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University of Adelaide
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This edition of the Poems of Andrew Marvell has been compiled from multiple sources, the principal ones being:
The Poems of Andrew Marvell. G. A. Aitken, Ed. London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1892., which also provides
our Preface and Introduction.
The Complete Poems of Andrew Marvell, by Alexander B. Grosart, 1872.
The Notes for the Satires are from Grosart.
It is not necessary to justify any effort to make Marvell’s Poems more widely known. The sole object of this Preface is to acknowledge my indebtedness to my predecessors, who have, in a greater or less degree, done good service by keeping the poet’s name and character in the minds of his countrymen.
In 1681, more than two years after Marvell’s death, his widow published a collection of his miscellaneous poems. Nearly half a century later Cooke brought out an edition which included the political satires. These pieces could not, of course, be given in the volume of 1681, but they had been printed among other State Poems after the Revolution. Another half century passed before Thompson published an edition of the whole of Marvell’s works. Thompson was a Hull captain, and a connection of the poet’s family, filled with enthusiasm for his subject, but wanting in the critical training necessary for complete success. In spite, however, of all his shortcomings, it is not to be forgotten that we owe to him some of Marvell’s finest poems, and that he was the first to print a large number of Marvell’s letters, which are of great assistance in studying his life and writings. Errors in the text grew in number in subsequent cheap editions of the poems, until, in 1872, a century after Thompson, and when I was a scholar at the old Granmiar School at Hull which claimed Marvell as one of its most distinguished pupils, Dr. Grosart published the first volume of a limited edition of Marvell’s works. It may be said that that edition was the first in which any serious attempt was made to give an accurate text, or to explain the constant allusions to contemporary events. But greatly as I have been indebted to Dr. Grosarfs work, much remained to be done. Many allusions remained unexplained, while some of the notes upon historical events or persons were written under misapprehension, and the errors in identification led to mistakes in the dating of the poems. In so difficult a field it is not probable that I have entirely escaped pitfalls; and I do not forget that it is far easier to correct others than to be a pioneer.
In the Introduction I have incorporated the few facts relating to Marvell that have come to light during the last twenty years, and the poems have been printed after a fresh collation with the earliest texts. My best thanks are due to Mr. C. H. Firth, who has kindly read most of the proof-sheets and made many valuable suggestions; and to the Rev. R. Sinker, D.D., Mr. W. Aldis Wright, and Mr. J. W. Clark for information respecting Marvell’s career at Cambridge. Mr. Firth has contributed a valuable article on Marvell to the “Dictionary of National Biography.”
G. A. A.
Our power of rightly understanding an author is always greatly increased by knowledge of the circumstances under which his works were produced; and when we are dealing with a man who took a keen interest in the life around him, it is absolutely necessary to know something both of the writer’s personal history and of the course of public affairs. The information respecting Andrew MarvelPs life is, unfortunately, meagre, but though we should be glad to know more, what we have is sufficient to enable us to understand the causes that influenced him at the various stages of his career. Early in the sixteenth century members of a family of the name of Marvell, Mervell, or Marwell were living at Shepereth, in Cambridgeshire, while others were to be found at the neighbouring village of Meldreth. It is at Meldreth, where there is an old manor-house called “The Marvells,” that Marvell’s father, Andrew Marvell, is supposed to have been born, in 1586. He went to Emmanuel College, Cambridge, and took the degree of M.A. in 1608. He was “minister” at Flamborough, in Yorkshire, in 1610, and “curate” in the following year. There is an entry in the registers at Cherry Burton, under the date Oct. 22, 1612, of the marriage of “Andrew Marvell and Anne Pease,” and there can be no doubt that we have here the record of the marriage of Marvell’s parents, the more especially because we know from other sources that the name of Marvell’s mother was Anne, and that the Peases of Hesslewood were connected by marriage with descendants of Marvell’s sister Anne.*
* Colonel J. W, Pease, M. P., is connected with the family through Elizabeth Blaydes, granddaughter of Anne Marvell. In the will of William Thompson, of Hull, Gent., 1637, there is mention of “my father-in-law Mr. George Pease,” and “ my cousin Mr. Andrew Marvell.” This George Pease would thus appear to have been brother-in-law to the Rev. Andrew Marvell.
Two years after his marriage, in 1614, the Rev. Andrew Marvell was presented to the living of Winestead, in Holderness. There three daughters were born, Anne in 1615, Mary, 1616, and Elizabeth, 1618; and they were followed, on the 31st of March, 1621, “being Easter-even,” by a son, Andrew Marvell. The old font in which he was baptized, on April 5, has of late been restored to its proper place in the church, after having been long used for unworthy purposes; and repairs necessary for the preservation of the church itself have been carried out. A second son, John, was born in 1623, but he died in the following year, and was buried at Winestead on the 20th of September. Of Andrew Marvell’s sisters it is sufficient to say that Anne married James Blaydes, J. P., of Sutton, in 1633; and had a son Joseph, who was Mayor of Hull in 1702, and married Jane Mould, whose father had been Mayor in 1698. From them Mr. F. A. Blades, of Hockliffe Lodge, Leighton Buzzard, and the Blades–Thompsons trace their descent. William, another son of Anne Marvell, was the ancestor of the Blades–Haworths; and Lydia, a daughter, married Robert Nettleton, who was Mayor of Hull in 1697, and had one son Robert, who died without issue. Andrew Marvell’s second sister, Mary, married, in 1636, Edmund Popple, Sheriff of Hull in 1638, and died in 1678, on or about the same day as her brother. Among her descendants were William Popple, Secretary to the Lords Conunissioners of Trade and Plantations, and Alured, his son, who was Governor of Bermuda. The third sister, Elizabeth, married, in 1636, Robert More, father by another wife of Thomas More.
Towards the end of 1624, after ten years’ work at Winestead, the Rev. Andrew Marvell was appointed Master of the Grammar School at Hull, and soon afterwards Lecturer at the neighbouring Holy Trinity Church, and Master of the Charter House. There is abundant evidence that he performed his various duties with zeal, and was an accomplished man. Fuller says that “the lessons of the pulpit he enforced by the persuasive eloquence of a devoted life,” while Echard calls him “ the facetious Calvinistical Minister of Hull.” His son would doubtless be taught by him from his early years at the old Grammar School,* which remained almost unchanged until 1875. The building has now been converted into a Mission and Clergy House, but the restoration that it has undergone — necessary as it no doubt was — cannot but be painful to those who remember its former picturesque if dilapidated appearance.
* In “Mr. Smirke” (1676), Marvell remarks that he learned at the Grammer School the liberal art of “scanning”.
The boys, like all boys at a seaport, would often haunt the neighbouring harbour; and years afterwards Bishop Parker, in imputing to Marvell “rude and uncivil language,” attributed it to his “first unhappy education among boatswains and cabin-boys.”
At the age of twelve Marvell went to Cambridge, aided by the Exhibition that was attached to the Grammar School. He matriculated on December 14, 1633, as a Sizar of Trinity College; but he soon fell into the hands of some Jesuits, who persuaded him to go to London. There, after some months, he was found by his father, and taken back to Cambridge. Two poems by Marvell, one in Greek, the other in Latin, addressed to the King, appeared in the “Musa Cantabrigiensis” in 1637; and on April 13, 1638, he was admitted a Scholar of Trinity College (“Andreas Marvell, discipulus juratus et admissus”). He took his B.A. degree in the same year, and in the year 1639–40 “Mervile” was one of the “Discipuli Dnse Bromley,” and got four quarters “liberatura,” that is, money paid as part of the Scholarship money, and designed to clothe the scholar. Marvell’s mother had died in April, 1638, a few days after he obtained his Scholarship, and now he lost his father. The Rev. Andrew Marvell had married, as his second wife, in November, 1638, Lucy Alured widow of William Harris, and had rendered noble service during the plague in Hull in 1635 and 1638–39. His death was caused by drowning, while he was escorting to her home at Thornton College, on the opposite side of the Humber, the daughter of Mrs. Skinner, who was related to the Cyriack Skinner to whom Milton addressed two of his sonnets. The whole party perished, and it is pleasant to believe the tradition that Mrs. Skinner adopted young Marvell, and made ample provision for him. It is certain that he was not without means during the ensuing years.
It is doubtful whether Marvell returned to Cambridge after his father’s death; all we know is that there is an entry in the Conclusion Book of Trinity College, dated Sept. 24, 1641, to the effect that, as Marvell and others did not attend their days or acts, or were married, they should have no more benefit of the College unless they showed cause to the contrary within three months. Marvell seems to have set out shortly afterwards on a four years’ tour through France, Holland, Switzerland, Spain, and Italy. It is probable that he met Richard Flecknoe at Rome in 1645, and returned to England in the following year. That he had Royalist friends is evident from the lines upon Lord Hastings in the “Musarum Lacrymae,” and the verses to Richard Lovelace, both published in 1649, the year of the execution of Charles I. In the lines upon Thomas May, written in 1650, Marvell spoke of “great Charles’s death,” and in the same year, in an ode upon Cromwell’s return from Ireland, he did not hesitate to say of Charles —
He nothing common did, or mean,
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;
Nor called the gods with vulgar spite
To vindicate his helpless right,
But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
Years afterwards, in the “Rehearsal Transprosed,” he spoke of the evil that had come of Laud’s bad advice to Charles, “a prince truly pious and religious “; and of the Civil War he said, “I think the cause was too good to have been fought for. Men ought to have trusted God; they ought and might have trusted the King with that whole matter Even as his present Majesty’s happy restoration did itself, so all things else happen in their best and proper time, without any need of our officiousness.” We shall see that throughout his life Marvell maintained his loyal feeling for the King, bad as that King might be, and had for his constant aim the removal of the evil counsellors who led him astray. But after the death of Charles I., Cromwell was the one strong man who could safely guide the country, and Marvell, though no Roundhead, could not but admire and give him his adherence.
It was, however, not Cromwell, but the great Lord Fairfax with whom Marvell first came in contact. Lord Fairfax, who acted as Parliamentary General during the Civil War, did not approve of the King’s execution, and refused, on conscientious grounds, to take the command against the Scotch in 1650. He retired to Nunappleton, his Yorkshire seat, and there Marvell went as tutor to Lord Fairfax’s daughter Mary (afterwards Duchess of Buckingham), then in her twelfth year. During the two happy years that he spent at this house Marvell wrote most, if not all, of the beautiful poems of the country which form so important a part of his works.
This period of quiet communing with nature, and intercourse with his noble-minded host and his young pupil, must have greatly influenced the character of a young man of twenty-nine or thirty.
A still more important connection was soon to be formed. On February 21, 1652–53, John Milton, who had perhaps made Marvell’s acquaintance through Lord Fairfax, gave him a letter of introduction to President Bradshaw, in which he said, “There will be with you tomorrow, upon some occasion of business, a gentleman whose name is Mr. Marvile; a man who is, both by report and the converse I have had with him, of singular desert for the State to make use of; who also offers himself, if there be any employment for him. His father was the minister of Hull; and he hath spent four years abroad, in Holland, France, Italy, and Spain, to very good purpose, as I believe, and the gaining of those four languages; besides, he is a scholar, and well read in the Latin and Greek authors; and no doubt of an approved conversation, for he comes now lately out of the house of Lord Fairfax, who was General, where he was intrusted to give some instructions in the languages to the lady his daughter.” And then, after recommending Marvell as well suited to be his assistant, Milton continued, “This, my Lord, I write sincerely, without any other end than to perform my duty to the public, in helping them to an humble servant, laying aside those jealousies, and that emulation, which mine own condition” — his blindness — “might suggest to me, by bringing in such a coadjutor.”
Marvell had to wait some time for his appointment, but Milton’s recommendation was not forgotten.
Early in 1653 Marvell wrote the “Satire upon Holland,” and in 1654 he carried to Bradshaw from Milton a copy of the “Defensio Secunda.” The account of the reception of the book which he sent to his “most honoured friend” was written at Eton, where Bradshaw was living; and from the mention made of John Oxenbridge, it would seem that Marvell was already living with that well-known preacher. Oxenbridge had paid two visits to the Bermudas, and his experience of the people who had sought refuge in those islands from religious persecution probably suggested to Marvell one of the most familiar of his poems. In 1655 Marvell addressed a second poem to Cromwell, “The First Anniversary of the Government under His Highness the Lord Protector”; and he is mentioned by Edward Phillips as one of the “particular friends” who, having a “a high esteem for him,” frequently visited Milton during these years at his house in Petty France.
In the summer of 1657 Cromwell’s nephew, Mr. Button, came to live at Oxenbridge’s house at Windsor, and Marvell acted as his tutor. But this arrangement was short-lived, for in September Marvell obtained the post for which he had been recommended in 1653, and became Milton’s colleague in the Latin secretaryship. His salary was the same as Milton’s, £200 a. year, but it was not, like Milton’s, a life pension, and he was more subordinate than Milton to Thurloe. Two or three letters written “by direction of Mr. Secretary “ to English representatives abroad are in the British Museum. In one of these Marvell speaks of an agent of “C. Steward,” the future Charles II.; and in another, of the members who opposed the proclamation of Richard Cromwell as Protector. “They have much the odds in speaking, but it is to be hoped that our justice, our affection, and our number, which is at least two-thirds, will wear them out at the long run.”
In July and August, 1658, Thurloe alludes to Marvell, acting as Milton’s substitute, going down the Thames to welcome an ambassador, receiving a political agent at Whitehall. In another month Cromwell passed away. Marvell had known him well, publicly and privately, while he was himself naturally an adherent to the monarchial system. His “Poem upon the Death of his late Highness the Lord Protector”— the third important poem that he had written in Cromwell’s praise, carries, therefore, all the more weight. From regret for Cromwell’s death he passed to the happy presages that accompanied Richard Cromwell’s accession to power. Richard Cromwell’s reign, however, was short, but after his fall Milton and Marvell remained Latin Secretaries until December, 1659. Only twice is Marvell mentioned in the existing Domestic State Papers for this period. On September 7, 1658, the Council approved of a list of persons who were appointed to have mourning for Cromwell, and among them were the Latin Secretaries, John Milton and Andrew Marvell; but the supply that had been proposed — nine yards — was reduced to six. On July Mi 1659, the Council agreed that Marvell, among others, should have lodgings in Whitehall.
In the meantime, in January, 1659, Marvell and John Ramsden had been elected members of Parliament for Hull. Marvell’s early connection with the town had, as we have seen, been maintained by the marriage of his sisters with members of well-known families in the neighbourhood, and his constituents never found cause to regret their choice. In 1660 came the restoration of Charles II. and the punishment of many of Cromwell’s friends. Milton escaped somewhat mysteriously from evil consequences, and his nephew, Edward Phillips, afterwards said that this immunity was due to the intercession of friends; “particularly, in the House of Commons, Mr. Andrew Marvell, a member for Hull, acted vigorously in his behalf, and made a considerable party for him.” We shall see that Marvell defended until the very end the great poet to whose influence he owed so much. In 1660 and 1661 Marvell was re-elected for Hull, and from November, 1660, until a few days before his death, he sent regularly to the Mayor and Corporation a concise description of what passed in Parliament. There were no reports of the proceedings of the House until long after this time, and the risk attaching to letters of a public nature compelled Marvell to confine himself as a rule to a bare recital of facts. The few letters of a private nature that we have are far more interesting, yet the series of public letters is a valuable storehouse of information; and even here, especially during the later years of his life, Marvell did not hesitate to hint at the fears with which the actions of the King or his advisers filled his mind. He was a model representative, most regular in his attendance, but rarely speaking, and his constituents showed their complete confidence in him, not only by a regular payment, which was then customary, of 6s. 8d. a day while Parliament sat, but by frequent presents, generally of barrels of ale, for which he returned his hearty thanks. “If I wanted my right hand,” he wrote on one occasion, “yet I would scribble to you with my left rather than neglect your business.” Marvell was a member of the Corporation of the Trinity House, both at London and Hull, and he was always ready to help forward their interests by the exercise of his business powers, which were often shown in interviews with the leading men of the day. Shortly before his death he was chosen a younger Warden of the London Trinity House.*
* Historical MSS. Commission, Eighth Report, Pt. I. pp. 255–6; and letters on the afiairs of the Trinity House; in Dr. Grosart’s edition.
Occasionally Marvell went abroad, sometimes on private business, of which we know nothing. Once, when he had been in Holland for a year and a half, Lord Belasyse, High Steward of Hull, requested that a new member should be elected; but the corporation replied that Marvell was not far off, and would return when they desired it. They accordingly warned him, in a “prudent and courteous letter,” of the proposal to fill up his place, and he came back at the beginning of April, 1663. But in the following June it was decided to send Lord Carlisle as ambassador extraordinary to Muscovy, Sweden, and Denmark, and that nobleman, as Marvell told his constituents, “used his power, which ought to be very great with me, to make me go along with him, as secretary in these embassages.” “You may be sure,” he added, “I will not stir without special leave of the House, so that you may be freed from any possibility of being importuned, or tempted, to make any other choice in my absence. However, I cannot but advise with you, desiring also to take your assent with me, so much esteem I have both for your prudence and friendship.” The House having granted the leave required, and the constituents given their approval, Marvell set out with the mission in July, “with the order and good liking of his Majesty” and did not return until January, 1665. A full account of the mission, with various allusions to Marvell, is given in “A Relation of three Embassies from his sacred Majestie Charles II.,” &c., by “G. M.,” published in 1669. Two months after Marvell’s return war was declared against Holland, and on June 3, 1665, the Duke of York obtained a victory over the Dutch fleet, but was unable to follow up his success. Dryden wrote “Verses to Her Royal Highness the Duchess on the Memorable Victory,” and Waller celebrated the event in a poem which was the forerunner of many satires by Marvell and others. The title was “Instructions to a Painter, for the drawing of the Posture and Progress of His Majesties Forces at Sea, under the command of His Royal Highness; together with the Battel and Victory obtained over the Dutch, June 3, 1665.” There was high praise of the “valiant Duke,” whose clothes were dyed with the blood of those who fell near him, and the “illustrious Duchess.” The friends of those who were killed by the Duke’s side were thus consoled:—
Happy to whom this glorious death arrives
More to be valued than a thousand lives!
On such a theatre as this to die,
For such a cause, and such a witness by!
Who would not thus a sacrifice be made,
To have his blood on such an altar laid?
In lines “To the King,” at the end of the poem, Waller said of Charles:—
You for these ends whole days in council sit.
And the diversions of your youth forget.
A year passed, notable for the great Plague of London, and on June 3, 1666, the anniversary of the battle which had given Waller the opportunity of uttering these audacious lines, Monck was defeated in the Downs. In 1667 Louis XIV. deserted the Dutch, and entered into a secret treaty with Charles; but the grants which had been made in Parliament for carrying on the war had, to a great extent, been appropriated by the King for the benefit of his mistresses, and it was found impossible to fit out the navy. The result was that in June the Dutch fleet sailed up the Thames and Medway, burned the shipping at Chatham, and threatened London itself. Next month a treaty of peace was signed at Breda.
During the course of these disasters, Denham, who had all the reasons of an injured husband for hating the Duke of York, issued four “Directions” — or “Advices,” as they are sometimes called — “to a Painter,” in imitation of Waller’s poem.* Like Waller, he added earnest lines “To the King”:—
Let justice only awe, and battle cease;
Kings are but cards in war; they’re gods in peace.
. . . .
Here needs no fleet, no sword, no foreign foe;
Only let vice be dammed, and justice flow.
* Pepys, writing on Sept 14, 1667, says, “I met with a ‘Fourth Advice to the Painter upon the coming in of the Dutch to the River, and end of the War,’ that made my heart ache to read, it being too sharp, and so true.”
The House of Commons elected in 1661 was strongly Royalist, but the disgraceful events that had marked the six years during which it had now sat had led to the formation of a powerful Opposition. The Corporation Act of 1661 was followed by the Act of Uniformity of 1662, the persecutions in Scotland, the Conventicle Act of 1664, and the Five Mile Act of 1665. The Earl of Clarendon, the King’s chief adviser during these years, was an ardent supporter of the Monarchy and of the Church of England; while Charles II. cared little for anything so long as his own pleasures were gratified. His sympathies, indeed, lay rather with the Roman Catholics, and his brother, the Duke of York, who had married Clarendon’s daughter, was known to belong to that Church. Clarendon was unpopular with both Catholics and Nonconformists, and upon his head fell the blame for the position of dependency upon France in which England was placed. To the feeling of shame was added the indignation of the more respectable classes of the people at the glaring debauchery of the Court.
It would at first sight seem impossible to believe the accounts of the depravity of Charles II. and his courtiers which we find in the works of contemporary satirists; but the information that we have from many sources shows that Marvell and other writers of the time rarely exaggerated. It is curious how completely the various accounts corroborate each other. It might be said that Pepys, representing the middle classes, repeated much gossip which was without warrant; or that Evelyn, the representative of the old-fashioned gentry, was easily offended. But Pepys’s own views on morality were not strait-laced, while Evelyn was an earnest supporter of Church and State; and both of them had ready access to the Court, and could see for themselves how the King lived.
The truth of what they say is, moreover, proved beyond a doubt by the tone adopted by Dryden and other Royalist writers; by the unblushing memoirs of those who, like the Count de Grammont, were on the most familiar terms with the King; by the correspondence between the French ambassadors and their master; and by various journals and memoirs too numerous to mention. In the very year to which we have now come Milton published “Paradise Lost” and had in his mind what he heard from those around him when he described Belial, who loved vice for its own sake:—
In courts and palaces he also reigns,
And in luxurious cities, where the noise
Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers.
And injury and outrage.
Parliament was summoned in July, 1667, but was at once prorogued until October. In the interval the King, influenced by the Duke of Buckingham and the reigning mistress, Lady Castlemaine, took the seals of office from Clarendon, who was afterwards impeached and banished. In August or September, at the time of Clarendon’s fall, Marvell produced his longest poem, the “Last Instructions to a Painter,” modelled upon the pieces by Waller and Denham. Of this terrible impeachment of those who misled the King we shall have to speak again; here it is sufficient to notice that in the closing lines Marvell disavowed all intention to attack Charles himself. His muse, he said, blamed only those who restrained the Court, and wished to reign where all England served. They who would separate the kingdom from the crown were bold and accursed:—
As Ceres corn, and Flora is the spring,
As Bacchus wine, the country is the King.
Let the King seek better counsellors, virtuous wealthy, courageous:—
Where few the number, choice is the less hard;
Give us this Court, and rule without a guard.
The change that followed Clarendon’s fall was not for the better, though Marvell felt hopeful, and was grateful to the King. The Cabal ministry endeavoured to please the people by entering into an alliance with Holland and Sweden against France; but Charles continued his private negotiations with Louis XIV., and determined to be free, if possible, of the control of Parliament. With this object in view a secret treaty was signed at Dover in 1670, by which Charles accepted from Louis a pension of £200,000 a year and 6,000 French troops, and undertook to re-establish Roman Catholicism in England, to help Louis against Holland, and to support his claim to the Spanish succession. In private letters written in the spring Marvell had spoken of the imperious attitude taken up by Charles as a last resort in his pressing need for money; of the terrible Conventicle Bill, “the quintessence of arbitrary malice”; and of the wish of the King, who seemed all-powerful, to set aside his marriage. “In such a conjuncture, dear Will, what probability is there of my doing anything to the purpose?” Charles menaced the House of Lords by attending from day to day throughout the sittings; “the Parliament was never so embarrassed, beyond recovery. We are all venal cowards, except some few.”
Before long people became aware to some extent of the arrangement with Louis XIV., and early in 1671 Marvell wrote his “Farther Instructions to a Painter.” These lines are concerned chiefly with the brutal attack, in the preceding December, upon Sir John Coventry, who had ventured to use plain words about the King’s immoral life in a debate upon playhouses. A strong Bill was at once passed against such crimes, with the result that Parliament was prorogued in April for nearly two years. At this time Marvell thought that he might be sent “on an honest fair employment into Ireland,” but we hear nothing more of it. In January, 1672, Charles obtained money by the act of national bankruptcy known as the stopping of the Exchequer, and in March war was declared against Holland. Marvell’s “Poem on the Statue in Stocks Market” was written immediately after the undecisive fight in Southwold Bay on the 28th of May. The statue referred to was one of Sobieski, which was being altered to represent Charles II.; but Marvell said the workmen would never arrive at an end, “For it is such a king as no chisel can mend.” Yet, he added, “we’d rather have him than his bigotted brother.”
When Parliament met in 1673 the opposition to the Declaration of Indulgence which had been issued in the preceding year was so great — owing to the fear of Popery — that the King found it necessary to withdraw the Declaration. The passing of the Test Act, which followed soon afterwards, compelled Clifford, Arlington, and the Duke of York to resign office, and brought about the fall of the Cabal ministry. Shaftesbury and Buckingham joined the Opposition, and peace was concluded with Holland early in 1674. To this period belong Marvell’s “Historical Poem,” “Advice to a Painter,” and “Britannia and Raleigh.” The “Historical Poem” is directed chiefly against the Duke of York, and ends with the significant lines:—
Be wise, ye sons of men, tempt God no more
To give you kings in’s wrath to vex you sore:
If a king’s brother can such mischiefs bring,
Then how much greater mischiefs such a king?
The “Advice to a Painter “ also is an attack on the Papists, with grave lines “To the King,” warning him of danger from his ambitious brother:—
Great Charles, who full of mercy might’st command,
In peace and pleasure, this thy native land.
At last take pity of thy tottering throne,
Shook by the faults of others, not thine own;
Let not thy life and crown together end.
Destroyed by a false brother and false friend.
“Britannia and Raleigh” give a terrible picture of those who surrounded Charles:—
A colony of French possess the Court;
Pimps, priests, buffoons, in privy-chamber sport.
They perverted the King’s mind, and choked his good intentions. It seemed vain to endeavour to divide the Stuart from the tyrant; yet Marvell urged, in noble words which Raleigh addresses to Britannia:—
Once more, great Queen, thy darling strive to save,
Snatch him away from scandal and the grave;
Present to’s thoughts his long-scorned Parliament,
The basis of his throne and government.
In his deaf ears sound his dead father’s name:
Perhaps that spell may’s erring soul reclaim:
Who know’s what good effects from thence may spring?
’Tis God-like good to save a falling king.
Sir Thomas Osborne, created Earl of Danby in 1674, now held the reins of office, and he had at any rate the merit of hating the King’s alliance with France. But he had no sympathy with popular government, and he endeavoured, by various arbitrary means, and by the aid of bribery, to give the King more absolute power. He is often attacked in Marvell’s remaining satires, which all seem to have been written in 1674 and 1675; but these pieces do not call for detailed notice here, except the “Dialogue between Two Horses,” the statue of Charles II. at Wool-church, and that of Charles I. at Charing Cross. The writer was remarkably plain-spoken, as the following lines will show:—
To see Dei Gratia writ on the throne,
And the King’s wicked life say, God there is none.
That he should be styled “Defender of the Faith,”
Who believes not a word what the Word of God saith.
That the Duke should turn Papist and that church defy
For which his own father a martyr did die.
. . . .
The debauched and cruel since they equally gall us,
I had rather bear Nero than Sardanapalus.
One of the two tyrants must still be our case,
Under all who shall reign of the false Stuart race.
. . . .
But canst thou devise when things will be mended?
When the reign of the line of Stuarts is ended.
And then, at the end, in reference to the closing of the coffee-houses because public affairs where there freely discussed, come these ominous lines:—
When they take from the people the freedom of words,
They teach them the sooner to fall to their swords.
So great was the outcry that in less than six weeks it was found necessary to revoke the proclamation against coffee-houses. Thirteen years were yet to pass before the expulsion of the Stuarts at the Revolution.
We need say little more of politics. In a private letter at South Kensington, dated November 5, 1674, and addressed to Edward Thompson, afterwards Mayor and M.P. for York, Marvell half-jestingly wrote: “I am glad that Clergy begin to show their good affection to King killing and Emperor killing.” Early in 1677 he represented himself to Edward Thompson’s elder brother. Sir Henry Thompson, as one who had no employment but idleness, and who “am so oblivious that I should forget my own name did I not see it sometimes in a friend’s superscription.”* On March 6, 1677, Marvell wrote in a letter to his constituents: “God direct all counsels to the true remedy of the urgent condition of this poor nation, which I hope there is no reason to despair of.”
* The original is in the collection of Mr. Alfred Morrison.
On the 20th of March a debate took place upon a Bill for securing the Protestant religion. This Bill required the Sovereign to take an oath that he did not believe in transubstantiation, but he could refuse on condition that he handed over to the bishops the filling up of ecclesiastical vacancies. Marvell opposed this which was really a compromise between the Church and the Duke of York. It was, he said, premature; the King was not in a declining age, “Whatever prince God gives us, we must trust him.” If men were taught really to live up to the Protestant religion they would then be established against the temptations of Popery, or a prince Popishly affected. Marvell added that he was not used to speak in the House, and he spoke abruptly. The Bill was committed, but “died away, the Committee disdaining & not daring publicly to enter upon it.”
On the 29th there was a debate upon the alleged striking of Sir Philip Harconrt by Marvell, who had stumbled over Harcourt’s foot. Both parties declared it was an accident, a thrust made out of their great familiarity, the Speaker had noticed the incident, and Sir Job Charlton, supported by Colonel Sandys — both of whom Marvell had attacked in his satires — moved that Marvell should be sent to the Tower. The matter was ultimately allowed to drop. At Christmas, 1677, Marvell published an important historical pamphlet called “Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government,” written, as he said, “with no other intent than of mere fidelity and service to his Majesty; and God forbid that it should have any other effect than that the mouth of all iniquity and of flatterers may be stopped, and that his Majesty, having discerned the disease, may, with his healing touch, apply the remedy.” About the same time appeared a piece often attributed to Marvell, called “A Seasonable Argument to persuade all the Grand Juries in England to petition for a New Parliament.” This pamphlet gave brief and uncomplimentary characters of a number of the supporters of the Government, and the London Gazette for March 21 to 25, 1678, contained an offer of a reward of £10 for the discovery of the printer or publisher, and £100 for the handers to the press of those “seditious and scandalous libels.”* In a letter written in June, Marvell says that great rewards were offered in private, but that he was not questioned, though it was hinted in several books that he was the author. In 1682 Dryden, in ihe Epistle to the Whigs prefixed to “The Medal,” spoke of “your dead author’s pamphlet called ‘The Growth of Popery.’”
* Both pieces are attributed to “Andrew” in a quarto pamphlet of 1678 called “A Letter from Amsterdam to a Friend in England.” The writer says, “’Tis well he is now transprosed into politics; they say he had much ado to live upon poetry.” The two MSS. of “A Seasonable Argument” in the British Museum (Lansdowne MSS. 805, f. 83, and Addl. MSS. 4106, f. 166), differ considerably.
On July 29, 1678, Marvell had an interview with the Corporation at Hull, and on August 16, three weeks later, he died in London.*
* “Andrew Marvell died yesterday of apoplexy” (Col. Grosvenor to G. Treby, M.P., Aug. 17, 1678. — Hist. MSS. Comm., 13(h Repon. Ft. VI. p. B). He was buried on the 18th (“Life of Anthony Wood,” ed. Clark, II. 414).
Some believed that he had been poisoned; but according to an account given in Dr, Richard Morton’s “Pyretologia” (1692), Marwell had tertian ague, and the doctor gave him a great febrifuge, a draft of Venice treacle, and caused him to be covered with blankets. He was then seized with deep sleep and sweats, and twenty-four hours later passed away while in a comatose state. He was buried under the pews on the south side of the church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields; the sexton afterwards told Aubrey that the grave was under the window which contains a red lion. The town of Hull voted £50 for the funeral, and in 1688 his late constituents collected money for the erection of a monument, but the Royalist Rector would not allow it to be put up.
On March 29, 1679, letters of administration were granted to Mary Marvell, relict, and John Greene, creditor of Andrew Marvell late of St. Giles-in-the-Fields. Nothing more is known of Marvell’s wife, save that she did all she could to preserve her husband’s fame, by carefully collecting such of his verses as were not of a controversial nature, and publishing them in a folio volume, dated 1681, with the following notice: “To the Reader: These are to certify every ingenious reader that all these poems, as also the others things in this book, are printed according to the exact copies of my late dear husband, under his own handwriting, being found since his death among his other papers. Witness my hand this 15th day of October, 1680. Mary Marvell.”
Limits of space have caused the omission of details respecting Marvell’s prose works. But a few words must be said about the part he took in two of the Church controversies of his day.
In 1670 Samuel Parker, a young man of thirty, who, after being brought up as a Puritan, had joined the Church of England at the Restoration, and become chaplain to Archbishop Sheldon, and Archdeacon of Canterbury, published his “Discourse of Ecclesiastical Polity, wherein the authority of the Civil Magistrate over the consciences of subjects in matters of external religion is asserted, themischiefs and inconvenience of Toleration are represented, and all pretences pleaded in behalf of Liberty of Conscience are fully answered.” In this book Parker maintained that the supreme magistrate should have power to direct the consciences of his subjects in affairs of religion, and that princes could with less danger give liberty to men’s vices than to their consciences. John Owen, who replied, was attacked in “A Defence and Continuation of the Ecclesiastical Polity,” and in a Preface by Parker to a work of Bishop Bramhall’s. Then Marvell took up the cudgels, and in 1672 published “The Rehearsal Transprosed.” The tide was taken from a speech by Bayes in the Duke of Buckingham’s play, “The Rehearsal,” then recently produced. This attack abounds with wit which Swift admired, but it is wit applied to high ends. The skill with which ridicule was poured upon Parker caused the book to be read by all classes, thus secured attention for the earnest matter which Marvell was in reality speaking. He had all the laughers on his side, says Burnet, from the King downwards. A very interesting and unexpected deposition of Roger L’Estrange, the licencer, has been printed in the Seventh Report of the Historical MSS. Commission, from which it appears that L’Estrange did not hear of the book until the printing of the second impression had been begun, in January 1672–3.* Two sheets had been seized, when L’Estrange was summoned to Lord Anglesey’s house, with Ponder, who acknowledged himself to be the printer. Lord Anglesey said, “Look you, Mr. L’Estrange, there is a book come out, ‘The Rehearsal Transposed’ [sic]; I presume you have seen it; I have spoken to his Majesty about it, and the King says he will not have it suppressed, for Parker has done him wrong, and this man has done him right, and I desired to speak with you to tell you this; and since the King will have the book to pass, pray give Mr. Ponder your licence to it, that it may not be printed from him.” Of course L’Estrange had to give way, but obtained leave to alter certain passages. Afterwards the Clerk to the Stationers’ Company objected to the book, in spite of the licence L’Estrange had been obliged to give. The Clerk’s scruples were overcome only by a threat from Lord Anglesey to bring the matter before the King and Council. L’Estrange afterwards complained that the book was not printed according to the corrected copy he had licensed.
* There were to be 1,500 copies of the second impression, and John Darby, a printer, gave evidence that Marvell was the author (Hist. MSS. Commission, Fourth Report, p. 234).
There were several answers to Marvell’s book, in which an attempt was made to write in a similar style of banter and invective, and though, they are of little value, they must be read by any one who wishes to understand the allusions in Marvell’s work. It is impossible here to say more than that among the titles were “Rosemary and Bayes,” “The Transproser Rehearsed,” “S’too him, Bayes,” “Gregory Father Greybeard,” by Edmund Hickeringill, in which much use is made of the words “marvel” and “marvellous,” and Parker’s “A Reproof to the Rehearsal Transprosed,” a dreary book of over 500 pages, in which Marvell was advised to betake himself to his “own proper trade of lampoons and ballads,” and was reminded that the consequence of his malcontentedness might be the rod, axe, whipping-post, galleys, or pillory. The Government was advised “to crush the pestilent wit, the servant of Cromwell and the friend of Milton.”
Marvell’s rejoinder, published in 1673 under his own name, has for title-page “The Rehearsal Transprosed: The Second Part. Occasioned by two letters; the first printed by a nameless author, entitled, A Reproof, etc. The second a letter left for me at a friend’s house, dated Nov. 3rd. 1673, subscribed J. G., and concluding with these words, ‘If thou darest to print or publish any lie or libel against Dr. Parker, by the Eternal God, I will cut thy throat.’ Answered by Andrew Marvell.” This book brought the controversy to a close, though Parker, who became Bishop of Oxford, attacked Marvell after his death in the “History of his own Times.”
Of the innumerable passages of interest in the “Rehearsal Transprosed” reference must once more he made to the satirical account of the evil effects of a free press (Grosart’s edition, 7–9); to the hearty praise of Butler’s “excellent wit,” though his choice of subject might be regretted (35); to the character of John Hales (125–6); and to the account of the events that led to the Civil War (21 1 — 1 3), where he says, “The arms of the Church are prayers and tears; the arms of the subjects are patience and petitions”; yet the fatal consequences of that Rebellion should “serve as sea-marks unto wise princes to avoid the causes.” The most interesting passages in Marvell’s “Second Part” are the references to his father (322); to the unequal distribution of the revenues of the church (336–7); to Parker’s own impure life (428–9); to “Hudibras” (496), of which he spoke again “with that esteem which an excellent piece of wit upon whatsoever subject will always merit”; and, above all, to Milton (498–500), who was suspected of helping Marvell. “By chance I had not seen him of two years before; but after I undertook writing I did most carefully avoid either visiting or sending to him, lest I should anyway involve him in my consequences.” At the Restoration, Milton and Parker had both partaken of the Royal clemency, and it was at Milton’s house, where Parker was in those days often to be found, that Marvell had met Parker. The attack on the old poet was therefore inhuman and inhospitable, and was a warning to avoid “a man that creeps into all companies, to jeer, trepan, and betray them.”
The other Church controversy in which Marvell took part need not detain us long. In 1675 Dr. Croft, the good Bishop of Hereford, endeavoured, in a pamphlet called “The Naked Truth, or the True State of the Primitive Church, by a Humble Moderator,” to secure forbearance between Churchmen and Nonconformists. The High Church party was indignant, and Dr. Francis Turner, Master of St. John’s College, Cambridge, published, in 1676, “Animadversions on the Naked Truth.” Then Marvell brought out a witty pamphlet called “Mr. Smirke, or, the Divine in Mode,” in which he ridiculed Turner by comparing him with the chaplain in Etherege’s play, the “Man of Mode,” and showed his thorough knowledge of the matter under discussion in an appendix called “A Short Historical Essay, touching General Councils, Creeds, and Impositions in Religion.” Dr. Croft thanked Marvell for his aid, and Marvell sent an admirable reply.
Aubrey says that Marvell was “of a middling stature, pretty strong set, roundish-faced, cherry-cheeked, hazel eye, brown hair. He was in his conversation very modest, and of very few words. Though he loved wine, he never would drink hard in company.” Aubrey was very far from implying that he was a “drunken buffoon,” as Parker, in his anger, called him. Marvell’s integrity is illustrated by the well-known story of the visit of Lord Danby to his room, and his refusal of the bribe which the Lord Treasurer found many rich men only too ready to accept! “I live here,” said Marvell, “to serve my constituents; the ministry may seek men for their purpose; I am not one.” As Marvell tells us there were so many courtiers and apostate patriots in the House that money was granted to the King with the full knowledge that it would not be applied to the purpose for which it asked, and further large grants were made to the Duchess of Cleveland, under whose cognisance all promotions, spiritual as well as moral, passed. In 1674 Marvell waited Duke of Monmouth, Governor of Hull, with the then customary present of six broad pieces from the Corporation. The Duke would have returned the gold to Marvell, had he not prevented him. The money regularly sent from Hull far exceeded Marvell’s expenses; as for this present, therefore, he desired the Corporation “to make use of it, and of me, upon any other opportunity.”
Many poets have written in eulogy of Marvell, but our space will not allow of quotation. Mason, who had himself been a student at Marvell’s old school, praised his genius and his character in the “Ode to Independency,” and Wordsworth associated him with some of the noblest names of the time:—
Great men have been among us; hands that penned
And tongues that uttered wisdom — belter none!
The later Sidney, Marvell, Harrington,
Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend.
It is needless to dwell further upon Marvell’s high sense of duty. The more we learn of the corruption of those around him, the more are we impressed by the honesty, purity, and brotherly charity of the man who was in every way worthy to be a friend of that greater poet whose “soul was like a star, and dwelt apart.”
The late Mr. C. D. Christie reviewed Dr. Grosart’s edition of Marvell’s Poems in both the Saturday Review and the Spectator, and in each case spoke very severely of the Satires, which he stigmatized as obscene, and full of filth and scurrility. The writer of a recent anonymous article in Macmillan’ss Magazine, who follows Mr. Christie’s example, seems unable to find pleasure in anything of Marvell’s except certain of the early poems, upon which he makes some interesting remarks, and, what is worse, he insinuates his want of belief in any high motives in Marvell’s actions. In the poems on Cromwell he sees the working of “Milton’s poisonous advice”! and he cannot perceive any in Marvell’s political life. His untiring labour for his constituents “cannot be certainly imputed to any higher motive than to stand well with his employers.” Marvell abandoned poetry for public life; “it seems that,” says this writer, quoting from Browning,
Just for a handfull of silver he left us,
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat.
A less happy quotation could not have been found. They who take up the attitude that Marvell adopted are hardly the men who receive the rewards or decorations given successfull statesmen.
It cannot be denied that coarse passages; to be found in Marvell’s satires; but we must remember the circumstances under which they were written. Parker, whom Mr. Christie gravely quoted against Marvell, says that “out of the House, when he could do it with impunity, he vented himself with the greatest bitterness, and daily spewed infamous libels out of his filthy mouth against the King himself.” It is true that there is often plain-speaking of the King, but that King was Charles II.; and loyal as he was, Marvell’s love for his country was too great to allow him to pass over in silence the infamous state of affairs that he saw around him. Every form of uncleanness, bribery, and corruption was practised openly at the Court, and behind this apparent surrendering of all else to the pleasures of the moment there was a plot to sacrifice the country and the national religion for private and selfish ends. In speaking plainly of such things the poet could hardly fail sometimes to write coarsely or unmercifully.
The more we study the writings of Marvell’s contemporaries, the more we realize the accuracy of the numerous uncomplimentary allusions to people of the day in these satires. When any one who dared to speak of a royal intrigue, well known to all, was liable to a brutal assault at the hands of soldiers under command of the King’s son, it was impossible to write otherwise than anonymously, and the charge of cowardice or unmanliness is absurd. Perhaps there is no attack in these satires that we need much regret except that upon Anne Hyde, the Duke of York’s first wife; but even in this case Marvell may have had good reason for knowing that her enemies were right in asserting that the connection she had with the Duke before her marriage was not the only slip she made. The Duke of York himself was a profligate and an intriguer against his country’s best interests, and well deserved all that Marvell said of him.
Of the earlier satires the “Character of Holland” is the best, and the vigorous, rollicking humour and careless, unpremeditated style have often been compared with Butler’s; but there is an earnest feeling throughout of love for England, “dariing of Heaven, and of men the care,” and of admiration for those who in troublesome limes watched over the Commonwealth. Among the Latin poems the piece upon Joseph de Maniban illustrates Marvell’s wit in its lighter vein. His scholarship was of no mean order, and his reading was wide.
It is pleasant to turn to the poems upon which Marvell’s fame chiefly rests. They were all, with one exception, written before the Restoration, and none would realize more than Marvell how great a sacrifice he made when he abandoned the higher forms of art to attack the vices that he saw around him. He had a real love of Nature for its own sake, which was then rare even among poets, and he made the best use of the opportunity for studying the beauties of the country that was afforded during his sojourn at Lord Fairfax’s. He was the about thirty years of age, and the poems “Upon the Hill and Grove at Billborow” and “Appleton House” show that he loved to wander in the grounds and country lanes and woods, watching the birds and flowers with a discerning eye, but not forgetting the human element in the world and the relations of the whole to its Creator:—
Thus I, easie Philosopher,
Among the Birds and Trees confer:
And little now to make me, wants
Or of the Fowles, or of the Plants.
. . . .
Thrice happy he who, not mistook,
Hath read in Natures mystick Book.
And then he gracefully attributes the beauty of it all to his young pupil, for whom he evidently felt a great affection, which often influenced his verse:—
She yet more pure, sweet, straight, and fair
Than gardens, woods, meads, rivers are.
In “The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Fawn,” the fawn, left by a faithless lover, is described as finding all its pleasure in the nymph’s garden, which was overgrown with roses and lilies. Here, as in other pieces, there are some of the far-fetched conceits so often found in Donne and his contemporaries.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.
Yet, as Mr. Palgrave says in the “Golden Treasury,” “perhaps no poem in this collection is more delicately fancied, more exquisitely finished. The poet’s imagination is justified in its seeming extravagance by the intensity and unity with which it invests his picture.” The poems relating to the Mower are of great interest, and illustrate what Lamb called the “witty delicacy” of Marvell. “The Garden,” “A Drop of Dew,” and “The Coronet,” all of them full of earnest thought, are among the most beautiful of seventeenth century poems. To these must be added “Eyes and Tears,” though in it there is an unusual number of the quaint conceits of which we have spoken. Those conceits however, when used by Marvell, always add a graceful turn to the verse, and below the surface there is a deeper meaning.
In “Clorinda and Damon” we have, in the form of an idyl, the picture of a man fortified against temptation by his knowledge of God, the “mighty Pan” of Milton’s “Ode on the Nativity.” Clorinda, urging Damon to seek present ease, describes a cave hard by in which a trickling fountain makes music. But, says Damon,
Might a soul bathe there and be clean,
Or slake its drought?
What is’t you mean?
Clorinda, pastures, caves and springs.
These once had been enticing things.
And what late change?
The other day
Pan met me.
What did great Pan say?
Words that transcend poor shepherd’s skill;
But he e’er since my songs does fill,
And his name swells my slender oat.
With a lighter but equally perfect touch Marvell wrote such lines as “Ametas and Thestylis making Hay-ropes,” or “The Picture of Little T. C.,” or “The Fair Singer,” or “To his Coy Mistress,” where light fancy turns at the close to a deeper passion. The graceful lines “Young Love,” — “Come, little infant, love me now” — may well be contrasted with Prior’s charm- ing verses, “To a Child of Quality, five years old,” written half a century later. The exquisite “Bermudas” is perhaps the most widely known of Marvell’s poems. One of the noblest is the “Dialogue between the Resolved Soul and Created Pleasure”; and we must not forget “An Epitaph,” with its touching end:—
Modest as morn, as midday bright,
Gentle as evening, cool as night:
’Tis true; but all too weakly said:
’Twas more significant, she’s dead.
Throughout these earlier poems there is a wonderful combination of delicate sentiment, wealth of fancy, graceful form, simplicity combined with depth of thought, imagination and originality. Marvell’s mind was like the garden he described, where he found feir Quiet and Innocence, and whereevery form of finit pressed itself upon him as he walked. But the mind, retiring into its own happiness, created other worlds and seas, transcending those of the natural world.
During the period of the Commonwealth Marvell produced a series of important poems on events in our national history. The first was the “Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland” in 1650, which Mr. Lowell called “the most truly classic in our language,” and “worthy of its theme.” As Archbishop Trench remarked, Marvell was conscious of his powers when he called this ode “Horatian”; it is like Horace at his best. We have already seen that in this his most finished work, Marvell did not hesitate to utter noble words in praise of Charles I., even when writing of Cromwell.
Next followed, in 1655, “The First Anniversary of the Government under His Highness the Lord Protector,” in which the poet described the troubles through which Cromwell with heavenly aid had guided the country:—
Tis not a freedom that, where all command,
Nor tyranny, where one does them withstand;
But who of both the bounders knows to lay,
Him, as their father, must the state obey.
Three years later came the “Poem upon the Death of His Royal Highness the Lord Protector,” noble in its tenderness. We are the more struck with the absolute sincerity of the poet’s grief when we compare the piece with what Dryden and Waller wrote on the same occasion, and we think more highly of Cromwell when we see how he was loved by a man like Marvell.
I saw him dead: a leaden slumber lies.
And mortal sleep over those wakeful eyes;
Those gentle rays under the lids were Red,
Which through his looks that piercing sweetness shed.
. . . . . . . .
So shall his praise to after times increase
When truth shall be allow’d and faction cease.
In the year preceding Cromwell’s death Marvell had celebrated the great victory obtained by Blake at Santa Cruz, and ten years later he described the heroic death of Captain Douglas, who refused to leave his ship when it had been set on fire by the Dutch. In this piece, too, he remonstrated against the bad feeling between England and Scotland, fanned by the persecutions under Lauderdale and Sharp: “Tis Holy Island parts us, not the Tweed.” He would not blame the King:—
One king, one faith, one language, and one isle,
English and Scotch, ’tis all but cross and pile.
Charles, our great soul, this only understands,
He our affections both, and wills, commands.
The well-known lines on “Paradise Lost,” the last tribute that he was to pay to the poet whom he so greatly reverenced, hardly rank with the best of Marvell’s work, in spite of the fine opening, “When I beheld the poet blind yet bold”; but the thoughts and aim are worthy, as they always were, of the subject, however great that subject might be. In the following year, after Milton’s death. Marvell promised Aubrey to write a notice of his friend for the use of Wood, who was then preparing his “Athenae Oxonienses,” but the undertaking was never carried out.
Marvell expressed his ideal of happiness in lines translated from Seneca:—
Climb at court, for me, that will,
Tottering favour’s pinnacle;
All I seek is to lie still.
Settled in some secret nest
In calm leisure let me rest,
And, far off the public stage,
Pass away my silent age.
Thus when, without noise, unknown,
I have lived out all my span,
I shall die, without a groan.
An old honest countryman.
It was a gain to his country that circumstances impelled him to pass his later years in the turmoil of public life, though not in seeking favour at court; but it was none the less a loss to the Muses.
G. A. AITKEN.
Most of Marvell’s poems on political subjects doubtless appeared as broadsides or pamphlets at the time they were written; but of these original issues one only is known to have survived. “The Character of Holland,” written in 1653, printed early, probably, in that year, appears to have been reprinted, in folio, in 1665, with the omission of the latter portion, in which praise was given to Blake and other commanders of the Commonwealth. This mutilated version was again printed, in quarto, in 1672. “The first Anniversary of the Government under his Highness the Lord Protector” was printed, in quarto, by Thomas Newcomb, London, in 1665. “Advice to a Painter” was printed as a four-page folio sheet, without date, but apparently in 1679, after Marvell’s death. The following poems first appeared in the volumes mentioned: (1 and 2) “Προσ Καρρολον Τον Βασιλεα” and “Ad Regem Carolum” (“Musa Cantabrigiensis,” 1637); (3) “Upon the Death of the Lord Hastings” (“Lacrymae Musarum,” 1649); (4) “To his noble Friend, Mr. Richard Lovelace, upon his Poems” (“Lucasta, by Richard Lovelace, Esq,” 1649); (5) “To his worthy Friend, Dr. Whitty” (“Popular Sermons. . . . translated into English by R. Whittle,” 1651); (6,7, and 8) “Clarendon’s House Warming,” “Upon His House,” and “Upon his Grandchildren “ (“Directions to a Painter for describing our Naval Business: in imitation of Mr. Waller. Being the last works of Sir John Denham. Whereunto is annexed Clarendon’s House Warming. By an unknown Author,” 1667); (9) “On Paradise Lost” (Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” 1674); (10) “The Loyal Scot” (“Poetical Remains of the Duke of Buckingham, Sir George Etheridge, Mr. Milton, Mr. Andrew Marvel, &c.,” edited by Charles Gildon, 1698; and “Corpus Poetarum,” 1694). At the end of 1680 or early in 1681 Marvell’s wife published a collected edition of his “Miscellaneous Poems,” in folio. This volume, which was carefully edited, contains almost all the non-political poems in English, Latin, and Greek, and is our chief authority as regards the text. It should contain an octagon portrait, often missing.
The Satires appeared in 1689, in several quarto pamphlets.
“A Collection of Poems on Affairs of State, By A—— M——l, Esq., and other eminent wits.” (Contains “Advice to a Painter,” “Britannia and Raleigh,” “The Statue at Stocks–Market,” and “Nostradamus’ Prophecy.”)
“The Second Part of the Collection,” &c. “By A—— M——l, &c. None whereof ever before printed.” (Contains “A Dialogue between Two Horses,” and “On the Lord Mayor and Aldermen presenting the King and Duke of York each with a copy of his freedom.”)
“The Third Part of the Collection,” &c. (Contains the “Last Instructions to a Painter.”)
All the satires were reprinted in the collection of “Poems on Affairs of State,” 1703–7, 4 vols., 8vo, and in the spurious edition, “A New Collection of Poems relating to State Affairs,” 1705.
In 1726 Thomas Cooke published an edition of Marvell’s Works, in 2 vols., 12mo, in which he added the political satires, and a few letters, to the poems in the 1681 edition. Cooke’s edition was reprinted by Davies in 1772; and in 1776 Captain Thompson published the first full edition of the whole works. In his three 4to vols, he made use of a MS. commonplace book which afterwards disappeared; and while he printed several pieces obviously not Marvell’s, he gave for the first time some of the poet’s best work, and added the correspondence with the Mayor and Corporation of Hull, and the prose writings. An American edition of the poems appeared at Boston in 1857, and this volume was reprinted in England, with many additional errors, in 1870 and 1881. Dr. Grosart’s standard edition of Marvell’s Works, in 4 vols., forms part of the “Fuller Worthies’ Library,” and was issued to subscribers in three forms, 4to, 8vo, and 12mo, between 1872 and 1875. In this edition several poems were printed for the first time, while it was shown that others have been wrongly attributed to Marvell; a great addition was made to the number of letters, and the whole of the works were annotated practically for the first time.
The prose works that can with certainty be claimed as Marvell’s are as follows:—
“The Rehearsal Transprosed,” 1672, 12mo. (There was a “Second Impression” early in 1673, but dated 1672; and a spurious “Second Edition Corrected,” 1672.)
“The Rehearsal Transprosed. The Second Part. By Andrew Marvell.” 1673, 12mo.
“Mr. Smirke, or the Divine in Mode. By Andreas Rivetus, Junior.” 1676, 4to.
“An Account of the Growth of Popery and Arbitrary Government in England.” 1677, 4to. (Reprinted in folio, after Marvell’s death.)
5. “Remarks upon a late disingenuous discourse writ by one T. D. under the pretence De Causa Dei and of answering Mr. John Howe’s Letter and Postscript of God’s Prescience. By a Protestant.” 1678, 8vo.
For biography and criticism the following books and papers will be found useful: Lives in the editions of Cooke, Thompson, and Grosart; Life by John Dove, 1832; Life by Hartley Coleridge, 1832 and 1835, and in “Lives of the Northern Worthies,” 1852 (this Life is the same as Dove’s, with some notes added by Coleridge); a sketch by Henry Rogers, in the Edinburgh Review for 1844, and in his collected “Essays”; anonymous articles in the Retrospective Review, vols. x. and xi., Westminster Review, January, 1833, Cornhill Magazine, July 1869 (an excellent article), and Macmillan’s Magazine, January, 1891; articles by Mr. C. D. Christie in the Spectator and Saturday Review, 1873; Notes and Queries, passim; Mr. Palgrave’s Golden Treasury; Dr. Macdonald’s England’s Antiphon; Miss Mitford’s Recollections of a Literary Life; Archbishop Trench’s Household Book of English Poetry; and Mrs. Hall’s (nee Marie Sibree) story, “Andrew Marvell and his Friends” (1875). For the general history of the time the following books, among others will be found useful: The Diaries of Pepys and Evelyn; Grammont’s Memoirs; Clarendon’s Life, and Continuation; Burnet’s History of his own Time; Masson’s Life of Milton; Christie’s Life of Lord Shaftesbury; Cobbett’s Parliamentary Debates; Grey’s Debates; Memoirs of Sir John Reresby; Fomeron’s Louise de Keroualle; the Savile Correspondence; and articles in the Dictionary of National Biography. The Diaries of Narcissus Luttrell and Henry Sidney, Earl of Romsey, are sometimes of use, though they do not commence until shortly after Marvell’s death.
SEE how the archèd earth does here
Rise in a perfect hemisphere!
The stiffest compass could not strike
A line more circular and like,
Nor softest pencil draw a brow
So equal as this hill does bow;
It seems as for a model laid,
And that the world by it was made.
Here learn, ye mountains more unjust,
Which to abrupter greatness thrust,10
That do, with your hook-shouldered height,
The earth deform, and heaven fright,
For whose excrescence, ill designed,
Nature must a new centre find,
Learn here those humble steps to tread,
Which to securer glory lead.
See what a soft access, and wide,
Lies open to its grassy side,
Nor with the rugged path deters
The feet of breathless travellers;20
See then how courteous it ascends,
And all the way it rises, bends,
Nor for itself the height does gain,
But only strives to raise the plain;
Yet thus it all the field commands,
And in unenvied greatness stands,
Discerning further than the cliff
Of heaven-daring Teneriff.
How glad the weary seamen haste,
When they salute it from the mast!30
By night, the northern star their way
Directs, and this no less by day.
Upon its crest, this mountain grave,
A plume of agèd trees does wave.
No hostile hand durst e’er invade,
With impious steel, the sacred shade;
For something always did appear
Of the Great Master’s terror there,
And men could hear his armour still,
Rattling through all the grove and hill.40
Fear of the Master, and respect
Of the great nymph, did it protect;
Vera, the nymph, that him inspired,
To whom he often here retired,
And on these oaks ingraved her name —
Such wounds alone these woods became;
But ere he well the barks could part,
’Twas writ already in their heart;
For they, ’tis credible, have sense,
As we, of love and reverence,50
And underneath the coarser rind
The genius of the house do bind.
Hence they successes seem to know,
And in their Lord’s advancement grow;
But in no memory were seen,
As under this, so straight and green;
Yet now no farther strive to shoot,
Contented, if they fix their root,
Nor to the wind’s uncertain gust
Their prudent heads too far entrust.60
Only sometimes a fluttering breeze
Discourses with the breathing trees,
Which in their modest whispers name
Those acts that swelled the cheeks of Fame.
“Much other groves,” say they, “than these,
And other hills, him once did please.
Through groves of pikes he thundered then,
And mountains raised of dying men.
For all the civic garlands due
To him, our branches are but few;70
Nor are our trunks enough to bear
The trophies of one fertile year.”
’Tis true, ye trees, nor ever spoke
More certain oracles in oak;
But peace, if you his favour prize!
That courage its own praises flies:
Therefore to your obscurer seats
From his own brightness he retreats;
Nor he the hills, without the groves,
Nor height, but with retirement, loves.80
Sir Thomas Fairfax, of Denton, afterwards first Lord Fairfax, was born in the manor-house at Bilbrough in 1560; and in 1609 Sir Philip Fairfax, of Steeton, whose father had bought the house, made over all the rights to it to Sir Thomas Fairfax.
Thomas, third Lord Fairfax, to whom this poem is addressed, was son of Sir Ferdinando Fairfax and Mary, daughter of Edward Sheffield, Lord Mulgrave. Lord Fairfax was commander-in-chief of the Parlia- mentary army until 1650, when he resigned the post. He died at Nunappleton in 1671, and his tomb is in Bilbrough Church. The hill, with its clump of trees (the “Grove”), commanded a view of the plain of York, and was a favourite resort of the General during his retirement at Nunappleton.
l.30. “On Bilbrough Hill, 145 feet above the sea, there was then a great clump of trees, which was a land- mark for ships going up the Humber, the land rising very gradually from the Wharfe at Nunappleton, and being crowned by this conical grassy hill, with its leafy tuft.” (Life of the Great Lord Fairfax, by C. R. Markham, 1870, p. 58).
l.43. Lord Fairfax married, in 1637, Anne Vere, daughter of Horatio, first Baron Vere, under whom he had served in the war in the Low Countries.
l.74. The oaks of Dodona.
Cernis ut ingenti distinguant limite campum
Montis Amosclivi Bilboreique juga!
Ille stat indomitus turritis undisque saxis:
Cingit huic laetum Fraximus alta Caput.
Illi petra minax rigidis cervicibus horret:
Huic quatiunt viridis lenia colla jubas.
Fulcit Atlanteo Rupes ea vertice coelos:
Collis at hic humeros subjicit Herculeos.
Hic ceu carceribus visum sylvaque coercet:
Ille Oculos alter dum quasi meta trahit.
Ille Giganteum surgit ceu Pelion Ossa:
Hic agit ut Pindi culmine Nympha choros.
Erectus, praeceps, salebrosus, & arduus ille:
Aeclivis, placidus, mollis, amoenus hic est.
Dissimilis Domino coiit Natura sub uno;
Farfaciaque tremunt sub ditione pares.
Dumque triumphanti terras perlabitur Axe,
Praeteriens aequa stringit utrumque Rota.
Asper in adversos, facilis cedentibus idem;
Ut credas Montes extimulasse suos.
Hi sunt Alcidae Borealis nempe Columnae,
Quos medio scindit vallis opaca freto.
An potius longe sic prona cacumina nutant,
Parnassus cupiant esse Maria tuus.
Within this sober Frame expect
Work of no Forrain Architect;
That unto Caves the Quarries drew,
And Forrests did to Pastures hew;
Who of his great Design in pain
Did for a Model vault his Brain,
Whose Columnes should so high be rais’d
To arch the Brows that on them gaz’d.
Why should of all things Man unrul’d
Such unproportion’d dwellings build?
The Beasts are by their Denns exprest:
And Birds contrive an equal Nest;
The low roof’d Tortoises do dwell
In cases fit of Tortoise-shell:
No Creature loves an empty space;
Their Bodies measure out their Place.
But He, superfluously spread,
Demands more room alive then dead.
And in his hollow Palace goes
Where Winds as he themselves may lose.
What need of all this Marble Crust
T’impark the wanton Mose of Dust,
That thinks by Breadth the World t’unite
Though the first Builders fail’d in Height?
But all things are composed here
Like Nature, orderly and near:
In which we the Dimensions find
Of that more sober Age and Mind,
When larger sized Men did stoop
To enter at a narrow loop;
As practising, in doors so strait,
To strain themselves through Heavens Gate.
And surely when the after Age
Shall hither come in Pilgrimage,
These sacred Places to adore,
By Vere and Fairfax trod before,
Men will dispute how their Extent
Within such dwarfish Confines went:
And some will smile at this, as well
As Romulus his Bee-like Cell.
Humility alone designs
Those short but admirable Lines,
By which, ungirt and unconstrain’d,
Things greater are in less contain’d.
Let others vainly strive t’immure
The Circle in the Quadrature!
These holy Mathematicks can
In ev’ry Figure equal Man.
Yet thus the laden House does sweat,
And scarce indures the Master great:
But where he comes the swelling Hall
Stirs, and the Square grows Spherical;
More by his Magnitude distrest,
Than he is by its straitness prest:
And too officiously it slights
That in it self which him delights.
So Honour better Lowness bears,
Then That unwonted Greatness wears
Height with a certain Grace does bend,
But low Things clownishly ascend.
And yet what needs there here Excuse,
Where ev’ry Thing does answer Use?
Where neatness nothing can condemn,
Nor Pride invent what to contemn?
A Stately Frontispice Of Poor
Adorns without the open Door:
Nor less the Rooms within commends
Daily new Furniture Of Friends.
The House was built upon the Place
Only as for a Mark Of Grace;
And for an Inn to entertain
Its Lord a while, but not remain.
Him Bishops-Hill, or Denton may,
Or Bilbrough, better hold than they:
But Nature here hath been so free
As if she said leave this to me.
Art would more neatly have defac’d
What she had laid so sweetly wast;
In fragrant Gardens, shaddy Woods,
Deep Meadows, and transparent Floods.
While with slow Eyes we these survey,
And on each pleasant footstep stay,
We opportunly may relate
The progress of this Houses Fate.
A Nunnery first gave it birth.
For Virgin Buildings oft brought forth.
And all that Neighbour-Ruine shows
The Quarries whence this dwelling rose.
Near to this gloomy Cloysters Gates
There dwelt the blooming Virgin Thwates,
Fair beyond Measure, and an Heir
Which might Deformity make fair.
And oft She spent the Summer Suns
Discoursing with the Suttle Nunns.
Whence in these Words one to her weav’d,
(As ’twere by Chance) Thoughts long conceiv’d.
“Within this holy leisure we
Live innocently as you see.
these Walls restrain the World without,
But hedge our Liberty about.
These Bars inclose the wider Den
Of those wild Creatures, called Men.
The Cloyster outward shuts its Gates,
And, from us, locks on them the Grates.
“Here we, in shining Armour white,
Like Virgin-Amazons do fight.
And our chast Lamps we hourly trim,
Lest the great Bridegroom find them dim.
Our Orient Breaths perfumed are
With insense of incessant Pray’r.
And Holy-water of our Tears
Most strangly our Complexion clears.
“Not Tears of Grief; but such as those
With which calm Pleasure overflows;
Or Pity, when we look on you
That live without this happy Vow.
How should we grieve that must be seen
Each one a Spouse, and each a Queen;
And can in Heaven hence behold
Our brighter Robes and Crowns of Gold?
“When we have prayed all our Beads,
Some One the holy Legend reads;
While all the rest with Needles paint
The Face and Graces of the Saint.
But what the Linnen can’t receive
They in their Lives do interweave.
This Work the Saints best represents;
That serves for Altar’s Ornaments.
“But much it to our work would add
If here your hand, your Face we had:
By it we would our Lady touch;
Yet thus She you resembles much.
Some of your Features, as we sow’d,
Through ev’ry Shrine should be bestow’d.
And in one Beauty we would take
Enough a thousand Saints to make.
“And (for I dare not quench the Fire
That me does for your good inspire)
’Twere Sacriledge a Man t’admit
To holy things, for Heaven fit.
I see the Angels in a Crown
On you the Lillies show’ring down:
And round about your Glory breaks,
That something more than humane speaks.
“All Beauty, when at such a height,
Is so already consecrate.
Fairfax I know; and long ere this
Have mark’d the Youth, and what he is.
But can he such a Rival seem
For whom you Heav’n should disesteem?
Ah, no! and ’twould more Honour prove
He your Devoto were, than Love.
“Here live beloved, and obey’d:
Each one your Sister, each your Maid.
And, if our Rule seem strictly pend,
The Rule it self to you shall bend.
Our Abbess too, now far in Age,
Doth your succession near presage.
How soft the yoke on us would lye,
Might such fair Hands as yours it tye!
“Your voice, the sweetest of the Quire,
Shall draw Heav’n nearer, raise us higher.
And your Example, if our Head,
Will soon us to perfection lead.
Those Virtues to us all so dear,
Will straight grow Sanctity when here:
And that, once sprung, increase so fast
Till Miracles it work at last.
“Nor is our Order yet so nice,
Delight to banish as a Vice.
Here Pleasure Piety doth meet;
One perfecting the other Sweet.
So through the mortal fruit we boyl
The Sugars uncorrupting Oyl:
And that which perisht while we pull,
Is thus preserved clear and full.
“For such indeed are all our Arts;
Still handling Natures finest Parts.
Flow’rs dress the Altars; for the Clothes,
The Sea-born Amber we compose;
Balms for the griv’d we draw; and pasts
We mold, as Baits for curious tasts.
What need is here of Man? unless
These as sweet Sins we should confess.
“Each Night among us to your side
Appoint a fresh and Virgin Bride;
Whom if Our Lord at midnight find,
Yet Neither should be left behind.
Where you may lye as chast in Bed,
As Pearls together billeted.
All Night embracing Arm in Arm,
Like Chrystal pure with Cotton warm.
“But what is this to all the store
Of Joys you see, and may make more!
Try but a while, if you be wise:
The Tryal neither Costs, nor Tyes.”
Now Fairfax seek her promis’d faith:
Religion that dispensed hath;
Which She hence forward does begin;
The Nuns smooth Tongue has suckt her in.
Oft, though he knew it was in vain,
Yet would he valiantly complain.
“Is this that Sanctity so great,
An Art by which you finly’r cheat
Hypocrite Witches, hence avant,
Who though in prison yet inchant!
Death only can such Theeves make fast,
As rob though in the Dungeon cast.
“Were there but, when this House was made,
One Stone that a just Hand had laid,
It must have fall’n upon her Head
Who first Thee from thy Faith misled.
And yet, how well soever ment,
With them ’twould soon grow fraudulent
For like themselves they alter all,
And vice infects the very Wall.
“But sure those Buildings last not long,
Founded by Folly, kept by Wrong.
I know what Fruit their Gardens yield,
When they it think by Night conceal’d.
Fly from their Vices. ’Tis thy ‘state,
Not Thee, that they would consecrate.
Fly from their Ruine. How I fear
Though guiltless lest thou perish there.”
What should he do? He would respect
Religion, but not Right neglect:
For first Religion taught him Right,
And dazled not but clear’d his sight.
Sometimes resolv’d his Sword he draws,
But reverenceth then the Laws:
For Justice still that Courage led;
First from a Judge, then Souldier bred.
Small Honour would be in the Storm.
The Court him grants the lawful Form;
Which licens’d either Peace or Force,
To hinder the unjust Divorce.
Yet still the Nuns his Right debar’d,
Standing upon their holy Guard.
Ill-counsell’d Women, do you know
Whom you resist, or what you do?
Is not this he whose Offspring fierce
Shall fight through all the Universe;
And with successive Valour try
France, Poland, either Germany;
Till one, as long since prophecy’d,
His Horse through conquer’d Britain ride?
Yet, against Fate, his Spouse they kept;
And the great Race would intercept.
Some to the Breach against their Foes
Their Wooden Saints in vain oppose
Another bolder stands at push
With their old Holy-Water Brush.
While the disjointed Abbess threads
The gingling Chain-shot of her Beads.
But their lowd’st Cannon were their Lungs;
And sharpest Weapons were their Tongues.
But, waving these aside like Flyes,
Young Fairfax through the Wall does rise.
Then th’ unfrequented Vault appear’d,
And superstitions vainly fear’d.
The Relicks false were set to view;
Only the Jewels there were true.
But truly bright and holy Thwaites
That weeping at the Altar waites.
But the glad Youth away her bears,
And to the Nuns bequeaths her Tears:
Who guiltily their Prize bemoan,
Like Gipsies that a Child hath stoln.
Thenceforth (as when th’ Inchantment ends
The Castle vanishes or rends)
The wasting Cloister with the rest
Was in one instant dispossest.
At the demolishing, this Seat
To Fairfax fell as by Escheat.
And what both Nuns and Founders will’d
’Tis likely better thus fulfill’d,
For if the Virgin prov’d not theirs,
The Cloyster yet remained hers.
Though many a Nun there made her vow,
’Twas no Religious-House till now.
From that blest Bed the Heroe came,
Whom France and Poland yet does fame:
Who, when retired here to Peace,
His warlike Studies could not cease;
But laid these Gardens out in sport
In the just Figure of a Fort;
And with five Bastions it did fence,
As aiming one for ev’ry Sense.
When in the East the Morning Ray
Hangs out the Colours of the Day,
The Bee through these known Allies hums,
Beating the Dian with its Drumms.
Then Flow’rs their drowsie Eylids raise,
Their Silken Ensigns each displayes,
And dries its Pan yet dank with Dew,
And fills its Flask with Odours new.
These, as their Governour goes by,
In fragrant Vollyes they let fly;
And to salute their Governess
Again as great a charge they press:
None for the Virgin Nymph; for She
Seems with the Flow’rs a Flow’r to be.
And think so still! though not compare
With Breath so sweet, or Cheek so faire.
Well shot ye Firemen! Oh how sweet,
And round your equal Fires do meet;
Whose shrill report no Ear can tell,
But Ecchoes to the Eye and smell.
See how the Flow’rs, as at Parade,
Under their Colours stand displaid:
Each Regiment in order grows,
That of the Tulip, Pinke, and Rose.
But when the vigilant Patroul
Of Stars walks round about the Pole,
Their Leaves, that to the stalks are curl’d,
Seem to their Staves the Ensigns furl’d.
Then in some Flow’rs beloved Hut
Each Bee as Sentinel is shut;
And sleeps so too: but, if once stir’d,
She runs you through, nor askes the Word.
Oh Thou, that dear and happy Isle
The Garden of the World ere while,
Thou Paradise of four Seas,
Which Heaven planted us to please,
But, to exclude the World, did guard
With watry if not flaming Sword;
What luckless Apple did we tast,
To make us Mortal, and Thee Waste.
Unhappy! shall we never more
That sweet Militia restore,
When Gardens only had their Towrs,
And all the Garrisons were Flowrs,
When Roses only Arms might bear,
And Men did rosie Garlands wear?
Tulips, in several Colours barr’d,
Were then the Switzers of our Guard.
The Gardiner had the Souldiers place,
And his more gentle Forts did trace.
The Nursery of all things green
Was then the only Magazeen.
The Winter Quarters were the Stoves,
Where he the tender Plants removes.
But War all this doth overgrow:
We Ord’nance Plant and Powder sow.
And yet their walks one on the Sod
Who, had it pleased him and God,
Might once have made our Gardens spring
Fresh as his own and flourishing.
But he preferr’d to the Cinque Ports
These five imaginary Forts:
And, in those half-dry Trenches, spann’d
Pow’r which the Ocean might command.
For he did, with his utmost Skill,
Ambition weed, but Conscience till.
Conscience, that Heaven-nursed Plant,
Which most our Earthly Gardens want.
A prickling leaf it bears, and such
As that which shrinks at ev’ry touch;
But Flow’rs eternal, and divine,
That in the Crowns of Saints do shine.
The sight does from these Bastions ply,
Th’ invisible Artilery;
And at proud Cawood-Castle seems
To point the Battery of its Beams.
As if it quarrell’d in the Seat
Th’ Ambition of its Prelate great.
But ore the Meads below it plays,
Or innocently seems to gaze.
And now to the Abbyss I pass
Of that unfathomable Grass,
Where Men like Grashoppers appear,
But Grashoppers are Gyants there:
They, in there squeking Laugh, contemn
Us as we walk more low then them:
And, from the Precipices tall
Of the green spir’s, to us do call.
To see Men through this Meadow Dive,
We wonder how they rise alive.
As, under Water, none does know
Whether he fall through it or go.
But, as the Marriners that sound,
And show upon their Lead the Ground,
They bring up Flow’rs so to be seen,
And prove they’ve at the Bottom been.
No Scene that turns with Engines strange
Does oftner then these Meadows change,
For when the Sun the Grass hath vext,
The tawny Mowers enter next;
Who seem like Israelites to be,
Walking on foot through a green Sea.
To them the Grassy Deeps divide,
And crowd a Lane to either Side.
With whistling Sithe, and Elbow strong,
These Massacre the Grass along:
While one, unknowing, carves the Rail,
Whose yet unfeather’d Quils her fail.
The Edge all bloody from its Breast
He draws, and does his stroke detest;
Fearing the Flesh untimely mow’d
To him a Fate as black forebode.
But bloody Thestylis, that waites
To bring the mowing Camp their Cates,
Greedy as Kites has trust it up,
And forthwith means on it to sup:
When on another quick She lights,
And cryes, he call’d us Israelites;
But now, to make his saying true,
Rails rain for Quails, for Manna Dew.
Unhappy Birds! what does it boot
To build below the Grasses Root;
When Lowness is unsafe as Hight,
And Chance o’retakes what scapeth spight?
And now your Orphan Parents Call
Sounds your untimely Funeral.
Death-Trumpets creak in such a Note,
And ’tis the Sourdine in their Throat.
Or sooner hatch or higher build:
The Mower now commands the Field;
In whose new Traverse seemeth wrought
A Camp of Battail newly fought:
Where, as the Meads with Hay, the Plain
Lyes quilted ore with Bodies slain:
The Women that with forks it filing,
Do represent the Pillaging.
And now the careless Victors play,
Dancing the Triumphs of the Hay;
Where every Mowers wholesome Heat
Smells like an Alexanders Sweat.
Their Females fragrant as the Mead
Which they in Fairy Circles tread:
When at their Dances End they kiss,
Their new-made Hay not sweeter is.
When after this ’tis pil’d in Cocks,
Like a calm Sea it shews the Rocks:
We wondring in the River near
How Boats among them safely steer.
Or, like the Desert Memphis Sand,
Short Pyramids of Hay do stand.
And such the Roman Camps do rise
In Hills for Soldiers Obsequies.
This Scene again withdrawing brings
A new and empty Face of things;
A levell’d space, as smooth and plain,
As Clothes for Lilly strecht to stain.
The World when first created sure
Was such a Table rase and pure.
Or rather such is the Toril
Ere the Bulls enter at Madril.
For to this naked equal Flat,
Which Levellers take Pattern at,
The Villagers in common chase
Their Cattle, which it closer rase;
And what below the Sith increast
Is pincht yet nearer by the Breast.
Such, in the painted World, appear’d
Davenant with th’Universal Heard.
They seem within the polisht Grass
A landskip drawen in Looking-Glass.
And shrunk in the huge Pasture show
As spots, so shap’d, on Faces do.
Such Fleas, ere they approach the Eye,
In Multiplyiug Glasses lye.
They feed so wide, so slowly move,
As Constellations do above.
Then, to conclude these pleasant Acts,
Denton sets ope its Cataracts;
And makes the Meadow truly be
(What it but seem’d before) a Sea.
For, jealous of its Lords long stay,
It try’s t’invite him thus away.
The River in it self is drown’d,
And Isl’s th’ astonish Cattle round.
Let others tell the Paradox,
How Eels now bellow in the Ox;
How Horses at their Tails do kick,
Turn’d as they hang to Leeches quick;
How Boats can over Bridges sail;
And Fishes do the Stables scale.
How Salmons trespassing are found;
And Pikes are taken in the Pound.
But I, retiring from the Flood,
Take Sanctuary in the Wood;
And, while it lasts, my self imbark
In this yet green, yet growing Ark;
Where the first Carpenter might best
Fit Timber for his Keel have Prest.
And where all Creatures might have shares,
Although in Armies, not in Paires.
The double Wood of ancient Stocks
Link’d in so thick, an Union locks,
It like two Pedigrees appears,
On one hand Fairfax, th’ other Veres:
Of whom though many fell in War,
Yet more to Heaven shooting are:
And, as they Natures Cradle deckt,
Will in green Age her Hearse expect.
When first the Eye this Forrest sees
It seems indeed as Wood not Trees:
As if their Neighbourhood so old
To one great Trunk them all did mold.
There the huge Bulk takes place, as ment
To thrust up a Fifth Element;
And stretches still so closely wedg’d
As if the Night within were hedg’d.
Dark all without it knits; within
It opens passable and thin;
And in as loose an order grows,
As the Corinthean Porticoes.
The Arching Boughs unite between
The Columnes of the Temple green;
And underneath the winged Quires
Echo about their tuned Fires.
The Nightingale does here make choice
To sing the Tryals of her Voice.
Low Shrubs she sits in, and adorns
With Musick high the squatted Thorns.
But highest Oakes stoop down to hear,
And listning Elders prick the Ear.
The Thorn, lest it should hurt her, draws
Within the Skin its shrunken claws.
But I have for my Musick found
A Sadder, yet more pleasing Sound:
The Stock-doves whose fair necks are grac’d
With Nuptial Rings their Ensigns chast;
Yet always, for some Cause unknown,
Sad pair unto the Elms they moan.
O why should such a Couple mourn,
That in so equal Flames do burn!
Then as I carless on the Bed
Of gelid Straw-berryes do tread,
And through the Hazles thick espy
The hatching Thrastle’s shining Eye,
The Heron from the Ashes top,
The eldest of its young lets drop,
As if it Stork-like did pretend
That Tribute to its Lord to send.
But most the Hewel’s wonders are,
Who here has the Holt-felsters care.
He walks still upright from the Root,
Meas’ring the Timber with his Foot;
And all the way, to keep it clean,
Doth from the Bark the Wood-moths glean.
He, with his Beak, examines well
Which fit to stand and which to fell.
The good he numbers up, and hacks;
As if he mark’d them with the Ax.
But where he, tinkling with his Beak,
Does find the hollow Oak to speak,
That for his building he designs,
And through the tainted Side he mines.
Who could have thought the tallest Oak
Should fall by such a feeble Stroke!
Nor would it, had the Tree not fed
A Traitor-worm, within it bred.
(As first our Flesh corrupt within
Tempts impotent and bashful Sin.)
And yet that Worm triumphs not long,
But serves to feed the Hewels young.
While the Oake seems to fall content,
Viewing the Treason’s Punishment.
Thus I, easie Philosopher,
Among the Birds and Trees confer:
And little now to make me, wants
Or of the Fowles, or of the Plants.
Give me but Wings as they, and I
Streight floting on the Air shall fly:
Or turn me but, and you shall see
I was but an inverted Tree.
Already I begin to call
In their most-learned Original:
And where I Language want,my Signs
The Bird upon the Bough divines;
And more attentive there doth sit
Then if She were with Lime-twigs knit.
No Leaf does tremble in the Wind
Which I returning cannot find.
Out of these scatter’d Sibyls Leaves
Strange Prophecies my Phancy weaves:
And in one History consumes,
Like Mexique-Paintings, all the Plumes.
What Rome, Greece, Palestine, ere said
I in this light Mosaick read.
Thrice happy he who, not mistook,
Hath read in Natures mystick Book.
And see how Chance’s better Wit
Could with a Mask my studies hit!
The Oak-Leaves me embroyder all,
Between which Caterpillars crawl:
And Ivy, with familiar trails,
Me licks, and clasps, and curles, and hales.
Under this antick Cope I move
Like some great Prelate of the Grove,
Then, languishing with ease, I toss
On Pallets swoln of Velvet Moss;
While the Wind, cooling through the Boughs,
Flatters with Air my panting Brows.
Thanks for my Rest ye Mossy Banks,
And unto you cool Zephyr’s Thanks,
Who, as my Hair, my Thoughts too shed,
And winnow from the Chaff my Head.
How safe, methinks, and strong, behind
These Trees have I incamp’d my Mind;
Where Beauty, aiming at the Heart,
Bends in some Tree its useless Dart;
And where the World no certain Shot
Can make, or me it toucheth not.
But I on it securely play,
And gaul its Horsemen all the Day.
Bind me ye Woodbines in your ‘twines,
Curle me about ye gadding Vines,
And Oh so close your Circles lace,
That I may never leave this Place:
But, lest your Fetters prove too weak,
Ere I your Silken Bondage break,
Do you, O Brambles, chain me too,
And courteous Briars nail me though.
Here in the Morning tye my Chain,
Where the two Woods have made a Lane;
While, like a Guard on either side,
The Trees before their Lord divide;
This, like a long and equal Thread,
Betwixt two Labyrinths does lead.
But, where the Floods did lately drown,
There at the Ev’ning stake me down.
For now the Waves are fal’n and dry’d,
And now the Meadows fresher dy’d;
Whose Grass, with moister colour dasht,
Seems as green Silks but newly washt.
No Serpent new nor Crocodile
Remains behind our little Nile;
Unless it self you will mistake,
Among these Meads the only Snake.
See in what wanton harmless folds
It ev’ry where the Meadow holds;
And its yet muddy back doth lick,
Till as a Chrystal Mirrour slick;
Where all things gaze themselves, and doubt
If they be in it or without.
And for his shade which therein shines,
Narcissus like, the Sun too pines.
Oh what a Pleasure ’tis to hedge
My Temples here with heavy sedge;
Abandoning my lazy Side,
Stretcht as a Bank unto the Tide;
Or to suspend my sliding Foot
On the Osiers undermined Root,
And in its Branches tough to hang,
While at my Lines the Fishes twang!
But now away my Hooks, my Quills,
And Angles, idle Utensils.
The young Maria walks to night:
Hide trifling Youth thy Pleasures slight.
’Twere shame that such judicious Eyes
Should with such Toyes a Man surprize;
She that already is the Law
Of all her Sex, her Ages Aw.
See how loose Nature, in respect
To her, it self doth recollect;
And every thing so whisht and fine,
Starts forth with to its Bonne Mine.
The Sun himself, of Her aware,
Seems to descend with greater Care,
And lest She see him go to Bed,
In blushing Clouds conceales his Head.
So when the Shadows laid asleep
From underneath these Banks do creep,
And on the River as it flows
With Eben Shuts begin to close;
The modest Halcyon comes in sight,
Flying betwixt the Day and Night;
And such an horror calm and dumb,
Admiring Nature does benum.
The viscous Air, wheres’ere She fly,
Follows and sucks her Azure dy;
The gellying Stream compacts below,
If it might fix her shadow so;
The Stupid Fishes hang, as plain
As Flies in Chrystal overt’ane,
And Men the silent Scene assist,
Charm’d with the saphir-winged Mist.
Maria such, and so doth hush
The World, and through the Ev’ning rush.
No new-born Comet such a Train
Draws through the Skie, nor Star new-slain.
For streight those giddy Rockets fail,
Which from the putrid Earth exhale,
But by her Flames, in Heaven try’d,
Nature is wholly vitrifi’d.
’Tis She that to these Gardens gave
That wondrous Beauty which they have;
She streightness on the Woods bestows;
To Her the Meadow sweetness owes;
Nothing could make the River be
So Chrystal-pure but only She;
She yet more Pure, Sweet, Streight, and Fair,
Then Gardens, Woods, Meads, Rivers are.
Therefore what first She on them spent,
They gratefully again present.
The Meadow Carpets where to tread;
The Garden Flow’rs to Crown Her Head;
And for a Glass the limpid Brook,
Where She may all her Beautyes look;
But, since She would not have them seen,
The Wood about her draws a Skreen.
For She, to higher Beauties rais’d,
Disdains to be for lesser prais’d.
She counts her Beauty to converse
In all the Languages as hers;
Not yet in those her self imployes
But for the Wisdome, not the Noyse;
Nor yet that Wisdome would affect,
But as ’tis Heavens Dialect.
Blest Nymph! that couldst so soon prevent
Those Trains by Youth against thee meant;
Tears (watry Shot that pierce the Mind;)
And Sighs (Loves Cannon charg’d with Wind;)
True Praise (That breaks through all defence;)
And feign’d complying Innocence;
But knowing where this Ambush lay,
She scap’d the safe, but roughest Way.
This ’tis to have been from the first
In a Domestick Heaven nurst,
Under the Discipline severe
Of Fairfax, and the starry Vere;
Where not one object can come nigh
But pure, and spotless as the Eye;
And Goodness doth it self intail
On Females, if there want a Male.
Go now fond Sex that on your Face
Do all your useless Study place,
Nor once at Vice your Brows dare knit
Lest the smooth Forehead wrinkled sit
Yet your own Face shall at you grin,
Thorough the Black-bag of your Skin;
When knowledge only could have fill’d
And Virtue all those Furows till’d.
Hence She with Graces more divine
Supplies beyond her Sex the Line;
And, like a sprig of Misleto,
On the Fairfacian Oak does grow;
Whence, for some universal good,
The Priest shall cut the sacred Bud;
While her glad Parents most rejoice,
And make their Destiny their Choice.
Mean time ye Fields, Springs, Bushes, Flow’rs,
Where yet She leads her studious Hours,
(Till Fate her worthily translates,
And find a Fairfax for our Thwaites)
Employ the means you have by Her,
And in your kind your selves preferr;
That, as all Virgins She preceds,
So you all Woods, Streams, Gardens, Meads.
For you Thessalian Tempe’s Seat
Shall now be scorn’d as obsolete;
Aranjuez, as less, disdain’d;
The Bel-Retiro as constrain’d;
But name not the Idalian Grove,
For ’twas the Seat of wanton Love;
Much less the Deads’ Elysian Fields,
Yet nor to them your Beauty yields.
’Tis not, what once it was, the World;
But a rude heap together hurl’d;
All negligently overthrown,
Gulfes, Deserts, Precipices, Stone.
Your lesser World contains the same.
But in more decent Order tame;
You Heaven’s Center, Nature’s Lap.
And Paradice’s only Map.
But now the Salmon-Fishers moist
Their Leathern Boats begin to hoist;
And, like Antipodes in Shoes,
Have shod their Heads in their Canoos.
How Tortoise like, but not so slow,
These rational Amphibii go?
Let’s in: for the dark Hemisphere
Does now like one of them appear.
Nunappleton. — Markham (Life of the Great Lord Fairfax) tells the story referred to in this poem. The Cistercian nunnery of Appleton, four miles from Steeton, was presided over in the time of the second Sir William Fairfax by the Lady Anna Langton. A young lady named Isabella Thwaites, who had been placed under her charge, met and became attached to William Fairfax; but the Abbess, who had other views for her ward, shut her up to prevent her meeting her lover. At length higher authorities intctfeted, and after a forcible entry into the nunnery, Isabella was released and married to Fairfax at Bolton Percy in 1518. She brought to her husband the estates of Denton and Askwith in Wharfedale, and other properly in York. Sir William Fairfax and his wife lived for many years, and Sir William was in favour with Henry VIII. In 1542 the Abbess, Anna Langton, by the irony of fate, had to surrender her nunnery to Thomas and Guy, sons of the lady whom she had imprisoned. They pulled down the religious buildings, and built a house out of some of the materials.
THE wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne’er didst alive
Them any harm, alas! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I’m sure I never wished them ill;
Nor do I for all this, nor will:
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget10
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears!
It cannot die so. Heaven’s king
Keeps register of everything,
And nothing may we use in vain;
Even beasts must be with justice slain,
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood which doth part
From thine, and wound me to the heart,20
Yet could they not be clean; their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain.
There is not such another in
The world, to offer for their sin.
Unconstant SYLVIO, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well),
Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me: nay, and I know
What he said then, I’m sure I do:30
Said he, “Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.”
But SYLVIO soon had me beguiled;
This waxèd tame, while he grew wild,
And quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away,
With this; and very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent;40
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game: it seemed to bless
Itself in me; how could I less
Than love it? O, I cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me.
Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it too might have done so
As SYLVIO did; his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he;50
But I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better then
The love of false and cruel men.
With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at mine own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day
It waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! And oft
I blushed to see its foot more soft60
And white, shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady’s of the land.
It is a wondrous thing how fleet
’Twas on those little silver feet;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And, when ‘t had left me far away,
’Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.70
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;
And all the spring-time of the year
It only lovèd to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lie,
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;80
For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e’en seem to bleed
And then to me ’twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold:90
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.
O help! O help! I see it faint
And die as calmly as a saint!
See how it weeps! the tears do come
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam; so
The holy frankincense doth flow;
The brotherless Heliades
Melt in such amber tears as these.100
I in a golden vial will
Keep these two crystal tears, and fill
It till it do o’erflow with mine,
Then place it in DIANA’Sshrine.
Now my sweet fawn is vanished to
Whither the swans and turtles go;
In fair Elysium to endure,
With milk-like lambs, and ermines pure.
O do not run too fast: for I
Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.110
First, my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble; and withal
Let it be weeping too; but there
The engraver sure his art may spare;
For I so truly thee bemoan,
That I shall weep, though I be stone,
Until my tears, still dropping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there;
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;120
For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.
17. —Deodands, forfeits to God.
53. —Then, than. The old spelling is here preserved for the sake of the rhyme.
Quisnam adeo, mortale genus, praecordia versat:
Heu Palmae, Laurique furor, vel simplicis Herbae!
Arbor ut indomitos ornet vix una labores;
Tempora nec foliis praecingat tota maglignis.
Dum simud implexi, tranquillae ad ferta Quiaetis,
Omnigeni coeunt Flores, integraque Sylva.
Alma Quies, teneo te! & te Germana Quietis
Simplicitas! Vos ergo diu per Templa, per urbes,
Quaesivi, Regum perque alta Palatia frustra.
Sed vos Hotrorum per opaca siluentia longe
Celarant Plantae virides, & concolor Umbra.
O! mibi si vestros liceat violasse recessus.
Erranti, lasso, & vitae melioris anhelo,
Municipem servate novum, votoque potitum,
Frondosae Cives optate in florea Regna.
Me quoque, vos Musae, &, te conscie testor Apollo,
Non Armenta juvant hominum, Circique boatus,
Mugitusve Fori; sed me Penetralia veris,
Horroresque trahunt muti, & Consortia sola.
Virgineae quem non suspendit Gratia formae?
Quam candore Nives vincentum, Ostrumque rubore,
Vestra tamen viridis superet (me judice) Virtus.
Nec foliis certare Comae, nec Brachia ramis,
Nec possint tremulos voces aequare susurros.
Ah quoties saevos vidi (quis credat?) Amantes
Sculpentes Dominae potiori in cortice nomen?
Nec puduit truncis inscribere vulnera sacris.
Ast Ego, si vestras unquam temeravero stirpes,
Nulla Neaera, Chloe, Faustina, Corynna, legetur:
In proprio sed quaeque libro signabitur Arbos.
O charae Platanus, Cyparissus, Populus, Ulnus!
Hic Amor, exutis crepidatus inambulat alis,
Enerves arcus & stridula tela reponens,
Invertitque faces, nec se cupit usque timeri;
Aut experrectus jacet, indormitque pharetrae;
Non auditurus quanquam Cytherea vocarit;
Nequitias referuut nec somnia vana priores.
Laetantur Superi, defervescente Tyranno,
Et licet experti toties Nymphasque Deasque,
Arbore nunc melius potiuntur quisque cupita.
Jupiter annosam, neglecta conjuge, Quercum
Deperit; baud alia doluit sic pellice. Juno.
Lemniacum temerant vestigia nulla Cubile,
Nic Veneris Mavors meminit si Fraxinus adsit.
Formosae pressit Daphnes vestigia Phaebus
Ut fieret Laurus; sed nil quaesiverat ultra.
Capripes & peteret quod Pan Syringa fugacem,
Hoc erat ut Calamum posset reperire Sonorum.
Nec tu, Opisex horti, grato sine carmine abibis:
Qui brevibus plantis, & laeto flore, notasti
Crescentes horas, atque intervalla diei.
Sol ibi candidior fragrantia Signa pererrat;
Proque truci Tauro, stricto pro forcipe Cancri,
Securis violaeque rosaeque allabitur umbris.
Sedula quin & Apis, mellito intenta labori,
Horologo sua pensa thymo Signare videtur.
Temporis O suaves lapsus! O Otia sana!
O Herbis dignae numerari & Floribus Horae!
Translated by Marvell as The Garden.
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays;
And their uncessant labors see
Crowned from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow;
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green;
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress’ name.
Little, alas, they know or heed,
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheresoe’er your barks I wound
No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passion’s heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat:
The gods who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow,
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons as I pass,
Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness:
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that’s made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,
Casting the body’s vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide:
There like a bird it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings;
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walked without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises ’twere in one
To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skillful gard’ner drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new;
Where from above the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
And, as it works, th’ industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!
LUXURIOUS man, to bring his vice in use,
Did after him the world seduce,
And from the fields the flowers and plants allure,
Where Nature was most plain and pure.
He first inclosed within the gardens square
A dead and standing pool of air,
And a more luscious earth for them did knead,
Which stupefied them while it fed.
The pink grew then as double as his mind;
The nutriment did change the kind.10
With strange perfumes he did the roses taint;
And flowers themselves were taught to paint.
The tulip white did for complexion seek,
And learned to interline its cheek;
Its onion root they then so high did hold,
That one was for a meadow sold:
Another world was searched through oceans new,
To find the marvel of Peru;
And yet these rarities might be allowed
To man, that sovereign thing and proud,20
Had he not dealt between the bark and tree,
Forbidden mixtures there to see.
No plant now knew the stock from which it came;
He grafts upon the wild the tame,
That the uncertain and adulterate fruit
Might put the palate in dispute.
His green seraglio has its eunuchs too,
Lest any tyrant him outdo;
And in the cherry he does Nature vex,
To procreate without a sex.30
’Tis all enforced, the fountain and the grot,
While the sweet fields do lie forgot,
Where willing Nature does to all dispense
A wild and fragrant innocence;
And fauns and fairies do the meadows till
More by their presence than their skill.
Their statues polished by some ancient hand,
May to adorn the gardens stand;
But, howsoe’er the figures do excel,
The Gods themselves with us do dwell.40
18. —Mirabilia Peruviana, or Admirabilis planta.
Heark how the Mower Damon Sung,
With love of Juliana stung!
While ev’ry thing did seem to paint
The Scene more fit for his complaint.
Like her fair Eyes the day was fair;
But scorching like his am’rous Care.
Sharp like his Sythe his Sorrow was,
And wither’d like his Hopes the Grass.
Oh what unusual Heats are here,
Which thus our Sun-burn’d Meadows sear!
The Grass-hopper its pipe gives ore;
And hamstring’d Frogs can dance no more.
But in the brook the green Frog wades;
And Grass-hoppers seek out the shades.
Only the Snake, that kept within,
Now glitters in its second skin.
This heat the Sun could never raise,
Nor Dog-star so inflame’s the dayes.
It from an higher Beauty grow’th,
Which burns the Fields and Mower both:
Which made the Dog, and makes the Sun
Hotter then his own Phaeton.
Not July causeth these Extremes,
But Juliana’s scorching beams.
Tell me where I may pass the Fires
Of the hot day, or hot desires.
To what cool Cave shall I descend,
Or to what gelid Fountain bend?
Alas! I look for Ease in vain,
When Remedies themselves complain.
No moisture but my Tears do rest,
Nor Cold but in her Icy Breast.
How long wilt Thou, fair Shepheardess,
Esteem me, and my Presents less?
To Thee the harmless Snake I bring,
Disarmed of its teeth and sting.
To Thee Chameleons changing-hue,
And Oak leaves tipt with hony-dew.
Yet Thou ungrateful hast not sought
Nor what they are, nor who them brought.
I am the Mower Damon, known
Through all the Meadows I have mown.
On me the Morn her dew distills
Before her darling Daffadils.
And, if at Noon my toil me heat,
The Sun himself licks off my Sweat.
While, going home, the Ev’ning sweet
In cowslip-water bathes my feet.
What, though the piping Shepherd stock
The plains with an unnumber’d Flock,
This Sithe of mine discovers wide
More ground than all his Sheep do hide.
With this the golden fleece I shear
Of all these Closes ev’ry Year.
And though in Wooll more poor than they,
Yet am I richer far in Hay.
Nor am I so deform’d to sight,
If in my Sithe I looked right;
In which I see my Picture done,
As in a crescent Moon the Sun.
The deathless Fairyes take me oft
To lead them in their Danses soft:
And, when I tune my self to sing,
About me they contract their Ring.
How happy might I still have mow’d,
Had not Love here his Thistles sow’d!
But now I all the day complain,
Joyning my Labour to my Pain;
And with my Sythe cut down the Grass,
Yet still my Grief is where it was:
But, when the Iron blunter grows,
Sighing I whet my Sythe and Woes.
While thus he threw his Elbow round,
Depopulating all the Ground,
And, with his whistling Sythe, does cut
Each stroke between the Earth and Root,
The edged Stele by careless chance
Did into his own Ankle glance;
And there among the Grass fell down,
By his own Sythe, the Mower mown.
Alas! said He, these hurts are slight
To those that dye by Loves despight.
With Shepherds-purse, and Clowns-all-heal,
The Blood I stanch, and Wound I seal.
Only for him no Cure is found,
Whom Julianas Eyes do wound.
’Tis death alone that this must do:
For Death thou art a Mower too.
Ye living Lamps, by whose dear light
The Nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the Summer-night,
Her matchless Songs does meditate;
Ye Country Comets, that portend
No War, nor Princes funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Then to presage the Grasses fall;
Ye Glo-worms, whose officious Flame
To wandring Mowers shows the way,
That in the Night have lost their aim,
And after foolish Fires do stray;
Your courteous Lights in vain you wast,
Since Juliana here is come,
For She my Mind hath so displac’d
That I shall never find my home.
MY mind was once the true survey
Of all these meadows fresh and gay,
And in the greenness of the grass
Did see its hopes as in a glass;
When JULIANA came, and she,
What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.
But these, while I with sorrow pine,
Grew more luxuriant still and fine,
That not one blade of grass you spied,
But had a flower on either side;10
When JULIANA came, and she,
What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.
Unthankful meadows, could you so
A fellowship so true forego,
And in your gaudy May-games meet,
While I lay trodden under feet?
When JULIANA came, and she,
What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me?
But what you in compassion ought,
Shall now by my revenge be wrought;20
And flowers, and grass, and I, and all,
Will in one common ruin fall;
For JULIANA comes, and she,
What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.
And thus, ye meadows, which have been
Companions of my thoughts more green,
Shall now the heraldry become
With which I shall adorn my tomb;
For JULIANA came, and she,30
What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.
18. —Gaudy, joyful.
Think’st Thou that this Love can stand,
Whilst Thou still dost say me nay?
Love unpaid does soon disband:
Love binds Love as Hay binds Hay.
Think’st Thou that this Rope would twine
If we both should turn one way?
Where both parties so combine,
Neither Love will twist nor Hay.
Thus you vain Excuses find,
Which your selve and us delay:
And Love tyes a Womans Mind
Looser than with Ropes of Hay.
What you cannot constant hope
Must be taken as you may.
Then let’s both lay by our Rope,
And go kiss within the Hay.
Cernis ut Eio descendat Gemmula Roris,
Inque Rosas roseo transfluat orta sinu.
Sollicitâ Flores stant ambitione supini,
Et certant foliis pellicuisse suis.
Illa tamen patriae lustrans fastigia Sphaerae,
Negligit hospitii limina picta novi.
Inque sui nitido conclusa voluminis orbe,
Exprimit aetherei quâ licet Orbis aquas.
En ut odoratum spernat generosior Ostrum,
Vixque premat casto mollia strata pede.
Suspicit at longis distantem obtutibus Axem,
Inde et languenti lumine pendet amans,
Tristis, et in liquidum mutata dolore dolorem,
Marcet, uti roseis Lachryma fusa Genis.
Ut pavet, et motum tremit irrequieta Cubile,
Et quoties Zephyro fluctuat Aura, fugit.
Qualis inexpertam subeat formido Puellam,
Sicubi nocte redit incomitata domum.
Sic et in horridulas agitatur Gutta procellas,
Dum prae virgineo cuncta pudore timet.
Donec oberrantem Radio clemente vaporet,
Inque jubar reducem Sol genitale trahat.
Talis, in humano si possit flore videri,
Exul ubi longas Mens agit usque moras;
Haec quoque natalis meditans convivia Coeli,
Evertit Calices, purpureosque Thoros.
Fontis stilla sacri, Lucis scintilla perennis,
Non capitur Tyriâ veste, vapore Sabae.
Tota sed in proprii secedens luminis Arcem,
Colligit in Gyros se sinuosa breves.
Magnorumque sequens Animo convexa Deorum,
Sydereum parvo fingit in Orbe Globum.
Quàm bene in aversae modulum contracta figurae
Oppositum Mundo claudit ubique latus.
Sed bibit in speculum radios ornata rotundum;
Et circumfuso splendet aperta Die.
Quâ Superos spectat rutilans, obscurior infra;
Caetera dedignans, ardet amore Poli.
Subsilit, hinc agili Poscens discedere motu,
Undique coelesti cincta soluta Viae.
Totaque in aereos extenditur orbita cursus;
Hinc punctim carpens, mobile stringit iter.
Haud aliter Mensis exundans Manna beatis
Deserto jacuit Stilla gelata solo:
Stilla gelata solo, sed Solibus hausta benignis,
Ad sua quâ cecidit purior Astra redit.
Translated by Marvell as On a Drop of Dew.
SEE, how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,
(Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where ’twas born,)
Round in itself incloses;
And, in its little globe’s extent,
Frames, as it can, its native element.
How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies;
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls, and unsecure,
Trembling, lest it grow impure;
Till the warm sun pity its pain,
And to the skies exhale it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
(Could it within the human flower be seen,)
Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green,
And, recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
So the world-excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day;
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna’s sacred dew distil;
White and entire, though congealed and chill;
Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of the almighty sun.
WHERE the remote Bermudas ride,
In the ocean’s bosom unespied,
From a small boat, that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song:
“What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs;10
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate’s rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing,
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air;
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows;20
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice;
With cedars chosen by His hand,
From Lebanon, He stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas, that roar,
Proclaim the ambergris on shore;
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast,30
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,
Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault,
Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.”
Thus sung they, in the English boat,
An holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.40
These islands were called Bermudas after theii discoverer, Juan Bermudaz (1522). Oviedo, who was on board Bermudaz’s ship, calls Bermuda “the remotest island in the whole world.” In 1609 Admiral Sir George Somers was wrecked on the islands on his way to Virginia, and they were for long afterwards called Somers’ Isles. Sixty persons from Virginia settled on the islands, under Henry More, and others came from England to escape the tyranny that led to the Civil War. In 1621 the Bermuda Company of London granted a charter, promising the colonists the right, among other things, of worship. See Mr. Thorn Drury’s “Waller,” p. 308.
l.23. — Pineapples.
WHEN for the thorns with which I long, too long,
With many a piercing wound,
My Saviour’s head have crowned,
I seek with garlands to redress that wrong —
Through every garden, every mead,
I gather flowers (my fruits are only flowers),
Dismantling all the fragrant towers
That once adorned my shepherdess’s head:
And now, when I have summed up all my store,
Thinking (so I my self deceive)
So rich a chaplet thence to weave
As never yet the King of Glory wore,
Alas! I find the Serpent old,
That, twining in his speckled breast,
About the flowers disguised, does fold
With wreaths of fame and interest.
Ah, foolish man, that wouldst debase with them,
And mortal glory, Heaven’s diadem!
But thou who only couldst the Serpent tame,
Either his slippery knots at once untie,
And disentangle all his winding snare,
Or shatter too with him my curious frame,
And let these wither — so that he may die —
Though set with skill, and chosen out with care;
That they, while thou on both their spoils dost tread,
May crown Thy feet, that could not crown Thy head.
HOW wisely Nature did decree,
With the same eyes to weep and see;
That, having viewed the object vain,
They might be ready to complain!
And, since the self-deluding sight
In a false angle takes each height,
These tears, which better measure all,
Like watery lines and plummets fall.
Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh
Within the scales of either eye,
And then paid out in equal poise,
Are the true price of all my joys.
What in the world most fair appears,
Yea, even laughter, turns to tears;
And all the jewels which we prize
Melt in these pendants of the eyes.
I have through every garden been,
Amongst the red, the white, the green,
And yet from all the flowers I saw,
No honey, but these tears could draw.
So the all-seeing sun each day
Distils the world with chymic ray;
But finds the essence only showers,
Which straight in pity back he pours.
Yet happy they whom grief doth bless,
That weep the more, and see the less;
And, to preserve their sight more true,
Bathe still their eyes in their own dew.
So Magdalen in tears more wise
Dissolved those captivating eyes,
Whose liquid chains could flowing meet
To fetter her Redeemer’s feet.*
Not full sails hasting loaden home,
Nor the chaste lady’s pregnant womb,
Nor Cynthia teeming shows so fair
As two eyes swollen with weeping are.
The sparkling glance that shoots desire,
Drenched in these waves, does lose its fire;
Yea oft the Thunderer pity takes,
And here the hissing lightning slakes.
The incense was to Heaven dear,
Not as a perfume, but a tear;
And stars shew lovely in the night,
But as they seem the tears of light.
Ope then, mine eyes, your double sluice,
And practise so your noblest use;
For others too can see, or sleep,
But only human eyes can weep.
Now, like two clouds dissolving, drop,
And at each tear in distance stop;
Now, like two fountains, trickle down;
Now, like two floods, o’erturn and drown:
Thus let your streams o’erflow your springs,
Till eyes and tears be the same things;
And each the other’s difference bears,
These weeping eyes, those seeing tears.
* 29-32. —“Magdala, lascivos sic quum dimisit amantes
Fervidaque in castas lumina solvit aquas;
Haesit in irriguo lachrymarum compede Christus,
Et tenuit sacros uda catena pedes.”
(Footnote in 1681 edition.)
DAMON, come drive thy flocks this way.
No: ’tis too late they went astray.
I have a grassy scutcheon spied,
Where Flora blazons all her pride;
The grass I aim to feast thy sheep,
The flowers I for thy temples keep.
Grass withers, and the flowers too fade.
Seize the short joys then, ere they vade.
Seest thou that unfrequented cave?
But virtue’s grave.
In whose cool bosom we may lie,
Safe from the sun.
Not Heaven’s eye.
Near this, a fountain’s liquid bell
Tinkles within the concave shell.
Might a soul bathe there and be clean,
Or slake its drought?
What is’t you mean?
These once had been enticing things,
Clorinda, pastures, caves, and springs.
And what late change?
The other day
Pan met me.20
What did great Pan say?
Words that transcend poor shepherd’s skill;
But he e’er since my songs does fill,
And his name swells my slender oat.
Sweet must Pan sound in Damon’s note.
Clorinda’s voice might make it sweet.
Who would not in Pan’s praises meet?
Of Pan the flowery pastures sing,
Caves echo, and the fountains ring.
Sing then while he doth us inspire;
For all the world is our Pan’s quire.30
8. —Vade, pass away. Lat., vadere.
O, WHO shall from this dungeon raise
A soul enslaved so many ways?
With bolts of bones, that fettered stands
In feet, and manacled in hands;
Here blinded with an eye, and there
Deaf with the drumming of an ear;
A soul hung up, as ’twere, in chains
Of nerves, and arteries, and veins;
Tortured, besides each other part,
In a vain head, and double heart?
O, who shall me deliver whole,
From bonds of this tyrannic soul?
Which, stretched upright, impales me so
That mine own precipice I go;
And warms and moves this needless frame,
(A fever could but do the same),
And, wanting where its spite to try,
Has made me live to let me die
A body that could never rest,
Since this ill spirit it possessed.
What magic could me thus confine
Within another’s grief to pine?
Where, whatsoever it complain,
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain;
And all my care itself employs,
That to preserve which me destroys;
Constrained not only to endure
Diseases, but, what’s worse, the cure;
And, ready oft the port to gain,
Am shipwrecked into health again.
But Physic yet could never reach
The maladies thou me dost teach;
Whom first the cramp of hope does tear,
And then the palsy shakes of fear;
The pestilence of love does heat,
Or hatred’s hidden ulcer eat;
Joy’s cheerful madness does perplex,
Or sorrow’s other madness vex;
Which knowledge forces me to know,
And memory will not forego;
What but a soul could have the wit
To build me up for sin so fit?
So architects do square and hew
Green trees that in the forest grew.
COURAGE, my soul! now learn to wield
The weight of thine immortal shield;
Close on thy head thy helmet bright;
Balance thy sword against the fight;
See where an army, strong as fair,
With silken banners spreads the air!
Now, if thou be’st that thing divine,
In this day’s combat let it shine,
And show that Nature wants an art
To conquer one resolvèd heart.
Welcome the creation’s guest,
Lord of earth, and Heaven’s heir!
Lay aside that warlike crest,
And of Nature’s banquet share;
Where the souls of fruits and flowers
Stand prepared to heighten yours.
I sup above, and cannot stay,
To bait so long upon the way.
On these downy pillows lie,
Whose soft plumes will thither fly:
On these roses, strowed so plain
Lest one leaf thy side should strain.
My gentler rest is on a thought,
Conscious of doing what I ought.
If thou be’st with perfumes pleased,
Such as oft the gods appeased,
Thou in fragrant clouds shalt show,
Like another god below.
A soul that knows not to presume,
Is Heaven’s, and its own, perfume.
Everything does seem to vie
Which should first attract thine eye:
But since none deserves that grace,
In this crystal view thy face.
When the Creator’s skill is prized,
The rest is all but earth disguised.
Hark how music then prepares
For thy stay these charming airs,
Which the posting winds recall,
And suspend the river’s fall.
Had I but any time to lose,
On this I would it all dispose.
Cease, tempter! None can chain a mind,
Whom this sweet cordage cannot bind.
Earth cannot show so brave a sight,
As when a single soul does fence
The batteries of alluring sense,
And Heaven views it with delight.
Then persevere; for still new charges sound,
And if thou overcom’st thou shalt be crowned.
All that’s costly, fair, and sweet,
Which scatteringly doth shine,
Shall within one beauty meet,
And she be only thine.
If things of sight such heavens be,
What heavens are those we cannot see?
Wheresoe’er thy foot shall go
The minted gold shall lie,
Till thou purchase all below,
And want new worlds to buy.
We’rt not for price who’d value gold?
And that’s worth naught that can be sold.
Wilt thou all the glory have
That war or peace commend?
Half the world shall be thy slave,
The other half thy friend.
What friend, if to my self untrue?
What slaves, unless I captive you?
Thou shalt know each hidden cause,
And see the future time;
Try what depth the centre draws,
And then to Heaven climb.
None thither mounts by the degree
Of knowledge, but humility.
Triumph, triumph, victorious soul!
The world has not one pleasure more:
The rest does lie beyond the pole,
And is thine everlasting store.
Come little infant, love me now,
While thine unsuspected years
Clear thine agèd father’s brow
From cold jealousy and fears.
Pretty surely ’twere to see
By young Love old Time beguiled,
While our sportings are as free
As the nurse’s with the child.
Common beauties stay fifteen;
Such as yours should swifter move,10
Whose fair blossoms are too green
Yet for lust, but not for love.
Love as much the snowy lamb,
Or the wanton kid, does prize,
As the lusty bull or ram,
For his morning sacrifice.
Now then love me: Time may take
Thee before thy time away;
Of this need we’ll virtue make,
And learn love before we may.20
So we win of doubtful Fate,
And, if good she to us meant,
We that good shall antedate,
Or, if ill, that ill prevent.
Thus as kingdoms, frustrating
Other titles to their crown,
In the cradle crown their king,
So all foreign claims to drown;
So to make all rivals vain,
Now I crown thee with my love:30
Crown me with thy love again,
And we both shall monarchs prove.
9. — Stay till fifteen before they are loved.
24. —Prevent, anticipate.
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv’d virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am’rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp’d power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
ALAS! how pleasant are their days,
With whom the infant love yet plays!
Sorted by pairs, they still are seen
By fountains cool and shadows green;
But soon these flames do lose their light,
Like meteors of a summer’s night;
Nor can they to that region climb,
To make impression upon Time.
’Twas in a shipwreck, when the seas
Ruled, and the winds did what they please,
That my poor lover floating lay,
And, ere brought forth, was cast away;
Till at the last the master wave
Upon the rock his mother drave,
And there she split against the stone,
In a Cæsarian section.
The sea him lent these bitter tears,
Which at his eyes he always bears,
And from the winds the sighs he bore,
Which through his surging breast do roar;
No day he saw but that which breaks
Through frighted clouds in forkèd streaks,
While round the rattling thunder hurled,
As at the funeral of the world.
While Nature to his birth presents
This masque of quarrelling elements,
A numerous fleet of cormorants black,
That sailed insulting o’er the wrack,
Received into their cruel care,
The unfortunate and abject heir;
Guardians most fit to entertain
The orphan of the hurricane.
They fed him up with hopes and air,
Which soon digested to despair,
And as one cormorant fed him, still
Another on his heart did bill;
Thus, while they famish him and feast,
He both consumèd, and increased,
And languishèd with doubtful breath,
The amphibium of life and death.
And now, when angry Heaven would
Behold a spectacle of blood,
Fortune and he are called to play
At sharp before it all the day,
And tyrant Love his breast does ply
With all his winged artillery,
Whilst he, betwixt the flames and waves,
Like Ajax, the mad tempest braves.
See how he nak’d and fierce does stand,
Cuffing the thunder with one hand,
While with the other he does lock,
And grapple, with the stubborn rock;
From which he with each wave rebounds,
Torn into flames, and ragg’d with wounds;
And all he says, a lover drest
In his own blood does relish best.
This is the only banneret
That ever Love created yet;
Who, though by the malignant stars,
Forcèd to live in storms and wars,
Yet dying, leaves a perfume here,
And music within every ear;
And he in story only rules,
In a field sable, a lover gules.
CHLORA, come view my soul, and tell
Whether I have contrived it well:
Now all its several lodgings lie,
Composed into one gallery,
And the great arras-hangings, made
Of various facings, by are laid,
That, for all furniture, you’ll find
Only your picture in my mind.
Here thou art painted in the dress
Of an inhuman murderess;
Examining upon our hearts,
(Thy fertile shop of cruel arts,)
Engines more keen than ever yet
Adornèd tryant’s cabinet,
Of which the most tormenting are,
Black eyes, red lips, and curlèd hair.
But, on the other side, thou’rt drawn,
Like to AURORA in the dawn;
When in the east she slumbering lies,
And stretches out her milky thighs,
While all the morning quire does sing,
And manna falls and roses spring,
And, at thy feet, the wooing doves
Sit perfecting their harmless loves.
Like an enchantress here thou show’st,
Vexing thy restless lover’s ghost;
And, by a light obscure, dost rave
Over his entrails, in the cave,
Divining thence, with horrid care,
How long thou shalt continue fair;
And (when informed) them throw’st away
To be the greedy vulture’s prey.
But, against that, thou sitt’st afloat,
Like VENUS in her pearly boat;
The halcyons, calming all that’s nigh,
Betwixt the air and water fly;
Or, if some rolling wave appears,
A mass of ambergris it bears,
Nor blows more wind than what may well
Convoy the perfume to the smell.
These pictures, and a thousand more,
Of thee, my gallery doth store,
In all the forms thou canst invent,
Either to please me, or torment;
For thou alone, to people me,
Art grown a numerous colony,
And a collection choicer far
Than or Whitehall’s, or Mantua’s were.
But of these pictures, and the rest,
That at the entrance likes me best,
Where the same posture and the look
Remains with which I first was took;
A tender shepherdess, whose hair
Hangs loosely playing in the air,
Transplanting flowers from the green hill,
To crown her head and bosom fill.
TO make a final conquest of all me,
Love did compose so sweet an enemy,
In whom both beauties to my death agree,
Joining themselves in fatal harmony,
That, while she with her eyes my heart does bind,
She with her voice might captivate my mind.
I could have fled from one but singly fair;
My disentangled soul itself might save,
Breaking the curlèd trammels of her hair;
But how should I avoid to be her slave,10
When subtle art invisibly can wreathe
My fetters of the very air I breathe?
It had been easy fighting in some plain,
Where victory might hang in equal choice,
But all resistance against her is vain,
Who has the advantage both of eyes and voice;
And all my forces needs must be undone,
She having gainèd both the wind and sun.
You, that decipher out the Fate
Of humane Off-springs from the Skies,
What mean these Infants which of late
Spring from the Starrs of Chlora’s Eyes?
Her Eyes confus’d, and doubled ore,
With Tears suspended ere they flow;
Seem bending upwards, to restore
To Heaven, whence it came, their Woe:
When, molding off the watry Sphears,
Slow drops unty themselves away;
As if she, with those precious Tears,
Would strow the ground where Strephon lay.
Yet some affirm, pretending Art,
Her Eyes have so her Bosome drown’d,
Only to soften near her Heart
A place to fix another Wound.
And, while vain Pomp does her restrain
Within her solitary Bowr,
She courts her self in am’rous Rain;
Her self both Danae and the Showr.
Nay others, bolder, hence esteem
Joy now so much her Master grown,
That whatsoever does but seem
Like Grief, is from her Windows thrown.
Nor that she payes, while she survives,
To her dead Love this Tribute due;
But casts abroad these Donatives,
At the installing of a new.
How wide they dream! The Indian Slaves
That sink for Pearl through Seas profound,
Would find her Tears yet deeper Waves
And not of one the bottom sound.
I yet my silent Judgment keep,
Disputing not what they believe:
But sure as oft as Women weep,
It is to be suppos’d they grieve.
Daphnis must from Chloe part:
Now is come the dismal Hour
That must all his Hopes devour,
All his Labour, all his Art.
Nature, her own Sexes foe,
Long had taught her to be coy:
But she neither knew t’ enjoy,
Nor yet let her Lover go.
But, with this sad News surpriz’d,
Soon she let that Niceness fall;
And would gladly yield to all,
So it had his stay compriz’d.
Nature so her self does use
To lay by her wonted State,
Left the World should separate;
Sudden Parting closer glews.
He, well read in all the wayes
By which men their Siege maintain,
Knew not that the Fort to gain
Better ’twas the siege to raise.
But he came so full possest
With the Grief of Parting thence,
That he had not so much Sence
As to see he might be blest.
Till Love in her Language breath’d
Words she never spake before;
But than Legacies no more
To a dying Man bequeath’d.
For, Alas, the time was spent,
Now the latest minut’s run
When poor Daphnis is undone,
Between Joy and Sorrow rent.
At that Why, that Stay my Dear,
His disorder’d Locks he tare;
And with rouling Eyes did glare,
And his cruel Fate forswear.
As the Soul of one scarce dead,
With the shrieks of Friends aghast,
Looks distracted back in hast,
And then streight again is fled.
So did wretched Daphnis look,
Frighting her he loved most.
At the last, this Lovers Ghost
Thus his Leave resolved took.
Are my Hell and Heaven Joyn’d
More to torture him that dies?
Could departure not suffice,
But that you must then grow kind?
Ah my Chloe how have I
Such a wretched minute found,
When thy Favours should me wound
More than all thy Cruelty?
So to the condemned Wight
The delicious Cup we fill;
And allow him all he will,
For his last and short Delight.
But I will not now begin
Such a Debt unto my Foe;
Nor to my Departure owe
What my Presence could not win.
Absence is too much alone:
Better ’tis to go in peace,
Than my Losses to increase
By a late Fruition.
Why should I enrich my Fate?
’Tis a Vanity to wear,
For my Executioner,
Jewels of so high a rate.
Rather I away will pine
In a manly stubborness
Than be fatted up express
For the Canibal to dine.
Whilst this grief does thee disarm,
All th’ Enjoyment of our Love
But the ravishment would prove
Of a Body dead while warm.
And I parting should appear
Like the Gourmand Hebrew dead,
While with Quailes and Manna fed,
He does through the Desert err;
Or the Witch that midnight wakes
For the Fern, whose magick Weed
In one minute casts the Seed,
And invisible him makes.
Gentler times for Love are ment:
Who for parting pleasure strain
Gather Roses in the rain,
Wet themselves and spoil their Sent.
Farewel therefore all the fruit
Which I could from Love receive:
Joy will not with Sorrow weave,
Nor will I this Grief pollute.
Fate I come, as dark, as sad,
As thy Malice could desire;
Yet bring with me all the Fire
That Love in his Torches had.
At these words away he broke;
As who long has praying ly’n,
To his Heads-man makes the Sign,
And receives the parting stroke.
But hence Virgins all beware.
Last night he with Phlogis slept;
This night for Dorinda kept;
And but rid to take the Air.
Yet he does himself excuse;
Nor indeed without a Cause.
For, according to the Lawes,
Why did Chloe once refuse?
MY Love is of a birth as rare
As ’tis, for object, strange and high;
It was begotten by Despair,
Magnanimous Despair alone
Could show me so divine a thing,
Where feeble hope could ne’er have flown,
But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.
And yet I quickly might arrive
Where my extended soul is fixed;
But Fate does iron wedges drive,
And always crowds itself betwixt.
For Fate with jealous eye does see
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close;
Their union would her ruin be,
And her tyrannic power depose.
And therefore her decrees of steel
Us as the distant poles have placed,
(Though Love’s whole world on us doth wheel),
Not by themselves to be embraced,
Unless the giddy heaven fall,
And earth some new convulsion tear.
And, us to join, the world should all
Be cramp’d into a planisphere.
As lines, so love’s oblique, may well
Themselves in every angle greet:
But ours, so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.
See with what simplicity
This Nimph begins her golden daies!
In the green Grass she loves to lie,
And there with her fair Aspect tames
The Wilder flow’rs, and gives them names:
But only with the Roses playes;
And them does tell
What Colour best becomes them, and what Smell.
Who can foretel for what high cause
This Darling of the Gods was born!
Yet this is She whose chaster Laws
The wanton Love shall one day fear,
And, under her command severe,
See his Bow broke and Ensigns torn.
Happy, who can
Appease this virtuous Enemy of Man!
O then let me in time compound,
And parly with those conquering Eyes;
Ere they have try’d their force to wound,
Ere, with their glancing wheels, they drive
In Triumph over Hearts that strive,
And them that yield but more despise.
Let me be laid,
Where I may see thy Glories from some Shade.
Mean time, whilst every verdant thing
It self does at thy Beauty charm,
Reform the errours of the Spring;
Make that the Tulips may have share
Of sweetness, seeing they are fair;
And Roses of their thorns disarm:
But most procure
That Violets may a longer Age endure.
But O young beauty of the Woods,
Whom Nature courts with fruits and flow’rs,
Gather the Flow’rs, but spare the Buds;
Lest Flora angry at thy crime,
To kill her Infants in their prime,
Do quickly make th’ Example Yours;
And, ere we see,
Nip in the blossome all our hopes and Thee.
When Death, shall snatch us from these Kids,
And shut up our divided Lids,
Tell me Thyrsis, prethee do,
Whither thou and I must go.
To the Elizium:
Oh, where i’st?
A Chast Soul, can never mis’t.
I know no way, but one, our home
Is our Elizium?
Cast thine Eye to yonder Skie,
There the milky way doth lye;
’Tis a sure but rugged way,
That leads to Everlasting day.
There Birds may nest, but how can I,
That have no wings and cannot fly.
Do not sigh (fair Nimph) for fire
Hath no wings, yet doth aspire
Till it hit, against the pole,
Heaven’s the Center of the Soul.
But in Elizium how do they
Pass Eternity away.
Ho, ther’s neither hope nor fear
Ther’s no Wolf, no Fox, no Bear.
No need of Dog to fetch our stray,
Our Lightfoot we may give away;
And there most sweetly thine Ear
May feast with Musick of the Sphear.
How I my future state
By silent thinking, Antidate:
I preethe let us spend our time to come,
In talking of Elizium.
Then I’le go on: There, sheep are full
Of softest grass, and softest wooll;
There, birds sing Consorts, garlands grow,
Cold winds do whisper,springs do flow.
There, alwayes is, a rising Sun,
And day is ever, but begun.
Shepheards there, bear equal sway,
And every Nimph’s a Queen of May.
Ah me, ah me.
Dorinda, why do’st Cry?
I’m sick, I’m sick, and fain would dye:
Convinc’t me now, that this is true,
By bidding, with mee, all adieu.
I cannot live, without thee, I
Will for thee, much more with thee dye.
Then let us give Corellia charge o’th Sheep,
And thou and I’le pick poppies and them steep
In wine, and drink on’t even till we weep,
So shall we smoothly pass away in sleep.
Nature had long a Treasure made
Of all her choisest store;
Fearing, when She should be decay’d,
To beg in vain for more.
Her Orientest Colours there,
And Essences most pure,
With sweetest Perfumes hoarded were,
All as she thought secure.
She seldom them unlock’d, or us’d,
But with the nicest care;
For, with one grain of them diffus’d,
She could the World repair.
But likeness soon together drew
What she did separate lay;
Of which one perfect Beauty grew,
And that was Celia.
Love wisely had of long fore-seen
That he must once grow old;
And therefore stor’d a Magazine,
To save him from the cold.
He kept the several Cells repleat
With Nitre thrice refin’d;
The Naphta’s and the Sulphurs heat,
And all that burns the Mind.
He fortifi’d the double Gate,
And rarely thither came,
For, with one Spark of these, he streight
All Nature could inflame.
Till, by vicinity so long,
A nearer Way they sought;
And, grown magnetically strong,
Into each other wrought.
Thus all his fewel did unite
To make one fire high:
None ever burn’d so hot, so bright:
And Celia that am I.
So we alone the happy rest,
Whilst all the World is poor,
And have within our Selves possest
All Love’s and Nature’s store.
First was the World as one great Cymbal made,
Where Jarring Windes to infant Nature plaid.
All Musick was a solitary sound,
To hollow Rocks and murm’ring Fountains bound.
Jubal first made the wilder Notes agree;
And Jubal tun’d Musicks Jubilee:
He call’d the Ecchoes from their sullen Cell,
And built the Organs City where they dwell.
Each sought a consort in that lovely place;
And Virgin Trebles wed the manly Base.
From whence the Progeny of numbers new
Into harmonious Colonies withdrew.
Some to the Lute, some to the Viol went,
And others chose the Cornet eloquent.
These practising the Wind, and those the Wire,
To sing Mens Triumphs, or in Heavens quire.
Then Musick, the Mosaique of the Air,
Did of all these a Solemn noise prepare:
With which She gain’d the Empire of the Ear,
Including all between the Earth and Sphear.
Victorious sounds! yet here your Homage do
Unto a gentler Conqueror than you;
Who though He flies the Musick of his praise,
Would with you Heavens Hallelujahs raise.
Stet quicunque volet potens
Aulae culmine lubrico &c.
Climb at Court for me that will
Tottering Favour’s slipp’ry hill.
All I seek is to lye still.
Settled in some secret Nest
In calm Leisure let me rest;
And far off the publick Stage
Pass away my silent Age.
Thus when without noise, unknown,
I have liv’d out all my span,
I shall dye, without a groan,
An old honest Country man.
Who expos’d to others Eyes,
Into his own Heart ne’r pry’s,
Death to him’s a Strange surprise.
Go, intercept some Fountam in the Vain,
Whose Virgin-source yet never steept the Plain.
Hastings is dead, and we must finde a store
Of tears untoucht, and never wept before.
Go, stand betwixt the Morning and the Flowers;
And, ere they fa11, arrest the early Showers.
Hastings is dead; and we, disconsolate,
With early Tears, must mourn his early Fate.
Alas, his Vertues did his Death presage;
Needs must he die, that doth out-run his Age.10
The Phlegmatick and Slow prolongs his day.
And on Times Wheel sticks like a Remora.
What man is he, that hath not Heaven beguil’d.
And is not thence mistaken for a Child?
While those of growth more sudden, and more bold,
Are hurried hence, as if already old.
For, there above, They number not as here.
But weigh to man the Geometrick yeer.
Had he but at this Measure still increast.
And on the Tree of Life once made a Feast,20
As that of Knowledge, what Loves had he given
To Earth, and then what Jealousies to Heaven!
But ’tis a Maxime of that State, That none,
Least He become like Them, taste more then one.
Therefore the Democratick Stars do rise,
And all that Worth from hence did Ostracize.
Yet as some Prince, that, for State Jealousie,
Secures his neerest and most lov’d Ally;
His Thought with richest Triumphs entertains,
And in the choicest Pleasures charms his Pains:30
So he, not banisht hence, but there confin’d,
There better recreates his active Minde.
Before the Crystal Palace where he dwells,
The Armed Angels hold their Carouzels;
And underneath, he views the Turnaments
Of all these Sublunary Elements.
But most he doth th’ Eternal Book behold,
On which the happy James do stand enroll’d;
And gladly there can all his Kindred claim.
But most rejoyces at his Mothers name.40
The Gods themselves cannot their Joy conceal.
But draw their veils, and their pure Beams reveal:
Only they drooping Hymeneus note,
Who for sad Purple, tears his Saffron-coat:
And trails his Torches th’row the Starry Hall
Reversed, at his Darlings Funeral.
And AEsculapius, who, asham’d and stern,
Himself at once condemneth and Mayern;
like some sad Chymist, who, prepared to reap
The Golden Haervest, sees his Glasses leap.50
For, how Immortal must their Face have stood,
Had Mayern once been mixed with Hastings blood!
How sweet and Verdant would these Lawrels be,
Had they been planted on that Balsam-tree!
But what could he, good man, although he bruis’d
All Herbs, and them a thousand ways infus’d?
All he had try’d, but all in vain, he saw.
And wept, as we, without Redress or Law.
For Man (alas) is but the Heavens sport;
And Art indeed is Long, but Life is Short.60
From ‘Musarum Lachrymae’ (1649)
The Subject of these and of the other ‘ numerous tears’ of the Volume was Lord Henry Hastings, eldest son of Ferdinando sixth Earl of Huntingdon, by Lucy, daughter and heir of Sir John Davis, of Englefield, Berks, Kt. He died of small-pox in his twentieth year, Jnne 24th, 1649. His character and attain- ments were lamented in no fewer than ninety-eight Elegies in the Volmne whence the above is taken — almost equal to the number on William Cartwright.
Line 12, remora = delay or drag. The sucker-fish Echeneis Remora originates the name. When fixed on the rudder, it was held by the ancients to be able to stay a ship’s course. Gf. Pliny, N. H. s. v.
Line 18, geometrick year, Cf . First Anniversary, &c. (1. 17), and relative note.
Lines 20-24. Cf. Genesis iii. 1 et seq.
Line 28, Ally=relative, and frequently so used by old au- thors. The word also was used to express relationship by con- sanguinity as well as connection by marriage.
Line 43, Hymeneus=Hymen or Marriage. Hymen, instead of putting on sad purple (which is=violet, the old mourning colour), rends his saffron coat. Saffron was the colour of wo- men’s dresses on gala or solemn occasions, e.g. Iphigenia was sacrificed in saffron robes, and Roman brides wore a saffron- coloured veil. Perhaps a memorial remnant of this still exists in our orange-blossoms.
Line 46, ‘reversed.’ As are lances, pikes, and muskets, &c. at a funeral.
Line 48, Mayern — a now-forgotten physician. Lines 51-2 show, as does Hymeneus, some project of marriage between young Hastings and the Mayerns.
Line 50, golden harvest=Alchemist and his ‘searching’ for ‘gold.’
Leap — and break, i. e. from the succussion or explosion of the materials within.
Our times are much degenerate from those
Which your sweet muse, which your good fortune chose;
And as complexions alter with the climes,
Our wits have drawn the infection of our times,
That candid Age no other way could tell
To be ingenious, but by speaking well.
Who best could praise had then the greatest praise;
’Twas more esteemed to give than wear the bays.
Modest Ambition studied only then
To honour, not herself, but worthy men.
These virtues now are banished out of town,
Our civil wars have lost the civic crown.
He highest builds who with most art destroys,
And against others’ fame his own employs.
I see the envious caterpillar sit
On the fair blossom of each growing wit.
The air’s already tainted with the swarms
Of insects, which against you rise in arms.
Word-peckers, paper-rats, book-scorpions,
Of wit corrupted, the unfashioned sons.
The barbèd censurers begin to look
Like the grim Consistory on thy book;
And on each line cast a reforming eye,
Severer than the young Presbytery.
Till when in vain they have thee all perused,
You shall for being faultless be accused.
Some reading your Lucasta will allege
You wronged in her the Houses’ privelege;
Some that you under sequestration are,
Because you write when going to the war;
And one the book prohibits, because Kent
Their first petition by the author sent.
But when the beauteous ladies came to know
That their dear Lovelace was endangered so;
Lovelace, that thawed the most congealèd breast,
He who loved best, and them defended best,
Whose hand so rudely grasps the steely brand,
Whose hand so gently melts the lady’s hand;
They all in mutiny, though yet undressed,
Sallied, and would in his defence contest.
And one, the loveliest that was yet ere seen,
Thinking that I too of the rout had been,
Mine eyes invaded with a female spite
(She knew what pain ’twould be to lose that sight).
O no, mistake not, I replied: for I
In your defence, or in his cause, would die;
But he, secure of glory and of time,
Above their envy or mine aid doth climb.
Him valiant’st men and fairest nymphs approve,
His book in them finds judgement, with you, love.
Printed in “Lucasta: Epodes, Odes, Sonnets, Songs, &c; to which is added Aramantha, a Pastorall. By Richard Lovelace, Esq., 1649.”
Lovelace (1618- 1658) was one of the most charming of the Cavalier poets, and these lines contain a repudiation of a charge that Marvell was among those who had attacked him.
l.21. Joseph Caryl and others.
l.32. In March, 1642, a petition from Kent, praying for a restoration of the bishops, liturgy, and common prayer, was voted seditious at a conference of both Houses, and ordered to be barnt by the common hangman. On the 3ath of April a similar petition was presented, and Lovelace, who introduced it, was imprisoned. He was released after seven weeks, on finding bail.
l.34. Anthony Wood says that at the age of sixteen, when Lovelace matriculated at Gloucester Hall, Oxford, he was “much admired and adored by the female sex,” — “but especially after, when he retired to the great city.” In 1636, through the intercession of a great lady, the degree of M.A. was given to Lovelace after only two years’ residence.
Nempe sic innumero succrescunt agmine libri,
Saepia vix toto ut jam natet una mari.
Fortius assidui surgunt a vulnere proeli:
Quoque magis pressa est, auctior Hydra redit.
Heu quibus Anticyris, quibus est sanabilis herbis
Improba scribendi pestis, avarus amor!
India sola tenet tanti medicamina morbi,
Dicitur et nostris ingemuisse malis.
Utile Tabacci dedit illa miserta venenum,
Acri veratro quod meliora potest.
Jamque vides olidas libris fumare popinas:
Naribus O doctis quam pretiosus odor!
Hâc ego praecipua credo herbam dote placere,
Hinc tuus has nebulas Doctor in astra vehit.
Ah mea quid tandem facies timidissima charta?
Exequias Siticen jam parat usque tuas.
Hunc subeas librum Sancti ceu limen asyli,
Quem neque delebit flamma, nec ira Jovis.
Sit further, and make room for thine own fame,
Where just desert enrolles thy honour’d Name
The good Interpreter. Some in this task
Take of the Cypress vail, but leave a mask,
Changing the Latine, but do more obscure
That sence in English which was bright and pure.
So of Translators they are Authors grown,
For ill Translators make the Book their own.
Others do strive with words and forced phrase
To add such lustre, and so many rayes,
That but to make the Vessel shining, they
Much of the precious Metal rub away.
He is Translation’s thief that addeth more,
As much as he that taketh from the Store
Of the first Author. Here he maketh blots
That mends; and added beauties are but spots.
Celia whose English doth more richly flow
Then Tagus, purer than dissolved snow,
And sweet as are her lips that speak it, she
Now learns the tongues of France and Italy;
But she is Celia still: no other grace
But her own smiles commend that lovely face;
Her native beauty’s not Italianated,
Nor her chast mind into the French translated:
Her thoughts are English, though her sparkling wit
With other Language doth them fitly fit.
Translators learn of her: but stay, I slide
Down into Error with the Vulgar tide;
Women must not teach here: the Doctor doth
Stint them to Cawdles, Almond-milk, and Broth.
Now I reform, and surely so will all
Whose happy Eyes on thy Translation fall,
I see the people hastning to thy Book,
Liking themselves the worse the more they look,
And so disliking, that they nothing see
Now worth the liking, but thy Book and thee.
And (if I Judgement have) I censure right;
For something guides my hand that I must write.
You have Translations statutes best fulfil’d.
That handling neither sully nor would guild.
When I beheld the Poet blind, yet bold,
In slender Book his vast Design unfold,
Messiah Crown’d, Gods Reconcil’d Decree,
Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree,
Heav’n, Hell, Earth, Chaos, All; the Argument
Held me a while misdoubting his Intent,
That he would ruine (for I saw him strong)
The sacred Truths to Fable and old Song,
(So Sampson groap’d the Temples Posts in spight)
The World o’rewhelming to revenge his Sight.
Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,
I lik’d his Project, the success did fear;
Through that wide Field how he his way should find
O’re which lame Faith leads Understanding blind;
Lest he perplext the things he would explain,
And what was easie he should render vain.
Or if a Work so infinite he spann’d,
Jealous I was that some less skilful hand
(Such as disquiet alwayes what is well,
And by ill imitating would excell)
Might hence presume the whole Creations day
To change in Scenes, and show it in a Play.
Pardon me, Mighty Poet, nor despise
My causeless, yet not impious, surmise.
But I am now convinc’d, and none will dare
Within thy Labours to pretend a Share.
Thou hast not miss’d one thought that could be fit,
And all that was improper dost omit:
So that no room is here for Writers left,
But to detect their Ignorance or Theft.
That Majesty which through thy Work doth Reign
Draws the Devout, deterring the Profane.
And things divine thou treats of in such state
As them preserves, and Thee in violate.
At once delight and horrour on us seize,
Thou singst with so much gravity and ease;
And above humane flight dost soar aloft,
With Plume so strong, so equal, and so soft.
The Bird nam’d from that Paradise you sing
So never Flags, but alwaies keeps on Wing.
Where couldst thou Words of such a compass find?
Whence furnish such a vast expense of Mind?
Just Heav’n Thee, like Tiresias, to requite,
Rewards with Prophesie thy loss of Sight.
Well might thou scorn thy Readers to allure
With tinkling Rhime, of thy own Sense secure;
While the Town-Bays writes all the while and spells,
And like a Pack-Horse tires without his Bells.
Their Fancies like our bushy Points appear,
The Poets tag them; we for fashion wear.
I too transported by the Mode offend,
And while I meant to Praise thee, must Commend.
Thy verse created like thy Theme sublime,
In Number, Weight, and Measure, needs not Rhime.
Enough; and leave the rest to fame;
’Tis to commend her, but to name.
Courtship, which, living, she declined,
When dead, to offer were unkind.
Where never any could speak ill,
Who would officious praises spill?
Nor can the truest wit, or friend.
Without detracting, her commend;
To say, she lived a virgin chaste
In this age loose and all unlaced;10
Nor was, when vice is so allowed,
Of virtue or ashamed or proud;
That her soul was on Heaven so bent,
No minute but it came and went;
That, ready her last debt to pay,
She summed her life up every day;
Modest as morn, as mid-day bright.
Gentle as evening, cool as night:
’Tis true; but all too weakly said;
Twas more significant, she’s dead.20
THE astrologer’s own eyes are set,
And even wolves the sheep forget;
Only this shepherd, late and soon,
Upon this hill outwakes the moon;
Hark how he sings with sad delight,
Thorough the clear and silent night!
CYNTHIA, O CYNTHIA, turn thine ear,
Nor scorn ENDYMION’S plaintsto hear!
As we our flocks, so you command
The fleecy clouds with silver wand.10
If thou a mortal, rather sleep;
Or if a shepherd, watch thy sheep.
The shepherd, since he saw thine eyes,
And sheep, are both thy sacrifice;
Nor merits he a mortal’s name,
That burns with an immortal flame.
I have enough for me to do,
Ruling the waves that ebb and flow.
Since thou disdain’st not then to share
On sublunary things thy care,20
Rather restrain these double seas,
Mine eyes, incessant deluges.
My wakeful lamp all night must move,
Securing their repose above.
If therefore thy resplendent ray
Can make a night more bright than day,
Shine thorough this obscurer breast,
With shades of deep despair oppressed.
Courage, ENDYMION, boldly woo!
ANCHISES was a shepherd too,30
Yet is her younger sister laid
Sporting with him in IDA’Sshade:
And CYNTHIA,though the strongest,
Seeks but the honour to have held out longest.
Here unto Latmos’ top I climb,
How far below thine orb sublime!
O why, as well as eyes to see,
Have I not arms that reach to thee?
’Tis needless then that I refuse,
Would you but your own reason use.40
Though I so high may not pretend,
It is the same, so you descend.
These stars would say I do them wrong,
Rivals, each one, for thee too strong.
The stars are fixed unto their sphere
And cannot, though they would, come near.
Less loves set off each other’s praise,
While stars eclipse by mixing rays.
That cave is dark.
Then none can spy:
Or shine thou there, and ’tis the sky.50
Joy to ENDYMION!
For he has CYNTHIA’S favour won,
And JOVE himself approves
With his serenest influence their loves.
For he did never love to pair
His progeny above the air;
But to be honest, valiant, wise,
Makes mortals matches fit for deities.
Never such a merry day,
For the northern shepherd’s son
Has MENALCA’S daughter won.
Stay till I some flowers have tied
In a garland for the bride.
If thou wouldst a garland bring,
PHILLIS, you may wait the spring:
They have chosen such an hour
When she is the only flower. 10
Let’s not then, at least, be seen
Without each a sprig of green.
Fear not; at MENALCA’Shall
There are bays enough for all.
He, when young as we, did graze,
But when old he planted bays.
Here she comes; but with a look
Far more catching than my hook;
’Twas those eyes, I now dare swear,
Led our lambs we know not where.20
Not our lambs’ own fleeces are
Curled so lovely as her hair,
Nor our sheep new-washed can be
Half so white or sweet as she.
He so looks as fit to keep
Somewhat else than silly sheep.
Come, let’s in some carol new
Pay to love and them their due.
Joy to that happy pair,30
Whose hopes united banish our despair.
What shepherd could for love pretend,
Whilst all the nymphs on DAMON’s choice attend?
What shepherdess could hope to wed
Before MARINA’s turn were sped?
Now lesser beauties may take place,
And meaner virtues come in play;
Looking from high,
Our flocks and us with a propitious eye.40
But what is most, the gentle swain
No more shall need of love complain;
But virtue shall be beauty’s hire,
And those be equal, that have equal fire.
MARINA yields. Who dares be coy?
Or who despair, now DAMON does enjoy?
Joy to that happy pair,
Whose hopes united banish our despair!
Mary, Cromwell’s third daughter (born 1637), became, on Nov. 19, 1657, second wife of Thomas Belasyse, second Viscount Fauconberg, afterwards Earl of Fauconberg (1627-1700). She died in 1712. (See Pepys’s Diary, June 12, 1663.) Lord Fauconberg went over to the Parliamentarians during Cromwell’s rule, became a Royalist again at the Restoration, and joined in the invitation to William III. to accept the English crown.
Now does Spains Fleet her spatious wings unfold,
Leaves the new World and hastens for the old:
But though the wind was fair, the slowly swoome
Frayted with acted Guilt, and Guilt to come:
For this rich load, of which so proud they are,
Was rais’d by Tyranny, and rais’d for war;
Every capatious Gallions womb was fill’d,
With what the Womb of wealthy Kingdomes yield,
The new Worlds wounded Intails they had tore,
For wealth wherewith to wound the old once more.
Wealth which all others Avarice might cloy,
But yet in them caus’d as much fear, as Joy.
For now upon the Main, themselves they saw,
That boundless Empire, where you give the law,
Of winds and waters rage, they fearful be,
But much more fearful are your Flags to see
Day, that to these who sail upon the deep,
More wish’t for, and more welcome is then sleep,
They dreaded to behold, Least the Sun’s light,
With English Streamers, should salute their sight:
In thickest darkness they would choose to steer,
So that such darkness might suppress their fear;
At length theirs vanishes, and fortune smiles;
For they behold the sweet Canary Isles.
One of which doubtless is by Nature blest
Above both Worlds, since ’tis above the rest.
For least some Gloominess might stain her sky,
Trees there the duty of the Clouds supply;
O noble Trust which Heaven on this Isle poures,
Fertile to be, yet never need her showres.
A happy People, which at once do gain
The benefits without the ills of rain.
Both health and profit, Fate cannot deny;
Where still the Earth is moist, the Air still dry;
The jarring Elements no discord know,
Fewel and Rain together kindly grow;
And coolness there, with heat doth never fight,
This only rules by day, and that by Night.
Your worth to all these Isles, a just right brings,
The best of Lands should have the best of Kings.
And these want nothing Heaven can afford,
Unless it be, the having you their Lord;
But this great want, will not along one prove,
Your Conquering Sword will soon that want remove.
For Spain had better, Shee’l ere long confess,
Have broken all her Swords, then this one Peace,
Casting that League off, which she held so long,
She cast off that which only made her strong.
Forces and art, she soon will feel, are vain,
Peace, against you, was the sole strength of Spain.
By that alone those Islands she secures,
Peace made them hers, but War will make them yours;
There the indulgent Soil that rich Grape breeds,
Which of the Gods the fancied drink exceeds;
They still do yield, such is their pretious mould,
All that is good, and are not curst with Gold.
With fatal Gold, for still where that does grow,
Neither the Soyl, nor People quiet know.
Which troubles men to raise it when ’tis Oar,
And when ’tis raised, does trouble them much more.
Ah, why was thither brought that cause of War,
Kind Nature had from thence remov’d so far.
In vain doth she those Islands free from Ill,
If fortune can make guilty what she will.
But whilst I draw that Scene, where you ere long,
Shall conquests act, your present are unsung,
For Sanctacruze the glad Fleet takes her way,
And safely there casts Anchor in the Bay.
Never so many with one joyful cry,
That place saluted, where they all must dye.
Deluded men! Fate with you did but sport,
You scap’t the Sea, to perish in your Port.
’Twas more for Englands fame you should dye there,
Where you had most of strength, and least of fear.
The Peek’s proud height, the Spaniards all admire,
Yet in their brests, carry a pride much higher.
Onely to this vast hill a power is given,
At once both to Inhabit Earth and Heaven.
But this stupendious Prospect did not neer,
Make them admire, so much as as they did fear.
For here they met with news, which did produce,
A grief, above the cure of Grapes best juice.
They learn’d with Terrour, that nor Summers heat,
Nor Winters storms, had made your Fleet retreat.
To fight against such Foes, was vain they knew,
Which did the rage of Elements subdue.
Who on the Ocean that does horror give,
To all besides, triumphantly do live.
With hast they therefore all their Gallions moar,
And flank with Cannon from the Neighbouring shore.
Forts, Lines, and Sconces all the Bay along,
They build and act all that can make them strong.
Fond men who know not whilst such works they raise,
They only Labour to exalt your praise.
Yet they by restless toyl, because at Length,
So proud and confident of their made strength.
That they with joy their boasting General heard,
Wish then for that assault he lately fear’d.
His wish he has, for now undaunted Blake,
With winged speed, for Sanctacruze does make.
For your renown, his conquering Fleet does ride,
Ore Seas as vast as is the Spaniards pride.
Whose Fleet and Trenches view’d, he soon did say,
We to their Strength are more obilg’d then they.
Wer’t not for that, they from their Fate would run,
And a third World seek out our Armes to shun.
Those Forts, which there, so high and strong appear,
Do not so much suppress, as shew their fear.
Of Speedy Victory let no man doubt,
Our worst works past, now we have found them out.
Behold their Navy does at Anchor lye,
And they are ours, for now they cannot fly.
This said, the whole Fleet gave it their applause,
And all assumes your courage, in your cause.
That Bay they enter, which unto them owes,
The noblest wreaths, that Victory bestows.
Bold Stainer Leads, this Fleets design’d by fate,
To give him Lawrel, as the Last did Plate.
The Thund’ring Cannon now begins the Fight,
And though it be at Noon, creates a Night.
The Air was soon after the fight begun,
Far more enflam’d by it, then by the Sun.
Never so burning was that Climate known,
War turn’d the temperate, to the Torrid Zone.
Fate these two Fleets, between both Worlds had brought.
Who fight, as if for both those Worlds they fought.
Thousands of wayes, Thousands of men there dye,
Some Ships are sunk, some blown up in the skie.
Nature never made Cedars so high a Spire,
As Oakes did then. Urg’d by the active fire.
Which by quick powders force, so high was sent,
That it return’d to its own Element.
Torn Limbs some leagues into the Island fly,
Whilst others lower, in the Sea do lye.
Scarce souls from bodies sever’d are so far,
By death, as bodies there were by the War.
Th’all-seeing Sun, neer gaz’d on such a sight,
Two dreadful Navies there at Anchor Fight.
And neither have, or power, or will to fly,
There one must Conquer, or there both must dye.
Far different Motives yet, engag’d them thus,
Necessity did them, but Choice did us.
A choice which did the highest forth express,
And was attended by as high success.
For your resistless genious there did Raign,
By which we Laurels reapt ev’n on the Mayn.
So prosperous Stars, though absent to the sence,
Bless those they shine for, by their Influence.
Our Cannon now tears every Ship and Sconce,
And o’re two Elements Triumphs at once.
Their Gallions sunk, their wealth the Sea does fill,
The only place where it can cause no ill,
Ah would those Treasures which both Indies have,
Were buryed in as large, and deep a grave,
Wars chief support with them would buried be,
And the Land owe her peace unto the Sea.
Ages to come, your conquering Arms will bless,
There they destroy, what had destroy’d their Peace.
And in one War the present age may boast,
The certain seeds of many Wars are lost,
All the Foes Ships destroy’d, by Sea or fire,
Victorious Blake, does from the Bay retire,
His Seige of Spain he then again pursues,
And there first brings of his success the news;
The saddest news that ere to Spain was brought,
Their rich Fleet sunk, and ours with Lawrel fraught.
Whilst fame in every place, her Trumpet blowes,
And tells the World, how much to you it owes.
Cruising off Cadiz, Admiral Blake (1599-1657) received news that a fleet from America had reached Santa Cruz, Teneriffe. He at once set sail, and arrived at Santa Cruz at daybreak on April 20, 1657. Entering the bay, he found the West Indian fleet anchored round the shore, commanded by the castle and forts; but by the evening all the Spanish vessels were destroyed, without the loss of a single English vessel. The victory was celebrated by a public thanksgiving on June 3; but Blake died on his way home, on August 7, at the entrance of Plymouth Sound (See Hepworth Dixon’s Life of Blake, 346-54).
Of the old heroes when the warlike shades
Saw Douglas marching on the Elysian glades.
They all, consulting, gathered in a ring,
Which of their poets should his welcome sing;
And, as a favourable penance, chose
Cleveland, on whom they would that task impose.
He understood, but willingly addressed
His ready muse, to court that noble guest.
Much had he cured the tumour of his vein,
He judged more clearly now and saw more plain;10
For those soft airs had tempered every thought,
Since of wise Lethe he had drunk a draught.
Abruptly he begun, disguising art.
As of his satire this had been a part.
As so, brave Douglas, on whose lovely chin
The early down but newly did begin.
And modest beauty yet his sex did veil,
While envious virgins hope he is a male,
His yellow locks curl back themselves to seek,
Nor other courtship know but to his cheek. 20
Oft as he in chill Esk or Tyne, by night,
Hardened and cooled his limbs, so soft, so white,
Among the reeds, to be espied by him,
The nymphs would rustle, he would forward swim.
They sighed, and said, Fond boy, why so untame,
That fly’st love’s fires, reserved for other flame?
First on his ship he faced that horrid day.
And wondered much at those that ran away.
No other fear himself could comprehend.
Than lest Heaven fall ere thither he ascend: 30
But entertains the while his time, too short.
With birding at the Dutch, as if in sport;
Or waves his sword, and, could he them conjure
“Within his circle, knows himself secure.
The fatal bark him boards with grappling fire,
And safely through its port the Dutch retire.
That precious life he yet disdains to save,
Or with known art to try the gentle wave.
Much him the honour of his ancient race
Inspired, nor would he his own deeds deface; 40
And secret joy in his calm soul does rise.
That Monck looks on to see how Douglas dies.
Like a glad lover the fierce flames he meets.
And tries his first embraces in their sheets;
His shape exact, which the bright flames enfold,
Like the sun’s statue stands of burnished gold;
Round the transparent fire about him glows,
As the clear amber on the bee docs close;
And, as on angels’ heads their glories shine,
His burning locks adorn his face divine. 50
But when in his immortal mind he felt
His altering form and soldered limbs to melt,
Down on the deck he laid himself, and died,
With his dear sword reposing by his side.
And on the flaming plank so rests his head.
As one that warmed himself, and went to bed.
His ship bums down, and with his relics sinks.
And the sad stream beneath his ashes drinks.
Fortunate boy! if either pencil’s fame,
Or if my verse can propagate thy name, 60
When CEta and Alcides are forgot,
Our English youth shall sing the valiant Scot.
Skip saddles, Pegasus, thou needst not brag.
Sometimes the Galloway proves the better nag.
Shall not a death so generous, when told,
Unite our distance, fill our breaches old?
So in the Roman forum, Curtius brave,
Galloping down, closed up the gaping cave.
No more discourse of Scotch and English race,
Nor chant the fabulous hunt of Chevy-Chase; 70
Mixed in Corinthian metal at thy flame.
Our nations melting, thy Colossus frame.
Prick down the point, whoever has the art.
Where nature Scotland does from England part;
Anatomists may sooner fix the cells
Where life resides and understanding dwells.
But this we know, though that exceeds our skill,
That whosoever separates them does ill.
Will you the Tweed that sullen bounder call.
Of soil, of wit, of manners, and of all? 80
Why draw you not, as well, the thrifty line
From Thames, Trent, Humber, or at least the Tyne?
So may we the state-corpulence redress.
And little England, when we please, make less.
What ethic river is this wondrous Tweed,
Whose one bank virtue, t’other vice, does breed?
Or what new perpendicular does rise
Up from her streams, continued to the skies,
That between us the common air should bar.
And split the influence of every star? 90
But who considers right, will find indeed,
’Tis Holy Island parts us, not the Tweed.
Nothing but clergy could us two seclude,
No Scotch was ever like a bishop’s feud.
All Litanies in this have wanted faith,
There’s no deliver us from a bishop” s wrath
Never shall Calvin pardoned be for Sales,
Never, for Burnet’s sake, the Lauderdales;
For Becket’s sake, Kent always shall have tails.
Who sermons e’er can pacify and prayers? 100
Or to the joint stools reconcile the chairs?
Though kingdoms join, yet church will kirk oppose;
The mitre still divides, the crown does close;
As in Rogation week they whip us round,
To keep in mind the Scotch and English bound.
What the ocean binds is by the bishops rent,
Then seas make islands in our continent.
Nature in vain us in one land compiles,
If the cathedral still shall have its isles.
Nothing, not bogs nor sands nor seas nor Alps, i lo 110
Separates the world so as the bishops’ scalps;
Stretch for the line their surcingle alone,
’Twill make a more unhabitable zone.
The friendly loadstone has not more combined.
Than bishops cramped the commerce of mankind.
Had it not been for such a bias strong.
Two nations ne’er had missed the mark so long.
The world in all doth but two nations bear.
The good, the bad, and these mixed everywhere;
Under each pole place either of these two, 120
The bad will basely, good will bravely, do;
And few, indeed, can parallel our climes,
For worth heroic, or heroic crimes.
The trial would, however, be too nice.
Which stronger were, a Scotch or English vice;
Or whether the same virtue would reflect,
From Scotch or English heart, the same effect.
Nation is all, but name, a Shibboleth,
Where a mistaken accent causes death.
In Paradise names only nature showed, 130
At Babel names from pride and discord flowed;
And ever since men, with a female spite.
First call each other names, and then they fight.
Scotland and England cause of just uproar;
Do man and wife signify rogue and whore?
Say but a Scot and straight we fall to sides;
That syllable like a Picts’ wall divides.
Rational men’s words pledges are of peace;
Perverted, serve dissension to increase.
For shame! extirpate from each loyal breast 140
That senseless rancour, against interest.
One king, one faith, one language, and one isle,
English and Scotch, ’tis all but cross and pile.
Charles, our great soul J this only understands;
He our affections both, and wills, commands;
And where twin-sympathies cannot atone,
Knows the last secret, how to make us one.
Just so the prudent husbandman, that sees
The idle tumult of his factious bees,
The morning dews, and flowers, neglected grown, 150
The hive a comb-case, every bee a drone,
Powders them o’er, till none discerns his foes.
And all themselves in meal and friendship lose;
The insect kingdom straight begins to thrive.
And all work honey for the common hive.
Pardon, young hero, this so long transport,
Thy death more noble did the same extort.
My former satire for this verse forget,
My fault against my recantation set.
I single did against a nation write, 160
Against a nation thou didst singly fight.
My differing crimes do more thy virtue raise,
And, such my rashness, best thy valour praise.
Here Douglas smiling said, he did intend,
After such frankness shown, to be his friend;
Forewarned him therefore, lest in time he were
Metempsychosed to some Scotch Presbyter.
The ships were burnt on June 12, 1667. Captain Archibald Douglas — the “loyal Scot” — was really an officer in the army; but having been ordered to defend the “Royal Oak,” he refused to leave the ship after it was on fire, saying that “it should never be told that a Douglas had quitted his post without orders.” His men all left the vessel, and he remained alone to die.
32. — Birding: firing with small arms.
97. — St. Francis de Sales.
104. — The beating of the bounds of a parish.
107. — Seas: a pun on “sees.”
116. — Bias: a metaphor from the game of bowls.
143. — i.e. English and Scotch are only the two sides of one and the same coin. Pile is the reverse of a coin.
162. — Differing crimes: crime of causing differences.
THE forward youth that would appear,
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
’Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unused armour’s rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star:
And like the three-fork’d lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own Side
His fiery way divide:
For ’tis all one to courage high,
The emulous, or enemy;
And with such, to enclose
Is more than to oppose;
Then burning through the air he went,
And palaces and temples rent;
And Cæsar’s head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
’Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry heaven’s flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the Man is due
Who, from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere,
(As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot),
Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the Kingdoms old
Into another mould;
Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the ancient Rights in vain —
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak;
Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil war
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrook’s narrow case,
That thence the Royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn:
While round the armèd bands
Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;
Nor call’d the Gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bow’d his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.
— This was that memorable hour
Which first assured the forcèd power:
So when they did design
The Capitol’s first line,
A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed:
So much one man can do
That does both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just
And fit for highest trust.
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the Republic’s hand —
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey!
He to the Commons’ feet presents
A Kingdom for his first year’s rents,
And (what he may) forbears
His fame, to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirt
To lay them at the Public’s skirt;
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having kill’d, no more doth search
But on the next green bough to perch,
Where, when he first does lure
The falconer has her sure.
— What may not then our Isle presume
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear
If thus he crowns each year?
As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-colour’d mind,
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid —
Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
But Thou, the War’s and Fortune’s son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect
Still keep the sword erect:
Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.
Like the vain Curlings of the Watry maze,
Which in smooth streams a sinking Weight does raise;
So Man, declining alwayes, disappears.
In the Weak Circles of increasing Years;
And his short Tumults of themselves Compose,
While flowing Time above his Head does close.
Cromwell alone with greater Vigour runs,
(Sun-like) the Stages of succeeding Suns:
And still the Day which he doth next restore,
Is the just Wonder of the Day before.
Cromwell alone doth with new Lustre spring,
And shines the Jewel of the yearly Ring.
’Tis he the force of scatter’d Time contracts,
And in one Year the Work of Ages acts:
While heavy Monarchs make a wide Return,
Longer, and more Malignant then Saturn:
And though they all Platonique years should raign,
In the same Posture would be found again.
Their earthly Projects under ground they lay,
More slow and brittle then the China clay:
Well may they strive to leave them to their Son,
For one Thing never was by one King don.
Yet some more active for a Frontier Town
Took in by Proxie, beggs a false Renown;
Another triumphs at the publick Cost,
And will have Wonn, if he no more have Lost;
They fight by Others, but in Person wrong,
And only are against their Subjects strong;
Their other Wars seem but a feign’d contest,
This Common Enemy is still opprest;
If Conquerors, on them they turn their might;
If Conquered, on them they wreak their Spight:
They neither build the Temple in their dayes,
Nor Matter for succeeding Founders raise;
Nor Sacred Prophecies consult within,
Much less themselves to perfect them begin,
No other care they bear of things above,
But with Astrologers divine, and Jove,
To know how long their Planet yet Reprives
From the deserved Fate their guilty lives:
Thus (Image-like) and useless time they tell,
And with vain Scepter strike the hourly Bell;
Nor more contribute to the state of Things,
Then wooden Heads unto the Viols strings,
While indefatigable Cromwell hyes,
And cuts his way still nearer to the Skyes,
Learning a Musique in the Region clear,
To tune this lower to that higher Sphere.
So when Amphion did the Lute command,
Which the God gave him, with his gentle hand,
The rougher Stones, unto his Measures hew’d,
Dans’d up in order from the Quarreys rude;
This took a Lower, that an Higher place,
As he the Treble alter’d, or the Base:
No Note he struck, but a new Story lay’d,
And the great Work ascended while he play’d.
The listning Structures he with Wonder ey’d,
And still new Stopps to various Time apply’d:
Now through the Strings a Martial rage he throws,
And joyng streight the Theban Tow’r arose;
Then as he strokes them with a Touch more sweet,
The flocking Marbles in a Palace meet;
But, for he most the graver Notes did try,
Therefore the Temples rear’d their Columns high:
Thus, ere he ceas’d, his sacred Lute creates
Th’harmonious City of the seven Gates.
Such was that wondrous Order and Consent,
When Cromwell tun’d the ruling Instrument;
While tedious Statesmen many years did hack,
Framing a Liberty that still went back;
Whose num’rous Gorge could swallow in an hour
That Island, which the Sea cannot devour:
Then our Amphion issues out and sings,
And once he struck, and twice, the pow’rful Strings.
The Commonwealth then first together came,
And each one enter’d in the willing Frame;
All other Matter yields, and may be rul’d;
But who the Minds of stubborn Men can build?
No Quarry bears a Stone so hardly wrought,
Nor with such labour from its Center brought;
None to be sunk in the Foundation bends,
Each in the House the highest Place contends,
And each the Hand that lays him will direct,
And some fall back upon the Architect;
Yet all compos’d by his attractive Song,
Into the Animated City throng.
The Common-wealth does through their Centers all
Draw the Circumf’rence of the publique Wall;
The crossest Spirits here do take their part,
Fast’ning the Contignation which they thwart;
And they, whose Nature leads them to divide,
Uphold, this one, and that the other Side;
But the most Equal still sustein the Height,
And they as Pillars keep the Work upright;
While the resistance of opposed Minds,
The Fabrick as with Arches stronger binds,
Which on the Basis of a Senate free,
Knit by the Roofs Protecting weight agree.
When for his Foot he thus a place had found,
He hurles e’r since the World about him round,
And in his sev’ral Aspects, like a Star,
Here shines in Peace, and thither shoots a War.
While by his Beams observing Princes steer,
And wisely court the Influence they fear,
O would they rather by his Pattern won.
Kiss the approaching, nor yet angry Son;
And in their numbred Footsteps humbly tread
The path where holy Oracles do lead;
How might they under such a Captain raise
The great Designs kept for the latter Dayes!
But mad with reason, so miscall’d, of State
They know them not, and what they know not, hate
Hence still they sing Hosanna to the Whore,
And her whom they should Massacre adore:
But Indians whom they should convert, subdue;
Nor teach, but traffique with, or burn the Jew.
Unhappy Princes, ignorantly bred,
By Malice some, by Errour more misled;
If gracious Heaven to my Life give length,
Leisure to Times, and to my Weakness Strength,
Then shall I once with graver Accents shake
Your Regal sloth, and your long Slumbers wake:
Like the shrill Huntsman that prevents the East,
Winding his Horn to Kings that chase the Beast.
Till then my Muse shall hollow far behind
Angelique Cromwell who outwings the wind;
And in dark Nights, and in cold Dayes alone
Pursues the Monster thorough every Throne:
Which shrinking to her Roman Den impure,
Gnashes her Goary teeth; nor there secure.
Hence oft I think, if in some happy Hour
High Grace should meet in one with highest Pow’r,
And then a seasonable People still
Should bend to his, as he to Heavens will,
What we might hope, what wonderful Effect
From such a wish’d Conjuncture might reflect.
Sure, the mysterious Work, where none withstand,
Would forthwith finish under such a Hand:
Fore-shortned Time its useless Course would stay,
And soon precipitate the latest Day.
But a thick Cloud about that Morning lyes,
And intercepts the Beams of Mortal eyes,
That ’tis the most which we deteremine can,
If these the Times, then this must be the Man.
And well he therefore does, and well has guest,
Who in his Age has always forward prest:
And knowing not where Heavens choice may light,
Girds yet his Sword, and ready stands to fight;
But Men alas, as if they nothing car’d,
Look on, all unconcern’d, or unprepar’d;
And Stars still fall, and still the Dragons Tail
Swinges the Volumes of its horrid Flail.
For the great Justice that did first suspend
The World by Sin, does by the same extend.
Hence that blest Day still counterpoysed wastes,
The ill delaying, what th’Elected hastes;
Hence landing Nature to new Seas it tost,
And good Designes still with their Authors lost.
And thou, great Cromwell, for whose happy birth
A Mold was chosen out of better Earth;
Whose Saint-like Mother we did lately see
Live out an Age, long as a Pedigree;
That she might seem, could we the Fall dispute,
T’have smelt the Blossome, and not eat the Fruit;
Though none does of more lasting Parents grow,
But never any did them Honor so;
Though thou thine Heart from Evil still unstain’d,
And always hast thy Tongue from fraud refrain’d,
Thou, who so oft through Storms of thundring Lead
Hast born securely thine undaunted Head,
Thy Brest through ponyarding Conspiracies,
Drawn from the Sheath of lying Prophecies;
Thee proof beyond all other Force or Skill,
Our Sins endanger, and shall one day kill.
How near they fail’d, and in thy sudden Fall
At once assay’d to overturn us all.
Our brutish fury strugling to be Free,
Hurry’d thy Horses while they hurry’d thee.
When thou hadst almost quit thy Mortal cares,
And soyl’d in Dust thy Crown of silver Hairs.
Let this one Sorrow interweave among
The other Glories of our yearly Song.
Like skilful Looms which through the costly threed
Of purling Ore, a shining wave do shed:
So shall the Tears we on past Grief employ,
Still as they trickle, glitter in our Joy.
So with more Modesty we may be True,
And speak as of the Dead the Praises due:
While impious Men deceiv’d with pleasure short,
On their own Hopes shall find the Fall retort.
But the poor Beasts wanting their noble Guide,
What could they move? shrunk guiltily aside.
First winged Fear transports them far away,
And leaden Sorrow then their flight did stay.
See how they each his towring Crest abate,
And the green Grass, and their known Mangers hate,
Nor through wide Nostrils snuffe the wanton air,
Nor their round Hoofs, or curled Mane’scompare;
With wandring Eyes, and restless Ears theystood,
And with shrill Neighings ask’d him of the Wood.
Thou Cromwell falling, not a stupid Tree,
Or Rock so savage, but it mourn’d for thee:
And all about was heard a Panique groan,
As if that Natures self were overthrown.
It seem’d the Earth did from the Center tear;
It seem’d the Sun was faln out of the Sphere:
Justice obstructed lay, and Reason fool’d;
Courage disheartned, and Religion cool’d.
A dismal Silence through the Palace went,
And then loud Shreeks the vaulted Marbles rent.
Such as the dying Chorus sings by turns,
And to deaf Seas, and ruthless Tempests mourns,
When now they sink, and now the plundring Streams
Break up each Deck, and rip the Oaken seams.
But thee triumphant hence the firy Carr,
And firy Steeds had born out of the Warr,
From the low World, and thankless Men above,
Unto the Kingdom blest of Peace and Love:
We only mourn’d our selves, in thine Ascent,
Whom thou hadst lest beneath with Mantle rent.
For all delight of Life thou then didst lose,
When to Command, thou didst thy self Depose;
Resigning up thy Privacy so dear,
To turn the headstrong Peoples Charioteer;
For to be Cromwell was a greater thing,
Then ought below, or yet above a King:
Therefore thou rather didst thy Self depress,
Yielding to Rule, because it made thee Less.
For, neither didst thou from the first apply
Thy sober Spirit unto things too High,
But in thine own Fields exercisedst long,
An Healthful Mind within a Body strong;
Till at the Seventh time thou in the Skyes,
As a small Cloud, like a Mans hand didst rise;
Then did thick Mists and Winds the air deform,
And down at last thou pow’rdst the fertile Storm;
Which to the thirsty Land did plenty bring,
But though forewarn’d, o’r-took and wet the King.
What since he did, an higher Force him push’d
Still from behind, and it before him rush’d,
Though undiscern’d among the tumult blind,
Who think those high Decrees by Man design’d.
’Twas Heav’n would not that his Pow’r should cease,
But walk still middle betwixt War and Peace;
Choosing each Stone, and poysing every weight,
Trying the Measures of the Bredth and Height;
Here pulling down, and there erecting New,
Founding a firm State by Proportions true.
When Gideon so did from the War retreat,
Yet by Conquest of two Kings grown great,
He on the Peace extends a Warlike power,
And Is’rel silent saw him rase the Tow’r;
And how he Succoths Elders durst suppress,
With Thorns and Briars of the Wilderness.
No King might ever such a Force have done;
Yet would not he be Lord, nor yet his Son.
Thou with the same strength, and an Heart as plain,
Didst (like thine Olive) still refuse to Reign;
Though why should others all thy Labor spoil,
And Brambles be anointed with thine Oyl,
Whose climbing Flame, without a timely stop,
Had quickly Levell’d every Cedar’s top.
Therefore first growing to thy self a Law,
Th’ambitious Shrubs thou in just time didst aw.
So have I seen at Sea, when whirling Winds,
Hurry the Bark, but more the Seamens minds,
Who with mistaken Course salute the Sand,
And threat’ning Rocks misapprehend for Land;
While balefull Tritons to the shipwrack guide,
And Corposants along the Tacklings slide.
The Passengers all wearyed out before,
Giddy, and wishing for the fatall Shore;
Some lusty Mate, who with more carefull Ey
Counted the Hours, and ev’ry Star did spy,
The Helm does from the artless Steersman strain,
And doubles back unto the safer Main.
What though a while they grumble discontent,
Saving himself he does their loss prevent.
’Tis not a Freedome, that where All command;
Nor Tyranniey, where One does them withstand:
But who of both the Bounders knows to lay
Him as their Father must the State obey.
Thou, and thine House, like Noahs Eight did rest,
Left by the Warrs Flood on the Mountains crest:
And the large Vale lay subject to thy Will,
Which thou but as an Husbandman wouldst Till:
And only didst for others plant the Vine
Of Liberty, not drunken with its Wine.
That sober Liberty which men may have,
That they enjoy, but more they vainly crave:
And such as to their Parents Tents do press,
May shew their own, not see his Nakedness.
Yet such a Chammish issue still does rage,
The Shame and Plague both of the Land and Age,
Who watch’d thy halting, and thy Fall deride,
Rejoycing when thy Foot had slipt aside;
That their new King might the fifth Scepter shake,
And make the World, by his Example, Quake:
Whose frantique Army should they want for Men
Might muster Heresies, so one were ten.
What thy Misfortune, they the Spirit call,
And their Religion only is to Fall.
Oh Mahomet! now couldst thou rise again,
Thy Falling sicknes should have made thee Reign,
While Feake and Simpson would in many a Tome,
Have writ the Comments of thy sacred Foame:
For soon thou mightst have past among their Rant
Wer’t but for thine unmoved Tulipant;
As thou must needs have own’d them of thy band
For Prophecies fit to be Alcorand.
Accursed Locusts, whom your King does spit
Out of the Center of th’ unbottom’d Pit;
Wand’rers, Adult’rers, Lyers, Munser’s rest,
Sorcerers, Atheists, Jesuites, Possest;
You who the Scriptures and the Laws deface
With the same liberty as Points and Lace;
Oh Race most hypocritically strict!
Bent to reduce us to the ancient Pict;
Well may you act the Adam and the Eve;
Ay, and the Serpent too that did deceive.
But the great Captain, now the danger’s ore,
Makes you for his sake Tremble one fit more;
And, to your spight, returning yet alive
Does with himself all that is good revive.
So when first Man did through the Morning new
See the bright Sun his shining Race pursue,
All day he follow’d with unwearied sight,
Pleas’d with that other World of moving Light;
But thought him when he miss’d his setting beams,
Sunk in the Hills, or plung’d below the Streams.
While dismal blacks hung round the Universe,
And Stars (like Tapers) burn’d upon his Herse:
And Owls and Ravens with their screeching noyse
Did make the Fun’rals sadder by their Joyes.
His weeping Eys the dolefull Vigils keep,
Not knowing yet the Night was made for sleep:
Still to the West, where he him lost, he turn’d,
And with such accents, as Despairing, mourn’d:
Why did mine Eyes once see so bright a Ray;
Or why Day last no longer than a Day?
When streight the Sun behind him he descry’d,
Smiling serenely from the further side.
So while our Star that gives us Light and Heat,
Seem’d now a long and gloomy Night to threat,
Up from the other World his Flame he darts,
And Princes, shining through their windows, starts;
Who their suspected Counsellors refuse,
And credulous Ambassadors accuse.
“Is this,” saith one, “the Nation that we read
Spent with both Wars, under a Captain dead?
Yet rig a Navy while we dress us late;
And ere we Dine, rase and rebuild our State.
What Oaken Forrests, and what golden Mines!
What Mints of Men, what Union of Designes!
Unless their Ships, do, as their Fowle proceed
Of shedding Leaves, that with their Ocean breed.
Theirs are not Ships, but rather Arks of War,
And beaked Promontories sail’d from farr;
Of floting Islands a new Hatched Nest;
A Fleet of Worlds, of other Worlds in quest;
An hideous shole of wood-Leviathans,
Arm’d with three Tire of brazen Hurricans;
That through the Center shoot their thundring side
And sink the Earth that does at Anchor ride.
What refuge to escape them can be found,
Whose watry Leaguers all the world surround?
Needs must we all their Tributaries be,
Whose Navies hold the Sluces of the Sea.
The Ocean is the Fountain of Command,
But that once took, we Captives are on Land:
And those that have the Waters for their share,
Can quickly leave us neither Earth nor Air.
Yet if through these our Fears could find a pass;
Through double Oak, & lin’d with treble Brass;
That one Man still, although but nam’d, alarms
More then all Men, all Navies, and all Arms.
Him, all the Day, Him, in late Nights I dread,
And still his Sword seems hanging o’re my head.
The Nation had been ours, but his one Soul
Moves the great Bulk, and animates the whole.
He Secrecy with Number hath inchas’d,
Courage with Age, Maturity with Hast:
The Valiants Terror, Riddle of the Wise;
And still his Fauchion all our Knots unties.
Where did he learn those Arts that cost us dear?
Where below Earth, or where above the Sphere?
He seems a King by long Succession born,
And yet the same to be a King does scorn.
Abroad a King he seems, and something more,
At Home a Subject on the equal Floor.
O could I once him with our Title see,
So should I hope yet he might Dye as wee.
But let them write his Praise that love him best,
It grieves me sore to have thus much confest.”
Pardon, great Prince, if thus their Fear or Spight
More then our Love and Duty do thee Right.
I yield, nor further will the Prize contend;
So that we both alike may miss our End:
While thou thy venerable Head dost raise
As far above their Malice as my Praise.
And as the Angel of our Commonweal,
Troubling the Waters, yearly mak’st them Heal.
That Providence which had so long the care
Of Cromwell’s head, and numbred ev’ry hair,
Now in its self (the Glass where all appears)
Had seen the period of his golden Years:
And thenceforth onely did attend to trace,
What death might least so sair a Life deface.
The People, which what most they fear esteem,
Death when more horrid so more noble deem;
And blame the last Act, like Spectators vain,
Unless the Prince whom they applaud be slain.
Nor Fate indeed can well refuse that right
To those that liv’d in War, to dye in Fight.
But long his Valour none had left that could
Indanger him, or Clemency that would.
And he whom Nature all for Peace had made,
But angry Heaven unto War had sway’d,
And so less useful where he most desir’d,
For what he least affected was admir’d,
Deserved yet an End whose ev’ry part
Should speak the wondrous softness of his Heart.
To Love and Grief the fatal Writ was sign’d;
(Those nobler weaknesses of humane Mind,
From which those Powers that issu’d the Decree,
Although immortal, found they were not free.)
That they, to whom his Breast still open lyes,
In gentle Passions should his Death disguise:
And leave succeeding Ages cause to mourn,
As long as Grief shall weep, or Love shall burn.
Streight does a slow and languishing Disease
Eliza, Natures and his darling, seize.
Her when an infant, taken with her Charms,
He oft would flourish in his mighty Arms;
And, lest their force the tender burthen wrong,
Slacken the vigour of his Muscles strong;
Then to the Mothers brest her softly move,
Which while she drain’d of Milk she fill’d with Love:
But as with riper Years her Virtue grew,
And ev’ry minute adds a Lustre new;
When with meridian height her Beauty shin’d,
And thorough that sparkled her fairer Mind;
When She with Smiles serene and Words discreet
His hidden Soul at ev’ry turn could meet;
Then might y’ ha’ daily his Affection spy’d,
Doubling that knot which Destiny had ty’d:
While they by sence, not knowing, comprehend
How on each other both their Fates depend.
With her each day the pleasing Hours he shares,
And at her Aspect calms her growing Cares;
Or with a Grandsire’s joy her Children sees
Hanging about her neck or at his knees.
Hold fast dear Infants, hold them both or none;
This will not stay when once the other’s gone.
A silent fire now wasts those Limbs of Wax,
And him with his tortur’d Image racks.
So the Flowr with’ring which the Garden crown’d,
The sad Root pines in secret under ground.
Each Groan he doubled and each Sigh he sigh’d,
Repeated over to the restless Night.
No trembling String compos’d to numbers new,
Answers the touch in Notes more sad more true.
She lest He grieve hides what She can her pains,
And He to lessen hers his Sorrow feigns:
Yet both perceiv’d, yet both conceal’d their Skills,
And so diminishing increast their ills:
That whether by each others grief they fell,
Or on their own redoubled, none can tell.
And now Eliza’s purple Locks were shorn,
Where she so long her Fathers fate had worn:
And frequent lightning to her Soul that flyes,
Devides the Air, and opens all the Skyes:
And now his Life, suspended by her breath,
Ran out impetuously to hasting Death.
Like polish’d Mirrours, so his steely Brest
Had ev’ry figure of her woes exprest;
And with the damp of her last Gasps obscur’d,
Had drawn such staines as were not to be cur’d.
Fate could not either reach with single stroke,
But the dear Image fled the Mirrour broke.
Who now shall tell us more of mournful Swans,
Of Halcyons kind, or bleeding Pelicans?
No downy breast did ere so gently beat,
Or fan with airy plumes so soft an heat.
For he no duty by his height excus’d,
Nor though a Prince to be a Man refus’d:
But rather then in his Eliza’s pain
Not love, not grieve, would neither live nor reign.
And in himself so oft immortal try’d,
Yet in compassion of another dy’d.
So have I seen a Vine, whose lasting Age
Of many a Winter hath surviv’d the rage.
Under whose shady tent Men ev’ry year
At its rich bloods expence their Sorrows chear,
If some dear branch where it extends its life
Chance to be prun’d by an untimely knife,
The Parent-Tree unto the Grief succeeds,
And through the Wound its vital humour bleeds;
Trickling in watry drops, whose flowing shape
Weeps that it falls ere fix’d into a Grape.
So the dry Stock, no more that spreading Vine,
Frustrates the Autumn and the hopes of Wine.
A secret Cause does sure those Signs ordain
Fore boding Princes falls, and seldom vain.
Whether some Kinder Pow’rs, that wish us well,
What they above cannot prevent, foretell;
Or the great World do by consent presage,
As hollow Seas with future Tempests rage:
Or rather Heav’n, which us so long fore sees,
Their fun’rals celebrate while it decrees.
But never yet was any humane Fate
By nature solemniz’d with so much state.
He unconcern’d the dreadful passage crost;
But oh what pangs that Death did Nature cost!
First the great Thunder was shot off, and sent
The Signal from the starry Battlement.
The Winds receive it, and its force out-do,
As practising how they could thunder too:
Out of the Binders Hand the Sheaves they tore,
And thrash’d the Harvest in the airy floore;
Or of huge Trees, whose growth with his did rise,
The deep foundations open’d to the Skyes.
Then heavy Showres the winged Tempests dead,
And pour the Deluge ore the Chaos head.
The Race of warlike Horses at his Tomb
Offer themselves in many an Hecatomb;
With pensive head towards the ground they fall,
And helpless languish at the tainted Stall.
Numbers of Men decrease with pains unknown,
And hasten not to see his Death their own.
Such Tortures all the Elements unfix’d,
Troubled to part where so exactly mix’d.
And as through Air his wasting Spirits flow’d,
The Universe labour’d beneath their load.
Nature it seem’d with him would Nature vye;
He with Eliza, It with him would dye.
He without noise still travell’d to his End,
As silent Suns to meet the Night descend.
The Stars that for him fought had only pow’r
Left to determine now his fatal Hour,
Which, since they might not hinder, yet they cast
To chuse it worthy of his Glories past.
No part of time but bore his mark away
Of honour; all the Year was Cromwell’s day
But this, of all the most auspicious found,
Twice had in open field him Victor crown’d
When up the armed Mountains of Dunbar
He march’d, and through deep Severn ending war.
What day should him eternize but the same
That had before immortaliz‘d his Name?
That so who ere would at his Death have joy’d,
In their own Griefs might find themselves imploy’d;
But those that sadly his departure griev’d,
Yet joy’d remembring what he once atcheiv’d.
And the last minute his victorious Ghost
Gave chase to Ligny on the Belgick Coast.
Here ended all his mortal toyles: He lay’d
And slept in Peace under the Lawrel Shade.
O Cromwell, Heavens Favourite! To none
Have such high honours from above been shown:
For whom the Elements we Mourners see,
And Heav‘n it self would the great Herald be;
Which with more Care set forth his Obsequies
Then those of Moses hid from humane Eyes;
As jealous only here lest all be less,
That we could to his Memory express.
Then let us to our course of Mourning keep:
Where Heaven leads, ’tis Piety to weep.
Stand back ye Seas, and shrunk beneath the vail
Of your Abysse, with cover’d Head bewail
Your Monarch: We demand not your supplies
To compass in our Isle; our Tears suffice;
Since him away the dismal Tempest rent,
Who once more joyn’d us to the Continent;
Who planted England on the Flandrick shoar,
And stretch’d our frontire to the Indian Ore;
Whose greater Truths obscure the Fables old,
Whether of British Saints or Worthy’s told;
And in a valour less’ning Arthur’s deeds,
For Holyness the Confessor exceeds.
He first put Armes into Religions hand,
And tim’rous Conscience unto Courage man’d:
The Souldier taught that inward Mail to wear,
And fearing God how they should nothing fear.
Those Strokes he said will pierce through all below
Where those that strike from Heaven fetch their Blow.
Astonish’d armyes did their flight prepare:
And Cityes strong were stormed by his prayer.
Of that for ever Prestons field shall tell
The Story, and impregnable Clonmell.
And where the sandy mountain Fenwick scald
The Sea between yet henee his pray’r prevail’d.
What man was ever so in Heav’n obey’d
Since the commanded Sun ore Gibeon stayd.
In all his warrs needs must he triumph, when
He conquer’d God still ere he fought with men.
Hence though in battle none so brave or fierce
Yet him the adverse steel could never pierce:
Pitty it seem’d to hurt him more that felt
Each wound himself which he to others delt,
Danger it self refusing to offend
So loose an enemy so fast a freind.
Friendship that sacred versue long das claime
The first foundation of his house and name.
But within one its narrow limitts fall
His tendernesse extended unto all:
And that deep soule through every chanell flows
Where kindly nature loves it self to lose.
More strong affections never reason serv’d
Yet still affected most what best deservd.
If he Eliza lov’d to that degree
(Though who more worstly to be lov’d then she)
If so indulgent to his own, how deare
To him the children of the Highest were?
For her he once did natures tribute pay:
For these his life adventur’d every day.
And it would be found could we his thoughts have
Their griefs struck deepest if Eliza’s last.
What prudence more then humane did he need
To keep so deare, so diff’ring mindes agreed?
The worser sort as conscious of their ill,
Lye weak and easy to the rulers will:
But to the good (too many or too few).
All law is uselesse all reward is due.
Oh ill advis’d if not for love for shame.
Spare yet your own if you neglect his fame.
Least others dare to think your reale a maske
And you to govern only Heavens taske.
Valour, Religion, Friendship, Prudence dy’d
At once with him and all that’s good beside:
And rue deaths refuse natures dreg’s confin’d
To loathsome life Alas are left behinde:
Where we (so once we us’d) shall now no more
To fetch day presse about his chamber door;
From which he issu’d with that awfull state
It seem’d Mars broke through Janus double gate:
Yet alwayes temper’d with an Aire so mild
No Aprill suns that ere so gently smil’d:
No more shall heare that powerfull language charm.
Whose force oft spar’d the labour of his arm:
No more shall follow where he spent the dayes
In warres in counsell, or in pray’r, and praise,
Whose meanest acts he would himself advance
As ungirt David to the Arks did dance.
All All is gone of ours or his delight
In horses fierce wild deer or armour bright.
Francisca faire can nothing now but weep
Nor with soft notes shall sing his cares asleep.
I saw him dead, a leaden slumber lyes
And mortall sleep over those wakefull eys:
Those gentle Rayes under the lidds were fled
Which through his lookes that piercing sweetnesse she
That port which so Majestique was and strong,
Loose and depriv’d of vigour stretch’d along:
All wither’d, all discolour’d, pale and wan,
How much another thing, no more thatman?
Oh humane glory vaine, Oh death, Oh wings,
Oh worthlesse worth. Oh transitory things.
Yet dwelt that greatnesse in his shape decay’d
That still though dead greater than death he lay’d.
And in his alter’d face you something faigne
That threatens death he yet will live againe.
Not much unlike the saired Oake which shoots
To heav’n its branches and through earth its roots:
Whose spacious boughs are hung with Trophees row
And honour’d wreaths have oft the Victour crown
When angry Jove darts lightning through the Aire
At mortalls sins, nor his own plant will spare
(It groanes and bruses all below that stood
So many yeares the shelter of the wood)
The tree ere while foreshorten’d to our view
When foln shews taller yet then as it grew.
So shall his praise to after times increase
When truth shall be allow’d and faction cease.
And his own shadow with him fall. The Eye
Detracts from objects then it selfe more high:
But when death takes them from that envy’d seate
Seing how little we confesse how greate.
Thee many ages hence in martiall verse
Shall th’ English souldier ere he charge rehearse:
Singing of thee influme themselves to fight
And with the name of Cromwell armyes fright.
As long as rivers to the seas shall runne.
As long as Cynthia shall relieve the sunne,
While staggs shall fly unto the forests thick,
While sheep delight the grassy downs to pick,
As long as future time succeeds the past,
Always thy honour, praise and name shall last.
Thou in a pitch how farre, beyond the sphere
Of humane glory towr’st, and raigning there
Despoyld of mortall robes, in seas of cliyse
Plunging dost bathe, and tread the bright Abysse:
There thy greate soule yet once a world das see
Spacious enough and pure enough for thee.
How soon thou Moses hast and Josua found
And David for the Sword, and harpe renown’d?
How streight canst to each happy Mansion goe?
(Farr Better known above then here below)
And in those joyes dost spend the endlesse day
Which in expressing we our selves betray.
For we since thou art gone with heavy doome
Wander like ghosts about thy loved tombe:
And lost in tears have neither sight nor minde
To guide us upward through this Region blinde
Since thou art gone who best that way could’st fearn
Onely our sighs perhaps may thither reach.
And Richard yet where his great Parent led
Beats on the rugged track: He vertue dead
Revives, and by his milder beams assures;
And yet how much of them his griefe obscures?
He as his rather long was kept from sight
In private to be view’d by better light:
But open’d once, what splendour dos he throw
A Cromwell in an houre a Prince will grow.
How he becomes that seat, how strongly streins
How gently winds at once the ruling Reins?
Heav’n to this choise prepar’d a Diadem
Richer then any Eastern silk or gemme:
A pearly rainbow; where the Sun inchas’d
His brows like an Imperiall Jewell grac’d.
We find already what those Omens mean.
Earth nere more glad, nor Heaven more serene:
Cease now our griefs, Calme peace succeeds a war
Rainbows to storms, Richard to Oliver.
Tempt not his clemency to try his pow’r
He threats no Deluge, yet fore tells a showre.
Ingeniosa Viris contingunt Nomina magnis,
Ut dubites Casu vel Ratione data.
Nam Sors, caeca licet, tamen est praesaga futuri;
Et sub fatidico Nomine vera premit.
Et Tu, cui soli voluit Respublica credi,
Foedera seu Belgis seu nova Bella feras;
Haud frustra cecidit tibi Compellatio fallax,
Ast scriptum ancipiti Nomine Munus erat;
Scilicet hoc Martis, sed Pacis Nuntius illo:
Clavibus his Jani ferrea Claustra regis.
Non opus Arcanos Chartis committere Sensus,
Et varia licitos condere Fraude Dolos.
Tu quoque si taceas tamen est Legatio Nomen.
Et velut in Scytale publica verba refert.
Vultis Oliverum, Batavi, Sanctumve Johannem?
Antiochus gyro non breviore stetit.
Oliver St. John (1598-1675) was Chief Justice under the Commonwealth, and was thus called Lord St. John. In March, 1651, he was sent to negotiate the proposed coalition between England and the United Provinces of Holland (Foss's Judges of England).
Quidfacis Arctoi charissime transfuga coeli,
Ingele, proh serò cognite, rapte citò?
Num satis Hybernum defendis pellibus Astrum,
Qui modo tam mollis nec bene firmus eras?
Quae Gentes Hominum, quae sit Natura Locorum,
Sint Homines, potius dic ibi sintne Loca?
Num gravis horrisono Polus obruit omnia lapsu,
Jungitur et praeceps Mundas utrâque nive?
An melius canis horrescit Campus Aristis,
Annuus Agricolis et redit Orbe labor?10
Incolit, ut fertur, saevam Gens mitior Oram,
Pace vigil, Bello strenua, justa Foro.
Quin ibi sunt Urbes, atque alta Palatia Regum,
Musarumque domus, et sua Templa Deo.
Nam regit Imperio populum Christina ferocem,
Et dare jura potest regia Virgo viris.
Utque trahit rigidum Magnes Aquilone Metallum,
Gaudet eam Soboles ferrea sponte sequi.
Dic quantum liceat fallaci credere Famae,
Invida num taceat plura, sonetve loquax.20
At, si vera fides, Mundi melioris ab ortu,
Saecula Christinae nulla tulere parem.
Ipsa licet redeat (nostri decus orbis) Eliza,
Qualis nostra tamen quantaque Eliza fuit.
Vidimus Effigiem, mistasque Coloribus Umbras:
Sic quoque Sceptripotens, sic quoque visa Dea.
Augustam decorant (raro concordia) frontem
Majestas et Amor, Forma Pudorque simul.
Ingens Virgineo spirat Gustavus in ore:
Agnoscas animos, fulmineumque Patrem.30
Nulla suo nituit tam lucida Stella sub Axe;
Non Ea quae meruit Crimine Nympha Polum.
Ah quoties pavidum demisit conscia Lumen,
Utque suae timuit Parrhasis Ora Deae!
Et, simulet falsâ ni Pictor imagine Vultus,
Delia tam similis nec fuit ipsa sibi.
Ni quod inornati Triviae sint forte Capilli,
Sollicitâ sed huic distribuantur Acu.
Scilicet ut nemo est illâ reverentior aequi;
Haud ipsas igitur fert sine Lege Comas.40
Gloria sylvarum pariter communis utrique
Est, et perpetuae Virginitatis Honos.
Sic quoque Nympharum supereminet Agmina collo,
Fertque Choros Cynthi per Juga, perque Nives.
Haud aliter pariles Ciliorum contrahit Arcus
Acribus ast Oculis tela subesse putes.
Luminibus dubites an straverit illa Sagittis
Quae fovet exuviis ardua colla Feram.
Alcides humeros coopertus pelle Nemaeâ
Haud ita labentis sustulit Orbis Onus.50
Heu quae Cervices subnectunt Pectora tales,
Frigidiora Gelu, candidiora Nive.
Caetera non licuit, sed vix ea tota, videre;
Nam clausi rigido stant Adamante Sinus.
Seu Chlamys Artifici nimium succurrerit auso,
Sicque imperfectum fugerit impar Opus:
Sive tribus spernat Victrix certare Deabus,
Et pretium formae nec spoliata ferat.
Junonis properans et clara Trophaea Minervae;
Mollia nam Veneris praemia nosse piget.60
Hinc neque consuluit fugitivae prodiga Formoe,
Nec timuit seris invigilasse Libris.
Insomnem quoties Nymphae monuere sequaces
Decedet roseis heu color ille Genis.
Jamque vigil leni cessit Philomela sopori,
Omnibus et Sylvis conticuere Ferae.
Acrior illa tamen pergit, Curasque fatigat:
Tanti est doctorum volvere scripta Virum.
Et liciti quae sint moderamina discere Regni,
Quid fuerit, quid sit, noscere quicquid erit.70
Sic quod in ingenuas Gothus peccaverit Artes
Vindicat, et studiis expiat Una suis.
Exemplum dociles imitantur nobile Gentes,
Et geminis Infans imbuit Ora sonis.
Transpositos Suecis credas migrasse Latinos,
Carmine Romuleo sic strepit omne Nemus.
Upsala nec priscis impar memoratur Athenis,
Aegidaque et Currus hic sua Pallas habet.
Illinc O quales liceat sperasse Liquores,
Quum Dea praesideat fontibus ipsa sacris!80
Illic Lacte ruant illic et flumina Melle,
Fulvaque inauratam tingat Arena Salam.
Upsalides Musae nunc et majora canemus,
Quaeque mihi Famae non levis Aura tulit.
Creditur haud ulli Christus signasse suorum
Occultam gemma de meliore Notam.
Quemque tenet charo descriptum Nomine semper,
Non minus exculptum Pectore fida refert.
Sola haec virgineas depascit Flamma Medullas,
Et licito pergit solvere corda foco.90
Tu quoque Sanctorum fastos Christina sacrabis,
Unica nec Virgo Volsïniensis erit.
Discite nunc Reges (Majestas proxima caelo)
Discite proh magnos hinc coluisse Deos.
Ah pudeat Tantos puerilia fingers coepta,
Nugas nescio quas, et male quaerere Opes.
Acer Equo cunctos dum praeterit ille Britanno,
Et pecoris spolium nescit inerme sequi.
Ast Aquilam poscit Germano pellere Nido,
Deque Palatino Monte fugare Lupam.100
Vos etiam latos in praedam jungite Campos,
Impiaque arctatis cingite Lustra Plagis.
Victor Oliverus nudum Caput exerit Armis,
Ducere sive sequi nobile laetus Iter.
Qualis jam Senior Solymae Godfredus ad Arces,
Spina cui canis floruit alba Comis.
Et Lappos Christina potest et solvere Finnos,
Ultima quos Boreae carcere Claustra premunt.
Aeoliis quales Venti fremuere sub antris,
Et tentant Montis corripuisse moras.110
Hanc Dea si summa demiserit Arce procellam
Quam gravis Austriacis Hesperiisque cadat!
Omnia sed rediens olim narraveris Ipse;
Nec reditus spero tempora longa petit.
Non ibi lenta pigro stringuntur frigore Verba,
Solibus, et tandem Vere liquanda nove.
Sed radiis hyemem Regina potentior urit;
Haecque magis solvit, quam ligat illa Polum.
Dicitur et nostros moerens audisse Labores,
Fortis et ingenuam Gentis amasse Fidem.120
Oblatae Batavam nec paci commodat Aurem;
Nec versat Danos insidiosa dolos.
Sed pia festinat mutatis Foedera rebus,
Et Libertatem quae dominatur amat.
Digna cui Salomon meritos retulisset honores,
Et Saba concretum Thure cremasset Iter.
Hanc tua, sed melius, celebraverit, Ingele, Musa;
Et labor est vertrae debitus ille Lyrae.
Nos sine te frustra Thamisis saliceta subimus,
Sparsaque per steriles Turba vagamur Agros.130
Et male tentanti querulum respondet Avena:
Quin et Rogerio dissiluere fides.
Haec tamen absenti memores dictamus Amico,
Grataque speramus qualiacumque fore.
Nathaniel Ingelo, divine, and lover of music, was born about 1621, and died in 1683. He was chaplain and “rector chori” to Bulstrode Whitlocke, on his embassy to Sweden in November 1653. When Ingelo left Sweden Queen Christina gave him a gold medal, and in 1658, he received the Oxford degree of D.D. He was buried in Eton College Chapel. Among his writings were a religious romance, and a Latin poem which was set to music by Benjamin Rogers.
Marvell’s letter to Ingelo contains an encomium obviously intended for her eyes.
44. perque: As in Cooke; per in the Folio.
48. fovet: As in Grosart; foret in the Folio.
97. ille: As in Cooke; illa in the Folio.
Translation, by A. B Grosart:
How now, dear exile to the northern zone,
Too late known Ingelo, too early gone?
Canst thou with furs the wintry star defy —
So infirm here, so weak beneath our sky?
What race of men, what scen’ry do you share?
Or are there men, or is there scen’ry there?
Does the vast pole, harsh-wheeling, waste the land?
Does snow the swift world bind on either hand?
Or better, does the plain with whitening ears
Bristle, and Labour crown the circling years?10
A milder race, they say, holds these stern plains;
Industrious peace, stout arms, just judgment reigns;
There too are cities and a regal seat,
Haunts of the Muses, and God’s temples meet:
For great Christina rules the stalwart race —
A virgin queen o’er men the sceptre sways;
And as the magnet draws the rigid stone,
That iron race delights her force to own.
Is’t so: are we to trust deceitful Fame?
Brags she, or envious hints her silent blame?20
If all be true, then since the world was young,
No equal to Christina has been sung;
Though our own boast, Eliza, came again,
She were her match, and might her meed attain.
I saw her limn’d, with chequer’d light and shade —
E’en in her picture seem’d she she goddess-maid!
Upon her brow (rare harmony!) there move
Modesty, Beauty, Majesty and Love;
Gustavus breathes from out her maiden face,
You mark his dash and spirit in her grace.30
No star so bright upon its axis burn’d —
Not she who by her crime such prison earn’d:
Conscious, how oft her tearful light she veil’d,
As Parrhasis before the goddess quail’d!
And if the painter drew not from his mind,
Delia herself was not of rarer kind;
Except that Trivia’s hair was unbedeck’d,
While hers is comb’d in fashion circumspect:
Forsooth, none lives so reverent of the right,
And e’en her locks must by fix’d laws be dight;40
Alike the glory of the woods is she,
And flower of aye-inviolate Chastity.
So o’er her virgin bands tall Cynthia shows,
And leads her troop athwart the rocks and snows;
E’en so she bends her eyebrows’ double bow,
As though keen arrows from her eyes she’d throw.
One doubts if with her eyes the beast she slew
Whose fur around her neck and breast we view.
Alcides’ self girt with a lion’s hide,
Bearing the wheeling globe, scarce with her vied.50
And her fair throat, as white as northern snow,
But not as white as breasts half glimps’d below!
No more — scarce even this might there be seen:
Stern steel encas’d the bosom of my Queen.
Or did her mantle aid imperfect art,
Which then retired, unequal to its part?
Or with those three to vie does she disdain,
And Beauty’s palm, though ne’er disrobed, would gain? —
Eager for Juno’s, Pallas’ glorious spoils,
Shrinking from Venus’ captivating toils,60
She reck’d no more the fleeting fame of looks,
But nightly gave her studious mind to books.
How oft her maids that sleepless soul would warn,
“Alas, the bloom once gone will ne’er return.”
Now Philomel her labour lulls in sleep,
And all the woods a restful silence keep,
More ardent still her busy care she plies,
And makes each learned work her welcome prize:
To know and keep within her sovereignty,
To learn what is, what was, and what shall be;70
Avenging thus the rude Goth’s barbarous fires,
She expiates the fury of her sires.
From her the docile tribes example take,
And into two-voiced speech their infants break;
The Latins yield themselves to Swedish bounds,
And every grove with Roman song resounds.
Upsala now with ancient Athens vies;
Here Pallas‘ shield, and here her chariot lies.
Ah, what clear stream shall hence our hopes fulfill,
When our Athene guards the sacred rill!80
Their happy streams with milk and honey flow,
And Saal is ting’d with Issell’s golden glow. —
Upsalian Muses, take a loftier flight,
And sing of matters none may rank too light.
’Tis said that Christ not even to His own
Reveal’d the mystery of that “white stone”;
And Him, Christina, whose blest name thou wearest
Graven within thy faithful heart thou bearest.
On this pure flame her virgin soul is fed,
Before this fire her inmost heart outspread.90
Thou too, Christina, hast thy saintship won;
Bolsena’s maid bears not the palm alone.
Learn then, ye kings, whom Heav’n has raised on high,
From this example, God to glorify:
Blush, being great, to compass childish things,
Vain trifles, and the wealth which sorrow brings;
See our brave British horseman pass them all,
No spoils of unarm’d flock before him fall —
Fluttering the eagle in his German pine,
Driving the she-wolf from the Palatine.100
Yet too combine your camps, and seek your prey;
Hedge-in with narrowing bonds this evil day;
Triumphant Cromwell lifts his helmless head.
Ready to lead, or follow nobly led.
Like Godfrey at the citadel of old,
Adown whose back the white locks thickly roll’d,
Christina can let loose the Finns and Lapps,
Whom Boreas in his prison close enwraps;
As fret the winds in their Æolian cave,
And strain to burst their narrow mountain-grave.110
If SHE their veh’ment fury shouldunchain,
What storm would break on Austria and Spain!
But thou returning shalt account for all —
And speedy be the time of thy recall!
No longer then our tardy speech shall freeze;
Loos’d by the glowing sun and Spring’s fresh breeze,
A Queen more powerful thaws the wintry ground,
And trebly frees the Pole which th’ other bound.
They say she heard and piti’d our sad case,
Praising the clear faith of a sturdy race;120
Refus’d the wily Dutchman’s proffer’d pact,
And spurn’d to use insidious thought or act;
Eager a mutual treaty to ordain,
And loves the liberty which marks her reign.
Worthy that Solomon his praise should pay,
And Sheba’s queen burn incense in her way.
Thou, Ingelo, wilt better chant her fame;
Thy lyre more sweetly may the honour claim.
Without thee listless on Thames’ banks we rove,
And o’er the barren plains disbanded move.130
The pipe discordant mocks our awkward throat,
And Roger’s cithern will not yield a note.
Still, mindful, to our absent friend we sing;
And may our strains, though light, some pleasure bring!
34. Parrhasis, is an Arcadian epithet for Callisto, a nymph of Diana seduced by Zeus, and changed into Ursa Major, the brightest Northern constellation. (Carl E. Bain)
36. Delia: Diana.
37. Trivia: Diana of the crossways.
50: Hercules for a time took Atlas’ place as upholder of the heavens.
82. Saal . . . Issell: Swedish rivers.
92: St. Christina drowned in the Lake of Bolsena.
99: The Holy Roman Empire.
100: The Catholic Church.
105. Godfrey: Godfrey of Bulloigne, a heroic crusader, who put on a crown of thorns before entering Jerusalem.
132. Roger: Benjamin Rogers, a composer whose music Ingelo had performed before Queen Christina.
Haec est quae toties Inimicos Umbra fugavit,
At sub quâ Cives Otia lenta terunt.
Translation by A. B. Grosart.
Before this shadow oft his en’mies fled;
Beneath it lives secure the people led.
Bellipotens Virgo, septem Regina Trionum.
Christina, Arctoi lucida stella Poli;
Cernis quas merui dura sub Casside Rugas;
Sicque Senex Armis impiger Ora fero;
Invia Factorum dum per Vestigia nitor,
Exequor & Populi fortia Jussa Manu.
At tibi submittit frontem reverentior Umbra,
Nec sunt hi Vultus Regibus usque truces.
In April, 1654, Cromwell concluded a treaty with Sweden, and sent to Queen Christina a portrait of himself, accompanied by these verses of Marvell’s . Queen Christina abdicated the throne on the 16th of the following June, when she was only twenty-eight years of age. These lines have often been printed as Milton’s, but Masson (Poetical Works of John Milton, 1874, II. 343-352) gives full reasons for thinking they are Marvell’s . They follow naturally after the lines to Dr. Ingelo.
Translation by A. B. Grosart.
O virgin Queen of the North, expert in war,
Christina, th’ Arctic heaven’s fair-shining star,
See the hard helmet’s furrows on my brow —
Though old, not sluggard, yet in arms I go.
Whilst in Fate’s pathless toils I struggle still,
And work the mandates of the people’s will,
To you this shade its reverent forehead bends,
My looks not always stern to royal friends.
Quis posthac chartae committat sensa loquaci,
Si sua crediderit Fata subesse stylo?
Conscia si prodat Seribentis Litera sortem,
Quicquid & in vita plus latuisse velit?
Flexibus in calami tamen omnia sponte leguntur:
Quod non significant Verba, Figura notat.
Bellerophonteas signat sibi quisque Tabellas;
Ignaramque Manum Spiritus intus agit.
Nil praeter solitum sapiebat Epistola nostra,
Exemplumque meae Simplicitatis erat.10
Fabula jucundos qualis delectat Amicos;
Urbe, lepore, novis, carmine tota scatens.
Hic tamen interpres quo non securior alter,
(Non res, non voces, non ego notus ei)
Rimatur fibras notularum cautus Aruspex,
Scriptur aeque inhians consulit exta meae.
Inde statim vitae casus, animique recessus
Explicat; (haud Genio plura liquere putem.)
Distribuit totum nostris eventibus orbem,
Et quo me rapiat cardine Sphaera docet.20
Quae Sol oppositus, quae Mars adversa minetur,
Jupiter aut ubi me, Luna, Venusque juvent.
Ut trucis intentet mihi vulnera Cauda Draconis;
Vipereo levet ut vulnera more Caput.
Hinc mihi praeteriti rationes atque futuri
Elicit; Astrologus certior Astronomo.
Ut conjecturas nequeam discernere vero,
Historiae superet sed Genitura fidem.
Usque adeo caeli respondet pagina nostrae,
Astrorum & nexus syllaba scripta refert.30
Scilicet & toti subsunt Oracula mundo,
Dummodo tot foliis una Sibylla foret.
Partum, Fortunae mater Natura, propinquum
Milie modis monstrat mille per indicia:
Ingentemque Uterum qui mole Puerpera solvat
Vivit at in praesens maxima pars hominum.
Ast Tu sorte tua gaude Celeberrime Vatum;
Scribe, sed haud superest qui tua fata legat.
Nostra tamen si fas praesagia jungere vestris,
Quo magis inspexti sydera spernis humum.40
Et, nisi stellarum fueris divina propago,
Naupliada credam te Palamede satum.
Qui dedit ex aviun scriptoria signa volatu,
Sydereaque idem nobilis arte fuit.
Hinc utriusque tibi cognata scientia crevit,
Nec minus augurium Litera quam dat Avis.
Consurgit Luparae Dum non imitabile culmen,
Escuriale ingens uritur in vidia.
Regibus haec posuit Ludovicus Templa futuris;
Gratior ast ipsi Castra fuere Domus.
Hanc sibi Sydeream Ludovicus condidit Aulam;
Nec se propterea credidit esse Deum.
Atria miraris, summotumque Aethera fecto;
Nec tamen in toto est arctior Orbe Casa.
Instituente domum Ludovico, prodiit Orbis;
Sic tamen angustos incolit ille Lares.
Sunt geminae Jani Portae, sunt Tecta Tonantis;
Nec deerit Numen dum Ludovicus adect.
Nec sterilem te crede; licet, mulieribus exul,
Falcem virginiae nequeas immittere messi,
Et nostro peccare modo. Tibi Fama perennè
Proegnabit; rapiesque novem de monte Sorores;
Et pariet modulos Echo repetita Nepotes.
Translation by A. B. Grosart.
Deem not that thou art barren, though, forlorn,
Thou plunge no sickle in the virgin corn,
And, mateless, hast no part in our sweet curse.
Fame shall be ever pregnant by thy verse;
The vocal Sisters nine thou shalt embrace,
And Echo nurse thy words, a tuneful race.
C'est de luy que nous vient cet Art ingenieux
De peindre la Parole, et deparler aua Yeux;
Et, parles traits divers de figures tracees,
Donner de la couleur et du corps aux pensees.
Facundis dedit ille notis, interprete plumas
Insinuare sonos oculis, & pingere voces,
Et mentem chartis, oculis impertiit aurem.
Magdala, lascivos sic quum dimisit Amantes,
Fervidaque in castas lumina solvit aquas;
Haesit in irriguo lachrymarum compede Christus,
Et tenuit sacros uda Catena pedes.
When daring Blood, his rents to have regain’d,
Upon the English Diadem distrain’d,
He chose the Cassock, surcingle, and Gown
(No mask so fit for one that robbs a Crown);
But his lay-pity underneath prevayl’d
And while he spar’d the Keeper’s life, he fail’d.
With the Priests Vestments had he but put on
A Bishops cruelty, the Crown was gone.
* Colonel Thomas Blood (1618?-1680?), a daring adventurer, was rewarded for his activities on the Parliamentary side in the Civil Wars with lands in Ireland which were confiscated after the Restoration. He twice attempted to kidnap the Duke of Ormonde, whom, as Lord-Lieutenant, Blood held responsible for the confiscation. In May 1671 Blood, disguised as a parson, nearly succeeded in an attempt to make off with the crown jewels. He was captured, but refusing to talk to an examining magistrate, was brought before the King, who pardoned him, restored his lands, and employed him as an intelligence agent.
Oblig’d by frequent visits of this man,
Whom as Priest, Poet, and Musician,
I for some branch of Melchizedeck took,
(Though he derives himself from my Lord Brooke)
I sought his Lodging; which is at the Sign
Of the sad Pelican; Subject divine
For Poetry: There three Stair Cases high,
Which signifies his triple property,
I found at last a Chamber, as ’twas said,
But seem’d a Coffin set on the Stairs head.10
Not higher then Seav’n, nor larger then three feet;
Only there was nor Seeling, nor a Sheet,
Save that th’ ingenious Door did as you come
Turn in, and shew to Wainscot half the Room.
Yet of his State no man could have complain’d;
There being no Bed where he entertain’d:
And though within one Cell so narrow pent,
He’d Stanza’s for a whole Appartement.
Straight without further information,
In hideous verse, he, and a dismal tone,20
Begins to exercise; as if I were
Possest; and sure the Devil brought me there.
But I, who now imagin’d my self brought
To my last Tryal, in a serious thought
Calm’d the disorders of my youthful Breast,
And to my Martyrdom prepared Rest.
Only this frail Ambition did remain,
The last distemper of the sober Brain,
That there had been some present to assure
The future Ages how I did indure:30
And how I, silent, turn’d my burning Ear
Towards the Verse; and when that could not hear
Held him the other; and unchanged yet,
Ask’d still for more, and pray’d him to repeat:
Till the Tyrant, weary to persecute,
Left off, and try’d t’allure me with his Lute.
Now as two Instruments, to the same key
Being tun’d by Art, if the one touched be
The other opposite as soon replies,
Mov’d by the Air and hidden Sympathies;40
So while he with his gouty Fingers craules
Over the Lute, his murmuring Belly calls,
Whose hungry Guts to the same streightness twin’d
In Echo to the trembling Strings repin’d.
I, that perceiv’d now what his Musick ment,
Ask’d civilly if he had eat this Lent.
He answered yes; with such, and such an one.
For he has this of gen’rous, that alone
He never feeds; save only when he tryes
With gristly Tongue to dart the passing Flyes.50
I ask’d if he eat flesh. And he, that was
So hungry that though ready to say Mass
Would break his fast before, said he was Sick,
And th’ Ordinance was only Politick.
Nor was I longer to invite him: Scant
Happy at once to make him Protestant,
And Silent. Nothing now Dinner stay’d
But till he had himself a Body made.
I mean till he were drest: for else so thin
He stands, as if he only fed had been60
With consecrated Wafers: and the Host
Hath sure more flesh and blood then he can boast.
This Basso Relievo of a Man,
Who as a Camel tall, yet easly can
The Needles Eye thread without any stich,
(His only impossible is to be rich)
Lest his too suttle Body, growing rare,
Should leave his Soul to wander in the Air,
He therefore circumscribes himself in rimes;
And swaddled in’s own papers seaven times,70
Wears a close Jacket of poetick Buff,
With which he doth his third Dimension Stuff.
Thus armed underneath, he over all
Does make a primitive Sotana fall;
And above that yet casts an antick Cloak,
Worn at the first Counsel of Antioch;
Which by the Jews long hid, and Disesteem’d,
He heard of by Tradition, and redeem’d.
But were he not in this black habit deck’t,
This half transparent Man would soon reflect80
Each colour that he past by; and be seen,
As the Chamelion, yellow, blew, or green.
He drest, and ready to disfurnish now
His Chamber, whose compactness did allow
No empty place for complementing doubt,
But who came last is forc’d first to go out;
I meet one on the Stairs who made me stand,
Stopping the passage, and did him demand:
I answer’d he is here Sir; but you see
You cannot pass to him but thorow me.90
He thought himself affronted; and reply’d,
I whom the Pallace never has deny’d
Will make the way here; I said Sir you’l do
Me a great favour, for I seek to go.
He gathring fury still made sign to draw;
But himself there clos’d in a Scabbard saw
As narrow as his Sword’s; and I, that was
Delightful, said there can no Body pass
Except by penetration hither, where
Two make a crowd, nor can three Persons here100
Consist but in one substance. Then, to fit
Our peace, the Priest said I too had some wit:
To prov’t, I said, the place doth us invite
But its own narrowness, Sir, to unite.
He ask’d me pardon; and to make me way
Went down, as I him follow’d to obey.
But the propitiatory Priest had straight
Oblig’d us, when below, to celebrate
Together our attonement: so increas’d
Betwixt us two the Dinner to a Feast.110
Let it suffice that we could eat in peace;
And that both Poems did and Quarrels cease
During the Table; though my new made Friend
Did, as he threatned, ere ’twere long intend
To be both witty and valiant: I loth,
Said ’twas too late, he was already both.
But now, Alas, my first Tormentor came,
Who satisfy’d with eating, but not tame
Turns to recite; though Judges most severe
After th’Assizes dinner mild appear,120
And on full stomach do condemn but few:
Yet he more strict my sentence doth renew;
And draws out of the black box of his Breast
Ten quire of paper in which he was drest.
Yet that which was a greater cruelty
Then Nero’s Poem he calls charity:
And so the Pelican at his door hung
Picks out the tender bosome to its young.
Of all his Poems there he stands ungirt
Save only two foul copies for his shirt:130
Yet these he promises as soon as clean.
But how I loath’d to see my Neighbour glean
Those papers, which he pilled from within
Like white fleaks rising from a Leaper’s skin!
More odious then those raggs which the French youth
At ordinaries after dinner show’th,
When they compare their Chancres and Poulains.
Yet he first kist them, and after takes pains
To read; and then, because he understood good.
Not one Word, thought and swore that they were140
But all his praises could not now appease
The provok’t Author, whom it did displease
To hear his Verses, by so just a curse,
That were ill made condemn’d to be read worse:
And how (impossible) he made yet more
Absurdityes in them then were before.
For he his untun’d voice did fall or raise
As a deaf Man upon a Viol playes,
Making the half points and the periods run
Confus’der then the atomes in the Sun.150
Thereat the Poet swell’d, with anger full,
And roar’d out, like Perillus in’s own Bull;
Sir you read false. That any one but you
Should know the contrary. Whereat, I, now
Made Mediator, in my room, said, Why?
To say that you read false Sir is no Lye.
Thereat the waxen Youth relented straight;
But saw with sad dispair that was too late.
For the disdainful Poet was retir’d
Home, his most furious Satyr to have fir’d160
Against the Rebel; who, at this struck dead
Wept bitterly as disinherited.
Who should commend his Mistress now? Or who
Praise him? both difficult indeed to do
With truth. I counsell’d him to go in time,
Ere the fierce Poets anger turn’d to rime.
He hasted; and I, finding my self free,
As one scap’t strangely from Captivity,
Have made the Chance be painted; and go now
To hang it in Saint Peter’s for a Vow.170
Holland, that scarce deserves the name of Land,
As but th’Off-scouring of the Brittish Sand;
And so much Earth as was contributed
By English Pilots when they heav’d the Lead;
Or what by th’ Oceans slow alluvion fell,
Of shipwrackt Cockle and the Muscle-shell;
This indigested vomit of the Sea
Fell to the Dutch by just Propriety.
Glad then, as Miners that have found the Oar,
They with mad labour fish’d the Land to Shoar;10
And div’d as desperately for each piece
Of Earth, as if’t had been of Ambergreece;
Collecting anxiously small Loads of Clay,
Less then what building Swallows bear away;
Or than those pills which sordid Beetles roll.
Transfusing into them their Dunghil Soul.
How did they rivet, with Gigantick Piles,
Thorough the Center their new-catched Miles;
And to the stake a strugling Country bound,
Where barking Waves still bait the forced Ground;
Building their watry Babel far more high20
To reach the Sea, then those to scale the Sky.
Yet still his claim the Injur’d Ocean laid,
And oft at Leap-frog ore their Steeples plaid:
As if on purpose it on Land had come
To shew them what’s their Mare Liberum.
A daily deluge over them does boyl;
The Earth and Water play at Level-coyl;
The Fish oft-times the Burger dispossest,
And sat not as a Meat but as a Guest;
And oft the Tritons and the Sea-Nymphs saw30
Whole sholes of Dutch serv’d up for Cabillan;
Or as they over the new Level rang’d
For pickled Herring, pickled Heeren chang’d.
Nature, it seem’d, asham’d of her mistake,
Would throw their land away at Duck and Drake.
Therefore Necessity, that first made Kings,
Something like Government among them brings.
For as with Pygmees who best kills the Crane,
Among the hungry he that treasures Grain,
Among the blind the one-ey’d blinkard reigns,40
So rules among the drowned he that draines.
Not who first see the rising Sun commands,
But who could first discern the rising Lands.
Who best could know to pump an Earth so leak
Him they their Lord and Country’s Father speak.
To make a Bank was a great Plot of State;
Invent a Shov’l and be a Magistrate.
Hence some small Dyke-grave unperceiv’d invades
The Pow’r, and grows as ’twere a King of Spades.
But for less envy some Joynt States endures,50
Who look like a Commission of the Sewers.
For these Half-anders, half wet, and half dry,
Nor bear strict service, nor pure Liberty.
’Tis probable Religion after this
Came next in order; which they could not miss.
How could the Dutch but be converted, when
Th’ Apostles were so many Fishermen?
Besides the Waters of themselves did rise,
And, as their Land, so them did re-baptise.
Though Herring for their God few voices mist,60
And Poor-John to have been th’ Evangelist.
Faith, that could never Twins conceive before,
Never so fertile, spawn’d upon this shore:
More pregnant then their Marg’ret, that laid down
For Hans-in-Kelder of a whole Hans-Town.
Sure when Religion did it self imbark,
And from the east would Westward steer its Ark,
It struck, and splitting on this unknown ground,
Each one thence pillag’d the first piece he found:
Hence Amsterdam, Turk-Christian-Pagan-Jew,70
Staple of Sects and Mint of Schisme grew;
That Bank of Conscience, where not one so strange
Opinion but finds Credit, and Exchange.
In vain for Catholicks our selves we bear;
The Universal Church is onely there.
Nor can Civility there want for Tillage,
Where wisely for their Court they chose a Village.
How fit a Title clothes their Governours,
Themselves the Hogs as all their Subjects Bores
Let it suffice to give their Country Fame80
That it had one Civilis call’d by Name,
Some Fifteen hundred and more years ago,
But surely never any that was so.
See but their Mairmaids with their Tails of Fish,
Reeking at Church over the Chafing-Dish.
A vestal Turf enshrin’d in Earthen Ware
Fumes through the loop-holes of wooden Square.
Each to the Temple with these Altars tend,
But still does place it at her Western End:
While the fat steam of Female Sacrifice90
Fills the Priests Nostrils and puts out his Eyes.
Or what a Spectacle the Skipper gross,
A Water-Hercules Butter-Coloss,
Tunn’d up with all their sev’ral Towns of Beer;
When Stagg’ring upon some Land, Snick and Sneer,
They try, like Statuaries, if they can,
Cut out each others Athos to a Man:
And carve in their large Bodies, where they please,
The Armes of the United Provinces.
But when such Amity at home is show’d;100
What then are their confederacies abroad?
Let this one court’sie witness all the rest;
When their hole Navy they together prest,
Not Christian Captives to redeem from Bands:
Or intercept the Western golden Sands:
No, but all ancient Rights and Leagues must vail,
Rather then to the English strike their sail;
to whom their weather-beaten Province ows
It self, when as some greater Vessal tows
A Cock-boat tost with the same wind and fate;110
We buoy’d so often up their Sinking State.
Was this Jus Belli & Pacis; could this be
Cause why their Burgomaster of the Sea
Ram’d with Gun-powder, flaming with Brand wine,
Should raging hold his Linstock to the Mine?
While, with feign’d Treaties, they invade by stealth
Our sore new circumcised Common wealth.
Yet of his vain Attempt no more he sees
Then of Case-Butter shot and Bullet-Cheese.
And the torn Navy stagger’d with him home,120
While the Sea laught it self into a foam,
’Tis true since that (as fortune kindly sports,)
A wholesome Danger drove us to our ports.
While half their banish’d keels the Tempest tost,
Half bound at home in Prison to the frost:
That ours mean time at leisure might careen,
In a calm Winter, under Skies Serene.
As the obsequious Air and waters rest,
Till the dear Halcyon hatch out all its nest.
The Common wealth doth by its losses grow;130
And, like its own Seas, only Ebbs to flow.
Besides that very Agitation laves,
And purges out the corruptible waves.
And now again our armed Bucentore
Doth yearly their Sea-Nuptials restore.
And how the Hydra of seaven Provinces
Is strangled by our Infant Hercules.
Their Tortoise wants its vainly stretched neck;
Their Navy all our Conquest or our Wreck:
Or, what is left, their Carthage overcome140
Would render fain unto our better Rome.
Unless our Senate, lest their Youth disuse,
The War, (but who would) Peace if begg’d refuse.
For now of nothing may our State despair,
Darling of Heaven, and of Men the Care;
Provided that they be what they have been,
Watchful abroad, and honest still within.
For while our Neptune doth a Trident shake,
Steel’d with those piercing Heads, Dean, Monck and Blake,
And while Jove governs in the highest Sphere,150
Vainly in Hell let Pluto domineer.
After two sittings, now our Lady-State,
To end her picture, does the third time wait;
But ere thou fall’st to work, first, Painter, see,
If’t be’nt too slight grown, or too hard for thee?
Canst thou paint without colours? Then ’tis right: 5
For so we too without a Fleet can fight.
Or canst thou daub a sign-post, and that ill?
Twill sute our great debauch, and little skill.
Or hast thou mark’d how antique masters limn
The aly-roof with snuff of candle dim,10
Sketching in shady smoake prodigious tools?
Twill serve this race of drunkards, pimps, and fools.
But if to match our crimes thy skill presumes,
As the Indians draw our luxury in plumes,
Or if to score out our compendious fame, 15
With Hook then thro your microscope take aim,
Where, like the new Comptroller, all men laugh.
To see a tall louse brandish a white staff;
Else shalt thou oft thy guiltless pencil curse.
Stamp on thy palate, not perhaps the worse, 20
The painter so long having vext his cloth.
Of his hound’s mouth to feign the raging froth.
His desperate pencil at the work did dart;
His anger reacht that rage which passed his art;
Chance finished that, which Art could but begin, 25
And he sate smiling how his dog did grin;
So may’st thou perfect by a lucky blow,
What all thy softest touches cannot do.
Paint then St. Alban’s full of soop and gold,
The new Court’s pattern, stallion of the old; 30
Him neither wit nor Courage did exalt.
But Fortune chose him for her pleasure’s salt.
Paint him with drayman’s shoulders, butcher’s mein,
Member’d like mule, with elephantine chin.
Well he the title of St. Alban’s bore, 35
For never Bacon studied nature more;
But age, allaying now that youthful heat,
Fits him in France to play at cards, and cheat.
Draw no Commission, lest the Court should lie.
And, disavowing Treaty, ask Supply. 40
He needs no seal but to St. James’s lease.
Whose breeches were the instruments of Peace;
Who, if the French dispute his power, from thence
Can strait produce them a Plenipotence.
Nor fears he the ‘Most Christian’ should trapan
Two saints at once, St. German and Alban; 46
But thought the Golden Age was now restored,
When men and women took each other’s word.
Paint then again her Highness to the life.
Philosopher beyond Newcastle’s wife. 50
She naked can Archimedes’ self put down.
For an experiment upon the crown.
She perfected that engine oft essayd,
How after child-birth to renew a maid;
And found how royal heirs might be matur’d 55
In fewer months than mothers once endur’d.
Hence Crowder made the rare inventress free
Of’s Highnesse’s Royal Society.
(Happiest of women if she were but able
To make her glassen Duke once malleable!) 60
Paint her with oyster-lip, and breath of fame,
Wide mouth, that ’sparagus may well proclaim;
With chancellor’s belly, and so large a rump,
There (not behind the coach) her pages jump.
Express her studying now, if China clay 65
Can, without breaking, venom’d juice convey:
Or how a mortal poison she may draw
Out of the cordial meal of the cacoa.
Witness, ye stars of night, and thou the pale
Moon, that overcome with the sick steam, did’st fall: 70
Ye neighbouring elms, that your green leaves did shed,
And fauns that from the womb abortive fled.
Not unprovoked she tries forbidden arts,
But in her soft breast love’s hid cancer smarts,
While she revolves at once Sydney’s disgrace, 75
And herself scorn’d for emulous Denham’s face;
And nightly hears the hated guard, away
Galloping with the Duke to other prey.
Paint Castlemain in colours which will hold
Her, not her picture, for she now grows old. 80
She thro her lackey’s drawers, as he ran,
Discern’d love’s cause, and a new flame began.
Her wonted joys thenceforth, and Court, she shuns,
And still within her mind the footman runs;
His brazen calves, his brawny thighs (the face 85
She slights), his feet shap’d for a smoother race!
Then poring with her glass, she re-adjusts
Her locks, and oft-tir’d beauty now distrusts;
Fears lest he scorned a woman once assay’d,
And now first wisht she e’er had been a maid. 90
Great Love! how dost thou triumph, and how reign,
That to a groom couldst humble her disdain!
Stript to her skin, see how she stooping stands,
Nor scorns to rub him down with those fair hands,
And washing (lest the scent her crime disclose) 95
His sweaty hoofs, tickles him betwixt the toes.
But envious Fame too soon began to note
More gold in ’s fob, more lace upon his coat;
And he unwary, and of tongue too fleet,
No longer could conceal his fortune sweet. 100
Justly the rogue was whipt in Porter’s den.
And Jermain straight has leave to come again.
Ah Painter! now could Alexander live,
And this Campaspe the Appelles give!
Draw next a pair of tables opening, then 105
The House of Commons clattering like the men.
Describe the Court and Country both set right
On opposite points, the Black against the White,
Those having lost the nation at Tick-tack,
These now adventuring how to win it back. 110
The dice betwixt them must the fate divide
(As chance does still in multitudes decide).
But here the Court doth its advantage know,
For the cheat Turner, for them both must throw;
As some from boxes, he so from the chair 115
Can strike the dye, and still with them go share.
Here, Painter, rest a little and survey
With what small arts the public game they play:
For so too, Rubens, with affairs of State,
His labouring pencil oft would recreate. 120
The close Cabal mark’d how the Navy eats.
And thought all lost that goes not to the cheats:
So therefore secretly for Peace decrees,
Yet as for War the Parliament would squeeze;
And fix to the revenue such a sum 125
Should Goodrick silence, and make Paston dumb,
Should pay land armies, should dissolve the vain
Commons, and ever such a Court maintain,
Hyde’s avarice, Bennet’s luxury, should suffice,
And what can these defray but the Excise? 130
Excise, a monster worse than e’er before
Frighted the midwife, and the mother tore.
A thousand hands she has, a thousand eyes.
Breaks into shops, and into cellars pries;
With hundred rows of teeth the shark exceeds, 135
And on all trades, like casawar, she feeds;
Chops off the piece where’er she close the jaw.
Else swallows all down her indented maw.
She stalks all day in streets, conceal’d from sight.
And flies like bats with leathern wings by night; 140
She wasts the country, and on cities preys. wastes
Her, of a female harpy in dog-days.
Black Birch, of all the earth-born race most hot.
And most rapacious, like himself begot;
And of his brat enamour’d, as ’t increast, 145
Bugger’d in incest with the mongrel beast.
Say, Muse, for nothing can escape thy sight
(And, Painter, wanting other, draw this Fight);
Who in an English Senate, fierce debate
Could raise so long, for this new whore of State. 150
Of early wittals first the troop march’d in,
For diligence renowned, and discipline;
In loyal hast they left your wives in bed,
And Denham these with one consent did head.
Of the old courtiers next a squadron came, 155
Who sold their master, led by Ashburnham.
To them succeeds a despicable rout.
But knew the word, and well could face about;
Expectants pale, with hopes of spoil allur’d,
Tho’ yet but pioneers, and led by Steward. 160
Then damning cowards ranged the vocal plain;
Wood these commands, knight of the horn and cane:
Still his hook-shoulder seems the blow to dread,
And under ’s arm-pit he defends his head.
The posture strange men laugh at, of his poll 165
Hid with his elbow like the spice he stole:
Headless St. Dennis so his head does bear.
And both of them alike French martyrs were.
Court officers, as us’d, the next place took.
And followed F[o]x, but with disdainful look: 170
His birth, his youth, his brokage all dispraise
In vain; for always he commands that pays.
Then the procurers under Progers filled,
Gentlest of men, and his lieutenant mild,
Bronkard, Love’s squire; thro all the field arrayd, 175
No troop was better clad, nor so well paid.
Then marcht the troop of Clarendon, all full,
Haters of fowl, to teal preferring bull;
Gross bodies, grosser minds, and grosser cheats,
And bloated Wren conducts them to their seats. 180
Charlton advances next (whose wife does awe
The mitred troop), and with his looks gives law.
He marcht with beaver cockt of bishop’s brim,
And hid much fraud under an aspect grim.
Next do the lawyers, merc’nary band, appear, 185
Finch in the front, and Thurland in the rear.
The troop of privilege, a rabble bare
Of debtors deep, fell to Trelawney’s care;
Then fortune’s error they supplied in rage.
Nor any farther would than these engage. 190
Then marcht the troop, whose valiant acts before
(Their public acts) obliged them to do more,
For chimnies’ sake they all Sir Pool obey’d,
Or, in his absence, him that first it laid.
Then came the thrifty troop of privateers, 195
Whose horses each with other interferes:
Before them Higgins rides with brow compact,
Mourning his countess anxious for his act.
Sir Frederick and Sir Solomon draw lots,
’ For the command of politicks or Scots; 200
Thence fell to words; — but quarrels to adjourn.
Their friends agreed they should command by turn.
Carteret the rich did the accountants guide.
And in ill English all the world defi’d.
The Papists (but of those the House had none, 205
Else) Talbot offer’d to have led them on.
Bold Duncomb next, of the projectors chief,
And old Fitz Harding of the Eaters Beef.
Late and disordered out the drunkards drew,
Scarce them their leaders, they their leaders knew; 210
Before them enter’d, equal in command,
Apsley and Brotherick marching hand in hand.
Last then but one, Powel, that could not ride
Left the French standard weltring in his stride;
He, to excuse his slowness, truth confest 215
That ’twas so long before he could be drest.
The lords’ sons last, all these did re-enforce,
Combury before them managed hobby-horse.
Never before nor since, an host so steel’d
Troop on to muster in the Tuttle-field. 220
Not the first cock-horse that with cork was shod
To rescue Albemarle from the sea-cod:
Kor the late feather-man, whom Tomkins fierce
Shall with one breath like thistle-down disperse.
All the two Coventries their generals chose, 225
For one had much, the other nought to lose.
!Not better choice all accidents could hit.
While hector Harry steers by Will the wit.
They both accept the charge with merry glee.
To fight a battle from all gunshot free. 230
Pleas’d with their numbers, yet in valour wise,
They feign’d a parley, better to surprize.
They who e’er long shall the rude Dutch upbraid,
Who in a time of treaty durst invade.
Thick was the morning, and the house was thin, 235
The speaker early, when they all fell in.
Propitious heavens! had not you them crost,
Excise had got the day, and all been lost:
For t’other side all in close quarters lay
Without intelligence, command or pay; 240
A scattered body, which the foe ne’er tri’d,
But often did among themselves divide.
And some run o’er each night, while others sleep,
And undescri’d retum’d ’fore morning peep.
But Strangeways, who all night still walkt the round.
For vigilance and courage both renown’d, 246
First spi’d the enemy, and gave th’ alarm.
Fighting it single till the rest might arm;
Such Eoman Codes strid before the foe.
The faih’ng bridge behind, the streams below. 250
Each ran as chance him guides to several post,
And all to pattern his example, boast;
Their former trophies they recal to mind.
And, to new edge their angry courage, grind.
First entered forward Temple, conqueror 255
Of Irish cattle, and Solicitor.
Then daring S[eymou]r, that with spear and shield
Had stretch’d the monster Patent on the field.
Keen Whorwood next in aid of damsel frail.
That pierc’d the giant Mordant thro his mall: 260
And surly Williams the accountants’ bane,
And Lovelace young of chimny-men the cane.
Old Waller, trumpet-general, swore he’d write
This combat truer than the naval fight.
Of birth, state, wit, strength, courage, How’rd presumes, 265
And in his breast wears many Moutezumea.
These, with some more, with single valour stay
The adverse troops, and hold them all at bay.
Each thinks his person represents the whole,
And with that thought does multiply his soul; 270
Believes himself an army; their’s one man.
As easily conquered; and believing, can
With heart of bees so full and head of mites.
That each, tho duelling, a battel fights.
So once Orlando, famous in romance, 275
Broacht whole brigades like larks upon his lance.
Bat strength at last still under number bows.
And the faint sweat trickled down Temple’s brows;
Even iron Strangeway chasing yet gave back.
Spent with fatigue, to breathe a while toback 280
When marching in, a seasonable recruit
Of citizens and merchants held dispute.
And charging all their pikes, a sullen band
Of Presbyterian Switzers made a stand.
Nor could all these the field have long maintain’d, 285
But for th’ unknown reserve that still remain’d;
A gross of English gentry, nobly born,
Of clear estates, and to no Faction sworn,
Dear lovers of their king, and death to meet
For country’s cause, that glorious thing and sweet; 290
To speak not forward, but in action brave.
In giving generous, but in council grave;
Candidly credulous for once, nay twice;
But sure the devil cannot cheat them thrice.
The van in battel, tho retiring, falls 295
Without disorder in their intervals,
Then closing all, in equal front, fall on.
Led by great Garraway, and great Littleton,
Lee equal to obey, or to command.
Adjutant-general was still at hand. 300
The marshal standard, Sands displaying, shows
St. Dunstan in it tweaking Satan’s nose.
See sudden chance of war, to paint or write,
Is longer work, and harder than to fight:
At the first charge the enemy give out, 305
And the Excise receives a total rout.
Broken in courage, yet the men the same,
Eesolve henceforth upon their other game:
Where force had failed, with stratagem to play,
And what Haste lost, recover by Delay. 310
St. Albans strait is sent to, to forbear, stnight
Lest the sure Peace (forsooth) too soon appear.
The seamen’s clamours to three ends they use,
To cheat they pay, feign want, th’ House accuse.
Each, day they hring the tale and that too true, 315
How strong the Dutch their equipage renew;
Meantime through all the Yards their orders run,
To lay the ships up, cease the keels begun.
The timber rots, the useless ax does rust;
Th’ unpractised saw lies buried in its dust; 320
The busy hammer sleeps, the ropes untwine;
The store and wages all are mine and thine;
Along the coasts and harbours they take care
That money lacks, nor forts be in repair.
Long thus they cou’d against the House conspire, 325
Load them with envy, and with sitting tire;
And the lov’d king, that’s never yet deni’d.
Is brought to beg in pubhck, and to chide:
Eut when this fail’d, and months enough were spent.
They with the first day’s proffer seem content; 330
And to Land-tax from the Excise turn round,
Bought off with eighteen hundred thousand pound.
Thus like fair thieves, the Commons’ purse they share.
But all the members’ lives consulting spare.
Blither than hare that hath escap’d the hounds, 335
The House prorogu’d, the Chancellor rebounds.
Not so decrepid -^son, hasht and stew’d
With magick herbs, rose from, the pot renew’d.
And with fresh age felt his glad hmbs unite.
His gout (yet still he curst) had left him quite. 340
What frosts to fruits, what arsnick to the rat,
What to fair Denham mortal chocolat,
What an account to Carteret, tliat and more,
A Parliament is to the Chancellor.
So the sad tree shrinks from the morning’s eye, 345
But blooms all night and shoots its branches high;
So at the sun’s recess, again returns
The comet dread, and earth and heaven bums.
Now Mordant may within his castle tower
Imprison parents, and their child deflower. 350
The Irish herd is now let loose, and comes
By millions over, not by hecatombs;
And now, now the Canary patent may
Be broach’d again for the great holy-day.
See how he reigns in his new palace culminant, 355
And sits in state divine like Jove the fulminant.
First Buckingham that durst ’gainst him rebel,
Blasted with lightning, struck with thunder fell;
’Next the twelve commons are condemn’d to groan,
And roll in vain at Sisyphus’s stone. 360
But still he car’d, whilst in revenge he brav’d,
That peace secur’d, and money might be sav’d.
Grain and revenge, revenge and gain, are sweet;
United most, when most by turns they meet.
France had St. Albans promis’d, (so they sing) 365
St. Albans promis’d him, and he the king.
The Court forthwith is order’d all to close,
To play for Flanders, and the stake to lose;
While chain’d together, two embassadors
like slaves shall beg for Peace at Holland’s doors. 370
This done, among his Cyclops he retires
To forge new thunder, and inspect their fires.
The Court, as once of War, now fond of Peace,
All to new sports their wonted fears release.
From Greenwich (where intelligence they hold) 375
Comes news of pastime martial and old.
A punishment invented first to awe
Masculine wives transgressing Nature’s law;
Where when the brawny female disobeys,
And beats the husband, till for peace he prays, 380
No concerned jury damage for him finds,
Nor partial Justice her behaviour binds;
But the just street does the next house invade,
Mounting the neighbour couple on lean jade.
The distaff knocks, the grains from kettle fly, 385
And boys and girls in troops run hooting by.
Prudent Antiquity! that knew by shame.
Better than law, domestick broils to tame;
And taught the youth by spectacle innocent:
So thou and I, dear Painter, represent 390
In quick effigie, others’ faults; and feign.
By making them ridiculous, to restrain;
With homely sight they chose thus to relax
The joys of State for the new Peace and tax.
So Holland with us had the mastery tri’d, 395
And our next neighbours, France and Flanders, ride.
But a fresh news the great designment nips
Off, at the isle of Candy, Dutch and ships:
Bab May and Arlington did wisely scoff,
And thought all safe if they were so far off. 400
Modem geographers! ’twas there they thought,
Where Venice twenty years the Turks had fought,
(While the first year the Navy is but shewn,
The next divided, and the third we’ve none.)
They by the name mistook it for that isle, 405
Where pilgrim Palmer travelled in exile.
With the bull’s horn to measure his own head.
And on Pasiphae’s tomb to drop a bead.
But Morrice leam’d demonstrates by the post.
This isle of Candy was on Essex coast. 410
Fresh messengers still the sad news assure,
More tim’rous now we are than first secure;
False terrors our believing fears devise.
And the French army, one from Calais spies.
Bennet and May, and those of shorter reach, 415
Change all for guineas, and a crown for each;
But wiser men, and men foreseen in chance,
In Holland theirs had lodg’d before, and France;
Whitehall’s unsafe, the Court all meditates
To fly to Windsor, and mure up the gates. 420
Each doth the other blame and all distrust,
(But Mordant new oblig’d would sure be just).
Kot such a fatal stupefaction reign’d
At London flames’, nor so the Court complain’d.
The Bloodworth Chanc’llor gives (then does recal) 425
Orders, amaz’d, at last gives none at all.
St. Albans writ too, that lie may bewail
To Monsieur Lewis, and tell coward tale,
How that the Hollanders do make a noise,
Threaten to beat us and are naughty boys. 430
How Doleman’s disobedient, and they still
Uncivil, his unkindness would us kill:
Tell him our ships’ unrigg’d, our forts unmanned,
Our money spent, else ’twere at his command;
Summon him therefore of his word, and prove 435
To move him out of pity, if not love;
Pray him to make De Wit and Euyter cease.
And whip the Dutch unless they’ll hold their peace.
But Lewis was of memory but dull,
And to St. Albans too undutiful; 440
Nor word nor near relation did revere,
But ask’d him bluntly for his character.
The gravell’d Count did with this answer faint,
(HIb character was that which thou didst paint)
And so enforced like enemy or spy, 445
Trusses Ids baggage, and the camp does fly:
Yet Lewis writes, and lest our heart should break,
Condoles us morally out of Seneque.
Two letters next unto Breda are sent,
In cypher one to Harry Excellent. 450
The first entrusts (our verse that name abhors)
To prove by Scripture, treaty does imply
Cessation, as the look adultery;
And that by law of arms, in martial strife, 455
Who yields his sword, has title to his life.
Presbyter Hollis the first point should clear,
The second Coventry the cavalier:
But, would they not be argu’d back from sea,
Then to return home straight in/ectd re. 460
But Harry’s order’d, if they won’t recall
Their Fleet, to threaten, — we’ll give them alL
The Dutch are then in proclamation shent.
For sin against the eleventh commandment.
Hyde’s flippant style there pleasantly curvets, 465
Still his sharp wit on States and princes whets:
So Spain could not escape his laughter’s spleen,
None but himself must choose the king a queen.
But when he came the odious clause to pen,
That summons up the Parliament agen, 470
His writing-master many times he bann’d.
And wisht himseK the gout to seize his hand.
Never old lecher more repugnant felt,
Consenting for his rupture to be gelt.
But still in hope he solac’d, e’er they come 475
To work the Peace, and so to send them home;
Or in their hasty call to find a flaw,
Their acts to vitiate, and them overaw:
But more rely’d upon this Dutch pretence,
To raise a two-edged Army for ’s defence. 480
First then he march’d our whole militia’s force,
(As if, alas! we ships, or Dutch had horse;)
Then from the usual commonplace he hlames
These, and in standing aimies’ praise declaims;
And the wise Court, that always loy’d it dear, 485
Now thinks all but too little for their fear.
Hyde stamps, and straight upon the ground the swarms
Of current myrmidons appear in arms:
And for their pay he writes as from the king,
With that curs’d quill pluckt from a vulture’s wing,
Of the whole nation now to ask a loan; 491
(The eighteen hundred thousand pounds are gone.)
This done, he pens a Proclamation stout
In rescue of the hankers hanquerout,
His imnion-imps, which in his secret part 495
Lie nuzzling at the sacramental wart,
Horse-leeches sucking at the haem’roy’d vein;
He sucks the king, they him, he them again.
The kingdom’s farm he lets to them hid least,
(Greater the hribe) and cheats’ at interest. 500
Here men induc’d by safety, gain, and ease.
Their money lodge, confiscate when he please;
These can at need, at instant with a scrip,
(This lik’d him best) his cash beyond sea whip.
When Dutch invade, and Parliament prepare; 505
How can he engines so convenient spare?
Let no man touch them, or demand his own,
Pain of displeasure of great Clarendon.
The State-affairs thus marsball’d, for the rest.
Monk in his shirt against the Dutch is prest. 510
Often (dear Painter) have I sat and mns’d
Wliy he should be on all adventures used;
Do they for nothing ill, like ashen wood,
Or think him, like Herb-John, for nothing good?
Whether his valour they so much admire, 515
Or that for cowardise they all retire,
As heaven in storms, they call, in gusts of State,
On Monk and Parliament, — yet both do hate.
All causes sure concur, but most they think
Under Herculean labours he may sink. 520
Soon then the independent troops would close.
And Hyde’s last project of his place dispose.
Euyter, the while, that had our ocean curb’d,
Sail’d now amongst our rivers undisturb’d;
Surve/d their crystal streams and banks so green, 525
And beauties e’er this never naked seen:
Thro the vain sedge the bashful nymphs he ey’d,
Bosoms, and all which from themselves they hide.
The sun much brighter, and the sky more clear.
He fbids, the air and all things sweeter here; 530
The sudden change, and such a tempting sight.
Swells his old veins with fresh blood, fresh delight;
Like am’rous victors he begins to shave.
And his new face looks in the English wave;
His sporting navy all about him swim, 535
And witness their complacence in their trim;
Their streaming silks play through the weather fair,
And with inveigling colours court the air,
While the red flags breath on their topmasts high
Terror and war, but want an enemy. 540
Among the shrouds the seamen sit and sing,
And wanton boys on every rope do cling:
Old Neptune springs the tydes, and waters lent
(The Gods themselves do help the provident),
And where the deep keel on the shallow cleaves, 545
With trident’s leaver and great shoulder heaves;
Pulls their sails inspires with eastern wind,
Puffs them along, and breathes upon them kind;
With pearly shell the Tritons all the while
Sound the sea-march, and guide to Sheppy isle. 550
So have I seen in April’s bud arise
A fleet of clouds sailing along the skies;
The liquid region with their squadrons filFd,
Their airy stems the sun behind doth gild.
And gentle gales them steer, and heaven drives, 555
When all on sudden their calm bosom rives.
With thund’r and lightning from each armM cloud;
Shepherds themselves in vain in bushes shroud; —
So up tho stream the Eelgic navy glides.
And at Sheemess unloads its stormy sides. 560
Sprag there, though practis’d in the sea-command,
With panting heart lay like a fish on land.
And quickly judg’d the fort was not tenable,
Which if a house, yet were not tenantable;
No man can sit there safe, the cannon pours 565
Thoro th walls untight, and bullets’ showers.
The neighbouEhood ill, and an unwholesome seat.
So at the first salute resolves retreat;
And swore that he would never more dwell there.
Until the city put it in repair; 570
So he in front, his garrison in rear,
March’d streight to Chatham to increase their fear.
There our sick ships unrigg’d in Summer lay.
Like moulting fowl, a weak and easy prey;
For whose strong bulk earth scarce could timber find.
The ocean water, or the heavens wind: 576
Those oaken giants of the ancient race,
That rul’d all seas, and did our Channel grace;
The conscious stag, tho once the forest’s dread,
Elies to the wood, and hides his armless head. 580
Euyter forthwith a squadron does untack;
They sail securely through the river’s track.
An English pilot too (oh, shame! oh, sin!)
Cheated of ’s pay, was he that shewed them in.
Our wretched ships within their fate attend, 585
And all our hopes now on frail Chain depend,
(Engine so slight to guard us from the sea,
It fitter seem’d to captivate a flea;)
A skipper rude shocks it without respect,
Filling his sails more force to recollect; 590
The English firom shore the iron deaf invoke
Eor its last aid: Hold, chain, or we are broke!
But with her sailing weight the Holland keel.
Snapping the brittle links, does thorough reel.
And to the rest the opening passage shew; 595
Monk from the bank that dismal sight does view.
Onr feather’d gallants, who came down that day
To be spectators safe of the New Play,
Leave him alone when first they hear the gun,
(Comb’ry the fleetest) and to London run. 600
Our seamen, whom no danger’s shape could fright,
Unpaid, refuse to mount their ships for spight,
Or to their fellows swim on board the Dutch,
Who show the tempting metal in their clutch.
Oft had he sent, of Duncomb and of Legge, 605
Cannon and powder, but in vain, to begg;
And Upnor castle’s ill-deserted wall,
Now needful does for ammunition call.
He finds, where’er he succour might expect.
Confusion, folly, treachery, fear, neglect. 610
But when the Eoyal Charles (what rage! what
He saw seiz’d, and could give her no relief; [grief!)
That sacred keel that had, as he, restor’d
Its exil’d sovereign on its happy board,
And thence the British Admiral became, 615
Crown’d for that merit with his master’s name;
That pleasure-boat of war, in whose dear side
Secure, so oft he had this foe defy’d,
Now a cheap spoil, and the mean victor’s slave.
Taught the Dutch colours from its top to wave, — 620
Of former glories the reproachful thought.
With present shame compared, his mind distraught.
Such from Euphrates’ bank, a tigress fell
After her robbers for her whelps does yell,
But sees enrag’d the river flow between, 625
Frustrate revenge, and love by loss more keen;
At her own breast her useless claws does arm.
She tears herself, since him she cannot harm.
The guards, plac’d for the Chain’s and Fleet’s defence.
Long since were fled on many a feign’d pretence. 630
Daniel had there adventur’d, man of might;
Sweet Painter, draw his picture while I write.
Paint him of person tall, and big of bone,
Large limbs like ox, not to be killed but shown.
Scarce can burnt iv’ry feign a hair so black, 635
Or face so red, thine oker and thy lack; ochre
Mix a vain terror in his martial look,
And all those lines by which men are mistook.
But when by shame constrain’d to go on board.
He heard how the wild cannon nearer roar’d, 640
And saw himself confin’d like sheep in pen,
Daniel then thought he was in lions’ den.
But when the frightful fire-ships he saw.
Pregnant with sulphur, nearer to him draw.
Captain, Lieutenant, Ensign, all make haste, 645
E’er in the fiery furnace they be cast;
Three children tail, unsing’d, away they row,
Like Shadrack, Mesheck, and Abednego.
Not so brave Douglas, on whose lovely chin
The early down but newly did begin,
And modest beauty yet his sex did veil,
While envious virgins hope he is a male.
His yellow locks curl back themselves to seek,
Nor other courtship knew but to his cheek.
Oft, as he in chill Esk or Seine by night
Hardened and cooled his limbs, so soft, so white,
Among the reeds, to be espied by him,
The nymphs would rustle; he would forward swim.
They sighed and said, “Fond boy, why so untame
That fliest love’s fires, reserved for other flame?”
Fixed on his ship, he faced that horrid day
And wondered much at those that ran away.
Nor other fear himself could comprehend
Then, lest heaven fall ere thither he ascend,
But entertains the while his time too short
With birding at the Dutch, as if in sport,
Or waves his sword, and could he them conjúre
Within its circle, knows himself secure.
The fatal bark him boards with grappling fire,
And safely through its port the Dutch retire.
That precious life he yet disdains to save
Or with known art to try the gentle wave.
Much him the honours of his ancient race
Inspire, nor would he his own deeds deface,
And secret joy in his calm soul does rise
That Monck looks on to see how Douglas dies.
Like a glad lover, the fierce flames he meets,
And tries his first embraces in their sheets.
His shape exact, which the bright flames enfold,
Like the sun’s statue stands of burnished gold.
Round the transparent fire about him flows,
As the clear amber on the bee does close,
And, as on angels’ heads their glories shine,
His burning locks adorn his face divine.
But when in this immortal mind he felt
His altering form and soldered limbs to melt,
Down on the deck he laid himself and died,
With his dear sword reposing by his side,
And on the flaming plank, so rests his head
As one that’s warmed himself and gone to bed.
His ship burns down, and with his relics sinks,
And the sad stream beneath his ashes drinks.
Fortunate boy, if either pencil’s fame,
Or if my verse can propagate thy name,
When Oeta and Alcides are forgot,
Our English youth shall sing the valiant Scot.
r^’^ Each doleful day still with fresh loss returns,
V The Loyal London now a third time burns; 650
And the true Royal Oak, and Royal James,
Ally’d in fate, increase witli theirs her flames.
Of all our navy none should now survive,
But that the ships themselv’s were taught to dive,
And the kind river in its creek them hides, 655
Fraughting their pierced keels with oozy sides;
Up to the hridg contagious terror struck.
The Tow’r itself with the near danger shook;
And were not Euyter’s maw with ravage cloy’d.
Even London’s ashes had been then destroy’d. 660
Officious fear, however, to prevent
Our loss, does so much more our loss augment.
The Dutch had robb’d those jewels of the crown;
Our merchant-men, lest they should bum, we drown:
So. when the fire did not enough devour, 665
The houses were demolished near the Tow’r.
Those ships that yearly from their teeming hole hold
Unloaded here the birth of either pole.
Fir fiom the North, and silver from the West,
From the South perfumes, spices from the Ecist, 670
From Gambo gold, and from the Ganges jems,
Take a short voyage underneath the Thames,
Once a deep river, now with timber floor’d,
And shrunk, less navigable, to a ford.
ITow nothing more at Chatham’s left to bum, 675
The Holland squadron leisurely return;
And spight of Kupert’s and of Albemarle’s,
To Ruyter’s triumph led the captive Charles.
The pleasing sight he often does prolong,
Her mast erect, tough cordage, timber strong, 680
Her moving shape, all these he doth survey,
And all admires, hut most^is easy prey.
The seamen search her all within, without;
Viewing her strength, they yet their conquest doubt;
Then with rude shouts, secure, the air they vex, 685
With gamsome joy insulting on her decks.
Such the fear’d Hebrew captive, blinded, shorn.
Was led about in sport, the public scorn. Sampson
Black day accurst! on thee let no man haile
Out of the port, or dare to hoyst a sail, 690
Or row a boat in thy unlucky hour!
Thee, the yearns monster, let thy dam devour,
And constant Time, to keep his course yet right,
Fill up thy space with a redoubled night.
When agM Thames was bound with fetters base, 695
And Medway chaste ravisht before his face,
And their dear offspring murder’d in their sight,
Thou and thy fellows saw the odious light.
Sad Chance, since first that happy pair was wed,
With all the rivers grac’d their nuptial bed; 700
And father Neptune promised to resign
His empire old to their immortal line;
Now with vain grief their vainer hopes they rue,
Themselves dishonour’d, and the gods untrue;
And to each other, helpless couple, moan, 705
As the sad tortoise for the sea does groan;
But most they for their darling Charles complain,
And were it burnt, yet less would be their pain.
To see that fatal pledge of sea-command,
^o^w in the ravisher De Euyter’s hand, 710
The Thames roar’d, swooning Medway tum’d her tyde,
And were they mortal, both for grief had dy’d.
The Court in farthering yet itself does please
(And female Steward .there rules the four seas);
But Pate does still accumulate our woes, 715
And Bichmond her commands, as Buyter those. ’
After this loss, to relish discontent,
Some one must be accus’d by parliament.
All our miscarriages on Pett must fall.
His name alone seems fit to answer all. 720
Whose counsel first did this mad war beget?
Who all commands sold thro the navy? Pett.
Who would not follow when the Dutch were beat?
Who treated out the time at Bergen? Pett.
Who the Dutch fleet with storms disabled met? 725
And, rifling prizes, them neglected ) Pett.
Who with false news prevented the Gazette? anticipated
The Fleet divided? writ for Rupert? Pett.
Who all our seamen cheated of their debt.
And all our prizes who did swallow? Pett 730
Who did advise no Navy out to set?
And who the forts left unprepared? Pett.
Who to supply with powder did forget .
Languard, Sheemess, Gravesend, and XJpnor? Pett.
Who all our ships exposed in Chatham net? 735
Who should it be but the fanatick Pett?
Pett, the sea-architect in making ships,
Was the first cause of all these naval sHps;
Had he not built, none of these faults had been;
If no creation, there had been no sin; 740
But his great crime, one boat away he sent.
That lost our Fleet and did our flight prevent.
Then, that reward might in its turn take place,
And march with punishment in equal pace,
Southampton dead, much of the Treasure’s care, 745
And place in council, fell to Buncombe’s share.
All men admir’d he to that pitch could fly:
Powder ne’er blew man up so soon, so high;
But sure his late good husbandry in peeter, saltpetre
Shew’d him to manage the Exchequer meeter; 750
And who the forts would not vouchsafe a com
To lavish the king^s money more would scorn;
Who hath no chimneys, to give all, is best,
And ablest Speaker, who of law hath least;
Who less estate, for Treasurer most fit, 755
And for a Chancellor he that has least wit;
But the true cause was, that in ’s brother May,
Th’ Exchequer might the Privy-purse obey.
And now draws near the parliament’s return;
Hyde and the Court again begin to mourn; 760
Frequent in council, earnest in debate,
All arts they try how to prolong its date.
Grave Primate Sheldon (mucli in preaching there)
Blames the last Session, and this more does fear:
With Boynton or with Mazarine ’twere sweet, 765
But with a parhament ahhorrs to meet;
And thinks ’twill ne’er he well within this nation,
Till it be governed by a Convocation.
But in the Thames’ mouth still De Euyter laid;
The peace not sure, new army must he paid. 770
Hide saith he hourly waits for a dispatch;
Harry came post just as he shew’d his watch.
All do agree the articles were clear,
The Holland fleet and Parliament so near.
Yet Harry must johh hack and all mature, 775
Binding, e’er th’ Houses meet, the Treaty sure;
And ’twixt necessity and spight, till then
Let them come up, so to go down again.
Up ambles country justice on his pad,
And’ vest bespeaks, to be more seemly clad. 780
Plain gentlemen are in stage-coach o’erthrown,
And deputy-lieutenants in their own;
The portly burgess, thro the weather hot,
Does for his Corporation sweat and trot;
And all with sun and choller come adust, 785
And threaten Hyde to raise a greater dust.
But freak, as £rom the mint, the courtiers fine
Salute them, smiling at their vain design;
And Turner gay up to his perch doth march,
With face new bleacht, smoothed, and stiff with starch;
Tells them he at Whitehall had took a turn, 791
And for three days thence moves them to adjourn.
Kot so, quoth Tomkins, and straight drew his tongae.
Trusty as steel that always ready hung;
And so proceeding in his motion warm, 795
Th’ army soon rais’d, he doth as soon disann.
True Trojan! whilst this town can girls afford.
And long as cyder lasts in Hereford,
The girls shall always kiss thee, tho grown old.
And in eternal healths thy name be trould. 800
Meanwhile the certain news of peace arrives
At Court, and so reprieves their guilty lives.
Hyde orders Turner that he should come late.
Lest some new Tomkins spring a fresh debate;
The king, that early rais’d was firom his rest, 805
Expects, as at a play, till Turner’s drest;
At last, together Eaton came and he,
No dial more could with the sun agree;
The Speaker, summoned to the Lords, repairs.
Nor gave the Commons leave to say their pray’rs, 810
But like his prisoners to the bar them led.
Where mute they stand to hear their sentence read:
Trembling with joy and fear, Hyde them prologues^
And had almost mistook, and call’d them rogues.
Dear Painter, draw this Speaker to the foot: 815
Where pencil cannot, there my pen shall do ’t;
That may his body, this his mind explain;
Paint him in golden gown with mace’s tndn;
Briglit hair, fair face, obsciire and dnll of bead,
Like knife with iv’ry hafb, and edge of lead: 820
At prayers his eyes turn up the pious white,
But all the while his private bill ’s in sight:
In chair he smoking sits like master cook.
And a poll-bill does like his apron look
W^ell was he skill’d to season any question, 825
And make a sawce fit for Whitehairs digestion,
"Whence every day, the palat more to tickle.
Court-mushrooms ready are sent in to pickle.
W^hen grievances urg’d, he swells like squatted toad,
Frisks like a frog to croak a taxe’s load: 830
His patient piss he could hold longer than
Ati urinal, and sit like any hen;
At table jolly as a country host.
And soaks bis sack with ^N’orfolk like a toast;
At night than chanticleer more brisk and hot, 835
And Serjeant’s wife serves him for Partelot.
Paint last the King, and a dead shade of night,
Only disperst by a weak taper’s light,
And those bright gleams that dart along and glare
From his clear eyes (yet these too dart with care); 840
There, as in the calm hoiror all alone.
He wakes and muses of th’ uneasy throne;
Baise up a sudden shape with virgin’s face,
Tho ill agree her posture, hour or place;
Naked as born, and her round arms behind,845
With her own tresses interwove and twiner
Her mouth, lockt up, a blind before her eyes,
Yet fipom beneath her veil her blushes rise,
And silent tears her secret anguish speak,
Her heart throbs, and with very shame would break.850
The object strange in him no terror mov’d,
He wondred first, then pitied, then he lov’d:
And with kind hand does the coy vision press,
Whose beauty greater seem’d by her distress:
But soon shrunk back, chill’d with a touch so cold.855
And the airy picture vanisht £rom his hold.
In his deep thoughts the wonder did increase.
And he divined ’twas England, or the Peace.
Express him startling next, with listening ear.
As one that some unusual noise doth hear; 860
"With cannons, trumpets, drums, his door surround.
But let some other Painter draw the sound.
Thrice he did rise, thrice the vain tumult fled,
But again thunders when he lies in bed.
His mind secure does the vain stroke repeat, 865
And finds the drums Lewis’s march did beat.
Shake then the room, and all his curtains tear.
And with blue streaks infect the taper clear,
While the pale ghost, his eyes doth fixed admire.
Of grandsire Harry, and of Charles his sire. 870
Harry sits down, and in his open side
The grisly wound reveals of which he dy’d;
And ghastly Charles, turning his coller low,
The purple thred about his neck does show;
Then whisp’ring to his son in words unheard,875
Througli the lockt door both of them disappeared.
The -wondrous night the pensive King revolves,
And rising streight, on Hyde’s disgrace resolves.
At his first step he Castlemain does find,
Bennet and Coventry as ’twere designed; 880
And they not knowing, the same thing propose
Which his hid mind did in its depths inclose.
Thro their feign’d speech their secret hearts he knew,
To her own husband Castlemain untrue;
False to his master Bristol, Arlington; 885
And Coventry falser than any one,
Who to the brother, brother would betray;
Nor therefore trusts himself to such as they.
His father’s ghost too whisper’d him one note.
That who does cut his purse will cut his throat; 890
But he in wise anger does their crimes forbear,
As thieves repriev’d from executioner;
While Hyde, provok’d, his foaming tusk does whet,
To prove them traytors, and himself the pett.
Painter, adieu: How well our arts agree! 895
Poetic picture, painted poetry!
But this great work is for our monarch fit,
And henceforth Charles only to Charles shall sit;
His master-hand the ancients shall outdo,
Himself the Painter, and the Poet too. 900
So his bold tube man to the sun apply’d,
And spots unknown in the bright star descry’d,
Shewed they obscure him, while too near they please.
And seem his oouitieis, are but his disease;
Through optic trunk the planet seem’d to hear, 5
And hurls them off e’er since in his career.
And you (great Sir), that with him empire share.
Sun of our world, as he the Charles is there;
Blame not the Muse that brought those spots to sight,
Which, in your splendour hid, corrode your light; 10
(Kings in the country oft have gone astray,
Nor of a peasant scorn’d to learn the way.)
Would she the unattended throne reduce,
Banishing love, trust, ornament, and use;
Better it were to live in cloister’s lock, 15
Or in fair fields to rule the easy flock:
She blames them only who the Court restrain.
And where all England serves, themselves would reign.
Bold and accnrst aie they who all this while
Have strove to isle the monarch from this Isle, 20
And to improve themselves by false pretence,
Abont the common prince have rais’d a fence;
The kingdom from the crown distinct would see,
And peel the hark to bnm at last the tree.
As Ceres corn, and Flora is the spring, 25
Bacchus is wine, the Country is the King.
Not so does rust insinuating wear,
Nor powder so the vaulted bastion tear,
Nor earthquakes so an hollow isle o’erwhehu.
As scratching courtiers undermine a realm, 30
And thro the palace’s foundations bore.
Burrowing themselves to hoard their guilty store.
The smallest vermin make the greatest waste.
And a poor warren once a city ras’d.
But they whom bom to virtue and to wealth, 35
Nor guilt to flatt’ry binds, nor want to stealth;
Whose gen’rous conscience, and whose courage high,
Does with clear counsels their large souls supply;
Who serve the king with their estates and care.
And as in love on parliaments can stare; 40
Where few the number, choice is there less hard;
Give us this Court, and rule without a guard.
Spread a large canvas, Painter, to contain
The great assembly, and the numerous train;
Where all about him shall in triumph sit,
Abhorring wisdom, and despising wit;
Hating all justice, and resolv’d to fight, 5
To rob their native country of their right.
First draw his Highness prostrate to the South,
Adoring Rome, this label in his mouth, —
“Most holy father! being joyn’d in league
With father Patrick, Danby, and with Teague, 10
Thrown at your sacred feet, I humbly bow,
I, and the wise associates of my vow,
A vow, nor fire nor sword shall ever end,
Till all this nation to your footstool bend.
Thus arm’d with zeal and blessing from your hands,
I’ll raise my Papists, and my Irish bands; 15
And by a noble well-contrived plot,
Managed by wise Fitz-Gerald, and by Scot,
Prove to the world I’ll make old England know,
That Common Sense is my eternal foe. 20
I ne’er can fight in a more glorious cause,
Than to destroy their liberty and laws;
Their House of Commons, and their House of Lords,
Parliaments, precedents, and dull records.
Shall these e’er dare to contradict my will, 25
And think a prince o’ the blood can e’er do ill!
It is our birthright to have power to kill.
Shall they e’er dare to think they shall decide
The way to heaven! and who shall be my guide?
Shall they pretend to say, that bread is bread, 30
If we affirm it is a God indeed?
Or there ’s no Purgatory for the dead?
That extreme unction is but common oyl?
And not infallible, the Roman soil?
I’ll have those villains in our notions rest; 35
And I do say it, therefore it ’s the best.”
Next, Painter, draw his Mordant by his side,
Conveying his religion and his bride:
He, who long since abjur’d the royal line,
Does now in Popery with his master join. 40
Then draw the princess with her golden locks,
Hastening to be envenom’d with the pox.
And in her youthful veins receive a wound,
Which sent N[an] H[yde] before her under ground;
The wound of which the tainted C[arta]ret fades, 45
Laid up in store for a new set of maids.
Poor princess! born under a sullen star,
To find such welcome when you came so far!
Better some jealous neighbour of your own
Had call’d you to a sound, tho petty throne; 50
Where ’twixt a wholsome husband and a page,
You might have linger’d out a lazy age,
Than on dull hopes of being here a Queen,
Ere twenty die, and rot before fifteen.
Now, Painter, show us in the blackest dye, 55
The counsellors of all this yillany.
Clifford, who first appeared in humble guise,
Was always thought too gentle, meek, and wise;
But when he came to act upon the stage,
He prov’d the mad Cathegus of our age. 60
He and his Duke had both too great a mind,
To be by Justice or by Law confined:
Their broiling heads can bear no other sounds.
Then fleets and armies, battles, blood and wounds:
And to destroy our liberty they hope, 65
By Irish fools, and an old doting Pope.
Next, Talbot must by his great master stand,
Laden with folly, flesh, and ill-got land;
He’s of a size indeed to fill a porch.
But ne’er can make a pillar of the church. 70
His sword is all his argument, not his book;
Altho no scholar, he can act the cook.
And will cut throats again, if he be paid;
In th’ Irish shambles he first leam’d the trade.
Then, Painter, shew thy skill, and in fit place 75
Let’s see the nuncio Arundel’s sweet face;
Let the beholders by thy art espy
His sense and soul, as squinting as his eye.
Let Bellasis’ autumnal face be seen,
Rich with the spoils of a poor Algerine; 80
Who, trusting in him, was by him betrayed,
And so shall we, when his advic’s obey’d.
The hero once got honour by his sword;
He got his wealth, by breaking of his word;
And now his daughter he hath got with child, 85
And pimps to have his family defil’d.
Next, Painter, draw the rabble of the plot;
German, Fitz-Gerald, Loffcus, Porter, Scot:
These are fit heads indeed to turn a State,
And change the order of a nation’s fate; 90
Ten thousand such as these shall ne’er control
The smallest atom of an English soul.
Old England on its strong foundation stands,
Defying all their heads and all their hands;
Its steady basis never could be shook, 95
When wiser men her ruin undertook;
And can her guardian angel let her stoop
At last to madmen, fools, and to the Pope?
No, Painter, no! close up the piece, and see
This crowd of traytors hang’d in effigie. 100
Great Charles, who full of mercy migh’st command,
In peace and pleasure, this thy native Land,
At last take pity of thy tottering throne,
Shook by the faults of others, not thine own;
Let not thy life and crown together end, 105
Destroyed by a false brother and false Mend.
Observe the danger that appears so near,
That all your subjects do each minute fear:
One drop of poyson, or a popish knife,
Ends all the joys of England with thy life. 110
Brothers, ’tis true, by nature should be kind;
But a too zealous and ambitious mind,
Brib’d with a crown on earth, and one above.
Harbours no friendship, tenderness, or love.
See in all ages what examples are 115
Of monarchs murder’d by th’ impatient heir.
Hard fate of princes, who will ne’er believe.
Till the stroke’s struck which they can ne’er retrieve!
Painter, once more thy pencil reassume,
And draw me, in one scene, London and Rome:
Here holy Charles, there good Aurelius sat,
Weeping to see their sons degenerate;
His Romans taking up the teemer’s trade, 5
The Britons jigging it in masquerade;
Whilst the brave youths, tir’d with the toil of State,
Their wearied minds and limbs to recreate,
Do to their more belov’d delights repair.
One to his —— — the other to his player. 10
Then change the scene, and let the next present
A landscape of our motly Parliament;
And place, hard by the bar, on the left hand,
Circean Clifford with his charming wand;
Our pig-eyed ——— on his fashion —— — 15
Set by the worst attorny of our nation:
This great triumvirate that can divide
The spoils of England; and along that side
Place Falstaff’s regiment of thredbare coats,
All looking this way, how to give their votes; 20
And of his dear reward let none despair,
For mony comes when Sey[mou]r leaves the chair.
Change once again, and let the next afford
The figure of a motly council-board
At Arlington’s, and round about it sat 25
Our mighty masters in a warm debate.
Full bowls of lusty wine make them repeat,
To make them t’other council-board forget
That while the King of France with powerful arms,
Gives all his fearful neighbours strange alarms, 30
We in our glorious bacchanals dispose
The humbled fate of a plebean nose;
Which to effect, when thus it was decreed,
Draw me a champion mounted on a steed;
And after him a brave brigade of horse, 35
Arm’d at all points, ready to reenforce
His; this assault upon a single man.
. . . . . . . .
’Tis this must make O’Bryon great in story.
And add more beams to Sandys’ former glory.
Draw our Olympia next, in council sate 40
With Cupid, S[eymou]r, and the tool of State:
Two of the first recanters of the house,
That aim at mountains, and bring forth a mouse;
Who make it, by their mean retreat, appear
Five members need not be demanded here. 45
These must assist her in her countermines,
To overthrow the Derby-House designs;
Whilst Positive walks, like woodcock in the park.
Contriving projects with a brewer’s dark.
Thus all employ themselves, and, without pity, 50
Leave Temple singly to be beat i’ the city.
Ah! Raleigh, when thou didst thy breath resign
To trembling James, would I had quitted mine!
Cubs didst thou call them! Hadst thou seen this brood
Of earls, and dukes, and princes of the blood,
No more of Scotish race thou wouldst complain, 5
These would be blessings in this spurious reign.
Awake, arise from thy long blest repose,
Once more with me partake of mortal woes!
What mighty pow’r has forc’d me from my rest?
Oh! mighty Queen, why so untimely drest? 10
Favour’d by night, conceal’d in this disguise,
Whilst the lewd Court in drunken slmnbez lies,
I stole away, and never will return,
Till England knows who did her city burn;
Till Cavaliers shall favourites be deem’d 15
And loyal Sufferers by the Court esteem’d;
Till Leigh and Galloway shall bribes reject;
Thus O[sbor]ne’s golden cheat I shall detect:
Till atheist Lauderdale shall leave this Land,
And Commons’ votes shall cut-nose guards disband: 20
Till Kate a happy mother shall become,
Till Charles loves parliaments, and James hates Rome.
What fatal crimes make you for ever fly
Your once lov’d Court, and martyr’s progeny?
A colony of French possess the Court; 25
Pimps, priests, buffoons, in privy-chamber sport.
Such slimy monsters ne’er approacht a throne,
Since Pharaoh’s days, nor so defil’d a crown.
In sacred ear tyrannick arts they croak,
Pervert his mind, and good intentions choake, 30
Tell him of golden Lidies, fairy lands,
Leviathan, and absolute commands.
Thus fairy-like, the king they steal away,
And in his room a changling Lewis lay.
How oft have I him to himself restored, 35
In ’s left the scale, in ’s right hand plac’d the sword?
Taught him their use, what dangers would ensue
To them who strive to separate these two?
The bloody Scotish Chronicle read o’re,
Shewed him how many kings, in purple gore, 40
Were hurl’d to hell, by cruel tyrant lore?
The other day fam’d Spencer I did bring,
In lofty notes Tudor’s blest race to sing;
How Spain’s proud powers her virgin arms control’d,
Aud gold’n days in peaceful order roul’d; 45
How like ripe fruit she dropt from off her throne,
Full of grey hairs, good deeds, and great renown.
As the Jessean hero did appease
Saul’s stormy rage, and stopt his black disease.
So the learn’d bard, with artful song, supprest 50
The swelling passion of his canker’d breast,
And in his heart kind influences shed
Of country love, by Truth and Justice bred.
Then to perform the cure so full begun.
To him I shew’d this glorious setting sun; 55
How, by her people’s looks pursu’d from far,
She mounted on a bright celestial car.
Outshining Yirgo, or the Julian star.
Whilst in Truth’s mirror this good scene he spy’d.
Entered a dame, bedeck’d with spotted pride, 60
Fair flower-de-luce within an azure field.
Her left hand bears the anolent Gallick shield,
By her usurp’d; her right a bloody sword,
Inscribed Leviathan, our soyeraign Lord;
Her tow’ry front a fiery meteor bears, 65
An exhalation bred of blood and tears;
Around her Jove’s lewd ravnous curs complain,
Pale Death, Lust, Tortures, fill her pompous train;
She from the easy king Truth’s mirrour took,
And on the ground in spitefril fall it broke; 70
Then frowning thus, with proud disdain she spoke:
“Are thred-bare virtues ornaments for kings?
Such poor pedantick toys teach underlings.
Do monarchs rise by virtue, or by sword?
Who e’er grew great by keeping of his word? 75
Virtue’s a faint green-sickness to brave souls.
Dastards their hearts, their active heat controuls.
The rival gods, monarchs of th’ other world,
This mortal poyson among princes hurl’d,
Fearing the mighty projects of the great 80
Should drive them from their proud celestial seat,
If not o’eraw’d by this new holy cheat.
Those pious frauds, too slight t’ensnare the brave,
Are proper arts the long-ear’d rout t’inslave.
Bribe hungry priests to deify your might, 85
To teach, your will’s your only rule to rights
And sound damnation to all dare deny’t.
Thus heaven’s designs ’gainst heaven you shall turn.
And make them fear those powers they once did scorn.
When all the gobling interest of mankind, 90
By hirelings sold to you, shall be resign’d,
And by impostures, God and man betray’d,
The Church and State you safely may invade;
So boundless Lewis in full glory shines,
Whilst your starved power in legal fetters pines. 95
Shake off those baby-bands from your strong arms,
Henceforth be deaf to that old witch’s charms;
Taste the delicious sweets of sovereign power,
’Tis royal game whole kingdoms to deflower.
Three spotless virgins to your bed I’ll bring, 100
A sacrifice to you, their God and king.
As these grow stale, we’ll harass human kind,
Hack Nature, till new pleasures you shall find,
Strong as your reign, and beauteous as your mind.”
When she had spoke, a confus’d murmur rose, 105
Of French, Scotch, Irish, all my mortal foes;
Some English too, shame! disguis’d I spy’d.
Led all by the wise son-in-law of Hide.
With fury drunk, like bachanals, they roar,
Down with that common _Magna Charta_ whore! 110
With joynt consent on helpless me they flew,
And from my Charles to a base goal me drew;
My reverend age expos’d to scorn and shame.
To prigs, bawds, whores, was made the publick game.
Frequent addresses to my Charles I send, 115
And my sad State did to his care commend;
But his fedr soul, transform’d by that French dame,
Had lost all sense of honour, justice, fame.
Like a tame Spinster in’s Seraigl he sits,
Besieg’d by whores, buffoons, and bastards chits; 120
Lulled in security, rowling in Inst,
Resigns his crown to angel Carwell’s trust;
Her creature O[sbor]ne the revenue steals;
False F[inc]h, knave Ang[le]sey misguide the seals.
Mac-James the Irish bigots does adore, 125
His French and Teague command on sea and shore.
The Scotch-scalado of our Court two isles,
False Lauderdale, with ordure, all defiles.
Thus the State’s nightmarr’d by this hellish rout.
And no one left these furies to cast out. 130
Ah! Vindex, come, and purge the poyson’d State;
Descend, descend, e’re the cure’s desperate.
Once more, great queen, thy darling strive to save.
Snatch him again from scandal and the grave;
Present to’s thoughts his long-scorn’d parliament, 135
The basis of his throne and government.
In his deaf ears sound his dead father’s name:
Perhaps that spell may ’s erring soul reclaim:
Who knows what good effects from thence may spring!
’Tis godlike good to save a failing king. 140
Rawleigh, no more! for long in vain I’ve try’d
The Stewart from the tyrant to divide;
As easily learn’d virtuosos may
With the dog’s blood his gentle kind convey
Into the wolf, and make him guardian turn 145
To th’ bleating flock, by him so lately torn:
If this imperial juice once taint his blood,
’Tis by no potent antidote withstood.
Tyrants, like lep’rous kings, for public weal
Should be immur’d, lest the contagion steal 150
Over the whole. Th’ elect of the Jessean line
To this firm law their sceptre did resign;
And shall this base tyrannick brood invade
Eternal laws, by God for mankind made?
To the serene Venetian State I’ll go, 155
From her sage mouth fam’d principles to know;
With her the prudence of the ancients read,
To teach my people in their steps to tread;
By their great pattern such a State I’ll frame,
Shall eternise a glorious lasting name. 160
Till then, my Raleigh, teach our noble youth
To love sobriety, and holy truth;
Watch and preside over their tender age.
Lest Court-corruption should their souls engage;
Teach them how arts, and arms, in thy young days, 165
Employed our youth, — not taverns, stews, and plays;
Tell them the generous scorn their race does owe
To flattery, pimping, and a gawdy show;
Teach them to scorn the Carwells, Portsmouths, Nells,
The Clevelands, O[sbor]ns, Berties, Lauderdales: 170
Poppaea, Tigelline, and Arteria’s name,
All yield to these in lewdness, lust, and fame.
Make ’em admire the Talbots, Sydneys, Veres,
Drake, Cavendish, Blake; men void of slavish fears.
True sons of glory, pillars of the State, 175
On whose fam’d deeds all tongues and writers wait.
When with fierce ardour their bright souls do born.
Back to my dearest country I’ll return.
Tarquin’s just judge, and Caesar’s equal peers,
With them I’ll bring to dry my people’s tears; 180
Publicola with healing hands shall pour
Balm in their wounds, and shall their life restore;
Greek arts, and Roman arms, in her conjoyn’d,
Shall England raise, relieve opprest mankind.
As Jove’s great son th’ infested globe did free 185
From noxious monsters, hell-born tyranny,
So shall my England, in a holy war.
In triumph lead chain’d tyrants from afar;
Her true Crusado shall at last pull down
The Turkish crescent, and the Persian sun. 190
Freed by thy labours, fortunate, blest Isle,
The earth shall rest, the heav’n shall on thee smile;
And this kind secret for reward shall give,
No poysonous tyrants on thy earth shall live.
Line 2, 'James = James I. of England, one of whose most dastardly and damnable crimes was his sacrifice of the illustrious Raleigh.
Line 8, 'Cubs,' It was Lord Cobham and George Brooke who were accnsed of having said 'that there never would be a good world in England till the king and his cubs were taken away;' Raleigh being one of the 'main' plotters.
Line 17, 'Leigh and Galloway.' 1726 edition annotates: 'Leigh and Galloway were suspected to be bribed by Lord Danby, to side with the Court.'
Line 18, 'O—— ne's' = Sir Thomas Osborne, afterwards Earl of Danby. He was son and heir of Sir Edward Osborne, Bart.; created Baron Osborne and Viscount Latimer, 15th Aug. 1678; Earl of Danby, 27th June 1674; Marquess of Gaermarthen, 9th April 1689; and Duke of Leeds, 4th May 1694. Died 26th July 1712.
Line 19, 'Lauderdale.' John Maitland, second Earl of Lauderdale in the peerage of Scotland, created Duke of Lauderdale in 1672, and Earl of Guildford in the English peerage, 25th June 1674. As Lauderdale, his name supplied the letter 'L' to the Cabal administration. Born 1616: died Aug. 24th, 1682. It needed courage to speak of him as Marvell did while he was living and in power. Even Pepys does admire at 'the good fortune of such a fool' (iii. 828-9).
Line 20, 'cut-nose guards.' Sir John Coventry in his place in Parliament alluded to the king's amours; on which the king, through the Duke of Monmouth, sent some of his 'guards' to waylay and mark him. They did so, disarmed him, and slit his nose. The Commons then passed the 'Coventry Act,' which made cutting and maiming a capital offence, but took no farther notice of the infamous matter. Previous to this, but in the same year, Charles, contrary to English custom and in imitation of the French Court, went to open Parliament escorted by these same guards. In the after-poem Nell is said to command Charles, and Charles
And for one night prostitutes to her
His Monmouth, his life-guard, O'Brian and Sands.'
See the whole poem onward.
Line 21, 'Kate' = Charles II.'s Queen.
Line 22, 'James' = Duke of York, afterwards James II.
Line 28, 'Since Pharaoh's days.' Cf. Exodus viii.
Line 82, 'Leviathan,' Another hit at Hobbes' 'Leviathan.' See also l.64.
Line 34, 'Lewis' = the French king, Louis XIV. He died Sept. 1, 1715. By 'changeling' Marvell intends to point to the replacing of a constitutional king by a despot like Lewis. As 'changeling' means a weak, puny creature, the word contains a sarcasm to the effect that the careless Charles, 'the king led by the nose' ('A Historical Poem,' 1. 62), could never become an imperions self-willed despot, but would be (to alter the phrase) a despot's zany.
Line 42, 'The other day fam'd Spencer.' This seems to refer to some contemporazy poem written either in the guise of Spenser or of Spenser's ghost — a common form of satire at the period.
Line 60, 'a dame.' Charles's sister, Henrietta Duchess of Orleans, attended, among others, by Mdlle. Querouaille (afterwards Duchess of Portsmouth), met Charles at Dover, and the secret and more public treaties with France were concluded on 22d May 1670. This, and the circumstance mentioned in the note on line 20, seems to give the date of 1670, or but little later, to this poem. This is confirmed by the mention of O——n; for Sir Thomas Osborne was created Viscount Latimer in 1678, and Earl of Danby in 1674, and in other poems he is called Danby. But besides the actual 'dame,' perhaps we shall not err in regarding the text as a personification of France in the guise of despotism, or Despotism attired as France, and usurping over the old constitutional powers of that country. Cf. 'that French dame,' a littie farther on. This does not hinder a side-allusion to the king's sister, whose ermine was by all accounts spotted enough, and who, besides her secret embassy, brought not 'three spotiess virgins,' but (as above) Mdlle. de Querouaille, &c.
Line 82. 1710 (and usually) reads, ' If not o'eraw'd: This new-found holy cheat:' also badly (1. 89), 'feel' for 'fear.'
Line 100, 'Three spotless virgins.' Query, Virtue, Religion (Protestant), Liberty?
Line 108, 'son-in-law of Hide.' 1726 annotates: 'Earl of Clarendon.' A strange blunder, to confound the Duke of York with his father-in-law. The reference ought to have been placed at Hyde.
Line 119, 'Spinster.' In Elizabethan English 'spinster' did not necessarily imply that the woman was unmarried. Hercules and Omphale will at once occur to every one as the original of such sayings; but this in the text is probably derived directly or indirectly from, and is best explained by a passage in, the Arcadia (Richardson, s.v.): 'And this effeminate love of a woman doth so womanize a man, that if he yield to it, it will not only make him an Amazon, bat a launder, a distaff, a spinner, or whatsoever vile occupation their idle heads can imagine, and their weak hands perform' (book i.). Marvell repeats 'spinstrian' later.
Line 122, 'angel Carwell.' The use of the word 'angel,' though I acknowledge it is used punningly, seems to imply that it was used derivatively from its sense of 'messenger,' as substitute or _locum tenens_ or man of business. As such it seems to show that the ancient angel whom Kate the curst was compelled to misaddress was a commercial traveller or bagman, and that this is the true explanation of the very common 'Angel' Inn. 'Carwell' was the popular mode of anglicising the name of the notorious Louise de Querouaille, one of Charles II.'s mistresses, whom he created Duchess of Portsmouth, as already noted. Marvell is mildness itself compared with contemporary lampoons, e,g,
'Then, faugh! Carwell, faugh! for a stinking French bitch!
Jane Shore was more wholesom when dead in a ditch!'
'Downfall of the French Bitch,' St. Poems, iii. 211.
Line 124, 'Finch. . . . Anglesey.' Finch — Sir Heneage Finch, created Earl of Nottingham 12th May 1681. He was Lord Chancellor. Died 1682. (See Lord Campbell's 'Lives,' s. n.) Anglesey — Arthur Annesley, second Viscount Valentia, created Earl of Anglesey 20th April 1661. He died 6th April 1686.
Line 125, 'Mac-James.' A jest-name for James Duke of York — Mac being one of the sobriquets for an Irishman, as in 'A Historical Poem' (1. 151), and their alliance gave point and sarcasm to the nickname. In 'Forewarned, Fore-armed,' he is called 'Mac' simply; and Ninnies being a squib-name for the Stuarts in the ballad upon the Execrable Murther of . . . Arthur Earl of Essex, it is said of him, 'Royal Mac-Ninny will confirm the same' (State Poems, i. 178, 1710).
Line 126, 'and Teague.' As Pat is now, so Teague was then the national sobriquet and sometimes personification of the Irish. The word is of frequent occurrence in the State Poems, and both James Duke of York and the Irish being bigoted Roman Catholics, the Irish were affected by James and James by the Irish. Marvell alludes repeatedly to this, as in his 'Last Instructions to a Painter.' In 'Popish Politicks unmaskt' (Collection of State Poems, 1689), the Duke is made to say, 'I have my Teagues and Jones at my back.' Cf. also State Poems, as before, i. 95, 208; iii. 117, 297. The last ('A new Protestant Litany') prays,
'From all the base counsels of Bougres and Teague
Libera nos, Domine.'
See introductory note prefixed to the Satires.
Line 127, 'scalado.' This word is used by Taylor the Water–Poet in the sense of escalade; but Marvell uses it, after his manner, in a double sense, as implying one who has worked his way up, and who is also suffering from scalls or skin-disease. The Scotch scabies began to be referred to earlier than this, and reappeared in Churchill.
Line 155, 'Venetian.' It is remarkable that Venice, governed as it was by the most despotic oligarchy ever known, should be repeatedly cited by Marvell as an example of a free state.
Lines 165-171. Uzziah, 2 Chronicles xxvi. 21. Line 167, the edition of 1710 misprints 'Rase' for 'Race.'
Line 169, 'Carwells, Portsmouths, Nells.' On the two former (really one), see relative note before. Nells = Nell Gwynne, who has found a modem biographer in Peter Cunningham.
Line 170, 'Clevelands, Osborns, Berties, Lauderdales.' The first is the notorious Duchess of Cleveland, another of Charles II.'s mistresses. There is a spice of wickedness in placing the 'Berties' and 'Lauderdales' and 'Osborns' beside Cleveland and the Carwells, Nells, &c. Bertie represents the house of Willoughby, and Marvell doubtiess introduced this and other names contemptuously. The 'Berties' have found full memorial in 'Memoir of Peregrine Bertie (of Lincolnshire), by a descendant (1838: privately printed).
Lines 173-4. Talbots = Talbot, as before: Sydneys — Sir Philip and Algernon: Veres=the two illustrious brothers, on whom see relative notes to the poem on Nunappleton: Drake, Cavendish=the great seamen: Blake, as before.
Line 180, 'With me.' It is printed usually 'With them;' but 'With whom'? for none are mentioned. Unless a line or couplet has slipped out, this must be 'with me,' as I have ventured to print. Perhaps the 'me' was misread 'em,' and then altered to 'them.'
For faults and follies London’s doom shall fix,
And she must sink in flames in sixty-six.
Fire-balls shall fly, but few shall see the train,
As far as from Whitehall to Pudding-lane,
To burn the city, which again shall rise,
Beyond all hopes, aspiring to the skies,
Where Vengeance dwells. But there is one thing more
(Tho its walls stand) shall bring the city low’r;
When legislators shall their trust betray.
Saving their own, shall give the rest away;10
And those false men, by the easy people sent.
Give taxes to the king by Parliament;
When barefac’d villains shall not blush to cheat,
And Chequer-doors shall shut up Lombard-street;
When players come to act the part of queens,
Within the curtains, and behind the scenes;
When sodomy shall be prime min’ster’s sport.
And whoring shall be the least crime at Court;
When boys shall take their sisters for their mate.
And practise incest between seven and eight;20
When no man knows in whom to put his trust,
And e’en to rob the Chequer shall be just;
When Declarations, lies, and every oath,
Shall be in use at Court, but faith and troth;
When two good kings shall be at Brentford town,
And when in London there shall not be one;
When the seat’s given to a talking fool,
Whom wise men laugh at, and whom women rule,
A min’ster able only in his tongue,
To make harsh empty speeches two hours long;30
When an old Scotch Covenanter shall be
The champion for the English hierarchy;
When bishops shall lay all religion by,
And strive by law t’ establish tyranny;
When a lean Treasurer shall in one year
Make himself fat, his king and people bare;
When th’ English prince shall Englishmen despise,
And think French only loyal, Irish wise;
When wooden shoon shall be the English wear.
And Magna Charta shall no more appear — 40
Then th’ English shall a greater tyrant know,
Than either Greek or Latin story show;
Their wives to’s lust expos’d, their wealth to’s spoil.
With groans, to fill his Treasury, they toil;
But like the Bellides must sigh in vain,
For that still fill’d flows out as fast again;
Then they with envious eyes shall Belgium see,
And wish in vain Venetian liberty.
The frogs too late, grown weary of their pain,
Shall pray to Jove to take him back again.50
Dates, etc, of Nostradamus’ Prophecy. From the omission of any notice of the burning of the ships in the Medway (that so inflamed Marvell), it may be supposed that this event was of somewhat earlier date than the present poem, and did not fall-in with the popular thoughts at the time it was written. The burning of London was an anti-Popish and anti-Jacobean cry, and was therefore inserted. The taxes given to the king (line 12) is probably a reference to the revised excise bill of 1671. The Exchequer doors were shut up throughout 1672 and part of 1673. If Sir Heneage Finch be the ‘talking fool’ of the Satire, he was Keeper of the Great Seal from the latter part of 1673 to 1675, and after that Chancellor under the Earl of Nottingham till 1682. The ‘lean Treasurer’ seems, as noted in B. Museum copy (see various readings immediately following this introductory Note), to have been Lord Clifford. As Sir Thomas, he was one of the Cabal Ministry, and one of the Commissioners of the Treasury; and he was made Lord Clifford and Lord High Treasurer in 1672, and resigned after the passing of the Test Act in May 1673. Hence he was L. H. Treasurer for about a year. The declarations that were not true or truly meant may refer either to the king’s declaration of indulgence in 1672, which he withdrew, and which led, through the strong feelings excited against it, to the Test Act; or to his declaration in 1674, ‘that he had been strangely misrepresented, and had no secret or dangerous agreement with France,’ such as some represented he had made in 1670 at Dover, when he met his sister, the Duchess of Orleans. But the latest reference seems to be in lines 88-4:
‘When bishope shall lay all religion by,
And strive by law t’ establish tyranny.’
In 1675 the ‘No-Popery’ cry was very loud; and early in that year Danby, to cover other designs, or to take the cry out of the mouths of his opponents, brought in a bill which extended the Obedience Oath of 1661 to all officers of state, privy-councillors, peers, and members of the House of Commons. This was strongly supported by the bishops, and more strongly opposed by others, because it bound the Parliament, infringed the birthright of Englishmen, and established tyranny. In the same year also the quondam Scotch Covenanter and then champion of the English hierarchy, Lauderdale, was fiercely attacked by the ‘patriots,’ but kept in his position by the king. This date seems to he confirmed also by the lines regarding the absence of the king from London. They cannot refer to the assembling of the Parliament in Oxford in 1681, because there is no notice of any event between 1675 and that time, and because Clifford’s treasurership would be well out of date in such case. The reference, no doubt, is to the removal of the Court and Parliament thither during the Plague of 1665 — Marvell himself being at this Oxford Parliament — and that so (comparatively) old an event as here noticed is to be explained because the Five-Mile Act against Nonconformists was then passed, and because a similar bill to that of 1675 was then brought in, and would have been carried but for the adverse votes of the promoter and introducer of the 1665 bill, Lords Lindsay and Danby.
Line 15, ‘players.’ In ms. Nell Gwyn.
Line 17. In ms. E[arl of] Shaftesbury or D[uke of] Bucks.
Line 27. In ms. Finch.
Line 81. In ms. Lauderdale.
Line 35. In ms. Lord Clifford.
It was clever in Marvell to utilise the name of old MICHAEL NOSTRADAMUS, a physician and astrologer, born in the diocese of Avignon, 1508. His so-called ‘predictions,’ from the death of Henry II. to the exile of Napoleon III. in our own day, have from time to time called attention to his quaint quatrains. He died at Salon, July 1566. See relative note in Pepys (iii. 54-6).
Line 4, ‘Pudding-Lane.’ According to the old saying, the fire began in Pudding-lane and ended at Pie-corner. In a former note I have spoken of the accusation, thrice repeated by Marvell, against the Duke of York (see ‘Historical Poem,’ onward).
Line 14, ‘And Chequer-doors.’ 1726 annotates here: ‘In the year 1672 the Court, resolving on a war, looked out for money to carry it on. The method they took to get it was this: The king had agreed with some bankers, with whom he had contracted a debt of near a million and a half, to assign over the revenue to them; and he paid them at the rate of eight per cent, and in some proclamations promised he would make good all his assignments till the whole debt was paid; but, in order for a supply, the payments were stopped for a year. This was a great shock to the bankers; for many of the nobility and gentry, who were in the secret, took their money, before the design was publicly known, out of the hands of their bankers.’ See Pepys, ii. 291. Rochester is sarcastically severe on the king:
‘Stopping the Bank in thee was only great.
But in a subject it had been a cheat.’
St. Poems, vol ii. p. 196.
Line 16, ‘queens.’ 1726 annotates: ‘Reflecting on the king for taking Mrs. Gwyn from the stage.’
Line 17, ‘prime minister.’ British-Museum copy writes ‘E. of Shaftesbury or D. of Buck.’ The latter never was prime- minister.
Line 25, ‘two good kings shall be at Brentford.’ In the ‘New Song of the Times’ (State Poems, yol. ii. p. 218) we read,
‘Like a trae Brentford king.
Was here with a whoop and gone with a hollow.’
So too in the satire in ‘Opposition to Mr. Dryden’s Essay on Satire’ (lb. p. 263):
‘Look to it, York, the nation first shall bleed.
Or the two kings of Brentford shall succeed.’
Line 27, ‘talking fool’ B. Museum copy writes ‘Finch.’
Line 80-1, ‘Scotch Covenanter.’ 1726 annotates: ‘Lauderdale, who was at first a noted Dissenter.’ In the State Poems, vol. i. pp. 188-9 (1710), there is a ludicrous attempt made by some Cockney lampooner in the ‘Dream of the Cabal’ (1672) to give the Scotch words and pronunciation of Lauderdale. So also at p. 148; and earlier in N. Hookes’ ‘Amanda’ (as before), in his acrid yet powerful lines ‘On the Rout of the disloyal Partie of Scots at Dunbarre,’ there is a like attempt at Scotch (pp. 145-8) — not without humour. Macaulay has scourged Lauderdale.
Line 35, ‘lean Treasurer,’ B. Museum copy writes ‘Lord Clifford.’
Line 45, ‘Bellides’=:the classical fillers of the sieves with water.
Of a tall stature, and of sable line,
Much like the son of Kish, that lofty Jew,
Twelve years complete he suffered in exile,
And kept his father’s asses all the while;
At length, by wonderful impulse of Fate, 5
The people call him home to help the State,
And, what is more, they send him money too,
And clothe him all, from head to foot, anew.
Not did he such small favours then disdain,
Who in his thirtieth year began his reign: 10
In a slasht doublet then he came ashore,
And dubb’d poor Palmer’s wife his royal whore.
Bishops, and deans, peers, pimps, and knights, he made;
Things highly fitting for a monarch’s trade!
With women, wine, and viands of delight, 15
His jolly vassals feast him day and night.
But the best times have ever some allay.
His younger brother dy’d by treachery.
Bold James survives, no dangers make him flinch.
He marries seignior Falmouth’s pregnant wench. 20
The pious mother-queen, hearing her son
Was thus enamoured with a butter’d bun,
And that the Fleet was gone, in pomp and state,
To fetch, for Charles, the flowery Lisbon Kate,
She chants Te Deum, and so comes away, 25
To wish her hopeful issue timely joy.
Her most uxorious mate she rul’d of old.
Why not with easy youngsters make as bold!
From the French Court she haughty topics brings,
Deludes their pliant nature with vain things; 30
Her mischief-breeding breast did so prevail,
The new-got Flemish town was set to sale;
For these, and Germain’s sins, she founds a church,
So slips away, and leaves us in the lurch.
Now the Court-sins did every place defile, 35
And plagues and War fell heavy on the isle;
Pride nourisht folly, folly a delight.
With the Batavain Commonwealth to fight,
But the Dutch fleet fled suddenly with fear.
Death and the Duke so dreadful did appear. 40
The dreadful victor took his soft repose.
Scorning pursuit of such mechanick foes.
But now York’s genitals grew over hot.
With Denham’s and Carneigie’s infected plot,
Which, with religion so inflam’d his ire, 45
He left the city when ’twas got on fire.
So Philip’s son, inflamed with a miss,
Burnt down the palace of Persepolis.
Foil’d thus by Venus, he Bellona woos,
And with the Dutch a Second War renews; 50
But here his French-bred prowess prov’d in vain,
De Huyter claps him in Solebay again.
This Isle was well reformed, and gain’d renown,
Whilst the brave Tudors wore th’ imperial crown:
But since the royal race of Stuarts came, 55
It has recoil’d to Popery and shame;
Misguided monarchs, rarely wise or just.
Tainted with pride, and with impetuous lust.
Should we the Blackheath project here relate,
Or count the various blemishes of State, 60
My Muse would on the reader’s patience grate.
The poor Priapus king, led by the nose,
Looks as a thing set up to scare the crows;
Yet, in the mimicks of the spinstrian sport,
Outdoes Tiberius, and his goatish Court. 65
In Love’s delights none did them e’er excel,
Not Tereus with his sister Philomel;
As they at Athens, we at Dover meet.
And gentlier far the Orleans dutchess treat.
What sad event attended on the same, 70
We’ll leave to the report of common fame.
The Senate, which should headstrong princes stay.
Lets loose the reins, and gives the realm away;
With lavish hands they constant tributes give,
And annual stipends for their guilt receive; 75
Corrupt with gold, they wives and daughters bring
To the black idol for an offering.
All but religious cheats might justly swear,
He true vicegerent to old Molock were.
Priests were the first deluders of mankind, 80
Who with vain Faith made all their Reason blind;
Not Lucifer himself more proud than they,
And yet persuade the world they must obey;
’Gainst avarice and luxury complain,
And practise all the vices they arraign. 85
Riches and honour they from laymen reap
And with dull crambo feed the silly sheep.
As Killigrew buffoons his master, they
Droll on their God, but a much duller way.
With hocus-pocus, and their heavenly slight, 90
They gain on tender consciences at night.
Whoever has an over-zealous wife,
Becomes the priest’s Amphitrio during life.
Who would such men heaven’s messengers believe,
Who from the sacred pulpit dare deceive? 95
Baal’s wretched curates legerdermain’d it so.
And never durst their tricks above-board show.
When our first parents Paradise did grace,
The serpent was the prelate of the place;
Fond Eve did, for this subtile tempter’s sake, 100
From the forbidden tree the pippin take;
His God and Lord this preacher did betray.
To have the weaker vessel made his prey.
Since death and sin did human nature blot,
The chiefest blessings Adam’s chaplain got. 105
Thrice wretched they, who Nature’s laws detest,
To trace the ways fantastick of a priest,
Till native Reason’s basely forc’d to yield,
And hosts of upstart errors gain the field.
My Muse presumed a little to digress, 110
And touch their holy function with my verse.
Now to the state again she tends direct.
And does on giant Lauderdale reflect.
This haughty monster, with his ugly claws,
First tempered poison to destroy our laws; 115
Declares the Council’s Edicts are beyond
The most authentick statutes of the Land;
Sets up in Scotland à la mode de France;
Taxes, Excise, and Armies does advance.
This Saracen his Country’s freedom broke, 120
To bring upon their necks the heavier yoke;
This is the savage pimp, without dispute.
First brought his mother for a prostitute;
Of all the miscreants e’er went to hell.
This villain rampant bears away the bell. 125
Now must my Muse deplore the Nation’s fate,
like a true lover for her dying mate.
The royal evil so malignant grows.
Nothing the dire contagion can oppose.
In our Weal-publick scarce one thing succeeds, 130
For one man’s weakness a whole Nation bleeds,
Ill-luck starts up, and thrives like evil weeds.
Let Cromwell’s ghost smile with contempt, to see
Old England struggling under slavery.
His meagre highness, now he’s got astride, 135
Does on Britannia, as on Churchil, ride.
White-liver’d D[anby] calls for his swift jackal
To hunt down’s prey, and hopes to master alL
Clifford and Hide before had lost the day;
One hanged himself, and t’other ran away. 140
Twas want of wit and courage made them fail,
But O[sbor]ne, and the Duke, must needs prevail.
The Duke now vaunts with Popish mirmidons;
Our fleets, our ports, our cities and our towns,
Are man’d by him or by his Holiness; 145
Bold Irish ruffians to his Court address.
This is the colony to plant his knaves.
From hence he picks and culls his murdering braves.
Here for an ensign, or lieutenant’s place,
They’ll kill a judg or justice of the peace. 150
At his command Mac will do any thing:
He’ll burn a city, or destroy a king.
From Tiber came th’ advice-boat monthly home,
And brought new lessons to the Duke from Rome.
Here with curs’d precepts, and with Councils dire, 155
The godly cheat-king (would be) did inspire;
Heaven had him chieftain of Great Britain made,
Tells him the Holy Church demands his aid;
Bad him be bold, all dangers to defy,
His brother, sneaking heretick, should die; 160
A priest should do it, from whose sacred stroke
All England strait should fall beneath his yoke;
God did renounce him, and his cause disown,
And in his stead had plac’d him on his throne.
From Saul the Land of promise thus was rent, 165
And Jesse’s son placed in the government.
The Holy Scripture vindicates his cause.
And monarchs are above all human laws.
Thus said the Scarlet Whore to her gallant,
Who straight designed his brother to supplant: 170
Fiends of ambition here his soul possest.
And thirst of empire calentur’d his breast.
Hence ruin and destruction had ensu’d.
And all the people been in blood imbrued,
Had not Almighty Providence drawn near, 175
And stopt his malice in its full career.
Be wise, ye sons of men, tempt God no more
To give you kings in’s wrath to vex you sore:
If a king’s brother can such mischiefs bring.
Then how much greater mischiefs such a king! 180
Line 12, ‘Palmer.’ Mrs. Palmer, Duchess of Cleveland, whom the king took from her husband.
Line 18, ‘younger brother.’ The Duke of Gloucester, third brother to the king. He was much more loved than the Duke of York.
Line 20, ‘Falmouth’s . . . ’ = Nan Hyde, as before. Falmouth = Sir Charles Berkeley, afterwards Falmouth. See Jesse’s England under the Stuarts (iii. 471 et seq.): at page 477 this terrible line is quoted. There are numerous parallels to Marvell’s worst in contemporary lampoons; e.g. in ’Sir Edmondbury Godfrey’s Ghost’ (State Poems (1710), vol. i. p. 95) we read,
’[He] took defil’d H. and Este to his bed.’
Line 24, ‘Kate’ = Queen Katherine, who is severely handled by Marvell and contemporaries. Here is her portrait from ‘Sir Edmondbury Godfrey’s Ghost’ (as before), in association with a mistress:
’Your [Charles II.] nauseous palate the worst food doth crave;
No wholesome viands can an entrance have:
Each night you lodg in that French syren’s arms,
She straight betrays you with her wanton charms;
Works on your heart, soften’d with love and wine,
And then betrays you to some Philistine.
Imperial lust does o’er your scepter sway,
And tho’ a sovereign, makes you to obey.
She that from Lisbon came with such renown.
And to inrich you with the Africk town;
In nature mild, and gentle as a dove.
Yet for religion can a serpent prove:
Priest-rid with zeal, she plots, and did design
To cut your thread of life as well as mine.
Yet thoughts so stupid have your soul possest,’ &c.
Line 82, ‘Flemish town’=Dunkirk.
Line 83, ‘Germain’s’ = Jermyn, as before.
Line 44, ‘Denham’s and Carneigie’s infected plot.’ Denham, as before frequently. Carnegie — probably Robert third Earl of Southesk (in Scotland), who married Lady Anne Hamil- ton (who figures in De Grammont). He died 19 Feb. 1688. Or perhaps his son, Hon. William Carnegie, who was killed in a duel in Paris in 1681. The latter’s father, James, second earl, visited Charles II. in Holland in 1650 (see Jesse’s England under the Stuarts, as before, iii. 296).
Line 46, ‘got.’ Usually misprinted ‘set.’ See former notes on the charge against Duke of York.
Line 49, ‘Foil’d," not ‘Toil’d.’
Line 52, ‘Solebay.’ See Pepys, s.n.
Line 56. 1710 corrects the usual misprint of ‘was’ for ‘has.’
Line 59, ‘Blackheath project.’ See Evelyn, s.n.
Line 66-71, ‘In Love’s delights.’ 1726 annotates here: ’The king’s sister, the Duchess of Orleans, was a woman of great intrigne. In the year 1671 she and her brother met at Dover. When she returned into France, the Duke of Orleans, who had received very strange accounts of her behaviour in England, ordered a great dose of sublimate to be given her in a glass of succory-water, of which she died in great torment.’
Line 87, ‘crambo’ = a game or pastime, in which one gave a word, to which another must find a rhyme. Pepys mentions a preacher ‘in blank verse.’
Line 88, ‘Killigrew.’ Thomas Killigrew, the king’s jester, and a dramatic writer. Died March 19, 1682. Pepys has many notices of him: see s.n. It may be due to his pleasant memory to state that Killigrew was a gentleman page to Charles I. and one of the grooms of the bedchamber to Charles II. It was from the great familiarity allowed by the latter he obtained his sobriquet of the ‘King’s Jester.’
Line 90, ‘hocus-pocus’ = corruption of the Vulgate, ‘Hoc est corpus,’ ‘This is My Body.’
Line 93, ‘Amphitrio.’ In Moliere’s ‘Two Amphitryos’ one of the characters says, ‘Le veritable Amphitryon c’est l’Amphitryon où l’on disse;’ and the saying so took, that Amphitryo became the current term for ‘host.’
Line 118, ‘Lauderdale,’ as repeatedly before, with relative notes.
Line 125, ‘bears away the bell.’ So in Ascham’s ’Scholemaster’ (1570), ‘Who hath no witte, nor none will heare, amongest all fooles the bell may beare;’ on which Mayor, Howell’s ‘Letters’ (1754), 110, ‘So the Ale bore away the bell among the Doctors.’ Ibid 261: ‘For wonders, Holland’s Peter bears the bell.’ See other references in loco. A bell was a common prize at races.
Line 136, ‘Churchil’ = John Churchill, afterwards the ‘great’ Duke of Marlborough. Contemporary lampoons go to show that as a young man Love or lust, not War, was his occupation. As with others, circumstances strung him into energy.
Line 137, ‘D——.’ It is P in text of 1703; but D usually, as in 1710 — ^the latter, no doubt, meaning Danby, as so often, and therefore filled-in by us. The conjunction with Hyde and Clifford, as in ‘Oceana;’ the fact that Hyde was, like Danby, prime minister, a ruler; and that Clifford, the L. H. Treasurer before him, was one of the leaders of the ministry (and if O—— ne and not C——n [Coleman] be the true reading of line 142, the return in this line to the present man, after Hyde and Clifford have been spoken of), — all show that Danby was meant.
Line 139, ‘Clifford’ = Sir Thomas Clifford, afterwards Banm Clifford, as before. See Pepys, s. n. frequently. ‘Hide’ = Cla- rendon, as before.
Line 172, ‘calentur’d’=fevered.
line 176, ‘stopt.’ The reprint of 1870 misprints oddly ’spotted.’
Line 178, ‘kings in’s wrath.’ Cf. 1 Samuel viii. The State Poems, in ‘An Allusion,’ amplifies this with pungent invective against James II.:
’When Israel first provok’d the living Lord,
He scourg’d their sin with famine, plague, and sword.
Still they rebell’d; their God in’s wrath did fling
No thunderbolt among them, but a king.
A James-like king was Heaven’s severest rod,
The utmost vengeance of an angry God.
God in his wrath sent Saul to punish Jewry,
And James to England in a greater fury:
For Saul in sin was no more like our James
Than little Jordan can compare to Thames.’ Vol. iii. p. 129.
As citties that to the fierce conqueror yield,
Do at their own charges their cittadals build;
So Sir Robert advanc’d the King’s statue, in token
Of bankers defeated and Lombard-street broken.
Some thought it a knightly and generous deed,
Obliging the citty with a King and a steed
When with honour he might from his word have gone back:
He that vows for a calme, is absolved by a wreck.
But now it appears, from the first to the last.
To be all a revenge, and a malice forecast;10
Upon the King’s birth-day to set up a thing.
That shows him a monkey more like than a King.
When each one that passes finds fault with the horse,
Yet all do affirme that the King is much worse;
And some by the likeness Sir Robert suspect.
That he did for the King his own statue erect.
Thus to see him disfigur’d — the herb-women chide,
Who up on their panniers more gracefully ride;
And so loose in his seat — that all persons agree,
Ev’n Sir Willuan Peake sits much firmer than he.20
But a market, as some say, doth fit the King well,
Who the Parliament too — and revenue doth sell;
And others, to make the similitude hold.
Say his Majesty too — is oft purchased and sold.
This statue is sorely more scandalous far
Than all the Dutch pictures which caused the Warr;
And what the exchequer for that took on trust
May we henceforth confiscate, for reasons more just.
But Sir Robert, to take all the scandal away.
Does the errour upon the artificer lay;30
And alledges the workmanship was not his own,
For he counterfeits only in gold — not in stone.
But, Sir Knight of the Vine, how came’t in your thought.
That when to the scaffold your liege you had brought,
With canvass and deales you e’er since do him cloud,
As if you had meant it his coffin and shrowdt
Hath Blood [stole] him away, as his crown he convey ’d?
Or is he to Clayton’s gone in masquerade
Or is he in caball in his cabinett sett
Or have you to the Compter remov’d him for debt?40
Methinks by the equipage of this vile scene.
That to change him into a Jack-pudding you mean;
Or why thus expose him to popular flouts.
As if we’d as good have a King made of Clouts
Or do you his faults out of modesty vaile
With three shattered planks, and the rag of a saile;
To express how his navy was shattered and torn.
The day that he was both restored and born?
Sure the King will ne’er think of repaying his bankers.
When loyalty now — all expires with his spankers;50
If the Indies and Smyrna do not him enrich,
He will hardly have left a poor ragg to his breech.
But Sir Robert affirmes that we do him much wrong,
’Tis the ’Graver at work, to reform him — so long:
But, alas! he will never arrive at his end,
For it is such a King as no chissel can mend.
But with all his errours — restore us our King,
If ever you hope in December — for Spring;
For though all the world cannot show such another,
Yet we’d better have him than his bigotted brother.60
‘Stocks-market.’ The Stocks-market took its name from a pair of stocks placed near the spot, as in Maitland (Hist. of London, vol. ii. p. 903): ‘Near the Conduit on Cornhill was a strong prison, made of timber, called a cage, with a pair of stockes set upon it, and this was for night-walkers.’ The occasion of the present poem was Sir Robert Vyner’s purchase of an equestrian statue of John Sobieski trampling down the Turk, and, after its undergoing some necessary alterations, erecting it in Stocks-market as Charles II. trampling on Oliver Cromwell. The Mansion Honse now stands on the site. This was in 1675. About 1737 the statue was presented to Robert Viner, a lineal representative of the bibulous knight, and the market transferred to the space gained by the covering-over the Fleet-ditch. This Fleet-market has, in its turn, given place to Farringdon-street (Pepys, iv. 22).
‘herb-women.’ Same as Herb-John=the stall- owners, who sold vegetables, fish, &c.
‘Sir William Peake.’ The celebrated printseller of Holborn-conduit near the statue, mentioned by Evelyn in Pepys (iv. 249).
‘Blood.’ Cf. lines on Colonel Blood’s attempt to steal the crown. I have intercalated ‘stole.’
‘Compter:’ prison for debtors.
Charles born 29th May 1630. Entered London 29th May 1660 (though he landed 25th May).
From Captain Thompson’s preface, vol. i. pp. x.-xiii. He thus annotates: ‘Mr. Cooke, in his edition of Mr. Marvell’s poetick works, gives us to understand, that many pieces in the State Poems are attributed to our author which he never wrote. In this particular Mr. Marvell’s own hand bears testimony to the contrary; and particularly to the following lampoon, which is more correct and perfect than it is given in that oollection’ [viz. the State Poems]. See State Poems, vol. iii. p. 65. At end Thompson repeats: ‘The above piece is more correct than that given in the State Poems, which appears to be a mutilated copy’ (p. xiii.). It is given in State Poems, vol. iii pp. 66-67: 1704. G.
What can be the mystery why Charing-Crosse
This five months continues still muffled with board?
Dear Wheeler, impart; we are all at a losse,
Unless we must have Punchinello restored.
Twere to Scaramouchio too great disrespect.
To limit his troop to this theatre small,
Besides the injustice it were to eject
That mimick, so legally seized of WhitehalL
For a diall the place is too unsecure,
Since the Privy-Grarden could not it defend;10
And so near to the Court they will never endure
Any monument, how they their time may mispend.
Were these deales yet in store for sheathing our Fleet,
When the King in armada to Portsmouth should saile,
Or the Bishops and Treasurer, did they agree’t
To repair with such riff-raff our churche’s old pale?
No; to comfort the heart of the poor cavalier,
The late King on horseback is here to be shown;
What ad<^with your Kings and your statues is here!
Have we not had enough, pray, already of one?20
Does the Treasurer think men so loyally tame.
When their pensions are stop’d, to be fool’d with a sight?
And ’tis forty to one, if he play the old game,
He’ll reduce us e’er long to rehearse forty-eight.
The Trojan horse, so, (not of brass, but of wood)
Had within it an army that burnt down the town;
However, ’tis ominous, if understood,
For the old King on horseback is but an Half-crowne.
Yet, his brother-in-law’s horse had gain’d such repute.
That the Treasurer thought prudent to try it again;30
And, instead of that Market of herbs and of fruit,
He will here keep a Shambles of Parliament Men.
But why is the work then so long at a stand?
Such things you should never — or suddenly do:
As the Parliament twice was prorogued by your hand,
Would you venture so farr to prorogue the King too?
Let’s have a King, sir, be he new, be he old,
Not Vyner delay’d us so, though he were broken;
Tho’ the King be of copper, and Danby of gold,
Shall the Treasurer of guineas refuse such a token?40
The housewifery treasuress sure is grown nice,
And so liberally treated the members at supper;
She thinks not convenient to go to the price.
And we’ve lost both our King, and our horse, and his crupper.
Where so many parties there are to provide.
To buy a King is not so wise as to sell;
And however, she said, it could not be denied,
That a monarch of gingerbread might do as well.
But the Treasurer told her, he thought she was mad.
And his Parliament list too withall did produce;50
When he shew’d her, that so many voters he had,
As would the next tax reimburse them with use.
So the statue will up after all this delay,
But to turn the face towards Whitehall you must shun;
Though of brass, yet with grief it would melt him away,
To behold such a prodigal Court and a son.
See OUT Mem.-Intr. for onr reasons for accepting the present poem as certainly Marvell’s . Cf. it also with the ‘Dialogue between Two Horses,’ which succeeds this.
St. viii. Charing-cross seems to have been a shambles or place for batchers’ shops in especial.
St. ix. Parliament prorogued by Danby. For remark on date, see ‘Dialogue’ following.
We read in profane and sacred records,
Of beasts that have utter’d articulate words:
When magpies and parrots cry ‘Walk, knaves, walk!’
It is a clear proof that birds too may talk;
And statues, without either wind-pipes or lungs,
Have spoken as plainly as men do with tongues.
Livy tells a strange story, can hardly be fellow’d,
That a sacrific’d ox, when his guts were out, bellow’d;
Phalaris had a bull, which, grave authors tell ye.
Would roar like a devil with a man in his belly;10
Friar Bacon had a head that spake, made of brass;
And Balaam the prophet was reproved by his ass;
At Delphos and Eome stocks and stones now and then.
Have to questions returned articulate answers. [sirs.
All Popish believers think something divine,
When images speak, possesseth the shrine;
But they that Mth catholick ne’er understood,
When shrines give an answer, a knave’s on the rood.
Those idols ne’er spoke, but are miracles done
By the devil, a priest, a fryer, or a nun.20
In the Roman Church, good Christians, oblige ye
To believe man and beast have spoke in effigie,
Why should we not credit the publick discourses
In a dialogue between two inanimate horses?
The horses I mean of Wool-Church and Charing,
Who told many truths worth any man’s hearing.
Since Viner and Osborn did buy and provide ’em
For the two mighty monarchswho now do bestride ’em.
The stately brass stallion, and the white marble steed,
One night came together, by all ’tis agreed;30
When both kings were weary of sitting all day,
Were stolen off, incognito, each his own way;
And then the two jades, after mutual salutes,
Not only discours’d, but fell to disputes.
Quoth the marble horse:
It would make a stone speak,
To see a lord-mayor and a Lombardnstreet break;
Thy founder and mine to cheat one another,
When both knaves agreed to be each other’s brother. —
Here Charing broke forth, and thus he went on:40
My brass is provoked as much as thy stone,
To see Church and State bow down to a whore,
And the Song’s chief-minister holding the door;
The money of widows and orphans implor’d,
And the bankers quite broke to maintain the whore’s pride.
To see Dei gratia writ on the throne,
And the King’s wicked life say, God there is none.
That he should be stil’d Defender of the Faith,
Who believes not a jot what the Word of God saith.
That the duke should turn Papist, and that church defy50
For which his own father a martyr did die.
Tho he chang’d his religion, I hope he’s so civil
Not to think his own father is gone to the Devil.
That bondage and beggary should be in a nation
By a curst House of Commons and a blest Restoration.
To see a white staff make a beggar a lord,
And scarce a wise man at a long council-board.
That the Bank sho’d be seiz’d, yet the ‘Chequer so poor,
‘Lord ha’ mercy!’ and a cross, might be set on the door.
That a million and half should be the revenue,60
Yet the King of his debts pay no man a penny.
That a king should consume three kingdoms’ estates,
And yet all the Court be as poor as church rats.
That of four seas dominion, and of all their guarding,
No token sho’d appear, but a poor copper farthing.
Our worm-eaten ships to be laid up at Chatham,
Not our trade to secure, but for fools to come at ’em.
And our few ships abroad become Tripoli’s scorn,
By pawning for victuals their guns at Leghorn.
That making us slaves by horse and foot guard,70
For restoring the King, shall be all our reward.
The basest ingratitude ever was heard!
But tyrants ungrateful are always afear’d.
On Harry the Seventh’s head he that plac’d the crown
Was after rewarded by losing his own.
That parliament-men should rail at the Court,
And get good preferments immediately for ‘t;
To see them that suffer for father and son,
And helped to bring the latter to his throne,
That with lives and estates did loyally serye,80
And yet for all this can nothing deserve;
The King looks not on ’em, preferment’s deni’d ’em.
The Eoundheads insult, and the Courtiers deride ’em,
And none get preferments, but who will betray
Their country to ruin; ’tis that opes the way
Of the bold talking members.
If the bastards you add,
What a number of rascally lords have been made!
That traitors to th’ Country, in a brib’d House of Commons,
Should give away millions at every summons,90
Yet some of those givers, such beggarly villains,
As not to be trusted for twice fifty shillings.
Ko wonder that beggars should still be for giving,
Who out of what’s given do get a good living.
Four knights and a knave, who were burgesses made.
For selling their consciences were liberally paid.
How base are the souls of such low-prized sinners,
Who vote with the Court for drink and for dinners!
’Tis they that brought on us this scandalous yoke.
Of excising our cups, and taxing our smoake.100
But thanks to the whores who made the king dogged.
For giving no more the rogues are prorogued.
That a king should endeavour to make a War cease,
Which augments and secures his own profit and peace.
And plenipotentiaries sent into France,
With an addle-headed knight and a lord without blame.
That the King should send for another French whore,
When one already had made him so poor.
The misses take place, each advance to be dutchess,
With pomp great as queens in their coach and six horses;110
Their bastards made dukes, earls, viscounts, and lords,
And all the high titles that honour affords, no
While these brats and their mothers do live in such plenty.
The nation’s empovement, and the ’Chequer quite empty;
And tho War was pretended when the money was lent.
More on whores than in ships or in War hath been spent.
Enough, my dear brother, altho we speak reason,
Yet truth many times being punish’d for treason.
We ought to be wary, and bridle our tongue,
Bold speaking hath done both men and beasts wrong.120
When the ass so boldly rebuked the prophet.
Thou knowest what danger had like to come of it;
Though the beast gave his master ne’er an ill word,
Instead of a cudgel, Balaam wish’d for a sword.
Truth ’s as bold as a lion; I am not afraid;
I’ll prove every tittle of what I have said.
Our riders are absent; who is ‘t that can hear?
Let’s be true to ourselves, whom then need we fear?
Where is thy King gone?
To see Bishop Laud.130
Mine to cuckold a scriv’ner ’s in masquerade;
For on such occasions he oft strays away,
And returns to remount me about break of day.
In very dark nights sometimes you may find him
With a harlot got up on my crupper behind him.
Pause, brother, awhile, and calmly consider
What thou hast to say against my royal rider.
Thy priest-ridden King turned desperate fighter
For the surplice, lawn-sleeves, the cross, and the mitre;
Till at last on the scaffold he was left in the lurch,140
By knaves, who cry’d up themselves for the Church.
Archbishops and bishops, archdeacons and deans!
Thy King will ne’er fight unles’t be for his queans.
He that dies for ceremonies, dies like a fool.
The King on thy back is a lamentable tool.
The goat and the lyon I equally hate,
And freemen alike value life and estate;
Tho’ the father and son be different rods,
Between the two scourgers we find little odds;
Both infamous stand in three kingdoms’ votes;150
This for picking our pockets, that for cutting our throats.
More tolerable are the lion-king’s slaughters,
Than the goat making whores of our wives and our daughters:
The debauched and cruel, since they equally gall us,
I had rather bear Hero than Sardanapalus.
One of the two tyrants must still be our case,
Under all who shall reign of the the Stuart’s race.
De Wit and Cromwell had each a brave soul,
I freely declare it, I am for old Nell;
Tho’ his government did a tyrant resemble.160
He made England great, and his enemies tremble.
Thy rider puts no man to death in his wrath,
But is bury’d alive in lust and in sloth.
What is thy opinion of James, Duke of York
The same that the frogs had of Jupiter’s stork.
With the Turk in his head, and the Pope in his heart,
Father Patrick’s disciples will make England smart
If e’er he be king, I know Britain’s doom,
We must all to a stake, or be converts to Rome.
Ah, Tudor! ah, Tudor! we have had Stuarts enough;170
None ever reign’d like old Bess in the ruff.
Her Walsingham could dark counsels unriddle,
And our Sir Joseph write news books and fiddle.
Truth, brother, well said; but that ’s somewhat bitter;
His perfum’d predecessor was never more fitter:
Yet we have one secretary honest and wise;
For that very reason he ’s never to rise.
But can’st thou devise when things will be mended?
When the reign of the line of the Stuarts is ended.
If speeches’ from animals in Home’s first age180
Prodigious events did surely presage,
That should come to pass, all mankind may swear
That which two inanimate horses declare.
But I should have told you before the jades parted,
Both gallopp’d to Whitehall, and there humbly farted!
Which tyranny’s downfal portended much more
Than all that the beasts had spoken before.
If the Delphick Sibil’s oracular speeches
(As learned men say) came out of their breeches,
Why might not our horses, since words are but wind,190
Have the spirit of prophecy likewise behind?
Tho’ tyrants make laws, which they strictly proclaim,
To conceal their own faults and cover their shame,
Yet the beasts in the field, and the stones in the wall,
Will publish their faults and prophesy their fall;
When they take from the people the freedom of words,
They teach them the sooner to fall to their swords.
Let the city drink coffee and quietly groan, —
(They who conquer’d the father won’t be slaves to the son.)
For wine and strong drink make tumults encrease,200
Chocolate, tea, and coffee, are liquors of Peace;
No quarrels or oaths are among those that drink ’em,
’Tis Bacchus and the brewer, swear Damn ’em! and Sink ’em!
Then, Charles, thy late edict against coffee recal,
There’s ten times more treason in brandy and ale.
It is natural to suppose that this Dialogue was composed when one of the statues was a novelty. The recognised authorities differ as to the date of the reerection of that of Charles I. Pennant, in his account of London, says 1678; Toone, that it was reerected out of money voted in January 1678; Allen, in his account of London, gives 1671; and another statement is that it was in 1674 (as in the heading of this poem); but Allen’s date mnst be wrong, as also the statement that it was put up 1674; for st. viii. and x. of the St. at Ch. Cross, when it was being lingerlngly erected, speak of that of Charles II. at the Stocks-market as already set up, and that we know was in 1675. Perhaps I have wasted superfluous pains in trying to reconcile the discrepancies. That of Charles II. was set up in 1675 by Sir Robert Viner, the Lord Mayor in 1675. Sir Joseph Williamson, the Sir Joseph of Manrell, succeeded his ‘perfumed predecessor’ the Earl of Arlington, 11th May 1674, and continued one of the Secretaries of State till 9th February 1678. But that which fixes the date of the ‘Dialogue’ within the limits of a month are the words ‘Let the city drink coffee’ (1. 196), and ‘Charles, thy late edict against coffee recal’ (1. 201). Charles’s edict or proclamation closing the London coffee-houses, on account of seditious talking and meetings, was issued 29th November 1675, and revoked 8th January 1676; so that the poem must have been written between these dates. With this agrees the reference to the second Frenchwoman: the Duchess of Portsmouth, who came over in 1670, was the first; and the Duchesse de Mazarine arrived in October 1675. See farther note on line 201.
Line 9, ‘Phalaris had a bull.’ The brazen bull made by Perillus.
Line 11, ‘Friar Bacon’ = Roger Bacon.
Line 12, ‘Balaam.’ See Numbers xxii.
Line 18, ‘rood’ = cross. 1710 badly misprints ‘as knave.’ The construction is [think] a knave’s &c., the ‘think’ being taken from L 15. Perhaps an allusion to the detected imposture of Holy Bood in Kent in Henry viii.’s reign. line 24 I retain ‘In,’ not ‘Of.’
Line 25, ‘Wool-Church and Charing.’ 1726 annotates here: ‘The statue at Charing Cross was erected by the Lord Danby; that at Wool-Church by Sir Robert Viner, then Lord-mayor.’ See Pepys, s. n.
Line 27, ‘Viner and Osborne’ See on line 25, supra. Osborn = Danby.
Line 30. 1710 corrects the usual misprint of ‘The’ for ‘One:’ and L 32, ‘They stole’ for ‘Were stolen.’
Line 32, ‘stolen:’ usually printed ‘stole.’
Line 86, ‘Lombard-street break.’ 1726 annotates: ‘Alluding to the failure of the bankers.’ Pepys abundantly confirms the context.
Line 38. St. viii. of the Statue at Charing Cross tells as that Danby and Viner were brothers-in-law.
Line 45, ‘To see Dei gratia,’ Can this be Marvell’s reply to, or a saying suggested by Finch, who, as holder of the seals, told the Parliament in 1675 that ‘they served a prince in whose preservation miracles had become familiar; whose style Dei gratia seemed not to be writ by a vulgar pen, but by the arm of Omnipotence itself’?
Line 46. Even in 1710 edit, printed ‘E ’s,’ and so elsewhere.
Line 48. 1710 corrects the usual misprint of ‘word’ by ‘jot:’ accepted.
Line 49, ‘Duke,’ i.e. of York.
Line 52, ‘father,’ i. e, Charles I.
Line 55, ‘white staff.’ As before, Osborne, i.e, Danby.
Line 57, ‘the Bank.’ On the 2d January 1672 Charles and his ministers suddenly shut up the Exchequer, thus declaring a national bankruptcy, and causing great ruin and loss of all credit. Hence Marvell supposes the Plague sign and words to have been affixed to the building (line 58). Crosses were continued on the gold and silver coins; and the jokes on this were so common in the times of Elizabeth and James, that it is not unlikely Marvell intended the farther satire, that there might be crosses without, but more within. See Pepys, ii. 291, and Lord Braylbooke’s note.
Line 59, ‘revenue.’ See reference to our note in Southwell (pp. 132-8), as before.
Line 63, ‘four seas.’ I think a numismatic allusion. The Charles II. halfpenny bears the figure and legend of Britannia much as at present, the gold and silver coins the royal arms. I do not know whether the ‘farthing’ was more expressive, or whether, metri et sensus gratia, Marvell took ‘farthing’ as for the copper coinage generally.
Line 65, ‘worm-eaten ships.’ 1726 annotates: ‘Alluding to our ships being burned by the Dutch.’
Lines 67-8, ‘Tripoli . . . Leghorn.’ On the latter see Pepys, ii. 74-75.
Line 72. 1710 badly misprints ‘afraid.’ The annotator of the British-Museum copy has written the missing line of the 1689 edition thus, ‘For restoring the king is all our reward;’ and the next line is altered to ‘But tyrants ungrateful have always appear’d;’ i. e. changing ‘are’ and ‘afraid.’
Lines 73-4. Sir William Stanley was accused of participating in the Perkins-Warbeck conspiracy, and beheaded 1496. He saved Henry VII.’s life at Bosworth when Richard made his desperate charge; but it was bis brother Lord Stanley who, both literally and by his defection, as head of the Stanleys placed the crown on the king’s head. The explanation of the confusion lies in the under-referenoe to Argyle, who ‘placed the crown’ on Charles’s head at Scone in 1651, and who exclaimed when he was condemned in 1660, and denied ten days’ respite that the king’s pleasure might be known, ‘I placed the crown upon his head, and this is my reward.’ Marvell is full of such double meanings: and if I may be permitted a clerical remark, it is that the deniers of double meanings and double fulfilments of Bible prophecies have never studied our national literature, or to small purpose.
Lines 77-79. 1710 has ‘both’ in 1. 77 before ‘for,’ and ‘their’ before ‘lives’ in 1. 79.
Line 86, ‘rascally.’ Not merely in our sense of moral unworthiness (though that may be implied). It was used in the sense of worthlessness as to rank and birth. According to one version, Elizabeth said she would have no rascal succeed her: according to another, no rogue. Both words meant one of low condition, and in her lower than royal. See most of the examples in Richardson, q.v., where he does not seem to have sufficiently separated the two senses either as to meaning or time.
Line 96, ‘Court.’ Usually misprinted badly ‘Country,’ even in 1710 edition.
Line 98, ‘excising our cups.’ In the excise, &c. law passed in 1660, coffee was taxed at fourpence a gallon; chocolate, sherbet, and tea at eightpence. In the revision of 1671 the tax on coffee was reduced to twopence.
Lines 103-4, ‘plenipotentiaries.’ See Pepys under St. Alban’s . The ‘addle-headed knight’ was probably Sir William Temple, sent to the Hague on peace being made with the Dutch, Feb. 1674. The king made attempts to mediate between the Dutch and French in 1674. There was also a diplomatic meeting first at Cologne, and then at Nimeguen, at which Sir William Temple was present. ‘Plenipotentiaries’ seems to point to the latter, which was held in 1675.
Line 100, ‘For giving no more,’ In 1675 the Commons, on examining the accounts, stated that the king at the end of the Dntoh ware ought to have had a surplus and not a deficit; but voted 300,000l., as our navy was inferior to that of the French. They were then, in Nov. 1675, prorogued for fifteen months. It is probably this prorogation that is spoken of. See note on heading and date of this poem.
Line 107. For ‘each’ 1710 reads ‘and.’ ‘MisB, as they at this time began to call lewd women’ (Evelyn’s Diary, 9th January 1662).
Line 122, ‘sword.’ See Numbers xxii.
Line 127, ‘Laud:’ somewhat of an anachronism: but it is to be remembered the one interlocutor was a ‘ghost.’
Lines 128-9. Usually misprinted ‘To cuckold . . . nune is . . . For . . .’ In 1710 ‘To cuckold . . . mine’s .’
Line 139. This Line usually wrongly given to Wool-Church.
Line 149, ‘lion-king.’ This, as appears from Une 135 and from 1. 148, ‘that for cutting our throats,’ as compared with ‘ though the father doom,’ is Charles I. But as the term was not very descriptive, it is not improbable that Marvell is alluding to some apologue (contemporary or otherwise) on the King Log and King Stork fable. See below.
Line 150, ‘goat’ = Charles II.,, 155-6. See our Memorial-Introduction on these lines (‘Writings’).
Line 163. The old AEsopian fable found in all languages.
Line 165, ‘Father Patrick.’ See preceding ‘Advice,’ and relative note.
Line 168. Usually misprinted ‘of Stuarts enough’ simply.
Line 169, ‘Bess.’ ‘Brave Queen Bess:’ Elizabeth.
Line 170, ‘Walsingham,’ Secretary of State: died 1590.
Line 171. Sir Joseph Williamson. As I write this, I see his ‘Correspondence’ is about to be issued by the Camden Society. See Pepys, 8, n. frequently. He commenced the ‘Oxford Gazette.’ He was President of the Boyal Society. Buried in Westminster Abbey Uth Oct. 1701. See Evelyn (i. 409 et alibi). On line 173 see note on heading and date.
Line 174, ‘one secretary,’ Henry Coventry was the other Secretary of State; but appointed in 1672, he resigned from ill-health in 1679.
Line 187. Alluding to the saying, that the oracle was influenced by the best payer.
Line 200. Probably an aUnsion not merely to the excitement over grrievances caused by these liquors, bat to that excitement cansed by the particular grieyance of the duties imposed on wine and, beer in 1661, and enlarged in 1671; a tax which increased very considerably the retail prices.
Line 201, ‘edict . . . coffee.’ See note on heading and date. With reference to this edict against coffee it may be added that it was only the culmination of a long-existing displeasure; for in the Dream of the Cabal, which is dated 1672, and must have been writen between 1670 and June 1673, there is an allusion to some talked-of measure of a similar kind:
‘Make coffee-clubs talk of more humble things
Than State affairs and interests of kings.’
The Proclamation shutting the coffee-houses ran thus: ‘Because in such houses, and by the occasion of the meeting of disaffected persons in them, divers false, malicious, and scandalous reports were devised and spread abroad, to the defamation of his majesty’s government, and to the disturbance of the quiet and peace of the realm.’
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