University of Virginia Library

EPIGRAMS, &c. By E. E.

ENCOMIAST: To J. C.

No Verse, Grand Poet, can express
Thy Prayses, they are Numberless.
Thy worth's so Weighty, 'tis not meet
'T should stand upon Poetick Feet,
Which (hence they mount to such a Height)
Like Poets Heads, are alwayes Light.
But, sith I am thus thrown upon
Thy Muses Commendation;
Blots (my Pen's Issue) I shall place,
For some Black Patches, in Her Face.
So may thy Phœbus dart His Rayes
More Bright out of my Cloud of Prayse.
Thy Verse Runs in a Way so rare,
That it must needs be Singular:
Thy Muse so Chast thus seems alone
To Bath her selfe in Helicon.
That Off-spring, which from Her we see,
Was onely sure begot of Thee:
Mixture of Fancie she doth flye
As if 'twere Wits Adultery.
Thy Lines have such a glittering Strain,
'Sthough Tagus had washt o're thy Brain.
Thy Sense doth with huge Myst'ries swell,
As 'twere Apollo's Oracle.
Our Judgement should dig deep to find
The Hidden Treasure of thy Mind.
Thy Wit (like Persian Kings) we see,
Keeps close in shew of Majestie.
Thy Fancy to such Height is Flown,
No words can reach it but thine own:
To shew how much a Poet can do,
Thou mak'st new Matter, and Words too:
Thus in Arts most curious Schools,
The Best workmen make their own Tools:
Thus some Limners I could name,
Who make both Picture, and its Frame.
Each Verse of thine with Lustre streams,
As though 'twere one of Phœbus Beams.
Who e're dislikes thy Book, his sight
Of Judgement's dazled at its light.

On a dull Poet, but good Logitian.

If his Verse character'd may be,
'Tis Laurel graft on Porph'rys tree:
He dresses his Poore Poetry
I'th'rags of Old Philosophy:
As if indeed on Feet Poetick,
Hee'd seem a true Peripatetick.

On a Little Gentleman of Great Parts.

Does Nature act the Limner's part,
Shaping lesse things with rarest Art?
Or (like some Ladies) does she set
Her best Gems i'th' lesse Cabinet?
Great Volumes uselesse oft we see,
He's Natures quaint Epitome:
Or else he may deserve the name
Of her wittiest Epigram.
So small in Stature and in Age,
Yet learn'd he seems Minerva's Page:
No wonder then if she him dresse
In such abundant gaudinesse.
Short (like him) are my Verses Feet;
O were they also (like him sweet.

To a false-hearted Poet.

Thou'rt double-Tongu'd, and double-Foot'd to boot;
Thy false Verse savours of a Cloven foot.

On a Gentlewoman of a Brown Complexion, but Handsome Features.

Whilst Lovely Her Black Features prove,
They seem like COALS 'oth'Fire of Love.

On a Gentleman who Died with Lord in his Mouth.

When he had breath'd out LORD! His Soul thought fit,
As loath to leav't, to leap forth after it.

On the Death of Leander.

The Saying prov'd too true, by his Distress,
That FIRE and Water, are both Mercilesse.
But, Cold Death did asswage his Hot Desire:
The Fatall Water serv'd to Quench His FIRE.

To one that gets his Living by writing Satyres.

Thou Feed'st on thine own Brains, 'tis said:
With thy wits Tooth thou Eat'st thy Bread.

Nec Fonte labra prolui Caballino.

My Mouldy Brains I ne're wash'd clean
In the fond streams of HIPPOCRENE:
To which some wisely have recourse
To be made Poets: Gra' mercy Horse.

------ Vino pellite Curas.

Horace , thou'rt out: Bacchus, thy Wits harsh Master,
But lops thy Cares to make them grow the faster.
Be Drunk at Evening, and thou'lt find o'th Morrow,
That too much Liquor pickles up thy Sorrow.

Of Vulgar Criticks.

Their Blindfold Censures out of Order Range;
Their words are WIND indeed, as often Change:
Sometimes they're Tempests too: but I Defie them;
I'le ne're be Puft up, or be Blasted by them.

To the Eye Adulterer.

Lend Eyes to Cupid: View thy Handsom Lasses:
Drink Streams of Pleasure in those Christall Glasses,
But yet consider that this Splendid show
Can only light thee to the Shades below.

On a Gentlewoman that would be married to none but a Rich man.

Thus her Example proves, that Ovid told,
That Cupids Arrow must be gilt with Gold.

To the Author.

VVriting's a Poets Life; then, sure, if thou
Do'st Write Lasciviously, thou Liv'st so too.

To the same.

Thou studiest Mischief when thou writest it:
Thy Bawdy Verse is but Adulterate Wit.

To an Epigrammatist, that inveighs against Women.

The Muses, Man, are Female; may'st thou know it,
A Foe to their Sex can't be a good Poet.

On the perfect Conclusion of a fierce War.

Those Thunder-bolts of Mars, which lately fell,
Were but a Volloy to bid War Farewell.

To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, weeping for the Death of her Eldest Brother, my Bosom-Friend.

Alas! sweet Lady! must you sup
So deeply of this Bitter Cup?
Your Brinish Tears increase the Smart
O'th'Wounds of my Afflicted Heart.
Your Griefe's Infectious, I believe:
I'm Griev'd afresh to see you Grieve.
Double Grief my Thought endures,
My Sighs, like Ecchos, answer Yours.
My Plaints are most; beside mine own,
I've yours too by Reflection:
I can't hear Moans for Him, but I
Must be ingag'd to Sympathy.
Lament not you; let me ingrosse
The Lamentation of this Losse.
You've now a Second-self, but I
Lost such a one when He did die:
Nay, more than such did's Title Merit,
You are One Flesh, we were One Spirit.
How sadly then may I complain?
Grief! Break my Heart, and Crack my Brain.

To the same.

Your wet Eyes are (as I may say)
Like Sun-shine in a Rainy day.

On the Tempestuous season of Wind and Rain, 1654.

For th' Growth of our Iniquitie,
I fear, our Fields will Barren be:
For Sin that hath ta'n Root so deep,
The Heavens sure thus Sigh, and Weep.

Strong Drink.

Drink's Strong indeed: with Stygian water Purl'd,
Like Alexander, it o'recomes the World.

Charity.

VVhere Charity takes Cold, the Country's Sick:
That's th' Vitall Heat o'th' Body Politick,

[His Soul's so Dark all o're, He cannot see]

His Soul's so Dark all o're, He cannot see
The Ugly Face of His Iniquitie.
Faln so in love with Vice, He cannot Rise:
For, Sampson like, He'th lost both Strength & Eyes.
His Dread-Cool'd Heart's Benumm'd: He's void of Sense
His Burning Lust hath Scar'd His Conscience.

An unquiet bad Conscience.

The Worm of Conscience Feedeth on
Our naturall Corruption.
Whiles Hell, and Death lodge in our Breast,
Our Hearts may Sleep, but cannot Rest.

Temptation.

The Devil onely Tempts: but (wretched Elves)
We oft turn Devils, and so Tempt our selves.

Pride.

Pride's the Soul's Blister, scall'd by th' fire of Hel;
Ill Humours onely make the Mind to swell.
The World ne're saw one yet, did entertain
Pride, Thought's Impostume, but in a Sick-brain.

To a Lascivious Poet.

For shame, for shame, leave off: for, as we're told,
Cupid, and Phœbus have been Foes of old.

On Poetry.

The Muses Sauce, my Study's Strong-meat: These
Shall be my Play-mates, not my Mistresses.

Of Partiality.

Mens Judgements often Erre, that are too kinde:
They See not what they Say, for Love is Blinde.

The World's Fine Gentleman.

He makes a Dainty Leg, and Nod, thus He
Is every Inch well-bred, ev'n Cap-a-pe.

To Unlearned Criticks.

VVe don't estrange at your Grammatick War,
We know Rough Judgements must be prone to Jar.

To an Hireling Poet.

Wing'd Riches Hatch thy Muses Young; and thus
Thou mak'st an Hackney of thy Pegasus.

To his Displeased Pater in Phœbo, Mr. F. M.

You're not in earnest, sure: and thus
'Tis but Furor Poeticus.
Your Anger's Faign'd, though't seem so Great,
You're Incens'd by Poetick Heat.
Why man! I spoke but like a Poet:
I said 'twas bad; I wo'nt stand to it.
Come, let's be Friends: and doe not move
Phœbus again to Quarrell with Love.
How much I'm Griev'd, Good Sir, pray think:
My Muse for Mourning wears this Ink.

On a NEWES-MONGER.

Far, and neer all th'Newes He hears:
Asses alwayes have long Ears.

To an Honourable Lady Rarely Accomplisht with Wit, and Beauty.

Fair Venus and Minerva shew,
That They're at length made Friends by you:
Yo've given both Content: both prize
The APPLES of your Glis'tring Eyes,
Which t'each of them Assigned are;
For, still you looke both wise, and Faire.
Your wing'd Soule at each Glance doth Fly
Out of the Casement of your Eye;
Whose Splendid Beams, like Phœbus Rayes,
Create new Blossomes to my Bayes.
My Muses weak Eye, gazing on
This Daz'ling Sight, Drops Helicon:
But its Streams are at best too base,
To wash your Ladyships Sweet Face;
Which is set in such Symmetrie,
That, like the Soule, 't seems Harmony,
Which, sith it comes not to our Eares,
Is like the Musick of the Spheares.
Your Body is (all Symptomes show it)
So Fine that your Clear Soule shines through it:
'Tis Quaintly order'd, as we find,
By th' Lady Governnesse, your Mind.
Both your Parts thus, as'twere, All-one,
Are like a Constellation.
Your very Face (my Muse dares say)
Is Parallel to th' Milkie way.
Your Wit and Beauty thus take Equall Place;
Your self make up these Twins; A MUSE and GRACE.

On the fifth of November.

Thus rend the Bowels of the Earth! 'tis well;
Dig deeper yet, and so dig down to Hell:
Incarnate Fiends! seek out the way, by th' Light
Of your Dark Lanthorn, to Eternall Night.
Think you with Royal Limbs to fill the Aire,
Because your Master's Lord and Soveraign there?
Wretches! He cannot help you, but Grim Death
Shall, in the Aire, you struggle out of Breath.
Thus of Advancement, which you hop'd to see,
The Fruit you'l have, but from a Gallow Tree.
So may all Craft taught by th' Old Serpent faile,
And Serpent like, still bear a sting i'th' Taile,
To wound its Owners: so may Trayt'rous Elves,
Find Death i'th' Pit, which they have Digg'd themselves.
Kicking at us, the Ugly Beast at Rome
Hath spurn'd his Whelps, & given them the Doom:
Pushing He'th broke his Horns: thus oft tis known,
The Stone is burst 'gainst that at which tis thrown.
Now then that we are safe, and that our Land
Hath cast the Vipers, which stuck to her hand,
Into the Fire: Enflam'd with Love let's bring
Our Zeal-fir'd Hearts, as a Burnt offering,
To Great Jehovah, whose Foreseeing Eye
Hath struck these Bas'lisks with Mortality.
Let Quick-foot Verse Dance nimbly on the Rope,
Of Hanged Traytors; and let's wish the Pope
Swing'd in our Bell-ropes, or Consum'd i'th' Flame
Of this Night's Bone-fire; so shall His dire Name
Be Curst in his own Fashion; we handle
No other Curse but his, BELL BOOK and CANDLE.
And now let's fill the Skies with shouts, that even
Our Joyes Rebound (from whence they came) to Heaven.

To an Handsome Gentlewoman on this part of her Anagram: Each Beauty Shoots.

To the same.

Your Fore-head's Semicircled so,
The young God takes it for His Bow.

Swearing and Cursing.

Fond Oaths, backt on with Curses, are the fell
Oaths of Allegiance to the Prince of Hell.
Such Boyst'rous Breath its owners Soul will shake,
And Blow the Fire of the Infernall Lake.

Melancholy.

'Tis Pia Mater in Discolour'd Weeds:
A Checker'd Plat form of Phantastick Deeds:
The Brain-Filme wrought into a Dismall Shroud:
The Sun o'th' Little World in a thick Cloud:
Swift Thought turn'd Fairy: Wild wit gone astray:
A Fancy, that i'th' Dark hath lost its way.

To Mr. F. M.

Your Strong-wing'd Fancy, mounting with such Grace,
Is Eagle-ey'd, looks Phœbus in the Face:
He is the Parent of your High born Strain;
His best Blood runs in your Poetick veyn.

To One marrying for Love, not Money.

Thou dost as all men ought to doe:
Heart-strings are best for Cupid's Bow.

Thanks To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, who gave him a Dish of Sweet Meats.

What Modest Favour's This forsooth?
T'avoyd my Thanks it stops my Mouth.
My Tongue's confin'd to Tast o'th' Meat:
I'm forc'd, as't were, my Words to EAT.
Your Eares thus 'scape my Thanks, but I
Present them here unto your Eye:
They come at last clad all in Black,
As Mourning that they come so slack.
So High my Gratefull Thoughts doe Swell,
I like the Dish so hugely well;
I Fancy you're a Goddesse, and dare say,
Your Sweet-Meat is Divine-Ambrosia.

To his Honour'd Friend, W. W. Esq.

Sith that I can't at full set forth
My great Love, and Thy greater Worth;
My Pen, its hard Taske hath forsook:
Ile say't By Heart, and not By Book.

To Mrs. M. S. in her Child-bed Dresse.

In Child-bed look so Fine! thus (all confesse)
Phœbus looks Fairest in His Morning Dresse,
Come newly out of Bed: my bold Muse sayes,
Your Sparkling Glances doe out vie His Rayes.
My Fancy, like the Larke i'th' Fowlers GLASSE,
Playes in the MIRROIR of your lovely Face:
With wonder Caught, she's at a Non plus Set;
And thinks her self with VENUS in the NET.

To the same, newly Married, on her Anagram: SO! YOU'RE MATCHT.

So! YOU'RE (well MATCHT: & I dare say,
Love Saw upon your Marriage-Day.
Fit Marriage is a Match, thus you
May see the Anagram is True,
You're Fitly Married sure (say I)
Fore-joyn'd by Consanguinity:
So you this Paradox make good:
Two may become One Flesh, and Bloud.

Mars Togatus: Or, Fighting in the Schooles.

Foole! What! dost strive with might, and main,
For a Broke Pate to a Crackt Brain?
Thy Brains leake out already, man;
And wouldst for Anger Break the Pan?
Thy Head swoll'n in this boyish Fight,
By Rising, shewes that it is Light.
Thy Black Eyes, by such Marks, as these,
Wear Mourning for thy wits Decease.
Such Apish Braules who'd not despise,
Whose Fume had not put out his Eyes.
Throughout the Schooles such Hissings are,
'Sthough all the Furies Snakes were there.
Grave Zabarells, and Aristotles
(Whose Thirsts nere reach beyond Beer-Bottles)
Come fiercely on (who'd not decline 'um?
With Argumentum Bacillinum.
Young Preachers too stare, stamp, and Hum,
As if they'd Kill both all, and some:
Who {ere} but saw their Fifty pushing,
Wou'd swear they learnt to Beat the Cushion.
Mad Poets too come Vap'ring here,
'Sthough Helicon were Bottle Beer.
Each all his Faculties combines
To shew his Arme as Strong's his Lines.
Had but Orestes seen these men,
He'd Startled into's wit agen:
Here seeing's Emblem, wretched Else,
Actæon-like Hee d fled Himselfe.
Goe, Sirs, you are Fooles Rampant: and
(To which ev'n Mad men set their Hand)
The WORME, that gnawes your Pates was Bred
By some Snake on Medusa's Head.

Hac Ignis: Sive Lues Venerea.

Beware, Fond Lads, of a shrewd turne:
Loves Flames at last will surely Burn.

Another.

Damn'd Venus! whose Embrace is Pimp to Slaughter;
Thou burn'st mens Bodies here, their Soules hereafter.

Lust.

When Satan shoots such Fiery Darts, to Fly
Is th'onely way to get the Victory.
Lust, like a Baited Engine, ne're annoyes,
If Passed by; but being Touch'd, destroyes.

To the Reader.

I fear no Carping: Reader spare not:
What e're thy Judgment be, I care not.
Young Muses (like Young Men) I hold,
For want of Wit shou'd be more Bold.

To Mr. E. F. The only Son of Sir E. F. Knight.

So much of Vertues Light appeares
In (Ages Dawn) your tender Years:
We hope you'l ever shew your self to be
True Heir of your Illustrious Familie.

Plaine Verse.

My Verse is Plain: I'd have it so: why not?
My Pegasus shall Amble still, not Trot.

To Mrs A. S. on the Death of her Two first Children.

Your Fair Cheeks with Tears sprinkled shew
Like Roses Pearled o're with Dew.
But be not so Discomforted:
Your Babes Departed are not Dead.
To keep them from all casuall Harmes,
Their Saviour takes them in His Armes.
These Olive-Branches, by His care,
In Paradise Transplanted are.
So they become, by their Decease,
A Garland to the Prince of Peace.

Allusion.

T'is Janus wit: th' Two Splits of a learn'd Quill
Th' best Emblem of Two-Topt Parnassus Hill.

To that Pretty Piece of Perfection Mrs L. C.

Natures Fine Thing! Best Show that e're
Came on the World's Theatre!
My Young Muse takes you out to Hay,
And vowes she'll ha' you Queene of May.
But oh, she cannot Deck you more
Then Nature't selfe has done before:
Whatever of you she can say
Is but to give Light to the Day.
Had sweet Adonis but you seen,
How Hee'd have scorn'd the Cyprian Queen!
I'd almost thought the Fiction true,
That Gods Beget, when I saw you.
Your Eyes, your Cheeks, are all so Fine,
I'd think 'um, but they're Flesh Divine.
Yet this is but your Beauty's Spring.
What Plenty will the Harvest bring
When you are Ripe, in Years? sure then
Jove will begin to love agen.
For you Blind Cupid need not shoot:
Your Glances, Darts o'th' Eyes, will do't.
A Garland Hymen need not seek:
He may have't in your Rosy Cheeke:
When e're He shall joyn Male to you,
May no Division make you Two:
In Vertue, and true Amitie
Shine, as Bright's the GEMINI.
So may you be, before all other,
In Goodnesse Great; even like your Mother.

To Mrs. K. G. having been lately sick of the Small Pox.

A Love sick Gentleman to a Fair Lady scorning him.

G.
Alas! Love's Darts wound me to Death!
Not t'hear me speak's to stop my Breath!

L.
I'd give thee leave to shew thy Art,
But thy Sharp Wit would Pierce my Heart.

G.
No Subtle wit leads on my love:
I'm Innocent as Venus Dove.

L.
Why! hath fond Grief now made thee Stupid,
Are thy thoughts Blind, to be like Cupid?

G.
Yes; My sharp Wit so Blunt is grown,
By working on your Heart of Stone.

L.
Out of this Stone (cease thy Desire)
Thy Love strikes not one Sparke of Fire.

G.
Have mercy Goddess! Hold! O hold!
Without your Fire my Heart growes Cold.

L.
Fie, fie! art not asham'd to Faint?

G.
I Fall but to Adore my Saint.

L.
Farewell: I can't perswaded be:
Bid thy vain Love Depart with me.

G.
Ah! Life,

Ζωη, και Ψυχη:

and Soul she is to me:
Her absence is my Extasie.
Why should I keep my Fruitless Breath?
My panting Heart Beats me to Death.
Love's Warriours Die, or Overcome:
Sith She is Deaf, I will be Dumb.

To a Phantastick Vagabond, Professor of Satyricall Pet Poetrie.

VVild Colt of PEGASUS! what would'st thou doe?
Are th' Muses Priests Itinerary too?
Thou art no Poet, man, thy false High strain
Is but the Bubbling of a Froathy Brain.
No Masculine Strength lies in a Drunken Line:
A Tavern Flash is but a Spark o th' Wine.
A mounting Vapor, a Phantastick Fit.
The Off scouring, the Excrement of wit.
Thy best Jests are but Old: for all thy Brags,
Thou'rt but a Swaggerer in Scarlet Rags.
Thy Magpie Muse delights to Scold, not Sing:
Thy Crawling Fancy has a Vermines Sting.
Thy Aged Whimsies, like old Wizards, lowre;
And thy Stale Wit (even like Stale Beer) growes sowre:
Judicious men Disgust it; they disdaine
Th' Unsav'ry Outlets of thy Addle Brain:
Our haughty Muse scornes such poor Prey:
The Carrion Stinks: she flurts away.

Fame.

VVho would not shun the Peoples Breath? we find
'Tis but a Wind;
Which still has puff'd up th Owner, or else blown
The Dangerous Fires of Emulation.

To his Book.

Come on, my Book, no Page of thine
Shall Beat mens Brains with a strong line:
Thou'rt Plain (no Phrase-Crags in thee plac'd)
Apollo's Temples Pav'd, not Caus'd.
'Tis true; thou art no Gallant, Fine,
Clad with Silk Words, and full of Wine:
But yet, I doubt not, some confesse,
Thou'rt Comely, though in a Plain Dresse.
Our Eagle-Muse her Young ones Tries
By none, but true Phœbæan Eyes.
But if some Minor Critick Carps,
With Satyr Wit would Fight at Sharps;
His Heavy Censures Ile despise:
Prest by Lead-Wits my Palm shall Rise.