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Pocula Castalia

The Authors Motto. Fortunes Tennis-Ball. Eliza. Poems. Epigrams. &c. By R. B. [i.e Robert Baron]
Baron, Robert
  
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THE AUTHORS MOTTO.
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FORTVNES TENNIS-BALL.
  
TO The Choicest of my Noble Friends, John Wroth Esquire.
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TVCHESPHAIRA: OR, Fortunes Tennis BALL.
  
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Song.
  
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T. R. ad H. R.
  
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The Kings Letter changed.
  
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Song.
  
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A Rapture.
  
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Song.
  
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Epithalamium.
  
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A Ballade Vpon the Wedding.
  
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ELIZA
  
Upon the first sight of ELIZA, Masked.
  
On Eliza Unmasked.
  
Sonnet. To Eliza upon May day morning. 1649.
  
Song. A Dialogue 'twixt Passion and Reason.
  
To Eliza, with my Cyprian Academy.
  
Upon a Black patch on Eliza's cheek, cut in the form of an Heart.
  
Song. The Rose.
  
The Temper.
  
The Lovers Sun.
  
Upon a black patch on Eliza's Breast cut in the form of a Dart.
  
To Eliza with my Apology for Paris.
  
To Eliza, with a Tulip fashion'd Watch.
  
Song. The Maiden Blush.
  
Doubts & Feares.
  
Sonnet. The Protestation.
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POEMS.
  
Upon Birth and Infancy.
  
In Principem arma petentem. ------ Erit ille mihi semper Deus.
  
TO That Darling of Virtue his dear Friend John VVroth, Esq
  
To that emulated piece of Perfection the Lady Diana Willoby. With Sir Tho: Overbury's Wife.
  
To my Honour'd Friend Benjamin Garfield Esq; Upon his excellent Tragi-comedy Entitled The Unfortunate Fortunate.
  
ERYNIS,
  
An Anniverse on the fifth of November.
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EPIGRAMS, &c.
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FIRST BOOKE.
 I. 
I. To my Lady E. R. Commending his Muse.
 II. 
II. To the same, On War.
 III. 
III. On the Picture of Lovys the fourteenth King of France.
 IV. 
IV. Antithesis, to the conclusion of Sannazarius his Epigram on the City of Venice, which when he has compared to Rome, he saies
 V. 
V. To a Cadet.
 VI. 
VI. An Epitaph, Upon Henry the eighth King of England, Translated out of Spanish.
 VII. 
VII. Another, on Queen Elizabeth.
 VII. 
VII. To Sim the Letcher.
 VIII. 
VIII. To Momus.
 IX. 
IX. On the same.
 X. 
X. To Will: Ad. upon his Marriage.
 XI. 
XI. On Wittoll:
 XII. 
XII. On Hornes.
 XIII. 
XIII. Epitaph, On Henry the fourth, surnam'd the Great, King of France.
 XIV. 
XIV. On Sir Iohn Suckling.
 XV. 
XV. On Spend-all.
 XVI. 
XVI. To Leigh the Linguist.
 XVII. 
XVII. To Mr Robert Brownrigg.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. To Mrs Diana Willoby, Upon her marriage Day morning it being very dark and misty.
 XIX. 
XIX. To his Rivall.
 XX. 
XX. The Rivalls Answer.
 XXI. 
XXI. To Sir Iohn Falstaffe.
 XXII. 
XXII. Upon the Picture of my Nephew Mr. Iohn Man.
 XXIII. 
XXIII. Of Sutes.
 XXIV. 
XXIV. Epitaph, On a scolding Woman, Sub persona mariti.
 XXV. 
XXV. The Golden Age.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. To Kate common.
 XXVII. 
XXVII. On the same.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. On the same.
 XXIX. 
XXIX. Occupations.
 XXX. 
XXX. To an Antidated Cuckold.
 XXXI. 
XXXI. Women strongest.
 XXXII. 
XXXII. To Mal: Winter.
 XXXIII. 
XXXIII. To curst Tib.
 XXXIV. 
XXXIV. To loan Tosse-pot
 XXXV. 
XXXV. Campo-musæ.
 XXXVI. 
XXXVI. To my Lady Venetia Grey.
 XXXVII. 
XXXVII. To the same, on her Wedding day morning.
 XXXVIII. 
XXXVIII. To my Poetique friend, I. S.
 XXXIX. 
XXXIX. To Poetaster.
 XL. 
XL. To fiery Face.
 XLI. 
XLI. Too a covetous Puritan.
 XLII. 
XLII. To the same.
 XLIII. 
XLIII. To a Detractor.
 XLIV. 
XLIV. Past recovery.
 XLV. 
XLV. Perfumed corruption.

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83

On Eliza Unmasked.

When her bright eyes (those ruling Starres which now
Must guide my Fortune, and mine Actions too
Boasting a power 'bove Fate) pleas'd to dispell
Those silken mists and clouds which trembling fell
'Fore them, as bowing to those Rayes Divine,
And whilst they did ecclipse, adore their shrine.
Now darted she her beames through Beauties skies
And kindled willing me her Sacrifice.
So Heaven its holy fier once did fling
On its Elijah's piled offering,
Like it, in pure and Turtle flames I burne
Ne'r to be quencht till th'Pyle shall ashes turne,
Then, like a coal in dust of Juniper
Mine Heart shall glow a Martyr still to her.
Since then i'm turn'd all heat, had she not best
Consult with coldnesse, so to slake my breast?
No, Fondling no, then (as the deeper well
Makes fuell of the Ice) my flame will swell.
Thou then, the twang of whose Bow all commands,
Turn thy plum'd shafts to sacred fierbrands,
And make her Breast the Vestall Harth, that she
May sweetly burn in equall flames with me,
So (Love's 'bove Nature) this fire that sh'ant smother
But both vie Ardour, and maintaine each other.
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