Chapter XXIX: Book IV: ODE XI. To Phyllis

Come, Phyllis, gentle Phyllis! prithee come,
I have a glass of rich old wine at home,
And in my garden curious flowers do grow,
That languish to adorn thy brow.
The ivy and the yellow crowfoot there
With verdant chaplets wait to braid thy hair;
With silver goblets all my house does shine,
And vervain round my altar twine,
On which the best of all my flock shall bleed;
Come, and observe with what officious speed 10
Each lad and lass of all my house attends
Till to my roof the smoke ascends.
If thou wouldst know why thou must be my guest,
I tell thee 'tis to celebrate a Feast,
The Ides of April, which have ever been
Devoted to the Cyprian Queen.
A day more sacred, and more fit for mirth
Than that which gave me (worthless mortal) birth:
For on that day Maecenas first saw light,
Born for our wonder and delight. 20
My Phyllis, since thy years come on apace,
Substitute me in Telephus his place,
He's now employ'd by one more rich, more fair,
And proudly does her shackles wear.
Remember what became of Phaeton;
Remember what befell Bellerophon;
That by ambition from his Father's throne,
And this, by Pegasus thrown down.
Content thyself with what is fit for thee,
Happy that couple that in years agree! 30
Shun others, and accept my parity,
And I will end my loves with thee.
Thou art the last whom I intend to court,
Come then; and (to prepare thee for the sport)
Learn prick-song, and my merry odes rehearse:
Many a care is charm'd by verse.

EPODE III. _To Maecenas._

In time to come, if such a crime should be
As Parricide, (foul villany!)
A clove of garlic would revenge that evil;
(Rare dish for ploughmen, or the Devil!)
Accursed root! how does it jounce and claw!
It works like ratsbane in my maw.
What witch contriv'd this strat'gem for my breath!
Poison'd at once, and stunk to death;
With this vile juice Medea sure did 'noint
Jason, her love, in every joint; 10
When untam'd bulls in yokes he led along,
This made his manhood smell so strong:
This gave her dragon venom to his sting,
And set the hag upon the wing.
I burn, I parch, as dry as dust I am,
Such drought on Puglia never came.
Alcides could not bear so much as I,
He oft was wet, but never dry.
Maecenas! do but taste of your own treat,
And what you gave your poet, eat; 20
Then go to bed, and court your mistress there,
She'll never kiss you I dare swear.

[III. 5 'Jounce', a word worth restoring, is the same as
Shakespeare's 'jaunce' and as 'jaunt'. It seems to be still
provincial, especially in East Anglia (Flatman had property
there), and is equivalent to 'jolt', 'bob up and down',
'wamble in the innerds'.]

EPODE VI.

_Against Cassius Severus, a rerevileful and wanton Poet._

Thou village-cur! why dost thou bark at me?
A wolf might come, and go, for thee.
At me thou open'st wide, and think'st that I
Will bark with thee for company.
I'm of another kind, and bravely dare
(Like th' mastiff) watch my flock with care:
Dare hunt through snow, and seize that savage beast
That might my darling folds molest:
Thou (only in the noise thou mak'st) robust
Leav'st off the chase; leap'st at a crust, 10
But have a care! for if I vent my spleen,
I (for a shift) can make thee grin:
I'll make thee (if iambics once I sing)
To die, like Bupalus, in a string.
When any man insults o'er me, shall I
Put finger in mine eye and cry?

EPODE X. _Against Maevius, a Poet._

And art thou shipp'd, friend Doggerel!--get thee gone,
Thou pest of Helicon.
Now for an hurricane to bang thy sides,
Curst wood, in which he rides!
An east-wind tear thy cables, crack thy oars,
While every billow roars.
With such a wind let all the Ocean swell
As wafted Noll to Hell:
No friendly star o'er all the Sea appear
While thou be'st there; 10
Nor kinder destiny there mayst thou meet
Than the proud Grecian Fleet,
When Pallas did their Admiral destroy
Return'd from ruin'd Troy.
Methinks I see the mariners faint, and thee
Look somewhat scurvily:
Thou call'st on Jove, as if great Jove had time
To mind thy Grub-street Rhyme,
When the proud waves their heads to Heav'n do rear
Himself scarce free from fear: 20
Well! If the Gods should thy wreck'd carcase share
To beasts or fowls of th' air,
I'll sacrifice to them, that they may know
I can be civil too.

[X. 7 The great storm of September 2, 1658, the day before
Cromwell's death.]

[Line: 18 Marvell in 1678, and Otway in _The Atheist_, 1684,
first mentioned the _vicus infaustus_ which humour (or the
want of it) renamed 'Milton' Street, from the proximity of
Bunhill Fields.]

EPODE XI. _To Pettius his Chamber-fellow._

Ah, Pettius! I have done with Poetry,
I've parted with my liberty
For Cupid's slavery.
Cupid, that peevish God, has singled out
Me, from among the rhyming rout,
For boys and girls to flout:
December now has thrice stript every tree,
Since bright Inachia's tyranny
Has laid its chains on me.
Now fie upon me! all about the town 10
My Miss I treated up and down,
I for a squire was known.
Lord, what a whelp was I! to pule and whine,
To sigh, to sob, and to repine!
For thy sake, Mistress mine!
Thou didst my verse, and thou my Muse despise,
My want debas'd me in thine eyes.
Thou wealth, not wit, didst prize.
Fuddled with wine and love my secrets flew,
Stretch'd on those racks, I told thee true 20
What did myself undo.
Well!--plague me not too much, imperious dame,
Lest I blaspheme thy charming name,
And quench my former flame.
I can give others place, and see thee die
Damn'd with their prodigality,
If I set on't, so stout am I.
Thou know'st, my friend, thus have I often said,
When, by her sorceries misled,
Thou bad'st me home to bed: 30
Ev'n then my practice gave my tongue the lie,
I could not her curst house pass by:
I fear'd, but could not fly.
Since that, for young Lyciscus I'm grown mad;
Inachia such a face ne'er had,
It is a lovely lad.
From his embraces I shall ne'er get free,
Nor friends' advice, nor infamy
Can disentangle me:
Yet if some brighter object I should spy, 40
That might perhaps debauch my eye,
And shake my constancy.

EPODE XV. _To his Sweetheart Neaera._

It was a lovely melancholy night;
The Moon, and every star shone bright;
When thou didst swear thou wouldst to me be true,
And do as I would have thee do:
False woman! round my neck thy arms did twine,
Inseparable as the elm and vine:
Then didst thou swear thy passion should endure
To me alone sincere and pure,
Till sheep and wolves should quit their enmity,
And not a wave disturb the sea. 10
Treacherous Neaera! I have been too kind,
But Flaccus can draw off, thou'lt find;
He can that face (as thou dost him) forswear,
And find (it may be) one as fair:
And let me tell thee, when my fury's mov'd,
I hate devoutly, as I lov'd.
But thou, blest gamester, whosoe'er thou be
That proudly dost my drudgery,
Didst thou abound in numerous flocks, and land,
Wert heir to all Pactolus' sand; 20
Though in thy brain thou bor'st Pythagoras,
And carried'st Nereus in thy face,
She'd pick another up, and shab thee off,
And then 'twill be my turn to laugh.

[XV. 23 'Shab off' seems to be still provincially used both in
the intransitive sense '_sneak_ off' and in the transitive as
here '_bundle_ off.']

EPODE XVII. _To Canidia._

I yield, Canidia, to thy art,
Take pity on a penitent heart:
By Proserpine, Queen of the Night,
And by Diana's glimmering light,
By the mysterious volumes all,
That can the stars from Heaven call;
By all that's sacred I implore
Thou to my wits wouldst me restore.
The brave Achilles did forgive
King Telephus, and let him live, 10
Though in the field the King appear'd,
And war with Mysian bands prepar'd.
When on the ground dead Hector lay,
Expos'd, to birds and beasts a prey;
The Trojan Dames in pity gave
Hector an honourable grave.
Ulysses's mariners were turn'd to swine,
Transform'd by Circe's charms divine;
Yet Circe did their doom revoke,
And straight the grunting mortals spoke: 20
Each in his pristine shape appears,
Fearless of dogs to lug their ears.
Oh! do not my affliction scorn!
Enough in conscience I have borne!
My youth and fresh complexion's gone,
Dwindled away to skin and bone.
My hair is powd'red by thy care,
And all my minutes busy are.
Day Night, and Night the Day does chase,
Yet have not I a breathing space! 30
Wretch that I am! I now believe,
No pow'r can from thy charms reprieve:
Now I confess thy magic can
Reach head and heart, and unman man.
What wouldst thou have me say? what more?
O Seas! O Earth! I scorch all o'er!
Hercules himself ne'er burnt like me,
Nor th' flaming Mount in Sicily:
O cease thy spells, lest I be soon
Calcin'd into a pumice-stone! 40
When wilt th' ha' done? What must I pay?
But name the sum, and I obey:
Say: Wilt thou for my ransom take
An hecatomb? or shall I make
A bawdy song t'advance thy trade,
Or court thee with a serenade?
Wouldst thou to Heav'n, and be a star?
I'll hire thee Cassiopeia's Chair.
Castor, to Helen a true friend,
Struck her defaming poet blind; 50
Yet he, good-natur'd gentleman,
Gave the blind bard his eyes again.
Since this, and much more thou canst do,
O rid me of my madness too!
From noble ancestors thy race,
No vulgar blood purples thy face:
Thou searchest not the graves of th' poor,
But necromancy dost abhor:
Gen'rous thy breast, and pure thy hands,
Whose fruitful womb shall people lands, 60
And ere thy childbed-linen's clean,
Thou shall be up and to't again.

_Canidia's Answer._

Go--hang thyself:--I will not hear,
The rocks as soon shall lend an ear
To naked mariners that be
Left to the mercy of the Sea.
Marry come up!--Shall thy bold pride
The mysteries of the Gods deride?
Presumptuous fool! commit a rape
On my repute, and think to 'scape!
Make me a town-talk? Well! ere thou die
Cupid shall vengeance take; or I. 10
Go, get some ratsbane!--'twill not do,
Nay, drink some aqua-fortis too:
No witch shall take thy life away;
Who dares say, Go, when I bid Stay?
No!--I'll prolong thy loathed breath,
And make thee wish in vain for death.
In vain does Tantalus espy
Fruits, he may taste but with his eye.
In vain does poor Prometheus groan,
And Sisyphus stop his rolling stone: 20
Long may they sigh, long may they cry,
But not control their destiny.
And thou in vain from some high wall
Or on thy naked sword mayst fall,
In vain (to terminate thy woes)
Thy hands shall knit the fatal noose:
For on thy shoulders then I'll ride,
And make the Earth shake with my pride.
Think'st thou that I, who when I please
Can kill by waxen images, 30
Can force the Moon down from her sphere,
And make departed ghosts appear,
And mix love-potions!--thinks thy vanity,
I cannot deal with such a worm as thee?

FINIS.

POEMS NOT INCLUDED IN THE EDITIONS OF 1682 AND 1686.

The sources from which these miscellaneous poems are taken are noted separately. Two, at the time of going to press, have not been printed--the _Song_ 'Oh no, oh no!' (p. 414) and the _Paraphrase_ of the 27th Chapter of Job (p. 420).

There is evidence that Flatman contemplated one more Pindaric, but perhaps it was not written, and certainly not printed. The subject was to be Admiral Myngs. The _Familiar Letters of Love, Gallantry, and Several Occasions_, 1718, vol. i, pp. 249 foll., include a letter of consolation to Flatman's 'Honoured Master', in which he writes, after some preliminary comments: 'Not to hold you any longer in suspense, my Noble, my Generous Friend, the Glory of the Sea, the Astonishment of all the World, is dead. When I have told you this, you cannot be ignorant of the Person I mean; he has a Name too big to be concealed from any body that ever heard of Wonder on the Deep, or understands what 'tis to be brave, to be valiant, to be loyal, to be kind and honourable, more than all this is too little to describe Sir _Christopher Myngs_. Guess, my Dearest Master, the Disturbance so irreparable a Loss must create in one often honour'd with his Conversation, and many Ways oblig'd by him. We have nothing left of him now but poor sorrowful _Syl. Taylour_, that other Half of his Soul, who is now resolv'd for Retirement, and will run no more Hazards at Sea. Many more Things I might misemploy you with, but this great load must be first removed, which, I think, will not be, till I have vented my Grief in a Pindarique, and done the last Office of Kindness for the Dead. If I can make my Sorrows any thing legible, expect to bear a Part in them.' The letter is dated from London on June 15, 1666.

Another lost poem--doubtless a Pindaric--on the theme of London is thus referred to in an autograph letter to Sancroft written from St. Catharine Hall, Cambridge, on May 13, 1667 (Tanner MS. xlv, fol. 188):

'When I was last with you you were pleasd to take away from me a paper of imperfect Verses, the first desseign wherof was to comply with your injunction in saying something on that subject, whose beuty (it may be) had it continued in that flourishing condition 'twas in at the time of the imposition of yo^{r} commaunds, might haue heightned my thoughts as much as it's ruin has now dejected them; or to speak in my owne way, The Coppy had bin much livelier if th' Originall hadnt bin so much defaced; and he must be a better Architect then I that can reare a structure any thing magnificent in so bare an Ichnography. Thus much S^{r} to let you know how much I am beholding to yo^{r} forgetfulness in returning my Ode, wherby you haue cover'd many imperfections, & kept me from being any longer angry with my self for not finishing what had better never bin begun.'

One poem, sometimes assigned to Flatman has not been reprinted here--_A Panegyric to his Renowned Majesty, Charles the Second, King of Great Britain, &c._, a folio sheet issued in 1660, with the initials 'T. F.', and beginning 'Return, return, strange prodigy of fate!' Flatman, if it had been his, would not have failed to reprint it in his own _Poems_. Similarly with an anonymous poem on the coronation of James II--_To the King, a Congratulatory Poem_, printed for R. Bentley in 1685--which Mr. W. C. Hazlitt in his _Collections and Notes_, ii, p. 694, ascribes to Flatman. It begins:

Dread Sir, since it has pleas'd the Pow'rs above
To take the other Object of our love.

This has a faint verbal resemblance to the opening of Flatman's genuine poem on James (see p. 394), and the misattribution may be due to this.

_Upon a Chine of Beef._

I.

A chine of beef, God save us all,
Far larger than the butcher's stall,
And sturdier than the City-wall.

II.

For this held out until the foe,
By dint of blade and potent blow,
Fell in pell mell; that did not so.

III.

With stomachs sharper than their knives,
They laid about them for their lives;
Well, Eastcheap men, beware your wives.

IV.

Enragèd weapons storm it round, 10
Each seeking for a gaping wound,
That in its gravy it seems drown'd.

V.

Magnanimous flesh, that didst not fall
At first assault, or second maul,
But a third time defied'st them all!

VI.

What strength can fate's decree revoke?
It was ordain'd thou shouldst be broke;
Alas! time fells the sturdy oak.

VII.

What goodly monuments still appear,
What spondyl-bulwarks are there there, 20
What palisaded ribs are here!

VIII.

This bold monument death defies,
Inscribèd thus, 'To mirth here lies
A trophy and a sacrifice'.

[_Upon a Chine of Beef._] Of doubtful authenticity. The
Horatian adaptation on pp. 356-9 perhaps confirms it, and we
may note the oath (of Flatman's own coinage) at l. 138 of that
poem, 'By sturdy Chine of Beef, and mighty Jove'. The text is
taken from the anonymous version in _Wit's Interpreter_, 1655,
collected by John Cotgrave: it appears on pp. 268-9 of the
_Love-Songs, Epigrams, &c._ An inferior text in _Wit and
Mirth. An Antidote to Melancholy_, 3rd edition, 1682, p. 102,
is headed '_On a Chine of Beef._ By Mr. Tho. Flatman.' If
genuine, this is therefore an early effort; it might be an
undergraduate flight, like the parody on Austin.

The chief variants in _Wit and Mirth_ are:--

Line: 2 'Far longer'.

Line: 10 'storm'd'.

Line: 12 'seem'd'.

Line: 18 'Alas, in time the sturdy oak'.

Line: 19 'What goodly mince did appear'.

Line: 22 'stern Death'.]

_On the Death of the Eminently Ennobled Charles Capell, Esq.;_

_Who, after he had honour'd Winton College with his Education, and accomplisht himself with a voyage into France, died of the small-pox at London last Christmas, 1656._

Shower down your ponderous tears, whoe'er you be
Dare write, or read, a Capell's elegy;
Spangle his hearse with pearls, such as were born
'Twixt the blear'd eyelids of an o'ercast morn;
And (but 'tis vain t'expostulate with Death
Or vilify the Fates with frustrate breath)
Pose Destiny with why's--why such a sun
Should set before his noontide stage were run?
Why this fair volume should be bound so fast
In wooden covers, clasp'd-up in such haste? 10
Was Nature fond of its large character
And those divine impressions graven there?
Did she, lest we should spoil't (to waive that sin),
'Cause 'twas the best edition, call it in?
Or would our vaunting Isle, that saints should see
Th' utmost of all our prodigality,
Fearing some detriment by long delay,
Send Heav'n a new-year's-gift before the day?
No: th' empyrean Philomels could sing,
Without his voice, no carols to their King. 20
England's Metropolis (for 'twas in thee
He died) we re-baptize thee Calvary,
The Charnel-house of Gallantry; henceforth
We brand thy front with--Golgotha of Worth.
Had he been swallow'd in that courteous deep
He travell'd o'er, he had been lull'd asleep
In th' amorous Sea-nymphs' stately arms at ease;
His great name would imposthumate the seas,
That, when the waves should swell and tempests rise
(Strong waters challenging the dastard skies), 30
Poor shipwrackt mariners, remembering him,
Should court his asterism, and cease to swim;
Abjure the Fatal Brothers' glow-worm fires,
And dart at him their languishing desires.
Had France intomb'd him (what our land forbids)
Nature had rear'd him stately pyramids
The lofty Alps, where it had been most meet
Their harmless snow should be his winding-sheet;
That alablaster-coverture might be
An emblem of his native purity: 40
Had he fal'n there, it had been true perchance,
_Wickham's Third College might be found in France._
But he return'd from thence, curb'd Neptune's pride,
And, to our fame and grief, came home, and died.
Thus, when the Heav'n has wheel'd its daily race
About our earth, at night its glorious face
Is pox'd with stars, yet Heaven admits no blot,
And every pimple there's a beauty-spot.
Short-liv'd disease, that canst be cured and gone
By one sweet morning's resurrection! 50
Adieu, great sir, whose total he that will
Describe in folio needs a cherub's quill.
Zealous posterity your tomb shall stir,
Hoard up your dust, rifle your sepulchre,
And (as the Turks did Scanderbeg's of old)
Shall wear your bones in amulets of gold.
--But my blasphemous pen profanes his glory;
I'll say but this to all his tragic story:
Were not the world well-nigh its funeral
I'd ne'er believe so bright a star could fall. 60

THO. FLATMAN,
Fellow of New College.

[_On the Death, &c.] From Affectuum Decidua, or Due
Expressions In honour of the truly noble Charles Capell, Esq.
(Son to the right honourable Arthur, Lord Capell, Baron of
Hadham), deceased on Christmas Day 1656. Quis desiderio sit
pudor, aut modus Tam Chari Capitis?--Oxford, Printed Anno
Dom. 1656._]

_On the Picture of the Author, Mr. Sanderson._

Let others style this page a chronicle;
Others Art's mystery; let a third sort dwell
Upon the curious neat artifice, and swear
The sun ne'er saw a shadow half so rare.
He outsays all who lets you understand
The head is Sanderson's, Fathern's the hand.

THO. FLATMAN,
_Inn. Temp. Lond._

[_On the Picture, &c._] This and the following poem are taken
from William Sanderson's _Graphice. Or, The Use of the Pen and
Pensil, Or, the most Excellent Art of Painting._ 1658. With
portrait by Souse, engraved by Faithorne.]

_On the noble Art of Painting._

Strike a bold stroke, my Muse, and let me see
Thou fear'st no colours in thy poetry,
For pictures are dumb poems; they that write
Best poems do but paint in black and white.
The pencil's amulets forbid to die,
And vest us with a fair eternity.
What think ye of the gods, to whose huge name
The pagans bow'd their humble knees? Whence came
Their immortalities but from a shade,
But from those portraitures the painter made? 10
They saddled Jove's fierce eagle like a colt
And made him grasp in 's fist a thunderbolt.
Painters did all: Jove had, at their command,
Spurr'd a jackdaw and held a switch in 's hand.
The demigods, and all their glories, be
Apelles' debtors, for their deity.
Oh how the catholics cross themselves and throng
Around a crucifix, when all along
That's but a picture! How the spruce trim lass
Doats on a picture in the looking-glass! 20
And how ineffable's the peasant's joy
When he has drawn his picture in his boy!
Bright angels condescend to share a part
And borrow glorious plumes from our rare art.
Kings triumph in our sackcloth, monarchs bear
Reverence t' our canvass 'bove the robes they wear.
Great fortunes, large estates, for all their noise,
Are nothing in the world but painted toys.
Th' Egyptian hieroglyphics pictures be,
And painting taught them all their A.B.C. 30
The Presbyterian, th' Independent too,
All would a colour have for what they do.
And who so just that does not sometimes try
To turn pure painter and deceive the eye?
Our honest sleight of hand prevails with all;
Hence springs an emulation general.
Mark how the pretty female-artists try
To shame poor Nature with an Indian dye.
Mark how the snail with 's grave majestic pace
Paints earth's green waistcoat with a silver lace. 40
But--since all rhythms are dark, and seldom go
Without the Sun--the Sun's a painter too;
Heaven's famed Vandyke, the Sun, he paints--'tis clear--
Twelve signs throughout the zodiac every year:
'Tis he, that at the spicy spring's gay birth
Makes pencils of his beams and paints the Earth;
He limns the rainbow when it struts so proud
Upon the dusky surface of a cloud;
He daubs the Moors, and, when they sweat with toil,
'Tis then he paints them all at length in oil; 50
The blushing fruits, the gloss of flowers so pure,
Owe their varieties to his miniature.
Yet, what's the Sun? each thing, where'er we go,
Would be a Rubens, or an Angelo;
Gaze up, some winter night, and you'll confess
Heaven's a large gallery of images.
Then stoop down to the Earth, wonder, and scan
The Master-piece of th' whole creation, Man:
Man, that exact original in each limb,
And Woman, that fair copy drawn from him. 60
Whate'er we see 's one bracelet, whose each bead
Is cemented and hangs by painting's thread.
Thus, like the soul o' th' world, our subtle art
Insinuates itself through every part.
Strange rarity! which canst the body save
From the coarse usage in a sullen grave,
Yet never make it mummy! Strange, that hand,
That spans and circumscribes the sea and land--
That draws from death to th' life, without a spell,
As Orpheus did Eurydice from hell. 70
But all my lines are rude, and all such praise
Dead-colour'd nonsense. Painters scorn slight bays.
Let the great art commend itself, and then
You'll praise the pencil and deride the pen.

T. FLATMAN, lately Fellow of
New Coll. Oxon; now Inn.
Temp. Lond.

_On Mistress S. W., who cured my hand by a plaster applied to the knife which hurt me._

Wounded and weary of my life,
I to my fair one sent my knife;
The point had pierced my hand as far
As foe would foe in open war.
Cruel, but yet compassionate, she
Spread plasters for my enemy;
She hugg'd the wretch had done me harm,
And in her bosom kept it warm,
When suddenly I found the cure was done,
The pain and all the anguish gone, 10
Those nerves which stiff and tender were
Now very free and active are:
Not help'd by any power above,
But a true miracle of Love.

Henceforth, physicians, burn your bills,
Prescribe no more uncertain pills:
She can at distance vanquish pain,
She makes the grave to gape in vain:
'Mongst all the arts that saving be
None so sublime as sympathy. 20
Oh could it help a wounded breast,
I'd send my soul to have it dress'd.
Yet, rather, let herself apply
The sovereign med'cine to her eye:
There lurks the weapon wounds me deep,
There, that which stabs me in my sleep;
For still I feel, within, a mortall smart,
The salve that heal'd my hand can't cure my heart.

_October 19, 1661._

[_On Mistress S. W._] The above was printed in _Notes and
Queries_ for September 25, 1869; it was contributed by Mr. F.
W. Cosens from a manuscript in his possession, _Miscellanies
by Tho. Flatman, ex Interiori Templo, Londini, Nov. 9, 1661_.
These poems are autograph. This poem is in the Firth MS.,
which clearly is a transcript of the preceding. See p. 278.]

_Song._

I.

Oh no, oh no! it cannot be that I
So long condemn'd to die
Should fool myself with hopes of a reprieve
From her that read my destiny;
She with her basilisk eyes denounc'd my doom.
Why then should I in vain presume,
In vain, fond man, to live
My disappointments poorly to survive?

II.

Oh no, oh no! I know the worst on't now,
My sentence pass'd I know, 10
And I no further expectations have
My wither'd hopes again should grow.
Yet 'tis a satisfaction to be sure
I feel the worst I can endure.
Oh that she yet would save
By her miraculous kindness from the grave.

[_Oh no, &c._] From the Firth MS., which dates the poem 1671,
and notes that it was set by Roger Hill.]

_Epitaph on his eldest Son, Thomas, 1682._

Whoe'er thou art, that look'st upon,
And read'st what lies beneath this stone;
What Beauty, Goodness, Innocence,
In a sad hour was snatch'd from hence.
What reason canst thou have to prize
The dearest object of thine eyes?
Believe this, mortal, what thou valuest most,
And set'st thy soul upon, is soonest lost.

[_Epitaph on his Son._] From Strype's Stow, 1720. Book III,
p. 266. describing the monuments on the north wall of St.
Bride's, Fleet Street. Strype adds, 'These Verses are almost
worn out and gone, and therefore I have preserved them here;
being undoubtedly the easy natural Strain of the Poet, the
Father'.

This Epitaph is in Hackett, _A Collection of Epitaphs_, 1757,
ii. 31, introduced thus--

_'St. Bride's, London_.
Here lies the Body of _Thomas Flatman_, eldest son of
_Thomas Flatman_, and _Hannah_ his wife, who resigned his
beloved soul the 28th of _December_ 1682.'

Strype records that the boy was ten years old. The pastoral
elegy on p. 375 in all probability refers to the same child,
though the date of his death is there given as January 28,
1682/3. Aubrey records (in Aubrey MS. 7, fol. 8 verso) that
Flatman himself was buried in the same grave.]

_Lines to John Northleigh._

Though we that write in rhyme (it is confess'd)
Are wont to praise them most that need it least,
So far from doing what we had design'd
That we become impertinently kind;
Though I'm convinced of this, and right well know
I can add nothing to your Book, or You:
Yet am I forced th' old beaten road to go
And tell my friend what wonders he has done,
Where loyal labours could oblige a Crown--
A Crown asserted by the hand of heaven, 10
By which triumphant laurels now are given;
And may they never, never blasted be
By any Boanerges of Democracy.
Compassionate friend! whose arguments do prove
The force of reason and the power of love;
Taught by your generous and good-natured pen,
The salvage beasts may once more turn to men,
Be reconciled to the ill-treated Throne,
And shun those rocks their fellows split upon:
Your call to th' unconverted may do more 20
Than Orpheus' charms did in the woods before,
Convince the stubborn, and th' unwary lead
By benign arts those blessed steps to tread
In which our glorious Master led the way
To realms of peace and everlasting day.

Farewell, dear friend! and for this once excuse
The last efforts of an expiring Muse.

THOMAS FLATMAN.

[_Lines to John Northleigh_] From _The Triumph of our
Monarchy, Over the Plots and Principles of our Rebels and
Republicans, Being Remarks on their most eminent Libels_. _By
John Northleigh_, 1685; the lines are headed 'To my worthy
Friend, J. Northleigh, Esq., Author of this Book and the
_Parallel_'. Dryden also contributed a poem.]

_Lines to Archbishop Sancroft._

My Lord
When I Your unsought Glories view'd,
And prest (a meane Spectator in the Croud;)
Where every Ey, with sparkling Joy did gaze,
All hearts brimmfull of Blessing, & of Praise;
Extatick with the mighty Theme I went,
And something, some great thing to Write, I meant:
This, sure, said I, must set me all on fire,
This must my dull, unhallow'd Muse inspire:
I try'd in wary words my Verse to dress,
And throng'd my thoughts with awfull Images; 10
For the bold Work, Materialls I desseign'd
High as Your Station, Humble as Your Minde:
Alas! in vaine! my owne Confusion
Strait tumbled th' ill-attempted _Babel_ downe.
Much I desir'd to tell in artfull Rhymes,
Your Magnanimity through the worst of Times
How, like a Rock, amidst the Sea, You stood,
Surrounded with a foaming Popular-Floud;
In that black Night, how You still kept Your way,
When all despair'd the dawning of This Day: 20
With what true Christian Stoicisme, You durst Owne
The slighted Miter, and abandon'd Crowne;
As _Cato_ for the baffled Side declar'd,
Tho' all the Gods, the Conquering Cause preferr'd.
Next, I would have describ'd the Happy Place
Of Your soft minutes in a sweet Recess;
Where all things were in Your Possession,
All You need Wish, for You were all Your Owne[.]
Here Emperours, & Kings, receiv'd at last
The noblest Guerdon for their labours past: 30
Less splendid were those daies, but more secure,
Their last & best were gloriously Obscure.
O those gay Vallies! o those lofty Hills!
Those silent Rivers! & those murmuring Rills!
The melancholy Grove! & peacefull Shade!
For Ease, & Angells-Conversation made!
The Morning's Breath! the sight o' th' rising Sun,
When he starts forth, his Giant-Race to runn!
Faine wou'd I have said, what cannot be express't
But in the sentiments of a wellpleas'd Breast. 40
And now (my Lord!) on Your triumphant Day,
What can Your poor unlettred Beadsman say?
Who know's that Praise, at the Poëtique rate,
Swell's to a Vice, & must deserve Your hate.
When Heav'n vouchsafe's a _Miracle_ to mankinde,
Silence, & Wonder best express our minde.

Durst I Presume, or could Despaire (my Lord!)
I would add Here, for my owne self, one word,
That I might be (whome the World frown's uppon)
An Atome in the beams of Your bright Sun, 50
Almost Invisible; but still shin'd-uppon.

My Lord
Your Grace's most obedient
Servant, & poore Kinsman.
THOMAS FLATMAN.

[_Lines to Archbishop Sancroft._] Exactly reproduced from the
poet's autograph in Tanner MS. 306, of the Bodleian, where
it appears in a group of Sancroft papers at folio 380, and
is endorsed on the outer leaf--'These For his Grace, my Lord
Archbishop of Canterbury, with my humblest Duty.'

The poem must have been written in the last year of Flatman's
life, and have reference to the trial of the Seven Bishops.
With l. 50, 'An Atome in the beams of Your bright Sun',
compare the Pindaric _On the Death of Charles II_, l. 37, 'We
atoms in his beams might sport and play' (p. 392).]

_On the Death of His Grace, James, Duke of Ormond: A Pindaric Ode._

I.

Had not the deathless name of OSSORY
Pow'r to preserve, as well as to create,
And over-rule the dullness of my fate,
A pen so meanly qualified as mine
Might well this mighty task decline,
Too ponderous for feeble Me,
Me so obscure, my glorious theme so bright,
Where all is overpow'ring light
Which never can submit to night.
But sense of deepest gratitude should control 10
All the despondencies of a trembling soul
And force a modest confidence to inspire
The coldest breast with an uncommon fire.
Since then, for aught we know,
The separated happy spirits above
Sometimes regard our pious love,
And are not much disturb'd at what we kindly do.
Let ORMOND'S gentle ghost look down
Full of kind compassion,
And pity what my duty prompts me to. 20
Fain would I pay my tribute ever due
To his immortal memory:
But what immortal methods to pursue
Is understood by very few;
The noblest bard that ever wore the bays
Would here fall short in sorrow, and in praise.

II.

Our stock of tears would soon exhausted be
Were every eye a sea,
And grief would swell to prodigality;
Th' irreparable loss, if duly weigh'd, 30
Would make posterity afraid,
For ORMOND in his radiant course has done
What did amaze, what durst abide the sun,
And struck with terror all the envious lookers on:
Whether with ecstasy we think upon
His goodly person or his matchless mind,
Where shall the most inquisitive mortal find
A more accomplish'd hero left behind?
As he were sent from heaven, design'dly great,
To dote on still, but not presume to imitate, 40
Or whether with regret we cast an eye
On his unbounded liberality,
His unaffected piety,
Or more than human magnanimity
(Virtues inimitable all),
The joyful beadsman and the Church will tell
The story, scarce hereafter credible,
And call his life one long-continued miracle.

III.

Say, all you younger sons of Honour, say,
You that in peace appear so brisk and gay, 50
Is it a little thing to forfeit all
At Loyalty's tremendous call,
And stand with resolution in defence
Of a despised calamitous Prince,
To fight against our stars, and to defy
The last efforts of prosperous villainy,
And--when the hurricane of the state grew high--
To brave the thunder and the lightning scorn,
The beauteous fabric into pieces torn,
Imprisonment and exile to disdain 60
For a neglected Sovereign;
Still to espouse a crazy, tottering crown?
This, mighty ORMOND, was thy own,
This glory thou deserv'dst to have,
This bravery thou hast carried with thee to thy grave.
Let other lesser Great ones live, to try
Thy arduous paths to fame;
Let them bid fair for immortality,
And to procure an everlasting name;
And may thy sacred ashes smile to see 70
Their vain, their frivolous attempts to rival Mighty Thee.

IV.

O noble, fortunate old Man!
Though thou hadst still lived on
To Nestor's centuries, thou hadst died too soon;
Too soon alas! for heav'n could never be
Or weary or ashamed to find fresh toils for thee:
What wiser head, or braver arm than thine
Could heav'n contrive to manage heav'n's design!
And what Herculean labour is too hard
For such a mind, so well prepared, 80
Ever above the prospect of Regard,
And that unfashionable thing, Reward!
Many have been thy gloomy days,
Yet ever happy hast thou been;
In every state thou merit'dst praise,
And thou hast never wanted it within.
All after fourscore years is grief and pain;
Those honourably pass'd, thou didst resign
Thy empire over every heart;
From thine this sceptre never shall depart, 90
But the succession evermore remain:
'Twas time for thee to die, and let a second ORMOND reign.

V.

How shall I mention thy lamented death,
Thy only blemish--thy mortality!
For 'tis too much disparagement for thee
To be involved in common destiny
And like inglorious men give up thy precious breath.
A fiery chariot should have snatch'd thee hence,
And all the host of heav'n convened to see
Th' assumption of a godlike Prince 100
Into th' ineffable society:
Half-way at least part of th' immaculate train
With palms should have attended thee,
Thy harbingers to the triumphant hierarchy,
Then big with wonder mounted up again.
What can the tongues of men or angels say,
What Boanerges ne'er so loud,
If they would speak of thy prodigious day,
Of which an emperor's history would be proud
Farewell, dead Prince--oh might it not be said, 110
Though a desirable euthanasy
Prepared the way for deifying thee,
ORMOND like other men must die,
For he with a fatigue of victory oppress'd
Laid himself only down to rest.

FINIS.

[_On the Death of James, Duke of Ormond._] Printed in folio,
1688, with the title, _On the Death of the Right Honorable the
Duke of Ormond: a Pindaric Ode_. In _Letters from the Dead to
the Living_, 1702, vol. ii, pp. 24-5, Flatman, with his pipe
in his mouth, is introduced complaining that this ode has been
vamped up for the death of King William.]

_Job, Chapter xxvii. Paraphrased._

VERSE 8.

Poor Hypocrite (though ne'er so rich), when God shall call
His double, his dissembling soul, how small,
How beggarly his biggest hopes will show!
Riches command no further than below.

VERSE 9.

When griefs like waves o'er one another roll
And overwhelm his quite-dejected soul,
When he lies groaning on a restless bed,
With a sad bleeding heart, and aching head
Brimfull of anguish and repeated pain,
He weeps and frames his parch'd lips to complain, 10
Breathes up to heaven a very earnest prayer--
Scarce dare he hope, yet dares he not despair--
But all his supplications mount in vain,
God will not hear, nor answer him again.

VERSE 10.

How can he turn religious, and adore
That God he so devoutly mock'd before?

VERSE 11.

I will the depths of Providence reveal;
Th' Almighty's methods will I not conceal.

VERSE 12.

Yet why should I suggest what your own heart,
Were it not vain, might, better far, impart? 20

VERSE 13.

On th' wicked's head this heavy fate shall come,
And this shall be from God th' oppressor's doom.

VERSE 14.

His sons, though more and lovelier they are
Than their decrepit father's silver hair,
Strong as the sons of Anak, bright and brave,
Shall shroud their pride in an untimely grave;
His daughters, though more beauteous every one
Than the seraphic spouse of Solomon,
A sisterhood as numerous and bright
As are the glorious stars that gild the night,-- 30
A bloody cloud their glories shall eclipse;
Death shuts their killing eyes, their charming lips.
Though like a golden harvest they appear,
And every one a full, a laden ear,
Like olive plants amidst their friends be grown,
The sword shall reap, the sword shall hew them down.
The sword and eager famine shall devour
All they enjoy in one unhappy hour.

VERSE 15.

His progeny shall unlamented die,
Buried in black oblivion shall they lie, 40
Unpitied to the dust they shall return,
Nor shall one pious tear bedew their urn.

VERSE 16.

If he have silver plentiful as dust,
Gold pure as that of Ophir, both shall rust

VERSE 17.

Let him have caskets whose each orient gem
Vies with the walls o' th' new Jerusalem,
Raiment more gorgeous than the lily's hue
When every snowy fold is pearl'd with dew,
He's but the just man's steward all the while;
The just shall wear the raiment, part the spoil. 50

VERSE 18.

The house he builds, like that o' th' moth, shall be
Too weak against the wind's least battery;
Or, if it stand the brunt of wind and rain,
'Twill stagger at a thund'ring hurricane;
As tents, it may remove from land to land,
But on a solid basis cannot stand.

VERSE 19.

The rich man shall depart, but not in peace;
When he lies down, his horror shall increase
Just when he's ripe for vengeance and heaven's frown
Death, ah too irksome Death, shall shake him down. 60
Gather'd he shall not be by that kind hand
Which plucks the righteous to blest Canaan's land:
He opes his lids and surfeiteth his eyes
With gazing over all his vanities,
Till some ill chance o' th' sudden dims his sight
And leaves him lost in an eternal night.

VERSES 20, 21.

As mighty waters shall his terrors roar;
He's stolen away and shall be seen no more,
Hurried from his belovèd home, and tost
By th' East wind, fierce as that drown'd Pharaoh's host. 70

VERSE 22.

Jehovah, from whose hand he fain would flee,
Shall add more sting to his calamity:

VERSE 23.

And where his glass has but few sands to run,
His tragicomic life now almost done,
At the last act his deadliest shame shall be
To find an hissing for a _Plaudite._

[_Job._] The text is taken from the Firth MS. The ingenious
paraphrase of the last verse--'Men shall clap their hands
at him, and shall hiss him out of his place'--echoes _The
Review_, ll. 33-5 (p. 302).]

* * *

* * * * *

_Le hore di recreatione:_

OR,

THE PLEASANT HISTORIE OF
_Albino_ and _Bellama_.

Discovering the severall changes of
Fortune, in +CUPIDS+ journey
to +HYMENS+ joyes.

To which is annexed
_Il Insonio Insonadado_, or a sleeping-waking
Dreame, vindicating the
divine breath of Poesie from the tongue-lashes
of some Cynical Poet-quippers,
and Stoicall Philo-prosers

By N. W. Master in Arts, of Queenes
_Colledge in Cambridge_.

---- _Semel in anno Apollo._

Ergo,
_Nè mea metra tibi Musâ composta jocosâ,
Delibata priùs quàm sint contempta relinquas_,

_LONDON_,
Printed by _J.D._ for _C.G._ and are to be sold
at the Princes Armes in _Pauls_ churchyard.
1638.