'Twas only Heav'n could work this wondrous thing, And onely work't by such a King.
Again the Northern Hindes may sing and plow,
And fear no harm but from the weather now.
Again may Tradesmen love their pain
By knowing now for whom they gain.
The Armour now may be hung up to sight,
And onely in their Halls the Children fright.
The gain of Civil Wars will not allow
Bay to the Conquerors Brow.
At such a Game what fool would venture in,
Where one must lose, yet neither side can win?
How justly would our Neighbours smile
At these mad quarrels of our Isle
Sweld with proud hopes to snatch the whole away,
Whilst we Bet all, and yet for nothing Play?
How was the silver Tine frighted before,
And durst not kiss the armed shore?
His waters ran more swiftly then they use,
And hasted to the Sea to tell the News.
The Sea it self, how rough so ere
Could scarce believe such fury here.
How could the Scots and we be Enemies grown?
That, and its Master Charls had made us One.
No Blood so loud as that of Civil War;
It calls for Dangers from afar.
Let's rather go, and seek out Them, and Fame;
Thus our Fore-fathers got, thus left a Name.
All their rich blood was spent with gains,
But that which swells their Childrens Veins.
Why sit we still, our Spir'its wrapt up in Lead?
Not like them whilst they Liv'd, but now they're Dd?
This noise at home was but Fates policie
To raise our Spir'its more high.
So a bold Lyon ere he seeks his prey,
Lashes his sides, and roars, and then away.
How would the German Eagle fear,
To see a new Gustavus there?
How would it shake, though as 'twas wont to do
For Jove of old, it now bore Thunder too!
Sure there are actions of this height and praise
Destin'd to Charls his days.
What will the Triumphs of his Battels be,
Whose very Peace it self is Victorie?
When Heav'n bestows the best of Kings,
It bids us think of mighty things.
His Valour, Wisdom, Offspring speak no less;
And we the Prophets Sons, write not by Guess.
On the Death of Sir Anthony Vandike,
Andike is Dead; but what Bold Muse shall dare
with Painters share)
T'express her sadness? Po'esie must become
An Art, like Painting here, an Art that's Dumb.
Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep,
Like some sad Picture which he made to weep,
Or those who saw't, for none his works could view
Unmov'd with the same Passions which he drew.
His pieces so with their live Objects strive,
That both or Pictures seem, or both Alive.
Nature her self amaz'd, does doubting stand,
Which is her own, and which the Painters Hand,
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in Twins she would express.
His All-resembling Pencil did out-pass
The mimick Imag'ry of Looking-glass.
Nor was his Life less perfect then his Art,
Nor was his Hand less erring then his Heart.
There was no false, or fading Colour there,
The Figures sweet and well proportion'd were.
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows then the Men he drew.
Thus still he liv'd till heav'n did for him call,
Where reverent Luke salutes him first of all:
Where he beholds new sights, divinely faire;
And could almost wish for his Pencil there;
Did he not gladly see how all things shine,
Wondrously painted in the Mind Divine,
Whilst he for ever ravisht with the show
Scorns his own Art which we admire below.
Onely his beauteous Lady still he loves;
(The love of heav'nly Objects Heav'n improves)
He sees bright Angels in pure beams appear,
And thinks on her he left so like them here.
And you, fair Widow, who stay here alive,
Since he so much rejoyces, cease to grieve.
Your joys and griefs were wont the same to be;
Begin not now, blest Pair, to Disagree.
No wonder Death mov'd not his gen'erous mind.
You, and a new born You, he left behind.
Even Fate exprest his love to his dear Wife,
And let him end your Picture with his Life.
Prometheus ill-painted.
Ow wretched does Promethe'us state appear,
Whilst he his Second Mis'ery suffers here!
Draw him no more, lest as he tortur'd stands,
He blame great Joves less then the Painters hands.
It would the Vulturs cruelty outgoe,
If once again his Liver thus should grow.
Pity him Jove, and his bold Theft allow,
The Flames he once stole from thee grant him now.
Ere's to thee Dick; this whining Love despise ;
Pledge me, my Friend, and drink till thou be'st wise.
It sparkles brighter far then she:
'Tis pure, and right without deceit ;
And such no woman ere will be:
No; they are all Sophisticate.
With all thy servile pains what canst thou win,
But an ill-favor'd, and uncleanly Sin?
A thing so vile, and so short-liv'd,
That Venus Joys as well as she
With reason may be said to be
From the neglected Foam deriv'd.
Whom would that painted toy a Beauty move,
Whom would it ere perswade to court and love,
Could he a womans Heart have seen,
(But, oh, no Light does thither come)
And view'd her perfectly within,
When he lay shut up in her womb?
Follies they have so numberless in store,
That only he who loves them can have more.
Neither their Sighs nor Tears are true;
Those idlely blow, these idlely fall,
Nothing like to ours at all.
But Sighs and Tears have Sexes too.
Here's to thee again; thy senseless sorrows drown'd;
Let the Glass walk, till all things too go round;
Again; till these Two Lights be Four;
No error here can dangerous prove;
Thy Passion, Man, deceiv'd thee more;
None Double see like Men in Love.
Hen chance or cruel business parts us two, What do our Souls I wonder do? Whilst sleep does our dull Bodies tie Methinks, at home they should not stay, Content with Dreams, but boldly flie Abroad, and meet each other half the way.
Sure they do meet, enjoy each other there,
And mix I know not How, nor Where.
Their friendly Lights together twine,
Though we perceive't not to be so,
Like loving Stars which oft combine,
Yet not themselves their own Conjunctions know.
'Twere an ill World, I'll swear, for every friend,
If Distance could their Union end
But Love it self does far advance
Above the power of Time and Space,
It scorns such outward Circumstance,
His Time's for ever, every where his Place.
I'am there with Thee, yet here with Me thou art,
Lodg'd in each others heart.
Miracles cease not yet in Love,
When he his mighty Power will try
Absence it self does Bounteous prove,
And strangely ev'n our Presence Multiply.
Pure is the flame of Friendship, and divine
Like that which in Heav'ns Sun does shine:
He in the upper ayr and sky
Does no effects of Heat bestow,
But as his beams the farther fly
He begets Warmth, Life, Beauty here below.
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