University of Virginia Library

EPIGRAMMES. I. BOOKE.

I. To the Reader.

Pray thee, take care, that tak'st my Book in hand,
To read it well: that is, to understand.

II. To my Book.

It will be look'd for Book, when some but see
Thy title, Epigrammes, and nam'd of mee,
Thou should'st be bold, licentious, full of gall;
Wormewood, and sulphure, sharp, and tooth'd withall,
Become a petulant thing, hurle inke, and wit
As mad-men stones: not caring whom they hit.
Deceive their malice, who could wish it so.
And by thy wiser temper, let men know
Thou art not covetous of least selfe-Fame,
Made from the hazard of anothers shame.
Much lesse, with lewd, prophane, and beastly phrase,
To catch the worlds loose laughter or vaine gaze.
He that departs with his own honesty
For vulgar praise, doth it too dearely buy.

III. To my Book-seller.

Thou, that mak'st gaine thy end, and wisely well,
Call'st a Book good, or bad, as it doth sell,
Use mine so, too: I give thee leave. But crave
For the lucks sake, it thus much favour have,
To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought;
Not offer'd, as it made sute to be bought;
Nor have my title-leafe on posts, or walls,
Or in cleft-sticks, advanced to make calls
For termers, or some clerck-like serving-man,
Who scarce can spell th'hard names: whose Knight lesse can.
If, without these vile arts, it will not sell,
Send it to Bucklers-bury, there 'twill well.

IIII. To King James.

How, best of Kings, dost thou a Scepter beare!
How, best of Poets, dost thou Laurell weare!
But two things rare, the Fates had in their store,
And gave thee both, to shew they could no more.
For such a Poet, while thy daies were greene,
Thou wert, as chiefe of them are said t'have been.
And such a Prince thou art we daily see,
As chiefe of those still promise they will bee.
Whom should my Muse then flye to, but the best
Of Kings for grace; of Poets for my test?

V. On The Union.

When was there contract better driven by Fate?
Or celebrated with more truth of State?
The World the Temple was, the Priest a King,
The spoused paire two Realmes, the Sea the ring,

VI. To Alchymists.

If all you boast of your great Art be true;
Sure, willing poverty lives most in you.

VII. On the New Hot-house.

Where lately harbourd many a famous whore,
A purging bill, now fix'd upon the doore,
Tels you it is a Hot-house: so it ma,
And still be a whore-house. Th'are Synonyma.

VIII. On A Robbery.

Ridway rob'd Duncote of three hundred pound,
Ridway was tane, arraign'd, condemn'd to dye;
But, for this money was a Courtier found,
Beg'd Ridwayes pardon: Duncote, now, doth crye;
Rob'd both of money, and the laws reliefe;
The Courtier is become the greater thiefe.

IX. To All, To Whom I Write.

May none, whose scatter'd names honor my Book,
For strict degrees, of rank, or title look:
'Tis 'gainst the manners of an Epigram:
And, I a Poet here, no Herald am.

X To My Lord Ignorant.

Thou call'st me Poet, as a terme of shame:
But I have my revenge made, in thy name.

XI. On Some-thing, That Walkes Some-where.

At Court I met it, in clothes brave enough,
To be a Courtier; and looks grave enough,
To seeme a statesman: as I neere it came,
It made me a great face, I ask'd the name.
A Lord, it cried, buried in flesh, and blood,
And such from whom let no man hope least good,
For I will do none: and as little ill,
For I will dare none. Good Lord, walk dead still.

XII. On Lieutenant Shift.

Shift, here, in towne, not meanest among Squires,
That haunt Pickt-hatch, Mersh-Lambeth, and White-fryers,
Keeps himselfe, with halfe a man, and defrayes
The charge of that state, with this charme, god payes.
By that one spell he lives, eats, drinks, arrayes
Himselfe: his whole revenue is, god payes.
The quarter day is come; the hostesse sayes,
She must have money: he returnes, god payes.
The taylor brings a suite home; he it 'ssayes,
Looks o're the bill, likes it: and say's, god payes.
He steales to Ordinaries; there he playes
At dice hisborrow'd money: which, god payes.
Then takes up fresh commodities, for dayes;
Signes to new bonds, forfeits: and cries, god payes.
That lost, he keeps his chamber, reades Essayes,
Takes physick, teares the papers: still god payes.
Or else by water goes, and so to playes;
Calls for his stoole, adornes the stage: god payes.
To every cause he meets, this voice he brayes:
His only answer is to all, god payes.
Not his poore cocatrice but he betrayes
Thus: and for his letchery, scores, god payes.
But see! th'old baud hath servd him in his trim,
Lent him a pocky whore. She hath paid him.

XIII. To Doctor Empirick.

VVhen men a dangerous disease did scape,
Of old, they gave a Cock to Æsculape;
Let me give two: that doubly am got free,
From my diseases danger, and from thee.

XIV. To William Camden.

Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe
All that I am in Arts, all that I know.
(How nothing's that?) to whom my Countrey owes
The great renowne, and name wherewith she goes.
Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave,
More high, more holy, that shee more would crave.
What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in things!
What sight in searching the most antique springs!
What weight, and what authority in thy speech!
Man scarse can make that doubt, but thou canst teach.
Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,
Which conquers all, be once over-come by the
Many of thine this better could, than I,
But for their powers, accept my piety.

XV. On Court-worme.

All men are wormes: But this no man. In silke
'Twas brought to Court first wrapt, and white as milke;
Where, afterwards, it grew a butter-flye:
Which was a cater-piller. So 'twill dye.

XVI. To Braine-hardy.

Hardy, thy braine is valiant, 'tis confest;
Thou more; that with it every day, dar'st jest
Thy selfe into fresh braules: when, call'd upon,
Scarce thy weeks swearing brings thee of, of one.
So, in short time, th'art in arrerage growne
Some hundred quarrels, yet dost thou fight none;
Nor need'st thou: for those few, by oath releast,
Make good what thou dar'st do in all the rest.
Keep thy selfe there, and think thy valure right;
He that dares damne himselfe, dares more than fight.

XVII. To the learned Critick.

May others feare, flye, and traduce thy name,
As guilty men do Magistrates: glad I,
That wish my poemes a legitimate fame,
Charge them, for crown, to thy sole censure hye.
And, but a sprig of bayes given by thee,
Shall out-live garlands, stolne from the chast tree.

XVIII. To My Meere English Censurer.

To thee, my way in Epigrammes seemes new,
When both it is the old way, and the true.
Thou saist, that cannot be: for thou hast seene
Davis, and Weever, and the best have beene,
And mine come nothing like. I hope so. Yet,
As theirs did with thee, mine might credit get:
If thou 'ldst but use thy faith, as thou didst then,
When thou wert wont t'admire, not censure men.
Pr'y thee, beleeve still, and not judge so fast,
Thy faith is all the knowledge that thou hast.

XIX. On Sir Cod The Perfumed.

That Cod can get no widdow, yet a Knight,
I sente the cause: He wooes with an ill sprite.

XX. To The Same Sir Cod [The Perfumed].

Th'expence in odours is a most vaine sin,
Except thou couldst, Sir Cod, weare them within.

XXI. On Reformed Gam'ster.

Lord, how is Gam'ster chang'd! his haire close cut!
His neck fenc'd round with ruffe! his eyes halfe shut!
His clothes two fashions off, and poore! his sword
Forbidd' his side! and nothing, but the word
Quick in his lips! who hath this wonder wrought?
The late tane bastinado. So I thought.
What severall ways men to their calling have!
The bodies stripes, I see, the soule may save.

XXII. On My First Daughter.

Here lies to each her parents ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth:
Yet, all heavens gifts, being heavens due,
It makes the father, lesse, to rue.
At sixe months end, she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soule heavens Queen, (whose name she beares)
In comfort of her mothers teares,
Hath plac'd amongst her Virgin-traine:
Where, while that sever'd doth remaine,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth.
Which cover lightly, gentle earth.

XXIII. To John Donne.

Donne, the delight of Phœbus, and each Muse,
Who, to thy one, all other braines refuse;
Whose every work, of thy most early wit,
Came forth example, and remaines so, yet:
Longer a knowing, than most wits do live;
And which no affection praise enough can give!
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,
Which might with halfe mankind maintaine a strife;
All which I meane to praise, and, yet, I would;
But leave, because I cannot as I should!

XXIV. To The Parliament.

There's reason good, that you good laws should make:
Mens manners ne're were viler, for your sake.

XXV. On Sir Voluptuous Beast.

VVhile Beast instructs his faire, and innocent wife,
In the past pleasures of his sensuall life,
Telling the motions of each petticote,
And how his Ganimede mov'd, and how his goate,
And now, her (hourely) her own cucqueane makes,
In varied shapes, which for his lust she takes:
What doth he else, but say, leave to be chaste,
Just wife, and, to change me, make womans haste.

XXVI. On The Same [Sir Voluptuous] Beast.

Than his chast wife, though Beast now know no more,
He 'adulters still: his thoughts lye with a whore.

XXVII. On Sir John Roe.

In place of scutcheons, that should decke thy herse,
Take better ornaments, my teares, and verse.
If any sword could save from Fates, Roe's could;
If any Muse out-live their spight, his can;
If any friends teares could restore, his would;
If any pious life ere lifted man
To heaven; his hath: O happy State! wherein
We, sad for him, may glory, and not sin.

XXVIII. On Don Surly.

Don Surly, to aspire the glorious name
Of a great man, and to be thought the same,
Makes serious use of all great trade he knowes.
He speakes to men with a Rhinocerotes nose,
Which hee thinks great; and so reades verses, too:
And that is done, as he saw great men doe.
H'has tympanies of businesse, in his face,
And, can forget mens names, with a great grace.
He will both argue, and discourse in oathes,
Both which are great. And laugh at ill made cloathes;
That's greater, yet: to crie his owne up neat.
He doth, at meales, alone, his pheasant eat,
Which is maine greatnesse. And, at his still boord,
He drinks to no man: that's, too, like a lord.
He keeps anothers wife, which is a spice
Of solemne greatnesse. And he dares, at dice,
Blaspheme God, greatly. Or some poore hinde beat,
That breathes in his dogs way: and this is great.
Nay more, for greatnesse sake, he will be one
May heare my Epigrammes, but like of none.
Surly, use other arts, these only can
Stile thee a most great foole, but no great man.

XXIX. To Sir Annual Tilter.

Tilter, the most may admire thee, though not I:
And thou, right guiltlesse, may'st plead to it, why?
For thy late sharpe device. I say 'tis fit
All braines, at times of triumph, should runne wit.
For then, our water-conduits doe runne wine;
But that's put in, thou'lt say. Why, so is thine.

XXX. To Person Guiltie.

Guiltie, be wise; and though thou know'st the crimes
Be thine, I tax, yet doe not owne my rimes:
'Twere madnesse in thee, to betray thy fame,
And person to the world; ere I thy name.

XXXI. On Banck The Usurer.

Banck feeles no lamenesse of his knottie gout,
His moneyes travaile for him, in and out:
And though the soundest legs goe every day,
He toyles to be at hell, as soone as they.

XXXII. On Sir John Roe.

VVhat two brave perills of the the private sword
Could not effect, nor all the Furies doe,
That selfe-divided Belgia did afford;
What not the envie of the seas reach'd too,
The cold of Mosco, and fat Irish ayre,
His often change of clime (though not of mind)
What could not work; at home in his repaire
Was his blest fate, but our hard lot to find.
Which shewes, where ever death doth please t'appeare,
Seas, serenes, swords, shot, sicknesse, all are there.

XXXIII. To The Same [Sir John Roe].

Ile not offend thee with a vaine teare more,
Glad-mention'd Roe: thou art but gone before,
Whither the world must follow. And I, now,
Breathe to expect my when, and make my how.
Which if most gracious heaven grant like thine,
Who wets my grave, can be no friend of mine.

XXXIV. Of Death.

He that feares Death, or mournes it, in the just,
Shewes of the Resurrection little trust.

XXXV. To King James.

Who would not be thy subject James, t'obay
A Prince, that rules by'example, more than sway?
Whose manners draw, more than thy powers constraine.
And in this short time of thy happiest raigne,
Hast purg'd thy Realmes, as we have now no cause
Left us of feare, but first our crimes, then lawes.
Like aydes 'gainst treasons who hath found before?
And then in them, how could we know God more?
First thou preserved wert, our King to bee,
And since, the whole Land was preserv'd for thee.

XXXVI. To The Ghost Of Martial.

Martial, thou gav'st farre nobler Epigrammes
To thy Domitian, than I can my James:
But in my royall subject I passe thee,
Thou flattered'st thine, mine cannot flatter'd bee.

XXXVII. On Chev'rill The Lawyer.

No cause, nor client fat, will Chev'rill leese,
But as they come, on both sides he takes fees,
And pleaseth both. For while he melts his grease
For this: that winnes, for whom he holds his peace.

XXXVIII. To Person Guiltie.

Guiltie, because I bade you late be wise,
And to conceale your ulcers, did advise,
You laugh when you are touch'd, and long before
Any man else, you clap your hands, and rore,
And cry good! good! This quite perverts my sense,
And lyes so farre from wit, 'tis impudence.
Beleeve it, Guiltie, if you lose your shame,
I'le lose my modestie, and tell your name.

XXXIX. On Old Colt.

For all night-sinnes, with other wives, unknown,
Colt, now, doth daily penance in his own.

XL. On Margaret Ratcliffe.

XLI. On Gypsee.

Gypsee, new baud, is turn'd Physitian,
And gets more gold than all the Colledge can:
Such her quaint practice is, so it allures,
For what she gave, a whore; a baud, she cures.

XLII. On Giles And Jone.

Who sayes that Giles and Jone at discord be?
Th' observing neighbours no such mood can see.
Indeed, poore Giles repents he married ever.
But that his Jone doth too. And Giles would never,
By his free-will, be in Jones company.
No more would Jone he should. Giles riseth early,
And having got him out of doores is glad.
The like is Jone. But turning home is sad.
And so is Jone. Oft-times when Giles doth finde
Harsh sights at home, Giles wisheth he were blind.
All this doth Jone. Or that his long-yearn'd life
Were quite out-spun. The like wish hath his wife.
The children, that he keepes, Giles sweares are none
Of his begetting. And so sweares his Jone.
In all affections she concurreth still.
If, now, with man and wife, to will, and nill
The selfe-same things, a note of concord bee:
I know no couple better can agree!

XLIII. To Robert Earle Of Salisburie.

VVhat need hast thou of me? or of my Muse?
Whose actions so themselves doe celebrate?
Which should thy countryes love to speake refuse,
Her foes enough would fame thee in their hate.
'Tofore, great men were glad of Poets: Now,
I, not the worst, am covetous of thee.
Yet dare not to my thought least hope allow
Of adding to thy fame; thine may to me,
When in my Book, men reade but Cecil's name,
And what I writ thereof finde farre, and free
From servile flatterie (common Poets shame)
As thou stand'st cleare of the necessitie.

XLIV. On Chuffe, Banks The Usurer's Kinsman.

Chuffe, lately rich in name, in chattels, goods,
And rich in issue to inherit all,
Ere blacks were bought for his owne funerall,
Saw all his race approach the blacker floods:
He meant they thither should make swift repaire,
When he made him executor, might be heire.

XLV. On My First Sonne.

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sinne was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy,
Seven yeares tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate on the just day.
O, could I lose all father, now. For why,
Will man lament the state he should envie?
To have so soone scap'd worlds, and fleshes rage,
And, if no other miserie, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and ask'd, say here doth lye
Ben. Jonson his best piece of Poetrie.
For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what hee loves may never like too much.

XLVI. To Sir Lucklesse Woo-All.

Is this the Sir, who, some waste wife to winne,
A Knight-hood bought, to goe a wooing in?
'Tis Lucklesse he, that tooke up one on band
To pay at's day of marriage. By my hand
The knight-wright's cheated then: Hee'll never pay.
Yes, now he weares his knight-hood every day.

XLVII. To The Same [Sir Lucklesse Woo-All].

Sir Lucklesse, troth, for lucks sake passe by one:
Hee that wooes every widdow, will get none.

XLVIII. On Mungril Esquire.

His bought armes Mung' not lik'd; for his first day
Of bearing them in field, he threw 'hem away:
And hath no honour lost our Due'llists say.

XLIX. To Play-wright.

Play-wright me reades, and still my verses damnes,
He sayes, I want the tongue of Epigrammes;
I have no salt: no bawdrie he doth meane;
For wittie, in his language, is obscene.
Play-wright, I loath to have thy manners knowne
In my chast booke: professe them in thine owne.

L. To Sir Cod.

Leave Cod, Tabacco-like, burnt gummes to take,
Or fumie clysters, thy moist lungs to bake:
Arsenike would thee fit for societie make.

LI. To King James.

Vpon the happie false rumour of his death, the two and twentieth day of March, 1607.

That we thy losse might know, and thou our love,
Great heav'n did well, to give ill fame free wing;
Which though it did but panick terror prove,
And farre beneath least pause of such a King,
Yet give thy jealous subjects leave to doubt:
Who this thy scape from rumour gratulate,
No lesse than if from perill; and devout,
Doe beg thy care unto thy after-state.
For we, that have our eyes still in our eares,
Looke not upon thy dangers, but our feares.

LII. To Censorious Courtling.

Courtling, I rather thou should'st utterly
Dispraise my Work, than praise it frostily:
When I am read, thou fain'st a weak applause,
As if thou wert my friend, but lack'dst a cause.
This but thy judgement fooles: the other way
Would both thy folly, and thy spite betray.

LIII. To Old-end Gatherer.

Long-gathering Old-end, I did feare thee wise,
When having pill'd a book, which no man buyes,
Thou wert content the authors name to loose:
But when (in place) thou didst the patrons choose,
It was as if thou printed had'st an oath,
To give the world assurance thou wert both;
And that, as Puritanes at baptisme doe,
Thou art the father, and the witnesse too.
For, but thy selfe, where, out of motly, 's hee
Could save that line to dedicate to thee?

LIV. On Chev'ril.

Chev'ril cryes out, my verses libells are;
And threatens the Starre-chamber, and the barre.
What are thy petulant pleadings, Chev'ril, then,
That quit'st the cause so oft, and rayl'st at men?

LV. To Francis Beaumont.

How I doe love thee Beaumont, and thy Muse,
That unto me dost such religion use!
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praisest mee,
For writing better, I must envie thee.

LVI. On Poet-Ape.

Poore Poet-Ape, that would be thought our chiefe,
Whose Works are eene the frippery of wit,
From brocage is become so bold a theefe,
As we, the rob'd, leave rage, and pitie it.
At first he made low shifts, would pick and gleane,
Buy the reversion of old Playes; now growne
To'a little wealth, and credit in the Scene,
He takes up all, makes each mans wit his owne.
And, told of this, he slights it. Tut, such crimes
The sluggish gaping auditor devoures;
He markes not whose 'twas first: and after-times
May judge it to be his, as well as ours.
Foole, as if halfe eyes will not know a fleece
From locks of wooll, or shreds from the whole peece?

LVII. On Baudes, And Usurers.

If, as their ends, their fruits were so the same,
Baudry', and Usury were one kind of game.

LVIII. To Groome Ideot.

Ideot, last night, I pray'd thee but forbeare
To reade my verses; now I must to heare:
For offring, with thy smiles, my wit to grace,
Thy ignorance still laughs in the wrong place.
And so my sharpnesse thou no lesse dis-joynts,
Than thou did'st late my sense, loosing my points.
So have I seene at Christ-masse sports, one lost,
And, hood-wink'd, for a man, embrace a post.

LIX. On Spies.

Spies, you are lights in State, but of base stuffe,
Who, when you'have burnt your selves downe to the snuffe,
Stinke, and are throwne away. End faire enough.

LX. To William Lord Mounteagle.

Loe, what my Countrey should have done (have rais'd
An obeliske, or columne to thy name,
Or, if shee would but modestly have prais'd
Thy fact, in brasse or marble writ the same)
I, that am glad of thy great chance, here doe!
And proud, my worke shall out-last common deeds,
Durst thinke it great, and worthy wonder too,
But thine, for which I doo't, so much exceeds!
My countries parents I have many knowne;
But Saver of my countrey thee alone.

LXI. To Foole, Or Knave.

Thy praise, or dispraise is to me alike;
One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike.

LXII. To Fine Lady Would-bee.

Fine Madam Would-bee, wherfore should you feare,
That love to make so well, a child to beare?
The world reputes you barren: but I know
Your' pothecary, and his drug sayes no.
Is it the paine affrights? that's soone forgot.
Or your complexions losse? you have a pot,
That can restore that. Will it hurt your feature?
To make amends, yo'are thought a wholesome creature.
What should the cause be? Oh, you live at Court:
And there's both losse of time, and losse of sport
In a great belly. Write, then on thy wombe;
Of the not borne, yet buried, here's the tombe.

LXIII. To Robert Earle Of Salisburie.

Who can consider thy right courses run,
With what thy vertue on the times hath won,
And not thy fortune; who can clearely see
The judgement of the King so shine in thee;
And that thou seek'st reward of thy each act,
Not from the publick voyce, but private fact;
Who can behold all envie so declin'd
By constant suffring of thy equall mind;
And can to these be silent, Salisburie,
Without his, thine, and all times injurie?
Curst be his Muse, that could lye dumbe, or hid
To so true worth, though thou thy selfe forbid.

LXIV. To The Same [Robert Earle Of Salisburie]. Vpon the accession of the Treasurership to him.

Not glad, like those that have new hopes, or suites,
With thy new place, bring I these early fruits
Of love, and what the golden age did hold
A treasure, art: condemn'd in th'age of gold.
Nor glad as those, that old dependents bee,
To see thy Fathers rites new laid on thee.
Nor glad for fashion. Nor to shew a fit
Of flattery to thy titles. Nor of wit.
But I am glad to see that time survive,
Where merit is not sepulcher'd alive.
Where good mens vertues them to honours bring,
And not to dangers. When so wise a King
Contends t'have Worth enjoy, from his regard,
As her owne conscience, still, the same reward.
These (noblest Cecil) labour'd in my thought,
Wherein what wonder see thy name hath brought?
That whil'st I meant but thine to gratulate,
I'have sung the greater fortunes of our State.

LXV. To My Muse.

Away, and leave me, thou thing most abhord
That hast betray'd me to a worthlesse lord;
Made me commit most fierce idolatrie
To a great Image through thy luxurie.
Be thy next masters more unluckie Muse,
And, as thou'hast mine, his houres, and youth abuse.
Get him the Times long grudge, the Courts ill will;
And reconcil'd, keepe him suspected still.
Make him lose all his friends; and, which is worse,
Almost all wayes, to any better course.
With mee thou leav'st an happier Muse than thee,
And which thou brought'st me, welcome povertie.
Shee shall instruct my after-thoughts to write
Things manly, and not smelling parasite.
But I repent me: Stay. Who e're is rais'd,
For worth he has not, He is tax'd, not prais'd.

LXVI. To Sir Henry Cary.

That neither fame, nor love might wanting be
To greatnesse, Cary, I sing that, and thee.
Whose House, if it no other honour had,
In onely thee, might be both great, and glad.
Who, to upbraid the sloth of this our time,
Durst valour make, almost, but not a crime.
Which deed I know not, whether were more high,
Or thou more happie, it to justifie
Against thy fortune: when no foe, that day,
Could conquer thee, but chance, who did betray.
Love thy great losse, which a renowne hath wonne,

The Castle and River neere where hee was taken.

To live when Broeck not stands, nor Roor doth runne.
Love honours, which of best example bee,
When they cost dearest, and are done most free.
Though every fortitude deserves applause,
It may be much, or little, in the cause.
Hee's valiant'st, that dares fight, and not for pay;
That vertuous is, when the reward's away.

LXVII. To Thomas Earle Of Suffolke.

Since men have left to doe praise-worthy things,
Most think all praises flatteries. But truth brings
That sound, and that authority with her name,
As, to be rais'd by her, is onely fame.
Stand high, then, Howard, high in eyes of men,
High in thy blood, thy place, but highest then,
When, in mens wishes, so thy vertues wrought,
As all thy honours were by them first sought:
And thou design'd to be the same thou art,
Before thou wert it, in each good mans heart.
Which, by no lesse confirm'd, than thy Kings choice,
Proves, that is God's, which was the peoples voice.

LXVIII. On Play-wright.

Play-wright convict of publick wrongs to men,
Takes private beatings, and begins againe.
Two kinds of valour he doth shew at ones;
Active in's braine, and passive in his bones.

LXIX. To Pertinax Cob.

Cob, thou nor souldier, theefe, nor fencer art,
Yet by thy weapon liv'st! Th'hast one good part.

LXX. To William Roe.

When Nature bids us leave to live, 'tis late
Then to begin, my Roe. He makes a state
In life, that can employ it; and takes hold
On the true causes, ere they grow too old.
Delay is bad, doubt worse, depending worst;
Each best day of our life escapes us, first.
Then, since we (more than many) these truths know:
Though life be short, let us not make it so.

LXXI. On Court-Parrat.

To pluck downe mine, Poll sets up new wits still,
Still, 'tis his luck to praise me 'gainst his will.

LXXII. To Court-ling.

I grieve not, Court-ling, thou art started up
A chamber-critick, and dost dine, and sup
At Madames table, where thou mak'st all wit
Goe high, or low, as thou wilt value it.
'Tis not thy judgement breeds the prejudice,
Thy person only, Courtling, is the vice.

LXXIII. To Fine Grand.

VVhat is't, fine Grand, makes thee my friend-ship flie,
Or take an Epigramme so fearefully:
As't were a challenge, or a borrowers letter?
The world must know your greatnesse is my debter.
In-primis, Grand, you owe me for a jest;
I lent you, on meere acquaintance, at a feast.
Item, a tale or two, some fortnight after;
That yet maitaines you, and your house in laughter.
Item, the Babylonian song you sing;
Item, a faire Greeke poesie for a ring:
With which a learned Madame you belye.
Item, a charme surrounding fearefully,
Your partie-per-pale picture, one halfe drawne
In solemne cypres, the other cob-web-lawne.
Item, a gulling imprese for you, at tilt.
Item, your mistris anagram, i' your hilt.
Item, your owne, sew'd in your mistris smock.
Item, an Epitaph on my lords cock,
In most vile verses, and cost me more paine,
Than had I made 'hem good, to fit your vaine.
Fortie things more, deare Grand, which you know true,
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'le pay you.

LXXIV. To Thomas Lord Chancelor.

VVhil'st thy weigh'd judgements, Egerton, I heare,
And know thee, then, a judge, not of one yeare;
Whil'st I behold thee live with purest hands;
That no affection in thy voyce commands;
That still th' art present to the better cause;
And no lesse wise, than skilfull in the Lawes;
Whil'st thou art certaine to thy words, once gone,
As is thy conscience, which is alwayes one:
The Virgin, long-since fled from earth, I see,
T' our times return'd, hath made her heaven in thee.

LXXV. On Lippe, The Teacher.

I cannot think there's that antipathy
'Twixt Puritanes, and Players, as some cry;
Though Lippe, at Pauls, ranne from his text away,
T' inveigh 'gainst Playes: what did he then but play?

LXXVI. On Lucy Countesse Of Bedford.

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire,
I thought to forme unto my zealous Muse,
What kinde of creature I could most desire,
To honour, serve, and love; as Poets use.
I meant to make her faire, and free, and wise,
Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great,
I meant the day-starre should not brighter rise,
Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat.
I meant she should be courteous, facile sweet,
Hating that solemne vice of Greatnesse, pride;
I meant each softest vertue, there should meet,
Fit in that softer bosome to reside.
Only a learned, and a manly soule
I purpos'd her; that should, with even powers,
The rock, the spindle, and the sheeres controule
Of Destinie, and spin her owne free houres.
Such when I meant to faine, and wish'd to see,
My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was shee.

LXXVII. To One That Desired Me Not To Name Him.

Be safe, nor feare thy selfe so good a fame,
That, any way, my booke should speake thy name:
For, if thou shame, ranck'd with my friends, to goe,
I' am more asham'd to have thee thought my foe.

LXXVIII. To Hornet.

Hornet, thou hast thy wife drest, for the stall,
To draw thee custome: but her selfe gets all.

LXXIX. To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland.

That Poets are farre rarer births than Kings,
Your noblest father prov'd: like whom, before,
Or then, or since, about our Muses springs,
Came not that soule exhausted so their store.
Hence was it, that the Destinies decreed
(Save that most masculine issue of his braine)
No male unto him: who could so exceed
Nature, they thought, in all, that he would faine.
At which, shee happily displeas'd, made you:
On whom, if he were living now, to look,
He should those rare, and absolute numbers view,
As he would burne, or better farre his book.

LXXX. Of Life and Death.

The ports of Death are sins; of Life, good deeds:
Through which, our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilfull blind is he then, that should stray,
And hath it, in his powers, to make his way!
This World Deaths region is, the other Lifes:
And here, it should be one of our first strifes,
So to front death, as men might judge us past it.
For good men but see Death, the wicked tast it.

LXXXI. To Proule The Plagiary.

Forbeare to tempt me, Proule, I will not show
A line unto thee, till the World it know;
Or that I'have by two good sufficient men,
To be the wealthy witnesse of my pen:
For all thou hear'st, thou swear'st thy selfe didst doo.
Thy wit lives by it, Proule, and belly too.
Which, if thou leave not soone (though I am loth)
I must a libell make, and cozen both.

LXXXII. On Cashierd Capt. Surly.

Surly's old whore in her new silks doth swim:
He cast, yet keeps her well! No, she keeps him.

LXXXIII. To A Friend.

To put out the word, whore, thou do'st me woo,
Throughout my Book. 'Troth put out woman too.

LXXXIV. To Lucy Countesse Of Bedford.

Madame, I told you late, how I repented,
I ask'd a Lord a Buck, and he denied me;
And, ere I could aske you, I was prevented:
For your most noble offer had supply'd me.
Straight went I home; and there most like a Poet,
I fancied to my selfe, what wine, what wit
I would have spent: how every Muse should know it,
And Phœbus-selfe should be at eating it.
O Madame, if your grant did thus transfer me,
Make it your gift. See whither that will beare me.

LXXXV. To Sir Henry Goodyere.

Goodyere, I'am glad, and gratefull to report,
My selfe a witnesse of thy few dayes sport:
Where I both learn'd, why wise-men hawking follow,
And why that bird was sacred to Apollo,
Shee doth instruct men by her gallant flight,
That they to knowledge so should toure upright,
And never stoope, but to strike ignorance:
Which if they misse, they yet should re-advance
To former height, and there in circle tarrie,
Till they be sure to make the foole their quarrie.
Now, in whose pleasures I have this discerned,
What would his serious actions me have learned?

LXXXVI. To The Same [Sir Henry Goodyere].

VVhen I would know thee Goodyere, my thought looks
Upon thy well-made choise of friends, and books;
Then doe I love thee, and behold thy ends
In making thy friends books, and thy books friends:
Now, I must give thy life, and deed, the voyce
Attending such a studie, such a choyce.
Where, though 't be love, that to thy praise doth move,
It was a knowledge, that begat that love.

LXXXVII. On Captaine Hazard The Cheater.

Touch'd with the sinne of false play, in his punque,
Hazard a month forswore his; and grew drunke,
Each night, to drowne his cares: But when the gaine
Of what she had wrought came in, and wak'd his braine,
Upon th' accompt, hers grew the quicker trade.
Since when, hee's sober againe, and all play's made.

LXXXVIII. On English Mounsieur.

Would you beleeve, when you this Mounsieur see,
That his whole body should speake french, not he?
That so much skarfe of France, and hat, and fether,
And shooe, and tye, and garter should come hether,
And land on one, whose face durst never bee
Toward the sea, farther than halfe-way tree?
That he, untravell'd, should be french so much,
As French-men in his company, should seeme Dutch?
Or had his father, when he did him get,
The french disease, with which he labours yet?
Or hung some Mounsieurs picture on the wall,
By which his damme conceiv'd him clothes and all?
Or is it some french statue? No: 'T doth move,
And stoope, and cringe. O then, it needs must prove
The new French-taylors motion, monthly made,
Daily to turne in Pauls, and helpe the trade.

LXXXIX. To Edward Allen.

If Rome so great, and in her wisest age,
Fear'd not to boast the glories of her stage,
As skilfull Roscius, and grave Æsope, men,
Yet crown'd with honors, as with riches, then;
Who had no lesse a trumpet of their name,
Than Cicero, whose every breath was fame:
How can so great example dye in me,
That Allen, I should pause to publish thee?
Who both their graces in thy selfe hast more
Out-stript, than they did all that went before:
And present worth in all dost so contract,
As others speak, but only thou dost act.
Weare this renowne. 'Tis just, that who did give
So many Poets life, by one should live.

XC. On Mill. My Ladies Woman.

When Mill first came to Court, the unprofiting foole,
Unworthy such a mistris, such a schoole,
Was dull, and long, ere she would go to man:
At last, ease, appetite, and example wan
The nicer thing to taste her Ladies page;
And, finding good security in his age,
Went on: and proving him still, day by day,
Discern'd no difference of his yeares, or play.
Not though that haire grew browne, which once was amber,
And he growne youth, was call'd to his Ladies chamber,
Still Mill continu'd: Nay, his face growing worse,
And he remov'd to gent'man of the horse,
Mill was the same. Since, both his body and face
Blown up; and he (too 'unwieldly for that place)
Hath got the Stewards chaire; he will not tarry
Longer a day, but with his Mill will marry.
And it is hop'd, that she, like Milo, will
First bearing him a calfe, beare him a bull.

XCI. To Sir Horace Vere.

Which of thy names I take, not only beares
A Romane sound, but Romane vertue weares,
Illustrous Vere, or Horace; fit to be
Sung by a Horace, or a Muse as free;
Which thou art to thy selfe: whose fame was won
In th'eye of Europe, where thy deeds were done,
When on thy trumpet she did sound a blast,
Whose rellish to eternity shall last.
I leave thy acts, which should I prosequute
Throughout, might flatt'ry seeme; and to be mute
To any one, were envy: which would live
Against my grave, and time could not forgive.
I speake thy other graces, not lesse shown,
Nor lesse in practice; but lesse mark'd, lesse known:
Humanity, and piety, which are
As noble in great Chiefes, as they are rare;
And best become the valiant man to weare,
Who more should seek mens reverence, than feare.

XCII. The New Cry.

Ere Cherries ripe, and Straw-berries be gone,
Unto the cryes of London I'le adde one;
Ripe Statesmen, ripe: They grow in every street;
At sixe and twenty, ripe. You shall 'hem meet,
And have 'hem yeeld no savour, but of State.
Ripe are their ruffes, their cuffes, their beards, their gate,
And grave as ripe, like mellow as their faces.
They know the States of Christendome, not the places:
Yet have they seen the maps, and bought 'hem too,
And understand 'hem, as most chapmen do.
The counsels, projects, practises they know,
And what each Prince doth for intelligence owe,
And unto whom: They are the almanacks
For twelves yeares yet to come, what each State lacks.
They carry in their pockets Tacitus,
And the Gazetti, or Gallo-Belgicus:
And talke reserv'd, look'd up, and full of feare,
Nay, aske you, how the day goes, in your eare.
Keep a Starre-chamber sentence close, twelve dayes:
And whisper what a Proclamation sayes.
They meet in sixes, and at every mart,
Are sure to con'the catalogue by heart;
Or, every day, some one at Rimee's looks,
Or Bils, and there he buyes the names of books.
They all get Porta, for the sundry wayes
To write in cypher, and the severall keyes,
To ope' the character. They 'have found the sleight
With juyce of limons, onions, pisse, to write;
To breake up seales, and close 'hem. And they know,
If the States make peace, how it will go
With England. All forbidden books they get.
And of the poulder-plot, they will talke yet.
At naming the French King, their heads they shake,
And at the Pope, and Spaine slight faces make.
Or 'gainst the Bishops, for the Brethren, raile,
Much like those Brethren; thinking to prevaile
With ignorance on us, as they have done
On them: And therefore do not only shun
Others more modest, but contemne us too,
That know not so much State, wrong, as they do.

XCIII. To Sir John Radcliffe.

How like a Columne, Radcliffe, left alone
For the great marke of vertue, those being gone
Who did, alike with thee, thy house up-beare,
Stand'st thou, to shew the times what you all were?
Two bravely in the battaile fell, and dy'd,

In Ireland.

Upbraiding rebells armes, and barbarous pride:
And two, that would have falle as great, as they,
The Belgick fever ravished away.
Thou, that art all their valour, all their spirit,
And thine own goodnesse to encrease thy merit,
Than whose I do not know a whiter soule,
Nor could I, had I seen all Natures roule,
Thou yet remayn'st, un-hurt, in peace, or war,
Though not unprov'd: which shews, thy fortunes are
Willing to expiate the fault in thee,
Wherewith, against thy blood, they offenders be.

XCIV. To Lucy, Countesse Of Bedford, With Mr. Donnes Satyres.

Lucy, you brightnesse of our Spheare, who are
Life of the Muses day, their morning Starre!
If works (not th'Authors) their own grace should look,
Whose poemes would not wish to be your book
But these, desir'd by you, the makers ends
Crown with their own. Rare Poemes aske rare friends.
Yet, Satyres, since the most of mankind bee
Their un-avoided subject, fewest see:
For none ere tooke that pleasure in sins sense,
But, when they hard it tald, took more offence.
They, then, that living where the matter is bred,
Dare for these Poems, yet, both as be, and read,
And like them too; must needfully, though few,
Be of the best: and 'mongst those best are you;
Lucy, you brightnesse of our Spheare, who are
The Muses evening, as their morning-Starre.

XCV. To Sir Henry Savile.

If, my religion safe, I durst embrace
That stranger doctrine of Pythagoras,
I should beleeve, the soule of Tacitus
In thee, most weighty Savile, liv'd to us:
So hast thou rendred him in all his bounds,
And all his numbers, both of sense, and sounds.
But when I read that speciall piece, restor'd,
Where Nero falls, and Galba is ador'd,
To thine owne proper I ascribe then more;
And gratulate the breach, I griev'd before:
Which Fate (it seemes) caus'd in the historie,
Only to boast thy merit in supply.
O, would'st thou adde like hand, to all the rest!
Or, better worke! were thy glad Countrey blest,
To have her storie woven in thy thred;
Minervaes loome was never richer spred.
For who can master those great parts like thee,
That liv'st from hope, from feare, from faction free;
That hast thy brest so cleere of present crimes,
Thou need'st not shrinke at voyce of after-times;
Whose knowledge claymeth at the helme to stand;
But, wisely, thrusts not forth a forward hand,
No more than Salust in the Romane State!
As, then, his cause, his glorie emulate.
Although to write be lesser than to doo,
It is the next deed, and a great one too.
We need a man that knowes the severall graces
Of Historie, and how to apt their places;
Where brevitie, where splendor, and where height.
Where sweetnesse is required, and where weight;
We need a man, can speake of the intents,
The counsells, actions, orders, and events
Of State, and censure them: we need his pen
Can write the things, the causes, and the men.
But most we need is faith (and all have you)
That dares not write things false, nor hide things true.

XCVI. To John Donne.

VVho shall doubt, Donne, where I a Poet bee,
When I dare send my Epigrammes to thee?
That so alone canst judge, so' alone do'st make:
And, in thy censures, evenly, do'st take
As free simplicitie, to dis-avow,
As thou hast best authoritie, t'allow.
Read all I send: and, if I finde but one
Mark'd by thy hand, and with the better stone,
My title's seal'd. Those that for claps doe write,
Let pui'nees, porters, players praise delight,
And, till they burst, their backs, like asses load:
A man should seeke great glorie, and not broad.

XCVII. On The New Motion.

See you yond' Motion? Not the old Fa-ding,
Nor Captayne Pod, nor yet the Eltham-thing;
But one more rare, and in the case so new:
His cloake with orient velvet quite lin'd through;
His rosie tyes and garters so ore-blowne,
By his each glorious parcell to be knowne!
He wont was to encounter me, aloud,
Where ere he met me; now hee's dumbe, or proud.
Know you the cause? H' has neither land, nor lease,
Nor baudie stock, that travells for encrease,
Nor office in the towne, nor place in Court,
Nor 'bout the Beares, nor noyse to make lords sport.
He is no favorites favorite, no deare trust
Of any Madames, hath neadd squires, and must.
Nor did the king of Denmarke him salute,
When he was here. Not hath he got a sute,
Since he was gone, more than the one he weares.
Nor are the Queenes most honor'd maids by th'eares
About his forme. What then so swels each lim?
Only his clothes have over-leaven'd him.

XCVIII. To Sir Thomas Roe.

Thou hast begun well, Roe, which stand well too,
And I know nothing more thou hast to doo.
He that is round within himselfe, and streight,
Need seeke no other strength, no other height;
Fortune upon him breaks her selfe, if ill,
And what would hurt his vertue, makes it still.
That thou at once, then, nobly mayst defend
With thine owne course the judgement of thy friend,
Be alwayes to thy gather'd selfe the same:
And studie conscience, more than thou would'st fame.
Though both be good, the latter yet is worst,
And ever is ill got without the first.

XCIX. To The Same [Sir Thomas Roe].

That thou hast kept thy love, encreast thy will,
Better'd thy trust to letters; that thy skill;
Hast taught thy selfe worthy thy pen to tread,
And that to write things worthy to be read:
How much of great example wert thou, Roe,
If time to facts, as unto men would owe?
But much it now availes, what's done, of whom:
The selfe-same deeds, as diversly they come,
From place, or fortune, are made high, or low,
And even the praisers judgement suffers so.
Well, though thy name lesse than our great ones bee,
Thy fact is more: let truth encourage thee.

C. On Play-wright.

Play-wright, by chance, hearing some toyes I' had writ,
Cry'd to my face, they were th' elixir of wit:
And I must now beleeve him: for, to day,
Five of my jests, then stolne, past him a play.

CI. Inviting A Friend To Supper.

To night, grave sir, both my poore house, and I
Doe equally desire your company:
Not that we think us worthy such a ghest,
But that your worth will dignifie our feast,
With those that come; whose grace may make that seeme
Something, which, else, could hope for no esteeme.
It is the faire acceptance, Sir, creates
The entertaynment perfect: not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectifie your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better sallad
Ushring the mutton; with a short-leg'd hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,
Limons, and Wine for sauce: to these, a coney
Is not to be despair'd of, for our money;
And, though fowle, now, be scarce, yet there are clarks,
The skie not falling, think we may have larks.
I'le tell you of more, and lye, so you will come:
Of partrich, phesant, wood-cock, of which some
May yet be there; and godwit, if we can:
Knat, raile, and ruffe too. How so ere, my man
Shall reade a peece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livie, or of some better booke to us,
Of which wee'll speake our minds, amidst our meate;
And I'le professe no verses to repeate:
To this, if ought appeare, which I know not of,
That will the pastrie, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will bee;
But that, which most doth take my Muse, and mee,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary-wine,
Which is the Mermaids, now, but shall bee mine:
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,
Their lives, as doe their lines, till now had lasted.
Tabacco, Nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but Luthers beere, to this I sing.
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And wee will have no Pooly', or Parrot by;
Nor shall our cups make any guiltie men:
But, at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple word,
That shall be utter'd at our mirthfull boord,
Shall make us sad next morning: or affright
The libertie, that wee'le enjoy to night.

CII. To William Earle Of Pembroke.

I doe but name thee Pembroke, and I finde
It is an Epigramme, on all man-kinde;
Against the bad, but of, and to be good:
Both which are ask'd, to have thee understood.
Nor could the age have mist thee, in this strife
Of vice, and vertue; wherein all great life
Almost, is exercis'd: and scarce one knows,
To which, yet, of the sides himselfe he owes.
They follow vertue, for reward, to day;
To morrow vice, if she give better pay:
And are so good, or bad, just at a price,
As nothing else discernes the vertue or vice.
But thou whose noblesse keepes one stature still,
And one true posture, though besieg'd with ill
Of what ambition, faction, pride can raise;
Whose life, ev'n they, that envie it, must praise;
That art so reverenc'd, as thy comming in,
But in the view, doth interrupt their sinne;
Thou must draw more: and they, that hope to see
The Common-wealth still safe, must studie thee.

CIII. To Mary Lady Wroth.

How well, faire crowne of your faire sex, might he,
That but the twi-light of your sprite did see,
And noted for what flesh such soules were fram'd,
Know you to be a Sydney, though un-nam'd?
And, being nam'd, how little doth that name
Need any Muses praise to give it fame?
Which is, it selfe, the imprese of the great,
And glorie of them all, but to repeate!
Forgive me then, if mine but say you are
A Sydney: but in that extend as farre
As lowdest praisers, who perhaps would finde
For every part a character assign'd.
My praise is plaine, and where so ere profest,
Becomes none more than you, who need it least.

CIV. To Susan Countesse Of Montgomery.

Were they that nam'd you, Prophets? Did they see,
Even in the dew of grace, what you would bee?
Or did our times require it, to behold
A new Susanna, equall to that old?
Or, because some scarce think that story true,
To make those faithfull, did the Fates send you?
And to your Scene lent no lesse dignitie
Of birth, of match, of forme, of chastitie?
Or, more than borne for the comparison
Of former age, or glory of our one,
Were you advanced, past those times to be
The light, and marke unto posteritie?
Judge they, that can: Here I have rais'd to show
A picture, which the world for yours must know,
And like it too; if they looke equally:
If not, 'tis fit for you, some should envy.

CV. To Mary Lady Wroth.

Madame, had all antiquitie been lost,
All history seal'd up and fables crost;
That wee had left us, nor by time, nor place,
Least mention of a Nymph, a Muse, a Grace,
But even their names were to bee made a-new,
Who could not but create them all, from you?
He, that but saw you weare the wheaten hat,
Would call you more than Ceres, if not that:
And, drest in shepherds tyre, who would not say:
You were the bright Oenone, Flora, or May?
If dancing, all would cry th' Idalian Queene
Were leading forth the Graces on the greene:
And, armed to the chase, so bare her bow
Diana alone, so hit, and hunted so.
There's none so dull, that for your stile would aske,
That saw you put on Pallas plumed caske:
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,
There Juno sate, and yet no Peacock by.
So are you Natures Index, and restore,
I'your selfe, all treasure lost of th'age before.

CVI. TO Sir Edward Herbert.

If men get name, for some one vertue: Then,
What man art thou, that art so many men,
All-vertuous Herbert! on whose every part
Truth might spend all her voice, Fame all her art.
Whether thy learning they would take, or wit,
Or valour, or thy judgement seasoning it,
Thy standing upright to thy selfe, thy ends
Like straight, thy pietie to God, and friends:
Their latter praise would still the greatest bee,
And yet, they, all together, lesse than thee.

CVII. To Captaine Hungry.

Doe what you come for, Captaine, with your newes;
That's, sit, and eat: doe not my eares abuse.
I oft looke on false coine, to know't from true:
Not that I love it, more; than I will you.
Tell the grosse Dutch those grosser tales of yours,
How great you were with their two Emperours;
And yet are with their Princes: Fill them full
Of your Moravian Horse, Venetian Bull.
Tell them, what parts yo'have tane, whence run away,
What States yo'have gull'd, and which yet keeps yo'in pay.
Give them your Services, and; Embassies
In Ireland, Holland, Sweden; pompous lies
In Hungary, and Poland, Turkie too;
What at Ligorne, Rome, Florence you did doe:
And, in some yeare, all these together heap'd,
For which there must more sea, and land be leap'd,
If but to be beleev'd you have the hap,
Than can a flea at twice skip i'the Map.
Give your young States-men, (that first make you drunk,
And then lye with you, closer, than a punque,
For newes) your Ville-royes, and Silleries,
Ianin's, your Nuncio's, and your Tuilleries,
Your Arch-Dukes Agents, and your Beringhams,
That are your words of credit. Keepe your Names
Of Hannow, Shieter-huissen, Popenheim,
Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, and Boutersheim,
For your next meale; this you are sure of. Why
Will you part with them, here, unthriftily?
Nay, now you puffe, tuske, and draw up your chin,
Twirle the poore chaine you run a feasting in.
Come, be not angrie, you are Hungry; eat;
Doe what you come for, Captaine, There's your meat.

CVIII. To True Souldiers.

Strength of my Countrey, whilst I bring to view
Such as are misse-call'd Captaines, and wrong you;
And your high names: I doe desire, that thence
Be nor put on you, nor you take offence.
I sweare by your true friend, my Muse, I love
Your great profession; which I once, did prove:
And did not shame it with my actions, then,
No more, than I dare now doe, with my pen.
Hee that not trusts mee, having vow'd thus much,
But's angry for the Captaine, still: is such.

CIX. To Sir Henry Nevil.

Who now calls on thee, Nevil, is a Muse,
That serves nor fame, nor titles; but doth chuse
Where vertue makes them both, and that's in thee:
Where all is faire, beside thy pedigree.
Thou art not one, seek'st miseries with hope,
Wrestlest with dignities, or fain'st a scope
Of service to the publique, when the end
Is private gaine, which hath long guilt to friend.
Thou rather striv'st the matter to possesse,
And elements of honour, than the dresse;
To make thy lent life, good against the Fates:
And first to know thine owne state, then the States.
To be the same in root, thou art in height;
And that thy soule should give thy flesh her weight.
Goe on, and doubt not, what posteritie,
Now I have sung thee thus, shall judge of thee.
Thy deeds, unto thy name, will prove new wombes,
Whil'st others toyle for titles to their tombes.

CX. To Clement Edmonds, On His Cæsars Commentaries observed, and translated.

Not Cæsars deeds, not all his honours wonne,
In these west-parts, nor when that warre was done,
The name of Pompey for an enemie,
Cato's to boot, Rome, and her libertie,
All yeelding to his fortune, nor, the while,
To have engrav'd these Acts, with his owne stile,
And that so strong and deepe, as't might be thought,
He wrote, with the same spirit that he fought,
Nor that his work liv'd in the hands of foes,
Un-argued then, and yet hath fame from those;
Not all these, Edmonds, or what else put too,
Can so speake Cæsar, as thy labours doe.
For, where his person liv'd scarce one just age,
And that, midst envie, and parts; then fell by rage:
His deeds too dying, but in bookes (whose good
How few have read! how fewer understood?)
Thy learned hand, and true Promethean art,
(As by a new creation) part by part,
In every counsell, stratageme, designe,
Action, or engine, worth a note of thine,
T'all future time, not only doth restore
His life, but makes, that he can dye no more.

CXI. To The Same; On The Same [Clement Edmonds, on his Cæsars Commentaries observed, and translated].

Who Edmonds, reades thy book, and doth not see
What th'antique souldiers were, the moderne bee?
Wherein thou shew'st, how much the latter are
Beholding to this master of the war;
And that, in action, there is nothing new,
More, than to vary what our elders knew:
Which all, but ignorant Captaines, will confesse:
Nor to give Cæsar this, makes ours the lesse.
Yet thou, perhaps, shalt meet some tongues will grutch,
That to the world thou should'st reveale so much,
And thence, deprave thee, and thy work. To those
Cæsar stands up, as from his urne late rose,
By thy great helpe: and doth proclaime by mee,
They murder him again, that envy thee.

CXII. To A Weake Gamster In Poetry.

VVith thy small stock, why art thou ventring still.
At this so subtile sport: and play'st so ill?
Think'st thou it is meere fortune, that can win?
Or thy rank setting? that thou dar'st put in
Thy all, at all: and what so ere I do,
Art still at that, and think'st to blow me up too?
I cannot for the stage a Drama lay,
Tragick, or Comick; but thou writ'st the play.
I leave thee there, and giving way, entend
An Epick Poeme; thou hast the same end.
I modestly quit that, and think to writ,
Next morne, an Ode: Thou mak'st a song ere night.
I passe to Elegies; Thou meet'st me there:
To Satyres; and thou dost pursue me. Where,
Where shall I scape thee? in an Epigramme?
O, (thou cry'st out) that is thy proper game.
Troth, if it be, I pitty thy ill lucke;
That both for wit, and sense, so oft dost plucke,
And never art encounter'd, I confesse:
Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is lesse.
Pr'y thee, yet save thy rest; give ore in time:
There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.

CXIII. To Sir Thomas Overbury.

So Phœbus make me worthy of his bayes,
As but to speake thee, Overbury, is praise:
So, where thou liv'st, thou mak'st life understood!
Where, what makes others great, doth keep thee good!
I think, the Fate of Court thy comming crav'd,
That the wit there, and manners might be sav'd:
For since, what ignorance, what pride is fled!
And letters, and humanity in the stead!
Repent thee not of thy faire precedent,
Could make such men, and such a place repent:
Nor may' any feare, to lose of their degree,
Who'in such ambition can but follow thee.

CXIV. To Mrs. Philip Sydney.

I Must beleeve some miracles still bee,
When Sydnyes name I heare, or face I see:
For Cupid, who (at first) took vaine delight,
In meere out-formes, untill he lost his sight,
Hath chang'd his soule, and made his object you:
Where finding so much beauty met with vertue,
He hath not only gain'd himselfe his eyes,
But, in your love, made all his servants wise.

CXV. On The Townes Honest Man.

You wonder, who this is! and, why I name
Him not, aloud, that boasts so good a fame:
Naming so many, too! But, this is one,
Suffers no name, but a description:
Being no vitious person, but the vice
About the town; and known too, at that price.
A subtle thing, that doth affections win
By speaking well o'the company 'it's in.
Talkes loud, and baudy, has a gather'd deale
Of news, and noyse, to sow out a long meale.
Can come from Tripoly, leape stooles, and wink,
Do all, that 'longs to the anarchy of drink,
Except the Duell. Can sing songs, and catches;
Give every one his dose of mirth: and watches
Whose name's un-welcome to the present eare,
And him it layes on; if he be not there.
Tel's of him, all the tales, it selfe then makes;
But, if it shall be question'd, under-takes,
It will deny all; and forsweare it too:
Not that it feares, but will not have to do
With such a one. And therein keeps it's word.
'Twill see it's sister naked, ere a sword.
At every meale, where it doth dine, or sup,
The cloth's no sooner gone, but it gets up
And shifting of it's faces, doth play more
Parts than th' Italian could do, with his dore.
Acts old Iniquity, and in the fit
Of miming, gets th'opinion of a wit.
Executes men in picture. By defect,
From friendship, is its own fames architect.
An inginer, in slanders, of all fashions,
That seeming prayses, are yet accusations.
Describ'd it's thus: Defin'd would you it have?
Then, The towns honest man's her errant'st knave.

CXVI. To Sir William Jephson.

Iephson, thou man of men, to whose lov'd name
All gentry, yet, owe part of their best flame!
So did thy vertue 'enforme, thy wit sustaine
That age, when thou stood'st up the master-braine:
Thou wert the first, mad'st merit know her strength,
And those that lack'd it, to suspect at length,
'Twas not entayl'd on title. That some word
Might be found out as good, and not my Lord.
That Nature no such difference had imprest
In men, but every bravest was the best:
That blood not minds, but minds did blood adorne:
And to live great, was better, than great borne.
These were thy knowing arts: which who doth now
Vertuously practise, must at least allow
Them in, if not, from thee; or must commit
A desperate solœcisme in truth and wit.

CXVII. On Groyne.

Groyne, come of age, his state sold out of hand
For 'his whore: Groyne doth still occupy his land.

CXVIII. On Gut.

Gut eates all day, and lechers all the night,
So all his meat he tasteth over, twice:
And, striving so to double his delight,
He makes himselfe a thorough-fare of vice.
Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin,
Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.

CXIX. To Sir Raph Shelton.

Not he that flies the Court for want of cloths,
At hunting railes, having no gift in othes,
Cries out'gainst, cocking since he cannot bet,
Shuns prease, for two maine causes, poxe, and debt,
With me can merit more, than that good man,
Whose dice not doing well, to 'a pulpit ran.
No, Shelton, give me thee, canst want all these,
But dost it out of judgement, not disease;
Dar'st breath in any ayre; and with safe skill,
Till thou canst find the best, choose the least ill.
That to the vulgar canst thy selfe apply,
Treading a better path, not contrary;
And, in their errors maze, thine own way know:
Which is to live to conscience, not to show.
He, that, but living halfe his age, dyes such;
Makes the whole longer, than 'twas given him, much.

CXX. An Epitaph On S.P. A Child Of Q. El. Chappel.

VVeep with me all you that read
This little story:
And know, for whom a teare you shed,
Death's selfe is sorry.
'Twas a child, that so did thrive
In grace, and feature,
As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive
Which own'd the creature.
Yeares he numbred scarce thirteene
When Fates turn'd cruell,
Yet three fill'd Zodiackes had he been
The Stages jewell;
And did act (what now we moane)
Old men so duely,
As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,
He plaid so truely.
So, by error to his fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since (alas, too late)
They have repented;
And have sought (to give new birth)
In bathes to steep him;
But, being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vowes to keep him.

CXXI. To Benjamin Rudyerd.

Rudyerd, as lesser dames to great ones use,
My lighter comes, to kisse thy learned Muse;
Whose beter studies while she emulates,
She learnes to know long difference of their states.
Yet is the office not to be despis'd,
If only love should make the action pris'd:
Nor he, for friendship, to be thought unfit,
That strives, his manners should procede his wit.

CXXII. To The Same.

If I would wish, for truth, and not for show,
The aged Saturne's age, and rites to know;
If I would strive to bring back times, and try
The World's pure gold, and wise simplicity;
If I would vertue set, as she was yong,
And heare her speak with one, & her first tongue;
If holiest friend-ship, naked to the touch,
I would restore, and keep it ever such;
I need no other arts, but study thee:
Who prov'st, all these were, and again may bee.

CXXIII. To The Same.

Writing thy selfe, or judging others writ,
I know not which th'hast most, candor, or wit:
But both th'hast so, as who affects the state
Of the best Writer, and Judge, should emulate.

CXXIV. Epitaph On Elizabeth, L.H.

VVould'st thou heare, what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Under-neath this stone doth lye
As much beauty, as could dye:
Which in life did harbour give
To more vertue, than doth live.
If, at all, she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
Th'other let it sleep with death:
Fitter, where it dyed, to tell,
Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.

CXXV. To Sir William Uvedale.

Uv'dale, thou piece of the first times, a man
Made for what Nature could, or Vertue can;
Both whose dimensions, lost, the World might find
Restored in thy body, and thy mind!
Who sees a soule, in such a body set,
Might love the treasure for the cabinet.
But I, no child, no foole, respect the kinde,
The full, the flowing graces there enshrin'd)
Which (would the world not mis-call't, flattery)
I could adore, almost t' idolatry.

CXXVI. To His Lady, Then Mrs. Cary.

Retyr'd, with purpose your faire worth to praise,
'Mongst Hampton shades, and Phœbus grove of bayes,
I pluck'd a branch; the jealous god did frowne,
And bade me lay th'usurped laurell down:
Said I wrong'd him, and (which was more) his Love.
I answer'd, Daphne now no paine can prove.
Phœbus replyed. Bold head, it is not shee:
Cary my love is, Daphne but my tree.

CXXVII. To Esme, Lord Aubigny.

Is there a hope, that Man would thankfull bee,
If I should faile, in gratitude, to thee
To whom I am so bound, lov'd Aubigny?
No, I do, therefore, call Posterity
Into the debt; and reckon on her head,
How full of want, how swallow'd up, how dead
I, and this Muse had been, if thou hadst not
Lent timely succours, and new life begot:
So, all reward, or name, that growes to mee
By her attempt, shall still be owing thee.
And, than this same, I know no abler way
To thank thy benefits: which is, to pay.

CXXVIII. To William Roe.

Roe (and my joy to name) th'art now, to go
Countries, and climes, manners, and men to know,
T'extract, and choose the best of all these knowne,
And those to turne to blood, and make thine owne.
May winds as soft as breath of kissing friends,
Attend thee hence; and there, may all thy ends,
As the beginnings here, prove purely sweet,
And perfect in a circle always meet.
So, when we, blest with thy returne, shall see
Thy selfe, with thy first thoughts, brought home by thee,
We each to other may this voyce enspire;
This is that good Æneas, past through fire,
Through seas, stormes, tempests: and imbarqu'd for hell,
Came back untouch'd. This man hath travail'd well.

CXXIX. To Edward Filmer, on his Musicall Work dedicated to the Queen. Anno 1629.

VVhat charming Peales are these,
That, while they bind the senses, doe so please?
They are the Marriage-rites
Of two, the choicest Paire of mans delights,
Musique and Poesie:
French Aire, and English Verse, here wedded lie.
Who did this Knot compose,
Againe hath brought the Lilly to the Rose;
And, with their chained dance,
Recelebrates the joyfull Match with France.
They are a School to win
The faire French: Daughter to learne English in;
And, graced with her Song,
To make the Language sweet upon her tongue.

CXXX. To Mime.

That, not a paire of friends each other see,
But the first question is, when one saw thee?
That there's no journey set, or thought upon,
To Braynford, Hackney, Bow, but thou mak'st one;
That scarce the Towne designeth any feast
To which thou'rt not a weeke, bespoke a guest;
That still th'art made the suppers flagge, the drum,
The very call, to make all others come:
Think'st thou, Mime, this is great? or, that they strive
Whose noise shall keepe thy miming most alive,
Whil'st thou dost raise some Player, from the grave,
Out-dance the Babion, or out-boast the Brave:
Or (mounted on a stoole) thy face doth hit
On some new gesture, that's imputed wit?
O, runne not proud of this. Yet, take thy due.
Thou dost out-zany Cokely, Pod; nay, Gue:
And thine owne Coriat too. But (would'st thou see)
Men love thee not for this: They laugh at thee.

CXXXI. To Alphonso Ferrabosco, on his Booke.

To urge, my lov'd Alphonso, that bold fame,
Of building Towns, and making wild beasts tame,
Which Musick had; or speak her knowne effects,
That shee removeth cares, sadnesse ejects,
Declineth anger, perswades clemencie,
Doth sweeten mirth, and heighten pietie,
And is t'a body, often, ill inclin'd,
No lesse a sov'raigne cure, than to the mind;
T'alledge, that greatest men were not asham'd,
Of old, even by her practise to be fam'd;
To say, indeed, shee were the soule of heaven,
That the eight spheare, no lesse, than planets seven,
Mov'd by her order, and the ninth more high,
Including all, were thence call'd harmonie:
I, yet, had utter'd nothing on thy part,
When these were but the praises of the Art.
But when I have said, the proofes of all these bee
Shed in thy Songs; 'tis true: but short of thee.

CXXXII. To The Same.

When we doe give, Alphonso, to the light,
A work of ours, we part with our owne right;
For, then, all mouths will judge, and their owne way:
The Learn'd have no more priviledge, than the Lay.
And though we could all men, all censures heare,
We ought not give them taste, we had an eare.
For, if the hum'rous world will talke at large,
They should be fooles, for me, at their owne charge.
Say, this, or that man they to thee preferre;
Even those for whom they doe this, know they erre:
And would (being ask'd the truth) ashamed say,
They were not to be nam'd on the same day.
Then stand unto thy selfe, nor seeke without
For fame, with breath soone kindled, soone blowne out,

CXXXIII. To Mr. Josuah Sylvester.

If to admire were to commend, my praise
Might then both thee, thy Work and merit raise:
But, as it is (the Child of Ignorance,
And utter stranger to all ayre of France)
How can I speak of thy great paines, but erre?
Since they can only judge, that can conferre.
Behold! the reverend shade of Bartas stands
Before my thought, and (in thy right) commands
That to the world I publish, for him, this;
Bartas doth wish thy English now were his.
So well in that are his inventions wrought,
As his will now be the Translation thought,
Thine the Originall; and France shall boast,
No more; those mayden glories shee hath lost.

CXXXIV. On The Famous Voyage.

No more let Greece her bolder fables tell
Of Hercules, or Theseus going to Hell,
Orpheus, Ulysses: or the Latine Muse,
With tales of Troyes just knight, our faiths abuse.
We have a Shelton, and a Heyden got,
Had power to act, what they to faine had not.
All, that they boast of Styx, of Acheron,
Cocytus, Phlegeton, our have prov'd in one;
The filth, stench, noise: save only what was there
Subtly distinguish'd, was confused here.
Their wherry had no saile, too; ours had none:
And in it, two more horride knaves, than Charon.
Arses were heard to croake, in stead of frogs;
And for one Cerberus, the whole coast was dogs.
Furies there wanted not: each scold was ten.
And, for the cryes of Ghosts, women, and men,
Laden with plague-sores, and their sinnes, were heard,
Lash'd by their consciences, to die affeard.
Then let the former age, with this content her,
Shee brought the Poets forth, but ours th' adventer.

The Voyage It Selfe.