Part 21 (1/2)

Each line's a _via lactea_, where we may See thy fair steps, and tread that happy way Thy genius led thee in. Still I will be Lodg'd in some sign, some face, and some degree Of thy bright zodiac; thus I'll teach my sense To move by that, and thee th' intelligence.

TO LYSIMACHUS, THE AUTHOR BEING WITH HIM IN LONDON.

Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when we Took the pure air in its simplicity, And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants went Cringing, and pa.s.s'd each step some compliment?

What strange, fantastic diagrams they drew With legs and arms; the like we never knew In Euclid, Archimede, nor all of those Whose learned lines are neither verse nor prose?

What store of lace was there? how did the gold Run in rich traces, but withal made bold To measure the proud things, and so deride The fops with that, which was part of their pride?

How did they point at us, and boldly call, As if we had been va.s.sals to them all, Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fate To yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state?

Of all ambitions, this was not the least, Whose drift translated man into a beast.

What blind discourse the heroes did afford!

This lady was their friend, and such a lord.

How much of blood was in it! one could tell He came from Bevis and his Arundel; Morglay was yet with him, and he could do More feats with it than his old grandsire too.

Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee, Who canst produce a n.o.bler pedigree, And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kin To some bright star, or to a cherubin?

When these in their profuse moods spend the night, With the same sins they drive away the light.

Thy learned thrift puts her to use, while she Reveals her fiery volume unto thee; And looking on the separated skies, And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes, Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and bars To heav'n, and there conversest with the stars.

Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that be Obscur'd with nothing but their privacy, And missing but the false world's glories do Miss all those vices which attend them too!

Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise; Thy darkest nights outs.h.i.+ne their brightest days.

ON SIR THOMAS BODLEY'S LIBRARY, THE AUTHOR BEING THEN IN OXFORD.

Boast not, proud Golgotha, that thou canst show The ruins of mankind, and let us know How frail a thing is fles.h.!.+ though we see there But empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here.

They are not dead, but full of blood again; I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein.

Triumph not o'er their dust; whoever looks In here, shall find their brains all in their books.

Nor is't old Palestine alone survives; Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's Lives.

The stones, which sometimes danc'd unto the strain Of Orpheus, here do lodge his Muse again.

And you, the Roman spirits, learning has Made your lives longer than your empire was.

Caesar had perish'd from the world of men Had not his sword been rescu'd by his pen.

Rare Seneca, how lasting is thy breath!

Though Nero did, thou couldst not bleed to death.

How dull the expert tyrant was, to look For that in thee which lived in thy book!

Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and we Commence, when writing, our eternity.

Lucilius here I can behold, and see His counsels and his life proceed from thee.

But what care I to whom thy Letters be?

I change the name, and thou dost write to me; And in this age, as sad almost as thine, Thy stately Consolations are mine.

Poor earth! what though thy viler dust enrolls The frail enclosures of these mighty souls?

Their graves are all upon record; not one But is as bright and open as the sun.

And though some part of them obscurely fell, And perish'd in an unknown, private cell, Yet in their books they found a glorious way To live unto the Resurrection-day!

Most n.o.ble Bodley! we are bound to thee For no small part of our eternity.

Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound, Nor that new mode which doth old states confound.

Thy legacies another way did go: Nor were they left to those would spend them so.

Thy safe, discreet expense on us did flow; Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now.

Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever we Hereafter write, 'tis thy posterity.

This is thy monument! here thou shalt stand Till the times fail in their last grain of sand.

And wheresoe'er thy silent relics keep, This tomb will never let thine honour sleep, Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame Meets here to speak one letter of thy name.

Thou canst not die! here thou art more than safe, Where every book is thy large epitaph.

THE IMPORTUNATE FORTUNE, WRITTEN TO DR. POWEL, OF CANTRE[FF].