A Part Of An Ode

To the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures, life may perfect be. Call, noble Lucius, then for wine, And let thy looks with gladness shine: Accept this garland, plant it on thy head, And thinknay, knowthy Morison s not dead. He leapd the present age, Possest with holy rage To see that bright eternal Day Of which we Priests and Poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men; And there he lives with memoryand Ben Jonson: who sung this of him, ere he went Himself to rest, Or tast a part of that full joy he meant To have exprest In this bright Asterism Where it were friendships schism Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry To separate these twy Lights, the Dioscuri, And keep the one half from his Harry. But fate doth so alternate the design, Whilst that in Heavn, this light on earth must shine. 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 to advance The profits for a time. No pleasures vain did chime Of rimes or riots at your feasts, Orgies of drink or feignd protests; But simple love of greatness and of good, That knits brave minds and manners more than blood. This made you first to know the Why You liked, then after, to apply That liking, and approach so one the tother Till either grew a portion of the other: Each styld by his end The copy of his friend. You lived to be the great surnames And titles by which all made claims Unto the Virtuenothing perfect done But as a CARY or a MORISON. And such the 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 rules were and records: Who, ere the first down bloomd on the chin, Had sowd these fruits, and got the harvest in.