 Part XI On the death of the truly honourable Sir Walter Lloyd, Knight. At obsequies where so much grief is due, the muses are in solemn mourning too, and by their dead astonishment confess, they can lament this loss, though not express. Nay, if those ancient bards had seen this hearse, who once in British shade spoke living verse, their high concern for him had made them be apter to weep, than write his elegy. When on our land that flood of woes was sent, which swallowed all things sacred as it went, the injured arts and virtues made his breast the arc wherein they did securely rest. For as that old one was tossed up and down, and yet the angry billows could not drown, so heaven did him in this worst deluge save, and made him triumph or the unquiet wave, who while he did with that wild storm contest such real magnanimity expressed, that he dared to be loyal, in a time when it was a danger made, and thought a crime. Duty and not ambition was his aim, who studied conscience ever more than fame, and thought it so desirable a thing, to be preferred to suffer for his king, that he all fortune's spite had pardoned her, had she not made his prince a sufferer. For whose loved cause he did both act and grieve, and for it only did endure to live? To teach the world what man can be and do, armed by allegiance and religion, too. His head and heart mutual assistance gave, that being still so wise, and this so brave, that was acknowledged all he said and did, from judgment and from honour did proceed. Such was the useful mixture of his mind, twas at once meek and knowing, stout and kind, for he was civil, bountiful and learned, and for his friends so generously concerned, that both his heart and house, his hand and tongue, to them more than himself seemed to belong, as if to his wronged party he would be both in example and apology. For when both swords and pens ceased the dispute, his life alone rebellion did confute. But when his vows propitious heaven had heard, and our unequaled king at length appeared, as aged Simeon did his spirit yield, when he had seen his dearest hopes fulfilled, he gladly saw the morning of that day, which Charles, his growing splendor, did display. Then to eternal joys made greater haste, because his present ones flowed in so fast, from which he fled, out of a pious fear, lest he by them should be rewarded here, while his sad country by his death have lost their noblest pattern, and their greatest boast. 106 Orinda to Lucacia Observe the weary birds ere night be done, how they would feign call up the tardy sun. With feathers hung with dew, and trembling voices too, they court their glorious planet to appear, that they may find recruits of spirits there. The drooping flowers hang their heads, and languish down into their beds, while brooks more bold and fierce than they, wanting those beams from whence all things drink influence, openly murmur and demand the day. Thou, my Lucacia, art far more to me, than he to all the underworld can be. From thee I've heat and light, thy absence makes my night. But ah, my friend, it now grows very long, the sadness weighty, and the darkness strong. My tears, its dew, dwell on my cheeks, and still my heart thy dawning seeks, and to thee mournfully it cries, that if too long I wait, even thou mayst come too late, and not restore my life, but close my eyes. 107 To Salamena Forbear Fondhart, say I, torment no more that Salamena whom thou dost adore, for since so many of her chains are proud, how canst thou be distinguished in the crowd? But say, bold trifler, what dost thou pretend, which thou depose thy saint into thy friend? Equality of friendship is required, which here were criminal to be desired. 108 An Answer to Another Persuading a Lady to Marriage Forbear, bold youth, all's heaven here, and what you do of her to others courtship may appear to his sacrilege to her. She is a public deity, and word not very odd she should depose herself to be a petty household god. First make the sun and private shine, and bid the world adieu, that so he may his beams confine and complement to you. But if of that you do despair, think how you did amiss, to strive to fix her beams which are more bright and large than this. 109 Lucacia and Orinda, Parting with Pastora and Phyllis at Ipswich In your converse we best can read, how constant we should be, but tis in losing that we need all your philosophy, how perished is the joy that's past, the present, how unsteady, what comfort can be great and last when this is gone already, yet that it subtly may torment the memory does remain, for what was, when enjoyed, content is in its absence pain. If you'll restore it, we'll not grieve that fate does now us sever, tis better by your gift to live than by our own endeavour. 110 Epitaph on My Truly Honoured Publius Scipio To the officious marble we commit a name, above the art of time or wit, tis righteous, valiant Scipio, whose life we found the best sermon and best history, whose courage was no anguish, brutish heat, but such as spoke him good as well as great, which first engaged his arms to prop the state of the almost undone Palatinate, and helped the Netherlands to stem the tide of Rome's ambition and the Austrian pride, which shall in every history be famed, wherein Breda or Frankendale are named. And when forced by his country's angry stars to be a party in her civil wars, he's so much conduct by his valor taught, so wisely governed, and so bravely fought, that the English annals shall this record bear, none better could direct or further dare. Formed both for war and peace was brave in fight, and in debate judicious and upright, religion was his first and highest care, which ruled his heart in peace, his hand in war, which at the least sin made him tremble still, and rather stand a breach than act an ill. For his great heart did such a temper show, stout as a rock, yet soft as melting snow. In him so prudent and yet so sincere, the serpent much, the dove did more appear. He was above the little arts of state, and scorned to sell his peace to mend his fate. Anxious of nothing but an inward spot, his hand was open, but his conscience not. Trust to his word, to all religions kind, in duty strict, in bounty unconfined, and yet so modest, to us to him, less pain to do great things than hear them told again. Perform sad stone thy honourable trust unto his memory, and thy self be just, for his immortal name shall thee befriend, and pay thee back more fame than thou canst lend. To Mr. Sam Cooper, having taken Lucacea's picture, given December 14th, 1660. If noble things can noble thoughts infuse, your art might even in me create amuse, and what you did inspire you would excuse. But if it such a miracle could do, that amuse would not return you half your due, since twid my thanks, but not the praise pursue. To praise your art is then itself more hard, nor would it the endeavour much regard, since it and virtue are their own reward. A pencil from an angel newly caught, and colours in the morning's bosom sought, would make no picture, if by you not wrought. But done by you it does no more admit, of an encomium from the highest wit, than that another hand should equal it. Yet whilst you with creating power vie command the very spirit of the eye, and then reward it with eternity, whilst your each touch does life and air convey, fetch the soul out like overcoming day, and I, my friend, repeated here survey, I, by a passive way, may do you right, wearing in that what none could erendite, your panagiric and my own delight. One-twelve. Parting with a friend. Who ever thinks that joys below can lasting be and great, let him behold this parting blow, and cure his own deceit. Alas! How soon are pleasures done where fortune has a power! How like to the declining sun, or to the withered flower! A thousand unconcerned eyes shall suffer us to see! But of those we chiefly prize, we must deprive it be. But we may conquer, if we will, the wanton tyrant teach, that we have something left us still which grows not in her reach, that unseen string which fastens hearts, nor time nor chance are tied, nor can it be in either's art their unions to divide. Where sympathy does love convey it braves all other powers. Lucacia and Rosania say, has it not formed ours? If forty weeks converse has not been able yet to tie, your souls in that mysterious knot, how wretched then am I? But if I read in either's mind, as sure I hope to do, that each two other is combined, absence will make it true. No accident will air surprise or make your kindness start, although you lose each other's eyes, you'll faster keep the heart. Letters as kind as turtledoves, and undisguised as thought, will entertain those fervent loves which have each other bought, till fortune vex it with the sight of faith so free from stain, shall then grow weary of her spite, and let you meet again, wherein may you that rapture find, that sister Cheryl's have, when I am in my rocks confined, or sealed up in my grave. One-thirteen To my dearest friend, upon her shunning grandeur, Shine out, rich soul! To greatness be, what it can never be to thee, an ornament. Thou canst restore the luster which it had before these ruins, own it, and twill live, thy favours more than kings can give. Hast more above all titles, then, the bears are above common men, and so heroic art within thou must descend to be a queen. It honour may convenient prove, by giving thy soul room to move. Affording seen unto that mind, which is too great to be confined, work thou with single virtue stored to be approved, but not adored, thou mightst retire, but who ere meant a palace for a tenement? Heaven has so builty, that we find thee buried when thou art confined. If thou in privacy wouldst live, yet luster to thy virtues give, to stifle them for want of air, injurious is to heaven's care. If thou wilt be immured, where shall thy obliging soul appear? Where shall thy generous prudence be, and where thy magnanimity? Nay, thy own darling thou dost hide, thy self-denial is denied, for he that never greatness tries can never safely it despise. That Antoninus rit well, when he held a scepter and a pen, lest credit Solomon does bring as a philosopher than king. So much advantage flows from hence to write by our experience. Diogenes I must suspect of envy more than wise neglect, when he his prince so ill did treat and so much spurn it at the great. A censure is not clear from those whom fate subjects or does depose, nor can we greatness understand from an oppressed or fallen hand. But tis some prince must that define, or one that freely did resign. A great Almanzor teaches thus, or else a Dionysius. For to know grandeur we must live in that, and not in perspective. Vout safe the trial, then, that thou mayst safely wield, yet disallow the world's temptations, and be still above whatever would be fill. Convince mankind, there's somewhat more great than the titles they adore. Stand near them, and will soon be known, thou hast more splendour of thy own. Fall to the wanting age, and be channel of true nobility, for from thy womb such heroes needs must arise, who honours will deserve, and can despise. One-fourteen. To Pastora being with her friend. While you the double joy obtain of what you can give and what you gain, friendship, who owes you so much fame, commands my tribute to your name. That was almost forlorn, sunk under every critics scorn, but that your genius, her, protects, had fled the world, at least the sex. You have restored them, and us, whence both are happy. Caesar thus owed Rome the glories of his reign, and Rome owed him as much again. You and your friend, those joys have found, which all relations can propound. What nature does among them disperse, you multiply in her converse. You her enjoyment have pursued in company and solitude, and wheresoever shall retire, there's the diversion you desire. Your joys by this are more immense, and heat contracted grows intense, and friendship to be such to you will make these pleasures honours too. Be to each other that content, as to your sex your ornament, and may your hearts by mixture lost bestill each other's bliss and boast. All your parting be as that you ere should disagree, and then even death your friend will prove and both at once, though late, remove. But that you may severely live, you must the fending world forgive, and to employ your charity you have an object now in me. My pen, so much for you unfit, presents my heart, though not my wit. Which heart admires what you express more than what monarchs to possess? You're not infection from my fate, though I must be unfortunate, for having paid my vows due I shall soon withdraw, wither, and die. 1.15 To my lord and lady Dunganon on their marriage, May 11th, 1662. To you, who in yourselves do comprehend all you can wish, and all we can commend, whom worth does guide and destiny obey, what offerings can the useless muses pay? Each must at once suspend her charming lyre, till she hath learnt from you what to inspire. Well may they wonder to observe a knot so curiously by love and fortune wrought, to which propitious heaven did decree all things on earth should tributary be, by gentle, sure, but unperceived degrees, as the sun's motion, or the growth of trees, does providence our wills to hers incline, and makes all accidents serve her design. Her pencils, sir, within your breast, did draw the picture of a face you never saw, with touches which so sweet were, and so true, by them alone the original you knew. And at that sight with satisfaction yield your freedom, which till then maintained the field. It was by the same mysterious power, too, that she has been so long reserved for you, whose noble passion, with submissive art, disarmed her scruples and subdued her heart, and now that at the last your souls are tied, whom floods nor difficulties could divide, even you that beautyous union may admire, which was at once heaven's care and your desire. You are so happy in each other's love, and in assured protection from above, that we no wish can add unto your bliss, but that it should continue as it is. O may it so, and may the wheel of fate in you know more change than she feels create. And may you still your happiness is find, not on your fortune growing, but your mind, whereby the shafts of chance as vain will prove, as all things else did that opposed your love. Be kind and happy to that great degree, as may instruct latest posterity, from so revered a precedent to frame rules to their duty, to their wishes' aim. May the vast sea for your sake quit his pride, and grow so smooth while on his breast you ride. As may not only bring you to your port, but show how all things do your virtues court. May every object give you new delight. May time forget his scythe, and fate his spite. And may you never other sorrow know, but what your pity feels for others woe. May your compassion be like that divine, which relieves all on whom it does but shine, whilst you produce a race that may inherit all your great stock of beauty, fame, and merit. 1. 16. To his grace Gilbert, Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, July 10, 1664. That private shade wherein my muse was bred, she always hoped might hide her humble head, giving the retirement she had chose might yield her if not pardon, yet repose. Nor other repetitions did expect than what our echoes from the rocks reflect. But hurried from her cave with wild afight, and dragged maliciously into the light, which makes her like the Hebrew Virgin mourn, when from her face her veil was rudely torn. To you, my lord, she now for succour calls, and at your feet with just confusion falls. But she will thank the wrong deserved her hate if it procure her that auspicious fate, that the same wing may over her be cast, where the best church of all the world is placed, and under which, when she is once retired, she really may become to be inspired. And by the wonders which she there shall view may raise herself to such a theme as you, who are preserved to govern and restore that church whose confessor you were before, and show by your unwirried present care, your sufferings are not ended, though hers are. For whilst your crozier her defense secures, you purchase her rest with the loss of yours. And heaven, who first refined your worth, and then gave it so large at eminent a scene, hath paid you what was many ways your due, and done itself a greater right than you. For after such a rough and tedious storm had torn the church and done her so much harm, and though at length rebuked you left behind such angry relics in the wave and wind, no pilot could, whose skill and faith were less, manage the shattered vessel with success. The piety of the apostle's times encouraged to resist this age's crimes, majestic sweetness, tempered and refined, in a polite and comprehensive mind, were all required for ruins to repair, and all united in her primate are. In your aspect so candid and serene, the conscience of such virtue may be seen, as makes the sullen schismatic consent, a church man may be great and innocent. This shall those men reproach if not reduce, and take away their fault or their excuse, whilst in your life and government appear, all that the pious wish and factious fear. Since the prevailing cross her entence spread, and pagan gods from Christian bishops fled, times curious eye till now hath never spied the church's helm so happily supplied, merit and providence so fitly met, the worthiest prelate in the highest seat. If noble things can noble thoughts infuse, your life, my lord, may even in me, produce such raptures, that of their rich fury proud, I may perhaps dare to proclaim aloud, assured the world that ardour will excuse, applaud the subject, and forgive the muse.