University of Virginia Library

EPISTLES and EPIGRAMMS

To the lady Stanhope at Twicknam. 1615

Katherine Stanhope—Anagr: I keepe an honest hart.

Poor lines if ere you fortunately stand
Opposd to purer eyes in that pure hand
To which I send you; plentifull accesse
You soon shall fin[d], of wealth and noblenesse
This sad dull inke will sparkle then & shine
Each word fall soft, & smooth run every line
And you tho meanly borne, shall seeme the straine
And issue of some witts or Poëts braine
Sure it is syn in him that not envies
That loftie blisse to which you then shall rise.
For she will hold you when she goes to rest
Within a handfull of hir heavenly brest.
And tho she knows all ready what you meane
Will haue a mind to read you ôre againe.
And tis a wonder if in all that while
She doe not in despight of sorrow smile
Once, as the brave sunn hurls his flaming eye
Through clouds swolne bigg with a moyst tympany
Tho at that instant on hir face appears
Hanging like pearles a payre of shining tears
Which balme droppt on you, will great virtues add
So precious blotts no verses ever hadd.
Then she contemplates & she prayes withall
The Graces then, and heavens angells fall
Thick on her bosome, & about hir bedd,
And holy deawes on hir & yow are shedd
Comes slumber then, & you by hir are sett
Amongst hir best things in hir Cabinett,
But thus while you to blisse & high estate
Are lifted, I lie here disconsolate.
For what glad thing is left vs since shees gone
But our good Angell & hir Huntingdon
Save that bright starre which yet is fixt so high
I cannot thither throwe my feeble eye
Nought here is to be seen, worth looking on
But merchandize fitt for king Solomon
Who had a navie which appointed were
To fetch him apes & peacocks every yeare.
This clime is desert, we the Phœnix misse
And Twicknam now Arabia foelix is.
Yet wou'd not this my patience so much breake
As that I am constraind to hear them speake
Hard writhen words intended eloquence
Six Criticks wedges would not cleiue the sence
With theise tis persecution to conferre
True Purgatorie barrd from heaven & hir
Whose speech, whose faire aspect, whose every glance
Did thaw away some peice of ignorance.
Thence my cold muse & braine of Ice, for prose
merely ordain'd resolu'd in numbers flows,
Which if hir deare remembrance I refraine
would freeze I feare, to stubborne prose againe
But that I'le ne're doe; since the very thought
of hir hath with it much new learning brought
First I perceiue by that faire Soule of hers
The follie of two great Philosophers.
Thales thought all our soules of water were
And Anaximenes imagind aier
That hirs is neither now remains no doubt
She must by this haue sigh'd or wept it out.
Next by hir fame, which still doth freshly last
Spight of the devill or mans malicious blast
I see that virtue may be built so strong
And Right, that rumour can not sett it wrong
Last by the thought of hir estate, I find
How full of froath & emptinesse & wind
Is their content who haue reposed it
In wealth, or bloud, in beautie, youth, or witt.
For of all theise things heaven had lent such store
They can not be hir frends that wish hir more
Yet to full blisse I see she something seeks
Witnesse these water wracks vpon hir cheekes
Which she shall find in heaven tho here she misse
[And crowne those waterie eyes, wth wyne of Blisse]

To Mr Clifton.

To me whom lords & ladies often teach
To looke for iust & seasonable breach
Of swelling promises, It was no news
That so profest a visitt you refuse;
The rich and poor are differenc'd in this
We must, but you must not keepe promises.
Nor did you single now fall off, but drew
Along that Angell which is double you
Shee that is fair clean through, in soule & face
Whose conversation is next good to grace
Whose heavenly apparition wher it comes
In lowly Cottage, glads & gilds the rooms
Is it not hell while thus our hopes you crosse
And we condemnd to paine of sence & losse
One while hott rage for missing your repaire
Torments, anone we freeze in cold dispayre
May we not be redeemd? You haue heard tell
One gentle Pope fetcht Traianes soule from hell
By suffring paine in his owne feet, alas
You may goe lesse: let but your palfrays passe
Our gravell ways, which if they straine to doe
Youle saue in soules, what they can loose in shooe.

To Mr Clifton with Mr Fr: Beaumounts Verses on the Count: of Rutland

Theise striking pleasing beams Fra: Beaumont threw
On noble Sydneys herse, reflect on you
My noble frend, whose touch I wonder how
Or that could scape, or you forbear till now
For your most knowing spirit is of kinn
To all best witts that are or ere haue been
Apollo, Hermes, every muse & grace
Smiling on Cliftons as on Beaumonts race
And would you not attract such things of force
[To you must flie, or flowe by Natures course]
As one smooth gentle flood another takes
(disdaining fellowship with ponds or lakes)
And with their siluer armes embracing grow
Till two to one, both names & natures goe.
So those rich soules of pure Promethean strain
Haue mutuall rellish each of others veine,
Prove it, and runne your fluent stile by this
Twill mixe, and we may call it yours or his,
In such an hope my feebler spring hir hands
Vplifts, for helpe, to passe theise barren sands
And find at length, a fairer way to meet
Your streams of worth, & witt, so full, so sweet
Then foule & puddle witts yt striue in vaine
My cleare & natiue simplenesse to staine
Will all runne vnder ground, and mingling well
With Stix & Acheron, be fitt for hell.

To the Lady Visc: Beaumount: at Burton

Madame; or sure your soule is masculine
Or else we must their heresie decline
That tell vs of an incapacitie
In any soule, for virtue thats a shee.
For all that doe Converse with yours, do find,
All virtues there that can be in a mind;
And for that reason, well you can not looke
To haue me count them; for then I mistooke
In saying you haue all, since those alone
Loue & expect such reckonings as haue none.
Yet I confesse there is a deaw distills
(As bees make balme of flowers) from learned quills
Vsefull and apt for every noble Dame
That striues to make the best conserve of fame.
The peoples voice is a thinne broth of breath
A food too faint to nourish after death
But Ioues Immortall Nectar is for those
Whom verse exalts beyond the reach of prose
And pardon me if I contend to raise
To such a seemly height your virtues praise
(For yet my muse a bare intention hath
Because my knowledge is implicite faith)
And make men know them, which tho now they doe
Yet then shall know that I doe know them too.

To a yong lord at Court 1623.

To say to you good Lord, I may refraine
Doubting it were to take that name in vaine
Because at Court you build high roofs of Fame
But lay noe ground of good to bear the frame
But when your temper, innocencie, truth
(Now famous all) I balance with your youth
I can not thinke it sinne or flatterie then
To write you in the roule of honest men:
And hurle my vow that once we may behold
A great man young remaine a good man old.
Let Envie barke: is it a fault assoone
To crie god saue it as we see the moone
Worke from a cloud? or virtue break like day,
And cut through mists a clear & open way.?
When Lucifer their prince like lightning fell
A cloud of spirits shott from heaven to hell;
Yet our beleife is Catholike, that some
Are perfect and possesse the glorious roome
Wherin at first the all disposing hand
Them plac'd so sure, they shall for ever stand
The floud of water & the storme of fire
At Sodome, made iust Lott & Noah retyre
But neither perisht, both in safety stood
This on his hill that on his horse of wood.
And tis decreed in that darke booke of Fate
Some that rise early shall continue late
And such a strength of noble spirits haue
To bear fresh honour lasting to the graue
And such may you (I sing) Example shine
Your virtues you while I your praise refine
So you in perfect health may well deride
Med'cines & druggs men for the sick provide
So like a tall ship may you ride the waues
Of swelling Envie, & repulse the braves
Of windy rumour made of spightfull breath
Till that glad port you gaine of life by death.

To my neighbour R B. Archd: of Nott: now D of Sarum

Lett me enioy you, for I faine would know
If still you looke like one of vs or noe
Is not your former pleasing forme off-stript
Since when your worship was Archdeaconshipt
Quakes not your headpeice with in-gotten wind
Or swells & bursts your nightcaps all behind.?
Or are you to the velvet day-caps come
As fits Episcopabilissimum?
Rise not your brows in billows apt to drowne
Poor Tom beneath, with an impetuouse frowne?
Burne your disdainfull eyes, or sweetly moue
(As earst) and gently shine on those you loue?
Is not your nose suspended, or awrie,
And since twas Archt exalts it selfe on high.?
Blesse me! what dainty proper men of late
By wealths convulsion or a pang of state,
Haue I seen changd (as once by Cyrces cupp)
And to a beastly figure quite runne vp?
Poor Cambridge snakes that vs'd to creepe and lick
The bubling spume of my then Rhetorick
And cling in amorous folds my verse to heare
Verse that at once could please & keep in feare;
Now fiery flying Dragon Doctors are
That warm'd with prebends and fatt Steeples dare
Both hisse & sting; for me 'tis state enough
To kisse or creep in their forgotten slough:
Practise & Contemplation I agree
Shou'd rise, let that a Banging Bishop be
While this shines west, yet may noe crime attaint
The first, but like the second liue a Sainct.
Alas the Churches tayle is lost in drinke
While pott & pipe are made hir pen and inke,
And if the Iowle in pride be pickled too
What shall the sides the bulke, the body doe?
Curates leave ale, leave Prelates ease & pride,
Or Learned & Lay, the Clergie will deride:
And you my learned frend though past the roare
Of Scylla's doggs, take heed in ventring ore
Caribdisse gulfe where Mermaide honour sitts
On seas of danger strewd with rocks & pitts,
Least I when clambring over hills & dayls
By North or South, your Pallace out in Wales
Approching as to Phœbus burnisht roofe
Like Phaeton be bidd to stand a loofe
And scarce recovering me at second sight
You swear good faith, I had forgott you quite
I promis'd you a prebend but in-troth
I am so pressd with Lords & Ladies both
That I can doe you now noe further grace
Then the reversion of the nineteenth place
Nine years I haue expected (and am loth
To name him yet) a mighty Bishops oath.
But if I liue to write his Epitaph
It shall so weep that all that read shall laugh
You can not so deceiue, then onwards march
Till to your first you raise a second Arch.

To Mr T N: Physitian at Leicest

My frend (my Celsus! that's most Eloquent
Of all Physitians) helpe ere all be spent
The tacklings of my spirit, with waves & wind
Of course discourse, that raves in most mankind
I must come to thee, for some cordiall thing
For what they vent (beside the smart & sting)
Diaphoretick, Diuretick is
He that will tak't is sure to sweat & pisse.
As pedants, Iustices, Stepmothers when
They say, I'le talk with you Sr, threaten then
Mere talkers so, me persecuting, breake
Their minds, as banquerout wanting stock; & speake
Till I stand stock-still: hauing else noe fence
Gainst hearing theirs; but turning thus, nonsence
Cryticks that breake vp moldy books (like wise
My Lord Maiors tough rie-crusted great gylt pies
Wher lie dead Calues embalmd, which rising good
Veale mummie, serve to cure the brotherhood)
Cannot with wedges cleaue theise writhen blocks;
Nor all your high-crosse combatants with knocks
Of two cartload of cudgells once expell
Theise braines, or peirce their Dura maters kell
All statesmen, all intelligencers bring,
Wormes, pincers, cupping-glasses, any thing
The rack, the gallows, or the fire to passe
They could not tell you what their meaning was
But thy rich noble conference on me
Conferrs both benefice & dignitie,
As lustie Virgill leaps & sitts a strid
While Phœbus Nun Corvetts; Theise Goblins ride
Theise Incubi, theise daymares vrge me so
That like a child emptie & whipt I goe
Moaning my selfe to thee my Nurse, whose brest
Vnfolded, brings me both to food and rest.

To My Lord Cromwell Viscount Le Cale.

My Lord tis your virtue a great & a rare one
That hauing ascended aboue an old Baron
Your dignitie dos not to strangnesse compell you
Nor with a proud tympany all overswell you,
In most of our great ones their titles addition
Makes worke for the Surgeon & for the Physition
Quite altering the state of their bodies for ever
Their bloud overboiles, strange heats in the liuer
The brain with a dull vertigo so tainted
With all their old frends they grow disacquainted
With noses awry, eyes staring, & flushing
And cheeks redd with pumples that never knew blushing
Old gentle salutings their language forbearing
And know but two graces thats bawdry & swearing
A lord such as theise the hobby-horse passes
For a beast dounright, a fantasticall asse is
But you though a Viscount are still my Lord Crumwell
And keep the same posture, which dos you become well
Right English, true hearted, & good to my thinking
Yet some talke of wenches and I except drinking
My lord in your voiage may a poor man advise you
To sinke those false Pyrats that lie to surprise you
All winds then of honour with full sailes attend you
Till past rocks & flatts ore the surges they send you
To find that rare port of virtues vnspotted
Wher my noble masters haue places allotted,
Both which since you loue & of both are beloued
O Imitate both & so liue vnreproved
Mean while for all three to pray I do promise
Good Harrie, braue Robbin and you noble Tommis.

To Mr C: Cotton at Nott

Sr owe no spight to proverbs, or to them
That scratch for grains, while you would find a gemme
Cupido nulla ignoti (Romans say)
In old great British tis a shorter way
Vncouth vnkist,—how can you then affect
A thing vnknowne, which some that know reiect?
O freezing fire, perplext and ridling fate
No merite loue, & loue deserv'd is hate!
Can such a power take vp without his scorne
An Ariadne faded and forlorne?
Not such a mistresse, but hirselfe to grace
Donns wittsick muse chose an Autumnall face;
And all gray censors iudge his iudgment green
That deckt a Planetree for his fancies queen,
Our poets Isle is Paradise, and here
The trees of knowledge witt & honour beare,
You need not touch at withering, blasted, mee,
Me, the forbidden & forebitten tree,
Admitt not me your frend or if you dare
That choice will suffer vnder fowle compare
Who shuns learnd physicks aid, can he prevaile
With old Jones Pellitorie & sodden ale?
Or long you like a teeming woman, for
Small cole or durt, which all in health abhorre?
Our nicer braveries & court witts will thinke
You stoopt too low when caught with country Inke;
And yet good fellow gods in olden time
With poor Philemon frolikt, and a rime
Antique & reverend, barmd vpon the wall
In many an alehouse, shews it did befall,
In merry Sherwood, how a wand'ring King
Vnder a millers roofe eat bag-pudding.
And since so nere as Notingame you drew
That Cronicle perchance infected you
Or in the best construction vp you beare
To his high sample whose glad name you weare
Our Ioue & Phœbus ioind, that striks all hearts
With gentle light; with peirsing pleasing darts
And whose vnwrinkled brows so well became
Your towne of late your happie Nottingam
The difference is the king vouchsaf'd to see
My sonne foole then, you now the father, me,
Me so the meanest mongst poetick things
As Royall Charles is Grac'd aboue all kings
Mee worst of scribes as much as you are blest
With worth to reade & power to mend the best.

To k. Locarus & qu: Amira

Rome woonne the world; the nobler French advance,
Ore Italie; Bold English conquer'd France.
How shee most faire; Victorious queene excells
Conqu'ring great Charles, that conquers all things el[se]
And with a braue & more than Iulian art
Bowes everie English rough Catonian hart.

To the Same.

[Horace in poore estate, might Sing]

Horace in poore estate, might Sing
Some begging ode, some hungrie thing;
Sett himm with Bayes & Wine on fire
He whisks his muse; & whyrl's his Lyre;
He raues, & ramp's, & madly flies,
In Cilnius face; at Cæsars eyes.
Where May-bright Queenes raine bounteous shower[s]
Rise high poëtick Iuly flowers:
My dull cold Februarie tune
Grac'd by an August, wou'd be Iune.

On the Interlinearie poëme begott twixt Sr H. Goo: & Dr Donne.

Here two rich rauisht spirrits kisse & twyne;
Advanc'd, & weddLockt in each others Lyne.
Gooderes rare match with only him was blest,
Who haes out donne, & quite vndonne the rest.

The poore petitioners.

We never speed, where e're we goe;
There's something in't; nay nothing so.

On the Same: Ex nihilo nihil—

Blame not the Iudges, nor the Lawes
What then? why Nothing. that's the cause!

To Fr. Noo

Lauish not witt in verse; to cast away
What wou'ld in prose; mainteine vs manie a day.
For, for this losse the State haes yett no plott,
No, nor the Lawe; the Church relieues vs not.
Gainst Warrs & Plagues we haue a Litanie
Collects for peace & health; & when t'is drie
For raine; But looke if you can find in it
A prayre to helpe, against the drought of witt;
For Fires & wracks we gather; Witt once gone
There is nor collect, nor collection.

To the Earles of Essex & Warwick going by the Lo: Say, & Earle of Hartford, to the Parliament. 1625.

Essex, & Warrwick, god yu saue & blesse.
Beware Excesse, make Warr-with,
Wickednesse.
Virtue to Honour Leades, the right hand Way;
And so Gods Angells guide you Well to Saye!
Till join'd wth him, that noble Hartaffords
Deeds may advance your worths, aboue all words

Anagram. on the Earle of Holland.

Henricus Holland. He can Surely hold.

Suppose a wheele; & neare vnto the topp
I fixe thy foote; Faire Virtue giues the stopp,
Prævents all motion; vp into the pure
And starrie Orbes, I make thy right hand sure.
Thy left beneath greate Charls his foot I bring.
Thy motto be; Feare God, Honour, the King.
From head to foote, this anagram; Be bold
Holland stands firme, if he can surely hold.

To the Reader of Mr Banc: poëme on the king of Sweden.

Wise Reader (if you be) away, this poore
Flagg, this ill-painted ragge hung at ye dore
Minde not: The prize, the motion is within,
A worke so rare—Goe—you shall see your Sinne
In trifling here, with murmures harsh & flatt
To heare me fright, & vildly præface that
Whose natiue rellish, sweet, & sharpe, & cleare,
Will both astonish & affect your eare;
And thence conveigh to curious Soul's in-sight
A cunning peice of horrour, & delight:
In lines well fy'l'd, wch beaten round & streight
Flowe not alone in number, but in weight.
Plie then both sense & spirit, & tell me then
Where ought may be amended by your penn;
Only this Page misplac't, shou'ld be behinde
In this are all th'Errata you will finde.

Vpon the Battaile, by the same author.

My first glad feares, & ioyfull tremblings past,
The Myst cleares vp: at thy Lowde Clarions blast
The battayle strikes; strikes wth a mightie amaze
Myne eyes; that Royall thing, whose starrlike blaze
Hurles bloud-shott fire on Austria'es eagles wings
Then falls the greife & grace of forraine kings.
Thick clouds of vultures seize the glorious preye
Till thy braue storme of Swedds blowes all away;
Whose wrathfull steele whole standing feilds at once
Dounce fells; & heapes huge Fun'rall piles of bones
Nor till th'affrighted Foe to flight they driue
Their king, in death a conquerour, home retriue;
Then like this Martyrs master on the roode
Impale his browes with crowne of Bayes & blood.
Thy Muse so drest, comes forth in stately feete
His height of worth, in height of verse to meet:
And on his herse by magick spells to spread
Vncanckring brasse, & fine liue marble shead.
Deuise-full frame! wherein thy braine invents
To place thy fame with regall monuments.
Men cannot iudge that wonder, & I canne
No lesse, to see this master-peice of manne
So cutt to life, by thee whose grauing toole
Is sett to Copies in a Countrie Schole;
Tis much; so whyrld, wth that Diurnall sweigh
In gracefull posture still to keepe thy way,
In such a mill to tend this wheele & throwne
To manie motions, thus to mynde thyne owne
How large a circle fill? what light mightst thou
To vs, & our Antipodes allow?
Wou'd but some nobler hand those barrîers force
Which now be-tropick & Ecclipse thy Course?
T'is no one braine: nor fate, nor chance, nor tyme:
Mecœnas pursestrings Strike the powrefull Ryme.

Replie to Mr Randolls verses on the losse of his finger.

Muse ere we part, let wittye Arnold know
Haud pulchrum est monstrari digito.
Giue him an anser quick, who when cutt of
His fingar was; cou'd turne it to a Scoff
I'th'turning of an hand. T'is prettie Sound
But his discyphering giues his sence a wound
Wou'd not his nose whippt of, Stubb his Prose?
His feete in verse shoot forth by cropping of his toes?
I knowe not how his Arts may since encrease
But Sure hee's maim'd in Liberall Sciences.
His Grammer's gone: His ablatiue's to seeke
Nor can he helpe it with the merrie Greeke.
For Logicke hee's in a faire Prædicament
Loosing his substance by an accident
And striues to Lick it whole by argument.
His vocale musique rellishes for aye
But this quite spoiles his fingering (they say)
O the fiue fingar's a great helpe in play.
But if vnto Arithmetique we come
Hee'l find a way to rayse the totall summe
Yet must be twice beholden to Tom Thumbe.
Nor can Geometrie or proue or showe
Foure parts of fiue are all, or else 'tis soe
Just as Tetragonon in Trigano.
Helpe then Astronomie; some influence
From Mars, a shewre of flesh & blood dispense
Why may not bones & nayles too fall from thenc[e]
Which warme applied may grow to litle sence.
So this Rime taken hote; whom it offendes
They haue their mends ith'r handes at fingars e[nds]

MissDemeanours.

On MissDemeanours why shou'ld great ones stand?
They missdemesne themselfs that sell their land!

On Tobacco. 1618.

Voyd damned weed that hells drie sweetmeats art
As molten lead is marmalate & Tart,
What cheating Diuell made our Gallants thinke
Thee Physick, wenches, comp'nie, meete & drinke,
And monie; for at this deare drugg alone
They catch, when for it all their gold is flowne,
T'is our Artillerie too, & armd this way
Our English scorne Bucquoy & Spynola:
Sett but each mann vnto his mouth his pipe
And as the Iewes gaue Iericho a wipe
Raysing a blast of Ramms hornes while it fell
Some balade on a tyme the truth shall tell
How it befell; when we our foes did choake
Like beës, & putt them pel-mel, to the—Smoke.

To. Ed: Ca

Thy Lines are sharpe & flatt & grosse & fine
And carelesse curiously they doe intwine
Things holy and prophane, which comes (I thinke)
of Ashbies godlie, & vngodlie drinke
While like the moone thy planetarie witt
Does from the Bull, into the Lion flitt
And so from signe to signe, vntill thou meet
With Aquarie & Pisces at thy feet:

Martial's epigram. englished.

Vitam quæ faciunt beatiorem etc.

To king Locarus: & queene Amira

Poëts are supreme heads; & royall things;
Whose subjects are the best of Queens & kings
Best soules to you most subiect are: & thus
More perfect you; more subiect still for vs.

A Countrie Iustice.

A mittimus, a warrant, a Release
Theise are his cause materiall to the peace
The Sole-efficient Cause, his Clerke; & hee
Is formall too, The Finall is The Fee.

Receipt against Death.

An easie thing to keepe of Death;
It is but keeping one in breath.

To the Spirituall theife; or my brother Sermon snapper. 1624.

T'is Birdlime, & takes well: But who shall know
Whether you pilld my hollie barks or noe?
In Garments stolne men face or theft deface
Setting on newe, or ripping of the Lace.
Steale, & then cunningly to melt menns Lynes
Is goldsmiths craft; fire new, in new Diuines.
So rough hard Verse dissolu'd in Liquid Prose
Runns smoothly off in nature of a glose.
At Court, or crosse. He springs & he Retriues
And vnknowne partner in my bargaine thriues.
Yet this is Lawfull Lust, layd in Compare
With Leawd madd rapes of Bawdie braines that dare
Adulterate with others sheets; & bring
Before graue Iudges, a stale printed thing.
As he at Hartford, (brotherlike) vptooke
(For I was dead) my old, drie, barraine booke;
And most incestuous man, had by the same
Strange issue, diffring twynns; applause & shame.

To Courtlie Neophyte, or the new Diuinitie reader.

Boldly to turne each leafe, & fixe your sight
Vpon a booke, I sweare t'was Lectring right.

To the Same.

[We saw your sermon stolne; & heard you spell]

We saw your sermon stolne; & heard you spell
And reade it ill; yet vowe t'was handled well

On: Mrs Cary. or a Mayd of Honour

Sprung like pure morning Light vnstain'd
From noble bloud; nor bought, nor fain'd;
Worth-full, & clearely fam'd in youth,
For natiue garbe of faith, & truth:
Thalian Daphne; Muse, & Grace,
And chast, tho Phœbus chase & chase:
A Soule dis-vulgard, neare of Kinne
To hir's, whose glories will beginn,
A female order, past the fleece,
Or garter; of two crounes a peice;
Which she the Soveraigne giues of merite
To weake resemblers of hir Spirrit,
Aboue the common rate, & fitt
As well for reason, as for witt
High witt deuoyd of everie vice
To th'order of The Fleure d'elice.

On Dr. T. Goad & Dr H. King two rare Diuines & poëts.

With Goad's rich streyne to match my poore encrease
Tho but in way of Praise were Sawcinesse
And I by seeking such promotion may
Giue my promooter iuster cause to Lay
My marrying Without Lycence; this is worse,
An horride act, to drawe a tyrants curse,
Bynding the quick to dead. Lett him

Dr. H. K:

that is
The Double Second to two Phœnixes,

✗B. of Lon:

His father first, our King of preists: & hee:

(Dr Don)

The late Copernicus in Poëtrie,
That rappt the whole Earth round, & gaue it sence,
Of Loue, to moue by his Intelligence;
(While both those Flamens liue in this vnspent
And not so much as yet Non-Resident.)
Lett him from wealthie stocke proportion out
Verses in amorous foulds to claspe about
Goad's faire Soules issues necks, in geniall sheet
To wipe their pure chast venerable feet.
Myne too prophane, & cold, too fowle, & vile,
Discovert wou'd affright, & then defile.
In this payre brauely match'd (without compare)
Our Æmulous both Academies are.
Both pardon me to this high nuptial Feast
To bring my Song; my Sacrifice at least.

A Village Villane, Baylife describd in riding positure.

His horse must needs be skewbald as is hee,
A Gibbet fine explan'd, his Saddle tree.
Cladd with a sheepsskinn stolne: & the theiues string
Reprieu'd; by his old mothers hackeling
Proues right good girth webb; Hookes & fimbles from
His neighbours yate-post's, may by forg'rie come
To Buckles spurrs, shooes, stirrops: Some suppose
His snaffle, dropt from a Smithpuritans nose,
It is so poynant stuff: His pommell brasse
Till his distemp'ring a cookes Ladle was:
Now it alludes vnto his face; & sign'd
Wth KKs all o're; it emblem's all his mynd.
Boots, gloues, & bridle, to his vglie hand
All fitted, of a stinking knaves skinn tann'd.
Mounted on Rosinant; he takes a pride
To heare those rattling prizes on each side
Pewter, raw yarne, Bibles, & panns, & potts
Cherns, cheesfatts, Buffit stooles; from Syllie Sotts
Vanquish'd, & borne in tryumph, for old rents
Vnsatisfied, or new Amerciaments.
A sheafe of feathers in a Poke, to stick
In carriers horsetayles, if he find 'hem sick
In Ditches; or before The alehouse, stay,
In goes his feather, & he cries a stray.
If geese on Mercat highway stiles be left
In Baggs; all's his; He sweares they are a weft
Thus growes this mightie Politique in purse
Scaring whole townes, where all the people curse;
Takes Widowes teares of as a Sugred cupp;
Swallow's an Orphans Cottage at a Supp,
Leawd tales, Lies, Slaunders, are the Trade he driues,
And fiftie tymes forsworne he laughs, & thriues,
Esteem's a Baylife as Manns Masterpeice
The only Daintie Diuelish thing that is
And proues from Chaucers tale, what erê men talke
Wise Satans self in such a shape did walk.

On Man

Man worse then worme, in bloud first sprawling lies
Naked, & wanting all, for wch it cries
It sucks, thriues, & becomes a comelye beast
But thinks itself an angell at the least.
Takes it a storme; it shrinks, laments, & wrings,
In sunnshine frisks, & feasts, & flatters kings.
Getts wealth, builds, threatens, fullfills all its lust
And last is rotten & forgotten Dust.

To the E. of Dors.

Vates is preist & poët; both if Good
Are alike Scorn'd & alike vnderstood
I can deride the rig'rous doome of those
Who thinke all Christian writers are in Prose.
I floate at ease aboue those Flatts; & Keepe
My course to Scape the Dangers of the Deepe;
To Dorsett Sound, my Vent'rous Vessell beares
Hir helme of Hope; but Laden full of feares.
I feare what most I covett to pertake;
And what my hart advances, makes it ake.
No title, blood, or place, or wealth, or might
Cou'd ever much attract, or much affright;
But where is spent, what Lauish virtue can
With Natures Bountie to make vp a man;
Such as sans fiction Homer might redresse
Melting his Iliads to his Odysses.
Whose browes Apollo bynds with Learned Bayes
And Hermes renders vp his Lyre, & Layes:
Who can rebuke my Genius to be checkt
With feare, in conscience of his owne defect
As who shall argue me a foole, to fix
An hope of Grace, where all the Graces mix!

Rapture on King Locarus.

—T'is he, deserv's a voice
More cleare then Whitest Fame, with whose compare
Musicks of Birds & strings harsh brawlings are
A voice of tunefull spheares to marr the chyme
Vndoe the danse of Motion, Place, & Tyme;
Rebate keene whirlwinds edge, with whisp'ring gale;
Charme doune the Sea-mayds & Lure them: prævaile
To calme Seas, Furies; Fates, to stand, & pawse,
Then fall & breake their Adamantine Lawes
Make graue old Saturne light yong passion feele
And call each Spinstring Angell from hir wheel
Start from their sockets starrs; glad Venus flies
ffrom Mars embrace; Hermes beslumberd Lies.
Sweats & in envie fresh Apollo stopp's
Till in forgetfull rage his Lute he dropps!
Strike then some high, some conqu'ring strayns advance,
Vnhindge the Orbe's, & make the cold Beare danse
A Sinkapase: or madding, headlong roule
Through waues forbidden to the Southern Pole.
Ô for a pow're to vnsynode all the Sett
Of Deÿeties, to heare sphear-musique, mett!.

To Poët wou'dbee.

The Song the Fidler sings, he sweares, is thyne
So t'is, since his: no foole will say t'is myne.

On the willful man.

In theise three wills, the diffr'ence is but small,
Or none at all: willfull, willfoole, will-fall:

Song of Amira Queene

1636.

Song old as. 1618.

Song of King Locarus. 1636.

Epigr: on the Rt Rev: Father in God: Lo. BB of Winchester (deceasd) & the Rt honble The Earle of Manchester (Liuing) a payre of most noble & virtuous Lights in Church and Commonwealth

If Chester boast hir (flesh & bloud) cheife men:
What was Winchester? is Manchester then?
Both noble borne to equall heights of Spirit
Both glorious strong in sev'rall wayes of merite:
That was a Cheife, compackt of Learnd & Good
Both abling preisthood, both ennobling blood,
This that surviues, cheif man of those that weild
Great Charls his Law's & Counsell: Sword & Sheild:
An Isthmus, or a Rod, t'imbarr the pride,
Or swelling waues of violence deuide.
Death tooke Winchester cheife of churchmen young
O Spare Manchester Cheife of Statesmen Long.

To the truly noble & gracious Lord: in whom the above named Liue Vnited in their Virtues: The Lo: Visc: Mandevile

For Iustice I'll appeale your father's eare
But crie both mercie, & craue pardon here.

To the truly noble. S. Jo. Monson. 1637 7ber 7°

Poëms are climes, faces, or tempers. one,
A phlegmatique, rawe, starving Icie Zone,
Another's torride; no Liue things endure
Vnder the Line, without a Calenture;
A third is well-complexioned, Sound & faire
In whose glad rayes, delightfull dwellings are.
Had I rich nature, or rare art, t'afford
Or frame; (wthout one cold or scorching word,)
A vigorous, happie, & harmonious peice
Fedd with fresh ayres; (as blew on him in Greece,
Or him in Italy, whose brains brought forth
Æternall men, composd of witt & worth,)
To you it shou'd be sent, by you be meant.
You of that Iust & Ponderd temprament
Whereby, wise Nature swerving oft, we find
Hath still a mynd, to make vp such a mynd.
But (Sr) alas! My Veyne is waterish, dull,
My Clime of Mysts, & rebell foggs is full,
And of the golden rule theise Loose Lines fell
So shorte, they Learn't not numeration well.
In worst & Poorest sence, they hold the meane.
This face so farr from Cleare, it scarce is Clean[e]
So rough a feat[u]re, Low & darke a Cell,
You may Looke on, or in; but cannot dwell.