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THE POEMS OF GEORGE CHAPMAN.

THE SHADOW OF NIGHT.

[1594.]

ΤΟ

MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND

MASTER MATTHEW ROYDON.

It is an exceeding rapture of delight in the deep search of knowledge (none knoweth better than thyself, sweet Matthew) that maketh men manfully indure the extremes incident to that Herculean labour: from flints must the Gorgonean fount be smitten. Men must be shod by Mercury, girt with Saturn's adamantine sword, take the shield from Pallas, the helm from Pluto, and have the eyes of Græa (as Hesiodus arms Perseus against Medusa) before they can cut off the viperous head of benumbing ignorance, or subdue their monstrous affections to most beautiful judgment.

How then may a man stay his marvailing to see passion-driven men, reading but to curtail a tedious hour, and altogether hidebound with affection to great men's fancies, take upon them as killing censures as if they were judgment's butchers, or as if the life of truth lay tottering in their verdicts. Now what a supererogation in wit this is, to

think Skill so mightily pierced with their loves, that she should prostitutely shew them her secrets, when she will scarcely be looked upon by others but with invocation, fasting, watching; yea, not without having drops of their souls like an heavenly familiar. Why then should our Intonsi Catones with their profit-ravished gravity esteem her true favours such questionless vanities, as with what part soever thereof they seem to be something delighted, they queamishly commend it for a pretty toy? Good Lord how serious and eternal are their idolatrous platts for riches! No marvel sure they here do so much good with them. And heaven no doubt will grovel on the earth (as they do) to imbrace them. But I stay this spleen when I remember, my good Matthew, how joyfully oftentimes you reported unto me, that most ingenious Darby, deep-searching Northumberland, and skill-embracing heir of Hunsdon had most profitably entertained learning in themselves, to the vital warmth of freezing science, and to the admirable lustre of their true nobility, whose highdeserving virtues may cause me hereafter strike that fire out of darkness, which the brightest Day shall envy for beauty. I should write more but my hasting out of town taketh me from the paper, so preferring thy allowance in this poor and strange trifle, to the passport of a whole City of others, I rest as resolute as Seneca, satisfying myself if but a few, if one, or if none like it.

By the true admirer of thy virtues and perfectly vowed friend,

G. CHAPMAN.

HYMNUS IN NOCTEM.

GREAT goddess, to whose throne in Cynthian fires,
This earthly altar endless fumes expires;
Therefore, in fumes of sighs and fires of grief,
To fearful chances thou send'st bold relief,
Happy, thrice happy type, and nurse of death,
Who, breathless, feeds on nothing but our breath,
In whom must virtue and her issue live,
Or die for ever;-now let humour give
Seas to mine eyes, that I may quickly weep
The shipwrack of the world: or let soft sleep
(Binding my senses) loose my working soui,
That in her highest pitch she may control
The court of skill, compact of mystery
Wanting but franchisement and memory
To reach all secrets: then in blissful trance,
Raise her, dear night, to that perseverance,
That in my torture, she all Earth's may sing,
And force to tremble in her trumpeting
Heaven's crystal temples; in her powers implant
Skill of my griefs, and she can nothing want.

Then like fierce bolts, well ramm'd with heat and cold

In Jove's artillery, my words unfold,

To break the labyrinth of every ear,

And make each frighten'd soul come forth and

hear.

Let them break hearts, as well as yielding airs,
That all men's bosoms (pierced with no affairs
But gain of riches) may be lanced wide,
And with the threats of virtue terrified.

Sorrow's dear sovereign, and the queen of rest, That when unlightsome, vast, and indigest, The formless matter of this world did lie, Fill'd'st every place with thy divinity, Why did thy absolute and endless sway License heaven's torch, the sceptre of the day, Distinguish'd intercession to thy throne, That long before, all matchless ruled alone? Why lett'st thou Order, orderless disperse The fighting parents of this universe? When earth, the air, and sea, in fire remain’d; When fire, the sea, and earth, the air contain'd; When air, the earth, and fire, the sea enclosed; When sea, fire, air, in earth were indisposed; Nothing, as now, remain'd so out of kind, All things in gross, were finer than refined, Substance was sound within, and had no being; Now form gives being, all our essence seeming, Chaos had soul without a body then. Now bodies live without the souls of men, Lumps being digested; monsters in our pride.

And as a wealthy fount that hills did hide, Let forth by labour of industrious hands, Pours out her treasure through the fruitful strands, Seemly divided to a hundred streams,

Whose beauties shed such profitable beams,

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