O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand,
For what can wars but endless wars still breed,
Till truth and right from violence be freed,
And public faith cleared from the shameful brand
Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed
While avarice and rapine291 share the land.
SONNET 16
1652
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions292 rude,293
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude
To peace and truth thy glorious way hath ploughed,
And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud
Hast reared God’s trophies, and His work pursued,
While Darwen294 stream with blood of Scots embru’d,295
And Dunbar296 field resounds thy praises loud,
And Worcester’s297 laureat wreath, yet much remains
To conquer still. Peace hath her victories
No less renowned than war, new foes arise,
Threat’ning to bind our souls with secular chains!
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.298
SONNET 17
1652
Vane,299 young in years but in sage counsel old,
Than whom a better senator ne’er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns,300
The fierce Epeirut 301 and th’ African 302 bold:
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold
The drift 303 of hollow304 states, hard to be spelled;305
Then to advise how war may best, upheld,
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
In all her equipage;306 besides, to know
Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,
What severs each—thou hast learned, which few have done.
The bounds of either sword to thee we owe.
Therefore, on thy firm hand religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.
SONNET 18
1655
Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered Saints,307 whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold—
Ev’n them who kept Thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones!
Forget not! In Thy book record 308 their groans,
Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 309
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, who rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To Heav’n. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O’er all th’ Italian fields where still doth sway
The triple tyrant,310 that from these may grow
A hundred-fold, who having learned Thy way
Early, may fly311 the Babylonian woe.312
SONNET 19
1655
When I consider how my life is spent,313
Ere 314 half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent315 which is death to hide
Lodged with me, useless, though my soul more bent 316
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 317
My true account, lest He, returning,318 chide—319
“Doth God exact day labor, light denied?”
I fondly ask, but patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at His bidding speed
And post 320 o’er land and ocean, without rest.
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
SONNET 20
1655
Lawrence,321 of virtuous father, virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways 322 are mire,323
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen 324 day, what 325 may be won
From the hard season326 gaining? 327 Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius 328 re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.329
What neat 330 repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan 331 air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare 332
To interpose 333 them oft, is not unwise.
SONNET 21
1655
Cyriack! 334 Whose grandsire on the Royal Bench 335
Of British Themis,336 with no mean 337 applause
Pronounced 338 and in his volumes 339 taught our laws,
Which others at their Bar 340 so often wrench 341 —
Today deep thoughts resolve with me to drench 342
In mirth, that after no repenting draws.343
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,
And what the Swede344 intends, and what the French!
To measure life, learn thou betimes345 and know
Toward solid 346 good what leads the nearest way.
For other things, mild Heav’n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains!
SONNET 22
1655
Cyriack, this three years day these eyes, though clear
To outward view of blemish or of spot,
Bereft 347 of light their seeing have forgot,
Nor to their idle 348 orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heav’n’s hand or will, nor bate 349 a jot 350
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, t’ have lost them overplied 351
In liberty’s defense, my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world’s vain mask,
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.
SONNET 23
1656–58?
Methought I saw my late espousèd saint 352
Brought to me, like Alcestis,353 from the grave,
Who Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine as whom, washed from spot of child-bed taint,354
Purification in th’ old law 355 did save,
And such as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heav’n, without restraint,356
Came vested 357 all in white, pure as her mind.
Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O, as to embrace me she inclined,358
I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.
ON SHAKESPEARE
1630
What needs my Shakespeare, for his honored bones,
The labor of an age in pilèd stones,
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory,359 great heir of fame,
What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a livelong monument!
For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavoring 360 art
Thy easy numbers 361 flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued 362 book
Tho
se Delphic363 lines with deep 364 impression 365 took,
Then thou our fancy, of itself bereaving,366
Dost make us marble 367 with too much conceiving,368
And so sepulchred 369 in such pomp 370 dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER371
1631
who sickened in the time of his vacancy,372 being forbid to
go to London by reason of the Plague.
Here lies old Hobson.373 Death has broke his girt 374
And here, alas, hath laid him in the dirt,
Or else the ways 375 being foul, twenty to one
He’s here stuck in a slough,376 and overthrown.
’Twas such a shifter,377 that if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down,
For he had any time this ten years full 378
Dodged379 with him, betwixt Cambridge and The Bull.380
And surely, Death could never have prevailed
Had not his weekly course of carriage 381 failed,
But lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journey’s end was come,
And that he had ta’en up his latest inn,
In the kind office of a chamberlain 382
Showed him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pulled off his boots, and took away the light.383
If any ask for him, it shall be said,
“Hobson has supped, and’s newly gone to bed.”
ANOTHER ON THE SAME
1631
Here lieth one who did most truly prove
That he could never die while he could move,
So hung 384 his destiny never to rot 385
While he might still jog on and keep his trot,
Made of sphere-metal,386 never to decay
Until his revolution387 was at stay.388
Time numbers389 motion, yet (without a crime
’Gainst old truth) motion numbered out his time,
And like an engine390 moved with wheel and weight,
His principles391 being ceased, he ended straight.392
Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing393 put him out of breath.
Nor were it contradiction to affirm
Too long vacation hastened on his term.394
Merely to drive the time away 395 he sickened,
Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quickened.396
“Nay,” quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretched,
“If I may not carry, sure I’ll ne’er be fetched,397
But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,
For one carrier put down398 to make six bearers.” 399
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right
He died for heaviness400 that his cart went light.
His leisure 401 told him that his time was come,
And lack of load 402 made his life burdensome,
That 403 even to his last breath (there be that say’t)
As 404 he were pressed to death,405 he cried, “More weight!”
But had his doings lasted as they were
He had been an immortal carrier.406
Obedient to the moon, he spent his date 407
In course reciprocal,408 and had his fate
Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain409 was his increase.
His letters are delivered all and gone,
Only remains this superscription.410
AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER
1631
This rich marble doth inter 411
The honored wife of Winchester,412
A Viscount’s daughter,413 an Earl’s heir,414
Besides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More than she could own from earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She had told 415 —alas, too soon,
And so short time of breath,
To house416 with darkness and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Been as complete as was her praise,
Nature and Fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth and her graces sweet
Quickly found a lover meet;417
The virgin choir for her request
The god that sits at marriage feast.418
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce well-lighted flame,419
And in his garland as he stood
Ye might discern a cypress bud.420
Once had the early matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,421
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina 422 to her throes.423
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos 424 for Lucina came,
And with remorseless cruelty
Spoiled at once both fruit and tree:
The hapless babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languished mother’s womb
Was not long a living tomb.425
So have I seen some tender slip 426
Saved with care from winter’s nip,
The pride of her carnation train,427
Plucked up by some unheedy 428 swain429
Who only thought to crop 430 the flower
New shot up from vernal431 shower.
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Sideways as on a dying bed,
And those pearls of dew she wears
Prove to be presaging432 tears
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hastening funeral.
Gentle lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have.
After this, thy travail sore,
Sweet rest seize thee evermore,
That to give the world increase
Shortened hast thy own life’s lease.
Here besides the sorrowing
That thy noble house doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon,433
And some flowers and some bays434
For thy hearse to strew the ways,435
Sent thee from the banks of Came,436
Devoted to thy virtuous name,
Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitt’st in glory,
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian shepherdess 437
Who after years of barrenness
The highly-favored Joseph bore
To him that served for her before,438
And at her next birth, much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,439
Far within the bosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light.
There with thee, new-welcome Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.
L’ALLEGRO440
1631?
Hence, loathèd melancholy,
Of Cerberus 441 and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian 442 cave forlorn
Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
Find out some uncouth 443 cell 444
Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-raven sings.
There under ebon shades and low-browed 445 rocks
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian446 desert ever dwell.
But come thou, goddess fair and free,
In Heaven yclept 447 Euphrosyne,448
And by men heart-easing mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore—
Or whe
ther (as some, sager, sing)
The frolic wind that breathes 449 the spring,
Zephyr with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying,
There on beds of violets blue
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom,450 blithe,451 and debonair.452
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful jollity,
Quips and cranks,453 and wanton wiles,454
Nods, and becks,455 and wreathèd smiles
Such as hang on Hebe’s 456 cheek
And love to live in dimple sleek,
Sport 457 that wrinkled care derides,
And laughter, holding both its sides.
Come, and trip it as ye go
On the light-fantastic toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet liberty.
And if I give thee honor due,