University of Virginia Library

THE SIXTH BOOK.

Epig. 1. Uirgula Divina.

Some Sorcerers do boast they have a Rod,
Gather'd with Vowes, and Sacrifice,
And (borne about) will strangely nod
To hidden treasure, where it lies:
Mankind is (sure) that Rod Divine,
For to the wealthiest (ever) they encline.

Epig. 2. To Wil. Drosse the upstart Gallant.

Friend, those gay cloathes, aswell thy hyde befits,
As Purple doth th' untutord Marmuzets.

Epig. 3. To Tatam.

Tatam makes Verses of all sorts, and sizes,
And Playes, and Songs, and Ballads he comprizes:
In keene Iambicks a Lymphatick Lyrick
He is, and playes, and sings, sweeter then Derick,
For which, amongst the Broakers and Broom-criers,
Amongst the Watermen, 'mongst Dolts, and Diers,
Hee's cri'd up for a Bards and he is one,
For he writes Welsh, or in some stranger tone.

Epig. 4. To Mr. Giles Granvert .

Now wee
(Deare Sir) be
Our owne Antipodes,
Our owne Disease,
Seamen the Whip,
Plowmen the Ship
Vsurpe and guide,
Men walk, Mules ride,
Children begin
To teach to spin
Their Grandams old,
Sheepe Shephards Fold,
Meteors exhal'd
From mud are call'd
The highest Spheares,
Small hopes, great feares,
Wolves in Humane shapes
Men, Asses, Hoggs and Apes,
Hermaphrodites with Child,
Herod reconcil'd
To Pilate; Iustice, Knowledge,
From Gotham Colledge
Proceed, the blind perceive
What Seer's wo'nt beleeve,
No way but Chymistry,
Salt, Sulphur, Mercury.

Epig. 5. Aristotle.

Natures great Midwife, thou that knew'st far more
Then all the Ethnick Sages, did before
'Tis more then a Chimera unto me,
Thou that could'st weigh the Earth, should'st by the Sea
Be swallow'd, thy Witts Ocean knew no shore,
Fathoming Rheas wealth and Thetis store.

Epig. 6. Epitaph on Mahomet the Second, Emperour of Turkes, Anno Dom. 1450 .

I that so many nations have
Tumbled together in one grave,
Am now by Death, which all devowers,
Layd here; where now are my powers?
Phillip's mad Sonne's most glorious Fame,
Compard with me shall want a Name,
And mighty Julius have small glory,
Parrallel'd with my Deathless story:
I the Greeks vanquish't, all Epire,
I tam'd, and with vindictive ire,
Made the squat bodied Tartars stoope,
Th' Assyrians under me did droope,
Likewise the Arabs, fierce and wilde,
I Persia, and Hungaria spoild,
Rhodes I had tane by Martiall strife,
Had the three Sisters spar'd my life:
Death in the twinkling of an eye
Forc'd me to a Satietie,
So perished the Pride of Glory,
Proving all things but Transitory.

Epig. 7. To the brave and beautious Lady, the Lady I. G.

Circe the Enchanteresse (who as Homer relates) transformed rationall men into the similitude of bruite Beasts.

Circe , not onely was a Sorceresse,
But also Lais Function did professe,
By her loose postures many were enthrall'd,
Most aptly she's Hyperions Daughter call'd,
Because her filthinesse to every eye
Was obvious, by her Impudicitie,
Lascivious gestures, and her wanton tricks,
(More base then any London Meretrix)
Shee caused men, of honest Morallists
To become Brutish, and meere Sensualists:
“Man by the Gods was framed Just, and Free,
“But innate guile forfeits his puritie.
Thus did she Metamorphose Men to Beasts,
So he (bright Lady) on your beauty feasts,
Sol's Daughters Soporiferous draught doth drink,
Let me be Gryll, or what you please to think,
Not any sordid shape will I eschew,
Some Bristled Swine, so I may grunt neare you.

Epig. 8. Silvesters Translation of Du-Bartas, His Divine Weeks, and Works.

'Twere no absurdity to question it,
Whether the great Du-Bartas better writ,
Or Silvester translated, quaintly rare
Is his conversion, had he rested there
His Fame had been advanced to the skies,
Now groveling, clog'd with his own Fripperies.

Epig. 9. On the pollution of a well known Temple.

Now birds, and Four-foot-beasts inhabite where,
The Sacred Fathers er'st assembled were,
The Porches full of noble Imagerie,
Oppressed with their own weight, prostrate lie,
Fanes lie full low,
Grasse on Tombs do grow,
So many adornments, rare workes, Sepulchers
And sacred Urnes, one ruine now interr's.

Epig 10. The celebration of a Health to my jovial Friend, James Gort Esquire.

See Sir, here flowes a curious Cup
Of sparkling Nectar, full charg'd up
To'th'brim, her sprightly dauncing bubbles,
(Defying feares, and duller troubles
Of care-clog'd hearts) look how they swell
In proud disdaine, as threatning Hell,
As if she meant to undertake
A Duell, with th' Infernall Lake,
See how she mantles, with what grace
She sweetly smiles upon thy Face:
Drink Sir, (a fig for Fooles, and Wealth)
This Sea to Claracillas health.

Epig. 11. Defacing of Images

If that all Images defac'd should be,
(My Friends) I'me sure, you would not scape Scot-free.

Epig. 12. To the Pamphleters of these times.

Forbeare fond Pamphleters, forbeare to vex,
The giddy world, as with an Apoplex,
Cease rayling Rabsheka's cease to disclose,
And vent such poyson in prophaner Prose,
Whose Basilisk-like Vapors seeme t'impaire
The squeasie temper of the troubled Ayre.

Epig. 13. To John Taylor (commonly called) the Water-Poet.

If ever I did drink, or taste one drop
Of Hellicon, or coveted the top
Of craggy cliv'd Parnassus, if that I
Did ever pipe or sing Harmoniously,
Then let my censure find a free accesse
To those that make thee more, making thee lesse:
I say thy Lines are fluent, and thy Layes
(I do avowch't, not partiall in my praise)
[Some Cockle cast away] are such to mee,
That when I read'em, I'me in Love with thee,
And sighing say, had this man Learning known,
(Who hath so quaint a Genius of his own)
Great Ben had crept to's Urne without a Name,
And Taylor solely slept i'th' house of Fame.

Epig. 14. Modest, Martha .

VVhen to thy Husband I resort,
Wee sometimes jest, and talk in sport,
And if that any word obsceane,
Do passe, thou askt's us, what me meane,
With lookes demure thou silently
Dost sit, as one lov'd Pietie,
Yet I one day unwares came in
Ere thou had'st time to shrowd thy sin,
And found in those faire hands of thine
The filthy workes of Aretine.

Epig. 15. Lactantius, his strange opinion of that Text of Scripture, Gen. 6. 2. Then the Sonnes of God saw the Daughters of Men that they were faire, and they took them Wives, &c.

To the Faire and Courteous Mistress, R. H.

The Angles, whom their mighty Lord
Appointed mankind for to Guard,
With this Command, they should take heed
How they Commixt with humane seed,
And so polluted, did become
Unfit for blest Elizium.
Yet could not scape the Paphian Gin,
Jehovah sees, and hates their Sin,
And now as uselesse properties,
Secludes them from celestiall Blisse
Thrown down, ne're to returne againe
Fell Satan, doth them entertaine
His Agents, their prodigious brood,
(Not harmefull Fiends, nor Angels good)
Not mortall, nor aëriall Spirits,
Suffer not for their Fathers merits,
To Barathum they were not sent,
Nor yet up to Olympus went,
Two sorts of Devils there became,
The one we may Celestiall name,
T'other Terrestiall, thus farr hee,
Whose profound Ingenuitie,
All men admire, but he forgot,
That Heavenly Spirits cannot blot,
Their puritie by such a deed
Not capable of humane seed,
But this (bright Mistress) makes for me,
If to Lactantius you'l agree:
For if the Angels could not tame,
The force of Æricinas flame,
No marvell I am scorcht to dust,
Serv'd up an Oglio unto Lust.

Epig. 16. My Imprisonment in Whittington for Writing Mercurius Elencticus .

Most strange it seemes unto the Vulgar rout,
That, that which thrust me in, should guard me out,
My Soule with no engagement's clog'd, but thus
My gaining life, strook dead Elencticus.

Epig. 17. In Memory of our Famous Shakespeare .

Epig. 18. Pimponello, Flambello, A Dialogue.

Flambello.
Happy Pimpinello, thou
Thriv'st, I prithee tell me how,

Pimpinello.
Learn of me for to engage
If thoul't thrive this Iron Age,
Pleasures at the highest pitch,
Pandora onely can make rich,
No gold, nor meed is held too deare
To buy a Beauty for a yeare,
To sin securely, swim in pleasure,
Twice six Moneths:

Flambello.
If that Treasure
May so facily be wonne,
I have a Daughter, she shall shunne
No wealthy Letcher.

Pimpinello.
A match, our Trade
Shall last till Sin, and Pleasure fade.

Epig. 19. To Mr. James Ford, his Medalls being Miraculously preserved from fire.

Vulcan to save these Monuments
Suffocates his own flaming Vents,
The Elements themselves had sence,
(By a coactive Providence)
Their Father Ayre, and Mother Earth,
Bridled their fury in its birth,
As when they choak't Enceladus,
For Anapis, and Amphinomus,
For which (Sir) you ought every day
A Jocund Vulcanalia say.

Epig. 20. Our Blessed Redeemer (in scorne) by the Cursed Jewes, cloathed in White Rayment.

Almighty and Omniscient, thus thy Power
Was visible, even in that very hower,
When Satans yre, was most predominant,
(When the thing made did 'gainst its Maker vant:)
Wrapt in an Alball, (though on vile pretence
The perfect Emblem of thy Innocence).
Unwittingly they did Mithologize
Thou wert to die a spotlesse Sacrifice,
Thus wert thou Typified by Samuels deed
Then when he made a sucking Lambe to bleed,
And Israel, was Victorious ore his foe,
By thy deare blood, we quell Apollion So.

Epig. 21. Mortimer, and Queene Isabel ,

A Dialogue.

MORTIMER.
Now, now, securely we may clip
Not fearing Edwards Ire,
Let me suck Nectar from thy lip,
And 'bove the gods aspire.

ISSABEL.
Yet, our embraces are but stol'n
No safety, can I see,
The Commons, are with anger swol'n,
And rage 'gainst thee and me.

MORTIMER.
Let the Plebeians mutter all,
All is our own (my Deare)
Confirmed in Canarvans fall
Which I expect to heare.

ISSABEL.
Is Gurney gone to do the deed,
Our Loves Foundation
Is layd in blood. Mortimer. Edward must bleed,
This night (my Love) t'is done.

ISSABEL.
I, that when Edward was a King
Enthron'd, by all obeyd,
Durst love thee, now do feare the thing
I shake,—We are betray'd.

MORTIMER.
Betrayd, me thinks thy Noble Soul
Should not be timorous,
Who's he dares Mortimer controule?
Fate must not menace us.

ISSABEL.
I could rejoyce that he were dead,
But that I durst conspire
To macerate his vitall thread
Is horrible and Dire.

MORTIMER.
In that, in that alone (faire Queen)
Thy Love is manifest,
All had been nought, had this not been
In sanguine Lines expre'st.

ISSABEL.
Then let our Loves obstructer die,
But I Prognosticate,
Many, that his Throne shall supplie,
Shall taste the selfe-same Fate.

MORTIMER.
No matter, I am sure my brow
Shall ne're empaled be,
With Brittains wreath, a Crown I know
Was not ordain'd for mee.

ISSABEL.
Oh, but unhappie Edwards Sonne,
See'st not how he does lower,
Hee knowes, although a Child, what's done,
He must ere long have power.

MORTIMER.
But I'le anticipate his time,
The Boy shall to his Syre,
That he is Edwards is his Crime,
Ere long he shall expire.

ISSABEL.
But my distress'd Soule doth Divine
Thou by his rage shalt Perish,
I justly in a Prison pine,
That durst such Treason cherish.

Epig. 22. To the hopefull and excellently Ingenious, Mr. John Quarles.

It were a Treason, 'gainst Apollo's Gam,
Should I not consecrate one Epigram
To thee (sweet Quarles) whose Person though I ne'r
Did blesse my eyes with, I affect most dear,
Heyre to thy Fathers Genius, Hee whose Braine
Measur'd the Earth, and Fathomed the Maine,
Whose Theologick Layes I do admire,
Who drew the Starr's down with his Thespian Lyre.
How like thy Father dost thou strike the Strings,
Soaring aloft, borne on those very wings
Rap't him to the third Heaven, where hee's now,
Wearing as faire an Anadem on's brow
As god-like Bartas claimes, go thou but on,
And doubt not of a Chaplet, and a Throne.

Epig. 23. On Mr. Chapmans Incomparable Translation of Homers Workes.

VVhat none before durst ever venture on,
Unto our wonder is by Chapman done,
Who by his skill hath made great Homers Song
To vaile it's Bonnet to our English tongue,
So that the Learned well may question it,
Whether in Greek, or English Homer writ?
O happy Homer, such an able Pen
To have for thy Translator, happier then
Ovid, or Uirgil, who beyond their strength
Are stretcht, each Sentence neare a Mile in length:
But our renoun'd Chapman worthy praise,
And meriting the never blasted Bayes,
Had rendered Homer in a genuine sence,
Yea, and hath added to his Eloquence:
And in his Comments, his true sence doth shew,
Telling Spondanus, what he ought to know;
Eusthatius, and all that on them take
Great Homers Mistick meaning plaine to make,
Yeeld him more dark, with farr fetcht Allegories,
Sometimes mistaking, clean, his learned Stories:
As 'bout the flie Menalaus did inspire,
Junos retreat, Achilles strange desire;
But he, to his own sence doth him restore,
And Comments on him better then before
Any could do, for which (with Homer) wee
Will yeeld all Honour to his Memory.

Epig. 24. Epitaph on Mr. Flood .

Reader, thou need'st no Inundation feare,
Yet be it known a Flood's Imprisoned here.

Epig. 25. To Mr. E. G.

You say, (Sir) that I do obscurely live,
And my retyr'dnesse doth suspicion give,
Fame (you say) on wings doth flie,
“Whole aves himselfe, doth living die,
'Tis true, I do in darknesse goe,
That I am thought-bound well I know,
Honour I seek not, I flight Fame,
I feele within, what those do blame
That are without, I scorn, 'tis true
The World, it me, I honour you.

Epig. 26. Epitaph on Mr. James Gourd a singing-man.

Here lies a Chorister, whose voice appli'd
Unto the Organ, oft hath dignifi'd
His maker, who so likt his Carroling,
He took him into heaven there to sing.

Epig. 27. To the Parliament of England .

You are the Braine, the Liver and the Heart,
Wee are the Hands
Of this great Body, and the Vitall part,
The Feet whereon it stands,
The Bones, and Bulke, which must the Burthen beare,
Therefore without offence
With you wee (sure) may claime an equall share,
'Specially in the Common sence.

Epig. 28. To Mr. Edward Gosling pittying my want of Books.

The rage of these rude times hath snatch'd away
My Books, from Æsop to Mirandula,
I now for Books have 'bove my head the skies,
The Truth for Light, and Reason for my Eyes,
Under me Earth, about me Ayre, and Sea,
Vertue for Guide, and Nature for my Way,
And truth to say, in Books, as Clouds, men see
Of whose Embracements, Centaures gotten be.

Epig. 29. A Paralell.

As Humours drawn up from the Ground
Are unto many Functions bound,
'Cause of their native property,
And climes through which their journeys be,
Some Meteors, that amaze below,
Some Comets, that fore-threaten woe,
Some hailestones, that afflict the earth,
Some raine, which hastens every birth,
Lightning and Thunder made of those
Cold regions double heates inclose:
So is mankind in other fashion
Rais'd and let fall with his own passion,
Form'd, Transformed, made instruments
In many shapes, and many vents,
Feeding great men, as Vapours do,
And vading Scourge their Parents too:
Some mishap'd Meteors terrifying
True Spirits, under Tyrants lying,
Others like Windes, and made to blow
To breath themselves, and overthrow
Others, some like Dewes where they touch,
Exhalation-like, some flame too much,
Catching in heates of power and will,
Thunders, and Flames, t'amaze and kill.

Epig. 30. To Mr. John Sob, of these times.

Fame, and Religion but assure
Vaine man, to give wounds, and endure,
Those Princes still most famous are,
Who staine most earth with blood in warre,
As when windes 'mongst themselves do jarre,
So restlesse humours bring forth warre,
Seas then are tost, the waves do fight,
The people beare the wounds of might,
All the diseases of the head
Descending till the Limbs be dead.

Epig. 31. The Character of an accomplisht Man.

Epig. 32. To his Excellency, the Lord Generall Cromwell .

Sir, Power is proud, till it look down to Feare,
Though onely safe, by ever looking there,
Kings Thrones were ever like enchanted fires,
Mighty to see, and easie to passe over:
The Torrid Zone of Tyranny retyres
Into the Frigid, and can ne're recover
Its Pristine Station, when t'is dislocated
By Providence, and Power ingemminated:
Sir, I confesse when one man ruleth all,
There Feare and Care, are secret wayes of Wit,
Where all must rise, and onely one must fall,
Safety aspire, and care must manage it.
“Dead men are onely trusted by the wise,
“On speechlesse Formes we may securely rise.
Those Spirits of Practise that contend with Fate,
Must by their Deaths do Honour to a State,
New counsells must be had, when Plannets fall,
“Change hath her Periods, and is naturall.

Epig. 33. To the profoundly Learned, and unparalleld Antiquary, John Selden Esquire.

Thou living Library, the admiration
Of this our Borean Clime; who know'st each Nation
Their Origen, Lawes, Ceremonies, all
Their Customes triviall, or authenticall,
All which thou hast narrated with such skill,
That (more then Cambdens) all admier thy Quill,
Scalliger's but a Puple unto thee,
(The very Basis of Antiquitie)
Sufficient Characters to expresse all things
Thou hast, nor need'st thou Metaphorick wings:
For all the Earth is thine, a Caspian Sea
Thou art, and all Brookes sally into thee,
But like the Ocean, thou giv'st back farr more
To those clear springs, then thou receiv'st before;
From thee true living Wisdome doth proceed,
Thou hast the art of Eloquence (indeed)
What bold presumption is it (then) in me
To dedicate my Epigrams to thee,
Yet so I dare to do, that all may know
I wish the censure of the rigid'st brow.

Epig. 34. Not to wonder at the Monstrositie of these times.

Mens Vices, Beasts chiefe Virtues are,
The shames of Peace, the pride of Warr.

Epig. 35. To Mall my Wife.

Dearest Love, I pray thee tell,
Is not he an Infidell,
That conceiv's thy dainty sex
Were onely made for to perplex
Wretched mankind, and that the Gods,
Fram'd the first woman, when at odds:
The Whore Pandora with her Box
Brought healing medicines, not the Pox.
Hesiod was beside his sence
When he divulg'd with impudence
All the Plagues that fall on man
From Pandora first began.
O my Deare, whom I preferre
Above my Life, my wished Starre,
In whose embraces I do sleep,
When I have folded up my Sheep,
Let not any casualty,
Any harsh Adversitie
Dull thy noble sence, or yet
Force thee 'gainst thy starrs to fret,
Philemon, and poor Baucis, who
Liv'd in penury, and woe,
By Saturnus and his Sonne
Were visited and Favours wonne,
When mighty Kings their Persons wanted,
Let nought make thee and I be daunted.
But what need I advertize thee,
Whose copious Ingenuitie,
Athenia makes more jealous farre
Then when Arachne challeng'd her,
The Gods, I'me sure, appointed thee
As onely fit, my Wife to bee:
Juno, and Hymen, both delight
To waite on us, let Fortunes spight
But give us cause of mirth, the Graces
Do waite on us, and our Embraces.

Epig. 36. The Conclusion.

'Tis done, but (Englishman) if thou will't sit
As Judge, be sure thou hast a Latine wit.