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Hang all your rooms with one large pedigree:
"Tis virtue alone is true nobility:

Which virtue from your father, ripe, will fall;
Study illustrious him, and you have all.

IX.

ELEGY ON MY MUSE, THE TRULY HONORED LADY THE LADY
VENETIA DIGBY; WHO LIVING, GAVE ME LEAVE TO CALL
HER SO, BEING HER AHOGENZIE or, RELATION TO THE

SAINTS.

Must come to take a sentence, by the sense
Of that great evidence, the Conscience,
Who will be there, against that day prepared,
Taccuse or quit all parties to be heard!
O day of joy, and surety to the just,
Who in that feast of resurrection trust!
That great eternal holy day of rest

To body and soul, where love is all the guest!
And the whole banquet is full sight of God,
Of joy the circle, and sole period!

Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina dolore.
"Twere time that I dy'd too, now she is dead,
Who was my Muse, and life of all I said;
The spirit that I wrote with, and conceiv'd:
All that was good, or great with me, she weav'd,
And set it forth; the rest were cobwebs fine,
Spun out in name of some of the old Nine,
To hang a window, or make dark the room,
Till swept away, they were cancell'd with a Against the nature he would worship. He

All other gladness with the thought is barr'd;
Hope hath her end, and Faith hath her reward!

broom!

Nothing that could remain, or yet can stir
A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!

O! had I seen her laid out a fair corse,

By death, on earth, I should have had remorse
On Nature for her; who did let her lic,
And saw that portion of herself to die.
Sleepy or stupid Nature, couldst thou part
With such a rarity, and not rouze Art,
With all her aids, to save her from the seize
Of vulture Death, and those relentless cleis?
Thou wouldst have lost the Phonix, had the kind
Been trusted to thee; not to itself assign'd.
Look on thy sloth, and give thyself undone,
(For so thou art with me) now she is gone:
My wounded mind cannot sustain this stroke,
It rages, runs, flies, stands, and would provoke
The world to ruin with it; in her fall,
I sum up mine own breaking, and wish all.
Thou hast no more blows, Fate, to drive at one;
What's left a poet, when his Muse is gone?
Sure I am dead, and know it not! I feel
Nothing I do but like a heavy wheel,
Am turned with another's powers: my passion
Whirls me about, and, to blaspheme in fashion,
I murmur against God, for having ta'en
Her blessed soul hence, forth this valley vain
Of tears, and dungeon of calamity!
I envy it the angels' amity,

The joy of saints, the crown for which it lives,
The glory and gain of rest, which the place
Dare I profane so irreligious be,

[gives!

To greet or grieve her soft euthanasy!
So sweetly taken to the court of bliss,
As spirits had stolen her spirit in a kiss,
From off her pillow and deluded bed;
And left her lovely body unthought dead;
Indeed she is not dead! but laid to sleep
In earth, till the last trump awake the sheep
And goats together, whither they must come
To hear their Judge, and his eternal doom;
To have that final retribution,
Expected with the flesh's restitution.
For, as there are three natures, schoolmen call
One corporal only, th' other spiritual,
Like single; so there is a third commixt,
Of body and spirit together, placed betwixt
Those other two; which must be judged or
crown'd:

This, as it guilty is, or guiltless found,

This being thus, why should my tongue or pen
Presume to interpel that fulness, when
Nothing can more adorn it than the seat
That she is in, or make it more complete ?
Better be dumb than superstitious:
Who violates the Godhead, is most vicious

Will honor'd be in all simplicity,

Have all his actions wonder'd at, and view'd
With silence and amazement; not with rude,
Dull and profane, weak and imperfect eyes,
Have busy search made in his mysteries!
He knows what work he hath done, to call this
Out of her noble body to this feast: [guest,
And give her place according to her blood
Amongst her peers, those princes of all good!
Saints, Martyrs, Prophets, with those Hierar-
Angels, Arch-angels, Principalities, [chies.
The Dominations, Virtues, and the Powers,
The Thrones, the Cherubs, and Seraphic bowers,
That, planted round, there sing before the Lamb
A new song to his praise, and great I AM :
And she doth know, out of the shade of death,
What 'tis to enjoy an everlasting breath!
To have her captived spirit freed from flesh,
And on her innocence, a garment fresh
And white as that put on and in her hand
With boughs of palm, a crowned victrice stand

And will you, worthy son, sir, knowing this,
Put black and mourning on? and say you mis.
A wife, a friend, a lady, or a love;
Whom her Redeemer honor'd hath above
Her fellows, with the oil of gladness, bright
In heaven's empire, and with a robe of light?
Thither you hope to come; and there to find
That pure, that precious, and exalted mind
You once enjoy'd: a short space severs ye,
Compared unto that long eternity,
That shall rejoin ye. Was she, then, so dear,
When she departed? you will meet her there,
Much more desired, and dearer than before,
By all the wealth of blessings, and the store
Accumulated on her, by the Lord
Of life and light, the son of God, the Word!
There all the happy souls that ever were,
Shall meet with gladness in one theatre;
And each shall know there one another's face
By beatific virtue of the place.

There shall the brother with the sister walk,
And sons and daughters with their parent

talk;

But all of God; they still shall have to say,
But make him All in All, their Theme, that day;
That happy day that never shall see night!
Where he will be all beauty to the sight;
Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste;
A music in the ears will ever last;

Unto the scent, a spicery or balm;
And to the touch, a flower like soft as palm.
He will all glory, all perfection be,
God in the Union, and the Trinity!
That holy, great, and glorious mystery,
Will there revealed be in majesty !
By light and comfort of spiritual grace!
The vision of our Savior face to face
In his humanity! to hear him preach
The price of our redemption, and to teach
Through his inherent righteousness, in death,
The safety of our souls, and forfeit breath!

What fulness of beatitude is here!
What love with mercy mixed doth appear,
To style us friends, who were, by nature foes!
Adopt us heirs by grace, who were of those
Had lost ourselves, and prodigally spent
Our native portions, and possessed rent!
Yet have all debts forgiven us, and advance
By' imputed right to an inheritance
In his eternal kingdom, where we sit
Equal with angels, and co-heirs of it.
Nor dare we under blasphemy conceive

And came forth ever cheered with the rod
Of divine comfort, when she had talk'd with
God.

Her broken sighs did never miss whole sense
Nor can the bruised heart want eloquence:
For prayer is the incense most perfumes
The holy altars, when it least presumes.
And hers were all humility! they beat
The door of grace, and found the mercy-seat.
In frequent speaking by the pious psalms
Her solemn hours she spent, or giving alms,
Or doing other deeds of charity,

To clothe the naked, feed the hungry. She
Would sit in an infirmary whole days
Poring, as on a map, to find the ways

To that eternal rest, where now she hath place
By sure election and predestin'd grace!
She saw her Savior, by an early light,
Incarnate in the manger, shining bright
On all the world! she saw him on the cross
Suff ring and dying to redeem our loss:
She saw him rise triumphing over death,
To justify and quicken us in breath;

He that shall be our supreme judge, shall leave She saw him too in glory to ascend
Himself so uninform'd of his elect,

Who knows the hearts of all, and can dissect
The smallest fibre of our flesh; he can
Find all our atoms from a point t' a span :
Our closest creeks and corners, and can trace
Each line, as it were graphic, in the face.
And best he knew her noble character,
For 'twas himself who form'd and gave it her.
And to that form lent two such veins of blood,
As nature could not more increase the flood
Of title in her! all nobility

But pride, that schism of incivility,
She had, and it became her! she was fit
T have known no envy, but by suff ring it!
She had a mind as calm as she was fair;
Not tost or troubled with light lady-air,
But kept an even gait, as some straight tree
Mov'd by the wind, so comely moved she.
And by the awful manage of her eye,
She sway'd all bus'ness in the family.
To one she said, do this, he did it; so
To another, move, he went; to a third, go,
He ran; and all did strive with diligence
Tobey, and serve her sweet commandements.
She was in one a many parts of life;
A tender mother, a discreeter wife,
A solemn mistress, and so good a friend,
So charitable to religious end

In all her petite actions, so devote,

As her whole life was now become one note
Of piety and private holiness.

She spent more time in tears herself to dress
For her devotions, and those sad essays
Of sorrow, than all pomp of gaudy days;

For his designed work the perfect end
Of raising, judging and rewarding all

The kind of man, on whom his doom should
fall!

All this by faith she saw, and fram'd a plea,
In manner of a daily apostrophe,

To him should be her judge, true God, true
Man,

Jesus, the only-gotten Christ! who can,
As being redeemer and repairer too

Of lapsed nature, best knew what to do,
In that great act of judgment, which the father
Hath given wholly to the son (the rather
As being the son of man) to shew his power,
His wisdom, and his justice, in that hour,
The last of hours, and shutter up of all;
Where first his power will appear, by call
Of all are dead to life; his wisdom show
In the discerning of each conscience so;
And most his justice, in the fitting parts,
And giving dues to all mankind's deserts!

In this sweet extasy she was rapt hence.
Who reads, will pardon my intelligence,
That thus have ventured these true strains
upon,

To publish her a saint. MY MUSE IS GONE!
In pietatis memoriam

quam præstas
Venetiæ tuæ illustrissim.
Marit. dign. Digbeie

Ianc'АПОOENZIN, tibi, tuisque sacro.

THE TENTH,

TEING HER INSCRIPTION, OR CROWN, IS 1,037

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From the Latin of Ben Jonson, engraven in Marble over the Chimney, in the Apolin of the
Old Devil Tavern, at Temple-Bar; that being his Club-Room.

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7 Let the caterer mind the taste of each guest; And the cook, in his dressing, comply with their wishes.

IV.

8 Let's have no disturbance about taking places,

To shew your nice breeding, or out of vain pride. 9 Let the drawers be ready with wine and fresh glasses,

Let the waiters have eyes, though their tongues must be ty'd.

V.

Let none be deparr'd from his choice female 10 Let our wines without mixture or stum, be

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all fine,

Or call up the master, and break his dull noddle.

11 Let no sober bigot here think it a sin, To push on the chirping and moderate bottle.

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TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN POETS.

HORACE HIS ART OF POETRY.

HORATIUS DE ARTE POETICA.

Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam
Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas
Undique collatis membris, ut turpitèr atrum
Desinat in piscem mulier formosa supernè ;
Spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici?
Credite, Fisones, isti tabulæ fore librum
Persimilem, cujus, velut ægri somnia, vanæ
Fingentur species: ut nec pes, nec caput uni
Reddatur formæ. Pictoribus atque poëtis
Quidiibet audendi semper fuit æqua potestas.
Scimus; et hanc veniam petimusque, damusque,
vicissim:

Sed non ut placidis coëant immitia, non ut
Serpentes avibus geminentur, tigribus agni.

Incaptis gravibus plerumque, et magna professis Purpureus, latè qui splendeat, unus et alter Assuntur pannus: cùm lucus et ara Dianæ, Et properantis aquæ per amœnos ambitus agros, Aut flumen Rhenum, aut pluvius describitur arcus Sed nunc non erat his locus: et fortasse cupressum Scis simulare: quid hoc, si fractis enatat exspes Navibus, ære dato qui pingitur? amphora cæpit Institui; currente rotâ, cur urceus exit? Denique sit, quod vis, simplex duntaxat et unum.

Maxima pars vatum, pater, ct juvenes patre digni,

Decipimur specie recti. Brevis esse laboro,
Obscurus fio: sectantem lævia, nervi
Deficiunt animique: professus grandia, turget:
Serpit humi, tutus nimium, timidusque procellæ.
Qui variare cupit rem prodigaliter unam,
Delphinum sylvis appingit, fluctibus aprum.
In vitium ducit culpæ fuga, si caret arte.

Emilium circa ludum faber imus, et ungues Exprimei, et molles imitabitur ære capillos; Infelix operis summâ, quia ponere totum Nesciet. Hunc ego me, si quid componere curem.

HORACE OF THE ART OF POETRY.

Ir to a woman's head a painter would
Set a horse-neck, and divers feathers fold
On every limb, ta'en from a several creature,
Presenting upwards a fair female feature,
Which in some swarthy fish uncomely ends:
Admitted to the sight, although his friends,
Could you contain your laughter? Credit me
This piece, my Pisos, and that book agree,
Whose shapes, like sick men's dreams, are
feign'd so vain,

[it:

As neither head, nor feet, one form retain. -
But equal power to painter and to poet,
Of daring all, hath still been given. We know
And both do crave, and give again, this leave.
Yet, not as therefore wild and tame should
cleave

Together; not that we should serpents see
With doves; or lambs with tigers coupled be.

In grave beginnings, and great things profest, Ye have oft-times, that may o'ershine the rest, A scarlet piece, or two, stitch'd in: when or Diana's grove, or altar, with the borD'ring circles of swift waters that intwine The pleasant grounds, or when the river Rhine, Or rainbow is describ'd. But here was now No place for these. And, painter, haply thou Know'st only well to paint a cypress-tree. What's this? if he whose money hireth thee To paint him, hath by swimming, hopeless, scap'd, The whole fleet wreck'd? A great jar to be shap'd, Was meant at first; why forcing still about Thy laboring wheel, comes scarce a pitcher out? In short, I bid, let what thou work'st upon, Be simple quite throughout, and wholly onc. Most writers, noble sire, and either son, Are, with the likeness of the truth, undone. Myself for shortness labor, and I grow Obscure. This, striving to run smooth, and flow Hath neither soul nor sinews. Lofty he Professing greatness, swells; that, low by lec, Creeps on the ground; too safe, afraid of storm This seeking, in a various kind, to form One thing prodigiously, paints in the woods A dolphin, and a boar amid the floods, So, shunning faults to greater fault doth lead, When in a wrong and artless way we tread. The worst of statuaries, here about Th' Emilian school, in brass can fashion out The nails, and every curled hair disclose; But in the main work hapless: since he know! Not to design the whole. Should I aspire To form a work, I would no more desire

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