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Ostella Or the Faction of Love and Beauty Reconcil'd

By I. T. [i.e. John Tatham]
Tatham, John (fl. 1632-1664)

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Occasional Copies upon several SUBJECTS.
 
To a Mistris that told me, I could not live without her Love.
 
To a simply Coy Mistress.
 
To an imperiously proud Mistress, swell'd with my Praises.
 
Vpon the acquaintance of a Gallant Gentlewoman. To my self.
 
Crying and Laughing.
 
To Meritricia.
 
To Mistress S. W.
 
To Silvia
 
To a timorously willing Mistress.
 
Vpon my Noble friend, Richard Lovelace Esquire, his being in Holland. An Invitation.
 
To a Mistresse that thinks the sight without other enjoyment is Love sufficient.
 
To a vertuous Lady, on whom Envy had thrown a Scandal, for which she Mourned, and hung her Chamber with Blacks.
 
Spying Splendora through a Casement.
 
My Friend Paul Squire.
 
Seeing a Lady ------
 
An Occasional Frolick to an unknown Friend.
 
To a Gentlewoman that Loved me, and I not her.
 
Another upon the same.
 
A Dialogue.
 
To ------
 
To a Mistresse that bid me make another Choice.
 
To my self.
 
To the Deceiving Mistress.
 
To Cupid
 
Lycoris a Rapture.
 
Lycoris weeping.
 
A Smile.
 
To Mrs. J. H. upon my recovery of a fit of sickness.
 
To Mrs. I. H. upon the sight of a Marble Coverture or Statue in the Church.
 
A Frown.
 
Vpon my leaving off the Company of Hellena.
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Songs in a Masque.
 
A Prologue spoken at the Cock-pit, at the coming of the Red-Bull Players thither.
 
A Prologue spoken at the Red-Bull to a Play called the Whisperer, or what you please.
 
On the Report of Master William Lawes his Death.
 
To my Mother, Mris. Dorothy Tatham, one of the Daughters of Christopher Percy of Manson in the County of Dorset, Esquire, then Iustice of Peace and Quorum, and High Sheriff of that County.
 
Vpon the Death of my Father.
 
Song.
 
To Cupid.
 
To the ------

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To my Mother, Mris. Dorothy Tatham, one of the Daughters of Christopher Percy of Manson in the County of Dorset, Esquire, then Iustice of Peace and Quorum, and High Sheriff of that County.

See the inconstancy of things,
the Revolutions of this life,
That ev'n appears in th' State of Kings,
and nothing's constant but our Strife.
The Court, the Ages wonted Pride,
hath put her Beauty off, and now,
Her very Glass doth her deride,
and shews the wrinkles on her Brow.
Then though y' are not so great as good,
yet far more happy than y'are poor;
None can defile your Name or Blood,
then let that Comfort Guild thee o're.
At first or last, alike all People fares.
And Kings themselves are not exempt from Cares.
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