Chapter XXX: Introduction: To Nathaniel Whiting (1)

In the case of most of the constituents of these volumes, there was little need of 'deliberating and pondering' like the excellent Sir Thomas Bertram, when he had to settle such weighty questions as whether his niece should or should not go out to dinner, and if so whether she should walk or drive. But it was not quite the same in regard to _Albino and Bellama_. The first claim of entrants here--rarity and novelty to the general, it has without question: for the book (though it seems to have been issued in two forms, or at least with two title-pages) is very uncommon, and the author has escaped the wide-encroaching net of the _D.N.B._ Nor could I allow this to be balanced by the dull, clumsy, philistine, hackneyed ribaldry of the nunnery scenes in the middle, or by a page of sheer nastiness at the end, which is a sort of concentration of Herrick's foulest epigrams. These things will happen: and they can be skipped. It gave one more serious pause that 'N. W.' seldom[1] displays anything like the poetry which far more than compensates for much milder blots in _Leoline and Sydanis_, and that his book is written in a singular jargon almost as much out of the common way as the wildest freaks of Benlowes, but without their excuse of _furor poeticus_. What turned the scale in his favour, after more than one reading, was the increasing conviction that the book, in spite or perhaps to some extent because of its defects, is a really valuable document for the history of English Literature from the special point of view which was marked out in the General Introduction. It is noteworthy as a member, graceless and slatternly, but still a member, of that class of Heroic Poem which it has been one of my main objects to bring before the student. It is still more noteworthy in connexion with the history of English fiction as presenting a special variety of that kind. It was not till, for the purposes of this collection, and by the kindness of Professor Firth, who lent me his copy, I read the volume (I knew it before only by name and from the _Censura Literaria_) that a gap in my mind's atlas of that fiction was filled in satisfactorily.

I said, in speaking of _Leoline and Sydanis_, that we must take not merely the Heroic but the Mock-Heroic poem into consideration as origins for our English examples; and this is very much more the case with _Albino and Bellama_. Whiting almost parades his knowledge of Italian; and I should think, from some of the worst as well as the oddest parts of his poem, that he had pushed his researches as far as Macaronic. In fact you must go beyond Folengo--to Tifi Odassi and Fossa Cremonese[2]--to supply a 'further' to his excursions, into the unsavoury now and then. But turning willingly enough from this, it will be evident to any instructed reader--and his perlusive panegyrists point it out--that his purpose is largely satiric. Indeed, his uncouth lingo[3] has a close connexion with that of Marston and the other early Elizabethan satirists forty years before him: while he gives one odd reminders, at the same time, of the prose pamphlet which was contemporary with these very satirists, and was actually written by some of them. Now all these links are links with the history of the Novel backwards; and there are others forward. Change the romance apparatus into that of common life, of which our examples are French and Spanish rather than Italian, and you will get out of parts of _Albino and Bellama_ something by no means unlike the singular farrago which goes under the name of _The English Rogue_. Besides convincing the author that prose is much better for such work than verse (which Head himself saw[4]), present him with more wits, better taste, and a more advanced state of society and manners, and you will probably find him some way on the road which leads, however far away, and after whatever rise, over the hills beyond his dirty marsh, to _Tom Jones_ itself. While, to make a less 'kangaroo' transition in quality though a farther one in time, much smaller alteration would make _Albino and Bellama_ into very fair Mrs. Radcliffe.

The curious addition _Il Insonio Insonadado_ or 'Waking-Dream Undreamt' (whether the title is invented or borrowed, some one with greater knowledge of Spanish than I possess must decide) may supply some greater interest than Whiting's escapade in the Heroic Romance. It is not continuously paged with the rest of the volume, but merely 'signatured' H, H2, &c. as far as a (misprinted) 5. On the whole, however, it is much less carelessly put to press than _Albino and Bellama_, and it is also (in parts at least) much more soberly written. The opening does not promise much, except an example of the loose, would-be satirical academic commonplaces of the time; but it afterwards takes on some critical substance, and if I had read it (as I had not yet) twenty years ago I should have given it a small corner in an otherwise very scantily occupied chapter of my _History of Criticism_. Whether the personages introduced before the Heavenly Court aim at individuals it would be very hard to say: but the certification of the poetess[5] might have some interest. 'Tenth Muses', as was said in relation to Anne King (_v. sup._, p. 210), were not unknown, and Katharine Philips was alive, though as yet but a child. But women had, before her, made little figure in English literature. The evidences of popular taste are not quite worthless, and while the absence of Ben Jonson is noteworthy, the presence of Drummond is almost equally so, as well as the mention of that 'testiness' which certainly does appear in the poet of Hawthornden. But the chief critical utterance is the quatrain, solid and judicial if not very poetical, on Donne.

Of Whiting himself I have been able to find out very little.[6] He was of Queens' College, Cambridge; Brydges erroneously says 'King's', having misread the misprinted 'Regnalis' of James Bernard's commendatory poem. And he must have settled down twenty years later sufficiently to print in 1659, according to Hazlitt, _The Saint's Triangle of Duties, Deliverances, and Dangers_. The first edition of _Albino and Bellama_ appeared in 1637, with the title _Le hore di recreatione: Or, The Pleasant Historie of Albino and Bellama.... By N. W., Master of Arts, of Queenes Colledge in Cambridge_. The British Museum also has a copy with an engraved frontispiece as well, adding _to which is annexed il insonio insonodado_ or the _vindication of Poesye_. These title-pages are also dated 1638, and the engraved title-page was also issued in 1639.

In 1633 the birth of the Duke of York was commemorated at Cambridge in _Ducis Eboracensis Fasciae a Musis Cantabrigiensibus raptim contextae_. 'N. Whyting, Coll. Regin. Art. Baccal.' contributes two copies of verse, Latin and Greek, both markedly royalist in tone.

It was not, however, for some time after I had been working on Whiting that I found considerable new light thrown on him by his prose work, which is in the British Museum, under his name, though _Albino and Bellama_ is not. The title of it is abbreviated by Hazlitt, and is in the original very long, beginning with the Hebrew [Hebrew: el ... bayit ... Eil (to [the] house [of] God)] _Old Jacob's Altar newly repaired; or The Saints' Triangle of Dangers, Deliverances and Duties_. It is a solid little quarto of some 260 pages, dedicated to Sir William Fleetwood, Sir George Fleetwood, 'Baron of Swonholm in Sweadland', and 'his Excellency Charles Lord Fleetwood'. Whiting was now 'Minister' of Aldwinckle (All Saints, as the registers show[7]) by the patronage of Sir William, to whom he refers as his 'ancient' and 'affectionate Mecaenas' in his Cambridge days. He is certainly by this time a full-blown Puritan. He uses that word itself frequently, and with pride; refers to 'my reverend grandfather', minister of Elton, Northants, who was apparently a 'pilgrim father'; speaks of the time when 'the Episcopal monopoly lasted', and eulogizes 'the faithful Peters to whom is committed the Word of Reconciliation' (Reconciliation _à la_ Peters is good!); but also calls Herbert 'divine' and quotes St. Anselm, though of course without the 'Saint'. Allowing for its standpoint the book is not virulent, and is a respectable piece of hortatory divinity on its own side. Besides, the thought that in a few months 'the Episcopal monopoly' came back again, and that 'the faithful Peters' received the deferred pay for his various 'commissions', mitigates judgement not a little; while, to crown all, the contrast with _Albino and Bellama_ is irresistibly comic. Perhaps, indeed, some of the ribaldry of the convent scenes in the verse may be due to the Puritanism which is so distinct in the prose. But it would be an odd Saint who could construct himself a 'triangle' of any kind of sanctities or pious experiences out of Whiting's romance. And this, which is so characteristic of the time, and yet not so uncharacteristic of all times, adds to my satisfaction in presenting Mr. Nathaniel Whiting with some little more detail than even Brydges has given. (It may be added that he was deprived of the living at the Restoration. Edward Price succeeded him on February 20, 1662-3. According to a brief notice in _Notes and Queries_,[8] he then migrated to the village of Cranford, near Kettering, and got together a congregation there. There is no trace of him in the registers of either of the Cranford churches.[9] The same authority states that he died childless and was a benefactor of the free school of Aldwinckle, of which he was master during the period of his incumbency.)

[Footnote 1: I had written 'nowhere', but hastily. The opening
has not a little which convicts the haste, and I have noted
other passages _infra_.]

[Footnote 2: These oddities of the fifteenth century, with
others, were conveniently republished, in _Maccheronee di
Cinque Poète Italiani_ (Milan: D li, 1864).]

[Footnote 3: He would almost be worth republishing for this
alone, and I say this despite the trouble it has given me.
Those who are curious in rare words and _autoschediastic_
forms ought to prize Whiting highly.]

[Footnote 4: As an instance here, take the incident where
the false Phaeliche, coming to the nunnery, sees the masons
mending the breaches that Rivelezzo's cannon had made. It is
a mere touch, awkward and only half intelligible in the verse.
Less than two centuries later Scott would have given a lively
page and a half of prose description of the scene, with
dialogue thrown in. On the other hand, _in prose_, the
extravagances of the phrase and the incoherences of the story
would have had a better chance of being mended.]

[Footnote 5: 'Marget' is used in _Albino and Bellama_ as a
generic name. But Whiting's irritable and restless fancy may
have put together '_Mag-pie_' and Persius's _poetris pica_.]

[Footnote 6: By the great kindness of the Rev. J. H. Gray,
Tutor and Dean of Queens' College, assisted by the President
of that Society and by the Registrar of the University of
Cambridge, I am enabled to give more than I had found in any
book. Nathaniel Whiting (who seems also to have spelt his name
'Whiteinge' and 'Whitinge') matriculated as Pensioner on March
30, 1629; proceeded B.A. 1631 and M.A. in 1635. He had been
entered at his college on July 1, 1628, and his tutor's name
was Stubbins. In the College accounts from September 1630,
and for four years onwards, Whiting appears as a Scholar,
receiving in the respective years 12s. 6d.; 16s. 3d.; 19s.
7d.; and 15s. 10d. The first payment seems to have been for
part of the year only: but in no year does he come anywhere
near the full income of a Scholar; which, Mr. Gray tells
me, seems to have been £2. There appears to be no subsequent
mention of him in the College records either as Scholar or
Fellow.]

[Footnote 7: Canon Hodgson, Rector of Aldwincle, kindly
allowed Mr. Simpson to examine the registers. The date of
Whiting's institution is March 20, 1652, but already in 1650,
on May 4, he signs the accounts as 'Minister'.]

[Footnote 8: By C. H. and T. Cooper, in the third series, vol.
v, p. 420.]

[Footnote 9: The Rev. C. R. Thursfield kindly allowed Mr.
Simpson to examine the registers.]

CONTENTS

Page
Introduction 424

Commendatory Poems 428
To the right honourable, right worthy, and truly ennobled
hero, John, Lord Lovelace, Baron of Hurley, N.W. S.P.O. 428

To the Reader 429

To the right virtuous and equally beautiful,
S^{ra} Inconstanza Bellarizza 431

The Author's Apology 432

The Author to his Book 433

To his loving friend the Author 435

To the Reader 436

To his loving kinsman the Author 436

Amico suo carissimo N. W. huius Poematis authori
Collegii Reg[i]nalis Canta. in artibus magistro 437

In Authorem, amicissimum suum, Encomiasticon 437

To his Friend, a Panegyric upon his lovers,
Albino and Bellama 438

THE PLEASING HISTORY OF ALBINO AND BELLAMA 439

To those worthy Heroes of our Age, whose noble
Breasts are wet and water'd with the dew of Helicon 539

Il Insonio Insonnadado 540

To the right honourable, right worthy, and truly ennobled hero, John, Lord Lovelace, Baron of Hurley, N.W. S.P.O.

The law-enactors, whilst time fear'd the rod,
Feign'd in their laws the presence of a god,
Whose awful nod and wisdom grave should be
As hand and signet unto their decree;
And such commanding awe that sacred name
Struck in the vulgar breasts, it teen'd a flame
Of love and duty to their pious hests.
Thus Rhadamanthus in his laws invests
Him whom profaner times styl'd heaven's king.
Minos and others strike the selfsame string. 10
The moral's mine: for, in this quirking season,
When pride and envy steer the helm of reason,
It is, has with press-taskers been, in use
To press the issue of their prose and muse
Under the ensigns of some worthy peer,
Whose very name unsatire can a jeer,
And lock detraction up in beds of clay,
To sleep their suns as rearmice do the day.
Then do they bravely march, with honour arm'd,
Which, as the gods the people, charmeth charm'd. 20
On this known privilege feet I these lines,
In which, though dimmer than your native, shines
Your worth, enfired by my kneèd quill,
Which claims the scale not of deserts, but will,
In your acceptance and the world's surmise.
Then, cynics, bark, and, critics, beam your eyes!
My quill's no pencil to emblazon forth
Your stainless honour and your matchless worth.
As dust-born flies, which 'bout the candle play,
Glide through its arch, encircle, fan, survey, 30
Wink at the presence of day's beamy blaze,
Purr on the glass, or on herb-pillows laze,
Just so my downy muse in distichs dare
Feet the perfection of a silkless fair,
Pumex each part so trimly that her foe
Swears her cheeks roses and her bosom snow;
Nay, has strew'd flowers of desertless praise
T'adorn the tomb of good sir Worthy Crayse.
Under this (ah me!) stone is laid (alas!)
A man--a knight--the best that ever was. 40
His prowess war, his wisdom state did prove,
His kindness kindred, and the world his love;
But when she should with her weak feathers soar
To court a star, or with her feeble oar
Strike such a sea of worth, ride honour's ring,
She dares not touch or snaffle, sail, or wing.
Only as he which limn'd those tears and sighs
Which Iphigenia's death from hearts and eyes
Of kindred drew, but o'er her father's brow
(Telling the world he mourn'd without an how) 50
He drew a veil spake sorrow in excess,
So with a ---- ---- must my muse express
Your sacred worth, concluding it to be
Too high for any bard, if not, for me.
Beside, the world of late has nicknam'd praise,
Calls it an elbow-claw and scraping bays.
Then pardon, sir, this dearth, and judge the why
Is your worth soar'd above Parnasse's eye.
Let not your slights or nescio's (though most just)
Condemn my muse to be enseil'd with dust, 60
Nor let presumption hoist to your embrace.
But rather let your honour bate its place
And stoop unto my measures, since the name
Of patron awes oft times the breath of fame;
And by this honour shall you e'er engage
The knee, hand, duty, air, and thriving age

Of your honour's ever
humbly devoted,
N. W.

[Title. S. P. O.] = it may be just desirable to say, _Salutem
plurimam optat_. The object of the wish was, I suppose, the
_second_ Lord Lovelace. The better known _third_, prominent at
the Revolution and also a John, was born in the same year with
this poem.]

[Line: 6 'teen'd' or 'tined' = 'kindled', as in 'tinder'. The
forms 'tened' and 'tind' also exist, and _Il Insonio_, l. 368,
has 're-teined'.]

[Line: 21 'feet', orig. 'fate', seems at first to equal
'foot', i.e. I 'base', 'establish'. But cf. l. 34 and
_Albino_, 3558, which give it the sense of 'metre',
'versify'.]

[Line: 23 my kneèd quill]--paying homage, as if on bent knee.]

[Line: 32 The verb to 'laze', revived in late nineteenth
century as slang, is as old as Robert Greene's _Alphonsus_.]

[Line: 35 'Pumex' = pumice. Greene used this Latin form as a
noun.

part] misprinted 'parr' in orig.]

[Line: 47 Orig., 'limb'd', a lax seventeenth-century
spelling.]

[Line: 48 'Iphigenia' will scan with the proper pronunciation.
But, as all students of literature have always known, though
some editors of it seem to have thought it an esoteric
discovery, classical names were very loosely accented,
not merely by men of whose education we know nothing, like
Shakespeare, but by University wits like Spenser and Dryden.]

[Line: 60 enseil'd] Same as 'ens_ea_led', 'stamped', 'marked',
or perhaps 'closed up'.]

[Line: 66 age] 'agre' in orig. must be wrong.]

To the Reader.

Courteous Reader--for to such I write--
With native candour view this chequer'd white,
Be truly candid to a candidate
Whom importunings force to antedate
The travails of his quill, and, like a grape
Ere ripened, press it. Yet if I escape
The censure of these times, this critic age,
My muse (like parrots) in a wire cage
Shall not do penance; but I'll not promise it,
'Cause 't doth too much o' th' lips of greatness sit. 10
And 'tis a fault for me to sympathize,
I bring no antic mask in strange disguise,
No sharp invective, nor no comic mirth
Which may to laughter give an easy birth.
Though 'tis in use with them that seek to please
These humorous times (it being a disease
Half epidemical to keep a phrase
Or fancy at stave's end; nought merits praise
Unless with quibbles every staff does end--
Conceited jests which unto lightness tend) 20
Though every page swells with ingenuous plots,
Yet, cry our carps, the authors are but sots.
An elbow-pillow or a motley coat
With them are now the chiefest men of note.
But I nor am, nor hope that name to gain
Of pantomimic: yet did nature deign
The optic-glass of humours to descry
Each man's rank humour only by the eye,
I would have tun'd my muse, that every page
Might swell with humours suiting to this age; 30
This leaf should talk of love and that of state,
This of alarums, that of wonders prate,
This of knights errant, of enchantment that,
This to the itching ears of novels chat.
But ... since my starv'd Fortunes missed that, I have drawn
A picture shadowed o'er with double lawn,
Lest some quick Lyncist with a piercing eye,
Should the young footsteps of a truth espy,
Yet something, I confess, was born of late
Which makes me age it with an ancient date, 40
But let no antic-hunter post to Stow,
To trace out truth upon his even snow.
Annals are dumb of such and such a lord,
Nor of our amorous pair speak half a word,
Monastic writs do not Bellama limn,
Nor abbey-rolls do teem a line of him,
This story has no sires (as 'tis the use)
But weak invention and a feeble muse.
These are the parents that abortive birth
Give to this embryon of desired mirth, 50
Which in the author's name does humbly crave
A charitable censure or a grave.
The purest-bolted flour that is has bran,
Venus her naeve, Helen her stain, nor can
I think these lines are censure-free, impal'd
By th' muses and 'gainst envy's javelins mail'd.
Yet where the faults but whisper, use thy pen
With the _quod non vis_ of the heathen men;
And, if the crimes do in loud echoes speak,
Thy sponge; but not with lashing satires break 60
That sacred bond of friendship, for 't may be
I may hereafter do as much for thee.
Nor do thou think to trample on my muse;
Nor in thy lofty third-air braves accuse
My breast of faintness, or the ballad-whine.
For know my heart is full as big as thine,
And as pure fire heats my octavo bulk
As the grand-folio, or the Reamish hulk,
If but oppos'd with envy, but unless
I truly am what these few words express. 70
Thy ready friend,
N. W.

[Line: 22 'carp' for 'carp_er_' seems to be much rarer than
for 'carp_ing_'. Cf. _In Insonio_, 218.]

[Line: 41 Stow] The famous antiquary had been dead long enough
(since 1605) to 'become a name'.]

[Line: 55 'impal'd', orig. 'impalde', is clearly 'paled-in',
'palisaded',' fortified'.]

[Line: 64 third-air] = 'third _hand_', or what?]

[Line: 68 Reamish] 'N. W.'s' Protestantism would naturally
have a fling at anything connected with Rheims.]

To the right virtuous and equally beautiful, S^{ra} Inconstanza Bellarizza.

Fairest,
When, by much gazing on those glittering beams
Which (if unmask'd) from day's bright henchman streams,
The Rascians eyes do gain the curse of years,
The loadstone's swarfy hue their tapers clears.
When unicorns have gluts or surfeits ta'en
By browsing liquorice, they to regain
Their stomachs and a cure crash bitter grass.
I leave the application: 'tis a glass
Wherein the dimmest eye may plainly see
What's due to me from you, to you from me. 10
But--I'll only tell the world that for your sake,
My willing muse this task did undertake
At hours of recreation, when a thought
Of your choice worth this and this fancy brought.
Some to the bar will call the truth hereof,
Some wonder why, some pass it by, some scoff.
Because, in this full harvest of your sex,
I 'mongst such thousands glean your name t'annex
Unto, and usher in, these wanton verses,
Some will be apt to think my pen rehearses 20
Love passions 'twixt yourself and some choice he
(The world I know will not suspect 'tis me)
And that I age it lest quick eyes should see.
But in this thought I'm silent; thoughts are free.
Indeed your worth doth just proportion hold
With this high worth which of Bellama's told.
And well my knowledge can inform my pen
To raise a spite in women, love in men.
And if the Fates befriend me that my thread
Outmeasures yours (your worth asleep, not dead, 30
For such worth cannot die) I then will say
You equall'd her and was--(but, truth, away).
If these dull melancholy, grief, or sleep,
From any prone thereto at distance keep;
Let unto you their tribute thanks be paid
For my invention by your worth was ray'd,
My fancy rais'd, enliv'ned, and inspir'd,
That my quick muse my agile hand has tir'd,
Nay, more, methinks I might unchidden call
You subject-object of this poem all; 40
And all in this acknowledgement may trim
You pros'd this poem but 'twas vers'd by him
Who styles himself your servant,
N. W.

[_To S^{ra} Inconstanza Bellarizza._] Who she was is a
question much less answerable than 'Whose Song the Sirens
sang?']

[Line: 3 seq. '_Un_natural History' was getting past its
greatest vogue, and only eight years later _Pseudodoxia
Epidemica_ was to deal it blows all the more deadly because
not unsympathetic. But it was still popular, and a grand
set-off to many poetic 'Rascians'. Whiting is here pilfering
from Greene's _Pandosto_; a passage in the dedication runs,
'The _Rascians_ (right honourable) when by long gazing against
the sun, they become half-blind, recover their sights by
looking at the black load-stone. Unicorns, being glutted, by
browsing on roots of liquorice, sharpen their stomachs with
crashing bitter grass'.]

[Line: 4 'swarfy' = swarthy.]

[Line: 7 That 'bitter' would be grateful to others besides
unicorns after a surfeit of liquorice may be easily admitted.
'Crash' for 'crush' or 'crunch' in this sense is good.]

[Line: 11 The book is badly printed--in hardly any of my
texts have I had to alter more trivial misspellings. Here
intelligent 'setting' would of course have made 'But' a
separate line or fragment of line.]

[Line: 23 age it] = 'throw it back in date'.]

[Line: 42 Not bad for 'You gave the subject' &c.]

The Author's Apology.

Some rigid stoic will (I doubt not) shoot
A quipping censure at this wanton fruit,
And say I better might have us'd my talents
Than t' humour ladies and perfumèd gallants.
Know such that pamphlets, writ in metre, measure
As much invention, judgement, wit, as pleasure.
All learning's not lock'd up in _si_'s and _tum_'s.
Roses, pinks, violets, as well as gums,
Some native fragour have to equal civet. 10
Minerva does not all her treasures rivet
Into the screws of _obs_ and _sols_: but we
Are sea-born birds, and as our pedigree
Came sailing o'er from Normandy and Troy,
So we must have our pretty ermine joy.
One part Italian and of French the other;
Stout Belgia be her sire, and Spain her mother.
So our apparel is so strange and antic
That our great grandsires sure would call us frantic.
And, should they see us on our knees for blessing,
They'd skew aside as frighted at our dressing. 20
We pack so many nations up that we
Wear Spain in waist, and France below the knee.
Thus are our backs affected and indeed
Our brains do travail with the selfsame meed.
We're Chaldees, Hebrews, Latins, Greeks, and yet
But few pure Englishmen are lapped in jet.
We scorn our mother language and had rather
Say _Pater noster_ twice than once Our Father.
This makes our pulpits linsey-woolsey stut
When buskined stages in stiff satin strut. 30
Nay clowns can say, 'This parson knows enough',
But that his language does his knowledge blough.
Is it not time to polish then our Welsh
When hinds and peasants such invectives belch?
Then English bravely study: 'tis no shame
For grave divines to win an English fame.
I've heard a worthy man, approv'd for learning,
Say that in plays and rhymes we may be earning
Both wit and knowledge: and that Sidney-prose
Outmusics Tully, if it 'scape the rose. 40
Then purg'd from gall (ingenuous friends) peruse,
And though you chide the author, spare the muse.
N. W.

[_The Authors Apology._] 9 'Frag_our_' for 'frag_rance_' is
rare, and of course wrong--all the more so because it is right
for 'crash'. But it had somehow got into Italian before it
came thence into English.]

[Line: 11 This wonderful Whitingism is, I suppose, to be
interpreted 'screws' ('scrues' in original), 'stamps for
minting'; _obs_ and _sols_, _oboli_ and _solidi_.]

[Line: 14 ermine] = 'parti-coloured'.]

[Line: 20 'Skew', orig. 'scue', is vivid for the great
grand-paternal revulsion.]

[Line: 22 'N. W.' is not likely to have been ignorant of W.
S.]

[Lines: 24-8 Browne, with a curious self-irony, had not long
before said the same thing in _Religio Medici_.]

[Line: 32 blough] = 'hood-wink', 'muffle', as in Blount. Cf.
_Albino_, l. 309.]

[Line: 40 the nose] The _nasus aduncus_.]

The Author to his Book.

Go gall-less infant of my teeming quill.
Not yet bedew'd in Syracusa's rill,
And like a forward plover gadd'st abroad,
Ere shell-free or before full age has strow'd
On thy smooth back a coat of feathers,
To arm thee 'gainst the force of weathers,
Doom'd to the censure of all ages,
Ere mail'd against the youngest rages.
Perchance some nobles will thee view.
Smile at thee, on thee, like thee new, 10
But when white age has wrinkled thee,
Will slight thy measures, laugh at me.
At first view called pretty,
And perchance styled witty,
By some ladies, until thou
Wearest furrows on thy brow.
Some plumed gallants may
Unclasp thy leaves and say,
Th'art mirthful, but ere long
Give place unto a song. 20
Some courteous scholar,
Purg'd from all choler,
May like, but at last,
Say thou spoil'st his taste.
First, lawyers will
Commend thy skill,
Last, throw thy wit
With Trinit's writ.
Chamber-she's
On their knee 30
will thee praise,
and thy bays.
At first,
till thirst
of new
death you,
then all
men shall
Flee
thee 40
Bee
me.

This is thy doom, I by prophetic spirit
Presage will be the guerdon of my merit:
Yet be no burr, no trencher-fly, nor hound,
To fawn on them whose tongues thy measures wound.
Nor beg those niggards' eyes, who grudge to see
A watch unwinded in perusing thee.
And if state-scratchers do condemn thy jests,
For ruffling satins, and bespangled vests, 50
Tell them they're cozen'd and in vain they puff,
Thou neither aim'st at half-ell band or ruff:
And if thy lines perchance some ermines gash,
'Tis not thy fault, 'twas no intended lash.
Thy pencil limns Don Fuco's portraiture,
And only dost his native worth immure
Within these tilic rinds: nor is thy rage
Against the Cowlists of this youngest age.
Thy rhymes cry _Pax_ to all, nor dost thou scatter
Abuses on their shrines, their saints, or water, 60
And if some civil satire lash thee back,
Because he reads my title, sees my black,
Answer i' th' poet's phrase, and tell them more,
My tale of years had scarce outsummed a score
When my young fancy these light measures meant
The press: but Fate since cancell'd that intent.
Nor claim'd the Church as then a greater part
In me than others, bate my title Art--
But now the scene is changed? confess'd it is.
Must we abjure all youth, born, bury this? 70
Such closet death's desertless, in this glass
Read not what now I am but then I was:
In this reflection may the gravest see
How true we suit--I this, and this with me.
These thorns pick'd out whose venom might have bred
A gangrene in thy reader, struck thee dead.
Thou mayst perhaps invited be to court,
And have a brace of smiles t' approve thy sport.
Those whose grave wisdoms wise do them entitle
(Whose learned nods loud ignorance can stifle), 80
Some of time's numbers on thy lines will scatter,
If not call'd from thee by some higher matter.
Laugh out a rubber, like, and say 'tis good
For pleasure, youth, and leisure, wholesome food.
Some jigging silk-canary, newly bloomed,
When he is crispèd, bathèd, oiled, perfumed
(Which till the second chime will scarce be done),
Upon thy feet will make his crystals run,
Commend the author, vow him service ever,
But from such things his genius him deliver! 90
Some sleekèd Nymphs of country, city, court
Will, next their dogs and monkeys, like thy sport:
Smile, and admire, and, wearied, will (perhaps)
Lay thee to sleep encurtained in their laps.
Oh, happy thou! who would not wish to be
(To gain such dainty lodging) such, or thee?
Say, to please them, the poet undertook
To make thee, from a sheet, thrive to a book,
And if he has to beauty giv'n a gem,
He challengeth a deck of thanks from them: 100
And if some winning creature smile on thee
She shall his L. and his Bellama be.
Betwixt eleven and one some _pro_ and _con_
Will snatch a fancy from thee and put on
A glove or ring of thine to court his lass,
'Twixt term and term when they are turn'd to grass.
Some Titius will lay by his wax and books,
And nim a phrase to bait his amorous hooks.
But stay, I shall be chid, methinks I hear
A censure spread its wings to reach my ear, 110
Tell me I am conceited: then no more,
Go take thy chance, I turn thee out o' th' door.

Mart. ad lib. suum. Epig. 4

_Aetherias lascive cupis volitare per auras_,
_I_, _fuge_, _sed poteras tutior esse domi_.

Mart. lib. 4.

_Si vis auribus Aulicis probari_,
_Exhortor moneoque te_, _libelle_,
_Ut docto placeas Apollinari_.
_Nam si pectore te tenebit ore_,
_Nec ronchos metues maligniorum_.
_Nec scombris tunicas dabis molestas_.
_Et cum carmina floridis Camoenis_,
_Litesque gloriam canas poetum_
_Non est pollicem capitis veraris._

[_The Author to his Book._] Most of this wedge-shaped address
is clear enough. But the reader must fit his own sense to
'_Bee_ me' (ll. 41-2). Whiting's fantastic wit was quite
Habakkukian in its possibilities.]

[Line: 53 'ermines' here = 'peers or other persons of
distinction'.]

[Line: 57 'tilic[k]' = 'linden', from the use of lime-tree
bark for paper.]

[Line: 58 Cowlists] Nothing to do (as I at first thought)
with Cowley's early vogue, but one of Whiting's coinages, and
frequently repeated _infra_, for 'monk'. Cf. l. 1945.]

[Lines: 79-80 entitle--stifle] One of those assonances which
we have seen frequently in Marmion, and which were among
the rather too numerous licences of mid-seventeenth century
prosody.]

[Line: 88 'crystals' = eyes.]

[Line: 100 deck] = 'pack' as with cards.]

[Line: 102 Whether 'L.' stands merely for 'Love', or whether
the 'Signora Inconstanza' &c. bore the initial, or what else
it means, one cannot say. Let us hope that Whiting's 'L.'
_wore_ better than Sterne's.]

[Line: _Mart. Lib._ 4] This epigram, the 86th of the Book,
is partly compressed, and the three final lines are different
from those of the usual texts, which run:

Si damnaverit, ad salariorum
Curras scrinia protinus licebit,
Inversa pueris arande charta.

But I suppose Whiting did not choose to use evil words.]

To his loving friend the Author.

To laud thy muse, or thee to crown with praise,
Is but to light my tapers to the rays
Of gold-locked Ph[oe]bus: since the scheme
Of fabled truth, thy waking seeming dream,
Thy ever-living-loving fame in arts--
Of arts, to us in whole and part imparts.
In arts, thy judgement, phrase, invention,
Of arts, thy poet's vindication.
In mourning elegies I admired thy skill,
In mirthful lays we now admire thy quill. 10
Let Albine, Bellame, by thee live in fame;
Riv'lezzo, Beldame Pazza, live in shame.
Lash on and slash the vice of shavèd crowns
In thy Bardino, nuns, and sylvan clowns.
Give virtue beauty, beauty desert and praise,
And that thy monument of brass shall raise.

[_To his Loving Friend._] This anonymous commendator has
dropped (hardly by intention) a foot in his third line.]

To the Reader.

Reader take heed, complain not of the sting,
Lest others of thy galled sores do sing.
No faulty person, party, here is meant,
Only the vice o' th' age and place is shent.
He that expounds it of himself doth show
Some guilty fault or vice from him doth flow.
If touch'd to th' quick, conceal and them amend,
So 'gainst thee shall all scourging satires end.

WILLIAM PURIFEY, _Rector_
_Ecclesiae de Markefield._

[_To the Reader._] 'William Purifey' at this date has an
uncomfortable resemblance to William _Purefoy_ (1580-1659) the
regicide, who escaped meet guerdon by dying just before the
Restoration. But he was a layman and a Member of Parliament.]

To his loving kinsman the Author.

When first I view'd the travails of thy quill,
I lik'd, approv'd, admir'd thy nimble skill
In sudden raptures, fancies, judgement, phrase,
Invention, quickness, life, detraction, praise--
So that I favour'd their conceit which feign'd
The soul to be an harmony, and reign'd
Amongst the senses with accounts and measures,
All which thy lofty poesy entreasures,
That quaintest warblers cannot with delight
Outworth the poet in his lyric height.
As those which with quick eyes where judgement sits,
Thy vindication of poetic wits
Do read, may see, whose swelling metres teach
All aliens such high English that to reach
Is harder than to like or belch forth scandals.
Witness thy journey, _Somnus_, _Morpheus_, sandals,
The orbs, gods, muses, critics, accusation,
The poet's names, employments, vindication,
These silencèd my pen, it dared no more;
Till, voic'd by thy Bellame again, her store
Of suitors, one approv'd by friends, not her:
Rivelezzo's wrath (wherein most parents err),
Her grief, encloist'ring, entertainment high,
Albino's heart and hers met in their eye,
Their whisp'ring dalliance, Piazzella's care,
Bardino's falsehood, their affections rare,
Her disencloist'ring, and his nunning plot,
The nuns' thick bellies, his repentant grot.
His freedom, flight, encount'ring with his saint,
His conjuration, prodigies, and plaint,
The shepherd lout, Bellama's second quest,
His ghosting, coming from th' Elysian rest,
Their parles, his dis-enghosting, her denials,
His rage, her kindness, both their loves and trials,
Conrad's immuring, Piazzella's fury,
His freedom, Foppo and his monkish jury,
The lovers' ale-house cheer, bed, coarse apparel,
The monks' strict quest, their finding, mirth, and quarrel,
Their scape, fear, raddle, kinsman, and at length
Their nuptial tede, when malice lost its strength.
How thou hast shown (dear coz) thy art in arts,
Let them express who brag of abler parts
Than I, which have a bigger part in thee,
Thy love, and blood, till being cease to be.

JOHN WHITING,
Master of Arts, Clare Hall, Camb.

Amico suo carissimo N. W. huius Poematis authori Collegii Reg[i]nalis Canta. in artibus magistro.

Pan petat Arcadiam: Druides effundite cantus,
Et iuvenes flores spargite, Bardus adest.
Tu qui struxisti memoranda trophaea poesi,
Dicere multa tibi nescio, nolo nihil.
Vota, preces, calamus, cor, carmen, singula, laudes
Ultro perdignas, concelebrare student.
An decus, ingenium, tua laus, tua facta, peribunt?
Dignum laude virum musa perire vetat.
Corpore defuncto te candida musa sequetur
Admiratur opus, primitiasque tuas. 10
Fata, precor, faustae plectant tua stamina vitae
Ut scribas opera plurima digna tua.

JACOBUS BERNARD sacrosanctae
& individuae Trinitatis Collegii
in artibus magister.

In Authorem, amicissimum suum, Encomiasticon.

The privilege that pen and paper find
'Mongst men falls short, reflecting to the mind.
Virtue herself no other worth displays
Than cank'red censure leaves behind, as rays.
But mental cabonets are they that yield
No forfeiture to batt'ring critics' shield.
If thoughts might character deserts, I dare
Challenge my pencil for the largest share.
But when the vultures of our age must gnaw,
I'll cease for modesty, and say, 'tis law. 10
It's safer far to fail of debt than t' be
Soaring in terms that badge of flattery.
I hate the name, and therefore freely give
My verdict thus as may have power to live
'Gainst calumny. If wit and learning may
Pass with applause, the author hath the day.
Crown'd be those brows with everlasting bays,
Whose worth a pattern is to future days.
'Tis not a poem dropp'd from strength of grape.
That's debtor to the wine's inspiring sap, 20
He to himself alone. Cease urging, earth,
The father well deserve[s] so fair a birth.
And, if a witness may be lawful, then
I'll undertake 't shall fear no vote of men.
But wherein Art is bold itself to glory
Is that which crowns the verge of Whiting's story.

JO. ROSSE.

[_In Authorem._] 5 cabonets] _Sic_ in orig. It is a possible
form of 'cabinets' (for we have 'cabon'), but in which
particular sense of that word the reader must judge. That of a
'locked up', 'jealously guarded' receptacle might do.]

[Line: 22 'Deserve' in orig. John Rosse, though less eccentric
in phrase, is rather more obscure in sense than even his
_amicissimus_.]

To his Friend, a Panegyric upon his lovers, Albino and Bellama.

Though I have vow'd a silence, and as yet
Resolvèd not to travel out in jet,
Chiefly in print, yet your intending press
Makes me my thoughts with courage, language, dress.
With smooth-strain'd metre, that the world may know
My strict engagements, and how much I owe
To you your worth, which may command a line
From him which swears 'gainst all but what's divine.
The highness of your style, the quickness, life,
Will in judicious readers raise a strife, 10
(More than the ball amongst th' engoddess'd three)
Which gains the best, but all are best by me,
Matchless in my conceit: add then to these
The neatness of your plots, and swear a please
To the grim stoic and the satir'd brow
Forceth delight, through strictness, neatness, vow,
Grow abler still in fancy, imp thy quill,
Write anything, if something, fear not ill,
If poesy be thus revenged by thy dream,
How will it flourish when 'ts thy morning theme? 20
Sleeping or waking, let us have thy quill,
And sleep and vigils shall admire thy skill.

I. PICKERING.

[_To his Friend._] The extraordinary badness of the
orthography in the original may be judged from its form for
panegyric--'Panagericke', which is, of course, mere ignorant
setting from dictation, with no 'reading' to correct.]

[Line: 11 Does 'engoddessed' occur elsewhere? If not, I think
I. Pickering should score for it, though it does not apply
very well to three actual goddesses.]

_Imprimatur._ Sa. Baker. June 22, 1637.

[_Imprimatur._] Samuel Baker, Fellow of Christ's, Prebendary of St. Paul's, and Canon of Windsor and Canterbury, who was deprived of his preferments in the Rebellion, and seems not to have lived quite long enough to recover them. The reverse of the imprimatur leaf bears, in Professor Firth's copy, the inscription 'Ro^{t} Tebbutt His Book 1779'--a date at which the Carolines were not usually appreciated, though their turn was coming.]

THE PLEASING HISTORY OF _ALBINO_ AND _BELLAMA_

When British Isles--begirt with moist'ned sand,
Neptune's blue palace, and the Triton's walk--
Albania hight, her name who first did land
Of all the sisters, or from rocks of chalk;
From sad oppression had unyok'd their necks,
And paid obedience unto Adell's becks,

Then, in those halcyon days of peace and joy,
A virtuous lady, most transcendent creature,
Fairer than her whose beauty cinder'd Troy--
Grace deck'd her mind, her mind grace['d] her feature; 10
So that each part made Helen out of date,
And every grace a goddess could create.

Virtue and beauty both in her did strive
Which should in worth and grace surpass the other,
Nor age of consistency, both did thrive
Till this Dian' out-ray'd that Cupid's mother.
Nay men, by beams of her clear beauty, might
Scale Titan's chariot, and out-ray his light.

'Mongst Nature's precious things we find a gem,
Blushèd and purpled o'er with amethysts, 20
Which fiery carbuncles with sparkles hem,
And which the em'ralds purest vert entwists,
Meeting so well that lapidaries wist
'Twas em'rald, carbuncle, and amethyst.

So in this precious pair, pure Agathite,
Aurora's purpling blush was clearly seen,
Saba's bright rose, and Leda's swan-like white,--
The true proportion of Adonis' queen--
Blended so well, that in this curious frame
Aurora, Saba, Leda, Venus came. 30

And as the honey-making waxen-thigh'd
Inhabitants of Hybla's fragrant vales,
Whom only Nature's dim instinct does guide,
Choose their commander with their tuneful hails,
Pay homage, honour him, and fear his frowns,
With same observance as the people crowns,--

So, by the same instinct, the blushing rose
Vèil'd bonnet to her cheeks admirèd red,
The lilies to her bosom, brow, and nose,
The Phoenix stripp'd herself to crown her head, 40
The chirping choristers with willing choice
Sat silent to admire her warbling voice.

Perfum'd Arabia with her spice and gums
Paid homage to the odours of her lips;
To her with fawning postures, licks, and hums
The yellow lion and the tiger skips;
Fire dares not scorch her face, nor winter chill her,
And death himself looked pale when called to kill her.

The amorous Sun, if she walk'd out by day,
Would rein his jennets to behold her face; 50
And, wrapt in admiration, by his stay
Had rather melt the orbs than mend his pace;
And if the middle air in walls of jet
Enjail'd his beams, he thawèd into wet.

If in the reign of silent night abroad
She rang'd, the Empress of the lowest sphere,
Amazed at her perfections, left her road,
And rang'd about where she appeared t' appear;
Nay, mourned in darkness if denied her sight,
As when day's henchman does deny her light. 60

The curlèd tapers of the firmament
Did cease to twink, but gazed with fixèd eyes,
In their own orb refusing to be pent,
And strove to leap upon the lower skies;
Nay, did o' th' second air like comets hang,
To dart their crisps at beauty's only spang.

The sea-born planet poppèd out her lamp,
And t' see herself outshin'd by her, did rage;
The marching war-god did remove his camp,
With [this] fair lady curtain-war to wage; 70
Hermes by Jove being of an errand sent
Stay'd on her face, in her embraces pent.

Dull-agèd Saturn (on whose sullen brow
Ne'er dwelt a smile since Jove usurp'd his crown)
To gaze on her his weighty head did bow,
And with a smile unplaited every frown:
Nay, Jove himself descended from his chair
To take a full survey of this--this fair.

And more, her winning looks dispersed such charms,
All eyes commanding and all hearts surprising, 80
That Venus bade her son provide him arms,
Fearing his setting by this bright star's rising:
For, though men say Love's eyes are more than dim,
Yet her fair beauty did enlighten him.

But with entreaties he had beat the air,
And on the tawny moor his waters cast,
For having pow'r to conquer, being fair,
Sh'ad pow'r not to be conquer'd, being chaste;
So that his amorous sleights and wingèd arrow
Could not have oped her breast or pierced her marrow. 90

This Phoenix was Bellama called (a word
Well suiting her deserts), she daughter was
And heir-apparent to a wealthy lord,
Who had more acres than an acre grass:
He loved his lands, and hugged his minted treasure,
Yet his Bellama was his soul of pleasure.

His place of residence was in a chase
Chequered with thick-grown thorns and sturdy oaks,
Wherein majestic stags and bucks did pace
That scorned the hounds, and dared the barbèd strokes; 100
'Twas called Rivelount, not distant far
From Starley, of that shire the metro-star.

The neighbouring swains were palled with coaches' thunder,
And loud curvettings of their foaming steeds,
Whose ironed hoofs did crash the rocks in sunder;
Happy was he, who (sheathed in costly weeds)
Could win admission to this happy place,
Where Nature's wealth was locked up in a face.

Each glance she sent the object did engem,
And he that won a smile possessed a mine; 110
A hair was prizèd at a diadem,
A ribbon made the[m] tread the ecliptic line;
A ring outface a thunder, but a kiss
Was the elixir, heart, and soul of bliss.

Some of their lands, some of their valours spoke,
Some, of their falcons and their merry bells;
Some read the price of such a suit and cloak,
And one of hounds and running horses tells;
All speak of something, yet but few with wit,
All aimed at wise, yet few could purchase it. 120

Some spake in oaths, as if they thought the earth
Was peopled o'er with faithless infidels;
Another swore, because he feared a dearth
Of other language, yet in oaths excels:
All swear enough, and he that did it least
Might be grand swearer at Ven-Bacchus feast.

Others there were that could not bigly prate,
Who did their evidences bring with them;
One brought his halls to plead, one his estate,
This brought a watch to court, and that a gem; 130
One brought a large descent [in] white and black,
Which [he] derivèd from old Pergam's sack.

One brought a reverent sire, whom he called father,
To be the tongue of his reservèd son;
Others with much expense of wax did gather
Some printed rimes to speak when they were gone:
All had their speakers which unclasped their graces,
Yet their court-language dwelt on plaits and places.

One of these suitors was approved to be
A match whose thousands equi-balanced hers; 140
The parents oft would say, 'This shall be he,'
The mother then a bill of love prefers:
But still Bellama faults, and vows that gold
Shall never force her love to have and hold.

The testy father, with a furrowed brow,
Comes to Bellama with demanding why?
Says 'Mine own girl, thou must be rulèd now,
Each knee pays duty to Don Fuco's eye:
And age well knows bean-manors, lands, and treasures
Do cement lovers' hearts, and enjoy their pleasures. 150

Thou must not, wench, be coy. Alas! we find
Beauty as easily bought when money bids
(Though 't be i' th' nonsuch of the female kind),
As horse or cow, the lamb, or frisking kids:
If he be rich we bear his witless brags,
A wealthy fool's more worth than witty rags.'

Bellama, with a look fraught with disdain,
(Though hatred did not make her anger bold)
Says 'Sir, I'm sorry you do entertain
Such high conceits of folly hemmed with gold: 160
Think you no marriage good if equal lands
Be not matchmakers and do join their hands?

Don Fuco has ten thousand pounds a year,
With weighty titles would o'erload a mule,
A piece of arras finely wrought and dear;
But does he square his life to virtue's rule?
With vice as wealth, to countless sums he thrives,
But is, in virtue, full as poor as wives.

He knows to steer an horse and hollo hounds,
But not to guide his actions, less his tongue; 170
He speaks in state, but ev'ry sentence sounds
Of comic fragments or some tavern song.
And shall I him, hail'd by unworthy pelf,
Take to rule me, who cannot rule himself?

Shall I see other female vessels thrive
With mine own nectar, and they fee'd with money,
Whilst I like careful bee do keep my hive,
And work the comb for them to suck the honey?
No, I'll no sharers have in my delight,
I'll have it one and only, else good night. 180

'Tis a fine thing to see a satin paint
That fears to lose her beauty in a press,
That only cares to be precisely quaint,
And spends a twelvemonth's pleasure on a dress:
To see this stroke his honour, and he clip her,
Span ev'ry part, and unresisted lip her.

But I do not in a rank humour rail
'Gainst sober purples, and discreeter robes,
Nor lock up virtues in the paper-jail
With ink-horns, pens, spheres, globes, and Albo-globes. 190
Religion on my heart does love enneal
To those bright tapers of our commonweal.

Yet where, instead of state, proud looks do dwell,
Where wit and wisdom are unlocked with oaths,
Courtship and comeliness are in the shell,
And honour only sits upon the clothes.
Pardon, if unto such I plait my brow,
And steer my thought unto a virgin-vow.'

'Fie,' says the father, 'you're a foolish girl
'Gainst ermines with that height'ned spleen to rail; 200
Dost think there's vice and folly in an earl?
Then virtue sure does penance in the jail.
To kiss and sport with us is held no sin
If that our dalliance do not pass the skin.

Perchance 'tis not a point of state to have
Too large a stock of wisdom in this age,
The epithet to greatness is not grave;
Those that the Muses in their cells encage,
Let them speak oil and civet; but we are lords,
Can speak by signs, and not expressed by words. 210

Wherefore do we to Sable give the room,
And greater numbers far of Adel's stamps
Than to our steward or our lady's groom;
'Cause with reproofs he our choice pleasures damps?
No, 'cause in dedications he should name us,
And by some witty pamphlet make us famous.

Our moral virtues are no guiding rule
To high nobility, or looking-glass,
No more than t' earth the _ne plus ultra_'s Thule,
As 'fore America was found, it was. 220
'Tis fit for those whose bosom-friends are lice,
To know the pain, not sweet delights, of vice.

Dost see yon tender webs Arachne spins,
Through which with ease the lusty bumbles break,
But to the feeble gnats that mesh their gins?
So those sage precepts, which our Sophies speak,
Fetter the passions of each worthless slave;
But over us no sovereign awe they have.'

'My lord, the name of father strikes,' quoth she,
'An awful dread, and makes my ear obey; 230
Yet slip my duty down unto the knee,
And in my silent thoughts check, chide, and say,
"Can they that taste forbidden waters thrive?"
My chaste demeanour I will ne'er survive.

T' avoid the doom of--therefore I'll make choice
Of one whose virtue outs all love to vice,
Not those sleek skins which am'rous are in voice,
Lip-love which, as soon born, dies in a trice.
Our loves reciprocal shall be still dust,
Which into exile packs unlawful lust.' 240

As they discours'd Don Fuco entered in,
With stately garbs befitting such a one,
His body shellèd in a satin skin
Of azure dye, bestarred with topaz stone,
A milk-white beaver, with an ostrich plume,
His very rowels spake a loud perfume.