Poems, Poems 3 – Poem 4
ELEGIE. I.
FOnd woman which would'ſt have thy huſband die,
And yet complain'ſt of his great jealouſie;
If ſwolne with poyſon, hee lay in'his laſt bed,
His body with a ſere-barke covered,
Drawing his breath, as thick and ſhort, as can
The nimbleſt crocheting Muſitian,
Ready with loathſome vomiting to ſpue
His Soule out of one hell, into a new,
Made deafe with his poore kindreds howling cries,
Begging with few feign'd teares, great legacies,
Thou would'ſt not weepe, but jolly, 'and frolicke bee,
As a ſlave, which to morrow ſhould be free,
Yet weep'ſt thou, when thou ſeeſt him hungerly
Swallow his owne death, hearts-bane jealouſie.
O give him many thanks, he'is courteous,
That in ſuſpecting kindly warneth us.
Wee muſt not, as wee us'd, flout openly,
In ſcoffing ridles, his deformitie;
Nor at his boord together being ſatt,
With words, nor touch, ſcarce lookes adulterate.
Nor when he ſwolne, and pamper'd with great fare
Sits downe, and ſnorts, cag'd in his basket chaire,
Muſt wee uſurpe his owne bed any more,
Nor kiſſe and play in his houſe, as before.
Now I ſee many dangers; for it is
His realme, his caſtle, and his dioceſſe.
But if, as envious men, which would revile
Their Prince, or coyne his gold, themſelves exile
Into another countrie, 'and doe it there,
Wee play'in another houſe, what ſhould we feare?
There we will scorne his houſhold policies,
His ſeely plots, and penſionary ſpies,
As the inhabitants of Thames right ſide
Do Londons Major, or Germans, the Popes pride.
Elegie II.
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for, ſhee
Hath all things, whereby others beautious bee,
For, though her eyes be ſmall, her mouth is great,
Though they be Ivory, yet her teeth be jear,
Though they be dimme, yet ſhe is light enough,
And though her harſh haire fall, her skinne is rough;
What though her cheeks be yellow, her haire's red,
Give her thine, and ſhe hath a maydenhead.
Theſe things are beauties elements, where theſe
Meet in one, that one muſt, as perfect, pleaſe.
If red and white and each good quality
Be in thy wench, ne'r aske where it doth lye.
In buying things perfum'd, we aske; if there
Be muske and amber in it, but not where.
Though all her parts be not in th'uſuall place,
She'hath yet an Anagram of a good face.
If we might put the letters but one way,
In the leane dearth of words, what could wee ſay?
When by the Gamut ſome Muſitions make
A perfect ſong, others will undertake,
By the ſame Gamut chang'd, to equall it.
Things ſimply good, can never be unfit;
She's faire as any, if all be like her,
And if none bee, then ſhe is ſingular.
All love is wonder; if wee juſtly doe
Account her wonderfull, why not lovely too?
Love built on beauty, ſoone as beauty, dies,
Chuſe this face, chang'd by no deformities;
Women are all like Angels; the faire be
Like thoſe which fell to worſe; but ſuch as ſhee,
Like to good Angels, nothing can impaire:
'Tis leſſe griefe to be foule, then to'have beene faire.
For one nights revels, ſilke and gold we chuſe,
But, in long journeyes, cloth, and leather uſe.
Beauty is barren oft; beſt huſbands ſay
There is beſt land, where there is fouleſt way.
Oh what a ſoveraigne Plaiſter will ſhee bee
If thy paſt ſinnes have taught thee jealouſie!
Here needs no ſpies, nor eunuches; her commit
Safe to thy foes; yea, to a Marmoſit.
When Belgiaes citties, the round countries drowne,
That durty fouleneſſe guards, and armes the towne:
So doth her face guard her; and ſo, for thee,
Which, forc'd by buſineſſe, abſent oft muſt bee,
Shee, whoſe face, like clouds, turnes the day to night,
Who, mightier thē the ſea, makes Moores ſeem white,
Who, though ſeaven yeares, ſhe in the Stews had laid,
A Nunnery durſt receive, and thinke a maid,
And though in childbeds labour ſhe did lie,
Midwifes would ſweare, 'twere but a tympanie,
Whom, if ſhee accuſe her ſelfe, I credit leſſe
Then witches, which impoſſibles confeſſe.
One like none, and lik'd of none, fitteſt were,
For, things in faſhion every man will weare.
Elegie III.
Although thy hand and faith, and good workes too,
Have ſeal'd thy love which nothing ſhould undoe,
Yea though thou fall backe, that apoſtaſie
Confirme thy love; yet much, much I feare thee.
Women, are like the Arts, forc'd unto none,
Open to'all ſearchers, unpriz'd, if unknowne.
If I have caught a bird, and let him flie,
Another fouler uſing theſe meanes, as I,
May catch the ſame bird; and, as theſe things bee,
Women are made for men, not him, nor mee.
Foxes and goats; all beaſts change when they pleaſe,
Shall women, more hot, wily, wild then theſe,
Be bound to one man, and did Nature then
Idly make them apter to'endure then men?
They'are our clogges, not their owne; if a man bee
Chain'd to a galley, yet the galley'is free;
Who hath a plow-land, caſts all his ſeed corne there,
And yet allowes his ground more corne ſhould beare;
Though Danuby into the ſea muſt flow,
The ſea receives the Rhene, Volga, and Po.
By nature, which gave it, this liberty
Thou lov'ſt, but Oh! canſt thou love it and mee?
Likeneſſe glues love: and if that thou ſo doe,
To make us like and love, muſt I change too?
More then thy hate, I hate'it, rather let mee
Allow her change, then change as oft as shee,
And ſoe not teach, but force my'opinion
To love not any one, nor every one.
To live in one land, is captivitie,
To runne all countries, a wild roguery;
Waters ſtincke ſoone, if in one place they bide,
And in the vaſt ſea are more putrifi'd:
But when they kiſſe one banke, and leaving this
Never looke backe, but the next banke doe kiſſe,
Then are they pureſt; Change'is the nurſery
Of muſicke, joy, life, and eternity.
Elegie IV.
Once, and but once found in thy company,
All thy ſuppos'd eſcapes are laid on mee;
And as a thiefe at barre, is queſtion'd there
By all the men, that have beene rob'd that yeare,
So am I, (by this traiterous meanes ſurpriz'd)
By thy Hydroptique father catechiz'd.
Though hee hath oft ſworne, that hee would remove
Thy beauties beautie, and food of our love,
Hope of his goods, if I with thee were ſeene,
Yet cloſe and ſecret, as our ſoules, we'have beene.
Though thy immortall mother which doth lye
Still buried in her bed, yet will not dye,
Takes this advantage to ſleepe out day-light,
And watch thy entries, and returnes all night,
And, when ſhe takes thy hand, and would ſeeme kind,
Doth ſearch what rings, and armelets ſhe can finde,
And kiſſing notes the colour of thy face,
And fearing leaſt thou'art ſwolne, doth thee embrace;
To trie if thou long, doth name ſtrange meates.
And notes thy paleneſſe, bluſhing, ſighs, and ſweats;
And politiquely will to thee confeſſe
The ſinnes of her owne youths ranke luſtineſſe;
Yet love theſe Sorceries did remove, and move
Thee to gull thine owne mother for my love.
Thy little brethren, which like Faiery Sprights
Oft skipt into our chamber, thoſe ſweet nights,
And kiſt, and ingled on thy fathers knee,
Were brib'd next day, to tell what they did ſee.
The grim-eight-foot-high-iron-bound ſerving-man,
That oft names God in oathes, and onelyonly than,
He that to barre the firſt gate, doth as wide
As the great Rhodian Coloſſus ſtride,
Which, if in hell no other paines there were,
Makes mee feare hell, becauſe he muſt be there:
Though by thy father he were hir'd to this,
Could never witneſſe any touch or kiſſe;
But Oh, too common ill, I brought with mee
That, which betray'd mee to my enemie:
A loud perfume, which at my entrance cryed
Even at thy fathers noſe, ſo were wee ſpied.
When, like a tyran King, that in his bed
Smelt gunpowder, the pale wretch ſhivered;
Had it beene ſome bad ſmell, he would have thought
That his owne feet, or breath, that ſmell had wrought
But as wee in our Ile empriſoned,
Where cattell onelyonly, 'and diverſe dogs are bred,
The pretious Vnicornes, ſtrange monſters, call,
So thought he good, ſtrange, that had none at all.
I taught my ſilkes, their whiſtling to forbeare,
Even my oppreſt ſhoes, dumbe and ſpeechleſſe were,
OnelyOnly, thou bitter ſweet, whom I had laid
Next mee, mee traiterouſly haſt betraid,
And unſuſpected haſt inviſibly
At once fled unto him, and ſtaid with mee.
Baſe excrement of earth, which doſt confound
Senſe, from diſtinguiſhing the ſicke from ſound;
By thee the ſeely Amorous ſucks his death
By drawing in a leprous harlots breath,
By thee, the greateſt ſtaine to mans eſtate
Falls on us, to be call'd effeminate;
Though you be much lov'd in the Princes hall,
There, things that ſeeme, exceed ſubſtantiall.
Gods, when yee fum'd on altars, were pleas'd well,
Becauſe you'were burnt, not that they lik'd your ſmell,
You'are loathſome all, being taken ſimply alone,
Shall wee love ill things joyn'd, and hate each one?
If you were good, your good doth ſoone decay;
And you are rare, that takes the good away.
All my perfumes, I give moſt willingly
To'embalme thy fathers corſe; What? will hee die?
Elegie V.
Here take my Picture, though I bid farewell;
Thine, in my heart, where my ſoule dwels, ſhall dwell.
'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more
When wee are ſhadowes both, then 'twas before.
When weather-beaten I come backe; my hand,
Perhaps with rude oares torne, or Sun beams tann'd,
My face and breſt of hairecloth, and my head
With cares raſh ſodaine ſtormes, being o'rſpread,
My body'a ſack of bones, broken within,
And powders blew ſtaines ſcatter'd on my skinne;
If rivall fooles taxe thee to'have lov'd a man,
So foule, and courſe, as, Oh, I may ſeeme than,
This ſhall ſay what I was: and thou ſhalt ſay,
Doe his hurts reach mee? doth my worth decay?
Or doe they reach his judging minde, that hee
Should now love leſſe, what hee did love to ſee?
That which in him was faire and delicate,
Was but the milke, which in loves childiſh ſtate
Did nurſe it: who now is growne ſtrong enough
To feed on that, which to diſus'd taſts ſeemes tough.
Elegie VI.
Sorrow, who to this houſe ſcarce knew the way:
Is, Oh, heire of it, our All is his prey.
This ſtrange chance claimes ſtrange wonder, and to us
'Nothing can be ſo ſtrange, as to weepe thus;
'Tis well his lifes loud ſpeaking workes deſerve,
And give praiſe too, our cold tongues could not ſerve:
'Tis well, hee kept teares from our eyes before,
That to fit this deep ill, we might have ſtore.
Oh, if a ſweet briar, climbe up by'a tree,
If to a paradiſe that tranſplanted bee,
Or fell'd, and burnt for holy ſacrifice,
Yet, that muſt wither, which by it did riſe,
As wee for him dead: though no familie
Ere rigg'd a ſoule for heavens diſcoverie
With whom more Venturers more boldly dare
Venture their ſtates, with him in joy to ſhare
Wee loſe what all friends lov'd, him, he gaines now
But life by death, which worſt foes would allow,
If hee could have foes, in whoſe practiſe grew
All vertues, whoſe names ſubtile Schoolmen knew;
What eaſe, can hope that wee ſhall ſee'him, beget,
When wee muſt die firſt, and cannot dye yet?
His children are his pictures, Oh they bee
Pictures of him dead, ſenſeleſſe, cold as he,
Here needs no marble Tombe, ſince hee is gone,
He, and about him, his, are turn'd to ſtone.
Elegie VII.
Oh, let mee not ſerve ſo, as thoſe men ſerve
Whom honours ſmoakes at once fatten and ſterve;
Poorely enrich't with great mens words or lookes;
Nor ſo write my name in thy loving bookes
As thoſe Idolatrous flatterers, which ſtill
Their Princes ſtiles, which many Realmes fulfill
Whence they no tribute have, and where no ſway.
Such ſervices I offer as ſhall pay
Themſelves, I hate dead names: Oh then let mee
Favorite in Ordinary, or no favorite bee.
When my Soule was in her owne body ſheath'd,
Nor yet by oathes betroth'd, nor kiſſes breath'd
Into my Purgatory, faithleſſe thee,
Thy heart ſeem'd waxe, and ſteele thy conſtancie.
So, careleſſe flowers ſtrow'd on the waters face,
The curled whirlepooles ſuck, ſmack, and embrace,
Yet drowne them; ſo, the tapers beamie eye
Amorouſly twinkling, beckens the giddie flie,
Yet burnes his wings; and ſuch the devill is,
Scarce viſiting them, who are intirely his.
When I behold a ſtreame, which, from the ſpring,
Doth with doubtfull melodious murmuring,
Or in a ſpeechleſſe ſlumber, calmely ride
Her wedded channels boſome, and then chide
And bend her browes, and ſwell if any bough
Do but ſtoop downe, or kiſſe her upmoſt brow:
Yet, if her often gnawing kiſſes winne
The traiterous banks to gape, and let her in,
She ruſheth violently, and doth divorce
Her from her native, and her long-kept courſe,
And rores, and braves it, and in gallant ſcorne,
In flattering eddies promiſing retorne,
She flouts the channell, who thenceforth is drie;
Then ſay I; that is ſhee, and this am I.
Yet let not thy deepe bitterneſſe beget
Careleſſe deſpaire in mee, for that will whet
My minde to ſcorne; and Oh, love dull'd with paine
Was ne'r ſo wiſe, nor well arm'd as diſdaine.
Then with new eyes I ſhall ſurvay thee, 'and ſpie
Death in thy cheekes, and darkneſſe in thine eye;
Though hope bred faith and love; thus taught, I ſhall
As nations do from Rome, from thy love fall.
My hate ſhall outgrow thine, and utterly
I will renounce thy dalliance: and when I
Am the Recuſant, in that reſolute ſtate,
What hurts it mee to be'excommunicate?
Elegie VIII.
Natures lay Ideot, I taught thee to love,
And in that ſophiſtrie, Oh, thou doſt prove
Too ſubtile: Foole, thou didſt not underſtand
The myſtique language of the eye nor hand:
Nor couldſt thou judge the difference of the aire
Of ſighes, and ſay, this lies, this ſounds deſpaire.
Nor by the'eyes water call a maladie
Deſperately hot, or changing feaverouſly.
I had not taught thee then, the Alphabet
Of flowers, how they deviſefully being ſet
And bound up, might with ſpeechleſſe ſecrecie
Deliver arrands mutely, and mutually.
Remember ſince all thy words us'd to bee
To every ſuitor; I, if my friends agree.
Since, houſhold charmes, thy huſbands name to teach,
Were all the love trickes, that thy wit could reach;
And ſince, an houres diſcourſe could ſcarce have made
One anſwer in thee, and that ill arraid
In broken proverbs, and torne ſentences.
Thou art not by ſo many duties his,
That from the worlds Common having ſever'd thee,
Inlaid thee, neither to be ſeene, nor ſee,
As mine: who have with amorous delicacies
Refin'd thee'into a bliſ-full paradiſe.
Thy graces and good words my creatures bee,
I planted knowledge and lifes tree in thee,
Which Oh, ſhall ſtrangers taſte? Muſt I alas
Frame and enamell Plate, and drinke inglaſſe?
Chafe waxe for others ſeales? breake a colts force
And leave him then, beeing made a ready horſe?
THE STORME.
To Mr Chriſtopher Brooke.
THou which art I, ('tis nothing to be ſoe)
Thou which art ſtill thy ſelfe, by theſe ſhalt know
Part of our paſſage; And, a hand, or eye
By Hilliard drawne, is worth an hiſtory,
By a worſe painter made; and (without pride)
When by thy judgment they are dignifi'd,
My lines are ſuch. 'Tis the preheminence
Of friendſhip onelyonly to'impute excellence.
England to whom we'owe, what we be, and have,
Sad that her ſonnes did ſeeke a forraine grave
(For, Fates, or Fortunes drifts none can Southſay,
Honour and miſery have one face and way.)
From out her pregnant intrailes ſigh'd a winde
Which at th'ayres middle marble roome did finde
Such ſtrong reſiſtance, that it ſelfe it threw
Downeward againe; and ſo when it did view
How in the port, our fleet deare time did leeſe,
Withering like priſoners, which lye but for fees,
Mildly it kiſt our ſailes, and, freſh, and ſweet,
As, to a ſtomack ſterv'd, whoſe inſides meete,
Meate comes, it came; and ſwole our ſailes, when wee
So joyd, as Sara' her ſwelling joy'd to ſee.
But 'twas, but ſo kinde, as our countrimen,
Which bring friends one dayes way, and leave them then.
Then like two mighty Kings, which dwelling farre blew,
Aſunder, meet againſt a third to warre,
The South and Weſt winds joyn'd, and, as they blew,
Waves like a rowling trench before them threw.
Sooner then you read this line, did the gale,
Like ſhot, not fear'd, till felt, our ſailes aſſaile;
And what at firſt was call'd a guſt, the ſame
Hath now a ſtormes, a non a tempeſts name.
Ionas, I pitty thee, and curſe thoſe men,
Who when the ſtorm rag'd moſt, did wake thee then;
Sleepe is paines eaſieſt ſalue, and doth fullfill
All offices of death, except to kill.
But when I wakt, I ſaw, that I ſaw not.
I, and the Sunne, which ſhould teach mee'had forgot
Eaſt, Weſt, day, night, and I could onelyonly ſay,
If the world had laſted, now it had beene day.
Thouſands our noyſes were, yet wee 'mongſt all
Could none by his right name, but thunder call:
Lightning was all our light, and it rain'd more
Then if the Sunne had drunke the ſea before;
Some coffin'd in their cabbins lye, 'equally
Griev'd that they are not dead, and yet muſt dye.
And as ſin-burd'ned ſoules from grave will creepe,
At the laſt day, ſome forth their cabbins peepe:
And tremblingly'aske what newes, and doe heare ſo,
Like jealous huſbands, what they would not know.
Some ſitting on the hatches, would ſeeme there,
With hideous gazing to feare away feare.
Then note they the ſhips ſickneſſes, the Maſt
Shak'd with this ague, and the Hold and Waſt
With a ſalt dropſie clog'd, and all our tacklings
Snapping, like too-high-ſtretched treble ſtrings.
And from our totterd ſailes, ragges drop downe ſo,
As from one hang'd in chaines, a yeare agoe.
Even our Ordinance plac'd for our defence,
Strive to breake looſe, and ſcape away from thence.
Pumping hath tir'd our men, and what's the gaine?
Seas into ſeas throwne, we ſuck in againe;
Hearing hath deaf'd our ſaylers; and if they
Knew how to heare, there's none knowes what to ſay.
Compar'd to theſe ſtormes, death is but a qualme,
Hell ſomewhat lightſome, and the' Bermuda calme.
Darkneſſe, lights eldeſt brother, his birth-right
Claim'd o'r this world, and to heaven hath chas'd light.
All things are one, and that one none can be,
Since all formes, uniforme deformity
Doth cover, ſo that wee, except God ſay
Another Fiat, ſhall have no more day.
So violent, yet long theſe furies bee,
That though thine abſence ſterve me, 'I wiſh not thee.
THE CALME.
OUr ſtorme is paſt, and that ſtorms tyrannous rage,
A ſtupid calme, but nothing it, doth ſwage.
The fable is inverted, and farre more
A blocke afflicts, now, then a ſtorke before.
Stormes chafe, and ſoone weare out themſelves, or us;
In calmes, Heaven laughs to ſee us languiſh thus.
As ſteady'as I can wiſh, that my thoughts were,
Smooth as thy miſtreſſe glaſſe, or what ſhines there,
The ſea is now. And, as the Iles which wee
Seeke, when wee can move, our ſhips rooted bee.
As water did in ſtormes, now pitch runs out
As lead, when a fir'd Church becomes one ſpout.
And all our beauty, and our trimme, decayes,
Like courts removing, or like ended playes.
The fighting place now ſeamens ragges ſupply;
And all the tackling is a frippery.
No uſe of lanthornes; and in one place lay
Feathers and duſt, to day and yeſterday.
Earths hollowneſſes, which the worlds lungs are,
Have no more winde then the upper valt of aire.
We can nor loſt friends, nor ſought foes recover,
But meteorlike, ſave that wee move not, hover.
OnelyOnly the Calenture together drawes
Deare friends, which meet dead in great fiſhes jawes:
And on the hatches as on Altars lyes
Each one, his owne Prieſt, and owne Sacrifice.
Who live, that miracle do multiply
Where walkers in hot Ovens, doe not dye.
If in deſpite of theſe, wee ſwimme, that hath
No more refreſhing, then our brimſtone Bath,
But from the ſea, into the ſhip we turne,
Like parboyl'd wretches, on the coales to burne.
Like Bajazet encag'd, the ſheepheards ſcoffe,
Or like-ſlacke ſinew'd Sampſon, his haire off,
Languiſh our ſhips. Now, as a Miriade
Of Ants, durſt th' Emperours lov'd ſnake invade,
The crawlin▪ Gallies, Sea-goales, finny chips,
Might brave our venices, now bed-ridde ſhips.
Whether a rotten ſtate, and hope of gaine,
Or, to diſuſe mee from the queaſie paine
Of being belov'd, and loving, or the thirſt
Of honour, or faire death, out puſht mee firſt,
I loſe my end: for here as well as I
A deſperate may live, and a coward die.
Stagge, dogge, and all which from, or towards flies,
Is paid with life, or pray, or doing dyes.
Fate grudges us all, and doth ſubtly lay
A ſcourge, 'gainſt which wee all forget to pray,
He that at ſea prayes for more winde, as well
Under the poles may begge cold, heat in hell.
What are wee then? How little more alas
Is man now, then before he was? he was
Nothing; for us, wee are for nothing fit;
Chance, or our ſelves ſtill diſproportion it.
Wee have no power, no will, no ſenſe; I lye,
I ſhould not then thus feele this miſerie.
To Sr Henry Wotton.
SIr, more then kiſſes, letters mingle Soules;
For, thus friends abſent ſpeake. This eaſe controules
The tediouſneſſe of my life: But for theſe
I could ideate nothing, which could pleaſe,
But I ſhould wither in one day, and paſſe
To'a botle'of Hay, that am a locke of Graſſe.
Life is a voyage, and in our lifes wayes
Countries, Courts, Towns are Rockes, or Remoraes;
They breake or ſtop all ſhips, yet our ſtate's ſuch,
That though then pitch they ſtaine worſe, wee muſt touch.
If in the furnace of the raging line,
Or under th'adverſe icy pole thou pine,
Thou know'ſt two temperate Regions girded in,
Dwell there: But Oh, what refuge canſt thou winne
Parch'd in the Court, and in the country frozen?
Shall cities built of both extremes be choſen?
Can dung, and garlike be'a perfume? or can
A Scorpion, or Torpedo cure a man?
Cities are worſt of all three; of all three
(O knottie riddle) each is worſt equally.
Cities are Sepulchers; they who dwell there
Are carcaſes, as if no ſuch they were.
And Courts are Theaters, where ſome men play
Princes, ſome ſlaves, all to one end, and of one clay▪
The Country is a deſert, where no good,
Gain'd, as habits, not borne, is underſtood.
There men become beaſts, and prone to more evils;
In cities blockes, and in a lewd court, devills.
As in the firſt Chaos confuſedly
Each elements qualities were in the'other three;
So pride, luſt, covetize, being ſeverall
To theſe three places, yet all are in all,
And mingled thus, their iſſue inceſtuous.
Falſhood is denizon'd. Virtue is barbarous.
Let no man ſay there, Virtues flintie wall
Shall locke vice in mee, I'll do none, but know all.
Men are ſpunges, which to poure out, receive,
Who know falſe play, rather then loſe, deceive.
For in beſt underſtandings, ſinne beganne,
Angels ſinn'd firſt, then Devills, and then man.
OnelyOnly perchance beaſts ſinne not; wretched wee
Are beaſts in all, but white integritie.
I thinke if men, which in theſe places live
Durſt looke in themſelves, and themſelves retrive,
They would like ſtrangers greet themſelves, ſeeing then
Utopian youth, growne old Italian.
Be thou thine owne home, and in thy ſelfe dwell;
Inne any where, continuance maketh hell.
And ſeeing the ſnaile, which every where doth rome,
Carrying his owne houſe ſtill, ſtill is at home.
Follow (for he is eaſie pac'd) this ſnaile,
Bee thine owne Palace, or the world's thy goale;
And in the worlds ſea, do not like corke ſleepe
Upon the waters face; nor in the deepe
Sinke like a lead without a line: but as
Fiſhes glide, leaving no print where they paſſe,
Nor making ſound; ſo, cloſely thy courſe goe,
Let men diſpute, whether thou breath, or no:
Onely'in this one thing, be no Galeniſt. To make
Courts hot ambitions wholeſome, do not take
A dramme of Countries dulneſſe; do not adde
Correctives, but as chymiques, purge the bad.
But, Sir, I adviſe not you, I rather doe
Say o'er thoſe leſſons, which I learn'd of you.
Whom, free from German ſchiſmes, and lightneſſe
Of France, and faire Italies faithleſneſſe,
Having from theſe ſuck'd all they had of worth,
And brought home that faith, which you carried forth,
I throughly love. But if my ſelfe, I'have wonne
To know my rules, I have, and you have
DONNE: