Something more sacred then, and more entire,
The memories of virtuous men require,
Than what may with their funeral-torch expire.

This history can give; to which alone
The privilege to mate oblivion

Is granted, when denied to brass and stone.

Wherein, my friend, you have a hand so sure,
Your truths so candid are, your style so pure,
That what you write may Envy's search endure.

Your pen, disdaining to be bribed or prest,
Flows without vanity or interest;

A virtue with which few good pens are blest.

How happy was my father then,* to see
Those men he loved, by him he loved, to be
Rescued from frailties and mortality.

Wotton and Donne, to whom his soul was knit,
Those twins of virtue, eloquence, and wit,

He saw in Fame's eternal annals writ.

Where one has fortunately found a place,
More faithful to him than his marble was,t
Which eating age, nor fire shall e'er deface.

*The character of Mr. Charles Cotton, the father of Charles Cotton the poet, is most beautifully delineated by the Earl of Clarendon, in his own Life. Ed. 1759. p. 16.

His monument in St. Paul's Church, before the late dreadful fire, 1665.

A monument that, as it has, shall last
And prove a monument to that defaced;
Itself, but with the world, not to be razed.

And even in their flowery characters,

My father's grave part of your friendship shares; For you have honor'd his in strewing theirs.

Thus by an office, though particular,
Virtue's whole common-weal obliged are;
For in a virtuous act all good men share.

And by this act the world is taught to know,
That the true friendship we to merit owe,
Is not discharged by compliment and show.

But yours is friendship of so pure a kind,
From all mean ends and interest so refined,
It ought to be a pattern to mankind.

For, whereas most men's friendships here beneath, Do perish with their friends' expiring breath, Yours proves a friendship living after death;

By which the generous Wotton, reverend Donne,
Soft Herbert, and the church's champion,
Hooker, are rescued from oblivion.

For though they each of them his time so spent, As raised unto himself a monument,

With which Ambition might rest well content;

Yet their great works, though they can never die,
And are in truth superlatively high,

Are no just scale to take their virtues by :

Because they show not how th' Almighty's grace,
By various and more admirable ways,

Brought them to be the organs of his praise.

But what their humble modesty would hide,
And was by any other means denied,
Is by your love and diligence supplied.

Wotton,
a nobler soul was never bred!
You, by your narrative's most even thread,
Through all his labyrinths of life have led;

Through his degrees of honor and of arts,
Brought him secure from Envy's venomed darts,
Which are still levelled at the greatest parts;

Through all th' employments of his wit and spirit,
Whose great effects these kingdoms still inherit,
The trials then, now trophies, of his merit;

Nay, through disgrace, which oft the worthiest have, Thro' all state-tempests, thro' each wind and wave, And laid him in an honorable grave.

And yours, and the whole world's beloved Donne,
When he a long and wild career had run,
To the meridian of his glorious sun;

And being then an object of much ruth,
Led on by vanities, error, and youth,
Was long ere he did find the way to truth:

By the same clew, after his useful swing,
To serve at his God's altar here you bring,
Where a once wanton muse doth anthems sing.

And though by God's most powerful grace alone His heart was settled in Religion,

Yet 't is by you we know how it was done;

And know, that having crucified vanities
And fixed his hope, he closed up his own eyes,
And then your friend a saint and preacher dies.

The meek and learned Hooker too, almost
I' the Church's ruins overwhelm'd and lost,
Is by your pen recovered from his dust.

And Herbert ;-he, whose education, Manners, and parts, by high applauses blown, Was deeply tainted with Ambition,

And fitted for a court, made that his aim;
At last, without regard to birth or name,
For a poor country-cure does all disclaim;

Where, with a soul composed of harmonies,
Like a sweet swan, he warbles as he dies
His Maker's praise, and his own obsequies.

All this you tell us, with so good success,
That our obliged posterity shall profess,
T'have been your friend, was a great happiness.

And now! when many worthier would be proud
T' appear before you, if they were allowed,

I take up room enough to serve a crowd:

Where to commend what you have choicely writ, Both my poor testimony and my wit

Are equally invalid and unfit:

Yet this, and much more, is most justly due,
Were what I write as elegant as true,

To the best friend I now or ever knew.

But, my dear friend, 't is so, that you and I,

By a condition of mortality,

With all this great, and more proud world, must die:

In which estate I ask no more of Fame,

Nor other monument of Honor claim,

Than that of your true friend, t' advance my name.

And if your many merits shall have bred
An abler pen to write your Life when dead,
I think an honester cannot be read.

JAN. 17, 1672.

CHARLES COTTON.