Make all that married be Perfection see. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth thou wished star. Why stays the bridegroom to invade Good-night to you a virgin say; Your mother is, and use a nobler name. That what you are By your perfection, we Shine, Hesperus, shine forth thou wished star. To-night is Venus' vigil kept; This night no bridegroom ever slept; The mames say 'tis his fault too. Wake then, and let your lights Wake too, for they'll tell nothing of your nights, But that in Hymen's war You perfect are. And such perfection, we Do pray should be. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth thou wished star. That, ere the rosy-fingered morn Behold nine moons there may be born A babe, t' uphold the fame Of Radcliffe's blood and Ramsey's name, Wear the long honors of his father's deed. Most perfect are. And all perfection we Wish you should see. Shine, Hesperus, shine forth thou wished star. ODE TO HIMSELF. 51 Come, leave the loathed stage Indicting and arraigning every day Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vain Commission of the brain Run on and rage, sweat, censure and condemn; They were not made for thee, less thou for them. Say that thou pour'st them wheat, And they will acorns eat; "Twere simple fury still thyself to waste On such as have no taste! 51 This ode was printed at the close of The New Inn, and bears this explanatory notice: "The just indignation the author took at the vulgar censure of his play, by some malicious spectators, begat this following ode to himself." It called out several retorts and compliments in verse. To offer them a surfeit of pure bread If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, No doubt some mouldy tale As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish Thrown forth and raked into the common tub, There, sweepings do as well As the best-order'd meal; For who the relish of these guests will fit, And much good do 't you then: Brave plush and velvet men Can feed on orts; and safe in your stage clothes The stagers and the stage-wrights too, your peers Wrought upon twenty blocks; Which, if they're torn, and turned and patched enough, The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff. Leave things so prostitute And take the Alcaic lute, Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre; And though thy nerves be shrunk and blood be cold Ere years have made thee old, Throughout, to their defeat, As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, May, blushing, swear no palsy's in thy brain. But when they hear thee sing The glories of thy king, His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men: Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers In sound of peace or wars, No harp e'er hit the stars, In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign, CHARLES CAVENDISH TO HIS POSTERITY.52 Sons, seek not me among these polished stones, These only hide part of my flesh and bones, Which, did they e'er so neat and proudly dwell, 52 Sir Charles Cavendish was the third son of Sir William Cavendish, the faithful and confidential servant of Cardinal Wolsey. Will all turn dust, and may not make me swell. Trust in the tombs their careful friends do raise; Not when I died, but how I lived - farewell. EPITAPH ON LADY KATHERINE OGLE.53 The best of women! Her whole life Or of a parent, or a friend! All circles had their spring and end Her soul possessed her flesh's state 58 The second wife of Sir Charles Cavendish, and mother of the Duke of Newcastle. |