POEMS

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

Thus the Sun's light makes day, if it appear,
And casts true lustre round the hemisphere;
When if projected from the Moon, that light
Makes not a day, but only colours night;
But you we may still full, still perfect call,
As what's still great, is equall still in all.

And from this largeness of your mind, you come
To some just wonder, worship unto some,
Whiles you appear a court, and are no less
Than a whole presence, or throng'd glorious press:
No one can ere mistake you. 'Tis alone
Your lot, where e'r you come to be still known.
Your power's its own witness: you appeare,
By some new conquest, still that you are there.
But sure the shafts your vertues shoot, are tipt
With consecrated gold, which too was dipt
In purer nectar, for where e'r they do
Print love, they print joy, and religion too:
Hence in your great endowments church and court
Find what t' admire; all wishes thus resort
To you as to their center, and are then
Sent back, as centers send back lines agen.

Nor can you say you learnt this hence, or thence,
That this you gain'd by knowledge, this by sence;
All is your own, and native: for as pure
Fire lends it self to all, and will endure
Nothing from others; so what you impart
Comes not from others' principles, or art,
But is ingenite all, and still your owne,
Your self sufficing to your self alone.
Thus your extraction is desert, to whom
Vertue and life by the same gift did come.
Your cradle's thus a trophe, and with us
"Tis thought a praise confess'd to be born thus.
And though your father's glorious name will be
Full and majestique in great history
For high designs; yet after times will boast
You are his chiefest act, and fame him most.

Being then you're th' elixar, whose least grain
Cast into any other, would maintain

All for true worth, and make the piece commence
Saint, nymph, or goddess, or what not, from thence;
If when your valorous brother rules the maine,
And makes the flouds confess his powerfull raign,
You should but take the aire by in your shell,
You would be thought sea-born, and we might well
Conclude you such, but that your deitie
Would have no winged issue to set bye.
O! had you of-spring to resemble you,
As you have vertues, then-But oh! I do
Complain of our misfortunes, not your own,
For are bless'd spirits, for less happy known,
Because they have not receiv'd such a fate
Of imperfection, as to procreate?
Eternall things supply themselves; so we
Think this your mark of immortalitie.

I now, as those of old, who once had met
A deity in a shape, did nothing set
By lower and less formes, securely do
Neglect all else, and having once seen you,
Count others only Nature's pesantry,
And out of reverence seeing will not see.

Hail your own riches then, and your own store,
Who thus rule others, but your self far more!
Hail your own glass and object, who alone
Deserve to see your own reflection !
Persist you still the faction of all vowes,
A shape that makes oft perjuries, and allows
Even broken faiths a pardon, while men do [you.
Swear, and reclaim what they have sworn, seeing

May you live long the painters' fault and strife,
Who, for their oft not drawing you to life,
Must, when their glass is almost run out, long
To purchase absolution for the wrong;
But poets, who dare still as much, and take
An equal licence, the same errours make,
I then put in with them, who as I do
Sue for release, so I may claime it too.
For since your worth and modesty is such,
None will think this enough, but you too much.

ON THE IMPERFECTION OF
CHRIST-CHURCH BUILDINGS.

ARISE, thou sacred heap, and show a frame
Perfect at last, and glorious as thy name:
Space, and torn majesty, as yet are all
Thou hast we view thy cradle, as thy fall.

Our dwelling lyes half desert; the whole space
Unmeeted and unbounded, bears the face
Of the first age's fields, and we, as they
That stand on hills, have prospect every way:
Like Theseus' sonne, curst by mistake, the frame,
Scattred and torn, hath parts without a name,
Which in a landskip some mischance, not meant,
As dropping of the spunge, would represent;
And (if no succour come) the time's not far
When 'twill be thought no college, but a quar.
Send then Amphion to these Thebes, (O Fates!)
W' have here as many breaches, though not gates.
When any stranger comes, 'tis shewn by us,
As once the face was of Antigonus,
With an half-visage onely: so that all
We boast is but a kitchin, or an hall.

Men thence admire, but help not, 't hath the luck
Of heathen places that were thunder-strook,
To be ador'd, not toucht; tho' the mind and will
Be in the pale, the purse is pagan still :
Alas! th'are tow'rs that thunder do provoke,
We ne'r had height or glory for a stroke:
Time, and king Henry too, did spare us; we
Stood in those dayes both sythe and scepter-free;
Our ruines then were licenc'd, and we were
Pass'd by untouch'd, that hand was open here.
Blesse we our throne then! That which did avoid
The fury of those times, seems yet destroy'd:
So this, breath'd on by no full influence,
Hath hung e'r since unminded in suspence,
As doubtfull whether 't should escheated be
To ruine, or redeem'd to majesty.

But great intents stop seconds, and we owe
To larger wants, that bounty is so slow.
A lordship here, like Curtius, might be cast
Into one hole, and yet not seen at last.
Two sacred things were thought (by judging souls)
Beyond the kingdome's pow'r, Christ-church and

Pauls,

Till, by a light from Heaven shown, the one
Did gain his second renovation,

And some good star ere long, we do not fear,
Will guide the wise to offer some gifts here.
But ruines yet stand ruines, as if none
Durst be so good, as first to cast a stone.
Alas! we ask not prodigies: wee'd boast,
Had we but what is at one horse-race lost;
Nor is our house (as Nature in the fall
Is thought by some) void and bereft of all

But what's new giv'n: unto our selves we owe
That sculs are not our churches' pavement now;
That that's made yet good way; that to his cup
And table Christ may come, and not ride up;
That no one stumbling fears a worse event,
Nor, when he bows, falls lower than he meant ;
That now our windows may for doctrine pass,
And we (as Paul) see mysteries in a glass;
That something elsewhere is perform'd, whereby
'Tis seen we can adorn, though not supply.

But if to all great buildings (as to Troy)
A god must needs be sent, and we enjoy
No help but miracle; if so it stand
Decreed by Heaven, that the same gracious hand
That perfected our statutes, must be sent
To finish Christ-church too, we are content;
Knowing that he who in the mount did give
Those laws, by which his people were to live,
If they had needed then, as now we do,
Would have bestow'd the stone for tables too.

ON

HIS MAJESTIE'S RECOVERY FROM THE
SMALL POX.

1633.

I DO confess the over-forward tongue
Of publick duty turns into a wrong,
And after-ages, which could ne'r conceive
Our happy CHARLES So frail as to receive
Such a disease, will know it by the noyse
Which we have made, in showting forth our joyes;
And our informing duty only be

A well-meant spight, or loyall injury.
Let then the name be alter'd, let us say
They were small stars fixt in a milky-way,
Or faithfull turquoises, which Heaven sent
For a discovery, not a punishment;
To show the ill, not make it; and to tell
By their pale looks the bearer was not well.
Let the disease forgotten be, but may
The joy return as yearly as the day;
Let there be new computes, let reckoning be

A CONTINUATION OF THE SAME TO THE PRINCE OF Solemnly made from his recovery;

WALES.

BUT turn we hence to you, as some there be
Who in the coppy wooe the Deity;
Who think then most successfull steps are trod
When they approach the image for the god.
Our king hath shewn his bounty, sir, in you,
By giving whom, h' hath giv'n us buildings too.
For we see harvests in a showre, and when
Heav'n drops a dew, say it drops flowers then,
Whiles all that blessed fatness doth not fall
To fill that basket, or this barn, but all.
We know y' have vertnes in you now, which stand
Eager for action, and expect command;
Vertues now ripe, train'd up, and nurtur'd so,
That they wait only when you'l bid them flow,
Indulge you, then, our rising Sun, we may
Say, your first rayes broke here to make a day :
For though the light, when grown, powrs fuller

streams,

'Tis yet more precious in its virgin beams;
And though the third or fourth may do the cure,
The eldest tear of balsam's still most pure.
'Tis only then our pride that we may dwell
As vertues do in you, compleat and well;
That when a college finish'd, is the sport
And pastime only of your yonger court,
An act, to which some could not well arive
After their fifty, done by you at five,
The late and tardy stock of nephews may,
Reading your story, think you were born gray.
This is the thread weaves all our hopes: for since
All better vertues now are call'd the Prince,
(As smaller rivers lose their words, and beare
No name but ocean when they come in there)
Thence we expect them, as these streams, we know,
Can from no other womb or bosome flow.
Limne you our Venus then throughout, be she
Christned, some part at least, your deity;
That when to take you painters go about,
They be compell'd to leave some of you out;
Whiles you shew something here that won't admit
Colours and shape something that cannot fit.
Thus shall you nourish future writers, who
May give Fame back those things you do bestow :
Where merits too will be your work, and then
That age will think you gave not stones, but men.

Let not the kingdom's acts hereafter run
From his (though happy) coronation,
But from his health, as in a better strain;
That plac'd him in his throne, this makes bim raign.

TO THE KING.

ON HIS MAJESTIE'S RETURN FROM SCOTLAND. 1633.

WE are a people now again, and may
Stile our selves subjects: your prolong'd delay
Had almost made our jealousy engross
New fears, and raise your absence into loss.
'Tis true, the kingdom's manners and the law
Retain'd their wonted rigour, the same awe
And love still kept us loyall: but 'twas so
As clocks once set in motion do yet go,
The hand being absent; or as when the quill
Ceaseth to strike, the string yet trembles still.
O count our sighs and fears! there shall not be
Again such absence, though sure victory
Would waite on every step, and would repay
A severall conquest for each severall day.
We do not crown your welcome with a name
Coyn'd from the journey; nor shall soothing Fame
Call't an adventure: heretofore, when rude
And haughty power was known by solitude;
When all that subjects felt of majesty,
Was the oppressing yoke and tyranny;
Then it had pass'd for valour, and had been
Thought prowesse to have dar'd to have been seen;
And the approaching to a neighbour region
No progresse but an expedition.

But here's no cause of a triumphant dauce,
'Tis a return, not a deliverance.

Your pious faith secur'd your throne; your life
Was guard unto your scepter; no rude strife,
No violence there disturb'd the pomp, unless
Their eager love and loyalty did press
To see and know, whiles lawfull majesty
Spread forth its presence, and its piety
So bath the God, that lay hid in the voice
Of his directing oracle, made choice
To come in person, and untouch'd math crown'd
The supplicant with his glory, not his sound.

Whiles that this pomp was moving, whiles a fire
Shot out from you, did but provoke desire,
Not satisfie, how in loyalty did they
Wish an eternall solstice, or a day

That might make Nature stand, striving to bring
Ev'n by her wrong more homage to a king;
But mayst thou dwell with us, just Charles, and
show

A beam sometimes to them: so shall we owe
To constant light, they to posterity

Shall boast of this, that they were seen by the.

TO THE QUEEN, ON THE SAME OCCASION.
WE do presume our duty to no eare
Will better sound, than yours, who most did fear.
We know your busie eye perus'd the glass,
And chid the lazy sands as they did pass;
We know no hour stole by with present wing,
But heard one sigh dispatch'd unto your king:
We know his faith too; how that other faces
Were view'd as pictures only; how their graces
Did in this only call his eye, that seen
They might present some parcell of his queen.
You were both maim'd whiles sever'd: none could
find

Whole maj'sty; y'arc perfect, when thus joyn'd.
We do not think this absence can add more
Flames, but call forth those that lay hid before:
As when in thirsty flowers a gentle dew
Awakes the sent which slept, not gives a new.
As for our joy, 'tis not a sudden heat
Starts into noise; but 'tis as true as great;
We will be tri'd by yours; for we dare strive
Here, and acknowledge no prerogative.
We then proclaime this triumph be as bright
And large to all, as was your marriage-night.
Cry we a second Hymen then; and sing,
Whiles you receive the husband, we the king.

TO THE LADY PAWLET,
UPON HER PRESENT SENT TO THE VNIVERSITY,
BEING THE STORY OF THE NATIVITY AND PASSION OF
OUR SAVIOUR,

WROUGHT BY HER SELF IN NEEDLE-WORK.

COULD we judge here, (most vertuous madam)

then

Your needle might receive praise from the pen :
But this our want bereaves it of that part,
Whiles to admire and thank is all our art.

The work deserves a shrine, I should rehearse
Its glories in a story, not a verse:
Colours are mixt so subtly, that thereby

View we the manger and the babe, we thence
Beleeve the very threeds have innocence;
Then on the cross such love and grief we find,
As 'twere a transcript of our Saviour's mind;
Each parcell so expressive, and so fit,

That the whole seems not so much wrought, as writ.
'Tis sacred text all, we may quoat, and thence
Extract what may be press'd in our defence.

Blest mother of the church, be in the list
Reckon'd from hence the she evangelist :
Nor can the style be profanation, when
The needle may convert more than the pen.
When faith may come by seeing, and each leaf
Rightly perus'd prove gospell to the deaf.
Had not Saint Hellen happ'ly found the cross,
By this your work you had repair'd that loss.
Tell me not of Penelope, we do

See a web here more chaste, and sacred too.
Where are ye now, O women! you that sow
Temptations, labouring to express the bow
And the blind archer, you that rarely set,
To please your loves, a Venus in a net?
Turn your skill hither: then we shall (no doubt)
See the king's daughter glorious too without.
Women sew'd idle fig-leaves hithertoo,
Eve's nakedness is truly cloath'd by you.

ON

THE BIRTH OF THE DUKE OF YORK.
THE state is now past fear, and all that we
Need wish besides is perpetuity.
No gaudy traine of flames, no darkned Sun,
No change inverting order did forerun
This birth: no hurtless natalitious fire
Playing about him made the nurse admire,
And prophesie. Fond nature shews these things
When thraldom swels, when bondmaids bring forth

kings.

And 'tis no favour: for she straight gives o'r
Paying these trifles, that she ow no more.
Here shee's reserv'd, and quiet, as if he
Were her design, her plot, her policy:
Here the enquiring, busie, common eye,
Only intent upon new majesty,

Ne'r looks for further wonder, this alone
Being sufficient, that hee's silent shown.
What's her intent I know not: let it be
My pray'r, that shee'l be modest, and that he
Have but the second honour, be still neer;
No imitation of the father here.

Yet let him, like to him, make power as free
From blot or scandall as from poverty:
Count bloud and birth no parts, but something lent

The stealth of art both takes and cheates the eye; Meerly for outward grace and complement;

At once a thousand we can gaze upon,
But are deceiv'd by their transition;
What toucheth is the same; beam takes from beam,
The next still like, yet diff'ring in th' extreme:
Here runs this track we see, thither that tends,
But cann't say here this rose, or there that ends.
Thus while they creep insensibly, we doubt
Whether the one powres not the other out.
Faces so quick and lively, that we may
Fear, if we turn aside, they'l steal away.
Postures of grief so true, that we may swear
Your artful fingers have wrought passion there i

Get safety by good life, and raise defence
By better forces, love and conscience.
This likewise we expect; the nurse may find
Something in shape, wee'l look unto his mind.
The forehead, eye, and lip, poor humble parts,
Too shallow for resemblance, shew the arts
Of private guessings: action still hath been
The royall mark. Those parts, which are not seen,
Present the throne and scepter; and the right
Discoverie's made by judgment, not by sight.
I cannot to this cradle promise make
Of actions fit for growth. A strangled snake

Kill'd before known, perhaps, 'mongst heathen hath
Been thought the deed and valour of the swath.
Far be such monsters hence; the buckler here
Is not the cradle, nor the dart and spear
The infant's rattles; 'tis a son of mirth,
Of peace and friendship, 'tis a quiet birth;
Yet if hereafter unfil'd people shall
Call on his sword, and so provoke their fall,
Let him look bak on that admired name,
That spirit of dispatch, that soul of fame,
His graudsire Henry, tread his steps, in all
Be fully like to him, except his fall.

Although in royall births, the subject's lot
Be to enjoy what's by the prince begot;
Yet fasten, Charles, fasten those eyes you ow
Unto a people, on this son, to show
You can be tender too, in this one thing
Suffer the father to depose the king.
See what delight your queen takes to peruse
Those fair unspotted volumes, when she views
In him that glance, in her that decent grace,
In this sweet innocence, in all the face

Of both the parents. May this blessing prove
A welcome trouble, puzzling equal love
How to dispence embraces, whiles that she
Strives to divide the mother 'twixt all three.

TO DR. DUPPA,

THEN DEAN OF CHRIST-CHURCH, AND TUTOR TO THE
PRINCE OF WALES.

WILL you not stay, then, and vouchsafe to be
Honour'd a little more contractedly?
The reverence here's as much, tho' not the prease;
Our love as tender, though the tumult less;
And your great vertues in the narrow sphere,
Tho' not so bright, shine yet as strong as there :
As sun-beams drawn into a point, do flow
With greater force by being fettred so.
Things may a while in this same order run,
As wheeles once turn'd continue motion;
And we enjoy a light, as when the eye
O'th world is set, all lustre doth not dye:
But yet this course, this light, will so appear,
As only to convince you have been here.

[we

He's ours you ask, (great soveraign) ours, whom
Will gladly ransome with a subsidy.
Ask of us lands, our college, all; we do
Profer what's built, nay, what's intended too:
For he being absent, 'tis an heap, and we
Only a number, no society.

Hard rival! for we dare contest, and use
Such language, now w' have nothing left to lose.
Y' are only ours, as some great ship, that's gone
A voyage i'th' king's service, doth still run
Under the name o'th' company: but we
Think it th' indulgence of his majesty,
That y' are not whole engross'd, that yet you are
Permitted to be something that we dare
Call ours, being honour'd to retain you thus,
That one rule may direct the prince, and us.
Go, then, another nature to him; go,
A genius wisht by all, except the foe:
Fashion those ductile manners, and inspire
That ample breast with clean and active fire;
That when his limbs shall write him man, his deeds
May write him yours; that from those richer seeds

517

| Thus sprouting, we dividedly may ow
The son unto our king, the prince to you.
'Tis in the power of your great influence,
What England shall be fifty harvests hence;
You'l do good to our nephews now, and be
A patron unto those you will not see;
Y' instruct a future common-wealth, and give
Laws to those people, that as yet don't live.
We see him full already; there's no fear
Of subtle poyson, for good axiomes, here,
All will be health and antidote, and one
Name will combine state and religion;
Heaven and we be look'd on with one eye,
And the same rules guide faith and policy:
The court shall hence become a church, and you,
In one, be tutour to a people too.

He shall not now, like other princes, hear
Some morall lecture when the dinner's neer,
Learn nothing fresh and fasting, but upon
This or that dish read an instruction;
Hear Livy told, admire some general's force.
And stratagem, 'twixt first and second course;
Then cloze his stomach with a rule, and stay
'Mong books perhaps to pass a rainy day;
Or his charg'd memory with a maxime task
To take up time before a tilt or masque:
No, you will dictate wholesome grounds, and sow
Seeds in his mind, as pure as that is now;
Breath in your thoughts, your soul, make him the
[true
Resemblance of your worth, speak and live you :
That no old granted sutour may still fear,
When 't shall be one, to promise, and to swear.
That those huge bulks, his guard, may only be
Like the great statues in the gallery
For ornament, not use; not to affright
Th' approacher's boldness, but afford a sight;
Whiles he, defended by a better art,
Shall have a stronger guard in every heart,
And carrying your vertues to the throne,
Find that his best defence, t' have need of none.
May he come forth your work, and thence appear
Sacred and pious, whom our love may fear;
Discover you in all his actions, be
'Bove envy great, good above flattery,
And by a perfect fulness of each part,
Banish from court that torment, and this art.

Go, O my wishes, with you! may they keep
Noise off, and make your journey as your sleep,!
Rather repose than travell: may you meet
No rough way, but in these unequall feet.
Good fates take charge of you; and let this be
Your sole ill-luck, that good is wisht by me.

TO THE SAME,

IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE PUBLICK ACT AT OXON.
1634.

AND now (most worthy sir) I've time to show
-Some parcell of that duty that I ow,
Which like late fruit, grows vigorous by delay,
Gaining a force more lasting by its stay.
Had I presented you with aught, whiles here,
'T had been to sacrifise the priest not neer;
Forme rather than devotion, and a free
Expression of a custome, not of me :
I was not then my self; then not to err
For when our pumps are on, we do dispence
Had been a trespass 'gainst the Miniver;
With every slip, nay, every crime, but sense!