Poetry

can bestow
On him, for man into himself can draw
All; all his faith can swallow, or reason chaw.
All that is filled and all that which doth fill,
All the round world, to man is but a pill;
In all it works not, but it is in all
Poisonous, or purgative, or cordial;
For knowledge kindles calentures in some,
And is to others icy opium.
As brave as true is that profession then
Which you do use to make⁠—that you know man.
This makes it credible; you have dwelt upon
All worthy books, and now are such an one.
Actions are authors, and of those in you
Your friends find, every day, a mart of new.

To the Countess of Bedford

To have written then, when you writ, seem’d to me
Worst of spiritual vices, simony;
And not to have written then seems little less
Than worst of civil vices, thanklessness.
In this, my debt I seem’d loth to confess;
In that, I seem’d to shun beholdingness.
But ’tis not so; nothings, as I am, may
Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay.
Such borrow in their payments, and owe more
By having leave to write so, than before.
Yet, since rich mines in barren grounds are shown,
May I not yield (not gold but) coal or stone?
Temples were not demolish’d, though profane;
Here Peter Jove’s; there Paul hath Dian’s fane.
So whether my hymns you admit or choose,
In me you’ve hallowed a pagan muse,
And denizen’d a stranger, who, mistaught
By blamers of the times they marr’d, hath sought
Virtues in corners, which now bravely do
Shine in the world’s best part, or all it⁠—you.
I have been told, that virtue in courtiers’ hearts
Suffers an ostracism, and departs.
Profit, ease, fitness, plenty, bid it go;
But whither, only knowing you, I know.
Your, or you virtue, two vast uses serves;
It ransoms one sex, and one court preserves.
There’s nothing but your worth, which being true
Is known to any other, not to you.
And you can never know it; to admit
No knowledge of your worth, is some of it.
But since to you your praises discords be,
Stoop others’ ills to meditate with me.
O! to confess we know not what we should,
Is half excuse, we know not what we would.
Lightness depresseth us, emptiness fills;
We sweat and faint, yet still go down the hills
As new philosophy arrests the sun,
And bids the passive earth about it run,
So we have dull’d our mind; it hath no ends;
Only the body’s busy, and pretends.
As dead low earth eclipses and controls
The quick high moon, so doth the body souls.
In none but us are such mix’d engines found,
As hands of double office; for the ground
We till with them, and them to heaven we raise.
Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays,
Doth but one half, that’s none; He which said, “Plough
And look not back,” to look up doth allow.
Good seed degenerates, and oft obeys
The soil’s disease, and into cockle strays.
Let the mind’s thoughts be but transplanted so
Into the body, and bastardly they grow.
What hate could hurt our bodies like our love?
We, but no foreign tyrants, could remove
These not engraved, but inborn dignities,
Caskets of souls, temples and palaces;
For bodies shall from death redeemed be,
Souls but preserved, born naturally free.
As men to our prisons now, souls to us are sent,
Which learn vice there, and come in innocent.
First seeds of every creature are in us;
Whate’er the world hath bad, or precious,
Man’s body can produce; hence hath it been
That stones, worms, frogs, and snakes in man are seen.
But whoe’er saw, though nature can work so,
That pearl, or gold, or corn in man did grow?
We’ve added to the world Virginia, and sent
Two new stars lately to the firmament.
Why grudge we us (not heaven) the dignity
To increase with ours those fair souls’ company?
But I must end this letter; though it do
Stand on two truths, neither is true to you.
Virtue has some perverseness, for she will
Neither believe her good, nor others’ ill.
Even in you, virtue’s best paradise,
Virtue hath some, but wise degrees of vice.
Too many virtues, or too much of one,
Begets in you unjust suspicion;
And ignorance of vice makes virtue less,
Quenching compassion of our wretchedness.
But these are riddles; some aspersion
Of vice becomes well some complexion.
Statesmen purge vice with vice, and may corrode
The bad with bad, a spider with a toad.
For so, ill thralls not them, but they tame ill,
And make her do much good against her will.
But in your commonwealth or world in you,
Vice hath no office or good work to do.
Take then no vicious purge, but be content
With cordial virtue, your known nourishment.

To the Countess of Bedford, on New Year’s Day

This twilight of two years, not past, nor next,
Some emblem is of me, or I of this;
Who⁠—meteor-like, of stuff and form perplex’d,
Whose what and where in disputation is⁠—
If I should call me anything, should miss.

I sum the years, and me, and find me not
Debtor to th’ old, nor creditor to th’ new.
That cannot say, “My thanks I have forgot,”
Nor trust I this with hopes; and yet scarce true
This bravery is, since these times show’d me you.

In recompense I would show future times
What you were, and teach them to urge towards such.
Verse embalms virtue; and tombs, or thrones, of rhymes
Preserve frail transitory fame, as much
As spice doth bodies from corrupt airs’ touch.

Mine are short-lived; the tincture of your name
Creates in them, but dissipates as fast,
New spirits; for strong agents with the same
Force, that doth warm and cherish us, do waste;
Kept hot with strong extracts, no bodies last.

So, my verse, built of your just praise, might want
Reason and likelihood, the firmest base;
And made of miracle, now faith is scant,
Will vanish soon, and so possess no place;
And you, and it, too much grace might disgrace.

When all⁠—as truth commands assent⁠—confess
All truth