1. O Holy, blessed, glorious Trinitie

Of persons, still one God, in Unitie.

The faithfull mans beleeved Mysterie,

Helpe, helpe to list

2. My selfe up to thee, harrow'd, torne, and bruis'd

By sinne, and Sathan; and my flesh misus'd,

As my heart lies in peeces, all confus'd,

O take my gift.

3. All-gracious God, the Sinners sacrifice.

A broken heart thou wert not wont despise,

But 'bove the fat of rammes, or bulls, to prize

An offring meet,

4. For thy acceptance. O, behold me right,

And take compassion on my grievous plight.

What odour can be, then a heart contrite,

To thee more sweet?

5. Eternall Father, God, who did'st create

This All of nothing, gavest it forme, and fate,

And breath'st into it, life, and light, with state

To worship thee.

6. Eternall God the Sonne, who not denyd'st

To take our nature; becam'st man, and dyd'st,

To pay our debts, upon thy Crosse, and cryd'st

All's done in me.

7. Eternall Spirit, God from both proceeding,

Father and Sonne; the Comforter, in breeding

Pure thoughts in man: with fiery zeale them feeding

For acts of grace.

8. Increase those acts, ô glorious Trinitie

Of persons, still one God in Unitie;

Till I attaine the long'd-for mysterie

of seeing your face.

9. Beholding one in three, and three in one,

A Trinitie, to shine in Unitie;

The gladdest light, darke man can thinke upon;

O grant it me!

10. Father, and Sonne, and Holy Ghost, you three

All coeternall in your Majestie,

Distinct in persons, yet in Unitie

One God to see.

11. My Maker, Saviour, and my Sanctifier.

To heare, 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?

HEare mee, O God!

A broken heart,

Is my best part:

Use still thy rod,

That I may prove

Therein, thy Love.

If thou hadst not

Beene sterne to mee,

But left me free,

I had forgot

My selfe and thee.

For, sin's so sweet.

As minds ill bent

Rarely repent,

Untill they meet

Their punishment.

Who more can crave

Then thou hast done:

That gav'st a Sonne,

To free a slave?

First made of nought;

Withall since bought.

Sinne, Death, and Hell,

His glorious Name

Quite overcame,

Yet I rebell,

And slight the same.

But, I'le come in,

Before my losse,

Me farther tosse,

As sure to win

Under his Crosse.

I Sing the birth, was borne to night,

The Author both of Life, and light;

The Angels so did sound it,

And like the ravish'd Sheep'erds said,

Who saw the light, and were afraid,

Yet search'd, and true they found it.

The Sonne of God, th' Eternall King,

That did us all salvation bring,

And freed the soule from danger;

Hee whom the whole world could not take,

The Word, which heaven, and earth did make;

Was now laid in a Manger.

The Fathers wisedome will'd it so,

The Sonnes obedience knew no No,

Both wills were in one stature;

And as that wisedome had decreed,

The Word was now made Flesh indeed,

And tooke on him our Nature.

What comfort by him doe wee winne?

Who made himselfe the price of sinne,

To make us heires of glory?

To see this Babe, all innocence;

A Martyr borne in our defence;

Can man forget this Storie?

LEt it not your wonder move,

Lesse your laughter; that I love.

Though I now write fiftie yeares,

I have had, and have my Peeres;

Poëts, though devine are men:

Some have lov'd as old agen.

And it is not alwayes 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 Storie,

First, prepare you to be sorie,

That you never knew till now,

Either whom to love, or how:

But be glad, as soone with me,

When you know, that this is she,

Of whose Beautie it was sung,

She shall make the old man young.

Keepe the middle age at stay,

And let nothing high decay.

Till she be the reason why,

All the world for love may die.

I Beheld her, on a Day,

When her looke out-flourisht May:

And her dressing did out-brave

All the Pride the fields than have:

Farre I was from being stupid,

For I ran and call'd on Cupid;

Love if thou wilt ever see

Marke of glorie, come with me;

Where's thy Quiver? bend thy Bow:

Here's a shaft, thou art to slow!

And (withall) I did untie

Every Cloud about his eye;

But, he had not gain'd his sight

Sooner, then he lost his might,

Or his courage; for away

Strait hee ran, and durst not stay,

Letting Bow and Arrow fall,

Nor for any threat, or Call,

Could be brought once back to looke,

I foole-hardie, there up tooke

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 tooke 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 griefe and wrath I heard)

Cupids Statue with a Beard,

Or else one that plaid his Ape,

In a Hercules-his shape.

AFter many scornes like these,

Which the prouder Beauties please,

She content was to restore

Eyes and limbes; to hurt me more

And would on Conditions, be

Reconcil'd to Love, and me

First, that I must kneeling yeeld

Both the Bow, and shaft I held

Unto her; which love might take

At her hand, with oath, to make

Mee, the scope of his next draught

Aymed, with that selfe-same shaft

He no sooner heard the Law,

But the Arrow home did draw

And (to gaine her by his Art)

Left it sticking in my heart:

Which when she beheld to bleed,

She repented of the deed,

And would faine have chang'd the fate,

But the Pittie comes too late.

Looser-like, now, all my wreake

Is, that I have leave to speake,

And in either Prose, or Song,

To revenge me with my Tongue,

Which how Dexterously I doe

Heare and make Example too.

SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love

Wherein my Lady rideth!

Each that drawes, is a Swan, or a Dove

And well the Carre Love guideth

As she goes, all hearts doe duty

Unto her beauty;

And enamour'd, doe wish, so they might

But enjoy such a sight,

That they still were, to run by her side,

Through Swords, through Seas, whether she would ride.

Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light

All that Loves world compriseth!

Doe but looke on her Haire, it is bright

As Loves starre when it riseth!

Doe but marke her forhead's smoother

Then words that sooth her!

And from her arched browes, such a grace

Sheds it selfe through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life

All the Gaine, all the Good, of the Elements strife.

Have you seene but a bright Lillie grow,

Before rude hands have touch'd it?

Ha' you mark'd but the fall o'the Snow

Before the soyle hath smutch'd it?

Ha' you felt the wooll of Bever?

Or Swans Downe ever?

Or have smelt o'the bud o'the Brier?

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!

NOblest Charis, you that are

Both my fortune, and my Starre!

And doe governe more my blood,

Then the various Moone the flood!

Heare, 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 straine;

Sure, said he, if I have Braine,

This here sung, can be no other

By description, but my Mother!

So hath Homer prais'd her haire;

So, Anacreon drawne the Ayre

Of her face, and made to rise

Just about her sparkling eyes,

Both her Browes, bent like my Bow.

By her lookes I doe her know,

Which you call my Shafts. And see!

Such my Mothers blushes be,

As the Bath your verse discloses

In her cheekes, of Milke, and Roses;

Such as oft I wanton in?

And, above her even chin,

Have you plac'd the banke of kisses,

Where you say, men gather blisses,

Rip'ned with a breath more sweet,

Then 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 slaine

Lovers, made into a Chaine!

And betweene each rising breast,

Lyes the Valley, cal'd my nest,

Where I sit and proyne my wings

After flight; and put new stings

To my shafts! Her very Name,

With my Mothers is the same.

I confesse all, I replide,

And the Glasse 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 formes, that strove

For the Apple, and those three

Make in one, the same were shee.

For this Beauty yet doth hide,

Something more then thou hast spi'd

Outward Grace weake love beguiles:

Shee is Venus, when she smiles,

But shee's Juno, when she walkes,

And Minerva, when she talkes.

CHaris guesse, and doe not misse,

Since I drew a Morning kisse

From your lips, and suck'd an ayre

Thence, as sweet, as you are faire.

What my Muse and I have done:

Whether we have lost, or wonne,

If by us, the oddes were laid,

That the Bride (allow'd a Maid)

Look'd not halfe so fresh, and faire,

With th'advantage of her haire,

And her Jewels, to the view

Of th'Assembly, as did you!

Or, that did you sit, or walke,

You were more the eye, and talke

Of the Court, to day, then 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 thinke, such Rites were due

To no other Grace but you!

Or, if you did move to night

In the Daunces, with what spight

Of your Peeres, you were beheld,

That at every motion sweld

So to see a Lady tread,

As might all the Graces lead,

And was worthy (being so seene)

To be envi'd of the Queene.

Or if you would yet have stay'd,

Whether any would up-braid

To himselfe his losse of Time;

Or have charg'd his sight of Crime,

To have left all sight for you:

Guesse of these, which is the true;

And, if such a verse as this,

May not claime another kisse.

FOr Loves-sake, kisse me once againe,

I long, and should not beg in vaine,

Here's none to spie, or see;

Why doe you doubt, or stay?

I'le taste as lightly as the Bee,

That doth but touch his flower, and flies away.

Once more, and (faith) I will be gone

Can he that loves, aske lesse then one?

Nay, you may erre in this,

And all your bountie wrong:

This could be call'd but halfe a kisse.

What w'are but once to doe, we should doe long,

I will but mend the last, and tell

Where, how it would have relish'd well;

Joyne lip to lip, and try:

Each suck others breath.

And whilst our tongues perplexed lie,

Let who will thinke us dead, or wish our death.

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 worke would be effected:

But we find that cold delay,

And excuse spun every day,

As, untill she tell her one,

We all feare, she loveth none.

Therefore, Charis, you must do't,

For I will so urge you to't

You shall neither eat, nor sleepe,

No, nor forth your window peepe,

With your emissarie eye,

To fetch in the Formes goe by:

And pronounce, which band or lace,

Better fits him, then his face;

Nay I will not let you sit

'Fore your Idoll Glasse a whit,

To say over every purle

There; or to reforme a curle;

Or with Secretarie Sis

To consult, if Fucus this

Be as good, as was the last:

All your sweet of life is past,

Make accompt unlesse you can,

(And that quickly) speake your Man.

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 confesse, doe take me;

And a woman God did make me,

French to boote, at least in fashion,

And his Manners of that Nation.

Young Il'd have him to, and faire,

Yet a man; with crisped haire

Cast in thousand snares, and rings

For Loves fingers, and his wings:

Chestnut colour, or more slack

Gold, upon a ground of black.

Venus, and Minerva's eyes

For he must looke wanton-wise.

Eye-brows bent like Cupids bow,

Front, an ample field of snow;

Even nose, and cheeke (withall)

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 Downe, 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 schoole, and yet no sinners.

'Twere to long to speake of all,

What we harmonie doe call

In a body should be there.

Well he should his clothes to weare;

Yet no Taylor help to make him

Drest, you still for man should take him;

And not thinke h' had eat a stake,

Or were set up in a Brake.

Valiant he should be as fire,

Shewing danger more then ire.

Bounteous as the clouds to earth;

And as honest as his Birth.

All his actions to be such,

As to doe nothing too much.

Nor o're-praise, nor yet condemne;

Nor out-valew, nor contemne;

Nor doe wrongs, nor wrongs receave;

Nor tie knots, nor knots unweave;

And from basenesse 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.

FOr his Mind, I doe not care,

That's a Toy, that I could spare:

Let his Title be but great,

His Clothes rich, and band sit neat,

Himselfe young, and face be good,

All I wish is understood

What you please, you parts may call,

'Tis one good part I'ld lie withall.

OH doe not wanton with those eyes,

Lest I be sick with seeing;

Nor cast them downe, but let them rise,

Lest shame destroy their being:

O, be not angry with those fires,

For then their threats will kill me;

Nor looke too kind on my desires,

For then my hopes will spill me;

O, doe not steepe them in thy Teares,

For so will sorrow slay me;

Nor spread them as distract with feares,

Mine owne enough betray me.

MEn if you love us, play no more

The fooles, or Tyrants with your friends,

To make us still sing o're, and o're,

Our owne false praises, for your ends:

Wee have both wits, and fancies too,

And if wee must, let's sing of you.

Nor doe we doubt, but that we can,

If wee would search with care, and paine,

Find some one good, in some one man;

So going thorow all your straine:

Wee shall at last, of parcells make

One good enough for a songs sake.

And as a cunning Painter takes

In any curious peece you see

More pleasure while the thing he makes

Then when 'tis made, why so will wee.

And having pleas'd our art, wee'll try

To make a new, and hang that by.

HAng up those dull, and envious fooles

That talke abroad of Womans change,

We were not bred to sit on stooles,

Our proper vertue is to range:

Take that away, you take our lives,

We are no women then, but wives.

Such as in valour would excell

Doe change, though man, and often fight

Which we in love must doe aswell,

If ever we will love aright.

The frequent varying of the deed,

Is that which doth perfection breed.

Nor is't inconstancie 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 descride,

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, then doth worth,

For were the worthiest woman curst

To love one man, hee'd leave her first.

I Love, and he loves me againe,

Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the Nymphs should know my Swaine,

I feare they'd love him too;

Yet if it be not knowne,

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our owne.

I'le tell, that if they be not glad,

They yet may envie me:

But then if I grow jealous madde,

And of them pittied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorne

And yet it cannot be forborne.

Unlesse my heart would as my thought be torne.

He is if they can find him, faire,

And fresh and fragrant too,

As Summers sky, or purged Ayre,

And lookes as Lillies doe,

That are this morning blowne,

Yet, yet I doubt he is not knowne,

And feare much more, that more of him be showne.

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 feares,

What Nymph so e're his voyce but heares

Will be my Rivall, though she have but eares.

I'le tell no more, and yet I love,

And he loves me; yet no

One un-becomming thought doth move

From either heart, I know;

But so exempt from blame,

As it would be to each a fame:

If Love, or feare, would let me tell his name.

DOe but consider this small dust,

Here running in the Glasse,

By Atomes mov'd;

Could you beleeve, that this,

The body was

Of one that lov'd?

And in his M^rs. flame, playing like a flye,

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.

I Now thinke, Love is rather deafe, then blind,

For else it could not be,

That she,

Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,

And cast my love behind:

I'm sure my language to her, was as sweet,

And every close did meet

In sentence, of as subtile feet,

As hath the youngest Hee,

That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.

Oh, but my conscious feares,

That flie my thoughts betweene,

Tell me that she hath seene

My hundreds of gray haires,

Told seven and fortie yeares.

Read so much wast, as she cannot imbrace

My mountaine belly, and my rockie face,

And all these through her eyes, have stopt her eares.

WRetched and foolish Jealousie,

How cam'st thou thus to enter me?

I n're was of thy kind;

Nor have I yet the narrow mind

To vent that poore desire,

That others should not warme them at my fire,

I wish the Sun should shine

On all mens Fruit, and flowers, as well as mine.

But under the Disguise of love

Thou sai'st, thou only cam'st to prove

What my Affections were,

Think'st thou that love is help'd by feare?

Goe, get thee quickly forth

Loves sicknesse, and his noted want of worth

Seeke doubting Men to please,

I ne're will owe my health to a disease.

OR Scorne, or pittie on me take,

I must the true Relation make,

I am undone to Night;

Love in a subtile Dreame disguis'd,

Hath both my heart and me surpriz'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 sleepe againe; who was his Aid,

And sleepe so guiltie and afraid,

As since he dares not come within my sight.

I Have my Pietie too, which could

It vent it selfe, but as it would,

Would say as much, as both have done

Before me here, the Friend and Sonne;

For I both lost a friend and Father,

Of him whose bones this Grave doth gather:

Deare Vincent Corbet who so long

Had wrestled with Diseases strong,

That though they did possesse each limbe,

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 uncleannesse, or offence,

That never came ill odour thence:

And adde 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 stubbornnesse so stiffe, nor folly

To licence ever was so light,

As twice to trespasse in his sight,

His lookes would so correct it, when

It chid the vice, yet not the Men.

Much from him I professe I wonne,

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 sorrowes read,

That they for me their teares will shed;

For truly, since he left to be,

I feele, I'm rather dead than he?

Reader, whose life, and name, did e're become

An Epitaph, deserv'd a Tombe:

Nor wants it here through penurie, or sloth,

Who makes the one, so't be first makes both.

IF Sackvile, all that have the power to doe

Great and good turns, as wel could time them too,

And knew their how, and where: we should have, then

Lesse list of proud, hard, or ingratefull Men.

For benefits are ow'd with the same mind

As they are done, and such returnes they find:

You then whose will not only, but desire

To succour my necessities tooke 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 feele it done, as soone 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 thankes, I make

Yet choyce from whom I take them; and would shame

To have such doe me good, I durst not name:

They are the Noblest benefits, and sinke

Deepest in Man, of which when he doth thinke,

The memorie delights him more, from whom

Then what he hath receiv'd. Gifts stinke from some,

They are so long a comming, and so hard

Where any Deed is forc't, the Grace is mard.

Can I owe thankes, for Curtesies receiv'd

Against his will that doe's 'hem? that hath weav'd

Excuses, or Delayes? or done 'hem scant,

That they have more opprest me, then my want?

Or if he did it not to succour me,

But by meere Chance? for interest? or to free

Himselfe of farther trouble, or the weight

Of pressure, like one taken in a streight?

All this corrupts the thankes, lesse hath he wonne,

That puts it in his Debt-booke e're't be done;

Or that doth sound a Trumpet, and doth call

His Groomes to witnesse; 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 thankes should have one cheerefull 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 then he doth thanke, that will receive

Nought but in corners; and is loath to leave,

Lest Ayre, or Print, but flies it: Such men would

Run from the Conscience of it if they could.

As I have seene some Infants of the Sword

Well knowne, and practiz'd borrowers on their word,

Give thankes by stealth, and whispering in the eare,

For what they streight would to the world forsweare;

And speaking worst of those, from whom they went

But then, fist fill'd to put me off the sent.

Now dam'mee, Sir, if you shall not command

My Sword ('tis but a poore Sword understand)

As farre as any poore 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 seeke 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 meanes to making loude 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, sayes he, that were a way to see

All the Towne-curs take each their snatch at me.

O, is it so? knowes he so much? and will

Feed those, at whom the Table points at still?

I not deny it, but to helpe the need

Of any, is a Great and generous Deed:

Yea, of th'ingratefull: 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 doe invade

All as their prize, turne Pyrats here at Land,

Ha'their Bermudas, and their streights i'th' Strand:

Man out of their Boates to th' Temple, and not shift

Now, but command; make tribute, what was gift;

And it is paid 'hem with a trembling zeale,

And superstition I dare scarce reveale

If it were cleare, but being so in cloud

Carryed and wrapt, I only am aloud

My wonder! why? the taking a Clownes purse,

Or robbing the poore Market-folkes should nurse

Such a religious horrour in the brests

Of our Towne Gallantry! or why there rests

Such worship due to kicking of a Punck!

Or swaggering with the Watch, or Drawer drunke;

Or feats of darknesse acted in Mid-Sun,

And told of with more Licence then th'were done!

Sure there is Misterie in it, I not know

That men such reverence to such actions show!

And almost deifie the Authors! make

Lowd sacrifice of drinke, for their health-sake

Reare Suppers in their Names! and spend whole nights

Unto their praise, in certaine swearing rites;

Cannot a man be reck'ned in the State

Of Valour, but at this Idolatrous rate?

I thought that Fortitude had beene a meane

'Twixt feare and rashnesse: 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 honestie, and publike good!

And where they want, she is not understood.

No more are these of us, let them then goe,

I have the lyst of mine owne faults to know,

Looke too and cure; Hee's not a man hath none,

But like to be, that every day mends one,

And feeles it; Else he tarries by the Beast,

Can I discerne how shadowes are decreast,

Or growne; by height or lownesse of the Sunne?

And can I lesse of substance? when I runne,

Ride, saile, am coach'd, know I how farre I have gone,

And my minds motion not? or have I none:

No! he must feele and know, that I will advance

Men have beene 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 e're night? or that did goe to bed

Coriat, should rise the most sufficient head

Of Christendome? 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 adde,

In time 'twill be a heape; This is not true

Alone in money, but in manners too.

Yet we must more then move still, or goe 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 triumphall marke! then Men

Observe the strength, the height, the why, and when,

It was erected; and still walking under

Meet some new matter to looke 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 Dwarfes 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 faire Devisions: but being got

Aloft, grow lesse and streightned; full of knot.

And last, goe 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 doe)

Without your gift, though I can rate that too,

By thanking thus the curtesie 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 practise shall

Find you to reckon nothing, me owe all.

I Know to whom I write Here, I am sure,

Though I am short, I cannot be obscure:

Lesse shall I for the Art or dressing care,

Truth, and the Graces best, when naked are

Your Booke, my Selden, I have read, and much

Was trusted, that you thought my judgement such

To aske it: though in most of workes it be

A pennance, where a man may not be free.

Rather then Office, when it doth or may

Chance that the Friends affection proves Allay

Unto the Censure. Yours all need doth flie

Of this so vitious Humanitie.

Then which there is not unto Studie, a more

Pernitious enemie, we see before

A many of bookes, even good judgements wound

Themselves through favouring what is there not found:

But I on yours farre other wise shall doe,

Not flie the Crime, but the Suspition too:

Though I confesse (as every Muse hath err'd,

And mine not least) I have too oft preferr'd

Men, past their termes, and prais'd some names too much,

But 'twas with purpose to have made them such,

Since being deceiv'd, I turne a sharper eye

Upon my selfe, and aske to whom? and why?

And what I write? and vexe it many dayes

Before men get a verse: much lesse a Praise;

So that my Reader is assur'd, I now

Meane what I speake: and still will keepe that Vow,

Stand forth my Object, then you that have beene

Ever at home: yet, have all Countries seene:

And like a Compasse keeping one foot still

Upon your Center, doe your Circle fill

Of generall knowledge; watch'd men, manners too,

Heard what times past have said, seene what ours doe:

Which Grace shall I make love too first? your skill,

Or faith in things? or is't your wealth and will

T'instruct and teach? or your unweary'd paine

Of Gathering? Bountie in pouring out againe?

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 errours, have you watch'd and purg'd

Records, and Authors of! how rectified,

Times, manners, customes! Innovations spide!

Sought out the Fountaines, Sources, Creekes, paths, wayes,

And noted the beginnings and decayes!

Where is that nominall marke, or reall rite,

Forme Act or Ensigne, that hath scap'd your sight.

How are Traditions there examin'd: how

Conjectures retriv'd! And a Storie now

And then of times (besides the bare Conduct

Of what it tells us) weav'd in to instruct.

I wonder'd at the richnesse, but am lost,

To see the workmanship so'xceed the cost!

To marke the excellent seas'ning of your Stile!

And manly elocution, not one while

With horrour rough, then rioting with wit!

But to the Subject, still the Colours fit

In sharpnesse of all Search, wisdome of Choise,

Newnesse of Sense, Antiquitie of voyce!

I yeeld, I yeeld, the matter of your praise

Flowes in upon me, and I cannot raise

A banke against it. Nothing but the round

Large claspe of Nature, such a wit can bound

Monarch in Letters! 'Mongst thy Titles showne

Of others honours, thus, enjoy their owne,

I first salute thee so; and gratulate

With that thy Stile, thy keeping of thy State;

In offering this thy worke 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, knowes to doe

It true respects. He will not only love

Embrace, and cherish; but he can approve

And estimate thy Paines; as having wrought

In the same Mines of knowledge; and thence brought

Humanitie enough to be a friend,

And strength to be a Champion, and defend

Thy gift 'gainst envie. O how I doe count

Among my commings in, and see it mount,

The Graine of your two friendships! Hayward and

Selden! two Names that so much understand!

On whom I could take up, and ne're 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. Farewell.

WAke, friend from forth thy Lethargie: the Drum

Beates brave, and loude in Europe, and bids come

All that dare rowse: or are not loth to quit

Their vitious ease, and be o'rewhelm'd with it.

It is a call to keepe the spirits alive

That gaspe for action, and would yet revive

Mans buried honour, in his sleepie life:

Quickning dead Nature, to her noblest strife.

All other Acts of Worldlings, are but toyle

In dreames, begun in hope, and end in spoile.

Looke 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 owne curse!

Looke on the false, and cunning man, that loves

No person, nor is lov'd: what wayes he proves

To gaine upon his belly; and at last

Crush'd in the snakie brakes, that he had past!

See, the grave, sower, and supercilious Sir

In outward face, but inward, light as Furre,

Or Feathers: lay his fortune out to show

Till envie wound, or maime it at a blow!

See him, that's call'd, and thought the happiest man,

Honour'd at once, and envi'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 looke upon,

But there are objects, bid him to be gone

As farre as he can flie, or follow Day,

Rather then here so bogg'd in vices stay

The whole world here leaven'd with madnesse swells?

And being a thing, blowne out of nought, rebells

Against his Maker; high alone with weeds,

And impious ranknesse of all Sects and seeds:

Not to be checkt, or frighted now with fate,

But more licentious made, and desperate!

Our Delicacies are growne capitall,

And even our sports are dangers! what we call

Friendship is now mask'd Hatred! Justice fled,

And shamefastnesse together! All lawes dead

That kept man living! Pleasures only sought!

Honour and honestie, as poore things thought

As they are made! Pride, and stiffe Clownage mixt

To make up Greatnesse! and mans whole good fix'd

In bravery, or gluttony, or coyne,

All which he makes the servants of the Groine,

Thither it flowes, how much did Stallion spend

To have his Court-bred-fillie 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 Charme and halfe! She must afford

That all respect; She must lie downe: Nay more

'Tis there civilitie to be a whore;

Hee's one of blood, and fashion! and with these

The bravery makes, she can no honour leese

To do't with Cloth, or Stuffes, 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 'hem aye discoursing with their Glasse,

How they may make some one that day an Asse

Planting their Purles, and Curles 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 'hem squemish, sick

Ready to cast, at one, whose band sits ill,

And then, leape mad on a neat Pickardill;

As if a Brize were gotten i' their tayle,

And firke, and jerke, and for the Coach-man raile,

And jealous each of other, yet thinke long

To be abroad chanting some baudie song,

And laugh, and measure thighes, then squeake, spring, itch,

Doe all the tricks of a saut Lady Bitch;

For t'other pound of sweet-meats, he shall feele

That payes, or what he will. The Dame is steele,

For these with her young Companie shee'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:

Nor is the title question'd with our proud,

Great, brave, and fashion'd folke, these are allow'd

Adulteries now, are not so hid, or strange,

They're growne Commoditie upon Exchange;

He that will follow but anothers wife,

Is lov'd, though he let out his owne for life:

The Husband now's call'd churlish, or a poore

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.

Lesse must not be thought on then Mistresse: or

If it be thought kild like her Embrions; for,

Whom no great Mistresse, hath as yet infam'd

A fellow of course Letcherie, is nam'd

The Servant of the Serving-woman in scorne,

Ne're came to taste the plenteous Mariage-horne.

Thus they doe talke. And are these objects fit

For man to spend his money on? his wit?

His time? health? soule? will he for these goe throw

Those thousands on his back, shall after blow

His body to the Counters, or the Fleete?

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-Parke to the Stage, where at the last

His deare and borrow'd Bravery he must cast?

When not his Combes, his Curling-irons, his Glasse,

Sweet bags, sweet Powders, nor sweet words will passe

For lesse Securitie? O for these

Is it that man pulls on himselfe Disease?

Surfet? and Quarrell? drinkes the tother health?

Or by Damnation voids it? or by stealth?

What furie of late is crept into our Feasts?

What honour given to the drunkennest Guests?

What reputation to beare one Glasse more?

When oft the Bearer, is borne out of dore?

This hath our ill-us'd freedome, and soft peace

Brought on us, and will every houre increase

Our vices, doe not tarry in a place,

But being in Motion still (or rather in race)

Tilt one upon another, and now beare

This way, now that, as if their number were

More then themselves, or then our lives could take,

But both fell prest under the load they make.

I'le bid thee looke no more, but flee, flee friend,

This Præcipice, and Rocks that have no end,

Or side, but threatens Ruine. The whole Day

Is not enough now, but the Nights to play:

And whilst our states, strength, body, and mind we waste;

Goe 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

Of what he throwes: Like letchers growne content

To be beholders, when their powers are spent.

Can we not leave this worme? or will we not?

Is that the truer excuse? or have we got

In this, and like, an itch of Vanitie,

That scratching now's our best Felicitie?

Well, let it goe. Yet this is better, then

To lose the formes, and dignities of men

To flatter my good Lord, and cry his Bowle

Runs sweetly, as it had his Lordships Soule,

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 againe, that I must wast

In Sugar Candide, or in butter'd beere,

For the recovery of my voyce? No, there

Pardon his Lordship. Flattry's growne so cheape

With him, for he is followed with that heape

That watch, and catch, at what they may applaud

As a poore single flatterer, without Baud

Is nothing, such scarce meat and drinke he'le give,

But he that's both, and slave to both, shall live,

And be belov'd, while the Whores last. O times,

Friend flie from hence; and let these kindled rimes:

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-vaynes (yet not understood

Of the poore sufferers) where the envious, proud,

Ambitious, factious, superstitious, lowd

Boasters, and perjur'd, with the infinite more

Prævaricators swarme. Of which the store,

(Because th'are every where amongst Man-kind

Spread through the World) is easier farre to find,

Then once to number, or bring forth to hand,

Though thou wert Muster-master of the Land.

Goe quit 'hem 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, then glory,

And never but for doing wrong be sory;

That by commanding first thy selfe, thou mak'st

Thy person fit for any charge thou tak'st

That fortune never make thee to complaine,

But what she gives, thou dar'st give her againe;

That whatsoever face thy fate puts on,

Thou shrinke or start not; but be alwayes one,

That thou thinke nothing great, but what is good,

And from that thought strive to be understood.

So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame

Still pretious, with the odour of thy name.

And last, blaspheme not, we did never heare

Man thought the valianter, 'cause he durst sweare

No more, then we should thinke a Lord had had

More honour in him, 'cause we'ave knowne him mad:

These take, and now goe seeke thy peace in Warre,

Who falls for love of God, shall rise a Starre.

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 suretie of life have thou, and I.

THey are not, Sir, worst Owers, that doe pay

Debts when they can: good men may breake 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 gaine: 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 breake my Band,

I adde that (but) because I understand

That as the lesser breach: for he that takes

Simply my Band, his trust in me forsakes,

And lookes unto the forfeit. If you be

Now so much friend, as you would trust in me,

Venter 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.

CAn Beautie that did prompt me first to write,

Now threaten, with those meanes 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-farre off? but neere

A terror? or is all this but my feare?

That as the water makes things, put in't, streight,

Crooked appeare; so that doth my conceipt:

I can helpe that with boldnesse; And love sware,

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 errour to those ends:

And then the best are still, the blindest friends!

Oh how a Lover may mistake! to thinke,

Or love, or fortune blind, when they but winke

To see men feare: or else for truth, and State,

Because they would free Justice imitate,

Vaile their owne eyes, and would impartially

Be brought by us to meet our Destinie.

If it be thus; Come love, and fortune goe,

I'le lead you on; or if my fate will so,

That I must send one first, my Choyce assignes,

Love to my heart, and fortune to my lines.

BY those bright Eyes, at whose immortall fires

Love lights his torches to inflame desires;

By that faire Stand, your forehead, whence he bends

His double Bow, and round his Arrowes sends;

By that tall Grove, your haire; whose globy rings

He flying curles, and crispeth, with his wings.

By those pure bathes your either cheeke discloses,

Where he doth steepe himselfe in Milke and Roses;

And lastly by your lips, the banke of kisses,

Where men at once may plant, and gather blisses:

Tell me (my lov'd Friend) doe you love or no?

So well as I may tell in verse, 'tis so?

You blush, but doe not: friends are either none,

(Though they may number bodyes) or but one.

I'le therefore aske no more, but bid you love;

And so that either may example prove

Unto the other; and live patternes, how

Others, in time may love, as we doe now.

Slip no occasion; As time stands not still,

I know no beautie, 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 himselfe 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 varie,

Is constant to be extraordinarie.

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 yeares, almost, to value it,

That ne're was knowne 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 wickednesse, though weav'd

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.

Here, something is wanting.

Knew I this Woman? yes; And you doe see,

How penitent I am, or I should be?

Doe not you aske to know her, she is worse

Then all Ingredients made into one curse,

And that pour'd out upon Man-kind can be!

Thinke 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 the might, yet forestall

The Divell; and be the damning of us all.

ASke not to know this Man. If same should speake

His name in any mettall, it would breake.

Two letters were enough the plague to teare

Out of his Grave, and poyson every eare.

A parcell of Court-durt, a heape, and masse

Of all vice hurld together, there he was,

Proud, false, and trecherous, vindictive, all

That thought can adde, unthankfull, the lay-stall

Of putrid flesh alive! of blood, the sinke!

And so I leave to stirre him, lest he stinke.

THough Beautie be the Marke 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.

A vertue, like Allay, so gone

Throughout your forme; as though that move,

And draw, and conquer all mens love,

This subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet: because

'Tis of your selfe, and that you use

The noblest freedome, not to chuse

Against or Faith, or honours lawes.

But who should lesse 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?

His falling Temples you have rear'd

The withered Garlands tane away;

His Altars kept from the Decay,

That envie wish'd, and Nature fear'd.

An on them, burne so chaste a flame,

With so much Loyalties expence

As Love t'aquit such excellence.

Is gone himselfe into your Name.

And you are he: the Dietie

To whom all Lovers are design'd;

That would their better objects find:

Among which faithfull troope am I.

Who as an off-spring at your shrine,

Have sung this Hymne, and here intreat

One sparke of your Diviner heat

To light upon a Love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scant

Appeare, and that to shortest view,

Yet give me leave t'adore in you

What I, in her, am grievd to want.

WHere do'st thou carelesse lie

Buried in ease and sloth?

Knowledge, that sleepes, doth die;

And this Securitie,

It is the common Moath,

That eats on wits, and Arts, and destroyes them both.

Are all th' Aonian springs

Dri'd up? lyes Thespia wast?

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?

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 crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause.

What though the greedie Frie

Be taken with false Baytes

Of worded Balladrie,

And thinke it Poësie?

They die with their conceits,

And only pitious scorne, upon their folly waites.

Then take in hand thy Lyre,

Strike in thy proper straine,

With Japhets lyne, aspire

Sols Chariot for new fire,

To give the world againe:

Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Joves braine.

And since our Daintie age,

Cannot indure reproofe.

Make not thy selfe a Page,

To that strumpet the Stage,

But sing high and aloofe,

Safe from the wolves black jaw, and the dull Asses hoofe.

FRom Death, and darke oblivion, ne're the same,

The Mistresse of Mans life, grave Historie

Razing the World to good and evill fame

Doth vindicate it to eternitie.

Wise Providence would so; that nor the good

Might be defrauded, nor the great secur'd,

But both might know their wayes were understood,

When Vice alike in time with vertue dur'd

Which makes that (lighted by the beamie hand

Of Truth that searcheth the most Springs

And guided by experience, whose straite wand

Doth meet, whose lyne doth sound the depth of things:)

Shee chearfully supporteth what the reares,

Assisted by no strengths, but are her owne,

Some note of which each varied Pillar beares,

By which as proper titles, she is knowne

Times witnesse, herald of Antiquitie,

The light of Truth, and life of Memorie.

WHere art thou Genius? I should use

Thy present Aide: Arise Invention,

Wake, and put on the wings of Pindars Muse,

To towre with my intention

High, as his mind, that doth advance

Her upright head, above the reach of Chance,

Or the times envie:

Cynthius, I applie

My bolder numbers to thy golden Lyre:

O, then inspire

Thy Priest in this strange rapture; heat my braine

With Delphick fire:

That I may sing my thoughts, in some unvulgar straine.

Rich beame of honour, shed your light

On these darke rymes; that my affection

May shine (through every chincke) to every sight

sight graced by your Reflection!

Then shall my Verses, like strong Charmes

Breake the knit Circle of her Stonie Armes,

That hold your spirit:

And keepes your merit

Lock't in her cold embraces, from the view

Of eyes more true,

Who would with judgement search, searching conclude,

(As prov'd in you)

True noblêsse. Palme growes straight, though handled ne're so rude?

Nor thinke your selfe unfortunate,

If subject to the jealous errors

Of politique pretext, that wryes a State,

Sinke not beneath these terrors:

But whisper; O glad Innocence

Where only a mans birth is his offence;

Or the dis-favour,

Of such as savour

Nothing, but practise upon honours thrall.

O vertues fall,

When her dead essence (like the Anatomie

in Surgeons hall)

Is but a Statists theame, to read Phlebotomie.

Let Brontes, and black Steropes,

Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating;

Pyracmon's houre will come to give them ease,

Though but while mettal's heating:

And, after all the Ætnean 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 injurie,

That is not hurt; not he, that is not hit;

So fooles we see,

Oft scape an Imputation, more through luck, then wit.

But to your selfe most loyall Lord,

(Whose heart in that bright Sphere flames clearest.

Though many Gems be in your bosome stor'd,

Unknowne which is the Dearest.)

If I auspitiously devine,

(As my hope tells) that our faire Phœb's shine,

Shall light those places,

With lustrous Graces,

Where darknesse with her glomie Sceptred hand,

Doth now command.

O then (my best-best lov'd) let me importune,

That you will stand,

As farre from all revolt, as you are now from Fortune.

High spirited friend,

I send nor Balmes, 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 corporall,

And doubtfull Dayes (which were nam'd Criticall,)

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.

Your covetous hand,

Happy in that faire honour it hath gain'd,

Must now be rayn'd.

True valour doth her owne renowne command

In one full Action; nor have you now more

To doe, then be a husband of that store.

Thinke but how deare you bought,

This same which you have caught,

Such thoughts wil make you more in love with truth

'Tis wisdome and that high,

For men to use their fortune reverently,

Even in youth.

HEllen, did Homer never see

Thy beauties, yet could write of thee?

Did Sappho on her seven-tongu'd Lute,

So speake (as yet it is not mute)

Of Phaos forme? or doth the Boy

In whom Anacreon once did joy,

Lie drawne 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, then 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 eternall voice.

Or hath Corynna, by the name

Her Ovid gave her, dimn'd the fame

Of Cæsars Daughter, and the line

Which all the world then styl'd devine?

Hath Petrarch since his Laura rais'd

Equall 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 misse

The Swan that so relish'd Pancharis)

And shall not I my Celia bring,

Where men may see whom I doe sing,

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 drownes the rest.

I That have beene a lover, and could shew it,

Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumbe,

Since I exscribe your Sonnets, am become

A better lover, and much better Poët.

Nor is my Muse, or I asham'd to owe it.

To those true numerous Graces; whereof some,

But charme the Senses, others over-come

Both braines and hearts; and mine now best doe know it:

For in your verse all Cupids Armorie,

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 joyes, her smiles, her loves, as readers take

For Venus Ceston, every line you make.

RIme the rack of finest wits,

That expresseth but by fits,

True Conceipt

Spoyling Senses of their Treasure,

Cosening Judgement with a measure,

But false weight.

Wresting words, from their true calling;

Propping Verse, for feare of falling

To the ground.

Joynting Syllabes, drowning Letters,

Fastning Vowells, as with fetters

They were bound!

Soone as lazie thou wert knowne,

All good Poëtrie hence was flowne,

And are banish'd.

For a thousand yeares together,

All Pernassus Greene did wither,

And wit vanish'd.

Pegasus did flie away,

At the Wells no Muse did stay,

But bewail'd.

So to see the Fountaine drie,

And Apollo's Musique die,

All light failed!

Starveling rimes did fill the Stage,

Not a Poët in an Age,

Worth crowning.

Not a worke deserving Baies,

Nor a lyne deserving praise,

Pallas frowning;

Greeke was free from Rimes infection,

Happy Greeke by this protection!

Was not spoyled.

Whilst the Latin, Queene of Tongues,

Is not yet free from Rimes wrongs,

But rests foiled.

Scarce the hill againe doth flourish,

Scarce the world a Wit doth nourish,

To restore,

Phœbus to his Crowne againe;

And the Muses to their braine;

As before.

Vulgar Languages that want

Words, and sweetnesse, and be scant

Of true measure,

Tyran Rime hath so abused,

That they long since have refused,

Other ceasure;

He that first invented thee,

May his joynts tormented bee,

Cramp'd for ever;

Still may Syllabes jarre with time,

Stil may reason warre with rime,

Resting never.

May his Sense when it would meet,

The cold tumor in his feet,

Grow unsounder.

And his Title be long foole,

That in rearing such a Schoole,

Was the founder.

IF thou wouldst know the vertues of Man-kind

Read here in one, what thou in all canst find,

And goe no farther: let this Circle be

Thy Universe, though his Epitome

Cecill, the grave, the wise, the great, the good,

What is there more that can ennoble blood?

The Orphans Pillar, the true Subjects shield,

The poores full Store-house, and just servants field.

The only faithfull Watchman for the Realme,

That in all tempests, never quit the helme,

But stood unshaken in his Deeds, and Name,

And labour'd in the worke; not with the same:

That still was good for goodnesse 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 tooke root

Of all the Land, who now at such a Rate,

Of divine blessing, would not serve a State?

SO justest Lord, may all your Judgements be

Lawes; and no change e're come to one decree:

So, may the King proclaime your Conscience is

Law, to his Law; and thinke your enemies his:

So, from all sicknesse, may you rise to health,

The Care, and wish still of the publike wealth,

So may the gentler Muses, and good fame

Still flie about the Odour of your Name;

As with the safetie, and honour of the Lawes,

You favour Truth, and me, in this mans Cause.

THe Judge his favour timely then extends,

When a good Cause is destitute of friends,

Without the pompe of Counsell; or more Aide,

Then to make falshood blush, and fraud afraid:

When those good few, that her Defenders be,

Are there for Charitie, and not for fee.

Such shall you heare to Day, and find great foes

Both arm'd with wealth, and slander to oppose,

Who thus long safe, would gaine upon the times

A right by the prosperitie of their Crimes;

Who, though their guilt, and perjurie they know,

Thinke, yea and boast, that they have done it so

As though the Court pursues them on the sent,

They will come of, and scape the Punishment,

When this appeares, just Lord, to your sharp sight,

He do's you wrong, that craves you to doe right.

THat I hereafter, doe not thinke the Barre,

The Seat made of a more then civill warre;

Or the great Hall at Westminster, the field

Where mutuall frauds are fought, and no side yeild;

That henceforth, I beleeve nor bookes, nor men,

Who 'gainst the Law, weave Calumnies my---

But when I read or heare the names so rife

Of hirelings, wranglers, stitchers-to of strife,

Hook-handed Harpies, gowned Vultures, put

Upon the reverend Pleaders; doe now shut

All mouthes, that dare entitle them (from hence)

To the Wolves studie, or Dogs eloquence;

Thou art my Cause: whose manners since I knew,

Have made me to conceive a Lawyer new.

So dost thou studie matter, men, and times,

Mak'st it religion to grow rich by Crimes!

Dar'st not abuse thy wisdome, in the Lawes,

Or skill to carry out an evill cause!

But first dost vexe, and search it! If not sound,

Thou prov'st the gentler wayes, to clense the wound,

And make the Scarre faire; If that will not be,

Thou hast the brave scorne, to put back the fee!

But in a businesse, that will bide the Touch,

What use, what strength of reason! and how much

Of Bookes, of Presidents, hast thou at hand?

As if the generall store thou didst command

Of Argument, still drawing forth the best,

And not being borrowed by thee, but possest.

So comm'st thou like a Chiefe into the Court

Arm'd at all peeces, as to keepe 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 Victorie and Palme,

Thy Hearers Nectar, and thy Clients Balme,

The Courts just honour, and thy Judges love.

And (which doth all Atchievements get above)

Thy sincere practise, breeds not thee a same

Alone, but all thy ranke a reverend Name.

ENvious and foule Disease, could there not be

One beautie 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

Then this did by her true? she never sought

Quarrell with Nature, or in ballance brought

Art her false servant; Nor, for Sir Hugh Plot,

Was drawne to practise other hue, then that

Her owne bloud gave her: Shee ne're had, nor hath

Any beliefe, in Madam Baud-bees bath,

Or Turners oyle of Talck. Nor ever got

Spanish receipt, to make her teeth to rot.

What was the cause then? Thought'st thou in disgrace

Of Beautie, so to nullifie a face,

That heaven should make no more; or should amisse,

Make all hereafter, had'st thou ruin'd this.

I, that thy Ayme was; but her fate prevail'd:

And scorn'd, thou'ast showne thy malice, but hast fail'd.

WHat Beautie would have lovely stilde,

What manners prettie, Nature milde,

What wonder perfect, all were fill'd,

Upon record in this blest child.

And, till the comming of the Soule

To fetch the flesh, we keepe the Rowle.

SIr, I am thankfull, first, to heaven, for you;

Next to your selfe, for making your love true:

Then to your love, and gift. And all's but due.

You have unto my Store added a booke,

On which with profit, I shall never looke,

But must confesse from whom what gift I tooke.

Not like your Countrie-neighbours, that commit

Their vice of loving for a Christmasse fit;

Which is indeed but friendship of the spit:

But, as a friend, which name your selfe receave,

And which you (being the worthier) gave me leave

In letters, that mixe spirits, thus to weave.

Which, how most sacred I will ever keepe,

So may the fruitfull Vine my temples steepe,

And Fame wake for me, when I yeeld to sleepe.

Though you sometimes proclaime me too severe,

Rigid, and harsh, which is a Drug austere

In friendship, I confesse: But deare friend, heare.

Little know they, that professe Amitie,

And seeke to scant her comelie libertie,

How much they lame her in her propertie.

And lesse they know, who being free to use

That friendship which no chance but love did chuse,

Will unto Licence that faire leave abuse.

It is an Act of tyrannie, not love

In practiz'd friendship wholly to reprove,

As flatt'ry with friends humours still to move.

From each of which I labour to be free,

Yet if with eithers vice I teynted be,

Forgive it, as my frailtie, and not me.

For no man lives so out of passions sway,

But shall sometimes be tempted to obey

Her furie, yet no friendship to betray.

'TIs true, I'm broke! Vowes, Oathes, and all I had

Of Credit lost. And I am now run madde:

Or doe upon my selfe some desperate ill;

This sadnesse makes no approaches, but to kill.

It is a Darknesse hath blockt up my sense,

And drives it in to eat on my offence,

Or there to sterve it, helpe O you that may

Alone lend succours, and this furie stay,

Offended Mistris, you are yet so faire,

As light breakes from you, that affrights despaire,

And fills my powers with perswading joy,

That you should be too noble to destroy.

There may some face or menace of a storme

Looke forth, but cannot last in such forme.

If there be nothing worthy you can see

Of Graces, or your mercie here in me

Spare your owne goodnesse yet; and be not great

In will and power, only to defeat.

God, and the good, know to forgive, and save.

The ignorant, and fooles, no pittie have.

I will not stand to justifie my fault,

Or lay the excuse upon the Vintners vault;

Or in confessing of the Crime be nice,

Or goe about to countenance the vice,

By naming in what companie 'twas in,

As I would urge Authoritie for sinne.

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, then your disgrace before,

Thinke it was frailtie, Mistris, thinke me man,

Thinke that your selfe like heaven forgive me can,

Where weaknesse doth offend, and vertue grieve,

There greatnesse takes a glorie to relieve.

Thinke 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 Sonne will dis-inherit,

That is the last of punishments is meant;

No man inflicts that paine, till hope be spent:

An ill-affected limbe (what e're it aile)

We cut not off, till all Cures else doe faile:

And then with pause; for sever'd once, that's gone,

Would live his glory that could keepe it on:

Doe not despaire my mending; to distrust

Before you prove a medicine, is unjust,

You may so place me, and in such an ayre

As not alone the Cure, but scarre be faire.

That is, if still your Favours you apply,

And not the bounties you ha' done, deny.

Could you demand the gifts you gave, againe!

Why was't? did e're the Cloudes aske back their raine?

The Sunne his heat, and light, the ayre 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,

Consumptions nature to destroy, and sterve.

But to exact againe what once is given,

Is natures meere obliquitie! as Heaven

Should aske the blood, and spirits he hath infus'd

In man, because man hath the flesh abus'd.

O may your wisdome take example hence,

God lightens not at mans each fraile offence,

He pardons, slips, goes by a world of ills,

And then his thunder frights more, then it kills.

He cannot angrie be, but all must quake,

It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake.

And how more faire, and lovely lookes the world

In a calme skie; then when the heaven is horl'd

About in Cloudes, and wrapt in raging weather,

As all with storme and tempest ran together.

O imitate that sweet Serenitie

That makes us live, not that which calls to die

In darke, and sullen mornes; doe we not say

This looketh like an Execution day?

And with the vulgar doth it not obtaine

The name of Cruell weather, storme, and raine?

Be not affected with these markes too much

Of crueltie, lest they doe make you such.

But view the mildnesse 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 kisse

The contrite Soule, who hath no thought to win

Upon the hope to have another sin

Forgiven him; And in that lyne stand I

Rather then once displease you more, to die

To suffer tortures, scorne, and Infamie,

What Fooles, and all their Parasites can apply;

The wit of Ale, and Genius of the Malt

Can pumpe for; or a Libell without salt

Produce; though threatning with a coale, or chalke

On every wall, and sung where e're I walke.

I number these as being of the Chore

Of Contumelie, and urge a good man more

Then sword, or fire, or what is of the race

To carry noble danger in the face:

There is not any punishment, or paine,

A man should flie from, as he would disdaine.

Then Masters here, here let your rigour end,

And let your mercie make me asham'd t'offend.

I will no more abuse my vowes to you,

Then I will studie 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 doe move,

And that there is no life in me, but love.

You would be then most confident, that tho

Publike affaires command me now to goe

Out of your eyes, and be awhile away;

Absence, or Distance, shall not breed decay.

Your forme shines here, here fixed in my heart

I may dilate my selfe, but not depart.

Others by common Stars their courses run,

When I see you, then I doe see my Sun,

Till then 'tis all but darknesse, that I have,

Rather then want your light, I wish a grave.

TO make the Doubt cleare that no Woman's true,

Was it my fate to prove it full in you.

Thought I but one had breath'd the purer Ayre,

And must she needs be false, because she's faire?

It is your beauties Marke, or of your youth,

Or your perfection not to studie truth;

Or thinke you heaven is deafe? or hath no eyes?

Or those it has, winke at your perjuries;

Are vowes so cheape with women? or the matter

Whereof they are made, that they are writ in water;

And blowne 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 sighes should meet

Blowne from our hearts, so many oathes and teares

Sprinkled among? All sweeter by our feares,

And the Devine Impression of stolne kisses,

That seal'd the rest, could now prove emptie blisses?

Did you draw bonds to forfeit? Signe, to breake,

Or must we read you quite from what you speake,

And find the truth out the wrong way? or must

He first desire you false, would wish you just?

O, I prophane! though most of women be,

The common Monster, Love shall except thee

My dearest Love, how ever jealousie,

With Circumstance might urge the contrarie.

Sooner I'le thinke the Sunne would cease to cheare

The teeming Earth, and that forget to beare;

Sooner that Rivers would run back, or Thames

With ribs of Ice in June would bind his streames:

Or Nature, by whose strength the world indures,

Would change her course, before you alter yours:

But, O, that trecherous breast, to whom, weake you

Did trust our counsells, and we both may rue,

Having his falshood found too late! 'twas he

That made me cast you Guiltie, and you me.

Whilst he black wretch, betray'd each simple word

We spake unto the comming of a third!

Curst may he be that so our love hath slaine,

And wander wretched on the earth, as Cain.

Wretched as he, and not deserve least pittie

In plaguing him let miserie be wittie.

Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each eye,

Till he be noysome as his infamie;

May be without remorse deny God thrice,

And not be trusted more on his soules price;

And after all selfe-torment, when he dyes

May Wolves teare out his heart, Vultures his eyes,

Swyne eat his Bowels, and his falser Tongue,

That utter'd all, be to some Raven flung,

And let his carrion corse be a longer feast

To the Kings Dogs, then any other beast.

Now I have curst, let us our love receive;

In me the flame was never more alive.

I could begin againe to court and praise,

And in that pleasure lengthen the short dayes

Of my lifes lease; like Painters that doe take

Delight, not in made workes, 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 Playes,

Commend the selfe-same Actors, the same wayes

Aske 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 then to get;

And ought not be prophan'd on either part,

For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art.

THat Love's a bitter sweet, I ne're conceive

Till the sower Minute comes of taking leave,

And then I taste it. But as men drinke up

In hast the bottome of a med'cin'd Cup,

And take some sirrup after; so doe I

To put all relish from my memorie

Of parting, drowne it in the hope to meet

Shortly againe: and make our absence sweet.

This makes me M^rs. that sometime by stealth

Under another Name, I take your health;

And turne the Ceremonies of those Nights

I give, or owe my friends, into your Rites,

But ever without blazon, or least shade

Of vowes so sacred, and in silence made;

For though Love thrive, and may grow up with cheare,

And free societie, hee's borne else-where,

And must be bred, so to conceale his birth,

As neither wine doe rack it out, or mirth.

Yet should the Lover still be ayrie and light

In all his Actions ratified to spright

Not like a Midas shut up in himselfe,

And turning all he toucheth into pelfe,

Keepe in reserv'd in his Dark-lanterne face,

As if that ex'lent Dulnesse were Loves grace;

No Masters no, the open merrie Man

Moves like a sprightly River, and yet can

Keepe secret in his Channels what he breedes

'Bove all your standing waters, choak'd with weedes.

They looke at best like Creame-bowles, and you soone

Shall find their depth: they're sounded with a spoone.

They may say Grace, and for Loves Chaplaines passe;

But the grave Lover ever was an Asse;

Is fix'd upon one leg, and dares not come

Out with the other, for hee's still at home;

Like the dull wearied Crane that (come on land)

Doth while he keepes his watch, betray his stand.

Where he that knowes will like a Lapwing flie

Farre from the Nest, and so himselfe belie.

To others as he will deserve the Trust

Due to that one, that doth believe him just.

And such your Servant is, who vowes to keepe

The Jewell of your name, as close as sleepe

Can lock the Sense up, or the heart a thought,

And never be by time, or folly brought,

Weaknesse of braine, or any charme of Wine,

The sinne of Boast, or other countermine

(Made to blow up loves secrets) to discover

That Article, may nor become our lover:

Which in assurance to your brest I tell,

If I had writ no word, but Deare, farewell.

SInce you must goe, and I must bid farewell,

Heare Masters, your departing servant tell

What it is like: And doe not thinke they can

Be idle words, though of a parting Man;

It is as if a night should shade noone-day,

Or that the Sun was here, but forc't away;

And we were left under that Hemisphere,

Where we must feele it Darke for halfe a yeare.

What fate is this to change mens dayes and houres,

To shift their seasons, and destroy their powers!

Alas I ha' lost my heat, my blood, my prime,

Winter is come a Quarter e're his Time,

My health will leave me; and when you depart,

How shall I doe sweet Mistris for my heart?

You would restore it? No, that's worth a feare,

As if it were not worthy to be there:

O, keepe it still; for it had rather be

Your sacrifice, then here remaine with me.

And so I spare it, Come what can become

Of me, I'le softly tread unto my Tombe;

Or like a Ghost walke silent amongst men,

Till I may See both it and you agen.

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 thinke he was in love.

Who shall forbid me then in Rithme to bee

As light, and Active as the youngest hee

That from the Muses fountaines doth indorse

His lynes, and hourely sits the Poets horse

Put on my Ivy Garland, let me see

Who frownes, who jealous is, who taxeth me.

Fathers, and Husbands, I doe claime a right

In all that is call'd lovely: take my sight

Sooner then my affection from the faire.

No face, no hand, proportion, line, or Ayre

Of beautie; but the Muse hath interest in:

There is not worne that lace, purle, knot or pin,

But is the Poëts matter: And he must

When he is furious love, although not lust.

But then content, your Daughters and your Wives,

(If they be faire and worth it) have their lives

Made longer by our praises. Or, if not

Wish, you had fowle ones, and deformed got;

Curst in their Cradles, or there chang'd by Elves,

So to be sure you doe injoy your selves.

Yet keepe those up in sackcloth too, or lether,

For Silke will draw some sneaking Songster thither.

It is a ryming Age, and Verses swarme

At every stall; The Cittie Cap's a charme.

But I who live, and have liv'd twentie yeare

Where I may handle Silke, as free, and neere,

As any Mercer; or the whale-bone 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 owne, or no.

It is not likely I should now looke downe

Upon a Velvet Petticote, or a Gowne,

Whose like I have knowne the Taylors Wife put on

To doe her Husbands rites in, e're 'twere gone

Home to the Customer: his Letcherie

Being, the best clothes still to præoccupie.

Put a Coach-mare in Tissue, must I horse

Her presently ? Or leape thy Wife of force.

When by thy sordid bountie she hath on,

A Gowne of that, was the Caparison?

So I might dote upon thy Chaires; and Stooles

That are like cloath'd, must I be of those fooles

Of race accompted, that no passion have

But when thy Wife (as thou conceiv'st) is brave?

Then ope thy wardrobe, thinke me that poore Groome

that from the Foot-man, when he was become

An Officer there, did make most solemne love,

To ev'ry Petticote he brush'd, and Glove

He did lay up, and would adore the shooe;

Or slipper was left off, and kisse it too,

Court every hanging Gowne, and after that,

Lift up some one, and doe, I tell not what.

Thou didst tell me; and wert o're-joy'd to peepe

In at a hole, and see these Actions creepe

From the poore wretch, which though he play'd in prose,

He would have done in verse, with any of those

Wrung on the Withers, by Lord Loves despight,

Had he had the facultie to reade, and write!

Such Songsters there are store of; witnesse he

That chanc'd the lace, laid on a Smock, to see

And straight-way spent a Sonnet; with that other

That (in pure Madrigall) unto his Mother

Commended the French-hood, and Scarlet gowne

The Lady Mayresse pass'd in through the Towne,

Unto the Spittle Sermon. O, what strange

Varietie of Silkes were on th'Exchange!

Or in Moore-fields! this other night, sings one,

Another answers, 'Lasse those Silkes are none

In smiling L'envoye, as he would deride

Any Comparison had with his Cheap-side.

And vouches both the Pageant, and the Day,

When not the Shops, but windowes doe display

The Stuffes, the Velvets, Plushes, Fringes, Lace,

And all the originall riots of the place:

Let the poore fooles enjoy their follies, love

A Goat in Velvet; or some block could move

Under that cover; an old Mid-wives hat!

Or a Close-stoole so cas'd; or any fat

Bawd, in a Velvet scabberd! I envy

None of their pleasures! nor will aske thee, why

Thou art jealous of thy Wifes, or Daughters Case:

More then of eithers manners, wit, or face!

ANd why to me this, thou lame Lord of fire,

What had I done that might call on thine ire?

Or urge thy Greedie flame, thus to devoure

So many my Yeares-labours in an houre?

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 scorne

With Clownes, and Tradesmen, kept thee clos'd in horne.

'Twas Jupiter that hurl'd thee headlong downe,

And Mars, that gave thee a Lanthorne for a Crowne:

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 paine,

To ruine any issue of the braine?

Had I wrote treason there, or heresie,

Imposture, witchcraft, charmes, or blasphemie?

I had deserv'd then, thy consuming lookes,

Perhaps, to have beene burned with my bookes.

But, on thy malice, tell me, didst thou spie

Any, least loose, or surrile paper, lie

Conceal'd, or kept there, that was fit to be,

By thy owne vote, a sacrifice to thee?

Did I there wound the honours of the Crowne?

Or taxe the Glories of the Church, and Gowne?

Itch to defame the State? or brand the Times?

And my selfe most, in some selfe-boasting Rimes?

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 Librarie of Don Quixote;

And so some goodlier monster had begot,

Or spun out Riddles, and weav'd fittie tomes

Of Logogriphes, and curious Palindromes,

Or pomp'd for those hard trifles Anagrams,

Or Eteostichs, or those finer flammes

Of Egges, and Halberds, Cradles, and a Herse,

A paire of Scisars, and a Combe in verse;

Acrostichs, and Telestichs, on jumpe 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 stampe there; parcels of a Play,

Fitter to see the fire-light, then the day;

Adulterate moneys, such as might not goe:

Thou should'st have stay'd, till publike fame said so.

Shee is the Judge, Thou Executioner,

Or if thou needs would'st trench upon her power,

Thou mightst have yet enjoy'd thy crueltie

With some more thrift, and more varietie:

Thou mightst have had me perish, piece, by piece,

To light Tobacco, or save roasted Geese.

Sindge Capons, or poore Pigges, dropping 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 marke, wherof thy Rites doe boast,

To make consumption, ever where thou go'st;

Had I fore-knowne of this thy least desire

T' have held a Triumph, or a feast of fire,

Especially in paper; that, that steame

Had tickled your large Nosthrill: many a Reame

To redeeme mine, I had sent in enough,

Thou should'st have cry'd, and all beene proper stuffe.

The Talmud, and the Alcoran had come,

With pieces of the Legend; The whole summe

Of errant Knight-hood, with the Dames, and Dwarfes;

The charmed Boates, and the inchanted Wharfes,

The Tristram's, Lanc'lots, Turpins, and the Peer's,

All the madde Rolands, and sweet Oliveer's;

To Merlins Marvailes, and his Caballs losse,

With the Chimæra of the Rosie-Crosse,

Their Seales, their Characters, Hermetique rings,

Their Jemme of Riches, and bright Stone, that brings

Invisibilitie, and strength, and tongues:

The art of kindling the true Coale, by lungs

With Nicholas Pasquill's, Meddle with your match,

And the strong lines, that so the time doe catch,

Or Captaine Pamplets horse, and foot; that sallie

Upon th'Exchange, still out of Popes-head-Alley.

The weekly Corrants, with Pauls Seale; and all

Th'admir'd discourses of the Prophet Ball:

These, had'st thou pleas'd either to dine, or sup,

Had made a meale for Vulcan to lick up.

But in my Deske, 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 Poëtrie,

and lighted by the Stagerite, could spie,

Was there mad English: with the Grammar too,

To teach some that, their Nurses could doe.

The puritie of Language; and among

The rest, my journey into Scotland song,

With all th'adventures; Three bookes not afraid

To speake the fate of the Sicilian Maid

To our owne Ladyes; and in storie there

Of our fift Henry, eight of his nine yeare;

Wherein was oyle, beside the succour spent,

Which noble Carew, Cotton, Selden lent:

And twice-twelve-yeares stor'd up humanitie,

With humble Gleanings in Divinitie;

After the Fathers, and those wiser Guides

Whom Faction had not drawne to studie sides.

How in these ruines Vulcan, thou dost lurke,

All soote, and embers! odious, as thy worke!

I now begin to doubt, if ever Grace,

Or Goddesse, could be patient of thy face.

Thou woo Minerva! or to wit aspire!

'Cause thou canst halt, with us in Arts, and Fire!

Sonne of the Wind! for so thy mother gone

With lust conceiv'd thee; Father thou hadst none

When thou wert borne, and that thou look'st at best,

She durst not kisse, but flung thee from her brest.

And so did Jove, who ne're meant thee his Cup:

No mar'le the Clownes of Lemnos tooke thee up.

For none but Smiths would have made thee a God.

Some Alchimist there may be yet, or odde

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 braines with Quicksilver.

Well-fare the Wise-man yet, on the Banckside,

My friends, the Watermen! They could provide

Against thy furie, when to serve their needs,

They made a Vulcan of a sheafe of Reedes,

Whom they durst handle in their holy-day coates,

And safely trust to dresse, not burne their Boates.

But, O those Reeds! thy meere disdaine of them,

Made thee beget that cruell Stratagem,

(Which, some are pleas'd to stile but thy madde pranck)

Against the Globe, the Glory of the Banke.

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 poore Chambers taken in

And raz'd; e're thought could urge, this might have beene!

See the worlds Ruines! nothing but the piles

Left! and wit since to cover it with Tiles.

The Brethren, they streight nois'd it out for Newes,

'Twas verily some Relique of the Stewes.

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 Poperie,

When Venus there maintain'd in Misterie.

But, others fell, with that conceipt by the eares,

And cry'd, it was a threatning to the beares;

And that accursed ground, the Parish-Garden:

Nay, sigh'd, ah Sister 'twas the Nun, Kate Arden

Kindled the fire! But, then did one returne,

No Foole would his owne harvest spoile, or burne!

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 any jot the more:

He burnt that Idoll of the Revels too:

Nay, let White-Hall with Revels have to doe,

Though but in daunces, it shall know his power;

There was a Judgement shew'n too in an houre.

Hee is true Vulcan still! He did not spare

Troy, though it were so much his Venus care.

Foole, wilt thou let that in example come?

Did not she save from thence, to build a Rome?

And what hast thou done in these pettie spights,

More then advanc'd the houses, and their rites?

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 Clerkes, to one.

But, say all sixe, Good Men, what answer yee?

Lyes there no Writ, out of the Chancerie

Against this Vulcan? No Injunction?

No order? no Decree? Though we be gone

At Common-Law: Me thinkes in his despight

A Court of Equitie should doe us right.

But to confine him to the Brew-houses,

The Glasse-house, Dye-fats, and their Fornaces;

To live in Sea-coale, and goe forth in smoake;

Or lest that vapour might the Citie choake,

Condemne 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 Tavernes, and the Drunkards pisse him out;

Or in the Bell-Mans Lanthorne like a spie,

Burne to a snuffe, and then stinke out, and die:

I could invent a sentence, yet were worse;

But I'le conclude all in a civill curse.

Pox on your flameship, Vulcan; if it be

To all as fatall as 't hath beene to me,

And to Pauls-Steeple; which was unto us

'Bove all your Fire-workes, had at Ephesus,

Or Alexandria; and though a Divine

Losse, remaines yet, as unrepair'd as mine.

Would you had kept your Forge at Ætna still,

And there made Swords, Bills, Glaves, and Armes your fill.

Maintain'd the trade at Bilbo; or else-where;

Strooke 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-Countrey's, where you might

On both sides doe your mischiefes with delight;

Blow up, and ruine, myne, and countermyne,

Make your Petards, and Granats, all your fine

Engines of Murder, and receive the praise

Of massacring Man-kind so many wayes.

We aske your absence here, we all love peace,

And pray the fruites 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 doo,

Thy Wives pox on thee, and B.Bs.too.

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, Spaines Ambassadour

Old Æsope 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 Georges Day.

All Ensignes of a Warre, are not yet dead,

Nor markes of wealth so from our Nation fled,

But they may see Gold-Chaines, and Pearle worne then,

Lent by the London Dames, to the Lords men;

Withall, the dirtie paines those Citizens take,

To see the Pride at Court, their Wives doe make:

And the returne those thankfull Courtiers yeeld

To have their Husbands drawne forth to the field,

And comming home, to tell what acts were done

Under the Auspice of young Swynnerton.

What a strong Fort old Pimblicoe had beene!

How it held out! how (last) 'twas taken in!

Well, I say thrive, thrive brave Artillerie yard,

Thou Seed-plot of the warre, that hast not spar'd

Powder, or paper, to bring up the youth

Of London, in the Militarie truth,

These ten yeares day; As all may sweare that looke

But on thy practise, and the Posture booke:

He that but saw thy curious Captaines drill,

Would thinke no more of Vlushing, or the Brill:

But give them over to the common eare

For that unnecessarie Charge they were

Well did thy craftie Clerke, and Knight, Sir Hugh

Supplant bold Panton; and brought there to view

Translated Ælian tactickes to be read,

And the Greeke Discipline (with the moderne) shed

So, in that ground, as soone it grew to be

The Cittie-Question, whether Tilly, or he,

Were now the greater Captaine? 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 happie Art! and wise Epitome

Of bearing Armes! most civill Soldierie!

Thou canst draw forth thy forces, and fight drie

The Battells of thy Aldermanitie;

Without the hazard of a drop of blood:

More then the surfets, in thee, that day stood.

Goe on, increast in vertue; and in fame:

And keepe the Glorie of the English name,

Up among Nations. In the stead of bold

Beauchamps, and Nevills, Cliffords, Audley's old;

Insert thy Hodges, and those newer men.

As Stiles, Dike, Ditchfield, Millar, Crips, and Fen:

That keepe the warre, though now't be growne more tame

Alive yet, in the noise; and still the same

And could (if our great men would let their Sonnes

Come to their Schooles,) show'hem the use of Guns.

And there instruct the noble English heires

In Politique, and Militar Affaires;

But he that should perswade, to have this done

For education of our Lordings; Soone

Should he heare of billow, wind, and storme,

From the Tempestuous Grandlings, who'll informe

Us, in our bearing, that are thus, and thus,

Borne, bred, allied ? what's he dare tutor us?

Are we by Booke-wormes to be awde? must we

Live by their Scale, that dare doe 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 speake

The Hawking language? or our Day to breake

With Citizens? let Clownes; and Tradesmen breed

Their Sonnes to studie Arts, the Lawes, the Creed:

We will beleeve like men of our owne Ranke,

In so much land a yeare, or such a Banke,

That turnes us so much moneys, at which rate

Our Ancestors impos'd on Prince and State.

Let poore Nobilitie be vertuous: Wee,

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 Gentrie are;

To serve the State by Councels, and by Armes:

We neither love the Troubles, nor the harmes.

What love you then? your whore? what study ? gate,

Carriage, and dressing. There is up of late?

The Academie, where the Gallants meet---

What to make legs? yes, and to smell most sweet,

All that they doe at Playes. O, but first here

They learne and studie; and then practise there.

But why are all these Irons i' the fire

Of severall makings? helps, helps, t' attire

His Lordship. That is for his Band, his haire

This, and that box his Beautie to repaire;

This other for his eye-browes; hence, away,

I may no longer on these pictures stay,

These Carkasses of honour; Taylors blocks,

Cover'd with Tissue, whose prosperitie mocks

The fate of things: whilst totter'd vertue holds

Her broken Armes up, to their emptie moulds.

WHat I am not, and what I faine would be,

Whilst I informe my selfe, 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 Taverne, or the Spit:

Much lesse a name would we bring up, or nurse,

That could but claime a kindred from the purse.

Those are poore Ties, depend on those false ends,

'Tis vertue alone, or nothing that knits friends:

And as within your Office, you doe take

No piece of money, but you know, or make

Inquirie of the worth: So must we doe,

First weigh a friend, then touch, and trie him too:

For there are many slips, and Counterfeits.

Deceit is fruitfull. Men have Masques and nets,

But these with wearing will themselves unfold:

They cannot last. No lie grew ever old.

Turne him, and see his Threds: looke, if he be

Friend to himselfe, that would be friend to thee.

For that is first requir'd, A man be his owne.

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.

HE that should search all Glories of the Gowne,

And steps of all rais'd servants of the Crowne

He could not find, then thee of all that store

Whom Fortune aided lesse, or vertue more,

Such, Coke, were thy beginnings, when thy good

In others evill best was understood:

When, being the Strangers helpe, the poore mans aide,

Thy just defences made th' oppressor afraid.

Such was thy Processe, when Integritie,

And skill in thee, now, grew Authoritie;

That Clients strove, in Question of the Lawes,

More for thy Patronage, then for their Cause,

And that thy strong and manly Eloquence

Stood up thy Nations fame, her Crownes defence,

And now such is thy stand; while thou dost deale

Desired Justice to the publique Weale

Like Solons selfe; explat'st the knottie Lawes

With endlesse labours, whilst thy learning drawes

No lesse 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 lesse, or Vertue more.

Or if Chance must, to each man that doth rise

Needs lend an aide, to thine she had her eyes.

MEn that are safe, and sure, in all they doe,

Care not what trials they are put unto;

They meet the fire, the Test, as Martyrs would;

And though Opinion stampe them not, are gold,

I could say more of such, but that I flie

To speake my selfe out too ambitiously,

And shewing so weake an Act to vulgar eyes;

Put conscience and my right to comprimise.

Let those that meerely talke, and never thinke,

That live in the wild Anarchie of Drinke

Subject to quarrell only; or else such

As make it their proficiencie, how much

They'ave glutted in, and letcher'd out that weeke,

That never yet did friend, or friendship seeke

But for a Sealing: let these men protest.

Or th'other on their borders, that will jeast

On all Soules that are absent; even the dead

Like flies, or wormes, which mans corrupt parts fed:

That to speake well, thinke it above all sinne,

Of any Companie but that they are in,

Call every night to Supper in these fitts,

And are receiv'd for the Covey of Witts;

That censure all the Towne, and all th'affaires,

And know whose ignorance is more then theirs;

Let these men have their wayes, and take their times

To vent their Libels, and to issue rimes,

I have no portion in them, nor their deale

Of newes they get, to strew out the long meale,

I studie other friendships, and more one,

Then these can ever be; or else wish none.

What is't to me whether the French Designe

Be, or be not, to get the Val-telline?

Or the States Ships sent forth belike to meet

Some hopes of Spaine in their West-Indian Fleet?

Whether the Dispensation yet be sent,

Or that the Match from Spaine was ever meant?

I wish all well, and pray high heaven conspire

My Princes safetie, 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 drawes

To live, or fall, a Carkasse in the cause.

So farre without inquirie what the States,

Brunsfield, and Mansfield doe this yeare, my fates

Shall carry meat Call; and I'le be well,

Though I doe neither heare these newes, nor tell

Of Spaine or France; or were not prick'd downe one

Of the late Mysterie of reception,

Although my Fame, to his, not under-heares,

That guides the Motions, and directs the beares.

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 Jarres, there may molest me too:

Well, with mine owne fraile Pitcher, what to doe

I have decreed; keepe it from waves, and presse;

Lest it be justled, crack'd made nought, or lesse:

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, wel-tagde, and permanent,

Not built with Canvasse, paper, and false lights

As are the Glorious Scenes, at the great sights;

And that there be no fev'ry heats, nor colds,

Oylie Expansions, or shrunke durtie folds,

But all so cleare, 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 Staires

Are asked to climbe. First give me faith, who know

My selfe a little. I will take you so,

As you have writ your selfe. Now stand, and then

Sir, you are Sealed of the Tribe of Ben.

SInce, Bacchus, thou art father

Of Wines, to thee the rather

We dedicate this Cellar,

Where new, thou art made Dweller;

And seale thee thy Commission:

But 'tis with a condition,

That thou remaine here taster

Of all to the great Master.

And looke unto their faces,

Their Qualities, and races,

That both, their odour take him,

And realish merry make him.

For Bacchus thou art freer

Of cares, and over-seer,

Of feast, and merry meeting,

And still begin'st the greeting:

See then thou dost attend him

Lyæus, and defend him,

By all the Arts of Gladnesse

From any thought like sadnesse.

So mayst thou still be younger

Then Phæbus; and much stronger

To give mankind their eases,

And cure the Worlds diseases:

So may the Muses follow

Thee still, and leave Apollo

And thinke thy streame more quicker

Then Hippocrenes liquor:

And thou make many a Poet,

Before his braine doe know it;

So may there never Quarrell

Have issue from the Barrell;

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 faire grounds be.

Be it he hold Communion

In great Saint Georges Union;

Or gratulates the passage

Of some wel-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 royall shipping

The narrow Seas are shadie,

And Charles brings home the Ladie.

Accessit fervor Capiti, Numerus[que] Lucernis.

DO's the Court-Pucell then so censure me,

And thinkes 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 strooke, her breath creates

New in their stead, out of the Candidates?

What though with Tribade lust she force a Muse,

And in an Epicæne fury can write newes

Equall with that, which for the best newes goes

As aërie light, and as like wit as those?

What though she talke, and cannot once with them,

Make State, Religion, Bawdrie, all a theame.

And as lip-thirstie, in each words expence,

Doth labour with the Phrase more then the sense?

What though she ride two mile on Holy-dayes

To Church, as others doe to Feasts and Playes,

To shew their Tires? to view, and to be view'd?

What though she be with Velvet gownes indu'd,

And spangled Petticotes brought forth to eye,

As new rewards of her old secrecie!

What though she hath won on Trust, as many doe,

And that her truster feares her? Must I too?

I never stood for any place: my wit

Thinkes it selfe nought, though she should valew it.

I am no States-man, and much lesse Divine

For bawdry, 'tis her language, and not mine.

Farthest I am from the Idolatrie

To stuffes and Laces, those my Man can buy.

And trust her I would least, that hath forswore

In Contract twice, what can shee 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 poore Instrument, now out of grace.

Shall I advise thee Pucell? steale 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 Sermoneeres: 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 Dorrels 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 Chaire of scorne,

Will cal't a Bastard, when a Prophet's borne.

THe Wisdome Madam of your private Life,

Where with this while you live a widowed wife,

And the right wayes you take unto the right,

To conquer rumour, and triumph on spight;

Not only shunning by your act, to doe

Ought that is ill, but the suspition 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 growne so fruitfull, and false pleasures climbe

By all oblique Degrees, that killing height

From whence they fall, cast downe with their owne weight.

And though all praise bring nothing to your name,

Who (herein studying conscience, and not fame)

Are in your selfe rewarded; yet 't will be

A cheerefull worke to all good eyes, to see

Among the daily Ruines that fall foule,

Of State, of fame, of body, and of soule,

So great a Vertue stand upright to view,

As makes Penelopes old fable true,

Whilst your Ulisses hath ta'ne leave to goe,

Countries, and Climes manners, and men to know.

Only your time you better entertaine,

Then the great Homers wit, for her, could faine;

For you admit no companie, but good,

And when you want those friends, or neere in blood,

Or your Allies, you make your bookes your friends,

And studie them unto the noblest ends,

Searching for knowledge, and to keepe your mind

The same it was inspir'd, rich, and refin'd.

These Graces, when the rest of Ladyes view

Not boasted in your life, but practis'd true,

As they are hard, for them to make their owne,

So are they profitable to be knowne:

For when they find so many meet in one,

It will be shame for them, if they have none.

HAile happie Genius of this antient pile!

How comes it all things so about the smile?

The fire, the wine, the men! and in the midst,

Thou stand'st as if some Mysterie thou did'st!

Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day

For whose returnes, and many, all these pray:

And so doe I. This is the sixtieth yeare

Since Bacon, and thy Lord was borne, and here;

Sonne to the grave wise Keeper of the Seale,

Fame, and foundation of the English Weale.

What then his Father was, that since is hee,

Now with a Title more to the Degree;

Englands high Chancellor: the destin'd heire

In his soft Cradle to his Fathers Chaire,

Whose even Thred the Fates spinne round, and full,

Out of their Choysest, and their whitest wooll.

'Tis a brave cause of joy, let it be knowne,

For 't were a narrow gladnesse, kept thine owne.

Give me a deep-crown'd-Bowle, that I may sing

In raysing him the wisdome of my King.

TO paint thy Worth, if rightly I did know it,

And were but Painter halfe like thee, a Poët;

Ben, I would show it:

But in this skill, m'unskilfull pen will tire,

Thou, and thy worth, will still be found farre 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.

WHy? though I seeme of a prodigious wast,

I am not so voluminous, and vast,

But there are lines, wherewith I might b'embrac'd.

'Tis true, as my wombe swells, so my backe stoupes,

And the whole lumpe growes round, deform'd, and droupes,

But yet the Tun at Heidelberg had houpes.

You were not tied, by any Painters Law

To square my Circle, I confesse; but draw

My Supersicies: that was all you saw.

Which if in compasse of no Art it came

To be described by a Monogram,

With one great blot, yo'had form'd me as I am.

But whilst you curious were to have it be

An Archetipe, for all the world to see,

You made it a brave piece, but not like me.

O, had I now your manner, maistry, might,

Your Power of handling, shadow, ayre, and spright,

How I would draw, and take hold and delight.

Put, you are he can paint; I can but write:

A Poet hath no more but black and white,

Ne knowes he flatt'ring Colours, or false light.

Yet when of friendship I would draw the face

A letter'd mind, and a large heart would place

To all posteritie; I will write Burlase.

WHen first my Lord, I saw you backe your horse,

Provoke his mettall, 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 peece!

You shew'd like Perseus upon Pegasus;

Or Castor mounted on his Cyllarus:

Or what we heare our home-borne Legend tell,

Of bold Sir Bevis, and his Arundell:

Nay, so your Seate his beauties did endorse,

As I began to wish my selfe a horse:

And surely had I but your Stable seene

Before: I thinke my wish absolv'd had beene.

For never saw I yet the Muses dwell,

Nor any of their houshold halfe so well.

So well! as when I saw the floore, and Roome

I look'd for Hercules to be the Groome:

And cri'd, away, with the Cæsarian bread,

At these Immortall Mangers Virgil fed.

I Am to dine, Friend, where I must be weigh'd

For a just wager, and that wager paid

If I doe lose it: And, without a Tale

A Merchants Wife is Regent of the Scale.

Who when shee heard the match, concluded streight,

An ill commoditie! 'T must make good weight.

So that upon the point, my corporall feare

Is, she will play Dame Justice, too severe;

And hold me to it close; to stand upright

Within the ballance; and not want a mite;

But rather with advantage to be found

Full twentie stone; of which I lack two pound:

That's six in silver; now within the Socket

Stinketh my credit, if into the Pocket

It doe not come: One piece I have in store,

Lend me, deare Arthur, for a weeke five more,

And you shall make me good, in weight, and fashion,

And then to be return'd; or protestation

To goe out after----till when take this letter

For your securitie. I can no better.

WOuld God my Burges, I could thinke

Thoughts worthy of thy gift, this Inke,

Then would I promise here to give

Verse, that should thee, and me out-live.

But since the Wine hath steep'd my braine

I only can the Paper staine;

Yet with a Dye, that feares no Moth,

But Scarlet-like out-lasts the Cloth.

YOu won not Verses, Madam, you won mee,

When you would play so nobly, and so free.

A booke to a few lynes: but, it was fit

You won them too, your oddes did merit it,

So have you gain'd a Servant, and a Muse:

The first of which I feare, you will refuse;

And you may justly, being a tardie cold,

Unprofitable Chattell, fat and old,

Laden with Bellie, and doth hardly approach

His friends, but to breake Chaires, or cracke a Coach.

His weight is twenty Stone within two pound;

And that's made up as doth the purse abound.

Marrie the Muse is one, can tread the Aire,

And stroke the water, nimble, chast, and faire,

Sleepe in a Virgins bosome without feare,

Run all the Rounds in a soft Ladyes eare,

Widow or Wife, without the jealousie

Of either Suitor, or a Servant by.

Such, (if her manners like you) I doe send:

And can for other Graces her commend,

To make you merry on the Dressing stoole

A mornings, and at afternoones to foole

Away ill company, and helpe in rime,

Your Joane to passe her melancholie time.

By this, although you fancie not the man

Accept his Muse; and tell, I know you can:

How many verses, Madam, are your Due!

I can lose none in tendring these to you.

I gaine, in having leave to keepe my Day,

And should grow rich, had I much more to pay.

FAther John Burges,

Necessitie urges

My wofull crie,

To Sir Robert Pie:

And that he will venter

To send my Debentur.

Tell him his Ben

Knew the time, when

He lov'd the Muses;

Though now he refuses,

To take Apprehension

Of a yeares Pension,

And more is behind:

Put him in mind

Christmas is neere;

And neither good Cheare,

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 helpe him to bed,

If the 'Chequer be emptie, so will be his Head.

THou, Friend, wilt heare all censures; unto thee

All mouthes are open, and all stomacks free:

Bee thou my Bookes intelligencer, note

What each man sayes of it, and of what coat

His judgement is; If he be wise, and praise,

Thanke him: if other, hee can give no Bayes.

If his wit reach no higher, but to spring

Thy Wife a fit of laughter; a Cramp-ring

Will be reward enough: to weare like those,

That hang their richest jewells i' their nose;

Like a rung Beare, or Swine: grunting out wit

As if that part lay for a [ ] most fit!

If they goe on, and that thou lov'st a-life

Their perfum'd judgements, let them kisse thy Wife.

THey talke of Fencing, and the use of Armes,

The art of urging, and avoyding harmes,

The noble Science, and the maistring skill

Of making just approaches how to kill:

To hit in angles, and to clash with time:

As all defence, or offence were a chime!

I hate such measur'd, give me mettall'd fire

That trembles in the blaze, but (then) mounts higher!

A quick, and dazeling motion! when a paire

Of bodies, meet like rarified ayre!

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

Of daring, not to doe a wrong, is true

Valour! to sleight it, being done to you!

To know the heads of danger! where 'tis fit

To bend, to breake, provoke, or suffer it!

All this (my Lord) is Valour! This is yours!

And was your Fathers! All your Ancestours!

Who durst live great, 'mongst all the colds, and heates,

Of humane life! as all the frosts, and sweates

Of fortune! when, or death appear'd, or bands!

And valiant were, with, or without their hands.

IF, Passenger, thou canst but reade:

Stay, drop a teare for him that's dead,

Henry, the brave young Lord La-ware,

Minerva's and the Muses care!

What could their care doe 'gainst the spight

Of a Disease, that lov'd no light

Of honour, nor no ayre of good?

But crept like darknesse through his blood?

Offended with the dazeling flame

Of Vertue, got above his name?

No noble furniture of parts,

No love of action, and high Arts.

No aime at glorie, or in warre,

Ambition to become a Starre,

Could stop the malice of this ill,

That spread his body o're, to kill:

And only, his great Soule envy'd,

Because it durst have noblier dy'd.

THat you have seene the pride, beheld the sport,

And all the games of Fortune, plaid at Court;

View'd there the mercat, read the wretched rate

At which there are, would sell the Prince, and State:

That scarce you heare a publike voyce alive,

But whisper'd Counsells, and those only thrive;

Yet are got off thence, with cleare mind, and hands

To lift to heaven: who is't not understands

Your happinesse, and doth not speake you blest,

To see you set apart, thus, from the rest,

T' obtaine of God, what all the Land should aske?

A Nations sinne got pardon'd! 'twere a taske?

Fit for a Bishops knees! O bow them oft,

My Lord, till felt griefe make our stone hearts soft,

And wee doe weepe, to water, for our sinne.

He, that in such a flood, as we are in

Of riot, and consumption knowes the way,

To teach the people, how to fast, and pray,

And doe their penance, to avert Gods rod,

He is the Man, and Favorite of God.

GReat CHARLES, among the holy gifts of grace

Annexed to thy Person, and thy place,

'T is not enough (thy pietie is such)

To cure the call'd Kings Evill with thy touch;

But thou wilt yet a Kinglier mastrie trie,

To cure the Poëts Evill, Povertie:

And, in these Cures, do'st so thy selfe enlarge,

As thou dost cure our Evill, at thy charge.

Nay, and in this, thou show'st to value more

One Poët, then of other folke ten score.

O pietie! so to weigh the poores estates!

O bountie! so to difference the rates!

What can the Poët wish his King may doe,

But, that he cure the Peoples Evill too?

WAo dares denie, that all first fruits are due

To God, denies the God-head to be true:

Who doubts, those fruits God can with gaine restore,

Doth by his doubt, distrust his promise more.

Hee can, he will, and with large int'rest pay,

What (at his liking) he will take away.

Then Royall CHARLES, and MARY, doe not grutch

That the Almighties will to you is such:

But thanke his greatnesse, and his goodnesse too;

And thinke all still the best, that he will doe.

That thought shall make, he will this losse supply

With a long, large, and blest posteritie!

For God, whose essence is so infinite,

Cannot but heape that grace, he will requite.

HOW happy were the Subject! if he knew

Most pious King, but his owne 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 turnes our joyfull yeare about,

For safetie of such Majestie, cry out?

Indeed, when had great Brittaine greater cause

Then now, to love the Soveraigne, and the Lawes?

When you that raigne, are her Example growne,

And what are bounds to her, you make your owne?

When your assiduous practise doth secure

That Faith, which she professeth to be pure?

When all your life's a president of dayes,

And murmure cannot quarrell at your wayes?

How is she barren growne of love! or broke!

That nothing can her gratitude provoke!

O Times! O Manners! Surfet bred of ease,

The truly Epidemicall disease!

'T is not alone the Merchant, but the Clowne,

Is Banke-rupt turn'd! the Cassock, Cloake, and Gowne,

Are lost upon accompt! And none will know

How much to heaven for thee, great CHARLES they owe!

ANd art thou borne, brave Babe? Blest be thy birth?

That so hath crown'd our hopes, our spring, and earth,

The bed of the chast Lilly, and the Rose!

What Month then May, was fitter to disclose

This Prince of flowers? Soone shoot thou up, and grow

The same that thou art promis'd, but be slow,

And long in changing. Let our Nephewes see

Thee, quickly the gardens eye to bee,

And there to stand so. Hast, now envious Moone,

And interpose thy selfe, ('care not how soone.)

And threat' the great Eclipse. Two houres but runne,

Sol will re-shine. If not, CHARLES hath a Sonne.

——Non displicuisse meretur

Festinat Cæsar qui placuisse tibi.

HAile Mary, full of grace, it once was said,

And by an Angell, to the blessed'st Maid

The Mother of our Lord: why may not I

(Without prophanenesse) yet, a Poët, cry

Haile Mary, full of honours, to my Queene,

The Mother of our Prince? When was there seene

(Except the joy that the first Mary brought,

Whereby the safetie of Man-kind was wrought.)

So generall a gladnesse to an Isle!

To make the hearts of a whole Nation smile,

As in this Prince? Let it be lawfull, so

To compare small with great, as still we owe

Glorie to God. Then, Haile to Mary! spring

Of so much safetie to the Realme, and King.

WHat can the cause be, when the K. hath given

His Poët Sack, the House-hold will not pay?

Are they so scanted in their store? or driven

For want of knowing the Poët, to say him nay?

Well, they should know him, would the K. but grant

His Poët leave to sing his House-hold true;

Hee'ld frame such ditties of their store, and want,

Would make the very Greene-cloth to looke blew:

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 Butt, then spill his Muse.

For in the Genius of a Poëts Verse

The Kings fame lives. Go now, denie his Teirce.

SOnne, and my Friend, I had not call'd you so

To mee; or beene the same to you; if show,

Profit, or Chance had made us: But I know

What, by that name, wee each to other owe,

Freedome, and Truth; with love from those begot.

Wise-crafts, on which the flatterer ventures not.

His is more safe commoditie, 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 shops sight.

Till he had sold his Piece, drawne so unlike:

So doth the flatt'rer with farre cunning strike

At a Friends freedome, proves all circling meanes

To keepe him off; and how-so-e're he gleanes

Some of his formes, he lets him not come neere

Where he would fixe, for the distinctions feare.

For as at distance, few have facultie

To judge; So all men comming neere can spie,

Though now of flattery, as of picture are

More subtle workes, and finer pieces farre,

Then 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, then rare friends.

BRave Infant of Saguntum, cleare

Thy comming forth in that great yeare,

When the Prodigious Hannibal did crowne

His rage, with razing your immortall Towne.

Thou, looking then about,

E're thou wert halfe got out,

Wise child, did'st hastily returne,

And mad'st thy Mothers wombe thine urne.

How summ'd a circle didst thou leave man-kind

Of deepest lore, could we the Center find!

Did wiser Nature draw thee back,

From out the horrour 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 horld

Upon th'affrighted world:

Sword, fire, and famine, with fell fury met;

And all on utmost ruine set;

As, could they but lifes miseries fore-see,

No doubt all Infants would returne like thee?

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 Peeres,

And told forth fourescore yeares;

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 twentie had he falne, or stood!

For three of his foure-score, he did no good.

Hee 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,

Hee stoop'd in all mens sight

To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,

And sunke in that dead sea of life

So deep, as he did then death's waters sup;

But that the Corke of Title boy'd him up.

Alas, but Morison fell young:

Hee never fell, thou fall'st my tongue.

Hee stood, a Souldier to the last right end,

A perfect Patriot, and a noble friend,

But most a vertuous Sonne.

All Offices were done

By him, so ample, full, and round,

In weight, in measure, number, sound,

As though his age imperfect might appeare,

His life was of Humanitie the Spheare.

Goe now, and tell out dayes summ'd up with feares,

And make them yeares;

Produce thy masse of miseries on the Stage,

To swell thine age;

Repeat of things a throng,

To shew thou hast beene 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 syllab'e answer'd, and was form'd, how faire;

These make the lines of life, and that's her ayre.

It is not growing like a tree

In bulke, doth make man better bee;

Or standing long an Oake, three hundred yeare,

To fall a logge, at last, dry, bold, and seare:

A Lillie of a Day,

Is fairer farre, in May,

Although it fall, and die that night;

It was the Plant, and flowre of light.

In small proportions, we just beauties see:

And in short measures, life may perfect bee.

Call, noble Lucius, then for Wine,

And let thy lookes with gladnesse shine:

Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,

And thinke, nay know, thy Morison's not dead.

Hee leap'd the present age,

Possest with holy rage,

To see that bright eternall Day:

Of which we Priests, and Poëts say

Such truths, as we expect for happy men,

And there he lives with memorie; and Ben.

Johnson, who sung this of him, e're he went

Himselfe to rest,

Or taste a part of that full joy he meant

To have exprest,

In this bright Asterisme:

Where it were friendships schisme,

(Were not his Lucius Long with us to tarry)

To separate these twi-

Lights, the Dioscuri;

And keepe the one halfe from his Harry.

But fate doth so alternate the designe,

Whilst that in heav'n, this light on earth must shine.

And shine as you exalted are;

Two names of friendship, but one Starre:

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 vaine did chime,

Of rimes, or ryots, at your feasts,

Orgies of drinke, or fain'd protests:

But simple love of greatnesse, and of good;

That knits brave minds, and manners, more then blood.

This made you first to know the Why

You lik'd, then after, to apply

That liking; and approach so one the tother,

Till either grew a portion of the other:

Each stiled by his end,

The Copie of his friend.

You liv'd to be the great surnames,

And titles, by which all made claimes

Unto the Vertue. Nothing perfect done,

But as a CARY, or a MORISON.

And such a force the faire example had,

As they that saw

The good, and durst not practise it, were glad

That such a Law

Was left yet to Man-kind;

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 rowles were, and records.

Who, e're the first downe bloomed on the chin,

Had sow'd these fruits, and got the harvest in.

THis is King CHARLES his Day. Speake it thou Towre

Unto the Ships, and they from tier, to tier,

Discharge it 'bout the Iland, in an houre,

As lowd as Thunder, and as swift as fire.

Let Ireland meet it out at Sea, halfe way,

Repeating all Great Brittain's joy, and more,

Adding her owne glad accents, to this Day,

Like Eccho playing from the other shore.

What Drum's or Trumpets, or great Ord'nance can,

The Poëtrie of Steeples, with the Bells,

Three Kingdomes Mirth, in light, and aërie man,

Made lighter with the Wine. All noises else,

At Bonefires, Rockets, Fire-workes, with the Shoutes

That cry that gladnesse, which their hearts would pray,

Had they but grace, of thinking, at these routes,

On th' often comming of this Holy-day:

And ever close the burden of the Song,

Still to have such a CHARLES, but this CHARLES long.

The wish is great; but where the Prince is such,

What prayers (People) can you thinke too much!

LOoke up thou seed of envie, and still bring

Thy faint, and narrow eyes, to reade the King

In his great Actions: view whom his large hand,

Hath rais'd to be the Port unto his Land!

WESTON! That waking man! that Eye of State!

Who seldome sleepes! whom bad men only hate!

Why doe I irritate, or stirre up thee,

Thou sluggish spawne, that canst, but wilt not see!

Feed on thy selfe for spight, and shew thy Kind:

To vertue, and true worth, be ever blind.

Dreame thou could'st hurt it, but before thou wake,

T' effect it; Feele, thou 'ast made thine owne heart ake.

SUch pleasure as the teeming Earth,

Doth take in easie Natures birth,

When shee puts forth the life of ev'ry thing:

And in a dew of sweetest Raine,

Shee lies deliver'd without paine,

Of the prime beautie of the yeare, the Spring.

The Rivers in their shores doe run;

The Clowdes rack cleare before the Sun,

The rudest Winds obey the calmest Ayre:

Rare Plants from ev'ry banke doe rise,

And ev'ry Plant the sense surprize,

Because the order of the whole is faire!

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 Houres

Have multipli'd their arts, and powers,

In making soft her aromatique bed.

Such joyes, such sweet's doth your Returne

Bring all your friends, (faire Lord) that burne

With love, to heare your modestie relate,

The bus'nesse 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 Travaile eas'd,

When he beholds a graft of his owne hand,

Shoot up an Olive fruitfull, faire,

To be a shadow to his Heire,

And both a strength, and Beautie to his Land!

THough thou hast past thy Summer standing, stay

A-while with us bright Sun, and helpe our light;

Thou can'st not meet more Glory, on the way,

Betweene thy Tropicks, to arrest thy sight,

Then thou shalt see to day:

We wooe thee, stay

And see, what can be seene,

The bountie of a King, and beautie of his Queene!

See, the Procession! what a Holy day

(Bearing the promise of some better fate)

Hath filed, with Cacoches, all the way,

From Greenwich, hither, to Row-hampton gate!

When look'd the yeare, at best,