AN EPISTLE TO MASTER JOHN Selden.2
KNOW to whom I write; here, I am sure,
Though I be short, I cannot be obscure :3
Less shall I for the art or dressing care,
Truth and the Graces best when naked are.
Your book, my Selden, I have read; and much
Was trusted, that you thought my judgment such
To ask it though, in most of works, it be
A penance where a man may not be free,
Rather than office; when it doth, or may
Chance, that the friend's affection proves allay
Unto the censure. Your's all need doth fly
Of this so vicious humanity;
Than which, there is not unto study a more
Pernicious enemy. We see before
2 This Epistle, as the folio calls it, is prefixed to the first edition. of Selden's Titles of Honour, 1614, with this address: "Ben Jonson to his honoured friend, master John Selden."
There was an extraordinary degree of kindness between these two most learned men, which continued to the end of Jonson's life. They communicated their works, and mutually assisted each other. Selden, who was above flattery, affectionately addresses our author in the work here mentioned, as one that was
omnia carmina doctus,
Et callet mythwv plasmata, et historiam.
And he, who was superior to envy, speaks with conscious pride of the aid which he derived from Selden's unbounded acquaintance with literary subjects.
Selden's life was useful, and his death instructive. drawn in by the crooked politics of the times in which he lived; but he escaped from them to his studies, at every convenient opportunity; and though he might be sometimes dissatisfied, he was never factious.
A many' of books, even good judgments wound Themselves, through favouring that is there not found;
But I to your's far otherwise shall do,
Not fly the crime, but the suspicion too :
Though I confess (as every muse hath err'd,
And mine not least) I have too oft preferr'd
Men past their terms, and prais'd some names too much;
But 'twas with purpose to have made them such.
Since, being deceiv'd, I turn a sharper eye
Upon myself, and ask to whom, and why,
And what I write? and vex it many days
Before men get a verse, much less a praise;
So that my reader is assured, I now
Mean what I speak, and still will keep that vow.
Stand forth my object, then. You that have been
Ever at home, yet have all countries seen;
And like a compass, keeping one foot still
Upon your centre, do your circle fill
Of general knowledge; watch'd men, manners too,
Heard what times past have said, seen what ours do!
Which grace shall I make love to first? your skill,
Or faith in things? or is't your wealth and will
T' inform and teach? or your unwearied pain
Of gathering? bounty in pouring out again?
What fables have you vex'd, what truth redeem'd,
Antiquities search'd, opinions disesteem'd,
Impostures branded, and authorities urg'd!
What blots and errors have you watch'd and purg'd
Records and authors of! how rectified
Times, manners, customs! innovations spied!
Sought out the fountains, sources, creeks, paths,
And noted the beginnings and decays!
Where is that nominal mark, or real rite,
Form, act, or ensign, that hath scaped your sight?
How are traditions there examin'd! how
Conjectures retriev'd! and a story now
And then of times (besides the bare conduct
Of what it tells us) weav'd in to instruct!
I wonder'd at the richness, but am lost,
To see the workmanship so' exceed the cost!
To mark the excellent seasoning of your style,
And manly elocution! not one while
With horror rough, then rioting with wit;
But to the subject still the colours fit,
In sharpness of all search, wisdom of choice,
Newness of sense, antiquity of voice!
I yield, I yield. The matter of your praise
Flows in upon me, and I cannot raise
A bank against it: nothing but the round
Large clasp of Nature such a wit can bound.
Monarch in letters! 'mongst the Titles shown
Of others honours, thus enjoy thy own.
I first salute thee so; and gratulate
With that thy style, thy keeping of thy state;
In offering this thy work to no great name,
That would, perhaps, have praised and thank'd the
But nought beyond. He, thou hast given it to,*
Thy learned chamber-fellow, knows to do
It true respects: he will not only love,
Embrace, and cherish; but he can approve
And estimate thy pains, as having wrought
In the same mines of knowledge; and thence brought
Humanity enough to be a friend,
And strength to be a champion, and defend
Among my comings in, and see it mount,
He, thou hast given it to,
Thy learned chamber-fellow, &c.] The volume is dedicated by Selden to "my most beloved friend, and chamber-fellow, Edward Heyward, of Cardeston, in Norfolk, Esq."
The gain of two such friendships! Heyward and
Selden! two names that so much understand!
On whom I could take up, and ne'er abuse
The credit, that would furnish a tenth muse!
But here's no time nor place my wealth to tell,
You both are modest. So am I.
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,
(MASTER COLBY,)
TO PERSUADE HIM TO THE WARS.
AKE, friend, from forth thy lethargy! the
Beats brave and loud in Europe, and bids
All that dare rouse or are not loth to quit
Their vicious ease, and be o'erwhelm'd with it.
It is a call to keep the spirits alive
That gasp for action, and would yet revive
Man's buried honour, in his sleepy life :
Quickning dead nature to her noblest strife.
All other acts of worldlings are but toil
In dreams, begun in hope, and end in spoil.
Look on the ambitious man, and see him nurse
His unjust hopes with praises begg'd, or, worse,
Bought flatteries, the issue of his purse,
Till he become both their and his own curse!
Look on the false and cunning man, that loves
No person, nor is loved: what ways he proves
To gain upon his belly; and at last
Crush'd in the snaky brakes that he had past!
See the grave, sour, and supercilious sir,
In outward face, but inward, light as fur,
Or feathers, lay his fortune out to show,
Till envy wound or maim it at a blow!
See him that's call'd, and thought the happiest man, Honour'd at once, and envied (if it can
Be honour is so mix'd) by such as would
For all their spite, be like him, if they could:
No part or corner man can look upon,
But there are objects bid him to be gone
As far as he can fly, or follow day,
Rather than here so bogg'd in vices stay.
The whole world here leaven'd with madness
And being a thing blown out of nought, rebels
Against his Maker, high alone with weeds,
And impious rankness of all sects and seeds :
Not to be check'd or frighted now with fate,
But more licentious made and desperate!
Our delicacies are grown capital,
And even our sports are dangers! what we call
Friendship, is now mask'd hatred! justice fled,
And shamefac'dness together! all laws dead
That kept man living! pleasures only sought!
Honour and honesty, as poor things thought
As they are made! pride and stiff clownage mix'd
To make up greatness! and man's whole good fix'd
In bravery, or gluttony, or coin,
All which he makes the servants of the groin !
Thither it flows: how much did Stallion spend
To have his court-bred filly there commend
His lace and starch; and fall upon her back
In admiration, stretch'd upon the rack
Of lust, to his rich suit, and title, Lord?
Ay, that's a charm and half! she must afford
That all respect, she must lie down; nay, more,
'Tis there civility to be a whore :
He's one of blood and fashion! and with these
The bravery makes she can no honour leese:
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