Chapter XXI: Canto II (2)

While all with silence and attention wait, Thus speaks Aeneas from the bed of state:-- Madam, when you command us to review Our fate, you make our old wounds bleed anew, And all those sorrows to my sense restore, Whereof none saw so much, none suffer'd more. Not the most cruel of our conqu'ring foes So unconcern'dly can relate our woes, As not to lend a tear; then how can I Repress the horror of my thoughts, which fly 10 The sad remembrance? Now th'expiring night And the declining stars to rest invite; Yet since 'tis your command, what you so well Are pleased to hear, I cannot grieve to tell. By fate repell'd and with repulses tired, The Greeks, so many lives and years expired, A fabric like a moving mountain frame, 17 Pretending vows for their return; this Fame Divulges; then within the beast's vast womb The choice and flower of all their troops entomb; In view the isle of Tenedos, once high, In fame and wealth, while Troy remain'd, doth lie; (Now but an unsecure and open bay) Thither by stealth the Greeks their fleet convey. We gave them gone,[1] and to Mycenæ sail'd, And Troy reviv'd, her mourning face unveil'd; All through th'unguarded gates with joy resort To see the slighted camp, the vacant port; Here lay Ulysses, there Achilles; here The battles join'd; the Grecian fleet rode there; 30 But the vast pile th'amazèd vulgar views, Till they their reason in their wonder lose. And first Thymoetes moves (urged by the power Of fate, or fraud) to place it in the tower; But Capys and the graver sort thought fit The Greeks' suspected present to commit To seas or flames, at least to search and bore The sides, and what that space contains, t'explore. Th' uncertain multitude with both engaged, Divided stands, till from the tower, enraged 40 Laocoon ran, whom all the crowd attends, Crying, 'What desp'rate frenzy's this, O friends! To think them gone? Judge rather their retreat But a design; their gifts but a deceit; For our destruction 'twas contrived no doubt, Or from within by fraud, or from without By force. Yet know ye not Ulysses' shifts? Their swords less danger carry than their gifts.' (This said) against the horse's side his spear 49 He throws, which trembles with enclosèd fear, Whilst from the hollows of his womb proceed Groans, not his own; and had not Fate decreed Our ruin, we had fill'd with Grecian blood The place; then Troy and Priam's throne had stood. Meanwhile a fetter'd pris'ner to the king With joyful shouts the Dardan shepherds bring, Who to betray us did himself betray, At once the taker, and at once the prey; Firmly prepared, of one event secured, Or of his death or his design assured. 60 The Trojan youth about the captive flock, To wonder, or to pity, or to mock. Now hear the Grecian fraud, and from this one Conjecture all the rest. Disarm'd, disorder'd, casting round his eyes On all the troops that guarded him, he cries, 'What land, what sea, for me what fate attends? Caught by my foes, condemned by my friends, Incensèd Troy a wretched captive seeks To sacrifice; a fugitive the Greeks.'-- 70 To pity this complaint our former rage Converts; we now inquire his parentage; What of their counsels or affairs he knew Then fearless he replies, 'Great king! to you All truth I shall relate: nor first can I Myself to be of Grecian birth deny; And though my outward state misfortune hath Depress'd thus low, it cannot reach my faith. You may by chance have heard the famous name Of Palamede, who from old Belus came, 80 Whom, but for voting peace, the Greeks pursue, Accus'd unjustly, then unjustly slew, Yet mourn'd his death. My father was his friend, And me to his commands did recommend, While laws and councils did his throne support; I but a youth, yet some esteem and port We then did bear, till by Ulysses' craft (Things known I speak) he was of life bereft: Since, in dark sorrow I my days did spend, 90 Till now, disdaining his unworthy end, I could not silence my complaints, but vow'd Revenge, if ever fate or chance allow'd My wish'd return to Greece; from hence his hate, From thence my crimes, and all my ills bear date: Old guilt fresh malice gives; the people's ears He fills with rumours, and their hearts with fears, And then the prophet to his party drew. But why do I those thankless truths pursue, Or why defer your rage? on me, for all The Greeks, let your revenging fury fall. 100 Ulysses this, th'Atridæ this desire At any rate.'--We straight are set on fire (Unpractised in such myst'ries) to inquire The manner and the cause: which thus he told, With gestures humble, as his tale was bold. 'Oft have the Greeks (the siege detesting) tired With tedious war, a stolen retreat desired, And would to Heaven they'd gone! but still dismay'd By seas or skies, unwillingly they stay'd. Chiefly when this stupendous pile was raised, 110 Strange noises filled the air; we, all amazed, Despatch Eurypylus t'inquire our fates, Who thus the sentence of the gods relates: "A virgin's slaughter did the storm appease, When first t'wards Troy the Grecians took the seas; Their safe retreat another Grecian's blood 116 Must purchase." All at this confounded stood; Each thinks himself the man, the fear on all Of what the mischief but on one can fall. Then Calchas (by Ulysses first inspired) Was urged to name whom th'angry god required; Yet was I warn'd (for many were as well Inspired as he) and did my fate foretell. Ten days the prophet in suspense remain'd, Would no man's fate pronounce; at last constrain'd By Ithacus, he solemnly design'd Me for the sacrifice; the people join'd In glad consent, and all their common fear Determine in my fate. The day drew near, The sacred rites prepared, my temples crown'd 130 With holy wreaths; then I confess I found The means to my escape; my bonds I brake, Fled from my guards, and in a muddy lake Amongst the sedges all the night lay hid, Till they their sails had hoist (if so they did). And now, alas! no hope remains for me My home, my father, and my sons to see, Whom they, enraged, will kill for my offence, And punish, for my guilt, their innocence. Those gods who know the truths I now relate, 140 That faith which yet remains inviolate By mortal men, by these I beg; redress My causeless wrongs, and pity such distress.'-- And now true pity in exchange he finds For his false tears, his tongue his hands unbinds. Then spake the king, 'Be ours, whoe'er thou art; Forget the Greeks. But first the truth impart, Why did they raise, or to what use intend This pile? to a warlike or religious end?' Skilful in fraud (his native art) his hands 150 T'ward heaven he raised, deliver'd now from bands. 'Ye pure ethereal flames! ye powers adored By mortal men! ye altars, and the sword I 'scaped! ye sacred fillets that involved My destined head! grant I may stand absolved From all their laws and rights, renounce all name Of faith or love, their secret thoughts proclaim; Only, O Troy! preserve thy faith to me, If what I shall relate preserveth thee. From Pallas' favour all our hopes, and all 160 Counsels and actions took original, Till Diomed (for such attempts made fit By dire conjunction with Ulysses' wit) Assails the sacred tower, the guards they slay, Defile with bloody hands, and thence convey The fatal image; straight with our success Our hopes fell back, whilst prodigies express Her just disdain, her flaming eyes did throw Flashes of lightning, from each part did flow A briny sweat; thrice brandishing her spear, 170 Her statue from the ground itself did rear; Then, that we should our sacrilege restore, And re-convey their gods from Argos' shore, Calchas persuades, till then we urge in vain The fate of Troy. To measure back the main They all consent, but to return again, When reinforced with aids of gods and men. Thus Calchas; then instead of that, this pile To Pallas was design'd; to reconcile Th' offended power, and expiate our guilt; 180 To this vast height and monstrous stature built, Lest through your gates received, it might renew Your vows to her, and her defence to you. But if this sacred gift you disesteem, Then cruel plagues (which Heaven divert on them!) Shall fall on Priam's state: but if the horse Your walls ascend, assisted by your force, A league 'gainst Greece all Asia shall contract; Our sons then suff'ring what their sires would act.'

Thus by his fraud and our own faith o'ercome, 190 A feigned tear destroys us, against whom Tydides nor Achilles could prevail, Nor ten years' conflict, nor a thousand sail. This seconded by a most sad portent, Which credit to the first imposture lent; Laocoon, Neptune's priest, upon the day Devoted to that god, a bull did slay; When two prodigious serpents were descried, Whose circling strokes the sea's smooth face divide; Above the deep they raise their scaly crests, 200 And stem the flood with their erected breasts, Their winding tails advance and steer their course, And 'gainst the shore the breaking billows force. Now landing, from their brandish'd tongues there came A dreadful hiss, and from their eyes a flame. Amazed we fly, directly in a line Laocoon they pursue, and first entwine (Each preying upon one) his tender sons; Then him, who armed to their rescue runs, They seized, and with entangling folds embraced, 210 His neck twice compassing, and twice his waist: Their pois'nous knots he strives to break and tear, While slime and blood his sacred wreaths besmear; Then loudly roars, as when th'enraged bull From th'altar flies, and from his wounded skull Shakes the huge axe; the conqu'ring serpents fly To cruel Pallas' altar, and there lie Under her feet, within her shield's extent. 218 We, in our fears, conclude this fate was sent Justly on him, who struck the sacred oak With his accursed lance. Then to invoke The goddess, and let in the fatal horse, We all consent.

A spacious breach we make, and Troy's proud wall Built by the gods, by our own hands doth fall; Thus, all their help to their own ruin give, Some draw with cords, and some the monster drive With rolls and levers: thus our works it climbs Big with our fate; the youth with songs and rhymes, Some dance, some hale the rope; at last let down 230 It enters with a thund'ring noise the town. Oh Troy! the seat of gods, in war renown'd! Three times it struck; as oft the clashing sound Of arms was heard; yet blinded by the power Of Fate, we place it in the sacred tower. Cassandra then foretells th'event, but she Finds no belief (such was the gods' decree). The altars with fresh flowers we crown, and waste In feasts that day, which was (alas!) our last. Now by the revolution of the skies 240 Night's sable shadows from the ocean rise, Which heaven and earth, and the Greek frauds involved, The city in secure repose dissolved, When from the admiral's high poop appears A light, by which the Argive squadron steers Their silent course to Ilium's well-known shore, When Sinon (saved by the gods' partial power) Opens the horse, and through the unlock'd doors To the free air the armed freight restores: Ulysses, Stheneleus, Tisander slide 250 Down by a rope, Machaon was their guide; Atrides, Pyrrhus, Thoas, Athamas, And Epeus who the fraud's contriver was. The gates they seize; the guards, with sleep and wine Oppress'd, surprise, and then their forces join. 'Twas then, when the first sweets of sleep repair Our bodies spent with toil, our minds with care, (The gods' best gift), when, bathed in tears and blood, Before my face lamenting Hector stood, His aspect such when, soil'd with bloody dust, 260 Dragg'd by the cords which through his feet were thrust By his insulting foe; oh, how transform'd, How much unlike that Hector, who return'd Clad in Achilles' spoils! when he, among A thousand ships (like Jove) his lightning flung! His horrid beard and knotted tresses stood Stiff with his gore, and all his wounds ran blood: Entranced I lay, then (weeping) said, 'The joy, The hope and stay of thy declining Troy! What region held thee? whence, so much desired, 270 Art thou restored to us, consumed and tired With toils and deaths? But what sad cause confounds Thy once fair looks, or why appear those wounds?' Regardless of my words, he no reply Returns, but with a dreadful groan doth cry, 'Fly from the flame, O goddess-born! our walls The Greeks possess, and Troy confounded falls From all her glories; if it might have stood By any power, by this right hand it should. What man could do, by me for Troy was done. 280 Take here her relics and her gods, to run With them thy fate, with them new walls expect, Which, toss'd on seas, thou shalt at last erect;'-- Then brings old Vesta from her sacred choir, Her holy wreaths, and her eternal fire. Meanwhile the walls with doubtful cries resound From far (for shady coverts did surround My father's house); approaching still more near, The clash of arms, and voice of men we hear: Roused from my bed, I speedily ascend 290 The houses' tops, and listening there attend. As flames roll'd by the winds' conspiring force, O'er full-ear'd corn, or torrent's raging course Bears down th'opposing oaks, the fields destroys, And mocks the ploughman's toil, th'unlook'd for noise From neighb'ring hills th'amazed shepherd hears; Such my surprise, and such their rage appears. First fell thy house, Ucalegon! then thine Deïphobus! Sigæan seas did shine Bright with Troy's flames; the trumpets' dreadful sound The louder groans of dying men confound. 301 Give me my arms, I cried, resolved to throw Myself 'mong any that opposed the foe: Rage, anger, and despair at once suggest, That of all deaths, to die in arms was best. The first I met was Pantheus, Phoebus' priest, Who, 'scaping with his gods and relics, fled, And t'wards the shore his little grandchild led; 'Pantheus, what hope remains? what force, what place Made good? But, sighing, he replies, 'Alas! 310 Trojans we were, and mighty Ilium was; But the last period and the fatal hour Of Troy is come: our glory and our power Incensèd Jove transfers to Grecian hands; The foe within the burning town commands; And (like a smother'd fire) an unseen force Breaks from the bowels of the fatal horse: Insulting Sinon flings about the flame, And thousands more than e'er from Argos came Possess the gates, the passes, and the streets, 320 And these the sword o'ertakes, and those it meets. The guard nor fights nor flies; their fate so near At once suspends their courage and their fear.'-- Thus by the gods, and by Atrides' words Inspir'd, I make my way through fire, through swords, Where noises, tumults, outcries, and alarms I heard; first Iphitus, renown'd for arms, We meet, who knew us (for the moon did shine) Then Ripheus, Hypanis, and Dymas join Their force, and young Choroebus, Mygdon's son, 330 Who, by the love of fair Cassandra won, Arrived but lately in her father's aid; Unhappy, whom the threats could not dissuade Of his prophetic spouse; Whom when I saw, yet daring to maintain The fight, I said, 'Brave spirits! (but in vain) Are you resolv'd to follow one who dares Tempt all extremes? The state of our affairs You see: the gods have left us, by whose aid Our empire stood; nor can the flame be stay'd: 340 Then let us fall amidst our foes; this one Relief the vanquish'd have, to hope for none.' Then reinforced, as in a stormy night Wolves urgèd by their raging appetite Forage for prey, which their neglected young With greedy jaws expect, even so among Foes, fire, and swords, t'assured death we pass; Darkness our guide, Despair our leader was. Who can relate that evening's woes and spoils, Or can his tears proportion to our toils? 350 The city, which so long had flourish'd, falls; Death triumphs o'er the houses, temples, walls. Nor only on the Trojans fell this doom, Their hearts at last the vanquish'd reassume; And now the victors fall: on all sides fears, Groans, and pale Death in all her shapes appears! Androgeus first with his whole troop was cast Upon us, with civility misplaced Thus greeting us, 'You lose, by your delay, Your share, both of the honour and the prey; 360 Others the spoils of burning Troy convey Back to those ships which you but now forsake.' We making no return, his sad mistake Too late he finds; as when an unseen snake A traveller's unwary foot hath press'd, Who trembling starts, when the snake's azure crest, Swoll'n with his rising anger, he espies, So from our view surprised Androgeus flies. But here an easy victory we meet: Fear binds their hands and ignorance their feet. 370 Whilst fortune our first enterprise did aid, Encouraged with success, Choroebus said, 'O friends! we now by better fates are led, And the fair path they lead us, let us tread. First change your arms, and their distinctions bear; The same, in foes, deceit and virtue are.' Then of his arms Androgeus he divests, His sword, his shield he takes, and plumèd crests; Then Ripheus, Dymas, and the rest, all glad Of the occasion, in fresh spoils are clad. 380 Thus mix'd with Greeks, as if their fortune still Follow'd their swords, we fight, pursue, and kill. Some re-ascend the horse, and he whose sides Let forth the valiant, now the coward hides. Some to their safer guard, their ships, retire; But vain's that hope 'gainst which the gods conspire; Behold the royal virgin, the divine Cassandra, from Minerva's fatal shrine Dragg'd by the hair, casting t'wards heaven, in vain, Her eyes; for cords her tender hands did strain; 390 Choroebus at the spectacle enraged, Flies in amidst the foes: we thus engaged, To second him, among the thickest ran; Here first our ruin from our friends began, Who from the temple's battlements a shower Of darts and arrows on our heads did pour: They us for Greeks, and now the Greeks (who knew Cassandra's rescue) us for Trojans slew. Then from all parts Ulysses, Ajax then, And then th'Atridæ rally all their men; 400 As winds, that meet from sev'ral coasts, contest, Their prisons being broke, the south and west, And Eurus on his winged coursers borne, Triumphing in their speed, the woods are torn, And chasing Nereus with his trident throws The billows from their bottom; then all those Who in the dark our fury did escape, Returning, know our borrow'd arms and shape, And diff'ring dialect: then their numbers swell And grow upon us; first Choroebus fell 410 Before Minerva's altar, next did bleed Just Ripheus, whom no Trojan did exceed In virtue, yet the gods his fate decreed. Then Hypanis and Dymas, wounded by Their friends; nor thee, Pantheus! thy piety, Nor consecrated mitre, from the same Ill fate could save. My country's fun'ral flame And Troy's cold ashes I attest, and call To witness for myself, that in their fall No foes, no death, nor danger I declin'd, 420 Did, and deserv'd no less, my fate to find. Now Iphitus with me, and Pelias Slowly retire; the one retarded was By feeble age, the other by a wound; To court the cry directs us, where we found Th' assault so hot, as if 'twere only there, And all the rest secure from foes or fear: The Greeks the gates approach'd, their targets cast Over their heads; some scaling ladders placed Against the walls, the rest the steps ascend, 430 And with their shields on their left arms defend Arrows and darts, and with their right hold fast The battlement; on them the Trojans cast Stones, rafters, pillars, beams; such arms as these, Now hopeless, for their last defence they seize. The gilded roofs, the marks of ancient state, They tumble down; and now against the gate Of th'inner court their growing force they bring; Now was our last effort to save the king, Relieve the fainting, and succeed the dead. 440 A private gallery 'twixt th'apartments led, Not to the foe yet known, or not observed, (The way for Hector's hapless wife reserved, When to the aged king her little son She would present); through this we pass, and run Up to the highest battlement, from whence The Trojans threw their darts without offence, A tower so high, it seem'd to reach the sky, Stood on the roof, from whence we could descry, All Ilium--both the camps, the Grecian fleet; 450 This, where the beams upon the columns meet, We loosen, which like thunder from the cloud Breaks on their heads, as sudden and as loud. But others still succeed: meantime, nor stones Nor any kind of weapons cease. Before the gate in gilded armour shone Young Pyrrhus, like a snake, his skin new grown, Who, fed on pois'nous herbs, all winter lay Under the ground, and now reviews the day, Fresh in his new apparel, proud and young, 460 Rolls up his back, and brandishes his tongue, And lifts his scaly breast against the sun; With him his father's squire, Automedon, And Peripas who drove his winged steeds, Enter the court; whom all the youth succeeds Of Scyros' isle, who naming firebrands flung Up to the roof; Pyrrhus himself among The foremost with an axe an entrance hews Through beams of solid oak, then freely views The chambers, galleries, and rooms of state, 470 Where Priam and the ancient monarchs sate. At the first gate an armed guard appears; But th'inner court with horror, noise and tears, Confus'dly fill'd, the women's shrieks and cries The arched vaults re-echo to the skies; Sad matrons wand'ring through the spacious rooms Embrace and kiss the posts; then Pyrrhus comes; Full of his father, neither men nor walls His force sustain; the torn portcullis falls; Then from the hinge their strokes the gates divorce, 480 And where the way they cannot find, they force. Not with such rage a swelling torrent flows Above his banks, th'opposing dams o'erthrows, Depopulates the fields, the cattle, sheep, Shepherds and folds, the foaming surges sweep. And now between two sad extremes I stood, Here Pyrrhus and th'Atridæ drunk with blood, There th'hapless queen amongst an hundred dames, 488 And Priam quenching from his wounds those flames Which his own hands had on the altar laid; Then they the secret cabinets invade, Where stood the fifty nuptial beds, the hopes Of that great race; the golden posts, whose tops Old hostile spoils adorn'd, demolished lay, Or to the foe, or to the fire a prey. Now Priam's fate perhaps you may inquire: Seeing his empire lost, his Troy on fire, And his own palace by the Greeks possess'd, Arms long disused his trembling limbs invest; Thus on his foes he throws himself alone, 500 Not for their fate, but to provoke his own: There stood an altar open to the view Of heaven, near which an aged laurel grew, Whose shady arms the household gods embraced, Before whose feet the queen herself had cast With all her daughters, and the Trojan wives, As doves whom an approaching tempest drives And frights into one flock; but having spied Old Priam clad in youthful arms, she cried, 'Alas! my wretched husband! what pretence 510 To bear those arms? and in them what defence? Such aid such times require not, when again If Hector were alive, he lived in vain; Or here we shall a sanctuary find, Or as in life, we shall in death be join'd.' Then, weeping, with kind force held and embraced, And on the secret seat the king she placed. Meanwhile Polites, one of Priam's sons, Flying the rage of bloody Pyrrhus, runs Through foes and swords, and ranges all the court 520 And empty galleries, amazed and hurt; Pyrrhus pursues him, now o'ertakes, now kills, And his last blood in Priam's presence spills. The king (though him so many deaths enclose) Nor fear, nor grief, but indignation shows; 'The gods requite thee (if within the care Of those above th'affairs of mortals are), Whose fury on the son but lost had been, Had not his parents' eyes his murder seen: Not that Achilles (whom thou feign'st to be 530 Thy father) so inhuman was to me; He blush'd, when I the rights of arms implored; To me my Hector, me to Troy, restored.' This said, his feeble arm a jav'lin flung, Which on the sounding shield, scarce ent'ring, rung. Then Pyrrhus; 'Go a messenger to hell Of my black deeds, and to my father tell The acts of his degen'rate race.' So through His son's warm blood the trembling king he drew To th'altar; in his hair one hand he wreathes; 540 His sword the other in his bosom sheaths. Thus fell the king, who yet surviv'd the state, With such a signal and peculiar fate, Under so vast a ruin, not a grave, Nor in such flames a fun'ral fire to have: He whom such titles swell'd, such power made proud, To whom the sceptres of all Asia bow'd, On the cold earth lies th'unregarded king, A headless carcase, and a nameless thing.

[1] 'Gave them gone': i.e., gave them up for gone.

ON THE EARL OF STRAFFORD'S TRIAL AND DEATH.

Great Strafford! worthy of that name, though all Of thee could be forgotten, but thy fall, Crush'd by imaginary treason's weight, Which too much merit did accumulate. As chemists gold from brass by fire would draw, Pretexts are into treason forged by law. His wisdom such, at once it did appear Three kingdoms' wonder, and three kingdoms' fear; Whilst single he stood forth, and seem'd, although Each had an army, as an equal foe. 10 Such was his force of eloquence, to make The hearers more concern'd than he that spake; Each seem'd to act that part he came to see, And none was more a looker-on than he; So did he move our passions, some were known To wish, for the defence, the crime their own. Now private pity strove with public hate, Reason with rage, and eloquence with fate: Now they could him, if he could them, forgive; He's not too guilty, but too wise, to live: 20 Less seem those facts which treason's nickname bore, Than such a fear'd ability for more. They after death their fears of him express, His innocence and their own guilt confess. Their legislative frenzy they repent, Enacting it should make no precedent. This fate he could have 'scaped, but would not lose Honour for life, but rather nobly chose Death from their fears, than safety from his own, That his last action all the rest might crown. 30

ON MY LORD CROFT'S AND MY JOURNEY INTO POLAND,

FROM WHENCE WE BROUGHT £10,000 FOR HIS MAJESTY, BY THE DECIMATION OF HIS SCOTTISH SUBJECTS THERE.

1 Toll, toll,
Gentle bell, for the soul
Of the pure ones in Pole,
Which are damn'd in our scroll.

2 Who having felt a touch
Of Cockram's greedy clutch,
Which though it was not much,
Yet their stubbornness was such,

3 That when we did arrive,
'Gainst the stream we did strive;
They would neither lead nor drive;

4 Nor lend
An ear to a friend,
Nor an answer would send
To our letter so well penn'd;

5 Nor assist our affairs
With their moneys nor their wares,
As their answer now declares,
But only with their prayers.

6 Thus they did persist
Did and said what they list,
'Till the Diet was dismiss'd;
But then our breech they kiss'd.

7 For when
It was moved there and then,
They should pay one in ten,
The Diet said, Amen.

8 And because they are both
To discover the troth,
They must give word and oath,
Though they will forfeit both.

9 Thus the constitution
Condemns them every one,
From the father to the son.

10 But John
(Our friend) Mollesson
Thought us to have outgone
With a quaint invention.

11 Like the prophets of yore,
He complain'd long before,
Of the mischiefs in store,
Ay, and thrice as much more;

12 And with that wicked lie,
A letter they came by
From our King's majesty.

13 But fate
Brought the letter too late,
'Twas of too old a date
To relieve their damn'd state.

14 The letter's to be seen,
With seal of wax so green,
At Dantzig, where 't has been
Turn'd into good Latin.

15 But he that gave the hint,
This letter for to print,
Must also pay his stint.

16 That trick,
Had it come in the nick,
Had touch'd us to the quick;
But the messenger fell sick.

17 Had it later been wrote,
And sooner been brought,
They had got what they sought;
But now it serves for nought.

18 On Sandys they ran aground,
And our return was crown'd
With full ten thousand pound.

ON MR THOMAS KILLIGREW'S RETURN FROM VENICE, AND MR WILLIAM MURREY'S FROM SCOTLAND.

1 Our resident Tom,
From Venice is come,
And hath left the statesman behind him;
Talks at the same pitch,
Is as wise, is as rich;
And just where you left him, you find him.

2 But who says he was not
A man of much plot,
May repent that false accusation;
Having plotted and penn'd
Six plays, to attend
The farce of his negotiation.

3 Before you were told
How Satan[1] the old
Came here with a beard to his middle;
Though he changed face and name,
Old Will was the same,
At the noise of a can and a fiddle.

4 These statesmen, you believe,
Send straight for the shrieve,
For he is one too, or would be;
But he drinks no wine,
Which is a shrewd sign
That all's not so well as it should be.

5 These three, when they drink,
How little do they think
Of banishment, debts, or dying?
Not old with their years,
Nor cold with their fears;
But their angry stars still defying.

6 Mirth makes them not mad,
Nor sobriety sad;
But of that they are seldom in danger;
At Paris, at Rome,
At the Hague, they're at home;
The good fellow is no where a stranger.

[1] 'Satan': Mr. W. Murrey.

TO SIR JOHN MENNIS,

BEING INVITED FROM CALAIS TO BOULOGNE, TO EAT A PIG.

1 All on a weeping Monday,
With a fat vulgarian sloven,
Little admiral John
To Boulogne is gone,
Whom I think they call old Loven.

2 Hadst thou not thy fill of carting,[1]
Will Aubrey, Count of Oxon,
When nose lay in breech,
And breech made a speech,
So often cried, A pox on?

3 A knight by land and water
Esteem'd at such a high rate,
When 'tis told in Kent,
In a cart that he went,
They'll say now, Hang him, pirate.

4 Thou might'st have ta'en example
From what thou read'st in story;
Being as worthy to sit
On an ambling tit
As thy predecessor Dory.

5 But, oh, the roof of linen,
Intended for a shelter!
But the rain made an ass
Of tilt and canvas,
And the snow, which you know is a melter.

6 But with thee to inveigle
That tender stripling Astcot,
Who was soak'd to the skin,
Through drugget so thin,
Having neither coat nor waistcoat.

7 He being proudly mounted,
Clad in cloak of Plymouth,
Defied cart so base,
For thief without grace,
That goes to make a wry mouth.

8 Nor did he like the omen,
For fear it might be his doom
One day for to sing,
With gullet in string,
A hymn of Robert Wisdom.

9 But what was all this business?
For sure it was important;
For who rides i' th'wet
When affairs are not great,
The neighbours make but a sport on't.

10 To a goodly fat sow's baby,
O John! thou hadst a malice;
The old driver of swine
That day sure was thine,
Or thou hadst not quitted Calais.

[1] 'Fill of carting': we three riding in a cart from Dunkirk to Calais,
with a fat Dutch woman.

NATURA NATURATA.

1 What gives us that fantastic fit,
That all our judgment and our wit
To vulgar custom we submit?

2 Treason, theft, murder, and all the rest
Of that foul legion we so detest,
Are in their proper names express'd.

3 Why is it then thought sin or shame
Those necessary parts to name,
From whence we went, and whence we came?

4 Nature, whate'er she wants, requires;
With love inflaming our desires,
Finds engines fit to quench those fires.

5 Death she abhors; yet when men die
We are present; but no stander by
Looks on when we that loss supply.

6 Forbidden wares sell twice as dear;
Even sack, prohibited last year,
A most abominable rate did bear.

7 'Tis plain our eyes and ears are nice,
Only to raise, by that device,
Of those commodities the price.

8 Thus reason's shadows us betray,
By tropes and figures led astray,
From Nature, both her guide and way.

SARPEDON'S SPEECH TO GLAUCUS, IN THE TWELFTH BOOK OF HOMER.

Thus to Glaucus spake Divine Sarpedon, since he did not find Others, as great in place, as great in mind:-- Above the rest why is our pomp, our power? Our flocks, our herds, and our possessions more? Why all the tributes land and sea affords Heap'd in great chargers, load our sumptuous boards? Our cheerful guests carouse the sparkling tears Of the rich grape, while music charms their ears? Why, as we pass, do those on Xanthus' shore, 10 As gods behold us, and as gods adore? But that, as well in danger as degree, We stand the first; that when our Licians see Our brave examples, they admiring say, Behold our gallant leaders! These are they Deserve the greatness, and unenvied stand, Since what they act transcends what they command. Could the declining of this fate (O friend!) Our date to immortality extend? Or if death sought not them who seek not death, 20 Would I advance? or should my vainer breath With such a glorious folly thee inspire? But since with Fortune Nature doth conspire, Since age, disease, or some less noble end, Though not less certain, does our days attend; Since 'tis decreed, and to this period lead A thousand ways, the noblest path we'll tread, And bravely on, till they, or we, or all, A common sacrifice to honour fall.

FRIENDSHIP AND SINGLE LIFE, AGAINST LOVE AND MARRIAGE.

1 Love! in what poison is thy dart
Dipp'd, when it makes a bleeding heart?
None know but they who feel the smart.

2 It is not thou, but we are blind,
And our corporeal eyes (we find)
Dazzle the optics of our mind.

3 Love to our citadel resorts;
Through those deceitful sally-ports,
Our sentinels betrays our forts.

4 What subtle witchcraft man constrains,
To change his pleasure into pains,
And all his freedom into chains?

5 May not a prison, or a grave,
Like wedlock, honour's title have
That word makes freeborn man a slave.

6 How happy he that loves not, lives!
Him neither hope nor fear deceives,
To Fortune who no hostage gives.

7 How unconcern'd in things to come!
If here uneasy, finds at Rome,
At Paris, or Madrid, his home.

8 Secure from low and private ends,
His life, his zeal, his wealth attends
His prince, his country, and his friends.

9 Danger and honour are his joy;
But a fond wife, or wanton boy,
May all those gen'rous thoughts destroy.

10 Then he lays by the public care;
Thinks of providing for an heir;
Learns how to get, and how to spare.

11 Nor fire, nor foe, nor fate, nor night,
The Trojan hero did affright,
Who bravely twice renew'd the fight.

12 Though still his foes in number grew,
Thicker their darts and arrows flew,
Yet, left alone, no fear he knew.

13 But Death in all her forms appears,
From every thing he sees and hears,
For whom he leads, and whom he bears.[1]

14 Love, making all things else his foes,
Like a fierce torrent, overflows
Whatever doth his course oppose.

15 This was the cause, the poets sung,
Thy mother from the sea was sprung;
But they were mad to make thee young.

16 Her father, not her son, art thou:
From our desires our actions grow;
And from the cause th'effect must flow.

17 Love is as old as place or time;
'Twas he the fatal tree did climb,
Grandsire of father Adam's crime.

18 Well may'st thou keep this world in awe;
Religion, wisdom, honour, law,
The tyrant in his triumph draw.

19 'Tis he commands the powers above;
Phoebus resigns his darts, and Jove
His thunder to the god of Love.

20 To him doth his feign'd mother yield;
Nor Mars (her champion's) flaming shield
Guards him, when Cupid takes the field.

21 He clips Hope's wings, whose airy bliss
Much higher than fruition is,
But less than nothing if it miss.

22 When matches Love alone projects,
The cause transcending the effects,
That wild fire's quench'd in cold neglects;

23 Whilst those conjunctions prove the best,
Where Love's of blindness dispossess'd
By perspectives of interest.

24 Though Sol'mon with a thousand wives,
To get a wise successor strives,
But one (and he a fool) survives.

25 Old Rome of children took no care;
They with their friends their beds did share,
Secure t'adopt a hopeful heir.

26 Love drowsy days and stormy nights
Makes; and breaks friendship, whose delights
Feed, but not glut our appetites.

27 Well-chosen friendship, the most noble
Of virtues, all our joys makes double,
And into halves divides our trouble.

28 But when th'unlucky knot we tie,
Care, av'rice, fear, and jealousy
Make friendship languish till it die.

29 The wolf, the lion, and the bear,
When they their prey in pieces tear,
To quarrel with themselves forbear;

30 Yet tim'rous deer, and harmless sheep,
When love into their veins doth creep,
That law of Nature cease to keep.

31 Who, then, can blame the am'rous boy,
Who, the fair Helen to enjoy,
To quench his own, set fire on Troy?

32 Such is the world's prepost'rous fate,
Amongst all creatures, mortal hate
Love (though immortal) doth create.

33 But love may beasts excuse, for they
Their actions not by reason sway,
But their brute appetites obey.

34 But man's that savage beast, whose mind
From reason to self-love declined,
Delights to prey upon his kind.

[1] 'Whom he bears': his father and son.

ON MR ABRAHAM COWLEY, HIS DEATH, AND BURIAL AMONGST THE ANCIENT POETS.

Old Chaucer, like the morning star, To us discovers day from far; His light those mists and clouds dissolved, Which our dark nation long involved: But he descending to the shades, Darkness again the age invades. Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose, 7 Whose purple blush the day foreshows; The other three with his own fires Phoebus, the poet's god, inspires; By Shakespeare's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, Our stage's lustre Rome's outshines: These poets near our princes sleep, And in one grave their mansion keep. They lived to see so many days, Till time had blasted all their bays: But cursèd be the fatal hour, That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower That in the Muses' garden grew, And amongst wither'd laurels threw! 20 Time, which made them their fame outlive, To Cowley scarce did ripeness give. Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have; In Spenser, and in Jonson, Art Of slower Nature got the start; But both in him so equal are, None knows which bears the happiest share; To him no author was unknown, Yet what he wrote was all his own; 30 He melted not the ancient gold, Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold To plunder all the Roman stores Of poets, and of orators: Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, He did not steal, but emulate! And when he would like them appear, Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear; He not from Rome alone, but Greece, Like Jason, brought the golden fleece; 40 To him that language (though to none Of th'others) as his own was known. On a stiff gale (as Flaccus[1] sings) The Theban swan extends his wings, When through th'ethereal clouds he flies; To the same pitch our swan doth rise; Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd, When on that gale his wings are stretch'd; His fancy and his judgment such, Each to the others seem'd too much, 50 His severe judgment (giving law) His modest fancy kept in awe: As rigid husbands jealous are, When they believe their wives too fair. His English streams so pure did flow As all that saw and tasted know; But for his Latin vein, so clear, Strong,[2] full, and high it doth appear, That were immortal Virgil here, Him, for his judge, he would not fear; 60 Of that great portraiture so true A copy pencil never drew. My Muse her song had ended here, But both their Genii straight appear, Joy and amazement her did strike: Two twins she never saw so like. 'Twas taught by wise Pythagoras, One soul might through more bodies pass. Seeing such transmigration there, She thought it not a fable here. 70 Such a resemblance of all parts, Life, death, age, fortune, nature, arts; Then lights her torch at theirs, to tell, And show the world this parallel: Fix'd and contemplative their looks, Still turning over Nature's books; Their works chaste, moral and divine, Where profit and delight combine; They, gilding dirt, in noble verse Rustic philosophy rehearse. 80 When heroes, gods, or god-like kings They praise, on their exalted wings To the celestial orbs they climb, And with th'harmonious spheres keep time. Nor did their actions fall behind Their words, but with like candour sinned; Each drew fair characters, yet none Of these they feign'd, excels their own. Both by two gen'rous princes loved, Who knew, and judged what they approved; 90 Yet having each the same desire, Both from the busy throng retire. Their bodies, to their minds resign'd, Cared not to propagate their kind: Yet though both fell before their hour, Time on their offspring hath no power, Nor fire nor fate their bays shall blast, Nor death's dark veil their day o'ercast.

[1] 'Flaccus Horace': his Pindarics. [2] 'Strong': his last works.

A SPEECH AGAINST PEACE AT THE CLOSE COMMITTEE.

To the tune of, '_I went from England_.'

1 But will you now to peace incline,
And languish in the main design,
And leave us in the lurch?
I would not monarchy destroy,
But as the only way t'enjoy
The ruin of the church.

2 Is not the Bishops' bill denied,
And we still threaten'd to be tried?
You see the King embraces
Those counsels he approved before:
Nor doth he promise, which is more,
That we shall have their places.

3 Did I for this bring in the Scot?
(For 'tis no secret now) the plot
Was Saye's and mine together;
Did I for this return again,
And spend a winter there in vain,
Once more t'invite them hither?

4 Though more our money than our cause
Their brotherly assistance draws,
My labour was not lost.
At my return I brought you thence
Necessity, their strong pretence,
And these shall quit the cost.

5 Did I for this my country bring
To help their knight against their King,
And raise the first sedition?
Though I the business did decline,
Yet I contrived the whole design,
And sent them their petition.

6 So many nights spent in the City
In that invisible Committee,
The wheel that governs all;
From thence the change in church and state,
And all the mischief bears the date
From Haberdashers' Hall.

7 Did we force Ireland to despair,
Upon the King to cast the war,
To make the world abhor him,
Because the rebels used his name?
Though we ourselves can do the same,
While both alike were for him.

8 Then the same fire we kindled here
With what was given to quench it there,
And wisely lost that nation:
To do as crafty beggars use,
To maim themselves, thereby t'abuse
The simple man's compassion.

9 Have I so often pass'd between
Windsor and Westminster, unseen,
And did myself divide:
To keep his Excellence in awe,
And give the Parliament the law?
For they knew none beside.

10 Did I for this take pains to teach
Our zealous ignorants to preach,
And did their lungs inspire;
Gave them their texts, show'd them their parts,
And taught them all their little arts,
To fling abroad the fire?

11 Sometimes to beg, sometimes to threaten,
And say the Cavaliers are beaten,
To stroke the people's ears;
Then straight, when victory grows cheap,
And will no more advance the heap,
To raise the price of fears.

12 And now the books, and now the bells,
And now our act, the preacher tells,
To edify the people;
All our divinity is news,
And we have made of equal use
The pulpit and the steeple.

13 And shall we kindle all this flame
Only to put it out again,
And must we now give o'er,
And only end where we begun?
In vain this mischief we have done,
If we can do no more.

14 If men in peace can have their right,
Where's the necessity to fight,
That breaks both law and oath?
They'll say they fight not for the cause,
Nor to defend the King and laws,
But us against them both.

15 Either the cause at first was ill,
Or, being good, it is so still;
And thence they will infer,
That either now or at the first
They were deceived; or, which is worst,
That we ourselves may err.

16 But plague and famine will come in,
For they and we are near of kin,
And cannot go asunder:
But while the wicked starve, indeed
The saints have ready at their need
God's providence, and plunder.

17 Princes we are if we prevail,
And gallant villains if we fail.
When to our fame 'tis told,
It will not be our least of praise,
Since a new state we could not raise,
To have destroy'd the old.

18 Then let us stay and fight, and vote,
Till London is not worth a groat;
Oh! 'tis a patient beast!
When we have gall'd and tired the mule,
And can no longer have the rule,
We'll have the spoil at least.

TO THE FIVE MEMBERS OF THE HONOURABLE HOUSE OF COMMONS, THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE POETS.

After so many concurring petitions From all ages and sexes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroud, Haslerig, Hampden, and Hollis. Though set form of prayer be an abomination, Set forms of petitions find great approbation; Therefore, as others from th'bottom of their souls, So we from the depth and bottom of our bowels, According unto the bless'd form you have taught us, We thank you first for the ills you have brought us: 10 For the good we receive we thank him that gave it, And you for the confidence only to crave it. Next in course, we complain of the great violation Of privilege (like the rest of our nation), But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken, Which never had being until they were broken; But ours is a privilege ancient and native, Hangs not on an ord'nance, or power legislative. And, first, 'tis to speak whatever we please, Without fear of a prison or pursuivants' fees. 20 Next, that we only may lie by authority; But in that also you have got the priority. Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it Poetical license, and always did claim it. By this we have power to change age into youth, Turn nonsense to sense, and falsehood to truth; In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty; This art some poet, or the devil, has taught ye: And this our property you have invaded, And a privilege of both Houses have made it. 30 But that trust above all in poets reposed, That kings by them only are made and deposed, This though you cannot do, yet you are willing: But when we undertake deposing or killing, They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the poet Takes full revenge on the villains that do it: And when we resume a sceptre or crown, We are modest, and seek not to make it our own. But is't not presumption to write verses to you, Who make better poems by far of the two? 40 For all those pretty knacks you compose, Alas! what are they but poems in prose? And between those and ours there's no difference, But that yours want the rhyme, the wit, and the sense: But for lying (the most noble part of a poet) You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it; And though you are modest and seem to abhor it, 'T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it: Although the old maxim remains still in force, That a sanctified cause must have a sanctified course, 50 If poverty be a part of our trade, So far the whole kingdom poets you have made, Nay, even so far as undoing will do it, You have made King Charles himself a poet: But provoke not his Muse, for all the world knows, Already you have had too much of his prose.

A WESTERN WONDER.

1 Do you not know, not a fortnight ago,
How they bragg'd of a Western Wonder?
When a hundred and ten slew five thousand men,
With the help of lightning and thunder?

2 There Hopton was slain, again and again,
Or else my author did lie;
With a new thanksgiving, for the dead who are living,
To God, and his servant Chidleigh.

3 But now on which side was the miracle tried?
I hope we at last are even;
For Sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their graves,
To cudgel the clowns of Devon.

4 And there Stamford came, for his honour was lame
Of the gout three months together;
But it proved, when they fought, but a running gout,
For his heels were lighter than ever.

5 For now he outruns his arms and his guns,
And leaves all his money behind him;
But they follow after; unless he take water,
At Plymouth again they will find him.

6 What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath lost,
Goes deep in the sequestrations;
These wounds will not heal, with your new great seal,
Nor Jephson's declarations.

7 Now, Peters and Case, in your prayer and grace,
Remember the new thanksgiving;
Isaac and his wife, now dig for your life,
Or shortly you'll dig for your living.

A SECOND WESTERN WONDER.

1 You heard of that wonder, of the lightning and thunder,
Which made the lie so much the louder:
Now list to another, that miracle's brother,
Which was done with a firkin of powder.

2 Oh, what a damp it struck through the camp!
But as for honest Sir Ralph,
It blew him to the Vies without beard or eyes,
But at least three heads and a half.

3 When out came the book, which the newsmonger took,
From the preaching lady's letter,
Where in the first place, stood the conqueror's face,
Which made it show much the better.

4 But now, without lying, you may paint him flying,
At Bristol they say you may find him,
Great William the Con, so fast did he run,
That he left half his name behind him.

5 And now came the post, save all that was lost,
But, alas! we are past deceiving
By a trick so stale, or else such a tale
Might amount to a new thanksgiving.

6 This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,
In the pulpit to fall a weeping,
Though his mouth utter'd lies, truth fell from his eyes,
Which kept the Lord Mayor from sleeping.

7 Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops,
For the laws, not your cause, you that loathe 'em,
Lest Essex should start, and play the second part
Of worshipful Sir John Hotham.

A SONG.

1 Morpheus! the humble god, that dwells
In cottages and smoky cells,
Hates gilded roofs and beds of down;
And though he fears no prince's frown,
Flies from the circle of a crown:

2 Come, I say, thou powerful god,
And thy leaden charming rod,
Dipp'd in the Lethean lake,
O'er his wakeful temples shake,
Lest he should sleep, and never wake.

3 Nature, (alas!) why art thou so
Obligèd to thy greatest foe?
Sleep that is thy best repast,
Yet of death it bears a taste,
And both are the same thing at last.

ON MR JOHN FLETCHER'S WORKS.