Classic Poem

To the lady Stanhope at Twicknam. 1615

Katherine Stanhope — Anagr: I keepe an honest hart.

Poor lines if ere you fortunately stand
Opposd to purer eyes in that pure hand
To which I send you; plentifull accesse
You soon shall fin[d], of wealth and noblenesse
This sad dull inke will sparkle then & shine
Each word fall soft, & smooth run every line
And you tho meanly borne, shall seeme the straine
And issue of some witts or Poits braine
Sure it is syn in him that not envies
That loftie blisse to which you then shall rise.
For she will hold you when she goes to rest
Within a handfull of hir heavenly brest.
And tho she knows all ready what you meane
Will haue a mind to read you ├┤re againe.
And tis a wonder if in all that while
She doe not in despight of sorrow smile
Once, as the brave sun n hurls his flaming eye
Through clouds swolne bigg with a moyst tympany
Tho at that instant on hir face appears
Hanging like pearles a payre of shining tears
Which balme droppt on you, will great virtues add
So precious blotts no verses ever hadd.
Then she contemplates & she prayes withall
The Graces then, and heavens angells fall
Thick on her bosome, & about hir bedd,
And holy deawes on hir & yow are shedd
Comes slumber then, & you by hir are sett
Amongst hir best things in hir Cabinett,
But thus while you to blisse & high estate
Are lifted, I lie here disconsolate.
For what glad thing is left vs since shees gone
But our good Angell & hir Huntingdon
Save that bright starre which yet is fixt so high
I cannot thither throwe my feeble eye
Nought here is to be seen, worth looking on
But merchandize fitt for king Solomon
Who had a navie which appointed were
To fetch him apes & peacocks every yeare.
This clime is desert, we the Phaenix misse
And Twicknam now Arabia foelix is.
Yet wou'd not this my patience so much breake
As that I am constraind to hear them speake
Hard writhen words intended eloquence
Six Criticks wedges would not cleiue the sence
With theise tis persecution to conferre
True Purgatorie barrd from heaven & hir
Whose speech, whose faire aspect, whose every glance
Did thaw away some peice of ignorance.
Thence my cold muse & braine of Ice, for prose
merely ordain'd resolu'd in numbers flows,
Which if hir deare remembrance I refraine
would freeze I feare, to stubborne prose againe
But that I'le nere doe; since the very thought
of hir hath with it much new learning brought
First I perceiue by that faire Soule of hers
The follie of two great Philosophers.
Thales thought all our soules of water were
And Anaximenes imagind aier
That hirs is neither now remains no doubt
She must by this haue sigh'd or wept it out.
Next by hir fame, which still doth freshly last
Spight of the devill or mans malicious blast
I see that virtue may be built so strong
And Right, that rumour can not sett it wrong
Last by the thought of hir estate, I find
How full of froath & emptinesse & wind
Is their content who haue reposed it
In wealth, or bloud, in beautie, youth, or witt.
For of all theise things heaven had lent such store
They can not be hir frends that wish hir more
Yet to full blisse I see she something seeks
Witnesse these water wracks vpon hir cheekes
Which she shall find in heaven tho here she misse
[And crowne those waterie eyes, wth wyne of Blisse]