And this great Prince of knowledge is by Fate
Thruft into th' noise and bus'nefs of a state
All virtues, and some customs, of the court,
Other men's labour, are at least his sport.
Whilft we who can no action undertake,
Whom Idleness itself 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 fee his nimble Pegafus fly away.
'Tis Nature's fault, who did thus partial grow, And her eftate of wit on one beftow:
Whilft we, like younger brothers, get at best
But a small stock, and must work out the reft.
How could he anfwer 't, fhould the state think fit
To question a monopoly of wit?
Such is the man whom we require, the fame
We lent the North, untouch'd 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 only art they know,
Were for fad war and bloody battles born;
Let them the state defend', and he adorn.
TO THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN,
UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER.
PARDON, my Lord! that I am come fo late
T'exprefs my joy for your return of Fate.
So when injurious Chance did you deprive
Of liberty, at first I could not grieve;
My thoughts a while, like you, imprison'd lay;
Great joys, as well as forrows, make a stay;
They hinder one another in the crowd,
And none are heard, whilst all would speak aloud.
Should ev'ry man's officious gladness kaste,
And be afraid to shew itself the last,
The throng of gratulations now would be
Another lofs to you of liberty.
When of your freedom men the news did hear,
Where it was wish'd for, that is every where,
'Twas like the fpeech which from your lips does fall, As foon as it was heard it ravish'd all.
So eloquent Tully did from exile come;
Thus long'd-for he return'd, and cherish'd Rome,
Which could no more his tongue and counfels mifs;
Rome, the world's head! was nothing without his. 20
Wrong to thofe facred ashes I should do,
Should I compare any to him but you;
You to whom Art and Nature did difpenfe
The Confulfhip of wit and eloquence.
Nor did your fate differ from his at all,
Because the doom of exile was his fall;
For the whole world without a native home,
Is nothing but a pris'n of larger room:
But like a melting woman suffer'd he,
He, who before outdid humanity :
Nor could his fp'rit conftant and stedfast prøve,
Whose art it had been, and greatest end, to move.
You put ill Fortune in so good a drefs,
That it out hone other men's happiness.
Had your profper'ty always clearly gone:
As your high merits would have led it on,
You 'ad half been loft, and an example then
But for the happy, the leaft part of men.
Your very fuff'rings did fo graceful thew,
That some straight envy'd your affiiction too:
For a clear conscience and heroic mind
In ills their bus'nefs and their glory find.
So tho' less worthy stones are drown'd in night,
The faithful di'mond keeps his native light,
And is oblig'd to darkness for a ray
That would be more oppress'd than help'd by day.
Your foul then most shew'd her unconquer'd pow'r,
Was ftronger and more armed than the Tow'r.
Sure unkind Fate will tempt your sp’rit no more ;
She'as try'd her weakness and your strength before. 50
Toppofe him ftill who once has conquer'd fo,
Were now to be your rebel, not your foc.
Fortune, henceforth, will more of Prov'dence have, And rather be your friend than be your slave.
TO A LADY WHO MADE POSIES FOR RINGS,
LITTLE thought the time would ever be
That I fhould wit in dwarfish pofies fee.
As all words in few letters live,
Thou to few words all fense dost give.
'Twas Nature taught you this rare art
In fuch a little much to fhew,
Who all the good she did impart
To womankind epitomiz'd in you.
If, as the Ancients did not doubt to sing,
The turning years be well compar'd t' a ring,
We'll write whate'er from you we hear,
For that's the pofy of the year:
'Tis faid that conj'rers have an art found out
To carry fp'rits confin'd in rings about:
The wonder now will lefs appear,
When we behold your magic here.
You by your rings do pris'ners take,
And chain them with your mystic spells,
And the strong witchcraft full to make,
Love, the great devil, charm'd to those circles dwells.
They who above do various circles find,
Say like a ring th' equator heav'n does bind.
When heav'n fhall be adorn'd by thee
(Which then more heav'n than 'tis will be)
'Tis thou must write the posy there,
For it wanteth one as yet,
Tho' the fun pass thro' it twice a-year,
The fun who is esteem'd the god of wit.
Happy the hands which wear thy facred rings,
They'll teach thofe hands to write myfterious things.
Let other rings, with jewels bright,
Caft around their costly light,
Let them want no noble stone
By Nature rich, and Art refin'd,
Yet fhall thy rings give place to none,
But only that which must thy marriage bind.
TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT,
UPON HIS TWO FIRST BOOKS OF GONDIBERT,
finifhed before his voyage to America.
METHINKS heroic poefy till now
Like fome fantastic Fairy-land did show;
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