Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, EUPHEME, OR THE FAIR FAME OF LADY VENETIA DIGBY, by BEN JONSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

EUPHEME, OR THE FAIR FAME OF LADY VENETIA DIGBY, by                 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





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