He came from Bevis and his Arundel;1
Morglay was yet with him, and he could do
More feats with it, than his old grandsire too.

Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee Who canst produce a nobler pedigree,

And in meer truth affirm thy soul of kin

To some bright star, or to a cherubin?

When these in their profuse moods spend the

night,

With the same sins they drive away the light:

Thy learned thrift puts her to use, while she
Reveals her firy volume unto thee;

And looking on the separated skies

And their clear lamps with careful thoughts and

eyes

Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and

bars

To heav'n, and there conversest with the stars.
Well fare such harmless, happy nights that be
Obscur'd with nothing but their privacie :
And missing but the false World's glories, do
Miss all those vices which attend them too!
Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise;
The darkest nights outshine their brightest dayes.

1 Sir Bevis ? and the renowned 'Arundell' family and 'Morglay' of the Normans'? G.

ON SIR THOMAS BODLEY'S LIBRARY, THE AUTHOR BEING THEN IN

How fraile a thing is flesh! though we see there
But empty skulls, the Rabbins still live here.
They are not dead, but full of blood again,
I mean the sense, and ev'ry line a vein.
Triumph not o're their dust; whoever looks
In here, shall find their brains all in their books.
Nor is't old Palestine alone survives,

Athens lives here, more than in Plutarch's lives.
The stones which sometimes danc'd unto the

strain

Of Orpheus, here do lodge his muse again.
And you the Roman spirits, Learning has
Made your lives longer than your empire was.
Cæsar had perished from the world of men,
Had not his sword been rescu'd by his pen.

Sir Thomas Bodley, Founder of the Bodleian Library: born 1544: died 1612. His life was written by HEARNE (1703). Cf. THOMAS VAUGHAN's Latin Verses at close of this volume. G.

Rare Seneca! how lasting is thy breath!

Though Nero did, thou coulds't not bleed to death.

How dull the expert tyrant was, to look

For that in thee, which livèd in thy book!
Afflictions turn our blood to ink, and we
Commence when writing, our eternity.
Lucilius here I can behold, and sce

His counsels and his life proceed from thee.
But what care I to whom thy Letters be?

I change the name, and thou doest write to me;
And in this age, as sad almost as thine,

Thy stately Consolations are mine.

Poor Earth! what though thy viler dust enrouls
The frail inclosures of these mighty souls?
Their graves are all upon record; not one
But is as bright, and open as the sun.
And though some part of them obscurely fell
And perish'd in an unknown, private cell:
Yet in their books they found a glorious way
To live unto the Resurrection-day!

Most noble BODLEY! we are bound to thee
For no small part of our eternity.

Thy treasure was not spent on horse and hound, Nor that new mode, which doth old States con

found.

Thy legacies another way did go:

Nor were they left to those would spend them so.

Thy safe, discreet expence on us did flow;
Walsam is in the midst of Oxford now.'

Th' hast made us all thine heirs; whatever we
Hereafter write, 'tis thy posterity.

This is thy monument! here thou shalt stand
Till the times fail in their last grain of sand.
And wheresoe're thy silent reliques keep,
This tomb will never let thine honour sleep,
Still we shall think upon thee; all our fame
Meets here to speak one letter of thy name:
Thou can'st not dye! here thou art more than safe,
Where every book is thy large epitaph.

THE IMPORTUNATE FORTUNE, WRITTEN TO DOCTOR POWEL, OF CANTRE[FF]. OR shame desist, why should'st thou seek my fall?

It cannot make thee more monarchical. Leave off; thy empire is already built;

1 Mr. Macray (of the Bodleian) suggests to me, as the poet's idea, that as Walsingham was in the days of the old religion, a place of pilgrimage, so the Bodleian had (or would) become such. Or it may mean that Walsingham Library was dispersed and that some of its treasures found their way to the Bodleian: but of this there is no record. G.

To ruine me were to inlarge thy guilt,
Not thy prerogative. I am not he
Must be the measure to thy victory.

The fates hatch more for thee; 'twere a disgrace

If in thy annals I should make a clause.

The future ages will disclose such men
Shall be the glory, and the end of them.
Nor do I flatter. So long as there be
Descents in Nature, or posterity,

There must be fortunes; whether they be good,
As swimming in thy tide and plenteous flood,
Or stuck fast in the shallow ebb, when we
Miss to deserve thy gorgeous charity.
Thus Fortune, the great world thy period is;
Nature and you are parallels in this.
But thou wilt urge me still. Away, be gone,
I am resolv'd, I will not be undone.

I scorn thy trash, and thee: nay more, I do
Despise my self, because thy subject too.
Name me heir to thy malice, and I'le be;
Thy hate's the best inheritance for me.
I care not for your wondrous hat and purse,
Make me a Fortunatus with thy curse.
How careful of my self then should I be,
Were I neglected by the world and thee?
Why do thou tempt me with thy dirty ore,
And with thy riches make my soul so poor?