But will be nothing ere it can come there.
I feare, as I doe Stabbing; this word, State,
I dare not speake of the Palatinate, 10
Although some men make it their hourely theame,
And talke what’s done in Austria, and in Beame,
I may not so; what Spinola intends,
Nor with his Dutch, which way Prince Maurice bends;
To other men, although these things be free,
Yet (GEORGE) they must be misteries to mee.
I scarce dare praise a vertuous friend that’s dead,
Lest for my lines he should be censured;
It was my hap before all other men
To suffer shipwrack by my forward pen: 20
When King IAMES entred; at which ioyfull time
I taught his title to this Ile in rime:
And to my part did all the Muses win,
With high-pitch Pæans to applaud him in:
When cowardise had tyed vp euery tongue,
And all stood silent, yet for him I sung;
And when before by danger I was dar’d,
I kick’d her from me, nor a iot I spar’d.
Yet had not my cleere spirit in Fortunes scorne,
Me aboue earth and her afflictions borne; 30
He next my God on whom I built my trust,
Had left me troden lower then the dust:
But let this passe; in the extreamest ill,
Apollo’s brood must be couragious still,
Let Pies, and Dawes, sit dumb before their death,
Onely the Swan sings at the parting breath.
And (worthy GEORGE) by industry and vse,
Let’s see what lines Virginia will produce;
Goe on with OVID, as you haue begunne,
With the first fiue Bookes; let your numbers run 40
Glib as the former, so shall it liue long,
And doe much honour to the English tongue:
Intice the Muses thither to repaire,
Intreat them gently, trayne them to that ayre,
For they from hence may thither hap to fly,
T’wards the sad time which but to fast doth hie,
For Poesie is follow’d with such spight,
By groueling drones that neuer raught her height,
That she must hence, she may no longer staye:
The driery fates prefixed haue the day, 50
Of her departure, which is now come on,
And they command her straight wayes to be gon;
That bestiall heard so hotly her pursue,
And to her succour, there be very few,
Nay none at all, her wrongs that will redresse,
But she must wander in the wildernesse,
Like to the woman, which that holy IOHN
Beheld in Pathmos in his vision.
As th’ English now, so did the stiff-neckt Iewes,
Their noble Prophets vtterly refuse, 60
And of these men such poore opinions had;
They counted Esay and Ezechiel mad;
When Ieremy his Lamentations writ,
They thought the Wizard quite out of his wit,
Such sots they were, as worthily to ly,
Lock’t in the chaines of their captiuity,
Knowledge hath still her Eddy in her Flow,
So it hath beene, and it will still be so.
That famous Greece where learning flourisht most,
Hath of her muses long since left to boast, 70
Th’ vnlettered Turke, and rude Barbarian trades,
Where HOMER sang his lofty Iliads;
And this vaste volume of the world hath taught,
Much may to passe in little time be brought.
As if to Symptoms we may credit giue,
This very time, wherein we two now liue,
Shall in the compasse, wound the Muses more,
Then all the old English ignorance before;
Base Balatry is so belou’d and sought,
And those braue numbers are put by for naught, 80
Which rarely read, were able to awake,
Bodyes from graues, and to the ground to shake
The wandring clouds, and to our men at armes,
‘Gainst pikes and muskets were most powerfull charmes.
That, but I know, insuing ages shall,
Raise her againe, who now is in her fall;
And out of dust reduce our scattered rimes,
Th’ reiected iewels of these slothfull times,
Who with the Muses would misspend an hower,
But let blind Gothish Barbarisme deuoure 90
These feuerous Dogdays, blest by no record,
But to be euerlastingly abhord.
If you vouchsafe rescription, stuffe your quill
With naturall bountyes, and impart your skill,
In the description of the place, that I,
May become learned in the soyle thereby;
Of noble Wyats health, and let me heare,
The Gouernour; and how our people there,
Increase and labour, what supplyes are sent,
Which I confesse shall giue me much content; 100
But you may saue your labour if you please,
To write to me ought of your Sauages.
As sauage slaues be in great Britaine here,
As any one that you can shew me there
And though for this, Ile say I doe not thirst,
Yet I should like it well to be the first,
Whose numbers hence into Virginia flew,
So (noble Sandis) for this time adue.
TO. MY NOBLE FRIEND MASTER WILLIAM BROWNE, OF THE EUILL TIME.
DEARE friend, be silent and with patience see,
What this mad times Catastrophe will be,
The Worlds first wisemen certainely mistooke
Themselues, and spoke things quite beside the book•
And that which they haue sayd of God, vntrue,
Or else expect strange iudgement to insue.
This Ile is a meere Bedlam, and therein,
We all lye rauing mad in euery sinne,
And him the wisest most men vse to call,
Who doth (alone) the maddest thing of all,
He whom the master of all wisedome found,
For a marckt foole, and so did him propound,
The time we liue in, to that passe is brought,
That only he a Censor now is thought:
And that base Villaine, not an age yet gone,)
Which a good man would not haue look’d vpon,
Now like a God▪ with diuine worship follow’d,
And all his actions are accounted hollow’d.
This world of ours, thus runneth vpon wheeles,
Set on the head, bolt vpright with her heeles,
Which makes me thinke of what the Ethinck▪ told,
Th’opinion the Pythagorists vphold,
That the immortall soule doth transmigrate;
Then I suppose by the strong power of fate,
That those which at confused Babell were,
And since that time now many a lingering yeare,
Through fooles, and beasts, and lunaticks haue past,
Are here i•bodyed in this age at last,
And though so long we from that time be gone,
Yet taste we stil of that confusion.
For certainely ther’s scarce one found that now,
Knowes what t’approue, or what to disalow,
Al arsey var•ey, nothing is it’s owne,
But to our prouerbe▪ all turn’d vpside downe:
To doe in time, is to doe out of season,
And that speeds best, that’s done the farth’st from reason
Hee’s high’st that’s low’st, hee’s surest in that’s out,
He hits the next way that goes farth’st about,
Hee ge••eth vp vnlike to rise at al,
He slips to ground as much vnlike to fall:
Wh
ich doth enforce me partly to preferre,
The opinion of that mad Philosopher,
Who taught, that those al-framing powers aboue,
(As •is suppos’d) made man not out of Loue
To him at all, but onely as a thing,
To make them sport with, which they vse to bring,
As men doe munkeys, puppets, and such tooles,
Of laughter; so men are but the Gods of fooles,
Such are by titles lifted to the sky,
As wherefore no man knowes, God scarcely why;
The vertuous man depressed like a stone
For that dull Sot to raise himselfe vpon:
He who ne’re thing yet worthy man durst doe,
Neuer durst looke vpon his countreys foe,
Nor durst attempt that action which might get
Him fame with men: or higher might him set
Then the base begger (rightly if compar’d)
This drone yet neuer braue attempt that dat’d,
Yet dares be Knighted, and from thence dares grow,
To any title Empire can bestow;
For this beleeue, that impudence is now
A Cardinall vertue, and men it alow
Reuerence, nay more, men study and inuent,
New wayes▪ nay glory to be impudent.
Into the clouds the Deuill lately got,
And by the moisture doubting much the rot,
A medicine tooke to make him purge and cast;
Which in short time began to worke so fast,
That he fell too’t, and from his backeside flew,
A rout of rascall a rude ribauld crew
Of base Plebeians, which no sooner light,
Vpon the earth, but with a suddaine flight,
They spread this Ile, and as Deucalion once
Ouer his shoulder backe, by throwing stones
They became men, euen so these beasts became,
Owners of titles from an obscure name.
He that by ryot of a mighty rent,
Hath his late goodly Partrimony spent,
And into base and wilfull beggery runne,
This man as hee some glorious act had done,
With some great pension, or rich guift releeu’d,
When he that hath by industry atchieu’d
Some noble thing, contemned and disgrac’d,
In the forlorne hope of the times is plac’d,
As though that God had carelessely left all
That being hath on this terestiall ball,
To fortunes guiding, nor would haue to doe
With man, nor ought that doth belong him to,
Or at the least God hauing giuen more
Power to the Deuill, then he did of yore,
Ouer this world: the fiend as he doth hate
The vertuous man; maligning his estate,
All noble things, and would haue by his will,
To be damn’d with him vsing all his skill,
By his blacke hellish ministers to vexe
All worthy men, and strangely to perplexe,
Their constancie, there by them so to fright,
That they should yeelde them wholly to his might,
But of these things I vainely doe but tell,
Where hell is heauen, and heau’n is now turn’d he•,
Where that which lately blasphemy hath bin,
Now godlinesse▪ much lesse accounted sin;
And a long while I greatly maruail’d why
Buffoons and Bawds should hourely multiply▪
Til that of late I construed it, that they
To present thrift had got the perfect way,
When I concluded by their odious crimes,
It was for vs no thriuing in these times▪
As men oft laugh at little Babes when they
Hap to behold some strange thing in their play,
To see them on the sudden strucken sad,
As in their fancie some strange formes they had,
Which they by pointing with their fingers show,
Angry at our capacities so slow,
That by their countenance we no sooner learne,
To see the wonder which they so discerne:
So the celestiall powers doe sit and smile
At innocent and vertuous men the while,
They stand amazed at the world ore-gone,
So farre beyond imagination,
With slauish basenesse, that the silent sit
Pointing like children in describing it.
Then noble friend the next way to controule
These worldly crosses, is to arme thy soule
With constant patience: and with thoughts as high
As these belowe, and poore, winged to flie
To that exalted stand, whether yet they
Are got with paine, that sit out of the way
Of this ignoble age, which raiseth none
But such as thinke their blacke damnation
To be a trifle; such, so ill, that when
They are aduanc’d, those few poore honest men
That yet are liuing, into search doe runne
To find what mischiefe they haue lately done,
Which so prefers them; say thou he doth rise,
That maketh vertue his chiefe exercise,
And in this base World come what euer shall,
Hees worth lamenting that for her doth fall.
VPON THE THREE SONNES OF THE LORD SHEFFIELD, DROWNED IN HUMBER.
Light Sonnets hence, and to loose Louers flie,
And mournfull Maydens sing an Elegie
On those three SHEFFIELDS, ouer-whelm’d with waues,
Whose losse the teares of all the Muses craues;
A thing so full of pitty as this was,
Me thinkes for nothing should not slightly passe.
Treble this losse was, why should it not borrowe,
Through this Iles treble parts, a treble sorrowe:
But Fate did this, to let the world to knowe,
That sorrowes which from common causes growe, 10
Are not worth mourning for, the losse to beare,
But of one onely sonne, ‘s not worth one teare.
Some tender-hearted man, as I, may spend
Some drops (perhaps) for a deceased friend.
Some men (perhaps) their Wifes late death may rue;
Or Wifes their Husbands, but such be but fewe.
Cares that haue vs’d the hearts of men to tuch
So oft, and deepely, will not now be such;
Who’ll care for loss of maintenance, or place,
Fame, liberty, or of the Princes grace; 20
Or sutes in law, by base corruption crost,
When he shall finde, that this which he hath lost,
Alas, is nothing to his, which did lose,
Three sonnes at once so excellent as those:
Nay, it is feard that this in time may breed
Hard hearts in men to their owne naturall seed;
That in respect of this great losse of theirs,
Men will scarce mourne the death of their owne heires.
Through all this Ile their losse so publique is,
That euery man doth take them to be his, 30
And as a plague which had beginning there,
So catching is, and raigning euery where,
That those the farthest off as much doe rue them,
As those the most familiarly that knew them;
Children with this disaster are wext sage,
And like to men that strucken are in age;
Talke what it is, three children at one time
Thus to haue drown’d, and in their very prime;
Yea, and doe learne to act the same so well,
That then olde folke, they better can it tell. 40
Inuention, oft that Passion vs’d to faine,
In sorrowes of themselves but slight, and meane,
To make them seeme great, here it shall not need,
F
or that this Subiect doth so farre exceed
All forc’d Expression, that what Poesie shall
Happily thinke to grace it selfe withall,
Falls so belowe it, that it rather borrowes
Grace from their griefe, then addeth to their sorrowes,
For sad mischance thus in the losse of three,
To shewe it selfe the vtmost it could bee: 50
Exacting also by the selfe same lawe,
The vtmost teares that sorrowe had to drawe
All future times hath vtterly preuented
Of a more losse, or more to be lamented.
Whilst in faire youth they liuely flourish’d here,
To their kinde Parents they were onely deere:
But being dead, now euery one doth take
Them for their owne, and doe like sorrowe make:
As for their owne begot, as they pretended
Hope in the issue, which should haue discended 60
From them againe; nor here doth end our sorrow,
But those of vs, that shall be borne to morrowe
Still shall lament them, and when time shall count,
To what vast number passed yeares shall mount,
They from their death shall duly reckon so,
As from the Deluge, former vs’d to doe.
O cruell Humber guilty of their gore,
I now beleeue more then I did before
The Brittish Story, whence thy name begun
Of Kingly Humber, an inuading Hun, 70
By thee deuoured, for’t is likely thou
With blood wert Christned, bloud-thirsty till now.
The Ouse, the Done, and thou farre clearer Trent,
To drowne the SHEFFIELDS as you gaue consent,
Shall curse the time, that ere you were infus’d,
Which haue your waters basely thus abus’d.
The groueling Boore yee hinder not to goe,
And at his pleasure Ferry to and fro.
The very best part of whose soule, and bloud,
Compared with theirs, is viler then your mud. 80
But wherefore paper, doe I idely spend,
On those deafe waters to so little end,
And vp to starry heauen doe I not looke,
In which, as in an euerlasting booke,
Our ends are written; O let times rehearse
Their fatall losse, in their sad Aniuerse.
TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY I. S. OF WORLDLY CROSSES.
Madame, to shew the smoothnesse of my vaine,
Neither that I would haue you entertaine
The time in reading me, which you would spend
In faire discourse with some knowne honest friend,
I write not to you. Nay, and which is more,
My powerfull verses striue not to restore,
What time and sicknesse haue in you impair’d,
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 148
