First Song

I sing the progresse of a deathlesse soule,Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not controule,Plac'd in most shapes; all times before the lawYoak'd us, and when, and since, in this I sing.And the great world to his aged evening;From infant morne, through manly noone I draw.What the gold Chaldee, or silver Persian saw,Greeke brasse, or Roman iron, is in this one;A worke t'outweare Seths pillars, bricke and stone,And (holy writt excepted) made to yeeld to none.

Thee, eye of heaven, this great Soule envies not,By thy male force, is all wee have, begot.In the first East, thou now beginst to shine,Suck'st early balme, and Iland spices there,And wilt anon in thy loose-rein'd careereAt Tagus, Po, Sene, Thames, and Danow dine,And see at night thy Westerne land of Myne,Yet hast thou not more nations seene then shee,That before thee, one day beganne to bee,And thy fraile light being quench'd, shall long,long out live thee.

Nor, holy Ianus, in whose soveraigne boateThe Church, and all the Monarchies did floate;That swimming Colledge, and free HospitallOf all mankinde, that cage and vivarieOf fowles, and beasts, in whose wombe, DestinieUs, and our latest nephewes did install(From thence are all deriv'd, that fill this All,)Did'st thou in that great stewardship embarkeSo diverse shapes into that floating parke,As have beene moved, and inform'd by this heavenly sparke.

Great Destiny the Commissary of God,That hast mark'd out a path and periodFor every thing; who, where wee of-spring tooke,Our wayes and ends seest at one instant; ThouKnot of all causes, thou whose changelesse browNe'r smiles nor frownes, O vouch thou safe to lookeAnd shew my story, in thy eternall booke:That (if my prayer be fit) I may'understandSo much my selfe, as to know with what hand,How scant, or liberall this my lifes race is spand.

To my sixe lustres almost now outwore,Except thy booke owe mee so many more,Except my legend be free from the lettsOf steepe ambition, sleepie povertie,Spirit-quenching sicknesse, dull captivitie,Distracting businesse, and from beauties nets,And all that calls from this, and to others whets,O let me not launch out, but let mee saveTh'expense of braine and spirit; that my graveHis right and due, a whole unwasted man may have.

But if my dayes be long, and good enough,In vaine this sea shall enlarge, or enroughIt selfe; for I will through the wave, and fome,And shall, in sad lone wayes a lively spright,Make my darke heavy Poëm light, and light.For though through many streights, and lands I roame,I launch at paradise, and I saile towards home;The course I there began, shall here be staid,Sailes hoised there, stroke here, and anchors laidIn Thames, which were at Tigrys, and Euphrates waide.

For the great soule which here amongst us nowDoth dwell, and moves that hand, and tongue, and brow,Which, as the Moone the sea, moves us; to heareWhose story, with long patience you will long;(For 'tis the crowne, and last straine of my song)This soule to whom Luther, and Mahomet werePrisons of flesh; this soule which oft did teare,And mend the wracks of th'Empire, and late Rome,And liv'd when every great change did come,Had first in paradise, a low, but fatall roome.

Yet no low roome, nor then the greatest, lesse,If (as devout and sharpe men fitly guesse)That Crosse, our joy, and griefe, where nailes did tyeThat All, which alwayes was all, every where;Which could not sinne, and yet all sinnes did beare;Which could not die, yet could not chuse but die;Stood in the selfe same roome in Calvarie,Where first grew the forbidden learned tree,For on that tree hung in securityThis Soule, made by the Makers will from pulling free.

Prince of the orchard, faire as dawning morne,Fenc'd with the law, and ripe as soone as borneThat apple grew, which this Soule did enlive,Till the then climing serpent, that now creepsFor that offence, for which all mankinde weepes,Tooke it, and t'her whom the first man did wive(Whom and her race, only forbiddings drive)He gave it, she, t'her husband, both did eate;So perished the eaters, and the meate:And wee (for treason taints the blood) thence die and sweat.

Man all at once was there by woman slaine,And one by one we'are here slaine o'er againeBy them. The mother poison'd the well-head,The daughters here corrupt us, Rivolets;No smalnesse scapes, no greatnesse breaks their nets;She thrust us out, and by them we are ledAstray, from turning, to whence we are fled.Were prisoners Judges, 'twould seeme rigorous,Shee sinn'd, we beare; part of our paine is, thusTo love them, whose fault to this painfull love yoak'd us.

So fast in us doth this corruption grow,That now wee dare aske why wee should be so.Would God (disputes the curious Rebell) makeA law, and would not have it kept? Or canHis creatures will, crosse his? Of every manFor one, will God (and be just) vengeance take?Who sinn'd? t'was not forbidden to the snakeNor her, who was not then made; nor is't writThat Adam cropt, or knew the apple; yetThe worme and she, and he, and wee endure for it.

But snatch mee heavenly Spirit from this vaineReckoning their vanities, lesse is their gaineThen hazard still, to meditate on ill,Though with good minde; their reasons, like those toyesOf glassie bubbles, which the gamesome boyesStretch to so nice a thinnes through a quillThat they themselves breake, doe themselves spill:Arguing is heretiques game, and ExerciseAs wrastlers, perfects them; Not libertiesOf speech, but silence; hands, not tongues, end heresies.

Just in that instant when the serpents gripe,Broke the slight veines, and tender conduit-pipe,Through which this soule from the trees root did drawLife, and growth to this apple, fled awayThis loose soule, old, one and another day.As lightning, which one scarce dares say, he saw,'Tis so soone gone, (and better proofe the lawOf sense, then faith requires) swiftly she flewTo a darke and foggie Plot; Her, her fates threwThere through th'earths pores, and in a Plant hous'd her anew.

The plant thus abled, to it selfe did forceA place, where no place was; by natures courseAs aire from water, water fleets awayFrom thicker bodies, by this root thronged soHis spungie confines gave him place to grow:Just as in our streets, when the people stayTo see the Prince, and have so fill'd the wayThat weesels scarce could passe, when she comes nereThey throng and cleave up, and a passage cleare,As if, for that time, their round bodies flatned were.

His right arme he thrust out towards the East,West-ward his left; th'ends did themselves digestInto ten lesser strings, these fingers were:And as a slumberer stretching on his bed,This way he this, and that way scatteredHis other legge, which feet with toes upbeare.Grew on his middle parts, the first day, haire,To show, that in loves businesse hee should stillA dealer bee, and be us'd well, or ill:His apples kindle, his leaves, force of conception kill.

A mouth, but dumbe, he hath; blinde eyes, deafe eares,And to his shoulders dangle subtile haires;A young Colossus there hee stands upright,And as that ground by him were conqueredA leafie garland weares he on his headEnchas'd with little fruits, so red and brightThat for them you would call your Loves lips white;So, of a lone unhaunted place possest,Did this soules second Inne, built by the guest,This living buried man, this quiet mandrake, rest.

No lustfull woman came this plant to grieve,But 'twas because there was none yet but Eve:And she (with other purpose) kill'd it quite;Her sinne had now brought in infirmities,And so her cradled child, the moist red eyesHad never shut, nor slept since it saw light;Poppie she knew, she knew the mandrakes might,And tore up both, and so coold her childs blood;Unvirtuous weeds might long unvex'd have stood;But hee's short liv'd, that with his death can doe most good.

To an unfetterd soules quick nimble hastAre falling stars, and hearts thoughts, but slow pac'd:Thinner then burnt aire flies this soule, and sheWhom foure new comming, and foure parting SunsHad found, and left the Mandrakes tenant, runnesThoughtlesse of change, when her firme destinyConfin'd, and enjayld her, that seem'd so free,Into a small blew shell, the which a pooreWarme bird orespread, and sat still evermore,Till her inclos'd child kickt, and pick'd it selfe a dore.

Outcrept a sparrow, this soules moving Inne,On whose raw armes stiffe feathers now begin,As childrens teeth through gummes, to breake with paine,His flesh is jelly yet, and his bones threds,All a new downy mantle overspreads,A mouth he opes, which would as much containeAs his late house, and the first houre speaks plaine,And chirps alowd for meat. Meat fit for menHis father steales for him, and so feeds thenOne, that within a moneth, will beate him from his hen.

In this worlds youth wise nature did make hast,Things ripened sooner, and did longer last;Already this hot cocke, in bush and tree,In field and tent, oreflutters his next hen;He asks her not, who did so tast, nor when,Nor if his sister, or his neece shee be;Nor doth she pule for his inconstancieIf in her sight he change, nor doth refuseThe next that calls; both liberty doe use;Where store is of both kindes, both kindes may freely chuse.

Men, till they tooke laws which made freedome lesse,Their daughters, and their sisters did ingresse;Till now unlawfull, therefore ill, 'twas not.So jolly, that it can move, this soule is,The body so free of his kindnesses,That selfe-preserving it hath now forgot,And slackneth so the soules, and bodies knot,Which temperance streightens; freely on his she friendsHe blood, and spirit, pith, and marrow spends,Ill steward of himself, himselfe in three yeares ends.

Else might he long have liv'd; man did not knowOf gummie blood, which doth in holly grow,How to make bird-lime, nor how to deceiveWith faind calls, hid nets, or enwrapping snare,The free inhabitants of the Plyant aire.Man to beget, and woman to conceiveAskt not of rootes, nor of cock-sparrowes, leave:Yet chuseth hee, though none of these he feares,Pleasantly three, then streightned twenty yearesTo live, and to encrease his race, himselfe outweares.

This cole with overblowing quench'd and dead,The Soule from her too active organs fledT'a brooke. A female fishes sandie RoeWith the males jelly, newly lev'ned was,For they had intertouch'd as they did passe,And one of those small bodies, fitted so,This soule inform'd, and abled it to roweIt selfe with finnie oares, which she did fit:Her scales seem'd yet of parchment, and as yetPerchance a fish, but by no name you could call it.

When goodly, like a ship in her full trim,A swan, so white that you may unto himCompare all whitenesse, but himselfe to none,Glided along, and as he glided watch'd,And with his arched necke this poore fish catch'd.It mov'd with state, as if to looke uponLow things it scorn'd, and yet before that oneCould thinke he sought it, he had swallowed cleareThis, and much such, and unblam'd devour'd thereAll, but who too swift, too great, or well armed were.

Now swome a prison in a prison put,And now this Soule in double walls was shut,Till melted with the Swans digestive fire,She left her house the fish, and vapour'd forth;Fate not affording bodies of more worthFor her as yet, bids her againe retireT'another fish, to any new desireMade a new prey; For, he that can to noneResistance make, nor complaint, sure is gone.Weaknesse invites, but silence feasts oppression.

Pace with her native streame, this fish doth keepe,And journeyes with her, towards the glassie deepe,But oft retarded, once with a hidden netThough with greate windowes, for when Need first taughtThese tricks to catch food, then they were not wroughtAs now, with curious greedinesse to letNone scape, but few, and fit for use, to get,As, in this trap a ravenous pike was tane,Who, though himselfe distrest, would faine have slainThis wretch; So hardly are ill habits left again.

Here by her smallnesse shee two deaths orepast,Once innocence scap'd, and left the oppressor fast.The net through-swome, she keepes the liquid path,And whether she leape up sometimes to breathAnd suck in aire, or finde it underneath,Or working parts like mills or limbecks hathTo make the water thinne, and airelike faithCares not; but safe the Place she's come untoWhere fresh, with salt waves meet, and what to doeShe knowes not, but betweene both makes a boord or two.

So farre from hiding her guests, water is,That she showes them in bigger quantitiesThen they are. Thus doubtfull of her way,For game and not for hunger a sea PieSpied through this traiterous spectacle, from high,The seely fish where it disputing lay,And t'end her doubts and her, beares her away:Exalted she'is, but to the exalters good,As are by great ones, men which lowly stood.It's rais'd, to be the Raisers instrument and food.

Is any kinde subject to rape like fish?Ill unto man, they neither doe, nor wish:Fishers they kill not, nor with noise awake,They doe not hunt, nor strive to make a preyOf beasts, nor their yong sonnes to beare away;Foules they pursue not, nor do undertakeTo spoile the nests industrious birds do make;Yet them all these unkinde kinds feed upon,To kill them is an occupation,And lawes make Fasts, and Lents for their destruction.

A sudden stiffe land-winde in that selfe houreTo sea-ward forc'd this bird, that did devourThe fish; he cares not, for with ease he flies,Fat gluttonies best orator: at lastSo long hee hath flowen, and hath flowen so fastThat many leagues at sea, now tir'd hee lyes,And with his prey, that till then languisht, dies:The soules no longer foes, two wayes did erre,The fish I follow, and keepe no calenderOf the other; he lives yet in some great officer.

Into an embrion fish, our Soule is throwne,And in due time throwne out againe, and growneTo such vastnesse as, if unmanacledFrom Greece, Morea were, and that by someEarthquake unrooted, loose Morea swome,Or seas from Africks body had severedAnd torne the hopefull Promontories head,This fish would seeme these, and, when all hopes faile,A great ship overset, or without faileHulling, might (when this was a whelp) be like this whale.

At every stroake his brazen finnes do take,More circles in the broken sea they makeThen cannons voices, when the aire they teare:His ribs are pillars, and his high arch'd roofeOf barke that blunts best steele, is thunder-proofe:Swimme in him swallow'd Dolphins, without feare,And feele no sides, as if his vast wombe wereSome Inland sea, and ever as hee wentHee spouted rivers up, as if he mentTo joyne our seas, with seas above the firmament.

He hunts not fish, but as an officer,Stayes in his court, at his owne net, and thereAll suitors of all sorts themselves enthrall;So on his backe lyes this whale wantoning,And in his gulfe-like throat, sucks every thingThat passeth neare. Fish chaseth fish, and all,Flyer and follower, in this whirlepoole fall;O might not states of more equalityConsist? and is it of necessityThat thousand guiltlesse smals, to make one great, must die?

Now drinkes he up seas, and he eates up flocks,He justles Ilands, and he shakes firme rockes.Now in a roomefull house this Soule doth float,And like a Prince she sends her facultiesTo all her limbes, distant as Provinces.The Sunne hath twenty times both crab and goateParched, since first lanch'd forth this living boate;'Tis greatest now, and to destructionNearest; There's no pause at perfection;Greatnesse a period hath, but hath no station.

Two little fishes whom hee never harm'd,Nor fed on their kinde, two not throughly arm'dWith hope that they could kill him, nor could doeGood to themselves by his death (they did not eateHis flesh, nor suck those oyles, which thence outstreat)Conspir'd against him, and it might undoeThe plot or all, that the plotters were two,But that they fishes were, and could not speake.How shall a Tyran wife strong projects breake,If wreches can on them the common anger wreake?

The flaile-finn'd Thresher, and steel-beak'd Sword-fishOnely attempt to doe, what all doe wish.The Thresher backs him, and to beate begins;The sluggard Whale yeelds to oppression,And t'hide himselfe from shame and danger, downeBegins to sinke; the Swordfish upward spins,And gores him with his beake; his staffe-like finnes,So well the one, his sword the other plyes,That now a scoffe, and prey, this tyran dyes,And (his owne dole) feeds with himselfe all companies.

Who will revenge his death? or who will callThose to account, that thought, and wrought his fall?The heires of slaine kings, wee see are often soTransported with the joy of what they get,That they, revenge and obsequies forget,Nor will against such men the people goe,Because h'is now dead, to whom they should showLove in that act; Some kings by vice being growneSo needy of subjects love, that of their ownThey thinke they lose, if love be to the dead Prince shown.

This Soule, now free from prison, and passion,Hath yet a little indignationThat so small hammers should so soone downe beatSo great a castle. And having for her houseGot the streight cloyster of a wreched mouse(As basest men that have not what to eate,Nor enjoy ought, doe farre more hate the greatThen they, who good repos'd estates possesse)This Soule, late taught that great things might by lesseBe slain, to gallant mischiefe doth herselfe addresse.

Natures great master-peece, an Elephant,The onely harmlesse great thing; the giantOf beasts; who thought, no more had gone, to make one wiseBut to be just, and thankfull, loth to offend,(Yet nature hath given him no knees to bend)Himselfe he up-props, on himselfe relies,And foe to none, suspects no enemies,Still sleeping stood; vex't not his fantasieBlacke dreames; like an unbent bow, careleslyHis sinewy Proboscis did remisly lie:

In which as in a gallery this mouseWalk'd, and surveid the roomes of this vast house,And to the braine, the soules bedchamber, went,And gnaw'd the life cords there; Like a whole towneCleane undermin'd, the slaine beast tumbled downe;With him the murtherer dies, whom envy sentTo kill, not scape, (for, only hee that mentTo die, did ever kill a man of better roome,)And thus he made his foe, his prey, and tombe:Who cares not to turn back, may any whither come.

Next, hous'd this Soule a Wolves yet unborne whelp,Till the best midwife, Nature, gave it helpe,To issue. It could kill, as soone as goe.Abel, as white, and milde as his sheepe were,(Who, in that trade, of Church, and kingdomes, thereWas the first type) was still infested soe,With this wolfe, that it bred his losse and woe;And yet his bitch, his sentinell attendsThe flocke so neere, so well warnes and defends,That the wolfe, (hopelesse else) to corrupt her, intends.

Hee tooke a course, which since, succesfully,Great men have often taken, to espieThe counsels, or to breake the plots of foes.To Abels tent he stealeth in the darke,On whose skirts the bitch slept; ere she could barke,Attach'd her with streight gripes, yet hee call'd those,Embracements of love; to loves worke he goes,Where deeds move more then words; nor doth she show,Nor make resist, nor needs hee streighten soHis prey, for, were shee loose, she would nor barke, nor goe.

Hee hath engag'd her; his, she wholy bides;Who not her owne, none others secrets hides.If to the flocke he come, and Abell there,She faines hoarse barkings, but she biteth not,Her faith is quite, but not her love forgot.At last a trap, of which some every whereAbell had plac'd, ends all his losse, and feare,By the Wolves death; and now just time it wasThat a quicke soule should give life to that masseOf blood in Abels bitch, and thither this did passe.

Some have their wives, their sisters some begot,But in the lives of Emperours you shall notReade of a lust the which may equall this;This wolfe begot himselfe, and finishedWhat he began alive, when hee was dead;Sonne to himselfe, and father too, hee isA ridling lust, for which Schoolemen would misseA proper name. The whelpe of both these layIn Abels tent, and with soft Moaba,His sister, being yong, it us'd to sport and play.

Hee soone for her too harsh, and churlish grew,And Abell (the dam dead) would use this newFor the field. Being of two kindes thus made,He, as his dam, from sheepe drove wolves away,And as his Sire, he made them his owne prey.Five yeares he liv'd, and cosened with his trade,Then hopelesse that his faults were hid, betraidHimselfe by flight, and by all followed,From dogges, a wolfe; from wolves, a dogge he fled;And, like a spie to both sides false, he perished.

It quickned next a toyfull Ape, and soGamesome it was, that it might freely goeFrom tent to tent, and with the children play.His organs now so like theirs hee doth finde,That why he cannot laugh, and speake his minde,He wonders. Much with all, most he doth stayWith Adams fift daughter Siphatecia,Doth gaze on her, and, where she passeth, passe,Gathers her fruits, and tumbles on the grasse,And wisest of that kinde, the first true lover was.

He was the first that more desir'd to haveOne then another; first that ere did craveLove by mute signes, and had no power to speake;First that could make love faces, or could doeThe valters sombersalts, or us'd to wooeWith hoiting gambolls, his owne bones to breakeTo make his mistresse merry; or to wreakeHer anger on himselfe. Sinnes against kindeThey easily doe, that can let feed their mindeWith outward beauty; beauty they in boyes and beasts do find

By this misled, too low things men have prov'd,And too high; beasts and angels have beene lov'd.This Ape, though else through-vaine, in this was wise,He reach'd at things too high, but open wayThere was, and he knew not she would say nay;His toyes prevaile not, likelier meanes he tries,He gazeth on her face with teare-shot eyes,And up lifts subtly with his russet paweHer kidskinne apron without feare or aweOf nature; nature hath no gaole, though shee hath law.

First she was silly and knew not what he ment.That vertue, by his touches, chaft and spent,Succeeds an itchie warmth, that melts her quite;She knew not first, nowe cares not what he doth,And willing halfe and more, more then halfe loth,She neither puls nor pushes, but outrightNow cries, and now repents; when TethlemiteHer brother, entred, and a great stone threwAfter the Ape, who, thus prevented, flew.This house thus batter'd downe, the Soule possest a new.

And whether by this change she lose or win,She comes out next, where the Ape would have gone in.Adam and Eve had mingled bloods, and nowLike Chimiques equall fires, her temperate wombeHad stew'd and form'd it: and part did becomeA spungie liver, that did richly allow,Like a free conduit, on a high hils brow,Life-keeping moisture unto every part;Part hardned it selfe to a thicker heart,Whose busie furnaces lifes spirits do impart.

Another part became the well of sense,The tender well-arm'd feeling braine, from whence,Those sinowie strings which do our bodies tie,Are raveld out; and fast there by one end,Did this Soule limbes, these limbes a soule attend;And now they joyn'd: keeping some qualityOf every past shape, she knew treachery,Rapine, deceit, and lust, and ills enowTo be a woman. Themech she is now,Sister and wife to Caine, Caine that first did plow.

Who ere thou beest that read'st this sullen Writ,Which just so much courts thee, as thou dost it,Let me arrest thy thoughts; wonder with mee,Why plowing, building, ruling and the rest,Or most of those arts, whence our lives are blest,By cursed Cains race invented be,And blest Seth vext us with Astronomie.Ther's nothing simply good, nor ill alone,Of every quality comparison,The onely measure is, and judge, opinion.

so fill'd 1633 (but some copies read the Prince, and so

Till now unlawfull, therefore ill; 'twas notSo jolly, that it can move this soule; IsThe body so free of his kindnesses,

Till now, unlawfull, therefore ill 'twas notSo jolly, that it can more this soule. IsThe body, so free of his kindnesses,

Till now, unlawful, therefore ill 'twas not.So jolly, that it can move this soul, isThe body, so free of his kindnesses,

Chambers, and Grolier but 203 not; and no commas in 204.

and TCD leaving a space): who thought none had, to make him