University of Virginia Library

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.