Are silenc'd by a calm, and then brings forth The happy miracle of her rare birth, Leaving with wonder all our arts possest, That view the architecture of her nest.
Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestow Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow By age to dotage; while the sensitive
Part of the world in its first strength doth live. Folly! what dost thou in thy power contain Deserves our study? merchants plough the main, And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more, By avarice in the possession poor. And yet that idol Wealth we all admit Into the soul's great temple; busy Wit Invents new orgies, Fancy frames new rites To show its superstition; anxious nights Are watch'd to win its favour; while the beast Content with nature's courtesy doth rest. Let man then boast no more a soul, since he Hath lost that great prerogative; but thee (Whom fortune hath exempted from the herd Of vulgar men, whom virtue hath preferr'd Far higher than thy birth) I must commend, Rich in the purchase of so sweet a friend. And though my fate conducts me to the shade Of humble Quiet, my ambition paid
With safe content, while a pure virgin fame Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name; No thought of glory swelling me above The hope of being famed for virtuous love; Yet wish I thee, guided by better stars, To purchase unsafe honour in the wars, Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race And merits well may challenge th' highest place.
Yet know, what busy path soe'er you tread
To greatness, you must sleep among the dead *.
Castara, by W. Habington,
LIKE to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are; Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue; Or silver drops of morning dew; Or like a wind that chafes the flood; Or bubbles which on water stood : Even such is man, whose borrow'd light Is strait call'd in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out; the bubble dies ; The spring entomb’d in autumn lies; The dew dries up; the star is shot: The flight is past, and man forgot.
Dr. King's Poems, p. 139.
*Yet know, what busy path soe'er you tread
To greatness, you must sleep among the dead.] How comprehensively, how plainly, yet how sublimely, hath Gray expressed this trite sentiment:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
MY NOBLEST FRIEND, J. C, ESQ.
I HATE the country's dirt and manners, yet
I love the silence; I embrace the wit
And courtship, flowing here in a full tide, But loath the expense, the vanity, and pride. No place each way is happy; here I hold Commerce with some, who to my ear unfold (After a due oath minister'd) the height And greatness of each star shines in the state, The brightness, the eclipse, the influence. With others I commune, who tell me whence The torrent doth of foreign discord flow: Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow, Soon as they happen; and by rote can tell Those German towns even puzzle me to spell; The cross or prosperous fate of princes, they Ascribe to rashness, cunning, or delay; And on each action comment with more skill Than upon Livy did old Machiavell.
O, busy folly! why do I my brain Perplex with the dull policies of Spain, Or quick designs of France? why not repair To the pure innocence of the country air, And neighbour thee, dear friend? who so dost give Thy thoughts to worth and virtue, that to live
* With others I commune.] See note Vol. I. p. 102.
Blest, is to trace thy ways; there, might not we Arm against passion with philosophy;
And, by the aid of leisure, so control Whate'er is earth in us, to grow all soul? Knowledge doth ignorance engender, when We study mysteries of other men
And foreign plots. Do but in thy own shade, Thy head upon some flow'ry pillow laid, (Kind Nature's housewifery) contemplate all His stratagems who labours to enthral
The world to his great master, and you'll find Ambition mocks itself, and grasps the wind. Not conquest makes us great, blood is too dear A price for glory: honour doth appear To statesmen like a vision in the night, And, juggler-like, works on the deluded sight. The unbusied only wise: for no respect Endangers them to error; they affect Truth in her naked beauty, and behold Man with an equal eye, not bright in gold Or tall in title; so much him they weigh As virtue raiseth him above his clay. Thus let us value things; and since we find Time bends us toward death, let's in our mind Create new youth, and arm against the rude Assaults of age; that no dull solitude
Of the country dead our thoughts, nor busy care Of the town make us not think, where now we are And whither we are bound; Time ne'er forgot His journey, though his steps we numb'red not.
Castara, by W. Habington.
FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.
FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles; Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles; Fame's but a hollow echo; gold pure clay; Honour the darling but of one short day. Beauty, th' eye's idol, but a damask'd skin; State but a golden prison to live in,
And torture free-born minds: embroider'd trains Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins; And blood ally'd to greatness, is alone
Inherited, not purchas'd nor our own,
Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood and birth, Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
I would be great, but that the sun doth still Level his rays against the rising hill: I would be high, but see the proudest oak Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke; I would be rich, but see men, too unkind, Dig in the bowels of the richest mind: I would be wise, but that I often see The fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free: I would be fair, but see the fair and proud, Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud : I would be poor, but know the humble grass Still trampled on by each unworthy ass:
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