TO MY EVER MOST-WORTHY-TO-BE-MOST HONOURED LORD, THE EARL OF SOMERSET, ETC.
Project Gutenberg EPUB3 edition
Homer and Chapman, George
Not forc’d by fortune, but since your free mind (Made by affliction) rests in choice resign’d To calm retreat, laid quite beneath the wind Of grace and glory, I well know, my Lord, You would not be entitled to a word That might a thought remove from your repose, To thunder and spit flames, as greatness does, For all the trumps that still tell where he goes. Of which trumps Dedication being one, Methinks I see you start to hear it blown. But this is no such trump as summons lords ’Gainst Envy’s steel to draw their leaden swords, Or ’gainst hare-lipp’d Detraction, Contempt, All which from all resistance stand exempt, It being as hard to sever wrong from merit, As meat-indu’d from blood, or blood from spirit. Nor in the spirit’s chariot rides the soul In bodies chaste, with more divine control, Nor virtue shines more in a lovely face, Than true desert is stuck off with disgrace. And therefore Truth itself, that had to bless The merit of it all, Almightiness, Would not protect it from the bane and ban Of all moods most distraught and Stygian; As counting it the crown of all desert, Borne to heaven, to take of earth, no part Of false joy here, for joys-there-endless troth, Nor sell his
birthright for a mess of broth. But stay and still sustain, and his bliss bring, Like to the hatching of the blackthorn’s spring, With bitter frosts, and smarting hailstorms, forth. Fates love bees’ labours; only Pain crown’s Worth. This Dedication calls no greatness, then, To patron this greatness-creating pen, Nor you to add to your dead calm a breath, For those arm’d angels, that in spite of death Inspir’d those flow’rs that wrought this Poet’s wreath, Shall keep it ever, Poesy’s steepest star, As in Earth’s flaming walls, Heaven’s sevenfold Car, From all the wilds of Neptune’s wat’ry sphere, For ever guards the Erymanthian bear. Since then your Lordship settles in your shade A life retir’d, and no retreat is made But to some strength, (for else ’tis no retreat, But rudely running from your battle’s heat) I give this as your strength; your strength, my Lord, In counsels and examples, that afford More guard than whole hosts of corporeal pow’r, And more deliverance teach the fatal hour. Turn not your med’cine then to your disease, By your too set and slight repulse of these, The adjuncts of your matchless Odysses; Since on that wisest mind of man relies Refuge from all life’s
infelicities. Nor sing these such division from them, But that these spin the thread of the same stream From one self distaff’s stuff; for Poesy’s pen, Through all themes, is t’ inform the lives of men; All whose retreats need strengths of all degrees; Without which, had you even Herculean knees, Your foes’ fresh charges would at length prevail, To leave your noblest suff’rance no least sail. Strength then the object is of all retreats; Strength needs no friends’ trust; strength your foes defeats. Retire to strength, then, if eternal things, And y’are eternal; for our knowing springs Flow into those things that we truly know, Which being eternal, we are render’d so. And though your high-fix’d light pass infinite far Th’ adviceful guide of my still-trembling star, Yet hear what my discharg’d piece must foretel, Standing your poor and perdue sentinel. Kings may perhaps wish even your beggar’s-voice To their eternities, how scorn’d a choice Soever now it lies; and (dead) I may Extend your life to light’s extremest ray. If not, your Homer yet past doubt shall make Immortal, like himself, your bounty’s stake Put in my hands, to propagate your fame; Such virtue reigns in such united
name. Retire to him then for advice, and skill, To know things call’d worst, best; and best, most ill. Which known, truths best choose, and retire to still. And as our English general, (whose name[1] Shall equal interest find in th’ house of fame With all Earth’s great’st commanders,) in retreat To Belgian Gant, stood all Spain’s armies’ heat By Parma led, though but one thousand strong; Three miles together thrusting through the throng Of th’ enemy’s horse, still pouring on their fall ’Twixt him and home, and thunder’d through them all; The Gallic Monsieur standing on the wall, And Wond’ring at his dreadful discipline, Fir’d with a valour that spit spirit divine; In five battalions ranging all his men, Bristl’d with pikes, and flank’d with flankers ten; Gave fire still in his rear; retir’d, and wrought Down to his fix’d strength still; retir’d and fought; All the battalions of the enemy’s horse Storming upon him still their fieriest force; Charge upon charge laid fresh; he, fresh as day, Repulsing all, and forcing glorious way Into the gates, that gasp’d, (as swoons for air,) And took their life in, with untouch’d repair:— So fight out, sweet Earl, your retreat in peace; No
ope-war equals that where privy prease Of never-number’d odds if enemy, Arm’d all by envy, in blind ambush lie, To rush out like an opening threat’ning sky, Broke all in meteors round about your ears. ’Gainst which, though far from hence, through all your rears, Have fires prepar’d; wisdom with wisdom flank, And all your forces range in present rank; Retiring as you now fought in your strength, From all the force laid, in time’s utmost length, To charge, and basely come on you behind. The doctrine of all which you here shall find, And in the true glass of a human mind. Your Odysses, the body letting see All his life past, through infelicity, And manage of it all. In which to friend, The full Muse brings you both the prime and end Of all arts ambient in the orb of man; Which never darkness most Cimmerian Can give eclipse, since, blind, he all things saw, And to all ever since liv’d lord and law. And through our mere-learn’d men; and modern wise, Taste not poor Poesy’s ingenuities, Being crusted with their covetous leprosies, But hold her pains worse than the spiders’ work, And lighter than the shadow of a cork, Yet th’ ancient learn’d, heat with celestial fire, Affirms her flames
so sacred and entire, That not without God’s greatest grace she can Fall in the wid’st capacity of man. If yet the vile soul of this verminous time Love more the sale-muse, and the squirrel’s chime, Than this full sphere of poesy’s sweetest prime, Give them unenvied their vain vein and vent, And rest your wings in his approv’d ascent That yet was never reach’d, nor ever fell Into affections bought with things that sell, Being the sun’s flow’r, and wrapt so in his sky He cannot yield to every candle’s eye.
Whose most worthy discoveries, to your lordship’s judicial perspective, in most subdue humility submitteth,