ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT

AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;

Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones,
Forget not in thy book record their groans

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred fold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

ON HIS BLINDNESS

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent.

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide,
'Doth God exact day labor, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent
That murmur soon replies, 'God doth not need

His state

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.
Is kingly thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'

SIR JOHN SUCKLING

1609-1642

WHY SO PALE AND WAN?

WHY SO pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dumb and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move:

This cannot take her.

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The devil take her!

I PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY HEART

I PRITHEE send me back my heart,

Since I cannot have thine :

For if from yours you will not part,

Why, then, shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain,

For th' hast a thief in either eye

Would steal it back again,

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IO

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Why should two hearts in one breast lie,
And yet not lodge together?

O Love, where is thy sympathy,

If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,

I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm best resolv'd,

I then am most in doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,

I will no longer pine;

For I'll believe I have her heart,

As much as she has mine.

ΙΟ

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SAMUEL BUTLER

1612-1680

EXTRACTS FROM HUDIBRAS

PART I, CANTO I, 11. 15-104

A WIGHT he was, whose very sight would
Entitle him Mirror of Knight-hood;
That never bent his stubborn knee
To any thing but chivalry,
Nor put up blow, but that which laid
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade :
Chief of domestic knights and errant,
Either for chartel or for warrant:

Great on the bench, great in the saddle,
That could as well bind o'er, as swaddle :
Mighty he was at both of these,
And styl'd of War, as well as Peace.
So some rats of amphibious nature,

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ΙΟ

Are either for the land or water.
But here our authors make a doubt,
Whether he were more wise, or stout.
Some hold the one, and some the other;
But howsoe'er they make a pother,
The diff'rence was so small, his brain
Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain;
Which made some take him for a tool
That knaves do work with, call'd a fool:
And offer'd to lay wagers, that
As Montaigne, playing with his cat,
Complains she thought him but an ass,
Much more she would Sir Hudibras:
For that's the name our valiant knight
To all his challenges did write.
But they're mistaken very much,
'Tis plain enough he was no such :
We grant, although he had much wit,

H' was very shy of using it ;

As being loth to wear it out,

And therefore bore it not about,

Unless on holy-days, or so,

As men their best apparel do.

Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek
As naturally as pigs squeak:

That Latin was no more difficile,
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle:

Being rich in both, he never scanted
His bounty unto such as wanted;
But much of either would afford

To many, that had not one word.

For Hebrew roots, although they're found
To flourish most in barren ground,

He had such plenty, as suffic'd

To make some think him circumcis'd;

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And truly so, perhaps, he was,
'Tis many a pious Christian's case.
He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill'd in analytic;
He could distinguish, and divide

A hair 'twixt south, and south-west side;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute;
He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl;

A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee-men or trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination.

All this by syllogism, true

In mood and figure, he would do.

For Rhetoric, he could not ope

His mouth, but out there flew a trope:
And when he happen'd to break off
I' th' middle of his speech, or cough,
H' had hard words ready to show why
And tell what rules he did it by.
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talk'd like other folk.
For all a rhetorician's rules

Teach nothing but to name his tools.
His ordinary rate of speech

In loftiness of sound was rich;
A Babylonish dialect,

Which learned pedants much affect.
It was a parti-color'd dress

Of patched and piebald languages:
'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,