Lae Horae di recreatione or The pleasante Historye of Albino and Bellama ::

Lae Horae di recreatione or The pleasante Historye of Albino and Bellama

to which is annexed il insonio in: sonodado or the vindication of Poesye by N. W. [i.e. Nathaniel Whiting]

Whiting, Nathaneel (1617?-1682)

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Mart. ad lib. suum. Epig. 4. Ætherias lascive cupis volitare per auras,
I, fuge, sed poter as tutior esse domi.

Mart. lib. 4. Si vis auribus Aulicis probari
Exhortor, moneoque te libelle,
Vt docto place as Apollinari,
Nam si pectore te tenebit ore,
Nec ronchos metues maligniorum
Nec scombris tunicas dabis molestas
Et cum carmina floridis Camœnis,
Litesque, gloriam canas poetum
Non est pollicem capitis veráris.

To his loving friend the Author.

To laud thy Muse, or thee, to crowne with prayse
Is but to light my Tapers to the rayes
Of gold-lockt Phœbus, since the Scheame
Of fabled truth, thy waking, seeming dreame;
Thy ever-living-loving fame in Arts,
Of Arts, to us in whole and part imparts.
In Arts, thy judgement, phrase, invention,
Of Arts, thy Poets Vindication.
In mourning Elegies I admi'd thy skill,
In mirthfull Layes we now admire thy quill.
Let Albine, Bellame, by thee live in fame,
Riv'lezzo, Beldame Pazza live in shame.
Lash on and slash the vice of shaved crownes,
In thy Bardino, Nuns, and Sylvane clownes.
Give vertue beautie, beautie desert and prayse,
And that thy Monument of Brasse shall rayse.

To the Reader.

Reader take heed, complaine not of the sting,
Lest others of thy galled sores doe sing.
No faulty person, partie here is meant,
Onely the vice oth'age and place is shent.
He that expounds it of himselfe, doth show
Some guiltie fault, or vice from him doth flow,
If toucht to th'quick, conceale and them amend,
So 'gainst thee shall all scourging Satyrs end.

William Purifey Rector Ecclesiæ de Markefield.

xvi

To his loving Kinsman the Authour.

When first I viewd the travailes of thy quill,
I lik'd, approv'd, admir'd thy nimble skill,
In sudden raptures, phansies, judgement, phrase,
Invention, quicknesse, life, detraction, praise,
So that I favourd their conceit which faignd
The soule to be an harmony, and raignd,
Amongst the sences with accounts and measures,
All which thy loftie Poesie en-treasures,
That quaintest warblers cannot with delight
Out-worth the Poet in his Lyrick height,
As those which with quick eyes where judgment sits,
Thy Vindication of Poetick wits
Doe reade, may see, whose swelling meeters teach
All Aliens such high English, that to reach
Is harder than to like, or belch forth scandals,
Witnesse thy journey, Somnus, Morpheus, Sandals,
The Orbs, Gods, Muses, Critickes, accusation,
The Poets names, employments, vindication,
These silenced my pen, it dar'd no more
Till voyc't by thy Bellame againe, her store
Of suters, one approv'd by Friends, not her
Rivelezzo's wrath (wherein most Parents erre)
Her griefe, encloystring, entertainment high,
Albino's heart and hers met in their eye,
Their whispring, dalliance, Piazzella's care,
Bardino's falshood, their affections rare,

xvii

Her dis-encloystring: and his Nunning plot,
The Nuns thick bellies, his repentant grot,
His freedome, flight, encountring with his Saint,
His conjuration, prodegies, and plaint,
The Sheepheard lout, Bellama's second quest,
His Ghosting, comming from th' Elizian rest.
Their parles, his dis-enghosting, her denyals,
His rage, her kindnsse, both their loves and trials,
Conrades immuring, Piazzlla's fury,
His freedome, Foppo, and his Monkish Iury,
The Lovers Ale-house cheare, bed, course apparell,
The Monks strict quest, their finding, mirth & quarrel,
Their scape, feare, Raddle, kinsman, and at length
Their nuptiall Tede, when malice lost its strength.
How thou hast shown (deare cooz) thy Art in Arts,
Let them expresse who bragge of abler parts
Than I, which have a bigger part in thee,
Thy love, and blood, till Being cease to be.

Iohn Whiting: Master of Artes, Clare-Hall, Camb.

xix

In Authorem, amicissimum suum, Encomiasticon.

The priviledge that pen and paper finde
'Mongst men, falls short, reflecting to the minde.
Vertue herselfe, no other worth displayes,
Than eankred censure, leaves behinde, as rayes.
But mentall Cabonets, are they, that yeeld
No forfiture to battring Critickes shield.
If thoughts might character deserts, I dare
Challenge my pensill for the largest share:
But when the Vultures of our age must gnaw,
Ile cease for modestie, and say, tis law.
It's safer farre, to faile of debt, than t'be
Soaring in tearmes that badge of flattery.
I hate the name, and therefore freely give
My verdict thus, as may have power to live
'Gainst calumnie. If wit and learning may
Passe with applause, the authour hath the day.
Crownd be those browes with everlasting Bayes,
Whose worth a paterne is to future dayes.
Tis not a Poem dropt from strength of grape,
That's debter to the wines inspiring sap,
Hee to himselfe alone. Cease urging, earth,
The father well deserve, so faire a birth.
And if a witnesse may be lawfull, then
Ile undertak't shall feare no vote of men.
But where-in Artis bold it selfe to glory
Is that which crownes the verge of Whitings story.

Io. Rosse.

To his friend, a Panagericke upon his lovers Albino and Bellama.

Though I have vowd a silence, and as yet
Resolved not to travell out in jet,
Chiefly in Print, yet your intending presse
Makes me, my thoghts with courage, language, dresse
With smooth-straind meeter, that the world may know
My strict engagements, & how much I owe
To you, your worth, which may command a line,
From him which swears gainst all, but what's divine,
The hignesse of your stile, the quicknesse, life,
Will in judicious readers raise a strife,
(More than the Ball amongst th'engoddest three)
Which gaines, the best, but all are best by mee,
Matchlesse in my conceit: adde then to these
The neatness of your plots, and sweare a please
To the grim Stoick, and the Satyr'd-brow
Forceth delight, through strictnesse, neatnesse, vow,
Grow abler still in phansie, impe thy quill,
Write any thing, if something, feare not ill,
If poesie be thus revenged by thy dreame,
How will it flourish when 'ts thy morning theame?
Sleeping or waking, let us have thy quill,
And sleepe and Vigils shall admire thy skill.

I. Pickerin.

THE PLEASING HISTORY OF ALBINO AND BELLAMA.

When British Isles begirt with moistned sand,
Neptunes blew pallace, & the Tritons walk,
Albania hight, her name who first did land
Of all the Sisters, or from rocks of chalke;
From sad oppression had unyoakt their necks,
And payd obedience unto Adell's beckes.

Then in those Halcyon dayes of peace and joy,
A vertuous Lady most transcendent creature,
Fairer then her whose beautie cyndar'd Troy;
Grace deckt her minde, her mind grace her feature,
So that each part made Helen out of date,
And every grace a goddesse could create.

Vertue and beautie both in her did strive
Which should in worth and grace surpasse the other,
Nor age of consistency, both did thrive
Till this Dian' out-rayde, that Cupids mother.
Nay men by beames of her cleare beautie might
Scale Titans Chariot, and out-ray his light.

'Mongst Natures precious things we finde a jem,
Blushed and purpled ore with Amathisles,
Which fiery Carbuncles with sparkles hem,
And which the Emrauldes purest vert entwists,
Meeting so well that Lapidaries wist,
'Twas Emraulde, Carbuncle and Amathist.

So in this precious Payre, pure Agathite,
Aurora's purpling blush was clearely seene,
Saba's bright Rose, and Leda's Swan-like white,
The true proportion of Adonis Queene.
Blended so well, that in this curious frame,
Aurora, Saba, Leda, Venus came.

And as the hony-making waxen thigh'de
Inhabitants of Hyblaes fragrant vailes,
Whom onely Natures dimme instinct does guide,
Chuse their commander with their tunefull hailes
Pay homage, honour him, and feare his frownes
With same observance, as the people, Crownes.

So by the same instinct the blushing Rose,
Vail'd bonnet to her cheekes admired red,
The Lillyes to her bosome, brow and nose,
The Phœnix stript her selfe to Crowne her head:
The chirping Choristers with willing choyce,
Sat silent to admire her warbling voyce.

Perfum'd Arabia with her Spice and Gummes,
Payde homage to the odours of her lips;
To her with fawning postures, lickes and hummes
The yellow Lyon and the Tyger skips:
Fire dares not scorch her face, nor winter chill her
And death himself lookt pale whē cald to kill her

The amorous Sunne if shee walkt out by day
Would veine his jennets to behold her face,
And wrapt in admiration, by his stay
Had rather melt the Orbes than mend his pace;
And if the middle Ayre in walles of jet
Enjayld his beames, hee thawed into wet.

If in the raigne of silent night, abroade
Shee rang'd, the Empresse of the lowest Spheare
Amaz'd at her perfections, left her roade,
And rang'd about, where shee appear'd t' appeare.
Nay mournd in darknesse if denide her sight,
As when dayes Hanchman does deny her light.

The curled tapers of the Firmament
Did cease to twinke, but gaz'd with fixed eyes,
In their owne Orbe refusing to be pent,
And strove to leape upon the lower skies:
Nay did oth' second Ayre like Comets hang
To dart their crispes at beauties onely spang.

The Sea-borne Planet popped out her Lampe,
And t' see her selfe out-shind by her, did rage,
The marching War-god did remoove his campe,
With faire Lady Curtaine warre to wage:
Hermes by Jove being of an errand sent,
Stay'd on her face, in her embraces pent.

Dull-aged Saturne (on whose sullen brow
Nere dwelt a Smile since Iove usurpt his Crowne)
To gaze on her his waigh tie head did bow,
And with a smile un-plaited every frowne;
Nay Iove himselfe descended from his chayre
To take a full survay of this—this fayre.

And more, her winning looks disperc'd such charmes
All eyes commanding, and all hearts surprizing,
That Venus bad her Sonne provide him armes,
Fearing his setting by this bright Starres rising:
For though men say loues eyes are more then dim
Yet her faire beautie did enlighten him.

But with entreaties he had beate the Ayre,
And on the Tawney-moore his waters cast;
For having pow're to conquer, being faire,
Sh'ad pow're not to be conquerd, being chaste:
So that his amorous sleights and winged arrow
Could not have op't her breast or peirc'd her marrow.

This Phœnix was Bellama call'd (a word
Well suiting her deserts) shee daughter was
And heire apparant to a wealthy Lord,
Who had more acres, then an acre, grasse:
He lou'd his lands, and hugd his minted treasure,
Yet his Bellama was his soule of pleasure.

His place of residence was in a Chace
Checkquerd with thick-growne thornes and sturdy oakes,
Wherein majestick Stags and Buckes did pace
That scornd the hounds, & dard the barbed stroakes;
'Twas called Riuelount, not distant far
From Starley, of that shire, the metro-Star.

The neighbouring swaines were pauld with coaches thunder,
And loud curvaitings of their foaming Steeds,
Whose irond hoofes did crash the rockes in sunder,
Happie was he, who (sheath'd in costly weeds)
Could win admission to this happie place,
Where Natures wealth was lockt up in a face.

Each glance shee sent the object did engem,
And he that wan a smile possessd a mine,
A haire was prized at a Diadem,
A ribban made the treade the ecliptick line;
A ring out-face a thunder, but a kisse
Was the elixar, heart and soule of blisse.

Some, of their lands, some, of their valours spoke,
Some, of their Falcons and their merry bels;
Some, reade the price of such a suite and cloake,
And one of hounds and running horses tells;
All speake of something, yet but few with wit,
All aim'd at wise, yet few could purchase it.

Some spake in oathes, as if they thought the earth
Was peopled ore with faithlesse infidells,
Another swore, because he feard a dearth
Of other Language, yet in oathes excells:
All sweare enough, and he that did it least
Might be grand swearer at Ven-Bacchus feast.

Others there were that could not bigly prate,
Who did their evidences bring with them;
One brought his halls to plead, one his estate,
This brought a Watch to court and that a Gem;
One brought a large descent white and blacke,
Which derived from old Pergams Sack.

One brought a reverent Syre, whom he cald Father,
To be the tongue of his reserved Sonne;
Others with much expence of wax did gather
Some printed Rimes to speak when they were gone:
All had their speakers wch unclasp'd their graces,
Yet their court-language dwelt on plaits & places.

One of these Suters was approov'de to be
A match whose thousands æqui-ballanc'd hers,
The parents oft would say, this shall be he,
The mother then a bill of loue prefers.
But still Bellama faults, and vowes, that gold
Shall never force her loue to have and hold.

The testy Father with a furrow'd brow
Comes to Bellama with demanding why?
Sayes mine owne girle thou must be ruled now,
Each knee payes duty to Don Fuco's eye:
And age well knowes Bean-mannours, lands and treasures
Doe cement lovers hearts, & injoy their pleasures.

Thou must not Wench be coy, alas! we finde
Beautie as easily bought when money bids,
(Though 't be ith' Non-such of the female kinde,
As Horse or Cow, the Lambe, or frisking Kids:
If he be rich, we beare his witlesse brags,
A wealthy foole's more worth then witty rags.

Bellama with a looke fraught with disdaine,
(Though hatred did not make her anger bold)
Sayes Sir, I'me sorry you doe entertaine
Such high conceits of folly hemde with gold:
Thinke you no marriage good if equall lands
Be not match-makers and doe joyne their hands.

Don Fuco has ten thousand pounds a yeare,
With weightie titles would oreloade a Mule,
A piece of Arras finely wrought and deare;
But does he square his life to vertu's rule?
With vice, as wealth to count-lesse sums he thriues
But is, in vertue, full as poore, as wiues.

He knowes to steere an horse, and holloe hounds,
But not to guide his actions, lesse his tongue:
He speakes in state, but ev'ry sentence sounds
Of Comick fragments, or some Taverne song.
And shall I him, hail'd by unworthy pelfe,
Take to rule me, who cannot rule himselfe?

Shall I see other female vessels thrive
With mine owne Nectar, and they fee'd with mony,
Whilst I, like carefull Bee, doe keepe my hive,
And work the combe for them to suck the hony?
No, I'le no snarers have in my delight,
I'le have it one, and onely, else good night.

'Tis a fine thing to see a Satten paint
That feares to loose her beauty in a presse,
That onely cares to be precisely quaint,
And spends a twelve-months pleasure on a dresse:
To see this stroke his honour, and he clip her,
Span eu'ry part, and unresisted lip her.

But I doe not in a rank humour raile
'Gainst sober purples, and discreeter robes,
Nor lock up vertues in the paper-jayle
With Ink-hornes, Pens, Spheares, Globes and Albo-globes,
Religion on my heart does love en-neale
To those bright Tapers of our Common-weale.

Yet where, in stead of state, proud lookes do dwell,
Where wit and wisedome are unlockt with oathes,
Courte-ship and comelinesse are in the shell,
And honour onely sits upon the cloathes.
Pardon, if unto such I plait my brow,
And steere my thought unto a virgine-vow.

Fye, sayes the father, you'r a foolish girle,
'Gainst Ermins with that heightned spleen to raile,
Dost think there's vice and folly in an Earle?
Then vertue sure does penance in the jayle.
To kisse and sport with us is held no sin,
If that our dalliance doe not passe the skin.

Perchance 'tis not a point of state to have
To large a stock of wisedome in this age,
The Epithete to greatnesse is not grave;
Those that the Muses in their celles incage,
Let them speak oyle and civet: but we are Lords
Can speak by signes, and not expres't by words.

Wherefore doe we to Sable give the roome,
And greater numbers farre of Adels stampes,
Then to our Stewart, or our Ladies groome,
'Cause with reproofs he our choice pleasures damps?
No, cause in dedications he should name us,
And by some witty pamphlet make us famous.

Our morall vertues are no guiding rule
To high Nobility, or looking glasse,
No more then t'earth the ne plus ultra's Thule,
As 'fore America was found, it was.
Tis fit for those, whose bosome-friends are lice,
To know the paine, not sweet delights of vice.

Dost see yon' tender webs Arachne spins,
Through which with ease the lusty Bumbles break,
But to the feeble gnats that mesh their gins,
So those sage precepts which our Sophies speake,
Fetter the passions of each worthlesse slave;
But over us no soveraigne awe they have.

My Lord, the name of Father strikes, quoth she,
An awfull dread, and makes my eare obey,
Yet slip my duty downe unto the knee,
And in my silent thoughts, check, chide, and say,
Can they that taste forbidden waters, thrive?
My chaste demeanour I will ne're survive.

T'avoid the doom of—therfore I'le make choyce
Of one, whose vertue outs all love to vice,
Not those sleek skins which am'rous are in voyce,
Lip-love, which as soone borne, dies in a trice.
Our loves reciprocall shall be still dust,
Which into exile packes unlawfull lust.

As they discourst, Don Fuco entred in,
With stately garbes befitting such an one,
His body shelled in a Satten skin
Of azure dye, bestar'd with Topaz stone,
A milke white Bever, with an Ostrich plume,
His very rowels spake a lowd perfume.

Having compos'd his hinged lookes, he glanc'd
With piercing eyes upon her curious face,
And steeping sighes in teares and sweat, advanc'd
Himselfe to plead with courtly garb and grace.
But Fucus lead by most mimetick Apes,
Could not depinge Don Fuco's antick shapes.

Such were the postures of his hands and eye,
That had he treasur'd up his mirthfull tones,
They were ingredients for a Comedy,
Would into laughter change a widowes grones:
And since that time (Bellama smil'd so then)
Love in her dimpled cheekes has found a den.

Madam, sayes he, be pleas'd to trutinate,
And wisely weigh your servants gracefull voyce,
Give due attendance to the ayres of state,
I have engraven you Don Fuco's choyce.
Give free assent, and let the scornfull no
Be quite expunged from the Chrisse-crosse row.

Alas, I'me not beholding unto letters,
Where with our Rabbies stuffe their swelling books,
I have a way of complementing better,
To win thy love with comely garbes and lockes.
And if these faile, the name of Countesse will
Speake with a power above the Sidney-skill.

I hate long-winded sentences, which doe
Vnbreath a man, and hazard much his bellowes,
Or pocket-flashes, which instruct to wooe,
The onely vertues of some Ink-horne fellowes.
I scorn their trothes, indods, their ifs or ands.
Or their O Lord sir, when their wit's oth' sands.

A fluent Rascall that can speake in oyle,
And cloath his words with silken eloquence,
I know may give a virgine strength the foyle.
But a blunt Earle, that scarcely speakes in sence,
Whom thousands honour with the cap and leg,
Beates downe a Fortresse like a Roaring Meg.

He needs no Roscian language, but does send
His velvet-coated Herauld to proclaime
The noble Titles which his worth attend:
For honour is th' ambitious Ladies aime.
Feature and spiced words but lead the Van,
Honour the Front, the Noble is the Man,

My Lord, sayes she, your valour I approve,
That with three Selves thus warranteth your suit,
With Selfe conceit, Selfe-confidence, Selfe-love,
Such trees will beare your Lordship glorious fruit,
It well befits your greatnesse not to thinke,
There can denyals dwell in aire or inke.

Your trencher clokes, and your Recognizance,
Your coate of Armes with noble Ermines dight,
Your Russian Satten, with the cut of France,
Your talking rowels, and your feathred white,
Are battring rams & guns, that speak in thunder,
To crack a breast, and split a heart in sunder.

But my minde is, Diana's chastest seat,
O're which the breath of greatnesse hath no power,
The quiver-bearing boy sounds a retreat,
And Iove availes not with his yellow showre,
The vestall fire out-shines blinde Cupids flame,
Which oft's eclips'd with sorrow, dampt with shame.

And, troth, my Lord, had I but wit enough,
T'assist your Lordship in your nuptiall tede,
Your Lordship shold not play at blind mans blough,
(Else heavens should renounce their Ganimede)
For they that purblinde are, may plainly see,
You grosly hoodwinkt are in courting me.

The faults of state I cannot Vertues name,
And beare my selfe upon the wings of pride,
Nor light my Taper at anothers flame,
Or use the Art at beauties eventide.
I brooke not dalliance, or the Venus kisse,
That way of am'rousnesse, or that, or this.

I cannot seale a welcome with an oath,
To those whose absence I had rather have,
Nor venture hundreds at that paper-sloath
Of Mistresse Isbel and the Pennell-knave.
I know no masking postures, nor with grace,
Can treade the Brawles, or true Currantoe pace.

I cannot at the feast of ryot sit,
When sea, land, aire, are served up in plate,
Nor like Tripherus, with a carving wit,
Read precepts this and this to dissecate,
Nor in deare Murrin charged to the brim,
Health it about untill our mullets swim.

I do not love to have my husband be
Discreet by Proxee's, by his Chaplaines wise,
Nor doe I like the too much cringing knee,
Whose formall bends his black conceits disguise.
Those fawning sharkes I cannot call to table,
Which into Ermins change your Lordships sable.

To have my usher presse his masters saddle,
In my opinion cannot passe for good,
I doe not love to have my pillow addle,
Mean while my woman lets your Lordship blood.
I am no Androgyne, nor doe delight
To diet Pages, or your Catamite.

Madam, what passion does untune your minde?
What fiend (sayes he) in you thus rails on greatnesse?
Who viceth honour, lyes, and he is blinde
That sayes Court-sattens are not trimd with neatnesse.
Speak then in Balmes, forget the peevish, why?
And to the Wilt thou have this?—answer I.

No, no, sayes she, yet might I know your Saint,
If my endevours can advantage you,
With your endowments I would her acquaint,
And limbe your rare perfections in her view.
In this one act I may my selfe approve
More loving, then in entertaining love.

I'le say with what dexteritie you can
Run o're the postures of the court-salute,
How trimly you can kisse a Ladies Fan,
And neatly manage an embroydred sute.
How finely Spanish leg-shells you can plaite,
And tune your rowels at the court retraite.

I might say you are witty, if't be true,
That jests and gingles are in brother-hood,
Ile speak your skill in Haukes, at flight in mue,
And at all hunting ceremonies good:
How gracefully you wave your gallant plumes,
And deeply are engag'd to deep perfumes.

How kind you are unto our chamber-shees,
How to our Marmosets and trencher-pages,
How oylie-fingerd unto supple knees,
How faine to th'musick of our wyer cages.
How quaintly you supply the Vshers roome,
How sweetly you can act the privy-groome.

Much more in blazoning your matchlesse worth,
And counting all your specials, might I say
But nature ne're a second did bring forth,
Which to such known perfections can say nay.
Ile cease to praise them, lest my praises make
Your veines of pride with selfe-conceit to ake.

I will performe what I have promis'd, Sir,
Please you t'impart your Lady to my maid,
I see my words your liver-wort does stir
Into your face, which in your channels straid.
No more of trouble then, my Lord adiew.
This courteous doore divorceth me and you.

Away flings she, and leaves my Lord alone,
More pensive then a widow, which bedewes
Her husbands corps with teares, a womans moane,
Or then the Lupa of diseased stewes:
So that who saw his jigging head would sweare,
Wisedome nor wit did ne're inhabite there.

Don Riuelezzo sent a smiling glance,
That they might his consent read in his eye;
But seeing Fuco in a stupid trance,
He was possest with equall phrentezy,
The mother came to th' rescue, and well nigh
Sent her own wit to boare theirs company.

Faine would he tell the cause of his disasters,
And eagerly her parents strove to know it,
Yet strangely, them this passion over-masters,
That neither they could aske, nor he could show it,
As though an Incubus with vaprous throngs,
Enclaspt their bosomes, and un-voyc'd their tongues.

At length Don Fuco cry'd, Bellama cruell,
What evill planet revelld at thy birth,
Or what incensed god provided fuell
To make me feele hells tortures upon earth?
Was there no way to punish me for sin,
But by a maid? No, there our woes begin,

When I with admiration view'd her face,
I boldly durst give any tongue the lye,
That dar'd to say, with such supernall grace
There dwelt one Atom of this tyranny.
But—if that virgines Hierogliphicks be
Of love and mildnesse, take them all for me.

I'le make a casement with this steely blade,
In my full breast, through which my soule shal peep,
And make my heart in sanguine liquor wade,
And intrals all in juyce of liver steepe.
Nay, straight-way give hells Ferry-man his pay,
For wafting me o're black Cocytus Bay.

Or unto Proserpine I'le post a sprite,
To fetch m' a cup of moist oblivion,
Where with the Fairy Queene exiled quite
Fury from her stout knight, and Oberon,
That I not onely may forget disgrace,
But quite forget I ever saw her face.

Let not, sayes Rinelez, a peevish girle,
Hang fetters on your heart, untune your soule:
Dwels there not courage with a worthy Earle,
Blinde Cupids bow and quiver to controule.
My Lord, take heed, the squinting boy works treason,
By passions to divest your soule of reason,

He by his slye insinuations oft
A good opinion in the heart doth win:
The most obdurate are by him made soft,
And homage pay to Love their soveraigne sin,
Fire's in, nor hurts the Flint, but Cupid can
With flames to cinders waste the Flinty man.

A wily fisher-man hath store of baites,
Wherewith for Amorists he wisely angles,
With glittring pompe he for th'ambitions waites,
The greedy Carle with silver twists entangles:
The silke-lascivious with a wanton eye,
The austere Stoick with a modest Fye.

The studious Templant he with Ergo calles,
The grave precisian with a matrone grace,
The vertuous minde with vertue he enthrailes,
A landed heire with a blusht-lilly face.
For Epicurean love he wisely trowles,
With spiced rarities and frothing bowles.

The crosse-adorers he with crossing catches,
Yet strange it is that crossing should joyne hands,
But to Sir Love-all, all are equall matches,
Grace, beauty, feature, honour, vertue, lands,
This has a dainty hand; that, lip, or eye,
This chaste, that seeming, that will not deny.

None are love-free, unlesse uncapable
Of those choyce blessings Venus sole-sonne proffers,
None, whom age, fortune, nature does enable
With peevish noes, neglecteth Hymens offers.
All are inclin'd to love, and all must bow,
If Cupids arrow doe but write, Love thou.

Invest your noble thoughts with courage, Don,
Let reason, maugre love, triumphant ride,
Millions of Ladies breath in Albion,
Have more Rose-lillies, and lesse store of pride.
Ile warrant, though Bellama now say noe,
Shee'l finde ere long, deny all was her foe.

Hah! quoth Don Fuco, with a far-fetcht sigh,
Which all that time was drencht o're-head in griefe,
Am I to black Cocytus yet drawne nigh?
Where are th' Elizian shades, thou tottred thiefe?
Call Rhadamanthus forth, justice Ile have,
Or in his breast my steele shall dig a grave.

Call forth the Furies with their snakie haires,
Pale-cheekt Crynnis, and her sister Hagges,
Tell Nemesis Ile fetch her downe the staires,
And try what truth dwels in her wrathfull bragges,
Dispoyson Vipers, Toades, and crawling Adders,
And with their venom stretch her spacious bladders.

Bid Cerberus belch from his triple jawes,
A barking thunder which the earth may shake:
Ile fetch the Dragons and the Scorpions pawes
From the full Zodiaque, her face to rake.
Come forth Demagoras, thy cunning try,
To masque all beauty with a leprosie.

We will no more our Lilly-stems transplant,
And set our Roses on their cheekes and lippes,
Their fairnesse shall not hence surpasse the Ante,
Their crymson dye, the brick or writhled hips.
Beauty shall be exilde, despight shall end her,
Or else wee'l change her to another gender.

The Thracian Harper was a silly Asse,
That for his wife past through the Stygian stench.
The Club-mans foolerie did his surpasse,
That spun and carded for a Lidian wench.
The Greekes were fooles, that for a light-skirt strumpet,
Chang'd the stil vial to a lowd-mouthd trumpet.

Ioves Black-smith was no privie Counseller,
To marry Venus for the sore-head flagge,
The jolly Huntsman sure did something erre,
To see a goddesse, and become a stagge.
Iove was no golden showre, sure 'twas a gull,
Nor e're transform'd himselfe into a Bull.

Peace good my Lord, Don Rivelezzo sayes,
What uncoth passion doth your soule en-trance,
Your words are like the Bacchinalian layes,
Wherewith the Priests their god of wine enhance.
What, man, though this fond she from you did start,
Another'l say, My Lord, with all my heart.

Observe the practise of Doves masculine,
Which woo their females, with I come to woe,
Not in a fit of woman cry and whine,
Straight to another haste, if she sayes noe.
If to one face, our stock of love we ope,
We pinion Cupids wings, and fetter hope.

Bellama slights; what then? shall we conclude,
All women will deny you their assent?
A strange induction; Call all Ladies lewd:
'Cause Flora and some few to Venice went
Amongst a thousand maids, theres scarcely two,
As coy Bellama now hath done, will doe.

Wherefore created were those glorious lights,
Which in the azure firmament appeare?
Why was dayes Charrioter with lustre dight?
Onely to guild with rayes his proper Spheare?
No, to lend brightnesse to the borrowing lampes,
And cleare the earth from nights obscuring damps.

Why has Dame Nature so much brightnesse lent
To Diamonds, Topazes, and other gems?
Onely t'enrich themselves? no, to augment
The glory of our rings and Diadems,
The Ostridge for himselfe weares not his plumes,
Nor for's owne nose the Civet Cat perfumes.

So on our sprucest Ladies, matchlesse graces
Were not bestowed, to delight themselves.
Pandora was not treasur'd up in faces,
To bring content unto possessing elves.
But 'cause our Hero's should the comfort finde
Of winning beauty and a willing minde.

The maid of Babylon, I know, was faire,
And rich in all the lineaments of beauty;
Yet was she kinde, which did not them empaire,
But shewd to Natures hestes her forward duty:
For Natures bounty best requited is,
By yeelding free assent to Hymens blisse.

The Queen of Carthage deare respects bestowd
Vpon the straggling Prince of ruin'd Troy.
Choyce love unto Leander, Hero showd:
The Cyprian goddesse woo'd her sappey boy.
All fraught with pitty, but that peevish girle,
'Bout whose sleek waste hels vipers winde & twirle.

Nor such examples wants our latest age,
Of virgine-lovers these to parallell
Who, ev'ry way, those former equipage,
With whom records and moderne pamphlets swell.
Then courage Don, feare not to finde a face,
That hath more pitty, and more lovely grace.

Much ease (quoth Fuco) to my love-sick heart,
My Lord, is by your sage advisement brought,
For I suppos'd, th' Idalian yonkers dart,
Had festred so, no easement could be bought:
I on her lookt through such a pleasing glasse,
As though that sex in her contracted was.

I thought t' have sent my Physick Doctor forth
Vnto his Herball, to addresse my ill,
T'ask Æsoulapius for some earth-borne worth,
Which might accomplish my intended will.
But that tis sayd, Apollo once complaind,
No hearb to cure loves fevers could be gaind.

Whilst an opinion of her matchlesse grace,
Scorched my bosome with affections gleames,
Mine eyes ne're straggled to another face,
Nor could I bathe my thoughts in Lethes streames;
But now Ile sound retrait, reclaime my minde,
Not catch a falling starre, nor graspe the winde.

This said, with sparkling sack he washt the lane,
Which to the Limbeck of his body leades,
Health to Bellama, and a health againe,
Till, where his feet, his winged Bever treades,
So well he took his sack without a tost,
That 'stead of kissing her, he kist the post.

Dispassiond quite, as in a breathlesse calme,
Don Rivelezzo bids Don Fuco diew,
But hooted lowdly like a shrill-ton'd shalme,
When his swift steed tooke farewell of his view.
Accursing Fate, and railing on his daughter,
Which might beget in Heraclitus laughter.

Have I (sayes he) such Crassian heapes of gold,
Condemn'd to sleepe in iron-ribbed chests?
Did I delight in vestments course and old,
Wherein Anthropophages have dug them nests?
Nay, wisht there were no taverne-juyce, or sports,
Or change of fashions, but in Princes Courts?

Have I sate brooding o're my treasur'd plate,
And sum'd the surplusage of each yeares rent,
Confin'd my spendings to a weekly rate,
Enjoynd a penance when th'allowance spent?
And when an Earle tun'd every grace to win her,
She slights his vowes, nor gales nor gold can pin her.

But since she slights my matches, I will match her,
She shall of peevishnesse the harvest reape,
Since this Dons matchlesse fortunes could not catch her.
I shall ere long make her affections cheap.
Her love shall stoope to court a common Farme,
A Lordship then shall scorne to fold an arme.

My Lord, her mother Lady Arda sayd,
A parents ire ought not to force assent,
Wealth blend with vice can ne're disheart a maide,
To whom blest vertue is the choyce content.
There's other things doe maids affections stirre,
Beside a Mannour, and a Please you Sir.

Madame (quoth he) in vaine you doe excuse
Your daughters folly with your friendly aire,
The next I offer she shall not refuse.
Sirrah, goe harnesse straight my wheeling chaire:
Ile try if lesse content and pleasure dwells
In Princes courts, then in Monastick cells.

When he was coach'd, the Lady Arda went
To faire Bellam', bedew'd with streaming teares,
The gods, sayd she, have ravel'd thy content,
Sorrowes uncomfort will thy virgine yeares:
For unto Darwey does thy father haste,
Where he will vow thee everlasting chaste.

Madam, sayes she, I feed on nought but gall,
Aloes and Rue, 'cause of my fathers wrath,
Th'occasion though of his displeasure, shall
With Bayes, in stead of Cypresse, strew my path.
When vertue seales the contract, welcome Hymen,
But till that, ever shall my heart deny men.

Thus sate they parling: Lady Arda urg'd
Producing reasons to enforce assent:
Bellama answer'd, beg'd, excus'd, and purg'd
Herselfe from blame, by urging love, content.
But urging and excusing, let them sit,
And see the father champing on the bit.

Who comming to the cage of virgine-pride,
Knockt at the wicket with the iron ctow,
To whose small neck white phillets nere were tyde,
Which in more ancient dayes did child-bed show.
He rapt so hard, the sound did fright the aire,
Yet still none came, none was not lockt in prayer.

At length the Ianitor, of stature large,
With Crozier staffe, girt in a haire-cloath Frock,
Whose meagre lookes did call for Charons Barge,
And all whose body was a saplesse stock,
Came, and with churlish voyce, demanded who
With such shrill hoh's rejoyc't their civill croe?

Friend, sayes my Lord, my errand wings my speed,
Speakes high importance with the Prioresse:
Thou in these Angell-lookes my haste mayst read;
Helpe me to th' presence of the Abbatesse.
The Porters heart soone stept into his eye,
Tuning his language to a quick reply.

My Lord, sayes he, obedience is my duty,
Whilst your commands speak in so high a tone,
Yet lest your smooth chind youths lay siege to beauty,
Your Lordship spight of state must walk alone.
I am an Eunuch, else in vaine I vow'd,
I had mistook my pillow in a crowd.

Him he conducted to the Kitchin, where
Store of Anatomies imployed was;
Some did the candle-stickes, some lavers cleare,
Some scowred pewter, some reburnisht brasse,
Don askes the cause: the Porter him acquaints,
'Twas gainst a Feast of high account, All-Saints:

Within the Hall, a yonger sort of Girles,
Yet course enough, did brush vermilion lookes,
Some, crosses rub'd; some, ropes of praying pearles:
Some dusted vestments; some, their guilded bookes.
Some kneaded wafers, and his effige stampt,
Whose purple streames the Dragons sulphures dampt.

All at Don Rivelezzo were amaz'd.
And, looking, one rub'd off a nose of wax,
A second raz'd a cheek, another gaz'd,
And pluckt from Kath' her periwigge of flax.
One blinded Serrat, and did rend her silke,
One broke the cruze, and spilt the virgine-milke.

Don past through these into an inner roome,
Where was another rank of virgine-fry,
Some weaving Arras on the nimble loome,
And inter-twisting gold with tapestry,
With silke of Naples twisted in small ropes,
Some did the Cowles embroider, some the Copes.

At last he came into an upper place,
Climbing thereto by richly guilded staires,
Where sate another troope of nobler race,
On quilted Cushions, and in Ivorie Chaires.
About the center, in a robe of state,
The matrone Vesta of the Virgines sate.

These were employd about farre nobler things:
For some of Sainted haire did bracelets twine:
Others strung Beades to stint the knees of Kings:
Some trim'd with costly Gems the Ladies shrine.
One tun'd the musick, and a witty other,
Footed an Ave to the Virgine-mother.

The grave old Matrone crawling from her throne
Of Indian teeth, archt o're with cloth of gold,
Vpon her aged knees with zealous tone,
Sayes, Heavens messenger, what is't you would?
Th'amazed Lord with wonder quarreld long,
E're he could unvoyce his silenc'd tongue.

Madam, sayes he, why pay you reverence?
Why are you guilty of th'adoring sin?
'Tis a delusion of your weakned sence,
I am no Cherub, Pow're, nor Seraphin:
The Heraulds stile me Rivelezzo's Don,
Your friend and servant with a cap and con------

My Lord, quoth she, excuse my fond mistake,
For o're my sight I weare a duskish glasse,
My zeale in pious actions sure did make
Me give you more respects then civill was.
But take your seate, and if my power or skill,
Can crowne your wishes, be you sure I will.

Madam, sayes he, I have a scornfull Lasse,
Whom Nature has enricht with speciall grace,
To whose perfections her reflecting glasse
Is parasite; addes pride unto her face:
So that, though Earldomes court her, her disdains:
Non-suites their service, and her brow un-plains.

Into your number of chaste-zealous shees,
Entrance unto this girle vouchsafe, I pray,
Vnto your order, I the constant fees
Of gold and acres, and of vowes will pay:
Since she Don slighted, I have vowd to see
How long shee'l honour the religious knee.

Quoth she, those virgines which my hallowd roofe
Does canopy, my prudence does protect:
I make blinde love and folly stand aloofe,
And all loves paper-plots I doe detect.
Great ones have oft assayd, but yet my care
Has buried their intreaties in the aire.

With godly precepts I enrich their mindes,
And make them (which is rare) at eighteen good
I'dmit no Roysters, onely Maids and Hindes
To doe them service, and prepare us food.
Please you to send your daughter, she shall be
Crownd with delights of most transcendent

Heavens, sayes Don, crowne your ensuing dayes
With all delights which wait your holy orders:
May the sad Cypresse, and the Bridall Bayes,
Ne're sprigge nor blossome in your quiet borders.
Ile plume my swift endevours, I'le make haste,
T'invest Bellama with your habits chaste.

When Dons farewell had ceast to move the aire,
Sayes Piazzella to her virgine traine,
We, with th'enjoyment of this Lady faire,
Shall stuffe our Carkanets with mickle gaine.
Wee'l frolicke it, and taste the choycest pleasures,
Nor shall our joyes be listed in with measures.

The credulous world we gull with silver shrines,
Our grave behaviours, and retired lives,
When we in naked truth are Libertines,
And taste the pillow-joyes of sprightfull wives,
When through the vault our lusty shavelings pace,
All the choyce measures of delight to chase.

Thus leave them with their haire-lacke crownes,
And see Rivelezzo now ariv'd at home,
Who by that time had plaind his brow from frowns,
And all be-calmd with sugred words doth come:
Then tels his Lady he had found a towre,
Would guard Bellama from Ioves yellow showre.

Servants are posted to the old Exchange,
Others to sellers of the silke-wormes spoyles,
Some to briske Proteusses, smirke Taylors range.
Some to the Stationers, some haste for oyles.
One carves the image of a martyrd Saint,
Another breathes a soule with gold or paints.

None must be idle, till in marshald rankes,
All things be ordred for this virgine-vow.
Farewell ye spongie teates, and puft-paste flankes,
Bellama's brid all tede is lighted now.
Her husband is Virginitie, yet looke,
Her beads for tings, for songs shee'l change her booke.

The Coach is harnessed, Bellama come,
The father sayes, Hence with that dew of griefe,
Give not a sad adiew unto our home,
But in thy thoughts let comfort rule as chiefe.
She crav'd a blessing on her globe-like joynts,
Then coached thither where her Sire appoints.

As the sweet-voyced Philomele does sit
I'th piked Eglantine, with sorrow drest,
'Cause some rude Sylvane in a raging fit,
Snatcht her faint chickens from their downy nest.
So did the Lady Arda dight with mourning,
Deplore Bellama's losse with her returning.

As when slye Reynald in his widened jawes,
Is seizing on the nimbly-frisking lambe,
Or when the Tyger with his sharpned pawes,
Hath caught the infant of the becking damme.
And then the Shepheards care prevents the sharks,
One lowdly howles, the other hoarsly barkes.

So semblably, when as the waiting crew,
Saw the departing of their golden age,
One gives Bellama, with eye-dew, adiew,
Another sigrief unlockt the phrenzie cage
Some tore their haire, some rent their shouldring bands.
Some thwackt their breasts, and wrung their oylie hands

But all in vaine, their Indian Mine was gone,
Their minting house deprived of the stampe,
Their costly gemmes were chang'd to pebbell stone.
Their Hemisphere forsaken by their lampe,
Saturne's exilde, Jove awes this massie Ball,
And now the Iron age un-goldeth all.

The wandring wheeles be-stud with Iron knobs,
Posted Bellama to the Virgin-tower,
Which freed her from the noyse of servile throbs;
Is entertained like a goddy power,
Led by the seeming Saints, unto the place,
Where sate Pazzella with a Matrone grace.

If Rivelezzo's presence frighted them,
Much more they at Bellama were amaz'd:
They cald her Phœnix, beauties onely gem,
And all with fixed tapers on her gaz'd:
Some had a meane, some curious were before,
But her first sight shewd selfe-conceit the dore.

For as when Tithons bride breakes out a farre,
And through th'expanse spreads forth her yongest light
She by degrees, pops out each twinkling star,
And dims at length the mistresse of the night.
As winter Chappel-clarks, when prayers are done
Dis-light each flazing wax, or tallow Sun.

So when Bellama brightly did appeare,
With mourning rayes in the Monastick hall,
She vail'd each face that moved in that spheare:
And further, by degrees un-faced all.
Nay, at the last, the mistresse of the traine,
Lookt like pale Phœbe in her darkned waine.

And as dayes Prince, light lustres archy-beame,
Lends to the Moone her silver mid-night rayes,
As from the Ocean watry current streame,
Though ev'ry cadent to that Chaos strayes,
As to a roome be-fog'd with mists of night,
Th'incensed weekes do lend a mid-day light.

So to each brow, Bellama's brow gives white,
To ev'ry cheek, Bellama's cheek gave rosies:
To ev'ry eye, Bellama's eye gave sight:
To ev'ry breath, Bellama's breath gave posies:
To ev'ry part, Bellama's part gave grace:
To ev'ry face, Bellama gave a face.

Some cald her goddesse of the Cyprian Ile,
Some sayd Troyes ruine was untombd againe,
Some her the selfe-enamourd boy did stile,
Some sayd the Boat-boy did delude their traine.
One nam'd her thus, one sayd she was another,
But all confest sh'exceeded Cupids mother.

The aged Patronesse with palsi'd lips,
Muttred a welcome to her lovely guest,
But at that time the Moone was in eclypse,
Which with en-feebling feares did them arrest.
Some shrilly screamd, some brazen pans did clang,
To ease her travell, and abate her pang.

And when the monthly-horned Queen had got
Her face againe with silver glitter rayd,
Save onely what the Dragons taile does spot,
On their pale Lillies blushing Clarret strayd:
Then did the aged voyce repeat againe,
Welcome faire Lady to my Mayden-traine.

Her instauration was somewhat strange,
Led by nine vestals (for th'odde number was
Highly esteemed in their sacred range,
As by the Poet in his quaffing glasse)
Each of her joynted Lillies one did hold,
Save onely that which waites the wedding gold.

Adornd with vestures, white as bleached snow,
A Cypresse mantell, over which was cast,
So lightly hung, 't would not abide a blow,
A milke white Ribben lockt unto her waste,
Grac'd with a crucifix: her slender wrists,
With praying beads were wreath'd on sable twists.

Grave Piazella usherd her along,
Bravely attended with her choysest Nuns,
Without Drum, Trumpet, or an armed throng,
Or champing coursers, or the wide-mouth'd Guns,
Each held religion in some holy right,
With holy water, which the divels fright.

Into the place of holy worship, they
Entred, where gawdie superstition was,
Saints, Altars, store of crucifixes gay.
Whose stately worths my weak expression passe.
Scarce was there knowne a canonized Saint,
Which carving did not there beget, or paint.

With strong devotion all the virgines prayd,
At the direction of the praying Bead,
Their Ave-Maries, Santo, Salve's sayd,
Invoking ev'ry Saint to intercede.
Piezza then, Bellama kneeling downe,
Did wreath her temple with the virgine-crowne.

These rites perform'd, behinde an iron grate
Appeared breathing cowles, and walking copes,
Whose writhed lookes their births did ante-date,
And change the cyphers girdled in with ropes.
Their haire had purchas'd wings, and flew away.
So did their braines as some did whispring say.

Vnto this Monastry in gloomy shades,
From Crostfull Priory those shavelings pace,
Distant from hence not two Italian stades,
Earths bloudlesse womb was wimbled all the space,
Vnder the craggy rocks and champian did
A road-way lye, from vulgar prying hid.

This darksome path they usually did tread,
To traffique with their she-sequestred zeale,
With whom for curtaine-dalliance oft they plead,
But their successe my muse dares not en-neale.
These loving sportings are not faults, the sin
Is, when our walles keepe not the scandall in.

Amongst the holy men that hither came,
To joyne their issue with the sister-hood,
A votary, Albino cal'd by name;
Not Fortunes white-boy, yet of Abby-bloud:
His great-grand-father some few ages since,
Of Glastenbury Primate was, and Prince.

His stature did not reach the tip-toe height,
Nor with the long neckt Cranes did conflicts wage,
Something compleat by nature, not by slight,
Some twenty circled snakes sum'd up his age,
Discreet as Tyro's are, had store of wit,
In that he knew to use, and husband it.

By civill carriage, and his modest looke,
He gaind the love of his Lord Priorist,
He bowled, coursed, angled in the brooke,
His pleasure was his joy and pleasures list.
Oft would he rove (had his content a dearth)
Through th'hollow belly of th'un-boweld earth.

Sometimes permitted, sometimes by command
From his Lord Prior to the holy mother,
Convaying voyces, or the paper-hand
Oft-times alone, scarce sorted with another.
The Matron did with courteous eye respect him,
Knowing no ill of him, did not suspect him.

She oft would praise his Monkship to her traine,
Calling his breast blest vertues choyces shrine,
And vowd she seldome saw such beauty raigne
Vpon a face thats purely masculine.
And 'twas not common at his yeares to finde
So neat a person with so pure a minde.

Hee'd freedome of discourse, not privacie,
Jests, sporting, laughter, and lip-dalliance;
Oft on Bellama would he fix his eye,
And she to him would answer glance for glance.
They gazd so long and oft, till they did tye
Their hearts together onely by the eye.

Loves fever at the casements of the soule
Entring, enflamed every secret part,
That passion now his reason doth controule,
And with the gyves of Love en-chaines his heart:
And walking with Bardino, seeking pleasures,
He did Bellama sing in loftie measures.

To his Companion in prayse of Bellama.

Do'st see you towring hills, you spreading trees,
Which wrap their lofty heads in clouds? dost see:
Yon house of little worth, and lesser height?
Dost thinke a Iewell of ten thousand weight
Can dwell within that sootie Carkanet?
Dost think the gawdie Sun each night does set
And riseth from yon roofe? Dost think the Moone
With double horne, and glittring tapers, soone,
Will issue thence? Didst ever see an eye
Which checkt the beames of awfull Majesty?
Dost thinke an earth-borne beauty can be found,
Which darts forth lustre from the sullen ground,
To kisse the glorious skies? or canst thou thinke
The Queene of beautie dwells in such a chinke?
Dost thinke? tis poore, why doe I question so?
Thou dar'st confirme all this by oath, I know,
Since my Bellama's there, all life, all breath,
Whose presence can enlive the soule of death,
Despight of sickly Nature: she is all faire
And truly meriteth Bellezza's chaire.
All those faire treasures which dispersed lye
'Twixt Poles and Parallels pay to her eye
And, with her span, contracted in her meet,
As radiant, red, white, smooth, soft, rich, and sweet.
She is the worlds Epitomy and soule,
And with her inch of earth, out-worths the whole.
Shee's beauties Archy-fount: as riv'lets small
Borrow from greater currents, and they all
Pay tribute to the Ocean, just so
The dimmer shafts of winged Cupids Bow,

Borrow from brighter, the brightest pay
Homage unto Bellama, beauties day.
I tell thee, there's not one small worth of hers,
But loudly sayes, that foppish nature erres
In other beauties: nor is this all, for why?
Her thoughts pluck starres, and dark th' imperiall skie.
Vertue and Beautie both: why 'tis as rare
As frosts in Iune, or Comets in the aire,
As Crowes in Africk, Æolus want puffes,
Or she-precisians want Geneva ruffes.
Yet my Bellam alone, and one unites
The beauteous colours, noble red and whites,
With heavens issue, Vertue: dar'st then deny,
If not divine, her halfe a Deitie?
Tip Cynthia's hornes with wonder, winde aloud,
And mount the saddle of a winged cloud:
Then circle earth, and see if thou canst finde
Halfe such a feature with so rare a minde.
I know when thou returnst thou'lt say with me,
Bollama's beautie is a A percee.

Thus he to rockes and bushes did discover,
The secret flames which scorcht his heated breast,
Though he as yet was not a vocall lover,
But shrowded his close love in smiles and jest;
Yet Fortune ftentimes does Venus grace
Hee got lip-freedome in an eye-lesse place.

For there a Turkes Elyzium was the stage
Whereon the Virgines acted parts of mirth,
Which Nature did with nobler gifts engage,
And decked more than other parts of earth:
And Bellam's breath was such a powerfull thing,
It here did keepe an everlasting spring.

The angry puffings of congealing East,
And sturdy North, cold Winters stoutest roysters,
Durst ne're of curled lookes the trees devest,
Nor e're were heard to whistle in their cloysters.
Such vernall blasts came from Bellama's mouth,
Kept here Favonius, and the dropping south.

And if sharp frosts did in her absence steale
Into this place, and glaz'd the tatling streames,
Then into chrystall would the springs congeale,
And ev'ry flower was rayd with silver beames:
Yet if Bellama did but glance her eye,
The chrystall and the silver thence did flye.

Nay, strange it was to heare the purling wet,
The sawcie frost with angry murmures chide,
And with its constant jarres and struglings fret,
Then thaw to teares, and on the Venice slide.
Yet oft Bellama would call in her rayes,
To view the silver purles, and chrystall wayes.

Into this garden once Albino got;
Yet ah, but once, and met his soveraigne faire,
Hoping their hearts should ty the Gordian knot,
He fand her beauty with such courting aire:
For though he was a Monk, love did instruct him;
And to Loves pallace Fortune did conduct him.

He oftentimes with trembling thombe would presse
Her dauncing veine, way to her heart to finde,
Whilst conscious she her looks with red wold dresse,
Fearing her pulse was traytor to her minde:
For 'tis entruth'd by some, that by this vaine
We may the knowledge of affections gaine.

Such knowledge gaind, he by her pulses touch,
Which leapt to meet, not chide his busie thombes,
That he desir'd a kisse, and found it such,
Whose sweetnesse far out-sweets Hybla's combes:
Then cryd, give for each lip a cherry-sweet,
And then a third, in which they two may meet:

Such quickning heat was from those kisses lent,
That thawd his voyce, and did unfreeze his tongue,
Packt thence despaire, exiled discontent,
And made him vent what was concealed long:
For though desire and love each minute bid him,
Yet feare, his habit, and her beauty chid him.

Madam, quoth he, vouchsafe a courteous eare
Vnto my words, sent from an amorous heart,
Which hath long time bin wrackt with hope & fear,
Grisely despaire, and Cupids awfull dart:
And till this time (restrain'd by black disasters)
Could ne're apply lip-love, or vowell-plasters.

Be pleas'd to know (yet sure you needs must know it
A beauty so divine, must needs divine,
Though I should want heart, hand, or voyce to show it)
When first your beauty in mine eyes did shine,
They slipt into my breast, and told my heart,
The god of love by them had sent a dart.

My heart made quick reply, (if hearts have voyce)
You ever have such faithfull servants been,
That what you like, I'le freely call my choyce,
For beauty brought by you, does fires teen;
Carry this message back, tell her 'tis best
That hers should heat my bosome, I her breast.

Peace, peace, quoth she, speak not a word of love,
For feare my anger, scornes, and folly writes,
Eagles love Eagles, and the Dove the Dove:
Hankes brook not Buzzards; or the Pheasant Kites,
Equals love equals: but un-equall flame
Is teen'd with folly, and expires with shame.

True, quoth he, likenesse does the heart encline,
Greatnesse loves greatnesse, without farther search,
Yet crawling Ivies loftie Elmes en-twine,
And gall-lesse Turtles with the Eagles pearch.
I baulk your greatnesse; for as good, not great,
I homage pay, and loves alarums beat.

Those airy titles, which ambition swell,
And puffe like bladders, or like bladders burst,
The worldlings goddesse, which in chests does dwel,
Is gnawne with rust, and makes the chesters curst,
Honour is ty'd unto the Princes eye,
And wealth to Fortunes mutability.

I have not wealth (nor doe I want) what then?
Must Hymen stoope unto the nods of gold?
Must I vaile Bonnet unto Ermin men?
And Vertue by the Herauld be controlde?
No, love does blaze the noblest armes: and she,
That can maintaine herselfe, in love can me.

Stay, stay, quoth she, you will be out of winde,
Me thinkes the voyce of greatnesse speakes delight:
Our Poets onely then faigne Cupid blinde,
When children of the Sun doe dote on Night.
Or folly mounted on Icarian wings,
Courts Queens affections, & does gaze on Kings.

No, sayes Albino, 'tis the contrary,
Love never is more purblinde then when earth
Joynes house to house, and pedigrees doe tye
Scutcheons to Scutcheons in pure vertues dearth,
For Regall flames blest goodnesse onely teenes,
And vertue ought to court the love of Queenes.

We all are borne for publique good: 'tis vaine
With torch-light to embellish Titans rayes,
Or cast our stock of water in the maine;
Such love from lawes of love and nature strayes:
But those that Fortune hath enricht with goods,
Should darne up natures wants, by mixing bloods

Was I the Cæsar of the Romane stemmes,
(Once onely darling to the King of skies)
Did both the Indies pay me tribute-Gemmes,
I'de not unite a double Majestie.
For being no distinction in degree,
She would assume that honour due to me.

Shee'd chide me sooner than I durst check her,
And as the proverbe, quarrell for the breeches,
On some choyce meane that honour I'de conferre,
Should sue with humble Sirs, and low beseeches.
Thus was she tyde to payment of respects,
I licenc'd with state-love to mixe neglects.

Where beauty does indite, and vertues seale,
Greatnesse is not requir'd to set his hand:
Though greatnesse here may vertues acts repeale;
Yet vertues acts in Cupids courts must stand.
Then where I finde grace, feature, vertues dwell,
I've greatnesse, wealth, and honour: tole the bell.

Then with kinde aires, life of my wishes speake,
Bid honour know his distance, wealth depart,
And let the day of true contentment break
From thy cleare lips, to cheare my misted heart.
O with owne circle, let my armes enfold
The soule of honour, and the heart of gold.

Sir, quoth Bellama, wealth is not my aime,
Nor does the gales of honour heave my soule,
I higher prize an action than a name,
And value more a pamphlet than a roule.
Where I with comelinesse finde vertue mixt,
My love, eyes, thoughts, are on that object fixt:

I speake not much of love, lest you presume;
And speak a little, lest you should despaire,
I would not have my words your hopes deplume,
Nor feather them to reach the highest aire,
I summe up all in this, when as I say,
I will not with disdaines thy service pay.

Oh happy words! oh more than sacred breath!
Albino live, Bellama sayes thou must:
Confront dire Fate, and challenge meagre death,
'Tis not in them to moulder thee to dust:
Yet be advis'd, let not proud folly in,
The conquest is as great to hold as win.

Our Anchorist with all the words that joy
Hearting a lover, was acquainted with,
Accosts his Saint, rewards the winged boy,
And congies to the Queene of heate and pith,
Smiled and glanc'd, payd thanks, desir'd a kisse,
And prayd time give an age unto his blisse.

But when dayes lamp had wan the westerne clyme,
And wrapt his head in Sea-greene Thetis lap,
Our lover must observe the chaunting time,
And bids his Saint adiew: oh hard mishap!
Oh tis a hell to think what hellish paine
True lovers by unkinde divorcement gaine!

Yet by that time the hoary headed Syre
Had sum'd twelve sixty minutes, he againe
Returnd t'his Lady, when bright Tytans fire
Was newly risen from the brackish maine,
And common greetings past amidst their pleasures,
He, in his Ladies hands these lines entreasures.

Vpon Bellama's walking in the Garden, and with him.

My teeming phansie strives (choyce fair) to chain
Eternity to time, that nere shall waine;
And make those garden minutes see the Sun
Entombd in darknesse, and the earth un-spun
Ere they expire, that all succeding times
May know and tell the subject of these rimes.
Assist me Flora, that I may with grace
Worthy its honour, shadow forth that place
Of spreading trees, sweet hearbs, and fragrant Flowres,
Enricht with pleasing walkes, and shady Bowres.

Each twigge with amorous touch embrac't his Mate,
Like Bacchus sacred tree his propping state;
Or Ivie, Elme, that neither Sun nor Winde
To his retired conclaves passage finde.
Within whose walles a halfe-nights darknesse dwelles,
Which Satyrs growing pallaces excelles,
Or Anchorets secluding Hermitage.
Here, like a common Theater, or Stage,
Each spiced childe of earth in Summer robe,
And Iris mantle, opes his closed globe,
Knowes his appearing cue, and freely playes
Oth' wisht-for presence of your quickning rayes:
Such perfect vivifying influence
Dwells in your lookes, Lights Chariot driven hence,
That your sole presence can create a Spring,
From Winters frozen bands can loose each thing,
From Earths entombing Sepulchre can raise
Each sleeping Flowre to chaunt forth Maia's prayse:
This made amazement seize my minde to view
Halfe-aged Winter bid so soone adiew
To this Elyzium of the Pagans-joy,
And Chloris with her new-brusht clothes so coy
Before, and hardly to be wonne, come forth
Crownd with the glory of her springing worth,
To court our eyes: nay more, the bare-fac'd Earth,
Coverd with Carpets greene, befringed round
With smiling Rosie trees, with glorious store
Of Dazies, Suckles, Cow-slips, studded ore
Like hunting Vestes of Satonisco greene,
Embost with Gems, by Fawns and wood-nymphs Queen
Worne, when the tushed Boare, Beare, panting Hart
Th'unkennell, rouze, dis-franke with nimble art.
And left your spotlesse soles should suffer ill,
Ayres fleeting tuns Chrystalline streames distill

To wash the grassie-tufted tapestry,
Which whistling windes with murm'rings hasle to dry.
And ev'ry tender branch whereon you tread,
To make your tracing, pacing, moves its head.
Alcinous Orchard, or that precious root,
Which bore old Atlas daughters golden fruit:
Th' Idalian mount, where Cytherea strayd,
Or that where Ceres lucklesse daughter playd,
When as the King of shades surprized her.
Nor may the Romanes pride with this confer,
For here all Maia's treasures are united,
Which doe, which shall, or sences e're delighted,
Yet summer'd by your eye, each Flower does bud,
Blossomes, sprouts, opens, bloomes and chewes the cud.
Your presence hearts them all: O be as kinde
As unto them, to me! shoot through my rinde.
Shine through my heart with one, one smiling ray,
So shall it open, blossome, sprout as they,
Spic't with the choycest sweets e're Venus bad,
In all the postures of true service clad,
Trimd with the beauties of the richest spring.
All fertile too, all store of fruit shall bring:
This, choyce affection; that, chaste loyaltie;
This, vowes; that, service; and that, constancie,
Made up into a nose-gay, circled in
With twists of love, which youth and vertue spin.
Then Breath and Ray, make and accept the Posie,
And seale a contract twixt the Lili' and Rosie.

En-spheared thus with virgines, oft he would
Tell pretty tales, fraught with conceited mirth,
Discourse of forraigne states: sometimes unfold
A sudden jest, may give to laughter birth:
Thus to beguile the time he oft would doe,
And unsuspected did his Lady wooe.

Then privately sometimes with her would walke
Along a paved way, where lofty trees
Bore onely witnesse of their am'rous talke,
Plaiting their branched pride, that none might see,
And lest quick envie should their dalliance spy.
Themselves about the trees the brambles tye.

Here in soft whispers did he court her love,
And strove by oath their loves to ratifie.
Madam, sayes he, this reason may you move,
That day and malice have too many eyes,
When my lips are seald, and I attempt in vaine,
To send the children of my teeming braine.

Not halfe so vigilant the Dragon was,
Which Colchos treasure watcht, as is your Dame,
So that they must through Argus head-peece passe,
Which seeke here to enkindle Cupids flame.
I know your jealous Matrone does discover
How my faint heart about your breast does hover.

Sir, sayes Bellama, there is no such haste,
Time will appoint our loves some fitter seasons,
My father must ungirdle first my waste,
Love will not be repeld by force, but reasons.
And more, you know it is in vaine to strive,
Heres no escaping this Monastick hive,

When as the third dayes Sun, three houres or more,
Our Zenith has behinde him left, hither
Returne, and I will meet thee; not before:
My thoughts (quoth he) doe in your absence wither,
Pincht with the sharpest blasts cold winter breathes
But your, your looks my heart with blossoms wreathes

That foolish glasse which measures time with sand,
Enough of gravell has to meet a yeare,
With lesser trouble I could Hermes wand,
Than the sad torture of your absence beare:
Change then those houres to minutes; dayes, to day,
If you say't shall be so, time must obay.

Alas! quoth she, my faith is not so strong,
To thinke reality with language dwells,
Nor can I think you count those minutes long,
When you'r employed with your Beads and Bells,
Yet t' has the face of truth, Ile therefore try
If time will pay such duty to mine eye.

These words have lent my body a new soule,
And shot (quoth she) a fire through every veyne,
Doubt not, your voyce times circle can controule,
And make the Sunne his hasty Iennets reyne.
Nay more, me thinks m'enlightned eyes discover
'Bout you the gods with vailed bonnets hover.

I'm halfe perswaded, 'twas not blasphemy
For me to say your nod can ravell Fate,
Thaw into Chaos this firme globe of dry,
Beckon the planets, and their towres un-slate.
Me thinkes I see the Sun naild to his sky,
Vn-nath his Carre, and throw his whip-staffe by

Peace, peace, quoth she, Albino, thou dost rave,
Why dwels such language on thy wretching tongue?
Wilt thou just vengeance force to dig thy grave?
Thinkst thou sterne Fate will suffer such a wrong?
Pinnion thy words, let them not soare so high,
Lest they should gash the clouds, and ope the sky.

We must not play with sharpes, nor kisse the flame,
Dally with heaven, or up-braid the gods,
Lest their just anger make their powers tame
Such sawcie scandals with their plagues and rods.
Then wing no more Bellama's name, but let
The Pearle be called Pearle, the Iet but Iet.

Goe home in clouds, lest Envy see thy face,
And come not till those minutes taske the watch.
Madam, sayes he, Ile bid them mend their pace,
Tis just with lovers every haire ro catch,
That dights occasions brow change date for date,
Entrench sometimes upon the rights of Fate.

Yet your command shall stand, Ile not transgresse,
But watch the hand untill it joynt the houre,
And all my paths with gloomy shades will dresse,
That undiscoverd I may win this boure:
May all the blessings which a lovers voyce
Breathes on his Lady, wait on you my choyce.

Here did they meet to rivet fast their heart,
Where not a breath their private joyes disturbe:
They thought no eye a sawcie ray durst dart,
Or any voyce had power their loves to curbe.
So credulous are lovers, and so faine
To their conjectures would conclusum's chaine:

But this bright Sun of joy eclypsed was,
And pitchy clouds their glorious sky did smutch,
Then Venus joyes were like to Venice glasse,
Poore glasse-like toyes, that perish with a touch,
A Guardians anger, or a parents frowne,
Nips loves fresh blossomes, and a wish uncrowne.

The jealous matrone from her towring loft,
O're-lookt th'ambitious trees which hem'd them in
Or'e-heard their vows, their sighs, & language soft,
And saw how Cupid leapt from skin to skin.
The traffique of their lips, and how thin balmes,
Did glue and cement fast their melting palmes.

When she perceiv'd the progresse of their love,
Religious care impanneld straight a Iury
Of thoughts and plots, this stranger to remove,
Soothed with profit, and enflam'd with fury,
Vsh'ring her language with a threatning frowne,
She ask'd her busines with that shaved crowne.

Why was that sickly voyce, whose feeble gales
Can raise no ecchoes, hand, and elbow chat,
Eye-dialogues discourse, and wanton tales
That way of am'rousnesse, and this, and that?
Speak truth Bellama, has thy heart, as voyce,
Decreed that youthfull monk thine only choyce?

Bellama startled at this sudden newes,
Yet did her answers all consist of noes,
But yet, alas! her bloud observ'd the cues,
And call'd by guilt, her Lilly bankes ore-flowes:
So that though she with setled vowes denyde,
Yet to the eye her blushes guilty cryde.

When as the matrones busie eyes had read
Love on her cheekes in bloudy letters writ,
She askt her why blind folly thus had lead
Her reason, 'gainst religion, state or wit?
Or if she needs must love, why did she scowle
Vpon state-sattens, and embrace a cowle?

Bellama to excuses tun'd her aire,
Framing pretences for her amorous saith,
But yet alas, such was Pazzella's care,
From her excuses she with-held her faith.
And with a voyce shrill and as fierce as thunder,
Sware she would knap their silly loves in sunder.

Those scarlet gowns, which doom-offenders, death,
Or the proscriptions of the Romane state,
Had not the tithe of that affrighting breath,
Although they weakned hell, and threatned Fate,
As had these words which feeble love did shiver,
Snap his weak strings, & crack his empty'd quiver

But all this while, Albino sate with pleasure,
And on his trencher joy and mirth attend,
Nor to delight will he allow a measure,
As, at one sitting, he his stock would spend.
Nay, if he slept, he dream'd of nought but rings,
Gloves, fans, masks, monkies, & such prety things.

And when the time of his approach, approach't,
His eye did travell with the Dyals hand,
Then started up to see Don Phœbus coach't,
Bad him make haste, and at that minute stand,
That this blest day may count more moments flight
Than could the stout Alcides geniall night.

But oft we see before a sudden dash,
The Sun salutes the earth with hottest gleames:
So here before misfortunes harshest lash,
Ioy on Albino shot his choycest beames.
That every thought was crowned with a starre,
And rid with Venus in her silver Carre.

Rose out oth' vault, with love and hope adust,
And in conceit fed on his future sweet,
Thinking what most may please, not what's most just.
And with what phrase he should his Lady greet,
Vowing in this full heat of lust and pride,
To try how fast Bellama's girdle's tyde.

But as our Alchymists doe study much,
Spend all their wits and wealth to finde that stone,
Which baser metals doth en-gold with touch,
(As he which once did awe the Phrygian throne)
And when they long have dreamed of a masse,
Their silvers's turnd to tin, their gold to brasse.

Iust so our Amorist stuft full with hope,
Came to this walke for his expected treasure,
The chrystall casements of his soule did ope,
To let in th'object of his joy and pleasure;
But when he thought t'have found his lovely lasse,
His love was Lady-smocks, his Lady grasse.

He searcht with stricter care, each bush and bowre,
Then did the Fairy King, and Hob his man,
Throwing his eyes into each branched towre,
And midst the sharpned pikes of brambles ran.
Prickt forward with desire, enrag'd with spite,
And venteth here what love and hate endite.

Upon his Bellama using and forsaking the Walke.

When walking I sent forth my watchfull eyes.
To fetch in objects, like Bellona's spies,
Along this swelling way, which checkerd was
With smooth-fac't pebbles, not with piked grasse,
Bellama pac't, whose onely pacing set
Vpon the paved walke a Coronet
Of Flora's pride, Carnations, Tulips, Lillies,
Pansies, Pinkes, Roses, Daffa-down-dillies:
Nay more, me thought I saw the rubbish way,
Saphirs, Pearles, Rubies, Onix-stones, out-ray
The very channell proud of her blest weight,
Sweld up with pride unto the ridgès height
To kisse her feet, and made the way an alley,
With this choyce Faire mine eyes (ah) once did dalley,
Natures Epitomy, whose curious brow
Was like a smoothed mount of bleached snow,
At whose cleare foot Nature divine did place
Two Diamonds, which did enlighten all her face:
So that twas like those orbes wherein doe stray
The planet-lampes, or Cupids sucking way,
And from these gemmes such silver rayes were sent,
Which hatched o're her light accoutrement.
So that dull fancies would have thought she had
In Cambricke, Holland, or pure Lawne been clad,
Nay I, at first, thought it had Cynthia bin
Deckt in her brothers sun-shine Ermilin.
She shot such glorious beames: but now alas!
Shee's gone, shee's fled, and lo, the mourning grasse
Is hayd already, and th'ungemd stone
At feathers catch to fly where she is gone.

The branched Beech, the Oke, and towring Ash,
Bend both their browes and boughes my face to lash:
The angry thornes, my hands, though armed, scratch,
And testy brambles at my vestures catch:
(Which was before the curse of humane sin,
But now, by her, out-smeld the Eglantine)
I wonder-strucken, askt a holy Thistle
Which with his sharpned pikes began to bristle:
(But know, at first twas but an homely weed,
Her presence made it holy, not its seed)
Why all with irefull lookes thus threatned me?
It is suppos'd Bellama faire (quoth he)
The goddesse of this walke, was forc't by you
To this benighted path to bid adiew.
Alas! quoth I, (mean while the thistle paus'd)
Their wrath is undeserv'd, I never caus'd
By any ill demeanes that Saint to leave
This place, and widow every branch and greave,
Vnto your testates I my selfe refer.
How choycely I have ever honourd her,
Have payd my tribute-complements, and gave
Respects as much as due, or she would have.
But people (worse than those that people slewes)
Whose onely joy consists in telling newes,
Or Pazzell else with her envenomd lips
Your glory and my comfort doe eclypse,
Tis them they ought to chide, for onely thay
Compell her to forsake this gloomy way.
Yet spight of all disasters, Fate and Hell,
Albino's heart shall with Bellama dwell,
And though chill winter nip both you and me,
We shall ere long our Suns and Summers see.

This sayd, he straight forsooke his silent grove,
Trimming his lookes which passion did untrim,
And hastes to finde the object of his love,
But such an eye the matron cast on him,
That fury on her lookes did seem to dwell
And envy to her face transplanted hell.

Heartlesse Albino with much pain did view
How on her lookes madnesse and anger rang'd,
And on Bellam he private glances threw,
To bring him word if that she stood unchang'd,
If she continu'd square despight of them,
Whose jealous eyes did all their actions hem.

Bellama knew the language of his eye,
But could not give respect to Cupids law,
For Piazella to her eyes did tye
A constant watch, which kept her eyes in awe,
That she was forc't to peep within her vaile:
For there the matrone did her eyes en-jayle.

The ragged crue which are en-wrapt in chaines,
Throgh grates more freedom have of sight than she.
Which in them both produc'd such griefes and pains
Too sharpe and lowd to be exprest by me.
Albino now does judge his absence better,
And chose a proxee to present a letter.

One of his order, (deemd a trusty friend
Endeard to him by favours, oath and vow)
Was his Talthibius, ordaind to send
To her, whose beauty makes stiffe Atlas bow.
The Monke embrac't the office, and did sware
By all our scarlet oathes, faith, truth, and care.

Albino now to every Santo prayes,
And for successe his hands with zeale does reare,
Courting his Lady in some Irish Layes,
And robd his finger of its golden spheare
En-neald, (I live in hope) and sure griefs waves
If Anchorlesse, had been t'is wishes graves.

To mee's faire Metres, Vandebrad Islile of te fine towne of Vaschester

Ick predee metres be not coy,
But intertaune mee's love vit joy:
For me be not a snottee boy.

Vat tough me russell not in silke,
And keep mee's servaunts vit capes ilke,
Yet me be not a sop of milke.

Vat tough me vil not stautly stret,
And ilke de Peacock poudely jet;
Yet me be vary pruce and neat.

Vat tough me vil not lye vit pimpes,
And pend me's coyne on light-teale shrimpes
Yet me can hug, busse prettee nymphes.

Vat tough me ha ne Hauke ne Hound,
And vil not suare begot, idzound,
Yet faith mee's frolique, plumpe and sound.

Vat tough me cannot Maudam say,
And vil ty Fan an Monkee play,
Yet me con flatter vel as thay.

Vat tough me connot honour tee
Vit titles laudee C or D,
Yet tou sault a good Metress bee.

Vat tough, vat tough, Ick say, vat tough,
Ick say, udsnigs, in feck I trough,
Yet Ick drive not te Caurt and Plough.

Then pretee, pretee, Buxome faire,
Let me not launguish in depaire,
But say me's sutes all gaunted are.

Let ne mee's Irish Borrell speach,
In tyne affection mauke o breach,
For me con better say so teach.

And me can be as blyth and free
As auny push or saunten hee,
Ten say, and ved, and bed vit me.

Tyne faytfull friend and good servaune, Patrick Applous, te fine, te bave, te gallaun Irish-mon.

Upon the Ring sent to his Bellama.

Cvpid oft-times disdaines to dwell
In loftie pallace, but does shell
Himselfe in straw-thatcht roofe; and choyce
For novell, a September rose
Before a Diamond to present
Or time in silver seilings pent.

Great gifts enforce, but small ones wooe,
And forc't respects will never doe.
He questions his owne worth, that feares
To whisper in his mistresse eares
With smallest gifts, since true worth hates
A boune which for him lowdly prates,
And female worths may justly slight
Those that, but with guilt swords, dare fight.
These make me send this little ring,
(An Embleme of a greater thing)
'Tis bruis'd, hence representeth true
My heart bruis'd, bent and bowd for you,
Anatomists conclude by art,
A veine is stretched to the heart
Froth smallest finger of the left,
From veine and finger comes this geft:
Hence merits better, since we finde
Many send presents, few their minde.

VPON THE POESIE I live in hope.

Tis hope that makes me live, and when
My hope's transfer'd to other men,
Divorc't from me, health cannot give
A strength to make my rent heart live,
A rented heart tis truly call'd,
For love of vertues you enthrall'd
Tenant at will to you, and payes
Large rents of sighes each howre and dayes,
But to what number they amount,
Puzzles Arithmetick to count.
Then courteous Land-lady be please
To seale my heart a life-long lease.

Else ev'ry slight and frowne of yours,
Will turne your tenant out of doores,
Yet hope perswades me not to doubt
My heart shall not be turned out:
For you have promised to come
An live with it, or exchange home,
So I be Land-lord unto thine,
And you be Land-lady to mine.
Say I to this, and onely Fate
Shall change the tenor of our state.

Bardino from the Coven posts with speed
Vnto Albino's onely Polar star,
Loaden with blessings, and beware, take heed,
As the great grand-dames sonne prepar'd for war,
Or as a widowes sonne, whose onely joy
Hangs on the nuptials of her lusty boy.

Like as a Pilot to some floating keele,
When as the bustlers from old Æol's cave,
On Neptunes furrowd back make it to reele,
And at his death shoot billow after wave:
So tost in seas of griefe Albino tyde,
His loves choyce pinnace to Bardino's guide.

But Bishop Guts, tun-belly'd, all-pancht Fryer,
In sight of Lesbia's towres split his faire Galley,
Prov'd a dissembling and perfidious lyer,
From his foule breast deceit and hate did salley.
The seeds of every sin in him did bud,
Nothing did wither but this one thing, Good.

For to win credit with the Lady-mother,
And raise a liking of himselfe in her,
He prov'd a traytor to his Abbey-brother,
With Abbatesse in private does confer,
And unto her imparts his amorous newes,
She, not Bellam' his vowed service viewes.

But to Albino he returnd with faith,
(Yet 'twas an oath) I importun'd thy Saint,
Prest her t'unlock thy secrets; but she saith,
What pur-blinde folly does thy heart attaint?
Thou knowst what offers I refus'd, and thou'le
Confine my love unto a starved coule.

Away flings she, and leaves me disconsolate,
Nor after dain'd to me a wonted look:
Now is Albino pincht with cruell Fate,
Which is the better, Cupid, or thy book?
Hadst viewd her beauty with a scornfull eye,
Thou hadst not tasted of her pride and fie.

Haplesse Albin', and haplesse so much more,
Because Albin', rest quiet with thy lot,
If Nilus over-flow his sandy floore
Above twelve cubits, it procures a rot.
When at too high a pitch affections towre,
Fate with misfortunes oft their hopes doth sowre.

Wound not the harmlesse aire with mournful hoots
Steere not 'gainst Volgo's streame thy feeble keele,
Be not like him who 'gainst a whirle-wind shoots,
Or like the Cockatrice in pecking steele,
For acts 'gainst nature wrougt, despight do gaine,
And love o're-looking Fortune, reapes disdaine.

But let us see what strange effect this newes
Writes in his breast (disasters fatall booke)
What stronger plot his working phansie brewes,
If's loftie thoughts be at this answer shooke,
Alas! they are, so weake a thing is man.
Crasht into Atomes with a slighting fan.

His bloud retires unto his throbbing heart,
His wanned cheekes with lawne were over-spread,
An aspin trembling loosned every part,
His spirits fainted, and his vitals fled,
And his quick hart with such strong motions beated
That it, though chil'd with feare, his body heated.

Entring his chamber, strewed o're with rue,
He lean'd his head upon his swelling pillow,
And sighing, cryde, Bellama is this true,
Must I be doomed to the barren willow?
I thought, exempted from my pedants art,
I should no more have felt the willows smart.

Thy eyes spake love, and every glance you sent,
Writ on my heart, Albino is approv'd,
When so'ere my eyes unto thy feature went,
And met with thine, they brought me word, you lov'd
Then can Bellama not Bellama be?
She may Bellama be, but not to me.

Blest heavens! how have men deserv'd your ire,
That made you frame this curse, this thing cald Woman,
So comely and so usefull? giving fire
To seare us men, and yet disdaine to know man?
Why on their faces have you plac'd such charmes,
To make us court with sighs the worst of harms?

Pandora's box of woes was opened then,
When first they took in hand to make a woman,
And all the Furies joynd to torture men;
Yet women first were rare, but now grown common,
And mischiefs high, when once they comon grow.
Entombe great states, and commons overthrow.

Thou Love, (what should I call thee?) doest entice,
Nay checkst rebellion in the awfull gods,
Women thy weapons are, of such high price,
That beat with them, they humbly kisse the rods.
No life, no joy, no sweete, without a lasse,
And yet no sweet nor joy since woman was.

Our eyes doe ne're mistake the day for night,
Nor can the pale-hewd pinkes for roses passe,
But when on womens colours they doe light,
Then (brib'd) they look as through a painted glasse,
So that what women are we never see,
But what we wish and phansie them to be.

'Mongst thousand virgines which doe suck this ayre,
I never knew but one, but one—one good,
Whom I supposed full as good as faire,
And she was making e're Deucalions flood:
But she alas! what should I say? but she
Is woe to man, a woman unto me.

Thus in his heightned fury he condemnes,
Both Fate and Fortune, honour, wealth and worth,
Raileth on virgines and their beauteous gemmes,
And curseth nature, that did bring herforth,
But above all, his sharp incensed Muse,
In wrathfull Odes Don Cupid does accuse.

An Invective against CVPID.

Thou love, if thou wilt suffer this, be blinde,
Deafe, dumbe, and stupid, and unwisely kinde,
More unto slights than merits, and reward
Respects and negligence with same regard.
If Sattens difference, and maides adorne,
Then nature has with beauty, more with scorne,
That they must fligger, scoffe, deride and jeere,
Appoynt their servants certaine houres t'appeare,
Affoord by number, kisses, sights by tale,
Command a certaine distance, and empale
Loves game from taste or touch, and if at all
Men doe transgresse, steepe all their words in gall:
Check but the least presumption, and with frownes
Strike as much terrour unto us, as crownes;
Love, if thou'lt suffer this, and wink at them,
Make us esteeme a pebble for a gem,
Stoope, crindge, adore, sue, flatter, and admire,
And in our bosomes teenst thy amorous fire,
May all the haggish Furies soundly lash
And with their snaky whips thy sinewes gash:
May all the tortures Hell encloseth, fall
On thee, if not enough, and, more then all;
But we—we men will be no more thy slaves,
And womens too, wee'l pack unto our graves:
And in our silent beds of earth will court
The slender-wasted wormes, and with them sport,
Dally, hug, toy, and vow their wimbling busse
Is full as sweet as womens was to us.
En-wall'd with dust wee'l lye, till nature shall
Perceive thy malice (Cupid) and her fall,

And wooes with sighes and teares in loving guise,
For a replantage of the world, to rise,
Then shall our wils un-god thee, and thy mother,
And Cupids be our selves one to another.
Then in thy Temples shall no voyce be heard,
But Scriech-owles, Dors, and Dawes, no Altar reard
Whereon to sacrifice true lovers hearts,
Scalded with sighes, and galled with thy darts.
For we our selves, our selves will temples call,
And make our bosomes Altars, whereon shall
From fourteen to fourscore the females faires
Burne Frankinsence of love with sighes and praires,
And change the custome so, that maidens then
Shall court, admire, adore and wooe us men.

This sayd, he strove t'unbillow all with slumbers,
But th'more he strove to rest, lesse rest he takes,
His watchful thoughts each tatling minut numbers,
Bellama's wakening beautie him awakes.
And having purchas'd sleepe, though they were dim,
Bellama's beauty darted rayes at him:

Then starting up, her substance faire to catch,
He lost the shadow, and did rave againe,
Can groveling Brambles loftie Cedars scratch?
Or wadling Duckes o're-top the towring Crane?
Yet vertues imp'd with person, reach a sky,
And to an higher pitch then Fortune flye.

There is a tree, (as our Historians write)
Alpina hight, of faire and glorious glee,

With branches fine, and glorious blossomes dight,
But never tasted by the witty Bee,
Fearing death lodgeth there, and this he feares,
'Cause to the eye so glorious it appeares.

Not much unlike to these our women are
Whom Nature has in daintie colours drest,
And of our women likest are the faire,
For with much beauty vertues seldome rest.
Would Iove all women I had judg'd to be
Alpina-like, or if not all, yet she.

The Queen of beautie strumpet was to Mars,
Officious Bawd unto lascivious Iove,
A patronesse of those that ride in Carres,
And in her Court nor vertue reignes, nor love,
But lust and vanity with wily traines,
That he repentance buyes, which beauty gaines.

Sh'as many trulls, like Menelaus wife,
And she such light-skirt things for chaste ones sels,
With whom dissembling and deceits are rife,
Smiles, tears, sighs, looks, with such inchanting spels.
If they but bend their brows, & shoot out frowns,
They crack a scepter, and distemple crownes.

Yet stay: but by the sowre we know not sweet,
White's silver hue adjoynd to black, shines best,
How should we know our hands, but by our feet?
Healths onely priz'd, when sicknesse doth arrest.
This principle perhaps Bellama holds,
Summer is known by Winters chilling colds.

Perchance Bellama did not breath that woe
Which by Bardino was conveyd to me:

Nor dwelt upon her lips that scornfull No,
'Twas onely forged by her Dame and he.
But—why should suspition steale into my brest
Suspect a friend, deceit with friendship rest?

No: Phaeton base sonne to dayes bright blaze,
Daring his Chariot felt Ioves thunder fire.
Astronomers, whilest on the starres they gaze,
Oft-times do sinke into the durty mire:
Onely the Eagle without purblinde dampes,
Can fixe his eyes upon the prince of lampes.

The sonne of Dædalus soar'd up so high,
That Phœbus pluckt his waxen joynted wings;
It was her pride checkt my ambitious eye,
True love to hatred chang'd by slights has stings.
Ile write invectives: no, Ile onely try
What vertue dwels in slighting Poesie

To his Bellama slighting him.

Ile bore the heavens, pierce the clouds a vaine,
Make them full torrents weepe of brackish raine,
To second my laments, me thinkes the Sun
Knowing my clue is raveld and undone,
That my Bellama slights, should vext resigne
T'his sisters Chariot his Ecliptick line.
Bid Phœbe run horn mad, and lowdly cry,
Froth, howle, as in a fit of lunacie,
Nay, throw a poyson on Endimions lips,
Threaten to drowne the world, the Sun eclypse,
Keepe the starres order still? or can they stirre,
And not digresse? Know they how not to erre?

Sure no: I saw bright Paphos snuffe her lampe,
Yet vowd to quench it with eternall dampe,
Hurle all away, if that her servants love
Be had in no regard, and awfull Iove
Hurry along the milkie way to finde
That snifling deity, that winged, blinde—
And vowd to clip his wings as short as Munkes,
Their stubbed beards more short than pained runkes
Vnlesse he shot a dart with more than speed,
To make Bellama's heart affections bleed.
Bold Ocean foames with spight, his neb-tides roare,
His billowes top and top-mast high doe soare.
Nature herselfe is sullen, keepes her bed,
And will not rise so much as dresse her head,
Regardlesse of the seasons, will not see
Loude windes deplume the bush and towring tree.
The Ploughman furrows earth, sowes seed ith'tides,
But nature weepes for me, his paines derides
Copernicus his tonet's verify'd,
The massie Globe does 'bout its center ride.
All things dis-rankt, nothing observes it state,
Change time and tide, or post or ante-date
But thou Bellam' art deafe to me and blinde,
Steelst thine affections, flintst thy hardened minde,
And strik'st fire thence t'enflame my tinder heart,
Thou oyl'st the flame, but I endure the smart.
How oft have I, when others eyes have slept,
Like sentinels to armies, watchings kept?
And when the thoght oth' saints thrice blisful home
(which ah! too seldom) mongst my thoghts did come
Then spight of goodnesse blessed E was lost
And you the haven of me tempest-tost:
Have I made envious art admire thy worth,
Toucht the Ela of praise, t'emblazon't forth?

Bid sleepe good night, quiet and rest adiew,
Made my selfe no selfe to entitle you.
And after this sad purgatory, must
My hopes be laydith' dust for want of dust?
Then know Bellama, since thou aimst at wealth,
Where Fortune has bestowd her largest dealth,
That wealth may puffe a clod of earth like leaven,
But vertuous want alone ensouleth heaven.
Know more, I scornd thy fortune, 'twas thy selfe
I courted, not thy slight adored pelfe,
And had not Mortals curse blest thee and I
Had sweld with honour and nobility.
My love once fixt on vertue, parents hate
In both, might shake, but ne're everts loves state.
I aime at vertues blisse, and if I finde
The heart and bosome good, I slight the rinde.
But since Bellama, thou regardst not me,
I scorne to cringe, adore, and flatter thee.
For he that rules his thoughts, has a nobler soule,
Than he that awes the world from Pole to Pole.
Thus, Faire, adiew, with love these measures scan,
And know my love was but a fit of man.

Wee'l leave Albino in this phrentick mood,
And view Bellama parged ore with feare,
Asking a member of her sister-hood,
(For love and vertves unto her most deare)
Amongst their sportings, and their chaste delights,
Wherefore Albino did refraine their sights.

Barraba (her the Font those letters gave)
Sayd, I presume, I rightly guesse the cause,
Bellama urg'd (thankes to the pur-blinde knave)
'Twas thus, quoth she, yet made a two-dayes pause,
At length with importunings over-come,
She told her why Albino kept at home.

Bardino did deceive his trust, quoth she,
Told all, yet sung another song to him,
His love came lapt in paper unto thee,
He with quaint words did his affections lim,
Vowd service, but Bardino (ah the shame!)
Vnclaspt his secrets to our jealous dame.

Am I an Infidell? or dare I tye,
Quoth faire Bellama, unto this, beliefe?
Shall just revenge in my soft bosome dye?
And shall I melt my heart with secret griefe?
Ile scold with him, Sayes chaste Barraba, no:
For by that, others will your wishes know.

What she should doe (plung'd in this depth of woe)
Bellama knew not, nor durst counsell aske,
More dangers wait her, if she send or goe,
Than if she underwent Alcides taske.
Distracted were her thoughts in silence tyde,
Till love and honour buzzled, then she cryde,

Ah false Bardino! shame of holy Orders!
Whither, ah! whither didst thou send thy troth?
To be grand factor in the frozen borders,
For them whose deckes doe make old Ocean froth?
And truthlesse thou, lockt in this gloomy Cell,
Plotst basenesse to enlarge the crowne of hel.

Vnjust Bardin', unworthy of a cope,
Or (whose employments holy) other vest,
Didst, oh didst thy conscience scoure with sope?
And washt all faith from off thy glazed breast?
And faithlesse thou esteemest lesse of vow,
Than clownish whistlers, which do steer the plow

Where didst incage thine eyes? durst thou behold
(Acting this crime) the castle of the starres?
How stopst thine ears? didst heare the heavens scold,
And chide in winde and thunder, threatning warres?
Durst touch the hallowd water, spittle, salt,
The Crosse or Pax, and yet attempt this fault?

Those sacred Bagno's wherein Pagans wash
Their sullyd limbes for their Moschea's dore,
The pottage-penance, and repentant lash,
The hair-cloth shirt, skin-shooes, & thousand more,
Th' Arch-vicars pardon, and the purging flame,
Can ne're absolve thy crime, or cleare thy fame.

Pack then from humane eyes, and shrowd thy sin
Vnder the curtaines of eternall night;
Perfidiousnesse does make thee neare of kin
To hels black fiends, with robes of horrour dight:
Pack, pack, be gone, the Ferry-man does stay,
To waft thy paunch o're th' Acherontick Bay.

But peace Bellama, dost thou think it fit
To value at so mean a price thy pearle?
Applaud thy selfe, count it a poynt of wit,
To take a Cowlist, and refuse an Earle.
The world shall be un-centerd, ere 't be sayd,
Beauty takes lodging in an humble mayd.

What then? shall every fashion fashion me?
As in religion, by the Churches eye,
So by the worlds, must I in loving see?
No, I the worlds supremacie deny.
Hence with those loves, which profit only measures
I hate that heart which onely shoots at treasures.

The Cyprian goddesse is not fed with ploughes,
Nor Cupids arrow guided is with acres:
Vulcan permitted was to shake the boughes;
But Mars suckt in the sweets without partakers.
Youth youth pursues, for with Autumnall lookes
Cupid does seldome bait his eighteen hookes.

Who in pleuretick passions does deny
To open veynes, to shut death out oth' dores?
Who will not in sharp Fevers Galen try,
To weaken humours, and unstop the pores?
The quickest eye does want the quickning Sun,
And to the Sea the drilling cadents run.

Who, when Sir Cupid enters at the eye,
With pride and coy disdaine shuts comfort forth?
Ile make ambition stoope, now love sayes I,
And satten thoughts shall vaile to Tammey worth:
By lovely maides, the lovely loved are,
And by the faire most favourd are the faire.

Thus did she rage, her resolution love,
Which spight of all disasters she will harbour,
Hoping blest fate will so propitious prove,
T'enclose her Monk and her in Cupids Arbour:
But leave her surfeting with hope, and view
When to Monastick vowes shee'l bid adiew.

Till Cynthia twice twelve times repaired had
Her silver hornes, she was in cloysterd here,
When some kinde planet mov'd her loving Dad
To fetch her thence, his frosty'd age to cheare;
Hence virgine vow, away black vestments hurld,
Bellama's borne againe into the world.

He with his Lady mounted on his Ien-
Net, to the Nunnery, with haste does ride,
Accompany'd with troopes of harnest men,
And vowd a siege, if Piazzell' denyde,
To batter downe the holy walles with guns,
And fright the Hag with all her simpring Nuns.

He in an ambush plac't his iron crue,
Bad them prepare when as the trumpe did call,
Dismounting then, the Ianitor him knew,
And lead the Lordly couple through the hall,
Parlours and chambers, to the conclave, where
The pious Nuns their branched Lillies reare.

Bellama crav'd a blessing, they it gave:
Then Rivelezzo he did softly aske
If the Monasticke roofe should be her grave?
If now she grieved for Don Fuco's taske?
If after two yeares bondage now she would
Answer more kindly to the voyce of gold?

My Lord, quoth she, with humble knee and voyce,
I am not tyred with my nicer vow,
Nor hate I Hymen, might my eyes make choyce,
Aske when Ile marry? and Ile answer now.
A man (quoth he) for face and vertue chuse,
And on mine honour, I will not refuse.

Piazzella fearing that their whispring would
Presage no good unto her huffing waste,
Broke off their parle, and Rivelezzo told
That his faire daughter zealous was and chaste:
And that her minde no evill did attaint,
She almost has attaind to be a Saint.

Such high-priz'd comforts, joyes, rewards and glory
Our happy walles en-seele and curtain in,
That we alone survive all prayse and story,
Are call'd Hels tortures, and the whips of sin.
The locall motion of our soules in heaven,
We hate blinde Turcisme, and the Iewish leaven.

Madam, quoth Don, you need no advocate,
Since you your selfe can plead your cause so well,
But that my sexe does interdict this state,
What your words might effect, I cannot tell;
But sure it does unscrue a virgines hart,
To heare of love, and never feele his dart.

Madam, forsooth, quoth Lady Arda, I
Ne're found such comfort ith' innupted life,
Nor think the blessings of virginity
Can equall the contentments of a wife.
My voyce should not assent unto her vow,
To wreath with willow sprigs her melting brow.

Quoth Piazzella, I am grieved sore
To heare such scandals thrown upon our vow,
To heare Diana, whom all ought t'adore,
And her chaste votaries depraved now.
I know not what contents attend a wife,
But sure they equall not th'innupted life.

Again, your honours you doe much impeach,
To force your daughter from this happy state;
Twixt her and happinesse you make a breach,
And pull upon your heads a cursed Fate.
Heavens un-buckle will their clowds of raine,
Death or diseases, if you part our traine.

The body's better than the sheathing skin,
And ought with greater care to be maintain'd,
The guest is farre more worthy than the Inne,
And ought with greater study to be traind.
The soule mounts heaven, when earrhs aged womb
The Skeleton (her issue) does entombe.

Away with arguments, in vain you plead,
Our vow (quoth they) lockt not her girdle ever,
I (quoth Pazzella) doe abjure the Tede,
Hymen shall ne're my holy orders sever:
But spite of all the trickes the world does nurse,
Ile keepe my virgines from the bridall curse.

Without demurres, Don Rivelezzo then
With shrill-voyc't-trumpet made an eccho speake,
Straight was the house environed with men,
Which with their leaden gloabes an entrance break
The aire was frighted with the powder-thunder,
The bellowing noyse did split the rocks in sunder

Affrighted thus, the Matrone bid them gang,
And to Bellama gave a sad adiew:
Yet in her heart she grypt with Envies fang,
And o're her lookes a vaile of sorrow drew.
The joyfull parents having got their daughter,
Gave a farewell unto the house with laughter.

Leaving the Coach and Cloyster, wee'l take part
With poore Albino in his woe and griefe,
Who seeing Fortune his designes did thwart,
And Neptunes grand-child brought him no reliefe:
Did think to win her presence in disguise:
He that but one way tries is hardly wise.

He plotted to invest himselfe with robe
Might speak him nobly borne, and gallant haire,
To some vaste measures of this wealthy globe,
Seated aloft in honours Ovall chaire:
Procure him then some store of laced capes,
To wait on him with servile garbes and shapes

Pretending to be one oth' Spanish court,
Giving strange accents to our moderne speech,
And hither came, his wandring minde to sport,
But that he faces lackt to tune each breech.
Besides, he knew the Matrones care was such,
She love untwisted in the eye or touch.

Then a new project did he get on's braine,
And sheard the downy mosse from his smooth chin,
Intending to be one oth' Virgine-traine,,
Like Iupiter huskt in a female skin.
But that he feard religion could not bridle,
His active heate twixt linnen to be idle.

He thought his breaking voyce would him betray,
Vnlesse he said, he ever had a cold:
He feard the curtesie and the female play,
Or that his face would make him seeme too old:
But above all, he feard he should not lock
His legges within the compasse of a smock.

In costly vestures he would be arrayde,
Of high discent, and fearing lest his Sire
Would force him to an hated pillow, strayd
With them to teene the holy vestall fire.
He would be nobly borne, not out of pride,
But to be sheeted by Bellama's side.

He had no treasure, but would promise faire,
That setled there, he should be fed in state,
Hoping to win the porter with kinde aire,
That with Bellama he might thread the gate.
He all would venture, and upon this plot,
Would place his fortunes, and the Gordian knot.

In such accoutrement he vailed was,
That to himselfe Albino was not knowne,
He looked for Albino's face ith' glasse,
But nothing of himselfe t'himselfe was showne:
Each way a mayd enricht with speciall grace,
As though he had unflowr'd Adonis face.

He stil'd himselfe Phæliche, onely childe
To him, who at that time was Folco's Duke,
And was so like to her whom he was stil'd,
That she could scarcely say twas not her look:
For what's of Issa and her picture writ,
Was found in them, they taskt the Poets wit.

Vnto this Virgine-cage she fast did pace,
And knocking at the gate, the Porter came,
Who seeing riches on her back and face,
With humble voyce desir'd to know her name.
My name (good friend) quoth she, Phæliche is,
I come to taste your choyce Monastick blisse.

Madam, Avaro sayd, our rubbish stone
With cement joynd shall pretious straight be made,
In that they shall enspheare so faire an one.
Phæliche smiling at the porter, sayd,
Hath time with Iron jawes eate out this part,
Which now these Masons do repaire by Art.

And truth it was, Phœliche (Folco's heire)
Flying the disaster of an hated Tede,
Coucht in disguises at a cottage bare:
(But how? when? where? task not my amorous lede)
So that Pazzella's faith writ on her brow,
The noble treasures of Phœliches vow.

Not time it was, but an unhappy houre,
The porter sayd, we had a vertuous faire,
Daughter unto a man of mighty power,
(So like your selfe, I think you sisters are)
How laregely flattry has disperst its song,
That it does oyle and smooth a porters tongue.

Bellama hight, by her uncourteous syre
Fetcht hence who when my Lady did deny,
Begirt our holy walles with sulphure fire,
And summond harnest men which close did lye,
They with their leaden worlds at us did play,
And frighted (as you see) these stones away.

Phæliche knowing that her Adamant,
Th'impulsive cause of this her virgin-vow,
Was vanisht thence, and gleames of joy did want,
And wanning sorrow reveld on her brow.
Scarce could she speak, & every joynting trembled,
Yet fear'd the Porter, and her feare dissembled.

Pazzella and the virgines her esteem'd,
Seeing her feature, and un-equald grace,
Before they knew his parentage, or deem'd
He was descended from high Folco's race;
But knowing that, their joyes did swell so high
That griefe for sorrow slinkt aside to cry.

But ere the next dayes Sun, to let out day
Nights Ebon box unlockt, she did not brook
To heare their private whispers, talke, and pray,
Erect the host, and kisse a guilded booke:
For, her, Bellama has possessed solely,
So that their water could not make her holy.

Instead of Virgin-mother, she would say,
My dearest Lady, heare my sad complaint,
Nor to she-Saints would she devoutly pray,
'Cause none but her Bellama was a Saint
Vnto Loretta, as Bellam' she sweares,
And calls their holy water but her teares.

She wondred oft how her Bellama did
Two yeares continue in this hated cell;
And in her thoughts she often-times her chid,
For dwelling where but formall good does dwell,
Since in her absence she could scarce abide
To sojorne here a double eventide.

Her braines acquainted was no whit with sloath,
But plotted how she might escape that Iayle,
And to this end she vowd her virgin-oath
Should for her quick returning put in bayle:
She thought her breach of virgin-oath no sin,
Because she onely wore the formall skin.

She mist, in ransacking her Cabbinet,
A pretious jewell farre exceeding rate,
Which on her brow the Lady Dutchesse set,
As a true pledge of her indulgent care,
Far richer than that pearle which Egypts Queene,
Quaft to her marke dissolv'd in liquor keene.

But for all this, a curious fit of man,
Did force her, for assay, to enter in,
To see if fasting did their Rosies wan,
Or folly led not in the Paphian sin,
Thinking her wit could manumisse her streight,
From that lank cloyster, by some nimble sleight.

This she pretended to have lost, as she
(Fainted with feares, and with her travailes tyred)
In the coole shade of a well-haired tree,
Threw water on her joynts with labour fired:
For heavens parch the ayre with hotter rayes,
When with his flaming tongue the dog-star bayes

Madam, quoth she, with feigned teares and sigh,
Grant me your licence to go seek my Gem,
The place of my reposure is but nigh,
Swore by those fires that did enlighten them.
By her virginitie and virgin-vow
Returne ere time could pace a triple now.

Quoth Piazzella, I will send a maid
To seek your jewell out with studied care,
Direct her to the shade, wherein you stayd,
For you forbidden are the common ayre;
Our gardens beautifide with Maya's glee,
Your farthest journey must and ought to bee?

She urg'd again, but all in vaine she askt,
The Prioresse remembred still the Earle.
And feard Phœliche his departure maskt
Vnder pretence of seeking for a pearle:
And more suspicious thoughts unto her came,
'Cause she so often kist Bellama's name.

She seeing that this plot did want a stampe
To make it currant passe, like lawfull coynes,
Fear'd her departure from this lanky came,
And vowd to try the virgines skill at foynes:
Yet ere she would attempt that amorous play,
She would attempt escapes some other way.

She veiwd the casements, and did boldly wrench
With courage masculine, the squared barres,
But they did scorne the vigour of a wench,
Like sturdy Okes which slight the windy jarres.
Nay more, deepe waters did begirt them round,
That from the glasse he could not see the ground

Then on the porter did she kindly smile,
And by full tale gave free respects to him,
Thinking to gull Avaro by this wile,
Ioyned with language, oyld, perfum'd and trim,
Quoth she thy trust and skill I must employ,
And for thy paines thou shalt have treasures boy.

The greedy Porter like a Goshauke seaz'd
With griping tallons on this Pheasant Cock:
Madam, sayes he, my skill is not diseas'd,
Nor dwels dissembling with the honest frock.
Disclose your secrets, and be sure, if man
Can doe you service, then Avaro can.

Phœliche then, as prologue to her suit,
Gave him a purse full fraught with pseudo-gold,
Told him her bounty brought no worser fruit,
If in th'atchievement hee'd be true and bold.
Thou must some evening let me passe the gates,
And straggle halfe a mile to gather dates.

Madam, Ile do't, it is a small request,
Since you doe merit better at my hand;
If fortune be propitious to my hest,
You on the common shore this night Ile land:
My hands have eyes, and onely what they see
Will they beleeve: give me my minted fee.

Phœliche then pluckt out a silken purse;
Great, and as musicall as th'other was,
Pretending it was stuft with metall curse,
When't onely was with circled ragges of glasse;
Which purposely she did with Dimonds cut,
To gull the Porters hopes, and fill his gut.

Heavens augment your store, Madam, quoth he,
Ile wait you at the middle age of night;
Come to my lodge, and softly call for me:
This handsome cheat Phœliche did delight.
To couzen the deceivers is no fraud,
To use a Pimpe, and cheat a rusty Baud:

She scarcely knew what letters spelled griefe,
For all her thoghts with regal crowns were wreath'd
Yet 'mongst them all, Bellama rul'd as chiefe:
At time of rest her body she unsheath'd,
And hous'd within the linnen walles her lims,
Till night and sleepe did their quick tapers dins:

Avaro (when dayes sisters mistie fog
Had popped out Apollo's searching eye,
And gen'rall silence humane tongues did clog,
Locking all sences up with Lethargie)
Stept to his purses, and began to thinke
How he should order his beloved chinke.

Hee'd hang his lodge with Arras, weav'd with gold,
That his successour there might sleepe in state,
Or else, if some revenues would be sold,
Hee'd give them Darwey bought at any rate,
That all the Nuns with prayers and holy names,
Might fetch his soule from out the purging flames.

Ile mend high-wayes, or hospitalls repaire,
Else build a Colledge, and endow't with mines.
Thus did he build his castles in the aire:
For all's not cash that gingles, gold that shines,
His glassie coyne leap out of the mint,
Ere on his brow the stamp did currant print.

Thus was he guld, as once a king of France
Payd a French Mounsieur for a prauncing steed,
Gave him a purse whose richnesse did enhance
Th'inclosed gem, suppos'd a noble meed;
But when for golden mountaines he did gape,
He op't the purse, and onely found a rape.

Oh what full anger redded ore his lookes!
What tides of rage and fury sweld his spleene!
He curseth her with candles, belles, and bookes,
And vowd ere long on her to wreak his teen.
Ah me! quoth he, such brittle things are lasses.
Which one poore letter changeth unto glasses.

Phæliche now perceiving all was quiet,
Hearing no noyse, unlesse a belly-blast,
Which might proceed from an unwholesome dyet,
Tyde her apparell on with nimble haste;
And comming to the lodge with knuckle knock,
She strove to summon out the lazie frock.

But the grim Tartar was so soundly luld
Without a dram of Opium steept in Ale,
Tyred with vexing that he was so guld,
That all Phæliches rappings nought availe,
Till vexed with demurres she knockt so lowd,
It rais'd a thunder like a breaking clowd.

Iust at that instant did Pazzell awake
From an affrighting dreame, wherein she saw
A dreadfull Lion her Phæliche take,
And teare her body with his sharpned paw:
And hearing this shrill noyse, feare sayd twas true,
Danger did threaten her Monastick crue.

Her frostied limbes she heaved out of bed,
And sheld her body in her night apparell,
Arming her hands with pistols stuft with lead,
Which anger firing, with the aire did quarrell:
And groping in the dark, her foot did slip,
Which out oth' barrels made the bullets skip.

Phæliche at that thunder-clap amaz'd,
With haste retired from the Porters cell,
And meeting her, on one another gaz'd,
The Porter starting up, did ring the bell;
The virgins shreekt, which all made murmures shrill
Like Irish hubbubs in pursuite of ill.

When reason somewhat had becalmd their rage,
The Abbatesse Phœliche sharply checkt:
Madam, sayes she, I onely came t'asswage
Intestine heates, which all my body deckt
In scarlet dye, and being much appald,
With frisking Fairies I the Porter cald.

Goe, goe, you are a wanton girle quoth she,
That fain would tempt my Porter unto folly,
Madam, Phœliche sayd, you injure me,
Sure, if lascivious I had been so jolly,
I might have met with many men more able,
Before I did invest my selfe with sable.

Oh madam, madam, mad Avaro cryde,
Why, do you think she could o'recome your frock?
I ne're did yeeld, yet have been often tryde,
My courage hath withstood a greater shock.
Yet sure she would—she would have past the gates,
The reason why? forsooth to gather dates.

I am afraid your dukedome, girle does long,
Not for the Porter, he is out of date;
But for an oylie Cavalier that's strong,
May teach her virginship a mothers fate.
Madam, look well, see if you misse no glasse,
I'me sure with brittle coyne she guld an Asse.

Then told the story: Piazzella fretted,
This is the Iewell which you would have sought,
When in all haste from hence you would have jetted
What your intendments were, my wisdome thought,
Ile have no gadders; and t'allay your heat,
I have a dyet will prevent a sweat.

In a retyred roome she lockt her up,
Devoyd of lustfull mates with her to play;
Allowd her pulse, and juice of clouds to sup,
And bad her scores of Ave Maries say.
Three artificial dayes she lodged there,
Where every day to her did seeme a yeare.

When she had paid this penance for her crime,
Which in her judgement was accounted bad,
She was again amongst the virgines prime,
On promise that she would not henceforth gad:
Yet still she plotted, but where ere she went,
The angry destines thwarted her intènt

Then from Bellam' since walls did her en-cell,
She thought t'employ her talent to the best:
One of the virgines had some vogliarell,
And earnestly desir'd with her to rest.
Who ere the morne did Piacinto sing,
And wore her blushes on her ruby'd ring.

Next night she chose another, then another;
Her curious palat so to novels stood,
That every one had hope to be a mother,
And neare of kin, united in one blood.
But yet, alas! this pleasure lasted not,
Their virgine-girdles could not keepe their knot.

Not many forthnights after they had tooke
These physick potions from their Doctors reynes
One told her folly by her meagre looke;
Another had more blew than on her veynes
Others were qualmish, and another longs
All spake their pleasures, yet all held their tongues

One long'd for Citrons, and another grapes
That grew on Alps steep height, others for peaches.
One strangely did desire the wayles of Apes
Steeped in juyce of Mirtles, holmes and beaches.
Some palats must be fed with implum'd Quailes,
And nothing must approach this tongue but rayls.

Some long'd for Creevish shrimps, Cods, Plaice and oysters,
One for a Limmond that doth grow on tho nes,
Another longeth for some blood of Roysters,
Spic't with the scrapings of pale Cynthia's hornes,
One on the bosome of the Matrone skips,
And spight of her full nose did gnaw her lips.

One bad them fill an Orke of Bacchus water,
Her thirsty soule she sayd would dreane a tun,
One from her window bids a poore translater.
Cut her a cantell of the gawdie Sun:
But above all, I like that witty girle,
Which long'd to feed upon a glorrah Earle.

The jealous matrone with suspitious eye,
Did read their common ill in every face,
Espyde the breach of their virginity,
And fear'd a plantage with an infant race.
Yet still supprest her knowledge, till at last.
Their heaving bellies kist their thickned waste.

She then with friendly summonings did call
The grave Lord Abbot, and his smooth-chin race,
Who coached came unto the virgin-hall,
But all the rabble through the vault did pace:
Arrived here she cooked dainty cates,
To please the Abbot, and his Tempo-pates.

So call'd a counsell 'bout her quondam maids,
Each one admiring who durst be so bold,
Since none had entrance, nor the virgines strayd,
And for the Porter he was known too cold:
The Pryor feard lest one of his square caps
Should guilty be of those up-heaving laps.

It was decreed that they all should be
Shreev'd, being sejoyned from each others ken,
But ere that time the teemers did decree,
What answer to return the shreeving men:
Phæliche did instruct them to deny.
That she gave birth unto their pregnancie.

But they should say, and to that saying seale,
With strong asseverations, that into
Our fast-lockt roome a youthfull blade did steale,
And with the best of wooing did us wooe:
Our cases are the same with Merlins mother,
Wee think our lover was his fathers brother.

Twas one mans act, or cloath'd with humane shape,
He was Angelicall, and this we thought,
Because there was no semblance of a rape:
We gave him our assent as soone as sought.
We judg'd un-maiding better in the darke,
Than Daphne-like, an husking ore with bark.

The shreevers to their Lords returne with smiles,
And on their lookes a joy ovall chhriots had,
Sayd, they confessed them with zeale and wises,
And by a plain narration knew the dad:
One of those ever-youthfuls came from heaven,
And in the virgins wombes did lay a leaven.

The Abbot at this newes did much rejoyce,
Since with a kinde aspect the virgine Ladee,
Viewing this Nunry, did ordaine this choyce,
And for the issue did appoint this dadee,
They shall be Prophets, Priests, of high renowne,
And Virgins which shall keep their bellies down.

Provide them child-bed linnen, mantles, swadles,
Rockers and Nurses, all officious shees,
With Rattles, Corals, little Carres and Cradles,
And give them beads to wait upon their knees,
Romes high Arch-vicar shall a testate bee,
To the first borne whom nature makes a hee.

Take pens, & smooth-strain Anthems write in bayes,
Make new Orizons unto all the Saints,
And to Lucina chaunt invoking layes,
To move her pitty these young mothers plaints
Say, her faire temple need not feare the flame,
Whilst here she wins her an eternall fame.

Phœliche smil'd to see their studied care
To foster whom she at her pleasure got
But Piazzella starting from her chaire,
Called Phœliche to survey her knot,
And finding it as at the first 'twas tyde,
How scaped you this Goddy Sire she cryde?

Madam, quoth He-Phœliche, I confesse,
I was a party in those spruce delights;
But nature curseth some with barrennesse,
As I have heard Albertus Magnus writes.
So that though my desires were full as bigge,
I was not heaved with that curtaine jigge.

Reason fortasse's on her words did stampe,
Which did en-truth thē (thogh they were but squibs)
This done, the Prior did remove his campe,
And all the Friers with hemp-girdled ribs,
All great with expectation, and as faine
Would be deliverd as the full-flankt traine.

They sung Canzone's ere the Sun could rise,
And Ave-Maries out of number sayd,
Lucina wondred at this strange disguise,
That Nuns and Monkes to her devoutly prayd:
All Beades were ratled, and all Saints invoked,
Some squeald, some tenourd, and some hoarsly croked.

With this conceit Phœliche frolique grew,
And sported bravely in the silent houres,
Her bed-mates calld her Angell, yet none knew
That 'twas Albino which had cropt their flowres:
But though they reveld in the night, the day
Threw hail-storms on their lust, to chill their play.

Yet had their pleasure not a grand-sire life:
For tatling slumbers did their joyes untone,
You vowd Phœliche, I should be your wife,
Sayes Cloe, ere you loos'd my virgine-zone:
But ah! so wak't, and feard her vocall slumber,
Would from her eye-lids force a Trent & Humber.

Sayes Phill', Phœliche, had I knowne at first,
You onely wore the name of Folco's daughter,
I would have suffred an untamed thirst,
Ere lust had brought mine honour unto slaughter:
But oh! and starting up, she fear'd her dreame,
Would ere twas long, obscure joyes mirthful gleam.

Well, well, sayes Floris, tis an happy change,
To loose mine honour for an Angell-mate,
But Angels will not house in such a grange,
This is the off-spring of Phæliches pate:
But ah! so sigh't, and sighing caused feares,
Lest her plump Rosies should be plowd with tears

Yet you must know the virgins did not use
To blab their private actions in a dreame,
But that the cunning Matrone did infuse
Some atomes of the Quiris into creame,
And ere they were inclos'd in Somnus armes,
She drencht their phansies in these liquid charmes.

Then with un-sealed eyes she made her cares
Keep privie watch to intercept their talke,
Yet would have washt her knowledge out with tears
And wisht it written in her minde with chalke:
One while she thankt the God of slumber, then,
Her curses threw him downe to Pluto's den.

But when Aurora in her Tissue veste,
Mantled with blushes, rose from Tithons side,
And through a casement of th'adored East,
Sent Phosphorus to usher in her pride,
Ere Phœbus our horizon did array,
With silver glitter of the blooming day.

She snatcht her termers from the sweet embrace
And golden fetters of deaths elder brother,
Bidding them hence those deadding slumbers chase,
T'implore the favour of the Virgin-mother.
They starting up with more than common speed,
Each sheld her body in her modest weed.

So cal'd to chappell those whose pregnant wombes
The Angels pills had heav'd above their wastes,
Like to a surfet taine of Hybla's combes,
When we are too indulgent to our tastes:
But left Phœliche out to cut or sue,
Or to embroider with the lankee crue.

Which made a sudden faintnesse loose each part,
And every joynt was like an Aspin leafe,
Her rosie twins retired to her heart,
Her lookes were colourd like a Sun-burnt sheafe,
As the stiffe bristles of an aged Boare,
Were her smooth lockes which ore her cheeks she wore.

And juster cause had none than she to feare,
For as from quiet slumber she awoke,
She heard the ptisick pick Pazzella's eare,
That she had knowledge of what Floris spoke,
And now she doubted all wold come to th'scanning
Their longing, swelling, and their sudden wanning.

The Virgines wondred at Phæliches change,
To see her eyes fixt in a white-lim'd wall,
Each feard herselfe, and each conceiv'd twas strange.
Lest the disease was Epidemicall,
That Merlins unkle chang'd Phæliches hue,
And streakt their temples with a purple blew.

But leave her sighing with these sterile Dames,
Wee'l crowd into the house of sacred vowes,
Where consciousnesse begetting female shames,
Spred scarlet carpets on their cheekes and browes,
They lookt and blusht, & glanc't on one another,
Each curst the minute which did dub her, Mother.

The holy brethren through the mouldy pipe
At that same time did unexpected come,
To know if th'goddy issue yet was ripe,
To give adiew unto their skin-seeld home.
But viewing still their wombs with zealous hands,
They prayd Lucina to unty their bands.

Their chauntings dead, the Abbatesse began,
Brethren, you see what sad misfortune haps
Vnto my virgines by the oyle of man;
Witnesse the heaving of their spongie paps:
We of an Angel dream'd; but if he was,
He shall hereafter for an evill passe.

I made their slumbers vocall, so they told
Twas Folco's Dukes supposed daughters worke,
Larv'd with that name it seemes some Royster bold
Them to un-virgin cunningly did lurke
But since tis so, the proverbe shall stand good,
Tart sawces must be mixt with lushious food.

I knew him to be wanton, and to chill
The raging heat of his unbridled lust,
I doom'd him three dayes penance, judg'd an ill
Would make him saplesse, as the Summers dust.
But since that faild, dayes shal be chang'd to years,
Minutes to months, till payd his tribute teares.

Ile try if griefe will drean his melting reines,
And hang a crutch upon his able back:
If sorrow will unbloud his swelling veines,
And make his sinewes, shrinke with famine, crack.
Ile make a purgatory, where, with hunger,
Frost, flame, & snow, Ile tame my virgin-monger.

He give command, a dungeon shall be made,
To whose close wombe the Sun shall never pry,
Nor Cynthia dare to peepe: for gloomy shade
Like clowdy night shall purblinde every eye:
Bare measure foure-foot broad, and for the height
'T shall make him by constraint, not, court lye sleight.

A bed-stead hewn out of the craggie rock,
Not archt with Cedar wainescoat, knobd with gold,
His bed no shrinker, but a sturdy flock:
Swans shall not be dplum'd his limbes t'infold:
Nor curtaind with the travails of the loome
Of poore Arachne ere she had her doome.

I will not spend the ransome of a crowne
For curious dainties to delight his taste:
Ile fetch no fowles from off the Parthian downe,
Or Phænicopter for luxurious waste.
I will no Mullet from Corsica take,
Oysters from Circes, or the Lucrine lake.

I will allow him pottage thickt with bran,
Of barley meale a chenix every day:
A soveraigne diet for a frolique man
That is affected with the Paphian play:
And lest his stomack should too cholricke grow,
I will affoord him some congealed snow:

The bald-pate crew this penance well approov'd,
And in a trice all things she ready got:
So well she stird her stumps (as it behoov'd)
She being hatcher of this starving plot,
This done, with friendly words and courteous aire,
She cal'd Phœliche to her house of prayer.

It sutes not with your greatnesse, Madam faire,
Being sole daughter to so great a man,
To lodge with those which your inferiours are,
As much as is an inch unto a span,
And I'me afraid the Duke will fume and sweare,
Should but your lodging step into his eare.

Madam, quoth she, you harbour needlesse feares,
Goodnesse, not greatnesse, differenceth maids,
My father's no Tobacconist, and sweares
In poynt of honour, like our scarlet blades:
And, by my faith, it more contenteth me,
To sheet with maidens, though of mean degree.

I am surcharged with the black-hew'd cholar,
Which strikes my phansie with most ugly shapes,
I durst not rest a darknesse for a dollar,
Without a pillow-friend to scare those Apes:
Let Cloe with conceits my spirits wing,
Or melancholy will my Requiem sing.

You shall sayes she, have Sesamoidesse,
For all intreats are of too dull a print,
We must respect your fathers worthinesse,
His honour must your love and passions stint.
And your owne worth must highly be regarded,
How shall I else expect to be rewarded?

Then did she take her by the tender hand,
And led her to her grot in princely state,
She feard not much, nor did her will withstand,
Iudging divorcement was her harshest fate:
But when she saw the entrance was so narrow,
A sudden feare did eat up all her marrow.

Pazzella viewing her supposed Lasse,
Repented her of her intended ills;
But injuries engraven are on brasse,
And womens joynters are to have their wils.
And lest remorse should chill her angry mood,
Fewell was added by the brother-hood.

Then, sayes she, Madam you behold the cage
Which I prepared for your honours good,
Where you may spend the Autumne of your age,
Till age and winter have congeal'd your blood.
You may retire to ease, for envy can
Nor dares to say, you'r not an able man.

When twice ten circled snakes are crawld away,
You shall enjoy companions masculine,
To give instructions in that youthfull play
Is fed with Ceres and the god of wine:
And if my virgines shall hereafter be
Lascivious given, I will send for thee.

Into this Coven was Phœliche thrust,
With bars and locks the entrance sealed fast,
Now must he pay a deare rate for his lust,
His Curtain-vezzo, and the Corrall taste.
Sure, his repentance will be full as deare,
As the Philosophers non tanti were.

Ah foppish Monke! did not Bellama's no,
Give thee a warning-peece, presaging danger,
But thou must headlong rush upon thy woe?
Happy's that man which is to lust a stranger:
If this of dalliance is the constant fee,
Let them d---dally that doe lift for me.

Here, when the barking star his scepter wav'd,
When in our clyme we feele an Æthiope's heat,
An under-vault the subtile matrone pav'd,
With fire and flame to force a constant sweat;
That as from flowres, hot Limbecks water still,
So by this stove from him sweat-currents drill.

Then for the winter season she provided
A melting cloud full fraught with feathred raine,
(Whose curious art the aire-borne clouds derided)
Which through some oylet holes might passage gain
His cabine should have been like Alps cold hight
Mantled and strewed ore with winters white.

And twas so darke I cannot see to write:
Nay, at a non-plus it all pencils sets;
Twas helles epitomy, the cage of night,
Wal'd in with pitch, and roofed ore with jets.
The Linx at mid-day here would wish for day,
And Cats without a torch, must grope their way.

But leave him labyrinth'd, and thus distrest,
And see Bellama, and examine how
She brookes the absence of her bosome-guest;
If discontent does revell on her brow;
It does: for why she dreames, and never sleepes:
She feeds, and fats not; laughes, but ever weepes.

Disaster hangs upon Albino gyves,
Sayes she, else Envy keeps him prisoner,
Or a new Bull does interdict them wives,
So seales the lips of my petitioner;
Else the smirke knave is so devout in pray'r,
He has no time to kisse the common aire.

But does he love? or is't a fit of mirth?
Which like to childrens fansies soone expire,
Ere language or employment give them birth,
Flashing affections, ag'd like thunder-fire:
His eyes shot Cupids at my yeelding heart,
But his firme breast repeld my feeble dart.

Perchance he judg'd my forwardnesse to love,
By too much curtsie and my frequent glances,
So thought in jest my willingnesse to prove,
Not with that sober passion which entrances:
But with lip-love, which to the heart nere sinkes,
And paper-vowes which take their birth from inkes.

But stay: does greatnesse use to be deny'd?
Beauty and bravery command a graunt;
Yet might my lookes and carriage plum'd with pride
His humble and untowring Spirit daunt,
Daunt? not his soule's a temper most divine,
Dares soare aloft to kisse the Suns neare shine.

Then love he does: but must this action, Wooe,
Be tyde by patent onely unto men?
Some unfrequented paths of love Ile goe,
And in some riddles court him by my pen:
Yet first to th' Abbey Ile dispatch a post,
To make enquiry where my Monke doth host.

The Merchant is not with desires so bigge,
When as he plowes the Seas for Indian mines,
With slower steps the sonnes of Bacchus trigge
To Sack-shops for the French and Spanish wines.
Then she to Tagus bids her servant goe
To Crostfull Abbey where her wishes grow,

Gone is the messenger, but small successe
Waites on his travailes, for he back returnes,
With Madam, where Albino's none can guesse,
They thinke his ashes are inclos'd in urnes:
For time, say they, has counted forth nights many,
Since his choyce feature object was to any.

This answer shot an hail-storme at her heart,
Whose sudden chilnesse jelly'd all her blood,
Sh'applyed Holco to unscrue the dart,
But her assayments brought her little good:
For but Albino none can cure her ill,
Not Physick potions, or the druggards skill.

Ah me! Has Fate my deare Albino tane?
Then farewell Musick, and you sprucing trade,
Either my teares shall body him againe,
Or send my ghost to wayt upon his shade:
For she is judg'd a light unconstant lover,
Whose flame the ashes of neglect can cover.

Have you beheld how, when the moores and marsh
Belch vapours to blemish bright Titans eye,
They with his rayes wage conflicts long and harsh,
Confining them unto their proper sky,
(Bribed perchance by envious night to wrap
Day and his champion in his sooty lap.)

So that to us appeares nor Sun nor day,
And onely faith perswades us there is both,
Till day and Sun call in each straggling ray,
And force a passage spight of fume and froth;
Yet then the day but newly seemes to dawne,
And ore the Sun a vaile of Cypresse drawne.

Iust so diseasing sorrow, arm'd with teares,
Sighes and black melancholy vaild her face,
So that no ray of lovelinesse appeares,
And onely faith perswades us she has grace:
Her eyes retyr'd, her double blush was wan'd,
Her lockes dissever'd, and her Lillies tan'd.

And as in her which arted lookes does ware,
Men looke for natures steps, and cannot trace her,
Since she by nature nothing lesse than faire,
Hath purchas'd from the shops such worth to grace her,
Thogh foule, now faire & sleek, thogh age did plow
And made long furrowes in her cheek and brow.

So knowledge here was in a maze, the eye,
That knew Bellama, did Bellama seek,
And looking on her, nothing could descry,
Spake her Bellama or in eye or cheeke.
To loves harsh lawes she gave such constant duty,
Sh'ad onely left an Anagram of beauty.

She threw her selfe upon her couch of ease,
And marshald all her thoughts in just arayes,
This brought small comfort, that did hardly please,
And in that thought despaire the scepter swayes,
Yet thought she not death could a period set,
Vnlesse he did some strange advantage get.

Hee's young and lusty, every veine does swell
With Aqua-vitæ, corrall juyce of life,
His skill in Magick else can frame a spell,
To distance meagre death and Atrops knife:
Yet love gives birth to feare, Ile send to search
The Lions flinty bed, and Vultures pearch.

I and my woman will attend the quest,
Vaild in disguises of some country Lasses:
No state-distinction, for my humble breast
Shall leave all pride with silks, perfumes and glasses;
And if with non inventus we returne,
Ile Venus witchcraft hate, and Cupid spurne.

When as the soveraigne of the day had drawne
A vaile of brightnesse ore the twinkling lampes,
And threw on Cynthia's brow a double lawne,
Clearing the welkin from benighting dampes,
They in the habits of a milking maid,
(All but skin-linnen) did their beauties shade.

And in these course attires they hasted out
To seeke Albino, through each wood and plaine,
Whom we will leave to pace the world about,
And see Phæliche wet with eye-lid raine,
Whose bondage was the greater, since despaire
Blasted all hopes which promis'd her the aire.

The brazen Bull, Strappado, or the rack,
The Faggot-torture, and the piked barrell,
Ballanc't with his, degrees of sorrow lack,
Tis with a bull-rush to decide a quarrell:
The famine where withall the Thracian knight
Was sent to Pluto wants a little weight.

He that stole sire fro th' Chariot of the Sun,
Whose liver's vulture gnawne at Caucasus:
He that the counsels of the gods un-spun,
Like wantons eyes stone-rowling Syhphus,
Hold best proportion with these sharpned woes,
Which sterne misfortune on Phœliche throwes.

She that was glutted with most curious cates,
Had every pleasure to content her lust,
Who had command ore Fortune, and the Fates,
Now sups up pulse, and gnawes a fleeced crust.
She that had many girles, is now alone,
And of so many cannot compasse one.

Had I a fansie steept in sorrowes brine,
Invention witty in the threnes of woe,
Could sad experience dictate every line,
A dearth of words would to my muse say no.
I may as well go fathome all the spheares,
As measure her disasters, count her teares.

Oft on remembrance of that harmlesse blisse,
Which (coaped) she enjoyd, her thoughts wold feed
Of on Bellama's beauty, touch and kisse,
Till strucken dead with thought of present need.
Then would she raise her thoughts, & hope for day,
And starting up from silence, boldly say,

Despite of Envies vipers, trickes and wiles,
My cradle-play-mate, Mirth, Ile nere forsake,
But taste Sardinian hearbs shall raise up smiles,
Though I was wafting ore the Stygian lake:
Tortures shall nere un-man me, but Ile be
Albino, malice, spite of her and thee.

Delayes oft-times from times secluded parts
Bring helpe to helplesse not expecting aid,
Some of the gods will pitty these my smarts,
Not suffer them to whet the Sextons Spade.
Or if the gods midst slames then scorpion-like,
Ile gore my breast, and fall on mine owne pike.

Yet had I suffred for a courteous one,
These woes shold ne're had power t'have rais'd a sorrow,
But when mine eyes did in my breast enthrone
Her—her of whom, hell cruelty may borrow.
This is the height of woe, death and diseases,
Nay, hell it selfe, to this compared, pleases.

Yet stay, say Neptunes pallace shall be land,
And this firme ball of earth a liquid brack:
Say the North-pole with Phœbus shall be tand,
And to the South the Lillies shall be black.
Say this, and more, before thou dare to say
Bellama is Mà boun' or Mà bellà.

No more of this, wee'l for her freedome plot,
A pious Monke perceiving well her smart,
With diligence assayd to purge each spot,
With holy Creuse from her diviner part.
But still her answer was, nor man nor lover,
Nor she, the virgines ankles did discover.

Alas! my brother, I am not a male,
But a weake Sience of the weaker sex
The Ladies spake the truth (might truth prevaile)
But me with torture Piazell doth vex;
'Cause at my entrance I did promise faire,
Yet't proves court-language, meerly, purely, aire.

But all this time she would not licence daigne
That I three yards behinde should leave the gates,
And fumed when I would have left her traine,
T'have sought a jewell, and to gather Dates.
So that the Duke my father ne're had ken
Of my encloystring in this hate-light den.

But gainst it now resolving, I intend
To turne the streame of his munificence
On you deare brother, if you'l be my friend,
And plot how I may be deliver'd hence:
Lend your endevours, and Ile lend my wit,
Vow faithfulnesse, and I will warrant it.

Ile wooe my father for his free assent,
If to your barren Cowle you'l bid farewell,
That Hymens rites may perfect our content
By joyfull eccho's of the marriage bell.
'Cause you in person doe resemble him
Whom 'mongst all men I onely judged trim.

The Monke gave eare unto her winning prate,
And gazed on her beauty masculine,
Whose feature might delude a wiser pate,
Assisted onely by a tallow-shine:
For by an unctious salve, she kept her chin
From the haire-mantle of an aged skin.

Madam, sayes he, I judge your language true,
And to your vowes I dare my credence lace:
Your virgin-blushes innocence doe shew,
And modesty is printed on your face.
Faith, truth, and honesty reside with mee,
My best endevours shall your servants be.

Well, sayes Phœliche, I have now decreed
(Since Phœbus has forsook our hemispheare)
To sheath my body in your holy weed,
Then through the private walk my course wil steere.
So from your holy walles Ile take my flight,
Or by permission, or in silent night.

100

And when I am arriv'd at Folco's towers,
My Father shall your matchlesse kindnesse know,
Who, I am sure, will summon all his powers
To fetch thee from this house of flame and snow:
And who with much contentment will not brook
Some three dayes penance to be made a Duke.

For by inheritance the Dukedome's mine,
When death unbody shall my fathers soule,
Since no heire-males descended from our line,
The Salique law cannot my right controule.
And to assure thee that I'me onely thine,
I sweare by all the powers that are divine.

Then did she circle with ensphearing arme,
Conrado's neck, and amorously him lipt,
Which did the amorist so strongly charme,
That he with haste out of his vestments skipt,
And bad Phœliche change, for in good deed,
He should full well become her virgine weed.

Phœlich undrest, and drest, and having made
Herselfe a Monke, put on Conrado's face,
And some few minutes with her Monkship playd,
Then gave a farewell to that hated place.
But ere her quick dispateh could post her thence,
Her beauty shot a fire through every sence,

Feare now exilde the confidence hee tyde
Forc't by affection to Phœliche's words,
Revokt his promise now, all sayd denyde,
And with majestick lookes and gestures lords,
His flaming lust dissolv'd his pious snow,
And now his lowd desires will have no No.

101

But vowes to dis-encloath her, and to breake
Her virgine-seale, despight of force or smiles,
Till Folco strove, and made his noddle leake
Sardonick liquor to new-paint the tiles,
So hasted out, and to the Matrone gave
The Iron Porter of Conrado's grave.

Imping his haste, he threads the vaulted lane,
Not wounded by his soles, this many a day,
Like those, which, when arraign'd, a pardon gaine,
Dare neither at the gaole nor gallowes stay.
And comming to the posterne gate, he knockt;
Which at devotion time was alwayes lockt.

But when the last Amen had silenc't prayer,
The Porter to Albino entrance gave,
Who straight was broght unto the judgment chaire,
Where, furd with state, did sit the Abbot grave,
Who sayd, Conrade, why was your stay so long?
You mist the Manna of the Even-song.

Pseudo-Conrado answerd him, My Lord,
I found Phœliche so opprest with griefe,
That charity commanded me t'affoord,
By learning, prayers and Anthemes some reliefe.
And truly on my faith, I am perswaded,
A virgine-lady with these weeds is shaded.

I moov'd to pitty by her streaming teares,
Her sighing gales, lowd threnes, and sad laments,
Won by her beauty, and her tender yeares,,
Have promis'd ayd, confirmd by your assents.
And in all haste will tell her fathers grace,
What clowds of woe bemist Phæliches face.

102

She promis'd me, when as her freedom's seald,
When she shall re enjoy the glorious light,
When the sad sentence of her woe's repeald,
She will be mine in spite of envies might.
Nay more, she from the Dukedome will extract
Some Lordships to performe a pious act.

Forth with a Synod of the holy men
Was cal'd to broach the wisedome of their pates,
The questions were propos'd, Who? what? and when?
The who is Folco's daughter; what, estates.
The when, so soone as shee by Folco's powers
Shall shell her body in proud Gurby's towers.

This answer smelt of profite, and did gaine
The Abbots liking, and his griping crue,
Sayes he, Conrado true content does raigne
And triumph in our thoughts, we yeeld to you,
Successe wayt on thy voyce, for to thy care
Our wishes, hopes, desires, entrusted are.

Feare not, quoth he, my faith dares warrant all,
All things are reall, as my words are true;
My selfe will pace unto faire Gurby hall,
And with emphatick language plead and sue:
So that old Folco's lungs shal crack with laughter,
To heare me chat the travailes of his daughter.

First, she mistrusting that she should be forc't
By his proud nod, unto a hated pillow,
From folly, Folco, Folke herselfe divorc't,
To twist for scorned mayds, some wreathes of willow,
How zealously she prayd, and lookt demurely,
She is in thought, and word, a virgin surely.

103

But the conceit is this, who bridles laughter?
That virgines holy, pure and Nuns to boot,
Should thicken with the pilles of Folco's daughter,
Sing lullaby's, and to Lucina hoot,
T'increase the wonder then, & impe his pleasures,
To Folco Ile present these waggish measures.

Beheld, admire, and some contentment gather From Nuns! bat teeme, mand by a virgin-father.

Wonder and admiration cease to gaze
On slashing meteors, starres, and comets blaze,
Let not Vitruvius, or th' Iobonian beast
Putzol or Ætna slide into your breast:
Ope not your eares unto those crackes of thunder,
Whose Canon eccho's split the orbes in sunder.
Lend not your audience to those fond reports
Of Obr'on, Mabell, and their Fairy sports,
Nor tye your credence to the Poets pen,
Which writes the noble acts of warlike men,
Of Monsters, Moon-calves, merry games, & maskes,
Atlas stiffe shoulders, and Alcides taskes,
Amazement flies these bables, and does pin
Faith, eyes, and thoughts, unto this curtaine-sin.
That a pure virgine should un virgine others,
And though a virgine, yet make many mothers.
Make them heave up, be qualmish, pale, and cry,
A Mid-wife (hooh) a Mid-wife, else we dye.
It is an Africke crow, a sable Swan,
To have a vestall puffed up with man.
But that so many Nuns un-maydend are,
B' a Nun without a man, is more than rare.
The Sybils virgine is not worth a rush,
And Merlins mother may with envie blush:

104

These, though they soard above the pitch of reason,
Yet crost not natures order, course or season,
For women teemd as women, but a woman
As man, makes virgines teeme, and yet is no man,
This—this is object unto fame and wonder,
Then make each clime with this Mirandum thunder.

About this time, night summond them to rest,
And each repaired to his sturdy bed.
Albino's feares his hopes and joyes supprest.
But in the rest, content struck sorrow dead:
They slept untill the bright enlightned aire
With silver glitter cald them up to prayer.

But our Albin' took earlier leave of sleepe,
And sheath'd his body in his Monkish vests,
Knockt at his lodge which did the entrance keepe,
Who, that he could not wake himselfe, protests,
Thou art some Fury, Hag, or Hob, I troe,
That boldly at my lodge dost thunder so.

Albido sayes, what phrensie dampes thy reason?
Arise, my haste commands a frequent rap.
Begone, quoth he, entreates are out of season,
Worshipfull Hob, Ile have another nap,
Tis not mine houre to rise untill I heare
The clapper sound a surge in mine eare.

When our young Monke had many minutes spent,
And could not Foppo from his pillow reare,
About that time lights charioter had sent
Dayes trusty Herbinger his Orbe to cleare.
He searcht the walls, and traffickt with the lock,
But all in vaine, he must implore the frock.

105

The Chappell-clarke as constant to his houre,
As is dayes Herauld, which at breaking crowes,
Seeing Aurara did his windowes scowre,
And leapt into his chamber, straight arose,
Making the shrill-ton'd bell in ecchoes speake,
Awake and rise to prayer, the day does breake.

Foppo was at that time in Morpheus court,
Where he with apparitions was affrighted,
The Scœne was chang'd, then came a dainty sport,
Whose sudden neatnesse every sence delighted,
Then dreamt Albine their runnigado Monke
Was knocking at his lodge the other Nunc.

Then dreamt he saw a table richly spread,
With all the dainties ryot ever felt:
All birds of warrant which in woods are bred,
With Salmon, Mullet, Turbot, Trout and Smelt.
The Princely-pacing Deere entombd in paste,
Enbalmd with spices to delight the taste.

A sparkling wine-drawne newly from the cheeke
Of some chaste faire, which blushes colourd red,
With brisk-Canary, and enlivening Greek,
Poetick Sherry, which can sharpen lead.
This ravisht Foppo with a taste-content,
Till to his eare the Bell an errand sent.

When starting up, he deemd the bell did call
His able stomack to a Founders feast,
And with all speed was swogging to the hall,
But that Albino stayd him by the crest,
And lue-warme claret from his hogshead drew,
To make his stomacke give the Deare adiew.

106

Quoth he, thou sonne of Sonanus, drowsie slave.
Why didst thou not at my lowd summons rise?
But in a fit of lunacie didst rave,
As though thy wit had tane some new disguise?
Ile be your Hob, your Hag, and though I'me loath,
Will now chastise thee for thy feigned sloath.

But whilst his passion tooke a breathing space,
The wakned Porter from his fists did creepe,
Fixed his goggles on his youthfull face,
And then remembred his propheticke sleepe.
Tels him hee's not Conrado, for he knowes
That brow, those cheekes, lips, eyes, Albino owes.

And thogh your wrath should grind me unto powder,
Without a warrant, I will ope no gate,
This answer made Albino's anger lowder,
And vowd a passage bought at any rate:
So leapt upon the slave with nimble strength,
And measurd on the earth his ugly length.

Albino hastes to th'posterne, having got
The keyes, but 'mongst so many much was puzzled
To finde the right, Foppo mean while did trot
Vnto some chambers where the shavelings nuzzled.
And them with our cryes raysed to surprise
Albino, larved in Conrado's guise.

Like penancers, with linnen on their backes,
The bald-pates ran to seize upon their pray;
But yet their haste a semi-moment lackes,
Albino through the gate had found a way.
And snatching on the keyes, did them encage,
Raising a Bulwarke to withstand their rage.

107

Then thankt his starres, that thus deliverd him
From dangers which did threaten nought but death,
For he by th'verge of Mare mort did swim,
And did expect his latest gale to breath.
Nay, these late troubles had him so dis-harted,
That every shadow 'lmost the union parted.

You, whose disasters some proportion hold,
Helpe my weake phansie to expresse his feares,
Teach me my rithmes in Cypresse to enfold:
From thwarted lovers borrow me some teares,
Fetch me some grones from the ascending thiefe,
And from the inquisition fetch me griefe.

Without demurres Albino left the wicket,
Fearing the Monkes should bribe the faithlesse Iock,
And steerd his course unto a well-grown thicket,
Whose lofty hill was armd with many a rock,
He envies sculls, that wayt on spit and oven,
And vowes nere more to see that hated coven.

Have you beheld the stately pacing stagge
Flying the ecchoes of some deep-mouth'd hounds,
How first his brow does weare a ferny flagge,
And with curvaitings beates the quaking ground.
Telling the Fawns & wood-nymphs that he scorns
The hounds, horse, huntsmen, and their warbling hornes.

But when he is embost in blood and sweat,
When travaile on his swiftnesse fetters hangs,
He then is frighted with the shrill recheat
And feares a pinking with the yellers fangs:
Seekes e'ry where for shelter, and dares rush
Maled with feare into the sharpest bush.

108

So far'd it with Albino, whilst he had
Fate at a becke, commanded fortunes wheele,
Was called by his Donnes active lad,
He thought his joyes were walled in with steele,
Slighted misfortune, envie set at nought.
And braving malice dar'd in every thought.

But when his towring heart was taught to know
Humiliation, and selfe-confidence,
Was strucken dead with famine, flame and snow,
Although his geniall starres had freed him thence.
He feares the Monkish rabble, and he shrowdes
Himselfe in caves, encurtaind round with clowds.

In his dark house he heard a feeble voyce,
Breathd from the corrals of some weakned maid,
At first concealment was his better choyce,
Till pitry set an edge upon his blade.
Then guided by the cry, he saw a Royster
Did in his armes perforce a Nymph encloyster.

Yet seeing home-spun russet, stopt his pace;
Saying by this, what honour shall I gaine?
But in his eye so curious was her face,
Though maskt and blubberd ore with brackish raine,
That he forthwith unsheathd his trusty Turke,
Cald forth that blood which in his veines did lurk.

So stepping forward, cryes, Injurious slave,
Vnto what basenesse does thy folly tempt her?
Who answerd him, Fond soole; thy foolish brave
From my decreed end shall not exempt her.
Befriend me Queen of Cypresse, and in spight
Of force or Fortune, Ile have my delight.

109

Desist, Albino sayes, or olse I vow
By all those tapers which enrich the night,
Ile make pale death strew Cypresse on thy brow,
And to th'infernall shades thy soule will fright.
Cease from thy brutish rape, or else prepare
Thy cursed lungs to draw the Stygian ayre.

Quoth the rude Sylvan, I'am past that age,
Which with Bug-bears the foppish nurse does fright.
Hence curtaine-squire, smock-groom, & urine-page,
Ile have no testates unto my delight.
Pack hence with speed, or by Actæons head,
My weightie falcheon shall pronounce thee dead.

Well, sayes Albino, since thou'lt not desist,
Prove the adventures of a bloody duell,
One of our threads fell Atrops shall untwist,
For to my rage kinde pitty lendeth fuell.
To free a virgine from thy gryping pawes,
I judge well pleasing unto natures lawes.

They claspt their Helms, and buckled to their fight,
Twixt whom no umpire was but meagre death,
The wooddards greene with Tyrian dye was dight,
Who now desires a minutes space to breath,
Albino gave the truce, yet but to breath,
His valour scornd to crowd into the sheath.

Then did his nimble slight and courage shew
Faining a stroake, but poynted at his breast,
Which op't a doore, whereat his spirits flew,
And well nigh set his fainting soule at rest.
With that th'enfeebled Sylvan weakly cryes
Hold, hold thy hand, or else Sylvanus dyes.

110

Dost call for mercie, sayes Albino, now,
And all thy thoughts erst while triumphant rid?
I seek not murder may I save my vow,
That I should joy in blood my starres forbid,
I am content the virgines voyce shall seale
Thy death or pardon, if thou make appeale.

Faire virgine, quoth Sylvanus, pitty is
The onely grace that gives a virgin price.
Remission crownes a heart with greater blisse,
Then to hang iron on weak natures vice.
The rayes of your bright beauty urg'd desire,
Your feature kindled lust, love blowd the fire.

The virgin answerd, I did never suck,
The Tygers dugges, the Lionesse and Bare.
Nor from a reeking breast an heart did plucke
Never will I in blood with vultures share.
But since submission speakes from voyce and knee,
Kinde pitty thins the fault, and pardons thee.

Then to Albino sayes, Heroick youth,
May all the blessings which attend on man,
Felicitate thy life, and to buy truth
To words, I dare doe more than virgines can.
But above all I wish, may natures pride,
Lillies and Roses inter-twine thy bride.

But yet alas! to recompence by ayres
So large a bounty, and so free, is poore:
Yet why may not aspotlesse virgines prayers,
Wingd with desire, unclaspe high heavens doore,
Accept of this, and if the Fates befriend me,
These blessings which I wish for, shal attend thee

111

Natures sole wonder, beauties onely gem,
Quoth he, my valour and my feeble armes,
(If your perfections had not strengthned them)
Could not have freed you from intended harmes.
Ascribe the honour to your matchlesse face,
My courage merits not the meanest place.

Yet had I swom through seas of steaming blood,
And past through Nitre flames, that belch forth led,
Had all the Furies arm'd with vipers stood
T'have stopt my passage or pronounc't me dead,
I would have thrown the dye, my fortune tryde
T'have bought you freedome, though in crymson dyde.

For when mine eyes sent forth the farthest glance,
To fetch th'Idæa of your beauty in,
That very sight my sences did intrance,
And made my thoughts excuse Sylvanus sin:
For sure your quickning rayes can melt a snow,
On which the windes of age and sorrow blow.

But why doe I upon the Ela rayse
Thy noble worth, and yet intend to wooe,
Since beauty oft displayes her plumes at praise,
Then by this doing, I my selfe un-doe.
Yet where I vertues finde refinde as gold,
Despaire shall never make affections cold.

Be pleased then to thinke the god of Love
With guilded arrow has transfixt my heart,
And let my purpled breast your pitty move,
With Balsame of regard, allay my smart,
Send thy quick eyes into my breast to see
What tortures prick my heart to purchase thee.

112

Sir, I am griev'd, quoth she, you are allyde
To him, whose quiver crownes a lovers wish,
Else at a twelve score distance might y'ave spyde
You cast your net to mesh a simple fiish.
Your worth and feature does entitle you:
To Cytherea with her silver hue.

When I, alas! am but an homely mayde,
Borne to a spindle, and to serve a plow.
To milke my spongie-teated cowes, I strayde,
Which here amongst these tender hazels low.
My starved fortunes cannot thinke of love,
Nor does my envy wound the billing Dove:

This answer silenced Albino's hopes,
Which spake as lowd as though they kist the sheets,
He in his thoughts commends the quiet copes,
Which taste no sowre in hunting after sweets.
Alcides life, quoth he, compar'd to mine;
Is trouble-free, spic't with contents divine.

Faire mayd, what hatred frosteth your desires?
What steames of envy choake bright Venus lampe?
Give some kinde fuell to maintaine my fires,
A frowne of yours will all my vitals dampe.
Oyle ore my writhled heart, or let me know
From what black heads these bitter cadents flow.

Your favours Sir, have such commanding power,
That tis unjust your wishes to deny,
Accurst with all black tempests be that houre
In which my heart gave credit to mine eye,
Else would I not have been so much averse,
T' a minde so noble, and a feature terse.

113

But now alas! my selfe, my selfe am not,
For heartlesse I, my heart have gin away,
An Abbey-brother has that treasure got,
Albino hight, hee's Phœbus of my day.
Your habit speaks you a Monke, Sir, if you can,
Tell me where I may find that (ah me) man.

Be pleas'd, quoth she, to tell me where I may,
Or goe my selfe, or else a servant send.
Faire mayd, quoth he, it is a gloomy way
Leads to the bed of your benighted friend.
His ashes are in Darwey Abbey layd,
But his faint Ghost walkes ith' Elizian shade.

But is he dead, sayes she, and lowdly shreekt,
Which wak't Narcissus hate to second her,
Her rosyes dewd with melting chrystall, reekt,
And sorrow did her trembling heart interre.
Symptomes of sad deplorings nere were know ne,
Which were not in her sharpe lamentings showne.

Choyce mayd (quoth he) do not destroy your rosyes,
And blast your beauty with such scalding sighes,
In natures garden there are choycer posyes,
More comely features, and more agile thighes,
What though Albino's dead, another may
Be trulier tearmd the Phœbus of your day.

Oh, doe hot staine, sayes she, his spotlesse name.
Within his bosome every vertue rang'd,
Equals to him dull nature cannot frame,
Though she should labour till herselfe be chang'd:
It is a shame to aske more favours, yet
Grant me this one, because my sunne is set.

114

My pitty sav'd, when as your fury had
The rough-pawd Sylvan minced with your skeane,
Oh with same courage let your minde be clad,
With your sharpe Cemeter my liver dreane,
Why should I be a liver, since hee's dead,
Who was my hope, my health, my heart, my head.

How am I chang'd, quoth hee? my heart does beate,
The fainting summons of the childe of sinne,
My knees doe quarrell, and a chilling sweate
Cold as the dew of winter, oyles my skin,
Feare snatcheth from my roseat banks their blood,
And drownes my liver in a sanguine flood.

Tis strange a naked breast of bleached snow,
And chrystall mounts, enricht with corrall heads,
(On which the purple violets doe grow.)
Should dare mine arme, and strike my courage dead.
My steele a breast of iron has unhing'd,
And knees of brasse have to my fury cring'd.

Had some vaste Gog, or he whom Tollus brought,
One got by Fury, or Gradivus mate;
Who, but with monsters, ne're convers'd with ought,
Dar'd with a looke, mine arme had weakned Fate.
But at this feeble voyce my blood does start,
And into pitty melts my swelling heart.

Then name no more those words: for they at once,
Doe both un-edge my valour and my steele,
Too safely doe your vertues keep the sconce,
My steadiest thoughts, struck with these letters, reele:
My sacrilegious hand shall never staine,
Vertues sole Temple, and the graces fane.

115

Dry up those furrowing cadents: will you give
Your lovely selfe in marriage unto him,
If I shall say Albino, yours does live,
And in your view his comely portraict lim.?
Say, I to this, and I will tay my skill,
To make him pace along yon craggy hill.

Tis th' countenance which my wishes crave,
Nought halfe so sweet, sayes she, as Hymens tedes,
Albino then the haired earth did shave,
And hedg'd two circles in with ropes of beads:
Then quartring them, did take the virgines hand,
And bad her with unshaken courage stand.

Thou must not be surpriz'd with shivering feare,
Though Cerberus the Ianitor of Hell,
Though seven-headed Hydra, Panther, Beare,
The Lyon, Tyger, or the Dragon yell,
Although a monster spits forth flashing powder,
Thogh clowds & winds strive which should bellow lowder.

This sayd, with creuze of holy water hee
Be sprinkled ore himselfe, be sprinkled her,
And zealously did crosse: the same did she,
Like a devout Romezzo conjurer.
This done: fair maid quoth he, if Fates befrend me,
The servant of your beauty shall attend thee.

Then gan to invoke, or seeme t'invoke,
With uncoth language, the infernall crue,
Vitz, Allafoun, Trallasht, with elfish poake,
Trollox and Chimchish, with your grisly hue,
Gnarzell and Phrizoll, which in Styx do wade,
Lê portè Albino from the Stygian shade.

116

When from his lips these words had tane their flight
A shuffling whirle-puffe roar'd amongst the trees,
Th'affrighted leaves tooke flight, the grasse lookt white,
The quaking poplars fell upon their knees.
Ioves sacred tree stood cringing unto it,
And bowd his head, else twas in sunder split.

Then from a breaking clowd a sheet of fire
Encircled them, and dasht against an Oke,
Vshring a thunder, whose untamed ire,
Like dreadfull tyrants, nought but terrour spoke.
And as unwilling to depart from them,
His irefull cracks the trembling grove did hem.

These suddenly succeeding so the first,
And at that instant when he feign'd a spell,
Did make Albino judge himselfe accurst,
Thinking his voyce unhing'd the gates of hell,
Bellama's rosyes wore as white as snow,
As though the Phyma did upon them blow.

And justly, for though these but common were,
Yet at that time, when faintnesse kept the wicket,
Which at each shadow op't the gate to feare,
In that darke place, that unfrequented thicket.
I blame not, though her courage had been colder,
And in Art Magick wish Albino bolder.

But wheo the storme was past, his courage got
The conquest of his feare, made his quick eyes
Stand Sentinell, t'advantage more his plot,
And looking, from the mountaine he espies
A man descending, as he told the mayd,
Which the lowd tempest of his feares allayd.

117

Then sayes, behold the object of your hope,
Away springs she from off that gloomy place,
Posts to the hill, forsakes her Magicke cope,
Meane while Albino doffes Conrado's face,
And set upon his lookes Albino's dye,
So impt with love, unto the mount did flye.

Where he espyde Bellama rove about,
Crying, Albino, dost thou flye from me?
The man was but a silly sheepheard lout,
That climbd the hill, his fleesie traine to see.
And when his eyes had health'd his wealthy flocks,
Trudg'd to his cote, wald in with sturdy rockes.

Albin' encountring her, sayes, Lovely mayd,
Was't your small voyce that did Albino call?
Twas I, poore I, the fainting virgin sayd:
Why was I forc't from Rhadamanthus hall?
Who was't quoth he, that with commanding aire,
Snatcht me forth' armes of Proserpina faire?

It was a courteous Monke, quoth she, whom I
Humbly intreated to deliver thee.
Alas, sweet maid, quoth he, Fates doe deny
Freedome from thence, nor can I pay the fee.
Fee, sayes she, feare not, if an Earldome can
Purchase thy freedome, I will give it man.

Thou canst not ransome one from Pluto's jayle,
Shouldst thou lay downe the gawdy triple crowne,
With steely hearted Fate nought can prevaile,
On whose harsh brow there ever dwels a frowne.
Speake faire, thy businesse, for I must begone,
Grim Charon, waits for me at Acheron.

118

Ah me, quoth she, and is it truth I heare?
Then deare Albino, I will wait on thee:
You'r like to finde, quoth hee, but homely cheare,
If in my dyet you partake with me.
Famine's a favour unto me, sayes she,
Bridewell a bride-house, if I live with thee.

But prythee, what is Radamanthus fell,
And she whom thou didst Proserpina call?
Sweetest, quoth he, he is the judge of hell
That doomes us tortures, or does us enthrall.
For if our innocence doe plead for us,
Wee're led t' Elizium from darke Erebus.

That other was the Thracian harper mate,
Whom Pluto forc't unto his gloomy house,
His divelship with smiler to recreate,
Full bowles of his Nepenthe to carouse.
I'me glad I know, quoth she, for jealous feares
Vnto my heart did travell from my eares.

Why, lovely mayd, did ever I behold
Before this time, quoth he, your comely face?
How deare Albino, must you now be told.
Who your Bellama is? tis high disgrace,
Sure you of Lethes streames have deeply drank,
Which doth the powers of your minde disranke.

Hah! quoth Albino, can my dulnesse thinke
That homely russets my Bellama vaile?
I deeply of oblivion sure did drinke,
Did I not know her from a milking paile?
Peace pretty faire, do not my Saints prophane.
Her beauty has not such course lodging tane.

119

Well, quoth Bellama, will you me discard,
When for your sake I've run through all disasters?
Must slights and rescios now be my reward?
Will you make ulcers, and apply no plasters?
Cloath'd in this course arraay, I rov'd abrode,
To finde the place of thy secure abode.

Sweet, sayes Albino, let not anger dresse
Thy stainlesse lillies in distractions dye,
Let ignorance plead pardon, for I guesse,
Some other beauties may Albino cry,
Might now a ghost permitted be to kisse,
My lips should suck from thine a cherry-blisse.

Why, sayes Bellama, has a ghost no lips?
Is there no pleasure dwels in spirits vaines?
This (might a ghost) does all my joyes eclyyse,
For now I have my labour for my paines.
Pray, what was Merlins father? is't not sayd,
Spirits have power a damsell to unmayd?

These words proceeding from Bellama's lips,
Did make Albino Myrrine juyce carouse,
To rayse an active heate, which nimbly skips
In every veine, like Fayes in Obrons house.
But when he was no ghost, and hop't to merit.
Love for love, he found her of another spirit.

A way, fond Monke, quoth she, dost thinke that I
Into a sea of griefe will wade with thee?
And drowne my fortunes, make an Earldome dye?
Dost think humility resides with me?
Canst thinke Ile choose a pebble, slight a pearle?
Marry a thread-bare cowle, and scornd an Earle?

120

What doore to thy presumption did I ope?
What symptomes of affections did I show?
What actions gainfull birth unto thy hope?
Or from what vow did thy assurance grow?
Cease then, for I take it in high disdaine,
To thy course worth my smallest ray to chaine.

Disdaine? quoth yong Albino, can this be
The voyce of my Bellame? Is there such oddes?
If not in birth, in worth I equall thee:
Although my Muse shot love into the gods,
Disdain's a pitch too high for maids to reach.
Scarce will the queen of pride such doctrine teach.

Presumption too? Does he deserve that brand,
Who dallies with consent, invited to't?
What firmer seale, then language, lip and hand?
What better warrant, than desir'd to do't?
Say, he is sawcie that with crustyed fists,
Pawes a court-silke, and melts her balmy wrists.

Who feeted that ænigma, whose kinde ayre,
Spake me the onely high in thy esteeme?
Was I not bosomd more than parents (Faire?
Did not thine owne voyce that saint-secret seeme?
Who brib'd your full face-gazings? and what she
Iudg'd none praise, lip, deserving of but me?

Did not you in misterious postures wooe me?
And gainst Bardino levied all your spight?
Nay, by Barraba sent invitements to me?
And dub'd me by your knot the Red-rose Knight?
Did not your wish glue feathers on your feet,
To thread a casement when I pac't the street?

[_]

From pp.121–145 the pagination of the source document has been followed.

121

And after these, ah, thousand more, and nearer
Seales of thy love, must slights unseele your lips?
A puny-mistres-hunter well may feare her,
When pride at high noone can my sun eclips.
Fury lend me thy poyson, rage thy breath,
That I by pride doomd, may doome beauty death.

You pale-fac't shadowes of the gloomy Iles,
Fill up my gall, and lend me all your powres,
To torture women, who enricht with wiles,
From their moist eyes send forth dissembling showrs
Would Iove the mount had barren been of stones
Where of old Pyrrha ftam'd the female bones.

Would Sea's daughter that same Queen of faces,
Her alabaster box would daigne to me,
Once Pnao's ferry pay, that gave such graces,
Which till that time the Sun did never see.
That I not onely might, as others are,
Be counted comely, but oth' fairest, faire.

Then would I slight those formall trickes of love,
Those sighs, tears, vows, complaints, & folded arms,
Caps, cringes, oathes, and complements to move
Th'affections of a Girle expecting charmes.
For wealth, wit, wisedome, eloquence & greatnesse
Are lesse inducements unto love than neatnesse.

How now Albino, is your doublet growne
Too strait, sayes she, that you doe puffe and swell?
Peace, peace, let not your choler thus be shown.
A thing impossible, sayes he, you tell.
In vaine we call for peace, and calmnesse praise,
When love and hate intestine warres doe raise.

122

Women have double pupils, so they can,
Kill like the Basilisk, but with a glance,
Their very praise does blast and wither man,
Like frost and winter, or his soule intrance:
They're all like Glaucus wife whose filthy charms
Won poore Vlysses to her lustfull armes.

They're Holgoy, Africanes, and fiends they are—
Words know not what they are, they're hell to me,
Would Jove I had the Heliostrophio faire,
To touch all mayds, or if not all, yet thee.
Or had been borne under the Scorpions head,
With Amulets t'have struck thy beauty dead.

Ah faithlesse Polupists! that thus can change
Into an hundred thousand shapes, your mindes?
Phœbe to you is constant, tides doe range,
Yet back returne: more setled are the windes.
Meere Pompholix, which with each breath does stray
Your loves with catch-feathers too, and fly away.

Sometimes a fit of sullens seales your jawes,
In contemplation big, (of Iove knowes what)
And then againe, as if your tongues made lawes,
You weary time with your eternall chat.
Ah Mantuan, Mantuan, thy pen is not a lyer,
Although thy habit sayes thou wert a Frier!

Erst while a sober Nun Bellama was,
Then a Lucretia, at another gale
I know not what, a straggling countrey lasse,
A quinque-letterd, 'haps, which set to sale,
Now none more willing unto love than she,
And now more further off from love or me.

123

Yet call that hasty language back a while,
Bellama is not such, shee's Cupids dart,
Teach me, great Iove, to make Bellama smile,
And with one ray sun her Albino's heart.
Thou purblinde boy, teach me to gain Bellama:
Straight Eccho's voyce returnd him answer, Ama.

Thankes gentle Eccho; might thy voyce divine
Speak truth in this, that love commandeth love.
I would through every mood and tense decline
Amo, and saint thee too, my Ioy, my Dove:
Nay, thou shouldst be, what ere fond babblers prate,
Albino's goddesse, though Narcissus hate.

Oh would to Iove I were in courteous France,
Or else that happy place in France with me,
That with more tongs thou mightst make ama dance
Within these silent woods, from tree to tree.
Or would thou hadst imperiall power from Iove,
In the imperious mood to bid her love!

Quoth she, unworthy of a conquest's hee
That for a Canons roare his ensignes vailes,
Vnworthy of a Rose, or Rosie glee
Is he, whose courage at her javelins failes,
They're feeble amorists that for a fye,
Run from their colours, and in silence lye.

Tis our prerogative to have intreate,
With every phrase that flattry does inhance,
To win our loves, though every stroke they beate,
Our hearts beat Cupids march, tune Venus dance.
In their desires they never yet did perish,
Which feed our humours and our passions cherish.

128

To prove the truth of thy affections, I
Shot forth that language, headed with disdaine,
My heart is thine, which till death close mine eye
With steely thumbe, thy bosome shall retaine,
Cæsars proud nod shall not command that blisse,
Whose sweets are promis'd by this melting kisse.

Hah quo h Albino, dare I trust mine eares
With this blest aire? And am I sure I wake?
Or is't a dreame, which wakeneth into teares?
Tis truth: then crawle hence Furies, toad and snake.
The earth her mines, sea vomit shall their pearle,
Ere I leave her, who for me left an Earle.

Then sate they dallying in a shadie bowre,
Where Maples, Ash, and Thorne did them embrace,
Whilst her enlivning breath produc'd each flowre
In curious knots to damaske ore the place.,
Oh! who would not his soule and substance tenter,
To be circumference to such a center?

Now have our Amorists attaind the height
Of true content, and sate like billing Doves,
She tels her quest, he his monasticke flight,
Whilst both recount their passions, feares and loves,
Till Titans hasting to moyst Thetis armes,
Bad them provide against his sisters harmes.

Then joyning heart and hand, with easie pace,
They travaild to a Pague adjoyning neare,
Where in a straw-thatcht roofe (an homely place
For such a paire) they entertained were,
And what fine cates old Kathrine, could affoord,
Was serv'd in state unto an aged boord.

129

Their table with rich damaske cloathes was spread,
Whose every twist out-vyde the double cable,
The napkins Diaper, of equall thread,
The mourning trenchers cloathed were in sable:
A curious salt; cut out oth' bolder stone,
And for their plate—sincerely there was none.

The dropsied Host, like to a Sewre did strut
To marshall every dish: and first did bring
A spatious bowle to scoure the narrow gut
of nut-browne Ale, a liquor for a King.
And sayes, My Bona Roba, drinke this boule,
Twill cleare thy throat, and cheere thy drooping soule.

Next came the mumping hostesse, and set downe
A lustied ish of milke, sky coloured blew,
Crumb'd with the ludgets of the lustie browne,
Which two months since was piping hot and new,
Yet 'tis, sayes she, as savory in good law,
As wheaten trash, which crams the Ladies maw.

This good old Chrone was troubled so with winde,
Her coates did dance toth' musick of her belly:
Next came a barley dumpling, whose harsh rinde,
Was oyled ore with a fine tallow jelly,
Brought by a mincing Marget, passing trim,
Whose juycie nose did make the pudding swim.

Next came some Glotrah (which the plough-man flanks,
Ioyn'd with a pudding on a holy day)
Brought by a jetting dame, on whom in rankes
And discipline of state, whole troopes did stray
Of—I forbeare to say, lest these rude feet,
With queasie dames, and Lady readers meet.

126

Last, a tough cheese must lock the stomackes doore,
Milkt from a cow that fed on nought but Burres,
Hadlaine five winters on spongie floore,
To gaine an harnesse, and a coate of furres,
So neatly peopled too, twas judg'd a court,
Such heards of gentles did about it sport.

Qualmish Bellama could not eate a bit,
'Cause luscious mears a surfet soone provoke
Albino ventred, but was faine to spit,
Lest those harsh viands should his Monkship choke.
And whilst he hauked, and Bellama laught,
The trumping hostesse stole a thumping draught

Are you so dainty toothed, quoth mine host,
That countrey vittails will not downe with you?
You shall be fed with Custards, pyes and rost,
Cannot your chops a bonelesse pudding chew?
I trow farre worser is than this your fare,
Vnlesse you kitchin sculs, and lick-spits are.

Ma' gep, ma' faw, the crabbed hostesse sayd,
Let 'em een fast, if they'l not eate their sowle,
Is not my daughter Maudge as fine a mayd,
And yet by mack you see she troules the bowle.
I've drest a supper sure, has pleased those,
Had wider purses far, and better close.

Pray mother, gainst the young mon doe not rage,
Sayes full-lipt Maudge, for he must be your son,
We are alike in face, of equall age,
Then hoh, the match is soon concluded on.
Kusse me, my honest Dick, for we this night
With crickle crackle will the Gobblins fright.

127

Masse, sayes mine Host, I like the fellow well,
To suckle barnes, Ile give him tidee Mull,
And my browne Maure, as sound as any Bell,
With ten good shear-hogs to affoord him wooll:
And if they please me, after me they shall
Sell nappy yale within this trusty wall.

Feck, sayes mine hostesse, they shall have a bed
With good strong sheets, to pig together in,
A brazen pot, a kettle and a led,
Platters, bowles, pailes and an old kilderkin,
And if they please m', a brace of wheeles to spin,
Mantles and clouts to wrap their bantlins in.

Our lovers at this pretty talke did smile;
Then sayes Albino, there is no such haste,
I like, but yet wee'l respit it a while,
Thou shalt be (duck) some three nights longer chaste
Ile man my sister at dayes next attiring,
Then back, and give my Maudge a curtaine spring.

When as his yeelding had appeas'd the billowes
Of their lowd passions, and their meat digested,
Nights middle age invited to their pillowes,
But tell I dare not, how the lovers rested,
Whether co-sheeting was allowd as fit,
Monastick vowes dispensing well with it.

But this I say, there was but one guest-roome,
Hangd with a pentice cloath spoke age enough,
The spiders here had one continued loome,
Here rats and mice did play at blind mans blough.
Their bed had many tasters, but no teaster,
Their bedding usherd in thin-sided Easter.

132

Repentant Mattresse for chastising Lent,
Stout as a face of steele, which ne're will yeeld,
Their sheets were tenants, weekly payed rent,
The pillow was with juyce of noddles steeld,
And therefore fit to bolster any sin:
Their coverlet was of a bullocks skin.

Their urine-vessell was of Ticknell make,
Whose in-side was with unshorne vellet clad,
Their bed-sted floted in a springing lake,
Where Frogs and Newts their randevouzes had.
This was their guest-bed, and there was no other,
Thinke you Bellama then lodg'd with her brother?

No such pure vertues saint Bellama's brest,
And such cleare sparkes of honour heate his soule,
That such a thought would stain her virgine crest:
And blur the sacreds of Albino's roule.
Then dye black thoughts, Bellama's chast denyals
Repeld all charms of love, and Venice-trials.

Nay, he nere tempted, nor attempted once
To scale the fortresse of her virgine-tower:
For her chaste Noes, and vowes did guard the sconce
That twas impregnable, not forc't by power.
And though he did enspheare her naked waste,
Yet durst my faith and oath conclude her chaste.

This longing on Albino workt so strong,
That when the god of slumbers did intreat
Him to his court, into his thoughts did throng
His house of penance, hunger, cold, and sweat.
So powerful was his dreame, entruth'd with feare,
That his strong faith concluded he was there.

133

And in some sort he was: for when the East
Was purpled with the blushes of the morne,
When his benummed sences were releast
By the shrill sound of Gallus bugle horne.
He heard a sound of words, and looking out,
He saw a legion of the Monkish rout.

For you must know that when Albino's wit
Had won him freedome, and Conrado thrall,
The jealous matrone somewhat feared it,
And the next morning did Conrado call;
Who (brooking ill his lodging) struck with feare,
Made answere to the matrones question here.

So when her eyes suspition truth had made,
She askt Conrado how that came to passe?
Quoth he, credulity my feare ore-swayd,
I was deluded with the dukedome lasse.
She promis'd me a dukedome for my paines,
And I, poore I, thought it sufficient gaines.

Hah, quoth the Matrone, could thy falshood serve
Thus to dishonour me, and all my traine?
His penaltie is thine, till every nerve
Shrinke up with famine, thou shalt here remaine,
Time will not measure yeares, e're thou wilt say,
A Dukedome for thy penance is no pay.

Madam, quoth he, my sences were bewitched
With that pure white which dwelt upon her brow,
If scratcht and pincht, but still my humours itched,
I stood upright, but still my heart did bow.
Who would not twice ten minutes in a brooke,
Chin high and thirsty stand, to be a Duke?

130

Quoth she, I see that folly over-swayes,
And Venus soveraigne is of every sect,
To beauty every order homage payes,
Whilst onely age and blacknesse gain neglect.
I 'xcuse thy frailty, haste unto thy dell,
The sentence of Phœliches flight repell.

Conrado thankt her, and away did pack,
(As one reprieved from the gallow tree,
Still fearing that sterne justice pluckt him back)
Lest Ianus-like her face should changed bee:
For well he knew, the monthly horned queene
No oftner fils her orbe, than she her spleene.

He nature blam'd, he could no faster run,
But comming to the gate, the porter op't,
Who much appald to see a youthfull Nun,
Sayes, Mistresse, do you travell to be coap't?
Give me my fee, for sure a plumpe-cheekt lasse
Shall not the Porters lodge unkissed passe.

He could not quiet his impatient lust,
Till he had showne the ensignes of his habit,
His pared crowne with Venus rayes adust:
Then lest the mongrell his supposed rabbit,
And slinkt away from his monastick vaile,
Iust like a dog that newly hurnt his taile.

When he had cast his woman, and put on
The habit of his order, he made haste
Vnto his Lord, told him Phœliche's gone,
And that his conscience did conclude her chaste.
She Folco's large endowments must inherit,
And promis'd me to recompence my merit.

131

The Prior smiling at his folly, checkt
Him for Apella's faith, and sayd his lasse
Was young Albino in Nun-vestments deckt,
(If that our Porter had his double glasse)
And since thy comming cleareth every doubt,
Harnesse your selves to seeke the yonker out.

As the attendants of an hunting Prince,
Intending to disfrank an ore-growne Boare,
View the impressions of his feet, which since
Last eve, were printed on the sandy shore,
Beating each bush, and in each cabben searching
To finde his frank, & not the pheasants pearching.

And as when Reynald with his wily plot,
Into the squadron of the geese is crept,
And grand-sire Gander on his back has got,
Th'affrighted geese like them which watch-towres kept,
With shrill-ton'd gabblings wake the slumbring towns,
By Phœbe's candle to go seek the downs.

Some arme themselves with spits, one with a ladle,
Some snatch up pick-forkes, one a bill or knife.
The ambling nurse runs out, and leaves the cradle,
And the awd mid-wife flies the teeming wife,
Old grand-sire gray-beard his tuffe bilbow gets,
And grandame Grissel with her distaffe jets.

Iust so our hair-lack Monkes pursu'd their quest,
Searcht for his view, and threaded every grove,
With bels, beads, bookes, and holy water blest,
And armd with envies whips, about did rove.
Their runnigado Reynald to surprize,
And came to Stean ere the Sun could rise.

136

Which sight unspirited Albino quite,
That his invention could not teeme a plot:
For in his lookes his feare was writ in white,
And to his heart his frighted blood did trot.
Yet calling courage to appeare oth' stage,
He sheath'd his body in his woven cage.

Then hasting to the Host, bad him awake,
Desir'd his counsell, and assisting hand,
Sayes now his life and safety lay at stake,
For at his doore a troope of shavelings stand,
I am their errand, I must bid adiew
To lovely Maudge, mine hostesse, and to you.

Hoh, quoth mine host, and rubd his gumray eyes,
Whot sayes my sonne? Must thou be whurld away?
I warrant, boy, my club shall still their cryes,
When 'bout their costards I shall make it play.
Ile dy their stark nak't crowns with their own blood,
Then let 'em come, if that they think it good.

Good Sickerlin, sayes Maudge, ere they shall have
My hony-sweeten Dick, Ile scratch and bite,
With scalding water Ile their noddles shave:
Then busse me Dick, thy Maudge wil for thee fight.
Thankes, quoth he, Duck, but yet it cannot bee,
That thy endevours should advantage me.

But yet me thinkes I see some comfort dawne,
Yon tinkers budget strengthens every joynt,
Lend me some cloths, by times harsh grinders gnawn
And I will be a Tinker in each poynt,
My sister must have ragges, and be my trull:
Thus vaild & cloath'd we wil the shavelins gull.

137

Accoutred in these robes of state, he made
His face and hands in sootie vestures mourne,
Then wak't Bellama, who was sore afrayd
To see a Tinker, and away does turne.
But grasping onely ayre, she shrilly cryde,
Art fled Albino, from thy sweet-hearts side?

Which words so shrilly spoke, made eccho babble,
Who wing'd with envie, out oth' window flies,
Carries Albino to the Monkish rabble:
They heaving that, Perduers made their eyes,
And sweld with rage, against the doore did knock,
Whose aged breast could not endure the shock.

This stroke Albino's heart did almost break,
Yet bids Bellama sheath her body in
These homely ragges, which onely safety speak,
Care not for coursenesse, so they hide the skin,
And at this Tinkers habit doe not wonder,
Tis but the curtaine thy Albino's under.

What tispyde fellowes at my doore doe beate
Thus early, quoth mine host, is this your manners?
What must mine hostesse wayt upon th'entreat
Of Taylors, Coblers, Carpenters and tanners?
If drinking be your errand, where yey got
Your last nights fudling-cap, this morning trot.

Impatient they, did make the doore unhinge,
Which gave an entrance to enrag'd Bardino,
He to the reverend host did lowly cringe,
Told him his errand was to seek Albino.
And as they did his homely cottage hem,
Albino's name came leaping unto them.

134

Hoh, quoth mine host, unto mine house there came
Last night for lodging, a stout Tinker knave,
Who now is ticking with his ragged dame,
Go, if with him yey any businesse have:
But who Albino is, I cannot tell,
Heres no sike mon does penance in my cell.

Into the Arras-sieled parlour then
The coapsters went, in every corner snookt,
The Tinkers visage none of them did ken,
But for Albino, on Albino lookt;
Well might he cozen them, when as his saint:
Knew not his face under that maske of paint.

Then as they searched every place, by chance
Conrado did his Monkish vestments owne
He lent Phæliche at their affiance.
The host perceiving that the cloathes were knowne,
Sayd, yesterday about the after three
A fellow came, and pawn'd those clothes to mee.

They askt Bellama then, why she did call
Vpon Albino? Why forsooth sayd she,
I was a servant once in Darwey hall,
Where that young Monke I oftentimes did see,
Who oft in private would disport with me,
And promis'd that I should his sweeting be.

But by misfortune being turnd away,
This Ioviall Tinker took me unto wife,
So as this morne by his warm side I lay,
I of Albino dream'd, my joy, my life.
Hee's not thy mon, quoth Maudge, thou ly'st base drab,
Peace huswife, sayes mine host, you tatling blab.

135

Thus had the Scean been chang'd, had not the Sire
Supprest her babblings with a check and grin.
The Monkes well satisfide, gang to the fire
To tast the juyce of Kates old Kilderkin
The Tinker and mine host would alwayes cry,
Fill hostesse, fill, the Monkes are still a-dry.

Canzone.

Drink ful ones Tinker, me thinks the Monks are dry,
Drink healths mine host, the Monks do feare a thirst:
Are the Monks thirstie? the Monks will quickly try
If they or the Tinker want a pillow first,
Else wil we jig and hay unto the black pots sound,
Til to that musick the house shal dance the round.

Then fill a dozen hostesse, wee'l have a merry cup,
And make the Tinker forfet his budget & his brasse.
Faith, sayes the tinker, Ile make your monkships sup
Till yey sing Requiems, in reading of the masse.
Then fill a gallon hostesse, we'l health it all about,
Till all complain oth' head-ach, the falling or the gout.

Come on dropping shavelins, let's see you count-your beads,
I am half afraid you'l stutter in the masse.
Gramercy lovely pots, and nimble Ganimedes,
That brought more water than what holy was.
Wel sawcie tinker, wel, pray finger you your brasse.
And let the monks alone lone, they'l finger wel the masse.

Pray Gaffer Cowlists why are yey so bald
To coole your Pia maters in a sweat?
Or did the water your wise noddles scald,
Which your devotions and hot zeale did heat?
Or are yey given unto Venus play?
I am afrayd there went the haire away.

140

But base Bardino did this mirth eclipse,
(In his monastick life Albino's friend)
Viewing the travaile of his hand, his lips.
He by a secret marke Albino kend:
For by some strange mishap, was set a brand,
An azure spot upon his abler hand.

Sayes he, me thinkes you are too frolicke Tinker,
Your mirth I feare presageth your disgrace,
You must no longer be mine hostesse Skinker,
For you will say, unlesse y'ave braz'd your face,
That you both see, and doe Albino know,
If you deny't, I have your hand to show.

During the time that you were cowld and coap't,
On your right hand there dwelt a cœrule mark,
Which nere would off, although twas often soapt.
Well, quoth mine Host, but pray your worship hark,
May not two men be like, may there not be
The selfe-same spot of him, and you, and me.

This could not yet appease Bardino's hate,
Still teeming mischiefe, and with envie bigge,
So starting up, he fum'd, and lowd did prate,
And snatched off Albino's periwigge.
Now gainst two witnesses he could not stand,
When as his head bore witnesse with his hand.

Albine excus'd, it was by nature so,
Saying no razor ere did touch his scull:
No, sayes Bardino? it againe does grow,
Thou canst not with this fop my wisedome gull.
Keepe him my brethren, and meane while I will
Fetch the watch-beggar, and his rusty bill.

141

Bellama did mean while what language can,
With oyled words, and pitty-pleading teares,
Beseeching these to free her wedded man;
But to her voyce they cottond had their eares,
Vntil an Angel did appeare unto them,
And with his goldy looks and musick wooe them.

Then did they yeeld to let them goe away,
And they mean time would faine a deadding sleepe,
They for a second licence would not stay,
But hasting out, along the ditches creepe.
And as they went a Raddle-man they meet,
Whom with kinde aires, and high-way phrase they greet.

And greeting past, Albino did require
To change apparell with him, and his trade,
Giving him cash to hasten his desire.
With all my heart the Raddle-yonker sayd,
(Nere questioning the cause) yet by the masse,
My Dames will say, I am a podging Asse.

Thus chang'd they clothes & budgets; then with lead
On the new Tinkers hand Albino made
A mark like his, to gull his envious bead:
With Raddle-crimson then fit for his trade,
He cloathd his face, and gave Bellama some,
So trudgd away, for feare the Monk should come.

Have you beheld a hound in sudden fright,
Whom powder feard, or else the staffe did beat,
How oft he turnes and lookes, yet keeps on flight,
So they with glancing eyes would oft retreat,
Yet moved forward still, as in a ship,
The Pilots backward looke, yet forward skip.

138

But our new Tinker swelled with content,
Fearing no colours, to the towne did passe,
Crying, as he along the hamblet went,
Ha y'any need, hooh, of a Tinkers brasse?
Bardino now returned in a chafe,
And askt the Tinkers name, who answerd, Rafe.

Where dwelst thou? any where? how long
Hast tinkring us'd? I cannot tell.
Then bout the Tinker all the Monkes did throng,
Whilst he, poore fellow thought h'had been in hell:
For till that day, he never saw such creatures,
And what they were, he knew not by their features

Bardino feared this was but a gull,
And sayes, good fellow, let me see thy hand.
I'me not asham'd to show't, by cock and bull.
Bardino viewing 't well, espyd the brand,
And sayes, Sir youth, before you couzend me:
But now in sooth, I will be meet with thee.

Divell or Frier, whatsoere thou art,
What taunting language dost thou give to me?
Hah! quoth the Tinker. Quoth Bardino, Smart
Shall give a comment of my words to thee.
Smart, quoth the Tinker, swigge for Smart & you.
I bid defiance unto all thy crue.

Talke not to me of Smart: for if you prate,
This knotty staffe shall bastenado you,
Ile set a scarlet cap upon thy pate,
And lace thy shoulders with a purple blew.
Peace, honest Tinker, say the other Monkes.
I, I will peace it, if I catch the hunkes,

139

But let the Monkes and Tinker take their chances,
We'l view the travails of our Raddle-man,
With faint Bellam' whom every feare entrances,
And every trance does make her roses wan.
Thus farre their loves have Tragi-comick been,
Thwarted by Fate, and the unconstant Queene.

But every planet with kinde aspect now
Viewes their long traveld loves, and Venus boy,
Smiles on their wishes with auspicious brow:
Now a full harvest must they have of joy,
Though sowd with black disasters, dangers, feares,
Despaire, hope, doubtings, sad complaints & tears.

For aged Starley's towres (that fatall stage,
Where Danes did act their juries once in blood,
When bellowing cannons belched out their rage)
Within the kenning of our lovers stood:
And the well-tuned bells did lowd proclaime
Ioy to the lovers in great Hymens name.

A neare allye, Albino in this towne
(By order a devout Carthusian) had,
Whose voyce, hee hop't, with joy their loves should crown.
But he a slave in Raddle vestures clad,
And a rag'd Marget seeing, started back,
Bidding his knaveship to some other pack.

He would have no commerce with such as he,
He had no Ewes, whose backes did want his raddle,
And if he over-sawcie needs would be,
With a good bat he would his gaskins swaddle.
The Provost Marshall else, if this does faile,
Shall show you lodging in the whip-stock jayle.

144

This language sounded in Bellama's eares,
Like the sad voyce of death, yet feare no flaughter,
To joy straight chang'd shall be this scean of teares,
And stead of griefe, the child of pleasure, laughter,
My promise stands unshak't, for this short anger
Brings not their loves nor safeties unto danger.

Sir, quoth Albino, there was once a time,
When you esteem'd those winged minutes sainted
You spent with me (when Fortune was in prime)
For you and I have better been acquainted,
Though some disasters, and stern Fate have made
Me take this homely garbe, and homelier trade.

Some blood which in your azure chanels glide,
Dwels in my veines, I am Albino hight,
And lest you think this smels too much of pride,
View this triangle on my able right.
That sight unto rejoycings beat alarmes,
His kinsman then ensphear'd him in his armes.

So led them both under his arched roofe,
Breathing kinde welcomes from his courteous lips,
Excus'd his ignorance, and sharp reproofe,
Askt what misfortune did his worth eclipse?
Demanding how coy Fortune dealt with him?
And who she was, that was so passing trim?

Vnlesse high heavens do forbid the bane,
This mayd shall be my bride, though homely drest,
Cloathes oftentimes the purest beauty staine,
And Venus most uncloath'd, is cloathed best.
Vnder this roofe of ragges Bellama dwels,
Fraught with diviner worth than nature spels.

145

Hymen enrich your wishes with content,
As benigne heaven has enricht your face
With natures glory, beauties orient,
Sayes the Carthusian with a comely grace,
Thrice welcome, welcome, for your lovely grace
Will adde a lustre to my homely place,

Sir, my endevours shall be wholly spent
Henceforth, quoth she, to recompence your ayre;
This is no time (forsooth) to complement,
Prythee adjourne thy words of courtship (faire)
For till our hands be joynd as well as hearts,
I feare (quoth he) supplanting envies darts.

Good Cozen, ere the next dayes sunne be rold
Th' Apogæum, our Meridian poynt,
Favour our wishes with the have and hold,
Tye us so fast, fate may not us dis-joynt.
For envie like a snake does crawle about,
And winds her tayle in where she holes her snout

Omit no nuptiall rites, with holy oyle
Let her anoynt the posts with virgine hand,
To Ianus consecrate the weathers spoyle,
And to those gods which for our house-holds stand,
Procure horne torches to be borne along,
And cry Thalassus with a bridall song.

Provide me store of nuts to throw about,
With a full hand unto the gaping boyes,
That from the tumults of the struggling rout,
All voyces may be dampt, that speak not joyes,
Over us two, let the same Flamine fall,
And let the wheaten cake consummate all.

142

Nor will we manumisse these robes of state,
Within whose walles blest safety onely dwelles,
Lest our knowne faces and apparrell prate
In lowder eccho's than the marriage belles.
Then say (faire Lady) truth I doe not jeere,
Will you be wedded to a scarlete ere?

Quoth she (with blushes carpetting her cheeke)
And is that question (prythee) yet to aske?
Your worth does merit the unequald Greeke,
Without Nun-penance, or Alcides taske.
Then pray you (in truth it is no gull)
Will you be married to a Tinkers trull?

Thus sleep and mirth did cut the night, and e're
The soveraignty was tane from Cynthia's horne,
When at Easts casement newly did appeare
The orient brightnesse of the rising morne,
Albino rose, and to the Church did haste,
T'un-Nun Bellama, and un-gird her waste.

When the Carthusians voyce had crownd their amors
With an assurance of Thalassian joyes,
The ayre was thinned with the joyfull clamors
(Not of state-sattens) but of Grammar boyes,
And our fresh sponsants in that height of mirth.
To every pleasure gave an easie birth.

Now are they landed on the Ile of blisse,
Where every joy courts their desires with pleasure,
Envie did then her snakie traine dismisse:
For their espousals did all sweete entreasure.
Dead grief bequeath'd her stings to thorn & thistle
Nor durst a sigh within those borders whistle.

143

Then, as Sea-merchants, when their reeling Gally,
Drunk with salt Neptune, hazardeth their breathes,
To calme bold tempest, and the Tritons valley,
Hack on the quiet shore their bracked sheathes.
So did our Amorists, (halfe wrackt with eye-men)
Devote their raddle vestes to Love and Hymen.

Some marrow-Iancing eye perchance may quarrell,
'Cause with the bridall torch my muse expires,
And in lowd jeeres his towring voyce apparrell,
Taxing the faintnesse of my Metricke fires,
Because my lines tread not the common path
Of Fortune, issue, and appeasing wrath.

Perhaps I dare not lengthen out my story
With those events succeeding time begot,
Lest some disaster should eclypse their glory,
And the pure Ermins of their pleasures spot:
For having scru'd them into firme embraces,
I will not waken hate, or rouze disgraces.

Yet beauty (know) when vertue shines upon her,
And vertues (know) skin-perfections glosse 'em,
Awe Fortunes nath, and challenge heavens honour,
Hell can nor cancell them, nor envie drosse 'em.
Love, if to me the same content thou'lt yeeld,
Ile limme thy mother on Minerva's Shield.

TO THOSE WORTHY HERO'S OF OVR Age, whose noble Breasts are wet and watred with the deaw of Helicon, N.W. wisheth ever-flourishing Laurels.

You noble Laureats, whose able Quills
In framing Odes, do drean the sacred rills
Of Aganippe dry, within whose brests
The Syre of Æsculapius safely rests;
And all the Muses Temple, daigne your rayes
To cheare the measures of an infant Bayes,
Spread forth the Banners of your worths to sheild
His yonger Muse, unable yet to weild
Armes, 'gainst the Monsters of this Critick age,
Envie, detraction, and Saturnine rage.
I to my selfe assume not double worth,
Or that my teeming phansie can bring forth
Words to make wonder stand amaz'd, doe trye
To vindicate the breath of Poesie.
In such a thought I'me silent, but because
I've heard invectives belched from the jawes

Of Nil-scientes, whose audacious bragges
Have rays'd a thunder like a shoale of dagges
T' affright endevours:
In writing which, if my weake studies hit
Of any fancie speaking worth or wit,
If I have snatched any fainting Muse
From the black jawes of envie and abuse,
Shooting a soule into her, and new breath,
Maugre those tongues that doomed her to death.
Eccho forth thankes unto coy Daphnes lover
(About whose Fane the sacred Nine doe hover)
Whose kindnesse smild on my uncrusht designes,
And lockt a Muse in my unworthy lines
Able to blunt the darts of envie, pare
The sharpest hoofed Satyr, and with ayre
Shrill as the voyce of thunder, chide those gaules,
That belch forth scandals and invective bawles:
Nay, he, befriending me above my merit,
Vnseen of any, heav'd my winged spirit
T' a higher court than the Star-chamber is,
Where soules may surfet with immortall blisse.
And taught my phansie in those quiet slumbers,
What, waking, I have folded up in numbers,
To tell the brood of Critickes, that there are
Some few, or if not some, yet one, that dare
(Backed by your thrice-sacred worths) expose
These lines and letters to the ken of prose.

The humble admirer of your Muses N. W.

iii

Il in sonio insonnadado.

Whhen (in the silent age of sable night)
The silver way with Phæbes glimring light,
And her attendants was adornd, and when
Fast slumbers scald the eyes of drowsie men,
I entred Morpheus Court, that Iv'ry port,
Whereat benighted phansies passe that sort
With reall good, sleepe was the Ianitor,
Who let me in without one crum of Ore,
Into the spacious hall, whose darksome flore,
With downie beds and quilts was paved ore,
Instead of Marble stones: here nuzzled both
The hated spawne of idlenesse and sloth,
Icilone and Phantaso, the one
Wrapt in a mantle set with starres and stones,
Checkerd with flowres, and trimd with antick shapes,
Playing with children, feathets, flies and Apes,
Blowing up spittle bladders: and the other
Stretcht on the bosome of his quiet mother,
Folded in furres and feathers, would not stirre
To earne a penny, or to please you Sir

With cap and curtsie: wondring much, to me
The winged post came with an Embassee,
I, frighted with his strange apparell, shrunke
Away, and closely into feathers sunke.
He smiling sayd, let not my strange arraying,
Kinde youth, beget amazement, or dismaying:
Ile show thee where in marshald order stray
Whole troopes of Laureats ensphear'd with Bay,
Then spread his winged sailes, and caught my haire,
Without a sence of motion through the aire,
Conducting me, through where the Salamander
(If faith b'historicall) does breath and wander,
Then throgh those glorious orbs, enricht with gems,
The palaces of seven Diadems.
Then throgh the firmament, where glittring spangs,
Like blazing Topazes, in Chrystal hangs,
Three stories higher was the Galupin
Where Iove was frolick with his goddy kin;
Hither was I uplifted, then mine eye
Besprinkled was by nimble Mercurie,
With liquor, which with strength did me endue
T' abide the presence of th'immortall crue,
The whispring vaults I opened of my braine,
The counsels of the gods to entertaine,
And fearing memorie, with short-liv'd chalke,
(Wanting the tongue of paper) writ their talke;
The Patron of Parnassus and the nine,
To Iove presented and the rest divine,
Their suites with comely grace and majestie.
But Phœbus was the Oratour; Loe I,
Thy daughters undertooke to patronize,
Great Emperour of the Christall spangled skies,

And shield their measures from the sullen rage
Of envious ignorance this Criticke age;
(For none inveigh against Poetick measures,
But those that never had Pandora's treasures)
Yet such a shoale of ignorants I finde,
'Tis thought the greater part oth' world is blinde,
That maugre all my scourges, in the dark
Against the Muses they will snarle and bark.
Let winged-sandald Hermes post to call
And summon them unto thy judgment Hall,
That you may know their rage is want of braines.
Hermes took post, and brought the silly traines,
Iove wav'd his scepter, and commanded hush,
Then calles a gawdie peece of emptie plush,
And askt what hee could say 'gainst Poetry?
Hah, hah, quoth he, and fleer'd with blinking eye,
I have a mistresse (then begins a tale,
Which made Iove call for some Nectarean Ale,
To arme his eares 'gainst non-sence, and his side
'Gainst laughters furie) has too much of pride,
Shee's faire, as is a wall new parg'd with lime,
Shee's wise enough; for age, shee's in her prime,
I vow her service, but shee slights me, why?
Marry, I dave no veine in Poesie,
But what I take on trust, oth' second hand,
Shee jeeres and sayes, this cannot well be scand,
This has a foot too little, that too much,
This is a borrowd line, she knowes't byth' touch,
Tells me the double Indies shall not gaine
Her love, without the smirke, Poetick vaine,
Despairing I against the Muses rayle,
And wisht my hands had crusted been with flaile,

Then should not I have needed Proxee-verse,
T'have wonne a milk-mayd, neither coy nor terse,
Tush, say I, Madam, this same ragged crue
Of rithming dizzards, are not worthy you.
Plato exil'd them from his common-weal,
Their tongues will flatter, and their fingers steale.
Mere sycophants, that for a trencher-bit,
Will sweare y'ave beautie mixt with purest wit.
And if you anger them, will in a rage
Vnsay't, and raile gainst you, your sex, and age.
Hundred invectives more, I often use
Against the Poet and his strumpet Muse;
But I protest, tis to disswade my Lady:
For had I wit, Phœbus should be my Dady.
Then sacred sisters I emplore your Bayes,
Make me a Bard, and Ile descant your prayse.
No quoth the Muses Helicon nere brookes
T' have servants which doe weare such simple look,
So sent him packing with a flea in's eare,
Apollo cald another to appeare,
A feeble braine, that at a gen'rall dye
Had got the sable hue of infamie:
He buzzles like a bustard in a winde,
And with his aio's strikes the vulgar blinde,
In whom, if we beleeve Pythagoras,
I thinke the soule of Battus housed was:
He is demanded why he thus does bawle
Gainst soaring wits, not worms that earthly crawle?
Clothing his face with impudence, his lookes
With pride; and with high selfe-conceit (his bookes,
So are his words, he speakes in print) why, why,
Have I not cause t'exclaime on Poesie?

vii

I'me a Divine, not a fond pratling Poet,
I am a Preacher I would have you know it.
Peace arrogant, sayes Hermes, else Ile drive
Thee quick into the black infernall hive.
There was a time when thou admir'dst with praise
Each sprig of Lawrell, slip of youthfull Bayes.
But Envie's master now, or th' cause of it
Is, thou nere hop'st t'attaine that height of wit.
But say the truth, (yet truth will scarce abide thee)
Are there not some that jeere and doe deride thee
In lofty measures, and thou wanting skill
To vindicate thy credit by thy quill?
Do'st scold? Quoth he, I doe acknowledge it,
I blam'd the Muses, 'cause I wanted wit,
And darted scandals at Apollo's Lyre,
Yet pardon, mightie Æsculapius Syre,
And yee blest goddesses, my grand offence,
And on your Altars Ile burne frankincense.
Nay, build rich Trophies unto Poetrie.
Tis good to see a convert minde, stand by
Apollo sayd; sayes Vulcan by the Masse,
I have espyd a plumpe-cheekt bonnie lasse,
She is a wrig I warrant, where's my wife?
Oh! tis a hell to live a coupled life.
Thus did the Black-smith mutter, till Apollo
Cited the damsell with a gentle hollo.
Vp comes the Margit with a mincing pace,
A Citie-stride, Court-garbe, and smirking face,
So curtsy'd to the gods, yet twas but short.
Then sayes Apollo, (meaning to make sport)
What occupation use you, Art or Trade?
Are you a Virgine? Yes, a chamber-mayd

viii

Forsooth I am, I have my virgine seale,
To honest Vulcan I dare make m'appeale,
Heel pawne his head, had I kept Venus roome,
Mars had not dub'd him with Actæons doome.
A merry wench in faith sayes Iove: yet stay,
To serious parle let's fall from wanton play,
You are accus'd, as one that does condemne
And boldly scoffe the Laurell Diadem.
I once, quoth she, admir'd them all, untill
I found my prayse returnd but traffique ill:
For when I prais'd, they praysed me againe,
So I had onely prayses for my paine.
Then wittily I oftentimes would flout,
And say the Poets was a needie rout:
Of all professions sure it was the worst,
Iust like the Cockatrice, ith' shell accurst,
With many more, yet though our tongues did jarre,
Our quarrell ended in a lippy warre.
We kist, to friendship like the nurse and child,
And there she stopt: whereat the heavens smild.
Then came a Serving-man, a blunt old knave,
That dar'd Parnassus with a sawcie brave,
In youth sayes he, I rim'd, and framed notes
To Pans choyce musicke, & the sheepheards throats,
And many a lusty bowle of creame have got
For Kates three brace of rimes, which was God wot,
But once remov'd from prose, and for a song
The iron-hoofed Hobs 'bout me did throng,
But now old age my wit and fancie nips,
I gaule the Muses with satyricke quips,
Yet might I with the Eagle cast my Bill,
And gaine my youth, I would regaine my skill.

This done, the Pursevant Apollo posts
T' Elizium, to call the Poets ghosts,
That payd th' infernall Ferry-man his fee:
There saw I Homer, but he saw not mee,
Lascivious Ovid, and Virgilius grave,
Satyricke Iuvenal, and Martial brave,
Splay-footed Plautus, limping Ennius,
Propertius, Horace, and Boethius.
Amongst the Modernes came the Fairy Queene,
Old Geffrey, Sidney, Drayton, Randolph, Greene,
The double Beaumonde, Drummond, Browne,
Each had his chaplet, and his Ivie crowne.
How rested yee amidst those gloomie shades?
Sayes Iupiter? see yee not other trades
Learnings and Sciences have constant springs,
Summers and Autumnes without winterings?
They'l have no hail-stormes, fleezie rain, nor frost,,
They'r kin to rimes: winter must not be lost:
A pregnant witted Bard did silence breake,
Homer 'twas not, hee could not see to speake.
Virgil it was not, he had got a wrench,
Nor B. nor M. for they had got a wench.
Ennius was lame, and much did feare his shins,
Horace was busie with the kilderkins.
Ovid employd with his beloved Flea,
Old Geffrey's language was not fit for plea:
Draiton on's brains a new Moon Calfe was getting,,
And testie Drummond could not speake for fretting.
I knew the Roscians feature, not his name,
Yet tis engraven on the Shaulme of Fame;
With setled grace he boldly did advance
Father of gods, king of the large expanse.

We oft have heard proud Envie belching forth
Fogs, mists and fumes, t'eclipse the metrick worth,
And know the teeming world did never nurse
So great a mischiefe as the Criticke curse:
Our soules one minute have not rested quiet,
Since carpes we know was Ignoramus diet.
If Wisedomes Fæcial call to the sand,
We have revenge, our standish is at hand.
That rights our wrongs, but gainst Don Sillies railes
The fist is heav'd, for paper nought availes:
We sate in counsell, did intend to sue
With a petition to this noble crue,
The substance this, that ye would either give
Wit and discretion unto all that live,
Or make them Ideots, depriv'd of reason,
Else but to speake, let it be counted treason.
But we appeale, great gods, tis now my theame,
To cleare from mud pure, Aganippa's streame:
Assist Pierides, maintaine your sires
With greater care than can the Vestals theirs,
Tis merely losse of time and paper both,
By refutation to chastise their sloth.
Then I the juice of Helicon will sup,
Not in nut-shell, but Colocassian cup,
Shall make my phansie catch at nought but gems,
And wreath the Muses browes with diadems.
Me thinkes this draught such vertue does infuse,
As if in every sence there dwelt a Muse,
A spirit of valour, to un-god great warre,
Should he but send a ramme; but to the barre,
Who knowes not Vaticinium does imply
In equall measures verse and prophesie.

An inspiration, a celestiall touch,
Such is the Poets raptures, Prophets such:
Vates a Bard, and him that does presage
Vaticinor possest with either rage.
Poema is a booke in numbers fram'd,
Fast cemented with sence, by working nam'd,
To which the choycest Oratour stands bare,
Poesies does in a sublimer aire,
Things humane and divine expose to view.
The first Philosophie that Fame ere knew,
Was honourd with the name of Poetrie,
Enricht with rules of pure moralitie.
Reading instructions unto heathen men,
With more contentment than the Stoicks pen,
The ancients unto Poets onely gave
The Epithites of wise, divine and grave,
Because their meeters taught the world to know
To whom they did their holy worship owe.
The Greeke is free and kinder in her praise
Which she bestowes upon Poetick Layes,
She calles all that which takes not essence by
A matter pre-existent, Poesie.
So makes the world a Poem, and by this
The great creator a great Poet is.
Nay more, that language on the Nine bestowes,
(As ev'ry callent of that Idiom knowes)
In her etimologues an higher grace,
Calles them παιδευτας, and whose measures trace
The steps of Nature, humane and divine,
The abstruse mysteries of both untwine,
Vnlock the exta of each Science, Art,
By cunning search; againe, not as a part

xii

Nor a grand columne onely, but entreasures
The soule of learning in the Poets measures.
All other Arts (which use and learning gave)
Precepts and rules, as sure foundations, have,
When as the Poets pen alone's enspir'd
With high Enthusiasmes, by heaven fir'd,
Ennius them holy calles, and Plato sayes,
Furies divine are in the Poets layes;
Nor wanted hee himselfe the Poets wit,
He Dithyrambos and love passions writ.
The Regall Prophet was a true borne Poet,
As to the life his well-tun'd meeters show it,
Compos'd to musicke by that holy man,
Ere Hopkins and Sternhold knew how to scan.
Hence Chicken-Augures with your crooked staves,
Whose rash conjectures crowne and dig us graves.
A loftie fansie steeped in the fount
Of Pegasus, an higher pitch can mount.
Sibylline Oracles did speake in verse,
Their scatterd leaves in measures did rehearse
The mysteries of mans redemption, by
The incarnation of a deitie.
Grave Maro, I remember, in an Ode,
An Eclogue, treades the same Prophetick rode.
Those famous Druides renownd of late,
Treated at large oth' soules immortall state.
Mans spirit does not to the gloomie shade
Of Erebus, ore black Cocytus wade.
Death sets no period, is the lesser part
Of humane life, for the same breath does dart
Vigor to every sinew in the bulke.
Man lives as freely in another hulke,

xiii

Who readeth Ovids Metamorphosin,
And thinkes not Moses soule was sheathed in
His body, by a transmigration?
He from the chaos tels the worlds plantation.
Maro accords, and gives the world a soule,
Which does this well-compacted lumpe controule;
And by illumination he discoverd
How then the spirit ore the water hoverd.
Th'inspired pen of old Pythagoras
By Nasos guide, relates, how in this masse
All things doe alter shape, yet soone Dame Nature
Of one forme lost, informes another feature,
No substances nothinged in this large globe,
But gainst some feast puts on a newer robe.
The earth resolv'd to water, rarefies,
Into pure aire the thinner water flies,
The purer aire assumes a scorching heate:
They back returning, orderly retreate,
Those subtile sparkes converted are to breath,
The spissye aire, being doomed unto death,
Turnes into sea, earth's made a thickned water.
Thus wily Nature is a strange translater.
My Lady Readers, I refer to sands,
But the grave learned unto Ovids hands.
Nor Seneca divine wants prophesies,
Neare to the death of time an age shall rise,
In which, sayes he, the Ocean shall untye
The watry bands of things, and to the eye
Of Typhis, a new world appeare
Vnheard before, by the most itching eare,
In glory matching this Then Thule no more
Shall be th' earths ne plus ultra, bound or dore,

xiv

Our eights ith'hundred wold large heaps of treasures
Set in their wills to buy Zorastus measures.
Masse-priests for Dirges then would loose their fee,
These would the surest de profundis be.
Shopsters and gallants to his house would hop,
More than t'Exchanges, or Canary-shop.
And Poets briske would have a larger dealth
Than holy Confessours, of dead mens wealth.
I might be infinite, should I but show
For what grave Arts the world to Poets owe.
Apelles had not been without Parnasse,
The pensils worth had onely dwelt on glasse,
Or dusty tablets, guided by those Apes,
In imitation of some antick shapes.
Venus a portraict had, Pigmalion mist
That speechlesse female which he hugd and kist,
Had not th'enlivening breath of Poetrie
T'a higher pitch reard up dull phantasie.
How quickly worthy acts of famous men,
Dy'd in the waine of our poetick pen?
How rudely by the Monkes (which onely had
The key of learning) were their actions clad,
King Ethelbert's clos'd in his Poliander,
To Christ for Church buildings, he's gone without Mæander
Such stuffe the tombes of Bede and Petrarch have,
The razor from all Monkey pates did shave
Wit with their haire, except in Mantuan
Re-teind by Vida and Politian,
And many others was this glorious Sun
Which glitter shall till earths last thread be spun,
We raise shall Obeliskes by Apollos breath,
Which owe no homage to the rage of death.

By pen Honterus creatures limb'd to life,
Better than could the Cynicke with his knife.
Pliny compared unto him, did erre,
He was a Chymick and Cosmographer.
How bravely does the Scottish Bard depinge
The planets order, and the Sphericke hinge.
Brave Petrarch, Latin'd by our learned clarke,
Lights us a lampe to guide us in this darke
And critick age, sayes, that stout Alexander,
(Whose warlicke steps ore all this globe did wander)
Fixing on brave Pelides tombe his eye,
Wrapt with a noble envie, lowd did cry,
Happy, O happy thou, whose actions still
Live, being enbreath'd by the immortall quill,
Of worthy Homer! nay, when his sword had gaind
Those wealthy realmes, ore which Darius raignd.
He mongst his treasures found a casket faire,
So set with gold and gems, it rayd the aire,
And cald in day despight of clowds or nights,
Yet the best use (as grave Patricius writes)
This cabinet could serve to, was t'entombe
Homers choyce Iliads in his glorious wombe.
Of Zoaraflus now some wonders heare,
And barrell his disciples in thine eare,
Whose rithmes could charme foule Cerbers bawling tongue,
And pick hels lock with his inchanting song.
From Stygian shade conducting whom they listed,
And whom they pleas'd with hellish fogs be misted.
Oh golden meeters, rimes out-worthing gold,
At what high prices would they now be sold
If they were extant! Friend for friend would sell
Lordships, bookes, banners, to redeeme from hell

xvi

How many ages has those Greekes surviv'd,
(Than all their predecessors longer liv'd)
Which showd their noble worths at Iliums grave?
Yet thrice Nestorean age them Homer gave:
How bravely Lucan tels succeeding ages
The seven-hilled cities bloody rages.
Moyst clowdes long since, have washt the purpled grasse,
Yet red as ever 'tis in Lucans glasse.
To Carthage Queene the wandring Trojan Prince
Pretended love, but dead it is long since,
And dust are they, yet Virgils loftie verse
Makes him speak wars, she love, from under th'herse.
Long since did Hellespont gulpe in Leander,
When he presum'd on naked breast to wander.
Hero's watch-candle's out, they vanisht quite,
Yet Ovid fayes, all was but yester-night.
A great while since the cheating Miller stole
The Schollers meale by a quadruple tole,
They gave him th' horn-booke, taught his daughter Greek
Yet look in Chaucer, done the other week.
I'rne-sinewd Talus with his steely flaile,
Long since ith' right of justice did prevaile
Vnder the Scepter of the Fairy Queene,
Yet Spencers loftie measures makes it greene.
Dun was a Poet, and a grave Divine,
Highly esteemed for the sacred Nine,
That after times shall say whilest theres a Sun,
This Verse, this Sermon was compos'd by Dun.
What by heroick acts to man accrues,
When grisely Charon for his wastage sues,
If his great grand-childe, and his grand-childes son,
May not the honours, which his sword hath won.

xvii

Read, grav'd on paper by a Poets pen,
When marble monuments are dust, and when
Time has eat off his paint, and letterd gold,
For verse alone keepes honour out oth' mold.
The presse successively gives birth to verse:
Shall steely Tombes out-live the Buckram herse?
To other things the same proportion hold,
Pure rimes, which loftie volumes doe enfold.
Autumnall frosts would nip the double Rose,
If cherisht onely by the breath of Prose.
Beautie of beautie's not the smallest part,
Which is bestowed by our liberall Art.
Orpheus, Arion, and the scraping crue,
To wyre and parched guts may bid adiew,
Or audience beg, wer't not for sprightfull Bayes,
Which to the strings composeth merry Layes,
But with the Muses I'me so faln in love,
That I forget thy presence, mightie Iove,
And through the spacious universe doe walke,
Bur this shall set a period to my talke.
Iove stretcht his Scepter then with frolick grace,
And joy triumphed on the heavens face,
The Orbes made Musicke, and the Planets danced,
The Muses glory was by all enhanced:
Iove then intended for to ratifie
Decrees in the behoofe of Poesie,
Giving the Bards his hand to kisse, and made
Chaplets of Lawrel, which should never fade.
But Vulcan to Gradive plac't in oppose,
Was nodding fast, and bellowing through the nose,
His armed brow fell downe, and lighting right,
His antlers did the marching god unsight.

xviii

Mars fum'd, the gods laught out, the sphears did shake
At which shrill noyse I starting did awake,
And looking up, (East having op't his dores)
Amazed I beheld a troope of scores,
And wondring, thought they'd been Ale-debts, but found
I them had chalked in my dreaming swound.
I trow not the decree, 'twas Vulcans fault,
Yet dreames are seldome sound, like him they halt.
Take this, and if I can so happy be,
Ile write in my next slumbers, the Decree.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

To his loving friend the Author.

To the Reader.

To his loving Kinsman the Authour.

In Authorem, amicissimum suum, Encomiasticon.

To his friend, a Panagericke upon his lovers Albino and Bellama.

THE PLEASING HISTORY OF ALBINO AND BELLAMA.

To his Companion in prayse of Bellama.

Vpon Bellama's walking in the Garden, and with him.

Upon his Bellama using and forsaking the Walke.

To mee's faire Metres, Vandebrad Islile of te fine towne of Vaschester

Upon the Ring sent to his Bellama.

VPON THE POESIE I live in hope.

An Invective against CVPID.

To his Bellama slighting him.

Beheld, admire, and some contentment gather From Nuns! bat teeme, mand by a virgin-father.

TO THOSE WORTHY HERO'S OF OVR Age, whose noble Breasts are wet and watred with the deaw of Helicon, N.W. wisheth ever-flourishing Laurels.

Il in sonio insonnadado.