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Dia Poemata

Poetick Feet Standing Upon Holy Ground: Or, Verses on certain Texts of Scripture. With Epigrams, &c. By E. E. [i.e. Edmund Elys]
Elys, Edmund (ca. 1634-ca. 1707)
 
[epigraph]
 
[dedication]

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[section]
 
To my FRIEND, Mr. E. E. on his Divine Poems.
 
On the sacred Poems of my Ingenious Friend, Mr. E. E.
 
To his honest Cousin, E. E. on his Dia Poemata; or, his setting Feet on Holy ground.
 
To my Friend, the Author.
 
To his Honour'd Friend M. E. E. on his Incomparable Poems.
 
To Mr. E. E. on his DIA POEMATA.
 
To Mr. E. E. on his Book, &c.
 
To the Author.
 
To the Laurell worthy Mr. E. E. on his Excellent Poems.
 
To the Author.
 
To his most Deserving Friend, Mr. E. E. on his DIAPOEMATA.
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In Dia Poemata; Or, Poetick Feet standing upon Holy Ground.
 
Ad Encomiastas Authoris.
 
Κοσμος ακοσμος. All is Vanity and vexation of Spirit.
 
[How light is Man! by ev'ry wind]
 
[On me, my Friends, ô pity take!]
 
Lavatus Æthiops.
 
On Christmas day.
 
[I'm slave to grief (not mine own man)]
 
[To light hearts only such light mirth belongs]
 
[Rapt with Hot Zeale (Elias like) Blest Stephen]
 
[Of the Ten Leapers, Lord, the world claim's Nine]
 
[Oh Lord, shall we thy Glorious Body Eat?]
 
[Lord, on my Heart write thou thy Law, that I]
 
[My Lungs are worn with Groaning; often Moans]
 
[Ah! Shall my restlesse Mind for ever be]
 
[Thy Youthfull Heat should still Aspire]
 
In Obitum VITÆ. On the Death of JESUS.
 
[I've washt my feet, ev'n in the Bloud]
 
[Thrice happy Babes! wean'd from the world so soon]
 
BACK-SLIDING: OR, A Spirituall Relapse.
 
[Hold! hold! I will not do't: Shall I]
 
Homo Lapsus.
 
[Thrice Curst be Wanton Pleasure, Hell's Fine Daughter]
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EPIGRAMS, &c. By E. E.
 
ENCOMIAST: To J. C.
 
On a dull Poet, but good Logitian.
 
On a Little Gentleman of Great Parts.
 
To a false-hearted Poet.
 
On a Gentlewoman of a Brown Complexion, but Handsome Features.
 
On a Gentleman who Died with Lord in his Mouth.
 
On the Death of Leander.
 
To one that gets his Living by writing Satyres.
 
Nec Fonte labra prolui Caballino.
 
------ Vino pellite Curas.
 
Of Vulgar Criticks.
 
To the Eye Adulterer.
 
On a Gentlewoman that would be married to none but a Rich man.
 
To the Author.
 
To the same.
 
To an Epigrammatist, that inveighs against Women.
 
On the perfect Conclusion of a fierce War.
 
To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, weeping for the Death of her Eldest Brother, my Bosom-Friend.
 
To the same.
 
On the Tempestuous season of Wind and Rain, 1654.
 
Strong Drink.
 
Charity.
 
[His Soul's so Dark all o're, He cannot see]
 
An unquiet bad Conscience.
 
Temptation.
 
Pride.
 
To a Lascivious Poet.
 
On Poetry.
 
Of Partiality.
 
The World's Fine Gentleman.
 
To Unlearned Criticks.
 
To an Hireling Poet.
 
To his Displeased Pater in Phœbo, Mr. F. M.
 
On a NEWES-MONGER.
 
To an Honourable Lady Rarely Accomplisht with Wit, and Beauty.
 
On the fifth of November.
 
To an Handsome Gentlewoman on this part of her Anagram: Each Beauty Shoots.
 
To the same.
 
Swearing and Cursing.
 
Melancholy.
 
To Mr. F. M.
 
To One marrying for Love, not Money.
 
Thanks To a Vertuous Gentlewoman, who gave him a Dish of Sweet Meats.
 
To his Honour'd Friend, W. W. Esq.
 
To Mrs. M. S. in her Child-bed Dresse.
 
To the same, newly Married, on her Anagram: SO! YOU'RE MATCHT.
 
Mars Togatus: Or, Fighting in the Schooles.
 
Hac Ignis: Sive Lues Venerea.
 
Another.
 
Lust.
 
To the Reader.
 
To Mr. E. F. The only Son of Sir E. F. Knight.
 
Plaine Verse.
 
To Mrs A. S. on the Death of her Two first Children.
 
Allusion.
 
To that Pretty Piece of Perfection Mrs L. C.
 
To Mrs. K. G. having been lately sick of the Small Pox.
 
A Love sick Gentleman to a Fair Lady scorning him.
 
To a Phantastick Vagabond, Professor of Satyricall Pet Poetrie.
 
Fame.
 
To his Book.

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23

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.
24

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.
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