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Dia Poemata

Poetick Feet Standing Upon Holy Ground: Or, Verses on certain Texts of Scripture. With Epigrams, &c. By E. E. [i.e. Edmund Elys]
Elys, Edmund (ca. 1634-ca. 1707)
 
[epigraph]
 
[dedication]

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To my FRIEND, Mr. E. E. on his Divine Poems.
 
On the sacred Poems of my Ingenious Friend, Mr. E. E.
 
To his honest Cousin, E. E. on his Dia Poemata; or, his setting Feet on Holy ground.
 
To my Friend, the Author.
 
To his Honour'd Friend M. E. E. on his Incomparable Poems.
 
To Mr. E. E. on his DIA POEMATA.
 
To Mr. E. E. on his Book, &c.
 
To the Author.
 
To the Laurell worthy Mr. E. E. on his Excellent Poems.
 
To the Author.
 
To his most Deserving Friend, Mr. E. E. on his DIAPOEMATA.
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In Dia Poemata; Or, Poetick Feet standing upon Holy Ground.
 
Ad Encomiastas Authoris.
 
Κοσμος ακοσμος. All is Vanity and vexation of Spirit.
 
[How light is Man! by ev'ry wind]
 
[On me, my Friends, ô pity take!]
 
Lavatus Æthiops.
 
On Christmas day.
 
[I'm slave to grief (not mine own man)]
 
[To light hearts only such light mirth belongs]
 
[Rapt with Hot Zeale (Elias like) Blest Stephen]
 
[Of the Ten Leapers, Lord, the world claim's Nine]
 
[Oh Lord, shall we thy Glorious Body Eat?]
 
[Lord, on my Heart write thou thy Law, that I]
 
[My Lungs are worn with Groaning; often Moans]
 
[Ah! Shall my restlesse Mind for ever be]
 
[Thy Youthfull Heat should still Aspire]
 
In Obitum VITÆ. On the Death of JESUS.
 
[I've washt my feet, ev'n in the Bloud]
 
[Thrice happy Babes! wean'd from the world so soon]
 
BACK-SLIDING: OR, A Spirituall Relapse.
 
[Hold! hold! I will not do't: Shall I]
 
Homo Lapsus.
 
[Thrice Curst be Wanton Pleasure, Hell's Fine Daughter]
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EPIGRAMS, &c. By E. E.
 
ENCOMIAST: To J. C.
 
On a dull Poet, but good Logitian.
 
On a Little Gentleman of Great Parts.
 
To a false-hearted Poet.
 
On a Gentlewoman of a Brown Complexion, but Handsome Features.
 
On a Gentleman who Died with Lord in his Mouth.
 
On the Death of Leander.
 
To one that gets his Living by writing Satyres.
 
Nec Fonte labra prolui Caballino.
 
------ Vino pellite Curas.
 
Of Vulgar Criticks.
 
To the Eye Adulterer.
 
On a Gentlewoman that would be married to none but a Rich man.
 
To the Author.
 
To the same.
 
To an Epigrammatist, that inveighs against Women.
 
On the perfect Conclusion of a fierce War.
 
To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, weeping for the Death of her Eldest Brother, my Bosom-Friend.
 
To the same.
 
On the Tempestuous season of Wind and Rain, 1654.
 
Strong Drink.
 
Charity.
 
[His Soul's so Dark all o're, He cannot see]
 
An unquiet bad Conscience.
 
Temptation.
 
Pride.
 
To a Lascivious Poet.
 
On Poetry.
 
Of Partiality.
 
The World's Fine Gentleman.
 
To Unlearned Criticks.
 
To an Hireling Poet.
 
To his Displeased Pater in Phœbo, Mr. F. M.
 
On a NEWES-MONGER.
 
To an Honourable Lady Rarely Accomplisht with Wit, and Beauty.
 
On the fifth of November.
 
To an Handsome Gentlewoman on this part of her Anagram: Each Beauty Shoots.
 
To the same.
 
Swearing and Cursing.
 
Melancholy.
 
To Mr. F. M.
 
To One marrying for Love, not Money.
 
Thanks To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, who gave him a Dish of Sweet Meats.
 
To his Honour'd Friend, W. W. Esq.
 
To Mrs. M. S. in her Child-bed Dresse.
 
To the same, newly Married, on her Anagram: SO! YOU'RE MATCHT.
 
Mars Togatus: Or, Fighting in the Schooles.
 
Hac Ignis: Sive Lues Venerea.
 
Another.
 
Lust.
 
To the Reader.
 
To Mr. E. F. The only Son of Sir E. F. Knight.
 
Plaine Verse.
 
To Mrs A. S. on the Death of her Two first Children.
 
Allusion.
 
To that Pretty Piece of Perfection Mrs L. C.
 
To Mrs. K. G. having been lately sick of the Small Pox.
 
A Love sick Gentleman to a Fair Lady scorning him.
 
To a Phantastick Vagabond, Professor of Satyricall Pet Poetrie.
 
Fame.
 
To his Book.

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To his most Deserving Friend, Mr. E. E. on his DIAPOEMATA.

I'm bash'd to read thy Verse, as I begin
To Scan thy Worth, my Muse comes Trembling in:
When I turn over this foul leaf, I'de ne're
Look back again, but that Thy Name is here;
Thou art no Pedling-Poet, what's here Writ.
Is at whole Sale; Thy Book's a Shop of Wit?
Th' Poets Nutshell, a Volume in each Page,
W'admire thy Youth in thy ripe Muses Age.
I cease to praise thy Book, what e're we see,
In that of Worth, I'm sure there's more in Thee.
Thou art a Poet, and Divine, Who's thus
Doth ride to Heav'n on Winged Pegasus.
John Parker.
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