THE STAND

Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went,
         Himself to rest,
Or taste a part of that full joy he meant
         To have expressed,
      In this bright Asterism! 
      Where it were friendship’s schism,
   Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,
      To separate these twi-
      Lights, the Dioscouri;
   And keep the one half from his Harry,
But fate doth so alternate the design
Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine.

IV.

THE TURN

   And shine as you exalted are;
   Two names of friendship, but one star: 
Of hearts the union, and those not by chance
Made, or indenture, or leased out t’advance
      The profits for a time. 
      No pleasures vain did chime,
   Of rhymes, or riots, at your feasts,
   Orgies of drink, or feigned protests: 
But simple love of greatness and of good,
That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.

THE COUNTER-TURN

   This made you first to know the why
   You liked, then after, to apply
That liking; and approach so one the t’other,
Till either grew a portion of the other: 
      Each styled by his end,
      The copy of his friend. 
   You lived to be the great sir-names,
   And titles, by which all made claims
Unto the virtue; nothing perfect done,
But as a Cary, or a Morison.

THE STAND

And such a force the fair example had,
         As they that saw
The good, and durst not practise it, were glad
         That such a law
      Was left yet to mankind;
      Where they might read and find
   Friendship, indeed, was written not in words;
      And with the heart, not pen,
      Of two so early men,
   Whose lines her rolls were, and records;
Who, ere the first down bloomed upon the chin,
Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.

PRAELUDIUM

And must I sing?  What subject shall I choose! 
Or whose great name in poets’ heaven use,
For the more countenance to my active muse?

Hercules? alas, his bones are yet sore
With his old earthly labours t’ exact more
Of his dull godhead were sin.  I’ll implore

Phoebus.  No, tend thy cart still.  Envious day
Shall not give out that I have made thee stay,
And foundered thy hot team, to tune my lay.

Nor will I beg of thee, lord of the vine,
To raise my spirits with thy conjuring wine,
In the green circle of thy ivy twine.

Pallas, nor thee I call on, mankind maid,
That at thy birth mad’st the poor smith afraid. 
Who with his axe thy father’s midwife played.

Go, cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he snorts,
Or with thy tribade trine invent new sports;
Thou, nor thy looseness with my making sorts.