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Title: To His Inconstant Friend, Translated For The Use Of All The Judases Of This Touc
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
[Ovid, Epistolarum] De Ponto, Lib. IV. Epist. III
To His Inconstant Friend, Translated For The Use
Of All The Judases Of This Touchstone-Age.
Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask
Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task
Master my just impatience, and write down
Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?
Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see
And teach thy person to posterity?
No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man,
'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can
Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give
Thy name the honour in my verse to live.
Whilst yet my ship did with no storms dispute,
And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute
My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man
That with me then an equal fortune ran;
But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night
Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight;
Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone
To shun that rescue I reli'd upon;
Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim
Not only my acquaintance, but my name.
Yet know--though deaf to this--that I am he
Whose years and love had the same infancy
With thine, thy deep familiar that did share
Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care;
Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights
So solemnly endear'd to her delights.
But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown
The abject of thy breast, not to be known
In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not
So much as let me know I am forgot.
If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then
Thou didst dissemble: or if love again,
Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me
That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be
Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide
Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide
Myself and actions, that I cannot see
What could offend thee, but my misery.
'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow
Some rescue to my wants, at least I know
Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two
Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so.
I know not what to think! and yet I hear,
Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer.
Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back
I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.
Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand,
Whose upper slipp'ry part without command
Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind
Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind.
In the whole world there's nothing I can see
Will throughly parallel her ways but thee.
All that we hold hangs on a slender twine,
And our best states by sudden chance decline.
Who hath not heard of Cr[oe]sus' proverb'd gold,
Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold?
He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent
By a poor art could famine scarce prevent;
And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end,
Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend.
Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been,
And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in,
Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace,
In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face.
A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we
Of one short hour have not the certainty.
Hadst thou one day told me the time should be
When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see,
I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought
Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught.
And yet 'tis come to pass! nor, though I might
Some things foresee, could I procure a sight
Of my whole destiny, and free my state
From those eternal, higher ties of fate.
Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high,
Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: To His Inconstant Friend, Translated For The Use Of All The Judases Of This Touchstone-Age
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