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University of Virginia Library

Poems Divine, and Humane

By Thomas Beedome

Beedome, Thomas

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On the deceased Authour, Master Thomas Beedom, and his Poems.

On the death and Poems, of his most deare friend, Master Thomas Beedome.

On his deserving Friend, Master Thomas Beedom, and his Poems.

To his Friend the Author, Master Thomas Beedom before his death, on these his Poems.

To the Memory of his Ingenious friend, Master Thomas Beedom, and on these his Poems.

To the Memorie of his friend, Master Thomas Beedom. And upon his Poems.

On the Poems of his worthy friend, Master Thomas Beedom, the lately deceased Author.

On the Memory of his most Ingenious friend, Master Thomas Beedome, and his Poems.

Elegie, on his Ingenious friend, the deserving Author, Master Thomas Beedome.

Elegie on the death of his ingenious friend, the deserving Author, Master Thomas Beedome.

On the Poems of the Author, his deare Brother, Master Thomas Beedom deceased.

THE Author, To the READER.

THE JEALOVS LOUER, OR, THE CONSTANT MAID.

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To his Mistresse, when shee was going into the Country.

To his Mistresse on her scorne.

The Question and Answer.

The new Petition.

Fooles Paradise, or Reason Bewitcht.

Loves Apostacy to his friend Mr. E. D.

The broken heart song.

Women are mens shadowes.

Women are not mens shadowes.

To his worthy friend Mistresse.

On a Lillie now withered in her bosome.

An Elegie on the death of his loving friend. J: C

My sonne give mee thy heart.

[VVhen first of sinne I tooke survey]

The Inquisition.

The Resurrection.

The Mercy Seate.

Ad punctum mortis.

On the death of Mris. M. T.

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Loves Apostacy to his friend Mr. E. D.

Tut, let her goe, can I indure all this,
Yet dye, to doate upon a Maydens kisse?
Is there such Magicke in her lookes, that can,
Into a foole, transfigurate a man?
Didst thou not love her? true: and she disdaine
To meete thy vertue? let her meete her shame.
Were she as faire as she her selfe would be,
Adorn'd with all the cost of bravery:

Could she melt hearts of flint, and from her eye
Give her beholders power to live or die.
I'de rather begge shee would pronounce my death,
Then be her scorne, though that preserv'd my breath
Rise heart! and be not fool'd: S'foote what a shame
Were it for thee to re-incense one flame
From the declining sparke? dost thou not know
As shee's a woman, her whole sexe doth owe
To thine all honour? her false heart and pride
Dare not oppose thy faith: then turne high tyde,
And let her, since her scorne doth so disease thee
By her repentance strive againe to please thee.