by Paul Keegan
To swim with Bladders of Philosophy;
In hopes still t’oretake th’escaping light,
The Vapour dances in his dazling sight,
Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night.
Then Old Age, and experience, hand in hand,
Lead him to death, and make him understand,
After a search so painful, and so long,
That all his Life he has been in the wrong;
Hudled in dirt, the reas’ning Engine lyes,
Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.
(…)
You see how far Mans wisedom here extends,
Look next, if humane Nature makes amends;
Whose Principles, most gen’rous are, and just,
And to whose Moralls, you wou’d sooner trust.
Be judge your self, I’le bring it to the test,
Which is the basest Creature Man, or Beast?
Birds, feed on Birds, Beasts, on each other prey,
But Savage Man alone, does Man, betray:
Prest by necessity, they Kill for Food,
Man, undoes Man, to do himself no good.
With Teeth, and Claws, by Nature arm’d they hunt,
Natures allowance, to supply their want.
But Man, with smiles, embraces, Friendships, praise,
Unhumanely his Fellows life betrays;
With voluntary pains, works his distress,
Not through necessity, but wantonness.
For hunger, or for Love, they fight, or tear,
Whilst wretched Man, is still in Arms for fear;
For fear he armes, and is of Armes afraid,
By fear, to fear, successively betray’d.
Base fear, the source whence his best passion came,
His boasted Honor, and his dear bought Fame.
That lust of Pow’r, to which he’s such a Slave,
And for the which alone he dares be brave:
To which his various Projects are design’d,
Which makes him gen’rous, affable, and kind.
For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,
And screws his actions, in a forc’d disguise:
Leading a tedious life in Misery,
Under laborious, mean Hypocrisie.
Look to the bottom, of his vast design,
Wherein Mans Wisdom, Pow’r, and Glory joyn;
The good he acts, the ill he does endure,
’Tis all for fear, to make himself secure.
Meerly for safety, after Fame we thirst,
For all Men, wou’d be Cowards if they durst.
And honesty’s against all common sense,
Men must be Knaves, ’tis in their own defence.
Mankind’s dishonest, if you think it fair,
Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square,
You’le be undone –
Nor can weak truth, your reputation save,
The Knaves, will all agree to call you Knave.
Wrong’d shall he live, insulted o’re, opprest,
Who dares be less a Villain, than the rest.
Thus Sir you see what humane Nature craves,
Most Men are Cowards, all Men shou’d be Knaves:
The diff’rence lyes (as far as I can see)
Not in the thing it self, but the degree;
And all the subject matter of debate,
Is only who’s a Knave, of the first Rate?
1680
NATHANIEL WANLEY The Resurrection
Can death be faithfull or the grave be just
Or shall my tombe restore my scattred dust?
Shall ev’ry haire find out its’ proper pore
And crumbled bones be joined as before
Shall long unpractis’d pulses learne to beate
Victorious rottennesse a loud retreate
Or eyes Ecclipsed with a tedious night
May they once hope to resalute the light?
What if this flesh of mine be made the prey
Of Scaly Pirates Caniballs at sea
Shall living Sepulchres give up theire dead
Or is not flesh made fish then perished?
What if the working of a subtile flame
By an unkind embrace dissolve this frame
To ashes; and the whist’ling winds convey
Each atome to a quite contrary way
Shall the small Pilgrims that (perhaps) may passe
From grasse to flesh and thence from flesh to grasse
Travell untill they meet and then embrace
So strictly as to grow the former face?
My God I know thy pow’refull word did frame
Out of pure nothing all that hath a name
From the bright Angells bathing in full streames
Of deathlesse joyes to motes that dance in beames.
And shall I doubt but such a word can call
Flesh out of dust that out of lesse made all?
No no I am resolv’d, that when poore I
Shall slumbring in our mothers bosome lye
The circl’ing wormes shall loose theire fast embrace
And kinder turfes that cover mee give place
The bands of Death shall burst at the shrill sound
Of Heavens summons and I shall be found
Then will I rise and dresse mee lord for thee
Who did’st by Death undresse thee lord for mee.
(1928)
JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER The Disabled Debauchee
As some brave Admiral, in former War,
Depriv’d of force, but prest with courage still,
Two Rival-Fleets, appearing from a far,
Crawles to the top of an adjacent Hill:
From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views
The wise, and daring Conduct of the fight,
And each bold Action, to his Mind renews,
His present glory, and his past delight;
From his fierce Eyes, flashes of rage he throws,
As from black Clouds, when Lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his Foes,
And absent, yet enjoys the Bloody Day;
So when my Days of impotence approach,
And I’m by Pox, and Wines unlucky chance,
Forc’d from the pleasing Billows of debauch,
On the dull Shore of lazy temperance,
My pains at least some respite shall afford,
Whilst I behold the Battails you maintain,
When Fleets of Glasses, sail about the Board,
From whose Broad-sides Volleys of Wit shall rain.
Nor let the sight of Honourable Scars,
Which my too forward Valour did procure,
Frighten new-listed Souldiers from the Warrs,
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.
Shou’d any Youth (worth being drunk) prove nice,
And from his fair Inviter meanly shrink,
‘Twill please the Ghost, of my departed Vice,
If at my Councel, he repent and drink.
Or shou’d some cold complexion’d Sot forbid,
With his dull Morals, our Nights brisk Alarmes,
I’ll fire his Blood by telling what I did,
When I was strong, and able to bear Armes.
I’ll tell of Whores attacqu’d, their Lords at home,
Bawds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won,
Windows demolisht, Watches overcome,
And handsome ills, by my contrivance done.
Nor shall our Love-fits Cloris be forgot,
When each the well-look’d Link-Boy, strove t’enjoy,
And the best Kiss, was the deciding Lot,
Whether the Boy fuck’d you, or I the Boy.
With Tales like these, I will such thoughts inspire,
As to important mischief shall incline.
I’ll make him long some Antient Church to fire,
And fear no lewdness he’s called to by Wine.
Thus States-man-like, I’ll sawcily impose,
And safe from Action valiantly advise,
Shelter’d in impotence, urge you to blows,
And being good for nothing else, be wise.
1681
ANDREW MARVELL An Horatian Ode upon Cromwel’s Return from Ireland
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 oyl th’ unused Armours rust:
Removing from the Wall
The Corslet of the Hall.
So restless Cromwel could not cease
In the inglorious Arts of Peace,
But through adventrous War
Urged 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 inclose
Is more then to oppose.
Then burning through the Air he went,
And Pallaces and Temples rent:
And Cæsars head at last
Did through his Laurels blast.
’Tis Madness to resist or blame
The force of angry Heavens flame:
And, if we would speak true,
Much to the Man is due.
Who, from his private Gardens, where
He liv’d reserved and austere,
As if his highest plot
To plant the Bergamot,
Could by industrious Valour climbe
To ruine the great Work of Time,
And cast the Kingdome old
Into another Mold.
Though Justice against Fate complain,
And plead the antient 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 Wars,
Where his were not the deepest Scars?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser Art.
Where, twining subtile fears with hope,
He wove a Net of such a scope,
That Charles himself might chase
To Caresbrooks narrow case.
That thence the Royal Actor born
The Tragick Scaffold might adorn:
While round the armed Bands
Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable Scene:
But with his keener Eye
The Axes edge did try:
Nor call’d the Gods with vulgar spight
To vindicate his helpless Right,
But bow’d his comely Head,
Down as upon a Bed.
This was that memorable Hour
Which first assur’d the forced Pow’r.
So when they did design
The Capitols first Line,
A bleeding Head where they begun,
Did fright the Architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw it’s happy Fate.
And now the Irish are asham’d
To see themselves in one Year tam’d:
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 Republick’s hand:
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey.
He to the Commons Feet presents
A Kingdome, for his first years rents:
And, what he may, forbears
His Fame to make it theirs:
And has his Sword and Spoyls ungirt,
To lay them at the Publick’s skirt.
So when the Falcon high
Falls heavy from the Sky,
She, having kill’d, no more does search,
But on the next green Bow to pearch;
Where, when he first does lure,
The Falckner has her sure.
What may not then our Isle presume
While Victory his Crest does plume!
What may not others fear
If thus he crown each Year!
A Caesar he ere long to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all States not free
Shall Clymacterick be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his party-colour’d Mind;
But from this Valour sad
Shrink underneath the Plad:
Happy if in the tufted brake
The English Hunter him mistake;
Nor lay his Hounds in near
The Caledonian Deer.
But thou the Wars and Fortunes Son
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect
Still keep thy Sword erect:
Besides the force it has to fright
The Spirits of the shady Night,
The same Arts that did gain
A Pow’r must it maintain.
(written c. 1650)
ANDREW MARVELL Bermudas
Where the remote Bermudas ride
In th’ Oceans bosome unespy’d,
From a small Boat, that row’d along,
The listning Winds receiv’d this Song.
What should we do but sing his Praise
That led us through the watry 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.
He lands us on a grassy Stage;
Safe from the Storms, and Prelat’s rage.
He gave us this eternal Spring,
Which here enamells every thing;
And sends the Fowle 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 Pomgranates close,
