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SOME VERSES

And that great Pompey (all the world's delight) Whom of his theater then th' applauses pleas'd, Whil'st, praise-transported eyes endeer'd his sight,

Who by youth's toyles should have his age then WRITTEN TO HIS MAJESTIE BY THE AUTHOUR AT THE TIME eas'd,

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Then by how many sundry sorts of men,

OF HIS MAIESTIES FIRST ENTRIE INTO ENGLAND.

STAY, tragick Muse, with those vntimely verses,
With raging accents and with dreadfull sounds,
To draw dead monarkes out of ruin'd herses,
T'affright th' applauding world with bloudie
wounds:

Raze all the monuments of horrours past,
T' aduance the publike mirth our treasures wast.

And pardon (olde heroes) for O I finde,

I had no reason to admire your fates: And with rare guiftes of body and of minde,

Th'vnbounded greatnesse of euill-conquerd states. More glorious actes then were achieu'd by you, Do make your wonders thought no wonders now.

For yee the potentates of former times,

Making your will a right, your force a law:

Hath this great state beene rul'd? though now by Staining your conquest with a thousand crimes,

none,

Which first obey'd but one, then two, then ten,
Then by degrees return'd to two, and one;
Of which three states, their ruine did abide,
Two by two's lusts, and one by two men's pride.

What revolutions huge have hapned thus, By secret fates all violently led,

Though seeming but by accident to us,

Still raign'd like tyrants, but obey'd for awe : And whilst your yoake none willingly would beare, Dyed oft the sacrifice of wrath and feare.

But this age great with glorie hath brought forth A matchlesse monarke whom peace highlie raises, Who as th' vntainted ocean of all worth

As due to him hath swallow'd all your praises. Whose cleere excellencies long knowne for such,

Yet in the depths of heavenly breasts first bred, All men must praise, and none can praise too much.

As arguments demonstrative to prove
That weaknesse dwels below, and pow'r above.

Loe, prosprous Cæsar charged for a space, Both with strange nations, and his countrey's spoyls,

Even when he seem'd by warre to purchase peace, And roses of sweet rest, from thornes of toils; Then whil'st his minde and fortune swell'd most high, Hath beene constrain'd the last distresse to trie.

What warnings large were in a time so short, Of that darke course which by his death now shines?

It, speechlesse wonders plainly did report,

It, men reveal'd by words, and gods by signes, Yet by the chaynes of destinies whil'st bound, He saw the sword, but could not scape the wound,

What curtaine ore our knowledge errour brings,

Now drawn, now open'd, by the heavenly host, Which makes us sometime sharpe to see small things,

And yet quite blinde when as we should see most, That curious braines may rest amaz'd at it, Whose ignorance makes them presume of wit.

Then let us live, since all things change below, When rais'd most high, as those who once may fall,

And hold when by disasters brought more low, The minde still free, what ever else be thrall: "Those (lords of fortune) sweeten every state, Who can command themselves, though not their fate."

For that which others hardly could acquire,
With losse of thousands liues and endlesse paine,
Is heapt on him euen by their owne desire,

That thrist t'enioy the fruites of his blest raigne:
And neuer conquerour gain'd so great a thing,
As those wise subiects gaining such a king.

But what a mightie state is this I see?

A little world that all true worth inherites, Strong without art, entrench'd within the sea,

Abounding in braue men full of great spirits: It seemes this ile would boast, and so she may, To be the soueraigne of the world some day.

O generous Iames, the glorie of their parts,

In large dominions equall with the best: But the most mightie monarke of men's harts, That euer yet a diadem possest: Long maist thou liue, well lou'd and free from dangers, The comfort of thine owne, the terrour of strangers.

SOME VERSES

WRITTEN SHORTLY THEREAFTER BY REASON OF AN INUNDATION OF DOUEN, A WATER NEERE VNTO THE AUTHOR'S HOUSE, WHEREVPON HIS MAIESTIE WAS SOMETIMES WONT TO HAWKE.

WHAT Wonder though my melancholious Muse,
Her bold attempts to prosecute refuse,
Whose generous course some lucklesse starre con-
[troules:
And would faine burie my abortiue scroules.

To what perfection can my lines be rais'd, [fires: | And since our sunne shines in another part,
Whilst many a crosse would quench my kindling
Lo for Parnassus by the poets prais'd,
Some sauage mountaines shadow my retires.

No Helicon her treasure here vnlockes,

Of all the sacred band the chiefe refuge: But dangerous Douen rumbling through the rockes, Would scorne the raine-bowe with a new deluge.

As Tiber, mindefull of his olde renowne, [place:
Augments his floodes to waile the faire chang'd
And greeu'd to glide through that degener'd towne,
Toyles with his depthes to couer their disgrace.

So doth my Douen rage, greeu'd in like sort,
While as his wonted honour comes to minde:
To that great prince whilst he afforded sport,
To whom his trident Neptune hath resign'd.
And as the want of waters and of swaines,

Had but begotten to his bankes neglect:
He striues t'encroch vpon the bordering plaines,
Againe by greatnesse to procure respect.

Thus all the creatures of this orphand boundes,
In their own kindes moou'd with the common

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Liue like th' antipodes depriu'd of light: Whilst those to whom his beames he doth impart, Begin their day whilst we begin our night.

This hath discourag'd my high-bended minde,
And still in doale my drouping Muse arrayes:
Which if my Phoebus once vpon me shin'd,
Might raise her flight to build amidst his rayes.

VERSES

PREFIXED TO BISHOP ABERNETHY'S "CHRISTIAN AND HEAVENLY TREATISE, CONTAINING PHYSICKE FOR THE SOUL.' 1622.

Or known effects, grounds too precisely sought,
Young naturalists oft atheists old doe prove.
And some who naught, save who first moves, can

move,

Scorn mediate means, as wonders still were wrought:
But tempting both, thou dost this difference even,
Divine physician, physical divine:

Who souls and bodies help'st, dost here design
From Earth by reason, and by faith from Heaven,
With mysteries, which few can reach aright:
How Heaven and Earth are match't, and work in
man;

Who wise and holy ends, and causes scan.
Loe true philosophy, perfection's height,
For this is all, which we would wish to gaine:
In bodies sound, that minds may sound remaine.

THE

POEMS

OF

BEN JONSON.

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