And ere a man hath power to say, Behold!

The jaws of darkness do devour it up:

So quick bright things come to confusion.

[98] Small sword.
[99] Burdens.
[100] Cloud.
[101] Encompassed.
[102] Black.
[103] Caprice, whim.


FRANCIS BACON.

OF DEATH.

[From the Essays.]

Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other. Certainly, the contemplation of death, as the wages of sin, and passage to another world, is holy and religious; but the fear of it, as a tribute due unto nature, is weak. Yet in religious meditations there is sometimes mixture of vanity and of superstition. You shall read in some of the friars' books of mortification, that a man should think with himself what the pain is, if he have but his finger's end pressed or tortured; and thereby imagine what the pains of death are, when the whole body is corrupted and dissolved; when many times death passeth with less pain than the torture of a limb; for the most vital parts are not the quickest of sense. And by him that spake only as a philosopher and natural man, it was well said, Pompa mortis magis terret quam mors ipsa.[104] Groans and convulsions, and a discolored face, and friends weeping, and blacks and obsequies, and the like, show death terrible. It is worthy the observing, that there is no passion in the mind of man so weak but it mates and masters the fear of death, and therefore death is no such terrible enemy, when a man hath so many attendants about him that can win the combat of him. Revenge triumphs over death; love slights it; honor aspireth to it; grief flieth to it; fear preoccupateth[105] it. It is as natural to die as to be born; and to a little infant perhaps the one is as painful as the other. He that dies in an earnest pursuit is like one that is wounded in hot blood: who, for the time, scarce feels the hurt; and therefore a mind fixed and bent upon somewhat that is good doth avert the dolours of death; but, above all, believe it, the sweetest canticle is Nunc dimittis[106] when a man hath obtained worthy ends and expectations. Death hath this also, that it openeth the gate to good fame, and extinguisheth envy: Extinctus amabitur idem.[107]

[104] The shows of death terrify more than death itself.
[105] Anticipates.
[106] Now thou dismissest us.
[107] The same man will be loved when dead.

OF STUDIES.

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring: for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of business; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshaling of affairs come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too much for ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, is the humor of a scholar: they perfect nature, and are perfected by experience: for natural abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning by study; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them; for they teach not their own use; but that is a wisdom without them and above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously;[108] and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the less important arguments,[109] and the meaner sorts of books; else distilled books are, like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man; and therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise; poets, witty; the mathematics, subtile; natural philosophy, deep; moral, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend: Abeunt studia in mores;[110] nay, there is no stand or impediment in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit studies: like as diseases of the body may have appropriate exercises—bowling is good for the stone and reins, shooting for the lungs and breast, gentle walking for the stomach, riding for the head and the like; so, if a man's wit be wandering, let him study the mathematics; for in demonstrations, if his wit be called away never so little, he must begin again; if his wit be not apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study the school-men, for they are Cymini sectores;[111] if he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call up one thing to prove and illustrate another, let him study the lawyers' cases: so every defect of the mind may have a special receipt.

[108] Attentively.
[109] Subjects.
[110] Studies pass into the character.
[111] Hair-splitters.

OF ADVERSITY.

It was a high speech of Seneca (after the manner of the Stoics), that "the good things which belong to prosperity are to be wished, but the good things that belong to adversity are to be admired"—Bona rerum secundarum optabilia, adversarum mirabilia. Certainly, if miracles be the command over Nature, they appear most in adversity. It is yet a higher speech of his than the other (much too high for a heathen), "It is true greatness to have in one the frailty of a man and the security of a god "—Vere magnum habere fragilitatem hominis, securitatem dei. This would have done better in poesy, where transcendencies are more allowed; and the poets indeed have been busy with it; for it is in effect the thing which is figured in that strange fiction of the ancient poets, which seemeth not to be without mystery;[112] nay, and to have some approach to the state of a Christian; "that Hercules, when he went to unbind Prometheus (by whom human nature is represented), sailed the length of the great ocean in an earthen pot or pitcher," lively describing Christian resolution, that saileth in the frail bark of the flesh through the waves of the world. But, to speak in a mean[113] the virtue of prosperity is temperance, the virtue of adversity is fortitude, which in morals is the more heroical virtue. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament, adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater benediction, and the clearer revelation of God's favor. Yet, even in the Old Testament, if you listen to David's harp, you shall hear as many hearse-like airs as carols; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath labored more in describing the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon. Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes; and adversity is not without comforts and hopes. We see in needle-works and embroideries it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground: judge, therefore, of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant when they are incensed[114] or crushed: for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue.

[112] An allegorical meaning.
[113] Moderately, that is, without poetic figures.
[114] Burnt.


BEN JONSON.

SONG TO CELIA.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,

As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon did'st only breathe

And sent'st it back to me:

Since when it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

LONG LIFE.

It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make men better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:

A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night;

It was the plant and flower of light.

In small proportions we just beauty see;

And in short measures life may perfect be.

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Underneath this sable hearse

Lies the subject of all verse,

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;

Death, ere thou hast slain another,

Learn'd and fair and good as she,

Time shall throw a dart at thee.

THE THANKLESS MUSE.

[From The Poetaster.]

O this would make a learned and liberal soul

To rive his stainéd quill up to the back,

And damn his long-watched labours to the fire—

Things that were born when none, but the still night

And his dumb candle, saw his pinching throes;

Were not his own free merit a more crown,

Unto his travails than their reeling claps.[115]

This 'tis that strikes me silent, seals my lips,

And apts me rather to sleep out my time,

Than I would waste it in contemnéd strifes

With these vile Ibidés,[116] these unclean birds

That make their mouths their clysters, and still purge

From their hot entrails. But I leave the monsters

To their own fate. And, since the Comic Muse

Hath proved so ominous to me, I will try

If tragedy have a more kind aspect:

Her favors in my next I will pursue,

Where, if I prove the pleasure but of one,

So he judicious be, he shall be alone

A theater unto me. Once I'll 'say[117]

To strike the ear of time in those fresh strains,

As shall, beside the cunning of their ground,

Give cause to some of wonder, some despite,

And more despair to imitate their sound.

I, that spend half my nights and all my days

Here in a cell, to get a dark pale face,

To come forth worth the ivy or the bays,

And in this age can hope no other grace—

Leave me! There's something come into my thought

That must and shall be sung high and aloof,

Safe from the wolf's black jaw and the dull ass's hoof.[118]


[115]
Applauses.

[116]
Plural of ibis.

[117]
That is, I will try once for all.

[118]
That is, envy and stupidity.

JOHN FLETCHER AND FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

A SONG OF TRUE LOVE DEAD.

[From The Maid's Tragedy.]

Lay a garland on my hearse

Of the dismal yew;

Maidens willow branches bear;

Say I died true:

My love was false, but I was firm

From my hour of birth:

Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth.

A SONG OF CRUEL LOVE.[119]

[From Rollo, Duke of Normandy.]

Take, oh take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn,

And those eyes, the break of day,

Lights that do mislead the morn;

But my kisses bring again,

Seals of love, though sealed in vain.


Hide, oh hide those hills of snow,

Which thy frozen bosom bears,

On whose tops the pinks that grow

Are of those that April wears;

But first set my poor heart free,

Bound in those icy chains by thee.

SWEET MELANCHOLY.[120]

[From The Nice Valor.]

Hence, all your vain delights,

As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!

There's naught in this life sweet,

If man were wise to see't,

But only melancholy:

O sweetest melancholy!


Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,

A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fastened on the ground,

A tongue chained up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,

Places which pale passion loves,

Moonlight walks when all the fowls

Are warmly housed, save bats and owls,

A midnight bell, a parting groan,

These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley:

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.


[119] The first stanza of this song was probably Shakspere's.
[120] This should be compared with Milton's Il Penserosa.

CÆSAR'S LAMENT OVER POMPEY.

[From The False One.]

O thou conqueror,

Thou glory of the world once, now the pity:

Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus?

What poor fate followed thee and plucked thee on

To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian?

The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger

That honorable war ne'er taught a nobleness,

Nor worthy circumstance showed what a man was?

That never heard thy name sung but in banquets

And loose lascivious pleasures? To a boy

That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness,

No study of thy life to know thy goodness? ...

Egyptians, dare you think your high pyrámidës,

Built to out-dure the sun, as you suppose,

Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes,

Are monuments fit for him? No, brood of Nilus,

Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven;

No pyramid set off his memories,

But the eternal substance of his greatness,

To which I leave him.



JOHN MILTON.

FAME.

[From Lycidas.]

Alas! what boots it with incessant care

To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade,

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better done, as others use,

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

(That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn delights and live laborious days;

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,[121]

And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"

Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears:

"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."

THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY.

[From Il Penseroso.]