University of Virginia Library

TO THE Reader.

I am not Eagle ey'd to face the Sun,
My mind is low, and so my Verse doth run.
I do not write of Stars to make men wonder.
Or Planets how remote they move asunder.
My shallow River thou may'st foord with ease,
Ways, which are fair, and plain can nere displease.

Concerning God and Christ.

Presumptuons man gods Essence would define,
Were he to reason subject, or to time:
Angels in part may apprehend his nature,
To comprehend him lies not in any creature:
It is an easier labour to impart
What thou art not, (O Lord) than what thou art
No matter, form, or composition can
Be found in God, as in a mortal man.
He cannot be deceiv'd, he cannot lye,
He cannot sin commit, he cannot dye.
God may be angry with mans sinful way,
And yet no passion doth his nature sway.
His Center's every where: no humane sense,
Or place can limit his circumference:
Who can find out one God in persons three?
Or how three persons can one Godhead be?
Or how the holy Father, and the Sonne
Coequal are before all worlds begun,
As Christ is God, a mother he had not,
As he is man, man never him begot.
His Mother was a Virgin, chast, unstain'd;
After Christs birth a Virgin she remain'd.
She had a Son, nor did the Son unty
The sacred bands of her Virginity.
A Virgin, and a Mother; God, and man;
Who these mysterious secrets riddle can?
Approach not (O my soul) too near that light,
Which will obscure, and dull the curious sight,
My speech, and reason fails, Ile case my Lute,
Wonder I may, but not of God dispute:

FAITH.

Although I am not pure, or white,
But blacker than the shades of night,
Although my sins in heaps do lye
Like Crimson red, or scarlet dye;
Yet through the grace of God I know
I shall be white, as wooll, or snow.
Although my Harp is turn'd to wo,
And I, like Pilgrims, mourning go,
Although I feed on cares, like bread,
And wash all night with tears my bed,
Yet faith assures me, that my God,
Will kisse me again, and burn his rod:
Although the Devil doth prepare,
And watch to take me in his snare;
Though like a thief both night, and day
He thinks to steal my soul away,
Yet like a bird my soul shall fly
Safe from the fowlers tyranny.
Though friends will not support my need,
But fail me like a broken reed,
Although they love, but while 'tis fair,
And leave me in the troubled air;
Yet Christ my Rock is firme in love;
And nothing can this Rock remove;
Though corruption is my father,
And although just death will gather
My body to the peaceful number
Of those, that in their graves do slumber,
Though I am dust, yet thence ile rise,
And see my Saviour with these eyes.

Upon Christs Nativity or Christmasse.

From three dark places Christ came forth this day,
First from his Father's bosome, where he lay
Conceal'd till now; then from the typick Law,
Where we his manhood but by figures saw,
And lastly from his mothers womb he came
To us a perfect God, and perfect man.
Now in a Manger lyes th' eternal Word,
The Word he is, yet can no speech afford.
He is the Bread of life, yet hungry lyes,
The living Fountain, yet for drink he cryes;
He cannot help, or cloath himself at need,
Who did the Lillies cloath, and Ravens feed:
He is the light of lights, yet now doth shroud
His glory with our nature as a cloud:
He came to us a little one, that we
Like little children might in malice be;
Little he is, and wrapt in clouts, left he
Might strike us dead, if cloath'd with majestie.
Christ had four beds, and those not soft, nor brave,
The Virgins Womb, the Manger, Cross and Grave;
The Angels sung this day; and so will I,
That have more reason to be glad, than they:

The covetous worldling

Why dost thou doat on gold, and deemest grace
A thing not worth thy labour, or embrace?
No prudent man would blear-ey'd Leah wooe,
And with disdain let the fair, Rachel go:
He is a foolish Merchant, that's more fond
Of glassie Bugles, then a Diamond:
So Esau sought for Venson, carnal food,
And lost the blessing, which was far more good:
Thy coffers may be full, but yet this will
Though like a gulfe it sucks in, doth not fill:
Wealth is to thee, like fuel to the fire,
Which doth augment, and kindle more desire:
God hath set bounds unto the Sea, to curb
Her proudest waves, lest they the earth disturb.
But what can limit, what can set a bound
Unto thy wandring thoughts? a little ground
Contains thy body; and when thou art dead,
Thou art contented with a narrow bed:
O pray for Grace, without which all thy store,
Which should enrich thee, will but make thee poore,

The Anabaptist.

What wouldst thou have a King, a Lord, a Knight,
A Bishop, Priest are monsters in thy sight;
No Church, nor Altar, and no Law must be
To dictate but thy conscience unto thee.
It thou art displeas'd with Lawes Divine, and Civil,
I know not what will fit thee, but the Devil.

Upon the mournful death of our late Soveraign Lord Charles the first, King of England, &c.

I read of a Confessor, and a King,
A King, and Martyr is a stranger thing.
Our Charles was both: A King both just, and wise,
A holy Martyr, and sweet sacrifice:
Thieves did consent to kill the just; but why?
When that the Wolf is Judge, the Lamb must dye?
He went to Canaan for three Kingdoms good,
Through the red-Sea of his own sacred blood:
Thus John the Baptist dy'd, that holy one,
Whilst Herod did usurp King Davids throne,
By his beheading it may well be sed.
Three Kingdoms by injustice lost their head;
If ere I shall the ayde of Saints implore,
Thy Shrine alone (good Charles) I will adore;
Lord, let my soul unto thy Kingdom come,
To see King Charls crown'd for his Martyrdom.

Gods Mercy.

The Sun's within his Tropicks; th' heavens high
Within a span; the clouds included lye
Within the fist; the earth that spacious creature,
Within a circle is confin'd by Nature.
But (O thou God of Love) to thy rich treasure
Of endlesse mercy who can find a measure?

Upon the return of our most illustrious King Charls the second from Flanders to England.

Welcome bright Starre, the prodrome of the day,
With whom the Sun of glory shall display
His golden banners, and restore the Light
Of truth eclipst by an erroneous night:
He liv'd in exile long, and Flanders then
Was th' Eagles neast, or the true Lions den:
He past a Sea of troubles; and each wave
Of grief he flatted with a soul more brave.
To meet their King, the people ran so fast,
As if each one disdain'd to be the last.
Such plenteous tears of joy flow'd every where,
That some in England did a deluge feare;
They did such piles of wood in London burn,
That many thought it would to Ilion turn;
Those fires are ended, but the flames of love
Unto our King shall everlasting prove:
Long live King Charles, so long, ti'l wisemen see
His years as many as his vertues be.
Then he'le outlive old Nestor, whose glasse ran
Before 'twas spent through the third age of man.

Upon the Lords Prayer.

The sacred Prayer of the eternal Word
Doth greater comfort to my soul afford,
Than all the prayers made by humane Art,
Those I have read, but this I have by heart,
It is my constant prayer; and the best
Like rich perfume to sweeten all the rest.

Winter.

Speak not to me of Frizland, or the cold
And gelid Clymats of the North: I hold
There can no greater frost or Winter be,
Than a hard heart that's cold in charitie.
O shine thou Sun of glory, and impart
Thy gracious heat to thaw my frozen heart,

Upon the Right Honorable the Lord General George Monk, Duke of Albemarle

Here is our glorious Atlas, who doth bear
Our heaven up, and keep our hearts from fear.
His merit is beyond reward, whose mind
To high attempts by Nature is confin'd;
Some Merchants have by their adventures bold,
Enricht this Land with precious pearl, and gold,
Yet none but Royal Monk could ever bring
So rich a treasure, as our gracious King:
Herculean labours were but twelve: here's one
That hath an hundred labours undergone:
He nere was rash, nor did the hasty hand,
But a wise heart his active sword command;
Judgment, and valour live in him, as fair
Rebecca's sons did in one womb: despair
Could nere attempt him; for his nobler mind
Did soar above the reach of storms, and wind.
This good Centurion doth not love to change
His garment of Religion, nor to range
Through Groves of fancies: he's a fixed star
To beautifie the Church, and seat of war.
He is descended from a Royal line,
Not from the Bramble, but the stately Pine;
The glory of the Wood: his vertues be
The Symptoms of his true Nobilitie.
He is in vertues rich, in merits high,
So let him happy live, so let him die.

REPENTANCE

Repentance is the key for rich and poor,
To lock up Hell, and open Heavens door.
When like the Dove, our wandring souls have left
The Ark of God; and when we are bereft
Of safety and relief; all help is vain,
But by repentance to return again:
One tear for sin yields to the soul relief,
More than a fountain shed for worldly grief.
The Vine drops tears, which well the face may cleer,
But never beautifie the soul: Repentance here
Must be the spring, which makes us seem so bright,
As if we were transfigur'd into light.

WORLDLY WEALTH

Wealth unto every man, I see,
Is like the Bark unto the Tree:
Take from the Tree the Bark away,
The naked Tree will soon decay.
Lord, make not me too rich, nor make me poor,
To wait at rich mens tables, or their door.

Upon the Coronation of our Soveraign Lord CHARLS by the grace of God King of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith.

Our Solomon is crown'd: A Crown will share
Not more of honour to his head, than care.
He wore, as the great King of Heaven would,
A Crown of Thorns, before his Crown of Gold:
Thus children, whom the Lord intends to bless,
Go to their Canaan through the Wilderness.
CHARLS, by the grace of God, (wise men foresee)
Greater than Charls the Great, in time shall be.
Almost to death unhappy England bled,
And liv'd a Monster long without a Head:
The Kingdom swallow'd up the Commonwealth,
And England, which was sick, is now in health.
Her Merchants shall bring gold, and pearl, and spice,
To make this Garden rich as Paradise;
And unto Cæsar, our most gracious King,
Great Nations shall their humble Presents bring.
Kings were neer Fountains crown'd, as Writers show,
Because from them, as from pure Fountains, flow
Our wealth, health, honour: If the Head be ill,
By sympathy the Body suffer will:
We may as well live without air, or fire,
Or bread, and water, which we all require,
As live without a King, because the King
Is like the Sun, which maketh every thing
To grow and flourish: He's the Stern to guide
Our wandring ships through every wind and tide:
The Kings's our Nursing Father, and the Queen
Gur Nursing Mother; It is always seen,
That if the careful Nurse be sick or ill,
The Child cannot be well, that sucks her still.
What doth befall, or what concerns the King,
It streams to us like Rivers from the Spring:
If that the King be glad, 'tis joy to all;
And if he stands, the people cannot fall.
God save the King, let all the people shout,
And give unto his foes a total rout.

Upon the Right Honorable JAMES Duke of Ormond, and Earl of Brecknot.

Here is the lofty Pine, which always stood
In spight of winds, the pride of all the Wood:
He's great by birth, and great by wealth; but he
Cannot be greater than his merits be:
Though like a mountain his great Fortunes swell,
His lowly Mind doth in a valley dwell:
Ambition spurs him not; for he doth move
In th' highest orb of Honour, and of Love.
The Learned he prefers; his Judgment can
Distinguish well betwixt a Goose and Swan:
His word is like the Persian law, most free
From various change, or mutability:
He is religious, and doth wisely mark
The door which leads unto the holy Ark.
Four Rivers ran from Paradise: we find
More vertues far spring from his noble mind:
He ever soar'd with an ambitious wing,
To serve his God, his Country, and his King:
His actions are so full of life, that they
Cannot neglected in oblivion die:
He is both good, and great; and so may he
Still great in goodness, good in greatness be.

Sampson's Foxes.

Sampson did tail by tail Wild Foxes bind,
And fastned Fire-brands to them all behind:
Thus ers Hetick are joyn'd, and go astray
Linkt in some antick, or preposterous way;
They carry fire-brands too, to set on fire
The peaceful Kingdom: Let us all desire
To quench this fire, and these wild beasts to tame,
Else they will prove our ruine, and our shame.

Upon a fair Gentlewoman, but ill qualified

Thus have I seen, thus did I often know
A filthy dunghil overlaid with snow.
Here a fair Object stands before your eyes,
Whose beauty a cold Hermite might surprise;
She looks like Heaven, where good Angels dwell,
Yet is within as dark, as black as Hell:
Thus many trees appear both sound, and green,
But at the heart they have been rotten seen:
The sweet composure of her face doth say,
She is an Angel, which assumes our clay;
But scan her ways unlawful, and uncivil,
And then you will proclaim her for a Devil:
Fair weather in her lovely face we find,
But clouds of sin in her deceitful mind.
To make her fair within, good Lord impart
Unto that comely face a gracious heart.

Upon the Right Honorable HENRY Lord HERBERT, eldest Son and Heir to the Right Honorable EDWARD Marquess of Worcester.

Ask Fame the truth, and you shall fully know
What noble vertues from this fountain flow:
Whose precious soul is with more sweetness blest,
Than the Arabian Phenix spiced nest:
His Christian heart, and tongue united be,
And in the sphere of pious truth agree:
No swelling waves of pride, no puffing wind
Disturb the calmness of his peaceful mind:
His honest actions from foul rubs are free,
Like Tempe that fair field of Thessaly.
The Magnet could not shew more constancie
Unto the Northern Pole, or Star, than he
Did to our King; He never could abide
Like to a broken bow to start aside:
His active power, his ever loving heart,
Like old Barzillai, took King Davids part.
Have you observ'd a curious fabrick, high,
Compos'd of free-stone, pleasant to the eye,
And beautified within with works most pure
Of gold and silver, and rich furniture?
Thus grace, and nature fram'd him, so that I
Am much too dull to write his Elogy:
(Lord) from his eyes unhappy feares expell,
His feete from falling keep, his soul from hell.

The Bible

Much books I have perus'd, but I protest
Of books the sacred Bible is the best,
Some books may much of humane Learning boast
But here's the Language of the Holy Ghost,
Hence we draw living water; here we do
Observe the Patriarchs lives, and doctrine too:
Here Christ himself directs us how to pray,
And to the Gate of Heaven chalks the way.
Here is the salve, which gives the blind their fight,
All darknesse to expel, here is the light:
Here is strong meat for men; and milk to feed
The weaker babes, which more perfection need;
Cast off erroneous pamphlets, wanton rhymes,
All feigned books of love; which cheat the times;
And read this book of life; those shall appear
With Christ in heaven which are written here,

The Wedding garment.

Faith is the wedding garment, lind within,
With love, without foul spots, or staines of sin
Humility is the most decent lace,
And patient hope, which doth this garment grace.
Without this royal robe no guest is fit
To sup, or at the Lords own table sit.

The true Souldier.

He is a valiant man, and souldier brave
Who can his passions in subjection have.
Those which do conquer towns, shall never win
The crown of life, unlesse they conquer sin.

Strange Monsters.

Of diverse monsters I have sometimes read
Some without feet, and some without a head.
No souler monsters can hot Africk bring,
Than rebels are without their head the King.

Solitarinesse.

The multitude, like some tempestuous wind.
Disturbs the contemplation of the mind:
High meditations do my soul possesse,
Like John the Bapist's, in a wildernesse.
When secret fields I tread, I do refuse
The books of men, and Nature's books peruse.
The glorious Sun, the Moon, the Stars so bright
Are demonstrations of th' Eternal light.
The Rainbow doth in the dark clouds declare,
How great Gods Judgments, and his mercies are.
Each herb, or flower, each living plant, or tree
Present Gods goodnesse, and his Majestie:
I see the Lilleys grow, and then admire
Gods wisdom in their pure, and rich attire;
God seeds the Ravens, which not reap, nor sow,
By these Gods gracious providence I know;
When lo the lofty hills I lift mine eyes,
I speak of heaven in soliloquies.
The stream, whose constant motion never stays.
Argues the swift Procession of my days:
I travel to my grave, till life is done,
As rivers do unto the Ocean run.
When I behold the Lark't advance her wing,
And to our God a thankful Anthem sing.
I check my nature, and can do no lesse
Than tax my self of dull unthankfulnesse.
Such holy raptures with my soul agree,
When in the world I from the world am free.
The further I from wordly men remove,
I draw the neerer to the God of Love:

The Virgin Mary.

Most blessed is (thou sonne of man) the breast,
Which thou didst suck, & the chast womb is blest
Which bare thee, when thou didst our nature wed,
No sinful lust defil'd thy marriage bed
None was so gracious, as the Virgin Mary,
Gods holy Temple, and his Sanctuary.
As fathers hold, her blessing did consist
More in beleeving, than in bearing Christ.

Old age

VVhen we are young, and do enjoy the spring
Of pleasant youth, we laugh we dance, we sing
And think, old age, which is so cold, so soure,
Will never come to blast our youthful flower.
As some dark cloud invades the sky so fair,
And by degrees obscures the clearest air.
Old age thus creepeth on; and turnes our light,
Or Summer's day into a winter night.
Our Limmes are turn'd to ice, our hair to snow;
Our windows dark and dull, our feet are slow,
Our Roses languish, and our Lilleys fade,
Our wine is sour'd, our pleasures bitter made.
Joves tree the sturdy oake, the Cedar tall
In length of time are forc't to stoop, and fall.
Remember God, whilst thou art young, and he
When thou art old, will sure remember thee:

Upon the golden Grove in the County of Carmarthin, the habitation of the Right Honorable the Lord Vauhan, Earle of Carbery, now Lord President of the Marches of Wales.

If I might, where I pleas'd, compose my nest,
The golden Grove should be my constant rest.
This curious fabrick might make us believe
That Angels there, or men like Angels live,
I must commend the out side; but within
Not to admire, it were almost a sin.
Of fertile ground the large circumference.
With admiration may confound the sense;
Which ground, if things were rightly understood,
From Paradise came tumbling in the Flood,
And there the water left it, therefore we
Find here of pleasures such varietie.
Wise Nature here did strive, and witty Art
To please the curious eye, and longing heart.
The neighbouring river Towyd oth oreflow,
Like pleasant Nilus the rich Meades below.
Hence come great store, and various kind of fish
So good, as may enrich the empty dish.
Fowles thither flock, as if they thought it fit,
They should present themselves unto the spit.
Here gardens are compos'd, so sweet, so fair
With fragrant flowers as do perfume the air.
Hard by a grovedoth stand, which doth defeat
Cold winter storms, and the dry Summers heat.
Their merry birds their pleasant Carols sing,
Like sweet Musicians to the wanton spring.
There are parks, orchards, warrens, fish-ponds, spring.
Each foot of ground some curious object brings:
There lives a noble Earl, free, just and wise,
In whom the Elixer of perfection lyes.
His heart is good as balsome, pure as gold,
Wise, as a Serpent, as a Lion bold:

The righteous is confident as a Lion

The guilty conscience feares, when there's no fear,
And thinks, that every bush containes a beare;
When none persues, the wicked flyes, and still
Distractions alter his confused will:
The righteous man sits in his peaceful chair
Secure from fears, and free from black dispair.
His resolution like a Uirgin pure
He keeps unspotted, and can well endure
The burden of affliction: for the crosse
Makes trial, whether he be gold or drosse.
The righteous shelter'd under heavens wing
Like the three children in the fire may sing.
For God will broach the rocks, and Manna rain
He'le bring the quailes together to sustain
His chosen people: Lions hunger may,
And want; but he shat treads a vertuous way,
Shall never feare a famine: God is able
In the wild desarts to prepare a table.
The Devil will destroy, the flesh infect,
The world deceive, unlesse that God protect.

Upon the Right Honourable Lady, the Lady, Mary Beauchamp of Edington, in the County of Wilts

A dwarfe may on a giant look; and I
May speak of her, whose merits are so high.
Count all the various flowers of May; declare,
Of stars what number by creation are.
This may be sooner done, than you can tell
What sacred vertues in this Temple dwell.
Would you find bounty? or do you desire
To see Religion in his best attire.
Would you know meeknesse, charity and love,
Which are the touchstones, that our faith doth prove
These vertues are included in her breast,
Like precious Jewels in a golden chest.
Her kinred, neighbors, tenants, and the poor,
Yea, strangers do frequent, and blesse her door.
Twixt her and Saints I do no difference know,
But this, they are above, and she below.
And if all had so pure a mind as she,
Heaven on earth, and earth would heaven be.

Upon the honourable Gentlewoman Mrs. Jane Lane,

who was by Gods providence a most happy Instrument to convey our Soveraign Lord King Charles out of the hands of Rebels from England to Holland.

Have you observ'd the sun sometimes to shroud
His glorious head, and lustre in a cloud?
Thus God was pleas'd to hide our gracious King
Under a woman's most auspicious wing.
'Tis strange a woman could so silent be
In things of moment, and great secresy.
She was the weaker vessel; God thought fit
To make her weak in strength, but strong in wit.
To save her Countrey Holofernes head
Brave Judith cut off on his wanton bed;
But many traytorous hands did vex this Nation,
Which Jane cut off by Charls his preservation.
Let noble Ladies sing, and Virgins dance
Before this Judith our deliverance.
Praise God for this High-work, and be content
To honor her, as Gods great instrument.
No fading garland of sweet flowers, or bayes.
Shall crown her head, but everlasting praise.

GRACE.

Sinne like a gyant doth encounter me,
Nor am I from his proud controulment free:
To kill this great Goliah, (gracious King)
Give me thy grace instead of Davids sling.
Jordan may help, and Siloam's poole may cure
Carnal diseases: but thy fountaine pure
Of saving grace, when I do faint, or pine,
Doth heal my soul without fine oyl, or wine,
Grace is the shield of my defence; the light,
Which guides my feet through this dark vale of night.
When friends, and riches leave me, that alone
Conducts me from the grave to heavens throne.
I fear no Devils through Gods grace, nor men,
No firie oven, nor the Lion's den.

Vpon the Honourable Lady, the Lady Elinor Williams of Gwernivet,

Daughter to the most hospitable, and worthy Gentleman Eustance Whitney of Whitney Court Esq;

Tell me no more, what noble Ladies have
Secur'd their names by vertues from the grave.
For if you knew the Lady, you would swear
No other star mov'd in so high a sphear.
Her vertues do like purest fountains flow,
Which no defect, or diminution know;
The number of her years a man may guesse,
But not her vertues; they are numberless:
If there be one, she is the Phenix true,
Who doth her vertues, not her years renue:
When Hereticks did think the Church to smother,
She was to Church-men a kind nursing-mother.
Her lamp did burne, nor could the wicked rout
With all their blasts put her bright candle out.
Her husband was Sr Henry, that wise Knight,
Who was our Brittish glory, and our light;
From these two stocks grew branches great and fair,
Which keep the poor from the tempestuous air:
This noble Lady is the onely crown,
Which honour gave, and made our Country known
To other Ladies she may well dispense
With beames of vertue from her influence.
The goodnesse of her language doth betray
Some Angel dwelt within that house of clay;
Our countrey by her absence, we confesse,
Is worse in comfort, and in honour lesse:

Contentment.

Sad discontent like some unwholsom blast
The fairest blossomes, and best fruit thou hast,
Will soon destroy: Like leaven it will soure
The lump of all thy joyes: No golden snoure
Can help the wounded conscience, and no Art,
But onely grace can cure the cankred heart:
O sweet contentment, from which spring do flow
Pure streames of joy: when I am poor, and low,
Thou make'st me rich; when sick without relief,
Thou art the balsome to expel my grief.
I do not long for Quailes, or dainty fish,
To court my palat with a curious dish.
I am no slave to gold; an empty chest
Disquiets not my conscience, nor my rest:
I am not puft in mind: ambitious eyes
Look often higher than their merits rise.
My clothes shall decent be, not gay: I doubt,
That velvet slippers, cannot cure the gout,
Nor can a golden crown the head-ach cure,
Nor purple Robes from Feavers us secure.
I love my freedom: yet strong prison can
Vex but the bad and not the vertuous man?
Imprisonment, sicknesse, persecution, losse,
Are but the chips of Christ his sacred crosse:
I am content; nor do I greatly care,
Whether the heavens fair, or cloudy are.

I am the true Vine

Christ is the fruitful Vine, whereon doth grow
Clusters of mercies, which no number know.
Hence we receive such active cups of wine
As mortals make immortal, and divine.
The Vine is cut, and prun'd; so Christ was torne
His hands, and feet with nailes, his head with thorn.
In malice they were ripe, and did not fear
To pierce his side with a presumptious spear,
Hence flow'd the Sacraments, as from a spring
Of lively waters, saving health to bring.

Upon the fair, charitable, and piously devo ed Gentlewoman Mrs. Mary Jeffreys

the wife of John Jeffreys Esq.

Would you the model of perfection find?
Or take a coppy of a pious mind?
Behold this Lady, where such vertues dwell,
That Phenix-like she hath no parallel.
She hath a dove-like nature, pride, and she
Can never meet, there's such Antipathy.
She's rich in beauty, rich in purse, and free,
Her riches most consist in piety:
When other Ladies sport, and laugh, and prate,
She with her prayers knocks ot heaven's gate:

Upon the Right Honourable John Lord Scudamore Uiscoun: Slego, qui profunditates penus pictatis ærarium, nec non nobilitatis, Splender maximus.

Can I be safe, or from presumption free,
That will attempt to climb so high a tree?
Whose top doth reach to heaven; and hath made
Sad Christians joyful with his pleasant shade.
He is no barren fig-tree which deceives,
And gives instead of fruits, but fading leaves.
Who knows his pious mind, or spirit; knows
A sea of vertues, which nere ebbes, but flows.
Justice, Religion, wisdom in his breast
As in their center fixt, do safely rest.
His noble actions run like purer ore
In a rich vein, and still increase their store.
An ancient Temple ruin'd lay in dust,
And was consumed by times all eating rust
Those heaps of stones he did erect, and raise
Pillars of honor to uphold Gods praise.
If this weak child, my little book should peace,
The stones to speak his worth would never cease.
David was blest, because he thought to build,
Here's one not only thought, but hath fulfil'd.
He did not only this fair building frame,
But with revenues he enricht the same.
He thought it not a blessing, but a curse,
To rob the Church, and so to fill his purse.
The Eagle burnt her nest with that same cole,
Which she had newly from the altar stole.
A stollen sheafe, or sacrilegious meat
Into our wealth will like a canker eat.
He ne're defil'd his heart, nor staind his hands
With plundred goods, or with ill-gotten lands.
Who writes his charity, and love, must bring
A quil from heaven's winged Cherubine.
No wonder then, that this fair Cedar stands,
When others are cut down by cruel hands:
Afflictions daunt him not, but make him bold,
He fears no fire, whose mettal is of gold.
God goes before him like a cloud by day,
And fire by night to guid, and guard his way.
Although Hom-Lacy may afford him leasure,
Yet Abbey Dowr will bring the richest treasure.
O that my muse could spice his precious fame,
And adde perfume unto his sweeter name.

The Soul.

The Marigold.

The loving Marigold his leaves displays,
Glad to receive the Sun's all warming rays.
But when the absent Sun denies relief,
The flower contracted seems to dy for grief:
While the bright Sun of glory shines on me,
My soul is in a joyful extasy.
But when he hides his gracious face of love,
I cannot truely be, nor live, nor move:

MUSICK.

SINNE.

What cloud is this, that makes it night,
And robs me of eternal light?
Lord, in this darknesse I can see
No path, which leads my soul to thee.
O Sun of glory make it day.
And chase these clouds of sinne away:

PRAYER.

The morning is the infancy of day,
Which claims chast thoughts, & cals the heart to pray
When night puts on her black and dark attire,
Let prayer kindle thee with holy fire.
A faithful prayer pleaseth God: and turns
His wrath to mercy, when his anger burns.
It is a welcome sacrifice to God,
For man a salve, and for the devil a rod;
Without the wings of prayer none can fly
To heavens throne, where pleasures never dy.
Prayer's the Key which opens heaven's door:
From whence all blessings fall on rich and poor.
It is the key, which locks the gates of hell,
Whence evils come, where all discomforts dwell:
In prayer bend thy knees, and heart, for he
Doth make his heart more stiff that spares his knee:
Who God forgets, and doth neglect to pay,
Is still in travel, never in the way:

A FRIEND.

Where shall I find a friend? I may as soon
Find out the man which dwelleth in the moon.
The ancient days are past: when men did move
Within the sphear of undeceiving love:
Friendship is in these days respectless growne,
Like some old matron in a thredbare gown:
There is a fained friendship, which doth passe
Sometimes for pearle, and is but painted glasse.
Some undermine, who seem like friends to stand,
These have the voice of Jacob; Esau's hand;
Others will smooth you with a fair discourse,
And give you talk enough, but keep the purse
A perfect friend is not in love so cold,
That he will lose his friend to save his gold.
Thou art my friend (sweet Lord) who dost refresh
My weary soul; I trust no arm of flesh.

The Saints of God.

The neerer we approach to God; the more
Wee find our imperfections, and deplore
Our frail estate: our weaknesse best we see.
In the fair glasse of Gods great Majesty:
The stars are glorious bodies, and by night
Do guild the world with their resplendent light.
But they are dull, and never do appear,
When once the sun shines in our Hemisphere.
The Sons of God, the children of the day,
Excell the rest in beauty: but when they
Behold Gods glory with a serious mind,
They nothing in themselves, but darknesse find.
The righteous do condemn themselves, and spy
Beams in their own, not in their brothers eye.
None keeps the paper of his life so white,
But he will sometimes blot, as well as write.
If th' heavens are not cleane, nor Angels pure
In Gods account; who is from sin secure
Therefore Gods Saints are from presumption free,
Their faith is cloth'd with works of charity.
Grant me (sweet Lord) a righteous life, then I,
The precious death of thy dear Saints shall dy.

Peter's denial.

Art thou the Rock, where Christ his Church would build,
Yet when thy master fights, thou leav'st the field?
No wonder if weak buildings be cast downe
With boistrous winds, when rocks are overthrown;
Where was thy courage, when the Lamb did stand
Before the Wolf, left to his furious hand?
Wouldst hou forsake thy Saviour, swear and ban,
In all thy life thou never knewst the man?
Lord, leave me not vnto my self, lest I
Fall from the faith, and thy great name deny.
I hear a warning-peece, the Cock doth crow,
And Peter feels his sad condition now:
He doth repent his curses, oaths, and fears,
In the sad language of his flowing tears.
Let not my fountains cease, nor tears be few;
Tears are the Angels joy, and Heavens dew.

Gods Providence

The Lilies do not spend the weary day
In spinning thred to make their clothes more gay:
Yet Solomon had no such rich attire,
Whom all the world for glory did admire.
The Ravens have no barn to store their grain,
They do not sow, nor reap with careful pain;
Yet God feeds them. If he the birds do feed,
And clothe the grass, he will sustain my need
With greater love: I never will despair;
When all is spent, God will my stock repair.

Upon the Honorable Colonel Sr Herbert Prise Baronet,

Master of the Houshold to His Majesty Charles the Second.

Some wavering men, like reeds with every wind,
Are shaken to and fro: The various mind
Dislikes no weather; be it foul, or fair,
He hath a cloak fit for the present air:
Such like the Cynick will their tubs remove
From place to place, and still the sunshine love.
On these unconstant worldlings I do look,
As on the image in the Prophets book;
The head of gold, of silver th' arms and breast,
The thighs and belly were of brass; the rest
As legs and feet, of iron were, and clay;
The image fell, and moulder'd all away:
So wavering men, who use no constant Creed
From good to bad, from bad to worse proceed.
But here is one, who like a Martyr ran,
And held throughout the course he first began:
No strong temptations, threatning, swords or gold,
Could flat his resolution; he ne'r sold
His love for gain; his heart was firm and stable
Unto his King, as th' Anchor to the Cable:
So stands the stately Pine, which rooted fast
And deep in earth, disdains the weaker blast.
To make one perfect, Nature never could
Have form'd a man in a more decent mould:
But wiser men neglect the outward shell,
And praise his braver soul, where vertues dwell:
His sole ambition, rightly understood,
Is only to be known not great, but good:
His actions are so just, that you'd protest
Astræa dwelt within his sacred breast.
With unclipt wings let may Ambition fly,
As his desires are good, his merits high!

GRACE.

Men dig the bowels of the earth for gold,
And rocks for precious stones; and some are bold
To dive into the sea for pearl: Few care
To get the pearl of Grace, more rich, more rare.
The Manna, and the Quails were dainty meat,
And as delicious as a man could eat;
But taste the food of Grace, and thou shalt find
It yields a better relish to thy mind:
Grace makes the poor man rich, the bline to see,
The sad man full of joy, the bondman free;
Weak humane thoughts it turns to thoughts divine,
As Christ at Cana water turn'd to wine;
It sweetens all conditions, rich and poor,
Like some pure incense, and preserves thy store.

A good Report.

Do not neglect the candor of thy Name,
Thou shouldst not stain thy clothes, much less thy fame:
Fine houses men will build, repair and trim,
And keep them neat without, and fair within;
But little they regard, if by foul ways
They blot their names, and slubber o're their days:
Such men in life are odious, and shall be
In death a scandal to posterity.
I'll tread a righteous path; a good Report
Makes men live long, although their life is short.

Sampson's Riddle;

Out of the strong came sweet.

Christ was the Lamb, Christ was the Lion slain,
To save our souls from everlasting pain:
From Judah's Lion all sweet pleasures flow;
No mercies but from him we have, or know.
He was a Lion mighty, strong in pow'r,
Before he could Death, Sathan, Hell devour.

A Dark Lanthorn.

This Lanthorn is but dull, and dark in sight,
As if it had not the least spark of light
The light is clos'd within, which none can spy
Or well discern, unless the curious eye:
So good men care not that the world should know
How good they are, by any outward shew.
Thus Cabinets appear but mean, and plain,
Yet many times rich pearl and gold contain:
Thus the best Wine that ever you can wish,
Is often tasted in an earthen dish.
Some look like holy Temples, when they are
Like graves within defil'd with rotten ware:
Of my weak deeds I will no trumpet sound;
The heart is humble, where good gifts abound.

Man's Infirmity.

Wise Adam fell in Paradise; the good
Angels in Heaven fell, who always stood
In Gods own presence; Faithful Peter fell,
Though in Christs school he was brought up so well;
David committed murther; righteous Lot
Defil'd his name with an incestuous blot:
No Oak so strong, no Cedar is so tall,
But shaken with tempestuous wind may fall;
No man so perfect is, so pure a Saint,
But in the battel he may fail and faint,
(If God prevents not:) Man, that's born to sorrow,
May safely stand to day, and fall to morrow.

The Common people.

The many-headed Hydra, or the People,
Now build the Church, then pull down Bells and Steeple:
To day for learned Bishops, and a King,
They shout with one consent; to morrow sing
A different note: One while the people cry
To Christ Hosanna; then him crucifie:
And thus the wavering multitude will be
Constant in nothing but inconstancie:
When these together swarm, the Kingdom fears;
They are as fierce as Tygers, rude as Bears.

The Rock in Horeb.

Once onely Moses with his sacred rod
The Rock in Horeb struck, as he by God
Commanded was; then waters gusht and fell
From the hard Rock, as from a running Well.
Lord, thou didst often strike me, never kill;
Thy rod was gentle, I am stubborn still:
Soften my stony heart, that tears may flow:
None reap in joy, but those in tears that sow.

The holy Sepulchre.

Christ is our Rock, who in a rock is lain,
The lesser rock the greater doth contain:
Out of a rock they newly hew'd his grave,
The new man Christ thus a new tomb must have:
No creature might repose or lay his head,
Without presumption, in the Creators bed:
The Lily of the valley, Sharon's Rose,
His fragrant grave in a sweet garden chose.
This Rock did shelter Christ two days; but he
An everlasting Refuge is to me:
He is the Rock, that doth our souls relieve
With water, which doth life eternal give.

The Passing-Bell.

The Passing-Bell doth toll; my thred is spun,
My candle is burnt out, my hour-glass run:
This sound is doleful, and this musick's sad
To those which in the world are rich, and bad;
It is like Davids musick, sweet to me,
Which doth my soul from evil spirits free:
I end my life, and yet to live begin;
I shall in glory live, who liv'd in sin.

The Spiritual Watchman.

When private in my bed I take my rest.
I muse on all the gifts, wherewith God blest,
And made me glad. The thankful man alone
Climbs Jacobs ladder, and ascends Gods throne.
I think on heaven's joys, and do admire
Of Saints, and Angels the harmonious quire:
Sometimes I think of hell; where rich men ly
In deadly torments, and yet cannot dy.
My life I call to mind; which God hath made
Short like a span, vaine as a dream, or shade.
This night may be my last, and I may have
My sheet to be my shroud, my bed my grave.
I count past sins, which so defile my soul,
That on the dunghil Job was not so foul,
These holy thoughts possesse my serious head,
Til tears run downe, and wash my careful bed.

LOVE.

Our God is love, who doth remain in love
In the same sphear with God himself doth move.
All things by perfect nature do agree,
And seem to hold a mutual sympathy:
The heavens to love their inclination show,
Which fairly do embrace this orb below.
The fire, the water, earth, and air agree,
And by kind nature intermixed be.
Love doth fulfil the law; love conquers sin,
And makes a man an earthly Cherubin
Faith, patience, hope, all vertues rightly skand,
Without pure love like barren fig-trees stand.
With perfect love are sweetest graces seen,
Like maids of honor waiting on the Queen.
Love is the wedding-garment; and no guest
Without this robe shall tast the royal feast.
Invest me Lord, with love, make thou me able,
And fit to feast with Angels at thy Table

Upon the Right Worshipful: Sir Henry Lingen

Knight of Stoke in Herefordshire.

My trumpet is too dul, and weak to sound
His meritorious praise: as in rich ground,
Most pleasant springs, sweet flowers, and herbs we find,
So vertues are consistent in his mind.
He's constant in the faith, and he doth hate
Old truth with errors to sophisticate.
Such valour he exprest that men should raise
A stately Pyramide t'advance his praise.
His hands were active, and his heart was free
In loyal actions from Apostasy
He strives not to climb high; a gentle tyde
Thus have I seen within his channel slide,
His actions are so cleer to each mans sight,
As the pure Topaz, or the Chrysolite.
All hearts to him, as to their Loadstone move,
For he's the Center of his Countrey's love.
By all his vertuous ways it doth appear,
His soul in heaven is, his body here.

The Sluggard.

When God did Adam with all pleasures blesse,
He was to labour, and the garden dresse.
God made man active, those fair orbs above
Do wheele about, and without ceasing move.
The running stream is sweet, and can impart
A wholsome draught unto a thirsty heart.
But standing pools more dark and foul appear,
Nor can they be from bad infections cleer;
So labour whet, the soul, and cleers the mind,
By active fire our mettal is refin'd.
An idle life a sad condition breeds,
Who sits, when he should travel, never speeds.
Look how the painful Bee unto her hive
Brings the pure hony, and doth daily thrive.
And the laborious Ant with careful pain
Doth treasure up in summer time her grain.
So she prevents the famine, and doth live
All winter in delight, and never grieve.
The Sluggard foulds his armes, and then doth say,
I fear, there is a Lion in the way:
Thus in the end both poverty and shame
Consumes his body, and obscures his name.
God is a husbandman, he doth require
All men to work, no peny else, no hire.

To his much Honoured friend Mr. John Williams

the most pious, and learned Minister, and Uicar of Devynnock, and Luel.

In printed leaves for you I need not look,
I have learnt you by heart without the book.
Had I forgotten you, I had bin rude
And guilty of most base ingratitude:
If I had power equal to my mind,
You should an honest friend, and servant find.
But envious fortune hath so clipt my wing,
That I can nothing but affection bring,
I may more large in lands by fortune prove,
But no condition can enlarge my love.
The heavens blest you with a plenteous hand,
That you your friends can help, your foes command.

The Blackamores.

We many men from Mauritania see
To England come, as black, as Ravens be;
Into your selves look with a curious eye,
And you shall find you are more black then they
Then wonder not at them so black in skin
But at your selves so foul, so black by sin.

Peace and Warre.

Peace is like salt which seasons all our meat,
Till envious warre doth poison all we eat.
War like the horsleech calls for humane blood;
And ruines all things like the unruly flood;
Or raging fire: I do prefer by far
An unjust peace before the justest war:
Welcome sweet peace, which makes all things compleat
And gives us grapes from our own vines to eat.
That land is blest, and hath a golden day
Where Drums, and trumpets cease, and Organs play.
Peace breedeth plenty, warre consumes a nation,
Peace bringeth joy, warre causeth Lamentation.
Pray to the God of peace, that we may have
The love, and peace of God unto the grave.

HOPE.

I'm black, tis true: but yet no sad despair
Shall me perswade, that I shall nere be fair.
Transform hard stones the God of power can,
And make them children unto Abraham.
To turn my heart of stone, God knows the way,
Into a heart of flesh without delay:
My sore disease is not so great, or foul,
That there's no balsome; which can heal my soul;
Come true Samaritan, come sacred Dove,
And in my soul, as in thy Temple move.

To the most incomparable, wise, and vertuous Lady, the Lady Goditha Prise,

Lady to the Honourable Colonel, Sir Herbert Prise Knight.

As I do live, I wonder how you can
Forget your sex, and be so much a man!
In wit, and judgment; nay, you are divine
Transcending far our nature masculine.
As you are fair, so you disdain the rude,
And sluttish nature of the multitude.
They say, Promitheus stole from heaven fire,
And brought it down weak mortals to inspire,
If it be now on earth, I do protest
That heavenly fire lies in your sacred breast.
Who writes of you, or gives you greatest praise,
To your high worth shall but a molehill raise.

Vpon the same most excellent Lady, the Lady Goditha Prise.

Have you observ'd a garden fair, and sweet
Where whelsome herbs, and pleasant flowers do mee
So doth her mind no imperfection know,
Where graces do like grapes in clusters grow:
If you with serious eyes desire to see
The model of most perfect charity.
Or if in earnest you desire to find
Religion eated in a humble mind.
Or would you know, where holy patience dwells,
When grace, and truth all discontent expels;
Then her behold who lives, as if with John
She had Christ's sacred bosome lean'd upon.
In tears, and prayers she doth sin bemone
And each day neerer steps to heavens throne.

The mortified Christian.

I from the worlds deceitful snares am free,
They were but cobwebs, which entangled me,
All worldly mirth is madnesse; get away
You bad companions, which mispend the day.
Leave me alone, I ne're am lesse alone,
Than when in private by my self I mone.
I love no dainties, which procure delight,
Nor curious sauce to whet the appetite.
Nature is soon contented: give me meat,
That I may live, let me not live to eat.
I wear no silk, fine linnen, rich attire
To make me proud, or burn with wanton fire;
Rough sackcloth, or some homely weed I love,
Which my poor heart to humble thoughts may move.
I pray in Temples, meadows, woods; each place
Invites my soul to call for saving grace:
All sins by constant prayer conquer'd be,
So conquer them, else they will conquer thee.

The New illiterate Lay-Teachers.

Why trouble you religions sacred stream,
And tear Christs coat, which had no rent, or seam?
And you do patch it too with ragged clouts
Of false opinions, and phantastick doubts.
The skilful husbandman must till, and sow,
That grounds ill drest, where blind men hold the plough
Now in the Temple every saucy Jack
Opens his shop, and shews his pedlars pack.
Instead of candles we enjoy the snuff,
For precious balme we have but kitchin stuffe.
The ruder sort are by these teachers led,
Who acrons eat, and might have better bread;
If this a propagation shall be found,
These build the house, which pull it to the ground;
This is meere Hocus-Pocus; a strange slight,
By putting candles out, to gain more light.
Mad men by vertue of this propagation,
Have Bedlum left, and preach't for Reformation.
And they might well turn preachers, for we had
Many that were more foolish, and more mad.
The Tinkar being one of excellent mettle,
Begins to sound his doctrine with his Kettle.
And the laborious ploughman I bewail,
Who now doth thresh the Pulpit with his slail.
The louzy Taylor with his holy thimble
Doth patch a sermon up most quick and nimble.
He doth his skill, and wisdom much expresse,
When with his goose he doth the Scripture presse.
The Chandler now a man of light we find,
His candle leaves a stinking snuffe behind.
The Apothecary, who can give a glister
Unto a holy brother or a sister;
Hath one dram of the spirit, and can pray,
Or preach, and make no scruple of his way.
Thus false coyn doth for currant money passe,
And precious stones are valued lesse than glasse.
Not disputation, but a rigid law
Must keep these frantick sectarists in aw.
The itch of disputation will break out
Into a scab of errour; which without
Some speedy help will soon infect and run
Through all the flock, where it hath once begun,
I will take heed in these bad times, and care
To shut my shop, but keep my constant ware.
Lord let thy tender vine no longer bleed,
Call home thy shepheards which thy lambs may feed:

A Prayer to the Holy Ghost.

O Holy Spirit, O most sacred Dove,
Which didst descend upon the Son of Love;
Descend upon my soul, that I may be
Simple, as Doves without malignity!
O holy Fire, inflame my lukewarm heart,
And better heat of love divine impart!
O holy Fire, O thou Eternal Light,
Expel the clouds of everlasting night!
O holy Fire, let my soul purged be
From all her dross, as purest gold is free!
O holy Fire, dissolve my heart, like wax,
Which nothing but thy fair impression lacks!
O holy Fire, vouchsafe in me to dwell,
And keep my soul from the strange fire of hell!

Antipathy.

I love him not; but shew no reason can
Wherefore, but this, I do not love the man.

Astrology.

To the profound and learned Gentleman, Mr. Vincent Wing;

Wise men believe, inferior bodies move
By dispensation from those Orbs above:
Stars do not force, or by compulsion cause
Our Natures to obey their constant laws.
Who serves the God of pow'r, that made the spheres,
No sad ecclipse or constellation fears;
Where vertuous Reason guides not, but the Sense,
There Planets have their greatest influence:
God did the Sun, the Moon, and Stars bestow,
Which do the course of time and seasons shew:
'Gainst Sisera in their orders sought the stars,
And helpt Gods people in their prosperous wars.
When Christ himself was born, a star did bring
And guide the wise men to find out their King:
And wise men still in stars a vertue find,
Which is kept secret from the duller mind:
Into brave spirits a pure light descends,
Which heavy darkness never comprehends.
I cannot call the stars by name, nor track
The Sun through twelve signs of the Zodiack:
Arcturus with his sons outgo my sense,
So do the Pleyades with their influence:
From the Pole-Artick what degrees there be
Unto th' Antartique is unknown to me:
Our Zenyth is too high for me to know
What things are there, our Nadyr is too low:
I do not understand how Planets move,
And differ in their several Orbs above.
The Circle from the Stars reflexion may
Escape my knowledge call'd the milky way:
Such knowledge is too deep; but yet I will
Admire the path of that mysterious skill.

Solomon's Memento

Do not mispend thy golden youth, and bring
The dross of thy old age to serve thy King.
Do not neglect the morning of thy days,
And think the evening fit thy God to praise:
God early must be sought; the longer we
Persist in sin, the stronger sin will be:
From vice to vertue turn, from bad to good;
The deeper still he sinks, who stands in mud.
A nail, the further it is driven in,
The harder is drawn out; and so is sin:
None can foretell how long the fatal glass
Shall run, or else how soon the sand will pass.
Delay no time; that man will shrink and sear,
Who lays the burden on old age to bear:
Because the foolish Virgins came too late,
They heaven lost, for Christ had shut the gate.
Should we be old, are we then sure to store
Our souls with grace, which we refus'd before?
Through mire and dirt, who travels all the day,
Will hardly go by night a cleaner way:
The Tenant which neglects th' appointed day,
Forfeit his lease, and fret his Landlord may.

Upon the Right Worshipful, Sir Francis Floyd Knight,

Sou to the most eloquent, pious, learned, and honorable Judge, Sir Marmaduke Floyd Knight.

Vertue can never be conceal'd; her flame
Shines bright, and will disclose a vertuous name:
A brave report of his great worth we hear
As loud as thunder in our Hemisphere:
Contagious times could never make a spot
On his fair clothes, or his white paper blot;
He could not flatter, or affect the crime
To temporize, or smooth the ruder time;
Fixt in his station like a lofty hill
He simply stood, and scorn'd to change his will:
I wish he may enjoy fair Halcion days,
And Heaven bless his meritorious ways.

Even so come, Lord Jesus.

Upon Natures Darling, the young ingenuous Gentleman, Mr. James Jones

Son to Edmund Jones Esq;

He is in years a child; but if you scan
The ripeness of his wit, he is a man
This graff from such a gallant stock will be
In time succeeding, a most fruitful tree;
This Plant will prove a goodly Oak, and give
A pleasant shade the weary to relieve.
His Spring foretels the Autumn; and such rayes
Dart from the morning of his youthful days,
As do foreshew this Morning star will prove
A glorious body in the orb of Love.
Thus purest Springs, as they do forward go,
The wider still, and still the deeper grow.

Upon the death of the Right worshipful, Sir Walter Pye of the Mynde.

Thus full grown, fruitful trees we often find
Blown down by sad and unexpected wind.
He was an Evening-star, but so divine,
As did in glory Morning-stars outshine:
Vertue was strong in him, (if truly scan'd)
As when the Sun doth in his Zenith stand:
The King hath lost a Subject, who should have
An everlasting April on his grave.
Have you observ'd, how the pure Frankincense
Or Storax burning out, delights the sense?
So he consum'd and dy'd; He left a Name
A glory to his friends, to foes a shame:
His death deserves of tears more ample store,
Than there be sands upon rich Nilus shore.

The Passion of Christ.

Adam , who names to Creatures gave,
Did in fair Edens garden sin:
Christ in a garden, man to save,
His bitter Passion did begin;
There did his sweat, and drops abound,
Yea, drops of precious holy blood;
Which trickled down unto the ground,
And flowed like a crimson flood:
There Judas did his Lord betray
With a foul and deceitful kiss;
Dissemblers cast their souls away,
Regarding not eternal bliss.
From thence with lanthorns, staves and sword:
They led him like a wicked thief;
No faithful friend now aid affords,
No Angel ministers relief.
To Annas then they brought the Lord;
The holy Lamb is strongly bound;
To murther him they all accord,
In whom no guile or sin was found.
He could these cords asunder break,
His mighty hands did heaven frame;
My sins did bind and make him weak,
And subject unto pain and shame.
Herod did scorn him, and disdain
To see so poor, and vile a thing;
The Lamb no favour can obtain,
When that the crafty Fox is King.
To Pilate's Hall they brought him bound
For, Pilate judgment was to give:
The Judge in him no evil found,
But that he might in justice live.
They did blindfold the God of Light
And struck the peaceful Prince of Love,
Though to the blind he gave their sight,
Yet nothing could these tyrants move:
They spit in his most glorious face,
Whose healing spittle cur'd the blind:
Although he gave to sinners grace,
Yet here he could no favour find:
They 'twixt two thieves him crucifie,
Who did him mock, and basely scorn;
Between two thorns you might espy
The Lilly of the vallies torn
This was our Saviour's nuptial day,
The bitter Cross his marriage bed,
Where he his patient head down lay,
His loving Spouse the Church to wed:
With nails they pierce his hands and feet,
And with a cruel spear his side;
From whence the Sacraments most sweet
Like to a lively stream did glide.
At last he bow'd his head divine,
All things were finisht and compleat;
His Spirit to God he did assigne,
And unto us his Merits great.

The Children of Bethlehem

A voice was heard in Ramab, or on high;
Fair Rachel wept, because her babes must die:
In Bethlem Rachel's buried; therefore she
Is stil'd the Mother of this Infantrie.
No voice comes sooner to the ears of God,
Or crieth louder than the voice of blood:
Herod the Fox these pretty Lambs did kill,
Who the first Martyrs were by act, not will:
In act and will I would a Martyr prove,
And give this world, to gain the world above.

Upon the Worshipful, and most hospitable Gentleman, Andrew Barker Esq;

of Fearswood in the County of Gloucester.

Observe bright Heavens constellation, how
The stars do join, and make a glorious show.
Thus vertues meet in him, whose noble thought
Hath pious works unto perfection brought:
He keeps a house compleat to strangers free,
Without vain-glorious prodigality;
No churlish Porter dares to shut his door
Against the sad petitions of the poor:
No Heresie, no Treason repossest,
Or enter'd once into his serious breast;
Fidelity and truth did ever guide
And steer his ship through every wind and tide:
His Wife is like the pleasant Vine, that she
May stock the world with good posterity;
His lovely Children blest with grace and wit,
Like Olive branches at his table sit;
And strangers which behold them, soon may gather
They are the children of so good a Father.
May he ne're cease, through the great power of God,
To bud, and flourish like old Aarons rod.

Upon Saul seeking his fathers Asses.

Saul did much care and diligence express,
By seeking Asses in the Wilderness;
Three days he travell'd with a serious mind
To find them out, but could no Asses find:
Find out a hundred you in London may
Of Presbyterian Asses in one day.

The Moon.

It is beleev'd, the Moon so fair, so bright,
Doth from the Sun receive her candid light.
My soul no beauty, no perfection knows,
But what the Sun of glory still bestows.

Upon the fair and vertuous Gentlewoman Mrs. M. S. that can sing excellently.

When first I did this Virgin spie,
The object pleas'd my serious eye
But when I heard her sing, I swear,
The musick took both heart and ear.
Those inward vertues please us best,
Which are with outward beauty drest;
And 'tis a comely thing to find
In bodies fair, a fairer mind:
The Harp, the Viol hither bring,
And Birds, musitians of the Spring;
When she doth sing, those must be mute,
They are but Cymbals to the Lute:
She with her Notes doth rise, and fall,
More sweetly than the Nightingal:
God in her pious heart keeps place,
Seme Angel in her voice and face.

The Hen and Chickens.

See how the careful Hen, with daily pain,
Her young and tender Chickens doth maintain,
From ravenous birds secure her young ones lie
Under their mothers feather'd canopy:
Thus his dear children God together brings,
And still protects them with his gracious wings.
The bird of prey Gods Doves would soon devour,
Did he not guard them with his watchful pow'r.

Upon the Honourable Colonel; Sir Randolph Egerton Knight.

My trumpet is to dull too sound his praise,
Who guilds this Nation with his vertuous rayes.
His merits do, like Nilus, overflow
The banks of comprehension; and I know
No better way than silence to commend
His vertues, which no measure have, nor end;
The muses shall meloudious Anthems sing
Of his bold love, and valour for the King.

Upon the fair, and vertuous Gentlewoman Mrs. Elizabeth Gwyn of the Hay.

I cannot speak her worth, but shew my will,
Her merits are beyond my pen, or skill.
Her face, and mind is fair, like to the day
Unclouded, or like heaven's milkie way,
When she inclines to marriage, may she find
A lover correspendent to her mind;
As she is rich, and comely, so may he
Equal in portion, and proportion be:
As she is kind, from him let kindnesse flow,
And love, which weak defect may never know:
So let them both like twyns be fair, and kind,
Be rich in grace, be of a loving mind;
So let them both continue, till they kisse
In love each other to eternal blisse:

Wordly Honor.

Climb up the highest hill, and you shall find
That place most subject to great storms and wind.
So wordly Honours, and preferments are
But steps to raise you to more grief, and care.

To the most Courteous, and fair Gentlewoman the pattern of modesty, and piety Mrs. Elinor Williams of the Gare.

As you are perfect without blot, or stain,
So may perfection in your Bridegroome raign.
As you are young, and tender; so may he
In years a little your superiour be.
For every marriage then is best in tune,
When that the wife is May, the husband June,
Let not your heart to beggar's Hall incline,
A shrubble should not embrace so tall a pine.
A Buzzard must not court the gentle Dove,
For such a marriage will prodigious prove.
No foolish Wood-cock, must expect to wedde.
Or take the rarer Phenix to his bed.
Before you Roses fade, joyn hand in hand,
Old age will come and plough your finest land.

Remember Lots Wife.

A woman turn'd to salt, most true it is;
Ovid nere knew that Metamorphosis.
The woman chang'd, not man, Gods prime creature,
For women are most apt to change by nature.
She looked back with a most strong desire,
To see old Sodom, which was then on fire.
The act of looking back had bin no crime,
Had she lookt back but at another time.
It was Gods precept, made this act a sin,
She had been free, had God not injur'd bin,
Salt seasoneth flesh; she's turn'd to salt, that we
By her example might well season'd be.
Go on (my soul) to God with all thy might,
Renounce thy former Sodom of delight.

Upon the death of the Right Worshipful: Sir Anthony Mansel,

who was shot, and kild at the battel of Newbery:

Death like a coward at a distance stood,
When she struck him: his valour was so good,
She durst not venter neere: Death to her shame
His body kill'd, but could not kill his name.
In this sad battel, if fame truth doth say,
We got the field, and yet we lost the day.
His death eclipst the day, and made it night,
And clouds of sorrow did obscure the light.
It were injustice to neglect his dust,
Whose death was noble, as his life was just:
Now heaven crownes him, where all labors cease,
Although he dy'd in war, he dy'd in peace:

Charity.

The glorious Sun bestows his light, and heat,
To cherish us, and make all things compleat.
The swelling clouds with water do abound,
To succour, and refresh the thirsty ground.
The earth yields her increase: the fruitful vine
Out of her treasure yields the pleasant wine.
All creatures in their kind by nature give.
And with their precious store our wants releive;
These creatures by example us should move
To help each other with a mutual love.
To feed the poor who sells his own estate,
Doth purchase heaven at an easie rate.
God loves a broken heart, an humble knee,
An open hand from all vain glory free.

The Holy Sacrament, or Supper of the Lord

Under the forms of sacred bread, and wine,
I do receive thee, Lord, and grace divine;
Thou art the door, the vine, the corner stone,
Thou art the way, the truth; the life alone.
Thy mercy to inlarge thou art our bread;
Wherewith we are to life eternal fed.
Thy blood is wine, which sweetly doth refresh
Our weary souls, and cheere our weaker flesh.
Who eats this bread, and drinks this cup, shall be
From fainting thirst, and pining hunger free.
In this sweet bread doth no sour leaven lye
Of fraud, of malice or hypocrisie:
The bread's thy body, and the wine thy blood,
This I beleeve; this faith is safe, and good;
Thou art in thy great Sacrament; but how,
I simply do confesse, I do not know;
It is enough for me that thou art there,
I will receive thee, Lord, with joy and fear.

Upon the Right Worshipful Sir Richard Floyd,

one of his Majesties Honourable Judges in South-Wales.

Blush all you scarlet gowns, that heretofore
Did wink at rich men, and condemn the poor.
Great flyes break through, when the lesser fly
In slender cobwebs doth intangled ly.
But here is one of Jethro's Judges, he
Fears God and is from base corruption free:
The person he respects not, but the cause,
He fancies not opinion, but the laws.
The scales of Justice no fine gold can turn,
He righteth those which laugh, and those that mourn.
He's careful of the poor; for he doth know
That men will soon tread down a hedge that's low.
His language is attractive, sweet, and full,
And falls like rain into a fleece of wooll.
In faith he is a rock: in loyal love
For his good King he did a Martyr prove.
He is a honest Jude; my active will
Would guild his name, had I but perfect skill:

Conscience.

Consider all thy actions, and take heed
On stollen bread, though it is sweet, to feed.
Sinne like a Bee unto thy hive may bring
A little honey, but expect the sting.
Thou maist conceal thy sinne by cunning Art,
But conscience sits a witnesse in thy heart,
Which will disturb thy peace, thy rest undo,
For that is witnesse, Judge, and prison too:
The pleasant streame doth fair and smoothly glide,
When in the bottom no great rubbes abide.
No swelling grief, no boystrous cares appear,
Where honest ways preserve the conscience clear.
Our cloths being new, and fair, we hold it fit,
To care, what thing we touch, and where we sit.
When they are foul, or torne, we leave that care,
And cast them up and down like broken ware:
Tis so with conscience; while 'tis fair within,
We fear to stain it with some heynous sin:
If once the Virgin-Conscience plays the quean,
We seldom after care to keep it clean.
Then keep thy conscience, like thy paper white,
And do not blot, when thou maist fairly write.

The Shrew.

Behold her lip, how thin it is; her nose
How sharp, her voice how shrill, which doth disclose
A froward shrew; who hath her by mishap,
Shall surely hear a constant thunder-clap:
Silence is her disease; for like a mill
Her clapper goes, and never standeth still.
By night Hobgoblins houses haunt: this sprite
Doth vex, and haunt the house both day and night.
The Rack the wheele, the Spanish Inquisition
Torments not like her tongue; A sad condition
Her husband lives in; like a coward he
Must leave the field, and always vanquisht be.
He must commend, what she doth well approve,
And disallow of what she doth not love.
We tame wild fouls, bears, lions: but no Art
To tame a shrew could any yet impart.

Upon a Gentlewoman with a bad face but a good, and pious mind.

Here Uertue is eclipst: and I do find
Her face a mask unto her fairer mind:
Thus Diamonds in rocks, as story tells,
And precious pearls are found in oyster-shells.
In this dark Lanthorn burnes a lamp most bright,
Under this cloud there is a glorious light;
Sweet vertues sparkling from her soul divine,
Will break forth through the thickest clouds, and shine.
Nature in framing her, her skill forgot,
When she should fairly write, shee did but blot.
Her outside she compos'd of sturdy buffe,
But grace hath lind her with more precious stuffe.
Nature, and Grace in her could not agree,
The one was sparing, and the other free.

The Harlot.

The Harlot is the broad way unto hell,
A laborinth, a ditch, a poisnous well;
She is a nightly glow-worm: Canker'd brasse;
A common Inne, a sink, a broken glasse.
Her love is lust, her lover is a slave,
Her arms are fetters, and her bed a grave.
She doth perfume her wanton lips, and hair,
When her corrupted breath infects the air:
Some fool will venture for a wanton kisse,
As Eve did for an apple, heavens blisse.
Thus children for a nut will part with gold,
Thus Esau for some broth his birth right sold.
Use thy own fountain; stollen waters please,
Lascivious minds, and breed the souls disease;

The Wish.

A little house, a quiet wife,
Sufficient food to nourish life,
Most perfect health, and free from harm,
Convenient cloths to keep me warm.
The liberty of foot, and mind
And grace the ways of God to find.
This is the summe of my desire,
Until I come unto heavens quire.

Upon the most beautiful, hospitable, and Ingenuous Gentlewoman Mrs: Blanch Morgan of the Therow.

Fasting.

Full Barrels make no sound, nor can they pray
With perfect love, who banquet all the day.
Fasting extenuates sin: it doth controul,
And check the lustful motions of the soul:
Fasting doth make our prayers flame more high,
And prayer doth our fasting sanctifie:
To fast from meat my body shall begin,
And then my soul shall sooner fast from sin.
Thy Saints and Angels, Lord, nor drink, nor eat,
Receive my soul, and I will use no meat;
Thou art the Well, and bread of life: on thee
I'le feed with Heavens blessed Hierarchy.

Baptism.

The Baptism of water, a good thing
Common to all, cannot salvation bring,
The Baptism of fire, and the Holy Ghost
Must make us live, or else our life is lost.
Baptize me, Lord, if thou shalt think it good
With fire, and with the baptism of blood:

Sickness.

Ask me no more, Which is the greatest wealth
Our rich possessions, liberty, or health?
For riches, freedome, without health to me
Make but sad musick without harmony.
Rust eateth Iron: and the finest cloth
Is spoil'd, and fretted by the envious moth;
Through sickness strength and beauty fade away,
As when a cloud obscures the fairest day;
Each sickness is Gods prison; and more sad
Than any which cruel Tyrants had.
When the sore gout doth but possess the toe,
Where is thy former liberty to go?
A golden Crown can no great comfort be,
When th' head is troubled with a plethorie.
Call for delicious Quails, Canary Wine,
The finest Bread, or Manna more divine;
These to thy palate will distastful prove,
When nothing can thee to disgestion move,
Much more diseases will in man appear,
Than there be dayes existent in the year.
O health, O perfect health, the gift of God,
When we grow wanton, sickness is his rod:
When I am sick or well, grant, Lord, I may
Remember thee, and not forget to pray.

To the most affable, charitable, and ingenuous Gentleman, Roger Vaughan of Moccas, Esq

Mistake me not; It is not my intent
To court you with a formal complement;
Should I presume to set your praises forth,
I should but injure you, and blot your worth,
My drops can never make the Sea more full,
And I confess, my Candle is too dull
To add more light unto the Sun; my mind
Would active be, but still defects I find.
My slender power doth compell my pen
To leave that task to more judicious men.

The tongue.

Give not the Bridle to thy hasty tongue,
A mad colt speeds, and may his Master wrong.
A tongue well drest is excellent meat; ill drest
It is distastful, and will not disgest:
The tongue is fire, soft fire gives pleasant heat,
But if it flames too high, the danger's great:
Who gives full scope, and lets his tongue go free,
Will but endanger his own Liberty.
In silent streams we find the deepest foords,
And Wisdom's most, where there is least of words:
Excessive words, which like great tides do swell
Above their banks, unhappy effects foretell.

Upon the Right Worshipful, Sir John Awbrey of Lantrethit, Knight.

Since Truth is from the earth to heaven fled,
Men are by strange, and various fancies led:
The times did alter, yet the world may see
This Knight from change, but not from chance was free.
Some mens Religion like a blaze of fire
Caus'd by dry sticks or thorns, will soon expire.
Such will not row their boat, but where they find
The tide most calm, free from tempestuous wind.
But he great storms, and dangers did foresee,
Yet no foul shipwrack of his faith could be:
No danger could his resolution shake,
Or on his soul a base impression make.
Men might abuse his body, name, or land,
They never could his braver soul command.
The Sun's less constant; for since he begun,
He ne're went back, like Hezekiah's Sun:
I'le speak no more; he praised Cæsar best,
Who silent wonder'd, and did speak the least.

To the Right Worshipful, Sir Richard Basset of Bewper, Knight.

If commendation is to valour due,
Or vertue, praise then is a debt to you
You could not stoop, nor alter, like the wind,
The loyal resolution of your mind,
You bravely stood in times of war and fear
Like some bright Star sixt in your proper sphear.
Such sparks of Valour from your eyes did fly,
As put your foes into an extasy.
Your Noble actions do transcend all wit,
Or copious lines, unless an Angel writ.

Upon his much honoured friend, Major Henry Stedman.

How shall I write of him, whose pleasant rayes
Do further spread than my weak skill or praise?
His mind is like sweet Edens Garden; which
Was fair in trees, as he in vertues rich.
His Loyalty is known, his Valour try'd,
Nor can his serious Judgement be deny'd.
East was not more divided from the West,
Than Treason from his unpolluted breast.
His faith is Catholick, and it is vain
To tempt him with a fond fanatick strain.
Although his Boat with waves and wind was tost,
He ne're his course or resolution lost.

To the Worshipful, Edward Powel, Esq; of the Maes Maur.

My Pensil is too dull to paint your name
With such a gloss, as may advance your fame.
Yet I have writ you down; for I believe
Your name more lustre to my Book will give:
As precious stones adorn a golden Ring,
And lillies beauty to the Valleys bring,
So he that will on your perfections look,
Shall find, they are a splendour to my Book.
You are my friend; which some may think not true:
Because I do so slightly write of you.

Upon the Right Worshipful, Nicholas Arnold of Lantony, Esq

Behold an Israelite, in whom's no gaile,
Nor doth foul practice his fair hands defile,
The worldly wise do study, watch, and plot,
And tread all paths, that riches may be got.
If Naboth's Vineyard fruitful is, then they
With Naboth's blood will Naboth's Vineyard bay.
But his soul is contented, and doth hate
To wander further than his own estate.
He soars not high with an ambitious wing,
But is contented, like a private spring,
To keep his constant course: no muddy gain
Of ill got treasure shall his conscience stain.
Thus have I seen a calm and pleasant tide
Without all noise, or swelling billows slide
His faith he pins not on anothers slieve,
Nor changeth like the times: his soul doth grieve
To see mad people, free from fear and grace,
Besiege the Church, and storm the Sacred place.
He is a friend true learning to advance,
For learning hath no foe, but Ignorance:
I wish him happy dayes, and life to see
His vertues shine in his posterity.

A Perewig.

VVelcome (brave gallant) with those locks so fair
It is a question, who doth own that hair;
The owner sure is dead; but when, or how,
O in what place he dy'd, thou dost not know.
Perhaps he dy'd at Bedlam, then take heed,
Those hairs mad fancies in thy head may breed.
Perchance sad Tyburn was the fatal place
Where he did end his dayes for want of grace.
If it be so, they will infect thy brain,
And cause thee to delight in thievish gain.
If from some broken Chamber-maid they fell,
They'l move to lust, and modest thoughts expell.
Or if they grew upon a drunken head,
Thou seldom wilt go sober to thy bed:
But if they came from some bad Statesman's ground,
A Matchivillian Knave thou mayst be found:
Thus these dead excrements, if thou them use,
Will but bad thoughts and qualities infuse.
Cast off those looser hairs, which every wind
Will fright away, and shew thy vainer mind:
God numbers all our hairs: let no man scoff
At that, which God doth take such notice of:
Besides, it is a sinful, shameful part,
To slubber Natures work with sluttish Art.

Upon his most dear and pious Uncle, Mr. James Parry, Parson of Tedstone.

VVhile the new teachers in the Pulpit prate,
His works his Sermons are, which do dilate,
And spread themselves: we may his pious mind,
And inward faith by outward actions find:
A good tree bears good fruit; the Olive tree
Is fat; but figs from thistles cannot be:
The poor flock to him for supply and rest,
As birds do fly unto the warmer nest:
He lives not to the world; no base desire
Of gold inflames him, or ambitious fire.
He praiseth God, and doth contented live,
Whether the hand of God doth take or give.
Afflictions are his blessings, and the rod
Which chastens him, doth bring him home to God:
He lives to day, as if he'd die to morrow,
Life is to him no joy, nor yet a sorrow.

Hell.

Good Lord, deliver me from hell, where grief
Is without end, and pain without relief.
In this dark dungeon damned spirits lie,
Where the foul worm of conscience doth not die,
Nor fire go out; where the most wretched soul
Doth but in vain for pardon cry and houl;
Here they do gnash their teeth, they spend sad tears,
Full of distractions, horrid thoughts, and fears.
From Gods sweet presence, from eternal light,
From holy Angels, and from Saints delight,
From heavens glory now they banisht are,
What torment is this, no man can declare;
If after twenty thousand years of pain,
And thousands more the damn'd were sure to gain
A pardon, and come out, this grant would be
Some comfort to them in their misery.
But there is no such hope: the Judgement's past,
And cannot be revok'd; the gate is fast,
And never can be opened: who can tell,
What dreadful lamentations are in hell?
I know that heaven is above; but how,
Or where hell stands, Lord, let me never know.

The prosperity of the wicked.

Sometimes the wicked flourish like the bay,
Which still keeps green, when better trees decay.
Have you observ'd, how little streams do swell,
And rise above their banks, and then have fell,
And sunk into their Channels? so we know,
Base men have risen high, then fallen low:
That Kingdom is in an unhappy case,
Where Cedars fall, and shrubs possess their place:
With joy and pleasure Upstarts climb the hill,
Again they tumble down against their will:
Those men do much mistake, who only measure
A Christians welfare by his worldly treasure:
An Angel hath no gold, no beasts, nor land,
And yet he is not poor; his wealth doth stand
In better things: although the just mans store
Is small; he hath enough, and needs no more
God doth his grace instead of wealth impart,
And with contentment doth enrich his heart.
The bad mans wealth with discontent doth dwell,
His heaven is but intermixt with hell;
Be not in love with gold: a golden purse
Is without grace no blessing, but a curse.

The Martyr.

Some in gay feathers do the Peacocks play,
While 'tis fair weather, and a sunny day;
But when 'tis clouded, and the storms begin,
Like fearful snails they keep their horns within.
Pure Fountain-water doth most heat contain
The winter time: Good men, in greatest pain,
And hardest times or dangers, valiant prove,
And do express the greatest heat of love
A Christian from his faith will never start,
If thousands should present, and fire his heart:
He loves not life, life is to him a pain;
He fears not death, death is to him a gain:
He dies a Saint, for truth who spends his breath;
The cause proclaims a Martyr, not the death:
The blood of Martyrs is the fruitful seed,
Which being sown, doth still more Christians breed.

The DEVIL.

God bless me from the Devil: woe to man,
If God rules not that great Leviathan.
Dark, foggy mists he casts before our eyes,
To make us credit his phantastick lyes:
His greatest proffers are but painted toyes,
Lin'd through with grief, and onely fac'd with joyes.
With pleasant potions, and with sugred pills
The Devil tempts his patient when he kills.
He tempted David with Bathsheba fair;
Judas with silver-pieces, whom despair
Brought to perdition: with a beauteous face
He brought two wanton Elders to disgrace:
With Naboths vineyard Achab he beguil'd,
So he with blood his guilty hands defil'd.
He cozen'd Achan with a wedge of gold,
Eve with an apple: No man can unfold
His various tricks; he knoweth when to fish,
What bait you love, what things you chiefly wish.
Three ways he useth most; Wine, women, wealth,
By which he creeps into the heart by stealth:
Resist him at the first, he'll flie away;
Get but the morning, and you have the day.

The Sinners Petition.

After some sick and tedious hours of night,
The Patient longs for the approaching light:
The thirsty Deer doth panting run, and look,
Desiring to find out the water-brook:
So pants my soul, and sighs, and longs to see
Thy saving health to make thy servant free.
How am I circled with thick clouds of sin,
And still a thred of vain delights I spin.
The Sun of glory these dark clouds can chase,
And cleer me with the beauty of his face.
Wash (Lord) my scarlet sins, that knowest how
To make me whiter than the fleece of snow:
Remember not my rash and ill spent youth,
When I could fancy lyes, and hate the truth.
Those sins are wormwood now, and bitter gall,
My pleasures then, I now my sorrows call:
I creep unto thy gate, and do implore
Thy gracious love to cure my cankred sore:
Receive me in, although I come so late,
Thou hast the keyes to open heavens gate.

A Hymn.

Drunkenness.

Use golden Temperance; that anchor may
In greatest floods, thy boat that wanders, stay.
Who drinks too much, and doth in taverns dwell,
May want a drop to cool his tongue in hell.
Poets write of Men transform'd to beasts: if true,
I do believe they were some Drunken crue
No Wolf, no Ass more fierce, more shameless can
Or careless be, than is a drunken man:
Lust, murder, folly, falshood, anger, pride
Possess foul Drunkards, and their humors guide:
Who runs, (and ne'r returns) this dirty way,
Travels too hard to cast his soul away.
Avoid the Ale-house: who frequents the door
Where harlots live, will learn to love a whore.
Lord bless me, that with Christ I may be able
Before a drunken Inne to choose a stable.

The Fountain

Here I do bathe my body, wash my face:
To cleanse my sins, I use the spring of grace.
This fountain from a stony rock doth flow,
Which teacheth me my Saviour Christ to know.
He is the Rock, from whence a vertuous spring
Proceeds to cleanse the beggar, and the King.
Herein a Chrystal cleerness doth appear,
Which teacheth me to keep my Conscience clear:
This little fountain from all mud is free,
When greater streams are dark and troubled be:
Secure content doth crown a mean estate,
When Honors are obscur'd by envious fate.
Here I do drink, and fear no poisonous charm;
Rich wine in golden cups contain more harm.
The running Fountain makes no sluggish stay,
But keeps its course, and travels night and day:
Nor will I spend my life as in a dream,
But labour to be active, as the stream
Here without grudge the traveller shall stay
And quench his thirst, although he nothing pay:
Which teacheth me to bind the bruised reed,
And give my cruse of oil to those that need.
This pleasant Spring unto the sea doth haste,
And spends both day and night, yet doth not waste:
My tears shall never cease my God to move,
Until they run into his sea of love.
The Fountain doth alone, and secret dwell,
Like some chaste Nun in a religious cell:
A private life, obscure, doth best agree
With my desires, from noise and tumults free.

The Prodigal Son

Once did I spread abroad my glorious train,
And like a Cedar little shrubs disdain:
Amongst small fish I thought my self a Whale,
None might me ballance in an equal scale.
Reason was not my guide; each wanton sense
Did wander through the whole circumference:
Sometimes the center of my pleasure lay
Fixt in the bed of lust: the glorious Day
Did usher in my fancies, and the Night
Was but my secret Pander to delight.
I robb'd the painful Silkworm of her store,
And polisht English fleece with Indian ore;
Which by reflexion from the Suns bright rays,
Dull'd the beholders eyes, and made fools praise
My handsom feature, although every part
Was little bound to Natures work, but Art.
No cloud of sorrow did eclipse my joy,
Nor mud of envy did my spring annoy:
Each day produc'd strange dishes of content,
To give my palate a new complement:
With women, wine, and cards I spent the day,
Which like the wind chas'd clouds of cares away.
But when my stock was spent, my thoughts did fall,
I lost the Court, and found the Beggars hall:
The stubborn husks, which nasty hogs do eat,
Was then my onely dish, and constant meat
The scales of sin fell from my watry eyes,
And real truths I did discern from lyes.
In haste I ran into my Fathers arms,
And now with him I live secure from harms:
I'le drown my sins in tears, and never more
Spend oil in vain, that I may pay my score.

HEAVEN.

The world's an empty chest, where nothing lies,
Which may content the longing heart or eyes:
Figs from these thistles we shall never gain,
Nor grapes of pleasure from these thorns of pain
My soul disdains the Earth, and sores above,
Feather'd with wings of an immortal love.
The Prisoner, which in some dark dungeon lies,
No comfort feels, nor light of sun espies:
What joy would he conceive, if he were free,
And could enjoy his wished liberty?
So my imprison'd soul expects the day,
When Nature shall dissolve this house of clay:
For then I shall ascend with swift desire,
And sudden motion to the Angels quire;
Where I shall see that glorious, Sacred face,
Which joyes all creatures, lightneth every place,
No Sun or Moon shines there; no day or night,
The Lamb himself is the eternal light.
There is the Mercy-Seat: the holy hill,
Where neither thieves nor tyrants rob or kill.
No shackles hurt the feet, nor cares the mind,
The poor man there is free from storms and wind.
All discontent, all imperfection dyes,
The lame receive their feet, the blind their eyes.
All tears are wip't away: None doth command,
Each Saint doth hold a Scepter in his hand:
Lord, let me see thy Court; I seek no more,
But the least place to stand behind the door.

Upon the most Hospitable, and Courteous Gentleman, the Worshipful, Thomas Lewis, Esq; of Langorse.

Black Patches.

Ladies turn Conjurers, and can impart
The hidden mystery of the Black-Art.
Black artificial patches do betray,
They more affect the works of night, than day.
The Creature strives the Creator to disgrace
By patching that, which is a perfect face:
A little stain upon the purest dye,
Is both offensive to the heart and eye;
Defile not then with spots that face of snow,
Where the wise God his workmanship doth show
The light of nature, and the light of grace,
Is the complexion for a Ladies face.

Powdred Hair.

Some proud phantastick Coxcomb takes more pain
And greater care to dress his hair, than brains:
And he doth study, that his hair may have
A better dye, than God and Nature gave;
Furnish thy head with knowledge; I presume,
That with a wise man is the best perfume.

A Wife.

Art thou resolv'd for Marriage? then relie
On God to chuse, not on the wanton eye.
Men may intend, or purpose: It is not
The man, but God, which ties the marriage knot.
Fix not thy mind on beauty: that fair shade
Will quickly pass, that fair flower will fade,
Vertue and beauty to one place confin'd,
Is the best glue, which can affection bind.
A modest maid with beauty stor'd, and grace,
Hath wealth enough, and portion in her face.
To take a Wife for wealth, and not for love,
Will but a sickness, not a Marriage prove.
Chuse one well born: all waters do (we know)
More sweet from fountains, than from channels flow.
Graff on a Noble Stock, and you shall find
Such pleasant fruit as will delight your mind:
Doat not on her which doth the wanton play,
And think with gold and pearl t'outshine the day.
Give me a wife, that can the Spindle use,
The Book, the Needle, free from brawls and news.
Take heed of her, that sanctifies her face,
And never prates without a Scripture phrase.
One chast, and merry, lovely, kind, and wise,
Active, well bred, contents both heart and eyes.
Desire the hand of God to point thy wayes;
He never falls, that in his journey prayes.

The Rainbow.

Variety of colours may be seen
Within the Rainbow, chiefly red and green.
Green shews the Deluge, which did overflow,
And drown the whole Creation here below:
Red shews the world, (when times age shall expire)
Must be refin'd, if not consum'd by fire.
We see no arrow in this bow, nor string,
It threatens not, but doth glad-tidings bring:
The glorious bow of heaven doth foreshow
Sweet showers of Blessings, not of Judgements now
Grant me thy mercies, Lord, cast not thy dart,
Nor shoot thine arrow at my wounded heart.

The Carpenter.

God is the Carpenter, whose skilful hand
Upon the waters made this Orb to stand.
He did compose the gate, which is the way
To heavens bliss; and keeps himself the key:
He hath his Plain, when we are rough and wild,
To make our stubborn Natures smooth and mild
He hath his perfect Rule, his Sawe, his Axe,
To order that which reformation lacks.
This Carpenter makes hearts and hands agree,
And joins them fast in bonds of Unity.
Lord, join and glue my soul to thee so well,
That I in thee, and thou in me may'st dwell.

Upon the Worshipful, and most hopeful Gentleman, Thomas Prise of Whisteston, Esq

He is in years but young, yet grave and wise,
Old age and youth in him do sympathize.
Nature made use of Art, before she could
Make one at the same time both young and old.
His heart is gallant, humble, just, and free,
There only vertues keep their Hierarchie.
The pleasant Whisteston is his Mansion place,
Where Nature Art, and Art doth Nature grace.
In that fair dwelling we may find much pleasure,
But yet in him consists the chiefest treasure!
Wealth, Honour, Pleasure, are no more, we find,
But hansome Pages to his Nobler mind.

Upon the Nobly minded, and most pious Gentlewoman, Mrs. Mary Williams,

daughter to that worthy Gentleman, Thomas Gwyn of the Hay-Castle, Esq;

Fresh is the morn, the Maiden-head of day.
Sweet are the flowers which breath perfumes in May:
Fair is the Rose in June: so doth her heart
The sweetest ornaments of grace impart:
Here Vertue sits inthron'd, as if she were
Contented only with her dwelling there:
Her alms and pious deeds beyond compare,
For her a seat in heaven do prepare:
And glorious heaven is the fittest place
To entertain so good a heart and face:
I wish, the Sun an hundred years may rise
With joy to wait upon her brighter eyes.

Affliction.

When for delight I took the purer air,
I have observ'd sweet Meadows green and fair
O'relaid with dung, which spoil'd the present grace
But afterwards it gave a better face:
Affliction makes one dark, but we may find,
It adds more gracious beauty to the mind.
Afflictions are Gods Skullions; and these must
Scoure and preserve his houshold stuff from rust;
They are his Masons, which do smooth and square
Stones for the Temple, which unpolisht are:
The more the patient Camamile we tread,
The more it will by dilatation spread
The gentle fire, if often blown, will burn
With greater heat, and to more fury turn:
So Christians by afflictions stronger grow,
They patience may no base submission show.
When Christ was on the earth, they crown'd his head
With thorns, and made the wooden Cross his bed.
They gave him vinegar and gall, when he
Did sorely thirst in his strong agonie:
If that the King could have no better meat,
What dainties shall the beggar think to eat?
The Paschal Lamb with bitter herbs was eaten,
If we are Christs, we surely shall be beaten.

The World.

The World's a garden, which the fancy feeds,
And yields few wholsom herbs, but many weeds.
Fools may commend, and give a golden gloss
To things that glister, but indeed are dross.
When serious I consider in my cage
The strange Meanders of the present Age,
And see the chance and change of every thing
From the poor beggar to the richest King:
All worldly pleasures but false dreams I find,
Which may distract, but not content the mind.
Our life is short, our greatest riches vain,
Our wisdom folly, and our pleasure pain.
As wave on wave, so grief on grief doth fall,
One trouble doth another sorrow call.
Build on the Rock, if thou wilt safely stand:
He sinks, who builds upon deceitful sand.

The Remedy of Love.

No woman lives, but in her eye
We may some moats or beams espy.
Thy Helen may be fair; but stay,
Thy Helen will the wanton play.
Thy Celia may be fair, but proud:
Crumena rich, but sharp and loud:
Eugenia may be full of wit,
But wisdom wants to temper it.
Lutetia may deserve thy love,
If vertue can affection move:
She's fair within, but foul without;
And who would use a dirty clout?
A foul tripe may thy taste annoy:
Eat Phesants still, they will thee cloy.
And thus no Beauty is so cleer,
But storms in it, and clouds appear.
Some foul disease, some grievous pain
May Celia's blushing roses stain;
Or age with furrows will disgrace
The pleasant meadow of her face.
Consider then; be sick no more,
Since reason may thy health restore:
If beauty doth so quickly pass,
Oh seek a richer pearl than glass;
That precious Beauty, which expels
All clouds of grief, in heaven dwels:
There fix thy mind, and thou shalt see
What imperfections women be.

Judas his Kiss.

Judas did with a Kiss his Lord betray:
Many seem friends, when they the Traitors play.
Judas was proud, and kist our Saviours face;
Presumption brought him to th' infernal place.
Mary did kiss Christs feet; which humble kiss
Exalted her to the celestial bliss.
Judas and Mary kist him; both we find
Alike in lips, but much dislike in mind,
God weighs the heart; whom we can never move
By outward actions, without inward love.

Upon the most learned Gentleman, Doctor Aurelius Williams, Dr. of Physick.

Some writers hold, which is most strange to me,
There may of souls a transmigration be.
If it be so, I swear, that Galen is
Reviv'd in him by Metampsychosis.
A thousand more than dy'd, Death thought to kill,
Had Death not been prevented by his skill.

Upon a drunken Woman.

Would'st thou a Monster, or a Devil see?
Or else in Nature some sad Prodigie?
Then on a drunken Woman cast thine eye,
All those are seen in her deformity.

The Priesthood.

'Twas Jeroboam's practice, and his sport,
Priests to elect out of the baser sort.
As it was in those dayes of old: so now
They have full orders, which no order know.
Drones, knaves, and fools, for Church-preferment look,
Those fish, and catch it with a silver hook.
Such Workmen in Christs Vineyard, will, I fear,
More shame the work, than help good labourers there.
The Priesthood is a holy, Sacred thing,
Deriv'd from Christ, both Prophet, Priest, and King.
This pearl is fit for Merchants, that can tell
The use thereof, and know the value well.
Let not this rich and precious oyle be shed,
Or pour'd on any, but wise Aaron's head.
The wise men came with reverence to Christs stable.
But fools will come without it to his table.
Those must have perfect eyes that guide the blind.
Who sin corrects, should have the purest mind.
Those must have skill in Musick, that can sing
One of the Songs of Sion to the King:
Christ once had need, but cannot now abide
Unto the Temple on as Ass to ride:
God doth inflame his Priests with Sacred fire,
And them he doth with different gifts inspire:
Some wound, some heal our sores; some weep, some sing
Some thunder Judgements; some glad-tydings bring.
No Souldier will prepare himself to fight,
Unless the Warlick Trumpet soundeth right:
Then Prelate be not rash t'impose thy hand,
The Holy Ghost is not at thy command.

The Merciful Samaritane.

No balm from Gilead, no Physitian can
Heal me, but Christ the true Samaritan.
When I am sick, and when my wounds are foul,
He hath his oyle and wine to clense my soul.
My sins the thieves, which wounded me, have bin,
Help, Lord, conduct me to thy peaceful Inn.

The poor Widows mite.

Our Saviour did prefer the Widows mite
Before the rich mens gifts: God takes delight
More in the heart, than hands; and he doth measure
How great our love is, not how much our treasure:
Give all thy full possessions, but thy love,
Thy gift will an abomination prove.
Love makes cold water wine, small actions great,
And without love no bounty is compleat.

Upon the sad departure of the right reverend Father in God, and the most learned Prelate, William Nicolson, from Caermarthin in South-Wales, to his Bishopick of Gloncester.

The light which did direct us, will appear,
Or shine no more in our dark Hemisphear.
We lost a Shepherd, which could wisely keep
The Fox and Wolf from preying on the sheep.
His Catechism is in doctrine sound,
In language sweet, in learning most profound.
This he hath left behind him; and we look
On nothing more than on his serious book:
He made his Farewel-Sermon: ne're was known
More grief, than now in Prophet Mertin's town.
He utter'd many words; unless fame lyes,
More tears by far flow'd from the peoples eyes.
For Gloucesters Reformation, God thought fit
To use his faithful pains, and holy wit.
And if he can by wholesome doctrine bring
These in obedience to the Church and King,
It will a greater miracle be thought,
Than any of the old Apostles wrought:
His godly presence doth make others live
In peaceful joy; his absence makes us grieve.

Upon the much honoured Gentleman, John Delahay of Alltrynis, Esq

An old Philosopher with a Candle ran
About the streets to find an honest man.
Had he liv'd now, and met with him, I swear
He had been pleas'd to stay his journey there.
Or if he had refused him for one,
He might in vain through all the world have gone.

Upon the Worshipful Milborn Williams Esq;

Son to that most excellent Knight, Sir Henry Williams of Gwernivet.

'Tis my ambition to remember those
Whose vertuous minds their actions do disclose
Some men, like owls, cannot behold the light,
Nor judge of colours, be they black or white:
Such I neglect, and write of those who can
Discern a Picture from a living man.
His knowledge is not weak, nor judgment dull,
But strong, and bright, like Cynthia in the full.
His gentle nature is so free, so fair,
So full of sweetness, as the purer air:
He beats an humble mind, and knoweth well,
That by ambition holy Angels fell.
He was so zealous for the Kingly cause,
As old Judge Jenkins for the Kingdoms Laws.
To number the bright stars, requires less pains,
Than all the vertues which his heart contains
To cut his thred of lif, when Fates agree,
A great Eclipse in Brecknock-shire will be.

DEATH.

Welcom (sweet Death) I love thy cold embrace:
The rich, and bad cannot endure thy face
Life is a passage unto Death; and Death
An entrance into life: When mortal breath
Is once expir'd; to live then we begin
Which life secures us both from death and sin
Conceive a precious pearl involv'd in clay,
Which can its lustre by no means display:
So doth the brighter soul imprison'd lie
In this black dungeon of obscurity:
Nor shall its glory shine, until 'tis free
From the dark clouds of dull mortality.
To come into the world, one way we have;
A thousand ways to hasten to the grave.
The day of Death is secret kept, that we
Might every day suspect that day to be.
As I am not asham'd to live, so I
Can never truly be afraid to die.
O Death! O watchful Death! thou look'st for me:
I am prepar'd, O Death! and look for thee.

Simeon's Song

Some, when they die blaspheme, and some are mad:
Some curse and swear, some desperate are some sad:
But no distraction racks the just mans mind,
No strange conceits his understanding blind.
Out of this life so God his servant calls,
As when the Infant into slumber falls.
When Simeon had enricht his blessed eyes
With seeing Christ, the world he did despise:
He dy'd in peace; and like a Swan did sing
Before his death, an Anthem to the King.
Christ like a Lamb did die: whilst you have breath,
Pray for a quiet and a peaceful death.

Upon the Worshipful, and much deserving Gentleman, John Jeffreys of Abercunrick Esquire.

Can silence fit the present stage, or dare
Our tongues be silent, where such merits are?
His actions are too great, too good to lie
Under a bushel in obscurity.
He was not Linsey-woolsey, or content
To be compos'd of King and Parliament:
He was most loyal, and could not dispence
With such base freedom to his conscience,
As to neglect his King: he hath a heart,
From whence transparent beams of Vertue dart:
After sad years of cruel storms and wind,
He shall a Haven, and a Heaven find.

The Gardener.

Mary prevents the day; she rose to weep,
And see the bed, where Jesus lay asleep.
She found out whom she sought; but doth not know
Her Masters face; he is the Gardener now.
This Gardener Edens Garden did compose,
For which the chiefest Plants and Flowers he chose.
He took great care to have sweet Rivers run
T'enrich the ground, where he his work begun.
He is the Gardener still, and knoweth how
To make the Lilies and the Roses grow.
He knows the time to set, when to remove
His living plants to make them better prove.
He hath his pruning knife, when we grow wild,
To tame our nature, and make us more mild:
He curbs his dearest children: when 'tis need,
He cuts his choycest Vine, and makes it bleed.
He weeds the poisonous herbs, which clog the ground.
He knows the rotten hearts, he knows the sound.
The blessed Virgin was the pleasant bower,
This Gardener lodg'd in his appointed hour:
Before his birth his Garden was the womb,
In death he in a Garden chole his Tomb.

Copernicus his opinion confirm'd.

Copernicus his fancy may hold good,
The earth did only move, the heavens stood.
So earth and houses wheeling round about,
And changing Climats, found new Masters out.

The Changes.

The painful Bee, which to her hive doth bring
Sweet honey, in her tail retains a sting
Our sweetest joyes are interlin'd with cares,
No field of corn, but hath some choaking tares.
The stream, which doth with silent motion slide,
Is oftentimes disturb'd with wind and tide.
Who sits to day in Honours lap, and sings,
God soon can change his tune, and clip his wing.
Sometimes the Sea doth ebb, and sometimes flow,
Now with anon against the tide we row;
No haven's so secure, but some ill blast
May toss the ship, and break the stately Mast:
Who now in Court doth dance, and lift his head,
To morrow droops, and sickly keeps his bed.
The King may beg, and beggars may command.
High Cedars fall, when little shrubs do stand.
The sweetest comfort I do feel, or find,
Though fortune change, is not to change my mind.

The Hour-glass.

Our time consumes like smoke, and posts away,
Nor can we treasure up a month or day.
The sand within the transitory glass
Doth haste, and so our silent minutes pass.
Consider how the lingring hour-glass sends
Sand after sand, until the stock it spends.
Year after year we do consume away,
Until our debt to Nature we do pay.
Old age is full of grief: the life of man
(If we consider) is but like a span
Stretcht from a swollen hand: the more extent
It is by strength, the more the pains augment
Desire not to live long, but to live well,
How long we live not years, but actions tell.

Pride, and Humility.

What pride possesseth man, that is but clay
Which must dissolve, and melt like yce away?
What frothy balm of self-conceit and love,
Doth puff his heart, and such high fancies move?
Who doth presume to climb the highest wall,
Will soonest slip, and catch the heaviest fall.
Proud men have fallen from their stately chairs,
And falling once, have tumbled down the stairs.
The shrubs are most secure, and free from wind,
When lofty trees a strong resistance find.
Behold the twig, which gently bends and bows,
When stubborn Oaks are broken, stands and grows.
Vertue is sooner found in Cotts and Cells,
Than in great Courts, where pride and envy dwells,
A contrite heart, (O Lord) a bended knee,
Like sweet perfume, shall at thy Altar be.

Christs Resurrection-day:

or Easter.

As when through misty clouds and troubled air
The Sun breaks forth, and makes the heavens fair,
So Christ the glorious Bridegroom, came this day
Out of his Chamber, where he secret lay;
The brighter Sun is up, whose pleasant rayes
Do bless the earth with good and happy dayes;
Display thy warmer beams, and to my heart
More fervent heat of zeal and love impart;
Death could not kill, or conquer life; nor might
The thickest darkness comprehend the light;
Had he bin still interr'd, then we had bin
For ever slaves to Satan, Death, and Sin;
The Jews to keep him there, (O fond conceit)
Roul'd to his grave a stone of heavy weight;
His body pierc't the stone, but was not able
To pierce their hearts far more impenetrable!
He could remove vast Mountains with his Word,
And in the Sea to them a grave afford;
The Mountain of my sins from me remove,
And drown them (Lord) in thy deep Sea of Love;
This joyful morning at the break of day
Our Saviour rose, and left his bed of clay:
Awake betimes (my soul) from slumber free,
And leave thou sin, before that sin leaves thee.

The Spring.

See how the wanton Spring
In green is clad,
Heark how the birds do sing,
l'le not be sad:
Doth not the blushing Rose
Breath sweet perfume?
I will my spice disclose,
But not presume:
The dew falls on the grass,
And hastes away,
Which makes me mind my glass
Which will not stay:
Now plants and herbs do grow
In every place,
Lord, let not me be slow
In growth of Grace:
Behold the fruitful trees
And fertil ground;
Observe the painful Bees,
Whose hives abound;
I will not barren be,
Nor waste my dayes
Like slaggards, that are free
From vertuous wayes.

The Poets Soliloquy.

Why do I droop, like flowers opprest with rain?
What cloud of sorrow doth my colour stain?
I like a Sparrow on the house alone
Do sit, and like a Dove I mourn and groan:
Doth discontent, or sad affliction bind,
And stop the freedom of my Nobler mind?
No, no, I know the cause; I do retire,
To quench old flames, and kindle better fire:
It is my comfort to escape the rude
And sluttish trouble of the multitude:
Flowers, rivers, woods, the pleasant air and wind,
With Sacred thoughts, do feed my serious mind:
My active soul doth not consume with rust,
I have been rub'd, and now are free from dust.
Let moderation rule my pensive way;
Students may leave their books, and sometimes play.

I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life,

[_]

Joh. 14. 6.

Christ is the Way, which leads to heavens joy.
He is the Truth, which errours can destroy:
He is the Life, which raiseth up the dead,
He is the Way, Truth, Life unlimited:
The way is narrow, strive to enter in,
The Truth is pure to clense our souls from sin,
Ift we do walk this Way, this Truth maintain,
Eernal life is ours, exempt from pain;
This is the Way without all rubs of grief,
This is the Truth which claims a just belief:
Here is the Life which conquer'd death and sin,
Truth, Life is ours, if we the way be in:
The Truth informs us, and the Way doth gulde;
The Life rewards us, if we constant bide.
Follow this Way; embrace this Truth; desire
This Life, the crown of Saints in Heavens quire.

Thankfulness.

In thee I have my being, live and move,
Who art the King of glory, and of love:
From thy rich storehouse of delight and pleasure
I do receive my joy, my gifts, and treasure:
Who gives me bread to strengthen me, and wine
To glad my heart? who made my soul divine?
Who gave me wisdom, or spiritual eyes,
Good to discern from bad, and Truth from lyes?
Who doth direct my ways, but thou my King,
Which art the Fountain whence all vertues spring?
What shall I render thee? I have no more
Than what's thine own, thy riches are my store:
If thou (sweet Lord) wilt not my Heart disdain,
Thou gav'st it me, I give it thee again.

The Holy Maid

I am resolv'd, no fond desire
Shall kindle in me Cupids fire:
No amorous toyes, no wanton kiss
Shall rob me of eternal bliss,
I'll write, I'll read, I'll spin, I'll pray,
To drive vain thoughts of Love away.
A silent Cloyster, which is free
From change and chance, best pleaseth me:
When I do not converse with men,
I speak with God, and Angels then.
I will not wear a rich attire
Of gold or silk, to set on fire
Beholders eyes: The care I find,
Most needful, is to dress my mind.
No cunning Lover shall beguile,
Or win me with a gift, or smile:
I will accept no pretty thing,
As Ribans, Gloves, a Watch, or Ring.
Weak man's estate, as in a glass,
Is truly seen in fading grass:
The choisest Man, the fairest Rose,
Will languish, and perfection lose.
And yet I am in love: but where?
My love ascends a higher sphere;
Where honor, beauty, pleasures be
Inthron'd, and full of constancie.
My Beloved's white and ruddy,
My red sins made him all bloody:
His head is like fine gold, most free
From dross, and all impurity:
His gracious eyes are like Doves eyes;
And in his cheeks composed lies
A bed of spices and flowers sweet,
Where all perfumes together meet:
His mouth breathes roses; and no bliss
Can equal his delicious kiss.
But see, where my Beloved lies,
And courts me with his dying eyes:
He spreads his arms me to embrace;
Who would not love so sweet a face?
Rich drops of blood, like rubies fall,
To ransom my poor soul from thrall:
The Cross my pillow, and my bed
Shall be his Grave to rest my head.
All sweets are sour, all fair perfections foul,
Compar'd with Christ, the Bridegroom of my soul.

Come unto me all you that labour and are heavy laden, and I will ease you

Not Gilead's Balm, no Pool in Siloam,
Not David's Hyssop, and no Angel can
Or blessed Saint in heaven cure the soul,
When sin hath made it, like a Leper, foul:
Christ is our Balsom; and we have no Tree,
Whose leaves do Nations heal, but only he.
Our Saviours sacred blood speaks better things
Than Abels blood; and greater comfort brings:
Gods anger was incens'd when Abel dy'd,
Our Saviours blood his anger pacifi'd:
The blood of Abel did for vengeance call;
Christs blood for love, and mercy to us all:
Just Abels blood cry'd once, and cry'd no more;
Our Saviours blood cries still; God hath in store
A Sea of mercies, if we do depend
On Christ our loving Bridegroom, and our Friend:
He makes the lame to walk, the blind to see,
The sad to sing for joy, the pris'ner free.
Come all that labour: Blessed is the man,
That hath some oil from this Samaritan.
Come, not by strength of legs or feet, but mind;
By prayers, not by steps, if rest you'll find:
Mount with the wings of prayer, and ascend
Gods holy hill, where pleasures never end.

The Hypocrite

The Hypocrite, his face, his words, his mind
Into a thousand forms and shapes can wind:
This weather-cock with every blast can turn,
And he had rather change his faith, than burn:
He cares not how, so he may fill his dish,
He can in cleer, and troubled waters fish.
He love protests, where he doth deadly hate;
His words will run like oil, and break your pate.
If men do hunt the Fox, he'll shout and cry,
'Tis fit the Fox, which kill'd the lambs, should die:
But if the Fox sits in the chair of State,
The Fox shall have his love, the Lamb his hate.
If here the Turk should reign, this man alone
Would sell his Bible for an Alcharon.
I'll speak no more of dung; my heart is free
From the base leaven of Hypocrisie.

Chastity.

A woman chaste, is like a Meadow fair,
Enricht with pleasant flowers, and sweetest air,
Then (woman) lock thy privy chamber; be
A fountain seal'd, not to all comers free.
If thou art rich, sell not thy self for pleasure;
If thou art poor, sell not thy self for treasure.
Make not thy self a Common; it is found,
There's better pasture in inclosed ground.

Predestination

Dispute not why some Angels stood,
And others fell, which were by nature good:
Dispute not, wherefore God doth take and chuse
Some to his grace, and others doth refuse:
The potter doth of the same lump of clay
Make vessels some more base, and some more gay;
And shall we question Gods most secret will,
Why his own creatures he doth save or kill?
Who's sav'd, or damn'd, none knows: who look
Into the Lords Predestination-book?
The signs or symptoms which Election prove,
Are lively faith, and undefiled love.
I will serve God, and shake off sinful slumber,
Who knows but I am of th' elected number?

The Poets Condition

A poet, and rich? that seems to be
A paradox most strange to me.
A Poet, and poor? that Maxim's true,
If we observe the Canting crue.
What lands had Randolph, or great Ben,
That plow'd much paper with his pen?
Wise Chaucer, as old Records say,
Had never but his length of clay:
And by some men I have been told,
That Cleaveland had more brains than gold.
Shew me a Poet, and I'll shew thee
An Emblem of rich poverty:
An hundred Verses, though divine,
Will never buy one pint of wine.
I have a purse as free within
From gold, as Heaven is from sin,
And silver thinks, I do it wrong,
If I imprison it too long.
My purse no constant measure knows,
But like the Sea it ebbs and flows;
And as my purse doth rise or fall,
So I do rule my senses all.
When I have silver or pure gold,
I am most brave, divine, and bold;
And then I do not hold it fit
That any should outvie m'in wit:
But when these birds have taken wing,
I cannot crack a jest, nor sing:
All mirth and musick I detest,
And mad Orlando, Mortuus est.
But stay; I think no worldly gain
So sweet as a Poetick vein:
No grief disturbs a Poets head,
No discontent frequents his bed:
When riches ebb; my wits do flow,
The rich are dull, and nothing know.
I have a heart, I have a mind
More quick in motion than the wind;
And through the twelve Signs I can run
By thought, more swiftly than the Sun.
I know the motion of the Stars,
Which are for peace, which are for wars:
If I the Astrolabium take,
I know their height without mistake:
I know without all doubt or wonder,
The cause of lightning and of thunder:
What weather will be, I descry
By the complexion of the sky.
The vertues of each plant or tree,
Of flowers and herbs, are known to me.
I good and evil Angels know,
And can their strength and order show:
But (O my God) I know thee best,
When I confess I know thee least.
Thus I, when I am poor and bare,
By meditations banish care.
Then judge, which is the greatest curse,
An empty head, or empty curse.

Upon Peter Fishing.

Do'st fish in the deep sea? 'tis Christs command,
That thou shouldst rather fish upon dry land.
Thou art a Fisher, not of fish, but men:
Consider how to catch them, where, and when.
He that will fish for men, the only hook
Which he must use, must be the holy book:
The Scripture is the net, which drags great store
From Seas of troubles, to the blessed shore.

To the fond Lover.

Be resolute, (fond youth) and free
From courting her, which loves not thee:
Strange passions rule a Lovers brain,
Now tears, then smiles; now joy, then pain:
Now hope doth rule, then black despair,
Now he exclaims, then calls her fair;
He sometimes doth Gods aid implore,
But loves, and calls on Cælia more:
No joy, no wealth, no worldly bliss,
May be compar'd with Cælia's kiss:
But we may seek, and find as well,
Most perfect rest and ease from hell,
As to derive our Paradise
From any womans wanton eyes:
We shall for honey look in vain
From a foul nest of wasps to gain.
Cælia cheats with her false treasure,
Guilding pains and death with pleasure.
She is a wavering, fickle toy,
None is more fond, none is more coy.
If thou art strange, then she is free,
If free thou art, she's strange to thee;
She will reject, if thou dost chuse,
She will affect, if thou refuse.
If thou art yce, then she is fire,
Burn thou, and she will quench desire;
When thou art kind, then she will frown,
When thou disdain'st, she is thine own;
She laughs, and weeps, she's kind, and sour,
She grants, denies, all in an hour;
Her bitter frowns, her sweetest smiles,
Are all compos'd of snares and wiles.
She paints an outward face of love,
Where she will most a tyrant prove;
And sometimes she pretends to hate,
Where her sick soul is captivate;
What she desires to scorn she fains,
And seems to wish, what she disdains:
Thus a poor Lover knows not well,
Whether he is in heaven, or hell.
Then fix thy love on Christ thy Rock,
Not on a wavering Weather-cock.

The Presbyterian Covenanter.

The Presbyterian, as wise men may see,
Hath little knowledge, less of honesty.
He is both Fool, and Knave; or such another
As wicked Cain was, who did kill his brother.
He's lately come to England with a story
Of a new Pamphlet, call'd a Directory:
His Cloak is something short, his looks demure,
His heart is rotten, when his words are pure,
His mind is carried with a headlong tide
Of self-will, worldly love, presumptuous pride.
He's sick of late; a vomit may do well,
Oaths, Covenants, Treasons, from his heart t'expel.
In this our Land this Presbyterian brat,
Like Pharaoh's lean kine, hath devour'd the fat;
In Scotland he was bred, a place too wild
To breed an honest, or a civil child:
Let Presbyterians be to Scotland sent,
I wish them no more plague; or punishment.
Than pleasant flowers will in Gods garden sprout,
When these unwholsom weeds are rooted out.

Upon the young, most beautiful, and most ingenuous Gentlewoman, Mrs. Mary Carne,

Daughter to the gallant Gentleman Mr Thomas Carne Esq; once of Bro-Castle,

It is a strange and wondrous thing,
To see ripe Autumn in the Spring:
He scarcely lives, that ever saw
Fruit the same time both ripe and raw.
As strange a thing we may behold
In her so young, in her so old:
She is a tender Child in years,
In wit a Matron she appears.
Observe her growth, she is but small;
Observe her wit, she is most tall
Here Nature seems to rob Old age,
By making Childhood, grave and sage.
So cleer a Morning doth betray
And speak the fairness of the day:
So sweet a Bud doth well disclose
We may expect a fragrant Rose.
As she within is free from dross,
So Nature gave her such a gloss
Of gracious Beauty, that we have
Nothing, except her Mind, so brave
If Nature's stock were wholly spent,
Here Beauty might again be lent
T'enrich the world, because that she
Hath Beauty's sole Monopoly:
She like a lively Spring oreflows,
And daily in perfection grows.

The Leper.

I am a filthy Leper, from my head
Unto the foot, with scurf of sin o'respread:
I want no art, or help to cleanse my skin,
The stream may wash my body, not my sin.
Lord, let the Jordan of thy grace restore
My perfect health, and let me sin no more.

An Epitaph upon my beloved Daughter Susanna Watkyns,

who was born upon Ashwednesday, 1655. and dyed the 5. of August, 1658.

Here lies a pleasant Rose, rash Death thought good
To take, and crop it in the tender bud:
God is a Husbandman, who doth remove
His younger plants, to make them better prove.
She for her mornings work shall have her pay
Equal with those that labour'd all the day.
Ashwednesday she was born; for her I mone,
Because she is so soon to Ashes gone.

Upon the most pious, and learned Work, intituled, Davids Harp strung and tuned; being a brief Analysis of Davids Psalms, with devout Prayers and Meditations on each, Psalm:

Composed by that Orthodox, most learned, and excellently qualified Prelate, William Nicolson, Lord Bishop of Gloucester.

VVhen David on his skilful Harp did play,
Saul was refresht, the Devil fled away.
Sure David with the Harp did sing a Psalm,
Which did King Saul's fanatick nature calm.
The Psalms are Davids Harp now plaid upon,
And tun'd by Englands chief Musition.
He handles Davids Harp, and playes so well,
That where 'tis heard, no sad distractions dwell;
With the wise Prophet, he doth well dispence
By clearing, not by changing of the sence.
Have you observ'd, how the laborious Bee
Doth feed on flowers of all varietie,
And thence pure honey doth extract, and we
Receive much profit from her Treasurie?
So he hath travel'd through the fruitful field
Of Davids Psalms, which like rich flowers, do yield
Pleasure and profit to judicious men,
Who will admire the sweetness of his pen.
On every Psalm each holy Meditation
And Prayer, merits heavens approbation.
Who meditates or prayes so well as he,
From sin, from Satan, and from hell is free.
Here thou may'st learn to write, and learn to pray;
Here thou may'st learn to think on heavens way.

Upon a most pious and learned Exposition of the Apostles Creed, by the same right reverend Father in God, William Nicolson, Lord Bishop of Gloucester.

He that desires to tract the Sacred way
Which leads to heaven, soon shall go astray,
Uunless he hath a perfect rule or line,
Safely to guide him through all paths divine.
All is involved in th' Apostles Creed,
Which sinners do unto salvation need:
Twelve Articles of faith the Creed contains,
Which are explain'd by his laborious pains.
He lean'd with John, on Christs own bosome: thence
He suckt deep knowledge; which he doth dispence
Unto the world: to open heavens door,
Use but this key, and you shall want no more.

[_]

The two Books above mentioned, written by the Bishop of Gloucester, are to be sold at the Crown in Fleet-street

Ambition exemplified in the Parable,

[_]

Judg. 9.

The trees would chuse a King: they all agree,
The Olive should their King elective be.
The Olive would not her rich fatness leese
To be promoted over all the trees.
The Vine would not be King to lose her wine,
Which doth all hearts rejoice, all wits refine;
The Fig-tree much did of her sweetness boast,
And would not reign to have her sweetness lost.
At last the Bramble doth intrude, and would
(Though most unfit) the Royal Scepter hold.
With vain ambition those do never swell,
In whom high gifts of grace and nature dwell.
Ambition spurs the bad, by some sad fate,
Who many times usurp the Chair of State.
To row their Boats for wind and tide they watch,
And at Promotion, like the Bramble, catch.
Ambition moves me not; my self I yield
To be the meanest flower in all the field;
Yet from preferment I'le not turn aside,
Nor go on foot, when God doth bid me ride.

The Conclusion.

These Poems so compendious, I presume,
No time, no fire, nor envy shall consume.
Those Hero's writ of in this Book, shall be
A President to all Posterity:
Nature a short life gave them, this will give
A second birth, and make them ever live.

Proverbial Sentences.

To the Courteous Reader.

The God of love made plants and herbs to give
Their vertues humane nature to relieve.
The meanest simple, weeds, and poisons have
Some power, which our imperfections crave.
To cure by Minerals is a curious Art,
Herbs with less danger, vertues do impart.
Behold this Looking-glass: In which thou'lt see
When thou art sick, and when from sickness free.
Accept of it: so small a gift (I know)
Can no great bounty, but affection show.

A LOOKING-GLASSE for the Sick:

OR, The Causes and Symptoms, or signs of several Diseases, With their Cures and Remedies.

Of the Head-ach caused by heat.

Of the Head-ach by cold.

Of a Head-ach caused of a Plethory, or plenitude of blood.

Of Head-ach caus'd by the foul Stomack.

Of Head-ach by Drunkenness.

Of the Windiness of the Stomack.

The Yellow Jaundes.

The Dropsie.

Of the Stone in the reins of the Bladder.

The Strangury.

The Gout.

The Ague called Ephymera, which endureth one day.

[Abundance the foul body doth contain]

A continual Ague.

The Carbuncle.

A Quartain Fever.

The Lethargy.

The Phrensie.

The Turn, or Dazeling in the head.

Too much Watching.

[Gross, slimy humors do possess the brain]

The Falling-Sickness.

The Pain in the Ears.

The Fistula.

The Scabs, Pox, and Leprosie.

The Falling of the Hair.

The Morphew.

The Tooth-ach.

The Palsie. Paralisis.

The Squinacy.

Cough, or Hoarsness.

Plurisie.

Costiveness.

The Flux.

The Cholick.

The Worms in the Belly.

The Hemerrhoides.

The Oppilation of the Liver.

The Inflation of the Cods.

The Mother.

The swelling of the Paps.

The Consumption.

Warts.

For the Bleeding at the Nose.

Of the Pains in the Lights.

Against great desire to Fleshly lust.

Against spitting of Blood.

To draw out Thorns or Splinters, or any thing which sticketh in the body.

Some Sothern-wood compound with wholsom grease,
To draw out thorns or iron, if you please.

The pain in Child-birth.

Give Mirrh to drink in wine a little warm,
Big as a nut, this will prevent much harm.
The juyce of Parsley in some drink is good,
To cleanse the Matrix, and to purge the blood.

Certain Rules to know the disposition of the Body by the Urine or Complexion.