WHERE words are weak, and foes encountering strong,
Where mightier do assault than do defend,
The feebler part puts up enforced wrong,
And silent sees, that speech could not amend:
Yet higher powers must think, though they repine,
When sun is set the little stars will shine.
While pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly,
And crouch in privy creeks with smaller fish;
Yet pikes are caught when little fish go by,
These fleet afloat, while those do fill the dish;
There is a time even for the worms to creep,
And suck the dew while all their foes do sleep.
The merlin cannot ever soar on high,
Nor greedy greyhound still pursue the chase;
The tender lark will find a time to fly,
And fearful hare to run a quiet race.
He that high growth on cedars did bestow,
Gave also lowly mushrooms leave to grow.
In Haman's pomp poor Mardochéus wept,
Yet God did turn his fate upon his foe.
The Lazar pined while Dives' feast was kept,
Yet he to heaven-to hell did Dives go.
We trample grass, and prize the flowers of May;
Yet grass is green, when flowers do fade away.
ENOUGH I reckon wealth;
That mean, the surest lot
That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.
My wishes are but few,
All easy to fulfil :
I make the limits of my power
The bounds unto my will.
I fear no care for gold;
Well-doing is my wealth;
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.
I clip high-climbing thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride;
Their fall is worst that from the height
Of greatest honour slide.
Since sails of largest size
The storm doth soonest tear;
I bear so low and small a sail
As freeth me from fear.
I wrestle not with rage,
While fury's flame doth burn;
It is in vain to stop the stream
Until the tide doth turn.
But when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end,
I turn a late enraged foe
Into a quiet friend.
And taught with often proof,
A tempered calm I find
To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.
Spare diet is my fare,
My clothes more fit than fine:
I know I feed and clothe a foe,
That, pampered, would repine.
I envy not their hap
Whom favour doth advance;
I take no pleasure in their pain
That have less happy chance.
To rise by others' fall,
I deem a losing gain;
All states with others' ruin built,
To ruin run amain.
No change of fortune's calm
Can cast my comforts down;
When fortune smiles, I smile to think
How quickly she will frown.
And when, in froward mood,
She proves an angry foe,
Small gain I find to let her come—
Less loss to let her go.
How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good :
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend;
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
-SIR HENRY WOTTON (1568-1639).
FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.
FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles;
Farewell, ye honoured rags, ye glorious bubbles!
Fame's but a hollow echo; gold pure clay;
Honour the darling but of one short day;
Beauty the eye's idol, but a damasked skin;
State but a golden prison to live in,
And torture freeborn minds; embroidered trains
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins;
And blood allied to greatness, is alone
Inherited, not purchased, nor our own:
Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
Welcome, pure thoughts; welcome, ye silent groves;
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves:
Now the winged people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring:
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears:
Then here I'll sigh, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn t'affect a holy melancholy;
And if contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it but in Heaven again.
THE DIGNITY OF MAN.
OH what is man, great Maker of mankind!
That thou to him so great respect dost bear;
That thou adornest him with so bright a mind,
Makest him a king, and even an angel's peer?
Oh what a lively life, what heavenly power,
What spreading virtue, what a sparkling fire,
How great, how plentiful, how rich a dower
Dost thou within this dying flesh inspire!
Thou leavest thy print in other works of thine,
But thy whole image thou in man hast writ;
There cannot be a creature more divine,
Except, like thee, it should be infinite:
But it exceeds man's thought to think how high
God hath raised man, since God a man became;
The angels do admire this mystery,
And are astonished when they view the same:
Nor hath he given these blessings for a day,
Nor made them on the body's life depend;
The soul, though made in time, survives for aye;
And though it hath beginning, sees no end.
SIR JOHN DAVIES (1570-1626).
STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
---BEN JONSON (1574-1637).
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.
A lily of a day
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light!
In small proportions we just beauties see:
And in short measures life may perfect be.
ADVICE TO A RECKLESS YOUTH.
WHAT Would I have you do? I'll tell
Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive;
That would I have you do: and not to spend
Your coin on every bauble that you fancy,
Or every foolish brain that humours you.
I would not have you to invade each place,
Nor thrust yourself on all societies,
Till men's affections, or your own desert,
Should worthily invite you to your rank.
He that is so respectless in his courses,
Oft sells his reputation at cheap market.
Nor would I you should melt away yourself
In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect
To make a blaze of gentry to the world,
A little puff of scorn extinguish it,
And you be left like an unsavoury snuff,
Whose property is only to offend..
I'd have you sober, and contain yourself;
Not that your sail be bigger than your boat;
But moderate your expenses now (at first)
As you may keep the same proportion still.
|