Category: PART III

¹

The head is like a barrel, which will break
If th’liquor be too strong; but if’t be² weak,
It³ will the riper grow by lying long,
For⁴ kept from vent, the spirits grow more strong.
So wit, which Nature tuns up in the brain,⁵                     5
Never leaves working, if it close remain.⁶
’Twill⁷ through discretion⁸ burst and run about,
Unless a pen and ink do tap it out.
But if the wit be small, then let it lie,
For⁹ broached too soon, the spirits quickly die.              10

¹

Malaga wits, when broached, which pens do² pierce,
If strong, run straight into heroic verse.
Sharp claret satyr,³ searching, runs⁴ about
The veins of vice, before it passes out,
And makes the blood of virtue fresh to spring                   5
In noble minds; fair truths complexions bring.
But all high fancy is in brandy wits;⁵
A fiery heat in understanding sits.

In Nature’s wardrobe there hangs up great store
Of several garments; some are rich, some poor.
Some, made on¹ beauty’s² stuff, with smiles are³ laced;
With lovely favor is the outside faced.
Some fresh and new by sicknesses are⁴ rent,                           5
Not taking any care them⁵ to prevent.
But physic and good diet had⁶ again
Sewed up the slits, that none did yet⁷ remain.
Some worn so bare with age, that none could see
What stuff’t⁸ had been, or what it yet might⁹ be.                    10
Others were so ill-shaped, their¹⁰ stuff so coarse,
That¹¹ none would wear unless it were by force.¹²
And several mantles Nature made were there,
To keep her creatures warm from the cold air.
As sables, martins,¹³ and the fox that’s black,¹⁴                       15
The powdered ermines, and the fierce wild cat.¹⁵
Most of her creatures she hath clad in fur,
Which need¹⁶ no fire, if they do¹⁷ but stir.
And some in wool she clads, as well as hair,
And some in scales; others do feathers wear.                           20
But man, his skin she made¹⁸ so smooth and fair,
It needs no feathers,¹⁹ scales, wool, nor hair.
The outside of all things Nature keeps here²⁰
For several creatures, which²¹ she makes to²² wear.
Death pulls them off, Life puts them on, but Nature²³            25
Takes care to fit each garment for each creature.²⁴
Nature hath but two sorts of stuffs²⁵ whereon²⁶
All garments are made that Life puts on.²⁷
But yet these of such several fashions are,²⁸
That seldom any two alike appear.                                             30
And²⁹ Nature several trimmings for them³⁰ makes,
And several colors for each trimming takes.

¹

Great Nature clothes the soul, which is but thin,²
With³ fleshly garments,⁴ which the Fates do spin.
And when these garments are grown old and bare,
With sickness torn, Death takes them off with care,
And folds⁵ them up in⁶ peace, and quiet rest,                       5
So⁷ lays them safe within an earthly chest.
Then scours them,⁸ and makes them sweet and clean,
Fit for the soul to wear those clothes again.

Grounds of great loss, with sorrows were deep plowed,¹
Wherein the fertile seed of care was sowed;²
Horses of hopes did draw the cart of pains,³
With expectations filled, to th’barn of brains;⁴
Cows of content did give⁵ the milk of ease;                              5
Curds pressed with love did make⁶ a friendship cheese;
Cream of delight was put in⁷ pleasure’s churn,
In a short time to butt’r of joy did turn;⁸
Sweet whey of tears from laughing eyes did flow:⁹
Thus all her housewif’ry did Nature show.¹⁰                           10
Eggs of revenge were laid by some design;
Chickens of mischief hatched by¹¹ words divine.
Life’s nourishment¹² the poultry fat doth cram,
And so she doth all creatures else, and man.¹³
And Nature makes the Fates¹⁴ to sit and spin,                         15
And Destiny lays out and brings flax in.
In this her housewif’ry doth Nature¹⁵ take
Such great delight,¹⁶ the cloth of life to make,
That¹⁷ every garment she herself cuts out,
Disposing¹⁸ to her creatures all about.                                      20
Where some wear them so long, till they be¹⁹ torn,
And some do cast them off before half worn.
Thus busy Nature²⁰ doth her self employ
On every creature small, until they²¹ die.
When any²² dies, that work is at an end;²³                               25
Then to a new she doth her study bend.²⁴

¹
The tongue’s a wheel, to spin words from the mind,
A thread of sense by th’understanding’s twined;²
The lips, a loom, these words of sense to weave³
Into discourse, which to the ears they leave.⁴
This cloth i’th’chest of memory’s laid up,⁵                           5
Till into shirts of judgments it⁶ be cut.

¹
The brain a garden seems, full of delight,²
Whereon³ the sun of knowledge shineth bright,
Where fancy flows, and runs in bubbling streams,
Where flowers grow⁴ upon the banks of dreams,
Whereon the dew of sleepy eyes doth fall,                            5
Bathing each leaf, and every flower small.
There⁵ various thoughts as several flowers grow:
Some milk-white innocence, as⁶ lilies, show,
Fancies, as painted tulips’⁷ colors fixt,
By Nature’s pencil neatly⁸ intermixt;                                      10
Some as sweet roses, which are newly blown,
Others as tender buds, not yet full⁹ grown;
Some, as small violets, much¹⁰ sweetness bring.
Thus many fancies from the brain still spring.
Their wit, as butterflies, hot love¹¹ do make,                        15
On every flower fine their pleasure take,¹²
Dancing¹³ about each leaf in pleasant sort,
Passing¹⁴ their time away in amorous sport.
Like Cupids young, their painted wings display,
And with Apollo’s golden beams do¹⁵ play.                            20
Industrious pains¹⁶, as¹⁷ bees, suck out the sweet,
Wax of invention gather¹⁸ with their feet.
Then on the¹⁹ wings of fame fly to their hive,
Which from the wint’r of²⁰ death keeps them alive.
There birds of poetry sweet notes still sing,                          25
Which through the world, as through the air, do²¹ ring,
And on the branches of delight they²² sit,
Pruning their wings, which are with study wet,
Then to the cedars of high honor fly,
Yet rest not there, but mount up to the sky.                           30

¹

The heart unto² a harp compare I may,
The passions,³ strings on which the mind doth play.
’Tis⁴ harmony, when they just time do keep;
With notes of peace they bring the soul to sleep.

The head unto an organ I compare,                                         5
The thoughts, as several pipes, make music there.
Imagination’s bellows drawn, do⁵ blow
Windy opinions, which the thoughts make⁶ go.
The little virg’nal⁷ jacks which skip about
Are several fancies that run in and out.                                  10

The tongue’s a lute, strung with the strings of breath.⁸
The words as fingers play; the pegs are teeth.⁹
These moving all, a sweet soft music make,
Wise sentences the ground¹⁰ of music take.
Witty light airs are pleasant to the ear;                                    15
Strains of description all delight¹¹ to hear.
In similizing quavers¹² lies great art,
Flour’shes¹³ of eloquence are a¹⁴ sweet part.
Stops of reproof are usèd with great¹⁵ skill;
Flatt’ring division doth the mind please¹⁶ still.                      20
The thoughts are several tunes, which they do¹⁷ play,
And thus the mind doth pass its time away.

¹
No music’s better than the winds do² make,
If all their several notes right places take:
The full, the half, the quarter-note they³ set;
The tenor, bass, and treble there are met.⁴
The northern wind a strong big bass⁵ doth sing;               5
The east is sweet, like a⁶ small treble string;
The south and west the tenor’s parts do take,⁷
And so, all joined, a fine sweet consort make.⁸
All that this music meets, it moves to dance,
If bodies yielding be with compliance.⁹                               10
The clouds do dance in circle, hand in hand,
Where in¹⁰ the midst¹¹ the worldly ball doth stand.
The seas do dance with ships upon their back,
Where, cap’ring¹² high, they many times do wrack,
As men which venture on the ropes to dance                     15
Oft tumble down, if they too high advance.
But dust,¹³ like country clowns, no measure keep,
But rudely run¹⁴ together on a heap.
Trees grave and civil first bow down¹⁵ their head
Towards the Earth, then every leaf outspread,¹⁶                20
And every twig each other will salute;
Embracing oft, they¹⁷ kiss each other’s root.
And so each other plant and flower¹⁸ gay
Will sweetly dance when as¹⁹ the winds do play.
But when they’re out of tune, they discord make,              25
Disorder all—nothing its²⁰ place can take.
But when Apollo with his beams²¹ doth play,
He²² places all again in the right way.

¹

A painter who would² draw the firmament
Did with a round plump face the same³ present.
His pencils were the beams shot from fair eyes,
Where some of them he in red blushes dyes,
Which as the morning, when the heaven’s⁴ clear,              5
Shows⁵ just so red before the sun appear.
The veins he draws for a blue azure⁶ sky,
And for the sun, a great and fair⁷ grey eye.
The rainbow like a brow he pencils⁸ out,
Which circles half a weeping eye about.                               10
From pure pale complexions, takes⁹ a white,
Mixed with a count’nance¹⁰ sad, he shades the¹¹ night.
Thus Heav’n he doth with such¹² a face present,
That¹³ is adorned with beauty excellent.