2.

[From The Miscellanies.]

ODE OF WIT.

Tell me, O tell, what kind of thing is wit,
Thou who master art of it!

For the first matter loves variety less;
Less women love 't, either in love or dress.

A thousand different shapes it bears,
Comely in thousand shapes appears.
Yonder we saw it plain; and here 'tis now,
Like spirits in a place, we know not how.
London that vents of false ware so much store,
In no ware deceives us more.

For men led by the colour, and the shape,
Like Zeuxis' birds fly to the painted grape;

Some things do through our judgment pass
As through a multiplying glass;

And sometimes, if the object be too far,
We take a falling meteor for a star.

Hence 'tis a wit, that greatest word of fame,
Grows such a common name;

And wits by our creation they become,
Just so, as titular Bishops made at Rome.
'Tis not a tale, tis not a jest

Admir'd with laughter at a feast, Nor florid talk which can that title gain; The proofs of wit for ever must remain.

'Tis not to force some lifeless verses meet
With their five gouty feet.

All everywhere, like man's, must be the soul,
And reason the inferior powers control.

Such were the numbers which could call
The stones into the Theban wall.

Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see
No towns or houses rais'd by poetry.

Yet 'tis not to adorn, and gild each part;
That shows more cost, than art.

Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear;
Rather than all things wit, let none be there.
Several lights will not be seen.

If there be nothing else between.

Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky, If those be stars which paint the galaxy.

'Tis not when two like words make up one noise, Jests for Dutch men, and English boys. In which who finds out wit, the same may see In anagrams and acrostics poetry.

Much less can that have any place

At which a virgin hides her face;

Such dross the fire must purge away; 'tis just The author blush, there where the reader must.

'Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage,
When Bajazet begins to rage.
Nor a tall metaphor in the bombast way,
Nor the dry chips of short-lung'd Seneca;
Nor upon all things to obtrude,

And force some odd similitude.
What is it then, which like the power divine
We only can by negatives define?

In a true piece of wit all things must be,
Yet all things there agree.

As in the ark, join'd without force or strife,
All creatures dwelt; all creatures that had life.
Or as the primitive forms of all

(If we compare great things with small)

Which without discord or confusion lie,
In that strange mirror of the Deity.

But love that moulds one man up out of two,
Makes me forget and injure you.

I took you for myself sure when I thought
That you in anything were to be taught.
Correct my error with thy pen;

And if any ask me then,

What thing right wit, and height of genius is,
I'll only shew your lines, and say, 'Tis this.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY.

It was a dismal and a fearful night,

Scarce could the Morn drive on th' unwilling light, When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast, By something more like death possest.

My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,

And on my soul hung the dull weight

Of some intolerable fate.

What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know.

My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,
Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,
Thy end for ever, and my life to moan?
O thou hast left me all alone!
Thy soul and body when death's agony
Besieg'd around thy noble heart,

Did not with more reluctance part
Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.

My dearest friend, would I had died for thee!
Life and this world henceforth will tedious be,
Nor shall I know hereafter what to do

If once my griefs prove tedious too.
Silent and sad I walk about all day,

As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by
Where their hid treasures lie;
Alas, my treasure's gone, why do I stay?

He was my friend, the truest friend on earth;
A strong and mighty influence join'd our birth;
Nor did we envy the most sounding name

By friendship giv'n of old to fame.
None but his brethren he, and sisters knew,
Whom the kind youth preferr'd to me;
And ev'n in that we did agree,

For much above myself I lov'd them too.

Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights,
How oft unwearied have we spent the nights?
Till the Ledaean stars, so fam'd for love,

Wondered at us from above.

We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;
But search of deep philosophy,

Wit, eloquence, and poetry,

Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say,
Have ye not seen us walking every day?

Was there a tree about which did not know
The love betwixt us two?

Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,
Or your sad branches thicker join,
And into darksome shades combine,
Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.

Henceforth no learned youths beneath you sing,
Till all the tuneful birds t' your boughs they bring ;
No tuneful birds play with their wonted cheer,

And call the learned youths to hear;

No whistling winds through the glad branches fly, But all with sad solemnity,

Mute and unmoved be,

Mute as the grave wherein my friend does lie.

To him my muse made haste with every strain Whilst it was new, and warm yet from the brain, He lov'd my worthless rhymes, and like a friend Would find out something to commend.

Hence now, my muse, thou canst not me delight; Be this my latest verse

With which I now adorn his hearse,

And this my grief without thy help shall write

Had I a wreath of bays about my brow
I should contemn that flourishing honour now,
Condemn it to the fire, and joy to hear
It rage and crackle there.

Instead of bays, crown with sad cypress me;
Cypress which tombs does beautify;

Not Phoebus griev'd so much as I

For him, who first was made that mournful tree.

Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er
Submitted to inform a body here;

High as the place 'twas shortly in heav'n to have,
But low, and humble as his grave;

So high that all the virtues there did come
As to their chiefest seat

Conspicuous, and great;

So low that for me too it made a room.

He scorn'd this busy world below, and all
That we, mistaken mortals, pleasure call;
Was filled with innocent gallantry and truth,
Triumphant o'er the sins of youth.
He like the stars, to which he now is gone,
That shine with beams like flame,
Yet burn not with the same,

Had all the light of youth, of the fire none.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
As if for him knowledge had rather sought;
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
In such a short mortality.

When e'er the skilful youth discours'd or writ,
Still did the notions throng

About his eloquent tongue,

Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.