Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SATIRES: 1. THE STATE PROGRESS OF ILL, by EDWARD HERBERT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SATIRES: 1. THE STATE PROGRESS OF ILL, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I say, 'tis hard to write satires, though ill
Last Line: Compos'd as then: few men and many beasts.
Alternate Author Name(s): Cherbury, 1st Baron Herbert Of; Herbert Of Cherbury, Edward Herbert, 1st Baron; Herbert Of Cherbury, Lord
Subject(s): Satire (as Poetic Genre); Sickness; Illness


I SAY, 'tis hard to write satires. Though Ill
Great'ned in his long course, and swelling still,
Be now like to a deluge, yet, as Nile,
'Tis doubtful in his original; this while,
We may thus much on either part presume,
That what so universal are must come
From causes great and far. Now in this state
Of things, what is least like Good men hate,
Since 'twill be the less sin. I do see
Some ill requir'd, that one poison might free
The other; so States to their greatness find
No faults requir'd but their own, and bind
The rest. And though this be mysterious, still,
Why should we not examine how this Ill
Did come at first, how't keeps his greatness here,
When 'tis disguis'd, and when it doth appear?
This Ill, having some attributes of God---
As, to have made itself, and bear the rod
Of all our punishments, as it seems---, came
Into the world to rule it, and to tame
The pride of Goodness; and though his reign
Great in the hearts of men he doth maintain
By love, not right, he, yet the tyrant here
(Though it be him we love, and God we fear),
Pretence yet wants not that it was before
Some part of Godhead, as mercy, that store
For souls grown bankrupt their first stock of grace,
And that which the sinner of the last place
Shall number out, unless th' Highest will show
Some power not yet reveal'd to man below.

But that I may proceed, and so go on
To trace Ill in his first progression,
And through his secret'st ways, and where that he
Had left his nakedness as well as we,
And did appear himself: I note that in
The yet infant world how Mischief and Sin,
His agents here on earth, and easy known,
Are now conceal'd intelligencers grown;
For since that as a guard th' Highest at once
Put Fear t' attend their private actions,
And Shame their public (other means being fail'd),
Mischief under doing of good was veil'd,
And Sin of pleasure; though in this disguise
They only hide themselves from mortal eyes.
Sins, those that both com- and o-mitted be,
Once hot and cold but in a third degree,
Are now such poisons, that though they may lurk
In secret parts awhile, yet they will work
Though after death; nor ever come alone,
But sudden-fruitful multiply ere done.
While in this monstrous birth, they only die
Whom we confess, those live which we deny.
Mischiefs, like fatal constellations,
Appear unto the ignorant at once
In glory and in hurt, while th' unseen part
Of the great cause may be perchance the art
Of th' Ill, and hiding it; which that I may
Ev'n in his first original display
And best example, sure amongst Kings he
Who first wanted succession, to be

A tyrant, was wise enough to have chose
An honest man for King, which should dispose
Those beasts which, being so tame, yet otherwise,
As it seems, could not herd; and with advice
Somewhat indifferent for both, he might
Yet have provided for their children's right,
If they grew wiser, not his own, that so
They might repent, yet under treason, who
Ne'er promis'd faith; though now we cannot spare
(And not be worse) Kings, on those terms they are,
No more than we could spare (and have been sav'd)
Original sin. So then those priests that rav'd
And prophesi'd, they did a kind of good
They knew not of by whom the choice first stood.
Since, then, we may consider now, as fit,
State-government and all the arts of it,
That we may know them yet let us see how
They were deriv'd, done, and are maintain'd now,
That Princes may by this yet understand
Why we obey, as well as they command.
State a proportion'd colour'd table is;
Nobility, the master-piece, in this
Serves to show distances, while being put
'Twixt sight and vastness they seem higher but
As they 're further off; yet, as those blue hills
Which th' utmost border of a region fills,
They are great and worse parts, while in the steep
Of this great prospective they seem to keep
Further absent from those below. Though this
Exalted spirit, that's sure a free soul, is
A greater privilege than to be born
At Venice, although he seek not rule, doth scorn
Subjection but as he is flesh---and so
He is to dulness, shame, and many mo
Such properties---, knows (but the painter's art)
All in the frame is equal; that desert
Is a more living thing, and doth obey,
As he gives poor, for God's sake (though they
And Kings ask it not so); thinks honours are
Figures compos'd of lines irregular;
And, happy-high, knows no election
Raiseth man to true greatness but his own.
Meanwhile sugar'd divines, next place to this,

Tells us humility and patience is
The way to heaven, and that we must there
Look for our kingdom; that the great'st rule here
Is for to rule ourselves; and that they might
Say this the better, they to no place have right
B' inheritance, while whom Ambition sways,
Their office is to turn it other ways.
Those yet whose harder minds Religion
Cannot invade, nor turn from thinking on
A present greatness, that combin'd curse of Law,
Of officers, and neighbours' spite doth draw
Within such whirlpools, that till they be drown'd
They ne'er get out, but only swim them round.
Thus brief, since that the infinite of Ill
Is neither easy told nor safe, I will
But only note how free-born man, subdu'd
By his own choice, that was at first indu'd
With equal power over all, doth now submit
That infinite of number, spirit, wit,
To some eight monarchs. Then why wonder men
Their rule of horses?
The world, as in the Ark of Noah, rests,
Compos'd as then: few men and many beasts.





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