T'inform and teach? or your unwearied pain Of gathering? bounty in pouring out again? What fables have you vexed, what truth redeemed,

Antiquities searched, opinions disesteemed, Impostures branded, and authorities urged! What blots and errors have you watched and purged

Records and authors of! how rectified

'Times, manners, customs innovations spied!

Sought out the fountains, sources, creeks, paths, ways,

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 examined! how
Conjectures retrieved! and a story now
And then of times (besides the bare conduct
Of what it tells us) weaved in to instruct!
I wondered at the richness, but am lost
To see the workmanship so' exceed the
cost!

To mark the excéllent seasoning of your style,1

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!

Iyield, 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 thanked the same,

But nought beyond. He thou hast given it to,2

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

Thy gift 'gainst envy. O how I do count Among my comings in, and see it mount, 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, what would furnish a tenth muse! But here's no time nor place my wealth to tell,

You both are modest. So am I. Farewell.

XXXII.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

(MASTER COLBY),

TO PERSUADE HIM TO THE WARS. Wake, friend, from forth thy lethargy the drum

Beats brave and loud in Europe, and bids

come

All that dare rouse : or are not loth to quit Their vicious ease, and be o'erwhelmed 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 :
Quickening 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 begged, 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 Crushed 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 called, and thought the hap-
piest man,

Humanity enough to be a friend,

[ To mark the excellent seasonings of your style

And masculine elocution, 1614.-F. C.] 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."

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 bogged in vices stay.
The whole world here leavened with mad-
ness swells;

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 checked 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 masked hatred! justice fled,

And shamefastness 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 mixed

To make up greatness! and man's whole good fixed

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, stretched 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: To do't with cloth, or stuffs, lust's name might merit,

With velvet, plush, and tissues, it is spirit. O these so ignorant monsters, light as proud!

Who can behold their manners, and not cloud

Like, on them lighten? If that nature could

Not make a verse, anger or laughter would,' To see them aye discoursing with their glass, How they may make some one that day an

ass,

Planting their purls and curls, spread forth like net,

And every dressing for a pit-fall set
To catch the flesh in, and to pound a
Be at their visits, see them squeamish, sick,
Ready to cast at one whose band sits ill,
And then leap mad on a neat pickardill,
As if a brize were gotten in their tail;
And firk, and jerk, and for the coachman
rail,

And jealous each of other, yet think long
To be abroad chanting some bawdy song,
And laugh, and measure thighs, then squeak,
spring, itch,

Do all the tricks of a salt lady bitch! For t'other pound of sweetmeats, he shall feel

That pays, or what he will: the dame is

steel.

For these with her young company she'll enter,

Where Pittes, or Wright, or Modet would not venture;

And comes by these degrees the style t'inherit

Of woman of fashion, and a lady of spirit.
Nor is the title questioned with our proud,
Great, brave, and fashioned folk, these are
allowed;

Adulteries now are not so hid or strange,
They're grown commodity upon Exchange:
He that will follow but another's wife,
Is loved, though he let out his own for life;
The husband now's called churlish, or a
poor

Nature, that will not let his wife be a whore;
Or use all arts, or haunt all companies
That may corrupt her, even in his eyes.
The brother trades a sister, and the friend
Lives to the lord, but to the lady's end.
Less must not be thought on than mistress;

The servant of the serving-woman, in scorn, Ne'er came to taste the plenteous marriagehorn.

Thus they do talk. And are these objects fit

For man to spend his money on? his wit? His time? health? soul? Will he for these go throw

Those thousands on his back, shall after blow

His body to the Counters, or the Fleet?
Is it for these that Fine-man meets the

street

Coached, or on foot-cloth, thrice changed every day,

To teach each suit he has the ready way From Hyde Park to the Stage, where at the last

His dear and borrowed bravery he must cast?

When not his combs, his curling-irons, his glass,

Sweet bags, sweet powders, nor sweet words will pass

For less security. O [heavens !] for these Is it that man pulls on himself disease, Surfeit, and quarrel? drinks the t'other health?

Or by damnation voids it, or by stealth? What fury of late is crept into our feasts? What honour given to the drunkenest guests?

What reputation to bear one glass more. When oft the bearer is borne out of door? This hath our ill-used freedom, and soft peace

Brought on us, and will every hour increase.
Our vices do not tarry in a place,

But being in motion still, or rather in race,
Tilt one upon another, and now bear
This way, now that, as if their number

were

More than themselves, or than our lives could take,

But both fell prest under the load they make. I'll bid thee look no more, but flee, flee, friend,

This precipice, and rocks that have no end, Or side, but threatens ruin. The whole day Is not enough now, but the nights to play: And whilst our states, strength, body, and mind we waste,

Go make ourselves the usurers at a cast. He that no more for age, cramps, palsies

can

Now use the bones, we see doth hire a man To take the box up for him; and pursues The dice with glassen eyes, to the glad views

Of what he throws: like letchers grown

content

To be beholders, when their powers are spent.

Can we not leave this worm? or will we not?

Is that the truer excuse? or have we got
In this, and like, an itch of vanity,
That scratching now's our best felicity?
Well, let it go. Yet this is better, than
To lose the forms and dignities of man,
To flatter my good lord, and cry his bowl
Runs sweetly, as it had his lordship's soul:
Although perhaps it has, what's that to me,
That may stand by and hold my peace?
will he,

When I am hoarse with praising his each cast,

Give me but that again that I must waste
In sugar candied or in buttered beer,
For the recovery of my voice? No, there
Pardon his lordship; flatt'ry's grown so
cheap

With him, for he is followed with that heap,

That watch and catch at what they may applaud,

As a poor single flatterer, without bawd Is nothing, such scarce meat and drink he'll give,

But he that's both, and slave to both, shall live

And be beloved while the whores last. O times!

Friend, fly from hence, and let these kindled rhymes

Light thee from hell on earth; where flatterers, spies,

Informers, Masters both of Arts and lies; Lewd slanderers, soft whisperers, that let blood

The life and fame-veins, yet not understood

Of the poor sufferers; where the envious, proud,

Ambitious, factious, superstitious, loud Boasters, and perjured, with the infinite

more

Prevaricators swarm of which the store (Because they're everywhere amongst mankind

Spread through the world) is easier far to find,

Than once to number, or bring forth to hand,

Though thou wert Muster-master of the Land.

Go, quit them all! And take along with thee,

1

That thou think nothing great but what is good;

XXXIV.

EPISTLE

TO A FRIEND.

They are not, sir, worst owers that do pay Debts when they can: good men may break their day,

And yet the noble nature never grudge; 'Tis then a crime, when the usurer is judge, And he is not in friendship: nothing there Is done for gain; if't be, 'tis not sincere. Nor should I at this time protested be, But that some greater names have broke with me,

And their words too, where I but break my band;3

I add that BUT, because I understand
That as the lesser breach: for he that takes

stood.

So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame Still precious with the odour of thy name. And last, blaspheme not; we did never

hear

Man thought the valianter, 'cause he durst

swear;

No more than we should think a lord had

had

More honour in him, 'cause we've known him mad:

These take, and now go seek thy peace in

war,

Who falls for love of God, shall rise a star.

XXXIII.

AN EPITAPH

ON MASTER PHILIP GRAY. Reader, stay, And if I had no more to say, But here doth lie, till the last day, All that is left of PHILIP GRAY, It might thy patience richly pay:

1

For if such men as he could die," What surety' of life have thou and I?

And take along with thee Thy true friend's wishes, Colby.] The name of the person to whom this epistle is addressed; he appears to have been in the military service, and from the preceding line was probably mustermaster of the forces.-WHAL.

For if such men, &c.] The force of this Epitaph is not felt, for want of knowing the character whose fate led to these reflections.

Chetwood has an Epitaph on Prince Henry which he ascribes to Jonson, and which the reader may perhaps expect to find in a collection of his works. I have little confidence in this VOL. III.

And looks unto the forfeit. If you be Now so much friend, as you would trust in me,

Venture a longer time, and willingly :
All is not barren land doth fallow lie;
Some grounds are made the richer for the
rest;

And I will bring a crop, if not the best.

XXXV.

AN ELEGY.

Can beauty, that did prompt me first to write,

Now threaten with those means she did invite ?

Did her perfections call me on to gaze, Then like, then love; and now would they amaze !

Or was she gracious afar off, but near
A terror? or is all this but my fear?
That as the water makes things, put in't
straight,

Crooked appear; so that doth my conceit: I can help that with boldness; and Love sware, 4

writer, who seldom mentions his authorities and, to say the truth, can discover nothing of our author's manner in the composition itself, which appears to be patched up from different poems, and is therefore omitted; though I have thought it right to mention the circumstance.

3 Where I but break my band.] i.e., whereas, in the old sense of the word. Jonson pleads his cause well, and probably kept his word (if it was taken) better than his bond.

And Love sware.] He alludes to the two proverbs, Faint heart, &c., and Fortes Fortuna juvat. x

And Fortune once, t'assist the spirits that dare.

But which shall lead me on? both these are blind.

Such guides men use not, who their way would find,

Except the way be error to those ends; And then the best are still the blindest friends.

Oh how a lover may mistake! to think
Or Love, or Fortune blind, when they but
wink

To see men fear; or else for truth and state,
Because they would free justice imitate,
Vail their own eyes, and would impartially
Be brought by us to meet our destiny.
If it be thus, come Love, and Fortune go,
I'll lead you on; or if my fate will so,
'That I must send one first, my choice assigns
Love to my heart and Fortune to my lines.

Unto the other; and live patterns, how
Others, in time, may love as we do now.
Slip no occasion: as time stands not still,
I know no beauty nor no youth that will.
To use the present, then, is not abuse,
You have a husband is the just excuse
Of all that can be done him; such a one
As would make shift to make himself alone
That which we can; who both in you, his
wife,

His issue, and all circumstance of life,
As in his place, because he would not vary,
Is constant to be extraordinary.

XXXVII.

A SATIRICAL SHRUB.2

A woman's friendship! God, whom I trustin,
Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin,
Amongst my many other, that I may
No more, I am sorry for so fond cause, say
At fifty years almost, to value it,

That ne'er was known to last above a fit!

Or have the least of good, but what it must Put on for fashion, and take up on trust. Knew I all this afore? had I perceived That their whole life was wickedness, though weaved

of many colours; outward, fresh from spots, But their whole inside full of ends and

knots?

Knew I that all their dialogues and dis

course

Were such as I will now relate, or worse?

#3

Knew I this woman? yes, and you do see,
How penitent I am, or I should be,
Do not you ask to know her, she is worse
Than all ingredients made into one curse,
And that poured out upon mankind, can be:
Think but the sin of all her sex, 'tis she!
I could forgive her being proud! a whore !
Perjured! and painted! if she were no more
But she is such as she might yet forestall
The devil, and be the damning of us all.

This is a curious mode of settling precedency; but it shall be as Whalley pleases. This little piece begins much better than it ends.

2 This is more in the style and manner of Donne than of our author. It may, however, be his; though I suspect that the loose scraps found after his death among his papers were committed to the press without much examination. There was undoubtedly an intercommunity of verse between the two friends; but I do not wish to carry the argument any further.

Here (the folio says) something is wanting,