Chapter XVI: Introduction: To Thomas Flatman (1)

Flatman has been condoled with on his name by Mr. Bullen, one of the few persons who have done him some justice in recent years.[1] I should rather myself, for reasons which will be given presently, condole with him on his date. His father was probably Robert Flatman of Mendham, Norfolk, and it is supposed that the poet was born in London. The date of his birth, recorded here for the first time, was February 21, 1635, about 5.29 in the morning. So his horoscope, preserved by Ashmole,[2] informs us. When he was elected at Winchester on Michaelmas Day, 1648, he was stated to be 'eleven years old'--a slight miscalculation. He himself in _The Retirement_, written in 1665, correctly speaks of his 'thirty years'. He actually entered Winchester in September, 1649. He was transferred in the usual (when uninterrupted) course to New College, Oxford; he was admitted as a probationer on September 11, 1654, but seems not to have matriculated till July 25, 1655; he became Fellow in 1656.[3] There is no academic record, it would seem, of his ever having taken his degree, though he is spoken of as 'A.B. of Oxford' when, by the King's Letters, he was made M.A. of St. Catherine Hall, Cambridge, in 1666. He went from Oxford to the Inner Temple, in 1655, and was called to the Bar on May 11, 1662. Oldys has a half-satiric reference to his pleading.[4] He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in April, 1668. In 1672 he married, his wife being favourably spoken of, and gossip--inevitable whether well founded or not--records that his 'Bachelor's Song' (_v. inf._) was sung under his windows on the occasion by 'merry friends'. And he died in London on December 8, 1688. Beyond these meagre details, and a statement that he had property at Diss (the cure of Skelton and the home of Maria Jolly), we know little about him directly or by external evidence. By that of his poems he must have been a friend of good men--Walton, Cotton, Edward Browne[3] (Sir Thomas's son), Faithorne the engraver, Oldham, and others. His miniature portraits are well spoken of;--one is in possession of the Duke of Buccleuch, seven are in the South Kensington Museum. That, however, which illustrates his _Poems_ is from a painting by John Hayls, whom Pepys's Diary has made known to a wider circle than students of the History of English Painting.

Flatman was evidently a tolerable scholar; and his Latinity, of which several specimens will be found here, does no discredit to the Winchester and the New College of the time. When he began English verse-writing does not seem to be known, but it must have been pretty early. He does not appear to have hurried his Muse; but collected his poems first in 1674, issuing augmented editions, to the number of four in all, up to a time shortly before his death. Of these, the third (1682) and the fourth (1686) have a claim to be regarded as authoritative and are the basis of the present text. The 1682 edition, 'With Additions and Amendments', is better printed, and the 1686--which makes a modest attempt to outbid it 'With many Additions and Amendments'--is valuable for the supplementary poems.[4] His Pindaric epicedes on public men--Ossory, Rupert, the King, &c.--for the most part appeared separately in folio; and in the earlier days of my preparation of this collection I gave myself a good deal of trouble in looking them up. Except the elegy on Ormond (1688) they were reprinted in these two editions. The last (1686) edition of the _Poems_, after some search, was procured for me. It seems to be much rarer than the third of 1682, which I have long possessed, and is not in the Bodleian. Additional poems, not included in the texts of 1682 and 1686, are added as a supplement. Three of these are taken from a transcript in Professor Firth's collection of an autograph MS. of Flatman which is now in America; the title is 'Miscellanies by Tho. Flatman, ex Interiori Templo Londini. Sic imperantibus fatis. Nov. 9, 1661, 13º Caroli 2^{di}.' This contains in all twenty-three of the poems which have been collated for this reprint. An interesting feature of this manuscript is that it dates a number of the poems. Besides his poems, some pamphlets and Almanacks[5] have been attributed to him on extremely doubtful evidence, or none at all. Except among his friends, it does not seem even in his own time to have been the fashion to think much of his verse; and a triplet of Rochester's, dismissing him as an imitator of Cowley, and a bad one, is usually quoted.[6] Flatman's Pindarics are certainly his weakest poems. But Rochester, for all his wit and wits, was, though an acute, a very ill-natured critic; we know that he thought Cowley himself out of date and (as his representatives in kind, though not in gift, would say to-day) 'early Caroline'. Besides, to dismiss a Pindaric poet of the Restoration as an imitator, and a bad imitator, of Cowley is too obvious to be of much importance. I should certainly admit that the minor Pindaric--of which I have, for my sins or as part of them, probably read as much as any one living--is one of the most dismal departments of English verse. But Flatman's is by no means exceptionally bad, and is at its best better than that of Oldham, or of Otway, or of Swift--men with whom he cannot compare as a man of letters generally. Let us come closer to him and to his work.

Hayls may not have been a great painter; but he certainly seems to have had the knack of putting character in his portraits. Neither that of Pepys nor that of his wife is without it: and that of Flatman has a great deal.[7] It is what would be called, I suppose, by most superficial judges an 'ugly' face--with a broad _retroussé_ nose, lips of the kind sometimes called 'sensual', and a heavy (something of a double) chin. But the forehead is high, the mouth smallish, and above all there are a pair of somewhat melancholy eyes which entirely rescue it from any charge of vulgarity, though it is not exactly refined. It certainly suggests what is called in stock phrase an 'artistic temperament': and it may not be too fanciful to see in it the kind of artistic temperament which aims higher than it can hit, begins what it is unable to finish, and never forgets the yew even among the roses. This complexion is, of course, in a way reflected in the very titles of the few things of Flatman known[8] to the few people who do know him--'Death', 'A Thought of Death', 'A Dooms-day Thought', 'Nudus Redibo', &c. But it is almost everywhere; and there is no affectation or _sensiblerie_ about it. Flatman is not, as Longfellow, picturesquely and perhaps Carlylesquely, remarked of Matthiessen and Salis, 'a gentleman who walks through life with a fine white cambric handkerchief pressed to his eyes'. He can write battle-songs and love-songs and festive _gaillardises_ naturally enough. But the other vein is also natural, and perhaps more so. The funeral panegyric Odes which make a considerable feature of his works were, of course, almost part of the routine business of a professional poet in those times of patronage: one of his regular sources of revenue, in fives or tens or hundreds of guineas, according to his rank on Parnassus and the rank and liberality of his subject in Church or State or City. But Flatman at his best suffuses them with a grave interest in Death itself--a touch now of Lucretius (who seems to have been a favourite of his), now of the Preacher--which is not in the least conventional. In this curious Second Caroline period of faint survivals of the Renaissance and complete abandonment of its traditions, Flatman's heritage appears to have been this sense of Death. A poet might have a worse portion.

In powers of expression he was not equally well apanaged: and it was unlucky for him that he fell in with the special period of popularity of that difficult and dangerous thing the Pindaric, and had enough of the older taste in him to attempt the short metaphysical lyric: 'The Resolve', 'The Fatigue', 'The Indifferent'. For the first he carried guns hardly heavy enough; for the second his lyrical craft was hardly sufficiently swift and handy to catch every puff of spiritual wind. Yet it is mildly astonishing to find how often he comes near to success, and how near that approach sometimes is. How many poets have tried to put the thought of the first line of the first poem in the complete edition:

No more!--Alas! that bitter word, _No more!_

and how many have put it more simply and passionately? The 'Morning Hymn' and 'Evening Anthem' have rather strangely missed (owing no doubt to that superficial connexion with Bishop Ken's which is noticed below) association with hundreds and thousands of very often inferior divine poems that have found home in collections. 'The Resolve' begins quite admirably, and only wanted a little more pains on the poet's part to go on as well. 'Love's Bravo' and 'The Expectation' and 'Fading Beauty' and 'The Slight' are very far indeed from being contemptible. The two _gaillardises_, the 'Bachelor' and the 'Cats', want very little to make them quite capital; and 'The Whim' is in the same case. 'The Advice' actually deserves that adjective, and not a few others will be found pointed out in the notes; while even his Pindarics (at least the earlier ones, for those written after Rochester's death more fully justify his censure than those he can have read) have fine lines and even fine passages.

It is no doubt rather unfortunate that Flatman should have left us so many Horatian translations. For the one thing needful--except in a very few pieces where Horace outgoes himself in massive splendour, and so can be outgone further by more of this, as in Dryden's magnificent version of _Tyrrhena regum_--the one thing needful in translating Horace is something of his well-known and 'curious' urbane elegance. And this was the very quality which perhaps no Restoration poet--certainly not Flatman--could give. The 'dash of vulgarity'[9] which Mr. Bullen has too truly stigmatized affects nearly all of them except when transported by passion (which is nowhere in Horace); or fighting hard in a mood of satiric controversy which is quite different from his pococurantism; or using a massive rhetoric which is equally absent from him. The consequence is that what Flatman gives us is not Horace at all; and is not good Flatman. The 'Canidia' pieces, as one would expect, are about the best, and they are not very good.

I own, however, and I am duly prepared to take the consequences of the confession, that Flatman appeals to me, though in a different way, almost as much as any other of the constituents of this volume, though certainly not so much as some of those of the other two. He had the pure misfortune--as the sternest critic must acknowledge it to have been--of being born too late for one period and too early for another. He could not give to his most serious things the 'brave translunary' exaltations and excursions which came naturally to the men of a time just before his, and he could not correct this want by the order and the sense, the neatness and the finish, which were born with the next generation. 'Death' and 'A Thought of Death' and the other things mentioned unfairly but inevitably remind us that we have left Donne and Crashaw, Vaughan, and even Herbert, behind us. 'The Mistake' and 'The Whim' and many others remind us that we have not come to Prior. Yet others--which it were cruel to particularize and which he that reads will easily find for himself--display a lack of the purely lyrical power which, among his own contemporaries, Rochester and Sedley and Aphra Behn, not to mention others, possessed. Nor had he that gift of recognizing the eclipse of the Moon and utilizing the opportunities of the Earth, which has made Dryden, to competent and catholic tastes, all but one of the greatest of English poets. But still he was a 'child of the Moon' herself; and he has the benefits which she never withholds from her children, though they may be accompanied by a disastrous influence. He was no doubt a minor poet in a time when minor poetry was exposed to special disadvantages. But with far less wit he was more of a poet than Cleveland; with far less art he was perhaps as much of a poet as Stanley; and I am not even sure that, with 'weight for age' in the due sense, he was so very much less of a poet than King. And if those who think but little of these others as poets deem this scanty praise let us go further and say that he _is_ a poet--imperfect, disappointing as well as disappointed, only half aneled with the sacred unction and houselled with the divine food--but a poet. Which if any denies he may be 'an excellent person'--as Praed or Praed's Medora so finally puts it--but he does not know much, if indeed he knows anything, about poetry.[10]

[Footnote 1: By judicious remarks in the preface to his _Musa
Proterva_ (London, 1889, p. viii), and by specimens both in
that and in its companion, _Speculum Amantis_.]

[Footnote 2: In Ashmole MS. 436, at folio 50. Mr. J. K.
Fotheringham, who has kindly deciphered the horoscope, points
out that there are some inaccuracies in the astrologer's
computation, which 'leave a doubt of a few minutes'.]

[Footnote 3: Mr. Ernest Barker, Librarian of New College,
kindly gave Mr. Simpson access to the College records to test
the above dates and facts.]

[Footnote 4:

Should Flatman for his Client strain the laws
The Painter gives some colour to the cause:
Should Critics censure what the Poet writ,
The Pleader quits him at the Bar of wit.
]

[Footnote 3: Browne's diary (March, 1663-4) contains repeated
mention of 'Mr. Flatman, chirurgeon' of Norwich, who had
been a great traveller. This is additional evidence of the
connexion of the Flatmans with Norfolk.]

[Footnote 4: The publisher was Benjamin Tooke, whom Flatman
in a letter of November 3, 1675, recommended to Sancroft if
he wished to publish his Fifth of November sermon before the
House of Commons (Tanner MS. xlii, fol. 181, in Bodley).]

[Footnote 5: _V. inf._, p. 360.]

[Footnote 6:

Nor that slow drudge in swift Pindaric strains,
Flatman, who Cowley imitates with pains,
And rides a jaded Muse, whipt, with loose reins.

Flatman, who had no bad blood in him, took a magnanimous
revenge (_v. inf._, p. 365).]

[Footnote 7: Four letters of Flatman are published in
_Familiar Letters of Love, Gallantry, And Several Occasions,
By the Wits of the last and present Age_, 1718, vol. i, pp.
249-54. One of these is a letter to an unnamed patron, sending
his own portrait for the patron's collection as 'a foil to the
rest'.]

[Footnote 8: And that chiefly because Pope is supposed to have
borrowed from them.]

[Footnote 9: Flatman, however, is much less 'coarse' than most
of his contemporaries. Putting a very few pieces aside (not
themselves very shocking) he might almost challenge my Lord
Roscommon for those 'unspotted bays' which his own supposed
debtor Pope assigned, and of which we are all so tired.]

[Footnote 10: The Additional Poems (p. 408 sq.) I owe to Mr.
Percy Simpson, who collected them from their various sources,
added variants throughout from the Firth MS., and gave some
hints for correcting my own notes. Mr. G. Thorn-Drury has
again given his valuable help.]

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND

_Lord Lieutenant of_ Ireland, _&c._

In humble acknowledgment of
His Princely Favours

These[1] _POEMS_ are with all Dutiful
Respect
DEDICATED
By his GRACE's
Ever Oblig'd, and most
Obedient Servant,
_Thomas Flatman_.

[Footnote 1: So in 1682, where this Dedication first appeared:
1686 with its usual carelessness 'The', which is most
improbable.]

To the Reader.

_When I was prevail'd upon to make a Fourth Publication of these_ Poems _with a great many Additions, it was told me, That without a_ Preface _the Book would be unfashionable; Universal Custom had made it a Debt, and in this Age the_ Bill of Fare _was as necessary as the_ Entertainment. _To be Civil therefore, and to Comply with Expectation, instead of an elaborate Harangue in Commendation of the Art in general, or what, and what Qualifications go to the making up of a_ Poet _in particular, and without such artificial Imbellishments as use to be the Ornament of Prefaces, as_ Sayings of Philosophers, Ends of Verses, Greek, Latin, Hungarian, French, Welch, _or_ Italian, _Be it known unto the Reader, That in my poor Opinion_ Poetry _has a very near Resemblance to the modern Experiment of the_ Ambling-Saddle; _It's a good Invention for smoothing the_ Trott of Prose; _That's the Mechanical use of it. But Physically it gives present Ease to the_ Pains _of the_ Mind, _contracted by violent Surfeit of either good or bad Usage in the World. To be serious, 'tis an Innocent Help to_ Sham _a Man's time when it lies on his hands and his Fancy can relish nothing else. I speak but my own Experience; when any Accident hath either pleas'd or vex'd me beyond my power of expressing either my Satisfaction or Indignation in downright_ Prose, _I found it seasonable for_ Rhiming; _and I believe from what follows it may be discern'd when 'twas_ Fair Weather, _when_ Changeable, _and when the_ Quicksilver _fell down to_ Storm _and_ Tempest. _As to the Measures observ'd by me, I always took a peculiar delight in the_ Pindarique _strain, and that for two Reasons, First, it gave me a liberty now and then to correct the saucy forwardness of a_ Rhime, _and to lay it aside till I had a mind to admit it; And secondly, if my Sense fell at any time too short for my_ Stanza, (_and it will often happen so in Versifying_) _I had then opportunity to fill it up with a_ Metaphor _little to the purpose, and (upon occasion) to run that_ Metaphor _stark mad into an_ Allegory, _a practice very frequent and of admirable use amongst the_ Moderns, _especially the_ Nobless _of the Faculty. But in good earnest, as to the_ Subjects, _which came in my way to write upon, I must declare that I have chosen only such as might be treated within the Rules of_ Decency, _and without offence either to_ Religion _or_ good Manners. _The Caution I receiv'd (by Tradition) from the Incomparable Mr._ Cowley, _and him I must ever acknowledge but to imitate, if any of the ensuing Copies may deserve the name of_ Good _or_ Indifferent. _I have not vanity enough to prescribe how a_ Muse _ought to be Courted, and I want leisure to borrow from some Treatises I have seen, which look like so many_ Academies _of_ Complements _for that purpose. I have known a man, who when he was about to write would screw his face into more disguises than_ Scaramuccio, _or a_ Quaker _at a Meeting when his Turn came to mount; his breast heav'd, his hair stood on end, his eyes star'd_, _and the whole man was disorder'd; and truly when he had done, any body at first reading would conclude that at the time he made them he was possess'd with an evil Spirit. Another that seem'd like_ Nostradamus _(when the Whim took him in the head to Prophesie,) he sate upon his_ Divining Tripos, _his elbow on his knee, his Lamp by his side, all the avenues of light stopp'd, full of expectation when the_ little faint flames _should steal in through a crevice of the Shutters; This Gentleman indeed writ extreme_ Melancholy Madrigals. _I have had the happiness to hear of a Third too, whose whole life was_ Poetical, _he was a_ Walking Poem, _and his way was this; finding that the fall of the Leaf was already upon him, and prudently foreseeing that in the Winter of his old Age he might possibly want Fodder, he carry'd always about him one of_ Raimund Lully's Repositories, _a piece of_ Mathematical Paper, _and in what Company soever he came, the_ Spoon _was always ready for the_ Civet-Cat, _nothing scap'd him that_ fell from a Wit: _At night his custom was to digest all that he had pirated that Day, under proper Heads; This was his_ Arsenal, _his inexhaustible_ Magazine; _so that upon occasion he had no more to do, than to give a snap, or two to his Nails; a rub or two upon the sutures of his Head, to turn over his_ Hint-Book, _and the Matter was at hand, his business (after that piece of_ Legerdemain) _was only_ Tacking, _and_ Tagging: _I never saw but One of this Author's Compositions, and really It troubled me, because It put me in mind, how much time I had mispent in Coffee-Houses, for there was nothing in It, but what I could find a Father for There; Nay, (with a little recollection,) a man might name most of the Birds from whence he had pluckt his Feathers. Some there are that Beseech, Others that Hector their_ Muses: _Some that Diet their_ Pegasus, _give him his Heats and Ayrings for the Course; Others that endeavour to slop up his broken wind with Medicinal Ale and Bisquet; But these for the most part are men of_ Industry; _Rhiming is their proper Business, they are fain to labour hard, and use much Artifice for a poor Livelihood, I wish 'em good Trading. I profess I never had design to be incorporated into the Society; my utmost End was merely for Diversion of my self and a few Friends whom I very well love; and if the question should be ask'd why these Productions are expos'd, I may truly say, I could not help it; One unlucky Copy, like a Bell-weather, stole from me in to the Common, and the rest of the Flock took their opportunity to leave the Enclosure. If I might be proud of any thing, it should be the first Copy of the Book, but therein I had the greatest advantage given me that any Noble Subject could afford. And so much for_ Preface _and_ Poetry, _till some very powerful Star shall over-rule my present Resolution._

[_To the Reader._] As in some other cases, I have thought
it best to keep the original arrangement of capitals,
type-differences, &c., here. The poems are printed, like the
greater part of the collection, in modern form, but with no
important alterations unnoticed.]

On the Excellent Poems of my most Worthy
Friend, Mr. Thomas Flatman.

You happy issue of a happy wit,
As ever yet in charming numbers writ,
Welcome into the light, and may we be
Worthy so happy a posterity.
We long have wish'd for something excellent;
But ne'er till now knew rightly what it meant:
For though we have been gratified, 'tis true,
From several hands with things both fine and new,
The wits must pardon me, if I profess,
That till this time the over-teeming press 10
Ne'er set out Poesy in so true a dress:
Nor is it all, to have a share of wit,
There must be judgement too to manage it;
For Fancy's like a rough, but ready horse,
Whose mouth is govern'd more by skill than force;
Wherein (my friend) you do a maistry own,
If not particular to you alone;
Yet such at least as to all eyes declares
Your Pegasus the best performs his airs.
Your Muse can humour all her subjects so, 20
That as we read we do both feel and know;
And the most firm impenetrable breast
With the same passion that you write's possest.
Your lines are rules, which who shall well observe
Shall even in their errors praise deserve:
The boiling youth, whose blood is all on fire,
Push'd on by vanity, and hot desire,
May learn such conduct here, men may approve
And not excuse, but even applaud his love.
Ovid, who made an art of what to all 30
Is in itself but too too natural,
Had he but read your verse, might then have seen
The style of which his precepts should have been,
And (which it seems he knew not) learnt from thence
To reconcile frailty with innocence.
The love _you_ write virgins and boys may read,
And never be debauch'd but better bred;
For without love, beauty would bear no price,
And dullness, than desire's a greater vice:
Your greater subjects with such force are writ 40
So full of sinewy strength, as well as wit,
That when you are _religious_, our divines
May emulate, but not reprove your lines:
And when you reason, there the learned crew
May learn to speculate, and speak from you.
You no profane, no obscene language use
To smut your paper, or defile your Muse.
Your gayest things, as well express'd as meant,
Are equally both quaint and innocent.
But your Pindaric Odes indeed are such 50
That Pindar's lyre from his own skilful touch
Ne'er yielded such an harmony, nor yet
Verse keep such time on so unequal feet.
So by his own generous confession
Great Tasso by Guarini was outdone:
And (which in copying seldom does befall)
The ectype's better than th' original.
But whilst your fame I labour to send forth,
By the ill-doing it I cloud your worth,
In something all mankind unhappy are, 60
And you as mortal too must have your share;
'Tis your misfortune to have found a friend,
Who hurts and injures where he would commend.
But let this be your comfort, that your bays
Shall flourish green, maugre an ill-couch'd praise.

CHARLES COTTON, Esq.

[_You happy, &c._] 16 Cotton may have had several reasons for
keeping the form 'maistry'--at any rate it should certainly be
kept here, though 'mastery' with or without apostrophated _e_
would fill the verse properly.]

[Line: 50 'Pindari_que_' or 'Pindariqu'' in the original
throughout the Volume.]

[Line: 57 ectype] Not uncommon even later for 'copy'.]

[This piece is in the original about half italics, which, for
the most part, express no kind of emphasis. The next is
almost entirely free from them, and the difference continues
throughout the Commendatory Poems in such a fashion as to show
that they were used on no principle at all. Flatman's own text
has very few, outside of proper names.]

To my Friend Mr Thomas Flatman, upon the
Publication of his Poems.

I.

As when a Prince his standard does erect,
And calls his subjects to the field,
From such as early take his side,
And readily obedience yield,
He is instructed where he may suspect,
And where he safely may confide:
So, mighty friend,
That you may see
A perfect evidence of loyalty,
No business I pretend; 10
From all th' incumbrances of human life,
From nourishing the sinful people's strife,
And the increasing weaknesses of age.

II.

Domestic care, the mind's incurable disease,
I am resolv'd I will forget.
Ah! could I hope the restless pain
Would now entirely cease,
And never more return again,
My thoughts I would in other order set;
By more than protestations I would show, 20
Not the sum total only of the debt,
But the particulars of all I owe.

III.

This I would do: but what will our desire avail
When active heat and vigour fail?
'Tis well thou hast more youthful combatants than I,
Right able to protect thy immortality:
If envy should attack thy spotless name
(And that attacks the best of things
And into rigid censure brings
The most undoubted registers of fame), 30
Their fond artillery let them dispense,
Piercing wit and murd'ring eloquence,
Noble conceit and manly sense,
Charming numbers let 'em shine
And dazzle dead in ev'ry line
The most malicious of thy foes,
Though Hell itself should offer to oppose;
I (thy decrepit subject) only can resign
The little life of art is left, to ransom thine:
Fumbling's as bad in poetry, 40
And as ridiculous, as 'tis in gallantry:
But if a dart I may prevent,
Which at my friend's repute was meant,
Let them then direct at me;
By dying in so just a war,
I possibly may share
In thy infallible eternity.

IV.

But, dearest friend
(Before it be too late),
Let us a while expostulate, 50
What heat of glory call'd you on,
Your learnèd empire to extend
Beyond the limits of your own dominion?
At home, you were already crown'd with bays:
Why foreign trophies do you seek to raise?
Poets arcanas have of government,
And tho' the homagers of your own continent
Out of a sense of duty do submit,
Yet public print a jealousy creates,
And intimates a laid design 60
Unto the neighb'ring potentates.
Now into all your secret arts they pry,
And weigh each hint by rules of policy.
Offensive leagues they twine,
In councils, rotas, and cabals they sit,
Each petty burgess thinks it fit
The Corporation should combine
Against the Universal Monarchy of Wit,
And straight declare for quite abjuring it.

V.

Hence then must you prepare for an invasion: 70
Tho' not from such as are reclaim'd by education;
In the main points all European wits agree,
All allow order, art, and rules of decency,
And to be absolutely perfect, ne'er was yet
A beauty such, or such a wit.
I fear the Pagan and the barbarous,
A nation quite Antipodes to us;
The infidel unletter'd crew (I mean)
Who call that only wit,
Which is indeed but the reverse of it; 80
Creatures in whom civility ne'er shone,
But (unto Nature's contradiction)
It is their glory to be so obscene,
You'd think the legion of th' unclean
Were from the swine (to which they were condemn'd) releas'd,
And had these verier swine (than them) possess'd.

VI.

If these should an advantage take
And on thy fame a depredation make,
You must submit to the unhappiness;
These are the common enemies of our belief and art, 90
And by hostility possess'd
The world's much greater part:
All things with them are measur'd by success:
If the battle be not won;
If the author do not sell;
Into their dull capacities it will not sink,
They cannot with deliberation think
How bravely the commander led them on,
No nor wherein the book was written well:
When ('tis a thing impossible to do) 100
He cannot find his army courage (Sir), nor you
Your readers, learning, wit, and judgement too.

ROBERT THOMPSON, LL.D.

[Line: 103 I have not identified Robert Thompson, LL.D., but
I shall always think of him as author of some of the worst
Pindaric of his time, which is saying a great deal.]

To my Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman, on the
Publishing of these his Poems.

Let not (my friend) th' incredulous sceptic man
Dispute what potent Art and Nature can!
Let him believe, the birds that did bemoan
The loss of Zeuxis' grapes in querulous tone,
Were silenc'd by a painted dragon, found
A _Telesme_ to restrain their chatt'ring sound,
And that one made a mistress could enforce
A neighing sigh, ev'n from a stallion horse!
Let old Timanthes now unveil the face
Of his Atrides, thou'lt give sorrow grace! 10
Now may Parrhasius let his curtain stand!
And great Protogenes take off his hand!
For all that lying Greece and Latium too
Have told us of, thou (only thou) mak'st true.
And all the miracles which they could show,
Remain no longer faith; but science now.
Thou dost those things that no man else durst do,
Thou paint'st the lightning, and the thunder too!
The soul and voice!
Thou'lt make Turks, Jews, with Romanists consent, 20
To break the second great Commandement:
And them persuade an adoration giv'n
In picture, will as grateful be to Heav'n
As one in metre. Th' art is in excess;
But yet thy ingenuity makes it less.
With pen and pencil thou dost all outshine,
In speaking picture, Poesy divine.
Poets, creators are! You made us know
Those are above, and dread those are below;
But 'tis no wonder you such things can dare, 30
That painter, poet, and a prophet are.
The stars themselves think it no scorn to be
Plac'd, and directed in their way by thee.
Thou know'st their virtue, and their situation,
The fate of years, and every great mutation;
With the same kindness let them look on Earth,
As when they gave thee first thy happy birth!
The sober Saturn aspects Cynthia bright,
Resigning hers, to give us thy new light. 40
The gentle Venus rose with Mercury
(Presage of softness in thy Poesy),
And Jove and Mars in amicable Trine
Do still give spirit to thy polish'd line.
Thou mayst do what thou wilt without control:
_Only thyself and Heav'n can paint thy soul._

FRAN. BARNARD, M.D.

[_Let not, &c._] 6 The form _Telesme_, which may be allowed
its italics, reproduces the (late) Greek [Greek: telesma],
instead of the Spanish-Arabic 'talisman'.]

[Line: 22 giv'n] Orig. 'giv'_d_', but correct in previous
(1682) edition.]

[Line: 39 Both editions have a comma at 'aspects', which
obscures the sense. 'Aspect' is made a transitive verb in
the sense of the astrological substantive = 'arranges his
situation in regard to the Moon so as to make her resign', &c.
1686 'To' for 'The', wrongly.]

[Line: 46 It would be a shame to rob Francis Barnard of the
italics which distinguish the entire line in the original.
He died on February 9, 1698, and was buried at St. Botolph's,
Bishopsgate.]

To his esteemed Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman,
Upon the Publishing of his Poems.

Your Poems (friend) come on the public stage
In a debauch'd and a censorious age:
Where nothing now is counted standard wit,
But what's profane, obscene, or's bad as it.
For our great wits, like gallants of the times
(And such they are), court only those loose rhymes,
Which, like their misses, patch'd and painted are;
But scorn what virtuous is and truly fair;
Such as your Muse is, who with careful art
For all but such, hath wisely fram'd a part. 10
One while (methinks) under some gloomy shade,
I see the melancholy lover laid,
Pleasing himself in that his pensive fit
With what you have on such occasion writ.
Another while (methinks) I seem to hear
'Mongst those, who sometimes will unbend their care.
And steal themselves out from the busy throng,
Your pleasant _Songs_ in solemn consort sung.
Again (methinks) I see the grave Divine
Lay by his other books, to look on thine, 20
And from thy serious and divine _Review_
See what our duty is, and his own too.
Yet, worthy friend, you can't but guess what doom
Is like to pass on what you've writ, by some;
But there are others, now your book comes forth,
Who (I am sure) will prize it as 'tis worth,
Who know it fully fraught with staple ware,
Such as the _Works_ of the great Cowley are,
And 'mongst our rarest English poems, thine
Next unto his immortally shall shine. 30

RICH. NEWCOURT.

[_Your Poems, &c._] 14 i.e., no doubt, _The Desperate Lover_
(_v. inf._ p. 336).]

[Line: 18 consort] As so often = 'concert'.]

[Line: 21 divine _Review_] The poem to Sancroft (_inf._, p.
301).]

[Line: 31 Richard Newcourt is discoverable and throws a little
more light on Flatman's circle of acquaintance. He was a
topographer, and drew a map of London published in 1658 by
Faithorne the elder (_v. inf._).]

To my Worthy Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman,
Upon the Publishing of his Poems.

Rude and unpolish'd as my lines can be,
I must start forth into the world with thee.
That which, yet private, did my wonder raise,
Now 'tis made public challenges my praise:
Such miracles thy charming verse can do,
Where'er it goes, it draws me with it too.
This is a kind of birthday to thy Muse!
Transported with delight I cannot choose
But bid her _Welcome to the Light_, and tell,
How much I value what is writ so well; 10
Tho' thou reap'st no advantage by my rhyme,
More than a taper helps the day to shine.
Thus in dull pomp does th' empty coach attend
To pay respect to some departed friend!
The difference of regard in this does lie,
_That_ honours dust, _mine_ that which cannot die:
For what can blast the labours of thy pen,
While wit and virtue are allow'd by men?
Thou entertain'st the world with such a feast,
So cleanly and so elegantly drest, 20
So stor'd with laudable varieties
As may a modest appetite suffice;
Whoever is thy guest is sure to find
Something or other that may please his mind.
Sometimes in pious flames thy Muse aspires
Her bosom warm'd with supernat'ral fires;
In noble flights with Pindar, soars above;
Dallies sometimes with not-indecent love,
Thence down into the grave does humbly creep,
And renders Death desirable as Sleep. 30
The debonair, the melancholy here
Find matter for their mirth, ease for their care.
Since such provision's made for all that come,
He must be squeamish that goes empty home;
If these refections cannot do him good,
'Tis 'cause his stomach's vicious, not the food.

FRANCIS KNOLLYS, Esq.

[_Rude and unpolished, &c._] 4 public] Orig. 'publique'. So
often 'Pindarique', and sometimes '-iq''.]

[Line: 37 This Knollys is again unknown to me.]

To the Author on his excellent Poems.

I.

Strange magic of thy wit and style,
Which to their griefs mankind can reconcile!
Whilst thy Philander's tuneful voice we hear
Condoling our disastrous state,
Touch'd with a sense of our hard fate,
We sigh perhaps, or drop a tear,
But he the mournful song so sweetly sings,
That more of pleasure than regret it brings.
With such becoming grief
The Trojan chief 10
Troy's conflagration did relate,
Whilst ev'n the suffrers in the fire drew near
And with a greedy ear
Devour'd the story of their own subverted state.

II.

Kind Heav'n (as to her darling son) to thee
A double portion did impart,
A gift of Painting and of Poesy:
But for thy rivals in the painter's art,
If well they represent, they can effect
No more, nor can we more expect. 20
But more than this _thy_ happy pencils give;
Thy draughts are more than representative,
For, if we'll credit our own eyes, they _live!_
Ah! worthy friend, couldst thou maintain the state
Of what with so much ease thou dost create,
We might reflect on death with scorn!
But pictures, like th' originals, decay!
Of colours those consist, and these of clay;
Alike compos'd of dust, to dust alike return!

III.

Yet 'tis our happiness to see 30
Oblivion, Death, and adverse Destiny
Encounter'd, vanquish'd, and disarm'd by thee.
For if thy pencils fail,
Change thy artillery
And thou'rt secure of victory.
Employ thy quill and thou shall still prevail.
The Grand Destroyer, greedy Time, reveres
Thy Fancy's imag'ry, and spares
The meanest thing that bears
Th' impression of thy pen; 40
Tho' coarse and cheap their natural metal were,
Stamp'd with thy verse he knows th' are sacred then,
He knows them by that character to be
Predestinate and set apart for immortality.

IV.

If native lustre in thy themes appear,
Improv'd by thee it shines more clear:
Or if thy subject's void of native light,
Thy Fancy need but dart a beam
To gild thy theme,
And make the rude mass beautiful and bright. 50
Thou vary'st oft thy strains, but still
Success attends each strain:
Thy verse is always lofty as the hill,
Or pleasant as the plain.
How well thy Muse the Pastoral Song improves!
Whose nymphs and swains are in their loves
As innocent, and yet as kind as doves.
But most She moves our wonder and delight,
When She performs her loose Pindaric flight,
Oft to their outmost reach She will extend 60
Her tow'ring wings to soar on high,
And then by just degrees descend:
Oft in a swift strait course She glides,
Obliquely oft the air divides,
And oft with wanton play hangs hov'ring in the sky.

V.

Whilst sense of duty into my artless Muse
Th' ambition would infuse
To mingle with those Nymphs that homage pay,
And wait on thine in her triumphant way,
Defect of merit checks her forward pride, 70
And makes her dread t' approach thy chariot side;
For 'twere at least a rude indecency
(If not profane) t' appear
At this solemnity,
Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are);
But this we will presume to do,
At distance, to attend the show,
Officious to gather up
The scatter'd bays, if any drop
From others' temples, and with those 80
A plain plebeian coronet compose.
This, as your livery, she'd wear, to hide
Her nakedness, not gratify her pride!
Such was the verdant dress
Which the Offending Pair did frame
Of platted leaves, not to express
Their pride i'th' novel garb, but to conceal their shame.

N. TATE.

[Line: 42 'th'' for 'they' is an instance, good in its
badness, of the uglier apostrophation.]

[Line: 63 strait] So _both_ edd.: but as often for
'strai_gh_t'.]

[Line: 75 'Crown'd with no laurel wreath (as others are)'
should be a comfort to the poetaster. For Nahum had only to
wait less than twenty years and he _was_ crowned in the very
lifetime of the discrowned 'other' Dryden, who wore the wreath
at this time, and who meanwhile had done him the enormous
honour of admitting him to collaboration in _Absalom and
Achitophel_. Tate has other verses addressed to Flatman; see
his _Poems_, p. 67.]

To my dear Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman,
Upon the Publication of his Poems.

PINDARIC ODE.

I.

Within the haunted thicket, where
The feather'd choristers are met to play;
And celebrate with voices clear,
And accents sweet, the praise of May:
The ouzel, thrush, and speckled lark,
And Philomel, that loves the dawn and dark:
These (the inspired throng)
In numbers smooth and strong
Adorn their noble theme with an immortal song,
While woods and vaults, the brook and neighbouring hill, 10
Repeat the varied close and the melodious trill.

II.

Here feast your ears, but let their eye
Wander, and see one of the lesser fry
Under a leaf, or on a dancing twig,
Ruffle his painted feathers, and look big,
Perk up his tail, and hop between
The boughs; by moving, only to be seen,
Perhaps his troubled breast he prunes,
As he doth meditate his tunes:
At last (compos'd) his little head he rears, 20
Towards (what he strives to imitate) the spheres;
And chirping then begins his best,
Falls on to pipe among the rest;
Deeming that all's not worth a rush,
Without his whistle from the bush.

III.

Th' harmonious sound did reach my ear,
That echo'd _thy_ clear name,
Which all must know, who e'er did hear
Of Cowley or Orinda's fame;
I heard the Genius, with surprising grace, 30
Would visit us with his fair offspring, gay
As is the morning spring in May;
But fairer much, and of immortal race.

IV.

Delighted greatly, as I list'ning stood,
The sound came from each corner of the wood;
It both the shrubs and cedars shak'd,
And my drowsy Muse awak'd;
Strange that the sound should be so shrill,
That had its passage through a quill.
Then I resolv'd _thy_ praises to rehearse, 40
The wonders of _thy pen_, among the crowd
Of thy learn'd friends that sing so loud:
But 'twas not to be sung, or reach'd in verse.
By my weak notes, scarce to be heard,
Or if they could, not worth regard;
Desisting therefore I must only send
My very kind well wishes to my friend.

OCTAVIAN PULLEYN.

[_Within the haunted, &c._] 9 theme] So spelt here; 'theam'
elsewhere--a fresh pair of instances from the same book of the
absurdity of keeping bad spelling for its own sake.]

[Line: 48 Octavian Pulleyn was probably the son of Octavian
Pulleyn, warden of the Stationers' Company; he published
Woodford's _Paraphrase of the Psalms_.]

_Commendatory Poems_

The following spirited preface and a prefatory poem were printed only in the _Poems and Songs_ of 1674; they are worth preserving here.

Advertisement to the Reader.

_By long_ Prescription time out of mind, _the next Leafe to the_ Title Page _claims an_ EPISTLE to the READER; _I had the Project once in my own thoughts too: But the Market is so abominably_ forestall'd _already with all manner of excuses for Printing, that I could not possibly contrive_ one, _that would look any thing_ New: _And besides I never found, amongst all the_ Epistles _that I have read, that the best Rethorick in 'em could perswade me to have a better opinion of the Books for_ Their _sakes: I am apt to believe the rest of Mankind much of my humour in this particular, and therefore do here expose these few Results of my many Idle hours, to the mercy of the wide World, quite guiltless of_ Address _or_ Ceremony. _And that_ Reader, who will _not believe I had some tolerable Reason for_ This Publication, _cannot give me much disturbance, because I'me sure he is not at all acquainted with_

_T. F._

April 10. 1674.

To his Worthy Friend Mr. Thomas Flatman
on the publishing of his Poems.

I.

I think thou art not well advised, my friend,
To bring thy spritely Poems on the stage
Now when the Muses' empire 's at an end
And there 's none left that feel poetic rage,
Now Cowley's dead, the glory of the age,
And all the lesser singing birds are starved i'th' cage.

II.

Nor was it well done to permit my bush,
My holly bush, to hang before thy wine,
For friends' applauses are not worth a rush,
And every fool can get a gilded sign.
In troth I have no faculty at praise;
My bush is very full of thorns, though it seems bays.

III.

When I would praise I cannot find a rhyme,
But if I have a just pretence to rail,
They come in numerous throngs at any time,
Their everlasting fountains never fail,
They come in troops and for employment pray;
If I have any wit, it lies only that way.

IV.

But yet I'll try, if thou wilt rid thy mind
Of thoughts of rhyming and of writing well,
And bend thy studies to another kind--
I mean, in craft and riches to excel;
If thou desert thy friends and better wine,
And pay'st no more attendance on the needy Nine.

V.

Go, and renounce thy wit and thy good parts--
Wit and good parts, great enemies to wealth,--
And barter honesty for more thriving arts,
Prize gold before a good name, ease, and health.
Answer the Dog and Bottle, and maintain
There's great ease in a yoke, and freedom in a chain.

VI.

I'll love thee now when this is done, I'll try
To sing thy praise, and force my honest Muse to lie.

WALTER POPE.

The Contents.

Page
On the Death of the Right
Honourable Thomas Earl of
Ossory. Pindaric Ode 296

To the Memory of the Incomparable
Orinda. Pindaric Ode 298

The review to Dr. W. S. Pindaric Ode 301

To my Worthy Friend Mr. Sam.
Woodford on his Excellent
Version of the Psalms. Pindaric Ode 306

On the Death of the Truly Valiant
George Duke of Albemarle. Pindaric Ode 308

The Retirement. Pindaric Ode,
made in the time of the great
Sickness 1665 312

Translated out of a part of
Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon 314

A Thought of Death. 317

Psalm 39, verses 4 and 5 317

Hymn for the Morning 318

Anthem for the Evening 318

Death. A Song 319

The Happy Man 319

On Mr. Johnson's several Shipwrecks 320

An Explanation of an Emblem
engraven by V. H. 321

For Thoughts 321

Against Thoughts 323

A Dooms-Day Thought 325

Virtus sola manet, caetera mortis erunt 327

Translated 328

Psalm 15. Paraphrased 329

Job 330

Nudus Redibo 330

An Elegy on the Earl of Sandwich 331

An Epitaph on the Earl of Sandwich 332

Pastoral 332

On the Death of Mr. Pelham Humfries,
a Pastoral Song 334

The Mistake 334

The Incredulous 335

Weeping at parting, Song 335

The Desperate Lover 336

The Fatigue, A Song 337

The Resolve, Song 337

Love's Bravo, Song 338

The Expectation, Song 339

Coridon converted, Song 339

The Humourist, Song 340

Fading Beauty, Song 340

A Dialogue, Cloris and Parthenissa 341

A Dialogue, Orpheus and Eurydice 341

The Bachelor's Song 342

The Bachelor's Song, Second part 343

An Appeal to Cats in the business of Love 343

Advice to an Old Man of 63 about
to marry a Girl of 16, Song 343

The Slight, Song 344

The Penitent, Song 345

The Defiance, Song 345

The Surrender, Song 346

The Whim, Song 346

The Renegado, Song 347

Phyllis withdrawn 347

The Malecontent, Song 348

The Indifferent, Song 348

The Harbour, Song 349

The Unconcerned, Song 349

The Immovable, Song 350

The Wish, Song 350

The Cordial made in the year 1637 351

Celadon on Delia singing, Song 351

The Advice, Song 352

To Mr. Sam. Austin of Wadham Coll. Oxon,
on his most unintelligible Poems 353

To my ingenious Friend Mr. William Faithorne
on his Book of Drawing, Etching, and Graving 354

On the Commentaries of Messire Blaize de Montluc,
to the Worthy Translator Charles Cotton, Esq. 355

A Character of a Belly-God. Catius and Horace 356

The Disappointed. Pindaric Ode 359

On Mrs. E. Montague's Blushing
in the Cross-Bath. A Translation 360

Il Infido 361

Il Immaturo, Epitaph 362

On Mrs. Dove, Epitaph 362

Lucretius 362

Paraphrased 362

On Dr. Browne's Travels 363

On Poverty 363

Urania to her Friend Parthenissa. A Dream 364

On the Death of the Earl of Rochester. Pastoral 365

On Dr. Woodford's Paraphrase on the Canticles 366

Laodamia to Protesilaus: One of Ovid's Epistles
Translated 367

To the Excellent Master of Music
Signior Pietro Reggio, on his Book of Songs 371

In the Temple Church. Epitaph on Sir John King 372

On the Death of my dear Brother
Mr. Richard Flatman. Pindaric Ode 373

Coridon on the Death of his dear Alexis 375

A Song on New-years-day before the King 376

On the King's return to Whitehall
after his Summer's Progress, 1684 377

To Mr. Isaac Walton on his publication of Thealma 378

Pastoral Dialogue, Castara and Parthenia 379

Castabella going to Sea, Song 380

On the Death of my Worthy Friend
Mr. John Oldham. Pindaric Pastoral Ode 380

On Sir John Micklethwaite's Monument in
St. Botolphs Aldersgate Church, London 382

Epitaph on Thomas Rock 383

On the Death of the Illustrious
Prince Rupert. Pindaric Ode 384

Poema in obitum illustrissimi principis
Ruperti Latinè redditum 388

On the much Lamented Death of our late
Sovereign Lord King Charles II of
blessed Memory. Pindaric Ode 391

To his Sacred Majesty King James II 394

ODES OF HORACE

Book the Second, Ode 19 395

Book the Third, Ode 8 396

Book the Third, Ode 9 396

Book the Third, Ode 12 397

Book the Third, Ode 17 397

Book the Third, Ode 19 398

Book the Third, Ode 20 398

Book the Third, Ode 21 399

Book the Third, Ode 22 399

Book the Third, Ode 3 400

Book the Fourth, Ode 1 400

Book the Fourth, Ode 10 401

Book the Fourth, Ode 11 401

Epode the Third 402

Epode the Sixth 403

Epode the Tenth 403

Epode the Eleventh 404

Epode the Fifteenth 405

Epode the Seventeenth 405

POEMS NOT INCLUDED IN THE EDITIONS OF 1682 AND 1686.

Upon a Chine of Beef 409

On the Death of Charles Capell 410

From W. Sanderson's _Graphice_:--

On the Picture of the Author 411

On the noble Art of Painting 411

On Mistress S. W. 413

Song ('Oh no, oh no! it cannot be') 414

Epitaph on his eldest Son Thomas 414

Lines to John Northleigh 415

Lines to Archbishop Sancroft 416

On the Death of James, Duke of Ormond.
Pindaric Ode 417

Job, ch. xxvii. Paraphrased 420

POEMS.

_On the Death of the Right Honourable Thomas Earl of Ossory._

PINDARIC ODE.

_Stanza_ I.

No more!--Alas that bitter word, _No more!_
The Great, the Just, the Generous, the Kind;
The universal Darling of Mankind,
The noble OSSORY is now _No more!_
The mighty man is fall'n--
From Glory's lofty pinnacle,
Meanly like one of us, he fell,
Not in the hot pursuit of victory,
As gallant men would choose to die;
But tamely, like a poor plebeian, from his bed 10
To the dark grave a captive led;
Emasculating sighs, and groans around,
His friends in floods of sorrow drown'd;
His awful truncheon and bright arms laid by,
He bow'd his glorious head to Destiny.

II.