To Mr. Feltham on His Booke of Resolves

In this unconstant Age when all mens minds
In various change strive to outvie the winds.
When no man sets his foot upon the square,
But treads on globes and circles; when we are
The Apes of Fortune, and desire to bee
Revolved on as fickle wheeles as shee.
As if the planets, that our rulers are,
Made the soules motion too irregular.
When minds change oftner then the Greek could dream,
That made the Metempseucos'd soule his theame;
Yea oft to beastly formes: when truth to say
Moons change but once a month, we twice a day.
When none resolves but to be rich, and ill;
Or else resolves to be irresolute still.
In such a tide of minds, that every houre
Doe ebbe and flow; by what inspiring power,
By what instinct of grace I cannot tell,
Dost thou resolve so much, and yet so well?
While foolish men whose reason is their sence,
Still wander in the worlds circumference:
Thou holding passions raines with strictest hand
Dost firme and fixed in the Center stand.
Thence thou art setled, others while they tend
To rove about the circle find no end.
Thy booke I read, and read it with delight,
Resolving so to live as thou dost write.
And yet I guesse thy life thy booke produces,
And but expresses thy peculiar uses.
Thy manners dictate, thence thy writing came,
So Lesbians by their worke their rules doe frame,
Not by the rules the worke; thy life had been
Patterne enough, had it of all been seen,
Without a book; books make the difference here,
In them thou liv'st the same but every where.
And this I guesse, though th'art unknown to me,
By thy chast writing; else it could not bee
(Dissemble ne're so well) but here and there
Some tokens of that plague would soone appeare;
Oft lurking in the skin a secret gout
In books would sometimes blister, and breake out
Contagious sinnes in which men take delight
Must needs infect the paper when they write.
But let the curious eyes of Lynceus look
Through every nerve, and sinew of this book,
Of which 'tis full: let the most diligent mind
Prie thorough it, each sentence he shall find
Season'd with chast, not with an itching salt,
More savouring of the Lampe, then of the malt,
But now too many thinke noe wit divine,
None worthy life, but whose luxurious line
Can ravish Virgins thoughts. And is it fit
To make a pandar or a baud of wit?
But tell 'em of it, in contempt they look,
And aske in scorne if you would geld their book.
As if th' effeminate braine could nothing doe
That should be chast, and yet be masculine too.
Such books as these (as they themselves indeed
Truly confesse) men doe not praise, but read.
Such idle books, which if perchance they can
Better the braine, yet they corrupt the man.
Thou hast not one bad line so lustfull bred
As to dye maid, or Matrons cheeke in red.
Thy modest wit, and witty honest letter
Makes both at once my wit, and me the better.
Thy book a Garden is, and helps us most
To regaine that, which wee in Adam lost.
Where on the Tree of knowledge wee may feed,
But such as no forbidden fruits doth breed.
Whose leaves like those whence Eve her coat did frame,
Serve not to cover, but to cure our shame.
Fraught with all flowers, not only such as grows
To please the eye, or to delight the nose.
But such as may redeeme lost healths againe,
And store of Hellebore to purge the braine.
Such as would cure the surfet man did take
From Adams Apples; such as faine would make
Mans second Paradise, in which should bee
The fruits of life, but no forbidden Tree.
It is a Garden; ha, I thus did say:
And maids, and Matrons blushing runne away.
But maids reenter these chast pleasing bowers;
Chast Matrons here gather the purest flowers.
Feare not; from this pure Garden doe not flye,
In it doth no obsceane Priapus lye.
This is an Eden where no serpents bee;
To tempt the womans imbecillitie.
These lines rich sap the fruit to heaven doth raise;
Nor doth the Cinnamon barke deserve lesse praise,
I meane the stile, being pure and strong and round,
Not long but Pythy: being short breath'd, but sound.
Such as the grave, acute, wise Seneca sings
That best of Tutours to the worst of kings.
Not long and empty; lofty but not proud;
Subtle but sweet, high but without a cloud.
Well setled full of nerves, in breife 'tis such
That in a little hath comprized much,
Like th' Iliads in a Nutshell: And I say
Thus much for stile; though truth should not bee gay
In strumpets glittering robes, yet ne'rethelesse
Shee well deserves a Matrons comelinesse.
Being too brave shee would our fancies glut;
But we should loath her being too much the slut.
The reasonable soule from heaven obtain'd
The best of bodies; and that man hath gain'd
A double praise; whose noble vertues are
Like to the face, in soule and body faire.
Who then would have a noble sentence clad
In russet-thread-bare words, is full as mad
As if Apelles should so fondly dote,
As to paint Venus in old Baucys coat.
They erre that would bring stile so basely under;
The lofty language of the Law was thunder.
The wisest 'pothecary knows 'tis skill
Neatly to candy o're the wholsome pill.
Best Physique then, when gall with sugar meets,
Tempring Absinthian bitternesse with sweets.
Such is thy sentence, such thy stile, being read
Men see them both together happ'ly wed.
And so resolve to keepe them wed, as we
Resolve to give them to posteritie.
'Mongst thy resolves put my resolves in too;
Resolve whos' will, thus I resolve to doe;
That should my errours choose anothers line
Whereby to write, I meane to live by thine.
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