Classic Poem

P HANCIES ARE but our owne; and though wee give
Em birth; perhaps they have noe right to Live.
Why doe wee wast our Inke, and oyle, in vaine?
Wasting our Nights, and Dayes in fruitles gaine
To bring a Monster forth? a Prodigie?
Or Strange Chimaera, of our Fantasie?
What End have wee in this? ist not Enough
If to our Selves, wee our owne Follies know?
If wee poure out, for other Men to Eat
They'r full, as well as wee, with their owne Meat?
The World's a tottring Stage; and Mankind All
Is but one Antike Individuall;
From time to Time, the Same; noe Age can boast
The better Interlude; for what wee most
Admire, (before our Selves) or what we lest
Can Judge of, (after) has nor worst, nor best.
This Mockshow, this Coloss, this Maisterpeice
Of Nature, (as wee call it, when wee please
Our partial frailties) is that bruitish Thing
Degenerate, Foolish, giddy, wavering,
Voluptuous, Bloodie, Proud, Insatiate
Lump of Corruption which they wondred at
Twelve Centuries agoe; and Time shall bring
To its last point, just such another Thing.
There is noe wonder; if within the Sphere
Of Nature, ought Irregular appeare.
Wee are that odde Incorrigible peice
Of Error; tis within us, the Excess,
Defect, or what wee call Deformitie
To hinder Natures first made Harmonie.

This, when I looke at; and my Atome take
(A Sand of the rude Heape) I seeke to make
It cleane; and softly rubbe away the Slime;
I sleeke it Faire; and weare it, for a Time
My Boast, my Jewell; or more Ideot-like
I sett it in my Cap, where all Eyes Strike
Upon it; and I foole; am pleas'd to heare
Them rate it high; as though this Graine did beare
Proportion to a Piramid; this clawes
My Nature, for a while; but Time, (which drawes
All Things to Irksomenes) brings in a packe
Of Vanities, whil'st I forgett this Knacke.
Careles, I lay it by; whil'st the rude Heape,
(Which rolleth ever) it away doth Sweepe,
Into the wombe of that insatiate Gulph
Which Lethe, some doe call —

Then I run on; forgetting All had past;
And my poor Sand, Eyes mixt, and gravell'd fast.
Chips, Strawes, and Feathers, Bulrushes, and Flowers,
Then take me up; and make my dayes, but Howers;
But as a Child, not pleas'd with any long,
To get a Rattle, these away are flung.
What shall I next? what next shall please my Eye?
For All is nothing, but Varietie;
Thus roll I Sisyphean Stones; and play
(Which he can never) all my time away.

Late by the Streame, thus did I playing Sit
With Cockle-Shells, (a Pas-time not unfitt
To my Discretion). Some, as wise as I,
Had Shittle-cockes, (and made them finely flye).
Another sort had Whirligigs; and Some
At Check-stones play'd, or Cherry-pit; of Foame
Others would blow a Sphaere from out a Shell,
And run to catch it, like a Starre when't fell.
Thus Severally; but I, as Serious
As any, to my Folly; Glorious
At each Encounter; and a Victorie
I priz'd, to all my Joyes Monopolie.
When in the height of All; as Shells must breake;
Mine broke; and I discountenaunct, goe seeke
A fresh one on the Shore; where one I found,
And hot for the Encounter, dress it round.
I washt, and Scratcht, and tooke a mightie paine
(For it was worth All that) till not one graine
Of Sand, or Dirt, was Easy to be seene.
Not Troian Hector, in his Armour Sheene
Appear'd more Glorious, then my Champion was,
Fitt for the Lists, and I to leave the place,
Where I to such high purpose, had bene toyling;
When some kind Influence, (greived at the oft foyling
Of weake mortalitye) told me: I tooke
Joy, in my owne Destruction; bade me looke
To what I had bene doing; for that Mudde
I threw away, was my owne Slime; and Stood
All that remain'd, of what I valued once,
My dearest Part. Gather againe, what Chance
And Providence, are pleas'd to give; once more,
Be thy owne Keeper; from this dismall Shore
Not many doe returne. — It ceas'd; I stood
A verie Statua, dull as my owne Mudde;
Not Flint-wrapt Niobe, more stone did rise.
My blood was Corral; and my Breath, was Ice;
Extasied from all Sence, to thinke what low
Delusions drew me; and I knew not how;
For all the Sordid Follyes, which I sought
With Earnestnes, were now before me brought,
A Spectacle of Horror; I must breake
This marble of my Shame, my Shame to Speake.

What can I doe (Alas)? but gather in
The little Dirt, which formerly was mine,
A fixed bodie; orient, and bright;
Now a foule mixture; darke, in my owne Sight;
As to my Reason, the first Chaos was.
I must goe on; Man, while he has in chase
The world, and objects vaine, looseth himselfe;
And his poor Sand, turnes wreck't into the Shelfe
Of bruitish Appetite; the Labour's over
If from this Syrte's wee our Sand recover.

Where am I now? enveloped as Deepe
To my owne wonder, as my Shame can creepe;
The vast Abisse, of natures unsearch't wombe
(Mother to Reason, Ignorances Tombe)
Were a prodigious Title, to enhance
My numbers weighty, and my Name advance;
This might blow up a Spirrit of that fire
Who loves to Speake, what others but Admire;
For who can Speake, what cannot be exprest?
Readers know little, and the writer Least.

Love is noe more a Ray, from that devine
Flame, then this Fish-scale, Phaebus, is from thine.
Tis a low bruit Affection, now which binds
In Sensuall Fetters, lowe Earth Seeking Minds;
Gold, and Desire, is Love; let minde and Face
Warme Cottages, and be the Milkmaids Grace;
Wee higher tend; Fruition of that all-
Compounded Evill is the thing wee call
Love, not improperlie. And is not witt
Worthy a name that can be Parasit?
Clawe my yong Lord, or make my Ladie smile,
With quaint Devises, worthy well her while!
Getting a goodly deale of patronage;
And my Lords word: be wonder of his Age .
Soe are they both: but Witt is growne, of Late,
Like the Trunke-hose, Taught at, and out of Date;
The Drum beats loud, to fright our Villages,
Swords are the Pens, which everie Day encrease;
Our Lawes are writt in Blood; and Carv'd with Steele
Worthy the Authors. But I hope wee feele
Some ghostly Comfort yet; Religion
Has put of late, her best Apparell on;
And wee are all a wooeing fitt to ride,
Who should bring in this faire one, fitt for Bride.
Well; wee have tryed Enough, and rifled Each
Below the Cloaths, unto the naked breech;
And left em Soe; and soe alas they goe,
Poore Ladies, to this Day; and Like to doe.
What Age has ever yet, bene free of these?
Tis true; the last King, was a Man of Peace;
Yet fancye Quills, would note some blemish int;
And his fam'd Predecessor, though in print,
And painted Cloath they make her verie fine.
Yes; and her Sister, who did love to Dine
On woodcocke Christians, roasted for the nonce
With Gutts and All. Or if wee should Advance
To bugbeare Harrie whose imperious breath
Was Law enough — Oh the fine Dagger sheath!
And Codpeice of that King! — Let Nero rise
Justified, in his strange Impieties.

Scoure of the Rust; and set an Edge on Witt.
Let each Line sparkle Courage; till wee Sitt
Constellated with Caesar, in our owne,
Or others Flatterie; let Vertue (growne
Long out of use) adde some grains to the Skale
Of what wee claime to. How shall it availe?
What doe wee see applauded, everie Day?
Vice, in a vizard, goes the safest way;
The goodly masques, of Faith and Conscience
Are worne to thrive by; be't without offence,
I know none Honest; but to his owne Sight
In his owne Cause, is a Strange Hypocrite.

The Great Aurelius, had a flight beyond
This Region, in the Sphaere of his owne mind;
And I admire his Dictates, as they are
To him selfe Precepts. What a Noble Care
It is in man, to give that Seasoning
From his owne Fountaine, shall preserve the Spring
(Through all the Ambages, of Lifes Affaire)
Backe to its liveing Source, unmixt, and Cleare!

I can be pleas'd when Lucian laughs at Witt;
And makes Philosophie, a Dizzard sitt.
Crack-brain'd Menippus, wisely did discerne
They taught the Things, which they would never learne.

Ime Slow in my owne Nature; Dull, and Rude;
Indifferent, in my humor; Solitude
Affects me cheifly; bashfull, have noe feat
Nor jocund humour, to ingratiate;
Yet not Averse; but rather hammer out
What I approve, then Carry mirth about.
I commend freedome; Mirth, I love, beyond
My Genius, and Adore it in my mind;
But cannot be Facete; some Gesture sitts
Still in my Face, which noe full mirth befitts;
And when I force it in, it comes as patt
To make me Laugh, because I know not what
I first meant should be Jeast; a thousand things
Passe, with the Garbe, when the maine Storie brings
Little to Judgement; now let me recite
Things not unworthy; and I spoyle em quite.
I have noe gracefull Meine, noe fair Accost,
Noe Foyle; Even Diamonds grow dim, in my Dust.

In my Discourse Ime Common; but can keepe
A trusted Secret, as the Centre deepe
Within my Bosome; I could never love
One Individuall Atome, much above
Another; I admire; to all I am
Each severall Species; for the glorious Name
Of friendship and Affection, though it draw
My Nature aptly, yet I find it rawe,
And but a Phlegme, where I would most expresse:
Now tis a Flame within me; and I lesse
Consider my owne Interest, then the Claime
Another has unto me, in that Name.

Now whether Education, or what else
I doe not know; perhaps from principles
Of Constitution, some unwonted Awe,
Something, under what Name, I doe not know,
Strikes me, in Majestie; and though I praise
All Government, as Government; I raise
My Selfe, with more Delight, to looke upon
A monarchs Scepter, then the Axe, or Gowne.

This when I wondring fixe at; I behold
Our Royall Master, in Afflictions old;
But vig'orous, in vertue; and Dispred
In all his Princelie Rayes; not hindered
As the Eclipsed Sun, by the moons dull
Hydropticke bodie, to obscure him full;
But Charles, whose more illustrious Beams strike throw'
The giddie planet, that the world may know
Tis but her Errant motion; Hee, the Same
Light to the world; Health and Life-bringing Flame:
Soe Father Saturne, by his Sawcie Son
Seaven yeare agoe, was interpos'd. Tis Runne
I hope out, in our Iland; Meteors must
After a while, burne out, and dye ith' Dust:
But the great Luminaries carrie Flame
T'enrich the world, and make it worth a Name.

Freedome, and love of Truth, is all I boast;
I know but little. Hee that knowes the most
Is not an Inch beyond me; I can Sitt
Pleased in my owne; Hee's plunged in his witt;
For Knowledge is a Quicksand; where wee can
Not free our selves, till wee the burthen, Man,
Devest; our Flesh, the Scales which doe obscure
Our Intellectuall Eyes, and Death's the Cure.
Then chang'd, wee move, another Nature; See
And know things trulie, as they truly bee
In their owne Causes; till when, wee pursue
A Wildgoose-Chase, to what none ever knew;
Hee that knew All, knew nothing; or at least
Knew, all Hee knew was Follie with the rest.

Then bring me wine; Call in the merrie Crue;
Let petty Sphaeres their heightened Peggs up-Scrue
To rivall, with the greater; and disperse
Our frolicke Joyes, to all the universe.
Soe Poets are themselves; let Dulnes Sitt
On the dry brow; wee live in mirth and witt:
Be sprightly, as the morne; Anticipate
Time, in his motion; and Astonish Fate
To make our owne; While the dull Sisters winke
And passe our Threds, Halfe-drunke, to see us Drink.

Are there noe Females in the house? come in
Coy Modesties, where have you Absent bene?
From what, your Wishes rectified, prefer
To our Desires. A Day, has bene a Yeare;
Strike up a louder Note while wee advance
Preparatoryes, to our Daliance.

Me thinkes, againe I thirst; Swell me a Boule
Lesse Emptie then the Ayre. Let Misers howle
At their slow Incomes; tis a Noble prize
To laugh at fortune, and the world despise.

This hideous Peice of madnes, has perchance
Ith' Scaene, less Envie, and lesse Arrogance
Then some wee call Discretions; perhaps lesse
Impietie; but Sin, who can Expresse?
Til all within us; and our Thoughts scarce know
What tis wee would, or what wee would not Doe.
Soe then wee whine, upon our Errors past,
And Swimme our Brains in Follye to the Last.

Our Fancies are our Follies; and our Boast
Is all our Crime; Strange Paradox! almost
To Stifle Reason; yet it is most true.
I've found it, in my Selfe; and Soe may You.
Ut Surgam Cado
Munitus, et clausus, contra externa ,
intra me maneo;
a curis omnibus Securus ,
Praeter unam ,
ut fractum, Subactumq: hunc animum ,
rectae Rationi, ac Deo Subiiciam;
et animo,
caeteras res humanas .