Classic and Contemporary Poetry
EUPHEME, OR THE FAIR FAME OF LADY VENETIA DIGBY, by BEN JONSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Fair fame, who art ordained to crown Last Line: The tenth, being her inscription, or crown, is lost Subject(s): Digby, Lady Venetia | ||||||||
The dedication of her cradle The song of her descent The picture of the body Her mind Her being chosen a muse Her fair offices Her happy match Her hopeful issue Her apotheosis, or relation to the saints Her inscription, or crown Vivam amare voluptas, defunctam religio. Stat. 1 The dedication of her cradle Fair fame, who art ordained to crown With ever green, and great renown, Their heads, that envy would hold down With her, in shade Of death, and darkness; and deprive Their names of being kept alive, By thee, and conscience, both who thrive By the just trade Of goodness still: vouchsafe to take This cradle, and for goodness' sake, A dedicated ensign make Thereof, to time. That all posterity, as we, Who read what the crepundia be, May something by that twilight see 'Bove rattling rhyme. For, though that rattles, timbrels, toys, Take little infants with their noise, As properest gifts, to girls, and boys, Of light expense; Their corals, whistles, and prime coats, Their painted masks, their paper boats, With sails of silk, as the first notes Surprise their sense: Yet, here are no such trifles brought, No cobweb cauls; no surcoats wrought With gold, or clasps, which might be bought On every stall. But, here's a song of her descent; And call to the high parliament Of heaven; where seraphim take tent Of ordering all. This, uttered by an ancient bard, Who claims (of reverence) to be heard, As coming with his harp, prepared To chant her 'gree, Is sung: as als' her getting up By Jacob's ladder, to the top Of that eternal port kept ope For such as she. 2 The song of her descent I sing the just, and uncontrolled descent Of dame Venetia Digby, styled the fair: For mind, and body, the most excellent That ever nature, or the later air Gave two such houses as Northumberland, And Stanley, to the which she was co-heir. Speak it, you bold penates, you that stand At either stem, and know the veins of good Run from your roots; tell, testify the grand Meeting of graces, that so swelled the flood Of virtues in her, as, in short, she grew The wonder of her sex, and of your blood. And tell thou, Aldeleigh, none can tell more true Thy niece's line, than thou that gav'st thy name Into the kindred, whence thy Adam drew Meschin's honour with the Cestrian fame Of the first Lupus, to the family By Ranulph. . . . 3 The picture of the body Sitting, and ready to be drawn, What makes these velvets, silks, and lawn, Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace, Where every limb takes like a face? Send these suspected helps, to aid Some form defective, or decayed; This beauty, without falsehood fair, Needs naught to clothe it but the air, Yet something, to the painter's view, Were fitly interposed; so new He shall, if he can understand, Work with my fancy, his own hand. Draw first a cloud: all save her neck; And, out of that, make day to break; Till, like her face, it do appear, And men may think, all light rose there. Then let the beams of that, disperse The cloud, and show the universe; But at such distance, as the eye May rather yet adore, than spy. The heaven designed, draw next a spring, With all that youth, or it can bring: Four rivers branching forth like seas, And paradise confining these. Last, draw the circles of this globe, And let there be a starry robe Of constellations 'bout her hurled; And thou hast painted beauty's world. But, painter, see thou do not sell A copy of this piece; nor tell Whose 'tis: but if it favour find, Next sitting we will draw her mind. 4 The mind Painter, you are come, but may be gone, Now I have better thought thereon, This work I can perform alone; And give you reasons more than one. Not, that your art I do refuse: But here I may no colours use. Beside, your hand will never hit, To draw a thing that cannot sit. You could make shift to paint an eye, An eagle towering in the sky, The sun, a sea, or soundless pit; But these are like a mind, not it. No, to express this mind to sense, Would ask a heaven's intelligence; Since nothing can report that flame, But what's of kin to whence it came. Sweet mind, then speak yourself, and say, As you go on, by what brave way Our sense you do with knowledge fill, And yet remain our wonder still. I call you muse; now make it true: Henceforth may every line be you; That all may say, that see the frame, This is no picture, but the same. A mind so pure, so perfect fine, As 'tis not radiant, but divine: And so disdaining any trier; 'Tis got where it can try the fire. There, high exalted in the sphere, As it another nature were, It moveth all; and makes a flight As circular, as infinite. Whose notions when it would express In speech, it is with that excess Of grace, and music to the ear, As what it spoke, it planted there. The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And, though the sound were parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense. But, that a mind so rapt, so high, So swift, so pure, should yet apply Itself to us, and come so nigh Earth's grossness; there's the how, and why. Is it because it sees us dull, And stuck in clay here, it would pull Us forth, by some celestial sleight Up to her own sublimed height? Or hath she here, upon the ground, Some paradise, or palace found In all the bounds of beauty fit For her to inhabit? There is it. Thrice happy house, that hast receipt For this so lofty form, so straight, So polished, perfect, round, and even, As it slid moulded off from heaven. Not swelling like the ocean proud, But stooping gently, as a cloud, As smooth as oil poured forth, and calm As showers; and sweet as drops of balm. Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood Where it may run to any good; And where it stays, it there becomes A nest of odorous spice, and gums. In action, winged as the wind, In rest, like spirits left behind Upon a bank, or field of flowers, Begotten by that wind, and showers. In thee, fair mansion, let it rest, Yet know, with what thou art possessed, Thou entertaining in thy breast, But such a mind, mak'st God thy guest. A whole quaternion in the midst of this poem is lost, containing entirely the three next pieces of it, and all of the fourth (which in the order of the whole, is the eighth) excepting the very end: which at the top of the next quaternion goeth on thus: 8 But, for you (growing gentlemen) the happy branches of two so illustrious houses as these, wherefrom your honoured mother is in both lines descended; let me leave you this last legacy of council; which so soon as you arrive at years of mature understanding, open you (sir) that are the eldest, and read it to your brethren, for it will concern you all alike. Vowed by a faithful servant, and client of your family, with his latest breath expiring it. B.J. To Kenelm, John, George Boast not these titles of your ancestors; (Brave youths) they are their possessions, none of yours: When your own virtues, equalled have their names, 'Twill be but fair, to lean upon their fames; For they are strong supporters: but, till then, The greatest are but growing gentlemen. It is a wretched thing to trust to reeds; Which all men do, that urge not their own deeds Up to their ancestors; the river's side, By which you are planted, shows your fruit shall bide: Hang all your rooms, with one large pedigree: 'Tis virtue alone, is true nobility. Which virtue from your father, ripe, will fall; Study illustrious him, and you have all. 9 Elegy on my muse THE TRULY HONOURED LADY, THE LADY VENETIA DIGBY; WHO LIVING, GAVE ME LEAVE TO CALL HER SO. BEING HER Apotheosis, OR RELATION TO THE SAINTS. Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina dolori. 'Twere time that I died too, now she is dead, Who was my muse, and life of all I said, The spirit that I wrote with, and conceived. All that was good, or great in me she weaved, And set it forth; the rest were cobwebs fine, Spun out in name of some of the old nine! To hang a window, or make dark the room, Till swept away, they were cancelled with a broom! Nothing, that could remain, or yet can stir A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her! O! had I seen her laid out a fair corse, By death, on earth, I should have had remorse On nature, for her: who did let her lie, And saw that portion of herself to die. Sleepy, or stupid nature, couldst thou part With such a rarity, and not rouse art With all her aids, to save her from the seize Of vulture death, and those relentless cleies? Thou wouldst have lost the phoenix, had the kind Been trusted to thee: not to itself assigned. Look on thy sloth, and give thyself undone, (For so thou art with me) now she is gone. My wounded mind cannot sustain this stroke, It rages, runs, flies, stands, and would provoke The world to ruin with it; in her fall, I sum up mine own breaking, and wish all. Thou hast no more blows, Fate, to drive at one: What's left a poet, when his muse is gone? Sure, I am dead, and know it not! I feel Nothing I do; but, like a heavy wheel, Am turned with another's powers. My passion Whirls me about, and to blaspheme in fashion! I murmur against God, for having ta'en Her blessed soul, hence, forth this valley vain Of tears, and dungeon of calamity! I envy it the angels' amity! The joy of saints! The crown for which it lives, The glory, and gain of rest, which the place gives! Dare I profane, so irreligious be To greet, or grieve her soft euthanasee? So sweetly taken to the court of bliss, As spirits had stolen her spirit, in a kiss, From off her pillow, and deluded bed; And left her lovely body unthought dead! Indeed, she is not dead! But laid to sleep In earth, till the last trump awake the sheep And goats together, whither they must come To hear their judge, and his eternal doom; To have that final retribution, Expected with the flesh's restitution. For, as there are three natures, schoolmen call One corporal, only; the other spiritual, Like single; so, there is a third, commixed, Of body and spirit together, placed betwixt Those other two; which must be judged, or crowned: This as it guilty is, or guiltless found, Must come to take a sentence, by the sense Of that great evidence, the conscience, Who will be there, against that day prepared, To accuse, or quit all parties to be heard! O day of joy, and surety to the just! Who in that feast of resurrection trust! That great eternal holiday of rest, To body, and soul! Where love is all the guest! And the whole banquet is full sight of God! Of joy the circle, and sole period! All other gladness, with the thought is barred; Hope hath her end! And faith hath her reward! This being thus: why should my tongue, or pen Presume to interpell that fulness, when Nothing can more adorn it, than the seat That she is in, or, make it more complete? Better be dumb, than superstitious! Who violates the Godhead, is most vicious Against the nature he would worship. He Will honoured be in all simplicity! Have all his actions wondered at, and viewed With silence, and amazement! Not with rude, Dull, and profane, weak, and imperfect eyes, Have busy search made in his mysteries! He knows, what work he hath done, to call this guest, Out of her noble body, to this feast: And give her place, according to her blood Amongst her peers, those princes of all good! Saints, martyrs, prophets, with those hierarchies, Angels, archangels, principalities, The dominations, virtues, and the powers, The thrones, the cherub, and seraphic bowers, That, planted round, there sing before the Lamb, A new song to his praise, and great I AM: And she doth know, out of the shade of death, What 'tis to enjoy an everlasting breath! To have her captived spirit freed from flesh, And on her innocence, a garment fresh And white as that, put on: and in her hand With boughs of palm, a crowned victrice stand! And will you, worthy son, sir, knowing this, Put black, and mourning on? And say you miss A wife, a friend, a lady, or a love; Whom her redeemer, honoured hath above Her fellows, with the oil of gladness, bright In heaven empire, and with a robe of light? Thither, you hope to come; and there to find That pure, that precious, and exalted mind You once enjoyed: a short space severs ye, Compared unto that long eternity, That shall rejoin ye. Was she, then, so dear, When she departed? You will meet her there, Much more desired, and dearer than before, By all the wealth of blessings, and the store Accumulated on her, by the lord Of life, and light, the son of God, the Word! There, all the happy souls, that ever were, Shall meet with gladness in one theatre; And each shall know, there, one another's face: By beatific virtue of the place. There shall the brother, with the sister walk, And sons, and daughters, with their parents talk; But all of God; they still shall have to say, But make him all in all, their theme, that day: That happy day, that never shall see night! Where he will be, all beauty to the sight; Wine, or delicious fruits, unto the taste; A music in the ears, will ever last; Unto the scent, a spicery, or balm; And to the touch, a flower, like soft as palm. He will all glory, all perfection be, God, in the union, and the Trinity! That holy, great, and glorious mystery Will there revealed be in majesty! By light, and comfort of spiritual grace; The vision of our saviour, face, to face In his humanity! To hear him preach The price of our redemption, and to teach Through his inherent righteousness, in death, The safety of our souls, and forfeit breath! What fulness of beatitude is here? What love with mercy mixed doth appear? To style us friends, who were, by nature, foes? Adopt us heirs, by grace, who were of those Had lost ourselves? And prodigally spent Our native portions, and possessed rent; Yet have all debts forgiven us, and advance By imputed right to an inheritance In his eternal kingdom, where we sit Equal with angels, and co-heirs of it. Nor dare we under blasphemy conceive He that shall be our supreme judge, should leave Himself so uninformed of his elect, Who knows the hearts of all, and can dissect The smallest fibre of our flesh; he can Find all our atoms from a point to a span! Our closest creeks, and corners, and can trace Each line, as it were graphic, in the face. And best he knew her noble character, For 'twas himself who formed, and gave it her. And to that form, lent two such veins of blood As nature could not more increase the flood Of title in her! All nobility (But pride, that schism of incivility) She had, and it became her! She was fit To have known no envy, but by suffering it! She had a mind as calm, as she was fair; Not tossed or troubled with light lady-air; But, kept an even gait, as some straight tree Moved by the wind, so comely moved she. And by the awful manage of her eye She swayed all business in the family! To one she said, do this, he did it; so To another, move; he went; to a third, go, He run; and all did strive with diligence To obey, and serve her sweet commandements. She was in one, a many parts of life; A tender mother, a discreeter wife, A solemn mistress, and so good a friend, So charitable, to religious end, In all her petite actions, so devote, As her whole life was now become one note Of piety, and private holiness. She spent more time in tears herself to dress For her devotions, and those sad essays Of sorrow, than all pomp of gaudy days: And came forth ever cheered, with the rod Of divine comfort, when she had talked with God. He broken sighs did never miss whole sense: Nor can the bruised heart want eloquence: For, prayer is the incense most perfumes The holy altars, when it least presumes. And hers were all humility! They beat The door of grace, and found the mercy-seat. In frequent speaking by the pious psalms Her solemn hours she spent, or giving alms, Or doing other deeds of charity, To clothe the naked, feed the hungry. She Would sit in an infirmary, whole days Poring, as on a map, to find the ways To that eternal rest, where now she hath place By sure election, and predestined grace! She saw her saviour, by an early light, Incarnate in the manger, shining bright On all the world! She saw him on the cross Suff'ring, and dying to redeem our loss! She saw him rise, triumphing over death To justify, and quicken us in breath! She saw him too, in glory to ascend For his designed work the perfect end Of raising, judging, and rewarding all The kind of man, on whom his doom should fall! All this by faith she saw, and framed a plea In manner of a daily apostrophe, To him should be her judge, true God, true man, Jesus, the only gotten Christ! Who can As being redeemer, and repairer too (Of lapsed nature) best know what to do, In that great act of judgement: which the Father Hath given wholly to the Son (the rather As being the Son of man) to show his power, His wisdom, and his justice, in that hour, The last of hours, and shutter up of all; Where first his power will appear, by call Of all are dead to life! His wisdom show In the discerning of each conscience, so! And most his justice, in the fitting parts, And giving dues to all mankind's deserts! In this sweet ecstasy, she was rapt hence. Who reads, will pardon my intelligence That thus have ventured these true strains upon; To publish her a saint. My muse is gone. The tenth, being her inscription, or crown, is lost | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LADY VENETIA DIGBY; HER RELATION TO THE SAINTS by BEN JONSON ELEGY UPON THE LADY VENETIA DIGBY by THOMAS RANDOLPH ELEGY ON THE LADY VENETIA DIGBY, SELS. by BEN JONSON A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 1. HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING by BEN JONSON A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 4. HER TRIUMPH by BEN JONSON A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 5. HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID by BEN JONSON A FIT OF RHYME AGAINST RHYME [OR, RIME] by BEN JONSON A NYMPH'S PASSION by BEN JONSON A SONNET, TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY MARY WROTH by BEN JONSON AN ODE TO HIMSELF by BEN JONSON ANSWER TO MASTER WITHER'S SONG, 'SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?' by BEN JONSON |
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