The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  To swim with Bladders of Philosophy;

  In hopes still t’oretake th’escaping light,

  The Vapour dances in his dazling sight,

  Till spent, it leaves him to eternal Night.

  Then Old Age, and experience, hand in hand,

  Lead him to death, and make him understand,

  After a search so painful, and so long,

  That all his Life he has been in the wrong;

  Hudled in dirt, the reas’ning Engine lyes,

  Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.

  (…)

  You see how far Mans wisedom here extends,

  Look next, if humane Nature makes amends;

  Whose Principles, most gen’rous are, and just,

  And to whose Moralls, you wou’d sooner trust.

  Be judge your self, I’le bring it to the test,

  Which is the basest Creature Man, or Beast?

  Birds, feed on Birds, Beasts, on each other prey,

  But Savage Man alone, does Man, betray:

  Prest by necessity, they Kill for Food,

  Man, undoes Man, to do himself no good.

  With Teeth, and Claws, by Nature arm’d they hunt,

  Natures allowance, to supply their want.

  But Man, with smiles, embraces, Friendships, praise,

  Unhumanely his Fellows life betrays;

  With voluntary pains, works his distress,

  Not through necessity, but wantonness.

  For hunger, or for Love, they fight, or tear,

  Whilst wretched Man, is still in Arms for fear;

  For fear he armes, and is of Armes afraid,

  By fear, to fear, successively betray’d.

  Base fear, the source whence his best passion came,

  His boasted Honor, and his dear bought Fame.

  That lust of Pow’r, to which he’s such a Slave,

  And for the which alone he dares be brave:

  To which his various Projects are design’d,

  Which makes him gen’rous, affable, and kind.

  For which he takes such pains to be thought wise,

  And screws his actions, in a forc’d disguise:

  Leading a tedious life in Misery,

  Under laborious, mean Hypocrisie.

  Look to the bottom, of his vast design,

  Wherein Mans Wisdom, Pow’r, and Glory joyn;

  The good he acts, the ill he does endure,

  ’Tis all for fear, to make himself secure.

  Meerly for safety, after Fame we thirst,

  For all Men, wou’d be Cowards if they durst.

  And honesty’s against all common sense,

  Men must be Knaves, ’tis in their own defence.

  Mankind’s dishonest, if you think it fair,

  Amongst known Cheats, to play upon the square,

  You’le be undone –

  Nor can weak truth, your reputation save,

  The Knaves, will all agree to call you Knave.

  Wrong’d shall he live, insulted o’re, opprest,

  Who dares be less a Villain, than the rest.

  Thus Sir you see what humane Nature craves,

  Most Men are Cowards, all Men shou’d be Knaves:

  The diff’rence lyes (as far as I can see)

  Not in the thing it self, but the degree;

  And all the subject matter of debate,

  Is only who’s a Knave, of the first Rate?

  1680

  NATHANIEL WANLEY The Resurrection

  Can death be faithfull or the grave be just

  Or shall my tombe restore my scattred dust?

  Shall ev’ry haire find out its’ proper pore

  And crumbled bones be joined as before

  Shall long unpractis’d pulses learne to beate

  Victorious rottennesse a loud retreate

  Or eyes Ecclipsed with a tedious night

  May they once hope to resalute the light?

  What if this flesh of mine be made the prey

  Of Scaly Pirates Caniballs at sea

  Shall living Sepulchres give up theire dead

  Or is not flesh made fish then perished?

  What if the working of a subtile flame

  By an unkind embrace dissolve this frame

  To ashes; and the whist’ling winds convey

  Each atome to a quite contrary way

  Shall the small Pilgrims that (perhaps) may passe

  From grasse to flesh and thence from flesh to grasse

  Travell untill they meet and then embrace

  So strictly as to grow the former face?

  My God I know thy pow’refull word did frame

  Out of pure nothing all that hath a name

  From the bright Angells bathing in full streames

  Of deathlesse joyes to motes that dance in beames.

  And shall I doubt but such a word can call

  Flesh out of dust that out of lesse made all?

  No no I am resolv’d, that when poore I

  Shall slumbring in our mothers bosome lye

  The circl’ing wormes shall loose theire fast embrace

  And kinder turfes that cover mee give place

  The bands of Death shall burst at the shrill sound

  Of Heavens summons and I shall be found

  Then will I rise and dresse mee lord for thee

  Who did’st by Death undresse thee lord for mee.

  (1928)

  JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER The Disabled Debauchee

  As some brave Admiral, in former War,

  Depriv’d of force, but prest with courage still,

  Two Rival-Fleets, appearing from a far,

  Crawles to the top of an adjacent Hill:

  From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views

  The wise, and daring Conduct of the fight,

  And each bold Action, to his Mind renews,

  His present glory, and his past delight;

  From his fierce Eyes, flashes of rage he throws,

  As from black Clouds, when Lightning breaks away,

  Transported, thinks himself amidst his Foes,

  And absent, yet enjoys the Bloody Day;

  So when my Days of impotence approach,

  And I’m by Pox, and Wines unlucky chance,

  Forc’d from the pleasing Billows of debauch,

  On the dull Shore of lazy temperance,

  My pains at least some respite shall afford,

  Whilst I behold the Battails you maintain,

  When Fleets of Glasses, sail about the Board,

  From whose Broad-sides Volleys of Wit shall rain.

  Nor let the sight of Honourable Scars,

  Which my too forward Valour did procure,

  Frighten new-listed Souldiers from the Warrs,

  Past joys have more than paid what I endure.

  Shou’d any Youth (worth being drunk) prove nice,

  And from his fair Inviter meanly shrink,

  ‘Twill please the Ghost, of my departed Vice,

  If at my Councel, he repent and drink.

  Or shou’d some cold complexion’d Sot forbid,

  With his dull Morals, our Nights brisk Alarmes,

  I’ll fire his Blood by telling what I did,

  When I was strong, and able to bear Armes.

  I’ll tell of Whores attacqu’d, their Lords at home,

  Bawds Quarters beaten up, and Fortress won,

  Windows demolisht, Watches overcome,

  And handsome ills, by my contrivance done.

  Nor shall our Love-fits Cloris be forgot,

  When each the well-look’d Link-Boy, strove t’enjoy,

  And the best Kiss, was the deciding Lot,

  Whether the Boy fuck’d you, or I the Boy.

  With Tales like these, I will such thoughts inspire,

  As to important mischief shall incline.

  I’ll make him long some Antient Church to fire,

  And fear no lewdness he’s called to by Wine.


  Thus States-man-like, I’ll sawcily impose,

  And safe from Action valiantly advise,

  Shelter’d in impotence, urge you to blows,

  And being good for nothing else, be wise.

  1681

  ANDREW MARVELL An Horatian Ode upon Cromwel’s Return from Ireland

  The forward Youth that would appear

  Must now forsake his Muses dear,

  Nor in the Shadows sing

  His Numbers languishing.

  ’Tis time to leave the Books in dust,

  And oyl th’ unused Armours rust:

  Removing from the Wall

  The Corslet of the Hall.

  So restless Cromwel could not cease

  In the inglorious Arts of Peace,

  But through adventrous War

  Urged his active Star.

  And, like the three-fork’d Lightning, first

  Breaking the Clouds where it was nurst,

  Did thorough his own Side

  His fiery way divide.

  For ’tis all one to Courage high

  The Emulous or Enemy;

  And with such to inclose

  Is more then to oppose.

  Then burning through the Air he went,

  And Pallaces and Temples rent:

  And Cæsars head at last

  Did through his Laurels blast.

  ’Tis Madness to resist or blame

  The force of angry Heavens flame:

  And, if we would speak true,

  Much to the Man is due.

  Who, from his private Gardens, where

  He liv’d reserved and austere,

  As if his highest plot

  To plant the Bergamot,

  Could by industrious Valour climbe

  To ruine the great Work of Time,

  And cast the Kingdome old

  Into another Mold.

  Though Justice against Fate complain,

  And plead the antient Rights in vain:

  But those do hold or break

  As Men are strong or weak.

  Nature that hateth emptiness,

  Allows of penetration less:

  And therefore must make room

  Where greater Spirits come.

  What Field of all the Civil Wars,

  Where his were not the deepest Scars?

  And Hampton shows what part

  He had of wiser Art.

  Where, twining subtile fears with hope,

  He wove a Net of such a scope,

  That Charles himself might chase

  To Caresbrooks narrow case.

  That thence the Royal Actor born

  The Tragick Scaffold might adorn:

  While round the armed Bands

  Did clap their bloody hands.

  He nothing common did or mean

  Upon that memorable Scene:

  But with his keener Eye

  The Axes edge did try:

  Nor call’d the Gods with vulgar spight

  To vindicate his helpless Right,

  But bow’d his comely Head,

  Down as upon a Bed.

  This was that memorable Hour

  Which first assur’d the forced Pow’r.

  So when they did design

  The Capitols first Line,

  A bleeding Head where they begun,

  Did fright the Architects to run;

  And yet in that the State

  Foresaw it’s happy Fate.

  And now the Irish are asham’d

  To see themselves in one Year tam’d:

  So much one Man can do,

  That does both act and know.

  They can affirm his Praises best,

  And have, though overcome, confest

  How good he is, how just,

  And fit for highest Trust:

  Nor yet grown stiffer with Command,

  But still in the Republick’s hand:

  How fit he is to sway

  That can so well obey.

  He to the Commons Feet presents

  A Kingdome, for his first years rents:

  And, what he may, forbears

  His Fame to make it theirs:

  And has his Sword and Spoyls ungirt,

  To lay them at the Publick’s skirt.

  So when the Falcon high

  Falls heavy from the Sky,

  She, having kill’d, no more does search,

  But on the next green Bow to pearch;

  Where, when he first does lure,

  The Falckner has her sure.

  What may not then our Isle presume

  While Victory his Crest does plume!

  What may not others fear

  If thus he crown each Year!

  A Caesar he ere long to Gaul,

  To Italy an Hannibal,

  And to all States not free

  Shall Clymacterick be.

  The Pict no shelter now shall find

  Within his party-colour’d Mind;

  But from this Valour sad

  Shrink underneath the Plad:

  Happy if in the tufted brake

  The English Hunter him mistake;

  Nor lay his Hounds in near

  The Caledonian Deer.

  But thou the Wars and Fortunes Son

  March indefatigably on;

  And for the last effect

  Still keep thy Sword erect:

  Besides the force it has to fright

  The Spirits of the shady Night,

  The same Arts that did gain

  A Pow’r must it maintain.

  (written c. 1650)

  ANDREW MARVELL Bermudas

  Where the remote Bermudas ride

  In th’ Oceans bosome unespy’d,

  From a small Boat, that row’d along,

  The listning Winds receiv’d this Song.

  What should we do but sing his Praise

  That led us through the watry Maze,

  Unto an Isle so long unknown,

  And yet far kinder than our own?

  Where he the huge Sea-Monsters wracks,

  That lift the Deep upon their Backs.

  He lands us on a grassy Stage;

  Safe from the Storms, and Prelat’s rage.

  He gave us this eternal Spring,

  Which here enamells every thing;

  And sends the Fowle to us in care,

  On daily Visits through the Air.

  He hangs in shades the Orange bright,

  Like golden Lamps in a green Night.

  And does in the Pomgranates close,