Democritus Platonissans Part 9

Thrice happy he whose name is writ above, And doeth good though gaining infamie; Requiteth evil turns with hearty love, And recks not what befalls him outwardly: Whose worth is in himself, and onely blisse In his pure conscience that doth nought amisse.

Who placeth pleasure in his purged soul And virtuous life his treasure doth esteem; Who can his pa.s.sions master and controll, And that true lordly manlinesse doth deem, Who from this world himself hath clearly quit Counts nought his own but what lives in his sprite.

So when his sprite from this vain world shall flit It bears all with it whatsoever was dear Unto it self, pa.s.sing in easie fit, As kindly ripen'd corn comes out of th' eare.

Thus mindlesse of what idle men will say He takes his own and stilly goes his way.

But the retinue of proud Lucifer, Those bl.u.s.tering Poets that flie after fame And deck themselves like the bright Morning-starre.

Alas! it is but all a crackling flame.

For death will strip them of that glorious plume That airie blisse will vanish into fume.

For can their carefull ghosts from Limbo take Return, or listen from the bowed skie To heare how well their learned lines do take?

Or if they could; is Heavens felicitie So small as by mans praise to be encreas'd, h.e.l.ls pain no greater then hence to be eas'd?

Therefore once dead in vain shall I transmit My shadow to gazing Posteritie; Cast farre behind me I shall never see't, On Heavens fair Sunne having fast fixt mine eye.

Nor while I live, heed I what man doth praise Or underprize mine unaffected layes.

What moves thee then, said he, to take the pains And spenden time if thou contemn'st the fruit?

Sweet fruit of fame, that fills the Poets brains With high conceit and feeds his fainting wit.

How pleasant 'tis in honour here to live And dead, thy name for ever to survive!

Or is thy abject mind so basely bent As of thy Muse to maken Merchandize?

(And well I wote this is no strange intent.) The hopefull glimps of gold from chattering Pies, From Daws and Crows, and Parots oft hath wrung An unexpected Pegaseian song.

Foul shame on him, quoth I, that shamefull thought Doth entertain within his dunghill breast, Both G.o.d and Nature hath my spirits wrought To better temper and of old hath blest My loftie soul with more divine aspires Then to be touchd with such vile low desires.

I hate and highly scorn that Kestrell kind Of b.a.s.t.a.r.d scholars that subordinate The precious choice induements of the mind To wealth or worldly good. Adulterate And cursed brood! Your wit and will are born Of th' earth and circling thither do return.

Profit and honour be those measures scant Of your slight studies and endeavours vain, And when you once have got what you did want You leave your learning to enjoy your gain.

Your brains grow low, your bellies swell up high, Foul sluggish fat ditts up your dulled eye.

Thus what the earth did breed, to th' earth is gone, Like fading hearb or feebly drooping flower, By feet of men and beast quite trodden down, The muck-sprung learning cannot long endure.

Back she returns lost in her filthy source, Drown'd, chok'd or slocken by her cruell nurse.

True virtue to her self's the best reward, Rich with her own and full of lively spirit, Nothing cast down for want of due regard.

Or 'cause rude men acknowledge not her merit.

She knows her worth and stock from whence she sprung, Spreads fair without the warmth of earthly dung,

Dew'd with the drops of Heaven shall flourish long; As long as day and night do share the skie, And though that day and night should fail yet strong And steddie, fixed on Eternitie Shall bloom for ever. So the foul shall speed That loveth virtue for no worldly meed.

Though sooth to sayn, the worldly meed is due To her more then to all the world beside.

Men ought do homage with affections true And offer gifts for G.o.d doth there reside.

The wise and virtuous soul is his own seat To such what's given G.o.d himself doth get.

But earthly minds whose sight's seal'd up with mud Discern not this flesh-clouded Deity, Ne do acknowledge any other good Then what their mole-warp hands can feel and trie By groping touch; thus (worth of them unseen) Of nothing worthy that true worth they ween.

Wherefore the prudent Law-givers of old Even in all Nations, with right sage foresight Discovering from farre how clums and cold The vulgar wight would be to yield what's right To virtuous learning, did by law designe Great wealth and honour to that worth divine.

But nought's by law to Poesie due said he, Ne doth the solemn Statesmans head take care Of those that such impertinent pieces be Of common-weals. Thou'd better then to spare Thy uselesse vein. Or tell else, what may move Thy busie use such fruitlesse pains to prove.

No pains but pleasure to do the dictates dear Of inward living nature. What doth move The Nightingall to sing so sweet and clear The Thrush, or Lark that mounting high above Chants her shrill notes to heedlesse ears of corn Heavily hanging in the dewy morn.

When life can speak, it can not well withhold T' expresse its own impressions and hid life.

Or joy or grief that smoothered lie untold Do vex the heart and wring with restlesse strife.

Then are my labours no true pains but ease My souls unrest they gently do appease.

Besides, that is not fruitlesse that no gains Brings to my self. I others profit deem Mine own: and if at these my heavenly flames Others receiven light, right well I ween My time's not lost. Art thou now satisfide Said I: to which the scoffing boy replide.

Great hope indeed thy rymes should men enlight, That be with clouds and darknesse all o'recast, Harsh style and harder sense void of delight The Readers wearied eye in vain do wast.

And when men win thy meaning with much pain, Thy uncouth sense they coldly entertain.

For wotst thou not that all the world is dead Unto that Genius that moves in thy vein Of poetrie! But like by like is fed.

Sing of my Trophees in triumphant strein, Then correspondent life, thy powerfull verse Shall strongly strike and with quick pa.s.sion pierce.

The tender frie of lads and la.s.ses young With thirstie eare thee compa.s.sing about, Thy Nectar-dropping Muse, thy sugar'd song Will swallow down with eagre hearty draught; Relishing truly what thy rymes convey, And highly praising thy soul-smiting lay.

The mincing maid her mind will then bewray, Her heart-bloud flaming up into her face, Grave matrons will wex wanton and betray Their unresolv'dnesse in their wonted grace; Young boyes and girls would feel a forward spring, And former youth to eld thou back wouldst bring.

All s.e.xes, Ages, Orders, Occupations Would listen to thee with attentive ear, And eas'ly moved with thy sweet perswasions, Thy pipe would follow with full merry chear.

While thou thy lively voice didst loud advance Their tickled bloud for joy would inly dance.

But now, alas! poore solitarie man!

In lonesome desert thou dost wander wide To seek and serve thy disappearing Pan, Whom no man living in the world hath eyde: For Pan is dead but I am still alive, And live in men who honour to me give:

They honour also those that honour me With sacred songs. But thou now singst to trees To rocks to Hills, to Caves that senselesse be And mindlesse quite of thy hid mysteries, In the void aire thy idle voice is spread, Thy Muse is musick to the deaf or dead.

Now out alas! said I, and wele-away The tale thou tellest I confesse too true.

Fond man so doteth on this living clay His carcase dear, and doth its joyes pursue, That of his precious soul he takes no keep Heavens love and reasons light lie fast asleep.

This bodies life vain shadow of the soul With full desire they closely do embrace, In fleshly mud like swine they wallow and roll, The loftiest mind is proud but of the face Or outward person; if men but adore That walking sepulchre, cares for no more.

This is the measure of mans industry To wexen some body and getten grace To 's outward presence; though true majestie Crown'd with that heavenly light and lively rayes Of holy wesdome and Seraphick love, From his deformed soul he farre remove.

Slight knowledge and lesse virtue serves his turn For this designe. If he hath trod the ring Of pedling arts; in usuall pack-horse form Keeping the rode; O! then 't's a learned thing.

If any chanc'd to write or speak what he Conceives not 't were a foul discourtesie.

To cleanse the soul from sinne, and still diffide Whether our reasons eye be clear enough To intromit true light, that fain would glide Into purg'd hearts, this way 's too harsh and rough: Therefore the clearest truths may well seem dark When sloathfull men have eyes so dimme and stark.

These be our times. But if my minds presage Bear any moment, they can ne're last long, A three branch'd Flame will soon sweep clean the stage Of this old dirty drosse and all wex young.

My words into this frozen air I throw Will then grow vocall at that generall thaw.

Nay, now thou 'rt perfect mad, said he, with scorn, And full of foul derision quit the place.

The skie did rattle with his wings ytorn Like to rent silk. But I in the mean s.p.a.ce Sent after him this message by the wind Be 't so I 'm mad, yet sure I am thou 'rt blind.

By this the out-stretch'd shadows of the trees Pointed me home-ward, and with one consent Foretold the dayes descent. So straight I rise Gathering my limbs from off the green pavement Behind me leaving then the slooping Light.

_Cl._ And now let's up, _Vesper_ brings on the Night.

_FINIS._