Chapter XIII: Introduction: To Henry King (4)

But, Sir, to you I shall no trophy raise
From other men's detraction or dispraise: 110
That jewel never had inherent worth,
Which ask'd such foils as these to set it forth.
If any quarrel your attempt or style,
Forgive them; their own folly they revile.
Since, 'gainst themselves, their factious envy shall
Allow this work of yours canonical.
Nor may you fear the Poet's common lot,
Read, and commended, and then quite forgot:
The brazen mines and marble rocks shall waste,
When your foundation will unshaken last. 120
'Tis Fame's best pay, that you your labours see
By their immortal subject crowned be.
For ne'er was writer in oblivion hid
Who firm'd his name on such a Pyramid.

[_Mr. George Sandys._] These verses appeared as
commendatory to Sandys' well-known _Paraphrase upon the Divine
Psalms_, 1648. Sandys was not only a friend of King (as of all
his group), but, according to l. 14 of this piece, a relation:
the exact connexion, however, was unknown to Hannah and
Hooper, and is to me. Indeed, l. 18 might be taken to mean
that we were not to look further for 'extraction' than to the
fact that they were both sons of bishops. Hannah saw this, but
drew the inference somewhat too positively.

Mr. Percy Simpson has found the following variants in Sandys'
own book:]

[Line: 25 might] would.]

[Line: 27 straight vow'd] strait-vow'd.]

[Lines: 57-62 _absent_.]

[Line: 64 With] And skill] Art.]

[Line: 89 They would by no means (had they power to choose).

[Line: 90 practice] Custom.]

[Line: 96 stuffs] stuff.]

[Line: 116 Allow] Confess.]

[Line: King may have retouched the piece.]

[Line: 23 Orig. note: [Sir Edwin Sandys' survey of Religion in
the West] More properly entitled _Europae Speculum_ (1559).]

[Line: 53 seq. In the original there are side-notes: 'Job',
'Ecclesiastes', 'The Act of Parliament for Public Thanksgiving
on the fifth of November, set to a tune by H. Dod a tradesman
of London, at the end of his Psalms, which stole from the
Press Anno Domini 1620'; 'Hymns', 'Lamentations', 'Psalms',
referring to other Paraphrases of Sandys on the various books
named, and (in the third place) on certain Songs selected from
other parts of the Bible. The unfortunate 'H. Dod a tradesman'
may have had his Manes refreshed by a notice in the _D.N.B._]

[Line: 70 It was too early for King to recognize, as has been
done since, the reason of the 'perfect harmony' he relished
as a fact in Sandys. That poet was one of the earliest after
Fairfax, and probably before Beaumont or Waller, to master
(though not always to practise) the stopped antithetic couplet
which was conquering, and to conquer, public favour.]

[Line: 71 It were much to be desired (though Hannah did not
think so) that King had allowed his wishes to be satisfied by
Sandys' performance, without attempting competition.]

[Line: 79 The reference is, of course, to the universally
heard of, but perhaps by extremely few read, 'Sternhold and
Hopkins'. The actual terms of King's criticism are not very
happy, but nobody then knew, or easily could know, much
about literary history. It was a fifteenth- rather than a
sixteenth-century fault 'hardly to distinguish _verse_ and
_rhyme_'. Where Sternhold and Hopkins--in common with much
greater men, from Wyatt to Gascoigne--sometimes went wrong,
was in their inability to attain anything but a 'butterwoman's
rank to market'--a sing-song and soulless uniformity of
cadence, and (a sin more specially their own) in the hopeless
dullness and drabness of their diction.]

_The Woes of Esay._

Woe to the worldly men, whose covetous
Ambition labours to join house to house,
Lay field to field, till their enclosures edge
The plain, girdling a country with one hedge:
That leave no place unbought, no piece of earth
Which they will not engross, making a dearth
Of all inhabitants, until they stand
Unneighbour'd, as unblest, within their land.

This sin cries in God's ear, who hath decreed
The ground they sow shall not return the seed. 10
They that unpeopled countries to create
Themselves sole Lords,--made many desolate
To build up their own house,--shall find at last
Ruin and fearful desolation cast
Upon themselves. Their mansion shall become
A desert, and their palace prove a tomb.
Their vines shall barren be, their land yield tares;
Their house shall have no dwellers, they no heirs.

Woe unto those, that with the morning Sun
Rise to drink wine, and sit till he have run 20
His weary course; not ceasing until night
Have quench'd their understanding with the light:
Whose raging thirst, like fire, will not be tam'd,
The more they pour, the more they are inflam'd.
Woe unto them that only mighty are
To wage with wine; in which unhappy war
They who the glory of the day have won,
Must yield them foil'd and vanquish'd by the tun.
Men that live thus, as if they liv'd in jest,
Fooling their time with music and a feast; 30
That did exile all sounds from their soft ear
But of the harp, must this sad discord hear
Compos'd in threats. The feet which measures tread
Shall in captivity be fettered:
Famine shall scourge them for their vast excess;
And Hell revenge their monstrous drunkenness;
Which hath enlarg'd itself to swallow such,
Whose throats ne'er knew enough, though still too much.

Woe unto those that countenance a sin,
Siding with vice, that it may credit win 40
By their unhallow'd vote: that do benight
The truth with error, putting dark for light,
And light for dark; that call an evil good,
And would by vice have virtue understood:
That with their frown can sour an honest cause,
Or sweeten any bad by their applause.
That justify the wicked for reward;
And, void of moral goodness or regard,
Plot with detraction to traduce the fame
Of him whose merit hath enroll'd his name 50
Among the just. Therefore God's vengeful ire
Glows on his people, and becomes a fire,
Whose greedy and exalted flame shall burn,
Till they like straw or chaff to nothing turn.
Because they have rebell'd against the right,
To God and Law perversely opposite,
As plants which Sun nor showers did ever bless,
So shall their root convert to rottenness;
And their succession's bud, in which they trust,
Shall (like Gomorrah's fruit) moulder to dust. 60

Woe unto those that, drunk with self-conceit,
Value their own designs at such a rate
Which human wisdom cannot reach; that sit
Enthron'd, as sole monopolists of wit;
That outlook reason, and suppose the eye
Of Nature blind to their discovery,
Whilst they a title make to understand
Whatever secret's bosom'd in the land.
But God shall imp their pride, and let them see
They are but fools in a sublime degree: 70
He shall bring down and humble those proud eyes,
In which false glasses only they look'd wise;
That all the world may laugh, and learn by it,
There is no folly to pretended wit.

Woe unto those that draw iniquity
With cords, and by a vain security
Lengthen the sinful trace, till their own chain
Of many links, form'd by laborious pain,
Do pull them into Hell; that, as with lines
And cart-ropes, drag on their unwilling crimes: 80
Who, rather than they will commit no sin,
Tempt all occasions to let it in.
As if there were no God, who must exact
The strict account for every vicious fact;
Nor judgement after death. If any be,
Let him make speed (say they), that we may see.
Why is his work retarded by delay?
Why doth himself thus linger on the way?
If there be any judge, or future doom,
Let It and Him with speed together come. 90

Unhappy men, that challenge and defy
The coming of that dreadful Majesty!
Better by much for you, he did reverse
His purposed sentence on the Universe;
Or that the creeping minutes might adjourn
Those flames in which you, with the earth, must burn;
That time's revolting hand could lag the year,
And so put back his day which is too near.

Behold his signs advanc'd like colours fly,
To tell the world that his approach is nigh; 100
And in a furious march, he's coming on
Swift as the raging inundation,
To scour the sinful world; 'gainst which is bent
Artillery that never can be spent:
Bows strung with vengeance, and flame-feather'd darts
Headed with death, to wound transgressing hearts;
His chariot wheels wrapp'd in the whirlwind's gyre,
His horses hoov'd with flint, and shod with fire:
In which amaze, where'er they fix their eye,
Or on the melting earth, or up on high, 110
To seek Heaven's shrunk lights, nothing shall appear,
But night and horror in their hemisphere:
Nor shall th' affrighted sense more objects know
Than dark'ned skies above, and Hell below.

[_The Woes of Esay._] It may seem strange that a man
of poetical velleities, with the magnificent range of choice
open to him in the Book of Isaiah, should choose these 'Woes'
for verse-paraphrase. But the fact is interesting as combining
with others, which have been pointed out here and there
already, to show that King, at one time of his life, _had_
leanings to that Puritan-popular temper which, from the
days of Langland downwards, had shown itself in England. The
couplet verse has some vigour.]

[Line: 84 The original apostrophation (kept by Hannah) of
'every' is 'e'ry'--interesting to compare with the common
forms of 'e're' for 'ever' and 'ne're' for 'never'. _N. E.
D._ traces it to the fifteenth century, and notes an
eighteenth-century extension to 'e'ery'.]

_An Essay on Death and a Prison._

A prison is in all things like a grave,
Where we no better privileges have
Than dead men, nor so good. The soul once fled
Lives freer now, than when she was cloistered
In walls of flesh; and though she organs want
To act her swift designs, yet all will grant
Her faculties more clear, now separate,
Than if the same conjunction, which of late
Did marry her to earth, had stood in force,
Uncapable of death, or of divorce: 10
But an imprison'd mind, though living, dies,
And at one time feels two captivities;
A narrow dungeon which her body holds,
But narrower body which herself enfolds.
Whilst I in prison lie, nothing is free,
Nothing enlarg'd, but thought and misery;
Though every chink be stopp'd, the doors close barr'd,
Despite of walls and locks, through every ward
These have their issues forth; may take the air,
Though not for health, but only to compare 20
How wretched those men are who freedom want,
By such as never suffer'd a restraint.
In which unquiet travel could I find
Aught that might settle my distemper'd mind,
Or of some comfort make discovery,
It were a voyage well employ'd: but I,
Like our raw travellers that cross the seas
To fetch home fashions, or some worse disease,
Instead of quiet, a new torture bring
Home t' afflict me, malice and murmuring. 30
What is't I envy not? no dog nor fly
But my desires prefer, and wish were I;
For they are free, or, if they were like me,
They had no sense to know calamity.
But in the grave no sparks of envy live,
No hot comparisons that causes give
Of quarrel, or that our affections move
Any condition, save their own, to love.
There are no objects there but shades and night,
And yet that darkness better than the light. 40
There lives a silent harmony; no jar
Or discord can that sweet soft consort mar.
The grave's deaf ear is clos'd against all noise
Save that which rocks must hear, the angel's voice:
Whose trump shall wake the world, and raise up men
Who in earth's bosom slept, bed-rid till then.
What man then would, who on death's pillow slumbers,
Be re-inspired with life, though golden numbers
Of bliss were pour'd into his breast; though he
Were sure in change to gain a monarchy? 50
A monarch's glorious state compar'd with his,
Less safe, less free, less firm, less quiet is.
For ne'er was any Prince advanc'd so high
That he was out of reach of misery:
Never did story yet a law report
To banish fate or sorrow from his Court;
Where ere he moves, by land, or through the main,
These go along, sworn members of his train.
But he whom the kind earth hath entertain'd,
Hath in her womb a sanctuary gain'd, 60
Whose charter and protection arm him so,
That he is privileg'd from future woe.
The coffin 's a safe harbour, where he rides
Land-bound, below cross winds, or churlish tides.
For grief, sprung up with life, was man's half-brother,
Fed by the taste, brought forth by sin, the mother.
And since the first seduction of the wife,
God did decree to grief a lease for life;
Which patent in full force continue must,
Till man that disobey'd revert to dust. 70
So that life's sorrows, ratifi'd by God,
Cannot expire, or find their period,
Until the soul and body disunite,
And by two diff'rent ways from each take flight.
But they dissolved once, our woes disband,
Th' assurance cancell'd by one fatal hand;
Soon as the passing bell proclaims me dead,
My sorrows sink with me, lie buried
In the same heap of dust, the self-same urn
Doth them and me alike to nothing turn. 80
If then of these I might election make
Whether I would refuse, and whether take,
Rather than like a sullen anchorite
I would live cas'd in stone, and learn to write
A _Prisoner's story_, which might steal some tears
From the sad eyes of him that reads or hears;
Give me a peaceful death, and let me meet
My freedom seal'd up in my winding sheet.
Death is the pledge of rest, and with one bail
Two prisons quits, the Body and the Jail. 90

[_An Essay._] This piece stands to some work of
Donne's much as others of King's do to the lyrics of the
greater poet. The couplets are more enjambed than in _The Woes
of Esay_, and the metaphysicality is of the satiric kind. It
should not be needful, but may be well, to say that King had
no actual experience of prisons. On the other side of the
matter the piece might, but by no means need, belong to the
series connected with his wife's death.]

_The Labyrinth._

Life is a crooked labyrinth, and we
Are daily lost in that obliquity.
'Tis a perplexed circle, in whose round
Nothing but sorrows and new sins abound.
How is the faint impression of each good
Drown'd in the vicious channel of our blood?
Whose ebbs and tides by their vicissitude
Both our great Maker and ourselves delude.

O wherefore is the most discerning eye
Unapt to make its own discovery? 10
Why is the clearest and best judging mind
In her own ills' prevention dark and blind?
Dull to advise, to act precipitate,
We scarce think what to do, but when too late.
Or if we think, that fluid thought, like seed,
Rots there to propagate some fouler deed.
Still we repent and sin, sin and repent;
We thaw and freeze, we harden and relent.
Those fires, which cool'd to-day, the morrow's heat
Rekindles. Thus frail nature does repeat 20
What she unlearnt, and still, by learning on,
Perfects her lesson of confusion.

Sick soul! what cure shall I for thee devise,
Whose leprous state corrupts all remedies?
What medicine or what cordial can be got
For thee, who poison'st thy best antidote?
Repentance is thy bane, since thou by it
Only reviv'st the fault thou didst commit.
Nor griev'st thou for the past, but art in pain,
For fear thou mayst not act it o'er again. 30
So that thy tears, like water spilt on lime,
Serve not to quench, but to advance the crime.

My blessed Saviour! unto thee I fly
For help against this homebred tyranny.
Thou canst true sorrows in my soul imprint,
And draw contrition from a breast of flint.
Thou canst reverse this labyrinth of sin,
My wild affects and actions wander in.
O guide my faith! and, by thy grace's clew,
Teach me to hunt that kingdom at the view 40
Where true joys reign, which like their day shall last;
Those never clouded, nor that overcast.

[_The Labyrinth._] 12 her] our _Malone MS. 22._]

[Line: 26 Orig. 'anti_dot_', on the eye-[and ear]-system as
before.]

_Being waked out of my sleep by a snuff of candle which offended me,
I thus thought._

Perhaps 'twas but conceit. Erroneous sense!
Thou art thine own distemper and offence.
Imagine then, that sick unwholesome steam
Was thy corruption breath'd into a dream.
Nor is it strange, when we in charnels dwell,
That all our thoughts of earth and frailty smell.

Man is a Candle, whose unhappy light
Burns in the day, and smothers in the night.
And as you see the dying taper waste, 10
By such degrees does he to darkness haste.

Here is the diff'rence: When our bodies' lamps
Blinded by age, or chok'd with mortal damps,
Now faint, and dim, and sickly 'gin to wink,
And in their hollow sockets lowly sink;
When all our vital fires ceasing to burn,
Leave nought but snuff and ashes in our urn:
God will restore those fallen lights again,
And kindle them to an eternal flame.

_Sic Vita._

KING AND BEAUMONT.

[I.]

Like to the falling of a star;
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh springs 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 straight call'd in, and paid to night.

The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
The Spring entomb'd in Autumn lies; 10
The dew dries up; the star is shot;
The flight is past; and man forgot.

WASTELL.

[II.]

Like as the damask rose you see;
Or like the blossom on the tree;
Or like the dainty flower of May;
Or like the morning to the day;
Or like the Sun; or like the shade;
Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers; the blossom blasteth;
The flower fades; the morning hasteth;
The sun sets; the shadow flies;
The gourd consumes; and man he dies.

[III.]

Like to the Grass that's newly sprung;
Or like a tale that's new begun;
Or like the bird that's here to-day;
Or like the pearled dew of May;
Or like an hour; or like a span;
Or like the singing of a swan;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life, and death.
The grass withers; the tale is ended;
The bird is flown; the dew's ascended;
The hour is short; the span not long;
The swan's near death; man's life is done.

[IV.]

Like to the bubble in the brook;
Or, in a glass, much like a look;
Or like a shuttle in weaver's hand;
Or like the writing on the sand;
Or like a thought; or like a dream;
Or like the gliding of the stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life, and death.
The bubble's cut; the look's forgot;
The shuttle's flung; the writing's blot;
The thought is past; the dream is gone;
The water glides; man's life is done.

[V.]

Like to an arrow from the bow;
Or like swift course of watery flow;
Or like the time twixt flood and ebb;
Or like the spider's tender web;
Or like a race; or like a goal;
Or like the dealing of a dole;
Even such is man whose brittle state
Is always subject unto fate.
The arrow's shot; the flood soon spent;
The time no time; the web soon rent;
The race soon run; the goal soon won;
The dole soon dealt; man's life first done.

[VI.]

Like to the lightning from the sky;
Or like a post that quick doth hie;
Or like a quaver in short song;
Or like a journey three days long;
Or like the snow when summer's come;
Or like the pear; or like the plum;
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow,
The lightning's past; the post must go;
The song is short; the journey's so;
The pear doth rot; the plum doth fall;
The snow dissolves; and so must all.

QUARLES.

Like to the damask Rose you see, &c.

[VII.]

Like to the blaze of fond delight;
Or like a morning clear and bright;
Or like a post; or like a shower;
Or like the pride of Babel's Tower;
Or like the hour that guides the time;
Or like to beauty in her prime;
Even such is man, whose glory lends
His life a blaze or two, and ends.
Delights vanish; the morn o'er casteth;
The frost breaks; the shower hasteth;
The Tower falls; the hour spends;
The beauty fades; and man's life ends.

BROWNE.

[VIII.]

Like to a silkworm of one year;
Or like a wronged lover's tear;
Or on the waves a rudder's dint;
Or like the sparkles of a flint:
Or like to little cakes perfum'd;
Or fireworks made to be consum'd;
Even such is man, and all that trust
In weak and animated dust.
The silkworm droops; the tear's soon shed;
The ship's way lost; the sparkle dead;
The cake is burnt; the firework done;
And man as these as quickly gone.

STRODE.

[IX.]

Like to the rolling of an eye:
Or like a star shot from the sky;
Or like a hand upon a clock;
Or like a wave upon a rock;
Or like a wind; or like a flame;
Or like false news which people frame;
Even such is man, of equal stay
Whose very growth leads to decay.
The eye is turned; the star down bendeth;
The hand doth steal; the wave descendeth;
The wind is spent; the flame unfir'd;
The news disprov'd; man's life expir'd.

[X.]

Like to an eye which sleep doth chain;
Or like a star whose fall we faine [ = feign];
Or like a shade on A[t]haz' watch:
Or like a wave which gulfs do snatch;
Or like a wind or flame that's past;
Or smother'd news confirm'd at last;
Even so man's life, pawn'd in the grave,
Waits for a rising it must have
The eye still sees; the star still blazeth;
The shade goes back; the wave escapeth;
The wind is turn'd, the flame reviv'd,
The news renew'd; and man new liv'd.

[_Sic Vita._] On this famous piece see Introduction.
Only the first form is attributed to King and appears in
his _Poems_; but it also appears not merely in the singular
higgledy-piggledy called the poems of Francis Beaumont, 1653,
but in the earlier and better edition of 1640. Simon Wastell
was a schoolmaster who had been at Queen's College, Oxford;
and who in 1629 appended these sets of verses to a book then
entitled _Microbiblion_. The first is claimed by Quarles, who
also wrote another in the form. William Browne's version was
not published till 1815, and the authors of the two from the
Malone MS. are unknown. The group is probably the palmary
example in English of that coterie-and school-verse which
distinguished the seventeenth century. The King-Beaumont form
is certainly the best and probably the original. (It will be
observed that X is _palinodic_ to the others. It is, _with_
IX, attributed as a single piece to Strode and entitled
'On Death and Resurrection' in MS. Malone 16, fol. 35, and
Dobell's _Poetical Works of W. Strode_).

_My Midnight Meditation._

Ill busi'd man! why shouldst thou take such care
To lengthen out thy life's short kalendar?
When every spectacle thou look'st upon
Presents and acts thy execution.
Each drooping season and each flower doth cry,
Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die.

The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well)
Is just the tolling of thy passing bell:
Night is thy hearse, whose sable canopy
Covers alike deceased day and thee. 10
And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,
Are but the tears shed for thy funeral.

[_My Midnight Meditation._] 11 which] _MS._ 'that'.
In _Parnassus Biceps_, p. 80, with title 'On Man': ll. 9-10
are absent from this version. Mr. Thorn-Drury thinks that this
is Dr. _John_ King's (so ascribed in Malone MS. 21, fol. 2_b_,
and Mr. Dobell's MS. of Strode).]

_A Penitential Hymn._

Hearken, O God, unto a wretch's cries,
Who low dejected at thy footstool lies.
Let not the clamour of my heinous sin
Drown my requests, which strive to enter in
At those bright gates, which always open stand
To such as beg remission at thy hand.

Too well I know, if thou in rigour deal,
I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal:
To my hoarse voice, heaven will no audience grant,
But deaf as brass, and hard as adamant 10
Beat back my words; therefore I bring to thee
A gracious Advocate to plead for me.

What though my leprous soul no Jordan can
Recure, nor floods of the lav'd Ocean
Make clean? yet from my Saviour's bleeding side
Two large and medicinable rivers glide.
Lord, wash me where those streams of life abound,
And new Bethesdas flow from ev'ry wound.

If I this precious lather may obtain,
I shall not then despair for any stain; 20
I need no Gilead's balm, nor oil, nor shall
I for the purifying hyssop call:
My spots will vanish in His purple flood,
And crimson there turn white, though wash'd with blood.

See, Lord! with broken heart and bended knee,
How I address my humble suit to Thee;
O give that suit admittance to Thy ears,
Which floats to Thee, not in my words, but tears:
And let my sinful soul this mercy crave,
Before I fall into the silent grave. 30

[_A Penitential Hymn._] This piece is referred to by
Anthony Wood as one of several 'anthems'. It was, he tells us,
intended for Lenten use, and set by Dr. John Wilson, gentleman
of the Chapel Royal. To this Dr. Wilson, Hannah thought that
his collated MS. copy of King's _Poems_, which bears the name,
had belonged, additional evidence being found in the curious
fact that the Hymn appears in that copy out of order, and
first.]

_An Elegy occasioned by Sickness._

Well did the Prophet ask, _Lord, what is Man?_
Implying by the question none can
But God resolve the doubt, much less define
What elements this child of dust combine.

Man is a stranger to himself, and knows
Nothing so naturally as his woes.
He loves to travel countries, and confer
The sides of Heaven's vast diameter:
Delights to sit in Nile or Bætis' lap,
Before he hath sail'd over his own map; 10
By which means he returns, his travel spent,
Less knowing of himself than when he went.
Who knowledge hunt kept under foreign locks,
May bring home wit to hold a paradox,
Yet be fools still. Therefore, might I advise,
I would inform the soul before the eyes:
Make man into his proper optics look,
And so become the student and the book.
With his conception, his first leaf, begin;
What is he there but complicated sin? 20
When riper time, and the approaching birth
Ranks him among the creatures of the earth,
His wailing mother sends him forth to greet
The light, wrapp'd in a bloody winding sheet;
As if he came into the world to crave
No place to dwell in, but bespeak a grave.

Thus like a red and tempest-boding morn
His dawning is: for being newly born
He hails th' ensuing storm with shrieks and cries,
And fines for his admission with wet eyes. 30

How should that plant, whose leaf is bath'd in tears,
Bear but a bitter fruit in elder years?
Just such is this, and his maturer age
Teems with event more sad than the presage.
For view him higher, when his childhood's span
Is raised up to youth's meridian;
When he goes proudly laden with the fruit
Which health, or strength, or beauty contribute;
Yet,--as the mounted cannon batters down
The towers and goodly structures of a town,-- 40
So one short sickness will his force defeat,
And his frail citadel to rubbish beat.
How does a dropsy melt him to a flood,
Making each vein run water more than blood?
A colic wracks him like a northern gust,
And raging fevers crumble him to dust.
In which unhappy state he is made worse
By his diseases than his Maker's curse.
God said in _toil and sweat_ he should earn bread,
And without labour not be nourished: 50
There, though like ropes of falling dew, his sweat
Hangs on his lab'ring brow, he cannot eat.

Thus are his sins scourg'd in opposed themes,
And luxuries reveng'd by their extremes.
He who in health could never be content
With rarities fetch'd from each element,
Is now much more afflicted to delight
His tasteless palate, and lost appetite.

Besides, though God ordain'd, that with the light
Man should begin his work, yet he made night 60
For his repose, in which the weary sense
Repairs itself by rest's soft recompense.
But now his watchful nights and troubled days
Confused heaps of fear and fancy raise.
His chamber seems a loose and trembling mine;
His pillow quilted with a porcupine;
Pain makes his downy couch sharp thorns appear,
And ev'ry feather prick him like a spear.
Thus, when all forms of death about him keep,
He copies death in any form, but sleep. 70

Poor walking-clay! hast thou a mind to know
To what unblest beginnings thou dost owe
Thy wretched self? fall sick a while, and than
Thou wilt conceive the pedigree of Man.
Learn shalt thou from thine own anatomy,
That earth his mother, worms his sisters be.
That he's a short-liv'd vapour upward wrought,
And by corruption unto nothing brought.
A stagg'ring meteor by cross planets beat,
Which often reels and falls before his set; 80
A tree which withers faster than it grows;
A torch puff'd out by ev'ry wind that blows;
A web of forty weeks spun forth in pain,
And in a moment ravell'd out again.

This is the model of frail man: then say
That his duration's only for a day:
And in that day more fits of changes pass,
Than atoms run in the turn'd hour-glass.

So that th' incessant cares which life invade
Might for strong truth their heresy persuade, 90
Who did maintain that human souls are sent
Into the body for their punishment:
At least with that Greek sage still make us cry,
Not to be born, or, being born, to die.

But Faith steers up to a more glorious scope,
Which sweetens our sharp passage; and firm hope
Anchors our torn barks on a blessed shore,
Beyond the Dead Sea we here ferry o'er.
To this, Death is our pilot, and disease
The agent which solicits our release. 100

Though crosses then pour on my restless head,
Or ling'ring sickness nail me to my bed:
Let this my thought's eternal comfort be,
That my clos'd eyes a better light shall see.
And when by fortune's or by nature's stroke
My body's earthen pitcher must be broke,
My soul, like Gideon's lamp, from her crack'd urn
Shall Death's black night to endless lustre turn.

[_An Elegy, &c._] It is always well to placate
Nemesis before finding fault with a fellow-creature's
complaints. But this piece, like some others, does rather
illustrate that 'tendency to _grizzle_' which has been noticed
in the Introduction. It was no doubt natural to King, and was
probably confirmed in him by his wife's early death. It
is worth noticing that--a thing rare in his time--he never
remarried.]

[Line: 33 this] _MS._ 'his'.]

[Line: 73 'Than' for 'then' is much rarer than the converse,
though we have it once _supra_. It is odd too here, for 'then'
would have done just as well.]

[Line: 90 'Their' = Origen and the Priscillianists.]

[Line: 93 Posidippus? But the thing was a commonplace.]

[Line: 94 Side-note in orig.: _Non nasci, aut quam citissime
mori._]

_The Dirge._

What is th' existence of Man's life
But open war, or slumber'd strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements;
And never feels a perfect peace,
Till Death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm, where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood;
And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind, 10
Which beats his bark with many a wave,
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower, which buds and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep:
Then shrinks into that fatal mould,
Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moraliz'd in age and youth: 20
Where all the comforts he can share
As wand'ring as his fancies are;
Till in a mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial, which points out
The sun-set as it moves about:
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtile stages of Time's flight,
Till all obscuring earth hath laid
The body in perpetual shade. 30

It is a weary interlude
Which doth short joys, long woes include.
The World the stage, the Prologue tears,
The Acts vain hope, and varied fears;
The Scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no Epilogue but Death.

[_The Dirge._] An obvious extension-variation of _Sic
Vita_.]

[Line: 8 _MS._ 'Vies rages with'--rather well.]

[Line: 12 _MS._ 'cast'--perhaps better.]

[Line: 26 _MS._ 'His sun-set'.]

[Lines: 27-8 These run in _MS._:

Whilst it demonstrates Time's swift flight
In the black lines of shady night.
]

[Line: 30 The] _MS._ 'His'.]

[Line: 35 _MS._ '_in_ loss'.]

_An Elegy, occasioned by the loss of the most incomparable Lady Stanhope, daughter to the Earl of Northumberland._

[Died November 29, 1654.]

Light'ned by that dim torch our sorrow bears,
We sadly trace thy coffin with our tears;
And though the ceremonious rites are past
Since thy fair body into earth was cast,
Though all thy hatchments into rags are torn,
Thy funeral robes and ornaments outworn;
We still thy mourners, without show or art,
With solemn blacks hung round about our heart,
Thus constantly the obsequies renew,
Which to thy precious memory are due. 10

Yet think not that we rudely would invade
The dark recess of thine untroubled shade,
Or give disturbance to that happy peace,
Which thou enjoy'st at full since thy release:
Much less in sullen murmurs do complain
Of His decree who took thee back again,
And did, ere Fame had spread thy virtue's light,
Eclipse and fold thee up in endless night.
This, like an act of envy, not of grief,
Might doubt thy bliss, and shake our own belief, 20
Whose studied wishes no proportion bear
With joys which crown thee now in glory's sphere.

Know then, blest Soul! we for ourselves, not thee,
Seal our woe's dictate by this elegy:
Wherein our tears, united in one stream,
Shall to succeeding times convey this theme,
Worth all men's pity, who discern, how rare
Such early growths of fame and goodness are.
Of these, part must thy sex's loss bewail,
Maim'd in her noblest patterns through thy fail; 30
For 'twould require a double term of life
To match thee as a daughter or a wife;
Both which Northumberland's dear loss improve,
And make his sorrow equal to his love.
The rest fall for ourselves, who, cast behind,
Cannot yet reach the peace which thou dost find;
But slowly follow thee in that dull stage
Which most untimely posted hence thy age.

Thus, like religious pilgrims, who design
A short salute to their beloved shrine, 40
Most sad and humble votaries we come,
To offer up our sighs upon thy tomb,
And wet thy marble with our dropping eyes,
Which, till the spring which feeds their current dries,
Resolve each falling night and rising day,
This mournful homage at thy grave to pay.

[_An Elegy._] The subject of this was Anne Percy,
daughter of the Northumberland whose personal umbrage or
lukewarm loyalty so grievously affected the Royal cause, and
the wife of that Philip Lord Stanhope who afterwards, and
after her death, seems to have flirted with Lady Elizabeth
Howard before she married Dryden.]

[Line: 28 early] Lady Stanhope was not twenty-one when she
died, and had been married little more than two years.]

Poems not included in the Edition of 1657 but added in reissue of 1664

_An Elegy upon my best friend, L. K. C._

[Countess of Leinster: died June 15, 1657.]

Should we our sorrows in this method range,
Oft as misfortune doth their subjects change,
And to the sev'ral losses which befall,
Pay diff'rent rites at ev'ry funeral;
Like narrow springs, drain'd by dispersed streams,
We must want tears to wail such various themes,
And prove defective in Death's mournful laws,
Not having words proportion'd to each cause.

In your dear loss, my much afflicted sense
Discerns this truth by sad experience, 10
Who never look'd my Verses should survive,
As wet records, That you are not alive;
And less desir'd to make that promise due,
Which pass'd from me in jest, when urg'd by you.

How close and slily doth our frailty work!
How undiscover'd in the body lurk!
That those who this day did salute you well,
Before the next were frighted by your knell.
O wherefore since we must in order rise,
Should we not fall in equal obsequies? 20
But bear th' assaults of an uneven fate,
Like fevers which their hour anticipate;
Had this rule constant been, my long wish'd end
Might render you a mourner for your Friend:
As he for you, whose most deplor'd surprise
Imprints your death on all my faculties;
That hardly my dark phant'sy or discourse
This final duty from the pen enforce.

Such influence hath your eclipsed light,
It doth my reason, like myself, benight. 30

Let me, with luckless gamesters, then think best
(After I have set up and lost my rest),
Grown desp'rate through mischance, to venture last
My whole remaining stock upon a cast,
And flinging from me my now loathed pen,
Resolve for your sake ne'er to write again:
For whilst successive days their light renew,
I must no subject hope to equal you,
In whose heroic breast, as in their Sphere,
All graces of your sex concentred were. 40

Thus take I my long farewell of that art,
Fit only glorious actions to impart;
That art wherewith our crosses we beguile,
And make them in harmonious numbers smile:
Since you are gone, this holds no further use
Whose virtue and desert inspir'd my Muse,
O may she in your ashes buried be,
Whilst I myself become the Elegy.

And as it is observ'd, when Princes die,
In honour of that sad solemnity, 50
The now unoffic'd servants crack their staves,
And throw them down into their masters' graves:
So this last office of my broken verse
I solemnly resign upon your hearse;
And my brain's moisture, all that is unspent,
Shall melt to nothing at the monument.
Thus in moist weather, when the marble weeps,
You'll think it only his tears reck'ning keeps,
Who doth for ever to his thoughts bequeath
The legacy of your lamented death. 60

[_An Elegy upon my best friend._] King's 'best
friend' (or, as a MS. gives it, 'worthiest') was Katharine
Stanhope, daughter of John Lord Stanhope of Harrington. Her
husband, Robert Cholmondeley, successively created an Irish
Viscount, an English Baron (his surname serving as title in
each case), and Earl of Leinster, died very shortly after her
and before the Restoration. There is a MS. sermon on her death
attributed to King, but doubted by Hannah. The poem itself,
unlike the next but like the three which follow that, appears
printed in the 1664 issue. And it is, on the principles of
this collection, not unimportant to notice that in these later
printed pieces the irrational prodigality of capitals which,
as has been noted, is absent from _1657_, reappears. There
could be no stronger evidence that these things have nothing
to do with the author, and are not worth reproducing.]

[Line: 12 The original bestows a capital even upon 'Alive'--a
thing capital in another way as illustrating the utter
unreason of the practice.]

[Lines: 15-18 Absent in _MS._]

[Line: 36 Orig. 'nev'r'--a form unpronounceable but not
uninteresting.]

[Line: 40 your] _MS._ 'the'.]

[Line: 43 crosses] _MS._ 'sorrows'.]

_On the Earl of Essex._

[Died September 14, 1646.]

Essex, twice made unhappy by a wife,
Yet married worse unto the People's strife:
He who, by two divorces, did untie
His bond of wedlock and of loyalty:
Who was by easiness of nature bred,
To lead that tumult which first him misled;
Yet had some glimm'ring sparks of virtue, lent
To see (though late) his error, and repent:
Essex lies here, like an inverted flame,
Hid in the ruins of his house and name; 10
And as he, frailty's sad example, lies,
Warns the survivors in his exequies.

He shows what wretched bubbles great men are,
Through their ambition grown too popular:
For they, built up from weak opinion, stand
On bases false as water, loose as sand.
Essex in differing successes tried
The fury and the falsehood of each side;
Now with applauses deified, and then,
Thrown down with spiteful infamy again:-- 20

Tells them, what arts soever them support,
Their life is merely Time and Fortune's sport,
And that no bladders, blown by common breath,
Shall bear them up amidst the waves of Death:

Tells them, no monstrous birth, with pow'r endu'd,
By that more monstrous beast, the Multitude,--
No State-_Coloss_ (though tall as that bestrid
The Rhodian harbour where their navy rid),
Can hold that ill-proportion'd greatness still,
Beyond his greater, most resistless will, 30
Whose dreadful sentence, written on the Wall,
Did sign the temple-robbing tyrant's fall;
But spite of their vast privilege, which strives
T' exceed the size of ten prerogatives;
Spite of their endless parliament, or grants
(In order to those votes and Covenants,
When, without sense of their black perjury,
They swear with Essex they would live and die),
With their dead General ere long they must
Contracted be into a span of dust. 40

[_On the Earl of Essex._] This and the next two may
be called King's chief, if not his only, political poems:
that they were kept back till after the Restoration is not
surprising. Of Essex--one of the most unfortunate of men, the
son of an unlucky father, the husband of one of the worst of
women, and of another not much better, a half-hearted rebel, a
soldier not less brave than blundering--not much is to be
said here. King had some interest in the first and universally
known divorce (the second, much less notorious, was from
Elizabeth Paulet), for his father had been uncourtly and
honest enough to oppose it strongly.]

[Line: 10 This rather vigorous line was to be prophetic as
well as true at the time, for when, after the Restoration, the
title of Essex was revived it was for the Capels, who still
hold it, not for any Devereux. The vigour just referred to
is by no means absent from the whole poem, and in an
ante-Drydenian piece is really remarkable.]

[Line: 32 temple-robbing tyrant's fall] side-note in orig.:
_Belshasar_, Dan. 5.]

_An Elegy on Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle._

[Murdered August 28, 1648.]

In measures solemn as the groans that fall
From the hoarse trumpet at some funeral;
With trailing Elegy and mournful verse,
I wait upon two peerless soldiers' hearse:
Though I acknowledge must my sorrow's dress
Ill matched to the cause it should express;
Nor can I, at my best invention's cost,
Sum up the treasure which in them we lost.

Had they, with other worthies of the age,
Who late upon the kingdom's bloody stage, 10
For God, the King, and Laws, their valour tried,
Through War's stern chance in heat of battle died,
We then might save much of our grief's expense,
Reputing it, not duty, but offence.
They need no tears, nor howling exequy,
Who in a glorious undertaking die;
Since all that in the bed of honour fell,
Live their own Monument and Chronicle.

But these, whom horrid danger did not reach,
The wide-mouth'd cannon, nor the wider breach, 20
These, whom, till cruel want and coward fate
Penn'd up like famish'd lions in a grate,
Were for their daring sallies so much fear'd,
Th' assailants fled them like a frighted herd;
Resolving now no more to fight, but lurk
Trench'd in their line, or earth'd within a work.
Where, not like soldiers they, but watchmen, creep,
Arm'd for no other office, but to sleep;
They, whose bold charge whole armies did amaze,
Rend'ring them faint and heartless at the gaze, 30
To see Resolve and Naked Valour charms
Of higher proof than all their massy arms;
They, whose bright swords ruffled the proudest troop
(As fowl unto the tow'ring falcon stoop),
Yet no advantage made of their success,
Which to the conquer'd spake them merciless
(For they, whene'er 'twas begg'd, did safety give,
And oft unasked bid the vanquish'd live);
Ev'n these, not more undaunted in the field,
Than mild and gentle unto such as yield, 40
Were, after all the shocks of battles stood,
(Let me not name it) murder'd in cold blood.

Such poor revenge did the enraged Greek
Against (till then) victorious Hector seek,
Triumphing o'er that body, bound and dead,
From whom, in life, the pow'rs of Argos fled.
Yet might Achilles borrow some excuse
To colour, though not warrant, the abuse:
His dearest friend, in the fierce combat foil'd,
Was by the Trojan's hand of life despoil'd; 50
From whence unruly grief, grown wild with rage,
Beyond the bounds of Honour did engage.
But these, confirm'd in their unmanly hate,
By counsels cruel, yet deliberate,
Did from the stock of bleeding honour hew
Two of the noblest branches ever grew;
And (which our grief and pity must improve)
When brought within their reach with shows of love:
For by a treaty they entangled are,
And rend'ring up to Mercy is the snare; 60
Whence we have learn'd, whene'er their Saintships treat,
The ends are mortal, and the means a cheat;
In which the world may read their black intent,
Drawn out at large in this sad precedent.
Who (though fair promis'd) might no mercy have,
But such as once the faithless Bashaw gave,
When to his trust deluded Bragadine
Himself and Famagosta did resign.
Whose envied valour thus to bonds betray'd,
Was soon the mark of barb'rous slaughter made: 70
So gallant ships, which rocks and storms had past,
Though with torn sails, and spending of their mast,
When newly brought within the sight of land,
Have been suck'd up by some devouring sand.

You wretched agents for a kingdom's fall,
Who yet yourselves the Modell'd Army call;
Who carry on and fashion your design
By Sylla's, Sylla's red proscription's line,
(Rome's Comet once, as you are ours) for shame
Henceforth no more usurp the soldier's name: 80
Let not that title in fair battles gain'd
Be by such abject things as you profan'd;
For what have you achiev'd, the world may guess
You are those Men of Might which you profess?
Where ever durst you strike, if you met foes
Whose valour did your odds in men oppose?
Turn o'er the annals of your vaunted fights,
Which made you late the People's favourites;
Begin your course at Naseby, and from thence
Draw out your marches' full circumference, 90
Bridgwater, Bristol, Dartmouth, with the rest
Of your well-plotted renders in the West;
Then to the angry North your compass bend,
Until your spent career in Scotland end,
(This is the perfect scale of our mishap
Which measures out your conquest by the map),
And tell me he that can, What have you won,
Which long before your progress was not done?
What castle was besieg'd, what Port, what Town,
You were not sure to carry ere sat down? 100
There needed no granadoes, no petard,
To force the passage, or disperse the guard.
No, your good masters sent a Golden Ram
To batter down the gates against you came.
Those blest Reformers, who procur'd the Swede
His armed forces into Denmark lead,
'Mongst them to kindle a sharp war for hire,
Who in mere pity meant to quench our fire,
Could where they pleased, with the King's own coin,
Divert his aids, and strengths at home purloin. 110

Upon sea voyages I sometimes find
Men trade with Lapland witches for a wind,
And by those purchas'd gales, quick as their thought,
To the desired port are safely brought.
We need not here on skilful Hopkins call,
The State's allow'd Witch-finder General.
For (though Rebellion wants no cad nor elf,
But is a perfect witchcraft of itself)
We could with little help of art reveal
Those learn'd magicians with whom you deal: 120
We all your juggles, both for time and place,
From Derby-house to Westminster can trace,
The circle where the factious jangle meet
To trample Law and Gospel under feet;
In which, like bells rung backward, they proclaim
The Kingdom by their wild-fire set on flame,
And, quite perverting their first rules, invent
What mischief may be done by Parliament:
We know your holy flamens, and can tell
What spirits vote within the Oracle; 130
Have found the spells and incantations too,
By whose assistance you such wonders do.
For divers years the credit of your wars
Hath been kept up by these Familiars,
Who, that they may their providence express,
Both find you pay, and purchase your success:
No wonder then you must the garland wear,
Who never fought but with a silver spear.

We grant the war's unhappy consequence,
With all the num'rous plagues which grow from thence, 140
Murders and rapes, threats of disease and dearth,
From you as for the proper Spring take birth;
You may for laws enact the public wrongs,
With all foul violence to them belongs;
May bawl aloud the people's right and pow'r,
Till by your sword you both of them devour
(For this brave liberty by you upcried
Is to all others but yourselves denied),
May with seditious fires the land embroil,
And, in pretence to quench them, take the spoil; 150
You may Religion to your lust subdue,
For these are actions only worthy you:
Yet when your projects, crown'd with wish'd event,
Have made you masters of the ill you meant,
You never must the soldiers' glory share,
Since all your trophies executions are:
Not thinking your successes understood,
Unless recorded and scor'd up in blood.

In which, to gull the people, you pretend,
That Military Justice was your end; 160
As if we still were blind, not knowing this
To all your other virtues suited is;
Who only act by your great grandsires' law,
The butcher Cade, Wat Tyler, and Jack Straw,
Whose principle was murder, and their sport
To cut off those they fear'd might do them hurt:
Nay, in your actions we completed find
What by those Levellers was but design'd,
For now Committees, and your arm'd supplies,
Canton the land in petty tyrannies, 170
And for one King of commons in each shire,
Four hundred Commons rule as tyrants here.
Had you not meant the copies of each deed
Should their originals in ill exceed,
You would not practice sure the Turkish art,
To ship your taken pris'ners for a mart,
Lest if with freedom they at home remain,
They should (which is your terror) fight again.
A thing long since by zealous Rigby moved,
And by the faction like himself approv'd; 180
Though you uncounsell'd can such outrage try,
Scarce sampled from the basest enemy.
Naseby of old, and late St. Fagan's fare,
Of these inhuman truckings witness are;
At which the captiv'd Welsh, in couples led,
Were marketed, like cattle, by the head.
Let it no more in History be told
That Turks their Christian slaves for aspers sold;
When we the Saints selling their brethren see,
Who _had a Call_ (they say) to set them free; 190
And are at last by right of conquest grown
To claim our land of Canaan for their own.
Though luckless Colchester in this outvies
Argiers' or Tunis' shameful merchandise;
Where the starv'd soldier (as th' agreement was)
Might not be suffer'd to their dwelling pass,
Till, led about by some insulting band,
They first were show'd in triumph through the land:
In which, for lack of diet, or of strength,
If any fainted through the march's length, 200
Void of the breasts of men, this murd'rous crew
All those they could drive on no further, slew;
What bloody riddle's this? They mercy give,
Yet those who should enjoy it, must not live.