CAESAR

What sighed is this? Mecoenas, Horace, say; Have we our senses? Do we hear? and see? Or, are these but Imaginary objects Drawn by our Fantasy? Why, speak you not? Let us do Sacrifice? Are they the Gods? Reverence: Amaze: and Fury fight in me. What? Do they kneel? Nay, then I see 'tis true I thought impossible: o impious sighed! Let me divert mine eyes; the very thought Everts my Soul, with Passion: Look not Man. There is a Panther, whose unnatural eyes Will strike thee dead: turn then; and die on her With her own death. What, would you have me let the Strumpet live, That, for this Pageant, earns so many death's? Say, Sir, what are you? But, what are you, Sir? And what are you, Dame? I ask not, what you play? but, what you are? And you, good Sir? Oh, that prophaned Name! And are these seemly company for thee, Degenerate Monster? all the rest I know; And hate all knowledge, for their hateful sakes. Are you, that first the Deities inspired With skill of their high Nature's, and their Powers, The first Abusers of their useful light; Profaning thus their Dignities, in their forms; And making them Like you, but counterfeits? Oh, who shall follow Virtue, and embrace her, When her false bosom is found nought but Air? And yet, of those embraces, Centaur's spring, That war with humane Peace, and poison Men. Who shall, with greater comforts, comprehend Her unseen being, and her excellence; When you, that teach, and should eternise her, Live, as she were no Law unto your lives: Nor lived her self, but with your idle breathes? If you think Gods but feigned, and Virtue painted, Know, we sustain and actual residence; And, with the Title of and Emperor, Retain his spirit, and imperial power: By which (in imposition too remiss, Licentious Naso, for thy violent wrong, In soothing the declined Affections Of my base Daughter,) I exile thy feet From all approach, to our imperial Court, On pain of death: and thy misgotten Love Commit to patronage of Iron doors; Since her soft-harted Sire cannot contain her. There is no Bounty to be showed to such, As have no real goodness: Bounty is A spice of Virtue: and what virtuous Act Can take effect on them, that have no power Of equal habitude to apprehend it; But live in worship of that Idol Vice. As if there were no Virtue, but in shade Of strong imagination, merely enforced? This shows, their Knowledge is mere Ignorance; Their far fetched Dignity of soul, a Fancy; And all their square pretext of Gravity A mere vain Glory: hence: away with them. I will prefer for knowledge, none, but such As rule their lives by it, and can becalm All Sea of Humour, with the marble trident Of their strong spirits: Others fight below With Gnats, and shadows; Others nothing know. Exeunt. Caesar, for his Rule, and for so much stuff As Fortune puts in his hand, shall dispose it (As if his Hand had eyes, and soul, in it) With worth and judgement. "Hands, that partly with gifts, "Or will restrain their use, without desert; "Or with a misery, numbed to Virtues right, "Work, as they had no Soul to govern them, "And quite reject her; severing their Estates "From humane order. Whosoever can, "And will not cherish Virtue, is no man. Rome's Honour is at hand then. Fetch a chair, And set it on our right hand; where it's fit, Rome's Honour, and our own, should ever fit. Now he is come out of Campania, I doubt not he hath finished all his AEneids, Which, Like another Soul, I long enjoy. What think you three, of Virgil, Gentlemen, (That are of his profession, though ranked higher) Or Horace, what sayest thou, that art the poorest, And likeliest to envy, or to detract? Thanks Horace, for thy free, and wholesome sharpness: Which pleases Caesar more, then servile fawns. "A flattered Prince soon turns the Prince of Fools. And for thy sake, wee'll put no difference more betwixt Knights, and Knightly spirits, for being poor. Say then, loved Horace, thy true thought of Virgil. You mean, he might repeat partly of his works, As fit for any conference, he can use? It's worthily observed: And a most worthy virtue in his works. What thinks, Material Horace, of his learning? This one consent, in all your dooms of him, And mutual Loves of all your several merits, Argues a truth of merit in you all. See, here comes Virgil; we will rise and greet him: Welcome to Caesar, Virgil. Caesar, and Virgil Shall differ but in found; to Caesar, Virgil (Of his expressed Greatness) shall be made A second Surname; and to Virgil, Caesar. Where are thy Famous Aeneids? do us grace To let us see, and surfeit on their sighed. Virgil is too modest; Or seeks, in vain, to make our longings more. Show them, sweet Virgil. Let us now behold A humane Soul made visible in life; And more refulgent in a senseless paper, Then in the sensual Compliment of Kings. Read, read, thy self, deer Virgil, let not me Profane one accent, with and untuned tongue: "Best matter, badly shown, shows worse, then bade. See then, this Chair, of Purpose set for thee To read thy Poem in: Refuse it not. "Virtue, without presumption, place may take "Above best Kings, whom only she should make. The course of Heaven, and Fate it self, in this Will Caesar cross; much more all worldly Custom. Horace hath (but more strictly) spoke our thoughts. The vast rude swinge of general Confluence Is, in particular ends, exempt from sense: And therefore Reason (which in right should be The special Rector of all Harmony ) Shall show we are a man, distinct by it, From those that Custom rapteth in her press. Ascend then Virgil: and where first by Chance We here have turned thy Book, do thou first read. Gentlemen of our Chamber, guard the Doors, And let none enter. Peace. Begin, good Virgil. What, noise is there? who's that, names Caesar? Who is't? look, Cornelius. Oh, bid the turbulent Informer hence; We have no vacant Ear, now, to receive The vnseasond fruits of his officious tongue. The life of Caesar? Let him Enter. Virgil, keep thy Seat. What is this, Asinius Lupus? I understand it not. A Libel? Show it to Horace: Ask him, if he know it. Then it's no Libel. Who was it, Lupus, that informed you first, This should be meant by us? or was't your Comment? Where is that Player? Call him in. Is this he? Let him be whipped. Lictors, Go, take him hence. And Lupus, for your fierce Credulity, One fit him with a pair of larger Ears: It's Caesars Doom, and must not be revoked. We hate, to have our Court, and Peace disturbed With these quotidian Clamours. See it done. Gag him, we may have his silence. We know it, our deer Virgil; and esteem it A most dishonest practice, in that man, Will seem too witty in another's work. What would Cornelius Gallus, and Tibullus? You have your will of Caesar; use it Romans. Virgil shall be your Praetor; and our self Will here fit by, Spectator of your sports; And think it no impeach of Royalty. Our Ear is now too much profaned ((Grave Maro ) With these distastes, to take thy sacred Lines: Put up thy Book, till both the Time and we Be fitted with more hallowed circumstance For the receiving so divine a Labour. Proceed with your design. What's he, Horace? Do you know him, Cornelius? We will observe him better. Excellently well threatened. We observe it. Tibullus, let there be a case of Vizards private lie provided: we have found a Subject to bestow them on. Here be words, Horace, able to bastinado a men Ears. Oh! be as Aesculapius, Gentle Horace; You shall have leave, and he shall be your Patient. Virgil, use your Authority, command him forth. Marry, and I will, Sir. Lictors, gag him: And put a case of vizards over his head, That he may look Bifronted, as he speaks. Dispatch, Lictors. Forward, Tibullus. What's that, Horace? What's that? Now, all's come up, I trow. What a Tumult he had in his Belly! Clucht? It's well, that's come up. It had but a nar row Passage. We have, indeed, you worthiest friends of Caesar. It is the Bane, and Torment of our Ears, To hear the discords of those Jangling Rhymers, That, with their bade and scandalous Practises, Bring all true Arts, and learning in Contempt. But let not your high thoughts descend so low, As these despised Objects; Let them fallen, With their flat groveling Souls: Be you your selves. And as with our best favours you stand crowned: So let your mutual loves be still renowned. Envy will dwell, where there is want of Merit, Though the deserving man should crack his Spirit. WE, that have continued ̄ quered still, to save the continued ̄ quered, And loved to make inflictions feared, not felt; Grieved to reprove, and joyful to reward, More proud of Reconcilement, then Revenge, Resume into the late state of our Love, Worthy Cornelius Gallus, and Tibullus: You both are Knights; and you, Cornelius, A Soldier of Renown; and the first Provost, That ever let our Roman Eagles fly On swarthy Egypt, quarried with her spoils. Yet (not to bear cold Forms, nor men's out-termes, Without the inward fires, and Lives of men) You both have Virtues, shining through your Shapes; To show, your Titles are not writ on Posts, Or hollow Statues, which the best men are, Without Promethean stuffings reached from Heaven. Sweet Poesies sacred Grlands crown your Knighthoods: Which is, of all the Faculties on Earth, The most abstract, and perfect; if she be True born, and nursed with all the Sciences; She can so mould Room, and her Monuments, Within the liquid Marble of her Lines, That they shall stand fresh, and miraculous, Even, when they mix with innovating dust: In her sweet streams shall our brave Roman spirits Chase, and swim after Death, with their choice deeds Shining on their white shoulders; and therein Shall Tiber, and our famous Rivers fallen With such attraction, that ambitious Line Of the round World shall to her Centre shrink, To hear their Music: And for these high Parts, Caesar shall reverence the Pierian Arts.