AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. W., SLAIN IN THE LATE UNFORTUNATE DIFFERENCES AT ROUTON HEATH, NEAR CHESTER, 1645.

I am confirmed, and so much wing is given To my wild thoughts, that they dare strike at heav'n.

A full year's grief I struggled with, and stood Still on my sandy hopes' uncertain good, So loth was I to yield; to all those fears I still oppos'd thee, and denied my tears.

But thou art gone! and the untimely loss Like that one day hath made all others cross.

Have you seen on some river's flow'ry brow A well-built elm or stately cedar grow, Whose curled tops gilt with the morning-ray Beckon'd the sun, and whisper'd to the day, When unexpected from the angry North A fatal sullen whirlwind sallies forth, And with a full-mouth'd blast rends from the ground The shady twins, which rushing scatter round Their sighing leaves, whilst overborn with strength Their trembling heads bow to a prostrate length?

So forc'd fell he; so immaturely Death Stifled his able heart and active breath.

The world scarce knew him yet, his early soul Had but new-broke her day, and rather stole A sight than gave one; as if subtly she Would learn our stock, but hide his treasury.

His years--should Time lay both his wings and gla.s.s Unto his charge--could not be summ'd--alas!-- To a full score; though in so short a span His riper thoughts had purchas'd more of man Than all those worthless livers, which yet quick Have quite outgone their own arithmetic.

He seiz'd perfections, and without a dull And mossy grey possess'd a solid skull; No crooked knowledge neither, nor did he Wear the friend's name for ends and policy, And then lay't by; as those lost youths of th' stage Who only flourish'd for the Play's short age And then retir'd; like jewels, in each part He wore his friends, but chiefly at his heart.

Nor was it only in this he did excel, His equal valour could as much, as well.

He knew no fear but of his G.o.d; yet durst No injury, nor--as some have--e'er purs'd The sweat and tears of others, yet would be More forward in a royal gallantry Than all those vast pretenders, which of late Swell'd in the ruins of their king and State.

He weav'd not self-ends and the public good Into one piece, nor with the people's blood Fill'd his own veins; in all the doubtful way Conscience and honour rul'd him. O that day When like the fathers in the fire and cloud I miss'd thy face! I might in ev'ry crowd See arms like thine, and men advance, but none So near to lightning mov'd, nor so fell on.

Have you observ'd how soon the nimble eye Brings th' object to conceit, and doth so vie Performance with the soul, that you would swear The act and apprehension both lodg'd there; Just so mov'd he: like shot his active hand Drew blood, ere well the foe could understand.

But here I lost him. Whether the last turn Of thy few sands call'd on thy hasty urn, Or some fierce rapid fate--hid from the eye-- Hath hurl'd thee pris'ner to some distant sky, I cannot tell, but that I do believe Thy courage such as scorn'd a base reprieve.

Whatever 'twas, whether that day thy breath Suffer'd a civil or the common death, Which I do most suspect, and that I have Fail'd in the glories of so known a grave; Though thy lov'd ashes miss me, and mine eyes Had no acquaintance with thy exequies, Nor at the last farewell, torn from thy sight On the cold sheet have fix'd a sad delight, Yet whate'er pious hand--instead of mine-- Hath done this office to that dust of thine, And till thou rise again from thy low bed Lent a cheap pillow to thy quiet head, Though but a private turf, it can do more To keep thy name and memory in store Than all those lordly fools which lock their bones In the dumb piles of chested bra.s.s, and stones Th'art rich in thy own fame, and needest not These marble-frailties, nor the gilded blot Of posthume honours; there is not one sand Sleeps o'er thy grave, but can outbid that hand And pencil too, so that of force we must Confess their heaps show lesser than thy dust.

And--blessed soul!--though this my sorrow can Add nought to thy perfections, yet as man Subject to envy, and the common fate, It may redeem thee to a fairer date.

As some blind dial, when the day is done, Can tell us at midnight there was a sun, So these perhaps, though much beneath thy fame, May keep some weak remembrance of thy name, And to the faith of better times commend Thy loyal upright life, and gallant end.

_Nomen et arma loc.u.m servant, te, amice, nequivi_ _Conspicere_------------

UPON A CLOAK LENT HIM BY MR. J. RIDSLEY.

Here, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heav'n Thy courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not even Whether we die by piecemeal, or at once?

Since both but ruin, why then for the nonce Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o'er Me this forc'd hurdle to inflame the score?

Had I near London in this rug been seen Without doubt I had executed been For some bold Irish spy, and 'cross a sledge Had lain mess'd up for their four gates and bridge.

When first I bore it, my oppressed feet Would needs persuade me 'twas some leaden sheet; Such deep impressions, and such dangerous holes Were made, that I began to doubt my soles, And ev'ry step--so near necessity-- Devoutly wish'd some honest cobbler by; Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag Seem'd circ.u.mcis'd, but had a Gentile s.h.a.g.

Hadst thou been with me on that day, when we Left craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee, When beaten with fresh storms and late mishap It shar'd the office of a cloak, and cap, To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood Like a thick turban, or some lawyer's hood, While the stiff, hollow pleats on ev'ry side Like conduit-pipes rain'd from the bearded hide: I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate Let loose thy mirth at my new shape and state, And with a shallow smile or two profess Some Saracen had lost the clouted dress.

Didst ever see the good wife--as they say-- March in her short cloak on the christ'ning day, With what soft motions she salutes the church, And leaves the bedrid mother in the lurch; Just so jogg'd I, while my dull horse did trudge Like a circuit-beast, plagu'd with a gouty judge.

But this was civil. I have since known more And worser pranks: one night--as heretofore Th' hast known--for want of change--a thing which I And Bias us'd before me--I did lie Pure Adamite, and simply for that end Resolv'd, and made this for my bosom-friend.

O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo-graphy!

Thou wouldst have ta'en me, as I naked stood, For one of the seven pillars before the flood.

Such characters and hieroglyphics were In one night worn, that thou mightst justly swear I'd slept in cere-cloth, or at Bedlam, where The madmen lodge in straw. I'll not forbear To tell thee all; his wild impress and tricks Like Speed's old Britons made me look, or Picts; His villanous, biting, wire-embraces Had seal'd in me more strange forms and faces Than children see in dreams, or thou hast read In arras, puppet-plays, and gingerbread, With angled schemes, and crosses that bred fear Of being handled by some conjurer; And nearer, thou wouldst think--such strokes were drawn-- I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane.

Nay, I believe, had I that instant been By surgeons or apothecaries seen, They had condemned my raz'd skin to be Some walking herbal, or anatomy.

But--thanks to th' day!--'tis off. I'd now advise Thee, friend, to put this piece to merchandise.

The pedlars of our age have business yet, And gladly would against the Fair-day fit Themselves with such a roof, that can secure Their wares from dogs and cats rained in shower.

It shall perform; or if this will not do 'Twill take the ale-wives sure; 'twill make them two Fine rooms of one, and spread upon a stick Is a part.i.tion, without lime or brick.

Horn'd obstinacy! how my heart doth fret To think what mouths and elbows it would set In a wet day! have you for twopence ere Seen King Harry's chapel at Westminster, Where in their dusty gowns of bra.s.s and stone The judges lie, and mark'd you how each one, In st.u.r.dy marble-pleats about the knee, Bears up to show his legs and symmetry?

Just so would this, that I think't weav'd upon Some stiffneck'd Brownist's exercising loom.

O that thou hadst it when this juggling fate Of soldiery first seiz'd me! at what rate Would I have bought it then; what was there but I would have giv'n for the compendious hut?

I do not doubt but--if the weight could please-- 'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease.

Or a German shirt with enchanted lint Stuff'd through, and th' devil's beard and face weav'd in't.

But I have done. And think not, friend, that I This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy.

I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse.

She did this, 'cause--perhaps--thy love paid thus Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.

UPON MR. FLETCHER'S PLAYS, PUBLISHED 1647.

I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive, Label to wit, verser remonstrative, And in some suburb-page--scandal to thine-- Like Lent before a Christmas scatter mine.

This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate Such remnants from thy piece entreat their date; Nor can I dub the copy, or afford t.i.tles to swell the rear of verse with lord; Nor politicly big, to inch low fame, Stretch in the glories of a stranger's name, And clip those bays I court; weak striver I, But a faint echo unto poetry.

I have not clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit For plush and velvet's sake, esquire of wit.

Yet modesty these crosses would improve, And rags near thee, some reverence may move.

I did believe--great Beaumont being dead-- Thy widow'd Muse slept on his flow'ry bed; But I am richly cozen'd, and can see Wit transmigrates: his spirit stay'd with thee; Which, doubly advantag'd by thy single pen, In life and death now treads the stage again.

And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit Which starv'd the land, since into schisms split, Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess Wit's last edition is now i' th' press.

For thou hast drain'd invention, and he That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.

But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain At the designs of such a tragic brain?

Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see Thy most abominable policy?

Will not the Ears a.s.semble, and think't fit Their Synod fast and pray against thy wit?

But they'll not tire in such an idle quest; Thou dost but kill, and circ.u.mvent in jest; And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow 'Tis but for Field's, or Swansted's overthrow.

Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve The peace of spirits: and when such deeds fail Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail.

But--happy thou!--ne'er saw'st these storms, our air Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming fair.

Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease, Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace.

So nested in some hospitable sh.o.r.e The hermit-angler, when the mid-seas roar, Packs up his lines, and--ere the tempest raves-- Retires, and leaves his station to the waves.

Thus thou died'st almost with our peace, and we This breathing time thy last fair issue see, Which I think such--if needless ink not soil So choice a Muse--others are but thy foil.

This, or that age may write, but never see A wit that dares run parallel with thee.

True, Ben must live! but bate him, and thou hast Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.

UPON THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF THE EVER-MEMORABLE MR. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

I did but see thee! and how vain it is To vex thee for it with remonstrances, Though things in fashion; let those judge, who sit Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit I fear to sin thus near thee; for--great saint!-- 'Tis known true beauty hath no need of paint.

Yet, since a label fix'd to thy fair hea.r.s.e Is all the mode, and tears put into verse Can teach posterity our present grief And their own loss, but never give relief; I'll tell them--and a truth which needs no pa.s.s-- That wit in Cartwright at her zenith was.

Arts, fancy, language, all conven'd in thee, With those grand miracles which deify The old world's writings, kept yet from the fire Because they force these worst times to admire.

Thy matchless genius, in all thou didst write, Like the sun, wrought with such staid heat and light, That not a line--to the most critic he-- Offends with flashes, or obscurity.

When thou the wild of humours track'st, thy pen So imitates that motley stock in men, As if thou hadst in all their bosoms been, And seen those leopards that lurk within.

The am'rous youth steals from thy courtly page His vow'd address, the soldier his brave rage; And those soft beauteous readers whose looks can Make some men poets, and make any man A lover, when thy slave but seems to die, Turn all his mourners, and melt at the eye.

Thus thou thy thoughts hast dress'd in such a strain As doth not only speak, but rule and reign; Nor are those bodies they a.s.sum'd dark clouds, Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds, Which who looks on, the rays so strongly beat They'll brush and warm him with a quick'ning heat; So souls shine at the eyes, and pearls display Through the loose crystal-streams a glance of day.

But what's all this unto a royal test?

Thou art the man whom great Charles so express'd!

Then let the crowd refrain their needless hum, When thunder speaks, then squibs and winds are dumb.

TO THE BEST AND MOST ACCOMPLISHED COUPLE----