God give them joy; their wealth I'll ne'er envy, For
you have gotten me a greater store.
And tho' I have not their prosperity,
In my conceit I am not half so poor.
You learnt me with a little to content me,
Shewed how to bridle passion in some measure;
And thro' your means I have a talent lent me,
Which I more value than all Indies' treasure.
For when the almost boundless patrimonies
Are wasted, those by which our great ones trust
To be eterniz'd: when their ceremonies
Shall be forgotten, and their tombs be dust;
Then to the glory of your future line,
Your own and friend's sacred memory,
This little poor despised wealth of mine,
Shall raise a trophy of eternity:
Which fretting Envy, nor consuming Time,
Shall ere abolish, or one whit offend:
A topless statue, that to stars shall climb,
Far greater than your art shall comprehend :
But I must needs confess, 'tis true, I yet
Reap little profit in the eyes of men;
My talent yields small outward benefit,
Yet I'll not leave it for the world again.
Tho' it bring no gain that you, by artful sleight,
Can measure out the earth in part or whole;
Sound out the center's depth; and take the height
Either of th' Arctic, or Antartic Pole;
Yet 'tis your pleasure, it contentment brings:
And so my Muse is my content and joy ;
I would not miss her to be rank'd with kings,
However some account it as a toy:
But having then, and by your means obtain'd
So rich a patrimony for my share,
For which with links of love I'm ever chain'd;
What duties fitting for such bounties are?
Moreover Nature brought me in your debt,
And still I owe you for your cares and fears:
Your pains and charges I do not forget
Besides the interest of many years:
What way is there to make requital for it?
Much I shall leave unpaid do what I can:
Should I then be unthankful? I abhor it:
The will may serve, when power wants in man.
This book I give you then; here you shall find
Somewhat to countervail your former cost:
It is a little index of my mind;
Time spent in reading it will not be lost:
Accept it, and when I have to my might
Paid all I can to you; if powers divine
Shall so much in my happiness delight
To make you grandsire to a son of mine;
Look what remains, and may by right be due,
I'll pay it him as 'twas receiv'd from you.
SONNET FROM THE FIRST ECLOGUE OF THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING.
Now that my body dead-alive,
Bereav'd of comfort lies in thrall,
Do thou, my soul, begin to thrive;
And unto honey, turn this gall:
So shall we both through outward woe
way to inward comfort know,
For as that food my flesh I give,
Doth keep in me this mortal breath;
So souls on meditations live,
And shun thereby immortal death:
Nor art thou ever nearer rest,
Than when thou find'st me most opprest.
First think, my soul, if I have foes
Take a pleasure in my cares,
And to procure these outward woes,
Have thus entrapp'd me unawares :
Thou shouldst by much more careful be,
Since greater foes lie wait for thee.
Then when mew'd up in grates of steel, Minding those joys mine eyes do miss, Thou find'st no torment thou dost feel, So grievous as privation is ;
Muse how the damn'd in flames that glow,
Pine in the loss of bliss they know.
Thou see'st there's given so great might
To some that are but clay as I,
Their very anger can affright,
Which if in any thou espy,
Thus think, if mortal's frowns strike fear,
How dreadful will God's wrathi appear!
By my late hopes that now are crost,
Consider those that firmer be,
And make the freedom I have lost,
A means that may remember thee:
Had Christ not thy Redeemer been,
What horrid thrall thou hadst been in..
These iron chains, the bolts of steel,
Which other poor offenders grind,
The wants and cares which they do feel,
May bring some greater thing to mind:
For by their grief thou shalt do well
To think upon the pains of hell.
Or when thro' me thou see'st a man
Condemn'd unto a mortal death,
How sad he looks, how pale, how wan,
Drawing with fear his panting breath:
Think if in that such pain you see,
How sad will "Go, ye cursed," be!
Again, when he that fear'd to die,
(Past hope) doth see his pardon brought,
Read but the joy that's in his
And then convey it to thy thought:
There think betwixt my heart and thee,
How sweet will "Come, ye blessed," be.
Thus if thou do, tho' closed here,
My bondage I shall deem the less;
I neither shall have cause to fear,
Nor yet bewail my sad distress:
For whether live, or pine, or die,
We shall have bliss eternally.*
Abuses Stript and Whipt: or Satyrical Essays in Two Books. By George Wither. London, 1613, 1614, 1615, 1622, 8vo. †
THE author, in his address to the reader, speaks
*The Editor has lately reprinted this beautiful poem of Wither in 12mo. (1815)
The Editor's copy, of which the title page is wanting, contains pp. 302, besides Dedication and Address.
of these as "the first fruits of his converted Muses," in which he desires them not "to look for Spenser's or Daniel's well-composed numbers; or the deep conceits of now-flourishing Jonson; no, say 'tis honest plain matter, and that's as much as I expect."
In a proæmium, which he entitles "The Occasion of this Work," he gives the history of his early life.
When nimble Time, that all things overruns,
Made me forsake my tops and eldern guns;
Reaching those years, in which the school-boys brag
In leaving off the bottle and the bag;
The very spring before I grew so old,
That I had almost thrice five winters told,
Noting my other fellow-pupils' haste,
That to our English Athens flock'd so fast:
Lest others for a truant should suspect me,
That had the self-same tutor to direct me,
And in a manner counting it a shame
To undergo so long a school-boy's name,
Thither went I. For, though I'll not compare
With many of them that my fellows were;
Yet then, (I'll speak it to my teacher's * praise,)
I was unfurnish'd of no needful lays:
Nor
any whit for grammar rules to seek,
In Lilly's Latin, nor in Camden's Greek;
But so well grounded, that another day
I could not with our idle students say,
* His Epigram 16, at the end of this publication, is addressed to his "Schoolmaster, Master John Greave."
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