'Tis not when two like words make up one noise
Jests for Dutch Men, and English Boys.
In which who finds out Wit, the same may see
In An'grams and Acrostiques Poetrie.
Much less can that have any place
At which a Virgin hides her face,
Such Dross the Fire must purge away; 'tis just
The Author blush, there where the Reader must.
'Tis not such Lines as almost crack the Stage
When Bajazet begins to rage.
Nor a tall Meta'phor in the Bombast way,
Nor the dry chips of short lung'd Seneca.
Nor upon all things to obtrude,
And force some odd Similitude.
What is it then, which like the Power Divine
We only can by Negatives define?
In a true piece of Wit all things must be,
Yet all things there agree.
As in the Ark, joyn'd without force or strife,
All Creatures dwelt; all Creatures that had Life.
Or as the Primitive Forms of all
(If we compare great things with small)
Which without Discord or Confusion lie,
In that strange Mirror of the Deitie.
But Love that moulds One Man up out of Two,
Makes me forget and injure you.
I took you for my self sure when I thought
in any thing were to be Taught.
Correct my error with thy Pen;
And if any ask me then,
What thing right Wit, and height of Genius is,
I'll onely shew your Lines, and say, 'Tis This.
For his safe Return from the Northern Expedition against the SCOTS.
Reat is thy Charge, O North; be wise and just,
England commits her Falkland to thy trust;
Return him safe: Learning would rather choose
Her Bodley, or her Vatican to loose.
All things that are but writ or printed there,
In his unbounded Breast engraven are.
There all the Sciences together meet,
And every Art does all her Kindred greet,
Yet justle not, nor quarrel; but as well
Agree as in some Common Principle.
So in an Army govern'd right we see
(Though out of several Countrys rais'd it be)
That all their Order and their Place maintain,
The English, Dutch, the Frenchmen and the Dane.
So thousand diverse Species fill the aire,
Yet neither crowd nor mix confus'dly there,
Beasts, Houses, Trees, and Men together lye,
Yet enter undisturb'd into the Eye.
And this great Prince of Knowledge is by Fate
Thrust into th' noise and business of a State,
All Virtues, and some Customs of the Court,
Other mens Labour, are at least his Sport.
Whilst we who can no action undertake,
Whom Idleness it self might Learned make,
Who hear of nothing, and as yet scarce know,
Whether the Scots in England be or no,
Pace dully on, oft tire, and often stay,
Yet see his nimble Pegasus fly away.
'Tis Natures fault who did thus partial grow,
And her Estate of Wit on One bestow.
Whilst we like younger Brothers, get at best
But a small stock, and must work out the rest.
How could he answer't, should the State think fit
To question a Monopoly of Wit?
Such is the Man whom we require the same We lent the North; untoucht as is his Fame. He is too good for War, and ought to be As far from Danger, as from Fear he's free. Those Men alone (and those are useful too) Whose Valour is the onely Art they know, Were for sad War and bloody Battels born; Let Them the State Defend, and He Adorn.
On the Death of Sir Henry Wootton.
Hat shall we say, since silent now is He
Who when he Spoke, all things would Silent be?
Who had so many Languages in store,
That onely Fame shall speak of him in More.
Whom England now no more return'd must see.
He's gone to Heav'n on his Fourth Embassie.
On earth he travell'd often; not to say
H'had been abroad, or pass loose Time away.
In whatsoever Land he chanc'd to come,
He read the Men and Manners, bringing home
Their Wisdom, Learning, and their Pietie,
As if he went to Conquer, not to See.
So well he understood the most and best
Of Tongues that Babel sent into the West,
Spoke them so truly, that he had (you'd swear)
Not only Liv'd, but been Born every where.
Justly each Nations Speech to him was known,
Who for the World was made, not us alone.
Nor ought the Language of that Man be less
Who in his Breast had all things to express.
We say that Learning's endless, and blame Fate
For not allowing Life a longer date.
He did the utmost Bounds of Knowledge find,
He found them not so large as was his Mind.
But, like the brave Pellaan Youth, did mone
Because that Art had no more worlds then One.
And when he saw that he through all had past,
He dy'd, lest he should Idle grow at last.
On the Death of Mr. Jordan,
Second Master at Westminster School.
HEnce, and make room for me, all you who come
Onely to read the Epitaph on this Tombe.
Here lies the Master of my tender years,
The Guardian of my Parents Hope and Fears,
Whose Government ne'r stood me in a Tear;
All weeping was reserv'd to spend it here.
Come hither all who his rare virtues knew,
And mourn with Me: He was your Tutor too.
Let's joyn our Sighes, till they fly far, and shew
His native Belgia what she's now to do.
The League of grief bids her with us lament;
By her he was brought forth, and hither sent
In payment of all Men we there had lost,
And all the English Blood those wars have cost.
Wisely did Nature this learn'd Man divide;
His Birth was Theirs, his Death the mournful pride
Of England; and t'avoid the envious strife
Of other Lands, all Europe had his Life,
But we in chief; our Countrey soon was grown
A Debter more to Him, then He to❜his Own.
He pluckt from youth the follies and the crimes,
And built up Men against the future times,
For deeds of Age are in their Causes then,
And though he taught but Boys, he made the Men.
Hence 'twas a Master in those ancient dayes
When men sought Knowledge first, and by it Praise,
Was a thing full of Reverence, Profit, Fame;
Father it self was but a Second Name.
He scorn'd the profit; his Instructions all
Were like the Science, Free and Liberal.
He deserv'd Honors, but despis'd them too
As much as those who have them, others do.
He knew not that which Complement they call;
Could Flatter none, but Himself least of all.
So true, so faithful, and so just as he,
Was nought on earth, but his own Memorie.
His Memory, where all things written were
As sure and fixt as in Fates Books they are.
Thus he in Arts so vast a treasure gain'd,
Whilst still the Use came in, and Stock remain'd.
And having purchas'd all that man can know,
He labor'd with't to enrich others now.
Did thus a new, and harder task sustain,
Like those that work in Mines for others gain.
He, though more nobly, had much more to do,
To search the Vein, dig, purge, and mint it too.
Though my Excuse would be, I must confess,
Much better had his Diligenc[e] been less.
But if a Muse hereafter smile on me,
And say, Be thou a Poet, men shall see
That none could a more grateful Scholar have;
For what I ow'd his Life, I'll pay his Grave.
On his Majesties Return out of Scotland.
Welcome, great Sir, with all the joy that's due
To the return of Peace and You.
Two greatest Blessings which this age can know;
For that to Thee, for Thee to Heav'n we ow.
Others by War their Conquests gain,
You like a God your ends obtain.
Who when rude Chaos for his help did call,
Spoke but the Word, and sweetly Order'd all.
This happy Concord in no Blood is writ,
None can grudge heav'n full thanks for it. No Mothers here lament their Childrens fate, And like the Peace, but think it comes too late. No Widows hear the jocond Bells,
And take them for their Husbands Knells. No Drop of Blood is spilt which might be said To mark our joyful Holiday with Red.
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