Classic Poem

To the Honourable Mr. Wm. E.

Hee who is good is happy. Let the loude
Artillery of Heaven breake through a cloude
And dart its thunder at him; hee'le remaine
Vnmov'd, and nobler comfort entertaine
In welcomming th' approach of death, then vice
Ere found in her fictitious Paradise.
Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past
Delights, and raise our appitite to taste
Ensuing) brings us to unflatter'd age.
Where we are left to satisfie the rage
Of threatning Death: Pompe, beauty, wealth, and all
Our friendships, shrinking from the funerall.
The thought of this begets that brave disdaine
With which thou view'st the world and makes those vaine
Treasures of fancy, serious fooles so court,
And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.
What should we covet here? Why interpose
A cloud twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature chose
Mans soule th' Exchecquer where she'd hoord her wealth,
And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealth
Of our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,
The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.
The learn'd Halcyon by her wisedome finds
A gentle season, when the seas and winds
Are silenc't by a calme, and then brings forth
The happy miracle of her rare birth,
Leaving with wonder all our arts possest,
That view the architecture of her nest.
Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestowe
Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow
By age to dotage: while the sensitive
Part of the World in it's first strength doth live.
Folly? what dost thou in thy power containe
Deserves our study? Merchants plough the maine
And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,
By avarice in the possession poore.
And yet that Idoll wealth we all admit
Into the soules great temple. Busie wit
Invents new Orgies, fancy frames new rites
To show it's superstition, anxious nights
Are watcht to win its favour: while the beast
Content with Natures courtesie doth rest.
Let man then boast no more a soule, since he
Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee
(Whom Fortune hath exempted from the heard
Of vulgar men, whom vertue hath prefer'd
Farre higher than thy birth) I must commend,
Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.
And though my fate conducts me to the shade
Of humble quiet, my ambition payde
With safe content, while a pure Virgin fame
Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name.
No thought of glory swelling me above
The hope of being famed for vertuous love.
Yet wish I thee, guided by better starres
To purchase unsafe honour in the warres
Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race,
And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.
Yet know, what busie path so-ere you tread
To greatnesse, you must sleepe among the dead.

To the Honourable Mr. Wm. E.

Hee who is good is happy. Let the loude
Artillery of Heaven breake through a cloude
And dart its thunder at him; hee'le remaine
Vnmov'd, and nobler comfort entertaine
In welcomming th' approach of death, then vice
Ere found in her fictitious Paradise.
Time mocks our youth, and (while we number past
Delights, and raise our appitite to taste
Ensuing) brings us to unflatter'd age.
Where we are left to satisfie the rage
Of threatning Death: Pompe, beauty, wealth, and all
Our friendships, shrinking from the funerall.
The thought of this begets that brave disdaine
With which thou view'st the world and makes those vaine
Treasures of fancy, serious fooles so court,
And sweat to purchase, thy contempt or sport.
What should we covet here? Why interpose
A cloud twixt us and heaven? Kind Nature chose
Mans soule th' Exchecquer where she'd hoord her wealth,
And lodge all her rich secrets; but by th' stealth
Of our owne vanity, w'are left so poore,
The creature meerely sensuall knowes more.
The learn'd Halcyon by her wisedome finds
A gentle season, when the seas and winds
Are silenc't by a calme, and then brings forth
The happy miracle of her rare birth,
Leaving with wonder all our arts possest,
That view the architecture of her nest.
Pride raiseth us 'bove justice. We bestowe
Increase of knowledge on old minds, which grow
By age to dotage: while the sensitive
Part of the World in it's first strength doth live.
Folly? what dost thou in thy power containe
Deserves our study? Merchants plough the maine
And bring home th' Indies, yet aspire to more,
By avarice in the possession poore.
And yet that Idoll wealth we all admit
Into the soules great temple. Busie wit
Invents new Orgies, fancy frames new rites
To show it's superstition, anxious nights
Are watcht to win its favour: while the beast
Content with Natures courtesie doth rest.
Let man then boast no more a soule, since he
Hath lost that great prerogative. But thee
(Whom Fortune hath exempted from the heard
Of vulgar men, whom vertue hath prefer'd
Farre higher than thy birth) I must commend,
Rich in the purchase of so sweete a friend.
And though my fate conducts me to the shade
Of humble quiet, my ambition payde
With safe content, while a pure Virgin fame
Doth raise me trophies in Castara's name.
No thought of glory swelling me above
The hope of being famed for vertuous love.
Yet wish I thee, guided by better starres
To purchase unsafe honour in the warres
Or envied smiles at court; for thy great race,
And merits, well may challenge th' highest place.
Yet know, what busie path so-ere you tread
To greatnesse, you must sleepe among the dead.