Classic Poem

To my noblest Friend , I. C. Esquire .

Sir,
 I hate the Countries durt and manners, yet
 I love the silence; I embrace the wit
 And courtship, flowing here in a full tide.
 But loathe the expence, the vanity and pride.
 No place each way is happy. Here I hold
 Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold
 (After a due oath ministred) the height
 And greatnesse of each star shines in the state,
 The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.
 With others I commune, who tell me whence
 The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:
 Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
 Soone as they happen; and by rote can tell
 Those Germane townes, even puzzle me to spell.
 The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, they
 Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning or delay:
 And on each action comment, with more skill
 Then upon Livy , did old Matchavill .
 O busie folly! Why doe I my braine
 Perplex with the dull pollicies of Spaine ,
 Or quicke designes of France ? Why not repaire
 To the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:
 And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost give
 Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live
 Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not we
 Arme against passion with Philosophie;
 And by the aide of leisure, so controule,
 What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?
 Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when
 We study misteries of other men
 And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade
 (Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,
 Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate all
 His stratagems who labors to inthrall
 The world to his great Master; and youle finde
 Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.
 Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deare
 A price for glory: Honour doth appeare
 To statesmen like a vision in the night,
 And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.
 Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respect
 Indangers them to error; They affect
 Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
 Man with an equall eye, not bright in gold
 Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
 As Vertue raiseth him above his clay.
 Thus let us value things: And since we find
 Time bends us toward death, lets in our mind
 Create new youth; and arme against the rude
 Assaults of age; that no dull solitude
 Oth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care
 Oth' towne make us not thinke, where now we are
 And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot
 His journey, though his steps we numbred not.

To my noblest Friend , I. C. Esquire .

Sir,
 I hate the Countries durt and manners, yet
 I love the silence; I embrace the wit
 And courtship, flowing here in a full tide.
 But loathe the expence, the vanity and pride.
 No place each way is happy. Here I hold
 Commerce with some, who to my eare unfold
 (After a due oath ministred) the height
 And greatnesse of each star shines in the state,
 The brightnesse, the eclypse, the influence.
 With others I commune, who tell me whence
 The torrent doth of forraigne discord flow:
 Relate each skirmish, battle, overthrow,
 Soone as they happen; and by rote can tell
 Those Germane townes, even puzzle me to spell.
 The crosse or prosperous fate of Princes, they
 Ascribe to rashnesse, cunning or delay:
 And on each action comment, with more skill
 Then upon Livy , did old Matchavill .
 O busie folly! Why doe I my braine
 Perplex with the dull pollicies of Spaine ,
 Or quicke designes of France ? Why not repaire
 To the pure innocence oth' Country ayre:
 And neighbor thee, deare friend? Who so dost give
 Thy thoughts to worth and vertue, that to live
 Blest, is to trace thy wayes. There might not we
 Arme against passion with Philosophie;
 And by the aide of leisure, so controule,
 What-ere is earth in us, to grow all soule?
 Knowledge doth ignorance ingender when
 We study misteries of other men
 And forraigne plots. Doe but in thy owne shade
 (Thy head upon some flowry pillow laide,
 Kind Natures huswifery) contemplate all
 His stratagems who labors to inthrall
 The world to his great Master; and youle finde
 Ambition mocks it selfe, and grasps the wind.
 Not conquest makes us great. Blood is to deare
 A price for glory: Honour doth appeare
 To statesmen like a vision in the night,
 And jugler-like workes oth' deluded sight.
 Th' unbusied onely wise: For no respect
 Indangers them to error; They affect
 Truth in her naked beauty, and behold
 Man with an equall eye, not bright in gold
 Or tall in title; so much him they weigh
 As Vertue raiseth him above his clay.
 Thus let us value things: And since we find
 Time bends us toward death, lets in our mind
 Create new youth; and arme against the rude
 Assaults of age; that no dull solitude
 Oth' country dead our thoughts, nor busie care
 Oth' towne make us not thinke, where now we are
 And whether we are bound. Time nere forgot
 His journey, though his steps we numbred not.