)
All the ſame roundneſſe, evenneſſe, and all
The endleſneſſe of the equinoctiall;
Yet, when we come to meaſure diſtances,
How here, how there, the Sunne affected is,
When he doth faintly worke, and when prevaile,
OnelyOnly great circles, then, can be our ſcale:
So, though thy circle to thy ſelfe expreſſe
All, tending to thy endleſſe happineſſe,
And wee, by our good uſe of it may trye,
Both how to live well young, and how to die,
Yet, ſince we muſt be old, and age endures
His Torrid Zone at Court, and calentures
Of hot ambitions, irrelegions ice,
Zeales agues; and hydroptique avarice,
Infirmities which need the ſcale of truth,
As well, as luſt and ignorance of youth;
Why did'ſt thou not for theſe give medicines too,
And by thy doing tell us what to doe?
Though as ſmall pocket-clocks, whoſe every wheele
Doth each miſmotion and diſtemper feele,
Whoſe hands get ſhaking palſies, and whoſe ſtring
(His ſinewes) ſlackens, and whoſe Soule, the ſpring,
Expires, or languiſhes, whoſe pulſe, the flye,
Either beates not, or beates unevenly,
Whoſe voice, the Bell, doth rattle, or grow dumbe,
Or idle, 'as men, which to their laſt houres come,
If theſe clockes be not wound, or be wound ſtill,
Or be not ſet, or ſet at every will;
So, youth is eaſieſt to deſtruction,
If then wee follow all, or follow none;
Yet, as in great clocks, which in ſteeples chime,
Plac'd to informe whole towns, to'imploy their time,
An error doth more harme, being generall,
When, ſmall clocks faults, only'on the wearer fall.
So worke the faults of age, on which the eye
Of children, ſervants, or the State relie.
Why wouldſt not thou then, which hadſt ſuch a ſoule,
A clock ſo true, as might the Sunne controule,
And daily hadſt from him, who gave it thee,
Inſtructions, ſuch as it could never be
Diſordered, ſtay here, as a generall
And great Sun-dyall, to have ſet us All?
O why wouldſt thou be any inſtrument
To this unnaturall courſe, or why conſent
To this, not miracle, but Prodigie,
That when the ebbs, longer then flowings be,
Vertue, whoſe flood did with thy youth begin,
Should ſo much faſter ebb out, then flow'in?
Though her flood was blowne in, by thy firſt breath,
All is at once ſunke in the whirle-poole death.
Which word I would not name, but that I ſee
Death, elſe a deſert, growne a Court by thee.
Now I grow ſure, that if a man would have
Good companie, his entry is a grave.
Mee thinkes all Cities, now, but Anthills bee,
Where, when the ſeverall labourers I ſee,
For children, houſe, Proviſion, taking paine,
They'are all but Ants, carrying eggs, ſtraw, and grain;
And Church-yards are our cities, unto which
The moſt repaire, that are in goodneſſe rich.
There is the beſt concourſe, and confluence,
There are the holy ſuburbs, and from thence
Begins Gods City, New Jeruſalem,
Which doth extend her utmoſt gates to them;
At that gate then Triumphant ſoule, doſt thou
Begin thy Triumph; But ſince lawes allow
That at the Triumph day, the people may,
All that they will, 'gainſt the Triumpher ſay,
Let me here uſe that freedome, and expreſſe
My griefe, though not to make thy Triumph leſſe.
By law, to Triumphs none admitted bee,
Till they as Magiſtrates get victorie,
Though then to thy force, all youthes foes did yield,
Yet till fit time had brought thee to that field,
To which thy ranke in this ſtate deſtin'd thee,
That there thy counſailes might get victorie,
And ſo in that capacitie remove,
All jealouſies, 'twixt Prince and ſubjects love,
Thou could'ſt no title, to this triumph have,
Thou didſt intrude on death, uſurp'ſt a grave.
That (though victoriouſly) thou hadſt fought as yet
But with thine owne affections, with the heate
Of youths deſires, and colds of ignorance,
But till thou ſhould'ſt ſucceſſefully advance
Thine armes'gainſt forraine enemies, which are
Both Envy, and acclamation popular,
(For, both theſe engines equally defeate,
Though by a divers Mine, thoſe which are great,)
Till then thy War was but a civill War,
For which to Triumph, none admitted are;
No more are they, who though with good ſucceſſe,
…n a defenſive war▪ their power expreſſe,
Before men triumph, the dominion
Muſt be enlarg'd, and not preſerv'd alone;
Why ſhould'ſt thou then, whoſe battailes were to win
Thy ſelfe, from thoſe ſtraits nature put thee in,
And to deliver up to God that ſtate,
Of which he gave thee the vicariate.
(Which is thy ſoule and body) as intire
As he, who takes endeavours, doth require,
But didſt not ſtay, t'enlarge his kingdome too,
By making others; what thou didſt, to doe;
Why ſhouldſt thou Triumph now, when Heav'n no more
Hath got, by getting thee, then t'had before?
For, Heav'n and thou, even when thou livedſt here,
Of one another in poſſeſſion were;
But this from Triumph moſt diſables thee,
That, that place which is conquered, muſt bee
Left ſafe from preſent warre, and likely doubt
Of imminent commotions to breake out.
And hath he left us ſo? or can it bee
His territory was no more then Hee?
No, we were all his charge, the Diocis
Of ev'ry exemplar man, the whole world is,
And he was joyned in commiſſion
With Tutelar Angels, ſent to every one.
But though this freedome to upbraid, and chide
Him who Triumph'd, were lawfull, it was ty'd
With this, that it might never reference have
Unto the Senate, who this triumph gave;
Men might at Pompey jeaſt, but they might not
At that authoritie, by which he got
Leave to Triumph, before, by age, he might;
So, though triumphant ſoule, I dare to write,
Mov'd with a reverentiall anger, thus,
That thou ſo earely wouldſt abandon us;
Yet I am farre from daring to diſpute
With that great ſoveraigntie, whoſe abſolute
Prerogative hath thus diſpenſ'd with thee,
'Gainſt natures lawes, which juſt impugners bee
Of early triumphs; And I (though with paine)
Leſſen our loſſe, to magnifie thy gaine
Of triumph, when I ſay, It was more fit,
That all men ſhould lacke thee, then thou lack it.
Though then in our time, be not ſuffered
That teſtimonie of love, unto the dead,
To die with them, and in their graves be hid,
As Saxon wives, and French ſoldarii did;
And though in no degree I can expreſſe,
Griefe in great Alexanders great exceſſe,
Who at his friends death, made whole townes deveſt
Their walls and bullwarks which became them beſt:
Doe not, faire ſoule, this ſacrifice refuſe,
That in thy grave I doe interre my Muſe,
Who, by my griefe, great as thy worth, being caſt
Behind hand, yet hath ſpoke, and ſpoke her laſt.
Elegie.
AS the ſweet ſweat of Roſes in a Still,
As that which frō chaf'd muskats pores doth trill,
As the Almighty Balme of th'early Eaſt,
Such are the ſweat drops of my Miſtris breaſt.
And on her necke her skin ſuch luſtre ſets,
They ſeeme no ſweat drops, but pearle coronets.
Ranke ſweaty froth thy Miſtreſſe's brow defiles,
Like ſpermatique iſſue of ripe menſtruous boiles.
Or like the skumme, which, by needs lawleſſe law
Enforc'd, Sanſerra's ſtarved men did draw
From parboild ſhooes, and bootes, and all the reſt
Which were with any ſoveraigne fatnes bleſt,
And like vile ſtones lying in ſaffrond tinne,
Or warts, or wheales, it hangs upon her skinne.
Round as the world's her head, on every ſide,
Like to the fatall Ball which fell on Ide,
Or that whereof God had ſuch jealouſie,
As, for the raviſhing thereof we die.
Thy head is like a rough-hewne ſtatue of jeat,
Where marks for eyes, noſe, mouth, are yet ſcarce ſet;
Like the firſt Chaos, or flat ſeeming face
Of Cynthia, when th'earths ſhadowes her embrace.
Like Proſerpines white beauty-keeping cheſt,
Or Joues beſt fortunes urne, is her faire breſt.
Thine's like worme eaten trunkes, cloth'd in ſeals skin,
Or grave, that's duſt without, and ſtinke within.
And like that ſlender ſtalke, at whoſe end ſtands
The wood-bine quivering, are her armes and hands,
Like rough bark'd elmboughes, or the ruſſet skin
Of men late ſcurg'd for madnes, or for ſinne,
Like Sun-parch'd quarters on the citie gate,
Such is thy tann'd skins lamentable ſtate.
And like a bunch of ragged carrets ſtand
The ſhort ſwolne fingers of her gouty hand;
Then like the Chymicks maſculine equall fire,
Which in the Lymbecks warme wombe doth inſpire
Into th'earths worthleſſe part a ſoule of gold,
Such cheriſhing heat her beſt lov'd part doth hold.
Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gunne,
Or like hot liquid metalls newly runne
Into clay moulds, or like to that Aetna
Where round about the graſſe is burnt away.
Are not your kiſſes then as filthy, and more,
As a worme ſucking an invenom'd ſore?
Doth not thy fearefull hand in feeling quake,
As one which gath'ring flowers, ſtill feares a ſnake?
Is not your laſt act harſh, and violent,
As where a Plough a ſtony ground doth rent?
So kiſſe good Turtles, ſo devoutly nice
Are Prieſts in handling reverent ſacrifice,
And nice in ſearching wounds the Surgeon is
As wee, when wee embrace, or touch, or kiſſe.
Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus,
She, and compariſons are odious.
Elegie.
The Autumnall.
NO Spring, nor Summer Beauty hath ſuch grace,
As I have ſeen in one Autumnall face,
Yong Beauties force our love, and that's a Rape,
This doth but counſaile, yet you cannot ſcape.
If t'were a ſhame to love, here t'were no ſhame,
Affections here take Reverences name.
Were her firſt yeares the Golden Age; That's true,
But now they'are gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable Tropique clyme.
Faire eyes, who askes more heate, then comes from hence,
He in a fever wiſhes peſtilence.
Call not theſe wrinkles, graves; If graves they were,
They were Loves graves; for elſe he is no where.
Yet lies not love dead here, but here doth ſit
Vow'd to this trench, like an Anachorit.
And here, till hers, which muſt be his death, come,
He doth not digge a Grave, but build a Tombe.
Iere dwells he, though he ſojourne ev'ry where;
In Progreſſe, yet his ſtanding houſe is here.
Iere, where ſtill Evening is; not noone, nor night;
Where no voluptuouſneſſe,, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at Revels, you at counſaile, ſit.
This is loves timber, youth his under-wood;
There he, as wine in Iune, enrages blood,
Which then comes ſeaſonablieſt, when our taſt
And appetite to other things, is paſt;
Xerxes ſtrange Lydian love, the Platane tree,
Was lov'd for age, none being ſo large as ſhee,
Or elſe becauſe, being yong, nature did bleſſe
Her youth with ages glory, Barrenneſſe.
If we love things long ſought, Age is a thing
Which we are fifty yeares in compaſſing.
If tranſitory things, which ſoone decay,
Age muſt be lovelyeſt at the lateſt day.
But name not Winter-faces, whoſe skin's ſlacke;
Lanke, as an unthrifts purſe; but a ſoules ſacke;
Whoſe Eyes ſeeke light within, for all here's ſhade;
Whoſe mouthes are holes, rather worne out, then made
Whoſe every tooth to a ſeverall place is gone,
To vexe their ſoules at Reſurrection;
Name not theſe living Deaths-heads unto mee,
For theſe, not Ancient, but Antique be;
I hate extreames; yet I had rather ſtay
With Tombs, then Cradles, to weare out a day.
Since ſuch loves motion natural is, may ſtill
My love deſcend, and journey downe the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties, ſo,
I ſhall ebbe out with them, who home-ward goe.
Elegie.
IMage of her whom I love, more then ſhe,
Whoſe faire impreſſion in my faithfull heart,
Makes mee her Medall, and makes her love mee,
As Kings do coynes, to which their ſtamps impart
The value: goe, and take my heart from hence,
Which now is growne too great and good for me:
Honours oppreſſe weake ſpirits, and our ſenſe,
Strong objects dull, the more, the leſſe wee ſee.
When you are gone, and Reaſon gone with you,
Then Fantaſie is Queene and Soule, and all;
She can preſent joyes meaner then you do;
Convenient, and more proportionall.
So, if I dreame I have you, I have you,
For, all our joyes are but fantaſticall.
And ſo I ſcape the paine, for paine is true;
And ſleepe which locks up ſenſe, doth lock out all.
After a ſuch fruition I ſhall wake,
And, but the waking, nothing ſhall repent;
And ſhall to love more thankfull Sonnets make,
Then if more honour, teares, and paines were ſpent.
But deareſt heart, and dearer image ſtay;
Alas, true joyes at beſt are dreame enough;
Though you ſtay here you paſſe too faſt away:
For even at firſt lifes Taper is a ſnuffe.
Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, then ideott with none.