To Mr. Holiday Archdeacon Of Oxon: From Flower 1625 Poem by Robert Gomersall

Now that you dare receive a messenger,
Now that the tyr'd-out plague begins to weare
It selfe away, not people: when the street
Begins a new acquaintance with the feet
Of lowd coach-horses and the bells high call
Is for Devotion more then Buriall,
Now you dare read, accept what I here send
A poore remembrance of an healthy friend.


Trust me (deare Sir) I linger, and the day
Though by the method of the yeare hee may
Truly be said to shorten, and to slight
Former conceits, make Britaines know a night
Long, unto tediousnesse, yet to me
Seemes like Alcides night lengthen'd to three,
Whilst I want you: Yet doe not misconceive
The earnest of your friend, as if to leave
My former company I were so faine;
I would have them, and you: if I complaine
Hotly of times delay, expound that fire
Not to have flames of anger, but desire.


To see the poverty of man! he still
Receives but curtall'd happinesse, his skill
Makes him not capable of a full store,
But if he have some, he must want the more.


How could I prize my selfe lesse then a marke
For an high envy, when (as in the arke
Onely poore eight were rescu'd from the waves,
And that which drowns the world, their vessel saves,
The depth of the devourer) not uneven
In Fortune, though in Number, not past seven,
Our preservation lasts unto this hower
From the fierce plague in the dry arke of Flower?
When that I had the daily happinesse
Of conversation with my Deane, when lesse
Then Heaven I could not thinke on, when I saw
A face, that might heav'n to affection draw,
When I injoy'd beauty, and wit, to trye
Which could be more delighted eare, or eye;
Yet I was not delighted not that ought
Was wanting, which Ide covet to be bought;
Nor what was bought was envi'd me; tis true,
Yet I had a neer want, the want of you.


But had I wanted them had I liv'd still
With my deare Holiday; had there to my will
Beene an agreeing lucke, I can conceive
Happly I might have wish'd those, whom I leave.


Nor is this accusation: fancy not
That I am changeable: if in the hot
Rage of the dogge, I goe but thinly clad,
And in the winters other rage am glad
To beare a fire too in my cloathes, theres none
Will call this Lightnesse, but Discretion.
Nor is it Fond, which I professe my suite,
To wish the good of which I'm destitute,
He cannot be accus'd like to the weather,
Who'd have by parts, what he must want together.


You are that part now: whom if I injoy,
No thwarting chance shall possibly destroy
My blisse: the other want strikes not my soule,


Ile sweare this halfe does comprehend the whole.