And that small fear of any plague at all,
Or miseries, which on this age may fall,
That, but for charity, I did not care,
If all those coming storms which some do fear,
Were now descending down; for hell can make
No uproar, which my peaceful thoughts may shake.
I founded have my hopes on Him, that hath
A shelter for me in the day of wrath;
And I have trust I shall, without amaze,
Look up, when all burns round me in a blaze;
And if to have these thoughts and this mind known
Shall spread God's praise no further than mine own,
Or if this shall no more instructive be
To others than it glory is to me,
Here let it perish, and be hurled by,
Into oblivion everlastingly.
For with this mind I can be pleased as much,
Though none but I myself did know it such;
And he that hath contentment need not care,
What other men's opinions of it are.
I care not, though for many griefs to come,
To live a hundred years it were my doom;
Nor care I, though I summon'd be away
At night, to-morrow morning, or to-day.
I care not whether this you read or no,
Nor whether you believe it if you do,
I care not whether any man suppose
All this from judgment or from rashness flows;
Nor mean I to take care what any man
Will think thereof, or comment on it can.
I care not who shall fondly censure it,
Because it was not with more method writ,
Or fram'd in imitation of the strain
In some deep Grecian or old Roman vein.
Yea, that all men living should despise
These thoughts in me to heed or patronise,
I vow,
I care not; and I vow no less,
I care not, who dislikes this carelessness.
My mind's my kingdom, and I will permit
No other's will to have the rule of it;
For I am free, and no man's power, I know,
Did make me thus, nor shall unmake me now;
But through a spirit none can quench in me,
This mind I got, and this my mind shall be.
NOW look upon me, Envy! if thou dare:
Dart all thy malice, shoot me every where :
Try all the ways thou canst to make me feel
The cruel sharpness of thy pois'ned steel;
For I am Envy-proof, and scorn I do
The worst, thy canker'd spite can urge thee to.
This word, I care not, is so strong a charm,
That he, who speaks it, truly fears no harm
Which thy accursed rancor harbour may,
Or his perversest fortune on him lay.
Go, hateful fury, hag! go hide thou, then,
Thy snaky head in thy abhorred den;
And since thou canst not have thy will of me,
There, damned fiend! thine own tormentress be:
Thy forked stings upon thy body turn,
With hellish flames thy scorched entrails burn,
From thy lean carcass thy black sinews tear,
With thine own venom burst, and perish there!
Nec Habeo, nec Careo, nec Curo.
QUITE through this Island hath my Motto rung, And twenty days are past since up I hung My bold impreza, which defiance throws
At all the malice of fair Virtue's foes.
The good approve it, and so crown the cause
Of this my resolution with applause,
That such as spite it, dare not to appear
In opposition to the challenger.
Their malice would enforce them, but it lies
Oppressed yet with fearful cowardice;
For they so arm'd have found me, that they fear,
I may, in spite of all their envy, bear
The conquest from them, and upon the face
Of their bespotted fame stick more disgrace.
This makes them storm in private, slander, rail,
Threat, libel, rhyme, detract, and to prevail
Upon my patience, try their utmost art;
But I still mind my Motto's latter part,
And care not for it; which more makes them chaff,
And still, the more they fret, the more I laugh.
But now their envies have so well conspir'd,
That they have fram'd the project they desir'd,
And took such course, that, if their word you take,
Shall move my choler and my patience shake.
Forsooth, some rhymers they have hir'd to chew Their rancour into balladry, and spew
Their black despite, which, to a drunken note,
They in a hundred taverns have by rote
Already belch'd unto that auditory,
Who are the fittest trumpets of their story.
When their inventions, by the power divine
Of much-inspiring sack and claret-wine,
Are ripened to the highest, then they say
The stationer expects it ev'ry day,
And that he may a saving bargain make,
Aforehand doth his customers bespeak.
But when these brain-worms crawling forth you
As pity 'twere such wit should smother'd lie,
They will bewray the sires, and make't appear
That Ignorance and Envy parents were
To that despiteful issue; so that he,
Who shall a rush the less esteem of me
For aught there writ, e'en he is one of them,
Whose hate and whose affection I contemn.
The instruments, they get to serve the turn,
Are those, that are unworthy of my scorn,
And if contend or answer them I should,
It more might wrong me than their rhyming could.
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