Is not thy sacred hunger of science
Yet satisfied? is not thy brain's rich hive
Fulfill'd with honey, which thou dost derive
From the arts' spirits and their quintessence?
Then wean thyself at last, and thee withdraw
From Cambridge thy old nurse, and, as the rest,
Here toughly chew, and sturdily digest
Th' immense vast volumes of our common law.
And begin soon, lest my grief grieve thee too,
Which is, that that, which I should have begun 10
In my youth's morning, now late must be done;
And I, as giddy travellers must do,
Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost
Light and strength, dark and tired must then ride
post.
If thou unto thy Muse be married,
Embrace her ever, ever multiply;
Be far from me that strange adultery
To tempt thee, and procure her widowhood.
My Muse-for I had one-because I'm cold,
Divorced herself, the cause being in me.
That I can take no new in bigamy,
will only, but power doth withhold.
1. 19. So Addl. MS. 18,647; 1633, My nurse
Hence comes it, that these rhymes which never had
Mother, want matter, and they only have
A little form, the which their father gave;
They are profane, imperfect-O, too bad
To be counted children of poetry,
Except confirm'd and bishoped by thee.
TO M[R]. R[OWLAND] W[OODWAR D].
IF, as mine is, thy life a slumber be,
Seem, when thou read'st these lines, to dream of me. Never did Morpheus nor his brother wear
Shapes so like those shapes, whom they would appear,
As this my letter is like me, for it
Hath my name, words, hand, feet, heart, mind and wit.
It is my deed of gift of me to thee;
It is my will, myself the legacy.
So thy retirings I love, yea envy,
Bred in thee by a wise melancholy,
That I rejoice, that unto where thou art,
Though I stay here, I can thus send my heart,
As kindly as any enamour'd patient
His picture to his absent love hath sent.
All news I think sooner reach thee than me;
Havens are heavens, and ships wing'd angels be,
The which both gospel and stern threatenings bring.
Guiana's harvest is nipp'd in the spring,
I fear; and with us, methinks, Fate deals so
As with the Jews' guide God did; He did show
Him the rich land, but barr'd his entry in ;
Our slowness is our punishment and sin.
Perchance, these Spanish businesses being done,
Which, as the earth between the moon and sun,
Eclipse the light which Guiana would give,
Our discontinued hopes we shall retrieve.
But if-as all th' All must-hopes smoke away,
Is not almighty virtue an India?
If men be worlds, there is in every one
Something to answer in some proportion
All the world's riches; and in good men this,
Virtue, our form's form and our soul's soul, is.
Of that short roll of friends writ in my heart,
Which with thy name begins, since their depart,
Whether in th' English provinces they be,
Or drink of Po, Sequane, or Danuby,
There's none that sometime greets us not, and yet
Your Trent is Lethe; that past, us you forget.
You do not duties of societies,
If from th' embrace of a loved wife you rise,
View your fat beasts, stretch'd barns, and labour'd
Eat, play, ride, take all joys which all day yields, 10
And then again to your embracements go.
Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow
Upon your Muse, else both we shall repent;
I that my love, she that her gifts on you are spent.
BLEST are your north parts, for all this long time
My sun is with you; cold and dark 's our clime;
Heaven's sun, which stay'd so long from us this year,
Stay'd in your north, I think, for she was there;
And hither by kind nature drawn from thence,
Here rages, chafes, and threatens pestilence.
Yet I, as long as she from hence doth stay,
Think this no south, no summer, nor no day.
With thee my kind and unkind heart is run;
There sacrifice it to that beauteous sun.
So may thy pastures with their flowery feasts,
As suddenly as lard, fat thy lean beasts;
So may thy woods oft poll'd, yet ever wear
A green, and—when thee list—a golden hair ;
So may all thy sheep bring forth twins; and so
In chase and race may thy horse all out-go;
So may thy love and courage ne'er be cold;
Thy son ne'er ward; thy loved wife ne'er seem old.
But mayst thou wish great things, and them attain,
As thou tell'st her, and none but her, my pain.
1. 14. 1635; when she list
TO SIR HENRY WOTTON AT HIS GOING
AMBASSADOR TO VENICE.
AFTER those reverend papers, whose soul is
Our good and great king's loved hand and fear'd
By which to you he derives much of his,
And, how he may, makes you almost the same,
A taper of his torch, a copy writ
From his original, and a fair beam
Of the same warm and dazzling sun, though it
Must in another sphere his virtue stream;
After those learned papers which your hand
Hath stored with notes of use and pleasures too, Io From which rich treasury you may command
Fit matter whether you will write or do ;
After those loving papers where friends send,
With glad grief to your sea-ward steps, farewell,
Which thicken on you now, as prayers ascend
To heaven in troops, at a good man's passing-bell;
Admit this honest paper, and allow
It such an audience as yourself would ask ; What you must say at Venice, this means now, And hath for nature, what you have for task.
1. 16. Walton (1670), on troops 1. 19. Walton, What you would... says now 1. 20. Walton, And has
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