MADNESS.
UT if a phrenfy do poffefs the brain, It fo difturbs and blots the forms of things, As fantasy proves altogether vain
And to the wit no true relation brings:
Then doth the wit, admitting all for true, Build fond conclufions on thofe idle grounds; Then doth it flie the good, and ill purfue;
Believing all, that this falle fpy propounds: But purge the humours, and the rage appeafe, Which this distemper in the fancy wrought; Then fhall the wit, which never had disease,
Difcourfe, and judge difcreetly as it ought: So, though the clouds eclipfe the fun's fair light, Yet from his face they do not take one beam So have our eyes their perfect pow'r of fight, Ev'n when they look into a troubled stream. Then these defects in fenfes organs be,
Not in the foul, or in her working might: She cannot lofe her perfect pow'r to fee, .Thomifts and clouds do choke her window-light. These imperfections then we must impute Not to the agent, but the inftrument;
We must not blame Apollo, but his lute,
If falfe accords from her falfe ftrings be fent.
Upon the heat and flame of thy diftemper Sprinkle cool patience.
That I have utter'd; bring me to the teft,
And I the matter will re-word, which madness
See that noble and moft fovereign reason,
Like fweet bells, jangled out of tune, and harsh; That unmatch'd form, and feature of blown youth, Blafted with exftasy.
Shakespear's Hamlet. The king is mad; how ftiff is my vile fenfe, That I ftand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge forrows! better I were distract, So fhould my thoughts be fever'd from my griefs; And woes, by wrong imaginations, lofe The knowledge of themselves.
Surely we are all mad people, and they
Whom we think are, are not; we mistake those : 'Tis we are mad in fense, they but in cloaths.
Tourneur's Revenger's Tragedy. Why, fir, madness is not such a difcredit,
As the age goes; you know there are many Mad fashions; and what man but fometimes may Be mad? are not your great men mad, that when They have enough, will pawn their foul for a Monopoly? befides mad Lords, what do You think of ladies at fome time of the moon? You may spell 'em in their names, madam: you Have mad courtiers, that run madding after Citizen's wives: The citizens are mad
Too, to trust them with their wares, who have been So deep in their wives books before: your justice Of peace is fometimes mad too; for when he May fee well enough, he will fuffer any Man to put out his eyes with a bribe : Some Lawyers are often ftaik mad, aud talk wildly, No man is able to endure their terms.
Shirley's School of Compliments. Madmen fometimes on fudden flashes hit
Of fenfe, which feem remote, and found like wit. Sir W. Davenant On one that prophefyd.
'Twas no falfe heraldry, when madness drew Her pedigree from thofe, who too much knew; Who in deep mines, for hidden knowledge toils, Like guns o'ercharg'd, breaks, miffes, or recoils: When fubtle wits have fpun their thread too fine, 'Tis weak and fragile like Arachne's line.
As budding branch rent from the native tree, And throwen forth, till it be withered ; Such is the ftate of man: thus enter we Into this life with woe, and end with misery.
Oh what is man, great maker of mankind! That thou to him fo great refpect doft bear! That thou adorn'ft him with fo bright a mind, Mak'st him a king, and ev'n an angel's pear! Oh what a lively life, what heav'nly pow'r, What fpreading virtue, what a sparkling fire, How great, how plentiful, how rich a dow'r, Doft thou within this dying flesh inspire !
Thou leav'ft thy print in other works of thine, But thy whole image thou in man haft writ: There cannot be a creature more divine; Except like thee, it fhould be infinite.
But it exceeds man's thought, to think how high God had rais'd man, fince god a man became : The angels do admire this mystery,
And are astonish'd when they view the fame. Nor hath he giv'n these bleffings for a day, Nor made them on the body's life depend: The foul, though made in time, furvives for ay; And though it hath beginning, fees no end... Sir John Davies.
2. Ay, in the catalogue, ye go for men ;
As hounds, and greyhounds, mungrels, spaniels, curs, Showghes, water-rugs, and demy-wolves are cleped All by the name of dogs; the valu'd file Diftinguishes the fwift, the flow, the fubtle, The housekeeper, the hunter; ev'ry one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos'd; whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill
That writes all alike: And fo of men.
He was a man, take him for all in all, I fhall not look upon his like again!
Shakespear's Hamlet. They fay beft men are moulded out of faults; And for the moft, become much more the better, For being a little bad.
Shakespear's Measure for Meafure. Oh my foul! here's fomething tells me that these Beft of creatures, these models of the world,
Weak man and woman, should have their fouls, their Making, life, and being, to fome more excellent Ufe! if what the fenfe calls pleasure, were our Ends, we might juftly blame great nature's wisdom, Who rear'd a building of fo much art and Beauty to entertain a gueft fo far
Incertain, fo imperfect; if only
Speech diftinguifh us from beafts, who know no Inequality of birth or place, but
Still to fly from goodness: Oh, how base were Life at fuch a rate! no, no, that power
That gave to man his being, fpeech, and wisdom, Gave it for thankfulness: to him alone, that Made me thus, may I whence truly know, I'll pay to him, not man, the love I owe.
Shakespear and Rowley's Birth of Merlin.
Lo, here, the man Like a circle bounded in it self,
Contains as much as man in fullness may : Lo, here, the man, who not of usual earth, But of that nobler and more pretious mold, Which Phœbus felf doth temper, is compos'd; And, who, though all were wanting to reward, Yet, to himself he would not wanting be.
1. These our times
Are not the fame, Aruntius- The men are not the fame-
Johnson's Cynthia's Revels.
2. Times the men, 'Tis we are base,
Poor, and degen'rate, from th' exalted strain Of our great fathers. Where is now the foul Of god-like Cato? he, that durft be good, When Cæfar durst be evil; and had pow'r As not to live his flave, to die his master? Or where's the conftant Brutus, that being proof Against all charm of benefits, did strike So brave a blow into the monster's heart, That fought unkindly to captive his country? O, they are fled the light! thofe mighty fprits Lie rak'd up with their ashes in their urns, And not a spark of their eternal fire Glows in a prefent bofom. All's but blaze, Flashes, and fmoke, wherewith we labour so ; There's nothing Roman in us: nothing good, Gallant, or great: 'Tis true that Cordus fays, Brave Caffius was the laft of all the Race.
Man is a tree, that hath no top in cares, No root in comforts; all his pow'r to live Is giv'n to no end, but t' have pow'r to grieve.
Chapman's Buffy D'ambois.
Men are not good, but for neceffity;
Nor orderly are ever born, but bred.
Sad want and poverty make men industrious;
But law muft make them good, and fear obfequious.
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