AUTHOR Ben Jonson

TITLE Epigrams, I

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Pray thee, take care, that tak'st my Book in hand,
To read it well: that is, to understand.

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IT will be look'd for Book, when some but see
Thy Title, Epigrams, and nam'd of me,
Thou shoul'dshould'st be bold, licentious, full of gall;
Wormwood, and sulphur, sharp, and tooth'd withall,
Become a petulant Thing, hurl Ink, and Wit
As Mad-men Stones: not caring whom they hit.
Deceive their Malice, who could wish it so.
And by thy wiser Temper, let Men know
Thou art not Covetous of least Self-Fame,
Made from the hazard of another's Shame.
Much less, with leud, prophane, and beastly Phrase,
To catch the Worlds loose Laughter, or vain Gaze.
He that departs with his own Honesty
For vulgar Praise, doth it too dearly buy.

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THou that mak'st Gain thy end, and wisely well,
Call'st a Book good, or bad, as it doth sell,
Use mine so, too: I give thee leave. But crave
For the lucks sake, it thus much Favour have,
To lye upon thy Stall, till it be sought;
Not offer'd, as it made Suit to be bought;
Nor have my Title-leaf on Posts, or Walls,
Or in Cleft-sticks, advanced to make Calls
For Termers, or some Clerk-like Serving-man,
Who scarce can spell th' hard Names: whose Knight less can.
If, without these vile Arts, it will not sell,
Send it to Bucklers-bury, there 'twill well.

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HOW, best of Kings, dost thou a Scepter bear!
How, best of Poets, dost thou Laurel wear!
But two Things Rare, the Fates had in their store,
And gave thee both, to shew they could no more.
For such a Poet, while thy days were green,
Thou wert, as chief of them are said t'have been:
And such a Prince thou art we daily see,
As chief of those still promise they will be.
Whom should my Muse then fly to, but the best
Of Kings for Grace; of Poets for my Test?

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WHen was there Contract better driven by Fate?
Or celebrated with more Truth of State?
The World the Temple was, the Priest a King,
The spoused Pair two Realms, the Sea the Ring.

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IF all you boast of your great Art be true;
Sure, willing Poverty lives most in you.

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WHere lately harbour'd many a famous Whore,
A purging Bill, now fix'd upon the Door,
Tells you it is a Hot-house: so it ma',
And still be a Whore-house. Th'are Synonyma.

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RIdway rob'd Duncote of Three hundred Pound,
Ridway was ta'en, arraign'd, condemn'd to die;
But, for this Money was a Courtier found,
Beg'd Ridway's Pardon: Duncote, now, doth cry;
Rob'd both of Money, and the Laws relief;
The Courtier is become the greater Thief.

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MAY none, whose scatter'd Names honour my Book,
For strict Degrees, of Rank, or Title look.
'Tis 'gainst the Manners of an Epigram:
And, I a Poet here, no Herald am.

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THou call'st me Poet, as a term of Shame:
But I have my Revenge made, in thy Name.

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AT Court I met it, in Clothes brave enough,
To be a Courtier; and looks grave enough,
To seem a Statesman: as I near it came,
It made me a great Face, I ask'd the Name.
A Lord, it cried, buried in Flesh and Blood,
And such from whom let no Man hope least good,
For I will do none: and as little ill,
For I will dare none. Good Lord, walk Dead still.

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SHift, here in Town, not meanest amongst Squires,
That haunt Pickt-hatch, Mersh-Lambeth, and Whitefryers,
Keeps himself, with half a Man, and defrays
The Charge of that State, with this Charm, God pays.
By that one Spell he Lives, Eats, Drinks, Arrays
Himself: his whole Revenue is, God pays.
The quarter Day is come; the Hostess says,
She must have Money: he returns, God pays.
The Taylor brings a Suit home; he it 'ssays,
Looks o'er the Bill, likes it: and says, God pays.
He steals to Ordinarys; there he plays
At Dice his borrowed Money: which, God pays.

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Then takes up fresh Commodities, for Days;
Signs to new Bonds, Forfeits: and crys, God pays.
That lost, he keeps his Chamber, reads Essays,
Takes Physick, tears the Papers: still, God pays.
Or else by Water goes, and so to Plays;
Calls for his Stool, adorns the Stage: God pays.
To every Cause he meets, this Voice he brayes:
His only answer is to all, God pays.
Not his poor Cocatrice but he betrays
Thus: and for his Letchery, scores, God pays.
But see! th' old Baud hath serv'd him in his trim,
Lent him a pocky Whore. She hath paid him.

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WHen Men a dangerous Disease did 'scape,
Of old, they gave a Cock to NFsculape:
Let me give two; that doubly am got free,
From my Disease's danger, and from thee.

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CAmden, most reverend Head, to whom I owe
All that I am in Arts, all that I know.
(How nothing's that?) to whom my Countrey owes
The great Renown, and Name wherewith she goes.
Than thee the Age sees not that thing more grave,
More high, more holy, that she more would crave.
What Name, what Skill, what Faith hast thou in Things!
What Sight in searching the most antique Springs!
What Weight, and what Authority in thy Speech!
Man scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.
Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,
Which conquers all, be once over-come by thee.
Many of thine this better could, than I,
But for their Powers, accept my Piety.

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ALL Men are Worms: But this no Man. In Silk
'Twas brought to Court first wrapt, and white as Milk;
Where, afterwards, it grew a Butter-fly:
Which was a Caterpiller. So 'twill dye.

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HArdy, thy Brain is valiant, 'tis confest;
Thou more; that with it every day, dar'st jest
Thy self into fresh Brawls: when, call'd upon,
Scarce thy Weeks swearing brings thee off, of one.
So, in short time, th' art in arrearage grown
Some hundred Quarrels, yet dost thou fight none;
Nor need'st thou: for those few, by Oath releast,
Make good what thou dar'st do in all the rest.
Keep thy self there, and think thy value right;
He that dares damn himself, dares more than fight.

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MAy others fear, fly, and traduce thy Name,
As guilty Men do Magistrates: glad I,
That wish my Poems a legitimate Fame,
Charge them, for Crown, to thy sole censure hye.
And, but a sprig of Bayes given by thee,
Shall out-live Garlands, stoln from the chast Tree.

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TO thee, my way in Epigrams seems new,
When both it is the old way, and the true.
Thou saist, that cannot be: for thou hast seen
Davis, and Weever, and the best have been,
And mine come nothing like. I hope so. Yet,
As theirs did with thee, mine might credit get:
If thou 'ldst but use thy Faith, as thou didst then,
When thou wert wont t' admire, not censure Men.
Pr'ythee believe still, and not judge so fast,
Thy Faith is all the knowledge that thou hast.

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THat Cod can get no Widdow, yet a Knight,
I scent the Cause: He woos with an ill Sprite.

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TH' expence in Odours is a most vain Sin,
Except thou couldst, Sir Cod, wear them within.

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LOrd, how is Gam'ster chang'd! his Hair close cut!
His Neck fenc'd round with Ruff! his Eyes half shut!
His Cloths two fashions off, and poor! his Sword
Forbidd' his Side! and nothing, but the Word
Quick in his Lips! who hath this wonder wrought?
The late tane bastinado. So I thought.
What several ways Men to their calling have!
The Bodies stripes, I see, the Soul may save.

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HEre lies to each her Parents ruth,
Mary, the Daughter of their youth:
Yet all Heavens gifts, being Heavens due,
It makes the Father, less, to rue.
At six Months end, she parted hence
With safety of her Innocence;
Whose Soul Heavens Queen, (whose Name she bears)
In comfort of her Mothers Tears,
Hath plac'd among her Virgin-train:
Where, while that sever'd doth remain,
This Grave partakes the fleshly Birth.
Which cover lightly, gentle Earth.

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DOnne, the delight of Ph벃첻us, and each Muse,
Who, to thy one, all other Brains refuse;
Whose every work, of thy most early Wit,
Came forth Example, and remains so, yet:
Longer a knowing, than most Wits do live,
And which no' affection praise enough can give!
To it, thy Language, Letters, Arts, best Life,
Which might with half Mankind maintain a Strife;
All which I mean to praise, and, yet, I would;
But leave, because I cannot as I should!

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THere's reason good, that you good Laws should make:
Mens Manners ne'er were viler, for your sake.

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WHile Beast instructs his fair, and innocent Wife,
In the past Pleasures of his sensual Life,
Telling the motions of each Petticoat,
And how his Ganimede mov'd, and how his Goat,
And now, her (hourly) her own Cucquean makes,
In varied Shapes, which for his Lust she takes:
What doth he else, but say, leave to be Chast,
Just Wife, and, to change me, make Womans hast.

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TAnThan his Chast Wife, though Beast now know no more,
He 'adulters still: his thoughts lye with a Whore.

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IN place of Scutcheons, that should deck thy Herse,
Take better Ornaments, my Tears, and Verse.
If any Sword could save from Fates, Roe's could;
If any Muse out-live their spight, his can;
If any Friends Tears could Restore, his would;
If any Pious Life ere lifted Man
To Heaven; his hath: O happy State! wherein
We, sad for him, may glory, and not sin.

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DOn Surly, to aspire the Glorious Name
Of a great Man, and to be thought the same,
Makes serious use of all great Trade he knows.
He speaks to Men with a Rhinocerote's Nose,
Which he thinks great; and so reads Verses, too:
And that is done, as he saw great Men do.
H' has Tympanies of business, in his Face,
And, can forget Mens Names, with a great Grace.
He will both Argue, and Discourse in Oaths,
Both which are great. And laugh at ill made Cloaths;
That's greater, yet: to cry his own up neat.
He doth, at Meals, alone his Pheasant eat,
Which is main greatness. And, at his still Board,
He drinks to no Man: that's, too, like a Lord.
He keeps anothers Wife, which is a spice
Of solemn greatness. And he dares, at Dice,
Blaspheme God, greatly. Or some poor Hind beat,
That breathes in his Dogs way: and this is great.
Nay more, for greatness sake, he will be one
May hear my Epigrams, but like of none.
Surly, use other Arts, these only can
Stile thee a most great Fool, but no great Man.

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TIlter, the most may' admire thee, though not I:
And thou, right guiltless, may'st plead to it, why?
For thy late sharp device. I say 'tis fit
All Brains, at times of Triumph, should run Wit.
For then our Water-Conduits do run Wine;
But that's put in, thou'lt say. Why, so is thine.

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GUilty, be wise; and though thou know'st the Crimes
Be thine, I tax, yet do not own my Rhymes:
'Twere madness in thee, to betray thy Fame,
And Person to the World; ere I thy Name.

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BAnck feels no lameness of his knotty Gout,
His Mony's Travail for him, in and out:
And though the soundest Legs go every day,
He toils to be at Hell, as soon as they.

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WHat two brave perils of the private Sword
Could not effect, nor all the Furies do,
That self-divided Belgia did afford;
What not the envy of the Seas reach'd too,
The cold of Mosco, and fat Irish Air,
His often change of clime (though not of mind)
What could not work; at home in his repair
Was his blest fate, but our hard lot to find.
Which shews, where ever Death doth please t'appear,
Seas, Serenes, Swords, Shot, Sickness, all are there.

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I'LL not offend thee with a vain Tear more,
Glad-mention'd Roe: thou art but gone before,
Whither the World must follow. And I, now,
Breathe to expect my when, and make my how.
Which if most gracious Heaven grant like thine,
Who wets my Grave, can be no Friend of mine.

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HE that fears Death, or mourns it, in the just,
Shews of the Resurrection little trust.

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WHo would not be thy Subject, James, t'obay
A Prince, that Rules by' example, more than sway?
Whose Manners draw, more than thy Powers constrain.
And in this short time of thy Happiest Reign,
Hast purg'd thy Realms, as we have now no cause
Left us of fear, but first our Crimes, then Laws.
Like Aids 'gainst Treasons who hath found before?
And then in them, how could we know God more?
First thou Preserved wert, our King to be,
And since; the whole Land was Preserv'd for thee.

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MArtial, thou gav'st far nobler Epigrams
To thy Domitian, than I can my James:
But in my Royal Subject I pass thee,
Thou flattered'st thine, mine cannot flatter'd be.

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NO Cause, nor Client fat, will Chev'rill leese,
But as they come, on both sides he takes Fees,
And pleaseth both: For while he melts his Grease
For this: that wins, for whom he holds his Peace.

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GUilty, because I bad you late be wise,
And to conceal your Ulcers, did advise,
You laugh when you are touch'd, and long before
Any Man else, you clap your hands, and roar,

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GAnd cry good! good! This quite perverts my Sense,
And lyes so far from Wit, 'tis Impudence.
Believe it Guilty, if you lose your Shame,
I'll lose my Modesty, and tell your Name.

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FOR all Night-sins, with other Wives unknown,
Colt, now doth daily Penance in his own.

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MArble weep, for thou do'st cover
A dead Beauty underneath thee,
R ich as Nature could bequeath thee:
G rant then, no rude Hand remove her.
A ll the Gazers on the Skies
R ead not in fair Heavens Story,
E xpresser Truth, or truer Glory.
T han they might in her bright Eyes.

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R are as Wonder was her Wit;
A nd like Nectar ever flowing:
T ill Time, strong by her bestowing,
C onquer'd hath both Life and it.
L ife whose Grief was out of fashion;
I n these Times few so have ru'd
F ate in a Brother. To conclude,
F or Wit, Feature, and true Passion,
E arth, thou hast not such another.

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GYpsie, New Baud, is turn'd Physitian,
And gets more Gold than all the College can:
Such her quaint Practice is, so it allures,
For what she gave a Whore, a Baud she cures.

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Who says that Giles and Jone at Discord be?
Th' observing Neighbours no such mood can see.
Indeed, poor Giles repents he Married ever.
But that his Jone doth too. And Giles would never,
By his Free-will, be in Jones Company.
No more would Jone he should. Giles riseth Early,
And having got him out of Doors is Glad.
The like is Jone. But turning Home is sad.
And so is Jone. Oft-times when Giles doth find
Harsh Fights at home, Giles wisheth he were Blind.
All this doth Jone. Or that his long-yearn'd Life
Were quite out-spun. The like wish hath his Wife:
The Children that he keeps, Giles swears are none
Of his begetting. And so swears his Jone.
In all Affections she concurreth still.
If now, with Man and Wife, to will, and nill
The self-same Things, a note of Concord be:
I know no Couple better can agree!

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WHat need hast thou of me? Or, of my Muse?
Whose Actions so themselves do celebrate?
Which should thy Countries Love to speak refuse,
Her Foes enough would Fame thee in their Hate.

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'Tofore, great Men were glad of Poets:
I, not the worst, am Covetous of thee.
Yet dare not to my thought least hope allow
Of adding to thy Fame; thine may to me,
When in my Book men read but Cecil's Name,
And what I writ thereof find far, and free
From servile Flattery (common Poets shame)
As thou stand'st clear of the necessity.

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CHuffe, lately rich in Name, in Chattels, Goods;
And rich in Issue to inherit all,
E'er Blacks were bought for his own Funeral,
Saw all his Race approach the blacker Flouds:
He meant they thither should make swift repair,
When he made him Executor, might be Heir.

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FArwell, thou Child of my Right-hand, and Joy;
My Sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd Boy,
Seven Years tho'wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy Fate on the just Day.
O, could I lose all Father, now. For why,
Will Man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon scap'd Worlds, and Fleshes rage,
And, if no other Misery, yet Age?
Rest in soft Peace, and ask'd, say here doth lie
Ben. Johnson his best Piece of Poetry.
For whose sake, henceforth all his Vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.

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IS this the Sir, who some waste Wife to win,
A Knight-hood bought, to go a Wooing in?
'Tis Luckless he, that took up one on Band
To pay at's day of Marriage. By my hand
The Knight-wright's cheated then: he'll never pay.
Yes, now he wears his Knighthood every day.

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SIr Luckless, troth, for Lucks sake pass by one;
He that wooes every Widow, will get none.

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HIS bought Arms Mung' not lik'd; for his first Day
Of bearing them in Field, he threw 'em away:
And hath no Honour lost our Duell'ists say.

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PLay-wright me reads, and still my Verses damns,
He says I want the Tongue of Epigrams;
I have no Salt: no Baudry he doth mean;
For Witty, in his language, is obscene.
Play-wright, I loath to have thy Manners known
In my chast Book: profess them in thine own.

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LEave Cod, Tabacco-like, burnt Gumms to take,
Or fumy Clysters, thy moist Lungs to bake:
Arsenike would Thee fit for Society make.

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THat we thy loss might know, and thou our love,
Great Heaven did well, to give ill Fame free Wing;
Which though it did but Panick Terrour prove,
And far beneath least pause of such a King,
Yet give thy jealous Subjects leave to doubt:
Who this thy scape from Rumour Gratulate
No less than if from Peril, and Devout
Do beg thy Care unto thy After-state.
For we, that have our Eyes still in our Ears,
Look not upon thy Dangers, but our Fears.

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COurtling, I rather thou should'st utterly
Dispraise my Work, than Praise it Frostily:
When I am Read, thou fain'st a weak Applause,
As if thou wert my Friend, but lack'dst a Cause.
This but thy Judgment fools: the other way
Would both thy Folly, and thy Spite betray.

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LOng-gathering Old-end, I did fear thethee wise,
When Having pill'd a Book which no Man buys,
Thou wert content the Author's Name to loose:lose
But when (in Place) thou didst the Patrons choose,
It was as if thou printed had'st an Oath,
To give the World assurance thou wert both;
And that, as Puritanes at Baptism do,
Thou art the Father, and the Witness too.
For, but thy self, where out of Motly's he
Could save that line to dedicate to thee?

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CHev'ril, crys out, my Verses Libels are;
And threatens the Star-chamber, and the Bar.
What are thy Petulant Pleadings, Chev'ril, then,
That quit'st the Cause so oft, and rayl'st at Men?

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HOw I do love thee Beaumont, and thy Muse,
That unto me dost such Religion use!
How I do fear my self, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy Pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st;
And giving largly to me, more thou tak'st.
What Fate is mine, that so it self bereaves?
What Art is thine, that so thy Friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praisest me,
For Writing better, I must envy thee.

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POor Poet-Ape, that would be thought our Chief,
Whose Works are e'en the frippery of Wit,
From brocage is become so bold a Thief,
As we, the rob'd, leave rage, and pitty it.
At first he made low shifts, would Pick and Glean,
ByBuy the Reversion of Old Plays; now grown
To'a little Wealth, and Credit in the Scene,
He takes up all, makes each Mans wit his own.

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And, told of this, he slights it. Tut, such Crimes
The sluggish gaping Auditour devours;
He marks not whose 'twas first: and After-times
May judg it to be his, as well as ours.
Fool, as if half Eyes will not know a Fleece
From Locks of Wooll, or Shreds from the whole Piece?

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IF, as their ends, their Fruits were so the same,
Baudry', and Usury were one kind of Game.

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IDeot, last Night, I pray'd thee but forbear
To read my Verses; now I must to hear:
For offring, with thy Smiles, my Wit to grace,
Thy Ignorance still Laughs in the wrong place.
And so my sharpness thou no less dis-joynts,
Than thou did'st late my Sense, loosing my points.
So have I seen at Christmass Sports, one lost,
And, hood-wink'd, for a Man embrace a Post.

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SPies, you are Lights in State, but of base Stuff,
Who, when you'have burnt your selves down to the Snuff,
Stink, and are thrown away. End fair enough.

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LO, what my Country should have done (have rais'd
An Obelisk, or Column to thy Name,
Or, if she would but modestly have prais'd
Thy Fact, in Brass or Marble Writ the same)
I, that am glad of thy great Chance, here do!
And Proud, my Work shall out-last common Deeds,
Durst think it great, and worthy wonder too,
But thine, for which I doo't, so much exceeds!
My Countrys Parents I have many known;
But Saver of my Country thee alone.

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THy Praise, or Dispraise is to me alike;
One doth not Stroke me, nor the other Strike.

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FIne Madam Would-be, wherefore should you fear,
That Love to make so well, a Child to bear?
The World reputes you Barren: but I know
Your 'pothecary, and his Drug says no.
Is it the Pain affrights? that's soon forgot.
Or you Complexions loss? you have a Pot,
That can restore that. Will it hurt your Feature?
To make amends yo'are thought a wholesome Creature.
What should the cause be? Oh, you live at Court:
And there's both loss of Time, and loss of Sport
In a great Belly. Write, then on thy Womb;
Of the not Born, yet Buried, here's the Tomb.

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WHo can consider thy right Course's run,
With what thy Vertue on the Times hath won,
And not thy Fortune; who can clearly see
The Judgment of the King so shine in thee;

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WAnd that thou seek'st reward of thy each act,
Not from the publick voice, but private fact;
Who can behold all Envy so declin'd
By constant suffering of thy equal mind;
And can to these be silent, Salisbury,
Without his, thine, and all times Injury?
Curst be his Muse, that could lye dumb, or hid
To so true worth, though thou thy self forbid.

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NOt glad, like those that have new Hopes, or Suits,
With thy new Place, bring I these early Fruits
Of Love, and what the Golden Age did hold
A Treasure, Art: Condemn'd in th' Age of Gold.
Nor glad as those, that old dependents be,
To see thy Father's Rites new laid on thee.
Nor glad for Fashion. Nor to shew a Fit
Of flattery to thy Titles. Nor of Wit.
But I am glad to see that Time Survive,
Where Merit is not Sepulcher'd alive.
Where good Mens Virtues them to Honours bring,
And not to dangers. When so wise a King
Contends t'have Worth enjoy, from his regard,
As her own Conscience, still, the same reward.
These (Noblest Cecil) labour'd in my thought,
Wherein what wonder see thy Name hath brought?
That whil'st I meant but thine to gratulate,
I'have Sung the greater Fortunes of our State.

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AWay, and leave me, thou thing most abhor'd
That hast betray'd me to a worthless Lord;
Made me commit most fircefierce Idolatry
To a great Image through thy Luxury.
Be thy next Masters more unlucky Muse,
And, as thou'hast mine, his Hours, and Youth abuse.
Get him the Times long grudg, the Courts ill will;
And Reconcil'd, keep him Suspected still.
Make him lose all his Friends; and, which is worse,
Almost all ways, to any better course.
With me thou leav'st an happier Muse than thee,
And which thou brought'st me, welcome Poverty.
She shall instruct my After-thoughts to write
Things manly, and not smelling Parasite.
But I repent me: Stay. Who e're is rais'd,
For worth he has not, He is tax'd, not prais'd.

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THat neither Fame, nor Love might wanting be
To greatness, Cary, I sing that, and thee.
Whose House, if it no other Honour had,
In only thee, might be both great, and glad.
Who, to upbraid the Sloth of this our Time,
Durst Valour make, almost, but not a Crime.
Which Deed I know not, whether were more high,
Or, thou more happy, it to Justify
Against thy Fortune: when no Foe, that Day,
Could conquer thee, but chance, who did betray.
Love thy great loss, which a Renown hath won,
* To Live when Broeck not Stands, nor Roor doth Run.
Love Honours, which of best Example be,
When they cost dearest, and are done most free.
Though every Fortitude deserves Applause,
It may be much, or little, in the Cause.
He's valiant'st, that dares Fight, and not for Pay;
That Vertuous is, when the Reward's away.

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SInce Men have left to do praise-worthy Things,
Most think all Praises flatteries. But Truth brings
That Sound, and that Authority with her Name,
As, to be rais'd by her, is only Fame.
Stand high, then, Howard, high in Eyes of Men,
High in thy Blood, thy Place; but highest then,
When, in Mens wishes, so thy Virtues wrought,
As all thy Honours were by them first sought:
And thou design'd to be the same thou art,
Before thou wert it, in each good Man's Heart.
Which, by no less Confirm'd, than thy King's Choice,
Proves, that is God's, which was the Peoples Voice.

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PLay-wright convict of publick Wrongs to Men,
Takes private Beatings, and begins again.
Two kinds of Valour he doth shew at Once
Active in's Brain, and Passive in his Bones.

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COb, thou nor Souldier, Thief, nor Fencer art,
Yet by thy Weapon liv'st! Th'hast one good Part.

TITLE 

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WHen Nature bids us leave to Live, 'tis late
Then to begin, my Roe. He makes a state
In Life, that can employ it; and takes hold
On the true Causes, ere they grow too Old.
Delay is bad, Doubt worse, Depending worst;
Each best Day of our Life escapes us, first.
Then, since we (more than many) these Truths know:
Though Life be short, let us not make it so.

TITLE 

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TO pluck down mine, Poll sets up new Wits still,
Still, 'tis his luck to praise me 'gainst his will.

TITLE 

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IGrieve not, Court-ling, thou art started up
A Chamber-Critick, and doth Dine, and Sup
At Madams Table, where thou mak'st all Wit
Go high, or low, as thou wilt value it.
'Tis not thy Judgment breeds the Prejudice,
Thy Person only, Court-ling is the Vice.

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WHat is't, fine Grand, makes thee my Friendship fly,
Or take an Epigram so fearfully:
As't were a Challenge, or a Borrower's Letter?
The World must know your greatness is my Debter.
In-primis, Grand, you owe me for a Jest;
I lent you, on meer acquaintance, at a Feast.
Item, a Tale or two, some Fortnight after;
That yet maintains you, and your House in Laughter.
Item, the Babylonian Song you Sing;
Item, a fair Greek Posy for a Ring:
With which a Learned Madam you bely.
Item, a Charm surrounding fearfully,

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Your partie-per-pale Picture, one half drawn
In solemn Cyphers, the other cob-web Lawn.
Item, a gulling Imprese for you, at Tilt.
Itemcomma omitted your Mistress Anagram, i'your Hilt.
Item, your own, sew'd in your Mistress Smock.
Item, an Epitaph on my Lord's Cock,
In most vile Verses, and cost me more pain,
Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vain.
Forty Things more, dear Grand, which you know true,
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.

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WHil'st thy weigh'd Judgments, Egerton, I hear,
And know thee, then, a Judge, not of one Year;
Whil'st I behold thee live with purest Hands;
That no Affection in thy Voice commands;
That still th'art present to the better Cause;
And no less Wise, than Skilful in the Laws;
Whil'st thou art certain to thy Words, once gone,
As is thy Conscience, which is always one:
The Virgin, long since fled from Earth I see,
T'our times return'd, hath made her Heaven in thee.

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ICannot think there's that Antipathy
'Twixt Puritans and Players, as some cry;
Though Lippe at Pauls, ran from his Text away,
T'inveigh 'gainst Plays: what did he then but play?

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THis Morning, timely rapt with holy Fire,
I thought to form unto my zealous Muse,
What kind of Creature I could most desire,
To Honour, Serve, and Love; as Poets use.
I meant to make her Fair, and Free, and Wise,
Of greatest Blood, and yet more good than Great,
I meant the Day-star should not brighter rise,
Nor lend like Influence from his lucent Seat.
I meant she should be Courteous, Facile, Sweet,
Hating that solemn Vice of Greatness, Pride;
I meant each softest Vertue, there should meet,
Fit in that softer Bosom to reside.
Only a Learned, and a Manly Soul
I purpos'd her; that should, with even powers,
The Rock, the Spindle, and the Sheers controul
Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours.
Such when I meant to fain, and wish'd to see,
My Muse bad, Bedford write, and that was she.

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BE safe, nor fear thy self so good a Fame,
That any way, my Book should speak thy Name:
For, if thou shame, rank'd with my Friends, to go,
I'm more asham'd to have thee thought my Foe.

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HOrnet, thou hast thy Wife drest for the Stall,
To draw thee Custom: but her self gets all.

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THat Poets are far rarer Births than Kings,
Your Noblest Father prov'd: like whom, before,
Or then, or since, about our Muses springs,
Came not that Soul exhausted so their store.

RHYME a b a b c d c d

Hence was it, that the Destinies decreed
(Save that most masculine Issue of his Brain)
No Male unto him: who could so exceed
Nature, they thought, in all, that he would fain.
At which, she happily displeas'd, made you:
On whom, if he were living now, to look,
He should those rare, and absolute Numbers view,
As he would burn, or better far his Book.

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THE ports of Death are Sins; of Life, good Deeds;
Through which, our Merit leads us to our Meeds.
How wilful Blind is he then, that should stray,
And hath it, in his Powers, to make his way!
This World Deaths Region is, the other Lifes:
And here, it should be one of our first strifes,
So to front Death, as Men might judge us past it.
For good Men but see Death, the wicked tast it.

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FOrbear to tempt me Proule, I will not show
A Line unto thee, till the World it know;
Or that I'have by two good sufficient Men,
To be the wealthy Witness of my Pen:
For all thou hear'st, thou swear'st thy self didst do.
Thy Wit lives by it, Proule, and Belly too.
Which, if thou leave not soon (though I am loth)
I must a Libel make, and cozen both.

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SUrly's Old Whore in her New Silks doth swim:
He cast, yet keeps her well! No, she keeps him

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TO put out the word, Whore, thou do'st me woo
Throughout my Book. 'Troth put out Woman too.

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MAdam, I told you late, how I repented,
I ask'd a Lord a Buck, and he denied me;
And, e'er I could ask you, I was prevented:
For your most Noble Offer had suppli'd me.
Streight went I home; and there most like a Poet,
I fancied to my self, what Wine, what Wit
I would have spent: how every Muse should know it,
And Ph벃첻us-self should be at eating it.
O Madam, if your grant did thus transfer me,
Make it your Gift. See whither that will bear me.

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GOodyere, I'm glad, and grateful to report,
My self a Witness of thy few days sport:
Where I both learn'd, why wise-men Hawking follow,
And why that Bird was sacred to Apollo,
She doth instruct men by her gallant flight,
That they to Knowledge so should tour upright,
And never stoop, but to strike Ignorance:
Which if they miss, yet they should re-advance
To former height, and there in Circle tarry,
Till they be sure to make the Fool their Quarry.
Now, in whose Pleasures I have this discerned,
What would his serious Actions me have learned?

TITLE 

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WHen I would know thee Goodyere, my thought looks
Upon thy well-made choice of Friends, and Books;
Then do I love thee, and behold thy ends
In making thy Friends Books, and thy Books Friends:
Now, I must give thy life, and deed, the voice
Attending such a study, such a choice.
Where, though't be love, that to thy praise doth move,
It was a knowledge, that begat that love.

TITLE 

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TOuch'd with the Sin of False-play, in his Punck,
Hazard a month forswore his; and grew drunk,
Each night, to drown his Cares: But when the gain
Of what she had wrought came in, and wak'd his brain,
Upon th'accompt, hers grew the quicker trade.
Since when, he's sober again, and all play's made.

TITLE 

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WOuld you believe, when you this Mounsieur see,
That his whole body should speak French, not he?
That so much scarf of France, and hat, and feather,
And shoe, and tye, and garter, should come hether,
And land on one, whose face durst never be
Toward the Sea, farther than half-way Tree?
That he, untravell'd, should be French so much,
As French-men in his Company, should seem Dutch?
Or had his Father, when he did him get,
The French Disease, with which he labours yet?
Or hung some Mounsieur's Picture on the Wall,
By which his Dam conceiv'd him clothes and all?
Or is it some French Statue? No: 'T doth move,
And stoop, and cringe. O then, it needs must prove
The new French-Taylor's motion, monthly made,
Daily to turn in Pauls, and help the trade.

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IF Rome so great, and in her wisest Age,
Fear'd not to boast the Glories of her Stage,
As skilful Roscius, and grave NFsop, Men,
Yet crown'd with Honors, as with Riches, then;
Who had no less a Trumpet of their Name,
Than Cicero, whose every Breath was Fame:
How can so great Example dye in me,
That Allen, I should pause to publish thee?
Who both their Graces in thy self hast more
Out-stript, than they did all that went before:
And present worth in all dost so contract,
As others speak, but only thou dost act.
Wear this renown. 'Tis just, that who did give
So many Poets Life, by one should live.

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WHen Mill first came to Court, the unprofiting Fool,
Unworthy such a Mistress, such a School,
Was dull, and long, ere she would go to Man:
At last, ease, appetite, and example wan
The nicer Thing to taste her Ladies Page;
And, finding good security in his Age,
Went on: and proving him still, day by day,
Discern'd no difference of his years, or play.
Not though that Hair grew brown, which once was amber,
And he grown Youth, was call'd to his Ladies Chamber,

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Still Mill continu'd: Nay, his Face growing worse,
And he remov'd to Gent'man of the Horse,
Mill was the same. Since, both his Body and Face
Blown up; and he (too unwieldy for that Place)
Hath got the Steward's Chair; he will not tarry
Longer a day, but with his Mill will marry.
And it is hop'd, that she, like Milo, will
First bearing him a Calf, bear him a Bull.

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WHich of thy Names I take, not only bears
A Roman Sound, but Roman Vertue wears,
Illustrious Vere, or Horace; fit to be
Sung by a Horace, or a Muse as free;
Which thou art to thy self: whose Fame was won
In th'eye of Europe, where thy Deeds were done,
When on thy Trumpet she did sound a blast,
Whose rellish to Eternity shall last.
I leave thy Acts, which should I prosecute
Throughout, might Flatt'ry seem; and to be mute
To any one, were Envy: which would live
Against my Grave, and Time could not forgive.
I speak thy other Graces, not less shown,
Nor less in practice; but less mark'd, less known:
Humanity, and Piety, which are
As noble in great Chiefs, as they are rare;
And best become the valiant Man to wear,
Who more should seek Mens reverence, than fear.

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ERe Cherries ripe, and Straw-berries be gon,
Unto the Crys of London I'll add one;
Ripe Statesmen, ripe: They grow in every Street;
At six and twenty, ripe. You shall 'em meet,
And have 'em yield no favour, but of State.
Ripe are their Ruffs, their Cuffs, their Beards, their Gate,
And Grave as ripe, like mellow as their Faces.
They know the States of Christendom, not the Places:
Yet have they seen the Maps, and bought 'em too,
And understand 'em, as most Chapmen do.
The Counsels, Projects, Practices they know,
And what each Prince doth for Intelligence owe,
And unto whom: They are the Almanacks
For Twelve Years yet to come, what each State lacks.
They carry in their Pockets Tacitus,
And the Gazetti, or Gallo-Belgicus:
And talk reserv'd, lock'd up, and full of fear,
Nay, ask you, how the Day goes in your Ear:
Keep a Star-Chamber Sentence close, Twelve Days:
And whisper what a Proclamation says.
They meet in Sixes, and at every Mart,
Are sure to con' the Catalogue by heart;
Or, every Day, some one at Rimee's looks,
Or Bills, and there he buys the Names of Books.
They all get Porta, for the sundry ways
To write in Cypher, and the several Keys,
To ope' the Character. They've found the slight
With Juice of Limons, Onions, Piss, to write;
To break up Seals, and close 'em. And they know,
If the States make Peace, how it will go
With England. All forbidden Books they get.
And of the Powder-Plot, they will talk yet.
At naming the French King, their Heads they shake,
And at the Pope, and Spain slight Faces make.
Or 'gainst the Bishops, for the Brethren, rail,
Much like those Brethren; thinking to prevail
With ignorance on us, as they have done
On them: And therefore do not only shun
Others more modest, but contemn us too,
That know not so much State, wrong, as they do.

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HOw like a Column, Radcliffe, left alone
For the great mark of Virtue, those being gone
Who did, alike with thee, thy House up-bear,
Stand'st thou, to shew the Times what you all were?
In Ireland. Two bravely in the Battle fell, and dy'd,
Upbraiding Rebels Arms, and barbarous Pride:
And two, that would have faln as great, as they,
The Belgick Fever ravished away.
Thou, that art all their Valour, all their Spirit,
And thine own goodness to increase thy merit,
Than whose I do not know a whiter Soul,
Nor could I, had I seen all Nature's Roul,
Thou yet remain'st, unhurt, in Peace, or War,
Though not unprov'd: which shews, thy Fortunes are
Willing to expiate the Fault in thee,
Wherewith, against thy Blood, they 'Offenders be.

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LUcy, you brightness of our Sphere, who are
Life of the Muses day, their morning Star!
If Works (not th'Authors) their own Grace should look,
Whose Poems would not wish to be your Book?
But these, desir'd by you, the Maker's ends
Crown with their own. Rare Poems ask rare Friends.
Yet, Satyrs, since the most of Mankind be
Their unavoided subject, fewest see:
For none ere took that pleasure in Sins sense,
But, when they heard it tax'd, took more offence.
They, then, that living where the Matter is bred,
Dare for these Poems, yet, both ask, and read,
And like them too; must needfully, though few,
Be of the best: and 'mongst those best are you;
Lucy, you brightness of our Sphere, who are
The Muses evening, as their morning-Star.

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IF, my Religion safe, I durst embrace
That stranger Doctrine of Pythagoras,
I should believe, the Soul of Tacitus
In thee, most weighty Savile, liv'd to us:
So hast thou rendred him in all his Bounds,
And all his Numbers, both of Sense, and Sounds.
But when I read that special Piece, restor'd,
Where Nero falls, and Galba is ador'd,
To thine own proper I ascribe then more;
And gratulate the breach, I griev'd before:
Which Fate (it seems) caus'd in the History,
Only to boast thy merit in supply.
O, would'st thou add like hand, to all the rest!
Or, better work! were thy glad Country blest,
To have her Story woven in thy thread;
Minerva's Loom was never richer spread.
For who can master those great parts like thee,
That liv'st from Hope, from Fear, from Faction free;
That hast thy Breast so clear of present Crimes,
Thou need'st not shrink at voice of after-times;
Whose knowledge claimeth at the Helm to stand;
But, wisely, thrusts not forth a forward hand,
No more than Salust in the Roman State!
As, then, his cause, his glory emulate.
Although to write be lesser than to do,
It is the next Deed, and a great one too.
We need a Man that knows the several graces
Of History, and how to apt their places;
Where brevity, where splendor, and where height,
Where sweetness is required, and where weight;

RHYME a a *

We need a Man, can speak of the intents,
The counsels, actions, orders, and events
Of State, and censure them: we need his Pen
Can write the Things, the Causes, and the Men.
But most we need his Faith (and all have you)
That dares not write Things false, nor hide Things true.

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WHo shall doubt, Donne, where I a Poet be,
When I dare send my Epigrams to thee?
That so alone canst judge, so' alone do'st make:
And, in thy censures, evenly, do'st take
As free simplicity, to disavow,
As thou hast best Authority, t' allow.
Read all I send: and, if I find but one
Mark'd by thy hand, and with the better Stone,
My Title's seal'd. Those that for Claps do write,
Let Pui'nees, Porters, Players praise delight,
And, till they burst, their Backs, like Asses load:
A Man should seek great glory, and not broad.

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SEe you yond' Motion? Not the old Fa-ding,
Nor Captain Pod, nor yet the Eltham-thing;
But one more rare, and in the case so new:
His Cloak with orient Velvet quite lin'd through;
His rosie Tyes and Garters so o'reblown,
By his each glorious Parcel to be known!
He wont was to encounter me, aloud,
Where ere he met me; now he's dumb, or proud.
Know you the cause? H' has neither Land, nor Lease,
Nor bawdy Stock, that travels for Increase,
Nor Office in the Town, nor Place in Court,
Nor 'bout the Bears, nor Noise to make Lords sport.
He is no Favorites Favorite, no dear trust
Of any Madams, hath neadd 'Squires,'hath need o' Squires,' and must.
Nor did the King of Denmark him salute,
When he was here. Nor hath he got a sute,
Since he was gon, more than the one he wears.
Nor are the Queens most honor'd Maids by th'Ears
About his Form. What then so swells each Limb
Only his Cloths hath over-leaven'd him.

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THou hast begun well, Roe, which stand well too,
And I know nothing more thou hast to do.
He that is round within himself, and streight,
Need seek no other strength, no other height;
Fortune upon him breaks her self, if ill,
And what would hurt his Virtue, makes it still.
That thou at once, then nobly mayst defend
With thine own course the judgment of thy Friend,
Be always to thy gather'd self the same:
And study Conscience, more than thou would'st Fame.
Though both be good, the latter yet is worst,
And ever is ill got without the first.

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THat thou hast kept thy Love, encreast thy Will,
Better'd thy trust to Letters; that thy Skill;
Hast taught thy self worthy thy Pen to tread,
And that to write Things worthy to be read:
How much of great Example wert thou, Roe,
If Time to Facts, as unto Men would owe?
But much it now avails, what's done, of whom:
The self-same Deeds, as diversly they come,

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TFrom Place, or Fortune, are made high, or low,
And even the Praisers judgment suffers so.
Well, though thy Name less than our great Ones be,
Thy Fact is more: let Truth encourage thee.

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PLay-wright, by chance, hearing some Toys I'had writ,
Cry'd to my Face, they were th'Elixir of Wit:
And I must now believe him: for, to Day,
Five of my Jests, then stoln, past him a Play.

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TO Night, grave Sir, both my poor House, and I
Do equally desire your Company:
Not that we think us worthy such a Guest,
But that your worth will dignifie our Feast,
With those that come; whose Grace may make that seem
Something, which, else, could hope for no esteem.
It is the fair Acceptance, Sir, creates
The Entertainment perfect: not the Cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectifie your Palate,
An Olive, Capers, or some better Sallad
Ush'ring the Mutton; with a short-leg'd Hen,
If we can get her, full of Eggs, and then,
Limons, and Wine for Sauce: to these, a Coney
Is not to be despair'd of, for our Money;
And, though Fowl, now, be scarce, yet there are Clarks,
The Sky not falling, think we may have Larks.
I'll tell you of more, and lye, so you will come:
Of Partridg, Pheasant, Wood-cock, of which some
May yet be there; and Godwit if we can:
Knat, Rail, and Ruff too. How so ere, my Man
Shall read a Piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or of some better Book to us,
Of which we'll speak our Minds, amidst our Meat;
And I'll profess no Verses to repeat:
To this, if ought appear, which I know not of,
That will the Pastry, not my Paper, show of.
Digestive Cheese, and Fruit there sure will be;
But that, which most doth take my Muse, and me,
Is a pure Cup of rich Canary Wine,
Which is the Mermaids, now, but shall be mine:
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their Lives, as do their Lines, till now had lasted.
Tabacco, Nectar, or the Thespian Spring,
Are all but Luther's Beer, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooly', or Parrot by;
Nor shall our Cups make any guilty Men:
But, at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple Word,
That shall be utter'd at our mirthful Board,
Shall make us sad next Morning: or affright
The Liberty, that we'll enjoy to Night.

TITLE 

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IDo but Name thee Pembroke, and I find
It is an Epigram, on all Mankind;
Against the bad, but of, and to the good:
Both which are ask'd, to have thee understood.
Nor could the Age have mist thee, in this strife
Of Vice, and Virtue; wherein all great Life
Almost, is exercis'd: and scarce one knows,
To which, yet, of the sides himself he owes.
They follow Virtue, for reward, to day;
To morrow Vice, if she give better pay:
And are so good, or bad, just at a price,
As nothing else discerns the Virtue' or Vice,

RHYME a a *

But thou, whose Nobless keeps one Stature still,
And one true Posture, though besieg'd with ill
Of what Ambition, Faction, Pride can raise;
Whose life, ev'n they, that envy it, must praise;
That are so reverenc'd, as thy coming in,
But in the view, doth interrupt their Sin;
Thou must draw more: and they, that hope to see
The Common-wealth still safe, must study thee.

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HOw well, fair Crown of your fair Sex, might he,
That but the twilight of your Sprite did see,
And noted for what Flesh such Souls were fram'd,
Know you to be a Sydney, though unnam'd?
And being nam'd, how little doth that Name
Need any Muses Praise to give it Fame?
Which is, it self, the Imprese of the great,
And glory of them all, but to repeat!
Forgive me then, if mine but say you are
A Sydney: but in that extend as far
As lowdest Praisers, who perhaps would find
For every part a Character assign'd.
My Praise is plain, and where so ere profest,
Becomes none more than you, who need it least.

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WEre they that nam'd you, Prophets? Did they see,
Even in the dew of Grace, what you would be?
Or did our Times require it, to behold
A new Susanna, equal to that old?
Or, because some scarce think that Story true,
To make those Faithful, did the Fates send you?
And to your Scene lent no less dignity
Of Birth, of Match, of Form, of Chastity?
Or, more than born for the Comparison
Of former Age, or Glory of our own,
Were you advanced, past those Times to be
The light, and mark unto Posterity?
Judge they, that can: Here I have rais'd to show
A Picture, vvhich the World for yours must know,
And like it too; if they look equally:
If not, 'tis fit for you, some should envy.

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MAdam, had all Antiquity been lost,
All History seal'd up, and Fables crost;
That we had left us, nor by Time, nor Place,
Least mention of a Nymph, a Muse, a Grace,
But even their Names were to be made a-new,
Who could not but create them all, from you?
He, that but saw you wear the vvheaten Hat,
Would call you more than Ceres, if not that:
And, drest in Shepherds tyre, who would not say:
You were the bright OEnone, Flora, or May?
If Dancing, all would cry th' Idalian Queen
Were leading forth the Graces on the Green:
And, armed to the Chase, so bare her bow
Diana'alone, so hit, and hunted so.
There's none so dull, that for your style would ask,
That saw you put on Pallas plumed Cask:
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,
There Juno sat, and yet no Peacock by.
So are you Natures Index, and restore,
I'your self, all Treasure lost of th'Age before.

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IF Men get Name, for some one Vertue: Then,
What Man art thou, that art so many Men,
All-virtuous Herbert! on whose every part
Truth might spend all her Voice, Fame all her Art.
Whether thy Learning they would take, or Wit,
Or Valour, or thy Judgment seasoning it,
Thy standing Upright to thy self, thy Ends
Like straight, thy Piety to God, and Friends:
Their latter praise would still the greatest be,
And yet, they, all together, less than thee.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

DO what you come for, Captain, with your News;
That's, sit, and eat: do not my Ears abuse.
I oft look on false Coin, to know't from true:
Not that I love it, more, than I will you.
Tell the gross Dutch those grosser Tales of yours,
How great you were with their two Emperours;
And yet are with their Princes: Fill them full
Of your Moravian Horse, Venetian Bull.
Tell them, what parts you've tane, whence run away,
What States you've gull'd, and which yet keeps yo'in pay.
Give them your Services, and Embassies
In Ireland, Holland, Sweden; pompous lies
In Hungary, and Poland, Turky too;
What at Ligorn, Rome, Florence you did do:
And, in some Year, all these together heap'd,
For which there must more Sea, and Land be leap'd,
If but to be believ'd you have the hap,
Then can a Flea at twice skip i'th' Map.
Give your young States-men, (that first make you drunk,
And then lye with you, closer, than a Punk,
For news) your Ville-royes, and Silleries,
Ianin's, your Nuncio's, and your Tuilleries,
Your Arch-Dukes Agents, and your Beringhams,
That are your words of credit. Keep your Names
Of Hannow, Shieter-huissen, Popenheim,
Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, and Boutersheim,
For your next Meal; this you are sure of. Why
Will you part with them, here, unthriftily?
Nay, now you puff, tusk, and draw up your Chin,
Twirl the poor Chain you run a feasting in.
Come, be not angry, you are Hungry; eat;
Do what you come for, Captain, There's your Meat.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

STrength of my Country, whilst I bring to view
Such as are miss-call'd Captains, and wrong you;
And your high Names: I do desire, that thence
Be nor put on you, nor you take offence.
I swear by your true Friend, my Muse, I love
Your great Profession; which I once, did prove:
And did not shame it with my actions, then,
No more, than I dare now do, with my Pen.
He that not trusts me, having vow'd thus much,
But's angry for the Captain, still: is such.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

WHo now calls on thee, Nevil, is a Muse,
That serves nor Fame, nor Titles; but doth choose
Where Virtue makes them both, and that's in thee:
Where all is fair, beside thy Pedigree.
Thou art not one, seek'st miseries with hope,
Wrestlest with dignities, or fain'st a scope

RHYME a a *

Of service to the Publick, when the end
Is private gain, which hath long guilt to Friend.
Thou rather striv'st the matter to possess,
And elements of honour, than the dress;
To make thy lent Life, good against the Fates:
And first to know thine own state, then the States.
To be the same in root, thou art in height;
And that thy Soul should give thy Flesh her weight.
Go on, and doubt not, what Posterity,
Now I have sung the thus, shall judg of thee.
Thy Deeds, unto thy Name, will prove new Wombs,
Whil'st others toil for Titles to their Tombs.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

NOt CNfsar's Deeds, nor all his Honours won,
In these West-parts, nor when that War was done,
The Name of Pompey for an Enemy,
Cato's to boot, Rome, and her Liberty,
All yielding to his Fortune, nor, the while,
To have engrav'd these Acts, with his own stile,
And that so strong and deep, as't might be thought,
He wrote, with the same Spirit that he fought,
Nor that his work liv'd in the hands of Foes,
Unargued then, and yet hath Fame from those;
Not all these, Edmonds, or what else put too,
Can so speak CNfsar, as thy Labours do.
For, where his Person liv'd scarce one just Age,
And that, midst Envy, and Parts; then fell by rage:
His Deeds too dying, but in Books (whose Good
How few have read! how fewer understood?)
Thy learned Hand, and true Promethean Art
(As by a new Creation) part by part,
In every Counsel, Stratagem, Design,
Action, or Engine, worth a Note of thine,
T'all future time, not only doth restore
His life, but makes, that he can dye no more.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

WHo Edmonds, reads thy Book, and doth not see
What th'antick Soldiers were, the modern be?
Wherein thou shew'st, how much the latter are
Beholding to this Master of the War;
And that, in action, there is nothing new,
More, than to vary what our Elders knew:
Which all, but ignorant Captains, will confess:
Nor to give CNfsar this, makes ours the less.
Yet thou, perhaps, shalt meet some Tongues will grutch,
That to the World thou should'st reveal so much,
And thence, deprave thee, and thy Work. To those
CNfsar stands up, as from his Urn late rose,
By thy great help: and doth proclaim by me,
They murther him again, that envy thee.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

WIth thy small Stock, why art thou vent'ring still,
At this so subtle Sport: and play'st so ill?
Think'st thou it is meer Fortune, that can win?
Or thy rank setting? that thou dar'st put in
Thy all, at all: and what so ere I do,
Art still at that, and think'st to blow me' up too?
I cannot for the Stage a Drama lay,
Tragick, or Comick; but thou writ'st the Play.
I leave thee there, and giving way, intend
An Epick Poem; thou hast the same end.
I modestly quit that, and think to write,
Next morn, an Ode: Thou mak'st a Song e're Night.

RHYME a a *

I pass to Elegies; Thou meet'st me there:
To Satyrs; and thou dost pursue me. Where,
Where shall I 'scape thee? in an Epigram?
O, (thou cry'st out) that is thy proper Game.
Troth, if it be, I pity thy ill luck;
That both for wit, and sense, so oft dost pluck,
And never are encounter'd, I confess:
Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is less.
Pr'y thee, yet save thy rest; give o're in time:
There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

SO Ph벃첻us make me worthy of his Bays,
As but to speak thee, Overbury, is praise:
So, where thou liv'st, thou mak'st life understood!
Where, what makes others great, doth keep thee good!
I think, the Fate of Court thy coming crav'd,
That the Wit there, and Manners might be sav'd:
For since, what Ignorance, what Pride is fled!
And Letters, and Humanity in the stead!
Repent thee not of thy fair Precedent,
Could make such Men, and such a Place repent:
Nor may' any fear, to lose of their Degree,
Who'in such ambition can but follow thee.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

IMust believe some Miracles still be,
When Sydney's Name I hear, or Face I see:
For Cupid, who (at first) took vain delight,
In meer Out-forms, until he lost his Sight,
Hath chang'd his Soul, and made his Object you:
Where finding so much Beauty met with Virtue,
He hath not only gain'd himself his Eyes,
But, in your love, made all his Servants wise.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

YOu wonder, who this is! and, why I name
Him not, aloud, that boasts so good a Fame:
Naming so many, too! But, this is one,
Suffers no Name, but a Description:
Being no vitious Person, but the Vice
About the Town; and known too, at that price.
A subtle Thing, that doth Affections win
By speaking well o'th' Company it's in.
Talks loud, and bawdy, has a gather'd deal
Of News, and Noise, to sow out a long Meal.
Can come from Tripoly, leap Stools, and Wink,
Do all, that 'longs to the Anarchy of Drink,
Except the Duel. Can sing Songs, and Catches;
Give every one his Dose of Mirth: and watches
Whose Name's unwelcome to the present ear,
And him it lays on; if he be not there.
Tells of him, all the Tales, it self then makes;
But, if it shall be question'd, undertakes,
It will deny all; and forswear it too:
Not that it fears, but will have to do
With such a one. And therein keeps it's Word.
'Twill see it's Sister naked, ere a Sword.
At every Meal, where it doth Dine, or Sup,
The Cloth's no sooner gon, but it gets up
And shifting of it's Faces, doth play more
Parts than th'Italian could do, with his Dore.
Acts old Iniquity, and in the fit
Of miming, gets th'Opinion of a Wit.
Executes Men in Picture. By defect,
From friendship, is its own Fames architect.
An Ingineer, in Slanders, of all Fashions,
That seeming Praises, are yet Accusations.

RHYME a a

Describ'd it's thus: Defin'd would you it have?
Then, The Towns honest Man's her errant'st Knave.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

JEphson, thou Man of Men, to whose lov'd Name
All Gentry, yet, owe part of their best Flame!
So did thy Virtue 'inform, thy Wit sustain
That Age, when thou stood'st up the Master-brain:
Thou wert the first, mad'st Merit know her strength,
And those that lack'd it, to suspect at length,
'Twas not entayl'd on Title. That some Word
Might be found out as good, and not my Lord.
That Nature no such difference had imprest
In Men, but every bravest was the best:
That Bloud not Minds, but Minds did Bloud adorn:
And to live great, was better, than great born.
These were thy knowing Arts: which who doth now
Vertuously practise, must at least allow
Them in, if not, from thee; or must commit
A desperate Sol벃첽ism in Truth and Wit.

TITLE 

RHYME a a 

GRoyne, come of Age, his State sold out of hand
For 'his Whore: Groyne doth still occupy his land.

TITLE 

RHYME a b a b c c

GUT eats all Day, and lechers all the Night,
So all his Meat he tasteth over, twice:
And, striving so to double his delight,
He makes himself a thorough-fare of Vice.
Thus, in his Belly, can he change a Sin,
Lust it comes out, that Gluttony went in.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

NOt he that flies the Court for want of Cloths,
At Hunting rails, having no gift in Oaths,
Cries out 'gainst, Cocking since he cannot bet,
Shuns Press for two main Causes, Pox, and Debt,
With me can merit more, than that good Man,
Whose Dice not doing well, to 'a Pulpit ran.
No, Shelton, give me thee, canst want all these,
But dost it out of Judgment, not Disease;
Dar'st breath in any Air; and with safe Skill,
Till thou canst find the best, choose the least ill.
That to the Vulgar can'st thy self apply,
Treading a better path, not contrary;
And, in their Errors maze, thine own way know:
Which is to live to conscience, not to show.
He, that, but living half his Age, dyes such;
Makes the whole longer, than 'twas given him, much.

TITLE 

RHYME a b a b c d c d e f e f

WEep with me all you that read
This little Story:
And know from whom a Tear you shed
Death's self is sorry.
'Twas a Child, that so did thrive
In Grace, and Feature,
As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive
Which own'd the Creature.
Years he numbred scarce Thirteen
When Fates turn'd cruel,
Yet three fill'd Zodiacks had he been
The Stages Jewel;

RHYME a b a b c d c d e f e f

And did act (what now we moan)
Old Men so duly,
As, sooth, the ParcNf thought him one,
He play'd so truly.
So, by Error to his Fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since (alas, too late)
They have repented;
And have sought (to give new birth)
In Baths to steep him;
But, being so much too good for Earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

RUdyerd, as lesser Dames to great ones use,
My lighter comes, to kiss thy learned Muse;
Whose better Studies while she emulates,
She learns to know long difference of their states.
Yet is the Office not to be despis'd,
If only Love should make the Action priz'd:
Nor he, for Friendship, to be thought unfit,
That strives, his Manners should proceed his Wit.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

IF I would wish, for Truth, and not for Show,
The aged Saturn's Age, and Rites to know;
If I would strive to bring back Times, and try
The World's pure Gold, and wise Simplicity;
If I would Virtue set, as she was young,
And hear her speak with one, and her first Tongue;
If holiest Friendship, naked to the Touch,
I would restore, and keep it ever such;
I need no other Arts, but study Thee:
Who prov'st, all these were, and again may be.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

WRiting thy Self, or judging others Writ,
I know not which th'hast most, Candor, or Wit:
But both th'hast so, as who affects the State
Of the best Writer, and Judge, should emulate.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

WOuldst thou hear, what Man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Underneath this Stone doth lie
As much Beauty, as could die:
Which in Life did Harbor give
To more Virtue, than doth live.
If, at all, She had a Fault,
Leave it buried in this Vault.
One Name was Elizabeth,
Th'other let it sleep with Death:
Fitter, where it dyed, to tell,
Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

uV'dale, thou Piece of the first Times, a Man
Made for what Nature could, or Virtue can;
Both whose Dimensions, lost, the World might find
Restored in thy Body, and thy Mind!
Who sees a Soul, in such a Body set,
Might love the Treasure for the Cabinet.
But I, no Child, no Fool, respect the kind,
(The full, the slowingflowing Graces there enshrin'd)

RHYME a a

Which (would the World not miscall't, Flattery)
I could adore, almost t'Idolatry)

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

REtir'd, with purpose your fair Worth to praise,
'Mongst Hampton Shades, and Ph벃첻us Grove of Bayes,
I pluck'd a Branch; the jealous god did frown,
And bad me lay th'usurped Lawrel down:
Said I wrong'd him, and (which was more) his Love.
I answer'd, Daphne now no Pain can prove.
Ph벃첻us replied. Bold Head, it is not She:
Cary my Love is, Daphne but my Tree.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

IS there a Hope, that Man would thankful be,
If I should fail, in Gratitude, to thee
To whom I am so bound, lov'd Aubigny?
No, I do, therefore, call Posterity
Into the debt; and reckon on her head,
How full of want, how swallow'd up, how dead
I, and this Muse had been, if thou hadst not
Lent timely Succors, and new Life begot:
So, all Reward, or Name, that grows to me
By her attempt, shall still be owing thee.
And, than this same, I know no abler way
To thank thy Benefits: which is, to pay.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

ROE (and my joy to name) th'art now, to go
Countries, and Climes, Manners, and Men to know,
T' extract, and choose the best of all these known,
And those to turn to blood, and make thine own.
May Winds as soft as breath of kissing Friends,
Attend thee hence; and there, may all thy Ends,
As the Beginnings here, prove purely sweet,
And perfect in a Circle always meet.
So, when we, blest with thy Return, shall see
Thy self, with thy first thoughts, brought home by thee,
We each to other may this Voice inspire;
This is that good NFneas, past through Fire,
Through Seas, Storms, Tempests: and imbarqu'd for Hell,
Came back untouch'd. This Man hath travell'd well.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

WHat charming Peals are these,
That, while they bind the Senses, do so please?
They are the Marriage-rites
Of two, the choicest Pair of Man's delights,
Musique and PoNksie:
French Air, and English Verse, here wedded lie.
Who did this Knot compose,
Again hath brought the Lilly to the Rose;
And, with their chained Dance,
Recelebrates the joyful Match with France.
They are a School to win
The fair French Daughter to learn English in;
And, graced with her Song,
To make the Language sweet upon her tongue.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

THat, not a pair of Friends each other see,
But the first Question is, When one saw thee?
That there's no Journy set, or thought upon,
To Braynford, Hackney, Bow, but thou mak'st one;

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

TThat scarce the Town designeth any Feast
To which thou'rt not a Week, bespoke a Guest;
That still thou'rt made the Suppers Flag, the Drum,
The very Call, to make all others come:
Think'st thou Mime, this is great? or, that they strive
Whose noise shall keep thy Miming most alive,
Whil'st thou dost raise some Player, from the Grave,
Out-dance the Babion, or out-boast the Brave;
Or (mounted on a Stool) thy Face doth hit
On some new Gesture, that's imputed Wit?
O, run not proud of this. Yet, take thy due.
Thou dost out-zany Cokely, Pod; nay, Gue:
And thine own Coriat too. But (would'st thou see)
Men love thee not for this: They laugh at thee.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

TO urge, my lov'd Alphonso, that bold Fame,
Of building Towns, and making wild Beasts tame,
Which Musick had; or speak her known Effects,
That she removeth Cares, Sadness ejects,
Declineth Anger, persuades Clemency,
Doth sweeten Mirth, and heighten Piety,
And is t'a Body, often, ill inclin'd,
No less a sov'raign Cure, than to the Mind;
T' alledge, that greatest Men were not asham'd,
Of old, even by her Practice to be fam'd;
To say, indeed, she were the Soul of Heaven,
That the eighteighth Sphere, no less, than Planets seven,
Mov'd by her order, and the ninth more high,
Including all, were thence call'd Harmony:
I, yet, had utter'd nothing on thy part,
When these were but the praises of the Art.
But when I have said, the Proofs of all these be
Shed in thy Songs; 'tis true: but short of thee.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

WHen we do give, Alphonso, to the Light,
A Work of ours, we part with our own Right;
For, then, all mouths will judge, and their own way:
The Learn'd have no more Priviledge, than the Lay.
And though we could all Men, all Censures hear,
We ought not give them taste, we had an Ear.
For, if the hum'rous World will take at large,
They should be Fools, for me, at their own charge.
Say, this, or that Man they to thee prefer;
Even those for whom they do this, know they err:
And would (being ask'd the truth) ashamed say,
They were not to be nam'd on the same day.
Then stand unto thy self, nor seek without
For Fame, with breath soon kindled, soon blown out.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

IF to admire were to commend, my praise
Might then both thee, thy Work and Merit raise:
But, as it is (the Child of Ignorance,
And utter Stranger to all Air of France)
How can I speak of thy great pains, but err?
Since they can only judge, that can confer.
Behold! the reverend shade of Bartas stands
Before my thought, and (in thy right) commands
That to the World I publish, for him, this;
Bartas doth wish thy English now were his.
So well in that are his Inventions wrought,
As his will now be the Translation thought,
Thine the Original; and France shall boast,
No more; those Maiden Glories she hath lost.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

NO more let Greece her bolder Fables tell
Of Hercules, or Theseus going to Hell,
Orpheus, Ulysses: or the Latine Muse,
With Tales of Troy's just Knight, our Faith's abuse.
We have a Shelton, and a Heyden got,
Had power to act, what they to fain had not.
All, that they boast of Styx, of Acheron,
Cocytus, Phlegeton, our have prov'd in one;
The filth, stench, noise: save only what was there
Subtly distinguish'd, was confused here.
Their Wherry had no Sail, too; ours had none:
And in it, two more horrid Knaves, than Charon.
Arses were heard to croak, in stead of Frogs;
And for one Cerberus, the whole Coast was Dogs.
Furies there wanted not: each Scold was ten.
And, for the Cryes of Ghosts, Women, and Men,
Laden with Plague-sores, and their Sins, were heard,
Lash'd by their Consciences, to die affeard.
Then let the former Age, with this content her,
She brought the Poets forth, but ours th' Adventer.

RHYME a a *

Sing the brave Adventure of two Wights,
And pity 'tis, I cannot call 'em Knights:
One was; and he, for Brawn, and Brain, right able
To have been styled of King Arthur's Table.
The other was a Squire, of fair degree;
But, in the Action, greater Man than he:
Who gave, to take at his Return from Hell,
His three for one. Now, Lordlings, listen well.
It was the day, what time the powerful Moon
Makes the poor Bankside Creature wet it'Shoon,'wet its Shoon,'
In it'own Hall;'In its own Hall;' when these (in worthy Scorn
Of those, that put out Monies, on Return
From Venice, Paris, or some Inland passage
Of six times to and fro, without Embassage,
Or he that backward went to Berwick, or which
Did dance the famous Morris, unto Norwich)
At Breadstreets Mermaid, having din'd, and merry,
Propos'd to go to Hol'born in a Wherry:
A harder task, than either his to Bristo',
Or his to Antwerp. Therefore, once more, list ho'.
A Dock there is, that called is Avernus,
Of some Bridewel, and may, in time, concern us
All, that are Readers: But, methinks 'tis odd,
That all this while I have forgot some god,
Or goddess to invoke, to stuff my Verse;
And with both Bombard-stile, and Phrase, rehearse
The many perils of this Port, and how
Sans'help of Sybil, or a golden Bough,
Or magick Sacrifice, they past along!
Alcides, be thou succouring to my Song.
Thou'st seen Hell (some say) and know'st all Nooks there,
Canst tell me best, how every Fury looks there,
And art a god, if Fame thee not abuses,
Always at hand, to aid the merry Muses.
Great Club-fist, tho' thy Back, and Bones be sore,
Still, with thy former Labours; yet, once more,
Act a brave Work, call it thy last Adventry:
But hold my Torch, while I describe the entry
To this dire passage. Say thou stop thy Nose:
Tis but light pains: Indeed this Dock's no Rose.
In the first Jaws appear'd that ugly Monster,
Ycleped Mud, which, when their Oars did once stir,
Belch'd forth an Air, as hot, as at the Muster.
Of all your Night-tubs, when the Carts do cluster,
Who shall discharge first his merdurinous Load:
Thorow her Womb they make their famous Road,

RHYME a a *

Between two Walls; where, on one side, to scare Men,
Were seen your ugly Centaurs, ye call Carmen,
Gorgonian Scolds, and Harpys: on the other
Hung Stench, Diseases, and old Filth, their Mother,
With Famine, Wants, and Sorrows many a Dosen,
The least of which was to the Plague a Cosen.
But they unfrighted pass, tho' many a Privy
Spake to them louder, than the Ox in Livy;
And many a Sink pour'd out her Rage anenst'em;
But still their Valor, and their Virtue fenc't 'em,
And, on they went, like Castor brave, and Pollux:
Plowing the Main. When, see (the worst of all Lucks)
They met the second Prodigy, would fear a
Man, that had never heard of a ChimNfra.
One said, It was bold Briareus, or the Beadle,
(Who hath the hundred Hands when he doth meddle)
The other thought it Hydra, or the Rock
Made of the Trull, that cut her Father's Lock:
But, coming near, they found it but a Liter,
So huge, it seem'd, they could by no means quit her.
Back, cry'd their Brace of Charons: they cry'd, No,
No going back; on still you Rogues, and row.
How hight the place? A Voice was heard, Cocytus.
Row close then Slaves. Alas, they will beshite us.
No matter, Stinkards, row. What croaking Sound
Is this we hear? Of Frogs? No, Guts Wind-bound,
Over your Heads: Well, row. At this a loud
Crack did report itself, as if a Cloud
Had burst with Storm, and down fell, ab Excelsis,
Poor Mercury, crying out on Paracelsus,
And all his Followers, that had so abus'd him:
And, in so shitten sort, so long had us'd him:
For (where he was the god of Eloquence,
And subtilty of Metals) they dispense
His Spirits, now, in Pills, and eke in Potions,
Suppositories, Cataplasms, and Lotions.
But many Moons there shall not wane (quoth he)
(In the mean time, let 'em imprison me)
But I will speak (and know I shall be heard)
Touching this Cause, where they will be affeard
To answer me. And sure, it was th' intent
Of the grave Fart, late let in Parliament,
Had it been seconded, and not in Fume
Vanish'd away: as you must all presume
Their Mercury did now. By this, the Steme
Of the Hulk touch'd, and, as by Polypheme
The sly Ulysses stole in a Sheep-skin,
The well-greas'd Wherry now had got between,
And bade her Farewell Sough, unto the Lurden:
Never did Bottom more betray her Burden;
The Meat-boat of Bears-Colledge, Paris-Garden,
Stunk not so ill; nor, when she kist, Kate Arden.
Yet, one day in the year, for sweet 'tis voyc't
And that is when it is the Lord Mayor's Foist.
By this time had they reach'd the Stygian Pool,
By which the Masters swear, when on the Stool
Of Worship, they their nodding Chins do hit
Against their Breasts. Here, sev'ral Ghosts did flit
About the shore, of Farts, but late departed,
White, Black, Blue, Green, and in more Forms out-started,
Than all those Atomi Ridiculous,
Whereof old Democrite, and Hill Nicholas,
One said, the other swore, the World consists.
These be the cause of those thick frequent Mists
Arising in that place, through which, who goes,
Must try th' unused Valor of a Nose:

RHYME a a *

And that ours did. For, yet, no Nare was tainted,
Nor Thumb, nor Finger to the Stop acquainted,
But open, and unarm'd, encounter'd all:
Whether it languishing stuck upon the Wall,
Or were precipitated down the Jakes,
And, after, swum abroad in ample Flakes,
Or, that it lay, heap'd like an Usurer's Mass,
All was to them the same, they were to pass,
And so they did, from Styx, to Acheron:
The ever-boiling Flood. Whose Banks upon
Your Fleet-Lane Furies; and hot Cooks do dwell,
That, with Still-scalding Steems, make the place Hell.
The Sinks ran Grease, and Hair of meazled Hogs,
The Heads, Houghs, Entrails, and the Hydes of Dogs:
For, to say truth, what Scullion is so nasty,
To put the Skins, and Offal in a Pasty?
Cats there lay divers had been flead and rosted,
And, after mouldy grown, again were tosted,
Then selling not, a Dish was ta'ne to mince 'em,
But still, it seem'd, the rankness did convince 'em.
For, here they were thrown in with th' melted Pewter,
Yet drown'd they not. They had five Lives in future.

RHYME a a *

But 'mongst these Tiberts, who do you think there was?
Old Banks the Jugler, our Pythagoras,
Grave Tutor to the learned Horse. Both which,
Being, beyond Sea, burned for one Witch:
Their Spirits transmigrated to a Cat:
And, now, above the Pool, a Face right fat
With great grey Eyes, are lifted up, and mew'd;
Thrice did it spit: thrice div'd. At last, it view'd
Our brave Heroes with a milder Glare,
And in a pitious Tune, began. How dare
Your dainty Nostrils (in so hot a Season,
When every Clerk eats Artichokes and Peason,
Laxative Lettuce, and such windy Meat)
Tempt such a passage? when each Privies Seat
Is fill'd with Buttock? And the Walls do sweat
Urine, and Plasters? When the Noise doth beat
Upon your Ears, of Discords so unsweet?
And Outcries of the damned in the Fleet?
Cannot the Plague-Bill keep you back? Nor Bells
Of loud Sepulchres with their hourly Knels,
But you will visit grisly Pluto's Hall?
Behold where Cerberus, rear'd on the Wall
Of Holborne (three Sergeants Heads) looks o're
And stays but till you come unto the Door!
Tempt not his Fury, Pluto is away:
And Madame CNfsar, great Proserpina,
Is now from home. You lose your Labours quite,
Were you Jove's Sons, or had Alcides Might.
They cry'd out Pusse. He told them he was Banks,
That had so often, shew'd 'em merry Pranks.
They laught, at his laugh-worthy Fate. And past
The Tripple-Head without a Sop. At last,
Calling for Radamanthus, that dwelt by,
A Sope-Boyler; and NFacus him nigh,
Who kept an Alehouse; with my little Minos,
An ancient pur-blind Fletcher, with a high Nose;
They took 'em all to witness of their Action:
And so went bravely back, without Protraction.

RHYME a a *

In memory of which most liquid Deed,
The City since hath rais'd a Pyramid.
And I could wish for their eterniz'd Sakes,
My Muse had plough'd with his, that sung A-jax.

TITLE The Forest

RHYME a a *

SOme act of Love's bound to rehearse,
I thought to bind him, in my Verse:
Which when he felt, Away (quoth he)
Can Poets hope to fetter me?
It is enough, they once did get
Mars, and my Mother, in their Net:
I wear not these my Wings in vain,
With which he fled me: and again,
Into my Rhymes could ne're be got
By any art. Then wonder not,
That since, my Numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow old.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

THou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show,
Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polish'd Pillars, or a Roof of Gold:
Thou hast no lanthern, whereof Tales are told;
Or Stair, or Courts; but stand'st an ancient Pile,
And these grudg'd at, are reverenc'd the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks, of Soil, of Air,
Of Wood, of Water: therein thou art fair.
Thou hast thy Walks for health, as well as sport:
Thy Mount, to which the Dryads do resort,
Where Pan, and Bacchus their high Feasts have made,
Beneath the broad Beech, and the Chestnut shade;
That taller Tree, which of a Nut was set,
At his great Birth, where all the Muses met.
There, in the writhed Bark, are cut the Names
Of many a Sylvane, taken with his Flames,
And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke
The lighter Fauns, to reach thy Lady's Oke.
Thy Copp's too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never fails to serve thee season'd Deer,
When thou would'st Feast, or exercise thy Friends.
The lower Land, that to the River bends,
Thy Sheep, thy Bullocks, Kine, and Calves do feed:
The middle Grounds thy Mares, and Horses breed.
Each Bank doth yield thee Conies; and the Topps
Fertile of Wood, Ashore, and Sydney's Copp's,
To crown thy open Table, doth provide
The purpled Pheasant, with the speckled side:
The painted Partridg lyes in every Field,
And, for thy Mess, is willing to be kill'd.
And if the high-swoln Medway fail thy Dish,
Thou hast thy Ponds, that pay thee tribute Fish,
Fat, aged Carps, that run into thy Net.
And Pikes, now weary their own Kind to eat,
As loth, the second Draught, or Cast to stay,
Officiously, at first, themselves betray.

RHYME a a *

Bright Eels, that emulate them, and leap on Land,
Before the Fisher, or into his Hand.
Then hath thy Orchard Fruit, thy Garden Flowers,
Fresh as the Air, and new as are the Hours.
The early Cherry, with the later Plum,
Fig, Grape, and Quince, each in his time doth come:
The blushing Apricot, and woolly Peach
Hang on thy Walls, that every Child may reach.
And though thy Walls be of the Country Stone,
They're rear'd with no Man's ruin, no Man's grone;
There's none, that dwell about them, wish them down;
But all come in, the Farmer and the Clown:
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy Lord, and Lady, though they have no Sute.
Some bring a Capon, some a rural Cake,
Some Nuts, some Apples; some that think they make
The better Cheeses, bring 'em; or else send
By their ripe Daughters, whom they would commend
This way to Husbands; and whose Baskets bear
An Emblem of themselves, in Plum, or Pear.
But what can this (more than express their love)
Add to thy free Provisions, far above
The need of such? whose liberal Board doth flow,
With all, that Hospitality doth know!
Where comes no Guest, but is allow'd to eat,
Without his fear, and of thy Lord's own Meat:
Where the same Bear, and Bread, and self-same Wine,
That is his Lordship's, shall be also mine.
And I not fain to sit (as some, this day,
At great Mens Tables) and yet dine away.
Here no Man tells my Cups; nor, standing by,
A Waiter, doth my Gluttony envy:
But gives me what I call for, and lets me eat,
He knows, below, he shall find plenty of Meat;
Thy Tables hoard not up for the next day,
Nor, when I take my Lodging, need I pray
For Fire, or Lights, or Livory: all is there;
As if thou, then, wert mine, or I raign'd here:
There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.
That found King James, when hunting late, this way,
With his brave Son, the Prince, they saw thy Fires
Shine bright on every Hearth as the desires
Of thy Penates had been set on Flame,
To entertain them; or the Country came,
With all their zeal, to warm their welcom here.
What (great, I will not say, but) sudden chear
Didst thou, then, make 'em! and what praise was heap'd
On thy good Lady, then! who therein, reap'd
The just Reward of her high Huswifery;
To have her Linnen, Plate, and all Things nigh,
When she was far: and not a Room, but drest,
As if it had expected such a Guest!
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.
Thy Lady's noble, fruitful, chast withall.
His Children thy great Lord may call his own:
A Fortune, in this Age, but rarely known.

RHYME a a *

They are, and have been taught Religion: Thence
Their gentler Spirits have suck'd Innocence.
Each morn, and even, they are taught to pray,
With the whole Houshold, and may, every day,
Read, in their virtuous Parents noble Parts,
The mysteries of Manners, Arms, and Arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other Edifices, when they see
Those proud ambitious Heaps, and nothing else,
May say, their Lords have built, but thy Lord dwells.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

HOw blest art thou, canst love the Country, Wroth,
Whether by Choice, or Fate, or both!
And, though so near the City, and the Court,
Art tane with neithers Vice, nor Sport:
That at great Times, art no ambitious Guest,
Of Sheriffs Dinner, or Mayor's Feast.
Nor com'st to view the better Cloth of State;
The richer Hangings, or Crown-plate;
Nor throng'st (when Masquing is) to have a sight
Of the short Bravery of the Night;
To view the Jewels, Stuffs, the Pains, the Wit
There wasted, some not paid for yet!
But canst, at home, in thy securer rest,
Live, with unbought Provision blest;
Free from proud Porches, or their gilded Roofs,
'Mongst loughing Heards, and solid Hoofs:
Along'st the curled Woods, and painted Meads,
Through which a Serpent River leads
To some cool, courteous Shade, which he calls his,
And makes Sleep softer than it is!
Or, if thou list the Night in watch to break,
A-bed canst hear the loud Stag speak,
In spring, oft roused for their Master's Sport,
Who, for it, makes thy House his Court;
Or with thy Friends; the heart of all the Year,
Divid'st, upon the lesser Deer;
In Autumn, at the Partridg mak'st a Flight,
And giv'st thy gladder Guests the Sight;
And, in the Winter, hunt'st the flying Hare,
More for thy Exercise, than Fare;
While all, that follow, their glad Ears apply
To the full greatness of the Cry:
Or hauking at the River, or the Bush,
OtOr shooting at the greedy Thrush,
Thou dost with some Delight the Day out-wear,
Although the coldest of the Year!
The whil'st the several Seasons thou hast seen
Of Flowry Fields, of cop'ces Green,
The mowed Meadows, with the fleeced Sheep,
And Feasts, that either Shearers keep;
The ripened Ears, yet humble in their height,
And Furrows laden with their weight;
The Apple-harvest, that doth longer last;
The Hogs return'd home fat from mast;
The Trees cut out in log; and those Boughs made
A Fire now, that lend a Shade!
Thus Pan, and Sylvane, having had their Rites,
Comus, puts in, for new Delights;
And fills thy open Hall with mirth, and cheer
As if in Saturns Reign it were;
Apollo's Harp, and Hermes Lyre resound,
Nor are the Muses Strangers found:
The rout of rural Folk come thronging in,
(Their rudeness then is thought no Sin)
Thy noblest Spouse affords them welcome Grace;
And the great Heroes, of her Race,
Sit mixt with loss of State, or Reverence.
Freedom doth with Degree dispense.
The jolly Wassal walks the often round,
And in their Cups, their Cares are drown'd:

RHYME a a *

They think not, then, which side the Cause shall leese,
Nor how to get the Lawyer Fees.
Such, and no other was that Age, of old,
Which boasts t'have had the Head of Gold.
And such since thou canst make thine own content,
Strive, Wroth, to live long innocent.
Let others watch in guilty Arms, and stand
The fury of a rash command,
Go enter Breaches, meet the Cannons rage,
That they may Sleep with Scars in Age.
And shew their Feathers shot, and Colours torn,
And brag that they were therefore born.
Let this Man sweat, and wrangle at the Bar,
For every price in every Jar,
And change Possessions, oftner with his Breath,
Than either Money, War, or Death:
Let him, than hardest Sires, more disinherit,
And each where boast it as his Merit,
To blow up Orphans, Widows, and their States;
And think his Power doth equal Fates.
Let that go heap a Mass of wretched Wealth,
Purchas'd by Rapine, worse than Stealth,
And brooding o're it sit, with broadest Eyes,
Not doing good, scarce when he dyes.
Let thousands more go flatter Vice, and win,
By being Organs to great Sin,
Get Place and Honor, and be glad to keep
The Secrets, that shall break their Sleep:
And so they ride in Purple, eat in Plate,
Though Poyson, think it a great Fate.
But thou, my Wroth, if I can truth apply,
Shalt neither that, nor this envy:
Thy Peace is made; and, when Man's state is well,
'Tis better, if he there can dwell.
God wisheth, none should wrack on a strange Shelf:
To him Man's dearer, than t'himself.
And, howsoever we may think Things sweet,
He always gives what he knows meet;
Which who can use is happy: Such be thou.
Thy Mornings and thy Evenings Vow
Be Thanks to him, and earnest Prayer, to find
A body Sound, with sounder Mind;
To do thy Country service, thy self right;
That neither Want do thee affright,
Nor Death; but when thy latest Sand is spent,
Thou may'st think Life, a Thing but lent.

TITLE 

RHYME a b a b *

FAlse World, good-night, since thou hast brought
That Hour upon my Morn of Age,
Hence-forth I quit thee from my Thought,
My part is ended on thy Stage.
Do not once hope, that thou canst tempt
A Spirit so resolv'd to tread
Upon thy Throat, and live exempt
From all the Nets that thou canst spread.
I know thy Forms are studied Arts,
Thy subtil Ways, be narrow Straits;
Thy curtesy but sudden Starts,
And what thou call'st thy Gifts are Baits.
I know too, though thou Strut, and Paint,
Yet art thou both shrunk up, and old;
That only Fools make thee a Saint,
And all thy Good is to be sold.
I know thou whole art but a Shop
Of Toys, and Trifles, Traps, and Snares,
To take the weak, or make them stop:
Yet art thou falser than thy Wares.
And, knowing this should I yet stay,
Like such as blow away their Lives,
And never will redeem a Day,
Enamor'd of their golden Gyves?

RHYME a b a b *

Or having 'scap'd shall I return,
And thrust my Neck into the Noose,
From whence so lately, I did burn,
With all my Powers, my self to loose?
What Bird, or Beast is known so dull,
That fled his Cage, or broke his Chain,
And tasting Air, and Freedom 'twull
Render his Head in theirthere again?
If these, who have but Sense, can shun
The Engins, that have them annoy'd;
Little, for me, had Reason done,
If I could not thy Ginns avoid.
Yes, threaten, do. Alas I fear
As little, as I hope from thee:
I know thou canst nor shew, nor bear
More hatred, than thou hast to me.
My tender, first, and simple Years
Thou did'st abuse, and then betray;
Since stird'st up Jealousies and Fears,
When all the Causes were away.
Then, in a Soil hast planted me,
Where breathe the basest of thy Fools;
Where envious Arts professed be,
And Pride, and Ignorance the Schools,
Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,
But, as 'tis rumor'd, so believ'd:
Where every Freedom is betray'd,
And every Goodness tax'd, or griev'd.
But, what we're born for, we must bear:
Our frail Condition it is such,
That, what to all may happen here,
If't chance to me, I must not grutch.
Else, I my state should much mistake,
To harbour a divided Thought
From all my Kind: that, for my sake,
There should a Miracle be wrought.
No, I do know, that I was born
To Age, Misfortune, Sickness, Grief:
But I will bear these, with that scorn,
As shall not need thy false Relief.
Nor for my Peace will I go far,
As Wand'rers do, that still do rome;
But make my Strengths, such as they are,
Here in my Bosom, and at home.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

COme my Celia, let us prove,
While we may, the Sports of Love;
Time will not be ours, for ever:
He, at length, our good will sever.
Spend not then his Gifts in vain:
Suns, that set, may rise again:
But, if once we lose this Light,
'Tis, with us, perpetual Night.
Why should we defer our Joys?
Fame, and Rumor are but Toys.
Cannot we delude the Eyes
Of a few poor houshold Spies?
Or his easier Ears beguil,
So removed by our wile?
'Tis no Sin, Loves Fruit to steal,
But the sweet Theft to reveal:
To be taken, to be seen,
These have Crimes accounted been.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

KIss me, Sweet: The wary Lover
Can your Favours keep, and cover,
When the common courting Jay
All your Bounties will betray.
Kiss again: no Creature comes.
Kiss, and score up wealthy sums
On my Lips, thus hardly sundred,
While you Breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thousand, then another
Hundred, then unto the t'other
Add a thousand, and so more:
Till you equal with the Store,
All the Grass that Rumney yields,
Or the Sands in Chelsey Fields,
Or the Drops in silver Thames,
Or the Stars, that gild his Streams,
In the silent Summer-Nights,
When Youths ply their stoln Delights.
That the Curious may not know
How to tell 'em as they flow,
And the Envious, when they find
What their Number is, be pin'd.

TITLE 

RHYME a b a b c c d e d e f f

FOllow a Shadow, it still flies you,
Seem to fly it, it will pursue:
So court a Mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not Women truly, then,
Stil'd but the Shadows of us Men?
At morn, and even, Shades are longest?
At noon, they are short, or none:
So Men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they're not known.
Say, are not Women truly, then,
Stil'd but the Shadows of us Men?

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

WHy, Disease, dost thou molest
Ladies? and of them the best?
Do not Men, ynow of Rites
To thy Altars, by their Nights
Spent in Surfeits: and their Days,
And Nights too, in worser ways?
Take heed, Sickness, what you do,
I shall fear, you'll Surfeit too.
Live not we, as, all thy Stalls,
Spittles, Pest-house, Hospitals,
Scarce will take our present Store?
And this Age will build no more:
'Pray thee, feed contented, then,
Sickness; only on us Men.
Or if it needs thy Lust will taste
Woman-kind; devour the waste
Livers, round about the Town.
But forgive me, with thy Crown
They maintain the truest Trade,
And have more Diseases made.
What should, yet, thy Pallat please?
Daintiness, and softer Ease,
Sleeked Lims, and finest Blood?
If thy Leanness love such Food,

RHYME a a *

There are those, that, for thy sake,
Do enough; and who would take
Any pains; yea, think it price,
To become thy Sacrifice.
That distil their Husband's Land
In Decoctions; and are man'd
With ten Emp'ricks, in their Chamber,
Lying for the Spirit of Amber.
That for the Oyl of Talck, dare spend
More than Citizens dare lend
Them, and all their Officers.
That to make all Pleasure theirs,
Will by Coach, and Water go,
Every Stew in Town to know;
Dare entail their loves on any,
Bald, or blind, or nere so many:
And, for thee at common Game,
Play away, health, wealth, and fame.
These, Disease, will thee deserve:
And will, long ere thou should'st starve,
On their Bed most prostitute,
Move it, as their humblest Sute,
In thy Justice to molest
None but them, and leave the rest:

TITLE 

RHYME a b c b a b c b d e f e d e f e

DRink to me, only, with thine Eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a Kiss but in the Cup,
And I'll not look for Wine.
The Thirst, that from the Soul doth rise,
Doth ask a Drink divine:
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosy Wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did'st only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of it self, but thee.

TITLE 

RHYME a a a

ANd must I sing? what Subject shall I choose?
Or whose great Name in Poets Heaven use?
For the more countenance to my active Muse?

RHYME a a a

Hercules? alas his Bones are yet sore,
With his old earthly Labours. T'exact more,
Of his dull god-head, were Sin. I'll implore

RHYME a a a

Ph벃첻us? No, tend thy Cart still. Envious day
Shall not give out, that I have made thee stay,
And found'red thy hot Team, to tune my lay.

RHYME a a a

Nor will I beg of thee, Lord of the Vine,
To raise my Spirits with thy conjuring Wine,
In the green Circle of the Ivy Twine.

RHYME a a a

Pallas, nor thee, I call on, mankind Maid,
That, at thy Birth, mad'st the poor Smith affraid,
Who, with his Ax, thy Father's Midwife plaid.

RHYME a a a

Go, cramp dull Mars, light Venus, when he Snorts,
Or, with thy Tribade Trine, invent new Sports,
Thou, nor thy loosness with my making Sorts.

RHYME a a a

Let the old Boy, your Son, ply his old Task,
Turn the stale Prologue to some painted Mask,
His absence in my Verse, is all I ask.

RHYME a a a

Hermes, the Cheater, shall not mix with us,
Though he would steal his Sisters Pegasus,
And rifle him: or pawn his Petasus.

RHYME a a a

Nor all the Ladies of the Thespian Lake,
(Though they were crusht into one Form) could make
A Beauty of that Merit, that should take

RHYME a a a

My Muse up by Commission: No, I bring
My own true Fire. Now my Thought takes wing,
And now an Epode to deep Ears I sing.

TITLE THE PHOENIX ANALYSED.

RHYME a b b a

Now, after all, let no man
Receive it for a fable,
If a bird so amiable
Do turn into a woman.

RHYME a b b a

Or, by our Turtle's augure,
That nature's fairest creature
Prove of his mistress' feature
But a bare type and figure.

TITLE Ode

RHYME a a b b 

Splendor !  O more than mortal
For other forms come short all,
Of her illustrious brightness
As far as sin's from lightness.

RHYME a a b b 

Her wit as quick and sprightful
As fire, and more delightful
Than the stolen sports of lovers,
When night their meeting covers.

RHYME a a b b 

Judgment, adorn'd with learning,
Doth shine in her discerning,
Clear as a naked vestal
Closed in an orb of crystal.

RHYME a a b b 

Her breath for sweet exceeding
The phoenix' place of breeding,
But mix'd with sound, transcending
All nature of commending.

RHYME a a b b 

Alas then whither wade I
In thought to praise this lady,
When seeking her renowning
My self am so near drowning?

RHYME a a b b 

Retire, and say her graces
Are deeper than their faces,
Yet she's not nice to show them,
Nor takes she pride to know them.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

NOt to know Vice at all, and keep true state,
Is Virtue, and not Fate:
Next, to that Virtue, is to know Vice well,
And her black spight expel.
Which to effect (since no Breast is so sure,
Or safe, but she'll procure
Some way of entrance) we must plant a Guard
Of Thoughts to Watch, and Ward
At th'Eye and Ear (the Ports unto the Mind)
That no strange, or unkind
Object arrive there, but the Heart (our Spy)
Give knowledge instantly,
To wakeful Reason, our affections King:
Who (in th'examining)
Will quickly taste the Reason, and commit
Close, the close Cause of it.
'Tis the securest Policy we have,
To make our Sense our Slave.
But this true Course is not embrac'd by many:
By many? scarce by any.
For either our Affections do rebel,
Or else the Sentinel
(That should ring Larum to the Heart) doth sleep,
Or some great Thought doth keep
Back the Intelligence, and falsly Swears,
Th'are base, and idle Fears
Whereof the loyal Conscience so complains.
Thus by these subtile Trains,
Do several Passions invade the Mind,
And strike our Reason blind.
Of which usurping Rank, some have thought Love
The first; as prone to move
Most frequent Tumults, Horrors, and Unrests,
In our enflamed Breasts:
But this doth from the Cloud of Error grow,
Which thus we over-blow.
The Thing, they here call Love, is blind Desire,
Arm'd with Bow, Shafts, and Fire;
Inconstant, like the Sea, of whence 'tis born,
Rough, swelling, like a Storm:
With whom who Sails, rides on the surge of Fear,
And Boils, as if he were
In a continual Tempest. Now, true Love
No such Effects doth prove;
That is an Essence far more gentle, fine,
Pure, perfect, nay divine;
It is a golden Chain let down from Heaven,
Whose Links are bright, and even.
That falls like Sleep on Lovers, and combines
The soft, and sweetest Minds
In equal Knots: This bears no Brands, nor Darts,
To murther different Hearts,
But, in a calm, and god-like Unity,
Preserves Community.

RHYME a a *

O, who is he, that (in this peace) enjoys
Th' Elixir of all Joys?
A Form more fresh, than are the Eden Bowers,
And lasting, as her Flowers:
Richer than Time, and as Time's Virtue, rare:
Sober, as saddest Care:
A fixed Thought, an Eye untaught to glance;
Who (blest with such high Chance)
Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,
Cast himself from the Spire
Of all his Happiness? But soft: I hear
Some vicious Fool draw near,
That cries, we Dream, and swears there's no such thing,
As this chaste Love we sing.
Peace Luxury, thou art like one of those
Who, being at Sea, suppose,
Because they move, the Continent doth so.
No, Vice, we let thee know,
Tho' thy wild thoughts with Sparrows Wings do flie,
Turtles can chastly die;
And yet (in this t'express our selves more clear)
We do not number here,
Such Spirits as are only Continent,
Because Lust's means are spent:
Or those, who doubt the Common Mouth of Fame,
And for their Place and Name,
Cannot so safely sin. Their Chastity
Is meer Necessity.
Nor mean we those, whom Vows and Conscience
Have fill'd with Abstinence:
Tho' we acknowledg, who can so abstain,
Makes a most blessed Gain.
He that for love of Goodness hateth Ill,
Is more Crown-worthy still,
Than he, which for Sin's Penalty forbears;
His Heart sins, tho' he fears.
But we propose a Person like our Dove,
Grac'd with a Ph벃쳌ix love;
A Beauty of that clear, and sparkling light,
Would make a Day of Night,
And turn the blackest Sorrows to bright Joys:
Whose od'rous Breath destroys
All taste of bitterness, and makes the Air
As sweet as she is fair.
A Body so harmoniously compos'd,
As if Nature disclos'd
All her best Symmetry in that one Feature!
O, so Divine a Creature,
Who could be false to? chiefly when he knows
How only she bestows
The wealthy treasure of her love on him;
Making his Fortunes swim
In the full flood of her admir'd perfection?
What savage, brute affection,
Would not be fearful to offend a Dame
Of this excelling Frame?
Much more a noble, and right generous mind
(To vertuous moods inclin'd)
That knows the weight of guilt: He will refrain
From thoughts of such a strain.
And to his Sense object this Sentence ever,
Man may securely sin, but safely never.

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RHYME a a *

WHil'st that, for which all Vertue now is sold,
And almost every Vice, almighty Gold,
That which, to boot with Hell, is thought worth Heaven,
And for it, Life, Conscience, yea Souls are given,
Toyles, by grave custom, up and down the Court,
To every Squire, or Groom, that will report
Well, or ill, only all the following Year,
Just to the weight their this days Presents bear;
While it makes Huishers serviceable Men,
And some one apteth to be trusted then,
Though never after; whiles it gains the Voice
Of some grand Peer, whose Air doth make rejoice
The Fool that gave it; who will want, and weep,
When his proud Patron's Favours are asleep;
While thus it buys great Graee,Grace and hunts poor Fame;
Runs between Man, and Man; 'tween Dame, and Dame;
Solders crackt Friendship; makes Love last a day;
Or perhaps less: whil'st Gold bears all this sway,
I, that have none (to send you) send you Verse.
A Present which (if elder Writs reherse
The truth of Times) was once of more esteem,
Than this, our Guilt, nor golden Age can deem,
When Gold was made no Weapon to cut Throats,
Or put to flight Astrea, when her Ingots
Were yet unfound, and better plac'd in earth,
Than, here, to give Pride fame, and Peasants birth.
But let this Dross carry what price it will
With noble Ignorants, and let them still,
Turn, upon scorned Verse, their Quarter-face:
With you, I know, my off'ring will find grace.
For what a Sin 'gainst your great Father's Spirit,
Were it to think, that you should not inherit
His love unto the Muses, when his skill
Almost you have, or may have, when you will?
Wherein wise Nature you a Dowry gave,
Worth an Estate, treble to that you have.
Beauty, I know, is good, and Blood is more;
Riches thought most: But, Madam, think what store
The World hath seen, which all these had in trust,
And now lie lost in their forgotten Dust.
It is the Muse alone, can raise to Heaven,
And, at her strong Arms end, hold up, and even,
The Souls, she loves. Those other glorious Notes,
Inscrib'd in touch or marble, or the Cotes
Painted, or carv'd upon our great Mens Tombs,
Or in their Windows; do but prove the Wombs,
That bred them, Graves: when they were born, they dy'd,
That had no Muse to make their Fame abide.
How many equal with the Argive Queen,
Have Beauty known, yet none so famous seen?
Achilles was not first, that valiant was,
Or, in an Army's head, that lockt in brass,
Gave killing strokes. There were brave Men, before
Ajax, or Idomen, or all the store,
That Homer brought to Troy; yet none so live:
Because they lack'd the sacred Pen, could give
Like life unto 'em. Who heav'd Hercules
Unto the Stars? or the Tyndarides?
Who placed Jasons Argo in the Sky?
Or set bright Ariadnes Crown so high?
Who made a Lamp of Berenices Hair?
Or lifted Cassiopea in her Chair?
But only Poets, rapt with Rage divine?
And such, or my hopes fail, shall make you shine.
You, and that other Star, that purest light,
Of all Lucina's Train; Lucy the bright.
Than which, a nobler Heaven itself knows not.
Who, though she have a better Verser got,
(Or Poet, in the Court account) than I,
And, who doth me (though I not him) envy,
Yet, for the timely Favours she hath done,
To my less sanguine Muse, wherein she hath won
My grateful Soul, the subject of her powers,
I have already us'd some happy hours,
To her remembrance; which when time shall bring
To curious light, to Notes, I then shall sing,
Will prove old Orpheus Act no Tale to be:
For I shall move Stocks, Stones, no less than he.
Then all, that have but done my Muse least grace,
Shall thronging come, and boast the happy place
They hold in my strange Poems, which, as yet,
Had not their Form touch'd by an English Wit.
There like a rich, and golden Pyramid,
Born up by Statues, shall I rear your Head,
Above your under-carved Ornaments,
And shew, how, to the Life, my Soul presents
Your Form imprest there: not with tickling Rhymes,
Or Common-places, filch'd, that take these Times,
But high, and noble matter, such as flies
From Brains entranc'd, and fill'd with Extasies;
Moods, which the god-like Sydney oft did prove,
And your brave Friend, and mine so well did love.

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RHYME a a *

TI S grown almost a danger to speak true
Of any good Mind, now: There are so few.
The bad, by number, are so fortify'd,
As what they've lost t'expect, they dare deride.
So both the Prais'd, and Praisers suffer: Yet,
For others ill, ought none their good forget.
I, therefore, who profess my self in Love,
With every Virtue, whereso're it move,
And howsoever; as I am at Feud
With Sin and Vice, though with a Throne endu'd;
And, in this Name, am given out dangerous
By Arts, and Practice of the Vicious,
Such as suspect themselves, and think it fit
For their own cap'tal Crimes, t'indite my Wit;
I, that have suffer'd this; and, though forsook
Of Fortune, have not alter'd yet my look,
Or so my self abandon'd, as because
Men are not just, or keep no holy Laws
Of Nature, and Society, I should faint;
Or fear to draw true Lines, 'cause others Paint:
I, Madam, am become your Praiser. Where,
If it may stand with your soft Blush to hear,
Your Self but told unto Your Self, and see
In my Character, what your Features be,
You will not from the Paper slightly pass:
No Lady, but at sometime loves her Glass.
And this shall be no false one, but as much
Remov'd, as you from Need to have it such.
Look then, and see your Self. I will not say
Your Beauty; for you see that every day:
And so do many more. All which can call
It perfect, proper, pure, and natural,
Not taken up o'th'Doctors, but as well
As I, can say, and see it doth excel.
That asks but to be censur'd by the Eyes:
And, in those outward Forms, all Fools are wise.
Nor that your Beauty wanted not a Dower,
Do I reflect. Some Alderman has power,
Or cos'ning Farmer of the Customs so,
T'advance his doubtful Issue, and o'reflow
A Princes Fortune: These are gifts of Chance,
And raise not Virtue; they may Vice enhance.
My Mirror is more subtil, clear, refin'd,
And takes, and gives the Beauties of the mind.
Though it reject not those of Fortune: such
As Blood, and Match. Wherein, how more than much
Are you engaged to your happy Fate,
For such a Lot! that mixt you with a State
Of so great Title, Birth, but Virtue most,
Without which, all the rest were sounds, or lost.
'Tis only that can Time, and Chance defeat:
For he, that once is good, is ever great.
Wherewith, then Madam, can you better pay
This blessing of your Stars, than by that way
Of Virtue, which you tread? What if alone?
Without Companions? 'Tis safe to have none.
In single paths, Dangers with ease are watch'd:
Contagion in the Preasealternate spelling of 'Press' is soonest catch'd.
This makes, that wisely you decline your Life,
Far from the maze of Custom, Error, Strife,
And keep an even, and unhalter'd Gait;
Not looking by, or back, (like those, that wait
Times, and Occasions, to start forth, and seem)
Which though the turning World may disesteem,
Because that Studies Spectacles, and Shows,
And after varied, as fresh Objects goes,
Giddy with Change, and therefore cannot see
Right, the right way: yet must your comfort be
Your Conscience, and not Wonder, if none asks
For Truth's Complexion, where they all wear Masks.
Let who will follow Fashions, and Attires,
Maintain their Liedgers forth, for Foreign Wyres,
Melt down their Husbands Land, to pour away
On the close Groom, and Page, on New-years Day,
And almost, all Days after, while they live;
(They find it both so witty, and safe to give)
Let'em on Poulders, Oyls, and Paintings, spend,
Till that no Usurer, nor his Bawds dare lend
Them, or their Officers: and no Man know,
Whether it be a Face they wear, or no.
Let 'em waste Body, and 'State; and after all,
When their own Parasites laugh at their Fall,
May they have nothing left, whereof they can
Boast, but how oft they have gone wrong to Man:
And call it their brave Sin. For such there be
That do sin only for the Infamy:
And never think, how Vice doth every hour,
Eat on her Clients, and some one devour.
You, Madam, young have learn'd to shun these Shelves,
Whereon the most of Mankind wreck themselves,
And, keeping a just Course, have early put
Into your Harbour, and all passage shut
'Gainst Storms, or Pirats, that might charge your Peace;
For which you worthy are the glad Increase
Of your blest Womb, made fruitful from above
To pay your Lord the pledges of chaste Love:
And raise a noble Stem, to give the Fame,
To Clifton's Blood, that is deny'd their Name.
Grow, grow, fair Tree, and as thy Branches shoot,
Hear, what the Muses sing above thy Root,
By me, their Priest (if they can ought Divine)
Before the Moons have fill'd their triple Trine,
To crown the Burden which you go withall,
It shall a ripe and timely Issue fall,
T'expect the Honours of great Aubigny:
And greater Rites, yet writ in Mystery,
But which the Fates forbid me to reveal.
Only, thus much, out of a ravish'd Zeal,
Unto your Name, and goodness of your Life,
They speak; since you are truly that rare Wife,
Other great Wives may blush at: when they see
What your try'd manners are, what theirs should be.
How you love one, and him you should; how still
You are depending on his Word, and Will;
Not fashion'd for the Court, or Stranger's Eyes;
But to preaseplease him, who is the dearer Prize
Unto himself, by being so dear to you.
This makes, that your Affections still be new,
And that your Souls conspire, as they were gone
Each into other, and had now made one.
Live that one, still; and as long years do pass,
Madam, be bold to use this truest Glass:
Wherein, your Form, you still the same shall find;
Because nor it can change, nor such a Mind.

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RHYME a b c c b a d d e e

NO W that the Hearth is crown'd with smiling Fire,
And some do Drink, and some do Dance,
Some Ring,
Some Sing,
And all do strive t'advance
The gladness higher:
Wherefore should I
Stand silent by.
Who not the least,
Both love the Cause, and Authors of the Feast?

RHYME a b c c b a d d e e

Give me my Cup, but from the Thespian Well,
That I may tell to Sydney, what
This Day
Doth say,
And he may think on that
Which I do tell:
When all the Noise
Of these forc'd Joys,
Are fled and gone,
And he, with his best Genius left alone.

RHYME a b c c b a d d e e

This Day says, then, the number of glad Years
Are justly summ'd, that make you Man;
Your Vow
Must now
Strive all right ways it can,
T'out-strip your Peers:
Since he doth lack
Of going back
Little, whose Will
Doth urge him to run wrong, or to stand still.

RHYME a b c c b a d d e e

Nor can a little of the common store,
Of Nobles Virtue, shew in you;
Your Blood
So good
And great, must seek for new,
And study more:
Nor weary, rest
On what's deceas't.
For they, that swell
With Dust of Ancestors, in Graves but dwell.

RHYME a a *

'Twill be exacted of your Name, whose Son,
Whose Nephew, whose Grandchild you are;
And Men,
Will, then,
Say you have follow'd far,
When well begun:
Which must be now,
They teach you, how.
And he that stays
To live until to Morrow'hath lost two Days.

RHYME a b c c b a d d e e

So may you live in Honour, as in Name,
If with this Truth you be inspir'd;
So may
This Day
Be more, and long desir'd:
And with the Flame
Of Love be bright,
As with the light
Of Bonfires. Then
The Birth-day shines, when Logs not burn, but Men

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

GOod, and great God, can I not think of thee,
But it must, straight, my Melancholy be?
Is it interpreted in me Disease,
That, laden with my Sins, I seek for Ease?
O, be thou Witness, that the Reins dost know,
And Hearts of all, if I be sad for Show,
And judge me after: if I dare pretend
To ought but Grace, or aim at other End.
As thou art All, so be thou All to me,
First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;
My Faith, my Hope, my Love: and in this state,
My Judge, my Witness, and my Advocate.
Where have I been this while exil'd from thee?
And whither rapt, now thou but stoup'st to me?
Dwell, dwell here still: O, being every-where,
How can I doubt to find thee ever, here?
I know my state, both full of Shame, and Scorn,
Conceiv'd in Sin, and unto Labour born,
Standing with Fear, and must with Horror fall,
And destin'd unto judgment, after all.
I feel my Griefs too, and there scarce is Ground,
Upon my Flesh t'inflict another Wound.
Yet dare I not complain, or wish for Death
With holy Paul, lest it be thought the Breath
Of Discontent; or that these Prayers be
For weariness of Life, not love of thee.

TITLE underwoods

RHYME a a a b c c c b

OHoly, blessed, glorious Trinity
Of Persons, still one God, in Unity.
The faithful man's believed Mystery
Help, help to lift
2. My self up to thee, harrow'd, torn, and bruis'd
By sin, and Sathan; and my flesh misus'd,
As my Heart lies in pieces, all confus'd,
O take my gift.

RHYME a a a b c c c b

3. All-gracious God, the Sinners Sacrifice.
A broken Heart thou wert not wont despise,
But 'bove the fat of Rams, or Bulls, to prize
An off'ring meet,
4. For thy acceptance. O, behold me right,
And take compassion on my grievous plight.
What Odour can be, than a Heart contrite,
To thee more sweet?

RHYME a a a b c c c b

5. Eternal Father, God, who did'st create
This All of nothing, gavest it Form, and Fate,
And Breath'st into it, Life, and Light, with state
To worship thee.
6. Eternal God the Son, who not deny'dst
To take our Nature; becam'st Man, and dy'dst,
To pay our Debts, upon thy Cross, and cry'dst
All's done in me.

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7. Eternal Spirit, God from both proceeding,
Father and Son; the Comforter, in breeding
Pure thoughts in Man: with fiery Zeal them feeding
For acts of Grace.
8. Increase those acts, O glorious Trinity
Of Persons, still one God in Unity;
Till I attain the long'd-for mystery
of seeing your Face.

RHYME a a a b c c c b

11. My Maker, Saviour, and my Sanctifier:
To hear, to meditate, sweeten my desire,
With Grace, with Love, with Cherishing intire:
O, then how blest!
12. Among thy Saints elected to abide,
And with thy Angels placed, side by side,
But in thy presence, truly glorified
Shall I there rest!

TITLE

RHYME a b b a c c

HEar me, O God!
A broken Heart,
Is my best part:
Use still thy Rod,
That I may prove
Therein, thy Love.

RHYME a b b a b

If thou hadst not
Been stern to me,
But left me free,
I had forgot
My self and thee.

RHYME a b b a b

For, sins so sweet,
As minds ill bent
Rarely repent,
Until they meet
Their punishment.

RHYME a b b a c c

Who more can crave
Than thou hast done?
That gav'st a Son,
To free a Slave:
First made of nought;
Withall since bought.

RHYME a b b a b

Sin, Death, and Hell,
His glorious Name
Quite overcame,
Yet I rebel,
And slight the same.

RHYME a b b a b

But, I'll come in,
Before my loss,
Me farther toss,
As sure to win
Under his Cross.

TITLE

RHYME a a b c c b

ISing the Birth, was born to Night,
The Author both of Life, and Light;
The Angels so did sound it,
And like the ravish'd Shep'erds said,
Who saw the Light, and were afraid,
Yet search'd, and true they found it.

RHYME a a b c c b

The Son of God, th' Eternal King,
That did us all Salvation bring,
And fre'd the Soul from danger;
He whom the whole World could not take,
The Word, which Heaven and Earth did make;
Was now laid in a Manger.

RHYME a a b c c b

The Father's Wisdom will'd it so,
The Sons obedience knew no No,
Both Wills were in one stature;
And as that Wisdom had decre'd,
The Word was now made Flesh indeed,
And took on him our Nature.

RHYME a a b c c b

What comfort by him do we win.
Who made himself the price of Sin,
To make us Heirs of Glory,
To see this Babe, all Innocence;
A Martyr born in our Defence:
Can Man forget this Story?

TITLE

RHYME a a *

LEt it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty Years,
I have had, and have my Peers;
Poets, though divine, are Men:
Some have lov'd as old agen.
And it is not always Face,
Clothes, or Fortune gives the grace;
Or the Feature, or the Youth:
But the Language, and the Truth,
With the Ardor, and the Passion,
Gives the Lover weight, and fashion.
If you then will read the Story,
First, prepare you to be sorry,
That you never knew till now,
Either whom to love, or how:
But be glad, as soon with me,
When you know that this is she,
Of whose Beauty it was sung,
She shall make the old Man young.
Keep the middle Age at stay,
And let nothing high decay,
Till she be the reason why,
All the World for Love may die.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

IBeheld her, on a Day,
When her look out-flourisht May:
And her dressing did out-brave
All the Pride the Fields then have:
Far I was from being stupid,
For I ran and call'd on Cupid;
Love, if thou wilt ever see
Mark of glory, come with me;
Where's thy Quiver? bend thy Bow;
Here's a Shaft, thou art too slow!
And (withal) I did untie
Every Cloud about his Eye;
But, he had not gain'd his sight
Sooner than he lost his Might,
Or his Courage; for away
Strait he ran, and durst not stay,
Letting Bow and Arrow fall:
Nor for any Threat, or Call,
Could be brought once back to look,
I fool-hardy, there up took
Both the Arrow he had quit,
And the Bow, which thought to hit
This my Object: But she threw
Such a Lightning (as I drew)
At my Face, that took my Sight,
And my Motion from me quite;
So that there, I stood a Stone,
Mock'd of all; and call'd of one
(Which with grief and wrath I heard)
Cupid's Statue with a Beard;
Or else one that plaid his Ape,
In a Hercules his shape.

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RHYME a a *

AFter many scorns like these,
Which the prouder Beauties please;
She content was to restore
Eyes and Limbs, to hurt me more,
And would on Conditions, be
Reconcil'd to Love, and me.
First, that I must kneeling yield
Both the Bow, and shaft I held
Unto her; which Love might take
At her Hand, with Oath, to make
Me, the scope of his next draught
Aimed, with that self-same Shaft:
He no sooner heard the Law,
But the Arrow home did draw,
And (to gain her by his Art)
Left it sticking in my Heart:
Which when she beheld to bleed,
She repented of the deed,
And would fain have chang'd the fate,
But the pity comes too late.
Looser-like, now, all my wreak
Is, that I have leave to speak.
And in either Prose, or Song,
To revenge me with my Tongue,
Which how Dexterously I do
Hear and make Example too.

TITLE 

RHYME a b a b c c d d e e

SEE the Chariot at Hand here of Love
Wherein my Lady rideth!
Each that draws, is a Swan, or a Dove
And well the Car Love guideth.
As she goes, all Hearts do duty
Unto her Beauty,
And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight;
That they still were to run by her side,
Through Swords, through Seas, whither she would ride.

RHYME a b a b c c d d e e

Do but look on her Eyes, they do light
All that Loves World compriseth!
Do but look on her Hair, it is bright
As Loves Star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her Forehead's smoother
Than words that sooth her!
And from her arched Brows, such a Grace
Sheds it self through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the Gain, all the Good of the Elements strife.

RHYME a b a b c c d d e e

Have you seen but a bright Lily grow,
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the Snow
Before the Soyl hath smutch'd it?
Ha' you felt the Wooll of Bever?
Or Swans Down ever?
Or have smelt o' the Bud o' the Briar?
Or the Nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the Bag of the Bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

TITLE

RHYME a a *

NOblest Charis, you that are
Both my Fortune, and my Star!
And do govern more my Blood,
Than the various Moon the Flood!
Hear, what late discourse of you,
Love and I have had; and true.
'Mongst my Muses finding me,
Where he chanc't your Name to see
Set, and to this softer Strain;
Sure, said he, if I have Brain,
This here sung, can be no other,
By description, but my Mother!
So hath Homer prais'd her Hair;
So Anacreon drawn the Air
Of her Face, and made to rise
Just about her sparkling Eyes,
Both her Brows bent like my Bow.
By her Looks I do her know,
Which you call my Shafts. And see!
Such my Mothers Blushes be,
As the Bath your Verse discloses
In her Cheeks of Milk and Roses;
Such as oft I wanton in?
And, above her even Chin,
Have you plac'd the Bank of Kisses,
Where you say, Men gather Blisses,
Rip'ned with a breath more sweet,
Than when Flowers, and West-winds meet.
Nay, her white and polish'd Neck,
With the Lace that doth it deck,
Is my Mothers! Hearts of slain
Lovers, made into a Chain!
And between each rising Breast,
Lies the Valley, call'd my Nest,
Where I sit and preen my Wings
After flight; and put new stings
To my Shafts! Her very Name,
With my Mothers, is the same.
I confess all, I reply'd,
And the Glass hangs by her side,
And the Girdle 'bout her waste,
All is Venus, save unchaste.
But alas, thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best
Of her Sex: But could'st thou, Love,
Call to mind the Forms that strove
For the Apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were she.
For this Beauty yet doth hide,
Something more than thou hast spi'd.
Outward Grace weak Love beguiles:
She is Venus, when she smiles;
But she's Juno, when she walks,
And Minerva, when she talks.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

CHaris, guess, and do not miss,
Since I drew a Morning Kiss
From your Lips, and suck'd an air
Thence, as sweet, as you are fair.
What my Muse and I have done:
Whether we have lost, or won,
If by us, the odds were laid,
That the Bride (allow'd a Maid)
Look'd not half so fresh and fair,
With th' advantage of her Hair,
And her Jewels, to the view
Of th' Assembly, as did you!
Or, that did you sit, or walk,
You were more the Eye, and talk
Of the Court, to day, than all
Else that glister'd in White-hall;
So, as those that had your sight,
Wisht the Bride were chang'd to Night.
And did think such Rites were due
To no other Grace but you!
Or, if you did move to Night
In the Dances, with what spight
Of your Peers, you were beheld,
That at every Motion swell'd
So to see a Lady tread,
As might all the Graces lead,
And was worthy (being so seen)
To be envi'd of the Queen.
Or if you would yet have stay'd,
Whether any would up-braid
To himself his loss of Time;
Or have charg'd his sight of Crime,
To have left all sight for you.
Guess of these, which is the true;
And, if such a Verse as this,
May not claim another Kiss.

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FOr Loves-sake, kiss me once again,
I long, and should not beg in vain,
Here's none to spy, or see;
Why do you doubt, or stay?
I'll taste as lightly as the Bee,
That doth but touch his Flower, and flies away.

RHYME a a b c b c

Once more, and (faith) I will be gone,
Can he that loves, ask less than one?
Nay, you may err in this,
and all your Bounty wrong:
This could be call'd but half a Kiss.
What we 're but once to do, we should do long,

RHYME a a b c b c

I will but mend the last and tell
Where, how it would have relish'd well;
Joyn Lip to Lip, and try:
Each suck others breath,
And whilst our Tongues perplexed lie,
Let who will think us dead, or wish our death.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

CHaris one day in discourse
Had of Love, and of his force,
Lightly promis'd, she would tell
What a Man she could love well:
And that promise set on fire
All that heard her, with desire.
With the rest, I long expected,
When the work would be effected:
But we find that cold delay,
And Excuse spun every day,
As, until she tell her one,
We all fear, she loveth none.
Therefore, Charis, you must do't,
For I will so urge you to't,
You shall neither eat, nor sleep,
No, nor forth your Window peep,
With your Emissary Eye,
To fetch in the Forms go by:
And pronounce, which Band or Lace,
Better fits him than his Face;
Nay, I will not let you sit
'Fore your Idol Glass a whit,
To say over every purl
There; or to reform a curl;
Or with Secretary Sis
To consult, if Fucus this
Be as good, as was the last:
All your sweet of Life is past,
Make accompt, unless you can,
(And that quickly) speak your Man.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

OF your Trouble, Ben, to ease me,
I will tell what Man would please me.
I would have him, if I could,
Noble; or of greater Blood:
Titles, I confess, do take me;
And a Woman God did make me,
French to boot, at least in fashion,
And his Manners of that Nation.
Young I'ld have him too, and fair,
Yet a Man; with crisped Hair,
Cast in thousand Snares and Rings,
For Love's Fingers, and his Wings:
Chesnut Colour, or more slack
Gold, upon a Ground of Black.
Venus and Minerva's Eyes,
For he must look wanton-wise.
Eye-brows bent, like Cupid's Bow,
Front, an ample Field of Snow;
Even Nose, and Cheek, (withal)
Smooth as is the Billiard Ball:
Chin as woolly as the Peach;
And his Lip should kissing teach,
Till he cherish'd too much Beard,
And make Love or me afeard.
He would have a Hand as soft
As the Down, and shew it oft;
Skin as smooth as any Rush,
And so thin to see a Blush
Rising through it, e're it came;
All his Blood should be a Flame,
Quickly fir'd, as in beginners
In Loves School, and yet no sinners.
'Twere too long to speak of all,
What we Harmony do call,
In a body should be there.
Well he should his Clothes to wear;
Yet no Taylor help to make him
Drest, you still for Man should take him,
And not think h' had eat a Stake,
Or were set up in a Brake.
Valiant he should be as fire,
Shewing danger more than Ire.
Bounteous as the Clouds to Earth,
And as honest as his Birth.
All his Actions to be such,
As to do nothing too much.
Nor o'er-praise, nor yet condem;
Nor out-value, nor contemn;
Nor do Wrongs, nor Wrongs receive;
Nor tie Knots, nor Knots unweave;
And from baseness to be free,
As he durst love Truth and Me.
Such a Man, with every part,
I could give my very Heart;
But of one, if short he came,
I can rest me where I am.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

FOr his Mind, I do not care,
That's a Toy that I could spare:
Let his Title be but great,
His Clothes rich, and Band sit neat,
Himself young, and Face be good,
All I wish is understood.
What you please, you parts may call,
'Tis one good part I'ld lie withal.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b

COme, with our Voices, let us war,
And challenge all the Sphears,
Till each of us be made a Star,
And all the World turn Ears.

RHYME a b a b

At such a Call, what Beast or Fowl,
Of Reason empty is!
What Tree or Stone doth want a Soul?
What Man but must lose his?

RHYME a b a b

Mix then your Notes, that we may prove
To stay the running Floods?
To make the Mountain Quarries move?
And call the walking Woods?

RHYME a b a b

What need of me? do you but sing
Sleep, and the Grave will wake:
No Tunes are sweet, nor Words have sting,
But what those Lips do make.

RHYME a b a b

They say, the Angels mark each Deed,
And exercise below,
And out of inward Pleasure feed
On what they viewing know.

RHYME a b a b

O sing not you then, lest the best
Of Angels should be driven
To fall again; at such a Feast,
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

RHYME a b a b

Nay, rather both our Souls be strain'd
To meet their high Desire;
So they in State of Grace retain'd,
May wish us of their Quire.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b

OH do not wanton with those Eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing;
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
Lest Shame destroy their being.

RHYME a b a b

O, be not angry with those fires;
For then their Threats will kill me:
Nor look too kind on my desires,
For then my Hopes will spill me.

RHYME a b a b

O, do not steep them in thy Tears;
For so will Sorrow slay me
Nor spread them as distract with fears;
Mine own enough betray me.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b c c

MEn, if you love us, play no more
The Fools, or Tyrants with your Friends,
To make us still sing o'er and o'er,
Our own false Praises, for your Ends:
We have both Wits, and Fancies too,
And if we must, let's sing of you.

RHYME a b a b c c

Nor do we doubt, but that we can,
If we would search with care and pain,
Find some one good, in some one Man;
So going thorow all your Strain,
We shall at last, of parcels make
One good enough for a Songs sake.

RHYME a b a b c c

And as a cunning Painter takes
In any curious Piece you see
More pleasure while the thing he makes,
Than when 'tis made, why, so will we.
And having pleas'd our Art, we'll try
To make a new, and hang that by.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b c c

HAng up those dull, and envious Fools
That talk abroad of Womans change,
We were not bred to sit on Stools,
Our proper Vertue is to range:
Take that away, you take our Lives,
We are no Women then, but Wives.

RHYME a b a b c c

Such as in Valour would excel,
Do change, though Man, and often fight,
Which we in Love must do as well,
If ever we will love aright.
The frequent varying of the Deed,
Is that which doth Perfection breed.

RHYME a b a b c c

Nor is't Inconstancy to change
For what is better, or to make
(By searching) what before was strange,
Familiar, for the uses sake:
The good, from bad, is not descri'd,
But as 'tis often vext and tri'd.

And this Profession of a Store
In Love, doth not alone help forth
Our Pleasure; but preserves us more
From being forsaken, than doth worth:
For were the worthiest Woman curst
To love one Man, he'd leave her first.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b c c c

ILove, and he loves me again,
Yet dare I not tell who;
For if the Nymphs should know my Swain,
I fear they'd love him too;
Yet if it be not known,
The Pleasure is as good as none,
For that's a narrow Joy is but our own.

RHYME a b a b c c c

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me:
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,
It were a plague 'bove Scorn,
And yet it cannot be forborn,
Unless my heart would as my thought be torn.

RHYME a b a b c c c

He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh and fragrant too,
As Summers Sky, or purged Air,
And looks as Lilies do,
That are this Morning blown;
Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,
And fear much more, that more of him be shown.

RHYME a b a b c c c

But he hath Eyes so round, and bright,
As make away my doubt,
Where Love may all his Torches light,
Though Hate had put them out:
But then t' increase my fears,
What Nymph soe'er his Voice but hears,
Will be my Rival, though she have but Ears.

RHYME a b a b c c c

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
And he loves me; yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
From either Heart, I know;
But so exempt from blame,
As it would be to each a Fame:
If Love, or Fear, would let me tell his Name.

RHYME a a b b b 

And in his Mrs.Mistress' Flame, playing like a Fly,
Turn'd to Cinders by her Eye?
Yes; and in Death, as Life unblest,
To have't exprest,
Even ashes of Lovers find no rest.

TITLE

RHYME a b b b a

INow think, Love is rather deaf than blind,
For else it could not be,
That she,
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
And cast my Love behind:

RHYME a a a b b c d d c e f f e

I'm sure my Language to her, was as sweet,
And every close did meet
In Sentence, of as subtil Feet,
As hath the youngest He,
That sits in shadow of Apollo's Tree.
Oh, but my conscious Fears,
That fly my thoughts between,
Tell me that she hath seen
My Hundreds of Gray Hairs,
Told Seven and Forty Years.
Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace
My Mountain Belly, and my Rocky Face,
And all these through her Eyes, have stopt her Ears.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

WRetched and foolish Jealousie,
How cam'st thou thus to enter me?
I ne'er was of thy kind:
Nor have I yet the narrow Mind
To vent that poor desire,
That others should not warm them at my fire:
I wish the Sun should shine
On all Mens Fruits and Flowers, as well as mine.

RHYME a a *

But under the Disguise of Love,
Thou say'st, thou only cam'st to prove
What my affections were.
Think'st thou that Love is help'd by Fear?
Go, get thee quickly forth
Loves sickness, and his noted want of worth,
Seek doubting Men to please,
I ne'er will owe my Health to a Disease.

TITLE

RHYME a a b c c a a b b d d e e b

OR Scorn, or pity on me take,
I must the true Relation make,
I am undone to Night:
Love in a subtil Dream disguis'd,
Hath both my Heart and me surpris'd,
Whom never yet he durst attempt t' awake;
Nor will he tell me for whose sake
He did me the Delight,
Or Spight,
But leaves me to inquire,
In all my wild desire
Of sleep again, who was his aid,
And sleep so guilty and afraid,
As since he dares not come within my sight.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

IHave my Piety too, which could
It vent it self, but as it would,
Would say as much, as both have done.
Before me here, the Friend and Son:
For I both lost a Friend and Father,
Of him whose bones this Grave doth gather:
Dear Vincent Corbet, who so long
Had wrestled with Diseases strong,
That though they did possess each Limb,
Yet he broke them, e're they could him:
With the just Canon of his Life,
A Life that knew nor Noise, nor Strife:
But was by sweetning so his Will,
All Order and Disposure, still
His Mind as pure, and neatly kept,
As were his Nourceries, and swept
So of Uncleanness, or Offence,
That never came ill odour thence!

RHYME a a *

And add his Actions unto these,
They were as specious as his Trees.
'Tis true, he could not reprehend
His very Manners, taught t' amend,
They were so even, grave, and holy;
No Stubbornness so stiff, nor Folly
To license ever was so light,
As twice to trespass in his sight:
His Looks would so correct it, when
It chid the Vice, yet not the Men.
Much from him, I profess, I won,
And more, and more, I should have done,
But that I understood him scant,
Now I conceive him by my want;
And pray who shall my sorrows read,
That they for me their Tears will shed;
For truly, since he left to be,
I feel, I'm rather dead than he!

RHYME a a *

Reader, whose Life, and Name, did e'er become
An Epitaph, deserv'd a Tomb:
Nor wants it here through Penury, or Sloth,
Who makes the one, so 't be first, makes both.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

IF Sackvile, all that have the power to do
Great and good Turns, as well could time them too,
And knew their how, and where: we should have then
Less list of proud, hard, or ingrateful Men.
For benefits are ow'd with the same Mind
As they are done, and such Returns they find:
You then whose Will not only, but Desire
To succour my Necessities, took fire,
Not at my Prayers, but your Sense; which laid
The way to meet, what others would upbraid;
And in the Act did so my blush prevent,
As I did feel it done, as soon as meant:
You cannot doubt, but I who freely know
This Good from you, as freely will it owe;
And though my Fortune humble me, to take
The smallest Courtesies with Thanks, I make
Yet choice from whom I take them; and would shame
To have such do me good, I durst not name:
They are the noblest benefits, and sink
Deepest in Man, of which when he doth think,
The Memory delights him more, from whom
Then what he hath receiv'd. Gifts stink from some;
They are so long a coming, and so hard,
Where any Deed is forc't, the Grace is marr'd.
Can I owe Thanks for Courtesies receiv'd
Against his Will that does 'em? That hath weav'd
Excuses, or Delays? or done 'em scant,
That they have more opprest me than my want?
Or if he did it not to succour me,
But by meer Chance? for Interest? or to free
Himself of farther trouble, or the weight
Of pressure, like one taken in a streight?
All this corrupts the thanks, less hath he won,
That puts it in his Debt-book ere't be done;
Or that doth sound a Trumpet, and doth call
His Grooms to witness; or else lets it fall
In that proud manner; as a good so gain'd,
Must make me sad for what I have obtain'd.
No! Gifts and Thanks should have one cheerful Face,
So each that's done, and tane, becomes a Brace.
He neither gives, or do's, that doth delay
A Benefit: or that doth throw't away,
No more than he doth thank, that will receive
Nought but in corners, and is loth to leave,
Lestrare form of 'Least' Air, or Print, but flies it: Such Men would
Run from the Conscience of it, if they could.

RHYME a a *

As I have seen some Infants of the Sword
Well known, and practis'd Borrowers on their Word,
Give thanks by stealth, and whispering in the Ear,
For what they straight would to the World forswear;
And speaking worst of those, from whom they went
But then, fist-fill'd, to put me off the scent.
Now dam' me, Sir, if you shall not command
My Sword ('tis but a poor Sword understand)
As far as any poor Sword i' the Land;
Then turning unto him is next at hand,
Dam's whom he damn'd too, is the veriest Gull,
H'as Feathers, and will serve a Man to pull.
Are they not worthy to be answer'd so,
That to such Natures let their full Hands flow,
And seek not wants to succour: but enquire,
Like Money-brokers, after Names, and hire
Their bounties forth, to him that last was made,
Or stands to be'n Commission o' the Blade?
Still, still the Hunters of false Fame apply
Their Thoughts and Means to making loud the Cry:
But one is bitten by the Dog he fed,
And hurt, seeks Cure; the Surgeon bids, take bread,
And Spunge-like, with it dry up the blood quite:
Then give it to the Hound that did him bite:
Pardon, says he, that were a way to see
All the Town-Curs take each their snatch at me.
O, is it so? knows he so much? and will
Feed those, at whom the Table points at still?
I not deny it, but to help the need
Of any, is a Great and Generous Deed:
Yea, of th' ingrateful: and he forth must tell
Many a Pound, and Piece will pace one well;
But these Men ever want: their very Trade
Is borrowing; that but stopt, they do invade
All as their Prize, turn Pyrates here at Land,
Ha' their Bermudas, and their Streights i' th' Strand:
Man out of their Boats to th' Temple, and not shift
Now, but command; make Tribute what was Gift;
And it is paid 'em with a trembling Zeal,
And Superstition, I dare scarce reveal,
If it were clear; but being so in Cloud
Carried and wrapt, I only am alow'd
My Wonder! Why? the taking a Clown's Purse,
Or robbing the poor Market-folks, should nurse
Such a Religious Horror in the Breasts
Of our Town-Gallantry! or why there rests
Such Worship due to kicking of a Punck!
Or swaggering with the Watch, or Drawer drunk;
Or feats of Darkness acted in Mid-Sun,
And told of with more License than th' were done!
Sure there is Mystery in it, I not know
That Men such Reverence to such actions show!
And almost Deifie the Authors! make
Loud Sacrifice of Drink, for their Healths-sake:
Rear Suppers in their Names! and spend whole Nights
Unto their Praise, in certain swearing Rites:
Cannot a Man be reck'ned in the State
Of Valour, but at this Idolatrous rate?
I thought that Fortitude had been a mean
'Twixt Fear and Rashness; not a Lust obscene,
Or appetite of offending, but a Skill,
Or Science of a discerning Good and Ill.
And you, Sir, know it well, to whom I write,
That with these Mixtures we put out her Light,
Her Ends are Honesty, and Publick Good!
And where they want, she is not understood.
No more are these of us, let them then go,
I have the list of mine own Faults to know,
Look too and cure: He's not a Man hath none,
But like to be, that every day mends one,
And feels it: Else he tarries by the Beast:
Can I discern how Shadows are decreast,
Or grown; by height or lowness of the Sun?
And can I less of Substance? when I run,

RHYME a a *

Ride, sail, am coach'd, know I how far I have gone.
And my Minds Motion not? or have I none:
No! he must feel and know, that I will advance.
Men have been great, but never good by chance,
Or on the sudden. It were strange, that he
Who was this Morning such a one, should be
Sydney ere Night? or that did go to bed
Coriat, should rise the most sufficient Head
Of Christendom? And neither of these know,
Were the Rack offer'd them, how they came so:
'Tis by degrees that Men arrive at glad
Profit, in ought each day some little add,
In time 'twill be a heap: This is not true
Alone in Money, but in Manners too.
Yet we must more than move still, or go on,
We must accomplish: 'Tis the last Key-stone
That makes the Arch; the rest that there were put
Are nothing till that comes to bind and shut.
Then stands it a triumphal Mark! then Men
Observe the strength, the height, the why, and when,
It was erected; and still walking under,
Meet some new Matter to look up and wonder!
Such Notes are Vertuous Men! they live as fast
As they are high; are rooted, and will last.
They need no Stilts, nor rise upon their Toes,
As if they would belie their stature; those
Are Dwarfs of Honour, and have neither weight
Nor fashion, if they chance aspire to height,
'Tis like light Canes, that first rise big and brave,
Shoot forth in smooth and comely spaces; have
But few and fair Divisions: but being got
Aloft, grow less and streightned; full of Knot.
And last, go out in nothing: You that see
Their difference, cannot choose which you will be.
You know (without my flatt'ring you) too much
For me to be your Indice. Keep you such,
That I may love your Person (as I do)
Without your Gift, though I can rate that too,
By thanking thus the Courtesie to life,
Which you will bury, but therein, the strife
May grow so great to be Example, when
(As their true Rule or Lesson) either Men
Donnor's or Donnee's to their practice shall
Find you to reckon nothing, me owe all.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

IKnow to whom I write here, I am sure,
Though I am short, I cannot be obscure:
Less shall I for the Art or Dressing care,
Truth, and the Graces best, when naked are.
Your Book, my Selden, I have read, and much
Was trusted, that you thought my Judgment such
To ask it: Though in most of Works it be
A Penance, where a Man may not be free.
Rather than Office, when it doth, or may
Chance that the Friends affection proves allay
Unto the Censure. Yours all need doth fly
Of this so Vitious Humanity.
Than which there is not unto Study, a more
Pernicious Enemy, we see before
A many of Books, even good Judgments wound
Themselves through favouring what is there not found:
But I on yours far otherwise shall do,
Not fly the Crime, but the Suspicion too:
Though I confess (as every Muse hath err'd,
And mine not least) I have too oft preferr'd
Men past their terms, and prais'd some Names too much,
But 'twas with purpose to have made them such,
Since being deceiv'd, I turn a sharper Eye
Upon my self, and ask to whom? and why?
And what I write? and vex it many days
Before Men get a Verse; much less a Praise:

RHYME a a *

So that my Reader is assur'd, I now
Mean what I speak, and still will keep that Vow,
Stand forth my Object, then, you that have been
Ever at home; yet have all Countries seen:
And like a Compass, keeping one Foot still
Upon your Center, do your Circle fill
Of general Knowledge; watch'd Men, Manners too,
Heard what times past have said, seen what ours do:
Which Grace shall I make love to first? your Skill,
Or Faith in things? or is't your Wealth and Will
T' instruct and teach? or your unweary'd pain
Of Gathering? Bounty in pouring out again?
What Fables have you vext! what Truth redeem'd!
Antiquities search'd! Opinions dis-esteem'd!
Impostures branded, and Authorities urg'd,
What Blots and Errors have you watch'd and purg'd
Records and Authors of! how rectified,
Times, Manners, Customs! Innovations spied!
Sought out the Fountains, Sources, Creeks, Paths, Ways,
And noted the Beginnings and Decays!
Where is that Nominal Mark, or Real Rite,
Form, Act or Ensign, that hath scap'd your sight?
How are Traditions there examin'd! how
Conjectures retreiv'd! and a Story now
And then of Times (besides the bare Conduct
Of what it tells us) weav'd in to instruct.
I wonder'd at the Richness, but am lost,
To see the Workmanship so 'xceed the Cost!
To mark the excellent seas'ning of your Stile!
And Manly Elocution, not one while
With Horror rough, then rioting with Wit!
But to the Subject still the Colours fit,
In sharpness of all Search, wisdom of Choice,
Newness of Sense, Antiquity of Voice!
I yeild, I yeild, the matter of your Praise
Flows in upon me, and I cannot raise
A bank against it. Nothing but the round
Large clasp of Nature, such a Wit can bound
Monarch in Letters! 'Mongst thy Titles shown
Of others Honours, thus, enjoy their own,
I first salute thee so; and gratulate
With that thy Stile, thy keeping of thy State;
In offering this thy work to no great Name,
That would, perhaps, have prais'd, and thank'd the same,
But nought beyond. He thou hast given it to,
Thy Learned Chamber-fellow, knows to do
It true respects. He will not only love
Embrace and cherish; but he can approve
And estimate thy Pains; as having wrought
In the same Mines of Knowledge; and thence brought
Humanity enough to be a Friend,
And strength to be a Champion, and defend
Thy Gift 'gainst envy. O how I do count
Among my comings in, and see it mount
The Grain of your Two Friendships! Hayward and
Selden! Two Names that so much understand!
On whom I could take up, and ne'er abuse
The Credit, what would furnish a tenth Muse!
But here's no time, nor place, my Wealth to tell,
You both are modest. So am I. Farewel.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

WAke, Friend, from forth thy Lethargy: the Drum
Beats brave, and loud in Europe, and bids come
All that dare rowse: or are not loth to quit
Their vitious Ease, and be o'erwhelm'd with it.
It is a call to keep the Spirits alive
That gasp for action, and would yet revive
Man's buried Honour, in his sleepy Life:
Quickning dead Nature, to her noblest strife.

RHYME a a *

All other acts of Worldlings are but toil
In dreams, begun in hope, and end in spoil.
Look on th' ambitious Man, and see him nurse
His unjust hopes, with praises begg'd, or (worse)
Bought Flatteries, the issue of his Purse,
Till he become both their, and his own Curse!
Look on the false, and cunning Man, that loves
No person, nor is lov'd: what ways he proves
To gain upon his belly; and at last
Crush'd in the Snaky Brakes, that he had past!
See the grave, sower, and supercilious Sir,
In outward Face, but inward, light as Fur,
Or Feathers: lay his Fortune out to show,
Till Envy wound, or maim it at a blow!
See him that's call'd, and thought the happiest Man,
Honour'd at once, and envy'd (if it can
Be, Honour is so mixt) by such as would
For all their spight, be like him, if they could:
No part or corner Man can look upon,
But there are Objects bid him to be gone
As far as he can fly, or follow Day,
Rather than here so bogg'd in Vices stay,
The whole World here leaven'd with Madness swells?
And being a thing blown out of nought, rebels
Against his Maker; high alone with Weeds,
And impious Rankness of all Sects and Seeds:
Nor to be check'd, or frighted now with Fate,
But more licentious made, and desperate!
Our Delicacies are grown capital,
And even our Sports are Dangers! what we call
Friendship is now mask'd Hatred! Justice fled,
And Shamefac'dness together! All Laws dead
That kept Man living! Pleasures only sought!
Honour and Honesty, as poor things thought
As they are made! Pride and stiff Clownage mixt
To make up Greatness! and Mans whole good fix'd
In Bravery, or Gluttony, or Coyn,
All which he makes the Servants of the Groin,
Thither it flaws,flows how much did Stallion spend
To have his Court-bred-filly there commend
His Lace and Starch: And fall upon her back
In admiration, stretch'd upon the Rack
Of Lust, to his rich Suit and Title, Lord?
I, that's a Charm and half! She must afford
That all Respect; She must lie down: Nay, more,
'Tis there Civility to be a Whore;
He's one of Blood and Fashion! and with these
The Bravery makes, she can no Honour leese
To do't with Cloth, or Stuffs, Lusts Name might merit
With Velvet, Plush, and Tissues, it is Spirit.
O, these so ignorant Monsters! light, as proud,
Who can behold their Manners, and not Clowd-
Like upon them lighten? If Nature could
Not make a Verse, Anger or Laughter would,
To see 'em aye discoursing with their Glass,
How they may make some one that day an Ass,
Planting their Purls, and Curls, spread forth like Net,
And every Dressing for a Pitfall set
To catch the Flesh in, and to pound a Prick
Be at their Visits, see 'em squeamish, sick,
Ready to cast at one, whose Band sits ill,
And then leap mad on a neat Pickardill;
As if a Brize were gotten i' their Tail,
And firk, and jerk, and for the Coach-man rail,
And jealous each of other, yet think long
To be abroad, chanting some bawdy Song,
And laugh, and measure Thighs, then squeak, spring, itch,
Do all the Tricks of a salt Lady Bitch;
For t'other Pound of Sweet-meats, he shall feel
That pays, or what he will. The Dame is Steel;
For these with her young Company she'll enter,
Where Pittes, or Wright, or Modet would not venter,
And comes by these Degrees the Stile t' inherit,
Of Woman of Fashion, and a Lady of Spirit:

RHYME a a *

Nor is the Title question'd with our proud,
Great, brave, and fashion'd folk, these are allow'd
Adulteries now, are not so hid, or strange,
They're grown Commodity upon Exchange;
He that will follow but another's Wife,
Is lov'd, though he let out his own for life:
The Husband now's call'd churlish, or a poor
Nature, that will not let his Wife be a Whore;
Or use all Arts, or haunt all Companies
That may corrupt her, even in his Eyes.
The Brother trades a Sister; and the Friend
Lives to the Lord, but to the Ladies End.
Less must not be thought on than Mistris: or
If it be thought, kill'd like her Embrions; for
Whom no great Mistris, hath as yet infam'd
A Fellow of course Letchery, is nam'd
The Servant of the Serving-Woman in scorn,
Ne'er came to taste the plenteous Marriage-Horn.
Thus they do talk. And are these Objects fit
For Man to spend his Money on? his Wit?
His Time? Health? Soul? Will he for these go throw
Those Thousands on his Back, shall after blow
His Body to the Counters, or the Fleet?
Is it for these that fine Man meets the Street
Coach'd, or on Foot-cloth, thrice chang'd every day,
To teach each Suit, he has the ready way
From Hide-Park to the Stage, where at the last
His dear and borrow'd Bravery he must cast?
When not his Combs, his Curling-Irons, his Glass,
Sweet Bags, sweet Powders, nor sweet Words will pass
For less Security? O god for these
Is it that Man pulls on himself Disease?
Surfeit? and Quarrel? Drinks the tother Health?
Or by Damnation voids it? or by stealth?
What Fury of late is crept into our Feasts?
What Honour given to the Drunkennest Guests?
What Reputation to bear one Glass more?
When oft the Bearer is borne out of Door?
This hath our ill-us'd Freedom, and soft Peace
Brought on us, and will every Hour increase
Our Vices, do not tarry in a place,
But being in Motion still (or rather in Race)
Tilt one upon another, and now bear
This way, now that, as if their number were
More than themselves, or than our Lives could take,
But both fell prest under the load they make.
I'll bid thee look no more, but flee, flee Friend,
This Pr곫cipice, and Rocks that have no end,
Or side, but threatens Ruin. The whole Day
Is not enough now, but the Nights to play:
And whilst our States, Strength, Body, and Mind we waste;
Go make our selves the Usurers at a cast.
He that no more for Age, Cramps, Palsies, can
Now use the Bones, we see doth hire a Man
To take the Box up for him; and pursues
The Dice with glassen Eyes, to the glad Viewers views
Of what he throws: Like Letchers grown content
To be beholders, when their Powers are spent.
Can we not leave this Worm? or will we not?
Is that the truer Excuse? or have we got
In this, and like, an itch of Vanity,
That scratching now's our best Felicity?
Well, let it go. Yet this is better than
To lose the Forms, and Dignities of Men,Man
To flatter my good Lord, and cry his Bowl
Runs sweetly, as it had his Lordship's Soul:
Although, perhaps it has, what's that to me,
That may stand by, and hold my peace? will he
When I am hoarse, with praising his each Cast,
Give me but that again, that I must waste
In Sugar Candid, or in butter'd Beer,
For the recovery of my Voice? No, there
Pardon his Lordship. Flatt'ry's grown so cheap
With him, for he is followed with that heap,

RHYME a a *

That watch, and catch, at what they may applaud
As a poor single Flatterer, without Bawd
Is nothing, such scarce Meat and Drink he'll give,
But he that's both, and slave to both, shall live,
And be belov'd, while the Whores last. O Times,
Friend fly from hence, and let these kindled Rhymes,
Light thee from Hell on Earth; where Flatterers, Spies,
Informers, Masters both of Arts and Lies;
Lewd Slanderers, soft Whisperers, that let blood
The life, and Fame-Veins (yet not understood
Of the poor Sufferers) where the envious, proud,
Ambitious, factious, superstitious, loud
Boasters, and perjur'd, with the infinite more
Pr곫varicators swarm: Of which the Store,
(Because th'are every where amongst Mankind
Spread through the World) is easier far to find,
Than once to number, or bring forth to hand,
Though thou wert Muster-Master of the Land.
Go quit 'em all. And take along with thee,
Thy true Friends Wishes, Colby which shall be,
That thine be just, and honest, that thy Deeds
Not wound thy Conscience, when thy Body bleeds;
That thou dost all things more for Truth than Glory,
And never but for doing Wrong be sorry;
That by commanding first thy self, thou mak'st
Thy Person fit for any Charge thou tak'st,
That Fortune never make thee to complain,
But what she gives, thou dar'st give her again:
That whatsoever Face thy Fate puts on,
Thou shrink, or start not; but be always one,
That thou think nothing great, but what is good;
And from that thought strive to be understood.
So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a Fame
Still precious, with the Odour of thy Name.
And last, blaspheme not, we did never hear
Man thought the valianter, 'cause he durst swear;
No more, than we should think a Lord had had
More Honour in him, 'cause we'ave known him mad:
These take, and now go seek thy peace in War,
Who falls for love of God, shall rise a Star.

RHYME a a a a a b b

Reader, stay,
And if I had no more to say,
But here doth lie till the last Day,
All that is left of PHILIP GRAY.
It might thy patience richly pay:
For if such Men as he could die,
What surety of Life have thou and I.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THey are not, Sir, worst Owers, that do pay
Debts when they can: good men may break their day;
And yet the noble Nature never grudge,
'Tis then a Crime, when the Usurer is Judge,
And he is not in Friendship. Nothing there
Is done for Gain: If't be, 'tis not sincere.
Nor should I at this time protested be,
But that some greater Names have broke with me,
And their Words too; where I but break my Band,
I add that (but) because I understand
That as the lesser breach: for he that takes
Simply my Band, his trust in me forsakes,
And looks unto the Forfeit. If you be
Now so much Friend, as you would trust in me,
Venture a longer time, and willingly:
All is not barren Land doth fallow lie:
Some Grounds are made the richer for the Rest;
And I will bring a Crop, if not the best.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

CAn Beauty that did prompt me first to write,
Now threaten, with those means she did invite:
Did her perfections call me on to gaze!
Then like, then love; and now would they amaze!
Or was she gracious a-far off? but near
A terror? or is all this but my fear?
That as the Water makes things, put in't, streight,
Crooked appear; so that doth my conceit:
I can help that with boldness; and Love swear,
And Fortune once, t' assist the Spirits that dare.
But which shall lead me on? both these are blind:
Such Guides men use not, who their way would find.
Except the way be error to those ends:
And then the best are still, the blindest Friends!
Oh how a Lover may mistake! to think,
Or love, or fortune blind, when they but wink
To see men fear: or else for truth, and state,
Because they would free Justice imitate,
Vail their own Eyes, and would impartially
Be brought by us to meet our Destiny.
If it be thus; Come Love, and Fortune go,
I'll lead you on; or if my fate will so,
That I must send one first, my Choice assigns,
Love to my Heart, and Fortune to my Lines.

RHYME a a *

BY those bright Eyes, at whose immortal fires
Love lights his Torches to inflame desires;
By that fair stand, your Forehead, whence he bends
His double Bow, and round his Arrows sends;
By that tall Grove, your Hair, whose globy rings
He flying curles and crispeth with his Wings.
By those pure Bathes your either Cheek discloses,
Where he doth steep himself in Milk and Roses;
And lastly by your Lips, the bank of kisses,
Where men at once may plant and gather blisses:
Tell me (my lov'd Friend) do you love or no?
So well as I may tell in Verse, 'tis so?
You blush, but do not: Friends are either none,
(Though they may number bodies) or but one.
I'll therefore ask no more, but bid you love,
And so that either may example prove
Unto the other; and live Patterns, how
Others, in time may love, as we do now.
Slip no occasion; as time stands not still,
I know no Beauty, nor no Youth that will.
To use the present, then, is not abuse,
You have a Husband is the just excuse
Of all that can be done him; such a one
As would make shift, to make himself alone,
That which we can, who both in you, his Wife,
His Issue, and all Circumstance of life,
As in his place, because he would not vary,
Is constant to be extraordinary.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

A Womans friendship! God whom I trust in,
Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin;
Amongst my many other, that I may
No more, I am sorry for so fond cause, say
At fifty Years, almost, to value it,
That ne'er was known to last above a fit!
Or have the least of Good, but what it must
Put on for fashion, and take up on trust:
Knew I all this afore? had I perceiv'd,
That their whole life was wickedness, though weav'd

RHYME a a *

Of many Colours; outward fresh, from spots,
But their whole inside full of ends and knots.
Knew I that all their Dialogues and discourse,
Were such as I will now relate, or worse.

RHYME a a *

Knew I this Woman? yes; and you do see,
How penitent I am, or I should be.
Do not you ask to know her, she is worse
Than all Ingredients made into one curse,
And that pour'd out upon Man-kind can be!
Think but the Sin of all her Sex, 'tis she!
I could forgive her being proud! a whore!
Perjur'd! and painted! if she were no more
But she is such, as she might yet forestall
The Devil, and be the damning of us all.

RHYME a a *

ASk not to know this Man. If fame should speak
His name in any Metal, it would break.
Two Letters were enough the Plague to tear
Out of his Grave, and poyson every Ear.
A parcel of Court-dirt, a heap, and mass
Of all Vice hurld together, there he was,
Proud, false, and treacherous, vindictive, all
That thought can add, unthankful, the Lay-stall
Of putrid Flesh alive! of Blood, the sink!
And so I leave to stir him, lest he stink.

TITLE

RHYME a b b a

THough Beauty be the mark of praise,
And yours of whom I sing be such
As not the World can praise too much,
Yet is't your Vertue now I raise.

RHYME a b b a

A Vertue, like Allay, so gone
Throughout your form; as though that move,
And draw, and conquer all mens love,
This subjects you to love of one.

RHYME a b b a

Wherein you triumph yet: because
'Tis of your self, and that you use
The noblest freedom, not to choose
Against, or Faith, or Honours Laws.

RHYME a b b a

But who should less expect from you,
In whom alone love lives agen?
By whom he is restor'd to men:
And kept, and bred, and brought up true?

RHYME a b b a

His falling Temples you have rear'd
The withered Garlands tane away;
His Altars kept from the Decay,
That Envy wish'd, and Nature fear'd.

RHYME a b b a

And on them, burn so chaste a flame,
With so much Loyalties expence
As Love t' aquit such excellence.
Is gone himself into your Name.

RHYME a b b a

And you are he: the Deity
To whom all Lovers are design'd;
That would their better objects find:
Among which faithful Troop am I.

RHYME a b b a

Who as an off-spring at your Shrine,
Have sung this Hymn, and here intreat
One spark of your Diviner heat
To light upon a Love of mine.

RHYME a b b a

Which if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view,
Yet give me leave t' adore in you
What I, in her, am griev'd to want.

TITLE

RHYME a b a a b b 

WHere do'st thou careless lie
Buried in ease and sloth?
Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die;
And this Security,
It is the common Moath,
That eats on Wits, and Arts, and destroys them both.

RHYME a b a a b b 

Are all th' Aonian springs
Dri'd up? lies Thespia waste?
Doth Clarius Harp want Strings,
That not a Nymph now sings!
Or droop they as disgrac't,
To see their Seats and Bowers by chattring Pies defac't?

RHYME a b a a b b 

If hence thy silence be,
As 'tis too just a cause;
Let this thought quicken thee,
Minds that are great and free,
Should not on Fortune pause,
'Tis crown enough to Vertue still, her own applause.

RHYME a b a a b b 

What though the greedy Fry
Be taken with false Baits
Of worded Balladry,
And think it Poesie?
They die with their conceits,
And only pitious scorn, upon their folly waits.

RHYME a b a a b b 

Then take in hand thy Lyre,
Strike in thy proper strain,
With Japhet's Line, aspire
Sol's Chariot for new Fire
To give the World again:
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's Brain.

RHYME a b a a b b 

And since our dainty Age,
Cannot indure reproof.
Make not thy self a Page,
To that Strumpet the Stage,
But sing high and aloof,
Safe from the Wolves black Jaw, and the dull Asses Hoof.

TITLE 

RHYME a b a b

FRom Death, and dark Oblivion, ne'er the same.
The Mistriss of man's life, grave History
Raising the World to good and evil Fame
Doth vindicate it to Eternity.

RHYME a b a b

Wise Providence would so; that nor the good
Might be defrauded, nor the great secur'd,
But both might know their ways were understood,
When Vice alike in time with Vertue dur'd,

RHYME a b a b

Which makes that (lighted by the beamy Hand
Of Truth that searcheth the most Springs,
And guided by Experience, whose strait Wand
Doth meet, whose Line doth sound the depth of things

RHYME a b a b c c

She chearfully supporteth what she rears,
Assisted by no strengths, but are kerher own,
Some note of which each varied Pillar bears,
By which as proper Titles, she is known
Times Witness, Herald of Antiquity,
The Light of Truth, and Life of Memory.

TITLE 

RHYME a b a b c c d d e e f e f

WHere art thou Genius? I should use
Thy present Aid: Arise Invention,
Wake, and put on the Wings of Pindar's Muse,
To towre with my intention
High, as his mind, that doth advance
Her upright Head, above the reach of Chance,
Or the times envy
Cynthius, I apply
My bolder numbers to thy golden Lyre?
O, then inspire
Thy Priest in this strange rapture; heat my Brain
With Delphick fire,
That I may sing my thoughts, in some unvulgar strain.

RHYME a b a b c c d d e e f e f

Rich Beam of Honour, shed your Light
On these dark Rhymes; that my Affection
May shine (through every Chinck) to every sight
graced by your Reflection!
Then shall my Verses, like strong Charms,
Break the knit Circle of her Stony Arms,
That hold your Spirit:
And keeps your merit
Lock't in her cold Embraces, from the view
Of Eyes more true,
Who would with judgment search, searching conclude,
(As prov'd in you)
True Nobless. Palm grows strait, though handled ne'er so rude.

RHYME a b a b c c d d e e f e f

Nor think your self unfortunate,
If subject to the jealous errrors
Of politick pretext, that wries a State,
Sink not beneath these terrors:
But whisper; O glad Innocence
Where only a Man's Birth is his offence;
Or the dis-favour,
Of such a savour
Nothing, but practise upon Honours thrall.
O Vertues fall,
When her dead Essence (like the Anatomy
in Surgeons Hall)
Is but a Statists Theam, to read Phlebotomy.

RHYME a b a b c c d d e e f e f

Let Brontes, and black Steropes,
Sweat at the Forge, their Hammers beating;
Pyracmon's Hour will come to give them ease,
Though but while Metal's heating:
And, after all the 겿tnean Ire,
Gold, that is perfect, will out-live the Fire.
For Fury wasteth,
As Patience lasteth.
No Armour to the mind! he is shot-free
From injury,
That is not hurt; not he, that is not hit;
So Fools we see,
Oft scape an Imputation, more through luck than wit.

RHYME a b a b

But to your self most Loyal Lord,
(Whose Heart in that bright Sphere flames clearest.
Though many Gems be in your Bosom stor'd,
Unknown which is the Dearest.)

RHYME a a b b c c d c d

If I auspiciously divine,
(As my hope tells) that our fair Ph벃첻's Shine,
Shall light those places,
With lustrous Graces,
Where darkness with her gloomy Sceptred Hand,
Doth now command.
O then (my best-best lov'd) let me importune,
That you will stand,
As far from all revolt, as you are now from Fortune.

RHYME a b b a c c d d e f f e

High spirited Friend,
I send nor Balms, nor Cor'sives to your wound,
Your Fate hath found,
A gentler, and more agile Hand, to tend
The Cure of that, which is but corporal,
And doubtful Days (Which were nam'd Critical,)
Have made their fairest flight,
And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholsome Physick for the mind,
Wrapt in this Paper lie,
Which in the taking if you mis-apply,
You are unkind.

RHYME a b b a c c d d e f f e

Your covetous Hand,
Happy in that fair Honour it hath gain'd,
Must now be rain'd.
True Valour doth her own Renown command
In one full Action; nor have you now more
To do, than be a Husband of that store.
Think but how dear you bought,
This same which you have caught,
Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth:
'Tis Wisdom, and that high,
For Men to use their Fortune reverently,
Even in Youth.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

HEllen, did Homer never see
Thy Beauties, yet could write of thee?
Did Sappho on her seven-tongu'd Lute,
So speak (as yet it is not mute)
Of Phaos form? or doth the Boy
In whom Anacreon once did joy,
Lie drawn to Life, in his soft Verse,
As he whom Maro did rehearse?
Was Lesbia sung by learn'd Catullus?
Or Delia's Graces, by Tibullus?
Doth Cynthia, in Propertius song
Shine more, than she the Stars among?
Is Horace his each Love so high
Rap't from the Earth, as not to die?
With bright Lycoris, Gallus choice,
Whose Fame hath an Eternal Voice.
Or hath Corynna, by the name
Her Ovid gave her, dimn'd the fame
Of C곫sar's Daughter, and the Line
Which all the World then stil'd Divine?
Hath Petrarch since his Laura rais'd
Equal with her? or Ronsart prais'd
His new Cassandra, 'bove the old,
Which all the Fate of Troy foretold?
Hath our great Sydney, Stella set,
Where never Star shone brighter yet?
Or Constables Ambrosiack Muse,
Made Dian, not his Notes refuse?
Have all these done (and yet I miss
The Swan that so relish'd Pancharis)
And shall not I my Celia bring,
Where Men may see whom I do sing,

RHYME a a *

Though I, in working of my Song
Come short of all this learned throng,
Yet sure my Tunes will be the best,
So much my subject drowns the rest.

RHYME a b b a a b b a c d d c e e 

That have been a Lover, and could shew it,
Though not in these, in Rhymes not wholly dumb,
Since I exscribe your Sonnets, am become
A better Lover, and much better Poet.
Nor is my Muse or I asham'd to owe it
To those true numerous Graces; whereof some,
But charm the Senses, others overcome
Both Brains and Hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your Verse all Cupid's Armory,
His Flames, his Shafts, his Quiver, and his Bow,
His very Eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his Mothers sweets you so apply,
Her Joys, her Smiles, her Loves, as Readers take
For Venus Ceston, every Line you make.

RHYME a a b c c b *

Rhyme the rack of finest Wits,
That expresseth but by fits
True Conceit
Spoiling Senses of their Treasure,
Cosening Judgment with a Measure,
But false Weight.
Wresting words, from their true calling;
Propping Verse, for fear of falling
To the Ground.
Joynting Syllables, drowning Letters,
Fast'ning Vowels, as with Fetters
They were bound!
Soon as lazie thou wert known,
All good Poetry hence was flown,
And are banish'd.
For a thousand Years together,
All Pernassus Green did wither,
And Wit vanish'd.
Pegasus did fly away,
At the Wells no Muse did stay,
But bewail'd.
So to see the Fountain dry,
And Apollo's Musick die,
All Light failed!
Starveling Rhymes did fill the Stage,
Not a Poet in an Age,
Worth crowning.
Not a Work deserving Bays,
Nor a Line deserving praise,
Pallas frowning;
Greek was free from Rhymes infection,
Happy Greek by this protection!
Was not spoiled.
Whilst the Latin, Queen of Tongues,
Is not yet free from Rhymes wrongs,
But rests foiled.
Scarce the Hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the World a Wit doth nourish,
To restore,
Ph벃첻us to his Crown again;
And the Muses to their Brain;
As before.

RHYME a a b c c b *

Vulgar Languages that want
Words, and sweetness, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyran Rhyme hath so abused,
That they long since have refused,
Other ceasure;
He that first invented thee,
May his Joynts tormented be,
Cramp'd for ever;
Still may Syllables jar with time,
Still may Reason war with Rhyme,
Resting never.
May his Sense when it would meet,
The cold tumor in his Feet,
Grow unsounder.
And his Title be long Fool,
That in rearing such a School,
Was the founder.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

IF thou wouldst know the Vertues of Mankind,
Read here in one, what thou in all canst find,
And go no farther: let this Circle be
Thy Universe, though his Epitome.
Cecil, the Grave, the Wise, the Great, the Good,
What is there more that can ennoble Blood?
The Orphan's Pillar, the true Subjects Shield,
The Poors full Store-house, and just Servants Field.
The only faithful Watchman for the Realm,
That in all Tempests, never quit the Helm,
But stood unshaken in his Deeds, and Name,
And labour'd in the Work; not with the Fame:
That still was good for goodness sake, nor thought
Upon Reward, till the Reward him sought.
Whose Offices, and Honours did surprize,
Rather than meet him: And, before his Eyes
Clos'd to their peace, he saw his Branches shoot,
And in the Noblest Families took root,
Of all the Land, who now at such a rate,
Of divine Blessing, would not serve a State.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

SO, justest Lord, may all your Judgments be
Laws; and no change e'er come to one Decree:
So, may the King proclaim your Conscience is
Law, to his Law; and think your Enemies his:
So, from all Sickness, may you rise to Health,
The care, and wish still of the publick Wealth:
So may the gentler Muses, and good Fame
Still fly about the Odour of your Name;
As with the safety, and honour of the Laws,
You favour Truth, and me, in this Man's Cause.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THe Judge his Favour timely then extends,
When a good Cause is destitute of Friends,
Without the pomp of Counsel; or more aid,
Than to make Falshood blush, and Fraud afraid:
When those good few, that her Defenders be,
Are there for Charity, and not for Fee.
Such shall you hear to Day, and find great Foes
Both arm'd with Wealth, and slander to oppose,
Who thus long safe, would gain upon the times
A right by the prosperity of their Crimes;
Who, though their Guilt, and Perjury they know,
Think, yea and boast, that they have done it so,
As though the Court pursues them on the scent,
They will come of,off and scape the Punishment;
When this appears, just Lord, to your sharp sight,
He do's you wrong, that craves you to do right.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THat I hereafter, do not think the Bar,
The Seat made of a more than Civil War;
Or the great Hall at Westminster, the Field
Where mutual frauds are fought, and no side yield,
That henceforth, I believe nor Books, nor Men,
Who 'gainst the Law, weave Calumnies my Benn
But when I read or hear the names so rife,
Of Hirelings, Wranglers, Stitchers-to of strife,
Hook-handed Harpies, gowned Vultures, put
Upon the reverend Pleaders; do now shut
All Mouthes, that dare entitle them (from hence)
To the Wolves study, or Dogs eloquence;
Thou art my Cause: whose manners since I knew,
Have made me to conceive a Lawyer new.
So dost thou study Matter, Men, and Times,
Mak'st it Religion to grow rich by Crimes!
Dar'st not abuse thy Wisdom, in the Laws,
Or Skill to carry out an evil Cause!
But first doth vex, and search it! If nor sound,
Thou prov'st the gentler ways, to cleanse the wound,
And make the Scar fair; If that will not be,
Thou hast the brave scorn, to put back the fee!
But in a business, that will bide the touch,
What use, what strength of reason! and how much
Of Books, of Precedents hast thou at hand?
As if the general store thou didst command
Of Argument, still drawing forth the best,
And not being borrowed by thee, but possest.
So com'st thou like a Chief into the Court
Arm'd at all Pieces, as to keep a Fort
Against a multitude; and (with thy Stile
So brightly brandish'd) wound'st, defend'st! the while
Thy Adversaries fall, as not a word
They had, but were a Reed unto thy Sword.
Then com'st thou off with Victory and Palm,
Thy Hearers Nectar, and thy Clients Balm,
The Courts just Honour, and thy Judges Love.
And (which doth all Atchievements get above)
Thy sincere practise, breeds not thee a Fame
Alone, but all thy rank a reverend Name.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

ENvious and foul Disease, could there not be
One beauty in an Age, and free from thee?
What did she worth thy spight? were there not store
Of those that set by their false Faces more

RHYME a a a b b b c c d d e e f f

Than this did by her true? she never sought
Quarrel with Nature, or in balance brought
Art her false servant; Nor, for Sir Hugh Plot,
Was drawn to practise other hue, than that
Her own Blood gave her: She ne'er had, nor hath
Any belief, in Madam Baud-bees Bath,
Or Turners Oil of Talk. Nor ever got
Spanish Receipt, to make her Teeth to rot.
What was the cause then? Thought'st thou in disgrace,
Of Beauty, so to nullifie a Face,
That Heaven should make no more; or should amiss,
Make all hereafter, had'st thou ruin'd this?
I, that thy aim was; but her fate prevail'd:
And scorn'd, thou'ast shown thy malice, but hast fail'd.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b c c

WHat Beauty would have lovely stil'd,
What Manners pretty, Nature mild,
What wonder perfect, all were fill'd,
Upon record in this blest Child.
And, till the coming of the Soul
To fetch the Flesh, we keep the Roll.

TITLE 

RHYME a a b b

COme, let us here enjoy the shade,
For Love in shadow best is made.
Though Envy oft his shadow be,
None brooks the Sun-light worse than he.

RHYME a a b b

Where Love doth shine, there needs no Sun,
All Lights into his one doth run;
Without which all the World were dark;
Yet he himself is but a spark.

RHYME a a b b

A Spark to set whole World a-fire,
Who more they burn, they more desire,
And have their being, their waste to see;
And waste still, that they still might be.

RHYME a a b b

Such are his powers, whom time hath stil'd,
Now swift, now slow, now tame, now wild,
Now hot, now cold, now fierce, now mild.
The eldest God, yet still a Child.

TITLE

RHYME a a a

SIr, I am thankful, first, to Heaven, for you;
Next to your self, for making your love true:
Then to your love, and gift. And all's but due.

RHYME a a a

You have unto my Store added a Book,
On which with profit, I shall never look,
But must confess from whom what gift I took.

RHYME a a a

Not like your Country Neighbours, that commit
Their vice of loving for a Christmas fit;
Which is indeed but friendship of the Spit:

RHYME a a a

But, as a Friend, which name your self receive,
And which you (being the worthier) gave me leave
In Letters, that mix Spirits, thus to weave.

RHYME a a a

Which, how most sacred I will ever keep,
So may the fruitful Vine my Temples steep,
And Fame wake for me, when I yield to sleep.

RHYME a a a

Though you sometimes proclaim me too severe,
Rigid, and harsh, which is a Drug austere
In friendship, I confess: But, dear Friend, hear.

RHYME a a a

Little know they, that profess Amity,
And seek to scant her comely Liberty,
How much they lame her in her Property.

RHYME a a a

And less they know, who being free to use
That friendship which no chance but love did choose,
Will unto License that fair leave abuse.

RHYME a a a

It is an act of Tyranny, not Love
In practis'd friendship wholly to reprove,
As flatt'ry with Friends humours still to move.

RHYME a a a

From each of which I labour to be free,
Yet if with eithers Vice I tainted be,
Forgive it, as my frailty, and not me.

RHYME a a a

For no Man lives so out of Passions sway,
But shall sometimes be tempted to obey
Her fury, yet no friendship to betray.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

TIs true, I'am broke! Vows, and all I had
Of Credit lost. And I am now run mad;
Or do upon my self some desperate ill;
This sadness makes no approaches, but to kill.
It is a Darkness hath blockt up my sense,
And drives it in to eat on my offence,
Or there to starve it. Help O you that may
Alone lend succours, and this fury stay.
Offended Mistris, you are yet so fair,
As Light breaks from you, that affrights despair,
And fills my powers with perswading joy,
That you should be too noble to destroy.
There may some face or menace of a storm
Look forth, but cannot last in such a form.
If there be nothing worthy you can see
Of graces, or your mercy here in me,
Spare your own goodness yet; and be not great
In will and power, only to defeat.
God, and the good, know to forgive, and save.
The ignorant, and fools, no pity have.
I will not stand to justifie my fault,
Or lay the excuse upon the Vinter's Vault;
Or in confessing of the Crime be nice,
Or go about to countenance the vice,
By naming in what company 'twas in,
As I would urge Authority for sin.
No, I will stand arraign'd, and cast, to be
The subject of your Grace in pardoning me,
And (stil'd your mercies Creature) will live more
Your honour now, than your disgrace before,
Think it was frailty, Mistris, think me Man,
Think that your self like Heaven forgive me can,
Where Weakness doth offend, and Vertue grieve,
There Greatness takes a glory to relieve.
Think that I once was yours, or may be now;
Nothing is vile, that is a part of you.
Errour and Folly in me may have crost
Your just Commands; yet those, not I be lost.
I am regenerate now, become the Child
Of your Compassion; Parents should be mild:
There is no Father that for one demerit,
Or two, or three, a Son will disinherit;
That is the last of Punishments is meant;
No Man inflicts that Pain, till Hope be spent:
An ill-affected Limb (what e'er it ail)
We cut not off, till all Cures else do fail;

RHYME a a *

And then with pause; for sever'd once, that's gone,
Would live his Glory that could keep it on.
Do not despair my mending; to distrust
Before you prove a Med'cine, is unjust:
You may so place me, and in such an Air,
As not alone the Cure, but Scar be fair.
That is, if still your Favours you apply,
And not the Bounties you have done, deny.
Could you demand the Gifts you gave, again!
Why was't? Did e'er the Clouds ask back their Rain?
The Sun, his Heat and Light? the Air his Dew?
Or Winds the Spirit by which the Flower so grew?
That were to wither all, and make a Grave
Of that wise Nature would a Cradle have.
Her Order is to cherish, and preserve;
Consumption's, Nature to destroy and starve.
But to exact again what once is given,
Is Natures meer Obliquity; as Heaven
Should ask the Blood and Spirits he hath infus'd
In Man, because Man hath the Flesh abus'd.
O may your Wisdom take example hence,
God lightens not at Man's each frail Offence:
He pardons Slips, goes by a World of Ills,
And then his Thunder frights more than it kills.
He cannot angry be, but all must quake;
It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake.
And how more fair and lovely looks the World
In a calm Sky, than when the Heaven is hurl'd
About in Clouds, and wrapt in raging Weather,
As all with Storm and Tempest ran together?
O imitate that sweet Serenity
That makes us live, not that which calls to die
In dark and sullen Morns; do we not say,
This looketh like an Execution day?
And with the Vulgar doth it not obtain
The name of Cruel Weather, Storm, and Rain?
Be not affected with these Marks too much
Of Cruelty, lest they do make you such.
But view the mildness of your Makers State,
As I the Penitents here emulate.
He, when he sees a Sorrow, such as this,
Streight puts off all his Anger, and doth kiss
The contrite Soul, who hath no thought to win
Upon the hope to have another Sin
Forgiven him: And in that Line stand I,
Rather than once displease you more, to die,
To suffer Tortures, Scorn, and Infamy,
What Fools, and all their Parasites can apply;
The Wit of Ale, and Genius of the Malt
Can pump for, or a Libel without Salt
Produce; though threatning with a Coal, or Chalk,
On every Wall, and sung where-e'er I walk.
I number these, as being of the Chore
Of Contumely, and urge a good Man more
Than Sword, or Fire, or what is of the Race
To carry noble Danger in the Face:
There is not any punishment, or pain,
A Man should fly from, as he would disdain.
Then Masters here, here let your Rigour end,
And let your Mercy make me asham'd t' offend.
I will no more abuse my Vows to you,
Than I will study Falshood, to be true.
O, that you could but by dissection see
How much you are the better part of me;
How all my Fibres by your Spirit do move,
And that there is no Life in me, but Love.
You would be then most confident, that tho
Publick Affairs command me now to go
Out of your Eyes, and be a while away;
Absence, or Distance, shall not breed decay.
Your Form shines here, here fixed in my Heart:
I may dilate my self, but not depart.
Others by common Stars their Courses run,
When I see you, then I do see my Sun:

RHYME a a *

Till then 'tis all but Darkness, that I have;
Rather than want your Light, I wish a Grave.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

TO make the Doubt clear, that no Woman's true,
Was it my Fate to prove it full in you.
Thought I but one had breath'd the purer Air,
And must she needs be false, because she's fair?
It is your Beauties Mark, or of your Youth,
Or your Perfection, not to study Truth;
Or think you Heaven is deaf, or hath no Eyes?
Or those it has, wink at your Perjuries?
Are Vows so cheap with Women? or the matter
Whereof they are made, that they are writ in Water,
And blown away with Wind? or doth their Breath
Both hot and cold at once, threat Life and Death?
Who could have thought so many Accents sweet
Tun'd to our Words, so many Sighs should meet
Blown from our Hearts, so many Oaths and Tears
Sprinkled among? all sweeter by our Fears,
And the divine Impression of stoln Kisses,
That seal'd the rest, could now prove empty Blisses?
Did you draw Bonds to forfeit? sign to break?
Or must we read you quite from what you speak,
And find the Truth out the wrong way? or must
He first desire you false, would wish you just?
O, I profane! Though most of Women be,
The common Monster, Love, shall except thee,
My dearest Love, however Jealousie
With Circumstance might urge the contrary,
Sooner I'll think the Sun would cease to chear
The teeming Earth, and that forget to bear;
Sooner that Rivers would run back, or Thames
With Ribs of Ice in June would bind his Streams:
Or Nature, by whose strength the World endures,
Would change her Course, before you alter yours.
But, O that treacherous Breast, to whom weak you
Did trust our Counsels, and we both may rue,
Having his Falshood found too late! 'twas he
That made me cast you Guilty, and you me.
Whilst he, black Wretch, betray'd each simple VVord
VVe spake unto the coming of a third!
Curst may he be that so our Love hath slain,
And wander wretched on the Earth, as Cain:
VVretched as he, and not deserve least pity:
In plaguing him, let Misery be witty.
Let all Eyes shun him, and he shun each Eye,
Till he be noisom as his Infamy:
May he without remorse deny God thrice,
And not be trusted more on his Soul's price:
And after all self-torment, when he dies,
May Wolves tear out his Heart, Vultures his Eyes,
Swine eat his Bowels, and his falser Tongue,
That utter'd all, be to some Raven flung:
And let his Carrion Coarse be a longer Feast
To the King's Dogs, than any other Beast.
Now I have curst, let us our Love receive;
In me the Flame was never more alive.
I could begin again to court and praise,
And in that Pleasure lengthen the short days
Of my Lifes Lease; like Painters that do take
Delight, not in made Works, but whilst they make.
I could renew those Times, when first I saw
Love in your Eyes, that gave my Tongue the Law
To like what you lik'd, and at Masques, or Plays,
Commend the self-same Actors, the same Ways,
Ask how you did, and often with intent
Of being officious, grow impertinent;
All which were such lost Pastimes, as in these
Love was as subtly catch'd as a Disease.
But, being got, it is a Treasure, sweet,
Which to defend, is harder than to get;

RHYME a a *

And ought not be profan'd on either part,
For though 'tis got by Chance, 'tis kept by Art.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THat Love's a bitter-sweet, I ne'er conceive,
Till the sowr Minute comes of taking leave,
And then I taste it. But as Men drink up
In haste the bottom of a med'cin'd Cup,
And take some Sirrup after; so do I,
To put all rellish from my memory
Of parting, drown it, in the hope to meet
Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
This makes me, Mistris, that sometimes by stealth,
Under another Name, I take your Health,
And turn the Ceremonies of those Nights
I give, or owe my Friends, into your Rites;
But ever without Blazon, or least Shade
Of Vows so sacred, and in silence made:
For though Love thrive, and may grow up with chear,
And free Society, he's born elsewhere,
And must be bred, so to conceal his Birth,
As neither Wine do rack it out, or Mirth.
Yet should the Lover still be airy and light
In all his Actions, rarified to Sprite;
Not, like a Midas, shut up in himself,
And turning all he toucheth into Pelf,
Keep in reserv'd in his Dark-lantern Face,
As if that exc'lent Dulness were Loves Grace:
No, Masters, no, the open merry Man
Moves like a spritely River, and yet can
Keep secret in his Channels what he breeds,
'Bove all your standing Waters, choak'd with Weeds.
They look at best like Cream-bowls, and you soon
Shall find their depth, they're sounded with a Spoon.
They may say Grace, and for Loves Chaplains pass;
But the grave Lover ever was an Ass,
Is fix'd upon one Leg, and dares not come
Out with the other, for he's still at home:
Like the dull wearied Crane, that (come on Land)
Doth while he keeps his Watch, betray his Stand;
Where he that knows, will like a Lapwing fly
Far from the Nest, and so himself belie
To others, as he will deserve the Trust
Due to that one that doth believe him just.
And such your Servant is, who vows to keep
The Jewel of your Name, as close as Sleep
Can lock the Sense up, or the Heart a Thought,
And never be by Time or Folly brought,
Weakness of Brain, or any Charm of Wine,
The Sin of Boast, or other Countermine,
(Made to blow up Loves Secrets) to discover
That Article may not become our Lover:
Which in assurance to your Breast I tell,
If I had writ no word, but Dear, farewel.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

SInce you must go, and I must bid Farewell,
Hear, 'Mistress' your departing Servant tell
What it is like: And do not think they can
Be idle Words, though of a parting Man;
It is as if a Night should shade Noon-day,
Or that the Sun was here, but forc't away;
And we were left under that Hemisphere,
Where we must feel it dark for half a Year.
What Fate is this, to change Mens Days and Hours,
To shift their Seasons, and destroy their Powers!
Alas! I ha' lost my Heat, my Blood, my Prime,
Winter is come a Quarter e'er his time,
My Health will leave me; and when you depart,
How shall I do, sweet Mistris, for my Heart?

RHYME a a *

You would restore it? No, that's worth a fear,
As if it were not worthy to be there:
O, keep it still; for it had rather be
Your Sacrifice, than here remain with me.
And so I spare it, Come what can become
Of me, I'll softly tread unto my Tomb;
Or like a Ghost walk silent amongst Men,
Till I may see both it and you agen.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

LEt me be what I am; as Virgil, cold;
As Horace, fat; or as Anacreon, old;
No Poets Verses yet did ever move,
Whose Readers did not think he was in love.
Who shall forbid me then in Rhyme to be
As light and active as the youngest he
That from the Muses Fountains doth indorse
His Lines, and hourly sits the Poets Horse.
Put on my Ivy Garland, let me see
Who frowns, who jealous is, who taxeth me,
Fathers and Husbands, I do claim a Right
In all that is call'd lovely: take my sight
Sooner than my affection from the Fair.
No Face, no Hand, Proportion, Line, or Air
Of Beauty, but the Muse hath interest in:
There is not worn that Lace, Purl, Knot, or Pin,
But is the Poets Matter; and he must
When he is furious, love, although not lust.
But then content, your Daughters and your Wives
(If they be fair and worth it) have their Lives
Made longer by our Praises: or, if not,
Wish, you had foul ones, and deformed got,
Curst in their Cradles, or there chang'd by Elves,
So to be sure you do enjoy your selves.
Yet keep those up in Sackcloth too, or Leather,
For Silk will draw some sneaking Songster thither.
It is a Rhyming Age, and Verses swarm
At every Stall; the City Cap's a Charm.
But I who live, and have liv'd twenty Year
Where I may handle Silk, as free, and near,
As any Mercer, or the Whalebone-man
That quilts those Bodies I have leave to span;
Have eaten with the Beauties, and the Wits,
And Braveries of Court, and felt their Fits
Of Love and Hate; and came so nigh to know
Whether their Faces were their own, or no.
It is not likely I should now look down
Upon a Velvet Petticoat, or a Gown,
Whose like I have known the Taylor's Wife put on,
To do her Husband's Rites in, e'er 'twere gone
Home to the Customer: his Letchery
Being, the best Clothes still to preoccupy.
Put a Coach-mare in Tissue, must I horse
Her presently? or leap thy Wife of force,
When by thy sordid Bounty she hath on
A Gown of that was the Caparison?
So I might dote upon thy Chairs and Stools,
That are like cloth'd: Must I be of those Fools
Of race accounted, that no Passion have,
But when thy Wife (as thou conceiv'st) is brave?
Then ope thy Wardrobe, think me that poor Groom
That from the Foot-man, when he was become
An Officer there, did make most solemn Love
To ev'ry Petticoat he brush'd, and Glove
He did lay up, and would adore the Shooe
Or Slipper was left off, and kiss it too;
Court every hanging Gown, and after that
Lift up some one, and do, I tell not what.
Thou didst tell me, and wert o'er-joy'd to peep
In at a hole, and see these Actions creep
From the poor Wretch, which though he plaid in Prose,
He would have done in Verse, with any one of those

RHYME a a *

Wrung on the Withers, by Lord Loves despight,
Had he had the Faculty to read and write!
Such Songsters there are store of; witness he
That chanc'd the Lace, laid on a Smock, to see,
And streight-way spent a Sonnet; with that other
That (in pure Madrigal) unto his Mother
Commended the French-Hood, and Scarlet Gown
The Lady Mayress pass'd in through the Town,
Unto the Spittle Sermon. O, what strange
Variety of Silks were on th' Exchange!
Or in Moore-fields! this other night, sings one,
Another answers, Lass those Silks are none
In smiling L'envoye, as he wou'd deride
Any Comparison had with his Cheap-side.
And vouches both the Pageant, and the Day,
When not the Shops, but Windows do display
The Stuffs, the Velvets, Plushes, Fringes, Lace,
And all the original Riots of the Place:
Let the poor Fools enjoy their Follies, love
A Goat in Velvet; or some Block could move
Under that cover; an old Mid-wives Hat!
Or a Close-stool so cas'd; or any fat
Bawd, in a Velvet Scabber'd! I envy
None of their Pleasures! nor will ask thee, why
Thou art jealous of thy Wives, or Daughters Case:
More than of eithers Manners, Wit, or Face!

TITLE

RHYME a a *

ANd why to me this, thou lame Lord of Fire,
What had I done that might call on thine Ire?
Or urge thy greedy Flame, thus to devour
So many my Years-labours in an hour?
I ne're attempted Vulcan 'gainst thy Life;
Nor made least Line of Love to thy loose Wife;
Or in remembrance of thy afront, and scorn
With Clowns, and Tradesmen, kept thee clos'd in Horn.
'Twas Jupiter that hurl'd thee headlong down,
And Mars, that gave thee a Lanthorn for a Crown:
Was it because thou wert of old denied
By Jove to have Minerva for thy Bride.
That since thou tak'st all envious care and pain,
To ruine any Issue of the Brain?
Had I wrote Treason there, or Heresie,
Imposture, Whitchcraft, Charms, or Blasphemy?
I had deserv'd then, thy consuming Looks,
Perhaps, to have been burned with my Books.
But, on thy Malice, tell me, didst thou spy
Any, least loose, or surrilescurrile Paper, lye
Conceal'd, or kept there, that was fit to be,
By thy own Vote, a Sacrifice to thee?
Did I there wound the Honours of the Crown?
Or tax the Glories of the Church and Gown?
Itch to defame the State? or brand the Times?
And my self most, in some self-boasting Rhymes?
If none of these, then why this Fire? Or find
A Cause before; or leave me one behind.
Had I compil'd from Amadis de Gaule,
Th' Esplandians, Arthur's, Palmerins, and all
The learned Library of Don Quixote;
And so some goodlier Monster had begot,
Or spun out Riddles, and weav'd fittyfifty Tomes
Of Logogriphes, and curious Palindromes,
Or pomp'd for those hard Trifles Anagrams,
Or Eteostichs, or those finer Flams
Of Eggs, and Halberds, Cradles, and a Hearse,
A pair of Scisars, and a Comb in Verse;
Acrostichs, and Telestichs, on jump Names,
Thou then hadst had some colour for thy Flames,
On such my serious Follies; But, thou'lt say,
There were some Pieces of as base allay,
And as false stamp there; parcels of a Play,
Fitter to see the Fire-light, than the day;

RHYME a a *

Adulterate Moneys, such as might not go:
Thou should'st have stay'd, till publick Fame said so.
She is the Judge, Thou Executioner,
Or if thou needs would'st trench upon her Power,
Thou mightst have yet enjoy'd thy Cruelty
With some more thrift, and more variety:
Thou mightst have had me perish, piece by piece
To light Tobacco, or save roasted Geese.
Sindge Capons, or poor Piggs, droping their Eyes;
Condemn'd me to the Ovens with the Pies;
And so, have kept me dying a whole Age,
Not ravish'd all hence in a Minutes rage.
But that's a mark, whereof thy Rights do boast,
To make Consumption, ever where thou go'st;
Had I fore-known of this thy least desire
T' have held a Triumph, or a Feast of Fire,
Especially in Paper; that, that steam
Had tickled your large Nostril: many a Ream
To redeem mine, I had sent in enough,
Though should'st have cry'd, and all been proper Stuff.
The Talmud, and the Alcoran had come,
With Pieces of the Legend; The whole sum
Of Errant Knight-hood, with the Dames, and Dwarfs;
The charmed Boats, and the inchanted Wharfs,
The Tristram's, Lanc'lots, Turpins, and the Peer's,
All the mad Rolands, and sweet Oliveer's;
To Merlins Marvails, and his Caballs loss,
With the Chim곫ra of the Rosie-Cross,
Their Seals, their Characters, Hermetick Rings,
Their Jem of Riches, and bright Stone, that brings
Invisibility, and strength, and Tongues:
The Art of kindling the true Coal, by Lungs,
With Nicholas Pasquill's, Medle with your match,
And the strong Lines, that so the time do catch,
Or Captain Pamphlets Horse, and Foot; that sally
Upon th' Exchange, still out of Popes-head-Alley.
The weekly Corrants, with Poules Seal; and all
The admir'd discourses of the Prophet Ball:
These, had'st thou pleas'd either to dine or sup,
Had made a Meal for Vulcan to lick up.
But in my Desk, what was there to accite
So ravenous and vast an Appetite?
I dare not say a Body, but some Parts
There were of search, and mastry in the Arts.
All the old Venusine, in Poetry,
And lighted by the Stagerite, could spy,
Was there madmade English: with the Grammar too,
To teach some that their Nurses could 'not' omitted do.
The purity of Language; and among
The rest, my Journey into Scotland Song,
With all th' Adventures; Three Books not afraid
To speak the Fate of the Sicilian Maid
To our own Ladies; and in Story there
Of our Fifth Henry, eight of his nine year;
Wherein was Oil, beside the Succour spent,
Which Noble Carew, Cotton, Selden lent:
And twice-twelve-years stor'd up Humanity,
With humble Gleanings in Divinity;
After the Fathers, and those wiser Guides
Whom Faction had not drawn to study sides.
How in these Ruins Vulcan, thou dost lurk,
All Soot and Embers! odious, as thy work!
I now begin to doubt, if ever Grace,
Or Goddess, could be patient of thy Face.
Thou woo Minerva! or to wit aspire!
'Cause thou canst halt, with us in Arts and Fire!
Son of the Wind! for so thy Mother gone
With Lust conceiv'd thee; Father thou hadst none.
When thou wert born, and that thou look'st at best,
She durst not kiss, but flung thee from her Breast.
And so did Jove, who ne're meant thee his Cup:
No marl the Clowns of Lemnos took thee up.
For none but Smiths would have made thee a God.
Some Alchimist there may be yet, or odd

RHYME a a *

Squire of the Squibs, against the Pageant day,
May to thy name a Vulcanale say;
And for it lose his Eyes with Gun-powder,
As th' other may his Brains with Quick-silver.
Well-fare the Wise-man yet, on the Banck-side,
My Friends, the Water-men! They could provide
Against thy Fury, when to serve their needs,
They made a Vulcan of a Sheaf of Reeds,
Whom they durst handle in their Holy-day Coats,
And safely trust to dress, not burn their Boats.
But, O those Reeds! thy meer disdain of them,
Made thee beget that cruel Stratagem,
(Which, some are pleas'd to stile but thy mad Pranck)
Against the Globe, the Glory of the Bank.
Which, though it were the Fort of the whole Parish,
Flanck'd with a Ditch, and forc'd out of a Marish,
I saw with two poor Chambers taken in
And raz'd; e're thought could urge, this might have been!
See the World's Ruines! nothing but the Piles
Left! and wit since to cover it with Tiles.
The Brethren, they streight nois'd it out for News,
'Twas verily some Relick of the Stews.
And this a Sparkle of that Fire let loose,
That was lock'd up in the Winchestrian Goose,
Bred on the Banck, in time of Popery,
When Venus there maintain'd in Mystery.
But, others fell, with that conceit by the Ears,
And cry'd, it was a threatning to the Bears,
And that accursed Ground, the Parish Garden:
Nay, sigh'd, ah Sister 'twas the Nun, Kate Arden
Kindled the Fire! But, then did one return,
No Fool would his own harvest spoil, or burn!
If that were so, thou rather would'st advance
The Place, that was thy Wives Inheritance.
O no, cry'd all. Fortune, for being a Whore,
Scap'd not his Justice and Jot the more:
He burnt that Idol of the Revels too:
Nay, let White-Hall with Revels have to do,
Though but in Dances, it shall know his Power;
There was a Judgment shew'n too in an Hour.
He is true Vulcan still! He did not spare
Troy, though it were so much his Venus care.
Fool, wilt thou let that in Example come?
Did not she save from thence, to build a Rome?
And what hast thou done in these petty Spights,
More then advanc'd the Houses, and their Rights?
I will not argue thee, from those of guilt,
For they were burnt, but to be better built.
'Tis true, that in thy wish they were destroy'd,
Which thou hast only vented, not enjoy'd.
So would'st th' have run upon the Rolls by stealth,
And didst invade part of the Common-wealth,
In those Records, which were all Chronicles gone,
Will be remembred by Six Clerks, to one.
But, say all Six, Good Men, what answer ye?
Lyes there no Writ, out of the Chancery,
Against this Vulcan? No Injunction?
No Order? no Decree? Though we be gone
At Common-Law, Methinks in his despight
A Court of Equity should do us right.
But to confine him to the Brew-houses,
The Glass-house, Dye-fats, and their Furnaces;
To live in Sea-coal, and go forth in Smoke;
Or lest that Vapour might the City choak,
Condemn him to the Brick-kills, or some Hill-
Foot (out in Sussex) to an Iron Mill;
Or in small Fagots have him blaze about
Vile Taverns, and the Drunkards piss him out;
Or in the Bell-Mans Lanthorn like a Spy,
Burn to a Snuff, and then stink out and dye:
I could invent a Sentence, yet were worse;
But I'll conclude all in a civil Curse.
Pox on your Flameship, Vulcan; if it be
To all as fatal as't hath been to me,

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And to Pauls-Steeple; which was unto us
'Bove all your Fire-works, had at Ephesus,
Or Alexandria; and though a Divine
Loss remains yet, as unrepair'd as mine.
Would you had kept your Forge, at 겿tna still,
And there made Swords, Bills, Glaves, and Arms your fill.
Maintain'd the Trade at Bilbo; or else-where;
Struck in at Millan with the Cutlers there;
Or stay'd but where the Fryar, and you first met,
Who from the Divels-Arse did Guns beget,
Or fixt in the Low-Country's, where you might
On both sides do your mischiefs with delight;
Blow up, and ruine, mine, and countermine,
Make your Petards, and Granats, all your fine
Engines of Murder, and receive the Praise
Of massacring Man-kind so many ways.
We ask your absence here, we all love Peace,
And pray the Fruits thereof, and the Increase;
So doth the King, and most of the Kings-men
That have good Places: therefore once agen,
Pox on thee Vulcan, thy Pandora's Pox,
And all the Evils that flew out of her Box
Light on thee: Or if those Plagues will not do,
Thy Wives Pox on thee, and Bess Broughton's too.

TITLE

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WHy yet my noble Hearts they cannot say,
But we have Powder still for the Kings Day,
And Ord'nance too: so much as from the Tower
T' have wak'd, if sleeping, Spain's Ambassadour,
Old 겿sope Gundomar: the French can tell,
For they did see it the last tilting well,
That we have Trumpets, Armour, and great Horse,
Launces, and Men, and some a breaking force.
They saw too store of Feathers, and more may,
If they stay here, but till Saint George's Day.
All Ensigns of a War, are not yet dead,
Nor Marks of Wealth so from our Nation fled,
But they may see Gold-Chains, and Pearl worn then,
Lent by the London Dames, to the Lords Men;
Withal, the dirty pains those Citizens take,
To see the Pride at Court, their Wives do make;
And the return those thankful Courtiers yield,
To have their Husbands drawn forth to the Field,
And coming home, to tell what Acts were done
Under the Auspice of young Swynnerton.
What a strong Fort old Pimblicoe had been!
How it held out! how (last) 'twas taken in!
Well, I say thrive, thrive brave Artillery-yard,
Thou Seed-plot of the War, that hast not spar'd
Powder, or Paper, to bring up the Youth
Of Lonndon, in the Military Truth,
These ten years day; As all may swear that look
But on thy Practise, and the Posture-book:
He that but saw thy curious Captains drill,
Would think no more of Vlushing,Flushing or the Brill:
But give them over to the common Ear
For that unnecessary Charge they were.
Well did thy crafty Clerk, and Knight, Sir Hugh,
Supplant bold Panton; and brought there to view
Translated 겿lian Tacticks to be read,
And the Greek Discipline (with the modern) shed
So, in that ground, as soon it grew to be
The City-Question, whether Tilly, or he,
Were now the greater Captain? for they saw
The Berghen Siege, and taking in Breda,
So acted to the Life, as Maurice might,
And Spinola have blushed at the sight.
O happy Art! and wise Epitome
Of bearing Arms! most civil Soldiery!
Thou canst draw forth thy Forces, and fight dry
The Battels of thy Aldermanity;

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Without the hazard of a drop of Blood:
More then the Surfets, in thee, that day stood.
Go on, increast in Vertue; and in fame:
And keep the Glory of the English Name,
Up among Nations. In the stead of bold
Beauchamps, and Nevills, Cliffords, Audley's old;

RHYME a a *

Insert thy Hodges, and those newer Men.
As Stiles, Dike, Ditchfield, Millar, Crips, and Fen:
That keep the War, though now't be grown more tame
Alive yet, in the noise; and still the same,
And could (if our great Men would let their Sons
Come to their Schools,) show 'em the use of Guns.
And there instruct the noble English Heirs
In Politick, and Militar Affairs;
But he that should perswade, to have this done
For Education of our Lordings; Soon
Should he hear of Billow, Wind, and Storm,
From the Tempestuous Grandlings, who'll inform
Us, in our bearing, that are thus, and thus,
Born, bred, allied? what's he dare tutor us?
Are we by Book-worms to be aw'd? must we
Live by their Scale, that dare do nothing free?
Why are we Rich, or Great, except to show
All licence in our Lives? What need we know?
More then to praise a Dog? or Horse? or speak
The Hawking Language? or our Day to break
With Citizens? let Clowns, and Tradesmen breed
Their Sons to study Arts, the Laws, the Creed:
We will believe like Men of our own Rank,
In so much Land a year, or such a Bank,
That turns us so much Monies, at which rate
Our Ancestors impos'd on Prince and State.
Let poor Nobility be vertuous: We,
Descended in a Rope of Titles, be
From Guy, or Bevis, Arthur, or from whom
The Herald will. Our Blood is now become,
Past any need of Vertue. Let them care,
That in the Cradle of their Gentry are;
To serve the State by Councels, and by Arms:
We neither love the Troubles, nor the harms.
What love you then? your Whore? what study? Gate,
Carriage, and Dressing. There is up of late
The Academy, where the Gallants meet
What to make Legs? yes, and to smell most sweet,
All that they do at Plays. O, but first here
They learn and study; and then practise there.
But why are all these Irons i' the Fire
Of several makings? helps, helps, t' attire
His Lordship. That is for his Band, his Hair
This, and that Box his Beauty to repair;
This other for his Eye-brows; hence, away,
I may no longer on these Pictures stay,
These Carkasses of Honour; Taylors blocks,
Cover'd with Tissue, whose prosperity mocks
The fate of things: whilst totter'd Vertue holds
Her broken Arms up, to their empty Moulds.

TITLE

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WHat I am not, and what I fain would be,
Whilst I inform my self, I would teach thee,
My gentle Arthur; that it might be said
One lesson we have both learn'd, and well read;
I neither am, nor art thou one of those
That hearkens to a Jacks-pulse, when it goes.
Nor ever trusted to that friendship yet
Was issue of the Tavern, or the Spit:
Much less a Name would we bring up, or nurse,
That could but claim a Kindred from the Purse.
Those are poor Ties, depend on those false Ends,
'Tis Vertue alone, or nothing that knits friends.
And as within your Office, you do take
No Piece of Money, but you know, or make

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Inquiry of the worth: So must we do,
First weigh a Friend, then touch and try him too:
For there are many Slips, and Counterfeits.
Deceit is fruitful. Men have Masks and Nets,
But these with wearing will themselves unfold:
They cannot last. No Lye grew ever old.
Turn him, and see his Threds: look, if he be
Friend to himself, that would be friend to thee.
For that is first requir'd. A man be his own.
But he that's too much that, is Friend of none.
Then rest, and a Friends value understand
It is a richer Purchase then of Land.

TITLE

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HE that should search all Glories of the Gown,
And steps of all rais'd Servants of the Crown
He could not find, then thee of all that store
Whom Fortune aided less, or Vertue more,
Such, Coke, were thy beginnings, when thy good
In others evil best was understood:
When, being the Srangers help, the poor mans aid,
Thy just defences made th' Oppressor afraid.
Such was thy Process, when Integrity,
And skill in thee, now, grew Authority;
That Clients strove, in Question of the Laws,
More for thy Patronage, then for their Cause,
And that thy strong and manly Eloquence
Stood up thy Nations fame, her Crowns defence,
And now such is thy stand; while thou dost deal
Desired Justice to the publick Weal,
Like Solons self; explat'st the knotty Laws
With endless Labours, whilst thy Learning draws
No less of Praise, then Readers in all kinds
Of worthiest knowledge, that can take Mens minds.
Such is thy All; that (as I sung before)
None Fortune aided less, or Vertue more.
Or if Chance must, to each Man that doth rise
Needs lend an Aid, to thine she had her Eyes.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

MEn that are safe, and sure, in all they do,
Care not what Trials they are put unto;
They meet the Fire, the Test, as Martyrs would;
And though Opinion stamp them not, are Gold,
I could say more of such, but that I fly
To speak my self out too ambitiously,
And shewing so weak an Act to vulgar Eyes;
Put Conscience and my right to comprimise.
Let those that meerly talk, and never think,
That live in the wild Anarchy of Drink,
Subject to quarrel only; or else such
As make it their Proficiency, how much
They'ave glutted in, and letcher'd out that Week,
That never yet did friend or friendship seek
But for a Sealing: let these Men protest.
Or th'other on their Borders, that will jeast
On all Souls that are absent; even the dead
Like Flies or Worms, which Mans corrupt Parts fed:
That to speak well, think it above all Sin,
Of any Company but that they are in,
Call every night to Supper in these fits,
And are receiv'd for the Covey of Wits;
That censure all the Town, and all th' Affairs,
And know whose Ignorance is more then theirs;
Let these Men have their ways, and take their times
To vent their Libels, and to issue Rhymes,
I have no Portion in them, nor their deal
Of News they get, to strew out the long Meal,

TITLE

RHYME a a *

I study other friendships, and more one,
Then these can ever be; or else wish none.
What is't to me whether the French Design
Be, or be not, to get the Vall-telline?
Or the States Ships sent forth belike to meet
Some hopes of Spain in their West-Indian Fleet?
Whether the Dispensation yet be sent,
Or that the Match from Spain was ever meant?
I wish all well, and pray high Heaven conspire
My Princes safety, and my Kings desire;
But if for Honour, we must draw the Sword,
And force back that, which will not be restor'd,
I have a Body, yet, that Spirit draws
To live, or fall, a Carkass in the Cause.
So far without inquiry what the States,
Brunsfield, and Mansfield do this year, my Fates
Shall carry me at Call; and I'll be well,
Though I do neither hear these news, nor tell
Of Spain or France; or were not prick'd down one
Of the late Mystery of Reception,
Although my Fame, to his, not under-hears,
That guides the Motions, and directs the Bears.
But that's a blow, by which in time I may
Lose all my Credit with my Christmas Clay,
And animated Porc'lane of the Court,
I, and for this neglect, the courser sort
Of earthen Jars, there may molest me too:
Well, with mine own frail Pitcher, what to do
I have decreed; keep it from waves and press;
Lest it be justled, crack'd made nought, or less:
Live to that Point I will, for which I am Man,
And dwell as in my Center, as I can,
Still looking too, and ever loving Heaven;
With reverence using all the Gifts then given.
'Mongst which, if I have any friendships sent
Such as are square, well-tag'd, and permanent,
Not built with Canvass, Paper, and false lights,
As are the Glorious Scenes, at the great sights;
And that there be no fev'ry heats, nor colds,
Oily Expansions, or shrunk dirty Folds,
But all so clear, and led by Reasons Flame,
As but to stumble in her sight were shame.
These I will honour, love, embrace, and serve;
And free it from all question to preserve.
So short you read my Character, and theirs
I would call mine, to which not many Stairs
Are asked to climb. First give me faith, who know
My self a little. I will take you so,
As you have writ your self. Now stand, and then
Sir, you are Sealed of the Tribe of Ben.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

SInce, Bacchus, thou art father
Of Wines, to thee the rather
We dedicate this Cellar,
Where new, thou art made Dweller;
And Seal thee thy Commission:
But 'tis with a Condition,
That thou remain here Taster
Of all to the great Master.
And look unto their Faces,
Their Qualities and Races,
That both, their Odour take him,
And relish merry make him.
For Bacchus thou art freer
Of Cares, and Over-seer,
Of feast, and merry meeting,
And still begin'st the greting
See then thou dost attend him
Ly곫us, and defend him,
By all the Arts of Gladness
From any thought like sadness.

RHYME a a *

So mayst thou still be younger
Than Ph벃첻us; and much stronger,
To give Mankind their eases,
And cure the Worlds Diseases:
So may the Muses follow
Thee still, and leave Apollo,
And think thy Stream more quicker
Then Hippocrenes Liquor:
And thou make many a Poet,
Before his Brain do know it;
So may there never Quarrel
Have issue from the Barrel;
But Venus and the Graces
Pursue thee in all Places,
And not a Song be other
Then Cupid, and his Mother.
That when King James, above here
Shall feast it, thou maist love there
The Causes and the Guests too,
And have thy Tales and Jests too,
Thy Circuits, and thy Rounds free
As shall the Feasts fair Grounds be.
Be it he hold Communion
In great Saint Georges Union;
Or gratulates the Passage
Of some well-wrought Embassage:
Whereby he may knit sure up
The wished Peace of Europe:
Or else a Health advances,
To put his Court in Dances,
And set us all on skipping,
When with his Royal shipping
The narrow Seas are shady,
And Charles brings home the Lady.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

DO's the Court-Pucell then so censure me,
And thinks I dare not her? let the World see.
What though her Chamber be the very Pit,
Where fight the prime Cocks of the Game, for Wit?
And that as any are stroke, her Breath creates
New in their stead, out of the Candidates?
What though with Tribade lust she force a Muse,
And in an Epic곫ne fury can write News
Equal with that, which for the best News goes
As airy Light, and as like Wit as those?
What though she talk, and cannot once with them,
Make State, Religion, Bawdry, all a Theam.
And as Lip-thirsty, in each words expence,
Doth labour with the Phrase more than the Sense?
What though she ride two Mile on Holy-days
To Church, as others do to Feasts and Plays,
To shew their Tires? to view, and to be view'd?
What though she be with Velvet Gowns indu'd,
And spangled Petticotes brought forth to Eye,
As new Rewards of her old secresie?
What though she hath won on Trust, as many do,
And that her truster fears her? Must I too?
I never stood for any Place: my Wit
Thinks it self nought, though she should value it.
I am no States-man, and much less Divine
For Bawdry, 'tis her Language, and not mine.
Farthest I am from the Idolatry
To Stuffs and Laces, those my man can buy.
And trust her I would least, that hath forswore
In Contract twice, what can she perjure more?
Indeed, her Dressing some Man might delight,
Her Face there's none can like by Candle-light.
Not he, that should the Body have, for Case
To his poor Instrument, now out of grace.

RHYME a a *

Shall I advise thee Pucell? steal away
From Court, while yet thy Fame hath some small day;
The Wits will leave you, if they once perceive
You cling to Lords, and Lords, if them you leave
For Sermoneers: of which now one, now other,
They say you weekly invite with Fits o' th' Mother,
And practise for a Miracle; take heed
This Age would lend no Faith to Dorrel's Deed;
Or if it would, the Court is the worst Place,
Both for the Mothers, and the Babes of grace,
For there the Wicked in the Chair of scorn,
Will call't a Bastard, when a Prophet's born.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THe Wisdom Madam of your private Life,
Where with this while you live a widowed Wife,
And the right ways you take unto the right,
To conquer Rumour, and triumph on Spight;
Not only shunning by your act, to do
Ought that is ill, but the suspicion too,
Is of so brave Example, as he were
No Friend to Vertue, could be silent here.
The rather when the Vices of the Time
Are grown so Fruitful, and false Pleasures climb
By all oblique Degrees, that killing height
From whence they fall, cast down with their own weight.
And though all Praise bring nothing to your Name,
Who (herein studying Conscience, and not Fame)
Are in your self rewarded; yet 'twill be
A chearful Work to all good Eyes, to see
Among the daily Ruins that fall foul,
Of State, of Fame, of Body, and of Soul,
So great a Vertue stand upright to view,
As makes Penelope's old Fable true,
Whilst your Ulisses hath ta'ne leave to go,
Countries, and climescomma omitted Manners and Men to know.
Only your time you better entertain,
Than the great Homer's Wit, for her, could fain;
For you admit no Company, but good,
And when you want those Friends, or near in Blood,
Or your Allies, you make your Books your Friends,
And study them unto the noblest Ends,
Searching for Knowledge, and to keep your Mind
The same it was inspir'd, rich, and refin'd.
These Graces, when the rest of Ladies view
Not boasted in your Life, but practis'd true,
As they are hard, for them to make their own,
So are they profitable to be known:
For when they find so many meet in one,
It will be shame for them, if they have none.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

HAil happy Genius of this ancient Pile!
How comes it all things so about thee smile?
The Fire, the Wine, the Men! and in the midst,
Thou stand'st as if some Mystery thou did'st!
Pardon, I read it in thy Face, the day
For whose returns, and many, all these pray;
And so do I. This is the Sixtieth year
Since Bacon, and thy Lord was born, and here;
Son to the grave wise Keeper of the Seal,
Fame and Foundation of the English Weal.
What then his Father was, that since is he,
Now with a Title more to the Degree;
England's High-Chancellor: the destin'd Heir
In his soft Cradle to his Father's Chair,
Whose even Thred the Fates spin round and full,
Out of their choicest and their whitest Wooll.
'Tis a brave Cause of joy, let it be known,
For 'twere a narrow gladness, kept thine own.
Give me a deep-crown'd-Bowl, that I may sing
In raising him the Wisdom of my King.

TITLE

RHYME a a a *

TO paint thy Worth, if rightly I did know it,
And were but Painter half like thee, a Poet;
Ben, I would show it:
But in this skill, m' unskilful Pen will tire,
Thou, and thy worth, will still be found far higher;
And I a Lier.
Then, what a Painter's here? or what an eater
Of great Attempts! when as his skil's no greater,
And he a Cheater?
Then what a Poet's here! whom, by Confession
Of all with me, to paint without Digression
There's no Expression.

TITLE

RHYME a a a *

WHy? though I seem of a prodigious wast,
I am not so voluminous, and vast,
But there are Lines, wherewith I might b' embrac'd.

RHYME a a a *

'Tis true, as my Womb swells, so my Back stoops,
And the whole Lump grows round, deform'd, and droops,
But yet the Tun at Heidelberg had Hoops.

RHYME a a a *

You were not tied, by any Painter's Law
To square my Circle, I confess, but draw
My Superficies: that was all you saw.

RHYME a a a *

Which if in compass of no Art it came
To be described by a Monogram,
With one great blot, yo' had form'd me as I am.

RHYME a a a *

But whilst you curious were to have it be
An Archetype, for all the World to see,
You made it a brave Piece, but not like me.

RHYME a a a *

O, had I now your manner, mastry, might,
Your Power of handling, Shadow, Air, and Spright,
How I would draw, and take hold and delight.

RHYME a a a *

But, you are he can paint; I can but write:
A Poet hath no more but black and white,
Ne knows he flatt'ring Colours, or false Light.

RHYME a a a *

Yet when of Friendship I would draw the Face
A letter'd Mind, and a large Heart would place
To all Posterity; I will write Burlase.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

WHen first, my Lord, I saw you back your Horse,
Provoke his Metal, and command his Force
To all the uses of the Field and Race,
Me thought I read the ancient Art of Thrace,
And saw a Centaure, past those Tales of Greece,
So seem'd your Horse; and you both of a Piece!
You shew'd like Perseus upon Pegasus;
Or Castor mounted on his Cyllarus:
Or what we hear our home-born Legend tell,
Of bold Sir Bevis and his Arundell:
Nay, so your Seat his Beauties did endorse,
As I began to wish my self a Horse:

TITLE

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WAnd surely had I but your Stable seen
Before: I think my Wish absolv'd had been.
For never saw I yet the Muses dwell,
Nor any of their Houshold half so well.
So well! as when I saw the Floor and Room,
I look'd for Hercules to be the Groom:
And cri'd, away, with the C곫sarian Bread,
At these Immortal Mangers Virgil fed.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

IAm to dine, Friend, where I must be weigh'd
For a just Wager, and that Wager paid
If I do lose it: And, without a Tale
A Merchant's Wife is Regent of the Scale.
Who when she heard the Match, concluded streight,
An ill Commodity! 'T must make good weight:
So that upon the Point, my Corporal fear
Is, she will Play Dame Justice, too severe;
And hold me to it close; to stand upright
Within the Balance; and not want a Mite;
But rather with advantage to be found
Full twenty stone; of which I lack two Pound:
That's six in Silver; now within the Socket
Stinketh my Credit, if into the Pocket
It do not come: One Piece I have in store,
Lend me, dear Arthur, for a Week five more,
And you shall make me good, in Weight, and Fashion,
And then to be return'd; or Protestation
To go out after till when take this Letter
For your security. I can no better.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

WOuld God, my Burges, I could think
Thoughts worthy of thy Gift, this Ink,
Then would I promise here to give
Verse, that should thee, and me out-live.
But since the Wine hath steep'd my Brain,
I only can the Paper stain;
Yet with a Dye, that fears no Moth,
But Scarlet-like out-lasts the Cloth.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

YOu won not Verses, Madam, you won me,
When you would play so nobly, and so free.
A Book to a few Lines: but, it was fit
You won them too, your odds did merit it,
So have you gain'd a Servant, and a Muse:
The first of which I fear, you will refuse;
And you may justly, being a tardy cold,
Unprofitable Chattel, fat and old,
Laden with Belly, and doth hardly approach
His Friends, but to break Chairs, or crack a Coach.
His weight is twenty Stone within two Pound;
And that's made up as doth th' Purse abound.
Marry the Muse is one, can tread the Air,
And stroke the Water, nimble, chast, and fair;
Sleep in a Virgins Bosom without fear,
Run all the Rounds in a soft Ladies Ear,
Widow or Wife, without the jealousie
Of either Suitor, or a Servant by.
Such, (if her Manners like you) I do send:
And can for other Graces her commend,
To make you merry on the Dressing-stool
A Mornings, and at Afternoons to Fool
Away ill Company, and help in Rhyme,
Your Joan to pass her melancholy time.
By this, although you fancy not the Man
Accept his Muse; and tell, I know you can

RHYME a a *

How many Verses, Madam, are your due!
I can lose none in tendring these to you.
I gain, in having leave to keep my Day,
And should grow rich, had I much more to pay.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

FAther John Burges,
Necessity urges
My woful Cry,
To Sir Robert Pie:
And that he will venter
To send my Debenture
Tell him his Ben
Knew the time, when
He lov'd the Muses;
Though now he refuses,
To take Apprehension
Of a years Pension,
And more is behind:
Put him in mind
Christmas is near;
And neither good Chear,
Mirth, Fooling, nor Wit,
Nor any least Fit
Of Gambol or Sport
Will come at the Court,
If there be no Money,
No Plover, or Coney
Will come to the Table,
Or Wine to enable
The Muse, or the Poet,
The Parish will know it.
Nor any quick-warming-pan help him to Bed,
If the Checker be empty, so will be his Head.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THou, Friend, wilt hear all Censures; unto thee
All Mouths are open, and all Stomachs free:
Be thou my Books Intelligencer, note
What each Man says of it, and of what Coat
His Judgment is; If he be wise, and praise,
Thank him: if other, he can give no Bays.
If his Wit reach no higher, but to spring
Thy Wife a fit of laughter; a Cramp-ring
Will be reward enough: to wear like those,
That hang their richest Jewels i' their Nose;
Like a rung Bear, or Swine: grunting out Wit,
As if that Part lay for a [ ] most fit!
If they go on, and that thou lov'st a-life
Their perfum'd Judgments, let them kiss thy Wife.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THey talk of Fencing, and the use of Arms,
The Art of urging, and avoiding harms,
The Noble Science, and the mastring skill
Of making just Approaches how to kill:
To hit in Angels, and to clash with time:
As all defence, or offence were a chime!
I hate such measur'd, give me metall'd Fire
That trembles in the blaze, but (then) mounts higher!
A quick, and dazling motion! when a Pair
Of Bodies, meet like rarified Air!
Their Weapons shot out, with that flame and force,
As they out-did the Lightning in the Course;
This were a Spectacle! A sight to draw
Wonder to Valour! No, it is the Law

RHYME a a *

Of daring, not to do a Wrong, is true
Valour! to slight it, being done to you!
To know the Heads of Danger! where 'tis fit
To bend, to break, provoke, or suffer it!
All this (my Lord) is Valour! This is yours!
And was your Fathers! All your Ancestors!
Who durst live great, 'mongst all the Colds and Heats
Of Humane Life! as all the Frosts and Sweats
Of Fortune! when, or Death appear'd, or Bands!
And valiant were, with, or without their Hands.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

IF, Passenger, thou canst but read:
Stay, drop a Tear for him that's dead,
Henry, the brave young Lord La-ware,
Minerva's and the Muses Care!
What could their Care do 'gainst the Spight
Of a Disease, that lov'd no light
Of Honour, nor no air of Good?
But crept like Darkness through his Blood?
Offended with the dazling flame
Of Vertue, got above his Name?
No noble Furniture of Parts,
No love of Action, and high Arts.
No aim at Glory, or in War,
Ambition to become a Star,
Could stop the Malice of this ill,
That spread his Body o'er, to kill:
And only his great Soul envy'd,
Because it durst have noblier dy'd.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THat you have seen the Pride, beheld the Sport,
And all the Games of Fortune, plaid at Court;
View'd there the Market, read the wretched rate
At which there are, would sell the Prince and State:
That scarce you hear a publick Voice alive,
But whisper'd Counsels, and those only thrive;
Yet are got off thence, with clear Mind and Hands
To lift to Heaven: who is't not understands
Your Happiness, and doth not speak you blest,
To see you set apart, thus, from the rest,
T' obtain of God, what all the Land should ask?
A Nation's Sin got pardon'd! 'twere a Task
Fit for a Bishops Knees! O bow them oft,
My Lord, till felt grief make our stone-hearts soft,
And we do weep, to water, for our sin.
He, that in such a flood, as we are in
Of Riot, and Consumption knows the way,
To teach the people how to fast, and pray,
And do their Penance, to avert God's Rod,
He is the Man, and Favorite of God.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

GReat C H A R L E S, among the holy Gifts of Grace
Annexed to thy Person, and thy place,
'Tis not enough (thy Piety is such)
To cure the call'd Kings Evil with thy touch;
But thou wilt yet a Kinglier Mastry try,
To cure the Poets Evil, Poverty:

RHYME a a *

And, in these Cures, do'st so thy self enlarge,
As thou dost cure our Evil at thy charge.
Nay, and in this, thou show'st to value more
One Poet, than of other folk Ten Score.
O Piety! so to weigh the Poors Estates!
O Bounty! so to difference the rates!
What can the Poet wish his King may do,
But that he cure the Peoples Evil too?

TITLE

RHYME a a *

WHo dares deny, that all first-Fruits are due
To God, denies the God-head to be true:
Who doubts, those Fruits God can with Gain restore,
Doth by his doubt, distrust his Promise more.
He can, he will, and with large Int'rest pay,
What (at his liking) he will take away.
Then Royal C H A R L E S and M A R Y, do not grutch
That the Almighty's Will to you is such:
But thank his Greatness, and his Goodness too;
And think all still the best that he will do.
That thought shall make, he will this loss supply
With a long, large, and blest Posterity!
For God, whose Essence is so infinite,
Cannot but heap that Grace he will requite.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

HOw happy were the Subject! if he knew,
Most pious King, but his own good in you!
How many times, Live long, CHARLES, would he say,
If he but weigh'd the Blessings of this Day?
And as it turns our joyful Year about,
For Safety of such Majesty cry out?
Indeed, when had Great Britain greater Cause
Than now, to love the Soveraign and the Laws?
When you that reign, are her Example grown,
And what are Bounds to her, you make your own?
When yonr'your' -- 'u' inverted assiduous practice doth secure
That Faith, which she professeth to be pure?
When all your Life's a Precedent of Days,
And murmur cannot quarrel at your ways?
How is she barren grown of Love! or broke!
That nothing can her Gratitude provoke!
O Times! O Manners! Surfeit bred of Ease,
The truly Epidemical Disease!
'Tis not alone the Merchant, but the Clown,
Is Bank-rupt turn'd! the Cassock, Cloak, and Gown,
Are lost upon accompt, and none will know,
How much to Heaven for thee, great C H A R L E S, they owe!

TITLE

RHYME a a *

ANd art thou born, brave Babe? Blest be thy Birth,
That so hath Crown'd our Hopes, our Spring, and Earth,
The Bed of the chaste Lily, and the Rose!
WatWhat Month than May was fitter to disclose
This Prince of Flowers? Soon shoot thou up, and grow
The same that thou art promis'd, but be slow,
And long in changing. Let our Nephews see
Thee, quickly the Gardens Eye to be,

RHYME a a *

And there to stand so. Haste, now envious Moon,
And interpose thy self, ('care not how soon.)
And threat' the great Eclipse. Two Hours but run,
Sol will re-shine. If not, C H A R L E S hath a Son.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

HAil Mary, full of Grace, it once was said,
And by an Angel, to the blessed'st Maid,
The Mother of our Lord: Why may not I
(Without profaneness) yet, a Poet, cry,
Hail Mary, full of Honours, to my Queen,
The Mother of our Prince? When was there seen
(Except the Joy that the first Mary brought,
Whereby the Safety of Mankind was wrought)
So general a Gladness to an Isle!
To make the Hearts of a whole Nation smile,
As in this Prince? Let it be lawful, so
To compare small with great, as still we owe
Glory to God. Then, Hail to Mary! Spring
Of so much Safety to the Realm, and King.

TITLE

RHYME a a b c c b 

P, Publick Joy, remember
This Sixteenth of November,
Some brave un-common way:
And though the Parish-Steeple
Be silent, to the People
Ring thou it Holy-day.

RHYME a a b c c b 

2. Mel. What though the thrifty Tower,
And Guns there, spare to pour
Their Noises forth in Thunder:
As fearful to awake
This City, or to shake
Their guarded Gates asunder?

RHYME a a b c c b 

3. Thal. Yet, let our Trumpets sound;
And cleave both Air and Ground,
With beating of our Drums:
Let every Lyre be strong,
Harp, Lute, Theorbo sprung,
With touch of dainty Thums!

RHYME a a b c c b 

4. Eut. That when the Quire is full,
The Harmony may pull
The Angels from their Sphears:
And each Intelligence
May wish it self a Sense;
Whilst it the Ditty hears.

RHYME a a b c c b 

5. Terp. Behold the Royal Mary,
The Daughter of Great Harry!
And Sister to Just Lewis!
Comes in the Pomp and Glory
Of all her Brother's Story,
And of her Father's Prowess!

RHYME a a b c c b 

6. Erat. She shows so far above
The feigned Queen of Love,
This Sea-girt Isle upon:
As here no Venus were;
But that she reigning here.
Had got the Ceston on!

RHYME a a b c c b 

7. Call. See, see our active King
Hath taken twice the Ring
Upon his pointed Lance:
Whilst all the ravish'd Rout
Do mingle in a Shout,
Hey! for the Flower of France!

RHYME a a b c c b 

8. Ura. This day the Court doth measure
Her Joy in State and Pleasure;
And with a Reverend Fear,
The Revels, and the Play,
Sum up this Crowned Day,
Her two and twenti'th Year!

RHYME a a b c c b 

9. Poly. Sweet! happy Mary! All
The People her do call!
And this the Womb Divine!
So fruitful, and so fair,
Hath brought the Land an Heir!
And C H A R L E S a Caroline.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b c d c d e f e f g g 

WHat can the Cause be, when the K. hath given
His Poet Sack, the Houshold will not pay?
Are they so scanted in their store? or driven
For want of knowing the Poet, to say him nay?
Well, they should know him, would the K. but grant
His Poet leave to sing his Houshold true;
He'ld frame such Ditties of their Store, and Want,
Would make the very Green-Cloth to look blue:
And rather wish, in their Expence of Sack,
So, the allowance from the King to use,
As the old Bard, should no Canary lack,
'T were better spare a But, than spill his Muse.
For in the Genius of a Poet's Verse,
The King's Fame lives. Go now, deny his Tierce.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

SOn, and my Friend, I had not call'd you so
To me; or been the same to you, if Show,
Profit, or Chance had made us: But I know
What, by that Name, we each to other owe,
Freedom and Truth; with love from those begot.
Wise-crafts, on which the Flatterer ventures not.
His is more safe Commodity, or none:
Nor dares he come in the comparison.
But as the wretched Painter, who so ill
Painted a Dog, that now his subtler Skill
Was, t' have a Boy stand with a Club, and fright
All live Dogs from the Lane, and his Shop's sight,
Till he had sold his Piece, drawn so unlike:
So doth the Flatt'rer with fair Cunning strike
At a Friend's Freedom, proves all circling means
To keep him off; and howsoe'er he gleans
Some of his Forms, he lets him not come near
Where he would fix, for the Distinctions fear,
For as at distance, few have Faculty
To judge: So all Men coming near, can spy,
Though now of Flattery, as of Picture are
More subtle Works, and finer Pieces far,
Than knew the former Ages: yet to Life
All is but Web, and Painting; be the strife
Never so great to get them: and the ends,
Rather to boast rich Hangings, than rare Friends.

TITLE 

RHYME a a *

BRave Infant of Saguntum, clear
Thy coming forth in that great year,
When the prodigious Hannibal did Crown
His Rage, with razing your Immortal Town.
Thou, looking then about,
Ere thou wert half got out,
Wise Child, did'st hastily return,
And mad'st thy Mothers Womb thine Urn.
How summ'd a Circle didst thou leave Mankind
Of deepest Lore, could we the Center find!

RHYME a a *

Did wiser Nature draw thee back,
From out the Horror of that Sack;
Where Shame, Faith, Honour, and regard of Right
Lay trampled on; the Deeds of Death, and Night,
Urg'd, hurried forth, and horl'd
Upon th' affrighted World:
Sword, Fire, and Famine, with fell Fury met;
And all on utmost Ruin set:
As, could they but Lifes Miseries fore-see,
No doubt all Infants would return like thee?

RHYME a b a b c c d e e d f f

For, what is Life, if measur'd by the space,
Not by the act?
Or masked Man, if valu'd by his Face,
Above his Fact?
Here's one out-liv'd his Peers,
And told forth fourscore years:
He vexed time, and busied the whole State;
Troubled both Foes and Friends;
But ever to no ends:
What did this Stirrer, but die late?
How well at Twenty had he faln, or stood!
For three of his fourscore, he did no good.

RHYME a a *

He entred well by Vertuous Parts,
Got up and thriv'd with Honest Arts:
He purchas'd Friends, and Fame, and Honours then,
And had his noble Name advanc'd with Men:
But weary of that flight,
He stoop'd in all Mens sight
To sordid flatteries, acts of Strife,
And sunk in that dead Sea of Life
So deep, as he did then Death's Waters sup:
But that the Cork of Title buoy'd him up.

RHYME a a *

Alas, but Morison fell young:
He never fell, thou fall'st, my Tongue.
He stood a Soldier to the last right end,
A perfect Patriot, and a noble Friend;
But most a vertuous Son.
All Offices were done
By him, so ample, full, and round,
In weight, in measure, number, sound,
As though his age imperfect might appear,
His Life was of Humanity the Sphere.

RHYME a a b b c c d e e d f f 

Go now, and tell our Days summ'd up with Fears,
And make them Years:
Produce thy Mass of Miseries on the Stage,
To swell thine Age:
Repeat of things a throng,
To shew thou hast been long
Not liv'd; for Life doth her great actions spell,
By what was done and wrought
In season, and so brought
To light: her measures are, how well
Each Syllable answer'd, and was form'd; how fair
These make the Lines of Life, and that's her air.

RHYME a a *

It is not growing like a Tree
In bulk, doth make Man better be;
Or standing long an Oak, three hundred year
To fall a log, at last, dry, bold, and sear:
A Lily of a Day,
Is fairer far, in May,
Although it fall, and die that Night;
It was the Plant, and FowerFlower of Light.
In small proportions, we just Beauties see:
And in short measures, Life may perfect be.

RHYME a a *

Call, Noble Lucius, then for Wine,
And let thy Looks with gladness shine:
Accept this Garland, plant it on thy Head,
And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead.
He leap'd the present age,
Possest with Holy Rage,
To see that bright Eternal Day:
Of which we Priests, and Poets say
Such truths, as we expect for happy Men,
And there he lives with Memory; and Ben.

RHYME a b a b c c d d d e e

Johnson, who sung this of him, ere he went
Himself to rest,
Or taste a part of that full Joy he meant
To have exprest,
In this bright Asterism!
Where it were Friendship's Schism,
(Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry)
To separate these Twi-Lights, the Dioscuri;
And keep the one half from his Harry.
But Fate doth so alternate the Design,
Whilst that in Heaven, this Light on Earth must shine.

RHYME a a *

And shine as you exalted are;
Two Names of Friendship, but one Star:
Of Hearts the Union. And those not by chance
Made, or Indenture, or Leas'd out t'advance
The Profits for a time.
No Pleasures vain did chime,
Of Rhymes, or Riots, at your Feasts,
Orgies of Drink, or feign'd Protests:
But simple love of Greatness, and of Good;
That knits brave Minds, and Manners, more than Blood.

RHYME a a *

This made you first to know the Why
You lik'd, then after, to apply

RHYME a a *

That liking; and approach so one the tother,
Till either grew a Portion of the other:
Each stiled by his end,
The Copy of his Friend.
You liv'd to be the great Surnames,
And Titles, by which all made Claims
Unto the Vertue. Nothing perfect done,
But as a CARY, or a MORISON.

RHYME a b a b c c d e e d f f 

And such a force the fair Example had,
As they that saw
The good, and durst not practice it, were glad
That such a Law
Was left yet to Mankind;
Where they might read, and find
Friendship, indeed, was written, not in words:
And with the Heart, not Pen,
Of Two so early Men,
Whose Lines her Rolls were, and Records.
Who, ere the first down-bloomed on the Chin,
Had sow'd these Fruits, and got the Harvest in.

TITLE 

RHYME a a a

POor wretched States, prest by Extremities,
Are fain to seek for Succours and Supplies
Of Princes Aids, or good Mens Charities.

RHYME a a a

Disease, the Enemy, and his Ingineers,
Want, with the rest of his conceal'd Compeers,
Have cast a Trench about me, now five years;

RHYME a a a

And made those strong approaches by False Braies,
Reduicts, Half-Moons, Horn-Works, and such close ways,
The Muse not peeps out, one of Hundred Days.

RHYME a a a

But lies block'd up, and streightned, narrow'd in,
Fix'd to the Bed, and Boards, unlike to win
Health, or scarce Breath, as she had never bin.

RHYME a a a

Unless some saving Honour of the Crown,
Dare think it, to relieve, no less Renown,
A Bed-rid Wit, than a besieged Town.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b c d c d e f e f

THis is King Charles his Day. Speak it, thou Tower,
Unto the Ships, and they from Tier to Tier,
Discharge it 'bout the Island, in an Hour,
As loud as Thunder, and as swift as Fire.
Let Ireland meet it out at Sea, half way,
Repeating all Great Britain's Joy, and more,
Adding her own glad accents to this Day,
Like Echo playing from the other Shore.
What Drums, or Trumpets, or great Ord'nance can,
The Poetry of Steeples, with the Bells,
Three Kingdoms Mirth, in Light, and a곷ry Man,
Made lighter with the Wine. All Noises else,

RHYME a b a b c c

At Bonefires, Rockets, Fire-Works, with the Shouts
That cry that gladness, which their Hearts would pray,
Had they but Grace, of thinking, at these Routs,
On th' often coming of this Holy-day:
And ever close the Burden of the Song,
Still to have such a Charles, but this Charles long.

RHYME a a 

The Wish is great; but where the Prince is such,
What Prayers (People) can you think too much!

TITLE

RHYME a a *

LOok up, thou Seed of Envy, and still bring
Thy faint, and narrow Eyes, to read the King
In his great Actions: view whom his large Hand,
Hath rais'd to be the Port unto his Land!
W E S T O N! that waking Man! that Eye of State!
Who seldom sleeps! whom bad Men only hate!
Why do I irritate, or stir up thee,
Thou sluggish Spawn, that canst, but wilt not see!
Feed on thy self for spight, and shew thy Kind:
To Vertue and true Worth, be ever blind.
Dream thou could'st hurt it, but before thou wake,
T' effect it: Feel, thou'ast made thine own Heart ake.

TITLE

RHYME a a b c c b *

SUch Pleasure as the teeming Earth,
Doth take in easie Natures Birth,
When she puts forth the Life of ev'ry thing:
And in a dew of sweetest Rain,
She lies deliver'd without pain,
Of the prime Beauty of the Year, the Spring.
The Rivers in their Shores do run,
The Clouds rack clear before the Sun,
The rudest Winds obey the calmest Air:
Rare Plants from ev'ry Bank do rise,
And ev'ry Plant the Sense surprize,
Because the Order of the whole is fair!
The very Verdure of her Nest,
Wherein she sits so richly drest,
As all the Wealth of Season, there was spread;
Doth show, the Graces, and the Hours
Have multipli'd their Arts and Powers,
In making soft her Aromatick Bed.
Such Joys, such Sweets doth your Return
Bring all your Friends, (fair Lord) that burn
With love, to hear your Modesty relate
The bus'ness of your blooming Wit,
With all the Fruit shall follow it,
Both to the Honour of the King and State.
O how will then our Court be pleas'd,
To see great Charles of Travail eas'd,
When he beholds a Graft of his own Hand,
Shoot up an Olive fruitful, fair,
To be a Shadow to his Heir,
And both a Strength, and Beauty to his Land!

TITLE

RHYME a b a b c c d d

THough thou hast past thy Summer standing,stay
A while with us, bright Sun, and help our Light:
Thou canst not meet more Glory on the way,
Between thy Tropicks, to arrest thy sight,
Than thou shalt see to day:
We woo thee, stay,
And see, what can be seen,
The Bounty of a King, and Beauty of his Queen!

RHYME a b a b c c d d

See, the Procession! what a Holy Day
(Bearing the promise of some better Fate)
Hath filled, with Cacoches, all the way,
From Greenwich, hither, to Row-hampton-Gate!
When look'd the Year, at best,
So like a Feast?
Or were Affairs in tune,
By all the Sphears consent, so in the Heart of June?

RHYME a b a b c c d d

What Beauty of Beauties, and bright Youth's at charge
Of Summers Liveries, and gladding Green;
Do boast their Loves, and Brav'ries so at large,
As they came all to see, and to be seen!
When look'd the Earth so fine,
Or so did shine,
In all her bloom and flower,
To welcome home a Pair, and deck the Nuptial Bower?

RHYME a b a b c c d d

It is the kindly Season of the time,
The Month of Youth, which calls all Creatures forth
To do their Offices in Natures Chime,
And celebrate (perfection at the worth)
Marriage, the end of life,
That holy strife,
And the allowed War:
Through which not only we, but all our Species are.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Hark how the Bells upon the Waters play
Their Sister-tunes, from Thames his either side,
As they had learn'd new Changes for the day,
And all did ring th' approaches of the Bride;
The Lady Frances, drest
Above the rest
Of all the Maidens fair;
In graceful Ornament of Garland, Gems, and Hair.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

See how she paceth forth in Virgin-white,
Like what she is, the Daughter of a Duke,
And Sister: darting forth a dazling light
On all that come her Simpless to rebuke!
Her tresses trim her back,
As she did lack
Nought of a Maiden Queen,
With Modesty so crown'd, and Adoration seen.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Stay, thou wilt see what Rites the Virgins do!
The choicest Virgin-Troop of all the Land!
Porting the Ensigns of united Two,
Both Crowns and Kingdoms in their either hand;
Whose Majesties appear,
To make more clear
This Feast, than can the Day,
Although that thou, O Sun, at our intreaty stay!

RHYME a b a b c c d d

See how with Roses, and with Lilies shine,
(Lillies and Roses, Flowers of either Sex)
The bright Brides paths, embellish'd more than thine
With light of Love, this Pair doth intertex!
Stay, see the Virgins sow,
(Where she shall go)
The Emblems of their way.
O, now thou smil'st, fair Sun, and shin'st, as thou would'st stay!

RHYME a b a b c c d d

With what full hands, and in how plenteous showers
Have they bedew'd the Earth, where she doth tread,
As if her airy steps did spring the Flowers,
And all the Ground were Garden where she led!
See, at another door,
On the same floor,
The Bridegroom meets the Bride
With all the Pomp of Youth, and all our Court beside.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Our Court, and all the Grandees; now, Sun, look,
And looking with thy best Inquiry, tell,
In all thy age of Journals thou hast took,
Saw'st thou that Pair, became these Rites so well,
Save the preceeding Two?
Who, in all they do,
Search, Sun, and thou wilt find
They are th' exampled Pair, and Mirror of their Kind.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Force from the Ph벃쳌ix then, no Rarity
Of Sex, to rob the Creature; but from Man
The King of Creatures; take his Parity
With Angels, Muse, to speak these: Nothing can
Illustrate these, but they
Themselves to day,
Who the whole Act express;
All else we see beside, are Shadows, and go less.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

It is their Grace, and Favour, that makes seen,
And wonder'd at the Bounties of this day:
All is a Story of the King and Queen!
And what of Dignity, and Honour may
Be duly done to those
Whom they have chose,
And set the Mark upon,
To give a greater Name, and Title to! their own!

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Weston, their Treasure, as their Treasurer,
That Mine of Wisdom, and of Counsels deep,
Great Say-Master of State, who cannot err,
But doth his Carract, and just Standard keep
In all the prov'd assays,
And legal ways
Of Tryals, to work down
Mens Loves unto the Laws, and Laws to love the Crown.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

And this well mov'd the Judgment of the King
To pay with Honours, to his noble Son
To day, the Father's Service; who could bring
Him up, to do the same himself had done:
That far-all-seeing Eye
Could soon espy
What kind of waking Man
He had so highly set; and in what Barbican.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Stand there; for when a noble Nature's rais'd,
It brings Friends Joy, Foes Grief, Posterity Fame;
In him the times, no less than Prince, are prais'd,
And by his Rise, in active Men, his Name
Doth Emulation stir;
To th' dull, a Spur
It is: to th' envious meant,
A meer upbraiding Grief, and tort'ring punishment.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

See now the Chapel opens; where the King
And Bishop stay, to consummate the Rites:
The holy Prelate prays, then takes the Ring,
Asks first, Who gives her (I Charles); then he plights
One in the others Hand,
Whilst they both stand
Hearing their Charge, and then
The solemn Quire cries, Joy; and they return, Amen.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

O happy Bands! and thou more happy place,
Which to this use, wer't built and consecrate!
To have thy God to bless, thy King to grace,
And this their chosen Bishop celebrate;
And knit the Nuptial Knot,
Which Time shall not,
Or canker'd Jealousie,
With all corroding arts, be able to untie!

RHYME a b a b c c d d

The Chapel empties, and thou may'st be gone
Now, Sun, and post away the rest of day:
These two, now Holy Church hath made them one,
Do long to make themselves so, another way:
There is a Feast behind,
To them of kind,
Which their glad Parents taught
One to the other, long ere these to light were brought.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Haste, haste, officious Sun, and send them Night
Some Hours before it should, that these may know
All that their Fathers, and their Mothers might
Of Nuptial Sweets, at such a Season, owe,
To propagate their Names,
And keep their Fames
Alive, which else would die;
For Fame keeps Vertue up, and it Posterity.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Th' Ignoble never liv'd, they were a-while
Like Swine, or other Cattel here on Earth:
Their Names are not recorded on the File
Of Life, that fall so; Christians know their Birth
Alone, and such a Race,
We pray may grace,
Your fruitful spreading Vine,
But dare not ask our Wish in Language fescennine:

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Yet, as we may, we will, with chaste desires,
(The Holy Perfumes of the Marriage-Bed)
Be kept alive, those Sweet and Sacred Fires
Of Love between you, and your Lovely-head:
That when you both are old,
You find no cold
There; but renewed, say,
(After the last Child born:) This is our Wedding-day.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

Till you behold a Race to fill your Hall,
A Richard, and a Hierome, by their Names
Upon a Thomas, or a Francis call;
A Kate, a Frank, to honor their Grand-dames,
And 'tween their Grandsires thighs,
Like pretty Spies,
Peep forth a Gem; to see
How each one plays his part, of the large Pedigree.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

And never may there want one of the Stem,
To be a watchful Servant for this State;
But like an Arm of Eminence 'mongst them,
Extend a reaching Vertue, early and late:
Whilst the main Tree still found
Upright and sound,
By this Sun's Noonsted's made
So great; his Body now alone projects the shade.

RHYME a b a b c c d d

They both are slipp'd to Bed; shut fast the Door,
And let him freely gather Loves First-Fruits,
He's Master of the Office; yet no more
Exacts than she is pleas'd to pay: no Suits,
Strifes, Murmurs, or Delay,
Will last till Day:
Night, and the Sheets will show,
The longing Couple, all that Elder Lovers know.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THat whereas your Royal Father
J A M E S the blessed, pleas'd the rather,
Of his special Grace to Letters,
To make all the M U S E S Debtors
To his Bounty, by Extension
Of a free Poetick Pension,
A large Hundred Marks Annuity,
To be given me in Gratuity
For done Service, and to come:
And that this so accepted Sum,
Or dispens'd in Books, or Bread,
(For with both the M U S E was fed)
Hath drawn on me, from the times,
All the Envy of the Rhymes,
And the ratling Pit-pat-noise
Of the less Poetick Boys,
When their Pot-Guns aim to hit,
With their Pellets of small Wit,
Parts of me (they judg'd) decay'd,
But we last out, still unlay'd.
Please your Majesty to make
Of your Grace, for Goodness sake,
Those your Fathers Marks, your Pounds;
Let their Spite (which now abounds)
Then go on, and do its worst;
This would all their Envy burst:
And so warm the Poets Tongue
You'ld read a Snake, in his next Song.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

IF to my Mind, great Lord, I had a State,
I would present you now with curious Plate
Of Noremberg, or Turky: Hang your Rooms
Not with the Arras, but the Persian Looms:
I would, if Price, or Prayer could them get,
Send in, what or Romano, Tintaret,
Titian, or Raphael, Michael Angelo
Have left in Fame to equal, or out-go
The Old Greek Hands in Picture, or in Stone.
This I would do, could I know Weston, one
Catch'd with these Arts, wherein the Judge is wise,
As far as Sense, and only by the Eyes.
But you, I know, my Lord; and know you can
Discern between a Statue and a Man:
Can do the things that Statues do deserve,
And act the business, which they paint, or carve.
What you have studied, are the arts of Life;
To compose Men, and Manners; stint the strife
Of murmuring Subjects; make the Nations know
What Worlds of Blessings to good Kings they owe:
And mightiest Monarchs feel what large increase
Of Sweets, and Safeties, they possess by Peace.
These I look up at with a reverend Eye,
And strike Religion in the standers-by:
Which though I cannot, as an Architect,
In glorious Piles, or Pyramids erect
Unto your Honour: I can tune in Song
Aloud: and (happ'ly) it may last as long.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THo', happy Muse, thou know my Digby well,
Yet read him in these lines: He doth excel
In Honour, Courtesie, and all the parts
Court can call hers, or Man could call his Arts.
He's Prudent, Valiant, Just, and Temperate
In him all Vertue is beheld in State:
And he is built like some Imperial Room
For that to dwell in, and be still at home.
His Breast is a brave Palace, a broad Street,
Where all Heroick ample Thoughts do meet:
Where Nature such a large Survey hath ta'en,
As other Souls, to his, dwelt in a Lane:
Witness his Action done at Scanderone;
Upon my Birth-day, the Eleventh of June;
When the Apostle Barnaby the Bright
Unto our year doth give the longest light,
In sign the Subject, and the Song will live,
Which I have vow'd Posterity to give.
Go, Muse, in, and salute him. Say he be
Busie, or frown at first; when he sees thee,
He will clear up his Forehead: think thou bringst
Good Omen to him, in the Note thou sing'st:
For he doth love my Verses, and will look
Upon them, (next to Spencer's noble Book)
And praise them too. O! what a Fame 't will be?
What Reputation to my Lines, and me,
When he shall read them at the Treasurer's Board?
The knowing Weston, and that Learned Lord
Allows them? Then, what Copies shall be had,
What Transcripts begg'd? how cry'd up, and how glad,
Wilt thou be, Muse, when this shall them befall?
Being sent to one, they will be read of all.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b a c c c

NEw Years, expect New Gifts: Sister, your Harp,
Lute, Lyre, Theorbo, all are call'd to day.
Your Change of Notes, the Flat, the Mean, the Sharp,
To shew the Rites, and t' usher forth the way
Of the New Year, in a new Silken Warpe.
To fit the Softness of our Years-Gift: When
We sing the best of Monarchs, Masters, Men:
For had we here said less, we had sung nothing then.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b b

TO day old Janus opens the New Year,
And shuts the old. Haste, haste, all Loyal Swains,
That know the Times and Seasons when t' appear,
And offer your just Service on these Plains;
Best Kings expect First:Fruits of your glad Gains.

RHYME a a *

1. P A N is the great Preserver of our bounds.
2. To him we owe all Profits of our Grounds,
3. Our Milk. 4. Our Fells. 5. Our Fleeces. 6. And first Lambs.
7. Our teeming Ewes. 8. And lusty mounting Rams.
9. See where he walks with M I R A by his side.
Sound, sound his Praises loud, and with his, hers divide.

RHYME a b a b

Of P A N we sing, the best of Hunters, P A N,
That drives the Hart to seek unused ways,
And in the Chase, more than S Y L V A N U S can,
Hear, O you groves, and, Hills, resound his Praise.

RHYME a b a b

Of brightest M I R A, do we raise our Song,
Sister of P A N, and Glory of the Spring:
Who walks on Earth, as May still went along,
Rivers and Valleys Echo what we sing.

RHYME a b a b

Of P A N we sing, the Chief of Leaders, P A N,
That leads our Flocks and us, and calls both forth
To better Pastures than great P A L E S can:
Hear, O you Groves, and, Hills, resound his Worth.

RHYME a b a b

Of brightest M I R A, is our Song; the Grace
Of all that Nature, yet, to Life did bring;
And were she lost, could best supply her place,
Rivers and Valleys Echo what we sing.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

1. Where'er they tread th' enamour'd Ground,
The fairest Flowers are always found:
2. As if the Beauties of the Year,
Still waited on 'em where they were.
1. He is the Father of our Peace;
2. She, to the Crown, hath brought Increase.
1. We know no other Power than his,
P A N only our great Shep'erd is,
Our great, our good. Where one's so drest
In truth of Colours, both are best.

RHYME a a *

Haste, haste you hither, all you gentler Swains,
That have a Flock, or Herd, upon these Plains:
This is the great Preserver of our Bounds,
To whom you owe all Duties of your Grounds;
Your Milks, your Fells, your Fleeces, and first Lambs,
Your teeming Ewes, as well as mounting Rams.
Whose Praises let 's report unto the Woods,
That they may take it echo'd by the Floods.
'Tis he, 'tis he, in singing he,
And hunting, P A N, exceedeth thee.
He gives all Plenty, and Increase,
He is the Author of our Peace.

RHYME a a *

Where'er he goes upon the Ground,
The better Grass, and Flowers are found
To sweeter Pastures lead he can,
Than ever P A L E S could, or P A N:
He drives Diseases from our Folds,
The Thief from Spoil his Presence holds:
P A N knows no other Power than his,
This only the great Shep'erd is.

RHYME a b a b

Fair Friend, 'tis true, your Beauties move
My Heart to a Respect:
Too little to be paid with Love,
Too great for your Neglect.

RHYME a b a b

I neither love, nor yet am free,
For though the Flame I find
Be not Intense in the Degree,
'Tis of the purest kind.

RHYME a b a b

It little wants of Love, but Pain,
Your Beauty takes my Sense,
And lest you should that Price disdain,
My Thoughts too feel the Influence.

RHYME a b a b

'Tis not a Passions first Access
Ready to multiply,
But like Love's calmest State it is
Possest with Victory.

RHYME a b a b

It is like Love to Truth reduc'd
All the false Value's gone,
Which were created, and induc'd
By fond Imagination.

RHYME a b a b

'Tis either Fancy, or 'tis Fate,
To love you more than I:
I love you at your Beauties rate,
Less were an Injury.

RHYME a b a b

Like unstamp'd Gold, I weigh each Grace,
So that you may collect,
Th' intrinsick Value of your Face,
Safely from my Respect.

RHYME a b a b

And this Respect would merit Love,
Were not so fair a sight
Payment enough; for who dare move
Reward for his Delight?

TITLE

RHYME a b a b b c c

ROuse up thy self, my gentle Muse,
Though now our Green Conceits be Gray,
And yet once more do not refuse
To take thy Phrygian Harp, and play,
In honour of this cheerful Day:
Long may they both contend to prove,
That best of Crowns is such a love.

RHYME a b a b b

Make first a Song of Joy, and Love,
Which chastly flames in Royal Eyes,
Then tune it to the Spheres above,
When the benignest Stars do rise,
And sweet Conjunctions grace the Skies.

RHYME a b a b b 

To this let all good Hearts resound,
Whilst Diadems invest his Head;
Long may he live, whose Life doth bound
More than his Laws, and better led
By high Example, than by dread.

RHYME a b a b b 

Long may he round about him see
His Roses, and his Lilies bloom:
Long may his only Dear, and He
Joy in Id곫as of their own,
And Kingdoms Hopes so timely sown.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

THat thou art lov'd of God, this Work is done,
Great King, thy having of a Second Son:
And by thy blessing, may thy People see
How much they are belov'd of God in thee;
Would they would understand it! Princes are
Great aids to Empire, as they are great care
To pious Parents, who would have their Blood
Should take first Seisin of the publick good,
As hath thy J A M E S; cleans'd from Original Dross,
This day, by Baptism, and his Saviour's Cross:
Grow up, sweet Babe, as blessed, in thy Name,
As in renewing thy good Grandsires Fame;
Me thought Great Britain in her Sea, before,
Sate safe enough, but now secured more.
At Land she triumphs in the triple shade,
Her Rose, and Lily, intertwin'd, have made.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

WHat gentle Ghost, besprent with April Dew,
Hails me, so solemnly, to yonder Yew?
And beck'ning wooes me, from the fatal Tree
To pluck a Garland, for her self or me?
I do obey you, Beauty! for in death,
You seem a fair one! O that you had breath,
To give your shade a name! Stay, stay, I feel
A horror in me! all my Blood is Steel!
Stiff! stark! my Joints 'gainst one another knock!
Whose Daughter? ha? Great Savage of the Rock?
He's good, as great. I am almost a Stone!
And e'er I can ask more of her she's gone!
Alas, I am all Marble! write the rest
Thou wouldst have written, Fame, upon my Breast:
It is a large fair Table, and a true,
And the disposure will be something new,
When I, who would the Poet have become,
At least may bear th' Inscription to her Tomb.
She was the Lady Jane, and Marchioness
Of Winchester; the Heralds can tell this.
Earl River's Grand-Child serve not forms, good Fame,
Sound thou her Vertues, give her Soul a Name,
Had I a thousand Mouths, as many Tongues,
And Voice to raise them from my brazen Lungs,
I durst not aim at that: The dotes were such
Thereof, no notion can express how much
Their Carract was! I, or my Trump must break,
But rather I, should I of that part speak!
It is too near of kin to Heaven, the Soul,
To be describ'd! Fames Fingers are too foul
To touch these Mysteries! We may admire
The blaze, and splendor, but not handle fire!
What she did here, by great example, well,
T' inlive Posterity, her Fame may tell!
And, calling truth to witness, make that good
From the inherent Graces in her Blood!
Else, who doth praise a Person by a new,
But a fain'd way, doth rob it of the true.
Her Sweetness, Softness, her fair Courtesie,
Her wary Guards, her wise Simplicity,
Were like a Ring of Vertues, 'bout her set,
And Piety the Center, where all met.
A reverend State she had, an awful Eye;
A dazling, yet inviting Majesty:

RHYME a a *

What Nature, Fortune, Institution, Fact
Could summ to a perfection, was her Act!
How did she leave the World? with what contempt?
Just as she in it liv'd! and so exempt
From all affection! when they urg'd the Cure
Of her Disease, how did her Soul assure
Her suff'rings, as the Body had been away!
And to the Torturers (her Doctors) say,
Stick on your Cupping-glasses, fear not, put
Your hottest Causticks to, burn, lance, or cut:
'Tis but a Body which you can torment,
And I, into the World, all Soul was sent!
Then comforted her Lord! and blest her Son!
Chear'd her fair Sisters in her Race to run!
With gladness temper'd her sad Parents Tears!
Made her Friends Joys, to get above their Fears!
And, in her last act, taught the Standers-by,
With admiration, and applause to die!
Let Angels sing her glories, who did call
Her Spirit home, to her Original!
Who saw the way was made it! and were sent
To carry, and conduct the Complement
'Twixt death and life! Where her Mortality
Became her Birth-day to Eternity!
And now, through circumfused light, she looks
On Natures Secrets, there, as her own Books:
Speaks Heavens Language! and discovereth free
To every Order, ev'ry Hierarchy!
Beholds her Maker! and, in him, doth see
What the beginnings of all Beauties be;
And all Beatitudes, that thence do flow:
Which they that have the Crown are sure to know!
Go now, her happy Parents, and be sad,
If you not understand, what Child you had.
If you dare grudge at Heaven, and repent
T' have paid again a Blessing was but lent,
And trusted so, as it deposited lay
At pleasure, to be call'd for, every day!
If you can envy your own Daughters bliss,
And wish her state less happy than it is!
If you can cast about your either Eye,
And see all dead here, or about to die!
The Stars, that are the Jewels of the Night,
And Day, deceasing! with the Prince of Light,
The Sun! great Kings! and mightiest Kingdoms fall!
Whole Nations! nay Mankind! the World, with all
That ever had beginning there, to 'ave end!
With what injustice should one Soul pretend
T' escape this common known necessity,
When we were all born, we began to die;
And, but for that contention, and brave strife,
The Christian hath t' enjoy the future life,
He were the wretched'st of the Race of Men:
But as he soars at that, he bruiseth then
The Serpents Head: Gets above Death, and Sin,
And, sure of Heaven, rides triumphing in.

TITLE

RHYME a a a b c c c b

FAir FAME, who art ordain'd to crown
With ever-green, and great renown,
TheirHeads,'Their Heads' that ENVY would hold down
With her, in shade
Of Death, and Darkness; and deprive
Their names of being kept alive,
By THEE, and CONSCIENCE, both who thrive
By the just trade

RHYME a a a b c c c b

Of Goodness still: Vouchsafe to take
This CRADLE, and for Goodness sake,
A dedicated Ensign make
Thereof, to TIME:
That all Posterity, as we,
Who read what the CREPUNDIA be,
May something by that twi-light see
'Bove rattling Rhyme.

RHYME a a a b c c c b

For, though that Rattles, Timbrels, Toys,
Take little Infants with their noise,
As prop'rest gifts, to Girls, and Boys
Of light expence;
Their Corals, Whistles, and prime Coats,
Their painted Masks, their paper Boats,
With Sails of Silk, as the first notes
Surprize their sense:

RHYME a a a b c c c b

Yet, here are no such Trifles brought,
No Cobweb Call's; no Surcoats wrought
With Gold, or Clasps, which might be bought
On every Stall.
But, here's a Song of her DESCENT;
And Call to the high Parliament
Of Heaven; where SERAPHIM take tent
Of ord'ring all.

RHYME a a a b c c c b

This, utter'd by an ancient BARD,
Who claims (of reverence) to be heard,
As coming with his Harp, prepar'd
To chant her 'gree,
Is sung: as als' her getting up
By JACOB's Ladder, to the top
Of that eternal Port, kept ope'
For such as SHE.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b c b

Sing the just, and uncontrol'd Descent
Of Dame V E N E T I A D I G B Y, stil'd the Fair:
For Mind, and Body, the most excellent
That ever Nature, or the later Air
Gave two such Houses as N O R T H U M B E R L A N D,
And S T A N L E Y, to which she was Co-heir.

RHYME a b a b c b c d c d

Speak it, you bold P E N A T E S, you that stand
At either Stem, and know the Veins of good
Run from your Roots; Tell, testifie the grand
Meeting of Graces, that so swell'd the Flood
Of Vertues in her, as, in short, she grew
The wonder of her Sex, and of your Blood.
And tell thou, A L D E-L E G H, None can tell more true
Thy Nieces Line, than thou that gav'st thy Name
Into the Kindred, whence thy Adam drew
Meschines honour with the Cestrian fame

TITLE

RHYME a a *

SItting, and ready to be drawn,
What makes these Velvets, Silks, and Lawn,
Embroideries, Feathers, Fringes, Lace,
Where every Limb takes like a Face?

RHYME a a *

Send these suspected helps to aid
Some Form defective, or decay'd;
This Beauty, without falshood fair,
Needs nought to cloath it but the Air.

RHYME a a *

Yet something to the Painters view,
Were fitly interpos'd; so new:
He shall, if he can understand,
Work with my fancy, his own Hand.

RHYME a a *

Draw first a Cloud, all save her Neck,
And, out of that, make Day to break;
Till, like her Face, it do appear,
And Men may think, all Light rose there.

RHYME a a *

Then let the Beams of that disperse
The Cloud, and show the Universe;
But at such distance, as the Eye
May rather yet adore, than spy.

RHYME a a *

The Heaven design'd, draw next a Spring,
With all that Youth, or it can bring:
Four Rivers branching forth like Seas,
And Paradise confining these.

RHYME a a *

Last, draw the circles of this Globe,
And let there be a starry Robe
Of Constellations 'bout her horld;
And thou hast painted Beauties World.

RHYME a a *

But, Painter, see thou do not sell
A Copy of this Piece; nor tell
Whose 'tis: but if it favour find,
Next sitting we will draw her Mind.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

PAinter yo' are come, but may be gone,
Now I have better thought thereon,
This work I can perform alone;
And give you reasons more than one.

RHYME a a *

Not, that your Art I do refuse:
But here I may no Colours use.
Beside, your hand will never hit,
To draw a thing that cannot sit.

RHYME a a *

You could make shift to paint an Eye,
An Eagle tow'ring in the Sky,
The Sun, a Sea, or soundless Pit;
But these are like a Mind, not It.

RHYME a a *

No, to express a Mind to sense,
Would ask a Heavens Intelligence;
Since nothing can report that flame,
But what's of kin to whence it came.

RHYME a a *

Sweet Mind, then speak your self, and say,
As you go on, by what brave way
Our sense you do with knowledge fill,
And yet remain our wonder still.

RHYME a a *

I call you Muse; now make it true:
Hence-forch'Hence-forth' may every Line be you;
That all may say, that see the Frame,
This is no Picture, but the same.

RHYME a a *

A Mind so pure, so perfect fine,
As 'tis not Radiant, but Divine:
And so disdaining any trier;
'Tis got where it can try the Fire.

RHYME a a *

There, high exalted in the Sphere,
As it another Nature were,
It moveth all; and makes a flight
As circular, as infinite.

RHYME a a *

Whose Notions when it will express
In speech; it is with that excess
Of Grace, and Musick to the Ear,
As what it spoke, it planted there.

RHYME a a *

The Voice so sweet, the Words so fair,
As some soft chime had strok'd the Air;
And, though the sound were parted thence,
Still left an Echo in the sense.

RHYME a a *

But, that a Mind so rapt, so high,
So swift, so pure, should yet apply
It self to us, and come so nigh
Earths grossness; there's the how, and why.

RHYME a a *

Is it because it sees us dull,
And stuck in Clay here, it would pull
Us forth, by some Celestial slight,
Up to her own sublimed hight?

RHYME a a *

Or hath she here, upon the Ground,
Some Paradise, or Palace found,
In all the bounds of Beauty, fit
For her t' inhabit? There is it.

RHYME a a *

Thrice happy House, that hast receipt
For this so lofty form, so streight,
So polisht, perfect, round, and even,
As it slid moulded off from Heaven.

RHYME a a *

Not swelling like the Ocean proud,
But stooping Gently, as a Cloud,
As smooth as Oil pour'd forth, and calm
As showers; and sweet as drops of Balm.

RHYME a a *

Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood,
Where it may run to any good;
And where it stays, it there becomes
A nest of odorous Spice, and Gums.

RHYME a a *

In action, winged as the Wind,
In rest, like Spirits left behind
Upon a Bank, or Field of Flowers,
Begotten by that Wind, and Showers.

RHYME a a *

In thee, fair Mansion, let it rest,
Yet know, with what thou art possest,
Thou entertaining in thy Breast,
But such a Mind, mak'st God thy Guest.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

BOast not these Titles of your Ancestors;
(Brave Youths) th' are their possessions, none of yours:
When your own Vertues, equall'd have their Names,
'Twill be but fair, to lean upon their Fames;
For they are strong Supporters: But, till then,
The greatest are but growing Gentlemen.
It is a wretched thing to trust to Reeds;
Which all Men do, that urge not their own deeds
Up to their Ancestors; the Rivers side,
By which yo' are planted, shew's your Fruit shall bide:
Hang all your Rooms, with one large Pedigree:
'Tis Vertue alone, is true Nobility.
Which Vertue from your Father, ripe, will fall;
Study illustrious Him, and you have all.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

TWere time that I dy'd too, now she is dead,
Who was my Muse, and life of all I did.
The Spirit that I wrote with, and conceiv'd,
All that was good, or great in me she weav'd,
And set it forth; the rest were Cobwebs fine,
Spun out in name of some of the old Nine!
To hang a Window, or make dark the Room,
Till swept away, th' were cancell'd with a Broom!
Nothing, that could remain, or yet can stir
A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!
O! had I seen her laid out a fair Course,
By Death, on Earth, I should have had remorse
On Nature, for her: who did let her lie,
And saw that portion of her self to die.
Sleepy, or stupid Nature, couldst thou part
With such a Rarity, and not rouse Art
With all her aids, to save her from the seize
Of Vulture Death, and those relentless Cleys?
Thou wouldst have lost the Ph벃쳌ix, had the kind
Been trusted to thee: not to 't self assign'd.

RHYME a a *

Look on thy sloth, and give thy self undone,
(For so thou art with me) now she is gone,
My wounded mind cannot sustain this stroke,
It rages, runs, flies, stands, and would provoke
The World to ruine with it; in her Fall,
I summ up mine own breaking, and wish all.
Thou hast no more blows, Fate, to drive at one,
What's left a Poet, when his Muse is gone?
Sure, I am dead, and know it not! I feel
Nothing I do; but, like a heavy Wheel,
Am turned with anothers powers. My Passion
Whirls me about, and to blaspheme in fashion!
I murmur against God, for having ta'en
Her blessed Soul, hence, forth this Valley vane
Of Tears, and Dungeon of Calamity!
I envy it the Angels amity!
The joy of Saints! the Crown for which it lives,
The glory, and gain of rest, which the place gives!
Dare I prophane, so irreligious be
To 'greet, or grieve her soft Euthanasee!
So sweetly taken to the Court of bliss,
As Spirits had stol'n her Spirit, in a kiss,
From off her Pillow, and deluded Bed;
And left her lovely Body unthought dead!
Indeed, she is not dead! but laid to sleep
In Earth, till the last Trump awake the Sheep
And Goats together, whither they must come
To hear their Judge, and his eternal doom.
To have that final retribution,
Expected with the Fleshes restitution.
For, as there are three Natures, Schoolmen call
One Corporal, only; th' other Spiritual,
Like single; so, there is a third, commixt,
Of Body and Spirit together, plac'd betwixt
Those other two; which must be judg'd, or crown'd:
This as it guilty is, or guiltless found,
Must come to take a sentence, by the sense
Of that great Evidence, the Conscience!
Who will be there, against that day prepar'd,
T' accuse, or quit all Parties to be heard!
O Day of joy, and surety to the just!
Who in that Feast of Resurrection trust!
That great eternal Holy-day of rest,
To Body, and Soul! where Love is all the guest!
And the whole Banquet is full fight'sight' of God!
Of joy the Circle, and sole Period!
All other gladness, with the thought is barr'd;
Hope, hath her end! and Faith hath her reward!
This being thus: why should my Tongue, or Pen
Presume to interpel that fulness, when
Nothing can more adorn it, than the Seat
That she is in, or, make it more compleat?
Better be dumb, than superstitious!
Who violates the God-head, is most vicious
Against the Nature he would worship. He
Will honour'd be in all simplicity!
Have all his actions, wondred at, and view'd
With silence, and amazement! not with rude,
Dull, and prophane, weak, and imperfect Eyes,
Have busie search made in his mysteries!
He knows, what work h' hath done, to call this Guest,
Out of her noble Body, to this Feast:
And give her place, according to her Blood
Amongst her Peers, those Princes of all good!
Saints, Martyrs, Prophets, with those Hierarchies,
Angels, Arch-angels, Principalities,
The Dominations, Vertues, and the Powers,
The Thrones, the Cherub, and Seraphick Bowers,
That, planted round, there sing before the Lamb,
A new Song to his praise, and great I Am:
And she doth know, out of the shade of Death,
What 't is t' enjoy, an everlasting Breath!
To have her captiv'd Spirit freed from Flesh,
And on her Innocence, a Garment fresh

RHYME a a *

And white, as that: put on and in her hand
With Boughs of Palm, a crowned Victrice stand!
And will you, worthy Son, Sir, knowing this,
Put Black, and Mourning on? and say you miss
A Wife, a Friend, a Lady, or a Love;
Whom her Redeemer, honour'd hath above
Her Fellows, with the Oyl of Gladness, bright
In HeavenHeaven's Empire, and with a Robe of Light?
Thither, you hope to come; and there to find
That pure, that pretious, and exalted Mind
You once enjoy'd: A short space severs yee,
Compar'd unto that long Eternity,
That shall re-joyn ye. Was she, then, so dear,
When she departed? you will meet her there,
Much more desir'd, and dearer then before,
By all the Wealth of Blessings, and the store
Accumulated on her, by the Lord
Of Life, and Light, the Son of God, the Word!
There, all the happy Souls, that ever were,
Shall meet with gladness in one Theatre;
And each shall know, there, one anothers Face:
By beatifick Vertue of the Place.
There shall the Brother, with the Sister walk,
And Sons, and Daughters, with their Parents talk;
But all of God; They still shall have to say,
But make him All in All, their Theme, that Day:
That happy Day, that never shall see night!
Where He will be, all Beauty to the Sight;
Wine, or delicious Fruits, unto the Taste;
A Musick in the Ears, will ever last;
Unto the Scent, a Spicery, or Balm;
And to the Touch, a Flower, like soft as Palm.
He will all Glory, all Perfection be,
God, in the Union, and the Trinity!
That Holy, Great, and Glorious Mystery,
Will there revealed be in Majesty!
By light, and comfort of Spiritual Grace;
The Vision of our Saviour, Face to Face
In his Humanity! To hear him preach
The price of our Redemption, and to teach
Through his inherent Righteousness, in death,
The safety of our Souls, and forfeit Breath!
What fulness of Beatitude is here?
What Love with Mercy mixed doth appear?
To stile us Friends, who were, by Nature, Foes?
Adopt us Heirs, by Grace, who were of those
Had lost our selves? and prodigally spent
Our native Portions, and possessed Rent;
Yet have all Debts forgiven us, and advance
B' imputed right to an Inheritance
In his Eternal Kingdom, where we sit
Equal with Angels, and Co-heirs of it.
Nor dare we under Blasphemy conceive
He that shall be our Supreme Judge, should leave
Himself so un-inform'd of his Elect,
Who knows the Hearts of all, and can dissect
The smallest Fibre of our Flesh; he can
Find all our Atoms from a Point t' a Span!
Our closest Creeks, and Corners, and can trace
Each Line, as it were graphick, in the Face.
And best he knew her noble Character,
For 'twas himself who form'd, and gave it her.
And to that Form, lent two such Veins of Blood
As Nature could not more increase the Flood
Of Title in her! All Nobility
(But Pride, that Schism of incivility)
She had, and it became her! she was fit
T' have known no Envy, but by fuffring'suffring' it!
She had a Mind as calm, as she was fair;
Not tost or troubled with light Lady-air;
But, kept an even Gate, as some streight Tree
Mov'd by the Wind, so comely moved she.
And by the awful manage of her Eye
She swaid all Bus'ness in the Family!

RHYME a a *

To one she said, Do this, he did it; So
To another, Move; he went; To a third, Go,
He run; and all did strive with diligence
T' obey, and serve her sweet Commandments.
She was in one, a many parts of Life;
A tender Mother, a discreeter Wife,
A solemn Mistress, and so good a Friend,
So Charitable, to religious End
In all her petite Actions, so devote,
As her whole Life was now become one Note
Of Piety, and private Holiness.
She spent more time in Tears her self to dress
For her Devotions, and those sad Essays
Of Sorrow, then all pomp of gaudy days:
And came forth ever cheered, with the Rod
Of divine Comfort, when sh' had talk'd with God.
Her broken Sighs did never miss whole Sense:
Nor can the bruised Heart want Eloquence:
For, Prayer is the Incense most perfumes
The Holy Altars, when it least presumes.
And hers were all Humility! they beat
The Door of Grace, and found the Mercy-Seat.
In frequent speaking by the pious Psalms
Her solemn hours she spent, or giving Alms,
Or doing other Deeds of Charity,
To clothe the Naked, feed the Hungry. She
Would sit in an Infirmer,'Infirmary' whole days
Poring, as on a Map, to find the Ways
To that eternal Rest, where now sh' hath Place
By sure Election, and predestin'd Grace!
She saw her Saviour, by an early light,
Incarnate in the Manger, shining bright
On all the World! She saw him on the Cross
Suffring, and dying to redeem our loss:
She saw him rise, triumphing over Death
To justifie, and quicken us in Breath!
She saw him too, in Glory to ascend
For his designed work the perfect end
Of raising, judging, and rewarding all
The kind of Man, on whom his Doom should fall!
All this by Faith she saw, and fram'd a Plea,
In manner of a daily Apostrophe,
To him should be her Judge, true God, true Man,
Jesus, the only gotten Christ! who can
As being Redeemer, and Repairer too
(Of lapsed Nature) best know what to do,
In that great Act of Judgment: Which the Father
Hath given wholly to the Son (the rather
As being the Son of Man) to shew his Power,
His Wisdom, and his Justice, in that hour,
The last of hours, and shutter up of all;
Where first his Power will appear, by call
Of all are dead to Life! His Wisdom show
In the discerning of each Conscience, so!
And most his Justice, in the fitting Parts,
And giving dues to all Mankinds Deserts!
In this sweet Extasie, she was rapt hence.
Who reads, will pardon my Intelligence,
That thus have ventur'd these true Strains upon;
To publish her a Saint. My Muse is gone.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

HAppy is he, that from all Business clear,
As the old Race of Mankind were,
With his own Oxen tills his Sires left Lands,
And is not in the Usurers Bands:
Nor Soldier-like started with rough Alarms,
Nor dreads the Seas inraged harms:
But flees the Bar and Courts, with the proud bords,
And waiting Chambers of great Lords.
The Poplar tall, he then doth marrying twine
With the grown issue of the Vine;
And with his Hook lops off the fruitless Race,
And sets more happy in the Place:
Or in the bending Vale beholds a-far
The lowing Herds there grazing are:
Or the prest Honey in pure Pots doth keep
Of Earth, and shears the tender Sheep:
Or when that Autumn, through the Fields lifts round
His Head, with mellow Apples crown'd,
How plucking Pears, his own hand grafted had,
And Purple-matching Grapes, he's glad!
With which, Priapus, he may thank thy Hands,
And, Sylvane, thine that keptst his Lands!
Then now beneath some ancient Oak he may
Now in the rooted Grass him lay,
Whilst from the higher Banks do slide the Floods?
The soft Birds quarrel in the Woods,
The Fountains murmur as the Streams do creep,
And all invite to easie sleep.
Then when the thundring Jove, his Snow and Showers
Are gathering by the Wintry hours;
Or hence, or thence, he drives with many a Hound
Wild Boars into his Toils pitch'd round:
Or strains on his small Fork his subtil Nets
For th' eating Thrush, or Pit-falls sets:
And snares the fearful Hare, and new-come Crane,
And 'counts them sweet Rewards so ta'en.
Who (amongst these delights) would not forget
Loves cares so Evil, and so great?
But if, to boot with these, a chaste Wife meet
For Houshold aid, and Children sweet;
Such as the Sabines, or a Sun-burnt-blowse,
Some lusty quick Apulians Spouse,
To deck the hallow'd Harth with old Wood fir'd
Against the Husband comes home tir'd;
That penning the glad flock in Hurdles by
Their swelling Udders doth draw dry:
And from the sweet Tub Wine of this year takes,
And unbought Viands ready makes:
Not Lucrine Oysters I could then more prize,
Nor Turbot, nor bright Golden Eyes:
If with bright Floods, the Winter troubled much,
Into our Seas send any such:
Th' Ionian God-wit, nor the Ginny-hen
Could not go down my Belly then
More sweet than Olives, that new gather'd be
From fattest Branches of the Tree:
Or the Herb Sorrel, that loves Meadows still,
Or Mallows loosing Bodies ill:
Or at the Feast of Bounds, the Lamb then slain,
Or Kid forc't from the Wolf again.
Among these Cates how glad the sight doth come
Of the fed Flocks approaching home!
To view the weary Oxen draw, with bare
And fainting Necks, the turned Share!
The wealthy Houshold swarm of Bondmen met,
And 'bout the steeming Chimney set!
These thoughts when Usurer Alphius, now about
To turn more Farmer, had spoke out
'Gainst th' Ides, his Moneys he gets in with pain,
At th' Calends puts all out again.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

VEnus, again thou mov'st a War
Long intermitted, pray thee, pray thee spare:
I am not such, as in the Reign
Of the good Cynara I was: Refrain
Sowre Mother of sweet Loves, forbear
To bend a Man now at his fiftieth year,
Too stubborn for Commands, so slack:
Go where Youths soft Intreaties call thee back.
More timely hie thee to the House,
With thy bright Swans of Paulus Maximus:
There jest, and feast, make him thine Host,
If a fit Liver thou dost seek to toast;
For he's both Noble, lovely, young,
And for the troubled Client fill's'files' his Tongue,
Child of a hundred Arts, and far
Will he display the Ensigns of thy War.
And when he smiling finds his Grace
With thee 'bove all his Rivals Gifts take place,
He will thee a Marble Statue make
Beneath a Sweet, wood Roof, neer Alba Lake:
There shall thy dainty Nostril take
In many a Gum, and for thy soft Ears sake
Shall Verse be set to Harp and Lute,
And Phrygian Hau'boy, not without the Flute.
There twice a day in sacred Lays,
The Youths and tender Maids shall sing thy praise:
And in the Salian manner meet
Thrice 'bout thy Altar with their Ivory Feet,
Me now, nor Wench, nor wanton Boy,
Delights, nor credulous hope of mutual Joy,
Nor care I now Healths to propound;
Or with fresh Flowers to girt my Temple round.
But, why, oh why, my Ligurine,
Flow my thin Tears, down these pale Cheeks of mine?
Or why, my well-grac'd words among,
With an uncomely silence fails my Tongue?
Hard-hearted, I dream every Night
I hold thee fast! but fled hence, with the Light,
Whether in Mars his Field thou be,
Or Tybers winding Streams, I follow thee.

TITLE

RHYME a b a b *

WHilst, Lydia, I was lov'd of thee,
And ('bout thy Ivory neck,) no youth did fling
His Arms more acceptably free,
I thought me richer than the Persian King.
Lyd. Whilst Horace lov'd no Mistris more,
Nor after Chloe did his Lydia sound;
In name, I went all names before,
The Roman Ilia was not more renown'd.
Hor. 'Tis true, I' am Thracian Chloe's, I
Who sings so sweet, and with such cunning plays,
As, for her, I'ld not fear to die,
So Fate would give her life, and longer days.
Lyd. And, I am mutually on Fire
With gentle Calais Thurine, Ornith's Son,
For whom I doubly would expire,
So Fates would let the Boy a long thred run.
Hor. But, say old Love return should make,
And us dis-join'd force to her brazen Yoke,
That I bright Chloe off should shake;
And to left-Lydia, now the Gate stood ope.
Lyd. Though he be fairer than a Star;
Thou lighter than the Bark of any Tree,
And than rough Adria angrier far;
Yet would I wish to love, live, die with thee.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

DOing, a filthy pleasure is, and short;
And done, we straight repent us of the sport:
Let us not then rush blindly on unto it:
Like lustful Beasts, that only know to do it:
For Lust will languish, and that Heat decay,
But thus, thus, keeping endless Holy-day,
Let us together closely lie, and kiss,
There is no labour, nor no shame in this;
This hath pleas'd, doth please, and long will please; never
Can this decay, but is beginning ever.

TITLE

RHYME a a *

LIber, of all thy Friends, thou sweetest care,
Thou worthy in eternal Flower to fare,
If thou be'st wise, with 'Syrian Oil let shine
Thy Locks, and rosie Garlands Crown thy Head;
Dark thy clear Glass with old Falernian Wine;
And heat, with softest Love, thy softer Bed.
He, that but living half his days, dies such,
Makes his Life longer than 'twas given him, much.
