Classic Poem

UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESS' CHAIN ,
FOR WHICH HE MADE SATISFACTION

Not that in colour it was like thy hair,
For armlets of that thou mayst let me wear;
Nor that thy hand it oft embraced and kissed,
For so it had that good, which oft I missed;
Nor for that silly old morality,
That as those links are tied, our love should be;
Mourn I that I thy sevenfold chain have lost,
Nor for the luck sake; but the bitter cost.
Oh shall twelve righteous angels, which as yet
No leaven of vile solder did admit,
Nor yet by any way have strayed or gone
From the first state of their creation,
Angels, which heaven commanded to provide
All things to me, and be my faithful guide,
To gain new friends, to appease great enemies,
To comfort my soul, when I lie or rise;
Shall these twelve innocents, by thy severe
Sentence (dread judge) my sins' great burden bear?
Shall they be damned, and in the furnace thrown,
And punished for offences not their own?
They save not me, they do not ease my pains
When in that hell they are burnt and tied in chains.
Were they but crowns of France, I cared not,
For, most of these, their natural country rot
I think possesseth, they come here to us,
So pale, so lame, so lean, so ruinous.
And howsoe'er French kings most Christian be,
Their crowns are circumcised most Jewishly.
Or were they Spanish stamps, still travelling,
That are become as Catholic as their king,
Those unlicked bear-whelps, unfiled pistolets
That, more than cannon shot, avails or lets,
Which, negligently left unrounded, look
Like many-angled figures in the book
Of some great conjurer, that would enforce
Nature, as these do justice, from her course;
Which, as the soul quickens head, feet and heart,
As streams, like veins, run through th' earth's every part,
Visit all countries, and have slily made
Gorgeous France, ruined, ragged and decayed,
Scotland, which knew no State, proud in one day,
And mangled seventeen-headed Belgia:
Or were it such gold as that wherewithal
Almighty chemics from each mineral
Having by subtle fire a soul out-pulled,
Are dirtily and desperately gulled:
I would not spit to quench the fire they were in,
For, they are guilty of much heinous sin.
But, shall my harmless angels perish? Shall
I lose my guard, my ease, my food, my all?
Much hope, which they should nourish, will be dead.
Much of my able youth, and lustihead
Will vanish, if thou love let them alone,
For thou wilt love me less when they are gone.
Oh be content that some loud squeaking crier
Well-pleased with one lean threadbare groat, for hire,
May like a devil roar through every street,
And gall the finder's conscience, if they meet.
Or let me creep to some dread conjurer,
That with fantastic schemes fills full much paper,
Which hath divided heaven in tenements,
And with whores, thieves, and murderers stuffed his rents,
So full, that though he pass them all in sin,
He leaves himself no room to enter in.
But if, when all his art and time is spent,
He say 'twill ne'er be found; yet be content;
Receive from him that doom ungrudgingly,
Because he is the mouth of destiny.
Thou say'st (alas) the gold doth still remain,
Though it be changed, and put into a chain.
So in the first fall'n angels, resteth still
Wisdom and knowledge, but, 'tis turned to ill;
As these should do good works, and should provide
Necessities, but now must nurse thy pride.
And they are still bad angels; mine are none,
For form gives being, and their form is gone.
Pity these angels yet; their dignities
Pass Virtues, Powers, and Principalities.
But thou art resolute; thy will be done.
Yet with such anguish as her only son
The mother in the hungry grave doth lay,
Unto the fire these martyrs I betray.
Good souls, for you give life to everything,
Good angels, for good messages you bring,
Destined you might have been to such a one
As would have loved and worshipped you alone,
One that would suffer hunger, nakedness,
Yea death, ere he would make your number less.
But I am guilty of your sad decay,
May your few fellows longer with me stay.
But Oh thou wretched finder whom I hate
So, that I almost pity thy estate;
Gold being the heaviest metal amongst all,
May my most heavy curse upon thee fall.
Here fettered, manacled, and hanged in chains
First mayst thou be, then chained to hellish pains;
Or be with foreign gold bribed to betray
Thy country, and fail both of that and thy pay.
May the next thing thou stoop'st to reach, contain
Poison, whose nimble fume rot thy moist brain;
Or libels, or some interdicted thing,
Which negligently kept, thy ruin bring.
Lust-bred diseases rot thee; and dwell with thee
Itchy desire and no ability.
May all the evils that gold ever wrought,
All mischiefs that all devils ever thought,
Want after plenty, poor and gouty age,
The plagues of travellers, love and marriage
Afflict thee, and at thy life's latest moment
May thy swoll'n sins themselves to thee present.
But I forgive; repent thee honest man:
Gold is restorative, restore it then.
But if from it thou be'st loth to depart,
Because 'tis cordial, would 'twere at thy heart.