Parnassus Biceps. OR Severall Choice Pieces OF POETRY, Composed by the best WITS that were in both the Universities BEFORE THEIR DISSOLUTION.

With an Epistle in the behalfe of those now doubly secluded and sequestredMembers, by One who himselfe is gone.

LONDON: Printed for George Eversden at the Signe of the Maidenhead in St. Pauls Church-yard. 1656.

To the Ingenuous READER.

SIR.

THese leaves present you with some sow drops of that Ocean of Wit, which flowed from those two brests of this Nation, the two U­niversities; and doth now (the sluces being puld up) overflow the whole Lands: or rather like those Springs of Paradice, doth water and enrich the whole worlds whilst the Foun­tains themselvss are dryed up, and that Twin-Paradise become desart. For then were these Verses Compo­sed, when Oxford and Camebridge were Ʋniversities, and a Colledge [Page] more learned then a Town-Hall; when the Buttery and Kitchin could speak Latine, though not Preach; and the very irrational Turnspits had so much knowing modesty, as not to dare to come into a Chappel, or to mountany Pulpits but their own. Then were these Poems writ, when peace and plenty were the best Patriots and Maecenasses to great Wits; when we could sit and make Verses under our own Figtrees, and be in­spired from the juice of our own Vines: then, when it was held no sin for the same man to be both a Poet, and a Prophet; and to draw predictions no lesse from his Verse, then his Text. Thus you shall meet here St. Pauls Rapture in a Poem, and the fancy as high and as clear as the third Heaven, into which [Page] that Apostle was caught up: and this not onely in the ravishing expressions and extasies of amorous Composures and Love Songs; but in the more grave Dorick strains of sollid Divinity: Anthems that might have become Davids Harpe, and Asaphs Quire, to be sung, as they were made, with the Spirit of that chief Musitian. Againe, In this small Glasse you may behold your owne face, fit your own humors, however wound up and tuned; whether to the sad note, and melancholy look of a disconsolate Elegy, or those more sprightly jovial Aires of an Epitha­lamium, or Epinichion. Further, would you see a Mistresse of any age, or face, in her created, or uncreated complexion: this mirrour presents you with more shapes then a Conju­rers [Page] Glasse, or a Limnors Pencil. It will also teach you how to court that Mistresse, when her very washings and pargettings cannot flatter her; how to raise a beauty out of wrinkles fourscore years old, and to fall in love even with deformity and uglinesse. From your Mistresse it brings you to your God; and (as it were some new Master of the Ceremonies) instructs you how to woe, and court him like­wise; but with approaches and di­stances, with gestures and expressions suitable to a Diety; addresses clothed with such a sacred filial horror and reverence, as may invite and embol­den the most despairing condition of the saddest gloomy Sinner; and withall dash out of countenance the greatest confidence of the most glorious Saint: and not with that blasphemous fami­liarity [Page] of our new-enlightned and in­spired men, who are as bold with the Majesty and glory of that Light that is unaprochable, as with their own ignes fatui; and account of the third Person in the blessed Trinity for no more then their Fellow-Ghost; think­ing him as much bound to them for their vertiginous blasts and while-winds, as they to him for his own most holy Spirit. Your Authors then of these few sheets are Priests, as well as Po­ets; who canteach you to pray inverse, and (if there were not already too much phantasticknes in that Trade) to Preach likewise: while they turn Scripture-chapters into Odes, and both the Testaments into one book of Psalmes: making Parnassns as sacred as Mount Olivet, and the nine Muses no lesse religious then a Cloyster of [Page] Nuns. But yet for all this I would not have thee, Courteous Reader, pass thy censure upon those two Foun­tains of Religion and Learning, the Uviversities, from these few small drops of wit, as hardly as some have done upon the late Assemblies three-half-penny Catechisme: as if all their publick and private Libraries, all their morning and evening watch­ings, all those pangs and throwes of their Studies, were now at length deli­vered but of a Verse, and brought to bed onely of five feet, and a Conceit. For although the judicious modesty of these Men dares not look the world in the face with any of Theorau Johns Revelations, or those glaring New-lights that have muffled the Times and Nation with a greater con­fusion and darknes, then ever benigh­ted [Page] the world since the first Chaos: yet would they please bnt to instruct this ignorant Age with those exact elaborate Pieces, which might reform Philosophy without a Civil War, and new modell even Divinity its selfe without the tuine of either Chuch, or State; probably that most prudent and learned Order of the Church of Rome, the Jesuite, should not boast more sollid, though more numerous Volums in this kind. And of this truth that Order was very sensible, when it felt the rational Divinity of one single Chillingworth to be an un­answerable twelve-years-task for all their English Colledges in Chrisen­dome. And therefore that Society did like its selfe, whe [...] it sent us over a War instead of an Answer, and pro­ved us Hereticks by the sword: which [Page] in the first place was to Rout the Uni­versities, and to teach our two Foun­tains of Learning better manners, then for ever heareafter to bubble and swell against the Apostolick Sea. And yet I know not whether the depth of their Politicks might not have ad­vised to have kept those Fountains within their own banks, and there to have dammd them and choakd them up with the mud of the Times, rather then to have let those Protestant Streams run; which perchance may e­ffect that now by the spreading Ri­verets, which they could never have done through the inclosed Spring: as it had been a deeper State-piece and Reach in that Sanedrim, the great Councell of the Jewish Nation, to have confined the Apostles to Jerusa­lem, and there to have muzzeld them [Page] with Oaths, and Orders; rather then by a fruitful Persecution to scatter a few Gospel Seeds, that would spring up the Religion of the whole world: which had it been Coopd within the walls of that City, might (for all they knew) in few years have expired and given up the ghost upon the same Gol­gotha with its Master. And as then e­very Pair of Fishermen made a Church and caught the sixt part of the world in their Nets; so now every Pair of Celledge-fellows make as many seve­ral Ʋniversityes; which are truly so call'd, in that they are Catholick, and spread over the face of the whole earth; which stands amazed, to see not onely Religion, but Learning also to come from beyond the Alpes; and that a poor despised Canton and nook of the world should contain as much of each [Page] as all the other Parts besides. But then, as when our single Jesus was made an universall Saviour, and his particu­lar Gospel the Catholick Religion; though that Jesus and this Gospel did both take their rise from the holy City; yet now no City is more un­holy and infidel then that; insomuch that there is at this day scarce any thing to be heard of a Christ at Jeru­salem, more then that such a one was sometimes there, nor any thing to be seen of his Gospel, more then a Sepul­cher: just so it is here with us; where though both Religion and Learning do owe their growth, as well as birth, to those Nurseryes of both, the Ʋni­versityes; yet, since the Siens of those Nurseryes have been transplanted, there's little remaines in them now (if they are not belyed) either of the old [Page] Religion and Divinity, more then its empty Chair & Pulpit, or of the antient Learning & Arts, except bare Schools, and their gilded Superscriptions: so far have we beggard our selves to en­rich the whole world. And thus, In­genuous Sir, have I given you the State and Condition of this Poetick Miscel­lany, as also of the Authors; it being no more then some few Slips of the best Florists made up into a slender Gar­land, to crown them in their Pilgri­mage, and refresh thee in thine: if yet their very Pilgrimage be not its selfe a Crown equall to that of Confessors, and their Academicall Dissolution a Resurrection to the greatest temporall glory: when they shall be approved of by men and Angels for a chosen Ge­neration, a Royal Priesthood, a pecu­liar People. In the interim let this [Page] comfort be held out to you, our secluded University-members, by him that is none; (and therefore what hath been here spoken must not be interpreted as out of passion to my self, but nicer zeal to my Mother) that according to the generally received Principles and Ax­ioms of Policy, and the soundest Judg­ment of the most prudential States-men upon those Principles, the daie of your sad Ostracisme is expiring, and at an end; but yet such an end, as some of you will not embrace when it shall be offered; but will chuse rather to con­tinue Peripateticks through the whole world, then to return, and be so in your own Colledges. For as that great Councell of Trent had a Form and Conclusion altogether contrary to the expectation and desires of them that procured it; so our great Councels of [Page] England (our late Parliaments) will have such a result, and Catastrophe, as shall no ways answer the Fasts and Prayers, the Humiliations, and Thanks givings of their Plotters and Contrivers: such a result I say, that will strike a palsie through Mr. Pims ashes, make his cold Marble sweat; and put all those several Partyes, and Actors, that have as yet appeard up­on our tragical bloudy Stage, to an a­mazed stand and gaze: when they shall confess themselves (but too late) to be those improvident axes and ham­mers in the hand of a subtle Workman; whereby he was enabled to beat down, and square out our Church and State into a Conformity with his own. And then it will appeare that the great Worke, and the holy Cause, and the naked Arme, so much talked of for [Page] these fifteen years, were but the work, and the cause, and the arme of that Hand, which hath all this while rea­ched us over the Alpes; dividing, and composing, winding us up, and letting us down, untill our very dis­cords have set and tuned us to such notes, both in our Ecclesiastical, and Civill Government; as may soonest conduce to that most necessary Catho­lick Ʋnison and Harmony, which is an essential part of Christs Church here upon Earth, and the very Church its selfe in Heaven. And thus far, Ingenuous Reader, suffer him to be a Poet in his Prediction, though not in his Verse; who desires to be known so far to thee, as that he is a friend to persecuted Truth, and Peace; and thy most affectionate Christian Ser­vant,

Ab: Wright.

Ʋniversity-Poems.

The Temper. UPON D r. JUXON Bishop of LONDON.

Great Sir,
ANd now more great then when you were
Oth' Cabinet to your King, and Treasurer.
For then your acts were lock't from common view
Your life as Counsell being all Closet too;
But now that Cabinet's opened, you doe passe
To th' world for the chiefe Jewel of the case:
Each vertue shines a several glorious spark,
Which then were but one Diamond in the dark.
The Exchequer speaks your faith, this you to be
As true to the Counsell-board as Treasury;
[Page 2] Which care oth' civill good when they shall view
The houses will repeal their act for you;
And in their graver policy debate
The cloak lesse fit for the Church, then th' gown for th' State.
Next, to your place your low mind did accord
So well, you seem'd a Bishop and no Lord.
A Bishop such, as even the Scots to make
You theirs would arme, and a new Covenant take;
Disband the Presbitery, and henceforth
Install you their sole Patriarch of the North.
Such power hath your soft Rhetorick, such awe
Your nod, and even your silence is a law;
While others are not heard through their own noyse
And by their speaking much have lost their voyce:
Thus those oth' starry Senate of the night
Which slowest tread their Orbs shine till most bright,
And dart the strongest influx; so conceal
The flints cold veins a fire; such is the zeal
Of recluse Votaries, piercing the aire
And yet not heard, and such the Anchorites prayer.
Not like our modern Zelots, whose bare name
In Greek and Welch joyns language for a flame.
Gun-powder souls, whose Pulpit thoughts create
A calenture and feaver in the State;
Whose plots and discipline are all fire, and shine
As hot, as if contrived under the line.
Your tempers cool and Northern, calculate
For the Miridian of this clime and State;
And may be fitly stil'd the Courts pole-star,
Or honours best morall Philosopher:
[Page 3] So just your Sovereigne's, tis a hard thing
To say, which was the Bishop, which the King.
This Temper took our State, by whom we see
The order question'd yet the Bishop free:
So that of all their Acts this ones most rare,
A Church-man scape and a Lord Treasurer.

A Poem, I ndefence of the decent Ornaments of Christ-Church Oxon, occasioned by a Banbury bro­ther, who called them Idolatries.

YOu that prophane our windows with a tongue
Set like some clock on purpose to go wrong;
Who when you were at Service sigh'd, because
You heard the Organs musick not the Dawes:
Pittying our solemn state, shaking the head
To see no ruines from the flore to the lead:
To whose pure nose our Cedar gave offence,
Crying it smelt of Papists frankincense:
Who walking on our Marbles scoffing said
Whose bodies are under these Tombstones laid:
Counting our Tapers works of darknesse; and
Choosing to see Priests in blew-aprons stand
Rather then in rich Coapes which shew the art
Of Sisera's prey Imbrodred in each part:
Then when you saw the Altars Bason said
Why's not the Ewer on the Cubboards head,
[Page 4] Thinking our very Bibles too prophane,
Cause you nere bought such Covers in Ducklane.
Loathing all decency, as if yould have
Altars as foule and homely as a Grave.
Had you one spark of reason, you would finde
Your selves like Idolls to have eyes yet blind.
Tis onely some base niggard Heresie
To think Religion loves deformity.
Glory did never yet make God the lesse,
Neither can beauty defile holinesse.
Whats more magnificent then Heaven? yet where
Is there more love and piety then there.
My heart doth wish (wer't possible) to see
Pauls built with pretious stones and porphery:
To have our Halls and Galleries outshine
Altars in beauty, is to deck our swine
With Orient Pearl, whilst the deserving Quire
Of God and Angels wallow in the mire:
Our decent Copes onely distinction keep
That you may know the Shepheard from the sheep,
As gaudy letters in the Rubrick shew
How you may holi-dayes from lay-dayes know:
Remember Aarons Robes and you will say
Ladies at Masques are not so rich as they.
Then are th'Priests words like thunderclaps when he
Is lightning like rayed round with Majesty.
May every Temple shine like those of Nile,
And still be free from Rat or Crocodile.
But you will urge both Priest and Church should be
The solemn patternes of humility.
[Page 5] Doe not some boast of raggs? Cynicks deride
The pomp of Kings but with a greater pride.
Meeknesse consists not in the cloaths but heart,
Nature may be vainglorious well as art;
We way as lowly before God appear
Drest with a glorious pearl as with a tear;
In his high presence where the Stars and Sun
Doe but Ecclipse ther's no ambition.
You dare admit gay paint upon a wall,
Why then in glasse that held Apocriphall?
Our bodies Temples are: look in the eye
The window, and you needs must pictures spye;
Moses and Aaron and the Kings armes are
Daubed in the Church when you the Warden were.
Yet you nere find for Papist: shall we say
Banbury is turnd Rome, because we may
See the holy Lamb and Christopher? nay more
The Altar stone set at the Tavern doore?
Why can't the Oxe then in the nativity
Be Imagd forth, but Papists Bulls are nigh?
Our pictures to no other end are made
Then is your Time and sith your death and spade;
To us they'r but mementoes, which present▪
Christ best, except his Word and Sacrament.
If 'twere a sin to set up Imagry,
To get a Child were flat Idolary.
The modells of our buildings would be thus
Directions to our houses, ruines to us.
Hath not each creature which hath daily birth
Something which resembles Heaven or Earth?
[Page 6] Suppose some ignorant Heathen once did bow
To Images, may we not see them now?
Should we love darknesse and abhor the Sun
Cause Persians gave it adoration?
And plant no Orchards, because apples first
Made Adam and his lineall race accurst?
Though wine for Bacchus, bread for Ceres went,
Yet both are now used in the Sacrament.
What then if these were Popish reliques? few
Windowes are elsewhere old but these are new,
And so exceed the former, that the face
Of those come short of the outside of our glass;
Colours are here mix'd so, that Rainbows be
(Compared) but clouds without variety.
Art here is Natures envy: this is he,
Not Paracelsus, that by Chymistry
Can make a man from ashes, if not dust,
Producing off-springs of his mind not lust.
See how he makes his maker, and doth draw
All that is meant ith' Gospel, or ith' Law:
Looking upon the Resurrection
Me thoughts I saw the blessed vision,
Where not his face is meerly drawn but mind,
Which not with paint but oile of gladness shind:
But when I viewed the next pane, where we have
The God of life transported to his grave,
Light then is dark, all things so dull and dead;
As if that part of the window had been lead.
Jonas his whale did so mens eyes befool
That they'd have begd him for th' Anatomy School.
[Page 7] That he saw Ships at Oxford one did swear,
Though Isis yet will Barges hardly bear.
Another soon as he the trees espied
Thought them i'th Garden on the other side.
See in what state (though on an Asse) Christ went,
This shews more glorious then the Parliament.
Then in what awe Moses his rod doth keep
The Seas, as if a frost had glaz'd the deep;
The raging waves are to themselves a bound;
Some cry help help or horse and man are drownd.
Shadows doe every where for substance passe,
You'd think the sands were in a houre-glasse.
You that do live with Chirurgeons, have you seen
A spring of blood forst from a swelling vein?
So from a touch of Moses rod doth jump
A Chataract, the rock is made a pump:
At sight of whose oreflowings many get
Themselves away for fear of being wet.
Have you beheld a sprightfull Lady stand
To have her frame drawn by a painters hand?
Such lively look and presence, such a dresse
King Pharoahs Daughters Image doth expresse;
Look well upon her Gown and you will swear
The needle not the pencill hath been there:
At sight of her some gallants doe dispute
Whether ith' Church 'tis lawfull to salute.
Next Jacob kneeling, where his Kids-skins such
As it may well cosen old Isaacs touch:
A Shepheard seeing how thorns went round a­bout
Abrahams ram, would needs have helpt it out.
[Page 8] Behold the Dove descending to inspire
The Apostles heads with cloven tongues of fire,
And in a superficies there youle see
The grosse dimentions of profundity:
Tis hard to judge which is best built and higher
The arch-roofe in the window or the Quire.
All beasts as in the Ark are lively done,
Nay you may see the shadow of the Sun.
Upon a landskip if you look a while
Youle think the prospect at least forty mile.
There's none needs now goe travell, we may see
At home Jerusalem and Ninevy;
And Sodome now in flames: one glance will dart
Farther then Lynce with Galilaeus art.
Seeing Eliahs Chariot, we feare
There is some fiery prodigy in the aire.
When Christ to purge his Temple holds his whip
How nimbly hucksters vvith their baskets skip.
St. Peters fishes are so lively wrought,
Some cheapen them and ask when they were caught.
Here's motion painted too: Chariots so fast
Run, that they're never gone though always past.
The Angels with their Lutes are done so true,
We doe not onely look but hearken too,
As if their sounds were painted: thus the wit
Of the pencil hath drawn more then there can sit.
Thus as (in Archimedes sphear) you may
In a small glasse the universe survey:
Such various shapes are too ith' Imagry
As age and sex may their own features see.
[Page 9] But if the window cannot shew your face
Look under feet the Marble is your glasse,
Which too for more then Ornament is there
The stones may learn your eyes to shed a tear:
Yet though their lively shadows delude sence
They never work upon the conscience;
They cannot make us kneel; we are not such
As think theres balsome in their kisse or touch,
That were grosse superstition we know;
There is no more power in them then the Popes toe.
The Saints themselves for us can doe no good,
Muchless their pictures drawn in glass and wood,
They cannot seale, but since they signifie
They may be worthy of a cast oth' eye,
Although no worship: that is due alone
Not to the Carpenters but Gods own Sonne:
Obedience to blocks deserves the rod;
The Lord may well be then a jealous God.
Why should not Statues now be due to Paul,
As to the Caesars of the Capitall.
How many Images of great heires, which
Had nothing but the sin of being rich,
Shine in our Temples? kneeling alwayes there
Where when they were alive theyd scarce appear.
Yet shall Christs Sepulcher have nere a Tomb?
Shall every Saint suffer John Baptists doom?
No limb of Mary stand? must we forget
Christs cross as soon as past the Alphabet?
Shall not their heads have room in the window who
Founded our Church and our Religion too?
[Page 10] We know that Gods a Spirit, we confesse
Thoughts cannot comprehend his name, muchless
Can a small glasse his nature: but since he
Vouchsaf'd to suffer his humanity,
Why may not we (onely to puts in mind
Of his Godhead) have his manhood thus en­shrind?
Is our Kings person lesse esteemd because
We read him in our Coynes as well as Laws?
Doe what we can, whether we think or paint,
All Gods expressions are but weak and faint.
Yet spots in Globes must not be blotted thence
That cannot shew the worlds magnificence.
Nor is it fit we should the skill controul
Because the Artist cannot draw the soul.
Cease then your railings and your dull complaints;
To pull down Galleries and set up Saints
Is no impiety: now we may well
Say that our Church is truely visible:
Those that before our glasse scaffolds prefer,
Would turne our Temple to a theater.
Windows are Pulpits now; though unlearnd, one
May read this Bibles new Edition.
Instead of here and there a verse adornd
Round with a lace of paint, fit to be scornd
Even by vulgar eyes, each pane presents
Whole chapters with both comment and con­tents,
The cloudy mysteries of the Gospel here
Transparent as the Christall doe appear.
Tis not to see things darkly through a glasse,
Here you may see our Saviour face to face.
[Page 11] And whereas Feasts come seldome, here's descride
A constant Chrismas, Easter, Whitsontide.
Let the deafe hither come; no matter though
Faiths sence be lost, we a new way can shew:
Here we can teach them to believe by the eye;
These silenced Ministers doe edify:
The Scriptures rayes contracted in a Glasse
Like Emblems doe with greater vertue passe.
Look in the book of Martyrs and youle see
More by the Pictures then the History.
That price for things in colours oft we give
Which wee'd not take to have them while they live.
Such is the power of painting that it makes
A loving sympathy twixt men and snakes.
Hence then Pauls doctrin may seem more divine▪
As Amber through a Glasse doth clearer shine.
Words passe away, as soon as heard are gone;
We read in books what here we dwell upon,
Thus then there's no more fault in Imagry
Then there is in the Practise of piety,
Both edifie: what is in letters there
Is writ in plainer Hierogliphicks here.
Tis not a new Religion we have chose;
Tis the same body but in better cloaths.
Youle say they make us gaze when we should pray
And that our thoughts doe on the figures stray:
If so, you may conclude us beasts, what they
Have for their object is to us the way.
Did any ere use prospectives to see
No farther then the Glasse: or can there be
[Page 12] Such lazy travellers, so given to sin,
As that theyle take their dwelling at the Inne.
A Christians sight rests in Divinity,
Signes are but spectacles to help faiths ey [...],
God is the Center: dwelling one these words,
My muse a Sabbath to my brain affords.
If their nice wits more solemn proof exact,
Know this was meant a Poem not a Tract.

An ELEGIE, Ʋpon the death of Sir John Burrowes, Slaine at the Isle of Ree.

OH wound us not with this sad tale, forbear
To press our grief too much, we cannot hear
This all at once, such heavy newes as these
Must be sunk gently into us by degrees:
Say Burrowes is but hurt, let us disgest
This first, then try our patience for the rest.
Practise us first in lighter griefes, that we
May grow at last strong for this Tragedy.
Doe not speak yet he's slaine, or if he be
Speak't in a whisper or uncertainty,
As some new unauthoriz'd buzze without
Reason or warrant to confirme our doubt.
Come tis not so, tis but some flying talk
Newes lately vented in the audacious walk,
[Page 13] Some lye thats drapt in Pauls to stur our fears,
And gatherd by the busie credulous eares.
Will you believe ought comes from thence? why there
The Forts surrendred, and the Rochellere
Sworne English, Tillyes slaine, the hostile Kings
Closed in our siege, with such prodigious things,
Which your perswaded vulgar takes and sends
Abroad as tokens to their country friends.
Are all these wonders false? and onely this
True mongst so many impossibilities?
Where truth is worse then any forgery
There we may curse his mouth that doth not lye,
When fame goes off with such a black report
Worse then the murthering Canon from the fort,
Worse then the shot that killd him, for but one
Was killd with that, this kills a Nation.
Ile not believe it yet, doe we not know
An envious murder fam'd him dead ere now;
Receiv'd went into Ballads and almost
Clap'd in Caranto's upon every post:
Why should he not now dye in jest as then,
And we as haply be mock'd agen?
But tis too certaine, here his Coarse we have
Come ore to prove his death and ask a Grave,
A Grave for his good service: onely thus
Must we reward thee that wast slaine for us,
To mourn and bury thee? and would our fears
As soon were clos'd too as thy dust and tears.
I would thou mightst dye wholly here, and be
Forgotten, rather then our misery
[Page 14] Should urge thy fresh remembrance, and recall
Our sorrows often to lament thy fall,
When we shall say hereafter, tis well seen
Burrowes is dead else this had never been.
Why did we thus expose thee, whats now all
That Island to requite thy Funerall;
Though thousand troops of murdered French doe lye
It may revenge, it cannot satifie:
They are before hand still, and when we have done
Our worst we are loosers though the Fort be won:
Our conquerers now will weep, when they shall see
This price too dear to buy a victory:
He whose brave fire gave heat to all the rest
That dealt his spirits in each English breast;
From whose divided vertues you might take
So many Captaines out and fully make
Them each accomplisht with those parts the which
Did joyntly his rare furnish'd soule enrich:
He whose command was ore himselfe more high
And strictly soure then ore his company:
Not rashly valiant nor yet fearfull wise,
His flame had counsell in't, his fury eyes,
Not struck with courage at the drums proud beat
Or made fierce onely by the Trumpets heat:
When even pale hearts above their pitch doe fly
And for a while doe mad it furiously:
His rage was temper'd well, no fear could dant
His reason his cold blood was valiant.
Alasse those vulgar praises injure thee,
Which now a Poet would as plenteously
[Page 15] Give some boy souldier, one that nere knew more
Then the fine Scabbard and the Scarfe he wore.
And we can pitch no higher; thou hast outdone
So much our fancy and invention,
It cannot give thee ought. He that of thee
Shall write but halfe seems to write Poetry:
It is a strong line here to speak yet true,
Hyperboles in others is thy due.
Suffice it that thou wert our Armies all;
Whose well tryed name did more the French ap­pall
Then all their wants could do, whose inward dread
Famish'd them more in courage then in bread:
And we may make't a Question, whether most
Besiegd their Castle, Burrowes, or our Host.
Now let me blame thy vertue, it was this
Took thee from us and not our enemies.
Whilst thy unwearied toyle no respite takes
And thinks rest sloath, and with parpetual wakes
Continuest night with day and day with night;
Thou wast more ventrous when thou didst not fight.
This did expose thee to their fraud and mark;
They durst not seize upon thee but ith' dark:
The coward bullet that so oft before
Waved thy bold face and did fear thee more
Then thou feardst it, now by its errour is
Aimed too too sure: There was no light to misse.
Thus fell our Captaine, and the sound be's dead
Has fallen as deep; and like that fatall lead
Lies cold on us. Yet this thy honour be,
Thy hurts our wound, thy death our misery.
[Page 16] Not as the mourning of a private fate
But as some ruine had befallen the State:
The Fleet had been miscarried, Denmark tane
Or the Palatinate been lost againe.
So we with down-cast looks astonishd quite
Receiv'd this not as newes but as a fright:
So we relate thy death, whilst each man here
Contributes to this publick losse a teare:
Whilst Fathers tell their children this was he;
And they hereafter to posterity
Range with those Forces that scourg'd France of old
Burrowes and Talbots name together told.
VVhilst we ad this to our quarrel, and now more
Fight to revenge thee then our Land before.

On a white blemish in his Mistresse eye.

IF there be hap [...]y any man that dares
Think that the blemish in the Moon impaires
Her modest beauty: He may be so farre
From right, as he that thinks a Swan may marre
A Christall stream, or Ivory make a smutch
Fairely enameld in a piece of touch.
He that thinks so may as well entertaine
A thought, that this faire snowie Christall staine,
Which (beautious Mistress) late usurp'd your eye,
Hath done your Heavenly face some injury
[Page 17] He that thinks so nere let him have the blisse
To steale from your sweet lips a Nectar kisse.
Believe me (faire) and so you may, my duty
Is to observe lest on your spotlesse beauty
The least wrong makes assault, it gives like grace
Being white with the black moal on Venus face;
Yea Venus happily envied your sight
Which wont to dazle her inferiour light,
So put out th' one eye cause it proudly strove
With her which most should kindle men in love,
Yet t'other to extinguish she forbore
Least then like Cupid you had wounded more.
If you will have me nature search, and tell you
What was the cause that this fair blot befell you:
It may be this, your dainty living torch
Which wont the greedy amorous eye to scorch
With a sweet murthering flame, when it could not wail
For greif of so much slaughter it grew pale:
It may be these two dainty stars in lew
Oth' grace which they from one another drew,
(Kind twins) would needs like Castor and his bro­ther
Die in their turns so to enrich each other:
Or whether 'twere that Cupid in his flight
Being drawn by such a most imperious light:
Refusing all beds else doth sleeping lye
White naked boy in your white spotted eye.
Or thus: Heaven seeing a sun in each your eye
Put out the one to scape a Prodigie;
Yet double grace from hence your beauty won
Now you have a pale Moon and glistering Sun.
[Page 18] Nor think your beauty now disgrac'd because
You have but one eye, believe me natures Laws
(Being her selfe but one) admit no store
In perfect things: there's one Sun and no more,
Unlesse't be your left eye; nor Moons more be,
Unlesse that eye make a plurality:
Which Moon-like spotted is: the worlds but one:
The perfect gem is call'd an union:
One Earth there is, one Ocean, and the Gods
Joy not in equall numbers, but in odds.
To perfect all this, you my muse assures
There's still one beauty in the world, thats yours.

To Mr. Hammon Parson of Beudly For pulling down the May-pole.

THe mighty zeal which thou hast late put on;
Neither by Prophet nor by Prophets son
As yet prevented, doth transport me so
Beyond my selfe, that though I nere could go
Far in a Verse, and have all rimes defied
Since Hopkins and good Thomas Sternhold died,
Except it were the little paines I took
To please good people in a Prayer-book
That I set forth, or so: yet must I raise
My spirits for thee, who shall in thy praise
Gird up her loyns and furiously runne
All kind of feet but Satans cloven one.
[Page 19] Such is thy zeal, so well thou dost expresse it▪
That wer't not like a charme I'd say God bless it.
I needs must say it is a spirituall thing
To raile against the Bishop and the King:
But these are private quarrells, this doth fall
Within the compasse of the Generall.
Whether it be a Pole painted or wrought,
Far otherwise then from the wood 'twas brought:
Whose head the Idol-makers hand doth crop;
Where a prophane bird towring on the top
Looks like the Calfe in Horeb, at whose root
The unyoakt youth doth exercise his foot:
Or whether it preserves its boughs befriended
By neighbouring bushes and by them attended,
How canst thou chuse but seeing it complaine
That Baals worship'd in the Groves againe:
Tell me how curst an egging with a sting
Of lust doe these unwily dances bring,
The simple wretches say they mean no harme
They don't indeed, but yet those actions warme
Our purer blood the more: For Satan thus
Tempts us the more that are more righteous.
Oft hath a Brother most sincerely gone
Stifled with zeal and contemplation,
When lighting on the place where such repaire
He views the Nimph and is clean out in his prayer:
Oft hath a Sister grounded in a truth,
Seeing the jolly carriage of the youth,
Been tempted to the way thats broad and bad;
And wert not for our private pleasures, had
[Page 20] Renounced her little ruffe and goggle eye
And quit her selfe of the fraternity.
What is the mirth? what is the mellody
That sets them in this Gentiles vanity?
When in our Synagogues we raile at sin,
And tell men of the faults that they are in,
With hand and voyce so following our theams
That we put out the sides men in their dreams:
Sounds not the Pulpit then which we belabor
Better and holier then doth a Tabor;
Yet such is unregenerate mans folly,
He loves the wicked noyse, and hates the holy.
If the sins sweet enticing, and the blood
Which now begins to boyl, have thought it good
To challenge liberty and recreation
Let it be done in holy contemplation;
Brother and Sister in the field may walk,
Beginning of the holy word to talk,
Of David and Ʋriahs lovely wife
Of Thamar and her lustfull Brothers strife,
Then underneath the hedge that is the next
They may sit down and so act out the Text.
Nor doe we want, how ere we live austere,
In winter Sabbath nights some lusty cheare;
And though the Pastors grace which oft doth hold
Halfe an houre long make the provision cold,
We can be merry thinking nere the worse
To mend the matter at the second course;
Chapters are read and Hymns are sweetly sung
Joyntly commanded by the nose and tongue:
[Page 21] Then on the word we diversly dilate
Wrangling indeed for heat of zeale, not hate,
When at the length an unappeased doubt
Fiercely comes in, and then the lights go out.
Darknesse thus makes our peace, and we containe
Our fiery spi [...]its till we meet againe:
Till then no voyce is heard, no tongue does go
Unlesse a tender Sister shreek or so.
Such should be our delights grave and demure,
Not so abominable, and impure
As those thou seekst to hinder: but I fear
Satan will be too strong, his kingdomes there.
Few are the righteous, nor doe I know
How we this Idol here shall overthrow,
Since our sincerest Patron is deceas'd
The number of the righteous is decreas'd:
But we doe hope these times will on and breed
A faction mighty for us. For indeed
We labour all, and every Sister joynes
To have regenerate babes spring from our loyns:
Besides what many carefully have done
To get the unrighteous man a righteous son.
Then stoutly on, let not thy flocks range lewdly
In their old vanities, thou lamp of Beudly.
One thing I pray thee; doe not so much thirst
After Idolatries last fall, but first
Follow thy suite more close, let it not go
Till it be thine as thou woulst have't: for so
Thy successors upon the same entaile
Hereafter may take up the Whitsun-ale.

On Mr. Sambourne, sometime Sherife of Oxford-shire.

FIe, Schollers, fie, have you such thirsty souls
To swill, quaffe, and carouse in Samborns bouls.
Tell me, mad youngsters, what doe you believe
It cost good Sambourne nothing to be Sheriffe?
To spend so many beeves, so many weathers,
Maintaine so many Caps, so many Feathers.
Againe is malt so cheap, this pinching year,
That you should make such havock of his bear:
I hear you are so many, that you make
Most of his men turne Tapsters for your sake.
And that when he even at the Bench doth sit,
You snatch the meat from off the hungry spit:
You keep such hurly burly, that it passes,
Ingurgitating sometimes whole halfe glasses.
And some of you, forsooth, are grown so fine,
Or else so saucy, as to call for wine;
As if the Sheriffe had put such men in trust,
As durst draw out more wine then needs they must.
In faith, in faith, it is not well my Masters,
Nor fit that you should be the Shrieffs tasters.
It were enough, you being such gormondizers,
To make the Shrieffs hence forth turn arrant misers
[Page 23] Remove the Size, to Oxfords foul disgrace,
To Henly on the Thames, or some such place.
He never had complained had it been
A petty Ferkin, or a Kilderkin:
But when a Barrel daily is drunk out,
My Masters, then tis time to look about.
Is this a lye? trow ye, I tell you no,
My Lord High-Chancelor was informed so.
And oh, what would not all the bread in Town
Suffice to drive the Sheriffs liquor down:
But he in hampers must it from hence bring;
Oh most prodigious, and most monstrous thing!
Upon so many loaves of home-made bread,
How long might he and his two men have fed?
He would no doubt the poor they should be fed
With the sweet morsells of his broken bread:
But when that they poor soules for bread did call,
Answer was made, the Schollers eate up all:
And when for broken bear, they crav [...]d a cup,
Answer was made, the Schollers drunk it up.
And thus I know not how they change the name,
Cut did the deed, and long-tale bore the blame.

Ʋpon the Sheriffs Beere.

OUr Oxford Sheriffe of late is grown so wise,
As to reprieve his Beere till next Assize:
A lasse twas not so strong, twas not so heady,
The Jury sate and found it dead already.

A journey into France.

I Went from England into France,
Not for to learn to sing or dance,
Nor yet to ride nor fence.
Nor yet did goe like one of those,
That thence returne with halfe the nose
They carried from hence.
But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory in the song,
Upon a holy tide.
I on an ambling Nagge did get,
I trust he is not paid for yet.
Aud spur'd him on each side.
And to St. Dennis first we came,
To see the sights of Nostredam,
The man that shewes them snuffles.
Where who is apt for to believe,
May see our Ladies right arme sleeve,
And eke her old pantafles.
Her brest, her milk, her very gown,
That she did weare in Bethlem Town,
When in the Inne she lay.
No Carpenter could by his trade
Gaine so much coyn as to have made
A Gown of so rich stuffe.
[Page 25] Yet they poor fooles think't worth their credit,
They must believe old Joseph did it,
Cause he deserv'd enough.
There is one of the Crosses Nailes,
Whcih who so sees his Bonnet vailes,
And if he will may kneel.
Some say tis false twas never so;
Yet feeling it thus much I know,
It is as true as steel.
There is the Ianthorn which the Jewes,
When Judas led them forth did use,
It weighs my weight down-right.
But to believe it you must think,
The Jewes did put a candle in't,
And then twas wondrous light.
There's one Saint there hath lost his nose,
Another his head, but not his toes,
His elbow and a thumb.
But when we had seen these holy rags,
We went to the Inne and took our Nags,
And so away did come.
We came to Paris on the Sene,
Tis wondrous faire, but nothing cleane,
Tis Europes greatest Town.
How strong it is I need not tell it,
For all the world may easily smell it,
That walk it up and down.
[Page 26] There many strange things are to see,
The Pallace, the great Gallery
The Pallace doth excell.
The New-bridge, and Statues there:
At Nostredam St. Christopher,
The Steeple bears the bell.
For learning the University;
And for old cloths the Frippery,
The house the Queen did build.
St. Innocents whose earth devours
Dead corps in four and twenty hours,
And there the King was kil'd.
The Basteel, and St. Dennis street,
The Shatteet just like London Fleet,
The Arsenall no toy.
But if you'l see the prettiest thing,
Go to the Court and see the King,
Oh tis a hopefull boy.
He is of all his Dukes and Peers,
Reverencd for his wit and years:
Nor must you think it much.
For he with little switch can play,
And can make fine durt Pies of clay,
Oh never King made such.
A Bird that can but kill a fly,
Or prate, doth please his Magesty,
Tis known to every one.
The Duke of Guise gave him a Parrot,
And he had twenty Cannons for it,
For his great Gallioone.
[Page 27] Oh that I ere might have the hap
To get that Bird which in the Map
Is call'd the Indian Duck;
I'd give it him, and hope to be
As great as Guise or Liciny,
Or else I had bad luck.
Birds about his Chamber stand,
And he them feeds with his own hand;
Tis his humility:
And if they doe want any thing,
They need but whistle for their King,
And he comes presently.
But now for these good parts he must
Needs be instil'd Lewis the just,
Great Henryes lawfull heire.
When to his stile to adde more words,
They had better call him King of Birds,
Then of the lost Navarre.
He has besides a pretty firke,
Taught him by nature how to work
In Iron with much ease:
Sometimes into the Forge he goes,
And there he knocks, and there he blows,
And makes both locks and keys.
Which puts a doubt in every one,
Where he be Mars or Vulcans son;
Some few believe his mother,
Yet let them all say what they will,
I am resolv'd and doe think still,
As much the one or t'other.
[Page 28] The people don't dislike the youth,
Alleging reasons. For in truth
Mothers should honoured be.
Yet others say he loves her rather,
As well as ere she lov'd his Father,
And thats notoriously.
His Queen a little pretty wench,
Was born in Spaine, speaks little French,
Nere like to be a Mother:
For her incestuous house could not
Have children unlesse they were begot
By Uncle or by Brother.
Now why should Lewis being so just,
Content himselfe to take his lust,
With his Licina's mate:
And suffer his little pretty Queen,
From all her race that ere has been
So to degenerate.
Twere charity for to be known
To love strange chlldren as his own;
And why it is no shame:
Unlesse he yet would greater be,
Then was his Father Henry,
Who some thought did the same

BEN: JOHNSON To Burlace.

WHy though I be of a prodigious wast,
I am not so voluminous and vast
But there are lines wherewith I may be embrac'd▪
Tis true, as my womb swells, so my backstoops,
And the whole lump grows round, deform'd and droops;
But yet the run of Heidleb: has hoops.
You are not tyed by any Painters Law,
To square my circle, I confesse, but draw
My superficies, that was all you saw:
Which if in compasse of no art it came
To be describ [...]d, but by a Monagram,
With one great blot you have drawn me as I am.
But whilst you curious were to have it be
An Archetype for all the world to see,
You have made it a brave peece, but not like me.
Oh had I now the manner, mastery, might,
Your power of handling shadow, aire, and sprite,
How I could draw, behold, and take delight;
But you are he can paint, I can but write,
A Poet hath no more then black and white,
Nor has he flattering colours, or false light.
[Page 30] Yet when of friendship I would draw the face,
A letterd mind, and a large heart would place
To all posterity, I would write Burlace.

Ʋpon the death of Prince HENRY.

KEep station nature, and rest Heaven sure
On thy supporters shoulders, lest past cure
Thou dash'd by ruine fall with a great weight;
Twill make thy Basis shrink, and lay thy height
Low as the Centre. Death and horror wed
To vent their teeming mischiefe: Henryes dead.
Compendious eloquence of death, two words
Breath stronger terror then plague, fire, or swords
Ere conquerd. Why, tis Epitaph and Verse
Enough to be prefixt on natures Herse
At Earths last dissolution. Whose fall
Will be lesse griveous, though more Generall.
For all the woe ruine ere buried,
Lies in this narrow compasse: Henries dead.

On the BIBLE.

BEhold this little Volume here enrold,
Tis the Almighties Present to the world.
Hearken Earth, Earth: Each senslesse thing can hear
His makers thunder, though it want an eare.
Gods word is senior to his work; nay rather
If rightly weighd, the world may call it Father.
God spake, twas done: this great foundation
Was but the makers exhalation,
Breathd out in speaking. The least work of man
Is better then his word; but if we scan
Gods word aright, his works far short doe fall:
The word is God, the works are creatures all.
The sundry peeces of this generall frame
Are dimmer letters, all which spell the same
Eternall word. But these cannot expresse
His greatnesse with such easie readinesse,
And therefore yeeld. For heaven shall pass away,
The Sun, the Moon, the Stars, shall all obey
To light one generall boon-fire; but his word
His builder up, his all destroying sword
Yet still survives, no jot of that can dye,
Each tittle measures immortality.
[Page 32] Once more this mighty word his people greets,
Thus lapp [...]d and thus swath'd up in Paper sheets.
Read here Gods Image with a zealous eye,
The legible and written Deity.

Ʋpon some pieces of work in York House.

VIew this large Gallery faced with mats and say,
Is it not purer then Joves milky way?
Which should he know, mortals might justly fear
He would forsake his Heaven and sojourne here.
Here on a River rides a silver swan,
Vailing her swelling sailes, and hath began
Her merry will, and left Meander dry,
Rather intending in this place to dye.
So curious is the work, the art so sweet,
That men stand back lest they should wet their feet.
Here's Joseph and his Brethren, he in state
Enthroned in a Chaire, his dream his fate.
His brethren they stand bare, and though the board
Be dumb, each posture of them call him Lord.
Joseph conceals his tears with hard restraint,
Which would gush out should they not spoile the paint.
[Page 33] Under a tree whose arms were wide displayed
And broidered with blossomes, Venus layed
Her naked body, which when men espy,
Modesty 'gins to check the saucy eye,
They steal a look; but why? lest she, they say;
Seeing them look should rise and run away.
Well doth the Sun refuse his face to shew,
Blushing to see so faire a face below:
Which had Pigmalion seen so truely faire,
He would have married streight and sav'd his prayer.
For life, which was the others only bliss
He beg'd of Venus, art hath given this.
Divert your eye from this seducing sight,
And see the Dear & Heardgrooms harmeles fight,
One gasping lies, where with consenting strife,
The Painter and the poorman tug for life.
Well may you say that see his hanging head,
The Pictures lively, though the man be dead.
Open the door and let my eyes come in,
A place that would entice a Saint to sin;
Almost too dear for man to tread upon,
A floor all diaperd with Marble stone,
Feet touch our feet. This mystery beguiles
Philosophy of many thousand wiles.
Nay to encrease the miracle; with ease
We here become our own Antipodes.
What ruder age did think the best of all,
[...] hangs on every wall,
Quite hung with it, where every eye may see
Not more what we doe seem then what we be.
[Page 34] The glasse so steals us from us that you'd swear
That we the shadow that the substance were,
Which doth not take impression but doth give.
Here might Narcissus see himselfe and live;
Nor for the pleasure of one fading houre,
Eternally be damn'd into a flower.

Sir Henry Wotton on Q: ELIZABETH.

YE glorious trifles of the East,
Whose estimation fancies raise,
Pearles, Rubies, Saphirs, and the rest
Of precious Gems, what is your praise
When as the Diamond shewes his raise?
Ye Violets that first appear,
By your blew Purple Matles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own,
What are you when the Rose is blown?
Ye lesser beauties of the night,
That weakly satisfies our eyes
More by your number then your light,
Like common people of the skies,
What are ye when the Moon doth rise?
Ye warbling chanters of the wood,
That still our eares with natures layes,
Thinking your passions understood
By accents weak. What is your praise
When Philomel her notes doth raise?
So when my Princesse shall be seen
In sweetnesse of her looks and mind,
By vertue first then choise a Queen;
Tell whether she were not assing'd
To ecclipse the glory of her kind.
The Rose, the Violet, and the whole spring
May to her breath for sweetnesse run,
The Diamonds darkned in the ring;
When she appears the Moons undone,
As at the brightnesse of the Sun.

On the Princes birth.

WEll fare the Muses which in well chimb'd verse
Our Princes noble birth do sing,
I have a heart as full of joy as theirs,
As full of duty to my King:
And thus I tell
How every bell
Did sound forth Englands merry glee;
The boon-fires too
With much adoe,
It were great pitty to belye her,
Made London seem as all one fire;
A joyfull sight to see.
The wisest Citizens were drunk that day,
With Bear and wine most soundly paid:
The Constables in duty reeld away,
And charged others them to aide.
To see how soon
Both Sun and Moon
And seven Stars forgotten be:
But all the night
Their heads were light
[Page 37] With much exalting of their horne,
Because the Prince of Wales was borne;
A joyfull sight to see.
The Dutchmen they were drunk six dayes before
And prayed us to excuse their joy.
The Frenchmen vow'd nere to be sober more,
But drink healths to the royall boy
In their own wine
Both brisk and fine.
The valient Irish cram a cree,
It pledged hath
In Usquebath:
And being in a joviall vaine
They made a bog even of their braine:
A joyfull sight to see.
The Scots in bonny Ale their joy did sing,
And wisht this royall babe a man,
That they might beg him for to be their King,
And let him rule them when he can▪
The Spaniards made
A shrug and said,
After my pipe come follow me;
Canary Sack
Did go to rack,
Our Gentlemen with them took part,
The Papists drunk it with an heart:
A joyfull sight to see.
A Welch for joy her cozen Prince was born,
Doe mean to change St. Davids day,
Swearing no leeks hereafter shall be worne
But on the twenty ninth of May.
None so merry
Drinking Perry
And Metheglin on her knee,
Every man
His crock and can:
Thus arm'd the Devill they defied,
And durst tell Belzebub she lyed:
A joyfull sight to see.
But whilst the bells about us made a din,
And boon-fires for our Prince we make;
The Puritans doe onely burne within
Spirituall fagots for his sake,
Should they maintaine
A fire prophane
They'd rather martyrs wish to be,
But this remit
Till Judges sit,
Next Sessions some or other may
Find wholesome Tyburne in their way:
A joyfull sight to see.

A Letter to his Mistresse.

GO happy Paper, by command
Take liberty to kisse an hand
More white then any part of thee,
Although with spots thou graced be.
The glory of the chiefest day,
The morning aire perfum'd in May:
The first-borne Rose of all the spring,
The down beneath the Turtles wing;
A Lute just reaching to the eare,
What ere is soft is sweet is faire,
Are but her shreds, who fills the place
And summe of every single grace.
As in a child the nurse discries,
The mothers lips, the fathers eyes,
The uncles nose, and doth apply
Honours to every part; so I
In her could analize the store
Of all the choice ere nature wore;
Each private peece to minde may call
Some Earth, but none can match it all;
Poor Emblems they can but expresse
One Element of comlinesse;
[Page 40] None are so rich to shew in one
All simples of perfection:
Nor can the Pencil represent
More then the outward lineament;
Then who can limbe the Portraiture
Of beauties live behaviour:
Or what can figure every kind
Of jewels that adorne the mind?
Thought cannot draw her Picture full,
Each thought to her is grosse, is dull.

On the Earle of Pembroke's Death.

DId not my sorrows sighd into a verse
Deck the sad pomp and mourning of thy hearse;
I'd swear thy death the birth of hasty fame,
Begot to try our sorrowes with thy name.
Ile not believe it yet; it cannot sort
With earnest thou shouldst dye of meere report:
Newes cannot kill, nor is the common breath,
Fate, or infection. Shall I think that death
Struck with so rude a hand, so without art
To kill, and use no Preface to his dart.
Come Pembrocke lives. Oh doe not fright our eares
With such destroying truth, first raise our fears
[Page 41] And say he is not well; that will suffice
To force a river from the publick eyes.
Or if he must be dead, Oh let the newes
Speak't in a stonish'd whisper, let it use
Some phrase without a voyce, 'twould too much cloud
Our apprehension should it speak aloud.
Let's hear it in a Riddle, or so told
As if the labouring sence grieved to unfold
Its doubtfull woe. Hadst thou endured the gout,
Or lingring of thy Doctor (which no doubt
Had bin the worse disease) the publick zeal
Had conquered fate and sav'd thee; but to steal
A close departure from us, and to dye
Of no disease, but of a Prophesie,
Is mystery not fate: nor wert thou kild
Like other men, but like a type fulfilld.
So suddenly to dye is to deceive;
Nor was it death, but a not taking leave:
Tis true the shortnesse doth forbid to weep,
For so our Fathers dying fell asleep:
So Enoch whilst his God he did adore,
Instead of suffering death was seen no more.
But oh this is too much, and we should wrong
Thy ashes, thought we not this speed to long.
Methinks a dream had serv'd, or silent breath,
Or a still pulse, or something like to death.
Now twere detraction to suppose a tear,
Or the sad weeds which the glad mourners wear
Could value such a losse. He that mourns thee
Must bring an eye can weep an Elegy:
[Page 42] A look that would save blacks, whose heavy grace
Chides mirth, and wears a funerall in the face:
Whose sighs are with such feeling sorrow blown
That all the aire he draws returns a groan.
That griefe doth nearest fit that is begun
When the year ends and when the blacks are done.
Thou needst no guilded Tomb, superfluous cost
Is best bestowed on them whose names are lost.
Hadst thou no Statue, thy great memory
Were Marble to it selfe, the bravery
Of Jet or rich Enammel were mispent
Where the brave Course is its own ornament.
In thee shine all high parts, which falsly wit
Or flattering raptures for their Lord beget,
When they would faigne an Epitaph, and write
As if their griefe made legs when they indite;
Such dutifull untruths, that ere he grieve,
The Readers first toile is how to believe.
Thy greatnesse was no Idoll, state in thee
Receiv'd its lustre from humility.
He that will blaze thy Coat, and onely looks
How thou wer't Noble by the Heraulds books,
Mistakes thy linage; and admiring blood,
Forgets thy best descent, vertue and good.
These are too great for Scutcheons, and made thee
Without fore-fathers thine own Pedigree.

Ʋpon his chast Mistresse.

LOve, give me leave to serve thee, and be wise;
To keep thy torch in, and restore blind eyes:
Ile such a flame into my bosome take,
As Martyrs court when they embrace the stake;
No dull and smoaky fire, but heat divine,
That burns not to consume but to refine.
I have a Mistresse for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most faire.
Like tapers on the Altar shine her eyes,
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice:
And wheresoever my fancy would begin,
Still her perfection lets Religion in.
I touch her as my beads without devout care,
And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
We sit and talk and kisse away the houres
As chastly, as the mornings dew kisse flowers.
We were no flesh, but one another greet
As blessed soules in seperation meet.
I might have lustfull thoughts to her of all
Earths heavenly quire the most Angelicall;
But looking in my brest her forme I find
That like my Guardian Angell keeps my mind
[Page 44] From rude attempts, and when affections stir
I calme all passions with one thought of her.
Thus they whose reason loves, and not their sence,
The spirit love. Thus on intelligence
Reflects upon his like, and by chast loves
In the same sphear this and that Angel moves:
Nor is this barren love: each noble thought
Begets another, and that still is brought
To bed of more, vertues and grace encrease;
And such a numerous issue nere can cease:
Where children (though great blessings) onely be
Pleasures repriev'd to some postery.
Beasts love like men, if men in lust delight,
And call that love which is but appetite.
When Essence meets with Essence, and souls joyn
In mutuall knots, thats the true nuptiall twine.
Such Lady is my love, and such is true;
All other love is to your sex, not you.

On a Painters handsome Daughter.

SUch are your Fathers Pictures, that we doe
Believe they are not counterfeit but true:
So lively and so fresh that we may swear
Instead of draughts he hath placed creatures there,
People not shadowes; which in time will be
Not a dead number but a colony.
Nay more; yet some think they have skill and arts,
That they are well bred, pictures of good parts;
And you your selfe faire Julia doe disclose
Such beauties that you may seem one of those,
That having motion gaind at least and sence,
Began to know it selfe and stole from thence;
Whilst thus his aemulous art with nature strives,
Some think h'hath none, others he hath two wives.
If you love none (faire maide) but look on all,
You then among his set of Pictures fall;
If that you look on all and love all men,
The Pictures too will be your Sisters then.
Your choise must shew you are of another fleece,
And tell you are his daughter not his piece.
[Page 46] All other proofes are vaine, go not about;
We two will embrace, and love, and clear the doubt.
When you have brought forth your like the world will know
You are his Child; what Picture can doe so?

To Dr. Price writing Anni­versaries on Prince HENRY.

Even so dead Hector thrice was triumphd on
The walls of Troy, thrice slaine when fate had don:
So did the barbarous Greeks before their hoast
Turmoile his ashes and prophane his Ghost:
As Henryes vault, his pure and sacred hearse
Is torne and batter'd by thy Anniverse.
Wast not enough nature and strength were foes,
Unlesse thou yearly murther him in prose.
Or didst rhou hope thy ravening verse could make
A louder eccho then the Almanack.
Trust me November doth more gastly look
In Dades and Hopsons penniworth then thy book;
And sadder record their sixt figure bears,
Then thy false Printed and ambitious tears.
[Page 47] And wer't not for Chrismas which is nigh,
When fruits, when eaten and digested Pye
Call for more paper, no man could make shift
How to employ thy writing to his thrift.
Wherefore forbear for pitty or for shame,
And let some richer pen redeem his name
From rottennesse; then leave him captive, since
So vile a price nere ransom'd such a Prince.

A Reply upon an Answer to the former Copy.

NOr is it grieved, grave you the memory
Of such a story, such a book as he,
That such a Copy might through the world be read:
Yet Henry lives though he be buried.
It could be wishd that every day would bear
Him one good witnesse that he still were here.
That sorrow rul'd the year, and by this Sun
Each man could tell thee how the day had run▪
O 'twere an honest cause for him could say,
I have bin busie and wept out the day
Remembring him. His name would ever last,
Were such a trophy, such a banner plac'd
Upon his grave as this; Here a man lies
Was kild by Henryes dart not destinies.
[Page 48] But for a Cobler to throw up his cap
And cry the Prince the Prince; O dire mishap!
Or a Geneva bridegroom after Grace
To throw his spouse ith' fire, or scratch her face
To the tune of the lamentation, and delay
His friday capon to the Sabbath day;
Or an old Popish Lady halfe vowed dead
To fast away the day in gingerbread;
For him to write such Annals: all these things
Doe open laughter and shut up griefes springs.
Wherefore Vertumnus if youle Print the next,
Bring better notes, or chuse a fitter text.

On a Lady that dyed of the small pox.

O Thou deformed unwomanlike desease!
That plowest up flesh and blood and sowest there pease;
And leav'st such prints on beauty if thou come,
As clouted shoon doe in a floare of loame:
Thou that of faces honicombs dost make,
And of two breasts two cullinders; forsake
Thy deadly trade, thou now art rich, give ore
And let our curses call thee forth no more,
Or if thou needs wilt magnifie thy power
Goe where thou art invoked every hour
[Page 49] Amongst the gamesters, where they name thee thick
At the last man or the last pocky nick.
Thou who hast such superfluous store of gaine,
Why strikst thou one whose ruine is thy shame?
O thou hast murdred where thou shouldst have kist,
And where thy shaft was needful, there thou mist.
Thou shouldst have chosen out some homely face
Where thy ill-favourd kindness might add grace,
That men might say, how beautious once was she,
And what a curious piece was mard by thee:
Thou shouldst have wrought on some such Lady-mould
That never loved her Lord nor ever could
Untill she were deformed; thy tyranny
Were then within the rules of charity.
But upon one whose beauty was above
All sorts of art, whose love was more then love.
On her to fix thy ugly counterfeit,
Was to erect a Piramid of jet,
And put out fire; to dig a turfe from Hell,
And place it where a gentle soule should dwell▪
A soule which in the body would not stay,
When twas no more a body, nor pure clay,
But a huge ulcer; o thou heavenly race,
Thou soule that shunst the infection of thy case,
Thy house, thy prison, pure soule, spotless faire,
Rest where no heat, no cold, no compounds are▪
Rest in that country, and enjoy that ease,
Which thy fraile flesh denied, and thy disease.

Ʋpon the Kings Returne to the City of London when he came last thether from Scotland and was entertained there by the Lord Mayor.

SIng and be merry King Charles is come back,
Lets drink round his health with Claret & Sack:
The Scots are all quiet, each man with his pack
May cry now securely, come see what you lack.
Sing and be merry boyes, sing and be merry,
London's a fine Town so is London-Derry.
Great preparation in London is made
To bid the King welcome each man gives his aide,
With thanksgiving cloths themselves they arrayd
(I should have said holy-day) but I was afraid.
Sing &c.
They stood in a row for a congratulation
Like a company of wild-geese in the old fashion:
Railes in the Church are abomination,
But Railes in the street are no innovation.
Sing &c.
My Lord Mayor himselfe on cock-horse did ride
Not like a young Gallant with a sword by his side
Twas carried before him, but there was espied
The crosse-bar in the hilt by a Puritan eyed.
Sing &c.
Two dozen of Aldermen ride two by two,
Their Gowns were all scarlet, but their noses were blew▪
The Recorder made a speech, if report it be true,
He promis'd more for them then ere they will do.
Sing &c.
They should be good subjects to the King and the State,
The Church they would love, no Prelates would hate;
But methinks it was an ominous fate
They brought not the King thorow Bishops-gate.
Sing &c.
The Citizens rod in their Golden Chaines
Fetch'd from St. Martyns, no region of Spaines:
It seems they were trobl'd with Gundamors pains,
Some held by their pummels and some by their manes.
Sing &c.
In Jackets of Velvet, without Gown or Cloak,
Their faces were wainscot, their harts were of oke:
No Trainbands were seen, no drums beat a stroke,
Because City Captains of late have been broke.
Sing &c.
The King Queen and Prince, the Palsgrave of Rhine
With two branches more of the royal vine
Rod to the Guild-Hall where they were to dine,
There could be no lack where the Conduits run wine.
Sing &c.
Nine hundred dishes in the bill of fare
For the King and Nobles prepared there were;
There could be no lesse a man might well swear
By the widgeons and woodcocks and geese that were there.
Sing &c.
Though the dinner were long yet the grace was but short,
It was said in the fashion of the English Court.
But one passage more I have to report,
Small thanks for my paines I look to have fort.
Sing &c.
Down went my Lord Mayor as low as his knee,
Then up went the white of an Aldermans eye:
We thought the Bishops grace enlarged should be
(Not the Arch-Bishops) no such meanign had he.
Sing &c.
When's Lordship kneeld down we lookd he should pray,
(So he did heartily but in his own way)
The cup was his book, the collect for the day
Was a health to King Charles, all out he did say.
Sing &c.
The forme of prayer my Lord did begin
The rest of the Aldermen quickly were in:
One Warner they had of the greatnesse of the sin
Without dispensation from Burton or Prin.
Sing &c.
Before they had done it grew towards night,
(I forget my Lord Mayor was made a Knight:
The Recorder too with another wight,
Whom I cannot relate, for the torches are light.
Sing &c.
Up and away by St. Pauls they passe;
When a prickear'd brayd like a Puritan ass
Some thought he had been scar'd with the painted glasse
He swore not but cry'd high Popery by th' masse.
Sing &c.
The Quire with Musick on a Scaffold they see
In Surplices all their Tapers burnt by,
An Anthem they sung most melodiously;
If this were Popery I confesse it was high.
Sing &c.
From thence to White Hall there was made no stay
Where the King gave them thanks for their love that day,
Nothing was wanting if I could but say
The House of Commons had met him half way.
Sing &c.

Ʋpon the Kings-Book bound up in a Cover coloured with His Blood.

LEt abler pens commend these leaves; whose fame
Spreads through all languages, through time whose name;
Nor can those Tongues add glory to this book
So great, as they from the translation took.
Shine then rare piece in thine own Charls his ray;
Yet suffer me thy covering to display,
And tell the world that this plain sanguine vail
A beauty far more glorious doth conceal
Then masks of Ladies: and although thou be
A Book, where every leafe's a Library
Fil'd with choise Gems of th' Arts, Law, Gospel;
The chiefest Jewel is the Cabinet.
A shrine much holier then the Saint; you may yet
To this as harmelesse adoration pay,
As those that kneel to Martyrs tombs, for know,
This sacred blood doth Rome a Relique show
Richer then all her shrines, and then all those
More hallowed far, far more miraculous.
Thus cloth'd go forth, bless'd Book, and yield to none
But to the Gospel, and Christs blood alone.
[Page 55] Thy Garments now like his; so just the same,
As he from Bozra, and the wine-presse came;
Both purpled with like gore: where you may see
This on the Scaffold, that upon the Tree
Pour'd out to save whole Nations. O may't lye
Speechlesse like that, and never never cry
Vengence, but pray father forgive these too,
(Poor ignorant men!) they know not what they doe.

Ʋpon the Nuptials of John Talbot Esquire, and Mistresse Elizabeth Kite.

COme grand Apollo tune my Lyre
To harmonize in th' Muses Quire,
Give me a draught of Helicon,
Let Pindus and Parnassus prove
Propitious in the slights of love,
Though distanc'd now at Eberton.
A consecrated quill I know,
Pluck'd from the silver'd Swan of Po,
Love-tales is onely fit to write,
But since tis voted by the Stoick,
Not place nor pen doth make the Poet,
Ile venture with a plume of th' Kite.
Not for to blazen the great name
Of th' Talbots never dying fame
Eterniz'd in all Histories,
Ile onely say the Trojan wit,
Which Helen stole, must now submit
To Talbot in loves mysteries.
For neither Egypt, Troy, nor Greece,
Nor Colchis with her Golden-Fleece
Hath ever ought produc'd so rare
In vertue, beauty, every Grace
That dignifies the mind or face,
Which with this Couple may compare.
The holy Priest hath firmely tied
The Gordian knot, that twill abide
The touch of what's Canonicall;
And th' Pigmie Justice hath fast chain'd
The Bugbeare Act, though it be proclaim'd
As simple, as Apocryphall▪
Let's hasten therefore them to bring
To th' pleasant fountaine whence doth spring
The joyes of Cupids Monarchy;
There tumbling on their Nuptiall bed
To batter for a Maiden-head,
Twind like the Zodiack Geminie.
Hence dull ey'd Somnus think not now
T'inthrone upon this Ladies brow,
[Page 57] Far choycer joyes doe her invite:
For she's now anchor'd in a Haven
Where sacred Hymen her hath given
An other Soveraigne of the night.
Come draw the curtains, lets depart,
And leave two bodies in one heart
Devoted to a restlesse rest.
And when their virgin Lamps expire,
May there arise from the same fire
An other Phoenix in the Nest.

Ʋpon Aglaura Printed in Folio.

BY this large margent did the Poet mean
To have a Comment wrote upon the Scene?
Or else that Ladies, who doe never look
But in a Poem or in a Play-book,
May in each page have space to scrible down
When such a Lord or fashion came to Town;
As Swains in Almanacks their counts doe keep their sheep.
When their cow calv'd and when they bought
Ink is the life of Paper, 'tis meet then
That this which scap'd the Presse should feel the pen.
A room with one side furnish'd, or a face
Painted halfe way, is but a foule disgrace.
[Page 58] This great voluminous Pamphlet may be said
To be like one who hath more haire then head:
More excrement then body, trees which sprout
With broadest leaves have still the smallest fruit.
When I saw so much white I did begin
To think Aglaura either did lye in,
Or else did pennance: never did I see
Unlesse in Bills dash'd in the Chancery
So little in so much, as if the feet
Of Poetry were sold like Law by the sheet.
Should this new fashion last but one halfe year,
Poets as Clarks would make our Paper deare.
Doth not that Artist erre and blast his fame
That sets out Pictures lesser then the frame:
Was ever Chamberlain so mad to dare
To lodge a Child in the great Bed of Ware.
Aglaura would please better did she lye
Ith' narrow bounds of an Epitome.
Those pieces that are wove of th' finest twist,
As Velvet, Plush, have still the smallest list.
She that in Persian habits made such brags
Degenerates in the excesse of rags:
Who by her Giant bulk this onely gaines
Perchance in Libraries to hang in chaines.
Tis not in books as choth, we never say
Make London measure when we buy a Play,
But rather have them par'd; those leaves are faire
To the judicious which most spotted are.
Give me the sociable pocket books,
These empty Folio's onely please the Cooks.

Venus lachrimans.

WAke my Adonis doe not dye,
One life's enough for thee and I;
Where are thy words, thy wiles,
Thy love, thy frowns, thy smiles;
Alasse in vaine I call,
One death hath snatch'd them all:
Yet death's not deadly in thy face,
Death in those looks it selfe hath grace.
Twas this, twas this I feard
When thy pale ghost appeard:
This I presag'd when thundering Jove
Tore the best myrtle in my Grove;
When my sick rosebuds lost their smell,
And from my Temples untouch'd fell;
And twas for some such thing
My Dove did hang her wing.
Whether art thou my Diety gone,
Venus in Venus there is none:
In vaine a Goddesse now am I
Onely to grieve and not to dye.
But I will love my griefe,
Make tears my tears reliefe:
[Page 60] And sorrows shall to me
A new Adonis be;
And this no fates can rob me of, whiles I
A goddesse am to weep but not to dye.

An Ode in the praise of Sack.

1.
HEar me as if thy eares had palate Jack,
I sing the praise of Sack:
Hence with Apollo and the muses nine,
Give me a cup of wine.
Sack will the soule of Poetry infuse,
Be that my theam and muse.
But Bacchus I adore no Diety,
Nor Bacchus neither unlesse Sack he be.
2.
Let us by reverend degrees draw nere,
I feel the Goddesse here.
Loe I, dread Sack, an humble Priest of thine
First kisse this cup thy shrine,
That with more hallowed lips and inlarg'd soule
I may receive the whole:
Till Sibill-like full with my God I lye,
And every word I speak be Propehsie.
3.
Come to this Altar you that are opprest,
Or otherwise distrest,
Here's that will further grivances prevent,
Without a Parliament:
With fire from hence if once your blood be warm feel
Nothing can doe you harme;
When thou art arm'd with Sack, thou canst not
Though thunder strike thee; that hath made thee steel.
4.
Art sick man? doe not bid for thy escape
A cock to Aesculape;
If thou wouldst prosper, to this Altar bring
Thy gratefull offring,
Touch but the shrine, that does the God enclose,
And streight thy feaver goes
Whilst thou immaginst this, hee's given thee
Not onely heath but immortality.
5.
Though thou wert dumb as is the scaly fry
In Neptunes royalty:
Drink but as they doe, and new wayes shalt find
To utter thy whole mind;
When Sack more severall language has infus'd
Then Babels builders used:
[Page 62] And whensoever thou thy voyce shalt raise,
No man shall understand but all shall praise.
6.
Hath cruell nature so thy senses bound
Thou canst not judge of sounds?
Loe where yon narrow fountaine scatters forth
Streams of an unknown worth:
The heavenly musick of that murmure there
Would make thee turne all eare;
And keeping time with the harmonious flood,
Twixt every bubble thou shalt cry good good.
7.
Has fortune made thee poor, dost thou desire
To heap up glorious mire?
Come to this stream where every drop's a Pearl
Might buy an Earl:
Drench thy selfe soundly here and thou shalt rise
Richer then both the Indies.
So mayest thou still enjoy with full content
Midas his wish without his punishment.
8.
All this can Sack, and more then this Sack can,
Give me a fickle man
That would be somewhat faine but knows not what,
There is a cure for that:
[Page 63] Let him quaffe freely of this powerfull flood,
He shall be what he would.
To all our wishes Sack content does bring,
And but our selves can make us every thing.

An Epitaph on some bottles of Sack and Claret laid in sand.

ENter and see this tomb (Sirs) doe not fear
No spirits but of Sack will fright you here:
Weep ore this tomb, your waters here may have
Wine for their sweet companion in this grave.
A dozen Shakespears here inter'd doe lye;
Two dozen Johnsons full of Poetry.
Unhappy Grapes could not one pressing doe,
But now at last you must be buried too:
Twere commendable sacriledge no doubt
Could I come at your graves to steal you out.
Sleep on but scorne to dye, immortall liquor,
The burying of thee thus shall make thee quicker.
Mean while thy friends pray loud that thou maist have
A speedy resurrection from thy grave.

How to choose a Mistresse.

HEr for a Mistresse would I faine enjoy
That hangs out lip and pouts at every toy;
Speaks like a wag, is bold; dares stoutly stand
And bids love welcome with a wanton hand:
If she be modest wise and chast of life,
Hang her she's good for nothing but a wife.

Ʋpon a Picture.

BEhold those faire eyes, in whose sight
Sparkles a lustre no lesse bright
Then that of rising Stars when they
Would make the night outshine the day.
To those pure lips the humming be,
May as to blooming Roses flee:
The wanton wind about doth hurle,
Courting in vaine that lovely curle;
And makes a murmure in despaire,
To dally the unmooved haire.
View but the cheeks where the red Rose
And Lilly white a beauty growes,
[Page 65] So orient as might adorne
The flowing of the brightest morne.
Sure 'tis no Picture, nere was made
So much perfection in a shade:
Her shape is soule enough to give
A sencelesse Marble power to live.
If this an Idoll be, no eye
Can ever scape Idolatry.

On Ladies Attire.

YOu Ladies that wear Cypresse vailes,
Turn'd lately to white linnen rayles;
And to your girdles wear your bands,
And shew your armes instead of hands.
What could you doe in Lent so meet
As, fittest dresse, to wear a sheet?
Twas once a band, tis now a cloak;
A acorne one day proves a oak.
Weare but your linnens to your feet
And then the band will be a sheet.
By which device and wise excesse
You doe your pennance in a dresse:
And none shall know by what they see
Which Ladies censur'd, and which free.

The Answer.

BLack Cypresse vailes are shrowds of night,
White linnen railes are rayes of light,
Which to our girdles though we wear
We have armes to keep your hands off there.
Who makes our bands to be our cloak,
Makes John a stiles of John a noak.
We wear our linnen to our feet,
Yet need not make our band our sheet▪
Your Clergy wear as long as we,
Yet that implies conformity.
Be wise, recant what you have writ,
Least you doe pennance for your wit;
And least loves charmes doe weave a string
To tye you as you did your ring.

On a Gentlewoman that had the Small-Pox.

A Beauty smoother then the Ivory plaine,
Late by the Pox injuriously was slaine.
Twas not the Pox, love shot a thousand darts
And made those pits for graves to bury hearts:
But since that beauty hath regaind its light,
Those hearts are doubly slaine it shines so bright.

On a faire Gentlewomans blistered lip.

HIde not your sprouting lip, nor kill
The juicie bloom with bashfull skill▪
Know it is an amorous dew
That swells to court your corall hew.
And what a blemish you esteem
To other eyes a Pearl may seem;
Whose watry growth is not above
The thrifty seize which Pearls doe love:
[Page 68] And doth so well become that part
That chance may seem a secret art:
Doth any judge the face lesse faire
Whose tender silk a moral doth bear?
Are apples thought lesse sound and sweet
When honey specks and red doe meet?
Or will a Diamond shine lesse clear
If in the midst a soile appear?
Then is your lip made fairer by
Such sweetnesse of deformity.
The Nectar which men strive to sip
Springs like a well upon your lip.
Nor doth it shew immodesty,
But overflowing chastity.
O who will blame the fruitfull trees
When too much gum or sap he sees?
Here nature from her store doth send
Onely what other parts can lend.
If lovely buds ascend so high,
The root below cannot be dry.

To his Mistresse.

KEepe on your mask and hide your eye,
For in beholding you I dye.
Your fatall beauty Gorgon-like
Dead with astonishment doth strike.
[Page 69] Your piercing eyes that now I see
Are worse then Basilisks to me.
Shut from mine eyes those hills of snow,
Their melting vally doe not shew:
Those azure pathes lead to dispaire,
Oh vex me not, forbear, forbear;
For while I thus in torments dwell,
The sight of Heaven is worse then Hell.
In those faire cheeks two pits doe lye
To bury those slaine by your eye:
So this at length doth comfort me,
That fairely buried I shall be:
My grave with Roses, Lillies, spread,
Methinks tis life for to be dead:
Come then and kill me with your [...]ye,
For if you let me live, I dye.
When I perceive your lips againe
Recover those your eyes have slaine,
With kisses that (like balsome pure)
Deep wounds as soon as made doe cure;
Methinks tis sicknesse to be sound,
And theres no health to such a wound.
When in your bosome I behold
Two hills of snow yet never cold:
Which lovers, whom your beauty kills,
Revive by climing those your hills.
Methinks theres life in such a death
That gives a hope of sweeter breath.
Then since one death prevailes not where
So many Antidotes are nere:
[Page 70] And your bright eyes doe but in vaine
Kill those who live as fast as slaine;
That I no more such death survive,
Your way's to bury me alive
In place unknown, and so that I
Being dead may live and living dye.

A lover to one dispraising his Mistresse.

WHy slight you her whom I approve▪
Thou art no peere to try my love;
Nor canst discerne where her forme lies,
Unlesse thou sawest her with my eyes
Say she were foule, or blacker then
The night, or Sun burnt African;
If lik't by me, 'tis I alone
Can make a beauty where there's none:
For rated in my fancy she
Is so as she appears to me.
Tis not the feature or a face
That doth my faire Election grace.
Nor is my fancy onely led
By a well temper'd white and red;
Could I enamour'd grow on those,
The Lilly and the blushing Rose
[Page 71] United in one stalk might be
As dear unto my thoughts as she,
But I look farther and doe find
A richer beauty in her mind:
Where something is so lasting faire,
As time and age cannot impaire.
Hadst thou a prospective so cleare
That thou couldst view my object there;
When thou her vertues didst espy,
Thoudst wonder and confesse that I
Had cause to like; and learne from hence
To love by judgement, not by sence.

On the death of a faire Gentle­womans Robin-redbrest.

WHatsoere birds in groves are bred
Provide your anthems, Robins dead.
Poor Robin that was wont to nest
In faire Siloras lovely brest,
And thence would peep into her eye,
To see what feather stood awry.
This pretty bird might freely sip
The sugered Nectar from her lip.
When many love-burnt soules have pined
To see their rivall so retained.
[Page 72] But what caused Robins death was this,
Robin sure surfeited with blisse;
Or else cause her faire cheek-possest
A purer red then Robins brest,
Wherein consisted all his pride,
The little bird for envy dyed.

On the death of Sir Tho: Pelham.

MEerely for death to grieve and mourne
Were to repine that man was borne.
When weak old age doth fall asleep
'Twere foul ingratitude to weep.
Those threds alone should force out tears
Whose suddain crack breaks off some years.
Here 'tis not so, full distance here
Sunders the cradle from the beere.
A fellow-traveller he hath bin
So long with time, so worn to'th skin,
That were it not just now bereft
His body first the soule had left.
Threescore and ten is natures date,
Our journey when we come in late:
Beyond that time the overplus
Was granted not to him, but us.
[Page 73] For his own sake the Sun ne're stood,
But onely for the peoples good:
Even so he was held out by aire
Which poor men uttered in their prayer:
And as his goods were lent to give,
So were his dayes that they might live.
So ten years more to him were told
Enough to make another old:
Oh that death would still doe so,
Or else on goodmen would bestow
That wast of years which unthrifts fling
Away by their distempering.
That some might thrive by this decay
As well as that of land and clay.
Twas now well done: no cause to mourne
On such a seasonable stone;
Where death is but a guest, we sinne
Not bidding welcome to his Inne.
Sleep, sleep, goodman, thy rest embrace,
Sleep, sleep, th'ast trod a weary race.

Of Musick.

WHen whispering straines with creeping wind
Distill soft passion through the heart,
And whilst at every touch we find
Our pulses beat and bear a part.
When threds can make
Our heart-strings shake;
Philosophy can scarce deny
Our soules consists in harmony.
When unto heavenly joyes we feigne
What ere the soule affecteth most,
Which onely thus we can explaine
By Musick of the winged host:
Whose rayes we think
Make stars to wink;
Philosophy can scarce deny
Our soules consist of harmony.
O lul me, lul me, charming aire,
My senses each with wonder sweet;
Like snow on wool thy fallings are,
Soft like spirits are thy feet.
[Page 75] Griefe who needs fear
That hath an ear?
Down let him lie
And slumbring dye,
And change his soule for harmony.

To his Mistresse.

ILe tell you how the Rose did first grow red,
And whence the Lillies whitenesse borrowed.
You blusht and streight the Rose with red was dight,
The Lillies kiss'd your hands and so grew white.
You have the native colour, these the die,
And onely flourish in your livery:
Before that time each Rose was but one staine,
The lilly nought but palenesse did containe.

On a black Gentlewoman.

IF shadowes be a Pictures excellence
And make it seem more glorious to the sence:
If stars in brightest day are lost for sight
And seem more glorious in the mask of night.
[Page 76] Why should you think fair creature that you lack
Perfection cause your eyes and haire are black.
Or that your beauty, which so far exceeds
The new-sprung Lillies in their maidenheads,
The rosie colour of your cheeks and lips
Should by that darknesse suffer an ecclipse.
Rich Diamonds are fairer being set
And compassed within a foileof jet.
Nor can it be dame nature should have made
So bright a Sun to shine without a shade.
It seems that nature when she first did fancy
Your rare composure studied Negromancy:
And when to you these guifts she did impart
She used altogether the Black Art.
She framed the Magick circle of your eyes,
And made those hairs the chains wherein she ties
Rebellious hearts, those vaines, which doe appear
Twined in Meanders about every sphear,
Mysterious figures are, and when you list
Your voyce commandeth like an exorcist.
Now if in Magick you have skill so far
Vouchsafe to make me your familiar.
Nor hath kind nature her black art reveald
By outward parts alone, some are conceald.
As by the spring head men may easily know
The nature of the streams that run below.
So your black eyes and haire doe give direction,
That all the rest are of the like complexion.
The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man,
That Indian mine, that streight of Magellan.
[Page 77] The worlds dividing gulph, through which who venters
With hoised sailes and ravishd sences enters
To a new world of blisse. Pardon I pray
If my rude muse presumes for to display
Secrets forbid, or hath her bounds surpast
In praising sweetnesse which she nere did tast:
Starv'd men may talk of meat, and blind men may
(Though hid from light) yet know there is a day.
A rover in the mark his arrow sticks
Sometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks.
And if I might direct my shaft aright,
The black mark would I hit, and not the white.

On a Gentlewoman walking in the Snow.

I Saw faire Cloris walk alone,
When feathered raine came softly downe,
And Jove descended from his Tower
To court her in a silver showre:
The wanton snow flew to her breast
Like little birds into their nest,
And overcome with whitenesse there
For griefe dissolv'd into a teare,
[Page 78] Which trickling down her garments hemme
To deck her freezd into a gemme.

Ʋpon one dead in the snow.

WIthin a fleece of silent waters drownd.
Before I met with death a grave I found.
That which e [...]iled my life from her sweet home
For griefe streight froze it selfe into a Tomb.
Onely one Element my fate thought meet
To be my death, grave, tomb, and winding sheet.
Phoebus himselfe my Epitaph had writ;
But blotting many ere he thought one fit,
He wrote untill my tomb and grave were gone;
And 'twas an Epitaph that I had none;
For every man that pass'd along that way
Without a sculpture read that there I lay.
Here now the second time inclosed I lye
And thus much have the best of destiny.
Corruption (from which onely one was free)
Devour'd my grave, but did not seize on me.
My first grave took me from the race of men,
My last shall give me back to life agen.

On a woman dying in travell the child unborne.

WIthin this grave there is a grave intombd,
Here lies a mother and a child inwombd.
Twas strange that nature so much vigour gave
To one that nere was born, to make a grave.
Yet an injunction stranger nature willd her,
Poor mother, to be tomb to that which kild her:
And not with so much cruelty content,
Buries the child, the grave, and monument.
Where shall we write the Epitaph? whereon?
The child, the grave, the monument is gone:
Or if upon the child we write a staffe,
Where shall we write the tombs own Epitaph?
Onely this way is left, and now we must
As on a table carpeted with dust
Make chisells of our fingers, and engrave
An Epitaph both on the tomb and grave
Within the dust: but when some hours are gone
Will not the Epitaph have need of one?
I know it well: yet grave it therefore deep
That those which know the losse may truly weep
[Page 80] And shed their tears so justly in that place
Which we before did with a finger trace,
That filling up the letters they may lie
As inlaid Christall to posterity.
Where (as in glasse) if any write another
Let him say thus, here lies a haplesse mother
Whom cruel sate hath made to be a tomb,
And kept in travell till the day of doom.

On Man.

ILl busied man why shouldst thou take such care
To lenghthen out thy lives short callendar;
Each dropping season, and each flower doth cry
Fool as I fade and wither thou must die.
The beating of thy pulse when thou art well
Is but the towling of thy passing bell:
Night is thy hearse, whose sable Canopy
Covers alike deceased day and thee.
And all those weeping dewes which nightly fall
Are but as tears shed for thy funerall.

On Faireford windows.

TEll me you anti-Saints why glasse
With you is longer lived then brasse:
And why the Saints have scap'd their falls
Better from windowes then from walls.
Is it because the brethrens fires
Maintaine a glasse-house in Black-friers?
Next which the Church stands North and South,
And East and West the Preachers mouth.
Or ist because such painted ware
Resembles something what you are,
So pied, so seeming, so unsound
In doctrine and in manners found,
That ont of emblemattick wit
You spare your selves in sparing it?
If it be so then Faireford boast,
Thy Church hath kept what all have lost;
And is preserved from the bane
Of either war or Puritan.
Whose life is colour'd in the paint,
The inside drosse, the outside Saint.

On a Gentlewoman playing on the Lute.

BE silent you still musick of the sphears,
And every sence make hast to be all eares;
And give devout attention to her aires,
To which the Gods doe listen as to prayers
Of pious votaries: the which to hear
Tumult would be attentive, and would swear
To keep lesse noise at Nile if there she sing,
Or with a sacred touch grace but one string.
Amongst so many auditors, so many throngs
Of Gods and men, that presse to hear her songs,
Oh let me have an unespied room,
And die with such an anthem ore my tomb.

On Love.

WHen I do love I would notwish to speed,
To plead fruition rather then desire,
But on sweet lingring expectation feed,
And gently would protract not feed my fire.
[Page 83] What though my love a martyrdome you name,
No Salamander ever feels the flame.
That which is obvious I as much esteem
As Courtiors doe old cloths: for novelty
Doth rellish pleasures, and in them we deem
The hope is sweeter then the memory.
Injoying breeds a glut, men better tast
Comforts to come, then pleasures that are past.

The Catholick.

I Hold as faith
What Romes Ch: saith
Where the King is head
The flocks misled
Where the Altars drest
The peoples blest
He's but an asse
Who shuns the Masse
What Englands Church alow
My conscience disallowes
That Church can have no shame
That holds the Pope supreame
There's service scarce divine
With table bread and wine
Who the Communion flies
Is Catholick and wise.

On Faireford windowes.

I Know no paint of Poetry
Can mend such colours Imagery
In sullen inke; Yet Faireford I
May rellish thy faire memory.
Such is the ecchoes fainter found;
Such is the light when Sun is drownd.
So did the fancy look upon
The work before it was begun.
Yet when those shews are out of sight
My weaker colours may delight.
Those Images so faithfully
Report the feature to the eye,
As you would think each picture was
Some visage in a looking-glasse;
Not a glasse-window face, unlesse
Such as Cheap-side hath, when a presse
Of painted Gallants looking out
Bedeck the casement round about.
Bnt these have holy phisnomy;
Each pane instructs the laity
With silent eloquence, for here
Devotion leads the eye not eare
[Page 85] To note the cetechising paint;
Whose easie phrase did so acquaint
Our sence with Gospel that the Creed
In such a hand the weak may read.
Such types can yet of vertue be,
And Christ as in a glasse we see.
Behold two Turtles in one Cage
With such a lovely equipage,
As they who mark them well may doubt
Some young ones have been there stolne out.
When with a fishing rod the Clark
St. Peters draught of fish doth mark:
Such is the scale, the eye, the fin,
You'd think they strove and leap'd within:
But if the net which holds them brake
He with his angle some would take.
But would you walk a turne in Pauls,
Look up, one little pane inroules
A fairer Temple, fling a stone
The Church is out of the window flown.
Consider but not ask your eyes,
And ghosts at mid-day seem to rise.
The Saints their striving to descend
Are past the glasse and downward bend.
Look there the Devils all would cry,
Did they not see that Christ was by.
See where he suffers for thee, see
His body taken from the tree:
Had ever death such life before?
The limber corps besullied ore
[Page 86] With meager palenesse doth display
A middle state 'twixt flesh and clay:
His armes, his head, his legs, his crown
Like a true Lambskin dangling down:
Who can forbear the grave being nigh
To bring fresh ointment in his eye?
The Puritans were sure deceiv'd
Who thought those shadows mov'd and heav'd.
So held from stoning Christ; the wind
And boisterous tempests were so kind
As on his Image not to pray,
Whom both the winds and Sea obey.
At Momus wish be not dismaied;
For if each Christians heart were glaz'd
With such a window, then each breast
Might be his own Evangelist.

On the praise of an ill-favourd Gentlewoman.

MArry and love thy Flavia, for she
Hath all things whereby others beautious be:
For though her eyes be small, her mouth is great,
Though her lips Ivory be, her teeth be jet:
Though they be dark, yet she is light enough,
And though her harsh hair fail, her skin is rough,
[Page 87] And what if it be yellow, her haires red,
Give her but thine she has a maidenhead.
These things are beauties elements, where these
Compounded are in one she needs must please:
If red and white and each good quality
Be in the wench, nere ask where it doth lye:
In buying things perfumed we ask if there
Be musk and amber in it, but not where.
Though all her parts be not ith' usuall place,
She hath the anagram of a good face.
When by the gam-ut some Musitians make
A perfect song, others will undertake
By the same gam-ut chang'd to equall it:
Things simply good can never be unfit.
For one nights revells silk and gold we use,
But in long journies cloth and leather chuse.
Beauty is barren oft; and husbands say
There's the best land where is the foulest way.
And what a soveraigne medicine will she be
If thy past sins have taught thee jealousie.
Here needs no spies nor Eunuchs: her commit
Safe to thy foes yea to thy Marmoset.
When Belgias Cities th' ruind country drown
That durty foulness armes and guards the Town.
So doth her face guard her, and so for thee,
Which by occasion absent oft mayest be.
She whose face like the clouds turns day to night,
And mightier then the Sea makes Moors seem white.
[Page 88] Who though seven years she in the street hath laid
A Nunnery durst receive and think a maid.
And though in child-bed-labour she did lie
Midwives would swear 'twere but a tympany.
If she accuse her selfe, i'le credit lesse
Then witches which impossibles confesse.

Ʋpon Heavens best Image, his faire and vertuous Mistresse M. S.

THe most insulting tyrants can but be
Lords of our bodies, still our minds are free.
My Mistress thralls my soul, those chains of Gold
Her locks my very thoughts infetterd hold.
Then sure she is a Goddesse, and if I
Should worship her, 'tis no Idolary.
Within her cheeks a fragrant garden lies
Where Roses mixt with Lillies feast mine eyes:
Here's alwayes spring, no winter to annoy
Those heavenly flowers, onely some tears of joy
Doe water them, and sure if I be wise
This garden is another Paradice.
Her eyes two heavenly lamps, whose orderd mo­tion
Swayes all my reason, my sence, my devotion;
[Page 89] And yet those beams did then most glorious shine
When passions dark had maskd this soul of mine:
Now if the night her glory best declare,
What can I deem them but a sta [...]ry paire.
Her brow is vertues court, where she alone
Triumphant sits in faultlesse beauties throne:
Did you but mark its purenesse, you would swear
Diana's come from Heaven to sojourne there.
Onely this Cynthia dims not even at noon,
There wants a man (methinks) in such a Moon.
Her breath is great Joves incense, sweeter far
Then all Arabian winds and spices are:
Her voyce the sphears best Musick, and those twins▪
Her armes a precious paire of Cherubs wings.
In briefe she is a map of Heaven, and there
O would that I a constellation were.

The black maid to the faire boy.

FAire boy (alasse) why fliest thou me
That languish in such flames for thee.
Ime black, tis true; why so is night,
And lovers in dark shades delight.
The whole world doe but close your eye
Will be to you as black as I:
Or ope't and view how dark a shade
Is by your own faire body made,
Which followes thee where ere thou goe,
O who allowed would not doe so:
Then let me ever live so nigh,
And thou shalt need no shade but I.

His Answer.

BLack girle complaine not that I fly,
Since fate commands antipathy.
Prodigious must that union prove
Where black and white together move:
[Page 92] And a conjunction of our lips
Not kisses makes but an ecclipse,
In which the mixed black and white
Pretends more terrour then delight.
Yet if my shadow thou wilt be,
Enjoy thy dearest wish; but see
Thou keep my shadows property,
And flee away when I come nigh;
Else stay till death hath blinded me,
And Ile bequeath my selfe to thee.

Verses sent to a Lady, which she sending back unread, were returned with this inscription.

REead (faire maid) and know the heat
That warmes these lines is like the beate.
Thy chast pulse keeps; thy mornings thought
Hath not more temper.: were there ought
On this virgin paper shed
That might to crimson turne thy red
I should blush for thee, but I vow
Tis all as spotlesse as thy brow.
Read then, and know what art thou hast,
That thus canst make a Poet chast.

The Verses.

ON a day ('tis in thy power
To make me blesse or curse that hour)
I saw thy face, they face then maskd
Like Ivory in Ebon cask'd.
But that dark cloud once drawn away,
Just like the dawning of the day
So brake thy beauty forth, and I
Grew sad, glad, neither, instantly:
Yet through thy mercy, or my chance,
Me thought I saw a pleasing glance
Thou threwst on me: a sugar smile
Dimpled thy cheeks, and all the while
Mirth dancd upon thy brow, to prove
It came from kindnesse if not love.
Oh make it good; in this let me
Not Poet but a Prophet be.
And think not (fairest) that thy fame
Is wrongd by a Poets Mistresse name;
Queens have been proud on't, for their Kiugs
Are but our subjects; nay all things
Shall unto all posterity
Appear as we will have them, we
Give men valour, maids chastity
And beauty too: if Homer would
Hellen had been an hag, and- Troy had stood.
And though far humbler be my verse,
Yet some there will be will rehearse
[Page 94] And like it too perhaps; and then
The life that now thou lendst my pen
The world shall pay thee back agen.

The Nightingale.

MY limbs were weary, and my head opprest
With drowsinesse and yet I could not rest.
My bed was such no down nor feathers can
Make one more soft, though Jove again turn Swan.
No fear distracted thoughts my slumber broke,
I heard no screech-owle squeak, nor raven croak;
Nay even the flea (that proud insulting else)
Had taken truce, and was asleep it selfe:
But 'twas nights darling, and the woods chiefe jewel
The Nightingale that was so sweetly crewel.
And wooed my ears to rob my eyes of sleep.
That whilst she sung of Tereus, they might weep,
And yet rejoyce the tyrant did her wrong,
Her cause of woe was burthen of her song;
Which whilst I listned too, and greiv'd to hear,
Twas such I could have wish'd my selfe all eare.
Tis false the Poets feigne of Orpheus, he
Could neither move a stone, a beast, nor tree
To follow him; but wheresoere she flies
She makes a grove, where Satyrs and Fairies
About her perch to daunce her roundelayes,
For she sings ditties to them whilst Pan playes.
[Page 95] Yet she sung better now, as if in me
She meant with sleep to try the mastery.
But whilst she chanted thus, the Cock for spight
(Dayes hoarser herauld) chid away the night.
Thus rob'd of sleep, mine eyelids nightly guest,
Methought I lay content, though not at rest.

Barclay his Epitaph.

HE thats imprisoned in this narrow room
Wer't not for custome needs nor verse nor tomb;
Nor can there from these memory be lent
To him, who must be his tombs monument;
And by the vertue of his lasting name
Must make his tomb live long, not it his fame.
For when this gaudy pageantry is gone,
Children of the unborn world shall spy the stone
That covers him, and to their fellowes cry
Just here, just here abouts Barclay doth lie.
Let them with faigned titles fortifie
Their tombs, whose sickly vertues fear to die.
And let their tombs belie them, call them blest,
And charitable marble faigne the rest.
He needs not, when lifes true story is done,
The lying proscript of a perjured stone.
Then spare his tomb, thats needlesse and unsafe,
Whose virtue must outlive his Epitaph.

A welcome to Sack.

SO soft streams meet, so streams with gladder smiles
Meet after long divorcement by the Iles
When love the child of likenesse leadeth on
Their christall natures to an union.
So meet stoln kisses when the moon-shine nights
Call forth fierce lovers to their wisht delights.
So Kings and Queens meet when desire convinces
All thoughts but those that aime at getting Prin­ces;
As I meet thee soule of my life and fame▪
Eternall lamp of love, whose radiant flame
Out-stares the Heavens Osiris, and thy gleams
Darkens the splendour of his midday beames.
Welcome ô welcome my illustrious spouse,
Welcome as is the end unto my vowes.
Nay far more welcome then the happy soyl
The Sea-scourg'd Merchant after all his toyl
Salutes with tears of joy, when fires display
The smoaking chimnies of his Ithaca.
Where hast thou been so long from my embraces
Poor pittied exile, tell me did thy graces
Fly discontented hence, and for a time
Did rather chuse to blesse some other clime:
[Page 97] And was it to this end thou wentst to move me
More by thy absence to desire and love thee.
Why frowns my sweet? why does my Saint defer
Her bosome smiles from me her worshipper.
Why are those happy looks (the which have bin
Time past so fragant) sickly now drawn in
Like a dull twilight? tell me has my soul
Prophaned in speech, or done an act more foul
Against thy purer nature, for that fault
Ile expiate with fire, with haire, and salt,
And with the christall humour of the spring
Purge hence the guilt, and aire, the quarrelling.
Wilt thou not smile, or tell me what amisse,
Have I bin cold to hug thee, too remisse
And temperate in embracings? has desire
To thee-ward died in the embers, and no fire
Left in this rak'd up ash-heap as a mark
To testifie the glowing of a spark?
Have I divorc'd thee onely to combine▪
And quench my lust upon some other wine?
True I confesse I left thee, and appeal
Twas done by me more to confirm my zeal
And double my affection, as doe those
Whose love grows more inflam'd by being foes.
But to forsake thee ever, could there be
A thought of such impossibility?
When thou thy self dost say thy Isles shall lack
Grapes, ere that Herrick leaves Canary Sack.
Thou art my life, my Heaven, salt to all
My dearest dainties, thou the principall
[Page 97] Fire to all my functions, giv'st me blood,
Chine, spirit, and marrow and what else is good,
Thou mak'st me airy, active, to be borne
Like Iphictus upon the tops of corne,
And mak'st me winged like the nimble Howers
To dance and caper on the heads of flowers,
And ride the Sunbeams. Can there be a thing
Under the heavenly Isis that can bring
More love unto my life, or can present
My Genius with a fuller blandishment?

A Parodox on the praise of a painted face.

NOt kiss? by Jove I must and make impression
As long as Cupid dares to hold his Session
Upon thy flesh and blood, our kisses shall
Out minute time, and without number fall.
Doe not I know these balls of blushing red
That on thy cheeks thus amorously are spred;
Thy snowy neck, those veins upon thy brow
Which with their azure crinkling sweetly bow,
Are from art borrowed, and no more thine own
Then chains that on St. Georges day are shown
Are proper to the wearer? yet for this
I Idoll thee, and beg a courteous kisse.
[Page 98] The Fucus and Cerusse which on thy face
The cunning hand doth lay to add more grace,
Deceive me with such pleasing fraud, that I
Find in thy art wh [...]t can in nature lie:
Much like a Painter which upon some wall
On which the cadent Sun-beams use to fall,
Paints with such art a guilded butterfly,
That silly maids with slow-made fingers try
To catch it, and then blush at their mistake,
Yet of this painted fly much reckoning make.
Such is our state, since what we look upon
Is nought but colour and proportion:
Give me a face that is as full of lies
As Gipsies or your cunning Lotteries;
That is more false and more sophisticate
Then are your reliques, or a man of state:
Yet such being glazed by the slight of art
Gaine admiration, and win many a heart.
Put case there be a difference in the mould,
Yet may thy Venus be more brisk and bold.
—for oftentimes we see
Rich Candy wines in wooden bowles to be.
The odoriferous Civet doth not lye
Within the Muscats nose, or eare, or eye,
But in a baser place: for prudent nature
In drawing up the various forms and stature,
Gives from the curious shop of her large treasure
To faire parts comelinesse, to baser pleasure.
The fairest flower that in the spring doth grow
Is not so much for use, as for a show.
[Page 99] As Lillies, Hyacinths, the gorgeous birth
Of all pied flowers which diaper the earth,
Please more with their discolourd purple traine
Then wholesom potherbs which for use remaine.
Should I a golden speckled Serpent kisse
Because the colour which he wears is his?
A perphum'd cordovant who would not wear,
Because its sent is borrowed other where?
The cloths and vestiments which grace us all
Are not our own but adventitiall.
Time rifles natures beauty, but sly art
Repaires by cunning each decaied part,
Fills here a wrinkle, and there purles a veine;
And with a cunning hand runs ore againe
The breaches dented by the pen of time,
And makes deformity to be no crime▪
So when great men are grip'd by sicknesse: hand,
Illustrious phisick pregnantly doth stand
To patch up foule diseases, and doth strive
To keep their tottering carkases alive.
Beauty a candle is, with every puffe
Blown out, leaves nothing but a stinking snuffe
To fill our nostrils with: thus boldly think
The purest candle yields the foulest stink:
As the pure food, and daintiest nutriment,
Yields the most strong and hottest excrement.
Why hang we then on things so apt to vary,
So fleeting, brittle, and so temporary,
That agues, coughs, the toothach, or cathar,
Slight touches of diseases spoil and mar.
[Page 100] But when that age their beauty doth displace,
And plows up furrows in their once smooth face;
Then they become forsaken and do show
Like stately Abbies destroyed long ago.
Love grant me then a reparable face,
That whilst there colours are can want no grace:
Pygmalions painted statue I could love,
If it were warme, and soft, or could but move.

A Song.

WHen Orpheus swetly did complain
Upon his Lute with heavy strain
How his Euridice was slain;
The trees to hear
Obtain'd an eare
And after left it off again.
At every stroke and every stay
The boughs kept time and nodding lay,
And listned bending every way;
The ashen tree
As well as well as he
Began to shake and learnt to play.
If wood could speak, a tree might hear,
If wood can sound our griefe so near,
A tree might drop an amber tear:
If wood so well
Could sound a knell,
The Cypresse might condoal the bear.
The standing nobles of the grove,
Hearing dead wood to speak and move,
The fatall axe began to love;
They envied death
That gave such breath,
As men alive doe Saints above.

Ʋpon Mr. Hoptons death.

GRiefs prodigals where are you? unthrifts wher?
Whose tears and sighs extemporary are;
Pour'd out, not spent, who never ask a day
Your debt of sorrow on the grave to pay;
But as if one hours mourning could suffice,
Dare think it now no sin to have dry eyes:
Away, profane not Hoptons death, nor shame
His grave with griefe not worthy of that name:
Sorrow conceiv'd and vented both together;
Like prayers of Puritans, or in foul weather
[Page 102] The sailers forc't devotion, when in fear
They pray this minute, and the next they swear.
No I must meet with men, men that doe know
How to compute their tears and weigh their wo;
That can set down in an exact account
To what the losse of Hopton doth amount:
Tell you particulars, how much of truth
Of unmatch'd virtue and untainted youth
Is gone with him, and having sum'd all look
Like bankrupt Merchants on their table book,
With eyes confounded and amaz'd to find
The poor and blanck remainder left behind.

On his Mistresse eye.

AM I once more blest with a grace so high
As to be lookt on with that other eye?
Or shall I think it once more sent againe
To iterate my souls sweet lasting paine?
Your other eye, dear soule, had fire before
And darts enough, you need not have sought more
From this revived; scarce could I endure
The lustre of this eye when 'twas obscure:
How shall I now when like a fresh-born Sun
It strikes forth such a new reflection?
Yet welcome, dearest torment, spare not me
Dart forth more flames, they please if sent from thee
[Page 103] I hope your eyes as they in lustre doe,
Will imitate the Sun in virtue too.
If plagues and sicknesses from him be sent
Yet gives he warmth, life, growth and nourish­ment.
This is my comfort now, if one eye strike,
The other may give remedy alike.
Welcome againe clear lamp of beauty; shine,
Shine bright on Earth as do the soule divine,
To which my thoughts with like devotion run
As Indians adore the rising Sun.
Now shall I mine own Image view alive
In this extenuating perspective,
This living looking glasse, when thou shalt grace
Me, sweet, so much as to admit my face
Neighbour to thine, o how I then shall love
To see my shape in that black stream to move:
Against all reason I then more admire
My shadow there, then my whole selfe entire.
How oft (though loth from that sweet seat to part)
Strive I to travell that way to thy heart;
Where if one wink doe thy quick look recall,
I loose, poor wretch, my shadow, selfe, and all.
Thus all the life which I so glorious thought
By thy sole wink is quencht and turn'd to nought.
Oh how I wont to curse that cobweb lawn
Which like a curtaine ore thy eye was drawn,
As if that death upon that eye did sit,
And this had bin the winding sheet for it,
The which, as it from off that eye was thrown,
Seemd to look pale for griefe that it was gone.
[Page 104] Yet when both this and t'other dainty robe
Did close like cases that most heavenly globe,
Think not they could disparage your faire eyes;
No more then painters doe their chiefest prize;
Who use to hang some veil or silken sheet,
That men may more desire and long to se'it.

To Dr. Griffith heald of a strange cure by Bernard Wright of Oxford.

WElcome abroad, ô welcome from your bed
I joy to see you thus delivered.
After four years in travell issues forth
A birth of lasting wonder, whereat truth
Might well suspect her selfe, a new disease
Borne to advance the Surgeons of our dayes
Above all others: a perfidious bone
Eaten and undermind by humours grown:
Lodg'd in the captive thigh, which first of any
Halted, yet furnisht with a bone to many;
No Golgotha, nor charnell house, nor field,
If all were searcht could such another yield,
A bone so lockt and hugd, as is a bar
That back and forward may be wrested far
But not puld out at either hole, nor could
The cunning workman come to 't as he would:
[Page 105] Crosse veins did guard the sore, a hollow cave
Must wade into the flesh, the Surgeons grave
Thus being digd, the file without delay
Must grate the bone, and carve those chips away.
Blest be the midmen whose dexterity
Puld out a birth like Bacchus from the thigh.
Tutors of nature, whose well guided art
Can rectifie her wants in every part:
Who by preserving others pay the debt
They owe to nature, and doe rebeget
Her strength grown ruinate: I could be glad
Such liv'd the dayes which they to others add:
Nor can I rightly tell the happier man
The patient or the Surgeon; doe but scan
His praise thy ease, 'twas sure an extasie
That kild Van-otto not a lethargy;
Striving to crown his work he bravely tryed
His last and greatest cure then gladly dyed.
Bernard must tarry longer; should he flye
After his brother all the world must dye▪
Or live a cripple; Griffiths happy fate
Requires the same hand still to iterate
No lesse a miracle: the joyners skill
Could never mend his carved pate so well
As he hath heald a naturall: the stout
And boasting Paracelsus who gives out
His rule can give mans life eternity,
Would faintly doubt of his recovery;
He that hath wrought these cures I think he can
As well of scraps make up a perfect man.
[Page 106] Oh had you seen his marrow drop away,
Or the others brains drop out, then would you say
Nothing could cure this fracture or that bone
Save Bernard or the Resurrection.
Now smile upon thy torment, pretty thing
How will you use it? bury it in a ring
Like a deaths head, or send it to the grave
In earnest of the body it must have:
Or if you will you may the same translate
Into a die because 'twas fortunate;
The ring were blest, 'tis like a Diamond born
Out of a Rock, so was it hewn and torn
Out of your thigh: the gem worth nothing is
Untill it be cut forth, no more is this.
Happy are you that know what treasure 'tis
To find lost health, they onely feel the blisse:
Thou that hast felt these pains, maist wel maintain
Mans chiefest pleasure is but want of pain.
Enjoy thy selfe; for nothing worse can come
To one so schoold and vers'd in martyrdome.

The Liberty and Requiem of an imprisoned Royalist.

BEat on proud billows, Boreas blow
Swell'd curled Waves high as Joves roof,
Your incivility shall know,
That innocence is tempest proof.
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm,
Then strike (afflictions) for your wounds are balm.
That which the world miscalls a jaile,
A private closet is to me,
Whilst a good conscience is my baile,
And innocence my liberty.
Locks, bars, walls, lonenesse, tho together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an Anchoret.
I, whilst I wisht to be retir'd,
Into this private room was turn'd
As if their wisdomes had conspir'd
A Salamander should be burn'd:
And like those Sophies who would drown a fish,
I am condemn'd to suffer what I wish.
The Cynick hug his poverty,
The Pelicane her wildernesse,
And 'tis the Indians pride to lye
Naked on frozen Caucasus.
And like to these, Stoicks severe we see
Make torments easie by their apathy.
These manicles upon my arme
I as my sweethearts favours wear,
And then to keep my ancles warm
I have some Iron shackles there:
These walls are but my garrison, this Cell
Which men call Jaile, doth prove my Citadell
So he that strook at Jasons life,
Thinking h' had made his purpose sure,
By a malicious friendly knife,
Did onely wound him to a cure.
Malice I see wants wit, for what is meant
Mischiefe, oft times proves favour by th' event.
I'me in this Cabinet lockt up
Like some high prized Margarite;
Or like some great Mogul, or Pope,
Am cloyster'd up from publique sight:
Retir'dnesse is a part of majesty,
And thus, proud Sultan, I'me as great as thee.
Here sin for want of food doth starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen,
And these walls doe onely serve
To keep vice out, not keep me in▪
Malice of late's grown charitable sure,
I'me not committed, but am kept secure.
When once my Prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem,
And then to smooth so rough a path
I can learn patience too from him.
Now not to suffer shews no loyall heart,
When Kings want [...]ase subjects must love to smart.
What tho I cannot see my King
Either in's person or his coyne,
Yet contemplation is a thing
Which renders what I have not mine▪
My King from me no Adamant can part,
Whom I doe wear ingraven in my heart.
My soul's free, as th' ambient aire,
Altho my baser part's immur'd,
Whilst loyall thoughts doe still repaire
T' accompany my solitude.
And though rebellion doe my body bind,
My King can onely captivate my mind.
Have you not seen the Nightingale
When turn'd a Pilgrim to a cage,
How she doth sing her wonted tale
In that her narrow hermitage;
Even there her chanting melody doth prove
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.
I am that bird, which they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty,
Who though they doe my corps confine,
Yet maugre hate my soule is free:
And tho immur'd, yet can I chirp and sing
Disgrace to rebells, glory to my King.

To his imperious Mistresse.

WEll, well 'tis true,
I am now fal'n in love,
And tis with you;
And now I plainly see,
While you'r enthron'd by me above
You all your art and power improve
To tyranize ore me,
And make my flames the objects of your scorn,
While you rejoyce, and feast your eyes, to see me quite forlorn.
But yet be wise,
And don't believe that I
Doe think your eyes
More bright than Stars can be,
Or that you Angels far out-vy
In their Coelestiall livery
Twas all but Poetry.
I could have said as much by any she,
You are no beauty of your selfe, but are made so by me.
Though we like fools
Fathome the Earth and sky,
And drain the Schools
For names t' expresse you by,
Out-rend all loud hyperbolyes
To dub our fancies Deityes
By Cupids heraldry;
We know you'r flesh and blood as well as men,
And when we please can mortalize, and make you so agen.
Yet since my fate
Hath drawn me to the thing
Which I did hate,
Ile not my labour loose;
But will love, and as I begin
To the purpose, now my hand is in,
Spight of the art you use:
And have you know the world is not so bare;
Ther's things enough to love besides such toyes as Ladies are.
I'le love good wine,
I'le love my book and muse,
Nay all the nine;
I'le love my reall friend:
I'le love my horse; and could I chuse
One that my love would not abuse,
To her my love should bend.
I will love those that laugh, and those that sing,
Ile never pine my selfe away for any female thing.

On Dr. Ravis Bishop of London.

WHen I pass'd Pauls and traveld on the walk
Where all our Brittain sinners swear and talk:
Old Harry Ruffians, Bankrupts, and South-sayers,
And youths whose cousenage is as old as theirs:
And there beheld the body of my Lord
Trod under foot of vice which he abhord;
It griev'd me that the Landlord of all times
Should set long lives and leases to their crimes,
And to his springing honours should afford
Scarce so much Sun as to the prophets gourd:
But since swift flights of vertue have good ends,
Like breath of Angells which a blessing sends
[Page 113] And vanisheth withall, whilst fouler deeds
Expect a tedious harvest for bad seeds.
I blame not fame and nature, if they gave
Where they could give no more, their last a grave;
And justly doe thy grieved friends forbear
Marble and Alabaster boyes to rear
Ore thy Religious dust, because they know
Thy worth, which such allusions cannot shew,
For thou hast trod amongst those happy ones,
Who trust not in their superscriptions,
Their hired Epitaphs and perjur'd stone,
Which so belies the soule when she is gone:
Thou doest commit thy body as it lies
To tongues of living men, not unborn eyes;
What profits then a sheet of lead? what good
If on thy coarse a Marble quarry stood?
Let those that fear their rising purchase vaults,
And rear them statues to excuse their faults;
As if like birds that peck at Painters grapes▪
The judg knew not their persons from their shapes.
Nor needs the Chancelor boast, whose Pyramis
Above the House and Altar reared is;
For though thy body fill a viler room,
Thou shalt not change deeds with him for his tomb

On Dr. Langton.

BEcause of fleshy mould we be
Subject unto mortality;
Let no man wonder at his death,
More flesh he had, and then lesse breath:
But if you question how he dyed
Twas not the fall of swelling pride,
Twas no ambition to ascend
Heaven in humility: his end▪
Assured us his God did make
This piece for our example sake.
Had you but seen him in his way
To Church his last best Sabbath day,
His strugling soule did make such hast
As if each breath should be his last;
Each stone he trod on sinking strove
To make his grave, and shewed his love▪
O how his sweating body wept,
Knowing how soon it should be swept
Ith' mould; but while he steals to pray,
His weighty members long to stay,
Each word did bring a breathlesse tear,
As if he'd leave his spirit there:
[Page 115] He gone looks back as twere to see
The place where he would buried be,
Bowing as if did desire
At the same time for to expire:
Which being done he long shall dwell
Within the place he loved so well;
Where night and morning hundreds come
A Pilgrimage unto his tomb.

To the Bell-Founder of great Tom of Christ-Church in Oxford.

THou that by ruine doest repaire,
And by destruction art a Founder:
Whose art doth tell us what men are,
Who by corruption shall rise sounder:
In this fierce fires intensive heat,
Remember this is Tom the great.
And, Cyclops, think at every stroak
With which thy sledge his side shall wound,
That then some Statute thou hast broak
Which long depended on his sound;
And that our Colledge-Gates doe cry
They were not shut since Tom did die.
Think what a scourge 'tis to the City
To drink and swear by Carfax Bell,
Which bellowing without tune or pitty
The night and day devides not well;
But the poor tradesmen must give ore
His ale at eight or sit till four.
We all in hast drink off our wine,
As if we never should drink more;
So that the reckoning after nine
Is larger now then that before.
Release this tongue which erst could say
Home Scollers; drawer whats to pay?
So thou of order shalt be Founder,
Making a Ruler for the people,
One that shalt ring thy praises rounder
Then t'other six bells in the steeple:
Wherefore think when Tom is running
Our manners wait upon thy cunning.
Then let him raised be from ground
The same in number, weight, and sound;
For may thy conscience rule thy gaine,
Or would thy theft might be thy baine.

On a Gentleman, that kissing his Mistresse left blood upon her.

WHat mystery is this that I should find
My blood in kissing you to stay behind?
Twas not for want of colour that required
My blood for paint: no die could be desired
On that faire cheeck, where scarlet were a spot,
And where the juice of Lillies but a blot:
If at the presence of the murtherer
The wound will bleed, and tell the cause is there,
A touch will doe much more: even so my heart
When secretly it felt your killing dart
Shewed it in blood; which yet doth more com­plain
Because it cannot be so toucht again.
This wounded heart to shew its love most true
Sent forth a drop and wrote its mind on you;
Was ever paper halfe so white as this,
Or wax so yielding to the printed kisse?
Or seal so strong? no letter ere was writ
That could the Authors mind so truly fit:
For though my selfe to forraine countries fly
My blood desires to keep you company;
[Page 118] Here I could spill it all, thus I can free
My enemy from blood though slaine I be:
But slaine I cannot be, nor meet with ill,
Since but to you I have no blood to spill.

On an aged Gentlewoman.

NO spring nor summers beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnall face.
Young beauties force their loves, and thats a rape,
Your's doth but counsell, yet they cannot scape:
If 'twere a shame to love, here twere no shame,
Affection takes here reverences name▪
Were her first years the golden age? thats true;
But now she's gold oft tried and ever new:
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable tropick clime.
Faire eyes, who askes more heat then comes from thence,
He in a feaver wishes pestilence.
Call not those wrinkles graves, if graves they were
They were loves graves, for els they are no where;
Yet lies not love dead here, but here doth sit
Vowed to this trench like to an Anchoret:
And here till her (which must be his) death's
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb:
Here dwells he, though he sojourne every where doom
In progresse, yet his standing house is here.
[Page 119] She allwayes evening is, nor noon nor night,
Where's no voluptuousnsse, though a delight.
Xerxes strange love, the broad-leav'd plantane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so large as she
Or else because being young, nature did blesse
Her youth with ages glory barrennesse.
If we love things long sought, age is a thing
Which we are sixty years a compassing:
If transitory things which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter-faces, whose skin's slack,
Lank like an unthrifts purse, or empty sack;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade,
Whose mouth's a hole rather worn out then made,
Whose severall tooth to a severall place is gone
To vex their soules at the Resurrection:
Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,
For such not antient, but antiques be.
I hate extreams; yet I had rather stay
With tombs then cradles to wear out the day:
Since that loves naturall motion is▪ may still
My love descend and journey down the hill;
Not panting after growing beauties, so
I shall ebb on with them that homewards go.

On his Mistresse going to Sea.

FArewell fair Saint, may not the Seas and wind
Swel like the heart and eyes you leave behind,
But calme and gentle (like the looks they bear)
Smile on your face and whisper in your eare:
Let no foule billow offer to arise
That it may nearer look upon your eyes,
Least wind and waves enamourd with such form
Should throng and croud themselves into a storm;
But if it be your fate (vast Seas) to love,
Of my becalmed heart learn how to move:
Move then, but in a gentle lovers pace,
No wrinkles nor no furrowes in your face;
And ye fierce winds see that you tell your tale
In such a breath as may but fill her saile:
So whilst you court her each his severall way
You will her safely to her port convay;
And loose her in a noble way of woing,
Whilst both contribute to your own undoing.

A Copy of Verses spoke to King CHARLES by way of entertainment when he was pleas'd to grace S. John's Colledge with his visit. 1636.

WEre they not Angells sang, did not mine eares
Drink in a sacred Anthem from you sphears?
Was I not blest with Charles and Maries name,
Names wherein dwells all Musick? tis the same.
Hark, I my self now but speak Charles and Mary,
And 'tis a Poem, nay 'tis a library▪
All haile to your dread Majesties, whose power
Adds lustre to our feast, and to our bower:
And what place fitter for so Royall guests
Then this, where every book presents a feast.
Here's Virgils well-drest Venison, here's the wine
Made Horace sing so sweetly; here you dine
With the rich Cleopatra's warelike love;
Nay you may feast and frolick here with Jove.
Next view that bower, which is as yet all green,
But when you'r there, the red and white are seen.
A bower, which had (tis true) been beautified
With catechising Arras on each side;
[Page 122] But we the Baptists sons did much desire
To have it like the dwelling of our sire
A grove or desart. See (dread Leige) youle guesse
Even our whole Colledge in a wildernesse.
Your eyes and eares being fed, tast of that feast,
Which hath its pomp and glory from its guest.

Ʋpon the new Quadrangle of St. Johns Colledge in Oxford, built by the most Reverend Father in God the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

TIs done; and now wheres he that cryed it down
For the long tedious businesse of the Town;
Let him but see it thus, and heel contend
How we could such a Quadrat so soon end,
Nay think 'twas time little enough to frame
The exact modell onely of the same.
Tis finish'd then; and so, there's not the eye
Can blame it, thats best skilld in Symmetry:
You'd think each stone were rais'd by Orpheus art,
There's such sweet harmony in every part.
Thus they are one: yet if you please to pry
But farther in the quaint variety
Of the choise workmen, there will seem to be
A disagreeing uniformity.
Here Angels, stars, there vertues arts are seen,
And in whom all these meet the King and Queen.
[Page 123] Next view the smoothfaced columns, and each one
Looks like a pile of well joynd Punice-stone:
Nor wonder, for as smooth, as cleare they are
As is your Mistresse glasse, or what shines there.
So that you'd think at first sight at a blush
The massy sollid earth Diaphanous.
But these are common, would you see that thing
In which our King delights, which in our King?
Look up, and then with reverence cast your eye
Upon our Maryes comely Majesty:
Tis she, and yet had you her self ere seen,
Youd swear but for the crown 'twere not the Queen.
Nor ist the workmans fault; for what can be
I would faine know like to a Deity?
Unlesse her Charles; yet hath his statue proved
So like himselfe you'd think it spoke and mov'd,
But that you plainely see tis brasse; nay were
The Guard but near, they'd cry the King, be bare.
Rare forme, and as rare matter; that can give
O [...]r Charles after his reigne ages to live.
Not like your graver Citizens wise cost,
Who think they have King enough on a sign-post:
Where he may stand (for all I see) unknown,
But for the loving superscription.
No; here he reigns in state, to every eye
So like himselfe in compleat Majesty,
That men shall cry, viewing his limbs and face
All fresh three ages hence, long live his Grace.
Blest be that subject then, which did foresee
The Kings (though he's as God) mortality:
[Page 124] And through a Princely care hath found the way
To reinthrone his dust and crown his clay;
That so what strange events soere may fall
Through peace or war antimonarchical:
Though these three Kingdoms should becom one flame
And that consume us with our King and his name;
Yet here our gracious Charles whenever lent
To his much honourd Marble, and there spent
To a dust's atome, being then scarce a thing,
May still reigne on, and long survive a King.

Fortunes Legacy.

BLind fortune if thou wants a guide;
Ile shew thee how thou shalt divide,
Distribute unto each his due:
Justice is blind and so are you.
Toth' Userer this doom impart,
May Scriveners break and then his heart;
His debters all to beggery call,
Or whats as bad turne Courtiers all.
Unto the tradesmen that sell dear
A long Vacation all the year,
Revenge us too for their deceits
By sending wives light as their weights.
But fortune how wilt recompence
The Frenchmens daily insolence?
[Page 125] That they may know no greater paine
May they returne to France againe.
To lovers, that will not believe
Their sweet mistakes, thy blindnesse give.
And least the Players should grow poor
Give them Aglaura's more and more.
To Phisitians if thou please
Give them another new disease.
To Schollers give (if thou canst doe't)
A Benefice without a suit.
To court Lords grant monopolies,
And to their wives communities:
So fortune thou shalt please them all,
When Lords doe rise and Ladies fall.
Give to the Lawers I beseech
As much for silence as for speech.
Give Ladies Ushers strength of back,
And unto me a cup of Sack.

Ʋpon a Gentlewomans enter­tainment of him.

WHether, sweet Mistresse, I should most
Commend your Musick or your cost:
Your well spread table, or the choise
Banquet of your hand and voyce,
There's none will doubt. For can there be
Twixt earth and Heaven analogy?
Or shall a trencher or dish stand
In competition with your hand?
Your hand, that turns men all to eare:
Your hand, whose every joynts a sphear.
For certainly he that shall see
The swiftnesse of your harmony,
Will streightwayes in amazement prove
The spheares to you but slowly move;
And in that thought confesse that thus
The Heavens are come down to us.
As he may well; when he shall hear
Such Aires as may be sung even there;
[Page 127] Your sacred Anthems, strains that may
Grace the eternall Quire to play:
And certainly they were prepar'd
By Angells onely to be heard
Then happy I that was so blest
To be yours and your Musicks quest;
For which Ide change all other chear,
Thinking the best though given to dear.
For yours are delicates that fill,
And filling leave us empty still:
Sweetmeats that surfet to delight,
Whose fullnesse is meere appetite.
Then farewell all our heavenly fare,
Those singing dainties of the aire;
For you to me doe seem as good
As all the consorts of the wood;
And might I but enjoy my choice,
My Quire should be your onely voyce.

To a black Gentlewoman Mistresse A. H.

GRieve not (faire maid) cause you are black; so's she
Thats spouse to him who died upon the tree:
And so is every thing. For to your thought,
If you but wink, the worlds as dark as nought.
Or doe but look abroad and you shall meet
In every hallowed Church, in every street,
The fairest still in this; who think they lack
Of their perfections if not all in black:
Their gowns, their veiles are so, nay more their necks,
Their very beauties are foild off with specks
Of the dark colour. Whilst thus to her mate
Each seems more faire. Now they but personate
What you are really. Your fairest haire
Shadows the Picture of your face more faire:
Your two black sphears are like two Globes beset
With Ebony, or ring'd about with Jet.
O how I now desire ene to depart
From all the rest, and study the Black art:
But since thats not alowed me, I will see
How I may truely, fairest, study thee.

To the Memory of BEN: JOHNSON.

AS when the vestall hearth went out, no fire
Lesse holy then the flame that did expire
Could kindle it againe: so at thy fall
Our wit great Ben, is too Apocriphall
To celebrate the losse; since tis too much
To write thy Epitaph, and not be such.
What thou wert, like the hard Oracles of old
Without an extasie cannot be told.
We must be ravisht first, thou must infuse
Thy selfe into us both the theam and muse.
Else, though we all conspir'd to make thy herse
Our work, so that it had been but one great verse:
Though the Priest had translated for that time
The Liturgy, and buried thee in rime;
So that in meeter we had heard it said
Poetique dust is to Poetique laid:
And though that dust being Shakespears, thou mighst have
Not his room but the Poet for thy grave;
So that as thou didst Prince of numbers dye
And live, so now thou mighst in numbers lye;
Twere fraile solemnity. Verses on thee
And not like thine, would but kind libels be;
And we, not speaking thy whole worth, should raise
Worse blots then they that envied thy praise▪
[Page 130] Indeed thou needst not us, since above all
Invention, thou wert thine own funerall.
Hereafter when time hath fed on thy Tomb,
The inscription worne out, and the marble dumb;
So that 'twould pose a Crittick to restore
Halfe words, and words expir'd so long before.
When thy maim'd statue hath a sentencd face,
And looks that are the horrour of the place;
That twill be learning and antiquity
To ask a Selden to say this was thee;
Thou'lt have a whole name still: nor needst thou fear
That will be ruind, or loose nose or hair.
Let others write so thin, that they can't be
Authors till rotten, no posterity
Can add to thy works, th' had their whole growth then
When first borne, and came aged from the pen.
Whilst living thou enjoyest the fame and sence,
And all that time gives but the reverence.
When tha'rt of Homers years, no man will say
Thy Poems are lesse worthy, but more gray.
Tis bastard Poetry, and of the false blood
Which can't withot succession be good.
Things that will always last, doe thus agree
With things Eternall, they at once perfect be.
Scorne then their censure, who gave out thy wit
As long about a Comedy did sit,
As Elephants bring forth; and that thy blots
And mendings took moretime then Fortune plots:
That such thy drought was, and so great thy thirst,
That all thy Plays were drawn at the Mermaid first.
[Page 131] That the Kings yearly Butt wrote, and his wine
Had more right then thou to thy Cateline.
Let such men keep a diet, let their wit
Be rackt, and while they write, suffer a fit
When they have felt tortures which outpaine the gouut,
Such as with lesse the State draws Treason out;
Though they should the length of consumption lie,
Sick of their Verse, and of their Poem die,
Twould not be thy worst Scene, but would at last
Confirme their boastings, and shew't made in hast.
He that writes well, writes quick, since the rules true,
Nothing is slowly done, thats always new.
So when thy Fox had ten times Acted been,
Each day was first, but that twas cheaper seen.
And so thy Alchymist Played ore and ore,
Was new oth' stage, when twas not at the door.
We, like the Actors, did repeat, the pit
The first time saw, the next conceived thy wit:
Which was cast in those forms, such rules, such arts,
That but to some not halfe thy Acts were parts:
Since of some silken judgements we may say
They fild a box two houres, but saw no Play.
So that the unlearned lost their mony, and
Schollers saved onely, that could understand.
Thy Scene was free from monsters, no hard plot
Calld down a God t' untie the unlikely knot.
The stage was still a stage, two entrances
Were not two parts of the world disjoynd by Seas.
Thine were land Tragedies, no Prince was found
To swim a whole Scene out, then oth'stage drownd,
[Page 132] Pitcht fields▪ and Red-Bul wars, still felt thy doom,
Thou laidst no sieges to the Musick Room;
Nor wouldst alow to thy best Comedies
Humors that should above the people rise:
Yet was thy language and thy stile so high
Thy Sock to the ancle, Buskin reachd toth' thigh:
And both so chast, so 'bove dramatick clean,
That we both safely saw and lived thy Scene.
No foul loose line did prostitute thy wit,
Thou wrotst thy Comedies; didst not commit.
We did the vice arraignd not tempting hear,
And were made judges not bad parts by the eare.
For thou even sin didst in such words array,
That some who came bad parts, went out good Play.
Which ended not with th' Epilogue, the age
Still Acted▪ and grew innocent from the stage.
Tis true thou hadst some sharpnesse, but thy salt
Serv'd but with pleasure to reforme the fault:
Men were laught into vertue, and none more
Hated Face acted then were such before.
So did thy sting not blood but humors draw;
So much doth Satyre more correct then Law;
Which was not nature in thee, as some call
Thy teeth, who say thy wit lay in thy gall.
That thou dist quarrel first, and then in spight
Didst 'gainst a person of such vices write:
And twas revenge not truth, that on the stage
Carlo was not presented, but thy rage:
And that when thou in company wert met,
Thy meat took notes, and thy discourse was net.
[Page 133] We know thy free vaine had this innocence,
To spare the party, and to brand the offence.
And the just indignation thou wert in
Did not expose Shift but his tricks and gin.
Thou mighst have us'd th'old comick freedome, these
Might have seen themselves played like Socrates.
Like Cleon Mammon might the Knight have been;
If as Greek Authors thou hadst turn'd Greek spleen;
And hadst not chosen rather to translate
Their learning into English, not their hate.
Indeed this last, if thou hadst been bereft
Of thy humanity, might be called theft.
The other was not, whatsoere was strange
Or borrowed in thee did grow thine by th' change.
Who without Latine helps, hadst been as rare
As Beaument, Fletcher, or as Shakespeare were:
And like them from thy native stock couldst say
Poets and Kings are not born every day.

An Answer to the Letter of the Cloake.

Mr. Roberts,
I Wonder that you should send for the Cloak,
I thought you scornd it should be spoke
That once your promise should be broke,
If from your word you doe revoke
I have wit enough to keep the Cloak.
You say youle make me smart for the Cloak,
I doe not care a fart for the Cloak,
Yet I will study the black art in the Cloak
Rather then I will part with the Cloak.
You say you mean to try for the Cloak,
I scorne to tell a lye for the Cloak,
My word Ile never deny for the Cloak
Although I thought youd cry for the Cloak.
I doe protest most deep in the Cloak
I did both mourne and weep in the Cloak,
And if I should not keep the Cloak
I were a very sheep in the Cloak.
I took your Cloak to mourne in your Cloak,
My corps I did adorne in your Cloak,
And many a time have I sworn in your Cloak
That I will never return in your Cloak.
Your father we did bury in the Cloak,
And after we were merry in the Cloak,
And then I told Mr. Perry of the Cloak,
And yet I am not weary of the Cloak.
Yet still I stand in fear of the Cloak
That I shall be never the near for the Cloak:
I pray you, good Sir, forbear the Cloak
I know that you can spare the Cloak.
It cost me many a tear in your Cloak,
And many a beaker of bear in your Cloak;
And yet I stand in fear of your Cloak
That I shall be nere the near for your Cloak.
Therefore, good Sir, forbear the Cloak,
For though I have worn bare the Cloak,
I had rather for to tear the Cloak
Then see another wear the Cloak.
Your friend in truth till death me choak
If you will let me have the Cloak.

Loves Courtship.

HArk my Flora, Love doth call us
To the strife that must befall us:
He hath rob'd his mothers Myrtles,
And hath puld her downy Turtles.
See our geniall posts are crownd,
And our beds like billowes rise:
Softer lists are no where found,
And the strife its selfe's the prize.
Let not shades and dark affright thee,
Thy eyes have lustre that will light thee:
Think not any can surprize us,
Love himselfe doth now disguise us:
From thy wast that girdle throw
Night and silence both wait here,
Words or actions who can know
Where there's neither eye nor eare.
Shew thy bosome and then hide it,
Licence touching and then chide it;
Profer something and forbear it,
Give a grant and then forswear it:
[Page 137] Ask where all my shame is gone,
Call us wanton wicked men;
Doe as Turtles kisse and grone,
Say thou nere shalt joy againe.
I can hear thee curse, yet chase thee;
Drink thy tears and still embrace thee:
Easie riches are no treasure,
She thats willing spoiles the pleasure:
Love bids learn the wrestlers slight,
Pull and struggle when we twine;
Let me use my force to night,
The next conquest shall be thine.

Ʋpon the death of the Lord Stafford, the last of his name.

MUst then our loves be short still? must we chuse
Not to enjoy? only admire & loose?
Must axiomes hence grow sadly understood,
And we thus see tis dangerous to be good?
So books begun are broken off, and we
Receive a fragment for an History;
And as 'twere present wealth, what was but debt,
Lose that of which we are not owners yet;
[Page 138] But as in books that want the closing line,
We onely can conjecture, and repine▪
So must we here too onely grieve, and guesse,
And by our fancy make, whats wanting, lesse.
Thus when rich webs are left unfinished,
The spider doth supply them with her thred.
For tell me what addition can be wrought
To him, whose youth was even the bound of thought.
Whose buddings did deserve the robe, whiles we
In smoothnesse did the deeds of wrinkles see:
When his State-nonage might have been thought fit.
To break the custome and allowed to sit.
His actions veiled his age, and could not stay
For that we call ripenesse, and just day.
Others may wait the staffe and the gray haire,
And call that wisdome which is onely fear.
Christen a coldnesse temperance, and then boast
Full and ripe vertue, when all actions lost:
This is not to be noble, but be slack;
A Stafford ne're was good by the Almanack.
He, who thus stayes the season, and expects,
Doth not gaine habits, but disguise defects.
Here nature outslips culture: he came tried,
Straight of himselfe at first, not rectified:
Manners so pleasing and so handsome cast,
That still that overcame which was shewn last.
All minds were captived thence, as if't had been
The same to him to have been loved and seen.
[Page 139] Had he not been snatch'd thus, what drive hearts now
Into his nets, would have driven Cities too:
For these his essayes which began to win
Were but bright sparks which shewed the mine within.
Rude draughts unto the Picture; things we may
Stile the first beams of the increasing day;
Which did but onely great discoveries bring,
As outward coolenesse shews the inward spring.
Nor were his actions to content the sight,
Like Artists pieces plac'd in a good light,
That they might take at distance, and obtrude
Something unto the eye that might delude:
His deeds did all most perfect then appear
When you observ'd, view'd close, and did stand near
For could there ought else spring from him whose line
From which he sprung was rule and discipline.
Whose vertues were as books before him set,
So that they did instruct, who did beget:
Taught thence not to be powerfull, but know,
Shewing he was their blood by living so.
For whereas some are by their big-lip known,
Others by imprinted burning swords were shown;
So they by great deeds are, from which bright fame
Engraves free reputation on their name:
These are their native marks, and it hath been
The Staffords lot to have their signes within.
[Page 140] And though this firme hereditatry good
Might boasted be as flowing with the blood,
Yet he ne're graspt this stay: but as those, who
Carry perfumes about them still, scarce doe
Themselves perceive them, though anothers sence
Suck in the exhaling odour: so he thence
Ne're did perceive he carried this good smell,
But made new still by doing himselfe well.
To imbalme him then is vaine, where spreading fame
Supplies the want of spices; where the name,
It selfe preserving, may for ointment passe,
And he still seen lie coffind as in glasse.
Whiles thus his bud dims full flowers, and his sole
Beginning doth reproach anothers whole.
Coming so perfect up, that there must needs
Have been found out new titles for new deeds.
Though youth and lawes forbid, which will not let
Statues be rais'd, or him stand brasen: yet
Our minds retaines this royalty of Kings,
Not to be bound to time, but judge of things
And worship as they merit: there we doe
Place him at height, and he stands golden too.
A comfort, but not equall to the crosse,
A faire remainder, but not like the losse.
For he (that last pledge) being gone, we doe
Not onely loose the heir but the honour too.
Set we up then this boast against our wrong,
He left no other signe that he was young:
[Page 141] And spight of fate his living vertues will,
Though he be dead, keep up the Barony still.

Ʋpon the same.

UNequall nature, that dost load, not pair
Bodies with souls, to great for them to bear!
As some put extracts (that for soules may passe,
Still quickning where they are) in frailer glasse;
Whose active generous spirits scorne to live
By such weak means, and slight preservative:
So high borne minds; whose dawnings like the day
In torrid climes cast forth a full-noon ray;
Whose vigorous brests inherit (throngd in one)
A race of soules by long succession;
And rise in their descents; in whom we see
Entirely summ'd a new born ancestry:
These soules of fire (whose eager thoughts alone
Create a feaver or consumption)
Orecharge their bodies: labring in the strife
To serve so quick and more then mortall life.
Where every contemplation doth oppresse
Like fits of the Calenture, and kills no lesse.
Goodnesse hath its extreams as well as sin,
And brings, as vice, death and diseases in.
[Page 142] This was thy fate, great Stafford; thy fierce speed
T'out-live thy years, to throng in every deed
A masse of vertues; hence thy minutes swell
Not to a long life, but long Chronicle.
Great name (for that alone is left to be
Calld great; and tis no small nobility
To leave a name) when we deplore the fall
Of thy brave Stem, and in thee of them all;
Who dost this glory to thy race dispence,
Not known to honour, t'end with innocence;
Me thinks I see a spark from thy dead eye
Cast beams on thy deceas'd Nobility.
Witnesse those Marble heads, whom Westminster
Adores (perhaps without a nose or eare)
Are now twice raised from the dust, and seem
New sculpt againe, when thou art plac'd by them;
When thou, the last of that brave house deceast,
Hadst none to cry (our brother) but the Priest:
And this true riddle is to ages sent
Stafford is his Fore-fathers monument.

A Song of the Precise Cut.

WIth face and fashion to be known
For one of sure election,
With eyes all white and many a groan,
With neck aside to draw in tone,
With harp in's nose or he is none.
See a new teacher of the town,
O the town, O the towns new teacher.
With pate cut shorter then the brow,
With little ruffe starcht you know how,
With cloak like Paul, no cape I trow,
With Surplesse none, but lately now;
With hands to thump, no knees to bow.
See a new teacher, &c.
With couzning cough and hallow cheek
To get new gatherings every week,
With paltry change of and to eke,
With some small Hebrew, and no Greek,
To find out words when stuff's to seek.
See a new teacher, &c.
With shopboard breeding and intrusion,
With some outlandish Institution,
With Ʋrsines Catechisme to muse on,
With Systems method for confusion,
With grounds strong layed of meer illusion.
See a new teacher▪ &c.
With rites indifferent all damned,
And made unlawfull if commanded,
Good works of Popery down banded,
And morall Lawes from him estranged,
Except the Sabbath still unchanged.
See a new teacher, &c.
With speech unthought, quick revelation,
With boldnesse in predestination,
With threats of absolute damnation,
Yet yea and nay hath some salvation
For his own Tribe, not every Nation.
See a new teacher, &c.
With after licence cost a Crown
When Bishop new had put him down,
With tricks calld repetition,
And doctrine newly brought to town
Of teaching men to hang and drown.
See a new teacher, &c.
With flesh-provision to keep lent,
With shelves of sweetnesse often spent,
[Page 145] Which new maid brought, old Lady sent,
Though to be saved a poor present;
Yet Legacies assure the event.
See a new teacher, &c.
With troops expecting him at door
That would hear Sermons and no more,
With Noting-tools and sighs great store,
With Bibles great to turne them ore
While he wrests places by the score.
See a new teacher, &c.
With running text, the nam'd forsaken,
With for and but both by sence shaken,
Cheap doctrines forc'd, wild uses raken,
Both sometimes one by mark mistaken,
With any thing to any shapen.
See a new teacher, &c.
With new wrought caps against the Cannon
For taking cold, though sure he have none,
A Sermons end when he began one,
A new houre long when his glasse had run one,
New use, new points, new notes to stand on.
See a new teacher, &c.

Ʋpon the Lady Paulets Gift to the Ʋniversity of Oxford: Being an exact piece of Needle-work presenting the whole sto­ry of the Incarnation, Passion, Re­surrection, and Ascension of our Saviour.

COuld we judge here most vertuous Madam: then
Your needle might receive praise from our pen.
But this our want bereaves it of that part,
Whilst to admire and thank is all our Art▪
The work deserves a Shrine: I should rehearse
Its glory in a story, not a verse.
Colours are mix'd so subtily, that thereby
The strength of art doth take and cheat the eye:
At once a thousand we can gaze upon,
But are deceiv'd by their transition.
What toucheth is the same; beam takes from beam
The next still like, yet differing in the extream.
Here runs this tract, thither we see that tends,
But cannot say here this or there that ends▪
Thus while they creep insensibly we doubt
Whether the one pours not the other out.
[Page 147] Faces so quick and lively, that we may
Fear if we turn our backs theyl steal away.
Postures of griefe so true, that we may swear
Your artfull fingers have wrought passion there.
View we the manger, and the Babe, we thence
Believe the very threads have innocence.
Then on the Crosse, such love, such griefe we find
As twere a transcript of our Saviours mind:
Each parcell so expressive, each so fit,
That the whole seems not so much wrought as writ.
Tis sacred text, all we may coat, and thence
Extract what may be press'd in our defence.
Blest Mother of the Church, be in the list
Reckond with th' four a she Evangelist;
Nor can the stile be prophanation, when
The needle may convert more then the pen.
When faith may come by seeing; and each leafe
Rightly perus'd, prove Gospell to the deafe.
Had not that Hellen haply found the crosse
By this your work, you had repaired that losse.
Tell me not of Penelope, we do
See a web here more chast and sacred too.
Where are ye now O women, ye that sow
Temptations labouring to expresse the bow
Of the blind Archer: ye that rarely set
To please your loves a Venus in a net?
Turne your skill hither, then we shall no doubt
See the Kings daughter glorious too without.
Women sewed onely figleaves hitherto,
Eves nakednesse is onely cloath'd by you.

On the same.

MAdam, your work's all miracle, and you
The first Evangelist, whose skillfull clue
Hath made a road to Bethlem; now we may
Without a stars direction find the way
To the cratch our Saviours cradle, there him see
Mantled in hay, had not your piety
Swath'd him in silk; they that have skill may see
(For sure tis prickt) the Virgins lullaby.
The Oxe would faine be bellowing did he not fear
That at his noyse the Babe would wake and hear.
And as each passage of his birth's at strife
To excell, so even the death's drawn to the life.
See how the greedy souldiers tug to share
His seamelesse coat, as if your work they'd tear:
Look on his read, thats naturall, on his gown
Thats a pure scarlet; so acutes his crown,
That he who thinks not they are thorns indeed,
Would he were prick'd untill his fingers bleed.
His Crosse a skilfull joyner cannot know,
(So neat tis fram'd) where it be wood or no:
So closely by the curious needle pointed,
Had Joseph seen't he knew not where were joyn­ted.
His side seems yet to bleed and leave a stain,
As if the blood now trickled from the vein:
Methinks I hear the Thiefe for mercy call,
He might have stole't, 'twas nere lock'd up at all.
[Page 149] See how he faints; the crimson silk turns pale
Changing its graine. Could I but see the vaile
Rent, all were finish'd, but thats well forborn;
Twere pitty such a work as this we [...]e torn.
Turn but your eye aside and you may see
His pensive handmaids take him from the tree,
Embalming him with tears, none could expresse,
Madam, but you death in so fit a dresse;
No hand but yours could teach the needles eye
To drop true tears, unfeignedly to cry.
Follow him to his virgin tomb, and view
His corps inviron'd with a miscreate crue
Of drowsie watch, who look as though they were
Nere bid to watch and pray, but sleep and swear:
The third day being come, and their Charge gone,
Only some Relicks left upon the stone;
One quakes, another yawnes, a third in hast
To run had not your needle made him fast:
And to excuse themselves all they can say
Is that they dream'd some one stole him away:
You, Madam, by the Angels guidance have
Found him againe since he rose from the grave.
So zealous of his company, no force
Could part you had not heaven made the divorse;
Where he remains till the last day, and then
I wish with joy you there may meet again.

On the same.

Lady,
YOu have drawn, and are all graces; none so true
As those lodge in your needle-work and you:
Hither will throng we know these draughts to see
Whole bevies of Court Maddams; such as be
Fair spectacles themselves, yet shall these glasses
Ravish by shewing not theirs but your faces:
Eyes that will shame the Christalls, and out steal
The patterns quaintest lustre those conceal:
Fingers of Ivory that will pointing stand
As Indexes to shew where moved the hand,
And in what method; till a dawning light
Spread on the Pictures from their neighbouring white;
Yet so they shall not weave new beauties in
Those webs, your silk is whiter then their skin:
Tis said that some will chang their own for bought
Locks, so they be not painted but thus wrought:
And scanning well these tresses well died threads
Curle into locks about the female heads,
So neatly periwig'd, will choose to wear
Rather what you so make then what grows hair.
This Lady learns a smile from hence, she there
A devout griefe takes forth from Maryes tear,
So lively dropt; as if ith' woman 'twas
Water, what's silk ith' needle, pearl ith' glasse.
[Page 151] A third will imitate your selfe, and try
Each pieces counterfeit: which being set by
As types unto your Gospel, all will guesse
You are the Evangelist, she the Prophetesse.
Here lies my Saviour; and though he it is
Lends life to all, yet borrows he from this:
And doth to th' world by two Nativities come
Both from your fancy and from Maryes womb▪
For who observes the Art will move a strife
Whether the threads be more of silk then life.
All things are in such proper colours shown;
The naturall seem feigned, these their own:
And all so well compos'd, their juncture such,
It were some seperation but to touch:
As in the varied bow which Heaven▪ bends
The red appears and yet the blew nere ends;
Here green, and yellow there, yet none can see
Where green or yellow do begin to be,
Each into others transient, and so fit
Still, what you choose nothing would serve but it.
What punctuall thorns here crown the Crucifix;
I thought your needle, but your silk more pricks.
The sides wound had appeared by a cleft
Ith' wound; had you but so much unwrought left
And open; as through which the spear once stole,
Now you have fill'd it 'tis a truer hole.
Did you pin down the hands and feet twould fail
Much of the truth, the stich is verier naile:
Well drops the blood in shadow; were there need
Of true, but squeeze the Picture and 'twould bleed:
[Page 152] For life that onely floats in vainer breath
Other arts give: that which returns from death:
Yours fresh and fully ideates; and is one
That holds out to a Resurrection.
Here tis that it to Christ joyntly procures
A rising from both bottomes, hell and yours:
His countenance refin'd seems not more new
Issuing out from the grave then from your clew;
Allmost so much of the Diety is shown
In your works as is visible in its own:
In these materialls we may more God see
Then heathens in a flower, or a true tree.
But could we reach your fancy and find in't
The spirituality of every Print;
We darkly might conceive pure Godheads, one
Nature, our Christ both of his flesh and bone.
Blest Soule, who thus internally hast eyed
Thy Saviour; how hast thou been sanctified?
I dare to say so long as he stayed in
Your minds, pure mirrour, that you scarce did sin:
Had but one idle thought disturb'd the glasse,
That same reflected blemish would forth passe
Into the stained table, and no doubt
The blur within had been a blot without.
Look ore the Passion; now you only view
Old wonnds; had you then sinn'd you had made new.
But all is acurate: we cannot find
One fault in the copy, cause not one ith' mind:
And yet tis drawn in such briefe Imagry
The smallest error cannot unseen lye.
[Page 153] Each Picture's couched in so little space,
Had you but miss'd a thread y'had lost a face.
Not as in gouty Arras, where a list
Of any colour if left out's not mist,
And where the shuttle twenty times mishot
Makes not so rude a sphalm, as here a knot
Or stich let faln: tis easie to excell
Wbere's such a latitude of doing well.
But, Madam, you that in two Tables draw
The Gospell whole, as God wrought all the Law,
Are both compendious and true: the story
Doth something loose in bulk, nothing in glory.
The Magi are made lesse, but not lesse wise,
Their gifts diminish, but their values rise:
For since they are come hither, thats thought best
Which they do bring from you, not from the East.
We cannot pen forth all your Art, much lesse
Our Obligations and our thanks expresse:
More will be said when we can better prize
Your Present: mean while (Lady) let this suffice.
With such delight we your Imbrodry view,
No other object can please more but you;
Whose gift hath swoln us to such thankfull pride
W'have now no matter for a wish beside
The giver; you alone outvy it, and
Wee'l wave the work onely to kisse your hand.

Against BEN: JOHNSON.

1.
COme leave that saucy way
Of baiting those that pay
Dear for the sight of thy declining wit:
I know it is not fit
That a sale-Poet (just contempt once thrown)
Should cry up thus his own.
I wonder by what dower,
Or patent you had power
From all to rape a judgement? let it sussice
Had you bin modest, y'had bin counted wise.
2.
Tis known you can doe well,
And that you can excell
As a translator; but when things require
A genius and a fire
Not kindled heretofore by others pains,
As oft you have wanted brains
And art to strike the white,
As you have leveld right:
But if men vouch not things Apocriphall,
You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall.
3.
Jugge, Peg, Pierce, Fly, and all
Your jests so nominall,
Are things so far below an able braine,
As they doe throw a staine
Through all the unlucky plot, and doe displease
As deep as Pericles:
Where yet there is not laid
Before a chamber-maid
Discourse so weak, as might have serv'd of old
For Schoolboys when they of love or valor told.
4.
Why rage then when the show
Should judgement be; and know
That there are those in Plush that scorn to drudg
For Stages, yet can judge
Not onely Poets looser laws but wits,
With all their perquisits:
A gift as rich and high
As noble Poesy,
Which though in sport it be for Kings a play,
Tis next Mechanick when it works for pay.
6.
Alcaeus Lute had none,
Nor loose Anacreon,
That taught so bold assuming of the baies
When they deserv'd no praise.
[Page 156] To raile men into approbation
Tis new; tis yours alone;
And prospers not. For know
Fame is as coy, as you;
Can be disdainfull; and who dares to prove
A rape on her shall gaine her scorne not love.
6.
Leave then this humerous vaine,
And this more humerous straine,
Where selfe conceit and choler of the blood
Eclips what else is good:
Then if you please those raptures high to touch
Whereof you boast so much,
And but forbear the crown
Till the world put it on:
No doubt from all you may amazement draw,
Since braver theam no Phoebus ever saw.

Ʋpon a Gentlewoman who broke her vow.

WHen first the Magick of thine eye
Usurp'd upon my liberty,
Triumphing in my hearts spoile, thou
Didst lock up thine in such a vow:
When I prove false may the bright day
Be governd by the Moons pale ray:
And I too well remember, this
Thou saidst and sealdst it with a kisse.
O heavens! and could so soon that tie
Relent in slack Apostasie?
Could all thy oaths and morgag'd trust
Vanish like letters form [...]d in dust,
Which the next wind scatters? take heed,
Take heed, Revolter, know this deed
Hath wrongd the world; which will fare worse
By thy example then thy curse.
Hide that false brow in mists thy shame;
Nere see light more, but the dim flame
Of funerall lamps: thus sit and moane
And learn to keep thy guilt at home;
Give it no vent. For if again
Thy love or vowes betray more men;
[Page 158] At length I fear thy perjur'd breath
Will blow out day and waken death.

A Song upon a Winepot.

ALl Poets Hippocrene admire,
And pray to water to inspire
Their wit and muse with heavenly fire.
Had they this heavenly fountaine seen,
Sack both their muse and wit had been,
And this Pintepot their Hipocrene.
Had they truly discovered it,
They had like me, thought it unfit
To pray to water for their wit:
And had ador'd Sack as divine,
And made a Poet God of Wine,
And this Pintepot had bin the Shrine.
Sack unto them had bin instead
Of Nectar and the heavenly bread,
And every a boy a Gannemed:
But had they made a God of it,
Or stiled it Patron of their wit,
This Pintepot had bin a Temple fit.
[Page 159] Well then companions ist not fit,
Since to this gem we owe our wit,
That we should praise the Cabinet;
And drink a health to this divine
And bounteous palace of our Wine?
Die he with thirst that doth repine.

To one married to an old man.

SEeing thou wouldst (bewitch'd by some ill
Be buried in those monnmental arms (charms)
All we can wish is may that earth be light
Upon thy tender limbs, and so good night.

A Song.

I Mean to sing of Englands fate,
(God blesse in th' mean time the King and his (Mate)
Thats rul'd by the Antipodian state,
Which no body can deny.
Had these seditious times been when
We had the life of our wise Poet Ben,
Apprentices had not been Parliament men,
Which no body can deny.
But Puritans bear all the sway;
And they'l have no Bishops as most of them say,
But God may have the better another day,
Which no body can deny.
Prin and Burton say women that are lewd and loose
Shall wear Italian locks for their abuse,
They'l onely have private keys for their own use,
Which no body can deny.
Zealous Prin hath threatned a shrewd downfall
To cut off long locks both bushy and small,
But I hope he will not take eares and all,
Which no body can deny.
They'l not alow of what pride in brings,
No favours in hats nor any such things,
They'l convert all ribbands into Bible strings,
Which no body can deny.
God blesse the King, and Queen also,
And all true Subjects from high to low,
The Roundheads can pray for themselves we know,
Which no body can deny.

Ʋpon the Times.

THe Parliament cries arme, the King says no;
The new Lievtenants cry on, lets go;
The People all amaz'd, ask where's the foe?
The bugbear Scots behind the door cry boh.
Patience a while, and time will plainly shew
The King stands still faster then they can goe.

A double Chronogram (the one in Latine the other in the English of that Latine) upon the year 1642.

TV DeVs IaM propItIVs sIs regI regnoqVe hVIC VnIVerso.
OgoD noVV sheVV faVoVr to the kIng anD thIs VVhoLe LanD.

On the Noble-mans Sons Cloak that refused to wear a Gown in Oxford.

SAw you the Cloak at Church to day
The long-worne short Cloak lined with Say?
What had the Man no Gown to wear,
Or was this sent him from the Mayor?
Or ist the Cloak which Nixon brought
To trim the Tub where Golledge taught?
Or can this best conceal his lips,
And shew Communion sitting hips?
Or was the Cloak St. Pauls? if so
With it he found the Parchments too.
Yes verily; for he hath been
With mine Host Gajus at the New-Inn.
A Gown (God blesse us) trailes oth' floore
Like th' petticoat of the Scarlet Whore;
Whose large stiffe pleats he dares confide
Are ribs from Antichrists own side.
A mourning Cope, if't looks to the East,
Is the black Surplisse of the Beast.
Stay, read the Cards; the Queens and Kings
The best ith' Pack are Gouned things;
But shortcut Spade with t'other three
Are dub'd ith Cloak of knavery.
Beside his Lordship cloak'd did stand
When his Watch went false by slight of hand:
Then look for more such Cloaks as these
From th' Court of Wards and Liveries.

On Alma's voyce.

WHat Magick art
Compells my soule to fly away,
And leave desert
My poor composed trunck of clay?
Strange violence! thus pleasingly to teare
The soule forth of the body by the eare.
When Alma sings,
The pretty Chanters of the skie
Doe droop their wings,
As in disgrace they meant to die;
Because their tunes which were before so rare,
Compar'd to hers, doe but distract the aire.
Each sensitive
In emulation proudly stands,
Striving to thrive
Under the blisse of her commands,
Whose charming voyce doth Bears and Tigers tame,
And teach the Sphears new melodies to frame▪
The Angells all
(Astonisht at her heavenly aire)
Would sudden fall
From cold amazement to dispaire;
But that by nimble theft they all conspire
To steal her hence for to enrich their quire.
FINIS.

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