Making thy peace with Heaven for some late fault, With holy-meal and spirting salt;
Which done, thy painful thumb this sentence tells us, 'Jove for our labour all things sells us.'
Nor are thy daily and devout affairs Attended with those desp'rate cares Th' industrious merchant has, who for to find Gold, runneth to the Western Ind, And back again, tortured with fears, doth fly, Untaught to suffer Poverty;--
But thou at home, blest with securest ease, Sitt'st, and believ'st that there be seas, And watery dangers; while thy whiter hap But sees these things within thy map;
And viewing them with a more safe survey, Mak'st easy fear unto thee say, 'A heart thrice walled with oak and brass, that man Had, first durst plough the ocean.'
But thou at home, without or tide or gale, Canst in thy map securely sail;
Seeing those painted countries, and so guess By those fine shades, their substances;
And from thy compass taking small advice, Buy'st travel at the lowest price.
Nor are thine ears so deaf but thou canst hear, Far more with wonder than with fear, Fame tell of states, of countries, courts, and kings, And believe there be such things;
When of these truths thy happier knowledge lies More in thine ears than in thine eyes.
And when thou hear'st by that too true report, Vice rules the most, or all, at court, Thy pious wishes are, though thou not there, Virtue had, and moved her sphere.
But thou liv'st fearless; and thy face ne'er shows Fortune when she comes, or goes;
But with thy equal thoughts, prepared dost stand To take her by the either hand;
Nor car'st which comes the first, the foul or fair:--
A wise man ev'ry way lies square;
And like a surly oak with storms perplex'd Grows still the stronger, strongly vex'd.
Be so, bold Spirit; stand centre-like, unmoved;
And be not only thought, but proved To be what I report thee, and inure Thyself, if want comes, to endure;
And so thou dost; for thy desires are Confined to live with private Lar:
Nor curious whether appetite be fed Or with the first, or second bread.
Who keep'st no proud mouth for delicious cates;
Hunger makes coarse meats, delicates.
Canst, and unurged, forsake that larded fare, Which art, not nature, makes so rare;
To taste boil'd nettles, coleworts, beets, and eat These, and sour herbs, as dainty meat:--
While soft opinion makes thy Genius say, 'Content makes all ambrosia;'
Nor is it that thou keep'st this stricter size So much for want, as exercise;
To numb the sense of dearth, which, should sin haste it, Thou might'st but only see't, not taste it;
Yet can thy humble roof maintain a quire Of singing crickets by thy fire;
And the brisk mouse may feast herself with crumbs, Till that the green-eyed kitling comes;
Then to her cabin, blest she can escape The sudden danger of a ****.
--And thus thy little well-kept stock doth prove, Wealth cannot make a life, but love.
Nor art thou so close-handed, but canst spend, (Counsel concurring with the end), As well as spare; still conning o'er this theme, To shun the first and last extreme;
Ordaining that thy small stock find no breach, Or to exceed thy tether's reach;
But to live round, and close, and wisely true To thine own self, and known to few.
Thus let thy rural sanctuary be Elysium to thy wife and thee;
There to disport your selves with golden measure;
For seldom use commends the pleasure.
Live, and live blest; thrice happy pair; let breath, But lost to one, be th' other's death:
And as there is one love, one faith, one troth, Be so one death, one grave to both;
Till when, in such assurance live, ye may Nor fear, or wish your dying day.
*59*
TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR JOHN WICKS
Since shed or cottage I have none, I sing the more, that thou hast one;
To whose glad threshold, and free door I may a Poet come, though poor;
And eat with thee a savoury bit, Paying but common thanks for it.
--Yet should I chance, my Wicks, to see An over-leaven look in thee, To sour the bread, and turn the beer To an exalted vinegar;
Or should'st thou prize me as a dish Of thrice-boil'd worts, or third-day's fish, I'd rather hungry go and come Than to thy house be burdensome;
Yet, in my depth of grief, I'd be One that should drop his beads for thee.
*60*
A PARANAETICALL, OR ADVISIVE VERSE
TO HIS FRIEND, MR JOHN WICKS
Is this a life, to break thy sleep, To rise as soon as day doth peep?
To tire thy patient ox or ass By noon, and let thy good days pass, Not knowing this, that Jove decrees Some mirth, t' adulce man's miseries?
--No; 'tis a life to have thine oil Without extortion from thy soil;
Thy faithful fields to yield thee grain, Although with some, yet little pain;
To have thy mind, and nuptial bed, With fears and cares uncumbered A pleasing wife, that by thy side Lies softly panting like a bride;
--This is to live, and to endear Those minutes Time has lent us here.
Then, while fates suffer, live thou free, As is that air that circles thee;
And crown thy temples too; and let Thy servant, not thy own self, sweat, To strut thy barns with sheaves of wheat.
--Time steals away like to a stream, And we glide hence away with them:
No sound recalls the hours once fled, Or roses, being withered;
Nor us, my friend, when we are lost, Like to a dew, or melted frost.
--Then live we mirthful while we should, And turn the iron age to gold;
Let's feast and frolic, sing and play, And thus less last, than live our day.
Whose life with care is overcast, That man's not said to live, but last;
Nor is't a life, seven years to tell, But for to live that half seven well;
And that we'll do, as men who know, Some few sands spent, we hence must go, Both to be blended in the urn, From whence there's never a return.
*61*
TO HIS HONOURED AND MOST INGENIOUS FRIEND
MR CHARLES COTTON
For brave comportment, wit without offence, Words fully flowing, yet of influence, Thou art that man of men, the man alone Worthy the public admiration;
Who with thine own eyes read'st what we do write, And giv'st our numbers euphony and weight;
