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Miscellaneous works of George Wither

Wither, George (1588-1667)

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Vox Pacifica:
  
Carmen Eucharisticon:
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A Suddain Flash
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A Triple Paradox:
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A Proclamation In the Name of the King of Kings, To all the Inhabitants of the Isles of Great Brittain:
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I. To those Friends, unto whom this Author hath been scandalously mis-represented in private, by some false Brethren and others.
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II. A causual Meditation on Faith, Hope, Fear and Love.
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III. To those who enquire, why this Author is now imprisoned in Newgate?
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IV. A Hymn of Thanksgiving, for deliverance from a dangerous and sharp Sickness, during his Imprisonment.
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V. To them who say, or suppose, that a vain desire of Fame, was this Authors principal motive, to the Composure of what he hath written and published.
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VI. A Meditation, occasioned by considering the manifold Temptations to distrust in GOD, whereby his best Servants are otherwhile proved and exercised.
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VII. Another Scrap, to them, who carp at this Author's frequent writing.
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VIII. An Eccho from the Thunders, in the celestial Temple, reverberating, in part, the effect of what was uttered by their Voices.
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IX. A brief Reproof of them, who take pleasure in Scandalous Invectives, whereby others are personally defamed.
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X. A Disclaim, by way of Advertisement, of a Paper, falsly imputed to this Author.
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XI. To them who object it as a fault, that this Author hath written several Poems, since he resolved to write no more.
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XII. Of Governours and Governments; and how we ought to demean our selves toward them.
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XIII. A Scrap added to the former, since the sending of the Authors Remonstrance to the house of Commons.
  
Verses written by Mr. George Wither upon three Trenchers with Oker, during his close-Imprisonment, and carried to the Lieutenant of the Tower by the said Prisoners Keeper.
  
Hearing it reported, that the Diurnal women cryed the news of his Impeachment for Treason, he composed this Epigram.
  
Ingenii Largitor Venter.
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2

To the ENGLISH.

Am not I now in England? Is not this
The Thames? Is not that London? Sure it is.
Me thinks that vast, and ancient structure, there,
Looks just like Pauls, and that like Westminster.
Loe, yon is High-gate, yon is Hamsted-mill,
There Bansted-downes, there Kent, there Shooters-hill.
This doubtlesse is that Countrey: but why then,
Are here now living so few Englishmen?
Are all those English-men which now I see?
All true-bred English-men? the Devill they be.
Indeed I finde there are a few among them;
And for their sakes I will not so much wrong them
To say, the Land hath none, within whose veines
The blood of our old Worthies yet remaines.
But, out of question, if the greatest part
Were not a mungrell brood, and without heart,
They could not lie so tamely in their beds,
And see what Plague their Countrey over-spreads;
Yea seem content, to be inslav'd to slaves,
And carie guilt, and curses to their graves.
Perhaps they are asleep. Ho! Englishmen!
Awake, and be your selves, yet, once agen.
Heark, how the Trumpet sounds! heark how the Drum
Beats up, and cals in English, Come, Come, Come!
Heark, how the ghosts of your poore Brethren, slain
and massacred in Ireland, do complain
And call for vengeance! heark, how loud they cry,
And threaten, if you passe their murthers by!
Heark, how the countrey round about you mourns!
See in how many parts it flames and burns!
Mark, what a desolation, in one year,
Is broken in among us! and, how near
Our just and everlasting ruine drawes
If we become no warmer in this Cause!
And that your cooled zeal may re-inflame,
Take up this Paper, and new light the same.
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