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BISHOP SPRAT.

TO THE HAPPY MEMORY OF THE LATE LORD PROTECTOR.

"TIS true, great name, thou art secure

From the forgetfulness and rage

Of Death, or Envy, or devouring Age;

Thou canst the force and teeth of Time endure:
Thy fame, like men, the elder it doth grow,
Will of itself turn whiter too,
Without what needless art can do';

Will live beyond thy breath, beyond thy hearse,
Though it were never heard or sung in verse.
Without our help thy memory is safe;
They only want an epitaph,

That do remain alone

Alive in an inscription,

Remember'd only on the brass, or marble-stone. 'Tis all in vain what we can do:

All our roses and perfumes

Will but officious folly show,

And pious nothings to such mighty tombs,
All our incense, gums and balm,
Are but unnecessary duties here:
The poets may their spices spare,

Their costly numbers, and their tuneful feet:

That need not be embalm'd, which of itself is sweet.

We know to praise thee is a dangerous proof
Of our obedience and our love:
For when the Sun and fire meet,
The one's extinguish'd quite :

And yet the other never is more bright.
So they that write of thee and join
Their feeble names with thine;

Their weaker sparks with thy illustrious light,
Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought;
And yet no fame to thee from hence be brought.
We know, bless'd spirit, thy mighty name
Wants no addition of another's beam;
It's for our pens too high, and full of theme:
The Muses are made great by thee, not thou by
Thy fame's eternal lamp will live,
And in thy sacred urn survive,
Without the food of oil, which we can give.
'Tis true; but yet our duty calls our songs;
Duty commands our tongues :

[them,

Though thou want not our praises, we
Are not excus'd for what we owe to thee;
For so men from religion are not freed,
But from the altars clouds must rise,
Though Heaven itself doth nothing need,
And though the gods don't want an earthly sacrifice.
Great life of wonders, whose each year
Full of new miracles did appear!
Whose every month might be
Alone a chronicle, or history!
Others great actions are

But thinly scatter'd here and there;
At best, but all one single star ;
But thine the milky-way,

All one continued light, of undistinguish'd day;
They throng'd so close, that nought else could be

seen,

Scarce any common sky did come between:
What shall I say, or where begin?

Thou may'st in double shapes be shown
Or in thy arms, or in thy gown;

Like Jove, sometimes with warlike thunder, and
Sometimes with peaceful sceptre in his hand;
Or in the field, or on the throne.

In what thy head, or what thy arm hath done,
All that thou didst was so refin'd,

So full of substance, and so strongly join'd,
So pure, so weighty gold,

That the least grain of it,

If fully spread and beat,

Would many leaves and mighty volumes hold.

Before thy name was publish'd, and whilst yet Thou only to thyself wert great,

Whilst yet the happy bud

Was not quite seen or understood,
It then sure signs of future greatness show'd:
Then thy domestic worth

Did tell the world what it would be,
When it should fit occasion see,

When a full spring should call it forth:
As bodies in the dark and night

Have the same colours, the same red and white,
As in the open day and light;

The Sun doth only show

That they are bright, not make them so.

1

So whilst but private walls did know
What we to such a mighty mind should owe,
Then the same virtues did appear,
Though in a less and more contracted sphere,
As full, though not as large as since they were:
And like great rivers' fountains, though
At first so deep thou didst not go:
Though then thine was not so enlarg'd a flood;
Yet when 'twas little, 'twas as clear, as good.

'Tis true thou was not born unto a crown,

Thy sceptre's not thy father's, but thy own:
Thy purple was not made at once in haste,
But after many other colours past,
It took the deepest princely dye at last.
Thou didst begin with lesser cares,

And private thoughts took up thy private years:
Those bands which were ordain'd by Fates
To change the world and alter states,
Practis'd at first that vast design

On meaner things with equal mien.

That soul, which should so many sceptres sway,
To whom so many kingdoms should obey,
Learn'd first to rule in a domestic way:

So government itself began

From family, and single man,

Was by the small relation first

Of husband and of father nurs'd,

And from those less beginnings past,
To spread itself o'er all the world at last.

But when thy country (then almost enthrall'd)
Thy virtue and thy courage call'd;
When England did thy arms entreat,
And't had been sin in thee not to be great:
When every stream, and every flood,
Was a true vein of earth, and run with blood:
When unus'd arms, and unknown war,
Fill'd every place, and every ear;
When the great storms and dismal night
Did all the land affright;

'Twas time for thee to bring forth all our light,
Thou left'st thy more delightful peace,
Thy private life and better case;
Then down thy steel and armour took,
Wishing that it still hung upon the hook:
When Death had got a large commission out,
Throwing the arrows and her sting about;
Then thou (as once the healing serpent rose)
Wast lifted up, not for thyself but us.

Thy country wounded was, and sick, before
Thy wars and arms did her restore:
Thou know'st where the disease did lie,
And, like the cure of sympathy,
The strong and certain remedy
Unto the weapon didst apply;
Thou didst not draw the sword, and so
Away the scabbard throw,

As if thy country shou'd

Be the inheritance of Mars and blood:
But that, when the great work was spun,
War in itself should be undone :

That peace might land again upon the shore,
Richer and better than before:

The husbandmen no steel shall know,
None but the useful iron of the plough;

That bays might creep on every spear:
And though our sky was overspread
With a destructive red,

'Twas but till thou our Sun didst in full light appear.

When Ajax dy'd, the purple blood,
That from his gaping wound had flow'd,
Turn'd into letter, every leaf

Had on it wrote his epitaph:
So from that crimson flood,
Which thou by fate of times wert led
Unwillingly to shed,

Letters and learning rose, and arts renew'd:
Thou fought'st, not out of envy, hope, or hate,
But to refine the church and state;

And like the Romans, whate'er thou
In the field of Mars didst mow,
Was, that a holy island hence might grow.
Thy wars, as rivers raised by a shower,
Which welcome clouds do pour,

Though they at first may seem

To carry all away with an enraged stream;
Yet did not happen that they might destroy,
Or the better parts annoy,

But all the filth and mud to scour,

And leave behind another slime,

To give a birth to a more happy power.

In fields unconquer'd, and so well
Thou didst in battles and in arms excel;
That steely arms themselves might be
Worn out in war as soon as thee;
Success so close upon thy troops did wait,
As if thou first hadst conquer'd Fate;
As if uncertain Victory

Had been first o'ercome by thee;

As if her wings were clipt, and could not flee:
Whilst thou didst only serve,

Before thou hadst what first thou didst deserve,
Others by thee did great things do,
Triumph'dst thyself, and mad'st them triumph too;
Though they above thee did appear,

As yet in a more large and higher sphere:
Thou, the great Sun, gav'st light to every star:
Thyself an army wert alone,

And mighty troops contain'd in one,
Thy only sword did guard the land,
Like that which, flaming in the Angel's hand,
From men God's garden did defend;

But yet thy sword did more than his,

Not only guarded, but did make this land a Paradise.

Thou fought'st not to be high or great,
Nor for a sceptre or a crown,

Or ermin, purple, or the throne;
But, as the vestal heat,

Thy fire was kindled from above alone:
Religion, putting on thy shield,
Brought thee victorious to the field.
Thy arms, like those which ancient heroes wore,
Were given by the God thou didst adore:
And all the swords tby armies had,
Were on an heavenly anvil made;
Not interest, or any weak desire
Of rule or empire, did thy mind inspire:
Thy valour, like the holy fire,

Which did before the Persian armies go,
Liv'd in the camp, and yet was sacred too:
Thy mighty sword anticipates
What was design'd by Heaven and those blest feats,
And makes the church triumphant here below..

Though Fortune did hang on thy sword,
And did obey thy mighty word;
Though Fortune, for thy side and thee,
Forgot her lov'd inconstancy:

Amidst thy arms and trophies thou
Wert valiant and gentle too;

Woundedst thyself, when thou didst kill thy foe.
Like steel, when it much work has past,
That which was rough does shine at last,
Thy arms by being oftener us'd did smoother grow.
Nor did thy battles make thee proud or high,
Thy conquest rais'd the state, not thee:
Thou overcam'st thyself in every victory.
As when the Sun in a directer line

Upon a polish'd golden shield doth shine,

The shield reflects unto the Sun again his light:
So when the Heavens smil'd on thee in fight;
When thy propitious God hath lent
Success and victory to thy tent;

To Heaven again the victory was sent.

England, till thou didst come,

Confin'd her valour home;
Then our own rocks did stand
Bounds to our fame as well as land,
And were to us as well

As to our enemies unpassable:
We were asham'd at what we read,
And blush'd at what our fathers did,
Because we came so far behind the dead.
The British lion hung his mane, and droop'd,
To slavery and burthen stoop'd,
With a degenerate sleep and fear
Lay in his den and languish'd there;
At whose least voice before,

A trembling echo ran through every shore,
And shook the world at every roar:
Thou his subdued courage didst restore,
Sharpen'd his claws, and from his eyes
Mad'st the same dreadful lightning rise;
Mad'st him again affright the neighbouring floods.
His mighty thunder sounds through all the woods:
Thou hast our military fame redeem'd,
Which was lost, or clouded seem'd:
Nay, more, Heaven did by thee bestow
On us, at once an iron age and happy too.

Till thou command'st, that azure chain of waves,
Which Nature round about us sent,
Made us to every pirate slaves,
Was rather burthen than an ornament;
Those fields of sea, that wash'd our shores,
Were plough'd and reap'd by other hands than ours:
To us the liquid mass,

Which doth about us run,
As it is to the Sun,

Only a bed to sleep on was:

And not as now a powerful throne,

To shake and sway the world thereon.

Our princes in their hand a globe did show,
But not a perfect one,
Compos'd of earth and water too.
But thy commands the floods obey'd,
Thou all the wilderness of water sway'd:
Thou didst not only wed the sea,
Not make her equal, but a slave to thee.
Neptune himself did bear thy yoke,
Stoop'd, and trembled at thy stroke:
He that ruled all the main,
Acknowledg'd thee his sovereign:
And now the conquer'd sea doth pay
More tribute to thy Thames than that unto the sea.

Till now our valour did ourselves more hurt;

Our wounds to other nations were a sport;

And as the earth, our land produc'd

Iron and steel, which should to tear ourselves be us'd: Our strength within itself did break,

Like thundering cannons crack,

And kill'd those that were near,
While th' enemies secure and untouch'd were.
But now our trumpets thou hast made to sound
Against their enemies walls in foreign ground;
And yet no echo back to us returning found.
England is now the happy peaceful isle,
And all the world the while

Is exercising arms and wars
With foreign or intestine jars.

The torch extinguish'd here, we lent to others oil.
We give to all, yet know ourselves no fear;
We reach the flame of ruin and of death,
Where'er we please our swords t' unsheath,
Whilst we in calm and temperate regions breathe:
Like to the Sun, whose heat is hurl'd

Through every corner of the world;

Whose flame through all the air doth go,

And yet the Sun himself the while no fire does know,
Besides, the glories of thy peace

Are not in number nor in value less.
Thy hand did cure, and close the scars
Of our bloody civil wars;

Not only lanc'd but heal'd the wound,
Made us again as healthy and as sound:
When now the ship was well nigh lost,
After the storm upon the coast,

By its mariners endanger'd most;
When they their ropes and helms had left,
When the planks asunder cleft,

And floods came roaring in with mighty sound,
Thou a safe landand harbour for us found, [drown'd;
And savedst those that would themscives have
A work which none but Heaven and thou could do,
Thou mad'st us happy whether we would or no:
Thy judgment, mercy, temperance so great,
As if those virtues only in thy mind had seat:
Thy piety not only in the field, but peace,
When Heaven seem'd to be wanted least,
Thy temples not like Janus only were

Open in time of war,

When thou hadst greater cause to fear: Religion and the awe of Heaven possest All places and all times alike thy breast. Nor didst thou only for thy age provide, But for the years to come beside;

Our after-times and late posterity

Shall pay unto thy fame as much as we;
They too are made by thee.

When Fate did call thee to a higher throne,

And when thy mortal work was done,

When Heaven did say it, and thou must be gone, Thou him to bear thy burthen chose,

Who might (if any could) make us forget thy loss; Nor hadst thou him design'd,

Had he not been

Not only to thy blood, but virtue kin, Not only heir unto thy throne, but mind: 'Tis he shall perfect all thy cares,

And with a finer thread weave out thy loom:
So one did bring the chosen people from
Their slavery and fears,

Led them through their pathless road;
Guided himself by God,

H'as brought them to the borders; but a second hand
Did settle and secure them in the promis'd land.

ΤΟ Α

PERSON OF HONOUR

(MR. EDWARD HOWARD),

UPON HIS INCOMPARABLE, INCOMPREHENSIBLE
POEM, ENTITULED,

THE BRITISH PRINCES.

Your book our old knight-errants' fame revives,
Writ in a stile agreeing with their lives.
All rumours' strength their prowess did out-go,
All rumours' skill your verses far out-do:

To praise the Welsh the world must now com-
bine,

Since to their leeks you do your laurel join:
Such lofty strains your country's story fit,
Whose mountain nothing equals but your wit.
Bonduca, were she such as here we see
(In British paint), none could more dreadful be:
With naked armies she encounter'd Rome,
Whose strength with naked Nature you o'er-

come.

THE

PLAGUE OF ATHENS,

WHICH HAPPENED IN THE SECOND YEAR OF
THE PELOPONNESIAN WAR:

First described in Greek by Thucydides; then in Latin
by Lucretius.

To my worthy and learned friend Dr. Walter Pope late proctor of the University of Oxford.

SIR,

I KNOW not what pleasure you could take in bestowing your commands so unprofitably, unless it be that for which nature sometimes cherishes and allows monsters, the love of variety. This only delight you will receive by turning over this rude and unpolished copy, and comparing it with my excellent patterns, the Greek and Latin. By this you will see how much a noble subject is changed and disfigured by an ill hand, and what reason Alexander had to forbid his picture to be drawn but by some celebrated pencil. In Greek, Thucydides so well and so lively expresses it, that I know not which is more a poem, his description or that of Lucretius. Though it must be said, that the historian had a vast advantage over the poet; he, having been present on the place, and assaulted by the disease himself, had the horrour familiar to his eyes, and all the shapes of the misery still remaining on his mind, which must needs make a great impression on his pen and fancy; whereas the poet was forced to follow his footsteps, and only work on that matter he allowed him. This I speak, because it may in some measure too excuse my own defects: for being so far removed from the place whereon the disease acted his tragedy, and time having denied us many of the circumstances, customs of the country, and other small things which would be of great use to any one who did intend to be perfect on the subject; church-besides only writing by an idea of that which I

Nor let small critics blame this mighty queen,
That in king Arthur's time she here is seen:
You that can make immortal by your song,
May well one life four hundred years prolong.
Thus Virgil bravely dar'd for Dido's love,
The settled course of time and years to move,
Though him you imitate in this alone,
In all things else you borrow help from noue:
No antique tale of Greece or Rome you take,
Their fables and examples you forsake.
With true heroic glory you display
A subject new, writ in the newest way.

Go forth, great author, for the world's delight; Teach it, for none e'er taught you, how to write;

They talk strange things that ancient poets did,
How streets and stones they into buildings lead:
For poems to raise cities, now, 'tis hard,
But yours, at least, will build half Paul's
yard.

ON HIS MISTRESS DROWN'D.

SWEET stream, that dost with equal pace
Both thyself fly and thyself chase,

Forbear awhile to flow,

And listen to my woe.

Then go and tell the sea that all its brine
Is fresh, compar'd to mine:
Inform it that the gentler dame,
Who was the life of all my flame,
I' th' glory of her bud
Has pass'd the fatal flood,
Death by this only stroke triumphs above
The greatest power of love:
Alas, alas! I must give o'er,
My sighs will let me add no more.

Go on, sweet stream, and henceforth rest
No more than does my troubled breast;
And if my sad complaints have made thee stay,
These tears, these tears, shall mend thy way.

never yet saw, nor care to feel (being not of the humour of the painter in sir Philip Sidney, who thrust himself into the midst of a fight, that he might the better delineate it). Having, I say, all these disadvantages, and many more for which I must only blame myself, it cannot be expected that I should come near equalling him, in whom none of the contrary advantages were wanting. Thus then, sir, by emboldening me to this rash attempt, you have given opportunity to the Greek and Latin to triumph over our mother-tongue. Yet I would not have the honour of the countries or languages engaged in the comparison, but that the inequality should reach no farther than the authors. But I have much reason to fear the just indignation of that excellent person (the present ornament and honour of our nation) whose way of writing I imitate: for he may think himself as much injured by my following him, as were the Heavens by that bold man's counterfeiting the sacred and unimitable noise of thunder, by the sound of brass and horses hoofs. I shall only say for myself, that I took Cicero's advice, who bids us, in imitation, propose the noblest pattern to our thoughts; for so we may be sure to be raised above the common level, though we come infinitely short of what we

aim at. Yet I hope that renowned poet will have none of my crimes any way reflect on himself; for it was not any fault in the excellent musician, that the weak bird, endeavouring by straining its throat to follow his notes, destroyed itself in the attempt. Well, sir, by this, that I have chosen rather to expose myself than to be disobedient, you may guess with what zeal and hazard I strive to approve myself,

Sir, your most humble and

affectionate servant,

THO. SPRAT.

THUCYDIDES, Lib. II.

AS IT IS EXCELLENTLY TRANSLATED BY
MR. HOBBES.

In the very beginning of summer, the Peloponnesians, and their confederates, with two-thirds of their forces, as before, invaded Attica, under the conduct of Archidamus, the son of Zeuxida mas, king of Lacedemon: and after they had encamped themselves, wasted the country about them.

and their breath noisome and unsavoury. Upon this followed a sneezing and hoarseness, and not long after, the. pain, together with a mighty cough, came down into the breast. And when once it was settled in the stomach, it caused vomit, and with great torment came up all manner of bilious purgation that physicians ever named. Most of them had also the hickyexe, which brought with it a strong convulsion, and in some ceased quickly, but in others was long before it gave over. Their bodies outwardly to the touch were neither very hot nor pale, but reddish, livid, and beflowered with little pimples and whelks; but so burned inwardly, as not to endure any the lightest clothes or linen garment to be upon them, nor any thing but mere nakedness, but rather most willingly to have cast themselves into the cold water. And many of them that were not looked to, possessed with insatiate thirst, ran unto the wells; and to drink much or little was indifferent, being still from ease and power to sleep as far as ever.

As long as the disease was at the height, their bodies wasted not, but resisted the torment beyond all expectation, insomuch as the most of them either died of their inward burning in nine or seven days, whilst they had yet strength; or if they escaped that, then, the disease falling down in their bellies, and causing there great exulcerations and immoderate looseness, they died many of them afterwards through weakness: for the disease (which first took the head) began above, and came down, and passed through the whole body: and he that overcame the worst of it was yet marked with the loss of his extreme parts; for, breaking out both at their privy members, and at their fingers and toes, many with the loss of these escaped. There were also some that lost their eyes, and many that presently upon their recovery were taken with such an oblivion of all things whatsoever, as they neither knew themselves nor their acquaintance. For this was a kind of sickness which far surmounted all expression of words, and both exceeded human nature in the cruelty wherewith it handled each one, and appeared also otherwise to be none of those diseases that are bred among us, and that especially by this: for all, both birds and beasts, that used to feed on human flesh, though many men lay abroad unburied, either came not at them, or tasting, perished. An argument whereof, as touching the birds, was the manifest defect of such fowl, which were not then seen, either about the carcases, or any where else; but by the dogs, because they are familiar with men, this effect was seen much clearer. So that this disease (to pass over many strange particulars of the accidents that some had differently from others) was in general such as I have shown; and for other usual sicknesses at that time, no man was troubled with any. Now they died, some for want of attendance, and some again with all the care and

They had not been many days in Attica, when the plague first began amongst the Athenians, said also to have seized formerly on divers other parts, as about Lemnos, and elsewhere; but so great a plague, and mortality of men, was never remembered to have happened in any place before. For at first neither were the physicians able to cure it, through ignorance of what it was, but died fastest themselves, as being the men that most approached the sick, nor any other art of man availed whatsoever. All supplications to the gods, and inquiries of oracles, and whatsoever other means they used of that kind, proved all unprofitable, insomuch as, subdued with the greatness of the evil, they gave them all over. It began (by report) first in that part of Ethiopia that lieth upon Egypt, and thence fell down into Egypt and Afric, and into the greatest part of the territories of the king. It invaded Athens on a sudden, and touched first upon those that dwelt in Pyræus, insomuch as they reported that the Peloponnesians had cast poison into their wells; for springs there were not any in that place. But afterwards it came up into the high city, and then they died a great deal faster. Now let every man, physician or other, concerning the ground of this sickness, whence it sprung, and what causes he thinks able to produce so great an alteration, speak according to his own knowledge; for my own part, I will deliver but the manner of it, and lay open only such things as one may take his mark by to discover the same if it come again, having been both sick of it myself, and seen others sick of the same. This year, by confession of all men, was of all other, for other dis-physic that could be used. Nor was there any, eases, most free and healthful. If any man were sick before, his disease turned to this; if not, yet suddenly, without any apparent cause preceding, and being in perfect health, they were taken first with an extreme ache in their heads, redness and inflammation in the eyes; and then inwardly their throats and tongues grew presently bloody,

to say, certain medicine, that applied must have helped them; for if it did good to one, it did harm to another; nor any difference of body for strength or weakness that was able to resist it; but carried all away, what physic soever was administered. But the greatest misery of all was, the defection of mind, in such as found themselves

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