I would not have you to invade each place,
Nor thrust yourself on all societies,
Till men's affections, or your own desert,
Should worthily invite you to your rank.
He that is so respectless in his courses,
Oft sells his reputation at cheap market.
Nor would I you should melt away yourself
In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect
To make a blaze of gentry to the world,
A little puff of scorn extinguish it;
And you be left like an unsavoury snuff,
Whose property is only to offend.
I'd have you sober, and contain yourself,
Not that your sail be bigger than your boat;
But moderate your expenses now, at first,
As you may keep the same proportion still:
Nor stand so much on your gentility,
Which is an airy, and mere borrow'd thing,
From dead men's dust, and bones; and none of yours,
Except you make, or hold it.
A DEFENCE OF POETRY.
I CAN refell opinion, and approve
The state of poesy, such as it is,
Blessed, eternal, and most true divine:
Indeed, if you will look on poesy,
As she appears in many, poor and lame,
Patch'd up in remnants and old worn-out rags,
Half-starved for want of her peculiar food,
Sacred invention; then, I must confirm
Both your conceit and censure of her merit:
But view her in her glorious ornaments,
Attired in the majesty of art,
Set high in spirit with the precious taste
Of sweet philosophy; and, which is most,
Crown'd with the rich traditions of a soul,
That hates to have her dignity prophaned
With any relish of an earthly thought,
O, then how proud a presence doth she bear!
Then is she like herself, fit to be seen
Of none but grave and consecrated eyes.
Nor is it any blemish to her fame,
That such lean, ignorant, and blasted wits,
Such brainless gulls, should utter their stolen wares
With such applauses in our vulgar ears;
Or that their slubber'd lines have current pass,
From the fat judgements of the multitude;
But that this barren and infected age
Should set no difference 'twixt these empty spirits,
And a true poet; than which reverend name
Nothing can more adorn humanity.
QUEEN, and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever;
Thou that makest a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
SONG TO CELIA.
DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine:
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither'd be:
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me:
Since when it grows and smells, I swear,
THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.
How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill:
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Not tied unto the world with care
Of public fame, or private breath :
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Nor vice hath ever understood;
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great:
Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend!
This man is freed from servile bands,
Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
YOU MEANER BEAUTIES OF THE NIGHT.
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the Moon shall rise?
Ye violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the Spring were all your own;
What are you when the Rose is blown?
Ye curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents; what's your praise,
When Philomel her voice shall raise ?
So when my mistress shall be seen
In sweetness of her looks and mind;
By virtue first, then choice a queen;
Tell me, if she was not design'd
The eclipse and glory of her kind ?
THE POVERTY OF RICHES.
WANT is the badge of poverty: then he
That wanteth most, is the most poor, say we.
The wretch that hunger drives from door to door,
Aiming at present alms, desires no more.
The toiling swain, that hath with pleasing trouble 5
Cookt a small fortune, would that fortune double,
Which dearly bought with slavery, then (alas!)
He would be deem'd a man, that's well to pass :
Which got, his mind 's now tickled with an itch,
But to deserve that glorious stile of rich.
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