From Place, or Fortune, are made high, or low,|
And even the Praisers judgment suffers so.
Well, though thy Name less than our great Ones be,
Thy Fact is more: let Truth encourage thee.
Lay-wright, by chance, hearing some Toys I'had writ,
Cry'd to my Face, they were th'Elixir of Wit:
And I must now believe him: for, to Day,
Five of my Jests, then stoln, past him a Play.
Inviting a Friend to Supper.
O Night, grave Sir, both my poor House, and I
Do equally desire your Company:
Not that we think us worthy such a Guest,
But that your worth will dignifie our Feast,
With those that come; whose Grace may make that seem
Something, which, else, could hope for no esteem.
It is the fair Acceptance, Sir, creates
The Entertainment perfect: not the Cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectifie your Palate,
An Olive, Capers, or some better Sallad
Ush'ring the Mutton; with a short-leg'd Hen,
If we can get her, full of Eggs, and then,
Limons, and Wine for Sauce: to these, a Coney
Is not to be despair'd of, for our Money;
And, though Fowl, now, be scarce, yet there are Clarks,
The Sky not falling, think we may have Larks.
I'll tell you of more, and lye, so you will come:
Of Partridg, Pheasant, Wood-cock, of which some
May yet be there; and Godwit if we can:
Knat, Rail, and Ruff too. How so ere, my Man
Shall read a Piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or of some better Book to us,
Of which we'll speak our Minds, amidst our Meat;
And I'll profess no Verses to repeat:
To this, if ought appear, which I know not of,
That will the Pastry, not my Paper, show of.
Digestive Cheese, and Fruit there sure will be;
But that, which most doth take my Muse, and me,
Is a pure Cup of rich Canary Wine,
Which is the Mermaids, now, but shall be mine:
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their Lives, as do their Lines, till now had lasted.
Tabacco, Nectar, or the Thespian Spring,
Are all but Luther's Beer, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooly', or Parrot by;
Nor shall our Cups make any guilty Men:
But, at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple Word,
That shall be utter'd at our mirthful Board,
Shall make us sad next Morning: or affright
The Liberty, that we'll enjoy to Night.
C I I.
To William Earl of Pembroke.
Do but Name thee Pembroke, and I find
It is an Epigram, on all Mankind;
Against the bad, but of, and to the good:
Both which are ask'd, to have thee understood.
Nor could the Age have mist thee, in this strife
Of Vice, and Virtue; wherein all great Life
Almost, is exercis'd: and scarce one knows,
To which, yet, of the sides himself he owes.
They follow Virtue, for reward, to day;
To morrow Vice, if she give better pay:
And are so good, or bad, just at a price,
As nothing else discerns the Virtue' or Vice,
But thou, whose Nobless keeps one Stature still,
And one true Posture, though besieg'd with ill
Of what Ambition, Faction, Pride can raise;
Whose life, ev'n they, that envy it, must praise;
That are so reverenc'd, as thy coming in,
But in the view, doth interrupt their Sin;
Thou must draw more: and they, that hope to see
The Common-wealth still safe, must study thee.
C I I I.
To Mary Lady Wroth.
Ow well, fair Crown of your fair Sex, might he,
That but the twilight of your Sprite did see,
And noted for what Flesh such Souls were fram'd,
Know you to be a Sydney, though unnam'd?
And being nam'd, how little doth that Name
Need any Muses Praise to give it Fame?
Which is, it self, the Imprese of the great,
And glory of them all, but to repeat!
Forgive me then, if mine but say you are
A Sydney: but in that extend as far
As lowdest Praisers, who perhaps would find
For every part a Character assign'd.
My Praise is plain, and where so ere profest,
Becomes none more than you, who need it least.
C I V.
To Susan Countess of Montgomery.
Ere they that nam'd you, Prophets? Did they see,
Even in the dew of Grace, what you would be?
Or did our Times require it, to behold
A new Susanna, equal to that old?
Or, because some scarce think that Story true,
To make those Faithful, did the Fates send you?
And to your Scene lent no less dignity
Of Birth, of Match, of Form, of Chastity?
Or, more than born for the Comparison
Of former Age, or Glory of our own,
Were you advanced, past those Times to be
The light, and mark unto Posterity?
Judge they, that can: Here I have rais'd to show
A Picture, vvhich the World for yours must know,
And like it too; if they look equally:
If not, 'tis fit for you, some should envy.
To Mary Lady Wroth.
Adam, had all Antiquity been lost,
All History seal'd up, and Fables crost;
That we had left us, nor by Time, nor Place,
Least mention of a Nymph, a Muse, a Grace,
But even their Names were to be made a-new,
Who could not but create them all, from you?
He, that but saw you wear the vvheaten Hat,
Would call you more than Ceres, if not that:
And, drest in Shepherds tyre, who would not say:
You were the bright OEnone, Flora, or May?
If Dancing, all would cry th' Idalian Queen
Were leading forth the Graces on the Green:
And, armed to the Chase, so bare her bow
Diana'alone, so hit, and hunted so.
There's none so dull, that for your style would ask,
That saw you put on Pallas plumed Cask:
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,
There Juno sat, and yet no Peacock by.
So are you Natures Index, and restore,
I'your self, all Treasure lost of th'Age before.