Chapter XVII: Introduction: To Thomas Flatman (2)

Celestial Powers! how unconcern'd you are!
No black eclipse or blazing star
Presag'd the death of this illustrious man,
No deluge, no, nor hurricane;
In her old wonted course Nature went on, 20
As if some common thing were done,
One single victim to Death's altar's come,
And not in Ossory an whole hecatomb.
Yet, when the founder of old Rome expir'd,
When the Pellëan youth resign'd his breath,
And when the great Dictator stoop'd to death,
Nature and all her faculties retir'd:
Amaz'd she started when amaz'd she saw
The breaches of her ancient fundamental law,
Which kept the world in awe: 30
For men less brave than him, her very heart did ache,
The labouring Earth did quake,
And trees their fix'd foundations did forsake;
Nature in some prodigious way
Gave notice of their fatal day:
Those lesser griefs with pain she thus exprest,
This did confound, and overwhelm her breast.

III.

Shrink, ye crown'd heads, that think yourselves secure,
And from your mould'ring thrones look down,
Your greatness cannot long endure, 40
The King of Terrors claims you for his own;
You are but tributaries to his dreadful crown:
Renown'd, Serene, Imperial, most August,
Are only high and mighty epithets for dust.
In vain, in vain so high
Our tow'ring expectations fly,
While th' blossoms of our hopes, so fresh, so gay,
Appear, and promise fruit, then fade away.
From valiant Ossory's ever loyal hands,
What did we not believe! 50
We dream'd of yet unconquer'd lands
He to his Prince could give,
And neighbouring crowns retrieve:
Expected that he would in triumph come
Laden with spoils and Afric banners home,
As if an hero's years
Were as unbounded as our fond desires.

IV.

Lament, lament, you that dare Honour love,
And court her at a noble rate 60
(Your prowess to approve),
That dare religiously upon her wait,
And blush not to grow good, when you grow great,
Such mourners suit _His_ virtue, such _His_ State.
And you, brave souls, who for your country's good
Did wondrous things in fields and seas of blood,
Lament th' undaunted chief that led you on;
Whose exemplary courage could inspire
The most degenerate heart with martial English fire.
Your bleeding wounds who shall hereafter dress 70
With an indulgent tenderness;
Touch'd with a melting sympathy,
Who shall your wants supply,
Since he, your good Samaritan, is gone?
O Charity! thou richest boon of Heaven,
To man in pity given!
(For when well-meaning mortals give,
The poor's and their own bowels they relieve;)
Thou mak'st us with alacrity to die,
Miss'd and bewail'd like thee, large-hearted Ossory. 80

V.

Arise, ye blest inhabitants above,
From your immortal seats arise,
And on our wonder, on our love
Gaze with astonish'd eyes.
Arise! Arise! make room,
Th' exalted Shade is come.
See where he comes! What princely port he bears!
How God-like he appears!
His shining temples round
With wreaths of everlasting laurels bound! 90
As from the bloody field of Mons he came,
Where he outfought th' hyperboles of Fame.
See how the Guardian-Angel of our isle
Receives the deifi'd champion with a smile!
Welcome, the Guardian-Angel says,
Full of songs of joy and praise,
Welcome thou art to me,
And to these regions of serenity!
Welcome, the wingèd choir resounds,
While with loud _Euge's_ all the sacred place abounds. 100

[_On the Death of the Earl of Ossory._] Thomas Butler
(1634-80), by courtesy Earl of Ossory, though not exactly
a Marcellus (for he was forty-six when he died), holds a
distinguished place among those who have died too soon. He
was a soldier, a sailor, a statesman; if not an orator, an
effective speaker; and though no milksop or 'good boy', one
emphatically, 'of the right sort'. The excellent first line
(see Introduction) is well supported by the whole opening
quatrain; and it has been left, typographically, as it appears
in the original. The rest may undergo the usual law. The poem
was first issued in folio in 1681: 'be' was read for 'grow' in
l. 63.]

[Line: 58 The French rhyme, as if 'dés_ir_', is not
uninteresting.]

_To the Memory of the Incomparable Orinda._

PINDARIC ODE.

_Stanza_ I.

A long adieu to all that's bright,
Noble, or brave in woman-kind;
To all the wonders of their wit,
And trophies of their mind:
The glowing heat of th' holy fire is gone:
To th' altar, whence 'twas kindled, flown;
There's nought on earth, but ashes left behind;
E'er since th' amazing sound was spread,
Orinda's dead;
Every soft and fragrant word, 10
All that language could afford;
Every high and lofty thing
That's wont to set the soul on wing,
No longer with this worthless world would stay.
Thus, when the death of the great Pan was told,
Along the shore the dismal tidings roll'd;
The lesser Gods their fanes forsook,
Confounded with the mighty stroke,
They could not overlive that fatal day,
But sigh'd and groan'd their gasping Oracles away. 20

II.

How rigid are the laws of Fate
And how severe that black decree!
No sublunary thing is free,
But all must enter th' adamantine gate:
Sooner or later must we come
To Nature's dark retiring room:
And yet 'tis pity, is it not?
The learned, as the fool should die,
One, full as low, as t'other lie,
Together blended in the general lot! 30
Distinguish'd only from the common crowd
By an hing'd coffin or an holland shroud,
Though Fame and Honour speak them ne'er so loud.
Alas, Orinda! even thou,
Whose happy verse made others live,
And certain immortality could give;
Blasted are all thy blooming glories now,
The laurel withers o'er thy brow:
Methinks it should disturb thee to conceive
That when poor I this artless breath resign, 40
My dust should have as much of Poetry as thine!

III.

Too soon we languish with desire
Of what we never could enough admire.
On th' billows of this world sometimes we rise
So dangerously high,
We are to Heaven too nigh:
When all in rage
(Grown hoary with one minute's age)
The very self-same fickle wave,
Which the entrancing prospect gave, 50
Swoln to a mountain, sinks into a grave.
Too happy mortals, if the Powers above
As merciful would be,
And easy to preserve the thing we love,
As in the giving they are free!
But they too oft delude our wearied eyes,
They fix a flaming sword 'twixt us and Paradise!
A weeping evening blurs a smiling day,
Yet why should heads of gold have feet of clay?
Why should the man that wav'd th' Almighty wand, 60
That led the murmuring crowd
By pillar and by cloud,
Shivering atop of aery Pisgah stand
Only to see, but never, never tread the Promis'd Land?

IV.

Throw your swords and gauntlets by,
You daring Sons of War!
You cannot purchase ere you die
One honourable scar,
Since that fair hand that gilded all your bays;
That in heroic numbers wrote your praise, 70
That you might safely sleep in Honour's bed,
Itself, alas! is wither'd, cold, and dead:
Cold and dead are all those charms
That burnish'd your victorious arms;
Those useless things hereafter must
Blush first in blood, and then in rust:
No oil but that of her smooth words can serve
Weapon and warrior to preserve.
Expect no more from this dull age
But folly or poetic rage, 80
Short-liv'd nothings of the stage,
Vented to-day, and cried to-morrow down;
With her the soul of Poesie is gone,
Gone, while our expectations flew
As high a pitch as she has done,
Exhal'd to Heaven like early dew,
Betimes the little shining drops are flown,
Ere th' drowsy world perceiv'd that manna was come down

V.

You of the sex that would be fair,
Exceeding lovely, hither come, 90
Would you be pure as Angels are,
Come dress you by Orinda's tomb,
And leave your flattering glass at home.
Within that marble mirror see,
How one day such as she
You must, and yet alas! can never be!
Think on the heights of that vast soul,
And then admire, and then condole.
Think on the wonders of her generous pen,
'Twas she made Pompey truly great; 100
Neither the purchase of his sweat
Nor yet Cornelia's kindness made him live again:
With envy think, when to the grave you go,
How very little must be said of you,
Since all that can be said of virtuous woman was her due.

[_To the memory, &c._] For 'Orinda', or Katharine Philips,
see vol. i. This Pindaric was first printed in her _Poems_ of
1667: the chief variants are--58 blurs] crowns.]

[Line: 71 While you securely sleep.]

[Line: 75 Those useless things] Inglorious arms.]

[Line: 77 can] will.]

[Line: 99 generous _om._]

[Line: 101 Neither the expense of blood nor sweat.]

_The Review._

PINDARIC ODE to the Reverend Dr. WILLIAM SANCROFT, now Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

_Stanza_ I.

When first I stept into th' alluring maze
To tread this world's mysterious ways,
Alas! I had nor guide, nor clue,
No Ariadne lent her hand,
Not one of Virtue's guards did bid me stand,
Or ask'd me what I meant to do,
Or whither I would go:
This labyrinth so pleasant did appear,
I lost myself with much content,
Infinite hazards underwent, 10
Out-straggled Homer's crafty wanderer,
And ten years more than he in fruitless travels spent;
The one half of my life is gone,
The shadow the meridian past;
Death's dismal evening drawing on,
Which must with damps and mists be overcast,
An evening that will surely come,
'Tis time, high time to give myself the welcome home.

II.

Had I but heartily believ'd
That all the Royal Preacher said was true, 20
When first I ent'red on the stage,
And Vanity so hotly did pursue;
Convinc'd by his experience, not my age,
I had myself long since retriev'd,
I should have let the curtain down,
Before the Fool's part had begun:
But I throughout the tedious play have been
Concern'd in every busy scene;
Too too inquisitive I tried
Now this, anon another face, 30
And then a third, more odd, took place,
Was everything, but what I was.
Such was my Protean folly, such my pride,
Befool'd through all the tragi-comedy,
Where others met with hissing, to expect a _Plaudite_.

III.

I had a mind the Pastoral to prove,
Searching for happiness in Love,
And finding Venus painted with a Dove,
A little naked Boy hard by,
The Dove, which had no gall, 40
The Boy no dangerous arms at all;
They do thee wrong, great Love, said I,
Much wrong, great Love! ----scarce had I spoke
Ere into my unwary bosom came
An inextinguishable flame:
From fair Amira's eyes the lightning broke,
That left me more than thunder-strook;
She carries tempest in that lovely name:
Love's mighty and tumultuous pain
Disorders Nature like an hurricane. 50
Yet couldn't I believe such storms could be,
When I launch'd forth to sea;
Promis'd myself a calm and easy way,
Though I had seen before
Piteous ruins on the shore,
And on the naked beach Leander breathless lay.

IV.

To extricate myself from Love
Which I could ill obey, but worse command,
I took my pencils in my hand,
With that artillery for conquest strove, 60
Like wise Pygmalion then did I
Myself design my deity;
Made my own saint, made my own shrine:
If she did frown, one dash could make her smile,
All bickerings one easy stroke could reconcile,
Plato feign'd no idea so divine:
Thus did I quiet many a froward day,
While in my eyes my soul did play,
Thus did the time, and thus myself beguile;
Till on a day, but then I knew not why, 70
A tear fall'n from my eye,
Wash'd out my saint, my shrine, my deity:
Prophetic chance! the lines are gone,
And I must mourn o'er what I doted on:
I find even Giotto's circle has not all perfection.

V.

To Poetry I then inclin'd;
Verse that emancipates the mind,
Verse that unbends the soul;
That amulet of sickly fame,
Verse that from wind articulates a name; 80
Verse for both fortunes fit, to smile and to condole.
Ere I had long the trial made,
A serious thought made me afraid:
For I had heard Parnassus' sacred hill
Was so prodigiously high,
Its barren top so near the sky;
The ether there
So very pure, so subtil, and so rare,
'Twould a chameleon kill,
The beast that is all lungs, and feeds on air: 90
Poets the higher up that hill they go,
Like pilgrims, share the less of what's below:
Hence 'tis they ever go repining on,
And murmur more than their own Helicon.
I heard them curse their stars in ponderous rhymes,
And in grave numbers grumble at the times;
Yet where th' illustrious Cowley led the way,
I thought it great discretion there to go astray.

VI.

From liberal Arts to the litigious Law,
Obedience, not ambition, did me draw; 100
I look'd at awful quoif and scarlet gown
Through others' optics, not my own:
Untie the Gordian knot that will,
I see no rhetoric at all
In them that learnedly can brawl,
And fill with mercenary breath the spacious hall;
Let me be peaceable, let me be still.
The solitary Tishbite heard the wind,
With strength and violence combin'd,
That rent the mountains, and did make 110
The solid Earth's foundations shake;
He saw the dreadful fire, and heard the horrid noise,
But found what he expected in the _small still voice_.

VII.

Nor here did my unbridled fancy rest,
But I must try
A pitch more high,
To read the starry language of the East;
And with Chaldean curiosity
Presum'd to solve the riddles of the sky;
Impatient till I knew my doom, 120
Dejected till the good direction come,
I ripp'd up Fate's forbidden womb,
Nor would I stay till it brought forth
An easy and a natural birth,
But was solicitous to know
The yet misshapen embryo
(Preposterous crime!)
Without the formal midwif'ry of time:
Fond man, as if too little grief were given
On Earth, draws down inquietudes from Heaven! 130
Permits himself with fear to be unmann'd,
Belshazzar-like, grows wan and pale,
His very heart begins to fail,
Is frighted at that Writing of the Hand,
Which yet nor he, nor all his learn'd magicians understand.

VIII.

And now at last what's the result of all?
Should the strict audit come,
And for th' account too early call;
A num'rous heap of ciphers would be found the total sum.
When incompassionate age shall plow 140
The delicate Amira's brow,
And draw his furrows deep and long,
What hardy youth is he
Will after that a reaper be,
Or sing the harvest song?
And what is verse, but an effeminate vent
Either of lust or discontent?
Colours will starve, and all their glories die,
Invented only to deceive the eye;
And he that wily Law does love 150
Much more of serpent has than dove,
There's nothing in Astrology,
But Delphic ambiguity;
We are misguided in the dark, and thus
Each star becomes an _Ignis fatuus_:
Yet pardon me, ye glorious Lamps of light,
'Twas one of you that led the way,
Dispell'd the gloomy night,
Became a Phosphor to th' Eternal Day,
And show'd the Magi where th' Almighty Infant lay. 160

IX.

At length the doubtful victory's won,
It was a cunning ambuscade
The World for my felicities had laid;
Yet now at length the day's our own,
Now conqueror-like let us new laws set down.
Henceforth let all our love seraphic turn,
The sprightly and the vigorous flame
On th' altar let it ever burn,
And sacrifice its ancient name:
A tablet on my heart next I'll prepare 170
Where I would draw the Holy Sepulchre,
Behind it a soft landskip I would lay
Of melancholy Golgotha!
On th' altar let me all my spoils lay down,
And if I had one, there I'd hang my laurel crown.
Give me the Pandects of the Law Divine,
Such was the Law made Moses' face to shine.
Thus beyond Saturn's heavy orb I'll tower,
And laugh at his malicious power:
Raptur'd in contemplation thus I'll go 180
Above unactive earth, and leave the stars below.

X.

Toss'd on the wings of every wind,
After these hoverings to and fro
(And still the waters higher grow),
Not knowing where a resting-place to find,
Whither for sanctuary should I go
But, Reverend Sir, to you?
You that have triumph'd o'er th' impetuous flood,
That, Noah-like, in bad times durst be good,
And the stiff torrent manfully withstood, 190
Can save me too;
One that have long in fear of drowning bin,
Surrounded by the rolling waves of sin;
Do you but reach out a propitious hand
And charitably take me in,
I will not yet despair to see dry land.
'Tis done;--and I no longer fluctuate,
I've made the Church my Ark, and Sion's Hill my Ararat.

[_The Review._] Dated in the Firth MS. December 17, 1666.
Entered in the Stationers' Register on December 17, 1673,
as 'A poem or copy intituled the Review, To the Reverend
my honored freind Dr. Wm. Sancroft, Deane of St. Paules, A
Pindarique Ode'. Similarly in the Firth MS. 'The Review. A
Pindarique Ode. To the Reverend, my worthy friend, Dr. Wm.
Sandcroft, Dean of St. Paul's': the chief variants only are
recorded. The words 'now Lord Archbishop of Canterbury' are
added in the fourth edition. In the earlier editions--even
that of 1682, when Sancroft had been Primate for four
years--the poem is addressed 'to Dr. W. S.' The piece is
a rather remarkable 'Religio _Laici_' for the time, and as
anticipating Dryden's; and has some, though rather vague,
autobiographic interest. It seems (_v._ Commendatory Poems) to
have attracted some attention as such.]

[Line: 16 must] will _MS._]

[Line: 40 had] has _MS._, _1674-82_.]

[Line: 46 fair] my _MS._]

[Line: 51 couldn't] did not _MS._]

[Line: 56 breathless] shipwrack'd _MS._]

[Line: 64 could] should _MS._]

[Line: 81 fit] apt _MS._]

[Line: 93 ever _added in 1684_.]

[Line: 113 what] whom _MS._]

[Line: 114 seq. It is well known that Astrology maintained its
hold throughout the seventeenth century. Dryden himself
does not seem to have been by any means insensible to its
fascination; and Flatman--who, though a slightly younger man,
represents an older temper--may well have been a disciple of
Lilly.]

[Line: 135 he] we _MS._ his] our _MS._]

[Line: 148 will] must _MS._ starve] In its proper sense of
'perish'. Italic in original; but, as has been pointed out,
this type is used with such utter capriciousness that it
affords no evidence whether the term had any technical vogue
among artists of the time.]

[Line: 159 Eternal] Immortal _MS._]

[Line: 168 let it] shall for _MS._]

[Line: 172 soft] fair _MS._]

[Line: 187 Sir] Friend _1674-82_.]

[Line: 189 A possible but not necessary reminiscence of
Fuller's well-known book, _Good Thoughts for Bad Times_.]

[Line: 193 the rolling waves] a cataclysm _MS._]

_To my Reverend Friend, Dr. Sam. Woodford, On his Excellent Version of the Psalms._

PINDARIC ODE.

_Stanza_ I.

See (worthy friend) what I would do
(Whom neither Muse nor Art inspire),
That have no friend in all the sacred quire,
To show my kindness for your Book, and you,
Forc'd to disparage what I would admire;
Bold man, that dares attempt Pindaric now,
Since the great Pindar's greatest Son
From the ingrateful age is gone,
Cowley has bid th' ingrateful age adieu;
Apollo's rare Columbus, he 10
Found out new worlds of Poesy:
He, like an eagle, soar'd aloft,
To seize his noble prey;
Yet as a dove's, his soul was soft,
Quiet as Night, but bright as Day:
To Heaven in a fiery chariot he
Ascended by seraphic Poetry;
Yet which of us dull mortals since can find
Any inspiring mantle, that he left behind?

II.

His powerful numbers might have done you right; 20
He could have spar'd you immortality,
Under that Chieftain's banners you might fight
Assur'd of laurels, and of victory
Over devouring Time and sword and fire
And Jove's important ire:
My humble verse would better sing
David the Shepherd, than the King:
And yet methinks 'tis stately to be one
(Though of the meaner sort)
Of them that may approach a Prince's throne, 30
If 'twere but to be seen at Court.
Such, Sir, is my ambition for a name,
Which I shall rather take from you, than give,
For in your Book I cannot miss of fame,
But by contact shall live.
Thus on your chariot wheel shall I
Ride safe, and look as big as Aesop's fly,
Who from th' Olympian Race new come,
And now triumphantly flown home,
To's neighbours of the swarm thus proudly said, 40
_Don't you remember what a dust I made!_

III.

Where'er the Son of Jesse's harp shall sound,
Or Israel's sweetest songs be sung,
(Like Samson's lion sweet and strong)
You and your happy Muse shall be renown'd,
To whose kind hand the Son of Jesse owes
His last deliverance from all his foes.
Blood-thirsty Saul, less barbarous than they,
His person only sought to kill;
These would his deathless poems slay, 50
And sought immortal blood to spill,
To sing whose songs in Babylon would be
A new Captivity:
Deposèd by these rebels, you alone
Restor'd the glorious David to his throne.
Long in disguise the royal Prophet lay,
Long from his own thoughts banishèd,
Ne'er since his death till this illustrious day
Was sceptre in his hand, or crown plac'd on his head:
He seem'd as if at Gath he still had bin 60
As once before proud Achish he appear'd,
His face besmear'd,
With spittle on his sacred beard,
A laughing-stock to the insulting Philistine.
Drest in their rhymes, he look'd as he were mad,
In tissue you, and Tyrian purple have him clad.

[_To Dr. Sam. Woodford._] First printed in _A Paraphrase upon
the Psalms of David_, 1668. A MS. version is in Rawlinson D.
260 (fol. 27) of the Bodleian. Woodford (1636-1700) though
much forgotten now, must have been something more than an
ordinary person. As such he might have been, as he was, a St.
Paul's boy and an Oxford (Wadham) man, a member of the Inner
Temple, an early F.R.S., and later a Canon of Chichester and
Winchester. But as such merely he would hardly have been, in
the Preface to his Paraphrases of the Canticles (_v. inf._,
p. 366), the first, and for a long time the only, 'ingoing'
critic of Milton's blank verse. He does not take quite the
right view of it, but it is noteworthy that he should have
taken any view of an intelligent character.]

[Line: 12 soar'd] tow'red _MS._]

[Line: 16 a _om._ _MS._]

[Line: 18 'But which of us poor mortals' _1668_, _MS._]

[Line: 20, 21, &c. have] ha' _1668_.]

[Line: 25 ire] Dire _MS._, a word of which a unique instance
in the sense of 'dire quality' is quoted in the _N.E.D._ from
Anthony à Wood. The scribe may have misunderstood 'important'
( = 'importunate').]

[Line: 39 flown] got _MS._]

[Line: 41 This quaint anti-climax is one of the not very few
indications which make of Flatman a sort of rough draft of
Prior.]

[Line: 42 seq. Translations of the Psalms have been so
numerous--and so bad--that it is difficult to know whether
Flatman had any particular translator or translators in his
mind while writing the last stanza. It may have been merely
the usual Sternhold and Hopkins. At any rate his own
friend Tate did not join Brady in _lèse-poésie_ (as well as
_lèse-majesté_ against the Son of Jesse) till thirty years
after Woodford wrote and eight after Flatman's own death.]

[Line: 55 Restor'd] Restore _MS._]

[Line: 59 plac'd] set _MS._]

[Line: 63 sacred _om._ _MS._]

_On the Death of the truly valiant George Duke of Albemarle._

PINDARIC ODE.

_Stanza_ I.

Now blush thyself into confusion,
Ridiculous Mortality
With indignation to be trampled on
By them that court Eternity;
Whose generous deeds and prosperous state
Seem poorly set within the reach of Fate,
Whose every trophy, and each laurel wreath
Depends upon a little breath;
Confin'd within the narrow bounds of Time,
And of uncertain age, 10
With doubtful hazards they engage,
Thrown down, while victory bids them higher climb;
Their glories are eclips'd by Death.
Hard circumstances of illustrious men
Whom Nature (like the Scythian Prince) detains
Within the body's chains
(Nature, that rigorous Tamberlain).
Stout Bajazet disdain'd the barbarous rage
Of that insulting conqueror,
Bravely himself usurp'd his own expiring power, 20
By dashing out his brains against his iron cage.

II.

But 'tis indecent to complain,
And wretched mortals curse their stars in vain,
In vain they waste their tears for them that die,
Themselves involv'd in the same destiny,
No more with sorrow let it then be said
The glorious Albemarle is dead.
Let what is said of him triumphant be,
Words as gay, as is his Fame,
And as manly as his name, 30
Words as ample as his praise,
And as verdant as his bays,
An _Epinicion_, not an Elegy.
Yet why shouldst thou, ambitious Muse, believe
Thy gloomy verse can any splendours give,
Or make him one small moment longer live?
Nothing but what is vulgar thou canst say;
Or misbecoming numbers sing;
What tribute to his memory canst thou pay,
Whose virtue say'd a Crown, and could oblige a King? 40

III.

Many a year distressèd Albion lay
By her unnatural offspring torn,
Once the World's terror, then its scorn,
At home a prison, and abroad a prey:
Her valiant Youth, her valiant Youth did kill,
And mutual blood did spill;
Usurpers then, and many a mushroom Peer
Within her palaces did domineer;
There did the vulture build his nest,
There the owls and satyrs rest, 50
By _Zim_ and _Ohim_ all possest;
'Till England's Angel-Guardian, thou,
With pity and with anger mov'd
For Albion thy belov'd
(Olive-chaplets on thy brow),
With bloodless hands upheld'st her drooping head,
And with thy trumpets call'dst her from the dead.
Bright Phosphor to the rising Sun!
That Royal Lamp, by thee did first appear
Usher'd into our happy hemisphere; 60
O may it still shine bright and clear!
No cloud nor night approach it, but a constant noon!

IV.

Nor thus did thy undaunted valour cease,
Or wither with unactive peace:
Scarce were our civil broils allay'd,
While yet the wound of an intestine war
Had left a tender scar,
When of our new prosperities afraid,
Our jealous neighbours fatal arms prepare;
In floating groves the enemy drew near. 70
Loud did the Belgian Lion roar,
Upon our coasts th' Armada did appear,
And boldly durst attempt our native shore,
Till his victorious squadrons check'd their pride,
And did in triumph o'er the Ocean ride.
With thunder, lightning, and with clouds of smoke
He did their insolence restrain,
And gave his dreadful law to all the main,
Whose surly billows trembled when he spoke,
And put their willing necks under his yoke. 80
This the stupendious vanquisher has done,
Whose high prerogative it was alone
To raise a ruin'd, and secure an envied throne.

V.

Then angry Heav'n began to frown,
From Heav'n a dreadful pestilence came down,
On every side did lamentations rise;
Baleful sigh, and heavy groan,
All was plaint, and all was moan!
The pious friend with trembling love,
Scarce had his latest kindness done, 90
In sealing up his dead friend's eyes,
Ere with his own surprising fate he strove,
And wanted one to close his own.
Death's iron sceptre bore the sway
O'er our imperial Golgotha;
Yet he with kind, though unconcernèd eyes,
Durst stay and see those numerous tragedies.
He in the field had seen Death's grisly shape,
Heard him in volleys talk aloud,
Beheld his grandeur in a glittering crowd, 100
And unamaz'd seen him in cannons gape:
Ever unterrified his valour stood
Like some tall rock amidst a sea of blood:
'Twas loyalty from sword and pest kept him alive,
The safest armour and the best preservative.

VI.

The flaming City next implor'd his aid,
And seasonably pray'd
His force against the Fire, whose arms the sea obey'd;
Wide did th' impetuous torrent spread,
Then those goodly fabrics fell, 110
Temples themselves promiscuously there
Dropp'd down, and in the common ruin buried were,
The City turn'd into one Mongibel:
The haughty tyrant shook his curlèd head,
His breath with vengeance black, his face with fury red.
Then every cheek grew wan and pale,
Every heart did yield and fail:
Nought but thy presence could its power suppress,
Whose stronger light put out the less.
As London's noble structures rise, 120
Together shall his memory grow,
To whom that beauteous town so much does owe.
London! joint Favourite with him thou wert;
As both possess'd a room within one heart,
So now with thine indulgent Sovereign join,
Respect his great friend's ashes, for he wept o'er thine.

VII.

Thus did the Duke perform his mighty stage,
Thus did that Atlas of our State
With his prodigious acts amaze the age,
While worlds of wonders on his shoulders sate; 130
Full of glories and of years,
He trod his shining and immortal way,
Whilst Albion, compass'd with new floods of tears,
Besought his longer stay.
Profane that pen that dares describe thy bliss,
Or write thine _Apotheosis!_
Whom Heaven and thy Prince to pleasure prove,
Entrusted with their armies and their love.
In other Courts 'tis dangerous to deserve,
Thou didst a kind and grateful Master serve, 140
Who, to express his gratitude to thee,
Scorn'd those ill-natur'd arts of policy.
Happy had Belisarius bin
(Whose forward fortune was his sin)
By many victories undone,
He had not liv'd neglected, died obscure,
If for thy Prince those battles he had won,
Thy Prince, magnificent above his Emperor.

VIII.

Among the Gods, those Gods that died like thee,
As great as theirs, and full of majesty, 150
Thy sacred dust shall sleep secure,
Thy monument as long as theirs endure:
There, free from envy, thou with them
Shall have thy share of diadem;
Among their badges shall be set
Thy Garter and thy coronet;
Or (which is statelier) thou shalt have
A _Mausoleum_ in thy Prince's breast;
There thine embalmèd name shall rest,
That sanctuary shall thee save 160
From the dishonours of a regal grave:
And every wondrous history,
Read by incredulous Posterity,
That writes of _him_, shall honourably mention _thee_,
Who by an humble loyalty hast shown,
How much sublimer gallantry and renown
'Tis to _restore_, than to _usurp_ a Monarch's Crown.

[_On the Death of the Duke of Albemarle._] First printed
in small folio in 1670. Monk died that year. There are some
important variants, noted below.]

[Line: 40 a Crown] three Realms _1670_.]

[Line: 47 The extreme rapidity of Monk's own transition from
commonerhood to the highest rank in the peerage makes this
allusion to Oliver's mock-lords rather hazardous; but after
all Monk was a gentleman, and had richly deserved it.]

[Line: 49 vulture] bloody vulture _1670_.]

[Line: 51 _Zim_ and _Ohim_ are the original Hebrew for the
'wild beasts of the desert' and the 'doleful creatures' who
accompany owls and satyrs in Isaiah xiii. 21 (A.V.).]

[Line: 61 bright] warm _1670_.]

[After l. 75 ('ride') the following lines appeared in 1670:

Under a gallant Admiral he fought,
York, whose success a taller Muse must sing;
Who so his country loved, that he forgot
He was the Brother of a King;
Whose daring courage might inspire
A meaner soul than his with martial fire.
]

[Line: 80 put] crouch'd.]

[Line: 81 stupendious] These forms are always worth noting,
when they occur.]

[Line: 94 Death's iron sceptre bore the sway] With iron
sceptre Death bore all the sway.]

[Line: 96 unconcerned] undisturbed.]

[Line: 97 tragedies] butcheries.]

[Line: 98 shape] face.]

[Line: 99 volleys] niter.]

[Line: 104 kept] saved.]

[Line: 107 And seasonably pray'd] Successfully it prayed.]

[Line: 113 Mongibel] i.e. Etna.]

[Line: 117 did yield and fail] began to fail.]

[After 117 come the following lines:

And had not our Anointed's flame
(From heaven towards his subjects sent)
Outblazed the furious element,
What could the furious element tame?
]

[Line: 121 His] thy.]

[After 122 ('owe') there is a line which completes the rhyme
with 'rise': 'For its revived tranquillities.']

[Line: 124 possess'd] took up.]

[Line: 133 floods] seas.]

[Line: 135 Profane] Saucy.]

[Line: 137 prove] strove (so also the texts of _1674_, _1676_,
_1682_).]

[Line: 161 a regal] the.]

_The Retirement._

PINDARIC ODE MADE IN THE TIME OF THE GREAT SICKNESS, 1665.

_Stanza_ I.

In the mild close of an hot summer's day,
When a cool breeze had fann'd the air,
And heaven's face look'd smooth and fair;
Lovely as sleeping infants be,
That in their slumber smiling lie
Dandled on their mother's knee,
You hear no cry,
No harsh, nor inharmonious voice,
But all is innocence without a noise:
When every sweet, which the sun's greedy ray 10
So lately from us drew,
Began to trickle down again in dew;
Weary, and faint, and full of thought,
Though for what cause I knew not well,
What I ail'd I could not tell,
I sate me down at an aged poplar's root,
Whose chiding leaves excepted and my breast,
All the impertinently busied world inclin'd to rest.

II.

I list'ned heedfully around,
But not a whisper there was found. 20
The murmuring brook hard by,
As heavy, and as dull as I,
Seem'd drowsily along to creep;
It ran with undiscover'd pace,
And if a pebble stopp'd the lazy race,
'Twas but as if it started in its sleep.
Echo herself, that ever lent an ear
To any piteous moan,
Wont to groan with them that groan,
Echo herself was speechless here. 30
Thrice did I sigh, thrice miserably cry,
Ai me! the Nymph, ai me! would not reply,
Or churlish, or she was asleep for company.

III.

There did I sit and sadly call to mind
Far and near, all I could find
All the pleasures, all the cares,
The jealousies, the fears,
All the incertainties of thirty years,
From that most inauspicious hour
Which gave me breath; 40
To that in which the fair Amira's power
First made me wish for death:
And yet Amira's not unkind;
She never gave me angry word,
Never my mean address abhorr'd;
Beauteous her face, beauteous her mind:
Yet something dreadful in her eyes I saw
Which ever kept my falt'ring tongue in awe,
And gave my panting soul a law.
So have I seen a modest beggar stand, 50
Worn out with age and being oft denied,
On his heart he laid his hand;
And though he look'd as if he would have died
The needy wretch no alms did crave:
He durst not ask for what he fear'd he should not have.

IV.

I thought on every pensive thing,
That might my passion strongly move,
That might the sweetest sadness bring;
Oft did I think on Death, and oft of Love,
The triumphs of the little God, and that same ghastly King. 60
The ghastly King, what has he done?
How his pale territories spread!
Strait scantlings now of consecrated ground
His swelling empire cannot bound,
But every day new colonies of dead
Enhance his conquests, and advance his throne.
The mighty City sav'd from storms of War,
Exempted from the crimson flood,
When all the land o'erflow'd with blood,
Stoops yet once more to a new conqueror: 70
The City which so many rivals bred,
Sackcloth is on her loins, and ashes on her head.

V.

When will the frowning Heav'n begin to smile?
Those pitchy clouds be overblown,
That hide the mighty town,
That I may see the mighty pile!
When will the angry Angel cease to slay,
And turn his brandish'd sword away
From that illustrious Golgotha,
London, the great Aceldama! 80
When will that stately landscape open lie,
The mist withdrawn that intercepts my eye!
That heap of Pyramids appear,
Which, now, too much like those of Egypt are:
Eternal monuments of pride and sin,
Magnificent and tall without, but dead men's bones within.

[_The Retirement._ Exactly dated in the Firth MS., August 17,
1665. Stanza III, found in this MS., was cancelled in _1674_,
_1676_, _1682_, but restored in _1686_. Stanzas IV and V
appear as a separate poem entitled 'Upon the Plague' in Bodley
Rawlinson MS. D. 260, fol. 29 verso.]

[Line: 28 moan] tone _Firth MS._, _1676_, _1682_.]

[Line: 57 strongly] deeply _Firth and Rawlinson MSS._]

[Line: 59 of Love] on Love _MSS._, _1674_, _1676_.]

[Line: 66 advance] exalt _MSS._]

[Line: 71 rivals _MSS._: rival _1682_, _1686_.]

[Line: 73 begin to _om._ _MSS._ _Rawlinson_ reads 'Heavens'.]

[Line: 76 mighty] amazing mighty _Rawlinson_.]

[Line: 77 angry _om._ _Rawlinson_.]

[Line: 85 Eternal] Vast _Rawlinson_.]

_Translated out of a Part of Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon._

I.

After a blust'ring tedious night,
The wind's now hush'd and the black tempest o'er,
Which th' crazy vessel miserably tore,
Behold a lamentable sight!
Rolling far off, upon a briny wave,
Compassionate Philander spied
A floating carcase ride,
That seem'd to beg the kindness of a grave.

II.

Sad and concern'd, Philander then
Weigh'd with himself the frail, uncertain state 10
Of silly, strangely disappointed men,
Whose projects are the sport of Fate.
Perhaps (said he) this poor man's desolate wife,
In a strange country far away,
Expects some happy day
This ghastly thing, the comfort of her life;

III.

His son it may be dreads no harm,
But kindly waits his father's coming home;
Himself secure, he apprehends no storm,
But fancies that he sees him come. 20
Perhaps the good old man, that kiss'd this son,
And left a blessing on his head,
His arms about him spread,
Hopes yet to see him ere his glass be run.

IV.

These are the grand intrigues of Man,
These his huge thoughts, and these his vast desires,
Restless, and swelling like the Ocean
From his birth till he expires.
See where the naked, breathless body lies
To every puff of wind a slave, 30
At the beck of every wave,
That once perhaps was fair, rich, stout, and wise!

V.

While thus Philander pensive said,
Touch'd only with a pity for mankind,
At nearer view, he thought he knew the dead,
And call'd the wretched man to mind:
Alas, said he, art thou that angry thing,
That with thy looks didst threaten death,
Plagues and destruction breath,
But two days since, little beneath a King! 40

VI.

Ai me! where is thy fury now,
Thine insolence, and all thy boundless power,
O most ridiculously dreadful thou!
Expos'd for beasts and fishes to devour.
Go, sottish mortals, let your breasts swell high;
All your designs laid deep as Hell,
A small mischance can quell,
Outwitted by the deeper plots of Destiny.

VII.

This haughty lump a while before
Sooth'd up itself, perhaps with hopes of life, 50
What it would do, when it came safe on shore,
What for its son, what for its wife;
See where the man and all his politics lie.
Ye Gods! what gulfs are set between
What we have and what we ween,
Whilst lull'd in dreams of years to come, we die!

VIII.

Nor are we liable alone
To misadventures on the merciless sea,
A thousand other things our Fate bring on,
And shipwreck'd everywhere we be. 60
One in the tumult of a battle dies
Big with conceit of victory,
And routing th' enemy,
With garlands deck'd, himself the sacrifice.

IX.

Another, while he pays his vows
On bended knees, and Heaven with tears invokes,
With adorations as he humbly bows,
While with gums the altar smokes,
In th' presence of his God, the temple falls:
And thus religious in vain 70
The flatter'd bigot slain,
Breathes out his last within the sacred walls.

X.

Another with gay trophies proud,
From his triumphant chariot overthrown,
Makes pastime for the gazers of the crowd,
That envied him his purchas'd crown.
Some with full meals, and sparkling bowls of wine
(As if it made too long delay),
Spur on their fatal day,
Whilst others (needy souls) at theirs repine. 80

XI.

Consider well, and every place
Offers a ready road to thy long home,
Sometimes with frowns, sometimes with smiling face
Th' embassadors of Death do come.
By open force or secret ambuscade,
By unintelligible ways,
We end our anxious days,
And stock the large plantations of the Dead.

XII.

But (some may say) 'tis very hard
With them, whom heavy chance has cast away, 90
With no solemnities at all interr'd,
To roam unburied on the sea:
No--'tis all one where we receive our doom,
Since, somewhere, 'tis our certain lot
Our carcases must rot,
And they whom heaven covers need no tomb.

[_Petronius Arbiter's Satyricon._] This
translation-amplification of one of the most famous passages
of the _Satyricon_ is the piece referred to by Nahum Tate at
the opening of his commendation (_sup._, p. 290).]

[Line: 39 'breath', as in l. 72, a seventeenth-century form.]

[Line: 88 A good line, if I mistake not. There is no
suggestion even of it in the original, but, as often in
Flatman, much of Sir Thomas Browne.]

_A Thought of Death._

When on my sick bed I languish,
Full of sorrow, full of anguish,
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,
My soul just now about to take her flight
Into the regions of eternal night;
Oh tell me you,
That have been long below,
What shall I do!
What shall I think, when cruel Death appears, 10
That may extenuate my fears!
Methinks I hear some gentle Spirit say,
Be not fearful, come away!
Think with thyself that now thou shall be free,
And find thy long-expected liberty;
Better thou mayst, but worse thou canst not be
Than in this vale of tears and misery.
Like Caesar, with assurance then come on,
And unamaz'd attempt the laurel crown,
That lies on th' other side Death's Rubicon. 20

[_A Thought of Death._] Flatman's best-known, if not his
only known thing to most people--the knowledge being due to
Warton's suggestion of indebtedness to it on Pope's part in
his _Dying Christian._]

_Psalm xxxix. Vers. 4, 5._

_Verse_ IV.

Lord, let me know the period of my age,
The length of this my weary pilgrimage,
How long this miserable life shall last,
This life that stays so long, yet flies so fast!

_Verse_ V.

Thou by a span measur'st these days of mine,
Eternity's the spacious bound of thine:
Who shall compare his little span with thee,
With thine Incomprehensibility.
Man born to trouble leaves this world with pain,
His best estate is altogether vain. 10

_Hymn for the Morning._

Awake, my soul! Awake, mine eyes!
Awake, my drowsy faculties;
Awake, and see the new-born light
Spring from the darksome womb of Night!
Look up and see th' unwearied Sun,
Already hath his race begun:
The pretty lark is mounted high,
And sings her matins in the sky.
Arise, my soul! and thou my voice
In songs of praise, early rejoice! 10
O Great Creator! Heavenly King!
Thy praises let me ever sing!
Thy power has made, Thy goodness kept
This fenceless body while I slept,
Yet one day more hast given me
From all the powers of darkness free:
O keep my heart from sin secure,
My life unblameable and pure,
That when the last of all my days is come,
Cheerful and fearless I may wait my doom. 20

[_Hymn for the Morning._] _This Hymn will of course suggest
Ken's infinitely better-known one to everybody. The facts are
curious and not quite fully given in Mr. Julian's invaluable
_Dictionary of Hymnology_, where it is not mentioned that Ken
and Flatman were both Winchester and New College men of
almost exactly the same age and standing. Moreover, Sir Thomas
Browne--also a Wykehamist and their contemporary, though a
senior--has another very similar composition--one of his rare
exercises in verse--towards the end of _Religio Medici_. The
triple connexion with Winchester, and with Latin hymns known
to be in use there, is pretty striking, though the matter
cannot be followed out here. It is enough to say that the
resemblance is chiefly confined to the opening. In the
_Evening_ hymns of the two this resemblance is still slighter,
though there are passages, naturally enough, that approach
each other. Ken's hymns were not _published_ till 1695; but
in 1674, the very years of Flatman's original issue, they
are palpably referred to in the future bishop's and actual
prebendary's _Manual of Prayers for the use of the Scholars
of Winchester College_. Browne's piece must be at least forty
years older.]

[Line: 6 hath _1676_, _1682_: has _1686_.]

_Anthem for the Evening._

Sleep! downy sleep! come close my eyes,
Tir'd with beholding vanities!
Sweet slumbers come and chase away
The toils and follies of the day:
On your soft bosom will I lie,
Forget the world, and learn to die.
O Israel's watchful Shepherd! spread
Tents of Angels round my bed;
Let not the Spirits of the air,
While I slumber, me ensnare; 10
But save Thy suppliant free from harms,
Clasp'd in Thine everlasting Arms.
Clouds and thick darkness is Thy Throne,
Thy wonderful pavilion:
Oh dart from thence a shining ray,
And then my midnight shall be day!
Thus when the morn in crimson drest,
Breaks through the windows of the East,
My hymns of thankful praises shall arise
Like incense or the morning sacrifice. 20

[_Anthem for the Evening._] 19 arise _1682_; rise _1686_.]

_Death._

_SONG._

Oh the sad day,
When friends shall shake their heads and say
Of miserable me,
Hark how he groans, look how he pants for breath,
See how he struggles with the pangs of Death!
When they shall say of these poor eyes,
How hollow, and how dim they be!
Mark how his breast does swell and rise,
Against his potent Enemy!
When some old friend shall step to my bedside, 10
Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide,
And when his next companions say,
How does he do? what hopes? shall turn away,
Answering only with a lift-up hand,
Who can his fate withstand?
Then shall a gasp or two do more
Than e'er my rhetoric could before,
Persuade the peevish world to trouble me no more!

[_Death._] This, in my humble judgement, is finer, as it is
certainly more original, than the earlier 'thought' on the
same subject. The copy in the Firth MS. reads 'dear' for
'poor' (l. 6) and 'hope' (l. 13), omits 'peevish' in l. 18,
and notes that the Song was set to music by Captain Sylvanus
Taylor.]

_The Happy Man._

Peaceful is he, and most secure,
Whose heart and actions all are pure;
How smooth and pleasant is his way,
Whilst Life's Meander slides away.
If a fierce thunderbolt do fly,
This man can unconcernèd lie;
Knows 'tis not levell'd at his head,
So neither noise nor flash can dread:
Though a swift whirlwind tear in sunder
Heav'n above him, or earth under; 10
Though the rocks on heaps do tumble,
Or the world to ashes crumble,
Though the stupendious mountains from on high
Drop down, and in their humble valleys lie;
Should the unruly Ocean roar,
And dash its foam against the shore;
He finds no tempest in his mind,
Fears no billow, feels no wind:
All is serene, all quiet there,
There's not one blast of troubled air, 20
Old stars may fall, or new ones blaze,
Yet none of these his soul amaze;
Such is the man can smile at irksome death,
And with an easy sigh give up his breath.

[_the Happy Man._] In the Firth MS., and dated December 27,
1664.]

[Line: 1 Peaceful] Happy _MS._]

[Line: 2 heart] life _MS._]

[Line: 13 Though] When _MS._]

[Line: 19 all quiet _MS._, _1674_, _1676_, _1682_: and quiet
_1686_.]

[Line: 23 at] on _MS._]

[Line: 24 give up] resign _MS._]

_On Mr. Johnson's Several Shipwrecks._

He that has never yet acquainted been
With cruel Chance, nor Virtue naked seen,
Stripp'd from th' advantages (which vices wear)
Of happy, plausible, successful, fair;
Nor learnt how long the low'ring cloud may last,
Wherewith her beauteous face is overcast,
Till she her native glories does recover,
And shines more bright, after the storm is over;
To be inform'd, he need no further go,
Than this Divine Epitome of woe. 10
In Johnson's Life and Writings he may find,
What Homer in his Odysses design'd,
A virtuous man, by miserable fate,
Rend'red ten thousand ways unfortunate;
Sometimes within a leaking vessel tost,
All hopes of life and the lov'd shore quite lost,
While hidden sands, and every greedy wave
With horror gap'd themselves into a grave:
Sometimes upon a rock with fury thrown,
Moaning himself, where none could hear his moan; 20
Sometimes cast out upon the barren sand,
Expos'd to th' mercy of a barbarous land:
Such was the pious Johnson, till kind Heaven
A blessèd end to all his toils had given:
To show that virtuous men, though they appear
But Fortune's sport, are Providence's care.

[_On Mr. Johnson's several Shipwrecks._] First in _Deus
Nobiscum. A Narrative of a Great Deliverance at Sea,... By
William Johnson, D.D., late Chaplain and Sub-Almoner to His
Sacred Majesty,... The Third Edition, Corrected_, London,
1672, small octavo. These are some minor variants.]

_An Explanation of an Emblem Engraven by V. H._

Seest thou those Rays, the Light 'bove them?
And that gay thing the Diadem?
The Wheel and Balance, which are tied
To th' Gold, black Clouds on either side?
Seest thou the wingèd Trumpeters withal,
That kick the World's blue tottering Ball?
The flying Globe, the Glass thereon,
Those fragments of a Skeleton?
The Bays, the Palms, the Fighting men,
And written Scroll?--Come tell me then, 10
Did thy o'er-curious eye e'er see
An apter scheme of Misery?
What's all that Gold and sparkling Stones
To that bald Skull, to those Cross Bones?
What mean those Blades (whom we adore)
To stain the Earth with purple gore?
Sack stately towns, silk banners spread,
Gallop their coursers o'er the dead?
Far more than this? and all to sway
But till those sands shall glide away. 20
For when the bubble world shall fly
With stretch'd-out plumes, when the brisk eye
Shall close with anguish, sink with tears,
And th' angels' trumpets pierce our ears,
What's haughty man, or those fine things,
Which Heaven calls men, though men style kings?
Vain World, adieu! and farewell, fond renown!
Give me the Glory, that's above the Crown.

[_Emblem engraven by V. H._] V. or W[enceslas] H[ollar], I
suppose.]

[Line: 13 and sparkling _1674-82_: and what those Sparkling
_1686_.]

[Line: 15 Blades _1674-82_: Braves _1686_.]

_For Thoughts._

I.

_Thoughts!_ What are they?
They are my constant friends,
Who, when harsh Fate its dull brow bends,
Uncloud me with a smiling ray,
And in the depth of midnight force a day.

II.

When I retire, and flee
The busy throngs of company
To hug myself in privacy;
O the discourse! the pleasant talk,
'Twixt us (my thoughts) along a lonely walk! 10

III.

You, like the stupefying wine
The dying malefactors sip
With shivering lip,
T' abate the rigour of their doom,
By a less troublous cut to their long home;
Make me slight crosses, though they pil'd up lie,
All by th' enchantments of an ecstasy.

IV.

Do I desire to see
The Throne and Majesty
Of that proud one, 20
_Brother and Uncle to the Stars and Sun?_
Those can conduct me where such toys reside,
And waft me 'cross the main, sans wind and tide.

V.

Would I descry
Those radiant mansions 'bove the sky,
Invisible by mortal eye?
My _Thoughts_, my _Thoughts_ can lay
A shining track thereto,
And nimbly fleeting go:
Through all the eleven orbs can shove a way, 30
These too, like Jacob's Ladder, are
A most Angelic thoroughfare.

VI.

The wealth that shines
In th' Oriental mines;
Those sparkling gems which Nature keeps
Within her cabinets, the deeps;
The verdant fields,
The rarities the rich World yields;
Rare structures, whose each gilded spire
Glimmers like lightning; which, while men admire, 40
They deem the neighbouring sky on fire,--
These can I gaze upon, and glut mine eyes
With myriads of varieties.
As on the front of Pisgah, I
Can th' Holy Land through these my optics spy.

VII.

Contemn we then
The peevish rage of men,
Whose violence ne'er can divorce
Our mutual amity;
Or lay so damn'd a curse 50
As _Non-addresses_, 'twixt my thoughts and me:
For though I sigh in irons, they
Use their old freedom, readily obey;
And when my bosom-friends desert me, stay.

VIII.

Come then, my darlings, I'll embrace
My privilege; make known
The high prerogative I own,
By making all allurements give you place;
Whose sweet society to me
A sanctuary and a shield shall be 60
'Gainst the full quivers of my Destiny.

[_Thoughts._] Dated in the Firth MS. May 13, 1659.]

[Line: 13 shivering] trembling _MS._]

[Line: 17 th' enchantments] the magic _MS._]

[Line: 19 Majesty] awful Majestie _MS._]

[Line: 22 Those] These _MS._]

[Line: 26 by] to _MS._]

[Line: 27 My _Thoughts_, my _Thoughts_ can] My Thoughts can
eas'ly _MS._]

[Line: 29 fleeting] flitting _MS._]

[Line: 30 a way _MS._: 'away' all editions.]

[Line: 31 These too] My Thoughts] _MS._: _1686_ stupidly
misprints 'two'.]

[Line: 38 The] Those _MS._]

[Line: 39 Rare] Huge _MS._ (cf. 'rarities' 38).]

[Line: 40 Glimmers] Glisters _MS._, _1674_, _1676_.]

[Line: 42 gaze ... glut] dwell ... tire _MS._]

[Line: 43 myriads] millions _MS._: fancies _1676_.]

[Line: 48 ne'er can] cannot _MS._]

_Against Thoughts._

I.