SOMNIUM CANTABRIGIENSE, OR A POEM Vpon the death of the late King brought to London,

By a Post to the Muses.

LONDON, Printed by Matthew Simmons next doore to the Golden Lyon in Aldersgate Street. 1649.

To the famous Dreamer JOHN QƲARLES, Ordinarie Poet to CHARLES the SECOND.

GEntleman Poet come of Sire,
Who to the Muses was a Squire;
In Verse thou very Naturall,
And no way Artificiall
John Quarles, I the Muses post
Implore thine aid, (who rul'st the roast,
Helpes the Kitchin Maids to Papers
To cover it, and set up Tapers,
Who least a Vacuum should bee,
Ballads forbid in Poetrie,
Hast in spight of Angrie Times,
Publish'd many dreaming Rhimes)
To assist with might and maine,
Me in such a dreaming Veine.
The Daughters of Mnemosyne
Can help no more then they did thee;
The [...]
[Page 2] For hardlie either thou or I,
Could sleep so many Maids being by,
How should we dreame then? and I feare
Could wee, 't would be of them were there.
Apollo is the God of Day,
And so assist me neither may,
Nor will; for feare Diana might
Sue Him for trespasse on her right,
And the Man is so unrulie
In the Moone she cannot truly.
None better therefore than thy selfe,
Can I invoke, Thou Rhimeing Elfe;
Come a Dreamer can infuse,
Vertue into a Sleeepie Muse.
Then if Thou hast any pittie,
Teach me how to dreame a dittie,
Let my Verse be like my Theame
Dull, and heavie, such as thy Dreame,
Which such due proportion kept,
Wee are covinc't, thy wit too slept:
That all who reade me may protest,
I dreame in earnest too, not jest
But if thou do'st deny me, Know
Thy Booke shall never say me no.
The Apologie.
GEntlemen, sure 'tis neither Law nor Reason,
A man should be attaint for dreaming Treason;
But if it should, 'tis nothing unto me,
Another dream't, and told it as you see:
Yet both have more than dream't, (you say) this Act
Hath chang'd the dreaming of it into fact:
[Page 3] 'Tis true we writ, and published this storie,
Good cause we knew we should be accessorie
Should we conceale it: Thus to cleare all doubt
Of our Integrities, wee put it out
You see; if any danger's in the thing,
Who can runn fastest may acquaint his King.

The Character of the Dreamer, and your Friend the bringer of it in Verse

THe Dreamer is a man of some degree,
A Bachilar of Art, past Sophistrie:
An able disputant, you need not feare
A fallacie in whats presented here:
Had
Two Fel­lowes of Keyes Col­ledge who pretend to Revelations.
Philips seen as much, or Harrington,
They would have cry'd a Revelation.
But he averr'd it non-sense, for to write,
That he (when fast asleep) saw a new light:
He is so Orthodox, hee'd rather be
A Dreaming fellow thought, than Sectarie;
All such he hates more, than he loves a King,
Or Bishiop, never doubt then what wee sing:
He deeply swore all true, and I am loath,
To have him put to dreame another Oath,
He bid me tell you too, if any doe
Doubt it or me, They may to Cambridge goe,
[Page 4] To him; but sure you may believe your eyes
As soone as eares, 'tis cheaper; then be wise.
And I your Verser, Gentlemen believ't,
For Age and standing too might have morewit.
Yet by the way know this, when first I saw
That Reverend utter Barrister at Law;
Hight William Prynne was turn'd an arrant Poet.
I thought no wise man ere againe would doe it:
Would he in Lawyers Lattine Verse as much;
He might doe wondrous Service 'gainst the Dutch;
How would he yoake
Who hath written most dull verses against the State.
Salmasius, and that foole?
Who sure mistooke, and slept on Mount
The Castle Pryn was Prisoner in.
Orgule
Instead of Mount Parnassus, and of Rhene,
Or butter-milke hath swil'd, for Hyppcrene.
But Pryn's on their side, and against the State
You say, let him deplorethen Charles his fate,
And verse so like himselfe; that all may sweare,
He is to Ignoramus lawfull Heire:
Thus he, and his Dutch dull-men may perchance
(If Fortune favour fooles) Themselves advance.
I say when first I saw Pryns Mount
His Poem he thus stiles in honour to that place where he writ it.
Orgule.
To which no Man can Rhime, nor word but Foole.
And he must be an arrant one too, who
In English Verse like William Pryn shall doe.
I was let blood in the Poetike Veine,
And drench't for ever swallowing Verse againe.
And so remain'd, till of a versing kinde,
A dreaming Poet rectifi'd my minde,
And so inspir'd my Brest, I could not chuse,
But here present you with a dreaming Muse:
The Dreamer too besought a friend to write
For him, whose Braines were troubled to indite

The Dreame.

THe Worlds bright eye had in its lid the West
Closed all Beames, and night inviting-rest
Had drawne her sable Curtaines round the skie,
And spread abroad her starr deckt Canopie.
The God of sleep had summon'd every Breast,
On its Allegiance to repaire to rest.
But this most sorrowfull Sir would not obey,
He heard the King had lost his Head that day:
Frantick with rage and griefe he thus replies;
How can wee sleep dull God without our eyes?
Which wee have lost in losing of our Head
Thine Empire is expir'd now CHARLES is dead,
And wee Deaths Conquest, whose keen Axes edge
Will vindicate thy breach of priviledge.
This said, he takes a bottle, sorrowe's drye,
And drinking, vow'd to write an ELEGIE.
Then cryes (his bottle plying still) divine,
And mighty sack no fancie can decline
So low, but Thou canst raise it, onlie Thou
Canst give a dumbe Muse voice; O doe then throw
So rich infusion through my heavie Braine,
That I reviv'd may reach as high a straine
In Ʋerse as Thou canst give, and here I vow,
Fresh Laurels shall empale thy sparkling brow,
And the wide world shall know only thy Might,
Can make a Poet loftilie Endite.
Thus spoke He, and then drinkes; Morpheus stood by,
And smiling to himselfe did thus reply:
[Page 6] Fondling alas! do'st think that sack can make
Thee finde thy feet, which doth from others take
All use of Leggs? but thou shalt quickly feel,
Our Mase as soone as Sack can make thee reel;
And since thou art so saucie, thou shalt know
Our power, and what the God of sleep can doe:
This said, he laid his Mace upon his Head,
Who streight sanke downe asleep into his Bed.
His senses thus fast bound Morpheus commands,
A nimble dream to loose his fancies bands,
Which freed a rambling went, and made no stay
Untill a Troope of Soldiers stopt its way.
This Troop besmear'd, with blood & dust thus cri'd
England is free, great Jove be magnifi'd,
And our just cause exaulted, thus they went,
Untill they came, where sate the Parliament,
And Englands Genius in the midst enthron'd
Whose Temples were with Verdant Laurell crown'd.
The Soidiers seen stand! Englands Geniuss cryes,
Your Servants, their brave Chiefe bowing replyes,
Whose lives attended on your high command,
To know your further pleasure here doe stand.
Welcome, thrice welcome, sayes he, to these armes
Are you, whose courage hath preserv'd from harmes
Your Countrie, and her freedome; t' you I owe
This Laureat wreath, which now empales my Brow,
Take then the Palme and Laurell from these hands
Which your high valour hath redeem'd from bands;
And you grave Senators, who have indur'd
The tryall, and by these have been secur'd
Embrace them, goe ye on both hand in hand,
Your Counsell, and their Swords must save this I and.
Thus linked march, whil'st I shall Io's sing
Unto your Triumphs, which through Europ ring,
[Page 7] That Warre-like Europe which stands doubting now,
Whither to smile, or knit an angrie Brow,
On you were best; whose Tyrants though they hate
Englands example, yet feare Englands State.
For I am now in a poetike veine,
This Laurell hath so wrought upon my Braine:
And my first Subject (sith some Royall Slaves
In verse, & print have play'd the flattering knaves)
Shall be of that just Act, whereby you durst,
Make him drinke blood, who so for blood did thirst.
This said, he paws'd a while, then round did looke.
And rising, thrice his comelie tresses shooke.
Admited Ovid thus affirmes his Jove,
Having conveen'd a Parliament above
Of Gods and Goddesses, before he spake
To them did thus his dreadfull tresses shake.
Thus daunce the Othes in circular careers
At the Celestiall musick of the Spheares:
And thus Prophetike Sibill when she sung,
Inspired Layes about her head she flung:
Mock not malignants then, for no way fit
It is the Tongue should runne before the wit:
Nor Soloecisme can you it ever prove
To see the head at the tongues motion move,
Which shewes that reason from her throne assents;
To that the tongue by vocall accents vents,
And that the soule Qneen Regent doth conferr,
On it the office of Interpreter.
This gesture with the Subject suteth well
Jove of Lycaon, He of Charles doth tell;
And doe but you what he enditeth read,
I'me confident 't will make you shake the Head,
Which was, if you or Wee the Dreamer may
Believe, even word for word with this we say.
Be free my fancie, for the Tyrant's dead,
And finde thy feete now he hath lost his head.
The shackles are fil'd off, England is free,
And as my Countrie, my invention be:
In sacred Numbers, equail Acts rehearse,
And as they are divine, so be my Verse.
Astraea is return'd, and whence she came,
Coelestiall justice doth aloud proclaime.
Caligula's! hast underneath your beds
It Thunders, hide, or you may loose your heads,
The God-like Senate here, great Jove above,
Accept not persons if they guilty prove.
That jugling Tyrant,
Salmoneus King of Elis, who making a brazen bridge, and riding in his Chariot to counterleit Thunder, was slaine by a Thundorbolt.
was from's Chariot throwne
By the revengefull bolt, nor could the Crowne
Of statelie Elis free him from his fate,
Who proudlie durst the Thunderer imitate.
Ixion's Scepter could not scotch the Wheel,
Nor Belieshazzer's Cups make justice reel.
Proph ets as well as Poets, lets us see,
That Kings from Heaven high justice are not free.
A triple Crown's no bayle for CHARLES his Head,
Who murders men, by men his blood is shed:
The twice two Lyons can't defend the Throne,
When he turnes Tyrant that doth sit thereon.
Philip Father of Alexander the great, who said, he would make an Asse laden with gold march into the strongest holds.
Thou subtile Father of a va liant Sonne
Had such men liv'd then? Thou hadst been undone.
Gold-bearing Asses could thee nought availe,
When golden Lyons before these turne Taile.
The Rampant Lyon gules couchant lyes,
Yea dead before his wonted sacrifice.
Nor can the Harpe enchant which Poets say,
Made the unbridled Destinies obey,
[Page 9] Yea Atropos to lay aside her knife,
One of the three desti­nies which cuts the thread of life.
And helpe rewinde a then unravel'd life.
Could Orpheus with a sound so easily bribe,
That before thought inexorable Tribe.
'Tis Heavens High Court of justice only can
And Englands claime the style impartiall than.
But most conceive CHARLES fingered ill the Harp.
And treble murders made it sound too sharpe
He ranne too much division to appease
Incensed Heaven, whom Concord best doth please.
This made the Lillies fade, and Roses lie
Wither'd i'th' Feild of Englands Heraldrie.
And though they nor the Thistle never bud,
Which have been water'd with such showres of blood.
Yet Gules on Argent will enough dispense,
Both Englands valour, and her innocence,
For her renowned crosse is farther known
Then Rose or Thistle, though when broadest blown:
Her justice now Fame's Trump shall louder sound,
And this great blow the earthly Globe surround:
Just, potent Senate! your victorious Arme,
Shall give remotest Nations the alarme;
And your loud Thundring sentence shall awake
The drowsiest slaves, whil'st proudest Tyrants quake.
Thus when high Jove, his threefork'd lightning flings,
Th' oppressor trembles, but the oppressed sings.
Let Rome now cease, to boast her Erutus name,
And her bold Senate lackey to your fame;
Set her proud Tarquin lower on Record,
His pettie Tyrannies can naught afford
May equall Charles's? whose licentious reigne
Out-went what he durst wish, or Rome could faine.
Tullia ascended by her Fathers Tombe
And poyson'd James for Charles, and George made room.
[Page 10] She drove her Chariot o're the murdered King,
The Parliament's dissol'vd for questioning
Endeared Buckingham. Was Charles too nigh
In blood to James, even in his Tragedie?
Who could have thought but justice would be done
The Father murtherd, and the Judge the Sonne:
Poore Cobweb Lawes! The Sonne whom you juge fit,
To follow the inditement, hindred it.
But this was like the rest, an Act of grace,
And Charles would not be judge in his own case.
Least truth unvail'd, prerogative might marre,
And George call Charles along unto the Barre.
But Gossip Truth leave pratling: Doctors say
Charles never murderer pardoned, and pray
Dare the Lay-animals from their rules swerve,
When the Priests lips all knowledge must preserve?
Or dare thy boldest Sonnes believe this deed?
And so deny one point of the Cabs Creed.
O! Infidels who will believe their eyes
Befre these Ghostly Fathers fopperies.
O for a Cloud! 'tis ignorance only can
Preserve devotion in the English man.
This light of truth quite spoyles the trade of Rome,
And robs Charles of the Crowne of Martyrdome,
Which ad­journed be­because of the plague at London.
The Parliament's broke up; they could not shunn
Their fate though they had unto Oxford runn,
Oxford is part of England, there they fall;
Charles reign'd, the plague was Epidemicall.
One Cittie is to narrow for to mourne
The Nation must attend on James his Urne,
And London's plague (which never English eye
Equal'd beheld untill his Tyrannie)
To the three Nations the Almighty sent,
To typifie the following punishment.
[Page 11] The hundred thousands, which these seaven yeares fel
Five thousand in seaven dayes did then foretell;
That England, Scotland, Ireland now may say,
Thousands the plague, ten thousands Charles did slay.
Nor could an Ocean bound him, France must feel
In Rochels bowels, Charles his treacherous steel:
There were not Protestants enough at home,
To state his furie, he abroad must roame;
And as if Englands earth could not suffice,
To drinke the blood spilt by his Tragedies;
Both Cales and Re, the French and Spanish Sword,
To murder English-men must helpe afford.
At last Charles, who so prodigally spent
His! Cannon to beate downe a Parliament,
Rows'd justice with his Thunder, who thought good,
He who in slaughter liv'd, should dye in blood.
Now you much inju'rd soules, who did so long
About Astraea's Throne for justice throng:
Now cease complaints; for Charles hath paid that due
By the keen Axe, which he did owe to you.
Revenge with leaden feet may slowlie come,
Her armes are steel, and when she strikes, strikes home.
And thou much angre'd Heaven, accept his head,
As his Soules ransome for the blood he shed.
And let this corporall punishent suffice,
That blood may ne're in judgement crying rise.
Then shall this sentencefull as gainefull be
To Charles, as England, which seem'd just to thee.
This said, the Genius ceas'd, The Soldiers make
A mighty shout, Then did our Dreamer wake.

A POST SCRIPT To the Reader.

THat thou mayest be the better confirmed of the realli­tie of this relation, I shall present thee with a Copie of verses I had begun, but was stopt by the arrest of sleepe (who presented this dreame to me that time) from going for­ward; I have left them, as sleepe found them, and would nei­ther erase or add one tittle: if they ar abrupt, you had best quarrell with Morpheus, yet take heed he serve you not as he did me: if this Relation please thee, I am sorrie thou hadst it not sooner: if thou be peevish and incredulous, I leave thee to the dull Gentleman, to have this or the like knock't into thy pate with his leaden Mace, the only argument able to con­vince those, whom truth and reason cannot conquer. But I hope the best therefore farewell.

Cambridge earlie in the morning.
Thy friend, or foe, choose thee whither. Sir, The Dreamer.

THE ELEGIE The Dreamer was making.

COuld Charles expire, and yet no Comet burne?
Or blazing Starre wait on him to his Urne?
To tell the wandring world his fall drew nigh:
And with him too the fate of Monarchie.
Had sable weeds so totally or'e spread
Heavens mourning face? no Star could shew its head.
Was moysture so predominant above?
No fire could through aires weeping regions move?
And so their moister influence cause to expire,
Old loyall flames, which Subjects hearts should fire.
O ye-O ye-
FINIS.

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