PRay thee, take care, that tak'st my Booke in hand,

To reade it well: that is, to understand.

IT will be look'd for Booke, when some but see

Thy title, Epigrammes, and nam'd of mee,

Thou should'st be bold, licentious, full of gall,

Wormewood, and sulphure, sharpe, and tooth'd withall;

Become a petulant thing, hurle inke, 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 selfe-fame,

Made from the hazard of anothers shame.

Much lesse, with lewd, prophane, and beastly phrase,

To catch the worlds loose laughter, or vaine gaze.

He that departs with his owne honesty

For vulgar praise, doth it too dearely buy.

THou, that mak'st gaine thy end, and wisely well,

Call'st a booke good, or bad, as it doth sell,

Vse mine so, too: I give thee leave. But crave

For the lucks sake, it thus much favour have.

To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought;

Not offer'd, as it made sute to be bought;

Nor have my title-leafe on posts, or walls,

Or in cleft-stickes, advanced to make calls

For termers, or some clerk-like serving-man,

Who scarce can spell th'hard names: whose knight lesse can.

If, without these vile arts, it will not sell,

Send it to Bucklers-bury, there 'twill, well.

HOw, best of Kings, dost thou a Scepter beare!

How, best of Poets, dost thou laurell weare!

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 dayes were greene,

Thou wert, as chiefe of them are said t'have beene.

And such a Prince thou art, we daily see,

As chiefe of those still promise they will bee.

Whom should my Muse then flie to, but the best

Of Kings for grace; of Poets for my test?

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 paire two realmes, the sea the ring.

IF all you boast of your great art be true;

Sure, willing povertie lives most in you.

WHere lately harbourd many a famous whore,

A purging bill, now fix'd upon the dore,

Tells you it is a hot-house: so it ma',

And still be a whore-house. Th'are Synonyma.

RIDWAY rob'd DVNCOTE of three hundred pound,

RIDWAY was tane, arraign'd, condemn'd to dye;

But, for this money was a courtier found,

Beg'd RIDWAYES pardon: DVNCOTE, now, doth crye;

Rob'd both of money, and the lawes reliefe,

The courtier is become the greater thiefe.

MAy none, whose scatter'd names honor my booke,

For strict degrees of ranke, or title looke:

'Tis 'gainst the manners of an Epigram:

And, I a Poet here, no Herald am.

THou call'st me Poet, as a terme of shame:

But I haue my reuenge made, in thy name.

AT court I met it, in clothes braue enough,

To be a courtier; and lookes graue enough,

To seeme a statesman: as I neere it came,

It made me a great face, I ask'd the name.

A lord, it cryed, buried in flesh, and blood,

And such from whom let no man hope least good,

For I will doe none: and as little ill,

For I will dare none. Good Lord, walke dead still.

SHIFT, here, in towne, not meanest among squires,

That haunt Pickt-hatch, Mersh-Lambeth, and White-fryers,

Keepes himselfe, with halfe a man, and defrayes

The charge of that state, with this charme, god payes.

By that one spell he liues, eates, drinkes, arrayes

Himselfe: his whole reuennue is, god payes.

The quarter day is come; the hostesse sayes,

Shee must haue money: he returnes, god payes.

The taylor brings a suite home; he it 'ssayes,

Lookes o're the bill, likes it: and say's, god payes.

He steales to ordinaries; there he playes

At dice his borrow'd money: which, god payes.

Then takes vp fresh commoditie, for dayes;

Signes to new bond, forfeits: and cryes, god payes.

That lost, he keepes his chamber, reades Essayes,

Takes physick, teares the papers: still god payes.

Or else by water goes, and so to playes;

Calls for his stoole, adornes the stage: god payes.

To euery cause he meets, this voyce he brayes:

His onely answere is to all, god payes.

Not his poore cocatrice but he betrayes

Thus: and for his letcherie, scores, god payes.

But see! th'old baud hath seru'd him in his trim,

Lent him a pockie whore. Shee hath paid him.

WHen men a dangerous disease did scape,

Of old, they gaue a cock to ÆSCVLAPE;

Let me giue two: that doubly am got free,

From my diseases danger, and from thee.

CAMDEN, most reuerend 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 renowne, and name where with shee goes.

Then thee the age sees not that thing more graue,

More high, more holy, that shee more would craue.

What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!

What sight in searching the most antique springs!

What weight, and what authoritie in thy speech!

Man scarse can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.

Pardon free truth, and let thy modestie,

Which conquers all, be once ouer-come by thee.

Many of thine this better could, then I,

But for their powers, accept my pietie.

ALL men are wormes: But this no man. In silke

'Twas brought to court first wrapt, and white as milke;

Where, afterwards, it grew a butter-flye:

Which was a cater-piller. So t'will dye.

HARDIE, thy braine is valiant, 'tis confest,

Thou more; that with it euery day, dar'st iest

Thy selfe into fresh braules: when, call'd vpon,

Scarse thy weekes swearing brings thee of, of one.

So, in short time, th'art in arrerage growne

Some hundred quarrells, yet dost thou fight none;

Nor need'st thou: for those few, by oath releast,

Make good what thou dar'st doe in all the rest.

Keepe thy selfe there, and thinke thy valure right,

He that dares damne himselfe, dares more then fight.

MAy others feare, flie, and traduce thy name,

As guiltie men doe magistrates: glad I,

That wish my poemes a legitimate fame,

Charge them, for crowne, to thy sole censure hye.

And, but a sprigge of bayes giuen by thee,

Shall out-liue gyrlands, stolne from the chast tree.

TO thee, my way in Epigrammes seemes new,

When both it is the old way, and the true.

Thou saist, that cannot be: for thou hast seene

DAVIS, and WEEVER, and the best haue beene,

And mine come nothing like. I hope so. Yet,

As theirs did with thee, mine might credit get:

If thou'ldst but vse thy faith, as thou didst then,

When thou wert wont t'admire, not censure men.

Pr'y thee beleeue still, and not iudge so fast,

Thy faith is all the knowledge that thou hast.

THat COD can get no widdow, yet a knight,

I sent the cause: Hee wooes with an ill sprite.

TH'expence in odours is a most vaine sinne,

Except thou could'st, Sir COD, weare them within.

LOrd, how is GAM'STER chang'd! his haire close cut!

His neck fenc'd round with ruffe! his eyes halfe shut!

His clothes two fashions of, and poore! 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 seuerall wayes men to their calling haue!

The bodies stripes, I see, the soule may saue.

HEre lyes to each her parents ruth,

MARY, the daughter of their youth:

Yet, all heauens gifts, being heauens due,

It makes the father, lesse, to rue.

At sixe moneths end, shee parted hence

With safetie of her innocence;

Whose soule heauens Queene, (whose name shee beares)

In comfort of her mothers teares,

Hath plac'd amongst her virgin-traine:

Where, while that seuer'd doth remaine,

This graue partakes the fleshly birth.

Which couer lightly, gentle earth.

DONNE, the delight of PHœBVS, and each Muse,

Who, to thy one, all other braines refuse;

Whose euery worke, of thy most earely wit,

Came forth example, and remaines so, yet:

Longer a knowing, then most with doe liue.

And which no affection praise enough can giue!

To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,

Which might with halfe mankind maintayne a strife.

All which I meant to praise, and, yet, I would;

But leaue, because I cannot as I should!

THere's reason good, that you good lawes should make:

Mens manners nere were viler, for your sake.

WHile BEAST instructs his faire, and innocent wife,

In the past pleasures of his sensuall life,

Telling the motions of each petticote,

And how his GANIMEDE mou'd, and how his goate,

And now, her (hourely) her owne cucqueane makes,

In varied shapes, which for his lust shee takes:

What doth he else, but say, leaue to be chast,

Iust wife, and, to change me, make womans hast.

THen his chast wife, though BEAST now know no more,

He'adulters still: his thoughts lye with a whore.

IN place of scutcheons, that should decke thy herse,

Take better ornaments, my teares, and verse.

If any sword could saue from Faies, ROE'S could;

If any Muse out-liue their spight, his can;

If any friends teares could restore, his would;

If any pious life ere lifted man

To heauen; his hath: O happy state! wherein

Wee, sad for him, may glorie, and not sinne.

DON SVRLY, to aspire the glorious name

Of a great man, and to be thought the same,

Makes serious vse of all great trade he knowes.

He speakes to men with a Rhinocerotes nose,

Which hee thinkes great; and so reades verses, too:

And, that is done, as he saw great men doe.

H' has tympanies of businesse, in his face,

And can forget mens names, with a great grace.

He will both argue, and discourse in oathes,

Both which are great. And laugh at ill made clothes;

That's greater, yet: to crie his owne vp neate.

He doth, at meales, alone, his pheasant eate,

Which is maine greatnesse. And, at his still boord,

He drinkes to no man: that's, too, like a lord.

He keepes anothers wife, which is a spice

Of solemne greatnesse. And he dares, at dice,

Blaspheme god, greatly. Or some poore hinde beat,

That breathes in his dogs way: and this is great.

Nay more, for greatnesse sake, he will be one

May heare my Epigrammes, but like of none.

SVRLY, vse other arts, these only can

Stile thee a most great foole, but no great man.

TILTER, the most may'admire thee, though not I:

And thou, right guiltlesse, may'st plead to it, why?

For thy late sharpe deuice. I say 'tis fit

All braines, at times of triumph, should runne wit.

For then, our water-conduits doe runne wine;

But that's put in, thou'lt say. Why, so is thine.

GVILTIE, be wise; and though thou know'st the crimes

Be thine, I taxe, yet doe not owne my rimes:

'Twere madnesse in thee, to betray thy fame,

And person to the world; ere I thy name.

BANCK feeles no lamenesse of his knottie gout,

His monyes trauaile for him, in and out:

And though the soundest legs goe euery day,

He toyles to be at hell, as soone as they.

WHat two braue perills of the priuate sword

Could not effect, not all the furies doe,

That selfe-diuided Belgia did afford;

What not the enuie of the seas reach'd too,

The cold of Mosco, and fat Irish ayre,

His often change of clime (though not of mind)

What could not worke; at home in his repaire

Was his blest fate, but our hard lot to find.

Which shewes, where euer death doth please t'appeare,

Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sicknesse, all are there.

ILe not offend thee with a vaine teare 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 heauen grant like thine,

Who wets my graue, can be no friend of mine.

HE that feares death, or mournes it, in the iust,

Shewes of the resurrection little trust.

WHo would not be thy subiect, IAMES, t'obay

A Prince, that rules by'example, more than sway?

Whose manners draw, more than thy powers constraine.

And in this short time of thy happiest raigne,

Hast purg'd thy realmes, as we haue now no cause

Left vs of feare, but first our crimes, then lawes.

Like aydes 'gainst treasons who hath found before?

And than in them, how could we know god more?

First thou preserued wert, our king to bee,

And since, the whole land was preseru'd for thee.

MARTIAL, thou gau'st farre nobler Epigrammes

To thy DOMITIAN, than I can my IAMES:

But in my royall subiect I passe thee,

Thou flattered'st thine, mine cannot flatter'd bee.

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 greace

For this: that winnes, for whom he holds his peace.

GVILTIE, because I bad you late be wise,

And to conceale your vlcers, did aduise,

You laugh when you are touch'd, and long before

Any man else, you clap your hands, and rore,

And crie good! good! This quite peruerts my sense,

And lyes so farre from wit, 'tis impudence.

Beleeue it, GVILTIE, if you loose your shame,

I'le loose my modestie, and tell your name.

FOr all night-sinnes, with others wiues, vnknowne,

COLT, now, doth daily penance in his owne.

MArble, weepe, for thou do'st cover

A dead beautie under-neath 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 faire heavens storie,

E xpresser truth, or truer glorie,

T hen they might in her bright eyes.

Rare 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 griefe 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.

GYPSEE, new baud, is turn'd physitian,

And gets more gold then all the Colledge can:

Such her qnaint practice is, so it allures,

For what she gave, a whore; a baud, she cures.

VVHo sayes that GILES and IONE at discord be?

Th'observing neighbours no such mood can see.

Indeed, poore GILES repents he married ever.

But that his IONE doth too. And GILES would never,

By his free-will, be in IONES company.

No more would IONE he should. GILES riseth early,

And having got him out of doores is glad.

The like is IONE. But turning home is sad.

And so is IONE. Oft-times when GILES doth find

Harsh sights at home, GILES wisheth he were blind.

All this doth IONE. Or that his long-yearn'd life

Were quite out-spun The like wish hath his wife.

The children, that he keepes, GILES sweares are none

Of his begetting. And so sweares his IONE.

In all affections she concurreth still.

If, now, with man and wife, to will, and nill

The selfe-same things, a note of concord bee:

I know no couple better can agree!

WHat need hast thou of me? or of my Muse?

Whose actions so themselves doe celebrate?

Which should thy countries love to speake refuse,

Her foes enough would fame thee in their hate.

'Tofore, great men were glad of Poets: Now,

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 Booke, men reade but CECIL'S name,

And what I write thereof find farre, and free

From servile flatterie (common Poet's shame)

As thou stand'st cleare of the necessitie.

CHVFFE, lately rich in name, in chattels, goods,

And rich in issue to inherit all,

Ere blackes were bought for his owne funerall,

Saw all his race approch the blacker floods:

He meant they thither should make swift repaire,

When he made him executor, might be heire.

FArewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;

My sinne was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy,

Seven yeares 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 envie?

To have so soone scap'd worlds, and fleshes rage,

And, if no other miserie, yet age?

Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say here doth lye

BEN. IONSON his best piece of poetrie.

For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,

As what he loues may neuer like too much.

IS this the Sir, who, some wast wife to winne,

A knight-hood bought, to goe a wooing in?

'Tis LVCKLESSE he, that tooke vp one on band

To pay at's day of marriage. By my hand

The knight-wright's cheated then: Hee'll neuer pay.

Yes, now he weares his knight-hood euery day.

SIr LVCKLESSE, troth, for lucks sake passe by one:

Hee that wooes euery widdow, will get none.

HIs bought armes MVNG' not lik'd; for his first day

Of bearing them in field, he threw'hem away:

And hath no honor lost our Due'llists say.

PLAY-WRIGHT me reades, and still my verses damnes,

He sayes, I want the tongue of Epigrammes;

I haue no salt: no bawdrie he doth meane.

For wittie, in his language, is obscene.

PLAY-WRIGHT, I loath to haue thy manners knowne

In my chast booke: professe them in thine owne.

LEaue COD, tabacco-like, burnt gummes to take,

Or fumie clysters, thy moist lungs to bake:

Arsenike would thee fit for societie make.

THat we thy losse might know, and thou our loue,

Great heau'n did well, to giue ill fame free wing;

Which though it did but panick terror proue,

And farre beneath least pause of such a king,

Yet giue thy iealous subiects leaue to doubt:

Who this thy scape from rumour gratulate,

No lesse than if from perill; and deuout,

Doe beg thy care vnto thy after-state.

For we, that haue our eyes still in our eares,

Looke not vpon thy dangers, but our feares.

COVRTLING, I rather thou should'st vtterly

Dispraise my worke, then praise it frostily:

When I am read, thou fain'st a weake applause,

As if thou wert my friend, but lack'dst a cause.

This but thy iudgement fooles: the other way

Would both thy folly, and thy spite betray.

LOng-gathering OLD-END, I did feare thee wise,

When hauing pill'd a booke, which no man buyes,

Thou wert content the authors name to loose:

But when (in place) thou didst the patrons choose,

It was as if thou printed had'st an oath,

To giue the world assurance thou wert both;

And that, as puritanes at baptisme doo,

Thou art the father, and the witnesse too.

For, but thy selfe, where, out of motly, 's hee

Could saue that line to dedicate to thee?

CHEV'RIL cryes out, my verses libells are;

And threatens the starre-chamber, and the barre:

What are thy petulant pleadings, CHEV'RIL, then,

That quit'st the cause so oft, and rayl'st at men?

HOw I doe loue thee BEAVMONT, and thy Muse,

That vnto me dost such religion vse!

How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth

The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!

At once thou mak'st me happie, and vnmak'st;

And giuing largely to me, more thou tak'st.

What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaues?

What art is thine, that so thy friend deceiues?

When euen there, where most thou praysest mee,

For writing better, I must enuie thee.

POore POET-APE, that would be thought our chiefe,

Whose workes are eene the fripperie of wit,

From brocage is become so bold a thiefe,

As we, the rob'd, leaue rage, and pittie it.

At first he made low shifts, would picke and gleane,

Buy the reuersion of old playes; now growne

To'a little wealth, and credit in the scene,

He takes vp all, makes each mans wit his owne.

And, told of this, he slights it. Tut, such crimes

The sluggish gaping auditor deuoures;

He markes not whose't was first: and after-times

May iudge it to be his, as well as ours.

Foole, as if halfe eyes will not know a fleece

From locks of wooll, or shreds from the whole peece?

IF, as their ends, their fruits were so, the same

Baudrie', and vsurie were one kind of game.

IDEOT, last night, I pray'd thee but forbeare

To reade my verses; now I must to heare:

For offring, with thy smiles, my wit to grace,

Thy ignorance still laughs in the wrong place.

And so my sharpnesse thou no lesse dis-ioynts,

Then thou did'st late my sense, loosing my points.

So haue I seene at CHRIST-masse sports one lost,

And, hood-wink'd, for a man, embrace a post.

SPIES, you are lights in state, but of base stuffe,

Who, when you'haue burnt your selues downe to the snuffe,

Stinke, and are throwne away. End faire enough.

LOe, what my countrey should haue done (haue rais'd

An obeliske, or columne to thy name,

Or, if shee would but modestly haue prais'd

Thy fact, in brasse or marble writ the same)

I, that am glad of thy great chance, here doo!

And proud, my worke shall out-last common deeds,

Durst thinke it great, and worthy wonder too,

But thine, for which I doo't, so much exceeds!

My countries parents I haue many knowne;

But sauer of my countrey thee alone.

THy praise, or dispraise is to me alike,

One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike.

FIne MADAME WOVLD-BEE, wherefore should you feare,

That loue to make so well, a child to beare?

The world reputes you barren: but I know

Your 'pothecarie, and his drug sayes no.

Is it the paine affrights? that's soone forgot.

Or your complexions losse? you haue 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 liue at court:

And there's both losse of time, and losse of sport

In a great belly. Write, then on thy wombe,

Of the not borne, yet buried, here's the tombe.

WHo can consider thy right courses run,

With what thy vertue on the times hath won,

And not thy fortune; who can cleerely see

The iudgement of the king so shine in thee;

And that thou seek'st reward of thy each act,

Not from the publike voyce, but priuate fact;

Who can behold all enuie so declin'd

By constant suffring of thy equall mind;

And can to these be silent, Salisburie,

Without his, thine, and all times iniurie?

Curst be his Muse, that could lye dumbe, or hid

To so true worth, though thou thy selfe forbid.

NOt glad, like those that haue new hopes, or sutes,

With thy new place, bring I these early fruits

Of loue, and what the golden age did hold

A treasure, art: contemn'd in th'age of gold.

Nor glad as those, that old dependents bee,

To see thy fathers rites new laid on thee.

Nor glad for fashion. Nor to shew a fit

Of flatterie to thy titles. Nor of wit.

But I am glad to see that time suruiue,

Where merit is not sepulcher'd aliue.

Where good mens vertues them to honors bring,

And not to dangers. When so wise a king

Contends t'haue worth enioy, from his regard,

As her owne conscience, still, the same reward.

These (noblest CECIL) labour'd in my thought,

Where in what wonder see thy name hath wrought?

That whil'st I meant but thine to gratulate,

I'haue sung the greater fortunes of our state.

AWay, and leaue me, thou thing most abhord

That hast betray'd me to a worthlesse lord;

Made me commit most fierce idolatrie

To a great image through thy luxurie.

Be thy next masters more vnluckie Muse,

And, as thou'hast mine, his houres, and youth abuse.

Get him the times long grudge, the courts ill will;

And, reconcil'd, keepe him suspected still.

Make him loose all his friends; and, which is worse,

Almost all wayes, to any better course.

With me thou leau'st an happier Muse then thee,

And which thou brought'st me, welcome pouertie.

Shee 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.

THat neither fame, nor loue might wanting be

To greatnesse, CARY, I sing that, and thee.

Whose house, if it no other honor had,

In onely thee, might be both great, and glad.

Who, to vpbraid 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 happie, it to iustifie

Against thy fortune: when no foe, that day,

Could conquer thee, but chance, who did betray.

Loue thy great losse, which a renowne hath wonne,

^*To liue when Broeck not stands, nor Roor doth runne.

Loue honors, which of best example bee,

When they cost dearest, and are done most free,

Though euery fortitude deserues applause,

It may be much, or little, in the cause.

Hee's valiant'st, that dares fight, and not for pay;

That vertuous is, when the reward's away.

SInce men haue left to doe praise-worthy things,

Most thinke all praises flatteries. But truth brings

That sound, and that authoritie with her name,

As, to be rais'd by her, is onely fame.

Stand high, then, HOWARD, high in eyes of men,

High in thy bloud, thy place, but highest then,

When, in mens wishes, so thy vertues wrought,

As all thy honors were by them first sought:

And thou design'd to be the same thou art,

Before thou wert it, in each good mans heart.

Which, by no lesse confirm'd, then thy kings choice,

Proues, that is gods, which was the peoples voice.

PLAY-WRIGHT conuict of publike wrongs to men,

Takes priuate beatings, and begins againe.

Two kindes of valour he doth shew at ones;

Actiue in's braine, and passiue in his bones.

COB, thou nor souldier, thiefe, nor fencer art,

Yet by thy weapon liu'st! Th'hast one good part.

WHen Nature bids vs leaue to liue, '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 vs, first.

Then, since we (more then many) these truths know:

Though life be short, let vs not make it so.

TO plucke downe mine, POLL sets vp new wits still,

Still, 'tis his lucke to praise me 'gainst his will.

I Grieue not, COVRTLING, thou art started vp

A chamber-critick, and dost dine, and sup

At MADAMES table, where thou mak'st all wit

Goe high, or low, as thou wilt value it.

'Tis not thy iudgement breeds the preiudice,

Thy person only, COVRTLING, is the vice.

WHat is't, fine GRAND, makes thee my friendship flye,

Or take an Epigramme so fearefully:

As't were a challenge, or a borrowers letter?

The world must know your greatnesse is my debter.

In-primis, GRAND, you owe me for a iest;

I lent you, on meere acquaintance, at a feast.

Item, a tale or two, some fortnight after;

That yet maintaynes you, and your house in laughter.

Item, the babylonian song you sing;

Item, a faire greeke poesie for a ring:

With which a learned Madame you belye.

Item, a charme surrounding fearefully,

Your partie-per-pale picture, one halfe drawne

In solemne cypres, the other cob-web-lawne.

Item, a gulling imprese for you, at tilt.

Item, your mistris anagram, i' your hilt.

Item, your owne, sew'd in your mistris smock.

Item, an epitaph on my lords cock,

In most vile verses, and cost me more paine,

Then had I made 'hem good, to fit your vaine.

Fortie things more, deare GRAND, which you know true,

For which, or pay me quickly', or Ile pay you.

WHil'st thy weigh'd iudgements, EGERTON, I heare,

And know thee, then, a iudge, not of one yeare;

Whil'st I behold thee liue with purest hands;

That no affection in thy voyce commands;

That still th'art present to the better cause;

And no lesse wise, then skilfull in the lawes;

Whil'st thou art certaine to thy words, once gone,

As is thy conscience, which is alwayes one:

The Virgin, long-since fled from earth, I see,

T'our times return'd, hath made her heauen in thee.

I Cannot thinke there's that antipathy

'Twixt puritanes, and players, as some cry;

Though LIPPE, at PAVLS, ranne from his text away,

T'inueigh 'gainst playes: what did he then but play?

THis morning, timely rapt with holy fire,

I thought to forme vnto my zealous Muse,

What kinde of creature I could most desire,

To honor, serue, and loue; as Poets vse.

I meant to make her faire, and free, and wise,

Of greatest bloud, and yet more good then great;

I meant the day-starre should not brighter rise,

Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.

I meant shee should be curteous, facile, sweet,

Hating that solemne vice of greatnesse, pride;

I meant each softest vertue, there should meet,

Fit in that softer bosome to reside.

Onely a learned, and a manly soule

I purpos'd her; that should, with euen powers,

The rock, the spindle, and the sheeres controule

Of destinie, and spin her owne free houres.

Such when I meant to faine, and wish'd to see,

My Muse bad, Bedford write, and that was shee.

BE safe, nor feare thy selfe so good a fame,

That, any way, my booke should speake thy name:

For, if thou shame, ranck'd with my friends, to goe,

I'am more asham'd to haue thee thought my foe.

HORNET, thou hast thy wife drest, for the stall,

To draw thee custome: but her selfe gets all.

THat Poets are far rarer births then kings,

Your noblest father prou'd: like whom, before,

Or then, or since, about our Muses springs,

Came not that soule exhausted so their store.

Hence was it, that the destinies decreed

(Saue that most masculine issue of his braine)

No male vnto him: who could so exceed

Nature, they thought, in all, that he would faine.

At which, shee happily displeas'd, made you:

On whom, if he were liuing now, to looke,

He should those rare, and absolute numbers view,

As he would burne, or better farre his booke.

THe ports of death are sinnes; of life, good deeds:

Through which, our merit leads vs to our meeds.

How wilfull blind is he then, that would 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[inked quad]might iudge vs past it.

For good men but see death, the wicked tast it.

FOrbeare to tempt me, PROVLE, I will not show

A line vnto thee, till the world it know;

Or that I'haue by two good sufficient men,

To be the wealthy witnesse of my pen:

For all thou hear'st, thou swear'st thy selfe didst doo.

Thy wit liues by it, PROVLE, and belly too.

Which, if thou leaue not soone (though I am loth)

I must a libell make, and cosen both.

SVRLY'S old whore in her new silkes doth swim:

He cast, yet keeps her well! No, shee keeps him.

TO put out the word, whore, thou do'st me woo,

Throughout my booke. 'Troth put out woman too.

MADAME, I told you late how I repented,

I ask'd a lord a buck, and he denyed me;

And, ere I could aske you, I was preuented:

For your most noble offer had supply'd me.

Straight went I home; and there most like a Poet,

I fancied to my selfe, what wine, what wit

I would haue spent: how euery Muse should know it,

And PHœBVS-selfe should be at eating it.

O Madame, if your grant did thus transferre mee,

Make it your gift. See whither that will beare mee.

GOODYERE, I'am glad, and gratefull to report,

My selfe a witnesse of thy few dayes sport:

Where I both learn'd, why wise-men hawking follow,

And why that bird was sacred to APOLLO,

Shee doth instruct men by her gallant flight,

That they to knowledge so should toure vpright,

And neuer stoupe, but to strike ignorance:

Which if they misse, they yet should re-aduance

To former height, and there in circle tarrie,

Till they be sure to make the foole their quarrie.

Now, in whose pleasures I haue this discerned,

What would his serious actions me haue learned?

VVHen I would know thee GOODYERE, my thought lookes

Vpon thy wel-made choise of friends, and bookes;

Then doe I loue thee, and behold thy ends

In making thy friends bookes, and thy bookes friends:

Now, I must giue thy life, and deed, the voice

Attending such a studie, such a choice.

Where, though't be loue, that to thy praise doth moue

It was a knowledge, that begat that loue.

TOuch'd with the sinne of false play, in his punque,

HAZARD a month forsware his; and grew drunke,

Each night, to drowne his cares: But when the gaine

Of what shee had wrought came in, and wak'd his braine,

Vpon th'accompt, hers grew the quicker trade.

Since when, hee's sober againe, and all play's made.

VVOuld you beleeue, when you this MOVNSIEVR see,

That his whole body should speake french, not he?

That so much skarfe of France, and hat, and fether,

And shooe, and tye, and garter should come hether,

And land on one, whose face durst neuer bee

Toward the sea, farther then halfe-way tree?

That he, vntrauell'd, should be french so much,

As french-men in his companie, should seeme dutch?

Or had his father, when he did him get,

The french disease, with which he labours yet?

Or hung some MOVNSIEVRS picture on the wall,

By which his damme conceiu'd him clothes and all?

Or is it some french statue? No: 'T doth moue,

And stoupe, and cringe. O then, it needs must proue

The new french-taylors motion, monthly made,

Daily to turne in PAVLS, and helpe the trade.

IF Rome so great, and in her wisest age,

Fear'd not to boast the glories of her stage,

As skilfull ROSCIVS, and graue ÆSOPE, men,

Yet crown'd with honors, as with riches, then;

Who had no lesse a trumpet of their name,

Then CICERO, whose euery breath was fame:

How can so great example dye in mee,

That, ALLEN, I should pause to publish thee?

Who both their graces in thy selfe hast more

Out-stript, then they did all that went before:

And present worth in all dost so contract,

As others speake, but onely thou dost act.

Weare this renowne. 'Tis iust, that who did giue

So many Poets life, by one should liue.

VVHen MILL first came to court, the vnprofiting foole,

Vnworthy such a mistris, such a schoole,

Was dull, and long, ere shee would goe to man:

At last, ease, appetite, and example wan

The nicer thing to tast her ladies page;

And, finding good securitie in his age,

Went on: and prouing him still, day by day,

Discern'd no difference of his yeeres, or play.

Not though that haire grew browne, which once was amber,

And he growne youth, was call'd to his ladies chamber,

Still MILL continu'd: Nay, his face growing worse,

And he remou'd to gent'man of the horse,

MILL was the same. Since, both his body and face

Blowne vp; and he (too'vnwieldie for that place)

Hath got the stewards chaire; he will not tarry

Longer a day, but with his MILL will marry.

And it is hop'd, that shee, like MILO, wull

First bearing him a calfe, beare him a bull.

WHich of thy names I take, not onely beares

A romane sound, but romane vertue weares,

Illustrous VERE, or HORACE; sit to be

Sung by a HORACE, or a Muse as free;

Which thou art to thy selfe: whose fame was wonne

In th'eye of Europe, where thy deedes were done,

When on thy trumpet shee did sound a blast.

Whose rellish to eternitie shall last.

I leaue thy acts, which should I prosequute

Throughout, might flatt'rie seeme; and to be mute

To any one, were enuie: which would liue

Against my graue, and time could not forgiue.

I speake thy other graces, not lesse showne,

Nor lesse in practice; but lesse mark'd, lesse knowne:

Humanitie, and pietie, which are

As noble in great chiefes, as they are rare.

And best become the valiant man to weare,

Who more should seeke mens reuerence, then feare.

ERe cherries ripe, and straw-berries be gone,

Vnto the cryes of London Ile adde one;

Ripe statesmen, ripe: They grow in euery street.

At sixe and twentie, ripe. You shall'hem meet,

And haue 'hem yeeld no sauour, but of state.

Ripe are their ruffes, their cuffes, their beards, their gate,

And graue as ripe, like mellow as their faces

They know the states of Christendome, not the places:

Yet haue they seene the maps, and bought 'hem too,

And vnderstand 'hem, as most chapmen doe.

The councels, proiects, practises they know,

And what each prince doth for intelligence owe,

And vnto whom: They are the almanacks

For twelues yeeres yet to come, what each state lacks.

They carry in their pockets TACITVS,

And the GAZETTI, or GALLO-BELGICVS:

And talke reseru'd, look'd vp, and full of feare,

Nay, aske you, how the day goes, in your eare.

Keepe a starre-chamber sentence close, twelue dayes:

And whisper what a Proclamation sayes.

They meet in sixes, and at euery mart,

Are sure to con'the catalogue by hart;

Or, euery day, some one at RIMEE'S looks,

Or BILS, and there he buyes the names of books.

They all get Porta, for the sundrie wayes

To write in cypher, and the seuerall keyes,

To ope' the character. They'haue found the sleight

With iuyce of limons, onions, pisse, to write.

To breake vp seales, and close'hem. And they know,

If the States make peace, how it will goe

With England. All forbidden bookes they get.

And of the poulder-plot, they will talke yet.

At naming the French King, their heads they shake,

And at the Pope, and Spaine slight faces make.

Or 'gainst the Bishops, for the Brethren, raile,

Much like those Brethren; thinking to preuaile

With ignorance on vs, as they haue done

On them: And therefore doe not onely shunne

Others more modest, but contemne vs too,

That know not so much state, wrong, as they doo.

HOw like a columne, RADCLIFFE, left alone

For the great marke of vertue, those being gone

Who did, alike with thee, thy house vp-beare,

Stand'st thou, to shew the times what you all were?

Two brauely in the battaile fell, and dy'd,

Vpbraiding rebells armes, and barbarous pride:

And two, that would haue falne as great, as they,

The Belgick feuer rauished away.

Thou, that art all their valour, all their spirit,

And thine owne goodnesse to encrease thy merit,

Then whose I doe not know a whiter soule,

Nor could I, had I seene all Natures roule,

Thou yet remayn'st, vn-hurt in peace, or warre,

Though not vnprou'd: which shewes, thy fortunes are

Willing to expiate the fault in thee,

Wherewith, against thy bloud, they'offenders bee.

LVCY, you brightnesse of our spheare, who are

Life of the Muses day, their morning-starre!

If workes (not th'authors) their owne grace should looke,

Whose poemes would not wish to be your booke?

But these, desir'd by you, the makers ends

Crowne with their owne. Rare poemes aske rare friends.

Yet, Satyres, since the most of mankind bee

Their vn-auoided subiect, fewest see:

For none ere tooke that pleasure in sinnes sense,

But, when they heard it tax'd, tooke more offence.

They, they, that liuing where the matter is bred,

Dare for these poemes, yet, both aske, and read,

And like them too; must needfully, though few,

Be of the best: and 'mongst those, best are you.

LVCY, you brightnesse of our spheare, who are

The Muses euening, as their morning-starre.

IF, my religion safe, I durst embrace

That stranger doctrine of PYTHAGORAS,

I should beleeue, the soule of TACITVS

In thee, most weighty SAVILE, liu'd to vs:

So hast thou rendred him in all his bounds,

And all his numbers, both of sense, and sounds.

But when I read that speciall piece, restor'd,

Where NERO falls, and GALBA is ador'd,

To thine owne proper I ascribe then more;

And gratulate the breach, I grieu'd before:

Which Fate (it seemes) caus'd in the historie,

Onely to boast thy merit in supply.

O, would'st thou adde like hand, to all the rest!

Or, better worke! were thy glad countrey blest,

To haue her storie wouen in thy thred;

MINERVAES loome was neuer richer spred.

For who can master those great parts like thee,

That liu'st from hope, from feare, from faction free;

That hast thy brest so cleere of present crimes,

Thou need'st not shrinke at voyce of after-times;

Whose knowledge claymeth at the helme to stand;

But, wisely, thrusts not forth a forward hand,

No more then SALVST in the Romane state!

As, then, his cause, his glorie emulate.

Although to write be lesser then to doo,

It is the next deed, and a great one too.

We need a man that knowes the seuerall graces

Of historie, and how to apt their places;

Where breuitie, where splendor, and where height,

Where sweetnesse is requir'd, and where weight;

We need a man, can speake of the intents,

The councells, actions, orders, and euents

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 haue you)

That dares nor write things false, nor hide things true.

WHo shall doubt, DONNE, where I a Poet bee,

When I dare send my Epigrammes to thee?

That so alone canst iudge, so'alone dost make:

And, in thy censures, euenly, dost take

As free simplicitie, to dis-auow,

As thou hast best authoritie, t'allow.

Reade 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 doe write,

Let pui'nees, porters, players praise delight,

And, till they burst, their backs, like asses load:

A man should seeke great glorie, and not broad.

SEe you yond' Motion? Not the old Fa-ding,

Nor Captayne POD, nor yet the Eltham-thing;

But one more rare, and in the case so new:

His cloke with orient veluet quite lin'd through,

His rosie tyes and garters so ore-blowne,

By his each glorious parcell to be knowne!

He wont was to encounter me, aloud,

Where ere he met me; now hee's dumbe, or proud.

Know you the cause? H'has neither land, nor lease,

Nor baudie stock, that trauells for encrease,

Nor office in the towne, nor place in court,

Nor'bout the beares, nor noyse to make lords sport.

He is no fauourites fauourite, no deare trust

Of any Madames, hath neadd squires, and must.

Nor did the king of Denmarke him salute,

When he was here. Nor hath he got a sute,

Since he was gone, more then the one he weares.

Nor are the Queenes most honor'd maides by th'eares

About his forme. What then so swells each lim?

Onely his clothes haue ouer-leauen'd him.

THou hast begun well, ROE, which stand well too,

And I know nothing more thou hast to doo.

He that is round within himselfe, and streight,

Need seeke no other strength, no other height;

Fortune vpon him breakes her selfe, if ill,

And what would hurt his vertue makes it still.

That thou at once, then, nobly maist defend

With thine owne course the iudgement of thy friend,

Be alwayes to thy gather'd selfe the same:

And studie conscience, more then thou would'st fame.

Though both be good, the latter yet is worst,

And euer is ill got without the first.

THat thou hast kept thy loue, encreast thy will,

Better'd thy trust to letters; that thy skill;

Hast taught thy selfe 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 vnto men would owe?

But much it now auailes, what's done, of whom:

The selfe-same deeds, as diuersly they come,

From place, or fortune, are made high, or low,

And euen the praisers iudgement suffers so.

Well, though thy name lesse then our great ones bee,

Thy fact is more: let truth encourage thee.

PLAY-WRIGHT, by chance, hearing some toyes I'had writ,

Cry'd to my face, they were th'elixir of wit:

And I must now beleeue him: for, to day,

Fiue of my iests, then stolne, past him a play.

TO night, graue sir, both my poore house, and I

Doe equally desire your companie:

Not that we thinke vs worthy such a ghest,

But that your worth will dignifie our feast,

With those that come; whose grace may make that seeme

Something, which, else, could hope for no esteeme.

It is the faire acceptance, Sir, creates

The entertaynment perfect: not the cates.

Yet shall you haue, to rectifie your palate,

An oliue, capers, or some better sallade

Vshring the mutton; with a short-leg'd hen,

If we can get her, full of egs, and then,

Limons, and wine for sauce: to these, a coney

Is not to be despair'd of, for our money;

And, though fowle, now, be scarce, yet there are clarkes,

The skie not falling, thinke we may haue larkes.

Ile tell you of more, and lye, so you will come:

Of partrich, pheasant, wood-cock, of which some

May yet be there; and god wit, if we can:

Knat, raile, and ruffe too. How so ere, my man

Shall reade a piece of VIRGIL, TACITVS,

LIVIE, or of some better booke to vs,

Of which wee'll speake our minds, amidst our meate;

And Ile professe no verses to repeate:

To this, if ought appeare, which I know not of,

That will the pastrie, not my paper, show of.

Digestiue cheese, and fruit there sure will bee;

But that, which most doth take my Muse, and mee,

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 liues, as doe their lines, till now had lasted.

Tabacco, Nectar, or the Thespian spring,

Are all but LVTHERS beere, to this I sing.

Of this we will sup free, but moderately,

And we will haue no Pooly', or Parrot by;

Nor shall our cups make any guiltie men:

But, at our parting we will be, as when

We innocently met. No simple word,

That shall be vtter'd at our mirthfull boord,

Shall make vs sad next morning: or affright

The libertie, that wee'll enioy to night.

I Doe but name thee PEMBROKE, and I find

It is an Epigramme, on all man-kind;

Against the bad, but of, and to be good:

Both which are ask'd, to haue thee vnderstood.

Nor could the age haue mist thee in this strife

Of vice, and vertue; wherein all great life

Almost, is exercis'd: and scarse one knowes,

To which, yet, of the sides himselfe he owes.

They follow vertue, for reward, to day;

To morrow vice, if shee giue better pay:

And are so good, and bad, iust at a price,

As nothing else discernes the vertue' or vice.

But thou, whose noblêsse keeps one stature still,

And one true posture, though be sieg'd with ill

Of what ambition, faction, pride can raise;

Whose life, eu'n they, that enuie it, must praise;

That art so reuerenc'd, as thy comming in,

But in the view doth interrupt their sinne;

Thou must draw more: and they, that hope to see

The common-wealth still safe, must studie thee.

THOw well, faire crowne of your faire sexe, might hee,

TThat but the twi-light of your sprite did see,

And noted for what flesh such soules were fram'd,

Know you to be a SYDNEY, though vn-nam'd?

And, being nam'd, how little doth that name

Need any Muses praise to giue it fame?

Which is, it selfe, the imprese of the great,

And glorie of them all, but to repeate!

Forgiue me then, if mine but say you are

A SYDNEY: but in that extend as farre

As lowdest praisers, who perhaps would find

For euery part a character assign'd.

My praise is plaine, and where so ere profest,

Becomes none more then you, who need it least.

WEre they that nam'd you, prophets? Did they see,

Euen in the dew of grace, what you would bee?

Or did our times require it, to behold

A new SVSANNA, equall to that old?

Or, because some scarce thinke that storie true,

To make those faithfull, did the Fates send you?

And to your Scene lent no lesse dignitie

Of birth, of match, of forme, of chastitie?

Or, more then borne for the comparison

Of former age, or glorie of our one,

Were you aduanced, past those times, to be

The light, and marke vnto posteritie?

Iudge they, that can: Here I haue rais'd to show

A picture, which the world for yours must know,

And like it too; if they looke equally:

If not, 'tis fit for you, some should enuy.

MADAME, had all antiquitie beene lost,

All historie seal'd vp, and fables crost;

That we had left vs, nor by time, nor place,

Least mention of a Nymph, a Muse, a Grace,

But euen their names were to be made a-new,

Who could not but create them all, from you?

He, that but saw you weare the wheaten hat,

Would call you more then CERES, if not that:

And, drest in shepheards tyre, who would not say:

You were the bright OENONE, FLORA, or May?

If dancing, all would cry th'Idalian Queene,

Were leading forth the Graces on the greene:

And, armed to the chase, so bare her bow

DIANA'alone, so hit, and hunted so.

There's none so dull, that for your stile would aske,

That saw you put on PALLAS plumed caske:

Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,

There IVNO sate, and yet no Peacock by.

So are you Natures Index, and restore,

I'your selfe, all treasure lost of th'age before.

IF men get name, for some one vertue: Then,

What man art thou, that art so many men,

All-vertuous HERBERT! on whose euery part

Truth might spend all her voyce, Fame all her art.

Whether thy learning they would take, or wit,

Or valour, or thy iudgement seasoning it,

Thy standing vpright to thy selfe, thy ends

Like straight, thy pietie to God, and friends:

Their latter praise would still the greatest bee,

And yet, they, all together, lesse then thee.

DOe what you come for, Captayne, with your newes;

That's, sit, and eate: doe not my eares abuse.

I oft looke on false coyne, to know't from true:

Not that I loue it, more, then I will you.

Tell the grosse 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 Morauian horse, Venetian bull.

Tell them, what parts yo'haue tane, whence run away,

What States yo'haue gull'd, and which yet keepes yo'in pay.

Giue them your seruices, and embassies

In Ireland, Holland, Sweden, pompous lies,

In Hungary, and Poland, Turkie too;

What at Ligorne, Rome, Florence you did doe:

And, in some yeere, all these together heap'd,

For which there must more sea, and land be leap'd,

If but to be beleeu'd you haue the hap,

Then can a flea at twise skip i'the Map.

Giue your yong States-men, (that first make you drunke,

And then lye with you, closer, then a punque,

For newes) your Ville-royes, and Silleries,

Ianin's, your Nuncio's, and your Tuilleries,

Your Arch-Dukes Agents, and your Beringhams,

That are your wordes of credit. Keepe your Names

Of Hannow, Shieter-huissen, Popenheim,

Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, and Boutersheim,

For your next meale: this you are sure of. Why

Will you part with them, here, vnthriftely?

Nay, now you puffe, tuske, and draw vp your chin,

Twirle the poore chaine you run a feasting in.

Come, be not angrie, you are HVNGRY; eate;

Doe what you come for, Captayne, There's your meate.

STrength of my Countrey, whilst I bring to view

Such as are misse-call'd Captaynes, and wrong you;

And your high names: I doe desire, that thence

Be nor put on you, nor you take offence.

I sweare by your true friend, my Muse, I loue

Your great profession; which I once, did proue:

And did not shame it with my actions, then,

No more, then I dare now doe, with my pen

He that not trusts me, hauing vow'd thus much,

But 's angry for the Captayne, still: is such.

WHo now calls on thee, NEVIL, is a Muse,

That serues nor fame, nor titles; but doth chuse

Where vertue makes them both, and that's in thee:

Where all is faire, beside thy pedigree.

Thou art not one, seek'st miseries with hope,

Wrestlest with dignities, or fain'st a scope

Of seruice to the publique, when the end

Is priuate gaine, which hath long guilt to friend.

Thou rather striu'st the matter to possesse,

And elements of honor, then the dresse;

To make thy lent life, good against the Fates:

And first to know thine owne state, then the States.

To be the same in roote, thou art in height;

And that thy soule should giue thy flesh her weight.

Goe on, and doubt not, what posteritie,

Now I haue sung thee thus, shall iudge of thee.

Thy deedes, vnto thy name, will proue new wombes,

Whil'st others toyle for titles to their tombes.

NOt CAESARS deeds, nor all his honors wonne,

In these west-parts, nor when that warre was done,

The name of POMPEY for an enemie,

CATO'S to boote, Rome, and her libertie,

All yeelding to his fortune, nor, the while,

To haue engrau'd these acts, with his owne stile,

And that so strong and deepe, as't might be thought,

He wrote, with the same spirit that he fought,

Nor that his worke liu'd in the hands of foes,

Vn-argued then, and yet hath fame from those;

Not all these, EDMONDS, or what else put too,

Can so speake CAESAR, as thy labours doe.

For, where his person liu'd scarce, one iust age

And that, midst enuy, and parts; then fell by rage:

His deedes too dying, but in bookes (whose good

How few haue read! how fewer vnderstood?)

Thy learned hand, and true Promethean art

(As by a new creation) part by part,

In euery counsell, stratageme, designe,

Action, or engine, worth a note of thine,

T'all future time, not onely doth restore

His life, but makes, that he can dye no more.

WHo EDMONDS, reades thy booke, and doth not see

What th'antique souldiers were, the moderne bee?

Wherein thou shew'st, how much the latter are

Beholding, to this master of the warre;

And that, in action, there is nothing new,

More, then to varie what our elders knew:

Which all, but ignorant Captaynes will confesse:

Nor to giue CAESAR this, makes ours the lesse.

Yet thou, perhaps, shalt meet some tongues will grutch,

That to the world thou should'st reueale so much,

And thence, depraue thee, and thy worke. To those

CAESAR stands vp, as from his vrne late rose,

By thy great helpe: and doth proclaime by mee,

They murder him againe, that enuie thee.

WIth thy small stocke, why art thou ventring still,

At this so subtile sport: and play'st so ill?

Think'st thou it is meere fortune, that can win?

Or thy ranke setting? that thou dar'st put in

Thy all, at all: and what so ere I doe,

Art still at that, and think'st to blow me'vp too?

I cannot for the stage a Drama lay,

Tragick, or Comick; but thou writ'st the play.

I leaue thee there, and giuing way, entend

An Epick poeme; thou hast the same end.

I modestly quit that, and thinke to write,

Next morne, an Ode: Thou mak'st a song ere night.

I passe to Elegies; Thou meet'st me there:

To Satyres; and thou dost pursue me. Where,

Where shall I scape thee? in an Epigramme?

O, (thou cry'st out) that is thy proper game.

Troth, if it be, I pitty thy ill lucke;

That both for wit, and sense, so oft dost plucke,

And neuer art encounter'd, I confesse:

Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is lesse.

Pr'y thee, yet saue thy rest; giue ore in time:

There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.

SO PHœBVS makes me worthy of his bayes,

As but to speake thee, OVERBVRY, is praise:

So, where thou liu'st thou mak'st life vnderstood!

Where, what makes others great, doth keepe thee good!

I thinke, the Fate of court thy comming crau'd,

That the wit there, and manners might be sau'd:

For since, what ignorance, what pride is fled!

And letters, and humanitie in the stead!

Repent thee not of thy faire precedent,

Could make such men, and such a place repent:

Nor may'any feare, to loose of their degree,

Who'in such ambition can but follow thee.

I Must beleeue some miracles still bee

When SYDNYES name I heare, or face I see:

For CVPID, who (at first) tooke vaine delight,

In meere out-formes, vntill he lost his sight,

Hath chang'd his soule, and made his obiect you:

Where finding so much beautie met with vertue,

He hath not onely gain'd himselfe his eyes,

But, in your loue, made all his seruants wise.

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 towne; and knowne too, at that price.

A subtle thing, that doth affections win

By speaking well o' the company it's in.

Talkes loud, and baudy, has a gather'd deale

Of newes, and noyse, to sow out a long meale.

Can come from Tripoly, leape stooles, and winke,

Doe all, that longs to the anarchy of drinke,

Except the duell. Can sing songs, and catches;

Giue euery one his dose of mirth: and watches

Whose name's vn-welcome to the present eare.

And him it layes on; if he be not there.

Tell's of him, all the tales, it selfe then makes;

But, if it shall be question'd, vnder-takes,

It will deny all; and forsweare it too:

Not that it feares, but will not haue to doo

With such a one. And therein keepes it's word.

'Twill see it's sister naked, ere a sword.

At euery meale, where it doth dine, or sup,

The cloth's no sooner gone, but it gets vp

And, shifting of it's faces, doth play more

Parts, then th'Italian could doe, with his dore.

Acts old Iniquitie, and in the fit

Of miming, gets th'opinion of a wit.

Executes men in picture. By defect,

From friendship, is it's owne fames architect.

An inginer, in slanders, of all fashions,

That seeming prayses, are, yet accusations.

Describ'd, it's thus: Defin'd would you it haue?

Then, The townes honest Man's her errant'st knaue.

IEPHSON, thou man of men, to whose lou'd name

All gentrie, yet, owe part of their best flame!

So did thy vertue'enforme, thy wit sustaine

That age, when thou stood'st vp the master-braine:

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 euery brauest was the best:

That bloud not mindes, but mindes did bloud adorne:

And to liue great, was better, then great borne.

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 solœcisme in truth and wit.

GROYNE, come of age, his state sold out of hand

For'his whore: GROYNE doth still occupy his land.

GVT eates all day, and lechers all the night,

So all his meate he tasteth ouer, twise:

And, striuing so to double his delight,

He makes himselfe a thorough-fare of vice.

Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin

Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.

NOt he that flies the court for want of clothes,

At hunting railes, hauing no guift in othes,

Cryes out'gainst cocking, since he cannot bet,

Shuns prease, for two maine causes, poxe, and debt,

With me can merit more, then that good man,

Whose dice not doing well, to'a pulpit ran.

No, SHELTON, giue me thee, canst want all these,

But dost it out of iudgement, not disease;

Dar'st breath in any ayre; and with safe skill,

Till thou canst finde the best, choose the least ill.

That to the vulgar canst thy selfe apply,

Treading a better path, not contrary;

And, in their errors maze, thine owne way know:

Which is to liue to conscience, not to show.

He, that, but liuing halfe his age, dyes such;

Makes, the whole longer, then 'twas giuen him, much.

WEepe with me all you that read

This little storie:

And know, for whom a teare you shed,

Death's selfe is sorry.

Twas a child, that so did thriue

In grace, and feature,

As Heauen and Nature seem'd to striue

Which own'd the creature.

Yeeres he numbred scarse thirteene

When Fates turn'd cruell,

Yet three fill'd Zodiackes had he beene

The stages iewell;

And did act (what now we mone)

Old men so duely,

As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,

He plai'd so truely.

So, by error, to his fate

They all consented;

But viewing him since (alas, too late)

They haue repented.

And haue sought (to giue new birth)

In bathes to steepe him;

But, being so much too good for earth,

Heauen vowes to keepe him.

RVDYERD, as lesser dames, to great ones vse,

My lighter comes, to kisse thy learned Muse;

Whose better studies while shee emulates,

Shee learnes to know long difference of their states.

Yet is the office not to be despis'd,

If onely loue should make the action pris'd:

Nor he, for friendship, to be thought vnfit,

That striues, his manners should procede his wit.

IF I would wish, for truth, and not for show,

The aged SATVRNE's age, and rites to know;

If I would striue to bring backe times, and trie

The world's pure gold, and wise simplicitie;

If I would vertue set, as shee was yong,

And heare her speake with one, and her first tongue;

If holiest friend-ship, naked to the touch,

I would restore, and keepe it euer such;

I need no other arts, but studie thee:

Who prou'st, all these were, and againe may bee.

WRiting thy selfe, or iudging 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 iudge, should emulate.

WOuld'st thou heare, what man can say

In a little? Reader, stay.

Vnder-neath this stone doth lye

As much beautie, as could dye:

Which in life did harbour giue

To more vertue, then doth liue.

If, at all, shee had a fault,

Leaue it buryed in this vault.

One name was ELIZABETH,

Th'other let it sleepe with death:

Fitter, where it dyed, to tell,

Then that it liu'd at all. Farewell.

VV'DALE, thou piece of the first times, a man

Made for what Nature could, or Vertue can;

Both whose dimensions, lost, the world might finde

Restored in thy body, and thy minde!

Who sees a soule, in such a body set,

Might loue the treasure for the cabinet.

But I, no child, no foole, respect the kinde,

The full, the flowing graces there enshrin'd;

Which (would the world not mis-call't flatterie)

I could adore, almost t'idolatrie.

REtyr'd, with purpose your faire worth to praise,

'Mongst Hampton shades, and PHœBVS groue of bayes,

I pluck'd a branch; the iealous god did frowne,

And bad me lay th'vsurped laurell downe:

Said I wrong'd him, and (which was more) his loue.

I answer'd, DAPHNE now no paine can proue.

PHœBVS replyed. Bold head, it is not shee:

CARY my loue is, DAPHNE but my tree.

IS there a hope, that Man would thankefull bee,

If I should faile, in gratitude, to thee

To whom I am so bound, lou'd AVBIGNY?

No, I doe, therefore, call Posteritie

Into the debt; and reckon on her head,

How full of want, how swallow'd vp, how dead

I, and this Muse had beene, if thou hadst not

Lent timely succours, and new life begot:

So, all reward, or name, that growes to mee

By her attempt, shall still be owing thee.

And, than this same, I know no abler way

To thanke thy benefits: which is, to pay.

ROE (and my ioy to name) th'art now, to goe

Countries, and climes, manners, and men to know,

T'extract, and choose the best of all these knowne,

And those to turne to bloud, and make thine owne:

May windes as soft as breath of kissing friends,

Attend thee hence; and there, may all thy ends,

As the beginnings here, proue purely sweet,

And perfect in a circle alwayes meet.

So, when we, blest with thy returne, shall see

Thy selfe, with thy first thoughts, brought home by thee,

We each to other may this voyce enspire;

This is that good ÆNEAS, past through fire,

Through seas, stormes, tempests: and imbarqu'd for hell,

Came backe vntouch'd. This man hath trauail'd well.

THat, not a paire of friends each other see,

But the first question is, when one saw thee?

That there's no iourney set, or thought vpon,

To Braynford, Hackney, Bow, but thou mak'st one;

That scarse the Towne designeth any feast

To which thou'rt not a weeke, bespoke a guest;

That still th'art made the suppers flagge, the drum,

The very call, to make all others come:

Think'st thou, MIME, this is great? or, that they striue

Whose noyse shall keepe thy miming most aliue,

Whil'st thou dost rayse some Player, from the graue,

Out-dance the Babion, or out-boast the Braue;

Or (mounted on a stoole) thy face doth hit

On some new gesture, that's imputed wit?

O, runne not proud of this. Yet, take thy due.

Thou dost out-zany COKELY, POD; nay, Gue:

And thine owne CORIAT too. But (would'st thou see)

Men loue thee not for this: They laugh at thee.

TO vrge, my lou'd ALPHONSO, that bold fame,

Of building townes, and making wilde beasts tame,

Which Musick had; or speake her knowne effects,

That shee remoueth cares, sadnesse eiects,

Declineth anger, perswades clemencie,

Doth sweeten mirth, and heighten pietie,

And is t'a body, often, ill inclin'd,

No lesse a sou'raigne cure, then to the mind;

T'alledge, that greatest men were not asham'd,

Of old, euen by her practise to be fam'd;

To say, indeed, shee were the soule of heauen,

That the eight spheare, no lesse, then planets seauen,

Mou'd by her order, and the ninth more high,

Including all, were thence call'd harmonie:

I, yet, had vtter'd nothing on thy part,

When these were but the praises of the Art.

But when I haue said, the proofes of all these bee

Shed in thy Songs; 'tis true: but short of thee.

WHen we doe giue, ALPHONSO, to the light,

A worke of ours, we part with our owne right;

For, then, all mouthes will iudge, and their owne way:

The learn'd haue no more priuiledge, then the lay.

And though we could all men, all censures heare,

We ought not giue them taste, we had an eare.

For, if the hum'rous world will talke at large,

They should be fooles, for me, at their owne charge.

Say, this, or that man they to thee preferre;

Euen those for whom they doe this, know they erre:

And would (being ask'd the truth) ashamed say,

They were not to be nam'd on the same day.

Then stand vnto thy selfe, not seeke without

For fame, with breath soone kindled, soone blowne out.

IF to admire were to commend, my praise

Might then both thee, thy worke and merit raise:

But, as it is (the Child of Ignorance,

And vtter stranger to all ayre of France)

How can I speake of thy great paines, but erre?

Since they can only iudge, that can conferre.

Behold! the reuerend 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 inuentions wrought,

As his will now be the translation thought,

Thine the originall; and France shall boast,

No more, those mayden glories shee hath lost.