University of Virginia Library

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

Reader it grieves mee that I cannot bring,
A fresh Encomion, but am forc't to sing,
A withered Elegie, and onely boast,
The wealth and treasure of a friend that's lost.
Beedom, I doe admire thy verse; The sweet,
And gentle cadence of their ordered feet,
Whose couplets kisse, with so divine an Art,
As if the Sibills had about thy heart,
Layd their propheticke Spells, and every line,
Deare Beedom, I doe season with my brine,
Though there was salt enough in them before,
To keepe thy bayes still fresh: But I deplore,
As others doe, for there thy Art is showen,
In stealing pitty thus from every one.
For unlesse tribute of some sighs are paid,
Thy jealous Lover, and thy constant Maid,
Cannot be read, and these all sadly vie,
As true oblations, to thy obsequie.
But when I wander in thy other walkes,
And see the flowers of poesie on their stalkes,
Florish in pride of fancy, I beginne,
Almost to thinke Idolatry no sinne.
For such a perfume breakes the yeelding Ayre,
I am urg'd to offer for thy soule a prayer,
And thinke in that sweet incense, may arise,
My love, and wishes, as a sacrifice.
Thou'lt gaine a strange advantage of thy fate,
That's forc't to valew thee at equall rate,
With the sole Phenix; for from thy pure dust,
Thy fame takes wing, and perching on the trust
Of thy firme friend, (though round with envy hurl'd)
Dares with a broad eye looke upon the world,
He being best knowne Beedom, to thy wit
Thou wisely mad'st executor to it.
Who not defrauding of the world its due,
Presents thy worke unto the wiser few.
Me thinkes I heare from thy most gratefull clay,
Soft murmurs breake, and speaking seeme to say,
Thanks my deare Wilbore, for thy love and care.
By this my Genius clames an ample share,
For by the Elixir of thy friendly art,
My memory, (which is my better part)
Shall live, which ages hence shall gladly see,
Wrought by the wonder of Loves chimistrie.
And such a Tombe Beedom, thy friend will make,
That all consuming time can never shake,
Let others build, I by that friend am sent,
To bring this first stone to his Monument.

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

VVhy did thy muse display her eaglets wing,
And make a flight at heaven? why did shee sing,
Like to the earely Larke, when she begunne,
Glad carolls in the eare o'the listning Sunne.
Till heavens inhabitants did even conspire,
To snatch thee as a chanter to their quire,
But glorious Beedome, ere he left the earth,
Did give to fame a Monument, a birth.
To such a living fancy, as in spight,
Of fate, shall like a precious ray of light,
Dwell 'bout his urne, where all the muses sit,
Wayling the losse of his emergent wit.
And weeping ore his ashes till their eyes,
Instead of teares, shed mournfull Elegies.
Peneian Daphne, there her armes displayes,
As if she would intombe him in her bayes.
And she who Phœbus hot pursuit did shunne,
Imbraces the old ashes of his sonne.
There a bright troope of Uirgins that from farre,
Appeare, resembling every one a starre,
Drown'd in a see of pearle, doe sadly rise,
From his lov'd true, each one without their eyes.
Wept out, or burning left there, as they'd meant,
Those lights for tapers to his Monument.
Where shall we find at such a time a soule,
That could in flowing numbers even controule,
Arts nimblest currents, and most swiftly glide,
Without least noyse, admir'd before espide.
So have I seene a gentle streame, with sweet,
And fluent motion, softly hast to meet,
Its mother Ocean, and inrich her store,
With a more gratefull tribute then before.
A thousand violent torrents paid, whose waves,
Though lowder, brought lesse musicke to their graves,
His life was all one harmony, and in's death,
Numerous, and full of sweetnesse was his breath,
Expanded like the Swans concluding layes,
In lasting accents, that shall speake his prayse,
While Feather-footed time does swiftly passe,
Or has a sand left in his plenteous-glasse,
This is my vote, which to thy Booke shall be,
A just applause, to thee an Elegie.

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

How fond is this age growne! 'twill scarce admit,
Distinction betweene ignorance and wit,
Each weares the others habit, neither's knowne,
By the wanted proper dresses that was its owne.
And every day new Authors doe appeare,
As they the paper Merchants factors were,
And boast themselves the muses sons, when they,
Rime onely for some life-preserving pay.
Expect here no such Author, if thou't looke,
On th' inside more then th' outside of the Booke,
Put on thy judgements eyes, and thou shalt find,
This Authors fancy rich, as was his mind.

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

This is the riming Age, no wonder now
To heare Thalia whisling at the plow.
All trafficke with the Muses, tis well knowne
The Scullers boat can touch at Helicon.
Who quaffs not there? doe we not daily see,
Each garded foot-boy belch out Poetrie?
Who so illiterate now, that will refuse,
For some slight Minion to invoke a muse?
Yet honoured friend doe not imagin I,
In the lest tax by great ability.
I know thee worthy of a better fame,
Then my best study can afford thy name,
I onely would thy reader this informe,
Such empty nothings are thy muses scorne.
Nor doe I wish him slightly to o'relooke,
The highborne fancy, of thy labour'd Booke;
For he that scans the Poems that are thine,
Must call them raptures, sacred, and divine.
Thou darling of the muses, in whose quire,
Thou sha't sing Peans, to Apollo's lyre,
And with his best lov'd Priests in equall state,
Sit justly crown'd, a Poet Laureate.

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

Ther 's no just reason Friend that I should write,
Vnlesse I could in swelling sighes indite,
My pregnant griefe, till every line appeares,
A volume of my sorrow writ in teares.
Each sillable, each accent should afford,
Plenteous expression, as the fullest word,
Of ample and unforc'd laments, till all,
I write attend upon thy Funerall,
As Epicedes, till every accent be
An Epitaph, each word an Elegie.
And wer't not for the life of this thy Booke,
(Which gives me hopes, all life has not forsooke.
Thy much lov'd Memory) I like thee should grow,
Ashes, and never henceforth strive to know,
Lifes painted glories, but to injoy thee come,
With eager hast into Elysium.
But this faire Off-spring of thy fancy which,
Is great in judgement, in Invention rich,
Makes me behold thee glorious, and I view,
By intellectuall eyes in it, thy true
Unstained Idea, from her spicie pile,
The new borne Phenix rises to beguile,
The amazed spectators, whose admiring frame,
The old ones figure, and beleeve't the same.
This difference 'twixt thy Booke, and thee must bee,
Thou di'dst with it, and now it lives for thee.

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

Mistake me not, I am not hither come,
With a selfe-seeking-praise Encomium,
I am no Poet, and my worthlesse name,
May but detract, not adde to my friends fame.
I know he will not want more then one friend,
That know his worth, and know it to commend,
And with the next impression, this thin Booke,
I prophesie, shall like a Uolume looke.
Thickned with severall Poems in his praise,
That all his readers will adde to his bayes,
I come but to unload my heavie eye,
Vpon this spare blanke, in an Elegie.
Then let me weepe a sigh-through-mangled verse,
Steep'd deepe in teares, upon his honour'd hearse,
Tell yee he's gone, whose muses early flight,
Gave hopes to th' world, we nere should see a night
Of Poetry, that th' Widdow of those rare men,
Spencer, and Drayton, admir'd Donne, great Ben,
Should now remarried be, but see th' ill lucke,
When just the match was made, oh the rude plucke!
Death snatch'd him hence, left Poetry, and us,
To weepe her owne, and in him, our losse thus,
Griefe stops my eye-streame now, kind reader then,
Lend me a teare till I can weepe agen.
Yet lest you should beleeve the teare you lent,
Was but profus'dly wasted, and repent,
Read ore his Booke, remember th' Author's dead,
You'l shed one more, that you but one did shed.

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

Bookes are the living Monuments, that keepe
Mens fames alive, when death's eternall sleepe,
Has seal'd their eye-lids up, that give them breath,
Even in their urnes, and tryumph over death.
Such is thy worke, which Beedome doth display,
Wit in its prime, and fancy in its May,
Where every Muse among the sacred Nine,
Sits as inclos'd in their owne beauteous shrine
When every line's a Volume, shall confute,
Envie, and hare-lipt calumnie, as mute,
As the dumbe tongue of silence, shall obscure,
All its detracting off-spring, from the pure
View of thy shining and illustrious wit,
Where all the precious attributes are writ,
That might adorne thy youth, or adde true grace,
To thy lamented Memorie; the face,
Of the bright rising Sun, so fresh appeares,
When strait tis drown'd, in heavens or'eflowing teares.
As did thy wit, which like a comet gave
A suddaine flash, then vanished to a grave,
Where we thy friends, and I among the rest,
As a chiefe mourner, in the Ensignes drest
Of hearty sorrow, sadly seeke to pay,
This as a gratefull tribute, to thy bay,
Which being watred with our briny dew,
Shall still spring up more, flourishing and new.
Till in thy Booke, thy blest memoriall bee,
As is thy soule, fraught with eternitie.
And Beedom, shall survive in it with glory,
It being his owne accomplisht perfect story.

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

So many great names fixt before thy Booke,
It cannot Beedome now descend, to looke,
For my more humble straines, but love in Art,
Is not compris'd, its Mansion is the heart.
And a small graine of incense, which is given,
With a pure zeale, sure better pleaseth heaven,
Then a vast pile of rich Sabean gums,
Or Altars smoaking with fat Hecatoms.
From feignd devotion, I must therefore say,
All that my infant Muse, now strives to pay,
Unto thy worke, shall onely boast to be
A sacrifice to thy lov'd memorie.
Nor doe I hope (as others) to adorne,
With my quaint lines thy Booke, mine were but borne,
As subjects to thy worth, from whence they strive,
Their utmost fame, and glory to derive.
Their sole ambition being to attend
Thee, with the true devotions of a friend.
Though for thy death I grieve, for this I joy,
That thy faire issue lives, which to destroy,
Time is unable, for thy name shall have,
A glorious life, and tryumph ore thy grave.

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

How silent are the groves? No aire doth move,
To make the boughs each other kisse in love,
Nor doe the leaves (as they had jealous feares)
Whisper into each others joyning eares.
Vpon the branches perch no airie quires,
Whose untaught musicke art it selfe admires,
And by an imitation of those notes,
Strain'd from the slender Organes of their throats,
Adds to it selfe perfection, and thereby,
Shewes natur's weake to artfull industry.
The listning beard their quicke sense doe apply,
Not to the wonted use of eare or eye;
As when harmonious ecchoes doe invite
Attention both to wonder and delight.
All creatures have their active motion left,
As if an apoplexie bad bereft
Their Limbes of use, and time meant to conclude,
His being in a generall solitude,
Such great effects great causes cannot misse,
And both are equall, both alike in this.
Not Winters Isie band (the chilly birth,
Of bleake North-winds) have gray'd the verdant earth,
Or shorne the trees crounes m*king them looke old,
Nor are the tunefull birds growne hoarse with cold.
But Beedome losse hath wonne on their consent,
To share a voluntary punishment;
The Aire in boistrous gusts, the stout Oke bends,
And his large spreading armes from th' body rends.
That groane for Beedome as they fall away,
Who in his barke carv'd many a learned lay,
The birds are voicelesse 'cause they cannot heare
The wonted musicke of his well-inn'd spheare.
Whence they derive our skill knowing nature can
Lesse wonder shew in them, then Art in man,
For him sense-grieved beasts, sad mourners be,
By an instinct or hidden Sympathie.
And had all-changing time heard Beedome sing,
He would have knowne no season but the Spring,
Nor would he sure have suffered death to be,
Iudge in the cause of his mortalitie.
But have repriev'd his lov'd parts from the Bar,
Till by translation they were made a Star.
Muses unite your teares, now he is gone,
With them creating a new Helicon.
Whose streames may the defect of yours supply,
Which Beedome whilst he liv'd, dranke almost dry:
And by the power of his owne active fire,
Sublim'd to that your selves may well admire,
Which to his vertue joyn'd conclude him thus,
Still living through them, both to heaven and us;

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

Once I resolv'd a silence, was content,
With the rare Fabricke of thy Monument,
View'd it compleat, how every friend had strove,
T'exceed each other in a zealous love
To thy blest memory, and I smil'd to see,
Thy name thus rapt in immortalitie,
Yet payd the mourners tribute, teares let fall
As numerous drops at thy sad Funerall.
As did that friend, whose pregnant Muse dares vie,
With griefe it selfe to weepe thy Elegie;
Yet durst not write, my jealousie was such,
It wisely prompt me, I should wrong too much
Thy greater merit, bad me rather mourne,
In griefe lov'd silence ore thy quiet urne;
Which I had done, had I not seem'd to heare,
(Once at the offering of a tribute teare.
To thy lov'd ashes) a strange murmuring breath,
Breake forth from the still tenement of death,
Thy dismall grave, and in a Language full,
Of incens'd anger, vow to disannull
All former friendship, if I should denie,
Mongst other friends to write thy Elegie;
When thus ambiguous twixt my love and feares,
I vented this, attended with my teares.
Strong course of Fate, could he whose generous quill
Bestow'd a life on others, which else still,
Had Laine death's ruines, die himselfe; could he,
Whose powerfull Art spight of sterne destinie,
Broake up forgotten Monuments, and made
The intomb'd Heroes live againe, that swaide
Ore others Fates, yet could this halfe-god creepe,
Into a grave, and in cold Marble sleepe.
What tribe of Angels did invite thee hence,
Their glorious guest? If not, what curst offence,
Hath fond earth given thee? That thou needs must flye,
So young from us, to heavens eternitie.
Or did thy precious soule shake off its clay,
'Cause nought below was worthy of her stay,
And being matchlesse here, did upward move,
There to be rank'd with equall Saints above.
Sure thus it was, and undeserving we,
May tax our merit; not thy destinie,
Yet glorious Beedome, though each friend appeares,
Almost thy Emblem, made so by his teares,
For thy lamented losse, yet when we looke
On this immortall child of wit, thy booke;
Smiles from our cheekes, all funerall teares doe drive,
Seeing in it thy fame shall ever live.
Time and thy Memory, which no fate can sever,
Shall last like ages, both conclude together.

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

Silence would best become me, and I feare,
I spoile the consort by intrusion heere.
Tis true, I need not adde unto his praise,
Nor bring my sprig to complement his bayes;
But that the neerenesse of our birth and name,
Calls me to sticke my pinion to his fame.
Then Reader know, we have not us'd our brains,
To usher in absurd, uncivill straines;
Such as might pale the Paper, blacke the Inke,
And cause the ghost of our dead friend to shrinke.
When judgements eye, his Poems shall discerne:
No, no, tis otherwise here thou mayst learne
Thy morall duty, and it will appeare,
Mayst please thy God, as well as please thine eare.
He needs must say, that will his worth commend,
He was an Academie to his friend.
And ready was (requested) to supply,
His need with soule, or bodies remedy.

THE Author, To the READER.

When Johnson, Drayton, and those happier men
That can drop wonders from their fluent Pen:
Have with their miracles of Poetry
Feasted thy eares and satisfi'd thy eye;
Then turne aside, and 'mongst the vulgar things,
Place what my new-borne Muse abruptly sings.
Which though it be but meane (as tis confest)
'T hath ventured hard to please thee, since tis prest.
If thou smile on it, I shall thinke my braine
Hath labour'd for this issue not in vaine,
If otherwise thou doe contemne my layes,
My pleasur's more to me, then all thy praise.

THE JEALOVS LOUER, OR, THE CONSTANT MAID.

POEMS.

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

Yes, yes, it must be so, but must there be,
When you depart, no memory had of mee,
My soule being rack't as large a distance too
To meete you there, as I must be from you,
While the glad spring for joy you shall be seene
Meete your approach, and cloath her selfe in greene.
And the fresh morning to salute your rise,
Bedewes the ground from it's o'rejoyed eyes,
For joy like griefe, we know, sometimes appeares,
Writ on our cheekes, with characters of teares.
Goe and be happy, goe, and when you see
The trusty Ivy claspe it's much loved tree,
And with it's amorous intwinings cover
The welcome waste of it's imbraced lover:
Thinke it our Embleme then, and prov'd to be
The happy shadow of my love and mee.
Goe and be happy, and when some sweet brookes
(Calme as thy thoughts, and smooth as are thy lookes)
Show thee thy face, then let thy thoughts supply
And though I be not, thinke that I am by;
For if the heart be taken for whole man,
I must be by thee, be thou where thou can.
Goe, and when pretty birds on some small spray,
Neere to thy window welcome in the day:
Awake, and thinke, when their sweete notes you heare.
I was before-hand, and had sung them there.
Goe, and what e're thou chance to heare or see,
Be it bird, or brooke, or shade or tree;
If it delights thee, may my soule in it
Move thy true joyes under that counterfeit.
So, aske not how I doe when you are there,
For at your mercy well or ill I fare.
For now me thinkes my heart so high doth swell,
It must inforce a breath, farewell, farewell.

The Knell.

When the sad tolling of my bell you heare,
Thinke tis some Angells trumpe, and Judgments neere
Then if but to repent, you take the paine,
Your judgements past, lye downe and sleepe againe.

The Perfume.

Not that I thinke thy breath lesse sweete than this,
Thy breath, in which no pleasant sweets I misse,
Not that I thinke thy white, than this lesse faire,
Thy white, to which all whites but blacknesse are:
Not that I thinke thy heart, than this lesse pure,
Thy heart, which no dull mixture can indure,
Send I this to thee, but as gold well try'd,
Admits allay when it is purifi'd,
So by this foyle I would to thee impart
What is thy breath, thy whitenesse, and thy heart,
Thy breath, all perfumes, doth as faire out-goe,
As doth thy whitenesse, the descending snow;
The snow descends, but by the winds being blowne,
Thy sweeter breath, and whiter snows, thine owne:
Thy heart lesse mixt than the sole Phœnix bed,
Proclaimes thee mistresse of a Maiden head,
And so there were no ashes after fire,
Would that were conquer'd in my loves desire
But if there be, why can it not suffice?
That one being dead another Phœnix rise.
Thy maiden head being gone, we still shall prove,
Both being one unparalell'd in love,
But I have riddl'd, let me now unfold,
What is the perfume, what the snow, what gold;
All this, and each of these, thou knowst thou art,
And I should know more, did I know thy heart.

To his Mistresse on her scorne.

Resolve mee dearest, why two hearts in one
Should know the sinne of separation.
Must the sweete custome of our oft stolne kisses,
Be lost, and wee live empty of those blisses:
Or do the frownes of some old over seer
Nourish thy feare, or make thy love lesse freer?
Why did'st thou suffer mee those sweets to steale,
Which but thine own, no tongue can e're reveale,
And prompt mee to a daring, to beleeve,
That my sad heart should find no cause to grieve:
Yet now at last hast mockt my hope so farre,
That I have met a cloud, though meant a starre.
Well, take thy tryumph, study but to be
True to thy selfe, as thou art false to mee.
And thou shalt meet a conquest, yet when I
Have groan'd unto the world my Elegy,
And thy unjust disdaine, perhaps I shall
Obtaine this honour in my funerall.
Thy poysonous guilt mixt with thy purged breath,
May make thee wither with mee unto death:
So shall I triumph in my Ashes too,
In that my innocence hath conquer'd you,
And then my eye rejoyce, in that I have
Thy scorne, to be a mourner at my grave.

The Question and Answer.

The new Petition.

Apollo once disdained not to keepe,
So he might keepe, his love Admetus sheepe.
The distaffe Hercules did exercise,
T'extract a smile from his deare Ladies eyes:
Olympicke Joane disdained not to take
A bull's effigies for Europus sake:
Achilles fitter farre to deale with steele,
Did labour for his Mistresse at the reele.
Love spar'd Leander his pledg'd faith to save,
Died, hugging in his armes the murdering wave,
Whil'st a new death his Heroe doth devise,
And drownd her selfe ith Ocean of her eyes.
By Pyramus, the world did understand
That love and life, lay linked hand in hand.
When one was lost in Thisbe, th' other flew,
Through the peirc't portals of his wound, yet new;
Which when his Thisbe saw, 'tis hard to say,
Whose spirit posted fastest on the way.
Thus some dejection, others did invade
Great opposition, and have willingly laid,
Their lives at needlesse hazzard, some have died,
And so have to the utmost satisfied
What tyrant love could force, and beyond this,
The great and true non ultra fixed is.
Yet happy this, since what so e're they tryed,
Was on their Mistresse part regratified.
Oh who would, when he saw an equall flame
Of love in her he lov'd, owe so much shame
As to esteeme his life, if her least griefe,
Did but invite his blood for her reliefe
But this forenamed courteous Ghosts can beare
Mee witnesse, I have shed full many a teare,
Spoke the best language, Rhetoricke affords,
Limb'd out my heart even to the life in words,
Would, what they did, did like occasion proffer,
And till that, do I can no more, but offer.
And yet for all my sufferings, shee that is,
If I dare reach to call her so, my blisse,
Slights all my sorrowes; Oh what eye could now
Forbeare to yeeld a teare, when seeing how
I love, I am neglected; weepe with mee
All you that read my wrongs, so if you be
Compassionate, perhaps your teares may move
The frozen Mercy of my ice-white love.
Which if they doe, if you at any time
Shall want a drop, I'le lend you some of mine:
Methinkes I see you weepe deare Mistresse then,
Behold a Noble sea of pittying men
Doth waft mee to your favour, if you daigne,
Yet now at last to ease mee of my paine,
This glory shall unto your mercy rise,
That you have wip't all teares from lovers eyes.

Fooles Paradise, or Reason Bewitcht.

Simple as are the Elements unmixt,
Stedfast as is the earth, whose footing's fixt
Untainted like the silver suite of Swan,
Alone like truth, well ordered like a man.
Like these in each of these was I, untill
Upon a time, Reason fell foule with Will,
Who back't with sence, that it might battaile move
Implor'd the ayde of all commanding Love,
Love by his mother taught, doth soone comply
To be an Actor in this treachery.
The battell's wag'd, and Reason flyes the field,
While Sence and Will to Love the Conquest yeeld.
I now, loves subject, am inforc't to doe
What ever his designes commands mee too.
See, see (quoth hee) do you behold that maid,
Whose equall doth not breathe; and there he staid
To draw fresh aire. So quicke was hee to give
Mee notice that I must no longer live
In my owne selfe, but her whom when I spy'd,
Mee thought I had beene happy to have dy'd.
Since I at once saw severally in one
What joyn'd together made perfection.
This was Florella that bright shining starre,
Who might have caused a second Trojan warre.
Were there a second Paris, for her face,
The world might strive, but then there sate a grace
So chast, that might expell each spurious thought.
Such as foule Hellen to her Paris brought.
There I might read in my Florella's lookes,
(Such are indeed beauties most perfect bookes)
Loves pleasant Lecture, where I might espie
How Cupid once sought entrance at her eye,
Whom she repell'd, like snow the chast and cold
Could not admit a Sympathy to hold,
With his hot flames, but melting quite put out
That ardent fire which warm'd her round about.
Cupid denied of this did backward start,
And ran for hast to hide him in her heart,
Where he renewed fresh flames, and by delay,
So scorcht his wings he could not fly away.
Thus force perforce in her my conquer'd breast
Is the poore Inne of such a God-borne guest,
Whom while I harbor, it is hard to tell
Whether his presence be a Heaven or Hell.
Such pleasurable paine, such painfull pleasure
Sometimes below, and sometimes above measure.
Mars on a time forsooke his Venus bed,
Protesting he no longer would be led
To those embraces, which like Circes charmes,
Made him forget th' Heroicke use of Armes.
Venus heard this, whiles halfe in anger shee
Did thrust her darling Cupid off her knee.
Downe falls the youngster, and in falling so
Broke all his Arrows, quiver and his bow,
His grandame Nature pittying the mischance,
Wipes the wagges eyes, told him she would advance
Him to his former office: for a dart
That should transfixe the most obdurate heart.
She would create an eye, and for a bow
She'd make a brow, whose art inclining so,
Should shoote such shafts, that diety should yeeld
Themselves glad prisoners in the maiden field,
When streight she made Florella, such a maid,
Who being nam'd, need there ought else be said?
'Tis not long since that I heard Lovers whine
At those deepe wounds, which from their Mistris eyne
They bleeding had receiv'd, cause they could winne
No mercy from them, whilst I thought some pinne
Had scratch't their tender hands, till I too late
Grew sensible they were unfortunate
In their lost loves, 'cause when Florella fround,
Shee like a Commet strucke mee to the ground,
Till shee was pleas'd to cleare her glorious eyes,
Which summon'd mee from death to life to rise.
Wherefore you speedy Merchants doe you runne
Beyond the bounds of the all-bounding Sunne,
To seeke for Rubies, Pearle, and Ivory,
Adventuring hazard both of Land and skie,
When my Florella can afford all this
Without your search in the tumultuous Seas.
Rubies and Pearle, her lips and teeth, her skinne,
Like hollow Ivory, lockes those gems within,
For which you fondly up and downe doe rome,
When you may better find this wealth at home,
What would the Northerne Climate hold too deare
To purchase my Florella to live there?
That where the niggard sure denies to shine,
They might receive more lustre from her eyne.
But that I know she loves Religion best,
She had long since, seene India the West,
But least those Pagans, who adore the rise
Of the bright Sunne, should doate upon her eyes,
She was resolv'd to stay: woe had I bin
Had she gone thither to encrease their sinne.
East India nothing holds that's worth her view,
There's nothing there, that shee can take for new;
Their aire-perfuming spices, pretious gum,
Their fragrant odors, pleasant, Cinamum.
All these and sweeter farre, shee breathes whose smell
Doth all things but it selfe, highly excell:
Once to my friend I did these lines rehearse,
Who streight way smil'd, and did applaud my verse.
But Ah! I feare 'twas my Florella's name
That brib'd his tongue, so to belie my fame.
Once, and but once, I chanc't to have the sight
Of my Florella, who makes darkenesse light:
When leaden Morpheus did her sence surprize,
In the lock't casket of her closed eyes,
Faine would I steale a kisse, but as I strove,
Those scarlet

Her lips.

Judges of my sleeping love
Did swell against my pride, and angry red,
Charg'd mee stand backe from her forbidden bed.
While they her precious breath did seeme to smother,
Each privately did steale a touch from th' other,
I envious at their new begotten blisse
Was bold on her soft lips to print a kisse.
At which she wak't: And have you ever seene
How faire Aurora, heavens illustrious Queene.
Shakes off her sable Robe, and with a grace
Smiles in the front of a faire morning face.
Just so my love, as if night had beene noone,
Discards the element of the uselesse moone:
And from her glorious tapers sent a fire,
To light the darkest thoughts to quicke desire.
While thus from forth her rosall gate she sent,
Breath form'd in words, the marrow of content.
And have you Sir, at such a tempting time
Betrayd my honour, to this welcome crime,
By stealing pleasure from me, twas thy Love
I know, that did thee to this trespasse move,
For I have prov'd thy faith, which since I finde
The trusty Inmate of a loyall minde,
Of force I must accept it; and in part
Of recompence, afford thee all my heart.
Thus having ceaz'd my prize; I told her, sweet,
As by no fouler name we ere may greete,
So what is mine I tender, all, my selfe,
The poorest part of thy unvalued wealth.
Thou hast won much in this, thy mercy showne,
That thus at last thou dost receive thy owne
Least they who after me like fate shall prove,
Should say: See what it is to be in Love.

Loves Apostacy to his friend Mr. E. D.

Tut, let her goe, can I indure all this,
Yet dye, to doate upon a Maydens kisse?
Is there such Magicke in her lookes, that can,
Into a foole, transfigurate a man?
Didst thou not love her? true: and she disdaine
To meete thy vertue? let her meete her shame.
Were she as faire as she her selfe would be,
Adorn'd with all the cost of bravery:
Could she melt hearts of flint, and from her eye
Give her beholders power to live or die.
I'de rather begge shee would pronounce my death,
Then be her scorne, though that preserv'd my breath
Rise heart! and be not fool'd: S'foote what a shame
Were it for thee to re-incense one flame
From the declining sparke? dost thou not know
As shee's a woman, her whole sexe doth owe
To thine all honour? her false heart and pride
Dare not oppose thy faith: then turne high tyde,
And let her, since her scorne doth so disease thee
By her repentance strive againe to please thee.

The broken heart song.

Count the sighs, and count the teares,
Which have in part my budding yeares:
Comment on my wofull looke,
Which is now blacke sorrows booke.
Read how love is overcome,
Weepe and sigh, and then be dumbe.
Say it was your charity
To helpe him whose eyes are dry.
Here paint my Cleora's name,
Then a hurt, and then a flame,
Then marke how the heart doth fry
When Cleora is so nigh.
Though the flame did doe its part,
'Twas the name that broke the heart.
Peace, no more, no more you need
My sad history to read.
Fold the paper up agen,
And report to other men
These complaints can justly prove
Hearts may breake, that be in love.

Women are mens shadowes.

Women are not mens shadowes.

E Contra.

To his worthy friend Mistresse.

To Mistresse.

While as the lockes of time, and smoother farre
Than sliding streames thy skinne and tresses are.
Sweete as Arabian Odors, when in fire
Their strugling spirits upwards do expire,
(When as the curteous wind doth court our sence,
And ravish it with sweete intelligence)
Is thy pure breath: onely this difference know,
That sent is forc't, but thine is naturall so,
Soft as the plumie mosse that over-spreads
The tender circle of young Turtles heads,
Are thy two breasts, which enviously do swell
To thinke that that should this, this that excell:
And yet asham'd such strife their pride hath bred,
Both blush and tip themselves with bashfull red.
Types, locks, streams, odors, downe, nor blushes are
So red, so soft, so sweet, so smooth, so faire.

On a Lillie now withered in her bosome.

The Choyce.

What care I though she be faire
Haire, snow-like hand, or Sun-like eye,
If in that beauty I not share,
Were she deformed, what care I.
What care I though shee be foule,
Haire swarthy hand, or sunne burnt eye,
So long as I enjoy her soule,
Let her be so, why what care I.
Dimme sight is cosened with a glasse,
Of gaudy gowne, or humerous haire,
Such gold in melting leave more drosse
Than some unpolish't prices share,
Be she faire, or foule, or either,
Or made up of both together,
Be her heart mine, haire, hand, or eye
Be what it will, why what care I.

EPITAPHS.

Epitaphium Regis Swedorum.

An Elegy on the death of the renowned, and victorious Gustavus Adolphus King of Sweathland.

Can the dry sound, Hee's dead, no more affright
The world with terrour, than had some meane knight,
Languish't to death in downe? or can the sound,
That Sweaden hath received a fatall wound
Passe by, and like the bullet, hurt no more
Than his stout brest, that felt the mortall sore?
Oh no! it rankles in each weak'ned part,
And strikes a chill amazement to the heart
Of feeble Christendome, that by his losse,
Puts on it's titles badge, The Christian Crosse:
And 'twas a great one too, yet let none wonder
That heaven forbore to ring his knell in thunder:
Or that some angry Meteor did not stare,
And to the world their publique losse declare.
No, no, some such Ambassador as this
Had beene too mercifull, and made us misse
Our just deserved punishment, for wee
Knowing our sinne begot this misery,
Might by a faign'd repentance have procur'd
A pardon for the Prince: but now assur'd
Of our owne weaknesse, we with teares may say,
We are losers, though our army wonne the day.
His death begot his conquest, and his foes
Mourn'd at his fate, witnesse those death wing'd blows
Which heaven by meanes of his impressure steele,
Did make their bleeding carcasses to feele.
Then what remaines? but that out prayers gaine
This be the latest losse we may sustaine.
And that no more of Heavens great Champions fall
Through our default, to so sad funerall.

To the truly worthy, and his worthily honoured friend Mris Judith Dyke, on the death of her brother Mr John Dyke, obiit ult. Martii 1636.

Tamely, and soft as the Prophetique breath,
That pants, the fatall passing bell of death
Move my sad soule, and to his happy hearse,
Pay the deserved tribute of thy verse:
And you blest maid, whose griefe hath almost wonne
Death by your griefe to make you both but one,
Cease your laments, for how can you be crost
In this, since what God finds, can neere be lost?
And wisely thinke you may offend in this,
Love hath its errours, and may doe amisse.
Death may looke dreadfull in an ill mans eye,
'Tis no great thing to live, but lesse to die
To die indeed, as Common people doe,
That with perplexed soules bid earth adieu,
And by necessity of late compeld,
Their strugling spirits to the Coffin yeeld,
Were matter worthy griefe, and onely they
Are like the houses that entombe them, clay:
But where the soule (like his) rapt with desire,
Disdaines dull earth, and aymes at glories higher:
And by a bright Angelicke fire inflam'd,
Mounts towards heaven, as oft as heares it nam'd;
Like a sweete odor upward as it goes,
It yeelds a perfume to th' Almighties nose:
And hence ascended, 'tis not just that wee
Lament at its exalted dignity.
And sure no matter if wee must away,
Whether it be to morrow, or to day,
And if to day, at morne, or night, or noone,
So wee die well, what need we care how soone.
I know the fertile soyle of his pure heart
Gave warmth to every vertuous roote of Art:
And had the August of his age bin come
They had bin crown'd with a blest harvest home.
But now hee's clouded from your eyes to show,
That none but Angels worthy are to know
What hee shall aged be: Oh! 'tis a fate
VVorth your best thankes; that day deserves it's date,
Be registred to Glory, when his Maker
Made him, of him and all his blisse partaker.
Now dare you loose a teare, unlesse it bee,
Because you are not happie yet as hee?
'Tis charity to wish you so: but then
As you know how, yet God knowes better when,
Death comes to call, yet nor to call as one;
Though all men die, yet good men well alone.
The Sunne's not lost, but set, the approaching day
Shall make it's light more glorious by delay:
If then in death such differences consist,
Desire so to dissolve to be with Christ.

Encomium Poetarum ad fratrem Galiel Scot.

Twice I began, and twice my trembling hand
Startled from what my Genius did command,
Lest harmelesse it should hazzard all my fame,
And my attempt win nothing but selfe shame.
It deem'd the praise of Poets worth the pen,
Rather of Angels, than of mortall men.
My bolder heart bid on: for blind men may,
Although not see, yet know there is a day,
And said (perhaps) my credit I might save,
The proverbe sayes, nought venter nothing have.
Then come, yea Muses were you nine times nine,
I could imploy you in this worke of mine.
Fill my wide sailes, that while you stand my friend,
I may swimme safe unto my journey's end.
Since the first Mistique Chaos did entombe
The earths faire fabricke in confusions wombe.
There is no art can plead antiquity
Before the heavenly birth of Poesie:
I speake of those arts which this day we call,
As witnesse to their nature: Liberall.
Next by th' ffect the worth of things is knowne,
They in respect of this seeme to have none.
The end of verse is to preserve from death
VVhat ever from a Poet tooke its breath:
VVitnesse that golden age, whose fame lives still
By some few drops, from Naso's golden quill:
He rescued Saturnes Godhead from the ground,
And by his lines his aged temples crown'd.
He in a brasse-outlasting paper page,
Created thee, Great Jove, a silver age:
Apollo for his Daphne, to his Layes
Owes a rich wreath of thunder-scorning bayes.
One petty blast from his immortall breath,
Preserv'd Diana's chastity from death:
Nor need Acteon take it much in scorne,
That Ovid did cornute him with a horne.
Homer yet lives, whose pen for want of eyes,
Did point his name the way to kisse the skies.
Young schollers in the darke might grope like fooles,
Were not he plac't the lanthorne of the Schooles.
The world had lost among it's Worthies, one

Alcides.

Who had not Homer sung, had neere beene knowne.
Ulysses act had perish'd like a toy,
Had this blind guide not led him out of Troy,
And rapt his memory up so safe in rime,
That it shall equall, if not out-live time.
Maro, thy lines great Cæsar hath extold,
That paid each severall verse a piece of gold,
Yet thought his purchase easie, and did more
Esteeme thy wit, than all his wealth and store,
And justly too, since what thy labour spent
On him, lasts longer than his monument.
This (Rome being fired) is ashes, but his name
Lives Salamander-like, spight of the flame.
Didst thou not snatch Aeneas from that fire,
That up to Illions Turrets did aspire,
And bor'st his feeble father by thy pen
On his sons shoulders, through an hoast of men?
For which, thy selfe, great Virgill shalt remaine
To endlesse times, even till thou rise againe.
No envious fire thy able skill shall burne,
Till fire and earth into one substance turne,
Till when (that I may come to speake our dayes)
Daniel thou livest circled with breath for bayes.
Nor Spencer to whose verse the world doth owe
Millions of thankes can unremembred goe:
Nor thou great Johnson, who knowst how to write
Such lines as equall profit with delight,
Whil'st thy untired readers wish each sheete
Had beene a volume, 'tis so neate, so sweete.
Next, fame seemes charily to spread her wings,
O're what the never dying Drayton sings,
Still lives the Muses Appollinean son,
The Phænix of his age, rare Harrington,
Whose Epigrams when time shall be no more,
May die (perhaps) but never can before.
This cloud can witnesse that a Poet may
Bring darknesse out of light, make night seeme day.
These can make lawes, and Kingdomes, alter States,
Make Princes Gods, and poore men Potentates.
An amorous verse (faire Ladies) winnes your loves,
Sooner than busk points, farthingalls, or gloves:
A Poets quill doth stand in greater stead,
Than all such toyes to gaine a maiden head.
A line well writ, and by a Potent skill,
Charmes the rapt soule with musique of a quill
VVhilst the by-standers deem 't a blisse to die,
Tickled to death by such sweet harmony.
Againe, if thou deserve the Muses frowne
(Wretch that thou art) a quill can hurle thee downe,
To that abisse of ignomy, that fate,
Cannot condemne thee to a baser state,
I will make each finger point at thy disgrace,
And like a Monster each man shun thy face:
VVhile thou thus branded, finding no reliefe,
With a strong halter choakest thy stronger griefe.
Thus Poets like fates factors here do hold
All power underneath their pens controld.
Lastly deare brother, thinke not I forgot,
Amongst this learned file to ranke my Scot:
Thy early Muse sings in so sweete a straine,
As if Apollo had compos'd thy vaine;
Superlatively taking, while each letter
Disdaines our Moderne Poets should sing better.
Now faints my pen, and fainting feares that I
My selfe may perish, if with clemencie,
My reader censure not, yet hopes to raise
A memory to it selfe, though not of praise;
That I being earth, something may live of mee
Perhaps this paper if approv'd by thee.

Against prejudicate opinion.

The humble soule, the mind opprest,
Shall finde unto his conscience rest:
The cleare in heart, the single eye,
Laughs at his neighbours jealousie,
Then let men censure what they can,
The inside makes the honest man.
Who'ld thinke a clod of earth should hold
Within, a masse of splendent gold?
So filly woods have fragrant smels,
And Pearles are found in sordid shels,
Base scabbards hold approved swords;
And leatherne covers golden words.
Digge up the earth, and burne the wood,
The gold, and smell will both be good;
Unsheath the blade, the booke untye,
One takes your heart, to'ther your eye,
Had these laid still they might have gone,
Thought hardly worth the looking on:
Then judge what folly there had beene
To censure any thing unseene.

------Mors æquo pede pulsat Pauperum tabernas, Regumque turres.

Mans life's a game, each hath his card in's hand,
And death a while a looker on doth stand:
At last hee shuffles in a gamester too;
Then cuts, deales, rubbes, and winnes, and so adieu.
(The King like common creatures) in death must
Find no respect, nor reverence in the dust:
Their royalty put off, their state laid downe,
There sits a clod of dirt, where once a Crowne.
Their eyes like expir'd tapers drop, and fall,
And leave their Sockets emptie; for the Ball,
Or golden Globe, which once their hands did keepe,
A knot of wormes doth role about, and creepe,
Who tast no difference 'twixt their flesh and those
Who fed lesse dainty, wore farre courser cloathes.
In his dominions Death impartiall knowne,
The King and begger there are all but one.
Rejoyce then rich men, and your game pursue,
In death I'le be as good a man as you.

To the Noble Sr Francis Drake.

The Translation

Drake, who the world hast conquer'd like a scrole;
VVho saw'st the Articke, and Antarticke Pole;
If men were silent, starres would make thee knowne,
Phœbus forgets not his companion.

To his friend Mr. Em. D. on a rich vaporing sot, whom hee stiles Ignoramus.

Blesse us! why here's a thing as like a man,
As Nature to our fancie fashion can.
Beshrew mee, but he has a pretty face,
And weares his rapier with indifferent grace.
Makes a neat congie, dances well, and sweares:
And weares his Mistresse pendant in his eares:
Has a neat foot as ever kist the ground,
His shoes and roses cost at least five pound.
Those hose have not a peere, for by relation,
They're cut a moneth at least since the last fashion.
He knowes two Ladies that will vow there's none
At Court, a man of parts, but he alone.
And yet this fop, scarce ever learn'd to know
The mixture of the dis-joyn'd Christ-crosse row.
Strip off his ragges, and the poore thing is then
The just contempt of understanding men,
Being Fortunes minion, Nature thought it fit,
Since he had wealth enough, he should want wit.

To my matchlesse friend, my dearest William Scot, a New-yeares guift.

How shall I thanke my fate that wrought this end
To my best wishes? that thou art my friend.
I may lose all (if I have any) wealth,
My sicknesse may bereave mee of my health.
Bondage may steale my freedome, but my love,
Which is a sacred blessing from above
Can neere be wanting, since 'tis lock't in thee,
Who art true friendships safest treasurie.
It joyes mee that my soule so well did light
To dwell with thine, thou that dost speake, and write,
And thinke the same with mee, as if my spirit,
Did nothing else but what is thine, inherit.
If e're (which heaven defend and still uphold)
Our league should breake: Oh! horror to be told,
And that the knot of our strong amity,
Should be dissolv'd by any crime in mee,
Then count mee lighter than my fleeting breath,
Show by this paper, and I'le blush to death.
But I feare no such mischiefe, since our love
So aptly in each others soules doth move.
No Rhetoricke can my zeale to thee impart,
So well I love thee, that thou hast my heart;
And that my action may concord with time,
Be this thy New-yeares guift, and call mee thine

The Corner stone.

'Twas a faire stone, though it was abus'd,
And by the senselesse builder was refus'd;
Alas their sinne blind soules, and blinder eyes,
Sought by the pride of all their industries
To polish martle, porphery, or that
On which proud folly set so high a

Diamonds, or other pretious stones.

rare,
And with such earth-bred trifles to refine
Materiall Temples to the powre divine.
Whilst that bright stone from th' heavenly square taken,
Lies on the mountaine by these fooles forshaken.
Ah! had they knowne the value of this Jem,
It had not beene so underpriz'd by them.
Oh! when that Babell building of their sinne
Shall ruin'd dash upon themselves agin:
And wanting props to under-set it shall
Uppon the builders head with terrour fall.
How will they wish this abject stone had beene
By faith well laid, them and their sinnes betweene:
Then had it like a storme-contemning rocke,
Secur'd their Mansions from their heavy shocke
Of wrath and judgement, both the which unjust,
Shall make them roare with woe: Oh! had I wist.
Lord be the Basis of my hopes high Throne,
And then I'le build on that strong Corner-stone.

The Royall Navy.

What's his breath? a vapor: glory? a vaine chat:
What's man? a span: what's life? shorter than that:
What's death? a key: for what? to ope heavens dore,
Who keepes it? time: for whom? both rich and poore:
What's heaven? a haven: what's ships anchor there?
Hope, faith, and love, with one small pinnace feare.
What are those? men of warre, how fraught? with armes:
What burthen? weighty, suiting their alarum?
Whose ships? the Kings: what colours? the red crosse:
What ensignes? bloody from their Princes losse:
And whither bound? to earth: Oh! what's their strife?
To conquer breath, and glory, man and life.
Oh! I foresee the storme, Lord I confesse,
Then vapour, or vaine chat, or span I'm lesse,
Save a relenting foe; thy glories are
More excellent in peace, than death and warre;
For to that time, that time his key shall lend,
And to thy tent my yeelding spirit send:
I will strike saile to these, and strive to prove
Thy Captive, in my hope, faith, feare and love.

EPIGRAMS.

Epigram 1. To my deare friend William Harrington.

Tis true (my Will.) and I confesse I owe
Thy friendship more than this: yet to bestow
A verse upon a frend, hath sometimes bin
A present worth th' acceptance of a King,
Though my pen-feather'd Muse yet cannot teach
My feeble quill to that rap't height to reach,
'Twill be no lesse content to mee, if shee
Be but well entertain'd (deare friend of thee)
Thou art a King in friendship: and I may,
Then thus to my no little comfort say,
That too good Wills my worthlesse Muse hath won,
My Scot: and my no lesse-lov'd Harrington.

Epigram 2. Of one Mary Fraile, who lay with Mr Reason.

Mary was long desirous for to marry,
And vow'd that past fifteene she would not tarry;
I am sure this vow of modesty did faile,
Alas yet pardon her for flesh is Fraile.
No suitors came, nor could her longing eyes
Meete any that might seaze her as his prize;
But making conscience not to breake her vow,
Shee is (as then she promist) no maid now.
Though thou know'st not why she so young did sport,
I'de have thee thinke, Fraile had some Reason for 't.

Epigram 3. On the same Mary a great lover of Mary-bones.

Why she doth Mary-bones affect, would'st know?
I thinke the reason is not hard to show:
The bone she cannot eate that's hard as flint,
Oh then I guesse the cause! there's something in 't:
Well what's that something? Oh my Muse there sticke,
She that loves marrow likely loves a ------

Epigram 4. To the excellent Poets Mr George Wither

I never saw thee: but should grossely lie
To say I know thee not, for silly I,
Or one that is more stupid, well may guesse
At what thou art by what thou dost expresse.
Oh that blest day when first my willing hand
Opt the remembrance of this Sinsicke land:
Trust mee, I griev'd to thinke that now my age,
Had sixteene summers acted on this stage:
Yet was a stranger to so rare a soule
As thine; whose heaven-bred boldnesse durst controle
Without respect of persons, every sinne.
That to thy knowledge had committed bin.
Then next thy Satyres, and thy Motto, I
Made hast to purchase, where I might espie,
How some too base for earth, not worth a name,
Sought by their mire and dirt to clay thy fame.
And credit mee, I hardly could forbeare,
Upon these pittied lines to drop a teare.
But that I know vertue oppos'd by fate,
Lookes greatest (like the Sunne) in lowest state:
When other wits, who have in some base rime,
Imploy'd of fate, that they might conquer time;
Shall like those paper toyes, in which they trust,
Be eate by wormes, or molded into dust,
And want a name: thou by thy vertues grac't,
Shall live till earth by fire be imbrac't

Epigram 5. By way of consolation to his deare friend William Scot, on the death of his brother Gilman Scot.

Suffer mee (dearest friend) to bring a verse,
Though uninvited to attend the hearse:
Of him whose memory death cannot blot,
Since hee yet lives in thee (my friendly Scot)
I know the fertile soyle of his pure heart,
Gave warmth to every vertuous roote of Art.
And had the August of his age bin come,
Y'had seene him crown'd with a rich harvest home.
But now he's clouded, from your eyes to show,
That none but angels worthy are to know
What hee shall aged be: Oh! 'tis a fate
Worth your best thankes, that day deserves its date,
Be registred to glory, when heaven pleas'd
Him of his earthly flesh-encumbrance eas'd.
Yet dare you lose a teare? unlesse for joy,
That heaven in mercy gave him for the toy
Which wee call breath, a life that shall outlive,
What e're dull earth, or all your love could give.
I know the fates have lop't off from your tree
Many faire branches: which I doubt not bee
Againe, farre fairer than his muddy soyle,
Could suffer them to grow too: for the toyle
Of living was their trouble, but that care
They wisely did contemne, and so repaire
To that blest pallace, which for pious men
The maker fram'd, and now is opt agen
For this new entrance: do not then once more
Spend any uselesse teare, behold thy store
Of heavenly friends do seeme to smile and say,
Will, thou must follow, we but lead the way.
Which that thou maist, heaven fit thee with such grace,
As may prepare thee to that hallowed place,
Where thou with these shalt never cease to cry,
Hosanna: Glory be to God on high.

Epigram 6. To his friend Mr Thomas Beedom, of single life.

Happy is hee that leads a single life,
He's not perplexed with the daily strife
Of cupled bondage, nor can tortur'd bee
With Hymens ague, the disparity
Of minde which bodies joynd, neither doth know
What hell it is, halfe of himselfe to owe
Unto a wife: thus happi's hee alone,
Can tell himselfe that hee is all his owne.

Epigram 7. E contra, of Marriage.

Man was not to himselfe borne, nor can hee
Subsist in death, but by posterity.
Women the wombes of men are, and that man
Might after death survive, when nothing can
Keepe him alive but issue: Nature gave
Woman to him, his vaine name to save:
Happy the man then, who enjoyes a wife,
By whom he gives himselfe a second life.

Epigram 8. Of good women.

Oft have I wondred, but no more I shall,
Why womens wit sometimes saves men a fall.
Alas 'tis thus: I now the cause do scan,
They were the ribs, which is the strength of man.

Epigram 9. E Contrario.

I oft admired have why womens mind
Is so perverse and crooked to mankind:
Mans rib at first to them a beeing gave,
And they like it a crooked nature have.

Epigram 10. Being a Translation of this Latin verse, composed by Dr Hensloe

Herod for one a thousand slew,
Yet of that one did faile,
For he from Herods fury flew,
There Herod hit the naile.

Epigram 11. To the worthy honoured, Sir Henry Wootten Knight.

Is there eternity? or is there fame?
Rests there a glory to a vertuous name?
Is there a wreath for Poets? is there blisse
To a condigne discent? yes, sure there is.
Can man (whose soule tis true, is active) rise
To such a height, not here, but when hee dyes?
Nay further is it in the might of man
To acquire all this? yes, by defect he can.
Then 'tis some joy to know it, but suppose
Some were so stupid that they durst oppose
This tenet, nay, and further would imply,
That 'tis in posse for best wits to die.
How when thy clay shall sleepe, shall thy just fame
Brand these erroneous? and convince with shame
Their then griev'd soules, to thinke thy losse hath lent
To their dull Tribe that deare experiment.
Whil'st thou when Earth shall mourne to misse thee here,
Above to Monarchs, shalt become a Peere,
And make the next age blush to thinke that shee
Retaines no equall to thy wit or thee.

Epigram 12. To the same Knight being President of Eaton Colledge.

VVhy should men wonder so, that Eaton Boyes,
Do by their learning purchase fame: not noise?
Doth not that Male-Minarva Wootten grace
With pollisht Eloquence 'bove all, that Place?
Oh! if each Colledge still had resident,
But halfe so rare a witted President;
'Twere to be hop't (like this) that grac't by them,
Each Colledge might become an Accadem.

Epigram 13. Of a fresh water Souldier.

Danus was much in debt, and knew no way
A long forbearing creditor to pay;
And when he prest him hard: Good Sir quoth hee,
A while desist, I hope his majestie
Will in the Navy, when a place doth fall,
Make me a Captaine, then Ile pay you all.
But marke, while hee the honest man would gull
His new coyn'd lie, scarce had hee ended full,
But him an Officer i'th Kings name did greete,
And dub'd him Captaine i'th fresh-water Fleete.

Epigram 14. Being a meditation to my selfe.

Why woulst thou live (fond soule) dost thou not know
From whence thou cam'st, and whither thou must goe?
Can walls of clay so much thy sense delight,
As to debarre thee from that glorious flight,
Which thou shouldst covet? canst thou idly prize
The mire, that loads thy wings unfit to rise?
Shouldst thou still live, it were but still to see
Some new sceane Acted of thy Tragidie:
Thou couldst but do to morrow, as this day
Commit fresh sinne, sleepe, eate, or drinke, and play.
No matter then how soone thou dye: then come
Prepare thy selfe to waite thy Judges dombe
Thou cam'st from heaven, then labour to draw neere
Thy quiet center, if thou once rest there,
Thy walls of clay, the mire that loads thy wings,
Shall be a Mansion for the King of Kings.
Thy Tragedy shall end, thy sinne shall cease,
And thou rest ever in an endlesse peace;
Bee't when thou please, good God, at morne or noone,
So I die well, no matter, Lord, how soone.

Epigram 15. To himselfe of his Mistresse.

VVhat though thou merit not? why know there lyes
Vail'd in the Courteous candor of her eyes,
A saving mercy, that can lend a wing
For dull despaire to mount on, tis a thing
Beyond the common reach, to know how sweete
He lives, that doth in death a pardon meete.
But thou art poore, true: but her better part,
Neere lookt upon the habit but the heart.
Shee that has vertue cannot doate on those
Whose best perfection is a suite of cloathes.
Who Court th' attracting beauties of the age
With some con'd stuffe brought from the Cockpit stage,
Or gull their Mistris by some Poeme showne
Which, 'cause they paid for, they dare call their owne.
When, if their braines were ransackt you might know,
They nere Commenc't beyond their criss-crosse row.
Then hope (poore heart) and strongly that she will
At last embrace thee, for she hath the skill
To schoole the first with frownes; that so her favour
May, when she smiles, last with the sweeter savour.

Epigram 16. To his Superlative Mistris.

Compare the Bramble to the stately Pine;
The fruitlesse Thistle, to the vertuous Vine.
Compare the Charcole to the Snow-white Downe,
The wreath of Rushes to th' Imperiall Crowne,
Compare the Raven to the Turtle Dove;
The Moores of India to the Queene of Love.
Compare the Candle to the splendent Moone
The fogges of night, to Phœbus eye at noone.
Compare the Kite to sweete breath'd Philomell,
The Lerman Lake to th' Helliconian Well.
If these admit comparison, then shee
That can admit of no equalyty,
May find a paralell: but let some men
Racke their dull braines to praise their Mistresse, when
The utmost of their language they have spent,
Let them sit downe, and sigh, and be content:
Their Idols eyes to Sunbeames to compare
Or by the rose her blased lips declare
My Mistresse must beyond their Saints survive
In that unequall'd height, superlative.

Epigram 17. To his intimate friend William Pearle.

'Twas not a slight acquaintance that could move,
This salutation to thy matchlesse love.
I do not use to ground affection where
A complement alone invites the eare.
No, I have prov'd thee, and thy pretious name
Confirmes thy nature to be like the same.
A glorious Gem, whose lustre doth out shine
All those poore merits that I dare call mine.
And I must prize thee, since thy worth is showne
Superlative and farre above mine owne.
Suffice it that my friendship, and my Art
Strives still to weare thee Pearle, upon my heart.

Epigram 18. To the Heroicall Captaine Thomas James, of his discovery made by the Northwest passage towards the South Sea. 1631.

Epigram 19. A Complaint of his separation from his Mistris, caused by his friends injunction.

Epigram 20. To the memory of his honoured friend Master John Donne, an Eversary.

Blest dust, and better soule, to you alone,
I raise this structure, not in Jet or Stone,
Whose frailety in its luster onely can,
Tell us below, there lyes a frayler man.
But heightned by those severall glories which
Doe equally your better selfe inrich,
In those rude lines, if such poore things can live,
I would a memory to your being give.
Burst ope thy Cell, blest shade, and rise, that we
May doe some homage to thy excellency.
Or that thy great example may invite,
Us to a wish of everlasting night,
In which thy Sun of vertue shall appeare,
So full, as if earth had no darkenesse there.
Oh happy spring of thine, whose seede and flower
Was sowed and bloom'd, and witherd in an hower,
For if long age be counted but a span,
Thy inch of time scarce measur'd halfe a man.
But sleepe, sleepe best of spirits, why should I
Disturbe thy ashes? tis a misery,
To know thou wert, and art not, for so men,
Mourne, Jewels they once had, but lost agen,
So he, whose bitter fate is forc't to prove,
The misery of a memorable Love.
Remembring what it was, and since no more
He may enjoy it as he did before,
Weepes the sad consequence, and prints thereby
His sorrowes, offerd to the Readers eye.
But I must leave thee thus, and thinke of thee,
To the mad world, a just Antipathy.
Thou wert not of those men whose gowne and hood,
Must plead a wisdome, though not understood.
Nor of the tribe of such as easily can,
Drop jests, or vapours upon any man.
These are the Indians, that doe friske and run,
To the false rayes of each supposed Sunne:
Simple Americans that doe ingrosse
The toyes of every noble genius.
Nor were you such whose cunning had the skill,
To murder a friend closely, nor to kill
With a pretence of safety; your just Endes
Depended not on liking of your friends.
But if the opposites of vice may be,
Exprest by any contrariety,
Let all men know, what all men wish, which is
But a content on earth, and after blisse,
Which thou art crownd with, thus some stones are set
At greater rate, then some whole Cabinet,
When thy triumphant spirit once did inne,
At the poore cottage of thy frayler skinne,
Though every thought was payment of a rent,
To high, and worthy such a tenement,
Yet as it had a knowledge did dispiare,
Because thou wouldst not tarry longer there.
It droopes and ruinates it selfe, and falls,
In every glory of its principalls.
So Princes in a journey having beene
The honoured guests of some poore village Inne
Are mourn'd at their departure, and now more
Grieves the sad host, then he was glad before.
Come Virgins, you whose innocency can
Embalme the memory of a divine man;
You whose unspotted glories as your faces
Preserve your fame and multiply its graces:
Whose easie goodnesse never did affect
To wound obedient spirits with neglect,
Nor triumph in the fall of former loves,
Come, come, blest Virgins bring your peacefull Doves,
And at the Altar of his sacred shrine,
Present them and your zeale, as I doe mine.
That to the world hereafter may be read,
Here innocency by Virgins wound lyes dead.

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

Why should the labour of my mournefull Verse,
Find so sad subject as thy timelesse hearse?
My soule, which now is not, but where thou art,
Stayes but to tell the world we will not part.
And the glad Casket which thy ashes beares,
Shall tide me after thee in mine owne teares,
And then rejoyce that we whose hearts were one,
In death shall celebrate Communion.
Wisedome of fate: that earely did remove,
Thee hence, that I in heaven might seeke my love,
And so assure me that time thou couldst dye,
No beauty but must taste mortality.
I know my bounded every Grace
In the strict limits of thy well built face,
And thought those principles of beauty there
Unchangable, as bodies in their sphere;
But I recant, and tell the world this truth,
There is no priviledge in blood or youth
Else how could'st thou, whose every smile: or breath
Was a sufficient antidote 'gainst death,
Have met a grave; and like a drooping flowre,
Have withered to nothing in an houre?
Sleepe while some Angell with a peacefull wing,
Courtaines thy ashes here, and hovering
O're thy innocuous breast by that display,
Informes mee where my dust must take its way,
Then my infranchis'd spirit up shall fly,
To our just wedding for eternity,
And pitty all those enmities below,
That did with hold us from uniting so,
And smile to know that all our envious friends,
Have lost their plot, and we obtain'd our ends:
But wee will marry here in spight of those
That would our much wish't meeting interpose;
Death shall be prest, lye closer sweete, make roome
That wee may make our marriage bed thy Tombe.

My sonne give mee thy heart.

The Petition.

Heare mee my God, and heare mee soone,
Because my morning toucheth noone,
Nor can I looke for their delight,
Because my noone layes hold on night:
I am all circle, my morne, night, and noone,
Are individable, then heare mee soone.
Thou art all time my God, and I
Am part of that eternity:
Yet being made, I want that might
To be as thou art, Infinite:
As in thy flesh, so be thou Lord to mee,
That is, both infinite, and eternity,
But I am dust, at most, but man,
That dust extended to a span:
A span indeed, for in thy hand,
Stretcht or contracted, Lord, I stand,
Contract and stretch mee too, that I may be
Straightned on earth, to be enlarg'd to thee.
But I am nothing, then how can,
I call my selfe, or dust, or man?
Yet thou from nothing all didst frame,
That all things might exalt thy name,
Make mee but something, then my God to thee,
Then shall thy praise be all in all to mee.

[VVhen first of sinne I tooke survey]

The Inquisition.

A Proud man.

Vile worme of dust, vaine clay how durst thou venter:
To swell thy selfe above the earth, thy center;
Vapors exhal'd and lifted to the skies,
Or dissipate or else prove prodigies:
Why being nothing art thou Bold to d'on
The inglorious itch of exaltation,
And by a petulant pride disdainst to bee
More heightn'd by a selfe humility;
As if the Babell of thy thoughts could shroud
Th' aspiring battlements within a cloud,
And so the mighty machin safely stand,
Whose weaker basis is but mosse and sand,
Strange mystery of sinne, that drives us on
As farre as heaven to find perdition;
For wert thou there, and prov'd to bee so then.
Heaven would cast downe a devill once agen:
Yet thus perhaps thy pride might fated bee,
The Prince of Devils, doth but equall thee:
Change but the subject and some sins admit,
To humble minds a happy benefit.
To kill the man of sin, to cover grace,
To presse by violence to Gods holy place,
Contention for a Crowne, for blessing strife,
Are sins that fill mortalyty with life,
But to be proud, not to be proud addes more
Sinne to that pride, than pride had sinne before.

Meditation.

The Crosse.

The Resurrection.

Is no time certaine when or how, yet must
Some certaine time determine I am dust?
Must these full bones, and swelling veines appeare
Saplesse and dry, as when the falling yeare
Exhaustes the humour from the verdant bough,
Which did greene liveries to the leaves allow?
And must it be from my decay resolv'd,
That my whole fabricke once must be dissolv'd?
'Tis true my soule, 'tis so: yet let no care
Drive any anxious thought how thou shalt feare.
There is a rich preservative for thee,
Above all balsome, call'd fidelity,
And when my Masse of congregated clay,
Shall in Earths Vineyard labour out the day,
The penny shall be thine: and he that can
From Rockes and Stones, raise seed to Abraham,
Shall raise thy dissipated dust: and glew
Thee in coherence, with thy corpes anew.
Strange miracle! yet Lazarus can tell,
This Paradox in him, found paralell.
I doe beleeve it Lord: Oh! let me be,
As happy to enjoy my faith as he.

Conscience.

See the blacke clouds of my aspiring sinne,
Whose noxious exhalations beginne
To muffle up my hopes, and swelling high,
Terminate no where till they touch the skye:
Shrill clammarous Conscience, dost thou think my God
Like Baall, his chinne upon his brest doth nod,
And wakens not unlesse thy cry (which is
A thousand Larums) added be to his?
Busie Recorder, know'st thou not I finde,
Through the wholl series of a sinfull minde,
That 'tis enough to sinne? the burthen's more
When after-checks tell what I did before:
And gives ill rellish to my sicke condition.
To taste such Viands by a repetition.
Yet happy be (my soule) for stupid scence,
Might so relaxe th' intentive Conscience,
That from its prone endeavour it might be
No lesse then guilty by indulgency.
Oh! prosecute me still, quicke Conscience, doe
And may I my repentance doe so too;
That when my Judge doth find thy judgement past
Appeas'd he say, lost sheepe come home at last.

The Mercy Seate.

The Present.

Ad punctum mortis.

If this houre doe the businesse of my age
For being borne I must resolve to dye,
With what delight can I supply the stage,
Mirth cannot suite well with a Tragedy;
Leave me delight, and let my sorrowes tell
Heaven is my joy, the joy of earth my Hell.
Ægypt's the way to Canaan, what though here
The Pharaoh's of the time did me oppose,
Yet thy deliverance shall protect me there,
The greatest discord have the sweetest close;
Let my assurance here my joyes expresse,
That's the good land, this but the Wildernesse.
Onyons and Garlicke, and the flesh-pots too,
Let them desire that have a list to eate,
My pallat cannot rellish what they doe,
Manna, my God, I know is Angels meate;
But if this place affords it not to me,
Take me to Canaan since it is with thee.
Art thou not beauty Lord, to whom the Sunne,
At height of glory is so darke a blot,
That when thou didst obscure thy blessed Sonne
The other had his wonted light forgot.
Yet in that blest Ecclipse, this turn'd such light
That earth saw heaven, though heaven was hid in night

To the Angels.

On Æternity.

Good God! eternity, what can,
Astonish more the faith of man?
When it shall please thee God that I
On my unfriendly sicke bed lye,
And those about me shall descry,
In my pale face deaths livery.
When breath shall fleete, and leave for me
The relique of deaths victory,
A grim sad coarse, oh must my light,
Astonisht soule, then take her flight,
To that long home, where it shall see,
Or blest, or curst Æternity?
Shall shee for ever, ever dwell,
Or Saint in heaven, or fiend in hell?
When ages numberlesse are gone,
Shal't be as if wee had past none?
'Tis so my God, which when I thinke;
My staggard reason 'gins to sinke:
My braine turnes giddy, and weake I
Am rapt in wonders extasie:
Forgive mee Lord, that thus presume,
To question thy eternall doome.
And since our minute life must gaine
Pleasures eternall, or such paine:
Assist mee so my God, that when
I shall forsake the sonnes of men,
My jocond soule may sainted bee,
In heaven, and thy eternity.

On the death of Mris. M. T.

Mistaken virgins, do not drop a teare,
She is not dead beleev't, I'le make 't appeare:
That which you call a hearse, is nought beside
A heavenly charet, in't a glorious bride.
And that which you more fondly terme a grave,
Mysterious heaven, for her bride-bed gave
Thus you mistaken, to a funerall haste,
When you're invited to a marriage feast:
Heaven was her lover, would not be deny'd,
The welcome promise of so faire a Bride.
Which long since having, hee now thought it best
T'espouse, and take her to his happy rest.
And as wee see great Princes, ere they take,
Their royall consorts, they by proxie make
The ceremonious marriage; so did hee,
By proxie death, wed her immortally:
And now inthron'd, she doth sit and sing,
Divinest Anthems to her Lord and King.
'Mongst quires of Angels, she doth fill the skies,
With sweete tun'd notes of heavenly rapsidies.
Thus gloriously happy doth shee still live,
Whose death you fondly, and unkindly grieve.