Classic Poem

Rich as was Cottons worth, I wish each line
And every verse I breath like him, a Mine.
That by his vertues might created bee
A new strange miracle, wealth in Poetrie.
But that invention cannot sure be poore,
That but relates a part of his large store.
His youth began, as when the Sun doth rise
Without a Cloud, and clearly trots the skies.
And whereas other youths commended bee
From conceiv'd Hopes; his was maturitie.
Where other springs boast blossoms fairely blowne,
His was a harvest, and had fruits full growne.
So that he seem'd a Nestor here to raigne
In wisdome, Æson -like, turn'd young againe.
This, Royall Henry , whose majestique eye
Saw thorough men, did from his court descrye,
And thither call'd him, and then fix'd him there
One of the prime starres in his glorious spheare.
And (Princely Master) witnesse this with mee,
He liv'd not there to serve himselfe but thee.
No Silk-worme Courtier such as study there
First how to get their cloaths, then how to weare.
And though in favour high, he ne're was known
To promote others suits to pay for 's own.
He valued more his Master, and knew well,
To use his Love was noble; base to sell.
Many there be live in the Court we know
To serve for Pageants, and make up the show;
And are not serviceable there at all
But now and then at some great Festivall.
He serv'd for nobler use, the secret cares
Of common-wealths, and mystique State affaires;
And when great Henry did his Maxims heare,
He wore him as a Jewell in his Eare.
Yet short he came not, nay he all out-went
In what some call a Courtiers complement.
An Active body that in subtile wise
Turnes pliable to any exercise.
For when he leapt, the people dar'd to say
He was borne all of fire, and wore no clay.
Which was the cause too that he wrestled so,
'Tis not fires nature to be kept below.
His course he so perform'd with nimble pace,
The time was not perceiv'd measur'd the race.
As it were true that some late Artists say,
The Earth mov'd too, and run the other way.
All so soone finish'd, when the match was wonne
The Gazers by ask'd why they not begunne.
When he in masque us'd his harmonious feet,
The Sphears could not in comelier order meet;
Nor move more gracefull, whether they advance
Their measures forward, or retire their dance.
There be have seene him in our Henry's Court
The glory and the envy of that sport.
And capring like a constellation rise,
Having fixt upon him all the Ladies eyes.
But these in him I would not vertues call,
But that the world must know, that he had all.
When Henry dy'd (our universall woe)
Willing was Cotton to dye with him too.
And as neare death he came as neare could bee:
Himselfe he buried in obscuritie,
Entomb'd within his study walls, and there
Only the Dead his conversation were.
Yet was he not alone; for every day
Each Muse came thither with her sprig of Bay.
The Graces round about him did appeare,
The Genii of all Nations all met there.
And while immur'd he sat thus close at home,
To him the wealth of all the world did come.
He had a language to salute the Sunne,
Where he unharnest, and where's teame begunne:
The tongues of all the East to him were known
As Naturall, as they were borne his own.
Which from his mouth so sweetly did intice,
As with their language he had mix'd their spice.
In Greeke so fluent, that with it compare
Th' Athenian Olives, and they saplesse are.
Rome did submit her Fasces , and confesse
Her Tully might talke more, and yet speake lesse.
All Sciences were lodg'd in his large brest,
And in that Pallace thought themselves so blest
They never meant to part, but he should bee
Sole Monarch, and dissolve their Heptarchie.
But how vaine is mans fraile Harmonie!
We all are swannes, he that sings best must die.
Death knowledge nothing makes, when we come there,
We need no Language, nor Interpreter.
Who would not laugh at him now, that should seeke
In Cotton's Urne for Hebrew or for Greeke?
But his more heav'nly graces with him yet
Live constant, and about him circled sit
A bright Retinue, and on each falls downe
A robe of Glory, and on each a Crowne.
Then Madam (though you have a losse sustain'd
Both infinite, and ne're to be regain'd
Here in this world) dry your sad eyes, once more
You shall againe enter the Nuptiall dore
A sprightly bride; where you shall clothed bee
In garments weav'd of Immortalitie.
Nor greive because he left you not a sonne,
To Image Cotton forth now he is gone.
For it had been a wrong to his great Name
T'have liv'd in any thing but Heaven, and Fame.